I could say "once upon a time", but that would assume a closed-ended time slot. The beginning incident isn't exactly uncommon, to be frank. Travel in Albion has always been difficult; much more so since the destruction of the guild of heroes a few decades back. Bandits and pirates had taken over the woods and coasts, raids by highwaymen had become a norm on the desolate roads between towns, and there was nary a sea Captain that had not at least seen a pursuing pirate ship.
Growing up in this environment isn't easy. Especially not when your people are already widely hated and discriminated against. Gypsies are famed to have a habit of criminality, fiery tempers, and are known for their supposed powers of fortune telling. In this environment, growing up, was a boy named Gunary. This is where our story begins.
As you may know, Gypsies are a travelling people, very rarely settling in one place for long, travelling from town-to-town, buying and selling wares, but mostly keeping to themselves. Now as I've mentioned before, to travel any great distance on the roads in Albion, even with an escort, is to invite any undesirables to end your travels prematurely.
Young Gunary was born into a Gypsy congregation that believed in peace and nonviolence. There weren't many in their group that possessed any proficiency with weaponry, besides the one or two hunters the group had. So instead of being taught how to fight off invaders, the children in the group were taught how to be sneaky, how to quickly get from place to place without making anybody aware of their movements.
It was a warm night in the early summer, soon after Gunary's tenth birthday. The band of Gypsies were on their way from a camp in Barrow Fields to their camp in Bower Lake. Everything was mostly tranquil. Some of the men were smoking in one wagon, while the women and children and the remaining men were in the other three.
They passed through much of Darkwood without incident, the only notable occurrence being a wagon getting stuck in the marsh. Only once they were barely a league out of Bowerstone, in the entrance to Greatwood, did Gunary start to notice anything amiss.
Gunary was walking outside of the carts with his mother and younger brother when he saw something flit between two trees, a couple dozen feet above and ahead of them. At first he thought it was just a large squirrel or a bird, perhaps, until he noticed it happening a few more times in various locations around the group. Surely nobody was mad enough to jump a distance that great, right?
"Mother," he murmured, pulling on her sleeve, trying not to scare his brother, "I think we're being followed. I keep seeing things in the trees!"
"I'm sure it's nothing, Gunary," was her response. "Just animals. We're too close to town now for it to be anything else."
"But what if it's a hobbe? I don't want to be captured by them!"
"You won't, don't worry. Just stay with the group, you'll be fine."
Now, I believe a little explanation is in order. Creatures of Albion: Book III describes a Hobbe as "the under-race of the dells and hollows". Legend has it that the first Hobbes were children who had their souls stolen by dark nymphs. They reproduce normally, as there isn't exactly a pandemic of missing children in Albion, but there are many Hobbes. They seem to be fairly dim-witted creatures, but yet still possess aspects of their own society. Locksmithing, construction, adoption, and even religion, in some cases, are evident in Hobbe civilisations. They are about half the height of the average human, bald, with light grey, red, or black skin.
And so the fear Gunary felt was well-founded, given the fact that many parents used the mild threat of hobbes capturing them to keep the children in line. Young as he was, Gunary trusted his mother, and kept quiet as they walked along. It was not hobbes that the travelling Gypsies had to worry about at this time, however.
They soon came upon a bend in the road, and ground to a complete halt. In front of them, a trio of men stood, blocking the path. The men were wearing dark clothes, hats low over their faces, and the two in the rear had swords at the ready.
The man in front stepped forward, his prim black overcoat sweeping the ground. Speaking firmly, just loud enough for all to hear, he addressed the convoy. "Greetings. I have nothing against your people, and given your proximity to the next town, I only ask you to surrender your possessions and riches, and your lives will be spared. Resist and I will not hesitate to order your execution."
The men stepped out from their carriages, and one stepped forward confidently, speaking directly to the man in the black overcoat. "I am the leader of this convoy, good sir. Surely you see that we have women and children here? We are a nonviolent people, protected as we are by Avo and his subordinates. Surely you wouldn't keep us from passing to the next town?
"I hope your god has plenty of space in his town in the sky," the Man in Black said, "I will not hinder your journey to there. In fact, I'll even help your convoy to get there, since you refuse to do this quietly."
