[APPROVED] Character Submission: Arkon

Chapter One: Home
Arkon was born to a young Mother and Father, barely a few years out of their own youth. His Father left before he had lived for more than a year, and he could barely remember him. The young boy was brought up by his Mother, in a small coastal town, far from the large and great kingdoms, and though she worked hard alongside the fishermen in the town, cleaning and preparing fish and selling them at market, she still had time to spend with her son, playing games, teaching him to walk and speak, and as he grew, teaching him the ways of the world.

A solitary and quiet child, Arkon rarely spent time outdoors, besides the times his Mother forced him to leave, to visit the market for food or to pass messages on. He struggled to make friends, his reclusive lifestyle lent itself to pale skin, and compared to those around him, he was often nicknamed as ‘ghost’, or ‘corpse’, laughed at and tormented by younger and older children alike.

With little reason to leave, Arkon spent most of his time following his Mother around their small home, helping with chores, or being tutored on the basics of things like cooking, cleaning and the likes. It was a simple life, but it fulfilled Arkon, and seeing his Mother smile made him happy as can be.

But all good things must come to an end, and as Arkon neared his twelfth year, his Mother began to fall ill. It started out with simple fainting spells, in the heat of summer, which was easily explained away. Soon enough however, she was bedridden, struck with a high fever and other equally worrying symptoms. A visit from a healer yielded suggestions for medicine, but they had neither the money nor means to pay for it.

The town they called home was far and distant for a reason, chosen by refugees and survivors from the Xitian occupation, the War of the Veld and all the conflict and infighting that followed, its remote location ensuring that the only troubles they regularly endured were the cold winters and the occasional bandits on the road, and though news travelled of events transpiring across the land, it often felt like a world away. The little that they saw and heard of it usually coming from Lucin’s travelling with merchants, or groups looking to charter ships across to the Forbidden Lands.

Although self sufficient it was hardly an easy place to live. Arkon tried his hardest to find work and money to pay for his Mother's medicine, yet no Fisherman nor Fishwife could waste their time nor money upon an inexperienced and untrained boy, and he found little to no kindness among his neighbours, struggling to gather more than a few mere coins.

As his Mother's health began to deteriorate, Arkon grew more and more desperate. With no one to really turn to, and no work to earn him the money, he eventually took the only course of action left to him. In the dead of night, after the markets has closed and few wandered the quiet streets, Arkon left his home, and headed for the Doctor's residence.

His shop and house resided on the inland edge of the town, which was far less run down, sporting tall and sometimes elaborate stone and brick houses. After evaluating the surrounding wall that fenced the house in, the young boy quickly scaled it, dropping softly into the garden. Using a discarded brick, he smashed the closest window, carefully climbing over the shattered glass with only a few small cuts, before entering the shop.

The Doctor had described the medicine Arkon’s Mother would need, and so in the gloom, he slowly scanned the labels of each item upon the nearby shelves. It was clear what was on show wasn’t what he needed, so the boy quietly vaulted over the counter, and started rooting around behind it.

If he wasn’t so focused and worried about being caught, he may have heard someone approach, he might have been ready to run. Instead he didn’t see the blow to his head coming, and with a brief cry of pain he fell unconscious to the stone floor, darkness taking him away, as he was hoisted into the air.

Chapter Two: Prison
Arkon woke to an aching pain upon the back of his head, and as he slowly opened his eyes, he knew he’d been moved. The cold embracing his limbs, and the dank dark stone room he was in suggested he’d been found during his attempted theft. As he moved, his head throbbed once more, and he went to reach and touch where he’d been struck, only to find his wrists bound tight with large shackles and kicking his legs in protest, he realised his ankles were much the same.

Yelling out loud seemed to produce no results, but Arkon persisted, and soon enough the sound of boots upon stone echoed from nearby. Twisting his head around, he saw a large iron door, creak open, before slamming loudly into the wall, a large imposing figure blocking out what little light existed in the hallway beyond. Without a word being spoken, Arkon was kicked roughly in the stomach, drawing a gasp for air, followed by a yell of pain. The figure merely laughed, clearly a man by the voice, before turning and leaving, slamming the door shut behind him and that was that. Dragging himself over to a corner of the cell, the young boy curled up as best he could, cradling himself as he closed his eyes and hoped in some vain hope that if he fell asleep, this nightmare would leave him.

The next time he awoke was when a bowl of food was quickly tossed into the cell, the door being slammed closed. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness again, he would crawl towards the bowl, carefully sitting up and using his shackled hands to awkwardly bring the bowl to his lips. He hadn’t realised quite how hungry he was, and despite the grim taste of the lumpy stew, he downed it quickly. After what seemed like hours, the door was opened again, and Arkon pressed himself back against the cell wall, as another tall figure entered, and took the bowl away, not paying the boy any attention.

With the lack of light, Arkon wasn’t sure just how much time had passed, between fitful periods of sleep, and occasionally wandering his cell, awkwardly hobbling around with his shackled ankles. As his fear and confusion passed, frustration set in. Why was he here? Why had no one spoken to him? He knew he’d done wrong, but surely if he told someone, they’d understand! All of these thoughts and more came thick and fast, and with that, he decided to do something.

Using his shoulder, he would slam his body into the door. Despite his small and light frame, it still made enough noise to echo in the hall beyond, and combined with yells that followed, it soon drew attention. The telltale sounds of someone rushing down the hall quickly got louder and louder, and just as Arkon hit the door for another time, it flew open, knocking him back against the wall painfully. “Silence!” Was all Arkon got, before the door was slammed again.

