By Rivalry
Meet the Warrior
It was their seventh day at sea, and their little vessel was being tossed around by waves as tall as buildings. Wind whipped the young able seaman as he ventured cautiously onto the rain slicked deck. He looked up into the sky, and saw nothing but ominous black thunderclouds until the world ended at the horizon.
Blinking the rain out of his eyes and securing his waterproof coat with his hands, he staggered to the crates in the middle of the deck. Nothing appeared to have broken, and after re-securing the ropes holding the boxes to the floor, he began to retread his steps back to the safety of the cabin. Suddenly a tidal wave came out of nowhere on the tiny merchant ship’s starboard side. The ship was caught totally unawares and flipped over, its meagre crew and cargo being spewed into the foaming sea. As the boat splintered and cracked into a thousand pieces, the able seaman spluttered for air as he was bombarded by spray and debris.
Flashes of lightning illuminated the faces of his shipmates several hundred meters away. The young sailor knew that there was no chance of survival in these rough seas, but he clung desperately to hope, praying that he’d get back to see his newborn girl. Clinging to a broken piece of the mast, he spat the seawater out of his mouth and kicked his legs through the tumultuous seas towards the crew.
The next day the sea was calm, and a count of those missing was made. 4 of the ship’s 17 crew were gone, including the captain. Morale was low; if their situation had seemed hopeless before, now it appeared fruitless to continue. Yet amongst the ranks of men, a leader emerged. The young able seaman organised the crew, and driftwood from the shipwreck was lashed into a raft using whatever materials they could find. They drifted for days; surviving on seaweed and the water contained inside. And yet, amongst the terrible conditions and food, the unspoken leader remained headstrong and confident; he believed in their survival with a religious fervour unlike anything ever seen.
On the forty-fifth day at sea, a chilling fog sprang up out of the unnaturally calm sea. In the distance, faint blue lights were spotted. The crew were overjoyed- their ordeal was over at last! Immediately they set course for the mysterious lights. An unnerving calm settled over the rafts. All attempts at hailing the boat had failed, and the fog was too dense to make out any details. Mutterings passed around the men- could this be one of the fabled Ghost Ships of times gone by? Morale sank to an all time low. And yet, through it all, the determined leadership of the youthful sailor projected a beacon of hope for all the men.
He volunteered to scout out the boat, and determine whether it was manned by the dead, or whether it was simply a drifting hulk ruined by a storm similar to that which had ruined them. With just 3 other men, he set out with crude weapons fashioned out of driftwood. However, the leader of men was not perturbed; he saw this mysterious vessel as simply another obstacle between him and his daughter- it must fall. A ring of jagged rocks surrounded the base of the vessel; it had clearly been marooned on one.
However, all was not as it first appeared. Another ring of rocks was above the vessel, hung with moss. The vessel itself appeared to have been harpooned in various places; holes 5 feet in diameter peppered its exterior. This was not a ship populated by ghosts; this was a trap. Too late, the young leader shouted, too late, the reconnaissance raft turned, too late, the sailors headed back to the safety of the others. What had appeared to be a wall of dense fog was shifting, harpoon-like spears shot out towards the scouting party.
The young seaman realised now that the Great Angler-Fish which he had heard tales of in his childhood were not merely legends. The first harpoon killed 2 of his men outright, ripping through them as though they were thin as the fog from which they emerged. The whole sea lurched, the giant angler hurtling towards the rafts at breakneck speed. The leader was tossed into the water like a rag-doll. Spluttering for air in the artificial waves, he grasped his basic wooden sword, and hauled the remaining crew-member to the surface.
His throat was raw from seawater but his mind was keen, and his orders came as a rasp. Together they swam, swords in hand, against the current inside the beast’s mouth. The crunching of rafts as they were shredded by the creatures teeth was too much to take for the young leader, and, in an inhuman feat of strength, he put on a burst of speed, shot through the air and buried his sword up to the hilt in the back of the giant angler’s throat. For a moment he was deafened by the roar of pain, and the uncertain waves pushed him towards certain death at the creature’s windpipe. But his searching hand was grasped by his faithful shipmate, who had been inspired by the able-seaman’s will to survive.
