Legends of Belariath

Drake

=Description=

While looking about the room your eye catches a solitary fellow sitting in the corner, his feet propped up on a table. A plume of smoke escapes obscured lips, a shroud-like shadow looms over them. Focusing your attention, you spot a pair of engineer boots reaching all the way up to the knee, cutting off there with a buckled strap; fresh dust coats the black leather, hinting of long distances traveled by foot. Continuing up his legs, you discern a pair of calico trousers dyed blue with a stripe of yellow cloth running along the seams. Above that is a thick leather belt fastened by a brass buckle forged into a Medusa head. As he shifts slightly to pick up a glass of rum left on the floor you recognize the shine of leather; hardened bracers are fixed taut against his forearms.

You pause in your observations to note how he swiftly quaffs what’s left of his rum.

Finished with his glass, the figure shifts and stands to a height of six powerful feet. His footsteps are solid and laced with a sensations of hawk-eyed alertness. His posture is similar in nature, but hints of nobility are also asserted by his posture – then again, maybe not. Such characteristics were present a moment ago, now vanished in the same instant. As he strides into the light traces of salt reflect off his shoulder-length grayed hair; an unnatural motif such as this indicates near-death experience. In the past his eyes were diverse, the left harboring a lush green color while the right stared through a somber blue. The green was extinguished in a bloodbath, a result of severe wounds received on account of a glorious sacrifice. As such, a thick eye patch covers its remnant. A keen analysis of his behavior displays the spectrum of his personality, ranging from happy-go-lucky and to intensely stoic. His solid features are caked with stubble and tan, a stereotypical characteristic of all woodsmen.

Suddenly you recognize the sum of these qualities to be Drake of Iron Hammer, the once famed troubadour from a distant land. Only whispers of his performances have reached your ears, and none of the testimonials were negative. At present, however, he seems a bit addled - whether by stress, thought, or simple weariness, you have no idea. All in all, he seems to be a civil fellow; try offering to join him for a smoke. He just might take you up on it.

-=Current Equipment=-

Armor:

Studded leather armor +5 (7 def)

Greaves +5 (6 def)

Leather Bracers +5 (6 def)

Leather pauldrons (torso armor defense is applied to arms in FF).

Weaponry:

Whip

Composite long bow

Scandinavian Bastard Sword +5 ( http://www.powning.com/jake/images/ellisswrd11.jpg )

Rapier ( http://www.medievalcollectibles.com/images/SH1025%20Large.jpg )

Trident ( http://www.angelfire.com/empire/andremartin4/trident.gif )

Special Equipment:

The Ossa Ravenhead Helm

Winged Helmet, 2 def + 2 agi

(http://www.webmarkkinat.com/hoopee/admin/images/Alchemy_OssaRavenhead2.jpg )

This Helm is an attempt by Nanthalion's craftsmen to replicate an old war helmet design that finds its origins in ancient Baronia. Legend says the First, founder of the Saykrid dynasty, wore a helmet of this style. Drake dons it only when traveling the warpath, a state where he alters his attire in favor of obscurity, hiding his identity behind the helmet's face plate. Instead of wearing an evergreen cloak and blue trousers, he dresses in earthy suede pants with the greaves strapped on top of them. A deep green sash houses naked blades and whatever weaponry he has available except for the longbow or trident, which rest strapped across his back. Lastly, he burns cork (usually from a wine bottle) and smears its soot over his face to obscure the presence of white flesh.

=Total Equipment Bonuses=

ATK: +9 (BS) +4 (T) +2 (R)

RANGED: +5 (CLB)

PHYSICAL DEF: +19

MAGICAL DEF: +15

With Helmet: PHYSICAL DEF: +22, AGI: +2

=Instrument=

A wonderfully fashioned Elven Fiddle recently restored by Zingara and the Siren's Call establishment. Mithril strings extend from its slender neck down to the center of the instrument, and its sound is as clear as a summer's blue sky.

-=Miscellaneous Possessions=-

An ornate silver bangle, a memento from a wonderfully twisted woman who stole his heart long ago.

Thirty feet of rope, three torches, and a bottle of lamp oil.

A sturdy leather baldric that houses both of his swords.

Always Coming, Never Going:

=The Turbulent Existence of the Last Baronian Knight=

Baronia was a proud culture, the descendant kingdom of a mercenary lord wishing to escape the never-ending ravages of war. After the massive exodus of his high-priced and loyal forces, the Saykrid Army established their castle only to find themselves on the doorstep of a more sublime society driven by cutthroats and black markets. After the first few skirmishes on ancient ground, it became clear to the Baronian Monarchy that their rival country, Nogothras, would flood past the gates of Baronia and out into the world if their power continued to grow unchecked. Thus sparked the greatest, bloodiest, and most dramatic two-nation war the world had ever seen.

