The Dream of Beginning

As Cal’edor lay in the long grass he felt weary, all those moons ago his now bandaged wounds wouldn’t have even slowed him down but now the years were catching up with him. His once blond locks now grey and he was tired, deep in his bones, soon he would move beyond this world and on to the next.
Not that this held fear for him, 172 years was a long time and he had done more in his life than many could dream of, seen things most people wouldn’t believe, loved… and lost.
The people of the village had offered him a place to stay, a soft bed, hot food, but he had no interest in those things. He had been shown the wonders of the world and now felt most uncomfortable sleeping without the stars looking down on him. He knew so many names and stories about those stars, each night as they lay together Lyssa would spin her tales, Elven princesses crossing the night sky, the pride of Wizards and Warlocks and beings on unimaginable power looking down on their little world…
He shifted against his bedroll, settling in for the night, closed his eyes and as he had every night prayed:
“Dol Arrah by your grace I serve, thank you for all you have given me, please watch over my love that I may be with her again soon”
…
Cal’edor knew he was dreaming, the sky was a bright blue, the world was just too perfect, this was not his world.
His blade was gone, he had carried that blade by his side for the best part of half a century he would never let it leave his side. He looked down and saw he wore fine silk clothes, not his normal travellers fare, he would never wear this, he hadn’t worn anything like this since…
He span instantly at the scent, he had missed it at first but now it filled his senses, a smell he had not experienced in so long. There she stood in front of him, the vision of beauty he remembered.
Allyssa…
He dreamed of her each night, but here she was always like a half forgotten dream, colours muted by the passage of time, but not this time, now she stood so vibrant in front of him as if he could reach out and touch her.
As if she could read his thoughts her hand reached out to brush his cheek, he felt her warm soft touch and she smiled, smiled as she had done all those years ago and melted his heart.
He scooped her into his arms vowing to never let go again.
“Cal, we must talk, we don’t have long so just listen okay”
He knew when she was being serious, this wasn’t the time for games, something important was going on, he nodded his agreement.
“You have already given so much but you have one last thing to do before your done. Don’t ask why just please trust me, The Blade of Dawn must find the 4, the 4 who can help you. Through them you can finally do what must be done, they won’t be easy to find but you must succeed”
Looking into her eyes he saw flashes of people he had never met and her voice in his head:
The Brass-armed Tinkerer
The Wizard of the Sands
The Lightning Pilot
The Clockwork Man

“One way or another this will be your final journey, it may last a day, a year, a decade, I can’t say but this is the path you must take, and these will be your companions”
She looked up at him and he felt her press something into his hand, squeezing it closed around the item.
“There are so many eyes on you now Cal, some want to help, others would like nothing more than to see you dead. Please Cal, be careful, come back to me”
…
Cal’edor jolted awake, lying on the grass he found himself already grasping something painfully tight, by the light of the moon he opened his hand and saw the leather thong he always wore round his neck with a lock of her hair preserved in a perfect moment by magic. He never took it off, had he undone the strap during the night?
He rolled to his side, propping his head on his hand looking out over the hills, the grand city of Sharn twinkled in the distance. He sighed, sat up and began to pack away his makeshift camp, Cal’edor found himself smiling as he did “She never could stay put for long, always rushing off in search of the next story” and with all he owned in the world on his back he began toward the city…

Rute

Rute

Rute meandered his way through the narrow streets of hell. Ok, it wasn't hell but it wasn't far off. This part of the Cogs was dark, smelly and foul and the same could be said for most of its inhabitants. It had been eight years since Rute had been in the Cogs and much had changed. New passageway and routes linked old structures which the ravages of time had made renovating necessary. Rute wondered how long it would take before the foundations of Sharn were so whittled away that the whole city collapsed under its own inadequacy.

Where were they...?

