Your first impression of the knight is that he is awfully short...until he removes his helmet and reveals himself as a foxfolk. In which case, you muse, he is a very tall fox. Nevertheless, he would be even taller if his back did not involuntarily bend him forward as it did. His exotic vestments don't seem to match his gloomy expression any more than the dulcet tones of his voice match his indifferent attitude.
"I am here for the evildoer," the knight states with an aloof sing-song, and dismounts from the saddle atop the large sea turtle that passes for his mount. As the knight's piercing stare scans the coast, you have a moment to take in the unlikely pair. Two-of-a-kind, you think; both rider and mount having dome-shaped armored backs. A turtle of any variety would be an impractical choice for transportation on the mainland, to be sure, but here in the island hamlet of Columnden it must suit the knight's purpose.
At last the knight ceases glaring out at the horizon and actually regards you for the first time. "Well," he sighs apathetically, "you certainly don't look like an evildoer. Do let me know if you see one, will you? Simply ask for Dagrun; they know me here. There's a good citizen." And leaving his turtle companion munching on saltbrush, Dagrun marches inland to find his quarry.
Dagrun's tale would be a heart-wrenching one if he were kidnapped by pirates as a child, forced to work hard labor for years far from his mainland home, developing a hunchback and a hatred for those who preyed on the weak and mocked the law for personal gain. It would be captivating to learn how he relied on his wits and the muscles he developed while mining all those years to allow him to escape the clutches of his captors, freeing hundreds of slaves in the process.
I say "it would be," for such a tale would be all those things; a legendary epic, a dramatic saga. But that is not Dagrun's tale. Alas, so honest is the simple son of a butcher that he cannot even bring himself to lie about it.
No athlete—due to the hunched back he was born with—Dagrun's mother taught him to make candles until he was old enough to wield a cleaver, and then his father taught him how to cut up the sea turtles of his hometown into the best steaks. This lasted only a week before he felt for the poor slow beasts, identifying with them for how they, too, had bent backs, and went largely unremarked as anything of consequence.
The bravest thing Dagrun ever did was open the gate of his father's turtle-pen and release the entire nest. It was the slowest and most pitiful escape anyone had ever seen, and Dagrun's father just watched quietly from the window of the shop as his son rode off on the largest of the sea turtles, shuffling languidly toward the sea for the next hour. He was just happy his son had found something that he cared about, even if it would take him away from the shop for the afternoon.
In time, as his parents continued to support their son's interests, Dagrun joined an order of sea-knights, proving to them that he knew all the best ways to cut up an enemy—for it could not be much different than cutting up a turtle, and at least it would serve the community.
With a flair for the dramatic, and an active imagination, he invented a persona for himself to play while he was on duty. This is where Dagrun tells the tale of being kidnapped by pirates in dulcet gloomy tones—all the better to impress and intimidate evildoers. It was not quite lying, he convinced himself; no more than acting was lying, anyway.
Today, Dagrun protects the island hamlet of Columnden, still won't eat seafood, and comes home to visit often, where he doffs the "intimidating" persona along with his armor. And really his parents couldn't be any prouder.
No comments:
Post a Comment