Bane of Silver, the Stranger's Tale
-
Hello.
My name is not important, but I'll share it nonetheless. It's Jaxon, plain and simple. My upbringing was that of the somewhat successful gutter rat, born to a drunk and an adventuring bard in the dump that had once been Waterdeep. The part I hail from is called Mistshore. You're born there, you're destined to die soon, not much can stop that.My parents loved me at one time, or at least I tell myself that to try an fit in with most folk. I have two brothers and a sister, their names have been lost to time, much like my first name. I've gone by many in my two decades of life. My sister is the youngest, and my mother died giving birth to her. My father ran off two nights later.
I, being the eldest at five years old, begged at the nearest noble's mansion, which was a few districts away and in the 'proper' districts. The noble, a wealthy shipping manager, took us in immediately and raised us for three years before his wife put us back out on the street. He gave each of us a name, but they escape me. I learned much in those three years, including how to read and write. The day before he set us out, he packed us each a bag of clothes, a sack of gold and some food. Enough provisions to last us a month. At best.
After the first week on the streets, I realized we needed warmth, gold and food to survive, but jobs for children are scarce. The middle of the second week was when we got mugged. A beggar who saw our coins attacked us and stole our coins, nearly killing my two brothers before my sister and I frightened him off with rocks. We needed a way to defend ourselves.
We each took a job, my sister, being the cutest and smallest, would beg in the 'proper' districts and wealthy ladies who had never felt a days hunger took pity and would supply her with coins each day. My youngest brother would steal from drunks in bars. My other brother would clean dishes at the same bar. I 'earned' gold by carrying drugs for older men. Not the best job, but it paid, and the men liked me enough to scare off those who would hurt me.
We went on like this for a year, but then a strange man came into town. He kept his face hidden at all times with his cowl, and had a mask under the cowl, I swear. He had a large black cloak that he wore of matte black armor, lined with white. At his hip he wore a wide blade, so heavy I doubted he could lift it with one hand, yet short enough that two hands would be a waste. The man was a customer for my narcotic runs, and one day he asked me into his room at a local inn.
I will never forget that day. We shared some words and he agreed to teach me to fight with the strange blade he wore. Every day he taught me, without fail. He called his sword a 'Bastard Sword', after the only people he'd kill with it. After weeks of training with it, he gave the blade to me as well as a name. He said a name is the most important things a man can own. And he named my siblings.
Jaxon, he called me. Paxon, the sister. Kaxon, the youngest brother. Daxon, the middle. Told us the names made us stand out, which was good. The day after that he was arrested. The guards tried to tie his hands, but he snapped the lad's neck with one gauntleted hand. He kicked the second guard in the throat and strangled a third. The fourth, the Sergeant, got the man's cowl off, but I only glimpsed a white, bald head, covered in swirling runes.
Then he fled into the night.
-
The months that followed that are nothing worth mentioning, so I will start anew here.
My old, pitiful self is gone. Now I do what I was born to do: fight. I am not a social person, despite my frequent attempts at socializing. I bring naught but pain to any I associate with; an excellent trait, if one knows how to harness it.
I thought I was different at one time… thought I could be a better person, but I was wrong. I am who I am, and nothing can change that. I'm afraid the Purity that once took root in my soul has been beaten back by the Taint. A pity, I will miss my good side at first, but life is much simpler when a man rules himself without question.
Before I leave Narfell, I have a few things I must do. The first is to deliver a gift, the second is to admit I've got a black soul, and the third is to accept the path of an entity. So it goes.
-
Weeks passed, and I slowly seemed to become a bit more of a righteous arse. Did I care? Yes. I liked being who I was. Life was simple. A man gives me gold, I do what he says and get a better reeputation…the simplicity almost brings tears to my eyes as I realize how much I truly loved that life...and hated it.
I met a lady in Peltarch one day, and I flirted with her to no effect. She and another man were already intimate; I was just to blind to notice. That night, I wondered why I flirted with her, and my answer was, and still is, it was just the right thing to do. I looked for her the next day to try and talk with her, for her company made me feel lighter inside somehow. I could not find her.
The war in Peltarch came swiftly. Both sides called for mercs, but I had no desire to fight in a war, taking commands from a complete idiot. I left for Amn as a Pasha's guardsman. Amn was somewhat of a meaningless change in my life. The Pasha granted me an enchanted ring by way of payment, and chivalry showed up on my doorstep the next day.
