Rachel Miller

Harkov paced the room of his late master Brother Cullen, awaiting the arrival of Basil and this new Neophyte who had shown interest in becoming a War Eagle. The fireplace crackled noisily in the background, but the noise did little to comfort Harkov. His nerves were getting the better of him, the entire future of the War Eagles rested on his shoulders. The fear of failure was ever present in his mind, weighing on him like a ball and chain. As time drew on Harkov’s patience grew thin and he searched for distraction. Grabbing his great sword from a weapons rack on the wall and an oily rag he began to clean his weapon as he had done more times in this room than he could count. The familiarity calmed him, as time continued his mind began to wander. Remembering every lesson he had received cleaning this same sword day in and day out for several months as an apprentice. Harkov ran them through his head. Proper sword form, combat medicine,The founding of The War Eagles, The battle of Ito Pass, The Massacre of Helmsnacht, and many more. The history of his predecessors flowing through him filled him with pride. The feeling was cut off as a knock at the door pulled Harkov back to reality.

    “Enter.” Harkov said in a gruff voice, his displeasure at being pulled from his solitude clear in his tone. Harkov stood as the door opened and placed his sword back in the weapons rack, his back to the door.

      “Good afternoon, Sgt.” Harkov said without turning. He knew It was Basil and the Neophyte. Nobody else came up here anymore except for Harkov, not since the fire. Most of the routes to the high tower study were destroyed or blocked by damage from the fire. This small corner of the keep was all but forgotten.

      “Harkov, sorry we’re late. The reconstruction of the keep is progressing nicely but it still doesn’t make things easier getting here.” Basil’s response lacked the formality Harkov’s greeting had, normally he wouldn’t have bothered but he was trying to make a good impression. The two of them were professional soldiers and friends. Years serving together gave them confidence in each other and a relaxed banter.

      “This is Martin, the Neophyte I was telling you about. Basil continued prompting Harkov to turn and face them.

       Harkov steeled himself, he had to appear calm and confident. Turning, Harkov began.

       “Hello Martin, I am…” Harkov stopped as he saw the stranger in front of him. A small almost frail bespectacled man with an enthusiastic smile.

         “What the fuck?” Harkov couldn’t stop himself from blurting out his dissatisfaction. Martin’s smile quickly turned into a look of confused, wide eyed dread. Harkov looked to Basil and with no regard for Martin voiced his doubts.

        “You can’t be serious, this guy looks like a strong breeze will take him out”

          “Looks can be deceiving.” Basil responded, trying to quickly brush off Harkov’s doubt and reassure Martin. Harkov didn’t even look at Martin before saying,

“Leave us.” Harkov’s eyes never wavered from Basil; he could feel the tension in his jaw as he failed to suppress a look of anger. A small sound came from Martin as he began to protest before Harkov cut him off.

“Now!” Harkov’s voice was loud and angry, with the sternness of a veteran soldier.

Martin visibly recoiled from the unexpected change in volume. He quickly shuffled toward the door.

“Wait just outside please.” Basil added just before the door shut. Basil and Harkov stood in silence for a moment. 

“That was a bit harsh.” Basil started leaning on the table. Harkov crossed his arms and shrugged his shoulders.

“What do you expect Basil, you want me to begin rebuilding a subunit that has almost as much if not more history and service to the church than several chapters with some bookworm who you found in the library?” Harkov was being harsh, but he refused to admit it.

“I’m sorry but you don’t exactly have volunteers lining up outside your door.” Basil responded, he was right and he knew it. Before Harkov could argue Basil added.

“I’m asking you to give him a chance, just like someone took a chance on you.” Those words hit Harkov hard, Basil was smart and logical and it angered Harkov that he was winning. Harkov turned his back to Basil and looked out the window. The sight of Starkhaven, the last stronghold for the Order and the memory of his fallen master burned within him. He accepted what he needed to do.

“Martin, come back please.” Harkov said, still facing out the window. The door slowly creaked open and he could almost feel a sense of defensiveness radiating from how slowly it opened. The door shut and Martin shuffled quietly into the room, after that a silence took the room.

“I will take you on as my apprentice, you will be a War Eagle or you will die trying.” 

Martin responded almost immediately.

“Yes! Wait what?”

The Beginning
Before beings inhabited the lands of Richtcrag, it is rumored an ancient deity lived in the land and often took the shape of a massive bird with feathers of many different colors. It lived in peace with nature and the elements, protecting the wildlife with its power. However, it was startled one day by the passing of another god and took to the skies. In its flight over the land, it left behind six feathers, and each fell on different parts of the land: one in a hallowed mountain, one in deep in the largest swamp, one in the most secret part of the largest forest, one in the largest spring, one on upon a hidden crag in the steeps, and the final and largest upon the highest peak.

On that peak, the wind bellowed, the snow churned, and the rumbles of below shook it. It stayed there for countless years till a tribe of humans settled around the lands near the feather. It was when they spoke their first prayers that the feather began to take shape: winter, death, wisdom, hidden treasure, and those who seek them. From those first five prayers, Tyrl was shaped and began his reign as the eldest of the gods of the land.

However, when he took shape, his shadow also formed and the trickster god Vardel came into being. He instantly fled from Tyrl and went to cause mischief amongst the humans below, and thrived in their confusion and chaos.

Tyrl decided to help the humans against Vardel by creating his children. He sent dreams to their shamans and wise folk to send prayers towards the deep swamp, the fiery volcano, the wind-swept steeps, the largest spring, and the secretive forest. They did so and five deities rose to answer their prayers in turn: Yasin the Hunter from the swamps, Ulfkell the Warrior from the Volcano, Bjar the Wild One from the Steeps, Sylv the Life-Bringer of the Plains, and Grollen the Peacekeeper of the Forest. With their creation they provided protection from Vardel, allowing the humans of the lands to thrive and grow in both number, knowledge, wisdom, and skill.

Bound to the Land

The elder deities of Richtcrag are not like deities of the Syndar and other human nations. These divine beings are tied to the land they woke from upon their creation, with each one holding domain and power over the type of land that is there. The only partial exception to this rule is Ulfkell the Battle-Father, who was still tied to the volcano Veerokeer but took on the traits of the trades that surrounded his lands. Each deity was linked to certain regions:

• Cul’Claimete: Sylv and Ulfkell
• Kupferhugel: Tyrl and Ulfkell
• Marais-Enceinte: Yasin
• Olon Zyjl: Bjar
• Valinate: Vardel
• Pericht: Tyrl

It is even rumored that the regions formed around these deities and began to shape their cultural identities based on each of them.

Below is a listing of each of the deities other than Vardel and Ulfkell, who have been listed already.

