"There once were two warrior maidens," said Urs the Graver, as the fire crackled, his gray fur shimmered and the ale flowed. "Named Yuve and Irse. They were the forsaken otter daughters of a cruel witch, and bore the same scarred faces an' black hearts, cursed twins unleashed upon the world. The sole way to distinguish them was by the weapons they wielded, Irse the spear and Yuve the ball and chain. Together, they cut a swathe of violence and terror across the Continent, seeking fame and fortune in shimmering arcs of crimson iron." 
The big stone marten, his people called Wynds in the Westering Lands, drank deep from a tankard and wiped a heavy paw across his maw. 
The Graver's greatsword stood sheathed against his stool, its pommel of jet encased in iron shining like a raven's eye in the firelight, and he ran his free paw tenderly over the leather-bound handle. 
His audience, a pawful of tavern patrons, listened intently, ears cocked, eyes wide as they clasped mugs in their paws.
"I met these maidens whilst fighting Black Doume's War." There was a distant look in Urs' eyes then, as he lifted his gaze to the four teeth planted on a plaque above the fireplace. A raider named Black Doume had knocked those teeth from a protesting farmer, and had started that whole bloody mess. 
"They fought on the side of our enemy, the Red Queen Cyfenthe of Ausart, and soon were feared throughout our ranks as she-devils, butchers who made the slaughter of our comrades an art. I remember well the grisly corpse of my employer, Tera Velence te Rivoulet, her belly skewered by a spear and her skull crushed like grain. I went after them, eager for satisfaction, and for hours, they and I danced a dance of death on the battlefield. Twice, I was nearly finished- Irse's spear opened my cheek, inches from piercing my skull..." 
The Wynd ran a finger down a deep scar on his cheek. The audience winced and "ooh"-ed. He then touched a deep mark below his shoulder. "And here, my arm broke, nearly splintered by Yuve's iron ball. I move it with some difficulty still."
One Wynd, a wide-eyed youth sweeping in the corner with an ear to the story-teller, couldn't help but exclaim, "Sun an' moons, sirrah! However did ye best them?"
And Urs' eyes shimmered warmly as he replied, "My body was on my side, young one. The reflexes to dodge oncoming blows, and the instinct to keep them guessing. It was no dark magicks that made Irse and Yuve dangerous, but that they fought best as a unit. Keep them uncoordinated, and they were beatable." he smiled grimly. "In time, Irse stabbed a little too close, and I hacked off her paw. Yuve hesitated, and I ran her through. Irse was my prisoner, and I ransomed her back to Ausart for a mountain of silver." He dipped his silvery head to his audience, who broke into applause. 
"Good show, Urs, good show!"
"Another for the boneyard, eh, Graver?"
Urs accepted well wishes and gifts of drink and food from the other patrons, a hollow smile on his muzzle. He had never been fond of his title or his occupation, but beasts liked his war stories and infamy. Urs the Graver, the legendary sellsword who sowed many a graveyard with corpses. It was a wicked way of living, but the only one he knew.
~*~*~*~*~
It had been a couple seasons since that day at Black Doume's Tavern, and he hadn't thought of Yuve and Irse for some time.
He had a new foe to contend with, one whose power only grew with each passing season. Urs the Graver was growing old.
Soon, the Wynd knew he'd have to hang up his sword and settle down for good; but he'd promised himself one last adventure before that.
It took place in a cold and treacherous mountain valley. Torwind Vale, it was called. 
His ancestors were buried in barrows there, the long line of Urons and Orons who made up his family tree; he found comfort there, someplace peaceful where none of his victims lay, and he always made a point to visit when he found himself in the Green Mountains. He pulled his blue cloak tighter about him against the cold, and smiled his first true smile in some time upon seeing a rough-carved statue of his great-grandfather, Oron Wytfane, waiting for him.
There, in the shadow of Wytfane and the tombs of his ancestors, the scarred old warrior sat, kneeling on his greatsword and listening to the keen wind and the cawing of crows in the distance. He thought of the days in between the battles and bloodshed, when he roamed the roads and trails of the world, and wished dearly he'd done more of it.
In his musings, the stone marten's grizzled head began to slump against the jet pommel of his sword, and his eyelids began to droop. Sleep's embrace threatened to take the gray and white-furred beast, and initially, he welcomed it.
Then, as the sun sank into the west, his ear flicked, and Urs was up on his feet, sword drawn and tail lashing. He turned, too late, and a pair of footpaws slammed into his chest and drove him into the hard-packed earth, wrenching the air from his lungs.
He gasped and swung out wildly with his sword, and there was a flash of iron. A spearhead gouged into his wrist, and his right paw went numb. The greatsword slipped from his fingers and dropped to to the ground alongside him.
The black eyes who had seen so much, shined obsidian in a world-wearied face, widened as he looked up to see specters from another time. 
