3. Tales of a Vagabond

Tales of a Vagabond


  • vag‧a‧bond  [[b:83c0fc9213]vag-uh-bond]

    adjective

    @83c0fc9213=Metallica::

    And the road becomes my bride

    …And the road becomes my bride
    I have stripped of all but pride
    so in her i do confide
    And she keeps me satisfied
    Gives me all i need

    ...And with dust in throat i crave
    only knownledge will i save
    to the game you stay a slave

    Rover Wanderer
    Nomad Vagabond
    Call me what you will

    But i'll take my time anywhere
    free to speak my mind anywhere
    and i'll redefine anywhere

    Anywhere i roam
    Where i lay my head is home

    ...And the earth becomes my throne
    i adapt to the unknown
    under wandering stars i've grown
    by myself but not alone
    i ask no one

    ...And my ties are severed clean
    the less i have the more i gain
    off the beaten path i reign

    Rover Wanderer
    Nomad Vagabond
    Call me what you will


  • That day came at midsummer of that year. It was late in the night, when he was awoken to a bright light. A torch, a beautiful shining flame, was suddenly ignited inside the dungeon. His eyes flew open and took a moment to adjust as he thanked the Flamelord for the warmth of the fire. Before him stood Odalliaus, one of his masters who was present as a simple student at the time he was taken from his parents. The Monk looked at V for a short moment and then gave a small grunt as he moved to the shackles and unlocked them. V looked on at his Master strangely, unsure of why such compassion was being shown him. After all, in his mind, he had come to believe as they said…he had brought shame, ruin, and failure to the Salamander.

    “You should not be locked here. Of all our students, you have proven yourself most capable of understanding the ways of the Salamander. The other Masters, and myself I shall admit, were scared of what you would become…of what would happen if one as strange and foreign as yourself truly understood the talent you had. You can not stay here, I can not allow such a inner-fire as you have to be wasted such as this.”

    With that, the Odalliaus shoved a letter and a bag into V’s chest. “Take this, you must leave here. Head west, and do not stop. You must always move, always travel, for you will likely never be accepted by people. You must always travel, and survive, so that you can continue to learn and find the secrets of the flame hidden within you.”

    “As my last order to you V, you shall be given three Trials you must complete.”

    “The first is the Trial of the Body. When you have stopped for a short time, you must find the heaviest armor possible and the most obtuse weapon and you must train with them. Feel what it is to have such a barrier between you and your opponent, and such restriction upon your body. Feel what it is to be burdened with such a weight and to strike forth with such unfamiliarity. Only then will you understand the freedom the body finds when you allow it to be unleashed.”

    “The second is the Trial of the Mind. Focus upon the world around you, upon the secret strands that touch all of us. Meditate upon the mysteries of magic and how they relate to the great lord’s flame. Through your breathing and meditation, find a calm within your mind, so that you may be able to go there whenever you find yourself in need of clarity.”

    “The third and final is the Trial of the Spirit. It is then you must focus inward, within the flame that burns within you. Find your center and see what path is blazed from that point, so that you may follow it. Find the peace between your inner-flame, your centered mind, and your unrestricted body. It is only then, when you find unity of Mind, Body, and Spirit, that you will truly begin your passage to enlightenment.”

    “Go now, beyond those Trials I can teach you no more. Let yourself travel this land and be like raging fire, unrestricted and uncontrolled, traveling wherever the wind takes you. Do so quickly, lest you are caught. May the Flame Lord watch you, and may you discover the potential that is buried within you.”

    With that, Odalliaus ushered V from the dungeon and the monastery. He was placed upon the wagon leaving the country that night, and began his travels westward upon the road, still a Vagabond, but now finally truly free.


  • During his twenty-first year upon Toril V would make a brutal mistake. A Noble with his family was visiting the monastery. The nobles son, William, prided himself a talented fencer and wished to try his skill against once of the Monks. The young students were paraded out for this nobles son, not wishing to displease a man of such stature, and made to form a line. They all watched as William walked before them, looking over each before stopping in front of the one student whose robes hood was up, covering his lowered head. William peered at the student, studying him; the seemingly scrawny body, strange whitish skinned hands, and even stranger were his eyes looking out from behind the hood.

    “I will face this one!” He stated, pulling forth his rapier and pointing it at V. The master’s looked on, frowning slightly at the choice, but nodding.

    V moved forth, lowering his hood and removing his robe. His thin body was taunt, lanky yet defined. He took up his stance and watched the noble, waiting patiently. As the first strike came in, V began his movements. Dodging and weaving past the blade, he slowly made his way closer. William pressed on, grinning smarmily as he struck out with his blade with confidence. However, as the duel went on he found the monk’s talented ability to dodge his attacks and move causing his feet to become tangled. He lunged forward with a final strike, thinking it would skewer the monk. Instead the monk moved, causing William to over stride and lose his balance. To his side V finished his weaving dodge, right arm set and cocked he struck out with a devastating elbow.

    The crack was heard through the court yard. The thud of Williams body was heard a moment later.

    The noble’s eyes flew open as his son fell to the ground, eyes glazed, jaw hanging limply upon his face. The students were ushered off quickly, and V was escorted by two of the Masters. He had thought he had done well, his teachings had proven the better of the two styles that day. He allowed himself the tiniest magnitude of pride for the act he had just done.

