Hey folks! This is kind of a first attempt at writing. Not sure how appropriate this really is here, but hopefully it's alright. My DM tasked myself and the other player in the game to create backgrounds/introductions for our characters. Based on the quality of it we could be getting some extra surprises in game, so I come to you for opinions. Basically, I'd like to know if you were the DM, would you approve? And would you think the writing style is worth continuing as the story unfolds? If this was the first few pages of a book, would you continue reading? Why or why not? Be brutal. This whole thing has sparked my interest in writing!
The game has only 2 players. We are gestalt. I'm playing a Brutal Slayer Stalker/Savage and the other character is a Harbinger/Rogue. The game is not exactly an evil one, but it is certainly not a heroic game. It is about two characters who have shunned the trappings of society and seek the natural state of chaos. We were supposed to try and tie our characters together in some way, and so the visions spoken of in the write up are in fact the other character. My character begins play with a cursed sword...no further spoilers though. Here it is! Hopefully its not to painful a read haha.
Einharr sat alone now by the fire. He held a cooking spit over it. The skin of whatever little critter the fires previous occupants had caught for dinner crackling away in the heat. He stared at it intently and tried to imagine what it had looked like in life. With a shrug, he decided it didn't matter. What it looked like now was far more important, and what it looked like now was something to fill the void in his gut. He smiled and looked to the contents of the pack he had dumped beside him. He'd seen a bottle in there, he recalled, and reached for it. Popping the cork with a thumb he brought the bottle to his lips and took a long pull. He nearly wretched after a few swallows and brought the bottle down to peer quizically at it. Some sort of fruity wine. Too sweet by far and weaker then it had any right to be. Weak... like the "men" who'd owned it before him. There was no point voicing his complaint to the present company however. The dead would offer no defense. He decided he'd be using the charred skin of his meal to wash down the contents of the bottle instead of the other way around as originally intended. Perhaps the pouch full of coins the men had would "buy" him something more suitable when he found another village, town or city.
He pulled the spit back from the fire and poked at the meat with one massive finger. He'd never seen this particular creature before, or atleast never cooked one. But he was confident it was ready to be eaten. Or perhaps just confident that he was ready to eat it. So he did. A bit dry, he thought as he chewed the first bite. Not enough fat in the meat. He filled his mouth with the wine as he chewed the next bit and decided the combination wasn't half bad after all. He smiled again and surveyed the camp site.
Straight across from him stood the armored man with the longsword symbol of the god they called "The Inheritor, Iomedae" emblazoned on his breastplate. 'Stood' was a bit of a lose term. He 'hung' would be more appropriate. The massive shaft of an arrow fired from his oversized bow pierced through the forehead holding him pinned upright to the tree behind him and kept him so. A fine shot that had been, fired from over a hundred feet out and through trees. He congratulated himself with another bite and another drink. The other sleeping men hadn't even stirred until he sat down on a stump by the fire and politely announced his arrival. His hope had been that free of the shackle that was the holy man, the others would be more reasonable. Perhaps even share a meal and a drink with him before going their own ways in the morning. He wanted to tell them of how he had freed them all. First, of a useless companion. Any sentry worth his salt would never have stood so exposed and blinded in the firelight. And second, of the foolish demands such a preacher would no doubt have put upon them. Alas, it was not to be.
The four remaining men had been tracking him for a few days now. Some nonsensical law he had apparently broken in the last village he'd visited. He'd been hungry, and thirsty. So... he'd eaten and drunk his fill at a local tavern. He'd tried to leave peacefully afterwards, but the idiot inn keeper demanded coins to pay for what he'd consumed. Coins... the greatest shackle of the so called civilized world. He had no use for them and when he told the innkeeper so the man had sicked a couple of ruffians on him, thinking to beat payment out of him. He hadn't wanted to hurt anyone that day, but that quickly changed. Six feet of black steel was unsheathed and in three swings of the massive blade three men lay upon the floor in twice as many pieces. He plucked the purse from each of them, headed to the bar and took what coins lay stashed behind it. Perhaps the next time he stopped somewhere he would entertain this foolish notion of payment... or perhaps not. He grabbed a bottle of good whiskey and headed out the door and on out of the village. It would only be a few hours before he knew he was being tracked by several men. He had avoided them easily enough for a few days, but grew tired of the process and so... here we were.
