Confidence Issues

[Anthony Poena]

A month ago...

Anthony Poena knelt before his mentor, clad in mail and plate common to a fledgling paladin, his eyes fixed on the tiles of the Luna city floor in an attempt at calm respectfulness. He trembled visibly, the axe affixed to his belt tapping upon the floor.
"Anthony." He looked up, and drew a sharp breath as he saw the cold distaste in the veteran paladin's eyes. "How could you fail?" Crushing defeat bore down upon his shoulders and showed itself in his face. "Don't give me that weak look! Answer my question!" The words spilled out of Anthony like a cascade, with barely any pause between words.
"I-am-sorry! Th - they were everywhere! Too-strong! C-c-couldn't f-focus!" The paladin grandmaster gave a pause for effect before he replied -
"Anthony. Your assignment, your test, was to beat back a few horde minions, and at most there would have been a handful of lizardmen or the puniest of undead there. Do you expect me to believe that they overpowered you? After all the training you received? You are one of the finest axemen I have ever... It is no matter. Just tell me the truth. Why did you fail?"
"I...I said..." He looked into the steel eyes of the older man who stood above him and changed his mind as a wave of fear took him. "I...I dropped my axe. S-sir. I d-d-dropped it and they all came at me and I couldn't stop them and I wanted to and I healed the militia and I followed your instructions and I am sorry, master!" The grandmaster sighed at the pitiful sight.

"I see. You dropped your axe. YOU DROPPED YOUR AXE!? Are you a damned idiot!? Dropped your... all that is holy help me, I have never heard of someone as advanced as you dropping their weapon, in fact, none but the children we take on and train have such...foolish errors hanging above them!" Anthony recoiled as though shot with an arrow, and whimpered. The grandmaster continued, "You are a skilled fighter, that much is true...and you have taken to our training in clerical arts...well enough. But you see, Anthony...our order needs to show conviction, courage, strength. Your clumsiness and your lack of confidence have caused you to forgo these traits. How can you be a paladin if you cannot exhibit valour and honour, and the will to sacrifice, in the pursuit of justice?" Again, the biting admonishments seemed to cause Anthony physical pain. "Anthony, you cannot be allowed to continue in my order. I strip you of your station and your position. You have failed my tests too many times for unacceptable reasons. From this day forth, you are forbidden to call yourself a paladin." The grandmaster walked up to Anthony, took his surcoat, and tore it down the middle, then pulled it off of the sobbing ex-squire. "Pick yourself up. I am disgraced to think that a mewling thing like you is a man."

Anthony walked out of Luna with a heavy heart, the blood of his healed wounds from his failed task still caked onto his epaulets. As he walked into the moongate, not concentrating, letting the magic take him to whatever place it chose, a Luna scribe wrote at the bottom of a long scroll: 'Anthony Poena: Stripped of rank. Thrown from order. Banished from Luna.'

[Anthony Poena]

A week ago...

In the fighting pits of Jhelom, a fightmaster, Irma, called Anthony Poena to her office.
"'Tony. Ya signed on ta me, sayin' ya needed the gold, aye?" Anthony looked at her helmeted face then cast his eyes down, wondering anxiously where this line of inquiry was leading.
"Aye, I did, er...ma'am."
"Aye, ye did. An' ya remember what I told you?" Anthony's heart sank.
"Aye, I do! I mean...yes." Irma nodded sagely and motioned for him to continue. "You said that I'd get gold either for winning bouts, or winning tournaments, or for pleasing the crowd."
"That I did, 'Tony. An' you remember what else I told you?"
"Er...I...I mean...er..." his hands balled into fists and he started shaking, wishing that he was just dreaming.
"Well, let me remind ya, 'Tony." Irma thumped her leather-gloved hand onto the table as she said his name, exacerbating the venom with which she said it. "I told ya that I was takin' a risk by takin' on one such as yeh. Ya remember? I told ya that I was being a good soul, see? An' I tol' ya that if ya didn' earn ya keep in two weeks, ya'd be out. Because business is business." Anthony struggled to keep control of himself.

"Now tell me, Tony. Have you won any big bouts?" Anthony tried to look away from her needle gaze, but her eyes bored into his with a fierce intensity. He muttered an answer. "Eh? Speak up, right?"
"I said that there was that bout against L-L-Lenny the L-L-Lance! And he was a good fighter! They say so!" Irma sighed.
"Lenny the Lance? Aye, they called him that when he was still twenty. Now he's forty! And his nickname ain't 'The Lance', it's One-Leg-Lenny! That's because...surprise, surprise, he only has one damned leg! A sewer rat could take that old lush down! The only thing that was interesting about that match was that he ever came back to the pits! Maybe he got lost on the way to the inn, or the whorehouse!" Irma spat the words at the disgraced man in front of her.

"Now the second thing, have you won any tournaments at all?" Anthony opened his mouth, but Irma continued speaking. "Of course you haven't! If you can't beat any sober opponents, you can't win a tourney!" She stood up and stared at him until he sank down onto his haunches.

"Now the third thing. Have you entertained the audience?" Anthony slowly rose back to standing as Irma sat back down.
"I...I have...they seemed...very entertained when I fought Remy..."
"As well they were!" Exploded Irma. "You slid on mud and fell on your arse! That makes you a laughing stock, not an entertainer! I need someone who can whip up the crowd, get them chanting his name! Not some fool sop who can't stay upright while he fights! I gave you your chance, and you did nothing that's worthy of any gold. And now, go. You have lowered the tone of my entire company." Anthony sank to his knees.
"Please...one more chance!" he begged, looking up at the unsympathetic face before him.


