Post/Author/DateTime	Post
The Vorpal Tribble 09-22-04, 02:07 AM	Those of you who went to the trouble of writing up a background character story and are proud of it, post here so that we may all enjoy :)
The Vorpal Tribble 09-22-04, 02:13 AM	Ok, <<<WARNING>>> this is quite long, but I wrote it few years ago for my first ever D&D character, and to this day remains my favorite. It was a Forgotten Realms campaign just for some added background. --- Faaza “Life is tough, but it sure is tougher if you're stupid” as said by Faaza to Roursk many a time before having to duck a blow. Knowing little of his mother, and less about his father, it cannot be said which of his parents Faaza might resemble. His mother was likely human, as an elven female would not have been allowed into the city of Hillsfar, especially an elven woman with child. It is unknown whether his albinoism was a rare result of a human and elven union, or by a rare deviation that arises among humans and certain species of common animals. His short stature of hardly more than five feet in height and Faaza’s slight build can probably be attributed to his elven parent. A lifetime of meager meals and forced fasting may have exaggerated Faaza’s naturally slender appearance. The half-elf’s complexion, even by elven standards, is extraordinarily fair. This is perhaps aided by the fact that Faaza rarely exposed himself to sunlight. From his human parent Faaza acquired a countenance bolder than that of an elf, though his face is still quite delicate. Faaza’s eyes are completely without pigment, allowing the blood vessels to be visible, which grants an almost red glow to his eyes. The half-elf’s red eye color can be disconcerting to one who has never met his gaze before. His hair is a platinum-blonde hue and is fine like that of an elf but in greater abundance. The albino’s hair is somewhat wavy and adorns Faaza’s head like a mane. Worn down to the middle of his back, it is likely that Faaza’s hair has never been cut. Faaza seems compelled by habit to fluff his mane of hair to better hide his slightly pointed ears. While his slender face lacks of beard or moustache, Faaza has a thick patch of sideburns which he has braided with leather strips. Faaza is very slender, yet he has the hard, lean muscles of a gymnast. Despite this, the half-elf generally stands with a slight hunch conditioned from years of creeping. The young man’s feet, which are usually bare, are tiny but thick with muscle strengthened from gripping walls and ropes with his toes. His hands are thin and long fingered while his nails have been carefully cut for maximum dexterity. Faaza's life was a struggle from the beginning and the events of his birth may herald a promise of what his future would hold. A passing Red Plume slowed slightly as the cry of newborn broke the stillness of the Hillsfarian night. With a grunt he continued down the road to do his rounds, oblivious to the shadow behind him matching his every step. The nurse delivered a sharp blow to the infants back and it responded with a bellow. The mother covered in sweat, sunk down into the sheets of the bed, weariness forcing her into a restful sleep. The nurse turned the babe over, tucking it into a rough blanket but with a quiet intake of breath she noted the pointed ears that poked above the infant's stark white hair. "So the lass's story was true after all... tis an elf's son." The child was sickly pale and blue veins were visible beneath his thin skin. The infant was without color. The midwife gave the infant a worried glance as she laid it within a crib lined with pelts, and made soft cooing noises. The babe soon calmed and lie quiet. The nurse rubbed a cloth over its face and the infant slowly opened its eyes. The nurse stiffened in horror as a pair of blood-red eyes looked up at her. A scream of terror froze the Red Plume in his tracks. Drawing the sword from its sheath, the soldier ran back towards the sound. The soldier’s stalker was barely able to duck out of sight in time to avoid being caught in the Red Plume’s path. The screaming continued as the soldier burst through the threshold of the house to see an old midwife cowering in a corner, hysterically saying ”Demon! Demon! Demon! Demon!”. As a dark, silent shape slipped past the door unnoticed, the guard went over and shook the midwife saying, "What are you talking about woman?" "The babe, is a demon!" the midwife managed to get out before falling into a swoon. The guard scowled, sighted the crib, went over, and peered within. A newborn lie there, strangely quiet through the nurse's frantic exclamations. Curious, unblinking red eyes peered out at the guard from amidst the pelt blankets. The guard hissed and took a step back saying, "A non-human!" With a quick motion the Red Plume seized the infant bundled within the furs and rushed out of the house. He made his way to the deep refuse pit of the city and without a moment's hesitation tossed the baby in and gave a sigh of relief. Concealed from view, the dark stalker waited until the guard was out of sight before looking down into the pit. Rubbing his thin hands together the legendary Corsair muttered with amusement, "What might this guard have been getting rid of? Worn boots maybe, or a notched blade perhaps...something else surely…" and with the ease of long practice, he wound his way through the junk. In a heap of moldy dung lie the pile of furs. As the man's long fingers touched it, the bundle squirmed. The old man's eyes widened and he quickly unwrapped the bundle. "Why, tis the babe!" he cried in astonishment, "What madness is this?" He stood back up when the child started to cry and slowly looked around with a strange expression on his face. He picked up the newborn, cradled it in his arm, and gazed with wonder into its crimson eyes. "So the guards now think they will take the life of another half-elf... they beat my wife to death for the same crime..." he murmured to the infant. "I'll see that you grow. That I will. My Roscia could not give me a child, but maybe I have been given a gift. I will call you…” The old brigand parted the furs and glanced between the child’s legs. Covering the babe with furs once again, the old man completed his thought “Faaza... mmm, yes, Faaza." The child he hid in secret, within an old warehouse. The improvised home was left alone by the local beggars and hobos out of the respect and awe with which they regarded the kindly old man. In an attempt to keep the child's heritage unknown the old man took a knife and trimmed the babe's ears, though his heart nearly broke to hear the agony he caused. He knew that if the baby were ever found with such pointed ears it would face certain death. When he finally dared go out into the sun with the youngling it started to cry in such obvious pain that the old man was forced to stop daytime walks with Faaza altogether. Milk for the babe was given by a wet nurse who owed much to the man's old past generosity. The old rogue filched enough to sustain the pair as they dwelled secretly in the slums of Hillsfar. As the baby grew into childhood, no more pleasurable activity could young Faaza conceive than worrying the old man by wandering far into the tunnels or climbing onto the walls to study the night stars. Guards he loved to torment in the night, slipping quietly into the shadows and taunting them mercilessly. Quick in mind and body he grew to be, and Faaza often came home with a few more coins than could be found lost on the street or morsels of food richer than what a beggar would be given. The old man was not one to complain. Indeed he had taught the lad the basic techniques of thievery himself, though he had long left the pinnacle of his skills behind him. "Sannil, Sannil! Look what I got!" Faaza came running home with a bright grin and a handful of fowl eggs. "I did pretend to weep and this lady came and asked what brought my tears. She could not see my eyes in the dark and I replied that hunger made me cry. She then gave me these eggs and patted me on the head. As she did, I as well took this!" and he showed a bronze ring, polished and shining. Sannil, as the old rogue was named, stood up with such fury in his eye Faaza fairly cringed. "WHAT?" the old man snapped. "I have shown you the ways of quick fingering and how a lock may be undone and this is how you use your knowledge? One showed you kindness and you repaid her by taking that which was probably her most precious? Shame, Faaza, SHAME! From the swaggering, merciless Red Plumes I say aye, more than aye! From the money hoarding, rich merchants I say aye, from those who have no lack and have more to spare I say aye. But when one does help you, and give what they have to help you, there I say NAY. Take not from those in need or who give you aid, for that is not worthy. In fact, you will