Chronicles of Marhalla
There is an old legend among the farmers that till the land just south of the border between Aldolen and Dorwin. The elders tell of masked shadows, swift as night that move unseen among the trees. The shadows do no harm and are seen by only the most observant but wherever they go little bits of wealth vanish with them. Merchants traveling the northern road scoff at the legends, seeing them as warnings for travelers to mind the road for thieves and other ne’er-do-wells and nothing more. However, a new legend has sprung up around the lands nearby, a legend spreading steadily south. This new tale tells of a different sort of masked shadow, just as hard to see but no longer harmless, instead leaving a trail of corpses in its wake. The old ones warn all those who will listen that if they see this mask coming for them, all there is to do is pray. Locks will not stop it. Walls will not stop it. All there is left to do is fear. Fear that it doesn’t come for you.
By all appearances, The elven lad by the name of Scarloc Wydrioth is the last you would expect to be the man behind the mask. Standing 6’3 and of a slim build, Scarloc is cheerful, optimistic, and a fan of poking fun of making a quick joke. However, after the mask is donned, Scarloc becomes a different beast altogether.
Silent, precise, and meticulously lethal, many foes have met their end suddenly and in a state of complete shock as from out of absolutely nowhere, scarloc’s ends their life through sword, dagger, bow or a catastrophic amount of blood.