Elijah Garvias and Wanda Colwyn
Hiladrith, for all her colourful beauty, her people, her sights and sounds, for all her vibrant existence, is known for her women. And, perhaps in the minds of its people, her young lovers. For it is young love that brought forth Rocan into the world, as a crying, wide eyed baby.
Their names were Elijah Garvias and Wanda Colwyn, the latter his mother and the former, his father. Elijah was the son of a Ne'haer-born fisherman, whose father was a shoemaker, and thus Elijah, dissatisfied with the mantle of his predecessors, became an accountant. In his youth, Elijah sought to study abroad in Viden, either in the Azure or Viridian Wings of the prestigious Academy, and had spent his time taking odd jobs whilst providing for his ailing mother. Elijah had always been an erudite, but also quite pugnacious, young man who was known by his friends for his intelligence and most importantly, his stubbornness.
At the Arc of 16, when he'd saved enough nels to travel, he took off to the tundras of Viden to register but was quickly rejected by the Academy due to lack of funds to sustain his education and presence there. The disheartened youth was quickly offered an alternative, to be a slave for one of the city's gentry and receive free education at Viden Academy of which, after his tuition was done, he'd pay off by labouring and serving the master. As enticing as the offer was, young Elijah refused to give away his freedom and had, in truth, became discontented with whole affair of learning anything in Viden – the people and general stronghold had left him with a dislike of the place
And with that, he returned to Ne'haer.
In Ne'haer, he found work as a city guard and used the nels to take care of himself and his mother, who'd became worse in her son's absence. Though disgruntled by formal education, Elijah never lost his love for learning and used what little nels he had left for self-education, buying books on various subject matter and spending his days (even during working hours) to study. By the time he was twenty-three, there was little room in his small family home for anymore more books due to the number he'd accumulated over the Arcs.
But Elijah never stopped learning, in fact it became something of an obsession, a compulsion for knowledge or perhaps because he couldn't stand to watch his mother worsen despite doing everything in his power to stop it he used reading as an outlet to pour out his own depression and hopelessness. Maybe, he kept learning because he believed that within those parchments, scrolls and codexes he had he could find an answer. In the end, though, his mother died and Elijah was left alone.
Elijah, distraught and pathless as he was, was a man known for his stubbornness and intellect, and had over the years disciplined himself to look beyond the distress. So, after burying his late mother and without any known relatives to go to, one day he packed his essentials and used a few nels to bride his way onto carriage headed for Hiladrith to start anew.
It was in Hiladrith that he met her, Wanda Colwyn.
Wanda was, of course of common stock. She, like many of the women there, embodied Hiladrith, her laughter was rich, her beauty, vibrant and almost ethereal. She was cultured, intelligent, eloquent, humble and very caring. She was born into a bloodline of tailors and seamstresses who had, over the generations, reached a certain standing with the aristocracy of Hiladrith. Her mother died upon giving birth to her and her father, a man of hard, drudging demeanour never found a reason to remarry and thus, she was the last of her family's practice.
Wanda had grown albeit too concious of her social status as a commoner but she loved it, even though her father had trained her to be as composed and articulate as any noble girl (and even better than most), she enjoyed the freedom of common birth. In Hiladrith she had somewhat seen all of Idalos even though she'd only been in the western plains her entire life. Her childhood years were spent among many nobles children, some of which she grew to know personally, whilst her father tailored their parents. From her father and his employers she learnt how to attend even to the most blue-blooded aristocracy – values she would later teach her son.
From her life among the ordinary people, she learned to live.
And one day, this particular one she remembers all too well for it was days after her 21st Arc, whilst she was walking through the merchant district dressed in her favourite dress, there was a commotion at one of the weapon's shops. A mob had thronged about two men who were clearly fighting over something, one was an older, scruffy gentle man wielding a dagger with blood dripping from down its curved length and the other was young and handsome, with a cut across the forearm that was bleeding severely. The young man kept accusing the weapon's dealer of overpricing his wares, saying he'd overlooked the man's accounts and that the weapons were less than what he was charging. The older man was clearly angry at this accusation and kept lunging for the young man.
