I needed to practice my creative writing, so I figured I'd put together a little tale of my character's history and motivations. This takes place a couple of weeks after Kingmaker starts, but doesn't have any spoilers. Pardon any formatting errors.
Here's a little tale of Tyr, a 3rd-level master Summoner:
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They urged their tired horsed through the rough wooden gate of the frontier fortress. Four men on horseback, one empty horse, and two mules. The empty horse had a rider's saddle, bags, and had a massive axe strapped on the horse's side. A red silk scarf wound around the axe fluttered lightly in breeze made by their passing.
The four men riding the horses were covered in road dust, scratches, and old, dried blood. Their armor was dented and scratched. For all that they looked like they had come from a war, they were laughing and joking as they rode into the repurposed fortress.
Oleg and Svetlana, the married couple who purchased the fortress and turned it into a trading post, came out of the stables where they had been tending the few horses that belonged to the occasional traveler and trapper.
Svetlana's face paled when she saw the empty saddle. As the men dismounted, she approached one of them, a black-haired man in leather armor. Svetlana grabbed his arm after he dismounted.
"Zahara?" she asked.
He turned and looked at the empty horse, then Svetlana. He sighed heavily. "She's ... indisposed. She'll be around shortly."
Svetlana let him go. "I know she is your bodyguard and used to these things, Tyr, but I still don't think she should be gallivanting off into the wilderness, and you shouldn't lead her into danger!"
Tyr allowed himself a wry smile. "She's tougher than you think. I know her abilities fairly well."
Svetlana allowed herself a brief smile. "You still say she's only your bodyguard?"
Tyr's smile grew bigger. "I'll grant you that our relationship is closer than bodyguard and client. She's been my best friend since childhood. It's a little ... complicated. Not to change the subject too much," Tyr nodded his head at the direction of Svetlana's husband, "but I need to talk to Oleg before we go out again. I've got a special order for him."
“I'll tell him while I go get the guest rooms cleaned up.” Svetlana walked away and left Tyr to finish unloading his gear from the horse. Tyr recalled how he had walked from his home to the gathering in Brevoy, hitching a ride with the occasional wagon. Once he had been assigned to a group and charter, he again walked all the way to Oleg's trading post, meeting up with the rest of his charter on the way. His first horse had been a prize taken from a bandit and he had almost no idea how to ride it. As he unsaddled and began to groom the compact warhorse he rode now, he thought about how riding was now second nature to him.
Tyr remembered how naïve he was when he set out on this “great adventure.” He knew how to read a map but had little idea of what real distance implied. Just as he had no idea of what the term “savage wilderness” really implied. But the bandits … Tyr remembered just how vicious human beings could be.
He remembered spending a few weeks in a state-sponsored orphanage when his parents were placed on trial. How angry the other children were, how they hated the child of a noble, how they made their hate known. That was when Zahara had appeared.
As he though the name, he felt the little pressure in his head that let him know that she was whole again and ready to return. He made a small space in the stable and focused his mind. After a minute of meditation, he looked up and saw her standing in front of him.
Zahara stood as tall as he did, nearly six feet, and wore black leather armor. She had long black hair and tanned and ruddy skin and freckles made a bridge across her nose. Her long raven-colored hair fell down her back and framed a glowing blue rune in the center of her forehead. She gave Tyr a look of exasperation and found her horse. She wound the red silk scarf tightly around her head, covering the rune. Tyr's leather headband covered a similar rune on his own forehead.
“That,” Zahara said as she began tending her own horse, “was ugly.” Zahara turned and faced Tyr. “Trolls are ugly enough from the outside, but have you had one stick your head down it's gullet?” Tyr looked at the wounds on Zahara's face and torso. A few muttered words and he fell the spell take effect. Zahara's wounds smoothed over and disappeared.
“Thank you for that,” she said.
“You're welcome,” Tyr said, “but you still have to take care of your own horse.”
“Really? I get eaten by a troll on your behalf and I still have to groom my own horse?”
“Yup.”
“Lazy jerk,” Zahara laughed as she spoke.
“Just tired. You didn't have to ride sixteen hours straight.”
“No, I was too busy digesting.”
Tyr threw up his hands in defeat. “You win!”
Zahara laughed. “I always do!”
“But you still have to take care of your own horse.” Tyr walked out of the stables feeling much better. He never felt quite right when Zahara wasn't around. His best and oldest friend, and there was a good chance she was completely imaginary. Tyr discarded the thought. Imaginary friends don't cut down bandits with a great axe. He wished he could get along with his companions as well as he got along with Zahara.
