Hate is Power

I was abandoned. Left. Alone. I can’t believe I trusted him. It turns out, the only way to live is hate. I was hated. Now, I will hate. I turned on them. I destroyed them. Now I don’t care. Let the rest take care of themselves. Other than hate, I did learn one other thing from him. A story. A legend. Of five guardians, guarding something so powerful. I wanted that. I wanted power.

I started my search. I needed a dragon, so I stole a dragon egg from the Dragon Rider Training Camp on the island east of Iorun. When it hatched, I knew what to do. I headed north, for the Five Mountains of Volkundr, if they existed. What I found was awe striking.

I went to my small dorm and lay down on my cot. At first I couldn’t sleep. Laering, a voice kept saying in my head, a voice that sounded smooth, but when I tried to answer it, it would snap back, and it would say in a dark, slick, raspy, and blood-curdling voice Dęr næ! And every time I knew what the phrase meant, just for a second, then the process would repeat, and my thoughts were plunged back into blackness, until finally, I fell asleep, but now I wish I never had. I dreamed of dark things, things to evil to be turned into words, and when I woke I found Sarae shaking me,

“Laering, Laering!”

I found myself sweating, and my scar burning and glowing. I screamed in pain, and, as my senses finally started coming to me, everything went black.

I will be playing as my main character Laering, an elf who is faced against a man who is trying to break all reality.

Xavier=Ruin

The din of the boisterous tavern quiets slightly as the double doors swing open to reveil the figure of a young man. He wairs a blue tunic adorned with gold symbols stitched into the shoulders. Over his heart he wairs an orange poppy, stiched in with more golden thread. His trowsers look comfortable but still practical. At his waist hangs a beautifully crafted sleek and strong broad sword. Over his shoulder he carrys a worn leather single strap travel bag. Hanging out of this is what look to be the sleeve of a black cloak, and wrapped around the bag is a worn chainmail hauberk.

The young man sevays the room before spoting you and smilling. We walks towads your table with a strange smooth rolling gate and an air that seems more sutted for a royal cort or battle field, rather than a rowdy tavern.

He slides into…