Tyrl, the Mountain Lord, Elder God of Wisdom, Winter, Mountains, Death, and Mines

Worship of the Mountain Lord begins in Richtcrag. Richtcrag is a land filled with a variety of different geographies, and one of them is Kupferhügel, a land of mountains, snow, and mining. As such, a god was bound to step up to help represent this land and all it held: harsh winters, rich mines, mountains, wisdom required to survive in the land, and the death that can come so easily in the land.

His worshipers are mainly peasants and common folk who work, live, or come from the land. However, priests and lairds of other lands often pray to him, looking for wisdom when in need or unsure of what would be the better decision or road to take.

His primary portfolio is that of Wisdom, Mountains, and Winter, but has some hold over Death and the treasures within the mountains themselves. With such a large and unusual array of realms in his control, Tyrl is an ancient and powerful member of Richtcrag’s pantheon.

Tyrl is a passive deity when it comes to his followers, usually rewarding them for patience and learning. When it comes to intervening in mortal affairs, he usually only directly intervenes in times of extreme danger while in the mountains.

The Mountain Lord is usually depicted as an old man with a long snow-white beard, his body muscular and scarred. He is often depicted wearing a rich stone-gray robe with a silver chain wrapped many times around his waist. Upon his head is a crown of gold with five gems, each a different color (ruby, emerald, diamond, jet, and white opal).

In one hand, he carries a tome which holds the wisdom of the lands with a quill of Grey, purple, and blue feathers. In the other, he holds a mace. While many debate what the tome represents, a popular theory is that it represents the truth of the world: what it holds and what it could become. Upon his shoulder sits a peregrine falcon, and falcons are often believed to be his messengers of warning and caution in the near future.

His image is often found in temples, libraries, and places of learning where his power is said to hold more sway. However, wealthier lairds and nobles often have effigies, statues, or stained glass depictions put into their homes to help grant them the wisdom to lead their people.

Worship of Tyrl
Tyrl’s worshipers traditionally pray at dusk, praying and mentioning what they learned throughout their day. The prayers generally take around thirty minutes to perform and include offerings of incense, a blank scroll, and prayers of wisdom and knowledge-seeking.

For meditation, a person must find peace within, hold onto a scroll and begin their meditations, praying for the gift of mana to further bring wisdom to the people.

Rituals of Tyrl
•Offering of Wisdom: Once a year, a holy person of Tyrl must offer up one scroll or book to a place of learning. This scroll or book must contain the knowledge learned throughout the previous year on one subject of their choice. This is usually given at the winter solstice at night.

• Ritual of Sending: Upon the death of an individual, it is the duty of the priest to prepare the body for either burial or cremation. They are to place tokens of loved ones, weapons or items held in importance to the individual, and religious symbols. Before they are to be sent, the holy person is to meditate with the body in front of them, seeking any knowledge the spirit is willing to offer up before departing to the mana stream. Once the ritual is performed, they are to aid in the performance of the preferred ritual of death for that individual’s deity.

Yasin, the Overseer of Hunts, the Elder God of Swamps, Hunters, Fall, Freedom, and Vengeance

Yasin’s worship is mostly found in the region of Richtcrag known as Marais-Enceinte, the vast swamp region. Yasin answered the prayers of those in this harsh land by helping them find game and food to survive in this harsh environment. Eventually their portfolio began to cover freedom, as those who settled there wished to not be under a feudal rule.

However, their powers grew once more upon the death of their youngest brother, Grollen, the young god of the forest. Thus, Yasin took a vow to continuously hunt down Vardel until the trickster god is dead and his head upon a spike. (Story below, under Grollen.)

Yasin’s worshipers are primarily farmers, fishermen, and hunters who are only seeking food to survive or for a worthy quarry to hunt. However, they also receive prayers of those seeking vengeance against those who have wronged them. Due to this, they are often a deity turned to by those who wish justice served to those beyond their grasp.

Yasin is an active deity when it comes to their followers, helping guide their arrows true and guiding them towards fertile lands, rich fishing holes, and food in the wilds. However, when it comes to vengeance, Yasin’s influence is often seen in some form of unfortunate accident, a reversal of fortunes, or some other act that will bring down the target of prayers that reach him.

The Lord of Hunts is usually depicted as a middle-aged human with long brown hair escaping from a dark green hood and black scarf, leaving only bright gray eyes to be seen. They wear a green tunic, black trousers, and leather boots, and are covered in small trophies of hunts, knives, and runes. In one hand they carry a large oaken bow and in the other, a long slender arrow with three feather fletchings of different colors: brown, black, and red. Always next to them is a green heron, and herons are said to be their heralds of areas of abundant fish and game.

Yasin is usually worshiped at shrines found along roadsides or in homes at private altars.

Worship of Yasin

Yasin’s worshipers traditionally pray at dawn, praying for sustenance and luck on the hunts they will take on that day. The prayers of vengeance are often accompanied by a sacrifice of some sort — usually of the feathers of a predatory bird.

For meditation, a person only needs to meditate for thirty minutes with their tool of hunting or a trophy from a past hunt in order to have a proper connection with Yasin.

Rituals of Yasin
•Grand Hunt: Once a year, a worshiper of Yasin must partake in one ritualistic hunt. To perform this hunt, the worshiper must fast for two whole days, drinking only water or wine. After this period, the hunter is to eat a stew made from specific moss, mushrooms, fish, and edible root tubers.

Once they have eaten, the hunt begins, and the hunter must now go forth into the wild with whatever gear they have and hunt whatever prey Yasin leads them towards. They are to use any means necessary to slay their quarry, and once slain, the hunter is to eat the heart to gain its strength. They are then to pray one last time to Yasin, and the ritual is finished.

• Rite of Vengeance: This is one of the darkest rituals known within Richtcrag and isn’t invoked lightly. This ritual normally only takes place when an extremely dire wrong has been done to oneself, family, or community. The worshiper makes a large fire, making sure it is twice their own height.

Once the fire is the proper height, they are to roast a green heron with specific herbs and spices. During the cooking, the worshiper is to take the entrails and viscera of the heron and grind it into a paste. They then paint ancient runes upon themselves in this paste. Upon doing this they are to ingest a very specific wine spiced with a powerful reagent, and then the eat the heron.

By doing this, the worshiper engages in an act of blasphemy that can only be redeemed by slaying the one or group that they have vowed to kill. They are then spiritually and culturally bound to this oath and must complete it before being able to move on with their life. Some of these oaths last years, while some only last a few months as the hunter tracks the person or group that has wronged them.

Any clerics who perform this ritual have their divine gifts stripped from them until they have killed those they have sworn to kill.

