Overview:
The child born from tragedy, Aemon has carved out a streak of violence in his early life. For a rich man, he is both the beast that could destroy them and the cattle for which they can make business from. After a spree of murder, war, and death resulting from the anger of losing his family and village, Aemon settled into the role of the mercenary. Known for having a shrewd sense of business, Aemon made the rich very dangerous to cross. His distorted sense of duty and honor turned him into a pillar of his region, and those who could afford him stood atop his shoulders and ruled it with unfathomable power- and untold violence. However, a man can only have so much gold. The first Lord to fail to pay Aemon what he was owed became a lesson for all those who work with him. He never settled, and ended up joining a raiding crew to attack the nearby Kingdom; New Monarchy. For the first time in his life he came across another one who had been blessed with the power of the Yggdrasil, and even fought against a newly crowned Jaeherys. After losing his teacher and Captain, Bardem, Aemon posted himself outside of the castle walls of New Monarchy, indebted for having his life spared. It would be Aegon who would take him in and train him properly on how to hone his abilities before Aemon set out on the world again, searching for a new opportunity to benefit from those ignorant enough to do business with him.
Appearance:
Aemon looks to be in his early twenties, and was always large compared to those his age. Having grown into his full frame, Aemon totals out at 6'7, with a build that threatens even the most established knights to keep their distance. He bares a large scar up the left side of his torso, with unnatural web-like cuts branching off of it due to Skofnung's curse. He keeps his black hair brushed back, but often goes long periods of time without tending to it. However, when he is off-duty, he embraces city life by spending his amassed wealth on fine clothes, perfumes and bathes. His armor is silver- but is often described as if made of smoke, flowing and churning around his body. He also has been seen to use a sheer black set of armor with a matching helmet and face-guard, though it is rare. Aemon is often described in two ways; women call him charming, while men call him intimidating.
Personality:
Aemon is described as being proud of his ability as a mercenary, of his wit, and even more proud of his money. After years of anger and violence, Aemon has seemed to settle into a cold life of trying to get as rich as possible, while dominating anyone who may get in his way. However, those who submit or accept him will be greeted with gifts and receive invitations to many of Aemon's massive banquets. Every friendly relationship is another chance for him to show off his wealth, and he does so without care. Those who get close to Aemon may understand this is a facade, a chance for him to mask the pain of his early life, though there are few who have reached this point with him. To those who work with Aemon, he is charming yet firm. He will not waste his time with impossible tasks or little pay. Aemon's sense of duty is a twisted code he holds himself to strictly. He holds himself to many unsaid debts, and holds the same to others. He does not understand those who cannot keep to his code, and this has led to the death of many unsuspecting, likely innocent, business partners.
Abilities:
Energy Color: Silver, White, Smoke, Mist-like
Energy Well : Aemon's well of energy has amassed ever since receiving the blessing to become a Yggdrasil. Comparable with his peers in the family, Aemon has especially benefited in this category due to his position within the Obsidian Saga.
Energy Manipulation: Aemon's energy manipulation has never been described as masterful. Rather than being intricate with it's usage, Aemon has often opted to drown his enemy in overwhelming power. While he can fake intricate energy structures, the truth behind these creations is that they are inefficient, consuming far more energy to make than his peers. However, this changes when he activates his Bileyg Heiko.
Titan: Ratatoskr
Irone Thane Weapon: Skofnung
Heiko: Bileyg
Possessions: Arondight, Skofnung
Skills/Techniques:
Knight of Owner - Aemon is uniquely gifted in the use of all weaponry. Even as a human, he was able to grasp and use Skofnung without it killing him instantly. This gift allows him to utilize almost any weapon despite the conditions that may otherwise stop him from doing so. Due to this ability, Aemon has spent many years mastering every weapon he has come across, though he is not proficiently skilled in any specific type.
The child born from tragedy, Aemon has carved out a streak of violence in his early life. For a rich man, he is both the beast that could destroy them and the cattle for which they can make business from. After a spree of murder, war, and death resulting from the anger of losing his family and village, Aemon settled into the role of the mercenary. Known for having a shrewd sense of business, Aemon made the rich very dangerous to cross. His distorted sense of duty and honor turned him into a pillar of his region, and those who could afford him stood atop his shoulders and ruled it with unfathomable power- and untold violence. However, a man can only have so much gold. The first Lord to fail to pay Aemon what he was owed became a lesson for all those who work with him. He never settled, and ended up joining a raiding crew to attack the nearby Kingdom; New Monarchy. For the first time in his life he came across another one who had been blessed with the power of the Yggdrasil, and even fought against a newly crowned Jaeherys. After losing his teacher and Captain, Bardem, Aemon posted himself outside of the castle walls of New Monarchy, indebted for having his life spared. It would be Aegon who would take him in and train him properly on how to hone his abilities before Aemon set out on the world again, searching for a new opportunity to benefit from those ignorant enough to do business with him.
