| Red Light Goblin Join Date: Jun 2007
Posts: 37
Thanks: 0
Thanked 0 Times in 0 Posts
|  New Character Submission - Vincent
Character: Vincent
Age: 22
Gender: Male
Classes: Fighter/Wizard
Race: Human
Alignment: Neutral Good
Biography:
There was nothing special about Vincent. An ordinary boy, living in a small village in the northern corner of Dregar, on the outskirts of North Point.
His mother and father were kind, caring, and generally respected in the village, and when Vincent's intelligence became apparent to them, they pleaded for one of the local scholars to take the boy under his wing and educate him.
This he did, and within a few months of tutoring, it became apparent Vincent had a certain knack for the magical arts. His parents worked relentlessly, gleaning every coin they could to pay for both the tutoring from the scholar, and for an apprenticeship for him from the local mage, a one Arianass Veexle. He learnt at a standard pace, nothing exceptional, but once learnt, the knowledge seemed to be burned into his mind, never to be forgotten.
Life was good for the young man, until the age of 15, as it usually is until fate takes a drastic and unpleasant turn.
It was a simple caravan ride to a local fair, the sun shone brightly, Vincent and several friends followed behind the few horse-driven carts, laughing and joking at the leisurely pace, running through the long grass. A cry suddenly came from the front horse, and everyone gasped in horror to see the driver fall from the cart, an arrow in his chest.
Within seconds, a group of orcs burst from the woods around them, charging the small caravan with hoarse cries and steel shining in the sunlight.
They were merciless to everyone but the youngest, hacking and slashing at those that surrendered before them, and taking their time with the ones who didnt. Vincent and his friends tried to run, but the burly orcs soon caught up to them and led them back, at which point, they found all their friends and family had been slaughtered, and the orcs were looting what remained of the caravans.
The children were bound by the hands, and tied to one another, then led by the Orc group to a place they dreaded, the very sight of the Fortress caused several of them to fall to their knees weeping, including Vincent. Frindahl loomed in the distance, dark and ominous, a place they knew a fate worse than death could await them.
Tossed into a small cage in the ground, they were awoken at morning, fed small scraps of food, and then lead out into some farming fields on the outskirts of the fort, and made to work, ploughing the ground, watering crops, and basically turned into slaves.
The first few weeks were nightmarish. They lived in constant fear, and received regular beatings from the Orcs charged to make them work. They were fed the bare minimum of food, and soon they suffered from malnutrition, becoming weak and feeble, hardly able to continue working.
It soon became obvious to Vincent, that they intended to work them to death and then discard them.
So one night, when the Orc guards had relaxed their vigil and were leading the children back to their hole, Vincent and another boy made their move. The words to the only offensive spell he knew bubbled to his lips, and he threw a barrage at the orc before him. It struck the Orc in the head, and through sheer luck, the icy bolt hit it straight between the eyes, freezing its eyes and killing it instantly.
Vincent fumbled quickly with his friends, trying to lead them out the Fort. But his luck did not hold out. A few guards spotted their escape, and catching them by the gates, quickly beat them within inches of their lives and tossed them back into the hole.
It was the next day, when the Orcs eventually understood what had happened, frowning in confusion at the dead Orc and jabbing fingers, that Vincent was dragged from the hole. He was taken inside the central fort, and deep into the dungeons, where a huge gathering of Orcs gathered and cheered and drank by the torch light mounted on the walls. They surrounded a huge pit, caked with blood and slime around its edges, wherein inside Vincent saw two dogs, one dead, covered in cuts and blood, and another, blood and foam bubbling from its mouth, regarding him hungrily.
The cheers of the drunken Orcs, their grunts and evil eyes on him filled him with terror. He expected to be some kind of toy, to be tortured for sheer pleasure. But then, without any warning, an Orc tossed him inside the pit. A great , uproarious cheer echoed through the dungeon as the Orcs all pushed and teemed to the edge of the hole to watch the coming fight.
Before Vincent had even hit the ground, the dog was upon him. Terror consumed him, and his instincts took over. With the dog currently latched onto his harm, Vincent used his other hand, punching and whacking the dog with all his might. But it ignored him, frenzied, blood rage in its eyes, and released his grasp on his arm for a brief moment, and suddenly clamped on his again, further to his elbow.
A sudden clarity, and a sick certainty hit him. The dog would continue this,inching its way up his arm, until it either knocked him to the floor, or it could reach his throat. Then, it would be over.
Time seemed to slow as the dog continued chewing painfully on his arm, its fangs sinking into his flesh. His fear seemed to vanish in those slowed moments, and with sudden calmness, he raised his hand infront of the dog, whispered a few words, and the tiny ice bolt, yet again, struck the beast inbetween the eyes.
The dog silenced and squirmed a little, and dropped to the floor dead, its eyes frozen.
