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The fall of the House of Blackstone

marcusstone

Sorceror
Marcus wiped the sweat from his brow as he piled the logs outside the front
door of his small farmhouse.
The modest 7x7 cabin was little to look at, surely not as big or impressive as
the large sandstone keeps of his childhood, but he had built it with
his own hands, and to say that he didn't feel at least a little pride in
his accomplishments would be a lie.
He took a break, sat in the rickety wooden chair he had also crafted,
and tried desperately to mend a hole he had ripped in his tunic. For all of his
accomplishments as a builder, Martin was anything but a skilled tailor,
and after a few moments he gave up in disgust, throwing the ruined tunic
in the trash barrel in the center of the room.
He was sick of building. He was Sick of crafting. Although he felt a little
guilty about his feelings, he yearned for battle.
"Soon" he told himself.
“I will not hide forever. I will have my vengeance!”
He smiled at the thought. He wanted nothing more than to inflict pain on those who had wronged him.
He wondered what the holy father thought about his desire for revenge. He had forsaken his god long ago, abandoning the path of the holy. Everything he had learned as a child had been cast aside.
He had spent his childhood studying the ways of the holy war.
Britta the Paladin, Gerrik the fighter, Bogart, Guild Master of the healers, and Ivan the mage. He remembered each teacher fondly. They were all dead now. Murdered by the invaders when the yellow city was sacked.
He remembered the carnage. He remembered running as the horde of thieves and murderers butchered every man woman and child. Part of him wished he had stayed and fought. Part of him wished he had swung his holy sword until his arms could hold it no longer. He would have died there, in a pool of blood on the cobbled road, an unsung hero. Just another victim.
Instead he ran. His father, Martin, captain of the guard had commanded it.
“Go Marcus! Flee the city! Flee this land! There is nothing here for you but death!” He had hissed as they huddled behind the bar in the empty tavern.
“I will not leave you father! I will not abandon the people of Trinsic!” Marcus has replied.
“I will not be a coward!”
“Than you will be a fool!” his father had growled.
“There is no hope here. The battle is lost! Run, and live to fight another day. Stay, and you will die like everyone else. You need to go Marcus! You need to flee Felucca, and you need to remember! Remember what happened here today, and someday the chance to right these wrongs will come!”
Marcus had cried then. It was the last tears he had ever shed, and he wondered sometimes if those final tears had marked his passage into manhood.
His father had spoken no more. He simply stood, and walked to the door. It was in that way that Marcus remembered him. Strong and proud, marching to his doom.
Outside the door the screams of the dying echoed through the streets. The ring of steal sounded like a deadly bell in the morning sun. Martin turned and smiled from the door way. A final, unspoken goodbye. Then he turned and raised his sword.
“For the Glory of Trinsic!” he screamed as he charged into the street.
He had fled as his father asked. South to the moon gate, he slipped unnoticed into the peaceful realm of Trammel, leaving his city, his family, and his god behind.
He remembered it all clearly, although seven years had passed since that day. He had promised his father he would never forget, and it was a promise he intended to keep.
 
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