High Seas and Dragon Turtles - Wil - 01.10.19
Oct 8, 2019 15:43:51 GMT
Milo Brightmane, Stedd, and 3 more like this
Post by Wil Frozendagger on Oct 8, 2019 15:43:51 GMT
Wil looked up from his plate of roasted meats and his fifth shot of firewhiskey to look across the bar floor of the Flourished Hook to the crowd surrounding a certain dragonborn, red of scale with an armoury of weapons and a litany of tankards by him, smoking a pipe and regaling his entourage with the tale of their exploits. The Luskan boy found a great deal of error within the account; not enough suspense where there needed to be, word choice was a little flat, but he put the complaints to the back of his mind, for it wasn't his story to tell after all, especially not when that pipe replayed the killing blow in glorious technicolour for all to see. No, Wil knew his place. It was out of the smoke, but he didn't seem to mind so much.
"I was never one for swinging swords anyway, I'm no Magnatus Frozendagger..."
He thought about the name and all those who had used it; His brother, his father and all his ancestors before him right back to the original Frozen Dagger. Tales were told of a people with madness in their souls and unrelenting spirits who fought insurmountable odds armed with the barest minimum but strength and willpower. Stout and hardy men who took action first and asked questions later, who could crack skulls in their hands and fell frost giants with only a dagger. No, he was no Magnatus, this he knew.
"And I'm definitely not Faris either..."
His mind drifted to the memory of his sister, who took the daggers in their family name and became an artist with them, turning fighting to dancing and foes to prey. If you were trying to chase her you had to prepared to run forever and if she was chasing you down you'd better pray for Kelemvor's guidance. No, he wasn't Faris at all.
"But what I am..."
He thought to that day, that fateful day, where his dear father's body turned up on their doorstep. He'd disrespected the wrong people one too many times, and had paid the ultimate price. He remembered how his brother and sister dearest said nothing but took up their arms and walked out of the door into those dark streets, and how he, still but a tender child, wanted to walk with them, clutching a kitchen knife in his small hands. He remembered them refusing him, the anger and the hurt, and he remembered seeing them for the last time. He was made to deny it, made to hold back the storm, but he knew it then as he had realised it now. He didn't have the pure brawn of Magnatus nor the grace of Faris, but he had madness in his soul, the kind that bargains with eldritch beings, that dives blindly into cold water to save someone he barely knew, and the kind that pits itself face to face, tooth and nail with titans. No, he used neither brawn nor grace but he had his own tools and his own madness, so he knew who he was.
"I am a Frozendagger."
And if he was a Frozendagger, this paltry level of drinking certainly would not do.
"My darlin', bring us over another bottle of firewhiskey, would you?"
"I was never one for swinging swords anyway, I'm no Magnatus Frozendagger..."
He thought about the name and all those who had used it; His brother, his father and all his ancestors before him right back to the original Frozen Dagger. Tales were told of a people with madness in their souls and unrelenting spirits who fought insurmountable odds armed with the barest minimum but strength and willpower. Stout and hardy men who took action first and asked questions later, who could crack skulls in their hands and fell frost giants with only a dagger. No, he was no Magnatus, this he knew.
"And I'm definitely not Faris either..."
His mind drifted to the memory of his sister, who took the daggers in their family name and became an artist with them, turning fighting to dancing and foes to prey. If you were trying to chase her you had to prepared to run forever and if she was chasing you down you'd better pray for Kelemvor's guidance. No, he wasn't Faris at all.
"But what I am..."
He thought to that day, that fateful day, where his dear father's body turned up on their doorstep. He'd disrespected the wrong people one too many times, and had paid the ultimate price. He remembered how his brother and sister dearest said nothing but took up their arms and walked out of the door into those dark streets, and how he, still but a tender child, wanted to walk with them, clutching a kitchen knife in his small hands. He remembered them refusing him, the anger and the hurt, and he remembered seeing them for the last time. He was made to deny it, made to hold back the storm, but he knew it then as he had realised it now. He didn't have the pure brawn of Magnatus nor the grace of Faris, but he had madness in his soul, the kind that bargains with eldritch beings, that dives blindly into cold water to save someone he barely knew, and the kind that pits itself face to face, tooth and nail with titans. No, he used neither brawn nor grace but he had his own tools and his own madness, so he knew who he was.
"I am a Frozendagger."
And if he was a Frozendagger, this paltry level of drinking certainly would not do.
"My darlin', bring us over another bottle of firewhiskey, would you?"