Sylv, the Lady of Fields, the Elder Goddess of Plains, Spring, Life, Hearth, and Farmers

Sylv’s worshipers tend to be found mostly in the region of Richtcrag known as Cul’Claimete, an area with rolling hills and grasslands. Due to the type of land surrounding where she woke, it wasn’t too surprising that she picked up certain traits. With the rich soil and fair weather, she easily became a goddess of the common folk, and slowly turned into a goddess of the hearth and life. Because she provides her worshipers with good soil and weather for the crops, healthy livestock, and safety of the home, she is often prayed to by the common folk and farmers. She is viewed as a motherly and embracing deity who teaches patience and to wait to see the fruition of one’s hard work.

Sylv is an active deity when it comes to her followers, helping moderate the weather and the condition of the soil, and ensuring that her worshipers’ livestock is strong and fertile. Many pray to her for strength during childbirth, and during planting season for a good year for the crops to come.

The Lady of Fields is usually depicted as a young woman with long red hair with green eyes as bright as a clear sky. She is often wearing a bright green dress and a simple corset. Upon her head is a circlet of polished copper with three feathers: yellow, green, and blue. Usually fluttering around her in the depictions are cardinals, ovenbirds, and golden finches.

Sylv is often worshiped in small village temples or at small family shrines near the house or farm.

Worship of Sylv

Sylv’s worshipers traditionally pray at noon, praying for the strength of their crops and livestock and protection of their family and home. The prayers often have small and meager offerings, usually of flowers and other small gifts.

For meditation, there are generally no rules regarding asking for mana from Sylv to perform spells for her.

Rituals of Sylv
•Blessing of Hearth: This ritual is often done when a new home is built or being moved into. A cleric will go through the house and place protective wards, cleansing the area with sage and often consecrating a shrine within the household to Sylv. This often takes around thirty minutes, but allows the family some modicum of protection from negative influences and often helps with safe childbirth.

• Blessing of Fields: Before the planting of the fields in the spring, a cleric of Sylv is often called to bless the fields with a long chant, prayer, and an offering of holy water from a freshwater spring. These prayers often bring the blessing and careful eye and touch of the goddess to the field in question, and usually show great results during harvest.

Bjar, the Lord of the Wilds, Elder God of Beasts, Survival, the Steppes, and Fertility

Worshipers of Bjar are usually found on the steppes of Olon Zyjl, a land of almost pure wilderness. When Bjar was created, he took up the prayers of those around him: a proud, strong, wild people.

He is often viewed as a chaotic deity due to his wild nature and his control over the beasts of the land of Richtcrag, often caring for them more than those who follow him. However, none can deny his power over them, for those who pray properly will find themselves able to survive a difficult ordeal in the wilderness due to an easier kill or finding more food than usual. Due to his wild nature and animalistic tendencies, he is often prayed to for fertility by both men and women looking for a strong child.

Bjar is a passive deity when it comes to his followers, usually turning his attention to the creatures of the land rather than worshipers. However, he will reward his followers with favor if they do the same and help tend to the animals. He will also help those who are just trying to survive the harshness of the wilderness, or those trying to conceive a child.

The Wild God is often depicted as an extremely muscular man wearing furs covering his feet, torso, and waist. His body covered in scars and tattoos of the many animals of the land. His face is always covered by a highly decorated animal mask, usually depicting a boar or a hawk. However, his eyes are always jet-black. He has three feathers attached the mask: yellow, red, and black.

His image is often found on the nomadic people’s saddles, tents, or in scrimshaw necklaces, due to their mobile nature. There are the rare occasions of a shrine being found on a high point of a rocky outcropping. There is rumor that there is a larger one atop a massive granite outcropping somewhere on the steppes.

Worship of Bjar
Bjar’s worshipers traditionally pray at night, praying for help to survive, help keeping predators away in the darkness, or the ability to produce strong seed or receive it to conceive. An offering of blood is often required to make sure the prayers are heard.

For meditation, a worshiper must slice their palm and let it soak into scrimshaw or another carved holy symbol from animal remains.

Rituals of Bjar
•Strength of Beast: When a warrior is about to head into an important battle, a cleric may perform a ritual where they sacrifice an animal to Bjar in return for imparting the essence of the beast to the warrior. They may seek great agility from a large cat, amazing strength from a bear, superb endurance from a boar, and so on. While these may not actually have magical effects, the spiritual implications often influence the warrior’s resolve.

• Strength of Seed: If one was wanting to conceive a child and has had ill luck, this ritual requires the two participating to prepare a meal. This meal usually consists of rabbit, horse, root tubers, and medicinal herbs. During the consumption, the two are to let an herbal mixture smoke and smolder in a brazier. These often have a psychedelic effect.

After the meal, the two are shall attempt to conceive. The mixture of herbs, food, and incense often create a heightened state of mind, sensitivity, and endurance.

Grollen, the Child Lord of Peace, Former Elder God of Health, Summer, Forests, and Youth (deceased)

There are no longer any worshipers of Grollen. However, when there were worshipers, they came from all over Richtcrag. While he existed, he was widely revered and viewed as an extremely benevolent and caring deity, which was an odd shift from the wild and brutal ways of his siblings in the pantheon. However, the Child Lord was the best-loved in the pantheon by all except Vardel, who was extremely jealous of him.

Grollen was the last to rise into power, receiving prayers from the forests where many medicinal herbs and plants grew in the heat of summer. Through those prayers, he slowly began to take up the mantle of a deity of healing and summer.

Grollen was an extremely active deity when he was alive, usually granting prayers of healing and protection, most often to help save children and young adults from illness and wounds. He would often reward his followers for good deeds done for the children of the land.

The Child Lord often appeared as a lean adolescent boy with short, curly light brown hair. His face was always depicted with a kind and innocent smile, showing the naiveté and hopefulness of youth. His eyes were always the color of white opals, as if the taint and darkness of the world was yet to touch them. In murals he is often wearing a brass circlet with three feathers of white, red, and blue, with a scarlet tanager on his shoulder.

His image was often found in places of healing throughout Richtcrag before his death. Even now, it is said, a few forgotten shrines lie in hidden forest glades where the fine medicinal herbs still grow.

The Tale of Grollen: The Death of Peace, the Birth of the Warring Nations
Long ago, before Richtcrag was ravaged by warring lairds and clans, there was peace in the land. For while Grollen lived, he alone could cool the fiery temper of Ulfkell, his eldest sibling.

For many years the people of the land lived with this life, as did the deities in their daily routines. However, Vardel grew jealous of the love and calm that Grollen spread throughout the lands. So the Skybound Trickster devised a scheme to gain power.

One day, Yasin allowed their younger brother, Grollen, to join in on a hunt for a powerful white stag in a nearby woodland. The two loved these hunts, enjoying the journey, the explorations, and the company of one another. Neither of them realized that this day would turn out differently from every other.

