The Cast

	Cecilia Shadowdale, Hafling Female, Rogue-8, played by Penny.
	Hector "Greenblood" RasAr, Hobgoblin Male, Fighter-7, played by Ryan.
	Himo Amastacia, Elf Male, Psychic Warrior-8, played by Marty.
	Marqus Nightveil, Human Male, Warlock-3 / Sorcerer-3 / Eldritch Theurge-2, played by Jon.
	Selkrem Parvor Vultus, Human Male, Cleric-5 / Wizard-3, played by Brian.

Experience Point Awards

Cecilia Shadowdale

Race: Hafling Sex: Female Age: 25 Home: Height: 11 Hands Weight: 2 Stone Caste: Freeborne Class & Level: Rogue-8 Status: Alive and well.
[back to top] Physical Description: Manner of Dress: Personality: Traits of Interest: Items of Note:

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Life Before Adventure

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The Early Adventures

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Hector "Greenblood" RasAr

Race: Greenblood (Hobgoblin Blooded) Sex: Male Age: 30 Home: Hector is a member of Clan Smashing Bison of the Rolling Plains. He has not seen his Clan in almost sixteen years. He is often found in the bar closest to where he was last seen. Height: 20 Hands Weight: 16 Stone Caste: Freeborne Class & Level: Fighter-7 Status: Alive and well.

[back to top] Physical Description: Hector's face and body lay host to many scars. His hair is short and wiry, tousled but does not appear to be unkempt. Two pearl white fangs extend from his jaw; the left fang is noticeably larger than the other. His ears can best be described as shaped scar tissue. Multiple piercings adorn his upper ear and lobes. It looks as though some have been violently ripped out and pierced again. His broad shoulders make him look heavier then he actually is. His large biceps ripple with veins and look as though they are ready to burst. Manner of Dress: Hector is a simple dresser. He doesn’t understand the need to dress fancy. His trousers are torn and beginning to unravel. His shoes are covered in mud and his toes protrude out the front. A multitude of shinny rings cover his vital organs. He wears no undershirt and his muscular pecks and eight toned abs are clearly visible through the mail. A very large bronze axe hangs at his side. His shield is thinker then normal and is tightly strapped to his back. A leather bandoleer holds several vials for easy access. Beyond what is immediately apparent, he does not seem to have any personal belongings. Personality: Although he may look rough and harsh, his eyes are kind. He values most every life especially those of women and children. He is compassionate but does not hesitate to strike down those who do harm to others. He doesn’t care for the law because it does little to protect those in need. He is talkative and agreeable, but prefers to act rather than talk. He remains extremely loyal to his friends whom have given him trust. Also he is a little bi-curious. Traits of Interest: He has a fondness for dwarves. They were the race he interacted with for most of the 16 years after he left home. His lengthy travels along the gold coast caused him to pick up some Gnomish habits as well. He took on his last name only 10 years ago. It means Green in Gnomish and Blood in Dwarven. Items of Note: His bandoleer hangs loosely off his right shoulder. The leather is worn and cracked with a buckle that seems to have been recently repaired. The vials do not seem to be arranged in any particular order. In fact vials with similar looking liquid are not even grouped together.

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Life Before Adventure

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The Early Adventures

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Himo Amastacia

Race: Elf Sex: Male Age: 132 years Home: Newhome, the Dominion granted Elven homeland tucked deep within the hollows of the Coastwood. Height: 16 Hands Weight: 7 Stone Caste: Foreignborne Class & Level: Psychic Warrior-8 Status: Alive and well.

[back to top] Physical Description: Himo's compact yet lithe body belies a wiry strength and high endurance. He wears his black hair in a fighter's short brush-cut except for the typical (for elves) braid at his left temple. This braid is woven with purple and dark green cords that denote him as a member of the Siviata Kianno i'Tantri ka'soral (literally translated: Followers of Mental and Bodily Purity; loose translation: Psychic Warriors). Himo's wide-set, large green eyes veritably sparkle with the fires of focused mental energy. Himo's complexion is quite pale - a stark contrast to his black hair. Manner of Dress: Himo tends to wear purple and dark green clothing. All of his clothes are fastidiously clean and in good repair. Currently, he wears a purple tunic and breeches with a wide leather belt that has been died the same color green as his boots. Beneath the tunic, showing through at his neck and on his arms, is a chainmail shirt made of lustrous silver links. Over all of this is a fine dark green cloak embroidered on the edges with arcane-looking script done in purple and silver threads. He has a beautifully-made short-bow of complex design slung over one shoulder and large shield made of the same silvery material as his chain-shirt strapped to the other. He also carries a finely-wrought pugio on his right hip and a faintly glowing spatha on his left. Both the short bow and the hilt of his spatha sport green crystals that sometimes glow with power right before Himo strikes a devastating blow on his enemies. Personality: Himo is quiet and reserved, as are most members of his society. He is slow to friendship, but thinks the best of people in general, so is sometimes thought of as too trusting. Once you have his friendship, he will scale the Cliffs of Insanity if that is what is needed to do you a favor. Himo has developed a wander-lust over the years of adventuring that is at odds with most of his society who view him as capricious. Amongst other elves, Himo feels no need to hide the fact that he is a Klalana'sabartha (literal translation: Mirror-love; loose translation: gay). In the rest of the world, Himo has learned (the hard way) that this is not as readily accepted and is something that should be kept to himself. Traits of Interest: Himo seems to know a lot of high-priced courtesans. They enjoy his well-mannered and cultured company as well as the fact that he just looks good with them. They also like that he never hits on them. Items of Note: Under the chain shirt Himo wears a simple amulet that appears to be a piece of animal hide stretched into the form of a shield. As well, affixed to the buckle of his belt is a green crystal that glows faintly with an inner power.

