Solo Medicinal Violence

[Tarn Alrenson]

26th of Summer Tarn strained, muscles burning, against the tremendous weight on his shoulders. It felt like a mountain rested on his back, relentlessly pushing him down and threatening to crush him. Any moment he would run out of space to fall, and he would be pressed flat between the weight and the ground, his bones snapping and his blood spurting… Tarn snapped awake, his hands grasping the rough linen sheets at his sides. It was a dream, there was no weight, no crushing. But there was pain. It shot up through his arm, coming from his left hand. Tarn hissed through his teeth. A few days earlier he had had a nasty confrontation with a Daggerhand, and his hand hadn’t recovered yet. The punch he’d thrown had been hard, at least Tarn knew that much, but unfortunately the target it had found—a paving stone—was a little bit rougher on the knuckles than the average face. As his mind drifted to other things the dream faded out of memory, replaced by more worthwhile thoughts. With a low groan, Tarn sat up, rubbing his eyes with his good hand. He caught a waft of himself and balked. Sweat soaked through the armpits of his rough shirt, and all of his clothes were dirty and stank as much a midden heap at mid-day. Tarn had been going for a while now off of one set of clothes. Maybe it was time to change that. It would be a hit to his purse, but for their many, many failings, the Sun’s Birth paid better than shipwrights did. Tarn swung his legs off his cot. Judging from the dim light, it was probably fairly early in the morning. Glancing around, most of the cots in the long barracks were still filled with snoring occupants. A few were noticeably empty, probably from unfortunate Dragoons that had been tasked with early morning duties. Tarn stood up, wincing as he worked the stiffness out of his muscles. His hand was the only part of him seriously injured but taking a beating like he had didn’t exactly feel too good on the rest of your body either. The swift motion of his rise made Tarn’s head spin, his vision sliding out of focus for a few seconds. He steadied himself against the wall, delicately raising his pained hand to his temple, stopping just short of rubbing it. Well, his had had been messing with him too. The only thing that gave him some small comfort was knowing the Daggerhand was almost certainly worse off. Not that it would have been that way if Tarn had faced him alone. Tarn righted himself and set about gathering his things for the day. He buckled his sword to his belt and swung the leather pack he had retrieved from the Daggerhand over his shoulder. After a brief moment of thought, he tied his small purse to his belt as well, tucking it inside his trousers so quick-fingered thieves wouldn’t decide to relieve him of his coin.

Words: 504

[Tarn Alrenson]

That was everything. Almost. With a wary glance, Tarn reached under his cot and pulled out an awkward bundle wrapped in his coat. He tucked the bundle under the arm of his injured hand and grabbed his spear. Tarn made his way down the barracks through the narrow corridor made by the lines of cots. In the corner by the entrance, three Dragoons sat in a loose circle, playing dice and laughing quietly. As Tarn passed them, he heard one boasting about the way he had treated a particular girl the other night… Tarn brushed past in disgust. Half of his comrades acted like animals, including those superior to him in rank. Tarn stepped out into the open city air and saw the glow on the horizon. By this time, most good, honest working people were already up and about. Tarn almost flinched when he remembered a rebuking his father had given him as a child. People who slept in late when there was work to be done were cowards, afraid to face the world. There certainly was work to be done for Tarn. The job he had shouldered—not the one that paid him, but the one he strove for in his heart—was monstrous. A leviathan of a task if there ever was one. Tarn quickly made his way out of the Sunset quarter, heading for the nearest place where he knew abandoned buildings to be. Ramshackle and roofless for the most part, they were a dangerous place to be at night, but could provide some small privacy when necessary. With a quick glance over his shoulder, Tarn ducked into a dilapidated building. The walls were pitiful, and the ceiling defied description, mostly due to its lack of existence. However, it was sheltered somewhat from the adjacent street, and unlike the barracks there wouldn’t be curious Dragoons all around. Tarn set down his bundle, unwrapping it carefully. Inside was a small statue, an idol of the goddess Tanroa. He set it upright on the dirty floor and sank to his knees. Prayer was not a common practice for Tarn, but this prayer had a particular use that made it rather… practical. As he finished, and opened his eyes, the little statuette had taken life, and appeared to be a small, six-inch-tall silver-haired woman. “Tanroa,” he said in greeting. The little statue cocked her head. “I am not the goddess, though I am given a sliver of her power, and though resemble her I do. I see no harm in you addressing me as such, but it is incorrect.” Now it was Tarn’s turn to cock his head. “So I can call you Tanroa?” “A scholar might argue otherwise, but for our purposes? Yes.” “How would you know what our purposes are, Tanroa?” Tarn asked. Tanroa smiled. “Well, those are for you to decide, aren’t they? Rest assured, I will do my best to assist you in whatever course you choose to take, and perhaps attempt to dissuade you from taking any course towards imminent destruction.”

