The Black Swordsman
Morning sun shimmered between the trees, the leaves a luxurious green and rich with spring. Standing tall and proud in hard brown bark on ground covered in branches, the wooden sentries of this planet owned it—or so they might think. This forest of Mesara was bright with sunlight, alive with the chorus of birds and other critters, but there was only one king.
Both illuminated by those golden rays and bathed in shadow, Ashmaw was the proudest mountain in the vicinity. Bound in black rock, it was no mere mountain. It was a volcano. Somewhere deep within the bowels of this titan, treasure was buried of a deeper mystery. At least, that’s what the local villagers believed.
Karok was the name of the place. It was a little village indeed. Nestled within the trees not far from the foot of Mount Ashmaw, it was difficult to find without already knowing where to go. There was one who had traveled this land, having landed his vessel a safe distance away, and he did know.
Drane T’keen walked in his trademark dark garments: black leather boots, pants and a jacket trimmed in gold. Bereft of helmet, the woodland breeze swept across his skin with a whisper as if to lead him in the direction of the village. Step by step, the Thyrsian arrived outside the settlement. He decided to hide behind a tree, spying the simple buildings, counting the beings going about their daily lives.
Eeny, meeny, miny, mo. Drane spread his lips, not feeling especially vicious, but ready to get some answers from these poor people one way or the other. Which one of you holds the key to my sleeping volcano?
Lumiya Dara
Both illuminated by those golden rays and bathed in shadow, Ashmaw was the proudest mountain in the vicinity. Bound in black rock, it was no mere mountain. It was a volcano. Somewhere deep within the bowels of this titan, treasure was buried of a deeper mystery. At least, that’s what the local villagers believed.
Karok was the name of the place. It was a little village indeed. Nestled within the trees not far from the foot of Mount Ashmaw, it was difficult to find without already knowing where to go. There was one who had traveled this land, having landed his vessel a safe distance away, and he did know.
Drane T’keen walked in his trademark dark garments: black leather boots, pants and a jacket trimmed in gold. Bereft of helmet, the woodland breeze swept across his skin with a whisper as if to lead him in the direction of the village. Step by step, the Thyrsian arrived outside the settlement. He decided to hide behind a tree, spying the simple buildings, counting the beings going about their daily lives.
Eeny, meeny, miny, mo. Drane spread his lips, not feeling especially vicious, but ready to get some answers from these poor people one way or the other. Which one of you holds the key to my sleeping volcano?
Lumiya Dara