Ghuanrrak Sandhawk of the Ariallat, Sunwarden of Thar-Eris

Role

Chapter 11

and the other foul creatures of Thera. A dwarf might also find his beard remain
intact if there is a spireling or an Imperial cur that the Sandhawk might
end in their attempted domination, but make no mistake
dwarves despite their path in life are to hunted and through their pain
taught that the Mother is not to be harmed.

Role

Chapter 10

Though Ghuanrrak is of the light he is a hunter by nature and
growing up in a harsh environment he knows that even those of the
the same nature are to be tested and taught by the blade.
Dwarves abound in the lands beyond Niar's anvil, but even those
who claim to fight for the light are not to be spared from testing by Niar's fire
Elves who conjure beings from the planes beyond also will feel his
daggers sting.
Given the choice abominations such as the living dead and minotaurs
are of primary concern for destruction. Though his distaste for dwarves
is potent he will pass the chance to cut its beard to hunt orcs and

Role

Chapter 9

Guanrrak has spent much time in the wilds and amidst the wild children of
Thar Eris. His battles have been to and fro, but his last battle with a filth
duergar gave him an insight that was close to an epiphany. The battle started
well, the Sandhawk darted low and felt a satisfying twang as the dark dwarf's
hamstrings gave way. With a single flap of his dusky wings he pulled himself
away from the mace swing aimed at his skull and responded with a flip of his
wrist, sending a dagger to find home in the exposed inner forearm. He clicks
his hooked beak with satisfaction and darts in to stab a dagger deep into his
opponent's thigh, twisting hard as he pulls it free. All had gone well so
far, and Guanrrak tucks his daggers away pulling the long golden scepter free
from his back in a crescent and slashing arc.
This would be the end of the filth, but after several exchanges a flickering
thought blinks through his mind and he notices that despite beginning to
understand the duergar's movements that none of his strikes are landing
cleanly. The duergar appears to be turning his body just enough that each
body is mitigated by his heavy armor, and he seems to know exactly where its
strengths lie. Guanrrak's momentary distraction costs him, the duergar's mace
slams heavily into the side of his skull and the world become dark. He could
not have been unconscious long, when he awakes he finds the filth's blood
trail leading off to Galadon. Guanrrak follows it as far as the eastern gate,
only to see that the filth has taken refuge behind several of the on duty
magistrates and has also fully healed. There will be another time.
Roosting in the low branches of a Weald elm, Guanrrak pieces through the
battle in his mind and as he replays each of the duergar's moves and stances
begins to give some grudging respect to the skill employed in knowing the
strengths of the heavy armor. He removes the shirt of dragonscales which
protects his chest, long ago he sought out its inner strength and it had
served him well. Heavy armor just did not suit him, but what
if..............a sudden shining clarity opens in his mind. With the strength
of natural materials, born of the mother, it just may be possible to mimic
the duergar's tactics. If he could do that, many blows which would normally
have caused great pain might be lessened. In an instant he resolved to speak
with the monks of this, mayhap with some diligence he may even learn more
about strengthening natural substances.

Role

Chapter 8

It began almost innocuously, like a gentle breeze which flutters a
candle's flame. A mere whisper in his mind, but returning to burn stronger
with each breath. Memories are returning to Guanrrak's foggy brain, most
instigated by actions and events: when the bring orb rises on the horizon
Guanrrak instinctively turns his face to greet it, and as the candle fluttered
the word 'Niar'.
He remembers now that this is Niar's face. Niar who gives light life
yet tests all with his merciless, burning fury. The Ariallat remembers too the
pale face of Linsor, and now finds it strange that Druid's of the wild
feel so drawn to her. Guanrrak Sandhawk, as he has been named has found
kinship with a motley mixture of miscreants, from such varied walks and
corners of this land, but all who fight tooth, claw, talon and fist to
preserve and bring Thar Eris to fruition.
He remembers his flock, but knows now that this struggle he engages in
beyond the water's waste is of greater import than that of Niar's Anvil.
So here he will stay and continue to fight, to preserve and to foster
the candle of his mind, to let it illuminate each dark and misty corner, and
once again feel whole.

Role

Chapter 7

Guanrrak has flown far and wide across the wasteland of water,
and has met with the Sunwarden. The Sun it seems is their name for Niar,
and so he feels great kinship. He talked long with this woman of the
wilds telling her of his journey and his fight against the slavers.
She has named him Sandhawk of the Sun, and given him perch in the Great
Tree. This is good, he feels at home in this flock, taking her name for him
as his own so that all may know his new Tribe.