I walked through the empty alleys in preference to the dirty streets, and came upon a man beating a woman. I asked him to stop, to which he told be to leave before he killed me. I kicked him in the chest and he stumbled away. 'Run!' I shouted to the woman, who looked bewildered that someone had saved her. She slowly wandered off, like a headless chicken.
The man, it seemed, was popular. He shouted something and drew a slender knife. Men started to come towards from seemingly nowhere, knives in their hands as well. I had no armor on, nor Fun Time handy, so I turned tail and ran. As I fled, they seemed to give up the chase, but my thoughts were still chaotic. Why had I saved that woman? Who was she to me? I don't save things unless I'm paid to, and the only payment I was about to recieve for that idiotic service to a poor woman was a knife in my back.
I left Amn the next day, journeying back to Narfell. The trip lasted a few months, as I was in no hurry, and utterly eventless. I returned to Narfell, and searched for the lady I had met before, to no avail. So I spoke with my siblings, who told me the news of late. Peltarch and N'Jast fought most of the war. Peltarch held off. The woman I sought was with child and praying in the mountains. I felt something new, it made me feel like the scum I was...and probably still am today.
I sharpened my sword, polished my armor and went to bed, ready for another day of work.
-
Before I'd ever heard of Narfell, I assumed mercy, pity and trust worthless qualities. Why trust when that same person will undoubtebly stab you in the back at some time? Why pity when it'll only still your blade and deter your payments? Why take mercy on someone who will eventually die anyway? All of those questions seemed idiotic, so I felt no regret for anything I'd ever done.
The very day I arrived in Norwick, I recall seeing two adventurers, a man and a lady. Both were heavily wounded, yet still fighting goblins. The woman took a hit and fell to the ground, and the goblins massed around her. The man had the chance to run, but he didn't take it. Instead, he tried to keep the goblins off the lady, though she was obviously dead. He died, too. I frequently wondered -why- he did not escape when given an ample opportunity.
I probably could've saved both of them, if I so desired, but the thought never crossed my mind. The goblins were their problem, why should I endanger myself as well? So I didn't, and was as content as I'd ever been. After days in the city of Norwick, I learned the local customs, and headed north to the 'city'. Peltarch.
I went looking for work in Peltarch, but after hearing the local job options, I headed underground to the city of Oscura, searching for more interesting employers. I signed on numerous caravans, and guarded against bandits and whatnot in my spare time. I met a few of the locals, too. Paxon immediately took a liking to a man I hated, Lukas Leathertail. A true image of scum, for he reminded me of the frequently drunk pirates that existed in Mistshore.
I told Paxon to stay away from him, that he'd only bring trouble, but she didn't listen. I told Kaxon to watch both of them, and make sure they kept out of trouble. Job opportunities started to run low, and my temper flared. I took my annoyance out on Lukas, almost to the point of a duel to the death.
Paxon left soon after, and Lukas and I became friends of a sort. We never really acknowledged the fact, and to this day, so many years later, I still haven't. One day on my trips to Oscura scrounging for work, I was sent to Vaasa to kill some marauders. It was a long trip for such a minor payoff, but I took it because I needed the gold.
On the way, we were stopped by priests of Torm. One of them grabbed my arm and told me I was Tainted with a blackness deeper than most, but that I also had the potential to shrug it off and begin anew, Pure. I thought him insane, threw him to the ground, and continued on my way. The marauders found us, and our small band of mercs slaughtered them with ease. We returned to Oscura, and passed the priests again. The same man grasped my arm, and told me to pray at the Temple and I'd know what had to be done.
To stop him from irritating me further, I slept at his temple, and awoke to see an elderly man watching me carefully. He said, "Your soul is whole, but your ideals are false. Repent. Forgiveness will be given to those who ask for it."
Feeling foolish, I knelt at the shrine, not bothering to clasp my hands or close my eyes. I spoke aloud and said, "Should I feel ashamed?"
The old man replied, "That is for you to answer without guidance or prompting." Then he left.
I laid a finger on the altar and murmured, "I could've been done better."
The effect wasn't instantanious. I didn't even realized anything had happened until a few weeks later when I felt light a burden had been lifted from me. Back in Oscura, I started taking caravan jobs more often and left the bounty hunting/monster slaying to others. It wasn't much, and at the time, I felt much the same. Not much had changed besides my admitting I could've done better.
So it goes.
