“Get up…”
The fog begins to clear enough for that thought to flash through my mind for a second, though I don’t know where I am. All I can tell is the voices around me are Orcish; Low, guttural, jeering, and insulting.
“Get up…”
I try to open my eyes, only to find one is swollen shut, realizing that is blood I taste in my mouth. My left eye flutters open, the moonlight more than enough for me to tell I am in trouble. Though my mind is too fuzzy to attempt to count how many Orcs are around me.
“Get up…”
I try to lift my head a bit, then blinding pain in my head as the ground rushes back up to my face and everything grows dark, to the sound of Orcish laughter.
Orcish laughter fading to Dark Elven debate…
I find myself looking down on a memory, from the high terrace of my families’ ancient home. Looking down on the courtyard where a youth, a boy and their mother, a great Dam of regal stature, holding their newborn brother, faces a throng gathered before her gates.
From the throng steps an old crone. Bent with age yet with an imperious air about her, she approaches the Dam and examines the child in her arms. Turning back to the crowd, she announces in a surprisingly clear, resonant voice, “It is a boy, The great mother of all has spoken”.
A ripple goes through the crowd, murmurs, nods, mumbled conversations about such a great house falling from the grace of their mother goddess.
The gesticulations stop at the mere lifting of the Dam’s chin, her eyes pierce the crowd drawing their silence, a testament of the almost palpable power she still holds, despite the crone’s condemnation.
“Believe what you will, serfs of the queen!” She announces in a clear, carrying voice. “Long has it been known that the temple took it as insult when I left to become head of this house, a house that was grand even in the times of the Giants! Never have they forgiven me, and long have they striven to denounce me and my house, despite my loyalties and strength! If the Great Mother has truly forsaken me, she would not allow me the power to have held what is mine by force for so many decades! House Shadow has held strong all these decades under my leadership despite my enemies’ machinations and the temples’ meticulous scheming!”
The crone merely answered “and what of your inability to produce a daughter to lead your house? You are already past your childbearing years, this child was your last chance, and you produce yet another male. This in itself is a sign. Your house is at an end! These whelps are even too young to protect you or a daughter you might have had! They have no proof of worth, and can’t even be named! Your house is doomed to fall, and we shall divide it within the temple as the law says, to keep any house of the Great Mother from coming to such an end!”
The Dam slowly lowers her eyes from the crowd to the Crone and smiles. At that smile the crowd takes an involuntary step back. A smile such as that was more deadly than any curse to pass those lips. At a gesture over her shoulder, the house guard behind her parts and a pair of slaves comes through, carrying a body to toss at the feet of the crone.
“Do you know this slave, Priestess?” asks the Dam. As the Crone shakes her head, the Dam continues. “Look closer then. The eyes, the chin… he has a great resemblance to his grandmother, doesn’t he?” The slaves turn the body face up on the flagstones, and it is obvious who the slain mans’ grandmother was.
“I commend you, Priestess, on raising such a fine assassin and spy. He penetrated my house for almost a year before my son found him out and killed him with his own dagger.”
The Crone turns to the eldest boy, her eyes flashing, already planning her revenge on him.
“If you wish for a new target for your revenge, at least have the correct one. My eldest did not slay him, it was my second son.”
At this, the younger boy reaches from behind his tunic and draws out an ornate crystal dagger that seemed to glow with its own inner light, an obviously enchanted blade. The crowd seems to tense at the realization of the blades obvious power and the boys unexpected ability to wield it without being consumed by it. It is common knowledge that the more powerful the magic, the more power needed to wield it.
“My son has taken life, on his victims’ terms as an assassin, and with his own blade. By the Great Mothers’ own law, he is a man, regardless of age, and has earned a name. I name him “Duhl”, as he has slain by hand against hand. He shall be the Shadows’ Hand”.
“Fine” Said the Crone, now livid with rage, “Then he shall die as a man, and I claim my revenge on him!” The Crone raised her hand, and it began to glow an eerie blue as she began an incantation. The younger boy crouched, ready to attack the Crone when the older boy stepped forward, holding his hand out to stop the younger. Without hesitation, the boy turned to the Crone and held up his own hand to her. Saying a word of ancient power, and the Crone was wrenched back by her arm into the crowd with a cry of pain. The crowd parted from her, most in fear as they saw her arm, encased in ice to the shoulder.
“It is true that my mothers’ house is at an end, Crone,” Said the youth for all to hear, “but know this; long has it been known that it is your petty enmity towards my Dam that has brought this about. Your curse was very clever, and too subtle to be brought to proof, but all know full well it is there. You have raised your hand openly to my house, and as eldest son, it is my duty to protect it. I have begun trade and brought fortune to my house. I own slaves of my own, and have my own personal fortune, enough to begin a trade house. I shall name it House Shadow in honor of my mothers’ grand house!”
