Meara Parlan
02-24-09, 12:49 PM
Name: Meara Kennis Parlan (Merry and Beautiful One, of the family Parlan)
Age: 27
Race: Fae
Hair Color: Blonde
Eye Color: Blue
Height: 6 feet
Weight: 134 lb
Language: Dheath, Tradespeak
Occupation: Warrior
Personality: Nothing of Meara’s personality even vaguely resembles that of other Fae. He is not peaceful, he is not calm, he does not abhor violence like his kin, and music and the arts bore him. Of course, this is not surprising, for Meara only truly is a Fae on the outside. Inside, he is a Draconian (something explained in his History), and it is this archetype that Meara fits the bill of. He is extraordinarily loyal to his friends. His honor is very important to him, and he could be described as very prideful. What’s more, Meara has the fighting spirit and bravery of a warrior, compounded with a firm code of ethics and morals.
However, there are other, more negative, aspects of his personality as well. There is a layer of barely controlled bestial rage underneath the surface within him at all times. His natural aggression was suppressed from birth, but rather than removing his id, his family only succeeded in giving him all the explosive, bottled up energy of a mountain of gunpowder. While Draconians are given an outlet for their aggressive potentials from an early age, Meara was not. He has become particularly angry and unpredictable because of this. While he can control this rage to some extent, for the most part it gets him in a great amount of trouble. He does not have a firm control over his own actions at all.
Appearance: On the outside, Meara looks exactly like a normal Fae, albeit a tallish one. He is very slim, and appears to be almost fragile. Though he has more muscles than most of his kin (thanks to long hours of dedication and training and hard work), he still looks quite weak. It is quite the misleading appearance, for in reality he is fairly strong. Most of all though, adjectives used to describe him would include “beautiful.” He has a very pleasant face, almost babyish, and despite his perpetual grim expression people do not tend to take him seriously. His light blonde, almost white, hair is short but still clumps into loose loopy curls. When angry his eyes are a vicious shade of red, but most of the time they are a light shade of innocent, disarming blue.
Of course, as a Fae, he has wings. These wings look like those of a butterfly or some other pretty, fragile insect. Their gossamer surface is nearly completely lucid, but within it there can be seen light silver veins. These wings enhance his fragile, beautiful appearance and make it immediately clear to any onlooker that he is a Fae.
For clothing, Meara prefers simple, practical things. He wears clothes that match the weather of his current location, but prefers a nice brown jacket and cloth pants of the same color. For some reason, the simplicity of his dress code only serves to enhance (rather than dullen) the natural beauty he possesses. Even in battle, Meara does not wear armor. He wears no jewelry or ornamentation of any kind at all.
History: As a rule, fairy tales come in two varieties. The first, which you may be the most familiar with, is a rather wholesome sort ideal for young and innocent children. These can generally be identified easily by the fact that they contain the term “and they all lived happily ever after.” The second variety involves much bloodshed, misery, oftentimes cannibalism, and other sorts of things that are very inappropriate for small children. Reader, I feel as though I should warn you. This is the second variety of fairy tale.
Once upon a time…in the far far away land of Dheathain, in a small growing forest near a pleasetn village, there lived two fine upstanding families. The first of these families was a clan of Fae known for not much at all. The father and head of this small clan, however, was an exceptionally weird creature. Not weird in the sense of strange or abnormal. Weird in the old meaning of the term, weird meaning strong in magic, for he was a Druid of no small power. Magic flows strong in the blood of all the Fae, but this particular fae was particularly knowledgeable. He knew the magic of hilltops, and of flower rings, and the power of the secret and green places of this world. He knew the danger of crossroads, and the power of them, and whenever his family drew near them they were made to take lengthy detours to avoid them. Unfortunately, as you will see, he never learned one powerful and fundamental fact about crossroads. There are more kinds of crossroads than merely the physical, equally dangerous and equally powerful...
The second family was a clan of Draconian. They lived only a short distance away from the Fae, within walking distance. They were a proud and noble bunch, quick to anger and long to friendship, but a dependable lot nonetheless. They valued their women greatly, and took pride in their independence and strength as well as in their fertility. If there could truly have been said to be one fault of these fine reptilian creatures, it was their pride. That they valued above all else, and to bring dishonor upon the family was to bring dishonor upon them all. Then tempers would boil and the foul side of their dragon heritage would be displayed. Despite their shortcomings, however, their relationship with the nearby Fae was a cordial one, if not overly eager, and was at least not hostile.