-
I walked through the forest for days, eating only the animals I could kill with a decent stone throw, and drinking water from streams. I ditched the armor on the second day because it only weighed me down. After about a week of walking, I came to a road, which I followed to the city of Neverwinter. Once there, I went to the Captain of the Guard and mentioned I knew how to use a blade, and if I could sign up.
He scoffed at me, and told me to get out of his sight before he decided to throw me in jail for vagrancy. Discouraged, I went to a tavern and fell asleep at a table. The barkeeper threw me out. Said if I wasn't buying, I ought stay out. In such an unforgiving place, I decided the best way to gain coins would be theft. And it worked.
I'd pick the pockets of the drunks who slept outside the taverns. After a week of stealing my keep, I saw my sister walking down a street, her axe strapped to her back. She, like me, had discarded her armor and wore only leather underarmor. We greeted each other, and I split my coins with her. We ended up stealing enough gold to buy me a new blade, and stowed away on a caravan bound for Waterdeep.
Bandits attacked the caravan, and most of the mercs hired to guard it died. My sister and I fought the bandits. I was so proud. I felled three without taking a hit. The caravan master assumed we were just traveling, for nobody had seen us stowed away, and offered to pay us fifty coppers each when we got to Waterdeep. We accepted.
In Waterdeep, we were paid, and greeted by Kaxon and Daxon, who, it seemed, had been turned free like myself. I never asked how Paxon escaped. Daxon was outfitted in a full suit of mail, and Kaxon had two knives that he earned gold with in knife throwing tournaments. We made do for a year or so, getting enough food to feed, clothe and arm ourselves.
It was interesting, coming back to place we grew up in. So much had changed in the proper districts, but Mistshore was much the same. Drunk, diseased pirates picking fights. Spellscarred folk hiding, and thieves with no teeth who dealt in the black market. A few of them tried to mug us, and we left their bodies cooling in the muck behind us, no remorse felt.
We set up as 'Axon Mercs' and got hired buy the cheapest, foulest people in the city to rob and kill for them. It was simply what we did, and we were good at it. Not once during it did I feel that I was doing the wrong thing. I was born to kill, and that's what I'd been trained to do.
Months passed and still we did the dirty work of drunkards and criminals. Eventually, we realized that the richer people would pay us more for easier deeds, so we moved up in the mercenary trade. We joined 'Raithe's Company', a group of twenty ex-soldiers who thought the sellsword life paid better than an honest soldier's duty.
They were right, while with Raithe, we got gold coins and could afford armor. We mainly did monster hunting, but occasionally Banites hired us to track down people who had 'wronged' them. I figured someone had to do it, and it might as well have been me.
When I left Raithe, I felt like a part of me died. I enjoyed thwarting death next to his men, and the payoffs, but I decided to start a new band of mercenaries, Silverbane Sellswords. We Silverbanes started working for a wealthy merchant whose only daughter was an emissary. He paid us five hundred coins a month to make sure his daughter survived.
After some time, he sent us to Narfell, and it was a long trip. In Westgate, we ran into some trouble with the Nightmask assassin band, and spent a night in the local gaol. I don't really recall the crime, but I do remember killing a few men who decided to take my gold. After a night in the gaol, I killed the guard when he slipped me a plate of food. I took his key ring and let myself out.
Then I found the emissary and continued to the city of Norwick, as per requested. Once there, I was still the brutal mercenary, killing for hire and guarding caravans. Then, I felt remorse set in..
-
I recall the Lord rousing me roughly with a hobnailed boot.
He still wore his gory black armor and helm. I tasted dirt and blood in my mouth and felt the weight of my armor pressing on me from all sides. The Lord nudged me again and hissed in his ridiculously sibilant voice, "Awake, are we, little one?"
"Indeed," I murmured back groggily.
"Good. I've come to kill you, and I'd like you to see the face of death as it comes for you. Get to your feet or stay down, I have no care. You're just as dead either way." He laughed coldly and drew his blade which writhed with blackness.
I stared up at him intently, realized what he planned on doing, and threw a groggy punch at his face, which he dodged, laughing harder than before. I then remember sweeping his legs from under him, throwing a dagger wildly at him, then backing up slowly.
The Lord casually picked the dagger up off the ground, spun it on his palm, and tossed it at my feet. "So, Jaxon…" he hissed, obviously amused at my attempts of warding him off.
