Before the Arcane War the forest of Mantoria had been full of life with trees soaring into the sky. Trees that were famous throughout the lands for being strong and flexible. It was these trees that gave birth to powerful new bows, that could not be broken, and wooden swords the likes of which have never been seen in the world. The blades, created from the bark of the forest, were designed to be razor sharp and extremely durable.
Written by a Mantorian soldier 1230 DP (Dark Period)
It is within this forest where the great trees of the world once stood. Now stand trees of a different nature. Age and time have twisted these great monstrosities into gruesome beasts, their branches writhing in their attempts to be touched by the light of the burning sun above, but unable to feel its heated embrace. The once mighty trees of Mantorial have become as wide as overweight innkeepers who have loved to sample their dishes. Their roots poking out of the ground like arms attempting to drag the luckless few to their death and their bark was sharper than the sharpest piece of steel.
It is within this forest that two bone-weary travellers walk along a faded path that runs throughout the forest, a horse-drawn carriage trailing behind them. The carriage itself painted a bright gold, with garishly decorated dragon heads hewn into the doors and corners of the carriage. The constant smell of burning incense wafting in and out of the carriage’s tiny windows. The horse attached to the carriage, a sturdy black stallion named Iron Foot with a glossy black coat and long neck, stretched proudly forth to emphasise its strong neck muscles. The powerful stallion easily pulling the carriage along, its black mane flicking back and forth.
Walking beside the proud stallion is Raid, a medium-sized warrior born in the town of Mantria and trained in the use of the blade by his father. He had left home initially to complete the ancient tradition of his people to find something of worth within the world. But after having served as a mercenary for several years and learning about Sky Bastion, Raid had come to the fateful decision to try and save his family by earning enough coin to take them up with him to Sky Bastion, an immense city, lifted into the sky, floating upon clouds, far away from the dying world below.
As he was pondering on that immense task, beneath the shade of the trees towering above him he found to his immense annoyance putrid green insects the size of oversized rats swarming around his waist, biting into him with their thick, icy mandibles, constantly forcing Raid to flick the rusty dagger he had found in the forest to keep them at bay. But no matter how fast he swept the dagger side to side, the insects always managed to get past his dagger and take tiny bites out of his woollen black cloak and plain silver tunic.
In addition to the discomforting feel of insects biting into him was the shrieking wind that whipped through the forest treetops to send shudders down his spine from the cold, causing him to stumble on occasion which served only to infuriate him even further.
As he walked on he wished for a third time that he had brought a couple bottles of freshly brewed heart-knocker with him before entering the forest to warm his insides. He also wished the hard hilt of his long wooden sword would stop smacking into the back of his thighs as he walked. And he wished the light chain mail he wore on top of his thin tunic would stop jingling and sucking the warmth out of his body. Not truly believing his wishes would be granted he sighed and suffered in silence.
After walking nearly several miles with the sword constantly banging into his backside, Raid had reached his breaking point. Unable to contain the fire within him, he seized the sword angrily in both hands to throw it away, but stopped when he felt the comforting feel of the soft, warm homemade sheath that his mother had sown for him.
He smiled at the memory of his doting mother, a short, plump woman, with wrinkles beginning to appear on her kind face, giving the sheath to him with tears in her eyes as she pecked him lightly on the cheek. He recalled the pride that he had felt when his father had given him the family sword, a broad smile cracking his craggy face, worn with age. He never had much to say, preferring action to words.
Raid caressed the hilt of the sword, fingering the pommel where the head of an ogre was carved into the top of the blade. A sword crafted from bark collected from the forest of Mantoria. It was a blade of rare beauty. His calm restored by the touch of the family blade, he sheathed the wooden sword smoothly and continued to walk unsteadily down the rock-strewn path with his back straight, waving the rusty dagger before him.
