Battle Mage Baird of the Wood

The infamous Battle Mage Baird of the Wood did not come from aristocracy, nor the flashy runes of Green Wizard City or a proud lineage of powerful warriors or wizards. He came from simple, harsh, and futile beginnings.

The Gorgon Deathsquad came swiftly and ruthlessly. They were a volcano, exploding from The Nightmare Dominion, laying waste and ruin and death indiscriminately.

Baird was only a child when the Gorgon screamed through his quaint village.

He would quickly forget his mother and father’s face, replaced only by shrieks, blood, the feel of stone on his wrists, and the hissing of snakes.

His formative years were spent in the endless dark of the Dominion. The Gorgons were tough taskmasters.

Everyday he dug, the shovel head biting the dark sludge that the Dominion called soil without end. His calloused hands, stained clothes, and the long, streaky scars on his back a testament to his hard work.

He could never figure out what the Gorgons were looking for. He could smell their desperation, and yet, dig after dig, nothing was ever found. It was a puzzle he couldn’t quite crack.

The rations they provided could scarcely support a babe and tasted of rot and poison. The slaves dropped like flies, always replaced with new blood from fresh raids. They would tell tales of the war, of which towns had been destroyed, pillaged or captured, the people who had been slaughtered or subjugated. How far the snake had slithered. Baird knew little of the Runiverse, so the towns and places were nothing short of pure fantasy.

Eventually Baird’s body failed him, like all the others. He laid there, unable to move, gasping with each breath. The hunger screamed inside him. He answered the call, and with the last ounce of energy, a shockwave came from his body. He blacked out.

He awoke to a crackerjack raven, dark as the Dominion sky, holding a headless rat in its beak. It told him to eat. He obliged without hesitation. If you were to ask Baird, he’d tell you that it was the tastiest meal he had ever eaten in all the Runiverse.

From then on, Orpheus snuck in and fed him. Their bond grew stronger.

Finally, one day, digging deep in the sludge, Baird’s shovel pricked something solid. He dropped the shovel and swiped the sludge away.

A rune. Triangular. Power dripping from its stone slab.

A Gorgon spotted it. It scurried towards him, snakes poised, whip in hand, fangs at the ready. Orpheus called to him.

Incite the Rune, Baird. I know you can do it.

Orpheus came flying in, pecking at eyes and snakes.

Baird incited the rune. He could feel his body empowered, stronger. His mind sharpened. He’d never felt so powerful.

He rushed the Gorgon and took its head off clean with his ol’ trusty.

It was a glimmer of hope for all the slaves. They turned, following Baird into a desperate rebellion.

He incited the rune again and again, etching it deep into his memory. Others became powerful. They were united in their goal: To cut off the snake’s head.

On that day, a small flame of hope burned in the absolute darkness of the Dominion. It has yet to be snuffed.

The Battlemage Baird now continues his quest to end the scourge of the Gorgon. But he is no longer alone.

The liberated slaves remain fiercely by his side.

Orpheus keeps the flame of his soul alight, and his head on his shoulders.

And the eye of the Gorgon Queen accompanies them, ripped personally from the Gorgon Queen on that fateful day. Baird uses it as a strong reminder and as a punishment. For now, the Gorgon queen must helplessly watch the despair and pain she has caused, and the slow unravelling of her Empire built on blood.

Entered by: 0xc1d0…1834