Character Seed: Oath-Breaking Warrior

Concept: Oath-Breaking Warrior

Seed: It is not an easy life you chose: to fight the greatest of enemies, to slay the most lethal of monsters, to stand when everyone else knelt, to never give up, to never stop caring for those under your care, to always be there for your charges, and not to do harm.  You failed. You can see his face: a small teenage boy – one who came to you bleeding from infected wounds. And you did not help him. The reasons, the excuses you told yourself helped you sleep for a week or two, but soon that was not enough. That young man is dead because you broke your oaths. The drink and the pipe called to you, but you had seen too many women and men drained of nothing, and their suffering magnified.  So you turned to the sword. If you could not heal that man, then you would stop a dozen – or a hundred – other young people from being hurt. Every slash is a violation of who you are and what oaths you have done.  And every corpse you make is one more that cannot harm another.

Example character: Arban, daughter of Hung-Gar

Arban, third daughter of Hung-Gar was raised by her grandmother, as was right and proper in the Marukan clan. Arban was taught all of the herb lore: the use of honey and poppy and willowbark. She was taught to bind wounds with resin and bandages, to use the river’s healing waters to wash wounds clean. She was taught all of these things, and she was good – very good. She became renowned, and people would visit her for all of their ailments.

Her arrogance grew with her skills, and she would turn away those that she did not care for – that did not pay enough, or that seemed impossible. Until the young Marukani man showed up: a warrior who had fought to drive off raiders from attacking her town. Her pride was great enough that she did not help him, and he died. The town muttered and did not speak up, and the boy’s ghost did not trouble her. But a thousand drops of water can wear a depression in a stone, and then a single drop more makes a hole.

Arban’s hands shook with the bandages, the recipes could not come to her mind, she would read and read medical texts, and all she could see was that boy’s face. Tormented but her failing to uphold the tenants her grandmother had taught her, she sold her possessions and bought training in the sword. She wanders as a traveling swordswoman, hunting bandits and living a life of humility and shame. When an ally or innocent is injured she rushes to help, but can do nothing more than stare and watch uselessly. Her hands are stained with that boy’s blood, and she will wash it out with the blood of a hundred, no, a thousand bandits.

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