The pugnacious youth fought back but had clearly lost enough blood to render him weak and thus he collapsed, laying unconscious in a pool of his own blood. A couple of bits later, he woke up in a holding cell with a bandage of fine cotton around his cut arm. The young man was released a day later on the account that he'd been telling the truth and thus the weapon's dealer was arrested instead. And before he left the cell he asked one of the guards who perhaps the fine cloth around his arm belonged to but the guard didn't know, though she suggested the young man go around and ask the seamstresses in the city. And for two whole days, he did.
And he found her.
That day, Wanda had been fitting one priggish, disdainful noblewoman and tempters were abnormally high, even for someone as reserved as the seamstress. It was until a tall, haggard man entered her store that things turned awry. The man clearly hadn't washed properly for a few days now and seemed like a pauper. He asked whether Wanda knew where he could find the person who bandaged his arm and presented the fabric, which now looked more like a rag than anything. Wanda raved, yanked the cloth away and slapped the man across the face before chasing him out of her store.
The day turned sombre for Wanda, for she'd never been so emotional. And when she looked at fabric she realized that the man, though feebly, had tried his best to retain the texture of the cotton. She was touched and spent the next few breaks searching for him and she found him under the shade of a small tree. He was clearly distraught, luggage was strewn all about him but somehow, in all that disarray, he seemed too absorbed in the book he was reading to actually mind.
“Warm water,” she said, her voice trying not to break.
“Huh?... oh, it's... you.” the young man said lowly, looking up. “I.. look... I'm,”
“Warm water, it just needed warm water and some soap. A lot of the highbrows don't know this and end up tarnishing it.” Wanda murmured, her eyes looked at the cloth in her hand and then, after a space she looked at him. Her cheeks flustered.
The young man chuckled from the top of his book, it was a sad chuckle, one that seemed almost weighted by all the world. “I... sorry. But I can't really afford warm water lately, not after losing my job like that.
I was an idiot, shouldn't have ever come here, would have saved myself the embarrassment if I'd just stayed home.”
There was a silence. It was unbearable.
“Your arm... is it okay?”
“Yea, I think so... though I'm sure it's going to leave a–“
“I... My name is Wanda, Wanda Colwyn, by the way!” the seamstress sputtered, a clumsy bow followed. She hissed and the young man chuckled and stood. He bowed curtly, perfectly, just like a nobleman, “Milady Colwyn, it's a pleasure to have met you.”
Wanda blushed, she smiled after a bit and said with a teasing chuckle : “You're quiet good at it. Better than most of nobleman I work with, what's your name, young lord?”
“El... Elijah... Garvias.”
Birth and Childhood
And from thereon, theirs was a bond inseparable. Wanda helped the man who would later become her lover and spouse out of his misery. Elijah had never found a reason to prove himself to Wanda's father. In fact the man took a liking to the Ne'haer-born youth, admiring Elijah's tenacity and intelligence above all – once, of course, Elijah was cleaned up and presented to the patriarch in due time.
At first, Elijah, who had discovered he was actually quite good at mathematics whilst working as a weapon's clerk in the city and knew some languages, one being Gilhysian, took work counting and maintaining stock of the fish coming into Hiladrith from Ne'haer. Some five Arcs later, through the help of his than-lover and her visibly ageing father, he was working as the private accountant of several lower-caste nobles in the city. A decade went by and life was sometimes a tide of happiness, memories or a wild storm of sadness and lovers' quarrels, for love is not without its own Trails. During that time, Wanda's father past due to a failing heart and the lovers were soon wed an Arc later.
Wanda, longing to have a child before she was unable to conceive told her husband her wish and finally, on the 18th Cylus 692, after a long, tumultuous pregnancy filled with fiery moods and the sweetest breaks of laughter, Wanda and Elijah Garvias, bore a son, whom they named from an amalgamation of the names of his late grandfathers. This name would later be known as, Rocan.
