Craig Frankum's page

About Craig Frankum

It is every father’s wish for his son to live a better life than he. But how can this be for the son of a man who was in service to the king? A royal guard in fact! Champion of his Royal Guard in service of His Grace upon the Dragonscale Throne of House Ragorvia. I was the entitled son of a great-horrible man.

I am no stranger to combat. I had fought my father's drunken stupor and ill-placed rage for years. My back bears the scars of his long hatred of me. He said I was too pretty to be a boy. That I should have been born a girl. I have noticed long that my semblance reflected my mother grace more than father's codpiece. I was a man well into twentieth of years when mother became pregnant with my first sibling, and peaked thirty when the youngest was born, yet I maintained the youthfulness of a boy that has yet to reach maturity. I had not yet need of a razor across my face. My mother set me and my brothers to working the fields. Father wasn’t going to feed us. He once thrashed our mother falsely believing that she stole a few copper. When I confessed that I took it to buy grain, he broke my eye socket. Filthy wretch! No one suspected when his death was ruled an accident, that my mother lost her mind and throttled him in his sleep. Bleeding Sod deserve to be tortured for what he put us through. Soon after, mother hung herself with guilt. Here I am, a man of forty and two brothers to attend to and raise. It had not been two winters when Phillip succumbed to disease. Randall took an apprenticeship under Corvan, a local blaksmith. He has done well for himself. Even wedded an attractive young lass, though fate deemed unfit for them to bear me any nieces or nephews.

At nearly sixty years, when other men died of old age, I was filled with youthful enterprise. I too joined into my sovereign's service. It was only natural, right? It is here that I truly came to loather my father's reputation. Near twenty years since his unfortunate demise and this lot still remembers him as if he had a pint with them the mere nights before. Every accomplishment I am to make is but a shadow of my father’s legacy. I excel at swordsmanship; “Aye, that’s his father in him.” they would say. But instead of soiling the family name, after all I have a brother to think about, I sought to succeed in a far greater capacity than my father ever thought to. He spent his fortune on booze and brothels. Rumors had it he even owned a one for a time. No, my legacy will soon rise above merely my father’s name. When His Grace commissioned a new unit with experimental weapons, I was among the first to volunteer. Muskets they are called, so naturally we were named Musketeers, Cavaliers in service to our sovereign’s desires. We are king’s men. Proud and fierce! Though, these weapons are flawed. As likely to kill their user as they are their target. I am but one of only a few that have been lucky enough to survive, though not unscarred. My right’s weapon misfired. BOOM! My face burned with shrapnel and when I looked over, the man was missing half of his body. Our proud order is now little more than pomp for parades. I am only one of few that still carry out duties on my liege’s behalf. We have been outlawed from his hand as our weapons are too dangerous to attend within his sight. I am now my sovereign’s outstretched hand. I am a weapon of fate. I am Xavier DeClie, Musketeer of the Lion!

That is until nearly a decade ago, when the ruling house of Brevoy vanished. To this day, no one knows what ill-fate has befallen them. Four years I spent search for the truth of what happened. Tales, myths and monster stories is all I found. I visited with the remaining houses, as King Surtova had a regent from each on his royal council. It was as if those men never existed. House Surtova quickly supplanted the Dragonscale Throne and placed one of their own upon its seat, Noleski Surtova. I bear no allegiance to this man, but if bending a knee helps maintain the peace and keep my true liege's subjects safe, then I shall do so. I care not for the subtleties and schemes of the court, but I am not ignorant of their ways of deception. Battles of the court are won through tact and guile over brute force.

I have since resigned to hold some small role in the service of Mayor Ioseph Sellemius of Restov, though I am better suited for other adventures. The skills I acquired with my former master have drawn the eye of the Swordlords of Rostland. Rumors grow with each passing day. The precursors to war are drawing ever nearer, and my current liege, the Lord of Restov is risking a gambit. I have my orders and I shall obey his wishes. Dispatches have been sent some time ago and though I know not what type of men or women I am to serve with or the paths that have led them here, I eagerly await their arrival. Soon I shall have leave of this place, but to what end. My watch is about to begin and the Wilds pose an ever present danger. I stand vigilant in the face the unknown while the words of my sword master ring through my head. "Not today!"