Post by Dravin on Jul 10, 2006 2:40:13 GMT -5
Dravin was born a farmer, raised a farmer, and lived like a farmer. His family's farm had lain on the outskirts of Mittelmarch for an unrememberable ammount of generations. The few acres of self-owned food had kept the farmers well-sustained and occasionally yielded some surplus. Rather than sell the year's surplus at market, though, Dravin's grandfather had long ago developed a method of preserving nearly everything from the yearly surplusses. Vegetables were pickled, canned, and replanted, meat was preserved with salts and drying, grapes were fermented, and all of the unused goods went to the storehouse behind the farmhousehouse. Many years of surplus had well-stocked the storehouse, and after Dravin's grandfather had passed away, the goods were allowed to be sold at market, according to the old man's will.
The wares sold extraordinarily well in the market due to a recent drought. The family's newfound wealth updated farm equipment and architecture, but yet more remained. Each child was given a gift that they most desired; many of Dravin's sisters were assigned dowries and moved off to housing areas for young women in search of marriage. Many of the male children squandered their funds. Some gambled, other drank themselves into obscenity, but Dravin wished merely for self-improvement. Still being quite young, improvement was easy for the boy. Tutors were hired from around the Land, intellectuals, artists, and trainers of self-defense. The young farmer's mind, spirit, and body flourished, but he never forgot that he was the son of a farmer, and an integral part of the workforce. After the day's learning was commenced, Dravin never failed to rush out to the field to assist his father and remaining brothers with the work at hand.
Life felt wonderful, in short.
As time had been passing, life outside the farm was growing more hectic. News of raids on the Land grew arrived at the farm's ear more and more often. Orcs, ogres, trolls, goblins, and worse were roaming the outskirts of Mittelmarch. As weeks passed, the sky began to have less blue and more grey as smoke from burning farms and mills dispersed into the atmosphere. Always an economical and wise man, Dravin's father took a purse of the last of the surplus funds into town. In town, he purchased better, sharper, more powerful tools that could double as weapons in the case of an attack on the homestead. Pitchforks went from rusty iron forks to glinting honed steel, sharpened to a needle's point. Scythes, many rotting and nearly broken, were traded in for hard reinforced cedar marvels. A few spare bows and swords were purchased, and Dravin's father returned to the farm driving a wagon penniless. The family would make their stand when the time came.
The wares sold extraordinarily well in the market due to a recent drought. The family's newfound wealth updated farm equipment and architecture, but yet more remained. Each child was given a gift that they most desired; many of Dravin's sisters were assigned dowries and moved off to housing areas for young women in search of marriage. Many of the male children squandered their funds. Some gambled, other drank themselves into obscenity, but Dravin wished merely for self-improvement. Still being quite young, improvement was easy for the boy. Tutors were hired from around the Land, intellectuals, artists, and trainers of self-defense. The young farmer's mind, spirit, and body flourished, but he never forgot that he was the son of a farmer, and an integral part of the workforce. After the day's learning was commenced, Dravin never failed to rush out to the field to assist his father and remaining brothers with the work at hand.
Life felt wonderful, in short.
As time had been passing, life outside the farm was growing more hectic. News of raids on the Land grew arrived at the farm's ear more and more often. Orcs, ogres, trolls, goblins, and worse were roaming the outskirts of Mittelmarch. As weeks passed, the sky began to have less blue and more grey as smoke from burning farms and mills dispersed into the atmosphere. Always an economical and wise man, Dravin's father took a purse of the last of the surplus funds into town. In town, he purchased better, sharper, more powerful tools that could double as weapons in the case of an attack on the homestead. Pitchforks went from rusty iron forks to glinting honed steel, sharpened to a needle's point. Scythes, many rotting and nearly broken, were traded in for hard reinforced cedar marvels. A few spare bows and swords were purchased, and Dravin's father returned to the farm driving a wagon penniless. The family would make their stand when the time came.
