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Dark Tower Character Profiles

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Babbling Loonie
Stratics Veteran
Stratics Legend
Lady Cymidei Fier, Former Mistress of the Dark Tower

Although Cymidei Fier does not often speak of her past, a few details have been recorded into the chronicles and manuscripts of the realm. Cymidei Fier is described by those who have seen her as a pale noblewoman, clad in an elegant black gown, meticulously emblazoned with necromantic symbols.

She wears a black hat with a single raven-plume. Her eyes are said to reflect an inner despair and rage. Some say that the Mistress of the Dark Tower often speaks of Pain as a great teacher and a pathway to enlightenment. Any who encounter her, are warned to take extreme caution as she is well known for torturing those who anger her.

According to historical chronicles, Lady Fier arrived at the Dark Tower from the City of Wind, nearly four centuries ago It was said that she had once lived in a realm beyond the borders of Sosaria but no one is sure of where she is from.

During her early days in the Dark Tower, Cymidei studied elemental magicks and the philosophies of the Path of Darkness. At the end of her tenure as an Acolyte, Cymidei was made Cabal of Darkness. However, it was said that she betrayed the Master of the and left to form her own cult, based on heretical beliefs.

During the great wars, several assassins were sent to slay Cymidei however none were successful. On the frozen steppes of Dagger Island, Cymidei successfully evaded those who pursued her. She mastered not only Elemental Magick but also Demonology and Necromancy.

It is said that Lady Fier committed many murders and cruel deeds to maintain her solitude and to continue her experiments, undisturbed.

After the war, Cymidei wed Azalin the Lich and together they built an empire near the Town of Vesper. In time…Cymidei returned to the Dark Tower and eventually became Mistress for several centuries.

Some time after the Age of Shadows Cymidei's soul was able to wandered the void visiting otherworlds beyond the ether existing in Sosaria, she became as a shade or ghost, occasionally seen wandering the halls of the Dark Tower.​

Lady Ivy Shadowfare, Former Mistress of the Dark Tower

Lady Ivy Shadowsfare

Fiery tresses, emerald green eyes and a porcelain complexion give Ivy Shadowfare an exotic enough look. Her profile, while not soft and beautiful, is graceful and aristocratic. She carries herself with a sinuous, yet noble grace. Many men find her entrancing though that is never something she strove to attain. There are few men that have been able to warm the cold heart of the Lady Ivy. She is cruel and unforgiving, but never deviates in her diplomatic manner - at least never where any witness could see an act that would speak ill of her.

The Lady Ivy makes no effort to hide most of her past; a street urchin, she took to poisoning the blades(and drinks) of the underhanded population of the city of Britain until a young knight by the name of Thorgrim took her in. Taken to the city of Avalon, she learned more of the world and honed her skill with a kryss. In a challenge she defeated the drow known as Alton. Unbeknownst to the young Ivy, Alton was the Cabal of the Blade and due to his defeat at her hands, as the code he followed demanded, he offered her his place as Cabal of the Blade of the Dark Tower.(Few know that she once carried this same drow's child, but killed it due to Alton's then-status as a traitor to the Tower). She debated this with herself and her then-guardian the Golden Knight Mrrshan, but ultimately chose to walk the path. One of the first members to enter the Tower's ranks in the position of a Cabal member, she was not accepted readily. The only female, and the youngest, she nonetheless held her place.

Years later, she became Mistress and pursued the Arcane arts, abandoning her proficiency with martial weapons. Unfortunately, the Arcane powers are not for everyone, and with their use comes the Ether Sickness - an illness that leaves Ivy sometimes debilitated. After a time as Mistress, the essence of the Dark Tower seemed to noticed the fading life energy of its Mistress and chose a new voice in the lands - Cymidei Fier. Ivy's reign was one of diplomatic manipulations and politics. Cymidei promised a reign of something darker for the Tower.

Ivy was the first Mistress of the Tower to step down and live, yet remain in the lands where she'd served. For a time she acted as an advisor and Seer to the Tower. Mysteriously, she disappeared. Her large estate near the Trinsic swamps was given over to the Avalon estates, along with her expansive library (one of her most treasured possessions). Since then, few have heard much of the Lady Ivy. Even fewer have seen her.​


Babbling Loonie
Stratics Veteran
Stratics Legend
Ryujin Al'Danzai, Former Cabal of the Ether

Ryujin Al’Danzai, Former Cabal of Ether and Dark Tower Elder

The history of Ryujin Al’Danzai might be all but lost in the mists of time, had he himself not chronicled the details of his life with such meticulous care.

