3. Xiril Starkin-Fate, Adventure, Luck, and Loss.The beginning.

Xiril Starkin-Fate, Adventure, Luck, and Loss.The beginning.


  • Character: Xiril Starkin
    Player: JerrickRafe

    "Xiril!"
    His father called out from nearly a league away, and was heard clearly, despite the blowing winds across their fields of wheat. There was nothing about that man that was quiet. Like his son, even his looks spoke volumes, and loudly.
    Coarse brown hair mixed with a now generous helping of gray, was always about his face, and could not be managed with anything short of the oil they used to keep their farm tools sharp, which he hated having in his hair.
    Steel gray eyes to match those tools gave challenge to any man who stepped foot on their property, or demanded anything of their small village without the coin to pay. A hard set mouth that seemed equally likely to twitch into a scowl as much as a grin, was framed by a neatly trimmed beard, the liked of which Xiril tried to imitate. With no success.

    "Xiril! You'd better be done with your section by the time I get there!" The old man bellowed, waving a scythe through the air as a signal that he was coming to check on Xiril's progress. The younger man still had his red hair, as of yet untouched by gray, as Xiril was untouched by worries of the outside world. It was finer as well, and looked a lot more like his mothers, than his fathers. His eyes matched his father's perfectly however, and were known for commanding the same respect as his father did without saying a word.

    Xiril of course, was lounging under his favorite tree, reading his favorite book. Gregor would not approve, naturally. He could read, yes, but thought it a waste of time when another field could be turned, or flushed of crows, or another watering ditch could be dug for the fields.
    His father's zeal for farming made Xiril question the tales of his father's actions in the war that occurred when Xiril was but a child. Work, farm, harvest, and repeat. That was it.

    At least Xiril had already finished his work… He hid his book under some roots in a small chest like he always did. He stood, stretching, and walked out towards his father, scythe over his shoulder casually. It was a scythe that his father had crafted himself, and was dear to him. It seemed silly, having an attachment to a farming tool, but his father had brought Xiril a bit of joy in farming too, as much as he would love to deny it.

    Since the main crop on their lands was wheat, a scythe was an often used tool, and an invaluable one as well. This particular one was crafted for Xiril specifically, almost a year ago, on his 17th birthday. Most people saw a scythe as ONLY a tool, and nothing more. Some also preferred a hand sickle, finding a scythe unwieldy and cumbersome. Years of using one with the training of his father had enabled Xiril to actually have fun using one, playing games with the father of slicing fruit in midair with practiced swings, and even playing at combat while his father attacked him with staves and wooden swords, challenging Xiril to chop them in half without harming his father. He had never once drawn blood, and could now handle a scythe with the grace of one of the swordsmen in Mother's stories.

    The young man was nearly a mirror image of his father, with the same lean but hard build, considerable height, and same chiseled features. He was by no means particularly handsome, just rather normal looking unless you counted his normally serious expression. That was an aspect of his father he carried around as well, though he would not admit it.

    He was teased by the village girls for being so serious, and the other boys were distant to him as well, preferring to play music and sing for the girls, and be laughing and capering around like fools instead of speaking to the other farmers about the weather patterns, the neighboring wildlife, and the news from other villages concerning trade and the state of peace the land still held on to somehow, despite constant rumors of another war brewing.

    "There you are you ... okay I guess you're not an oaf today. Looks like you finished just in time. " his father jested with him, cuffing Xiril on the shoulder with a meaty hand that seemed to weigh twice what it should. He had walked right through the field where Xiril finished working, picking up a strand of wheat to chew on as he did so. Gray eyes were smiling for once, and the rest of his face matched his expression. "There's a traveling bard in town today, and I think you should meet he... them. " Gregor told him with a mischievous glint in his eyes that Xiril had seen maybe... twice in his life.

    "Alright, let's go clean up."

    Night had already fallen, and the town's torches were already lit, although there seemed to be twice as many tonight as usual. "Wow, the town's really alive tonight huh?" the son asked the father, surprised that they lazy town was all still up and moving about the torches... dancing? Strains of music lilted through the trees to Xiril's ears, like so many sprites out of stories that the mother he barely remembered told him about when he was a child. She had loved music, and back then, Gregor used to sing, filling the entire house with his rich deep voice, or letting the strains of song push the strands of wheat back with the force of the wind, like Xiril's mother used to say it did.

    It wasn't until about an hour later that Xiril was finally able to see through he crowd, and finally noticed the female who was singing. The word "Mother?" was almost out of his mouth when his father laid a hand on his arm, and said "No son, I know what you're thinking. That's not your mother... that's her sister. Ilianya. She, is how I met your mother."

    Gregor made another tankard of ale disappear, and continued watching her sing, while a man in colorful clothing and lots of belts crisscrossed about his person played instruments to accompany her singing. Xiril slowly drank his, preferring to instead drink in the sights and sounds of the musicians and their instruments, until the night grew cool, and the townsfolk began to wander back to their respective homes, and the musicians took to their rooms in the inn, after exchanging friendly words with Xiril and his father.

    Nothing important was said, but there was some sadness behind the eyes of Ilianya as she looked at Xiril, perhaps seeing some of her sister in him, or maybe just feeling their loss together, of a sister and a mother.

