Tales of the Mage Slayer
Minor Content Warning: Dark Themes
Tales of the Mage Slayer is a biographical book that described the life and experiences of Valen VanBuren, a Bukatelian Magus Slayer who gained both fame and infamy within and without the guild. This book was written and edited by members of the guild several years after his death in 515. It should be noted that some aspects of his life may've been exaggerated. However, everything shown in the book has truth to it all.
Tales of the Mage Slayer
Chapter 1-The Mage Slayer
Within the bustling streets of Romashire City, amidst the whispers of darkness and the hum of magic, there existed a special guild known as the Bukatelian Magus Slayers. Clad in armor adorned with arcane symbols and armed with weapons forged from enchanted metals, these warriors were the frontline defenders against the tide of rogue mages that threatened the stability of Bukatelia. The Magus Slayers are not ordinary mercenaries; they're a highly trained and disciplined order, honed through years of rigorous training and indoctrination into the ways of combat, tactics, and arcane lore. Each member of the guild possessed a unique blend of martial prowess and arcane knowledge, allowing them to confront magical threats with both blade and spell. Led by a council of veteran warriors and wise sorcerers, the Magus Slayers operate with precision and efficiency, tracking down rogue mages with uncanny skill and bringing them to justice before they could unleash their dark ambitions upon the world. Their methods are as varied as the threats they faced, employing stealth, subterfuge, and brute force as the situation demanded. But above all, the Magus Slayers are guided by a singular purpose: to protect the people of Bukatelia from the horrors of unchecked magic and to uphold the honor and integrity of their guild. They are the silent guardians of Romashire City, standing vigilant against the encroaching shadows and ensuring that the light of hope never faltered in the face of darkness. And among those guardians, one of them would gain a notable amount of both fame and notoriety. Enter Valen VanBuren, the legendary Magus Slayer whose name struck fear into the hearts of rogue mages across Bukatelia. Tall and imposing, with blue eyes as sharp as a hawk's and a presence that commanded respect, Valen was a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield. Born in 446 in Romashire City, Valen VanBuren was raised by a family of warriors. While he always dreamed of being a sort of adventuring-type person, he soon had to witness the horrors of the Holy Grail War that was quickly approaching. He was still a young boy, only age 4, when the 3rd Holy Grail War began. While he was lucky that his home country wasn't selected by the Grail, he would soon grow up with a healthy fear of mages, as they were the ones that not only began the Grail Wars themselves but were also the ones in charge at the top during said wars. The fear of magic being misused for nefarious reasons would soon drive him away from traditional adventuring.At the age of twenty-four, Valen joined the ranks of the Bukatelian Magus Slayers, eager to make a difference in a world plagued by darkness. His natural talent for tactics and strategy quickly caught the eye of his superiors, and within six years, he had risen to the rank of captain, leading his own squad of elite warriors into the fray. Over the next three decades, Valen's reputation as a relentless hunter of rogue mages only grew, his name whispered in awe and terror alike. He was known for his ruthless efficiency and his unyielding determination to see justice served, no matter the cost. His tactics were as brilliant as they were ruthless, often catching his adversaries off guard and leaving them with no recourse but to surrender or face certain defeat. And if they were to surrender, so would their souls, as Valen wasn't one to take prisoners. But it was not just Valen's tactical prowess that made him feared among his peers; it was his success rate that truly set him apart. With a staggering 95% success rate in neutralizing magical threats, Valen VanBuren became a legend in his own right, a living embodiment of the Magus Slayer's creed: to stand against the darkness and protect the innocent at all costs. Yet, with his fame came whispers of darker deeds, of methods so extreme that even his fellow Magus Slayers hesitated to speak of them. Some said that Valen had made pacts with dark forces in his quest for power, while others claimed that he had delved too deeply into forbidden magics himself. But amidst the rumors and speculation, one thing remained certain: Valen VanBuren was a force to be reckoned with, a living legend whose name would be remembered long after his deeds had passed into legend.
