The Starting of the Light
I remember before I was seven, that my family and I traveled a fair bit. I dont recall why we moved so, but it is what it is. While we considered anyone of our faith to the God of Justice 'family', the four others I was surrounded with, were in fact my birth family. At the head was my mother, a devote warrior of Law as one ever saw. It wasn't until later in life would I see her in her full glory, riding atop a mighty steed, bearing two great battle hammers. Though what stuck out the most was her armor. Of course, Father made her protection. It is beautifully crafted to fit her form like a glove, bearing the symbols of our god as well as a few more personal touches. She always seemed to glow when she donned the suit, which she often called Turalyon. While it could shed a warm light, even in darkness it was only Mother's touch that could release such radiance.
Father was of course the resident blacksmith of our family. While specializing in armor, he also has a fair reputation for his arms as well. He is also not a man to be trifled with. He has done his time with gangs of bandits as well as armed soldiers. Don't ask me how he took on two vampires and a drow with his bare hands, that's my Uncle's story. Though Father has never claimed nor denied it, know that I think about it.
My Uncle, Father's brother, was a piece of work. You can't believe half the things he says, and you must take the other half with more then a grain of salt. But he is a damn good rider and wicked with a spear. My brother always looked up to him, so it wasn't a huge surprise that he would walk in the steps. While they were both members of the church, their faith was not as strong as Mother's, or even Father's.
Then there is myself. Even as a small child, I would strap on pots and pans and go at it with the other children, usually chasing them for their 'wrong doings'. It didn't become serious until I almost got my arm chopped off. Literally. Well, as literal as my nine year old self could remember. Grandfather's sword was always displayed inside, above the mantle. It was a monster of a thing. And on that day I was furious that my older brother got his first real long sword. I mean he may have been seven years older.. but still! It wasn't fair! So being the smartest kid, I was going to use Grandfather's sword. Ever see a nine year old trying to get something heavy and sharp down from a really tall mantle? Hence the four inch scar on my left arm. Needless to say I was relentless after that. Father saw my determination and would 'supervise' my training with the sword. Which meant he let a tree trunk be my guide. It was all well and good because it took almost a full four years before I could actually wield it as some semblance of a sword. Then my brother trained me on the rest, even if I did make fun of him that my sword was bigger then his.
And so we came to this village where I would spend the rest of my childhood. It was small, maybe around two hundred living souls. Their 'protectors' were merely a small militia group, mostly called upon to help with the aid in finding the lost or when a pack of wolves wander to close. We set up 'shop' in a sort of way. We offered the people protection from the increasing number of bandits or more powerful beings. In turn they helped us build a church to Him and set up what we would need for our own lives. Of course they were wary of us, of our god. In fact it took a number of years and incidents for the village to give us their trust. But in the end, we ended up with around fifty other devout members of the church, seven of them to devote themselves fully.
During this time, when I wasn't training at arms or helping in the church, I would help father at the fires. I was like his apprentice for quite some time before he began showing me the basics. I know most techniques and how to repair armor and some weapons. As I travel I hope to learn more and bring back trade secrets, or perhaps the honor of working with the divine adamantine. I know that dream will be long in coming.
Which will be hard to realize if I am sitting in a jail cell.
Why a jail cell for a paladin? Apparently the local guards don't appreciate helping a halfling in public.
And why in such a large city? Well, death drove me here. Mostly. Not to long ago there was an order from the main Church for my Mother, Uncle, Brother and several of our members to go upon a dangerous missive. It's been almost a year, and just two months earlier my brother shows up though not in the condition we expect. He rides down the main road and to our stables, not speaking nor moving. A grievous wound at his side has made not only his armor slick with blood, but the whole side of his horse is red. One of the priests immediately sees to him. He is living but hardly. Using the divine light he has healed his mortal wounds, but my brother has yet to open his eyes.
