The Wanderer

Subject: The Wanderer Thu Jan 22, 2009 7:54 pm

Rightio, this is just a basic little bit. It's to introduce Stion, and give some basic information of his past, and to also test how well I can write a story with him as the main character. Expect somewhat frequent updates. I'll make a discussion thread shortly after this.

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Enlightenment

Seven year-old Stion Gyas sat in his Father’s study. Fire flickered unseen, casting odd shadows and warming the cold building during a particularly hard winter. The light from the fires reflected dully on worn floorboards, and disappeared in the deep darkness of the rafters above. Walls of wooden planking held pictures and rugs, creating a warm atmosphere. Behind the sitting boy a tall bookcase stood. Its shelves would occasionally groan from the many books it held, all written notes and ideas. However, these weren’t the only books; stacks of them lined the walls, and covered tables. One wall offered a view to the main sitting room through the occasional blank space left unoccupied by a scroll.

All of this was invisible to young Stion, who sat, looking blankly ahead. Stion had been born blind; to a mother and father he had never met, and left for dead. Fortunately for the boy, he had found a father figure in the middle-aged magician who had found him. The man was well off, not rich, but hardly poor, and could easily support the young boy and his studies at the same time.

Stion repeated an old spell his Father had taught him. It had worked only rarely, but those glimpses of the world were ecstasy to the young boy. “Peris venego exis tribuno vox vidisum.” He repeated the words over and again, hoping for that one spark, that one little bit of magic he had to catch hold. Still, he knew it was fruitless. The magic rarely took him, and even then it was for a few moments. Perhaps this spell his Father had been working on for the past month would work?

As that thought crossed Stion’s young mind, his sharp hearing caught the sound of a door opening. He could tell it was his Father, his adoptive father, because of the lightness of his steps. With each step his boots would thud with the heel, and click with the toe. Thud. Click. Thud. Click. Thud. Click.

“Boy,” He said in his deep monotone. An odd combination, to be sure. Despite the lack of tone, his voice was that of command. He often told stories of his days back in a mercenary company. He had worked as a spellsword, casting different buffering effects, and using his blade in a pinch. He was a well-known, if not renowned blademaster, often called “Splitter” because of the story of his slaying of a rival mercenary captain. ”I’ve good news, I believe that I have correctly developed the spell. However, the words are difficult, more so than those I taught you earlier.”

Stion felt as if his breath had been taken away. This was his chance! He knew he would repeat those words until they stood fresh in his mind. That process took many hours of study, but had one benefit. Behind the gray silk wrapped around Stion’s eyes fire danced. Now was his opportunity.

“Father,” His voice shook. Taking a deep breath, Stion began again. “Father, I know I can do this. Show me the words, please.”

Stion could have danced with glee as, from within one of many pockets, his Father withdrew a small slip of paper. Slowly, the man smoothed the wrinkled scrap, and handed it to Stion. It would help create a focus point, especially if the words were written in the old text.

”It says: ’Tribus puervox vidisum.’” His Father said, enunciating the words slowly, as to be easier to understand. Tre-booss puer-vo-x vee-dee-soo-m.
Stion ran over the words in his head several times, committing them to casual memory. Taking a deep breath, he recited them as Father had spoken them, enunciating the words clearly. Nothing happened. Stion tried again. Nothing. Beginning to grow frustrated, Stion closed his blind eyes, digging deep into his mind. “Tribus puervox vidisum,” He said, speaking loudly, clearly, like he had heard Father so many times before.
Stion could feel something tingling down his arms, into the paper in his hands. His hair stood on end, and he shivered violently. Goosebumps came up on his arms, and his lips began turning a light blue. Behind his scarf and closed lids Stion’s eyes shook violently.

Of a sudden, a violent white explosion blanked his mind. The paper crumbled to ash in his hands, leaving small smudges of soot on his fingers. Slowly, the white faded, leaving black. Then, just as slowly, color began to fill his vision, flashing first red, then blue, green, and followed by a plethora of others.

Those colors mixed together, giving him a black and white view of the room for the first time in a long time. Color filled the gray areas, and soon he saw the room for what it truly was. Tears filled his eyes, especially once the vision stayed for longer than it ever had. Stion crossed the short distance between him and his Father and embraced the man who had, quite literally, enlightened him.

Subject: Re: The Wanderer Sun Jan 25, 2009 6:18 pm

Just some combat practice and a little bit of personality now that he is grown. Nothing much, but it's leading up to events. I'll have a little bit more up by the end of this week.

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Practice

Sweat rolled down Stion’s bare chest, following the contours made by his muscles. He breathed heavily, but his breathing paled in comparison to his opponent’s. His Father, who now let Stion call him by name, Zheale, was similarly attired in trousers and nothing else. Their bodies were matched for condition, both with well-toned muscles, and quick reflexes. However, with Zheale’s age came slightly slowed reflexes and flexibility, however he was somewhat stronger.

Both men, Stion was now eighteen, both carried bundled lathes in place of swords, but magic made them heavier than their metallic counterparts, and a duelist’s buckler. The bucklers were wooden, round and bowl-shaped, shallow, and were near two feet in diameter. The lathes would cut neither of them, the blades being cylindrical in shape, but could easily bruise the victim. Blows that would normally shatter bones caused the lathes to shatter instead. The similarities of the fighters ended with weaponry and clothing.

