Iknath was born in a village lost to the mists of time. He was taller and stronger than the other boys, though he was a kind and gentle soul, never using his strength for ill purpose. As he grew, he became a blacksmith's apprentice before his ascension to manhood. Strong enough to wield the greatest hammer, Iknath soon exceeded his master in skill and strength.
A simple man, Iknath was content to live his life as a simple blacksmith, but fate had a different plan for him. As he grew up, Iknath fell in love with the maiden Atalia, a beautiful girl whose parents would not allow her to marry a common blacksmith. But Iknath pursued her with great zeal, never ceasing to woo her.
But one day, as Iknath sought to speak with Atalia's parents once again, a tribe of grends swarmed into the village, pillaging and looting without remorse. Their battle standard was the fearsome clenched, bloody fist, their leader a one-eyed and battle-scarred horror with the blood of an ogre coursing through his veins. As they fell upon Atalia's farmhouse, Iknath roared in anger and fought back with his bare hands, his great strength crushing the skulls of his enemies before him. But even Iknath's might was of no avail as the grends destroyed the farmhouse and killed Atalia's family. Wounded by many swords and holding her broken body in his arms, Iknath's gentle nature turned to wrath, and he watched through unshed tears as the grend marauders disappeared into the west. He took the bloody ribbon from Atalia's hair and wrapped it around his wrist as a talisman.
Iknath returned to his ruined shop and grasped his hammer. Its handle was six feet in length, its head a twenty-pound block of solid steel. Gripping it in one hand, Iknath swore an oath of vengeance upon the grends and began his journey to the west.
He traveled for days until he encountered a tribe of grends. He did not recognize their tribal standards, but he fell upon them, killing several with each blow of his mighty hammer. The few grends who survived his attack ran away, and Iknath continued on his journey. He found several other grend tribes, who met the same fate as the first. But he sought in vain for the clenched, bloody fist that had fluttered over the body of his great love.
After a lengthy pursuit, Iknath found the object of his quest, a tribal standard of a clenched, bloody fist. They had heard of his rampage against the other tribes, and were prepared for his arrival. A palisade of stakes barred his way, and a thousand grend warriors with spears and swords stood before him. Undaunted, Iknath strode into battle, swinging his mighty hammer with unbridled fury against the evil horde. Hundreds fell, even as Iknath was pierced by many spears and swords. Iknath fought on throughout the day, his body refusing to give in to his wounds, his rage unsated while even a single grend stood before him.
Finally, as the sun fell in the western sky, Iknath saw the one he sought. Battered and bleeding, he stood before the mightiest grend chief, the one-eyed and battle-scarred half-ogre. Hefting his mighty hammer for one final battle, Iknath shouted his defiance, and the two warriors clashed for the final time.
The battle lasted for hours. Iknath swung his hammer with a strength undiminished, but the cunning and experienced grend warrior avoided the mighty blows as he circled his weakened opponent. Iknath refused to give up, his rage driving him onward. Blow after blow was struck, but the grend chieftain was made of stronger mettle than his underlings, and he shrugged off the powerful strokes of the hammer.
As the dawn caressed the eastern sky, Iknath felt his mighty strength ebbing, and he knew his time was almost done. But he continued to fight on, driven to see his foe crushed beneath his hammer. But his foot slipped on a patch of bloody grass, and he fell to the ground, his hammer falling from his grasp. The grend chieftain seized a spear and thrust it into Iknath's belly, and the great warrior was pinned to the ground in mortal agony.
Howling in triumph, the half-ogre raised his sword for the final blow. But the blow did not fall, as Iknath tore the spear from his own belly and stabbed it into the grend's unprotected heart. Feeling death approach him, he picked up his hammer for the last time, and as the grend fell to his knees, mortally wounded, Iknath raised his hammer once more and brought it down with all his remaining strength atop the head of his foe. As the grend fell, so did mighty Iknath, still grasping the hammer that had slain a thousand grends.
Since then, many warriors have sought to find the location of the great battle, and to recover Iknath's hammer. But to this day, no one has ever found either one. Some question if the tale has any truth to it at all. Perhaps we will never know. But as long as men huddle around the campfires in the wilderness of Meterra, the tale of Iknath will always be remembered.
No comments:
Post a Comment