Okay, I'm somewhat of a RP newb and don't have much experience writing anything at all, let alone narration, but I decided to do a little background story anyway, just for shits and giggles. It got a little bit away on me, so I put it into a short story format. I'm not sure if that's what this forums for or what, so feel free to move it, if that's against the rules. Also, any criticism or advice is welcome. It's not finished, or even edited well, but I wanted to post it, anyway. This really is my first attempt...
It was a night like any other at Tinker Tom's workshop in Eastern Ward.
The old man known as Tinker Tom had finally given up on his latest attempt to collaborate the Biscuit Bopper 2.0. It had 2x the power potential of it's predecessor. It would run entirely on hydro-steam. It had sleek wooden side-panels. It was a masterpiece. It didn't work.“This is useless. Ever since I took you on, boy, every Balthazar-blasted thing-a-ma-bob in this shop doesn't frggin work. The cornballers I told you to tweak friggin exploded. Every friggin-one! And you're just as useless as a biscuit bopper that doesn't bop biscuits, so wipe that stupid grin off your face. Old Tinker Tom's botched jobs amuse you, boy?”
“Yes, Father, I mean... no. I like to watch your work and learn something new every time. And you didn't take me on. I live here...with you... since Mom died.”, said the boy.
“Boy, do you think I need a stupid son, like you? You're not my son. I told you a thousand times that you're Don Komrad's whelp. The one that always wore that stupid friggin grin on his face... just like your stupid friggin-one. Oh yes, I knew about that friggin Don Komrad. Your mother thought I didn't, but I did. Had his little prick in every trollop in Lion's Arch, he did. Shesh. What do I need Komrad's stupid bastard boy for?”
The boy didn't know what to say to that. The old man who named him Glad for the broad smile that never left his face had stopped calling him that years ago. Glad didn't know his real name since he was so young when his mother died and no one among the living seemed to know what it originally was, either. He preferred anything to being called boy by the only father he'd ever known. As Glad grew older, his babyface began to take on more and more manly features. The old man only seemed to grow more and more angry to the point that he wouldn't even look at Glad, almost as if the very sight of him aggravated the old man. Glad knew that Tinker Tom was not his real father, since the old man was a pasty white hue that didn't match Glad's own darker skin. Tinker Tom had never explained how he had come to foster Glad, or anything else, for that matter. Lately, however, the old man had been accusing Glad of being the bastard son of Don Komrad. Glad didn't know anything about a man named Don Komrad, except that there wasn't one in Lion's Arch,... and wherever he was, the old man hated him.
“Look, boy, you're not the sharpest tool in the shed, so we need to have a talk. Old Tinker Tom thought he was doing the right thing, taken you in all those years ago, not having my own son to make a proper apprentice out of, but you're not cut out for this kind a work. You're better at breaking my tools than fixing 'em up” , the old man explained.
“But I learned everything you taught me” , said Glad, now mortified by the tone of the conversation. “I watch everything you do. I'm learning!”
“You learned nothing of what I taught you. I don't even know how to make a cornballer explode, boy. You didn't learn that from me. Old Tinker Tom is not as young as he use to be,... too old to look after a blundering fool boy. You're almost a man grown now, so this is how it's going to be, you're going clean up the workshop, and Old Tom is going to get some sleep. Tomorrow, we're leaving first thing in the morning to see if the City Watch is still in need of strong young men that don't have a trade. Watchmen Bojangles said the need was great only weeks ago.”
“The... the City Watch?” , asked Glad, now close to tears.
“Are you deaf and dumb, boy? Do as I say unless you wanna git a wallop, now!”
Tinker Tom often threatened Glad with wallops, but never seemed to get around to ever making good on the threat. Not since Glad was a small child, anyways. Glad thought that this was a kindness, never considering the possibility that the old man was no longer physically strong enough to wallop anybody. On this day, especially, Glad wasn't certain if the older man didn't mean to make good on the threat. Glad couldn't remember Tinker Tom ever quite so onry before. He managed to hold back the tears that were attemping to escape down his cheeks as he meekly began to pick up the broken pieces of various cornballers and the other scattered parts, to pile them in the trash-boiler machine.
