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Detreax started his life hard. His mother died while giving birth to him, or at least that's what
he was told, and that is the only thing he ever knew about her. The reason he didn't know anymore than
that is simply his father was never around. His father was a traveling bard, who didn't even want
Detreax in the first place. But since his father had Detreax he felt a little responsible. Now when
I say little I mean little, what his father did was buy a house, rent a nurse and left. That's it, he
was home to see his son maybe twice every month, and that's was if Detreax was lucky. When Detreax
got old enough to live on his own, his father fired the nurse, and just left money with Detreax to buy
food. The problem with that is his father was gone so much that he didn't leave enough so Detreax had to
turn to stealing to be able to live. One day Detreax got caught stealing from a local nobleman, and
instead of turning Detreax into the authorities, the nobleman sold him as a slave to someone he knew would
buy Detreax. It was a hard life after that, the man he was sold to, which he never knew the name of
cause he had to call the man Master, was a mean man. His master would take any anger out on Detreax
whether or not it was his fault. One night after a severe beating, which Detreax didn't even know why
he received it, and had left one eye swollen shut, he prayed to the gods asking for one of them to save
him. He made a promise that if a god would save him he would devote his life to their cause and service.
After he prayed he fell into a deep slumber and dreamed a dream. In his dream he saw a vulture holding a
scythe in his talons hovering over his master who was fallen and naked on the ground. Then a man with a
hood and spiked armor came out of the shadows and took the vulture and left When Detreax awoke he was
safe in the forest He quickly made his way the city and followed up on his promise, knowing that it was
Kolfax who had answered him. He is always on the look out for the man who he calls his master, not
knowing his name, but never forgetting his face.
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My name is Dunadan, and I take things.
I don't think I was born destined to become an adventurer. Spending my
first years in a sheltered village days from New Manetheren gave me little
inspiration to enter that line of "work." It was the rare hero who stopped
at our out-of-the-way inn.
If there were no passing knights in shining armor or mages riding dragons,
there was the hedgerow mage that performed basic magical services for the
village and its surrounding farmlands. I can't even remember his name, I
think I used to just call him "sir".
The mage seemed to take a liking to me, and let me look at the amazing
amount of stuff on the shelves and tables in his cottage. My fascination
with his books led to reading lessons, and by the time I was ten, I was
visiting him every day. He was independent, like all mages, but I think he
got lonely at times, and he enjoyed teaching me as much as I enjoyed learning.
I was twelve when an oldish woman (older than my mother, at least) came to
visit my friend the mage. She looked like a mage to me, and the way my friend
deferred to her convinced me she was. She stayed in the inn for several days
and before she left she talked with my mother and father. That conversation
occurred in another room, and I didn't know what was going on.
The next day, however, my father told me that I would be helping the village mage
three days a week from now on. Over the next few years, I spent all the time I
could among the mage's manuscripts and artifacts. I was learning magic, and I
liked it.
When I was seventeen, the older woman who had visited before returned to the
village, along with another mage. They talked to my parents and my master again,
but this time they asked me questions, too. I can only remember one of the
questions perfectly, but it was the important one: "Do you want to come study
magic in New Manetheren?"
And so I entered the School of Magic. I loved it. I learned everything
they threw at me. Every day I climbed to the top of one of towers at the School
and looked out across the town, and each time the World was bigger because I knew
more of it existed and each time it was smaller because I knew more of how it
worked.
When I reached the point of graduation, the School sponsored me in my
petition of blessing from the gods. I was tested and passed, and the gifts
granted to me I use every day and thank the gods for. I took up adventuring now for
the sake of self improvement and nothing seemed to hold me back. I began to become
proficient at finding items of interest to myself or others and selling them.
I met many heroes during this time, and I noticed the best of them always
specialized in more than one school of magic or combat. Eventually, I reached
the point where I didn't seem to be expanding my skills and abilities anymore.
I decided I, too, needed to find another profession, another method of getting
what I wanted, another way to defeat my enemies.
I left magic behind for a while, and learned the arts of stealth, evasion,
surprise attacks, and other skills many thieves, treasure hunters, and assassins
seem to excel in.
I'm no master of combat. Many of the great mages I meet are more powerful
than me. But I'm hard to kill. And if my victims can't kill me, it's just a
matter of time before I kill them. And then I'll take what I came for.
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The nursery
He saunters in as though he has a right to be there. Gently he takes his
scythe in his hands and tears out the entrails of the pitiful halfling
toddler crawling on the floor. He pulls out the intestines from the tiny
corpse and strings them about the room like a streamer. The blood drenches
his hands and splashes over his face. The smell - sweet and salty. It
drips like a novelty about the walls of the room. Another toddler is
disemboweled with each stroke of his weapon. He feels he is the reaper
himself as he tastes a bit of the soul of one of the nursemaids. So sweet
it heals him.
The corpses decay quickly, consumed by maggots, it does not take long in
this magical land. Nothing seems permanent. That suits him quite well.
Nothing should be. He walks to the Thane of the small village. He tells
him what he has done. He prods the creature with his bloodied hands, and
yet elicits no response. The thing should have spoken to him.