At first, Urs thought he saw the both of them, the young and fearsome she-devils dropped into their familiar battle stance. Irse hefted her spear, whilst Yuve raised her morning star up high, the spiked ball and iron chain shining; then, his mind corrected itself. Only one ghost deigned to visit him this day.
Irse the otter stood over him the scars on her face standing out white as she sneered down at her foe, a short spear clasped in her left paw, her right a stump at the wrist concealed in a bound tunic sleeve. Her rudder tail swung pendulously behind her.
"Urs th' Graver." She rasped. "Long 'ave I searched this cursed land o' Wynds fer ye."
The spearhead bit into his soft-furred cheek, tearing the old scar open to red exposed flesh and raking across his cheekbone. The Wynd howled in agony, and battle memory flashed in his senses.
"When ye stole my sister from me that bloody day, ye stole my very life. An' age I've spent, half-a-beast. Half an otter. Half a warrior."
The otter dropped her spear, and drew a ball and chain out from within the long and ragged cloak concealing much of her lithe otter body. She raised the morning star, and began to swing it above her head, her eyes blazing and lips flickering over bared teeth as she took a step closer. The bigger, older warrior could only cringe before her, a new sensation for him.
"Yuve." she said, and she snapped the iron ball into the marten's arm, snapping the bone. Again, the Wynd uttered a long, strangled cry. 
"YUVE!" The otter snarled again. "Ye made a sin an' a fool mistake, Urs th' Graver! From Hell did me an' Yuve crawl together, an' together were we meant t' return! We're sisters!" 
She raised the morning star up high, a shadow of death, a demon thirsting for bloodshed. "A pair! Ye slay us BOTH!"
The old stone marten's eyes shined as he stared through his gore and tears up at her, taking a long moment to behold this beast of vengeance. Finally, it was coming, he realized; the just end he deserved, laid out for the carrion before the tombs of his forefathers.
The Graver couldn't help but utter a harsh, feeble chuckle. "For... for what it's worth-" he began.
The spiked iron ball slammed down, its bulk caving in the big Wynd's skull. His body twitched, and then went still, his left paw stretched out in mid-reach for the handle of the greatsword at his side.
Irse stared down at the gruesome scene she'd painted, and dropped the ball and chain atop the corpse. 
"Another for th' crows, Yuve." the otter hissed. "He's all yores now."
In the black and crimson-splattered distance, the cawing of the crows commenced again. "There once were two warrior maidens," said Urs the Graver, as the fire crackled, his gray fur shimmered and the ale flowed. "Named Yuve and Irse. They were the forsaken otter daughters of a cruel witch, and bore the same scarred faces an' black hearts, cursed twins unleashed upon the world. The sole way to distinguish them was by the weapons they wielded, Irse the spear and Yuve the ball and chain. Together, they cut a swathe of violence and terror across the Continent, seeking fame and fortune in shimmering arcs of crimson iron." 
The big stone marten, his people called Wynds in the Westering Lands, drank deep from a tankard and wiped a heavy paw across his maw. 
The Graver's greatsword stood sheathed against his stool, its pommel of jet encased in iron shining like a raven's eye in the firelight, and he ran his free paw tenderly over the leather-bound handle. 
His audience, a pawful of tavern patrons, listened intently, ears cocked, eyes wide as they clasped mugs in their paws.
"I met these maidens whilst fighting Black Doume's War." There was a distant look in Urs' eyes then, as he lifted his gaze to the four teeth planted on a plaque above the fireplace. A raider named Black Doume had knocked those teeth from a protesting farmer, and had started that whole bloody mess. 
"They fought on the side of our enemy, the Red Queen Cyfenthe of Ausart, and soon were feared throughout our ranks as she-devils, butchers who made the slaughter of our comrades an art. I remember well the grisly corpse of my employer, Tera Velence te Rivoulet, her belly skewered by a spear and her skull crushed like grain. I went after them, eager for satisfaction, and for hours, they and I danced a dance of death on the battlefield. Twice, I was nearly finished- Irse's spear opened my cheek, inches from piercing my skull..." 
The Wynd ran a finger down a deep scar on his cheek. The audience winced and "ooh"-ed. He then touched a deep mark below his shoulder. "And here, my arm broke, nearly splintered by Yuve's iron ball. I move it with some difficulty still."
One Wynd, a wide-eyed youth sweeping in the corner with an ear to the story-teller, couldn't help but exclaim, "Sun an' moons, sirrah! However did ye best them?"
And Urs' eyes shimmered warmly as he replied, "My body was on my side, young one. The reflexes to dodge oncoming blows, and the instinct to keep them guessing. It was no dark magicks that made Irse and Yuve dangerous, but that they fought best as a unit. Keep them uncoordinated, and they were beatable." he smiled grimly. "In time, Irse stabbed a little too close, and I hacked off her paw. Yuve hesitated, and I ran her through. Irse was my prisoner, and I ransomed her back to Ausart for a mountain of silver." He dipped his silvery head to his audience, who broke into applause. 
