Edge the Accursed
9th Level Fighter, 2nd Level Barbarian
AC – 21, HP – 124
The Doomblade – +2 Large-sized Viscious Greatsword
Doomblade The Adventures of Edge Sharpsword
Edge Sharpsword was born Thraex Kaal’ Tek in the Tribe of the White Wolf, a ferocious clan of grugach that made their home in the arctic north of Ohtar. The tribe, along with other tribes, lived a nomadic existence following the reindeer herds. But their existence was also rife with constant battle against giants, orcs, and the grugach’s most loathed enemy, the Ohtarans.
Edge’s earliest memories were of battles and violence. The tribe of the White Wolf were constantly tracked down and attacked by the Ohtarans. One cold year Ohtar sent a colossal force against the grugach. Laying waste to everyone and everything in it’s path. Growing tired of running, the tribe’s council decided to stand and fight. Edge’s father, Kor’kohl Kaal’ Tek, was one of those council members.
Their plan was to assemble all of the tribe’s braves in a war party to stand and fight to the last while the women, children, and elderly made their escape to the west. Other tribes joined the fight, the Tribes of the Running Horse, Black Feather, and Burnt Paw stood beside their fellow grugach. But still the Ohtarans were too numerous. The tribes knew they wouldn’t last for long as wave after wave of Ohtaran swordsmen came at them. And after each assault by the swordsmen they would have to endure the heavy ballistae and catapults. The line started to break as the valiant tribes began to succumb to the overwhelming numbers of Ohtarans.
Edge was barely old enough to talk but he still knew what was happening. He was running as fast as he could, his hand in his mother’s. She was cradling his baby sister in her other arm. Around them other women and children were running for their lives as arrows, spears, and flaming pitch fell around them. As brave as they were, the council’s plan had failed. The Ohtarans had crushed the defenders and now chasing and massacring the rest of them. The marauding Ohtarans had little mercy on the young, old, and frail and cut them down as they did the grown men.
Fire and steel rained down around Edge and his mother and sister. Friends and neighbors fell around them as they ran through the forest trying to escape the onslaught but they were losing ground. He clung tightly to his mothers hand and ran as fast as he could.
The last thing he remembered was a loud crash and his mother’s screaming cut short.
He woke up in a daze, the snow around him turned gray from the ashes of the burning trees and bodies. The face of his mother locked in a horrific silent scream, the light from her green eyes were gone. There was no sign of his sister, but he wouldn’t have known if he saw her any way, he was surrounded by countless burned and unidentifiable bodies. The Ohtarans had ruthlessly done their work.
In shock and falling in and out of consciousness the young boy left his dead family behind and clawed his way through the snow. All around him were the wails of the dying and smoke from the burning bodies. He was bleeding, alone, and crawling through the freezing snow. His strength eventually left him and he collapsed in the snow.
Again Edge woke up, barely able to stay awake. He noticed he was being carried and that they were not alone. He was with a large group of grugach, refugees heading west. The elderly elf carrying him was a tribe elder named La’al who was known for his wild stories and animated way of telling them but also known for his wisdom and cool head. It seemed as if La’al was a shell of what Edge remembered now. His hooded eyes showed no emotion as he limped ahead of the others. No one uttered a word. The only sound was that of the feet crunching through the snow.
Weeks past yet no one hardly spoke. Day after day the group made their way west towards Helegrod. Edge had finally regained some strength and was able to walk on his own. He stayed close to La’al. He wasn’t sure if it made him feel safe but he wanted to be around something he found familiar.
This wandering group had no scouts, no one to run ahead and keep watch. There was no one to warn them. The grugach were soon surrounded by a large force of hobgoblins. Some were on horse back but most were on foot.
One particularly large and nasty hobgoblin on a big, raven-black horse came forward. His dark plate armor had runes crudely etched by hand and designs painted in red. He had a large spike helmet and wielded a great axe etched with the same runes and painted red. He tried to communicate with the grugach but the language barrier proved difficult to over come.
Becoming frustrated the hobgoblin leader ordered his troops to seize the refugees and immediately began to chain them up…and worse.
The refugees were forced to line up and were then chained together. Men on one side and women on the other. Another hobgoblin made his way through the ranks up to the lined up grugach. He was bare chested and covered in intricate tattoos. His armor was ornate and exotic looking. The hair on his head was pulled back into a long top knot.
This hobgoblin approached the line and drew a massive curved sword. He eyed the tribesmen, looking them up and down. With a nod they would be taken to a large wagon. Until he reached an elderly grugach elf barely able to keep his head up. The hobgoblin narrowed his eyes and with a lightning fast movement cleaved the elderly elf’s head from his shoulders.
