Naturally, any changes can be made to make it fit better (or just completely disregarded if it doesn't fit what you want!)
For me, I HOPE I get something the requestor wants - but I also enjoy the aspect of the "one hour" writing challenge I present myself with!
There's a little thing in this thread called "The Tawmis Verse" where I tie people's origins to others I've written...
And yours way the perfect one to tie to Baraks the Tiefling!
His origin is not needed (since he only plays a very small part), but by reading his, you can see how they tie together! And it "expands" on yours in a way.
Regardless! Please let me know if you like it, hate, love, can use it, can't use, can use part of it!
I thrive on feedback - it sedates my hunger and keeps this thread alive!
Waterdeep is one of the largest cities of all Faerűn, but like any person, there were pieces to it; the arms that had their hands in everything, the legs that kept everything moving, the heart of the city in the center, the mind, where all the politicians sat; and then there were the eyes. The eyes of Waterdeep were blind and so too were the people.
Most walked by the entrance to the Southern Ward of Waterdeep and immediately cast their vision in the opposite direction as if some horror might turn them to stone if they were to peer into the depths of the Southern Ward of Waterdeep. Truth be told, the Southern Ward was where the “poor people” would live; most commonly what were affectionately called “the undesirables and half-breeds.”
Not only did the Southern Ward home those living well below poverty, but it was also home to unusual folks of Faerűn – the “half-breeds” such as Half-Orcs, Tieflings, and yes, even Half-Elves. I was one of those “half-breeds”, a Half-Elf named Erintor Greenhaven.
My life has the same tragic tale you might expect. My mother, Allana Greenhaven was here for diplomatic purposes when she was abducted by Wererats who call the sewers of Waterdeep their home. They demanded a ransom for her safe return and when it was paid, they did not release her; instead they kept her for months, subjecting her to abuse and punishment. One of those rat-bastards would eventually become my father, getting my mother pregnant. When she learned she was pregnant she made repeated attempts to escape, but would always get caught again, because the sewers were a maze. But what they did not know was that my mother was marking the tunnels each time she tried to escape so she would know next time, which one might be a dead end. One week before I was born, she managed to outwit and escape the Wererats, surfacing out of one of the sewer grates in the Southern Ward where some kind people took her in. She gave birth to me and died a few short hours later from malnourishment.
That malnourishment led to me growing up weak and frail. The people who raised me kept the secret that my father was a Wererat from me until I turned eighteen seasons; when they finally told me that they believe, according to my mother’s rambles of madness, when she had first escaped, that she had gotten away from Wererats. I now wake up, every morning, wondering if my father’s cursed blood has passed down to me. The full moon has come and gone, several times now, and so far I’ve not changed.
But because I was so weak and frail, I was often picked on in the Southern Ward where fighting for your food was a way of surviving. One night, while running from some boys who had hoped to rob me of what little I had, I stepped into what passed as a Church in the Southern Ward. It was, to my surprise, primarily Tieflings, which was a startling sight. I felt as if I had run from bullies and stepped into the plane of Hades. On the wall was a painting of a female, demon, looking woman, with six arms and a serpentine body.
A Tiefling placed his hand on my shoulder as he looked back at the bullies who hesitated at the Church’s entrance. “My name is Barakas. Welcome to the Church of Mythia. You, my friend, are safe here from the likes of them.”
At first, this was merely a place of shelter, but listening to Barakas speak of Mythia, and about how, despite her appearance, like Tieflings, she hoped to bring good to the world, and show that appearances are never the way to judge one.
That was the first night. I returned to the Church of Mythia every week, and especially on the full moon, where it was said Mythia’s eyes were on us all, passing judgement, to ensure we were doing what she asked of us.
There was a religious organization in the Southern Ward known as “The Pillar of Light” who also thought the full moon was sacred; but they believed it was their holy god (they followed a number of them), shining the light through the darkness to show them where evil was.
One night, while the Pillar of Light had been chanting outside the Church about the “devil’s fools” that we were (reminding me so much of the bullies who had tried to tell me how to live my life, and threaten me with violence and fear), I heard a woman’s voice.
“The storm is brewing,” she said to me directly. “I will need weapons to vanquish those that would stand against me. You have run all of your life. You have been weak all of your life. Open your soul to me, I will make you strong, I will make you my weapon.”
It was Mythia! It had to be! I closed my eyes and imagined my chest being ripped open, but there was no pain – only peace – as one of Mythia’s demon claws squeezed my heart. With a gasp I opened my eyes and felt more alive than I had ever. “The process is complete.”
We had been celebrating the eighteenth season of Baraka’s turning when the Pillar of Light suddenly attacked the Church throwing fire; claiming that they would burn it down and send it, flames and all, back to the planes of Hades. My breath left me, and my eyes rolled to the back of my head, as my hand stopped on the hilt of a scimitar, like the one Mythia used. Next to me, I could see Baraka in the same trance as we moved, like the hands of the six armed Mythia, striking at those around us. The Pillar of Light was forced to flee, having never seen us fight back. When it was done I collapsed to the floor and looked at Barakas.
“We have been blessed,” he smiled.
I smiled back. I would stand against those who would seek to drive me back.
I am weak. I am frail.
But what I will never be again is afraid.