The orcs cheered uproariously, and led Vincent away, but not back to the hole. This time, they held him in one of the dungeons, a dark, dank cell with a moldy straw bed, away from his friends. They began to feed him well, and treat him less viciously, but every couple of nights, he would find himself dragged back the same pit and tossed inside.
More and more often, the things he would be forced to fight in the pit would become more vicious, and so he would be given tools to help him,until before long, he would be tossed into a pit with a vicious animal, whilst he himself held a club and wore armour, or brandished a small daggar at some captured kobold.
The Orcs began enjoying their entertainment, more and more surprised at how well the lad fought. Not through skill with his weapons, or understanding of the fight, but through his sheer will to survive and determination to do what he needed to live. They fed him well, and almost treated him well, but he never left the confines of the dungeon again. They seemed to revel and respect the fact that he used both his brawn and his magic to fight off whatever attacked, a skill they seemed to lack.
In the dark loneliness of his cell, after the time he spent there, he fell in upon himself, and lost himself. Nothing mattered anymore to him, only the will to keep breathing kept him going, and he began to enjoy and revel in his nightly fights, caring little as to whether this would be the night he lost or not.
So much time past, that he lost track, and couldnt recall how long he had been a prisoner
until one night, when again he had managed to fend off a vicious goblin the orcs had captured, a fight broke out.
A group of Orcs had descended the stone stairs to the pit room, and began shouting in their gutteral language and jabbing fingers at one of the other groups of orcs. From the little Vincent had come to understand from their crude language, he understood the words -Bet and owe-
Within a few moments, a fight had broken out, the huge groups of Orcs splintering into two sides, and a vicious battle followed.
An Orc grabbed him by the arm and led him away from the brawl, up the stairs. Vincent recognized this one, the same one who brought him food, and led him from his cell to the pit, and back each night. But this time, the Orc dragged him up the stairs, away from the fight.
He was pushed through the doors at the top, and suddenly found himself basking under the stary sky, the wind blowing his long hair, a sight and feeling he had not had for what seemed like an eternity.
The Orc jabbed his chest, then pointed to the floor, grunting -Stay-.
A warm glow filled his being, he could smell herbs and spices drift in on the wind from the south, could feel the touch of the moon as it smiled down across the land.
He looked down at where the Orc pointed, and saw his own hand, a blade still in it. He became aware he had a thick set of leather over his body, covering his arms and chest.
He looked up, for the first time, evenly at the orc, moonlight reflecting in his eyes.
And stabbed the daggar home, deep into the Orcs chest, whilst with his free hand, covering its mouth and stifling any gurgled cry from it.
It fell to the floor softly, and fear consumed him. Vincent feared repercussions, a repeat of the beatings and torture he had faced previously. But this feeling lasted a heartbeat only, and was replaced with the same determination that filled him every time he was tossed in the pit.
The will to survive.
How exactly he made his way from Frindahl is still a blur to him. Creeping amongst the shadows as best he could, he managed to sneak by several of the Orcs that wandered around the camp, until he made it to the gate.
Only one Orc remained at his post, the rest having been drawn off by the commotion of the fight below. Torch light blazed all around it, and all around the gate entrance. Sneaking over or past it would be impossible.
But the commotion of the fight now had reached outside the dungeon. Some orcs, still fighting, toppled over the dead orc Vincent had slain, and began bellowing in confusion.
The guard at the gate, his curiosity too much, hurried over, its heavy chainmail clanking, to see what was going on.
Vincent took his chance, and the second it left his post, he began creeping towards the open gate.
But the alarm was raised! Others had heard its cry, and gruff shouts pierced the night, and heavy footsteps began looming close.
His heart in his throat, Vincent burst through the gate and ran for as far as he could.
He didnt stop, he never looked back, and stopped only enough to rest as he needed to before he pushed his exhausted body further and further on into the unfamiliar wilderness.
Eventually, the lights of Dalanthar came into sight, and Vincent slowly turned his feet towards it. He dropped the blade, and was about to strip off the armour when a thought came to him.
Turning to a rock, he whispered the words of his cantrip, and a small icy blast struck the surface.
He regarded the armour with puzzlement. It was standard armour, there was nothing special about it, yet it seemed he could cast freely wearing it.
Stripping off the armour, yet keeping it as a memento, he eventually staggered into Dalanthar, exhausted beyond telling.
It would only be a matter of time, before his wounds healed, his strength returned, before someone would speak to him. Before they would tell him of a place where ones such as him would go, and point him to the shimmering portal, that would lead him to a place known as StormCrest.
// Going for Spellsword later.... but will apply then and have a well-kept journal
Thanks
Last edited by Trouble_x_2 : 09-13-07 at 04:27 AM.
|
Linear Mode
