06-21-2007, 05:09 AM
[Disclaimer: It has been a while since I've written stuff. This is a bit longer than I intended and I can't gurantee the quality.]
Talyn Cross was born into humble beginnings, about as humble as they come, actually. Both his mother and father were raised as simple farmers in a section of the Farmer’s Federation near the Tribal Lands, and never had plans to be much else. Even as children, their lives were crystal clear. He was the only young man for miles and miles, she was the only young woman for miles and miles. It was a match made in heaven. The two families joined land and let themselves grow old and content, living off of what they could make on their own. Talyn wished his life would have been so translucent. From the day he was born into his average mother’s and average father’s arms he wished he could have lived a simple, average life with them on the farm, settling for contentment just as the generations before him, but he knew it could never be.
When the young farm boy was nearing his eleventh summer on the planet, the hammer struck their minute bubble of land. More correctly, the Anvil struck their minute bubble of land. For reasons that the boy would never understand, the Empire of Anvil had become worried with the farmers and began a program to “stifle the anarchy”.
What anarchy? Talyn constantly asked himself through the years. The only thing close to anarchy that the Crosses may have been accused for would have been not sending their taxes to the ruler hundreds of leagues north of them. . .the prices he named were three times what they harvested on a good year! But for no reason other than this pitiful excuse, a ten year old boy watched from under his bed as his entire family; mother, father, grandparents, sister, baby brother, every last one of them, was mercilessly slaughtered by Anvil soldiers.
The sight was too much for the child to bear, and the first task he set himself to after his emergence in the wake of the soldiers was to forcibly spew his insides out followed by a few hours of wailing out what was left. At the ripe age of eleven, the poor boy had his life’s hopes and dreams swept from him along with the only society that he had ever known. He couldn’t take it, and could think of nothing rational to do. The boy’s first thoughts were of his mutilated family and how he could not stand to see their torn, naked bodies before him, so he ran from them.
He did not stop when he was merely away from their physical presence, however, and continued on a manic charge for two days on end. At sunrise of the second day, he had driven his way deep into the Dry Sea and by the time he passed out near sunset, he could see the luscious green mountains on the other side. Through his exceedingly wavy vision, due in part to his slipping consciousness and because of the shear heat of the desert, he could make out a large wooden building nested into the side of the tree covered mound with figures rushing quickly from it to his aid.
The figures who descended from above to his rescue were monks of a monastery in the mountains along the western edge of the mountains of the Dry Sea. The peaceful martial artists offered a place in their home to the Talyn and the young boy accepted. Why he accepted, he is again unsure of. It may have been out of desperation, maybe it was an open society to replace the one he lost, perhaps he saw friendliness in the monks, or it could have simply be the alluring smell of alcohol wafting from an open bottle in the room. The reason doesn’t matter, what does is that he did accept. For the following ten years, the monks raised the young boy into a fierce fighter. Talyn developed an uncanny quickness in battle which allowed him to avoid attacks and strike multiple times quicker than many of those whom had been training their entire lives. Along with these talents, the monks bestowed upon the boy, now a man, two very important things: a love for fighting and a love for alcohol. Neither of these traits were very much approved of by the inhabitants of the monastery, but they allowed some leeway, understanding what Talyn had been through. Besides, when the man was indulging in either of his favorite activities, he seemed light hearted and of calm mind rather than his normal sarcastic stubbornness.
All good things must come to an end, however, and Talyn had to eventually leave the monks and the free drink behind. The combative monk realized now that in order for him to achieve and inner peace he had to confront his internal enemy face to face. The enemy in his case was the ruler of Anvil himself. Talyn realized, of course, that he had to start small which is probably the reason that he found himself in a small town tavern one day conversing over the table with a powerful woman bearing a mane of crimson-red hair.
“Why, exactly, do you intend on joining with the Red Company?” The woman prodded again. It was impossible to get a straight answer from this monk!
“Well, I love to fight, I need money, and I have often dreamed of. . .meeting different people,” Talyn finally let the moderately attractive warrior win after a half hour of sarcastic banter.
“Alright, fine, what I gather of you suits us well enough,” she sighed and tossed a badge to the quick handed monk and slid some papers across the table. “Here’re your forms.”
Talyn slowly rose to his full height of five eleven and continued upward into a long stretch. The monk then proceeded to straighten out his baggy black pants and adjust the red sash he used as a belt (he seldom wore much more than his black, red rimmed pants, his sash, and maybe a small vest) and finally turned towards the papers.
“Let’s see here. . .” he lifted the papers and read silently to himself. “The ‘Dire Rats’?”
Talyn scoffed and reached for his waterskin, hesitating slightly and reaching for his second instead.
