Thread: Dawn of the Aweless Age

It was in morning before Aretor first felt the rays of the sun, cresting over the Dragon's Spine mountains which now lay behind him in the East. Finding passage through their hazardous and frosted peaks had been an arduous challenge, but now, traveling down into the foothills over plains of tall, golden swaying grass he regarded them as nothing but a stepping stone towards his true objective. Already he had achieved a task believed impossible by the realms now to his East, perhaps even by those who had sent him on such a journey, but he had proved their trust in him to be well founded and thwarted those who thought this an easy way to be rid of him. Now, that he was past the crux of his journey, he could begin his true purpose, what he had been chosen for amongst all the Dowager's agents to achieve to explore the Western Realms, and return with all that they might offer in treasures, wonders and allies. It was a task he did not take lightly, though he wore a pleasant enough smile as he drove his cart down through the thickening shrubbery. There was no path or road that he had found yet, but then the sharani which pulled the cart were adept at forging their own path. They were great reptilian beasts, comparable in size and strength to an ox, but possessed unparalleled stamina and endurance, armored scales, sharp claws and a keen, predatory intelligence that could make them difficult control, without first earning their respect. And Aretor had earned that respect thrice over from both creatures during their pass through the mountains, guiding, protecting and displaying feats worthy of their honor as a fellow predator, above the various prey things they had past encountered. For his own part, Aretor took little pride in his accomplishments, beyond the glory and prestige they would win for his mistress and clan upon his return, but knew that their were few men who might best them. As an agent of the Dowager, this was only to be expected of him, despite his humble origins. Originally the son of a craftsman, he had begun learning his trade before his village had been sacked by a rival faction, and following his parents death, took up the arms he had helped to craft against the adversaries of the Dowager, alongside those soldiers who remained to defend, and soon proved himself an able warrior, as well as a keen strategist in the defense of neighboring towns and villages. It was at the climax of the siege of the capital of his province that he displayed his true brilliance however, taking charge of the cities defenses, establishing new and greater perils that wreaked havoc amongst the invading soldiers and their great warmachines. At the height of the battle, he stood at the battlements repelling wave after wave of troops, only to be confronted by his opposite, the commander of the Ducal forces, and a Magus of Storms. As bolts of arcane energy wracked his fellow troops, Aretor approached the spellcaster unscathed, the arms and armor he had forged for himself as resilient against the arcane forces as they were the blades and blows they turned all through the battle. With a singular blow he felled the Magus, and with the arrival of the Dowager's Royal Guard, the opposing army was crushed in their retreat. The battle had brought forth Aretor's greatest talents, not just in war and engineering, but also as a magic user himself, and he was blessed by the Dowager herself that day, praised for his deeds and elevated from a peasants role to study as an artificer and enchanter in her eminences court. Since then, he had served in whatever role his mistress asked of him, artisan, arbiter, executor, spy, tactician, advisor, and now explorer of and ambassador to the realms of the unknown West. Aretor had grown from a callow youth now, under the tutelage of a great many scholars, magi, mentors and warriors into a striking figure, possessing a supreme self-confidence, warranted not just by his many achievements, but at least in part by his handsome, almost aquiline features, set off by his auburn curls and striking sea green eyes. He wore the traditional deep burgundy red of his Clan, detailed and enhanced with the bright brass which marked him as a magi. Over his tunic he wore an ornate suit of brass studded leather, with banded mail over his shoulders and forming a skirt at his waist, where hung his personally crafted saber, an ornate runeblade with a bright ruby in it's pommel, and across from it, a spellock pistol, the mechanism for his guild's brand of magic. Making his way now at the head of his cart, packed full of supplies and tools and gifts to any potential comers he struck an intriguing, if odd figure against the hillside, descending into the valley below, plain to see for any watchers of the dawn on this bright morning.