He remembered clearly the day that had changed his life forever. Most people would have thought that cliqued phrase would have applied to the event that caused the loss of his arm (and an eye, though most people hadn't realised the extent of the damage the accident had caused). It stood to reason it was only a matter of time before a small child working in a scrap metal yard and foundry made some small mistake that would end his young life. Rute was lucky in that his life hadn't ended that day. In fact, he didn't even consider he'd lost anything. His uncle who had some small skill in metal working had fashioned him a replacement arm and the rest of his small family, consisting of his parents, his grandparents and his uncle's wife had spend some of their hard-earned savings on a glass eye. The eye had been pure, whole and white. It wasn't any more. For Rute had a skill and this same skill that enabled him to animate a metal limb and change the basic properties of glass had drawn attention. That was the day his life had changed.

Rute had a vague idea of where he was now. The sign scrawled on the wall in charcoal had faded with time but still pointed the way to one of the poorest parts of the Cogs and the place where his family had lived. Not that there was much difference down here – how did you define between poorer and poorest? If anyone had any kind of money, they got the hell out altogether.

The dwarf had smelled like a brewery and had a face like a sackful of rocks. Not that Rute had had any idea what a brewery smelled like (nor what a dwarf was mean to look like come to that) but after eight years in the company of one of Mror Holds' most belligerent dwarves, Rute had come to learn that the smell (and the face) was the norm for this particular dwarf who on that fateful day had introduced himself as Kilbrek. Kilbrek had not been too impressed with his family's stock of scrap-metal but something had caught his eye.

“You boy!” a harsh and accented voice had rung out across the yard, “Let me see that arm.”

Rute stopped stoking the fires of the and wiped the sweat off his forehead with a rag which only served to move the dirt around his face. Wordlessly and without caution he rolled his sleeve up further and proffered it for inspection.

“Over here boy! I'm not of a mind to get scalded!”

Rute moved closer to the stranger and winced as he was treated to a face-full of breath that Rute could have sworn would have removed the shine off a mirror had he known what a mirror was. His arm was prodded and examined. He was told to lift his arm over his head, bend his elbow and drum his fingers. The last task he failed. He didn't have any.

“Who did this for you boy?”

“Sir?”

“Who made this arm?

“My uncle sir. Well, he made my first one but I couldn't move it. I had to make it move.”

A look of surprise flitted for an instant over the dwarf's craggy face. “You made your arm move?”

“Yes sir. And I changed my eye too. It's better now.”

“Let's see it then.”

Rute removed his goggles and met the hard gaze of the figure who was only a fraction taller than he was at an undernourished 15 years old. The dwarf stiffened. Finally he said, “I think that'll do boy. Cover it up now. And I'd leave those on as much as possible after you leave here if I were you.”

“Leave? Where would I be going sir?”

“Boy, would you like to learn how to drum your fingers?”

And that had been Rute's passport out of the Cogs. Saying goodbye to his family and all he had known (which wasn't a lot) Rute was taken under Kilbrek's rather ripe wing and relocated in the Mror Holds. There his skills in artificing were trained and honed. His masters realised he not only had a talent for artificing but also an innate skill for mental calculation. He could tell you the angle needed to approach the promising seam you'd found, he could calculate why your sword was off balance and tell you exactly how much leverage was needed to lift a boulder off a trapped miner. Rute took exceptional delight in coming up with new ways of doing things and improving whatever he could in his field of weapon making and the maintenance and repair of engineering equipment. “Improvement” became his watchword and as he grew and his arm needed replacing, he worked at it until now at the age of 23, wearing long sleeves and thick leather gloves, no-one could tell it wasn't his own flesh and blood. Despite his skills, Rute remained a simple lad, shut away from the wider world until he found a new itch. An itch to go home, an itch to improve himself, improve his skills, improve the world...

Rute stood at the gate of his family's scrap metal yard. Or rather, what had once been the gate. The big plates of welded metal were coming off their hinges and hung open like a dullard's mouth.

“Rute?”

Rute turned and regarded the man behind him. The man who stared back at him bore a vague resemblance to his uncle. If his uncle had looked like he'd been ravaged by wolves.

