Post by Olmandis on Jun 3, 2008 19:23:23 GMT -5
((I like stories, good thing to, this one is long. I've played an ancient honourable old dwarf, and his psychotic son. What next? Well, why not a 13-year-old? Seems logical, right? I need a day job. Aside from that, I was thinking of seeing who might want to take this character on acting as surrogate parent. I've played him in a variety of games and he's always a lark, but not much into being alone, heh...guess we'll see what comes of it))
The boy had never been much for swords and knights like other lads of his age. Enjoying the sun on his face, and smelling the sweetness of the grass was more than enough for him. The other village boys, and even their folks thought him more than a little queer, and he found his fun roaming outside the walls. He leaned his small body into the wind, cuddling up against the old make-shift staff the stranger in cloth had given him. The others came in armour, brandishing blades, encased in mail. They seemed to differ little from the bandits that plagued Archet. They both left their enemies dead or dying, staining the grass a deep red. He shook his head a bit, banishing those thoughts, and looked up to the rolling sky. Simply watching the clouds go by he put his small hand up, letting the sun's light play off it, staring at the length of the shadow it cast on the ground.
He gave a start when he realized the sun dipped low across the sky and made his dark form a giant. The clothed stranger had said he had an eye for such things, where others, not even the grown-ups, might notice the working of nature. He broke into a small jog, the creatures near the old ruins watching him go. They seemed used to his presence, the softness of his footfalls and gentle hand. But he was late, which left little time to say goodbye. As he left, he paused in his run, bending low with a smile, propping himself up with his staff to pick up a hand-full of kingsfell. It was a pretty little flower, and one he saw the stranger use to make a draught. He gathered them gently, and breathed in the scent, then paused, as smoke stuck in his throat. Raising his eyes to what looked like a second sunset, he squinted. Smoke hung on the horizon, and he began to run.
He was breathing heavy, but not from the sprint, and the sweat on his brow wasn't due to the flame engulfing the town. His was a chill, the dread awash over him, and he hunkered low, the roar of the holocaust like thunder. He tucked the flowers into the collar of his meager clothing and fitted his small cloak over his nose, keeping the smoke from reaching out to choke him. He looked about, frantically, seeing more folk with swords, more than a few splayed with a shock of crimson that seemed to dance in the tumbling fire-light. He squeezed behind some large barrels and fell back unceremoniously against the make-shift wall guarding the town. A small portion of it remained, festooned with arrows, making it appear like some strange tree with wood-shaft branches, its flame-leaves spreading upwards.
He recoiled at the rush of ash, his arm shielding his face while he blindly felt out escape with the other. His hand brushed what felt like a tome, its rough, leather-bound surface now almost dry like old wood. He pulled it towards himself, starring down at the cover, dotted with an array of woodland creatures bounding about the leather. He looked about, ducking low, slithering on his belly through the debris, clutching the book to his chest. He’d seen it before; the stranger with the staff often read from it, pouring over the tome even while others danced their sword dances and polished their armour.
He heard angry shouts, and flattened his back against his little barrel garrison, knees pulled up to his chest, the book taking up space from waist to mid-chest. A small flash, mirroring the fire’s dance caused him to turn his head. He looked up at the darkened port of a window, the roar of the flames across the way cast backwards, through a glass darkly. He scooted closer and saw shapes, 3 looming forms approaching. “Eep…” He hunkered down low once more, letting out a small gasp as the big book fell open with a thump, hidden by the fire's crackling. The boy quirked his head to the side once more, peering down at the unusual words lit by the encroaching light. He’s not certain when he learned his words, far back as he can recall, he’d always known them. They must have taught them to me before…. The grunts of the large men sent the child back to the here and now, and he quickly poured over the page, the words seemed to reach out to him, his eyes shinning, he drunk them up…”Raven-lore…?”