It is well known that his origins are traced back to Nujel’m, the glistening desert island called the “City of Pleasure.” Born into noble blood, Al’Danzai enjoyed a very easy and luxurious upbringing for the most part. Ryujin is known to still act in a manner suitable for a noble, wearing only the most expensive garments, and enjoying the finer things in life; particularly including pipesmoke, wine, food, and jewelry, among other decadencies. His lavish lifestyle has often received the attention of his peers, sometimes with blatant disapproval.

Ryujin’s first experiences with The Ether occurred very early in age. According to Al Danzai, he claims to not even remember the first time he used magic, rather that it was something that was seemingly always present within him. Some believe such a claim to be nonsensical arrogance, (Al Danzai spent many years as a student of Elementalism in Moonglow) while students of the Cabal have stated that a bit of truth may be found in the statement. Al Danzai’s grasp over The Ether was unparalleled in The Tower, and witnesses speak of his magic use as graceful and elegant, even showy, with an air of ease.

It is his particular distaste for the law and those who follow holy orders that brought him to the Dark Tower in the first place. The knowledge he gained and the likeminded souls he met there is what kept him.

Ryujin advanced up the hierarchy of the Tower in the Path of Ether over the years, beginning as a lowly student, and eventually ascending to the position of Cabal. He reigned in this position for quite some time, succeeding even other Cabals as they came and went. It is written in his texts that it was a position he quite enjoyed, and was known to be fiercely protective of the Tower and the ideals it represented.

Ryujin Al’Danzai’s success and power is only coupled by his uncanny and mysterious disappearance. It is known that he set out to the deserts of Malas for purposes of research, or as part of some ethereal ceremony, or perhaps both. One night, locals reported seeing a bright blue light coming from deep in the dunes, followed by a loud explosion. The site of the explosion shows nothing except a permanent dark shimmer in the air.

The disappearance of Ryujin Al’Danzai is strange, to say the least. Exactly where he is located, or if he is even still alive is still in debate. Those closest to him state, however, that the occurrence was most likely not an accident, and he is still alive, merely inhabiting another world. Some whisper that Ryujin will return to The Tower one day, but due to the vastly different time and space frames between worlds, none can say exactly when that will be.​

Rhykham Den Ritus

In the winter of that year, a number of folk gave birth to children in the crafting town of Minoc. One of those was a screaming babe christened Rykham by his parents. Son to a tinker named Unger, and a wood sculptress named Agia, his early years mirrored those of any other child growing up in Minoc. Unger boasted that his young son would grow to one day take over his father's trade, and his mother doted upon him. The von Ritus family appeared in all respects to be happy, healthy, and favoured with their share of fortune.

Six years later, the scene in the Den Ritus home had changed visibly. After several failures to bear more children, Agia withdrew into a deep depression, and Unger began to drink to deal with his frustration. However, Unger visibly brightened during the week of Rykham's sixth birthday. On that day, Unger would take the quiet lad into his apprenticeship and begin teaching him the trade. "Well lad, are you ready to start your career as a tinker, and serve the needs of this grand town?" Unger had asked.

"No," came the sullen reply.

Unger looked at Rykham in disbelief. "What did you say, boy?"

"I said no. I don't want to be a tinker, ever. And I refuse to learn," Rykham returned stubbornly.

Rykham didn't see the first blow coming, and it knocked him to the wooden floor. "Don't want to be a tinker, eh boy?"

The second blow came in the form of a boot, and caught the boy in the stomach. "Ingrate!"

The third, and subsequent blows came to the tune of words like "!!!!!!!" and "orcish whelp". Through the searing pain, Rykham could feel a very different sort of fire blazing in his soul. Hatred.

* * * * *

Over the next few years the beatings continued, although they lessened as Rykham grew older, and agreed to apprentice himself to one of Unger's friends who was a miner. Unger remained angry at Rykham, but admitted that being a miner, while not a tinker, was alright. Rykham took to the mining well enough, and grew stronger with each passing day of gruelling labour.

It was here that Rykham saw and learned many things. Murderers preying on defenseless miners, simply for the joy of witnessing their terror. He saw miners swindle other miners out of their claims using trickery and violence. Men and women backstabbing friends after senseless arguments, oft times right in the Minoc streets. One night, after hearing a fellow miner comment that it was gold that made the world go round, Rykham had a sobering thought.

No, it was not gold that made the world go round, he thought. Gold was merely a by product of what truly did. It was selfishness, greed, and lust that were the core of existence, Rykham reasoned. Wicked men prospered, while honest men suffered. Aye, he thought to himself, it is evil that makes the world go round.

