The Legacy of Samuel Blackwood

[The Tattered Prince]

[Biography] - [Journal] - [Intro] - [Screenshots]

" Sheep, like people, are ungovernable when hungry. "
- John Muir

Samuel Blackwood

"The Dark Thorn"

"A sword unsheathed loses its true power."
- Samuel Blackwood

He stands slightly above the average height of a man from the Eastern Baronies, with eyes of ashen grey like that of a distant stone tower found among the ruins of the countryside. His hair is the color of iron, kept short, and his strong jaw is framed by a well-groomed beard. He appears to be healthy, perhaps carrying a tad more weight than is aesthetically pleasing; his physical health, at the age of 37, is starting to catch up with him. A clean scar runs across the man’s left eye, beginning above the eyebrow and continuing toward his cheekbone. Another begins just above his jaw, and reaching down toward his neck. His complexion is light; having spent long hours indoors.

Sam, Thorn, Blackthorn, Hey You With The Face, or whatever name he goes by, carries no markings of allegiance, no claims of authority or influence within the various branches of the Venerated Republic. Instead, one might find that the Torian quietly boasts a freedom of any such attachments, instead seeking to better the lives of those around him, and his own in the process. Though his clothes are never quite pristine, he generally looks and smells pleasant. He carries a number of satchels, pouches, and bags to hold his various tools, trinkets, and gadgets, but do not let this fool you, the man also possesses the skills of a hunter. On his back, a longbow and sleek black arrows, at his hip a longsword, and at the small of his back, a hunting knife. He wears a number of rings, bracelets, necklaces, and trinkets that tell a tale of a well-traveled man.

His voice is honey, and his fingers play along the strings of his lute with practiced ease. His journals are filled with important notes, and poetic nonsense both. And, he is more like to talk his way out of a situation than fight, but do not mistake the man for a coward, he is experienced in the world, and knows when it's time to fight.

[The Tattered Prince]

Journal Excerpts

21st of Highharvest, Rumbling Pass

I have recently arrived to the Rumbling Pass, where we are herded as cattle through quarantine protocols under the watchful gaze of faceless men in isolation equipment. It is cold and wet, and I am without the comfort of Alyia's beauty, may her soul return to the flame. I dreamt, last night, of Eden's birth. I have to write about it. I have to get it out of my head.

I once read a paper on the theory that Eden was designed in such a way as to allow the temporal and metaphysical to interact without significant interference. In consideration of this particular school of thought, the physical world must be further reduced into primal elements which do infact share overlapping qualities. The recognizable of these being the language itself, dubbed "Principatus" or "Principal Language", for it is believed to have been the language of creation. It is by such observations, and indeed the recognition of these details, that will lead an inquisitive mind toward the forces which bind and manipulate this core principle.

In illustration of this theory, call upon the imagery of the surface of a small pond, quiet and still, unmoved by any external forces. Yet, when applied, any force can cause disruption to the water's serenity. So too, will the study and manifestation of the magic cause a stir and alter the qualities of our world, for good, or for worse.

This is too much for me to process right now. It sounds like nonsense.


26th of Highharvest, Fort Praesidium

The process was not nearly as terrible as I had thought it would be. The officiant was not altogether unpleasant, though the quality of life was dismal. We often huddled around miserable little campfires for warmth, drinking murky water, and eating strange boiled roots. I am glad to be out of there and among the people of Fort Praesidium.

[The Tattered Prince]

A Hero's Tale

[Theme]

Sacrifice, it was a strange name to give a sword, but all the Heros named their swords, right? The thing is, he was no hero, hell he was barely a survivor. He wasn't tall, or handsome, like the stories went. He wasn't exceptionally brave either. The Grey, a name he often gave to terrifying creatures, often caused him to lose footing and taste the bile of fear roiling within his stomach. He was strong, so there was that, but he also carried some extra weight that didn't scream "dream boat". He didn't have any interesting tattoos, just a couple of scars. But, he was clean, smelling quite pleasant for someone who could often be found sweating in the fields. You see, Samuel Blackwood of Briarthorne Deep, was a simple man, a traveler, a purveyor of song and story. He loved to play the lute, and sing about love and loss. He was quick to smile, and had a gentle laugh that might soothe one's soul. He was that guy in the story who bought the hero an ale, and ask for another awe-inspiring tale to drive away the darkness of the day. And, he knew it was important to share that feeling with those around him. Even the greatest warriors needed shelter from the storm.

