Fable of the Crimson Scabbard

By: Krim Posted on: February 15, 2004

There once was a man who dwelled long ago in a sleepy city called Cyrene. In this time, Cyrene was hidden from the world's struggles while it's citizenry tried to forget the outside even existed. So too did this man, however outside he had been a fine warrior of much renown. No matter how much time passed, the fire of combat burned within him. So much blood and tragedy had this man seen that even in peaceful days, he trained even without knowing who he was sought to defeat.

In the groves, near the orchard, there once stood a tree much shorter than the others. It's limbs streched far and its roots deep. This particular tree did not produce any fruit, so was not cared for in the grove. Day in and day out, this man hacked and slashed at this tree. Long did it take for him to break its iron bark, and to reach the course fiber of its flesh underneath. When he first saw it, he first thought it was bleeding, so red the wood. But soon, this only made the practice more enjoyable, more real. Soon, it was as if he where fighting a real opponent again. The workers of the grove soon became accustomed to the sounds of the mans battlecry.

On day, the man was walking near the gate. He was annoyed by the fact the tree was giving way and dieing. His opponent was growing weak, but his need for battle still pounded in his head. He hit a nearby post in frustration. Sweeping his eyes about, he spotted a woman entering the city. She look fatigued by a road long traveled. He first thought her unimportant, but after closer inspection, he saw that she bore a guilds emblem on her blouse. A guild he had fought against. Memories of war flooded back into his well-drilled mind. The blood rushed to his head and he saw the blood of the tree. Storming toward her, he screamed a challenge. She had just enough time to dodge his sword. Before he could strike a second time, arms took hold of him. His fellow citizens where screaming at him to calm down. He declared both his battlecry and damnation of her as his enemy. But as he tried to get to her, she dropped to the ground and wept audibly.

He thought to himself, this is not a grand enemy. This is not the soldiers I fought years ago. This is but a tired woman.

Soon a Senator twisted him around. With a angry glare, the Senator damned the man as a brute, that he should be thrown out, for such a vile and violent man should not dwell in their city. The crowd, outraged at such a rude and cruel welcome, also agreed. Filled with shame at his own actions, the man also agreed. The Senator gave him a day to gather his belongings and leave. But not before making him swear never to tell of Cyrene. To ensure Cyrene's secrecy, the Senator also commanded that he also travel the Vashnars without the use of roads, so to lose his way and not be able to backtrack. So terrible did the man feel that he gladly agreed.

Walking home, with the people looking at him darkly, he thought of the travesty of that had became him. Instead of finding himself in front of his home, he was sitting next to a felled tree. The wood of the tree bled crimson. The tree he had long chopped at had at last fallen. Though the life of the woman had been spared, the tree had not been so lucky. Holding back his own tears of regret, he pulled his sword out one last time. Late into the night, he swung his sword and not once did he return home.

Before the sun rose over the city, and even before the Senators came to escort him out, he stood before a saphir lake and threw his swords into their depths. On the grass before him, he left a single scabbard. The scabbard was the color of crimson and was of solid wood. Etched into its side where many runes deeply and carefully carved. At its top, a single blood tear seemed to drip from its absent sword hilt. He began to walk north and entered the Vashnars.

He meet his death at the sumit of one of those mountains, by the cold they offered. Near the end, he repeated the words he had etched on the scabbard over and over. These are the last words of this man, "Blood's sorrow is born from a blade's anger and eagerness."