Valen carried two main weapons whenever he was on a mission. There was his arming sword, Veleno, and his revolver, Ossidiana. Veleno was crafted by master blacksmiths and infused with magic-dampening materials, Veleno was more than just a weapon – it was a symbol of defiance against the forces of darkness. With each swing, Valen could cleave through magical defenses as easily as cutting through silk, leaving his adversaries vulnerable to his relentless onslaught. However, Valen would only use Veleno if the enemy had approached too close. On a normal basis, Valen would use his ace-in-the-hole: Ossidiana. Ossidiana was the one that truly sparked fear into the soul of evil mages. A sleek and blackened revolver with five chambers, Ossidiana was no ordinary firearm – it was a weapon of literal arcane destruction. Depending on who you were, you'd either be hit with a standard .44 calibur bullet that would cause severe damage. But gods help you if you were a magic-user that was on his hit list. Valen carried several pieces of specialized ammunition with him: Nulli-Magia rounds. A mage that was hit by one of these bullets would suddenly feel their arcane prowess go against them. Any sort of defensive magic used would be rendered uselss, all before the bullet tore through not just the victim's body, but their magic circuits themselves.
Chapter 2: A Burden Carried
Despite his legendary status and the admiration of his peers, Valen bore a burden that few could comprehend – the weight of countless battles fought, and the toll they had taken on his mind and soul. For years, Valen had stood on the frontlines of the battle against rogue mages, facing horrors that would drive lesser men to madness. He had witnessed the fall of comrades-in-arms, their lifeless bodies lying cold upon the blood-stained earth. He had seen the innocent suffer at the hands of those who would abuse the power of magic, their cries for mercy haunting him in the dead of night. With each passing battle, Valen's sanity had slipped further and further away, like grains of sand slipping through his fingers. The nightmares came unbidden, vivid and cruel, replaying the horrors of the past with relentless clarity. He saw the faces of those he had failed to save, their accusing stares burning into his soul like brands of fire. But perhaps the greatest torment of all was the knowledge that he had become that which he despised most – a bringer of death and destruction, a weapon wielded in the name of justice but stained with the blood of the innocent. The faces of his fallen enemies haunted him just as much as those of his fallen comrades, their accusing whispers echoing in the depths of his mind. Yet, despite the darkness that threatened to consume him, Valen VanBuren continued to fight on, driven by a sense of duty that burned brighter than the flames of his torment. For he knew that as long as rogue mages threatened the safety of Bukatelia, he could never rest, never relent, never surrender to the darkness that gnawed at his soul.Valen's final years were a stark contrast to the life he had known on the battlefield. Retreating from the horrors of the 4th Holy Grail War, he sought solace in the quiet solitude of his home, far removed from the chaos and carnage that had defined his existence for so long. In the stillness of those years, Valen attempted to mend the shattered fragments of his mind, seeking redemption for the sins of his past and the lives he had taken in the name of justice. He tried to surround himself with the simple pleasures of life – the gentle rustle of leaves in the wind, the warmth of the sun on his face, the soft laughter of children playing in the streets. The keyword, however, was "tried." But try as he might, Valen could never truly escape the ghosts of his past. The memories of battles fought and lives lost lingered like a specter in the corners of his mind, a constant reminder of the blood that stained his hands and the scars that marred his soul. The gunshots were still audible, despite his failing ears. The blade swings could be felt, even though his hands could only carry a cane. As the years passed by in a blur of fleeting moments, Valen found himself growing weary, his body frail and his spirit weary from the weight of his burdens. And so, it was with a sense of resignation that he faced the end of his days, knowing that his time in this world was drawing to a close. But in death, perhaps Valen found the peace that had eluded him in life. As his weary soul slipped free from its mortal coil, he was finally released from the shackles of his past, his mind unburdened by the weight of guilt and regret. Valen died in the year 515 at age 69. He had no family, no kin, and few peers.
