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Rakkir, The Blood Shadow

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Rakkir, The Blood Shadow

Rakkir, The Blood Shadow

The moon hung heavily upon the horizon, a witching lantern softly casting her light upon the sleeping world. A lone figure, masked and heavily cowled, defied the solemnity of the hour. Moving with dread purpose, the figure softly swept between the buildings, gliding through shadows; a nightmare made manifest.

Rakkir took a deep and calming breath. Stooping low, his eyes narrowed to yellow slits taking in the courtyard before him. He could hear the guards lazily prattle through their watch, smell the stench of cooked meat as they fed upon a carcass and he smirked to himself at the irony. Pushing off he sprinted low, darting across the courtyard in a blur, hitting the gated wall with a soft thud. Pressed against the cool stone Rakkir moved silently towards the guard house. He took a moment to adjust against the warm glow spilling into the night. The voices inside were deep in conversation, there was a pause followed by raucous laughter – and then he sprung.

The first guard was dead before he hit the ground, and a second in mid guffaw felt the dreadful conclusion of Rakkir’s dagger. Of the two remaining, one fell back over the barrel he’d been sitting on as the shock hit, and the last turned to run. Rakkir flipped his dagger deftly in his hand and flung it towards the runaway. The blade struck with a slick squelch as the young man crumpled head first into the far wall, a broken heap.

Rakkir pounced upon the last guard pinning his knee to the man’s throat. In a voice that was deep, gravelly and heavily accented the Blood Shadow spoke.

"Where is your lord...?"

The guard spluttered as he tried to gain breath, both arms working furiously to displace the knee upon his throat. Rolling back ever so slightly Rakkir gave the man just enough room to breathe.

The man drew a quick breath and started to blather. Rakkir had no patience for it, not tonight. Dropping his knee again the guard began a futile fight for air. As he began to panic his arms thrust upwards and tore at the cowl Rakkir had been wearing. His eyes widened in fear, he spluttered profanities, seeing for the first time the deeply scarred and heavily set green face of the Orc who had slaughtered his kin.

Rakkir knew he would get nothing now; he slid his dagger with cruel and practiced efficiency through the man’s ribs giving the hilt a savage twist as the blade entered a lung. Cursing to himself, knowing he would have to do this the hard way now. Still, waste not want not Rakkir thought to himself as he cut out the dead man’s heart. Zaron, his master, would make good use of it.

Rakkir is a deadly killer specialising in the various toxins and poisons of Onathien. Exceptionally agile and stealthy for an Orc, Rakkir quickly rose through the ranks of his local thieves guild before striking out on his own as a hired assassin. His reputation stretches the length and breadth of the land and anyone rumoured as being a target of the Blood Shadow is considered a dead man walking.

A veteran of many battles on the shadow plane of InBetween Rakkir has worked with the necromancer Zaron Bogdan to create shadow orbs. The orbs contain the essence of the shadow plane itself enabling Rakkir to travel short distances in a heartbeat by slipping in and out of the plane at will. The shadow orbs have elevated an already deadly assassin to supernatural heights that make him a terror to behold on the battlefield.

Rakkir, The Blood Shadow

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