* * * * *

Shortly after his nineteenth birthday, Rykham went to work one morning, and found another miner trying to work off of his claim. In a fit of rage, Rykham flung himself upon the unsuspecting fellow, and, using much of the experience gained from his father's beatings, thrashed the man to within an inch of his life. After his rage had cleared, Rykham found he had to deal with the results of his actions. Dismissed by the mining guild masters, Rykham was also told by his father to clear out of the von Ritus home. Looking to his mother, he found no help. She merely sat there and averted her eyes from her son's. With a scowl, Rykham picked up his few belongings and left home.

Time passed, and a year had gone by. Rykham had wandered, from job to job, and place to place. Almost penniless, he was about to give up on everything when he ran into another fellow in a similar situation. Dorok may have been ugly, Rykham thought, but when Dorok stated that he, Rykham, and some other fellows ought to band together and start robbing rich travellers, Rykham had little protest.

Over the next few months, Rykham and his compatriots made a decent living by waylaying nobles and others foolish enough to wander the road from Yew to Minoc alone. Rykham found that he made a rather intimidating figure, as strong as he was, and brandishing a sword. Rykham thought that things might be looking up. He and his fellows were slowly getting richer, and more feared. What few guards that came after them were either avoided, or disposed of. All was going well, until one cold fall day.

A lone rider came bearing down the road, a figure in a billowing dark green robe and cloak. "Likely a sage or scholar," reasoned Dorok. "Easy money."

Dorok and the others charged the lone man, but Rykham held back. Why, he could not say. Something about the rider made him leery. A moment later, his caution paid off.

Dorok was the first to reach the rider, who promptly shot out his hand, screamed some eldritch phrase, and pointed it at Dorok. Dorok hit the ground, gagging and clutching his throat. A second brigand was lucky enough to put his hands upon the foot of the rider, only to stagger away, both arms covered in a hoarfrost. A third simply screamed in fright, dropping dead on the spot.

A minute later, it was all over. Rykham's compatriots all lay dead upon the road. The rider swept the cloak from his face, revealing an older man of perhaps fifty winters. "Going to test your might as well against the darker powers, boy?" he queried.

Rykham shook his head and tossed down his blade. "I'm no fool," was his only response. 'Those idiots meant little to me."

The rider nodded. "Wise move. Come along then, I'm in need of an apprentice. Garris the Fell is my name. You may walk along side of me." Rykham stared after the rider in some amazement, but then shrugging, decided to toss his lot in with this new form of evil.

* * * * *

Thwack! "Get it right, you imbecile!" Garris shouted in Rykham's ear after hitting him with a stave. "It is pronounced Rel Xen Um, not Ral Xin Oom!"

It had been a year and a half since Rykham had apprenticed himself to Garris the Fell, a necromancer of middling power. Slowly, Rykham had discovered that he had a knock for learning involving books and magic. And to think, his father used to tell him he was too stupid to learn any of the finer arts or crafts. Also, Rykham's exposure to evil had increased under Garris' tutelage. All sorts of demented and twisted magic had been witnessed by Rykham.

Of course, along with this learning came constant reminders from Garris of how much he still had to discover. Garris usually berated him verbally, but as of late had been hitting Rykham as well. While each beating enraged him, Rykham was stupid enough not to attack Garris directly, or try to slip past the protective wards that Garris wove around himself while he slept.

"Bah, enough of this for this evening! Your incompetence has worn me out, boy! I am going to bed. See that you lock the tower door before you sleep!" Garris gave Rykham one last blow to the shoulder, and stalked off. Rykham sat there, massaging his shoulder while his rage at being hit burned. A few moments later, a surprising thought jumped into his head.

Garris' dagger was sitting upon the table in the room. Odd, thought Rykham, he usually always takes that with him to his chambers, to use as a focus for his warding.....

Could it be? Could the necromancer have slipped, and forgotten to place his protective wards about himself, Rykham questioned? A direly evil idea began to grow in Rykham's mind. With a nasty grin, he took the dagger in hand, and crept down the hall. His grin grew wider as he saw the bedroom door carelessly left open, and the necromancer snoring upon his bed.

Standing over the slumbering form, Rykham's grin grew into a feral snarl. "Serves you right for all the beatings!" He plunged the dagger down, slaying Garris with one blow. Tossing the dagger aside, Rykham left the bedroom to loot what he could from the small stone tower, and then make his departure.

