[Author’s Note – Just before I wrote this, I had been invited to join a Dungeons & Dragons group as a player. It was an existing group, but everyone would be “rolling” new 3rd level characters, myself included. I didn’t want to just go with something “conventional”. So, first off, I decided to play against type and pick a female character. Then, for a race, I chose “half-elf”. Following that, I had to pick a class (what type of character it is / what role they perform). That led to the thought of “what’s the least useful character class for the character bonuses a half-elf gets”? The only possible answer was “Barbarian”. And, thus, I created a female half-elf barbarian character. My immediate next thought was, “Wow … this character has got to have some sort of serious back-story and probably a bunch of emotional baggage.” Here you see the results of trying to peek through the luggage.]
Nonna Torsdottir opened her eyes to the sound of the innkeeper loudly shoving plates and mugs around, seemingly with the sole purpose of waking her. There was a sliver of early sun shining through the just-opened door to the inn. She was sitting at one of the tables in the common room, her head resting on the tabletop.
Oh, my head! She didn’t remember exactly how much she’d had to drink last night, but, then again, that wasn’t all that unusual. Most nights, she would have to admit to herself, were like that. At least, as far as she could tell, she was still dressed and hadn’t gone off with some random stranger, only to find herself, in the morning, unclothed, in an unknown bed, not quite sure how she’d gotten there. That, much to her ongoing shame, was all too common.
As she slowly lifted her head and stretched, her hand brushed against a small axe, the blade sunk deep into the rough wood of the tabletop. Ah… I remember that part. Someone had approached her last night, still early in the evening. She’d practically screamed at him to stay away from her, then pulled one of the twin hand-axes she kept on her belt, smashing it into the table, “The next person that comes anywhere near me gets the other one, with their hand on one side and their arm on the other!” For some reason, the only one to even come anywhere near her after that was the barmaid, keeping her mug refilled.
She was never quite sure why they always did. Was it the dark black hair? Or the silvery eyes? Or, realistically, most likely, it was the ears. Those damn small points on the tops of her ears. Combined with her generally muscled physique, the fur-trimmed vest, and her pack with a great-axe sitting next to her on the floor, there seemed to be some mystical … allure … that always brought the worst of the male rats to her table.
Can’t even sit and have a few drinks in peace.
It had been like this ever since she’d been cast out from the clan.
Come on. At least be honest with yourself. You weren’t cast out — you purposely walked away.
Fine. I just couldn’t deal with the ongoing … whispers … about my father … or, lack of one, really.
Like a very few others in her clan, she’d been born without a father. That typically happened when one was lost in battle, or there had been an invasion by others. It wasn’t entirely true that she was fatherless, but, for the sake of everyone, that was always how it was described. Any child whose father was not around had no father to claim.
So, they would be the child of … some god or another, based on how they behaved shortly after birth. The story that had been repeated, oh, so many times, about her, was what happened when she was just a few days old. Her mother had left her, sleeping, for a short while. When she’d returned, there had been a small ice bear cub snuffling at her wraps. Nonna had woken up, staring into what was, for her, a giant furry face. Rather than starting to cry, she’d simply punched it in the nose, sending the cub scampering away, surprised, undoubtedly, over what had just happened. For that one action, her mother had claimed she was, clearly, born to courage and battle, and named her Nonna, daughter of Tor — the god of battle.
From that moment on, her mother told her that her destiny was clearly defined. She would be a warrior. One of the few female such of the clan. Never mind that her hair was starkly black, so different from everyone else … or that her eyes seemed to shimmer in a silver shade that was utterly unknown to anyone … or her ears. Damn the ears. Still thinking about just cutting the things off.
As she grew, her body stayed slim, not bulking up like everyone else. That didn’t seem to affect her strength at all, as she was at least as strong as any of the boys, and, later, the men. But it definitely marked her as different, and not in a good way. This was not a difference that was appreciated.
And, of course, there were the rumors — the almost constant whispering that would seem to happen almost, but not quite, out of earshot — as if those telling them wanted her to hear. The whispers about how her mother had been seduced by an elf, and she was the result of that … how she would never fit in or be accepted. All through growing up, she’d strived to live up to her name, tackling the hardest tasks, learning to wield weapons just as the others did.
Finally, though, she’d had enough, realizing that she could never truly be a part of the clan. No matter that it was all she had ever known, or that she had no idea of what the world looked like beyond the stark, barren, tundra where they lived. With a quiet “Good bye” to her sleeping mother, she had grabbed a few things and departed, planning to never return and trying to not look back as she left.
