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Here's my fluff for my AoD character. He's loosely based on two real life people, George Barrington and Steven Tyler (odd mix i know), and shares a few features of myself and my own family. The writing at the end is by George Barrington, incase he should ever rise from the dead and come after his copyright laws.
Barrington Kildare looked out over the ocean, the parchment in his hands was limp from the dampness of the sea-breezes blowing up over the bow. The ink from his pen bled and made blurry lines as he wrote. He sighed, and pulled a pinch of salts from the brightly colored handkerchief that hung from his large worker’s hammer. The manacles at his wrist clinked softly, a reminder that he was not travelling as a free man. This, and the spreading solace brought on by the salts, carried him back to his life in Stirland.
He had been the son of a musician, who played for the count of Averland, and taught music to the few privileged of Stirland. Southclaw had always thought it was a farce- his ancestors had been refugees of the frequent Dark Elf raids in Tilea, and had become laborers in the quarries of Stirland, living almost slave-like poverty while the rulers of the Empire grew fat from their efforts. When he was old enough, he fled the comfort and conformity of his home to make a living in the working town of his ancestors.
Although he was a self-styled ruffian, nothing in his quaint country home could have prepared him for life in the working town. He was quickly introduced to whiskey, wild women, and brawling. More than anything though, he was introduced to the baudy styles of the Stirland bards, and the almost alchemical mix of salts known as ‘the Red Heart’. Many of his nights were spent in the pubs and taverns playing jigs, singing songs, or crafting poems and wooing women. He was always first in and last out of a good brawl, his slight build belying his true strength. He had a fierce left hook that was said could even lay flat the likes of a bear, earning him the nickname ‘Southclaw’ among friends.
This constant nocturnal life and his lust after the Red Heart became his undoing and he lost his job in the quarry. He tried his hand at a few other trades within the town, working as a crier, a chimney sweep, and even a baker. At every job, his constant bleary-eyed tardiness saw his managers driving him out. Desperate and impoverished even by Stirlander standards, Southclaw became a pickpocket. He took small items, coin purses, bank notes, and anything that he could fish from an unsuspecting passerby. The town tolerated his antics, as his skills at both poetry and drinking had become near legendary in the town’s taverns.
As his fame spread, a passing nobleman from the far distant land of Kislev by the name of Orlov stopped in to hear one of his songs and challenge him to a drinking contest. Southclaw entertained the man, with song and drink. When the glasses settled, the Count lay sleeping on the table. Southclaw, clearly the winner and emboldened by drink, made off with the man’s pipe and tobacco. When the count awakened and found them missing, he pardoned Southclaw, but the governor of the town- who had also been entertaining the count and had no love for Southclaw’s antics- had the youth locked in irons and exiled from Stirland immediately.
So it came that Barrington Kildare found himself aboard a shipload of workers destined for Port Libris, to work in the mines and quarries in the nearby hills. All that he carried were the clothes on his back, the massive hammer that he had used in the quarries, and his Red Hearts, wrapped in a kerchief “gifted” to him by a sleeping one-night lover.
Southclaw sighed, the sun was creeping over the horizon and its bright first rays stabbed at his Heart ridden eyes. He finally found the lines he had been searching for, and retired to his bunk in the lower hold as the watch turned.i hope that you all enjoy it. i'll flesh him out more in the arena, if he keeps himself alive.From distant climes, o'er widespread seas, we come,
Though not with much éclat or beat of drum;
True patriots we, for, be it understood,
We left our country for our country's good.