------------- The Chronicles of Taure – Hayden

He stopped and wiped the blood from his axes. He dearly hated the smell of Orc blood. It was impossible to get out of clothes and seemed to cling to his beard if he was unfortunate enough to splatter some there in a fight. The stain it left on an axe if you didn’t wipe it off immediately was unmistakable. You could always tell the real warriors from the posers by the stain of their metal, and occasionally the stench of their clothes.

He didn’t follow that line of reasoning. If someone were to check his blades in a tavern’s fire light, they’d see clean, polished, unstained steel. That’s the way he liked to keep them, sharp as his wits. His axes were his brand, his calling card, his special little twist on the way of the warrior. Those who saw his beard and his swagger and measured his nearly six foot frame against others might think him a Forendan warrior. They’d see his clothes, hear his speech, and they’d watch the way he clung to his axes and they’d judge him a barbarian, a northman. Well, they’d be wrong all around,… and that’s the way he liked it too, keeping everyone off guard and unsure what he really was.

Hayden Creed was the son of a common merchant back in Edanfell. He had no real life to look forward to beyond counting inventory and doing the books. But he was tall and strong and had an intellect and imagination that wouldn’t be filled by sword practice alone. He had a drive in his belly. His father called it a noisy bowel. They never did see eye to eye on much of anything. So, as soon as he was old enough, and he’d managed to master a few minor tricks, he scraped together as much money as he could from his own side dealings and offered himself up to a local Half-Elf sorcerer to become his apprentice. That didn’t quite work out the way he wanted it either.

His preoccupation with war and glory never set too well with the master. So, in time, he moved on, to take up the skills of what the master called a WarMage. With his knowledge of Elven writing and the fact that he’d secretly read every letter the master had received in four years, he knew of another Elven master who could further that training. And once he passed all the tests that master had set, he finally got down to learning the real secrets he’d always wanted to know.

Hayden thought back on those days as a whole world of possibilities opened to him. He imagined one day standing atop a great ziggurat with a thousand vanquished foes beneath him, and a throng of rescued ladies vying for his affections. He would not cheat one of them of their rightful due, of course. He’d have them all, and they’d love him like their lives depended on it. Kings would come to see him and beg him to aid their nation against the latest evil that threatened them. Great warlords would petition for his advice and aid. And the world would write his name in stone for the millennia to follow to remember the great Hayden Creed. Well,… that was all depending on him not getting his throat slit in this dive of a roadside tavern first.

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