The Rage of Gil’Minoc

The Broken City
Act i

Smoke choked the sky. Fire danced across the rooftops of Gil’Minoc. The Dukes of Everset -powerful lords of the sun worshipping society- watched from their encampment, pleased with the outcome of the recent battle.

The army of Everset had ruined the once magnificent city, burning and looting everything in sight.

Varion Berclif, Duke of the South, Blade of the Burnstar.
He had lead the assault. He was the scourge of the Eastern Empire. He wanted blood. He wanted death. He wanted war.

And he was not satisfied.



Meanwhile, within the deep catacombs of Gil’Minoc, beneath the cathedral, the Cult of The Ravager were in the midst of anointing their avenger.

Claspis, the Baron-Champion of Gil’Minoc, also devote follower of The Ravager god Garok.

Claspis bowed his head before the high priest, waiting respectfully for the anointing.
The high priest, bearing a bowl of blood, approached the Baron, reciting the ancient rite.

“The blood of our foes is spilled on your head, blessed be your blade. The blood of our foes is poured out for your life. Blessed be your might.
The blessing of the Ravager is upon you. He grants you strength in your arms. The wrath is within you. Let The Ravager awaken your birthright of blood.
You shall destroy our enemies!”
The congregation echoed. “You shall destroy our enemies!”

As the intoning continued, the high priest poured the sacred blood over Claspis.
The blood began to burn and boil.

Claspis’s vision became red tinged, and his anger was lit.


A small platoon of soldiers -twenty five battle hardened veterans- broke down the doors of a massive cathedral, hoping to plunder some sacred artifacts or ancient treasures.

The lieutenant, a slim and tall brown hair man, directed orders to his subordinates.
“Oi boys! Two o’ yew bastards stand those doors back up an’ keep watch! I don’t any o’ those other maggots gettin’ in ‘ere an’ pillaging any o’ our loot!”

As the soldiers broke off into groups to pillage, a door behind the massive blood stained alter open, and out stumbled a man wearing a bear skin cloak and a metal plated kilt. A wicked looking axe hung over his back.
His long blonde hair and beard covered his face and his body was tattooed with white scars.
And his eyes…
Were bloodshot and red.

The lieutenant and his soldiers halted staring down the muscle strapped man.
“Oi, who the hell yew?” Drawled the lieutenant as he drew his loaded crossbow from the sling on his back. “I’ll give ya chance ta drop that big ass axe go on yore merry way! Ows that sound?”

Tensing, Claspis launched himself forward, covering the perhaps two hundred feet between him and the lieutenant, before crushing his scull with a mighty blow of his clenched fist.

“What the fu-“ was all he could manage before the unfortunate crumpled to the cold stone tile floor.

Taken aback, the platoon soldiers were in disbelief. But, recovering quickly, they leapt into action. Drawing their arming swords they surrounded the lone figure of Claspis.

All he saw were pigs, weak, noisy, irksome pigs, squealing and shrieking as they closed in on him.
Closed in on their own demise.

***


Exiting through the sundered cathedral doors, Claspis slowly stalked his way down the street, headed toward the gate, towards the enemy encampment.