Bloodrisen the Slaymate, the Angel of Slaughter. In the lands of Thelas, few even dare whisper the name Bloodrisen, especially among the various assassin groups that plague the backstreets of her cities. Some say this man is nothing but a mere ghost story meant to scare the new recruits of Guardsmen and rogues alike. But unlucky for them, I am very real.
Being Dalish-born means I have lived quite the life of hardship. When I was very young, our aravels were loaded with ironbark and we were trying to avoid our normal routes to the local village for they were always generous with their provisions and hospitality in exchange for our potent materials. I was still just a young lad then, learning the trade routes from my father and the mannerisms of humans. We were at the head of the caravan then, and then I heard a strange whistling sound, then a thud.
I looked up to my dad to ask him what it was, but stopped in mid sentence. He had a strange grimace on his face and he reached out to me with a shaky hand, then fell to the ground with a sickening thud. My eyes widened in fear, three arrows were protruding from my father’s back, I heard screams of terror from the other aravels, and my mother ran out of hers and called out to me. I could only turn my head to her, my feet rooted to the spot as if the demons of hell reached from the ground and held me there. I remember that everything went as if in slow motion, my mother running towards me, tears pouring down her amber eyes, then her beautiful almond shaped eyes widening in terror as a burly human bandit leapt in front of her, brandishing a bloody dagger, and then her pleading cries of sorrow as he gut her with a psychotic laugh. As my mother fell with her entrails showering out of her, I snapped out of my stupor as if I just came out of some hypnosis, and with a cry of agony I charged that bandit with my small dirk. I leapt on his back and used my knife to slit his throat wide open, his choking cries of pain spurting bubbles of blood from his grizzled face. What once was cynical joy was now a satisfying look of agonizing pain. I jumped off of his back and watched the cur clutch at his throat trying to stuff his severed windpipe back in his neck. I must admit, I kind of enjoyed watching this degenerate flail in utter despair as his last moments flickered from his pupils. Hearing another death cry from my kin snapped me out of my trance and I took cover under the closest aravel, dragging the nearest corpse so I could hide out as a stiff.
I silently watched the gory scene as the rest of my kin got slaughtered right before me. The soulless bastards raped the women in front of husbands, killed the children and elders, and took everything. The bandits all had a sense of amusement as they cut my clan’s ears off, gouged out eyes, and mutilated the corpses. Luckily I was out of their sight for all of this.
After the bandits had their fill of blood, carnal pleasures, and plunder, they just left, leaving the bodies of their victims strewn across the West Road. I crawled out of my miserable cover when I thought I was safe. I looked around me at all the death that plagued the road. In the light of the setting sun, in had an eerie calmness to it after the carnage of earlier. I went to my mother’s body, which was already being picked at by crows. I chased them off, the winged rats squawking angrily being driven from their meal, but soon perched on another corpse. My father’s body was nowhere to be found, probably mutilated by the hands of those brigands. Something snapped inside of me, like an inner demon was suddenly unleashed from its shackles. I found the body of the murderer who killed my mother, I took my knife and stabbed the corpse to every piece of his body I could find. I stabbed his face until it crushed in, I pulled his organs out and threw them across the fields. After hours of mutilating this corpse I finally collapsed to the ground in tears, punching the ground in utter sorrow.
I spent the rest of my adolescence in Denerim as a pickpocket. I had a signet ring from the bandit I killed, and felt like Denerim was the place to find out where these bastards operated and exact my revenge. I spent years living in the cold streets of alienage, sneaking out at night to pilfer minor things or getting into bar fights over my heritage. Every waking second spent in Denerim fueled my hate for those disgusting humans, and forged my will to find those bandits and murder every last one of them.
But I do remember one moment of my life that I found as a stroke of luck. While sneaking around the marketplace for a coin-lined pouch to slip my fingers into, a huge ruckus was being caused by the local weapon smith’s stand. Some human was kicking around a dwarf, complaining that the dwarf was cheating him on Dark Iron splint mail. But it wasn’t the abuse of the diminutive armor smith that boiled my blood, it was his ring. I’d recognize that insignia blindfolded, that hideous snake coiled three times around the pinky with tiny egg-shaped ruby in its mouth. The next thing I remember, was me being dragged off of the man with a club in my hand, and how I got a club I don’t know, but I do remember someone telling me I ripped it from a guardsmen’s belt who was about to break up the fight.
I spent the rest of the day in a cold cell with the armor smith, apparently he incited a riot and I was his accomplice. He told me his name was Barvel Steelfist and that he never seen one of the knife-ears ever help out a dwarf before. He told me that I was welcome at his stand any time, if we weren’t hanged my the morning.
Thus began my friendship with Barvel. He was a seasoned soldier, and a very fine artisan. He taught me how to fight with a blade, and how to drink. He kind of adopted me since he told me he had never had a son before, and well I was close enough for him. The old dwarf was aging though, and shortly after me passing the years of young adult to a full fledged man, Barvel was bed-ridden. He called to me that night, and told me over the years he had been working on a special present just for me, called it my inheritance for being the finest son he had ever had. He pointed to a chest in the corner that I had never noticed before. I opened it and found a set of armor and two longswords. He told me that it was a set of dragon scale leather armor and two dragon bone swords. He told me he had received the materials from a traveling adventurer years ago, but he had never returned, and he wished for me to put them to good use, even hinted at taking out a certain group of thugs with a wink, before quietly passing on.
Fast-forward two months. I had been tracking the movements of these bandits to their secret hideout in the outskirts of Denerim. It was a large farmhouse, two stories with few windows. The moon was in a strange eclipse that night that blocked out all light long enough for me to make my way across the field before filling the air with a pale light. I climbed the stone wall up to the second story window. I checked the room to make sure no one was in before I lifted the window open and snuck in as quiet as a whisper. I slowly made my way to the door, and I could hear voices coming from downstairs.
I slowly opened the door, and slowly made my way to the stairs. I looked down to see two men standing at a door, half asleep, perfect timing for me I guessed. Like a graceful tiger I bounded down the stairs in two leaps not making the slightest noise, and I slowly turned, and charged at the two guards, my blades out to my sides like deadly wings. Before they could blink their heads dropped to the floor, their bodies flopping on the ground like fish. I kicked open the door, the twenty men in the room looking up in surprise. Their stupid drunken looks, dirty filthy stinking humans and their stupid faces. Needless to say, only one person walked out of that building tonight, and the rest of the house was painted in the blood and entrails of filthy humans. Their souls would never be missed, in fact, I took enjoyment filleting their degenerate bodies to ribbons,
Since then I have built a reputation as a murderer for hire, even the Crows fear to cross my path when it comes to catching prey, and I am especially known to bring back the target in one pouch of gory pieces.
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