“Rute lad, you shouldn't be here. You shouldn't have come back.”

---Another brief insight into Auron's past---

Three figures made their way slowly towards Auron's hut, which sat on stilts at the edge of the Crawling Swamp a region in the north-west of the Shadow Marches. The figures were in a poorly constructed boat, and the smallest of the three was being made to row. Auron, sitting cross-legged at the door to his makeshift home, peered into the mist that hung expectantly over the viscous water at the boat and its occupants. He watched them intently for several minutes as they rowed steadily closer. He then got up and fetched his staff from a corner before returning to his seated position with the staff laid across his lap, both hands resting upon it.
They were close enough for him to hear them now as they argued amongst themselves. When he could speak between gasping for air through effort the smallest figure was complaining about being made to row, but he was being ignored by the other two who were concerned about other things.
“I still don't understand why they sent us to deal with this interloper?” said one loudly in a gruff voice.
“Interloper?” said the other quizzedly. “I thought we were gonna kick out some guy what didn't belong here.”
“That's what I said, fool. I don't understand why we had to do it though.”
The fool wrung his hands, “The boss said that what with the big find in the west there was no-one else what could do it. They couldn't spare nobody else.”
“I should be there with my expertise, but no, I've got deal with some wretch who thinks he's clever. I'm better than this; he's gonna be so very sorry when I'm finished with him.”
This exchanged continued in the same way for a few more minutes until the boat finally floated gently up to within a few yards of Auron's hut. Auron could see the three figures clearly now, two human and one half-orc. The smallest man was sweating profusely and had now slumped forward panting. The half-orc, who Auron had mentally labelled as the 'leader' of the three, was typically built for his race and looked like he could lay out either of the other two with little effort. The final man, the 'fool', who was almost as large as the half-orc was holding what appeared to be a rather large club. He twisted it around in his left hand nervously.
The boat stopped and the half-orc, spitting into the swamp, drew a pistol from his belt saying to Auron, “You're trespassing on House Tharashk land. I suggest you move along.”
“Where do you suggest I move along to?” asked Auron without taking his eyes from the pistol.
Turning and laughing to his companions he replied “I don't know, perhaps the swamp beasts will have you.”
There was nervous laughter from the other two, who weren't feeling good about Auron. He was different. He didn't look scared at all. Normally people got scared when they showed up, but not the man in front of them. He looked, if his face showed any emotion at all, confident. He looked dangerous. The half-orc didn't share their concerns and continued:
“How'd a thin streak of nothing like you get out here anyway? S'ppose it don't matter now, since we're gonna beat you into a pulp.”
“Is that what's going to happen? Auron said, “I risk to differ.”
The three thugs in the boat started to laughed again, but very quickly stopped as Auron started to chant arcane words that they didn't understand.
“What's he saying?” said the club-wielder eyeing Auron nervously. “No-one said he did magic. Is he doing magic? I don't like magic.”
The half-orc turned and said angrily, “Of course he isn't, does he look like a wiz----?”
As the half-orc turned the very solid end of Auron's staff slammed into his face knocking him over the edge of the boat and into the swamp. There was a loud plop and the half-orc disappeared under the surface. Before the club-man could react the butt of the staff slammed into his face as well and he fell backwards into the boat. The small man looked up to see a very small ball of flame growing in size in the palm of a now very angry looking wizard who was aiming for his head.
“You've got a choice...” Auron started, but the man was already responding before he could finish.
“I row away and didn't see nuthing. I row away and didn't see nuthing...” the small man was repeating over and over with his eyes closed.
“That's the one,” Auron responded smiling.
The small man started to row vigorously away from Auron still repeating to himself, “I row away and didn't see nuthing, I row away and didn't see nuthing...”
Sighing, Auron turned his head and said to the inside of the hut, “<We had better get moving my friend; the next lot they send will be more numerous and less inept. We got what we came for in any case. It's a shame really...it was rather peaceful here.>”