Appearance:
Aemon looks to be in his early twenties, and was always large compared to those his age. Having grown into his full frame, Aemon totals out at 6'7, with a build that threatens even the most established knights to keep their distance. He bares a large scar up the left side of his torso, with unnatural web-like cuts branching off of it due to Skofnung's curse. He keeps his black hair brushed back, but often goes long periods of time without tending to it. However, when he is off-duty, he embraces city life by spending his amassed wealth on fine clothes, perfumes and bathes. His armor is silver- but is often described as if made of smoke, flowing and churning around his body. He also has been seen to use a sheer black set of armor with a matching helmet and face-guard, though it is rare. Aemon is often described in two ways; women call him charming, while men call him intimidating.
Personality:
Aemon is described as being proud of his ability as a mercenary, of his wit, and even more proud of his money. After years of anger and violence, Aemon has seemed to settle into a cold life of trying to get as rich as possible, while dominating anyone who may get in his way. However, those who submit or accept him will be greeted with gifts and receive invitations to many of Aemon's massive banquets. Every friendly relationship is another chance for him to show off his wealth, and he does so without care. Those who get close to Aemon may understand this is a facade, a chance for him to mask the pain of his early life, though there are few who have reached this point with him. To those who work with Aemon, he is charming yet firm. He will not waste his time with impossible tasks or little pay. Aemon's sense of duty is a twisted code he holds himself to strictly. He holds himself to many unsaid debts, and holds the same to others. He does not understand those who cannot keep to his code, and this has led to the death of many unsuspecting, likely innocent, business partners.
Abilities:
Energy Color: Silver, White, Smoke, Mist-like
Energy Well : Aemon's well of energy has amassed ever since receiving the blessing to become a Yggdrasil. Comparable with his peers in the family, Aemon has especially benefited in this category due to his position within the Obsidian Saga.
Energy Manipulation: Aemon's energy manipulation has never been described as masterful. Rather than being intricate with it's usage, Aemon has often opted to drown his enemy in overwhelming power. While he can fake intricate energy structures, the truth behind these creations is that they are inefficient, consuming far more energy to make than his peers. However, this changes when he activates his Bileyg Heiko.
Titan: Ratatoskr
Irone Thane Weapon: Skofnung
Heiko: Bileyg
Possessions: Arondight, Skofnung
Skills/Techniques:
Knight of Owner - Aemon is uniquely gifted in the use of all weaponry. Even as a human, he was able to grasp and use Skofnung without it killing him instantly. This gift allows him to utilize almost any weapon despite the conditions that may otherwise stop him from doing so. Due to this ability, Aemon has spent many years mastering every weapon he has come across, though he is not proficiently skilled in any specific type.
The Bloodied Blade and the Army of Boys
Anger welled up through Aemon’s chest and threatened to explode in the form of words, that echoed through the night air. The heat of the flames forced him to turn his head to the side, allowing his gaze to connect with his mother’s. Red and wet after an hour of crying, he turned to share his grief with her.
“He’s gone.” She let slip out in their embrace
“They’re all gone.” Aemon replied bluntly, stepping back from her as his anger began to build once more.
All around the shattered family, women and children comforted each other. The raiders had killed the lookouts of their small village without a sound. Without even turning back to the inferno, Aemon knew the fate of his father, and all the men who had returned to try and stop the fire.
“I’m going to kill every last one of them.”
Her tone was soft, like a mother comforting her fit-filled child, “You don’t even know who did this.”
“I have an idea.”
“You can’t kill him, there’s too many of them to begin with-” Aemon cut her off with a glance.
“I know.”
His Mother knew better than to try and change her son’s mind. With the loss of his father and older brother, he had accepted his role as the man of his family; and all the arrogant, stubborn tendencies that come with it.
The smoke of their burning village drifted into the air for two days, as Aemon began to organize his warband from the remaining women and children. Keen with words he was able to ignite down-trodden fear into a burning passion for vengeance. Ash-tattered metalwork and crisp leather garments outfitted the young warriors as they set out on to war, and once again widowed wives looked upon their family as they marched to their likely death.
Everyone who lived in the village knew of the Jotunn that lived in his craggly, stone fortress. For generations he had been a nuisance, fighting over borders and hunting grounds. He had long gone silent, but had now seemingly revealed himself again and carried out his long promised threat of destroying the village.
The march would take a day, so the some thirty boys pitched tents on the long established border the night before. Aemon perched himself on the highest open land he could find, and sat, looking to the dark fortress in the distance. That night was cold and somber, many of the boys understood that they may not make it through tomorrow; even worse to Aemon were the ones that did not grasp this fact.
The morning air was damp, and the boys stiffly organized what they would need for the day ahead. Boys below the age of eight, having never embraced a woman or spent a night drinking with his brothers, now looked forward to war. They wielded anything they could find, from the family longsword, now with a charred and crumbling hilt, to the bent spade, to tree branches sharpened into spears without a tip. Organized into two groups of fifteen, the boys began their hike towards the fortress.
