H'amaj "Blackjack" Asmath

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Login: Fwlch
Char: H'amaj "Blackjack" Asmath

You walk casually though town, a day as plain as any other, when an unfamiliar - and not altogether pleasing - scent fills your nose. An aging man in rags, smelling of swamp water and old ale stands ahead of you, slumped over his crude staff. On seeing you approach he grins widely, displaying many missing teeth, as he hobbles slowly towards you. The smell intensifies as he speaks. "Ah good day sir, a fine day for a walk to the market, eh?" He cackles and nudges you softly with a bony elbow. A small smear of grime remains on your armor, and the motion wafts yet more powerful odors from beneath his robe. Without a pause he continues, "Ye seem to be a man not in want, if ye gather." He winks quickly, "Could ye spare me but a coin? It's been days since I've eaten proper, and longer still since.." He raises an arm and sniffs at the air beneath. Your throat tightens and burns as you catch the scent. "The kobolds ye see, the little mongrels, they forced me from my shack and burned it to the ground! All I own you see sir, and these rags have no pockets." He pats at himself aimlessly causing a stir of dust and stench. Anxious to get away and now ready to wretch, you begin walking at a quickened pace. "Tell me another one beggar, I've heard this one before." you say trying to wave him off. Moving like the wind, he stands before you again. "Aye, if ye'd have me earn it then." he says, thrusting his palm towards your face and stopping mere inches away. Dirt and blood and Gods know what else make the deeper lines of his hand stand out like gleaming snow. You brace yourself for the stink to follow. Your stomach turns in anticipation and your eyes begin to water. You take a slow measured breath, and are surprised to smell sweet pine. 'Gods, I must have fainted' you think to yourself quickly as you draw another breath. You catch the unmistakable scent of cedar and burning deadwood as the lines on the beggars hand seem to mix and swirl. From the distance you hear the singing of birds, and the familiar 'ting' of a smiths hammer. With an unexpected authority the beggar continues. "Aye, I've a tale for ye sir. It starts many years ago, and many leagues away." Slowly he pans his arm around and raises his hand to the sky, your eyes follow. "A tale of a man they call the Blackjack."

In a place far to the north and west of here, a small enclave of barbarians had begun to lay their roots. It had been a good few seasons, and some had begun erecting more permanent dwelings. Those with skills set up their shops, attracting the odd wayfarer. One such traveller - an outcast druid - came across the settlement, and she was quickly smitten with the hulking smith. He soon claimed her as his own, and in the fall she bore a son they named H'amaj. As years passed, his mother taught him what herbal lore she could and his father taught him how to tend the forge. As the boy grew big enough to weild an axe, and his father grew on in years, H'amaj took on the responsibility of maintaining the demanding fires of the forge. Quite often he was seen felling trees in the woods still covered in soot, earning him the name 'Blackjack'. In his idle time he would oft carve at the hunks of wood he brought home before tossing them to the coals. Alongside his father - reveling in tales of his former glory - H'amaj would stare up at his fathers old greataxe hung over the chimney, and dream up adventures of his own. Unknown to all however, the time of peace and prosperity they had enjoyed for so long was drawing quickly to it's end.

One fateful year H'amaj's father became gravely ill; his mother, a healer by necessity only, had set out to the wilds in search of herbs for medicine. Many hours passed as H'amaj, at his fathers bedside, grew concerned and impatient. With his fathers grudging consent he set out in search, knowing her frequented areas. After much running, his voice hoarse from calling, he came upon a clearing where he would get his first taste of the rage in his blood. Rounding a dense cluster of trees, he was startled as he nearly tripped over the corpse of a small goblin. His hair stood up on his neck with the realization that he had neglected to bring along a weapon. Ahead H'amaj spotted more bodies: goblins and then orcs. He had never seen an orc before, and even in death it was intimidating to behold. As he approached he caught a sight that chilled his blood. One of the fallen orcs still clung tightly to a pouch - the pouch his mother would use to hold her herbs. Wild eyes looked around and found the only human body, slumped lifelessly at the base of a large tree. He was too late. Though he knew he could not stand to such creatures in combat, it was little comfort to him. He tore the cloak from his back, laid it gently across his mothers form, and wept. Through broken sniffles he heard a rustle, a distinctive sound he had come to know.

