Alea Iacta Est

[Swgrclan 2682]

He made sure to take ample time to think, here; here, knelt before an idol of bones and ash, he prepared for a great conflict. He was a dead man among dead men, readying for war which could not kill him. This decayed man who lasted the ages has delved into the madness of his being and stepped out the other side with the clearest clarity of all; he knew what he had to do. Though he whispered to lifeless bones and the soot of charred flesh without form, he has long since learned from the remains of the fallen. Such an abundance has told him what was needed in this ill, wicked world.

 

And behold a red horse; and power was given to him

That sat thereon to take peace from the earth.

The blood of his kin would be returned.

 

Vor’kalan was an old man among Men, and his being, fleshless, was timeless. His thoughts were blessed with persistence through the ages, for there was no measure in sight to end them. The blackness of death would not be for him, nor his harrowed brothers. So through this, they would find freedom; the world was theirs. They would teach their younger, skinwearing kindred the follies of the past by the blade, they would scream their might through the fall of the bloodbearing, and they would find their way back to the light with the sacrifice of the many. Vor’kalan knew what he had to do - he prayed to They of the Eternal Ash.

The Harrowed Men made ready for war.

 

...

 

15th of Snow's Maiden, 1582

 

Gore is set upon roads which lead into a city of those whom bend no knee to time. Vor'kalan, whom calls himself Blackshroud, converged upon the Elves alongside his newfound compatriot, the Darkstalker Gawyn, or Quinn to others. Counting far more than their own numbers, which was merely the two that they were, the Elves were practically matched -- though few were wounded, the Darkstalkers viciously lashed at their enemies, utilizing a defensive that lasted through the better part of the day. By the time the battle was over, several mortals bled and the Harrowed Men that had set themselves upon them were nigh shattered themselves. The Elven Druid, Wendy, friend of High Prince Artimec who faced Vor'kalan amid the chaos of battle, had been impaled by the Blackshroud's sword and left to bleed. In his rage, the leader of Elves converged upon Vor'kalan, nearly shattering the damaged remains of his skull and almost severing a fleshless arm with the help of an improvised golden spear's sharp end. The rage of the High Prince cast the Blackshroud down, laying his skeletal form amid the grime, the blood, the shattered blood and the unsettled dust of traveled roads.

All the while the warrior Gawyn ravaged roughly five other Elves whom struggled to keep the undead brute contained. Their collective efforts were effective at keeping the Darkstalker awry and uncoordinated, and at some points held still with the help of Druid-controlled roots, but it never lasted long. With the thrums of energy outputted by the arcane practices of a Lightning Mage jolting through his armored being, Quinn retreated into the river and suffered no chase. Vor'kalan, who tricked the Elves by playing dead, soon followed, crying out a second time the adage of the red horse. Two times it had been uttered - first, before the bloodshed, and after, when the pain and suffering had been ensued. The Harrowed Men, though they retreated, reveled in the glory of self-perceived victory. The Elves, though they sustained the wounded, achieved a defense of their home. A stalemate was had this day.

 

But the Harrowed Men did not yet have their due.

 

 

[Ambduscias 1028]

If word spread, a rather vile goblin dons his spyglass and inspects the site of past carnage from afar.

 

"Peepz lyke meet is bak on da menu, boyz."

[GDPR 014 48]

Word spreads, an ebon hound rears its black iron head towards a massive blade, a zwiehander of the same metal, flamberged and thick at the spine. A metal hand reaches out to grasp the handle of the weapon, oversized for his person as he set it on his shoulders.

 

"Two of the same." 

 

His other gauntlet sets down on a warhammer, head chipped from a massive tooth, curling about it.

 

"Justice." 

 

A few clanks come from the hound's plated legs, a beast walking out from its cave. The wind was harsh as the journey began, the tattered red shroud swaying in the wind, flapping against the back of the beast.

 

A shroud hunts another shroud. A challenge issued.