With that, without any hesitation or second thoughts, the Man in Black pulled a shiny flintlock pistol from under his coat, and shot the Gypsy leader point-blank in the head. "Useful tool this. A gift from an acquaintance of mine in Samarkand."
Gunary's eyes widened and he pulled his brother away, under the nearest cart as the women screamed and the men shouted in dismay. The Man in Black heard none of their pleas, however, shouting "You've had your choice, and you've chosen your fate. I will not stand in the way of any of my men's desires now. Oh, and to my men: A shilling goes to whoever brings me the finest clothes from these animals."
With loud rustling noises, and angry cries from all around, bandits burst from the trees surrounding the convoy, dropping down from above onto the carts and forcing people out of them, cutting them down as they went. Gunary dropped down to the ground, hiding himself under the cart and watching people's legs running past, blood flowing along the path, and bodies falling to the dirt road around him.
"Gunary! Shaan! Run! Get away from here!" came the cry. Quickly, as they had been taught to do, the two boys jumped to their feet, quickly sprinting from their hiding place and running for the woods. Shots rang out, and Gunary just ran faster, making it into the trees again, and plunging into the thicket, moving as quickly and as quietly as he could to the northeast.
Finally stopping for breath as he reached the edge of a clearing far from the convoy, he looked around himself. Shaan, his little brother a few years younger than he, was nowhere to be seen.
I'll cut out some of the nitty-gritty details here for sake of keeping this of reasonable length. After realizing his brother was missing, Gunary, with a heavy heart, ran again, this time to the west, making his way to within sight of the path before running north again, towards Bowerstone, to get help for his people.
The guards were slightly skeptical of the dishevelled youth, but nevertheless dispatched a company of soldiers to investigate. Soon, word came that no bandits had been discovered, but the gruesome sight of the mangled convoy was not to be hidden so easily. The bandits had looted everything they could, right down to the best clothes off of the backs of some of the Gypsies. Shaan was found to have been shot in the back as he ran for the trees, and had died before the guards had found him.
In shock as he was, Gunary could do nothing but follow as he was brought to an orphanage deep in the center of Bowerstone. He didn't notice as he tripped on the edges of the rough stones in the cobbled streets, or being pushed along by the guards. He followed in a sort of daze, not really seeing or feeling where he was going until he was thrust into the slightly warmer, but largely chaotic atmosphere of the orphanage. The guards had a few words with a passing nun, telling the harassed-looking woman why they were there, and that they were leaving a gypsy boy in their care.
Conditions in Bowerstone's only orphanage were...cramped, to put it simply. Children ran around in a chaotic fashion, the nuns couldn't keep up with the sheer amount of work that piled up, what with the care of sixty-some youths at hand. The budget of the orphanage was also a little tight. There were far too many mouths to be fed on such a small sum of money. Many nights the orphans went to bed unsatisfied, or downright hungry. Gunary was forced into a dormitory with a multitude of boys all around the same age. With little to no privacy, and no real place to grieve the loss of his family, Gunary shut himself away from the other boys for the first few days. After observing the abominable conditions he and the rest of the boys and girls in the orphanage were subjected to, he decided the orphanage didn't really need another mouth to feed.
Due to the sheer number of individuals, the nuns didn't notice when the young gypsy boy disappeared. Gunary, for his part, left the orphanage, turning himself to the streets. He subjected himself to the opinions of others as he resorted to begging and petty thievery to feed himself.
The seasons of the year, above everything else, were the biggest factors in survival. Summer was perhaps the easiest of seasons. Long, warm days, berries were readily available from bushes all around the outskirts of town. People had enough food to spare something to eat for the boy, when he asked kindly. They didn't seem to be as worried about personal funds when food was growing at home in their garden. Overall, people were more charitable.
Then followed the season of fall. The leaves changed to the most beautifully vibrant shades of reds, oranges, yellows and browns. The world shifted to that of a reddish shade, the cold breath of winter a subtle but constant hint in the background.