They traced the stag to a nearby glade and spotted it. While Yasin strung their bow, Vardel, lurking in the shadows, created an illusion that made the stag flee from the glade. Grollen ran into the glade and looked about for the stag, only to see it appear behind him, emerging from a bush.

When Yasin witnessed their quarry return, they let loose their barbed arrow and let it fly true towards the stag. However, Vardel had played a trick on them both, for the stag was but an illusion. The arrow went through the phantom and straight into the body of the Child Lord. Yasin cried out and wept as they watched their brother and most beloved fall to the ground with an arrow shaft sticking from his heart.

Vardel couldn’t help but rejoice at the misfortune and cackled in glee. It was then that Yasin’s rage erupted, and the calm that covered the lands died. Every being in Richtcrag felt it, and felt the death of something so innocent and pure.

The rest of the Pantheon appeared then, The Battle-Father, the Lord of Wilds, the Lord of Mountains, and the Lady of the Fields. They joined Yasin in their mourning of their beloved sibling and son.

It was then that the rest of them took up a piece of Grollen, as memory of their beloved brother and son. Yasin took a ring and placed it around their neck as a remembrance of the deception of Vardel, now his sworn enemy. Sylv took some strands of the Child Lord’s hair and planted them in secret groves, so that the medicinal herbs may always grow. Tyrl took from his youngest son his memories and placed them within the opal gem upon his crown. Bjar burned the body and took the bones, making them into totems to place in the wildlands where the beasts may know peace and calm. Tyrl took the ashes and used them to forge a mighty blade which now rests at his side as a reminder of what peace can be, forever to be a rein upon his rage.

Vardel fled the into the wilds, and with Grollen now gone, he began to slowly rise in power. However, he is always reminded of his deeds, for he must forever be on the move lest Yasin catch him and slay him in cold and righteous fury.

But through this selfish act for power and gain, the once-peaceful lands of Richtcrag became the land of conflict and chaos that we now know today.

Brother Harkov takes a report from a retinue of scholars detailing the potential locations of an ancient warrior’s tomb. They were lucky to find an old Ulven woman who was willing to share information with them, though her words read more as a riddle than any true instructions. He pours over maps of Mardrun. He knows Sigismund Blackfell was of Clan Grimward; he focuses his attention there.

Puzzling over the cryptic words, he thinks he deciphers the path. Before setting out on the long journey, Harkov asks Brother Oliver for a group of Eagles and the Scholars. Oliver is quick to agree to the request. A local Ulven merchant from Starkhaven who has ties in Grimward accompanies them as she will be able to vouch for their peaceful intent while traveling through Grimward territories. With their supplies packed and their equipment readied, the party leaves Starkhaven in the direction of Grimward lands.

Harkov follows the path he has mapped out. He passes through ruins of settlements, broken either through time or the Civil War. He passes through small hamlets who carry no more memory than the names of heroes. He passes through Pack Goldmane, who carries the legacy of a great retainer of Sigismund. He winds north, close Ironmound territory. The Great Wolf’s Hackles loom before him.

Harkov bids the merchant farewell as they approach the foothills of The Hackles. She’s done her part well aiding them through the Grimward lands. With purpose, Harkov leads his party up the slopes. His well trained eyes pick out the slight wear of a rarely treaded path and with delicate intent he and his party work their way down the old trail. It is slow going; his party is not ill suited to being outside, but are not as skilled as he. As they make camp, Harkov stares at the clear night sky. There’s something in the air here…

The next day the weather turns. Howling winds drive sheets of rain against them. Harkov watches his party carefully. The Eagles watch the Scholars. The Scholars jaws are set, eyes hard with determination. Arnathian clerics are strong no matter their profession. They are in this until the end. They press through the day and with luck the skies begin to clear as the sun dips lazily toward the horizon.

The sun’s dying rays cast gold as they crest a ridge and look down into a small valley before them. The light doesn’t penetrate the hollow in the mountain, leaving it in stark shadow. Harkov pauses and turns to make sure his party was safe and present alongside him. After a brief rest, Harkov leads his brothers and sisters downward into the small valley following a switchback pattern down the steep slope. Near halfway down their descent Harkov and one of the Eagles notice a cave set into the side of the mountain. With reserved haste the devout of Arnath make their way into the cave. It is dark, but the light from their glowstone leads them. They stop after turning around a bend.

An elderly woman stands near a raised dais. As Harkov cautiously approaches he notices the dias is carved. A warrior lies in repose on top, his hands clasped around the hilt of a sword. A scholar whispers in Harkov’s ear.

“I see I judged you well.” The old woman says.

“You knew the way.” The scholars says. “You knew where it was located. Why not just lead us here?”

“That is part of the test; the journey.” She replies. “My family has kept this place for generations. As his name faded, so too did pilgrims to this place. You are the first in a generation. Soon, none will remember his name.”

“You’re descended from the first one.” Another says. She nods.

“From both.” She answers. “A Lorespeaker grows close to their legendary heroes. It why they are often males. However, I am also the last. No children follow me, and I am soon to speak to Great Wolf. It will be up to you to carry on the legacy.”

“We do not wish to defile a sacred place.” one of the scholars puts in. The Lorespeaker nods.

“Nor shall you need to. Witchbane, or what remains, shall sleep here. However, this,” she says, and pulls out an amulet from her cloak, “is made from a piece Witchbane. It was granted to me by my forebearers, who were given it by Sigismund. It is mine to do with as I wish.”

“Thank you.” Harkov says, and gently takes the amulet from her.

“Use it well, son of Arnath. I have a feeling we will need it before the end.”

Bryech made slow and careful steps toward the rise in the hill, looking to gain a view of the creek below. Thrand moved quietly to his left some distance away. Far enough to give advantage to their task but too far to speak without giving them away. They didn’t need to speak though, years of training, fighting and working side by side. They could speak without words, like two wolves on the hunt.

Cresting the hill Bryech scanned the creek, his untrained eyes almost missing the doe as she worked her way along the creek bed. With years of being an accomplished warrior under his belt, one would think he knew how to use a bow properly but he had only recently gotten comfortable enough with one to hunt prey that doesn’t fight back. He took aim and calmed his breathing. Remembering everything Thrand, Fritha, and Arland taught him. His aim shook and he fought his rising excitement to steady himself. He exhaled, he had been holding too long. He knew better but he was too focused on his prey. Bryech loosed his arrow and held his bow to follow the shot. He saw only the moment before the arrow reached the doe, but watched in horror as the arrow struck higher than he wanted. The doe jumped and disappeared from view.

“Did you hit it?” Thrand broke the silence with a holler. Bryech couldn’t see him but responded.

“Yeah, but it wasn’t a good shot.” Bryech began walking towards Thrand scanning for him on the hilltop. He found him a short distance away kneeling beside a large oak about halfway down the rise for cover. Slinging his bow over his back he nodded his head in greeting as Thrand looked back at him, his face highlighted by his blue face paint.

