n the thundering storms she rode,
it was said. With the roaring of the northern winds
she came; her head held as high as her sword, and her eyes gleamed like the
blade in the cold light of dawn. Her pride and strength were matched by naught
but her beauty. As she raised her blade and cried aloud a howl of battle,
legions came to march by her side; following her in death and darkness in the
name of Rimjora, the Mother of All [note: Rimjora is the
ulvur term for "Nature"].
She carried out the will of the All-Mother, it was said. To pass out judgement, be it of
mercy with her wisdom, or of rage with her blade upon the defilers and usurpers
of the hallowed ground. They were not a sword and its weilder. They were the
sword and the wielder in one. Her true name was now
long forgotten, but in time, her name would become that of her blade, and the
blade's that of its mistress. If that name had emerged from an age of legends
and rumours or if it was the true word spoken as if in baptism by Rimjora's own
voice, none now longer knew, but it had become as powerful a word as death, time
Picture description. The
famous mythical hero of ancient ulvurian history, Ravenblade.
The very pronounciation of the name seemed to bring an instant burst of power
into the voice of the speaker, or if it simply was the meaning of the context in
the whole sentence, which spoke of tales of glory, battle and epic legends as a
rule. People's eyes would gleam in excitement and bewilderment as the great
tales of old were told; and her presence always had a
part to play in each story, minor or major. Bards would sing about her legacy;
thus enchanting the packs even more. Such was the power of the legend of
Ravenblade. Yet legend was now all that it was. Times had changed. The
destroyers of the All-Mother spread like a plague over
the world; caring nothing about ancient sacraments or their own once so strong
bond to the innermost divine essence that was the spirit of the world itself.
Like a swarm of vermin they consumed and disintergrated everything in their
path, all to feed their own bellies until feeding was no longer possible;
leaving a trail of decay behind them. Lost and forgotten, these poor souls.
Condemned they were, yet never beyond redemption. At the breaking of the final
dawn, no other option than union would be accepted.
But to make the lost understand
this would be an ever so hard battle in itself. The great victories and
alliances of old were now but scarce remains; mere mentionings or elusive
ramblings in the great records of ancient history, long forgotten by the rest of
the world, as the odds of which Rimjora's warriors fought against grew greater
for each passing of the moon.
Yet the name of Ravenblade still sang with the hymn of honour and victory. The
day of reckoning drew nearer. The joy that danced upon the soft howls the bards
and minstrels told her tale with now glimmered within the eyes of each man and
woman, and the packs would rise anew to awaken the world in the name of
Ravenblade, the name of Rimjora's own sword daughter.
Her tale was that of glory, but also sorrow and death. But aside from what
battles she won and threats vanquished, the love in her life always seemed to
fascinate each one who happened to hear the story for the first time the most.
For her love was deemed unnatural and tragic, and foretold to bring her nothing
but misery. The one she loved was not of her kind. But like in battle, she
rewrote the pages in the book of fate as she had ever done; challenging and
conquering all signs of doom and despair. She and her beloved would set aside
all prejudgement and tear down every wall of bigotry among their respective kin
and instead unite them in peace. A shaper of destiny, they would call her.
But there would always be a
darkside of any Moon, and there were many a creature
of Rimjora, but also not of Rimjora in the world in that age. Ancient, hidden
forces of evil still lurked in the deepest, darkest abysses; waiting for any
chance given to open their greedy jaws and engulf the world in madness. A long,
dark road of sorrow and death awaited Ravenblade and her beloved, and betrayal,
despair and eventually conflict would grow into the strongest of storms to
threaten the balance of the All-Mother's children. Wars both within and outside their
borders would rage, and an age of blood and clashing steel reigned. Some blamed
Ravenblade for this, as the truth lay hidden in the clutching claws of dark
lords. Lies, false rumours and the like would divide people all over the world,
and peace would soon be but a memory. And as if swept away in this tempest of
damnation, Ravenblade was made immortal; doomed, as she saw it, to live in
enternity and leave her beloved to death. She hated this, and herself, but most
of all Rimjor'a own will for evoking such a cruel fate. Not even by her own hand
could she bring herself to deliverance, and her natural instincts would never
let her foes smite her. She became a spirit of rage; leaving her beloved behind
in a secret sanctuary without his knowledge, to hunt what she believed were her
arch enemies in a personal crusade.
