Torin MacGregor

An Epic Tale of the Great Torin MacGregor A Fictional Autobiography

           I was born at a young age from my mother, as was customary at the time, and I believe it still is. Our village bordered the savage lands of the Bear Clan; at least that is what the other clans called them. 
           The Bear Clan was called this because they were strong bodied, noted to be fierce on the battlefield and had very broad faces. Their stories were numerous, and the tales of their magic were fantastic. Though I can only find record of one battle they had fought where they had sat up on a hill, out of arrow range, and threw rocks down on their assailants.  I hear there is another Clan of Barbarians in the Kingdom of the Desert Winds in the Land of the Desert Rose, also known to be the Bear Clan, I can't be sure, but I don't believe they have any connection. 
           I spent the first few years as a child before I decided it was time to grow up. I was a young hunter gatherer with ambitions to become a great warrior. As a child I was never truly afraid of the Bear Clan. The nights I anxiously woke up could never have been out of fear they were attacking. I was never truly afraid; I just respected them and their abilities. At least that is what I told myself, many times.
           As a man of the age of four I started learning new things. My instructors taught us that "Right is right, and left is wrong" so when she discovered I used my left hand for most things she took it upon herself to teach me to be right. As a result I was clumsy and awkward for the next several years, till I became a competent right hander. 
           As the third child of five and the second son of three, I had to learn to dodge the wrath of man I called my father, the overburdened leader of our people. I found out later in my life that my true father was Hian MacGregor, arguably one of the greatest warriors history has ever known. He battled the Clans barehanded for years before he decided it was easier to just pull up a cedar tree and brush them away as a painter would a bad stroke, or pick up a boulder, throw it and get five to ten opponents at a time. He became fond of using a cedar branch that was strong and sturdy. He loved the aroma and it was pleasant to carve. But alas, I never knew him. I was truly a bastard son of greatness. He was said to have died as a willing sacrifice at the hands of the Master Shaman of the Bear Clan to protect our people and future generations. It was rumored that he did this to ensure my safety from the machinations of the man I called my father. 
           My mother preferred to stay hidden from the people, after word of her infidelity with my true father. She had many problems with my father. He was a cruel man but a coward. She led a secret resistance against him by sending anonymous letters with instructions to my "fathers" enemies. This cruel man found out and killed her in her sleep. I became the orphaned son to anonymity at the age of eight. 
           It was at that time I decided it was time to leave. Having been grown up for four years, it seemed appropriate. I packed my things and a few items of value, and hit the road. I then took upon me the sir name of my father.   
           It wasn't long before I encountered a traveling group of scholars that taught me to read and write. They encouraged me to learn magic and healing. They discouraged fighting yet still taught the use of a sword.  They taught patience and wisdom in ways no other had ever seen. It was gentle and purposeful. They identified my temper as my greatest weakness and trained me constantly to control it. I was trained this way for two years before tragedy struck.  
           When my father found that I had liberated a few ill-gotten gains he sent a contingent of men to return his goods. They tracked us diligently knowing that returning empty handed was not an option they would survive. Unbeknownst to me the scholars had known all that was going on. They knew who had sired me, who had raised me and what I had done. They also knew that we were being followed and why, and had taken precautions against being caught. It was our misfortune that the contingent had in their employ one of the most tenacious scouts in the land. After two years we were discovered and attacked. The contingent was fierce, but surprisingly the scholars were worthy opponents. The scholars threw balls of fire, ice and lightning at our attackers and they went down one by one. When melee commenced the scholars proved to be superior in battle, slaying five of the enemy to every one the enemy could kill. It was our bad luck that they outnumbered us five to one. Soon all on the battle field were dead or dying. I was spirited away by one of the initiates, a young man by the name of Ba'al Saq. 
           He was a strong young man, stout in stature. He warned me that I was being chased by dangerous people aside from my father. They knew who my father was and wanted to make sure that his lineage did not continue. He told me he had a plan to ensure my safety. I must change my name till I am fully grown and travel the world. He foresaw events and decided that I should drop my name Torin MacGregor till my travels end, and take on several names. He had a list of names I should go by and rotate their uses. Each had a meaning. David (meaning Beloved) Quist (meaning Branch) was a tribute to my true father and his favorite weapon; Cedar Branch was used for the same reason. Oliver Closov was used as a reminder that muscle goes far, but charm goes farther. And if all should go awry, I should take on the name of the initiate Ba'al Saq. 
           Ba'al Saq told me to travel through the lands of the Mongol to the cold lands of Siberia and Kamchatka, sail through the Sea of Okhotsk to the Chinese Empire. Travel through these lands to the coast of India; sail from island to island in the Indies, return to the continental travels in Persia, to Egypt, south through Ethiopia to the end of Africa, north along the Atlantic coast to Morocco, and cross the Straights of Gibraltar. Traverse Europe from Spain, to Turkey, to Denmark, sail to Iceland and then to Ireland and Scotland, the origin of my true father. Throughout these travels I will traverse between realms, times, and realities. He told me my travels will end when my journey begins. I will know when this happens when I reach the land known as Iron Keep in the Kingdom of Black Spire. 
            Shaken, I grabbed what few possessions I had and scurried off through the woods. I knew I had a long way to go, and not who will follow. 
            Thus concludes the beginning, the end has yet to come. My tales to follow will be stories of certain notable moments in my travels. They will not be told in any order or chronology, but as my mind is brought to a place or time that will hopefully inspire your interest. 