As Raid strolled along the path, he glanced past the hideously decorated carriage to his travelling companion. To see the immense figure of his friend, a man with such a powerful physique that it scared the pesky insects away from him. On his back hung a huge, wickedly curved battle axe that swung gently from side to side on his two enormous shoulders that looked like small mountains moving up and down with each step that he took. Just looking at him made Raid smile.
The first time he had met his overly large friend was in a rundown old inn called ‘The Fist’, which was run by a decrepit old man who loved to gamble. Raid remembered vividly the day that he had walked into that dusty old inn. He had just completed a job escorting a bunch of merchants to the town of Baslan on the coast of Lorkron, when he heard the drunken howls of laughter and screams for blood from the streets.
Curious to see what was happening inside the inn, he went inside. To find an inn decorated with blood and drink stains, and nut brown walls covered in indentations from the frequent fights that had broken out within the inn. Four windows were scattered across the room coated in heavy dust that looked out to the sea, barely bringing in any light from the sun that blazed brightly in the sky outside. Round tables spread throughout the establishment had stools sitting beneath them and wicker lamps atop the tables to light the inside of the inn in an eerie glow. The centre of the room was cleared of all furniture, with a mob of drunken oafs cheering wildly, drinking from bottles of heart-knocker, the smell of blood thick upon the air.
Trogon, towering over everyone else in the inn, was standing in a ring of chalk facing off against a solidly built Orc with muscles the size of tree trunks and green skin that was glistening with sweat. The Orc’s ruby red eyes glinted dangerously in the dimly lit inn. They circled each other in the ring, their huge fists up and ready to begin fighting. The drunken labourers, farmers and villagers roared insults and advice to their champions, urging them to pummel each other to death.
Then suddenly the fight was over. In a swift move Trogon knocked out the Orc, laying him out flat on his back, with one of the Orc’s short tusks protruding from its mouth broken clean in half. The inn went silent, as the patrons whose brains were addled with drink tried to comprehend what had just happened. Raid, unable to help himself, laughed out loud at their stupidity, causing everyone to turn around and stare at him.
Raid considered himself to be a rather good-looking man of average height, with carrot-coloured eyes, dusky black hair and thick black eyebrows that gave him a menacing appearance. He wore a plain silver shirt and trousers which was complimented by his black woollen cloak that was tied to his shoulders.
With the cockiness born of youth, he grinned at the attention he was receiving and swung back his raven black cloak in a smooth motion to reveal a hand resting on his long sword. The innkeeper, not wanting his inn to be destroyed, hobbled over to plead with Raid.
“Please, sir, no need for violence here,” said the grubby old man, while giving him an ingratiating smile with his two remaining teeth.
Raid nearly laughed at the absurdity of that statement, but sensing danger he wisely held back the bubbling laughter and pointed to Trogon.
“I want to fight him.”
The innkeeper’s face widened into a smile and he licked his lips hungrily at another opportunity for profit. Trogon would crush this puny human in seconds, thought the innkeeper happily. Not to mention the profit that could be made from betting on this fight.
Licking his lips eagerly the innkeeper nodded his head then turned to face the silent crowd of patrons and said in a loud voice that echoed in the inn, “LOOKS LIKE TROGON, HAMMER OF THE TITANS, BORN WITH THE BLOOD OF TITANS IN HIS veins, HAS ANOTHER CHILD TO PLAY WITH!!!” proclaimed the innkeeper before pausing to ask Raid quietly, “What’s your name?”
Raid replied, “Raid of Mantria.” The innkeeper frowned at the name; it sounded so familiar.
Shaking his head to dismiss his worry, the innkeeper turned back to the crowd of people roaring for blood again and held his hands up to quieten them down.
“AND TO FACE OFF AGAINST TROGON IS RAID THE SWORDSMAN,” he declared with a flourish and pointed towards Raid.
