Caleb Wulfren, The Son of the Wolf

[soldier0fortune]

[soldier0fortune]

The beginning...

''So i aint gonna lie. I heard it many a fuckin' time. 'Weakness breeds weakness.' Yeah well believe it or not i'm takin' the piss out of you, because all of those stories about those legends that we tell for hundreds...Hell even (i swear to god your censorship system is the work of satan himself) some of them even thousands of years, always seem to begin one of two ways'at using my superb grasp o' this fuckin' language we all find ourselves speaking ive managed to discern because im a gynus...they always skint an' without two pennies to rub together...or they rich and have a name what goes back a couple fuckin' generations which fer some reason seems to be really important to those sorts of little cunts.''

The speaker looks pretty much how he sounds, a burnt out old man in his forties, who never found his step on that golden ladder.

''They always one or the other...and in this case, i aint gonna lie. The one im talking about was the latter. ...''

A long moment of silence followed the statement as the drunken patron took a deep swig of his cheap local brew, wiping the back of his mouth before continuing. ''Or the former...fuckin' language has so many things meaning the same but slightly differnt things its hard to use the right word sometimes. Anyways, the one im talking about came up skint as you can imagine.

Orphan actually.

Only thing that ever made him stand out from all the other poor, pennyless little bastards scraping by on the street was those eyes of his. One black as midnight sky the other that strange yellow, almost animal like.

I knew him as a boy, however briefly, all those years ago.

I remember him well as that little snotnosed bastard that used to try and steal bits and bobs of me cargo as we unloaded...once even managed to find his way into my secret stash believe it or not...you know, where i was keeping the stuff i didnt want the Lords customs agents looking into.

Not gonna lie that the little bastard impressed me that night and i took him on into the crew as a cooks monkey that night either.

Anyway, I aint the sort to leave a story half told but i really needs to pop out and grab an old mate of mine i heard was in port. Soon as i get back we'll both share the legend of the early days of him they now callin' the Son of the Wolf with you'll.

He came up hard lets just say fer now..''

The last known and recorded statement of the 'Fisherman', a known smuggling pilot for the Shadowthieves, Arl, before his unfortunate death minutes after this speech was given in his favorite dockside bar in Baldur's Gate in a freak dock accident after he left.

[soldier0fortune]

''Well, its like they say right? Its only after you lost everything your free to do anythin'? right?''

Last known remark by the pirate 'The Monkey', after claiming to know something of the early days of Caleb Wulfren, the Son of the Wolf.

[soldier0fortune]

''I dunno. hell ( I swear to god you lot are evil) i dunno if its even the same person...some of those later stories make me sure it aint. But i remember that boy with the different coloured eyes.

I remember that no matter how fierce he was, no matter how much he had to hurt or get hurt, if he had bread and you were starving...he was there for you when you needed him.

I remember that.

He was always there for you...no matter what happened he was always there for me.''

Karel, Labourer (known low level street hood in Baldur's Gate, known now to be one of the Son of the Wolf's oldest friends. Unfortunately has since perished in interrogation.)

[soldier0fortune]

''Alright you arseholes, shut up for a minute. You want to know the truth? Because ive got it right here.''

The speaker is your usual sort of salty dockside inhabitant, who clearly gets by via unloading cargo during the day (and at night probably selling the cargo he unloaded into his pockets quietly). Currently he is holding up a small, battered leather bound book.

''This here is the earliest of Wulfren's journals, talking about his life as a kid and onwards, though the gods only knows how he learnt to write that early when i can barely even sign me own name.'' He looks thoughtful for a moment as he flicks a few pages. ''Huh, oh right, he actually says why in 'ere...'' He clears his throat and continues.

''Now, im wantin' to be selling this here little book and ill start the biddin' at fifty gold. But first, to prove i aint talking out me arse, ill read the first entry to all you fuckers.''

And so saying, he turns to the first page and begins to read.

So much changes.

Every day things change.

I thought to begin writing this journal to keep straight the events of my life in my mind, because as the years pass i find my memories of my earliest days fading.

One must always remember where one comes from.