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Life Before Adventure

Written by Martin Durham

130 years ago…

The night winds and lashing rains of Thunderheight whistled in harsh counter-point to the pounding on the great wooden doors of the Halls of Bodily Health. Sister Tarabitha wondered what kind of emergency would cause an Elf to call such attention to himself as she rushed to unbolt the doors.

“Their need must be dire,” she whispered as she pulled open the heavy doors. A sudden gust of wind and blast of rain nearly soaked her where she stood.

“Good Sister. Make way,” said a cloaked male Elf leading a group of four elves carrying a dripping palanquin into the entryway. “My cousin’s babe comes early and she fears for its life.”

As the servants lowered the covered couch onto the polished marble floor, a small pool of water slowly forming beneath it, Tarabitha instinctively tapped into the node that was the center of life in Newhome. Forming mental images of the elves she sought, she called out to them in the declamatory-mode, indicating emergency and childbirth without actually having to form words. “The Healers have been summoned,” she declared as she struggled against the storm to close the great wooden doors and bolt them back into place. “But tell me, did the usual calming techniques not work on the baby? It should have easily been convinced to stay where it is for at least a day or so…” A groan from within the silk curtains of the palanquin was the only reply to her query.

With his hood now thrown back and his caste-braid exposed, Tarabitha noted that the Elf was Simcule anna’Thianasan or "Of the Puissant Collector of Thought" caste. He was an Essence collector. These would be very well connected elves indeed! The gold that Essence brought to Newhome was important enough that the stature of their caste had steadily risen since the founding of the city. “How am I to know what she did or did not convey to the child?” he testily replied after no other answer was issued by the patient herself. “All I know is that she would not be dissuaded from coming here. Please, take her where she can be more comfortable. I will wait for the father. I summoned him on our way here.”

While his tone was polite considering the circumstances, Tarabitha understood a command from her Caste-Superior when she heard one. Indicating that the servants should lift the palanquin and follow her, Tarabitha walked further into the Hall. Eventually they arrived at a curtained room containing a few low couches, a large tub and several shelves stocked with dried herbs and Fleshcrafting implements. The room was cool and dry when compared to the sticky heat of Thunderheight and Tarabitha silently thanked whoever had left water near enough at hand that she would not have to fetch more. Instructing the servants to leave with a glance in the direction they had come, Tarabitha slid the curtains into place and turned to the palanquin.

“Lady,” she said softly in her most deferential tone, “I apologize for asking, but may I see you in your time of distress? I merely wish to help you to a more comfortable place of rest.”

The reply was sharp and preceded by the hiss of air between clenched teeth, “At this juncture, that would be acceptable.”

Tarabitha reached down and slowly pulled the palanquin's curtains open. The Elven lady reclining uncomfortably on the couch within was loosely wrapped in a diaphanous gown of moonweave silk and was beautiful even in her agitated state. Her hair was straight, auburn-brown and held back from her face by a simple circlet of silver. Her caste-braid was wound with white and blue thread and like her hair reached to her waist. Her ears, rising almost the crown of her head contained many rings. Most were simple in design but some were set with jewels that were undoubtedly of great value. She had a comely form, lithe and supple under the gown except for the large mound of her abdomen that was the baby, topped by the small twin hills of her breasts. She was shaking from her attempts to control the birth contractions and the pain of delivery marred her pale features. Tarabitha was startled from her appraisal when the ladies deep green eyes flashed open with an intake of breath. “I am Valanthe Liadon and though it is early, my babe will be born this night!”

Tarabitha reached out to help the lady to the birthing couch and heard the room’s curtains open and close quickly. The room was instantly suffused with a warm and calming presence. “We shall see about that, my dear lady.” came a soothing voice from behind Tarabitha, Not all babes know when it is their time to come.”

Tarabitha rose and turned towards the voice. One of the Healers she had called earlier had arrived and now moved through the room and to her patient’s bedside with a practiced authority. Placing her hand gently on the Elven lady’s forehead she said both verbally and mentally, “I am Matron Lalliandra. I am here to ease your discomfort.”

