At The Table of Nightmares

[Old Nic]

<<OOC: Hullo all. New member here but an old D&D'er. Just recently got back into playing and have joined an old buds DL campaign. What follows is an attempt to flesh out the character Im playing there.>>

(2 years before the present...)

Part 1: Simple Solace of the Wounded Soul.


Ahdam groaned as he slipped the thin shirt off his shoulders and rummaged through his saddle bag for the thick, lumpy package Qarmos had given him.

Across the fire from him, Hel dipped her head and snorted, her nostrils flaring as she picked up the scent of the medicine. The bloodmare's lips peeled away from teeth that looked like they should have been in a wolf''s jaw rather than the blood colored equine skull they lined.

"I dont like it either, you know," Ahdam growled as he pulled a handfull of the viscous salve free of the pack and slathered it across his chest.

He hissed as the cool medicine turned to ice over the half-healed tissue of the brand his minotaur captures had given him. "Huma's blessed lance," he muttered through clinched teeth and Hel stamped a sharp edged hoof.

"Yeah, probably," Ahdam replied, answering the mare as if she'd made a comment. "Hes probably laughing his shaggy head off."
Ahdam closed his eyes and faught back a blistering Kothian curse as he forgot himelf and leaned back against the rough bark of the tree behind him, enflaming the still raw whip lashes on his back.

A month of freedom and he was in more agony than he'd ever been as a slave.

Right. Lie to yourself, Knight Sergeant.

Ahdam had survived the brutal slave pins of a Haketi Targi and had earned his freedom in just a little over a year. His viciousness--something he would NEVER speak of--during those arena combats had steeled him for just about anything.

Except the parting "gift" of the Stable master....a sword shaped brand burned into his chest and stomach.

"Live by the sword, little Knightling," Qarmos had grunted. "I mark you a true Sword Knight." The minotaurs jest had been cruel and vicious--most Kothian jests were-- but the brand, a mocking sigil of Ahdam's faith, was a horror which he'd felt would kill him well before he made it back to Solomnia.

Hel grunted and pulled the knight out of his reverie. The mare stamped a foot and switched her hind quaters with her short cropped, net bound tail. "Fool me once, old gel.." Ahdam grumbled. Only days after having been found by the mare, he'd mistaken the gesture for the horse wanting a rub down and had nearly lost his head when the cantankerous beast had aimed a lethal kick at him. "Scratch yer own hind end," he grumbled and leaned forward, hunching his back and feeling older scars on his back like netweave patches.

The salve would take hours to dry and night was already consuming the last rosey streamers of day. Shaking his head Ahdam ran a hand over his smooth face and lips and grimaced. Hs precious mustaches were little more than rough stubble. Another contemptable example of Kothian humor, it had been a regular humiliation to be tied down and shaved smooth when Qarmos felt his "fur" was growing too course.

Pushing the memories of his personal horrors away, Ahdam pulled a small satchel free of his saddle bag and careful spread it open on his crossed thighs. Pulling his gauntlets on to keep the greasy salve from the satchels precious contents he unfolded a simple piece of parchment and smiled, tears quickly burning the rims of his eyes.

Etched onto the parchment in charcole was the image of his daughter Shyla Naeol. Her beautiful cheeks were tinted with a faint flush of color, through a process likely known only to the dwarven artisan whod been commissed by her mother Bessina and though her tiny eyes were closed in innocent slumber, Ahdam could almost see the bright sparkling green orbs she would have inherited from Bess.

Swallowing he squeezed his eyes shut and felt the hot tears push free of his lids, sliding down his cheeks. It was these two women, Shyla and her mother which drew him onward and gave him strength when even his devotion to Kiri-Joleth seemed ready to falter. He'd made up his mind in the wee hours of the morning after the White Robe messenger had found him in the tiny hamlet of Camroh and delivered the letter and the sketching to return to Solomnia and retake his vows as a priest, settling down with Bess to watch Shyla grow and forget the horrors of captivity.

"Soon, Love." he whispered, folding the parchment carefully and slipping it back into its protective covering. "Huma help me, I pray."
He groaned as he once more pulled his saddle bags to him and extricated his small journal, a simple stylus and a small pot of ink.


<<OOC: Ill end it here. As I only have a few concreteevents in his life already hammered out and turned in to the DM anyone else should feel free to jump in if the thread sounds interesting. All I ask is that you not RP Ahdam himself...and I say that only because Ive done a lot of PBeM games where everyone seems to share everyone else character. *shudder*>>

[Grimgor]

OOC: Well, here there's rules against ruling each others characters. You can't :)

BIC: "Hum hu hum." The soft humming broke the silence around the two shapes near the fire. Out of what seemed like nowhere, a man came walking. He initially seemed exceptionally muscular. He wore no clothing on his torso, short of a green scarf adorned with yellow runes. His pants was all but covered in bands in all the rainbows colours. He was wearing a cloak, also in nearly every imaginable color. Tied to the inside of the cloak at waistlevel was a few bags and a huge tome. The weight made sure that only the lower half of the coak was fluttering. The tome was made to seem like it was made of dragonscales in the colors of the different dragons. His hair was long, black and grey and tied up in a pony tail, reaching halfway down his back. Other than the grey hair, there was no signs whatsoever of his age. He walks up to the two near the fire, looks at them both with a sympathetic smile, then says. "Good evening."