The Journey through the Great Punjabi Desert

           In my world travels I once was riding horseback in China to India, from the mountainous Chinese village of Pun-Tang to the small coastal village of Punani through the Great Punjabi Desert.
           Pun-Tang was a village with many hills and valleys; a truly lovely place. The people are warm and welcoming. It was sad leaving there. 
           When leaving, I brought plenty of water because it is a desert. I had enough for both my horse and me, but you know the saying "you can bring a horse to water, but you can't make it drink", well my horse was as stubborn as a mule. I would give it water, but it wouldn't drink. So with about three miles of the desert to go, my horse collapses. Three miles in a desert is a long walk, but doable, if you don't waste too much energy or time. Not wanting to walk, I try to give the dying horse more water, but it was already too late. I thought I might be able to spur it into action if I were to get it mad, so I started slapping it in the face. After a while I realized I was just beating a dead horse, literally. 
           I began to walk, and slow was the process. Sand is not easy to walk in. It saps energy out of you very quickly. So by the time I reached the edge I was thoroughly exhausted. I camped at the oasis for a couple of days, before traveling on to Punani. 
           When arriving at Punani I found an exciting village. It being a coastal village it rained a lot and was quite wet. It showed sign that there used to be a lot of bush in the area, but it turns out the due to an infestation of aquatic life the bush was trimmed down. 
           Punani is a coastal town which gets a lot of shipping commerce. Evidently there are often seamen coming in and out all the time. It also has a tendency to smell like fish by the end of the day. Once a month all fishing ceases due to a red tide. 
           The coastline is home to many oyster and clam beds. A burgeoning market in this town is for pearl necklaces. They have cornered the market on a particular variety of bearded clam. 
           Punani gets regular visits from a neighboring monarch, who if I am to believe the stories is quite a prick, but is known to have an all-seeing-eye.  Every time he has tried to invade he has been beaten off. 
           As a city the Punanis are a thrifty and economical people. They are known to be quite tight. 
           As a traveler I highly recommend a visit to Punani. It is a warm and wonderful place. 