take that ring back to her. Be sure I am aware you know where she lives, for is there a house yet in the city that you have not visited in secret?" The youth, until this point, had looked properly shamed, but at the last he did seem to brighten and the grin returned to his face as he nodded eagerly. "Return what has been taken... why, that would be almost as fun as taking it! I will be back shortly." And with that he turned and grasped the top of a wall and swung himself up and over. Sannil ran a hand over his creased face and groaned. The years passed and Faaza honed the art of separating people from their property. For Faaza, stealing wasn't just a living and it was more than an adventure. It was a business, pleasure, and a way of life all rolled into one. He was as dedicated to it as a monk is to his calling. But he took the advice of his adopted father to heart, and often after the taxes were collected the poor would find their coins returned. Many a beating or mugging was prevented as a rock hurled from an unseen sling would slam into the temple of the offender. Only the flicker of red eyes in the dark marked a presence. Guards went about with increased vigilance and a bounty was promised to the one who could stop this 'red-eyed demon'. Faaza was the first to send in helpful information and sent many a bounty hunter on fruitless expeditions. Sannil cautioned Faaza about this reckless behavior, and Faaza humored him as well as he could. During this time there came one that was to put a damper on his almost gleeful existence. He came in the form of a tall youth just getting his man's build. Faaza and Sannil were coming in from a night's fun when an arm seized Faaza's shoulder, turned him around, and slammed him into the wall while placing a knife to his throat. "Make a move and the freak gets bloody!" the teen hissed to Sannil, sweating nervously. Sannil froze and tensed, waiting for the least opening when he noticed Faaza was grinning and gave him a wink. With a good swift kick to the groin Faaza forced the knife wielder’s eyes to open wide in pain and the assailant fell twitching on the ground. Sannil quickly seized him and bound him to a chair, demanding an explanation. The teen soon broke under the older man's glare and revealed his story. The young teen, by the name of Roursk, was trying to elude capture by the Rogue's Guild of Hillsfar. Roursk was an initiate with the guild, but on the run for some grievance against them that he would not tell of. Sannil decided to intervene in what would otherwise be the young man's murder and took him into his care as well. Roursk and Faaza's relationship did not noticeably improve from their first meeting and Sannil was kept busy stepping in between the two boys. Faaza did not care for this new distraction of Sannil's affections and was not quiet about saying so. Roursk was serious, bitter, and not given to nonsense while 'Sannil's little thin-skinned midget' was care free, optimistic, and quite mischievous, frequently tormenting the newcomer with clever practical jokes. As Sannil grew more frail with age, Roursk grew stronger, learning almost as quickly from the old Corsair as did the albino. However, while the younger albino exhibited a good and free spirit under Sannil's mentorship, Roursk was driven by vengeance against the Rogue's Guild. Roursk would often leave, apparently even traveling far from Hillsfar itself on more than one occasion. Roursk would then return driven even further to strive against the Rogue's Guild. Occasionally, Roursk returned with another vagabond in tow. In the slums of Marsember, Roursk converted his small family into a fledgling, but tightly knit Thieves' Guild called the Corsairs. Roursk and his followers disregarded Sannil's philosophies about who constituted just marks for robbery, and instead focused all their efforts in growing the small guild in wealth and power, while trying to remain a mystery to the pervading Rogue's Guild. As Sannil grew older, Faaza found that he has been forced to participate in the operations of the Corsairs, just to provide enough for himself and Sannil. Still, he had been able to cling to Sannil's good will and philosophy, but often at the cost of striking a good mark. Though Faaza barely made enough to support their needs, he often left copper pieces outside the door of a small pub run by a kind man who provided food for many who could not afford to pay for their meals. The man’s daughter served the drinks and food herself to spare the cost of hiring additional hands. Several times Faaza thought he caught a shape watching him from a smoky window as he set coins on the tavern’s doorstep, but was never certain. Soon after his eighteenth year Faaza sat upon his perch of rock atop the walls and watched a beautiful girl of almost elven height with long ringlets of brown hair through the open door of the tavern. A cool breeze off the Moonsea blew back his pale hair which he had never bothered to cut. He sighed and relaxed on the wall when a cry for help sounded from the tavern. Faaza narrowed his eyes and scaled halfway down the wall before jumping to the ground without a sound. He passed from shadow to shadow and peeked into the window to see the serving girl kick a laughing Red Plume hard in the stomach. He coughed and took a step back, holding his gut. Then with a mirthless grin he and another nearby guard drew their knives and advanced on the girl despite the cries of the girl's elderly father. "No, no, I'll give you all I have, don't hurt her!" But that just made them laugh all the louder. "We will have it anyway, but this'll teach her proper respect!" Faaza quickly reached into his pouch and pulled out a leather sling and a shard of hard stone. He placed the stone within the sling and with a few quick whirls over his head let go of one strap and the rock flew from the sling, aimed through the window. The guard poised to strike the young woman suddenly collapsed to the floor, a large gash at the base of his skull. The second guard turned his head, looking about in fury and caught a glimpse of Faaza as he ducked beneath the window. The guard crashed through the door and grabbed hold of Faaza's cloak as he turned to flee. Faaza kicked out at the guard, but his foot thudded uselessly against the soldier’s armor. With a victorious glint in his eye the guard raised his knife. Suddenly a form came screaming from the tavern and crashed full on into the guard. The young woman fell groaning on the ground as the guard rose to his feet. "Maggot *****!" the guard snarled as he drew his sword, and drove it at her side. Faaza gave a great cry of maddened fury and launched himself onto the guard's back. In midleap he pulled a curved dagger from a sheath hidden beneath his cloak and slashed it across the guard's unprotected throat. The soldier gurgled once and fell with a crash into the dusty street. By this time a crowd had gathered around, and the shouts of Red Plumes in the distance were rapidly approaching. The crowd gasped and started to murmur fearfully as they pointed at the Red Plume’s corpse. Faaza jumped down, picked up the girl, and motioned to her frantic father to follow. They made their way to the Corsairs’ warehouse and crept through the secret entrance. Only Sannil was there at the time and without a question the old rogue treated and bandaged the girl's head. The girl's father soon feel asleep by her side and finally Sannil walked slowly to Faaza and sighed wearily. "Faaza..." he started, "What is all this?" Faaza told of what he had done and Sannil in a soft, gentle voice filled with worry held up a hand and said, "My boy... how are we to keep them? Roursk has been dipping even into what you bring and I do not know how he'll react to them." The albino youth turned his head and watched the sleeping form of the girl with a look that surprised and heartened the old rogue. In a voice devoid of his usual frivolity Faaza replied, "If we do not hide them they will be found and taken to the arena. I will get enough for us." The girl was unconscious from the concussion for several days, and when not Out in the streets of Hillsfar Faaza kept to her side. She finally awoke and gave a cry of fear as she saw the crimson gaze of Faaza looking worriedly into her eyes. The girl's father rushed over and embraced her. She remembered nothing of what had happened, but after the story was told by her father she no longer looked with fear upon Faaza. That night as Faaza lie in his hammock a figure approached him and he swung out warily. He relaxed slightly as he recognized the shape of the girl and in a low voice she said, "You... you're the boy in the shadows aren't you?" Faaza just shrugged but blinked in surprise as she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you" she whispered and returned