The Story behind Xolan Zol'lek, Animus of Bloodstone

[Xolan]

Smoke from the fire he conjured drifted upward into the trees. The light it created played patterns on the bottoms of leaves, and the tree trunks cast shadows far into the night. Xolan felt a tear slide down his face leaving a trail of clean skin beneath the layers of grime. A bath would be nice. It’d probably been 3 weeks since his last one. It had been three weeks since he’d even seen a person. Three weeks since so many things had happened. Xolan could smell the smoke that burned his eyes and added to the tears dripping down his face. The smoke smelled like poison. He hated smoke. The putrid smell it gave off brought back memories he wanted to forget. Memories that would tear his soul to pieces if he let them. Is it even possible to forget the one night that blackened your heart forever? Never.
Three weeks ago Xolan Zol’lek had been an obedient apprentice mage. His life consisted of scribing spells into books, proofreading them and mastering his art. The hardest thing he had ever tried to do so far in his life was to master the art of conjuring elementals. He slept in a dirty, cold, but cozy, small room waiting for his master to return, in the orphanage of Bloodstone. The orphanage seemed to have a fondness for students of the black arts and offered him shelter once again while his master was away. Xolan was in very good spirits, surrounded by friends he has made over the years of visiting the orphanage, and learning that his father was also due for a visit. He loved his father very much. Massak Zol’lek was the sole reason he wanted to pursue the art of black magic. It had been a long time since they have been reunited, too long.
One of Xolan’s older friends, a traveling merchant who often brought him trinkets from his travels, was about to embark on a trip back to Waterdeep. He asked Xolan if he wanted to camp with him on his last night in town and kill some time before his father arrived. Xolan agreed, happy for someone to talk to while waiting for him, and cherished the thought of surprising his father before he opened that squeaky gate to the orphanage. As Xolan waited anxiously for his father it grew late and he fell asleep listening to the merchant’s soft snore.
While the moon was high, Xolan woke to the sound of a scream ripping through the peace of the night. Sounds of steal ringing on steel echoed through the city. Xolan grabbed at his dagger tucked in his belt. He looked over to his friend, and the merchant was gone. That’s when Xolan smelled the smoke. The sick smoke. No different than any smoke he’d ever smelled before but this smoke came from the building behind them. The Orphanage house was burning and so was much of the street below it. A band of screaming children dashed out the door of the house. Xolan jumped over the gate and rushed for the orphanage door, knowing his spell books were in danger, and tripped over something. He realized after a few moments what he tripped over. A body. Glancing with fear he recognized the corpse. The merchant, who was unmistakably dead, was bleeding from the neck. Xolan gritted his teeth and dashed wildly into the building. He abruptly halted his run. The main foyer was large enough to hold 200 men, women or children. Now it was filled with bodies. Fifty or sixty corpses of women and children, mangled and bleeding were piled in the center. The floor was dark with blood that flowed out of gaping wounds. Several of the children around Xolan vomited. His hands started to shake.
He felt the blood rise into his head pulsing with his swiftly beating heart. Xolan and a few of the remaining brave children quickly started to search for salvageable weapons. The door at the other end of the room burst open suddenly and armored men began dumping bodies onto the floor, this time not just children and women, but men. This room wasn’t just the sight of a massacre; it was a morbid dumping ground for bodies. The dead and wounded were obviously going to be burned, and no survivors were intended. Xolan instinctively flew across the room to defend the children. Xolan lost his grip on his dagger as he punched into an armored man’s chest before the stranger had dropped the dead woman he was carrying. As Xolan picked up his dagger, two small children followed suit and joined his assault, hacking away at one of the strange men. A few other orphans had one the armored men on the ground while they beat him with his own mace, screaming frantically. Two more armored men fled down the hallway. Crimson blood from the victims they had carried into the room was dripping down their armor. A dozen Bloodstone guards poured into the hall after them, yelling as they ran. Screams of rage echoed in their wake. A few stayed behind to search for survivors in the room but there would be no point.
Xolan tried to follow the Bloodstone guards, but lost them somewhere in the burning hallways. Groups began to split off as they spotted armored men in different places around the yard. They came to the outer gates of the orphanage and stopped in shock. The whole street now blazed in an inferno. Armored men ran all through the streets slaughtering anyone they came close enough to. Small groups of Bloodstone guards sneaked behind buildings and struck at the attackers when the got close enough. It was clear to see that the first group was winning the battle. The city guards were few and far between. Xolan saw one of the men running across the alleyway and ran at him. The man lifted his shield and blocked his dagger thrusts. He swung his club and hit Xolan across the head. He collapsed and felt his knees buckle. He had to stay standing had to keep himself from passing out, from getting himself killed, his head was spinning so badly, he could not remember one spell he had been memorizing. The man lifted his club again and in quick succession beat Xolan to the ground. Darkness slid across his vision and the world went blank.
Light peaked into Xolan’s vision. His head throbbed and ached. He touched the back of his head and it came around bloody. He dropped his head back to the ground. Why was he alive? He wasn’t sure he was. The smoke seeped into his nostrils. Was someone cooking bacon? He vomited. His head hurt so badly his stomach felt ill. After a few minutes memories of the night before flooded back into him. He sat up fast and looked around. Too fast. His head couldn’t take that fast of movement and he almost slid back into unconsciousness. He strained for the strength to lift his eyelids. A pair of men was carrying a woman to a large fire next to a pile of armor. Xolan vomited again when he realized it wasn’t bacon he smelled it was the burning flesh of humans. He couldn’t stop his mouth from watering. The men began to turn and Xolan laid back down and feigned death. Something near him shifted and he held his breath and prayed. An eternity later he felt safe enough to peak an eye open. He looked around himself. He was lying in an area bloody from last night. He looked over at the men carrying another woman over to the fire.
