Violence is the Currency of Justice.

Don't listen to your masters, don't listen to your nobles. They don't know what justice is, and they sure as hell don't know what it costs. They only know power. And with their power they buy their own forms of justice.

But I know real justice.

Crickets chirp close by as I sit hunched near a massive oak tree, watching the orange light filter through the trees. A hundred yards away they sit, by a small campfire, drinking and laughing and exchanging wild tales. Twelve men. Twelve criminals.

I've been following their trail all the way from Angis, a small farming community near Yane. They passed through a week before my arrival, leaving two farmsteads burnt out and nine people dead. They were slippery, their lead scout is an excellent hunter. They changed routes, covered their tracks, moving in a seemingly random pattern through the south-eastern Threshold. Twice I lost their trail. Twice I regained it by chance of fate.

It's been almost three months since I first stumbled across their handiwork. Since then I've counted eighty-three. Eighty-three children dead by the hands of this dozen. CHILDREN!!! Who knows how many they killed before.

But now I have found them. And tonight, it ends.

These twelve men are mere pawns, of course. Bought by some Dragon-Blooded noble who needed an excuse for additional funds for his legion. Unsafe rural lands, he says to his Lieges, need more money, more men. The Dynasty is corrupt to its core. They exchange countless lives for a sliver of power. But they're dangerous, and I cannot fight them directly, not on my own.

But I can fight their tools.

I rise, slowly unwrap Gorol's Judge. Its blade glimmers with vague reflections of silver light. I walk towards the campfire, slowly, deliberately. I want them to know I'm coming. I want them to experience every moment of my justice.

It doesn't take them long to see me. They rise, weapons drawn, menacing snarls emerging from their lips. Two men draw bows. One has throwing knives.

Twelve yards separate me from them when the first arrow is released. Before it reaches its intended target, I am on the archer. He dies in a gurgle, sinking to the ground, clutching his throat. Blood flows freely through the cracks between his fingers. The Judge seems to laugh as it tastes its first kill of the night. As if it knows there will be more.

The remaining bandits howl and throw themselves at me. My anima flares as Essence burns in my veins. They are all experienced fighters, seasoned combatants, forged by countless wars and skirmishes. They're good at what they do. But in the end, they're only human.

An axe comes whooshing down on me. I sidestep it quickly and sever the wielder's arm. He screams and I remove his head, flowing into the next strike as the Judge is guided by my hands to the gut of a skinny swordsman. He falls to his knees, his entrails spilling, and a look of disbelief in his eyes.

An arrow whooshes by, aimed at my chest, but I duck beneath it before I even consciously realize it was coming. The Judge seems to move of its own accord as it cleaves air and armor and skin and flesh and bone… a death's scream ending in a guttural sigh. Another man dies, his skull split through the centre, before the thud of the second archer's body reaches my ears.

There's a brief lull in the fight. Seven remaining. Some stare at me wide-eyed. I can see my raging anima reflected in their eyes. I understand their shock. It isn't every day you see a man with a mark of a bright sun on his forehead, emitting golden light in a wild corona around his body. I'd be shocked too if I was them. But if I was them, I'd be dead.

I raise Gorols' Judge to my face and extend my tongue, licking a trail of blood from its silvery surface. I smile a bloodied smile. Three of the bandits turn and run away. The other four gather whatever remains of their courage and come at me all at once. My smile widens.

Three seconds later four more corpses add to this night's justice. After the last bandit's breathing has stopped, I listen and I hear the three cowards run. I decide to let two of them pass. Justice will be delayed for them. At least one of them will go to his Dragon-Blooded master, and tell his tale of the golden demon-man that came to them and brought them death. The Dragon-Blooded will know. He will be afraid. He should be.

I can't see the third running bandit anymore. He's disappeared into the woods, as fast as his feet can carry him. But I can still hear him. I take a throwing knife from one of the fallen thugs, testing the blade's balance. It'll do. I close my eyes and let the Essence of this forest whisper to me. It tells me of its flows and currents. The knife in my hand ceases to become an item, and instead turns into an extension of my will. It is my justice.

Two hundred yards away the bandit runs for all he's worth. He leaps over a log, and my justice strikes him in the spine with a wet thud as he's in mid-air. He tumbles and falls, his life extinguished before his corpse hits the ground.

I burn all the bodies before I leave. I will not allow any of these criminals to rise as the living dead, wreaking more carnage upon these lands. Their terror has ended here.
 

BACKGROUND

Athos was born into a clan that claimed a homeland in the southeast corner of the Southern Grasslands, along the shadowy borders of the desert wilderness. Records of his birth and his parents are scarce. But it's known that his father was a blacksmith and fled from his own people because of a blood feud and sought refuge with the people of the North. His mother was Tamuz Mhorr, but she died in childbirth, and the chieftain raised Athos as his own. Athos himself first saw daylight on a battlefield during a raid by Harborhead settlers and troops.

Before he'd weathered fifteen snows, the young barbarian's fighting skills were acclaimed around the council fires. In that year the Tamuz Mhorrs, usually at one another's throats, joined forces to repel the Harborhead who, intent on acquiring slaves from the southern Wastelands, had pushed across the mountains beyond Paragon and Chiaroscuro. Athos joined the howling, blood-mad horde that swept out of the southern hills, stormed over the stockade walls, and drove the Harborhead back across their frontier.

At the sack of the Harborhead units, Athos, still not fully grown, stood over six feet tall and weighed 200 pounds of solid muscle. He had the vigilance and stealth of the born woodsman, the iron-harness of the mountain man, and the Herculean physique of his blacksmith father. After the battles, Athos returned for a time to his own tribe.

It was at about this time that Athos was Chosen by the Unconquered Sun to be Exalted. His tribe, at first terrified by what he had become banished Athos from them. However, due do direct intervention by the "Silver God", Tamuz Himself, the tribe accepted Athos back as a "Prophesied One". The god believed that it was necessary for Athos to embark upon a Vision Quest, to explore and learn of the world of men.
For two years Athos wandered the Southern wastelands, attempting to understand the ways of man.

Finally Athos, his soul lonely and battle-ready, accepted legitimate employment as bodyguard to a Gem noblewoman named Khashtris. This lady set out for Paragon with Athos, another guard known as Hiei, and several retainers. When the servants plotted to rob and murder their employer, Athos and Hiei saved Khashtris and escorted her safely to Paragon. During this exploit, Athos discovered that Hiei was an Exalted as well, and the two became close companions.

Athos and Hiei traveled the southern wastes together for months exploring, helping, and hiring out to whomever was in need. One night, Athos began having vivid visions of Chiaroscuro, and the two decided to head to this city to see why they have been called there.