Phedamus Martis

I am an Altene, by blood and by choice.

IÖ am Phedamus Martis an Altene long ago battle hardened, but yet to learn the true meaniní of battle.

I was born in the outskirts of an Altene village, on the morniní of the first day of Jermos. I was born into poverty, my father a Bodyguard to a travelliní peddler named Milder Altos, my mother a lowly culinary maid who prepared all our meager meals. Ye see we were part of a caravan that moved all over the country side, dealing in the arts of forbidden magic aní in armory the likes ye have never seen before. We possessed magical medicinal herbs that could cure the slightest ailment, to the disembowelment of human and animal alike. We sold our wares to those who would pay the most, we didnít care if those receiviní our items were cold blooded killers.

As I was sayiní before the posca took over my emotions, my father was a bodyguard to Milder Altos. My father was a magnificent man who knew the arts of Staves like he new himself. I thought he could take on hundreds of armed men with his stave but I would later be proved wrong. He taught me how to use the stave, but I never took to it, no matter how I tried, how ever much I practiced, I could never seem to grasp the use of this piece of wood, worthless wood. I would have rather been fightiní like the other boys, with the gladius aní spear aní with the axe. My father kept trying until one fateful day when we were going through the woods, on our way to a faraway place called Iridine, we were attacked by bandits, terrible people they were, aní unbelievably foul smelling.

The bandits attacked our caravan, first taking out our scouts, then from caravan to caravan they moved, rapiní aní pillaginí all of our people. As my father threw his quarterstave aní a strange package to me he said that I was to take my mother in a southish direction, aní to follow the path, no matter what. My mother was fearful, wanderiní round in a stupor not knowing what to do, it was a miracle thank EraiíTheran that she was not hurt. I grabbed my mother aní a few things from the caravan and headed off down the path.

We ended up in the outskirts of Iridine, near a foul smelling place with lost of dogs aní rats, thatís when my father came to me, three arrows sticking from his back, aní fell down dead. We buried him as best we could digginí a small hole in a pile of refuse. After burying my father we continued on, we then reached a place called the Toga, it was a sweet smelliní inn where we were greeted aní sat to tables where we were given food aní drink. A lady named Constantine told us that if we were to go see a helpful man next door called Phaedro, he could tell us almost anythiní about the city.

To cut a real long story short, and to stop all those absent minded men and women that canít enjoy a story getting bored out of their minds.

I grew up under the tutelage of my mother, she taught me how to read and write, how to knit and how to cook, and some nice men called Cassius, and Gilven taught me in staves where my father left off. From that moment on I knew that staves were in my blood, my father knew it, and I should know it, I trained as hard as I could and am still training now.

I learned that I would need my wits about me to survive in Iridine, and that once in a while you should listen to your parents [once in a while], and you might learn something.

Phedamus Martis.

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