Getting What We Deserve

[Chiangtao]

Thrion Daene, fifth son of Renal Daene, from the House Daene of Evereska, awoke in Viridale on his stomach. He heard something sniffing at him, poking him... a goblin!

Thrion reached for his dagger with his left arm... which didn't move. Stunned at the calamady, he played dead, knowing if he moved he was as good as dead anyway.

The goblin poked and prodded. It played with something in his back, pushing and pulling at it. He could feel his skin moving around this way and that, but he could not feel what it was. He heard a sound like a melon being carved, then saw the gleam in the sun. The goblin had pulled a knife from his spine.

The pain came rushing, but Thrion held firm. He waited for the goblin to lean in for his coin purse. Using his right arm, he twisted the knife loose from the goblin's hand. He snatched it quick as a cat and slit the goblin's throat.

Thrion tried to stand and hide. He knew more would come. He pushed with his right arm, but his left leg wouldn't respond. He couldn't feel his left side at all.

Thrion crawled into the bushes with his right arm and leg. He didn't dare call for help in Viridale.

He thought of his friend Brak. Thruth be told, Brak was his only friend. And Brak thought the man who did this to him was his friend, too.

Brak was in danger. He swallowed his pain and crawled through muck and mire toward the city.

[Chiangtao]

The crawl took Thrion almost a full day. He had to pause every few hundred feet or so to regain his energy. The left half of his body was almost entirely useless, but at least he couldn't feel any pain from the scrapes and cuts on that side.

He managed to crawl his way to the city gates. He pulled himself to the side of the road. He found a wagon destined for the Trade District more-than-likely, so he dragged himself near it. Pulling up with his one good arm, he was able to prop himself up against the wagon in a leaning position. He hopped on his right foot, leaning against the wagon, to the back. At last, he pulled himself into the wagon's back, resting in a sitting position, exhausted.

He didn't know how long before the wagon would head for the city, but it didn't matter. The world faded from his eyes and he passed out.

Thrion was jolted awake suddenly with a jarring pain. He awoke staring at cobblestone. Slowly, he pushed himself onto his side and looked around. It was late afternoon and he was lying on the corner of the Market Square.

His touched his lip. It was broken open, his fingers painted red. His leathers were torn and ripped like the clothes of a waif. His fine blue cloak was bloodied where the knife had gone in. He pushed himself into an awkward sitting position, using his right leg and a lamppost for support.

A wealthy merchant passed by. Thrion lunged with his right arm, tugging at the man's cloak.

"Help me, please," moaned Thrion. His bloody fingers left two red prints on the man's garment. The merchant grabbed his cloak and pulled away, continuing on with a huff.

Thrion tried again, pleading for help. A woman in pink tossed him some coins. A child pointed, agape, but the mother sped them along. But he was not alone. There were others here, begging for help. Beggars, lepers, and street children, a sea of homeless, pleading for mercy from the townfolk. He recognized none of them, but was certain he passed them by many times before. He felt he would drown in the city's apathy.

Thrion slumped over. Hours passed before someone finally noticed him. A rusticly-clad woman placed her hand on his shoulder. Kindly, she asked, "Are you alright?" Clearly, she was not from the city.

[Chiangtao]

Thrion leaned against the fencing outside his family's house. The iron gate could easily support his wiry frame, but his pride was heavy. He did his best to stand erect, reaching his right hand into his coin purse to pay the kind woods-woman for her help.

This simple task of reaching for coins proved very difficult. Thrion was left-handed. As such, he always kept his coin purse on the left side of his belt, toward the back so as not to draw attention from hins. This also happened to be what he was leaning on to support his weight on the fencing. He shifted his weight slightly, rolling to lean on his buttocks instead. He fumbled awkwardly for the purse across his body.

Luckily, the woman saw his motion and flat-out refused. Relieved, he took note of her generosity. Even commoners can have manners and honor, he thought. He?d repay the favor to her one day.

"Miss," he asked, "I've take much of your time already. But I have one final favor to ask." He cringed, the words causing him pain to both his wounded pride and back. "Do you know the half-orc named Brak? He is a burly fellow. He spends time at the druid g..."

"Yes, I know him," she interrupted.

"Excellent. Send for him, please. You have my everlasting thanks." Thrion winced once again. He did not like owing anyone anything. Father always told him to stay out of debt at all costs.

The woman nodded, still showing marked concern across her face. Thrion reassured her that he was home and he could manage his way to the door. With that, she left to find Brak.

Thrion rolled over again, turning his left side to the fence. He could feel some sensation returning to his left arm, and was able to lift his arm high enough to flop it over the railing. With his armpit securely nuzzling the rail, he slid toward the front door. Raising his right arm, he banged three times with his fist.

