Rolan Blake.

Born 'Oskar Blake', second son of Sir Rolan Blake, Hero of Duran.

Oskar had a relatively normal life, bar from the fact his father was the only hero in the small village of Duran. His older brother, Stefan, had already begun following his father's footsteps by the age of twelve. Stefan had slain a rabid wolf that had attacked the village while Rolan was away on an adventure, effectively saving Dora Frunt and her child. Rolan had been so proud of his firstborn that day, so much so he had unintentionally neglected his youngest son Oskar.

Oskar on the other hand, had been sickly since birth. He could still go outside and play with the other children, but excessive exercise would leave him in a state of paralysis, unable to move, let alone breathe. The first time Oskar had such an attack at the age of six, Stefan had carried him from the fields back home, and his mother had panicked something terrible. She forbade him to leave the house, tending to him as if he were a baby.

As much as Oskar loved his mother, and knew she was only trying to do what she thought was best for him, Oskar knew deep down if he did as his mother asked of him, he would never recover. Each night, when the rest of the family were asleep, Oskar would climb out of his window and sneak through the village to the fields. He knew if he pushed himself too hard he would have another attack, and since no one knew where he was, he would most likely die, so he started small.

Oskar would lift small rocks, pile them up neatly, and throw them across the field as far as he could. He started with only three small rocks, but eventually, over time he was piling stacks taller than himself, and could heave them all almost the entire length of the field. Each night after his rigorous training, he would sneak back home and sleep like a log before being woken by Stefan early the following morning.

This continued through his teenage years, though his training became more of a statement as he aged, growing more and more steadfast in his commitment. He borrowed one of his father's swords, and would head into the forest, hunting all manner of wild and dangerous animals. He had become a hero in his own right, though none in the village ever knew of his deeds.

The first blow to Oskars training came when his mother passed away. It was sudden and unexpected, and the entire family had sobbed for weeks. Oskar had stopped going out at night, preferring to hug into his mother's old cloak, shutting himself away from his brother and father in his room. Rolan had been preparing for another adventure, but he had not left before she died. Stefan had tried to show a strong soul, but even he had eventually broken down and cried in his fathers arms.

Broken in spirit, the entire family had shut themselves away from the rest of Duran for a good three months. It had not been enough time to mend, but the residents of Duran could wait no longer. They were in need of heroes.

Lycanthropy had taken hold of some of the villagers. They were beyond help, instead running into the woods before the other villagers could muster a mob to face them head on. Each following night since the first had turned, another villager would be snatched up in the night and fed on, leaving either no trace at all, or a mutilated corpse on the mayor's front doorstep. When no corpse at all was found, it would seem as though there were more Werewolves, chances are they had been turned themselves.

The mayor, Sila Duran (hence the town of Duran), could allow no more villagers to be slain or turned. He marched to the doorstep of the Blakes residence, and rapped loudly on the door. Rolan had answered, his eyes still wet and heavy. As Sila had explained the situation, it was Stefan who was first to pick up a blade, and Rolan had to hurry to catch up to his son.

Together they moved slowly through the dense woods, ears and eyes alert to every sound. The air was thick and heavy, and it was hard to make out distinct sounds, especially the ones being made downwind of them, which happened to be the opposite direction they were heading. Dark wet fur and glowing beady red eyes followed them swiftly and silently, deeper into the woods.

Rolan had stopped and knelt down, softly moving the dead leaves and growth under his fingers. He could feel something was wrong, as if they were being watched, but could see no signs of it. All around them the woods groaned heavily, as if the weight of the fog was pushing the trees into the earth. Stefan eyed their surroundings wearily, coming to the realization they were hopelessly lost. As Rolan stood back up, he heard a snap of a branch behind him. They both turned in time to see a dark shadow moving like lightning towards them through the fog.

Oskar heard the screams from his room. He knew at once that voice was his brothers. Had they left the house? He barreled his way through the front door, and saw Sila along with a handful of villagers standing at the edge of the woods. Sila turned his head slowly towards Oskar, a look of fear and sorrow in his eyes. Oskar knew at once what had happened. He threw his mothers cloak to the ground, and ran back inside, slamming the door behind him, heading for the sword rack.

As Oskar picked up the sword he had used since he began heading into the woods to train, he heard a loud thud on the front door. Then another. Howls and barking began outside, followed by a deathly silence. All this before Oskar could even get back to the door.