to her cot to sleep. The Corsairs arrived several days later and though Roursk was surprised he did not seem to have any objection to the new residents of the warehouse. This was short lived however as he found that the girl only gave him the barest of attention. Instead he found she spent most of her time with the 'little freak'. Faaza did seem to be bringing in more marks than usual though, so Roursk tolerated the guests. Every now and then a silver coin would be misplaced here, a few coppers missing there, and though the girl would later be given a new dress by Faaza, Roursk could not catch the half-human at his game, and he resented it. Kirstin and Faaza were sitting on one of the walls of an old stone building holding hands, as was not an unusual sight these days, looking at the stars over the vast expanse of the Moonsea, north of Hillsfar. Faaza was talking softly with her when he heard a rustle of fabric below him and looked down to see Kirstin's father. "Faaza, Kirstin, come on down. Sannil and I would like to have a talk with you two." They exchanged glances and climbed down. Faaza caught a glimpse of someone's form in the shadows to the side and motioned for the others to stay as he skulked ahead. The figure headed down an alley and Faaza turned to follow when Kirstin's scream sounded behind him. He ran for the corner just in time to see a half dozen Red Plumes holding the father and daughter. "Yeah, these are the pubbers. Its the arena for them." Faaza growled and reached for his dagger when a strong hand gripped his and Roursk's voice said, "Don't do it Faaza, there are too many." In a voice of panic Faaza snapped, "I will die trying then won't I?" and would have launched himself at them except that the handle of Roursk's dagger caught him in the temple and he crumpled.” “Faaza! FAAZA!" he heard her cry as darkens consumed him. Faaza opened his eyes and leaped from his cot, but a bout of dizziness threw the floor at him. Sannil hurridly stood up from the nearby chair and helped him up. "Its over, Faaza, its over... they took them to the Arena. She did not suffer." he said quickly with tears brimming in his eyes. Faaza did not say a word, did not even blink. From that time forward he brought in much more than was his usual wont, and though precarious before, he became much more reckless and daring in his pilfering, flirting with death at every opportunity. Every now and then Sannil found him standing high on the wall where he had last been with her, staring up into the sky.
The Vorpal Tribble 09-22-04, 02:30 AM	This is from my current campaign, a homebrew called Holy Wars. --- Mickle Which are dark because of the ice, And into which the snow vanishes. when it is warm, they cease to flow; When it is hot, they vanish from their place. Job 6:16-17 The thin frost glittered blindingly with the reflected rays of the sun, piercing as shards of crystal in the clear artic sky. Huge, browned men in layers of furs that glistened with oil pushed and pulled the oars of their wide knorr tirelessly through the ice coated sea. The single large sail in the center of the ship lie flat and untouched by any winds, as it had for the last week. Three of the men and an older boy did not row, peering over the side into a cloud of tiny shrimp darting around the bow. Occasionally one of the krill would dart off from the main group and disapear for a time. One of these men abruptly lifted his head and pointed out to sea. The boy dashed off to the keel and redirected the course of the ship. A shadow of a single resting beluga just beneath the surface came into view some time later and all fetched their long-bladed spears. The boy took a large, weighted net from a corner and squatted patiently by the boatside. At a gesture from one of the men, he tossed out the net with a practised motion over its form and quickly bent to tie the attached rope to a hook. Inexperienced, he assumed the whale would be in deep sleep, and was startled to see it swiftly dart forward within its entanglment. As he was pulled over the side one of the whalers hurled his barbed spear into the side of the beluga. It thrashed about wildly and dived deep, dragging the boy deeper and deeper within the frigid waters. Moments later he slashed through the rope with his knife but as he swam for the far surface he felt his muscles slowing as the cold invaded his body. With the blackening sight of oxygen deprivation he forced himself to calm, slipping into the trance of prayer meditation. As his lungs screamed for air and all feeling faded, he prayed with desperate pleading, "Please aid me..." He felt death claiming as his trance became deeper than he had ever known, and knowledge of inner abilities he never had dreamt existed raised up within and claimed him... "Mickle... rise and shake yourself, rise now and take in breath!" a voice inside his head commanded gently. Vague feeling and an awareness of self slowly came to him, along with the rush of memories of his life. His body came under his control and he opened eyes that saw naught but shadows that quickly took on the color and shape of the eldestmost priest of his village. "Ahh, he awakes." the priest said, his head turned to a man from the whaling ship, who towered over the boy, his expression of relief unreadable to any but those who knew him well. "It was instinctive, his turning to the way of the living death. No training has he recieved?" "None." the man said calmly, his hand taking Mickle's, looking into his eyes sharply. The priest nodded thoughtfully, "The Lord has shown his pleasure and blessed your son, Chamblen. I would venture to say that he will be Sent. " "Sent..." Chamblen echoed. "A boon to us all." As Mickle's hearing returned to him, he listened silently and with a growing feeling of purpose. His thoughts were put off for a time however by the arrival of his anxious mother and five energetic syblings. For the next eighteen years of his life he was trained in the discipline of his people, in the meditative prayer that opened their minds to God and to their inner selves that combined had allowed them abilities unknown to other mortal folk. Otherwise he led the quiet life that most of the villagers were content with. Any possible fear of the water he may have had left over were conquered by his continuing trips out with his father. Once he was older he made many trips himself, studying the stars and exploring the coastline. His insatiable curiosity also took him to traveling for months through the mountain ranges that stretched out of sight around his large village of Poqut. While out he would fast for many days, devoting himself to pure contemplation and prayer, seeking God's will for his future. The priests saw within Mickle a well of fathomless depth to draw from. A priest he would never be they had long since decided, for he was as interested in the material world as the spiritual, and did not feel the need to dedicate himself to any one thing. He was taught the common language of those of the warmer lands, and learned of the battles and horrors that he would find. Only one per generation was ever Sent from the safety of their mountainous area to aid the Forces of the Lord and very few ever were able, or lived long enough, to return. Mind contact would be established with the voyager by the strongest of the telepaths until he was out of range. Above all he was determined to learn command over his own self and body, for how, he was known to say, could he trust himself against Evil if he did not have full control. At the age of twenty-seven he bid farewell to the village and his family, and was blessed by the priests. He then boarded his small ship loaded with a month's supply of meat and whale blubber. Knowing he would run out of food long before he hit the mainland. Those skilled in the proper devotions aided his own power and together put him, not for the first time, into the living death of suspended animation, to wake not until halfway along his journey. The wind caught his sails as his heartrate dropped to near nothing, and his sight turned inwards... Eight months later... The boat rocked as a leather clad figure leaped onto the craft. A dark, scarred face peered into the huge, oiled one of Mickle and jabbed him smartly in the throat with the butt of his whip, initiating no response. "EIAH! Cold meat! Giant flesh mebbe... come'n'get'um!" The goblin stood to the side as several others came aboard and started tugging on Mickle's still form. "Curse of Dark One!" one of them snarled, "Heavy!" "Use knife, bring pieces!" The goblin pulled forth a jagged bronze dagger and plunged it into Mickle's arm. Something inside of him awakened and noted that harm had been done, which then nudged another bit of his mind that started the process of revival. "It is too early, what has