The Halfhand

[The Tattered Prince]

Brandr the Halfhand

[Theme]

Brandr, son of Grimr Sorensen, otherwise known as The Halfhand on account of the fact that he is missing his pinky and ring finger on his left hand, is somewhere between twenty-five and thirty winters. Though, one might be more inclined to believe the elder end of the spectrum due to the Ostein's countenance and demeanor. He has a rough, loud, and unapologetic tone, which seems quite typical for a brute of his size. Brandr easily dwarfs the common southron man, standing at approximately six-foot-five, and weighing near enough to three-hundred pounds as makes no matter. His hair is a deep red, and during the winter months, seems to take more of an auburn hue. The bear's mane frames a plain face, and bright green eyes. His arms are large, toned by a youth spent in the tills, felling the ancient trees and hewing them into various forms of trophy, shield, or furnishing. In fact, the hardwood that their family cultivated was so sought after that Volgen sellswords made numerous attempts to sieze Sorensen's land for themselves -- it was during one such raid that Brandr tells of his hand being hewn by a Volgen blade meant for his young brother's head. In short, Brandr is a tough son of a bitch, and he lets everyone know it when they cross the line.

[The Tattered Prince]

Chapter I

Discovery

A soft growl rolled from the titan's throat like the gentle rumble of a distant thunderstorm. In his right hand, which was encased in supple leather and soft cloth wraps, a flailing body held firmly by the throat. The abomination's limbs, weakened by atrophy and decay, flailing weakly against the warlock's thick arms. His eyes, a stunningly vibrant tapestry of green, seemed to be glowing gently, like eerie green fireflies in the dark. A silver-blue light formed, arcing around the man's massive arm, and coiled around until it poured into the waiting ashen flesh of the undead figure. The putrid smell of burning flesh soon permeated the area, and the lifeless corpse was tossed aside with a sickening crunch as flesh and bone struck the side of the jagged mountainside. This done, he turned away, shaking his hand a bit, as if to release the last clinging particles of static energy into the world around him. His face was a mask of indifference, but within those luminescent greens, a much deeper emotion raged within.

" Rest.. "

His voice called out, a thunderous thing, but not unkind in the moment. He turned away, offended by the scent of yet smoldering flesh, and began to make his way back toward Fort Praesidium, where he had intended to taste of the local culinary. But, such a leisure was beyond his reach on this day. Instead, drawing upon his power again, in an attempt to subdue a blackbird's incessant calls, he had been exposed for the monsterhe was -- that is to say, that he would be seen as a monster in the eyes of a cultist. Yet, it must have been divine providence itself that protected the warlock, for the would-be assassin fumbled with his mechanisms, and drew the Halfhand's attention. He knew well what such a thing meant, having been warned by Emerald Eyeswithin the watchtower. Instead of drawing upon the dormant power once more, he retreated, moving with surprising alacrity toward the Fort's sanctuary.

There, a confrontation between the purple clad hunter, and the quiet bear of a man would take place. The details of which would be lost to anyone who had not been present to observe them. [Information here is redacted to protect both characters from unfair biases.] The conflict ending, Halfhand left the Fort behind, and traveled into the twisted, blackened land beyond, where nothing but death and despair waited for those stupid enough to travel through them.

It was here, the warlock, discovered and exiled from his former sanctuary, would find the next sign of a divine presence guiding him. Blessed be the keepers of the sacred flame. Blessed be the vigil.

[The Tattered Prince]

Discovery, Part II

[theme]

" ... and by the looks of you, the wanted man. " The shrouded figure spoke, gesturing with a hand toward Brandr's position. His fingers, all eight of them, seemed to flex slightly, as if to test any resistance in the air around them. His eyes, as seas of green, watched the stranger quietly for a time, before speaking. The Halfhand's common tongue was broken, brutal, and did not flow quite right. But, there was a sense of innocence to the man's tone. His inflections did not seem to communicate a preparation for battle, or a feeling of agitation.

" I am called Halfhand. You are witchhunter? "

The shrouded figure's head tilted to one side, considering his words before replying.

" I am not certain that I am, but nor am I certain that I am not. "

Brandr's posture seemed to relax then, broad shoulders easing back a few degrees. Finally, upon request, the man dipped a hand into a secret pocket sewn within his tunic and provided a small folded up parchment. Upon it, a broken seal, and neat penwomanship that identified the bearer as "Brandr" and an authorized mage. He was not a consortium mage, but he was not to be hunted as an apostate either. And, the shrouded figure seemed to be content with that. That made two people. Two people who knew his birth-name, from having read his writ, and two people who defied the warrant for his death.

" Perhaps we shall meet again, Mage. Do not get caught by these witchhunters, I would not wish such a death upon you. "

Though he did not have a number, as it is told that the consortium once gave to it's members, he did have a pseudonym, and that should be enough to protect him for now. Knowledge was passed between the two, but their blood would not water the rich soils of Tenebrae's dark soil. And so, the two parted ways. The stranger north, and the warlock south where sparks of light would illuminate the cloud-darkened skies as he brought his eldritch might against the abominations that walked the fortification's remnants.

[The Tattered Prince]

Our Chains Are Broken, Part I

[theme]

" We have little choice... "

A man's voice, thickened by the gravitas of time and experience, carried easily through the veil of darkness. Everything at night, including the Warlock's robes were shades of grey, and it became utterly impossible to identify the shrouded figure with any amount of certainty were it not for his particular pattern of speech. A foreign thing here where snarky-tongued rogues and self-aggrandizing warriors were more common place.

" This is so. Chains must be broken, Outlander. "

Brandr was a deal easier to identify, as an Ostien, standing head and shoulders above even the tallest of easterners. His long reddish-brown hair easily falling past a set of broad shoulders. Here and there, light would catch a bit silver braided into the auburn sea which framed a thickly bearded angular face.

" It is as you say, Halfhand -- "

The Outlander's hooded visage turned slightly, casting their gaze just beyond the giant, considering the waystation hidden amongst sheets of silvery fog, and the inky darkness present before the coming of the dawn. There, one might spy the ruined, twisted, shapes of the ill-born remnants which haunted this place, ever restless, agitated by the presence of the living.

" We cannot allow what is left of our world to slip into the cacophony of the void, or the ill-sworn which rise now in greater numbers will find little resistance in the East. "

The Halfhand's head turned, allowing emerald depths to drift along the line of his left shoulder, looking back to the ruined town. Two blades dancing elegantly in the silvery sheen, as others of their cause cut through the hordes of the forsaken like a shoal of slender bodied fish through the depths, unhindered by its current.

Our chains are broken, he thought.

And so, it began.