A Death of Two Warriors

"'...pregnant. I still find it hard to believe it happened. It still annoys me, in a way. I wish I could be at full strength again. Getting stronger. But... I am just getting weaker by the day. Yet... I am excited about it... even happy.'

I think to myself, as I walk on a riverbank in the Cimmerian Border Kingdoms. I got used to taking walks lately... Ale just did not taste good to me anymore... drinking tea all day? No... I missed the action. I missed the ale. So I end up walking around with not much to do. How ridiculous...

I stop for a moment to look at the water. I dip my fingers into the freezing cold water... and hear a voice. Someone shouting, calling for a Cimmerian woman, from the other side of the river. Me? There is no one else around. She says she is looking for Nashara. Why would someone be looking for me? This is not right. She mentions something about the prophet - Imoteph - just as I hear footsteps and horse hooves moving closer behind my back.
'Damn it! Not now...' I turn around, just to see the bastard prophet himself with a whole army of his snake-loving followers.

I reach for my sword immediately, but... I know this is bad. I am in no condition to fight this many of them. Not now. I would normally make a dash straight at the bastard, but... I take a more defensive approach this time. I have to be careful... I cannot afford to waste any strength.

I look around myself, only slightly moving my head, at all the bastards around me as he... they, tell me to drop my weapon. As if I would, ever. But I feel so weak. This weapon is not the best one in my current state. I am down on the ground before I even know it... not even getting a good chance to strike and my sword slips out of my hands. How pathetic I have become! I get back up on my feet, but the sword... The man behind me grabs my arms and ties them behind my back. His grip too strong... No. It is just me being far too weak. Then again, even if I free my hands, then what? I was unable to do anything with my weapon... But it is too late now. He pushes me forward and I find myself face to face with the so called prophet himself. He speaks of his crap, Set and what gift that filthy snake has given them. 'Well this is my gift!' I tell him and spit at him. He does not seem too bothered... and he wants me to bow. To Set. Hmph! I bow to no one! Much less a filthy Stygian or his stupid god! After enough refusals they take the wolf jaw from my head and drag me towards the river. The one who tied my hands grabs the back of my head and pushes it down beneath the surface of the water. I try to raise myself, but it feels too heavy. The hold loosens after a while and I barely manage to get up to draw some quick breaths before I am find myself held underwater again. I feel fists land on my back and at my sides. They make me groan and cough precious air. They will not make me bow... I will never bow!

The water is cold... very cold. But they will be freezing long before I do. He pulls me out of the water again. Imoteph, standing in front of me, just beside the water. The Stygian beside me tells me to just give it up. Bow. It would be easier. Quicker. Hah! Since when did I choose the easy way? I was raised the hard way and lived that way each day of my life! I grin at him and kick him in the leg... which is followed by a flurry of hard hitting punches on my face in a matter of moments. My face feels somewhat numb... They drag me back out of the river. That bastard, Imoteph... he puts a hand on my cheek... touching my face! Mocking me! Mocked... by a Stygian! I move my head away, refusing to bow, insulting him and his people again. He takes his mace and swings it straight at my face, breaking my nose on impact. Blood rushes down from my nose, over my lips and down to my chin. Aye, my nose broke... but his arm is not strong. He is not a warrior. I have felt worse. I keep grinning and staring into his eyes with blood covering my mouth. But then... he whispers to me that he knows. He knows about my child. He was 'promised a gift of two' he says. My grin fades, my eyes widen. Is it... fear? No... I'm sorry. Sorry. I will not bow to that snake. I will be dead before I bow! I will be killed anyway. And if not, I would not be able to live with myself. Father would despise me even more. Nasher's death would be wasted. And my child... would be tainted by my act. We shall die. As warriors. Not cowards. Staring into the eyes of death, as I have done many times before. I shake my head to clear these thoughts and spit at Imoteph, a mixture of spit and blood from my lips.

