"There are few alive today who know of the Blood-King Ashur, and fewer still are those who have heard more than suspicious rumors of why few venture north into the frozen wastes of High Boros. I will tell you what little I know of Ashur before he became the legend, and nightmare, that he is now..."
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"Ashur was once a blacksmith, his tribe's name lost to the ages, known to craft the mightiest of swords, blades that could take a frost giant's head from its shoulders in one stroke. The secret, I think, was in Ashur's cooling technique: He would quench the weapon in the blood of a living slave, one strong enough for duty but too belligerent to be trusted, and it is said that Ashur's malice and disregard for life went into every blade he forged. Whether or not this is true is unconsequential; the results were clear as his tribe found victory after victory against both the frost giants and other barbarian tribes.
But soon his tribe's leader, Kulvar, grew overconfident and lead his entire standing force (some three hundred men by this time) nearly a week's march to their doom at the hands of the largest other tribe in the region. Kulvar had thought it a calculated risk -that he had a chance of succeeding- but it is said that it was Ashur who finally convinced Kulvar to 'claim what was rightfully theirs'.
Upon receiving the news of Kulvar's failure, delivered by a single starved, frostbitten survivor, Ashur knew that it was time to wipe the slate clean and forge the beginnings of his empire: A sword. Not just any sword, but a masterpiece, worthy of a king..."
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"Ashur left his now-dying tribe, what few women and children were left, and traveled deep into the mountains in search of a giant's forge, rumored to be built into the heart of a volcano. After only a few days he was met by a lone frost giant, whom he would have slain on sight but for the fact that the giant had allowed himself to be seen. The giant claimed he knew why Ashur had come and that his search for revenge had caught the attention of the giant's jarl, Hrisskol, whose patrols had been watching him and his ill-fated tribe for some time.
Upon meeting Ashur at the frost giant camp, Hrisskol explained that he had once vowed a similar revenge against a great white wyrm but was forced to turn back before starvation took him. Ashur, although wary of being alone amidst an entire camp of giants, listened to Hrisskol's story and told him of the forge he sought. Hrisskol laughed and told Ashur that the gods had blessed him, for they were the keepers of this forge and the volcano's rich deposits of adamantium. The highly-religious frost giants feared the retribution of both Telchur, god of winter, and Bleredd, the god of fire and craft, were they to ever to mine the metal or strike up the volcanic forge. Ashur, now certain of his purpose, scoffed at the giants and said that they could easily have taken over the entire continent had they not hidden from their superstitions.
And so Ashur toiled in the darkness of the volcano for days, searching for and finally extracting the precious adamantium with a magic pick that had lain unused by the forge. He took the metal to Hrisskol and asked for his hammer, which he relinquished in return for the honor of watching the process from start to finish. Ashur agreed.
Alas, Hrisskol did not know of Ashur's trade secret, nor of the malice and disregard for life that he had hidden behind a story of poetic justice to earn Hrisskol's trust. No sooner had the final hammer blow been struck that Ashur turned on his heel and plunged the white-hot adamantium blade up into Hrisskol's belly, burying the entire length of the blade in his chest. Hrisskol looked down into Ashur's eyes with a mix of surprise and anger, but could do little more than gasp as his organs liquified..."
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"I know not what happened to the frost giants at the base of the mountain, but it can be assumed that Ashur slew them all, so consumed was he by his vision of conquest. The newly-forged blade, tainted by Ashur's dark heart, the violent nature of the volcano and bloody history of the jarl Hrisskol's hammer, only strengthened Ashur's single-minded lust for power and he carried it back down to what remained of his old tribe's camp. In its place now stood the moved camp of the warlord Morgain, Kulvar's bane, fortified with sharpened palisades of evergreen. Ashur strode to the gates, ignoring the calls of the two watchmen until the first arrow sailed by his ear. He hefted his sword, stark black against the snow around him and called for the gate to be opened, that he might challenge the tribe's leader to single combat. The guard who fired notched a second arrow but before he could bring his bow to bear Ashur was upon him, sword raised high, and he fell with stifled scream as the blade cleaved him in half from neck to hip. Sword slick with blood, Ashur turned to the second guard who had been slow to draw his crude, double-bladed axe. The man stopped as he met Ashur's cold glare and quickly hammered his fist on the gate, disappearing inside once it opened enough for him to scramble through.
