3. Anakore - Tales of a gifted barbarian

Anakore - Tales of a gifted barbarian


  • Tenth Tale - Silent Soliloquy

    ((The specific lyrics of the song are not 100% suitable to the situation but the song's general mood suits the emotions present at the time of writing. I like the song a lot.))

    _Words like violence
    Break the silence
    Come crashing in
    Into my little world
    Painful to me
    Pierce right through me
    Can’t you understand
    Oh my little girl

    All I ever wanted
    All I ever needed
    Is here in my arms
    Words are very unnecessary
    They can only do harm

    Vows are spoken
    To be broken
    Feelings are intense
    Words are trivial
    Pleasures remain
    So does the pain
    Words are meaningless
    And forgettable

    All I ever wanted
    All I ever needed
    Is here in my arms
    Words are very unnecessary
    They can only do harm

    Enjoy the silence_

    [“Enjoy the Silence” by Depeche Mode]

    Anakore’s eyes fluttered open as the dawnlight framed the outline of the curtains. Blinking wearily, his eyes fully adjusted the gloom as he propped himself up on his elbows. He lay naked on the bed, the cause of his nudity being the comparatively tiny woman, wrapped up in layers of pillows who was curled up against him. A pang of guilt drove like a nail through his heart for a moment, then he lay back down, glancing sideways at the woman’s beautiful face, framed by tangled crimson hair, sleeping so easily against him.

    Memory of their talk of the day before was hazy at best. He could hardly remember the words he had spoken, much less the reason why. Jealeousy was never his part, yet somehow the tiny sparks of it, collected during the years he had loved her, had built up and found their release in one fell go. He flinched as the sight of the hurt in her face crossed his mind’s eye, and a deep sigh escaped from his lips despite his weariness. Had he really tried to cage a beautiful bird of prey that otherwise chose to land on his shoulder so willingly? He grunted, for she had tried the same with him in many ways. Their love was strong, and it had driven them to painful conversation before. He felt no regret, as the release of his jealeousy had been needed, but she did not deserve his rage and frustration. He let his hand flow along her slender shape, in the end resting on her cheek as his fingers flicked some of the tangled locks from her peaceful face. He was rewarded with a small moan of recognition, a stirring of her body without breaking the sleep.

    Softly at first, his lips started to form melodic words in an odd language, a slow nursery rhyme a long dead lover had once taught him. He had never told spoken of the song’s origins, and he himself did not know the meaning of the odd words. It was a song of his past, and he hoped the woman would understand he did not cling to his past, but rather treasured the memories of what had shaped him into the man she cared so much for. As the song picked up he was rewarded with her eyes flickering open slightly, and the briefest of smiles appearing on her red lips. He moved his face closer to hers, not quite kissing her, but his lips brushing against hers as they formed the queer, but easing words.

    She stirred and flexed, body stretching out underneath the layers of pillows, before sitting up and resting her head against his chest, at ease, finally. There had been no lovemaking the last night. The hurt had been too great for both after the release of his bottled up jealeousy, and they had held on to each other, on the verge of tears, until sleep came. Now his anger and frustration were spent, her presence was utterly relaxing to him. His lips fell silent as the song ended, his hand slowly stroking her upper back, fingers tracing the intricate scars there, his mouth forming the words oh so quietly, yet no less honest. “I love you”. He was rewarded with a smile on those beautiful lips as she looked up at him. “I love you, too”.

    As if those words were a catalyst, a deep breath escaped him as he turned her on her back, leaning over her as his lips finally found hers, his tongue parting them as he joined with her in a deep kiss, a release of his passion, once so bottled up behind his now gone frustration. She responded, almost relieved, her own warmth flowing in the kiss, her body reacting, arcing her back as he pressed down on her, soon-to-be-removed pillows between them failing to hide the obvious need of their bodies and souls. His eyes sparkled with the kindling of his want for her, and from the look in hers, he saw she knew he was hers.


  • Ninth Tale - Duality

    "Ik wou dat ik twee hondjes was, dan kon ik samen spelen."

    Dawn fog enveloped him as Anakore made his way back to the city from the fire by the foothills. He gave a distracted salute to the guards, who saluted back and wished the Captain a good morning. He took no further notice of them, his mind focused on the woman he left at the fire. The girl, even. Shemaright. His body remembered her lips all over his upper body as she had tended to his wounds in her own peculiar fashion, and his own lips still bore the iron taste of his own blood, mixed with the taste of her.

    It surprised him, in a way, to find her so human. He had known strong warrior women in his time, sometimes fierce, sometimes calculating, sometimes joyous in the art of butchery so many struggled to call "combat", yet the girl seemed to relish in it, to give herself in fully to the bloodlust. Much like Tigone, in his youth, he supposed. She had grown to love the art of death, yet behind the mask of a butcher, eviscerating her foes mercilessly with her razors, she ever was a soft human girl, who longed for his embrace as much as a noble woman, kept safe from the rigors of combat all her life, would. Anakore seriously doubted Shemaright would ever be soft. But she was human.

    He couldn't deny her attraction. Fighting alongside her had brought back memories of Tigone, too. He had observed Shemaright from the safety of his visor as she fought, just as he had done years ago in the Pits. Standing alongside her as their lives were at stake was invigorating, and afterwards, finding her body warm and eager to respond to his, doubly so. The oddities of her particular faith did not bother him, much. His prayers to the Lord of Battles were as distant a memory as his childhood’s dreams, and he was surprised to find admiration for the girl's relish in his mind.

    He felt good in her company. He had never been a man with a strong desire for battle, yet her fire was addictive, and his weapons felt natural in his hands, as they had done back when he had first taken the name Anakore. The name of the warrior who had died, in spirit, the day he ran his lover through with his sword. Anakore did not miss Tigone. Neither did he miss Kaona, or Skyla, or Olivia, or Rianna, or Robyn. Women’s hearts were treacherous when love was concerned. His skills had not diminished after more than ten years, and the feeling of glory after victory was stronger now, than it had been in all that time.

    Anakore climbed the steps of the theatre, the city having floated by as his mind was adrift, and another change overtook him. This was the house of his son. Anakore felt Ethan Roth slipping back into his mind. Thoughts of glory and combat and a willing lover in his arms fled from his mind as he paced through the huge building’s winding corridors.

    Was he Ethan? According to his son, he was. According to Robyn, he was. And to Yarian he couldn’t be anyone but Ethan. Were Ethan and Anakore so different? He did not feel different. His desires, his priorities were, but he still felt the same man. Ethan was the farmer, the son, the boy, the brother, the father. Anakore was the warrior, the lover, the Captain, the observer. Could they be one and the same? After he had been reunited with Yarian, he had noticed they were, at the very least, friends, who respected each other and joked about each other.

    He liked being Anakore. Anakore could not be disappointed or hurt. He liked being Ethan. Ethan felt devotion and love like no other. Yet for his son he needed to be both. The boy did not need two fathers. He had little enough of a real family as it was. Anakore shook his head, wondering what had caused these thoughts to pop up in his mind, and opened the door to his son’s room. Nickolai was not there, most likely still in his class. Ethan and Anakore were merging in his head. Images swirled and he chuckled to himself as he envisioned warrior women as his wife, or as his son’s mother. No. Both of the men in his head would think twice before ever allowing a woman’s promise to guide him again. No, he lived many lives, and would live them all to the fullest. Today, he spend with his son. Tomorrow? A red mist enveloped his mind for a moment, and he felt at ease.