Within seconds of the contact the Elven lady visibly relaxed on the couch and her features took on the serenity that must assuredly be there at most times. After observing the Lady intently for a few moments, the Matron removed her hand and turned away. “Tarabitha, please warm the swaddling just in case, but let us see about forestalling this arrival.”

While Tarabitha went about her task, Matron Lalliandra moved to the small workbench under the shelves and began plucking dried herbs from various jars and placing them in a pestle. After grinding the herbs to a fine powder she transferred them to a shallow drinking vessel, added some cool water and murmured the words of a Cantrip over the tincture. Moving to her patient’s side, she held the draught to the lady's lips and slowly tilted its contents into her mouth through parted lips. “I was starting to despair of your arrival, Vian. Were you lost in Reverie?” said the Matron as she continued to administer the draught. It was obvious from her tone and demeanor that she was not speaking to anyone currently in the room but a wry smiled was evident on her face.

Her question still hanging in the air, the curtains parted to reveal a wizened Elven male. His clothes were damp from the storm and his silver hair wet and disheveled. His caste-braid of red and silver denoted him as "Siabantha klas’Kianna" or "Of the Seers of Thoughts." A disapproving frown further marred his wrinkled face. “You know perfectly well that I cannot achieve Reverie on nights such as this Lalliandra!” the old Elf snapped, “The energy of the storm plays havoc with the mental lattices.”

Tarabitha smiled to herself at the exchange. While some would consider it shocking to display such familiarity of speech in front of a stranger, Tarabitha knew that the patient was beyond noticing such things at this point.

Ignoring Vian's gruff response to her question, the Matron finished administering the contents of the vessel and stood, placing the dish on a table nearby. “I have just administered a draught that will slow her contractions for a time,” said the Matron. “It is now up to you to convince the babe to remain where it is. We are four full weeks before the birth date provided by the seers.”

A throaty “hurmph” and a frown was the only answer to her statement he provided. He moved closer, picking a stool up and placing it close to the lady’s mid-section. Gathering the red robes he wore he carefully lowered himself onto the stool. Before placing his hand on the Lady's abdomen he briefly turned towards her. “Milady, please forgive my intrusion upon your person.” She faintly nodded her assent before closing her eyes at the distant pain of another contraction. Within seconds of contact with her flesh, Vian's perception of the room around him faded and was replaced by the sensation of floating and the overwhelming thud of a heartbeat.

Vian disliked having to make contact with unborn children. Their unformed mental traces were hard to grasp onto and concepts they could understand had to be formed with the most rudimentary of mental symbols. Steeling himself for the final plunge into the babe's budding mind, Vian was nearly shocked out of his trance by the strength and clarity of the mental construct that ignited in his mind and stopped him short.

{???WHOYOU???}

While not actual words, the tone and meaning conveyed by the construct was quite clear and far beyond what could be expected from a mind that had no experiences beyond the toneless songs of the womb. Vian had encountered this before, but it was rare indeed. He shaped the contents of his next constructs with great care.

{comfort!!!STAYWARMSOFT!!!comfort}

{calm!!!SLEEPFLOAT!!!calm}

Vian smiled to himself. The construct contained an imperative command that should calm the child and allow the matrons’ medicines to sooth and fully cease the mother’s contractions.

{frustration!!!NOSTAY!!!frustration}

{!!!AETHERCALLSSELF!!!}

Vian was rocked to his core by the strength of the child’s constructs. While it was obviously reacting to the strength of the storm raging around Newhome, the conviction with which the child shrugged off his imperatives was amazing. Gathering his mental armament, Vian prepared to shape a more complex construct that should have the desired effect.

He began to press forward, leaving his position hovering at the edge of the child’s mind and moving in towards the necessary regions. Once again, Vian found himself stopped short. Stretching before him was a construct that manifested in his perception as a smooth, hard wall. Try as he might, Vian could find no chink to exploit no way around the construct and into the child’s mind. “Very well, little one.” Vian thought to himself as he withdrew his consciousness, “You shall have your way this time. The storm calls and you must answer. Do not think this will always be the way of things.”

As his link with the child's mind dissolved, the thud of the heartbeat faded and Vian’s sight once again took in the room around him. He let out a breath he did not realize he had been holding.

“Is everything alright Vian?” asked the matron, a look of concern on both her and Sister Tarabitha’s faces. “I’ve seldom heard you swear before in these matters.”

“If I did Lalliandra it was most involuntarily!” exclaimed Vian. “This child refuses my entry into his mind! Me! I am a master of my caste and never have I met an unborn child that has shown such strength of will or conviction. He will be born this night and will brook no other argument.”

“’He’, did you say?” came a voice from behind Vian that he was not expecting. Turning on his stool Vian looked up into the face of a handsome, Elven male. His black hair was damp against his face, the water dripping steadily from his purple and dark-green caste-braid. A warrior and Al’athor Kiannan i’Shathor or "Of the Shining Minds and Blades." He was a protector of Newhome and the Elven nation. He looked expectantly past Vian to the woman on the couch, “I am to have a son?”

