Post by Eyestrain on Sept 17, 2014 6:54:33 GMT -5
The tale of Owen Marsh
The grizzly old greybearded warrior wrapped in furs and pelts pointed his swordpoint at the cowering ten year old boy threateningly. "Listen to me and know this, ye are weak and sickly, yer strengh is pitifull, yer hands tremble with fear at the slightest hint of danger, and...ye are simple of mind. Gods only know what perverted curse they decided to impart upon me by making ye my son. Yer lack of skill with the weapon and apparent inability to absorb anything I tell ye, leads to me to wonder if indeed ye are a Marsh at all. The only reason I've not snuffed yer out of mercy yet is because it'd break yer mothers heart, she see's somethin' in ya, gods know what. When next come the dragons ye would best serve yer kin by offering yerself up to them for feast, therebye giving others a chance to flee while they choke on yer miserable bones." The boy hid his face in his hands as he crouched against the tree. His father slapped his ear with the flat of his blade point drawing a bit of blood and the boy yelped, jumping backward and holding his ear. He looked up at the great hulking man with ruefull eyes who stared back at him and laughed, "Cur." he grizzled spitefully then pulled back his sword and sheathed it, taking a step back and looking toward the farmhouse.
"Yer know bo..." his words were cut short as a large rock smacked him in the side of the temple, his eyes rolled back into his skull and he dropped to his knee's then fell forward spasming a moment as blood began to dribble from a large gash on his temple. He rolled over and with hazed vision and waning consciousness, he looked up to the boy who stood above him now, a rock in his hand. A smile of unfathonomable relief grew accross his face perplexing the boy. He struggled to utter one thing before he fell unconscious. "ye did it boy....ye..di...it...."
A decade later....
The old man tenderly ran his finger along a large scar accross his temple as he watched the young man preparing his pack. Older now, his beard had become white and his body had withered some, yet he still carried a blade by his side and moved in a manner that hinted formidable ability. The old man stood on the farmhouses porch with his arms folded. "Do ye understand why I did what I did boy?" Whilst stuffing provisions into his pack which he had rested on the skinning table near the chopping block, Owen retorted over his shoulder.
"sure, cause your an a**hole" The old mans eyes widened and he began to laugh, which quickly turned into a coughing fit, sending his eyes watering and buckling him over and wheezing to the point that Owen actually glanced back at him with concern. Once the old man had recomposed himself, he rubbed his eyes and resettled his gaze over Owen.
"Try not to die before I'm gone eh." Owen said over his shoulder coldly, masking his concern. The old man snorted.
"Hmmph, who's the a**hole now." The two grinned at that and finally, Owen threw the pack over his shoulder and picked up his axe.
"Well, guess this is it old man." Said Owen. The two looked at each other and then came together for a final family embrace. The old man patted Owen on the back.
"Ye remember what yer old man taught yer aye. Look after yer blade and it'll return the favour. Never trust the city folk and be good to tha ladies. And stay clear of the magics, only ill fortune becomes of that."
"And you lay off the tobacco old man, aint no orc but it'll kill ya just as sure."
"Yeah, sure sure." Owen looked southward to a distant hilltop where a gravestone sat under a tree. "Yer mother would be proud boy, now go! Find yer place in this world, be it by the blade, or by yer back, make sure what yer do is right, and right will come by you. " Said his father sternly. Owen gave his father one last nod and headed off for a place he had heard of from the local folk, Greatgaunt.
