True Name: | . William Philester Dovecraft |
Age: | . 18 Arcs |
Birth Date: | . 98th of Ashan, 500 |
Marks: | . Sojourn |
Languages: | . Common (Fluent), Xanthea (Broken) |
Factions: | . None |
Partners: | . Hwyn (Someday) |
Appearance
And yet, despite his beauty, his arms are taut with muscle, and rugged. While he may have been born into a privileged life, he was always rambunctious, and adventurous. His hands and feet are covered in little cuts and roughed-up skin, and anyone who looks close enough at his slender body can tell there is more to him than a pretty face.
To make up for these disadvantages, Will decks himself out in gear. Leather. From head to toe. Blood-red. A metal pauldron on his sword arm, and a wide, red brimmed hat to keep people from seeing where he’s looking, and obscure his face. He’s also got a smattering of weapons, including a spike sticking out of each boot. The boy is prickly.
His voice is well matured, a deep, gruff sound unbecoming of how he looks. It can carry as far as his small chest allows, which is just about far enough! It’s all an act, and he oft slips up and speaks in a more gentle, high tone, especially with friends or people he isn’t trying to impress.
Scars & Markings
Mark of Cassion
Trailing from the crook of Will’s elbow all the way to just above his wrist is a silvery scar, cut by Cassion’s knife and sealed with his Immortal blood. This is the mark of Sojourn, and it marks him as one of Cassion’s Blood Sons, Sojourners, adventurers of legend.
Yaralon Silver Circle
Upon Will's right open palm is a silvery circle with a dot in the middle, taking up most of the width of his hand. It is smooth, a discoloration that never watches away. It was given to him upon his completion of the Run, a tradition for newcomers to Yaralon, and marks him as a local. Believed to be a corruption of ether upon the skin, the mark has special properties, allowing a Yari to sense another Yari abroad, or sense those who are not Yari within the territory of Yaralon.
The Basics
The Basics
William has been compared to a hawk: stubborn, proud, and yet graceful. He is through and through a brat, but he knows when respect is due. Carrying himself with an air of ignorant pride at times, his haughtiness is palpable. Catch him on a good day, and his youth shows. He loves to play, and he can be very competitive. Oh, and he's an idiot when he's pumped up on joy, and really doesn't think things through.
William chose to be a mercenary ‘because they looked cool’, and that was his choice arriving in Yaralon without a single thing to his name except a few Nel, his own body, and his spiritual desires. He is a teen that loves a good thrill.
The world as a whole is so interesting to his curious mind. Magic, monsters, tales of adventure. Even the Gods, fancy chemical reactions, or unusual things are enough to garner his curiosity. When something matches up with his interests, he becomes a very good and tenacious student.
Strong feelings of empathy are prevalent within his mind. Caring for others and sharing are two rare traits he learned early on, fostered by his mother up until he left chasing his dream. His sense of justice makes it hard for him to commit a crime, but at the same time he can’t help but see slaves as people; William’s mother was a slave.
Preferences
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Preferences
The types of people Will prefers to hang about are those of good character, but entertaining. Serious types are such a bother! He’ll tolerate them out of respect, but he prefers to spend most of his time with guys his age, or ‘nice’ drunkards. His best friend in all the world is his Ose-Bori familiar.
A relationship with a talking wolf has rendered the boy interested in animals of all kinds, and he has a sympathy for creatures. Faced with the choice to let one go, he feels they are more innocent than the humans he lives with, and has a hard time taking their life. Necessity can make him go that far, but over all, he cares.
Often fantasizing and dreaming about having wings, Will is both fascinated with and jealous of the Avriel. This fantasy extends to other kinds of power, and he often tries to breathe fire, or levitate, feeling as if he could because he’d done so in a dream.
Food. Will loves food. Due to his constant exertion, his body stays small, compact, but dense with muscle, even while his appetite is enormous. Most of what little money he saves goes towards stuffing himself to brim while that voracious pit that never fills inside. It doesn’t matter what kind of food, but he hates things similar to olives, avocado, and shellfish. Strong and spicy flavors are preferred over more mild ones.
Will likes pretty stones and expensive luxuries, but he is far too cognizant of their cost to feel the urge to hold on to them. Coin is so much more useful, and he’d surely prefer a coat of metal plates and a good hammer over a gem-encrusted silk throne in a study he rarely used.
Preferences
The types of people Will prefers to hang about are those of good character, but entertaining. Serious types are such a bother! He’ll tolerate them out of respect, but he prefers to spend most of his time with guys his age, or ‘nice’ drunkards. His best friend in all the world is his Ose-Bori familiar.
A relationship with a talking wolf has rendered the boy interested in animals of all kinds, and he has a sympathy for creatures. Faced with the choice to let one go, he feels they are more innocent than the humans he lives with, and has a hard time taking their life. Necessity can make him go that far, but over all, he cares.
Often fantasizing and dreaming about having wings, Will is both fascinated with and jealous of the Avriel. This fantasy extends to other kinds of power, and he often tries to breathe fire, or levitate, feeling as if he could because he’d done so in a dream.
Food. Will loves food. Due to his constant exertion, his body stays small, compact, but dense with muscle, even while his appetite is enormous. Most of what little money he saves goes towards stuffing himself to brim while that voracious pit that never fills inside. It doesn’t matter what kind of food, but he hates things similar to olives, avocado, and shellfish. Strong and spicy flavors are preferred over more mild ones.