He takes the head as a trophy and brings it back to town for the auction
block. "A thousand coins a head!," he yells and giggles a bit at his own
morbid humor. Alas the head decays as well, and there is so little left to
laugh about.
The Warzone
The streets are strewn with limbs of the luckless. The cobblestones
stretch to the river and the castles he has come to capture. He lies in
wait for his prey to enter. He hears a shout. His warning that an enemy is
near. It is just one poor man. An emissary of the White Tower witches. He
is desecrated with a touch and then pummeled by the backstroke of his
scythe. The man screams in agony as his soul is shattered by the power of
the enchanted weapon. His prey flees, he follows.
He steps out on the river in pursuit, his magical talisman keeping him
afloat, not that the river needed much aid in that. It is clogged with the
remains of the losers here. Its waters run brown and red across the dreary
landscape. A kind of appropriate monument to those that have died here for
nothing more than a few moments of glory. Glory is all he needs.
His prey did not have the chance to run far before it is cut down again.
The force of his blow enough to bash the man to the ground, and scraped by
the cobbles he lies there in shock as the scythe takes a final swing.
Another battle won. This is when he feels most alive. As the feeling of
success creeps through his bones and he heals himself. His task is not yet
done, there is still a castle to be taken, and more will come. He knows he
will kill them all.
Clanhome
He rests quietly, waiting for the opportunity to make war again. He has
much healing to do. Things did not go so well for him last time he went
into battle. The images race past, mistakes made, or perhaps the odds were
simply too great. A few wounds still bleed into the dirt at the base of the
tent, forming harsh patterns of recrimination.
He can not tell, but rage sits on his countenance like a mask of pain.
THEY were meant to die damn it! He will not say it aloud, he fears the
implication of weakness, of how much each failure costs him. He spends
every ounce of mana and will to seal closed the wounds and then simply
lapses into slumber to regenerate his resources. If hate could kill, all
his enemies are doomed . . . but, it cannot, and he fights a losing battle.
His hate suits him. It is the concept of chaos that is the heart of his
shaded soul. An entropic visionary he calls himself. But what aid does
entropy need in its relentless course of destruction? Chaos suits itself.
He is a useless being, and that fact is so deeply ingrained in him that it
has chosen the path of his lifetime. And so he goes on.
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There isn't much to tell really. I know not my mother or father.
Nor do I care. They left me on the steps of a monastery the day after
I was born. Or so I am told. Growing up I knew nothing of materialistic
things. I knew nothing of friends either. I was the only child in that
dreaded place. Everything was turned toward hate and anger. They gave me
clothing to wear and a beating every night. That was all they gave me.
From them I took a loathing of all that would pretend to be good and right.
They said they were good and right. I despise them. They talked of the
Spring, the wondrous powers of nature and marked me with their paints
bonded to my flesh. I just saw a way to use this knowledge for my own
personal gain. I grew strong and I grew powerful. More powerful than even
they could imagine. After I had received what would be the last of my tattoos
I slaughtered every living soul in the monastery. The power of death filled
me. With nothing left to hold me there, I left.
I wandered the streets for years. Killing those who must be killed.
Stealing what needed to be stolen. I have mastered the ways of the
lowliest thieves. Poisoning, skulking, killing in a single, devastating blow.
I joined a band of renegade thieves. In the beginning I thought I had found
my place. We ravaged and pillaged wherever we went. But they grew complacent
with the riches we acquired. Where before we killed without reason or
hesitation, now began to plot and ally ourselves with fools in order to secure
wealth and property. I knew this was not my place. This was not what I
wanted. I killed them. They never had a chance.
I have found I have no desire, I have no feelings. I am numb throughout
my very soul. I seek something that will fulfill me. Something beyond the
momentary thrills of death and destruction.
I have traveled many lands seeking my desire. I have searched for treasure
in the cursed Kingdom of Astirin. I have slain dragons is the fabled Aerie.
I have traveled from the gates of the dark drow city to the top of Bane's
Tower. What i seek, though, eludes me. Has my search for meaning become all
that I am? Is this how I shall be defined?
I have offered my soul to the Dark One now. I feel that if He returns then
I shall find my desire. He will fill me with what was stripped from me as a
child. He will give me what I know I have wanted. What I have always
wanted. He will give me love.
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Mountain frost. Eve's night.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. An army walks, travelling under some city flag.
Carefully he studies their formation.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. A shadow lurks ahead, and the army stops.
"Who's there?"
"Rodrick, take your squadron, check it out. Meet us at the stone city two
leagues from here."
"Yes, Sir."
Foolish, they divide themselves. Taking a hair from his arm, he drops it on
the end of the tail of a dragon and grunts in satisfaction as the weapon
splices the hair in two. Tonight will be good. The smaller party disappears
over the next mountain ridge, and he follows.
"There's nothing here cap'n, must have been a wolf or some- " The soldier
doesn't finish the sentence as his breastplate bulges from within. Quickly,
a towering giant behind him jerks the dragon tail from the soldier's back.
