Stories from RhyDin & The Rings

::was informed by a friend that this would be the place to introduce myself::

::begins::

Hello and good day to you all, my name is Macabre.

::Macabre is a slender man, cloaked in a black hood, which is embroidered with red stitching, the insignias being skulls. About his person he carries a dagger made of volcanic glass. The serrated edge leads down to the pommel, which is sculpted expertly into vines, leading down into a rose. The blade, in its entirety, is black. Without the hood on, he looks somewhat normal, dressed in a simple leather armor, with shoulder length black hair, and piercing brown eyes.::

A bit about myself, I suppose you wish to know... I was raised in the City of Shadows, by a hermit who found me as a child. The city was torn in a mutiny against the King, after he executed a protester against public torture. The hermit, Glarnik, adopted me as his own, sending me to a small school for fighting, in which I soon excelled. Upon returning to my home I found Glarnik, dead. It has been my soul purpose since to discover Glarnik's killer.

::rubs a small ring with his thumb::

Good day.

This is the story of Macabre, as far as it is come to know.


The candlelight gleamed like gold to the weary traveler, filled with joy that he’d found rest. Smiles filled the room, which smelled of stale air and meat. Taverns usually had quite a crowd during the night hours, but never this so much. Every corner of the room was filled, to the point where people crowded around the door. They all had come to have a look at this newcomer, this impressive looking traveler that happened into their town.
Sitting down at the bar, our character plopped down a few copper coins, and ordered his drinks. About him he wore a sword of magnificent craft, engraved with strange runes, with a saw-blade’s serrated edges running down it. The hilt was even more impressive than the blade however, which was shaped into a thorny vine, down the pommel, at which there was a rose. Points and stares were directed at the sword, for even more so intriguing- the sword’s hilt was a new kind of stone. Some foreign mineral they’d never seen before.
On his person the stranger wore a hooded black cloak, embroidered with red, in an elegant, yet frightening design. On the sides of the cloak, running down towards his ankles, were skulls, twisted into different contortions of emotion. Fear then began to set into the crowd, for they realized they could be in the presence of a very unkind person.
When the traveler finished his drink, he stood, and in response the crowd backed up.
“I’ll need a room to stay in tonight.” He said softly. The bartender hesitantly replied,
“Ok, that’s twenty gold ah night.” The traveler’s face changed suddenly, and in a swift move he brought a knife from one of the customer’s plates up to the bartender’s throat.
“Are you sure? That seem like a mightily unfair price.” The traveler asked impatiently.
“It’s free.”
The stranger let his grip on the knife loosen, and walked up the stairs to a room. Silence filled the tavern the rest of the night, except for the few who dared to whisper amongst themselves.
Upstairs, the traveler, otherwise known as Tyorn the Grim entered his newly acquired room, shut the door, and took a deep breath. He had closed his eyes for just a moment, when he realized something. On his supposed newly acquired bed, was someone who wasn’t supposed to be there. Glarnik. Glarnik was a petty man, a small hermit from outside the city.
“What sob story have you for me now old man.” Tyorn asked irritated.
“The King, your grace, has been decidedly mutinied. War has broken out in our home, and the lands have perished because of it. Whole fields of crops have been burnt to the ground, and homes destroyed.” The quiet, fearful reply of the hermit said.
“This is no concern of mine.” Tyorn said coldly. “You shouldn’t waste your time with those peasants. You’re capable of so much more.”
“Well it just so happens your entire family is made up of those peasants as you call them, and already your brother’s family has been slain.”
“I don’t care. He was a rebel and a fool, he’s no concern of mine.” Tyorn replied once again, coldly.
“You don’t understand do you. The King was threatening to kill an innocent protester, one who only wanted to better the world by stopping public tortures.”
“And this justifies stupidity? The King will always be a King and will always abuse his power.” Tyorn spat.
“So, but it is also the citizen’s responsibility to correct him.”
“What do you want me to do about it?” Tyron shrugged, easing up a little. The hermit tossed a sack of gold down on the bedside table. It fell open, revealing a numerous quantity of gold, gems, and diamonds. “I want you to kill the king, and all his men. All of the tyrants must be punished. This is a fund from which dying citizens have entrusted me, hoping that you would bring salvation to our city.”
Tyorn’s eyes widened as he looked over the sack, and it’s contents. “You managed to bring this all the way from our city? Without being caught?”
“Let not my struggle go to waste.”
“With this much bounty? I don’t plan too.” Tyorn said confidently.

~~~2 years later~~~

In the dead of night, Tyorn slammed through the door of the hermits house, sending his blood about the door. “My son,” he said, taking off his garment, and unsheathing his dagger, “Take care of him, leave this place…and give these too him, when his time comes. He shall not know his father, but tell him what happened to his home. Tell him, that one day, he should return to restore balance…Or die trying. As you said…This is the citizen’s job…For his father’s honor, he must.”
With wide eyes, the hermit watched as his friend passed away. He did as he had instructed, in remorse for the loss of his friend, and raised Macabre as his own. Eventually his was given his father's effects, including the obsidian dagger so famed by his home town, and the deathly looking cloak. Both he kept, and wore about him at nearly all times, to this very day.