  • Eighth Tale - The Call of Blood

    _I am the family face;
    Flesh perishes, I live on,
    Projecting trait and trace
    Through time to times anon,
    And leaping from place to place
    Over oblivion.

    The years-heired feature that can
    In curve and voice and eye
    Despise the human span
    Of durance–that is I;
    The eternal thing in man,
    That heeds no call to die._

    [“Heredity” by Thomas Hardy]

    Sunlight trickled through the mist of dawn as Anakore strode out into the Nars pass, the chapel watchtower high on the first of the pass’ clifftops. He had been up most of the night and looked forward to a warm embrace in the Camp. Kaona would be well rested after a night’s sleep and hungry for more than a kiss, yet he was prepared to deal with that. He was a valiant Knight, after all. Anakore chuckled as he left the shadows of the watchtower, but suddenly stopped and knelt, narrowing his eyes to peer into the mist ahead.

    Rolling his eyes, anakore took the slender shaft of Robyn’s bow from his pack and strung it, his eyes intent into the mist. Eastlanders. Within bowshot of the tower. Fools. They’d been warned countless times not to come too near, but for one reason or another enjoyed tempting the Defenders to strike at them. Anakore nocked an arrow and took aim. By coming so close to the city the hapless Eastlander had sealed his own fate. Not that Anakore needed the excuses of laws and treaties to slay the man. He had not forgotten how the Eastlanders captured and sold Emma into slavery and supposed devourment. He had not forgotten the countless deaths caused by the wandering marauders in the pass. He had nod forgotten his first return to Norwick, where the Eastlanders left him robbed naked, bleeding and dying into the freezing cold. He felt the bowstring twang against his lower arm as the arrow launched.

    It was a clean shot, taking the Eastlander in the chest, killing him instantly. Anakore rose from his crouch as the man’s body hit the cold ground, and shouldered his bow. One less to fight the war he knew was coming anyway. Anakore sensed rather than saw the dagger point approaching his back. Ducking to avoid the dagger, he reflexively drew his katana from the sheath on his hip, gripping it in both hands as he swung it. The dagger clattered to the rocky surface as the tip of his blade connected with the throath of the eastlander wench who had snuck up on him, blood spraying from the gash. The woman fell back to the ground, failing to scream as blood filled her lungs and her mouth, bubbling from her lips and choking her as life fled from her body. Anakore drove the tip of his katana into her heart, ending her brief torment.

    Looking around for traces of any more unseen assailants, Anakore stepped over to the body and made to wipe the blood from his blade on the woman’s clothes. A grim smile crept on his face as he noticed the blade was spotless, as always. The blood iron surprised him every time. He looked over his kill, her hood having fallen back revealing an unremarkable girl’s face above the ruined throath, eyes staring up. She could have been pretty, Anakore supposed. He had no idea what had driven her on the bandit’s path. She looked only in her late teens, early twenties, perhaps. She most likely had a family, friends, a lover, maybe even a child? It mattered not. In war, laws are silent. She had tried to kill him, and had paid the ultimate price.

    Leaving the corpses on the rocky ground, Anakore went on along the paths of the pass, which became more arduous every couple of yards. He knew the path by heart, and his mind drifted into daydreaming. An enjoyable pastime that made him forget the length of the journey. Uncharacteristically, however, the face of the girl he had just slain lingered in his mind. He wondered if she had any brother or sisters who were waiting for her, wondering why she didn’t return, fearing the worst. Feelings of vengeance were commonplace, though Anakore knew he was not a vengeful man. His mind drifted to his family, long dead, burned to death when the house was set on fire. True revenge had been impossible back then. Life went on.

    His mind returned to the slain girl. A pretty face above a ruined throath. He grimaced instinctively, blinking as something in the image was not right. The face seemed … different. A shiver ran through his spine as he recognised the face in his mind’s eye. The pretty and familiar face of the young girl he had met. Yarian. His sister. He still had no clue how it was possible that she was still alive, and was loath to approach her about it, as it would involve giving away who he really was. His living sister, after eighteen years. He had held her as a baby, yet now he was loath … no, scared, to even tell her his true name. The image of her death unnerved him, and he nearly faltered on the rocky path.

    He wondered how she would react if she knew. He had abandoned them, as a boy. Yet the chance that she knew that was unlikely, at best. He had given away too much already by telling her to mention “Ethan” to her Aunt, though. Laura would remember him all too well, and he was not keen on Yarian knowing that he had fled the town when he was 15. He had thought his real name had finally died when he gave it to Uthgar’s Shaman after he said goodbye to Robyn on her grave, yet there seemed to be no escaping his namesake. The seemingly easiest things often prove to be the hardest challenge, and Anakore felt hesitation dominating his thoughts. The girl deserved to know, yet whether the knowledge would make her happy was another thing. He couldn’t help wanting to protect her, somehow, yet if she knew, and refused him, he would be at a loss.

    The path opened as he reached the large river valley, dominated by the Dragon’s peak. He saw spots of purple and red in the distance, where the Eastlanders patrolled outside their enclave. Anakore stuck to the rock wall and made his way west, avoiding the patrols. The desire to kill had left him, and his blade’s thirst was slaked for the day. Would Yarian be in the Camp again, like last time? She had fallen asleep at the fires that time, and it had wrenched his soul when he had to leave her seemingly unprotected. He could not let her die. Fire had failed to take her, and he would give it no second chance if he had his way.

    The trees of the Gypsy Cove loomed over him as he stepped through the canyon. It felt like he was coming home. Anakore had never been this afraid.


  • Seventh Tale - Faces

    Kaona's kiss still tingled on his lips as Anakore made his way to the Theathre, where his son stayed, taken care of by the Bards when neither he nor the child's mother were around. His hands still felt her waist as he pushed open the gates and made hist way past the stage to the backstage quarters and the room where his son stayed. Walking soft, he entered the room. The three year old boy was fast asleep, probably after a long day of playing in the parks of the city and walks in the company of his mother. Anakore grumbled. He never liked when work kept him from his child. He made a mental note to take Nickolai to the camp next week. If he was anything like his father, he would love it there.

    Anakore put his weaponry on the table next to the bed, the Greatsword and his shorter blades clattering slightly even in their heavy sheaths, and sat down in the armchair, leaning back after he unbuttoned his jacket. Nickolai. His son. It struck him as odd every time that the mother of his son was not his wife, yet he had slowly grown used to that. He wondered what would come of the boy without a true family to grow up in, as he had. A real family. As if it was really possible. Anakore grimaced as he thought of the chances he had gotten in the past to do just that, what paths his life would have taken if he had had the courage to see things through. So many paths not taken, so many confrontations and challenges avoided. Had he always taken the easy path? He looked back at his son, then his frown faded. No, not always the easy path. His own path, whatever that might mean. He knew that much to be true.