Rocan Garvias was, in simplest way one can put it, a normal child. He took the best and even the worst traits of his parents, and the older he became, embraced only the best traits of them both. At first he was a quiet boy, a timid youth often found hiding away, reading just like his father had instilled in him. His childhood was a comely one, one spent, such as his mother's, around the aristocracy and their snotty, obnoxious children. From an early age his mother was the one who taught him, just as her father had taught her, how to attend to the upper-castes respectfully and formally. She taught him proper etiquette, dress and speech, whilst his father taught him almost everything else. At first he learnt from mimicry but later it became second-nature until, finally, becoming the only nature he knew.
Over the years, Elijah had built something of library in his study and that was where Rocan would most likely to be found. Elijah was, in some way, his son's primary source of education, devoting what time he, or Wanda, had to teach their son the necessaries of academia. And as most noble children had no one besides themselves to play with Wanda would often take Rocan along with her to their lavish manors to entertain them whilst she fitted and dressed their parents. Rocan's childhood was, in some strange, fabulously ironic way, a reflection of both his parents' lives. Rocan enjoyed the company of the common children though, as compared to the loud, galling kids of the upper-castes. Among them, he was not as quiet nor as docile as he was around the nobles.
For him, playing in the mud or being chased through the merchant districts was much better than playing in a room filled with the most expensive toys. The sonority of Hiladrith was best enjoyed in the imaginations of children his own age, wherein, with branch, mud and carts, they were gallant knights ready to slay the terrors that walked Idalos or become rebellious skyriders coming into Rynmere to steal away the countless golden nels of the King in his keep high up in Andaris. These were what he enjoyed most in his distant Arcs, to let his wild imagination wander; to dream of leading men and women to victory, to freedom!
Not to sit and watch actual knights pretend to fight in the courts at the behest of a child, or the see commoners trampled upon by the aristocracy. Rocan came to hate these things in his childhood. And came to loath them later onward.
Wanda and Elijah might have come to see this, for they to were in some way both escapists from their respective realities, and perhaps that is why they let him read those fantastic tales and stories as a child. Or, perhaps it was after one peculiar day, Rocan is sure neither he nor his mother have ever forgetten it, whence they had gone to a noblewoman's manor to arrange some fabrics for a dress she would wear for social gathering of political significance. Rocan was either 7 or 8 Arcs and Wanda, who was showing age as of late had him to entertain the heir to the house, a massive boy belying the Arc of 12. The boy had an instructor, a mercenary who perhaps could not find a job in the city and chose to teach for some extra nels, and was training with him.
They were outside that day. The suns' heat kneaded across the massive courtyard and whitened the sculptures to a dryness only seen on bones in the desert, beautiful hedges rose above the courtyard and seemed as if they were tended to by the hands of an Immortal rather than man. The youth and his teacher traded blows (with the instructor feigning everyone he took) with wooden replicas of swords whilst the servants of the house watched them and cheered the boy on. This only bolstered the boy's arrogance it seemed because he kept swinging, and swinging, and swinging without exhaustion until the instructor, who spoke through grit teeth, asked him to stop.
In the mind of the noble-boy, he had defeated an opponent of much grander standing than himself and was thus an actual sword-master because of it. In a full, proud voice he demanded a challenger among his servants and none stepped forth. The boy, angry that nobody would entertain him, demanded a challenger and still, nobody came forth. Then he began choosing one for himself. And as if remembering he had a guest brought there to entertain him solely, he chose Rocan, who had been under the shade of one of the sculptures, reading a book he'd brought along.
So Rocan, who had remembered how to act in front of even the most blue-blooded of highborns stepped forth, picked up one of the sticks and took a stance that even perked the interest of the mercenary.
