Wind carried the clouds of ash westward, the smell of smoke permeating and seeping into the clothes of the deceased. The attackers swarmed from the catacombs to the north, slaughtering any who crossed their path, be they man, woman or child. Bear fur was draped over the shoulders of those who barked orders at their inferiors, claws and teeth of varying sizes gripping the throats of each warrior. Their weapons had large half moon shaped blades sharpened  to a rough edge to slice through flesh and crush through bone, with leather hilts choked by battle-ready hands. To call them brigands does a disservice to their skill in combat, having defeated the king’s armies time and time again through martial prowess and force of will. Knowing no home of their own, they carved a path of death and destruction through the countryside, hunting when they needed meat, and sacking any village that refused their demands of food, gold, and warm bodies. This nomadic tribe of men and women, bound by bloodshed and fed by fury, were known as the Red Legion, the most feared military force in the kingdom.

Sitting atop a mound of rubble and the broken bodies of any man foolish enough to challenge the legion, was a colossus. His figure blocking out the sun, and casting a grim shadow over the killing field. In his massive hands he wielded a glaive, the blade rusted and chipped, stained with fresh blood and caked in the blood of slaughters past, and around his neck clung several boar tusks, some cracked and some chipped but each one larger than the last. His grey beard caked with the yellow dust that rolled in from the now desolated fields of the village. The permanent scowl that he bore told of a life lived for far too long, filled with regret and pain, while his milky silver irises shone like gemstones, dotting the face of a mountain. Those eyes became the harbinger of death and destruction. Rumors and myths spread far and wide of a monster roaming the countryside leaving destruction in its wake, of an army who had sold their souls to a demon in order to pillage the countryside without challenge, and of an unstoppable storm that tore through small towns leaving nothing but rubble and corpses.     

All of these events would one day be chronicled as the exploits of this man, known as Lord Jaxus to his descendents and as “The Opal Tempest” to his contemporaries. As he rose from his seat among the debris, the rest of the legion filed in on either side of him and kneeled. Jaxus raised his glaive and slammed its hilt into the hard stone of the road and the sound resounded through the ranks. A torrent of  golden trinkets and jeweled heirlooms filled the area between the bandits; lockets filled with pictures of loved ones, priceless family heirlooms, and decades old artifacts were carelessly poured onto the hard cobblestones. With heavy steps, the old man approached the pile, inspecting goblets and rings and pocketing a few of the coins as he walked through the aisle. Slowly, he turned to face his men, his eyes meeting with his soldiers’, and opened his mouth. The words that came out were muddled by the fluid filling his lungs, the silver steel of a longsword sticking out of his chest. He fell to the cobblestones and began heaving as his heart slowed to a stop, blood pooling around his body, seeping into the cracks of

the road below and staining the gold a deep crimson.

Jaxus was dead.