“So what happened?” Thrand asked. Bryech let out a frustrated breath before replying.

“Held my aim too long, I hit her but the shot was high,” Bryech sat down next to his friend before continuing.

“We’re going to have to track her for a while, and that’s after we give her time to lay down and die.”

It was quiet for a time as the two continued to scan the creek. It was still early in the morning and the forest was alive with the sounds and colors of autumn. Thrand set his bow down and started digging through his pack. Tossing Bryech an apple he said.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, just gives us a reason to sit on our butts and eat.”

Bryech reached out and caught the apple happily taking the fruit. He bit into it, his large canines gouging two distinct and deep channels into the apple. Bryech took his friend’s advice and let his mind wander a bit. There the two of them sat for a while making idle chatter and poking fun at each other and some of the events that had taken place recently having a good laugh now and then and enjoying the weather. It was peaceful.

After a few hours the two worked their way down to the creek bed and found the blood trail. The tracking was relatively easy with Thrand’s experience as a hunter helping them. Bryech was sure he would’ve lost the trail several times by now had his friends not been there to guide him. They eventually found their quarry Bryech’s mood swiftly changed and he smiled as they set to work field dressing the doe. It was well into the afternoon once they had finished and they had a fair distance to travel, the shorter days of winter fast approaching. Luckily they made quick work of their task and set to travel home.

“Carrying this will be faster than dragging it, grab a sizeable branch we can tie this to and carry.” Thrand said as he cleaned his knife. Bryech set to the task looking quickly for a suitable branch on the forest floor finding none and forgetting himself in the excitement of his first successful hunt.

“I can’t find anything that’ll work.” Bryech said. Thrand looked at him incredulously and said.

“Bryech, we’re in the woods, break one off a fucking tree.” before laughing at him. Bryech felt his mind make the connection and darted to a nearby sapling and chopped it down with his hand axe.

“I can’t believe how stupid I am sometimes.” Bryech chuckled as he helped Thrand tie their harvest to the branch.

Their walk back was uneventful. They made conversation when they weren’t focused on traversing terrain with their effort split between walking and carrying. By the time they made it back to camp the sun was setting and the evening fires had already been lit. A few of the villagers rejoiced as they came into view. A fresh kill was always appreciated before a journey by longship. They would be leaving in the morning for Jotunvik, although the Aettinjav of Clan Squallborn was an exciting break they still had work to do with the returning people of Stormjarl as agreed upon in the peace between Grimward and Stormjarl, and as was their duty set upon them by the Clanleader Graytir himself. For now though they rested. All of the preparations have been made the ships packed all that was left was to celebrate their victories with the new members of their Clan. Jarl Fritha and her followers had been staying in the great hall of the Stormborn settlement for the days since the Aettinjav. They were treated well and the people were happy to have them there. Word was spreading quickly of their involvement, who knew how far it would spread.

Bryech contemplated this as they had their last meal in the hall, The local jarl had a small feast prepared with skalds playing music and drink to be had the atmosphere was lively and happy. The night dragged on and after the food had been cleared and everyone had separated into their own smaller conversations.

Bryech poured himself another cup of mead and found a spot to lean against a post away from the crowds. He liked to size up a room and watch what goes on. In one corner he saw the Truthseeker Audhild and her mentee who had been vehemently opposed to The Maw of the Wolf speaking with a group of Squallborn members who had been invited to attend as a sign of good faith and friendship. Bryech respected her she was a strong woman and a capable Truthseeker but he disagreed with her on many things so they weren’t exactly friends he knew she was honorable though and he trusted her to an extent. In the next corner Kaylek Nightriver and Afkhar Stormjarl sat next to a small fire pit having a boisterous conversation, Bryech smirked a bit at the sight of them. Two tried and true friends both having fought beside Bryech. He hoped to learn to enjoy himself as they did now that peace seemed to be taking over the lives of Clan Stormjarl.

As Bryech scanned the room a woman caught his attention, She was very beautiful. Rich brown hair done up on top and left loose on the sides and back, and eyes that looked like bright amber in the firelight. Ensnared by her looks he watched her for a time, she wore Stormjarl colors and had an impressive amount of embroidery on her apron dress. Forgetting himself Bryech stole too many glances at her and she eventually saw him. They locked eyes for a moment. Bryech watched her look him up and down sizing him up before a small smile lit up her face exposing her fangs to the fire light. Bryech felt his chest tighten for a moment then ease as she looked back to the small group she was conversing with. Bryech’s mind started to question what that was hopefully wondering if she was interested in him. Bryech shook the thought out of his head and took a pull from his tankard assuring himself he was wrong.

Looking around once more he saw Thrand and Fritha sitting by another small fire pit across the room from him They were sharing a tender moment together with their foreheads touching and eyes closed. Bryech smiled but at the same time felt a pang of jealousy he looked around and saw several other mates embracing or talking or simply standing close and felt a familiar feeling of loneliness build in his chest he wanted to feel what they were feeling. He took another long pull of his mead enjoying the sweetness of it.

Looking back Bryech saw that Fritha was now approaching him looking the way she did when she wanted to have a serious conversation. Before she could reach him she was intercepted by a small crowd of people who wished to speak with her. She was Jarl Fritha the Honored after all, and everyone wanted to know her. Bryech felt his emotions begin to crowd his mind and he made his way outside to a small cooking fire that had been left as the festivities moved inside. Taking a few minutes to reignite the flames and get a comfortable fire going again gave Bryech a welcome distraction. With some struggle he managed to breathe life back into the flames. Sitting on a stump next to the fire Bryech did what he did best when he wasn’t fighting, overthink. His thoughts raced and wandered about his choices in life, his cryptic dreams, his battles won and battles lost, his friends gained and his friends who were taken. Eventually his mind wandered back to Ingrid as it always did. He felt the pain of missing her and of wondering if he had stayed with them in Ironmound if things would’ve been better. He knew he would have always felt as if he had abandoned his friends though and that he would be seen as a coward like his father and the thought of that was just as unbearable. It was a lot to process, luckily the late autumn chill shook Bryech from his thoughts as he wrapped himself in his fur cloak. Hearing noise behind him he wondered for a moment who it was but the familiar rattle of Fritha’s leg brace gave her away so he didn’t bother turning he simply greeted her as she sat on another stump beside him.

“My Jarl.” was all Bryech said. Bryech viewed Fritha and Thrand not as friends but as family so he was often far too aloof in his opinion but he knew she understood his respect for her.

“Trying to avoid me out here?” Fritha jested as she nudged him

“No, just wanted to be alone for a moment.” Bryech replied not taking his eyes from the fire.

