Rygan_Deathblade
Evil
"Perhaps stealing the sword was in poor taste. It, in fact, almost certainly was. In truth the blade is all that binds me to my bloodline. No keeps, no silver, nor crowns or gold. Loved by my father as I may have been, a bastard - whom is behind many other bastards and legitimate siblings - inherits naught but what is decided on the deathbed. It is of course rather hard to dictate your final commands when they take your hand and then your head. The Council had obstructed my father's work and denied him his rightful place for years. I was not surprised when they refused to pay the hefty ransom - how else, after all, would they be so bloated with wealth? - but thought him safe enough with Fuvur. Old Prince Drake had in another life courted Princess Tzemik for a time. On second thought, knowing what I do of Nwalme Fuvur, that is exactly why he was handed over to the Anhalder for so cheap. Dear father should have succeeded in that alliance. I suppose the attempt on Fuvur's life only months before alongside the Sangrians helped none either. Oh well. He is dead and I am here, as pathetic as here may be. The Council would not have harmed me, but what hope did I have where a Prince failed? Being stuck in the smaller chambers of court my entire life sounded drab. So I fled, the longsword hanging from my hip. A memory of the man I called father, and a reminder of whom I am to one day be. A young noble such as I may either join the church and prattle about the Gods, work for a scribe in some village so small only he can read for leagues around, or sell his blade. Fortunately I've ever so recently come across my own."
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