Only whispers in books and carefully told bardic ballads hint at the existence of this legendary country. Then again, the greater public never saw anything; because Baronia was sorely out numbered by the Nogothrasic army, the “Knights” took to tactics suiting what most in the modern empire call “rangers.” Stealth from the wild was their mode of attack; Baronians struck from mountain forests and leafy shadows, wielding bow, arrow, and blade alike. Secluded from modern nations, developed areas, and all hope, Baronia held back a flood of horrendous combatants known as the Order of Black Tears. In turn, Baronia founded warrior castes of its own: the Baronian Knights and Valkyries. The training for these factions strictly followed the precedent of the ranger-type skills utilized by the ancestry.

In the fifth generation of the Saykrid dynasty, the monarch fathered a son worthy of assuming his place on the throne. His praises were always sung in spite of blossoming immaturity, his combative superiority in sports received exceptional notice, and his swift advancement through scholarly training all heightened his reputation.

However, this child was not Thayer Saykrid. He was the bastard child, the illegitimate progeny of the Fifth King’s deceitful debauchery. Ridiculed by older kids on a daily basis, he was never favored in training, school, or public -- he was a black mark on the Baronian flag. Shame incarnate, he was the offspring of a wily courtesan who attracted the favoritism of his asinine father. His only comrade to speak of was his governess, a centuries-old elf who caught his boyish fancy. As he grew into young adulthood it became apparent that their platonic love was deep and mutual, garnering much jealousy on account of the Fifth King and the Sixth Prince. As such, Thayer would do anything for her – he even bravely interrupted her rape at the hands of his father, only to be impaled onto the wall with the family sword; but he still saved her. If only the Fifth King’s insipid influence hadn’t bred corruption throughout the kingdom, the blasphemy he committed would not pass unnoticed or unpunished.

This pattern continued over the years; Thayer was the national scapegoat. Everywhere he turned sparked controversy over his lineage, making him subject to injustice at every turn. From there he found refuge as a Baronian Knight, training well into his teenage years. Refining his anger into positive energy, he harnessed the skills of his people and showed strong signs of the legendary fortitude most mythologists associate with his bloodline. Upon the eve of his sixteenth year, his kingdom was assaulted like nothing before; his father decapitated; his half-brother drawn and quartered; his precious Elven benefactress disemboweled; his shreds of happiness destroyed. Ironically, Thayer was spared in the attack because he was thought to be nothing more than a simple servant boy, a worthless twerp who posed no threat to the dark throne of Nogothras. Using that to his advantage, he stealthily fought his way out of the burning chaos and to relative safety.

Immediately after the attack Thayer was forced to advance his talents in the natural world -- foraging, hunting, plant identification, and the like -- in order to maintain his survival. In spite of the ancient heretage of teaching all Baronians the way of the ranger, Thayer's truncated schooling was hyper-accelerated by the school of hard knocks. He ate rotten food, brushed against poison ivy, missed his prey when using a bow, fell from rock faces and trees. Everything he gleaned from that tough existence was relayed through trial and error. The boy suffered this feral existence for a pair of years before entering the eyes of civilized, indifferent culture.

Eventually the crestfallen and orphaned Thayer encountered and joined a trading caravan. At first he was only a hired blade, a bouncer of sorts serving to repel raiders and highwaymen. His nerves were frayed, his psyche wracked to something close to psychosis. Men were wary of him, women repelled by his feral nature; his social skills were next to nil, and all he had going was a strong arm and quick feet. However, the quiet rationale of his conscience asserted that surviving the massacre at Baronia meant he would be hunted; he could feel it in his blood – revenge was no longer an abstract thought, but destiny. It was at that point that Thayer died, and Drake of Iron Hammer was born.

Caravan culture soon welcomed him with open arms, its ruthless emphasis on autonomy forcing Drake to acquire social knowledge others spent their entire lives studying. Traveling the wild sands, seas, and mountains, Drake trained with herbalists, weapon masters, ran with mercenaries, became adept with a fiddle, and eventually broke out on the stage under his new alias. He even spent a pair of years in the tutelidge of a combat master he encountered on a trade route, rising up in skill until he surpassed his master at two-weapon fighting. When he returned to the stage, his alacrity as an acrobat and player earned him a steadfast reputation as a quality fellow. Having spent sixteen years of his life studying the ways of the Baronian knights, he spent a total of six more training to hide it. His façade was established and the stage was set; the sewn seeds of revenge began to bloom bloody flowers.

It was at this point he began traveling the wilds alone, continuing to expand his knowledge of nature. Unbeknownst to him, he had a natural teacher for it -- Gaea, hallowed goddess of the Earth, took pity on the man since his nation's destruction. She didn't help him in any way, of course; but on occasion, when death loomed over the Baronian's left shoulder, she'd grow a blackberry bush or sent a gaunt rabbit his way. As such, she was proud to see the adult blossom into his chosen professions. The civil bard in him gave him coin and comfort during the cold winter nights; the ranger within saw him through combat and travel. It was a perfect crossing between civilization and nature.