“Are you ok Bryech?” Fritha’s voice was heavy with concern, and to be honest Bryech didn’t know how to respond to that right now. So he changed the subject.

“You had the look about you that you get when you want to have a serious conversation,”

Bryech turned and faced her. “What’s on your mind?” She looked at him and took a small breath before beginning.

“At the Aettinjav you told me you planned on making a case for you becoming a Hersir to Graytir once we returned to Jotunvik.” Bryech nodded, remaining silent as he sensed Fritha wasn’t done speaking.

“As I watched you fight for our allies who were not yet even our people and for us I felt proud to be your friend, your family.” Fritha paused again for a moment Bryech couldn’t tell if it was to think or something else but he continued to wait.

You were a big part in securing several of the victories for Squallborn and you willingly put your life on the line for The Maw of the Wolf, this showed me everything I needed to see.”

Fritha turned on her stump and faced Bryech pulling out her seax and said.

“I have watched you grow as a warrior, a man, and a leader, and I am proud to call you my family, I give you my word as your Jarl and friend that I will support your push toward becoming a Hersir.” Bryech was shocked and so very happy. Pulling his own seax Bryech bumped his fist with Fritha’s

“My Jarl you honor me more than words can express, thank you.” Bryech leaned forward and hugged his friend being careful not to stab her with his dagger. Fritha nodded and smiled jokingly saying.

“For now I’ll leave you be, make sure you go to sleep at a proper time so you don’t oversleep tomorrow and get left behind.” she stood and returned to the hall where undoubtedly somebody was looking for her. Bryech sat at the fire for a while longer contemplating his thoughts once more. Eventually Bryech realised it was much like Thrand had taught him about wounds, sometimes things just need time and the proper care to heal. Bryech realised he would have to let go of things and grow to heal. Something much easier said than done Bryech thought.

Eventually the sounds within the hall grew quiet as people slept where they lie in the hall and the fires died down, heading back inside Bryech was distracted by a movement to the left of the hall caught his eye. It was the woman he had been admiring. They locked eyes and she curled one finger toward her encouraging him to follow and then disappeared around the corner. Bryech felt his heart beat faster and fear take him. Which he scolded himself for he was an accomplished warrior he shouldn’t get this nervous about women. He steeled himself and followed her, not taking Fritha’s advice and instead having a restless evening.

The sun rose the next day and he boarded the longship feeling tired but happy. They set off on their journey home and after a few hours at sea Thrand approached him. Bryech nodded in greeting and looked out at the open ocean, a far more comfortable and confident sailor than when he had first sailed to Stormjarl with Pack Longfang all those years ago.

“I don’t mean to coddle you but Fritha told how you felt the need to be alone last night, are you okay?” Thrand asked. Bryech appreciated his concern and how he approached it, it showed Bryech that Thrand understood him. Looking at Thrand and smiling and then looking back out at the sea taking comfort in his new found journey to heal and grow he replied

“I will be, I just need time.”

Nicole was eager for her day to be over. Long hours on her feet and meeting with those who came to see her were rewarding enough, but deep down she craved the silence and isolation of her chambers. They were far from opulent, with few items save her small cot, her desk, a fur to kneel on, and her bookshelf. Smiling to herself as she shut the heavy wooden door behind her and quietly turned the key in the lock, she felt her world melt away. This is always the best part of the day.

Not long ago, she had ventured north, deep into Ironmound territory to get away from her life, if only for a moment. She took a job as a waitress with the Wardens and was asked to help serve drinks during the political meeting that was to be taking place. That dinner was more trouble than it was worth. Quickly it faded from her thoughts. It didn’t matter: the dinner was behind her, and she was home now.

Loosening buckles and lacing, Nicole began to disrobe from her typical attire to her sleeping garments. It always surprised her how soft and comfortable they were. With a few deep breaths she lowered herself to her knees on the fur, her hands folded in front of her. No, she mused. THIS is the best part of the day. Nicole allowed her mind to drift away in prayer, attuning herself to the mana stream and through it, to divinity. Images raced through her head, as if she were dreaming, though none could be explained with words. A presence stopped before her, seeming to engulf her body with itself, and she felt peaceful. She knew this presence well.

Without speaking, the presence addressed her, and she could feel its question in her mind. Yes, she responded. This is me as I am. It felt perverse in a way to make such a claim. Who was she to make that decision? And surely, if that was the truth, the presence was well aware already. She expected a cold silence, like that of a father looking disapprovingly on a misbehaved child. Her head slumped and a lump formed in her throat. The lump only swelled when she felt a warmth embrace her.

“I…I don’t…” She began, confused by the sensation. The presence did not falter and continued to warm her, “Thank you.” It seemed silly to say. “You know why I am afraid. You’ve always known. I’m sorry.” The warmth held, neither receding as she had feared nor advancing as it had. “I don’t want to let you down.”

As her doubts and anxiety built in her mind, she noticed a cold tingling in her fingers and toes. It was as if the warm presence was pulling away. “You’ve given me so much, but I can’t do it.”

The chill spread to her elbows. “It’s been too long; I can’t go back now.”

Her arms felt numb, drained of their vitality. “I’m not as strong as you think I am.”

The cold engulfed her almost entirely, as though she had been naked during a winter storm. “I’m afraid. Please don’t let me do this alone.”

With that, she noticed a sensation. Deep in her core, like a candle nearly exhausted, was a small glimmer of warmth. “You’re still here. Right where you’ve always been.”

The sensation grew once more, though slower than before. That was as clear of an answer as she had ever gotten from the presence: I am never alone.

Nicole knew exactly what she had to do. Just not how or when to do it. Not that she would have much time to think about it right now, as there was a heavy knock on her door. Clearing her throat and settling into her familiar voice, she responded with a simple “Yes?”

She knew the man on the other side of the door as soon as he spoke. They had known each other for quite a while but had been reintroduced outside of Daven’s Reach a few years ago. His words were muffled through the heavy door, so she quickly ushered him inside.

“I said, ‘You’re supposed to give a report.’ People want to know what you’ve been up to. Oh, and you…might want to get dressed.”

Blood. It covered him. That was nothing new. Combined with sweat, it ran in rivulets, dripping off him. That was nothing new as well. He was a soldier, with blood and sweat the byproducts of his trade. He had been at war in one way or another for over a decade, shedding his enemy’s and own blood often enough.
He took a deep breath. The adrenaline high of combat was fading, leaving the cloying smell of blood, sweat, and steel. Heat, as well. In stories they never made mention how even in the coldest battles a soldier quickly sweats and overheats. Not very heroic, dying of heat exhaustion, or hypothermia after a battle.
Of course, hypothermia would not be a concern today. Today is hot, as it should be in June. The heat helped, dragging down heavily armored and lesser trained soldiers. It sapped them, whereas he kept going. He would never admit it, but the lethargy of exhaustion allowed him to kill more than his own skill did. Not very heroic.

