Information


Synclair has a minion!

Reap the Vengeance




Synclair
Legacy Name: Synclair


The Hydrus Telenine
Owner: josi

Age: 17 years, 1 month, 1 week

Born: February 20th, 2007

Adopted: 11 years, 3 months, 2 weeks ago

Adopted: December 12th, 2012

Statistics


  • Level: 10
     
  • Strength: 31
     
  • Defense: 26
     
  • Speed: 27
     
  • Health: 27
     
  • HP: 27/27
     
  • Intelligence: 1
     
  • Books Read: 1
  • Food Eaten: 0
  • Job: Unemployed


A brief review regarding the day Ebon Synclair's life was completely ruined

Ebon Synclair: a fancy name for a non-fancy 19-year-old guttersnipe. Born one of the middle children to a rather enormous family, he and his siblings languished in poverty until Ebon broke free of the downward spiral and learned how to pickpocket, set traps, and pick locks. His family paid him no mind when he began spending all his time at the city's Thieves Guild headquarters, mostly because he was taking meals and sleeping there, which made him one less mouth to feed. Ebon had aspirations of mild greatness: a steady flow of work from the Guild, a home for himself, a future.

All that would change.

It was just a job that he was supposed to do: Break into a temple, grab some artifacts that just arrived and deliver them back to the Thieves Guild. He didn't remember which god the temple belonged to - he never paid attention to that. Just another day.

At the temple, he penetrated the storeroom's defenses and stuffed the items in his pack, uneventfully. One step closer to his full Guild membership. Smirking, he turned on his heel and made for the exit. He was inches from leaving the room for good when his steps slowed, and then stopped. What was this feeling? He was being pulled somehow, towards a closed door. His heart suddenly ached with longing, but it was not his own emotion. Unable to resist, he turned around.

He pressed his forehead to the cool wooden door, overpowered by foreign emotions. His hand wandered to the handle - locked. No matter. He picked the lock feverishly and opened the door, and found -

A sword.



His heart pounded as if this rusty artifact was the answer to every problem he would ever have. He picked up the blade and unsheathed it with wonder - It was an old steel short sword, a one handed blade, but still heavier than the dagger he was used to using. It was visually unremarkable, rusted in spots. The hilt and pommel were dingy brass, some worn out symbol engraved on the blade itself, rusted out and unrecognizable.

It was a complete piece of shit, and he knew it. Why, then, did he need it so badly?

He heard sounds down the stairway. Snapping the sword back into its sheath, he climbed out a window and was gone.

With the sword in his possession, he was different, not himself. He delivered the artifacts to his uppers at the Guild, but then he left, wandering the streets, staggering like a zombie. His hand kept grasping the hilt at his hip. Where was it taking him?

He came to his senses once more at the entrance to a building. Another doorway, another gut feeling that he needed to get through it. He felt like he'd just woken up from a nap - groggy, confused. Looking around, he regained his sense of direction - he was at the piers now; this building was a warehouse. Actually, he'd broken into this building before. There was a patch on the door from where he'd busted the lock.

That didn't stop him. He opened the door a moment later and stepped inside.

Twelve fire elemental spirits, six drow, and four humans looked up at him.

He felt the blood leave his face as the biggest of the humans got up from his chair, illuminated ominously by the flaming elemental nearest him.

"You found something you ain't supposed to, didn't ya?"

Whatever higher power had been guiding Ebon to this point, it chose to keep silent now as the large man picked him up and threw his head against the wall, knocking him out cold.



He woke up later. It was dark. He felt groggy and confused, a feeling he was becoming far too familiar with lately.

"He's awake. Find anything on him?"

"No, a just a sword."

"Let me see."

A pause.

"Bah, this doesn't look like it could cut butter! Make him talk."

Rough hands ripped the canvas bag from his head. He registered that he was now in the far room of the building, and a single elemental blazed in the corner against the stone wall, watching him. Closer was the same human thug from earlier, leaning over him, with breath that stank of cheap pickled fish and garlic. Against the other wall was a lone drow male. The sword, the all-important sword, was at the drow"s feet. Ebon still felt a tug in his gut when he looked at it.

"Answer me. Who sent you here?" the thug growled, sending another puff of foul breath into Ebon's face.

"Has nobody told you how terrible your breath is?" Ebon replied through the pain of his throbbing headache.



Before he knew it, several men were tying rocks to the chair he was strapped to, giving Ebon time to reflect on his short life before he was thrown into the ocean below.

He supposed he'd had a good run. His brothers and sisters would barely notice his absence. The Guild would replace him easily. His poor girlfriend might mourn him, but Ebon knew she would have no problem finding another. Such is life, and his was soon to be no more.

As two men hefted him off the dock and he sailed through the air towards the water, he thought of the sword. He decided his last conscious thought should be dedicated to cursing whatever god led him down this path as the salt water enveloped him and he plummeted to the bottom of the shallow sea.

