Fantasy Friday
I play Dungeons and
Dragons every Friday. That is to say I run a 4th Edition Dungeons & Dragons
campaign every Friday set in the country of Beniro. As such I've decided to
chronicle the hero's adventures from the perspective of different characters my
friends play. Each week and each short chapter I will rotate the perspective so you
can get a feel for all the characters. I will try my best to capture my
friend's characters and the adventures they go on. I might change some elements
but know I do it for the story.
A lot of the art I will be
using is not credited, so if you know the artist, tell me and I'll label it
appropriately.
THE
ACTION SOCIETY
BOOK
1
Rise
of the White Spider
CHAPTER
2
ARAMIL
 |
| Aramil, Half-Elf ranger and Stryder of the Red Oak Wood. |
The smell of the
dwarf sitting next to him stung his eye socket, he wanted to lurch, but instead
Aramil focused on other details of the inn. First, he closed his right eye, his
only eye, and the other hidden under a tan bandage that he had wrapped around
his head and tied at the back in a tight knot. The mouth came first as the
stale taste of piss-poor ale and the bitter air of the Mud Rag lounged on the
grooves of his tongue and teeth. That
smell, rancid and overpowering, the ancient dwarf had to have a terrible
fungus, it covering up the scent of saw dust and vomit that rose from the
floor. His hands rested on the counter, fingers tasting the cracks of the
ancient wood, appreciating their age and flavor. His feet felt the dull rhythm
of dwarf voices vibrate the souls of his feet through thin soles. It was warm
and the sound of their gutter-talk and dealings weighed hotly in the air. He
practiced shifting from one conversation to the other, his elven ears and human
curiosity could be such a bothersome trait. He opened his right eye, green as
rust, and the bright light slapped his eye ball as it caught the glare of a
nearby lantern. He ignored the pain and took in everything. His senses needed
to be at an all-time peak.
He
ducked and a chair smashed into the bartender across the countertop. Aramil
slid to the floor, crouching, and pulled his bow from his back. A fat dwarf hit
the floor with a soft grunt, face forward as Aramil tripped him with a careful
swing of his bow. Tumbling over the dwarf, body in constant motion to the door,
like a leaf falling between tree branches yet with more determination.
His
feet fell carefully as the gentle hooves of a moon stag on moss, all the while
keeping his body low, swinging his bow around only to knock those in his way
aside. Holding his breath, only exhaling when he made it under a table, and
Aramil carefully calculated his position in reference to the door, his exit. He
heard all four legs of the table scuff the stone floor and only barely made it
out from underneath before it crashed to floor under the weight of two patrons
locked in a violent embrace.
His
hood fell down the back of his shoulders as he skirted his way around a
hobgoblin in the arm lock of a red-faced half-dwarf. He heard a metal breast plate fall to the
floor with a klang and leapt up onto a table to dodge the half-dwarf’s grasp.
He spun around and smacked him across the nose with the bow with a sickening THKT, as the half-dwarf fell back in a
daze, only to regain his footing and lose sight of Aramil’s banded mail as he rolled off the table and
through the footfalls of the next brawl.
He
rolled between two dwarfs, stepped on their ankles, and grabbed their beards in
each hand. With a violent tug, their heads collided with a THD, and he left them in a heap as he made his way toward the door.
Sweat dripped down his scalp to his unshaven chin as he saw his goal, the only
obstacle a half-orc swinging a battle axe. He leapt, rolled, and as heard the
grunt of a dwarven miner, ducked. Fat red drips of blood spattered onto his
head, as he looked up, to see the half-orc standing there, axe embedded in his
green chest. Aramil stood up, looked him in the eyes, and kicked the orc out of
the doorway onto the stone street.
He stepped over the
body, only stopping to pull the attractive Dwarven axe from the fallen thug,
before pulling his hood up and making his way down the street. He was ready.
Ready to repay his father’s
debts and to make the bastard pay those owned to him. The man had abandoned him
and his mother in the city of Beniro. He didn’t even remember his face, but his
mother told him that Arin had given
him his good looks. A good man couldn’t live on looks alone in Beniro. Perhaps,
that is why his father left. His mother had told him the story a thousand
times.
Arin was much like
Aramil. He was a ranger from the Red Oak Wood. Arin’s father, Arithir was a
ranger, as we his father, and so on for as long as the Greenarrow Tribe had
written the name of their people in the stars. Arin was a talented bowman but
had left the red oaks of his family’s lands, against his father’s wishes, to
become a vigilante. A Stryder, his
mother told him time and time again.
A Stryder’s duty is to
not only range his own land but to deal out just acts as far as he could go.
His needs were that of the land and his riches were those in the stars above.
His mother had told him that a Stryder could never settle down. That is why he
left his only child and human mother to fend for their own without much word.
That is what she believed.
Aramil believed it was
far more selfish than that. His father was like many elf men who fathered
half-elf children. Generally, half-elves had it luckier than any other
half-humans, usually supported by both parents and sought out as the most
charming company. Yet, some elf men could not bear a simple burden. A wood-elf
like Arin could live well up to 300 years if he was lucky enough. He was
already over 100 years old when he met Aramil’s mother and he would never age
much more than he already had. Despite his age, he lacked wisdom or
responsibility, and abandoned his wife and son for fear of watching them grow,
shrivel and die before his time. That is what Aramil believed.
The day Arin had left
Beniro, he had gotten a letter, just as Aramil had just gotten a few days
before. In fact, the letter was from the same sender, King Duhkin Startooth of
Doktham. It requested him to repay his debts for some service the King had
granted him in his youth and so, a word or promise of return, he left his wife
and infant son in their modest home. Arin had ridden out of the capital,
Beniro, and to the North. To the North he went and to the North he had
remained, without word, for almost 30 years.
Twenty-six years of
waiting for a man who never returned, who left no inheritance, but left a hole
unfilled. Yet, they were not fully abandoned. When word reached Arathir, the
elf lord father of Arin, that his son had father his first grandson with a
human lass he did not choose to ignore or spite them. He believed his son dead
and wished his family no ill will. He sent gold and a letter. He told Aramil’s
mother, Mawsha, that he would pay their rent and keep them well-fed with his
coin until the boy was old enough to go to the Wood. Old enough came sooner
than Mawsha had expected.
His grandfather came
for Aramil when he was only a boy of fourteen, stubborn and angry, as he was
taken from his life in the city.
He was given no special
treatment. His grandfather and uncles taught him the ways of the wood and their
lessons were not easy. Their lessons were intended for an elven youth; a youth
who would have spent a few dozen years playing, gambling and exploring his
people’s protected lands. Aramil had only ever seen the wood once when his
uncle visited the city when he was eight and insisted that he accompany him to
the edge of the wood. He was a half-elf yet, in experience, all human. The
lessons came at a cost for him.
Twelve years of
skirmishes with gnolls and hunting down monstrous owl bears had taught him the
ways of the wood. Twelve years of watching the Seasons change, the elves not
seeming to age a day, all the while he grew faster and stronger. Twelve years
is all it took for him to catch up and become a full ranger. A ranger with one
eye and a bow that had been passed down for generations and had more stories
than could be told in a human life. He had lost his eye and perhaps that was
the most important lesson of all.
Then, a few weeks
before, a letter made its way to the Red Oak. It told of debts owed by his
father and of a king looking for a heroic fellow to repay those debts in
exchange for wealth and honor. He cared not for those things. He had become a
Stryder and his one eye saw many means to his ends.
He would find his
father and make him pay.
 |
| A rough map of Beniro. Several mentioned landmarks are highlighted. |
