To Serve

[Chiangtao]

(( The following is the backstory of Sywyn Gwenaer. Feel free to use these for conversation hooks as you'd like, but do your best not to metagame with what is written here. ))

(( Also, please note, I am not an expert on FR lore. I do my best on research, but what is written may be inaccurate to cannon. Please let me know privately if there is something incorrect here, and I'll make corrections. Thanks! ))

[Chiangtao]

History had always fascinated Sywyn. Sitting in his father's small library, he traced his slender index finger along the page of a book, titled, "Myth Drannor: Our Past and Future." The page he was tracing upon was a family tree, one of many family trees documented in the thick historical tome. But this tree was special; this tree was his.

"Who we were. What we were. What we lost." The words echoed in his head as he ran his finger down his family's lineage. Five hundred years - many generations by human standards, but only one lifetime removed for his father. None of his own living family were alive before the Year of Doom, when Myth Drannor was lost. Many were killed in the assault; those who lived through it died centuries later in the Retreat to Evermeet. But through meticulous record-keeping, the Gwenaer's knew who they were and where their rightful place was.

Unfortunately for his family, Sywyn was presented with the reality that the emphasis was on the word, "was." The centuries had not been as kind to his family as they had been to others. House Gwenaer had a proud, longstanding history of excellent swordmages. They had earned their place through blood and service. But it was the same blood and service that cost them their best in the Year of Doom. Those who survived were the old, young, and feeble. Evermeet had soon forgotten those who gave their lives in the Year of Doom. Lessons remained, but the belief that a "debt was owed to those lost" faded. His people had long memories, but resources were short and opportunities were slim in the time of rebuilding.

"We are owed more," thought Sywyn.

Outside his window, sparks crackled. He peaked over the sill.

His sister stood in mithril scale. Her stance was perfect, and she loomed over her sparing partner. Electric current arced from her sword occassionally.

Sywyn glowered and fixated on the scale armor. It never fit me anyway, he thought. He shut the window panes and returned to his studies. Outside, the sparring continued.

[Chiangtao]

Side-by-side, Sywyn and his sister strolled toward their destination with looks of determination. Father had sent them to market to barter with the smiths. They needed two mithral blades: one for Sywyn, and one for his sister. But mithral was expensive and rare, even in Evermeet. An agreement needed to be reached.

Sywyn carried tomes in a large backpack. In his arms, he held three scroll cases. He was loaded down with the contracts his family had accumulated over the years. The scrolls were centuries old, and so were the debts. His house had been heroes in Myth Drannar. Somewhere in these historical documents, he would find something owed by one of these smiths' families.

His younger sister, Deniir, stood four inches taller than Sywyn. She was a thicker build, and had inherited the strength that their family was known for. She wasn't unattractive by any means, but nor was she a true beauty. She lacked grace. But it was her confidence and presence that led men to give her a second glance.

Sywyn slouched. His shoulders haunched, and he had the stature of a seventy-year-old human. He was slim and quick, both of mind and body. But he did not look the part of the swordmage he was being asked to play. Nonetheless, it was expected of him, and he would serve.

Sywyn had suggested they first try the Dragonette's Forge. It was a small shop in Evermeet owned by House Sun'Arth. Like the Gwenaers, their house had come from Myth Dannar. Sywyn had uncovered several documented accounts of service where both Gwenaer and Sun'Arth had stood in the same ranks. One such account detailed an assualt by drow upon an outpost for their city. Degrral Gwenaer had turned the tide in the assault, saving an injured Sun'Arth. Sywyn had no doubt Sun'Arth would have done the same in the place of Gwenaer, nor any doubt that they had returned the favor in other years. But that would not win them any favor with the smiths.

The pair rang the bell. Sendla Sun'Arth answered. They spoke at the shop counter while fire, hammers, and sparks rang out in the background.

"Warm winds," spoke Sendla. "How may I help you?"

"Ahem, good day, master smith," replied Sywyn. Being the elder of the pair, he took the lead in the negotiations. "We've come to barter for a set of mithral blades: one for myself, and one for my sister." Deniir shifted slightly, but stood firm nearby at his shoulder.

"Excellent," replied Sendla. "We can accommodate most any length and ballancing. Customizing for house sigils will be extra. How..."

"Naturally, costs are a concern," interupted Sywyn. "I had hoped there would be room for negotiation." Sywyn began unrolling his scrolls as he spoke, laying out the history to stake his claim at the bargaining table.

"Ah. Well, there is some room for negotiation of course. But our skills are well-known, and our fires busy. There are smiths of lower quality that may have both time and more flexible costs... but I believe we offer the best compromise of both," offered Sendla.

