Marrax

There is a story to be told in every battle, in every swing. Stories which span from rescue, to violence. Good, to chaos. These stories are what make us people. When I found my first axe, in the streets of Lower, after a revolt, it had already had a story. When I traded that axe in for a more magical one, that I found in the tower of a faraway Drow, that axe too had a story. The story empowered not the axe, but me, to honor the glory of what it was. It does not care about feelings, but you care for it with feelings. You mentioned that you loved your blade, because it is not what the blade is, but what you have killed with it. You have beaten innocents, mugged them, and killed an innocent man for training in purposes that I cannot fully comprehend. Your axe is composed of treachery, brute strength, not finesse and strength. Your axe is made of the enchantments woven through malice and rugged individualism.

My axe is different. It is not individualism that shapes my axe, my person. It is my own ideals. My strength is not your strength- it is not brute strength. I cannot take three orcs and say that they represent me when combined. My axe prefers the quiet stealth of what will win. Rugged strength can always be beaten, intelligence and combat dictate that the winner eventually loses. Yet losing is a blessing, victory is My Lady. You have forgotten your training, too busy killing those whom oppose you. Your blessing will expire, and in old age, when you are too frail to realize it, you will begin to fail. And it will not be a blessing for you.

You owe me 5,000 back for your training. I will not accept it. You owe me 1,000 blood money for the dead man in the back of the Crone. Do not come back except to pay this, I will not have your blood on my hands.

Tethyrn