But before he could move, a dread voice filled his head. A voice which commanded Rykham to seek out a dark tower.

And the rest, they say, is history.​

Echeran: The Haunted Necromancer

Echeran lay on a bed of solid stone, no padding nor blankets. He let the chill of the night that soaked through the rock walls surrounding him pierce his skin and sink into his bones. The night outside was deathly still, the only sound the occasional clank of armor as a bone knight went marching by underneath his window, guarding him as he slept. Inside his head, however, things were not so quiet. There was, of course, the everpresent whisperings of spirits feeding him a confusing mixture of truth and lies. Overlaying these was the voice of a stronger and more familiar spirit.

"Please...You have held me so long, my son...Surely I never caused you this depth of pain...Release me..."

"Father, you have no idea yet of the pains that I shall introduce you to. We've barely begun. Now hush, and let me sleep." Echeran released himself into slumber, falling into the wells of sleep quickly and easily, his trained mind letting go of the real world in an instant and immersing itself into another.

"Wrong. My son can't even get a simple gods cursed rune right! A blind gorilla could have gotten that right!"

Farris recoiled from his father's voice, the words seeming to stab like knives into his heart. The mistake had been a small one; hardly even noticable, a slight smudge. But he knew what was coming, as surely as he knew that the sun would set at the end of every day. He braced himself as best he could.

"I've been too easy on you. You'll never be good enough to serve Lord British at my side unless I make you learn it right," Farris' father said, gritting his teeth. He began chanting, and Farris backed away as far as he dared without appearing to be retreating. Running would just make it worse for him.

Magical flames engulfed him, crawling over his skin without searing it, but bringing immense pain to every spot it touched. He tried to scream, but the best he could manage was a soundless gasp. He fell to the floor, writhing in pain, trying to brush the flames off of him but to no avail. He couldn't think of anything but the pain, and time seemed to flow into eternity.

Echeran woke screaming, covered with a chill sweat despite the cold of the night. He screamed until his throat was raw, flailing and trying to beat off flames that weren't there. Then, as the last wisps of the dream faded away, he lay back, staring at the ceiling as the sun's first rays creeped over it silently. Somewhere outside, he could hear the mournful howl of a single wolf bidding the moon farewell.

"Never," he whispered to himself, his voice rough. "You'll never be released, father. Not as long as I still wield magic." He tried to shed himself of the dream, ancient memories without substance.

"Never," he repeated to himself.​


Babbling Loonie
Stratics Veteran
Stratics Legend
Drustos Darkwolfe, Necromancer of the Dark Tower

Drustos was born and raised in moonglow, perhaps you've met his parents Andy and Gwendolyn, they work in the alchemist shop in the city. Drustos spent the majority of his childhood playing in the forests surrounding the city and training in the ways of magic with his father. He wanted to grow up and be a mage just like his father. However, one day while exploring the moonglow graveyard he came upon an old man.

"Why Hello Drustos, my name is Zirix, would you like to come with me to my house for some candy and hot cocoa?" he asked.

"What? How do you know my name?" Drustos replied.

"Oh, excuse me, the last time we met you were so young, I am a friend of your parents." said Zirix.

"Ok, lets go." said Drustos smiling, licking his lips at the thought of hot cocoa.

Once at Zirix's home, Zirix brought out a cup and some tofee for young Drustos, however the cocoa was tainted with a magical potion. The cocoa made Drustos fall under Zirix's control. Zirix trained Drustos in the dark arts of Necromancy, making Drustos a great mage and necromancer. When Drustos was about 17 years old Zirix joined with Juo'Nar, but however was slain in the invasion of trinsic, freeing Drustos from his spell. Drustos suddenly became aware of his surroundings not knowing where he was or who he was. Yet, he kept all of his knowledge of magic and the dark arts. Overcome by his sudden realization of his power, Drustos became driven by it. Abusing his power, Drustos became a very evil man, and driven by the pursuit of even more power Drustos spends a great deal of time studying the ways of magic to become even more powerful.​

Sir Calyndrell, Hunter of the Dead

Name: Calyndrell
Race: Human
Age: 31
Height: 5ft 11"
Class: Paladin, Hunter of the Dead
Alignment: Lawful Good
Position with DT: Sworn Enemy

Calyndrell's general appearance is that of a typical knight. When fighting he will be in wear burnished fluted full plate armour. He generally
wears either a pure white cloak and sash or black. The rare occsions that he's
not in armour he tends to wear black leather trousers with either a black double
and white shirt. No matter where he goes he always carries a complement of vials
of holy water and a couple of stakes all in a small bag and his 'Lifes Guardian'
his !!!!!!! sword which is strapped to his back. His main distinguishing
features are his eyes and hair both of which is a stark white almost

Calyndrells first appearance was sudden just shortly before the facet
'Malas' was discovered this 'holy knight' started to plague the operations of
the tower slaying its ghouls and guardians he was finally encountered by The
cabal of Death the 'Lady Vampiress Sigrun' just a matter of days before the
discovery of malas. He was soundly defeated but was saved when Sigrun made the
mistake of trying to drink his blood.