Our story truly begins in the dead of winter. The last spring had been a fruitful one, in more ways than one, and both families sat upon a healthy stockpile of grains and other fruits of the earth for the winter months. The family of draconian had been blessed recently by ((fertility goddess,)) and were lucky enough to have a strong little baby of not even one month in age. The Fae looked upon this baby with jealousy, for they were impatient. The head of the family’s wife, you see, was pregnant, and they were well aware that it was nearly her time.
The time for the birth came, and all members of the family gathered eagerly in the fine house of the leader of the clan. No midwife was called, for the father (being a practitioner of the Druidic arts) was knowledgeable in such things. It was not long before he realized that something was very wrong. From the beginning, everything felt off color. The mother began to bleed abnormally, and the color drained from the Druid’s face as he realized just how serious the problems were. It all happened incredibly fast. In under an hour, the mother was dead of who knows what complications. The baby was born only minutes before that, but it did not matter. He was dead as well, a tiny little corpse with wisps of blonde hair on its head. The Druid said nothing. At first it looked as though he was about to weep, or cry out to the heavens in frustration. Soon though, a different look crossed his face. It was a grim look, his mouth set in determination, and his eyes hard and black. The assembled family members grew fearful and confused. Their attempts to comfort him in his moment of misery were rejected. They were the most shocked of all, however, when the Druid left.
He stalked towards the exit of the house and began to run. He ran down the old country roads, which were more packed dirt than anything else. He ran across the green and open fields, feeling the heat of the sun beating down on his face. It was nearly exactly noon, he knew. That was good. Midnight may have a reputation for powerful magic, but there is little stronger than that of the Sun itself. Finally, he reached his destination. It was the top of a green-clad hill. There stood a single monolithic stone, round as the moon and cold as hell itself. This was a powerful place of magic he knew, strong and ancient. If there was any place to do his ugly work, it would be here. The Druid began to chant in Dheath, but what is said I shall translate for you here. As he spoke, the very air crackled with energy and magical potential, as if in the midst of an electrical storm. These are the words he said.
By the Fire, the Well, and the Sacred Trees,
Flame and Flow and Grow in me.
In Sky and Sea and Land,
Let the Water be blessed and the Flame be hallowed.
Powers of the Earth and Sky
Rooted deep and crowned in high
Flow and kindle in my head
Flow and kindle in my heart
Flow and kindle in my loins
The Land upholds me; the Sea surrounds me, the Sky above me.
Before me death, behind me the same.
On my right hand magic, on my left hand strength,
Cross paths again within the chest,
For the Flame is in my soul,
And I am seated in the Center of Worlds.
Creatures of Dead and Mighty Ways
Powers of Earth and Sky and Sea
By the Fire and the Well, by the Sacred Trees,
Offerings I give to ye.
Offerings I give to ye!
Offerings I give to ye!
When he finished chanting, the druid collapsed upon the ground, dead. Tears were in his eyes. Then, two remarkable things happened. Two terrific things. That is, they both invoked terror. One, in the house of the Fae, the baby woke up. The tiny blonde creature opened its eyes and began to cry. The family was shocked speechless, unsure whether to be happy or frightened by this child coming back from the dead. Two, in the house of the Draconians, the once life-like draconian baby went limp. The family could not find any pulse. Their reactions were not confused at all: they wept. Through forbidden and ancient magic, the Fae father had sacrificed his own life upon the altar of nature. And through the blood of the father, an exchange was made. A trade…one life for another. He had taken the soul of the Draconian and imbued it within the body of his own child, hoping to revive what life there still may be left there. It was a very un-Fae thing for him to do, but desperate people do desperate things. He could not possibly have known the consequences of his action.
While the Draconian family did wonder ever after about the fate of their child, I am sorry to say that their significance in this story has ended. The Fae never found the body of the Druid, and although they guessed at what he had done they never knew for certain. For years, they merely were thankful for what they had been given. The baby grew quickly, and it was a healthy and strong child. Its large blue eyes and curls of blonde hair lead them to give him the name Meara-Kennis, the Merry and Beautiful one. As it will be seen, one half of that name was accurate; the other half could not have been further from it.
Meara’s childhood was fairly unexceptional. As a toddler he romped and played in the woodlands and hills, splashed in the brooks nearby, and watched the small creatures of the sky and land move across the countryside. He was prone to severe temper tantrums (unusual for a Fae) during which he go off in an uncontrollable rage. No one, however, noticed or at least commented on anything profoundly different about this child. Most were completely taken in and became infatuated with the little Beautiful one.
