Brendan DePiercy's Background II

Brendan DePiercy,

Fifth son of Stuart DePiercy II

The family were all present, arranged in a line down the corridor towards his fathers study, when the yeoman who had found him wandering back onto the estates some days later brought him in.

His brothers all wore expressions of annoyance and worry, there was no kindness in their eyes for their wayward brother today. The yeoman rapped sharply on the study door, opened it enough to poke his head into the room and state,

'He's here' before thrusting Brendan through before turning and heading back to his duties. Stewart, his oldest brother followed him inside and closed the door.

His father, Stuart DePiercy the elder had evidently been stewing for days, though an occasional twitch in his eye was the only tell of the foul mood he was in at first.

'Tell me, my son,' he spat those last two words out, 'how many hours a day, do you think, do the priesthood of Crowa set aside for traipsing through the woods'

'None father' Brendan addressed to his feet

'You'd be right there, you'd BE DAMN RIGHT. WHAT IN SHARDA ARE YOU PLAYING AT YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE SHIT. YOU HAVE A PLACE! A PURPOSE! AND IT IS NOT GETTING YOURSELF COVERED IN MUD NEXT TO TWO OF THE MOST DANGEROUS PLACES IN BERWICKSHIRE YOU STUPID LITTLE BOY'

he took a deep breath as he calmed himself and Brendan felt his face burning, tears of anger beginning to sprout in the corner of his eyes as his father continued,

'If I have to lock you in this tower Brendan, I will, whether you like it or not you are a little lord and your fate has already been decided. You will play the part your mother and I have picked out for you. One way or the other. Now get out of my damn sight. AND STAY IN THE BLOODY SPIRE!'

Bren turned to leave and saw his oldest brother standing by the door, he searched Stuart's face for compassion, begging for help with his eyes, but on this occasion his brothers face was as unyielding as the armour he wore. Stuart simply opened the door and stared at Bren silently until he went through it.

He fled through the corridor and down the winding stairs of Deepspire, out into the grounds, some ways from the house proper and it's surrounding outhouses, to and ancient Oak tree that stood lone vigil in a wild-flower meadow. There in the base of the tree was a hollow, easily deep enough for a fully grown man to crouch in if he wanted to.

This was Brendan's safe place, and it was here that he curled up and cried his bitter tears against the tyrannous stars which plotted his fate.

To be born a lord had been curse enough for him; he was to be lectured and drilled all day everyday for years and years, all freedoms denied to him until one day he would marry someone he did not know for some reason he did not care about, all because of the blood in his veins.

But his ill fortune ran deeper still, a DePiercy son had been promised to the church of Crowa, Goddess of battle and defender of the weak, and he was to be that son.

Sobs racked his frame as he thought on it, curled beneath his tree. The DePiercys where a Crowan family through and through, her standard was one of those that flew from the roof and her symbol was engraved all over the place. His mother was a former Crowan rose and his older brother already was a squire for the Griffin order of knighthood. For his whole life, every rule placed on him was placed with her in mind and in his heart, he began to hate her a little, her and every knight that ever walked on Ithrons beautiful soil, and he added in every noble that ever lived for good measure.

The thought shocked him from his tantrum; it was borderline blasphemous and struck against everything he had known!

And yet, as he considered it, he could not help but accept some truth to it. Each man should be based on his own merits and strength in his eyes, and he had no real love for Crowa. And knights, well they looked fancy but Bren had never understood why they always promised no to do some things. Sometimes you had to do something, even if it wasn’t very good, and promising not to do anything of the sort just seemed to be setting yourself up for trouble later.

There, tired bitter and alone, underneath that ancient oak, Bren took his first steps towards thinking as a man, not as a child, and he realised he could be In some serious trouble.

Brendan De'piercy's Background I

Brendan DePiercy,

Fifth son of Stuart DePiercy I

Being born into nobility was more of a curse than a blessing for Brendan, curious and free-spirited the duties and responsibilities thrust upon him as birthright chaffed uncomfortably. His childhood was supposed to be filled with a formal education, that of a squire that all nobility must endure. While he took well to lessons of history and swordplay he truanted much of the rest at every opportunity, earning his fathers unending ire, opting instead to roam and explore the lands around his home. East to Caulders Ridge and in and around the nameless woods that lie around the Deepspire first, exploring along the ancient wall, close to home and safety.

At the age of fourteen, emboldened by his success and experiences Brendan first delved into the ancient darkness of Willows Deep, naively oblivious to the doom within. Though young his skills at tracking and wood craft were well honed with use, he could tell the time from the sun, anticipate the weather and keep track of his direction without fail.

But Willows Deep is more than mear foliage and flora, each limb and bough of every tree is cursed and heavy with hatred and deceit. The air is thick and cloying with sickly sweet smells. Little sunlight reaches the forest floor, and what does is weak and tinted. Worse, shadows move across the trees, confusing the eye. Against such malevolence Bren stood no chance and within hours he was hopelessly lost. He was however, well supplied, hunger and thirst were no issue for all the good that did him.

Tired and betrayed by his own arrogance he paused, slumped against a boulder and lamented his misfortune by angrily throwing rocks and sticks about, thus learning his first valuable lesson; do not disturb the deep.

His racket attracted a predator from the gloom, no wolf, nor foul spawn, but a dire spider, fully eight feet tall and double that in stride from foreleg to back. Normally not a roamer, it had recently been forced from it's den by something bigger and meaner than itself. Several half healed scars covered its armoured carapace, a deep orange against it's darker brown coat. Pissed and hungry, finding Brendan tired and alone was it's first boon in weeks. Silently it stalked in.

Pulling itself in closer and closer.

Brendan was oblivious.

Up the boulder the spider crept behind him.

Gloom from gloom, a dappled shadow amongst shadows, Brendan De'Piercy's tale could have ended there had the creature not misplaced one of its many legs, pushing over a rotted stump and inadvertadley warning it's meal at the last second.

With a terrified yell Bren all but lept from the boulder, spinning and unsheathing a knife as he went. Forward the spider lunged and blade met mandible, the former shearing through the latter. The beast recoiled for but a moment but it was enough for Bren to turn and run. His flight was aimless at first, panicked and chilled with mortal terror he fled blindly, relentlessly dogged by his predator who would not give up it's first meal in weeks. Minutes stretched into hours and hours stretched longer, for three days and three nights Brendan was pursued. Sometimes at a mad dash, sometimes he lost sight of the thing for hours, though he could feel it watching. Waiting.

Tralda finally smiled upon him though and without warning he broke through the limbs of a tree to find himself standing out in the open green, the sun shining around him. Glancing back he saw the monster, unwilling or unable to cross into the light, eight eyes glared balefully at him as it's right mandible gnashed against the stump of it's left. With a final clicking screech it turned and faded back into hell, back into home.

Getting his bearings Brendan found he had come west, into the open grasslands east of Carlech. Staggering for forty paces or so he slumped to the ground, exhausted, and slept.