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Jarod the Illusionist

I remember the first time the magic flared within me. Twas at the inn, naturally, for where else would it be? Driven hence by memory unbidden, I was deep in cups begged or stolen from better men, dreaming of higher station, spinning tales of wonder and glory. Never ye mind where I heard them. I'd come by them honestly enough, and those parts that gleamed a bit brighter for the polish were close enough to the truth. Yet one among them took affront. "Jarod, ye're a liar and a scoundrel, stealing glory ye've no right to!"

I met his angry eyes with a storm grey gaze, brushed my light brown hair from my face and rose to what passed for my full height, a scant few inches above five feet. "A scoundrel I may be, but call me a liar at your peril!" I shouted in ale-driven defiance. I was daft to do it, for he was a blacksmith, with arms like gnarled oak. Cast against him, my slight build was nearly comical, and any brawl between us would be noteworthy mostly for its brevity. But stand I did, my heart pounding in my breast, slim fists clenched so hard I could feel my nails dig into my palms. It was then I felt it, like a rush of wind from behind my eyes. My vision blurred. . All right, blurred more. . . And suddenly he was backing away, hands before him in supplication. "Prithee, good sirs," he stammered, "I meant no offense. Surely we can come to an understanding. . ."

I don't know what he saw to this day. I never do, really. Whenever the magic comes it rises unbidden, does what it wills, then fades. All I know is whatever it was, it saved me from a beating, and mayhap worse. "Aye," I replied. "You can understand I'm to be left alone," I growled. He nodded quickly, downed the last of his ale, and left.

Weve since made peace, he and I, each agreeing twas no fault of the other, a spasm of anger set free by strong drink. While I wouldn't call him friend, precisely, I hold no animus toward him. For his part, his eyes pass over me with a somewhat wary expression. Twas he who first called me illusionist, but the title stuck, and soon all the town knew it.

I think back on the words of my mother, how she saw in me some great destiny, a shining future replete with glory and fame, but I cannot see it. Id settle for a night in a bed, and a stomach not rumbling around nothing. Perhaps in time, if I can learn to control this gift of mine, I can earn a place somewhere, where I can eat regularly. Perhaps my tongue, which has gotten me into more than a few scrapes, can earn me a living, spinning tales seen firsthand for a change, instead of recounting the adventures of greater men.

Perhaps someday, I might even see the court of a king. .

Illusionist Jarod

Advisor Description

Ah, Myra. She has ever had my interests at heart, for reasons I cannot fathom. I first met her. . Where else. . . At the tavern. She watched over me as I worked the room, earning drinks, coppers and cuffs to the head in equal measure. She steered me away from the angry and violent, and encouraged those of generous spirit to help me.

Many would not call her beautiful, but I do. She is pleasantly rounded, with a quick smile that always reaches her merry blue eyes, at least when she looks at me. She is scarcely younger than Mother was when she passed, but rougher in word while being somehow softer of spirit. Where Mother was prim anf=d proper, Myra is coarse but wise in the ways of men and the world. Her dark hair has reddish tints, and freckles dot her cheeks when the spring sun shines upon her. I think she worries overmuch, sometimes, especially since Mother has passed. She wasn't there the night I first felt the magic. She heard about that later, and fretted something awful. Perhaps she's afraid I'll use my gifts to steal. I wish I could promise her I won't, but a man must eat. Still, her good opinion is precious to me, so I strive to make an honest living.

I've no idea where life will take me, but it gives me comfort knowing Myra will have some part in getting me through it.

Jarod the Illusionist Post Play & MMORPG RPG Text

Jarod the Illusionist Lives!. I, Jarod, have died but am alive again! How can mine crimes leave me with my 1st death to carry me downward dumbfounded in this dark vision? It is mine lack of aim.

Illusionist Jarod

Jarod the Illusionist Lives!. Mine objective is to be Ruler of Kings and yet I have suffered disappointments for the 2nd time much to mine wonder-struck. I am not in a dungeon of fears yet I have become it.

Illusionist Jarod

Jarod the Illusionist Lives!. I was amazed when for the 3rd resurrection. Maybe it is part of destiny of fate. With aspiration in mind things must changeth.

Jarod the Illusionist

The Beauty of Lady Fluke

My lady's eyes gaze wistfully,
Emeralds that shine with merriment,
Gaze with passion,
Set aflame the hearts of lesser men.
From alabaster skin they meet mine own eyes,
And I, humbled, look away,
Unworthy to behold such wonder.
How can I pay homage to one so fair?

Jarod Illusionist

Reflections on your mother

Reflections on your mother
I remember hands, strong and nimble, gracefully moving through her daily tasks. I recall eyes filled with love and hope, promising me a destiny I still don't see. She watched over me, instructed my, held me when memories of father overtook me. I remember her voice, never melodious, but always musical to me, a song of comfort and strength whenever I faltered.

Her passing haunts me still. The music of her voice still sings to me here in my dreams, and I miss her more with each passing day.

Jarod Illusionist Text RPG MMORPG & Play Post

Reflections on your father

Reflections on your father.
Of all the things the Dream Whisperer could have asked, to reflect on that man is the most onerous. That hellish brute brought naught but fear and pain to my mother their entire marriage. When I dream of him I hear incoherent screams, and the sounds of flesh striking flesh. When he went of to war, life improved, as the wages he sent back could not rage at her, nor belittle her, nor wound her body or spirit. When I flee my memories to the Tavern, it is memories of him I flee fastest, and when he died in battle and his final pension was sent, my mother cried not from sorrow, but relief, to never have to put up with his odious presence again.