But darkness played her into its own hands,
and soon she was but another fallen hero that had become a puppet of evil.
Madness took her, and not even when her beloved chased after her to comfort and
show his utmost devotion to her and her cause would her mind become clear. Thus,
in a night of no moon nor stars, when the thundering storms roared at their
strength's peak, Ravenblade sought to fight the man she had held in deepest
affection, not knowing all was the doing of powers darker and more powerful
beyond her comprehension. But her beloved cast down his blade; refusing to fight
her. With her mind clouded still, Ravenblade swung her sword and wounded him
deadly. Down he fell, and as his blood spilt; drowning Ravenblade's sword and
hands, it was as if a great, dark mist lifted from her mind and spirit. She
gazed down at the fruit of her temporary insanity and realized at once what she
had done. Thinner than a strand of hair was the line between deep, dark despair
and instinctive valiance which she balanced upon in that moment. She searched
her mind, and finally allowed herself to trust Rimjora's blessing songs once
again. She opened up her entire spirit to the All-Mother; letting the purifying
rain wash away any poisonous, tainted feelings that had parasited her. Time had
a pale presence in this inner struggle, and whether it felt to Ravenblade that
eons or just moments had passed before she found her peace of mind, she could not
determine. In reality, it was no more than the blink of an eye, and her beloved
still lay on the ground before her; deadly wounded, but alive. Ravenblade did
her best to mend his wound, where upon she carried him to the nearest healer.
For many a day and night did his soul float between life and death, and this
threatened Ravenblade to become lost in a sea of tears and the deepest of
But she was not lost.
A short burst of anger flickered in the rotten heart of her dark puppet master
as he lost his grip on her mind, and this forced him to come forth from his
twisted sanctuary of lost time and reveal himself. And for the first time,
Ravenblade saw the face of what she knew was the true source of all sorrow. She
had lost her soul in a storm of rage and bloodlust as she had vanquished more
and more of Rimjora's enemies, and her mind had become an easy prey for the dark
powers. Immortality, sorrow of lost love and an ever burning bloodlust had now
tainted her spirit in the name of darkness. This infuriated her in a way that
shook the very foundations of the world, as if the
All-Mother's own, pure rage had
exploded within her like the fiery breath of a dragon, and together with an
otherwordly vengefulness, it gave her powers she never could have dreamt of.
Like a flame her angry spirit burned, and fire was said to spurt from her eyes,
engulf her sword and burst out in a trail behind her as she walked.
The dark lord now feared her. Never before had he encountered such power
conceived by nothing but the pure will of
Rimjora. He gathered his minions; their
like never had nor never again would walk the lands of the material plane. They
marched with their master, destroying every sign of life be it of creatures or
greenery; covering all in the coldest of ice as they drew onwards. So twisted
they were, that any warrior brave or foolish enough to face one of them would
cast down his weapon and flee in fear.
All save Ravenblade and her kin.
Into the far north, beyond all life, that now was a realm of cold death,
Rimjora's warriors marched, led by Ravenblade. Bright and warm she burned;
cutting through the glacier like a heated knife through butter. There the two
legions clashed in a battle of ice and fire, and as they fought, it was as if
time had stopped, and neither the day nor night could claim their respective
dominion on the sky. The cosmic momentum was lost in an eternal hour of
twilight. And perhaps as of this, or if it was by some other, ungodly force of
evil unseen, the dark minions never seemed to diminish in number, despite the
countless piles of corpes wallowing up by the hands of each of Ravenblade's
warriors. She, on the other hand, did not have such power to conjure armies, and
her own people could not stand their ground forever. Soon, the numbers of the
ice demons would be of their advantage, and the battle appeared to be lost in
the next few breaths.
