Orphaned to the Elves, Aaron carries with him the most unique of Gifts. Handsome and austere, he nonetheless wears the burden of standing as one bright flame against an encroaching darkness.
Why did I choose this place? You asked me to meet me. I thought it best to meet somewhere on my terms, where I would be comfortable.
In good time perhaps you will understand we why we are here. This tavern seems as good as any other.
Do I make you a little nervous? I don’t mean to. I am not good with attention, nor do I really care to speak about myself but sooner later some bard gets silly ideas
in their heads. I figured it best I try and set the record straight….. before it got out of hand.
In my opinion the only thing worse than murderers are liars. Quite simply an untrue story no matter the intent is a lie.
My name is Aaron. You know I am a warrior of faith.
I was born to wealthy merchants. My father was well regarded amongst his peers, and from what I can remember my mother was a beautiful woman. They were both quite successful. Sounds wonderful doesn’t it? Born with a silver spoon in my mouth… the envy of most children.
I would have traded all of that for a father that did not beat me, and a mother that was not an alcoholic. I was always in the wrong spot at the right time. So I was well versed
in absorbing my fathers displeasure at my sight, and there is nothing so fulfilling as being a 5 year old boy picking your mother off of a cold stone floor to push into bed,
and then to wipe the vomit from her hair. In fact, I would have traded all of that for one less black eye… one less broken finger, or even a mother that loved me more than the
alcohol she consumed with wanton abandon. Father would leave for the day, mother would start with the drink… and it take only a few short hours before she was passed out cold. Some days I thought she had died.
I never really got the chance to ask either of them why they hated me, or what did I do to deserve their loving attentions.
This is not the story you wanted? The truth rarely is.
I will move along then.
Fifteen years ago, we were travelling in caravan. 15 armed retainers, my parents, and three wagon loads of very fine silks my father had secured. Just on the outskirts
of a forest not far from home. We had travelled this way many times before and all seemed well. Except for an odd sound that to this day I will never forget.
Time slowed. I don’t know how I survived. The arrows that rained down upon us were merciless. In fact, the screams of the wounded and dying are something I will never forget.
The funny thing was I just sat there… I watch an arrow take my mother through the top of her skull, the impact so hard it drove skull and brain matter out the other side. I doubt she even felt it. I know my father fell from his seat. I’d like to think it was to prepare to fight but I somehow suspect it was to hide. It didn’t matter anyway…
Within moments of the arrows, warriors on foot, and on horse bore down on us from the tree line.
The slaughter was over in minutes… all dead except me. They even killed our horses. I still don’t know why I wasn’t killed.
Ha, still not the story you wanted….
How did I become a holy warrior? You ask. Ah, no, angels did not save me that day. I was forced into servitude.
Taken by slavers, sold by slavers. So much for angels.
My salvation came in the form of elves. I am sure had I been older these elves would have killed me as well. There is no love loss between elves and humans we all know that.
I was taken by elves. I assumed I would die to some ancient god, to some ancient belief or sacrifice. Who would have blamed me. Dirty, ill fed, silent. I gave them no reason to keep my alive. But they took me, deep into forests… deeper than mortal eyes should see.
I was fed, I was treated with kindness but in the same token it became clear that the elves had motives. I was taught to fight. I became good at it. And oddly enough… I could not be touched by their blades. I had been “aen touched” or god touched if you do not speak elfin.
As I got older, I got stronger, and my relation with their gods grew. I was granted gifts, I could fight. My anger and life had purpose. I owe the elves, their gods more than you can possibly know.
This is how I came to be.
I promised you I would tell you how I came to be. Names, locations, and who I serve are not your concern. If this is not to your liking dear skald, perhaps we could cross blades and you could see for yourself….
Good luck with your story bard…. rest assured not all gods are merciful, neither am I.
Now…. across the room is the real reason I am here. You see, not all the slavers were there they day the elves came…..