Old Story, New Ideas

Here's an old story that I had, I was thinking about going back to it and adding some exposition to develop the character more, but I'm not sure. Let me know what you think, and things that I can change. I wrote this a long time ago but I like the character so I'm thinking about how I can change this.

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The wind lashed out in fury as lightning struck in rage. Trees were toppling left and right as dust exploded from the ground. Kennarth Sumir huddled together with his family, shuddering, waiting for the world to suddenly collapse around them. Waiting for the end to fall upon of them. Yet suddenly it all stopped as if a prayer was answered. Kennarth rose and slowly and told his family to stay put. Exiting the safety of the cellar, Kennarth glanced around in surprise at the still standing furniture. The house had survived the storm and it was all over.
Kennarth called his wife up to prepare supper and told the children to resume their chores. The storm had struck unexpectedly. It started with a rumbling of the ground. Kennarth had looked out the door window as fierce wind blew past. Thick billowing clouds darkened the sky and rolling thunder shook the earth and split the air. Kennarth had quickly gotten his wife and two children down into the cellar to wait out the worst of the storm.
After a few hours Mistress Sumir had supper ready and called everyone to the table. Upon the tablecloth lay four dishes and four sets of eating utensils, piping hot bread lay in the middle, a cutting knife lay flat next to the bread and a large bar of butter was placed nearby. Mistress Sumir quickly pulled out four wooden bowls and filled them each to the brim with warm and hearty beef stew. She then passed out portions of seasoned potatoes and placed a small saucer full of gravy on the table. She then placed a teaspoon into the saucer. Everyone’s mouths started to water at the odor of fresh cooked vegetables and by the time Mistress Sumir had passed out the portions there were three separate waterfalls and six bulging eyes at the table.
Before the meal was able to begin there was sharp rapping at the door. Kennarth rose from his seat and opened the door. Kennarth then noticed that it had begun to snow, there was already half a foot on the ground and the snow continued falling steadily. He looked up only to see the plowman, Cenerick Whinbarren. The plowman was grinning despite the cold weather and snow. His cheeks were rosy reds from the wind; he had fairly tall stature and was holding papers. Without saying a word Cenerick handed the papers to Kennarth and waved and continued on his job. Kennarth breathed a soft, “Thank you,” and suddenly noticed a man emerging from the forest. The hood of his cloak was pulled over his face and he was covered with snow. He arrived at the Sumir’s house and looked travel worn and tired. Without looking up the traveler had few words, “I have been travelling long and wish for a place to stay the night. I will gladly pay any price you ask.”
Kennarth slowly nodded and replied, “No price is needed.”
“Thank you very much.”
The cloaked man had brushed the snow off his deep green cloak and entered the house. “Welcome to house of Sumir in Anroth,” Mistress Sumir said warmly, she quickly pulled out the extra placement of eating utensils always kept ready in case of a guest. This was a custom in Anroth, the Anrothians were always pleasant and welcomed strangers.
As the cloaked man removed his hood, Kennarth studied him closely. The man was fairly well built and was not from this area. This was easy to tell since most Anrothians seldom grew as tall as six feet, the height of this man. Kennarth than moved his eyes to the man’s face, his dark hair fell to the sides of his head reaching about his eyes. His left eye had a some sort of dark, jagged mark going through it, the mark bends about half an inch from where it starts and his dark eyebrows made the mark look as if it continued. The mark pointed down to his cheek, centering his eye, making his dark pupil looking like a gleaming, black pearl, the centerpiece of the mark. It looked like black lightning streaking his face.
“My name is Dachus Tunn,”
The man’s deep voice startled Kennarth; he quickly regained his composure and replied, “Pleased to meet you Master Tunn,”
There was a moment’s hesitation, but then Dachus replied, “I have no profession worthy of being called master, just call me Dachus,”
“Very well then ah...Dachus, please give me your cloak and make yourself at home,”
“I can do it myself,”
Dachus removed his cloak exposing all his belongings, he wore a vest of leather armor with a green shirt beneath, and his pants were made of thick canvas. His boots were made and strapped with leather. On his back he carried a weapon of some sort. It was slung across his back like a sword. The cylindrical leather case held a leather grip and a wooden shaft stuck about two inches out from the grip. The diameter of the shaft was at least one and a half inches. On his belt, he carried a pouch full of belongings and a tin box to hold flint and steel. On the back of his belt, the hilt of a dagger jutted outward, it was made of fine steel and a crystal gleamed brightly in middle of the crosspiece. As he removed it, Kennarth saw that it was also sheathed in leather. As Kennarth looked at Dachus’s pile of objects he saw something he did not see before, a long staff of dark oak, about two inches in diameter and about a foot taller than Dachus.
When Kennarth awoke next day the sun was already well up, and the morning was quiet and tranquil. Throughout the house not a single trace of Dachus Tunn remained, except for one note left on the kitchen table,
“The Chameleon is dangerous and disguised as many,
So do not take this warning lightly,
‘Upon the branches a chameleon lies,
Playing tricks upon your eyes.