It wasn’t more than a few moments before Arkon was repeating the same actions, and this time he received more attention. The door hammered open like before, but this time the figure strolled into the cell, grabbing the collar of Arkon’s dirty shirt and hoisting him off his feet, before tossing him into the corner “Shut up, you dirty little thief, no one cares, and no one will help you.” the gruff man snarled, sending Arkon scurrying for the furthest corner, his shackles scraping on the stone floor.

Despite the warnings, Arkon continued to try and call for attention, kicking and hammering on the door for what felt like hours. Each time he was told to be quiet, and soon enough he was being kicked and beaten, but he refused to obey, and eventually he was dragged from the cell by his shackles. For several minutes he watched corridor after corridor pass him by, wincing and struggling as his feet and legs dragged along the floor. Eventually he was brought into another cell, being tossed into a hard metal chair.

Another person walked into the room, as Arkon’s shackles were finally removed by the first. The new stranger introduced themselves as Warden of the prison he had been brought to, and explained that Arkon had been arrested for attempted theft and damage to property. The conversation felt surreal to Arkon, and much like his first night in his cell, he wondered if he was going to wake up, and find himself back at home with his Mother. His Mother.., he wondered, was she okay? Was she surviving without him?

“My Mother?” Arkon suddenly blurted out, interrupting the man’s speech, that he had long since stopped paying attention to. The man’s expression shifted from a calm look, to irritated and angry, as he stood up slowly “What?” He asked in a subdued tone. Arkon repeated his question, expressing worry for her well being, and as his naivety set in, and he started babbling about going home. It was at this point that he was struck hard across the face. Struck dumb by the strike, he began to cry, his previous maturity leaving him as he sobbed and bawled, drawing an amused laugh from the Prison Warden. This went on for a few more minutes, before he was struck again, and told to be silent. Obeying, despite a soft sniffle, the boy was then hauled away, leaving his shackles behind as he was once again tossed into a cell.

So Arkon’s life started anew, a prisoner in a cell, fed once a day, and only greeted by the one who brought his food. Occasionally he would be taken from his cell, and beaten, although for what reasons he wasn’t sure. Whether the guards were bored, or ordered to, it didn’t matter. Soon though, he had had enough, and began yelling and crying out, kicking and bashing the door to his cell again. This brought him the attention and ire of the guards even more, but even as he lay battered and often bleeding on his cell floor, he smiled a little to himself. Even in his dire and hopeless situation, he found something to try for, some way to fight back.

A year passed slowly, sluggishly, and Arkon had grown tougher. Used to the beatings by now, he resisted the pain and urge to cry out, even as the guards found new and inventive ways to punish him. Still he caused nothing but ruckus in his cell day after day, despite its clear lack of progress towards changing anything, he clung to it as something to live for, a purpose. But as each day passed, the Warden’s patience grew thinner and thinner, his desire for order and peace in his prison dictating his orders. His youngest charge must be pacified. Arkon’s crime was not severe enough to warrant a sentence of death, yet he had to be shown the error of his ways, he must be silenced.

So the order was given, and in the dead of night Arkon was ripped from his cell, and roughly manhandled across the prison. Deposited in a cold metal chair, much like his first day, this time he was bound, his hands and feet bound to the chair. His forehead was held in place, and although he had gotten used to the Guards treating him like little more than a plaything for their violent tendencies, this was something new, and fear gripped his heart.

Another man entered the room, and started a fire in the corner, finally adding some much needed light to the dark room. Light illuminated the many racks hung from the walls, upon which many tools of pain sat, along with many that hung from the ceiling. Arkon began to wriggle and squirm, fighting against his bindings, but to no avail. “Do it” came the order, as Arkon’s jaw was forced open. The man at the fire turned, some tongs held in one hand, a blade in the other, its tip glowing brightly. Fighting more violently as an inkling of what was to come blossomed in Arkon’s mind, it wasn’t long till he was punched in the stomach, winding him and still his limbs. Being forced back into the chair, the young adult watched the man approach, before he squeezed his eyes shut, unable to watch what was to come. With his mouth forced open, the man painfully gripped Arkon’s tongue with the tongs, before agonizing pain suddenly enveloped him, and he passed out, darkness taking him.

Chapter Three: Silence
He awoke in darkness, and pain, his entire mouth throbbing and burning. It took him several days to recover enough to be able to eat anything, and even then he barely moved or wandered his cell like before. He was left alone, thankfully, besides when food was brought, and slowly but surely he began to feel a little more like himself. His tongue was gone, sliced away and cauterised. He couldn’t feel it, he couldn’t feel anything in his mouth anymore, besides the slowly fading pain. Arkon’s days passed along much the same for a long time, as he continued to recover, his lesson learnt, he no longer caused a fuss, or noise, besides his occasional attempts to speak, which went nowhere. With little to hope for or do, besides eat and be looked in on by guards, the days dragged by, and each one felt longer than the last.

Eventually, changes did begin to occur, the Prison became more lively for one, with more criminals incarcerated, their yells and chatter often echoed through to Arkon’s cell, keeping him awake even when his body cried out for sleep. With the increased population, more guards patrolled the corridors, and although he was no longer beaten, he was still spoken to harshly, verbal abuse came often, especially upon the delivery of his food.

Years passed like this, although for Arkon it felt like far more, with the daily schedule of the prison being carved in stone. Between guards checkups and food, Arkon walked his cell and counted every stone in the wall, floor and ceiling, over and over again, which while being monotonous in nature, passed the time surprisingly quickly. It was on one such day, as he counted the bricks in the wall, that something new occurred. It started with the small window in the door being opened, which in itself wasn’t new, the Guards almost never opened his door besides for food, preferring to watch and insult him from outside the cell. Yet this time it wasn’t a guard's eyes at the door, but instead the sharp blue eyes of someone else entirely.