From his vivid recollection, he recalls the boy lunging, and swinging down the wooden sword with all his might whilst he sprang back, his eyes deeply set, and with a terse swipe of his own wooden sword, thwacked the massive youth across the head so hard a splinter punctuated the skin and the boy was left a crying, wailing mess on the ground!
Rocan doesn't remember how many spankings he received that day just from the servants of the house. But he remembers the ones he received from his parents. It had seemed everyone in the manor had a piece of him that day and the only person who did not discipline him was the mercenary, who simply laughed garishly, slapped Rocan across the shoulder and said :
“Son! You're a natural!”
Adolescence and Current Life
A childhood often enjoyed in happiness is a sign of an adolescence often headed toward calamity and for Rocan it was of these odd, uncomfortable Arcs that took him from his boyhood and made him the man he would become. It began as follows :
15th Saun, 703 Arc
It was one of the hottest days of the season in Hiladrith and as much as the city lazed around and took a moment to rest under the trees and canopies, Rocan and Elijah were in the home's study. The boy was reading whilst his father was working. Wanda had been preparing something to eat for everyone. Over the years that had past, Elijah had improved his standing among the aristocracy of Hiladrith and had secured and brokered a trust among some of upper-castes, becoming their private accountant and, in some instances, something of a financial consultant.
But as much as he made a generous income, the past few sessions had been rather difficult for the man, he wasn't as young as he used to be and the years were clearly showing. He was slower and would spend days on end – sometimes without eating or sleeping – simply working and correcting the financial errors and accounts of several bureaucrats. He was troubled it seemed, for he felt estranged from his wife and son, even though they were right beside him everyday. And at the beginning of that day, he'd been awake some three nights in a row, hadn't touched the slightest bit of food and his mind was a noise of anxiety and fatigue.
All was seemingly quiet in the home for much of the day. Until the sun reached its zenith.
Elijah suddenly slumped over his seat, convulsing frantically when he hit the floor! A sudden heat stroke had caused the man's heart to stop and Rocan, frightened and confused, called his mother for help. Wanda rushed in! Begging her son to go fetch a physician whilst she tried reviving her husband. When Rocan returned with the practitioner, the house was ablaze, not in fire, but screams–
The image is one he'll never forget, the very sight of his mother slouched over her knees, cradling the stiff, lifeless body of his father. It took some three days for his mother's mournful wails to quiet but Rocan knew – knew it only took a few minutes after his father stopped moving in her arms for her soul to shatter...
89th Ashan, 704 Arc
Rocan had never, in his recollection, considered himself credulous even as a child. So when he spent his days with his mother, reading and playing whilst spent her hours sewing, fitting and consulting the nobles on the best fashions, fabrics and tailors. When she laughed and taught, as sweetly and gingerly as she always had, he knew she was trying to fill the void in her heart.
But he was hopeful, as all children are, and optimistic enough to believe that she would stop pretending as time went on and become herself again. But, even hope fades in a child, especially when she stopped eating the food she made...
9th Zi'da, 705 Arc
Rocan attributes this, of all his years, to making him into the man he is. At this time his mother had stopped working entirely, her days were spent chasing away potential clients – attributing this to her having lost her “touch” – and making sure Rocan was still taken care of (as alienated as the gesture was). Since the day Elijah had past, she had sunken into a depression and had become thin and sickly. The simplest household tasks had fallen onto Rocan, who spent his days reading and talking to his mother.
At this moment even the teenager's first true love was bitterly and loosely experienced and after engaging in a brawl (which the scar on his upper lip owes its origin) with a Biqaj for the girl, it was ended. It was also at this time that though having grown up listening to various merchants, sellswords and various sorts of people tell stories of candour and adventure in the coin houses, merchant districts and taverns (which Rocan and the other youths would sneak into before being in the most heated pursuits of their young lives with the owners) when they passed through Hiladrith, that when these tales took a new meaning and life to the boy.
