---
     tabtitle: "Azulien Blackblade"
     title: "Character Backstory: Azulien Blackblade"
     topics: [gaming, writing]
     pub: "2018-01-12"
     short_desc: "Here's the character backstory for one of my older characters
     from a game long since forgotten: Azulien Blackblade. Enjoy!"
---

Here's the character backstory for one of my older characters from a game long
since forgotten: Azulien Blackblade. This character was a fighter-sorcerer,
built for a custom 3.5 game run by my friend Bill. He was loads of fun to play,
though I may have spoken up when I should have stayed silent. He died as a pile
of pieces, after taunting a demi-god and, expectedly, being eviserated. Enjoy!

## Character Backstory: Azulien Blackblade

I was a prestigious man. Once I wore the robes of a wizard. I studied at the
greatest libraries, spoke with the most intelligent scholars, and kept company
with the Archmages. But one day that all changed. The day I will never forget in
all my life: the day the Urdeshi attacked.

We were travelling through the northern regions of the desert, making our way to
ruins located among the dunes. As we stopped to drink and rest, our party was
beset upon by raiders, shielding their faces with wrapped fabrics, and attacking
us relentlessly with blades and spears. Of the 15 in our band, only 3 lived
through the attack. We were the unlucky ones. My robes were bloodied and torn,
my spellbook was burned before my eyes, my components along with it, and my
knowledge of the arcane became a secret lest I beg for death. Many times I had
considered revealing my talents, and welcoming the purge that would follow. The
particular group of Urdesh we found were skeptical of magic: they broke all our
potions, our wands, anything that didn't smell normal. My familiar, my dear
raven, was roasted and force fed to me. I didn't eat for days afterwards.

They tought me how to fight. How to use the weapons they used. They tought me
how to skirmish with only a scimitar to defend myself with. How to cast aside
blows, how to use a handful of sand to distract my opponent from my incoming
blow. They taught me pain. They taught me to not fear an incoming attack. Not to
fear death. From that, only rage grew. My hatred for the Urdesh slowly filled my
now-empty mind. Where once was scholarly knowledge and magical aptitude there
stood only revenge. A lust that was never fulfilled. A hunger that was never
sated.

For 5 years of my life I was haunted and tormented by the Urdesh. I was made a
puppet in their games; a gladiator in their arenas. My skills with the scimitar
and spear grew to legend. Armed with my rage and my revenge, I would let no
other gladiator steal from me the potential to see my captors destroyed. I would
never bow, never break, never surrender. My blade grew black from all the blood
and sand and grime. With each fight, I became more. I was no longer a slave, now
I was a name: Blackblade; the Raven Swordsman; Death. Names appropriate to my
appearance and my promise. The old me was dead, and the new me was never alive.

My insatiable revenge crept into the corners of my mind, revealing the
locked-away arcane knowledge. The fury of hundreds of gladitorial battles,
thousands of cracks of the whips, and millions of possibilities of better lives
all converged on the power I had stored away. No longer was I afraid of them. No
longer did their skepticism seem like a threat. Now it was their weakness. Now,
vengeance was mine.

With the cover of darkness, I scoured my memories for every shred of arcane
knowledge I could muster. I found my cantrips, my little tricks I had used to
harass the pretty girls at the college. Flares and dancing lights wouldn't do
what I needed, but they could help. I needed more power. I crept deeper. There I
felt it. The coldness of death, but the screaming of life, entwined. I could
feel the grasp of skeletons and ghasts, but they did not scare me; it was almost
like familiy. I could see the faces of people I had never known. They seemed
familiar, almost connected to me. I could feel their anger, their undying need
for vengeance. Like me, they were captives of fear and torment. Their rage was
almost unbearable, but I would not turn away. I would not submit to an illogical
existance as a mindless machine of death. I would overcome the rage, channel the
rage, harness the anger, focus the vengeance. I would take their blessings of
undeath and turn them upon my enemies as a curse. I knew now that the power I
had was not from study. It was always within me, welled up like a great lake,
full of untapped resources. I felt the presence of their blood grow, their power
now released. They were now me. I was their vessel. The scimitar I used, Raven I
called it, was now a weapon of death.

Their time had come. They had no reason to fear the unknown, until now.

The first to go was the guard. As he came, right on schedule, to deliver my
food, I offered him a choice. I had grown to like Mukeesh. He was stupid, and
because of that he was compasionate. He was too afraid. He was too loyal. He
died. From him, I lifted the keys with magic, commanding them into the lock,
releasing me. As I left, I could feel his blood calling to me. With his
head-wrap and Raven I made my way to the barracks. It was night time. There were
little defenses around those who defend. They died one by one. I would cup their
mouth, and slit their throat just enough for them to wake before they bled out.
Their last moments were all the same: horror, struggling, moaning, pleading,
acceptance, sorrow. They wept occassionally. There were a few who were
unsurprised, and stared into my eyes until their's went dark. They were the
brave. They had faced death. But none can win against death. The blood running
from my captors veins was unbearable. I tasted it, the nector of life. It was
ambrosia, life itself, sustaining me. Their lives were my feast.

I made my way through the camp, finally settling on the gladiator pits. Some of
my bretheren ran, some clung to some twisted form of loyaly and fought. The all
died. I drank in their life, their essence, and their sacrifice healed me.
Through the death of my enemies I grew strong, through the blood of the fallen
did I reclaim my dominance. Not only were the powers of death mine to harness,
but the fruits of its labor were sweet and nourishing.

The last to fall was my teacher. He was the only one I awoke before I killed
him. I waited for him to pray, to be ready for his gods. He tried to fight me,
but the master had become weak. His attacks were predictable. His tactics were
rotten. His flesh was soft, and my blade was sharp. He died a warrior, as he had
lived. His blood was the most satisfying of them all. I have no remorse for him.
It is pathetic to pity anyone; death comes for all.

I gathered up all the resources I needed, took all the coin I could find, and
left. To this day I still hear tales of the Swordsman of Death who slaughtered
an entire Urdesh gladiator camp. "They are right to fear him." I always reply.
"Death is patient but swift. It may come on the wings of an angel or the sword
of a stranger. But death always comes." I escaped that night and found a human
settlement. My scars and tattoos I covered as best I could, but they always
found me out. A run-away slave, an escaped prisoner; a fugitive. The humans
would at least treat my as their own. I found temporary refuge, but left
quickly. In the following days there were many hunters that I encountered. One
of them gave me the scar that marks me today. His name was Al-Kadaf, and his
blade was called Plight. It cut me from above my left eye to my right cheek. He
told me that wound would stay forever. My blade ending his life was my only
response.

Still I am hunted. Still the Urdesh search for the Raven Swordsman. But I go by
a different name now. I am Azulien Blackblade, Scourge of the Urdesh. Send your
hunters. Send your armies. I walk with death. I hunger for your life. And
tonight, I will feast.
