21-02-2013, 01:59 PM
Name: Unknown, but goes by numerous aliases.
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Morals: True Neutral
Personality: The wandering swordsman is an optimistic person, and is a gentle soul with a warrior's heart. He's kind simply for the sake of it, and doesn't take joy or pride in killing or hurting anyone, at least, anymore.
He's laid back, and somewhat lazy, and enjoys naps. Some people misjudge him to be a vagabond, or a trouble maker simply because he carries swords, yet has no allegiance to anyone, and doesn't seem to respect the authority of "guards" or other employed soldiers very highly, and will openly oppose such people in combat should his views of a situation conflict with theirs.
He doesn't seem to stay in any one place or town very long, always wandering to the next village or town, some saying he's running from someone, others saying he's simply restless, or adventurous. Whatever the reason he has, it would seem is a subject he doesn't talk about.
Appearance: The Swordsman has black medium length hair that's drawn back into a short pony tail. He's fair skinned, with brown eyes flecked with grey, and has a straight scar that stretches above, and below his left eye. The scar is faded, and nearly unnoticeable, save for it being just a shade lighter than his skin, and dividing his eyebrow with a small space where no hair grows on it's scar tissue.
He's clean shaven, and looks relatively young, his face seemingly formed by straight, clean lines, although he has a slightly wide nose.
He wears traditional far-eastern Mesalian style clothing, black in colour, with a tan sleeveless vest hanging over them that his tattered and frayed. He wears two black cloth wrist guards over his forearms, and tabi sandals.
Under his sash is tucked a sheathed Eastern style sword that's curved, one edged, with a circular shaped cross guard, and a cloth wrapped hilt. The sword is peculiar in that it's a reverse bladed sword, the front edge of the sword being dull, while the back is honed to a razor's edge. In the Eastern Lands, it's somewhat rare, and is considered a pacifist's weapon, for it's use in only wounding from blunt blows instead of killing with a fatal slash. A silk charm is tied from the sheath to the crossguard, a prayer of sorts that it's wielder will not have to use it.
Skills:
Exceptional Swordsman - The wanderer has trained almost all of his life in the study of a sword, and is exceptionally skilled, but is far from having the art Mastered.
Moderate hand to hand abilities - The wanderer has trained also in the art of open hand combat, but hasn't devoted nearly as much time to it as his swordsmanship.
Fishing and trapping - In his travels, he's often had to find alternate means of feeding himself, having not a penny to his name, and can make limb lines, snares, and other traps to catch his supper. He has no formal training in either, but he knows enough to feed himself.
Very Agile - The wanderer's movements and reactions are fluid and fast, more from natural ability, good instincts, and physical conditioning than any kind of training.
Background (Narrative) :
The fire crackled and popped, sparks rising through the dark night's air as moisture in the fresh wood became gas, and that gas burst from the wood, resulting in tendrils of steam rising through the air. A young swordsman was leaned back against the abandoned decrepit barn, the fire barely illuminating his silhouette, revealing the man's hands tucked behind his head lazily, along with a straw rice farmer's hat laid over his face, his sword leaning against the rotting wood beside him.
Across from him, squatting beside the fire there was a boy who couldn't have been much older than thirteen, a sheathed sword in his hand, leaning against him as well. His green eyes looked into the glow of the fire, seeming estranged by the awkward silence. It was apparent that the sword did not belong to him, or at least, he didn't know how to use it, simply from his body language with it. In-confident, unsure, even hesitant.
"Hey, you still awake?" He asked quietly to break the silence. The swordsman didn't respond for a moment, before taking his hat away from his face to look at the boy.
"Yeah, I'm awake.." He replied, his eyes searching him quietly.
"I never even got your name.. I should at least learn it, seeing as what you did and all..." The boy said, fidgeting with a stick, poking the fire.
The swordsman slumps back down with a slight sigh, the silence resuming with a lengthy pause.
"No name. Warrior. Vagabond." he replied with absent tones. "I've never truly had a real name."
The boy paused from his idle distraction in curiosity. "But, you had parents right? Why wouldn't you have a name?"
The swordsman eyed him for a moment, as if hesitant, before responding. "They say I was found in a village that was sacked by the Xitians during the war. The whole village, slaughtered and razed, with the children being taken to be raised as slaves. When the military searched the village, they found me in a closet crying for my mother." He says stonily, picking his hat back up and setting it over his face once more.
The boy stayed silent, thinking on this for a few moments. "But.. How come they didn't give you a name?" He asked, more curious now, than before.
He sighed softly, wishing the kid would let him sleep. "Because I became a warrior, and fought in different armies during some of the civil wars, and each Lord I fought under gave me a different name." He said in slightly bitter tones. "They thought to make me their property."
"Oh.." The boy says nervously.
"So then, you're a soldier?" He asks after a moment.