Tyr glanced at the fire where the rest of his companions sat. There was Magnus, the Ulfen war-priest, who was again holding forth, at full volume, about their travels. Tyr wondered if it was even possible for the man to speak at less than a shout. Granted, there were times Magnus' bombast could be downright entertaining – particularly when it was directed at the enemy. Tyr remembered the ambush they planned for the bandits when they attempted to extort Oleg. Magnus had been hiding in the storage shed when a bandit had approached. Magnus set off the whole ambush by kicking out the door, shouting (of course) “'Tis a fine day for justice!” and proceeding to brain the bandit on the spot with his mace.
Next was a massive Ulfen warrior, Kjell. Considering how well Kjell spoke Giantish, Tyr wondered if there wasn't some giant in Kjell's background. Kjell was a canny and vicious fighter, but he had the soul of an accountant. Kjell tracked every scrap of copper the group spent and argued vehemently with Oleg about prices. It was not a trait many would expect in such an intimidating fighter.
Finally there was Oskar, the hunter. Oskar was even more naïve as Tyr. Oskar had been a hunter, living with his family somewhere deep in the wilderness before he struck out to see the world. Whereas Tyr had had at least an academic understanding of the world, everything outside of his old home was new to Oskar. Oskar occasionally did some of the most astoundingly ridiculous things, but he was deadly marksman and had demonstrated his ability to slay anything that got within range of his bow.
Zahara joined him as he watched them laugh and joke over their meal. Oleg approached as Tyr was deep in thought. Oleg watched Tyr for a moment and then shrugged.
“I can't figure out how you joined that lot,” said Oleg. “You look more like a scholar than a warrior. Although you've changed much recently.”
“It's a long story. I was attracted by tales of power and glory.” Oleg laughed but it was truer than he knew.
“Svetlana said you wanted to order some specialty goods?”
Tyr let out a heavy sigh. “I do. When I got here, as you said, I resembled a scholar. And truth be told, that's pretty much what I was. I was raised around books and knowledge and was eventually expected to become a mage of some repute. But that's neither here nor there.”
“But I didn't really understand what I was getting into down here. I never really understood the blood, the savagery, what a wilderness really meant. I thought it was enough to have good intentions. I never really expected that I would have to kill someone.”
Tyr looked up at Oleg. “That first day, the ambush, that was the first time I had ever killed anyone. I really expected that they would surrender and face justice. I just didn't realize that they would resist.”
“It's the way of the world, lad,” Oleg said. “Particularly out here. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten. The whole point of the Brevoy charter, I understand, was to provide some justice.”
“That's true,” said Tyr. “Our charter allows us to clear the land and execute unrepentant bandits. I thought they would understand it and ...” Tyr trailed off and allowed himself to think for a moment. Zahara laid a hand on his shoulder.
“What I mean, Oleg, is that I finally understand what is needed here.”
Oleg nodded. “We need the bandits gone. The lands made safe for trade and travel.”
“And justice,” finished Tyr. “I've been thinking about this a lot. There can be no justice without law. And there is only one law I know.” Tyr felt Zahara's hand tighten on his shoulder. “There is only one law that can be harsh enough, strict enough to bring this land justice.”
“Don't do it, Tyr,” said Zahara, her voice low. “Don't go this route.”
Tyr shook his head. “It has to be done,” he said to Zahara. He turned back to Oleg. “I was born in Cheliax.” Oleg's sudden sharp intake of breath whistled through his teeth. “I need a copy of the Asmodean Disciplines. And a black cloak with Asmodeus' symbol. The only law that will suffice for this land is the law of Hell.”
Zahara spun Tyr around to face her. “Don't! Don't do this! Don't go down this road. You know where it ends!”
“In death and flames,” said Tyr. “Which we have already faced. The price is paid already.”
“It doesn't end there, it doesn't end with you. Other people, other families will pay the same price yours did.”
“That's enough, Zahara, I don't want to think about it.”
“But you're talking about bringing the law of Cheliax, the law of Hell here.”
Tyr's face hardened. “Yes. It is the only law that will suffice. This place is savage, murderous, chaotic. Only the iron law of Hell can tame it.”
“Think of what you're doing. Think hard, Thrune,” Zahara hissed.
“Don't call me that! You know I have no right to that name and no desire to wear it!”
“Tiberius Lucius Thrune. Another country condemned to Hell because of a Thrune. It's a cursed line.”
“Shut up,” Tyr said savagely, spittle flying, “I don't want to hear it!”
“No.”
“Then go away.” Tyr gestured and Zahara was no more. Her axe -thunked- into the dirt and her scarf fluttered through the space where she once stood.