Raid ignored the insults thrown at him from the drunken fools in the inn and untied his black cloak from his shoulders, tossing it onto the nearby table. Then he carefully unbuckled his sword belt and reverently placed the sheathed blade on top of his cloak. He then walked across the bloodstained floorboards to the waiting Trogon who gave a grunt of approval at the man’s respect for his chosen weapon. Rolling his shoulders to loosen his tense muscles, he brushed past the drunken patrons who opened up a path towards the ring for him and stepped into the chalk outline of the ring. He lifted his gaze to look up into the cold purple eyes of the half-blooded titan towering above him. Faces stony calm, they faced off against each other and waited for the innkeeper, with help from some patrons, to first drag the unconscious Orc out of the ring.
His nostrils filled with the smell of blood and vomit. Raid clenched his fists and flexed his arm muscles. Trogon smirked at his opponent and lifted his huge biceps in reply, flexing his huge rippling muscles on his ebony dark skin. His impressive display had the crowd roaring again with appreciation. Finally with the unconscious Orc moved out of the way, the innkeeper wiped the sweat off his forehead, then panting, screamed, “BEGIN.” Raid saw the big man’s right fist come rushing towards him and crossed his arms up in front of him to catch the big man’s huge fist in between his wrists in a swift move that allowed him to take the power out of the blow by redirecting the fist into the air.
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Raid adjusted his footing, just as Trogon attempted the same manoeuvre he had used on the Orc in the previous match: distracting his opponent with his boulder-sized fists before sliding his foot in between his opponent’s feet, causing the Orc to lose his balance and be finished off with a powerful uppercut to the jaw. Feet finding nothing to knock against, Trogon’s pupils widened with surprise. No one had ever been able to see through his feint. He studied Raid’s cocky, self-assured manner and decided it must have been simple dumb luck. There was no way this fool could have seen his earlier feint.
The hardened planes of Trogon’s face tightened with concentration, as he let loose a series of powerful flying punches forcing Raid to dodge and weave to avoid his attempts to pummel him into submission. Raid, knowing he couldn’t dodge the blows forever, allowed a single punch to strike him in the ribs. Raid gasped as the air whooshed out of him from the blow. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his ribs, he trapped the big man’s right arm underneath his armpit and swung his body around using Trogon’s extended arm to get inside of his defence and jab his left elbow hard into his opponent’s ribs. He then released Trogon’s right arm and swung around to see Trogon stumbling backwards, feeling like he had just been stabbed in the chest.
Raid smirked with delight at the weakened Trogon and moved to finish him off. He clutched his hands together to create a sizeable fist and swung the combined fists sideways to smash hard into Trogon’s skull with enough force to drop him to the ground with a smack. Raid stood above his opponent with a small smile playing on his lips, as the room went dead silent once more. Their champion, who had never lost a fight, was lying outside the chalk outline, clutching his throbbing head.
Trogon stumbled back to his feet, angry and furious with himself at leaving such an opening, his lavender-coloured eyes glittering with suppressed rage at being knocked over. He took a step towards Raid to renew his attack, when he noticed that he was no longer inside the chalk outline of the circle. His jaw dropped in horror. He had lost the fight and to add to his humiliation, he had been defeated by a human. Of all races in the world he despised, he disliked humans the most for their sheer arrogance.
Trogon’s body shook with unbridled fury at his defeat at the hands of this puny human. He moved to continue the fight, when the red-faced innkeeper shrieked, “YOU FILTHY, CHEATING BASTARD, KILL HIM,” his last words directed towards the crowd of stunned onlookers who snapped out of their reverie. The silent room soon came alive with the sound of swords rasping out of sheaths and daggers being drawn. The crowd of bloodthirsty drunks closed in on Raid with malicious intent in their eyes.
Raid saw a look of indecision crease Trogon’s hard face as he understood that Raid would be killed by this vengeful crowd, unless Trogon stepped in. For a brief instant Raid and Trogon’s eyes met across the room, his steady flame-coloured eyes gazing deep into Trogon’s, without a hint of fear. Feeling a grudging respect for this man’s bravery, Trogon nodded his head to Raid and just like that they silently agreed that this behaviour was unacceptable.
