Legends of Belariath


Race: Dark Elves/ Moriels Character Name: Syndel Voidwalker, the Damned *** ***

The Tale Of The Four Unfortunates Itself

There was something to be said about being completely outside of the law. That was whenever you had someone come looking for you, you had a general idea what for. When it came to Syndel Voidwalker, that was normally someone who had come to claim the bounty on him. What it was depended on the city that he had travelled through last. This time around, he had spent some time on the surface world of Belariath. He (according to his own mind) had not even done all that much. He had passed through a town and in fact not slain a single person, nor raped anyone. He just had issue with temples to the gods. To any gods when he was forced to admit to it. So he had did a little physical redecoration to make the small shrine to Gaea look somewhat more appropriate in his eyes. For some reason, he suspected the townspeople didn't like the new "design" that he gave it. (To shed a little more light into the darkness that was Syndel's mind, the poisonous personality of the elf came up with a rather disgusting and horrific new way to use old materials. He had managed to smear the altar and the offerings with manure and intestines. Next, using inks and ointments, oils and stains, the lone defiler painted images of savagery and debauchery all across the walls. Finally, the devious bastard turned the temple into nothing short of a conflagration, while hurling in the remains of the animals he had used in various amounts. He had felt somewhat inspired by the serenity of the place. After all, Syndel was nothing if not an emotional sort of elven virtuoso of visceral vices.) When it came to their gods, the elf knew small towns took them just as seriously as the large cities did. Probably due to the fact they normally gave thanks and praise to just one or two, rather than the multitudes of deities and spirits the larger groups of cattle and fish would mill around. Herd animals, most of these townsfolk. Always gathering around each other in times of strain, instead of standing on their own two feet. Weak and amusing, believed the half-breed. Of course, the few that ever did try to "be a man" and fend for themselves made for such interesting ends-of-ten-days.

No less then four city guards had stalked him to the outskirts of the town. The blaze itself was rising high in the evening sky, lighting the path toward him. It was not as if the evil minded half-breed had really tried to hide how he was leaving the town. You see, that would be cheating in his eyes against humans. They were such pathetic things. Breeding like rabbits and colonizing like ants. He was certain that was the reason they were the most impressive race in Belariath in terms of their ability to spread wide and far. (Sort of like how spores on raw meat would cover the slab of wasted steak within days. In that respect, killing humans with fire was just like searing off a wound. Syndel liked that line of thinking, and vowed to himself to make a pyre of virtuous priests of Aden'Var some time in the near future.) One day, the half-breed was certain he would find some place somewhere where all they had heard of were humans. Tall ones, short ones, fat ones, skinny ones. A virtual treasure trove of potential victims and target practice. Ah, such would be a glorious day indeed to go and savour the sensations of suffering. But that was clearly not going to be today. No, today he had these four foolish mortals to deal with. Not that the half-breed was immortal himself, but was he absolutely certain he had raped the grandfathers of all these men at some time or another. When it came down to it, the sinister sylvan stalker was an equal opportunity violator. Deep in his heart, though, Syndel would admit he truly drank in the breaking and shattering of men more than women. Women sort of expected it to happen. Men would fight more, making sundering their back ends with cock and fist so much more satisfying. The blood-gargled shrieks and the hands clawing in midair tickled Syndel's funny bone so much, he found himself howling in laughter whenever he got his hands on a so-called "master of slaves." The half-blooded moriel marauder was joyous whenever he heard one of his former "play-toys" had fallen to insanity, starting the cycle again. Though every so often he'd go back and sacrifice one of his previous victims to his own chaotic and blood-drenched desires - preferably before the allies and friends of said victim.)

Time moves so slow when you are an elf, really. It allows you to look at the longer picture as well as instant gratification. The fun you can have, and the torture you will end up doing for generations - all right at your fingertips.