--A glimpse at the life of the wizard Auron--

Approaching the city limits, Auron breathed in the familiar air of Sharn for the first time in years. It was also a great deal better than the putrid air of the Shadow Marches where he had spent the last six months. He smiled; he was home once again and it felt good. The magnificent towers of Sharn spiralled up to its mighty peak before him as he continued on into the city. Auron made his way to the district of Dura where he found his old watering hole The Crooked Marquess. Nothing had changed since he was last here, and he thanked the Host that the Last War had left this place untouched. Only the staff seemed to have changed and striding up to the bar Auron ordered a tankard of ale, asking at the same time whether a man named Falstaff still owned the place. Receiving his answer Auron smiled and sat down in a quiet corner. The tavern was reasonably empty with only a few people scattered here and there. None of them had noticed him enter, or if they had they hadn't make any sign. He sipped his tankard of ale. It had some time since he had tasted the sweet ale of The Crooked Marquess. Quietly and to himself Auron sighed, closed his eyes and began to think about the last five years and how he had come to leave Sharn and his home behind.

Five years ago...

Auron stepped off the boat and into a whirlwind of dust and sand. Shielding his eyes he made his way in the direction the first mate had pointed him.
“[Where are you from stranger?]” asked a stern man in riedran. The man was wearing a large overcoat pulled up over his mouth and a wide brimmed hat pulled down to help shield his eyes and nose against the storm. Because of this Auron couldn't make out his face, but he was sure the man was human.
“[Khorvaire],” he answered. His riedran wasn't great, but he could remember enough of the language from his days growing up in Adar.
“[Khorvaire?]” the man repeated back to him. “[What business do you have in Adar, Khorvian?]
“[I look refuge from Final War. I grow up here.]” Auron replied in his broken riedran.
“[I see. Then you know about the troubles on Sarlona with the Kalashtar and the Inspired. No profit to be had there; we humans need to stick together and stay out of their trivialities.]”
“[I know of troubles, and have no want to be part of it. I just want to see the war away in peace.]” Auron replied.
“[That's good to hear. The last thing we need is another freedom fighter on this godforsaken land. Now friend, do you need a place to stay this night?]”
Auron nodded in all earnestness.
“[You'll find a tavern with rooms down that street over there. The beds are hard, but the prices are low. That should see you good for the night.]”
Thanking the man, Auron headed down the street in the direction he had been pointed. The sky was showing the first signs of dawn, but this did not deter the storm as it flicked the sand up wickedly, whipping anything that dared to venture outside. Reaching the tavern Auron smiled, opened the door and stepped inside.

Auron finished his drink in one and waved to the barkeep for another. As he did this a tabby cat jumped down from the hearth next to his table and started to rub its body against his left leg. Bending down to rub the cat's flank he heard the door of the tavern open and the sound of several men walking in, voices raised in good cheer. Ignoring them, Auron patted the cat, stood up and walked to the bar.
Reaching the bar, Auron hear a gruff voice from the group that had just entered say, “Your money isn't any good in here my friend.”
Turning towards the speaker, Auron's features spread into a wide grin across his face and he laughed a mighty laugh.

-- Here we have Verity's sky pirate's troubled adolescence and recent disaster --

A great streak of purest white split the sky in two, lashing through the pelting rain like the tongue of some gigantic serpent. The deck of the airship beneath their feet trembled and groaned.

“Captain! We're losing her to the storm!” Lieutenant Commander Garonne screamed into the wind, his voice, though he was hardly a foot away from his target, was barely audible.

“I'm working on it, Garonne!”

This was no storm like any the captain had encountered before. Though the Mark of Storms burned furiously on his chest its power seemed useless. The clouds above The Sky Bard heaved and billowed in shades of mauve and charcoal and darkest purple, completely unaffected by the forces he could feel flowing out of him. It just wasn't strong enough. He just wasn't strong enough...

“Jirke Hanna-D'Lyrandar! Can you repeat what I just said?”