Clearly in excruciating pain, yet steely eyed, the Crone scoffs at the youth before her. “You? You are not even a man, you cannot claim even a lowly trade house as your own! You have not served, you have not slain!”
“You are correct, Crone, I am a master, I do not serve… but now I shall slay!” With this, the youth raised his hand again and whispered another word of power, and the arm of the Crone encased in ice burst like fine crystal in an explosion that sent shards of ice and frozen flesh flying in all directions, tearing into the flesh of the crowd of onlookers, causing minor wounds in many, blinding a few. Over the shrieks of pain and terror the youths voice could still be heard, incanting words of power, gathering the winds about him to flail the old Crone with. The screams of the Crone followed the last stragglers of the fleeing crowd long after the old woman should have survived.
Memories of later that night surface, that same youth leading his slaves with his Dam at his side. The slaves lay their bloody bundle wrapped in silk at the top of the stairs leading down into the Temple. The Dam descends the stairs into the temple, leaving the youth and his entourage to wait, her instructions clear, that he leave the Dark Elf lands in the morning, and never allow House Shadow, or himself, to be brought low.
Later, from the depths of the Temple, he could hear his Dams’ raised voice:
“My eldest has slain, he is now a man. I name him “Mahl”, for he is master of his own shadows, and his own destiny!”
Long into the night the youth waited there, waiting for his mother to return.
She never did.
“Do not allow House Shadow, nor yourself, to be brought low”
“Get up…”
Head is too foggy
“Get UP…
Too much pain…
His Dams’ voice naming him Master…
“GET UP!!!”
Good eye flaring open, rage now building, adrenaline suppressing the pain. The coppery taste of blood galvanizing my resolve, I begin to take in my surroundings. I am tied to a stake, my belongings nearby, two Orcs nearby, too busy arguing over something to actually guard me.
Stupid Orcs…
The spell is child’s play, freezing the ropes. They shatter without the Orcs noticing. My dagger and staff levitate to me at a whispered incantation and soon one Orc is dead by my dagger in its throat and the other choking on its own bile from the poison curse I cast on it. I listen for any sounds that the others have noticed as I watch the Orc die. As he does, the night goes silent.
The silence doesn’t last long.
Calling the wind, calling on fire and ice, I begin a methodical decimation of the Orc camp. The Screaming of the wind at my command gives way to the screams of dying Orcs. The Orc village becomes an inferno that only I walk away from.
I am Xhardumahl, Master of Shadows, and my house, nor I, will be brought low.
The fog begins to clear enough for that thought to flash through my mind for a second, though I don’t know where I am. All I can tell is the voices around me are Orcish; Low, guttural, jeering, and insulting.
“Get up…”
I try to open my eyes, only to find one is swollen shut, realizing that is blood I taste in my mouth. My left eye flutters open, the moonlight more than enough for me to tell I am in trouble. Though my mind is too fuzzy to attempt to count how many Orcs are around me.
“Get up…”
I try to lift my head a bit, then blinding pain in my head as the ground rushes back up to my face and everything grows dark, to the sound of Orcish laughter.
Orcish laughter fading to Dark Elven debate…
I find myself looking down on a memory, from the high terrace of my families’ ancient home. Looking down on the courtyard where a youth, a boy and their mother, a great Dam of regal stature, holding their newborn brother, faces a throng gathered before her gates.
From the throng steps an old crone. Bent with age yet with an imperious air about her, she approaches the Dam and examines the child in her arms. Turning back to the crowd, she announces in a surprisingly clear, resonant voice, “It is a boy, The great mother of all has spoken”.
A ripple goes through the crowd, murmurs, nods, mumbled conversations about such a great house falling from the grace of their mother goddess.
The gesticulations stop at the mere lifting of the Dam’s chin, her eyes pierce the crowd drawing their silence, a testament of the almost palpable power she still holds, despite the crone’s condemnation.
“Believe what you will, serfs of the queen!” She announces in a clear, carrying voice. “Long has it been known that the temple took it as insult when I left to become head of this house, a house that was grand even in the times of the Giants! Never have they forgiven me, and long have they striven to denounce me and my house, despite my loyalties and strength! If the Great Mother has truly forsaken me, she would not allow me the power to have held what is mine by force for so many decades! House Shadow has held strong all these decades under my leadership despite my enemies’ machinations and the temples’ meticulous scheming!”
The crone merely answered “and what of your inability to produce a daughter to lead your house? You are already past your childbearing years, this child was your last chance, and you produce yet another male. This in itself is a sign. Your house is at an end! These whelps are even too young to protect you or a daughter you might have had! They have no proof of worth, and can’t even be named! Your house is doomed to fall, and we shall divide it within the temple as the law says, to keep any house of the Great Mother from coming to such an end!”