"Good show, Urs, good show!"
"Another for the boneyard, eh, Graver?"
Urs accepted well wishes and gifts of drink and food from the other patrons, a hollow smile on his muzzle. He had never been fond of his title or his occupation, but beasts liked his war stories and infamy. Urs the Graver, the legendary sellsword who sowed many a graveyard with corpses. It was a wicked way of living, but the only one he knew.
~*~*~*~*~
It had been a couple seasons since that day at Black Doume's Tavern, and he hadn't thought of Yuve and Irse for some time.
He had a new foe to contend with, one whose power only grew with each passing season. Urs the Graver was growing old.
Soon, the Wynd knew he'd have to hang up his sword and settle down for good; but he'd promised himself one last adventure before that.
It took place in a cold and treacherous mountain valley. Torwind Vale, it was called. 
His ancestors were buried in barrows there, the long line of Urons and Orons who made up his family tree; he found comfort there, someplace peaceful where none of his victims lay, and he always made a point to visit when he found himself in the Green Mountains. He pulled his blue cloak tighter about him against the cold, and smiled his first true smile in some time upon seeing a rough-carved statue of his great-grandfather, Oron Wytfane, waiting for him.
There, in the shadow of Wytfane and the tombs of his ancestors, the scarred old warrior sat, kneeling on his greatsword and listening to the keen wind and the cawing of crows in the distance. He thought of the days in between the battles and bloodshed, when he roamed the roads and trails of the world, and wished dearly he'd done more of it.
In his musings, the stone marten's grizzled head began to slump against the jet pommel of his sword, and his eyelids began to droop. Sleep's embrace threatened to take the gray and white-furred beast, and initially, he welcomed it.
Then, as the sun sank into the west, his ear flicked, and Urs was up on his feet, sword drawn and tail lashing. He turned, too late, and a pair of footpaws slammed into his chest and drove him into the hard-packed earth, wrenching the air from his lungs.
He gasped and swung out wildly with his sword, and there was a flash of iron. A spearhead gouged into his wrist, and his right paw went numb. The greatsword slipped from his fingers and dropped to to the ground alongside him.
The black eyes who had seen so much, shined obsidian in a world-wearied face, widened as he looked up to see specters from another time. 
At first, Urs thought he saw the both of them, the young and fearsome she-devils dropped into their familiar battle stance. Irse hefted her spear, whilst Yuve raised her morning star up high, the spiked ball and iron chain shining; then, his mind corrected itself. Only one ghost deigned to visit him this day.
Irse the otter stood over him the scars on her face standing out white as she sneered down at her foe, a short spear clasped in her left paw, her right a stump at the wrist concealed in a bound tunic sleeve. Her rudder tail swung pendulously behind her.
"Urs th' Graver." She rasped. "Long 'ave I searched this cursed land o' Wynds fer ye."
The spearhead bit into his soft-furred cheek, tearing the old scar open to red exposed flesh and raking across his cheekbone. The Wynd howled in agony, and battle memory flashed in his senses.
"When ye stole my sister from me that bloody day, ye stole my very life. An' age I've spent, half-a-beast. Half an otter. Half a warrior."
The otter dropped her spear, and drew a ball and chain out from within the long and ragged cloak concealing much of her lithe otter body. She raised the morning star, and began to swing it above her head, her eyes blazing and lips flickering over bared teeth as she took a step closer. The bigger, older warrior could only cringe before her, a new sensation for him.
"Yuve." she said, and she snapped the iron ball into the marten's arm, snapping the bone. Again, the Wynd uttered a long, strangled cry. 
"YUVE!" The otter snarled again. "Ye made a sin an' a fool mistake, Urs th' Graver! From Hell did me an' Yuve crawl together, an' together were we meant t' return! We're sisters!" 
She raised the morning star up high, a shadow of death, a demon thirsting for bloodshed. "A pair! Ye slay us BOTH!"
The old stone marten's eyes shined as he stared through his gore and tears up at her, taking a long moment to behold this beast of vengeance. Finally, it was coming, he realized; the just end he deserved, laid out for the carrion before the tombs of his forefathers.
The Graver couldn't help but utter a harsh, feeble chuckle. "For... for what it's worth-" he began.
The spiked iron ball slammed down, its bulk caving in the big Wynd's skull. His body twitched, and then went still, his left paw stretched out in mid-reach for the handle of the greatsword at his side.
Irse stared down at the gruesome scene she'd painted, and dropped the ball and chain atop the corpse. 
"Another for th' crows, Yuve." the otter hissed. "He's all yores now."
In the black and crimson-splattered distance, the cawing of the crows commenced again.