Aghon's page

His father had come from the River Kingdoms, a land so far away as to be not a land at all, as far as Aghon knew. “What’s in front of your face boy,” had been one of his father’s oft repeated lines. What was in front of his face now? Patching up Culder Hargraves, again, as he bent over a pint Jon Banner kept refilling at the knotted bar of the Rusty Drum. Looking at Culder he often wondered what could bring a man to such a state, which always made him wonder about his own state all the more. Spending the past six months in the service of a small temple of Besmara, praying for Hanspur’s divine power to create water in the cities strategically placed cisterns, and to purify rain water in others, was not instilling him with the greatest faith, or the strongest dignity. Sure, it paid, enough for a room and meals at The Wooden Leg, but then what? Was he destined to live the same work-a-day life as had his father and his adopted parents? Calloused hands, sore backs, and early graves is what it earned them, well all except his father, who had gone off and left him years before. “Forge a better life!” He’d said before he walked up the gangplank of the Silver Scythe. His father wasn’t the greatest role model. Having left his little sister with her aunt in Molthune after her mother died giving her birth, and taking Aghon with him aboard a cargo ship bound for all the ports of call in the Inner Sea, then dumping him with a family of boat menders here in Crescent Harbor, had certainly left its marks on him. What those marks were? He was not too certain. His youth was spent in rebellion, and were it not for the constant protection of Yngdrada, his personal champion, and the blessing of Hanspur, he’d be dead. One fight too many, with the wrong person, in the wrong alley at the wrong time. Sure he’d killed the kid, a sharp blade up under the rib cage will do that, but he’d suffered for it, and Yngdrada had found him in just enough time to get him to a healer just up the street. He’d actually died, or so he thought. Whether he was dead or just unconscious and hallucinating, he never knew. What he did know, was that he’d seen a great light, and heard a soft whisper, like wind on the water say, “You’ve got more ways to travel, before you come across this wide ocean Aghon, back you go now.” Ever since then, he’d prayed to Hanspur, the voice in the light, and been blessed with his power to heal and help. Though it wasn’t enough power to save his adopted father, nor his adopted mother the year after. Yet, he still held to his faith. Hanspur had saved him, had sent him back here, for something, right? To do some good, to help the world in some way. “What’s in front of your face, boy?” He caught himself daydreaming again. ”You all right Culder?” His question was met with grunts, and shoulder shrugs, as always. ”You take care of him, and call me if he needs patching up again, all right Jon?” The server nodded, and Aghon walked back out into the salty smelling air, and back to his work. ”Filling cisterns, and cleansing rainwater. Is that what you sent me back here for Hanspur?" His sigh to the heavens was drown out by a gang of squawking sailors drunkenly clodding up the road. Aghon breathed another heavy sigh, adjusted his belt, and went back to his work.