The youngest son of Glidden, with six other brothers Krylon was pretty much left alone to follow the paths of his heart, the paths of the wild woods and the supreme Archer. From the time he could walk he was out and about the (name woods) and beyond into the Dark woods where the majority of his people wouldn’t even venture. Dark and tangled were those great woods, ancient and full of menace for those lacking in the means to understand and survive.
It was in these woods, one bright summer afternoon that he was roaming when he sensed a strange preternatural calm come over the lands, a tangible gut wrenching feeling of despair. Immediately he turned towards home, rushing through the suddenly still Dark woods and into the (normal woods) of his people, all deathly still, As if deep winter had suddenly inexplicably descended upon the lands.
He smelled the burning bodies on the wind long before he reached the village; long before he saw the column of smoke rising from the border of the woodland community. His village was burning, or so he thought. When he reached the outskirts of the tree town he realized his error. The village wasn’t burning, just the villagers.
There on the outskirts, a giant funeral pyre burned high into the fading light of early evening, dozens of bodies piled upon it. The great blaze tended by the morose, weeping remaining townsfolk, covered in the ash of their loved ones tears streaming down their beautiful faces now grief twisted. Less than a quarter of his people were left, some tending the blaze, others standing around dazed, stricken speechless by the consuming horror about them, and still more here and there dropping over dead.
Uncomprehendingly, Krylon rushed through the deserted village. He made his way across the narrow tree paths and rope bridges, agile as a great hunting cat. He sped towards the great tree home of his father, ancient home of his ancient family, built by his grandfather, also the youngest of seven brothers. The village cold and dark, the evergreen leaves browning; the aspen leaves falling to the ground their rustling, the sounds of the grieving and the roar of the great fire the only sounds seemingly in the whole of the world.
Surprised from a side alley way, He was stopped halfway through the village by (one of his uncles DuPont) the eldest of his father’s six older brothers. Who grabbed the young Krylon up in his great arms and carried him kicking and screaming back towards the great pyre, whispering for him to calm himself, to hold on.
When he at last calmed down Krylon looked upon his uncle, a great warrior, so full of energy, a wild zest for life, now aged and hollow, his frame gaunt, his visage wasted and pale, save for postulant red sores here and there.
Pushing himself away he looked out across his remaining people and saw them much the same condition, his vibrant healthy people wasting away before him. Inside himself, where they were all linked, he could feel them dying, feel the woods around crying out and dying in pain and fear from an unknown malady.
Less than a week later there were less than a dozen of his people left.
Two weeks from the day he came rushing back to the village he committed the last of his people to the cleansing flame of the funeral pyre.
Mournful and alone, confused and despondent, with the land dying around him Krylon haunted the ruins of his desecrated village.
So it was that on a deathly quiet night, mere days after the ground beneath the great pyre had finally cooled, that Krylon was to be found sitting high in the branches of the Great Tree, the only tree still living in the village proper, when “He” came.
Out of the darkness of the dying woods, his black and dark red robes scarcely moving about his obviously gaunt frame as He glided across the defiled grounds of the dead village making not a sound, his retainers however did. Great Orcs in black plate, arrayed for battle, two long lines of them following in the Dark robed figures wake.
The robed one stopped before the burnt, scared patch of ground were the ashes of Krylon’s poor people lay. Krylon distinctly heard the figures guttural mocking words in the deathly quiet village, “Pity, I could have used their bodies.” The armored Orcs fanned out around the burned ground laughing at their masters words and generally reveling in the death of the sylvan tree town.
Krylon’s first arrow took the necromancer high in the right shoulder throwing him screaming to the ground. His next took the Evil one in the knee cap pinning him to the ground. Suddenly, the great tree was on fire forcing Krylon to jump out and way, directly into the midst of the foul Orcs and their Master. Dodging and weaving amongst the startled Orcs a focused and driven Krylon managed to stomp down hard on the wizard’s windpipe, snapping it like dry kindling, before rushing out of the enclosing barrier of black Armored Orcs.