    Back at the farm a short time later, Xiril and Gregor's scythes hung on the wall by the door, oiled and ready to take down the next plot of land when morning came calling.

    Morning never called with it's usual voice. It was still several hours before dawn would come peeking through the windows, bringing the morning breeze and the smells of the forest mingled with baking bread from the town through their window. No, instead the bells in the town set to ringing, loud enough to wake Xiril, who awoke to find his father at the door, a sword he didn't remember him having in hand, beckoning Xiril to the windows.

    A fire was on the horizon... the town was on fire? Then why did father have a sword? Xiril's sleep fogged mind fought to gather it's thoughts, and that was when he heard what had his father on edge.
    Whenever there was a fire, or a flood, or anything of that nature, there were two bells that went off. One bell was merely for things like meetings and such. Two stood for fire, flood, and the like. When every bell in the town tower began clamoring fit to wake the dead, it meant only one thing. The town was under attack.

    "Remember what I taught you." Gregor said almost quietly... which was the first thing to strike him as strange about his father aside from the sword in hand. The next thing was the armor in his father's hand, that matched his sword in decoration. It must have been from his days in the war, although they looked as cared for as the farm tools, as if they had been worn the day before.

    After donning that, and leaving Xiril to his thoughts, Gregor said "Remember the games I taught you. I won't make you fight, but if you get attacked, remember what I taught you. "
    The shape of his father darted out the door, and Xiril, taking only a moment to put his blacksmithing apron on as a crude afterthought for armor, ran out after him, scythe in hand into the night.

    The memories of the fighting were vague, but vivid in the parts that could be recollected afterwards. Heads sliced through as easily as melons, and by aiming a little farther up, an attacker's sword hand would come off as easily as a wood sword would part when Xiril cut through it.
    Leering, inhuman faces, and bloodcurdling shrieks came out of the darkness and pierced the air, while blood wet the dust of the town road, only to be covered by the ashes of burning buildings.

    Dawn broke to the silence after a battle that only a warrior would know. The birds were silent, and death's stench and feel were thick in the air, giving the whole town the impression of a fairytale gone, like the stories mothers told to bad little children. A broken mirror provided Xiril's unwanted reflection, and he nearly retched at the sight of gore covering him wholly, like the dust of the fields on a hard day of work. The dust was blood however, and the wheat was flesh this day... He was sick again in front of the mirror.

    It had to have been about the eighth hour of the day when Xiril found his father. A spear was jutting from his chest, and his breathing was ragged, labored, and uneven. The bard woman was speaking soothing words, and tried something that looked like... a spell?? But it had no effect that Xiril could see. His father beckoned him over, said "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to leave you with... nothing. I just didn't want you to see this kind of..."

    Xiril shushed him and held him while coughing racked his body, but he continued to speak once it passed. "Under my bed, inside the floor, there's a box. I wore that when I met your mother... I didn't want you to know what I did before the farm until you were old enough, but this will do. "

    Blood frothed on his lips, and was wiped away by the bard woman, whose arm was wrapped and bloody as well, though she paid it little heed.
    "She's fickle, my lady is, but it's all I have to give you besides the farm, and I know it bores you. Seek out the meaning of the pendant, and use what I gave you as you wish. Your scythe can serve any purpose you want, as you can see now... use it as you wish. "

    The gray eyes were obviously clouded at this point, and he appeared to look about frantically for a moment, before closing them. "Your mother would have wanted you to be free to choose, said you were made for greater things than wheat. Seek your own truth, and remember me. I love you, son."

    "I will, I love you too Dad. "

    Those last words echoed in his mind as he opened the box beneath his father's bed. The deed to the farm was wrapped in an oiled leather cloth, along with something on a leather cord. A silver coin, with a lady's face surrounded by clover... or shamrocks? The coin had engravings around the edges like points, although the coin itself was round, and reminded him of something his father had taught him to throw at festivals. Throwing stars, he had called them, telling Xiril that he had found them in a far off place during the war that had brought him across the continent, or so he said.

    Placing the coin and thong around his neck, Xiril took the deed, the bag of coins beneath it, and the letter addressed to him, outside while he set the fire that would take his home back to the land it came from, and Xiril's childhood with it.

    The letter had told him about his father's mercenary work, and adventuring on his own in the downtime with the war. He sought adventure and fame, and apparently found it as well, but settled down to have a son with the woman he loved. When she died, he continued there, raising the son and farm together, but probably always longed to go back out into the world and adventure.

    He spoke of treasures beyond imagine that people had shown him, and that he sought himself. He spoke of battles fought between races he thought only existed in tales from minstrels and bards, milkmaids and tavern wenches.
    It wasn't hard for Xiril to decide, that his father's footsteps were just his size, and that he was meant to fill them, as did his father before him.

    It is now two years later that Xiril, having followed tales of glory and adventure and treasure, found himself in a town called Norwick, to begin his tale anew there. Will he find his destiny, and learn more about lady luck, this... Tymora. The one his father followed, lived, and died for?
    Only time would tell...


  • Reviewed, XP pending


  • Finished, edited, ready for review.
    Sorry so long… 8O

    ((Re-edited, and a little grammar fixed. ))