The boy realized soon that he had to find some means of finding warmth soon if he was to see another summer come to pass. Thinking ahead to the quickly approaching cold, Gunary began searching for anything he could use to keep warm. Bits of old blankets, discarded clothes with sloppy patches, even an old tattered overcoat. The coat was old, battered, a dusty and faded ghost of what was once a nice imperial red overcoat. The most important thing though: it was warm, and that was enough to satisfy the boy. He carried it with him and sat on it as a cushion as he pleaded to passers-by for a spare farthing. Sometimes, he made enough money to be able to sleep with a little bread in his stomach.
Feeble as he was in his youth, Gunary had to learn the ways of many of the undesirables of Bowerstone. An evening not far before the first snowfall of the season, just as the guards were changing shifts, a short, slight man carrying a bottle of ale approached the boy in an alleyway behind a bakery, and tossed a silver coin to the ground at his feet. Gunary crouched down to pick it up, his face lighting up and beaming at the man.
"Half a crown! Thank you sir, you've no idea how hungry I've been!"
"You 'ent the only one on these streets, boy," the man took a step forward, bringing himself into an uncomfortable range to Gunary. "The truth 'o the matter is that we're all hungry, an' some of us need to eat more than others."
The man seemed to walk with a limp, and stumbled a bit as he took another step forward, taking a swig from his drink before continuing to harass the boy. "Lemme let you in on a little secret. Out 'ere, in the streets, nobody'll think twice about putting you in a grave. That's assumin' the guards'll take the time to bury ya."
The man stumbled forward once more, placing the bottle haphazardly on a nearby windowsill and pulling on old, slightly bent knife from his belt and angling it so its sharpened blade pressed perilously against Gunary's throat. "You want to know another little secret? These parts around 'ere are my streets. Now if I catch your sorry arse up this way again, my blade here'll have a nice time cutting a hole in your belly."
The man suddenly turned his attention away from the boy, turning and vomiting against a wall just to his left. In his moment of weakness, the boy took his chance, snatching the knife from the man and driving it deep into the drunkard's groin, before dashing off into the streets of the city again, up both a half-crown and a new weapon.
When winter set in, it introduced many new problems. People weren't as charitable as they had been during the warm season. Quickly, Gunary learned that if each day he kept to a cycle, then he would have the best chances of making it through the cold season. Every day that dawned saw Gunary pulling off his blanket, before putting it on as was the old coat's original intent. He would then wander the cold streets, asking for spare change, and was sometimes lucky enough to find a farthing on the ground here and there. He would often find himself on the inside of the walls of many stores, trying to stay warm until he was thrown out for loitering. By midday, he would find himself at the Bowerstone Quay, trying to find a spare fish the boatmen had misplaced. Some days he was so hungry he had to resort to the killing of rats for sustenance. I'm sure you're quite aware how unadvisable this is, as disease has a tendency of following the vermin.
After Gunary had fell into a fit of vomiting from the rats, he turned to less savory measures, learning the art of the pickpocket. Soon though, after realizing that during the coldest months of the season, the townsfolk didn't carry much money on them, Gunary turned to a trade he had even more remorse for.
From other beggar boys in the city, Gunary learned the art of lockpicking, and quickly became proficient enough to break into bakeries and butcher shops to steal food, leaving what money he could as compensation for his actions.
After months of this, the boy finally felt as the first vestiges of spring were on the horizon. The weather was slightly warmer; his fingers began to gain a little feeling in them during the night. His troubles were finally beginning to lessen, and for the first time in many a month, he began to feel almost at ease. As the weather warmed, and jobs became available again, the young child tried to learn the trade of a blacksmith, fisherman, or lumberjack, but was turned away from each for being too young to work hard.
This cycle of seasons continued for four years, until the boy had reached the age of fourteen. His skills at picking locks and pockets alike had improved tenfold, a source of great pride for the beggar. He'd learned to use his flimsy knife as a result from one too many muggers confronting him in the alleyways. He'd also learned a bit about a certain house on the outskirts of the city.
The house in question was a single floor dwelling, not exactly small, but not lavish by any means. The man who owned it wasn't well known within the town, but what was known of him was that he seemed to go on long trips for weeks at a time. Gunary had scouted the house a multitude of times over the past week, and had observed no changes, no lights at night, nobody out trimming the verge. It seemed what he had heard about the man was not petty gossip.
