The Light of Dwythyr

[The Broken Sword]

♛

Azrael Rhyn

“What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others.”

- Peracles

[[ Most spoilers redacted, but minor ones below - read at your own risk. DO NOT METAGAME! ]]

Theme

Appearance

Physical Description:

Whereas his son was a tall and slender man, Azrael Rhyn easily stands head and shoulders above the average male, and his form is heavy with corded muscle. Skin bronzed by the unforgiving deserts of the Western Territories is covered by swiling patterns that the Firstborn of the Dwythyr Bloodline had claimed granted strength and protection to those that earned them. A long, unshorn mane, the color of a pale sun was a distinct family trait, as were the bits of silver worn among slender braids within the rivers of free flowing hair. This framed a clean shaven face, but where his son had been stunningly good-looking, the father had a stern and unforgiving face, as though this very existence displeased him greatly. Eyes the color of an unblemished sky are clear and sharp, but they carry the wrinkles of age from time to time. His movement too is slow, and measured, the aging Westerner seeming to favor his right leg whenever the journey is long, or the weather damp. No longer is he the spry young man who came to Tor in search of a cure for his wife all those years ago.

Personality

Attributes:

One might describe Azrael as stern, unsociable, or stubborn; but, in reality, this is merely a façade of a man bereft with the grief of losing his beloved wife and son. Although he is governed by what some might say is the Throne of Pride, the man has not entirely given himself over to such. And, for those that come to know him, or are allowed to catch glimpses of the man within, Azrael can be said to be loyal, protective, and genuine. Among the more easily discerned characteristics of this refugee's personality can seemingly be traced back to his life in Nemus -- and that is his rebellious spirit.

[The Broken Sword]

Before the Rumbling Pass

"Are you not the hero in your own story?"

The familiar voice echoed through his mind. Intermingling with others like so many ripples upon the surface of a wind-swept lake. It was a distant memory now. But, the meaning behind the man's words remained the same. It was a short conversation, between the two, as he made preparations to leave Tor. He'd seen it all before out west. The quarantines, the curfews -- soldiers patrolling the streets looking to enforce a reclusive council's edicts. He knew that the Heartwood district was going to fall, that even the city's greatest "heroes" couldn't stop it from happening. He warned them, but they would not listen -- few ever did. So, he made his preparations, making way through the hidden passageways of the ancient city beneath Tor's cobblestone streets.

"They're sheep, Corvinus... protect them if you can. Just... don't die. "

Azrael could see the man's half-smile, poorly shrouded by shadows cast by the ridiculous hat the thief liked to wear. It did nothing to comfort him.

"Sheep? I like that. Look after yourself, my friend. I shall be the shepherd. "

These were the last words to be spoken between the two before the city fell. And, he often wondered what happened to the enigmatic young man. Perhaps, he thought, his friend made it out of the city, and led some number of Torian refugees to safety -- but, he knew better than to hope. Hope had died the night the Republic's military began to slaughter citizens in the streets at the behest of the so-called 'War Bishop'.

But, he would not be there to see it. He was not a hero. He was simply alive.

[The Broken Sword]

After the Rumbling Pass

An orangish-red light flickered quietly within the hearth's stone enclosure. Peppering the soft murmur of nearby conversations with the erratic popping of embers. Azrael huddled close, cursing the climate of the First Province which permeated deep within the Westerner's bones. It was for this reason that he was rarely seen without the thick leathers, furs, and heavy cloak that wrapped around his long frame. Nearby, a longspear leaned against the wall, still within reach, but angled at such a manner as to convey a sense of safety and peace for any that might peer in his direction. A small vessel which contained his drink of choice was closer still, and more likely to be used if the tavern began to fill up again.

"Do you understand yet?"


He spoke softly, but loudly enough that anyone whom shared that small nook would be able to overhear, provided they could speak the Westerner's tongue. Yet, it wasn't fair to say it was his tongue, having been born somewhere in the northern reaches of the Midlands -- and, due to nature of his family's business, relocated in the Western Territories at an early age. Early enough that Azrael identified more with the culture of his adopted homeland than he did with that of his place of birth.

"Or, have we forgotten what our purpose is in this forsaken place?"

Azrael pondered, as he typically did, aloud. The soft rumble of his voice doing little to distract his mind from the images of the fallen city -- of the chaos that had only begun as he escaped to the west. Sadly, few people had answers for him, and those that did, often remains ambivalent and uncommited. And, who could blame them? The Republic had ears everywhere. Perhaps someday soon, a brave soul might join him beside the heart, and speak candidly of their reality; and, perhaps on that day, Azrael would share his own story.

Until then, he would wait, biding his time -- and drinking his wine. After all, he was no hero.

[The Broken Sword]

Ouroboros

Theme

Fort Praesidium was an empty shell -- a pale shadow of its former glory. At one time, the great stone walls had garrisoned a respectable force of Templar and Legionnaires. But, that was a long time ago, long before the fall of the nearby monastery. Now, it served as a refuge for those that sought a new life in the First Province. Here, a mix-matched retinue of Gendarmerie, Mercenaries, and Conscripts patrolled her streets. It was barely enough to keep the place standing against the encroaching darkness. A darkness which seemed to hemorrhage from Tor itself.

In his time here, Azrael had only come to meet two individuals, Nola and Gryhun -- and, to him, they seemed harmless enough. Nola was not the most talkative, but Gryhun more than made up for her lacking. It seemed that they were bound to this place, enthused in the improvements and renovations that they had personally sought to accomplish with the assistance of the local Foundry officials. He mustered what joy he could for their accomplishments in this bleak, decaying place -- but, truly, he could not feel anything beyond the cold apathy that clung to him like a shroud. He cared little for creature comforts; but, that was not new, and it was not the result of the Torment which ravaged Vitaveus. It was a product of his upbringing in the West. A lesson that he had never passed along to his son, Arthwys.