The Chameleon is full of guile,
So who can see the Chameleon’s smile?’”
Kennarth did not understand the warning so stuffed it into his pocket and started breakfast without the rest of the family. Soon Dachus’s note was forgotten and only a vague memory of his visit was remembered. This was all true, but Dachus Tunn knew nothing of the Sumirs. For this happened on the day of his birth.
* * *
The city was bustling with people as Dachus tried to move through the crowds of people. He was relieved when he saw the sentry tower move closer and closer. As he moved to the gate, he pulled the hood of his cloak over is head, casting a shadow on his face, not a dark shadow, but enough of one to hide his identity. Dachus had been wandering about the lands when he was twenty. With him, he carried a Druid’s staff, flint and tinder, a long dagger, and a spear for defense. In his pouch he carried his spell book. Few existed and Dachus Tunn was one of the few. He was a fighter-mage.
There weren’t many in the Age of Illusions, everyone was either a fighter or a mage. It was supposed that fighting with both magic and steel was considered cowardly or dishonorable. At least that was supposed by the fighters, no one knew what the mages thought, but everyone knew that they didn’t think highly of the fighter-mages. Dachus was probably the strongest among the few, little was known of him and the little information there is doesn’t tell you much about him. The only description actually known of this man is the leather man since all his possessions has some sort of leather.
Dachus looked up at the wooden sign hanging from the tavern and read The Wizards’ Cove, he had come to the right place. Inside there were robes of all colors, each color representing the magic they used. Over in the corner he saw a man of the black robes, a man of the dark arts, using spells of death and decay. At the sight of a Black Saber Dachus knew he was a Necromancer. At another corner a red mage sat reading into his books. Red, the color of destruction and devastation, the color of fire, the reds brought burning mountains from the sky and fiery hail from the clouds. Across the room was a man in green robes tending to the plants. Greens are the ones who study the forces of nature and all that is not man made. With an oaken staff at hand these people are known as Druids. In the center the men of the blue robes gathered. They studied the world of illusions and pure magic. Their multiplication has named the Age of the day. Wizards were marked with hats and Sorcerers and Sorceresses with hoods. Both types carried wooden staves with tips of crystal and gold. The Whites were in the rooms tending to the sick and wounded. Each using healing hands to cure disease. White was the color of life, the color of healing. Equip a White Mage with a silver pendant and you have a Cleric.
Dachus turned away and walked to his room. He went to the end of the hallway where he presented himself to a man at a podium by a door. With one glance at his golden spellbook Dachus was let into the room. Gold was the color people used to symbolize the use of spells of multiple colors. Dachus was one of the few with a golden spellbook. Dachus looked grim, he knew what was ahead of him. He knew the task ahead of him; he knew what he had to do. The final test was before him and he was ready. He entered into a large room with one closet. He knew that in this battle he could use only two weapons other than magic. His opponent knew he was a fighter-mage. Dachus put all but his spear and dagger in to the closet. If he lost, he would never see these items again. He fastened his dagger like a sword on his right thigh.
Dachus stood ready before the door, then a man walked through. The Necromancer, from his sheath he pulled his sword, with that the walls shattered, all around was utter darkness. The Necromancer lunged at Dachus hoping to stab him before he could get a weapon out, but Dachus just stepped away. With a blur of his hand Dachus sent a bright blue streak into the Necromancer’s back. A loud shriek came from the Necromancer as he turned. When he faced Dachus he transformed into a large man-lizard then changed to a Lich, his face pulled back into a skull and a crown lay atop his head. He wore the black armor of a Death Knight and carried a Sword of Darkness. The blade was so dark that it seemed like a silhouette in the darkness behind it. On his shoulders there was a royal purple cape, only ragged and soiled. Another shriek challenged Dachus and they stood there facing each other. Then the duel began, the fight between Dachus Tunn, the Chosen, and the Chameleon, the Lord of the Dark, better known as Tyriph the Lord of Evil. This was the fight that determined the fate of the world. One that no one in the world knew of.
As the transformation completed the blade burned, as if lit by a black flame. The dagger fell out of Tyriph’s back, smoking then it smoldered to ashes as it hit the floor. With a shout Tyriph attacked, Dachus stepped back and swung with his hand. A bright blue blade suddenly appeared and disappeared just as quickly. A cry of pain came from Tyriph as a skeletal hand holding the Sword of Darkness rolled into the black void. Tyriph stood and raised his remaining hand, with a flash it turned to the hand of a living human. He brought it across the stump of his skeletal arm and another human hand regenerated on the skeletal stump. His regenerated hand suddenly lit up in a black flame and Tyriph once again wielded the Sword of Darkness. He charged again, his hands quickly decaying back to its original skeletal form. Tyriph swung and was parried by the spear of Dachus.
