I was meant to only write a small descrïption about my characters like yous have but I got too carried away and ended up typing loads. So I thought it was inappropriate to post it in that section. So I guess it's more of a story now so I might add more to it later. If people want me to or when I feel like it so enjoy.

It's based on my characters with relation to in-game mechanics.

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Chapter 1
The first born of the many winds, he was to become a great warrior in Tyria, even a paladin perhaps. He believed that fighting against evil was his aim in life. Using pixie spells was not enough for him; he had to dig into the dirt. He had to grasp the filth of which his enemies were born. He trained hard in the use of the sword. Trained early to case severe conditions open the common foe. He grew to become a true protector but some may say he doesn’t know his own might. His name was soon to be renown as The Mighty Wind.

Chapter 2
The second born of the many winds, he grew up alone in the Melandru governed forest in Tyria. His parents in a quick hurry to fend off some troublesome grawl had left him in the cover of a bush, only to be hammered down after leading the grawl away from their child. This boy can recall the day when he was fed by a beautiful mammal, a true virtue in saving his life. This was to be a true companion. The Melandru stalker had taken him in and raised him up to a fletching, young boy and some say with a charming complexion. This Melandru stalker was special; Melandru had blessed this hearty cat to live longer than any other. As the boy grew older, the companionship grew stronger. The boy pledged his love for the companion, the trees that protected him from danger and the air he breathed. He combined this with the power of the elements, conjuring small enchantments to aid power of his shot. He runs as one with his companion, his chosen, and chases the storms. He was to be more natural than Melandru herself can picture as perfection. His name was soon to be renown as The Natural Wind.

Chapter 3
The third born of the many winds, he grew up in a miserable yet tragic childhood in Tyria. His mother had died giving birth to him. His father was none other than the village drunkard. He was reckless in his behaviour and was probably regarded as a fool. That fool had caused the boy to be scarred for life. A night in the tavern, a group of bandit, elementalists and scimitar wielders, had come into the same tavern that the boy’s father had decided to take the boy for a drink, knowing too well that the boy was too young to handle a sip, let alone a mug. And so, his fool of a father had a few too many pints of ale and swore at the goons wearing silly costumes as he pointed to Torin, the bandit leader. And so, Torin did not take it lightly, he gave a swift motion with his hand and two bandits wielding scimitars advanced on the drunk man. Torin, being the perhaps bigger man had left out the door with all but one elementalist to leave his two melees to deal with this fool. As the two bandits came closer, the drunk readily asked the barkeep to pour him another mug of his finest hunter’s ale. Then he turned around and gave the bandits a kind of action, most related to a shoo. The lone bandit elementalist approached from behind. Perhaps he was a captain for Torin or just of a higher rank but he had a discerning wrinkle on his face as his wand flared at the tip.  The drunk did not take this seriously he had then given the hostile bandits a “wait” gesture and picked up his ale. This drunk was not much of a fighter to the boy’s knowledge; the drunk wasn’t even as good as a servant let alone a peasant. He was a nobody. The drunk put his worn out lips on the rim of the mug. Then most swiftly threw the liquid at the unsuspecting elementalist and a small fire a like the one burning steadily for heat for the tavern but more fiercely made for a purpose, to burn. The flame set the elementalist alight screaming for help and sent the other two flapping at their burning arms. The barkeep himself had wondered at that same moment, why in the hell of Grenth did he pass the drunk another ale. The drunk used his long yet stubby leg to push back the left scimitar-holder who fell backwards crashing and smashing a wooden stool. The right scimitar-holder had extinguished his problem and aimed to extinguish another of his problems. He dived a pure strike into the side of the drunk. Being drunk, the fool of a father felt no immediate pain. The boy stared in shock of the events that occurred in only a few moments and felt a great whelp unleash inside as he saw blood seep from the side of his father. The drunk then charged and wrestled the stabber and wrestled for control of the scimitar. He applied his weight over the grip on the hilt and aimed it against the hostile bandit. The blade became closer to the bandits neck. It got even closer; the bandit struggled to fight the man’s weight, as it got closer to his neck. He felt the need to beg for his life. He opened his lips only to find that the blade had gashed a cut across his neck and a silent mutter covered by a choke on blood came out from his mouth. He dropped on his knees and fell flat on the wooden floor. Locals of the tavern had sought to put out the small cinders that were the remains of the small blaze. They did not care about the dead bandits or about the one that realised his unfortunate situation and had fled from the tavern limping on his two legs. The drunk had then looked to his boy. His son. He looked into those innocent eyes. The boy was still staring at the blood and leaked a few tears slide slowly down his cheek. The drunk staggered to the boy, holding the wound on his side. He sat uncomfortably on a nearby stool and looked once again at the boy. The drunk was taken to a room to be healed.
A local had gone to call for a healer, perhaps the local healer who was a rookie but was all the best they could get. The men who had carried the boy’s father to the bed had left the boy alone. The drunk, the fool, lay there, looked the boy for the last time before he closed his eyes. The boy panicked in his mind. He questioned to who was to blame for this predicament. If his father weren’t a raging old drunk then maybe he would be alive and well but no, he was a stupid old man with a stupid old life who done nothing useful for the boy but drinking. The boy remembered a fading image of the fool, the fool had told the boy that he was drinking not only because of the guilt and sorrow of mother’s death but also he had heard that titles branded on golden certificates were being handed to those who are drunk for a long, long time. And with that gold certificate, he could sell for money he would be able to buy the boy the world. What a fool his father was. What a fool he was for believing him. He looked at that pitiful face of a father he had left and finally took action. He took at a small knife he had for emergencies. He stood up from his kneeling position. His father was resting but dying nonetheless. He would put him out of his memory. He braced the knife upwards and heaved it into the chest of the dying man. The man jolted with pain and strained to look at his boy gripping a knife deep into his chest. It was then the man’s final look in the world. His boy had killed him and he was to die almost instantly. One lone tear found it’s way down and along to the chin of the boy. The boy had witnessed and performed murder and death to his father. The door swung open, a young girl with a tattooed head where her hair once used to be; looked in shock at the boy wielding a knife to his father’s chest and the deadly stare of the father of his lasting expression to his discovery.
The boy was dragged away. To the local stage situated in the middle of the village. He was whipped heavily. His blood spilt and dripped down over his naked body. He sobbed in pain, but mostly anger had filled him. The scars on his body were blood red. This was when he had decided to become a necromancer. He was let down from the stand and sent into exile without any aid for his lashes. The scars were to be his life when he became a necromancer. He visited a hermit who had some knowledge of making scars more meaningful. The hermit did not respect the young boy’s situation; he felt pity and sorrow towards the boy. He performs the necessary rituals to cause the scars to solidify on his skin. His scars all turned green. Green that represented poison to the boy had created fear, he struggled out of the space where the ritual had been made to be and left the hermit muttering words he could not hear. The boy found a stream a while later and looked into it; he saw a reflection of his face. The two defying scars on his face that were once red of pain had turned into a soothing blue. It was more blue that the water. He stared into it for a long moment until the image rippled in front of him. His time as an exile had begun and he ran off into the wilderness. His name was soon to be renown as The Death Wind.

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Stay tuned.

PS. If you got great stories you want to let your fellow guildies read, you should make a new topic post, so that stories won't be mixed up. But if not then leave me a comment on my terrible writing!

Wind  

--Last edited by wind on 2007-02-24 02:41:32 --

Thank you, I enjoyed that.

write a book    
GREAT writing,that's real good.i wonder if i should make an story about Artemis?  

--Last edited by Rose on 2007-03-05 16:23:05 --

wow............    

o_O
poor... father... or boy... not sure and can't decide