[Nightblade]

Freeport.

A glimmering jewel of a coastal town to the eyes of the fair skinned.

Polished, painted glass; cracked and chipped. Nothing more. Rotten is the core of those that lead it, those that protect it. Those that claim to serve it. No, no, no.

They serve us.

Their tolerance towards races not of their ken shall be the window in which the Ebon Hand will slip. The doorway where the Indigo Brotherhood shall march through.

To where blade meets flesh, and the arcane makes blood sizzle on the sun-bleached stones, you shall find me, making 'merry' with the denizens who were once haughty enough to point gnarled, arthritic fingers and proclaim us outlaws. Bandits. Sell-steel.

Cowards. Wrinkled deviants who hide behind politicking, trade agreements, charters, and a faith misguided.

Let us show them our faith, brothers. Let us give them honour, through death delivered by noble blood, and sure hands. With sword, shall we break them. With shield, shall we deny them the pettiness of vengeance.

Glory is not for me to win on the field of battle, not for us. Glory is for Him. His name, which drowns out all others with the seething fury of those who serve Him.

Ours is not to question, only to serve.

I relish in the thought of being the one to storm the ramparts and cave Lucan's skull in, to kick his body from the parapet and into a pyre of the dead.

I pray you choke on your rage when you see the name 'Treason' carved into the rib-cages of the dead, and that it steels you to give some semblance of a fight when we first meet. Treason brought this upon you. Treason killed your wife, your kiddies, your neighbors, your friends. It's just a name, but so...damned...fitting.

Death is only the beginning in your servitude to us, humans. You would do well to remember that.