Faded Ruins

This is the second section of writing that I have for my 4e character application over on Myth-Weavers. I have finally figured out, through the writing of this background, how my character views the world and who he worships. I also feel that this background offers a truly unique take on the Avenger class and how the teachings are transmitted. This, of course, is speculation as I have zero experience with 4e or any other Avenger backgrounds. I hope you enjoy.

The Temple of the Tre’Cinq has devoted its worship to Ioun since its inception. The Masters believe that research and documenting history, coupled with a devotion to steeling the mind, will create the strongest disciples the world over. Routine is held as sacred as the methodical hand used to write the tomes which the disciples have poured over for decades. This ideology has served well for most—sometimes, however, there comes a disciple who develops the itch to travel. It is a yearning that’s fire burns hotter by the week. Some have respectfully requested to leave for an extended period of time. Some have been expelled for actions deemed intolerable by the Masters. Some simply leave.

Raepoch’s yearning was the sum of several issues. He could feel, deep inside of him, that there was much more to life than the tomes in the temple. There were bobbles, and magic, and enchantments, and myriad fascinating locations that he had only read about. This fact, that the temple taught of people, places, and things that they had only experienced through musty tomes, was what irked him the most.

He also felt the calling of something greater than himself—something that he always attributed to his well-documented lineage. He knew that his grandmother had been Eladrin—no one had to tell him, he felt it. That he looks so much like the great majority of the others in the temple frustrated him to no end. He was special because the history of the temple documented to lineage, but to anyone who had not read about his grandmother, he looked like any other human. Raepoch cannot help but wonder if his blood has been removed from the outside world for too long. This pondering has done nothing but fuel his desire to set out on his own.

The day came when Raepoch reached his limit. The glyph-laden Wall of Conversion hadn’t glowed in several years. Raepoch sat with his back against a marble statue in the shape of Ioun’s symbol. Next to the garden, which filled the courtyard with wonderful smells, he sat facing the wall, reading a tome on ancient times and far off lands. The glowing was so gradual that he was not the first to notice it, despite being the closest. Eventually the glyphs, fully illuminated, began snaking around each other creating what appeared to be an intricately carved door that opened. Trees formed from the fluorescent lights of the glyphs, as did the glowing outline of a single humanoid.—it walked with confidence. The glowing lights quickly dissolved as the figure crossed the threshold of the wall and materialized into a confident human man adorned with amazing clothes, several trinkets hanging about his person, and a sword crafted with finesse and artistry. Raepoch could not remember how long he stared at the blade of that sword—it was jagged in the right places, smooth for most, and etched with runes that glowed a delicate mint green.

It wasn’t until late the next evening that Raepoch learned of whom the traveler was—not until he and the traveler were many miles away from the Temple of Tre’Cinq. Cymmeiian was his name and, as Raepoch learned, he had once been a disciple in the very same temple. Raepoch could not believe that he was chosen to travel with Cymmeiian. The experience was something that had never been recorded in the endless shelves of tomes and he expected that oddity would still hold true. The Masters spoke of a path few remember—they spoke of a duty greater than any disciple could fathom. The feverishly offered others in front of Cymmeiian to select but his mind was set, as he would later tell Raepoch, “when I first met eyes with the open-mouthed Eladrin.”

Cymmeiian and Raepoch were inseparable for many moons. Cymmeiian knew the flood of emotions, the feelings of being infinitesimal amongst the trees and stars, and the naivety of wanting to travel freely to all of the places that the tomes illuminated. He was a master of teaching from experience and he knew when it was okay for Raepoch to make mistakes on his own and when intervention was needed for life’s sake. Mentor taught pupil that Ioun was not the sole owner of the heavens and earth—that the power of other deities and the necessity to pay homage to all of them was imperative to a long, fruitful life. Raepoch has still not encountered a person so devout in such an individualistic belief.

