Ozrek the Legend of the Battlefield

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Role

Chapter 8

Heaps of scars marked the body of Ozrek. Between the seraphic markings and the
tattered flesh, his skin was an ever-growing saga of struggle and pain. Life as
a Squire in the Holy Brigade had presented all the challenges he could ever want,
and though his defeats were numerous, his victories had also become numerous as
he forged ahead, tempering his mind, body, and soul in the chaotic crucible of
war. Though the forces of evil were mighty, and hideously powerful necromancy
was being flung about like bitter seeds on blighted earth, Ozrek resolved to see
the fight to its conclusion. He knew his death would be the violent demise of a
warrior, and he would have it no other way. He would gladly give his bones
over if they could be used to bludgeon the wicked.

Dark magic, he had always known, was the ultimate expression of evil in the world.
It was pure malice, wielded by the wicked, to make misery manifest. And though he
was tasked to fight all who bore the unholy Taint, it was the practitioners of
these vile arts he wished to see destroyed above all.

Role

Chapter 7

As fragmented images of the last moments of his previous life flashed in his mind,
a light began to emanate before him. Silvery-white, it flickered like fire but
gave off no heat. Yet, Ozrek knew instinctively that this entity had set this place
ablaze. He could only look on in awe as the light coalesced into the form of the
Tara'bal, and for a time it seemed as if the thunderous beating of his own heart
was the last anchor he had upon reality.

"We have watched you. We have seen you fight and prevail against the dark specter
of necromancy which plagues your body even now. We offer a boon, young Ozrek, so
that you might live a full life, as the Gods intended. What you do with that life
is your decision to make."

"...But, We hope you will take up the cause that has always called to your spirit...
again."

And then the Tara'bal spoke words which no mortal can understand, in the divine
language of Seraphs. As the chant echoed like a chorus of crystalline waves crashing
on the shores of reality from a sea of unknowable splendor, seraphic runes appeared
upon Ozrek's body as if an invisible hand had set quill and ink to his skin. The
weight of darkness which had always struggled to crush him down lifted completely,
and for the first time in his life he felt light as a feather. All of his toil
under such duress made him surge with unknown strength.

The moment passed, the light faded, and Ozrek was left alone in the dark and ruined
chamber to decide his fate. Looking down upon the ruin of his past, he made a silent
vow to fight against such evils as those that had corrupted his father. He knew he
had been granted a second chance, and would not squander the wondrous gift of life
he'd been given. And so, after laying the old bones to rest, he left the comforts of
home for the hard, rewarding life of a warrior.

Role

Chapter 6

"...Happy birthday dear OzreeeEEEeeEk...Haaaaappy biiiirthday to yoooouuu!!"

The ale-soaked singing of Granlen, Ozrek's friend, mentor, and Smith of the
family manor, was so much more lively than the stuffy choruses he had to endure
when his mother's kin visited. Were it any other celebration, he would be
filled with happiness by the dwarf's endless levity. But, today he turned
fifteen, and was now considered a man - a young man, but a man nonetheless.
The strained smile was all any of them needed to know the young man was thinking
about his father; wishing he was here, wishing he knew him at all, and wondering
what in the world had taken him away. In his heart he knew it was a dark tale
(not that he had any real proof, but he had always known.)

He walked through the old manor by himself that night and, by chance, came to the
old wine cellar. He rarely went down here, but now that he was a man he supposed
it wouldn't hurt to start learning something about the rare vintages which had
been here, undisturbed, his entire life. As he was looking over the central rack,
a sudden, sharp sensation of deja vu struck him. But, after a few moments the
feeling hadn't gone. In fact, it seemed to be growing stronger, to the point where
he felt almost nauseous as his mind tried to process the experiences of two lives
at once. There, right where he somehow knew it would be, were the peculiar scratches
on the ground. With a firm lift and shove, the rack swung to the side, revealing
the stairs.

The smell of dull, old ashes lingered cloyingly in the air, and as he passed through
the blackened fore-chamber, Ozrek came to what appeared to be a burnt and ruined
laboratory. A single shaft of moonlight shown through an old ventilation pipe in the
ceiling, shining to an indescribable heap of cobwebs and ash at his feet. He felt
drawn to investigate it, and as he brushed aside the webs, sudden horror stabbed
at his chest when he encountered two elven skeletons.

There, in the deep place where evil once dwelled, Ozrek met his father, his uncle
and himself.