He glanced at the sword rested on his shoulder. It was pitted and chipped from the clashing of steel, wood, and bones. He would have to take care of it again tonight. He wondered how much longer it would carry him through.
Eventually all steel warped and failed after repeated combat.

A plain blade, it had seen much. The runes on it were the only thing that set it apart. A rare sentimental moment where he cast his feelings upon it. Those were rare then, and rarer now. Most of his emotions had been burned away in the flames of war. Outside of it, he was left cold. He grew colder as the years and battles went by. He would grow cold one day when his odds or body ran out. Not very heroic at all.
He surveyed the field again, the professional soldier in him checking for any new threats. Sometimes enemies feigned death, only to spring away later. These did not; would not. They fought like fanatics; they were fanatics. But that did not making cutting them down any easier. Nor harder, for that matter. Cutting them down was simply what was. He wondered at that. Colder indeed.

He glanced at the last warrior he slew. Not a soldier, but fought like a warrior. She was old; too old for this mess. The professional in him disdained the drafting of such into a fight. They should only fight in a life or death situation. But to them it was, and showed their thought. The inner professional disdained it, but the Warhound felt nothing.
Warhound; it’s what he called himself. Some called him a Dog, and perhaps that’s how they saw him. But he was made in war, forged in it, and no dog was. He was a beast to unleash at enemies; no pity, no remorse, no fear. Just the cold calculated butchery of the enemies, and his objective to accomplish.

He looked at the bodies of the old, the children. Perhaps it was time for the Warhound to put up his weapons. To kill one’s own was a terrible thing. He thought it should affect him; it should affect him. But he only saw the danger. Danger if it should happen again. Danger that it could happen again. The Warhound had no way to stop it. All of his sword and skill could not stop it.
But perhaps that wasn’t what he should do. He was a Warhound, was he not? A relentless beast that kept going until victory? Perhaps he just did not have the right weapons to fight this fight. Perhaps he needed new ones. Weapons of guile, and lies, and charm. The weapons not of a soldier, but a politician. An aristocrat.

As the Warhound made up his mind, he felt something. He could not explain it, but it felt as if something had been lost. He shrugged. The Warhound would win, regardless. That was what he was, and that is what he did.

The water dripped from the recent rain that drove across Mardrun, falling in a stark contrast to the the silence of the cell where one James Arbor found himself. He awoke with a start and couldn’t ignore a feeling of pain from the chains biting into his wrist, but slowly that pain dulled into a mysterious cooling comfort. James sighed with relief and then stiffened in realization of what was happening. It all came racing back to him all at once: the dream from the night before, The Spirits leaving him, the darkness that consumed his world, and finally the loving words of a female voice and the gift it could provide. 

“Hey! I know someone’s there. I need to talk to Volrok!” James screamed out trying to get the attention of the guards outside his cell. 

“What are you on about in there?” one of the men at the doorway nearby exclaimed.

“I need to talk to Commander Volrok. I have a request of him”

“And why would the Commander care to listen,” the guard sneered, “to a request from a traitor like you?”

“Because until the trial I’m still a member of the Broken Blade,” James’ voice shook with uncertainty, “and I’m sure Volrok would at least be willing to talk to me if he’s got a quick second.” There was no reply, but James did see a shifting of shadow from beyond the doorway and he simply waited.

The Guard laughed aloud after a moment, “You must be mad as well! You know how many letters he has gotten and had to respond to? I am sure that he doesn’t–” the guard paused for the briefest of seconds and the sound of clattering armor rang out from the other side of the door, “Sir!? I thought you were occupied in your study?” 

“Move aside… I am going to speak with the dishonored… “ a familiar voice, thick in accent echoed off the stone walls. 

“Sir, you shouldn’t have to sully your presence with the likes of him,” the guard began, “Please go back to your bunk and get some rest commander… You look as if you haven’t slept in days –” . The sound of a thick steel sword being drawn from it’s sheath punctuated the guard’s words and was answered with the quiet sound of a nervous swallow. 

“I gave you an order guard and you know fucking damn well that I have not the patience for insubordination at the moment,” a tense silence filled the room, a tactic that Volrok would often employ with his soldiers. Eventually again he spoke, “Now… open. the damned. door.” 

Without pause the dungeon was filled with the sounds of the bolts and bars of the door being undone, ending with the final satisfying clunk as the final lock on the door dropped open. There was a moment of silence before the door swung open and in walked in Volrok, his eyes weary and with heavy bags beneath them. He dragged a chair into the room and placed it several paces away from James before sitting down.

Volrok sat in silence as he took out his pipe, packed it, and gently lit it with a thick, heavy match. He took few long drags and sat quietly as the smell of vanilla and bourbon filled the air. When he was ready, Volrok spoke. 

“I am here… Now speak, but you have exactly ten minutes of my time,” his tone was cold and distant, “For that is all I am willing to spare you right now…” 

James looked over Volrok sitting across from him. Seeing the bags under his eyes and the look of anger and disdain on his face made James shift away slightly. 

“Well, you are looking about as bad as I feel.” James said with a nervous chuckle. He sat for a moment, cleared his throat, and readjusted himself in his bindings to get some feeling back into his hands.

“Right then, originally I had called for you for a request but now I think I have a bit of a question before that.” James tried to appear as professional as possible given the circumstances. “Those guards outside are a bit louder then they think and so I’ve heard a couple of things.” James attempted to gesture with his hands only to have them catch in the bindings. He sighed and looked at Volrok letting his hands fall as much as the bindings would allow. 

“What is going to happen with me Volrok? I want to hear it from the horse’s mouth. I know I’m not going to be staying with Broken Blade after this is all over, but I’ve heard talk of other things that have me worried.” James looked over Volrok with fear in his eyes.

Volrok took a long drag from his pipe and exhaled with a deep sigh, “I will first state this, you placed the company in a very difficult position. If this had been any other insignificant Ulven, we could have gotten away with a blood price and been done with the whole damnedable situation. However, that is not the case here, you attacked a truthseeker, one specifically from Clan Spiritclaw, a respected neutral clan of the Ulven. And to top it all off, she was a Daughter of Gaia. This is the equivalent of attacking someone of nobility.” 

He took a deep breath and continued. “Honestly, I can say that I am surprised they didn’t kill you out right, then and there. However, they did not and have left it to me, your Commander, to decide how to punish you… That being said though, I have political figures all over Mardrun breathing down my neck on how we are going to handle your punishment. New Hope, The Ulven Clans, and even Prince Aylin are all keeping tabs on how this will end, and I have done what I could to make sure you won’t see the death penalty…”

He shifted in his seat and looked James hard in the eyes, “As it stands, your punishment is as follows: You will be exiled from Baille Onair, banished from Broken Blade Company and branded as dishonored, and then,” he paused making sure he had James full attention, “The bones in your hand will be crushed and what’s left will be bound so that it cannot heal until a time that you can prove that you do have honor. Judgement on your redemption and honor will be by the standards of the Broken Blade and no one else. Be thankful for that, I am sure we will be far more lenient than the Ulven people. When we feel you have proved your worth, we will gladly repair your hand and let you go on with your life.”

