I am called Morien by many, Slayer by some. Now with sixteen years passed - as men count them - since my mother bore me, I have reached a height of 5 feet 10 inches. My head rests atop a toned, light-skinned body. With shoulders slightly crooked, ears of small difference in height, and pale grey eyes slanted, many see me as some strange, rough Easterner. I know my parents' Eastern lineage, and I know my sire was a fighter, so being an outsider and a warrior - what else could be more natural? I have no real plan as of now, save to let the road take my feet where they will, and my hands to slay all foes before me.
A Sentimental Value
This ring was the symbol of the bond between my father and mother. Just as salmon swim upstream to spawn, so too will I, when assailed by hardship and disaster, look upon it. To remember. For courage is a fleeting thing, and may need reminders to stay when best needed.
I met Dora the Wench in an alley. Face-down in a puddle of some nasty liquid, she was crying softly. I was almost moved to pity in view of her plight, until I noticed her eyeing me secretively with her head oh so slightly turned to the side. Once we crossed gazes, the jig was up, and she leapt up to her booted feet, patting down her long orange skirt, fixing the sleeves of her purple blouse, all the while muttering about thieving foxes. She unslung the large backpack, now very wet, from her front and thrust a grimy hand in front of me. I took it, and then and there, while clenching her dirty palm, shaking it, looking into her large eyes, her quivering mouth, I knew I had made a lifelong gofer, ally, and advisor/explorer. Some things just come by instinct, and I knew Dora had nothing in her mind but hope and trust that her new master would come to great glory and riches - so that she could have regular wages and never again smell vulpine urine.