Faradrim od Ogol


I remember being told stories of the Tembo when I was child. The elders would weave a tapestry of horrible tales detailing the gruesome nature of the beast, in hopes that it would keep the curious young ones from wandering too far from camp. My only sighting to date occurred when I was ten years old. A distant image of an orange blur viewed from a hundred yards away as I was being frantically loaded onto a moving skiff. Today I had a much better view.

As my companions engaged the beast I was able to find a deadly vantage point. I knocked an arrow and sighted in on my quarry. At that moment I felt the Tembo’s heartbeat pumping in unison with my own. We were one creature, connected by sheer willingness to survive. Not regrettably I would be the one to sever those ties. After numerous direct hits, and the combined strengths of my allies, the terrible beast had fallen.

Tribal Elves like to name their hunting parties after the fearsome predators they have slain. Each name more terrifying and foreboding than the last, as they try to out do and one up each other for foolish bragging rights. In ancient times only the most skilled and elite rangers would be given a name, a sacred title passed on to them by their tribal elders once per generation, they called these hunters Faradrim od Ogol, The Red Wardens.

Much has changed since the Wardens have tracked these sands, new groups have arisen in their shadow unsuccessfully trying to live up to their formers glory. Tonight I dine in the company of great hunters, my brothers bound by blood and sand. By right of the predator and the last of the Eru, I proclaim ourselves Faradrim od Ogol, and may the stars help those for whom we prey upon…

~Blackmoon’s Journal

Faradrim od Ogol

Dark Sun Blackmoons