“Our story begins in the west with two of our heroes. The first was Jabar Eloy of Zarutesh. Aboard the merchant sailing vessel Riptide. He came from across the sea. Almost another world away.
Baron by birth, the proud Sir Jabar Eloy turned away from his life of privilege and became an errant knight to be closer to his people. He was bounding with an overdeveloped sense of chivalry and was bursting with confounding zeal.
He was also quite the dashing man, dressed in his most expensive robes, and the finest silver armour, which barely contained his bulging muscles. His feathered hair was dark and wavy, his perfect teeth glowed gold, and his jaw was as sharp as his sword. And when he furrowed his brow and shot a stare, his emerald eyes made swans of swooning ladies.
For years he roved over his country. Dueling in tournaments, adventuring into the unknown, rescuing maidens from danger and the like.
And after wandering for so long, the valiant Jabar had gained quite the following. Heralds and couriers, servers and cooks, minstrels and bards, jesters and dancers. Attendants who would wait on him hand and foot. Young women who offered up their maidenhood, and pledged their love for eternity. Men who owed him their lives, and swore to defend a benevolent and virtuous master like him.
But of course, there were those in Sir Jabar’s retinue who did not work for free. Among them, was his young squire and our second and most unlikely hero, Rashar Amin of Beyramane.
An adventuresome and mighty soul, never tiring of the wonders of the world, was also exceedingly sly and ambitious and callous. Words like allegiance, honour, and integrity meant little to him. However, loyalty aside, his determination, wherever his sights were turned, was unwavering.
For now, they were turned to the deep blue of the bay. Fickle waters which were reluctantly calm at that moment. Allowing him to see the shelled and pebbled bottom, but also his reflection in that mirror. It meant he didn’t have to look over his shoulder.
Rashar was thin, but not fragile. A wiry young man who didn’t look like much however could pull a plough meant for oxen. He wore clothes equal to his master, but his armour was second-rate. His hair was close to his head, and his beard was short and black and rough.
In his arsenal were darker looks befitting a handsome lad like Rashar. A dimpled chin. A broad nose. Thick brooding brows. And heavy-lidded eyes as dark as charcoal. Eyes of untamable mien. In short, a rogue.