Four foolish men had rushed to their feet. Four foolish men had drawn steel. Three foolish men now lay dead in nearly the same place they had slept. And one, only slightly less foolish man was bleeding out a few dozen feet away. He looked to the closest one, laying only a few feet away on his right. That one had died before Einharr had even stood, the tip of a massive sword jammed under his jaw and out the top of his skull. He had tumbled side ways when the blade was yanked free and landed with top half of his head in the fire. Einharr grimaced at the site of it. His head was now free of any hair and from the bridge of the nose up nearly all the skin had been burned away to expose a now blackened skull. The eye sockets had stopped bubbling at least, but now a steady stream of smoke escaped from each. He looked then to his left where two had risen to challenge him together. They lay now tangled atop one another like some twisted mockery of a lovers embrace. They had risen together and fallen together as Einharr turned their way. One swing had cloven both of them and spilled their insides upon the ground. The stinking s&@* sack of one had broken open and he remembered the foul smell of it. Thankfully there was a wind coming out of the east to carry most of it away. The thought of that smell drew his attention to the east. The direction the final man had run off in. Unfortunately, the wind was bringing that smell directly to him. The man had shat himself when his friends had been so quickly dispatched and fled in terror of the dreaded northman. A thrown hatchet had felled him, struck in the center of the back with a likely broken spine to lie bleeding and whimpering until the darkness finally took him. It had been a most unfortunate turn of events he thought.
Having finished his meal he tossed the spit and empty bottle off to one side. Pulling a few dirty rags and a small flask of oil from his own pack he lay down. He used the thigh of the dead roasting man as a pillow and set to wiping the gore from his sword and oiling the blade. He stared up at the stars as he did so, not needing to watch his work. He knew every inch of this sword. It had been his only companion for quite some time. But how had it all started? How long ago? He let his mind wander back. Back to his earliest days.
He'd been born under a red moon they told him and he bore a strange mark upon his skin. The seers had called it some sort of omen. A sign of one destined for greatness. A phase of the moon and a f+#*ing stain on his skin and he was destined for greatness before the blood of the womb had even been wiped from his body. Not even named and already shackled by a society whom had predetermined his fate. He frowned at the thought. He had also been 'blessed' with prominent parentage in the Ulfen society and so was afforded the finest tutelage in academics and weaponry. He was to be a leader of men, a champion among their kind they had proclaimed for him. He enjoyed his time learning to fight and took quite naturally to it, excelled even. But most of the academic was lost on him. He learned of strange cultures and religions far and wide and how the Ulfen ideals were the superior. Even they made little sense to him however. Less so, even, then some of the others. "Die honorably in glorious combat and find your way to the halls of Vallenhal where you will feast with the gods and share in tales of glory!" What the f*@@ was glorious combat? he questioned. He'd seen enough of it to know there was no such a thing. Combat was blood. Combat was guts, sweat, tears.... and s+@#. Lots of s$~#. Glory didn't exist and honor got you dead.
But that's not where it began. He thought of his dreams and visions and tried to remember when they had started. But that was before he could recall. Always the same flashes of red and the shadowy figure of a woman, tearing people and things apart with bare hands, laughing all the while. It had started as dreams but as adolescence hit he began having waking visions of it. He would come to realize they were triggered by anger or frustration and it wasn't long before he realized that if he let the visions take him, bad things happened. A savage rage would consume him and people would be hurt, things broken. His inner demand for freedom come to the fore, demanding it be unleashed. But it would fade, and he would usually be punished.
But that's not where it began either. Not truly anyways. He remembered his fifteenth winter, he'd grown to a full seven feet in height. A size unheard of even for his kind, further solidifying his stature to the Ulfen. Wait... to hell with winter! he thought. Why did people always count the damned winters? he wondered. Winter was bleak, boring and punishing, and yet his foolish kin lived their entire lives in a perpetual state of it. They would tell him it was because it produced a strong people and that it was very defensible against any incursion from the south. It was defensible because the people in the south weren't f#%@ing stupid enough to want the land, and if it produced such a strong people then why hadn't they gone south to just take something more hospitable. They had been a raiding people once, but that had all but stopped... the shackles of civilization growing tighter upon them.
Fifteenth summer then he decided, but who really cared? He'd been out hunting, farther then he'd ever gone. He didn't know what drew him onward but he felt a strange pull to continue. There were no fresh tracks to follow, but he had kept on for days regardless. He had come across a strange cave, and readied his spear as he entered. The cave had turned a dozen yards in and he could no longer see anything in the darkness. He slipped a pack from his shoulder, felt around and retrieved a flint to strike his torch with. As the light flared to life, so to did the dweller in the dark. The dire bear reared and roared, teeth bared and two massive tearing claws gleamed red in the reflected light... his mind had flashed with a vision of the woman then but it didn't last long. He dropped the torch and thrust with the spear purely on instinct but the monstrous bear simply swiped one massive claw sidelong and knocked it skittering further into the dark. The spear lost he looked up to the snarling visage of the bear and accepted his fate. The next massive paw struck the side of his head and darkness took him.