Jirke threw his head back. He pulled off the piece of parchment stuck to his cheek with dried saliva and smiled widely at his teacher.

“Absolutely not.”

He enjoyed the way Mistress Heleina's pale neck became mottled with splotches of red.

Her eyes blazed but her voice remained steady as she said, “Then I think you had better get out of my classroom.”

“There are only ten minutes left, mistress. Surely it would be better to reprimand me after the lesson so as not to take your precious time away from my classmates?” He cocked his head to one side and gazed at her imploringly. The figures seated at the desks around him tittered and muttered.

Mistress Heleina spoke through gritted teeth and did not meet his eye, “I do not intend to reprimand you, master Jirke. I will leave that to your parents when they receive my letter that you have been suspended from my lessons forthwith. Now collect your belongings and leave at once.”

Jirke's blood ran cold. He stood, scraping his chair back, slung his satchel over his shoulder and exited the classroom.

The academy was situated on one of the upper levels of the island. Open air was a necessity for students learning how to control weather after all. But there were other reasons a large group of teenagers of House Lyrandar should remain within easy access of the sky. Jirke could feel the repressed anger twitching inside him and he quickened his pace as it threatened to break through. He imagined his mother's anger. He could see his father's disappointment.

Two minutes were probably all he had.

Once outside he broke into a run and swung into the nearest loading tower, feeling his heart in his ears as his feet pounded the steps that would take him to a higher point in the sky.

One minute.

The door to the top of the tower slammed against the wall as he threw it outward and himself to his knees on the flagstones below, gasping for air. The sun beat down on his sweat-soaked back, a typical day for the holiday destination of Stormhome. Seagulls mewled all around. He could not remember a day he hadn't heard seagulls.

It was time up. The convulsions hit the pit of his stomach and spread out through his torso. He struggled to lie on his back and watched as the clouds above darkened almost imperceptibly. Electricity coursing from the Mark on his chest snapped his entire body rigid and he keened through his clenched jaw pathetically. Puberty sucked. It had never been as bad as this before. He had no clue what would happen if he released it as he was but the energy was starting to burn through his innards as if he were being cooked from the inside out. He had read about cases where marked individuals seemed to have spontaneously combusted and wondered if this was the cause. It was not the kind of information that was taught in the academy.

Jirke raised his rigid arms into the air above his face, spread his fingers apart and marvelled at the webs of blue-white light that danced between them. He tentatively focused his energy into his hands and watched the dancing sparks speed up and burn brighter. It was painful but exhilarating and as he pushed more compressed energy into his arms to ease the inner burning sensation and the sparks stretched up from his fingertips and scratched at the sky he began to feel light-headed from the power. He closed his eyes and mentally prepared himself to make one last push and send it all out of his aching arms.

Before he could get that far he felt a warm pressure on his chest and his eyes flew open. The sun above was blocked by the silhouette of a man. The man held his palm flat against the Mark on Jirke's chest and the electricity crackling around his hand disappeared as he felt it streaming back down his arm, into his chest and out of the Mark. When the last dregs of the magical energy left his body the man stumbled back, pulled out a pistol and fired it into the sky. Rather than a gun shot going off a noise like tearing cloth amplified by a hundred rent the air as a lightning bolt shot out of the barrel and into the clouds. The seagulls squawked frantically. The man watched it disappear before putting his pistol back in the holster at his hip and turning to look down at Jirke still prone on the floor.

Now Jirke could see him clearly he felt he recognised this older Khoravar but he could not place him among any of his father's friends. For a start he was a good deal more scarred and weather-worn than any of the Lords that attended his parents parties. His hair was also considerably more wiry and unkempt. Nevertheless there was something regal about him that marked him as at least having once been an aristocratic member of House Lyrandar.

The stranger crouched beside him and intoned gruffly, “Are you hurt?”

“How did you do that?”

The stranger caught Jirke's left arm and inspected his hand. It seemed to pass some sort of test as he soon released it, “Good. You're unharmed. Now get up.”