The guards were well armed for commoners. A little too well armed for the taste of the cagey defiler. After all, he didn't have a mithril cutlass. And the pointy-ears bastard was absolutely certain he had never seen an axe that big before, especially with a second set of blades on the bottom end. Clearly it had to have been an ogre's weapon before. No matter, really. As in a few hours, everything would be back to normal in his world again. In order to make things right, of course, one had to be willing and able to take action. And that was something Syndel was more than ready to do. In his mind, any time he desecrated a "house of holiness," he completely expected (if not anticipated eagerly) to kill at least two people. That was just the way the math worked. If he did not slay people on a semi-regular basis, then they would undoubtedly breed and overrun his favoured hunting grounds. And that was something that as a responsible sociopath he could not allow. He was merely helping the cycle of life and death along in his own completely erratic and blood-soaked way.

If there was anything about militia that Syndel had learned, is that they were predictably unpredictable. Even then, there were regular patterns he could follow in order to either draw out a battle or bring it to a close. There were times he was clearly outclassed and outnumbered, but this was not one of those days. Here, the twisted elven bringer of torment could have fun with his opponents. Hamstringing, arm twisting, leg breaking, ear rending, tongue piercing, and eye gouging were all on the menu this day. And with four of them here, he thought he might even use the limbs of one to sodomize the puckered sphincter of another. That would be for later, however, after he had thoroughly softened them up and amused them. Mouth watering now, Syndel rose from his feet and posed almost merrily before the quartet. Clearly, the smallest of the four humans was in charge, and he did not have any weapons upon his person that the well-seasoned murderer would readily identify. This was a little different, and maybe somewhat resembling a challenge after all. The half-breed elf - who preferred to be called a "purebred artisan of sadism" - could feel faint auras of sorcery from all four of the men. Clearly, they had come prepared for one such as he. Or so they had hoped, for Syndel's arrogance stemmed from the numbers of men and women who had suffered and died by his hands. By no means in the same category as a warlord, or so he'd often think to himself. This was promising to be a good day if there was a chance that he could get injured or even perish. After all, there had to be some risk to his hunting if it was going to be worth the time to hunt down prey to begin with. Unlike so many would-be predators, the one also known as "Walker-Within-Maddening-Nothingness" loved the idea of something actually having a chance against him, but not if he had to handicap himself to the point where all he was doing was glaring at what he wanted to harm and harry.

Spreading out in a typical diamond pattern, the men slowly surrounded the half-breed. One could really call Syndel "the best and the worst" that could be found in the two races: sylvan elf and moriel. Wiry and swift like his sylvan ancestors, he had clearly inherited the morality of the dark elves: if it makes another cry in horror, then it makes you weep with joy. The largest man with the double axe was going to be last, the smallest one without any weapons second to last. That left the man with the mithril blade on Syndel's left, and the rather strange looking human of swarthy complexion behind him. The decision on whom to start with was made for Syndel as the piece of rotting meat that dared call itself a sentient and sapient member of society drew twin hand axes and chanted something. Anyone that started speaking tongues in the middle of a fight was a priority in Syndel's mind, and as such they needed to be made an example of. How dare they attempt to ruin a good fight to the death with magical means? Blasphemy, in the heart and soul of the slayer at least. Pivoting and stepping with a terrifying purpose, Syndel made his way to the shaman.

That was a mistake.

The man with the double-sided and double edged battle axe was a lot faster than he looked. The sweep aimed towards the stomach of Syndel caught the elven emissary of torture unawares. If Syndel had not crossed both his weapons - a slim-forged espadón and a broad-forged baselard. Custom made for two previous opponents of his, the elf found they made an excellent paring. Still, the strike knocked him off his feet and through the air. In that time, he found the shaman's prayer to the spirits had been successful. Three winding serpents of mist and poison were heading towards him, and did Syndel know well that he could not just slash at those to make them go away. Taking out a bracelet once he hit the ground, Syndel scrambled to his feet and wrapped it around his wrist. Knowing the metal had been enchanted against sorceries, Syndel swore under his breath and sheathed his long sword. The espadón would do him no good at this point, for first he needed to start removing his opponents. As the ethereal snakes bit into his arm and wrenched it aside, the cutlass he remembered from the start slid across his throat. Only his flexibility allowed him to bend out of the way, and even then was the first and second tastes of blood to the militia. Clearly, Syndel had woefully underestimated them. This would be the first and last time they would keep their advantage over him, so Syndel uttered under his breath. It was rare that Syndel was not taunting and teasing his foes in the middle or even at the start of such conflict. He knew he heard the one man with the two hand axes chanting again, and that fourth man had left his sight entirely.