After completing an arduous quest to recover his family sword, he traveled to the well-known citadel-city of Teristra. Spending the better part of a year in the fold of an eclectic group of dangerous introverts, he awaited the coming of his family’s archenemy: the Lord of Black Tears. He came soon enough, whispers of Nogothrasic assassins heralding his expanding sphere of influence. Drake met him with equal force, invoking the powers of the ancient blade with blood –- revenge was fulfilled with a tremendous wail of energy as the avatar of Lord Makrhun was erased from existence. His powerful soul reacted so strongly with the Saykrid blade that both exploded in a cataclysmic wave of screaming ghosts and raging banshees. The spoony bard lay sprawled on his back, bleeding onto the cobblestones as if it were a catch basin while bits of souls fell upon the city like a gentle snowstorm. For the second time, Drake came close enough to exchange pleasantries with death.

Ever since then Drake has been a divided man, struggling to find purpose after fulfilling his life’s quest to end the malefactor of his happiness. The end of war, struggle and sacrifice should have indicated the end of suffering; and it seemed that way when he met a young creature by the name of Devia Aridese. A lovely lady spawned from the sensual desert sands, she was a tortured soul with an ocean of troubles originating from a past life serving the prophet of Setash, the god of divisions. Her stories of horrifying experiences, occult rituals, and unholy births chilled him to the bone; but his romantic dedication to her served to slowly reconstruct her heart, feelings and humanity.

One night he asked her to become his wife, so she might share her immortal passion and energy with him in matrimony. The next day she left him, leaving nothing but a note. “Master has returned! Rejoice!” Needless to say, this had disasterous consequences on his psyche. A week's wanderings later, he pulled a man from a pile of rubble isolated in the desert. It was then he forged an alliance with Gatana, a man currently holding a fearsome reputation within the walls of Nanthalion. This enigmatic stranger crossed the deserts with him, each man relying on the other’s strengths to maintain their mutual survival. Without one, the other would have certainly faltered; but their alliance held fast, as did their readied blades. The two traveled together for a series of months before losing each other between two clashing dragoon armies, lost amidst the flying sand and spilled blood.

From there the whimsical man returned to wandering between mountain and forest communities, plying his trade as a bard for a handful of weeks. His life as a troubadour was shattered the day an angry mob, displeased by a particularly bawdy ballad he shared during a wedding party, destroyed his Elven fiddle. This wonderful object of crimson finish was a gift from his Elven governess in Baronia; its destruction meant the end of his bardic career and the erasure of past connections. Once again he turned to his darker, more violent self; his training in the wild kicked in full force, allowing him to completely adopt the ranger's lifestyle.

That same mob is the reason why Nanthalion witnesses Drake passing through its streets and surrounding wilderness. Chasing him extensively through the night, they gave up the pursuit not but a few miles from Nanthalion; following the trails of chimney smoke by day, the bard hobbled into town and discovered the Healing Guild. It was there he rejoined with Gatana, and through intense observation concluded that his old comrade fit the description of Devia’s “master.” From there he was bent on freeing his love, yet without any hope of finding and reclaiming her; by freeing Devia he consequently released his entrenched love for her, paying a price in blood that nearly cost him his life yet again.

There is literally nothing this man would not do for the worthiness of genuine love, or the passion driving his soul. Having fulfilled his life’s quest for revenge and bested Gatana in combat to win Devia’s freedom, he is a satisfied man. No haunting desire or suffering hovers over him like a cloud – sunshine descends instead, blessing his mirthful smile with genuine emotion. Now, months after the end of his most recent struggle, he repaired the fiddle to its former glory and chooses to play it in private session. Gatana's powers, however, did not leave physical scars -- it left a curse on his psyche, one that deepens to this day.

Adding to this list of exploits is his recent attainment of the “Nature's Protector” title. Taught in the philosophies of Gaea -- combat, protection, mysticism, and ethics -- by Moth Tipplethorn, he swiftly ascended to this new level of understanding. It was then he realized Gaea's subtle scholarships donated to his cause, and as a result the Baronian was overwhelmed with her generosity. It was thus he entered a contract with the nature goddess, returning multitudinous favors that were never requested by becoming her avatar. In this way the Baronian follows his new profession with dogged fervor, excited at the new prospects it presents. Moth's guidance surely accelerated his learning, and her kind (and sometimes crass) words will stay with him as long as he lives.

And even though Nanthalion’s wretched expanses may revolt him at times, he still finds comfort in his alliances. His only hope now is to aid others where they fail to help themselves. Indeed, his literal profession has expanded into the metaphysical, giving guidance to wary travelers who happen upon his path, though his way is not restricted to forests alone. Through that he can atone for past immorality, deep regret, and prepare himself for the struggles to come. As ever, he stands at the ready, a deceving dichotomy of cheerful exterior and an oceanic interior. Very few penetrate his façade, but those who do find themselves in the company of the most steadfast fellow they will ever meet.

As suitable and stable Drake's current condition seems, however, there is no guarantee that fate will not toy with his life as a cat paws a dangling mouse. Lately his dreams and desires become increasingly violent; small crimes made by nature-offenders receive punishments harsher than normal. A shadow looms over the soul of Thayer Saykrid as Setash, the god of Gatana, slowly invades his soul. Slowly but surely, the beautifully reserved façade built during his life is deconstructed by the darkness creeping into his mind. Hope, once so sure, now faded into the horizon; darkness stands on his doorstep, knocking politely on the gates before battering them to splinters.

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