Posted by Myrr on February 26, 2000 at 01:14:27:

**This is a little something I started working on earlier tonight when I chose to make Myrr's backstory into more of an actual story than just the recounting of facts. This portion more or less attempts to establish his old teacher as a character, and leads up to his first meeting with Myrr. I'm not at all sure how good this really is, but I had fun writing it. See what you think**

NOTE: The little background info posted a little further down might work as something of a prologue, with the story beginning here.

The old farmhouse was silent this morning, as it was most every morning when Miskis
arose. As he stretched his muscles in preparation for the day, he looked about
himself. He was sitting up in the small bed he had built long ago, looking about the
stark, rather empty room. It was the room of a soldier, plain and containing only
what was needed. The room was in a bit of a state of disrepair, tiny cracks spread
across the white plaster like little spider webs. Miskis stepped out of bed, wincing
at the creak of joints slow to adjust to the promise of a new day. He sighed softly
at this, knowing his body was slowly growing weaker with age. Miskis had accepted
the prospect of his continued aging long ago, as every man eventually does as he
passes into his middle years. For an old soldier, however, whose life revolved around
the strength of muscles, and the quickness of limbs it was especially painful.

Shaking his head slightly as if to clear away the depressing thoughts, the old man
crossed the room. He was still in excellent shape for a man of his age, just beginning
his seventh decade, and still moved with a shadow of the smooth fluidity of his younger
days. Peering into the mirror that sat atop his dresser, Miskis studied his own face,
almost as if he had never seen it before. Short cropped grey hair adorned his head,
with a few flecks of the dark brown color it had been in his youth. Under the hair was
the face of a man, withered with time, yet still able to stare down many a younger
fighter thinking him old and useless. His steel grey eyes still contained all of their
old strength, however, taking in his surroundings with the calculating eye of a man
truly experienced in the arts of Battle.

Miskis pulled a plain white shirt over his head, stepping into his leather trousers,
and crossing the room to where his boots stood. They were old and weathered, having
seen many a long march in cold rain, but had seen him though a lot. The soldier within
him emerged as he stepped into his boots, feeling much more himself that he had all morning,
and strode through the doorway into his main living area. A few chairs piled around an old,
scarred wooden table dominated the bulk of the room, yet left enough space to move about
easily. Stout wooden doors provided passage on three walls of the room, the fourth being
entirely of stone framing a simple fireplace. Miskis had elected to make this wall stone,
unlike the rest of the little farmhouse constructed mostly of wooden beams, plaster, and thick
oak boards specially treated to keep out even the most powerful of storms.

The old soldier couldn't help but smile as his eyes passed briefly over his bookcase.
So much history contained on those simple wooden shelves, so many battles, so many lives.
They had brought him much enjoyment and comfort over the years, and even strength in times of
trouble. His eyes settled upon a particular volume as he crossed toward the fireplace
that stood against one wall. The title had been worn away from the fine red leather
long ago, but Miskis knew well its contents. His favorite of all battle accounts, the
story of the clash between the Mages of Chaos and Order, of the breaking, and of the
valiant deeds of truly great soldiers. Lost in thought, he ensured that there was enough wood
for the evening's cooking. As he stooped over slowly, he couldn't help glancing at the door
directly behind him. This third room of his house had originally been designed to be a small
kitchen, but efficiency demanded that he be close to the fire when preparing his meals, so the
little room ended up being used mostly for storage. There was an old cot in there, where
students had slept in years before when he trained young soldiers.

Memories tugging at him forced him to cross the room again and open the door to the little
room. His last pupil, Gerard, had been such a spirited lad, and had managed to make a
fine living space out of the little room. The throat of the old man constricted with
nostalgia as he looked about the empty room. He had had many pupils over the years, but
none were ever such a perfect companion to him as Gerard had been. Not only teacher and
student, the two had developed a strong bond of friendship over the years. Gerard's
parting to accept a position as a Knight had been somewhat saddening, as was the scroll
some weeks later reporting that the young man had fallen in battle.

The Knights had been deployed to attempt to push back Imperial forces which threatened
the city of New Thalos, near to their headquarters. Gerard, his talent as a leader having
already been recognized, led a small group of volunteers to quietly slip into the Empire's
massive fortress while the bulk of their forces were concentrated in battle. The group
found the dark object from which all of the soldiers drew their sickening Unholy power,
and sought to return it to their castle, severely crippling the forces of the Empire.
Unfortunately, despite all their pains, the team was discovered as they sought to make their
escape with the vile artifact. Gerard issued quick instructions to his men on how best
to reach the Knight encampment without discovery, and unexpectedly turned and launched
himself at the group of guardsmen chasing them. The lad fought valiantly, his blades
flashing as if posessed. Even as the first of the arrows pierced his body, he did not
stop his assault, determined at all costs to hold off the superior force. Because of his
actions, the team had been able to return safely, and the Imperial forces fled, the warriors
of light tearing through them like dawn sunbeams chasing away the last shadows of a dark,
cold night.

A single tear ran down the wrinkled face, and the hardened old soldier let it happen, making
no effort to brush it away as the tiny droplet fell from his jaw. As the tiny bit of moisture
sank into the boards of the dry floor at his feet, the soldier within him left for a single
moment. The old man wept at the remembered loss of his finest pupil, the son he never had.

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