He stood quietly as he was stared at, before the eyes disappeared, and he heard voices from beyond the door. Most of it was spoken in a language he couldn’t understand, however certain snippets were spoken in the common tongue, and filtered through. “He’s just a boy.” “A Thief is a Thief, Ma’am.” the conversation grew more heated, and eventually the female voice requested the door be opened. The woman was tall and lithe, striding into the cell with a natural air of authority. In the dimly lit cell, the woman’s long silver hair and blue eyes gave her an almost ghost like appearance, and Arkon shirked away, fear in his eyes. The woman stood silent before him for a moment, before she slowly dropped to a knee, and held out a hand, a smile on her face.

It took Arkon a few minutes before he composed himself, and stood up properly, watching her quietly. She spoke a few things in the language he had heard before, before she said softly “Can you understand me?” Arkon nodded slowly “What is your name?” She asked softly, to which Arkon shook his head. From the entrance, a guard said gruffly “We took his tongue, he wouldn’t shut up.” The woman’s head snapped around, and the guard visibly flinched, stepping further into the corridor. Her gaze would return to Arkon, and she smiled a little, although with sadness in her eyes “I’m sorry.” She said simply, before she reached out to ruffle his hair. Arkon watched her leave, he watched the door close, and then he lay in his usual place, and closed his eyes, attempting sleep, a little smile playing on his lips.

Time passed again, with the woman, who introduced herself as Ilyana, visiting on a weekly basis. She would ask Arkon how he was, about the prison, how its food and guards were and with slight gestures and movements, Arkon would signal his opinion on each matter. She told him of the outside world, how life keeps on ticking by, how her and her group had been stationed here, to keep a watchful eye on the area, and ensure the corrupting hand of the Xitian’s didn’t infect the lands. Arkon had little education of the past, and although he couldn’t say it, the woman picked up quickly that he didn’t really understand what she was discussing.

Often, during her frequent, but brief visits, she would tell him of the past of their lands, tales of war and death, suffering and pain, but most of all, of the one thing that survived and persisted, was hope. She would hold his hands in her own, giving him the warmest smile, as she insisted he mustn't give up hope, that the world is still out there, waiting for him. Arkon would smile a little, although in his heart he wished she wouldn’t. He knew how much he wished to leave, to be free of his confinement, and her words just made him miss it more.

His life continued in much the same fashion, and soon enough his 17th year came by. Although his sense of time was very much warped inside the confines of the prison, Illyana’s visits kept a form of flow in his life. The Prison was growing more and more busy as criminals from around the lands were brought in and tossed in cell after cell. Often Arkon couldn’t even get to sleep for the yelling, laughter and crying that echoed through the cold stone walls, and it only grew worse, as the Prison and Cells grew more crowded, what happened was inevitable.

The sounds of violence took some time to reach Arkon’s cell, the only noticeable change being the silence that hung across the cells, the calm before the storm, as slowly but surely yelling and screams began to break the silence, growing louder and louder as time passed and soon enough Arkon heard the sound of fighting down the end of his corridor, followed by the falling of several bodies. Yelling and laughter followed soon after, as the escapees began hammering on doors, forcing several open and the sounds of scuffling started again. Slowly but surely the sounds drew ever closer, till they were hammering on his door eventually, laughing amongst themselves as the door shook with the force of their blows.

Arkon slowly stood as the door began to come loose, the dust of brick and mortar gathering on the floor around the frame as it began to give. Stepping back Arkon readied himself, preparing to run, hoping to bolt past the other prisoners. The sound of cracking, shifting stone filled the cell, and then the door gave, the heavy iron hitting the ground with a bone shaking thud, in a cloud of dust. Before it had settled, Arkon was off, sprinting for the exit, as fast as he could. At which point he ran straight into what felt like a brick wall, bouncing back onto his backside with a loud ‘Oof’. As the dust drifted away, it revealed the man whom had broken in. Standing almost 7 feet tall, he was built like a giant, his broad shoulders barely able to fit through the doorway. His eyes drifted downwards, and his red eyes met Arkon’s, the same eyes Illyana had warned him about. The man’s lips curled upwards in a smirk, as he moved towards Arkon, as the boy was frozen in fear.

Before the man could cross the threshold of Arkon’s cell, an Arrow buried itself in his temple, and a small spray of blood cast itself across Arkon’s face, as the giant’s eyes glazed over, his disturbing smile frozen in place in an almost comedic fashion as he collapsed forwards, Arkon scurrying backwards out of the way just in time not to get flattened. A few other prisoners ran past the door, before Arkon heard each collapse, after the sharp sound of arrows piercing flesh. Peeking his head around the corner of the door, he saw Illyana, dressed in armour and wielding an ornate looking bow. He smiled and almost waved despite himself and his situation, before she yelled his name, her gaze looking past him, and he turned, to find another burly looking man, dressed in a guard uniform, a blade held above him, aiming to bring it down upon Arkon’s head. Another arrow whistled above him, before embedding itself in the man’s eye, knocking him backwards as he collapsed into a heap.

Frozen again by fear, Arkon was easily grabbed and hoisted by Illyana, and she ran with him, this way and that, through corridor after corridor, skipping over bodies that lay strewn about the prison, as the sounds of fighting dipped and raised in volume, as they passed by skirmishes between guards and prisoners. Through his eyes, Arkon saw men fall, here and there, and it wasn’t clear who had the upper hand, yet on Illyana ran, never stopping to help or fight, and despite his occasional jaunts outside of his cell, Arkon had no idea where they were, or whether they were heading further out or in. Eventually the tight corridors opened up into a wide, high hall, a large wooden door barring the way. The sound of jingling drew Arkon’s focus down, and he saw Illyana taking a large hoop of keys from her hip with her free hand. She would carefully unlock the door, and using her shoulder force the heavy wood open with a brief grunt.