    Anakore's mind swept back to the chances he had got, taken and discarded in the past. The smiles he had seen, the lips he had kissed and the moments of passion he had shared. Memories drifted by, faces, touches he remembered but which had touched him as little as a slight breeze touches a willow. Others lingered longer, eyes that had returned longing gazes at him, lips that had touched his, bodies that had joined with his in ecstasy, yet they, too, had little more effect on his life than the fleeting wind pulling at the tree. Slowly faces solidified in his mind, women he had not only desired, but loved, who had managed to bend him and who he had allowed to bend him. Women who had shaped his life as surely as any parent or teacher could have.

    Years after years faded in his mind before his mind-eye settled on Tigone's beautiful face. Her petite face, slender and dark, his mind lingered on her big eyes as she first looked on him more than fifteen years ago. Her eyes seemed in wonder even then, but her eyes never changed during the time they were together. She seemed in wonder of every kiss they shared, after every victory they achieved together, after every long night they warmed each other in the beds of the arena barracks. The time with her had been hard, as she was wilsome but she was sweeter than the sweetest fruit even as she grew hard after the years of battle. In the end, her wonderfully wondrous eyes never changed, even in the determination to defeat him, even in the shock and sadness as he had been forced to slay her. What would life have been like if it had transpired differently? Maybe she and he could have become happy together … but regret had no place in his life. She was dead, and had faded from his consciousness to remain as a memory.

    Faces swirled again, shadows enveloping them and shifting to form another clear memory in his mind ... Rianna. However long ago, she remained in his mind as the strong and proud barbarian woman he had loved so much. Much as he resented the memory, it shone clear in his mind: the power she had had over him. She was strong, and he had come in contact with his power for the first time, slowly developing it. She was young, as young as he was when he and Tigone had reached their peak of power and love, and full of passion and desire for him and for the world. Together they had grown strong in battle, while he had gained in magical power. Where he went, see would go, fiery in both battle and lovemaking. They had drifted apart when he had made his journey to Damara to learn more of his power, and when he returned her thirst for life and love had made her slip away from him. They had left on bad terms, and never again found friendship. What would have happened if they would have wed, as they had planned before he had left? It mattered not, no amount of regret would change things, regret was a pointless emotion. She left the land, and was as much a memory as Tigone was.

    In the swirling mass of faces, two lingered for a moment, two beautiful faces, one bronzed and one pale, enveloped by dark hairs, both with sparkling eyes and the promise of passion. Olivia and Kaona. He had loved both fierce warrior women fiercely. Despite their nature, they could not be more different, and his mind had ever struggled with the choice between them. They had been beacons of peace in a world of chaos, and a part of him knew he was a beacon of peace in -their- existence. Both women were passionate and dangerous, both had hidden strength and drive, qualities that he had admired. He had loved them, but he had betrayed them both … hurt them, abandoned them, when Fire overtook his mind.

    Fire … flames … the faces of the two dark women were enveloped in a burst of scorching fire, blinding his mind-eye, his face a grimace as slowly the bright glow faded, making way for a beautiful woman’s face, her hair smoldering red, and her eyes burning with passion. Skyla. Had he ever loved her? He knew he had, and he knew what their love had sparked in her, he knew it for the fruit of their passion was asleep within arm’s reach, yet … she was gone from his mind, she was but a memory. A memory he cherished, yet the love and passion they once shared was gone. He felt no guilt or even loss, only wondering as to how she could have left his mind so totally. He still felt the warmth of love as a lingering in his mind for every woman he had truly loved, yet the passion he had shared with Skyla was burnt away. Was it ever genuine? His mind settled when he thought of his son. He was the living proof of their love, their love in physical form.

    The faces faded for a while, replaced by nothing but darkness. After Skyla was burnt for him, a lot of his passion was gone too. His mind was at peace, and slowly a face materialized again, a soft face, with wavy auburn hair surrounding it. The face of a friend. The face of a wife, even if she had never been one to him. The face of Robyn. He had known her for years, yet in his time of peace, she had filled the void in his life. With her he had come home, with her, he was ready to give up a bit of himself to become one with her in more than the physical sense. With her, he would live his life. Until the day she died. Died fighting in a war that was not his. Buried on grounds that were not his. Ripped from his life and his love, he was left in a void again. It was impossible for him to feel hurt for her, as he knew he had made her happy until the day she died, yet for himself he always felt the emptiness in his heart caused by her absence. She had been his friend for years and his lover for one year. He missed her as both.

    Anakore eyes snapped open as his ears perceived a keening. Glancing to his side, he noticed his son was rolling in uneasy sleep, his hands grabbing for the pillow and hugging it tight. Rising from the armchair, he walked over quietly, and pulled the covers over the boy’s shoulders. A small smile appeared on his lips as the boy quieted down, once again drifting off in more gentler dreaming, he hoped. He stalked over to the armchair again, sitting down. Letting out a slow sigh, he closed his eyes again. His lips still tingled from Kaona’s kiss, and the faces stopped swirling. Anakore smiled.


  • Sixth Tale - Lifting the Veil

    Sweat streamed from Anakore's back as his knees buckled. Sagging to the ground his blade escaped from his grasp. Barely lucid, the sound of thunder rolling over the Icelace lake, stormclouds gathering over its icy surface, he lay there for a while, spent from training, mind empty, chest heaving as his body recovered from the self-inflicted torture. Peace lay in emptiness, rest lay in forgetfulness. A complacent smile crept on his face as the heat of his body kept him warm despite the icy winds. Yet he could not stop the feeling of cold on his chest, as if a chill had taken grasp of his heart. His mind drifted .

    "Are you unhappy, Stargazer?" The question was a booming whisper in his head, numbing his mind as surely as his body. "Are you not pleased with the gift of the impossible? Are you losing faith?" Anakore groaned, a rattling sound out of his throat, sore from the ragged breathing. His lips moved soundlessly, voicing a "no". "Tend to your gift, Stargazer. Skyla will, too. Your gift is as wondrous to her as to you. Do not grieve over the means, no matter how deeply they have touched you. Your responsibility lies with the gift, not with each other." His body trembled as the words hit his failing mind, his lips moving again in silence, mouthing. "How .. how can I do right by him … he deserves more than this ...". Again the whispers drove his senses to the verge of overload. "You have already chosen your path. Do not cling to the past for the sake of others … follow your path, your choice, with all your heart. You have done well ..."

    His body stirred as his eyes opened to slits, lightning arcing in the clouds over the lake. The warmth of his training had left him, leaving the soaking shirt clinging to his body. The chill on his chest had taken a turn for the worse. Lifting his head with supreme effort, he noticed the blade of his Katana laying on his chest, the sweaty shirt beneath it already chilled to the point of freezing by the blade's icy touch. His hand moved a fraction to push the blade away, the chill fading slowly, and let his head rest on the hard rock soil again. He closed his eyes as many voices mingled in his head, repeating over and over in a cacophony what he already knew.

    "She will burn you out as surely as she has burnt many. In all honestly, she nearly did it to me!" "She loves the hunt, but her interest wanes when she feels trapped." "It just does not feel right that you two have not done more effort." "You two have a responsibility now, better live up to it!" "We have a son … we should get married now." "NO!"