When he was old enough for schooling, Maera was given tutors in various fields. Music bored him, art he detested, and magic he showed no skill for at all. He grew into a brooding child with great bottled up energy. None of the pursuits his elders gave him to go after interested him or satisfied him. Secretly, careful not to be noticed by his elders, the boy took to torturing small squirrels cruelly in the backyard. His teachers thought him a lost cause, hopelessly spoiled. The temper tantrums continued, becoming more and more destructive to the point of being a serious problem. The peaceful Fae of his family were horrified at this violent little child that had grown up in their midst, but yet they did nothing.
As a teenager, he was extremely popular with the young girls of his village. Attractive and different, they enjoyed the company of the strange Meara (perhaps a bit too much, according to the village elders!) Still during this period his studies went poorly. Meara took to finding outlets for his own inner energy and inexplicable anger. Now that he was old enough to understand, he started to fear his own potential. The other Fae were peaceful, tranquil, and felt that violence never solved anything. Meara was exactly the opposite. Whenever he was upset, it was only destroying things that pleased him. He had, after all, the spirit of a Draconian within (though neither he nor any of his family was aware of this.) Naturally more aggressive than his Fae brothers and sisters, the Draconian-spirit was unable to channel his anger in acceptable ways within Fae society. And so pressure built up within him from constant attempts at bottling up or concealing his anger. Far from solving the problem, attempting to conceal his personality only made Meara more and more angry and dangerous.
It was not until he was nineteen; however, that Meara committed the unspeakable. It should be noted that this event was not explainable or rational in and of itself. It was, however, a culmination of years of unsatisfied energies that, when finally released from their unnatural containment, lead to this act. Perhaps, or at least I hope, you will pity the young Meara. It was a warm spring day. Puddles littered the ground, remnants from one of the many intense storms that plague Dheath. Afterwards, Meara would always remember the puddles.
Meara was outside on his own, as he often was in those days, taking a walk. It was a chance encounter really when he ran into the other young Fae. The other Fae was a young man of similar age, whose girl Meara had recently begun to “meet” with. Their enmity was well known. Meara had offered a fight to the other young man over the girl, but for obvious reasons this had been declined. The two had settled into a sort of subtle enmity, a silent vendetta that was unhealthy for the both of them. As they passed upon the road though, the Fae said something very fateful. He called Meara “tuilĂ*,” a word which in Tradespeak can be best translated as “bastard,” one who has no father.
Enraged at the insult, Meara leaped upon the transgressor immediately and wrapped his hands around the enemy’s throat. Then he squeezed, and squeezed, the red haze of blind fury covering his eyes. When the deed was done, Meara stood above the corpse of the enemy and screamed. He had killed.
Not out of self-defense but out of pure vengeance and anger. The ultimate breach of taboo. Unsure of the consequences of what he had done, Meara left the body by the side of the road and returned to his village. He said nothing, refused to respond to any contact. He went into his house, grabbed a bag with his personal effects, and left. The village officially banished him once they realized what he had done, but it was not necessary.
For a long time, Meara tried to avoid civilization as much as he possibly could. He feared repeating the rejection he had received at the hands of his home village in other places. Instead of assimilating himself with another community, therefore, Meara tried fusing himself with the wilderness and nature. He became a wild animal, hunting and surviving, but never really living. For a time, this existence was all Meara knew. That was, until chance once again changed his life completely.
Animal-Meara, you see, happened upon a caravan of Draconian travelers one day. Having forsook the morals of the Fae long ago in exchange for those laws of morality offered by the jungle and the forest, Meara saw only the goods and food he possibly could steal. He dived in, ready to pinch the meals from under their noses. Before he could escape, however, a powerful club came down on his head and he was knocked out. When he awoke, he was bound and gagged and was at the center of a small group of Draconian warriors. They looked amusedly at the tiny naked bandit, who was growling ferociously and attempting to wriggle out of his bonds. Then they were presented with a dilemma. Leave the Fae there on the road, where he likely would die of exposure before he managed to undue their strong ropes…or risk having him steal from them once more. Partially on a whim and partially out of curiosity for this highly unusual Fae, the Draconians chose to keep him with them (just for a little while!) They had one additional motivation for keeping him with the group: they needed the aid of a Fae to facilitate relations with other members of his race when the travelers encountered them.
When Meara came back to sentient consciousness, he found that he had been temporarily accepted into the travelling caravan. He calmed down and learned their story. They were a group of travelling mercenaries, wandering in search of work. Meara lied and told them an outrageous story, which I don’t believe any of them bought. Nonetheless, though the Draconian originally intended to keep Meara with them for a short while, they ended up growing rather fond of the young man. He was a grim Fae, serious and unlaughing, prone to fits of anger but also very loyal and steadfast in his work with his comrades. There was a remarkable (or unremarkable, for we who know Meara’s story) kinship between the Draconian travelers and the young Fae.