    That tiny bit of pride quickly vanished as the two masters cast him into the dungeon beneath the Monastery.

    He was kept in the dungeon for a year. Each day he was beaten, seared, or slashed. He was told he brought dishonor to the Monastery, that his actions would ruin their reputation within the land. That he yet again proved that he was worthless, but this time, he allowed the rest of the Order to be viewed as the same. Through that year, he kept his faith by watching the bit of torch light that was present through the slits of the dungeon door. He prayed to Kossuth and to the day when he would finally be able to view such glorious flames again in their full light.


  • By fourteen the Vagabond proved to be a formidable talent. He was within the top of his class at the monastery, grasping the Art of the Salamander quickly as well as becoming astute with the teachings of Kossuth. The application of the philosophies of the flame to their style of martial arts came naturally to him, and in all things of life he saw how it was akin to the sacred fire. Still, his master’s ridiculed him greater than any of the other students. They had known that he would take to the teachings, but never would they have guessed such a whelp would prove to be this talented. They were afraid, and more so, they were ashamed that this worthless freak was outpacing some of their more prized students. To encourage him, to give him praise, would only further the success. So despite his success, despite his prodigy like learning, he was always given more chores…forced to more exercises…and struck for the slightest of transgressions.

    At eighteen he was told it was time for his right of passage. This was the point that many within the Order of the Salamander ended their training, unable to face such things. The boy, now a man, did not turn away but instead went into this trial willingly. He was strapped to a table and watched as large metal brands shaped as flames were heated by smoldering coals. These brands were then put to his skin, but unlike most of the Order, it was not only his chest. Over his entire body…legs, arms, torso, back, and finally head…the brands were placed. His skin, more sensitive than others due his condition, howled in agony within his mind as the metal scorched him. Through it all, he bore the pain, repeating a prayer to Kossuth again and again, almost mechanically, in Kara-Turian. It was not until the metal first touched his recently shaved scalp that the words finally broke and the screams echoed through the halls of the monastery.

    It was after this day that he would be referred to only as V by his Masters.


  • “You are not worthy of a name. You see that dog over there?” The monk stated pointing, “His name is Thad. He has prowled the perimeter of this monastery for twelve years; he has warded off foxes, gave notice of intruders, and remained loyal all these years. He has earned his name, has proven worthy of such a noble thing. You however, are not. You are a unclean heathen whose life we chose to spare. You are not here to be coddled, you are not here to be raised and nurtured. You are here only to train, and to work, so that one day you will provide yourself a worthy tool of the Great and Mighty Country of Thay. You are no better than a beggar, than a peasent, than a vagabond.” He stopped, pondering a moment as he looked upon the six year old child. “Though you are right,” he stated with a suddenly calmer but far more sickening tone, “we must have something to call you other than boy, for there are many young men here. So that shall be your name, we shall call you Vagabond, for that is what you are…a worthless thing of little consequence. Now, finish pulling those plows and report to the court yard for exercises and training.”

    The monk snapped his whip, lashing along the boys pale back as he turned to go forth with his work. The child did not let out a cry, he knew that would only invited more. He simply bit his lip and went off, uttering quietly a small Kara-Turian song he remembered of his youth to concentrate on other than the pain. After all, to cry out is to show weakness and to insult those that rescued him.

    Those that kept him from dieing.

    Those that kept him from being a slave.

    Those that were his saviors.


  • They told him they had saved him from a life of slavery. The boy would believe them in time.

    …any other would see the truth.

    He was taken from his parents at the age of four. Captives turned slaves, their current owner had seized his then pregnant mother, along with her husband, after a raid into Kara-Turian lands. The boy was set to be executed, accused of setting fire to the barn of his owner.

    Whether the boy set the barn on fire was not truly anyone’s real concern. He was looked upon as a freak, as defective. His eyes were the color of blood, his skin and hair pale and white, and his demeanor jittery and jumpy. He was found at the barn that day, watching as the smoldering ashes floated down from the tops. He may have not set fire to the barn, but to those of the estate, he was good enough.

    Perhaps it would have been better for the child if he was executed then. While only four, he had found the god that lived within his soul even if he did not know its name or teachings. He would have gone to His realm, to live free of the ridicule, the pain, the torment. But such was not to be the case for the child.

    The day of his trial an envoy arrived, bald and robed in black and red. The lead man moved forward, speaking to the landowner as the child spent what were to be his last moments with his weeping mother and stone-faced father. Gold was exchanged, and the monks came over to the boy and his family.

    “He is to come with us.”

    The boy looked up slowly to the strange men, as his parents stopped a moment to take in the comment. Perhaps it was the demeanor of the lead monk, perhaps it was the look within their emotionless eyes, but whatever it was the child’s mother pulled him tight and grew into hysterics, refusing to let him go.

    The monks moved forward. The child’s father attempted to stop them but was soon met with exploding pain as one had intercepted his blow and applied heavy pressure to his wrist, sending the man writhing to the ground. Another grasped the woman’s hair, pulling her back and then sweeping her as a third pulled the boy from her. They then turned, ushering him off as the parents began to come to their feet, crying after. They were stopped by guards of the landowner.

    This was the last time he saw his parents.

    This was when he was “freed” from a live of slavery.