My name is Caden Law.
My Name is Blueraven.
I am a vagrant scholar and war veteran.
I am a murderer, a liar, and a coward.
Months ago, I took up arms with the people of Raiaera.
Months ago, I was pressed to war and sent to die.
I stood with free Men, with Elves, and with Nature herself.
I hid behind the lines, letting others fall in my place.
I have wielded the arcane for any cause that counts.
I have desecrated lands for my own miserable skin.
I have seen a future that cannot come to pass.
I have seen the future that I cannot undo.
I am a tapestry of scars.
I am living proof of sin.
I was born in Salvar, and I returned seeking to mend my wounds.
I was born in Salvar, and I ran seeking solace for my crimes.
I am a Wizard, alone and unsanctioned.
I am a tool, filthy and broken.


A mountain pass somewhere in northeastern Salvar. There was a blizzard raging, but there always is this far out. Even in times of peace, this was a part of the world too far removed from any seat of power to warrant the efforts of Salvar's weather magi. That the roads remained worthy of travel was nothing short of a miracle, even if you had to trudge through six inches of snow to get to it.

The pass was a nexus of roads, of powers, of intentions. It was one of those unseen henges upon which the fate of the entire nation could pivot from at any moment. Four roads connected here: One that followed an ancient tunnel from the side of a stream, one connecting directly to the capital city of Knife's Edge, one that segued to one of the dozens of villages that called this mountainous region home, and another that lead right through to the untamed wilderness of the Far North. It was kept clearer than most parts of the pass, enough that you could see the rough old stones of an ancient road beneath a thin layer of snow and ice. The anchor for what little weather magic kept snowfall from piling up was a sign standing between the road to the Far North and one of the villages.

It was nothing impressive.

The man standing in front of it was another matter. He wasn't especially tall or broad and in any urban setting or even an ordinary tavern, he would've been easy to write off as Silly Miscreant #3552. Out here, however, was another matter. Out here, where everything was black and white, he stood out and demanded attention whether you wanted to give it or not. Out here, he looked like a true demon: His skin pale as porcelain, his hair one great shock of backswept blond, his ears pointed and his face mostly hidden from the eyes down by a sleekly angled iron mask. He wore a silk scarf, thickly woven and very, very red. He wore a knee-length tabard bearing a red fist upon a very white background. He wore plate armor on his shoulders, his elbows, knees and hands. He wore chainmail and thick cloth beneath. Strapped to each thigh were daggers, fit for throwing or not. Held in his left hand was a strangely curved stick, solid brown with a bronze cap at each end.

He was absolutely motionless, his eyes closed and his expression -- what little of it could be seen above his mask -- serene and restful.

I have done noble deeds.
I have done awful things.
Because I did not have the choice to do anything else.
Because I did not have the courage to do anything else.


Listen closely and you might hear as he hears. Feel as he feels. Know what the Rogue knows.

The sound of hoofbeats crunching through snow, of labored breathing and weary bones. The echo of each impact through hundreds, dozens, and finally just a few feet of dirt and rock. The knowledge that now is the time for him to open his eyes.

Shy away from those cold blue things. They'll be the death of someone.

My crimes are many.
And today, they come for me.

See what he sees now.

A man of twenty-odd years age, wearing both a heavy cape of fur and hide, and a thick blue longcoat. Pale in the sense of being pasty, unattractive, too busy hiding in dark basements and lurking in dank dungeons to ever get more than sunburn from the time spent in transition. A man wearing a tall blue hat with a wide brim and a thick black belt at its base, and yellow-lensed goggles like those of a skyship pilot or a steam racer. A man with a sword on one hip and a red rod dangling from the other, with light blond hair and a thin case of stubble, riding upon a burly Salvic workhorse.

He was a Wizard, and his greeting was a disconcertingly naive, "Hello!" shouted over the roar of nearby winds that somehow failed to bring more than light snowfall to this place. "What are you doing out here?"

The Rogue stared. Comprehension dawned, and the faux naivete bled away like the color from the Wizard's skin. "I am what you think I am," the Rogue declared, with a Voice the Wizard found all too familiar. It defined itself with a spectral echo on the mind and elsewhere, one that always lead to thoughts of the color red, and of the taste of blood, and the scent of decay. A Voice that came bearing gifts of despair, of grief, and of impotent fury.

The Voice of a Death Lord come to Salvar.

The Voice of the Wizard's crimes catching up to him.

My Name is Blueraven.
And today is the day I die.