In the beginning, Arthur's life seemed destined for mediocrity. He was born as Arthur Rhys Caldwell, under clear skies on a crisp late Ashan morning into a loving home. His father Fredrick Caldwell, was a humble butcher, and his mother Alyssa Caldwell a seamstress. Life for Arthur was by no means extravagant, but it was a pleasant existence all the same. His early years were filled with joy and love along with instruction and tutelage. As a family with two working parents, there was no choice but to bring him along as he grew older.
At times, his father would have him assist in the butcher shop. Those days were a wonder for young Arthur as he stared at the diagrams of animals, learning where certain meat came from and how to best cut and prepare it for consumption, or cure it for later use. Others, he would go with his mother to the tailor and watch as she worked. Arthur was less enthused to learn his mother's trade, but she made sure he retained enough for basic repairs of clothing at the least.
All in all an average, unremarkable life.
Until one day his mother fell ill and collapsed at work. It was sudden and vicious, as if someone came down on high and sucked the vitality from her. What followed was a slow decline in but a years time. Increasing desperation for a cure both magical or mundane brought the family into debt, the stress of it all drove Fredrick to drink. Young Arthur himself attempted to learn about medicine to save her, but at such a young age, and with limited access to medical text it was much a case of never knowing quite enough. Each attempt to save Alyssa failed just sure as the last, with the weight of those failures crushing Fredrick's spirit further.
Eventually?
Well, one day she fell asleep and didn't wake up. With so little funds left to them, there was no room for a fancy burial. Alyssa Caldwell was interred under her favorite oak tree, on a hill right outside of Almund. His father dug her grave, said his goodbyes, and walked into the house. That was the last time Arthur saw the man his father used to be. Gone was the light in his eyes, the exuberance for life he once cherished. He threw himself into his work. Now, it was as if his father lived only in passing, or through a nightmare that he couldn't wake from. He spoke little, and when he did rarely responded without some vein of venom.
All attempts to save Alyssa had failed, but they were not without consequences. His father owed a great sum of money to extremely nasty people. The Revenants, they called themselves. A gang stationed out of Almund specializing in loan sharking, protection, and a great many more unpleasant activities. Representatives from them visited often, with no good intentions. It grew to be routine, honestly. The threats, the shakedowns for money.
The toll it took unfortunately soon came to a head. His father failed to properly preserve a shipment of meat and one happened to end up eaten by a member of high society. Needless to say, the end result wasn't pretty. There were cries of poison, demands of an investigation. The butcher shop was condemned in a matter of trials. Without any income Fredrick grew manic, desperation lived behind his eyes now
where rationality once lived.
On a night where the wind howled it's fury, and the chill temperature stole the warmth from the world, Arthur lost his father. Perhaps it was relief to Fredrick, an end to his suffering. It came simple enough. He walked to the door, opened it, argued with the Revenants who had come to collect. It happened in the space it took to blink, to breathe. The Revenant - A large man with muscles like armor - flicked his wrist toward Fredrick and blood spilled from Fredricks throat. The dagger clutched within the man's meaty fist dripped with crimson.
His father died choking on his own blood on the front step of their house.
Fearing what they might do if they caught him Arthur ran, and never returned to his home. He left his old life behind, discarded his very name, as it would draw attention to debts that his father no doubt still owed. Arthur would be responsible for those now and he had no way of repaying them. That, and the man who killed his father had to eventually pay, best to do that from the shadows as he nurtured the bitter fire flickering in his chest.
In the span of two Arcs, Arthur's life went from average to ruin.
A dozen ten-trials were then spent barely surviving. Scraps of food, quick escapes from any who caught him pilfering stalls, or attempting to pick pockets. He had to be fleet of foot, and more of mind to just break even. Unfortunately as was one of the basic laws of existence, if one lost only as much as they gained, or more, it would be a losing battle against attrition. Arthur could only try and take so much at once. Avoiding the gang that sought him, trying everything to survive, it was a miserable existence.
Then one day, after waiting in the shadows of a nearby tavern, raucous music and boisterous patrons filling the air, he followed the mark he'd spied leaving. The man himself was overflowing with gold. Shimmering rubies inset within silver rings, a cane of fine wood topped with an emerald. a veritable rainbow of wealth, and even one of those would allow him food for at least twenty trials. He crept after the clearly intoxicated man, the shadow of the night cloaking his scrawny frame, each step timed with the man's own. Arthur's fingers reached for the purse at his side, dangling so tempting, like a fruit from a low hanging branch.
Just a little more, only a few steps further. The tips of his finger met silk and readied to grasp-
A sensation of breath, of horror as a hand snapped around to grasp his wrist in an iron grip. The man glared down at him, clearly not quite as intoxicated as Arthur believed. He struggled to get out but it was to no avail. He was well and truly caught. Arthur closed his eyes in anticipation for the coming beating. If he was lucky the man wouldn't kill him. Then again, what did he believe in luck anymore when he seemed to have run out?
The beating didn't come. Rather the unknown man laughed, the sound reminded Arthur of a door hinge badly in need of oiling. His captors white teeth shone in the moonlight.
"You've got balls, but your technique needs work kid." Arthur got the sensation he was being looked over. The man nodded, and continued moving forward with Arthur in tow. He spoke while they walked, not looking at the young boy.