Role

Chapter 5

Ozrek's childhood was, as you can imagine, less than ideal. His mother, strong
though she was, could never recover from the sorrow of the day upon which he
was born. So many questions lingered, unanswered - what happened to her husband
and his brother? No one had ever discovered the truth. She had the family fortune,
and their lands. But, such creature comforts provided little solace for her. To
her dismay, her child was born sickly, and even now, at the age of eleven, was
under-sized, gaunt, and prone to all sorts of seasonal illnesses. For an elf, it
was almost unheard of. Perhaps her one joy was in the fact that Ozrek was a very
jovial, happy child who never shied away from the tests of youth, such as racing
other children, climbing a tree, or playing a game of "Knights versus Shadows."
It never seemed to bother him if he didn't win, for it was the effort that
counted. In that sense, he was very much like his namesake, Ozrek the First.

Perhaps it was this strong, indomitable quality that caused Ozrek to take interest
in steel; a strong spirit seeking a kinship with the forge, where strength is
tested every day in the pursuit of perfection. Miralei thought it would be wise to
help her fragile son, as it would certainly toughen his body. She was secretly
relieved that he never pursued magic, for she had grown increasingly convinced
that the disappearances must have had something to do with the arcane; after all,
Erethus had always dabbled in his spare time, but to her knowledge he had never
learned more than a few useful or entertaining cantrips.

Using her finances, she hired a dwarven smith, paying to have he and his family
moved from far-off Akan. Miralei hoped to bolster the family coffers by becoming
a purveyor of silver and mithril goods, which had become all the rage on the
southern continent in recent years. Ozrek, of course, became instant friends with
the dwarves, and though he could barely lift a hammer, he helped them every day.
It was through them that he really began to learn of the happenings of the world,
and he was mystified by the exploits of the Noldarian Smith, Thror, who had
survived losing his hands and eventually rose to the Heavens as one of the great
fathers of the dwarven people. Through the stories of the ancient, Silver Lord,
Shokai, Ozrek's deep respect for the Maran were born, though it was still the
trials of Thror's turbulent life that he could identify with the most; to build
one's self into something stronger has been Ozrek's defining characteristic. He
learned that true strength is not about the size of one's muscles, but the stamina
of their resolve in the face of adversity.

If one were to ask Ozrek what it means to be strong, he would say "Strength is
not really about strength at all - it's about not being weak. Would you say the
raging Khalid river is strong? It is full of fury, yes. But, the rock which forces
the river to split is truly strong."

Role

Chapter 4

Confused for a moment by the usage of the word "Temple," Erethus quickly
grasped the meaning. "You speak of my unborn child? It will be a son, then?
That...that is good. The House will live on, then."

"And there must be payment, for We would need a willing life to guide your
brother's soul back. Even then, the scars of this foul magic may be upon him.
As for your House - you have sullied the name forever, and it is best left
to history. Your son may discover a new name, but that is his tale."

"Whatever it takes. Do what needs to be done. Just know that I am sorry. So
very sorry."

"We know."

With that, a great chorus of Seraphic chanting filled the chamber, and Erethus
slipped peacefully out of the world as the vivimancy transferred his soul for
Ozrek's, who was guided into the womb of Miralei as the morning sun lit her
chamber. With a cry, she pushed forth her child into the world. As she cradled
him, she heard Erethus' voice saying "I love you, my wife. Name him after his
uncle..."

Role

Chapter 3

Erethus was beside himself with grief. Never in his most horrifying
nightmares did he think his dabbling would ever bring harm to his own
blood. The cur whom he had intended to sacrifice was a convicted murderer,
whom he had purchased from a prison warden. He never intended to hurt
anyone. Frantically, he tried to think of a way to right this grievous
crime. As the ghoul opened its eyes, awaiting its master's command,
Erethus wept bitter tears. He had traded the life of his brother for this
monstrosity.

Working with feverish speed, he tore through his collection of tomes,
searching for those dealing with conjuration - the first art he had
studied. He had long ago abandoned it, for the thought of binding sentient
beings did not sit well with him. Necromancy, though greatly despised,
dealt with energies that could be directed far more accurately. Desperately,
he began drawing a celestial circle, and within mere minutes he began the
ritual to conjure forth an archon from the Heavens.

Unbeknownst to him, these dark happenings had been observed by the beings
of the Outer Planes, and where an archon should have arrived, there came
something far more dangerous - a holy Tara'bal of the Phoenix. Silvery-white
fire encircled the chamber as one of the most holy, and most feared warriors
of the Light spoke with words that rolled like thunder, rattling the very
walls with righteous anger.

"You who would dare to commit such sins now seek the aid of the Light? Before
Our eyes you have snuffed-out a bright, young flame with your arrogance, and
your meddling in the black arts. Speak now, and be quick, for I intend to
cleanse this good earth of your wickedness!"

In awe of the legendary being before him, Erethus spoke with a humility he
had not known since he was a child, "I am unworthy of any mercy. My crimes
have brought ruin upon my House, and...and my very own blood. I seek no
forgiveness. But, I would give my life to change what has been done. Is
there a way to do it?"