Role

Chapter 6

Guanrrak wanders in the sandstorm for
sometime before reaching the cliffwall. Eventually he finds
a trail which leads him above to a vast mountain range.
Again he feels a familiarity, but cannot place himself in
the context of his surroundings. Several days pass as he
wanders through the cold mountains, and he gives great
thought to returning to the warmth of the desert, but the
worst is past, and he feels the slope descending down to a
lush forest and so presses on. Hunting small game as he
travels he enters the forest eventually coming to a great
sea, a vast expanse of shifting water such as he has, or
can never remember having seen. Something in him drives him
on, he is surviving now on shear instinct, and though the
rational part of his brain might have advised otherwise he
sets off into the wastes of the water, hoping to find what
he has lost.
Many days of flight lead him to a port city,
its stench is enough for him to realize he should avoid it.
He follows the river and then a long winding road heading
towards the rising sun, before stopping in a small grove to
the north, and here he sets his camp. It does not take long
after some words with the local druids for him to realize
that there is much evil in this land, destroyers of life,
which many resist with their lives. Forays towards some
cities are enough for him to know he does not belong there,
but still there are things he must remember. Somehow he
must find out who he is, until then he will define himself
by what he does, instinct will be his guide. A young druid
asked him once for his name, and without thinking he makes
a guttural cawing sound "Guanrrak". Though he does not know
how he remembers, its utterance seems to fit - a first step
perhaps.

Role

Chapter 5

Niar's hammer is strong today. As Guanrrak steps out from
the last vestiges of the swirling chaos of sand and wind,
he feels invigorated and alive. He spreads his wings and
alights above the desert sand, causing small sand djinns to
swirl from his wing tips as they fan the ground. It was a
good hunt, many of the slavers died to his blade and to the
wrath of the desert. Perhaps his sense of reverie was the
cause of his inattention, but he failed to see the dark
figure which crawled out from the sandstorm, its lifeblood
oozing from a fatal wound to its chest and greedily drunk
down by the barren earth. Guanrrak does not hear the last
word the figure utters as it points a pale finger towards
his back, but he does feel the thunderous surge of negative
energy which bowls him over and scours through his brain.
Moments later the Ariallat finds himself face down in the
sand. He pushes himself up on shaky arms, suddenly unsure
of where he is, of who he is. Landscapes in which he had
known each horizon and dune, now appear foreign to him, and
this blood it does not seem to be his, but then whos? He
climbs to his feet and instinctual takes flight to
investigate the crumpled figure at the edge of the
sandstorm. Is this who he had done battle with, or was he a
companion who had not survived the skirmish? His mind is
hazy and memories seem to be confused and fragmented. He
feels like he belongs here, but where is here? His weapons
fit his hands like old friends, but are somehow still
unfamiliar. The blazing orb in the sky seems to be
approaching its zenith, and somehow Guanrrak knows that he
must find shelter and shade. Though the swirling sandstorm
before him seems foreboding it offers the only possible
refuge from the heat from above, and so folding his wings
he steps inside.

Role

Chapter 4

Guanrrak catches bellowed order carried in the howling winds, but
these are evil and selfish men, who are more interested in
self preservation. Several have cut the end of the party
loose and are trying to make a break towards the edge of
the storm. Guanrrak wades into those who remained to defend
themselves, taking full advantage of the melee and
confusion, he ducks and spins, causing his foes to entangle
themselves and strike each other erroneously. He appears
and disappears through the sands blinding maelstrom until
only one remains. Guanrrak uses both hands to stab his
dagger deep into the slaver's heart as he desperately
attempts to cut himself free from his slain companions. The
Ariallat warrior takes only a moment to watch the life fade
from this evil human's eyes before taking off in pursuit of
the others. Guanrrak sprints awkwardly, running is not his
preferred mode of transit, but the wind is too erratic to
fly. His sharp talons tear into the sand, giving his
backward jointed legs purchase. As he runs he loosens a
bullwhip from his belt and with a surging leap passes over
the lead slaver, snaking the whip around his torso and
yanking him off the dune's ridge. Flaring his wings he
abates his decent, and shakes the whip loose, watching in
satisfaction as one by one the slavers tumble down the
slope in into the waiting teeth of the tearing rocks. Their
pitiful screams torn apart by the wind in mocking mimicry
of the fate that awaits their flesh, but Guanrrak has
little room for pity, he pushes his way back up to the dune
crest and makes his way towards the sandstorm's edge. There
will be no Ariallat in nets this day.