transpired..." his rapidly strengthening thoughts asked of themselves. As he felt his metabolism quickening, the shock of pain invaded his senses. The goblin raised his knife for another slash when a huge hand reached out and grabbed the goblin's wrist tightly, "Lets have no more of that." Mickle said calmly. The goblins let out a stream of surprised curses and leveled their knives at him. For the next two years Mickle remained upon the goblin's slave-manned galleon, rowing, fishing, whatever was required. He might possibly have escaped by fighting off the much more dimunitive goblins, except for his steadfast refusal to inflict harm to another unless his life, or another's, was directly at state. Movinf with such a steady, thoughtful motion, they at first whipped him for laziness, but eventually left him be. The meager leavings and dried strips of meat made from dead workers was all he was given to eat. He was allowed no time to rest, to meditate, to even be still for a moment of prayer aside from three hours of meager sleep in the heat of the day. His carefully established bulk slowly lessened, though he brought rats for his dinner in the same way he had controlled the krill so many years before, and he survived, and gave encouragement and hope to his fellow prisoners during times when the guards were least watchful. He would be free someday, he knew, he just had to have patience and faith. Near his second year of captivity a storm of sleet and icy rain took the ship. The weight of the frozen liquid upon the masts caused them to snap with the sound of thunder, ramming holes through the deck to the prisoner's space, killing most that were not at work above. Roaring abuse at those remaining, the goblins forced the already half-dead prisoners to repair the ship without sleep for several days until many collapsed. Mickle was whipped severely for his mention that portions of the ship were utterly ruined. Eventually they were forced to face reality and several slow weeks later put into the nearest seaport. To pay for the materials for its repair the goblins sold the slaves to the nearby mines, as well as one of the slavers themselves who had been too frostbitten to be of any further use. He weakly spat promises of vengeance at the sailors but could not bring forth the strength to resist Mickle who was commanded to carry him along. As he hoisted the smelly form of the goblin and followed his fellow chain-led prisoners, Mickle looked to the mountains, his face shining with hope...
Philusion 09-23-04, 07:41 AM	Dang, they're both depressing! Haha...then again, they're both good. I really enjoyed Faaza though, as not only was the story written really well, but he reminded me of a character I used to play (until the DM decided to do a disappearing act on us). Come to think of it, I think I'll add his background to your collection. :ayyyy!: ---------------------- ---Derrex Verablade--- ---------------------- It was a standard job. Garreth was to dispatch a noble, an elven woman, who was suspected of high treason and cheating on her husband. He didn’t expect any trouble – it showed up without invitation. His victim was in the middle of giving birth to an illegitimate child, and even as an assassin for hire, he had standards. One of these standards was to never kill a child. After dispatching the woman with his poisoned blade (it was his custom to always coat the killing weapon with a type of poison, ensuring that his victim fell no matter how deep the cut), he cleaned the blade off and pulled out his prized dagger. It was made of silver, and highly magical. Garreth was thankful she was trying to deliver it alone, knowing how loud a healthy midwife could scream. Silver dagger in hand, he performed a type of untraditional delivery and pulled the child out, alive and well. Garreth carefully wrapped the child up in the blankets that were covering the woman, and quickly thought of how best to hide his small child theft. Seconds later, he fled out of a window and went to his abode; his hair bristled at the sound of the babe’s muffled cries. It was a rundown shack, quite common in that part of town. Once inside, he opened a trap door that led down into his living quarters and set the bundle down, just before retrieving a few bottles of flammable liquor. The fire was quite a large one. No one but Garreth knew how the spark started, and he had no reason to inform anyone else. His job was done, and that was all that mattered. Garreth pondered over what to name the bastard half-elf child. He wouldn’t name it after himself, of course, but after the circumstances surrounding his birth. The silver blade and the poison (veratrum) began to form in his mind for the surname of the child. Watching the newborn lying there at the foot of his bed, wrapped in a blanket, Garreth discovered that both of the infant’s eyes were severely bloodshot, probably from accidental contact to the poison. The child’s first name came soon after this discovery, as ‘Der’ is ‘red’ spelled backwards. Due to his high hopes for the infant half-elf (or quarter elf, if one must be specific), ‘rex’, which is another word for king, formed the last part of his first name. Thus, Derrex Verablade was brought into existence. At first, Garreth didn’t know what to do with the child. He had lived alone all his 37 years, even as a young teenager, so this was quite a change for the man. He led a quiet life, apart from others in the neighborhood, but he didn’t want his adopted son to grow up like him. He experimented with schools when Derrex reached of age, but it always ended with disaster. Either he was bullied to the point of tears and fled back home, or the boy just skipped school and stayed out of sight until school was over. After a half year of this, Gerret had enough. He decided to teach him the uncouth ways of survival. Ways that had kept himself strong and competent throughout his life. Years went by, and Derrex was becoming rather proficient in acrobatics, listening to the right things, avoiding the wrong people, and so forth. Later, in his teens, he accompanied his adopted father (Derrex viewed Garreth as his true father, in spite of his knowledge of the truth, which he learned around this time, he loved him as if he were his biological father) on a select few of his missions, and learned how many things were done. In doing so, he learned a lot. About this time, Garreth began training the half-elf in combat, stealth, evasion, espionage, reconnaissance, and detracting attention to oneself. He strongly stressed not to get into the killing business, but he did teach Derrex a few tricks of the trade after showing a true interest in the art. It was known by a few that there was an assassin’s guild in the city, but only those of certain contacts and privileges could actually hire a hit, though Garreth hated how wicked and immoral the guild was. It took years to build up the right contacts and resources, but by the time Derrex was 19 years of age, he gladly accompanied his father in fleeing the city. They headed toward a much larger one where it would be much simpler to avoid undue notice while in the flurry & confusion of the metropolis. Derrex knew his father had quit the guild, and was actually proud of him for it. On the other hand, Garreth was extremely proud of his son, in how quickly he picked up decent combat prowess while keeping the right perspective on the things that mattered, such as moral standards–and a person’s life in general. It was a quiet night, and a dark night, due to the clouds overhead, and they lay peacefully sleeping in separate chambers within the small cottage they had purchased (Derrex insisted on aiding his dad in buying the place). He hated to admit it, but Garreth was getting old, and his senses weren’t as keen as they had been years ago. He barely had time to open his eyes before the blade went into his skull. Derrex was already up with an unsheathed blade at his side when he heard unfamiliar sounds come from his father’s room. Putting his ear to the wall, he heard a muffled noise, sounding to him like a type of scornful chuckle. Moments later, a small creak on the windowsill shattered the silence, as if someone or something had put weight upon it. After a brief minute, he snuck into the room, and upon seeing the man who saved him and raised him from birth, his heart felt torn asunder. A dagger was buried in his head with a note attached. It was written in Undercommon, which he had taught himself under Garreth’s tutelage. “Those who betray brethren die by the same.” Elves. Possibly Drow, but Derrex wasn’t certain–he was infuriated. That very night, he honored his father’s request (which Garreth had briefly mentioned during the trip from the previous city) in purifying his remains by fire. He gently laid his father upon the bed, and