Words: 507

[Tarn Alrenson]

“Fine,” Tarn said, sitting back on his heels. Tanroa stood in front of him, serene as a motionless pool. “This city is broken, infected. Too many good people die, and too many bad people reap the benefit. “In a manner of speaking, yes. You are not incorrect.” “I want to fix it, cleanse it. I want to defeat the taint.” “An ambitious goal.” “You are a talking statue, I’m a little less inclined to believe in impossibilities than I was before,” Tarn replied. Tanroa smiled. “I never said it was impossible, but ambitious. Ambition can lead you to greatness. However, whether that is great good or great evil is up to you, as well as whatever philosophy you choose to interpret your actions by.” “So you think I need to be careful, so I don’t become the problem myself?” Tarn asked. “If you wish to adhere to your current moral standards, then yes, it would be wise to maintain caution when pursuing your objectives. It would also be prudent however, for you to think carefully about how you are going to accomplish what you wish,” she replied. “I want to fight the corruption,” Tarn said, “so I fight it.” He gestured with his spear. “Physically?” she asked, glancing at the weapon. “A brave course of action, certainly, but it does not promise to be very effective.” “What do you mean?” Tarn asked. “It is not enough,” she said. The statuette gestured at a small black mouse by the edge of the room, hunkered next to the wall. “You may be strong, and you may grow stronger, but against the might of so many people banded together, like the gangs, you are extremely weak, like that mouse. People survive here by keeping low and staying out of the way of those more powerful than them, like that mouse sticking to the edges of the room and avoiding open spaces. The mouse perked up, as if realizing it was the subject of the attention of the room’s occupants, and darted back into the shadows, disappearing. “Were that mouse to confront its predators, to fight them head on it would not even hinder its opponent. It would make their job easier, in fact.” “What are you suggesting then?” Tarn asked, “Are you saying I should give up? Keep my head down and ignore everything, like everybody else does? Because I won’t do that.” “That is not what I am suggesting,” the idol soothed, “but the beasts you have chosen to face cannot be defeated with a spear, however deft you may be with it.” Tarn shook his head. “I can’t fight any kind of ideological war, there’s nobody that would give ear to my words. What I can do is beat the people causing trouble for the good folk in the city. If I kill a murderer, that’s one less murder the people have to deal with.” “Is it?” Tanroa asked. Tarn threw his hands in the air. “Bah! Maybe not, but at least it’s justice.”

Words: 503

[Tarn Alrenson]

The statuette shook her head slowly. “If you wish to roam the streets, meeting out small amounts of justice, that is fine. But other actions will have to be taken if you wish to cause a larger disturbance… ah, perhaps you will have to learn that for yourself.” Tarn narrowed his eyes. “So you aren’t going to try to stop me from fightying?” he asked. “I can never stop you, Tarn,” she replied. “What I can do, is advise you not to get yourself killed.” “Noted,” Tarn said, rolling his eyes. He stood up, stretching the stiffness out of his muscles from his crouch. “I’m not sure how to carry you, I don’t think keeping you out in the open is the best idea,” said Tarn. “No that would be unwise,” the statuette agreed. “Perhaps in your pack?” “Oh, right,” Tarn said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. He opened his leather pack and carefully placed the idol inside before closing the pack and slinging it onto his back. Strange, it did not seem as heavy as he would expect it to be, what with a stone statuette inside of it. Thinking little of it, Tarn left the dilapidated building, joining the budding crowd on the street. He winced as the light of the newly risen sun struck his eyes. A sharp pain sat just inside his forehead, even angrier with the fierce burning light. “Bloody heacache…” Tarn mumbled under his breath. He set about walking the streets. He liked to do this in the morning, as long as he didn’t have immediate duties for the Sun’s Birth. As the sounds of the city began to build, the street filling with shouts of merchants hawking their wares and friends calling out to each other, Tarn realized he had made his way to the market. “Coats! Coats! Best coats in the city right here! All colors! All sizes! The best of the current styles!” Tarn tried to duck his head as he passed through an alley formed by lines of merchant stalls. The pounding in his head was only aggravated by the yelling. “You there! Young man! You’re a handsome one, but you’d look much better with a fine coat on them shoulders!” The aggressive salesman stepped out in front of Tarn, holding up a red woolen jacket about his size. “I already have—” With a start, Tarn realized he had left his coat back in the abandoned building. He groaned. By now there was a good chance it had been picked up by some beggar or passerby. “I know it isn’t cold now, but just you wait a season or two good sir, and you’ll be glad you got a good coat like this. Not to mention, you’ll be an attractive sight for the ladies, if you don’t mind me saying,” the merchant said, pushing the coat towards Tarn with a twinkle in his eye. “I really don’t need—” Tarn began, raising his hands in a weak attempt to hold the merchant off. By Dira’s dogs his head hurt!

