Oben "The Iron Knuckle" Barvor

The
land has been tilled, and the seeds now fill the soil. The seasons pass, and
another yearly harvest comes. Surely, the biggest bounty yet; for every man,
perhaps one – no, two-hundred pounds of produce! After the ships have been
loaded up with the annual yield, the workhands, pierced with fatigue, shamble
back to their huts. A cold and barren season passes; the arms of the laborers
tightly hold the malnourished body that carries them. Not a scrap of ration
that was born of the efforts of many would be seen this year, nor any year
before or thereafter.

On the
nameless farming island of Mulya, a young boy had been toiling with the
countless other “workers” for his whole life; and for what? So that the Nobles
may reap the fruits of his labor? They say it is “justice” and “payment” for
the crimes of his forefathers. He is one of the forgotten ancestors of a man
who would never live to carry out his very own sentence.  He is Oben Taler, great-great-grandson of
Aendaren Taler, a conspirer involved in the Riots of Mulya nearly two centuries
ago.

Mulya,
as the world sees it, is a bastion of wealth and prosperity, teeming with
nobles, barons, and other such well-to-do folk. Thriving off of the hard work
of others, most are kept unaware of the hardships endured by me and my fellow
workers. In fact, most surely know not of the foundations upon which their
lives have been established for centuries.

. . .

The
land has been burned, and the bodies now fill the soil. The gulls pass, and
another large wave beats the ship. Surely, the biggest bounty yet; for every
man, perhaps one – no, two-thousand gold! After the ships were loaded up with
the last of the workers, the freed men and women, pierced with worry, move back
to their makeshift quarters. A cold and bleak fortnight passes; the hands of
the laborers embrace the warmth of the new, heavier body that carries them. Not
a scrap of ration that was born of the efforts of many would be seen this year
by the Nobles, nor any year thereafter.

On the
small island of Bagship Rock, in the town of Piersten, a teenage boy had been
toiling alone, finding unskilled jobs and trades for the rest of his life; and
for what? To carry out the rest of his life without aim? They say he lacked the
skill and talent to do the work that his ancestors may one day do. He is one of
the countless fugitives of the law; one of the many who might never carry out
their sentences. He is Oben; a boy, unfazed by the brutalities he had committed
so many years ago.

Bagship
Rock, as the world sees it, is a humble island, teeming with farmers,
craftsmen, and other such conventional folk. Thriving off of their own hard
work, many are kept unaware of the hardships that exist in the world. In fact,
all surely know not of the foundation upon which my life had been built on,
over the past 15 years.

. . .

A young
man, Oben “The Iron Knuckle” Barvor stands at the foot of a fresh grave, incapable
of being moved by the loss of the only man in the world who ever showed him
kindness; the man who had showed the young boy the only love he had ever known.
Urdyn Barvor, a carpenter of Piersten, had spent his remaining years caring for
the mysterious young boy; the very same boy who he had found slumbering one
morning in the nearly-finished abode he had been constructing.

. . .

While
he hadn’t given Oben a proper home, Urdyn did teach the boy how to survive by
his own hand. Whether it be simpler things like building a fire to keep warm,
or even some of the complicated intricacies of craftsmanship, Urdyn shared his
wisdom with Oben with nothing to be gained. It didn’t take long for Oben to
build a simple home of his own, even doing it without any help from the man he
had now considered a father. As the young Oben grew in both age and skill, he
began to work hand-in-hand with Urdyn, taking up the study of business and
trade as well.

Taking
care of the boy wasn’t easy, however. It wasn’t rare to see Oben picking fights
with the local lads of the village, or attempting to leave town and seek some
grand adventure elsewhere; actions that Urdyn had always put a stop to. In
truth, Urdyn had grown fond of the boy.

Oben
however, despite his gratification for his mentor, his savior, his father, had
never felt at home in Piersten. Somewhere, there were others who had shared his
pain and suffering; others that deserved the chance of freedom that he had also
been given. Under the cover of night, Oben had boarded a local trading ship in
an attempt to stow away once more, this time to the city of Bayhurst. Fate,
unfortunately, was not on his side this time.

On the third night at sea, as the
crew had been sleeping, the ship had been boarded and taken over by a group of
pirates. A select few who hadn’t been killed were to be taken prisoner. Oben
had awoken in the ship’s cargo hold where he had been hiding, as a trio of
pirates had reached it to claim their prize. Without a weapon, it seemed to
Oben that he would surely be killed; there was no chance that Oben would allow
himself to become a prisoner once again.