Most days would be spent listening to travellers regal the people with tales of grandeur which he'd go home and spend the nights relaying to his mother with the same energy; who would often listen to them with a frail smile on her lips whilst her hands worked through an old cotton cloth she'd kept when she'd met Elijah.
65th Vhalar, 706 Arc
He was 14 Arcs when it happened, the day started fairly and without any noticeable issues, in fact, Wanda had woken up quite early that day, she prepared, admittedly, the best food Rocan had ever tasted in his entire childhood and began to clean the house thoroughly whilst singing one of Hiladrith's local songs and Rocan, who'd hoped his mother was feeling much better and returning to her former moods, left to go enjoy the day.
As the sun sank and the earliest stars came gloating through the cosmos in an array of white light, the teenagers had dropped their activities and had already taken their seats in one of local taverns, listening to one burly man plying at the ears of the patrons with a story about him campaigning in Desnind. The building crackled with tension, the man had everyone hanging on his bearded lips.
“T'ey were ten, nay! Twenty of'em all 'round us. Three of me own men were dead and t'was night. The'r eyes were some fiery coals of doom, n'ere seen anythin' like 'em so I grab'd me axe and--”
A neighbour came rushing in!
Her eyes were swollen with tears, clothes were wrinkled and sweat lit up her face in the candlelight from all the running she'd done, “Rocan! Rocan! Come quick! It's Wanda! She-- she's...!” at the words Rocan leapt from his seat! His eyes were already burning and his heart hammered in his chest. The woman followed, trying feebly to stop the youth who only kept getting faster, and faster.
Rocan went home and burst through the door to find nothing! There were tears in his eyes as he ran out and sprinted through the night, following the people walking toward Wan– mom's store! The mob got bigger, it got thicker, becoming an impregnable rampart of flesh and gossip the more he neared. He didn't know why but he was crying now. What they were saying, could it... no, Rocan! It's not true. Mom wouldn't-- he clinched up at the thought.
The boy pushed through the rabble, they were too many people shoving, swearing, whispering – crying – until, finally, he penetrated through. There was a gasp! Two guards protected the door and grabbed Rocan when he tried entering. The boy kicked, he punched and snarled as both men tried their best to hold him!
“He's her son! He's her son!” someone called through the din as more men came, trying to hold the boy down. And at the words, it seemed, everyone loosened and Rocan bolted through the rout of gloomy, defeated faces. Entering...
“Rocan!” were the last words he heard that night. And how strange, he remembers, his own name sounded from whoever said it – it sounded just like--
“Mom...”
The guards came and pulled him away, pulling on his arms as if they expected him to fight but he was too weak to protest, too weak to blink, too weak to even scream.
“Immortals be damned, I can't believe, Wanda... of all people.”
“I knew she wasn't right anymore, not after Elijah past, I knew!”
“You'll seen what she was holdin' in her hand as they were coverin' her body? I hear that's the cloth that made 'em meet all them arcs ago. When they 'ere kids.”
“Physician says it snapped like a twig, believes she felt close to nothing, at least it's better than choking to--”
“Shhhh! Quiet! Rocan's asleep in the next room you fools!”
“I-- damn... what happens to him now?”
“I don't know. I guess he'll stay with us. We'll raise him. He's a good boy after all.”
“B-- but... We can't afford to feed another mouth! Not in this season!”
“I said we'll raise him! It's what Wanda and Elijah would have done for our own kids!”
“Don' worry, an'time y'all want him off yer hands, we'll take him. Besides, were't Wanda and Elijah makin' good nels working for 'em tight-brows? Rocan's in for some inheritance... hehe.”
“You don't think-- you don't think he knows? Maybe we could, I dunno, take it and use that to raise him?”
“Quiet! All of you!... You should be ashamed of yourselves for even thinking like that! Rocan just lost his mother and you're already talking about nels at a time like this?! Wanda's body hasn't even turned cold yet!”
“I-- love we're sorr--” “Quiet! You disgust me, both of you! I'm going out for some air! Ugh!”