Will likes pretty stones and expensive luxuries, but he is far too cognizant of their cost to feel the urge to hold on to them. Coin is so much more useful, and he’d surely prefer a coat of metal plates and a good hammer over a gem-encrusted silk throne in a study he rarely used.
Religion
Religion
Will is exceedingly devout to the Immortals, especially to Cassion, Famula, and Ashan. He sees life and death as a journey, and he wants his story to be told by everyone around, but he is also humbled by these Gods of men. The evil-seeming Gods make him uncomfortable, although he has some modicum of respect for Famula taught to him by his mother despite her nature.
Sacrilege and profanity towards the Gods are quick to earn ire from the boy. Especially towards Ashan, whom he holds in the highest regard. Still, religion is a confusing concept at times. Ashan values freedom, but Famula values servitude? Both are concepts of value to society, but he feels conflicted. Such problems are common in his mind when thinking of the Gods.
Ever since arriving in Yaralon, he has begun to attend sermons by Ashan worshipers, and has in his mind that Domain magic is a very bad thing, a parasite to the soul. Thus, he is weary of any power that doesn’t come from the world around, or the Gods. He also respects the cycle of life and death, holding Famula in high regard. To him, death is a natural end to life, and everything should be done to make that life more notable. More than anything, William wants to be famous, known by all, so that his story will continue in death. While he despises slavery, he does see how service can be honorable and fulfilling when given willingly.
Origin
Origin
Heir to a sprawling merchant enterprise at one point in his youth, Will grew up sheltered in his earliest Arcs, but longed for something more. His mother was a servant girl, a slave to his father, and that made him a bastard, someone who could have easily been born property if it weren’t for the worries of infertility his sire had deeply ingrained. The nature of his birth was kept a secret, but the fact that he was a bastard was not.
When his stepmother became with child, theanding over the crib of his half-brother, contemplating how his father would -surely- love him again, if the infant were to di boy of ten had everything taken away. His family, his belongings, and his status. He wasn’t a slave, but the man made him into a stable boy, less of a son, even less of a brother to that mewling babe that he grew to detest as the days rolled on. Those were dark days, and he remembers ste.
But his clenched fist lightened, and he started to cry, and walked away. Then he kept walking. By fifteen Arcs, he was working out of a shipyard in Rynmere, a young boy in a city trying to take care of himself, scorned by the unfairness of the world. That was when he began to dream.
At first, the visions were like nightmares. Troublesome adventures through a dark desert lit by moonlight, with treacherous men clashing their steel together. It was a savage way of life, but something about it grew on him, and these nightmares turned to courageous battles for glory, with thrilling adventures. He knew what he wanted to do, and began to save up his earnings to charter a ship to the fabled city of Yaralon across the sea.
It was difficult, but he amassed what he felt was a small fortune. Enough for a home, if he ever wanted one, but instead he spent it all on weapons and armor after annoying the bells out of a Moseke Knight for tips on what a mercenary should wear. What he ended up with was terrifyingly heavy. He could barely move, but he worked hard to get used to that raiment, and built up the muscle together with the dock work out in that ocean breeze.
The visions continued to tease his heart, and he set sail as soon as he could, crossing the ocean to a land that was… alien. He was told about the Run to Yaralon's gates, thinking it wouldn't be an issue. Still, he came prepared. What followed was harrowing, and he still has the occasional nightmare about what went wrong on the journey. When he received his mark at the gates, he stepped in, exhausted, and found a place to rest and contemplate his new life.
When he awoke, he began to explore and learn about the city, coming across an Avriel strung up as an example. It was the first time he’d seen an Avriel up close, and touched its bound-up wings as it growled, only to have a lizard man almost twice his height snap the air with a whip inches from his face. He hit the ground, scooting away, and clambered down to the dirt streets where bigger men sneered at the boy who obviously wasn’t from around these parts.
That was when a man about his height with dark skin approached, and set a hand upon his shoulders. “You really aren’t from around here, lad,” spoke the foreign tongue, and Will turned his head to stare into the man’s bright green eyes.
“Y-yes sir,” William responded, adjusting his hat. The man patted him on the shoulder and motioned for him to follow, and so they talked. The man’s name was Mo’malu, a Sev’ryn born in Desnind. A mentor of sorts for the young man, who agreed to attend sermons for a ‘spiritual awakening’ where he was shown miracles of divine magic, and taught Ashan’s teachings, which he ascribed to. They resonated within him, and he resolved to one day end Slavery across the world.
Beyond that, he was taught to carry himself with pride and seriousness. He had to have that air of strength, and Mo’malu corrected him often. When the Sev’ryn felt he was ready, he was taught about the mercenary companies of Yaralon, as well as the traditions of the city, and how to stay out of trouble. Thus began his desire for an apprenticeship with one of these mercenary companies, however inadequate he felt among the gigantic Ithecal that roamed the city, a city which began to harden him through a series of duels where he learned how to use the war hammer and shield.
Ose’bori Bonding Story
Ose’bori Bonding Story
The gayest days of our lives shone brightest when we were tested. To leave the gates of Yaralon, it took great conviction to brave the wilds, the Fractures, and the men who stalked the plains without mercy. As dangerous as it were, William carried on day and night until he met the foots of those foreboding dead woods. Something called beyond those shadowy depths, but he did not dare step foot there, even though he dreamed of a voice waiting beyond, begging for him to approach.
It was a conundrum. Wasted time, almost certainly. It was adventure, but the many stories swirling around the Bastard’s Grove when matched with that deathly visage told his instincts that he should not dare go beyond. There was even a smattering of dead bodies upon the edge, picked clean of goods. Standing there for the second time in a season, he was reminded of their scent of rot.
