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Arrow Flight

An arcane archer, adventurer and all-around thrillseeker. Bastard son of a King, and previously a soldier in his army at the rank of Captain. [quote]No, it's not my real name. No, I'm not telling you my real name either.[/quote]

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a character in “Quest: The Dragon of the Dungeon”, as played by Arrow


©2010 ~Cushart
Full Name: Alexander Chevaleux
Alias: Arrow Flight
Age: 21
Race: Human

Height: 5' 9"
Weight: 132lbs
Overall Appearance: Arrow is a handsome youth, with smooth and elegant features, spoilt only by a scar across his right cheek from where the back of an axe caught him, buckling his helmet and slicing his face. His face, and indeed build, is slightly on the effeminate side, and he is often described as 'pretty' rather than ruggedly handsome - though this does not bother him. His hair is of moderate length, falling to near the nape of his neck in a faded mouse brown, and his eyes are a delightful bright sky blue. His garb most often consists of the light armour that was his uniform during his time in the army, consisting largely of chainmail, with steel plating above it with elegant but not overly extravagant inlays. He also often wears a white cloak, which may be taken by some to symbolise his preference of peace over fighting, but in actual fact he just thinks matches the rest of his outfit.

Personality: A friendly and kind hearted individual, whilst Arrow might enjoy his sense of humour a little too much at others' expense, he is by no means an unpleasant person. Having had more than his due of moping and angsting about being despised by his family whilst serving in the army, the youth has gotten himself over it, and now lives a happy life devoted to forming friendships, and enjoying himself. A determined and honourable individual, Arrow will fight for a cause or for his friends till the last, with very little in the way of self preservation.

Skills and Talents:
  • As his name might suggest, Arrow is a master marksman with every type of bow, and can score a bullseye with nigh on every shot he takes. He cannot split an arrow down the middle however, because that is a physical impossibility.
  • Arrow is also a skilled swordsman, and skilled in wielding polearms such as the halberd and poleaxe.
  • A skilled horse rider.
  • Gifted with remarkable reflexes and excellent vision.
  • Excellent endurance, capable of maintaining his form even in long fights, fully armoured.
  • A surprisingly good baker.

  • Enchanted Arrows: Arrow can infuse his arrows with magical energies, giving them various abilities (e.g. force arrows, fire arrows, ice arrows, lightning arrows, soul arrows, ethereal arrows...)

  • Longbow
  • Quiver with arrows in oddly numerous supply.
  • An arming sword and shield.
  • Chainmail/light plate armour.
  • Rapier
  • General Adventuring Tools (because I am a lazy lister)

The Documentation of the Life of a Bastard


Greetings to you, friend, family, or mere curious individual. If you are reading this, then you are interested in learning of the life of I, Alexander Chevaleux, or as you most likely know me: Arrow Flight. Let it be said now that there will be no secrets kept in these pages, and that every word that is written here is the truth, and nothing but, from my own mouth. There is only one bard with whom I would trust the writing and singing of my tale, and it is my deepest regret that her and I are not on terms of present which befit such a request; something that it is my utmost hope to rectify as soon as circumstance permits – so you may yet hear my song sung in a tavern somewhere, and if you do, be sure to offer the singer a greeting from myself, and wish her fair tidings. As it is however, as of the current hour it is I, and I alone who take pen to paper and write for you here, a documentation of the life of a bastard.

I shall begin the story of my life at the point which seems most obviously appropriate, and indeed the point where most biographies begin (though this is not to say I wish to conform, certainly not, but there are times when conventions are practical to follow) – at the moment of my conception. As you may already be aware from conversing with my in the past, my father was a King, ruler of a land named Leyathar, by the name of Alistair Chevaleux. Despite his noble office, it is my regret to inform you that my father was far from noble in himself, his actions often despicable and the rumours about him spanning extreme to extreme of decadence. There was, throughout the early years of his reign, much speculation as to the manner of his rise to power. The previous king, a man named Edward Avante, was shot dead by an archer after a conspiracy by his royal self was uncovered, and though no charges were pressed it just so happened that this archer was on the staff of one Alistair Chevaleux, and it also ‘just so happened’ that Avante himself was heirless, leading to the rise of the noble of greatest blood, who ‘just so happened’ (you may be noticing a pattern by this point), to be the aforementioned Alistair. Now, I am not one to speculate – certainly not – but there seems to be much evidence pointing to the dirty dealings of my father dearest. Thankfully (from my own birth’s point of view), Avante himself had acquired so much distaste from the peasant and noble populace both that nobody really found it in themselves to cause a fuss about this. And so, my father became king.