As the door swung open, Arkon’s long hair was ruffled by a breeze, fresh air upon his face for the first time in so many years. Then a call came from behind them, and Illyana turned, allowing Arkon to look upon the face of the Warden. “Where are you going?” He demanded, blood coating his mail armour here and there, from the fighting. “He is still a criminal, you know?”

“Don’t try and stop us” Illyana said simply, calmly “This boy has no reason to be here, he never did.” The Warden scoffed, drawing his blade, causing Arkon to cower some against Illyana, fear gripping him once more. “He’s a Criminal, he’s right where he belongs.” Illyana shook her head, a slight frown appearing on her features “Whatever he did, anyone outside of these walls has forgotten.” The Warden pointed his blade towards Arkon, chuckling more “The Law states-” at which point Illyana cut him off “The Law is wrong. Don’t try and stop me, you don’t have the authority” With that the Lucin balled her fist, and Arkon felt the breeze behind him become cooler, sending a shiver down his spine as the air around them chilled rapidly.

This simple action caused the Warden to back away slowly, before turning to run back into the prison, although his eyes betrayed no fear if he had any. Illyana shook her head sadly, before turning back to the exit, and running outside with Arkon still held in one arm. “Here we go” she said simply, sprinting out along a simple cobbled path that lead up to the large stone fortress. Around them was nothing but rolling green fields, no towns, villages, nothing in sight. If one didn’t look behind, it would look like a perfect utopia. Sprinting rapidly away from Illyana, Arkon began to relax, even smile, he was free. It was then that he heard a brief whistle, before a heavy thud, and both he and Illyana were sent flying, as the woman was bowled over by an arrow that embedded itself in her shoulder.

Arkon heard her cries of pain, and he awkwardly got to his feet, looking about. He’d been thrown free from her grasp, and she was a good few metres away. Rushing to her side, her shoulder was covered in blood, and it was growing quickly. She gave him a little smile, before a loud voice boomed across the land “Find the Boy” her face steeled, as she used Arkon to get to her feet. She pushed him away, uttering a soft “Run” as she drew her blade. Turning from him, she moved to head towards the source of the shouting and yelling that echoed from the direction of the prison. Looking back, and seeing Arkon frozen by fear, she yelled “Run!”, before sprinting off.

Arkon was jolted to action by a scream, like a banshee's, not of pain, but anger, from where Illyana had headed for. Turning away, he followed her last instruction and ran. He sprinted in the opposite direction and simply ran. He didn’t stop for anything, heading over hill and dale, across stream and past lake. Adrenaline pumping through his body as he ran for all he was worth, his ragged breathing the song of his escape.

Time seemed to slow down, as Arkon appraised his surroundings as he moved, watching trees pass, seeing birds fly overhead. He had no idea where he was heading, but he knew he had to run, that's all that governed his movement. Soon enough however, his years of imprisonment and malnutrition soon began to weigh heavily upon the young boys body, and his movements became sluggish. His foot dropped into a rabbit hole, and his entire body flew forwards face first. The impact itself was enough to stun him for a time, and as exhaustion set in, coupled with the aches and pains now throbbing through his body, he blacked out.

He woke to feel hands prodding him, although he didn’t realise it immediately. As it became clear what was happening, fear struck him like a hammer blow, the guards had found him! Wriggling and kicking, lashing out in the vain hope he could still escape, he instead felt a gentle hand upon his shoulder, and a soft spoken voice say “Calm.” In his current state, and with the brief burst of adrenaline already fading, his exhausted, weakened body gave out again, and the
darkness embraced him.

Chapter Four: Freedom
Arkon woke to warmth and comfort, something he hadn’t felt in so very long that it was almost alien to him, uncomfortable even for a time, before he grew accustomed to it. Bright light pierced his eyelids, and it took him some time to even open them a little. Eventually he was able to appraise his location, as he was laid in a bed, within a small wooden hut. Looking to one side he noticed a small man, tiny even by child standards, asleep in his seat, legs curled into uncomfortable looking posture. Clearly weathered by age, his bald head fascinated Arkon, its shine almost like metal, and he stared at it for a long while, until his amusement was broken when the man woke with a jolt.

He gave Arkon a small smile, murmuring a quiet “Good Morning Young One, Rest well?” Arkon paused, unsure how to answer, before he nodded slowly. The Man’s eyes were a deep red, and not the sort where one hadn’t slept properly. He remembered Illyana’s words on the Red Eyes, the Xitians, and briefly fear gripped his heart with its oh too familiar cold fingers, before the man smiled more, and carefully hopped to his feet, clearly more nimble than his age gave him credit for. The sight was polarising for Arkon’s feelings, as he recalled Illyana’s warnings, yet this man looked like he couldn’t hurt a fly. “You still have much recovery to endure” he said softly, looking over Arkon with a little smile “But you are safe here. No need to fret, the Brotherhood will look after you.” With that, and a little bow, the small man left.

Arkon remained in the bed for several days, being brought simple foods, bread and soup mostly, occasionally chicken and other meats. He couldn’t really taste much at all, and he was simply happy for the sustenance, and to feel properly full after so long spent feeling hungry almost every day. Over time he learnt that he had been found by a Caravan heading towards the shrine of the Brotherhood of Ash, a small group of peaceful Xitian’s who sought to undo much of the damage that their more violent brethren wrought. They spent much of their time bringing food and aid to those who needed it, bringing those who couldn’t protect themselves under their protection and trading with the nearby towns and villages.