Wolves, drawn to the smell of fresh blood. His mothers blood. He knew he could not escape - knew that if he had heard them, they were already at the treeline sizing him up. He snatched up his mothers crude walking stick - a pale imitation of a weapon - and wiped the tears from his eyes. A small pack of 3 broke their cover, heading straight for H'amaj. His hands shook as his heart raced, reflecting the animals hunger he began to snarl back at them. In moments they were upon him, the foremost lunging to dominate H'amaj quickly. With every ounce of strength H'amaj swung his mothers staff in a wide arc, catching the alpha across the jaw and sending it spiriling away. A blur of hair and teeth shot past him leaving a large gash in his side. He brought the staff around again and connected hard. With a mighty 'crack' wood and bone were splintered. He dropped the broken staff and wheeled around. The last wolf had continued past him and was sniffing at his mothers body. Screaming loudly H'amaj charged forward; his wound causing no pain and his body feeling weightless, his rage was at it's peak. The wolf turned to face H'amaj's attack, widening it's stance and growling fiercely. H'amaj snarled and roared, never slowing once he had reached the wolf. With his last step he lunged forward, barreling into the beast as they rolled and tangled. The wolf had won the dominant position comming to rest on top and snapping quickly at the face and throat. H'amaj raised an arm in defence and the wolf gingerly sunk his teeth deep. With his free hand, H'amaj grabbed the back of the beasts head and hugged it to his chest. He rolled onto his side, struggling to get on top of the flailing animal. Once positioned he cried loudly, pressing his weight into the wolf and pulling it's bottom jaw down hard. A loud 'pop' told H'amaj the battle was over. The beast jerked hard, and struggled no more. H'amaj rolled off the wolf and laid there for a moment, breathing hard. With the wolves dispatched and his rage begining to wain, pain was setting in. He got up slowly and made his way back to his mothers body, tearing some cloth from his cloak and crudely wraping his arm. When he was done he took up his mother, struggling with the weight, and began the march home. Night was falling, and it would be more than an hour at this pace before the hike was over.

Alone in his bed, H'amaj's father grew ever weaker and dismayed; His wife gone for more than half a day, and his son after her for many hours. Suddenly he heard a loud shout as the door burst open. "Father!" was all H'amaj could manage as he took a step inside. His father gasped and his eyes grew wide as he saw his wife's pale arm hanging from beneath the cloak. His mouth motioned a prayer, broken by a violent coughing fit. He tried to speak again, but the only sound H'amaj would hear was the long, slow exhale as his fathers eyes unfocused and his muscles relaxed. Too much for H'amaj, his strength finally left him. His knees shook and buckled and he went down hard, his mother rolling from his arms. He knelt there staring for what seemed an eternity. His body shook violently and his mind raced uncontrolably. His gaze finally settled on the body of his mother. In the fall, the cloak had come away and he could once again see the look on her face: Scared, pained and yet somehow accepting of the end.

He took a deep breath and threw his fists in the air. No words were formed but a thunderous roar escaped and shook the walls of his small home. He rose slowly to his feet, gathered his mother and placed her in bed beside his father. Closing their eyes, he gave quick words to their respective Gods, Gond and Torm, and made his way towards the forge. There on the chimney, his fathers greatest work and the finest axe many had ever seen beckoned him. He reached up and plucked it from it's hooks and ran his thumb across an edge. Blood flowed and hissed as it landed it the still hot coals below. The leather grip crackled as he squeezed and plunged the head of the axe straight to the bottom of the forge, stomping on the bellows and sending embers in all directions. When he lifted it out the sharpened edges glowed and steam rose against the night air. His thoughts were focused as his nostrils flared, catching a wisp of smoke. He looked blankly at the embers he had scattered, now begining to wear at the floor boards; he cared not. There was nothing left for him here. A flame sprung to life and he watched it dance with itself, before long others had moved to join in. He turned his back to the forge, to his childhood, to his home, and walked slowly away from the smoking building. Others from the camp were now converging at the scene, and one man - a guard of sorts - headed for H'amaj. "What has happened here?!" he shouted, but H'amaj kept his pace and gave no reply. "H'amaj!" the man called, grabbing his shoulder tightly. H'amaj, having but one clear thought now in his mind, lashed out and struck the man. The weak plate he wore screamed in contempt and stole the air from the guards lungs as he stumbled backwards. Aware of what he had done and of the growing blaze behind him, H'amaj continued without remorse. A pair of strapping locals seeing the scuffle moved to catch H'amaj. He looked at them and grinned wildly, a faint trail of steam still rising from the massive axe. Their approach was halted as they looked on in shock. With mouths open they stepped aside and watched H'amaj pass between them and into the forest as gracefully as a barbarian could.

"Now the story gets a bit lost from here," the beggar says, snapping your senses back to this world, "I've heard more than one variation. Some folk say he walked to the nearest goblin camp felling beast and tree alike in one mighty blow of that axe. Other will claim that he strode out and met the beasts in battle, and with such prowess they laid down their arms and followed him as a chief! I've even heard some say he was seen moving south through the forest towards Peltarch, aye all the way to Narfell." Clutching his ribs, the beggar lets out a dry laughter. "Outrageous. If ye ask my thoughts, I think the boy returned to where his mother fell and met his own end…if there ever was such a boy. But you and I, eh?" He sticks out his elbow again and you weave out of his reach. "We are not such rubes as to believe all that. A boy nigh through his teens confronting anything from the deep wood? Only a fool could believe him to be the victor. Nay, a boy like that could only live in such a fantastical bards tale as this, and a fine telling it was." He looks up at you smiling "So what do ye say sir, is it worth a coin?"

[Celandine]

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