[hider=The Dark Elf]

[color=f6f3e7]Identity:[/color] Emel Thilverlyg, The Dark Elf, Pariah, The Black Corsair, The Ivory Dragon

[color=f6f3e7]Type:[/color] Rogue

[color=f6f3e7]Myth:[/color] Rumor and myth swirls around the shrouded homeland of the Elvish peoples beyond the sea, but almost nothing is known for certain. It is said that they are ageless and immortal, drinking deep from the magic power of their island home, which they guard jealously with ancient and forgotten magics. Those that journey to the home of the Elves never return, and the Elves themselves only venture forth to steal children from their beds, spoil crops, or perform other mischief-- or so it is said. Truthfully, none have seen an Elf in the world since the Black God was sealed away in the Dawn Age, an act some say they contributed to greatly. There is, however, one exception.

The Dark Elf is an outcast among his kind, a hated pariah exiled from their mythic homeland. None can say for certain why he was cast out; some say he was banished for his evil ways, others will claim the Elves hated him for his physical deformity and he became twisted by their mistreatment. Regardless of the truth, the Pariah is an ill omen to all that cross his path. Accounts of this dark wanderer vary wildly as a result of his capricious nature, his behavior frighteningly erratic and mercurial. Most tell of the Ivory Dragon, a grim figure of snow-white hair, flesh the color of bleached bone, eyes red like rubies, and clad in deepest ebon, who sows terror and reaps ruin, eternally stalking the earth in his immortal exile. Sailors tell of a similar specter, the Black Corsair, a phantom of the seas astride a dragon-ship crewed by damned souls that viciously plunders any ships unlucky enough to encounter him, and spares none from a watery grave. In these nightmarish tales, the Dragon and Corsair are both described as a brutal warrior beyond compare, with mastery of swordsmanship, power, and agility beyond that of mortal men. If his martial skills were not enough, he is also master of many ancient and forsaken magical secrets, from the forgotten lore of the Elves, to terrible curses lost since the Dawn Age, as well as binding pacts made with horrible monsters. Worst of all is his black sword, known by just as many terrifying names: Nightbringer, the Mortifier, Ciernehobopryst, Drygioni, and so on. The Pariah's Blade is only mentioned in the darkest fables, and is said to cleave the soul from the body, leaving only a withered husk, and that with every life it claims the Pariah grows more powerful. However, these are just tales told to frighten children...

There are other tales, as well, of the Pariah as the patron of outcasts; protector of orphans, madmen, whores, thieves, lepers, and other misbegotten souls. But surely these legends are only the wishful thinking of the downtrodden.

[hider=Any Port in a Storm]

The autumn storm battered Kiran and soaked him to the bone; the barrel he called a home offered little shelter from the elements, and he shivered furiously in his sopping clothes. This would be it, this would be the death of him, he thought bitterly. The storm had raged all day, and Maro, the innkeep, had chased him away where he liked to sit and beg under the inn's eave, and so he had retreated to the barrel he slept in under the wharf. The townfolk would probably be glad to be rid of him, he fumed, gnashing what few teeth he had. They had little patience for the old beggar, not since the accident. He had been a sailor once, when he was a strong young man, but he had tumbled from the ship's rigging and fallen on his head, and death did not see fit to take him. Instead the hit had robbed him of his wits, left him prone to blackouts and seizures. He could scarcely find honest work, and the people of the port thought him cursed and bedeviled. They were content to let him die, and soon they would get their wish. He felt his eyelids growing heavy as his limbs grew numb, and blinked slowly as he stared out across the grey, thrashing sea.

When he opened his eyes again, still bothering to do so for reasons Kiran did not understand, [i]there it was[/i]. A ship as black as tar, with whipping sails the color of a moonless night, was not even half a league off of the port. He rubbed his eyes, scarcely believing what he was seeing. Had he blacked out, or dozed off? Where had his apparition come from? The black ship sailed through the froth and the battering waves, scarcely avoiding crashing into the wharf itself as it sailed into port. It dropped anchor and lowered its gangplank, and the crew of the black ship came ashore. Kiran watched them, silent and fearful, unseen from his hideaway below the wharf. The ships crew were difficult to see through the rain and wind, but they were an ugly, motley lot. One-eyed pirates, skinless lepers, hunchbacks, freaks, and other human detritus marched through the storm, jostling and shouting at one-another. The last to climb ashore was far different from all the rest: a tall and willowy figure that moved as though there were no wind nor rain at all. He wore pitch-black clothes, but his skin and hair were of pure white, and a heavy sword hung at his side. Kiran could even see that his eyes were red as blood, and he felt like he was being watched, even though the man did not look in his direction.

