(the last story was inspired by the potential of Christian's character in my wheel of time roleplaying game, a discontinued line of pen&paper RPG's from Wizards of the Coast, this one's inspired by a potential character by JeanDamme, or Jan Øyvind as he is known as for some. consider this chapter two of the prologue to a story I will tell to noone but those involved)
The night was cold, freezing in the way that it only does in the threefold land, what the wetlanders unwittingly calls "the waste". Aryn sat guard. It did not matter that she was the apprentice the wise ones had taught the longest, she always got stuck with doing the most. It didn't help that she had the spark either, she cursed the day they had found out. She hadn't known what had happened. A friend who got hurt suddenly became better, and the same night she had come down with a heavy fever. She had gotten attention then, now it was only hard work. Not like with her spearsisters. She shouldn't think these thoughts though, this was important for her sept, for her clan. She would become a wise one one day, and complaining about working hard now when in the future she would have to be working others the same way would only disgrace her. She would work with pride, no matter how tired, or hungry or thirsty she was. She turned as she heard a whimper from one of the tents.
Aryn, walking across the camp to investigate finally found where the disturbance came from. It was one of the bigger ones, the more important ones. The one of her mistresses, the wise ones. It was not her place to know what was going on in there, not yet. It had been spelled out clearly to her once in a similar situation, and she had no need to be punished with more assignments. She turned to return to her post right when a scream coming from the tent behing her woke up the entire camp.
The wise ones hade made it clear there was nothing to worry about, and that everyone should go back to sleep, or rather, seeing how much energy they had, they could all start the day. Aryn noticed the chief about to protest the latter choice, as he had barely gotten any sleep himself and they had a long trip ahead of them, but he was quickly silenced by a glare from the wise ones. It could have been anything, but from experience, whatever this was it was important for something.
Five days passed. Though she heard the occational whisper between wise ones, no other sign that anything extraordinary had happened came, except for the occational heated discussion between the wise ones and the clan chief, which wasn't really unusual, just not as common as it was in this period. But on that fith day, Aryn was taken aside by the chief.
"over by the rocks over there, in their shadows, lies your old gear. You may not be able to use spears anymore, but your old friends made a wise one's knife out of the tip of yours. Everything else you'll need for the journey will be there as well." he said, leaving before the baffled Aryn could react. She had no time to shake the shock of and realize any meaning to wat had been said before Arinnya, the first among the clan's wise ones laid her hand on Aryn's shoulder. "You will have to leave, now. You will travel through the wetlands to a tavern in Caemlyn that bears the sign of a golden animal, a horse with horns. What you do there will be made clear when you get there, I cannot say more."
"This will be your test of strengh Aryn", she added. "May you always find water and shade as you journey". Aryn hesitated, before responding politely "may you always find water and shade, wise one". Still puzzled, trying to figure out why they would need to send her to Caemlyn for her test, she went for her gear. It was all there. Her mothers cloak, who had belonget to her mother, and her mother before that, and was thus torn to shreads at points that had brushed through rough terrain and sharp rocks. The old buckler her father had worn in his last battle, still looking like it had been harmed less than her father had been, though somebody had clearly made some dents and cuts in that as well. She made a smile, she had been honored by her parents, now it was her turn to bring honor to her name. If wise ones and the clan chief agreed something had to be done, even reluctantly agreeing, it would have to be done, no matter how little reason there seemed for doing so. So she started walking...
Thus begins the story of Aryn.
søndag 25. mai 2008
onsdag 21. mai 2008
Storytime
(this is a fanfic, based around the wheel of time world by Robert Jordan, the role playing game based on the series, and a character not yet finished based in the role playing game based on the Wheel of Time by Robert Jordan. This is a Gamemasters arrogant imagination of the incomlete hero's origin story)
As the wheel of time turns ages come and pass, creating stories that turns to legends. Legends become myths and heve myth is long forgotten when the age that gave it's birth comes up once again. In one such age, by some called the third, a wind rose from the ruins of Shadar Logoth. The wind was not the beginning. There is no beginnings or endings in the wheel of time, but it was a beginning. The wind blew through the lands of Andor and Murandy, touching people and beast alike, souring relations between them, until it passed Illian and met it's match in the sea of storms. But not without serving it's purpose.