Then a howl, and the twilit sky turned burning red.
As eons went by and Ravenblade's kin passed out of knowledge to the rest of the
world, the Moon in younger history writings came to be deemed as much a legend
as Ravenblade herself; a mere natural phenomenon based on loose rumours and
never proven. But in the age of Ravenblade, the Moon was strong and bright; an
extention of Nature herself it was said. And in that moment, as Ravenblade
watched her proud warriors fall one by one on the bloodstained fields of ice,
she howled. She gave all of her strong and fair voice to the howl. She called
upon the Moon. Not just its powers, like she and her kin always did in the midst
of battle, but the Moon itself. And the Moon came. With the fiery howl she drew
it to her, and the sky turned red as it entered the unseen doorway to the world,
and the same red flame lit deep within every warrior that still lived, and their
powers were not just rejuvinated, but grew tenfold. Their eyes glowed red, and
like a flaming wave they came down upon the demons. And they joined their leader
in her deafening howl, despite that their ears bled from the strength
of it. With a battle fury never seen before they drew back the enemy, and every
single one of them was unstoppable. But the fires in
their eyes were but candle lights
in the void compared to the flame that burned in Ravenblade. The fire wreathing
her now had the same red tone as the Moon, and from her back, a pair of burning
raven wings now spreaded to their full pride. If her warriors had came down like
a flaming wave on their foes, she was like a roaring ocean of fire that raged
against its nemesis; the dark lord himself.
There they fought each other, Ravenblade's red fire against her former puppet
master's cold darkness, at the very edge of the world it was said, for their
battle took place on the peak of the highest iceberg, where no child of
save Ravenblade could ever find breath without suffering an instant death of
internal frostbite. There, at the edge of the world, under the Red Moon,
Ravenblade smote her arch enemy at last. In a blinding flash of ice and fire she
slew him, and banished his wicked soul back to his dark little corner of time
and space, far beyond the moonlapse and the borders of the world, where naught
but the overwhelming, maddening silence of the Void would answer his twisted
The land under her feet would ever be that of coldest ice, but Ravenblade could
hear Rimjora's comforting whispers telling her that the darkness was gone.
The sky was no longer red; the Moon had returned to its ordinary place and a
calm, blue roof now covered the world. Time had started moving again. Ravenblade
stood still on the peak of the iceberg. Her fiery attributes were all gone, and
she now appeared as she had always done. She lifted her head to the sky, closed
her eyes, and howled at the top of her lungs a hymn of triumph. Her warriors
watched her in awe and joined in.
As the song slowly rode away on the wings of the morning wind and silenced at
last, Ravenblade sank into a pile of exhaustion and drifted away into the
deepest of sleep.
When she awoke it was in the arms of her beloved. The scar of the wound would
never leave his body, but he had fully regained his health. He did not
for no words were needed. In their hearts they both knew that all was forgiven.
Ravenblade's mind and spirit were now completely purified. Together with the
rest of the world, they could now exhale in peace again, at least for the
But there was many a dark force in the world still, in places both obvious, but
also not so obvious, and as time passed, less and less deliberate and concious.
Nature would soon be threatened by far more things than ancient, otherwordly
lords of darkness. Ravenblade and her beloved, and the bloodline that would
follow; would bring a new aspect of her kin into
the All-Mother's garden, would all live
and die as legends, yet never forgotten, it was said. But forgotten they now
were, not by their own kind, but by the rest of the world. Too many of
children had forsaken their bonds to her and strayed on to paths unknown and
darker still, and soon, the legends would come to stay legends alone, and not
the lessons and guidelines for the future they once were.
But now, the old flame had been rekindled. What was left of Ravenblade's kin had
sworn to themselves to awaken the world before the end. When the darkness
returns, union would be the one path to victory. The one path to survival.
By each passing of the Moon, the howling of the Ulvur grew stronger as it echoed
in the great, northen woods, and the tale sung was that of Ravenblade.