And here I am, once more … waking up in an inn, with a hangover that makes me want to chop my own head off. On the bright side, I’m still wearing my clothes at least.
A few hours later, the innkeeper finally bolstered his courage enough to come over to her, telling her that he would appreciate it if she could, perhaps, find somewhere else to spend the day … and the evening … and elsewhere to sleep. Many of his regular customers had been put off by her behavior the previous night and would prefer to return with her not being there. Realistically, she could do nothing but rummage through her coin pouch for a couple of spare coppers, tossing them onto the table, growling that the table had been a quite comfortable place to sleep.
She retrieved her axe, hanging it at her belt, twin to the other, and then hoisted her pack onto her shoulders. It was time to leave this gods-forsaken little trash village — the name escaped her — to continue her journey. She still had no idea where she was headed, although, she mused, her mother definitely would have reminded her of her “destiny” — whatever and wherever that might be. After stopping in what passed for a market square to spend a copper on a loaf of bread and yet another on a small hunk of cheese that didn’t seem to be too inedible, she sighed, got her bearings and started trudging along the road once more.
The coins were going fast and there never seemed to be a useful source of new ones. Oh, sure, whenever she woke up in some stranger’s bed, she seemed, miraculously, to be a silver or two wealthier. But those, while too often desperately needed, felt … wrong. She understood why they were there and that made it even worse. She was a fighter … a proud warrior … a hero. She refused to see herself as simply … some stranger’s plaything for an evening — no matter how much she had drunk of whatever was available in the inn she had happened to find herself.
As she walked, she was grateful for the road quickly traveling through a wooded area. The sun was sending javelins through her eyes, making her hangover continue to throb in her head. And as pretty as the rays of sun-javelins might be, that could not make up for the pain in her skull. Better they were real ones and at least it would stop hurting so much.
The day proceeded apace, with her occasionally taking a bite of the bread or cheese to sustain her. Thankfully, she had remembered to fill her water-skin when she’d first arrived at the inn last night. Ahhh… And she’d been thoughtful enough to fill it with ale. That would help to take some of the edge off. But at this rate, she worried that she would not find another village or inn or anything and be forced to sleep with barely a drink. That would make for an even worse tomorrow.
But, let’s face it. All tomorrows seem to be worse for me these days. She paused to shake her fist at the sky. How’s about that, Tor? Not much of a destined child of yours, am I? And thank you ever so much, mother! Clearly, my destiny is wonderful and joyous and story-filled.
Unable to keep her chin lifted and fist raised, she resumed plodding along the road. Although it seemed well-kept, there was no other traffic. Vaguely, she recalled someone saying that it was not the season for many travelers now. Most of the merchant caravans were mostly done for the season, and the big logging camps hadn’t quite started up yet.
By the time the sun was starting to descend, Nonna was realizing, unless she got very lucky, she was going to be spending the night on cold grass with nothing but sky above her. And to make matters worse, there would be nothing but the pitiful few drops still left in her skin to drink. Sure, there was water all around, but what good was that? It could keep you from dying, but did nothing to slake one’s thirst or help to chase away the rumor-mongering monsters in her head.
Another hour passed, the sun was close to the horizon and she started to worry it was, indeed, going to be a cold and thirsty evening. Then, just ahead, she could see what looked to be some sort of building. There didn’t seem to be any real sort of door in front, but there was smoke rising from the chimney. Maybe this was one of the caravan rest-stops? While there wouldn’t be any provisions, at the very least it would be a roof over her head and a fire to chase away the chills. That had to be better than nothing.
Approaching the rest stop, she could just make out a horse in the stable. Inside the rest stop itself, the light was very poor, the fire burning in the hearth not doing much to improve that. Hanging over the fire was a stewpot that seemed to have something cooking in it, as far as her nose could detect. Close by, there was a small cask. There was only one person in there — an older man, with white hair and a full beard. At first glance, he seemed quite aged, but she squinted for a closer look which showed him to be in fairly good health. He was reclining against, of all things, what looked to be some sort of giant white fur cushion that completely filled the space behind him.
He glanced over at her and spoke quietly, but with the sense that his voice could echo across miles if he chose. “Come in, child! I was lucky enough that there was wood available for a fire! I have food enough to share.” He looked her again. “And a small cask that I would gladly share as well, if you would care to.”
