Sworded Tales

Constable Tormarin was the rigid sort.  Rural life and a disfiguring birthmark upon her face drove her to develop a stunning physique and penchant for swordplay.  A strength of character evolved from staring folks in the eye, daring them to comment on her appearance.  Folded into this iron will was a sense of integrity that was outshone by few.  When her charismatic power blossomed and men were drawn to her, she found none that were worthy of her attention.

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Ardenn Gallows walked away from the nightmare of his life.

Try being born into the world of managing the recently deceased.  A family that builds coffins and gallows, preserves bodies and digs graves was one that few wished to encounter outside of the rituals surrounding interment.  The journey was a lonely one, especially when the family was riddled with faults.  A carpenter father who drank, an alchemist mother who aspired to zealotry, an abusive older brother and a pair of twins that were horrific mirrors of each other.  This was the arena that Ardenn navigated before seeking his fortune on the road.

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“But I don’t want to kill anyone,” Gideon said, “I want to be a bard and play music and travel the lands.”

The seer continued to hold out the length of knife to the boy.  His copper had bought him the reading.  Her vision made her give him so much more.  “Yours will be the path of steel, child.  Take it to ease your suffering.”

But Gideon left empty-handed and losing his dog to a filthy pack of rats on the walk home did not change his mind. Continue reading

The blackness of space can affect a man.  Unless that man has known nothing other.  Then that great void is home, and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.  Such was the way of Dameon Cross, spacer, pilot and often times rogue trader.  His fancy lingo for what amounts to a smuggler.  A man does what he must to survive.  None knew that better. Continue reading

The Mad Beggar of Cornfall was legendary.  Homeless, shirtless and wild-eyed, the self-proclaimed ronin defended the city against illusory attackers with his invisible blade.  Scorpion style martial arts displays provided an entertaining backdrop for the unsuspecting traveler, as the acrobatic lunatic navigated the streets with untraceable abandon.  Seen upon rooftops, emerging from sewage tunnels and within any edifice the city boasted, the Mad Beggar was a beacon of local culture.  Though he survived upon the charity of others, his positive influence lightened the load of any who happened to cross his path. Continue reading

The Sibari Terraces were blasted with civil war. Clans shed blood for years after the assassination of Gomar-Tuk the Spinebender. This fluid and horrific culture was the backdrop for Yor’Tahl’s coming of age. The waste and wanton destruction weighed upon the young Orc with uncommon purpose.

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Persistence was all that mattered.  Continuation.

Genosis was here before the apes walked upright, before the fish crawled from the sea, before the sludge surged with purpose.  The barren, fertile world needed only a spark.  In death, in exile, Genosis was the breath of life. Continue reading

Picksy Flint was born after the fall.  When the grid, and luxury, and the masses were little more than mystical retellings from the oldest still walking.  The days had shriveled.  The nights bled on.  And she had the marks to prove it.  Her crystalline gray eyes at the heart of them.

She killed her first feeder at the age of six.  Granted the spiked arm that recoiled when she released the trigger did most of the work, but the kill was hers, and she liked it.  From that moment, her path was chosen. Continue reading

Grime Hollow was not a place for the feint of heart.  None knew that better than Sigal Barsade.  The unsavory trade district was nestled between the more decrepit piers of the waterfront and the condemned quarry rife with pitfalls and sinkholes.  Sigal had grown up as a wharf rat around the bustling sea trade, a harlot’s daughter with dreams of captaining her ship one day. Continue reading

Mother Stone whispers in her unyielding song. The Vigil of Sisters watches nearby, each harkening to the call with patient will. Gola listens and sleeps, dreamless dormancy within the immortal embrace.

Snapshots of existence from a timeless being render the most stalwart mind fallible. Aware of the passage of time yet unable to remember the events which transpire in rigid sleep, the Vigil awakens only at Mother’s summons, when the stone speaks and the magic runs true.

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