Although he only saw a few members of the Brotherhood, it was clear that they weren’t up from solely a Xitian population, as some Mesalian’s came and went, checking on him, or bringing him food. None spoke to him however, although he did often receive a smile or a nod. The only one who spoke to him was the old man from before. He’d always come and ask how Arkon was, checking his temperature and talk a little about how nice the weather was, and what had happened that day. Arkon always listened, always smiled and nodded when appropriate. The man always phrased his questions in a way Arkon could nod or shake his head to, and eventually he admitted that he noticed Arkon’s inability to talk early on.

Once Arkon was able to leave his bed, he was given a tour of the small shrine. It wasn’t anything special, a small gathering of wooden homes and huts acting as shelters and storage, with the only large building being of stone, in the centre of the collection of buildings. Hardly grand in its overall design externally, the inside was something else entirely. The walls were covered in different collections of arts, ranging from mosaics to huge paintings of events or the depiction of deities. The building began with a long hallway decorated in wild designs, but they petered off as the hall lead to its destination. A room cylindrical in design, but with many, many sides, each coordinated with the centrepiece of the room, a huge pillar within which a small alcove was carved, one for each side of the outside. Within each of these alcoves sat a statue, or idol, or in some cases a bowl or candle. The Brotherhood of Ash, as it was described to Arkon, welcomed and accepted all races and faiths into its arms, and it could never focus upon one deity as being the superior god. A teaching deemed as a cause of war and destruction, and thus the Brotherhood of Ash decided to remove it, instead favouring what they called the “Pillar of Faith”, allowing the worship of any and all gods their patrons and kin follow.

As he was given the tour, Arkon was able to witness much of the shrines life. From the day to day duties of cleaning and cooking, to the training and teaching. The Brotherhood believes that with proper discipline and training, even the angriest and most violent mind can be calmed and tamed. It was clear to Arkon as he was shown around, that these people weren’t the same as those that Illyana spoke about, their eyes may be filled by fire, but their hearts were nothing of the sort. Eventually he was taken back to his hut, and sat down by the Elder, as the old man became known to him. “Do you have anywhere to go?” The man asked, and Arkon shook his head, not even knowing where his home was any more. “Do you wish to stay?” Arkon had wondered if he could, ever since he’d arrived, and treated not like a thing, but a person. Now as the Elder uttered those words, he could do nothing but nod and smile broadly.

Chapter Five: Initiate
So Arkon was accepted into the Brotherhood of Ash, although as only an Initiate, he wasn’t given many responsibilities. Indeed, Initiates among the Brotherhood were more students than they were monks, given a relatively strict regime of educational subjects, by Elders and approved Brothers. Most of these lessons were in relation to their actions as a member of the Brotherhood, including cooking, healing and preaching the Brotherhood's ideas.

Other lessons pertained to the schooling of survival and defence, as often Brothers were sent out for weeks or months at a time, sometimes alone, travelling to distant towns and villages, and were expected to make the journey there and back without need of escort. Many of the Brotherhood's members and Elders were old soldiers and mercenaries, and thus the Brotherhood taught several forms of combat, always focussing on defensive styles, and utilising weapons that could never easily cause harm.

Arkon took to certain things more than others, and he especially had interest in being taught to write. Communication was limited for one of his disability, and anything to help him was a welcome relief. The going was hard, as the Brotherhood favoured more elaborate styles than he really required, yet Arkon persevered and much of his time among his new family was spent pouring over papers, often with his hands and work blotted with ink as he made mistakes or paused too long upon a specific word.

Given the choice of combat styles, Arkon chose the Quarterstaff, favouring its range along with its usefulness when travelling. He took to its use fairly naturally, enjoying the flexibility it offered in attacking, twisting and shifting his grip along its length to manipulate it to the perfect length to swing, lash and thrust with, this way and that. Along with his scribing, the usage of the quarterstaff was his favoured subject.

He quickly became well known about the quality of his cooking, although none of the Brothers, not even the Elders had the heart to tell him how bad it was, however it was clear to Arkon it wasn’t favoured, when he was the only one who ate it. Typically it was overdone, or burnt, but the taste mattered little to one without a proper sense of taste, and he had long since the loss of his tongue struggled to associate smell with tastes, so much so that bad and good rarely had much difference. Despite this clear lack of ability, Arkon still worked hard at it, often cooking his own meals, since no one else had the stomach or inclination to eat it.

Other lessons, including the art of healing, sewing, gardening and other such skills useful in the aid of the common people were taught with regular frequency, and although Arkon studied each dutifully, he rarely took much from his lessons more than the basics, and they didn’t speak to him like his favoured and most practiced lessons.

While his capability to preach the thoughts and beliefs of the Brotherhood were lacking, he still worked hard towards the cause, using his newfound skills in reading and writing to often rewrite their works for distribution during a Brothers visits to the nearby towns and villages. While he wasn’t adept at recreating the artistic embellishments much of the writings held, he could eventually, after several months of lessons and work refining his handwriting, write smoothly enough for it to be used.

Life in the Brotherhood was simple, and in many terms it was easy, and certainly comfortable. There was a sense of ease and peace among the people and the atmosphere of the Shrine. People came and went at a steady rate, some merely visiting to pray or offer at the Shrine, others to speak or deal with the Elders and Brothers. Outside of time spent working on lessons, much of the time was spent cleaning and tidying the Shrine and the surrounding buildings, along with preparing foods or aiding the Brothers in their daily works. Some time was given up for personal pursuits, although Arkon took this time to work mostly at his writing.

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and as his life as an Initiate continued, years sped by at a rate he had never felt since he was but a child. Birthday after Birthday passed, and soon enough his 22nd cycle had come about. After nearly 5 years working as an Initiate, he was finally allowed to assume the role of a Brother.

