Rickstan was born in the family home of Dale, living comfortably and happily in the blissful unawareness that his Mother and Father harbored a secret, a secret that did not seem to change or quibble their devoted and instinctive love for their Son. He grew up quite unremarkably like any other infant. He babbled, he rolled, he filled a changing rag and he threw his mushy food once he stopped being nurtured by the breast. It was clear to his Mother and Father that he could be a little naughty but lovely thing, this baby-like troublesome spirit was something they loved to endure, his Mother most of all. Rickstan did not spend so much time with his Father during his early infancy and was mostly always in the company and care of his Mother. His Father was for many weeks at a time on the road, traveling, carrying goods and wares on a cart for trade for their small town, coming and going in all weathers and seasons, even the harshness of cold winters. His Mother, though, was not one for being lonely. Yes, she would miss her husband wretchedly and always welcome him home with an open arm and a kiss, but she always had her Son who she could fuss and love, and there were other’s close by who could come by with their own children, so Rickstan could play and copy.
Such scenes continued until the Autumn of Rickstan’s first year on this world. As was custom and predictable, his Father was away to another place and had been for some days’ time; not due back for many more. Rickstan was sat on a mat of brown fur, before the warm hearth of the cottage fire, bouncing and talking in his little way as he toyed with some wooden play thing of some design; this was his distraction so his Mother could have some moments to prepare them some food. She stood, cheerful and placid, a smile on her lips as she rolled the pin over the dough, listening to the prattle and whispers of her son. As she rubbed her hands on her little white apron about her waist, the door of the cottage flung open, bringing with it the harsh wind, sucking leaves and fallen Autumn foliage onto the floor of the entrance. His Mother turned and paled as a man stepped over the threshold, a wicked unfriendly grin on his face, dressed from head to foot in rich garb of fur and dark embroided linen and leather. More men seemed to follow the man, shadowing the light which came through the door, the only entrance to the house now blocked by heavy padded flesh and steel.
Rickstan in his ignorant infancy knew nothing of what happened proceeding this unwelcome and abrupt entrance. When the richer man of the group approached him, he simply babbled and smiled, holding up one of the toys to show him. Even when the man sniggered cruelly and left, followed by the heavy treading steps of the other men, he continued to play. For all he knew in his infant brain, his mother was sleeping or playing a game. Perhaps that was for the best.
His earliest memory was that of a rough, jolting ride on his Fathers cart, passing through some pasture unknown to him, between surrounding forests and mountains, up and down cliff face terrain or soppy moss-grown paths. This was his life now, the shadow clutching always to his Father’s side and waking up to new galleries and scenes every dawn. Dale was long behind, his Father decided it was best that way. He wanted to save Rickstan the awful truth of what happened; maybe even in the vain hopes of forgetting himself. From that tragic day, Rickstan’s Father didn’t treat him the same, more like a traveling apprentice than a Son. Even as Rickstan grew and grew till his Eleventh Winter on this earth, this was what he grew accustomed. He knew he loved his Father, very devotedly. Yes, he was rough, thoughtful, even thoughtless; a brood shrew thing, who over the years grew more and more sorrowful and a shell of his former self. Age brought with it curiosity and as much as Rickstan asked; and was promptly reprimanded, he kept asking questions about his past. Who was his Mother? Why is she not with them now? His questions however were answered one night, when still in the cart bordering the banks of a river, he braved once more to ask and was told everything.
It was some time around this part of Rickstan’s earlier life that his Father passed away, leaving Rickstan an orphan on the road; goodness knows where. Rickstan, from what he might recall in the present day, does not recollect ever speaking about this; to his wife, nor his Brother (Yes, he has a brother). When his own excellent Father passed away, it was during another travel through an unknown land. Alone with this, a boy of Eleven. What else could he do? Some nearby Village stumbled upon the scene and aided with the burials and other such proceedings. Yet when it came to the issue of Rickstan, a child alone, their first inclination was to seek some Orphan refuge for him. Petrified of the idea, Rickstan fled on his own with nothing but the clothing on his back and what coins his Father had on him when he died. If only he knew where the Village was, the name, anything; he might in the present day go back, maybe, maybe.
This was the start of Rickstan’s lone approach into the world, with the fresh words of his Fathers dying story on his lips and etched into his young mind; the truth that was so daunting it felt like a punch to the stomach; he was very much alone. Lucky happenings upon little Villages and Towns, Ports, Crossroads; these were the places he used wisely. With what currency he had, he purchased bread, cheese, maybe even a blanket and something to carry them in. If there was one thing Rickstan learnt to heart, it was his Father’s trade; haggling, knowing prices, handling money. After all, that is what his Father was good at, he grew up watching his Father talk his way into deals. His Father, despite being a road tradesman, did not shy on giving Rickstan an education as best he could. He knew he could never afford buying a room anywhere, nor would he dare try. Someone already took his age and tried to put him into a settlement for youngsters without family, what would an Inn Keeper do? He was only brave enough to visit towns for supplies and that was all. This is how it was for a while, being so used to road traveling in the cart, he knew how to stay warm sleeping outside, the only snag now was that there was no cart. Outhouses for farms, abandoned dwellings and ruins, even caves; those would have to do. He lay wake most nights, as he listened to the sounds around him, wondering what his purpose was, what was he hoping to do? Where did he aim on going? When the meager money ends, what then?