Nonna had heard offers like this before, and she knew where they ended — in a stranger’s bed. She grabbed one of the small axes from her side and threw it, spinning, intending to embed it in the wooden wall next to his head as a warning. Before she could even scream at the man, he …
No… that’s just not possible!
The man had easily grabbed the spinning axe out of the air and laid it down next to him — as one might pluck a flower growing from the grass. “Ah, daughter. Yes, I know you are a wild one. I mean you no harm, nor would I seek to lay with you. I merely offer food and drink for the evening. And, perhaps, if you would … a small conversation.”
Her eyes boggled at the old man … at anyone … grabbing an axe after it had been flung. Then she realized what he had said, and snarled back, “I am no one’s daughter! There is no way you could know of me! I did not even know I would be here until just now! But, even if, somehow,” she scoffed, “you knew who I was, then you would know I have no father! And whatever father I might have, it is certainly not you!”
With that, she grabbed the giant axe from her back, prepared to follow up on whatever he might say or do next.
The old man, though, merely chuckled. “Oh? Then I must have the wrong girl.” Nonna’s lips curled at being called a “girl”. “And, as far as I am aware, while your birth father is … unacknowledged … your mother claimed a father for you. Is that not so … Torsdottir?”
Nonna’s face went slack, unable to entirely comprehend what he had just said. Her arms went limp, almost dropping the large axe on the floor. “How … How could you know who I am?”
“As I told you, daughter — I am merely here to offer food and drink for the evening.” His eyes seemed to twinkle slightly and the beginnings of a smile touched the edge of his mouth. “And a small conversation. I have heard much of your stories. While many are full of your worth and valor, there are also many which are … unseemly to repeat.”
Nonna sank to her knees, hiding her head in her hands. “This cannot be. You cannot be … who you say you are.”
A chuckle in response. “I have not said who I am. Nor should you, at the moment. There are others who might hear that name spoken and be curious regarding this …” He waved his hand at the small interior, “… chance encounter.” She felt a strong hand on her arm, helping to pull her upright. “Besides, I have someone else who would meet you.”
She looked around, but, no, there was no one else in the small room. “But, it’s just you and …”
Now the man began to laugh. “I told you I have heard of your stories.” He guided her to the fire, and began pulling food from the pot, placing it on two very old and worn-looking plates.
“The very first one was from when you were just a small baby. It seemed that another small baby heard an odd noise and came to find out what might possibly be making it. As she investigated, what was to happen but, much to her surprise, she found herself staring into the face of a human cub. Then, out of nowhere, this small human cub punched her in the nose.”
“Yes, I’ve…” Nonna couldn’t quite stop the sneer that wanted to curl her lips. “I’ve heard that story over and over again. My mother could never stop repeating it,” with a small spit to the side onto the dirt floor. “She told it so often — as if telling it enough times would make it the truth.”
A plate was handed to her, with a hunk of bread perched on the side. “Whoever said that it wasn’t the truth? Isn’t it entirely possible that it happened exactly as described?” He looked at her. “After all, I have heard from two witnesses to the act.”
“Witnesses? What witnesses could there have been? My mother? Who needed to justify a reason for naming me?” Nonna gave a disgusted laugh. “You certainly couldn’t have heard it from me. I was too young to remember it!”
“Oh, no, no, dear child. I’ve heard it from the other side.” As he said that, the white fur cushion … moved! “The poor icebear cub who simply being curious came scampering back to her mother, scared out of her wits because she had been attacked.” Nonna’s mouth dropped open, barely able to believe what she was hearing. Then, still unable to understand what was happening, the white fur cushion moved again — almost as if it was … breathing?
“Of course, that story was heard by me. I must say I was quite pleased to see that your mother decided to claim a father for you after all.” He tapped a finger just below his eye. “I have been watching you. After all, it would have been … remiss … of me to not be sure that my daughter grew to be worthy of her name.
“And then, to ensure that both cubs would be watched over, I similarly claimed the other cub. So, she has … accompanied me … on many of my travels.” He chuckled. “And has been kind enough to allow me to use her as a cushion at times, to rest my weary and aching bones.” He moved over to pet the white fur, still — seemingly — breathing. “She is quite comfortable and has her own set of stories.” Saying that, he turned his attention to his plate of food, clearly putting an end to the discussion for the moment, but leaving Nonna with so many questions that looked to remain unanswered.
