One year ago today. It seems like people have already forgotten the atrocities of that day, so vividly embedded in my memory. It was a cool spring morning. The fog was rolling in from the Talking Island Harbor. One could hear the moaning of the docks being rubbed by the ships as the tides rolled through. The fog lights were dimmed for this years harvest of reagents have been minimal and the mages that illuminate the channel were forced to ration their powers. The sun was peeking over the southeastern range, the mooneye of Bleleth, still high overhead. I was just returning from my patrol of the northern coast, watching over the acolytes that were practicing their arts.
All was not right. The bullfrogs had retreated to the streams early. I always took a few minutes to throw rocks at the orcs and laugh as they skitter away. But on that day, there were none to be found. The tribes of lycanthropes, their children always out and playing in the morning, were also missing. It didn’t take me long to figure out why.
As I rounded the bend in the trail, the village came into view. As usual, the wisps of smoke rose up from Baldon’s Inn, where he prepared the fires to cook this days feast of roasted porc. As I neared the village, I knew that this was not the usual smoke of honey soaked birch chips, aglow in his oven , but something darker, more sinister. The closer I got, the faster I ran, the village needed me, and I wasn’t there. The plumes of smoke billowed up from every corner of my home town, I could see flames licking above the tree line. I entered the town through the shattered gate on the northwestern wall. Climbing over the bodies of my brother guardsmen. Men and women I had trained with my entire life, now dead. How could this have happened? I soon found my mentor, Sir Calibus. His lifeless hand still clutched his magnificent sword, the prized possession he received when he retired from the Dark Legion. I swore that day, that I would avenge his death! I would use his very sword to strike the killing blow to those who would do this!
The entire village was consumed, ravaged by the dark forces. The temple of Einhasad lay in ruins. My spiritual advisor, High Priest Biotin lay broken on the floor, gasping for air. I picked his head up and held it firm; it was obvious that he would soon be visiting the paradise that he had so often spoke. His lifeless eyes still had the compassion of a saint, he recognized me immediately. He smiled with satisfaction knowing that I had lived. He pulled me near, whispering in my ear a single word… “Hardin”. His eminence was dead.
I knew I had work to do. I was young, much too young by some estimates, but I must become powerful enough to accomplish my objectives. Hardin is a practitioner of the dark arts, necromancy, a master of the undead. He is strong; the tales speak of armies of undead following his every command. I will only accomplish true vengeance by working my way through his minions. Diminishing his power by returning the dead to the grave. I am strong. I am able. I am Paladin!
By the time the sun was high in the sky, my rucksack was slung low on my back, and I had booked passage on the next ship headed for the great city of Giran. I bid farewell to my home, perhaps to never return…. (to be continued)