"No." Came the reply from the un-moving swordsman. "Not any more."
"But you were incredible back there, you saved me!" The child said enthusiastically. "Why'd you quit being a soldier?"
No response came for a very long time, making the boy fall into a nervous silence once more. "That's only for me to know." He said quietly. "Besides, those morons barely knew which end of their sword to hold. You're too easily impressed." He said, before leaning up and shifting another peace of firewood into the flames, resigning to the fact that the boy was going to continue bugging him.
"Could you, maybe teach me then?" The boy asked, looking at the scarred man with a mixture of eagerness and nervousness.
"No." Came the firm reply, "I don't intend on passing down my swordsmanship to future generations. A sword is meant for hurting, and for killing. Anything said otherwise is just wishful thinking." He said tiredly. "No one has any business learning on how to kill others..."
"But if I knew how to use a sword, I wouldn't have needed help back there." The boy says stubbornly.
"If you learned how to run fast, and hide, you could protect yourself from a lot worse than those three idiots." The swordsman replied.
"Well how come you use a sword then?"
"Because I'm already lost..." He says quietly, looking into the fire. "Once you have blood on your hands, you'll never wash it off. The best you can do is live the rest of your life in repentance and atonement.." He says, a silence following as the boy took the time to think about his words.
"How did you come to get involved with those three anyways?" The swordsman asked, referring to the three 'Morons' that he intervened against earlier in the day.
"Oh.. Well... That's a long story... I'm sort of in a lot of debt to them, so they try and make me do things for them... But this time I didn't want to and.. Well now I suppose I'm running away with you!" The boy said, starting nervously, but becoming enthusiastic at the end.
The swordsman only nodded, as if he were satisfied with his answer. "Get some sleep then. We've got a long day's travel ahead of us." He said, slumping back against the decaying barn once more. The boy poked the fire a few more times in thought, looking at the swordsman, before laying down on the bedroll he brought tiredly, drifting off to sleep...
--
It was early morning, the sun just coming up over the horizon to shine down on the sleepy isolated barn, the coals of the fire long cold, when the boy woke up with a long yawn. "Good Morn-..." He said, drifting off into silence as he looked around. The swordsman and his sword was missing. He quickly climbed to his feet, looking around to find a note.
"Thanks for the good company, but I can't take you with me. Where I'm going, there's no place for you. Please forgive me." It said, with no signature to identify it, but it was clear who the note was from...
Age: 27
Gender: Male
Morals: True Neutral
Personality: The wandering swordsman is an optimistic person, and is a gentle soul with a warrior's heart. He's kind simply for the sake of it, and doesn't take joy or pride in killing or hurting anyone, at least, anymore.
He's laid back, and somewhat lazy, and enjoys naps. Some people misjudge him to be a vagabond, or a trouble maker simply because he carries swords, yet has no allegiance to anyone, and doesn't seem to respect the authority of "guards" or other employed soldiers very highly, and will openly oppose such people in combat should his views of a situation conflict with theirs.
He doesn't seem to stay in any one place or town very long, always wandering to the next village or town, some saying he's running from someone, others saying he's simply restless, or adventurous. Whatever the reason he has, it would seem is a subject he doesn't talk about.
Appearance: The Swordsman has black medium length hair that's drawn back into a short pony tail. He's fair skinned, with brown eyes flecked with grey, and has a straight scar that stretches above, and below his left eye. The scar is faded, and nearly unnoticeable, save for it being just a shade lighter than his skin, and dividing his eyebrow with a small space where no hair grows on it's scar tissue.
He's clean shaven, and looks relatively young, his face seemingly formed by straight, clean lines, although he has a slightly wide nose.
He wears traditional far-eastern Mesalian style clothing, black in colour, with a tan sleeveless vest hanging over them that his tattered and frayed. He wears two black cloth wrist guards over his forearms, and tabi sandals.
Under his sash is tucked a sheathed Eastern style sword that's curved, one edged, with a circular shaped cross guard, and a cloth wrapped hilt. The sword is peculiar in that it's a reverse bladed sword, the front edge of the sword being dull, while the back is honed to a razor's edge. In the Eastern Lands, it's somewhat rare, and is considered a pacifist's weapon, for it's use in only wounding from blunt blows instead of killing with a fatal slash. A silk charm is tied from the sheath to the crossguard, a prayer of sorts that it's wielder will not have to use it.
Skills:
Exceptional Swordsman - The wanderer has trained almost all of his life in the study of a sword, and is exceptionally skilled, but is far from having the art Mastered.
Moderate hand to hand abilities - The wanderer has trained also in the art of open hand combat, but hasn't devoted nearly as much time to it as his swordsmanship.
