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[EU-Nirath] The Shadowsworns' Memoirs [Part I]

Hi everyone! This will be a series of chapters and stories, combined into a short novel, describing how House Shadowsworn has become what it is today. Please note it's fictional, and the purpose is more about the roleplaying part than the actual activity in-game, however you could find glimpses of my personal ideology of the character I would like to play, and it will lay a ground hopefully rich enough for a proper history of the lineage I'd like to have in the game for my house.

First and foremost, you should know that the house will reside within the Kingdom of Nirath , and more specifically is a part of The Order of the Black Fang, as the story itself rooted within the Orders' historical events.

In case you feel a bit lost, or want to know more about the order, feel free to click on the links and read up.

Lastly, English is not my first language, but more of a 3rd. On top of that, I have never written anything of this scale, and it'd be a first story both written, and published by me. As such, you might see some grammatical inaccuracies, or dullness I have failed to notice even after all the polishing I've done so far-so feel free to PM me about them, or post here so I could correct them asap. Criticism is most welcome as well!

Without further due, let's delve into the first chapter of the novel- and I hope you enjoy the read!

Prologue

House Shadowsworn. It has a nice sound to it- even though calling ourselves a mere "House" sounds like an understatement! The mystery, and the meanings of the name- are all folded up in my, no, OUR brotherhoods' ancestral heritage. Almost too hard to believe we've endured so much, and survived despite all that happened. But in the end, our fundamentals have not changed- regardless the abyssal-like conditions our lives were forced to go through in the past. In the end- we are a family, not bound by just blood, or even by the great Religion we're all part of, but by soul!

So much has changed within our brotherhoods' capabilities and nature. Our long-lasting endurance, our overlook and vision of the true meaning of life and the strength of our belief in Rayalra'ad and his guidance of our paths were all chiseled by the sands of time into the very core of what our Shadowsworn brotherhood is today.

You do not have to take my words alone for it- as our journey towards rebuilding the greatness of The Order of the Black Fang to its' former glory and beyond has just begun, and there are yet even more stories to be written in the future. We are more than happy to rejoin our long-lost Brothers-in-faith after decades of wandering across the world, and would gladly swing our daggers, unsheathe our swords and stretch our bows with them on the battlefields of Elyria once again, echoing with our voices through our throats until they go numb as we all charge in to battle- "ANUR RAYALRA'AD".

But before we do that, and before I am to have my daily prayers to Rayalra'ad, I'd want to cherish the memories and the stories of our brotherhood, the Shadowsworns and their heritage, by revealing the records of the events that led us to what we are today.

I am Count Onil Shadowsworn- and this is the story of our people...so far...

Chapter one: The Lingering Silence of Simple Truths

It was night-time with a clear sky. With a mere gaze upwards, you could see the countless stars flickering with mild grace, whispering the stories of past entities long forgotten. The moon has just set on its new course- a new month waiting to unfold its events upon the vast flowing river called time. If your sight happened to swiftly blaze through the horizon from atop the Great Wall surrounding the Ziggurat Capitol- it would seem as if the sky has no boundaries- engulfing the world around. On a closer look, however, a keen eye could recognize the lights of a thousand campfires, merging with the starlight far ahead, spreading from the horizon where sky and land merged together in the open desert fields.

Alas, there was no murmur to indicate a presence of an army before a decisive battle: no swords unsheathed, polished, or sharpened by a whetstone. Nor was there any cheerful banter, off-tuned singing, and drunk laughing you could hear after a victorious one. However, despite the lack of noise, there was no silence. In fact- the grim presence of weary, yet watchful men was carried through in the dry, windless air like a strong scent of old sweat or sour wine. You could feel it like a deep breath being held for a bit too long- waiting to burst out in an explosive tension. It was a siege.

A lone, hooded figure stood on the Great Wall. It would be hard for you to notice at a first glance under the dim moon light, but after a second you would realize the figure belongs to a man. He wasn't tall, but his broad shoulders held a remarkable shape of masculinity- covered by a dark grey cloak which he seemed to tighten around himself despite the fact it was rather a pleasant, windless night. Although his posture while leaning on the Walls’ edge seemed relaxed, almost indifferent to the grim sight he saw from where he stood, you could sense his tense, razor-sharp eyes being as alert as a cats’, slicing through the thick darkness. His hearing was attentive towards the grounds below, heeding for even the dim sounds the sand grains made under a light foot. He was ready.