He seems annoyed... He calls for Samun. I remember him... He looks strong. He is strong. But I am used to pain... He slams my body down rapidly, with my hands still tied behind my back I land chest and face first, bouncing off the ground slightly. I try to raise myself off the ground, but a foot on the back of my neck presses my face down into the dirt which sticks to the blood on my lips. He says he will give each one of them a turn to strike me with fists, daggers or blunts, in order to not kill me. I raise my head slightly as the armored man steps off my neck, just to have someone else's foot stomp on the back of my head, crushing my face onto the ground. I let out a loud groan as I feel my skull cracking slightly under his weight. I feel something blunt hit the back of my head. My vision fades for a brief moment. I feel my body getting somewhat numb. I hear someone speaking of an intermission from the pain. I grin again and chuckle. Pain? Intermission? Father has given me more pain when I was not even used to it, without giving me time to catch my breath. Imoteph sounds annoyed as he shouts 'Samun punish her!'. I feel a strong grip on my left ankle, holding my leg straightened up. A kick lands at the side of my knee, making it snap like a piece of dried wood. My mind spins, my head tilts backwards, up from the ground. The grip loosens and my leg drops back on the ground. My knee feels as if it was burning, I grin wildly, staring around with burning eyes. A lot of things happen, but I feel like in a daze. My body getting numb, my vision getting blurry, I struggle to remain conscious, but I will never beg for mercy, never bow. I feel punches on my head and all over my body, kicks against my ribs. Hear voices in my head, seeing strange visions... nightmares... I try to shake it all of, out of my head, make them shut up. I have seen many things, I have lived through nightmares. I will not break from something like this.

Some of them keep hitting me, as Imoteph discusses something about crucifiction, or seeing how long I can last under their blows.
'At this rate I will die of old age' I let out some sort of crazed laughter.

Samun grabs me and carries me to the tree nearby, putting me down to stand with my broken knee. I sway around, struggling to keep my balance on my good leg, groaning as I support myself with the crippled one. It takes only a few moments before my weakened and beaten body loses the strength to stand and I drop down on the ground. Imoteph is shouting something. I am having a hard time understanding what is going on. I suddenly feel my back slam against the tree. I feel a nail piercing my arm. I hear the hammer beating onto the nail. My vision blurred, the sounds all confused and mixing. My muffled scream mixes in with all the sounds as the nails pierce my limbs, yet I try not to show any pain.

I look at my hands, nailed onto the tree. My eyes, filled with rage. I stare right in front of myself. I struggle, trying to pull my nailed arms off the tree, groaning and roaring loudly, like an enraged wild beast. Too furious to understand words and be aware of my surrounding. My mind lost in rage and madness, the pain somewhat subsiding. I stare into the eyes of the man who stands in front of me, grinning in a frenzy. My eyes staring in furious rage when something sharp suddenly pierces through one of my eyes and moments later through the other. My blurred vision turns into complete darkness. The warm blood flows down my cold cheeks. It feel so slow as the blade sinks deep into my throat. Blood gushes out, I feel it pouring down my chest. I try to breathe, unable to draw air, only blood fills my lungs, making me cough with gargling sounds coming out of my open throat. I still struggle to free myself, refusing to give up. Refusing to die. My movements getting slower and weaker, my mind drifting away, my hearing fading from a confusion of all sounds, turning into silence, my body completely numb. My head falls forward, hanging low as I lose any bit of strength to move... I feel... weak... cold... I..."

Story written by Nashara based on a series of RP events between Set Mosis and Clan Fearghal
In memory of the richest, most respected and deepest character on Corinthia. All raise you glasses and toast the memory of 'Wolf Girl'

Alone in Stygia - Rather hunt than be hunted

Alone in Stygia - Rather Hunt than be Hunted


The northerner had been foolish. Attacking him alone, outnumbered when he was surrounded by his guards and people. He felt respect for the barbarian’s brave attempt to end his life.

He had been outside Caravanserai when the attack came. He had been there, in Kopshef, to evaluate the rebuilding in the province. Surrounded by his closest men, his most dedicated servants and followers, he had been attacked. He was angry and furious. How could they have let him get so close? Why hadn´t this Cimmerian dog been spotted and killed? Instead he had been wounded by the Cimmerian and found himself having a rather deep cut in his right side. Sinteph had been worried but he hadn´t let her attend to the wound. Instead he let it bleed.