The Draconian also discovered something very important about young Meara, almost by accident. He was a natural fighter. One day, while some of their group was sparring for practice and fun, Meara happened to be watching. Curious about this pretend fighting, he challenged one of them to a mock-duel. The Draconians laughed, thinking that he was joking, but Meara was completely serious. The Draconians stopped laughing as Meara defeated one of their number. They were shocked. The frail-looking Fae had a profound hidden reservoir of strength almost equal to their own. On top of this he had a grace of natural style with the blade that none of them could match, as if he was constantly dancing while he fought. Finally, Meara’s ferocity in battle was unmatched by any. Upon this discovery, the shocked Draconian immediately chose to accept Meara into their group. They taught him the fine points of swordplay, the code of warriors, and how to fight. Meara soon began to go with them on their hired missions, and he became a valued member of their team. It seemed as though the young Fae finally had found a family, and a place where he belonged. Eventually the other Draconian even began to forget about his strange appearance, and they accepted him as one of their own.
It was not long, however, before Meara was forced to leave his new “family.” For though that group welcomed him as one of their own, other Draconian were not so friendly to the young Fae. The mercenary group was constantly taunted for their acceptance of a weak Fae into their midst. They found it hard to get jobs. Meara could not bear to see his comrades shamed in this way. It haunted his dreams and stopped him from getting rest. Eventually, he made up his mind to leave. One night, unbeknownst to his comrades, he took his things (including a fine sword that had been a gift to him) and left.
Once more, Meara was on his own. This time, however, he knew what he excelled at and what made him happy. Fighting. He had heard in the groups travels across Dheath of one mysterious place where he thought perhaps he could find a home once more…The Citadel. Seeking to make a life for himself out of his blade and his berserker-rage, Meara travelled to Radasanth…
The outcome of this story is still uncertain, and so, Reader, I must leave you on a cliffhanger. It can be hoped, however, that someday this tale will deserve a hearty “and he lived happily ever after to the end of his days.” For some reason, however, I don’t think it likely that such an ending will come to be…
Skills:
Above Average Swordsmanship: Meara is skilled with the blade and can use it slightly better than your average soldier or fighter. He knows the appropriate stances for fighting, as well as a few simple but useful techniques for parrying and thrusting and the like. Were he to come up against an expert he would be overpowered easily, but in a majority of fights his skills are sufficient.
Friend to the Woods: Meara has a deep connection to nature, thanks in part to his druidic heritage and his time living there alone. He does not get lost easily in forests, and can usually find his way without too much difficulty. He is not likely to starve or die of thirst when in a forest either, because he knows how to hunt and what signs to look for water. In forests unfamiliar to him, (such as those outside of Dheath) however, the usefulness of this ability might be severely impaired.
Berserker Rage: His bottled up anger, once a liability, has now become an asset. Meara can channel his rage and work himself up into a frenzy in battle, increasing his stamina, speed, and strength. When in a rage, Meara’s speed is increased 25% (including his reflexes), his strength is increased 25%, and he does not feel as tired as he normally would (although when he comes out of the rage, all exhaustion is doubled). This rage can only last during ongoing combat. If Meara goes too long (a single sequence of posts, i.e. meara, opponent) without attacking or being attacked, the rage ends. After ten minutes, the rage ends in any case and he returns to normal. In this state, his intelligence is severely diminished and he is restricted to very simple tactics. He cannot end the rage early of his own will. Meara can rage once per thread.
Weapons: Meara’s only weapon is a Steel Arming Sword. The arming sword is commonly called a broadsword, but in reality they are somewhat different. It is a light and versatile sword, single-handed and double edged and designed for cutting, not thrusting. Unlike the broadsword (or “basket sword”) it does not have a protective hilt over the hand. He carries it with him wherever he goes, and without it he feels “undressed”. It was given to him as a gift by the Draconians and it is his only valued possession. There are no special engravings or designs on it, it is a simple plain sword.
Armor: Forgoing metal armor due to the impact it has on his speed, Meara wears no clothing for protection. All that he carries for this purpose is a single iron buckler, which he grips in his left hand. This buckler he uses for a variety of purposes. He can deflect enemy blows with it, using its lightness and round curved surface to protect himself. Also the buckler can be used as a “metal fist,” meaning that he can punch with that hand to attack the opponent directly. The buckler is approximately 15 inches in diameter. Similarly to his sword, there are no engravings on the buckler.