Jirke pushed himself up on his elbows and grinned excitedly, “Teach me how to do that.”

“Get up, boy. I need to speak to your parents.”

Jirke groaned and the skies above, though startlingly sunny only moments before, opened up and threw heavy drops of rain down upon them both.

One raw and blistered hand slipped from the handles of the wheel, slick with rainwater. He cursed as it jerked violently to the right and twisted the arm still holding it into an agonising angle. The ship careened sending crates, cargo and crew alike hurtling toward starboard side. Garonne swooped in to take control, eyeing his captain with fear and concern as he put the ship back on course.

The captain saw nothing in his eyes but pity and disappointment. He tore the gaze apart with a scowl and pushed his clinging wet, dirty-blonde hair back from his face. Water ran in rivulets down his collar but he barely felt it as his clothes were soaked through entirely from hours in the torrential downpour. Shoving his bleeding hand into the folds of his coat he turned toward the bow, his back to Garonne, and withdrew his pistol. Perhaps this would work. It had to work. He was entirely out of options.

Captain Jirke raised his arm to take aim at the distant horizon where the clouds, though black, held no crackling energy. Held no life. If he could only draw the storm away from them... A thought suddenly occurred to him as he made to pull the trigger. A phrase his old master had once muttered at him during one of their unconventional lessons resounded in his head in his familiar gruff tones.

“Purple skies in magicians eyes.”

Purple. Mauve. The storm was magic. And as the obviousness of this realisation hit him like a punch to the head a very unwelcome vision appeared through the parting clouds. A monstrously large, glistening black airship loomed toward them, and from it a deafening bellow rent the thunder from the skies and resonated through all that was wood, metal and bone. Jirke looked back over his shoulder at Garonne whose horrified face mirrored his thoughts.

“He was supposed to be back by now.”

“I'm sorry, my lord, but we've had no word from The Marauder for three weeks now.”

“Why isn't anyone doing anything?”

“Standard procedure, my lord. We wait a full month of no communication before alerting the Admiral.”

Jirke slammed his fist down onto the clerks desk. His bangles jingled. “Bullshit! He promised me. He promised me he'd be back in time for my graduation.”

The clerk had the good graces to look apologetic as well as confused. Jirke took a step back and ran a hand over his attempt at a sandy-brown chin beard. In a matter of hours he was to have officially completed his formal training as an airship captain. However, he was without the support of the man from whom he had learnt his most valuable lessons. Captain Aeryn D'Lyrandar: his Master, Mentor and the man who had saved him from becoming a teenage charred corpse on top of a loading tower eight years previous was missing. Tradition dictated that a students title be formally given by the person who had most influenced their education. Aeryn had sworn he would be the one to present it to him. Even with words rather than his customary grunts. Though it seemed likely that it would soon be given by his father – a man who had little to no influence in any of his choices excepting those that inspired him to do the opposite of what he demonstrated. Such as wearing yellow. Jirke despised yellow.

He was not without concern for the well-being of Captain Aeryn but the man was a war veteran. He had battled Dragonborne and infiltrated the guilds of rival Houses. His name was known in smoky taverns throughout the land. Aeryn D'Lyrandar was a hero. He had every faith that he would turn up eventually.

When he did he was going to be severely guilt-tripped by his disappointed student. His only student as far as Jirke was aware. He hated to think he might not be.

The horns signalling a day of ceremony blared tunefully in the distance.

“ABANDON SHIP.” Went up the cry. It echoed along the lengths and through the depths of the vessel.

A blast went off somewhere on the enemy ship followed by a bizarre whooping noise. Then there stretched a moment of silence. The bow of The Sky Bard exploded into splinters as a huge forked grappling hook tore into it. Jirke let out a cry of anguish as he watched the chain connected to the hook retract and his ship be seized from his control. He took aim once again at the hull of the beast that stole his livelihood, his honor and his home away from him. The gun fired a blazing tendril of lightning that hit its mark, sparked along its surface and fizzled out uselessly. He felt arms around his shoulders pulling him back and he could do nothing but comply.