The Cimmerian had been unconscious when he was dragged into the Caravanserai plaza. Commoners gathered around, eager to look at this spectacle, eager to see his rage and justice. This Cimmerian was to be slowly tortured for his insult. But this wasn’t the whole reason for the coming torture. This was personal. He ordered his men to tie the northerner after stripping him. The northerner was first beaten by blunts to soften him up a bit. The barbarian didn’t scream, instead he sounded like a wild animal fighting some other wild animal.

- You have been brought here to stand trial. You are accused of touching a stygian girl, of touching a priests daughter and also…to have raped this child of a Set priest. How do you plead to this northerner? Imotephs eyes looked at the barbarian lying before his feet. He was quiet and didn’t answer but instead gazed into Imotephs eyes seemingly full of hatred.

- Again! Imoteph made a sign for his men to continue. Bazuth and Samun smiled and once again started to cover the barbarian with blows. Imoteph could hear the sound when the heavy weapons landed upon the human muscles and meat. He still didn’t scream. Imoteph was getting irritated. He decided for other methods. He looked at Ozric, the archer to his left, gestured for him to step forward and closer.

- Bring me a few hammers, some thick heavy nails and lots of boiling water. Imoteph smiled at the barbarian, the priestess Sinteph laughed and so did his men. However, the barbarian didn’t. He showed no expression at all. Perhaps he understood what was about to happen? Perhaps he was in shock, scared of his coming death? It was hard to know for sure since he now was covered in his own blood. Ozric disappeared quickly, making his way through the crowd.

- How do you plea to these accusations infidel? Imoteph asked once more. The northerner smiled, his face bloody, his lips in pieces and missing a tooth here and there. – I…. will soon …..meet…. Crom… my god! I will…. Soon.. sit.. by… his side ….and drink mead…. together… with…. Crom. The northerner spoke slowly, breathing heavily.

- Khnom! Make this northerner bleed for me, let your daggers dance on his skin! Give him the dance of Adjera. Imoteph gestured to Khnom, one of his assassins. A good man and a strong believer, a holy warrior and by such – a Djeret. Surely this would bring pain upon the northerner, surely this would make him cry of pain as a little puppy. Khnom draw his blades and started to cutting and stabbing the Cimmerian. Not lethal but very painful. No screaming, no begging. Instead grunts like those from some wild animal. Then suddenly, silence. Imoteph looked down at the barbarian, the Cimmerian from the Fearghal clan. What a mess this was, what a waste of time. Ozric appeared again with some other men. They were carrying tools it seemed and a big bowl between them. They put the bowl down on the ground and laid the hammers and big nails down before Imotephs feet. Imoteph smiled slowly and nodded to Ozric and the other men.

- Wake him up! Imoteph nodded at Samun and Bazuth again. Both kicked the barbarian hard as to wake him up which he did. The barbarian seemed disoriented and confused for a second.

- I have judged you, Set has judged you. You have been found guilty for your crimes against Stygia and the Stygians. You have been found guilty for your crimes against my family and therefore against Set. This is a serious crime and therefore there can be only one sentence for this. Imoteph looked out on the crowd and his followers, his people. With a high voice he started to speak. He could feel the pain from his cut now. He could feel the pain from it. He forced himself to put the pain aside, to hide it deep within. Not showing this sign of weakness.

- I sentence you to death northerner by crucifixion upon the tree of Woe. Imoteph smiled and gestured at the hammers and nails lying before his feet. He continued; - And for your crimes you shall be tortured before being crucified. Hear me all! This is what awaits criminals and enemies of Set! All see this and let this be a lesson for you all! This is the will of me Imoteph! This is the will of Set! He looked down at the barbarian now. He smiled kindly towards him. Do you understand this infidel? Do you have any last words? Any last words at all?

- What….you…say…is…all…lies. I haven’t…done…what…you…say…she…wanted…this. The barbarian smiled slowly and spitted out some blood. He coughed and stared at Imoteph.

