Falstaff
Falstaff had always been ambitious.
Even as a child he showed a predilection for esoterica, and at the age of seven he could rattle off a list of local governors and explain their policies and stances without so much as a pause for breath. He was creative and he was talented, preferring pursuits of the mind to more worldly endeavors. Where other boys would go out to play when the sun was high, he locked himself in his room and poured over whatever old tomes he could get his hands on.
He was hungry for knowledge and that was what estranged him to his family early on. Where his brother Caru expressed an interest for the orthodoxy – he despised the traditions and the stagnation encouraged by such institutions. He believed in what he could touch and see and smell and even the rituals performed by the priests and priestesses of Asmodeus were just another form of wizardry, men and women shaping the energies of the world to suit their aims.
When it finally dawned on him that he had only two choices: heel to the oppressive diabolist regime of his homeland or flee and make a life for himself elsewhere – Falstaff left. He and Caru hopped the border to Nirmathas and carved out a life for themselves in the rugged wilderness. Soon they had a roof over their heads and the were no longer starving but it was hardly the life that Falstaff wished to lead.
He was willing to ignore his brother’s search for spiritual enlightenment even after Caru donned the robes of Shelyn and sought the more beautiful things in life. He was willing to ignore that more and more of his brother’s days were spent with a foundling bride in the shade of oak-trees. But when Daniel was born, his brother’s son by that selfsame woman, he could take no more. Again he left what family had behind in pursuit of greater things. There were worlds still unexplored past the borders of Verisia. He had heard incredible tales of the college there and he knew in his heart-of-hearts it was where he belonged.
It was only after leaving everything behind a second time that Falstaff found his way. The Acadamae in Korvosa’s walls called to him and soon he was behind them, nose buried in books and steeping in the lore of a hundred forgotten civilizations. His breadth of knowledge grew and with it, his command of the arcane. He was younger then and more brash. He soaked up his lessons like a sponge and as time flew on his sights were set on a goal which many thought unattainable. Inspired by his youth and his beliefs – he sought proof that all magic sprung from the same wellspring. And it was during the height of his pursuit that he began his correspondence with professor Petros Lorrimor.
While their fields of expertise differed, Lorrimor funnelled his efforts into researching and understanding The Whispering Way while Falstaff pressed further upon the gate separating arcane and divine— they both provided one another much insight as the letters more and more personal.
They were almost friends by way of extension. So much so that when his brother’s wife died in a horrible fire, it was Petros that Falstaff confided in between his experiments and his research. And what was further, it was Petros that suggested he take the young boy on as a guard for one of his myriad expeditions. After all, young Daniel had seen little of the world outside the forests of Nirmathas. And Falstaff would see his kin do better than to don his father’s robes when he came of age.
And word soon reached him that Daniel had done more than simply guard the Professor’s expedition. He saved the man from a horde of stampeding boar using naught but his spear and wits alone. If Falstaff had ever known pride for something other than himself it was for Daniel in that moment. He had been right. The boy was meant for great things.
And he told Lorrimor as such.
Things maintained for a time. Falstaff grew desperate in the search for truth. He was so close he could taste his success. But every turn confronted him with a dead end. His assistants noted the shift in his demeanor. His obsession had almost claimed his mind. But again, Lorrimor was there to mutter insecurities to. He was called away from his studies and his musings, asked to escort the professor and his entourage to far-off Osirion. There might be answers there, in crypts and tombs long forgotten. But more importantly, it was not a stuffy cramped office with papers strewn about the place and the shutters drawn.
A pleasant surprise awaited the now aged Falstaff. It was not the type of sun he was expecting. But, in fact, young Daniel. Grown healthy and strong. The stink of the divine was all over the boy, however. And it was many a night on their journey they stayed up late debating the twists and turns of religion as the sand scoured the campsite. They spoke of great things as they approached the Pillars of the Sun.
But it was not until Falstaff rescued his nephew from a sudden rockslide that their debate slowed to a stop.
He was such a stubborn child and refused to bow to superior logic, testifying his faith was greater. But where was his faith in the moment Falstaff threw up a barrier of entropic force to repel the stones away? It was the lynchpin of his argument even though he claimed, when asked about it later, that Daniel was still holding more than his fair share of spell components for the company. And to lose him would be to lose a considerable amount of gold.
After the expedition concluded and the group again went their separate ways – Falstaff felt that all was lost. His brother had poisoned Daniel’s mind and there was no going back. He buried himself in his tomes and in the year that followed threw all reservation to the wayside. He would have his proof. He would have Daniel’s mind and the absolution he had been fighting for since he was old enough to walk.
And as age crept up on him and desperation held him down everything he had worked for, every scrap of paper he had scribbled on— burned to ashes.