The boy’s boot trembled, and he tried to lift it, but he could not dare to. Not to go forward. Only backward, as it went the other way. He hung his head low, and pulled his hat down over his chest in shame. I just cannot press on. He looked over his shoulder, some beast howling beyond the gasping trees with trunks possessed of bark like twisting flesh that bore only ill.
Shutting his eyes, darkness ensued. Seeing the images playing upon his mind, William sought desperately to be brave, but it was not until he remembered why he had come to Yaralon. The bloodied sands, beyond to the grassy hills, and finally to this forest, ever leading, ever calling, each and every night as that ghostly shadow sung to him in haunting, beckoning calls.
I am steel. I am untempered, but I am not ill. Whatever exists within, it will not be my end. Though I may be alone, I will succeed. I will face my destiny. Placing that hat upon his brow, he tugged it down tight and turned, drawing the war hammer from his back and turning to face the forest like some great daemon to be cleansed. By Cassion’s will, by Ashan’s grace, and by Famula’s sacred blood, I will not die this day!
At first his foot trembled when he lifted it, but the next step was easier. One by one, he counted off, until he moved beyond the edge onto that overgrown path, the screeching of that horrid animal growing louder in warning. “Well get off, mate! Want a piece of this, just try!” growled his voice through the cover. It went quiet. “That’s what I thought,” he mumbled.
Eyes soon adjusting to the light, he peered through the woods and saw little to be scared about. The trees groaned with their swaying branches, but they were only trees, however gnarly and grotesque. Still, he kept his guard up, spoon-fed stories by the locals and the evidence of a murder long cold. Nearly a Break passed with no sign of danger, and he kept his mind on where he was, knowing he might need to run in a flash.
That was when he saw the woods parting ahead, giving way to something quite peculiar. Nearly black beneath the violet setting sun, William found himself upon the shores of some great lake, still and unmoving. Immediately he thought to fill his waterskin, but took pause as he knelt down before the water, and scooped some within his palms. When he felt it warm and thick within his palms, his breathing grew heavy, and his nerves erupted into tingles. Looking over his shoulder, he turned his attention to the lake, and that was when he saw a canine creature emerging from the waters, ghostly and pale with dark red hues. Upon its form threatened stalwart feathers and bony, spiky legs. Like a wolf, with traces of bird, and spots of scales parting here or there. Awesome yet terrible to behold!
At first he felt fear, but it approached so calmly, so innocently that he stood his ground, weary. It reminded him of... no, it can’t be! “From my dreams!” he pointed accusingly. “You--” It stopped abruptly, and lowered its head. William swore the bloody wolf-ghost was smiling at him. “All this time.” Something within grew to such power that he began to remember the stories his mother told him, of her closest companion waiting somewhere beyond for her to find it, were it not for the shackles holding her to his father.
“Are you...” hand rising, he reached for the wolf. It paused, and lifted its head high. Its tail flicked, and it circled the perimeter, wandering onto shore where it paused, staring him down with such judging eyes. William turned with it, and they shared a long stare as the boy calmed himself. Confidence regained, a wide grin spread across his face. “Want to come along with me? I have a feeling we’re connected somehow.”
The Diri-of-sorts cocked its head, and seemed to have heard what it wanted, approaching William’s hand. As they touched, he felt the softness of the fur upon its cheek, and stared into its eyes as they turned from a dismal grey to a startling golden hue, the whole of its form bright and crimson with strips of white. I wondered when you would come, it spoke into his mind, nuzzling into his belly. William’s hands rode over its back, feeling through its feathers.
“You were expecting me? I hope you do not bode me ill, wolf-monster,” he said.
Certainly not! It looked up at him, offended, trotting away from William’s hands to sit upon its haunches, where it lifted a talon-laden paw and pointed at him. You and I are one, is that not obvious?
William had felt it too. They were connected, and something within him had fallen into place. He could feel it. “Well, I think, um.” He itched the back of his head, smiling with embarrassment. “So what are you, then?”
I am Yaal'tiesh. I gather that you are my bonded. I have called to you for so long, but there was a time where I did not feel your presence where life was dim and cloudy. It is my Purpose to be with you.
Will straightened his back and pointed his thumb inward, at his face. “Well I’m William Dovecraft, mercenary! It’s a pleasure!”
Well aren’t you something, the spirit replied in a loathsome tone.
The gayest days of our lives shone brightest when we were tested. To leave the gates of Yaralon, it took great conviction to brave the wilds, the Fractures, and the men who stalked the plains without mercy. As dangerous as it were, William carried on day and night until he met the foots of those foreboding dead woods. Something called beyond those shadowy depths, but he did not dare step foot there, even though he dreamed of a voice waiting beyond, begging for him to approach.
It was a conundrum. Wasted time, almost certainly. It was adventure, but the many stories swirling around the Bastard’s Grove when matched with that deathly visage told his instincts that he should not dare go beyond. There was even a smattering of dead bodies upon the edge, picked clean of goods. Standing there for the second time in a season, he was reminded of their scent of rot.
The boy’s boot trembled, and he tried to lift it, but he could not dare to. Not to go forward. Only backward, as it went the other way. He hung his head low, and pulled his hat down over his chest in shame. I just cannot press on. He looked over his shoulder, some beast howling beyond the gasping trees with trunks possessed of bark like twisting flesh that bore only ill.