It had been a rotten fight, and he coudn't remember how it started. If it had happened anywhere else, it would surely have ended in bloodshed, but this was family. Close family. He had stormed out, trying for once to avoid conflict. He did not feel ready to take his fathers place as the lord of House Bekin just yet. "Fortune scorn me", he said quietly to himself "I don't wish no ill on my father at all". Kharis had often come to the garden to cool down, and even though he usually only needed to do so during daytime, this night wasn't cold enough to scare him back in. Not yet. Besides, He had his family's old cloak, a heirloom of sorts, with him. He had always felt safe wearing it when he was younger. His father had told him that the first born son in their family were to own it, that was tradition. It was a silly story though, cloaks didn't feel this good for very long, so it must have been of newer fabric than claimed. He tightened it around him, sitting down by one of the fruit trees, and suddenly feeling very tired...
He woke up to the clanking of metal on metal. Had House Bekin been bigger, or more important, he would have believed they were under siege. Quickly shaking the sleep out of his eyes he ran for the mansion, finding to his horror the blazing light of fire and smoke coming out of broken windows. Dashing for the back door, he heard screaming from Lady Trina, his mother's quarters. With his dagger in hand, he climbed the stairs, finding his mothers servants dead, thoats slitted. Tapping steps alerted him to the assailent fast enough to drive his dagger into the mans chest. There had been blood shed here tonight afterall. The heavy body leaning onto him, he was almost too busy to notice the dark shape on the floor in an evergrowing black pool of blood. His heart sunk, and his mind raged with thoughts on how this could be. His mother was dead, and he knew his father would have to be too, or else they wouldn't have come this far up. As if finally waking up from a trance, he noticed the flames. The fire had grown, the noise had died and been replaced by the crackeling of the flames. He had to act quick, get what was most important and get out of there. He had gear stcked around in his quarters somewhere. If that hadn't been stolen or destroyed, it would have to be there still, and it would be useful. He couldn't find much money though. What he had in his pockets would have to suffice. Continuing down to the mansions entrance he finally noticed it. His fathers body. He had died fighting, his rapier had rolled out of his hand and into the fire as he had been brutally slaughtered. Praying that the creator would see to his parents and the other people that had been in the house as this happened, he saved the sword from the flames. It's hilt were slightly burned, but the rest was only very very hot. Using the cloak as an insulator between his hand and the sword, he finally escaped to find neighbours waiting, helplessly watching the flames.
Without the mansion and the valuables that had been in it, he had now nothing to pay the family guardsmen with. The title of Lord Bekin was now his, though he had little use for it. His house, and not just the building, were in ruins. It would be up to him to restore it. But doing so required wealth, and before wealth came revenge. Whoever did this, whoever ordered this would pay, the light willing. Some of the closest neighbours had given pretty accurate descriptions on how the assailants looked like, except of course, the one he had taken care of himself. They had looked like mercenaries or cutthroats for hire, more like. Thugs with midlander features. Andoran, soe would say. Perhaps he could find more information there.
Presenting the King of Illian with his leave of abscence, and his reasons for it, the king granted him transport to Caemlyn, a letter to a tavernmaster on the outskirts of the city and a leather armor with the Bull of House Berkin engraved together with the Nine Golden Bees of Illian. "This I believe was the armor of a former King of Illian, the founder of House Berkin. He came into this world with nothing, but died bringing honor to both this kingdom and the house he created. Your house is nothing again, it is time you follow in his footsteps. Make your ancestors and the kingdom proud, and may fortune treat you well, young lord."
And thus begins his story.