Imoteph smiled. He gestured towards the boiling water. – This man is thirsty; give him some water to drink. Please give our guest some water. Samun nodded and walked towards the bowl with hot boiling water. Imoteph turned around and closed his eyes. The priestess Sinteph was standing close to him, she spoke quietly to Imoteph: - This man deserves to die. He mocks us by not screaming and not begging for his life. Shall I kill him now prophet? She asked in her soft beautiful voice. – No priestess. Not yet. Let him suffer some more. He could hear how Samun poured the boiling water over the barbarians face and torso; he could in his heart almost feel the pain from it. He didn’t hear the barbarian scream but instead he grunted, moaning heavily. The Cimmerian became silent again, quiet. Imoteph wasn´t pleased at all. Where was the begging? Where was the crying? He had promised himself to break this man completely. To have him crawl like a crazy dog from all his pain and to beg him to end his life quickly. The Fearghal spirit was stronger than he thought. He slowly nodded to himself thinking what to do next.

- Prophet? What shall we do now? The uiui is unconscious, Sinteph suddenly said. – May I kill him now prophet? End his life now? She spoke with a gentle, almost lovingly and kind, voice. Imoteph closed his eyes and was silent for a moment.

- No you may not priestess, this man is mine. His life belongs to me, Imoteph said while thinking. He decided what to do and opened his eyes and found himself looking at a fat peasant staring at the spectacle with an open mouth, looking like a fool. He gave the fat peasant a piercing stare with his green reptilian eyes as in threatening him to be next. The peasant looked down, still with his mouth open.

They stood there waiting some minutes. Imoteph told the villagers of Caravanserai to bring him and his followers wine and food. The villagers did as they was told fearing Imotephs wrath. They slowly ate while looking at the piece of bloody meat who once had been a proud and strong Cimmerian. Imoteph was standing before the barbarian having a goblet of wine in his right hand. He gestured to Samun and Bazuth again as for them to continue.

- Wake him up again! Imoteph said in a loud voice, giving his followers an order. – Wake up infidel! Wake up! The prophet wishes to speak to you! Bazuth kicked the northerner hard again and there was a sound of ribs breaking. With the help of others they pulled the Cimmerian up on his knees and the Cimmerian slowly opened his eyes once more.
Imoteph looked into the Cimmerians eyes. There was still fire within them, hate and life.

- More water! Give him more water! Imoteph said in a kind voice. Samun once again let the boiling water cover the barbarian. Before he passed out he smiled and looked into Imotephs eyes. What was this? What kind of a man was this? This wasn’t the first time Imoteph had tortured a man and it wouldn’t be the last. People used to cry and beg. People used to beg him to be kind and let them meet Set or whatever god the worshipped. Not this one. Very well Imoteph thought. He can´t die yet. He mustn’t.

Imoteph ordered his followers to take the northerner with them. The crowd at the caravanserai plaza looked after them when they left by horse. A couple of hours later they stood before the tree of Woe. It was a beautiful mighty dead tree. Bazuth and Samun started to crucify the Cimmerian. He was unconscious most of the ritual, awakening from time to time just to pass out from the pain. Imoteph smiled and remembered the last crucifixion here. It had been an Aquilonian, spreading the words of Mitra. It had been a young man, a young foolish priest. What was his name again? Jomath was it? Yes. The man had cried and tried to beg to Mitra for rescuing him. Mitra hadn´t helped him. Mitra never did. Mitra was a weak god. Imoteph smiled. Jomath had died there and Imoteph had watched him doing so. Perhaps Jomath was with Mitra now? Perhaps he had done the young priest a favor? Spreading another god’s name in Stygia was forbidden and punished by death. User-maat-Set, great is the justice of Set Imoteph quietly said while nodding.

- Prophet! Your will has been done! Bazuth was standing beside the crucified man together with the giant man from Punt. Both smiled proudly. Imoteph stepped down from his horse and slowly walked up to the Cimmerian nailed to the giant tree. The infidel had been placed in the praise Set position. His both arms over his head in the respectful position you greet Set priests and priestesses as well as all shrines and idols of the old serpent.