Role

Chapter 3

Niar's fury beats down upon the wastes below as Guanrrak
spreads his wings and slips from his perch, the warm
up-current caressing his lithe form, he descends in slow
spirals. Once closer to the ground he tucks his wings
closer to gain speed, he know that he needs velocity to
skirt the tearing and buffeting winds of the sandstorm. He
also knows that he must strike the caravan before they exit
the swirling sands, causing confusion and panic. In the
blinding sands the slavers would not know if they were
attacked by a few or many and this would be the advantage
he needed. He knows they are close to tearing rock, the
rocks and wind will be a fitting torturous end to these
scum. Flecks of sand begin to pelt his face and in an
instant the nictitating membrane reflexively slips over his
eyes as he gains speed. Ahead dark figures take form in the
swirling sands, and he slips a long hooked dagger from his
belt. The first slavers saw nothing, he simply cried out as
Guanrraks blade cut through his hamstrings, his wail
carried off in the wind as he crumpled to the sand.
Guanrrak folds his wings completely and his talons bite
into a small dune. Quickly he spins as a figure emerges
through the maelstrom of sand, with a flick of his arm he
lets fly a small flat dagger and clicks his beak in
satisfaction as he hears a gurgle proving it found its
mark. Launching himself forward he stabs hard with his
blade, twisting as he pulls it free and feeling the warm
surge of lifeblood as the hooked weapon tears through vital
arteries. The rest of the caravan are alerted, silently he
curses the trickery of Linsor and those who give her praise
the slavers have bound themselves together in a line with
rope. With the last two members of their group now dead
weight they have realized they under attack.

Role

Chapter 2

Guanrrak's flock had long lived in the wastes. The Niar's
Anvil as it was known to them - where the hammer of the God
Niar tested the mettle of any who dare exist in its
presence. They lived simple lives, hunting small game, or
the occasional troll should it become troublesome, most
roosting on the cliff-faces at night when Niar was chased
from the sky by his pale sister Linsor. Linsor who's belly
would slowly fill and empty over successive nights, as she
gained and lost her stolen strength. She was powerful, but
a cold Goddess, fickle like all females. Yes, a simple
life, until the slaves came. There had always been
travelers in the wastes, hunters of treasure, or those
sought the magical powers of the hated Tower and its dark
magics, even mighty warriors who came to challenge the
Yellow Wyrm. His people paid them little mind, until the
slavers - they did not seek the incidental trinkets and
baubles like so many before them. They sought the Ariallat
or the mighty Skyflash, whom the Ariallat thought
themselves descended, and for what, few knew. It was only
after some of their captives had managed to escape and
returned battered and broken that the truth became known.
Now the flock knew the dangers, many flew to the higher
ledges when the warning calls sounded across the desert,
but not Guanrrak. Tucking his tail-feathers was never in
his demeanor, he had already caused the demise of one
caravan of these evil filth, and he had plans to do the
same with this one.

Role

Chapter 1

The warm desert wind tugs insistently at his dull feathers
as Guanrrak sits silently perched on the cliff-face. The
vast expanse of the Wastes of Nonveil lay stretched out
before him and speck-like figures, mere motes in the eyes
of one with a lesser gaze, dance in the shimmering air of
heat's mirage. Absently he straightens an errant feather on
his wing with his rather imposing hooked beak, never once
taking his piecing gaze from the small line of dark specks
making their way through the haze. He had picked up the
caravan's trail at the edge of the Jade mountains, where he
had been hunting game, quietly flitting through the foliage
behind them and ever on the edges of the sight of the armed
guards. When they descended the narrow trail to the wastes
he used an upper trail to skirt blinding sandstorm and
position himself ahead of the slavers. He knew where they
were headed, and knew what they were looking for - his
people knew well the fate of Ariallat or Skyflash who were
caught in the nets of the slavers. Tales of wings hacked
off at the distal humerus, talons dulled and beaks broken,
kept as chained pets for the rich merchants, royal
courtiers and minor nobles. Some even claimed the Empress
herself kept her own to fan her in the heat of the months
of warmth, but there would be no harvest for this caravan,
he would ensure that.

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