“Yes, my good sir, tonight you shall have a son.” Vian rose from the stool and moved to the doorway. “Despite the work of Matron Lalliandra and myself he wills himself into the World. Never have I encountered the like in all my days of walking the mind. You have yourself a very precocious and strong-willed son. I do not envy you your future.” Vian held open the curtains. “Now come with me. Let us leave the rest of the procedure to Matron Lalliandra and Sister Tarabitha. They will see your son safely into the world. We shall wait upon his arrival where we are not underfoot.”

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The Early Adventures

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Marqus Nightveil

Race: Human Sex: Male Age: 17 years Home: A small outlying town two days north of Antionium by horse and another two days ride south of the southern flank of The Drako Badlands. Height: Weight: 14 stone Caste: Freeborne Class & Level: Warlock-3 / Sorcerer-3 / Eldritch Theurge-2 Status: Alive and well.

[back to top] Physical Description: At 17 he hardly looks road worn, but his hair is long, shaggy and hangs over his face. Teen stubble belies his features but not his age. His eyes often are vaguely glazed. The viewer, so overcome with the intense blueness of his irises often realizes that they can't remember seeing a pupil, though certain that there must have been one. Manner of Dress: This young man looks like he was dressed by experience. His armor, while dirty and scuffed is well made. His breast plate is silver and could be mistaken for ancestral steel but for it light build and modern adornment. A beautiful cloak wraps around his shoulders. It seems not only ascetic, but functional. It moves with Marqus' body and motion. A bronze long sword rides on his belt hanging from behind, and various small pouches line his waist, a sure sign that magic is at his beck and call. His clothing appears to be aged by years of wear, but not a single stitch or tear can be found. They hug his body, not so tight as to be revealing, but close enough for comfort and movement. Personality: Despite his endeavor to not be noticed, few can help but not notice him as he passes. People move out of his way as though trying just as hard not to be noticed by him. The very young and very old seem oddly drawn to Marq, and they are often the only ones he will interact with. In a bar, he will find a dark corner, order quick and simply and have little else to do with anyone else. The only time he seems to react at all to those around him is when someone appears to be being abused, bullied or otherwise mistreated. Traits of Interest: Marqus is attractive in an almost alien way. His bright blue eyes practically glow and his pupils seem hidden in the color. With those he trusts with his life, he says it is the legacy of his birth, such as it was. Found by his mentor and friend in the remains of a magical blast that left his mother dead at least 2 seasons before he should have been born. Items of Note: Deep in his pack wrapped in a thick roll of leather is a careful bound book with arcane symbols upon the front. This is the spell book that Kelderan made for Marq. It has a series of spells that may in time be of use to him. The book was bound by the aged wizard himself. He told the young man that the runes on the book he forged himself from the last of the ancient steel he had acquired over the years. This was his legacy and that of his mother. It was the legacy of Marqus' birth, and the old mage hoped the book would serve Marq well in his life. This is all Marqus has of his former life, of the only real father he had known and the sacrifice of his mother.

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Life Before Adventure

Written by Jon Anderson

BIRTH OF MARQUS

The explosion woke Kelderan from his slumber. The evening's work had taxed him to the point of utter exhaustion. It was fear that have him energy, for the sound could only have come from his work shop. In only a loose robe with his staff in hand he proceeded to the laboratory to investigate.

The door to the work shop had been blown off its hinges, the floor, ceiling and walls were scorched and bright blue flames crawled across different surfaces, charring everything they touched as they slowly died away.

"Althea?" Kelderan called out to the room. The beautiful blond sorceress was the only person that had access to the lab and could bypass all the protective charms. The elder wizard's blood ran cold as he remembered their final conversation of the night.

"Master, I still have much energy to provide. You merely have to guide my hands," she had pleaded. His work. No... Their work, had meant as much to her as it had to him. "The portal is stable. We just need to connect it to the plane of earth."

"No, Althea," he had responded softly," I have not your youth nor such reserves of power. We will continue in the morning. Go relax. See that young man at the library that is so entranced with you."

The young woman blushed, "Very well, Master. I will clean up here first to prepare for tomorrow and then I shall see Justarus."

It was clear that Althea had not left. She had tried to continue on her own. And failed.

The lab was destroyed. Blue flames burned everywhere consuming the notes and tomes that had fueled his research. A life time of work gone with a young girl's ambition and desire to see her mentor's work complete.

Althea!

It took all his strength to over turn the massive table that had been flung across the room. Below, crushed and lifeless: his student and friend. Kelderan collapsed to the floor sobbing as the cumulative loss washed over him. Had the energy to express his sorrow not failed he might not have heard another cry; a soft, quiet cry from the other side of the room. The aged wizard crawled across the floor to a pile of wreckage. Pulling and pushing half burned books, twisted chunks of metal and scorched wood, he found the faintly glowing runes of his own circle of protection. And in the center there was a child; an infant, naked and crying in the dark.

