“Come around people, Come around!”  The Old Bard called out while setting close to evening fire.  “What shall it be tonight” He asked

“Let’s hear about Murts Axethrower, the Salty Dwarf!”  Someone from the group called.  “That again, Young sire?!”  replied the storyteller in feigned amazement.  For it was a favorite, both in the telling and the listening.

“Yes!” the mass cried out.  “Then let us start at the beginning…”  The Bard said.

                “Murts was like any other of his tough race.  Bound for feats of strength and to out weather the very hills themselves.  But at a young age, Murts’ feet had a mind of their own.  He left Family and Clan like his older brother and set out for a Life of adventure.”               

                “He was already highly skilled at the use of axe and fist, which helped him greatly in his first trials and feats of strength.  With every new challenge, he seemed to grow more careless.  For it seemed he moved through his enemies like they were unmoving pillars of salt.  Then he came upon a challenge that he no hope of overcoming.  His path happen to cross with an green dragon of an unknown name.”

                The listening throng gasped in unison, like they always did at this part of the story. The Old One continued with a small smile “Yes!  Imagine!  Murts, The Salted Ones himself took on a Green and lived to tell the tell!  The fight went on longer than any would of dared.  But let’s be frank here people.  You think you can take on a dragon by yourself and win?!” In which the Storyteller got a splattering of boos.

“See how long you survive against a dragon of any size you dolts!” He shot back, which seemed to silence the hecklers for the time being.  The Old Bard nodded, continued after a moment “The Great Dragon left Murts for dead in a secluded Vale, miles away from any city, or a decent road or path.  He managed to make his battered body crawl to a cave nearby, in which he passed out from his wounds.”

“After what seemed like an eternity of pain induced sleep, our Hero woke up to something sniffing him.  Still hazy from the effects of sleep, Murts thought for a moment it was the Dragon coming to finish him off. He jerked awake (or as best he could in the state he was in) and tried moving away.  But then the creature growled, which made Murts stiffen where he was.  Murts thought ‘That’s no dragon, but a bear!’”  The Crowd gasped again.

The bard waved them down and saying “Yes, He thought he was trapped too.  But after the growling stopped, the bear start licking him” several children started giggling, which got quieted by an up turned eyebrow “and cleaning his wounds.  He once again passed out from the pain.  Over the next month, this bear helped Murts heal by bringing food and such to the cave.  Then He never came again.”

“Murts, by this time, was healed enough to make it to Fallcrest.  His brother, Murgeddin Axethrower, was a smithy there.  He still needed some help.   Then 2 Weeks to the day Murts arrived in Fallcrest, a shaggy assortment of people walked into the inn…”

So together, they left walking into the distance.

Being of one, but separated by paths walked before.

Going forth into new wonder and experiences.

Being blind, but no longer in darkness, now seeing

through the parted mists that covers his white, sightless eyes.

From the darkest dungeons were light is but a myth,

to keeps on high that scratched at the very sky itself,

the misfit vagabonds roamed, doing great works.

Liberating both people and treasure alike.

Upon the vast ocean they moved,

doing battle with creatures of the watery world.

Wisps of light that could enthrall your sight,

and serpents the size of their air born cousins.

Driven by the wandering wind, to port they came.

Like a wide crevasse, a smile cracked upon Kumanos face,

for one such as he is made of the earth itself,

and on earth is where he belonged.

Overland the group of heroes trod,

being forged by experience through trial.

Going from a group of separate pieces,

They were forged into a collective whole.

Dark mutterings upon the wind they heard,

of an evil that dwelt upon the top of a great crag.

Old One Eye he was called, The Great Harbinger.

and the Blind Mountain Priest knew.

The one great beast, slayer of his people,

was upon the great Demons Back cliff.

Driven was he, like the warmth before the storm.

To be so close, to be able to end the nightmares.

He ran like the very hounds of hell themselves,

To answer the call that was challenged so long ago.

There he dwelt, learning from Spirits of the Elements,

attuning his senses, learning to see without sight.

Feeling the mountains with a body just as stubborn,

flowing like the Rivers his mind flowed with comprehension,

bending like grass with movements just as graceful,

and searching the sky with a soul just as expansive.

Being taught by the old souls of the world,

knowledge he gained, stored for eternity in bones

that are strong as the hills, on untraveled roads.

                                                     

Upon such an untrodded path, came he to a great hall.

A place that made his great frame feel small.

Giants of Legend, born from the backs of mountains.

Living there for a time, earning the trust of these people,

by feats of strength and battle of wits, he proved himself.

Being called the Blind Mountain Priest, he learned as them.

Staying as long as his restless feet allowed,

Kumano made to depart.  As a gift of parting, in good will,

the Masters of the Mountains gave him a no-dachi.

He took up the sword, called Jiwari, the Earthbreaker.

Departing in peace from a place of greatness,

descended Kumano upon paths that lead elsewhere.

Ahead on such a path, meet he a man of a roving intellect.

An old one of music and song and knowledge of time.

A Bastard of Eastwich, Brimholt the wanderer of years gone by.

Long they talked, and stories they swapped.

Alas, Brimholt knew a group of adventures

that he could be welcome and gain acceptance.

Of all the world, fate brought together this assorted heroes:

The Bastard, the teller of tales and worked over like old leather.

Lily Thorne, daughter of the ancient, wild forests.

Dorian, knight of the realm, restorer of the past.

Chandrika, child of the moon and channeled of the mysterious arts.

Kumano Zato, master of the blind sword,

defender of the eastern and far reaches.

Walker of paths of the sun's night,

treading with calloused feet a path

never seen by blind seeing eyes.

Born to this world like the world was made,

both knowing nothing but darkened skies.

Growing, learning as the earth did, slowly,

not to see with eyes that see nothing, for

the Mind’s eye must unlock the way ahead.

Spawned upon red skies of bloody death

fire and flames came to his village home.

Screams and nightmares of promised doom

renting the air. A Wurm of lore and legend,

driving the people forth to their demise.

Through Crags of Destiny he wandered aimless,

searching for the one horrid beast of fire.

Burning with vengeance, giving heat to a cold soul.

Peaks on high to glen low roamed Kumano,

finding nothing but caves filled with night.

Driven by a lusting hate he pursued him,

fumbling as a new born doe, ever onward.

Only finding whispers upon winds of strife and fear.

To forested dale he came, led by eternal

emptiness inside.  Upon a hill he climbed,

to a convergence of earth, water, and sky.

Entwined together, like a lovers embrace.

A nexus, a source of power that was made,

where Genjus lived, untapped and unseen they came,

gathering together, like many rivers of energy.

Gazing out, Kumano found a home.