Chapter Six: Brother

Waking one day to the face of the Elder whom had welcomed him into the Brotherhood, Arkon smiled and gave a small friendly gesture, as he sat up. In the Elder's arms was a bundle. A pack of supplies, for both travelling, and as the Elder explained, for writing, so he could indulge his hobby, along with communicate more efficiently. There was also a cloak, denoting his rise among the ranks to a true Brother. Dyed a soft red, along the hem of cloak was an elaborate pattern of marks which denoted his rank, the higher the markings, the higher the rank.

After a brief hug and words of encouragement from the Elder, Arkon was set to his new role as a Brother. When not travelling, Brothers were expected to fulfill certain roles Initiates were not trusted with, including tending the Shrine, welcoming visitors and trading with Merchants. On top of this, they were also expected when able, to teach students that visited the Shrine, along with Initiates.

Arkon didn’t travel for quite some time, somewhat unwilling to leave the place he had come to call home, and slightly fearing the outside world, of which he had seen little since he had escaped his imprisonment. Instead he spent much of his time tidying and tending to each idol and alcove of the shrine, ensuring they were all in good order. He also taught several classes on the use of the Quarterstaff, using physical demonstrations to teach. In similar fashion, he often taught the basics of scribing, to those that could already read, as he wrote out the instructions on the board.

Having risen in rank, he found his usefulness somewhat diminished and outshone by the other Brothers around him, and this, along with encouragement from the Elder, he eventually set out travelling. With food in his pack, and his quarterstaff in hand, Arkon headed out, away from the shrine. He had no true heading in mind, the Elder had simply given him a direction, with the promise of several villages and towns along the route at which he could help.

The going was tough, and the weather turned bitter soon into his trip, forcing him to camp more than he wished, as he endured harsh rain and dropping temperatures. Eventually he would make it to the first village, although it was hardly worthy of the name, being little more than tiny collection of houses and trade homes. He found little welcome there however, and none desired his presence nor his wares or aid. He was however offered directions to the town over and asked to deliver some letters, for which he was given a handful of coins as a donation to his cause. The weather softened as he headed out again, and he made good headway towards the town the villagers had spoken of. As he walked along the road, he spied what looked like a cart at the side of the road. As he approached, it revealed itself as a carriage, turned over on its side, and around it stood a handful of shady looking men. His quarterstaff held innocently, albeit tightly in his hand, he approached quietly, making no sign of paying the men any attention.

Two of the group noticed his approach, and moved to block his passage, one of them speaking in a guttural tone, “Toll to pass ‘ere, Stranger.” Arkon smiled softly, shaking his head some, although he didn’t move, nor offer them any money. The one who spoke frowned, and said again “There’s a toll, pay it or bugger off.” He had a club in one hand, and he brandished it menacingly at Arkon.

Pondering for a moment, Arkon shook his head again, and the men began to approach threateningly. Waiting for them to draw close enough, he quickly snapped a kick against the base of his staff, using the momentum to swing it up hard with one hand and smash it between the first aggressors legs, causing him to grunt in pain, before collapsing and curling into a foetal position. As the man’s friend recoiled slightly in surprise,Arkon took a step back and taking the staff in both hands, he twisted around quickly, his cloak twirling with him as brought the end of his staff smacking soundly into the man’s temple, knocking him to the ground and in turn knocking him unconscious.

At the sound of the scuffle, the other bandits gathered, but at the sight of an unscathed Arkon, and two of their friends groaning on the ground, they quickly scarpered. Arkon took a moment to inspect the carriage, ensuring there was no one hurt within, before he began to head back towards the town, leaving the two men in the road.

Several days passed before Arkon made it to the town, but it was thankfully uneventful, and the weather was good for the rest of the journey. Upon his arrival, he was certainly more welcome than the previous village, and he handed out the letters to those they were meant for, before seeking out anyone he could help with. He stayed within the town for a few days, giving out several bits of reading material from the Brotherhood's teachings to those whom seemed interested, along with offering some simple healing tinctures to those with ill children, or ills themselves.

Eventually he made to leave again, once his work was done, giving a note to the town guards about the bandits he’d found along the road before he left, although they seemed to care little. The rest of his travels went much the same, the weather coming and going as it always did, sometimes good, sometimes bad. The same could be said of his visits to the many villages and towns that dotted the landscape, some welcomed him with open arms, while some ushered him onwards, unwelcoming to an unusual looking stranger. While in a peaceful land such actions may seem strange, a land of conflict and history such as the one Arkon walked was always to be expected, especially towards those whom sport of the colours of a Brotherhood, often associated with the Xitian people, despite their peaceful intentions.

All in all, his travelling took nearly three months, before he began to head home, and despite his quicker return, it was just over five months in total, from his leaving the Shrine, to when he returned. He was welcomed by his Brothers, and especially by the Elder with open arms, and hugs. He was happy to be back, and took some welcome rest, enjoying the company of his Brothers, and he spent much of his time tending to the Shrine, relaxing with the peace.

However soon he felt the urge to travel again. His abilities were limited while he stayed at home, and he had enjoyed the freeing feeling of travelling the lands, helping those in need, protecting those whom couldn’t help themselves. This became his life, and he spent most of his time on the move, leaving the Shrine behind, for the most part. Indeed he spent more time on the go than he did at any one location, his pale skin taking on a darker hue, as he spent so much life in the sun.

He also endured his share of fights, although reluctance and the occasional arrogance ended with him suffering more injuries than he’d have liked to admit, despite the scars that eventually marred his appearance.

Chapter Seven: Illyana
It was during one of his travels, that he met a friend to travel with, although it wasn’t a Brother. As he travelled through the mountains, midway between two towns, he had camped for the night, setting up a small fire and laying out his bedroll. As he laid down to gaze up at the stars, he heard rustling in the nearby undergrowth. For a time, nothing caught his eye, until he saw something else looking back at him. Large eyes, reflecting the firelight amongst the bushes. After a few moments of silence, a little fluffy creature hopped out, a cross between a rabbit and a squirrel, the animal hopped slowly over to Arkon’s pack, before it began scrabbling weakly at it with its little front paws.

