The Legacy of Samuel Blackwood

[The Tattered Prince]

The Wolf

[Theme]

" Do you even care about anyone!? " Sethaelia's words were as barbs that bled him. A flinch forming at the corners of his eyes, where the usual warmth and laughter had faded. Ashen depths no longer carried the strength of their master, but rather, pain and sorrow that threatened to swallow him whole. It was a darkness, spreading through him like a blight, corrupting the Drodain's heart. And, as the wildflower in the midst of winter's grasp, when the heart dies, so too does the beast. He could feel himself reeling, uncertain and emotional. Voices carried on conversations around him, but he heard none of it.

Lady Margaret finished tending to his wound, an infected hematoma suffered in the wilds, and exacerbated by Gryhun's brutal treatment of his miserable form. Thorn, thanked the doctor for her services, and then the group parted ways, leaving the Midlander to discover his purpose once more.

And it came in the form of an Inquisitor's black robes.

" We are the tip of the spear for the Inquisition. "

Victoria informed, speaking in gentle tones across the small distance between them. A black wide-brimmed hat clutched between her iron-clad digits. She smiled gently, a strange view to be certain. The Witch-Hunter was encased in heavy armor, and carried an assortment of arms for the task to which she was dedicated. It was awe-inspiring to say the least. She was not altogether unlike the Templar he had met, showing a dedication to the Church above all else, including the petty squabbling between the factions in Fort Praesidium. And, the offer to join their Reclamation was made, to which Thorn eagerly accepted -- perhaps now, he might learn to become a formidable warrior, or at the very least, learn to defend those he cared about. His mind turned back toward Sethaelia Vhaire, little bird as it were, and he felt a light tingle in his face. Perhaps in time she could learn to forgive him of his stupidity. But, first, he would have to prove that he was a changed man.

" I am humbled and honored for your invitation, Victoria. I accept. "

Her smile softened at Thorn's words, offering the wide-brimmed hat across to him.

" It's tradition, for the hat, a symbol of our power, to be passed down. "

Then, her voice dropped a few octaves, the mirth of just moments past absent from her tone.

"Oh, one more thing. If you betray us, I will flay you myself. "

[The Tattered Prince]

The Flame, Part III

[Theme]

"It is an ancient language, my dear Thorn, one lost to us. These are words of magic."

It was a familiar voice that carried the words, confidence and kindness in their tone. It was dark, and he couldnt see the figure's face. It would have been impossible to identify them at all, so many of the Fort's inhabitants wore hoods and concealed their faces. He listened, as the voice continued, informing him of the origins, and evolution of magic, and how it may have been used by the first Decusians during the formative years of the Kingdom. Yet, there were factions on both sides of the coin that sought to manipulate and control it through one authority or another. This person, whomever they were, seemed to think the corruption of these powers was absolute and irreversible. He could utter no words to the contrary. He didnt even know that the strange shapes on parchment he had found were supernal in nature, thinking them some silly child's drawing. He pictured a Templar's daughter using painted fingers to smear shapes on the paper. Oh, how he was mistaken.

" Commit them to memory, Thorn. "

So he did, and one day, perhaps, he would be able to identify a true threat to their world. He remembered Victoria's words then, and a slight smile pulled at his lips. He was slowly arming himself for their next mission, whatever or whomever it was.




Magic. It wasn't the first time he had heard the word, and yet the concept seemed so completely foreign to him. A man could speak some words, and make a gesture with their hand, somehow bending the world to their will. Some believed the words to be divine, reaching back to the very creation of Eden.

Thorn? He wasn't sure what he believed, only that the power was very real, and could be quite destructive if it was allowed to fall into the wrong hands. No longer was the Drodain a mere farmer, no longer were his sleek arrows intended for small game, but rather, his eye turned toward his new purpose, the hunt.

The Inquisition was coming, and he leaned into it.

[The Tattered Prince]

The Forge

[Theme]

Ashen were the rains, solemn and silent, casting an eerie veil across the haunting remnants of Briar's Hollow. The townsfolk milled about, like strange revenants whom were incapable of moving on. Their gaze felt empty, cold, and somehow inhuman. It was only fitting for a place like this where the Flame lived only in name, like some long-forgotten story.

