Cyreph Barterson, the Fallen Merchant

Wrote a bit of backstory (front story?) because I'm still stoked about the game and the possibilities. Let's see how long we can ride this hype train for, shall we?



Prologue

Cyreph Barterson stood on the knoll and surveyed the village. Growth and development has come quickly, but lately he has been hearing more and more reports from visitors from other regions, a lot of them with hostile intent. He pursed his lips at the thought of war. Why can't the world find peace, he wondered. There is more coin to be made in times of peace. Well, that is not completely true, but merchants who profit in time of war are... not his kind of people.

He glanced at the open notebook laying on his palm. A jumble of interlinking nodes cluttered the page. Autumn Willow has always commented that his writing is too messy, that it lacks a certain smoothness, a certain flow. Cyreph was pretty sure she was thinking of musical notes; she often viewed life as one ever-flowing song. Umji thought the notes were "pretty". Quite a jarring thought, given that she almost hates all of the written medium. But Cyreph was comfortable in his style of writing. At one glance, he could tell what had happened over the last few weeks, and how everything connected with each other. 

There were a lot of players in this game, he thought. Different parties with different interest, but all with a common goal of protecting and growing this little village that stands before him. We don't often see eye to eye, he thought, but at least we are united by the greater scheme. Still, it vexes him that the world seems at odd with itself. Every act to build seems to create an aura of scarcity that affects the other regions. In entropy, growth is renewed. 

His eyes were drawn to the sword that lies against a gnarled tree not too far from him. Autumn had insisted that he carry it with him. Umji would have preferred that he used a mace instead. Cyreph would rather use words than weapons. He chuckled at the ridiculousness of the proposition. Word will not solve everything in this world. He wondered whether his final words will be a glib argument attempting to dissuade violence against a rather determined foe. That seems rather likely. 

Still, Cyreph could see the wisdom of his comrades. Violence is rather inevitable, whether he likes it or not, whether he is adept at it or not. He would need a way to defend himself in times of combat. He know not which path to pick though. There are many ways to fight, literally, in  this world. There are those that follow the way of the weapon. There are those whose shield defends themselves and their comrades. There is the way of magic. Cyreph has tried studying a few magical tomes before. They are not overly complicated, but his mind often drifts away from the execution of the spell and into the generic principles of magic themselves. It seems like he is more drawn towards the idea of knowledge than the purpose of knowledge itself. 

There is the way of the bow. There is the way of shadows, which acquaintances often pitched to him. A merchant and a rouge are cut from the same cloth, they said, they all steal from you all the same. Cyreph furrowed his brow, he did not like that comparison. He wondered whether he could leave thoughts of fighting to another day. But days of war seemed to be approaching, and he didn't think that he has the luxury of fantasising about a world of peace anymore. He reached over for the sword lying on the gnarled tree. A grim determination set in his mind. No, today might not be the day that he uses the sword.

But one way or another, today will be the day he draws blood. 



There you go. Doesn't feel like a chapter so I shall call it a prologue. 

@AutumnWillow, @Umji : Hope I didn't misrepresented your characters.  :D

I always liked the idea of writing but have never really channelled it much (shout out to @santrasa who said the same thing). I'm not very comfortable about the grammatical accuracy of my writing, particularly the tense part. 

Credits to @lexmax for sharing lore that he scrounged up. 

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