The mans’ gear, although not intimidating to the simple glance, looked tidy and well-adjusted to his features. All parts combined on his body looked perfect and fitting, and he could gracefully move in them as if they were mere parts of his own skin. The gear was a remarkably precise work of craftsmanship, despite the design for practical use rather than the visual bravado: the deep-brown colored leather armor to the mans’ chest was of unique design, with a black-and-gold string woven on the right half of it, into a figure of a huge serpent holding a Sickle in one hand, and a Sun in the other. On the right shoulder, he had a single shoulder plate with no matching on his left side. It was made of three overlapping thick steel sheets, dyed in a darker grey than his cloak, and 3 dim-silver suns were engraved on the surface of the steel sheets. You could notice them on the grey contrast of the dyed plates even under the dim light of the new moon, the mark of a military rank. On his left wrist was a thick dark-red bracelet with a black frame, which in closer look revealed a pale engraved serpent folded in a circle-like shape. Around the waist was the simplest leather belt- a slightly darker brown than the color of the leather chest piece, and two daggers with additional two throwing knives, completely undecorated, were attached to it on both sides of the waist. His pair of brown pants and black boots, although looked rugged and over-used, were remarkably clean and had the marks of supreme quality despite their current state. On the floor- just by his right leg- lay a quiver. It was slightly tilted against the cold stone of the wall he was standing on. It was made of an unknown black leather containing a dozen of finely fletched arrows- ready to be pulled out in a blink of an eye by the man. The quiver itself was a perfect match to the bow the man had mounted on his back. This bow, among the rest of his pieces, looked out of place. It did not look simple- like the rest of his gear, making it quite a controversial pick for a weapon.

The bow was composite, although the size fit more to the definition of a longbow. Just like the quiver, it was as black as pure charcoal. Despite the fine quality of the bow, it noticeably lacked most signs of decoration for a bow of similar type. No gold or silver engravings. No gems except from two. It is a type of bow you would expect to find hanging a nobleman’s wall as a mark of wealth rather than being used in a practical way by an archer. A dragon-head was delicately, masterfully, carved on the upper limb of the bow- and two well-crafted rubies engraved in sockets where the eyes of a serpent would be. The lower limb of the bow- as you might have guessed- was the graceful tail of it. However, disregarding its delicacy and grace- you could not deny the menacing feeling creeping up your spine as you looked into its eyes- as if the echo of a greater being returned a gaze through the dim glimmer of the fire-red rubies- challenging your very existence. It had known the taste of a life, and would take another without hesitation. It had a distant presence of its own, an ancients’ descendant. And as such- it was watching, And Listening.

-"Anur Rayalra'ad, brother!" called a man who popped from a wooden floor ceiling on the surface of the stone. The lone man on The Wall startled a bit to the sudden striking voice, as if he woke up from a dream. He swiftly cocked his head towards the direction of the voice- but immediately calmed his alert, removing his hand from the handle of his dagger with a sign of recognition on his face. -"You know we don't shout the call for something as trivial as saying hello, Mickon. After all those years, you still have not learnt the proper respect to that call..." he replied with a condescending tone while easing back to his previous indifferent-like position. He watched Mickon jumping up with a surprising burst of agile swiftness for someone who at first glance seemed to be in his mid-fifties. -"Yes, I know Jeral. But I'm too old to adapt to the ways of our life! Besides, why are you so edgy?" he shot in reply while hopping on his way beside Jeral, again demonstrating the same surprising agility. -"Too old? You're just two years older than me, and what do you mean by 'our life'? it has been over seventeen years now since we've joined the Order of the Black Fang!" Said Jeral hastily after a moment, disregarding Mickons' question -"After so long, I’d expect you to treat it as the only life you’ve ever had. Please don't make a fool of yourself- especially in front of me, I know you better than anyone..." -"ALL RIGHT I'm sorry, I will not make any excuses..." Mickon muttered interruptingly. "It's just that this bloody siege upon us makes my mind numb. After what, nine or ten years now? It's hard to focus on such things as manners..." he said with hints of frustration in his voice. "...but you are right to the bone, Jeral, I will make sure I will not lose myself again..." Mickon quickly muttered in response to Jerals' judgmental expression when their eyes met, more to avoid the lecturing than actually accepting the criticism.