Fishing and trapping - In his travels, he's often had to find alternate means of feeding himself, having not a penny to his name, and can make limb lines, snares, and other traps to catch his supper. He has no formal training in either, but he knows enough to feed himself.
Very Agile - The wanderer's movements and reactions are fluid and fast, more from natural ability, good instincts, and physical conditioning than any kind of training.
Background (Narrative) :
The fire crackled and popped, sparks rising through the dark night's air as moisture in the fresh wood became gas, and that gas burst from the wood, resulting in tendrils of steam rising through the air. A young swordsman was leaned back against the abandoned decrepit barn, the fire barely illuminating his silhouette, revealing the man's hands tucked behind his head lazily, along with a straw rice farmer's hat laid over his face, his sword leaning against the rotting wood beside him.
Across from him, squatting beside the fire there was a boy who couldn't have been much older than thirteen, a sheathed sword in his hand, leaning against him as well. His green eyes looked into the glow of the fire, seeming estranged by the awkward silence. It was apparent that the sword did not belong to him, or at least, he didn't know how to use it, simply from his body language with it. In-confident, unsure, even hesitant.
"Hey, you still awake?" He asked quietly to break the silence. The swordsman didn't respond for a moment, before taking his hat away from his face to look at the boy.
"Yeah, I'm awake.." He replied, his eyes searching him quietly.
"I never even got your name.. I should at least learn it, seeing as what you did and all..." The boy said, fidgeting with a stick, poking the fire.
The swordsman slumps back down with a slight sigh, the silence resuming with a lengthy pause.
"No name. Warrior. Vagabond." he replied with absent tones. "I've never truly had a real name."
The boy paused from his idle distraction in curiosity. "But, you had parents right? Why wouldn't you have a name?"
The swordsman eyed him for a moment, as if hesitant, before responding. "They say I was found in a village that was sacked by the Xitians during the war. The whole village, slaughtered and razed, with the children being taken to be raised as slaves. When the military searched the village, they found me in a closet crying for my mother." He says stonily, picking his hat back up and setting it over his face once more.
The boy stayed silent, thinking on this for a few moments. "But.. How come they didn't give you a name?" He asked, more curious now, than before.
He sighed softly, wishing the kid would let him sleep. "Because I became a warrior, and fought in different armies during some of the civil wars, and each Lord I fought under gave me a different name." He said in slightly bitter tones. "They thought to make me their property."
"Oh.." The boy says nervously.
"So then, you're a soldier?" He asks after a moment.
"No." Came the reply from the un-moving swordsman. "Not any more."
"But you were incredible back there, you saved me!" The child said enthusiastically. "Why'd you quit being a soldier?"
No response came for a very long time, making the boy fall into a nervous silence once more. "That's only for me to know." He said quietly. "Besides, those morons barely knew which end of their sword to hold. You're too easily impressed." He said, before leaning up and shifting another peace of firewood into the flames, resigning to the fact that the boy was going to continue bugging him.
"Could you, maybe teach me then?" The boy asked, looking at the scarred man with a mixture of eagerness and nervousness.
"No." Came the firm reply, "I don't intend on passing down my swordsmanship to future generations. A sword is meant for hurting, and for killing. Anything said otherwise is just wishful thinking." He said tiredly. "No one has any business learning on how to kill others..."
"But if I knew how to use a sword, I wouldn't have needed help back there." The boy says stubbornly.
"If you learned how to run fast, and hide, you could protect yourself from a lot worse than those three idiots." The swordsman replied.
"Well how come you use a sword then?"
"Because I'm already lost..." He says quietly, looking into the fire. "Once you have blood on your hands, you'll never wash it off. The best you can do is live the rest of your life in repentance and atonement.." He says, a silence following as the boy took the time to think about his words.
"How did you come to get involved with those three anyways?" The swordsman asked, referring to the three 'Morons' that he intervened against earlier in the day.
"Oh.. Well... That's a long story... I'm sort of in a lot of debt to them, so they try and make me do things for them... But this time I didn't want to and.. Well now I suppose I'm running away with you!" The boy said, starting nervously, but becoming enthusiastic at the end.
The swordsman only nodded, as if he were satisfied with his answer. "Get some sleep then. We've got a long day's travel ahead of us." He said, slumping back against the decaying barn once more. The boy poked the fire a few more times in thought, looking at the swordsman, before laying down on the bedroll he brought tiredly, drifting off to sleep...
--
It was early morning, the sun just coming up over the horizon to shine down on the sleepy isolated barn, the coals of the fire long cold, when the boy woke up with a long yawn. "Good Morn-..." He said, drifting off into silence as he looked around. The swordsman and his sword was missing. He quickly climbed to his feet, looking around to find a note.
"Thanks for the good company, but I can't take you with me. Where I'm going, there's no place for you. Please forgive me." It said, with no signature to identify it, but it was clear who the note was from...
