Dexter was born to a nameless father and a vermin of a mother, the duo of them more preoccupied in their pre-parental lives than maintaining a household. Birthed in the middle of Amber Cold in the slums of Haense, it was either a miracle, or a feat of raw, profound luck that he survived. Dexter's mother kept the title for about two weeks after his birth, his father having left long, long before that. Passed from one mother to a surrogate, whomst also couldn't stand him, Dexter was doomed for an upbringing of hard-knocks, and frigid seasons. Genuinely, once Dexter was off the teat, he was left to raise himself alongside cobble-stone street ruffians, and the criminals and entrepreneurs that brought them up. By the time he could wrap his feet with leathers, Dexter was running around with the big-kids; playing, he thought, but in reality, he was surviving. Pilfering bread and bits of meat from stalls and shops was merely a game, and whoever brought back the most stuff was the winner for that day- those that got caught were losers. Dex, in the beginning, was /quite/ the loser. Luckily for him, many mistakes lead to many lessons, and with how young he was, a literal 'whip-on-the-wrist' was the usual punishment for theft of his caliber. Every failure counted, Dexter picked himself back up, rubbed his carpals, and waltzed back to the fire composed of trash he huddled around for warmth, disappointed only in the fact that he couldn't contribute to the pile of nourishment.
Dexter spent the majority of his adolescence on the streets, bobbing around guard-folk and merchants until his early teens. At the age of thirteen, Dexter had an epiphany- while, promptly, watching one of his old friends get de-fingered. He wasn't a child anymore, and this whole 'thief' shin-dig was probably going to lead to a loss of limbs. Y'see- Dexter had quite the attachment to his limbs, even moreso than your average man, and way moreso than his attachment to his current 'occupation'. His attachment to his brothers, though- that was another story. Dex had to contribute in one way or another to his group, somehow. He began to analyze. After a couple days, Dexter noticed the stunning rate of illiteracy in his group- one-hundred percent, in fact. Reading was a skill that wasn't found often, let alone in the streets- so, his new goal was to bring it there. Every night, Dex snuck into the tavern. . . to read. And read he did. He cleaved his way through the jungles of the common language, piecing it together alongside the assistance of traveling scholars, monks, and scribes. A year passed, then another. One language was learned, and then shared to his 'people'. Just after, another language was begun.
At the age of seventeen, Dexter began to puzzle-fit the Elvish language together- halting only at the next turn of his life; a mysterious, purple-robed, dark-skinned man, known only by the locals as 'Uncle Alchemist'. Contrary to his name, 'Uncle Alchemist' literally had no knowledge of the field of alchemy- but boy did he look like it. He was lanky, he carried a thousand and three sacks of herbs, remedies, and spices, and his silver beard reached his sternum. He wasn't 'magical', but his aura certainly was. Dexter was enthralled at this traveler, and after the first visit, Dex pleaded with him to venture back. By obligation, he did. They spat the spit for ages, conversing about plants and how they bloomed- 'Uncle Alchemist' wasn't an alchemist, he was a botanist, Dexter came to know. In common speak, he was a gardener! Nothing more, but certainly nothing less. Dexter was enthralled with the impacts of flora upon the biological body, his 'Uncle's words being scribbled into Dex's notes.
Dexter, after printing a copy of his notes for his gangling of street-children, and the up-and-coming generation of them, eventually followed 'Uncle Alchemist' out of the tavern. Dexter was taken on a pilgrimage across the lands of Atlas, nipping at the heels of his surrogate uncle the entire time. From Haense to the outskirts of the Princedom of Fenn the waltzed, and from there back down to Marna, plucking and sampling the foliage along the way. Marna lead them through the swamps surrounding Norland, the exotic plant-life requiring note. A pivot in their path reset their direction to the Cloud Temple- a short rest following their arrival, followed by a fourteen day-long study. The Cloud-Temple marked the half-way point of their pilgrimage; Renatus, the Spring Hills, and the Dominion of Malin ending their bi-yearly length-ed journey. Dexter spent the entirety of his journey in a remarkable euphoric high, and seeing it come to an end was devastating. Ol' Uncle Alchemist had an expedition in store for himself, a continuation of the pilgrimage- the final stretch that Dexter wasn't allowed to follow on. The pilgrimage was set to end in the land of the Warhawkes; a biome far, far too unknown to even the Uncle himself for a proper journey through. He pleaded but, no- Dexter was left at the Dominion with a note-book full of writings, watching his mentor waltz off into the sun-set.
Broke, and on the other end of a continent he barely had time to process, Dex was terrified. His street-urchin senses kicked in, and quickly he started to scrounge. He took up odd-jobs as a dock-hand, occasionally pilfering salted meats and dried breads for a journey- a journey back to Marna, where he could put his experience to use. One day, mid-shift, Dexter disappeared from the docks of Malin with a bag full of dehydrated meat, and fried fruits- a trek back across the continent in his path. Once back in Marna's territory, Dexter retreated to the woodlands surrounding- plucking smokeable and consumable plantlife for the populace, to secretly peddle to the populace. For a trio of years, he stayed in Marna- accumulating Minae, occasionally waltzing between territories to sell his plant-life, a Machiavellian scheme cooking up over the years. A monopoly started to brew in the back of his brain, pawns on a chess-board piecing themselves together beautifully in his head- he just had to put them in motion.
Recommended Comments