John Chandler - K.Creeper
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Char Name: John Chandler
Account: KingCreeper
Forums: KingCreeperThe heir, the eldest, the boy. His father's son nomatter what. Little John the merchant-man… perhaps not. Athkatla - the city paved with gold, probably the richest city in the entire world and here they make their living, his parents mother and father the payers of thugs and reapers of ill-gotten rewards. "But such is trade, John!" Or so they'd say. Luckily his sister was too much of an idiot to ever be more than a stall-girl or a wench. But John had potential, smart but perhaps too short tempered to be the face of the 'family business'. Then a thug he'll be!
That was decided almost ten years ago when he was still just little John. His sister, at about this time, was gaining her reputation of having sticky fingers and, John got the blame though. "Boys will be boys!", so much for the Eastern discipline that the expensive instructor from Kara-Tur, this master swordsman who would shape John into something useful. It was a very traditional journey in his life and he was still a young man when it was all over - and now came the final ceremonious act.
"Pick your weapon!", a groaning - barely Common voice whined, as though his blood-pressure was beyond the Human limits and his head might explode. Such jokes amused John and, perhaps he wished the fate on the old bastard. At first he picked up a strange halberd - he didn't like the feel. Then a short-shafted battle axe… mmm, no. He circled the pile of weapons like a kid in a candy store, impressed by the variants of each and every weapon - he picked up a few swords, a large curved blade like his instructor's, it wasn't comfortable in his western hands. He 'dragged' a sword a few feet across the floor but ultimately failed to lift it - he shot a glare at his instructor as though to ask 'really?'. The last one he picked which he would keep, was what appeared to be a much neglected greatsword. Cobwebbed, dirty. The grip would need re-doing. And as John picked some of the cobwebs and flaking crud off the guard, and turned to tell the instructor of his prize he learned the lesson of awareness. Or rather, he did not.
By choosing the weapon, John had signalled the beginning of their final bout. Something the old master had failed to mention to John beforehand - how unlucky. The damage was severe and only healing by magical means would keep him from death. The slashing blow carved from above his left eye, across the bridge of his nose, down through his jaw which naturally broke a few teeth, down still through his neck and collar-bone, down and down from the top of his shoulder to the back of his wrist. It was a perfect, killing blow.
He spent most of the early days of that year in his bed with constant attention from the healers. He was reminded of all the fortunes he had cost, and told regularly that it would've been better for everyone if he'd just died. Well, just words maybe. His parents still paid for the healers after all. The wounds were more or less still fresh, infection seemed like wildfire as it spread through his body. Fever, pain, decay. Healing simply wouldn't keep him together, once when he coughed his neck wound simply burst open. John was dying. Every near-miss was bringing him closer, it was in the moment where he asked his consciousness to give up that a man appeared at his bedside. It seemd the rest of the room had emptied and a cool darkness had grown. John wept, his heart tore it's self to pieces with guilt in this unnatural darkness, with this quiet man watching over him. The light came back, and as he cried his genuine tears his body was released from the grip of the fever and infection - and over time, John would make a full recovery.
Lacey gave him a mask when he was able to walk around again - either a stinging joke or an act of innocent mercy. But John quipped "I'm not that ugly yet!" as he snapped the mask in two, and he only wore it, and continues to wear it, over the most damaged half of his face. The deep torn scar and deformity of the lower right, although the mask it's self coveres the majority of one half of his face.
John and Lacey, back to their old tricks it seemed. There was no excuse and no-one else to blame when John was ill - so things were a little quieter. But when word spread of bloody murder, things turned for the worse. A long discussion with his father and John chose the path of exile, these killings couldn't be tied to the family - he told his little sister a slightly different story, that the family was ashamed that they'd chosen to do these things as a pair. For it was unheard of! "A pair of 'assassins'", he liked to tease her. He made it out to be a game, a rebellion against their parents. "We'll show them just how far we can go Lacey, together to the ends of the world!" pray she never finds out…
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Reviewed, XP Pending!
