3. Yorrick Notton

Yorrick Notton


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    Young Yorick practiced with the large polearm on the combat dummy outside his parents' home. The dummy stood in the middle of a small garden his mother had tended when she was in better health. Now it consisted mostly of weeds and a few stubborn plants that refused to die. The fruits of their toil eaten by bugs and other vermin. Yorick was tall and in rather good health, a strong boy, but with a pallid complexion and sunken eyes. He was the son of one of the greatest knights of the Purple Dragon, least that's what the backwards rubes in this little hamlet thought of Yorick's father. Yorick just saw a broken down old man who was prone to be violent when his son would speak back with an intellect far superior to the aging knight.

    Yorick put down the halberd and glanced toward the house and listened. He picked up the faint sound of his father snoring as he had fallen asleep for his afternoon nap. The training of his son to follow in his footsteps was a physical and mental strain to the old man. Yorick knew he had a few hours before his father would be up and about again, giving him plenty of time to see his friend.

    He left the halberd leaning against the dummy, which looked more like a scarecrow than a tool for training a warrior, and walked quickly through the backwood trail to Notton's house. Yorick would learn everything he could from the old hermit. Most of what Notton would say was nonsense. Years of mostly solitude had eaten away at Notton's sanity. Yorick would listen attentively though. Through the wild ramblings he would gain a foothold of understanding. Not much mind you, but enough where he could start to make sense of some of Notton's tomes and personal notes. Yorick also understood enough that he should never tell anyone else of his visits here.

    Notton was once a great mage, according to the hermit at least. However he was banished to this reclusive spot for experimentations with the undead. Kings and knights of court, like his father, were frightened of the hunched old man. The power was evident to Yorick, more power than that which swinging a rusty sword or shooting arrows into a target would ever garner him. The way of a knight was to be a broken down old drunk like his father. However one who could call upon the powers of death and undeath, like Notton, is a man to be feared.

    Several hours would pass during these visits. Notton would never allow Yorick to take anything back with him. This was not a thing that Yorick ever disputed much. He had ample time to read over the hermit's writings, enough where anything of interest would stick in his memory to be mulled over later that night. Also, should his father find out of his son's interests, a beating may seem like a blessing in comparison. Yorick would run the entire way back home, so that he would be properly weary to satisfy his father that his son had been in deed practicing during his nap.

    One day, Yorick returned home from his visit, to find men massing around their home. The men carried torches and various weapons, mostly farming tools sharpened for special duty. He stayed back and watched the men. His father was roused and joined the men. Following them staying well back enough to not be noticed, Yorick travelled down that familiar trail. He could have been two steps behind and not been noticed. The lust for blood was in the men's eyes, and they were focused. Yorick hid just off the path in some thick brush and young trees as he watched them fire Notton's house. The hermit ran out screaming mad curses, his clothing ablaze. Yorick stifled a chuckle at the ludicrous sight. It was Yorick's father, the great brave knight of reknown, that ended Notton's suffering. A full arcing swing of his greatsword separated the hermit's head from the rest of his body. The other men who had come along threw Notton's body onto the burning house to be consumed with everything else.

    Watching for some time, the men finally started their walk back to the main part of the village. Their heads hung low, weapons dragging behind. Once the deed was done, the lust that fueled their frantic pace had left them. Once they were out of sight, Yorick made his move. He stepped out from his cover and nimbly made his way through to the least damaged part of the home. He recovered what books and writings he could find and stuffed them in a sack. Once he had recovered all he deemed worthy and savable, he stood to make his hasty exit before the burning house would crash down on him.

    A hand fell on Yorick's shoulder and pulled him out of the burning building with such force it threw him sprawling onto the ash littered grass. The sack of treasure spilled out next to him. Looking up, he saw his father standing there staring down at him. A hail of insult and curses fell down on the young Yorick. The father brought down his anger in the form of the flat side of his blade to his son's head. The last thing his father said that Yorick was able to make out was "You are not my son any longer."

    Awakening some time later, lying in a pool of his blood next to the burned out shell of a building that was the hermit's home, Yorick stood up, wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve, and gathered the books back into the sack. He set out that day for another land, leaving nothing behind but his old name. He adopted the name of his first teacher to be his own, travelling as Yorick Notton. He joined caravans and walked alone when he was forced til he reached the lands of Narfell. The coins he had were used to get a room at the Dancing Mermaid and then to pay his admission to the region's Mage Academy, a place where he could learn more of the power he glimpsed those afternoons in Notton's shack.


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