    His eye snapped open with the final word. It was his voice speaking it. Gritting his teeth he sat up, the clouds having hidden the sky completely, and the first drops of rain were starting to fall. His body trembled slightly as the ice-cold water caressed his skin, soaking his clothes. He took up his blade and sheathed it, standing straight, overlooking the Icelace lake. Despite his groaning muscles he felt strength coursing through his body. The rocks that stopped him from tumbling down would not drop now, not this day, knowledge of that was burning inside him. Just like the knowledge of the path he had to take. The chill was gone, his choice was made. He had no regrets. His responsibility was to his son, as surely as Skyla's. Maybe their burst of passion had only been the means towards the end? He did not care. Nickolai was a child born of love, even if that love was a memory now, albeit one to cherish.

    Grinning into the storm, Anakore thought of the sun that lay beyond the clouds, and threw back his head in laughter. The future was as bright as the sun, he had just been too blind to see it. Turning back towards the vast city walls, he smiled. He had a woman's heart to win. He -was- getting romantic in his old age.


  • Second Intermezzo - The youth of Ethan Roth

    ((This is the backstory for my character Anakore, up to and including the moment he started out in Norwick as a level 1 PC. I would have posted it in Historical archives, but I feel that for completion's sake, it belongs here. It's hardly prose, but it wasn't intended to be anything but a short biography on which I base my other stories and refer to when RPing.))

    Chapter 1 - Norwick

    Born on a winter night to Jacob and Erin Roth, Ethan was the firstborn son, eldest child, and pride of his parents. The Roths were a family of little influence in the barbarian town of Norwick, a small hamlet near the expansive Rawlins forest. Their blood was old though, leading back through the ages to the ancient Nar, though diluted by the veil of time and nearly forgotten. Jacob was the last of his line, a proud man who had, since the death of his father, taken over his farm and had cut out a place for himself in this well-traveled but dangerous trading village, supplying the merchants and adventurers alike with supplies.

    Ethan was their only son, but more children followed quickly, 3, all girls, who, just like Ethan, started to help out at the farm from a young age. Ethan grew to be a strong young man, as his blood warranted, and he aided his father with the crops and the animals. The Rawlinswood was a place of danger, however, and the Marauders to the north were an everpresent threat. The town had its share of woes and heroes, whom the young Ethan looked up to, even as he worked for his father. Somehow, the family thrived, and the boy had an uneventful youth. There was little time for playing, even with his younger sisters, as his hands were constantly needed to keep the family alive.

    Years went by, and Ethan grew up. As he became older, his discomfort with the situation started to grow. The town grew ever more dangerous. The dead stirred in the graveyard and the dangers of the forest were barely kept in check by the groups of heroes that had made their home in Norwick. Often crops were lost and animals killed, and the work grew harder and harder. As he became 15 his father acknowledged his age by allowing him to leave the farm now and then for a drink at the inn, to speak to the townspeople and make friends. The young boy was quickly overwhelmed by the often exaggerated tales heard when men drank too much, and his mind started to drift when hearing of the places of beauty in the world. Often he would await the rare caravans from the north, talking to the peddlers and spending what few coins he had on oddities, only in the hopes of hearing stories about the magnificence of the city near the Icelace lake, Peltarch.

    Ethan hesitated for many months, as despite the fact that the life that was forced on him ate at him, making him yearn to escape it, he loved his parents, and his three sisters. It was on the day of his youngest sister's second birthday that he made his decision. There had been a small celebration, the family's friends and the sisters of his mother had came over, there had been dancing and some wine, but Ethan had observed it all from the distance, not really partaking much more than in holding his little sister, smiling at her and somehow trying to make her understand the significance of a birthday. When the lights had faded, late at night, he stalked out of the now-silent house, his family asleep, and used the cover of darkness to slip inside one of the tents of the caravan that was currently stationed just outside the northern gates of the town. The day before, he had paid one of the drivers what gold he could muster if he was willing to smuggle the young barbarian boy with him to the city. To see the city so splendorous in the stories, away from the drudgery of the farmlife.

    Chapter 2 - Peltarch

    Ethan arrived in the city on a cold winter morning. The travel through the vast Nars pass had not been uneventful, but the caravan guards had been well prepared, and the few ambushers they encountered were driven off without much loss, the Eastlanders that lived in the caves of the vast mountain cliffs seemed content in letting the caravan pass by. Ethan thanked the driver that had gotten him there, and the young boy was free to explore the splendors of the Jewel of the Icelace.

    Quickly overwhelmed by the vastness of the city, Ethan became lost in this comparatively sprawling place, markets everywhere, people bustling, guards and militia keeping the people in line and standing ready for the city's defense. Lost, he was, a young strong man in a city that held such things in little regard. His few gold pieces were quickly spent on food as he struggled to find a place for himself, but even as that food was gone, he found it hard to adapt. Awe at the city's splendor made way as easily for gloom as he was forced to the worse districts of the city, near the jails and the docks, where the rough seamen and general scum made it's living. His poverty grew worse by the day, life in the rougher sides of the city was not easy, and getting by with begging hurt young Ethan's pride more than anything. Occasionally the women of local families would take pity on him and spare him some food as their men did not look or were out working on the docks, but while this allowed him to survive, it only made him feel worse, if grateful.

    It was around that time, despair having slowly taken over the young barbarian's mind, that he met Thorn. Ethan, by now a sixteen year old boy, had, despite his poverty and malnourishment, grown to lose none of his strength. In the evenings he would sleep in alleys, fighting to protect himself if needed, or on lucky nights such as this one, when he had somehow managed to scrape together some coin, he would go to one of the local inns to forget how his dreams had been shattered by the cruel reality of city life. As often happens with rough seamen and street thugs, arguments quickly leads to the drawing of knives and the cracking of knuckles. In a meaningless argument a sailor had seen insult in the ale-laden words of the youth and drawn blade, daring the young warrior to confront him. Alcohol-filled and numbed by months of life on the streets, Ethan had little emotion left but fury as his fist connected with the man's jaw, splintering his cheek, and the drink drove him further into rage as he kept hammering the man with his fists until he was utterly worn, panting over the barely recognizable face of the man that had confronted him.

    The patrons of the tavern, no strangers to fighting, or even killing, had been keeping out of the fight, not daring to stop the furious youth, but now the fight, such as it was, was over, the murmurs started to grow louder, men started to move and run, and Ethan, slowly coming to his senses, knew that it would not take long until one of the fools called the city guard. He tried to make his way to the doors, some of the patrons stepping aside respectfully, others tried to grapple him to exact some kind of ill-gotten revenge, others yet struggled to keep him in until the guard came, but in the bustle a strong hand settled on his bloodied wrist, pulling him ever closer towards the door. Numbed by what had happened, Ethan struggled through the crowd, eventually reaching the door, bruised but alive, the hand on his wrist pulling him outside in the cool night air of the docks, quickly leading him on through dark alleys until the last eyes upon his back were the ones of the crows sitting on the rooftops. The figure holding his wrist turned, hood falling back revealing a bald dwarven face, dark even in the moonlight. 'I … have an offer for you ..."