The structure loomed over them, and as the sun peeked over the mountains and took its place high in the sky, the shadow the fortress cast seemed to reach out to them; greeting them in their doom. Aemon’s division crouched in the treeline, waiting for the other to begin the plan. A craven warcry broke the silence, as the battle began. From the opposite treeline the lackluster group of boys ran for the open gates of the fortress. The gates did not close. Instead, another force met them, smashing sword to shield. They expected the boys. The boys did not expect them. There was no time to watch as Aemon’s division began the second phase of their plan.
Behind him a boy no older than eleven cried out “They’re getting slaughtered!”
Aemon allowed himself a glance and wished he had not. While the plan was secure- breach the wall while they distracted the garrisoned enemy- Aemon seriously doubted the chances of any of them surviving. He gritted his teeth. He led them into this. They had reached the wall, checking the watch towers before smashing through a tattered section of the fortress wall, breaking out into the courtyard. Their feet echoed against the walls, but the fighting behind Aemon’s division was louder. Young cries, the clashing of metal, and the gurgling sounds of the dying would haunt Aemon if he survived this day.
Something was wrong. There must be more warriors than the guards Aemon had seen. They broke through the doors of the inner-fortress easily and were greeted with no resistance. At first they creeped- then they walked, then ran to the innermost section, a great throne-room. Turning the corner into the room Aemon realized it. Surrounding all four walls were men two times his size, with pale white skin and distant, blank eyes. In the middle, leaning into the great stone throne was Him. The Jotunn sat up, a rumbling chuckle echoing around the room.
“So the cravens send their boys to do war with me, I’m almost insulted-” He paused, his sickly mouth stretching into a putrid teeth filled smile.
“Oh wait. I killed all the men. Pity.”
Aemon stepped forward, and the battle began before he truly realized it. The men in the room marched forward with a grunt, and the boys gave their best imitation of their father’s warcry. From all sides metal clashed and men cut down boys. Aemon bounced between two different warriors, clashing his blade with one and blocking the strike of another with his shield. After two strikes it shattered, splinters lodging within his arm. He rebounded off the strike, passing between the two men and stepping out from the brunt of the war. His eyes connected with the Jotunn, and the perched demon stood up.
“Ah, the leader runs from battle? I think not.”
He was on Aemon in an instant, striking him with the flat of his blade with enough force to take him off his feet. Aemon stood again. He hit the floor again. Pain crept up his side, he could feel the unusual warm trickle of blood drip down his body. He never got the chance to look at his wound before the offending blade filled his vision, the matted, bloodied fur of the hilt and the cold steel shivered his body back into action as he ducted to the side, stone thrown into the air as a strike missed its mark. His initial burst led Aemon to connect one strike to the great Jotunn’s thigh, but instead of a pained reaction he only received a laugh.
“Huh, you actually managed to hit me. I’ll take you seriously then, boy.”
Aemon’s feet were in the air again as he slid across the ground. The Jotunn moved even faster than before. The pain on his side seemed to grow. His vision locked on the glowing rune of the blade and realized his predicament, his wound had been cursed. The Jotunn advanced forward with athletic force unseen in any man he had ever encountered. Aemon stepped back, shrugging and ducking off each blow as they came, backing up the stairs that led to the Jotunn’s throne. The pain grew into his chest and down his leg as blood began to leak down the stairs, puddling with what was left of his small army. Blow after blow, Aemon was unable to attempt to counterstrike. He stumbled over the last step. He caught himself. Another blow whistled past his ears. His calves touched the seat of the throne. A strike threw him into the seat-back. Aemon scrambled to stand in the seat. He looked into the Jotunn’s eyes at this height, dancing on armrest to seat as he evaded each strike, looking for his opportunity, and then it came. Aemon reeled back from a strike and the Jotunn’s long arm extended too far. Blood spayed through the air as the hand fell to the ground. Dropping his own weapon, Aemon grabbed the falling longsword from the air. The stunned Jotunn stepped back, but not quick enough as Aemon leaped forward, driving the blade through his chest with both hands. The pair fell down the steps, the hilt of the blade crashing into Aemon’s chest, a rib cracking under his weight. The rune on the hilt of the blade flickered. Blood continued to leak out from his side as his vision began to fade, a growing wound turning the Jotunn below Aemon into gore. The remaining warriors looked on as their leader had fallen, none of Aemon’s army witnessed his triumph. A crack echoed through the room as a man stepped out from behind the throne, inferno bursting to life violently over the remaining Jotunn in the room, their screams fading away with reality as Aemon passed.
Dreams of fire filled his mind. His body burnt as he saw his father fighting Jotunn, his mother crying out from a far distance, and a masked man chanting over Aemon’s still, paralyzed body. His brother screamed for him to run before bursting into ash and smoke- which was all Aemon woke up to.
His body burnt with energy, yet he felt no pain. He stood up with weak legs and looked over the room for the man who had killed so many, so quickly. There was no trace. Just as there was no trace of the giant wound that had threatened Aemon’s life only what seemed like moments ago. Taking the bloodied sword he had stolen from the Jotunn, he made his way through the halls and into the courtyard- a similar fate had met those Jotunn who had fought the other division. There were no human survivors either. The night air cooled Aemon as he made his way through the forest and back to base camp- as horror filled his mind as he discovered it burnt to the ground. The Jotunn had sent another party to kill the women and children they left behind.