With care and caution he retrieved the baby from the debris. The child calmed almost instantly as if only desiring to be touched. Underneath a thin layer of soot, the baby boy seemed unscathed by what ever disaster had befallen the lab. As Kelderan caressed the soft hair, the ash that fell away revealed wisps of bright blond hair; Althea's hair. And the eyes, the brightest blue: The bright blue of the town's young librarian Justarus.

There was no doubt that this was the child of two young people. But how? They had known one another but a few months, and Althea showed no signs of pregnancy. What had happened in this place that brought a child into the world two seasons too early?

Kelderan looked suspiciously around the room and gathering all the strength he had left and carried the child away.

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AN UNUSUAL CHILD

Kelderan had never expected to be a parent let alone a grandparent, but there had been no other to take the boy. And deep down, he wanted it. Althea had been like a daughter and Kelderan could not help but feel some responsibility for her death. Raising Marqus became his new quest with the abrupt end to his search for a source of iron.

And like his research before, the child was not with out his frustrations. And joy.

"Marqus," he called out. The boy was unusually quiet, which invariably meant some sort of trouble was brewing. Marq had already settled into a simmer soup of mischief. While often full of good intentp; Marqus had a great deal of difficulty with authority; even when it was in his best interests.

"Here, Dapa," a voice chimed from the elder wizard's study. Invariably, he thought, the child would of course be where I told him not to go.

"Marqus, I have told you too many times, my study is off limits." Kelderan stopped him self before he was able to move fully into his rant. Marqus sat cross legged on the floor a half dozen texts open in a half circle around him. Some were basic books of magic that all adepts must learn, but some were the headier tomes meant for only advanced learning. None were meant for a child of six years.

"Marqus, what are you doing?" he found himself asking suspiciously.

"I do not understand, Dapa," the boy said quizzically. Kelderan felt the urge to explain that this was obvious and expected but was cut off as Marqus continued, "If the Varcus symbol imbues strength, and Varci gesture completes the arcane armament, if you were to inscribe Varcus on the leather focus, wouldn't you be able to omit the gesture, or make the spell stronger?"

Only a fourth year adept would have likely asked such a question. Althea, the boy's mother was the only student Kelderan had who had asked the same question by the third year. The boy had innate knowledge in him; Uncanny knowledge.

And thus the problem of such a child in the village.

Althea's death could not go unexplained. The villagers knew that the two mages had been at work for some time on some spell that would help the non-orcs with metal. While the explosion had scared many of them, they did not turn on Kelderan.

Marqus, however, could not be explained. It was no secret that the sorceress and the librarian were developing a relationship, and a child would not have been a surprise if he had been born two or three seasons later. But an infant, born over night, and in the flames of some arcane explosion, could not be so easily forgiven. And worst, a child that was prodigal and capable far too early for his age. "Demonic" they had called him. It was only Kelderan's considerable influence and promises to rear the child that had saved Marqus from a premature death to match his premature birth.

The very worst, had been for Justarus, Althea's bookish lover. He was devastated by her death and try as he could to accept the child of their union he confided in Kelderan that he never truly felt like Marqus's father. At as young as three, Marqus would roam the stacks of books in the library. Justarus let him explore without supervision. No one knew if it was for the love of Althea or the fear of the child. Kelderan could see a distant affection for the boy in Justarus' eyes, but never any action to express it.

So it had fallen to Kelderan to become parent, guardian and perhaps even warden of the strange child.

"You are correct, Marqus," he replied "though the solution is not so simple." The aging wizard lowered himself to the floor near the boy and began to point to the various symbols and signs. He had fully expected that one day he would have to teach the boy the mysteries. He just never imagined that it would happen so soon.

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AN UNRESTRAINED SENSE OF RIGHT AND WRONG

Molat struck the ground, the wind knocked out of him with a nasty scorch mark in the center of his chest and a painful burn that he would not soon forget. The other kids who had gathered stepped back anxiously. It was no small speculation that there would eventually be a showdown between Molat and Marqus. Son of a farmer, it only made sense that Molat was larger than most kids; muscles built with hard labor and fueled by a temperament that some called intimidating. Marqus had long been a favored target of the bigger boy. His heritage, his fascination with knowledge, and the favor of the town wizard were a series of concentric circles on Marqus's back.

For years the reclusive blond boy merely endured the torment. The wiser of the children and parents could see that there was a force to be reckoned with under the silent facade. All too many saw it as a sign of weakness and fear and there was no shortage of encouragement from Molat's father and older brothers to establish him self among the other children.

As time went by though it began to appear that Marqus would never give Molat the satisfaction of a fight.

Not until Molat decided to turn his malice on a new boy. Young and confused, Tarquin, was a ripe fruit for plucking by the bully.