Maybe it was the hardship he now endured, the cold, the hunger, the endless stares and awful approaches he received from townsfolk that changed his questions on his silent nights laid awake. He knew right from wrong, that good people deserved the most rewards, that bad people deserved naught but punishment. So why was it right that he lay here now in such wretched conditions and that man dined on silver platters and walked free. Oh yes, as time went by Rickstan grew to hate him. But who is he hating? Rickstan’s Father told him the truth; everything. He told the young boy that he was not even his Father, though he wished so much that he was. This was a wound so painful Rickstan remembered sobbing. But the sobs dried up as his Father continued the story. His true Father was a disgusting man, known only for greed and corruption and ill-gotten deeds, who would sooner commit murder than to have his ways known and dampen his good name. This man believed he could do anything and get clean away with it, all because he had more wealth than most combined. Believing he could silence any with the promise of money. Rickstan’s Mother, sadly, was another victim of the man’s cruelty; having taken advantage of her husband’s absence. With coins threw upon her following the assault, he bought her silence; Rickstan’s birth in the Summer following being the result of it. But Rickstan’s Mother did not keep her silence, she wanted right by her Son. Bastard or not, this was the man’s first-born child. The man, it was later revealed, married a wealthy woman; only for her money of course. The bad man didn’t wish for his assault-sired Son to be known and ruin this new fortune, so he silenced the Mother, in cold blood.
Once his money had all but spent, Rickstan had no alternative but to do something, which he later would dreadfully regret. He recalls the first time he stole a coin purse like it was yesterday. How easy it was to loosen the knot as the unaware bystander stood and watched a scene in a town square. Remembering how every step back staring at the back of the person’s head felt like an eternity, dreading that at any moment a hand may clasp his shoulder for reprimand. No such thing came and as fast as he could, he ran from the town. This happened maybe two or three times from what he may recall. He vowed never to do it again. This was the Eve of Rickstan’s becoming a young man, in his eyes. From that moment, he vowed very seriously to never steal again. He had hands, a brain, he was young; use those to his advantage. Now, instead of such horrid indignity, he instead approached people asking for work. What he did, what task, what toil, what hours grinding, did not much matter. He devoted himself to earning honorably, saving up, spending wisely, learning every new thing with interest and guile. He even used time to train in weaponry; a handy thing for always being on the road. This branched its self into this newfound career of Sell-Swording; being young and skilled in several things, this was easy pickings, especially when he became rather expert with a sword. As he grew, so did his experiences, his skills and charisma, his manners and even his appearance. The scrawny mousy little boy was becoming a rugged, good mannered, handsome and even sarcastically witty young man. He found that his new age and skills greatly brought benefit in each new place he stumbled upon. New interesting people and stories, new Inn’s and Tavern’s, Markets and girls; well let’s leave that part out.
It was by chance that when visiting an Inn, stopping on the road for rest and a meal that Rickstan over heard a name, over the dull murmur of the crowd. As a rule, Rickstan sometimes listened with interest to the drunken prattle of drunks, believing that often, drunks say the most honest things. Oh, how he wishes he did not this time. “Wolfcaelder...Wolfcaelder”, so often the name appeared, again and again. The drunken fool clearly proud of being associated with the name. Rickstan knew right away this was the same person, it was not a common name. But why here? This drunk was clearly someone who worked for him, a steward perhaps? Servant? Someone in his household? The more Rickstan listened, the more information the drunken fool spilled out to the room; and to Rickstan’s ear. He was staying nearby? Well this was it. Was this not what Rickstan hoped for in his dreams? Revenge? The insult to his Mother rightly adhered to? Without a second thought, Rickstan abandoned his meal and went to stand next to the man at the counter, waiting for the opportune moment to strike up conversation. When the drunken man turned, he appeared almost like he had seen a ghost, wastefully stammering the beginning of an apology which faded, seeing only Rickstan; an unknown. Maybe he saw something in Rickstan which for a moment, made him shrill? Rickstan was not going to beat about the bush, he said plainly and slowly, for the drunk to understand that “His Son wishes to meet his Father, your Master” and that, ”He would be staying in the Inn tonight”. Leaving it at that, Rickstan returned to his table. The drunken man stood staring at him confused, daunted, then apprehensive; making a quick and clumsy exit thereafter.
Rickstan knew he would receive no such visit, though he waited all the same, dagger kept ready snuggly down his sleeve. Of course, the man ran, fleeing like a coward, dragging all his traveling entourage with him. Rickstan would pursue him; yes, he would. The pursuit taking him West towards Bree-Land.