Despite his fear, the old beggar felt entranced by the mysterious figure, and once he and his crew had marched some ways into town, he followed them surreptitiously, forgetting how cold and wet he felt. He stalked between buildings to avoid being seen, though the black figure never turned his way, he felt as though he had already been spotted and his efforts were meaningless. The crew, black figure at all, entered Maro's tavern, and Kiran crept to the window to observe them further. Surely with such a strange lot in town, his presence would go unnoticed. He saw at once that Maro took umbrage with the stranger and his freakish crew, but the man in black produced a fistful of golden coins, and Maro relented, yet still regarded them warily. Kiran once again remembered how cold he was, and dared to creep into the inn to sit by the fire and observe the stranger more closely; if Maro noticed his presence despite the throng of pirates in his midst, he did not show it.

The pirates barked at Maro for ale and food, and he innkeep obliged them for as long as they kept throwing coins his way. His wife, son, and daughters served the strange crew hesitantly, obviously uncomfortable in their presence. The men did not leer or grope at the women as sailors were often wont to do, but silently stared at them with what looked like the hunger of starving animals in their eyes. Their leader, who Kiran now saw was of such fair skin and fine features that he seemed more like a statue come to life than a man, sipped at a cup of wine silently as his men ate and drank their fill. Kiran rubbed his hands, trying to restore some warmth to his bones, as he watched one of the pirates sidle closer to the man in black. He was a burly figure, possibly a half-orc or some other hated wretch, and conferred quietly with the pale man.

Kiran watched him closely, trying to read his lips. The inn was eerily quiet, and so he caught a few words over the roaring of the fire: "Please, lord, it's been too long. For me and the men both. Please, lord."

The stranger sipped his wine again, clearly thinking over his underling's request. He sighed, waving a hand to the man, and said in a voice as pure and dark as the silence of midnight, "[color=f6f3e7]Very well. You have my permission. Let it never be said that I am not a generous master.[/color]"

The crewman that had begged him seemed to collapse with relief, not moving save to grovel with gratitude at his master's feet. The stranger stood, striding with grim purpose to where Maro stood. Before the innkeep could utter a syllable, the pale man drew the blade at his hip, and cut Maro down with a single stroke. Merely glancing at his sword made Kiran's eyes prickle and his stomach fill with ice. It was a sinister thing, pure black even in the firelight, as though it swallowed light instead of reflecting it. Before Maro's blood hit the floor, his body shriveled and blackened, like an apple that had been left to rot in the sun, and the black sword pulsed like the breathing of a predatory beast, the room seeming to darken as it inhaled.

Shocked, Maro's son wheeled on the stranger, kitchen knife in hand, raised to bury it in the stranger's back. Without turning to face the boy, the man in black reached into his clothes and retrieved something Kiran could not see. As the innkeep's son drew close enough to strike, he threw what he had retrieved into his attacker's face, revealing it to be some strange, ethereal powder. As the boy spluttered and tried to rub it out of his eyes, the pale man made some strange sign with his fingers, pointing at the boy, and spoke words that Kiran did not understand, but felt like knives in his ears to hear them. As he finished, the boy's coughing and spitting turned to gasping and choking, his skin turned grey as slate, and he quickly keeled over, stone dead.

All the while, the stranger's evil crew had taken to butchering Maro's wife and daughters, muffling their screams with steel. They did not yell, holler, or revel in their slaughter, instead merely standing and panting like rabid animals that had just been let loose from their cages. With the women dead, they filed out from the inn and into the town, swords and knives drawn, and from there the slaughter continued.

The pale man did not follow them, instead striding directly over to where Kiran ineffectually hid. He was too frightened to move and so did not resist as the man laid his white, slender-fingered hand on his head. He felt a cold, crawling sensation inside of his skull, as though invisible fingers were prying through his brain. Kiran's eyes rolled back and his body went slack as the stranger's icy mind tore its way through his. Then, as soon as it had begun, it ended, and Kiran looked out on a familiar world with entirely new eyes. The stranger took a knife from his belt, and pressed its handle into Kiran's weathered palm.

"[color=f6f3e7]Join your crewmates, Kiran.[/color]" Said the man, in his voice of sweetest poison. "[color=f6f3e7]We will not come ashore again for some time. Enjoy yourself.[/color]"

Kiran gripped the blade, smiled his toothless grin, and said, "Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord." [/hider]
[/hider]