    Chapter 3 - The Arena

    Ethan got to know the strange looking dwarf pretty well during the following days. His name was Thorn, a very particular dwarf. He claimed to come from another land but never truly mentioned its name or where it lay. He seemed to be utterly bald, and his skin was leathery and wrinkled, yet he possessed enormous strength and was skilled at most weapons. Young Ethan had little choice but to accept the dwarf's offer. Thorn owned a fighting pits underneath one of the more seedy bars in the back-alleys of the docks district, and had trained many a good warrior to engage in bloodsport for the bloodthirsty locals, both commoner and noble alike, who enjoyed gambling on the games. Thorn saw in Ethan the makings of a great warrior, and did not hide it either. He drove Ethan hard to master many different weapons and styles, to use armor and shield, and to fight under the stress of the crowds screaming and encouraging either opponent.

    To say that Thorn had a school for warriors hidden away underneath the cobblestones of the city would be exaggerating, yet he did have several students which he pushed equally hard. The very first day he had accepted Thorn's offer was the day he met with one of them, the woman who was about to change his life forever. The dwarf had called him to the training hall, the night after the fight that had led to their encounter. He was washed clean of the blood and filth of the fight, yet in his mind still lingered the image of the broken face of his enemy, as a layer of slime on his memories. Yet the moment he stepped into the training hall, empty except for the dwarf and one fellow would-be student, was the moment all thoughts left him.

    She did not stun him with her beauty, her slender body and pretty face invoking feelings of care rather than awe. Seeing her did not bring a stupid smile to his face like boyish love at home had so often done, but somehow the void of his mind told him that she was "right". Ethan did not get much time to enjoy the sensation, as Thorn was quick to address them both, to tell them about what he had in store for them, and what high hopes he had. It seemed both Ethan and the girl had no real option but to accept, and upon their acceptance the dwarf smiled, a weird expression on his leathery face, and told them now they had to make a sacrifice for the sake of themselves: they had to give up their names. It was the tradition where he came from, Thorn said, and he imbued them with names that he thought reflected his predictions of how the two would be in a fight. He called Ethan "Anakore", after a fierce desert creature from his home. The girl he called "Tigone", and he merely added no fiercer hunting cats were known where he grew up.

    Ever during their training they somehow stuck together. There was no seduction or love at first sight, merely the knowledge of both that it "worked" between them, and this increased with the passion that they started to share. Thorn cleverly played out this card, once they were fully trained, by letting them fight in team games. Anakore would be decked out in the most imposing chain mails he could find, a dangerous looking helmet and a sturdy shield. With his massive bastard sword he would present a veritable wall for the opponents to crush themselves against, while Tigone, wielding slender blades, would strike swiftly before dodging and weaving away from blows, wearing out the foe.

    Despite their youth, their charismatic appearance and nascent skill slowly worked to make them a crowd favorite, with commoners and nobles alike. Their efficient combination made for many victories in the pits. Even between the gladiators, there was great respect, and death was not the only option in a fight. Both made new friends and grudgingly respected enemies. In their quarters, their passion grew with every fight, as they came to rely on each other more than ever. Thorn made huge sums of money in their name, and even with what share they got of the winnings, they were assured a good future if they managed to survive. But the favor of the crowds is fickle.

    Under the influence of the patrons, the fights slowly became more bloody. Cries for mercy for a worthy loser were replaced by cries of slaughter. Fights became less of an art and more of survival for both Anakore and Tigone. And they both changed. Tigone relished in the slaughter and the cruelty that was so much the desire of the onlookers. Anakore, however, felt little but growing disgust at what he was forced to do. Bladeskill made way for murder, in his eyes. No better than the sailor he had smashed to death when he first came to the city. He started to feel the blood on his hands even when he was not fighting. Then … things took a turn for the worse.

    Slowly at first, just one or two matches, but gradually increasing in frequency, matches of skill were wholly replaced by exercises in slaughter. Where Thorn got the hapless victims the gladiators were faced with Anakore never found out. Slaves he had bought, brought from oversees? Beggars dragged from the streets at night? He retched at having to slaughter them, and disgust at his actions kept him away from the pits more and more. As he grew more distant to the fighting, so did his distance from Tigone grow. Their moments of passion grew rarer, more intense but with a bestial ferocity that spoke more of mutual need than love or desire. No more kisses were exchanged and their nights were spent separate, disgust at each other slowly replacing what they had once shared.

    Then came the day, close to his nineteenth birthday, that Anakore could bear no longer, and he decided to step out, abandoning both Thorn and Tigone as he had abandoned his family before. Without a word, leaving without more than the clothes on his back. But no amount of time would change his life on the streets from the pathetic one it had been before he met Thorn. His little gold was spent more quickly than before, and his rough times in the arena only made his methods of survival more desperate and violent. Many a time was an unknown sailor found dead in an alley, neck broken, body hidden and purse gone. Anakore quickly noticed however that the city life would sooner or later destroy him, and decided to follow that small voice at the back of his head that he had ignored for so many ears. He would go home.

    No caravans would accept the little gold he had, and traveling the Nars alone, without supplies would be suicide, so in his despair Anakore looked for Thorn again, making him a final request. One final challenge in the arena with Tigone at his side, as they had did before. A fight of skill, not of slaughter. The crowds would love to see them together again, and all Anakore desired was his weapons and armor, so he would be prepared for the journey south. Thorn merely smiled and complied, telling Anakore to ready himself for a fight that very evening. He did not see Tigone before the fight, but he knew she would be ready. She had grown ruthless and efficient in the years they had spend under Thorn's guidance, but he still had the memory of the first time he had seen her, the "rightness" of her in his life.

    Dusk came, and Thorn sent for Anakore, who had readied himself fully. His old, strong chainmail strapped on meticulously, an imposing gladiator's helm on his head, his tower shield strapped firmly to his forearm, and his bastard sword oiled and ready in his strong hand. Anakore followed into the arena, the crowds cheering and booing in equal measure. He saw Tigone standing opposite in the pit, and grinned behind his visor. She had not changed, black leathers around her slender, muscular form, her twin blades as razors in her hands. Despite everything, a slight grin was apparent on her face too, as she beheld him in full battle regalia. That grin faded from both faces the moment Thorn appeared on the stage, announcing the fight.

    "Ladies and Gentlemen! For your pleasure TONIGHT! Anakore! … and Tigone! Your FAVORITE battle team! Will tonight face EACH OTHER in a fight to the DEATH!"