"You still have a heart after slaying knights of pureness and goodly gods? You're not so innocent as I had imagined. Through, I should've guessed. You grew up on the street, accepted the hand Fate dealt you and played the best game of cards you could with it." He spoke slowly, more to himself than to me, I thought.
"You've proven yourself a decent swordsman. Not a spectacular calibur, but you can hold your own against the average ruffian..if you're lucky. So, Jaxon... leave this place. Don't seek me out when you're gone. My final gift to you is the second half of your name, for without two, you're worthless," he murmured quietly, though I still heard each word deliberately.
"Begone from here, knight of silver slayer. Silverbane. Go, or stay and taste my blade." He turned on his heel, picked a discarded bow from the ground, nocked an arrow and aimed it at me.
"Go. Go now."
So I left aimlessly into the forest, scared and confused.
-
It happened in the dark. Everything seemed to. I was asleep when the door was slammed open and the Lord walked in. In his hands he carried two hand and a half swords, one was black as pitch and bathed in a light red wisp of some smoke. The second was a blade as normal as any. He tossed the normal one to me and two of his retainers brought me a set of spiked black platemail, hobnailed boots, spiked gauntlets, a black cloak, and a ridged helmet.
"Congratulations," he hissed from behind his own ridged helm. "You've graduated and we're being attacked. Get yourself armed and armored then follow these two." He nodded to his retainers and sprinted off down a dark hall where sounds of battle came ringing through.
The two retainers strode towards me in their own armor and swiftly strapped the mail onto my body. One of them motioned for me to follow him and together the three of us ran through the halls, which were all made of the same dark, cold stone. Eventually we came out into a courtyard surrounded by battlements. Necrowatchers manned the walls and fired arrow after arrow over them.
Jhereth and the Lord stood side by side at the gate, surrounded by around fifty black armored individuals. Unmasked and milling around aimlessly I saw Kaxon, Daxon and Paxon, each in matching sets of armor. I jogged towards them, but before I reached them the Lord shouted and one of the walls shattered.
Yes, shattered. Not crumbled, not fell apart. Shattered and chunks the size of ogre heads flew into the other walls. Men and elves poured through the opening, their silver armor gleaming in the moonlight and horsehair helms whipping through the wind as they ran, shouting warcries. A hail of arrows whistled through the air over their heads as they rushed us. Most bards call them silent death, but they're not. These arrows whistled through the wind.
A few penetrated mail, but most just bounced off and annoyed. The Lord rushed to the break and roared his own warcries. Jhereth ran by his side, and together they stood, back to back, towering over the knights that foolishly tried to attack them. The Lord's blade bit through silver armor as easily it would through water, and the red wisps had a mind of their own, diving into eyeholes and slaying the faces inside.
A majority of the Necrowatchers had formed a rough line twenty paces behind where Jhereth and the Lord were making their stand. After Jhereth decapitated an elf armored to the teeth, he fled back to the line, leaving the Lord by himself. The Lord flicked a hand towards the oncoming mass of silverclad soldiers and a massive cloud of flame billowed towards them, superheating their armor and literally cooking them inside.
Then the Lord laughed and laughed until he had to hold his sides. The Necrowatcher soldiers jogged up to him and formed a protective wall in front of the Lord. Though around seventy of the silver armored knights had been killed by Jhereth and the Lord alone, even more amassed near the broken wall and poured through. The Lord was barking orders and his black armored mercenaries hastened to fulfill them.
I stood back from the fight with my siblings, and we watched while the Necrowatchers did their grisly work. One Necrowatcher would fall for every ten of the men in silver, and though that sounds like a good tradeoff here, the mercenaries were easily overrun. Jhereth, the Lord and Turnak were the only mercenaries left in the courtyard, then Turnak took a chunk of ice the size of a tower shield, yet thin as a razor to the chest and crumpled to his knees where he was gutted by onrushing knights.
I watched as the orc I had considered a mentor fell before knights. Until then I was not sure what to think of these intruders. Sure, they were intruders, but slaying them seemed wrong somehow. Until they slayed Turnak. I would never consider him a friend, for he was a Necrowatcher and I've since learned that they're nothing but a bunch of lying, fighting obsessed swordsmen.
But he was still a mentor. Feeling heroic, I rushed towards the mountain of corpses the Lord stood on, Jhereth was nowhere to be seen. One of the silver clad knights saw me and tried to intercept me, his mace glowing a brilliant white. I swung towards him, but having never trained in armor, my movements were uncoordinated at best. I missed and toppled over, unbalanced.
