For Honor and Glory
Vic'Ira Autumn Ender *DEAD*
Translation: heir who arrives in darkness
Sun Elf Warblade
Height 6’5" Weight 147
Hair: White Eyes: Blue
5 armor 2 dexterity
Weaponry Elven curve blade, Chakrams
“….you dare to betray us! You have trifled with your betters Ender of Autumn. As our champion none stood taller, none were more envied, none so adored, and yet you remain ungrateful.We could end you but that would be too boring for the greatest mortal warrior of this age. No we shall shatter your blade, seize your armor and defile your home. But do not despair for we are not without mercy. You shall walk this realm undying, which should provide ample time for you to reconsider your allegiance and consider these mistakes. For you winter shall never come…”
The words of the Verdant Prince of the winter court echoed in his thoughts. He had no idea the context or meaning. The memory was simply…there. It came at times unpredictable, as the rolling tides of emotion afflicting the shorter lived races. Other memories came occasionally; training exercises, life in the barracks, a forbidden love with a dark skinned elf, the raging inferno of red dragon breath across his skin, and a duel with a being in glistening golden armor. Each independent of the other vying for dominance like a rabid hydra.
Vic’Ira paused in his exercises briefly. The grip on this curve blade was worn but not by the previous owner. No, the previous owner had somehow acquired the blade with barely the skill to keep the point out of his own body. The attempted robbery was laughable in execution as the would be bandit was struck down clumsily attempting to draw the blade from it’s sheath. In the early hours of morning outside an unnamed, unmemorable, but pleasant tavern, the frost held fast blade to home. Winter had ever been his ally. The real challenge was in properly securing the bandit’s scale armor to his much lighter elven body, “A struggle truly worthy of bard song” he thought dryly.
As the sun began to peak on the eastern horizon Vic’Ira gathered his meager collection of belongings. He did not understand the compulsion that struck him to practice but it tugged at his thoughts much like children tugging at their mothers skirts as they pass the sweets vendor, The directions he was given by the serving girl at the tavern were direct, but sounded to his still keen ears as screeching to make a harpy envious. Inwardly he smiled at the thought of the serving girl. Her appearance was fair but she was joyous and full of warmth. He would have to return someday. After all she did make him a bodyguard for a month after removing the local “bandit”. And she did teach him the “common” tongue with great patience despite his insistence that Thorass was the language of civilized races.
Vic’Ira was going to reach his destination early at his current pace. Such things happened when you need not stop for such base things as sleep. The curse of the Verdant Prince (whomever he was) carried certain advantages for which he Vic’Ira was thankful. The note posted at the tavern by a Khevar Copperbottom was seeking caravan guards for an upcoming journey. In well written and bold characters the note promised much; “EASY GOLD! ADVENTURE! ALE & WENCHES!” followed by a less than tasteful rendering of woman with fiery hair and chest surely blessed by the gods holding an overflowing goblet whilst coins covering select portions of her anatomy. He wondered if “the greatest mortal warrior of this age” had started as a simple caravan guard those many many centuries ago.
Vic’Ira trudged on. Further down the road ominous clouds rolled across the sky and rain visibly poured down, forming at rainbow the the meeting point of sun and storm. The difference in the sensations would barely register on his cold elven flesh, but such concerns were for meeker men. Adjusting the curve blade on his back, he promises that in two ages none shall stand higher, none shall be more envied, and none so adored as Vic’Ira Autumn Ender