Shutting his eyes, darkness ensued. Seeing the images playing upon his mind, William sought desperately to be brave, but it was not until he remembered why he had come to Yaralon. The bloodied sands, beyond to the grassy hills, and finally to this forest, ever leading, ever calling, each and every night as that ghostly shadow sung to him in haunting, beckoning calls.
I am steel. I am untempered, but I am not ill. Whatever exists within, it will not be my end. Though I may be alone, I will succeed. I will face my destiny. Placing that hat upon his brow, he tugged it down tight and turned, drawing the war hammer from his back and turning to face the forest like some great daemon to be cleansed. By Cassion’s will, by Ashan’s grace, and by Famula’s sacred blood, I will not die this day!
At first his foot trembled when he lifted it, but the next step was easier. One by one, he counted off, until he moved beyond the edge onto that overgrown path, the screeching of that horrid animal growing louder in warning. “Well get off, mate! Want a piece of this, just try!” growled his voice through the cover. It went quiet. “That’s what I thought,” he mumbled.
Eyes soon adjusting to the light, he peered through the woods and saw little to be scared about. The trees groaned with their swaying branches, but they were only trees, however gnarly and grotesque. Still, he kept his guard up, spoon-fed stories by the locals and the evidence of a murder long cold. Nearly a Break passed with no sign of danger, and he kept his mind on where he was, knowing he might need to run in a flash.
That was when he saw the woods parting ahead, giving way to something quite peculiar. Nearly black beneath the violet setting sun, William found himself upon the shores of some great lake, still and unmoving. Immediately he thought to fill his waterskin, but took pause as he knelt down before the water, and scooped some within his palms. When he felt it warm and thick within his palms, his breathing grew heavy, and his nerves erupted into tingles. Looking over his shoulder, he turned his attention to the lake, and that was when he saw a canine creature emerging from the waters, ghostly and pale with dark red hues. Upon its form threatened stalwart feathers and bony, spiky legs. Like a wolf, with traces of bird, and spots of scales parting here or there. Awesome yet terrible to behold!
At first he felt fear, but it approached so calmly, so innocently that he stood his ground, weary. It reminded him of... no, it can’t be! “From my dreams!” he pointed accusingly. “You--” It stopped abruptly, and lowered its head. William swore the bloody wolf-ghost was smiling at him. “All this time.” Something within grew to such power that he began to remember the stories his mother told him, of her closest companion waiting somewhere beyond for her to find it, were it not for the shackles holding her to his father.
“Are you...” hand rising, he reached for the wolf. It paused, and lifted its head high. Its tail flicked, and it circled the perimeter, wandering onto shore where it paused, staring him down with such judging eyes. William turned with it, and they shared a long stare as the boy calmed himself. Confidence regained, a wide grin spread across his face. “Want to come along with me? I have a feeling we’re connected somehow.”
The Diri-of-sorts cocked its head, and seemed to have heard what it wanted, approaching William’s hand. As they touched, he felt the softness of the fur upon its cheek, and stared into its eyes as they turned from a dismal grey to a startling golden hue, the whole of its form bright and crimson with strips of white. I wondered when you would come, it spoke into his mind, nuzzling into his belly. William’s hands rode over its back, feeling through its feathers.
“You were expecting me? I hope you do not bode me ill, wolf-monster,” he said.
Certainly not! It looked up at him, offended, trotting away from William’s hands to sit upon its haunches, where it lifted a talon-laden paw and pointed at him. You and I are one, is that not obvious?
William had felt it too. They were connected, and something within him had fallen into place. He could feel it. “Well, I think, um.” He itched the back of his head, smiling with embarrassment. “So what are you, then?”
I am Yaal'tiesh. I gather that you are my bonded. I have called to you for so long, but there was a time where I did not feel your presence where life was dim and cloudy. It is my Purpose to be with you.
Will straightened his back and pointed his thumb inward, at his face. “Well I’m William Dovecraft, mercenary! It’s a pleasure!”
Well aren’t you something, the spirit replied in a loathsome tone.
Cassion’s Blessing
Cassion's Blessing Story
As seconds pass, a heart sworn to adventure forgets a beat or two in a sea of thrill. From the real restless oceans, to those figurative ones beyond, one young man’s call to action roared so loudly above the wind that the spirits could not help but whisper under his wings. Dedication and yearning had brought him this far, and what stories had yet to be told would surely follow him like tracks in the desert sands.
Cassion did see what could not be seen by another, a story, a tale of humble beginnings, of revenge, and ascension from boy, to man. At first the purveyor of stories spoke to him and heard his tale: he was working day and night for a paltry sum to afford passage from the rock that was Rynmere isle, and he had his heart set on that journey.
Why? He told Cassion a story of his past, his greatest fears, and forever more what he wished to make of his life. Something. Anything. Away from here, in this land of his birth. Yaralon called like a beacon, in his dreams, and his mind churned with thought about what he would see. Desert sands caked in blood? Gates so tall the clouds could not surpass them. The humble God left knowing something would come of this passion, and the Spirits that had tethered to him knew they could have their fill, spurning him on, never stopping, never ending, cursing him to sleepless nights of that place...
The story faded away to a constant. A steady trial of endurance, of tenacity, until one day he knew he had enough to support a life beyond the sea in a strange, but interesting place. William purchased a raiment, and supplies, then embarked across the windstruck seas towards destiny. Many an arduous day and an uncertain night later, they arrived at the shores of that place he so sought, and stepped out into the world to begin his journeys.