Age: 27
Race: Fae
Hair Color: Blonde
Eye Color: Blue
Height: 6 feet
Weight: 134 lb
Language: Dheath, Tradespeak
Occupation: Warrior
Personality: Nothing of Meara’s personality even vaguely resembles that of other Fae. He is not peaceful, he is not calm, he does not abhor violence like his kin, and music and the arts bore him. Of course, this is not surprising, for Meara only truly is a Fae on the outside. Inside, he is a Draconian (something explained in his History), and it is this archetype that Meara fits the bill of. He is extraordinarily loyal to his friends. His honor is very important to him, and he could be described as very prideful. What’s more, Meara has the fighting spirit and bravery of a warrior, compounded with a firm code of ethics and morals.
However, there are other, more negative, aspects of his personality as well. There is a layer of barely controlled bestial rage underneath the surface within him at all times. His natural aggression was suppressed from birth, but rather than removing his id, his family only succeeded in giving him all the explosive, bottled up energy of a mountain of gunpowder. While Draconians are given an outlet for their aggressive potentials from an early age, Meara was not. He has become particularly angry and unpredictable because of this. While he can control this rage to some extent, for the most part it gets him in a great amount of trouble. He does not have a firm control over his own actions at all.
Appearance: On the outside, Meara looks exactly like a normal Fae, albeit a tallish one. He is very slim, and appears to be almost fragile. Though he has more muscles than most of his kin (thanks to long hours of dedication and training and hard work), he still looks quite weak. It is quite the misleading appearance, for in reality he is fairly strong. Most of all though, adjectives used to describe him would include “beautiful.” He has a very pleasant face, almost babyish, and despite his perpetual grim expression people do not tend to take him seriously. His light blonde, almost white, hair is short but still clumps into loose loopy curls. When angry his eyes are a vicious shade of red, but most of the time they are a light shade of innocent, disarming blue.
Of course, as a Fae, he has wings. These wings look like those of a butterfly or some other pretty, fragile insect. Their gossamer surface is nearly completely lucid, but within it there can be seen light silver veins. These wings enhance his fragile, beautiful appearance and make it immediately clear to any onlooker that he is a Fae.
For clothing, Meara prefers simple, practical things. He wears clothes that match the weather of his current location, but prefers a nice brown jacket and cloth pants of the same color. For some reason, the simplicity of his dress code only serves to enhance (rather than dullen) the natural beauty he possesses. Even in battle, Meara does not wear armor. He wears no jewelry or ornamentation of any kind at all.
History: As a rule, fairy tales come in two varieties. The first, which you may be the most familiar with, is a rather wholesome sort ideal for young and innocent children. These can generally be identified easily by the fact that they contain the term “and they all lived happily ever after.” The second variety involves much bloodshed, misery, oftentimes cannibalism, and other sorts of things that are very inappropriate for small children. Reader, I feel as though I should warn you. This is the second variety of fairy tale.
Once upon a time…in the far far away land of Dheathain, in a small growing forest near a pleasetn village, there lived two fine upstanding families. The first of these families was a clan of Fae known for not much at all. The father and head of this small clan, however, was an exceptionally weird creature. Not weird in the sense of strange or abnormal. Weird in the old meaning of the term, weird meaning strong in magic, for he was a Druid of no small power. Magic flows strong in the blood of all the Fae, but this particular fae was particularly knowledgeable. He knew the magic of hilltops, and of flower rings, and the power of the secret and green places of this world. He knew the danger of crossroads, and the power of them, and whenever his family drew near them they were made to take lengthy detours to avoid them. Unfortunately, as you will see, he never learned one powerful and fundamental fact about crossroads. There are more kinds of crossroads than merely the physical, equally dangerous and equally powerful...
The second family was a clan of Draconian. They lived only a short distance away from the Fae, within walking distance. They were a proud and noble bunch, quick to anger and long to friendship, but a dependable lot nonetheless. They valued their women greatly, and took pride in their independence and strength as well as in their fertility. If there could truly have been said to be one fault of these fine reptilian creatures, it was their pride. That they valued above all else, and to bring dishonor upon the family was to bring dishonor upon them all. Then tempers would boil and the foul side of their dragon heritage would be displayed. Despite their shortcomings, however, their relationship with the nearby Fae was a cordial one, if not overly eager, and was at least not hostile.