Acting as a guide in the Roganunda Forrest

           While traveling through northern Tartaria, I was hired for a summer to guide a group of adventurers to see a great sorceress in the Roganunda Forrest. I was using the alias Oliver Closov as Tartaria covered a large northern expanse that is now known as Russia. 
           The Roganunda Forrest is a densely wooded area populated with Trolls, ogres, goblins, elves and fairies. It also has its share of tigers, bears and wolves. Trolls and ogres are not much trouble as they are easy to hear and thus easy to avoid. The elves, fairies, wolves and bears tend to keep to themselves and the goblins tend to stay away. The real danger is the Siberian Tiger. They are silent movers, and deadly in speed and strength. In the rare event you were to hear the roar of a Siberian Tiger, you have much to worry about. They roar when hungry, injured, or angry. None of which makes you safer. 
           As we were stopped getting water at a wilderness spring I noticed the tracks of one of these large cats along side a pile of fresh steaming scat. I knew we were in a bad spot, but we had passed a cabin a mile or so back. I figured we would be safer to try to stay there than stay the night in the open with a tiger on the prowl. The adventurers could tell something was wrong when I said we should turn around and go back. Their feelings were confirmed when we heard the giant cats cry. 
           The party of adventurers was not the heartiest of groups. Most were smaller, younger, and inexperienced. The echoes of the beast's mighty roar froze the group in their tracks. I could tell that the majestic feline was injured, and as long as we kept our distance we would be fine, but it was still best to be cautious. The young adventurers were shy on weaponry so several grabbed sticks. I couldn't help an inward chuckle at this feeble attempt for protection, but I did admire them for not filling their pants with last night's dinner. 
           In retrospect, I should have asked them to put their pointy sticks down, because the second time the immense feline bellowed one of the adventurers collapsed, two bolted in a full run, one jumped and wrapped himself around my leg tripping me, while in slow motion I started to fall I could see that the last one was holding up his sharp stick coming directly toward my eye. As I watched it get closer and closer I realized I was in for a world of pain. 
           The sharp gushy feeling I felt as the stick punctured my eye was almost as sickening as the loud snap that I heard as the stick broke inches from my face and then a second lighter scrape cut deeply into my eyebrow. I managed to twist as I fell so I landed on my side and smashing the side of my head on a rock. Dazed, confused, half blinded, with waves of pain coursing through my body and head, my temper flared. 
           As adrenaline pumped into my veins the pain became negligible. I tried to get up, but my ankle was broken. The contrite young cleric did his best to calm me down, but feared for his life as he was the one holding the stick. 
           He was afraid to approach, so he decided the best course of action was to cast a sleep spell, and then do what he could to heal me. He had only prepared to heal one injury so he healed my broken ankle, hoping that one of the other questers might be able to heal my head.
           While I slept he bandaged my eyes, to keep them from moving, and they made a stretcher to carry me. They mustered up enough courage to continue even with the calls from the wounded tiger. 
           We made it back to the cabin (and I use that term lightly) where a druid resided. He managed to heal me the rest of the way. 
           I awoke to find everyone around me. The unfamiliar druid, the worried cleric and the other four with broad smiles on their faces were hovering over me. I wanted to get up but the dense little one that grabbed my leg in the first place grabbed my leg again to keep me from getting up. I tried to pull away, but this kid had an iron grip and started pulling my leg, just like with this story I am pulling yours. 