He looked up, salt water stinging his eyes. The surface of the water rippled at least thirty feet above."Oh well," he thought.



Back on the dock, the thug turned to his superior. "What should I do with this?" he asked, holding up the short sword as if it were a filthy, diseased thing.

The drow shook his head in mock pity. "A man should not be without his trusty weapon. In it goes, after the wretch."

The thug laughed, and gladly threw the sword into the ocean. The ripples from Ebon's plunge were still subsiding as the shortsword slid into the water in precisely the same spot.

As the pair walked away from the dock, the large man remarked, "Maybe we could open up other rations besides the pickled herring and garlic, though..."

"Silence," commanded the drow.



The sword sank down sheath first. By luck or not, it had been aimed straight at Ebon, drifting down directly between his knees.

He watched it arrive to join him, a last insult from his captors. Even with his lungs burning for air, he rolled his eyes.

The sword stopped drifting down, ending its movement its pommel level with Ebon's eyes. Suddenly, it glowed, and a torrent of bubbles emerged from the spot on the blade where the illegible symbol was engraved. Ebon stopped rolling his eyes, although whether it was from losing consciousness or from surprise he could not say.

The bubbles swirled in a spiral around Ebon's body, but did not rise to the surface. They grew in form and size until eventually a sphere of air formed around him. At last Ebon took in great breaths, gasping.

The water had somewhat lubricated the ropes binding his wrists and feet, and he was soon free. The air sphere was windy and wet, and he wished very much to be dry and warm. He took a cautious step. The sphere did not move with him. He predicted that as soon as he touched the sword, this lifesaving enchantment would collapse. He took a large breath and grabbed the hilt.

His prediction was successful. He grudgingly swam the fifty yards back to shore, emerging under the dock.

Ebon staggered onto shore and stabbed the sword firmly into the sand. He sat down facing it.



"What do you want from me?" he asked it.

The rusty sword stood silent.

"Why have you done this to me? What are you? You still want me to go into that warehouse, I can still feel it. What are we looking for?"

There was no response, and Ebon felt a little embarrassed, sitting there talking to an inanimate object. He crossed his arms and went on.

"Damn it. If you're some god who needs a champion, you can forget it. I'm a thief and a lockpicker and I'm not some damn paladin. I don't speak holy words, I don't study scripture, and I refuse to - oh - oh god..."

Ebon's legs jerked out from under him and he was soon standing. His hand reached out and grabbed the sword once more, with Ebon cursing all the while.

'Okay! Okay. Just quit it. I'll do this thing. You want me to kill them, right? I feel that too. You'd better help me, mystery god, or I swear on your name I'll throw this sword in the ocean and drown when you throw me in too."



When Ebon burst dramatically into the warehouse a second time, sword in hand, dripping with salt water, everyone but the elementals burst out laughing at him. However, the raucous laughter turned into shouts and noise as he destroyed the closest fire elemental with one slice of his sword.

He cut them all down in a glorious, satisfying display of violence. Through some sort of divine intervention, none of his foes laid a finger on his sopping wet, unarmored form.

His rusty sword dripped crimson on the floor as he approached his last victim - the drow overseer. Ebon controlled the urge to dispatch him long enough to ask a few questions.

"Before you die, tell me what was to be accomplished here," Ebon said, in a deadly calm voice.

"You don't know? Why would you slaughter us if you -"

"Answer the question, dark elf."

The drow swallowed hard, looking into Ebon's eyes. "I see it - I see the god's power in you! You are a chosen champion. Didn't you know we planned to destroy the deity within you?"

Ebon blinked. "Destroy a god?"

The drow nodded. "It will be done -- even if you strike me down!"

Ebon looked at his sword.

The drow went on, laughing softly. "To choose a champion such as you... Your god is a desperate one."

Ebon could bear the sword's urging no longer. The rusty blade pierced the drow's rib cage and attached him to the wall.

"Not my god," Ebon muttered.

The job was done, and Ebon stood in a room full of corpses and ash. However, it was not over. A compulsion from the god bent him over and he picked up the sword, using his still-wet shirt to wipe off the blade. He blinked at it. It was now gleaming, shining gold and steel. It looked razor sharp and brand new. He flipped it over hopefully. No luck -- the rusty symbol was still no more than a few halfhearted dents in the blade.

"You are not my god," he repeated to the sword. "And as long as you use me for your will, I will hate you."


When the sword compelled him to leave the city, he didn't think much of it. Poor nobodies like him disappeared all the time without much notice. Let the Guild and the rest of the people from his former life think he was dead. Let them mourn, for the person he was before was gone. Ebon was ashamed of the vessel he had become.



All artwork drawn by me, josi. Ebon Synclair is my 4th Edition Dungeons and Dragons hybrid paladin/rogue. What you've just read serves as his back-story. His adventure is ongoing.

Thank you for reading. ♥️




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