V

Candar was born of courage and tragedy. A full 14 years younger than his three brothers and sister, the months before his birth had taken a harsh toll on the health of the Lady Ironblade. Rejecting the dire warnings, she set her face against the danger and fought for the child’s survival. Weeks early and outside the cleric's preparations, he entered the world, his first cries bringing her an exhausted smile and a final sleep.

Whether from those origins or another fate, he grew as a shadow of the famous Ironblade stature. With his shoulders anything but the axehandle width of his brothers, and of height scarcely taller than his sister, the teen withdrew to the darkest recesses and begged the old gods and the new to rewrite his costly existence.

His martial and general studies came easily to his quick mind, but concentration disappeared at the remembrance of maidservant’s giggles any time he tried the same grin that drew many to his brothers’ beds.

Stumbling upon magic saved his life, if not his soul. It began one day as he was writing with moody distraction that he realised he’d filled a page with an empty quill. His grandfather, known for his skill in the controversial arts, picked up on the talent quickly and set about mentoring him.

Candar was reborn, seeing his purpose as different rather than lost. Skill at arms was no longer a chore. He threw himself into it at his father’s insistence, as much to ensure he not become the first Ironblade in two centuries without martial schooling.

But the countless hours with his grandfather discussing and practicing all things arcane filled his heart. His confidence soared, the rehearsed grin gave way to a flashing smile and ironically he lost awareness of the feminine smiles being reflected.

*********

Two months ago on an evening like all others Agnar Ironblade strode into the dining hall to feast with his sons (his daughter long married to a young noble that the baron found over-endowed with hair and teeth and much under-endowed with spine). They saw his face had aged during the afternoon, his tone strained as he spoke of dispatching the keep’s entire host in the morning to battle at the border of the neighbouring nations of Narat and Ormea.

Their questions multiplied when their father stated blankly that he would lead the force personally on this ‘errand’ and be requiring the seasoned swords of his elder three sons, but he closed the conversation to oversee hurried preparations.

In the morning young Candar objected his exclusion despite the hard rebuke he expected to follow, but his father leaned down in the saddle to put a hand on his shoulder. “You were born to a different calling my son.” ”Besides” he roared to the courtyard urging his mount forward, “who else will keep my father-in-law from mischief? I’ll see you all in a month!”

But the month came and went, bringing no baron and no news. A fortnight later a messenger rode to the keep with a parchment bearing the royal seal.

Candar’s world collapsed as he faltered in its reading. The entire retinue had been intercepted by Ormean forces. There were no survivors and no bodies had been left to reclaim.

Denial kicked in as the young lord screamed the untruth of it to the sky. He called for his horse to head to war, but his grandfather stood as resolute as the earl of his younger days, insisting he at least ride into nearby Torgos to hire a guide and an escort of soldiers.

By nightfall Candar had recruited well and was set to spend the night in the city when his eyes glanced north toward home to see an orange glow in the sky. Riding hard he could see the flames for what seemed an eternity before he reached the keep. Screaming servants stumbled from the blaze, none of them having seen the earl. He was found in the morning as the smoke abated somewhat from his bedchamber, only identifiable by the rings that he wore, his head bent at an odd angle. Choking and retching, Candar forced himself to look closely. The neck was almost completely severed.

He spun around as if his grandfather’s attackers still stood amidst the haze, but he stood alone, all survivors halfway down to the city. With eyes full of smoke and tears he took the remains down to the vault, mercifully one part of the structure still intact.

His mind still numb, he buried eight slain servants in the cemetery outside and began to carry charred furniture from the keep as if removing rubbish was bringing all back to right.

He awoke the next morning among the ashes not remembering how the previous day had ended. Emotionless he realised the entire keep had been looted. His empty stomach had no interest in food, but deciding rations and carpentry tools were required from the city, he cleaned up in the stream and prepared to ride off. His fingers reached for the spellbook in his pack as was his favourite morning custom, but he turned it aside. Magic had not helped last night and would not help today.

News had spread throughout Torgos of the destruction. Candar’s guide and hired men were nowhere to be found, having apparently left abruptly the previous morning. Further news came through that made the young noble’s blood run cold. Lord Gaius had just been commissioned with the task of rebuilding the keep and taking on the last Ironblade as his ward. Candar had never spoken directly with Gaius on his occasional visits, but the old man’s pedantic adherence to social customs had been insufferable, even to the point of tiring his disciplined father.

Candar found himself facing a tavern. He hired a room upstairs then found a tankard, eventually to be followed by six more. The room began to spin a little but he’d already forgotten old Lord Whats-his-name’s silly little face and he decided this was probably the best tavern in the city. The floor however betrayed him and slid out from underneath, sending him crashing through a table and sloshing Tankard Number Seven over himself head to toe. He figured that was probably a good cue for a bath and bed, hopefully with one of these girls carrying tankards.

He removed his tunic followed by his breeches and presented them to the startled serving wench for washing. The room began to really spin after that and there were angry shouts and he felt himself floating…..to wake up the next morning with pounding senses to find himself almost naked in something that looked a lot like a prison cell….

Candar's eyes fluttered open as the magic subsided. He smiled up at Blossom and Felicia, his mind and wits returning from a curious fog. His last memory flashed before his eyes - vicious fangs tearing at his throat - causing him to sit up in alarm and scan the glade for danger.

Nearby was an ominous shape lying on the grass wrapped in blood stained blankets and tended to by a grave Kaladrin. He turned to look back at Candar, his eyes wide with surprise.

It was then Candar realised he was completely naked. And extremely short…

He looked down at very broad and very hairy feet, attached to legs only a foot long, attached to a small halfling body, attached to him.

His mind whirled as he leapt up, the name of a spell that could give him this form finally coming to him.

“Polymorphing someone who's unconscious to wake them up is NOT funny!”

It took them several minutes to explain it was no temporary form, but that his body lay broken and the nymph had Reincarnated him a new one. His denial and outrage shook the grove until they had no choice but to show him his remains. Candar fled, not knowing which way he ran nor caring. Felicia shaped to follow but Blossom shook her head, assuring her harm was far away now.

The Candar that returned the next morning was as unrecognisable in nature as appearance. Honour, name and defiance no longer straightened his back with noble poise. There would be no rebuilding of his family, no sons to step beyond this black chapter. His eyes had darkened, preoccupied with just one thought.

“The Ironblades have fallen on Kerubiel's watch.”

“Perhaps Samael will do more than watch. I am V….and we have much to do.”