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    Excerpts from the Memoirs of Azrael of the Drake (Spirefell Day Two)

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    xenocyclus
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    The Waste Character
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    Excerpts from the Memoirs of Azrael of the Drake (Spirefell Day Two)

    Post by xenocyclus on 2010-03-08, 22:36

    Even in disaster, a force guides us, gives us gifts, and seeks no thanks.

    Runi has gleaned through some arcane skill the feats contained within the items collected at spirefell.

    Amongst those given to me was a simple sword, no longer than the breadth of my arm, but with a keen edge, filigreed damascene engravings along the fuller, and a hilt wrapped in supple crimson leather trailing two thongs whose torn edges imply its past. It is a balanced sword, well-made beyond any I have before seen. I have no knowledge of her creator, or her history; the lovers she's cursed or set free, and the streams of life she has severed or saved. I am certain, though, that her name be Justice, and her power absolute.

    Given along with Justice came a set of wicked bracers; a set with one true purpose foretold in the scars, marks, and gouges forever spread along their length. They are simple and elegant in their cruel efficiency. I shall name them Tyranny.
    How fitting is it, to wield Justice from the arms of Tyranny? Whatever god measures my life against the flow of time shall see the good or evil these gifts have bestowed upon me and judge accordingly.

    Along the road I felled a pigeon, one among many, with a letter secured to its leg. Scrawled in manuscript upon the paper, rushed with fear, read not the fall of the Spire, but the fall of Crossroads. So soon after our escape flies east the harbinger of our deeds. I am ever fearful that upon such wings word of our evil shall be carried.

    Our flight from Carythor has brought us to a small inn along the road to Illian. Here we sought food to fuel our flight and rest to give us time to think. Neither seemed forthcoming as desired, as even our reputation, heroic or not, preceded our entrance. A young boy, small, and of a child-like age (I often struggle with the years of man as they are so fleeting against the tide of my elder race), first noticed our band. It was in him that Edgar saw the glimmer of recognition. It was I who first acted, moving with Sundreal at my side, to cover whatever would come to pass. It was I who first thought with caution that our place here in this room, so warm, merry, and forgiving may be the last into which we step. The tension within me grew the moment whispers spread. First from child to father, from father to friend, from friend to acquaintance, and down unto the last eyes were upon us and the last voice became hushed. I was poised like rocks ready to receive the wave, ready to let the tide hammer me smooth, and wash over me. I was prepared to fall like the Spire and die.

    In battle I have never feared death. My curiosity is much too great, my discipline too honed, to allow fear into my mind when violent action is required. I face the foes, the challenges, and the obstacles of my travel stoically as befitting my race, and with the honor the Drake have always displayed. This was different. My behavior chose my thoughts. I was prepared to spill the blood of that child, father, friend, and neighbor. I was tensioned as my bow is tensioned before my fingers let slip and the shaft of my vengeance is loosed.

    My fears were justified. Our reputation had preceded us. My violent intent was their awe. My tension was their admiration. My blood-rage was their worship. Our reputation preceded us as heroes, as I was prepared to receive them as villains.
    Where have my eyes gone that they fail to see within the simple hearts of men the plain intent awe shall inspire? How have my ears betrayed me so as to ignore the innocent whispers men speak to each other when shown the mighty?

    Has the path of my destiny so enabled my spiritual destruction as to hasten the end of even the smallest child whose path I chance to cross?

    I am reminded that our paths are as obfuscated as ever before. Whatever plans have been laid for us to follow are circuitous and vague.

    Shortly after leaving the inn our direction and intent changed again. Our band is mighty, and I wonder how we came together, through what means we were chosen to survive the taking and fall of the spire. I am intrigued how we remain where so many other heroes have withered and gone aground.

    Consternation has turned our path toward the Northmen – the Orcs and their Horse Lord ways – in the hopes that our quest is better received. We head north to build our army with the Orcs as our van.


    Last edited by xenocyclus on 2010-03-09, 13:17; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : Grammer)

      Current date/time is 2017-10-19, 23:12