Post by Alo Taleweaver on Oct 28, 2007 9:15:36 GMT -5
Caravan of the Forgotten
-a brief history as remembered by Alo Taleweaver
The beginning of the caravan I know so little about, but if you sit a spell, you'll know everything that kicks around between these ears. The caravan existed long before any of us joined it. It is a living thing; a home that grows, mourns loss, and changes with the needs of its children.
I came as many of us did, by the hand of fate and believing it to be chasing a discarded barrel. The Order expelled me from their number. I only wish it had been for some noble deed, but I'm digressing, aren't I?
A handful of gypsies were living on the fringes of the realm, and I thought they might accept the "fallen" priest. I was welcomed with open arms, and no shadow of judgment. Thieves, drunkards, and gamblers every night came home to wives and children. No family cared that the monk had taken up arms, but could a new mouth would bring more food?
It was a hard winter for me. I learned to spin stories to entertain the children, preach in the language of comfort, harden my hands with work, and pretend how to wield a blade. About this time a half-man came to camp looking for help in a raid. I volunteered.
What I know now, but couldn't fathom then, was that this orc man had been with the band all along. I am not nocturnal, and had not come to meet the man. Orc. *sigh* The raid was against the king's men. I am not a lawless man, but there are times when power can lead to...meddling. We aimed to right that.
Out numbered, without armor, and with borrowed arms we fought. The valor of our fighters was thicker than any protection, and the sum of comrades is always more than mere soldiers. Eventually we became so harried that the Caravan left the realm to seek sojourn elsewhere. I led, lead, the day. Orrin the none-son watches the night. Like so many other gypsies, we wandered till destiny stopped us. Many ask why we settle on the edge of the Dreadwood.
That is another story, and best told another day.
-a brief history as remembered by Alo Taleweaver
The beginning of the caravan I know so little about, but if you sit a spell, you'll know everything that kicks around between these ears. The caravan existed long before any of us joined it. It is a living thing; a home that grows, mourns loss, and changes with the needs of its children.
I came as many of us did, by the hand of fate and believing it to be chasing a discarded barrel. The Order expelled me from their number. I only wish it had been for some noble deed, but I'm digressing, aren't I?
A handful of gypsies were living on the fringes of the realm, and I thought they might accept the "fallen" priest. I was welcomed with open arms, and no shadow of judgment. Thieves, drunkards, and gamblers every night came home to wives and children. No family cared that the monk had taken up arms, but could a new mouth would bring more food?
It was a hard winter for me. I learned to spin stories to entertain the children, preach in the language of comfort, harden my hands with work, and pretend how to wield a blade. About this time a half-man came to camp looking for help in a raid. I volunteered.
What I know now, but couldn't fathom then, was that this orc man had been with the band all along. I am not nocturnal, and had not come to meet the man. Orc. *sigh* The raid was against the king's men. I am not a lawless man, but there are times when power can lead to...meddling. We aimed to right that.
Out numbered, without armor, and with borrowed arms we fought. The valor of our fighters was thicker than any protection, and the sum of comrades is always more than mere soldiers. Eventually we became so harried that the Caravan left the realm to seek sojourn elsewhere. I led, lead, the day. Orrin the none-son watches the night. Like so many other gypsies, we wandered till destiny stopped us. Many ask why we settle on the edge of the Dreadwood.
That is another story, and best told another day.