The Brass Buckle

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The Brass Buckle Empty The Brass Buckle

Post by Guest on Fri Sep 10, 2010 8:37 am

With a sudden burst of strength, the wooden staff swings against the helpless giant bat, having no chance to avoid it. Disorientated and unable to change its own course, the poor creature flies head-first against a tree, ending its life immediately. The staff cautiously remains raised as the body of the bat drops to the ground. After long silent seconds of waiting pass, Marche relaxes by breathing out and lowers his weapons, declaring the giant bat defeated. Grabbing his left arm, he inspects the last act of the creature laying before him. It was a clean bite mark, blood slowly sipping out of it. Marche looks around. Nothing to wrap around it. His blood will have to be given the freedom of making its way down to his hand, so it can escape by dripping from his hand to become one with the earth.

Marche drops to the ground and sits down against a tree, keeping an eye on the bat, as if it will suddenly turn back to life and attack him. He takes a deep breath and rests for a bit, using this time to decide on what to do next. Except for a few small wounds, he was still in good shape. He had only encountered several rats, a mole and now that bat. He had heard worse stories about boars and what not. Nonetheless, camping outside alone is not something he prefers. Remembering some townsfolk talking about a mine closeby, he decides to try and find that before the sun sets later on. With his staff resting in his hands, Marche looks up at the sky, hidden behind branched and leaves, and thinks about how he ended up here.

Last edited by Marche on Sun Sep 12, 2010 7:34 am; edited 1 time in total


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The Brass Buckle Empty Re: The Brass Buckle

Post by Guest on Fri Sep 10, 2010 8:39 am

Marche DiiCasses. Son of a merchant family. His father had, as was expected of all the sons, taken over the family business from his father when he became an adult. Under his guidance, the family had finally grown from ages of mediocrity to reasonably successful. They couldn't be compared to the truly wealthy powerful merchant families but the DiiCasses' had no financial worries and could afford relatively much. It was all acquired through hard and honest work, albeit Marche's father had little problems with the deals that could perhaps only technically be considered honest. Perhaps that was also one of the reasons he had such success. He was a well-known man in the local area, befriended with many, connections with everyone, yet feared by many more for his ruthless calculating nature that ensured anything he did was at least also in his own benefit some way. Nonetheless, once outside this local area, the connections quickly dried up and then that was also the limit of his successful period. It was up to Marche DiiCasses now to use the momentum of his father to grow their influence further, launching the DiCasses family another step closer to joining the truly wealthy.

Yet Marche DiiCasses had other ideas. He was no merchant like his family and had no feel for the art of trading. His father had begrudgingly accepted that fact eventually, after taking him with him with work many and many times. While he wished his son a good life no matter his choice, he could not stop the disappointment slowly growing deep inside him, blaming him unconsciously for not continuing on the success he had. A second child, after all, had never come. As the years passed and it became more definite that the merchant business of the DiiCasses would die out, the unavoidably tensions between Marche and his parents slowly raised too.

And that is why Marche one day, not wishing to await the inevitable fallout that would soon occur, simply left. He was a fighter, a protector. He felt it as his duty to protect citizens. That is where his passion was. His parents never objected to him using his free time to practice with the stick of a broom in the garden, his father's sword always being safely locked away. While he had received no proper training, and was certainly still a mere amateur, he was a talented fast-learning amateur, equipped with an unusual fighting style that could at least serve to confuse people, should he ever be forced to face another human being. Nonetheless, there was not really more time to stay in the safety of his parent's house with the rising tensions. He had bought some light leather armour, a simple yet trustworthy staff, figuring he was familiar with it, and some other supplies using the wealth of his family. He had to face the world and time would tell if he was ready for it. Without regrets, he closed the door of his parent's house, with the sun ready to rise, for the last time.


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