Post by Daniel Grigori on Mar 13, 2011 19:49:58 GMT -5
A long time ago, or maybe not so long ago depending on how you view the ebb and flow of time, there was a toe-headed boy who lived on a large bit of land with his mother and father and a handful of servants. He never wanted for anything. Some would say his life was perfect, or as close as you could get. He had a tutor that visited him at home three times a week to teach him everything about the world and on the days his tutor did not come, his father taught him everything he knew about being a Baron. Outwardly, this little boy had the world in his pocket, his for the spending as soon as he was old enough to hold titles like his father, and his father before him.
But everything in the world can't buy happiness, nor stop tragedy...
His mother took ill one rainy fall day, and eventually she went to be with the ancestors before her. The boy's father went into mourning for months, turning into a cold hard shell of what he was. Soon all he cared for was business, land agreements, trade. He began to hoard his wealth, only spending it on antiques and rare items from around Sosaria. He forgot about the little boy and his happiness, leaving his only son to be raised by the servants.
The bright and vibrant boy soon grew into a hard and sarcastic young man with a taste for whiskey and danger. It wasn't long before he found himself in trouble time and time again with both beast and man. He learned to defend himself with a rusty blade he had stolen from his father's shed, some remnant of a glorious soldier's past long forsaken. He also learned about the value of a rock...
The value of a rock is not measured in what you can make out of it, or how large it is. The value of a rock is measured in how far it can fly and how fast, as well as how many one can carry in one's pocket. A rock is a valuable weapon when one's enemy believes them to be disarmed. Everyone underestimates rocks...he could identify. How many times had his own father called him worthless?
Sitting on the low wall that edged the roof of New Haven's bank dangling his feet over the side, he toyed with the rocks in his pocket. Pulling one out, he thought about the past, about the little boy that was and about the man that he had become. He chucked a rock out over the square, the satisfying *ping* of stone on metal telling him he had once more hit one of the tinheads below. Waving, he pulled his legs over and rubbed the stone that would take him home...to the only one that ever felt like anything more than a building anymore.
But everything in the world can't buy happiness, nor stop tragedy...
His mother took ill one rainy fall day, and eventually she went to be with the ancestors before her. The boy's father went into mourning for months, turning into a cold hard shell of what he was. Soon all he cared for was business, land agreements, trade. He began to hoard his wealth, only spending it on antiques and rare items from around Sosaria. He forgot about the little boy and his happiness, leaving his only son to be raised by the servants.
The bright and vibrant boy soon grew into a hard and sarcastic young man with a taste for whiskey and danger. It wasn't long before he found himself in trouble time and time again with both beast and man. He learned to defend himself with a rusty blade he had stolen from his father's shed, some remnant of a glorious soldier's past long forsaken. He also learned about the value of a rock...
The value of a rock is not measured in what you can make out of it, or how large it is. The value of a rock is measured in how far it can fly and how fast, as well as how many one can carry in one's pocket. A rock is a valuable weapon when one's enemy believes them to be disarmed. Everyone underestimates rocks...he could identify. How many times had his own father called him worthless?
Sitting on the low wall that edged the roof of New Haven's bank dangling his feet over the side, he toyed with the rocks in his pocket. Pulling one out, he thought about the past, about the little boy that was and about the man that he had become. He chucked a rock out over the square, the satisfying *ping* of stone on metal telling him he had once more hit one of the tinheads below. Waving, he pulled his legs over and rubbed the stone that would take him home...to the only one that ever felt like anything more than a building anymore.
