Connavar was the son of a simple farmer. When he was young, about 6 summers old, his hamlet was beset by brigands.
His mother and father told him to run to a local wood. When he returned hours later he found a scene of destruction. His village was destroyed by brigands and his whole family was killed.
He collapsed and was found by a contingent of Paladins of Torm who came to investigate the disturbance. He was raised by one of the Paladins, Jarral Thyran. Connavar took Jarral's name and trade and became a Paladin of Torm, always striving for justice and honour in the name of Torm.
Before Connavar took his final test to become a fully-fledged Paladin Jarral took Connavar to the hamlet he was born in. Viewing the destruction that was caused nearly brought a tear to his eye. The walls were still crumbled and the farmland was sown with salt, stopping the growth of vital crops.
Connavar stopped at what was his house. Jarral came up beside the young, but tall, broad-shouldered man. He took him into the gutted building and left him standing next to a trapdoor, a trapdoor that Connavar never knew existed.
He pulled out his trusty two-handed sword, the sword that was always keen and lethal in his trained hands. He used the hilt of the hefty blade to break the rusty hinges and locks. Connavar threw the door open and descended into the dark cellar. A faint light could be seen behind a wall. He looked and saw a simple push switch to open the door up.
As Connavar opened the door with the button something came over the young man, something that comforted and consoled him. The door, now fully open revealed a small and simple shrine. A bewitched candle glowed brightly illuminating the small recess in the wall. Lain on the shrine was a large two-handed sword, a hammer and a shield. The shield had two crests on it. He knew the first one immediately. It was Torm’s, his God’s holy device. The second was unfamiliar to him. It displayed what appeared to be some form of corporeal spirit with gothic script with words unknown to him. Suddenly the words clarified, “The Blades of the Banshee”. Connavar mouthed the words silently. What did it mean?
He picked up the hammer and it felt warm in his grasp, although he knew how to use the war hammer he would never give up his two-handed sword if he had one in his grasp. Connavar gently lowered the hammer back down and picked up the hefty two-handed sword. It instantly felt right in his hands, it was warm and the blade keener than any he had seen in his life.
The pommel stone was crafted out of a blue jewel and each facet glistened as he looked at it deeply to see a picture of his father. The other side displayed Torm’s and the unfamiliar crest. He looked at the hammer and the stone embedded in it’s head and saw his mother. They both were youthful and vibrant in these images.
He smiled at the thought of his mother and father and he realized then that they were know simple farmers. No wonder the hamlets ill came to his mother for healing, she was a priest of Torm and he knew his father was a Paladin, it was a feeling in his bones.
He knelt and prayed for his parents safe deliverance to Torm’s side. He picked up the weapons and shield reverentially and climbed the steep stairs to the light of day. Waiting with the horses was Jarral.
“It was time you knew son, you had a right to know…”
Connavar merely nodded as he placed the weapons in his pack.
They returned to the Orders headquarters and were greeted by the Prelate.
“You have come of age young Connavar, however, your fathers sword was earned. I must take it from you as well as your mothers weapons. You still have to pass your test and your test is this: The crest that you have observed on the shield is one we are unaware of. Your task is to find the source of this and report the meaning to us. We will give you your fathers sword once you have completed your task. Gather your equipment and rations on the ‘morrow. You leave in the morning.”
The Prelate left Jarral and Connavar in the hall.
Jarral looked at his young charge and smiled inwardly. The boy had learned well and tried hard, he was sure of his success in the near future.
Jarral smiled at the boy and beckoned him to the mess. They ate and made merry for tomorrow was Connavar’s final day…
The next day came and Connavar sat on his horse, ready to leave. The Prelate came and wished him well and Jarral came rushing out with a small pack.
“This was your fathers, I never knew him but if anything happened in your hamlet I was to give you this. It was his journal of his life. I haven’t read it, it is for you to do.”
Connavar dismounted and hugged Jarral, he had been there for him for 14 years and was one of his closest friends.
He remounted his horse and left the towering structure, certain of his quest but unsure of what he was to do to find it…
Thanks, Nippy