Xolan grabbed a rock, sprang up and cast it straight at the men. It hit the first man on the back of the head and he collapsed, dropping the body. The other quickly turned and drew his sword. The one on the ground slowly crawled onto his hands and knees. Xolan suddenly realized he hadn’t though this out very well. He had no weapon anymore. The crawling man was back to his feet and had his mace tightly in hand. Xolan grabbed another rock and hurled it at him again. The man ducked, but in vain, it managed to hit him in the throat. He went down, lifelessly. Xolan felt a burning inside of him.
"Why aren’t you dead? Never mind, it will only take a moment to fix that problem,” growled the advancing man wielding the sword.
The swordsman swung at Xolan and he narrowly dodged the swing, clutching at the man’s arm. He slammed the man’s elbow with his fist and grabbed the backup sword out of the man’s belt. As the attacker stumbled forward, the liberated sword slid into the man’s gut and hot blood sprayed onto Xolan’s hand. He held the weapon tight. He really had no idea how to use one of these, not being trained yet in swordsmanship. He pulled it out of the man and held it like a club, swinging it like he had when he played stick games as a young child. The man’s head hit the ground before the body could.
The mace man recovered from his stoning and charged Xolan. Without thinking, Xolan chopped the heavy sword at the man, but he easily jumped out of reach and shifted his mace deftly in his hands. The mace crashed onto the sword just above the hilt and shook it from Xolan’s hands. Xolan jumped back and kicked the man in the crotch. When the mace man doubled over Xolan remembered one of his incantations and chanted his spell. A powerful thunder lance slammed into the man’s head. Bone crunched as Xolan casted a second thunder lance through his skull. Xolan watched the blood soak into the earth, and smiled. It actually felt good. Xolan then recited the fireball spell at the corpse and cackled as he passed out again from the pain in his head and exertion of his body while killing.
When Xolan awoke again the sun was high in the sky. It must have been 2 hours since he had passed out. He rolled over to try to rise. His hand touched someone and he winced. Xolan forced himself to look and see whom it was. Zolia, the orphanages adoption clerk, lay there with her bodice ripped open and dry blood matting her hair to her head. Xolan tried not to think of how many times the men must have raped her and how she must have pleaded for death and the fear in her eyes when it finally came. A look of horror still marred her once lovely face. She didn’t deserve this; she had always been kind to everyone. She had always had a smile for a child in need. Aslann Elotash was lying only a few feet away. He was another apprentice staying in the orphanage. Xolan had spent many nights playing cards with him. A holiday in the town with Aslann was always exciting, and always filled with gambling and stolen ale and if you were lucky he could summon a playful mephit.
Xolan didn’t want to see any more friends or acquaintances lying dead but he had to find someone. Many of the women had torn dresses or few clothes at all. Xolan’s heart beat with fury and anger gripped his heart. He made himself keep looking and began covering the women that he saw as best as he could with their cloaks or the extra scraps lying about. It was grim work moving the bodies but Xolan drove himself on with respect for the women. While he was stripping the coat off of a boy to cover a maid, he saw the man’s small beard. His search was over.
The man lying there in a greenish overcoat and black fiery pants was Massak. His head had been bashed in and his face was barely recognizable but Xolan knew his father’s beard anywhere, just on his chin and not on his lip or cheeks. Massak always claimed his wife’s grandfather had been a westerner and had a beard like that. Xolan had never met a westerner so it might have been true. His search was over. Massak, his father was dead. Xolan wished he hadn’t found him. Hours more searching in vain would be worth it if there were even a little hope that his father might still live.
“Damn it. Why did he chose to visit me yesterday of all days!” Xolan thought as he clutched his fist in anger.
Xolan returned to where he had killed the two men and searched the bodies. He had to find out who they were. Why his father and friends were killed. What kind of men could overtake his own father? As he was lifting the chain mail of one of the soldiers he noticed the crest on the man’s belt. Lord Piergeiron’s personal guards.
“Waterdeep…” he whispered with hatred.
There is only one thing for Xolan to do now. Study. Grow. Master. Search. Avenge. Conquer. With a long sigh he turned to the forest a few yards away and began walking. After a few minutes Xolan came across a horse chewing on a few tufts of grass that grew here at the edge of the forest. It was already saddled. Why was a horse here? Xolan assumed that the corpse leaning against the tree with an arrow through it just wanted a few minutes of rest before it died. Xolan had no desire to see who it was or what gender. He climbed up on the horse and rode away, seething. No more would he respect Lord Piergeiron, no longer would he consider standing by while innocents were murdered. Xolan is becoming something he never would have imagined. A hero. An animus of circumstance, a force seeking revenge for his friends and loved ones he has lost. Nothing will stop him now. He must find his teacher.
“I must master fire. Yes. Fire. That is the key. Flame without smoke can erase the pain. Fire to smite thy enemies. Fire to bring loved ones justice. Fire to protect.” Xolan thought as his tears subsided. This is the beginning of Xolan Zol’lek, Animus of Bloodstone.