Post by Igby Deepswindle on Jan 18, 2009 14:49:12 GMT -5
Hail Pillagers! My good mate, Igby Deepswindle, advised me to head over here and explain my presence in our band. While the tale is quite long, and takes it's toll on one's heart, I'll tell as much as I can in a sitting...
Though I've spent the last several years on the outskirts of Buckland, I was born in the Southfarthing village of Longbottom. My father, Geinyard Swiftbottom, was a Grand Master Pipeweed Farmer, and his leaf was respected throughout the land.
Every harvest season my father, mother, sister and I would load-up our cart with the choicest sacks of pipeweed and set off for the open-air markets of Bree. My sister, Jeliza, and I always loved the long wagon-ride from our secluded valley to the Big City.
One particular season, as we headed along the east road from Tuckborough, we were ambushed by brigands about a stonesthrow from Woodhall. With their cutlasses drawn upon us, they forced my father off the cart. One the larger men bound my fathers hands behind his back, and walked him to the edge of the falls.
"I jist want teh thank 'ee for them lovely lasses, little farmer. And we'll make use of your boy too, don'tchee worry." As the man said those words, he looked at me and winked.
My mother cried out "Geinyard, no! Run !" -- but it was too late. The large man cut my father's throat and kicked his flailing body over the falls. My mother started screaming like nothing I had ever heard before, and that's when one of the men cracked her in the head with the hilt of his blade. She fell, unconcious, to the floor... a stream of blood oozing from her head, pooling in the dirt.
It was at this point my sister fainted. One of the brigands laughed a wicked laugh, scooped her up and slung her over his shoulder.
"C'mon boys! These slags ain't gonna be bitin' or scratchin'!" he said as he sauntered off across the road. My father's murderer, and two other men approached. The two men picked up my mother, and they follwed the man with my sister across the river. All I heard as they disappeared up the hill was something about a Stiff Willy, who I presumed to be their leader. Mind you, I was but all of 9 years old at the time, and it wasn't until several years later I learned the true fate of my mother and sister.
My father's killer looked at me and said "I'm your daddy now, boy, and you'll do as I need!"
"Now git these weed-sacks offa this cart, and stack 'em fer me men over thar" he said, pointing to the riverbank. With that, he picked me up by the shirt of my collar and tossed me to the floor.
"Stinking hobbit!" he shouted as he kicked my in the ribs. He cleared his throat and spat a gob of phlegm in my face.
I scrambled to my feet as quickly as I could, and started to unload the cart. I tried to fight back the tears, but I just couldn't. The man began to laugh.
"Aw, why the long face, littul hobbit lad?" he said as he stuffed some pipeweed into his pipe. He lit his pipe and inhaled deeply.
I paused from stacking the weed-sacks and glared at the man.
"I am going to kill you, sir" I said. "I am going to slit your throat, ear to ear, and toss your body over these very same falls. Someday." I glared at the man for a spell before returning to the weed-sacks.
"Well then," said the man, "then I will teach you how to kill."
And so it was that the murderer of my father, became my captor... and my mentor.
Every day, my father's murderer, or "Pappy" as I was made to call him, would wake me from the closet where I slept. He would take my to a stump near the falls, where we would train. With me on the stump, and he on his feet, we would face each other. First with sticks, then with spears and javelins, I learned what I now know to be the Ways of the Warden. At the time, I simply saw it as stick-fighting or swordplay.
"Ye done well fer the day, Meinyard" Pappy would say, each night as he locked me in my closet.
"I'll most likely kill you in the morning." came the words through the door.
For nearly 12 years I was kept in this fashion. Being a hobbit, I was often used as bait for ambushes. We stole pipeweed, groceries, artifacts... anything we could pillage or plunder, we did.
All the while, I plotted my revenge...
Though I've spent the last several years on the outskirts of Buckland, I was born in the Southfarthing village of Longbottom. My father, Geinyard Swiftbottom, was a Grand Master Pipeweed Farmer, and his leaf was respected throughout the land.
Every harvest season my father, mother, sister and I would load-up our cart with the choicest sacks of pipeweed and set off for the open-air markets of Bree. My sister, Jeliza, and I always loved the long wagon-ride from our secluded valley to the Big City.
One particular season, as we headed along the east road from Tuckborough, we were ambushed by brigands about a stonesthrow from Woodhall. With their cutlasses drawn upon us, they forced my father off the cart. One the larger men bound my fathers hands behind his back, and walked him to the edge of the falls.
"I jist want teh thank 'ee for them lovely lasses, little farmer. And we'll make use of your boy too, don'tchee worry." As the man said those words, he looked at me and winked.
My mother cried out "Geinyard, no! Run !" -- but it was too late. The large man cut my father's throat and kicked his flailing body over the falls. My mother started screaming like nothing I had ever heard before, and that's when one of the men cracked her in the head with the hilt of his blade. She fell, unconcious, to the floor... a stream of blood oozing from her head, pooling in the dirt.
It was at this point my sister fainted. One of the brigands laughed a wicked laugh, scooped her up and slung her over his shoulder.
"C'mon boys! These slags ain't gonna be bitin' or scratchin'!" he said as he sauntered off across the road. My father's murderer, and two other men approached. The two men picked up my mother, and they follwed the man with my sister across the river. All I heard as they disappeared up the hill was something about a Stiff Willy, who I presumed to be their leader. Mind you, I was but all of 9 years old at the time, and it wasn't until several years later I learned the true fate of my mother and sister.
My father's killer looked at me and said "I'm your daddy now, boy, and you'll do as I need!"
"Now git these weed-sacks offa this cart, and stack 'em fer me men over thar" he said, pointing to the riverbank. With that, he picked me up by the shirt of my collar and tossed me to the floor.
"Stinking hobbit!" he shouted as he kicked my in the ribs. He cleared his throat and spat a gob of phlegm in my face.
I scrambled to my feet as quickly as I could, and started to unload the cart. I tried to fight back the tears, but I just couldn't. The man began to laugh.
"Aw, why the long face, littul hobbit lad?" he said as he stuffed some pipeweed into his pipe. He lit his pipe and inhaled deeply.
I paused from stacking the weed-sacks and glared at the man.
"I am going to kill you, sir" I said. "I am going to slit your throat, ear to ear, and toss your body over these very same falls. Someday." I glared at the man for a spell before returning to the weed-sacks.
"Well then," said the man, "then I will teach you how to kill."
And so it was that the murderer of my father, became my captor... and my mentor.
Every day, my father's murderer, or "Pappy" as I was made to call him, would wake me from the closet where I slept. He would take my to a stump near the falls, where we would train. With me on the stump, and he on his feet, we would face each other. First with sticks, then with spears and javelins, I learned what I now know to be the Ways of the Warden. At the time, I simply saw it as stick-fighting or swordplay.
"Ye done well fer the day, Meinyard" Pappy would say, each night as he locked me in my closet.
"I'll most likely kill you in the morning." came the words through the door.
For nearly 12 years I was kept in this fashion. Being a hobbit, I was often used as bait for ambushes. We stole pipeweed, groceries, artifacts... anything we could pillage or plunder, we did.
All the while, I plotted my revenge...