Character Name: Karnar Farinor

 

DM Username: Marak

 

Email: blackholearmy@gmail.com

 

Division: Children of the Light

 

Physical Description:

 

Karnar is a tall man, with a somewhat imposing manner. He has wavy black hair, a beard, also black, cropped very unevenly, (both his hair and beard), brownish skin, perhaps from the sun, perhaps from his race, and he is well-muscled in his left arm. He hides his right arm from view, at all times, hidden inside his shirt, with several layers of filthy cloth wrapped around it.

 

Place of Birth/Raising:

 

Karnar was born in the land north of Cairhein, and yet south of Shienar, an unclaimed land. His parents were settlers, and herders, and moved with the sheep and cattle, and, as he grew, he craved something different, something that wasn't endless plains. He was raised by a communal family, and knew many people, few of them violent, most of them kindly. For a few years, they had travelled alongside some Tinkers, in fact.

 

 

Character History:

 

Karnar never knew the blade, or any other weapon, except a sling, used to keep the wolves away from the herds. He was hasty, and violent by nature, stalking away from his parents at the slightest provocation, and falling into rages with only a little more. Their constant gentleness and kindness seemed to evoke his anger, and rage.

 

At the age of fourteen, he slipped out of the constantly-moving camp of his parents, and left them. He gave them no thought, and travelled south. He had stolen a map before he left, and plenty of supplies, and his horse, and so travelled south, to where he knew Cairhein was. As he travelled ever southwards, he gave some minor thought to what he would do when he arrived. He only had a few coppers, hardly enough to keep himself alive.

 

As he rode into the city, he found a stables, and sold his horse, for what seemed quite a large sum of money to him, then. And, with that money, he bought himself a dagger-cross-shortsword. Having spent almost all of his money, as he searched for an inn, he was accosted by a man, who tried to attack him. Karnar had no qualms about slashing the man across the face, and stabbing him until he died. He had no skill at fighting, and the time, but the sheer ferocity of his attack overwhelmed the man.

 

He walked to his inn, and slept a night. The next day, as he walked down the same street he had met the man, a courier of some sort approached him, asking him if he would like a job. Karnar agreed, thinking he was to be some sort of messenger boy, and was led off the streets, into a grand house.

 

There, a noble met him. He looked at the boy for a moment, and then dismissed him, and sent his courier after him. The courier told Karnar that, that very night, a rival lord had stolen a letter from the lord he served, and that he was to steal it from him.

 

Karnar found where the lord lived, and knocked on the door. The lord answered. Karnar unsheathed his knife, and stabbed him in the throat, without a second thought. Thieves didn't deserve to live, he decided. He took the letter, and took it back to the lord.

 

For seven years, this continued. Karnar was known among noble circles well, not by name, of course, but by the mysterious figure who slaughtered whoever he chose, even nobles, and was never caught. In these years, Karnar learnt the blade. He was a natural at using it, and once defeated four men in an alleyway, when he was taken by surprise. He was almost a blademaster, in terms of skill, and, coupled with his erraticism and rage, allowed him to kill many. He had learnt from the streets, to judge a man by what he did, which accounted for most of his skill. He had no great elegancy with the blade, instead, he fought with his teeth, his hands, and whatever he could find.

 

However, it was on that night, that Karnar went to kill the lord he served's brother. The man was fighting him for some sort of inheritance, and his lord required him to be removed. Karnar climbed the building, and went in by the roof. He slashed a tripwire, avoided a strange sort of crossbow trap, and chuckled quietly as he went down the stairs. He opened the door to the enemy lord's room, and...darkness.

 

He felt pain, as he awoke. Three men were standing around him, and he was tied securely with rope. He struggled madly to get free, but to no avail. One of the men was holding one of his hands. He looked up, only to see a blade crashing down. He screamed, and his hand was scythed off. It burned. Blood poured out, and a man looked at him coldly. "Put the tar on". A lump of hot tar was applied to his hand, searing the blood vessels shut. They wrapped a bandage 'round his hand, and pulled the blade up again. This time, though, Karnar moved his hand as far as his bonds would allow, and still the blade cut through his hand, although only his ring finger, and pinky. They raised the blade again, but the voice stopped them. "Idiots. He'll bleed to death. What harm can he do with three fingers?".

 

The tar was applied, and the hand bandaged. All he could feel was pain. He felt pain, as he had never felt pain before. It was an epiphany of pain, throughout his body. He screamed, and screamed, until a hand was roughly shoved to his mouth.

 

He heard another voice, a bit slowish, and stupid. "Hehe. Let's cut off his feet, and make him a begger! Make him a blind man with no hands or feet!".

 

The cold voice rang out again. "Fool. He needs to deliver the message. He needs to be able to find his way back".

 

The next thing he knew, he was out on the street, cold, and in terrible pain. "Go back to your masters, cur. Tell them what has happened here, and tell them that their pet has been rendered useless. Perhaps they will take pity on you."

 

Karnar was not that stupid. He knew Cairhein well enough, to know that would mean death. Indeed, he was the one who had delivered such sentences, time and time again. He stumbled around, trying to regain his vision. He had five gold crowns in his purse. He couldn't undo his belt, though, with one hand. He growled in frustration.

 

The pain was immense, and he started running, trying to escape. He ran, and ran, trying to flee from the hurt. He couldn't.

 

After almost a day of running, and then walking, and then crawling, he reached a small farmhouse outside of Cairhein. He walked to it, and, as he did, a man ran out with a shovel, threatening to hit him. He instinctively reached for his sword, and was rewarded with a thwack to the head.

 

This sort of thing happened many a time, before he reached Amador. Through begging, and careful, thrifty spending of his crowns, and it took him almost a year. Along the way, he thought. Perhaps his parents had been right. Perhaps the Creator punished those who were evil, and rewarded those who were good. As he thought about all the pain he had caused, led by his pain, he thought. And he hurt inside. It had been years since he had felt any feelings except for contempt, hatred, and despite, and yet he felt.. Sorrow. He wept for days, weeping out his pain, and his self-loathing. He no longer felt anger at the loss of his hands. He was not dead inside, but almost so. To himself, he swore never to use a blade again. No matter the circumstance, a blade in his hand had only caused evil, and hurt. He felt the need to make restitution. Not for himself, but for what he had done. He talked to an Amadician, who told him about the Children of the Light. They did good deeds.

 

However, he did not feel himself worthy of joining such a thing, yet. Instead, he stayed in Amadicia, as a scribe. He wrote, although slowly at first, with his single hand, and then faster, until he could write as well as a two-handed scribe. He learnt the uses of herbs, mainly from old books, and from a few of his neighbours (Since this isn't the Children Hate All Healing Things Amadicia, I feel this is ok. If it isn't, tell me, kay?), and did some healing. He learnt how to use bandages, what herbs did what, how to apply them, and how to heal. He helped many, and yet, he felt dead inside. As he helped people, he saw himself only forestalling their deaths as to one such as he had been.

 

He felt, however, that the Children used cold steel to fight evil, seeking it out, and destroying it, where it was. He felt... something. It may've been hope. The only way, he felt, that he could truly redeem himself, at least in his own eyes, was to help fight evil where it stood against the Light, helping not to just heal the wounded, but to stop the wounds.

 

He walked up, humbly, to the gates of the Fortress.

cc'ed

*bumps thread back in order*