[ +- ] The kind of long backstory of Barendd Dankill
Barendd Dankill. This name is the only lasting legacy I have of my family that I was born from. I have no memory of them. Not their name, not what they looked like, or what separated us. My first memory was fighting. To be honest most of my memories are of fighting. In this case it was over my meal for the week. I won that fight. So I kept fighting. As I grew older I learned a thing or two about gambling, I found I enjoyed words and made every effort to speak in a way that wouldn’t betray my lack of proper education, I became proficient at brewing, plus some less than savory skills. When you’re growing up and school isn’t an option, and manual labor isn’t appealing you find yourself unsavory taverns learning from unsavory folk, and I found early on it’s much easier to make a friend than an enemy (personality trait). Once I trust someone enough to call them a friend they have my undying loyalty, until then they can sod right off (ideal). When you spend almost every waking moment keeping company with criminals and other desirables, or fighting, you start to build a reputation for yourself. I’m taller than a lot of people I know, also pretty stout so many of my peers in the seedier taverns saw this coupled with my fighting prowess as benefits to their type of work. I became the go to enforcer for our little slice of heaven, and I did quite while if I say so myself. Well enough to fund my gambling hobby, feed myself, keep warm at night, and continue to allow ink to adorn my body.
My first job started a bit of a tradition that I continued through my whole life. The thief that hired me insisted that he and I get partial tattoos, just the outline of a completed piece. Once the job was done we could fill them in and complete the job. I don’t know what his reasoning was, but in any event the job went off without a hitch. I got my first tattoo filled in and I decided to keep doing so before and after every job I ever took. I’m proud to show that my arms,except for my hands, and legs, except for my feet, are completely filled. It’s began to spill onto my back and torso. All completely filled in. except for the outline of a heart on my chest. The one job I didn’t complete. The one that still haunts me.
Tymus the barkeep, was the closest friend I had. He was family. He took me in when I was young, wild, thing. He helped me find who I was. He never forced ideology on me, he never lectured, but he tried to show me what the right path would be. He was the most honorable man I know, never giving into the seedy underbelly that this world can offer. Though he never judged me when I wasn’t necessarily on the right side of things. He knew who I am and that my heart never allowed me to do something that I felt was wrong. Then one night in a hushed tone he asked me for a favor. I had just finishing the filling in of my newest piece (the bear face on my right ankle) and he said he had need of my services as an enforcer. This is a man I had on more than one occasion trusted with my life so I said yes, no questions asked, and began tattooing the outline of a heart on my chest. Tymus had to confront a local man whom he had helped in the past. He offered his help freely on many occasions. The only thing he asked in return is that whomever he helped would not use their position to harm those in a lower station than they are in. I don’t know what this person did, I don’t know their name, I don’t even know what they look like, all I know is Tymus needed my help. So I stood behind him as we entered a tavern in the next town over. I stood in front of the door he entered into a private room, and I heeded his words to not allow anyone enter the room until he called my name. Many tried to enter, many tried to rush past me. No one tried twice. But I never heard my name. I stayed outside the door all night. Through the silence. The staff never even approached me when they wanted to close up. Once the sun began to rise I decided that I decided that the silence had lasted long enough. As I entered Tymus was alone, sitting in a chair. His eyes were blank and his chest was a charred hole. The one person truly close to me died and it was my fault. I will not let this happen again(bond). My heart continues to be empty as I search for a way to atone. For ages I continued his legacy by keeping his tavern open. I offered help to various people for various things. I stopped taking work as an enforcer, though sometimes people would come to the tavern looking for trouble with old Barendd, they never came back. I kept my less than legal contacts, I kept my body strong, I tried to do what good I could, but a body grows restless. What could a Dwarf do with my particular set of skills, love of fighting, and yearning to do right by the only Dwarf that had done right by him? How could I fill my heart?
It came to me in a dream I could go adventuring. I could try to set the world right. Fight what is truly evil. I am by no means someone who is "good" most of my friends aren’t either. None of us are evil. There are those who will take from those who have nothing. Those who will hurt the harmless. Those set the world on fire to watch it burn. Those are the ones who I can look to ridding the world of.
I might always stay on the straight and narrow. I admit that when I see something valuable, especially when it belongs to someone who doesn’t need nor deserve it I can’t think of anything else but how to steal it (flaw). I still love games of chance, and always carry my special dice for when conversations are going nowhere. Old habits die hard. But I’m ready for a change.
Last edited November 3, 2017 5:11 am