Here is the story as promised, it is only the starting chapter of what could be a good long tale.
The story is based on the Age of Conan game schematics, in the game you have feats and abilities. For spell casters these come as spells mostly, for assassins they have poison, stealth and speed. For the Barbarian, they deal with damage and survival as well as others. In the RP thread on my Guilds forum I've written stories where I have 'unleashed' or 'wielded' rage like a weapon, so I wrote this to explain.
In Cimmeria the skies were cloudless, the moon full and bright bathing the landscape in different shades of blue, broken sporadically by the orange flame of torches and campfires. The daily toil was over for another day for most Cimmerians, however in a longhouse, situated in Conall's Valley the days work has yet to being.
“What’s the deal with this anyway, I was on to a certain lay before we were summoned here!”
The speaker was a wiry, broken toothed youth with fading bruises across his face.
“What I want to know is where you got enough money to pay for someone to sleep with you!” Another stockier youth called from across the room, inciting a few laughs from the other adolescents summoned, the smaller youths face reddened.
“Perhaps you should ask your sister if coin changed hand!” The wiry youth replied angrily, rousing another peal of laughter from the crowd.
The bigger youth pushed himself away from the wall he was leaning on and strode across the room.
“I’m going to knock out the rest of you teeth, little man.”
The stocky youth threw a few powerful punches at the wiry youth but they were dodged with some skill, most likely from previous practice.
“You’re going to have to hit me first, ox cock!”
The other dozen or so youths were cheering the fight on, moving into a ring almost subconsciously.
The word was not shouted but carried to every ear in the longhouse, filled with authority and substance. The youths quickly broke the ring with accustomed speed, all turning to face the man who had entered.
They knew him from reputation, and if they were like any other cowed youth of their age they would fear him too. However they looked on the warrior with awe and respect, knowing his deeds in battle from many tales told around the campfire. He was tall of height and large of build, although the night was cold enough to mist his breath he was bare-chested, his legs and feet wrapped in fine grey wolf hide. From a chill crawler skin girdle hung his two blades, famously named Dusk and Dawn, the blades themselves glowing with an inner light the colour of their namesakes. The mans scarred face was framed in a mane of black hair, braided at what seemed random and affixed with tokens such as feathers and bone. The weather beaten face spoke of many battles, the pale grey eyes hard from the gruesome sights the man has witnessed.
The warrior looked around the room, noting each individual that was present.
“You are wondering why I have called you here, only you and not all the youths in the village.” He walked quietly in to the hall, every move supple yet commanding.
“I have asked for you to be here, because I and others have noticed your potential for greatness.”
He moved towards a large high-backed chair and sat down gracefully, motioning the others to sit in front of him.
“Crom, as you know, has given all his children his strength to survive in this world. However to some he imparted an extra part of him, a small spark of his immense anger. That spark is within me, and potentially in you.”
He paused long enough to let the thought sink in, eventually he leaned forward and pointed to someone in the crowd.
“Senkar, you fought off two Vanir with a broken arm and a split scalp.”
He pointed to another, the wiry youth from before.
“Jaser, you fought one of the best fighters in the village and did not get a scratch until your anger got the better of you.”
He pointed to the bigger youth who Jaser was just fighting with.
“Brinnon, I saw you myself at the Gala lift a rock men older and bigger couldn't budge.”
The warrior leaned back in the chair.
“These are traits of The Rage which you can learn to control, with enough practice you can be stronger, faster and feel no pain. Those who master The Rage can even influence those around them, improving prowess in allies and inciting fear into the enemy.”
The warrior paused once again to collect his thoughts.
“The Rage is a tangible thing, like the Shaman who draws his power from the ether, we can draw on The Rage to manifest itself in us as strength and dexterity. At the moment you draw The Rage from instinct, but when you learn to control it you can wield it like a blade, or an axe, or a hammer.”
“Beware though, The Rage can turn on you if you let it. It will consume your will until your vision goes red and you remember nothing more until you wake up drained, if you’re lucky to wake up at all.”
“I can see The Rage affects each of you differently, for some it is near the surface, only awaiting a trigger to release, but it is untamed and weak.”
Brinnon looked at the floor as the warriors eyes cast over him.
“Others have The Rage buried deep and requires a great deal of anger for it to emerge, the result is usually the Red Mist as I have already described.”
Jaser fingered his broken teeth as he thought on this.
“I can teach you to put a collar on The Rage, to keep it chained until you release it like an arrow from a bow. I will warn you now though, the training will be extreme, I will break some of you, but if you endure you could become a great warrior - perhaps surpassing me.” He added, smiling.
“I will only offer this choice once, if you do not want to be a part of this then leave now, and hope The Rage does not consume you.”
None of the youths moved, as the warrior expected, only those without the spark would choose to leave and he could already see The Rage in each pair of eyes in the hall.
“Good, then let the training begin…”