Alan'driel was born into moderate means within the territory of Haelun'or as the son of a butcher. Scarce is known about his upbringing but that he was infamously fond of pork scratchings and made a name for himself as a loud-mouthed child. Rebellious to the purist ideology of the post-republican Silver State, some whisper that Alan'driel took on a vow of indulgence at the tender age of fifty. Indeed, the man was an avid frequenter of Haelun'or's many drinking holes until he was barred from the collective for petty thievery. Yet he would not cease his crimes against the good people who were by this time antagonised by war and the forthcoming loss of their silver island as a consequence of the war against Haense. At the eight of eighty-eight Alan'driel was cast from the city. Like he cared! He did not need them anyway, and with the last of his cheques (ever averse to coins) hired travel to the Arch-Principality of Celia'nor to find his fortune.
Alan'driel scrunched his disproportionately small nose at the man greeting him. "Fellow, this city? To this city I come for a good drink, a hearty feast, and a bed to carry me to sleep! I am a simple man, wanting for little." he lied, pressing a hand to his formidable jowls as if in thought. "Say, what is the going rate on a stall in this here market?"
Recommended Comments