In the Arc that followed, he learned much, and made many stories, and acquired a companion so close to his soul that they would be together until the rest of their days, and possibly beyond, God-willing. When Cassion found him again, he was seeking a mentor, to be gilded by success. Among the many men and women of Yaralon who had done their part in teaching him lessons, Cassion taught him the greatest of all, by twisting the plot of this journey.
Where there was a murder to be, it was spun to have happened in front of William’s very eyes. He sprung to action at the flash of a blade, and cried out. “Hold!” the boy screamed, and chased off that cat-like crook with a knife, rushing too blindly to the aid of another. Everything that happened next was a blur as he knelt before the man, palm over that open, gushing wound. “Keep breathing,” he begged of him. “I will not weep if you die!” Oh, but this was a lie, and as that body grew cold, weep he did.
With a face that had been rained upon with no rain, and palms bloody with the drying wet of another upon them, he rose to wander in a shaken fit of desire, but could not find the man. The whole affair had stoked that burning flame within him, and the injustice stung so bitterly. “Why is fate so cruel? I was but feet away?” he mumbled to himself with a heavy mind the next day as he wandered through the markets in search of this crook--he had seen his hair. He knew of the man’s sandy red locks, the bronze clasp about them.
Mind blazing, he thought of the possibilities. Asking around might tip off this crook of crooks to his white hot blade, he thought, but took a gamble from a fortune teller whom had been perhaps been swindling his yearning for magic for all too long. “Far out beyond the Gates, in a stone village with no name, you will find five who bare the same face you seek,” she cryptically told him. It was a chance. Enough to try.
The man who had been slain had a brother, who had been seeking his sibling’s killer. “We will go together, however foolish it may be,” the mercenary told him. They set out that night on horseback with an old map of the villages and ruins around Yaralon, reading deep into the puzzling tale that was their only clue to go by. For twelve nights and eleven days they rode, until they stumbled upon a nameless ruin with the twinkle of firelight.
“I will go alone,” William said, curbing the brother’s thirst for blood. “We must see... if they are guilty. Stay at the ready.” He advanced towards the light quietly, decked in head to toe with his weapons. What he thought might be five people became one, for there were five faceless statues staring down at a stoked flame, a single red-haired man with clasped hair beneath.
“Lo!” William shouted, his voice deep with frustration. “I have come far for your guilt. Tell me why you have murdered that man in the middle of day!” This journey had cost him much. The horses he had rented for the brother, the weapons, and the rations. There was no reward for this crime, because the family was poor.
To the moment, the man stared him in the eyes from the shadowy veil of a cloak, only that braided hair showing. “How did you find me, runt?” came a throaty growl as William stepped forward into the light, his crossbow locked and loaded, trained on the sitting man who moved his mitts to settle on the scabbard of his sword. It was the first time Will had ever been in a situation like this one, and he was visibly trembling.
“Don’t move!” Will erupted with a furious roar! The man started to tug his sword, but Will stamped his foot upon the desert grass. “I said DON’T move, by the Gods!” The murderer stopped and raised his hands.
“Well ‘ya got me kid, what are ‘ya gonna do now?” he asked, chuckling. William knew his inexperience was showing.
“Tell me why you killed him.”
“He swindled me,” came the reply, and a brown smile of fractured teeth. “Owed me money. You know the type.”
“That is no reason to kill a man!” William hissed. In the back of his mind, he felt like he wasn’t alone, as if he was being watched by someone hiding behind the statues, but that was just his fear speaking. No, he’s alone... if he had a companion, they would have shown themselves by now.
“There are traditions in Yaralon. This dispute could have been solved another way!” Trying to make sense of it was hard for William, but his focus was getting clearer, his grip sharper. His heart rested into a steady beat, and calm fell upon him.
“It was Bragda, that wench, she put you up to this!” the man growled! “I should’ve known better than to kill the son of a Fortune Teller!”
...That’s ...wow. William’s mind thought back on the meeting with her. She declined payment for her services. “I don’t know how she could have known where you are, but I will kill you if you do not start start stripping. Lay everything on the ground. You are now my prisoner.”
The murderer’s hands opened and closed, and he chuckled. “They’ll just let me go and kill you. My word against yours, an’ I’m pretty sure you aren’t a mercenary like I am. Why don’t you run along now, kid?”
Will left his hand on the trigger, keeping the crossbow steady while he signaled for the brother to step into the light. The man did, silently, as William trained his sights steady again. “Are you going to kill him, then?” the brother asked.
“I don’t know. Wouldn’t that be up to you?”
“...I am not his brother.””
“Wait, don’t kill me!”
“Quiet. Not a word!” William barked. He stared the man down, not letting his guard down. He knew the man would try something. “Then who are you?” William said, immediately weary of the man who brought him out here with false intentions.
“Why, I am Cassion.”
Twak! William squeezed the trigger out of surprise, and heard a scream, followed by a gurgle. He lifted the crossbow over his shoulder as the man slumped against the stone of the statue, slowly tilting until he slid off with a smear of black, fire-licked red trailing behind him. The boy blinked in disbelief, stretching his jaw, and glancing at Cassion, who was smiling at him with a knowing look. “I-I-I think t’was the right thing to do,” he stammered. “I just killed that man, I...” he looked at his palm, but a larger hand pushed it down.
“If you feel he deserved it, then that was your conviction,” came that thoughtful voice. “I’ve been watching you for some time, young and courageous William.” He waved his hand, and the world around them warped, a neat camping space with rising stone walls on all sides, no corpse around.