It seemed the gods wanted him dead more than normal this day. Obviously he had done something right.

His instincts were what allowed Syndel to dodge and twist out of the way of the next few attacks. As he did not see a single one approach him, his body's intimate relationship with anguish and agony directed his movements. Once did Syndel fail to even attempt striking back, concerning himself with getting back to a defensible position. Finding himself crouching, Syndel lunged away from the swinging axe again. Pulling out two vials of poison, the elf flung them at the shaman. Knowing he was casting something, the effort was mainly a misdirection which paid off. In mid-chant, the shaman flung himself to the ground. This was all the opportunity the wicked elf needed, hurling his baselard dead into the armored chest of the axe swinging pseudo-barbarian of the group. He had no expectation that the shortsword's point would do much to the man. He wanted his hands free to draw the espadón two handed. That, and the enchantment on the other blade would slow the huge man down enough to keep a better eye on him. The one with the cutlass was still working on flanking him, which would be a problem without throwing daggers to puncture the human's face and blind him with his own blood. (It was always a fun thing to fall back on, given how most would raise their hands to their temples and shriek in distressed misery. The recollections alone made him smile.) The bare-handed leader had shown himself again, wearing iron gauntlets that seemed to have brass bands around the fingers and the wrist. The sandals also must have had some sort of spell woven into their leather. That just meant that he wouldn't try to draw out this fight. It would do that completely on its own. After he slew these four, he'd collect as much as he could and find some place that knew nothing of him to sell it all to. (Maybe not the sandals, as they looked as if they'd fit him nicely after he cut the worthless human out from them.)

Breathing heavily, the elf knew the next few moments would be critical. If he could engage the lot of them in some in-fighting, he would stand a chance. That, or if they managed to make a mistake or two that he could capitalize on. The leader came at him from Syndel's blind side, crashing into him with a flurry of fists. The diabolical elf could only block with his shoulders and arms, trying to make sure the man did not catch him in the face. Seeing the cutlass coming for him now, Syndel opened himself up to being hit in the chest. It cost him what felt like four bruised ribs in a matter of seconds, but the elf got a grip on the boxer's right forearm in return. Hurling the militiaman into the sword-swinging would-be corsair, Syndel spit up a lot of blood and took in where the axe wielder was now. As the larger man bore down on his position, Syndel zig-zagged his run before letting the axe come down from on high towards his skull. Deftly pivoting at the last moment, Syndel watched the axe blade move to follow him, shearing down the front of his tunic and shredding it. Thankfully for him, Syndel had moved just far enough out of the way for the axe heads to miss going through his torso or his feet. At the same time, Syndel drove his sword high into the large man, slaying him instantly. The shaman had cried out a warning to the axe using brute, but it was far too late for him. Taking out a dagger from the dying man's leather vest, the elf flung it directly into the shaman's left eye socket, ending that threat completely. (Syndel found three other throwing blades on the former axeman, hurling those as well into the shaman. "Overkill" had no bad definition in his mind when it came to his enemies.)

The remaining militia rushed him at this time, seeking to avenge their companions. This was a wise move, separating Syndel's priorities. One one hand, he knew the cutlass was more than sharp enough to put an end to him. The problem was the stone satchels the leader called his hands had already taken a severe toll on Syndel. So he figured it would be best to try to wear the duo out some. Not one of his better ideas, so the remorseless renegade reasoned as he swiftly found out that he was moving a lot slower than he previously was. Apparently he had suffered far more damage than he had thought. The spirit serpent's bite must have slipped some sort of poison into him. And the longer this battle went on, the more time it would have to work its unsavoury magics. This just wouldn't do. The only person who should be poisoned was that big lunkhead that had a gaping hole through the back of his cranium. No matter, figured the elven nexifer, as either he himself would be dead soon or the two militia members. Finding himself on the receiving end of yet another crushing elbow to the ribcage, Syndel went into a cold rage. Jumping backward at least the length of a full grown man, the elf waited until the cutlass user caught up to him. Though the leader had warned the man to fall back, arrogance bred from similar experiences overtook the other man, clearly seeking to prove himself. This only served to make it a duel for Syndel, and that was something knew he far too much about. Instead of tact and talent, subterfuge and subtlety, Syndel bashed repeatedly at the man's thinner and flatter blade. Far too late, the swordsman realized what Syndel was doing. By the time the man brought out a parrying blade to plunge into the chest of the elf, Syndel had already struck - literally. Bringing his freed hand upwards, Syndel drove the man's nose into his face as far as he could, killing him instantly. Pushing the dying fool off of him, Syndel felt his vision go blurry as three more devestating kicks just about leveled him, sending him careening into a tree. Lost now to him his swords, Syndel needed something and quick. The leader's utterance of the gauntlet's magical activation reminded the elf of one last thing he did possess. The sprinting man came at him with the force of a rampaging buffalo, but Syndel was ready and waiting for him. Flicking forward a dart at the last moment, Syndel rolled into a ball and hoped the concentrated mixture would be enough. Hearing a choking sound, Syndel found himself booted into another tree trunk, passing out for a long while.