The knight peeled off my helmet and cocked back his mace for what would surely be my end, then he jerked slightly and toppled over, Mutt behind him with a short, but bloody blade. He winked at me then ran off. I seriously considered what to do next. I could stay, fight, and probably die. I could surrender and probably die when the Lord heard of my cowardice, I could try and flee, but I had no food and no idea where I was.
So I thought about Jhereth's teachings. Forget all emotion. Focus entirely on being the most efficient weapon I could be. So I did.
I just remembered the blackness, the beating, Jhereth's cruel grin after he had just dropped me to the floor. I grimaced in pain at the memory and let anger take over. I ran about two steps before remembering Jhereth's words. Anger was emotion, too. I wanted no emotion. So I focused on blackness, and from blackness, nothing.
I remember kissing my blade, laughing like a madman, then slowly advancing on the mountain of corpses. After that, I only have what others have told me and my vague recolections. I remember walking up to the hill, standing to the right of the Lord, and not doing anything, my arm did what it wanted. My brain had no control over it.
After I'd come back to my senses, I was laying face down in dirt wettened by blood. I had no helmet on. I was wearing one gauntlet. My greaves had been sliced off. My blade covered in gore down to the pommel, and so was my entire body. I hurt, everywhere. As I turned my head, I saw a line of corpses leading up to where I'd collapsed. Overcome with emotion, I blacked out.
-
The next year was the worst in my memory. It is full of pain and hatred, but I will grudgingly admit that I did learn from it. I was confined to a small room, alone. The room was circular, made of stone, and sported a weapons rack, three combat dummies of different sizes, a small mattress stuffed with straw and a desk complete with chair. The door was made of cold iron and must have taken a giant to lift.
In all, it was a cell.
I never left that room for more than a year, possibly multiple for, while time did go by, I never knew what time it was. I had no windows, and the room was dark as pitch unless a Necrowatcher or Jhereth was visiting. The first tenday or so was the hardest, even among that hard year it still stand out. Jhereth was no longer the calm man he appeared to be at first, but a roaring menace who would not hesitate to cut on me if I displeased him.
He told me that everything I knew was a lie, and that emotion was the biggest lie of all. Love was the most dangerous thing he knew of, besides knowledge. Jhereth would do anything it took to get all traces of emotion and compassion out of me. A mercenary, he said, had no place for emotion in his heart, for it may lead him astray and away from his job. In essence, he broke down my mindset, everything I was, and rebuilt me as a killer for hire.
If he suspected me of showing emotion, he would beat me senseless, and I'd always awake later with a burning pain in my head, surrounded by darkness. Always the dark. Jhereth said fear was the biggest killer of men, and if a child could conquer fear of the dark, it made him stronger than most. I harbor no guilt over admiting at first I did fear the blackness. Though, over time I fought down the urge to scream and weep, for I knew nobody would come to my rescue.
Jhereth frequently came into my room and would wake me roughly from my slumber. (What else is there to do in utter blackness?) He would toss me a blade and we would duel, or we would practice on the combat dummies. He did not 'take it easy' on me when we would fight. He would fight me as he did every other man: mercilously and with a calmness that was disorienting. He did everything it took for him to win, and more than once I knew that if I let my bladeplay slip for an instant, I would surely die.
I never beat Jhereth, not once, but that only made me fight harder. I suppose I felt it would make my eventual defeat of him all the more sweet, even thinking of it would bring up bouts of daydream. After many more duels, one of which I nearly won when I cleverly tripped Jhereth with a chair, I was introduced to a new teacher. The Elf.
The Elf was Jhereth's equal in bladeplay, and a skilled magister. She would come into my room at various moments (usually in my sleep) and press a dagger to my throat while waking me. I never knew why she did that, but I assume it was to teach me to be a light sleeper. It didn't work.
She taught me runes in most of the known langauges, and to speak a smattering of Elvish. We would work together for what seemed to be days on end, hardly ever speaking, just pouring over old texts and enchanted objects, in which I would need to sucessfully tell her the enchantment in the alotted time period, or she would attack me with it to let me learn the hard way. Oddly enough, after a few meetings (and singed body parts) I adeptly learned to translate which words were associated with which form of pain.
One meeting, she brought an orc with her. Not a half orc, but a big, whole one. He stood around eight feet tall, maybe a big bigger and had the biggest, most vicious looking axe I'd ever seen strapped across his broad back. He was called Turnak and was to provide me with combat training against larger, stronger and meaner individuals. I still remember his fighting style, which consisted of throwing two axes at me before rushing in and attempting to bowl me over, after which he would take a downward swing at me like an enraged lumberjack.
