A pixie barbarian


Khrjnkhl’s birth was celebrated, as are all pixie births. He learned to crawl, then walk, then flit about as all pixies do. His life seemed destined to be the same as the others were.

While still young and learning how to etch frost and gather dew, he and several friends were out playing in one of the many fields between the copses that the pixie clans dwelled within. They felt a tingling run over them as if the air was charged with lightnign from thunderheads no one could see. They began to hear the distant sounds of battles fought by thousands around them, though none were seen. From all around, other pixies were beginning to fly toward the field where Khrjnkhl and his friends were.

Older pixies were coming toward them, shouting something but were not heard over the sounds of the unseen battle. Khrjnkhl saw the terror in his friends’ eyes as they saw something behind him. He slowly turned and looked. In the air before him was a dark shimmering. In a moment, it became almost solid, then liquid, then mist, then almost solid again. He could now see the battle just a few yards away, but not there at the same time. He could feel the rhythm of the forming rift thud and ache with the words coming from a mage that he could see within it. The mage fell silent as he flung his staff up, higher than he thought the old man could throw it. The battle paused as it fell.

It hit the rocky and bloodied ground point first, and when it did a wave grew from it. The rift suddenly expanded and Khrjnkhl, his friends, and some of the other pixies too close were caught in it. They fell, along with hundreds of the warriors, but not down, or up, or any direction he knew. They were falling without direction. Khrjnkhl tried to get to his friends among the lost, but could not and they disappeared along with the others.

There was no feeling of time as he fell. He did not know if it was a second or a day. Then, without hitting the ground, he was alone on a vast plain. Grasses could be seen, along with a few outcroppings of rock.

He fell into a deep sleep. He did not know for how long. When he woke, he was in a huge pavillion, at least, it was huge to him. He was resting on a coarse pillow. A giant girl was looking at him. They startled each other when he woke, both screaming, he in terror, she in delight. Thus began his life amongst the Skandaharians on the world of Blackmoor. He’d never heard of these barbarians before. If they existed where he came from he would have learned early in school that they were to be avoided.

He learned their language from the girl, Brunda. As he grew, he began to follow their ways, learning to fight, learning weapons, learning, always learning. He stayed with Brunda and her family until he decided he had to find a way in this world, a way of his own. When he figured that he had reached the age at which most pixies leave their immediate family and find a copse of their own to live in (or at least, a populated part of the copse they’re already in), he left Brunda and her family, taking the armor and weapons a smith had made for him. He was ready for the adventure before him.


Blackmoor Brock