DM Handle Talavin
Eye Color: Brown
Hair Color: Brown
Weight: 138 lbs
Place of Origin: Caemlyn, Andor
Shame. Humiliation. Inadequacy.
It was easy, at first- life, that is. Well, of course it was, life is always easy at the beginning. All you do is eat, sleep, and poop.. But that wasn’t what he was referring to. Back when they were young, everyone was the same. All of them just ran around and played. Differences didn’t matter, size didn’t matter. Everything was fine when he was a child. Flash. Bang. Shriek. Laugh. Play. Who you played your games with rarely mattered; the only important thing was that you were a part of the game. Life would be so different if everyone stayed children. Children are the cruelest yet kindest creatures on the planet. They care for nothing but themselves. They hurt without regret or limit. However, they also had no prejudice, no stereotypes.
Arath Talavin was a normal child; nothing about him was incredible. He was born into the lower rungs of Caemlyn, a step above a street rat. Nobody passing him on the street would give him a second glance, for he was neither handsome nor ugly. His features were plain for an Andoran: dark hair and eyes. He had skin that was lightly tanned; though he was naturally fair-skinned, his time in the sun had darkened his skin. He had calloused hands and feet, and normally he would adorn a few scrapes and bruises- nothing more than any other boy of his age. His skin was not horribly dirty, unless he had been playing in the mud, for his mother would always berate him if he came home with his clothes in tatters.
His family was normal, for their lower class. His father worked in a tavern and his mother a cook in an Inn. He had two brothers, one older and one younger. Arath’s family was short on money, but overall they were happy. They walked in the Light and the Light kept them safe and healthy. However, for a young boy such as Arath, the sheer normalcy of his life was torture. He longed for adventure, he longed for riches and fame and notoriety. Instead of his dream, he received only solitude. A normal boy such as he was never noticed, never seen, he was an invisible ant, yet he longed to be a giant- powerful and huge. And so it was no surprise that he promised the world that he would become a warrior. Not just any warrior, but the greatest warrior of all times.
Everyday he would practice with his “sword”, (a conveniently sized stick, of course) and he would run around- “physical conditioning”. Arath would lay in his bed at night and dream of battles and fights- where he would face one hundred men and win with a single powerful strike of his great-sword. These dreams lasted him through his childhood and into those ‘tween times before you were a man but after childhood. Of course, he was excited to find that he was growing and growing- getting taller and taller. Grow, grow, grow, stop. It was alright though; everyone had to stop growing at some time, right? The only problem was that where he stopped growing, the other boys did not. He found that he was soon at least a hand shorter than the other boys.
Horrified as he was at being so, so… short, Arath was still confident in his abilities to become a great warrior. Reality is a cruel teacher. Others, however, were not so confident. He would insist to anyone who would listen that he would become the shortest, yet the best, warrior of all times. The other boys laughed at him and made fun of him, but he still did not give up. Eventually, however, they got tired of his incessant declarations and were quick to show him just how much size matters in a fight. No, it could not be even classified as a fight; it was a slaughter. With their greater reach, weight, and height, he didn’t stand a chance in a brawl against them. Time and time again, their strength proved greater than his.
Arath spent years trying to increase his strength so that he could beat the bigger boys. Every exercise that was in existence he would perform for hours at end. While eventually his stamina became much greater than theirs, his strength paled in comparison to the others. In these years, he became known as the boy who didn’t know when to quit. He was beaten up on a weakly basis, yet he never stopped trying. They taunted him, they humiliated him, they stole from him, and yet Arath could do nothing to stop them. Every time he would respond to their taunts he would be beaten down as quickly as he got up. Eventually, he learned not to respond to them, he learned to be cold and feel nothing when they destroyed his every dream.
Finally, he accepted that he could never become stronger than them. That didn’t mean that he gave up hope, though. Arath realized that he could never be stronger, so he had to use what he had. His size could be used to his advantage, for it was not all bad. He was faster than most men, and so he trained his speed. He could hit a man three times in the time it took for them to hit him once. When he felt confident that he could stand up for himself, he fought once again. This time, however, he won. Not every time, but a few times; more than he used to anyway. Eventually he learned that he had to use more than just speed; he had to be smarter than his opponents too. He could see when his opponents would mess up, make them mess up.
Arath’s dream didn’t seem so impossible now. With this newfound strength and confidence he went to the inner city, and to the palace. He wanted to become a city guard, to be trained in the way of the sword.. He would never wield a great-sword, and he had no delusions of that; however, he could still be a great swordsman. Arath knew that after he had learned everything that Caemlyn had to teach him, he could go on his way to becoming a great swordsman. And so he moved with a spring in his step to the recruiter, and signed himself up. Arath met the man who trained the guards. He was a huge man, large and bulging with muscles, but Arath was not intimidated, he had fought men his size before. Arath was ready to prove himself and become a guard, and told the man his intentions.
He laughed in Arath’s face. He said that Arath was far too short to become a fighter, that he had no reach and no strength. Arath tried to protest, he tried to insist that he could make up for his size, or lack of it. Despite his protests, he was kicked out onto the street and ignored- like trash. It hurt. He had dropped his armor of ice, and the dismissal had hurt him more than he thought it could. He had begun to make a name for himself in the poorer streets of Caemlyn. Those who had scorned him before were beginning to think that he may one day become a warrior. However, once a real warrior said that he had no chance, the general populace redoubled their scorn. Arath was defeated and broken, and he nearly gave up his dream, until he heard a rumor that Tar Valon was accepting willing young men to train as Tower Guards.
Arath left for Tar Valon the next day.