Alberdyne_Cormyr
03-17-11, 01:33 AM
**I**
In his off hours, Alberdyne Cormyr (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?22322-Cormyr-Book-1) studied the ways of the smith.
He'd grown skilled of late, and was already forging equipment for his fellow squad mates. As part of the Corone Empire's army, Dyne was part of a squad. The squad was a smaller section of a platoon, and the platoon a smaller section of the army. Trained in skirmishing warfare, Dyne had grown powerful in recent days. However, he would give up the power at his disposal for a normal life as a humble blacksmith. Despite that personal wish, he knew that his life in the military always came first, and he had to don the mantle of The Watch time and time again. He was an infantryman, skilled in close-ranged combat. Supporters of the mobile infantry were hard to fine since the Viceroys took over the Corone Republic, and turned it into some twisted, corrupt storybook Empire. Dyne represented the broken heart of an entire generation of Althanians. War-torn, dying, and corrupt as the old Nations were torn asunder. It was in this state of political turmoil that Dyne grew up in, the philosopher-soldier, a boy playing at being a man.
Dyne had many matters on his complex mind that day. Mostly, it was putting food on the table. Though he was a soldier, his salary was a mere pittance compared to the gold that ranking officers earned. Those who were close to the Viceroys themselves earned small fortunes in gold. He, was just a lowly infantryman trying to make a name for himself during a very dark time of Corone's history. Gone was the age of Heroes.
No longer a Republic, Corone was teetering on the edge of collapse as it's factions fought for control of the pieces. And who suffered the most? The poor. Dyne was trying to be a defender of the poor by working for The Watch, instead, he was rapidly discovering the corruption within that organization. A corruption which was becoming as rotten as garbage. From the ground up, the soul of Corone's once proud military was blanketed with shadow.
As a philosopher, Dyne thought himself on the edge of the times.
Studying politics and science, and the finer arts of life, Dyne oft found himself at fancy dinner parties with nobility. Discussing matters of philosophical import as he crushed wine with Lords and Ladies alike. Ultimately in an attempt to win their favour, and yet, receive none. So he worked. Hard. Day in and day out, burying himself in responsibility.
Trying to work himself to death, like a sick-old-mule.
The clan of the smith's hammer barely registered itself as Dyne worked. He knew the process to smith items by heart by then. He was capable of forging the material known as Steel with his bare hands. And that's what he found himself working on that day. A Duke's spoiled brat of a son ordered a small cadre of Steel longswords be forged by the fourth day of the week. At the sixth hour. Dyne and his fellow blacksmiths were busily at work since the order came. It was a time of warfare, and the times demanded skilled laborers.
Once Dyne was done with his lot for the day, he sighed heavily. It was time to clean up his work-station and call it a night. He had earned it. He'd worked two nights straight without sleep, or rest. He was becoming a machine. Dyne said farewell to his fellow co-workers and found himself standing just outside of the workshop...
...That was when fate decided to intervene.
In his off hours, Alberdyne Cormyr (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?22322-Cormyr-Book-1) studied the ways of the smith.
He'd grown skilled of late, and was already forging equipment for his fellow squad mates. As part of the Corone Empire's army, Dyne was part of a squad. The squad was a smaller section of a platoon, and the platoon a smaller section of the army. Trained in skirmishing warfare, Dyne had grown powerful in recent days. However, he would give up the power at his disposal for a normal life as a humble blacksmith. Despite that personal wish, he knew that his life in the military always came first, and he had to don the mantle of The Watch time and time again. He was an infantryman, skilled in close-ranged combat. Supporters of the mobile infantry were hard to fine since the Viceroys took over the Corone Republic, and turned it into some twisted, corrupt storybook Empire. Dyne represented the broken heart of an entire generation of Althanians. War-torn, dying, and corrupt as the old Nations were torn asunder. It was in this state of political turmoil that Dyne grew up in, the philosopher-soldier, a boy playing at being a man.
Dyne had many matters on his complex mind that day. Mostly, it was putting food on the table. Though he was a soldier, his salary was a mere pittance compared to the gold that ranking officers earned. Those who were close to the Viceroys themselves earned small fortunes in gold. He, was just a lowly infantryman trying to make a name for himself during a very dark time of Corone's history. Gone was the age of Heroes.
No longer a Republic, Corone was teetering on the edge of collapse as it's factions fought for control of the pieces. And who suffered the most? The poor. Dyne was trying to be a defender of the poor by working for The Watch, instead, he was rapidly discovering the corruption within that organization. A corruption which was becoming as rotten as garbage. From the ground up, the soul of Corone's once proud military was blanketed with shadow.
As a philosopher, Dyne thought himself on the edge of the times.
Studying politics and science, and the finer arts of life, Dyne oft found himself at fancy dinner parties with nobility. Discussing matters of philosophical import as he crushed wine with Lords and Ladies alike. Ultimately in an attempt to win their favour, and yet, receive none. So he worked. Hard. Day in and day out, burying himself in responsibility.
Trying to work himself to death, like a sick-old-mule.
The clan of the smith's hammer barely registered itself as Dyne worked. He knew the process to smith items by heart by then. He was capable of forging the material known as Steel with his bare hands. And that's what he found himself working on that day. A Duke's spoiled brat of a son ordered a small cadre of Steel longswords be forged by the fourth day of the week. At the sixth hour. Dyne and his fellow blacksmiths were busily at work since the order came. It was a time of warfare, and the times demanded skilled laborers.
Once Dyne was done with his lot for the day, he sighed heavily. It was time to clean up his work-station and call it a night. He had earned it. He'd worked two nights straight without sleep, or rest. He was becoming a machine. Dyne said farewell to his fellow co-workers and found himself standing just outside of the workshop...
...That was when fate decided to intervene.