Nighttime found the boy creeping up on the dwelling. As the shadows loomed across the streets, Gunary exited the city walls and stole into the confines of the house's property, quickly locating the entrance to the house's cellar; his prime target. With surprising difficulty, he picked the lock of the cellar, and descended into the darkness, his eyes adjusting quickly to the gloom. Shelves lined the walls and the center of the room, a welcome sight to the hungry boy. Creeping around, he picked bits of food from the shelves at random, making sure not to take any noticeable amount, making his way around, and filling his pockets with assorted meats, apples, and even salted fish.
The sound of a creak from above filled the basement and Gunary froze for a moment before spinning around and eyeing the wall opposite him. A narrow staircase led up into the house proper, and a shadow was descending the old steps. Gunary took refuge behind a large sack of potatoes as an old man came to the bottom of the steps. He walked slowly, head held up high and back straight, like his elderly visage was nothing more than an illusion. He was bald, with piercing blue eyes and a bushy white moustache to equal his eyebrows. In the center of his forehead was a tattoo of a symbol, which Gunary couldn't place. The man stopped in the center of the room, facing the poor beggar's hiding spot.
"My boy, if you wanted food, you could have come to the door and asked. You can see yourself that I have far more than I need."
The old man's name was Weaver, as Gunary soon learned. He had moved to the outskirts of the city many years before, a half a century after the collapse of the Heroes' Guild. He mostly kept to himself, and the people of Bowerstone wanted nothing to do with him, anyway, due to his being a man of Will.
Will powers can be traced back to the Old Kingdom of Albion, to the days of the great Archon, William Black. It is said that after Black crowned himself Archon, his Will powers became so great that he could erect a city in a week using only the powers of his mind. It is not known exactly what Will powers are, only that they are inherently magical. Not everybody can master these powers; the power to do so lies in the caster's blood and in the power of their mind.
I'm going to shorten this up a bit, again. Weaver, after hearing Gunary's tale, of his life on the streets and the destruction of his family, decided to take him in. Weaver revealed to the boy that during the days of the Heroes' Guild, he had taught the Heroes how to harness their powers, how to settle disputes, and when they needed to, how to fight.
For the next two years, Gunary lived under Weaver's care, being taught the ways of the sword, the art of the bow, the deadly stealth of the dagger, and the curious powers of Will.
Gunary took easily to stealth, the dagger quickly becoming his primary weapon, followed by the bow. He didn't take to Will as much as most did, according to Weaver, though he did learn how to focus his Will power into an impenetrable shield for a fraction of a second, and to harness it to move at incredible speeds for a short time.
On his sixteenth birthday, Weaver gifted the boy a complete set of equipment. In this set lay two sterling silver Samarkand flintlock pistols, two ten-inch ornate steel daggers, a yew longbow akin to those used by the heroes of old, and a steel shortsword known simply as a "Messer".
After presenting him with his gifts, Weaver looked him in the eye, and knew exactly what was to come. The old wizard had a knack for being able to guess what was on his mind.
"I'm leaving. I don't know when, or if, I will be back," Gunary told him quietly.
"I'm sure you will be back sometime, lad. For now, you need to take care of what has been plaguing your mind, and for that, I give you your equipment, and one other thing..." the wizard fished a small piece of parchment paper from his robes and handed it to him. "I present you with your first quest card. I may be an old man, but I'm not deaf. I hear the people talk of these bandits, and their leader. I think this is a good final test of your training. Traditionally, the leader of the Guild would test you, but..."
Gunary bowed his head. "Thank you, Weaver. I will return...once my test is complete."
Gunary approached the bandit settlement on the southern coast of Albion, unseen and unheard by the locals and settled himself on a rock wall overlooking the settlement. The gypsy boy we all came to know and love was a boy no longer. He had aged into a young man with a heart of courage and strength.
He pulled a small spyglass from his patched and faded overcoat and observed the settlement below him. This group of nearly fifty men – pirates, bandits, highwaymen and the like – were the ones he had come so far for, beyond any doubt.