It becomes apparent to me at this point that I have lied to you – my story did not in fact begin at the moment of my conception, but I assure you, the above information is building up to this exciting climax (no pun intended). While Father dearest himself was, I would like to think, a better king and person all around than Avante, there can be no doubt that his actions about the palace were unscrupulous and morally detestable. He garnered himself something of a reputation for lack of faith, seeming to make a habit of bedding outside of his wedlock (something that caused the later divorce and estrangement of his wife, with whom I hold no ill will but whom will ever detest me as the product of her husband’s loins by the womb of another woman), taking to bed numerous individuals in his palace staff. It was in one of these fiery nights of passion that I was conceived – my mother a maid named Sarah Daress.

Fair Sarah’s pregnancy came to a hubbub of rumour and murmurings, and despite the (somewhat lax) efforts of the girl herself, it became common knowledge amongst the other servants the origin of the sperm which had caused this bulge in Daress’ belly, and unbeknownst to Alistair (as blind as all men to matters such as these), the tension amongst them became palpable, the question upon everybody’s tongue: would the man show compassion and nobility enough to support this child of his, or would he cast both the babe and fair Sarah out with nought but the clothes upon their backs?

And so came the day of my birth, I; a happy, healthy mewling babe, and Sarah; a tired, wrecked and stressed single mom. In the hours following my emergence from the womb, upon Daress’ recovery of her mastery of movement, I was swept from the cot in which I had been placed and paraded, with a great deal of metaphorical trumpeting and literal gnashing of teeth, to the threshold of my father’s domain, and Sarah (good old fiery Sarah) demanded compensation for this burden that the Lord of the Land had thrust (again, no pun intended) upon her. And under the eyes of his people – and perhaps the gods, if he held faith in them, or they in he – Alistair the Ignoble was forced to submit, or lose their favour – such as it was – forever.

Much of my early childhood remains a blur to me, a scattering of images and sounds that do not so much as form a coherent storyboard to summarise my infancy, rather depict a psychedelic rush of fluctuating pictures that make less sense than an elephant carrying a bucket. Images of nurseries, fellow toddlers, scalding nannies and – ever present, reliable and caring – fiery headed Sarah, her head of radiant red hair flowing free and untamed like that of a lion (or such it seemed to me, the idolising and worshipping young boy of three or four).

My memory becomes clearer towards the latter end of my single digit years, perhaps around the age of seven or eight, at which point my mother, and her fiery locks, decreed that I was old enough to have free reign to the servant areas of the palace, under the watchful eye of her beau, a cleaner with more than enough excuses to be anywhere at any time, with an inquisitive young lad trailing him. I recall that I was something of a handful, touchy feely fingers brushing themselves across tapestries and upsetting carefully balanced masterpieces – I created plenty of reason for my mother’s beau (whose name sadly escapes me at this time) to be at the same place as I, simply by creating mess for him to clean, though I doubt he saw it quite so logically as I (for in my childish perception what else could I be doing but a service to him?).

In my many wanderings of the palace it never occurred to me to wonder at the doors that Sarah’s beau guided my carefully away from, those ones with the gilded edges that seemed ever so fine, infinitely finer than those that I wandered through at will, those that led to the king’s and his nobles’ area of the palace, where servants were seldom wanted without cause, and certainly their rambunctious rugrats were undesired. However, as I edged my way into double figures, at the age of twelve, it occurred to me to inquire as to their purpose. My dear mother, in her infinite wisdom, explained to me that it was behind these doors that my father and his fellows dwelled, my father the king, the hero, the valiant knight (all imaginings of course, for a mother deserves the right to create the father that she so wished that her child had for him, if only to convince herself that all the reasons she let the man take her to his bed were true and real), but that I was never to go there, for I was not myself a rich and wealthy noble – but on the day that I did become one (after my childish mind instantly took the logical step to assume that I would be), I would surely be granted access.

And that was that. Or as you may be able to guess, not. It is a well known fact that to tell your child something is forbidden is to paint a sign upon it indicating that they should pursue it with utmost vigour; and it is this that dear Sarah did, inadvertently or nay. At the first opportunity, I gave poor beau the slip, and made my merry way to one of these magnificent forbidden doors, and with the confidence of youth entered within like the prince that I knew I was. The empty corridor beyond somewhat dampened my expectations, but did not for a moment cause me to doubt my intention, or consider turning back – nay, not at all – but rather encouraged me to venture further, to wend my way through the corridors, gaping at the extravagance.

It was in this awe stricken state that I was discovered by his majesty himself, walking his way through the corridor in the company of his two legitimate sons. The trio seemed taken aback upon first sight of me, and there was a significant pause whilst they considered an appropriate response – it was my father who first regained his wits and demanded to know who I was. I remember the conversation vividly...