Soldiers charge. Screaming, he rushes into battle. He doesn't like their
smell, a smell of cowardice and betrayal. Tonight they will die.
Pulling the weapon from captain's chest, he nods in satisfaction at the
filthy corpses around him. A slight trace of froth on his lips speaks of
rage that posessesed him but a few moments ago. The blood cools off and he
allows a rational thought into his mind. The rest keep going, digging
further into his homeland. He doesn't like intruders.
His brother waits. The hulking mass joins another, as they disappear into
the night.
**********
Smoldering heat. Mid morning.
"Sir, Rodrick never returned, I volunteer to take another squadron to find
him. There's no use for us here, sleeping in beds."
"No. These lands are full of barbarians, a few even with a little courage.
Heh, he probably got held back by a tribe of savages. We'll see him soon...
go get a drink, Ihlan."
**********
Carefully, he lifts the female arm from his chest, and gets up from the bed.
Two battles happened last night, he grins to himself, and one he found much
more enjoyable than the other. Agreeing to himself that he'd rather face
another demon than the wrath of an angry woman, he takes his few belongings
and exits the inn. He doesn't want to leave her right now, but foulness
stenches the air. Foul men are in his city.
It's time they left.
Taking a dwarven crafted axe from the pack, he takes time to enjoy the
tingle it gives to his arms. It is magic, the only he will accept in this
world. The dwarven enchantment is from an ancient dwarven king, made to
wither away any magic of it's victim. Grunting, he walks into the street.
"...And THEN she said, no you don't, it's ME who's takes care of you!" Rough
laughter rises in the tavern as the soldiers roar at a joke that women are
more than just a warm body for men. The tavern door breaks open. The broad
shoulders barely fit in, and the head slighly scratches the top frame. He
walks in, knowing he'd be provoked into this fight. Waiting for it.
"Hey, lookie here! Yo, cut some hair, northland oaf. Might find some more
clothes for yourself too !" -- roaring laughter. He approaches the bar. An
empty bottle is launched at his head. Yawning, he catches the bottle in
midflight and puts it on the table. Just what he needs in the morning. Some
exercise.
Frown. Enough jokes. He barely stops his weapon from unsheating -- "Joas!
How DARE you leave me, after what we had last night. Just like ALL MEN,
you're a pig. A barbarian!" She's in the door. Sighing, he puts the
soldiers' death off for now.
Laughter gets louder as one of the soldiers grabs the woman who entered, and
mounts her on the shoulder. The soldiers start clapping as their brave and
willing friend starts making his way to the staircase. To the second floor.
Growl. The soldier falls off the stairs, as one of his legs is hacked off
from underneath him. The one legged body and the gasping woman on it slowly
creep into people's consciense. Everyone jumps from their chairs. "Take
him!" Baring his teeth, snarl. Carnage begins. Blood. Smell of blood,
pouring from the wounds. Open chests. Open throats. This one wasn't careful
enough. If he survived, he'd still never be able to have children.
Growl. More soldiers come from the door. More to kill, less to tolerate.
"Commander, look. He's killing our men!" The skin prickles. SNARL! MAGIC!
Grabbing the dwarven axe from the sack, he charges towards the lieutenant.
Foolish city man. The axe vibrates, and the man stares in disbelief at his
magic, all gone. More soldiers. Blood boils, and mind begins to cloud. Pain,
somewhere. Where? No. No pain. RAGE.
"AAAAAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!"
The enemy's arms fall off. Legs fall off. Heads roll.
"RRRRRRRRRRRR!!"
The fight takes to the street. Three more wives will miss their husbands.
Five more. Two hooded men, with daggers so obviously kept in their sleeves,
think they sneak up on him. He rips one's arm off, and takes out the dagger
from the sleeve. In one motion he slices the dagger over the foul man's
throat and sticks it under the second man's jaw. Hate daggers, he drops it.
The soldiers run out of the inn across the street, towards him. He fingers
the bony dragon tail in his hands. The fury of the berserker.
***************
Thump Thump. Thump Thump. Heart pounding its way out of his chest, he stops.
A lot of blood today. His too. But he didn't like they way they smelled.
Isn't civillized enough to understand good... evil. They were foul. Too
foul. Intruding his mountains, they were asking for it.
He sits down and starts licking off his wounds. A piece of wood falls off a
destroyed building, and it's clatter echoes through the lonely streets. No
one around him is breathing. It is done. The army will not stench the earth
with it's foulness. And she's safe.
He pauses at the thought of her. Yes, tonight will be another battle. As it
does very rarely, his stone face forms a sort of a smile.
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Page 2
Stories
Page 4
A MUD based on Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time series. With roleplaying encouraged through
guilds, clans, clanwars, holywars and throne wars. Experience the Wheel of Time world in a
whole new way: in an Age ravaged by the Last Battle. The time lace has been broken, the barrier
between dream and reality shattered. Weaves. Clans. Crafting. Huge World. Free Online Role Playing Game or commonly called RPG. The most unique Free Online RPG set in the Wheel of Time world.
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