positioned him in respectfully, before dousing his precious father and the small cottage with a dozen jars of lamp oil. He packed what little they had and left that night. He felt the heat rapidly increase behind him as he walked out the back door. The tears he’d been holding back since the tragedy were finally released, but were quickly vaporized when he gave the blaze a final glance. It took a few months of traveling north to arrive in the city of Nildur. Within a day of scouting out the place, he found a merchant swindling numerous customers out of their well-earned cash. This displeased him, and he set a night when he would retrieve what the man stole from his customers, as a sign of the city’s disproval to the man’s actions. Besides, Derrex was very short of coin at the time, and he figured that it would both he and the city some good if he’d be the one to relieve the crook from his catch. Later that week, he set out toward the merchant’s shop of wares. He swiftly picked the lock while keeping alert to his surroundings, and silently slipped into the shop. A minute later, six other individuals in dark clothing joined him. They all had weapons drawn, and Derrex wasn’t so sure they had the same intention as he. What he thought was the leader of the group walked up to him and spoke first. Derrex learned that these were of the Dark Arm thieves’ guild, and they had this specific merchant’s shop under their protection. The lead rogue gave him an offer. “Either die this night, or do us a favor and retrieve a magical stone box that has been stolen from a certain wizard.” The more the person spoke, the more Derrex realized that there was no getting out of this one. He accepted, in return for his life, and left the shop under escort. They escorted him to the boundaries of Dark Arm’s reach, and parted ways. Derrex slept uneasy that night. Later that morning, he rose from his reverie and prepared to find this stone crate and be done with it. Two hours later, in the area where he was told he would find it, he saw a curious sight. A motley group of (what looked like to him) adventurers were crawling out of a sewer duct, with the lead individual (a young woman, roguish looking) carrying a very large stone crate…and so begins the adventures of Derrex “the Red” Verablade.
The Vorpal Tribble 10-22-04, 04:18 AM	*winces* I think Derrex wins the prize for the most brutal birth... :mymy: --- Here is my newest character's background. A Psion/Awakened Dreamer, an intensely serious man whoes past and whoes abilities has brought him not into insanity, but the opposite direction. He is so incredibly sane and sobered that he seems psychotic to others. I give you Timothae, the Awakened Dreamer -=-=-=-=-=-=-=- That music... it was wrong, it was EVIL. He had to stop that music! -- A young woman quickly sat up in bed, and cocked her head to the side, listening. The soft pattering of bare footsteps and the thud of the closing door. She quickly rolled out of bed, and grabbed a shawl off its hook and ran outside. There, in the distance was her five year old jogging down the sandy street, heedless to the tiny pebbles that must have been badly bruising him. She herself winced as she took after him, the salty breeze blowing her slightly to the side. "Timothae!" she cried. "Come back!" -- Something coming in from the woods... going for the music. It was that girl again... 'Who is she?' he wondered. "Come back!" he shouted and took off after her, to warn her away from the music. -- The watchman started in surprise as the little figure ran past him for the shore. "Whoa there lad, where you headin'?" he called. When no answer was forthcoming he ran forward and stepped before the child. The boy stopped abruptly and stood there, his eyes staring blankly ahead. The watchmen lifted his lantern to shine into the boy's face and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright there?" he asked a touch confused, and if it wasn't for his old eyes he could have sworn that mists were coming off the little one. He raised the lantern up as the form of his mother came panting down the road. "Thank you so much Mr. Bletkle!" she breathed and reached down to take the boy's arm, "I can't imagine what would bring him to do..." she gasped as the watchmen grabbed her arm. "No lass, no!" he said in an urgent whisper. "He's asleep walkin'. Ye must never awaken those as do that. 'orrible things are asaid to happen. Just lead'em quiet like back." The woman smiles slightly and nodded. She gently turned him around, and he went along with her gentle pressure. He instinctively climbed back into bed. She went about locking the doors and windows in the house. -- He chased after her but could never catch up. Suddenly a wind picked him up and blew him over the treetops and away.... -- For the next six years Timothae's mother was kept busy everynight, sometimes sleeping at the foot of his door to be awakened by his walks. The night watchmen were always on the alert for his passing, for despite the mother's efforts, she would fall into a deep sleep or walk off, inexplicably forgetting her vigil and he would unlock doors or unlatch windows with subconscious zeal. Of his late wanderings his father was never told, and being away for months at a time on voyages across the great lake the Captain was rarely home for very long. When he was the young boy was overjoyed and oddly enough his walkabouts ceased, but the following days after his father's usual departures his treks would start once more. The father was never told of his, for he resented weakness in any form, and to find anything odd about his son would be a blow to his pride. His first attempt at halting these wanderings would be a solid thrashing with a belt. Timothae's mother could not bear the thought of her quiet, gentle son being treated thus and so it was kept a secret. -- Eight years later... Timothae looked about in astonishment as he strolled down the street of his home. The smith he knew had been dead for years looked up from his shop and waved. All about him, people he had once known but had died walked around him. Suddenly a movement caught his eye and he saw the girl. She grew as he did he realized. As always he caught nothing of her face as she walked into an alley. However, as he turned within, he stopped dead in his tracks for she was turned towards him. Her face was almost elven in its beauty, and for the first time he looked upon the kind but worried gaze of her green, almond eyes. She reached out her hand and in sweet tones she urged, "You must come with me quickly!" Still staring deep into her eye he took the hand, and the world dimmed. His intake of breath brought to him the smell of burning wood... and flesh. She pulled him back out of the alley and he saw dust and fog in a great cloud that blocked the sun for as far as he could see. What was dimly illuminated struck to his heart. Nearly the entire town was reduced to rubble. Moans and screams of pain and fear reverberated about the wreckage. The ground suddenly rumbled and shook, nearly knocking him off balance, only by leaning together were the girl and he able to maintain their footing. "This way!" she shouted urgently and half dragged him down the path. Instead of taking him down to the seaside he found himself in a forest. As she took him they seemed to become larger and taller, many seeming to have been uprooted and twisted by a great force. As he went along they became larger and eventually she stopped before the largest of them all, a tree so high that only the lowermost branches were visible, the top being lost to sight. At the base of the twisted and gnarled trunk sat an ancient looking man, bent with age. He stood up from his contemplation with a look of deep sadness and beckoned. He turned about and like a fly started to clamber up the trunk. The girl gave him an affectionate smile and followed suit. Together they soon came to a ledge and pulled themselves above it. Timothae blinked in astonishment, for the trunk of the tree has split off and formed many, many small trunks that held up the top. They were formed in the shape of living arches and the middle was left bare leaving plenty of room to move about. In each arch were the standing forms of mummified remains, their parchment-like skin weather beaten and spider webs were woven about the exposed bones. Pieces of torn fabric blew about in the breeze. They all were turned face outwards, looking towards the horizon, each one with an expression of utter sorrow upon their dried features. The old man reaches over and took him by the shoulders and turned him to look around. The beauty of the forest and seas of grass shocked Timothae to inner stillness. The view was shortlived though as the sun dipped below the distant mountains and the land took on the color of blood. Timothae felt