When he was but a young boy, Ragnvaldr was forced to watch as a roving band of Elvish Mercenaries put his village to the torch and slaughter his people. Helpless and alone, the boy flees with nothing but the clothes on his back and his fathers war a...
Long before the fated arrival of the Protectors of the Realm, beneath the muddied streets within one of the many dampened cellars hidden from the prying eyes of the Black Knights above stood a gaggle of human and non-human alike. Each dressed head to toe in what few pieces of ragged clothing they had left, all stained with years of dirt and blood woven into the very inseams. Some were even lucky enough to have scrounged scattered pieces of broiled leather armour while others wore pieces of their oppressors scorched steel suits as some futile act of resistance in a loosing war against a merciless foe.
Each of the inhabitants of the small room stood in defeated silence, clasping their weapons tightly at their side as all eyes bore to the faded map of Whitestone pinned to the crumbling wooden wall not a few feet away. The flickering light of the lantern hung at its side revealed the grizzly truth of their war against the Briarwoods, with six black X's crossed over a myriad of marked structures amongst the maze of streets and alleys alike. "The eastern faction was wiped out by giants..." a human mans' sullen voice broke as he scrawled yet another mark in the farthest corner of the walled city, setting the piece of crumbling charcoal back atop the wooden table.
"Then we need to make our next move count. Gather every able-bodied fighter in Whitestone." A shorter though stout Dwarven male replied, tone laced with determination as his thick mane of ginger hair restrained by a red head band glinted in the light. All while his weary gaze remained locked on the parchment laid before him. A tense silence hung in the air, all pondering the Dwarfs' determined words. All aware of the cruel fate that awaited them at the hands of the Pale Elf and his Warband should their gamble fail.
Dominic Monaghan as Archibald Desnay
'The Revolutionary'
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Suddenly from behind the locked door leading into the hideout, the creaking of floorboards beneath leather boots caught everyone's attention as all eyes fell to the entrance way. Hearing the quiet commotion, the bearded doorman drew the dagger from his belt and pressed his back to the rotted wall waiting as the doors iron bar slid with a quiet screech from its mountings opening with a grumbling shudder as the intruder stepped inside.
In an instant the rebel leapt forward, pressing the sharpened steel edge of his blade to the scarred Half-Elf's throat. A shocked gasp escaping her lungs as she stopped dead in her tracks. However instead of fighting against such action the woman merely reached into the pouch hanging from her side, procuring a small piece of cloth and held it aloft for all to see. The Rebel's caution fading in all but a second as they saw the scrawled depiction of the De Rolo family crest.
"Bryn. Thank the Dawnfather you're alive. What news do you bring?" Their leader questioned as the Half-Elf stepped toward the table at the centre of the room, placing both hands flat against its uneven surface.
A heavy sigh puffed from between her lips, her eyes heavy from many sleepless nights slowly catching up with her. "The Briarwoods have moved the Kestrel. She's with Professor Anders." the fighter revealed, one finger tapping impatiently against the table.