There was no time to rest as Aemon ran through the woods. Branches and overgrown ferns lashed against his thighs and calves, yet he felt no pain. With unfounded energy he made a day’s march an hour’s sprint. Smoke filled the air in the distance as his horror was confirmed. Upon arrival, the mothers of his friends laid splayed across the ground. At the edge of camp he could see his mother, leg twisted at an impossible angle. They had raped them. Anger filled his chest as he let out his father’s warcry- energy branching off from his body as a shockwave rippled across the small refugee camp, tearing through the debris and sending trees bending backwards.
Everyone he had ever known was dead. His family, his brothers, his enemies, everyone. The fifteen year old boy’s rage was unlike any in Midgard, and his unusual energy tore across a mile’s radius. He would find the raiding party that had killed his mother two days later. He killed every one of them with brutality he could have never imagined.
Anger welled up through Aemon’s chest and threatened to explode in the form of words, that echoed through the night air. The heat of the flames forced him to turn his head to the side, allowing his gaze to connect with his mother’s. Red and wet after an hour of crying, he turned to share his grief with her.
“He’s gone.” She let slip out in their embrace
“They’re all gone.” Aemon replied bluntly, stepping back from her as his anger began to build once more.
All around the shattered family, women and children comforted each other. The raiders had killed the lookouts of their small village without a sound. Without even turning back to the inferno, Aemon knew the fate of his father, and all the men who had returned to try and stop the fire.
“I’m going to kill every last one of them.”
Her tone was soft, like a mother comforting her fit-filled child, “You don’t even know who did this.”
“I have an idea.”
“You can’t kill him, there’s too many of them to begin with-” Aemon cut her off with a glance.
“I know.”
His Mother knew better than to try and change her son’s mind. With the loss of his father and older brother, he had accepted his role as the man of his family; and all the arrogant, stubborn tendencies that come with it.
The smoke of their burning village drifted into the air for two days, as Aemon began to organize his warband from the remaining women and children. Keen with words he was able to ignite down-trodden fear into a burning passion for vengeance. Ash-tattered metalwork and crisp leather garments outfitted the young warriors as they set out on to war, and once again widowed wives looked upon their family as they marched to their likely death.
Everyone who lived in the village knew of the Jotunn that lived in his craggly, stone fortress. For generations he had been a nuisance, fighting over borders and hunting grounds. He had long gone silent, but had now seemingly revealed himself again and carried out his long promised threat of destroying the village.
The march would take a day, so the some thirty boys pitched tents on the long established border the night before. Aemon perched himself on the highest open land he could find, and sat, looking to the dark fortress in the distance. That night was cold and somber, many of the boys understood that they may not make it through tomorrow; even worse to Aemon were the ones that did not grasp this fact.
The morning air was damp, and the boys stiffly organized what they would need for the day ahead. Boys below the age of eight, having never embraced a woman or spent a night drinking with his brothers, now looked forward to war. They wielded anything they could find, from the family longsword, now with a charred and crumbling hilt, to the bent spade, to tree branches sharpened into spears without a tip. Organized into two groups of fifteen, the boys began their hike towards the fortress.
The structure loomed over them, and as the sun peeked over the mountains and took its place high in the sky, the shadow the fortress cast seemed to reach out to them; greeting them in their doom. Aemon’s division crouched in the treeline, waiting for the other to begin the plan. A craven warcry broke the silence, as the battle began. From the opposite treeline the lackluster group of boys ran for the open gates of the fortress. The gates did not close. Instead, another force met them, smashing sword to shield. They expected the boys. The boys did not expect them. There was no time to watch as Aemon’s division began the second phase of their plan.
Behind him a boy no older than eleven cried out “They’re getting slaughtered!”
Aemon allowed himself a glance and wished he had not. While the plan was secure- breach the wall while they distracted the garrisoned enemy- Aemon seriously doubted the chances of any of them surviving. He gritted his teeth. He led them into this. They had reached the wall, checking the watch towers before smashing through a tattered section of the fortress wall, breaking out into the courtyard. Their feet echoed against the walls, but the fighting behind Aemon’s division was louder. Young cries, the clashing of metal, and the gurgling sounds of the dying would haunt Aemon if he survived this day.
Something was wrong. There must be more warriors than the guards Aemon had seen. They broke through the doors of the inner-fortress easily and were greeted with no resistance. At first they creeped- then they walked, then ran to the innermost section, a great throne-room. Turning the corner into the room Aemon realized it. Surrounding all four walls were men two times his size, with pale white skin and distant, blank eyes. In the middle, leaning into the great stone throne was Him. The Jotunn sat up, a rumbling chuckle echoing around the room.
“So the cravens send their boys to do war with me, I’m almost insulted-” He paused, his sickly mouth stretching into a putrid teeth filled smile.