By the time Glad finished his task, Tinker Tom was sound asleep in his usual place in the lower bunk at the far corner of the workshop. Before heading up the ladder to his own bunk, Glad noticed the trash boiler wasn't auto-igniting the scrap metal. The load was a little heavy, which triggered the sensitive safety valve, he realized. The thing was so finicky, sometimes Tinker Tom couldn't even get it to work properly. Those safety valves are good for nothing. If I could just bypass it, somehow, the old trash-boiler would work better than ever and twice as fast, he thought. After he fiddled with the fusible plugs, gyro-coupler, and hyrdo pressure gauge for what seemed only a few minutes, the old trash boiler roared back to life, ignoring the hindering safety valve, and disintegrated the wasted parts. So satified with his work, Glad almost wanted to wake Tinker Tom and show him that he wasn't really the blundering fool boy, the old man thought he was. He thought better of it, though.
Glad wasn't tired. Whether his success with the malfunctioning trash boiler had invigorated him, or anxiety over his possible departure in the morning was the cause of his wakefulness, he didn't know. Glad was pretty sure, however, that Tinker Tom would reconsider once the old man slept on it. Wouldn't he? This wasn't the first time Tinker Tom said things he didn't really mean after a frustrating day of work. In any case, he was surely bluffing about waking up in the morning. The old man slept longer and longer these days. Glad pondered that for a while, before deciding to take a stroll around the corner to the neighborhood pub where he might take his mind off his troubles.
“Glad, what brings you here? It's not too often I see you outside of Tinker Tom's shop. That reminds me, Old Tinker was suppose to have a new set of cornballers for me. How are they coming along?” , said the barkeep known as Rubin Waters.
“The work is done,” Glad heard himself say, before it came back to mind how he blew the cornballers up shortly after Tinker Tom had completed that work. Glad was eager to change the subject. “I came for a stein of that famous ale of yours, Rubin.”
“Didn't peg you for much of a drinker, but I guess we all get our thirst sometime. Here you go.” said Rubin Waters, “That'll be...” KABOOOM!!!!
Glad woke in near-total darkness. The once familiar neighborhood pub resembled nothing from the world he once knew. Everything was dark and grey, here and there flickers of red-orange light. Glad could make out walls slanting at akward angles, the three walls that still stood at all. He saw the roof was mostly collapsed too. For a while he heard nothing, but only had a vague memory of the loudest noise possible and then the incredible force that threw him up, over, and then down, down under the bar. Finally, he heard dim voices that quicky turned to shouts. “What the Grenth was that?” he heard one man shout, but Glad couldn't know the speakers voice. “HELP! Someone. Anyone. Eastern Ward is... it's gone!” a woman's voice this time.
“Where's Watchmen Bojangles? Someone tell Watchmen Bojangles!” yet another man's voice.
As Glad made his first attempt to scramble to his feet, he noticed that he was drenched in beer, and... and sticky red slop. It was blood he recognized, and small bits of flesh, but he didn't think he was seriously injured. On the other hand, he wasn't sure he could feel anything at all.
“Rubin,” Glad cried into the darkness. “Where are you? Are you OK?”
It took Glad a few moments to fully comprehend the uselessness of that question, as a severed human limb, still grasping an empty beer stein in hand, fell off his lap to the floor below. He was wearing Rubin, or what was left of the man. Glad almost threw-up on the spot, but managed to hold it down, finally finishing his struggle to get both his feet under him. As he began to make his way out from the still burning rubble into the safety of the open street, it was as if he was not really there at all. Someone else was now doing all the walking, climbing, crawling for him.
Only the shreiking woman's cries brought Glad back to the moment. “It's gone! It's gone! IT”S ALL GONE!” the woman continued, and she was right. There wasn't a street where once there was one. A two block radius of Lion's Arch was completely obliterated, now standing in it's place was nothing but scattered piles of burning rubble and debree. Frantic screaming citizens raced back and forth between mangled dead bodies that littered the ground, while others tried to put down scattered fires with buckets of water. Glad tried to take in what he was seeing, but the harder he tried to focus, the more surreal the world became, and then he knew this strange, terrifying dream must soon end. Still, it occurred to him that it was at the center of the massive, smoking crator that Tinker Tom's workshop should have been.