The Bukatelian Magus Slayers sought to honor his legacy and commemorate his contributions to their cause. In a solemn ceremony, attended by warriors and mages alike, Veleno and Ossidiana were enshrined within the hallowed halls of the guild's building, preserved as relics of the once walking legend. Today, people can still go to the BMS's building to view this relic. Yet, even as the Magus Slayers paid homage to their fallen comrade, whispers of doubt and controversy lingered in the air. Some questioned whether Valen's brutal tactics and relentless pursuit of victory truly warranted such reverence, given the toll they had taken on both himself and his enemies. Was it right to glorify a man whose methods bordered on the extreme, whose thirst for justice often blurred the line between heroism and tyranny? For those who had witnessed Valen's deeds firsthand, the answer was not so clear-cut. While there was no denying his skill and dedication to the cause, there were those who harbored reservations about the true cost of his legacy – the lives lost, the minds shattered, the souls scarred by the violence he had wrought. Yet, in the end, the decision to honor Valen's memory was made not out of blind admiration, but out of a deep-seated respect for the sacrifices he had made in the name of duty and honor. For better or for worse, Valen VanBuren had left an indelible mark on the history of the Bukatelian Magus Slayers, his legacy a testament to the complexities of heroism and the enduring struggle between light and darkness in the realm of Bukatelia.
Chapter 3: Excerpts and Summaries
Over the years, the guild has collected Valen's field journals and reports. We've compiled several of them into a more readable form.| Field Journal Entry - Mission 001: Date: Autumn of 471 Location: Romashire City Outskirts Objective: Locate and neutralize smugglers of illegal relic trafficking. My sources had informed me of a gang of smugglers operating on the outskirts of the city, trafficking cursed relics of unspeakable power to the highest bidder. These relics, imbued with dark magics and forbidden knowledge, posed a threat not only to the people of Bukatelia but to the very fabric of reality itself. I wouldn't be surprised if some recreation of a lich's tome was in the shipment. Whatever it is, I need to make sure that the shipment doesn't leave the borders. After days of tracking and surveillance, I finally caught sight of my quarry – a seemingly ragtag band of smugglers, their faces hidden beneath cloaks and hoods as they conducted their illicit trade in the dead of night. However, the night also allowed me to be concealed from them until needed. Quickly, I threw in a distraction which stopped them briefly, allowing me to jump in for the first kill. Soon, a figure emerged from the shadows, his robes billowing in the night breeze as he stepped forward to confront me. His name was Astorius, a wizard of considerable power and cunning, and it was clear from the moment our eyes met that he would not go down without a fight. Coincidentally, Astorius was also on the guild's hit list, so I could potentially kill two birds with one stone. With a flick of his wrist, Astorius unleashed a barrage of Scorching Rays, each one crackling with blazing energy as it hurtled towards me with deadly intent. But I was ready, my senses keen and my reflexes honed through years of training and combat. I drew Ossidiana and pulled the trigger, the roar of the gun echoing through the night as the prepared Nulli-Magia bullet flew. For a moment, time seemed to stand still as the bullet struck its target, its anti-magic properties wreaking havoc upon Astorius's defenses and leaving him vulnerable to my onslaught. With a cry of anguish, the wizard staggered backwards, his powers weakened and his spells faltering under the relentless assault. His cries of pain were a sure sign that the bullets did in fact do their job. Seizing the opportunity, I closed the distance between us in a blur of motion, my sword Veleno flashing in the darkness as it arced towards Astorius with deadly precision. With a final, desperate incantation, the wizard attempted to summon a shield of magical energy to protect himself, but it was too little, too late. Veleno pierced his heart before I promptly kicked his sorry ass to the ground. His cronies quickly ran away, but unfortunately for them, I still had 4 shots. The mission was completed 3 days after initiation. The smuggled goods were sent to the University for disposal. I had my payment sent to the gunsmith to pay off Ossidiana some more. |