“Captain.” Garonne's voice barely touched his senses, “Captain, we need to leave now. The emergency boats are ready. The artificers are detaching the elemental ring. It should have enough power to bring us to land but we need to leave now.”

The captain looked from the wreckage of the bow, to the unidentified pirate ship and finally at his Lieutenant Commander's face.

You'll never find him if you stay here with your lost cause, he thought. After a heartbeat he nodded numbly. “Very well.”

-- And here's Matt's awesome Elven Avenger. --

Cal’edor stood at the cliffs edge staring over and down at the village, a few small fires had already started and he could hear the bestial cries of the bandits mingling with the anguish of the villagers, the wind whipped violently through his long blond hair and for a moment he paused reflecting on his life…

Raised in Arenal by his parents Cal’edor had enjoyed a happy but uneventful childhood, his elven heritage would perhaps have brought him more grief had he not discovered his first love so young. He had been fascinated by the study of the blade, the art and dance of combat.  From the time he was old enough to hold a practice blade he had studied anything he could learn from anyone who would teach him.  This obsession came at the expense of his other studies, he had no time for language, mathematics or anything else, all that mattered was the sword.

Eventually his parents learned the futility of trying to draw his attention to anything else and gave their blessings for him to abandon his other studies entirely.  Luckily for Cal’edor many of his practices were mingled with philosophy, religion and culture of those who developed the style.  These things he did study, with the intent of better understanding the world that had birthed each style.

By the time he was 20, still a child in the eyes of his people, he was already seen as a troublemaker though only by those who took no time to learn his intentions.  His youth mixed with study had bred an attitude into him that when he saw someone abusing their strength, position or just numbers he felt compelled to intervene.  Anything from a noble trying to argue an unfair price to muggers and bullies, be they 1 or 50 in number.  As a result Cal’edor’s sword and fist saw much use in those early years, he did not always win, but he survived, and now began to temper his learning in the crucible of real combat. Cal’edor began to travel, wandering Eberron widening the net of his learning, seeking new injustices and people.

By the time he was 45 years old Cal’edor found himself in his new home, a shrine to the Sovereign Host after saving a priest from bandits.  He had found himself intrigued by the Priest who favoured the Goddess of Self Sacrifice and Honorable Combat, Dol Arrah.   He would speak of the Goddess as if he spoke with her nightly, speaking of how she would certainly favour the actions of Cal’edor.  30 years passed in the blink of an eye as he learned at the feet of the priest, helping out in the shrine where he could keeping his blade keen on those who would seek to cause disturbance there.  It was then that the Priest was finally laid to rest, old age finally catching up with him and with that the shrine was closed and Cal’edor found himself on the road again, his wanderlust overtaking him again.

It was there that he met her, Alyssa, a human Bard from Fairhaven who enchanted him from the first moment he met her, with red hair like fire and whose voice rang out clear as any angel. They revelled in the company as their travel intensified their feelings for each other and eventually the two fell in love.

The pair were inseparable and spent several decades together never leaving one another’s side travelling the land from the halls of the Undying Court to the wilds of Xen’Drik.  As the pair always knew would happen however Alyssa began to age while Cal’edors long life simply stretched out before him and eventually she passed away quietly in his arms.  Cal’edor buried his love in a location he has never revealed, spending what little money he had on charms to prevent the disturbing of her rest and set out into the world once more.  He had no gift for dance or song to be vowed to try and brighten the world much as Alyssa had the only way he knew how, wherever there was injustice, he would be there, whenever the boot of tyranny fell upon the helpless he would be their champion.  He would do all this in the hope that one day, when his time came to an end, gods willing,  he could stand tall in the presence of his love knowing he made the world that bit brighter…

A guttural scream broke him from his reverie and Cal’edor, blade in hand began his headlong rush into the heart of the village…