The harm thus inflicted on her allowed him to escape. It has snce come to light that Calyndrells blood seems infused with some strange energy presumed to be that which provides his holy abilities which makes it poisonous to undeath creatures. He also answers to some god whose symbol is still being examined. He has since come back and has managed to defeat and battle many of the members of DT only managing one clean kill but never being defeated. He is known to be harbouring in the City of 'Scythe' the location is to date unknown.

Despite everything that is known when Calyndrell does talk he can be
quite polite however he does holdsome contempt for Sigrun herself mainly because
of there first encounter and he wishes to even the score. He strives to help
those who can be helped rather than blindly killing 'all who are evil'​

Bawolf, Former Cabal of the Blade

Not much is known of Bawolf, save for his insatiable lust for destruction, death and warfare.

Bawolf is rumored to be of wolven blood and is particularly savage. He is well-known for his power and loyalty to the Dark Tower. His fortress behind the Dark Tower where he houses many of his slaves and grisly trophies from his battles.

Those who follow the Path of Dagger, or who practice "Witchcraft" beware! Bawolf holds you in great distrust and shall do what he can to hunt you.​

Azalin the Lich, Cabal of Death

Azalin is an ancient and ambitious lich who has stalked Sosaria for over six centuries. The oldest tales of Lord Azalin tales link to the quest for the Corex, which resided in the old Kingdom of Lumaria.

For the past two centuries, Azalin has laid aside Imperial ambitions for the pursuit of knowledge.

At the Dark Tower, he currently holds the Title of Cabal of Death, and conducts research on methods of Necromancy.

Azalin claims that he came from the Town of Moonglow and that his parents were wealthy merchants who married for social status and honor more than love.

When he was very young, he was abducted by a Necromancer and taken to the Town of Papua.

He was given a choice of serving the Necromancer as an apprentice or serving him as a mindless undead minion. Azalin chose to serve the Necromancer, in time he learned his master's secrets.

After he became a lich, Azalin desired to bring about a new order...where the intelligent undead would be afforded the same rights as the living. He founded an organization called the Empire of Time and with his henchman, Asfour and others, he set out to rule Sosaria.

For a time, Azalin's Empire met great opposition. When Cymidei was exiled from the Dark Tower, she and Azalin joined forces. They founded a small town on the outskirts of Vesper and eventually wed.

Allied with the Shadowlords, The Empire slaughtered hundreds of men. The sacred chant "Imperator Dominatus Quem" was spoken over each man, as his soul departed his body.

Azalin and his loyal companion Midnight Shade were awarded positions of honor within the Shadowlords. The Empire for a time was engaged in numerous wars, such as the War of Serpents.

Time and circumstance eventually heralded the return of Azalin and Cymidei to the Dark Tower...​


Babbling Loonie
Stratics Veteran
Stratics Legend
Adaeth Blackmane, Former Cabal of Darkness

Adaeth the Torn, Cabal of Darkness: One of the Torn - A History

The Black Fires of Sorrusk have ever-enchanted me. The way the flames flicker, grow, perpetually changing; even in the deep of night, the dark flames can be seen, visible only to the ones that walk the path of darkness. Corruption led me to that path, but I do not consider evil equivalent to darkness. Darkness is a path; a way, while evil is an alignment that only the foulest could endure. Many would judge me as an evil creature that must be stopped; yet I did not follow chaos. I followed my heart; the heart that was torn from me and destroyed from the very second I was born.

I, Adaeth, was born, yet not raised, in the quiet village of Auf Kael. It was a simple village, though some considered it as a town, and the drunk a city. It was a village built upon snow and ice, located far north and high in the Cavathas Mountains. I knew little about Auf Kael and the Cavathas, and hardly anything about the rest of the vast world.