himself suddenly shoved from behind and staggered off the ledge of the tree. Though the ground rushed at him no fear did he feel. He landed softly on his feet which somehow took the shock easily. The girl and man land beside you and start to run. With great speed they dash and before they are out of site you hear the aged one shout, "Up and over, faster, faster! Do not be left behind!" Obeying his urgent commant Timothae started to run and was soon leaving the wind behind in his wake. In moments he was back at the town but now, though it wass dark, it was no longer in rubble. He saw the man and girl turn around a strange building and so he head for it as well. Around the curve he came to a stop. A great multitude of everyone he knew stood before him. The ancient man nods to you and and the girl squeezes your arm. From the center of the crowd stepped his mother, who handed him an odd silver dagger... -- "Timothae... Timoathe!" his mother said loudly, shaking him. She knew him to sleep deeply, almost in death would he appear when he did not wander, but never before had it been this difficult. Only the rise and fall of his chest told her he was alive. "You father sailed in early, Timothae!" she said still shaking. He sat up suddenly and she felt a piercing pain in her knee she was leaning forward upon. Through the blanket a shining glint caught the morning sun coming in through the window. She fell backwards, and a tall, burly man with skin as dark as wet sand jumped forward and caught her. "TIMOTHAE!" she gasped. "Why are you sleeping with a knife?" "Wha' kni..." he asked groggily but his eyes widened in shock at the blade within his hand. "You gave it to me... but that was only a dream!" he whispered. Timothae's father set her down in a chair and took a step forward and siezed the boy's wrist. "Where did you get this?" he demanded, but for a moment even he was memorized by the weapon, though he rallied and said sternly. "None of us could afford such a blade." "Mother..." Timothae started. His mother shook her head in bewilderment, "I have never seen it before, Locklane!" Locklane shook the boy arm, "Did you steal this?" he hissed in fury. "I wouldn't..." "Then how did you come to have it? I have been far too negligent of late." he turned and looked to Timothae's mother. "Feleen, you have that scratch looked at. Never know what might be on this." "Locklane, no..." she started. "Feleen, leave us." he said in tones that brooked no argument. He quickly closed the door as she walked out, limping slightly. He turned back to Timothae, "Our family has had a tradition of honor and integrity. You will tell me from whom you took it." "Father, I did not..." "LIES!" he fairly roared. "No mark on my family will be tolerated, and theft of arms is a black smudge. You will learn what the price of dishonor is." and pulled from around his pant a thick, wide leather belt. -- Feleen buried her head in her hands at the sounds of Timothee's agonized cries, and her tears leaked between her clenched fingers. Timothae did not come forth from his room once that day and Locklane forbade her to enter to comfort him. That night she sat up and with a sick certainty knew that he had gone wandering. She tried to get out of bed quietly, but Locklane unlike his son slept light and questioned after her. She trembled slightly as she responded, "He walks at night, asleep." she grabbed his arm as he swung his legs out of bed. "He doesn't know what he does, Locklane!" she implored. "Thats what he tell you is it?" Locklane said darkly. "This is when he goes out to steal! Apparently his flogging wasn't enough. He'll learn this time. Oh, how he'll learn!" he quickly pulled on his boots and walked out the door. Down the road, heading towards the beach walked Timothae, a shattered lamp held in the hand of a crumpled figure at his feet. Going around the figure, Timothae continued walking. Locklane's fists bunched in fury and shame and he ran down, his boots sending gravel scattering. -- "Timothae, oh Timothae!" he heard the girl shout. He looked out the window and rising from the sea was the moon, the color of blood. Timothae quickly squeezed through the window frame and jumped lightly to the ground. Shadows oozed out of nearby doorways and from chimneys and under window sills. He ran all the faster but skidded to a stop as one stepped before him. In its hand shone a bright fire that it drew back to throw. Timothae's anger filled him at the obstacles keeping him from the girl to whom he had fallen in love with. His head seemed filled with light, and he hurled it at the shadow to destroy it. The dark shape staggered back and fell to the ground where a dark puddle formed. The fire hit the puddle and sizzled out. He did not have a moment of satisfaction however as her voice echoed from the waves ever more urgently. He walked around the puddle and dashed for the waters. He screamed in pain though as he stepped upon the pebbly shore, for no longer was it covered in pebbles. Tiny figures were standing up from their prone positions, some several inches tall, thousands of others only the size of grains of sand. Each one though had glinting claws coming from their tiny hands and their faces contorted and rotten. With these claws they tore into his foot. Farther out upon the waters the pleading tones continued. Timothae leaped into the water and flicked his foot, washing off the dead men. The salt stung his wounds viciously, but he couldn't return to the beach. Specially because out on the lake was a small boat, with the girl standing upon it. A dark arm was around her throat which connected to a demonic form wrapped about in a black cloak. He laughed horribly and lifted the other arm alike to a bat's wing. The wind quickly took the membrane and the girl's screams disapeared in the distance. 'This is a dream...' he said to himself in realization. 'This is MY dream... AND I CONTROL IT! and started to wade outwards when something took his shoulder. He felt a great ripping of something deep within his being, but it was not he that tore, but something that had come along. For several dark moments, an unbearable weight clung to him... --- Locklane dashed over the pebbles when a swirl of fabric flapped behind him and a slim hand wrapped around his arm. "Locklane, you must listen to me!" Feleen pleaded. "He mustn't be awakened. He mustn't!" Locklear shrugged away her grip. "You've been listening to those old wives tales. If he's really sleep walking, and I doubt this, he'll be woken up. It may take some time, but anything can be beaten out of you if its caught early!" and grabbed Timothae's shoulder and spun him brutally around. A silent explosion seemed to pass through Locklear and Feleen's minds and the sky turned a horrible shade of dark ochre. Rising from the ocean was a bloated moon far too large, casting the hideous light. Most horrifying of all though was the figure that turned to them shrieking, "This is MY dream!". Though still bearing a resemblance to Timothae, the being before them was out of their worst inner fears. His skin, a horrible pale shade, literally CRAWLED, like maggots unable to quite push through from beneath. His eyes were missing, and in their place were pulsing orbs of light, chasing and roating about one another. His hair were tentacles that went down to his back and rose into the air. His arms and legs were obscenely thickened and bloated, and from his fingers and toes grew viciously curved talons. He opened an unhinged mouth that showed a veritable forest of never ending needled teeth and his barbed tongue snaked out, "Dare you take their form, demons? No more... NO MORE!" and stomping forward he reached down and gripped the ankles of Locklane. Whipping the man around and around his head, Timothae released him. Locklane sailed far over the waters towards the rocky reefs. There was an audible 'CRACK' as his body met the unyielding stone, and he slid down into the turbulent waves. Timothae then turned to the second cowering figure, her mouth opened in a silent scream too fearful to have sound. "Return to the nothingness of defeated nightmare and plague me no more!" he screamed and reached out a hand. From her body a thick, roiling substance streamed. He bound it within his palms and rearing back, hurled it into the sky, where it sailed higher... and higher. The figure collapsed to the ground. He turned back to the waves and was preparing to fly for the boating demon when suddenly he felt dizzy. The water far out to see parted and a dark, monstrous figure rose up and laughed humorlessly, shaking the land. "You have finally released me from my prison after all these years, and so I will alow you to live. May we never meet again..." and he wafted a hand at Timothae as if to dismiss him. As he fell to the sand he abruptly noticed