Origins - Clavius

Fingertips gripped cold steel as the morning shot orange rays across the horizon. Wisps of mist hung amidst the pine trees, the only warmth came from a nearby campfire. Three young men all sat near the warmth, each in different levels of dress, preparing for the battle to come. Leather straps were pulled tight; dull metal plates were shifted and locked into place, dangling chain armor was straightened and adjusted. Swords were sheathed, unsheathed and then sheathed again, fists pounded shields testing for weakness.

An older man approached the fireside dressed in shiny full plate armor. The steel was polished so finely you could see your reflection in the massive breastplate. The golden runes which decorated the shoulders were so finely detailed that you would never know the armor had seen countless battles.

“Clavius, Thompson, Anders, are you boys ready for legend?” The older knight spoke, his voice gruff, traveled and inspiring. “That red Wyrm sits a mere hour’s ride, the bards will sing of this battle for generations to come!” The knight unsheathed his long sword; it sparkled in the orange light, he held it high “To victory!”

A deep longing shown in the eyes of the three squires as they each raised a hand up, “To victory!” they repeated.

A pair of red dice hit the table, the bone cubes tumbled and spun across the scratched, dinged, dented wood and came to a stop. One die displayed a red number four and the other bore two black spots.

"Six!” A dark haired man cheered as moans of despair erupted around him. He reached a large shaky hand across the table and swept a pile of gold coins toward himself. The dark haired man took a long drink from a nearby tankard, as he set the cup back down, foam and froth spilled to the table. The tavern was loud, a minstrel sat nearby singing, drunk young men jeered at each other and shouted to young women, old men laughed too loudly as they told boring stories of their youth.

The dark haired man took a deep breath, blocked the noise out, grabbed the dice in his large hands and began to shake them. “Fifty gold says I push again!” The rest of the table burst into a quick bustle of side bets as he let the dice loose.

Four horses raced through the woods, atop the warhorses rode three squires and the knight. The pines grew thick in the old forest; it felt as if they were riding through the Underdark. Suddenly the group broke into a clearing. The sun pierced their visors and momentarily blinded the squires. As their pupils contracted and the clearing came into focus a horrifying scene lay before them. In the center of the clearing stood a great red dragon, it’s scales were rubies, it’s talons were great swords and it’s eyes were deep pools of shadow.

The horses bucked in panic, Anders lost his grip and fell to the forest floor. His mount bolted for the edge of the clearing. With terrifying speed the great Wyrm shot a claw out at the brown horse, the Beasts’ ivory talon caught the steed and cut the horse in two. Blood sprayed into the forest as the Dragon roared and lifted itself onto its hind legs, it spread its crimson wings and blotted out the sun for a moment before folding them back and bringing its massive front legs back to the earth.

The Knight laughed loudly and shouted, “Thompson take the left flank! Anders take the right flank! Clavius, with me!” as he rode his proud white horse directly at the Dragon, sword outstretched. The three squires yowled, adrenaline surged through their veins as they obeyed, charging the Crimson Beast.

The dice hit the table again, this time displaying a two and a five. Joy erupted from some of the men as they raised their glasses high in celebration. However, the dark haired man pounded an angry fist on the table, the circular wooden tabletop wobbled under his might. He reached an unsteady hand towards his tankard of ale, took another large swig and grabbed the dice angrily. He set his jaw and proclaimed, “Double or nothing!” Once again the bones left his hand.

The Knight’s long sword slid between two crimson scales in the Dragons belly and bit into the soft flesh beneath. Clavius and his steed were closing fast behind the Knight, the young squire’s blade aimed high. The Dragon’s dark eye focused on Clavius and he flicked his tail towards the armored young man. Hard scales smashed into the squire and launched him twenty feet through the air, his horse spun across the clearing, bones shattering as it was tossed like a ragdoll.

Clavius hung in the air for a moment before gravity took hold. The wind rushed from his lungs as he hit the ground, spikes of pain shot through his body, a cloud of agony covered his eyes. The steel helmet felt constricting, it trapped him, he needed air. With a large mailed hand he wrenched the helm free and tossed it to the ground.

Anders stood at the Wyrm’s right flank, parrying and thrusting the Dragon’s claw like it was a single skilled swordsman. Thompson’s sword plunged into the Beast’s back left leg. The giant Red squirmed and let out a blood curdling roar. It opened its huge maw; its teeth were like rows of scimitars. The Wyrm snaked its giant neck around towards its left flank and faster than lightning wrapped its jaws around Thompson’s armored body. All other sound ceased as the grating of bone on metal and flesh rang though the air. Blood and steel rained down on the clearing as the Dragon ground Thompson’s body into bits with its powerful bite.

“Seven again!” one of the gamblers cheered.

“I know how to read the damned dice!” The dark haired man snapped as once again a pile of gold was raked away from him. “Barmaid, I need more to drink.”

A lovely middle aged woman approached, “Don’t ya think you’ve had enough, luv?”

He darted one of his large hands out and yanked a tankard out of the woman’s hand. “I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough, bitch!”