What follows is one such tale...


It was a day as any other; Samuel had finished his work in the fields, harvesting the few precious vegetables and roots that survived in the dreary weather that seemed to cling to the First Province like a babe to their mother's teat. Leather, hardened by a boiling process, was secured around his thick frame, but it fit poorly and as such left him with irritated skin, bruises, and welts. He didn't much care for the way it felt, but he figured the claws and fangs of The Grey were much worse. Slowly, thick leather boots, worn by time and supple to the touch, carried him through the open portcullis into the awaiting arms of the dead. Sacrifice felt cumbersome in his grip. He wasn't quite accustom to the weight yet, normally having carried a small arming sword at his side for personal protection. He was not a warrior, and it showed as he swung in clumsy arcs, even the slow shambling abominations capable of moving out of the way if they didn't just swat an ineffective swing out of the way entirely. He was getting tired, and perspiration beaded on his brow.

That's when they showed themselves. A hero, wrapped in layers of intricate cloth, moving through the ranks of the Grey like they were so many droplets of rain hanging in the air. A blade darting this way and that, spraying ribbons of black-red blood, and breaking the horde's bulk into a manageable clutter of ruined bodies. He could not tell who they were, as the clothing seemed to flow with their every movement, and his eyes widened in wonder. Finally, someone who was capable of facing down this evil. He staggered back, grateful for the respite, though likely largely unnoticed by her stunning, but deeply telling eyes. "My name is Thorn..." He said weakly, waiting for the identity of his savior.

She whispered her name, the accent changing.. and then she walked away. And he felt oddly hollow.

[The Tattered Prince]

A Hero's Tale, Part II

[Theme]

It is said that confidence thrives on honor and honesty, on sacred duty and faithful protection without a thought for one's own mortality. It is a selflessness that is rarely seen in her truest form, and justice cannot live without honor's shield. Likewise, these principles of virtue that define the very best of what it means to be human is not assured in the hearts of those that surround us; and so, when such a light threatens to illuminate the darkness of the world, we must recognize the beauty, and stop to nurture the embers into a roaring fire.



Sacrifice felt heavy in his hands, blackened diseased blood painting her honed edge with a sickening gleam. The Flame had risen not long past, bringing light, but little warmth to the ancient walls of the Aiwella Monastery. Thorn was retreating a step, his ill-fitting leathers now sported more plates at the joints, and bits of chain he had pieced together from scraps he had found in the donation chest. He didn't look much like a warrior, more a beggar who chose his rags should be leather and metal rather than cloth. Still, there was determination in the man's ashen depths. He thought it only right and proper to cut down The Grey, and return their spark to the Sacred Flame itself, perhaps that would make things right again, even if only for a while.

His arms were heavy, screaming at the weight of his armor, and of Sacrifice itself. But, he could not give up now, inspired as he was by the story of Vance, a man from Tor, who he had spoken too outside of the crafting hall. Their conversation had been pleasant, and the Torian seemed dedicated to a noble path, one that Thorn could see himself following. So, it was only right that their paths should cross again in that dark, twisted place -- a battlefield, truly, which likely represented the death and destruction that lie ahead of them.

Vance was a war machine, the republic red cloak flowing behind him as he moved with purpose through the horde of abominations, his halberd bringing quick and certain devastation to anything that dared to oppose him. Not once did the Torian retreat from a foe, no inch of ground, nor pound of flesh, nor sacred heart's blood would be given to appease the mindless hordes of The Grey. It was a marvel to witness the man's skill, one that could only be described as awe-inspiring, only bringing to the fore his own clumsiness and lack of proper training with the blade. Yet, never once did Vance make him feel inferior, encouraging him as they fought shoulder-to-shoulder, as equals, and for that alone, the Torian would be lofted upon the pillars of virtue in the hearts of Man.

If there existed any one person that personified Honor on this day, it was the Torian soldier known simply as Vance.