Field Journal Entry - Mission 049: Date: Spring of 474 Location: Underground tunnels beneath Romashire City Objective: Investigate and neutralize a suspected cult of Tiamat I could feel the oppressive weight of darkness closing in around me. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and decay, and the faint echo of distant whispers seemed to reverberate through the shadows. My objective was clear – to investigate reports of a suspected cult of Tiamat that had taken root within the bowels of the city. The mere mention of the name can spark fear in many, for I knew all too well the dangers posed by those who worshipped the dark dragon goddess. For over 20 hours, I roamed the underground passages of the city. Everywhere I turned, I found signs of the cult's presence – crude altars adorned with sacrificial offerings, arcane symbols etched into the walls, and the faint echo of chanting that seemed to follow me wherever I went. But it was not until I stumbled upon the central chamber of the cult that I truly understood the extent of their depravity. There, bathed in the sickly glow of torchlight, stood the leader of the cult – a figure cloaked in shadow, their eyes burning with unholy fervor as they raised their voice in praise of their dark mistress. With a sense of grim determination, I prepared to confront the cult leader, knowing that their presence posed a grave threat to the safety of Romashire City and its inhabitants. But as I stepped forward to confront them, I was met with a wave of resistance unlike anything I had ever encountered before. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that they'd expect an assassin to come in. The cult leader, empowered by their unholy devotion to Tiamat, unleashed a barrage of dark magic that sent me reeling, my senses overwhelmed by the sheer force of their malevolent power. But even as I staggered under the weight of their assault, I refused to yield, drawing upon every ounce of strength and determination within me to press on. I invoked the power of Double-Accelerate, feeling the rush of energy coursing through my veins as I moved with lightning speed to evade the cult leader's attacks. But even as I unleashed the full extent of my abilities, I knew that victory would not come easily – for the cult leader was a formidable foe, their resolve unshakeable and their power unmatched. In the end, it was a battle won through sheer determination and unwavering resolve. With a final, decisive strike, I cleaved through the cult leader's defenses, their dark magic faltering and failing as they fell before me, their blasphemous cries silenced at last. All of my marked locations and coordinates have been reported to authorities for clean-up.
Field Journal Entry - Mission 087: Date: Spring of 484 Location: Countryside magic academy Objective: Neutralize Silver-Tongued Silas, suspected enchanter I took position atop a nearby hill, my scope trained on the courtyard below where Silver-Tongued Silas was preparing to address the gathered students and faculty of the magic academy. The enchanter's reputation preceded him – a master manipulator with a silver tongue and a gift for weaving spells of deception and illusion. I had been tasked with a singular objective – to eliminate Silas with a single shot from the specialty rifle provided to me. The Nulli-Magia bullet was loaded, its anti-magic properties the only hope of piercing through the enchanter's defenses and ending his reign of deception. As I watched Silas take the stage, his voice honeyed with charm and persuasion, I felt a chill run down my spine. This was no ordinary foe – he was a master of his craft, and I knew that a direct confrontation would be folly. With steady hands, I took aim, the crosshairs of my scope aligning with Silas's heart as he began to speak. There would be no second chances, no room for error – this shot would determine the outcome of the mission, and perhaps the fate of countless lives. As Silas's words washed over the crowd like a siren's song, I squeezed the trigger, the rifle bucking in my hands as the Nulli-Magia bullet flew true. For a brief moment, time seemed to stand still as the bullet streaked through the air, its path illuminated by the pale light of the moon. And then, with a sickening thud, it struck its mark, embedding itself deep within Silas's chest and shattering the enchantments that shielded him from harm. The enchanter's eyes widened in shock and disbelief as his Shield spell failed him, his words dying on his lips as he crumpled to the ground, lifeless and defeated. As I watched the chaos unfold below, a sense of numbness washed over me, the weight of what I had done settling like a stone in the pit of my stomach. There would be no glory in this victory, no celebration of a job well done – only the cold, hard truth of a life snuffed out in the name of duty and justice. And as I made my way back to headquarters, my mind haunted by the memory of Silas's final moments, I knew that the path I walked was a lonely one, paved with the broken dreams and shattered lives of those who had dared to cross me. But it was a path I would walk with pride...I think. I am a captain after all. It only took 6 years or so...