I was born in Baldur's Gate. My parents were simple folk, my father a dock worker who made what extra he could skimming what he could from the cargoes he helped unload, my mother a tavern girl who i suspect made what extra she could with the gifts the gods gave her...limited though they were, from all accounts.

As i grew i fell in with the other boys my age, doing what we could to make life less...boring. Picking pockets in the market place, random vandalism for no good reason other than the thrill of the chase after being caught in the act...and fighting other groups of youths our own age and older.

It is likely that had things carried on as they were i would no doubt have ended my life either at the end of a long drop with a short rope around my neck, or much as my parents, another nameless face in the crowd, trying desperately to put enough money in my pockets to put food on the table.

I sometimes think that would not have been so bad, in my more...reflective moments.

Of course, my life did not end up that way.

My father, drunken fool that he was wound up helping himself to a cargo he should have kept his fingers out of one morning.

I still remember that evening when he finished work, the argument he had with my mother before she started her...'nights work'.

He had come home happy, a small bag of Joy Dust hidden beneath his shirt, and was busy showing my mother, speaking of all the gold he could make selling it (and all the nights he could spend drunk on the proceeds while my mother and i continued starving, no doubt).

In a rare flash of intelligence i recall my mother expressing her fear at what my father had gotten us into, for the bag in his hands was worth what the pair made in a year twenty times over, and that whoever that cargo belonged to would be looking to have their property returned.

Of course she was right.

I never did learn just who it belonged to, Shadow Thieves, Knights of the Shield, or another, smaller group. Whoever it was they moved...fast.

By morning my home had been burnt to the ground, my parents tied up within and unable to escape their agonizing death.

I was lucky, being out with my friends at the time, picking pockets and causing trouble as we always did. I was aware of my fathers act, but being young and foolish i thought little of it...until returning home that night.

To this day i do not know how i survived that night, but those who the bag belonged to were intent on sending a message by exterminating every member of the family that had stolen from them, myself included of course.

I do not recall what exactly gave the assassin away as i stood staring at my burning home, the screams of my parents trapped within echoing in my ears, but i recall turning at just the moment the hand fell on my shoulder, seeing the flash of the knife as it came for my throat.

Somehow i managed to tumble out of the way and flee.

I remember running, running for hours it seemed, or minutes.

Time lost all meaning in my panic.

I fled to the sewers and by morning found out that my friends had all been hunted down and killed, no doubt after giving up every hiding place i could have possibly used within the city.

I signed on with the first ship leaving on the dawn tide, as a cooks boy.

It proved an...interesting decision.

The speaker looked up from the book, grinning.

''So, who wants first bid then?''

The bidding commenced, half those in the tavern not caring in the least, the other half only bidding on the off chance the journal may have been accurate. Finally, for a mere five gold it was sold to a cloaked and hooded man, far below the 'opening bid' the seller had wanted.

The cloaked figure, his face obscured by the hood paid the gold then turned and headed for the taverns door without a further word, leaving quietly as the noise in the common room rose, all thought of the journal forgotten, but for a few perhaps.

It was dark outside by this point, the sound of the watch ringing ten bells marking the time. The cloaked figure continued walking down the street, reaching the mouth of an alley way and turning, his hand rising from beneath his cloak, a thin red wand held in it. His lips curled into a faint smile as he spoke a single word and a tiny, almost unseen dart of energy flew from its tip, back towards the open door of the tavern he had just left, the dart of energy increasing in size as it flew, in seconds becoming a fist sized ball of flame as it flew through the door into the common room beyond.

The explosion blew the roof off the small building, sending a column of smoke and flame thirty feet into the air, the sound of the detonation heard across the city.

For a moment the cloaked figure watched the fire, the glare of the roaring flames piercing his shadowy hood and causing his eyes to glint in the night, the right eye reflecting the flames far more than the left, a shining wolflike yellow.

His lips curled a little further as he watched a moment longer, making certain no one left the building, then he turned and was gone, his cloak flaring out around him before becoming one with the shadowy alleyway, the small worthless 'false' journal tucked away under his cloak.