-"It has been a long time since I've seen you…” Mickon said after a moment of a short breath. “What's on your mind this time? you seemed a bit occupied by that head of yours. Always overthinking, preparing for incidents that may never happen, again?" Mickon asked with a taunting smirk on his face, -"...or did the piss went up your head since the promotion to a Knight Captain?" he added after sneaking a peek to Jerals’ shoulder. -"As a matter of fact, neither," Replied Jeral, evidently trying to conceal a smirk of his own -"I am concerned about Keith. He is disregarding his studies again, and it seems like I have lost my influence over him, with all the work I have as a Captain now. I know he's getting bored quite fast without proper stimulation for that quick mind of his, and he passed his apprenticeship tests for the Strength of Body and Strength of Mind quite easily, but his Instructor informed me that he has too many deep questions about the Faith for his age, and is not sure if he's anywhere near to have the maturity or resolve to choose his own path. He questions everything, yet doesn't even try to find answers on his own. He wants them on a silver platter." Jeral explained methodically as if reading from a list. -"Quite odd for a fifteen-years old who was born into the Order, rather than joining it like we did, don't you think?" he added with a concerned voice as he returned his sight to watch the fields. Mickon looked around for a brief moment before replying with slight hesitation -"You should give him more time. Don't forget that he has you as a father on one side- with all that straightforward thinking, and the stories he hears from us since he was born on the other side, that make it seems as if WE did whatever we wanted at his age. Maybe I should have a talk with him and explain that our way of life back then was more of a survival instinct than doing whatever we wanted? He doesn't have to face those choices here, apart from the siege that is threatening us all, he is not under any direct danger here. HE has a home." He summed and after a short breath he added -"But I'm not sure if that's the real reason for his behavior. It might be that he is just as adventurous as you are, Jeral, probably even smarter than you- and I know how difficult THAT is for you to accept." Mickon added with yet another taunting smirk. -"I guess you're right about that point", said Jeral and released a grin of amusement, "But which ever choice he makes, he should make it as soon as possible," he continued with a more serious face, -"Time is not on our side, Mickon". -"You say that for years now, Jeral", replied Mickon with a nostalgic smile, -"...Yet here we are, talking about a kid you'd never even think you'd live long enough to have". They both went silent for a couple of moments as their minds wandered to days of past, watching the quiet, yet fearful view from the Great Wall.

-"I can see you've come back from a scouting mission..." said Jeral suddenly, after a quick observation of his comrades' dusty appearance. Mickon wore the same outfit, except from the bow- which was absent- evidently replaced by half a dozen of extra throwing knives and darts on his waistline, and on his shoulder plate- only two silver suns. -"...Any news? how many reinforcements did they get today?". Mickon closed his eyes, as if trying to focus a picture up his mind before answering -"around five thousand infantries, another three-hundred horseriders, around fifty trison as well- armoured quite heavily judging by the depth of their marks on the sand... and approximately thirty more catapults. It seems like this time around they decided not to underestimate us and want to end it quickly, after all those years. Over the past two months they have tripled their numbers, so I guess this is it now- just a matter of time until the final showdown begins, no?". -"Yes, I guess you are right...” Jeral replied with a grim expression on his face, –“Last round they did not expect our tunnels, but I don't believe they would fall for that again, as their recent activity involved redirecting the Bahdi river to the east. The tunnel web is mostly flooded, and we've lost seventeen scouts following this incident because they had nowhere to escape after being spotted." Jeral summed up. -"Anyone from our band?" asked Mickon with a concerned tone in his voice. "Yes," replied Jeral stiffly, avoiding eye contact before continuing, -"...Liz and Yarden...they were among them. An unlucky incident as well- a raven was shot down right above them, apparently headed from the Ziggurat towards the enemy encampment with a negative reply to their demands for our surrendering. They were just about to camouflage themselves for an ambush according to their tracker who survived, but were not fast enough when the enemy riders appeared just around the corner to collect the message."

Mickon took a few consecutive deep breaths, closed his eyes and formed a firm fist, trying to conceal the sudden grief, as Jerals’ hand laid upon his shoulder. Liz was his younger sister, and the only blood-related family he had left ever since they've escaped the war-struck village they were born at, far in the west. Yarden was a close friend as well, on top of being Liz's husband. They all grew up together, and shared a long, painful history ever since they were kids. Jeral looked at him with a blank gaze, and for a moment his face formed an expression- unlikely of him- full of grief and sympathy. Although he was Mickons best friend for over fourty years, he couldn't find any words worthy enough to comfort him. He knew that Mickon was always strong-hearted even when they were kids, but he was also aware of Mickons' fears, doubts and hardships, even when he masterfully masked them for Lizs' sake.

-“I’m sorry to be the bearer of grim news, Mickon…” Jeral said weakly after a while, uncertain about how to dissolve the silence, “You know she was like my own sister as well”. “It was just a matter of time, like it always was for every single one of us…” replied Mickon with a shattered voice, trying to regain his posture, - “I take it that this incident was not supposed to be known below Captains’ ranks?” asked Mickon, eying Jerals’ blank face for a brief moment. –“No, it is not,” Jeral replied in slight discomfort, -“However as you are a close sibling, and belong to the same squad as her, I don’t believe the regular rules are applied. Besides, the scouting corps are the only squads who are not allowed to publicly pay respects to their dead even among ourselves, due to the nature of our activities. If anything, that would be the only rule I would discard with a heart empty of disloyal feelings. For a close friend who is more like family- more so.” He continued while covering his rank with his hand on the shoulder absentmindedly. – “I will keep it to myself, in that case…” replied Mickon with rebuke in his voice, - “Thank you for telling me in person, I wouldn’t want to discover it by any other means”.

Both men stood in a silence too familiar, which you could only feel comfortable with after knowing one another as long as they did. Words were not necessary, as there was no combination of them to bear the meaning this silence held. It wore the shape of shared memories, it screamed the mutual grief, and it whispered the deep knowledge of a simple truth they both learnt to accept- their time was borrowed since the very beginning of their lives.


Good luck ;)