The Legacy of Faer
Barlow, well, he's kind of a big deal.
Chaotic Neutral follower of Gorum
Male, 6’2, 160lbs. Age 25.
When all is said and done, some people will say that I leave behind a legacy of glory. By then, I hope, my past will be washed away.
There is something to be said for good luck. Those who have it, it shines like the sun upon their countenance, and even when the clouds roll in, they have an inner brightness. For those of without that shining beacon in our souls, there is instead a constant battle and cracking rift within us, to try to make it through each raging storm.
My parents had been rather successful – my father, a human merchant selling spices and herbs in a small shop, and my mother an elven maid who loved spending time at home with my three elder siblings, teaching them the histories of our lands. When I was conceived, their luck turned for the worse, and my father lost his shop to a landslide, and the cost was so great that they soon found themselves impoverished.
I was born on a beautiful summer’s day. Two weeks later, the rickety slums I was born in burned to the ground and killed nearly all of the inhabitants – save my family and a spare three score others. We moved to a small village by a massive forest, where my father began to make a living as a farmer. It was dull work, but by the time I was two, the world got much more exciting.
There were at first just a few disappearances, thought to be the result of bandits or the like. But then, the murders started, and before long, the numbers of the town were dropping rapidly. Werewolves, of course, a pack of them so rage-filled and bloodthirsty that they killed over half the population before we got out and left the village behind.
It seemed like everywhere we went, the bad luck came with. Werewolves and landslides and fire were just the beginning. We stayed in no place longer than a year, for within even that little time, disaster struck. There were massive floods that destroyed the next town we lived in, economic downturn to rival any other, blizzards in the middle of the spring that killed all of the freshly planted crops, and even a gnome’s experimental lab that exploded and left our neighborhood covered in a green slime that sang Orcish battle songs any time you walked by – not to forget the incredible stench or the skin-scorching acid pods that exploded at random.
The final straw was on my coming-of-age birthday when a meteor crashed through the ceiling during the celebration and killed my great-uncle Brois, who had just turned 100 three days before. My parents shoved me out the door and said to not come back until I’d cleansed myself of this nasty trail of destruction I lead, and to my knowledge, no bad things have plagued them since – I believe they’ve in fact had another child, a little girl who is quite pleasant.
I moved to Faer’s Maw shortly after, and continued doing what I do best – telling people stories about the things I get into. They’re a big hit around here – everyone loves some high-energy explosion-filled stories of heroism, don’t they? And now that I’ve gained some control over my rather difficult to handle bursts of violent anger, something my parents blamed on adolescent immaturity until I ripped off the arm of a bully at the age of 17, I happen to have quite a few new stories of my own that don’t involve the death of family members.