He woke in the dark, dried blood caked to the side of his face. His head throbbed furiously in complaint as he forced himself up on all fours. His hand landed on something cold and smooth and he fumbled around curiously. That would be the first blood he and the sword would spill together as his hand found the razor sharp edge and sliced several fingers open. Realizing it to be a weapon he quickly found the handle and readied himself unseeing in the blackness, but the bear never came. It was gone. How long had he been out? Why hadn't it eaten him? Why did it leave it's winter home with him still in it? Questions he still knew not the answer to. It took quite some time but he managed to find his way back out and back home again. A voice in his head guiding the way. A woman's voice. He had wrapped the sword in furs and snuck it into his home, telling no one of its existence. During the day he would keep it hidden beneath loosened floor boards in his bedroom while his education and training continued, and by night he would sleep with it in his grasp when the real education would begin. The guiding voice had belonged to the blade and so it would continue guiding him, teaching him. He learned to control the visions and his rage, become as one with them and call on them when he wanted. He would be encouraged to ask his questions, make his demands, voice his complaints. It would impart its knowledge of a millenia of combat and ideals upon him and it was not long before the swordmasters could not keep up, or refused to teach him for fear of his savagery. The academics lasted only slightly longer before they too grew to frustrated with his disbeliefs and the stubborness of his incessant questioning. And so he and the sword had decided it was time to leave, see the world... but where to go?
He sat up and thumped a fist on the dead man's thigh, the 'pillow' was stiffer then he'd hoped. He lay back down, closed his eyes and drifted back to his past. He let the sword take his thoughts then, back in time. Back to the day he'd left home. He had simply walked out the front door of his dwelling, tossed the sword spinning into the air and marched off in the direction the point had landed. A practice he still used this day to decide which way to go next. He'd taken no supplies, only the clothing and furs he wore but they would be enough the sword had promised. He would be a man without a home. Without a people or a land to call his own. Without possessions or wealth. "No", he and the sword thought in unison. He'd be a man freed of his shackles. Free to go where he pleased. Take what he wanted. Be who he wanted. Go where he wanted. Free to do whatever the f*$* he pleased.
That had been nearly 20 years ago as near as he could guess. He'd seen many strange places along the way and met even stranger folk. They all thought themselves very different from one another, but so far they were all the same to him. They all placed shackles on themselves from the moment they were born. Laws to follow. Taxes to pay. Jobs to do. Governments to serve. Gods to pay homage to. "Be honorable and just!" "Be strong and lawful!" "Be kind and merciful!" They had a hundred different gods to cover every aspect of their miserable lives and trapped themselves with the belief that to not live up to some foolish set of ideals would deprive them of a luxury filled afterlife in some paradise or another. They had gods of Sun, Moon, Nature, Law, War, Mercy, Light, Truth and a plethora of others. They even had a god of coins, the biggest restraint of all! They talked of how prescious a gift life was, yet none of them actually strove to truly enjoy that gift. They had no idea what freedom was, yet they all proclaimed to have it! They lived life punishing themselves for a chance at some mythical afterlife. Afterlife? What about life? If life is some gift then should it not be enjoyed? If it was gifted to us then should we not use it was we see fit? What gift in life comes with the caveat you must use it under the direction of the gifter. That is no gift. That is a prison sentence for a crime not committed.
If the gods gifted him this life then where was the god of "drink, f!@% and be merry"!? Where was the god of "go where you want and do what you want?" How about the god of "take what you can and crush those who try to stop you". A god who doesn't have preachers demanding what he must and mustn't do. The god who doesn't have churches built and demand worshipers come to pay homage and donate their coin. The religion that is not completly founded on hypocrisy. Show me this god, he thought, and maybe he'd bow and pay homage. Or maybe he wouldn't, but it would be of his choosing either way. I agree that life is a gift, but it is at that point I differ from the rest of them. I will spend mine as I like. They will be told how to live and go along meekly to the end never truly utilizing their gift.
I have spent the last twenty years wandering with a dream. A dream to find that which I crave. A land free of laws, coin and religion. Free of those who seek to control. Free of shackles of any sort! I have not found it, and so I will spend the next twenty years wandering with a purpose. A purpose to create that which I desire as I have become convinced it does not exist. He fell asleep then, still gripping the sword and dreamt of a land where this was all possible. A land where people lived free to do what they wanted without fear of reprisal. He dreamt of a clawed woman welcoming people through the gate. Breaking their bonds and tearing to pieces those whom had placed them.