In Search of Absinthe

           While traversing the countries of southern Europe, I was going through a particularly difficult portion of my life. As I had attempted to drown my sorrows in the rather small selections of liquors available in this region. I found it slightly amusing that the flavors of the most popular beverages all tasted mostly the same. Ouzo, Sambucca, Mastika, Pernod, and Galliano all tasted the same to my fickle tongue. I discovered that they were all considered anisettes and were created to replace a strange concoction of 16-17 different seeds and plants known as Absinthe. I heard of the powers of this potion that allowed you to travel to another plane of existence. Though as I was getting tired of the taste of anise seed in my daily diet of spirits, I admit I was intrigued. If the flavor was to remain the same why not experience something new. So I sought out this precious green drink. 
           My travels took me through southern Europe through northern Persia, into the Serbian lands, and up to what is now Latvia. I found myself in a dark seedy inn in the village of Saviški called Taukaino Karošu, which I am confident, translated from Latvian means The Greasy Spoon. It was here that I met a less than desirable old man named Ludis Mēsliem.  
          Now I have traveled all over 4 continents and met many unsavory people, but Mr Mēsliem took the cake. He had warts on his warts, and boils on them. At first look I almost thought he was a half troll with leprosy, but after awhile I realized he just looked that way. He was encumbered with a small plague of flies, I'm sure his flees had lice, and I was confident he kept warm at night by sleeping in pig manure. His name could even be loosely translated to Dung War. I couldn't be sure, but I thought the hump on his back had an eye and teeth. He truly looked liked he climbed the worlds largest ugly tree fell down and hit every branch on the way down, then repeated the process a few times. His speech was littered with curses, epithets, vulgarity, indecencies, crudeness, colorful metaphors, slander, racial slurs and most any other kind of offensiveness that could be thought of, enough to make a sailor blush. Despite all this, once you looked past his many flaws, I found that he was quite likable. 
          Ludis approached me when overhearing my little quest for this odd concoction. After I overcame the initial revulsion and subsequent gagging, I was surprised he was still there. Under all that crap of a body and the impervious wall of emotional hardness seemed to be a heart of gold. He told me that he knew where to find such a brew. He said that the mixture he could get was special and held magical properties. I was certain he was putting me on, but curious I followed him when he arose and hobbled toward the door. As we traversed the drudges of the city and waded through the sewers I began to believe I was walking into a trap. I noticed that despite his apparent demeanor he was imbued with sinuous muscles and great strength, I also surmised that he was much nimbler then he portrayed, thus making him a potentially deadly foe.  My worries were abated when we arrived at what would generously be called a hovel. He pulled out a small rusted metal chest and turned to me. He asked me what I would pay to try such an elixir, to which I replied "How much is it worth?" 
          He responded with "it is Censored worth the Censored lives of Censored several Censored men, Censored men who have Censored tried to Censored steal it from me!" He eyed me up and took note of my gear, "but I Censored would Censored give it to you in exchange for that Censored horn at your Censored side and the Censored dagger in your Censored belt" 
          The horn was an elaborately carved drinking horn that had been with me since my days in Mongolia. It had a hinged pewter stein lid that kept its seal very well. I had taken it off the dead body of a traveling merchant that had tried to steal back something I had purchased from him earlier that day. The dagger had an acorn pommel with a handle of carved ebony, and a blackened razor sharp blade. It had served me well over the years as it was the dagger that killed the aforementioned merchant among others. Neither held any sentimental value to me and since I had a brace of daggers in my pack that more than suited my needs, I saw little reason to hold on to such. Still I had to be sure that what he was offering was not just smoke and dust. "How can I be sure it will be worth this price? The horn you ask for is worth the price of one mans life, and the dagger has taken many, show me what you have to offer first, and I will then make my decision."
         "If Censored proof is what you Censored desire" he squealed," then Censored proof is Censored what you will Censored get!" and he opened the rusted box. 
         Out of the box came an iridescent green glow. The outside of the box may have looked like something to discard, but the inside was lined with glistening red velvet. The bottle was filled with a glowing green liquid. I knew instantly that the contents were worth more than the two trinkets the ugly little man was asking for.
         "Deal!" I said enthusiastically to the creature, and removed the horn from my side and the dagger from my belt, and made the exchange.
         "Censored Censored Censored Censored Censored Censored "he exclaimed as he jumped up and down with glee. "I Censored have been Censored Censored trying to Censored Censored rid my Censored Censored Censored Censored self of Censored this for Censored Censored Censored years and Censored Censored everyone Censored just Censored tried to Censored steel it from Censored Censored me. I Censored warn you that if you Censored drink it you will Censored be Censored transported to a Censored mythical Censored land and be Censored forced into a Censored quest or Censored suffer Censored death. If you don't Censored drink it you will Censored be Censored transmuted the same Censored as I have! HAHAHAHA Censored HAHAHAHAHA!!!!" 
         So it seems that his apparent heart of gold was fools gold indeed. I decided that instead of attempting to kill him it would be prudent to ask some very pointed questions. "What are my options?" I asked.
         "You must give it in trade or you will suffer death, you can drink it and be transported as I have told you, or you can keep it and be turned into what I have been becoming. You must not be further than one mile from it or you will begin to stink, you must not be further than five miles or you will decay, ten miles you will begin to hallucinate, and fifteen miles you will die."  He growled. 
         I was more surprised that he managed to say this without cursing than what he actually said. 
         "Furthermore, if you don't drink the whole thing you will be transported as I had told you and the bottle will be refilled. You will not be free until the bottle is empty and the glass is broken. Be warned! It is not the easiest liquid to drink. It is sickly sweet. It is estimated to be 300 years old, and none of its past holders have been able to finish it off." 
         I peered at him and asked slowly "Can I sell it?"
         He looked at me quizzically, spit out a half chuckle, and shrugged "I don't know. I never thought of that! I mean who would want to buy it?" 
         "Who wouldn't want an magical potion at a good price?"  
         "Good point."
         "I thank you for your assistance, I wish you a good life, I hope you can return to your former grandeur, may our paths never meet again." And I waded off back through the sewers. 
         Later that evening I bathed in the icy river, which as uncomfortable as it was, I was still able to wash long enough to remove the stink of sewage off myself and my clothes. I decided that it might not be prudent to try to rid myself of this problem in the same city as it obviously took Ludis years to find a traveler looking for something that it could pass for. 
         I decided that I should go to France to rid myself of this accursed item. I figured that if I was to wish a curse on a people as a whole it would be the French. Censored the French!  So I made haste to the Latvian coast and sailed south west around Denmark and on down to the northern French Coast to the village of Calais. 
         I had remembered an old con artist and trickster named Alphonse de Mofras that hailed from the town of Ardres, with whom I had conducted many transactions. Most often he was the one who had come out on top. I thought it might be the time to settle the score. 
         I had purchased a horse in Calais and rode down to Ardres. Upon arriving I rode up to the Tavern Le Pute Français for which Alphonse was well known to frequent. I walked up boldly and entered. The noisy tavern became instantly quiet as the door closed behind me. It was obvious that things had changed. As I surveyed the room I noticed signs that I had encountered the local thieves' guild (if there is such a thing). I felt the weight of all the glares on me. I stood there deciding if I should exit or prepare to fight when I heard a voice from the back bellow out "Could that possibly be Oliver Closov?" 
         This is an alias I had used from time to time, and is it so happened the only alias I used around Alphonse. 
         "Alphonse! Is that you?" I said as if I had no idea he would be here. 
         "Yes! Yes it is you little rascal!" he continued to bellow as he emerged from the back of the crowd. "What brings you to le France, you little scallywag?" he crowed as he jabbed me in the arm. 
         "Well, it's a long story, do you have someplace private we can speak?" 
         "Oui, oui! Mon ami! De cette manière droit." He said with a wide sweep of his arm gesturing toward a door.
         We entered and I followed him down a long hallway to a private room. 
         "I have a small problem and need a little help," I began. "I have a few people after me that are looking for something I 'liberated' from their noble. I don't want to get into particulars, but its value is not easy to assess." 
         "Ah, you know that in my line of work that this could mean that it is worth nothing, it is worth more than it looks like, or it is a nobles' daughter. Which is it?" he queried.
         "I would rather not say; I know that in your line of business things end up disappearing." 
         "Mon ami! This hurts me to the core!" said Alphonse indignantly. "You know you can trust me!"
         "Trust! You must be joking!" I said sarcastically. 
         "Je sais, je sais. Let us let bygones be bygones. So tell me what are your plans to shed this burden" he said quizzically. "I assume it is not a person as you have never been into kidnapping, so it must be an item of value. Are you looking for a Marché Noir?"
         "Well I honestly hadn't thought of selling it. I have no idea what it would be worth." I lied.
         "Tell me what it is and I will see what I can do." He pressed
         I leaned forward and he did the same, "It's a magical potion." I whispered.
         Alphonse broke into a grand laugh, "Magic Potion! There's no such thing!" he bellowed.