-- Here's Celeste's bio for her Warforged Fighter. Personally, I think he's just darling. --

Tiny’s Character Background

Warforged Fighter, Male

Tiny was constructed in the small town of Bastion in Karrnath 4 years ago.  He was originally constructed for use in heavy industry (mainly in arms construction) although, as with all warforged constructed for Karrnath by House Cannith,  he was designed with combat as his secondary function.  As Karrnath’s armies dwindled towards the end of the war, they turned to their warforged workforce as well as the undead to replenish their ranks, and Tiny was one of those chosen to fight.  He and his fellow warforged recruits were accompanied to the front by the chief engineer of the Bastion Arms Works, a dwarf named Goldsmelter, whose task was to ready them for war and to keep them repaired and maintained whilst they were required for combat.  It was Goldsmelter who, taking a liking to him when he showed an aptitude for fighting, gave Tiny his nickname, distinguishing him from his nameless fellow workers and unknowingly sowing the seeds of his individuality. 

Tiny performed as well as a soldier as he had as an industrial worker, and he was often chosen for special missions which were deemed too dangerous for a ’living’ soldier.  He obeyed Goldsmelter unquestioningly, but he was considered remarkable among the warforged soldiers for his initiative and his battleground intuition, often surviving potentially fatal missions through quick thinking and independent actions not contained in his original orders. 

This quality made him valuable, but it also caused his superiors to view him with suspicion and fear.  When Goldsmelter was killed by a stray cannon shot whilst repairing a vehicle on the border of Cyre, they were afraid that without his original handler, Tiny would go rogue, or at the very least become unreliable as a fighter.  Thus, they decided to have him ‘decommissioned’ (a common fate for warforged deemed unsuitable for combat), and despatched a human soldier to destroy him.  When the soldier appeared before him and he realised what was intended, Tiny discovered that, despite his inclination to obey without question, he was not willing to give up his life, and after easily defeating the soldier sent to kill him, he ran.

After wandering through the forests of Karrnwood for several months, hiding and attempting to avoid the detachments of soldiers everywhere, he heard rumours of the disaster that had befallen the country of Cyre, and the creation of that desolation now known as the Mournland.  Assuming that the horrors described by the credulous peasants would not affect a warforged such as himself, he saw this as an opportunity to escape Karrnath, where he would be recognised as a deserter by his model and markings, and make a new life for himself in one of the other lands of Khorvaire. 

Keeping to the shadows of the Nightwood, he entered the Mournland at Dollen on the River, and stepped out of the dead gray mist three weeks later just outside Vathirond in Breland.  What he saw and experienced in the Mournland in those weeks, he has not yet told anyone.  The only thing he has revealed is that at some point in his journey, he encountered the undead corpse of his former master, Goldsmelter, who had been raised by the Karrnathi and sent into Cyre with an invasion force just before the entire country was destroyed.  What Goldsmelter said to him in the blasted lands, no one knows, but when he left the Mournland and entered Breland, it was with a new sense of purpose and identity. 

Tiny travelled the trading roads of Breland to Sharn, City of Spires, where he had heard that all questions can be answered, and all things can be found, if you only know who to ask.  He is not sure what he is looking for yet, but he hopes that he can find it here.  In the meantime, he wanders the streets of the city, searching for those who might have need of him, for he has not yet lost his inbuilt need to labour in the service of others.  He has also realised that he must earn money to supply his few needs, and to protect himself from those who would seek to enslave him again.  At first he took any work that was offered, without questioning its legality or its morality, but as he came to learn more about the society and the people of the city, he began to turn down the tasks which seemed harmful to others, and he is beginning to get a reputation in Sharn as a steady and reliable, if somewhat uncommunicative employee. 

Tiny is fascinated by the mechanical and alchemical processes which created and continue to animate him, and he has a small collection of clockwork toys, bought on his travels through Breland, which he will occasionally wind up and observe for hours at a time.  The clockwork mouse is his favourite. 

Role playing 'blog, ACTIVATE!