Our story truly begins in the dead of winter. The last spring had been a fruitful one, in more ways than one, and both families sat upon a healthy stockpile of grains and other fruits of the earth for the winter months. The family of draconian had been blessed recently by ((fertility goddess,)) and were lucky enough to have a strong little baby of not even one month in age. The Fae looked upon this baby with jealousy, for they were impatient. The head of the family’s wife, you see, was pregnant, and they were well aware that it was nearly her time.
The time for the birth came, and all members of the family gathered eagerly in the fine house of the leader of the clan. No midwife was called, for the father (being a practitioner of the Druidic arts) was knowledgeable in such things. It was not long before he realized that something was very wrong. From the beginning, everything felt off color. The mother began to bleed abnormally, and the color drained from the Druid’s face as he realized just how serious the problems were. It all happened incredibly fast. In under an hour, the mother was dead of who knows what complications. The baby was born only minutes before that, but it did not matter. He was dead as well, a tiny little corpse with wisps of blonde hair on its head. The Druid said nothing. At first it looked as though he was about to weep, or cry out to the heavens in frustration. Soon though, a different look crossed his face. It was a grim look, his mouth set in determination, and his eyes hard and black. The assembled family members grew fearful and confused. Their attempts to comfort him in his moment of misery were rejected. They were the most shocked of all, however, when the Druid left.
He stalked towards the exit of the house and began to run. He ran down the old country roads, which were more packed dirt than anything else. He ran across the green and open fields, feeling the heat of the sun beating down on his face. It was nearly exactly noon, he knew. That was good. Midnight may have a reputation for powerful magic, but there is little stronger than that of the Sun itself. Finally, he reached his destination. It was the top of a green-clad hill. There stood a single monolithic stone, round as the moon and cold as hell itself. This was a powerful place of magic he knew, strong and ancient. If there was any place to do his ugly work, it would be here. The Druid began to chant in Dheath, but what is said I shall translate for you here. As he spoke, the very air crackled with energy and magical potential, as if in the midst of an electrical storm. These are the words he said.
By the Fire, the Well, and the Sacred Trees,
Flame and Flow and Grow in me.
In Sky and Sea and Land,
Let the Water be blessed and the Flame be hallowed.
Powers of the Earth and Sky
Rooted deep and crowned in high
Flow and kindle in my head
Flow and kindle in my heart
Flow and kindle in my loins
The Land upholds me; the Sea surrounds me, the Sky above me.
Before me death, behind me the same.
On my right hand magic, on my left hand strength,
Cross paths again within the chest,
For the Flame is in my soul,
And I am seated in the Center of Worlds.
Creatures of Dead and Mighty Ways
Powers of Earth and Sky and Sea
By the Fire and the Well, by the Sacred Trees,
Offerings I give to ye.
Offerings I give to ye!
Offerings I give to ye!
When he finished chanting, the druid collapsed upon the ground, dead. Tears were in his eyes. Then, two remarkable things happened. Two terrific things. That is, they both invoked terror. One, in the house of the Fae, the baby woke up. The tiny blonde creature opened its eyes and began to cry. The family was shocked speechless, unsure whether to be happy or frightened by this child coming back from the dead. Two, in the house of the Draconians, the once life-like draconian baby went limp. The family could not find any pulse. Their reactions were not confused at all: they wept. Through forbidden and ancient magic, the Fae father had sacrificed his own life upon the altar of nature. And through the blood of the father, an exchange was made. A trade…one life for another. He had taken the soul of the Draconian and imbued it within the body of his own child, hoping to revive what life there still may be left there. It was a very un-Fae thing for him to do, but desperate people do desperate things. He could not possibly have known the consequences of his action.
While the Draconian family did wonder ever after about the fate of their child, I am sorry to say that their significance in this story has ended. The Fae never found the body of the Druid, and although they guessed at what he had done they never knew for certain. For years, they merely were thankful for what they had been given. The baby grew quickly, and it was a healthy and strong child. Its large blue eyes and curls of blonde hair lead them to give him the name Meara-Kennis, the Merry and Beautiful one. As it will be seen, one half of that name was accurate; the other half could not have been further from it.
Meara’s childhood was fairly unexceptional. As a toddler he romped and played in the woodlands and hills, splashed in the brooks nearby, and watched the small creatures of the sky and land move across the countryside. He was prone to severe temper tantrums (unusual for a Fae) during which he go off in an uncontrollable rage. No one, however, noticed or at least commented on anything profoundly different about this child. Most were completely taken in and became infatuated with the little Beautiful one.