“This could get interesting,” the monk popped the cap from the skin and drank thoroughly as the faint smell of strong alcohol spread through the surrounding air.
http://www.thetangledweb.net/profiler/view.php?id=17200
Talyn Cross was born into humble beginnings, about as humble as they come, actually. Both his mother and father were raised as simple farmers in a section of the Farmer’s Federation near the Tribal Lands, and never had plans to be much else. Even as children, their lives were crystal clear. He was the only young man for miles and miles, she was the only young woman for miles and miles. It was a match made in heaven. The two families joined land and let themselves grow old and content, living off of what they could make on their own. Talyn wished his life would have been so translucent. From the day he was born into his average mother’s and average father’s arms he wished he could have lived a simple, average life with them on the farm, settling for contentment just as the generations before him, but he knew it could never be.
When the young farm boy was nearing his eleventh summer on the planet, the hammer struck their minute bubble of land. More correctly, the Anvil struck their minute bubble of land. For reasons that the boy would never understand, the Empire of Anvil had become worried with the farmers and began a program to “stifle the anarchy”.
What anarchy? Talyn constantly asked himself through the years. The only thing close to anarchy that the Crosses may have been accused for would have been not sending their taxes to the ruler hundreds of leagues north of them. . .the prices he named were three times what they harvested on a good year! But for no reason other than this pitiful excuse, a ten year old boy watched from under his bed as his entire family; mother, father, grandparents, sister, baby brother, every last one of them, was mercilessly slaughtered by Anvil soldiers.
The sight was too much for the child to bear, and the first task he set himself to after his emergence in the wake of the soldiers was to forcibly spew his insides out followed by a few hours of wailing out what was left. At the ripe age of eleven, the poor boy had his life’s hopes and dreams swept from him along with the only society that he had ever known. He couldn’t take it, and could think of nothing rational to do. The boy’s first thoughts were of his mutilated family and how he could not stand to see their torn, naked bodies before him, so he ran from them.
He did not stop when he was merely away from their physical presence, however, and continued on a manic charge for two days on end. At sunrise of the second day, he had driven his way deep into the Dry Sea and by the time he passed out near sunset, he could see the luscious green mountains on the other side. Through his exceedingly wavy vision, due in part to his slipping consciousness and because of the shear heat of the desert, he could make out a large wooden building nested into the side of the tree covered mound with figures rushing quickly from it to his aid.
The figures who descended from above to his rescue were monks of a monastery in the mountains along the western edge of the mountains of the Dry Sea. The peaceful martial artists offered a place in their home to the Talyn and the young boy accepted. Why he accepted, he is again unsure of. It may have been out of desperation, maybe it was an open society to replace the one he lost, perhaps he saw friendliness in the monks, or it could have simply be the alluring smell of alcohol wafting from an open bottle in the room. The reason doesn’t matter, what does is that he did accept. For the following ten years, the monks raised the young boy into a fierce fighter. Talyn developed an uncanny quickness in battle which allowed him to avoid attacks and strike multiple times quicker than many of those whom had been training their entire lives. Along with these talents, the monks bestowed upon the boy, now a man, two very important things: a love for fighting and a love for alcohol. Neither of these traits were very much approved of by the inhabitants of the monastery, but they allowed some leeway, understanding what Talyn had been through. Besides, when the man was indulging in either of his favorite activities, he seemed light hearted and of calm mind rather than his normal sarcastic stubbornness.
All good things must come to an end, however, and Talyn had to eventually leave the monks and the free drink behind. The combative monk realized now that in order for him to achieve and inner peace he had to confront his internal enemy face to face. The enemy in his case was the ruler of Anvil himself. Talyn realized, of course, that he had to start small which is probably the reason that he found himself in a small town tavern one day conversing over the table with a powerful woman bearing a mane of crimson-red hair.
“Why, exactly, do you intend on joining with the Red Company?” The woman prodded again. It was impossible to get a straight answer from this monk!
“Well, I love to fight, I need money, and I have often dreamed of. . .meeting different people,” Talyn finally let the moderately attractive warrior win after a half hour of sarcastic banter.
“Alright, fine, what I gather of you suits us well enough,” she sighed and tossed a badge to the quick handed monk and slid some papers across the table. “Here’re your forms.”
Talyn slowly rose to his full height of five eleven and continued upward into a long stretch. The monk then proceeded to straighten out his baggy black pants and adjust the red sash he used as a belt (he seldom wore much more than his black, red rimmed pants, his sash, and maybe a small vest) and finally turned towards the papers.
“Let’s see here. . .” he lifted the papers and read silently to himself. “The ‘Dire Rats’?”
Talyn scoffed and reached for his waterskin, hesitating slightly and reaching for his second instead.
“This could get interesting,” the monk popped the cap from the skin and drank thoroughly as the faint smell of strong alcohol spread through the surrounding air.
http://www.thetangledweb.net/profiler/view.php?id=17200