Breaking his stare with Trogon, Raid swung around and pounded his fists into the faces of the two men edging forward behind him with their weapons drawn. His punches caught them solidly on their chins rocking them back on their heels.
Trogon, oblivious to their weapons, tucked his head down and charged at the nearest group that included the innkeeper, who had somehow acquired a crossbow and was aiming it at Raid’s back. All the while Raid was busy leaping, swerving and dodging in between the angry patrons to avoid being surrounded. Trogon roaring like a lion to distract the innkeeper crashed into the fray taking out three of the men encircling Raid, his large frame landing on top of them, crushing the life out of their bodies. The rough wood scratched against Trogon’s skin as he lay on the ground with three men beneath him struggling to get out.
He cursed as he felt one of blades they held graze the top of his bald scalp, fuelling his heart with the throbbing pulse of the adrenaline rush. Feeling rage bubble up inside of him, he directed the fire within towards these dishonourable scum. The floorboards creaked beneath him as he rolled around furiously on the ground, grappling with the three men. His feet smashed against their knees and his huge fists hammered into their faces, completely oblivious to the world around him.
Unnoticed in the background the innkeeper got back up onto his feet, picked up the fallen crossbow, and hurriedly began reloading it. A trickle of blood spilled down from a cut on the innkeeper’s cheek and his mouth curled up in a snarl.
Trogon, feeling the bodies beneath go limp from an overdose of pain, stopped his thrashing around on the floor and moved to get to his feet, when he heard a distinctive click. He looked up to see the innkeeper in front of him pointing a loaded crossbow, “Die, half-breed,” growled the innkeeper and fired the crossbow. A stunned Trogon watched as the bolt flew towards him, his rage draining away at his impending death, when suddenly a dagger materialised in the air between them, spinning end over end in mid-air to knock the bolt off its trajectory. The bolt twisted away from Trogon and slammed into the nearby nut brown wall with a smack.
Incredulous, the innkeeper and Trogon stared with amazement at the bolt hanging from the wall. A blood-soaked Raid, with cuts to his chest and arms, smirked at their surprise and leaned down to tug a sword out of the body of a dying man at his feet. The man groaned with agony and clutched his mangled chest to keep his guts from spilling out onto the floor.
Ignoring the man’s pleas for help, Raid turned and slowly walked towards the innkeeper with the bloodied sword in his hand. The innkeeper at last able to tear his eyes away from the bolt, saw Raid calmly walking towards him, stepping over dozens of bodies. Eyes widening with fear, the innkeeper let loose a scream of terror and fled from the inn.
Trogon heaved himself back up onto his feet, brushing dirt off his hands and knees.
“Nice throw; I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Trogon, still in awe at Raid’s prowess. Abruptly Raid began to laugh. Trogon snarled; he disliked being made fun of, and clenched his fists into balls.
Raid held up his hands and between chuckles said, “Calm down, purple eyes.” Trogon waited, confused.
Raid, with an impish grin, answered the unspoken question on Trogon’s mind. “I was aiming for the innkeeper, big man, I didn’t even see the bolt being fired,” he said with a smile still on his lips. Trogon’s hard face split into a broad grin, as the realisation dawned on him that he had been saved by mere luck, not by skill as he had first assumed.
Raid held out his hand. “Raid of Mantria,” he said, introducing himself.
Trogon took hold of the small calloused hand and replied, “Trogon Titan-Blood”. Together they turned and looked around at the wreckage they had wrought. Trogon smiled at the piles of bodies that were laid out where Raid had fought.
“You’re a fast little man,” complimented Trogon and clapped him on the shoulder. Ever since that day they had become friends and travelling companions, taking on jobs together as mercenaries. It just made sense to stick together and use their combined fighting skills to acquire coin.