William immediately stumbled back against the wall, chirping with stolen breath. “It--it’s, are you!?” he breathed, taking his hat off and holding it against his chest and setting his crossbow down. “You are as you say you are!” He’d heard tales of Cassion before, God of the roads, and stories. “What can I do for you?”
“Please, sit.” And so, he sat.
“You have come far from home, under sails grafted to your past,” Cassion began. “I can see the potential,” he chuckled, throwing his thumb over his shoulder at an opening in the stones. “How would you like to become one of my Sojourners, William, the boy who has crossed by path not once but twice in a short time? The boy who has become a man, with this just act?”
“Well, gee, Cassion, I hope I don’t offend, but what’s a Sojourner?” William wondered quietly.
“My blooded children, all of them!” Cassion smiled. “Adventurers, purveyors of tales who do not pick up books and repeat them, but rather make their own, and write their tales. Men of the road, always moving, never stopping, much like the wind carrying an eagle.”
The request sounded so strange that William's suspicious mind felt like this might be some kind of... strange ritual. “That sounds a lot like me. I’ve already got thoughts about other places in the world I’d like to visit. But... I don’t have to have sex with you, right?”
The man erupted with laughter, “no, no, you fool, this arrangement is not like that--unless you want to, of course!” His elbow nudged harshly into William’s side, almost knocking him over.
“Um, thanks for the offer, but I’m saving it for someone special... n-not that you aren’t, but, you know! The one!” He held up his palms nervously, shaking them about. Eww! Why are we talking about this!? That hand wrapped around his wrist, and drew him close.
“Oh, you’ll feel the hunger soon enough,” assured the God. William felt like a whore was in his future whether or not that was what he wanted. After all, a God told him so. What was he supposed to think. “Are you ready?”
William looked down, and his leather was coming away with those hands, baring his arm. “Yes, I wish to become one of your Sojourners, Cassion,” he smiled, and then bit his lip. “Am I really going to be a sexual deviant with this gift you’re giving me?”
“You seem to be preoccupied with such a boring thing. Lay with many women, or men, whichever way your desires take you. That is my advice to you. A warm bed turned cold has churned so many stories from the lips of mortals.” Cassion had a knife, suddenly, and William jerked his arm. “Relax!”
“I know, I know, I just don’t like being cut!”
“Scars build character, boy!” quipped the God!
“Fine!”
He winced as flesh was cut, stinging after being penetrated by the blade of God. “Tss.” It began to fade, and he watched Cassion cut himself. “A blood bond, then,” William breathed.
“As I have said,” he did say, and moved his forearm over William’s, grasping at the elbow tightly, and the young man took hold of the God’s flesh, finding it firm and stoic, but so strangely ordinary.
“I promise to bed lots and lots of girls, as your Sojourner!” William heeded suddenly as his flesh burned. Cassion had this wide, restrained grin, eyes bulging with the need to laugh, but he held firm to convey that sense of seriousness.
The wound burned and began to sizzle with Cassion’s essence, and in the following moments William was left with a sense of catharsis, feeling something uplifting, as if the very world around him yearned to be explored. That curiosity he had now felt like hunger, and his hunger felt like starvation. His eyes relaxed, and his chin fell open, and then tightened when no words escaped, silenced by awe.
He looked to Cassion as that arm fell away from his, woke to the universe, and altogether different, though still the same. “This feels like a dream,” he said.
“I trust you will not disappoint me, William?” Cassion spoke heavily. “Our bond does not come lightly. I will watch you mature. Do not fight the call.”
“I will not, my God,” William said, mind distant yet present. His eyes finally focused, and he wanted to hug the Immortal, but clenched the log upon which he sat instead before remembering to look at his new scar. Cassion’s palm descended upon his shoulder, and William smiled with unease, suspicious of how comforting this touch was. “So we have the same blood now? Does that make you my father, in a way?”
“If that’s what you wish to make of it,” the divine being in the guise of man replied, taking his palm away. He turned, and suddenly there was a table, with a grand feast prepared.
“Well, you’re the best father I’ve ever had. You saw me kill someone and made me feel good about it!” he laughed. Then he looked out over the table, “oh wow.” He could feel himself salivating as that aroma of freshly sizzled chicken and fried newt caked in spices met his nostrils, and he reached out to partake, descending upon that hallowed feast like a ravenous lion and its felled prey upon the plains.
Nearly a break passed before he was satiated, and he still felt as if he could eat more when there was none left. He asked Cassion if there would be more, and there was, and he ate again, and this night of excess was so enjoyable that nothing could ever compare. He fell asleep, bloated with Cassion’s gift, and awoke the next day near a dead man beset by ravens.
There was no guilt, there was only a sense of beginning. This new leg of the journey had begun, and so he traveled with vigor and without regret, to the lair of the Fortune Teller, to tell her the fate of her son’s killer.
As seconds pass, a heart sworn to adventure forgets a beat or two in a sea of thrill. From the real restless oceans, to those figurative ones beyond, one young man’s call to action roared so loudly above the wind that the spirits could not help but whisper under his wings. Dedication and yearning had brought him this far, and what stories had yet to be told would surely follow him like tracks in the desert sands.
Cassion did see what could not be seen by another, a story, a tale of humble beginnings, of revenge, and ascension from boy, to man. At first the purveyor of stories spoke to him and heard his tale: he was working day and night for a paltry sum to afford passage from the rock that was Rynmere isle, and he had his heart set on that journey.