It was a night like any other at Tinker Tom's workshop in Eastern Ward.
The old man known as Tinker Tom had finally given up on his latest attempt to collaborate the Biscuit Bopper 2.0. It had 2x the power potential of it's predecessor. It would run entirely on hydro-steam. It had sleek wooden side-panels. It was a masterpiece. It didn't work.“This is useless. Ever since I took you on, boy, every Balthazar-blasted thing-a-ma-bob in this shop doesn't frggin work. The cornballers I told you to tweak friggin exploded. Every friggin-one! And you're just as useless as a biscuit bopper that doesn't bop biscuits, so wipe that stupid grin off your face. Old Tinker Tom's botched jobs amuse you, boy?”
“Yes, Father, I mean... no. I like to watch your work and learn something new every time. And you didn't take me on. I live here...with you... since Mom died.”, said the boy.
“Boy, do you think I need a stupid son, like you? You're not my son. I told you a thousand times that you're Don Komrad's whelp. The one that always wore that stupid friggin grin on his face... just like your stupid friggin-one. Oh yes, I knew about that friggin Don Komrad. Your mother thought I didn't, but I did. Had his little prick in every trollop in Lion's Arch, he did. Shesh. What do I need Komrad's stupid bastard boy for?”
The boy didn't know what to say to that. The old man who named him Glad for the broad smile that never left his face had stopped calling him that years ago. Glad didn't know his real name since he was so young when his mother died and no one among the living seemed to know what it originally was, either. He preferred anything to being called boy by the only father he'd ever known. As Glad grew older, his babyface began to take on more and more manly features. The old man only seemed to grow more and more angry to the point that he wouldn't even look at Glad, almost as if the very sight of him aggravated the old man. Glad knew that Tinker Tom was not his real father, since the old man was a pasty white hue that didn't match Glad's own darker skin. Tinker Tom had never explained how he had come to foster Glad, or anything else, for that matter. Lately, however, the old man had been accusing Glad of being the bastard son of Don Komrad. Glad didn't know anything about a man named Don Komrad, except that there wasn't one in Lion's Arch,... and wherever he was, the old man hated him.
“Look, boy, you're not the sharpest tool in the shed, so we need to have a talk. Old Tinker Tom thought he was doing the right thing, taken you in all those years ago, not having my own son to make a proper apprentice out of, but you're not cut out for this kind a work. You're better at breaking my tools than fixing 'em up” , the old man explained.
“But I learned everything you taught me” , said Glad, now mortified by the tone of the conversation. “I watch everything you do. I'm learning!”
“You learned nothing of what I taught you. I don't even know how to make a cornballer explode, boy. You didn't learn that from me. Old Tinker Tom is not as young as he use to be,... too old to look after a blundering fool boy. You're almost a man grown now, so this is how it's going to be, you're going clean up the workshop, and Old Tom is going to get some sleep. Tomorrow, we're leaving first thing in the morning to see if the City Watch is still in need of strong young men that don't have a trade. Watchmen Bojangles said the need was great only weeks ago.”
“The... the City Watch?” , asked Glad, now close to tears.
“Are you deaf and dumb, boy? Do as I say unless you wanna git a wallop, now!”
Tinker Tom often threatened Glad with wallops, but never seemed to get around to ever making good on the threat. Not since Glad was a small child, anyways. Glad thought that this was a kindness, never considering the possibility that the old man was no longer physically strong enough to wallop anybody. On this day, especially, Glad wasn't certain if the older man didn't mean to make good on the threat. Glad couldn't remember Tinker Tom ever quite so onry before. He managed to hold back the tears that were attemping to escape down his cheeks as he meekly began to pick up the broken pieces of various cornballers and the other scattered parts, to pile them in the trash-boiler machine.