[The Tattered Prince]

The Rose

[Theme]

It must certainly come as no surprise that of the eight pillars of virtue upon which the Venerated Republic stands, that Justice is chief among them, lofted as a paramount ideal for all who live beneath their banners. Yet, what is justice without the even hand of compassion but poorly veiled wrath? So much evil is done by good men in the name of justice, and yet, if we are true to our faith, the end cannot justify the means when it calls for needlessly feeding the Thrones.

A light, gentle and pure, though it throws back the darkness, can be smothered and diminished by the very hands that seek her warmth. But, perhaps with the right touch, that very light can grow and spread through the hearts and minds of those it touches.





Thorn was settled at the bar, a gentle smile painted across his bearded features as he nursed a small glass of cider. Dragomir, Radomir, and Birdymir were within the tavern, enjoying a quiet conversation nearby. Apparently, there was a darkness spreading within the walls of Fort Praesidium, but it was not the torment, as they suggested, but malice within the hearts of those that sought refuge here in the First Province. It bothered him, a little, that there were people fighting and killing each other whilst the Republic was falling apart and evil threatened to extinguish their very lives.

What did it matter who was right when all that is left of the world is ash and bone?

He wanted very much to establish a safe haven for those who wanted no part in this war. A sanctuary, where one might find food and drink, a warm fire and a clean bed to rest easy for a night. Yet, the pretty one, a young blonde by the name of "Birdy" was losing hope that such a thing could be obtained, instead yielding herself to the inevitable death of hope. It broke his heart that someone so young could feel so little confidence in the people around her. He wanted to reach out, take her hand, and show her that not all was lost, and there still existed beauty in this dark place. So, he moved as swiftly as possible, standing in the middle of the tavern to sing, and perhaps make them forget about their pain for a while.

And, that's just what happened.

[The Tattered Prince]

The Flame

[Theme]

It was only a light touch at the small of her back as he moved around her, but the silent gesture spoke volumes. The night had grown deep, and she lingered nearby, leaning a hip against the table he was working at, when all others had retreated indoors. She was so very close, and this brought a gentle smile to Thorn's bearded features. The tools were set aside, and he leaned to the right, resting his head against her side for a moment. And, what a moment it was. One that he would carry with him all the way through the next day. This time, upon discovering the wayward traveler at work, she invited him to the tavern to speak on his idea of establishing a "sanctuary" where one might succor from the ills of the world, and whatever demons haunted them. Yet, what they had spoken on was something else entirely, stirring something within his heart. He thought, perhaps, that for once, happiness was something that he could obtain. And, no longer would he have to spend his life on the road, passing through the lives of others like a character in some dusty old book.

They shared an evening in the orchard, stumbling through their budding emotions, and trying to understand what they truly felt, leaving only when night had fully enveloped them. With her head pressed against his shoulder, she confessed to feeling safe in his arms, something that he had never expected to hear. You see, he was a lousy swordsman, and a poor shot with the bow, but he knew his way around a stove, and upon his tongue any song would come alive in the hearts of those that could hear him. So, he still had his uses in a dark place such as this -- in giving hope to those that needed it most.





She had promised they would see each other again; but, he waited, and the Flame above set once more on an empty orchard. Crestfallen, he returned to the workshop, where a Templar by the name of Alexander was speaking on the functions and beliefs of the Church. He listened with an eager heart. Perhaps he could find meaning in serving the Eight, as so many others seemed keen on doing. Perhaps the man could even teach him to become a better warrior, and face The Grey without fear in his heart. Perhaps he would find meaning in his life again.

Perhaps... Perhaps... Perhaps...

[The Tattered Prince]

The Flame, Part II

[Theme]

"Though your path may be stained with blood, thou art not violence."

Samuel had implored, asking the Templar to share some of his insight on the faith, and what followed was nothing less than inspiring. He had been lost, ever since the events in Raven's Bridge, and turned toward the First Province in an effort to escape those particular demons. The thing is, you can't run from yourself, and sooner or later those things will catch up with you. Strangely enough, Alexander's words were comforting, seeming to allude to the fact that people were not forever cursed by their deeds, but rather, can find redemption. It encouraged the Drodain to step outside of his comfort, and seek something new.