The young Gunary crept quietly up to the log wall of the settlement, not so fast as to be seen by a wandering sentry, but not so slow as to lose his window of time between dusk and dawn. Slipping through some tall grass, Gunary stole along the perimeter for a hundred feet or so before coming within sight of a lone rifleman watching for intruders. To enter the camp, the man must be dispatched. To find the man who had ordered the murder of those he loved, he would need to permanently silence this man.
Gunary drew his yew bow and fit an arrow to the string, feeding some twine through a small hole in the base of the arrow, before pulling it back and releasing it. The arrow flew straight and true, as his training might dictate, and the guard fell before he knew what happened. With a small tug before he hit the ground, Gunary directed the body of the man to hit the ground in the tall grass, out of sight. Retrieving his arrow and rope, he pressed forward, firing a few arrows into the wall near the top and climbing up the trailing rope to the top of the wall.
Now within the perimeter of openly hostile territory, he took a moment to observe the collection of tents and wagons, so similar to what his convoy of gypsies had looked like. He soon spotted a tent near the center of the camp that was seemingly of much more luxurious material and size than the rest. It was draped in red cloth, and a man in a prim black overcoat disappeared inside shortly after. This must be the one he was after. The Man in Black, the one he had come all this way to fell.
Hopping down from his perch atop the wall, Gunary crept closer to the one he sought, moving past tents and edging around campfires, keeping to the shadows, unnoticed. Finally, only one man stood between Gunary and his prey. He sat at a campfire, a bottle of ale sat on a rock beside him and his eyelids drooped. The gypsy didn't want to take any unnecessary lives to his cause, and thought it better to simply move the man rather than kill him. Quickly scooping up a rock and taking aim, he tossed the small stone at the man's bottle of ale, shattering it. The man started, swinging around and looking in the direction opposite Gunary, who quickly stole around the man's blind side, into the bushes on the other side of the clearing.
Finally, he crouched in the bushes bordering the Man in Black's clearing. Not heeding the other bandits in the vicinity, he stood up and with a confident stride, walked into the tent, fueled by the knowledge that if he looked like he belonged there, nobody would question him.
There was the one towards whom he felt so much rage. The one who planted such a relentless and deep anger within the once timid and peace-loving Gunary. The Man in Black sat opposite him in the tent, and was writing in what was likely a ledger or personal journal. Quietly, Gunary spoke.
"Close to six years, and you haven't changed a bit, have you? You still wear the same overcoat, the same hairstyle, and still sport the same profession of killing innocent people for your own gain."
Slowly, the Man in Black turned, looking Gunary straight in the eyes, not even moving from his seat. "Close to six years, and you survived; nothing more than a gypsy boy on the streets of an uncaring city in a hostile world. I commend your determination; your will to live. But that cannot continue any longer, I'm afraid."
The Man in Black stood, seemingly not intent on being hostile, and walked past the boy, out into the clearing outside his tent, speaking loudly to the boy behind him. "You've lived for six years on the streets, boy. Let's test your experience against that of my own." With that, the Man in Black drew his cutlass, and motioned for Gunary to do the same.
With a deep breath, knowing his death could be before him, Gunary drew his daggers, looking the Man in Black dead in the eyes. Hardly before he could react, his adversary dove forwards, bringing his blade up to attempt to impact Gunary's throat. His training kicking in, Gunary brought his daggers up to meet the blade, knocking it aside and slicing a deep cut in the man's arm just as his adversary spun to bring the blade in for another swipe.
Focusing his limited powers of Will, Gunary felt time almost slow for an instant as he stepped around the man, dodging his attack and sinking the blade of one of his daggers into his back.
The man stumbled forward, dropping his cutlass, and turned to look at Gunary in painful amazement. As he reached for his belt. "No man can move so quickly, not since the days of the Heroes. Unless..."
Keeping his second dagger at the ready, Gunary's hand dove to his overcoat, pulling one of his silver pistols out and pointing it at the man's head. "The one who taught the heroes of old, taught me."