Where there is a child, there are always parents. They may not be the greatest of parents, but most would believe a mother and father who wish for a child would have created it out of an act of pure love, by the two loving parents. Loving? I wish I could say the same of my parents, but what might I have done? I was a mere newborn that knew nothing, who only cried and begged for my needs when I was delivered. I was not born out of love, and in fact, it was just about the complete opposite. I was intentionally born to be the slave of my father.

My father pretended to love my mother as if it were indeed true love, though later, my mother learned better. When I was carefully removed from my mother’s womb and immediately taken care of, my father, Ordune, removed a delicate yet deadly dagger from his pocket. The haste in his actions allowed him to do what he desired most, and he killed every living being and creature in the room, with the exception of my mother, Chilline, and myself. With a howling laughter, he raced over to my screaming mother and pierced the blade straight through her heart. She died at once.

Ordune threw me into a sack without even bothering to give me any clothes. He shoved a clot of dirt into my mouth, which I nearly choked on. He raced out of the village, dragging me along in the sack as I ate the dirt, trying to breathe.

Every second of my life became worse, with every beating moment of true pain. What I went through was beyond torture, for my father was the worst of all mortals. When I had reached the age of four, and began to gather the knowledge of common sense and labor, my father Ordune became my master, and I, his slave.

For more than a decade, my father used me to do his dirty, foul work. Things impossible for him to do, as every second I worked for him he grew fatter and lazier, and more demanding. For the first few years he was terribly harsh, and made me do things even a child like myself would die by doing. I mined in the Cavathas Mountains for months; with only two-hour breaks a day for rest and to eat the scraps and crumbs of my father’s great meals. I was still four, almost five. He made me work so hard he had me nearly bring down an entire mountain, for he sought only the great riches hidden deep inside the Cavathas. He took great advantage of my inconceivable strength and endurance, and was quite shocked that I had not collapsed once. Even though I was capable of doing the work, the pain and all the injuries were less than bearable—broken bones, half-missing fingers, torn ligaments, muscle contractions, disconnected jaw, and things far worse than the possible. I even entered seizures, as the work became too great for me. I worked on, for over two years more in the Cavathas Mountains. We then moved on, to things even worse.

Just when I believed my work to be done, I had realized we had hardly commenced. I was now seven, and my father sought even more riches—riches guarded by none other than an ancient dragon. The journey would take five years, for the location he sought lay practically on the other side of the massive world. The terrain he literally dragged me through was the roughest and most unsafe road possible to take. For every step we took, he found it more amusing to watch me toil with agony.

Through the toxic and foreboding marshes of Tunor-Ornch, to the hills of the bone-crushing giants, to the caverns where the massive blood spiders of Virnor dwelled. Yet these were but the mere places I suffered from the least. The marshes poisoned me permanently, and forever would my health be even more ruined. Almost every bone in my entire body was crushed underneath the great boulder clubs of the giants. Fortunately, my bones were magically restored, but still damaged greatly. I was bit by the blood spiders more than twenty three times, and my father cared not. I lost a great amount of blood from this, and I had collapsed a great deal of times ever since. My health, my bones, my blood—much of it would never be restored, it could never be restored.

Ordune, my father, dragged me through thousand more a thing. He brought me through countless, unspeakable, hellish places, had me do utterly foul work, and such events I dare not speak. For recalling them reminds me of the pain, and the memories that have destroyed my mind. Every time I remember these experiences, I am haunted and ever horrified by them. Not only emotionally, but both physically and mentally. I was more than half dead by the time we had reached the last obstacle—a great, horrible obstacle. The very feeling of stepping foot on the much-feared glaciers froze my mind.

The Icern Shav—a barren wasteland of massive sheets of ice, caverns, mountains, and dungeons. Not a creature lived there, for it was impossible to survive in the conditions the Icern Shav presented. I will not share with you my time in the Shav, a former Hell, for that it will forever bring nightmares into your dreams, and you shall be paranoid just by the thought of the cold. You will never again live the same, so I best as well bring you the finale of being a slave.

Deep in the dungeons, caverns and glaciers, the dragon slept peacefully, guarding the greatest of treasures only a child could dream of—or perhaps, in this case, only what a greedy, self-centered and uncaring, disgusting so-called father could imagine, and then want, for only himself. I cannot stress what a pain I have lived, but for all I cared, I would not mind a bit if the dragon shred him to pieces and ripped his body into nothing but dots of flesh and blood. In fact, I encouraged it. Not only encouraged, but enforced.