A leather-clad hand clutched Sacrifice by the sheath, just below the cross-guard, making the blade easier to carry through the narrow streets. Heavy leather boots guiding his steps toward the Church, where the monumental archways, stained glass, and artistic depictions of the virtues awaited him.

This was new to him. He had been raised to value the Virtues, but he had never really practiced anything formally. Uncertain of himself, he knelt before the altar, and bowed his head beneath the long shadow of its peak. The Church was empty, but someone had recently lit the candles, a subtle warmth flooding through the great hall. And for the first time, since perhaps his childhood, the wayward traveler prayed.






"Grant to me a vision, so that I may better understand my purpose. I am lost without you, and seek refuge from the darkness which threatens this place. Envoke in me the courage to stand up for what is right, and the wisdom to know what that is, and in humility, I ask you protect this place from the corruption that grows in the shadow."

It was a sloppy prayer, one that was not without its selfishness, but it was the best the man could do. He was a blind man, stumbling through the dark in search of a light, and few bothered to stop long enough to guide his hand. Perhaps soon, that would change.

[The Tattered Prince]

The Dark Tide

[Theme]

It did not take long for the lessons of faith to take root. Yet, it was not beneath stained glass, silken banners, and cold gray stones that Samuel Blackwood found grace; but, rather, in the depths of the wild forest that had reclaimed a large portion of the nearby coast. It was here, in the wildwood, that Thorn had found sanctuary from the darkness which ravaged the hearts, bodies, and minds of the people which called Fort Praesidium home. Still, he would spend a fair amount of time within her walls, a welcomed respite from the lonely solitude of his small encampment. He craved companionship, looking forward to hearing the stories of anyone who would spare a moment to speak with him. Not only did he seek conversation, but he knew that any dedication to his new found faith in the teachings of the Holy Decusian Church would have to be practiced through service, rather than zeal and strength of arms. Thorn was a decent hunter, and all around woodsman, having spent most of his life on the road; but, he was a piss poor warrior. He didn't have the intestinal fortitude to seek and face any real danger. That's not to say he wouldn't defend himself if retreat wasn't an option, or that he would turn away a friend who sought his assistance, but they'd be sorely mistaken if they thought he would charge through the breach into the dangers of the unknown!






"You're the only true friend I have here..."

The Templar's tone was genuine, and it brought a sense of humility to Blackwood, though the shadows off his hood did well to conceal the grin on his bearded features. It also helped that it was the dark of night, and they were moving through the equally dim-lit Market. One, a deep red, like the blood that ran through the veins of the Republic's most devout guardians -- the other, a muted earthen brown, enhanced by small bits of bark, leaves, and branches to break up the hard lines of his silhouette. You see, they were heading east, across the bridge to purge the bogs of the overflow. Equal parts fear and excitement rushed through the woodsman's veins, and if he hadn't been bundled up, he might have had a bit of a chill. He hadn't hunted east of the river since the beautiful woman from Kaduuras had suffered a nasty wound from the strange little creatures that burrowed in the sands. She didn't so much speak to him anymore, and he couldn't blame her. He had let her get injured, so she probably associated him with that now. Either way, he was happy to be able to replace the sad memory with a happier one.

The shriek of the abominations filled the night's air, drowning out the subtle whistle of their arrows as they lanced through the darkness to strike at the near formless creature that seemed more muck and slime than anything else. Lex rolled to the left, around a large oak, with skill and finesse, putting an arrow right through its eye. Thorn tried the same manuever, rolling right, he tripped over a root, rolling down a small knoll and ended up at the thing's feet. Horror flooded through him, and all the color left his face. Was this how it ended? No.. no.. it couldn't be! He had too much to live for, too many people to lift up, too many new recipes to try! Abandoning the bow on the ground, he reached back to clutch another weapon, anything to put between him and the swamp beast. There, a long oblong handle, just at his waist, perhaps a dagger, or better yet, a sword? He brought it forward, holding it above his head like it was the answer to his question, and the beast should be terrified that he now held it! There, above his head, Thorn held an unlit torch, and as he noticed this, the cook's face was crestfallen. He was doomed for sure.