And Rocan listened, he'd tired to sleep but was plagued by evil dreams, by despair. Rocan had listened, and he cried.
“Hehe... it's gon be hard feedin' an extra mouth.”
“Yeah...”
“It's gon be real har...”
“Yea! Yea!-- so, uhm... tell me... about that inheritance.”
98th Vhalar, 706 Arc
There was an inheritance but Rocan never had a bit of it and using it raise him was all a farce. In the days following the his mother's passing, nels were passed to his guardians and the teenager moved between various houses constantly, often spending his days in solitude; reading, mourning, sleeping...
That was until Rocan and a few other kids went to the tavern that day, as was tradition, and listened in to the bard who'd come there to spin his own tales. The bard was a young man, a few arcs older than Rocan but fairly healthy and with a beautiful singing voice. He said he was part of a caravel of mercenaries, a fairly young band of freelancers heading to the East, to Yaralon and was in Hiladrith to recruit anyone willing to join. Most people brushed him off simply with disinterest but some were intrigued. Rocan was among that few.
After the announcement, the bard sang a few songs, collected his nels and left. Rocan decided to follow him. The boy asked the bard for his attention, and asked him to join the band. His response was a face full of laughter!
“Hahaha! Blessed Immortals! You're joking, right?! Listen boy, go home and forget you ever thought about this. This ain't the life for someone like you!” the bard chuckled with a whirl of his small blue cape.
“And it is for you?!” Rocan spat, his lips were tight with anger. “You don't even know me, you don't even know what I can do! What's some stupid bard know anyway, huh? Nothing!”
The bard turned, a scowl touched his delicate features. “Listen he--”
“No! You listen here!” Rocan's voice cracked suddenly but he continued, unfaltering with a rage that had been contained! “I don't care what you or anyone thinks! I don't care about the nels! I don't care about the stupid girls and their Biqaj lovers! I don't care about anything! I just want to leave this place! I just want to leave this stupid place and you and that stupid lute of yours will take me with you!”
The bard stood in stupor for a space, then he straightened and suddenly began to chuckle. It wasn't a mocking laugh, just one of satisfaction. Rocan hadn't noticed it but he too had began laughing with tears rolling down his cheeks.
It feels good to laugh again, the youth thought solemnly.
“Ha! You know, you ain't half bad boy, by far the funniest noble-kin I've been in the company of!” the bard chortled, wiping a tear from his eye. Rocan chuckled and cleared his throat, “I'm not a noble, I'm just another commoner, like you...” he cracked voice was all but a squeak.
“Oh yeah?” the skald pursed with an arching brow, “You don't say...” there was a thoughtful hum from the bard and he suddenly smiled, “You know boy, I'm not sure this is the life for you but that decision ain't up to me to make. I'm just a bard for the band, it's the boss you're gonna have to impress. You sure about this?”
Rocan nodded. The bard smirked and bowed but snarled begrudgingly when Rocan corrected his posture. He turned, spun the lute in his hand to his lips and pipped away with Rocan following behind without the slightest bit care.
They walked until they reached the gates of Hiladrith, wherein a few men and women were hauling gear and weapons into carriages. Among these men was towering figure with scars mapping his worn face. A black cloth was wrapped around one eye and he looked akin to a general from his formal stance whilst monitoring the carts.
The bard came, irritably chuckling as he recanted the whole tale of what happened (often exaggerating some points since Rocan hardly remembered seeing a dragon in past few breaks), the older, disgruntled man turned, looked at the boy suspiciously and turned back to the observing the last few carts being tied down.
“Do you know how to use a sword?” he rumbled, grimly. Rocan shook his head.
“Do you know how to use your fists?” at the words, Rocan looked at his knuckles and nodded.
“Do you know which oils to use to clean weapons? Which stance to take in defence? What to do in the wilderness to survive? Which monsters are the deadilest?” once again, Rocan shook his head and the man kept quiet abruptly. A break past, then two more. At the fifth, the bard began to whistle just to occupy the silence.