They continued their fight until Tyriph saw he could not win in a close up fight. He stepped back and raised his sword preparing for a spell. Dachus was faster than Tyriph expected. With a swift movement a flaming spear cut through his shoulder, it continued diagonally through his body until it came cut through his hip. With that a pillar of flame rose beneath him, a shriek came from the ashen form of Tyriph as the flame burned through him. Dachus stood with sweat beading down his forehead. His hand covered a wound he received on opposite side of his abdomen. His leather armor was cut and his shirt was soaked in blood. He knew well that only a powerful Cleric could heal him.
He looked up as the flame vanished into the darkness above, the room returned and all that remained of the battle was a pile of ashes and a golden crown on top of it. It seems now that the Age of Illusions has been spared from the wrath of Tyriph, Shyrian has chosen well. Dachus Tunn was perhaps the greatest hero of the Ages, and perhaps the least known of all time. The battle was won but the war was far from over. With different Ages the Chosen shall be different. The Final Battle is still to come, the war of good against evil continues through time. No one knows who will win, not even the gods themselves. No one will ever know until the end. Until then, only fate can decide.
Perhaps fate had already decided, perhaps it has yet to decide. All that had no matter in the thoughts of Dachus Tunn. He knew he had yet to face Tyriph, his opponent was too easy to be Tyriph himself. Dachus may have been a great hero but he had yet to prove himself. He winced as the healing hands glowed over his wound; he looked up and saw the Cleric above him. His face was young, and his forehead was soaked in sweat. It seemed that he knew what he was doing despite his age. Dachus fell to a deep sleep as the Cleric finished his healing.
Dachus then reawakened to the crack of dawn, he felt refreshed and ready for combat. He quickly picked up his belongings and began the long strenuous journey that lay ahead of him. Finally he came to his destination. The Dungeon Tower of the Wastelands. The tower which was the entrance to the Wastelands. The only signs of life in the Wastelands. Already long abandoned it stood at the mouth of the Kanarvian Forest. The tower leaned across the land as the marsh sucked it in inch by inch. With the murmur of a word Dachus was transported him from outside the building to the top floor.
On the top floor Tyriph awaited him in his true form.
“No tricks this time Chameleon?” Dachus asked,
“It’s really me this time,” was his response. In a dark corner a lizard man stood awaiting wielding a wicked scythe like blade. Without another word he charged. The two fought deep into the night, thrust, parry, thrust, parry. Each move creating the clash of steel to steel, the sound echoing into the silence.
“Enough of this!” the voice of Tyriph suddenly broke the engagement. The Chameleon let his arm hang limp as his blade dropped to the floor; his hand then began to transform his blade to a Druid’s staff and his body to a Druid. The Lord of Darkness raised his staff and lightning was hurled from the sky like javelins. Dachus jumped from foot to foot as lightning broke through the tile ceiling and burst the cobblestone floor to pebbles. With a cry of rage Dachus raised is hands and a bright blue ray shot towards Tyriph. The direct hit knocked Tyriph back slamming him into the wall. As he rose again the Chameleon changed into a Blue Mage, he raised and pointed his staff at Dachus, sparks of all colors spiraled around Dachus and rendered his magic useless. Dachus brought his spear up and charged. Again the clang of steel rose to the skies, sword against spear, Tyriph had returned to his regular form. Tyriph soon had the advantage in the fight; he casually knocked Dachus to the floor and raised his blade for the kill. As the Chameleon swung Dachus rolled to his right to retrieve his spear. The blade cut into his left shoulder nearly removing his arm, Dachus now could not use his left arm. Dachus raised his spear with his uninjured arm and charged. The Lord of Darkness grinned but was left in shock when he saw, but it was too late. It was too late before he noticed the fiery halo of magic surrounding Dachus’ spear. With his opportunity he struck, with a swish of the spear Dachus sent Tyriph’s head rolling across the floor.
“I will return in the Ages to come,” was said by the last rasping voice of Tyriph’s mortal form. A black mist flowed from the body and head as they both turned to dust and crumbled. The earth suddenly shook and the ground trembled as a deep rumble shook the land. Using his remaining strength Dachus transported himself right outside the door of the tower. With all his might he ran, he ran as far as he could and threw himself into the woods and turned. A gigantic whirlwind of fire rose from the earth rising towards the heavens. It burned even the foundations of the tower as it vanished into the sky. The ground shook once again as a giant crack closed after collecting the ashes, after the Dungeon Tower ceased to exist.
Dachus turned and walked away from the Wastelands at a steady pace. His job was done, his mission accomplished, he had defeated Tyriph and saved the world from ultimate destruction. His arm swung uselessly at his side as he walked, with a bright light quickly engulfed him and with a flash he vanished. A mist like the one from Tyriph rose to the skies, only this one was of glowing white. It was over for the Age of Illusions, fate had already decided.