Tyr stood, breathing hard. He clenched his fists and jaw. Zahara, damn her, had made him remember.
He was only eight when it had happened. He had finished with his tutors for the day and was reading his spell and theory books to prepare for tomorrow's lessons. He had no idea what was going on when the door smashed open and mail-cad warriors poured into the house, subduing and arresting everyone they found. He remembered how they, Hellknights of the Order of the Chain, dragged off his mother and father. He remembered as the captain of those same Hellknights argued with the prosecutor, stating that there was no way that he would allow a child to be hauled away to prison to face capital charges.
The prosecutor had relented in the unwavering face of the Hellknight and left. When the Hellknights tried to place him with relatives, they all refused. His family was a blight on the honor of the house and nobody wanted that reminder. Tyr was placed in an orphanage until his fate was decided.
Tyr's father had been from a small noble house. His mother was from a group of families distantly related to the central Thrune line but were close enough to be allowed to use the name as their own. After his parents married, they still used the Thrune name.
It turned out that Tyr's father was something of a revolutionary. He had been convinced by Andoran infiltrators to turn against the government and help renegade slaves escape. He had used the Thrune name to weaken and corrupt the Thrune government. It was unpardonable. After he had confessed, he had been publicly racked and executed.
Tyr's mother had not known, but was guilty by association. She was allowed to live but had to forswear the Thrune name. She was exiled to estates outside Cheliax, estates used primarily to house bastards and troublemakers. She took Tyr with her.
Tyr's time in the orphanage was the worst time in his life. Not only was he the son of wealth nobles, he was the son of a traitor. The other children never let him forget. When he was not shunned, he was taunted, threatened, or beaten outright. Most of his days were spent hiding from his tormentors. That was where he had “found” Zahara.
He had been hiding in crawlspace in the basement, a place he strongly suspected had been created by rats as a nest. He was crying and desperate. In his state he recalled something from one of the books he had read, something about a “protector.” He formed the shapes with his hands and whispered the words.
Tyr remembered that the area had been suffused with a golden light. A voice from nowhere had asked him “What do you want?” Tyr remembered replying “Someone to protect me. A friend. I don't want to be alone again.”
There had been a moment of silence before the voice spoke again. “The bargain is complete.” Then Zahara, looking his age and wearing a burlap smock had poked her head around the corner. Her face had been smudged and dirty.
“Hey,” she had said, “you can't hide there all day.”
“Watch me,” the younger Tyr had said.
“Look, it's almost dinnertime. Let's go get something to eat. I promise I'll beat up anyone who gives you trouble. My name's Zahara.”
“I'm Tyr.”
“I know.” And she had been true to her word. The bullies quickly learned to behave when Zahara was around, and Zahara was always around. Even after he and his mother had moved out of the country. Even when he was growing up in the great, empty mansion, Zahara had been there. Protecting him. Being his friend.
Tyr sighed. Here she was, protecting him from himself. He knew she didn't want to see him become like the people who destroyed his family, and he didn't either. A moment later and Zahara was there, collecting her axe and scarf, acting as if nothing had happened.
Oleg was not quite so stoic, although he tried to hide it. Tyr turned to face him.
“Forget the cloak. I still want a copy of the Disciplines, however.” Tyr held up a hand to silence Zahara's protests. “But I think I need to expand my horizons. Get me a copy of the laws of Taldor and Brevoy.”
What about Andoran? Zahara asked in the vaults of his mind. Andoran can rot, Tyr mentally replied. I want nothing from them.
“Anything else,” asked Oleg.
“Yes. Don't … don't spread my name around. It's old history and I want nothing to do with it. Nobody's looking for me and nobody cares, but I don't want the reminder. I'll make my own name in the world – I don't want to rely on anyone else's, for good or ill.”
“That's a good way to go about it,” said Oleg. “Svetlana and I moved out here to make our own fortunes. I won't tell a soul other than Svetlana. Don't you dwell on it either.”
“I won't,” said Tyr. He remembered how his mother, mad and alone, lived stewing in resentment about losing her name until the day she died. Not that death had brought her any peace. One day he'd have to go home and take care of that. But not anytime soon. There was work to be done, taming the wilderness.
Tyr clasped Oleg's hand and then joined his compatriots by the fire. Zahara walked beside him, smiling.
Really well done! I enjoyed it quite a bit. Have you considered play-by-post?
Thanks! I really needed the practice and a friend pointed out I probably need an editor, too. He said if you were to take a drink every time I wrote "Tyr remembered" that you'd get drunk pretty fast.
I've tried play by mail before, but I never really got the hang of it.