He spoke the odd words silently, but soon found he was whispering them softly, almost singing them, above the roar of the flames. He almost screamed as a big black shape seemed to drop and settle on the crate above his head…perched and sat…peering down at him with beady black eyes. The raven cawed, and the boy shrank, and let out a squeak. “Shhhh…they’ll hear youuuu…” And the creature grew silent. The boy blinked, he did not just call a birdie. Further, he did not just get the birdie to shut it’s big beak by talking. He gently reached out his arm, and the bird, as if weighing the decision, accepted it as a suitable perch. He found a scrap of old bacon lying among the barrels, looking like a long soggy worm, and offered it up. The sharp beak darted at first, but almost seemed gentle when it plucked it from the lad’s hand. The creature hop-hopped up his arm, graduating to his shoulder, and cooed softly, lightly preening the boy’s dark curly hair. He giggled a bit despite himself, but the voices grew closer, and he looked into the raven’s dark pooled eyes. He drew himself up suddenly, standing on the barrel, obscured in the smoke and ash.
The men reared back for a moment, as the boy of thirteen seemed to loom over them. He lashed out his staff hand and the raven dart from his shoulder, a black ball of caws and claws. One man was struck full in the face, dropping his blade to shield his eyes, his curses lost to raven calls. He puffed his cloak out wide, as if he were thrice his size, and let the flames curl around his old staff, the tip consumed and spreading and probably looked as a demon might, lordly in his great cape of smoke with a scepter of flame. The dread seemed to seize one man, as the lad read his newest incantation. Ashen powder and a burst of what smelt like brimstone crackled, and a flash, lighting up even the fire-lit sky, sent the man into a daze. The last man regained his senses as the smoke subsided, and stalked towards the monster-turned-boy, a sneer on his lips.
The lad shrunk away, gasping, he took in a mouthful as smoke; he choked, and lost his page, almost falling off his barrel. He jumped down in a sudden fit and with a kick, got the barrel over and rolling with all his strength, and sent the bandit sprawling and swearing. He raised his book on high once more, and peered down at the new page. He began speaking as a whisper. The man recovered, knuckles whitening at the hilt of his blade, but halted as a wave of flames and ash from a nearby building engulfed him, near setting him ablaze, the fire waltzing as if to the boy's singing, which could now be heard over the din of the engulfed town. The three men then fled, grown bandits, running off from the onslaught of the small, dark-haired blue eyed boy and an obsidian bird. The raven, its caw likened to a mocking laugh settled back upon the child's shoulder. The boy couldn’t help but smile, dropping the burnt-out stick to the ground. “I did something!!!”
The night went on, as the boy went on, hiding and blinding and burning his way through bandits, always pausing to cover the wounded with a draught or ease their pain, be they bandit or peasant, and used his new book to do what he could. His raven led him, like a black beacon, perching where he should hide, squawking when he should find his nerve and fight.
Dawn broke, and the ashes began to cool, leaving homes standing and people alive, against all the odds. He was found, bent over both a man what was in the stocks, and a peasant both, administering care as best he could. His raven circled, cawing, and flew into the dawn’s light, raising such a racket as to bring half the watch, what few of them remained. The boy watched the sun rise, the outline of the bird against the light as it took flight, and both seemed to rise as one. He held out his arm and the raven came and perched atop it, preening itself daintily. “I’m gonna call you Morning.” The bird squawked apparent approval and continued it’s grooming. "Good boy, Morn."
The boy fed the creature a bit more bacon as the crowd grew, and simply stared, murmuring amongst themselves, talk of witches and demons on their lips. They child huddled into his cloak, hiding the book against his small chest until another robed form stepped forward, the staff heralding the approach, click-clacking against the cobblestones.
“This child has a gift.” The stranger quietly declared, as they parted like water at the figure’s arrival. “And where you would all slay one another, he would just as soon aid all who he saw before him.” The gathering grew into a subdued silence; the ravens call the only sound, its mocking laugh-caw. Bird and boy stood silently in front of the townsfolk, the child seemed to disappear into the folds of his clothing, and the figure let out a chuckle. “Even now, after all you have accomplished, you remain meek. It is time to move beyond humble things and become what you are, lad.”
The boy starred up incredulously, his eyes were luminescent blue, and his swarthy skin marked him as a dalesman, an outsider, but not could deny he was beautiful child to behold. “Wh-…what am I…um…Master…?” The robed figure raised an eyebrow. “Why, you are a Lore-master, my boy. That book was meant for you.”
“What is your name, Child?” The boy blinked, the eyes were on him and he made a point to try not to blush beneath the folds of his hood. “Umm…Tyrganis…master, but most call me Tyrgan.”