“Oh wait. I killed all the men. Pity.”
Aemon stepped forward, and the battle began before he truly realized it. The men in the room marched forward with a grunt, and the boys gave their best imitation of their father’s warcry. From all sides metal clashed and men cut down boys. Aemon bounced between two different warriors, clashing his blade with one and blocking the strike of another with his shield. After two strikes it shattered, splinters lodging within his arm. He rebounded off the strike, passing between the two men and stepping out from the brunt of the war. His eyes connected with the Jotunn, and the perched demon stood up.
“Ah, the leader runs from battle? I think not.”
He was on Aemon in an instant, striking him with the flat of his blade with enough force to take him off his feet. Aemon stood again. He hit the floor again. Pain crept up his side, he could feel the unusual warm trickle of blood drip down his body. He never got the chance to look at his wound before the offending blade filled his vision, the matted, bloodied fur of the hilt and the cold steel shivered his body back into action as he ducted to the side, stone thrown into the air as a strike missed its mark. His initial burst led Aemon to connect one strike to the great Jotunn’s thigh, but instead of a pained reaction he only received a laugh.
“Huh, you actually managed to hit me. I’ll take you seriously then, boy.”
Aemon’s feet were in the air again as he slid across the ground. The Jotunn moved even faster than before. The pain on his side seemed to grow. His vision locked on the glowing rune of the blade and realized his predicament, his wound had been cursed. The Jotunn advanced forward with athletic force unseen in any man he had ever encountered. Aemon stepped back, shrugging and ducking off each blow as they came, backing up the stairs that led to the Jotunn’s throne. The pain grew into his chest and down his leg as blood began to leak down the stairs, puddling with what was left of his small army. Blow after blow, Aemon was unable to attempt to counterstrike. He stumbled over the last step. He caught himself. Another blow whistled past his ears. His calves touched the seat of the throne. A strike threw him into the seat-back. Aemon scrambled to stand in the seat. He looked into the Jotunn’s eyes at this height, dancing on armrest to seat as he evaded each strike, looking for his opportunity, and then it came. Aemon reeled back from a strike and the Jotunn’s long arm extended too far. Blood spayed through the air as the hand fell to the ground. Dropping his own weapon, Aemon grabbed the falling longsword from the air. The stunned Jotunn stepped back, but not quick enough as Aemon leaped forward, driving the blade through his chest with both hands. The pair fell down the steps, the hilt of the blade crashing into Aemon’s chest, a rib cracking under his weight. The rune on the hilt of the blade flickered. Blood continued to leak out from his side as his vision began to fade, a growing wound turning the Jotunn below Aemon into gore. The remaining warriors looked on as their leader had fallen, none of Aemon’s army witnessed his triumph. A crack echoed through the room as a man stepped out from behind the throne, inferno bursting to life violently over the remaining Jotunn in the room, their screams fading away with reality as Aemon passed.
Dreams of fire filled his mind. His body burnt as he saw his father fighting Jotunn, his mother crying out from a far distance, and a masked man chanting over Aemon’s still, paralyzed body. His brother screamed for him to run before bursting into ash and smoke- which was all Aemon woke up to.
His body burnt with energy, yet he felt no pain. He stood up with weak legs and looked over the room for the man who had killed so many, so quickly. There was no trace. Just as there was no trace of the giant wound that had threatened Aemon’s life only what seemed like moments ago. Taking the bloodied sword he had stolen from the Jotunn, he made his way through the halls and into the courtyard- a similar fate had met those Jotunn who had fought the other division. There were no human survivors either. The night air cooled Aemon as he made his way through the forest and back to base camp- as horror filled his mind as he discovered it burnt to the ground. The Jotunn had sent another party to kill the women and children they left behind.
There was no time to rest as Aemon ran through the woods. Branches and overgrown ferns lashed against his thighs and calves, yet he felt no pain. With unfounded energy he made a day’s march an hour’s sprint. Smoke filled the air in the distance as his horror was confirmed. Upon arrival, the mothers of his friends laid splayed across the ground. At the edge of camp he could see his mother, leg twisted at an impossible angle. They had raped them. Anger filled his chest as he let out his father’s warcry- energy branching off from his body as a shockwave rippled across the small refugee camp, tearing through the debris and sending trees bending backwards.
Everyone he had ever known was dead. His family, his brothers, his enemies, everyone. The fifteen year old boy’s rage was unlike any in Midgard, and his unusual energy tore across a mile’s radius. He would find the raiding party that had killed his mother two days later. He killed every one of them with brutality he could have never imagined.
A Humbling by the Sea
It has been five years since that day, although Aemon hasn’t changed much since. The Free Realms between Asphodel and Mainland Elexoria have grown to understand—- and fear the Yggdrasil. Perhaps it is due to the cities he’s single handedly raided, or the rage fueled infernos that have left their hillsides barren and scarred. Perhaps it is also the lack of Jotunn plaguing the people of the land, as he has spent much of this time killing them—- in the most brutal way he can.