- Look at me northerner! Look…at..me, Imoteph said in a demanding voice. Samun took a step up on the tree and grabbed the Cimmerians hair pulling his head up. It was hard to actually see if the barbarian’s eyes was closed or open, they were so swollen.

- I did this to you! I, Imoteph! You deserve nothing less for what you did! Your kind does not deserve anything less! This is my justice, this is my rage. My revenge! He spit on the northerner and then smiled. – Come, we now go to Khemi loved ones, Imoteph said. He made a sign to Khnom and Bazuth to come close. – Go to the shadows and wait, do not attack anything or anybody. Instead wait until the infidel is dead. Do you understand this? Imoteph said while looking into their eyes. Both nodded. Arriving in Bubshur all he could think of was the harmony he felt deep within and the repeating echo in his mind. User-maat-Set.

Story written by Imoteph, Set Mosis

Based on an actual In-game event

The Blood Stained Sand of Caravanserai and The Secret of the Scribe

The Blood Stained Sand of Caravanserai and The Secret of the Scribe


The hour is late as Mordred moved slowly through a hall still crowded with various scholars, diplomats and others seeking an audience with the king. The dusky evening sun slowly retreats, casting long drowsy shadows across the cold stone floor of the Kings forum. The buzz of discussions and arguments continues as Mordred passed unnoticed to the center circle of the hall, struggling under the bulk of various sized scrolls and business reports from the past few days activity.

It is hard to distinguish Mordred's age: His appearance seems older than the manner in which he carries himself. The skin on his face is pale, with pronounced shadows lying beneath two vivid blue eyes. His hair all but gone. A sharp angled nose was skewed to one side, surely the result of a fight or some accident during his youth. Yet for his age, the Kings Scribe seems to carry his fragile frame with a degree of pride, suggesting he was once as fit as any of the young council scattered around the room before him. He has the air of a once successful gladiator in decades past, still managing to command the respect of his younger peers. Perhaps it was due to the nature of the scribes work as a constant captive of Kings court, the bureaucracy and politics slowly leaching the life from the Kings aide, for Mordred had certainly seen better days.

Mordred slowed as he entered the center of the large cavernous hall with its tall center pillars arcing into the expanding roof. His powerful blue eyes quickly scanned the room for someone he expected to see. His eyes darted between the colorful, excitable crowds, an agitated expression forming across his brow yet all the people in the kings lobby seem to blend into the same voice there petty pleas, arguments were indistinguishable from the next. It was then he heard the words only once whispered before into his ear, sending a chill though his elderly body. He had hoped that he would never hear this words uttered again despite obviously or fearfully expecting the culprit to make an appearance this night.

'Ardo ab chao... I trust you have not had to wait long my diplomatic friend...' The stranger whispers.

Mordred choose to ignore the individuals comment and reflected that it would be unwise to make a sudden movement to draw attention to the conversation. Instead he whispers almost inaudible in reply.

'How dare you have the audacity to turn up here Luca... if that is even your name! I could not believe you would dare show me your face here of all places! If any of these people were to find out....'

'Scribe watch your tongue, your purse is ladened with twice its weight for what we do and do not presume there are not friends among this crowd who answer the same higher purpose. Besides the way your beady eyes were scanning this floor I assumed your intrigue had finally overcome you. But do not worry you will not see my face today' declared Luca in a short punctuated whisper.

'I take it you are hear on other business? Or are you here to make sure I deliver this message? What else do you want me to do?' exclaims Mordred with a bead of sweat running down the side of his head.

'Nothing more than than to make sure the king gets this message. I could not overlook this opportunity to look in on a trusted friend Mordred. Do not worry we expect him to do little but certain economic certainty's will be favorable to our friends.' Whispered Luca, the last words fading into the hum of the crowed hall.