Mentor taught pupil how to handle swords and picks and axes. Raepoch learned the true power of prayers and how to swear oaths that connected his essence to an enemy’s. He learned how to harness dormant powers within himself, gifted to him through the blood of his grandmother. He learned how to survive on his instincts and his senses. He learned how to read the intentions of others. He learned that he only had one more day with Cymmeiian.

While Cymmeiian explained that he had been traveling and serving his faith for numerous years, shock seemed to arc through Raepoch’s body—Cymmeiian was growing older by the breath. Wrinkles began etching themselves near his eyes, the corners of his mouth, and across his brow. His hair seemed lighter that it had been. The idyllic luster of his jade eyes seemed to dry out.

That night, Raepoch wept upon a straw mattress in Eller’s Inn. Mere minutes ago he had shared a bittersweet meal of pheasant, spicy potatoes, fish stew, and mead with the one who had breathed life into his soul. As soon as Raepoch finished his last burning-sweet nectar, Cymmeiian extended his hand and arm—it took the pupil several moments to grip his mentor’s forearm. Raepoch squeezed with an underlying desperation. Cymmeiian slowly withdrew his arm, reached over his shoulder, and began sliding his sword and sheath over his shoulder.

“You know in your heart who your prayers need to address. You know in your heart what must be destroyed across these lands. You know in your heart that one day you will be doing this very same thing. You know in your heart that this is what must be. Raepoch Tryv, you are now the Avenger of Tre’Cinq and your duty is to fulfill the destiny that you create for yourself. You will, many moons now, feel a yearning to head back to the temple—it is neither homesickness nor a curiosity as to how the others are faring. It is the ultimate compulsion that undeniably begins guiding your feet without you being conscious of their direction. You will, at that time, discover your replacement. You will, at that time, mentor him or her as your instincts guide you. You will, at that time, pass down your responsibilities and leave to where your heart guides you.”

Cymmeiian extended his sword, gilded with the mint-green runes, into Raepoch’s numb, shaking hands. As the weight of the falchion tugged him back to reality, Raepoch watched in confusion as the runes’ glow faded and returned the deep metallic color of the blade.

His Morning

This is a piece of writing that I have tried working on a bit tonight–it is the idea for my first D&D 4th Edition character. I am trying to conceptualize an Avenger and the initial foray into 4e has me sort of scrambling. I am having difficulty conceptualizing a race and god–I owe the majority of this issue to my inexperience with 4e and a stubborn mind resisting learning a new setting/system. I will, however, state that I do not like how little information there is about the races and the gods for 4e thus far.

His Morning

Most mornings were spent the same—rise, rinse, recite. The musk of burning potpourri made his lips sticky—it was the taste of morning to him. The masters thrived on routine. He learned to stomach it. This morning was exactly the same in every regard—weak citrus colors ebbed across his face and walls through the stained glass clerestory. He wet his lips, tasting the earthiness, and starred at the intricate glasswork. The scene was always inspiring in the morning.

There was a knock at the door. He stood quickly, almost alarmed, as this was an oddity he could not remember experiencing before. Quickly he reached for his morning attire, a robe colored with the rainbow of a peacock—it was barely on before the feeble wooden latch, apparently meant to grant privacy and a false sense of security, levitated independently. The door opened quicker than necessary and through it strode the impressive figure of Master Oriel. His face was drained of color—it was not apparent if a startled waking or the inability to fall asleep was the culprit.

The puzzling morning, hurried conversations, and lack of recitations was but a blur to him. They talked of new information about The Chaos Scar. They droned on about duty and responsibility and commitment to the cause. They whispered conjectures, theories, and gossip just as they do when someone discovers the temple. They revealed the truth—he was, as stated between the lines, expendable. There were others with more extensive training—they were working on more important matters. There were others with more promise—they were busy obliging the Master’s every command. There were others with more personality—they were eagerly pouring honey into the Master’s ears. He chose not to play favorites. He chose not to engage in politics. He chose not to show too much ambition. He chose his lot long before this morning.