For the first time in weeks Edge heard the others talk. Their were screams, begging and pleading. But the hobgoblin slowly walked down the line, taking the young ones and dispatching the elderly and weak. Edge looked up to La’al. The elder of the Tribe of the White Wolf showed no emotion. His eyes were shadows. The hobgoblin approached them both.
The hobgoblin studied La’al, who just kept his stoic eyes forward. Edge could only watch as the hobgoblin swordsman separated La’al’s head from his body. He turned to Edge and eyed the young boy. The hobgoblin furrowed his brow after a while but never took his eyes from Edge. He took Edge’s chin in his hand and leaned even closer as if he was looking for something in the young boys eyes. His smirked and nodded, apparently he found it.
A trio of hobgoblins grasped Edge and threw him into the wagon with other grugach boys and young men. They were scared and in shock but none made a sound. Even as they pulled the hide cover over and started to move west.
The next few years of Edge’s life would be the hardest he’d ever have to endure. The hobgoblin swordsman, Magorion, was a weapon master and trainer for the hobgoblins and seen as the most skilled warrior. He took Edge “under his wing” having sensed something in him, some unknown, untapped power. Magorion decided to put Edge through his ruthless, highly specialized training.
For years Edge endured harsh training and beatings from his trainer. On several occasions he was forced to hold a giant greatsword above his head, but only after Magorion had broken his hands and arms. But most days were spent practicing the art of the sword with his abusive master.
Edge began to grow into a young man, strong and brave. His training with the hobgoblin sword master made his body into a weapon. His strength and speed were way beyond the natural physical progression and he was ready to go to war for the hobgoblin army.
The hobgoblins were at war with the hordes of Strophus that mainly consisted of orcs, goblins, and giants. And Edge was all too eager to shed some blood. He relished the chaos and brutality of combat. He leapt into the heart of battle with fury and abandon at every opportunity.
When away from battle Edge and Magorion trained for hours upon hours, practicing every minute detail of their craft. However Strophus was becoming more and more powerful as the time passed. His ranks began to swell and he summoned terrible demons to fight along side of him. The demons were a powerful ally of Strophus and were greatly feared by the hobgoblins.
The hobgoblins of Helegrod and Strophus’ army battled furiously. Edge spent more and more time on the battle field. Under the tutelage of Magorion he became a killing machine, efficient and deadly in the battle field. However, he never lost the memories of his family’s last moments. Or the horrible dreams that accompanied his sleep. The war and the fighting were an escape for him but now he believed it was tearing him apart on the inside. And to make matters worse his fellow grugach forced to fight (the ones that survived this long) grew suspicious and weary of him because of the amount of time he spent training with Magorion.
One night, Edge snapped. He broke out of his communal pin and killed the hobgoblin guards stationed there. And ran off into the night. But Helegrod is not the type of land that is kind to wanderers. It didn’t take long for a unit of hobgoblins to catch up with him. He was beaten and brought back to the hobgoblin capital.
Once there he was chained and thrown into a holding pit. Days passed without word or even a meal to eat. Until one night Magorion entered the pit and proceeded to beat him to unconsciousness. This treatment lasted for a couple of days until Magorion told him that it was because of himself that they didn’t publicly execute the grugach. Instead, he would fight in their gladitorial battles.
So Edge fought for his life on a daily basis infront of a large crowd of hobgoblins. Sometimes he fought slaves or hobgoblin “criminals” other times he fought more than one adversary or one powerful foe. But each battle Edge emerged victorious.
His notoriety grew and became known as “Edge of the Sharp Sword.” He was given a supremely mastered greatsword, the size of which was fit for an ogre. He had special armor commisioned to be designed with the faces of what the Helegrod hobgoblins feared the most…demons.
But his popularity was a tool that he used, for his escape. He was given a little more leniency and he used that to his advantage.
One night, he simply slipped away quietly. Magorion caught him not far from the capital. He stood in front of the grugach and threatened death if he did not return. Edge stood defiant. Magorion, now very much older, looked upon Edge like he did that gray snowy day. And he seemed to sede that unamed power again.
Magorion relented and let Edge pass. Although he made it be known that it was not out of any kind of mercy or love. It was because “an artist never wants to destroy his best painting, no matter how much he hated it.” Magorion turned and walked away, leaving Edge in the dark.
Edge turned and went his own way and promised to carry on his swordsman ways but in a path of honor and good and not hate and sorrow.