It was past midday when the wanderer passed through Rorik's dead. It could be seen bent and hobbling up the easterly road. He was well known in that small farming village, for he had passed through many times before. The children knew him as a man of many stories, no often looks for his arrival expectingly.
These were simple people. We didn't bother themselves much with the doings of the wider world, for all good it did them. And as such, the children were always wanting for stories of dragons and wizards and great battles. And so the call went up as soon as the wanderer was spotted, and soon he was surrounded by excited children.
He seemed reluctant at first, as if he was on his way somewhere important, some grand errand, and could sacrifice no time to stop and spin tales, but eventually he relented. The road had reared him greatly, and he could use the rest. He sat at the foot of a great tree off the roadways, and slumped and grumbled until he was comfortable. The children sat around him, waiting eagerly to hear his story.
The imperial chronicles of the Empress Hestra tell the tale of a rebel leader who, even when cornered and vastly outnumbered, managed to take down a full legion of strong and capable soldiers before he fell. The Empress Hestra was well known for her campaigns in the reach, where she tried to bring the wild witchmen under the imperial banner. But this is not the beginning of the story. Indeed, this is where the story ends in blood.
The story begins years earlier in the sundered hills, quite nearby as a matter of fact. A baby was born and named Phalaan, which in the Comantang is Red Eagle, for it was said that his birth was heard across the reach by the call of a Red Eagle that was wheeling overhead. The augers looked upon the babes face and saw the face of a warrior without peer, the future lord of the reach, destined to unite all the reachmen under one banner. At the time the people of the reach were a free people.
There were, however, those among them who styled themselves kings. People were scattered and often fought among themselves. But as Phalaan grew, in years and in strength, his banners could be seen raised along the cliffs. His people prospered, and his kingdom expanded.
At the coming of the Empress's legions, the kings of the reach all fell in battle, or worse, bent their knees. Things were looking grim when envoys came to the sundered hills to bargain for surrender. Phalaan refused their offers and spit at their feet, but the elders were frightened. They were frightened for themselves, and frightened for their people.
They saw no hope for victory against such a force, especially when so many had already been slaughtered, or accepted the imperial yoke. And so Phalaan was cast out, and the elders welcomed the imperial envoys into their halls. Phalaan was not heard of or seen for some time. His lands were stolen from him, his people stolen from him.
He wandered the wilderness and passed out of memory. Others told their children bedside stories about the untamed spirit of the Reach, who walked the woods still. But even in all this time Phalaan was not vital. As time went on, the people of the Reach grew weary of imperial rule, and yearned again for freedom.
People whispered about the empire in the den of night, and started to remember what it had been like, to be of the Reach. All of these people, and more, Phalaan accepted back with open arms. And soon, a small army was made. With crude weapons, Phalaan's force fell upon patrols and garrisons in the night, disappearing into the hills and caves, at the coming of the sun.
The untamed spirit of the Reach became a spirit of vengeance, and wrath. Guards were doubled, ramparts were strengthened. Still, more and more imperials were found dead every morning, all across the Reach. And still, more soldiers marched north to fill their place.
If Phalaan wanted to retake the Reach, it would take more than simple nighttime raids and murders. He pondered it one night, under a clouded night sky, as his men warmed themselves over damp moss fires. And it was then, that a cloak to figure appeared, walking through the camp, as if it had come from the darkness itself. Phalaan rose to meet it, but he sensed that something was strange here.
Something that he could not possibly ignore, or chase back into the night from whence it came. The figure approached him, reached up a thin and gnarled finger, and pulled back the cowl. It was a shriveled and bony hag of a woman, with thin hair, a pointed nose, and great talons at the tip of her fingers. She was terrible to behold, and Phalaan struggled to meet her gaze.
She was no stranger to the men and women of the Reach, and though terrible, her appearance was no particular surprise. For she was a hag raven, ancient and venerated among the Reachmen. The two of them spoke long into the night, and a pact was made. She offered him power, unlike any the world had seen, and he gave her his heart, his will, his humanity.
For his people, for the Reach, when the morning came on the next day, has been saw no sign of the hag raven. Though they did say, in years after, that Phalaan's eyes burned cold in the morning like. From then on, he was pitiless, and without remorse. Unnumbered enemies fell before his flaming sword, and in less than two years time, the Imperial forces had all but retreated from the Reach.
But Phalaan the Red Eagle did not rest, for he knew it was but the calm, before the raging storm. Red Eagle's forces had grown in numbers in those days, and had become quite an army. Still, when the Empress's army fell upon them, the Reachmen were greatly outnumbered, and so, rather than sacrifice the people for which he had fought all these years, Red Eagle met the invaders alone, and some say, unclad, naked. Wave after wave of Imperial warriors came, and wave after wave of them fell.
They were bludgeoned, torn, to ribbons. By the time the enemy sounded its retreat, they were great piles of bodies all around, and there, Red Eagle stood alone amid the carnage. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and fell to the earth. He was alive when his people came for him, but would not be for much longer.
They laid him in a tomb deep beneath the rock, and with his final breath he gave to his people his sword, telling them to continue fighting until the Reach was free, and that when the battle was finished, to return the sword to his tomb where it would wait, until Red Eagle would return, and lead his people to glory. By the time the story was done the sun had begin to dip behind the mountains, the voices of their mothers called the children back home for a nice hot meal. They said their farewells to the wanderer and ran home, sure to have grand dreams of honor, of battles, and of ancient heroes. Though the story was told still the wanderer sat beneath the tree, and it was going to be dark soon.
He would have loved to have stayed for a night at the inn and eat a warm meal himself, but instead he picked up his staff, struggled to stand, and continued on down the road.