Post by Kenthor HaGadol on Sept 29, 2007 0:33:41 GMT -5
It had been years since I had met anyone who truly understood me as deeply as this new mentor had. Honestly, I didn't even think I had communed with others on a mental or athletic way in comparison to what I had found.
I had found release. I had found brilliance. I had found my calling.
When I was young, I had participated in the athletic whoop law all the young men near the Warmongers were expected to enjoin. I was 18 when I departed my beloved home in the far North West for the lands west of Eryndor, for the furthering of my education. As the oldest son of an oldest son of an oldest son, I had my family line to think of, so I was selected for bardship, and went to school at that young age.
Was it so long ago? So many years? . . .
It was during my schooling as a bard of music, at the age of 20, that I met and appointed myself squire to a man of such talent and skill as to make me regret not knowing him longer. Ironically enough, his name was Ducky. He taught me that even a bard, a master of song, can still die by the sword, even though he does not live by the sword.
Ducky began his tutelage and, due to my influence at school and Ducky's charismatic nature, we gathered around us quite a brood.
There was one man in particular I had known even before Ducky, who was as a swordbrother to me. Yoshwa was he, and I Kronq, though we are known by other names now. Names earned by prowess, as is the custom among older tribes.
The bestowal of a name by one's overlord was a ritual, a rite. Left not to the mere fancy or whim of a warrior, his name was sacred, because it came from his king, or his war-chief. It was his most highly prized gift, worth more to him than gold or rewards. It was his essence. It was his power.
But I wax eloquent . . .
Yoshwa and Ducky and I forged the Primeval Blu Dragon and that mightiest of swords, the Manslayer. Through various incarnations and reforgings these weapons of warped power still may exist, though their whereabouts are currently unknown, at least to me. And perhaps that is for the best. Kronq I was; 'he who kills with a look'. That was the war-name bestowed by Ducky to me. I did have anger management issues back then, but they're all worked out now . . . I think.
With these Arcane Weapons of power we carved renown for ourselves. The talent and prowess of Yoshwa and me grew and grew, and soon we could match Ducky, stroke for stroke. Finally the day arrived when our training and schooling was complete, and Yoshwa and I had to bid farewell to our Cymru, our sword-brother, Ducky. He went his way in life, and we went ours.
Yoshwa and I also parted ways, but not for long. I remained in the West-Eryndor land for another year, but he, lured by the great 'hochschule' monasterium, poised on the precipes of the Northern Steppes, moved south. I followed the year after, and learned to my great joy that he had met friends.
I had found release. I had found brilliance. I had found my calling.
When I was young, I had participated in the athletic whoop law all the young men near the Warmongers were expected to enjoin. I was 18 when I departed my beloved home in the far North West for the lands west of Eryndor, for the furthering of my education. As the oldest son of an oldest son of an oldest son, I had my family line to think of, so I was selected for bardship, and went to school at that young age.
Was it so long ago? So many years? . . .
It was during my schooling as a bard of music, at the age of 20, that I met and appointed myself squire to a man of such talent and skill as to make me regret not knowing him longer. Ironically enough, his name was Ducky. He taught me that even a bard, a master of song, can still die by the sword, even though he does not live by the sword.
Ducky began his tutelage and, due to my influence at school and Ducky's charismatic nature, we gathered around us quite a brood.
There was one man in particular I had known even before Ducky, who was as a swordbrother to me. Yoshwa was he, and I Kronq, though we are known by other names now. Names earned by prowess, as is the custom among older tribes.
The bestowal of a name by one's overlord was a ritual, a rite. Left not to the mere fancy or whim of a warrior, his name was sacred, because it came from his king, or his war-chief. It was his most highly prized gift, worth more to him than gold or rewards. It was his essence. It was his power.
But I wax eloquent . . .
Yoshwa and Ducky and I forged the Primeval Blu Dragon and that mightiest of swords, the Manslayer. Through various incarnations and reforgings these weapons of warped power still may exist, though their whereabouts are currently unknown, at least to me. And perhaps that is for the best. Kronq I was; 'he who kills with a look'. That was the war-name bestowed by Ducky to me. I did have anger management issues back then, but they're all worked out now . . . I think.
With these Arcane Weapons of power we carved renown for ourselves. The talent and prowess of Yoshwa and me grew and grew, and soon we could match Ducky, stroke for stroke. Finally the day arrived when our training and schooling was complete, and Yoshwa and I had to bid farewell to our Cymru, our sword-brother, Ducky. He went his way in life, and we went ours.
Yoshwa and I also parted ways, but not for long. I remained in the West-Eryndor land for another year, but he, lured by the great 'hochschule' monasterium, poised on the precipes of the Northern Steppes, moved south. I followed the year after, and learned to my great joy that he had met friends.