The lore-master held out his new staff, handing it to the boy. The child reached out hesitantly, as if it were out to bite him, causing another smile. “I dub thee, Tyrganis The Wary.”
The boy had never been much for swords and knights like other lads of his age. Enjoying the sun on his face, and smelling the sweetness of the grass was more than enough for him. The other village boys, and even their folks thought him more than a little queer, and he found his fun roaming outside the walls. He leaned his small body into the wind, cuddling up against the old make-shift staff the stranger in cloth had given him. The others came in armour, brandishing blades, encased in mail. They seemed to differ little from the bandits that plagued Archet. They both left their enemies dead or dying, staining the grass a deep red. He shook his head a bit, banishing those thoughts, and looked up to the rolling sky. Simply watching the clouds go by he put his small hand up, letting the sun's light play off it, staring at the length of the shadow it cast on the ground.
He gave a start when he realized the sun dipped low across the sky and made his dark form a giant. The clothed stranger had said he had an eye for such things, where others, not even the grown-ups, might notice the working of nature. He broke into a small jog, the creatures near the old ruins watching him go. They seemed used to his presence, the softness of his footfalls and gentle hand. But he was late, which left little time to say goodbye. As he left, he paused in his run, bending low with a smile, propping himself up with his staff to pick up a hand-full of kingsfell. It was a pretty little flower, and one he saw the stranger use to make a draught. He gathered them gently, and breathed in the scent, then paused, as smoke stuck in his throat. Raising his eyes to what looked like a second sunset, he squinted. Smoke hung on the horizon, and he began to run.
He was breathing heavy, but not from the sprint, and the sweat on his brow wasn't due to the flame engulfing the town. His was a chill, the dread awash over him, and he hunkered low, the roar of the holocaust like thunder. He tucked the flowers into the collar of his meager clothing and fitted his small cloak over his nose, keeping the smoke from reaching out to choke him. He looked about, frantically, seeing more folk with swords, more than a few splayed with a shock of crimson that seemed to dance in the tumbling fire-light. He squeezed behind some large barrels and fell back unceremoniously against the make-shift wall guarding the town. A small portion of it remained, festooned with arrows, making it appear like some strange tree with wood-shaft branches, its flame-leaves spreading upwards.
He recoiled at the rush of ash, his arm shielding his face while he blindly felt out escape with the other. His hand brushed what felt like a tome, its rough, leather-bound surface now almost dry like old wood. He pulled it towards himself, starring down at the cover, dotted with an array of woodland creatures bounding about the leather. He looked about, ducking low, slithering on his belly through the debris, clutching the book to his chest. He’d seen it before; the stranger with the staff often read from it, pouring over the tome even while others danced their sword dances and polished their armour.
He heard angry shouts, and flattened his back against his little barrel garrison, knees pulled up to his chest, the book taking up space from waist to mid-chest. A small flash, mirroring the fire’s dance caused him to turn his head. He looked up at the darkened port of a window, the roar of the flames across the way cast backwards, through a glass darkly. He scooted closer and saw shapes, 3 looming forms approaching. “Eep…” He hunkered down low once more, letting out a small gasp as the big book fell open with a thump, hidden by the fire's crackling. The boy quirked his head to the side once more, peering down at the unusual words lit by the encroaching light. He’s not certain when he learned his words, far back as he can recall, he’d always known them. They must have taught them to me before…. The grunts of the large men sent the child back to the here and now, and he quickly poured over the page, the words seemed to reach out to him, his eyes shinning, he drunk them up…”Raven-lore…?”
He spoke the odd words silently, but soon found he was whispering them softly, almost singing them, above the roar of the flames. He almost screamed as a big black shape seemed to drop and settle on the crate above his head…perched and sat…peering down at him with beady black eyes. The raven cawed, and the boy shrank, and let out a squeak. “Shhhh…they’ll hear youuuu…” And the creature grew silent. The boy blinked, he did not just call a birdie. Further, he did not just get the birdie to shut it’s big beak by talking. He gently reached out his arm, and the bird, as if weighing the decision, accepted it as a suitable perch. He found a scrap of old bacon lying among the barrels, looking like a long soggy worm, and offered it up. The sharp beak darted at first, but almost seemed gentle when it plucked it from the lad’s hand. The creature hop-hopped up his arm, graduating to his shoulder, and cooed softly, lightly preening the boy’s dark curly hair. He giggled a bit despite himself, but the voices grew closer, and he looked into the raven’s dark pooled eyes. He drew himself up suddenly, standing on the barrel, obscured in the smoke and ash.