As the wheel of time turns ages come and pass, creating stories that turns to legends. Legends become myths and heve myth is long forgotten when the age that gave it's birth comes up once again. In one such age, by some called the third, a wind rose from the ruins of Shadar Logoth. The wind was not the beginning. There is no beginnings or endings in the wheel of time, but it was a beginning. The wind blew through the lands of Andor and Murandy, touching people and beast alike, souring relations between them, until it passed Illian and met it's match in the sea of storms. But not without serving it's purpose.
It had been a rotten fight, and he coudn't remember how it started. If it had happened anywhere else, it would surely have ended in bloodshed, but this was family. Close family. He had stormed out, trying for once to avoid conflict. He did not feel ready to take his fathers place as the lord of House Bekin just yet. "Fortune scorn me", he said quietly to himself "I don't wish no ill on my father at all". Kharis had often come to the garden to cool down, and even though he usually only needed to do so during daytime, this night wasn't cold enough to scare him back in. Not yet. Besides, He had his family's old cloak, a heirloom of sorts, with him. He had always felt safe wearing it when he was younger. His father had told him that the first born son in their family were to own it, that was tradition. It was a silly story though, cloaks didn't feel this good for very long, so it must have been of newer fabric than claimed. He tightened it around him, sitting down by one of the fruit trees, and suddenly feeling very tired...
He woke up to the clanking of metal on metal. Had House Bekin been bigger, or more important, he would have believed they were under siege. Quickly shaking the sleep out of his eyes he ran for the mansion, finding to his horror the blazing light of fire and smoke coming out of broken windows. Dashing for the back door, he heard screaming from Lady Trina, his mother's quarters. With his dagger in hand, he climbed the stairs, finding his mothers servants dead, thoats slitted. Tapping steps alerted him to the assailent fast enough to drive his dagger into the mans chest. There had been blood shed here tonight afterall. The heavy body leaning onto him, he was almost too busy to notice the dark shape on the floor in an evergrowing black pool of blood. His heart sunk, and his mind raged with thoughts on how this could be. His mother was dead, and he knew his father would have to be too, or else they wouldn't have come this far up. As if finally waking up from a trance, he noticed the flames. The fire had grown, the noise had died and been replaced by the crackeling of the flames. He had to act quick, get what was most important and get out of there. He had gear stcked around in his quarters somewhere. If that hadn't been stolen or destroyed, it would have to be there still, and it would be useful. He couldn't find much money though. What he had in his pockets would have to suffice. Continuing down to the mansions entrance he finally noticed it. His fathers body. He had died fighting, his rapier had rolled out of his hand and into the fire as he had been brutally slaughtered. Praying that the creator would see to his parents and the other people that had been in the house as this happened, he saved the sword from the flames. It's hilt were slightly burned, but the rest was only very very hot. Using the cloak as an insulator between his hand and the sword, he finally escaped to find neighbours waiting, helplessly watching the flames.
Without the mansion and the valuables that had been in it, he had now nothing to pay the family guardsmen with. The title of Lord Bekin was now his, though he had little use for it. His house, and not just the building, were in ruins. It would be up to him to restore it. But doing so required wealth, and before wealth came revenge. Whoever did this, whoever ordered this would pay, the light willing. Some of the closest neighbours had given pretty accurate descriptions on how the assailants looked like, except of course, the one he had taken care of himself. They had looked like mercenaries or cutthroats for hire, more like. Thugs with midlander features. Andoran, soe would say. Perhaps he could find more information there.
Presenting the King of Illian with his leave of abscence, and his reasons for it, the king granted him transport to Caemlyn, a letter to a tavernmaster on the outskirts of the city and a leather armor with the Bull of House Berkin engraved together with the Nine Golden Bees of Illian. "This I believe was the armor of a former King of Illian, the founder of House Berkin. He came into this world with nothing, but died bringing honor to both this kingdom and the house he created. Your house is nothing again, it is time you follow in his footsteps. Make your ancestors and the kingdom proud, and may fortune treat you well, young lord."
And thus begins his story.
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