Michael

Some are born to it, slipping from the womb and between the thighs with nary a cry and a glow of greatness about them. Some are pushed and pulled and prodded along until they find it part of their very being. Some are called to it by the gods themselves, holy and powerful, divine healers or killers. As for me, well, I stumbled across it and wasn't sure what it was, so I poked and slashed at it with my sword until I was covered in the stickiest coat of heroism that you've ever run across. Now it's all in my beard, and even a bath with lye soap cant get the damned stuff out. So, I suppose that I'm stuck with it. It was not always the way with me. I started on a path to be the worst of them, and found myself tripping into something different. I blame Frostburn. Bad folk just don't use shining flaming swords; I think it's in their guidebook.

I was a child of Frihet, raised among his faithful and following the darker winds as they blew across the Fjords. My father taught me to steal, to open a lock with wire and pinch gold from a pocket. A priest taught me to craft, the art of brewing poisons that incapacitate guards and punish greedy merchants. I trained in Vintermore and followed my sense of adventure and fun, without a thought to right or wrong. It was then that I met Eschatus.

 The things Michael did during this time of his life are best left there, and I’ve convinced him to leave them out of even this original journal, for his own sake and that of the Kingdom of Vintermore.

~Jaer, Scribe.

And thus we followed when Eschatus led many into the wilderness, in search of the Steward of the Taiga, gone mad from being wronged. She tried to murder us with trees that walked, tangled grounds and her barbarian lovers, but we fought through all of these and found her home. In it she had babies, stolen from the cradles of farmer and merchant. Most were dead already, but one remained alive and cooing, with no arms, legs, sight or hearing. For this, among other things, we slew her. My sword took her head from her body and the expedition members were named Royal Stewards of Vintermore for our service to the crown. I still laugh to think that the reasons I went were so ignoble, as I spoke of before.

My feet itched, then, and I traveled. Along the way, Sorenson and I met others. We found ourselves oft in the company of Marian, priestess of Forstorelse and Jaer, the Dragonblooded. The winds blew us far to the south, into a hot and forsaken land littered with undead armies warring with goblin and lizardfolk tribes. What we could not turn to our cause, we destroyed, and in that time a path of corpses and skeletons littered our wake for months. To the black tower we marched, Frihet whispering upon hot winds that it was long past time for this ancient prison to be sundered.

Along our quest we captured a sword, one of such power that I’ve not yet met it’s like. A blade to cut the silver thread of soul from a body, leaving it lost to man and god alike. Were it not for that the tower guardian would yet live… a great dragon of midnight black, child and would be lover of an exiled goddess. It opened one of the ancient gateways just as we found it’s lair, and left us to the mercy of servants, rather than pay attention to ants biting its ankles during the moment of triumph. That was how we killed it, but severing it’s soul during the delicate spell, the beast was lost and turned to stone. Upon it’s severed claw we built a table, and upon that table Marian, Sorenson, Jaer and I signed the charter of the Dragonclaw company. The cost was dear, though, for we lost three of our own along the way. One was a paladin, driven mad and destroyed by Peorth and I. Others were Marian and Flimble, murdered by foul magic gasses in the tower. The last two were resurrected, brought back by an angel of Kunnia who took from us the sword and shook Marian’s faith to the core.

It was then that the Grey Lady, an general and noble of the empire, took us as her ‘guests’ back to Taldara. We were hailed heroes, given parades and medals, and were kept as show pieces for a time until we finally slipped under notice and back to the frozen lands of home.

From there we fought and destroyed. We worked as a mercenary company under the banner of the Dragonclaw. We came to the notice of the king and served Vintermore when she needed us. We told the truth as much as we lied, healed as much as we destroyed, and found ourselves slipping along until we awoke and found our actions to be good and noble, if not always the things a captain of the guard likes to know about. Frihet’s whispers became songs, clear and cold upon the wind, and I became one of his swords. A chainbreaker in his name.

In those carefree times we grew hard and strong, into leaders among the adventurers of the city. We made friends and enemies alike, broke the bonds the held liches to their skeletons and slew problematic dragons. It was my own golden time, as often dancing in battle as I was sitting in a tavern. Those I fought beside learned my ways, and I was much sought for the terror and fury that Frostburn wreaked.

Marian’s faith shifted and twisted, and she was taken from the Bloodmoon’s boudoir to the wrestling ring of Mod. And Vintermores politics marched to war, setting us to collide with the Empire’s armies as we broke away to freedom.

On the eve of war we feasted. Friend and foe alike drank and supped from a feast of Heroes that Mod provided. To Frihet I pray, but I still pledge thanks to that god of strength. While we laughed and talked and gave each other warrior's advice, some doubted. They doubted each other, they doubted friends, they doubted love and life and strength. I did all I could to cut those chains of doubt and push each and every one of us further towards the ending goal. I like to think I succeeded. These words I write so that clearer thought may follow them, and my voice does not hamper.

After the feast, at the breaking of dawn, Sturm, Regnar, Sascha, Marian, Mirra, Szili, Jaer, and I stood at the only breach of the wall, waiting for the rush. A company of only eight waited for what came. It was not waves of footmen, nor was it a tide of calvalry. It was a sally force of killers hard and weathered to the bone. Before we knew the moment, both Jaer and Sturm lay dead upon the field, killed by arrows that flew from nowhere. War followed, as war does, and we killed the attackers without blinking. Their lifesblood upon the tundra I turned in grief and sorrow and spent my strength killing less prepared soldiers by the dozen. It was a hard day.

I flew and walked among the base soldiers of the empire, killing officers and moving from range, until I came upon the tent of their command. I sliced the battle standard of our oppressors from its pole and moved to slay the generals who led conscripts to our gates. In doing this, I nearly broke the peace being brokered between emissaries of our nation and the armies of the empire. My rage was bloodprice, but I held it in check and let diplomats speak their peace. The medal of valor and honor bestowed upon me by their Emperor I left in the dirt at the General’s feet, and in my eyes he saw the fury and power of our people. Armies may once again press our defenses, but I like to think that those in that tent know better than to lead them. If not, I will stand in their path once more, and show them the fury of the North

Here ends where my story's been helped along by Jaer. After the war he left us, an took his fair hand at writin and easy way of understandin with him. I miss the critter somethin fierce.