"The Consortium placed you in chains, my boy, and sold you to the highest bidder. "

Still, he could picture his son's face. Even after all this time. And, the First Provincial Circle had much to answer for; but he could not gain access to their tower. Arthwys was missing, and it seemed that none remained who could tell him of his son. It was his sole focus, and until he had answers, nothing else mattered.

[The Broken Sword]

The Flame

Theme

There's a small place well to the north of the former Legion fortress of Praesidium, a quiet trading post nestled alongside a meandering waterway. Quieter now, it would seem, after the Inquisition had finished with it. Further to the north, an outpost that had once belonged to the Legion as well also remains -- a vacant throne. Here, where brave men and women of the Republic once found respite in a soldier's fraternity, only shadows lingered. Here, in what the locals have come to call ‘Tenebrae’, no community has thrived for very long. Whether by famine, or by war, all life is driven into the dust.

Azrael knew the story before ever hearing it dance upon the tongue of survivors – before reading their words made large by local print. It was a familiar song. One of ambition; a thirst for the neighbor’s wine. So it was now, as it had been before in the streets of Tor.

Fort Praesidium was a crucible awaiting the flame, and her people sat none the wiser, like slag ready to be burned away in the forging of her steel.

“Yet, there is a beauty in her destructive nature.”

He moved to the edge of the ruined watchtower, where he held a gloved hand aloft. There, a single point of light hovered a few inches above his flattened palm. This flickering marble of light was, in truth, a wonder. You see, it is taught by the faithful that the Arch-Angels had created man as they had been created: Of the flame, and with the power to wield it. And, so eager were men to wield this power that they blinded themselves to the truth. As in nature, fire consume.

Suddenly, the gentle light erupted into large tendrils of flame, swirling like fiery tongues against the silken darkness that veiled Riverside. He felt the warmth of creation flooding down his fingers, into his hand, and down his arm. And, that power was seductive. A sea of golden hair braided and draped across his shoulder gleamed brilliantly in the fabrication of flame. His eyes were alight with the pain he felt in his heart -- pain that transformed with the light -- hungry, like the flame. It called to him, in its way, drawing him away from his humanity. Until..

Gloved fingers curled tightly and the flame diminished into nothingness. Banished from Eden. But, it was too late -- he had tasted of the gift his son had died for. There was no turning back now.

[The Broken Sword]

The Crucible

Theme

It was carnage as far as the eye could see -- which was not far, on account of the tendrils of black smoke billowing from stacks of charred wood. Bodies lay, in various states of incineration, smoldering among the ruins of the pit. In truth, had it not been for the stench of burning flesh, the contained island would have been a welcome respite from the damp chill that seemed to cling to the air as Frostmarch fast approached.

Azrael knelt nearby, the words rolling off his tongue like honey over thunder. His eyes, normally an inkwell of vibrant color, seemed almost darker now. His voice was different too. It was almost as though an echo cascaded around the words of principatus. It was as an overflowing glass; and, the rushing currents of power twisted into reality with a sudden crash of light that could have easily been mistaken for an explosion in that smokey haze.

But, this was no lightning strike, nor had a bomb gone off. Instead, light poured around Azrael's gloved hands across a gash across his left thigh. Immediately, the pain subsided, and a warmth flooded through his limb. Ruined flesh and bruised bone were made whole again. Still, despite the miraculous deed, he felt emptier somehow. And, the choir of strange voices that had seemingly joined his own, continued to whisper around him even as the borrowed power faded. Nothing came without a price.

Later, as he returned to the narrow and oft-crowded streets of Fort Praesidium, he would learn the truth of it.

"Oi, you!"

Lucien's voice cut through the crowded street with the sharpness of steel. This, naturally, drew his attention; and, he stopped to look back at the origin of the abrupt declaration. There he was, flanked by a pale woman wrapped in dark shrouds like some harbinger of death -- and another, who wore heavy armor and a heavier expression. Yet, it was Lucien that demanded his attention.


“Azrael.”


He corrected in an even-tempered tone. Still, a faint trickle of agitation rolled across the network of muscle and bone. He checked the sensation by folding his arms behind his back. Lucien had made the common courtesy of expressing regret at addressing him incorrectly. Whether he truly felt remorse or not was another thing. And, one that Azrael did not care to delve into on this day.


"This is the one."


Lucien said, informing his company -- later to be introduced. One, a man who quickly departed when he realized what was happening; and the other, Niamh, a close confidant of his son, Arthwys.


"I'm sorry for your loss."


In a manner of moments Azrael's reserved demeanor cracked, and anguish flashed across his statuesque countenance with a fury rivaled by the Tempest Sea. His left knee grew weak, and he took a step back to regain his balance. And, regain it he did, as gloved digits came forward to straighten his jacket. The tugging of taut cloth across his broad shoulders was enough to center him. Though, in truth, much of what was said after the revelation of his son's death was lost on him. He offered what comfort he could to Niamh, who seemed to have cared for his son a great deal -- and his gratitude to Lucien who had given him the closure he so desperately had been seeking.

As he walked away, a ringing had overtaken his hearing, numbness prickled at his face and the tips of his fingers, his breath was shallow, and his vision blurred. His son was dead. Arthwys was gone. His strength, his heart, his light... his son.

Azrael stumbled back through the portcullis, his armor sundered, and his power diminished.