Volrok sat in silence for a moment before speaking again, “You will think this harsh, but some wanted harsher. I did what I could for one who has served me as well as you have… But I cannot be anymore lenient on this matter or the company will all suffer from your actions.” Volrok allowed his head to drop to his chest and gave a long, smoke-filled sigh.

“Maiming…my hand…but that would mean I couldn’t weave Mana” James whispered with a look of shock in his eyes. He tried to bring his hands together in front of him only to be stopped by the shackles and chains that bound him to the cell. He looked at his hands and clenched them into fists.

“How can I regain honor when I can’t do the one thing I’m good at?! I’ve studied most of my life to be a mage and if I can’t do that, then what good can I do!” James snapped out with anger welling in his eyes, “Hell, you’ve seen first hand what I can do. You said it yourself that my Weaver Auras help you immensely” James screamed at Volrok and stepped toward him, but with this one step the bindings cut into the raw flesh on his wrists releasing a slow trickle of blood that fell to the floor behind him.

 “All my research into discovering how to wield the divine nature of the Spirits along with the Arcane would be wasted! Volrok you’ve got to reconsider! I’ll accept the exile and the brand but taking away my magic is one step too far, you might as well kill me!” James’ eyes burned with a pleading exasperation and it was clear he didn’t notice the wounds splitting open on his wrists.. 

Volrok calmly knocked his pipe on the side of his chair, spilling tobacco over the floor and allowed James to speak his peace. He then took a deep breath, stood up, and with a voice that rivaled a war horn, unleashed his thoughts upon James Arbor, “and what about all the years of blood, sweat, tears, and hard work I put into rebuilding this company?! Your attempt at an ‘honorable’ death has put this company’s reputation and future under a gods damned magnifying glass for all of fucking Mardrun!” 

He paced for a few moments, his face purpling with rage,  “Yes, your magic has proven useful! By Arnath’s hairy taint, it has helped me save a few lives in the process! I am deadly aware of this! However, this fact doesn’t help the situation you put us in!” He paused long enough scoop his chair into one of his large hands and send it sailing across the room. With a resounding crack the chair slammed against the cell door and splintered into little more than kindling, 

“But out of all issues of this entire situation, one of the hardest ones for me is that you betrayed me! You betrayed my trust that you would  represent those colors on your belt! That you would bring pride and honor to the name Broken Blade Company! You betrayed the relationship we have built over many battles and encounters! Yet despite this, you want me to grant you leniency?! Do you not realize the political ramifications of your actions!? ”

He stopped for only a moment and looked back at James with eyes now watering over with emotion, “In all honesty I should kill you! At least then we wouldn’t have to worry about all of this! All the pressure from Prince Aylin, New Hope, the Ulven would — would be gone in a blade swing! However, because I once trusted you, because I am honorable, because I am at least enough of a fucking friend to give you a gods damned chance at redemption… That is why I will not kill you!”

James retreated from Volrok’s rage and watched him with wide eyes and mouth agape. He attempted to throw his arms forward to shield himself from some of the splinters from the chair that came spilled into his cell, but was once again was stopped by the bindings. James stood still, looking at his bound hands and the blood dripping from underneath the cuffs holding him.

“Not much of a reputation when one measly mage with no mana can bring it toppling down.” James said while looking at the drops of blood slowly staining the stone beneath his feet.

“She was right,” he muttered under his breath, “you are just an  angry little man looking for any excuse to put the blame on others!” James seethed

“Fuck honor! All of it! Yours, and the Ulven’s! It is nothing but an excuse for death wishes and power trips. That day in the swamp I wasn’t looking for an ‘honorable’ death. I was just looking for  death! The camp denied me that death. Even the Mordok denied my wishes before I went back to the camp! They just sniffed at me and walked past. There was no going back and if it wasn’t for honor I would be dead and not in this mess” James screamed stepping forward as much as the chains would allow, the cuffs dug deep and his wounds split wide and blood began to flow freely from the deep lacerations on his wrists, but James did not stop.

“But now I want to live and live my way” James said through gritted teeth. 

Volrok stood there for a moment, his face draining from the once deep maroon of his rage to a lighter pink, flushed with frustration and anger after he heard what James had to say for himself.
“You are not wrong,” he began slowly, “I am an angry man… I am battleborn James Arbor, and I will always be an angry little man till the day I die because of it. As for pushing the blame on others, was it my blade that was swung? Was it my choice to commit such an act? If it was, please point it out to me for I am failing to see where this fault becomes my own.” He controlled his breathing further, trying not to let his anger hold control any more than it has had over the past week.
He took a few more moments to breathe, letting the anger and tension leave his body further, but not fully. “What do you mean you wished to die? What would make you wish for such a fate, Arbor? Help me understand at least that. Maybe if I can understand your reasoning for such thoughts, then maybe I would be able to better help you on your journey of redemption.” His voice had slowly turned from wrath to that of concern, not that of an officer or even that of a friend, but more akin to that of a father trying to comprehend his wayward son.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, you have decided my fate” James whispered slumping his head down. He then proceeded to back away from Volrok slowly one step at a time until he had backed up against the wall of his cell. James then fell to his knees and brought his hands up in front of him. 

“I’m truly sorry about this Volrok, but I feel like I’ve been saying that a lot lately” James said, a light chuckle in his voice. He then covered his eyes with his hands and spoke aloud.

“Mother, I accept your power and your gift!” James shouted and let his head fall back, looking to the ceiling, “Take me away from those who wish to do me harm.” Immediately he felt a gentle embrace wrap around his body and an odd bluish aura rose up from around the blood dripping from beneath the shackles. James brought his hands down towards the floor and with no effort, the manacles slipped over his hands and fell heavy against the wall behind him. For one last time, James looked up at Volrok with tears streaming down his face.

“Goodbye” James breathed to Volrok before bringing his hands up towards the ceiling and called forth a blinding blue flash, and with that James Arbor was gone.

As Volrok’s eyes adjusted from the sudden flash, all that was left for him to see was one small piece of fabric. He watched mournfully as this wayward scrap fell slowly through the air and landed a small puddle of James’ blood. As the blood soaked into the cloth Volrok could see what it was; a red belt flag, marked with a silver fist gripping a broken sword. James’ mark of loyalty to Broken Blade, stained and tarnished.