Words: 512

[Tarn Alrenson]

“I disagree my fine fellow! You never know when a good coat—” “Fine!” Tarn snapped, taking the coat from the man with a humph. The merchant smiled and stretched out his hand. "That will be one gold and eight silvers, of course." Grumbling, Tarn dug into his purse and pressed the coins into the merchant’s hand, mumbling something about merchants robbing people openly on the streets. The man just flashed a toothy smile in return, going back to his stall. Tarn tucked the jacket into his pack as he walked. It was too hot for coats right now. Tarn left the bustling thoroughfare of the marketplace and entered a slightly more secluded street. Maybe now he could get some peace as he walked. “Hey! No! Get back you brute! Wait, eep!” The source of these distressing shouts was a white-haired man clutching a large leather pack who came barreling around a corner, running right at Tarn. He was followed by a rough looking snarling man, quickly gaining ground. The man who had shouted shot past Tarn, and he made a split-second decision. Following the heels of the pursued man, Tarn stuck his spear out, bracing it with his knee to take some of the coming pressure off his bad hand. The shaft of the spear caught the ruffian by surprise, and the man went tumbling head over heels across the paving stones. Snarling, the man scrambled to his feet, his eyes falling on Tarn. By the time he had reached his feet however, Tarn had placed the tip of his spear just a few inches from the man’s chest. Tarn struggled to hold the spear with his pained hand. Combat would be difficult, if not impossible like this, but the ruffian didn’t need to know that. He tried to keep the spear steady, and his gaze hard. “If you know what’s best, I would turn around, and pretend none of this ever happened. Alright?” Tarn said, doing his best to keep his voice steady and clear through the pain in his head. “What’ve you got in this? He’s my mark!” the ruffian spat. “That doesn’t matter to you right now. What matters, is me, this spear, and your continued life. I would recommend you preserve it, and that means walking away. It’s that simple.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “Alright. But I’ll remember this. I’ll remember you.” With a dark look, the man slunk back into the alley of his origin. Tarn held the spear for a few more seconds in case he came back, then let the butt end fall to the cobblestones again. Leaning on it and hissing through his teeth. He had a feeling he would regret intervening like that later. “Well I must say! Thank you good sir!” Tarn cracked an eye open, and saw the white haired man with a hand outstretched. Gods his head hurt. Tarn reached out to shake the man’s hand, but to his surprise, missed. He closed his eyes for a second, until the pain subsided somewhat, then reached out and successfully shook the man’s hand. He winced when the man squeezed. The white haired man looked at him, concern filling his eyes. “Hmmm. By the looks of it, you don’t come out of every confrontation as well as that one. Am I right?” Tarn grunted. “I’m fine.” “Oh? You’re fine? Well let’s see here then…” The man set down his pack and searched through it for a moment mumbling. Eventually, he came up with a small red ball. “Well, if you’re fine, can you catch this ball for me?” He tossed it. Tarn made an attempt to catch it, he really did, but his good hand was on his spear, and the ball bounced off his injured palm before he could close his grip. The man raised an eyebrow. “Yes. Totally fine.” “It’s none of your business,” Tarn grumbled. “Well actually,” the man said, raising a finger, “I am somewhat of a travelling medic—although your city doesn’t seem too kind towards finer folk, so I doubt I’ll stay long—so your injuries are very much my business.” “I don’t have the time, or money, for a doctor’s visit.” “Oh, a busy man are you? In that case…” the “medic” dug through his pack again, once more mumbling to himself. “Ah! Here it is!” He pulled out a thick tome, with a symbol on the cover that even Tarn recognized to mean medicine. “If you don’t make time enough for doctors, you should at least be able to do some basic maintenance yourself. Think of it as a gift, for saving my skin back there.” The man pressed forward with the book, and Tarn reluctantly took it. “Now if you wouldn’t mind,” the man said, his eyes darting back and forth nervously, “I have an old acquaintance in the ‘Commons,’ it appears I have had some bad fortune in finding him, so would you mind escorting me at least part of the way? If it isn’t too much trouble…” Tarn looked down at the heavy book in his hands, then back up at the man. He sighed. “Fine.” “Oh wonderful! Now about that book, don’t go trying to cut yourself open, you’ll get yourself killed doing that in a city this dirty…” the man prattled on, giving advice filled with thinly veiled digs at Sunberth. Maybe I should have just let them run by, Tarn thought, in a fit of dark humor.

[Firenze]

GRADES!

Good job getting the mouse and ball into the thread!

 

Tarn Alrenson

XP

• Socializing 1
• Philosophy 1
• Weapon: Spear 1
• Medince 1

Lores

• Dragoons: Act like Animals
• Self: Those who sleep late are cowards
• Location: Sunset Quarters
• Self: Praying to the Goddess Tanroa
• Multiple ways to fight the "Corruption"
• Location: The Market
• Spear: Defending someone outweighs fighting wounded.
• Mecidine: Don't cut yourself open where it's dirty

Miscellaneous

• Mizas (+/-) | -1GM 8SM
• Item Purchased (+/-) | Red Jacket: -1GM 8SM
• Item Gifted | Medicinal Tome

Comments: If you feel there are any skills/lores missing/wanted, feel free to contact me. Don't forget to mark your grade request as graded. Thanks!

Enjoy your grade! If you have any questions, don't hesitate to send me a PM.