that the beach was no longer anything but pale pebbles and sand, and no red moon hung in the sky... --- When Timothae awoke he felt light headed, and couldn't quite remember how to open his eyes. Voices were around him, whispering, but quickly became louder. Eventually feeling came to his arm and he reached to find why his eyes were so heavy and felt a damp cloth. A voice responded above him, "Why he awakes!" The cloth was pulled from his head and he slowly opened his eyes. It was several moments before he could focus, but when he could he saw that he was within the apothecary. The healer's elderly face was looking into his. He glanced over and saw his mother lying still on a cot nearby and said with a croak, "What happened?" "Well lad..." the healer responded slowly, "I've got some bad news...." -- No one quite understood why Timothae ran out of the apothecary screaming, "Dreams are real, and real is dreams!" and locked himself in his home. Over the next eight days many tried to get in to check on him, but he ignored their calls. Finally, after several days had passed a couple of Locklear's mates hoisted up another of the sailors, and peering through Timothae's window, saw him rocking back and forth on his bed, his eyes wide and unseeing and his mouth saying something over and over. During this time Timothae slept not one wink. He would pinch himself or dash himself against the wall along with a wide variety of things to keep from sleeping. Upon hearing about his parents he refused to sleep, for to sleep was to dream, and to dream was to kill! He must never sleep again, for he could not know what might happen once more. By the eighth day he had been seeing hallucinations and was sure that his dreams were out to get him. It was on that eighth day that his mother died, unable to stay alive any longer within a coma. He watched blearily as her coffin was carried to the graveyards by Lacklear's crew, followed by Feleen's friends. The madness that was building within him from shock and sleep deprivation finally took hold as his lids grew droopy. He could not sleep if he could not close his eyes! This was the only thought in his mind as he walked out of his room and went to the stand where Locklear kept his things. Timothae rooted around and pulled out his silver knife. In the kitchen he brought forth a bowl of water and looked within to see his reflection. He then brought the knife to his eye... -- Several days later the neighbors were shocked to finally see a figure with a hooded cloak pulled over his head emerge from the house...
The Vorpal Tribble 12-30-04, 09:54 PM	Sheaux the Distractress An arc of light spread across the sky, branching out to feel about the darkness. Illuminated in the brief glow was a couple of figures wrapped up in hooded cloaks, soaked with the pouring rain. One of the figures shouted something unheard as the thunder quickly followed, and slapped his reigns against the clydesdale hitched to the sturdy wagon. The beast snorted mist from its nostrils, but continued at its moderate clip. Another collection of electrical tendrils snaked across the gloom, but this time it sought the ground. A deafening *SNAP* of imploding air followed without noticable pause after the sudden explosion that threw both figures from the wagon. The horse in complete terror launched itself down the muddy stretch of road. A man's voice shouted out, "Karah? KARAH?" but he could not hear the roaring of his own voice. He stood, and slipped, scrambled once more to his feet, and splashed to the dark shape lumped in a deep puddle. The man reached down and pulled away the hood showing the delicate face of a young woman and put a hand to the horrible burn in her dress, showing her burnt, swollen belly. She remained unresponsive as he picked up her limp form. He looked to the sky and shouted a curse at the pouring turmoil, and pulled her to him, the salty tears of his eyes mixing with the fresh of the sky upon her hair. Her entire form suddenly convulsed and she drew in a deep, sobbing breath. "Kara!" he cried and embraced her fiercely. The ringing in his ears had faded so that he heard her cry, "Saul, I can't see, I can't see a thing!" "It was the flash darling. You will..." "OH!" she cried putting her hands to her stomach, "This can't be, its too early, far too early." "I have to find you someplace dry." Saul said frantically, and stomped through the thick grass, heading for the lights of a tiny village at the edge of his limited sight. Weary and heartsick from the agonized tones and trembling of his wife, Saul practically kicked in the door of the first cottage he came to, banging it with his toe. A tall, bristly bearded farmer opened the door with an angry retort on his lips, but his mouth fell open at the sight of the burdened man before him, the pair dressed in well to do garments. "My wife is with child." Saul said, bargin in without consent and layed Kara upon his bed. The farmer swallowed and said, "I don't know nothing about birthing." he stammered. "And the wifes been dead these last three years..." "Do you have a midwife?" Saul demanded. "Theres the Grandnanny Chuckdown bu..." "Fetch her, QUICKLY!" and finding himself darting out of his own home by the sheer command in the words of the youth, he ran for the edge of the nearby wood. An elderly, but still dark haired woman quickly walked in, dripping from the rain, the farmer, far more drenched right behind her. She walked quickly over to Kara and drew in an angry breath at the burns upon the young woman and the enlarged pupils of her unseeing eyes. . "For the sake of the lands, what caused this?" she breathed in astonishment as Kara gasped in pain at the light touch.. "Lightening struck us on the road." Saul responded anxiously. "Well what do you expect you fools?" the elderly woman snapped. "Both of you, out. Get off to my cabin, Bilsten. And you," she turns to Saul, "See to your horse." Kara stiffened and a pained cry escaped her clenched lips. "Now see here, I am Squire..." Saul started in disbelief. "You are nothing but a meddlesome man at this moment, now GET! Don't let me see hide nor hair of either of you before sunbreak." --- Grandnanny Chuckdown watched the mother trying to suckle the scrawny babe with a heavy heart, for it was far too tiny. The father stood beside her, his features drawn and haggard with worry. Suddenly Kara burst out in frantic sobbing, "She can't, she's just can't..." and held the newborn close. Her knowledge had had her run out of the last village she visited, the ungreatful louts blaming her for everything from sunburn to slugs in the cabbage, but if it meant the babe's life, so be it. "Don't worry lass." she assured the new mother, "I will see to it that she grows." and standing up straight, she went out the door. --- "Here now..." Grandnanny said gently, squeezing a rag soaked from the kettle on the hearth, a tiny stream of dark liquid dribbling into the child's mouth, too weak yet to even cry. After several hours of this she noticed hot its stick thin limbs had already filled out and by now it was letting our hearty, gladdening squeals. "You hurry and get to wherever your going and sleep." she instructed Kara. "But four times a day for the next week you be sure to feed that babe this, uh, broth of mine." "We cannot express our gratitude." Paul said, lyng Kara in the back of the wagon. "I will be sure to send a..." "None of that." Grandnanny informed the squire. "You'll forget that I even was found here, and that'll be thanks enough. Off, go..." she urged. With a final call of thanks the young pair continued down the road as they had before traveled. --- The babe grew... and grew... and one came to think when she was at least head taller than anyone her age at eight that perhaps she overgrew. Her father spoiled her shamelessly, and her mother, blind since the day of her birth, would sit doing small crafts by touch, listening to her daughter's laughter. Though Kara fought such feelings in the beginning, she soon gave herself up to the jealousy and self pity that built within. Despite her mother's developing coldness and lack of affection she led a happy childhood, if not a slightly odd one. Being the wealthiest family in the area, many tried to push their children to visit with Sheaux, but the insincerity of it was noticed by even her child's mind. She instead amused herself, dancing and singing songs she made up herself with her dolls. Her father worried at times, for he would find her staring enthralled at the fire in the hearth, tossing in bits of hay just to see it burn, while at others watching the rainbow glint of sunlight off the windows. Lightening storms in particular were her glory, applauding the brightest, most dazzling displays. The bright, the dazzling, the eye catching enthralled her, and beauty in all its