The Tale of Skarrigg and the Nine Crimson Stones

Act I: Skarrigg and Annaquette

This is now...

The house and barn were ablaze, she could hear the animals, screaming as they died. She could see her father dead on the ground. His skull was crushed by their leader's hammer. However none of the field hands were to be seen, they had either fled or more likely been butchered. Her sisters were crouched behind her as she brandished a pitch fork in a vain attempt at defense. Hard, dirty and ugly men surrounded them. Surrounded them and leered. Though the worst by far was their leader – her father's murderer – a large man in dark armor, which looked smokey gray in the shadows from the fire, wielding a massive hammer, larger than any sledge or maul she had ever seen, her father's brains and blood still shown wetly on it. However, the worst part about him was his face even in the light from the burning buildings she could see the skull paint and filed teeth. His eyes glittered like stars in his black sockets.

The raiders slowly advanced on them in a contracting circle – she knew what was coming and even considered killing her younger sisters to spare them from the suffering this scum would inflict upon them...however, suddenly there was a noise that distracted them all. No, that was not quite right, not a noise but a presence...

A dark figure could be seen in the flickering fire-light, mounted upon the most enormous horse she had ever imagined. The horse slowly walked toward the circle and everyone went silent. How had he approached with no one noticing?

Brutal. She thought that was the word that best described the rider. Brutal. At least seven feet tall he was both brutally muscled and brutally ugly. In the blazing firelight his face was a deep yellow-tan and his lanky dark hair was tied back in a braid. His face was scared and his nose had been broken many times. He was helmless but he wore brutal black plate armor with spiked gauntlets and pauldrons that were ornate rage-filled screaming faces. The only thing that was not brutal about the rider was his sword – a large single-edged battle blade, forged from obsidian-black steel and carved with glowing blue, red and white runes, the backside of the blade had numerous rings. Even in the flickering firelight this blade was beautiful, it must truly be a masterpiece of the swordsmith's art she thought.

The leader of the raiders shouted at the newcomer: "Oi! What are you about you?! Move along, there is nothing for the likes of you here but death!" The rest of the raiders laughed and jeered at the newcomer. Many shook their weapons at him.

Oh Skarrigg. How they laugh at you...how they disrespect you...do you feel their contempt? Their scorn...the dark, seductive voice in his head sneered.

"Shut up." Skarrigg said out loud – more to the voice in his head than the raiders.

Skarrigg. Skarrigg. Skarrigg. As always I feel your hatred, and it is intoxicating...but you have stepped off the path...again. And why? To avenge murdered girls? To save others? Do you think these same girls will not hate you? Look at the young tigress there, trying to defend her cubs. She is more afraid of you than her future rapists I'd wager...ignore this scum and get back on the path... Skarrigg. Only two more stones to find.

"I said SHUT UP!"

"Ha! You talking to us bucko? Shut up is it? Kill this fool and bring me his pretty sword boys!" Commanded their leader. The first six charged the newcomer and his mount. The newcomer said one word in an archaic tongue she could not understand. The sword exploded with a sound like water poured on hot steel and it radiated a mass of billowing steam. At the same time he jumped from the horse and landed amongst the raiders with astonishing speed and grace. He swung the great blade in a horizontal slash catching the first raider – a dirty looking shaven headed man with a heavy beard, armed with a round wooden shield and a spiked club – in the right side of his face. The sword literally sheared the raider's head in twain just under his eyes. The hapless man stepped forward two to three more steps and collapsed without a sound. The second raider, a thin, balding man with a sickly pallor to his skin stabbed at the newcomer with a short hafted spear. The newcomer batted the spear aside with a dinner-plate sized buckler strapped to his left wrist. He then followed up with a powerful downward chop splitting the spearman's head from crown to sternum. The raider dropped his weapon and tried to grasp the air in front of him with both hands as the newcomer used his left foot to kick him off of his steaming blade. He then swung his sword at a third raider armed with a pair of hand-axes and sporting an impressive Mohawk. His blow caught the raider across the abdomen, the raider screamed in agony and horror as his innards spilled to the earth and the surrounding flesh both burned and froze as he fell, his dying eyes wide in disbelief.