An old man reached down for the dice. Angrily the dark haired man grabbed the dice away, “I’m not finished old man! Double or nothing once again!”

Clavius froze as blood splattered across his body, his jaw dropped.

“Clavius, we’ve got him on the ropes, grab his left flank!” The Knight commanded as he dodged a razor sharp talon.

Emptiness was all that the squire felt, the adrenaline was gone; all that remained was a hole in the pit of his stomach. The world slowed down and everything felt like a dream, Clavius felt he was watching the scene from outside himself.

“Damn it Clavius! Hurry! We can’t hold him much longer!” The Knight pleaded.

At that moment one of the Wyrm’s taloned fingers pierced Anders. It sank through his chest like a hot knife through butter. The Dragon retracted his talon and you could see the forest through the hole in Anders chest as his body sank to the ground.

The table was silent as the dice fell to reveal seven once again, no one spoke, no one moved, all eyes were fixed upon the black haired man as he grabbed the dice angrily and shouted, “Again! Double or nothing!”

“C’mon you bitch!” The Knight yelled as the Great Red Wyrm brought its full focus down on the armored man. A dry burning smell filled the glade as a jet of searing flame erupted from the Dragon’s maw. The flames engulfed the Knight, hair burned, skin seared, flesh separated from bone, and when it was over all that remained was scorched, melted steel.

Clavius stood, his feet rooted to the ground as the Wyrm eyed him thoughtfully. It brought its head down slowly until their eyes met. The beasts deep ebony eyes penetrated into the Squire’s soul. For what seemed an eternity the Dragon stared at the man, digging into the depths of his soul, revealing every inadequacy, every flaw, every cowardly feeling, every failure, and baring it like a hot brand.

The dice fell once more, a six and a one. The dark haired man took another long drink, finishing his tankard. His jaw was set tight, his face red; his head swam in anger and alcohol. He reached up and ran a finger along a scar which ran down the left side of his face from cheek to jaw.

“Again!” The dark haired man spat.

Warm urine trickled down the Squire’s chain pants and dripped down to the ground. The Dragon sniffed for a moment and chuckled; it slowly brought its front claw forward and extended one of its razor talons. The point of the talon just pierced Clavius’s cheek; blood seeped slowly from the wound as the Wyrm sliced carefully down to the Squire’s jaw. The Beast slowly retracted itself from the cowardly Squire, turned its back on the carnage of the clearing and flew off into the blue morning sky.

“Clavius!” one of the gamblers barked. A burly man with broad shoulders and a protruding belly, he scowled at the dark haired man. “You can’t roll again, you’re out of money!”

“Damn you Hector! I’ll play on credit!” The dark haired man stood up, his seat tumbled behind him.

“You’ve got no more credit here. Take what little dignity you have left and call it a night.”

“Is that a challenge? I’ll fucking gut you!” Clavius reached to his belt for a dagger, but a night of drinking had taken its toll and his hand missed its mark. The moment of hesitation was all Hector needed, the burly man lunged at Clavius, wrapped his arms around the drunken gambler and drug him across the hard wooden floor of the tavern.

Hector opened the tavern door with one hand, and with the other spun Clavius out into the street. “You make me sick. Don’t come back here until you pay off your debts.”

“Go fuck yourself.” The dark haired man spat as he tumbled onto the cobblestone street. His head swam as the world spun too fast, for a moment he thought he’d be sick, but he managed to choke down a mouthful of vomit before weariness took him over the world turned dark.

Origins - Kione

This is a little different from the usual, but I'm going to post a couple origin stories for some flawed or just flat out bad guys.

Kione slipped the dark, flat knife from its leathery case and examined it carefully. One edge of the dagger curved in a delicate wave, at first glance it appeared soft and decorative; the type of blade a noble woman may carry with her when walking alone. However, serrated steel teeth decorated the back of the blade, each triangular tip honed to the sharpest point possible. The sacrificial knife was forged from shadow iron, a type of metal only found in the deepest crevices under Mount Manshart. It was said that shadow iron leaked into the world when Zehir and Bahamut met in battle centuries ago. Zehir lunged at Bahamut and drove his poison dagger deep into the Silver Dragon’s back, poison from the blade mixed with Bahamut’s blood, spilled onto the ground and slid into the deepest reaches of the Earth. Kione ran his careful brown eyes over every inch of the blade, flipping the bone handle between his fingers; there could be no impurities or imperfections in the blade for the ritual to succeed. He slipped the blade back into its light brown leathery case and began the rest of the preparations for the night.