It is easy to follow where the Yggdrasil has journeyed. Rumors will swirl, detailing tales of a young man, three heads taller than any other, that will “solve” any trouble you may have. A fixer of the worst sort, leaving behind a bloody trail of dismembered and destroyed lives. Twisted bodies and gruesome gore left strewn for all to see, Aemon does not hide his presence.
Perhaps he can best be described the same way the Jotunn who led him down this path could be. A fixture of the landscape, with a twisted sense of what he deserves.
So begins an anniversary of sorts, five years after his rebirth. In the sewers of a coastal desert town known as Navatar, where muddy water runs brown with the filth of the city above. A night of fire-filled dreams have left him groggy.. and angry. Another night spent in the underbelly of another useless city, all for one reason: Trade from Elexoria was due in Navatar within the week, on its way to the Westerosi colony to the west.
Aemon knew better than to attack the Elexorian trade ships directly—- he was one man against one of the greater nations of Arda, plus, he had business relationships to keep in Elexoria. He did however know that there was another sort who would undertake such a mission: The Pirates of the South Westerosi Sea. There was no navy behind simple pirates, they were open game… the perfect target.
Navatar, as with many of the Free-Cities of the unclaimed realms, was a lawless place. Imperial ships would arrive and sell their goods just as Pirates would, sometimes side by side. Aemon found it to be a common landing ground when gold became scarce in his usual stomping grounds, better yet it was one of the few cities New Horizon had yet to completely monopolize. Talk of the city was that the first Imperial shipment of the month had been due yesterday—- and it never arrived. Today the lucky crew who had taken it would arrive with their loot in tow, ready for all with gold in pocket… Or those who were daring enough to attempt to take what had been taken.
The successful crew could be any assortment of famed pirates, the imperial shipment was a poorly guarded secret. Perhaps it would be Captain Shi Cheng’s, of the famed Pearl Dragon, or “Lord” Badek Barkdyle, captain of the Bloody Fortune. Both had been successful in taking Imperial loot in the past… and both had failed to stop Aemon from taking it back.
Aemon began to saunter out of the cavernous sewers, making his way through the twisting corridors before finding the his way to the surface, where the waste drained into the ocean. He spat on the sand, trudging through it awkwardly, his weight causing his armored foot to sink into the sifting surface. With an annoyed grunt he cast his arm to the side, the armor peeling and fading away into the air in an instant, replaced by the light fabric garb of the regular citizen of Navatar. His longsword transformed, turned into a craggly, twisted walking stick, still adorned with the cursing rune it regularly bore, fixated atop the grip. The market just beyond him bustled with life—- and a Jolly Rodger was cast above the ship coming into the bay, though it was one Aemon had yet to come across.
“Maybe they’ll fare better..” He spat again, trudging through the sand, watching it dock on the wharf. Shouldering his way through the smaller regulars of the marketplace, Aemon arrived just as the crew began to cast its anchors into the water. The landing plank bounced on the deck, just at Aemon’s feet, and Aemon took his stance, resting his fist at his side, the other holding his staff before him, rune glowing gently beneath the harsh sun: a challenge. A skinny man peered over the ship’s rail, furrowing his eyebrows at the sight of the monstrous Yggdrasil. He sunk back below, and it was not long until another replaced him.
He stood taller than the one before, nearly the size of Aemon. Unlike the man before, he was fit, filling out the distinctively tattered naval uniform, with inky-black hair that barely blew in the wind.
Through squinted, sea-foam green eyes, he cast out his warning: “Oy, yer in the way!” His voice was smooth, mocking in tone, as if Aemon was the fool stepping into cart traffic. The crew had already begun to unload it’s loot from below the ship deck, but stood in waiting behind their captain.
“I don’t believe I’ll be doing so, sorry to say.” Aemon retorts, allowing the cursed rune to shine a little brighter.
“Err.. Ye musn’t be savvy, show yer colours.” The pirate laughed off, demanding Aemon’s intentions.
“I intend to relieve you of some of your...ill-gotten-gains, Pirate.”
“..Sink me..! I come all this way to be called a simple Pirate.. Yer goin’ ta learn..”
In a flash the Pirate leapt from the railing and landed before Aemon, brandishing the curved sword of a pirate, seemingly rusted with age and use. A quick lash at his thigh warned Aemon of the skill of his opponent, blocking a second with his walking stick before stumbling back. The busy marketplace quickly emptied.
“Yer a lit’l slow therr, rat.”
Aemon brought his free fist into his chest, the light garb of before replaced by silver armor, staff shifting into the bloody blade of Skofnung.
The pirate’s green eyes widened at the sight, curiosity written across his face. “Parley with me, rat, ye beat me one on one and I’ll give ye me ship and crew, and all the loot that comes with ‘em. Simple sword play, eh?” A rumble of laughter echoed off the boat at the pirates words.
“But if ye bested… I want yer sword there.” He pointed a bony finger.
