Hjertelos
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(6/5/03 4:12 pm)
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Cold Dark Things [Pt1]
[The tale of Aysifel Ravenfrost: Dark Runemaster...]
Some seasons ago, a slight ways out of the town of Aegirhamn, there lived but a pair of kobold and their many, many children. The father was something of a tradesman. He crafted household items of wood and iron and hauled them into town once a month for barter. The mother was something of a wonder, as she kept watch of the many, many kobold children. "Are there twelve? Thirteen?" she wondered. She knew but sometimes doubted herself.
Over time, the kobold children grew (only as much as a kobold is allowed to grow) and left the hutch one by one to find their own way in the world. They would each go on to start many, many children of their own. All save the youngest...
Aysifel was something of a rebel. He cared not for starting a family only to live in a hole. A child was furthest from his mind (let alone many, many children). As a youth, he showed some promise as a budding mystic. The raw power he would need to become a spiritmaster, bonedancer or runemaster of the realm was healthy within him. He did have a runemaster brother for a time, but, that is a story for another day.
As he still pondered what House to follow, Aysifel's father often put him to work delivering goods to town. On one such delivery, during a particularly rainy Aegir day, Aysifel's pony and cart was stopped by a band of morvalt raiders. Every pot, oaken box and carved plate was stripped from the cart. Even the pony was dragged away in a fit to become a morvalt meal. Amazingly the morvalts left Aysifel sit untouched in the cart. The morvalts knew (or thought they knew) the little kobold would not dare to follow them.
As you've now guessed, Aysifel cursed a kobold curse and would soon follow in the direction of his new foes. A hike along a narrow, winding path for short of a mile was all it took to lead him to the top of a steep ridge over- looking a small grassy valley. In the center of the valley was a series of mammoth-skin tents scattered with a good twenty morvalts.
He watched as the beasts unloaded the stolen merchandise. He watched as Smokey, his family's only pony, was gruesomely pulled apart. This enraged Aysifel and he immediately charged down the hill. He raised his hands above his head, and with a face full of anger and concentration, let loose a burst of energy upon the morvalts. Two were knocked down but quickly got to their clawed feet. Aysifel cast and cast again, but didn't have the power to be more than a nuisance.
Just then, a group of four or five morvalts jumped on Aysifel and pulled him easily to the ground. His hands were held to each side as they dragged him to the center of camp. The kobold struggled helplessly. Many morvalts huddled around him and poked at him with spears and touched and pulled at his hands. With a morbid curiosity, his hands were sliced open from wrist to knuckle. The morvalts were attempting to bleed Aysifel of his magic so they could study it.
Aysifel was small (and considered something cute to be cuddled by some) but very hearty. Not once did he whale. He winced a good bit. He grimaced even more. But his eyes did't water 't all. Rather, he became even more enraged and called aloud to Odin for aid.
"Mighty Odin, grant me your Darkest of powers to slay my enemies!" He roared. (Granted, it is unwritten law that all mystics are granted a House through their trainer. However, Odin and his kin are sometimes known to take exception.)
Just then, a great wind came straight down from the sky, driving all the morvalts flat to the muddy ground and held them there. Aysifell got up on his feet and with a fearsome scowl began a chain of Dark magic mayhem in all directions. Clouds of black and blacker errupted and collapsed all throughout the camp.
When it was done, the morvalts that didn't run away in fear lay dead on the ground. Aysifel gathered himself, wrapped his hands as best he could, and headed for home in the rain. Things would never be the same for him.
[To be continued]
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