    Anakore gritted his teeth behind his visor. Winning this fight meant a chance at a life, but at what cost. One look at her, however, steeled him. Tigone had been growing ruthless, and he could see her face harden in a grimace, of pain, maybe, but of fury and determination … at him. She was never merciful, enjoying the thrill of combat and the shrieks of pain as much as the test of skill. He did not know what drove her on to do this, and he could barely see her eyes, but he knew she would fight until the end. Sweat from his palms soaked the leather straps around the hilt as he nodded at her, the crowd's cheers reaching a crescendo as they advanced at each other. They had fought together for years, knew each other's every move. He was an unstoppable onslaught of steel, she was a razor with wings. The fight lasted for an hour, Tigone weaving and moving like a ghost, trying to wear him out in the heavy armor, trying to make him reach the limits of his endurance. What was her mistake? He never learned. A moment of hesitation, perhaps. A moment of memory and regret that spelled her end just as surely as it would have spelled his. His blade bit her, drawing blood once where she had given him many slices across his arms and chest, the steel of his bastard sword protruding from her slender back as her body sagged, her eyes looking up at his cold visor one final time before growing dull.

    Chapter 4 - The Return

    Thorn held true to his word. He gave Anakore the weapons and armor he had fought with during the years as a gladiator, and gave him some gold on top, wishing him well in whatever path life took him on. Anakore did not see Tigone's body again, or witnessed her funeral, but the warmth she had once given him was now a cold clump in his chest. Was the sacrifice worth it? He could go home now. Was the sacrifice of someone so "right" for him worth that chance? No answer would ever be forthcoming if he did not find out for himself, so he set out south that very day, leaving the Jewel of the Icelace on the cold paths of the vast Nars pass.

    The trip was longer on foot, and he did not know the paths. There were no caravan guards to guide his path, and no warm clothes to save him from the cold. Nor were there any guards except his sword and shield to ward him from the predators of the canyons, human or otherwise. He had to fight many times, reckless bandits demanding his little gold and gear, or desperate men who attacked before talking. He did not care. No amount of blood shed would keep him from his home now. Even when he fell into the ambush, his mind did not change, his determination did not falter. Nor when he hit the cold snow as he was struck in the chest by a crossbow bolt. Left for dead, stripped of his precious gear, he lay as dusk settled over the pass.

    How exactly he ended up in Norwick Anakore never found out. He woke up in one of the beds of the Friar's house, tended to by his female apprentices. All they could tell him is that he was found near death in the Nars, and that the travelers who had found him had carried him here, so he could be nursed back to health. Health returned quickly, though, as hope of seeing his family and happiness at being home strengthened his being. After a few days, he was allowed out of the Friar's house again, and hoped to find his family fast.

    All he found was graves. Where the farm he grew up in had stood was a great store now, no sign of his family anywhere. When he inquired after them, there were no words of hope for him: four years ago, during a goblin attack, their farm had caught fire during the night. His mother and sisters had perished in the flames, and his father moments after as he had run inside in despair, trying to save his family from a horrible death, only to suffer the same. Anakore spent a long time at the grave of his family. He had given up the name they had given him, but inwardly he had never been able to. He was who he was, but for now the mask of his warrior self would cover him as well as any helmet. He had become Anakore, he was Anakore, and that very night he went to the inn, to drown himself in drink.


  • Fifth Tale - The Price of Steel

    Anakore woke up with a start, sitting upright in the bed. Dawnlight started to trickle through the thick curtains of the room's only window, outlining the curve of Skyla's body under the blankets. A slow grin made its way on his face as he sunk back to the pillows, rolling on his side to look at her. The faint rays of the morning sun played on her face, making it come to life even when asleep. Her fiery red hair, still tangled from the passion of their evening together, and the long night, only made her face more beautiful. Smiling, sighing relaxedly, he moved closer to her, moving his hand over her belly, eyes sparkling slightly.

    She mumbled slightly, shifting in the blankets, snuggling closer to him without waking up. His smile became a grin as her scent pervaded his mind. He loved her scent. And her taste, for that matter. He had known her for so many years, blind to the obvious, until that one day in Norwick, not so long ago. Had he known what the taste of her lips would have done, would he have refused? Backed out? His eyes traced every line of her beautiful face. No, he wouldn't have.

    Anakore grimaced slightly as he broke from her snuggle, pulling the blanket over her for warmth. She let out a soft subconscious moan of loss before rolling on her side, away from him. He smiled and stalked out of the bed and into his smallclothes, before leaving the room, closing the door as silently as he could.

    Dawnlight flooded the anteroom as he opened the curtains, revealing two sturdy wooden chests and a sizeable bookcase, as well as a large desk, one side of it clean, the other side groaning under stacks of paperwork and weaponry of all sizes and shapes. His side of the desk. Wasting no time, Anakore shrugged on his pants, buckled on his Daisho and quickly buttoned up his leather jacket, dyed blue to show his allegiance to the Knights of the Cerulean Stars. Finally he took his set of odd-looking gloves, a gem on the back of each hand, out of the desk's drawer and put them on, flexing his hands to ensure a snug fit.

    Making his way through the corridors of the inn and the common room, sparing Cyna a nod and Corliss a coy grin, he stalked out of the inn and into the city's streets, the turmoil of the morning markets barely touching him as the masses parted for one in the service of the city, making his way to the south gates.

    Once outside the gates, Anakore visibly relaxed. He enjoyed living in the city, but the Nars pass was where he was born, was where his heart lay. There and with Skyla, he noticed, wryly. Throwing the guard on duty a casual salute, which was returned promptly with the mention of "captain", he approached the vast cliffs of the Nars, at their most breathtaking in the dawnlight. Just like Skyla, he noticed, again. He grumbled subconsciously, realisation dawning that the woman had gotten under his skin in more than one way. Not an unpleasant thought, after all, so he allowed a smile to creep on his features.

    As the city and the Icelace lake started to grow more distant, he relaxed against a rock, overlooking a small vale he favored for training, water slowly clattering down the cliffs to join one of the many streams that fed the Icelace lake. He took a deep breath and drew his Katana. The Nars was cold at the best of times, but, as always when he drew it, the Katana's bare blade seemed to fill the air with a chill. Raising it's hilt, Anakore's eyes studied the blade.

    Such a fine blade. He had seen it grow from a weak copper blade into a magnificent piece over time, reforged countless times with alloys as expensive as they were rare, by a master beyond any he had ever seen. The hilt was encircled by the motif of an asp, it's willowy body encircling a beautiful orchid. Masterful. Yet … something was off. His gaze flowed along the length of the razor sharp blade. Or was it razor sharp? Running a finger along the edge of the blade, he noticed the same coldness of edge as always, yet he drew no blood. Odd. The blade seemed a bit dull, it's reflective surface dimmed.

    Anakore grimaced slightly. So it was true. He hadn't drawn his blade during the entire journey to Cormyr, and back. He hadn't needed to. But the blade had. He had neglected it. One of the blade's many components had been an ingot of Blood Iron. He knew nothing about the material except what the Master had told him. The metal yearned for blood. Often, as if just beyond the ken of hearing, he could distinguish a shrill shrieking sound when the blade was drawn. Now the sensation was more a moan than a shriek. The blade hungered, and was weakened and desperate, like a man on the verge of starvation.

    Grimacing, anakore flexed his hands on the sword's hilt, the gems on the back of his gloves flaring up bright sickly red on the left hand and icy blue on the right, the colors merging to envelop him with the power of the weave. His muscles bulged as the weave lent its strength to him. Air grew rigid as the weave shaped it into an invisible shell around him. The gems dimmed again and the dull throbbing behind his eyes vanished, as it always did when he finished casting. Striding off determinedly along the trodden paths of the Nars, Anakore went to feed his steel.