Date: Summer of 485 The mission was a success – the threat neutralized, the innocent saved. But the victory tastes bitter on my tongue, for it came at a cost too heavy to bear. My companion, a rookie Magus Slayer, lost to the merciless hand of fate. I grieve for their passing, for the life snuffed out before it had a chance to truly begin. I mourn for the laughter silenced, the dreams unfulfilled, the promise unkept. And yet, as I stand here amidst the wreckage of battle, I cannot help but feel that my grief is hollow, a mere echo of something I once knew. Is it possible, I wonder, for sadness to become ingenuine? For tears shed to be nothing more than empty gestures, devoid of true emotion? I find myself grappling with this question, searching for answers in the depths of my own soul. Perhaps it is the weight of countless losses, the burden of a life spent in pursuit of justice and duty, that has dulled my senses to the pain of loss. Or perhaps it is something darker, something insidious creeping into the corners of my mind, whispering words of doubt and despair. I fear that I am losing myself, that the man I once was is slipping away like sand through my fingers. In the face of so much death and destruction, I find myself growing numb, my heart hardened against the relentless tide of sorrow that threatens to consume me. But I cannot afford to lose myself, not now, not ever. For as long as there are innocents to protect and evil to confront, I must remain vigilant, steadfast in my resolve to stand against the darkness.
Date: Winter of 485 Another mission, another success. The threat has been neutralized, the enemy dead. And yet, as I sit here alone in the quiet solitude of my quarters, I find myself grappling with feelings I cannot quite name. Gone are the days when victory brought me solace, when the knowledge that I had saved lives filled me with a sense of purpose and pride. Now, all that remains is a hollow emptiness, a void where once there was something resembling humanity. I cannot pretend to care about the lives lost, the souls extinguished in the name of duty and justice. Their faces blur together in my mind, indistinguishable from one another, their deaths nothing more than statistics in the grand scheme of things. Is this what I have become? A cold, heartless machine, driven by duty and obligation, with no room for empathy or compassion? I struggle to reconcile the man I once was with the one I have become, the lines between right and wrong blurring in the harsh light of reality. But perhaps this is the price of being a Magus Slayer – to sacrifice one's humanity on the altar of justice, to become a weapon wielded in the name of a cause greater than oneself. I knew the risks when I took up this mantle, knew that there would be no turning back once the die was cast. And yet, despite it all, a part of me longs for the days when victory meant something more than just another name crossed off a list. A part of me yearns for the fleeting sense of humanity and empathy that seems to slip further and further away with each passing day. Surely that humanity will return to me, right? What's a hero for after all?
Date: Winter of 500 I'm heading off to Norvania now. I guess it's no surprise that I was chosen by the grail. The journey to the northern region was long and arduous, fraught with peril at every turn. As I rode with the caravan through enemy territory, I could feel the weight of the impending conflict hanging heavy in the air. At any moment, someone or something would strike. And strike they did, with all the ferocity of a pack of wolves descending upon their prey. The ambush came suddenly and without warning, the sound of arrows whistling through the air like a deadly symphony of death and destruction. In the chaos that followed, I fought with all the skill and determination at my disposal, my sword flashing in the dim light as I cut through our attackers with ruthless efficiency. But for every foe I struck down, another seemed to take their place, their numbers seemingly endless as they swarmed around us like a tide of darkness. It was a battle fought on sheer instinct and adrenaline, every moment a fight for survival as we struggled to hold our ground against the relentless onslaught. And yet, even as the blood flowed and the screams echoed through the frozen air, I felt a sense of clarity wash over me, a clarity born of the knowledge that this was what I was born to do – to stand against the darkness, no matter the cost. In the end, we emerged victorious, battered and bruised but alive, our enemies vanquished and our caravan saved from certain destruction. But as I surveyed the carnage that lay in our wake, I knew that the real battle had only just begun. For the Holy Grail War rages on, its flames consuming everything in their path as nations clash and armies collide in a struggle for supremacy. And as I prepare to face the trials that lie ahead, I cannot help but wonder what fate has in store for me, and whether I will emerge from this crucible of war unscathed, or forever changed by the horrors I have witnessed.
