Post by Sarm on Jul 11, 2005 20:29:45 GMT -6
(Just a one post, short story)
The sun wouldn't shine on this quiet Tuesday morning, but that was just the way he liked it. His house just south of the Dainan bridge, the morning breeze that passed over the ocean was a refreshing start to his day. The fishing was good, but Olivander spent much of his day indoors. Working on any jacket, any pair of pants, any hat that was commissioned, he liked to keep himself busy. When asked by the many merchants that frequented his doorstep why he did not retire, Olivander would simply smile, and with a twinkle in his eye would whisper "The day a man can no longer work is the day he dies". These words, oddly enough, were inspiration for a number of other people to aim for their goals.
Olivander was a headstrong old fool, and some would regard him as borderline senile, but anybody who spoke with the tailor marveled at his sincere generousity. His love of children, which many thought was due to the loss of his own son many years ago, was such that he would put aside his own welfare to assist any youth that entered his home. Many of his works were for the orphans, many of whom lost their parents when the town of Dainaria fell to the Chaotics. Many of the townsfolk of Dainan feared for Olivander's safety, but he insisted to remain in his cottage by the bridge. He had faith that Nexus would watch over his home, that had been in the family for a hundred years. To everyone's amazement, while the Dainan bridge was assaulted dozens of times, Olivander was often seen watching the fighting from his porch chair, praying and sewing.
Such fortune would not last forever, though. On a thundering Friday night, what appeared to be a bridge-raiding party instead assaulted poor Olivander in his home. His home was torched, and the old tailor was never found. A scouting party the next morning noticed smoke in the distance, and inspected the remains of the cottage. All that was left was a sewing needle, laced with human blood. Several days would pass before any trace of Olivander would turn up. A smoldering pile of ash at a campsite was discovered on a dark Friday afternoon. The only thing that identified the body was an unfinished piece of garment found nearby. The unfortunate explorers took this discovery to the grave.
Olivander was mourned for many weeks, but some say that once a year, on the anniversary that he disappeared, a new article of clothing would appear in the ruins of his cottage. This phenomenon would continue to occur until the final orphan of Olivander's generation passed away.
The sun wouldn't shine on this quiet Tuesday morning, but that was just the way he liked it. His house just south of the Dainan bridge, the morning breeze that passed over the ocean was a refreshing start to his day. The fishing was good, but Olivander spent much of his day indoors. Working on any jacket, any pair of pants, any hat that was commissioned, he liked to keep himself busy. When asked by the many merchants that frequented his doorstep why he did not retire, Olivander would simply smile, and with a twinkle in his eye would whisper "The day a man can no longer work is the day he dies". These words, oddly enough, were inspiration for a number of other people to aim for their goals.
Olivander was a headstrong old fool, and some would regard him as borderline senile, but anybody who spoke with the tailor marveled at his sincere generousity. His love of children, which many thought was due to the loss of his own son many years ago, was such that he would put aside his own welfare to assist any youth that entered his home. Many of his works were for the orphans, many of whom lost their parents when the town of Dainaria fell to the Chaotics. Many of the townsfolk of Dainan feared for Olivander's safety, but he insisted to remain in his cottage by the bridge. He had faith that Nexus would watch over his home, that had been in the family for a hundred years. To everyone's amazement, while the Dainan bridge was assaulted dozens of times, Olivander was often seen watching the fighting from his porch chair, praying and sewing.
Such fortune would not last forever, though. On a thundering Friday night, what appeared to be a bridge-raiding party instead assaulted poor Olivander in his home. His home was torched, and the old tailor was never found. A scouting party the next morning noticed smoke in the distance, and inspected the remains of the cottage. All that was left was a sewing needle, laced with human blood. Several days would pass before any trace of Olivander would turn up. A smoldering pile of ash at a campsite was discovered on a dark Friday afternoon. The only thing that identified the body was an unfinished piece of garment found nearby. The unfortunate explorers took this discovery to the grave.
Olivander was mourned for many weeks, but some say that once a year, on the anniversary that he disappeared, a new article of clothing would appear in the ruins of his cottage. This phenomenon would continue to occur until the final orphan of Olivander's generation passed away.