A splash of crimson draped across a sea of black. Thorn was a familiar sight among the various denizens of Briar's Hollow. But, he was also an unknown, a foreign element, untrusted by the people. And, that was as it should be, the Inquisition was not known for its kindness. Samuel was a stranger here, and a stranger he would remain, doing little to ingratiate himself to the residents. He brought coin, and drank frequently from the Briar's exotic stores. It helped to dull the ache of a wound that refused to heal. But, it also worked to diminish the Midlander's inner light.


"Another.."

Blackwood's voice called out, accompanied by a lifted hand to wave down the barkeep. His voice was quiet, but it carried easily across the small tavern. His tankard was filled, and the glinting silver coin snatched away. Black fletched arrows, Blackwood's calling card, sat in a quiver nestled against the foot of the bar, accompanied by the bow, and a hand-and-a-half blade within it's supple leather sheath. But, he was far from unarmed, a brace of hand-length blades, tapered elegantly to form a pleasantly slender aesthetic, was strapped around his left thigh, and another short, but broad blade, was hidden at the small of his back. These weapons were specifically designed for close quarters, something he didnt often find himself in, on account for his skill with the bow.

A black clad hand moved slowly to take up the drink, his dark eyes clouded by the fermented concoction. He was heavy into his cups, and it showed by his exaggerated movements. But, there was a warmth which still lingered along the edges of the man's bearded features. Not all of Thorn had been given over to the wolves, not all of him had been claimed by the Inquisition's flame. Yet, he was not the same man, and that much was easily discerned by those who had known the simple adventurer who had come to the First Province seeking song and story.

"She never knew.. "

He said, to no one in particular. Gloved digits moving along the curvature of the stout glass. Ashen depths anchored on the nearby hearth, the dancing tendrils of light drawing to the surface a memory not so distant.

There, in his mind's eye, a shrouded figure moved through the twisted boughs of the dark forest. A second figure right beside her, moving gracefully through the shadows. An arrow nocked, trained just ahead of them, its dark fletching muted against the dark outcropping of his perch. It would have been a simple thing to let loose, to extinguish a flame without ever being seen. And the Briarwood could drink of their essence, and feed upon the nutrients of their lifeless bodies. Yet, something stayed his hand, and the archer relaxed into the shadows of the silent grey mountains. He was not a murderer, and murder it would have been, no matter the justification. This wasnt the man that Thorn wanted to become, a hollow and haunted man, driven only by a zeal for the Flame. He exhaled slowly, the targets having moved beyond his range, and descended into the Briar's ardent embrace once more.

Balance was ever precarious in these parts, resting upon the paper thin edge of justice and compassion. And, he was no arbiter of the faith, nor marshal of law, to be deciding on the fate of another soul.

[The Tattered Prince]

The Wolf, Part II

[Theme]

Sacrifice had been thrust into the soft, fertile soil -- standing as a silent watchman, her slender shadow cast across the dark-clad man crumpled beneath her vigil. An inky black cloak, worn and tattered by the influence of the persistent forces of time, was wrapped around his thick frame. His knees were bent up, tucked as best they could be against his chest where thick arms curled against his body. A bundle of cloth and leather had been folded beneath his head to form a cushion against the ground. A set of dark ashen depths were open and staring off at some distant point in the dark. He could hear the baying calls of the pack just beyond the small glade, but he did not rise.

Victoria Black, his sister-in-arms, was dead -- and, those he thought were good people, worthy of his sacrifice, of protection against the darkness which threatened to consume them, had turned on him. It had not been a matter of justice -- there was no justice here, in this den of liars and thieves, each trying to play and manipulate the next. And, Samuel, who had only ever uttered his true name to two living souls, one of who which was now dead, was a wanted man. It was a bitter irony, the kind that left a bad taste in your mouth. A betrayal so deep that he didn't want to live. It twisted in his gut, making the Midlander heartsick.




" Do it.. end it, my love, and come back to me.. "

A voice, her voice, seemed to say -- dark clad digits clutching one of the slender blades he kept in a brace on his left thigh. It's sharp point beckoning him to pierce the flesh and let the sweet crimson vitae run into the fertile soils. A shuttering breath escaped him in that moment, and the blade tumbled from his fingers to strike the ground beside him. Though, the sweet release of death called to him, the once beloved Bard did not give in to the demons which pulled at him. Ashen depths closed, and his arms wrapped tightly against his thick frame. It would be a simple thing to finish the job before his former friends came looking for him -- eager for the taste of silver and revenge. But, he would not give them such ease. If they wanted to hunt a monster, he would give them a monster.

They would come for the man. But they would find a wolf.