  • L

    [Deleted by user.]


  • First Intermezzo - Moaning Idiot Heart

    _Tomorrow waits me at my gates
    while all my yesterdays swarm near
    And one mouth whines, too late,
    too late and one is dumb with fear

    Was this the all that life could give
    Me, who from cradle hungered on,
    body and soul aflame to live,
    giving my all and then be gone

    Have done with moaning, idiot heart
    if it so be that love has wings,
    I with my shears will find an art
    to still her flutterings

    Wrench of that bandage to will I
    and show the wimp she's blind indeed
    Hot irons shall prove my mastery
    She shall not weep but bleed

    And when at last I journey where,
    all thought of you I must resign
    Will the least memory of me be fair
    or will you even my ghost malign

    I wake and watch when the moon is here,
    a shadow tracks me on
    And I, darker than my shadow,
    fear her fabulous inconsistency

    Have done with moaning, idiot heart
    if it so be that love has wings,
    I with my shears will find an art
    to still her flutterings

    Your maddening face befools my eyes
    Your hand I wake to feel
    Lost in deep midnight's black surmise
    its touch my veins congeal

    And when at last I journey where,
    all thought of you I must resign
    Will the least memory of me be fair
    or will you even my ghost malign_

    [taken from Walter De La Mare's "The Green Room"]


  • Anakore, as suggested by BetaPhi.


  • Fourth Tale - Heartburn

    Anakore woke to the clattering of rain against rocks. Opening his eyes to the pale dawn light, he took in his surroundings. Still nestled under his blanket on the moss of the small niche in the cliffs surrounding the Gypsy Camp, safe from rain and wind, a slow smile appeared on his lips as he drank the dawn light with his eyes. He loved the Camp, and of all the Camp, this was his favourite spot.

    Slowly rising, flexing his muscles, he thought of the great times he had lived here, the grand tales told at the Gypsy bonfires, always a favourite with or without a girl on his lap, the Gypsy music and the dances if he was in a good mood, which he almost always was in this spot.

    After packing his blankets and donning his jacket and gloves, he concentrated briefly, the red gem on his left glove flaring up as he conjured an elemental warding, to saveguard him from the rain. A petty thing to do, but petty things felt right at this time. Walking over to the bonfires at the centre of the valley, a sense of peace settled over him. He had never felt as relaxed as the last few days. Or had he?

    Settling down with a sigh that might have been both pleased and regretful, he let his thoughts drift, reluctantly, to the city he had spent so many years of his life in. To the Knights, his friends, now but a shadow of their former glory. Would they ever rise again? Doubtful. They had been his reason to live in the city of stone. His reason to be tied to a city of corruption and laws. But this had changed. He lived in the camp now. His ties to the city were broken. Well, except for one.

    His mind followed the thread that tied him to the city, the thread that tied him so fast he could not understand how he had been able to run. The thread, tied to HER. Skyla. A shiver ran through his spine at the memory of her. How had it happened? How had she burned her way into his heart? Even though it had been months, the taste of her lips was still on his own, and whenever his mind drifted off, he felt her skin on his fingers. Or was it the lack of her? He missed her. She burned his heart. Yet he wanted her still, and no other.

    Grimacing without knowing it, his mind drifted back of the months after her capture by the Blackguard. The months he had fooled himself by thinking she needed to recover. The months he had fled the city to be away from her scornful looks and condescending attitude. The months of his blindness to what was really going on. The months without her love.

    Did he really remember her saying she loved him? Did he really remember returning those words? He remembered the feeling all too well, a burning in his gut, stomach churning with desire for just a kiss, for just a sparkle in her eyes, a shadow of that fiery look that had put his heart ablaze.

    She had refused him now. Or had she? He could not know what she had been through. His mind warred with rage, disdain, compassion and love. He would not abandon her. She could scorn him for the rest of his life, and he would not care. She might be his last chain to the city, but if that was the price to be paid for a chance to have her flame in his life, he would pay it gladly.

    Opening his eyes to see the sun high in the sky, he let out a sigh, but a smile crept on his face. Rising slowly, strapping his pack to his back, he checked his blades and strode off east, then north. To the city. To Peltarch. To her.


  • Third Tale - Shadow and Flame

    Dusk was falling as the boy courier passed him a message as he sat in the Peltarch Commons. "It is time, Anakore. Meet us at the agreed place." A cold shiver ran across Anakore's spine as he read it, and he was barely aware of his own hand digging into his purse to give the boy a gold coin as he stood up from the stone bench, loosening his weapons in their scabbards. Time indeed. Striding through the emptying streets of the city, slowly making his way south, he recalled what his Master had told him.

    "There is a caravan that will be coming through the Pass in the coming week. They carry an ingot of great worth. I wish you to aqcuire that ingot. They are … an evil group. Relinquish ... them of their merchandise before they sell it to the Blood Spiders." His Master's eyes had turned to the curved blade at Anakore's side, meaningfully. "I can make good use of the ingot." He had also promised Anakore a band of his servants to assist him.

    Shrugging, loosening his jacket as he stepped through the south gates, clear save for a few disinterested guards who had seen him come and go countless times before, he started walking south, the ridges of the Nars pass stark even in the fading light. Settling against a gnarled tree at the base of the foothills, he rested for a while, clearing his mind of all thoughts, emptying himself of all but the raw power coursing through his veins, pumping flows of undirected force, at his command at the sole price of pain.

    Weaving the flow of power became easier to him as the long months since he had come to posses it passed, shaping the mystical energy into an invisible shield surrounding him, and letting it flow alongside the movements of his muscles to make him quicker, stronger, more agile than his human body could ever be. But even now, he could feel a dull throbbing behind his eyes as he let the power strengthen him, an ever-present shadow-sensation to remind him at which price his power came. Looking at his gloves as he weaved the flows, he could see the gems on the backs of his hands react to his casting. The dark gem on his left hand seemed to pulse with a sickly reddish light, as if feeding on what pain he should be feeling. The cool blue gem on his right hand seemed to contain a maelstrom of ice, throbbing and crushing and freezing away the pain he remembered so well. Unwillingly he winced. He would never be withouth the gloves again. Never!.

    The thoughts of his pain faded as he completed his incantations. Taking a deep breath, he stood up and donned his studded jack again, buttoning it so it fitted tight over his padded clothes. His mind was at ease, his body ready for whatever lay ahead, and he started moving east, the fading sun behind him barely illumining his path. After a while, he reached the appointed place, a ridge in the lower foothills of the Nars pass, overlooking a farmstead on the edge of a small lake. There they stood, barely visible in the dying daylight, twenty-odd lean, shadowy figures. They seemed at ease, but each looked at him with eyes that betrayed wariness. One of them adressed Anakore, if he was their leader it was only for him being the one to speak, as he looked none different from his fellows, garbed in dark black and blue clothes, blades at their sides.