Against the tide they clung on, for the shipmate had buried his sword into the creature’s mouth, and, as the huge fish lurched backwards into the air, the shipmate looked into his comrade’s eyes and saw only fire. Harpoons stored in the roof of its mouth still decimated the crew, but the commander rallied his comrades, and they faced the aerial threat with vigour and courage. Their leader dodged and weaved on the tempestuous, slick surface of the creature’s mouth, harpoons which were aimed at him instead slamming hard into the creature itself. The leader bellowed, and the other sailors followed his lead, and soon only blood gushed down the creature’s throat. And yet, whilst the other men were convinced that they had won a victory worthy of legends, the young commander was ruined.
Although the creature was slain, there were only 7 men left standing. The fire in his eyes was added to by steely resentment. His crew needed him now more than ever, and he had to be stronger now more than ever. For days they drifted, surviving from the meat of the great angler. They grew beards, and grew older. Yet the fire did not die. One year on from their fateful shipwreck, they landed at a beach far from home. The landing joyful for the crew, but for the leader, it was only another step in his journey back to his family.
They trekked for months, across fields, through forests and over mountains. They had many adventures along the way, but alas, that is a story for another time. The men arrived at their homeland in the face of the rising sun, as changed men. The leader of them took off his helmet, and entered his family’s home.
For the first time in 2 years, the tall, bastion of hope for men cried as his daughter ran into his arms, and he collapsed to the floor. He did not weep because he loved her; but because his passion in his heart had been overwhelmed by the steel in his face. A changed, lonely man, he adventures through the land leading others, because the steel in his eyes is all he has left.
Meet the Paladin
Long ago, in the second age of mankind, a great Lich king was born. He raised an army of the undead, and, with the help of an oppressed peasantry, a revolution spread like wildfire throughout the land. The king, a naive and inconsiderate man, born in and smothered by luxury, thought that his people still loved him. And so, whilst all the land was torn asunder by civil war, looting and famine, the king sat irresolute on his throne, determined not to intervene until the fight reached him.
Meanwhile, in a far flung farming village, night had fallen. As with every night before, the villagers manned their primitive barricades and defended themselves with whatever came to hand from not only hordes of torrid undead, but their rioting kinsmen. They held out until the dead hours of the morn, when out of the inky darkness came a guttural roar. The bloodied villagers’ eyes shot around nervously, the only sound the cracking of trees and breathing. Suddenly, a mighty plague beast launched itself over their crude barricades and landed amongst them, instantly impaling several farmhands with its defiled claws.
The villagers were routing, the rebellious peasants storming their homes, burning and looting as they passed through the town. The plague beast roared again in triumph, and within minutes, the farmers’ valiant defence had crumbled and any survivors were running for the hills. In the cold light of the new dawn, the ruins of their village smoldered, and the sound of the plague beast echoed off the valley walls; it had moved on.
A lone farmhand stood on the lonely hillside in the gathering twilight of humanity. He was not filled with anger; rather he was driven by a duty to do what the King could not; to help those still loyal to the regime. He trained on the valley’s side for hours a day, subsisting on mushrooms and roots, and drinking from a frigid mountain spring.
One night, the young farmer ran for miles along the hill (as was his habit)- but that night was different. As he returned to his meagre camp, he saw an ambush. The plague beast which had destroyed his village and killed his friends was standing, poised, in the moonlight. The faint light from the stars glinted wickedly from its blood red eyes, and its tail thrashed like a kraken’s tentacle. The farmhand looked around wildly for a weapon, and was filled with dread- the bare hillside harboured nothing for him to use. The monster covered the twenty feet between them in but one bound, and the farmhand rolled deftly out of its way. Snarling, the beast re-doubled its efforts, wheeling around and pouncing at him again. He jumped; too slow. The monster’s barbed tail struck him in the side and he crumpled to the ground in agony as the beasts’ cursed spines drove themselves deeper into his flank. The plague hound bellowed in derision and victory, and left the farmhand bleeding to death on that cold night.
