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Well you see, my Pa makes pots. My brother makes pots. An' I don't, which is why I'm here now.
Looking back, I suppose it was kinda obvious, early on, that I wasn't going to make the sort of fine pieces that the nobles and traders pay good coin to keep around. Sure, I can fire a piece of clay much as anyone else, but there's pots, and then there's pots, you know? I just didn't seem to quite make shapes delicate enough, paint the patters neatly enough...so it goes. I suppose I could make a living stoking the kiln, mixing the glaze, doing all that 'prentice work for my brother. But there's living, and then there's living.
Suppose you'd have to say I was a troublemaker, too. I had a tendency to brawl, to squabble with the other lads and find more interesting things than working. Might be that's what the monks noticed, at that grammar school where Pa sent us to learn our figures and our writing. But soon enough they were using cudgel-and-buckler drills to keep me in line, instead of raps across the knuckles or a switch on the backside.
There was one brother, there...older than Pa, probably, though I wasn't gonna ask. He was blind in one eye, almost lame in one leg, but he could wrestle better than most of us youngsters and thump you twice before you hit the ground. So I liked him to begin with. But it was the stories he told that really grabbed me by the scruff. Places he'd been, the things he'd seen, and the creatures he'd fought in the name of the Church of Tyr. Not to get sentimental or anything but...I suppose that's where I picked up the dream, you know? The idea that being a good stout arm for the greater good was a better calling than drinking your pay, and brawling your wits down to nothin'.