Mordred felt the rush of wind from the traveler as his cloak brushed the back of Mordred's head. The scribe could not help but slowly turn his head ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of Luca as he left the hall. From the corner of his eye he spotted the long black cloak move steadily through the crowd unnoticed by all. The scribe let out an audible sigh of relief and wiped the sweat from his brow. A quick glance around the room suggested no one had noticed the quick shadowy conversation yet Mordred eyes clearly betrayed a sense of guilt as his paranoia took a strangle hold. Composing himself he hurriedly made for the Kings Throne Room to make his daily report.


Mordred entered the throne room and found the king's concentration over a stained map of Hyboria. The servants bowed politely to the scribe as he slowly makes his way down the length of the hall to address the king. Despite the Kings furious reputation and physical presence Mordred found his usual composure and addressed the King with his usual business like tone. Where the most hardened warriors would dare not look the King in the eye for fear of all manner of gruesome ends. Mordred had always found a careful and respectful way of performing his duty to the King. For it was by no means unusual for him to bare the kingdoms worse news or reports to the Kings ears. He had seen the Barbarian King kill individuals instantly with his bare hands in the very spot he now stood. He had seen Black Dragon guards plummet to into the Slum districts below the citadel as they were thrown from the very window he now glanced out off. Yet unlike his discreet meeting with Luca only an hour before he felt no unease. This was his job after all...

He had left the news he was instructed to deliver by Luca to last maybe out of fear but he showed no signs of discomfort in the kings presence. This surely the reason he was recruited by the mysterious Luca. The scribes ability to act the part unequaled and he managed to convince himself that such a pieces of news were in the interest of the King to hear. He never questioned the kind of gain Luca or who he answered to would get from the the Kings intervention and nor did he want to know. At least the way Mordred had always calculated, knowledge was like a game of dice. Too much could get you noticed for all the wrongs reasons. Besides the King himself knew well enough to surround himself with trusted men and Mordred had forever been that man and he was forever careful to simply deliver news unbiased and for his master to interpret how he wished.

'Sire, there is one last piece of news I'm sure you would like to hear. You may be away that activity in the southern lands of Stygia have been awash with rumors of a growing power, a dark cloud sweeping through the lands of Khopshef. There are rumors of a trail and execution in the trading town of Caravanserai My lord. While this is not uncommon in these parts, eye witnessed place the victim of Northern appearance. I was told that the warrior wore this around his arm.'

Mordred handed the King a thin piece of rough cloth died blood red. The King said nothing but turned away from the scribe motioning to the northern segment of the map on the table before them.

'Yes, I have seen other less desirable people wear that ribbon in these parts yet I understood the Clan that answers to the name of Fearghal had abandoned its hostilities in the southern states. There last foray into those parts cost them dearly if I'm not mistaken.' sneered the Scribe in a sarcastic tone. He quickly changed tact noticing the Kings unease at the mention of yet another unsuccessful champaign into his enemies hostile lands.

'I believe the news has not yet reached the ears Athair Tyrnan my lord. He would be concerned if this execution involved one of his number I wager. A rouge trader who witnessed the trail told of the growing power the one who calls himself the Prophet and his menace and cruelty to those that stand against him. Whatever the reasons this so called god had for committing the murder of the Cimmerian I believe does not concern my Lord... However we know very little of this prophet and his intentions in the lands of our enemies. We do know his influence in in the key trading towns such as Khemi and Caravanserai increases. I believe we can safely assume is that the market of southern states of Shem and Stygia shall see more blood in the near future...'

'What of the Cimmerian My Lord? Well as far as we know he was taken out to a tree his final breathe to be slowly drawn by the baking desert sands if he indeed survived the torture bestowed upon him by the cur that calls himself a prophet... There was another who witnessed the act my Lord though her appearance does not mean anything to me... The trader mentioned a woman scarred with many wounds on the unclothed parts of her body and her face... Apparently she stood and witnessed the torture without a trace of glee expressed by the surrounding locals... However she disappeared shortly after the trail concluded. Who she was or where she went I do not know...'

Story written by Caspian, Clan Fearghal

Based on In-game events. Read Imotpeh's account

to find out what happened during this event.