    "The caravan rests in the farmstead to the south. What are your orders?" The man's matter-of-factness urged Anakore to action, and he walked over to the edge facing southeast, overlooking the farm before the sun wholly failed. It lay encircled by a what seemed to be a shallow moat with a narrow bridge, and a simple wooden watchtower stood on the east and west sides of the farm buildings. While he could not see within the farmyard, he noticed several figures with bows near the eastern tower, as well as at least one guard on it. Returning his gaze to the leader, he formulated his plan: "Five of your men take the western tower and encircle the farm, lying in wait until the main attack begins. The others come with me directly north of the farm. We will wade through the moat and start the attack from there. Once combat is joined, the western force will emerge from hiding and attack their flank. Understood?" The dark figures merely nodded, and without argument split up their group, five shadows rushing off in the dusk, making for the west guard tower, while Anakore took the rest eastward, to approach the farm from the north.

    On his command, the figures followed him, reaching the moat. Dark clothes and silent feet kept them from being noticed by the people dotting the farmyard. They did not seem too ready for an attack, but they seemed experienced enough to be on their guard always. Anakore shrugged. They had the advantage of suprise, so with a quick gesture he commanded his men to start the attack.

    To his surprise, only half of his men advanced slowly, out of the shallow water, while the others, instead of drawing blade and attacking, started mystical incantations. From their hands great balls of fire spewed forth, crashing into the farmyard, before exploding with tremendous force, scorching wood and stone as well as steel and skin. Those of the defenders who emerged unscathed were hard pressed to draw blade as the dark figures came upon them, their wicked blades striking mercilessly.

    The defender's surprise turned to panic as the flanking force arrived, more fire scorching the farm grounds and more screams of fiery agony. Anakore seized the opportunity to start a run, having spied the archer on the eastern guard tower, the only one to keep his calm, picking his targets quietly. Rolling under the shadow of the watchtower, out of sight, he looked for a way up, as no ladder seemed to be evident. Squatting for leverage, he launched himself in the air, fingertips clasping the edge of the upper platform. His muscled bulged as he slowly pulled himself up, trying to keep his breathing down to stay unnoticed.

    On one knee on the platform, a slight grin formed on the barbarian's face. The archer had not noticed him, too preoccupied with looking for targets amidst the chaos of fire and blood in the yard. Anakore drew his short blade, and approached the archer silently. There was no honor in a kill like this, but this battle was not about honor. His face a slight grimace, he thrust the blade's point through the man's back in a swift stroke. All reaction he got was a rattling cough as his blade burst from the archer's chest. The bow slipped from a spasming grasp as eyes glazed over. Kicking the corpse from his blade, Anakore looked over the carnage down below.

    Nothing moved in the yard but shadowy figures in the moonlight, nothing could be heard except an occasional fading moan or the sound of a blade biting flesh to quicken someone's end. If any of his dark allies had fallen, Anakore could not see. Jumping down from the tower, he followed the shadows towards the caravan wagons. They had swiftly started to search through the wares, but one approached Anakore with a large chest. "This … is what the Master seeks."

    Opening the chest, Anakore could not help but grin widely.


  • Good stuff V.


  • Second Tale - Humility

    The young warrior sits on the edge of the bed, little more than a sleeping cot in the cheapest room in the Dancing Mermaid inn in Peltarch. His belongings are strewn across the room, as well as his clothes and weapons. Wearing nothing but his smallclothes, the warrior gets up slowly, still hazy from a night of ill-gotten sleep and dreams, wretched dreams of his failure, burning sanity from his mind.

    Back in the days of his fighting in the Peltarch pits, the warrior's trainer had been a man called Thorn, a strange man more resembling a gruff dwarf in face and girth but large and burly as a human. He had called the warrior "Anakore", after a fierce and dangerous creature that Thorn proclaimed to be living in the desert badlands of whatever realm the strange man claimed to come from. He had taken the name as his own with pride, forgetting whatever namesake lay in the past. But whatever thoughts of grandeur he might have had were distant now, just a whisper in his mind where they used to be glorious screams. The moment of his failure blotching out all prideful thoughts.

    "Bastard!" the armored man had called him, as he was discussing business with his friends in the Regal Whore inn in Jiyyd, to the southeast. For no reason the stranger had challenged him, calling him unworthy of the blade. He did not recognise the man, nor did he catch a glimpse of his face under the copperish helm. All the man gave were cold insults, calling him cowardly and honorless, until he finally accepted to combat him.

    Trying to supress his memories, Anakore slowly makes his way to the table opposite the bed, empty save for his sheathed katana, his gem-adorned gloves, and a few rolls of parchment wrapped in a leather sheath to protect them from the rigors of travel. Ignoring the blade and the gloves for now, he unrolls the largest of the parchment, spreading it out on the table. Narrowing his eyes to in the pale morning light that barely manages to penetrate the curtains, he makes out the myriad diagrams and drawings he has studied for so long. Using all possible place on the parchment, each drawing depicts a deadly strike to fell the foe in one blow, a flawless block to turn the strongest attack, or a subtle feint that puts the foe off guard, all showing how to master the curved, eastern blade. His fist clenches the edge of the table in frustration as his eyes unfocus and shame pervades his mind.

    As he faced the stranger fearlessly, confident in his skills, he had opened the assault, following up feints with slashes and unpredictable thrusts, only to find the armored man's blade blocking each and every one of his attempts effortlessly. Even quickened by his power, he had found the man's reactions to be flawless. Weaving the blade, dodging and feinting, every strike was blocked, and the counterstrokes were merciless. Three times he had found himself sundered and with a blade on his neck unable to do anything but acknowledge defeat. Three times he could imagine the man's expressionmess face behind the helmet as he defeated him without breaking a sweat. The mocking half-laugh lingered in his ears as the man walked away in the darkness, turning his back in scorn. "The blade is strong, but you certainly are not."

    Not strong. As he hammers his hand on the table, hard, Anakore lets out a grunt. A test! It was a test, of course. And he had failed. Angrily swiping the parchments from the table, his eyes fall upon his sheathed blade. The "strong" blade. His hand gripping the leather-wrapped hilt, done by his own hand, he slips the blade from it's scabbard, holding it up. The blade's reddish iron looks oddly pale in the morning light, and a barely audible whisper seems to emanate from it. Running his thumb along the razor-sharp edge, he winces as a drop of blood flows along the length of the blade, then seems to fade, as if subsumed by the iron. Looking at his thumb, there is no wound, not even a scar. The blade's hue seems a little darker, and the whisper has faded, making way for gloomy silence.

    "You barely managed to hit me, Anakore." Grinding his teeth as the words ring through his mind. "The blade is strong, but you certainly are not." Grimacing, he steps to the center of the room, gripping the hilt of the blade in both hands now. "Do not waste this opportunity I have given you, Anakore." Taking a deep breath, his chest rising, he assumes the defensive postion which was the start of his exercises. He would do them again. Countless times if need be. Every power had a price, but if mastery of the blade bore the price of humility and shame, he would pay it, gladly.

    He would not waste this opportunity.

  • R

    I love it and I read it some time ago already, since you send it to me. 😉

    and for the next part.. Rianna better not be painted off as a whore or something , cuz if she is.. :evil:

    Anyway! 😛 love it!