Varin al'Thine's page

Varin wears his hair long, braided in to a wrist thick braid down his back and tied with a strip of black leather. His beard he keeps cut tight to his face, but worn full otherwise. His nose is slightly crooked but people rarely notice, their eyes more naturally drawn to the large scar that runs from above his right eye, down to his jaw, closer to his ear. This scar he earned during his years abroad, though it was not the first scar to his name it is the most noticeable, the others being covered by his clothing and the product of his time working the forge.

Varin keeps his armour and weapons polished and serviced, but is not afraid to get either dirty. When not suited in his armour, Varin wears the military uniform of Lastwall, a fact that may earn him some ire from his old friends.

His time in the military changed very little about Varin in the grand scheme of things. Was he less soft spoken, less polite? Perhaps. Was he quicker to raise a fist? Yes, but rarely in anger and more likely for the simple thrill of a fight. He had grown in to the man he was always destined to be, calm, collected and strong, the man his father and all of his grandfathers before him had aspired to be.

Varin had always been the quiet dependable member of the group, always willing to listen to everyone's problems and help out if he could. He returns to his friends with this same light in his heart and more driven than ever before.

When he became old enough he was apprenticed to a Blacksmith in the town, and there he began his tuition in the art of Weapon smithing. This was an obvious move as, by the age of 14, Varin was pushing almost six foot in height and was much larger than almost all of his friends. Varins family had always been slightly on the outskirts of the city, in terms of acceptance, ever since the time of his great grandfather, Orin the Mighty, who it was said was over seven and a half foot tall, if he was an inch, and who was known as one of the greatest Orc Slayers to have ever lived. Even though his great grandfather was admired for his skills as a defender of the city, still the whispers of a blood taint, that of the Giant, marred his family name.

Six years after his first being apprenticed to the blacksmith, a Shoanti woman by the name of Sara Morninghawk, the chief Smith in the town, Varin found himself on the cold dawn road out of Trunau. He had spent the previous night in the Killin Ground, drinking and watching the festivities, spending time with his friends, when they were challenged by Chief Defender Halgra, to go live a life, saying that she had travelled far and wide before settling down. Some laughed it off, the woman was drunk and the idea ludicrous, but Halgras words struck a chord with Varin. And he was not the only one. They talked at length, planning and discussing what they might do and in the end it was agreed, five years to the day they would return and meet in this very spot, if they survived.

Varin had left after that, saying a fond farewell to his compatriots, wanting to leave at first dawn and needing time to pack, write some letters to his family and to his mentor, and sleep off the alcohol flowing freely through his system.

Varin travelled from Trunau and headed towards Vigil, the capital city of Lastwall. It was here that he would enlist in the army of Lastwall and serve out his five years as a blacksmith and an infantrymen. During his time in the military of Lastwall, Varin earned himself the rank of Corporal and some small amount of respect. He cut his teeth on the battlefield, facing many foe from the undead to Orcs and Giants. It was off the latter that he pulled the large hammer he holds today, using the weapon to save the life of his Sergeant, when his own blade had been destroyed in the fighting. The weapon became a part of him and, where as others would have struggled with its weight and balance, the weapon felt at home in his hands, as if he had been born to it.

As time moved on he moved away from the fires of the forge and towards the front lines, becoming entranced with the adrenaline and the sense of power and good that he felt from protecting his brothers and sisters in arms and the people of Lastwall. He fought with a new fire and it was this that drove him to swear himself to the god of war, Gorum, upon the field of battle. He revelled not in the act of killing or blood letting, but in the act of protecting those who could not protect themselves.

Too soon his five years began to come to an end, the contract of his enlistment coming up on needing to be renewed. He spent days agonising over the correct thing to do but in the end, his promise to return home won out. Lastwall was all well and good but Trunau could do with his abilities even more. He discharged honourably and swore that, if ever there was a time when his home no longer needed him, he would return to finish what he had started.

His trip home was slow and hard, the weight of his absence pulling at him, the lack of contact with his family and his friends and the guilt he felt at how he had left, weighing heavy around his shoulders. He timed his journey perfectly, arriving in to town on the evening of the day they were set to meet. After much debating, he headed straight for the Killin Ground, dust from the road still thick on his boots.

As he pushed his way through the doors of the inn, his eyes moved to that corner table and he smiled self consciously.

’Well… here we go again. It is good to be home!’