"SSSHHH!" I hissed. "that is what I thought before I laid my eyes on this" I pulled the rusted old chest from my rucksack and opened it. The eerie green glow illuminated the room. Alphonse's eyes widened as his jaw dropped. He coughed as if a little drool slid down the back of his throat into his lungs. I knew I had him.

         "What do you think it is worth?" I asked eagerly. 
         "Probably not much, it would be difficult to convince that the potion was magical to most people with enough education to have wealth." He said. I knew he was lying. He was angling for a good price. 
         "You have to be crazy! It took one glance and you knew it was magic!" I protested. "Don't think you can rip me off! I'm no fool!" I knew that one of his favorite lines was 'Only a fool protests that he is not'. If he wasn't after it he would say this, not saying such would indicate he didn't want to have me wise up
         "No you are not a fool." He said slyly. "how about we do this, I will by it from you so you can be free of the people that are after you. You realize that I will then be carrying the burden of this hunt." He of course knew that if my story were true they would still be after me and he would be long gone with his prize before I was caught.
         "Ok, what are you offering?" 
         "20 silver." He opened.
         "Are you crazy! Do you think I am stupid? I could never let this go for that little! How about 100 gold?" I countered
         "I have children to feed! You would be robbing my children!" He lied "10 gold!"
         "75 gold" I countered again
         "50 gold"
         "50 and a drinking horn filled with absinthe and it's a deal" I thought it would be good to make sure the trade happened as the ugly old man had mentioned.
         "deal!"
         He pulled out the gold, counted it out and had one of his men get the absinthe. 
         I gave him the chest and said "Au revoir, my friend" and hurried out. I knew that if I stayed there too long he would think to ask what kind of magic it was. Additionally I knew that it was not wise to run around in this area with 50 gold in my possession. That was the last I heard of Alphonse de Mofras. From what I hear, that was the last anyone had heard of him. I guess you can cheat a cheater and con a con man. In retrospect, I came out fairly good on the whole deal. I lost a dagger and a drinking horn, and gained 50 gold, a drinking horn, and I finally got to try absinthe. 
         Goals are a good thing.