As he lay there, his blurred vision focused on the stars above. His lucky star – Caelus, the star of angels – was above him. The star seemed to grow brighter before his eyes, and the young man was aware that he was nearing the end. But then, as his vision was overwhelmed with the pure white light, a melodic voice seemed to reverberate from his own soul. It told him that he was destined for great things, and that the beast was sent to him by the great Archdemon, Malphas, to stop him from halting the Lich king’s advance into the realm of men.
The man woke up in pure sunlight. He checked his flank; it was smooth and unhurt. He got up and looked around. In front of him was a magnificent suit of armour. A seemingly impenetrable olive green chestplate, with a dull blue cube suspended in the centre. He put it on and immediately felt renewed; the cube glowed icy blue, and a great horned helmet formed from the ether of magic on his head. In his hand appeared a tremendous blue sword, the hilt solid gold and inlaid with sapphires. Around his neck formed a great golden pendant which cried out for exertion of his will. The paladin furrowed his brow with concentration, and he was enveloped in a blue aura. Marvelling at his gift from the heavens, the chosen warrior lost concentration and the aura faded.
He marched towards the capital. He covered a distance of 400 leagues in only a week, pausing neither for food nor rest. As he crested the final hill, he looked upon a scene of imminent chaos. The last warriors of humanity were gathered outside the front gate of their citadel, and the mighty armies of the Lich king stretched endlessly into the horizon.
The paladin knew then what he must do. As he ran down to join his comrades, the forces of darkness attacked, punching a gaping hole in the beleaguered forces of the King. Spurred on by his holy armour and the will of the gods, the paladin flew fifty feet into the clouds, and landed in the midst of the melee in a blaze of blue fire. He fought the legions of the undead until all those around him were slain, and he stood at the summit of an unassailable pile of corpses.
His intervention had saved the city hours, but there was more to be done. Exhausted, the paladin called upon his seal and his armour, renewing his vigour in moments. In the distance he spied the plague beast which had destroyed his village and killed him. It seemed four times as large, having been fed on arcane energy by Malphas himself. The paladin knew what he must do.
A mixture of dread an divine purpose filled his soul as he sped over at inhuman speeds towards the beast, which was slaughtering men by the dozens. The paladin accelerated and a boom sounded, and he was enveloped in blue flames. His fear left him, replaced by a stoic will to save the kingdom. He smashed into the side of the beast at a phenomenal speed, tackling the building high monster to the ground. The beast squealed, and searched for its attacker. It locked on to the heroic paladin, and was surrounded in a red aura. The paladin caught sight of a terrible black pendant around its neck, and realised that Malphas had helped the plague hound more than he’d thought.
The two sprinted at each other at extreme speeds, and where blade met claw, a resounding clang louder than a thunderstorm sounded, flattening trees for miles around. The battle is said to have raged for hours, both sides retreating to a safe distance. A sense of purpose filled the paladin, and the path to victory materialised in his mind. He launched himself into the air, landing on the beast’s back. The hound tried to dislodge him, flailing around, but the warrior held on. The evil seal around its neck became dislodged and flew off, and the paladin seized his advantage, driving his sword deep into the monster’s neck. Blood sprayed upwards in a geyser, and covered the land around. There was a moment of stunned silence, and then the humans cheered.
Unable to comprehend their champion’s defeat, the armies of the Lich king fled back to their mountains, harried by the brave warriors of humanity.