I let out a great cry to the sleeping dragon, and with its keen senses, it awoke in an instant. My father looked to me as if I had gone mad, and drew his sword as if to kill me. The dragon distracted him, and I took advantage of this gift. I fled, fled through the caverns, the dungeons, the glaciers, through the entire wasteland of the Icern Shav. I did not know where I was going, but I knew I would be safer than I had ever been. I had no care for what would become of my father, for I had no care for him. I hated and despised him, and if I had only been smarter, I would have killed him when I had the chance. But all I knew now was that safety came closer to me with every step I took, every dash, every second that passed. But I was not done yet—not yet.

I would not let what my father did to me be forgotten, and just the very thought of him made me even more enraged. While I was under his control, all I thought about was death. But now, all I could think of was destroying my father, but share with him my pain times a thousand! His actions would not go unnoticed, and things are not so easily forgotten. I was fourteen, and now, I would seek vengeance, whether my father was dead or not, he would feel my sorrow.

Ordune would regret life.

I immediately sought a place containing great wisdom. I searched the lands far and wide, not knowing where I was headed. I eventually stumbled upon a person who seemed to be interested in where I was going. He told me of a place known as Maurus Ier; I had never heard of this place before. I thanked him and fled to the libraries of a town, searching for more information about this place. After hours of studying, I discovered that it was one of the Four Hells (little did they know there were seven). My heart pounded, and I knew this could not be a good place. Yet somehow I feared it not, and actually desired to go there. And it was almost as if it wished me there, for I stumbled upon a glowing gate of crimson and onyx, and I was gone.

I have not the heart to tell what this place was like, where only the ones born of darkness dwell. For someone who has fallen into darkness like myself, I found it utterly beautiful. I was surprised that I was welcomed with open arms, and they mentioned they were expecting me. Strange were their ways, but I soon began to adapt to them. There were a wide variety of people here, ranging from the intelligent undead to vampires to humans to Dwellor (similar to the renowned elves of Sosaria) to the darkest of souls. It was almost as if I had finally returned home, and I was excited about the time I would spend here.

I spent twelve years in the Hell of Maurus Ier. For the most part, I enjoyed my stay there. But as I studied for endless hours, I began to learn more things that went beyond my mind. Even did I learn unusual and different things about myself, and from what I learned, I understood why I had managed to survive my life to this day. I started to notice my skin was a lot paler than most others, nearly a pure white. Thin, black and red lines began to form upon my skin, yet they were hardly visible. I was wiser, and had more quick reactions than everyone else. My hair grew an impossible black, and I learned things better and quicker than the rest. As I noticed more and more changes, whenever someone would take a look at me, they would raise a brow and question me. Most others had their own problems, and thought little of it. But some of the older folk here acted as if they knew exactly what was going on. Questioning others and reaching into my past taught me well. My father was a pureblooded human, but my mother was significantly different from him, and from her I became that what I was. I learned I was one of the Nazdûm-Vhur.

One of the Torn.

The Torn were little different from Men and Dwellor, almost similar to a combination of the two, with more the appearance of a Man, and the wise mind of a Dwellor. They were in truth neither, and an entirely different race but with very similar characteristics. They were known as the Torn because it was known that each life of a Torn was full of trouble, anguish, and hate. They were “torn” away from a promising life of joy and happiness, and their heart taken by world of difficulty. Many shunned the Nazdûm-Vhur and disallowed their presence. This drove much of the Torn to different paths, such as the wanting of solitude, death, and the loss of their sanity. Many even took advantage of their knowledge, becoming scholars and great writers and researches of the world, yet they remained anonymous. Others took advantage of their power, and sought the death of others, domination, and the ruin of all else. But they all chose to never live their life to its fullest, never to allow themselves to go beyond what could be done. I was one of the few who chose differently from them.

I would not allow my life to be evermore hopeless because of how my father corrupted my life. Yet I would travel to other worlds, and live a life where no one would stop me. I feared no longer. And my god Sorrusk, one of the darkness and great wisdom, neither evil nor good, would forever be my guidance. I did not wish for him to make my own decisions, but his presence was great. He made more a father to me than my biological father ever could have. Nothing would stop me now, and darkness, wisdom, and courage were the few of my only strengths left. Yet they were great strengths, more potent that the mind of an ancient Dwellor.

I, Adaeth Blackmane, One of the Torn, would fight on in the name of Sorrusk, the Nazdûm-Vhur, and Chilline Blackmane—my mother. And if you cannot feel the great torment of my life, then perhaps I have not told you enough. Perhaps my tale is too great for even someone such as yourself! Be thankful of who you are, and that you are not one such as I.