Aemon smirked. This was his game, he had spent the past five years betting on his strength. He had never lost. While his skill with the sword was low, his brute strength and magic had made up for any weakness. He figured that even without the magic, he’d win, the man looked sickly, as if near death already. Aemon gave a nod, and another uproar of excitement bellowed off the ship.
The pirate moved with unnatural speed, and used his sword in a way far beyond the pirates Aemon had faced before. His footwork was perfection, his strikes accurate. A shot blocked by Aemon’s free hand left his sword hand weighed down by his heavy greatsword, another strike by the Pirate’s elbow into his gut left him stumbling back again, a warning of what could’ve been a far more devastating attack. Aemon glared at his opponent.
“You had an opening for my neck, what are you doing?” He sneered, swinging his sword down on the pirate with a grunt.
The pirate did not respond, simply advancing forward once more with that same skillful footwork, easily turning on his heel to avoid the strike, his blade whipping to lash through Aemon’s armor, leaving a searing bloody line across his forearm. Who was this man? The pirate placed his foot upon Skofnung, using his weight to further lodge the blade into the wooden deck. Aemon could smell his breath, faint with alcohol, mixed with the sickly smell of rot.
“Yer losin’.” The pirate whispered, leveling his weapon to Aemon’s neck, the strike far too close to counter with Aemon’s other hand. Aemon would die here, or he would break the rules of contest he had agreed upon. His energy flared to life, and the Pirate stared back, his once sea-green eyes now awash with the purple storm-like fury of a man who had been cheated. The full brunt weight of Aemon’s energy cast down upon the Pirates shoulders....and he did not falter, but rather pushed the weapon closer to the opening in Aemon’s armor.
“Err.. An impressive show ye give, but I don’t play roadside tricks. Yer lost.” He then kicked Skofnung from Aemon’s grasp, opening his hand to it as it lifted into his grasp, as if an invisible force had ripped it from the ground and into his hands. Aemon’s eyes widened in surprise. He had never met another with powers similar to his.
“I’ll make another deal, rat. Earn yer sword back. Ye piqued me interest. Or get the Blackspot, cheat.” the Pirate chuckled, sheathing his rusted sword, looking over Skofnung with hungry eyes.
Aemon had no choice but to agree. “And who will I answer to..?”
“Me first mate of course, but if yer askin’ me name, you call me Captain Bardem. Welcome to the Silent Mary.”
It has been five years since that day, although Aemon hasn’t changed much since. The Free Realms between Asphodel and Mainland Elexoria have grown to understand—- and fear the Yggdrasil. Perhaps it is due to the cities he’s single handedly raided, or the rage fueled infernos that have left their hillsides barren and scarred. Perhaps it is also the lack of Jotunn plaguing the people of the land, as he has spent much of this time killing them—- in the most brutal way he can.
It is easy to follow where the Yggdrasil has journeyed. Rumors will swirl, detailing tales of a young man, three heads taller than any other, that will “solve” any trouble you may have. A fixer of the worst sort, leaving behind a bloody trail of dismembered and destroyed lives. Twisted bodies and gruesome gore left strewn for all to see, Aemon does not hide his presence.
Perhaps he can best be described the same way the Jotunn who led him down this path could be. A fixture of the landscape, with a twisted sense of what he deserves.
So begins an anniversary of sorts, five years after his rebirth. In the sewers of a coastal desert town known as Navatar, where muddy water runs brown with the filth of the city above. A night of fire-filled dreams have left him groggy.. and angry. Another night spent in the underbelly of another useless city, all for one reason: Trade from Elexoria was due in Navatar within the week, on its way to the Westerosi colony to the west.
Aemon knew better than to attack the Elexorian trade ships directly—- he was one man against one of the greater nations of Arda, plus, he had business relationships to keep in Elexoria. He did however know that there was another sort who would undertake such a mission: The Pirates of the South Westerosi Sea. There was no navy behind simple pirates, they were open game… the perfect target.
Navatar, as with many of the Free-Cities of the unclaimed realms, was a lawless place. Imperial ships would arrive and sell their goods just as Pirates would, sometimes side by side. Aemon found it to be a common landing ground when gold became scarce in his usual stomping grounds, better yet it was one of the few cities New Horizon had yet to completely monopolize. Talk of the city was that the first Imperial shipment of the month had been due yesterday—- and it never arrived. Today the lucky crew who had taken it would arrive with their loot in tow, ready for all with gold in pocket… Or those who were daring enough to attempt to take what had been taken.
The successful crew could be any assortment of famed pirates, the imperial shipment was a poorly guarded secret. Perhaps it would be Captain Shi Cheng’s, of the famed Pearl Dragon, or “Lord” Badek Barkdyle, captain of the Bloody Fortune. Both had been successful in taking Imperial loot in the past… and both had failed to stop Aemon from taking it back.