Suddenly, the beast reared up, and he swatted aimlessly at it with his torch. Thump! It bounced of it's disgusting hide without doing any real damage. Then, a roar of flame! The beast was alight, and screeching in pain, whereas Thorn was retreating quickly. Had he somehow convinced it to light itself on fire by holding a torch? Had the One True God descended from the High Heavens to protect his new servant? No. It was Gryhun that stood over the creatures smoldering form, a cheesy grin on the Tyro's face. Apparently he had chucked some sort of immolation concoction at the beast. But, hell, a flame is a flame.

"Praise the Flame..."

He said, laughing at his misfortune.

[The Tattered Prince]

The Fading Light

[Theme]

The Church had not been empty as he suspected, but rather hosted a small gathering of the Fort's residents. Gryhun was among them, easily discerned by the clothing he wore, and the shining clasp which identified him as a Tyro. Beside him, a woman with a familiar face, though darker hair and different clothes. He couldn't quite place her. And, just behind them, another congregant, praying in the dark. He could hear the whispers coming from their side of the Church, but what words had been said were lost to him. Finally, the bald man stood, and made a ridiculous show of speaking louder now, as if such a thing could forgive the two of whatever conspiracy they had been whispering about beneath the stained glass windows of the Church. Thorn stood as well, meeting Gryhun's eye, and making sure the Tyro knew who he was before he turned for the exit and made his way out into the dark streets.

The hunt was over, and a strange coldness washed over him. The Church was no longer home to the penitent and faithful, but rather drew from a sea of liars and thieves. It was a heartbreaking thought, but one that should not have surprised him as much as it did.






It was the gentle flicker of light that drew Samuel's gaze. Here, in the depths of the wild, such a sight was rare. Few ventured into the thick brush, even fewer braved her depths in the darkest of night. True, the horrors of this world were muted here, only a small number of venomous creatures and hungry predators could be counted among the denizens of the forest. Here, the Drodain was a peace keeper, a guardian of balance, keeping any signs of blight from creeping into his newfound home, and hunting just enough of the wildlife to ensure the Briarwood continued to thrive. It was here that he found peace, and hoped that he could extend that sanctuary to those whom agreed to leave their quarrels whilst enjoying his haven.

But, it was only a dream, one that had been abandoned by the very light that had sparked the consideration in his heart. It was strange, the feeling of loneliness he felt, even when he returned to the Fort to replenish much needed supplies. And yet, the torchlight of a passing traveler brought him comfort, even as it's light vanished behind the moss-covered trees to the south. The traveler, whomever they were, had been visiting the Hollow, a sickly and near-abandoned town on the water. For some reason, this place had drawn the attention of the Fort's inhabitants. Could they have known of the true dangers that lurked in the dark forests beyond? It was unlikely.

He frowned, turning ashen depths away from the failing light, and toward the spattering of stars painted across the abyssal darkness above. It was a comfort, especially on a cold night, to know that even in the dark -- light continued to flourish.

[The Tattered Prince]

The Breaking Point

[Theme]

Sacrifice remained in the dark leather sheath at his left hip, her constant weight was a comfort in the abyssal darkness of the Briarwood. It was an inky blanket, unmoved by the small light flickering from the flames of his campfire. Ardent was her embrace, like that of a selfish lover, all tangling limbs and whispered breaths.

A howl pierced the night, carrying chills down the Drodain's back, soon joined by a second and third. The pack was hunting, and something in that cold, dark place was stirring. And, he was the lone guardian, choosing to watch this dark place so that others could sleep easy at night.

Yet, nothing could prepare the Midlander for the betrayal he felt at the hands of the Flame which once warmed his heart.

His heart and mind was turned to the note which now burned within the fire, written by the hand that had driven the cold steel through his heart, while her lover watched with a twisted grin no doubt.




Within the orchard, settled into a crack on the wooden bench, rests an unsealed note bearing the name "Thorn" upon it. If opened, the frantically scrawled contents are as follows:

I don't know why you wanted to kill me.
I don't know why you looked at me as if I was filth.
All I wanted to do was get back to you.
All I wanted was for you to hold me again.

Did you forget me the moment I was gone?
I suppose it doesn't matter now.
You'll never have to look upon me again.
Goodbye, Samuel, my Thorn.

With love,
[Redacted], Birdy Delavious, your Flame

I thought I'd at least leave you with my actual name. Do with it as you will do.