It would be at least an hour before Syndel awoke. Battered, at least one of his arms useless, and both legs bruised beyond his fears. No potions on his body, the presence of pure evil coughed up more blood, thinking himself to be dying. At least none of the militia had managed to survive the encounter unscathed, so he figured. Seeing the last man on the ground face first, Syndel slowly slithered on the ground in his direction. Poking the man with a found tree branch, he realized the potions and poisons he had thrown together had done their job: the man was as dead as the rock his head had landed on. While snickering to himself quietly, the elf found a few potions the man. Downing them indescrimiately, he found himself on the agonizing road to recovery moments later. Knowing that he did not have much time to gather what belongings he could, Syndel stripped himself down to nothing and set it all in a pile. From there, he removed the clothes from the man closest to his size, arming himself with just about everything magical he found. (Of course, he used cleansing and scouring rotes and runes upon the garments first. He was not about to catch some horrific disease and rot from the inside out if he could help it.) Using the bags he found on the men, he stowed everything he did not have a place for in them. This took far more time than he had wanted to, but the potions had made him better, not faster. Finally, Syndel left a poem on the temples of each of the men in parchment. Clearly not his best work, but he was in somewhat of a rush. By the time the townspeople found their guards, Syndel was long gone. His only regret was accidentally leaving behind all his coin...

*** ***

The Poems He Left Behind

**Left on the head of the axe-wielder, this was clearly the last one written.** and here do i lay carved up and ashamed nothing more than meat to feed the wolves and vermin was i strong in my life then found myself skewered by a superior foe and ignored like a sermon leave my remains here lest my slayer return with foul creatures of death looking to feast on my bones his power was too much and now am i no more bled out like the sheep i was onto the sharp forest stones

**Left on the right facial cheek of the shaman, clearly having slid down.** do not bother to mourn for my loss as my spirit writhes in offal placed there by darkened hands meant to rot and writhe in agony for when we four arrived and found or foe waiting for us should we known from the very start that desth would be our destiny my body was but a shell to be hollowed and stuffed with straw only good as tender carrion bait to be roasted upon sacrificial pyres all hope should be abandoned as the gods know us only as pawns in their great game of madness which will consume us all for their desires

**The poem on the leader had an axe lodged through it to keep it in place.** could the stars be counted in the sky upon a frozen winter's evening rise would not a single person know the time when the last one would twinkle before dawn wreath of poisonous oak and treacherous vine placed over the heads of kings would show more value than richest gold as their kingdoms crumbled 'til they were gone could the pebbles along the eastern shore be pressed together and become mountain high would not still carrion birds gather coating the stone in the lowly waste and so are we like those winged things worth no more to fate than prey for snakes our purpose to die for another's amusement and should we perish like dogs with all haste

**The first poem found was on the swordsman. Apparently Syndel had done this piece in charcoal.** scratch away the lies and filth see the dust and scarred remains underneath for as my death reaches your nose am I example for all who dare stand firm were we four so brave and just to defend what we believed was ours only to show how foolish we humans are and my remains no longer squirm cry bitter tears and raise fists high plotting revenge for all the fallen as he who wrote my tongue for you has long left and shall fear us never his name did he carve upon my chest but now it is just meat to be chewed can never again our souls be at rest for will our failure follow us forever