Why? He told Cassion a story of his past, his greatest fears, and forever more what he wished to make of his life. Something. Anything. Away from here, in this land of his birth. Yaralon called like a beacon, in his dreams, and his mind churned with thought about what he would see. Desert sands caked in blood? Gates so tall the clouds could not surpass them. The humble God left knowing something would come of this passion, and the Spirits that had tethered to him knew they could have their fill, spurning him on, never stopping, never ending, cursing him to sleepless nights of that place...
The story faded away to a constant. A steady trial of endurance, of tenacity, until one day he knew he had enough to support a life beyond the sea in a strange, but interesting place. William purchased a raiment, and supplies, then embarked across the windstruck seas towards destiny. Many an arduous day and an uncertain night later, they arrived at the shores of that place he so sought, and stepped out into the world to begin his journeys.
In the Arc that followed, he learned much, and made many stories, and acquired a companion so close to his soul that they would be together until the rest of their days, and possibly beyond, God-willing. When Cassion found him again, he was seeking a mentor, to be gilded by success. Among the many men and women of Yaralon who had done their part in teaching him lessons, Cassion taught him the greatest of all, by twisting the plot of this journey.
Where there was a murder to be, it was spun to have happened in front of William’s very eyes. He sprung to action at the flash of a blade, and cried out. “Hold!” the boy screamed, and chased off that cat-like crook with a knife, rushing too blindly to the aid of another. Everything that happened next was a blur as he knelt before the man, palm over that open, gushing wound. “Keep breathing,” he begged of him. “I will not weep if you die!” Oh, but this was a lie, and as that body grew cold, weep he did.
With a face that had been rained upon with no rain, and palms bloody with the drying wet of another upon them, he rose to wander in a shaken fit of desire, but could not find the man. The whole affair had stoked that burning flame within him, and the injustice stung so bitterly. “Why is fate so cruel? I was but feet away?” he mumbled to himself with a heavy mind the next day as he wandered through the markets in search of this crook--he had seen his hair. He knew of the man’s sandy red locks, the bronze clasp about them.
Mind blazing, he thought of the possibilities. Asking around might tip off this crook of crooks to his white hot blade, he thought, but took a gamble from a fortune teller whom had been perhaps been swindling his yearning for magic for all too long. “Far out beyond the Gates, in a stone village with no name, you will find five who bare the same face you seek,” she cryptically told him. It was a chance. Enough to try.
The man who had been slain had a brother, who had been seeking his sibling’s killer. “We will go together, however foolish it may be,” the mercenary told him. They set out that night on horseback with an old map of the villages and ruins around Yaralon, reading deep into the puzzling tale that was their only clue to go by. For twelve nights and eleven days they rode, until they stumbled upon a nameless ruin with the twinkle of firelight.
“I will go alone,” William said, curbing the brother’s thirst for blood. “We must see... if they are guilty. Stay at the ready.” He advanced towards the light quietly, decked in head to toe with his weapons. What he thought might be five people became one, for there were five faceless statues staring down at a stoked flame, a single red-haired man with clasped hair beneath.
“Lo!” William shouted, his voice deep with frustration. “I have come far for your guilt. Tell me why you have murdered that man in the middle of day!” This journey had cost him much. The horses he had rented for the brother, the weapons, and the rations. There was no reward for this crime, because the family was poor.
To the moment, the man stared him in the eyes from the shadowy veil of a cloak, only that braided hair showing. “How did you find me, runt?” came a throaty growl as William stepped forward into the light, his crossbow locked and loaded, trained on the sitting man who moved his mitts to settle on the scabbard of his sword. It was the first time Will had ever been in a situation like this one, and he was visibly trembling.
“Don’t move!” Will erupted with a furious roar! The man started to tug his sword, but Will stamped his foot upon the desert grass. “I said DON’T move, by the Gods!” The murderer stopped and raised his hands.
“Well ‘ya got me kid, what are ‘ya gonna do now?” he asked, chuckling. William knew his inexperience was showing.
“Tell me why you killed him.”
“He swindled me,” came the reply, and a brown smile of fractured teeth. “Owed me money. You know the type.”
“That is no reason to kill a man!” William hissed. In the back of his mind, he felt like he wasn’t alone, as if he was being watched by someone hiding behind the statues, but that was just his fear speaking. No, he’s alone... if he had a companion, they would have shown themselves by now.
“There are traditions in Yaralon. This dispute could have been solved another way!” Trying to make sense of it was hard for William, but his focus was getting clearer, his grip sharper. His heart rested into a steady beat, and calm fell upon him.
“It was Bragda, that wench, she put you up to this!” the man growled! “I should’ve known better than to kill the son of a Fortune Teller!”
...That’s ...wow. William’s mind thought back on the meeting with her. She declined payment for her services. “I don’t know how she could have known where you are, but I will kill you if you do not start start stripping. Lay everything on the ground. You are now my prisoner.”
The murderer’s hands opened and closed, and he chuckled. “They’ll just let me go and kill you. My word against yours, an’ I’m pretty sure you aren’t a mercenary like I am. Why don’t you run along now, kid?”
Will left his hand on the trigger, keeping the crossbow steady while he signaled for the brother to step into the light. The man did, silently, as William trained his sights steady again. “Are you going to kill him, then?” the brother asked.
“I don’t know. Wouldn’t that be up to you?”
“...I am not his brother.””
“Wait, don’t kill me!”
“Quiet. Not a word!” William barked. He stared the man down, not letting his guard down. He knew the man would try something. “Then who are you?” William said, immediately weary of the man who brought him out here with false intentions.
“Why, I am Cassion.”