The Dam slowly lowers her eyes from the crowd to the Crone and smiles. At that smile the crowd takes an involuntary step back. A smile such as that was more deadly than any curse to pass those lips. At a gesture over her shoulder, the house guard behind her parts and a pair of slaves comes through, carrying a body to toss at the feet of the crone.
“Do you know this slave, Priestess?” asks the Dam. As the Crone shakes her head, the Dam continues. “Look closer then. The eyes, the chin… he has a great resemblance to his grandmother, doesn’t he?” The slaves turn the body face up on the flagstones, and it is obvious who the slain mans’ grandmother was.
“I commend you, Priestess, on raising such a fine assassin and spy. He penetrated my house for almost a year before my son found him out and killed him with his own dagger.”
The Crone turns to the eldest boy, her eyes flashing, already planning her revenge on him.
“If you wish for a new target for your revenge, at least have the correct one. My eldest did not slay him, it was my second son.”
At this, the younger boy reaches from behind his tunic and draws out an ornate crystal dagger that seemed to glow with its own inner light, an obviously enchanted blade. The crowd seems to tense at the realization of the blades obvious power and the boys unexpected ability to wield it without being consumed by it. It is common knowledge that the more powerful the magic, the more power needed to wield it.
“My son has taken life, on his victims’ terms as an assassin, and with his own blade. By the Great Mothers’ own law, he is a man, regardless of age, and has earned a name. I name him “Duhl”, as he has slain by hand against hand. He shall be the Shadows’ Hand”.
“Fine” Said the Crone, now livid with rage, “Then he shall die as a man, and I claim my revenge on him!” The Crone raised her hand, and it began to glow an eerie blue as she began an incantation. The younger boy crouched, ready to attack the Crone when the older boy stepped forward, holding his hand out to stop the younger. Without hesitation, the boy turned to the Crone and held up his own hand to her. Saying a word of ancient power, and the Crone was wrenched back by her arm into the crowd with a cry of pain. The crowd parted from her, most in fear as they saw her arm, encased in ice to the shoulder.
“It is true that my mothers’ house is at an end, Crone,” Said the youth for all to hear, “but know this; long has it been known that it is your petty enmity towards my Dam that has brought this about. Your curse was very clever, and too subtle to be brought to proof, but all know full well it is there. You have raised your hand openly to my house, and as eldest son, it is my duty to protect it. I have begun trade and brought fortune to my house. I own slaves of my own, and have my own personal fortune, enough to begin a trade house. I shall name it House Shadow in honor of my mothers’ grand house!”
Clearly in excruciating pain, yet steely eyed, the Crone scoffs at the youth before her. “You? You are not even a man, you cannot claim even a lowly trade house as your own! You have not served, you have not slain!”
“You are correct, Crone, I am a master, I do not serve… but now I shall slay!” With this, the youth raised his hand again and whispered another word of power, and the arm of the Crone encased in ice burst like fine crystal in an explosion that sent shards of ice and frozen flesh flying in all directions, tearing into the flesh of the crowd of onlookers, causing minor wounds in many, blinding a few. Over the shrieks of pain and terror the youths voice could still be heard, incanting words of power, gathering the winds about him to flail the old Crone with. The screams of the Crone followed the last stragglers of the fleeing crowd long after the old woman should have survived.
Memories of later that night surface, that same youth leading his slaves with his Dam at his side. The slaves lay their bloody bundle wrapped in silk at the top of the stairs leading down into the Temple. The Dam descends the stairs into the temple, leaving the youth and his entourage to wait, her instructions clear, that he leave the Dark Elf lands in the morning, and never allow House Shadow, or himself, to be brought low.
Later, from the depths of the Temple, he could hear his Dams’ raised voice:
“My eldest has slain, he is now a man. I name him “Mahl”, for he is master of his own shadows, and his own destiny!”
Long into the night the youth waited there, waiting for his mother to return.
She never did.
“Do not allow House Shadow, nor yourself, to be brought low”
“Get up…”
Head is too foggy
“Get UP…
Too much pain…
His Dams’ voice naming him Master…
“GET UP!!!”
Good eye flaring open, rage now building, adrenaline suppressing the pain. The coppery taste of blood galvanizing my resolve, I begin to take in my surroundings. I am tied to a stake, my belongings nearby, two Orcs nearby, too busy arguing over something to actually guard me.
Stupid Orcs…
The spell is child’s play, freezing the ropes. They shatter without the Orcs noticing. My dagger and staff levitate to me at a whispered incantation and soon one Orc is dead by my dagger in its throat and the other choking on its own bile from the poison curse I cast on it. I listen for any sounds that the others have noticed as I watch the Orc die. As he does, the night goes silent.
The silence doesn’t last long.
Calling the wind, calling on fire and ice, I begin a methodical decimation of the Orc camp. The Screaming of the wind at my command gives way to the screams of dying Orcs. The Orc village becomes an inferno that only I walk away from.
I am Xhardumahl, Master of Shadows, and my house, nor I, will be brought low.
.