He sat up, and the creature tried to hop back in surprise, however it seemed weak, and instead flopped onto its side, making soft noises. Arkon wasn’t sure what to do at first, but it made no signs of getting up. He carefully, gently scooped the poor animal up in both hands, and carried it to his bedroll. Setting it down, he grabbed his waterskin, and carefully proffered the bottle to the little animals lips. It spilled most, but drank some, purring softly as it did so. He let it lie there, unsure of what else to do, choosing to lie down beside his bedroll, and despite the cold and hard ground, he managed to eventually doze off.

Waking, he soon looked to the bedroll, but the little animal had disappeared. Frowning slightly to himself, Arkon packed up his camp and headed out. He hadn’t been on the road more than a few minutes when he felt something brush his neck. Hearing a soft squeak, the Chinchilla from before suddenly appeared at his shoulder. If he had the ability, he would have cried out, instead he gasped, almost falling over from the sudden surprise, but the creature clung on tightly.

Carefully Arkon set his staff down on the ground, before using both hands to gently lift the animal off his shoulder, bringing it to his chest. He smiled down at the Chinchilla, before frowning as he could clearly hear its laboured breathing. He set it down again, after unravelling his bedroll with a careful hand. He offered it more water like before, which it took, before curling up more. Clearly it was ill, and Arkon was unsure what to do.

He decided to stay, for as long as he could, tending to the little Chinchilla. Setting up camp once more, he set about gathering foods for the animal, feeding it what it would eat, keeping it full, hydrated and safe. Days passed and Arkon’s own food began to dwindle, he knew that he would have to soon head towards town or he wouldn’t make it.

Sadly he packed up the camp, and as he bent down to put out the fire, he suddenly heard a squeak, and the little Chin hopped up his back and mounted his shoulder. He received a little lick to his cheek, and cuddled in close. It was still breathing heavily, but it seemed far more chipper than before, and didn’t seem to want to be left behind. Carefully packing the rest up, Arkon headed off, towards the next town.

The little female Chinchilla, as Arkon soon found out, was an affectionate animal, and she never left his shoulder all along the journey, although she did turn this way and that, often making him sneeze softly as her tail tickled his nose. As he made his way into town, and purchased foods and the likes, he also purchased a little basket, assuming it would be better for the little girl than clinging to his shoulder. Using some leather strips, he carefully tied it to his staff, before helping her into it. She poked her head over its rim, and looked out at the world with her big black eyes, snuffling this way and that whenever a new scent caught her attention.

Seeing as how the little creature showed no inclination to leave, Arkon decided to keep her, naming her Illyana after his first true friend, hoping that she would be as good to him as Illyana had been, so many years ago.

Years of travelling ensued, Illyana with him every step of the way, and soon enough his 25th cycle came to pass. At this point he was heading home, back towards the shrine, when he reached the last town along the road before he returned to his Brothers. As he entered the town, he heard the screams of a woman echoing down the main street. Picking up his pace, he saw a sight that made his stomach turn. A woman, with wild hair and wild red eyes was being set upon by two guards, who were kicking and beating her. She was trying to fend them off as best she could, but after being punched in the gut she doubled over, and was helpless to defend herself. His brow furrowed, Arkon carefully set Illyana and her basket down, along with his travelling pack, before heading over to the ‘fight’.

One of the guards turned away when he heard the telltale thud of Arkon’s staff upon the cobbled street. “Guard’s business” he said simply, giving Arkon a stare that clearly said “Not your Business” as he went to turn back. Arkon moved to grab him by the shoulder, before deftly stepping back as the man swung to brush him off. “Get back!” he grunted, growling as he drew his blade “This Xit is dangerous, we’re doing our duty. She was going to burn down homes.” He looked back and grinned as the woman endured more of a beating.

Arkon’s grip tightened on his staff, gripping its middle with his other hand as he suddenly twisted it, striking the man upon his head. Despite his leather helm, the man still went down, crumpling into a heap on the ground. Not missing a beat, Arkon took two steps towards the guards colleague, dropping to one knee and as the man turned, Arkon swept his feet out from under him. A quick strike to a stunned head quickly left another unconscious guard.

Retrieving his things, Arkon then moved to help the Xitian woman up, but she was already gone, leaving nothing behind. Checking the guards over, he ensured that none of them were in any serious state, before he quickly hurried out of town. The shrine was still a day away, and he knew that if he remained, it was likely that he would be hunted down.

He made quick time, camping only for a few hours before he managed to reach the Shrine. It was less populated than normal, as the Elder explained that many of his Brothers had been sent out to settlements near and far, the Brotherhood requiring more donations to spread their influence. Eventually Arkon brought up what had happened in the town, and why it had happened. The Elder approved of his selfless act, yet it was clear the old man was worried, indeed he dismissed Arkon, telling him to travel again, far away. The Town’s guard were known for being ruthless, especially towards those not of Mesalian descent. Giving him a good amount of supplies for his journey, and sending him away.

Arkon left quickly, although his heart was heavy with worry and sadness. It was soon dark after he left, and he camped not far from the shrine. As he fed Illyana a berry, and she nibbled happily, Arkon surveyed the dark landscape. It was at this point he noticed a light among the darkness, a handful of torches, heading for the Shrine.