What do you have there, Worm!

A book and some scrolls hit the ground.

His parents are Urites. They don't fight.

Then I won't have to worry if I do this.

Marqus had heard some of the dialogue as he came around the corner, but it was the open handed slap Molat delivered to the new kid that caused him to react. Dropping everything he carried, Marqus sprinted towards Molat and delivered a slug to the jaw that sent the farmer's boy spinning.

"Leave him alone!" So few had ever heard Marqus speak that they weren't not prepared for the deep tones that echoed through the alleyway.

Molat had managed to quickly regain his balance and sense of the situation. He took a wide stance and raised his shoulders making him seem taller. His hands came up in menacingly.

"Oh, I have been waiting for the excuse to do this, Freak!" he hissed, "You have had it coming for a long time."

Molat charged at Marqus, a mad glare in his eyes. And for a moment, time seemed to stop.

It was a favored story for years to come. Be it Marqus the Hero, or Marqus the Demon all agreed that it was some sort of sky-fire that erupted from his palm, striking Molat to the ground.

"Are you o.k.?" Marqus asked the shaken Tarquin.

"I'm.. I'm fine," he gave a stuttered reply.

Marqus helped him collect his belongings and then walked over to the bully who still lay on the ground. Marqus placed his hand on the boy's chest and then again on his neck.

"He'll live," he pronounced coolly as he walked back to his own items picking them up and walking away with out a word.

Some could have said it was a mob, but it was more precise to say that it was two mobs poised opposite one another outside the Wizard's shop. A man and a woman, the parents of Tarquin stood a vigil on the door step. There had been much speculation about what should have been done about the day's event. But there was no solid decision as to what, and in some cases, if anything should have been done. Molat's father and ilk stormed the town with demands of an execution or imprisonment for Marqus. Other's praised him for standing up to the town bully. Tarquin's parents stood merely to say that he had been attacked and defended, and they would protect anyone who protected there son. It was well known that Urites do not lie. It is equally unknown that while they will not attack, that does not mean they will not defend.

Inside, Kelderan, the mayor, and the captain of the guard met.

"We cannot have this boy dispensing his own brand of justice at a whim, Ovar," Tomaph, the captain said vehemently, "He must be restrained or cast out."

"While I agree that Marqus should not have done things this way, Captain, it is well known that Molat has terrorized the other children of this village for many years," Kelderan said adamantly, "He should be so lucky that it was Marqus delivering him a painful reminder that there are others stronger than him than for him to find it at the end of some parent's pitchfork or ax."

"Kelderan," the mayor took a slightly condescending tone, "we all know that they boy is different. We three are of the very few who know all there is to know about the circumstances of his birth. How can we be sure that next time he won't kill someone?"

"Oh there won't be a next time, if I have anything to say about it," Tomaph interrupted.

"You don't!" Kelderan's voice took a tone both men had learned to respect. "Neither I nor Marqus know fully his nature. But the one thing I do know is self control. And I have been teaching him such for nearly ten years. And I will continue to do so. He has a sharp mind. And this village should see him as an asset. You can imprison him. You can force him to leave, but the next time the Orc-kin attack that power he possess will not be there to help defend us."

The two other men fell silent.

"Omar, I am old. Probably the oldest in this town. While I have managed to teach some people here some small basic spells, there is no one to take my place when I am gone. You must have a wizard that sees this town as their home; a place that needs them. And there is not enough time to find someone else to do it."

All three men snapped there necks at the sound from the other room. It sounded distinctly like a door slamming shut.

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RUNNING AWAY

He must be restrained or cast out.

Marqus should not have done things this way

He should be so lucky

.. find it at the end of some parent's pitchfork or ax.

You can force him to leave

Marqus had begun to pack his things just after the Mayor and Captain of the Guard had arrived to speak with Kelderan. He'd heard Molat's family and friends outside calling for him to be put to the flame. He'd regretted the pain that he'd inflicted on Molat, but not the lesson. He knew that there spells that could have held the bully, or put him to sleep or any number of other ways to restrain him. But those spells were not available to him. He did the only thing that he could. Used the minimal amount of force that was necessary to make sure he could not continue his assault.

"Blood fire" is what he'd come to call it. He could feel it in his veins and in his heart, especially when he felt threatened. With Kelderan's teachings, he'd learned to control it, mold it, use it to his will. It was all he had. Despite all the magic lessons, and his uncanny understanding of the Arts, spells came to Marqus with much difficulty. He could only seem to master a few. Granted the ones he did learn he was proficient with.

He slipped a heavy book into his bag; his first book of spells. He and Kelderan bound it themselves and Kelderan inscribe it with painstaking care. The man had never failed in making Marqus feel loved, but this gift born of his passion for the Arcane, was most precious to Marqus.