A man answered the door, which was somewhat surprising to Thrion. His father must have hired local help. This was a pleasant surprise for Thrion. Father's plan all along had been to start anew in Sundren, and Thrion was the linchpin for that plan. Wedding a wealthy merchant's daughter or a low-ranking noblewoman would place House Daene in the social hierarchy in the human city. Although Thrion was the fifth son of the house, he was the eldest single son remaining. Marrying off his older sisters would not do; they had learned early on that human wealth and station is generally passed on by the male of the bloodline. So, the duty fell to Thrion. Having a human servant would help Thrion unravel more of the human social mysteries.

Thrion briefly remembered the early days in Evereska, before this duty had fallen to him. Those were pleasant days. He spent hours at the archery range, where he was easily the best shot among his peers. He couldn't really call them friends, and they certainly weren't rivals to his ability behind the bow. He frowned to himself, wondering how the years had changed his old associates. He missed having a flock of admirers as he wasted the days practicing for the tournaments and wooing the ladies of lesser birth.

Those days vanished once Renal, his father, decided they would come to Sundren. Thrion was never sure why this happened, and rumors were rampant among his brothers and sisters. When they arrived, they found themselves much poorer than the circumstances they had known in Evereska. It was decided that something had befallen his family and their financial assets had been frozen. Still, Father would not confirm anything and grew quite angry at anyone hazarding a guess. Thrion had the bruises to prove it.

At first, Thrion was shocked and disgusted at the idea of marrying a human. Rumor had it they shaved daily and grew hair in every patch of their body like animals. They ate like barbarians and mated like rabbits, as though trying to squeeze the entire experience of an elf's lifetime into their own. But mostly, he was reluctant to leave his fun behind. Thrion had shrugged responsibility for fifty years, living the spoiled life of a rich noble. He had four older brothers and two older sisters to carry the family name and honor. Thrion had a good life and hated the thought of change.

But slowly, Thrion had warmed to the idea of marrying to human nobility. His father was finally showing interest in him, and spent the entire trip from Evereska to Sundren coaxing up Thrion and coaching him on human customs. Thrion had always felt neglected by his father, but he had always yearned to prove his worth to him. After every tournament win, he offered the chalice to his father. Thrion beamed with pride on the few occasions his father was in attendance to accept it.

"Yes?" The man looked down his nose at Thrion, clearly mistaking him for some common street-trash.

"Help me inside. I'll need a cane. Then get my father. Tell him Thrion has been attacked." Thrion whimpered this last sentence pleadingly, but maintained his authoritative tone overall. He knew servants would respond to it, recognizing his birthright even if they did not know him personally.

The man looked Thrion over, past the blood, mud, and torn clothes. He must have seen the family resemblance, because he lowered his eyes respectfully. Stepping forward quickly, he swung his arm under Thrion's armpit and helped him inside.

[Chiangtao]

Limply, Thrion slithered into a chair. He curled up awkwardly, unable to fully support his left side. He felt truly helpless. He resisted the urge to call for his mother.

The man left to fetch his father. There was urgency in his gait. Thrion admired the man's ethic and haste.

Thrion closed his eyes, exhausted. He ran through the day's encounter in his head. Should I tell Father about how I first came across this little assassin?, he thought. No, that wouldn't do at all. Those details could be ironed out once Father had the little bugger stripped and imprisoned. Thrion knew he had been egregiously wronged, but spin was still important when talking to Father. His details must not be shaky, and his angle must be perfected.

For a brief moment, Thrion grinned, thinking the Sundren authorities might actually do something barbaric to this little thief. Capital punishment was so barbaric, but if anyone deserved it...

*SLAP*

Thrion shot his eyes open, astonished by the sudden pain shooting through his cheek. He cowered into the corner of the armchair, staring at his father.

"Get up, you pathetic child," spoke Renal. "You're staining the upholstery."

Thrion was scared. Every detail he rehearsed ran from his mind, just as he wished he could run from the room. But he was severely hobbled, unable to flee from a leper in a hard cast. So, he obeyed his father's wish, and slumped to the floor with a painful thud.

"F-father," said Thrion, "I was attacked! That wretched little hin came for me in the woods?"

"The woods? You were in Viridale again, alone?" The question had an accusatory tone, without any concern for Thrion's welfare. "I warned you boy. I told you to hire good men. I told you to spend more time at court and less time with that bow! You ignored my counsel? Speak boy!"

Thrion was stunned. He rolled onto his side, stammering to explain. "But Father, I was going to meet the men I had hired! There was a dwarf, a stalwart man in plate who slew a hundred ogres! I was meeting him in the woods! And Brak, you remember the bodyguard I to..."

Renal's boot went swiftly into Thrion's side. Luckily, it was his left side, and Thrion barely noticed through the numbness. But he let out a cry anyway.

"The half-orc? You were hiring with that filth again?," Renal steamed.

