The immortal blood served as a conduit that allowed some of the being’s power to flow into the hunter when she died, a power that all of his descendants have borne since.Īnother myth speaks of the daughter of a chieftain in the depths of antiquity. One common myth tells of a primitive hunter encountering a dying primordial after it had been bested by one of its own kind in the early days of the world-moved by her plight, he tried vainly to aid her and came in contact with the creature’s blood. Primal Powerīloodweavers have many conflicting stories about their origins but all agree that the power is nearly as old as mortals themselves. Through blood cursing they alter destiny, blood puppetry takes control over other living things, blood shaping turns flowing crimson to clay in their hands, consumption takes what knitting restores, sanguine alacrity makes them supernaturally quick, sanguine body incredibly tough, and with the techniques of vitriolic conversion they attain the ability to corrode. These focuses are to the masters of blood as schools of magic are to a wizard, their area of expertise defining themselves as much as anything else. Many fear them for their control over the substance of life but those that see past this superstitious dread often find powerful allies.Ī bloodweaver’s power flows from their vitality and the strength of that exceptionally potent life force the means by which they fuel disciplines, the teachings of sanguine traditions. ![]() I won’t let them harm you.”īloodweavers use the primal power coursing through their veins to enhance their own abilities, heal or bolster allies, and debilitate or kill their foes. “Don’t worry,” she whispers, ”.You’ve done enough. Her eyes suddenly fill with concern and anger, and when the halfling touches him again, he feels a warmth and comfort flow through him. She moves toward him and wipes a drop of blood from his forehead, placing it to her lips. He trips and falls at her feet, struggling to rise. The elf suddenly staggers into a small clearing where a halfling woman in a simple brown robe stands gathering herbs. If he falters the whole kingdom would have no warning of their treachery. His horse died yesterday and he’s been running since but he dare not stop-the war host was close, their hunting horns echoing around and behind. They outnumber her six to one-only the last bandit has the chance to scream. Reaching within to her reservoir of inner power she allows it to pour through her, muscles surging in response with impossible strength and speed before she leaps into the middle of them. She extends her hands and blood flows forth, hardening into the shape of two long, slightly curved daggers. ![]() It had been a long hunt but as always she’s found her prey. Perching on the bandit’s camp, the drow smiled. ![]() ![]() Pain explodes in his chest, a red haze fills his vision, blood spatters across the girl’s face, and the last thing he sees is her licking a sanguine droplet from her lips. Without warning the ore cries out as something inside of him tears. The girl tilts her head and smiles, her eyes becoming pools of crimson. A malevolent monstrous grin overcomes his face as he imagines the cruelties soon to be visited upon her but as he tries take another step forward, he finds his body unable to move. Snarling, the ore stalked through the refugees’ clearing intent on a scrawny human girl-easy prey.
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