problematic z

((IGN: Gwynnbleidd)) Full name: Adeon of Rhoswen Race: Human Practised branches of the Arcane: Fire Evocation Place of residence: Kaer Aardwen Closest relative: Troen Venta [X] I agree to persecution upon a violation of the Magic License Clause, within and without Orenian territory. Signed: Adeon of Rhoswen

It was your average day in Laurelin. The sun sat low in the sky, casting its last golden beams through the foliage of the dense forest. The residents were about to head home in fact, but then a bright light, brighter than any light the sun could perform at this hour, shone through the tavern. Suddenly, an intense explosion shook the building, leaving a gaping hole in wall and a figure… A figure clad in heavy metal armour, standing nigh seven feet tall. A Marked Man, his hair like ash, stood up to the figure. His blade shot from it’s scabbard in a flash. The being’s greatsword swung around with intense speed and the Marked Man parried it, the strength seemed to catch the Marked off guard, causing him to stumble back. A grizzled old man, dressed in the garb of that Imperial Special forces regiment entered the tavern. He drew his sword and attempted to take the beast, the beast would have none of it, disarming him instantly and tossing him across the room in a spectacular display, straight into the Marked Man. The two tumbled out onto the deck as Laurelin soldiers swarmed the Tavern, barging into the room in an effort to kill the threat. The place seethed. The clanging of metal against metal and the grunting of fighting men resonated throughout the establishment. Cries of pain quickly followed along with the sound of bodies hitting the floor. The being’s heavy footsteps shook the ground. The Marked Man emerged once more, from the same hole in which the being made its entrance. He dug his sword into the ash and raised his arms before him, muttering a quiet incantation. The being whirled on the spot and met his gaze. The Marked Man’s spell was cast. A stream of orange fire surging from his palm. The being flung out its arm and its own spell burst from its hand, meeting the blast of flame halfway and sending the others who were still standing in the tavern toppling over. The tavern’s occupants took flight. The Marked Man’s spell broke and the creature’s spell struck him in the chest, sending him through the hole and onto the turf outside. The Marked Man coughed before the creature dropped through the hole, crushing an Elf. It looked as though the fight was over, the Marked man laid spluttering and nursing his wounds. The creature approached, the Marked went for his sword but was too slow in his wounded state, the creature simply cast it asunder with his plated foot. The creature sent a harsh kick into his side, causing blood to shoot from his mouth as he wheezed painfully. The creature sheathed its blade, picking the Marked man up by the hair. A long, shaky breath hissed through its helmet. The metallic beast then opened his spare hand, revealing an orb of light. Slowly, the orb intensified, he pushed it into the Marked Man’s chest and it expanded, consuming them both. When it dispersed, there was no one to be seen. A calmness ensued as the sun set over Laurelin. The Marked Man and the creature was no where to be seen.

"I told you so!" says Adeon of Rhoswen as he is handed one of the notices in the middle of Kaer Aardwen.

A scarred and bearded Marked Man stood on a hillside facing the sea, his cloak whipped back in the wind as he watched the waves crash against the rocks of Felsen. He turned and stared up at one of the towers of the Royal Keep, recalling the description Archibald gave him, "Fifty bricks thicker and at least twice as high." It only served to worsen his sense of dread. He glared out at the sea again and cursed those responsible for stirring the devourer from its nest before mounting his horse and galloping off.

A cloaked man limps forth towards a paper pinned to a board in a remote town near the coast. He plucks the poster from the wood and looks it over, his expression turning from one of indifference to dread as he reads the last line. The man, his face lined with scars from years of Monster work, frowns. A shiver runs up his spine and his hairs stand up on end. He pins the poster back to the board, grunting. "Some things aren't meant to be hunted." he simply mutters, limping off without another word.

The woods of north east Felsen were quiet on this particular morning. Frost settled on the leaves of untouched pines and made the grass crunch with each step. Two Marked Men, one with half of his face covered in scar tissue and the other with ashen hair and each wielding aurum swords walked alongside a Dwarf with a staff through the peaceful greenery, muttering quietly to each other. "Split up and light a signal fire once you find it." said the man with ashen hair, continuing to walk directly ahead as the other two turned to walk in opposite directions. It took three hours before the ashen-haired man and the dwarf saw smoke rise to the west. The two quickly hurried over to the source of the plume, finding the man with the scarred face waiting patiently for them, prodding a small fire as he sat above a sinister looking cavern. The three approached the mouth of the cave and got to work. A few minutes later a large bang rocked the same woods, knocking beads of water loose from the leaves and kicking up a cloud of smoke. To those who would stumble across the scene at a later date, they would find a clearing drenched in bile and blood, chunks are taken out of nearby trees and three pairs of footprints lead to Felsen. A dozen dead cave leeches would litter the space near their collapsed nest, bloodied, burnt and chopped up alongside an uprooted tree.

you have my sword

heh...

Mist covered the ground on a particularily gloomy morning in the Petrus graveyard. A man with soggy boots and a scarred face stood at the foot of Vulpes' grave, rolling a golden medal over and over in one hand wile reading a crumpled note in his other which detailed Roke's death. He shakes his head and tosses the medal onto the earth above the mans coffin before peering down at the tombstone with a frown and reading the name. "Vulpes Roke... a real prick and a true soldier, more of a warrior than I ever will be... can't say I ever believed you'd die from a hand other than your own." the man smiles, taking a step back and pressing a fist to his heart. "Ave Legatum and God bless the Specialized Infantry Regiment." he mutters before extending his arm and saluting. The man with the scarred face lowers his salute and clicks his heels together before turning away from the grave. "Innocent my arse." he says with a smirk before walking off into the mist.