Sigil: City of Doors

I was raised to believe that fighting led to honor. That the path of the Berserker was the path of a warrior. I was led to believe that you earn your honor on the field of combat, by crushing your enemy beneath your booted heel, and your right to live by being able to defend that honor! I am a warrior of Rashemen! And the only one who ever knew what it meant to fight for honor!

I could best any of them in combat. And I did. I rose above Rollith Edgarson, Harold Strongarm, even Trallgoth the Quick himself! I should have been the most revered. I should have led those bloody idiots in battle. Did I earn that right? Undoubtedly. Was I allowed it? Was I given it? No! It was Ubbred the Blooded who led us. More like Ubbred the Dimwitted. More like Ubbred Pigson. Ubbred the Fool, Ubbred the Dead, who can be eaten by the maggots and humped by Okka the Colorful for eternity for all I care!

I told him that he was the doddering old weakling he'd become, and he cursed my father, Ivar, saying that he died a fool's death, and married a badger who gave birth to a weasel. He should have known then and there what his fate would be. I invited him into the circle to be beaten down with honor, but like the yellow livered ferret he was he denied me, claiming me unworthy of the strength of his arm. He left me no choice.

The next day, in the middle of the Mulsantir marketplace, I called him out. I told him the truth, and that was that he was a doddering old bastard, that he wasn't half the man my father was, and not a quarter of the man I was. I told him that the women laugh when they seem him drool over his evening meals, and that he pisses himself when he drinks half a stein of mead. I don't remember what else I said, but it was enough. He drew his blade and did his best, which wasn't very good. By the end of our brief conflict, it was his blood that soaked the grass of Mulsantir, and I who stood triumphant. By the time the other Berserkers found me, they beheld the sight of a true warrior. Before they came, my vision was red still, and I knew what I was to do. As Ubbred the Weak breathed his last breaths, I cut him open, and plunged my head into his guts. When I emerged, I felt my outward appearance finally match the warrior I am inside.

As witnesses later described it, my eyes were wide and fearsome, and my face contorted with rage. As I shook my head in my fury, flecks of carnage flew from my blooded hair. No man, no woman, no witch or berserker dared approach me. After a few moments, it was Harold Strongarm who stepped forward. The others began to raise their blades and shuffle behind him like cowardly sheep. He said I had till nightfall, and then I was to leave Mulsantir. I could gather my belongings, including my blade, Widowmaker (and it did make a widow that day!), but if I did so much as raise it, the full weight of the Berserkers and Witches would be thrown upon me. They changed my name from Ivar Ivarson Lothbrok to Ivarson Bloodhair, and I wear the name proudly, for it is the mark of my honor.

At nightfall I knew I was done with Rashemen. I walked the Shadowlands for what felt like eternity. I went through portal after portal. I don't remember the last few days, but I've awakened somewhere altogether unfamiliar. Different. Ogres walk among tieflings that walk among humans. A troll spoke to me and didn't try to eat me. I've walked this land for not thirty minutes, and three people have offered me money for the aid of my sword. This is the land I was meant to call home. This land will bloody my blade, give me enemies and give me plunder, and soon, this land will know to fear the name of Ivarson Bloodhair!

I've spent days at a time sometimes, wandering these planes. When you go through enough portals, you forget how time passes. Minutes, hours, and days blur together, and suddenly you're back in Sigil, and you don't know how long you've been gone, or even what day it is. I found myself in Sigil, to seek fortune. Now I don't know why I'm here. My only purpose has become to end one battle, to begin the next. Battle is all there is in the planes.

When first I entered the Grey Wastes portal from Sigil, memories of my time of exile in the Shadowlands flooded back. I imagined that it was simply mind-numbing walking, from one shadow portal to the next. After spending time in full colour, I feel pieces of myself ebbing away upon return to the Shadow Realm. I couldn't feel it before, but now it's a distinct, familiar, almost physical feeling.

WheN thE faRCe of coNtRol Is stRippEd awAY, WE sEe WhaT Lies beNEAth. nEvER One whO Is cONtrOlLed, who allOWS hImSelF TO be bRokEN by mUNdaNe paTTerns oF LIFE. UndErNEAth iS AN anImAL, A cReAtuRe of NatURe wHO CAn Be CONTrolEDd Not by LAW FORCE, or GODS.

Something... something is lost. Being... stripped away. Is it me that is slipping away? Or is it something that hindered me, held me down? I called myself a Berserker of Rashemen, but what kind of a Berserker promotes order? A Berserker's way is not order. A Berserker's way is...

CHAOS! CHAOS IS THE WAY OF A WARRIOR! CHAOS IS THE WAY OF THE BEAST BENEATH!

Plunder. Warfare. Take from your enemy before he takes from you. Let loose the full strength of your rage, and crush your enemy. Yet, as I feel these hindrances slip away, I feel myself evolve. I feel the planes turn me into what they wish to see me as. I feel myself become what I need to be to survive these lands, and I feel myself become as one with some force of nature that I can't quite perceive, yet is always present.

LeT lOOse ThE mAnTLe OF RULeS. ForgET wHAt YOu oNcE PErCeiVed as CHAINS, and sEE tHEm NoW foR WHat thEy tRUly ARE. THREADS tiEd At YoUr WrISt, eAsILy bROkeN oNLy By sMAll strengTh of wIll even yOu knew not THAt yOU POSSESSED! One step is all it takes to freedom. Take it. Take it!