We have so many questions for him, for he came back with Mother's armor and her war hammers. The armor was almost unrecognizable. It took weeks and weeks for my father and I to work on it and bring it back up to condition. No matter how much we polished and shined, the glow it held for so many years hide from us. And so we waited. Waited. Weeks more and still nothing.
So now, with my Mother's armor surrounding me, my shield bright and shinning, a war hammer at my hip, and my grandfather's bastard sword in my hand, I set out. To find answers.
Father was of course the resident blacksmith of our family. While specializing in armor, he also has a fair reputation for his arms as well. He is also not a man to be trifled with. He has done his time with gangs of bandits as well as armed soldiers. Don't ask me how he took on two vampires and a drow with his bare hands, that's my Uncle's story. Though Father has never claimed nor denied it, know that I think about it.
My Uncle, Father's brother, was a piece of work. You can't believe half the things he says, and you must take the other half with more then a grain of salt. But he is a damn good rider and wicked with a spear. My brother always looked up to him, so it wasn't a huge surprise that he would walk in the steps. While they were both members of the church, their faith was not as strong as Mother's, or even Father's.
Then there is myself. Even as a small child, I would strap on pots and pans and go at it with the other children, usually chasing them for their 'wrong doings'. It didn't become serious until I almost got my arm chopped off. Literally. Well, as literal as my nine year old self could remember. Grandfather's sword was always displayed inside, above the mantle. It was a monster of a thing. And on that day I was furious that my older brother got his first real long sword. I mean he may have been seven years older.. but still! It wasn't fair! So being the smartest kid, I was going to use Grandfather's sword. Ever see a nine year old trying to get something heavy and sharp down from a really tall mantle? Hence the four inch scar on my left arm. Needless to say I was relentless after that. Father saw my determination and would 'supervise' my training with the sword. Which meant he let a tree trunk be my guide. It was all well and good because it took almost a full four years before I could actually wield it as some semblance of a sword. Then my brother trained me on the rest, even if I did make fun of him that my sword was bigger then his.
And so we came to this village where I would spend the rest of my childhood. It was small, maybe around two hundred living souls. Their 'protectors' were merely a small militia group, mostly called upon to help with the aid in finding the lost or when a pack of wolves wander to close. We set up 'shop' in a sort of way. We offered the people protection from the increasing number of bandits or more powerful beings. In turn they helped us build a church to Him and set up what we would need for our own lives. Of course they were wary of us, of our god. In fact it took a number of years and incidents for the village to give us their trust. But in the end, we ended up with around fifty other devout members of the church, seven of them to devote themselves fully.
During this time, when I wasn't training at arms or helping in the church, I would help father at the fires. I was like his apprentice for quite some time before he began showing me the basics. I know most techniques and how to repair armor and some weapons. As I travel I hope to learn more and bring back trade secrets, or perhaps the honor of working with the divine adamantine. I know that dream will be long in coming.
Which will be hard to realize if I am sitting in a jail cell.
Why a jail cell for a paladin? Apparently the local guards don't appreciate helping a halfling in public.
And why in such a large city? Well, death drove me here. Mostly. Not to long ago there was an order from the main Church for my Mother, Uncle, Brother and several of our members to go upon a dangerous missive. It's been almost a year, and just two months earlier my brother shows up though not in the condition we expect. He rides down the main road and to our stables, not speaking nor moving. A grievous wound at his side has made not only his armor slick with blood, but the whole side of his horse is red. One of the priests immediately sees to him. He is living but hardly. Using the divine light he has healed his mortal wounds, but my brother has yet to open his eyes.
We have so many questions for him, for he came back with Mother's armor and her war hammers. The armor was almost unrecognizable. It took weeks and weeks for my father and I to work on it and bring it back up to condition. No matter how much we polished and shined, the glow it held for so many years hide from us. And so we waited. Waited. Weeks more and still nothing.
So now, with my Mother's armor surrounding me, my shield bright and shinning, a war hammer at my hip, and my grandfather's bastard sword in my hand, I set out. To find answers.