Oben then did the only thing he
knew how to do; fight to survive, even if it be with his bare fist. Fueled by
rage and the primal will to survive, he charged towards the group, catching
them by surprise. Barreling forth and tossing aside into the first bandit, Oben
swung a mighty fist at another, knocking him to the ground, unconscious. The
last standing bandit readied his weapon and shield, and let loose a forceful
vertical chop as Oben skillfully dodged to the side, only to land a powerful
blow the pirate’s side. Taking advantage of the strike, Oben set free a flurry
of fists that rendered the pirate as nothing more than a bloody pulp. The
unarmed bandit that had been tossed aside lay unmoving, fearing for his life as
he watched Oben mercilessly deface his comrade.

Oben grabbed the curious looking
shield as he had left the hold; its unusual polish and refinement was not to be
expected in the hands of such simple pirates. The edges of the unscratched face
had been marked with strange runes; and indecipherable language to Oben, one
that he had never seen in his life. A strange power lay dormant in it, almost
as if it were waiting to be tapped by an even greater power. Continuing to
fight his way back to the ship’s deck, he was able to free several of the
ship’s crew and easily kill off the rest invaders with their help.

In an act of their deepest
gratitude, the crew granted the right to commandeer the pirate ship to Oben.
Oben, lacking the appropriate skill to sail a ship, refused their request, and
instead only asked for a fraction of the monetary value of the ship, and to be
returned home. While his adventure didn’t take him far, he had undoubtedly done
what he had set out to do by freeing the ship’s crew. However, Oben realized
that even in his short-lived travel, he very well could have met his end
without so much as a word to Urdyn. At the very least, he owed Urdyn a goodbye
before he had set out on his own journey.

Oben had arrived back in Piersten
on an early morning, alongside the crew, and with the tales of his bravery.
Oben “The Iron Knuckle” Barvor was welcomed back as a hero to Piersten, with
the riches of money and his trusty shield and axe. No sooner had he made it to
Urdyn’s dwelling, only to face what cruel sense of justice the world once again
had to show him. The messy bed had housed a still body, that lie motionless
despite the prodding and calling that Oben had given it. For the first time in
his life, Oben wept.

. . .

“I never thought it’d come to this. Not like
this, anyways.” The aged face of The Iron Knuckle scanned over the empty tables
from behind the bar counter. It wasn’t a sight he was used to, it being so
empty in here. Maybe it was time to shut the place down and retire; surely
everyone on the island had payed visit to the “Pirate Slayer, the Hero of the
Insane Sea, the Legendary Iron Knuckle himself!” The excitement of his deed was
starting to wear off; his five minutes of fame was certainly up. “And where is
that damn girl? The only one who even works here, and I still can’t count on
her.” Oben walked over towards the “elf-girls” normal spot; a simple
countertop, adjacent to the fireplace. As his finger had traced the wood upon
where she had always sat, he found himself staring at the old shield he had
hung over the mantle. There certainly was more to that shield than she’d ever
know; more than he’d ever tell her, anyways.

“It’s funny,” he thought. A
trifling twenty years had passed, “and yet it only felt like last night that I
stepped onto that ship… Only last night it felt like I…” Oben’s thoughts moved
back to the present, as he found his hand lying upon the dust that had formed
on the glossy shield face of his Sawdisk, as he had called it. He was too old
to seek its origin now, adventuring was a young man’s game. Nobody on Bagship
had any idea where it could have come from. Despite the years of inattention,
its face still maintained the beauty and sheen of the day that it had come into
Oben’s possession. Maybe one day, it will find its use in the world, as Oben
might find his.

. . .

“It was
those damn dwarves. Ever since they opened shop, they’ve been nothing but
trouble. This time they’ve gone too far. By my blood, they’ll see their
justice.” Oben walked past the sympathetic onlookers; over the smoldering
remains, charred wood, upon the ruined ground. His boots seemed almost guided,
until the stepped upon… The only possession he prized, the only reminder he had
of his past, his Sawdisk. Kicking aside the still-hot embers, Oben picked up
the shield and stared at its ever-magnificent and still untouched face. It was
unnatural, certainly, but perhaps this was his call to find out what it had
truly meant. Where its place was in the world, and where his was.

The “elf-girl” rushed over to his
side, casting a sad gaze to Oben. Such a genuine look of pity, but why? This
wasn’t her place to feel sorrow, towards him or his bar. This wasn’t her place.
Oben gathered his strength, and walked home. What else could be done? Even with
what wealth he had saved, there’s no way he could replace the sheer stock he
had built up throughout the years. Yet… Oben felt no grief, no sorrow, no loss.

“No… I’m too old for this… I always
knew this wasn’t my place. But if I don’t find out what this is, who will? It
can’t be trusted with anybody else. Nobody will understand it. Not like I do.
It’s not like I have -” Oben’s thought was cut short, as he approached his
simple home; the same home he had lived in for nearly forty years. Some called
it dingy, and worn down, but to him, it was the only place he’s ever called
home. The elf-girl was standing there, waiting for him. If there’s anything
that could have surprised even him, it was her.