Thrion had clearly mis-stepped here. He could kick himself for bringing up Brak again had his father not just done it for him. He remembered the last time he told his father about Brak: he had come away with a bloody lip and a black eye. He had to think quickly.

"He... he's just someone I hired! But he knows how to handle a fight, Father! And that little runt who... who did this to me, he'll be after Brak next! We are Daene's! We have responsibility and honor! We have to uphold what is right and good, no matter what city we're in." Thrion knew the sermon was risky, but if Father had any weakness, it was the duty of his house. "We must act to stop this little cretin. Help me Father, help me reclaim my honor!"

Renal stood silently for a moment. Whether he was considering Thrion's words or his fate could not be readily seen. His eyes were steely and his lips frozen.

At last, Renal spoke. Emotionless, he said, "I have given you everything, Boy. I allowed you to grow fat and arrogant off of our house. Your faults are my failures. But I will rectify that now.

"I will help you reclaim your honor. And you cannot do that with our house as your crutch."

Renal snapped his fingers, pointing to Thrion. The man-servant reappeared, forcing Thrion up by his belt. Thrion screamed and struggled, but even if he had full use of his body, he would be no match for the frame of a Sundarian. The man dragged Thrion to the door as gently as he could, propping Thrion onto the railing again before retreating to the door.

Thrion began to weep like a little boy.

His father reappeared at the doorway. He held an oak staff, the eagle crest of Daene adorning the head. Thrion recognized it, having once belonged to his now-dead grandfather. Renal raised the staff and brought its head down on the railing next to Thrion. The iron vibrated, sending shivers and shooting pain down Thrion's side. The eagle-head snapped off from the staff. Thrion remembered the decapitated man he saw in Sundren. Fate seemed to have Thrion's story written long ago.

Renal bent, picking up the eagle head with his left hand. He leaned in close, whispering to Thrion.

"You dare preach about honor?," jeered Renal. "You, who rides coattails and plays archer with the local children? You, who befriend hins and orcs?" He dropped the broken staff at his feet.

Thrion wept, suddenly ashamed. He lowered his gaze, avoiding his father's eyes. But Renal grabbed his chin roughly, forcing Thrion to look back up. Squeezing Thrion's cheeks, Renal drew Thrion face-to-face with the severed eagle.

"You can have this back when you regain your honor," spat Renal. "Until then, you fly alone. You are no son of this house."

[Chiangtao]

“Volley!”

The cry was followed by the whine of an arrow. It zipped through the air, pinning itself an inch deep in the straw target. The arrow vibrated briefly, sounding off like the spring on a doorstop. The shot was off the mark, finding its home three inches up and to the left of the bull's-eye.

“Good, good,” said Thrion Daene. “But why did you miss?”

“Follow-through,” replied the young hunter, glumly. “I know, I know, you’ve said it eighteen times this hour.” His tone was annoyed, but his focus was on the target. Clearly, perfecting his shot was of great importance.

“If you could shoot half as well as you count, I’d be out of a job,” replied Thrion. He resisted the urge to laugh, instead keeping a stern visage. He shifted his weight slightly.

“Yeah, well, if you could walk half as well as you mouth off, you wouldn’t need this job. But ya do, so quit bein’ such a dick,” taunted the young hunter.

The hunter’s tone did not frighten Thrion the way it once did. He’d been in the company of gruff men for months now, earning his way in the ranger outpost as a fletcher and archery instructor. At first, their straight-to-business manners had been unsettling. There was rarely pleasantries shared between the men, and only the most familiar ones offered greetings. But slowly, he adapted, learning to deal with these unfriendly ways and conduct his business well enough to get by. It would take more than a human teenager to rattle him now.

Wisely, Thrion bit his tongue. His pride could take a punch now. “We’re not finished until you pin that bull’s-eye. Try again. Knees and elbows bent, feet at twelve and six, toes pointed.”

The hunter curled his lip slightly before queing up another shot.

“Don’t think. Let your muscles do what they know,” reminded Thrion. The hunter relaxed, aimed, and fired. This time the arrow found its home in the red.

“Good,” said Thrion approvingly. “That’ll fell a doe, but not a stag. But it’s a start. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

The young hunter packed up his things, slinging the bow over his shoulder. He pridefully sauntered away without even a wave in recognition to Thrion.

That is the way of it here, thought Thrion. He sat himself down, leaning back against the fence. He let his mind slip into brief reverie. He had learned to quell the chronic pain through meditation. Slowly, life was returning for him, even if it was vastly different from what he once knew.

He stood up slowly after twenty minutes without the aid of his walking stick. A practice bow was leaning on a stump nearby. It was low quality, but functional.

Thrion picked up the bow and took aim. Knees and elbows bent, feet at twelve and six, toes pointed, he thought. He pulled back the bow string with his right hand and let fly.

“Volley!”