He opened the door slowly, pushing something aside that was leaning against the outside of it. As he stepped out, he looked down at the head of Stefan, bloody and torn, separated from the rest of his body which was lying two feet away. Oskars eyes widened in horror as he turned his gaze towards the edge of the woods. The entire village had been slaughtered. Piled up just as Oskar had piled rocks, lay each and every man, woman and child of Duran, mutilated beyond imagination. Tears of anger welled up in Oskars eyes. He wiped them away, turning his head back towards the house, when he saw his father.

Rolan had been strewn across the roofing of the house, his head hanging from the cloak Oskar had dropped so abruptly. This was a message to Oskar. He would be next.

Oskar let out a bloodcurdling roar. The crows that were picking away at the pieces of the villagers took flight in a black cloud, partially lifting some of the fog nestled over the front of the woods, revealing the Lycans hiding just behind the entrance. With their cover gone, the Lycans charged at Oskar. He done the same.

With sword in hand, Oskar threw himself at the wolves, lunging forcefully into the first in his path. His sword pierced the beast's chest with a sickly crack, and before it could fall, Oskar ripped the sword out sideways, tearing the beast near in half. The other Lycans paused momentarily as the first of them fell, but Oskar was not finished with them, not by a long shot. He jumped high above the next wolf in his path, swinging his sword downwards across the skull of the creature, splitting it's face in two. Without pause, he swung the sword sideways as he landed, swiping the legs clean off the next wolf in front of him. It fell quickly, howling in pain as Oskar drove the sword through it's right eye. Oskar stopped to catch his balance, and one of the wolves took the chance to lunge at him.

They both fell over, rolling down the hill towards the fountain in the middle of the village square, the beast ripping at Oskars face and chest with it's claws. Oskar caught his chance when they hit a post on the way down, sliding his sword between the creatures legs and thrusting upwards, stopping at the base of the wolves skull. He threw the two halves of Lycan off of himself, and stood up, turning once again towards the remaining four wolves. They had not followed. He could see something in their eyes, past the burning hatred and animalistic hunger. He could see fear.

With one last burst Oskar charged at the Lycans, his eyes filled with rage and hatred of these foul beasts. He swung his sword again as he reached them, the two nearest Oskar both taking the full brunt of the swing. As the two wolves became four halves and slumped to the ground, the two remaining beasts turned and fled towards the woods.

Oskar would not let them get far. He threw his sword high, catching the blade with ease, and threw the sword towards the closest wolf. It flew with deadly accuracy, thanks to the years Oskar had thrown rocks, and landed squarely in the spine of the creature. It fell forwards, tumbling over itself as it howled loudly.

The last managed to get back to the woods, with Oskar, now unarmed, chasing behind it. As it lurched towards the trees, it turned back to see if the human was still in chase. Seeing Oskar running at full speed towards it, the wolf turned back, and ran directly into a tree. It fell hard, and gathered itself quickly, standing back up.

Oskar had seen the wolf fall and taken the chance. He had pushed his body further than it had ever been pushed, digging his feet into the soft dirt, running faster than the Lycans themselves. He caught up to the beast, and grabbed it's arms from behind. It howled as he pulled it to the ground in a sitting position, and Oskar dug a free foot into the shoulder blades on it's back. Without hesitation, Oskar ripped back on the Lycans arms as he pressed firmly into it's back with his foot, ripping it's chest open and letting the beasts insides splat out onto the dirt.

It was done. At great expense. The village was destroyed, the villagers all dead, his family gone. All that remained was a pile of dead bodies and pieces of Werewolf strewn across the village. Oskar would leave the village that day, taking nothing but the sword with him.

As he wandered, Oskar decided to take his fathers name in remembrance. No longer Oskar Blake, the sickly boy, he was now Rolan Blake, the hero.

Neat!

Cool story

Nice back story!

Thanks It wasn't originally going to be quite so long, but I got carried away with it as I was writing. Mind you, I did omit some of the 'gore', alot of it was rather more ... obscene than I have as the final post, but it detracted a bit from the actual story.

Just threw this together as I was writing, so it's not my best work, but it helps me to maintain a roleplaying perspective, being able to have a 'back-story' that my character can feed off of to drive forward.

Now... if only I could get my custom subrace into the game.... then I would be able to write a backstory the size of a novel. (Race, History, Language, Religion... you name it)

Darius (may I call you Darius?),

Welcome to Aenea! Having said that, I dig that backstory muchly! Goods, goods details!