As Kione began mashing the dark blue and purple herbs needed for the ritual his mind began to wander back to his dark christening. The trembling hands of a ten year old boy, black robes draped over his wiry frame. A circle of robed figures standing around him, casting shadows that waved in the candle light. His eyes wide as a beautiful woman bore the shadow iron blade; she dipped its tip into a purplish blue liquid as she took the boys forearm. Her ruby red nails, the cool soft touch of her fingertips made the boy shiver. The smell of lilacs as she pulled him close, her deep green eyes teasing him of what was to come later. Then the smell of searing skin and the biting pain as she dug the knife shallowly into him, carving a “Z” shaped serpent into his young flesh. He winced in pain, a slight yelp escaped his young lips, but he bit back the anguish as his eyes shot over to his father. The man stood, watching, expressionless as his boy came of age. The branding complete, the woman let loose his arm, he wanted to pull it back quickly and cradle the pain away, but he did not want to appear weak in the eyes of so many. Kione pulled his arm back slowly, his jaw set tight as the pain seared through to his bone.

The woman’s emerald eyes watched him approvingly as she extended her cool hands out and grabbed his shoulder gently. With practiced experience her fingers pulled apart the knot in his robe and in a single motion the black cloth fell to the stone floor, leaving the boy standing bare. She reached to her own shoulder and repeated the quick motion, the black robe parted and slid off of her curved, soft body. Dried lilacs filled his nose as she pressed her soft, cool skin against his, his stomach twisted into knots causing him more pain than a thousand searing knives as her hand slid down his bony chest and –

“Is everything prepared?” a grating voice pulled Kione from his memories.


“Yes, Adrian, everything is prepared. The ritual will go according to tradition; everything is in its place”.

Adrian was a solid man, in his youth he was muscular, though recent comforts had made his midsection start to grow. Adrian had grown up poor, his parents’ devout worshippers, outcast from their small farming village, they came to the city. In his youth he made little money selling elixirs and love tonics to young women hoping to nab the man of their dreams. Until one day an older noble woman came to him and asked for a concoction to poison her unfaithful husband, Adrian refused until she named her price. The poor young man could never refuse the full purse of a noble woman. The poison did its job well; his reputation among the upper class spread and his coin purse quickly grew fat. Now he was almost as rich as those he sold his designer toxins to.

“Will your wife be attending the ceremony?” Kione’s voice was direct and concerned.

“I doubt she will attend, she has been… ill.” The round noble’s voice was laced with self doubt and deceit.

Kione turned slowly towards the man, “Do not speak falsely to me Adrian. I know Maura has strayed. The ears of Zehir’s faithful have heard her objections to the ritual; the tongue of Zehir has tasted her doubt. While you bare no blame in the matter, be sure that you handle your wife or the other faithfuls will.”

The chubby man nodded slowly, “She will not be a problem Kione, I will deal with her.” He exhaled deeply and clutched Kione’s shoulders. “Just make sure my daughters christening goes well tonight.”

Kione nodded slowly as Adrian turned and left the room. He knew well enough that the noble would not deal with his wife and he was fully prepared to disappear her. Many were the sheep of the world who never knew the dark embrace of Zehir, he faulted them not. However those who tasted the rapture of the serpent god and recoiled should be dealt with. For now, he would need to attend to the final preparations the ritual.

The room was still the same as when Kione was a boy. Tall, fat candles burned throughout the room, wax dripped onto the grey stone floor. A circle of black robed figures stood around a young girl who had barely seen ten winters. This time it was Kione’s hand which held the ceremonial knife, it was his eyes that studied the trembling scrawny body before him. His heart raced with excitement as he now understood the pleasure he once saw behind the woman’s green eyes so many years ago. The shadow iron tip of the dagger dripped with purple blue liquid as he artfully carved the serpent god’s symbol into the girl’s forearm.

The girls scream tore through the soundless room for a moment before she bit her lip so hard it drew blood. The branding over, Kione pulled his hand over the girl’s trembling shoulder; his fingers found the knot in her robe and wrapped around the fabric. He hesitated for a moment, allowing the anticipation in the room to build, he could feel the excitement building within himself, a warm tingle started in his thighs and pulsated upwards. With one deft twist of his fingers the girl’s robe dropped to the floor in a shadowy pile. His brown eyes studied her for a long moment as he reached up to untie his own cloak.

A crash erupted at the door; the sound of steel hacking through flesh filled the air, less than a moment later the dry wooden door splintered under a heavy axe. A dozen royal guards rushed the room, long swords drawn, hungry for blood. Behind the guards stood a pudgy middle aged woman dressed in green, her worried eyes fell upon the nude child.

“Maura! You traitorous witch!” one of the robed figures spat.

“Silence!” A peppered haired guard shouted, his voice full of contempt. “By order of the Royal Guard you are all under arrest!”

A robed figure clutching a silver dirk leapt at the guard. “By Zehir, you will not take us alive!” The pepper haired guard side stepped the cultist and in one fluid motion, cut the man in two.

“Any other takers?” He challenged.

The eyes of the faithful fell upon the cleaved body of their comrade and their zealotry faded. With gritting defeat they sank to their knees and succumbed to the steely might of the Royal Guard.

Cold shackles clamped around Kione’s wrists, his memory lurched backwards for a moment to the cool touch of the green eyed woman and the scent of lilac. A guard’s shove pushed the scrawny man back into the present. As he was pushed from the room towards his certain death in the gallows, his brown calculating eyes flashed quickly to Adrian and Maura, the faithless would feel the serpents bite.