There's a shadow just behind me
Shrouding every step I take
Making every promise empty
Warping everything around me...
(-Tool)
~Prologue~
Life is never how you intend it to be. It never turns out how you want it to. The child you were born as will change through the experiences life throws at you. You'll not be the same man ten years from now that you were ten years before. The line drawn between good and evil men is very thin, and a few will even find themselves playing at both sides, whether they are concious of it or not. That was me ten years ago, alright; playing at both sides. To be honest, I'd like to say I didn't care-but the truth of it is I didn't know what I wanted. And upon entering Barovia through that blasted mist, I couldn't even remember who I was. Eventually it all came back to me as I pieced together dreams and nightmares I had had of my previous life. But all of that is behind me now, and since coming here I've been striving to make my way...and I'll continue to make my way forward. Not even death, nor hell itself will stop me...because the man I was died the night I came here to this accursed land...
A few years from now...
The night was dark and thick with clouds. The moon full, ococasionally peaking out, it's glow dowsing everything in the Barovian countryside with it's dim flourescent light. The time of night was unsettling to say the least. Howls of wolves, and perhaps other things even more sinister carried on through the air constantly. Fear was as evident in the night as the cold air itself.
Trees whos bark was twisted and mangled; their branches akimbo extending every which way lined the narrow dirt road on either side. Their leaves rustled in the wind, swaying back and forth rhythmically, their movements producing wicked dancing shadows. One might wonder if there was something watching, waiting within those trees...
The road itself headed westward, and appeared to be deserted. Weeds grew along the path, jutting up from inbetween small stones. The grass on either side of the path was long and the weight of the stalks caused them to arch over the edge of the road.
As the night continued to darken, in the distance the faint silouhette of flame hinted through. The flame looked small from far off, dancing side to side. Then there was sound...the slight jiingle of loose metal. The faint creaking of metal hinges and joints. Next, the sound of footsteps, thick heavy boots with a steel toe hidden within. The sounds drew closer, and the harmony of each became more clear as a figure appeared. The statuesque figure strood along the beaten road, hooded and shrouded from head to toe by a large cloak. The fabric had been pulled around a bit at the right shoulder, three large spikes portruding from within. That along with the sound hinted that the man wore plated armor underneath his garb. He carried the torch in his left hand while his right arm rested against the hilt of a heavy blade, sheathed in an elaborate scabbard that lay half concealed. Despite his arms being in the position they were, he walked forward with near-perfect balance, though his hunched posture left something to be desired. Years upon years of training produced the wirey, rock solid muscle that lay covered by his armor and cloak.
The hooded figure strode along the road, the arched grass on the sides yielding back for him to pass. As he made his way along, he came across a gap in the treeline. The hooded outlander cautiously left the beaten path, glancing about him as he walked. Suddenly there was a faint whisper behind his ear. He whipped around to face behind him, finding nothing. His shadow created by the torchlight against the treeline was the only thing facing back at him. He exhaled deeply, realizing his nerves were on edge and his heart was pounding in his chest. He began taking deep calm breaths and turned once more, walking through the gap in the trees just off the beaten path.
The cloaked form pushed back branches and kept the torch low so as not to catch anything on fire. Making his way through, he came at last to a clearing. Storm clouds had filled the sky by the time he reached the clearing, and a few rain droplets fell on his cloak, dribbling down soon after. He made his way to the center of the clearing and held the torch out to glance around. The trees lay fifty feet away along both sides. He glanced up, snorting in disgust as the rain began tumbling down, drenching him. Thunder boomed from somewhere far away.
The figure in black lowered his dying torch and found the item he had been searching for in the exact place he was told it would be. Kneeling down he held the torch closer to examine it. His stolen amulet glimmered up back at him, rain droplets beading along the chain, all the way down to the Mystran symbol which lay crusted in dried blood; years old. The amulet lay propped perfectly against the base of what once was a headstone. The top portion had been cleaved off, and lay next to it. The words "Loving Mother" were etched upon the limestone. The silent man's heart slowed in it's beating, what was left of his heart sinking. He placed a palm to his forehead, clinching his eyes shut and his teeth tight together. The rain continued to beat upon him from above as he fought of the wave of emotion overtaking him. He hated this...always so calm and collected, yet it was all a lie. He gritted his teeth further, the viens along his neck beginning to buldge.
"Why her...? He thought to himself. His eyes clinched as images of that horrible night began to creep into his thoughts, tugging at his very soul. The clashing of swords, the screams...the fire. That kind face looking down on him. The shower of blood that followed.
The man fell backward into the mud as he felt a pain like a sword run through his chest. He groaned, grabbing at his cloak, grabbing at the choker around his neck and ripping it off. In a fit of rage he began to stand, tossing the cloak into the mud next to him.
The man stood up straight, his previous posture disappearing as the cloak lay crumpled, wet and muddy at his feet. His full plate was painted blood red and trimmed in black. The armor fit him perfectly, and the plates were not very thick providing more mobility. He raised his head to the sky, the rain soaking his shoulder length silverish hair to the root, his bangs falling over his eyes.
Roland Fearshald took the blood-stained mystran symbol in both hands and slowly clasped it around his neck. As he did so, the barrage of rain took it's toll and began to wash away the silver dye covering his hair. As it did so, patches of fiery red emerged and they continued to grow larger until his entire head of hair matched his armor. The symbol was clutched tightly in his left hand, which shook in rage as he raised it to his lips and kissed it. His heart began beating faster once more, his body beginning to shake. The troubled sellsword looked off to the side, as if the pain of his thoughts were too great. Tears mixed with the pouring rain sliding down his cheeks.
Suddenly he drew the large blade from his side in one trained, blurring motion. He turned and raised it to the side, yelling in a fit of rage towards the treeline he emerged from as he did so. His voice choked at first, but then boomed into the night, drowning out any howls that could be heard otherwise.
"FATHEEER!!!"