The men reared back for a moment, as the boy of thirteen seemed to loom over them. He lashed out his staff hand and the raven dart from his shoulder, a black ball of caws and claws. One man was struck full in the face, dropping his blade to shield his eyes, his curses lost to raven calls. He puffed his cloak out wide, as if he were thrice his size, and let the flames curl around his old staff, the tip consumed and spreading and probably looked as a demon might, lordly in his great cape of smoke with a scepter of flame. The dread seemed to seize one man, as the lad read his newest incantation. Ashen powder and a burst of what smelt like brimstone crackled, and a flash, lighting up even the fire-lit sky, sent the man into a daze. The last man regained his senses as the smoke subsided, and stalked towards the monster-turned-boy, a sneer on his lips.
The lad shrunk away, gasping, he took in a mouthful as smoke; he choked, and lost his page, almost falling off his barrel. He jumped down in a sudden fit and with a kick, got the barrel over and rolling with all his strength, and sent the bandit sprawling and swearing. He raised his book on high once more, and peered down at the new page. He began speaking as a whisper. The man recovered, knuckles whitening at the hilt of his blade, but halted as a wave of flames and ash from a nearby building engulfed him, near setting him ablaze, the fire waltzing as if to the boy's singing, which could now be heard over the din of the engulfed town. The three men then fled, grown bandits, running off from the onslaught of the small, dark-haired blue eyed boy and an obsidian bird. The raven, its caw likened to a mocking laugh settled back upon the child's shoulder. The boy couldn’t help but smile, dropping the burnt-out stick to the ground. “I did something!!!”
The night went on, as the boy went on, hiding and blinding and burning his way through bandits, always pausing to cover the wounded with a draught or ease their pain, be they bandit or peasant, and used his new book to do what he could. His raven led him, like a black beacon, perching where he should hide, squawking when he should find his nerve and fight.
Dawn broke, and the ashes began to cool, leaving homes standing and people alive, against all the odds. He was found, bent over both a man what was in the stocks, and a peasant both, administering care as best he could. His raven circled, cawing, and flew into the dawn’s light, raising such a racket as to bring half the watch, what few of them remained. The boy watched the sun rise, the outline of the bird against the light as it took flight, and both seemed to rise as one. He held out his arm and the raven came and perched atop it, preening itself daintily. “I’m gonna call you Morning.” The bird squawked apparent approval and continued it’s grooming. "Good boy, Morn."
The boy fed the creature a bit more bacon as the crowd grew, and simply stared, murmuring amongst themselves, talk of witches and demons on their lips. They child huddled into his cloak, hiding the book against his small chest until another robed form stepped forward, the staff heralding the approach, click-clacking against the cobblestones.
“This child has a gift.” The stranger quietly declared, as they parted like water at the figure’s arrival. “And where you would all slay one another, he would just as soon aid all who he saw before him.” The gathering grew into a subdued silence; the ravens call the only sound, its mocking laugh-caw. Bird and boy stood silently in front of the townsfolk, the child seemed to disappear into the folds of his clothing, and the figure let out a chuckle. “Even now, after all you have accomplished, you remain meek. It is time to move beyond humble things and become what you are, lad.”
The boy starred up incredulously, his eyes were luminescent blue, and his swarthy skin marked him as a dalesman, an outsider, but not could deny he was beautiful child to behold. “Wh-…what am I…um…Master…?” The robed figure raised an eyebrow. “Why, you are a Lore-master, my boy. That book was meant for you.”
“What is your name, Child?” The boy blinked, the eyes were on him and he made a point to try not to blush beneath the folds of his hood. “Umm…Tyrganis…master, but most call me Tyrgan.”
The lore-master held out his new staff, handing it to the boy. The child reached out hesitantly, as if it were out to bite him, causing another smile. “I dub thee, Tyrganis The Wary.”
I'll look for you in-game. And we must talk more of this fostering idea of yours.