The fiery spirit of this Scotsman has been dulled to a slight roar, all that remains is a giant's rage. Standing five feet and eight inches, Keiron is considered a human titan by the general public. His childhood consisted of learning how to farm while being somewhat oppressed by the English. His father, Bill Smithston, would tell Keiron stories of William Wallace and the village's involvement in the resistance movement led by William. It had contributed the production of armor, weapons, and food, but that era had died with Wallace. The village moved on to take care of its own people.
Catholicism did not skip Keiron's home. Not too far from where he lived, every Sunday, he would walk to Church, absorbing any words of wisdom the priest and the nuns had to offer. Often, Keiron would find himself struggling to have the courage to go out and tend to the fields or milk the cows or herd the sheep during the day, and would turn to the various prayers he would acquire at Church. Not feeling he could absorb enough of it, Keiron would visit the priest, Father Daniel, to read along in the Bible. Father Daniel realized Keiron's interest for not just his religion, but knowledge in general. Believing he would be a great upcoming asset to the Church in more rural areas, he began teaching Keiron how to read. With whatever time he wasn't working in the fields or helping his mother, Caren, he would go on up to the Church to immerse himself into what is knowledge.
There have been numerous occasions where his village was attacked by bandits or freelancers looking for supplies. Keiron's life on the farm built him much strength, of which he did not know how to use other than to farm. Though the raiding parties came seldom, and with high prices. In most incursions, ten people were rendered dead by the bandits. Sometimes they were people close to him, sometimes they were not.
Samuel, my friend, you should've ran the other way.
Now you lie bloodied in your dismay.
The murderer who stood by Samuel looked at me, his face masked by a bloodstained helm. I began to ran but tripped on a piece of debris, the hell-spawn coming ever closer. I reached for the first thing I found, a short sword, turned around as fast as I could, the sword swinging, to find my wield cutting past the demon's leg plates and into his flesh. I remember the scream, the pain I inflicted this great for the first time onto another man. But no mercy was to be had. I slashed again, his side now wounded, then got up to cut into his neck. I'm not sure if it was pity or sorrow that came over me.
...
Roaming the wreckage I found corpses. I revealed unrecognizable remains. I discovered blood. I uncovered death. I realized my sole survival. There was nothing for that boy, age of nine, to lose, so he forged a path south with a satchel, short sword, and a flask containing water.
Keiron came upon different towns and businesses, and worked with some along the way to become capable of just feeding himself so he would starve for only some of the week. Along the way, he was able to sharpen his literary skills. As noted by English citizens, Keiron was a Scotsman, and this catalyzed hysteria. He was interrogated by the security forces, and deemed fit for combat at a young age. He was a damsel in distress and something to add a bit of joy for the Englishmens' rather timid days on patrol. Often he would be beaten and thrown around by watchmen of Westmorland, where he finally ended up. He learned to fight with a sword by experience. He would be toyed with until finally kicked aside and his weapons stolen. For about four years, he mustered the strength to endure this abuse. The guards used him as an example, that Scottish infiltration of English land was not to be tolerated.
"Can't keep up, big boy?" he said tauntingly. The next notable event was my shins getting sliced, but shallowly enough for me to continue standing. Rage. Preposterous amounts of rage.
I stepped forward, he went to parry my strike but I hit his sword back, unleashing a strike with the hilt of the sword upon his forehead. He remained dazed and confused enough for me to impale him. I had nothing to lose, as he began to cough up blood, spitting in my face. I picked him up with my sword, and the watchmen all grabbed their bows and swords.
"You have a choice, Keiron," the Captain told. "Imprisonment, trial, then execution, or the military."
Neither seemed too bad a choice.
In the end, he chose to be a soldier of the English. The captain went as far as to give Keiron a new identity. He would remain Keiron Smithston, but instead he was born an Englishmen, south of the Scottish boarder; the captain only sought to give his nation the best it has come across, and someone as powerful as Keiron would most definitely prove valuable. Records on Keiron were created to be stored in the English archives matching this description. It was told to the public of Westmorland that he was not Scottish, but nearly that. The hysteria he caused by his existence subsided.
He served shortly for some years in the battlefields of France, managing somehow to keep himself all in one peace. But in his downtime, he would articulate a message of revolution in Tales of the Exploited, revealing the corruption of the English and their sole lust for power. Though he could never publicly advocate this, he kept writing and hiding the book, defending it with his longsword and shield when necessary.
Keiron recently came to this conclusion: it was not wise to stay with the English military, for they have used him. He would not join the French, as he picked up some of the language in his occupying and conquering of the Gascony region, for they had a system no different and no more easily corruptible as the English. He abandoned both sides. He struck gold, finding a ravaged town. Ideally, people would be found who had seen and were as discontented with self-righteous war as he was. He walked early one morning unto the wreckage, with all that he had. A flask of water, a longsword, a shield, eighteen years of life experience, and some warm clothes for the cold nights.