Arath'Marin

Sobriquet for Colran Marketh, human warrior and hero of renown. Raised a human slave under the Keshian Empire, he later became a legendary swordsman and wielded Murandir, the Black Blade, until his death at the Fall of Ironpass.

The Tale of Darkblade

Colran Marketh was not a hero. He was an orphan that had grown up in the alleys of Tantric. As a boy, he fought to feed himself. As an adult, he fought because it's what he was good at. He had spilled blood in streets, in sand, and in the Veil itself. His enemies would call him honorable, but for Colran it was something more elemental. He fought because it was required, because someone had to---because there would be more suffering if he didn't.

Colran Marketh was not a hero. He found the black blade in a cave inside the Marches, but it wasn't for greed or desire or glory that he had grabbed it. A squad of A'Triari had cornered him, and they only hesitated to advance because Colran's name had already spread among the Keshian ranks. Colran was not a human to be trifled with, the elves knew that well enough. They had butchered his strike force but in the end, their hesitation cost them everything. Murandir, the black blade was called, and in Colran's hands it was a force of nature itself.

Colran Marketh was not a hero. But a legend grew around him anyway. Arath'Marin, they called him. Colran left the Marches behind, but the name followed him doggedly. And it had followed him here, to Ironpass.

Ironpass. Colran scoffed. It was so mundane... unlike the sight that stood before him. A narrow ravine straight through the Titan's Teeth, as if the gods themselves had cleaved it in twain. The only Northlands crossing for a thousand miles, Colran preferred the orc name: Chok'Logar, "the world scar."

The pass usually stood empty, a no-man's land between the realm of the orcs and the humans. But not today. The orc clans, unified into a single war host, spread through Ironpass as an ocean of green menace, as far as the eye could see. It wasn't a battle, it was the end of humanity.

"Arath'Marin, we must fall back! We will make our final stand at Northwarden!" his lieutenants cried. But Colran, his black blade dripping with orc ichor, knew better. He looked to the center of the Kingdom's line, where the Companions formed the tip of the spear. Ser Arras commanded troops from horseback, holding the crumbling battle line through sheer force of will. Kin'Saan Watari was a blinding flurry of fists and feet, an immovable wall to the orc forces that opposed him. And the Magus, Rafe Windsong? He was arcane death incarnate.

But Colran knew what even the Companions must have realized. There were too many. The orc host would spill on the walls of Northwarden as a tidal wave, climbing on the bodies of their fallen kin until the castle itself disappeared under their roiling mass. And when Northwarden fell, so too did the Kingdom. Colran signalled his trumpeter to sound the general retreat.

Colran Marketh was not a hero. But the legend of Arath'Marin would be, because that is what duty required. With all his might, he raised the black blade Murandir over his head, spoke the word of power, and slammed it into the ground. And then there was only darkness.

Ethinicity
Human
Year of Birth
circa 115 KE
Year of Death
156 KE
Birthplace
Tantric - Kingdom of Andor
Aligned Organizations
The Companions
A'Triari, the Bladebound