Morien

De Galis. Of all the things that had changed mightily in Morien's life these past few months that seemed somehow the strangest. His whole life he had been a bastard. Never knowing who his father was. His mother had raised and cared for him in the heat of Gilead's bright son and though he supposed he was still a bastard, at least now he knew. Syr Algovale de Galis. And he was alive.

His mother had told him when the king was exiled. He could still see her now in his mind's eye, weeping and tearing her clothes - she had always been loyal to Astlabor. But as the procession made its slow march to the docks, she had caught sight of him. A knight from Westernesse marching among the honored guards of the former king. Something in her truly broke then and she told him of Algovale de Galis. She told him why he had not been there.

For a young man he had been quite the fighter. He had also been quite the drinker. He was caught in the taverns of Maidsfield when he sported a drunken broadsword duel, and he was thrown out of the city for beating a merchant who made some stupid, condescending comment about his minor family heritage. Oh yes, he had been quite the fighter.

From there he had wandered Westernesse, always traveling to somewhere new when his temper got him intro trouble. Always looking for something he couldn't quite find. Eventually, he set sail for a new continent to travel and see the glittering cities of the East. To look for something to fight for.

And find it he did, again and again and again. He gained a reputation both as a magnificent fighter but also as a conqueror of women. Many beauties heard his please of love and fealty, but always the call to somewhere new pulled him to the next great city of the East. So he deserted and left for the ports. He sold his sword to the highest bidder and traveled to a new city. Always searching. Always fighting.

And so, she never saw him again... until that day at the docks when she saw him marching with the exiled king's guard.

Morien supposed there must be some of his father in him because the urge to follow them, to find him, and to know more was overwhelming. He had begged forgiveness from his mother and gathered all his belongings that he could and joined the last of the ships setting sail from Gilead bearing away those closest to Astlabor.

And that had brought him to new shores and a new land. To Westernesse and his father's homeland. To Sarras, the ramshackle port town they had built on the land gifted them. It had been a difficult first few months.

It was still. At first there was little land and no trade and no money, but somehow the town survived. They survived. He had been forced to fight his way to a place at a fire, begging for what food they could spare. It was only when Morien had been able to fight his way to a few coins (his skill with the sword finally being of some use) that he found a meager place to live. He had survived.

As the envoy settled in and their new neighbors gradually came to some measure of peace with the new refugees that they had allowed to settle in their land, trade grew and so did the city. In fits and starts, they built the first buildings, first walls, of what would become Sarras. As the city grew, so did the roads, and trade flowed in and out of the growing city. 

And so they had built to the sea, reclaimed the land and even built a pier of sorts, a hodge-podge of wood and rope that worked well enough. He had been there when the first ship came in, heralding a bright future. He had even been there when the first ship went out, and they knew they had a way to make their fortune.

He had been in the taverns and bars of Sarras, simple soldiers and mercenaries and knaves telling tall tales of the enigmatic de Galis. Morien had never seen his father, though he had heard tales of him, from sailors and from tavern wenches. Tales of his father's fighting prowess, of his conquests, of his drinking exploits. 

And so he had made it his own quest, to find his father and to claim some small piece of his legacy. So he had trained and he had fought and he had made a name for himself in the taverns. No one ever expected much from the bastard son of a noble. Not so much as a fair fight, but he had never been one to back down.

And so he had become known as the Bastard's Bane.

Not a particularly intimidating name, but it worked well enough for him. His reputation grew with his skill, and he found that he was able to make a decent living as a mercenary in the taverns of Sarras. Sometimes he fought three or four fights a night, sometimes only one. Sometimes he won, sometimes he lost. 

And then, one night, he saw a man he thought he recognized.

It was a fairly big tavern, and it was a fairly big city. The odds of him seeing someone he knew had to be fairly decent. But it wasn't just that. He had seen this man before. A long time ago, when he was a small boy and had nightmares.

It was his father.

But he was old and grey and worn with the scars of battle. And though he was wearing a fine, sturdy suit of armor and carried no sword, it was him. There was no mistaking it. He watched the older man approach. He was surrounded by a small entourage of armed guards, and all the other fighters took a step back. He stood his ground and waited for the old man to approach.

On his approach, he saw the man was not as old as he had first thought. He was in his forties, and though he was tired, he still had his father's eyes. They were clear, they were bright and they were not clouded with drink.

And they were fixed on him.

"You are him," Algovale said, his voice gravelly and grave.

"You are... my father," Morien was unsure what to say, what to do. Unsure if he was dreaming or simply hallucinating.

"So I am," his father said, and he looked at him for a long time. The guards looked at Morien, and it crossed his mind that they might kill him. An easy mistake to make, to think that the armed guards surrounding a well-dressed noble were there to protect him.

Then Algovale smiled, and reached out to him.