“But– I can learn. I can learn to use a sword. I can learn to clean weapons. To defend myself. To survive the wilderness. To know which monsters are the deadilest! I can learn anything you ask of me, ser.” Rocan's voice was firm, thick with a self-assured baritone. The old man was silent and as the last cart was loaded and one of his soldiers came to report, he asked :
“Why do you want this life? Is the thought of war appealing to you, child? Do you think there is glory in death?” the veteran said, his voice was almost scolding. It was Rocan's turn to remain silent. A break past, then two more. At the fifth, the man and bard turned for the gates.
“I have nothing, here...” the boy spoke up, neither to loudly nor too softly, his tone was just right, just like his father's “There is nothing for me here, not anymore. But out there, there is. Out there, there is freedom.”
The bard stopped and turned to look at the boy but his commander kept walking in a slow, disciplined stride onward to a horse that had been brought to him. Even in the heart of all the night's commotion around them, there seemed to be a silence onto which only they were a part of.
The commander took his mount by the reins, secured the stirrup and perched the steed without error. Rocan stood firm, stubbornly unwavering. The horse's quoits beat the earth as it walked about to stretch its long, powerful limbs. It moved toward (and almost trampled) the bard.
“I hope the Immortals have strengthened your sea-legs,” the veteran growled. The bard flustered, and protested loudly, “Hey! I keep telling you guys it was because of something I ate!”
The commander sneered, “I'm not talking to you., bard” he chided, his lone eye rolled and set on Rocan with deathly severity. “Listen here boy! From today, know in your heart that you will die, it may not be this day, or tomorrow, or in a decade, but one day, you will die because of this life you've chosen. That is the price of Freedom. Now get on a carriage and let's leave this place, we have done what we came here for. The ports in Ne'haer tend to be full and we need to secure passage before season's end.”
The horse came striding, loomed over the teenager, and the commander took a glance at him before riding off kindred to some messenger of death!
The bard chuckled, snuck up and patted the boy on the shoulder and whistled “Never even took your name... I'd wager he likes you a little boy.”
“Rocan.”
“Huh?” the bard inquired dazedly.
“My name is Rocan. Rocan Garvias. Now, I ask you to kindly remove your hand from my shoulder so I can secure a seat on one of the carriages”
And thus, that is how Rocan became a freelancer. A sword-for-hire.
A mercenary.
707 to Present Arc
Life among the freelancers was, as Rocan had always dreamt, fascinating. At first of course, he never campaigned with the mercenaries themselves. He initally worked as something of an errand boy who would clean weapons, wash clothes, make sure soldiers were accounted for, and tend to the horses – one of which gave birth to a white mare that would become his (he even named her “Chestnut”) – all for pay.
Though among them he learnt much and upon reaching Yaralon, this process exploded tremendously. Among the countless experienced sellswords of Idalos, he learnt to fight, learnt the rudiments of combat and the codes, creeds and rules freelancers abided by. And, and arc or so later, whence he could afford his own equipment, he bought himself a cutlass and new clothes of which he wore in battle.
In the East of Idalos, it was where the boy discovered how truly natural with the blade he was. Often ending the simplest skirmishes in a swift, meticulous fashion only imitable by noblemen who knew how to handle a sword.
In Yaralon he grew, matured and learnt plenty though he never truly changed the habits imparted upon him as a child.
He still reads, knows his etiquette, his attire, his philosophies, sciences, mathematics, politics and other miscellaneous trivia; though now, thanks to his years as a mercenary he can say, he knows tactics, unarmed combat, use of weaponry, accessories of war, and various other things one learns after campaigning for as long as he has.
And with that, he took what he claimed as his keep and headed out as an individual. And after a few years in Eastern Idalos, wherein he has spent his time campaigning admist various bands, he choose to head off on his own, his heart ablaze with ambition, intrigue and life; knowing not what the next day will bring...
