The misadventures of the (formerly) Knights Errant
Faerrith the Mystic
The Singing Sword Knave
The cold tundra of the land of the Folki, fridged unyielding, and full of myth and spirit. Folki fighters are some of the most respected and feared in man to man combat, for they are unbreaking as the lands from which they hail. Skilled in dispatching undead foes and full of hate for abominations, the Folki pass on the art of returning the risen to whence they came and placing them on a pyre.
Faerrith, son of Gwinharra Fellslayer, and Silvya Forgedaughter started his training young. Loved deeply by both his parents he was blessed with scholarly ability, balanced out with a keen talent with a blade. He spent his early years fighting other children, learning, and crafting with his mother. He would try to reinact His fathers stories in his mind seeing them vividly as almost if by some gift beyond sight. His father would sing him tales of his battles, how he would crush foes beneath his boot and pierce hearts with his blade leaving them to cease beating in the sheer cold.
Growing up as a gifted Folki he honed his craft with wood, iron, steel, plants and vessels. His was as snow leopard on his feet and as vicious in strength as a raged bull. Many children in his village challenged him, and few bested him in battle.
With his hunting party Herisi, Volkesh, and Citrii brought back many bountiful hunts working as a team, rarely did they fail to supply the village with the provisions they desired. Several nights they enjoyed drink and revelry and by day they studied and trianed to carry on a proud legacy. The four held the most promise. During a hunt mid winter only days before the Flumar they stumbled upon rune etched oakbark. Volkesh gathered several segments of the bark while Herisi and Citrii pondered what they could be. Faerrith scouted for any Signs of who dropped them. The group stumbled upon a blood trail, barely visable due to the heavy winters snow. They followed the trail to a small cave, where the ominous clatter of crackling, chattering, hollowed wood on rock. The group descended, blades hammers and axes upon the darkness in attempts to draw out what lay below. Out of the cave emerged skeletons they dragged out the body of a man, ripped to pieces covered in blood. The battle was feirce all of the party suffered wounds, bruises and scratches.
On the way back to town Citrii started to read from the runes. The air held still for several moments as the runes sprang to life, in a whirl of sparks and mysticism. From the bark a ray of frost struck Herisi in the back of the head. Shattering it chilled blood spray from the neck. Faerrith whirled back blade drawn in terror. He felt something inside him. Something made his hairs stand on end. His first encounter with magic the stuff that made undead, the power to use it in his friend.
The living three were brought back to the village elder and sentenced to spend the rest of their training the the best tower of the cursed. They were to be studied to see if they possess the curse of magic. The tower stands as a black monolith covered in snow, fridged and imposing. Several years passed, in the iced over tower, Faerrith discovered the curse inside through torment and torture, exposure to injustice and combat. Through starvation and sleep deprivation. He vowed to use the curse to fight to protect himself and slay abominations of the undead.
He was released from the tower when he was 20 and returned to his village where he was branded Faerrith the Mystic. He then was charged by his beloved family to use his curse to fell undead, and bring some honor to himself and his homeland. His family still proud of him sent him off with love.