Chapter Eight: Revenge
The sound of something solid thudding against solid stone echoed through the dimly lit hall. An old man, clad in a worn old cloak, heavily emblazoned with patterns from the hem up slowly made his way along, leaning heavily upon a twisted staff, each step adding another thud to the room. Suddenly, a door opened at the end of the hall, sending a shaft of bright light into the room, illuminating some of the elaborate architecture, and ancient scriptures hung upon the walls. The sound of armoured boots and clinking chainmail was followed by men moving into the hall, and with a silent gesture, the man at the head of the group sent two off, rushing through the hall, one searching the shrine while the other heads into another room, while the last was posted to the entrance door.

The leader approached the old man, who hadn’t moved in all of this. He loomed over him, his hooded visage, and armoured form threatening in any context. With a swift movement, he kicked the staff off to one side, sending the old man tumbling to the floor, but before he completely sprawled out, the armoured man grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and hoisted him partially up. Pulling the old man's hood back, he was greeted by terrified, deep red eyes, as the man whispered in a barely audible, wavering voice. “He’s not here.”

With a sadistic grin, the man tossed the elder to the ground, swiftly following up with a rough and solid kick, drawing a sharp gasp and a deep groan from the old man. This was only the beginning however, as he began to rain down blow after blow upon the old man’s fragile frame, as he curled up to better defend himself. As his companions ransacked the shrine, searching, the Leader happily continued beating the old man, his laughter drowning out the Elders cries of pain, as it echoed through the hall.

The Leader was so distracted, that he didn’t notice the shrines door opening, nor did he hear the guard’s exclamation, indeed it wasn’t until the man fell heavily to the floor that he looked up. A man stood in the entrance-way, clad in the same clothes as the Elder beneath the leader's feet, a staff held in one hand. His hood drawn back, long blonde hair hung over one shoulder, the man stared at the leader with bright, grey eyes. Grasping his staff in both hands, the man sprinted at the Leader, as the armoured soldier stood and drew his weapon, taking on a guard stance. Expecting the man to block, the soldier swung a high blow, only to see him drop into a roll, shooting past him. Before he could react, the man had swung his staff in a sweeping arc, knocking the Leader's feet out from under him, and before he could even cry out, the staff was brought down with a vicious blow upon his head, knocking him out.

With the other guards busy hunting, they hadn’t heard the brief scuffle, and so the man knelt beside the Elder, removing his robe and carefully draping it over the older man. Meeting his gaze, the young man brought a finger to his lips, and smiled softly, as he took up his staff again, and quietly moved further into the shrine.

Silence followed for several minutes, before the door to the private room opened and the guard returned, seeing his fallen companions, he gave a yell, drawing his weapon and calling again for the other guard. However the man who returned from the Shrine didn't speak, his blonde hair shining almost in the torchlight as he returned to the hall. Wiping a small amount of blood from the corner of his mouth, he gripped his staff again, as he challenged the guard visibly. The guard glanced to his fallen friends, before growling and lunging at the man. Using his staff, the blonde haired man carefully parried the guards thrust, using his staff to push the blade to one side as he twisted away, bringing his staff back up to sweep the man's leg out from under him. As the guard hit the ground, the man kicked out at his hand, knocking the blade away, as it clattered upon the hard stone floor. The guard then proceeded to scramble for his blade, yet as he grabbed its hilt, and twisted to face the man, his temple was suddenly struck by the young man's staff, and the last guard finally crumpled to the ground.

The young man soon returned to the Elders side, setting his staff down, as he helped the old man to his feet. “You should not have come.” The man said, his breath ragged and heavy with wheezing. The young man simply smiled and shook his head, gesturing to the old man, before pressing his palm to his chest for a long moment. Carefully supporting the Elder, he led him slowly towards the shrine, before turning into the side room the last guard had previously occupied. He headed into the spartan quarters of the Elder, leading him to the bed and carefully laying him down. “You must go” the Elder muttered, trying to gently push the man away “There will be more” he added. With gentle hands, the young man shook his head slightly as he pushed the Elders hands away, before he stepped back, gesturing for the man to wait as he left the room again. He would return to the Elders Room after a time, a bowl of soup in his hands. Sitting by the old man’s bedside, he would smile softly, and carefully feed him.

Eventually the Elder would drift off into a fitful sleep, and the young man would sit and listen quietly, watching the old man. Once the Elder woke, he would find him gone, leaving the shrine in good order, and empty of the soldiers.

A bright sun rising would light the land in a new day, and the young man would be seen striding away into the distance.

Chapter Nine: The World Beyond
After he left the Shrine for the last time, Arkon headed out towards the coast, passing through many villages, towns and the occasional city, plying his trades as he went. He spent much of his time scribing people's letters and missives, and often treating sick or injured people, doing what he could with his limited supplies and abilities. He gave up the writings of the Brotherhood, not because he lacked belief, but merely due to the lack of interest and limited supplies he had available. In many instances, the donations he managed to gather rarely kept him both fed and supplied, and in his travels he spent more than a few nights without food.

The people of the land had no time for a Monk, except when it suited them. Arkon didn’t blame them, a harsh world breeds a harsh people, and from the stories he would often hear, and the problems he himself endured, it certainly could be a harsh world. The stories of the Xitian’s and their actions upon the land were still spoken of, and new rumours sprung up constantly. The Xitian’s return had sparked up new fears and hatred among those they had once oppressed, but now with the word of Dragons on the wind, the land looked to be taking an ever more dark turn.

Travelling took time, and as Arkon still sought to do his Brotherhood's work, he visited every settlement on his route. Soon, his 27th year had come to pass and he eventually reached the sea, finding a relatively busy coastal town, he began to ply his services once more. Several people required letters writing for locations in the Forbidden Lands. It was here that Arkon knew where his next destination would lie, as he offered to deliver the letters, he received payment, and it wasn’t long before he was aboard a trade vessel, paying for passage to the next town he would visit.

The ship set sail as the sun began to set on the day, while another stage in his life began to dawn.