It was terrifying, but trained as I was, I showed no emotion. Our fifth fight I beat him and he told me of the Kingdom of Many Arrows, and the language of the orcs which consisted of guttural growls, grunts and snorts. Every time we would fight after that, he would teach me more and more of the langauge until we could finally hold conversations together in the crude tongue.
The Elf tired of our meetings and slowly faded away, as had Jhereth, and was replaced with a small creature called Mutt. Mutt had dwarvish, goblin, hin and gnomish blood running through his veins, but was strong as an ox, and could sneak as well as a black spider. In a darkened room. At night.
He would not duel me, but rather open the door, close it, and skulk around and hit me when he got close enough. I learned much from him, and we trained constantly until the night the ruined castle was assaulted.
-
A year after that, and we were all still alive. I gave up my drug running job for a position in the local illicit gladiator arena that some of the locals set up beneath the butchers shop.
I got fifty to a hundred coins every time I'd win, but most of it went towards healing the many cuts I'd recieve during the fights. A few of the times, I'd see my previous mentor in the crowd, but he'd never approach me.
I had probably fought around twenty fights when I finally lost to an enslaved drow. In our ring, a lose meant death, because that was the only thing that would sate the thirst of all the men who lost coin voting on the loser. As I lay on the ground, I assumed death was inevitable, but I would sure as the Nine Hells themselves make that drowwork for it.
The drow knew how to play the crowd, and before he stepped on my neck he made sure he had the crowd's full support. Then a man with a black cowl pulled up and dressed in ridged black plate and a long, black coat walked onto the ring. I looked back towards the gate, dimly realising the bouncers were both dead. The man advanced on the drow casually, his blade still not drawn.
Shouts from the crowd echoed in my mind as I watched the man walk towards what was probably certain death. The crowd screamed in outrage and the drow hissed before picking a rusty knife up from the cold stone floor. The stranger chuckled and slowly took the blade from my fingers. Before he stood up, I heard him whisper, "A bastard sword is named for those it slays."
Then he turned and leapt at the drow, who flung the rusty knife and tried to escape. The knife bounced off the strangers armor, and the man took the drow's legs out from under it with a swipe of my sword. The crowd went silent for a moment…
...then started screaming curses and reaching for hidden weapons. The stranger walked towards me, bent down and murmured, "Mind if I borrow your sword for a moment?"
I assured him it was fine with me by shaking my head as much as I could. The stranger chuckled then walked through the arena gate towards the crowd. The mob attacked as one, and hid the stranger from sight. In my fear and pain, I fainted.
I came to in a tent outside the city, the stranger sat across from me, wearing nothing on his torso or head and cleaning my blade. His skin was pale, almost grey, and covered with scars. His head was covered in strange runes that glowed different colors and would move slowly.
He grinned at me when he noticed I was awake and asked me how I felt.
"Not too bad, sah," I replied nervously.
"I'm leaving in the morning," he said, "you're coming with me. We'll both head into the city and gather your siblings. Come."
I groggily followed him and we scaled the city wall, him still wearing nothing over his torso or head. We wandered the streets for some time, then came across Daxon keeping guard over my sister and Kaxon. We told him the plan, and he unerringly woke the others and we left the same way we came in.
While we cleaed up the camp, the man said his name was Jhereth, and he was a mercenary. His company was nearby, he said, and they wouldn't mind if we joined them.
Jhereth carried everything for a few miles, then black shapes materialized in the darkness to our left. As the shapes came closer, they started to resemble men, each wearing black flanged armor and sporting a tattooed head. The tallest one approached us and said in a smooth voice, "Jhereth, are we ready? Are these the children you spoke of?"
"Yes, Lord, they are."
"Good. We travel now," he spoke swiftly, and the next thing I knew, everything had gone dark. When light came back, we were outside a run down castle in a forest.
The Lord looked at us and grinned, looking wolflike. "I do hope you like it here, because from this point forward you are mercenaries. You fight for gold and nothing more. You will not fit in amongst the Necrowatchers ever on the battlefield, but Jhereth will train each of you, nonetheless. To you, he is a god."
"Then who are you?" My sister asked, her innocent eyes wide.
"Asmodeus," he replied, his beady black eyes glittering.