Sywyn smiled arrogantly. "Yes, of course, which is naturally why we came to you first. Your family is old, as is ours. We have a long-standing history of standing together in times of need, as you'll see here..."

With that, Sywyn presented his documents. He relegated the tales of his house and theirs: the Battle of Blackroot, the assault on Til'Anth Tower, and the Year of Doom. He recited the stories by heart, using the papers only as proof where needed. All the while, Sendla listened patiently. A sneer grew on her face as she began to understand what he was asking.

When Sywyn finished, Sendla broke in. "Ah. Excuse me, young man. I can appreciate all this, truly. But none of this can pay for our work or materials. I have no doubt in your family, nor my own. I have no stories for you, but I'm certain the balance is even. Unless Degrral himself can vouch otherwise... I can not cut our costs for you based upon what was done by your forefathers."

"Sendla," pleaded Sywyn, "our families have had incredibly hard years. You know what we were. You know our houses are due. We owe it to each other to advance our houses together. We can ascend once again, together. if we are willing to compromise."

"I'm sorry, Gwenaer. We're not in a position to compromise. My hands are my own, not my mother's or father's. What I make is my own. What I earn, what I claim, what I stand for: it is all my own. It may not be much, this little shop, but it is mine. You'd be wise to take that to heart."

Sywyn scowled. He searched his documents. Somewhere, there was another story. Somewhere, he would find proof to barter with.

"Make his." Deniir spoke up. She rested both hands on the countertop. "If I understand, we have enough for one blade. Make his."

Sywyn twisted his lips. "Deniir, we came for two, and we will leave with two. You are due this. You are meant for this."

"I know, brother," replied Deniir. She turned back to Sendla. "For the second, I offer myself. I am trained well enough to stand guard for your caravans. If you allow it, I'll work for it."

Sendla sized her up. She looked over to Sywyn, then back to Deniir. "I think we can come to an agreement then," she replied.

Deniir nodded. Sywyn smiled plasticly.

Deniir left the shop, and Sywyn slinked behind.

[Chiangtao]

"An excellent blade, Stoop," sneered the master-at-arms. He held the Sywyn's blade gently, weighing its balance and turning it round. "I don't think there is a scratch on it to be seen. Did you pull it off your father's mantle?"

"Sir, no sir," replied Sywyn mechanically. This was his second week at the academy, and he did not want to give the man any reason to single him out further. Outwardly, he accepted the new nickname, doing his best to hide his disdain for it. I won't let this man keep me from my fate, he thought.

The blade was the mithral one he had procured from Sendla one year ago. It was well-crafted and carefully balanced, but not ornate. The hilt had a simple ribbed pattern, and the wrist guard was rounded but flat. But it was functional and practical.

The master-at-arms was right of course: it had hardly been used. He learned to spar in the practice yard, but he always used wooden training weapons. He had practiced maneuvers with the mithral blade, but never struck anything with it. It was sharp and untried. Much like me, thought Sywyn.

The master-at-arms returned the blade to Sywyn, hilt-first. "Break it in or you will get broken-in. Spend more time in the yard, Stoop. A swordmage needs to master both might and magic."

Sywyn quietly took the blade back, sheathing it on his right hip. He kept his eyes low so as not to provoke the man further.

The master-at-arms proceeded down the line of novices. He stopped before Deniir, sizing her up. Deniir had grown another two inches over that year. Her face had a mature beauty to it now, the kind that comes from experience, not lace and satin. Her body was slender, toned, and commanding. She stood at perfect attention as the man-at-arms spoke.

"Present arms," he ordered. Deniir unsheathed her blade and quickly turned it over to the man.

Deniir's blade was not much to look at. She kept it clean sharp where she could, but it had seen action. Her year guarding caravans for the smith shop had not been uneventful. She was forced to use the blade several times. It had seen better days.

Sywyn hated that blade. The family crest was on its hilt. It was simple enough, but the smith felt she'd earned it. You're embarassing the family with such a worn thing, he had told her on more than one occassion. She should keep it wrapped in cloth if she could not keep it presentable!

The man-at-arms returned the blade to Deniir. "Southern eagle!," he barked.

Instantly, Deniir slipped into a wide, swooping stance. Her hair swept in a breeze that eminated from her sword.

"Red viper!," he ordered. Deniir shifted her left foot back, taking a striking posture. Her blade flicked with fire.

"At ease," he said, satisfied. "Take them to quarters." Deniir sheathed her blade and took her position at the front of the line. As the recruits followed her back to their common rooms, an astonished, older brother fumed silently.