Post by priestmarcus on Jan 18, 2023 7:07:38 GMT -5
Marcus was born into a family of sharecroppers, working land along the Rauvin River just outside Everlund. The days were long and the work was hard. Marcus hated it. He grew tall and strong from the constant work but quarreled with neighbors and had no friends. He was only fourteen when a troop of Everlund Militia marched down the River Road, past the farm he worked. "There's the life" he thought. "No work. They pay you for fighting." The commander, always on the lookout for new recruits, noticed the tall muscular boy. "You there, boy, come join the ranks. You will like it much better than rooting around in the dirt." It worked. Marcus followed the militia without even saying goodbye to his family. The military life was not what Marcus expected. There were long days, hard work, marching and drill, but it was still much better than life on the farm. No one cared if he was a bully and a thug, and best of all, they really did pay him for fighting.
After raiding and destroying a camp of bandits that had been praying on the road between Everlund and Jalanthar, Marcus turned over the body of a well dressed bandit who was probably the leader. There on his belt was a dagger. The sheath was made of polished dark wood, heavily inlaid with some strange red metal. The grip was polished ivory, the hilt and pommel plated with gold. Marcus drew the dagger and held it before his eyes. The long silver blade had a line of runes etched down the fuller, inlaid with the same strange red metal. As Marcus staired at the blade, he heard a soft feminine voice, like his mother tucking him into bed when he was a child. "Kill with me" it whispered. All that was going on around him fell silent. Staring at the blade, slack jawed, mesmerized, Marcus muttered "kill with you".
MARCUS!! What have you got there? The harsh command voice pulled Marcus out of his revelry. Looking up, he saw his officer staring down at him. "That is a very fine dagger. No doubt stolen from a noble whose family would like it returned. I'll take that and see it finds its way home." Not sure what to do, Marcus surrendered the dagger and sheath. That night he lay awake thinking of the fine blade and muttering to himself ... "kill with you". The next day, his officer was wearing the dagger on his belt. Marcus seethed. That night, when the camp was asleep, Marcus quietly drew his sword and left the tent. "It's mine. I'm going to kill that thieving bastard and take it back" he whispered to himself. Walking toward the officer's tent, Marcus stepped onto the road and felt a gentle breeze blow across his face.
"You don't want that blade" a voice said. Marcus spun around, but he was alone. Again he heard the voice ... "They will hunt you and find you. They will hang you. No god will claim you and you will be lost forever. You don't want that blade. Follow me. Serve me. I will show you far places and beautiful things." "Who are you?" Marcus asked aloud. "I am called by many names." the voice said. "The watcher on the Horizon. Rider of the Wind. A helping hand. My true name is Shaundakul, and I will save you if you let me." The rage in Marcus vanished. Touched by a god, he stood in the road and felt like a fool. "What must I do?" "That's the easy part. Take one step on the road ... then another." On his second step, Marcus turned into mist and was carried away by the breeze.
Over the years, Marcus has been carried to many places. He guarded caravans and travelers. Fought to keep the roads safe. Raised money to maintain, repair, and even build roads. He raised shrines to Shaundakul, though these were little more than stone cairns in high, lonely places. Understanding the combative nature of his newest priest, Shaundakul tended to send him where the danger was greatest and the fighting was worst. While most followers of Shaundakul travel light, Marcus picked up bits and pieces of heavy armor to protect him while smiting his foe. A bit unorthodox perhaps, but useful, and Marcus always carried a greatsword to do the smiting. Shaudakul loves a good joke, and watching a heavily armored priest clamber up a steep hill to stack rocks at the top was always good for a laugh or two.
After raiding and destroying a camp of bandits that had been praying on the road between Everlund and Jalanthar, Marcus turned over the body of a well dressed bandit who was probably the leader. There on his belt was a dagger. The sheath was made of polished dark wood, heavily inlaid with some strange red metal. The grip was polished ivory, the hilt and pommel plated with gold. Marcus drew the dagger and held it before his eyes. The long silver blade had a line of runes etched down the fuller, inlaid with the same strange red metal. As Marcus staired at the blade, he heard a soft feminine voice, like his mother tucking him into bed when he was a child. "Kill with me" it whispered. All that was going on around him fell silent. Staring at the blade, slack jawed, mesmerized, Marcus muttered "kill with you".
MARCUS!! What have you got there? The harsh command voice pulled Marcus out of his revelry. Looking up, he saw his officer staring down at him. "That is a very fine dagger. No doubt stolen from a noble whose family would like it returned. I'll take that and see it finds its way home." Not sure what to do, Marcus surrendered the dagger and sheath. That night he lay awake thinking of the fine blade and muttering to himself ... "kill with you". The next day, his officer was wearing the dagger on his belt. Marcus seethed. That night, when the camp was asleep, Marcus quietly drew his sword and left the tent. "It's mine. I'm going to kill that thieving bastard and take it back" he whispered to himself. Walking toward the officer's tent, Marcus stepped onto the road and felt a gentle breeze blow across his face.
"You don't want that blade" a voice said. Marcus spun around, but he was alone. Again he heard the voice ... "They will hunt you and find you. They will hang you. No god will claim you and you will be lost forever. You don't want that blade. Follow me. Serve me. I will show you far places and beautiful things." "Who are you?" Marcus asked aloud. "I am called by many names." the voice said. "The watcher on the Horizon. Rider of the Wind. A helping hand. My true name is Shaundakul, and I will save you if you let me." The rage in Marcus vanished. Touched by a god, he stood in the road and felt like a fool. "What must I do?" "That's the easy part. Take one step on the road ... then another." On his second step, Marcus turned into mist and was carried away by the breeze.
Over the years, Marcus has been carried to many places. He guarded caravans and travelers. Fought to keep the roads safe. Raised money to maintain, repair, and even build roads. He raised shrines to Shaundakul, though these were little more than stone cairns in high, lonely places. Understanding the combative nature of his newest priest, Shaundakul tended to send him where the danger was greatest and the fighting was worst. While most followers of Shaundakul travel light, Marcus picked up bits and pieces of heavy armor to protect him while smiting his foe. A bit unorthodox perhaps, but useful, and Marcus always carried a greatsword to do the smiting. Shaudakul loves a good joke, and watching a heavily armored priest clamber up a steep hill to stack rocks at the top was always good for a laugh or two.