Dadrian

Dadrian
Status
Race	Rakash
Gender	Male
Guild	undisclosed
Instance	Prime

Early Years

Raindrops pelted the long dirt road as the hooded figure trudged along, a harsh wind tearing at his tattered clothing. The man, a middle-aged Rakash, clutched his cloak tightly around his body to ward off the onslaught as he plodded ever onwards. A distance up the road, a faint light could be seen peeking through the driving storm and the faint outline of a rustic farmhouse began to take form. He stumbled slightly over unsteady footing, but managed to gather himself with practiced ease. The rains had been particularly hard this season and the trade routes had suffered dearly for it. The man stopped for a moment, crouching down next to the road to rest, his eyes trailing back down the road to the enveloping forest. A flash of lightning illuminated his weathered face as the wind whipped his hood about it. Bold, angular features and long silvery-gray hair made for a hardened countenance - the past few years had aged him greatly, what with the war raging around them...them. His wife and two daughters and his infant son. His heart ached as he pulled the small bundle in his arms closer to his body. His wife and oldest daughter lay dead in the fore of their country manor, a small settlement far west through the forests bordering the Rivers' Crossing, his youngest daughter forever lost - deep in the heart of the treacherous Forisaad.

Lightning dashed against a taller tree along the tree-line, revealing a lone horseman mounted atop a tall, dark steed. The two locked eyes across the distance as the rain seemed to intensify. The Rakash bolted, his hood falling back freely in the wind as he sprinted down the muddy road towards the beacon of hope, towards his only hope of salvation. The horseman spurred his horse into action, in pursuit; he leaned into the horse, to increase its speed. The horse's nostrils flared, hooves thundering as it gained ground on the fleeing Rakash. The rider drew a long, slender blade from his chest-sheath, his slight frame poised to strike.

The Rakash's foot steps splashed beneath him, his heart racing as he drove on towards the approaching shelter. His hands shook as the muddy road gave way to gravel, but the assassin was nearly upon him. He shouted, his voice lost in the rolling thunder. His pursuer hit him like a battering ram, leaping from his horse and dragging them both to the ground. The Halfling was easily two to three feet shorter, but made up for his lack of height with blinding speed. The Rakash drug himself up from the muddy earth as his halfling combatant slowly circled him, blade glinting in the moonlight. A stabbing pain radiated from the taller man's ribs, blood trickled from the puncture of the dagger. His bundle began crying loudly, the pain and shock of the collision waking it. The Halfling drew closer, his eyes narrowing as he spoke, "You and your line end tonight, traitorous dog." The Rakash backed slowly away, holding his wounded side with one hand as he clumsily removed his cloak. Gently, he rested the child at his feet, wrapping it with his shroud. "Your master will fall, Aldroan. Sorrow's madness will consume him and all of you that escape the Zoluren infantry. Walk away and leave my son and I in peace." Aldroan's eyes widened with rage. "The only peace you'll have is death, Verod!", he spat. Lightning crashed as the two lunged for each other.

A large form appeared in the doorway of the weather beaten, stone farmhouse. A large, burly, olive-skinned Gor'Togg looked on in confusion as two figures battled each other in the stormy night. The cries rang out again and he turned his gaze to the small bundle just off his porch steps. His gaze flashed back to the combatants as the taller let out a cry of pain, slumping sideways into the mud. The smaller figure, an Olvi he presumed, approached the collapsed form and with a brief utterance of some foul language, drove his dagger deep into the heart of his adversary. The man sputterd and choked as blood ran from his mouth his eyes coming to rest on the infant's makeshift shelter before glazing over in death.

The tall, looming figure stared across the short yard at Aldroan. A peasant farmer, no doubt, but one that would have to be silenced. No matter, he enjoyed the spilling of blood; the owner of which mattered not. As the small, rain-soaked

--To be continued...