Description
Standing a shade under six feet in height a cloaked figure rests in the
shadows. Two dark braids of hair snake their way around his neck,
contrasting sharply with the pale hue of his skin. Bushy black eyebrows seem
eclipsed by the two dark yellow tinges of his eyes. Thin wiry lips recede to
a jutted chin. Scarecrow like arms dangle loosely at his side complimented
by boney hips. Sharply contrasting legs seem hunched in a prone position.
His leg garments tuck loosely into the brim of his boots. A glint catches
your eye as you notice sharp spikes and rocks seemingly stuck to the edges of
his boots.
Role
The birth of a shadow.
Added Tue Mar 13 18:02:46 2007 at level 1:
Birth. Subjugation to the clan was nothing short of common order in the
tribe. I was told my emergence from the womb was a painless quick process.
Such births are rare in the clan. Once out of the womb the shamans would
beckon the skies with their chants low at first then rising like the howling
winds of Moralidor. It is written that when the shamans eyes glow and his
body convulses the heavens have decided your path. It was upon this night in
the protection of the hollow of Trinokol that my path was written. The
withered body of the clans shaman writhed upon the skins of slain beasts
as he pointed towards me with a crooked finger. His bodys spasmodic
episode continued to wrack his weakened form he pointed towards the sword
with one arm and towards a dark corner of the tent in the other. So it was
decided by the skies themselves, I would be one of the shadow.
The shadow of the clan are wrapped in mystery, perhaps many liken them to
assassins, other to murders. The clan itself was a brood from the Grekolok
tribe. The tribe itself had been eradicated centuries ago by a mysterious
cult of which they included. It was told to me as a young whelp that the
great upheaval occurred when the cult grew to prominence, their mystic chants
and conjured beings killed the council and all that were within the
settlement. My ancestors fought bravely as they retreated across great
oceans many succumbed to famine and thirst. Yet my clan survived. We were
in essence the last of the Grekolok. The shamans guided the tribe, forged
the spirit and chose the paths.Despite varying differences all were
dedicated to the retaking the helm of the tribe and destroying the cult of
demons and sorcery. These goals however would be achieved through the
ancient text of the Larakoom, or honor code. It was bound to those of the
shadow, instilled in their teachings as young boys and clutched to their
breast as the darkness came. It spoke of three honors the first was the
honor of the self. This honor was to accept defeat in the face of a
stronger, to understand ones own mistakes, faults, failures and address
them accordingly. The second was the honor of the tribe. This honor was
meant for brethren, to honor your opponents foes, his fights, his
struggles and his death. It is more glorious to die alone to another warrior
in battle, then to cast your cry for help to the masses. The last is honor
to the ancestors. What remains pure of the Grekolok tribe cannot be
forgotten, through the will of the Skies and the power of the shamans they
guided us to safety and choose our destiny.
the code of honor one must act, taking forth from the
Larakoom casting death in the direction of sorcery and beating the taint back
towards the shores of Melkorth.It is from the shadows that I must strike at
them, breaking their spirit, crushing their morale. In the name of all that
I am Nathus son of Deimus, student of shadow, vanguard of the Grekolok, I
shall cast the strength of the Larakoom upon all who will listen.
The growth of a shadow.
Added Sun Apr 1 18:43:51 2007 at level 31:
Days, months, years. They come and go like the flowings of the river or the
seasons which ravage the lands.Rising through the ranks of the shadowed
guild I trained in solitude. Few of the lands seem to understand the
importnace of honor of the ways of the Larakoom and few even understand the
plight of my people. What what I have gleaned from this world flooded with
chaos and violence is that there is a village which stands for much the same
that my people do. Crowded with giants, svirfnebli's and a plethora of other
creatures they hunt the magicians as I.Speaking with several such as
Bralkar, Istilion, and Fhaen I have understood the mannerisms and reasons for
their expanded war. They fight the Empire a group from what I can tell that
cares little for honor and lusts for gold and power as if they were the same.
Empress a Black Knight rules with a hand much the same as the cult,
and from this the hand must be broken. Much like a table the legs support
her, the legs are the various sects which abstain from the teachings of the
magicians. Instead I have found many only serve because of her power,
without it they would quickly consume the power and drink from a golden
chalice if it assured dominance in their Sect. The sects are these legs
moving seperately from each other, yet always attached to the top of the
table. Break one and the others take the weight, break another leg and the
table can topple.
I have wandered the lands looking for a sacred place to rest my sword and lay
my shield by my side. From such a place I wished to seek the guidance of the
Lord of Honor, it was within the Halls of Lord Kastellyn I found such a
place. The Chamber of Honor called to me as I slept within the confines of a
tower. Visions of a mage of great power uttered arcane magics as stars
fluttered in a strange pattern through a doorway. It is within the doorway I
crept silently at first, apprehensive of the mage. But now I have grown
accustomed to one of his kind being present within the Chamber, for if the
Lord of Legends has accepted his hand, perhaps he holds some virtues that I
have overlooked. By seeking the guiding hand of Lord Kastellyn I find solace
in my standing outside the Village. While the two paths converge to fight
the magicians I do not feel as if I must be of it. Instead I feel that fate
will play a heavy hand in my dealings within the shadow.
While I grow and learn much of the world, much still echoes with questions in
my mind. Honor, pure honor is two equals upon the plains of battle, but what
of unequals? Should I an assassin of supposed honor stalk and strike at my
foe when he rests or is seemingly aloof of my presence?I grapple with these
before I am able, though they weigh heavily. I have seen shapeshifters
standing on a road seemingly unaware of my presence in their normal state.
would only weaken my perception of myself. Believing that I indeed could
justify killing the weak, the occupied, or the wounded to turn back the tide
would only furthur the destruction wrought by the magicians, it would make me
boastful and arrogant. For now I must wait in the shadows, silently moving
through the lands, further uncovering and unmasking truths and myths of honor
and its entirety.
The cry of the Ehren.
Added Thu May 3 19:43:39 2007 at level 41:
Wailing cries pierced the emptiness of the shrill night. I awoke in the
makeshift tent screaming, horrid visions of my tribes eradication flooded my
senses. As the world slowly sank back into my vision I found my hands wrapped
around the hilt of my sword. Beginning to feel the cool air upon my lips I
was told the Head was in danger. Strapping the rest of my armor and my
weapons to my back I made haste to the Island. As I sat in my boat upon the
sea I stared up at the wondrous sight.Colors of platinum and gravel filled
the sky, a stairway of pure mana laid out before me. A report went up,
Tralling was within the forest, and so I paddled quickly back to the dock.
As I chased him into a tunnel we engaged in savage battle. Blood was spilt
and when the telling blow was struck Tralling's corpse lay burning in the
forests. Returning to the Island I aided in the retrieval when the Lord's
blessed me with a sign.
It was upon this day under the guidance of the Destructor and led by
Istilion was I bloodlet into the Village. As I sat before the pillar a most
favorable omen happen.On the wisps of the wind I heard a cry, the shrill
battle cry of honor fill my ears. Henceforth I would strike as one of the
Ehren. Learning and besting my foes solely upon my own blade. I would not
be bound to squander insight, but instead thrive upon my foes movements their
misdirections, strikes and parries. A revelation upon the aging mind of a
human. Praise the Lord of Honor.