-Adaeth Blackmane of the Torn

A Child of Pain...
The night was silent, for not an owl hooted nor did the reapers and corpsers arise from the grounds. The wind was hushed; only a small whistle against the blades of grass and the leaves of the trees once every while. And the small tower lay still, east of the Shrine of Sacrifice, northeast of Vesper, west of the sea. Yet what dwelled within the walls of the tower toiled and slept with bitter anger. Adaeth tossed and turned in the dark bed, and sweat dripped from his face and brow. Slowly, that clear, salty sweat began to change into a hot, deep red liquid—blood.
The Nazdûm had not slept well that night. The memories of his past continued to haunt him, even more so than ever. They began to enter his dreams, and cursedly twist them into hellish nightmares. It was as though every second he dreamed, he was reliving his past, again and again. The worst of all pains, it was, and the only possible things to worsen that sorrow was to double it, and live through it once, twice more…

Ordune, father of Adaeth, grabbed the small, five-year old child by the throat with a rage of anger. “You call that work, creature? You think you are wise, slave?” The child did not respond to the man, and only tried to free itself of its father’s cruel grasp. “Fool! Answer me when I am speaking to you!” He tightened his grip around the child’s throat, now using both hands. A mixture of saliva and blood seeped from the young child’s mouth, and it screamed with gurgles and scratches.

The slave master Ordune suddenly dropped the child into the thick snow, high on the Cavathas Mountains. He was furious. “Fetch me many logs from the forests, you pitiful little thing.” He raised a small, steel knife and aimed it at the child, as if a threat. “Move with great haste, or I will slit your throat!” The child fled deep into the mountain forests.

Adaeth was this child, forced to be the slave under his father’s rule over him. Of course he hated all of this, how his father treated him and what he was made to do, but for years and years he did not even know that Ordune was his biological father. Not once did Ordune mention anything of the sort, and Adaeth believed himself to be simply a slave to a master. He did not seem angry on the outside, but on the inside, he had already been destroyed. He had not yet lived a life, and he never would.

The child limped in the deep forests, while the great blizzards howled about him and chilled his bones. He raced for fallen logs, twigs, and he even ripped living branches from still standing trees. He huddled all the logs together across his chest, supporting the bottom of the pile with his shiver arms. He knew that his master would only be satisfied if he collected more logs than necessary, so he set the logs down and searched for more. No more logs lay along the ground of snow, so he resorted to the great tree before him. As he approached it, he felt an eerie feeling and a screech through his head. The child reached for the lowest branch.

The tree moved.

Adaeth was not frightened by the movement of the tree, yet he was a bit surprised. He continued to reach his arm to the branch. The tree became angered, and it gathered magical energies at the tips of its branches. Deep, echoing sounds came from the tree, and they sounded throughout the woods. Adaeth kept reaching for the branch, as though nothing would stop him. The tree became so angered it released bolts of lightning and fire at Adaeth. Somehow, the child resisted the spells. When he had finally made contact with the tree, his hand grew black. The blackness spread from his hand to the entire living tree. It immediately collapsed into clumps of wood, no longer moving.

Adaeth examined his hand for a moment, and then reached for one of the fallen logs. As he picked it up, it sent strange warmth throughout his body. He inspected it and shrugged, setting it in his pile of logs, picking them up, and then limping away from the deadly forest. Yet Adaeth did not know something at that time. The log that he had picked up from the tree he killed was Dead Wood, the wood of the Reapers.

The child returned to his father, half-frozen. “Start a fire,” Ordune commanded. Adaeth did as he was told, dropping the logs down. He sat and began to rub the logs together; one of those logs being the Dead Wood. Only after seconds, the logs ignited into a burst of black flames, raging flames that would not die. A dark cackle came from the flames and echoed throughout all of the mountains.

Ordune raced over with undying anger. “Now all creatures and hunters of the Cavathas know of our presence! They know where the riches are, now, and you have told them of it! Child, you useless, stupid good-for-nothing child! No more than a fool waiting for orders that you cannot even complete!” He became so enraged that he kicked Adaeth. The kick was so powerful it made Adaeth stand to his feet. He began to trip over his feet, and fell backwards. He was near the edge of the mountain, and had managed to maintain his balance. But something happened, then.

An avalanche poured from the high peak of the mountain. Adaeth Blackmane slipped, and he fell. Fell down the mountains, falling, falling…and it grew impossibly dark.

Adaeth awoke in a sudden moment, springing up from his bed breathing heavily. He looked about his bed, noticing pools of blood and sweat. Yet the blood was not red, nor white. It was that of black, a black so great it was impossible to describe.​
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