Twak! William squeezed the trigger out of surprise, and heard a scream, followed by a gurgle. He lifted the crossbow over his shoulder as the man slumped against the stone of the statue, slowly tilting until he slid off with a smear of black, fire-licked red trailing behind him. The boy blinked in disbelief, stretching his jaw, and glancing at Cassion, who was smiling at him with a knowing look. “I-I-I think t’was the right thing to do,” he stammered. “I just killed that man, I...” he looked at his palm, but a larger hand pushed it down.
“If you feel he deserved it, then that was your conviction,” came that thoughtful voice. “I’ve been watching you for some time, young and courageous William.” He waved his hand, and the world around them warped, a neat camping space with rising stone walls on all sides, no corpse around.
William immediately stumbled back against the wall, chirping with stolen breath. “It--it’s, are you!?” he breathed, taking his hat off and holding it against his chest and setting his crossbow down. “You are as you say you are!” He’d heard tales of Cassion before, God of the roads, and stories. “What can I do for you?”
“Please, sit.” And so, he sat.
“You have come far from home, under sails grafted to your past,” Cassion began. “I can see the potential,” he chuckled, throwing his thumb over his shoulder at an opening in the stones. “How would you like to become one of my Sojourners, William, the boy who has crossed by path not once but twice in a short time? The boy who has become a man, with this just act?”
“Well, gee, Cassion, I hope I don’t offend, but what’s a Sojourner?” William wondered quietly.
“My blooded children, all of them!” Cassion smiled. “Adventurers, purveyors of tales who do not pick up books and repeat them, but rather make their own, and write their tales. Men of the road, always moving, never stopping, much like the wind carrying an eagle.”
The request sounded so strange that William's suspicious mind felt like this might be some kind of... strange ritual. “That sounds a lot like me. I’ve already got thoughts about other places in the world I’d like to visit. But... I don’t have to have sex with you, right?”
The man erupted with laughter, “no, no, you fool, this arrangement is not like that--unless you want to, of course!” His elbow nudged harshly into William’s side, almost knocking him over.
“Um, thanks for the offer, but I’m saving it for someone special... n-not that you aren’t, but, you know! The one!” He held up his palms nervously, shaking them about. Eww! Why are we talking about this!? That hand wrapped around his wrist, and drew him close.
“Oh, you’ll feel the hunger soon enough,” assured the God. William felt like a whore was in his future whether or not that was what he wanted. After all, a God told him so. What was he supposed to think. “Are you ready?”
William looked down, and his leather was coming away with those hands, baring his arm. “Yes, I wish to become one of your Sojourners, Cassion,” he smiled, and then bit his lip. “Am I really going to be a sexual deviant with this gift you’re giving me?”
“You seem to be preoccupied with such a boring thing. Lay with many women, or men, whichever way your desires take you. That is my advice to you. A warm bed turned cold has churned so many stories from the lips of mortals.” Cassion had a knife, suddenly, and William jerked his arm. “Relax!”
“I know, I know, I just don’t like being cut!”
“Scars build character, boy!” quipped the God!
“Fine!”
He winced as flesh was cut, stinging after being penetrated by the blade of God. “Tss.” It began to fade, and he watched Cassion cut himself. “A blood bond, then,” William breathed.
“As I have said,” he did say, and moved his forearm over William’s, grasping at the elbow tightly, and the young man took hold of the God’s flesh, finding it firm and stoic, but so strangely ordinary.
“I promise to bed lots and lots of girls, as your Sojourner!” William heeded suddenly as his flesh burned. Cassion had this wide, restrained grin, eyes bulging with the need to laugh, but he held firm to convey that sense of seriousness.
The wound burned and began to sizzle with Cassion’s essence, and in the following moments William was left with a sense of catharsis, feeling something uplifting, as if the very world around him yearned to be explored. That curiosity he had now felt like hunger, and his hunger felt like starvation. His eyes relaxed, and his chin fell open, and then tightened when no words escaped, silenced by awe.
He looked to Cassion as that arm fell away from his, woke to the universe, and altogether different, though still the same. “This feels like a dream,” he said.
“I trust you will not disappoint me, William?” Cassion spoke heavily. “Our bond does not come lightly. I will watch you mature. Do not fight the call.”
“I will not, my God,” William said, mind distant yet present. His eyes finally focused, and he wanted to hug the Immortal, but clenched the log upon which he sat instead before remembering to look at his new scar. Cassion’s palm descended upon his shoulder, and William smiled with unease, suspicious of how comforting this touch was. “So we have the same blood now? Does that make you my father, in a way?”
“If that’s what you wish to make of it,” the divine being in the guise of man replied, taking his palm away. He turned, and suddenly there was a table, with a grand feast prepared.
“Well, you’re the best father I’ve ever had. You saw me kill someone and made me feel good about it!” he laughed. Then he looked out over the table, “oh wow.” He could feel himself salivating as that aroma of freshly sizzled chicken and fried newt caked in spices met his nostrils, and he reached out to partake, descending upon that hallowed feast like a ravenous lion and its felled prey upon the plains.
Nearly a break passed before he was satiated, and he still felt as if he could eat more when there was none left. He asked Cassion if there would be more, and there was, and he ate again, and this night of excess was so enjoyable that nothing could ever compare. He fell asleep, bloated with Cassion’s gift, and awoke the next day near a dead man beset by ravens.
There was no guilt, there was only a sense of beginning. This new leg of the journey had begun, and so he traveled with vigor and without regret, to the lair of the Fortune Teller, to tell her the fate of her son’s killer.