Raid, becoming unmindful of where he was going, felt the ground beneath give way and had the reins roughly jolted out of his hands as the carriage hit a dip in the path. Cursing himself for being a fool, for not watching out where he was going, he chased after the reins that flapped in the air ahead of him. Diving forward he caught hold of the reins and quickly began to tug hard on the bridle to slow down the spirited stallion.
Immediately a squeal of such profound rage escaped from within the carriage. Raid instinctively winced in pain at the high-pitched sound, as the carriage door blew open with a bang to reveal a young woman of twenty years. She leapt out of the carriage in an angry huff, her expensive emerald green silk dress splattered with a scarlet red substance, her liquid brown eyes glaring up at him with such rage and contempt that he felt for a moment he could taste the hatred and bile rolling off her in waves to contaminate the air he breathed.
Taking a deep breath, he wiped the sweat that was beading up on his brow before speaking with a slight smile on his lips. “Problem?” he enquired. Her face grew colder and blue fire danced upon her fingertips. Her hands began to shake with fury at the man’s insolence.
“Problem, FILTH? Yes, FILTH, THERE IS A PROBLEM. I am trying to practise my rituals while I still have time and the only thing I ask you to do is keep this carriage moving along smoothly. Because as you should well know, I am practising with dangerous substances. Yet you can’t even manage to do that, FILTH,” she spat as she released a stream of molten hot blue flames towards Raid, scorching the air with its intense heat.
Trogon, fifteen strides ahead, unable to hear the heated exchange of words going on behind his back. His gaze at the moment solely focused upon the ground where snow white bones the size of humans were tossed to either side of the thin dirt path. Swinging around to question Raid about the strange bones he had found, he gaped in disbelief at the fight breaking out behind him. He ran towards the carriage, just as Raid, with unbelievable agility, dodged past streaks of blue flames that shot towards him to place a dagger at the witch’s throat.
Trogon, without a thought for his safety, charged in to knock Raid over with a meaty shoulder and stepped in front of the lady to protect her. Enraged, Raid completed a somersault in the air to regain his footing. His face flushed red with anger that was barely held in check, he glared up at Trogon. Trogon, with a worried expression on his face, said, “Raid, what the hell is going on?”
Raid grunted and pointed angrily at the lady. “The crazy witch tried to kill me, that’s what happened,” he said furiously and held up his cloak to show Trogon several large gaps in his damp black cloak.
Trogon swung around to face the lady who calmly replied at the accusation, “I was simply paying him back for what he did to my beautiful silk gown; look at it, it’s all ruined.” Her face pouted as if in great pain while looking down at her dress. Angered by the tone of her voice and her clear disregard for his life only served to enrage Raid further. Blood began to boil in his veins again and his left eye began to twitch horribly with agitation. Without thinking he threw the dagger he was carrying at the lady. The dagger zipped through the air gracefully to smack into the carriage door beside her, chipping wood and paint, to hang a couple of inches away from the witch’s sullen face.
The witch’s expression paled with shock before transforming into anger and she started to weave her fingers to kill this filthy insect. Her hands glowed blue again, when she was interrupted by Trogon screaming, “ENOUGH”, breaking her concentration. Trogon, taking advantage of her surprise, swung open the carriage door, grabbed her by the shoulders, picked her up, and plopped her back inside the carriage.
“Take a seat and shut up; you’re paying us for protection so let us do our job,” snapped Trogon before she could open her mouth to protest at her treatment. Seeing his big hands clench into massive fists the size of her head, she wisely decided to sit down meekly.
Trogon slammed the carriage door shut with a thump and turned back to face Raid who had finally calmed down and was gazing back at him apologetically.
“Sorry, Trog, I know she promised us a lot of money to escort her through this forest, I’ll try to stop antagonising her.”
Trogon sighed with exhaustion and nodded his head in acceptance of his friend’s apology. He trod back over to the front of the carriage to give the stocky horse a pat on the neck. “Oh, Iron Foot, why did I ever decide to travel with humans?” he murmured to the horse softly.