On the world of Tarlan, there are three things that are not done. One is to say Gaiden's name in vain, the second is to never pull a knife out if your not meaning to use it. But, the third is the one and only of the three that is always always taken seriously. Never, never utter the name Camar Bloodshadow.
The name Camar Bloodshadow is one of the few names taht will make the most hardy of men turn pale. It is a name that is never spoken of in polite conversation, and is never mentioned after a king has died.
He stand about five and a hald feet tall, his hair is jet black and his skin is of bone white. His eyes are the color of violet, and he dresses primarily in red and black.
But, the story I am about to tell you will make you think hard on the man I have described to you. And if I were you, I would be very very polite to him should ever your paths cross. Because it takes only one time to cross him...
Rising out of a shadowy corner of the gloom encloaked room, the darkly clad figure slowly glided across the shiny black marble floor of the audience chamber of Tarmon Zoth. Leaving in his wake not a single whisper of his presence in the room.
Sitting atop a jewel encrusted throne of silver and gold sat the aged king, Tarmon Zoth, destroyer of the village of Tazin Continually drifting in and out of consciousness, completely unaware of the danger that was now approaching him from out of the very shadows of his audience chamber.
In tight precise steps, the shadow man continued to edge his way closer and closer to the sleeping monarch. His shadow following his progress, appearing on one brightly lit section of wall only to disappear into the shadows again. Then again, sometimes he would just walk into a shadow only to reappear stepping out of another several yards away.
Without missing a step, the shadow cloaked figure withdrew a large curved dagger from out of its sheath at his belt, and crept even closer toward the sleeping king.
The old man was dressed in a robe of red silk, a golden crown capped his silvery white head. His face looked drawn, even from under the silvery white beard. He looked completely helpless from where the shadow man stood.
Blade reflecting dully in the sporadic light of the dimly lit room, the shadow man maneuvered himself into position directly in back of the sleeping man's fabulous throne. Now was the moment of truth.
But, the shadow man hesitated. Some voice inside of him was screaming that he was about to do something wrong. Maybe it was the fact that he was about to kill a defenseless old man, but in either case the shadow man hesitated.
Did this man really deserve to die ? Sure, he had committed a great many crimes against the Draktani people. He had slaughtered an entire village of defenseless elves.
The Draktani had resided within DrakenWood for the past two milleninia, twenty centuries of peace and harmony. But then he came, King Tarmon Zoth, absolute ruler of the lands of Zalos, ahead a column of black armored knights.
He and his knights had attacked the first village that they came upon, Camar Blud Sha Doe's village. Reputed to be the most lethal assassin in the known world. The assassin had been away on an assignment. No one survived the dread king's assault.
When Camar finally returned, it was too late. Zoth had already finished with his work and had hastened back to his capital, back across the border into Zalos. All that was left of Camar's village were the burnt out shells of a few homes. The bodies of his friends were still lying out in the village's streets. Tarmon's men hadnt even bothered to bury the dead, he just left the lying where they fell to rot in the soon to be coming spring rains.
On that day, the shadow elf known as Camar Blud Sha Doe died and Bloodshadow the assassin was born. On that day, that cold and stormy day, Camar vowed to avenge his village's massacre upon Tarmon Zoth himself.
After burying the dead, Camar spent about a week in mourning, as was Draktani custom. Then Camar mounted his horse and rode off, leaving forever behind him the village of Tazin, the place he would always call home.
Two days later, Bloodshadow reined in his horse atop a grassy hill overlooking the city of Halzar.
The city itself wasnt so large as the castlekeep that stood in its center. And imposing structure made out of grayish stone, there was a tower at all four corners of the structure. From its center protruded a slender tower of white marble , to the observer, looking like some gigantic skeletal finger shooting up out of the earth.
The city itself was made out of three story thatchwork buildings of tannish yellow and dark brown.
Encamped around the city was an entire legion of armored soldiers. The front gates of the city were closed up tight with at least a dozen men manning the gatehouse itself and twice that walking the city's outer walls.
With no alternative forthcoming, Bloodshadow took his horse to a small wooded grove located about a mile or so behind him, then tied Necromancer to a tree. After ensuring that his horse was secure, Bloodshadow stepped into the nearby shadow of a tree and called upon the innate powers of his race called "shadowgate", and teleported himself into a darkly lit alleyway within the city.
When he stepped out of the shadows again, he was in an alley next to an inn called the "Dragon's Nest".
Still several blocks away from Zoth's fortress, Bloodshadow stepped back into the shadows of the alley and sat down, he then waited for night's curtain to fall.
Just after sunset, when the city's maintenance patrols had yet to light the lamp posts, Bloodshadow began his trek toward the castle.
At night, Zoth's fortress loomed over the city of Halzar like some bitter old specter, unwilling to let go and just fade away. Just like it's withered old monarch.
By the time Bloodshadow entered the castle's inner perimeter, it was well past moonrise. From the castle's courtyard, the shadow elf could see darkly clothed soldiers patrolling the castle's outer walls.
Behind him, the castlekeep's great shadow loomed over him like some great demon, daring him to enter into it's clutches. And so he did.
Picturing the withered old king in his mind, Bloodshadow teleported himself into the great audience chamber that he now stood in.
When had had first entered the city, his only thought had been that all he wanted to know before he died was that the "Butcher of Tazin" was dead.
But now, looking down at this aged, gray haired old man, Bloodshadow hesitated. He wasn't sure if this terrible old man really deserved to die, not by his hand at least. Gaiden would surely judge this man in the aferlife, he would surely pay this murderer back for all of the pain he'd inflicted during his reign of terror. For his attack on Bloodshadow's village.
Guilt is a terrible thing for any intelligent being to live with. It is the most incessant of all hunters, it can cross all boundaries, and distance means nothing to it. And living with the blood of innocents on ones own hands is the worst possible fate that any creature can ever endure. Single murder and mass murder are one and the same in the mind's eye, guilt is guilt.
For the better part of his long life, Bloodshadow has lived with the blood of many on his hands, the guilt of being the executioner of scores of different people from places too numerous to count. In the past, elf or human, ork or dwarf, the target didnt matter to him. The only thing that did matter was the question " Do they deserve my wrath?" Were they evil enough to deserve to die by my hand. But, this one, for some reason that the shadow elf just couldnt reconcile with himself, was different from all the rest. This one really deserved what was coming to him, but not by Bloodshadow's hand.
Conscience is a funny thing, it tends to appear in the leats likely of places, and on this day, Bloodshadow's came out of hiding to pay him a visit. He just couldn't do it, he just couldn't kill this monster. The one who deserved it most out of all monsters in the known world.
Slowly, the shadow man replaced his blade back into its sheath and began backing away from the throne of the vile old king. he continued backing away until he was enveloped in one of the shadows of the wall behind the fitfully sleeping monarch.
Taking one last look at the man he had come to kill, the shadow elf known as Camar Blud Sha Doe disappeared into the shadows and began his long journey into the great unknown that was now his future.
And he left that haunted old keep a much richer being than the king he had come to kill. The Reaper would have Tarmon Zoth's soul soon enough.