The eleven years after Stion had gained sight had been productive. His mind had expanded in many directions, as he had taken economics, politics, geography, mathematics and the sciences into his studies. He had also trained his body daily, in manual labor and sparring, and had increased his strength many times from his childhood. The sparring had sharpened his already quick reflexes, and spread his name as an excellent swordsman.

The young man had also taken on a very rarely used style of combat, among nobles and warriors, at least. He preferred well-timed, well-aimed blows and lunges over the wide, sweeping strokes of most. Like soldiers, shield rushing and bashing were not below him, and neither were trips, kicks, and punches. Oddly, he had taken to flourishes, but still fought economically, using as little energy as possible for the greatest results.

His Father, on the other hand, had spent most of his life learning the arcane arts, especially after his years soldiering. Zheale was quite capable with both spell and blade, and was considered an expert in both subjects. The ten years he had spent sparring with Stion had even taught him a few new tricks.

Unlike Stion, Zheale used the sweeping strokes of soldiers and nobles. Tricks were far below him, as was using his shield as a weapon. He used powerful blows, and was prone to quick rushes and retreats. His fighting technique used up his reserves quickly, but he fought on through sheer will power.
Now he used one of his trademarked charges. Sword leading, Zheale rushed Stion, who caught the lathes on his buckler, deflecting the blow downward, causing Zheale to stumble slightly. Stion’s counterattack was blocked, as well as his following blow. Zheale countered with a feint, slashing left to right, but dropping in mid-swing the take a stab at Stion’s leg. Lathes met with a resounding crack, splintering Stion’s weapon.

Instead of stopping, he followed through with his swing, releasing the hilt of the wooden weapon to let it clear the ring. With Zheale’s weapon now to the outside of his shield, he pushed the bowl out, in hopes of preventing another blow. His attempt was successful, and lathes clattered against buckler.

Allowing his shield to come in with the blow Stion’s empty hand came down, latching firmly around Zheale’s. With two steps and a push he had moved his Father’s arm wide, and was standing at the shorter man’s side. Still pushing, his bare foot caught the heel of the stumbling Zheale.

As the man fell, he released the bundled lathes, and Stion was in a position to catch them. With a mocking flourish, the young man placed the tip of the weapon under his scowling Father’s chin.

”You cheated.”

With a laugh, Stion, tossed the lathes aside, and bent to help his Father from the floor. “I simply took advantage of opportunity. It is your fault that you left yourself open in such a way. Plus, you had a shield. How easy to level me when distracted!”

Stion mimed a blow to the face, but Zheale continued. ”I have taught you to fight as a gentleman should, yet you insist on trickery. Why?”

The pair had been moving most the whole time to folded clothes and towels. His voice muffled beneath one of the fluffy white squares of cloth Stion replied. “If dishonor keeps sharp metal objects out of me, I’ll be the most dishonorable man in Monistacia if it’ll keep me alive.”

Subject: Re: The Wanderer Thu Jan 29, 2009 6:18 pm

Stion's first day of adventure.

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Adventure

Life with Zheale had grown difficult. Remarkably, even with all the years behind them, they had begun to grate on one another’s nerves. Finally, it had grown to be too much, and Stion told his Father that he would be leaving, for how long he knew not. Wanderlust had taken the man.

Stion was now nineteen, and his wardrobe had changed considerably. Instead of merely a shirt, trousers, and his scarf, he now wore what would be his “style” for years to come. Baggy pants were bloused over the tops of knee-high boots, the latter brown, and decorated with buckles. Tucked into the trousers was a long-sleeved white silk shirt, laced almost to the neck, and quite loose-fitting. However, pinning the folds of silk to his body was a snug black coat, done up as often as not, which flared at the waist to hang to his knees. The coat, heavily adorned with pockets, and rousers were both woolen, and were both black. A simple saber hung at his waist, on a crookedly-worn leather belt, thin and light. Atop short black hair Stion wore a wide-brimmed hat, of a material and color matching his coat.

It had been frighteningly difficult for Stion to tell his father the news, already clothed for travel. Difficult, but necessary, and both knew he was well-prepared to face the wide world. Zheale had only given him a father’s blessing, and a quick clasp of the hands as a farewell. Tears had stained the older man’s eyes.

Now Stion sat beneath a thin tree, huddled against the skinny trunk, trying to stay beneath the thickest of the leaves. Cold rain still pelted in at him, somehow, leaving him shivering and wet. A grand start to a grand adventure, He thought sadly. The stories had never been like this.

The earlier part of the day had gone well, after parting with what had been his family for nineteen years, that is. The sun had shone warmly on the road, warm enough to unbutton his coat. Not a person had been in sight, but he had honestly expected the next village to be much closer.

Instead, he had calculated wrongly, and had ended up, in the middle of nowhere, shivering beneath a tree. The heroes had always been safe from such worries. Still shivering, Stion fell into a fitful sleep where he crouched.

The rain had slackened at some point during the night, for Stion awoke mostly dry, but with a terrible sneeze, a running nose, and a pounding headache. The sun was shining again, drying the remains of the rain water, and illuminating a dark shape not far in the distance. Only a mile’s walk at the greatest.

Stion could have screamed with rage, he had been so close! A warm roof was only a mile away, and, instead of hurrying on, he had taken shelter beneath a sapling! A sapling! Idiot! Dolt! Why seek shelter beneath a sapling of all things? A warm roof, and a hot meal was not so far off!

Feeling like the boy he should be, Stion dejectedly began for the village. He hoped that things would get better, or his remains would be found in a gutter in some far-off place. If he even made it that far!

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