"Normally I'd just kill you, but you impressed me with that lift there. Come on, let me introduce you to some people that can help with that. You've got potential, kid." His chuckle was dry, like the rasping of sandpaper against wood.
"Course you can decline, but then I'd have to kill you. Wouldn't want that, right?" The man's laughter at his own joke sealed Arthur's fate
Thus went his induction into the Wytchwood Wraiths.
He'd only heard of them in passing. They were the counterpoint to the Revenants. Where the other gang operated in the light, the Wraiths were one with shadow. They focused mainly on theft, stealth, and at times assassination. Arthur was assigned mainly to the former than the latter, though the expectation was for him eventually to rise to the occasion. Two Arcs he spent with the gang, learning the ins and outs of stealth and theft. He grew from a scrawny child to a young man in pre adolescence. Jobs aplenty were given to them, running the gamut between sneaking into a noble's house to rob it, avoiding security or making sure they were otherwise distracted while another member took a mark, or otherwise taking what wasn't his to begin with.
Arthur grew to quickly learn that his only worth was what he could do, so he made sure to take on increasingly difficult jobs, dangerous assignments that others denied. He had no love for this family, but there was no escape when he was so deeply entrenched.
In fact, so much success came that the war between the Revenants and the Wraiths grew to a crescendo. Enough that the notoriety between them began to draw mercenaries from other places. Almund itself avoided the Witchwood graveyard, what with the Wraiths and the Revenants haunting it. The fighting became a nuisance, and in response to it, Arthur's salvation came in the most unlikely of means.
He was returning from an easy job. A quick snatch and grab from an older, retired guard. Easy pickings. He turned a corner, and found himself staring into the eyes of an older man. There was a sunrise on his chest, stylized and gold, fine armor bedecked him. A kindly smile met his face. To Arthur's surprise it wasn't laced with the suspicion so easily planted on those outside of the gang, the ones of polite society that cast him to the realm of gutter trash. Perhaps his face said something, because the man's brows lowered in concern.
"Are you alright, son?", He wanted to know, voice like the soothing roll of thunder across a sky. There was a depth of compassion in those green eyes that took the young man aback.
Yet, he was not so stunned as to notice the threat behind the knight. Arthur darted forward, shouting a
"Move!" as he blocked the thrown dagger with his own body. It found his chest for his trouble, stabbing into his sternum. The cut was shallow, but it still stunned the young thief. Arthur was shoved quickly aside by the knight, now recovered and out of harms way. The fight was quick, efficient and without much bloodshed. Mostly because the attacker was another Wraith and one Arthur recognized.
He had attacked another member of the family. There would be no going back now.
Arthur turned away as the unknown warrior dispatched the Wraith, cleanly severing his head from it's shoulders. Arthur collapsed against the wall, expecting his own turn next. Yet, to his surprise a hand was instead extended to him. The man's face - now speckled with droplets of blood - crinkled into a kind smile.
"Seems like you could use a helping hand. Least I can do is return the favor after you saved me." He pulled Arthur up from the ground.
"Name's Lawrence. What's your name?" Arthur hesitated, he hadn't even given his name to the Wraiths. Not his real one, anyway.
"Arthur." What drove him to speak he didn't know, but it might have to do with the aura of honesty Lawrence radiated, like a furnace of goodness and charity. Perhaps it was folly on his part, but he couldn't help it. Arthur took another look at the man, at the emblem on his chest.
"Can you teach me to be like you? A good and kind warrior, honorable and brave?" Lawrence stared at him a moment, looked pointedly at the dead boy on the ground, and nodded.
"It's only fair. Won't be easy though, you willing to work hard, son?"
He was, and Arthur joined what he would learn was The Order Of The Coming Dawn. A band of traveling warriors and knights led by Sir Lawrence himself.
"You know the feeling you get when you see the sunrise after a cold, cruel night? That's what I want our order to inspire." Arthur took it to heart. Though the other warriors in the band didn't accept him as readily. Arthur Of Wytchwood they called him, Squire Wytchwood, because their noble birth could not stand to associate with street trash such as him. They refused to let him forget his origins, and maybe Arthur should have taken it as the insult it was.
Yet, as the youth became a man, he didn't. Wytchwood became more a point of pride against their cruelty than the insult they intended. They wished to call him that? Well fine, he'd be a hero, good and kind despite it. Arthur spent 10 Arcs with The Order. He learned swordsmanship and chivalry, how a knight should behave in polite society, the way of honor and courtesy. It seemed, after all this time, that Arthur was free of the darkness that clung to his early years. He assisted the traveling band of knights when possible, taking down bandits and occasionally beasts.
However the chains of fate were not done with him yet. On the eve before he was meant to be Knight, the single most important day in 10 arcs, Arthur found the infected heart of Lawrence's twisted altruism. The villages they saved? A set up, bandits paid to attack so The Order could come in and claim glory. He left that night, confronting Lawrence who only had twisted reasoning behind it.
Adrift, Arthur left the order. He wanders now, living by the means which he has. Strength of sword and shield, a warrior for hire.
At present Arthur has chosen to settle in Scalvoris, specifically Scalvoris Town.
![[Approved by Avalon]](.//images/icons/cs_ok.png "[Approved by Avalon]"){kind=icon}