Date: Late Winter of 500 We located the fortress where the Masters of Norvania resided. Taking out those masters meant handicapping their Grail War servants. I was to have my team lure them to a specified tower. A tower that I was able to load with oil barrels and smokepowder. A tower crashing down would maim or kill anyone within, including my companions. As I watched my companions prepare for the task ahead, I felt a cold detachment settle over me, like a shroud of ice encasing my heart. They were nothing more than pawns in the game of war, expendable assets to be used and discarded in pursuit of victory. They listened to my orders without question. The plan unfolded like clockwork, my companions leading the enemy into the trap with all the skill and cunning at their disposal. But even as I watched the tower crumble beneath the force of my explosives, reducing both friend and foe to dust and rubble, I felt nothing. No remorse, no regret – only a sense of cold satisfaction at the knowledge that the primary enemy had been vanquished, their reign of terror brought to an end by my hand. The lives lost in the process were but a footnote in the annals of history, sacrifices made in service to a cause greater than themselves. And as I stood amidst the wreckage of the fortress, surrounded by the echoes of death and destruction, I knew that I had become something more than human – a weapon forged in the fires of war, tempered by the blood of my enemies and the sacrifices of my comrades. My face has several burns from the flames that erupted. Though I'm sure there's more punishment for me than these scars. For in the end, all that mattered was the result – victory at any cost, no matter the toll it took on my soul. And as I gazed out into the cold northern night, I could only wonder what other horrors awaited me on this endless journey of bloodshed and despair.
Date: 509 In the labyrinth of my mind, fragments of memories float like ethereal phantasms, fleeting and elusive, slipping through the grasp of my trembling hands. They dance on the edges of consciousness, teasing me with glimpses of a past that feels both distant and immediate, a fractured mosaic of joy and sorrow, triumph and despair. They torment me, these shattered remnants of a life once lived. They twist and turn, morphing into grotesque caricatures of the truth, distorting reality until it becomes little more than a twisted reflection of my own fractured psyche. The faces of the fallen linger in the recesses of my mind, their eyes accusing me from beyond the veil of death. They stare at me with silent reproach, their lips twisted into grimaces of pain and anguish, their voices a cacophony of discordant screams that reverberate through the caverns of my soul. I am adrift in a sea of blood and despair, drowning in a tide of guilt and remorse that threatens to consume me whole. The weight of the lives I have taken bears down upon me like a leaden shroud, suffocating me with its suffocating embrace, dragging me ever deeper into the abyss of my own making. And yet, even as I sink into the depths of madness, I cannot escape the burning question that haunts me – was it all worth it? The battles fought, the enemies vanquished, the victories won at such a terrible cost? What price is too high to pay for the sake of justice and righteousness? But there are no answers to be found in the darkness, only the hollow echo of my own shattered soul. I am a broken man, a shadow of my former self, adrift in a world that no longer makes sense to me, lost amidst the wreckage of my own shattered mind. And so I continue to wander, lost and alone in a world that no longer feels like my own. The path I walk is a lonely one, fraught with danger and despair, but it is the only path that remains to me in this shattered existence. Nothing has seemed to help me. May the gods have mercy on my soul, for I fear that I am beyond redemption, beyond salvation. And yet, even in the depths of despair, a flicker of hope remains – a glimmer of light in the darkness, a whisper of possibility amidst the chaos.
Date: 513 The words blur on the page before me, dancing and twisting like specters in the night. I grasp at them, trying to hold onto the fleeting fragments of my thoughts, but they slip through my fingers like grains of sand, scattered to the winds of time. My body betrays me, a prison of flesh and bone that no longer obeys my commands. Each step is agony, each breath a struggle against the inexorable march of time. I am but a shadow of my former self, a whisper of the man I once was, lost amidst the ruins of my own shattered mind. Memories flicker and fade, like stars in the night sky, their brilliance dimmed by the passage of years. Faces blur together in a haze of confusion, their voices a distant echo in the recesses of my mind. Who am I? What have I become? Rage boils within me, a seething maelstrom of fury and despair that threatens to consume me whole. I lash out blindly, striking out at the shadows that surround me, but they elude my grasp, slipping through my fingers like water through a sieve. And yet, amidst the chaos and confusion, a sense of remorse gnaws at the edges of my consciousness. What have I done? What sins have I committed in the name of duty and justice? The faces of the fallen haunt me, their accusing eyes burning into my soul with silent reproach. But it is all a lie, a cruel mockery of the truth. I am no hero, no champion of righteousness. I am a broken man, a pawn in a game of power and politics, a tool to be used and discarded by those who would wield me for their own ends. Justice is a filthy lie at the end of the day. There is nothing else of me. I now slowly wait for the gods of death to take me. Wandering the Fugue for an eternity would be better than what has become of me.
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