"No. Leave, now, before I get some of my real employees to get you to leave, see?"

Anthony dragged himself to the Jhelom provisioners. He opened his gold pouch, and saw a handful of commons left, barely enough to buy food, let alone lodgings. The provisioner looked at his beaten and broken armour and smirked as he handed over a pack of bread and dried meat.
"Hey, it could be worse, friend!" he called as Anthony left the shop. "You could be wearing a jester suit! That way, people would know about you before they talked to you or saw you in the arena!" With the laughter of the shopkeeper ringing in his ears, Anthony walked again to the moongate. He ended up in a forest, and pulled out his enchanted sextant, one of the few things the Order had given him before his disgrace. There was a city to his east. Looking at the mountains and the nearby river, a faint memory surfaced. This was Minoc moongate. He was no miner, and no merchant. Shrugging, he set off down the road away from Minoc, to the southwest. He didn't know where he was going, but he didn't have any better ideas. At least he could hunt for food and camp out in the wild.

[Anthony Poena]

One day ago

Anthony rose from his rest, and the world of his dreams, where he stood astride a great steed, fighting back demons and dragons with other proud paladin knights, vanished. His camp had been left unmolested during the night, despite the thin line of smoke rising from the ashes of his pitiful fire. The small barrier against the wind along the northern edge was a testament to the only skill he was still sure he possessed - his axe-work.


He picked up the piece of cooked bird left over from the previous night. As he started to eat the cold, overcooked meat, he heard a scuffle in the undergrowth. With a gasp, he bolted up, pulled on his cloak, and grabbed his axe. With the heavy weapon ready to strike, he stepped up to the undergrowth where the sound originated, prepared to strike, and took a step forward. A squirrel ran out. The amusement and relief calmed Anthony's nerves completely, and he returned to his camp, rolling up his bedroll, putting the lantern back in his pack, and dismantling the barricade.

As he placed the last log in a neat pile, a sudden roar, coming from very close by, startled him. Two orcs jumped forward, one to each side, into view, and advanced, with their wicked weapons at the ready. Anthony backed away, but an arrow hit the ground at his feet and, turning, he saw a grin on the face of a third orc. He pulled his axe out from the loop at his waist and held it in what he hoped was a threatening manner, but the orcs chuckled at his obvious fear. The first two orcs came together and advanced upon his camp, and Anthony cowered. Then, one trod upon the pile of small logs, which gave way, sending him flying backwards. The other orc looked at his comrade with surprise. Seizing his chance, Anthony bolted, running perpendicular to the archer, west through the forest.

An arrow thudded into a tree inches from his head. Ducking down, he ran more, but his now-ruined armour weighed him down and he began to tire. He turned and saw the two orcs with sabres catching up. His eyes taken off his path, his foot fell into a pothole and he was sent flying, somehow avoiding cutting himself on his axe or losing the weapon. As the first orc caught up to him, Anthony almost fainted with fear. A vision of himself being found, a skeleton in tattered rags and destroyed armour, dying forgotten and unknown, and left the same way, entered his mind and a sudden burst of defiance caught him.

With this tiny vestige of confidence, he yelled Divinum Furis!, and somehow remembered the correct casting of the spell. Renewed vigor filled him and, snarling, he surged upward, disembowelling the shocked orc with a sundering blow. The second orc arrived and roared at the sight of his slain fellow, and the archer took his side, a lit, flaming arrow notched to his bow. The orc fired this into the air, and the signal bought a chorus of orcish roars, at least five, from the undergrowth. This shattered Anthony's nerves and the burst of holy strength left him as the orc with the sabre jumped in to fight. He desperately bought his axe forward, but terror, lack of sleep, poor food and exhaustion rendered the blow useless, and the orc sidestepped it then smashed it from Anthony's grip with a vicious blow to his gauntlets.

Anthony turned again to run, although he did not know it, towards Cove. The orc growled, and looked down. In the orcish tongue he said,
"There is no point following him. He is going towards that cursed Human town. We got our loot anyway, right?" He held up the gleaming, notched axe, Anthony's only prized possession, and a bag filled with potions.

Anthony saw the walls of cove as a blur and ran through the open gate without any realisation of what it was. As he saw the inner walls, he stumbled and fell, absolutely exhausted, outside the gate.

An hour later, a healer, Francesca, followed a merchant, Blaine, to the unconscious Anthony. It was still just past dawn, and Blaine was one of the first to rise in the town. Together, they dragged Anthony, still in his irreparably damaged armour, to the healers.

[Anthony Poena]

(OOC: This is my 'introductory' post, as my new character, Anthony Poena. I am applying to join BoC, as I have told Octy, but I thought it would be nice if I had a slightly different arrival to the town. I hope to soon join the militia, though I hope to have some roleplay beforehand as to my background, my being here, and to lead to my joining BoC, etc. My ICQ is 323-240-245, if anyone wants it! See you in game, I hope!)

[Darath Mithar]

[OOC]: Great story! Quite an introduction. Welcome to Cove!

[Delcarakdur]

[OOC: good story! Looking forward to intimidating you already! *beams*]

[Jack Sinist (•̪●)]

[OOC: good story! Looking forward to intimidating you already! *beams*]

[ooc: rofl. wth..planning on just showing up to complete that agenda? agagagag

Nice story dude.]