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[Toni McStravick]

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Ragnar woke up well before dawn, rubbed his weary eyes, and stole a few more moments of rest in his bed. It felt like he had just closed his eyes, and now it was time for more training. Slowly, he sat up into a sitting position on his bed with his feet touching the cold stone of his tower. He rubbed his aching knees and rotated his shoulders, feeling for any pain. With a sigh, he sat up and started his morning stretching routine. His body screamed in protest, but he ignored it's cries and went through a vigorious deep muscle stretching circuit.

After he was done this part of his morning ritual, he walked to his mirror and stared at the sad sight that greeted him. He was shirtless, only wearing a loose pair of pants. His upper body was criss-crossed with scars, some of them looked like they should have been killing blows were it not for the miracle of Magic. A vicious scar ran from under his right cheek all the way down his throat and ending at his left collar bone, and his forearms had more scar tissue then unblemished skin. The magic that had saved his life numerous times was not pefect though. He could not raise his right arm all the way above his head anymore, and the range of motion in his left was greatly restricted as well. Bending over could at times be a challenge, and he walked with a slight limp, but he did not let this slow him down.

When we was young, his path of violence had begun not with magic, but with the blade. Throughout his long life, Ragnar had mastered every style of weapon that the world had to offer. Though when he turned to the Arcane arts, those skills had long since vanished from neglect. Even when he had turned to magic, he still fought like a warrior. He had always met his enemies head on. Blocking away their blades with his superior hand-to-hand skills. He noticed, with an amused smile, that there were no scars on his back. He had always met his enemies face to face, eye to eye.

He could have been a handsome man once, were it not for the vicious scar and the ravages of age. Ragnar could not remember how old he was, but knew that the face that greeted him looked vastly more aged then it should have. For a second, a look of confusion and anger flashed in his eyes. He had forgotten so much, and that angered him to no extent. He had always been in perfect physical condition. Even when he became a mage, he did not neglect the physical like so many others who follow the path of the Magi.

When he had returned to these lands and saw his reflection for the first time in the mirror, he was shocked. The once proud Ragnar Teach, bane of his enemies, looked like a feeble, weak old man. In the weeks that followed his return, he had began training like a man possessed. Now, his raw power was greater then it had ever been, but he was still a shadow of his former self. Skill in battle was not all raw power, but how you applied it. And in that respect, he had a long way to go to be able to compete with his former glory. When weeks before he was just skin and bones, muscles were again forming. At times he could swear that the wrinkles in his skin were starting to smooth away. He shook his head ruefully at the thought and laughed to himself. Wishful thinking.

He thought back to the night he had returned to these lands. All he remembered was pain, and confusion. He was wandering the land for days, cold, alone and confused. Ragnar guesses he must have been insane, for rational thought would not take over. At times he would laugh maniacally, and other times he would cry like a child. He wandered into lands that did not exist when he had walked the soil of Sosaria in times past. Eventually, he came upon a mightly citadel and collapsed at its imposing entrance.

The next thing he remembered was awakening in a regal chamber and seeing the only familiar face he had seen in what seemed like an eternity. King Talon Skyfire stared down at his old friend and sworn battle-brother and forced a smile that did not wipe away the worry that showed in his eyes.

"Good, you're awake! I was wondering when you would stop lazying around." Talon said with a forced laugh.

It took Ragnar a few moments to decypher the words. He shook his head as if in an effort to force his brain to work.
"T...Talon?" He croaked. "Whaa..What is going on?"

"I was hoping you could tell me that old friend. I had thought you dead and gone!" Talon replied.

"I..I don't know. I don't even know how I got here. I..I don't remember anything."

"Well, it seems you remember me."

"Aye, I know you. I know who I am. But the past...it is a blur. All I remember is pain, and cold. And then I was here. What is going on? What happened to me?" Ragnar said as he fought the rising panic in his chest.

"I do not know my friend. One day you just vanished. That was many, many years ago. You remember nothing of where you have been?"

"Nay.."

Ragnar was embraced whole-heartedly by the Kingdom of Sanctus, and his friend and King, Talon. He was given a home by the Sheriff of Sanctus, Malic M'real. He thanked the Virtues everyday that they had delivered him to his battle-brothers kingdom. Surely it was not coincidence that he had walked, half crazed and starved, into a land he had never been before, and to the door of one of his only remaining friends.

In true Talon fashion, the King did not let Ragnar rest or dwell on what had happened to him. He promised Ragnar that they would find out what had happened to him and ordered him to get back into fighting shape. The King hoped that giving Ragnar something to do to occupy his time would help him not dwell on his fragmented memory and shattered past.

Some things Ragnar could remember. He could remember parts of Stormhaven, and old comrades long gone. He remembered old battles and names of old enemies. But he could never remember anything too specific. It was like his memory was a general overview of his life with no solid detail. It was infuriating at times but Ragnar forced himself to forget about it and move on.

There was a familiar smell in the air that Ragnar remembered and remebered well. It was the smell of war. The enemies of Sanctus would attack soon, he could feel it in his bones. The rest of the Kingdom was on edge as well. Battle drills were practiced ceaselessly to perfection. Ragnar was impressed by the discipline of the Sanctus military. He was conscripted into the Templar Division in Sanctus, his old Divsion in Stormhaven. He was determined to prove himself to all his new comrades who saw him as an old man at best, and a spent force at worse. The name Ragnar Teach was once synonymous with skill in battle, and he swore that it would be that way once again. The enemies of Sanctus would learn to fear him as his enemies of days past once did. He would use the battles to come to prove to himself, and everyone else, that he was not a useless old man.
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Lady Toni McStravick-Skyfire
Knights of Clan McStravick


Davaran: What's the most romantic wood?

Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind. ~Dr. Seuss