Tale of a Hedonistic wizard

It was into this world of perpetual dread that Ofken was born, a child of summer whose laughter was too soon silenced by the harsh realities of life on the edge of wilderness.

He was but seven when the beasts took his parents, their screams echoing through the night as young Ofken huddled beneath his bed, hands clasped over his ears, praying to gods he wasn't sure existed.

The years that followed were a blur of grief and hardship. Ofken grew, as children do, but there was a hardness to him now, a steel in his eyes that spoke of wounds too deep to heal. He worked the fields by day, standing guard by night, watching the treeline for glowing eyes and glinting fangs.

There was no help, nor did their voice get through, not loud enough to reach the lords of their region. They were ignored and neglected by the knights as they were mere villagers.

Ofken witnessed the cruelty of humans and beasts alike. In times of their desperate need, there was no one to help them. Being powerless and only left to become food for the wild beasts.

But always, in the back of his mind, a story whispered...

The tale of the sword of Xeborh was an old one, passed down through generations in Beymyre. It spoke of a blade of unimaginable power, capable of granting its wielder the strength to overcome any foe.

They knew it as a tale, spun by the old to the children.

Most dismissed it as a fairy tale, a comforting lie told to children to help them sleep at night. But for Ofken, it became an obsession.

He pored over ancient texts, questioned travelling merchants, and listened to the rambling tales of village elders. Slowly, piece by piece, he began to form a picture of where the sword might be found. And on his fifteenth birthday, with nothing but a pack of meagre supplies and the burning desire for vengeance in his heart, Ofken set out from Beymyre.

The journey was gruelling beyond anything Ofken had imagined. He crossed the Five Seas and the Five Mountains, each peak higher and more treacherous than the last. The bitter cold seeped into his bones, and more than once he found himself dangling over precipices, fingers bloodied as he clung to life by mere inches.

The seas were no kinder. Ofken worked passage on creaking ships, weathering storms that threatened to swallow the world whole. He saw men washed overboard, their cries lost in the howling wind, and wondered if he would join them in the depths.

But it was the lands between that truly tested Ofken's resolve. He trudged through swamps where the very air seemed to rot, poisonous vapours rising from bubbling mud. He crossed deserts where the sun beat down like a hammer, mirages taunting him with visions of cool water and shade.

And always, there were the beasts. Different from those of the Gravarane, but no less deadly.

Ofken fought off packs of hyenas, their laughter echoing in his nightmares. He outsmarted giant serpents and fled from creatures he had no names for—monstrosities that defied description.

Three years passed—three years of hardship, pain, and relentless determination. Ofken's body became a map of scars, each one a testament to a battle survived, an obstacle overcome. The boy who had left Beymyre was gone, replaced by a man hardened by the cruel whims of an indifferent world.

And then, at last, he found it.

The temple that housed the sword of Xeborh was ancient beyond reckoning, its stone walls worn smooth by the passage of millennia. As Ofken approached, he felt a thrill of anticipation mixed with dread. This was the moment he had dreamed of for so long, the culmination of all his suffering and sacrifice.

The interior of the temple was a maze of shadowed corridors and crumbling chambers. Ofken navigated them carefully, mindful of traps and guardian beasts. But he encountered no resistance—nothing to bar his path. Find adventures on My Virtual Library Empire

It was as if the temple itself was holding its breath, waiting.

In the heart of the temple, bathed in a shaft of light from a distant oculus, stood a simple stone pedestal. And there, gleaming as if newly forged, lay the sword of Xeborh.

Ofken approached slowly, his heart pounding in his chest. He reached out, fingers trembling, and grasped the hilt.

Power surged through him, raw and intoxicating. Ofken felt his body changing, growing stronger, and his senses sharpening beyond human limits. He laughed, a sound of pure joy and triumph.

At last, he had the power to protect his people, to strike fear into the hearts of the beasts that had terrorised Beymyre for so long.

And that was when the meteor crashed on the temple, and mysteriously he survived the crash, surrounded by the debris. Next, he met the temple Dyvaguer.

[Dyvaguer - the temple head.]

Wielding the sword and making it their own were two different things.

Ofken had a hard time controlling the will of the sword, but his hard resilience and strong willpower won in the end. He was far superior to the ones who previously wieled the sword and were able to harness its power to a great margin.

Right after he claimed the sword, he encountered Dyvaguer, the head of the temple of GodKing. It was this wizened priest who had first spoken to Ofken of the Sword of Xeborh and the destiny that awaited him should he prove worthy to wield it.

The sword itself was an artefact of legend, forged in an age when gods still walked among men.

Its blade was said to have been tempered in the tears of the mountain spirit Xeborh, granting it the power to cleave through the veil between worlds. In the right hands, it was a weapon capable of banishing the darkest of evils back to the realms from whence they came.

Dyvaguer wanted to take Ofken to the temple and train him. It was duty of Dyvaguer to escort the child of light and be a guide to him.