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Rustyn
"From the fire came our Lord, and from our Lord came the fire so that we might pursue his crusade against the enemy to vanquish the suffering of the Land." - Unknown Scholar at K'Tafali Manor
Early Life[]
The Begining[]
Born to an Elven father and human mother. His father was tricked into sleeping with his mother and into conception. His father, not wanting a half elven child, told his mother that if she would abandon him at an orphanage, he would pay her a handsome sum. His mother, the gold digger she was, agreed, and left him at an orphanage. After doing so, Rustyn's father killed his mother for her bewitching him. Rustyn's father kept careful tabs on Rustyn all through his youth.
The Dimming World[]
His sight was finally starting to go as the old man had said. It was funny really, he’d become less reliant on his sight and more on his other senses. He could hear the crunch of the leaves under foot, sounding almost like a crackling fire. He could smell the residual dried up sap as the veins in the dry leaves shattered under his foot. It was quite amazing. He smiled as he heard the girls giggling. He could imagine them pointing at him as they did. After all he was just sitting there, staring at nothing. He could tilt his head and catch sounds, and tilting again, hear it from a different angle. He could tell how far or close something was or in what direction it was if it made enough sound.
It did bother him though, the loss of his sight. He sighed quietly to himself. It wasn’t fair. He didn’t’ ask for this. It wasn’t his choice. There was a soft sound, almost like a whisper. He ducked, but not quite fast enough as the quarter staff skimmed his head. “To slow, quit paying attention to the girls. If you were listening, you’d have heard me coming long before I swung.” It was the gravelly old man voice he’d come to respect.
“I wasn’t paying attention to the girls. I was listening to the leaves.” His own voice sounded loud and cacophonous in his ears and head, but what others heard was a quiet voice. “I got side tracked with the project you gave me on the leaves.”
The old man grunted and sat next to the boy. “So you were actually doing what I told you to do this time.” A statement not a question. “Still too slow.” He could hear the old man’s skin as he formed a grin, or what he supposed was a grin. “What perfume are they wearing?” His voice gave the command.
He doesn’t sniff, he doesn’t even move, he seems frozen in the moment. Tilting his head as his voice questions. “Strawberries and cream?” The pain flares on his hands as the knuckles are burnt slightly. “I said the girls not the ice cream the staff are setting out.”
Rubbing his burning knuckles he concentrates again. “The closest one smells like wet fur. Her scent is being masked by a dog. The farther one is wearing entirely too much perfume. Bad perfume at that, smells like a wild flower field”. The old man simply nods his head. “That is correct, except she’s not holding a dog, she’s got a fur from Icemule.” The old man tilts his head then looks at the boy. “we will try this again tomorrow.”
“Why? What does it matter if I can sense these things or not?” His question hung in the air a moment lingering before being carried away. The whispered answer, “Because you are to be my weapon.”
The Masters Office[]
There was a soft rapping at the door. “You wish to see me Master?” the old man’s voice echoed in the hall outside.
“Come in Morgan, we have some matters to discuss about the boy”. The Masters voice was deep and rich. As a young man he had often been asked to sing. Had he not become a monk, it was likely he would have become a bard.
Morgan walked into the room, his staff tapping and thumping as he did so. He leaned against his staff resting as he spoke. “I thought we had discussed this?” his voice was gruff. “The boy is my apprentice and his training is in my hands.” His tone was perilously close to insubordinate but he was tired of dealing with this trifling matter.
“Yes yes Morgan, the council and I both agree that you should train him. Which is why we are sending you both away. It will do you both some good to spend a few days if not a week out in the country side. You should go and see if he can sense the earth nodes around in the nearby valley as well as discuss with him what this orphanage is really all about.”
Morgans eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “Your serious, you want me to expose him to what we do here?” His voice held just a bit of a surprise.
The Masters tone deepens and darkens, his voice is a mere whisper. “Morgan, you know what’s at stake. The Book has finally taken notice of us it seems. We’ve been getting reports of a gathering darkness to the south near where the battle of Shadow Guard was held. It is likely we will find us besieged in the coming months.”
The squeak of the chair is the only noise heard in the room for some moments. Then the Master speaks again. “Do you miss your sight Morgan? Do you ever regret giving it up?” Again silence, followed by a firm, “No, some things are worth giving up.” A pause, “I will take him to the north wood, that will be where I will start.”
“Very well Morgan, and remember, be careful. It’s not safe out there anymore.” Morgan turns around and walks out of the room, his mind flitting to a million things. The steady thump of his staff echo’s in the Hall as he seeks out the young man he is creating.
The Barn[]
Is head nodded, then jerked back up. He’d been up for nearly 24 hours, praying that Lady Winter or the Lord Voln would show him the way. He beseeched them silently. Crying out with his mind. His mind was reaching a fevered state. Then he saw it, for the first time since coming to Icemule. A rundown farm, apparently abandoned. This is where he was supposed to be. He probed into the dreamscape a bit deeper. Wraiths. He could feel the evil radiating from them in a barn. It was strong, almost making him want to wretch. Then as quickly as it came, it was gone and the feeling returned to a more normal state.
He thanked Lord Voln and Lady Winter for their guidance as he rose from the altar of ice and snow. He was tired. He would rest now, and develop a plan to face them and end their accursed existence. Dusting the snow from his pants he headed off for the Honeybeer Inn. The next morning, he awoke, feeling somewhat refreshed for having spent a night sleeping. He arose and said his morning prayers once more offering his life to serve. It felt odd this praying. He was used to being ignored, now it seemed almost constant. He washed his face and hands and dressed himself. He liked the new clothes, they felt softer. He still had no idea what he looked like but he trusted the one who gave him the clothes. Picking up his staff he made his way out of the Inn and onto the street where the hustle and bustle of daily life was starting up its morning grind. Today would be a test of his skills.
Getting to the Abandoned farm was rather painless. The Orcs and Leapers which inhabited the southern trench were wonderfully absent. He hated the stench that emanated from the unwashed Orcs. It was enough to make a sighted person gag, let alone someone who relied on a sense of smell. He found the arch, it had taken some time. Some objects just didn’t show up and he had to feel his way to the arch, but once inside, his normal vision returned.
A barn, a home and some sort of orchird. All of it radiating a ghastly white light he had come to associate with undeath. Soft, sickly white, pulsing as if alive, mocking the very living that could see it. For the first time in a long while he thought of his Mentor, Morgan, and a deep sadness crept into his soul. He would make it right. He would.
Turning his attention back to the barn he drew a deep breath and strode though the door. He began a methodical search of the area, turning over broken bits of wood, sifting through rotted hay and other remains. It had to be here, this is where the vision let him. He moved just in time, feeling the pressure of the air moving the hair on the back of his head, the sword came clanging down into the cold floor. Rolling to his right and bringing up his left hand he sprays the wraith with a burst of Wizard’s Fire. The flames dance in his eyes as a slight smile crosses his lips. The wraith unaware, or perhaps uncaring, that it was still on fire advanced again. This time to catch a face full of arcane fury, unleashing just pure raw energy right in it’s face. He side stepped a moment and let the thing topple to the ground. Then he see’s it, the released soul, rising out of the wraith and dispersing on a quiet wind. He gives over to the shiver that has been trying to break free from his body since he got there.
The morning passes, there are more battles. He doesn’t find what he’s looking for, but he did find a clue, something to aid him in going forward. Something that would show Morgan that he was right.