You can force him to leave

He heard the sadness in Kelderan's voice. But he knew that he could no longer be a threat to the aged Wizard's well being and status in town. He slipped out the back door and ran before it closed; before he heard Kelderan's last words on the subject.

"He is my family. My only family. If you try to send him away or hurt him, there will be no end to my wrath."

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The Early Adventures

In the following years, no matter how cold the night, how hard the ground, how dangerous the region, Marqus would always remember that first time as being the hardest. He ran until his breath was ragged, until his ankles were too twisted with pain and his skin too raw from the brush and tree branches that beat him in the dark. And even then it was agony in his heart that brought him to his knees sobbing. It overwhelmed his discomfort and his hunger. It sapped his soul of all strength. Pulling one thin blanket from his pack, wrapping it around himself the exhaustion pulled him to the ground. As sleep claimed him he saw a golden haired goddess watching over him, her voice like warm honey.

My dear child, this is not the fate I would have given you. But you are strong; stronger than you know. And this world needs you more than ever.

In the morning, wracked with the pain of the night before, Marqus hobbled through forest putting more and more distance between him self and the village he had called home. He traveled for weeks further and further into forest until he stumbled across cave; more of an abandoned burrow. This, he thought, is where I will master my darkness.

For a year Marqus dwell in the cave. He studied the tome of magic he brought. He focused the power of the blood fire. He dreamed sweet and horrific dreams of the life that he left behind. Each day passed as the last except for the changing seasons and Marqus's growing urge to prove that he was not an abomination.

There was the familiar woosh sound of the blast leaving his palm and the bright blue fire striking the center stone of the three. One hundred paces and growing by the week, he'd learned how to strike even the smallest or targets with affecting anything else nearby. It gave him a sense of pride and begged the question: Am I ready to go back?

"Keep running, Tesla," a voice rang out in the forest. Marqus thought he'd maybe imagined it for a moment, so long had it been since he'd last heard a voice other than his own, "I don't know how many there are, and I think I saw one turn invisible."

Marqus, ran towards the voice and the sound of brush and twigs breaking. Flattening himself against the ground he could see through the trees a red haired woman with a staff leaning against a tree, her chest heaving with exertion. In the distance he saw a raven haired man in armor struggling to catch up to her. When he caught up to her they each darted their eyes around at every noise the forest made.

"You're hurt, Berrin," she noted the rivulets of blood that stained his armor.

"I'll be fine. But only if that patrol doesn't find us. You still have the map?"

"I do. But I'm spent, Berrin. I've used all my magic and scrolls. I have only this healing salve."

"You use it," the armored man commanded, "Use it and keep running, I'll provide cover. Try and draw off the patrol."

"What about Freida and Coltyn?"

"Dead. The bastards swarmed them," there was a tone of defeat in the man's voice that he was sure the woman didn't notice, "But we can't worry about them. You must run."

The woman, Tesla, seemed ready to oppose him when all three heard the distinct crack of a foot on a dry branch. Marqus's eyes darted to an empty space devoid of anything but a few branches swinging back and forth. He looked carefully, and as though opening his eyes for the very first time the entire world seem to appear before him. Everything seemed to have a hazy glow to it; colors more vibrant, textures so much clearer. But most noticeably was the figure that now stood in the void where the noise cam from. It was a large hunkered creature swathed in skins. It's oily gray skin and tattered pointed ears were unmistakable.

"Orc-kin," he hissed.

The creature, ghostly to his sight turned its head towards him, and expression of not only surprise at a third person in the area, but a fear that he might have been seen.

"ORC-KIN!" he yelled, and with a sweeping gesture the bright blue blood fire erupted from his hand towards the despised enemy.

Out of the corner of his eye he'd seen the man, Berrin, draw his blade and begin a jagged path between Marqus and what was apparently something hidden. The orc-kin had drawn a blade but seemed hesitant to use it. Marqus knew that invisibility spells tended to be unstable and certain movements could unravel them.

He unleashed another bolt of energy on the creature. It hissed and turned to run. Marqus released another bolt striking the orc-kin between the shoulder blades and knocking him to the ground.

"Who are you?" Berrin demanded waving his blade menacingly.

"I," Marqus croaked. How many months had it been since he'd spoken? "I'm..... I'm Marqus. I'm the slayer of that orc-kin."

In the distance both could see the cloak of invisibility unwrap from around the dead creature.

"Well met, Marqus Orc-Slayer. I'm Berrin, this is Tesla. We are all that remain of the Bright Blades."

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THE BRIGHT BLADES

The Bright Blades had formed two years before. Tesla, a spellcaster and student of an archmage, had come across a legend of a tomb filled with weapons forged prior to curse of steel. She and Berrin, a childhood friend, recruited Freida and Coltyn and formed the Bright Blades. Their mission was to find this tomb and drive back orc forces.

After relocating to Marqus's cave, the two survivors began to tell their tale.

For two years they had followed a trail of clues, hint and puzzles. Their last expedition had been into a secret enclave of orcs where their next clue, a map, was held. That is when everything fell apart.