By the time Glad finished his task, Tinker Tom was sound asleep in his usual place in the lower bunk at the far corner of the workshop. Before heading up the ladder to his own bunk, Glad noticed the trash boiler wasn't auto-igniting the scrap metal. The load was a little heavy, which triggered the sensitive safety valve, he realized. The thing was so finicky, sometimes Tinker Tom couldn't even get it to work properly. Those safety valves are good for nothing. If I could just bypass it, somehow, the old trash-boiler would work better than ever and twice as fast, he thought. After he fiddled with the fusible plugs, gyro-coupler, and hyrdo pressure gauge for what seemed only a few minutes, the old trash boiler roared back to life, ignoring the hindering safety valve, and disintegrated the wasted parts. So satified with his work, Glad almost wanted to wake Tinker Tom and show him that he wasn't really the blundering fool boy, the old man thought he was. He thought better of it, though.
Glad wasn't tired. Whether his success with the malfunctioning trash boiler had invigorated him, or anxiety over his possible departure in the morning was the cause of his wakefulness, he didn't know. Glad was pretty sure, however, that Tinker Tom would reconsider once the old man slept on it. Wouldn't he? This wasn't the first time Tinker Tom said things he didn't really mean after a frustrating day of work. In any case, he was surely bluffing about waking up in the morning. The old man slept longer and longer these days. Glad pondered that for a while, before deciding to take a stroll around the corner to the neighborhood pub where he might take his mind off his troubles.
“Glad, what brings you here? It's not too often I see you outside of Tinker Tom's shop. That reminds me, Old Tinker was suppose to have a new set of cornballers for me. How are they coming along?” , said the barkeep known as Rubin Waters.
“The work is done,” Glad heard himself say, before it came back to mind how he blew the cornballers up shortly after Tinker Tom had completed that work. Glad was eager to change the subject. “I came for a stein of that famous ale of yours, Rubin.”
“Didn't peg you for much of a drinker, but I guess we all get our thirst sometime. Here you go.” said Rubin Waters, “That'll be...” KABOOOM!!!!
Glad woke in near-total darkness. The once familiar neighborhood pub resembled nothing from the world he once knew. Everything was dark and grey, here and there flickers of red-orange light. Glad could make out walls slanting at akward angles, the three walls that still stood at all. He saw the roof was mostly collapsed too. For a while he heard nothing, but only had a vague memory of the loudest noise possible and then the incredible force that threw him up, over, and then down, down under the bar. Finally, he heard dim voices that quicky turned to shouts. “What the Grenth was that?” he heard one man shout, but Glad couldn't know the speakers voice. “HELP! Someone. Anyone. Eastern Ward is... it's gone!” a woman's voice this time.
“Where's Watchmen Bojangles? Someone tell Watchmen Bojangles!” yet another man's voice.
As Glad made his first attempt to scramble to his feet, he noticed that he was drenched in beer, and... and sticky red slop. It was blood he recognized, and small bits of flesh, but he didn't think he was seriously injured. On the other hand, he wasn't sure he could feel anything at all.
“Rubin,” Glad cried into the darkness. “Where are you? Are you OK?”
It took Glad a few moments to fully comprehend the uselessness of that question, as a severed human limb, still grasping an empty beer stein in hand, fell off his lap to the floor below. He was wearing Rubin, or what was left of the man. Glad almost threw-up on the spot, but managed to hold it down, finally finishing his struggle to get both his feet under him. As he began to make his way out from the still burning rubble into the safety of the open street, it was as if he was not really there at all. Someone else was now doing all the walking, climbing, crawling for him.
Only the shreiking woman's cries brought Glad back to the moment. “It's gone! It's gone! IT”S ALL GONE!” the woman continued, and she was right. There wasn't a street where once there was one. A two block radius of Lion's Arch was completely obliterated, now standing in it's place was nothing but scattered piles of burning rubble and debree. Frantic screaming citizens raced back and forth between mangled dead bodies that littered the ground, while others tried to put down scattered fires with buckets of water. Glad tried to take in what he was seeing, but the harder he tried to focus, the more surreal the world became, and then he knew this strange, terrifying dream must soon end. Still, it occurred to him that it was at the center of the massive, smoking crator that Tinker Tom's workshop should have been.