When he was old enough for schooling, Maera was given tutors in various fields. Music bored him, art he detested, and magic he showed no skill for at all. He grew into a brooding child with great bottled up energy. None of the pursuits his elders gave him to go after interested him or satisfied him. Secretly, careful not to be noticed by his elders, the boy took to torturing small squirrels cruelly in the backyard. His teachers thought him a lost cause, hopelessly spoiled. The temper tantrums continued, becoming more and more destructive to the point of being a serious problem. The peaceful Fae of his family were horrified at this violent little child that had grown up in their midst, but yet they did nothing.
As a teenager, he was extremely popular with the young girls of his village. Attractive and different, they enjoyed the company of the strange Meara (perhaps a bit too much, according to the village elders!) Still during this period his studies went poorly. Meara took to finding outlets for his own inner energy and inexplicable anger. Now that he was old enough to understand, he started to fear his own potential. The other Fae were peaceful, tranquil, and felt that violence never solved anything. Meara was exactly the opposite. Whenever he was upset, it was only destroying things that pleased him. He had, after all, the spirit of a Draconian within (though neither he nor any of his family was aware of this.) Naturally more aggressive than his Fae brothers and sisters, the Draconian-spirit was unable to channel his anger in acceptable ways within Fae society. And so pressure built up within him from constant attempts at bottling up or concealing his anger. Far from solving the problem, attempting to conceal his personality only made Meara more and more angry and dangerous.
It was not until he was nineteen; however, that Meara committed the unspeakable. It should be noted that this event was not explainable or rational in and of itself. It was, however, a culmination of years of unsatisfied energies that, when finally released from their unnatural containment, lead to this act. Perhaps, or at least I hope, you will pity the young Meara. It was a warm spring day. Puddles littered the ground, remnants from one of the many intense storms that plague Dheath. Afterwards, Meara would always remember the puddles.
Meara was outside on his own, as he often was in those days, taking a walk. It was a chance encounter really when he ran into the other young Fae. The other Fae was a young man of similar age, whose girl Meara had recently begun to “meet” with. Their enmity was well known. Meara had offered a fight to the other young man over the girl, but for obvious reasons this had been declined. The two had settled into a sort of subtle enmity, a silent vendetta that was unhealthy for the both of them. As they passed upon the road though, the Fae said something very fateful. He called Meara “tuilĂ*,” a word which in Tradespeak can be best translated as “bastard,” one who has no father.
Enraged at the insult, Meara leaped upon the transgressor immediately and wrapped his hands around the enemy’s throat. Then he squeezed, and squeezed, the red haze of blind fury covering his eyes. When the deed was done, Meara stood above the corpse of the enemy and screamed. He had killed.
Not out of self-defense but out of pure vengeance and anger. The ultimate breach of taboo. Unsure of the consequences of what he had done, Meara left the body by the side of the road and returned to his village. He said nothing, refused to respond to any contact. He went into his house, grabbed a bag with his personal effects, and left. The village officially banished him once they realized what he had done, but it was not necessary.
For a long time, Meara tried to avoid civilization as much as he possibly could. He feared repeating the rejection he had received at the hands of his home village in other places. Instead of assimilating himself with another community, therefore, Meara tried fusing himself with the wilderness and nature. He became a wild animal, hunting and surviving, but never really living. For a time, this existence was all Meara knew. That was, until chance once again changed his life completely.
Animal-Meara, you see, happened upon a caravan of Draconian travelers one day. Having forsook the morals of the Fae long ago in exchange for those laws of morality offered by the jungle and the forest, Meara saw only the goods and food he possibly could steal. He dived in, ready to pinch the meals from under their noses. Before he could escape, however, a powerful club came down on his head and he was knocked out. When he awoke, he was bound and gagged and was at the center of a small group of Draconian warriors. They looked amusedly at the tiny naked bandit, who was growling ferociously and attempting to wriggle out of his bonds. Then they were presented with a dilemma. Leave the Fae there on the road, where he likely would die of exposure before he managed to undue their strong ropes…or risk having him steal from them once more. Partially on a whim and partially out of curiosity for this highly unusual Fae, the Draconians chose to keep him with them (just for a little while!) They had one additional motivation for keeping him with the group: they needed the aid of a Fae to facilitate relations with other members of his race when the travelers encountered them.
When Meara came back to sentient consciousness, he found that he had been temporarily accepted into the travelling caravan. He calmed down and learned their story. They were a group of travelling mercenaries, wandering in search of work. Meara lied and told them an outrageous story, which I don’t believe any of them bought. Nonetheless, though the Draconian originally intended to keep Meara with them for a short while, they ended up growing rather fond of the young man. He was a grim Fae, serious and unlaughing, prone to fits of anger but also very loyal and steadfast in his work with his comrades. There was a remarkable (or unremarkable, for we who know Meara’s story) kinship between the Draconian travelers and the young Fae.