The camp stretched back nearly a kilometer from where Ashur stood, and all eyes were upon him and he walked briskly and confidently into the heart of the compound. The gathering crowd gave Ashur a wide berth, as many in awe of the black sword as the man who carried it. Morgain awaited him clad in a hauberk of heavy chain, its surface adorned with countless battle trophies, and a pair of broadswords were strapped securely to his back. The other warriors knew why this stranger had come, and quickly formed a large circle around him and their leader, bristling in anticipation.
As Morgain drew and flourished his blades, a smile tugged at the corner of Ashur's lips and he started to walk slowly towards his opponent. Morgain charged, lashing out with his first sword to push Ashur's blade away and coming down hard with his second. Ashur's moves were slow, deliberate and calculated, but he parried Morgain's swings easily despite the size of his own weapon. He replied with a savage downward strike, though the blow was not aimed at Morgain himself but one of his blades, which shattered under the superior craftsmanship of Ashur's masterpiece. Morgain swore loudly and tossed away the sundered hilt, taking his remaining blade in both hands and charging his usurper with a flurry of short chops and thrusts. Once again Ashur matched him blow for blow, giving ground intentionally and leading him around the clearing. This carried on for a few more minutes until finally Morgain relented, taking a sagging defensive stance, breath ragged. The smirk that had been playing at Ashur's features was more confident now and both combatants knew where the fight was heading. Still, Morgain would not take such a defeat on his knees, and charged once again, broadsword held high over his shoulder for a heavy horizontal swing. This time Ashur eased out of his stance, the tip of his sword hitting the dirt as he reached out to catch his fatigued opponent's wrist. Ashur yanked downwards and Morgain's hands followed, his sword clattering to the ground. They now stood eye to eye, Morgain's arms locked in Ashur's mighty grip.
Morgain met Ashur's steely gaze and, in his last moment of defiance, spit in Ashur's face. After a brief moment, he felt the weight of the flat of Ashur's blade on his shoulder and after that, nothing. Ashur grabbed a fistful of Morgain's hair and cut his head from his shoulders, the body slumping first onto its knees and then to the ground, a gout of blood spurting across the snow. Ashur's grin grew, a maddened look in his eyes, and he lifted Morgain's head above his own, drinking deep the blood that poured from his trophy.
And so he became Ashur, the Blood-King."
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"Ashur, the Blood-King, who united nineteen barbarian tribes beneath his throne, enslaving those too weak to fight and brainwashing those who could with promises of an empire stretching from here to Keoland to Ahlissa.
Ashur, the Blood-King, who nearly drove the polar frost giants to extinction and personally slew no less than three great white wyrms.
Ashur, the Blood-King, who stole a skull-sized diamond from the Rainbow Vale of Rigodruok and returned to his people on the back of a huge monstrous spider (which immediately died from exposure to the region's subzero temperatures).
Yet even with all these accomplishments (and more that I do not care to remember), no man is safe from death. No, not even him.
...I know this because it was I who slew him..." The man at the table laughed deeply, looking to each of his company with a sly smile.
"I slew Ashur, the Blood-King, because it was he who slew my father, my mother, and my brothers and sisters. May he suffer eternally in death for all the suffering he caused in life." After a small pause, the others at the table burst into laughter and the storyteller scowled. One of the audience scoffed,
"You said 'e was lived some odd five 'undred years ago! We're supposed to believe you're a soddin' immortal or somethin'?" Another bellowed,
"That's if 'e even existed at all! This sod's probably just lookin' for a free meal n' a pat on the back!" The storyteller ignored the other jeers, gathered his cloak from the back of his chair and stood, giving one last glare before striding out the door and into the cold night air.
The man donned his cloak as he walked briskly into the nearby forest, muttering under his breath of the 'imbeciles' he entertained. Soon he reached a small clearing, shrouded by night and away from prying eyes, and he returned to his normal form. The large silver dragon gave one last look behind him before taking off, large powerful wings bearing him north towards the Land of Black Ice...
((I might write up an in-game bio and another story like this about how he came to be in Sigil, depending on the reception. Hope you had as much fun reading as I did making it up!))
Ashur, Blood-King of Hyborea