"The map was well guarded," Berrin explain, "The brutes knew it was important. I don't know if they know what it is a map to, but it was trapped and before we knew the entire enclave was upon us. Freida and Coltyn stayed back to help us escape, but there were too many and they were slaughtered in the swarm."

"So far, every new map or clue just led us to another map or clue," explained Tesla, "and this one maybe yet another step on the path. But we must exhaust all opportunities. If this place does exist, we must find it and secure the weapons. We cannot let the orc-kin find them."

"I will help you if you will have me," Marqus spoke the words before he had thought them through. "I know something of magic," he told them," and I have other talents."

As to prove his point, he summoned the blue flame into his fist and hurled a bolt at the cave wall leaving a scorch mark.

"I've never seen magic like that before," Tesla exclaimed in a hushed voice.

Marqus looked directly at her and replied, "No one has."

Over the next few days as Berrin and Tesla continued to heal from their wounds the trio began to plan their next steps. Marqus found himself growing anxious with each day. He longed to leave the cave that had been his home for the last few seasons, but equally he feared to face the world. He had to remind himself that he may never return home, and that is was not likely that he would ever see anyone who knew his history ever again.

As for Berrin and Tesla, they only saw his abilities as boons and tactical strengths.

At last, he collected his meager belongings. And with a silent fair well, they set off towards a small town to East. There they would better equip themselves and see if they could recruit some other people to participate in the quest.

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THE REMAINS OF THE DAY

His pulse sounded like an inferno burning in his ears as his heart still pounded. All around him lay corpses, some still burning and smoldering with blue fire. Near him, his friends, his only friends, Berrin, Tesla and the elf-kin Enaria lay slain by orc weapons. An orc arrow burned in his shoulder and with all his might he pulled it out howling, not so much from the pain of the wound, but the pain of the killing field before him.

The tomb had been empty. A year of searching and hunting down each and every clue was wasted on a secret chamber that had been ransacked long ago. Empty but for the traps and alarms the orcs had built. It was meant to be their tomb, but the orcs had underestimated the resourcefulness and determination of the Bright Blades. They had fought their way to the platoon that waited outside.

And then the slaughter had begun.

For all their ferocity and the boon of the cursed iron weapons they bore, the orc-kin were not prepared for the ire Marqus, Berrin, Tesla and Enaria harbored. They were not prepared for the determination. They were not prepared for the conviction that the Bright Blades were not prepared to die for their cause, but planned on dying for their cause.

The ranks of orc fell before the Bright Blades as they unleashed a storm of fury that was not hindered by any reserve.

But no matter how many enemies they felled, eventually, the Bright Blades too succumbed to the tide of orc warriors.

First Enaria, then Tesla. Berrin and Marqus fought back to back, and then finally only Marqus remained. Swathes of flame erupted from his fists as the orc-kin fell in searing flames and screams.

And then there were no more. As his vision cleared, what few orcs remained he saw fleeing the azure inferno that was The Demon Marqus.

For two days and two nights, through the pain of his wounds, through the agony of the iron around him, through the soul swept defeat at the loss of his friends, Marqus first buried the Bright Blades. Through the pain and agony he pulled every orc body piling them one on top of the other spearing them together with the cursed weapons; into a horrific monument that he set afire, so as to let anyone know that there was an orc slayer who did not fear them or their weapons.

And then he walked away. Stumbling from exhausting, he began, once again, looking for a new beginning.

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A HOLE IN TIME

"Where are you headed, Stranger?"

It was a question he heard in every village and town.

"Where does this road lead?" he'd ask back.

It was some other town. Some other village. Some other Fort or Warden of the Dominion.

"That is where I am headed," Marqus would then reply.

His days and nights were divided between the memories of his youth and the raw images of the final battle of the Bright Blades. And the everlasting question of: What do I do now?

From nothing he had been cast into this world, ever an outsider. When he found the passion of magic and love of a family, he had been cast out to the woods. When he had found focus and determination and a goal, those he could call friends had been torn away.

He was, yet again, alone.

As the seasons passed and the roads grew broader and more worn, he could see the villages become towns, the towns became cities, and the cities become monoliths of people.

"Where are you headed, Stranger?"

"Where does this road lead?"

"Surely you have heard of Melanthetis. This is the road to the greatest of the Seven Suitors"

"Then I am headed to this Melanthetis."

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Selkrem Parvor Vultus

Race: Human (Ausaeta Blooded) Sex: Male Age: Home: Melanthetis, the seat of the Dominion's power and largest of the Seven Suitors. Height: 18 Hands Weight: 11 Stone Caste: Freeborne Class & Level: Cleric-5 / Wizard-3 Status: Alive and well.
[back to top] Physical Description: Manner of Dress: Personality: Traits of Interest: Items of Note:

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Life Before Adventure

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The Early Adventures

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*TPK's Not Included.