Name: Sir Malvek
Race: Barbarian
Class: Shaman
Sex: Male
Height: unknown
Weight: unknown
Eyes: unknown
Hair: unknown

Malvek's Story

Malvek stood before the chessboard, Screaming Mace in hand, panting for air and bleeding from several spots. He hefted his gray shield and counted his wounds. It seemed that no matter how many of these undead pawns he smashed to bits, another would come to takes its place. Some would say it was a futile effort. Malvek generally didn't listen to such talk. Evil was evil. Marshalling up his energy, the large barbarian called forth to the winds and the soil to grant him mana for a spell. As his arms wove the invisible sigils taught to him by his Shaman teachers, he thought back to when it all began.

It was a particularly warm day in the high barren mountain peaks that young Malvek called home. The children of Halas were playing in the streets flinging snowballs at one another and slaying pretend polar bears with icicle swords. Most of those who had reached the proper age were already being placed into guilds so some of the revelers wore the tunics given to them by their masters. Malvek had just recently been introduced to the head of the Halas warrior guild though he was still a season from joining officially. Despite that, his family was quite proud that their young son would turn out to be a warrior (his older sister had discovered a knack for sewing which dismayed the long time warrior clan).

Malvek gave a killing blow to his first wooly mammoth and watched as it fell alongside the mountain of other imaginary creatures at his feet. As he peered about at the pretend carnage, he was struck from behind. The force was not great, but the shock sent him sprawling. The pale skinned boy (he had not yet earned his tattoos) now lay face first in the snow, the wet slush of a snowball melting down the back of his head. The laughter that reached his quickly reddening ears could only come from one boy, Tilset. Tilset had always been a little bigger, a little stronger, and a lot more arrogant. Being a season older he had begun his guild training just after the first snows. Now there he stood, laughing at Malvek's predicament.

"Hey Mal, you think they'll let ye into the Wolves?" laughed Tilset, "You better take up sewing like yer sister!"

Malvek's face reddened and he clutched at the snow beneath his clenched hands. Quickly he sprung up and with a fierce bellow hurled the snowball at his long time rival. Tilset unfortunately was further away than Malvek had judged. The snowball arced through the air and softly struck the snow a few feet in front Tilset who doubled over in laughter.

"Will ye even be able to hold a sword with that arm, Malvek?" He barely was able to get the words out through his guffaws.

This burned the young warrior-to-be more than ever. For years he had been on the sharp end of this prickly, arrogant youth's barbs. He grabbed another fist full of snow and prepared himself to not miss this time. He pictured Tilset laid out on his back, his face covered in frosty justice.

With another great yell he threw, his anger surging into his hands. As the sphere of snow and ice left his hand it flew much faster than Malvek had thought it would. In a heartbeat the icy missile sped forward in such a great rush that Malvek himself looked on in disbelief. By the time a second heartbeat could be counted, the packed snow flew straight into the face of the laughing Tilset and sent him sprawling.

All the children in the area stopped their make believe battles and looked on in wonder. Malvek approached the prone boy (who was most certainly unconscious) and looked down at him. Tilset's face was frosted white as if he'd been out hunting with his family for too long in the cold.

"MALVEK", yelled an elder's voice from behind him. Quickly Malvek stood up and began to protest. He had not gotten out his first syllable before being cautioned to stay quiet. The woman who approached him was Cyndl from Mac's Kilts. "Stay yer tongue lad, I saw the whole thing. She checked to make sure Tilset was not seriously hurt, which he wasn't, and had another child help him home to rest.

"I think we need to have a word with Warrior MacNaff about you young lad", she led a very sorry Malvek to The Pit where the warriors could be found practicing their art. Why was he the one in trouble? Tilset threw at him first!

Soon he was standing before Lysbeth McNaff. The imposing warrior gleamed in her noble armor, polished to a shine meant to inspire the new recruits and to give them a small lesson in humility. Cyndl was first to speak.

"Warrior McNaff, I understand that ye intend to bring this young lad into yer fold with the rest of the Wolves of the North." Cyndl was teaching Malvek's sister in the arts of creating patchwork, so she was privy to his near acceptance. "Before ye give him his tunic I think ye should think twice."

Malvek hung his head in shame. Before he had even had a chance to take his first lesson, his anger had proven him unworthy.

Lysbeth considered the young (almost) warrior and the seamstress that stood before her with a quizzical look. "What has he done that should make me reconsider this child, Cyndl? He comes from a warrior family, he is almost of age."

Cyndl then explained the fight and how Malvek had struck down the annoying Tilset (whom she agreed had started the exchange). After a moment she inched her way closer to Lysbeth until they were whispering back and forth just quiet enough that no matter how he tried, Malvek could not hear their conversation. Finally they parted and Lysbeth looked down at the boy who was awaiting news of his fate.

With an almost sorrowful look the shining warrior spoke to the boy. "Malvek, I am sorry but the Wolves of the North will not be able to accept you." The boy looked up with a crushed expression and began to plead his case. He was willing to do anything to make it up to them. They just had to take him, for his family's honor if for no other reason! Before he could continue, Warrior McNaff raised a finger and silenced his outburst. "Margyn McCann of the Shaman's guild can use ye however." She said this with a slight smile. Now the young barbarian was simply confused. "Cyndl witnessed yer exchange with the other boy and knows that ye did not hit him with a snowball. What struck him was an elemental force that some Shaman call a Frost Strike." Malvek searched his mind for the meaning of all of this. The warrior continued, "You have shown the ability to use the forces of nature to assist ye. That is something the Shaman of Justice will have to cultivate. I'm sure that ye will do well there, and bring glory unto Halas."