forms. At times when her mother wished to be left alone she would go with her father to the king's training grounds, and watch from nearby their mock battles. Many times she could be seen dancing in the distance, mimicking martial poise and incorporating the moves into her own private routine that she did for the guards, relishing their praise and attention. At these fields she made several friends of the children of the servants, and as they played, they would sometimes have mock battles with imaginary swords. It was during on such play that she let out a laugh and a cry of 'Ha!' as one of her friends tripped, and to her horror, a red gash actually ripped itself across his arm. His immediate scream was as much surprise as pain, for she had come nowhere near him, and didn't REALLY have a sword besides! Or wait... yes she did, but she hadn't had it a moment ago! Several soldiers quickly ran over and demanded what had happened, but the obvious sword wound was without a sword as Sheaux released her hands and backed away in shock. The odd wound was finally blamed on a possible scrape on a rock, but she knew better. Her sword was real if she wanted it to be! Her father only smiled and laughed when she told him what happened, which faded quickly as she grew angry at the disbelief and pretended it was real. An odd, swordt-shaped disturbance quickly glowed before her. She was taken to the king's wizards but they had no explanation. The child had not even the most basic magical inclination to her, yet what she did was obviously not a common day occurance. The children from that point left her be, and several times she woke up at night crying. Her mother, upon learning this grew even more silent and hostile to her daughter. It was with indifference she granted Sheaux the permission to visit with Grandnanny who supposedly could do magics. This lasted for only a few days before Sheaux left in digust at all she meddled with was stinking plants and animals. It was around this time that a war had started somewhere, Sheaux never thinking to ask where, that nevertheless affected her deeply. Her beloved father was being called away. For the first time in years Sheaux actually saw the hints of emotion in her mother as her father gathered his gear and reported to the King. Ten months later a messanger came to their door. Saul had been killed. Kara took the news with so little reaction that she might have been wood. Sheaux on the otherhand was consumed with rage that was only fueled by the gaping hole now left within her. And these feelings were not directed at the enemy, but at the King who had ordered him there. Ordered him to DIE! Her curses and rantings were suddenly cut off as a blow to her face half threw her to the floor. "QUIET YOU LITTLE CUR." Karen said, standing over her, her face flush with fury and loss now being directed at Sheaux. "He was dead to me years ago because of you! Doted upon you he did, and you took him from me as surely did the warrior who slew him!" and with that marched to her chambers and slammed the door. Sheaux remained on the floor, shaken and feeling the full intensity of her loss. She had suspected her mother didn't like her much, but never had she suspected the raging hatred her mother had built up, slowy stoking it to a blue-whize blaze. The next six years of Sheaux's life was utter misery as her mother heaped abuse and accusations upon her, and would beat her mercilessly with her cane. Only in her dance could her mind be free. It was sometime around her seventeenth year that a bard came to visit her town. Not like the other bards was he. He did not tell funny stories, but with music, song and dance his movements was his story. Flips, and leaps and sommersaults, his very movements beautiful. Sheaux stayed to watch him most of the day and she noticed that her mother would keep her window open and listen from above to his music and song. Soon the bard came to notice her attentions and returned them, for Sheaux, though younger than him by some ten years, was quite comely. He became an extended guest of the household, and in return he taught Sheaux acrobatics and sang and played his lute for her mother. Sheaux came to join with him in his acts and reveled in the attention given her by the admiring crowd, but most importantly by Lan himself. It was several months later that he proposed to her when he mother came storming out of her room and started to land blind, powerful blows upon them both with her cane. "You take yet another from me!" Kara's voice cracking with hatred. "You, always you, never ME!" she wailed. "OUT! The both of you, and may I never hear the voices of either of you again!" Lan fled before her wrath but Sheaux without a word walked out of the door. Upon the step all that had been bottled up within her. All the rage and sadness at the unfairness and selfishness of her mother, and at the world she focused into her blade and she struck at the door that had just been slammed into her face with all that was in her. To her astonishment her mindblade did not thud into the door, but an explosive gout of intense flame flew from her hand and the door was throw forward, its hinges melted into sludge. She could feel the heat, but it was comforting. She suddenly found the secret within the flames that she had unwittingly searched for for so long! Her mother spun about and her eyes widened in speechless astonishment. Sheaux let out yet another cry and spun her flame to the roof and soon the entire house was ablaze. Such was the murderous rage within her that she did not even turn around to see if her mother escaped before running from the carnage. Lan and her fled the town, and were married a week later. Together they performed, Sheaux using her mindblade and flaming whip in her dances that left crowds speechless. There was a lull in her performances however as they joyously found she was carrying, but they had earned well and were not in need. Months later she gave birth to Lex, a beautiful baby boy with the same straight black hair as the father. Their savings were running low by this time, so once she recovered she was back on stage, dazzling the masses. It was with great surprise that they were found by a messanger, asking them to perform before the King himself. Rage kindled in Sheaux at the thought of entertaining the man who had sentenced her father to death, but Lan with his silver tongue persuaded her to attend, just this once. They left Lex with 'Uncle Bilsten', who Sheaux had visited off and on since she was born. The kind man had married once more, and his wife addored the little lad. Reminescent of a scene seen some eighteen years ago, Lan and Sheaux proceeded down the dirt road within their horse-drawn cart, towards the castle. They were led into the grand hall by several unusually hostile guards, and thats when Sheaux put a finger on the uneasieness she'd been feeling. There was no festive atmosphere, no sounds of revelers. She leaned over to Lan and said, "We're in for something, love." Before them sat the aging but quite venerable king, and beside him... "Mother!" Sheaux gasped. "Seize the rogues!" the King commanded. The soliders escorting them leaned forward to grab at them, but Lan was already twisting around, grabbing a sword from the knight's own sheath but suddenly fell as a crossbow shaft plunged between his shoulder blades. Sheaux let out a horrified scream of rage and she seemed to grow as within one hand her mindblade sprung, and the other a fifteen foot lash of fire. Her teeth gritting she snarled, "I believe you owe me a dance." and hurled herself upon the guards, her blade striking literally with the speed of thought, her whip of flame setting her opponent's hair and beards afire. Several arrows whizzed past her, but the practised swirl of her dress and the movements of her fire made it nigh impossible to aim accurately. The King called out an echoing roar for his men at arms. Sheaux, though in the heat of fury, realized that none but a wizened sorcerer could hold up against so many men. She released the grip on her weapons, and they winked out of existence as she ran for the wall of the chambers. She concentrated mightily as she ran, thinking, "Wall is floor and floor begone!" and suddenly perceptions changed. She was now sliding to the floor, men at arms and tables bolted to the wall above. She ran for the hole in the floor that had earlier been a high window. and took a step within it, flipping around and her world turned once more, and she was standing within the sill. "You had my father killed and have taken my father and my love!" she screeched. "But me you will NEVER have. I swear upon the powers that be that your kingdom shall scorch and turn to glowing embers before I am through!" and with that she leaned outside and raced down the sheer wall.