[The Tattered Prince]

The Forge, Part II

“My true name is Samuel Blackwood, but people call me Thorn…”

He had said, revealing his true identity to Lady Victoria. She smiled, in that way she did, like someone told a joke, and she was the only one who knew it. It was a wry, infectious smile that was hard to resist -- and, perhaps, it was the only soft thing about her. At least, that's the way it felt sometimes.

“ Thorn's a good name.. “

He still remembered the way she guarded his name from the prying ears of Fort Praesidium's inhabitants. Presumably, keeping his given name a secret even from those that loved her. It was a sort of currency, a means of establishing trust with one's closest friends and confidants. His true name held no power, no great revelations. It did not diminish the mystery, or the strength of his character. It was a simple matter of establishing a connection with those he thought worthy of the knowledge. And, there were few people here that he truly believed worthy.

Now, there was one less.



A black fletched arrow hissed softly as it lanced across the dark courtyard of the fallen monastery. A ribbon of bright red blood arcing through the dim moonlit yard. Arthur's form was covered from head to toe in forge hardened plate over a layer of thick boiled leather. And there was few places along the man's lumbering form where blade or barb could find purchase; but, Thorn's eye caught sight of a weakness early on. Arthur needed to expose a gap in his axillary to be able to strike against his opponent. For what it was worth, Arthur fought like a beast, going toe-to-toe with Lady Victoria, but when Thorn's arrows started whistling through the air, the squire knew well that he would stand a better chance running from the wolves. And, so he did -- and it worked for a time, as the heavily armored man was able to shake both Lady Victoria and Ser Delavious. But, he did not account for the hunter.

Thorn found the squire kneeling in an open glade, completely exposed as he tried to arm a trap of some sort. The first arrow struck true, biting deep into the joint of Arthur's left knee, but thr man was not so easily felled, empowered as he was by a sense of righteous fury. The larger man rolled to the side, lifting his shield in time to intercept the next two arrows. He moved in, attempting to herd Thorn into the valley of traps, but the hunter was not so easily fooled. He moved easily around the mechanisms, firing quick ineffectual shots which glanced off the thick plates of Arthur's armor. The battle came to a stand still, and time was not on the squire's side. So, he dove back into the caves, either hoping to lure the Midlander down, or in a desperate attempt to escape. There was no way to know what eas going through his head, but Thorn would not pursue. Instead, he rolled back, intercepting Victoria and Marcus to keep them from falling into the trap.

The squire’s scent lost, the wolves parted ways, moving through the Fort to ensure the man did not move to harm anyone else. But, such optimism was naive, and ultimately would cost the pack it's leader, and leave Thorn a wanted man for what he believed was a just cause.

Now, exiled from the Fort, the dark-clad Midlander took to the forest once more, his heart a shattered mess. And, his sole reason for survival was now a smoldering corpse upon the pyre.

As the final rays of light faded, so too did the warmth in Thorn's heart.

[The Tattered Prince]

The Hunt

Lady Margaret had taken the time to respond to his warning. It would have been amusing, had it not been so sad. It would seem, for now, that the doctor and her colleagues had chosen their side. Shield the nefarious Captain Ellery from the very judgment he deserved. It was an irony, to be sure, that the people would cry out for justice, yet turn their back when given such an opportunity. Though, it was not unexpected; afterall, the heretic Arthur Gibbs had been their friend, and people tended to make exceptions to moral justice when it involved their friends. Heck, he had done the same thing when Lady Victoria approached him with the mission to apprehend Arthur Gibbs. It was Victoria who had saved Thorn from a dark path threatening to swallow him whole when Sethaelia and her toy had betrayed his trust. He had felt honor-bound, driven by loyalty to his sister-in-arms, when she approached him with the accusations.




"So, you have chosen..."

His voice rattled through the metallic mask that guarded his bearded features from view. Dark, ashen depths narrowed dangerously on the inky script which might as well have been written in blood. A slender blade was slammed into parchment, driven as much by hate as it was a sense of betrayal.

"How many lives could you have saved had you just swallowed your pride? A pity.. but.. perhaps from the purification of flame, a new light will rise in your place.

Look to your sins, Margaret.. I am coming for you."

He turned away, a dark cloak spiraling around him like a living shadow. A hand moved to the leather-wrapped hilt of the longsword at his his side, adjusting the way it hung from the belt at his waist. This helped to shift the weight away from his hips for a moment. It was more habit than anything else. And so he went, looking to end something that should never had started to begin with.