The Draconian also discovered something very important about young Meara, almost by accident. He was a natural fighter. One day, while some of their group was sparring for practice and fun, Meara happened to be watching. Curious about this pretend fighting, he challenged one of them to a mock-duel. The Draconians laughed, thinking that he was joking, but Meara was completely serious. The Draconians stopped laughing as Meara defeated one of their number. They were shocked. The frail-looking Fae had a profound hidden reservoir of strength almost equal to their own. On top of this he had a grace of natural style with the blade that none of them could match, as if he was constantly dancing while he fought. Finally, Meara’s ferocity in battle was unmatched by any. Upon this discovery, the shocked Draconian immediately chose to accept Meara into their group. They taught him the fine points of swordplay, the code of warriors, and how to fight. Meara soon began to go with them on their hired missions, and he became a valued member of their team. It seemed as though the young Fae finally had found a family, and a place where he belonged. Eventually the other Draconian even began to forget about his strange appearance, and they accepted him as one of their own.
It was not long, however, before Meara was forced to leave his new “family.” For though that group welcomed him as one of their own, other Draconian were not so friendly to the young Fae. The mercenary group was constantly taunted for their acceptance of a weak Fae into their midst. They found it hard to get jobs. Meara could not bear to see his comrades shamed in this way. It haunted his dreams and stopped him from getting rest. Eventually, he made up his mind to leave. One night, unbeknownst to his comrades, he took his things (including a fine sword that had been a gift to him) and left.
Once more, Meara was on his own. This time, however, he knew what he excelled at and what made him happy. Fighting. He had heard in the groups travels across Dheath of one mysterious place where he thought perhaps he could find a home once more…The Citadel. Seeking to make a life for himself out of his blade and his berserker-rage, Meara travelled to Radasanth…
The outcome of this story is still uncertain, and so, Reader, I must leave you on a cliffhanger. It can be hoped, however, that someday this tale will deserve a hearty “and he lived happily ever after to the end of his days.” For some reason, however, I don’t think it likely that such an ending will come to be…
Skills:
Above Average Swordsmanship: Meara is skilled with the blade and can use it slightly better than your average soldier or fighter. He knows the appropriate stances for fighting, as well as a few simple but useful techniques for parrying and thrusting and the like. Were he to come up against an expert he would be overpowered easily, but in a majority of fights his skills are sufficient.
Friend to the Woods: Meara has a deep connection to nature, thanks in part to his druidic heritage and his time living there alone. He does not get lost easily in forests, and can usually find his way without too much difficulty. He is not likely to starve or die of thirst when in a forest either, because he knows how to hunt and what signs to look for water. In forests unfamiliar to him, (such as those outside of Dheath) however, the usefulness of this ability might be severely impaired.
Berserker Rage: His bottled up anger, once a liability, has now become an asset. Meara can channel his rage and work himself up into a frenzy in battle, increasing his stamina, speed, and strength. When in a rage, Meara’s speed is increased 25% (including his reflexes), his strength is increased 25%, and he does not feel as tired as he normally would (although when he comes out of the rage, all exhaustion is doubled). This rage can only last during ongoing combat. If Meara goes too long (a single sequence of posts, i.e. meara, opponent) without attacking or being attacked, the rage ends. After ten minutes, the rage ends in any case and he returns to normal. In this state, his intelligence is severely diminished and he is restricted to very simple tactics. He cannot end the rage early of his own will. Meara can rage once per thread.
Weapons: Meara’s only weapon is a Steel Arming Sword. The arming sword is commonly called a broadsword, but in reality they are somewhat different. It is a light and versatile sword, single-handed and double edged and designed for cutting, not thrusting. Unlike the broadsword (or “basket sword”) it does not have a protective hilt over the hand. He carries it with him wherever he goes, and without it he feels “undressed”. It was given to him as a gift by the Draconians and it is his only valued possession. There are no special engravings or designs on it, it is a simple plain sword.
Armor: Forgoing metal armor due to the impact it has on his speed, Meara wears no clothing for protection. All that he carries for this purpose is a single iron buckler, which he grips in his left hand. This buckler he uses for a variety of purposes. He can deflect enemy blows with it, using its lightness and round curved surface to protect himself. Also the buckler can be used as a “metal fist,” meaning that he can punch with that hand to attack the opponent directly. The buckler is approximately 15 inches in diameter. Similarly to his sword, there are no engravings on the buckler.