“Strength is not measured by birthright or bloodline. The greatest warriors of Eldareth are those who rise from the humblest of beginnings, their spirits tempered by the fires of adversity. They are the ones who, through sheer force of will and determination, become the legends of our time.”
Sir Kaelar Windrunner, Former Commander of the Eagle Guard
Nightfall cloaked the world in darkness, as the wind howled through the narrow streets of the small village on the fringes of Greenvale. The faint light of the crescent moon shimmered on the cobbled path, casting eerie shadows that danced to the whim of the biting wind. In the distance, the raucous sound of laughter and revelry poured from the open doors of a tavern, inviting weary travelers to forget their troubles and join in the celebration.
Perched upon a small fence, bathed in silver moonlight, a man drank deeply from his tankard of soured whisga, his mind clouded by the intoxicating brew. His body swayed gently, struggling to keep upright as the drink worked its way through his veins.
A closer look would reveal the figure of a seasoned warrior, his face etched with scars and a healing wound across his neck. His raven hair and aquamarine eyes were not out of place in this fringe territory where the Highridge Kingdom bled slowly into the Arid Expanse beyond.
Renn, as he was known, wore a plain attire that was in contrast to the general tavern patrons. His tunic bore intricate designs, and his trousers were tailored for agility, combining the rugged toughness with the fluid grace of the Sand Kingdom. At his side hung two swords, their hilts glistening in the night – one, a magnificent Highridge blade in an ornate scabbard with a golden pommel, and the other, a light yet dangerous one-hander sword with a silver pommel.
The tavern door creaked open, and three boisterous swordsmen emerged, arm in arm, singing a crude ballad that mocked the age-old rivalry between the Highridge Kingdom and the Sand Kingdom.
Their voices were thick with the drink, slurring the words as they sang:
“Oh, the sun sets upon the dunes of sand,
Where serpents hiss and scorpions stand,
Their venomous wrath is all too common,
In a land that tests the strongest of man.
But in the mountains high, our kingdom thrives,
Where the brave and strong keep our hopes alive,
King Everald rules with a just hand,
Defending his people with a steady demand.”
Renn knew the whole poem by heart. Every child in the Highridge Kingdom has at least, at one point, sung this song, especially back in the days when King Elandor and the Sand King had shared naught an ounce of friendship.
“…Amidst the dunes, a rival does claim,
A kingdom built on greed and shame,
The Sand King’s rule, a tyrant’s game,
His people suffer, in fear and pain.
But King Everald won’t stand idly by,
He’ll lead his army, banner held high,
The Sand King’s head will be raised on spikes,
A warning to those who would defy–”
The song cut short as the trio spotted Renn and his unusual weaponry. With a sneer, the tallest of the group stepped forward and spat at Renn’s feet. “Oi, you! Sand Scoundrel! What business do you have in this part of the Kingdom? Hand over those blades of yours, and we’ll let you crawl back to your desert!”
Renn drained the last drop from his tankard and slipped down the fence, standing unsteadily. He completed the song for them:
“Oh, the sun sets upon the dunes of sand,
But in the mountains high, hope takes a stand,
For Everald and his kingdom, a mighty band,
Will triumph over evil, with sword and hand…”
“A Sandman who knows our song. Do you sing this at your place as well?” The tallest, and seemingly the leader among the three guffawed, and the others joined in, spitting at his feet again.
“For what do I owe this displeasure, dear patrollers?” Renn, asked, his eyes flashing with anger. “The Sand Kingdom is at peace with the Highridge Kingdom.” He slurred his words with the weight of conviction.
The swordsman’s laughter was cold and cruel. “Peace? Ha! You Sandmen will always be our enemy. You’re all just scorpions waiting to sting and snakes waiting to bite.”
As they moved in to seize his weapons, Renn sprang to life, his drunken state concealing the deadly precision of a skilled fighter. He dropped his hooded cloak, revealing a black leather armor adorned with a serpent motif that seemed to come alive in the moonlight, its deadly fangs poised to strike.
“An Askari!” one swordsman gasped, his face paling at the sight. “What is an Askari doing here? I smell war!” With a snarl, he charged at Renn, his blade slicing through the air.
The world seemed to slow as the drunken warrior dodged the attack, his body twisting with uncanny grace. Renn’s swords became a blur of steel, parrying and striking as he fought the three swordsmen with ease. His gold-pommelled blade danced through the air, its silvery edge catching the faint moonlight as it sliced and parried the relentless strikes of his attackers. The runes came alive and with an uttered word, a whirlwind broke free from the sword as Renn spun on the ground, throwing the swordsmen off balance.
“That’s an enchanted blade!” One of them cawed, warning others to be vigilant.
Renn focused. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his breath came in ragged gasps as he fought to keep his balance, the alcohol still coursing through his veins. They charged at him again, but he had a better perspective now.
With a sudden feint and one powerful lunge, Renn’s blade found its mark, chopping the hand of one assailant. Screaming in pain, he knelt down, holding his dismembered hand, his face twisted in agony.
Renn’s eyes flicked to the other two, who hesitated for a moment, fear creeping into their expressions. He allowed himself a small, grim smile – victory was within reach.
At that moment, a fourth person joined the fray, and he threw a fistful of dirt on Renn’s face. Crude tactic. Effective. A cloud of dust filled Renn’s vision, blinding him. His eyes watered, and he choked and coughed. He swung his sword nevertheless, and steel hit steel, disarming one swordsman even when he was blind. He tried to clear his sight, but a searing pain erupted in his stomach, forcing him to his knees, disoriented and wounded.
The remaining three swordsmen taunted him cruelly before they went over to tend to their fallen comrade. “Take him to a healer. Let’s see if it can still be fixed,” the new joiner said. Renn couldn’t see his face. In fact, he couldn’t see anything now.
“Yes, Captain,” the other two immediately went on to help the handless associate.
The Captain now stepped closer to Renn, “The guts you have, Sand Scoundrel!” He kicked him ruthlessly, bruising his ribs and face. Then he bent down and picked up the two swords and the scabbards. “These are mine now, you piece of shite!”
Renn fought to stay conscious, to find the strength to rise again, but the darkness threatened to swallow him whole. And as he collapsed onto the cold ground, he could hear their malicious laughter fading into the night. He held his stomach where thick water, blood, and alcohol leaked through him.
A memory flickered in his mind’s eye – he stood tall and proud in the grand hall of the Dunelord’s palace, basking in the admiration of his peers as he was honored for a successful assassination. But as quickly as the vision appeared, it was swallowed by the encroaching darkness of unconsciousness.
The pain in his gut shot up, an all-consuming fire that ended up with him vomiting out blood. The voice of his assailants faded as they disappeared into the night, leaving him broken and bleeding on the cold cobblestones.
On the brink of unconsciousness, he felt the touch of strong hands trying to lift him into a sitting position. A rough voice, tinged with concern, cut through the fog in his mind, though the words seemed distant and distorted. “What the hell happened here?” the voice asked, as Renn’s world slipped into darkness, and he knew no more. The last words he heard were, “Who are you?”