A few seasons later Malvek was a full Shaman with a number of victories to his name (and not a few embarrassing episodes as well). He had filled his spellbook with all the wondrous spells he could learn and afford at his age. He had fought off more bears, skeletons, goblins, and cowardly gnolls than he could count. He had killed his first polar bear a full cycle before that pompous Tilset, and he wore the helm that was made from it proudly (his sister had sewn it for him). He made sure to wear it often when Tilset was around.

While many of Malvek's kindred stayed within the range of Everfrost Peaks, this noble Shaman looked beyond. He heard the Bards in the taverns sing of far off lands and the dangers that lurked within. He was sung songs of evil which he could never have imagined (and were well beyond his ability to defeat) as well as songs of those who fought for loyalty and honor and the protection of the weak. Often these heroic songs would reverberate with a single name: Scarab. It seemed that wherever there was evil, a Scarab was there to counter it. Whenever a young adventurer struggled, a Scarab was there to assist. Soon he would frequent the taverns in hopes of hearing more tales of these brave adventurers and would constantly quiz the bards as to the veracity of the stories they sang. In the stories, they lived by a code that Malvek had always hoped he would live by as well. Soon the battle wizened, but still young, barbarian made a decision. He would explore the world and lend his arm to protect it from the evils that seemed to increase their fight with every waxing of the silver moon. He hoped that if his will and arm were of sufficient strength, that one day maybe he too would be allowed to fight for the noble Scarab.

He would not stay in Halas and the Everfrost Peaks, his mind was too full of far off lands and his soul desired to visit them all. As for his homeland in the mountains; they were well protected by the rest of his kin.

After making the arduous journey from his snowy homeland to Rivervale he met a Scarab by the name of Miri (just Miri, as she had not earned her last name yet). She gave him advice and told him what would be required if he meant to join with Scarab in their cause. From the stories he had heard, he knew that he would be a good Scarab. All he needed to do was convince them of this fact!

So he fought. He slew the orcs and goblins that had been harassing the good folk of Rivervale. He assisted those in need and never demanded payment for his services (though he certainly did not turn down donations, as he knew that his next range of spells would be expensive). He kept in touch with Jayfoot and Miri and asked often for their assessments.

Eventually Malvek had been allowed to become a recruit of Scarab and had been so for quite some time. Despite the elation at such and honor and opportunity, he was beginning to feel that he might never be allowed to join.

He eagerly attended Scarab's first birthday party at the Jade Tiger Inn of Freeport. While the others were getting ready for the festivities by drinking, catching up with old friends and drinking, Malvek stood in a corner in reverent awe. These brothers and sisters of Scarab were the legends come to life. Their weapons gleamed with magic. Their armor had been made from the hides of creatures that the youngster from Halas had thought were just legends. Their leader, Lord Hawke, bore a sword that when pulled from its sheath burned with the fire of the righteous. Malvek, being so young, had never laid eyes on most of Scarab's soldiers. They fought in the deepest of damp dungeons while Malvek fought just outside of towns where he could run to the guards for help. Seeing them seemed like a waking dream. They stood around and talked the talk of old friends and comrades in arms, not realizing that they were the idols of the tattooed barbarian in the corner.

Soon Jayfoot arrived and sought out Malvek. He told the lad that he had done well, and would ask him to recite the code of Scarab. Though he had it memorized, his excitement at being able to take the last step made him fumble somewhat, but not so much. Jayfoot then asked for everyone's attention and announced that the Shaman from Halas was the newest member of Scarab! The cheers and offers of fellowship from those who once were just songs in a tavern made the strong and battle scarred Shaman well up with tears (though he might not admit it today).

As the raucous party proceeded, Lord and Lady Hawke called members of Scarab forward and presented them with gifts that would be worth a king's ransom if brought to market. Needless to say, Malvek was quite surprised when Lady Hawke called him forward. He had been a full member of this illustrious group for but ten minutes and did not think that he would be included beyond his acceptance of Scarab's Code.

The Lady handed over a Screaming Mace (the same one he carries today) and told him to use it well. When they looked at his faded and ragged armor, they replaced it (what was it his Scarab cousin from Halas said? "I'll have no kinsman of mine wear leather armor"). The shaman tried to be firm, but it was so much more than he expected. Not the gifts, for he had never been one for objects. It was the acceptance and trust that they gave to him, the newest and certainly least experienced of their members, which touched him most. It would be a long, long time before this spellcaster would be able to fight on the same level as his new family, but they did not care. He was one of them.

As the light of the spell swirled around him, Malvek could feel his wounds healing. He was still sore, but he could fight. As the shimmering whirlpool of light faded he saw that another pawn had appeared to replace its fallen comrade. To its left was a skeletal knight! Once again the shield was brought to bear and the sigils of power were scryed into the cool night air. The little pawn was rooted to the spot, but the undead knight began to shamble its dry bones towards the caster who had interrupted a game of chess that no one understood. So the dance played itself out again. The mace screamed out its magic and the shield received another dent. A smile played itself over Malvek's lips as he thought of his adopted family and in a whispered voice spoke aloud for no one in particular: "For Scarab".