Garrick the lame

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Miscr3ant
Posts: 1
Joined: Sat Sep 15, 2018 2:29 pm

Garrick the lame

Post by Miscr3ant » Sat Sep 15, 2018 2:45 pm

Description:
If you see him walk the one most visible characteristic about him is his lame leg. He drags it along, only using it to prop himself up as he moves his good leg for the next step. He is slow.

Non-descript hair, non-descript features, except for his eyes, which are bright blue.

Bio:

It starts as most stories start; a birth, proud parents, simple joy. He was the light of their lives, a light in a hard world of work and more work. They were simple villagers, his parents, who asked for nothing and got nothing. But Garrick was their treasure, their first and only, as the midwife said it would be death for the woman to bear any more. That was a hard blow for Garrick’s father, for a man on the farm needs sons, and those strong, as the work of bringing forth Chauntea’s bounty was not for the faint of heart, nor one man alone. Still, they made do with their one chick, and lavished upon him all the love that should have gone to many. And in the light of that love Garrick grew strong and happy. It was because of that love that he lived through what would have killed two men.

He was young, just a boy of five summers, when the accident happened. He was with his father in the fields, a warm summer’s day, and he grew sleepy. His father was tired as well, but only because of the long days work. It was the sum of those two things that led to what happened next; an overworked father whose eye was not as sharp, a sun-kissed sleepy boy unaware that a team of oxen was bearing down on him as he lay in a cool furrow, beasts of burden that know only the goad.

The scream that rent the air was the only warning; the Father’s was no less when he saw the wreckage that was the boy’s leg.

All work was forgotten as the Father ran with the unconscious boy in his arms, the mother running at his side to the village. And though the village was poor, still it had what any group of rural people had; a healer, well versed in treating the common hurts that befall those whose livelihood was spent in simpler but hardy settings. But when Garrick was brought before her, she knew at a glance that the damage was beyond her ability to repair. She was a simple priestess of Ilmater, and her powers were those of a village priest. Still, she did as always for the people under her care; her best. She set the leg, and what power was hers was cast upon the boy, knitting the skin, though not making whole what was so damaged. Long he spent in her care, and from her learned of Gods, and faith, and abiding patience. He learned of good, and had warnings of evil, but that in the hand of Ilmater all things are endured. He was shown once more, as he had been from his parents, that the spirit is more durable than adamant. And though he lived, and even in a measure thrived, from the day of the accident forward he was ever halt upon one leg, dragging it slowly as he gamely made his way through the world.

As he grew, he learned early on what he could do and what he could not. Gone for him were the leg-races of children, trees were no longer his to climb. But such was the spirit in him that it overcame what all but him viewed as a tragedy; to him it simply was, the same as a sunrise, or rain, or a wind in the meadow. It even became his name, Garrick the Lame. But, when others would tease him, as children are wont to do, he did not cry, nor even grieve, but smile; he was lame, and denying it did not make it less. Anger was not in him, the need to hurt others because he was hurting never part of his nature. Violence toward any living thing he never could do. He was kind at heart, but that did not make him weak; he was firm in himself, he knew what he was, and what he was not, and was content, and not many can say the same, especially one who was marked as he was. Perhaps it was because of it, and the Gods know best. And in the end, it proved to be to his benefit.

As the years passed, the village grew to not even notice his dragging limb, his slow painful progress; the children’s taunts grew less, the stares of adults became a thing of the past. And because it was a small village, he found his place, as in such a setting there is no room for charity; all must help to keep the body that was the village whole, even if one did have a lame leg. His was two jobs, both much needed. From the Priestess he learned the art of healing, though using wraps and bandages. Proving an apt pupil, many in the village came to him for the repair of all wounds minor and sundry, those that could be set right by a boy with hands that seemed to know what to do, where to bind. It was for his hands that his other task in the village found place, and so he found himself working in the smithy’s shop. Not for the heavy lifting; he was weak in body. Not for swinging a hammer; the dance at the anvil beyond his ability. But, because of his limitations, he found other ways to make himself useful, and his nimble fingers became his gift to the town as he worked. Wrapping wire neatly about hilts, twisting roses and patterns at the crossguard, setting gems into the weapons that customers provided, this gift was both blessing and curse; blessing, in that it brought more work to the small village, and profits thereby; curse, in that it brought the bandits, to take those selfsame profits from what they saw as a ripe plum, far from the protection of any Lord.

They fell on the village unawares, and the people fought hard for their land, their lives. But even so, it was going against them, as each that fell was one less, and they were not warriors. But on that day, Garrick found his true calling. Never one to shirk, he knew he had to help as in all things, as those in the village shared in the toils of life, and he walked into the fray, though violence towards another he did not know, nor feel. But on that day, the will that was within him shone forth as a light, his faith became his shield, and the simple boy became a holy man. Unafraid, and unseen to the enemy by the power granted him by Ilmater, he walked among his people, those many wounded, and laying hands upon them they were healed of their hurts, and so the village won the day, and drove off the bandits, the survivors of which never returned.

The villagers looked at him anew as he stood among them. He saved them, this boy, saved their lives and their village, and they knew it, and were grateful. But the Priestess, who had taken up her cudgel for the battle, knew then that what power was in the boy was destined for things greater than her, and she smiled, for she loved Garrick and was happy for him. Her breath coming ragged, still she said the words that changed his life forever, and told him that his life was destined for things beyond that of a simple villager if he was to live to his potential, but that he would need to find it in the wider world, as she could not teach what she did not know. His parents smiled through their tears, for they loved him and would miss him sorely, as he would they. But they knew the natural order of things, living as they did, and did not try to deny what must come; the chick take wing, and fly beyond the nest. Still, it was a matter of weeks before he could leave, as meager supplies were gathered, and a tinker’s cart came through the village, on its way to Cordor. When it did, goodbyes were said, blessings given, and a life began anew.

And so, after an uneventful journey, he comes at last to the city, there to find his place in the world.

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