Out into the woods he rushed, the enraged Orcs trying in vain to follow the young woods wise ranger. Chasing him deep into the woods and farther into the heart of the Dark woods the pursuing party went. They never returned.
While furious Krylon circled back around to the village. From his hidden vantage point at the edge of the woods he witnessed the Sorcerers rise from the ground, croaking out swearing, as his minions helped him up. He looked on in horror as the callous mage sucked the life out of one of his guards healing his own wounds, setting the rest of his loyal retinue back upon their armored heels and leaving the unfortunates orcs body to crumble to dust at his feet.
Krylon’s first arrow took one of the Wizards guards through its helmets left eye slit. His second took another low in the side, between armored plates, knocking him into the other guards.
Half a day later, all the Orcs were dead, some twice or three times over.
That night Krylon’s last arrow took the frightened, wounded and fleeing Necromancer in the thigh knocking him into a thick dead thorn bush.
Later as the bright full moon rose over the dead woods Krylon drove his sword through the foul Necromancer’s chest.
Wounded and alone, numb, he watched the sun rise over his dead lands.
Half a decade later, Krylon saw the two strangers, through the raging dust storm scouring the desert that had taken the place of his woodland home, struggling through the shifting sands, obviously lost and heading towards the center of the devastated land. They dragged their poor horses through the raging grey sand storm, with another stalking desert predator in unknown but dogged pursuit.
Soon after, when one of their horses fell, and refused to get up, the stalking Sand Drake struck, ripping the other horse’s guts out spraying bright red blood across the dark grey sands and the startled travelers.
The unfortunate horse’s death scream coupled with the shouts of the surprised travelers came rushing to his keen ears and for the first time in years of solitude Krylon felt something stir inside.
His arrows came buzzing in like angry hornets from all angles peppering the Drake’s armored sides, taking an eye, as the travelers regrouped rushing out against the drake. Together they hacked the drake apart as a hail of arrows came streaming out of the shifting sandstorm.
After the battle, their straining eyes, stinging with the blowing sands turned outwards to search for the source of the arrow barrage.
Expecting a fair contingent of skilled archers, they were suitably taken aback when a single bedraggled figure came out of the storm, covered head to toe in sand colored ragged robes, head wrapped in a long strips of dirty cloth leaving only two tiny slits for its eyes.
Wounded, their horses dead and seemingly lost in the desert waste they had intended to only skirt outer edge of, they really had no choice but to go after the figure when it raised an arm and beckoned them to follow.
After an hour of rough travel through the shifting grey sands they came to a cluster of large boulders, here the figure beckoned them forward towards a tiny opening between the boulders and down into a sloping underground passage. Many twists and turn later, they left the howling winds and stinging sands behind.
The disheveled trio came to a great chamber, a simple chamber really, lit by small crystals that gave off a weird greenish light growing out of the ground at random points of the rough root enclosed chamber.
Here we met Krylon and learned of his tragic story.
Three days later when the storm abated we left that chamber, somber Krylon leading the way.
He has been with us ever since, our vigilant, haunted, scout, His green and gold almond shaped eyes taking in the world around us all, his swift and deadly arrows raining death upon our enemies.
Many years and wild adventures later he met his best friend and companion Krylon.
One blustery summer afternoon in the heavily wooded Shadow swamp.
Both engaged in hunting a particularly vicious band of Orcs that had been raiding the nearby communities then vanishing into the dread swamp.
Dolphineus learning of this as he was passing through one of the small hamlets near the larger village of Kurn. Set off right way into the forbidden swamp, townsfolk shaking their heads at his foolishness, making the signs of avoidance at his back for his foolishness. No one ever returned from the shadow swamp.
Krylon, on his way back from a fact finding mission to rejoin his friends in a distant city beyond the swamp, had come across the carnage left behind by that particular Orc troupe and blood boiling set off in wrathful pursuit, heedless of the odds.
The two stealthy rangers met in the dark woods, intently sizing each other up.
Then with a quick but telling nod to each other they began their work.
Three days later not a single Orc or dreadful Worg remained alive. The evil creatures didn’t stand a chance.
A friendship forged in blood, and bound tighter by shared beliefs and adventures.