Aemon began to saunter out of the cavernous sewers, making his way through the twisting corridors before finding the his way to the surface, where the waste drained into the ocean. He spat on the sand, trudging through it awkwardly, his weight causing his armored foot to sink into the sifting surface. With an annoyed grunt he cast his arm to the side, the armor peeling and fading away into the air in an instant, replaced by the light fabric garb of the regular citizen of Navatar. His longsword transformed, turned into a craggly, twisted walking stick, still adorned with the cursing rune it regularly bore, fixated atop the grip. The market just beyond him bustled with life—- and a Jolly Rodger was cast above the ship coming into the bay, though it was one Aemon had yet to come across.
“Maybe they’ll fare better..” He spat again, trudging through the sand, watching it dock on the wharf. Shouldering his way through the smaller regulars of the marketplace, Aemon arrived just as the crew began to cast its anchors into the water. The landing plank bounced on the deck, just at Aemon’s feet, and Aemon took his stance, resting his fist at his side, the other holding his staff before him, rune glowing gently beneath the harsh sun: a challenge. A skinny man peered over the ship’s rail, furrowing his eyebrows at the sight of the monstrous Yggdrasil. He sunk back below, and it was not long until another replaced him.
He stood taller than the one before, nearly the size of Aemon. Unlike the man before, he was fit, filling out the distinctively tattered naval uniform, with inky-black hair that barely blew in the wind.
Through squinted, sea-foam green eyes, he cast out his warning: “Oy, yer in the way!” His voice was smooth, mocking in tone, as if Aemon was the fool stepping into cart traffic. The crew had already begun to unload it’s loot from below the ship deck, but stood in waiting behind their captain.
“I don’t believe I’ll be doing so, sorry to say.” Aemon retorts, allowing the cursed rune to shine a little brighter.
“Err.. Ye musn’t be savvy, show yer colours.” The pirate laughed off, demanding Aemon’s intentions.
“I intend to relieve you of some of your...ill-gotten-gains, Pirate.”
“..Sink me..! I come all this way to be called a simple Pirate.. Yer goin’ ta learn..”
In a flash the Pirate leapt from the railing and landed before Aemon, brandishing the curved sword of a pirate, seemingly rusted with age and use. A quick lash at his thigh warned Aemon of the skill of his opponent, blocking a second with his walking stick before stumbling back. The busy marketplace quickly emptied.
“Yer a lit’l slow therr, rat.”
Aemon brought his free fist into his chest, the light garb of before replaced by silver armor, staff shifting into the bloody blade of Skofnung.
The pirate’s green eyes widened at the sight, curiosity written across his face. “Parley with me, rat, ye beat me one on one and I’ll give ye me ship and crew, and all the loot that comes with ‘em. Simple sword play, eh?” A rumble of laughter echoed off the boat at the pirates words.
“But if ye bested… I want yer sword there.” He pointed a bony finger.
Aemon smirked. This was his game, he had spent the past five years betting on his strength. He had never lost. While his skill with the sword was low, his brute strength and magic had made up for any weakness. He figured that even without the magic, he’d win, the man looked sickly, as if near death already. Aemon gave a nod, and another uproar of excitement bellowed off the ship.
The pirate moved with unnatural speed, and used his sword in a way far beyond the pirates Aemon had faced before. His footwork was perfection, his strikes accurate. A shot blocked by Aemon’s free hand left his sword hand weighed down by his heavy greatsword, another strike by the Pirate’s elbow into his gut left him stumbling back again, a warning of what could’ve been a far more devastating attack. Aemon glared at his opponent.
“You had an opening for my neck, what are you doing?” He sneered, swinging his sword down on the pirate with a grunt.
The pirate did not respond, simply advancing forward once more with that same skillful footwork, easily turning on his heel to avoid the strike, his blade whipping to lash through Aemon’s armor, leaving a searing bloody line across his forearm. Who was this man? The pirate placed his foot upon Skofnung, using his weight to further lodge the blade into the wooden deck. Aemon could smell his breath, faint with alcohol, mixed with the sickly smell of rot.
“Yer losin’.” The pirate whispered, leveling his weapon to Aemon’s neck, the strike far too close to counter with Aemon’s other hand. Aemon would die here, or he would break the rules of contest he had agreed upon. His energy flared to life, and the Pirate stared back, his once sea-green eyes now awash with the purple storm-like fury of a man who had been cheated. The full brunt weight of Aemon’s energy cast down upon the Pirates shoulders....and he did not falter, but rather pushed the weapon closer to the opening in Aemon’s armor.
“Err.. An impressive show ye give, but I don’t play roadside tricks. Yer lost.” He then kicked Skofnung from Aemon’s grasp, opening his hand to it as it lifted into his grasp, as if an invisible force had ripped it from the ground and into his hands. Aemon’s eyes widened in surprise. He had never met another with powers similar to his.
“I’ll make another deal, rat. Earn yer sword back. Ye piqued me interest. Or get the Blackspot, cheat.” the Pirate chuckled, sheathing his rusted sword, looking over Skofnung with hungry eyes.
Aemon had no choice but to agree. “And who will I answer to..?”
“Me first mate of course, but if yer askin’ me name, you call me Captain Bardem. Welcome to the Silent Mary.”