The paladin collapsed, and whilst he lay there, Malphas himself spoke to him. The black seal of power had been hidden and was guarded by mighty foes. The paladin tried to get up, but Malphas’ magic held him down. Cackling evilly, Malphas then bound the paladin to twisted ice for ten thousand years, that he may no longer interefere with his plans. For ten thousand years the paladin has lain encased in a frozen tomb.
Now, he leads the fight once more in a changed world, determined to kill the great Archdemon and seek out and destroy his corrupt seal.
Meet the Necromancer
As a child, the gaunt, pale face would watch the other children of his village merrily playing in the sun day after day. They often looked up at him and laughed, or shouted insults. He was forbidden to join them or rebuke their abuse, for he was son of a great wizard, and studied magic at the most famed academy in the land. His father was a proud man, who wanted his son to follow in his mighty footsteps, and become a famed wizard like his forebears. However, his son took to haunting the corridors by night, eating alone and avoiding all human contact.
Despite the efforts of his father to rekindle his son’s interest in socialising and magic, the boy’s condition worsened. Eventually, incandescent with rage, the father banished his son to a remote temple high in the hills, that he may rediscover the value of human contact. However, the son still loved his father and his magic, and, in a twisted attempt to right his wrongs, began practicing the dark arts at his temple.
It started small, with rodents and animals, but madness had planted its seed in his mind; his experiments grew and grew. He raided nearby villages for corpses, and became a blight on the land. He fed off their power, becoming more powerful with each day that passed. Over a decade into his exile, the son decided to return to his father, and show him all that he had learned. But his father had heard about his foul deeds, and could not stand the sight of him any longer. Driven mad by rage and sadness, the fledgling necromancer attacked his father’s academy. For days torrid armies of the dead poured out of the torn and broken earth, assaulting the battlements. Many apprentice wizards were enslaved or killed by the armies of undead and on the thirteenth day, the academy was taken. The son searched fruitlessly for his father for 3 days and nights, but he was nowhere to be found, having escaped under cover of darkness with a magical white cloak, taken from the fearful sprite dimension during his adventuring days.
It is here that Stheno enters the tale. The attack of the academy had caught her eye, and she saw an opportunity for fun and tricks. On the night of the crescent moon, she came to the necromancer. In one hand, she held a letter containing the whereabouts of his father; in the other, she held a mighty skull, which she claimed would allow him to rule over the entire kingdom for eternity. In return for one of these favours, she hissed silkily, he must prove his worth to her by putting on a magical band which would allow her to contact him at any time. But the necromancer was clever, and realised the band was a trap to bind him into slavery for eternity. The son knew how to outmaneuvre Stheno, but there was a more pressing issue: which gift to take.
He sat on the top of a hill for many nights, in turmoil over whether his father or the empire was more important. Eventually, racked by indecision, he flipped a coin. Glinting wickedly as it flew into the moonlight, it gave him his answer. He returned to Stheno and asked for the skull. She granted his request, and gave him the corrupt cranium of a fallen hero. But as she tried to attach the magic band to his wrist to fulfill the deal, he whipped up a mighty storm, and in the confusion, used the mighty skull to trap Stheno in his servitude. But Stheno, who was cunning, realised she still had a bargaining point. She whispered to him that if he released her, she would tell him the location of his father for free. The necromancer initially refused, knowing Stheno to be tricksome, but the idea of finally reconciling himself with his father had planted itself in his mind and refused to let go.
After many days, he finally gave in to the voices in his head demanding to make up with his father, and met Stheno in his ethereal prison. He fixed his poisoned dagger to her throat and demanded the location of his father, his voice ringing out hoarsely into the cold emptiness of the void. She smiled a cruel smile, and told him softly. Such a scream of pure malice has never been heard to this day, and he forever banished Stheno to a pit far from civilization to languish for eternity.
For you see, the skull of unstoppable power she had granted him was the defiled skull of his father. With eyes driven mad by guilt for his greed and loneliness, and stained yellow by the practice of forbidden arts, he forever stalks the land, searching for vengeance on those who deceived him.