Without any second thought, Gunary pulled the trigger. A sudden puff of grey smoke erupted from the barrel with a loud bang as the flames spit the ball towards the Man in Black. In his final moment of consciousness, his eyes locked with Gunary's once more and he gave him a lasting look of understanding.
A dark stain spread on the dirt below the man as the gypsy stepped forward, retrieving his dagger from the man's back. The gypsy's shoes were bathed in the crimson liquid as he looked up around himself. A crowd of bandits stood around, having watched the whole exchange. They did not look pleased at what had become of their leader. All unsheathed some sort of weapon, and Gunary knew at this time that he would not escape without spilling more blood.
Gunary scanned the vicinity for anything that might be of use as the crowd slowly drew towards him. Cunning as he was, he quickly spotted a platform that he could scale and use for his escape. With Weaver's teachings in mind, he reloaded his pistol, sheathed his second dagger, and before anyone could react, bolted at a man carrying a musket. The bandit, startled by the boy's sudden start tried in vain to plunge the bayonet into the boy's rib, but Gunary swiftly and simply batted the gun to the side using his pistol, sinking his dagger into the man's neck like a knife into butter and felling him.
Running forward up a staircase, Gunary fired his flintlock into a sentry's torso, leaping over the corpse as it fell to the ground. He pushed onward to a man carrying an axe, and as the man swung, the gypsy dropped, letting the axe sail harmlessly over him as he gracefully sunk his dagger into the man's leg, pulling it out and continuing his escape.
He sprinted towards the gate, felling whomever found their way into Gunary's path, until he was met by a group of three bandits, one of whom tackled him to the ground immediately. Trying to draw his pistol, the bandit exposed his stomach, allowing Gunary's knife easy passage to his intestines. The man cried out in pan, rolling off of the gypsy; but before he could get up, he was lifted by the second man, held up as the third drew a sword and prepared to spear him with it.
Woe to the bandit, as Gunary drew his second pistol and shot the man point-blank in the face, before drawing some rope from his belt, wrapping it around his captors neck and focusing his will power again to break free, dashing around the man's back and pulling the rope tight, suffocating him.
Leaving his dagger and one of the pistols behind, Gunary drew his shortsword. The gypsy dived from the wall, onto the inner walls of the settlement. He pressed his way forward, quickly dispatching two men who blocked his path; one with a quick jab to the stomach, and the other with a heavy swing just below the jaw that left the bandit without much need of headgear for the rest of his days (however limited those suddenly became). After all this, he ran into the night, not slowing until the dark forest consumed him and the sounds of his pursuers had long since faded.
The gypsy who had been attacked as a child and lost his family to bandits had finally avenged his people. With a lighter heart and a healthier spirit, he started back home, to Bowerstone, to Weaver, the former Guildmaster of the Guild of Heroes.
"You are now what can only be described as a Hero," Weaver said, clapping the boy on the shoulder. "You have spent years honing your skills, years building your strengths and closing your weaknesses. You stopped one of Albion's biggest threats from becoming more powerful and...It may be time for you to go your own way, lad."
Gunary nodded respectfully. Weaver had taught him much. He'd taught him how to be stealthy, how to sneak up on enemies undetected and silence them with a single killing blow. He'd taught him how to take out foes at a range, and how to fight his way through in a situation where he had no other choice. He'd even taught him about the mystical Will powers that many heroes possessed. He'd supported him through his revenge on the ones who had killed his family, and with the former Guildmaster's guidance, he would emerge as Albion's first real protector in over a century. He had become a Hero, and he would proceed as the Heroes had before him.
And so here, our tale must end! Don't fret though, for this is not the end of the trail for Gunary. Perhaps some other time you will hear tales of his exploits and think back to how Gunary the Hero came to be. Like the opening of this story, I cannot simply end with "and so he lived happily ever after". I will say this, though. Keep a keen eye to the old tales of Albion with hope that just maybe, you'll find a familiar face.
A/N: Greetings. This was a little story I wrote a few years ago with a couple of other people for a high-school class assignment. Not sure if I ever want to create anything in the same universe as this, but who knows? You might see more of Gunary sometime, but no promises. So yeah, rate, review, all that stuff that FF writers usually put in author's notes.