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Alresco
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Joined: 30 May 2010
Posts: 13

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re: Alresco's Tale

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Written sometime in the late 1990's, to my best recollection


I was born yesterday or a thousand years ago; sometimes I don’t know which. My life has been filled with wonder and boredom, suffering and ecstasy, hardship and plenty, pleasure and pain. The world has spun around me like a moon out of orbit, filling my head with a myriad of thoughts, feelings, and emotions I can barely remember of describe. Forgive me. Allow me to start again from the beginning.

My parents were hardscrabble dirt farmers in a rocky clearing south of Yew. Pa was descended from the distinguished House of Writ, wealthy merchants and trusted bankers to the great-grandfather of Lord British. The envious Tylo Blackthorne, jealous of my family’s position within the royal court, plotted a false scandal that robbed my family of its fortune and stole from us our good name. The Writs were driven out of Britain by a populace manipulated by Tylo’s rantings and took refuge in the sylvan community of Yew several generations before my entry to this world.

Ma nearly died giving birth to me and could bear my father no more children, and I grew up an only child. I spent my lonely hours killing rabbits and birds and reveling in other such boyish pastimes as I could fit between my chores on the farm. Indeed, the meager meat I collected from the small creatures I slew was often the only meal separating my family from starvation. Times were hard, and frequent raids by bands of orcs often left us with little more than the clothes on our backs. What the orcs didn’t take, the imperious tax collectors sent by Lord Blackthorne did. I grew up to hate them for the crimes of Blackthorne’s ancestor and for the lofty ideal of Chaos they so cynically preached to the downtrodden of Britannia.

Life, however, did not deny us some simple delights. Ma was a musician of some small skill and Pa would craft clever toys from the wood of the Yew trees near our farm. To their credit, they shielded me as best they could from the harsh realities of life. My uncle Manroot was a skilled tailor, and during his visits to our farm taught me much of what he knew. As a young man I plied my burgeoning trade about the countryside, easing the burden weighing heavily upon my father’s bent shoulders.

Returning home from one of my forays, my heart light from the profits I carried to my parents, I found my father bleeding heavily, his leg amputated at the knee, the victim of a massive troll who had wandered in from the woods. Trolls in those days were seldom seen, but as the summer wore on, they appeared more and more frequently until a sizeable band had gathered near our farm. I traveled north to Yew to warn the city fathers that an attack on the town was imminent. After some debate about the veracity of my tale, a ragtag army of civilians, armed mostly with pitchforks and spears, marched south to meet the trolls. Alas, we were sorely overmatched, and many fine townsfolk died bravely on the field of battle. My father, still abed from his injuries, was unable to join the fight, and carried a dark feeling of helplessness and cowardice with him for the rest of his life. In his later years, he took to strong drink and died a broken and bitter man. Ma is gone now, too, and they rest side by side in the Yew cemetery.

The disastrous Troll War inspired me to learn the arts of battle that I might be more ready to assist the citizens of Yew should such an assault come again. I set out one night under the full moons as Ma and Pa stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the dim light of our only candle, their cheeks streaked with tears. My only possessions were a tattered knapsack and the tarnished sword of an ancestor as I began to make my way slowly across this great land.

I traveled to Yew for some humble provisions, then eastward to the capital city, where I found corruption and decadence so profound that my heart was eased that my family no longer lived in that vile place. Trinsic was little better, and I left those cities wondering if my journey had been an error. I backtracked to the west and caught a ferry to the tiny town of Skara Brae. Here I felt a bit at home, as the peasantry was civilized and the opportunities to learn my craft improved. I met with Uncle Manroot in a quaint tavern, where we shared a pint and spoke of deeds past. I took the opportunity to improve my tailoring skills under his tutelage and managed to build a small nest egg before setting off again. In Jhelom I learned some valuable fighting skills and spent a bit of time there until wanderlust struck; in Moonglow some magical skills and healing arts; in Minoc a bit of craftsmanship. I trudged long hours through the thick forests where I met a young child beside a dead pony. I met a traveler from an antique land. I met a pieman going to the fair. From these and many others I learned to survive in a land friendly and hostile in turn, and, in due time, returned to my home in Yew.

Now in early manhood, with some of my ambitions fulfilled, the idyllic life of the countryside seemed tame compared with adventures of the road, and I grew restless. I had few friends and, in my short life, had little opportunity to make any lasting bonds with fellows my own age. My natural trust of people had been tempered by the hard lessons of the city, where, I admit to my shame, I succumbed to trickery and deceit on more than one occasion. I fear that my demeanor had hardened and many in Yew took my caution for haughtiness and I felt distanced from many and ostracized by some. In short, I was alone and lonely.

One pleasant afternoon, while wandering through the woods south of town, I happened upon a friendly group of chaps who seemed to welcome me amongst them. Having learned that friendliness from strangers often precedes betrayal, I spoke little and kept my distance, all the time watching my purse. Still, their free manner and good nature intrigued me, and I spent the next few weeks observing them from the dark shadows of buildings and the clean rooms of Empath Abbey, sizing them up and taking their measure. To all appearances, they were valiant warriors and honorable men, and as I learned of their deeds, my own adventures seemed to pale in comparison. My sense of self-worth fell in a crisis of doubt---I had found a tightly knit clan that I wished desperately to join, but was I worthy? Could I contribute to their cause in any meaningful way? Would they have me? Would they laugh in my face? I slunk away from them many times, unable to summon the courage to ask if I could join with them.

Then one night I had a dream that I was back in my home, staring in my father’s face. His eyes were bloodshot and the image of a troll reflected from his pupils. While I stood in stark terror, his body was consumed bit by bit as he howled in agony, crying for help. I did not move to aid him, uncertain of my skills and fearful of the troll. With his dying breath, he looked deep into my eyes in bitter disappointment and said simply "You have failed me." I woke drenched in sweat, my heart pounding, and I remembered why I had undertaken my journey in the first place. The next morning, I walked up the first Saint I could find, stuck out my chin, and stated "I wish to join thee on thy quests." Saint Max smiled broadly, presented me his hand in friendship and welcomed me to the fold.

It was my fortune, and I daresay, my fate to meet with a group such as these, with whom I now serve. Singly, we are impotent, but together we are strong. Together, Saints, we shall meet the enemy head-on and the day shall be ours. Long Live the Saints!
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