”Who are you? What are you doing up here? These are my private rooms!” King Alistair demanded, all regal indignance, haughty sons behind him lending their own royal distaste to his palette.

Me, the child, confident in my importance, blurted out perhaps the most obvious and yet least tactful response that it was feasible to produce: “I am your son, sire.”

Much guffawing was had by son one and son two, whilst father gaped and mouthed like a fish, expression flickering from confusion, to surprise to rage. Eventually however, it settled upon a degree of respect for my straight-forwardness. “Is that so, lad? And by what merit do you claim to hold this office?”

“By merit of the fact that-“ and here I quoted the laundry maids, who had thought themselves safe from the innocent understanding of a child “- you mounted my mother Sarah like she were a fiery stallion rather than a girl, and rocked the bed like a rodeo till she were so assuredly pregnant that any further fertilisation would likely have produced some form of unnaturally speedy growth.”

This left the royal trio speechless, and my dear brothers spitting with rage. Father himself however, by some miracle or another, found the funny side to this, and burst forth into uncontrollable laughter. My brothers, alarmed, suppressed their rage, and nervously followed suit, while all the while I stood there, all big eyes and bigger ears, wondering what on Earth was the matter.

“I like you, lad – Sarah’s lad are you? Alex is your name, is it not? Your mother is a fiery maiden, she is – caused me fear when she turned up on my doorstep clutching your bawling form despite my armed and armoured retinue; I’ve no doubt that woman could have torn through the lot of them bare handed had I refused to support her in your upbringing. Well, Alex, you certainly have something of me in you, if that reply is any indication. I like you. How would you like a little recognition for your princely heritage, eh?”

I nodded. I would like that very much sire, please and thank you sire.

“Alright then! At your earliest convenience, and with the permission of your mother of course, you shall be reporting to the barracks to join your fellow squires! Welcome to the king’s army, boy!”

It occurs to me now that to be thrust into the front lines of a military organisation was perhaps not the most wonderful of welcoming gifts from my father, rather an attempt to get rid of me to avoid further embarrassment, but at the time I was delighted. There followed many a conversation with dear Sarah about how it was my ‘duty’, and how I ‘deserved recognition’ – her rather reasonable argument being ‘you’ll get your bloody head cut off’, however reason is no match for the determination and the unfailing logic of the child, and she was defeated.

It was on my return from a particularly strenuous training session, several weeks later, that I was confronted by a rather ticked off looking young woman by the name of Aliana. Three years my senior, she retained the right of bollocking-by-merit-of-age, and thus I was obligated by the complex etiquette of childhood to pause in my pursuit of a hot bath to listen to what she wished to say. Which turned out to be rather angry. While I shall not go into the details of her speech, it came to my knowledge that she was in fact one of my half-siblings, by another of the servant staff, and alongside me one of the few who desired father dearest’s eye upon her. What had her so angered, was that I, in a single expedition of reckless and utterly random abandon, had achieved this, while all her careful plans and schemes across the years had, totally and categorically, failed. Jealousy was the root of it, but I knew well enough not to mention this lest I be torn limb from limb by a girl easily as fiery as Sarah in her younger years. In a number of encounters where I played the innocent victim of chance, begging her forgiveness for a wrong fate did to her by merit of my gain, I eventually became close to my half-sister, for in the void left by the eventual lack of anger, friendship found fertile soil to set its roots and blossom. She herself joined me two years later in the training grounds of the army, hoping to win father’s approval in the manner the man himself had suggested to me.

It was in my later teens and Aliana’s last, seventeen and nineteen respectively, that our training reached its apex. By this point many friendships had been formed amongst the students, and the knights took note of this, as well as our areas of expertise, and placed us together in units, ‘Bands’ as they called them. Ours was the Silver Hand, and unbeknownst to any of us, the Band of the Silver Hand was both a name and a sortie that would stick for a very long time. The men – and woman, Aliana of course having been placed with me, for our friendship and rivalry were deemed appropriate to encourage teamwork on the battlefield – within this band are those with whom I experienced in later life much of my adventures. I count to this day all amongst them my dearest friends. I, the Archer, backline support, the marksman who never missed a shot (while anyone was watching); my sister, the rogue, the bard, the light fighter who could take the battle at range or up close, all the while calling the support, holding the group together with inspiring songs and speeches; and a dozen more who formed a strong unit, a sound rank and a lifelong alliance.


Arrow, being a thrillseeker, and conveniently passing through this particular land of fantasy AT THE TIME, rocked up with his kit and signed on!

So begins...

Arrow Flight's Story