The burning eyes seemed to smolder less angrily from within the dark recess
of the Tara'bal's grey helm, and he regarded Erethus with pity. For he knew
that necromancy was a seductive magic, and this elf before him had fallen
prey to it in the same way a man might become addicted to ale, opium, or
the halfling's leaf. After a time, he said, "It is within Our power, but
his body cannot be saved. However, We sense a new Temple waiting for a soul,
nearby."

Role

Chapter 2

Ozrek raced back as the sky began to lighten with the first hints of dawn.
Heading for the most obvious place, the wine cellar, his anger was mounting.
Quickly, he tore through the cellar, checking every wall for a clue. It was
not until he had all but given up that he spotted a few scratches in the
stone floor near a wine rack in the very middle of the chamber. With relative
ease, he pushed the rack, which slid smoothly on a hidden hinge, revealing
a narrow staircase heading down into the darkness.

He approached the fore-chamber, opening the door silently and slipping in.
Very slowly, he pulled the next door open and peeked in. There, to his
horror, was his brother, dressed in a black robe and wearing a mask of
bone, adorned with the great, spiraling horns of an oryx. His arms were
spread wide and his head upturned as he intoned an abominable spell in a
great, cold voice. Before him lay the body of a man, strangely preserved,
with an ugly yellow-green hue to his skin. To his side another man - this
one alive, bound, and in horrible condition - stared on in horror as the
foul magic began to work. Ozrek did not know what was happening, only
that it must be stopped. With a shout of rage, he threw the door wide...

"ERETHUS!! WHAT ARE YOU--"

"AFOVIO!!" Erethus shouted the final word of the spell, and the chamber
filled with an unholy, chartreuse light.

The necromancer turned sharply, his eyes shot wide as his brother charged
forward. Below him, upon the ground, was an intricate circle of runes
which Ozrek had failed to notice, or did not understand the significance
of. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as vile energies seized Ozrek, as well
as the poor wretched shackled to the floor. Erethus could only watch as
his brother was lifted into the air, his mouth clenched tight. In pulsing
waves, the demonic light sucked the life from him like a spider feasting
upon a fly. Ozrek's cheeks sank, his skin stretched over his pale body,
and his eyes rolled back and pulled into his skull. As quickly as it had
come, the evil energy vanished, dropping the body to the ground unceremon-
iously.

Ozrek Ar'Tyrethellas was dead.

Role

Chapter 1

The rank stench of death clung to the air, but Erethus Ar'Tyrethellas
had long ago grown to accept it as a necessary evil. Though he would
never admit it, he even looked forward to the dank, oppressive reek,
for it smelled like opportunity and power. He had a beautiful wife,
Miralei, a child on the way, enough gold to life in comfort for several
life-times, and a manor on the edge of the southern frontier, far
away from prying eyes. His younger brother, Ozrek, was staying with
them for the Winter. Ozrek had the passion of youth, and in the Spring
he was heading to begin his life as a soldier in the Holy Brigade of
the Phoenix. Erethus had no such illusions about the world. He knew
things would never change, and so he chose not to involve himself in
such affairs. But, he had a great deal of time on his hands, and
boredom can bear bitter fruit, for idle hands are the devil's playthings.

On these cold nights, Erethus would steal away to his laboratory, which
was hidden deep underground and contained a small fore-chamber filled
with purifying herbs to mask the scent of dead flesh and embalming
chemicals. But, his addiction to the dark art had made him more reckless
than he should have been. Miralei had awoken in anguish as the unmistakable
pains of labor set in. Her husband was nowhere to be found, and she cried
out. It was Ozrek who came to her aid.

"Ozrek! Where....where is Erethus!? Where is my husband," she cried. "You
must find him! Call th-...Ahhhgh! Call...the...midwife. Then...find Erethus."

After sending the midwife to tend to Miralei, he set out upon the grounds
to see if his brother had gone out to watch the sunrise, or walk their
cooshees. He had given up, and was on the edge of a cliff he had never
explored when he caught the scent of carrion. It was faint, but a few
circling vultures marked the place from whence it came. Fearing the worst,
he ran towards the spot, but when he arrived there was nothing there. Only
a few large rocks, bushes, and an old fox den. But, the smell was horrible
here, and mixed with other foul, sharp odors that stung the nostrils. And
then he heard a voice - the voice of his brother. But, he spoke in a language
Ozrek had never heard. The words were grating on the ears, and the very tone
of Erethus' voice gave him chills. The sound seemed to be coming from the
old fox den. Clearing away some old brush lining the tiny cave, he found
some kind of metal pipe protruding from the ground. He realized it was a
vent for this ghastly stench to be directed away from the manor.

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