Hudson of Hillsfar

I dug up the backstory-and-then-some I wrote for the first D&D character I ever played (redressed to read for current editions of the game). Decent read, if I do say so myself.

Born on a brisk morning in early spring to Dharnel Orellian and his wife Matlin, their fat-cheeked, round-eyed babe named Hudson lived a contented life, full of mother’s milk and father’s affection. Kidnapped at twelve months, before the babe’s first birthday, it was a life that, sadly, would carry no memories with it.

From there the babe traveled north, together with a dozen other young children, in the company of an enigmatic vagrant known only to a select few as The Raggedy Man. How it was that the despicable wretch was able to travel north, into inhospitable weather no less, without losing a single child nor giving himself away from all the crying and the dirty breechcloths, is a secret only he knows. Up the Moonsea Ride to the coast itself, arriving in Hillsfar was their goal—a place where the children would be bought and sold into slavery, but not just any kind of slavery.

In Hillsfar at this time (and still today) there stood a structure called “the Arena,” a walled edifice set in a wide oval shape and able to easily seat thousands at a time. Inside this space men and women died. Sometimes painfully. Sometimes quickly. But nevertheless constantly. And when someone died inside the Arena’s walls, it was never a death that anyone could foresee for them, unless one was a select member of the audience.

It was here that Hudson was taken. Not to die, no, but to live, as a gladiator, fighting in the macabre games of death to please the audience and win the favor of the Arena’s masters. But whoever had purchased Hudson and his “brood” would not see their investment go to waste. Hudson and the others were to be trained, or rather bred, from an early age to learn how to fight or else learn how to die. First came lessons in silence, long nights alone in a cell; then lessons in pain, first by the staff, then by the spear, and then by the sword; only to be followed by more lessons in pain, others’ pain … others’ blood. Hudson took it all in comparable stride, never overeager, but never dull nor slow of wit. Soon—years later in fact—time would come for him to be tested and value assigned his name.

At age 7, Hudson would meet the cunning and sadistic “Sleetbomb.” This first meeting would prove to the arenamasters which gladiator candidates would be able to hold their bodily functions in check while merely in the presence of the many-scarred and foul-smelling champion, and which would be fed to the ogre for their incontinence. Small wonder Sleetbomb enjoyed himself. By age 11, Hudson had “met” Sleetbomb again (though never actually seen him), this time to engage in a game of cat-and-mouse wherein the youngsters were herded into a pitch-black cavern and instructed to reach the exit on the far side, all while avoiding Sleetbomb who stalked the middle ground. Oft times other participants would push an unsuspecting victim out ahead of them in the dark, willing to sacrifice another to Sleetbomb and ensure their own safety. They would play this game many times over the ensuing months, a game which Hudson grew to become quite adept at, his large size forcing other participants to select smaller victims instead as the sacrifice. Then, 10 years after their first meeting, Hudson would meet Sleetbomb for the last time. It was during this final meeting, wherein the gladiators-to-be were instructed to stand their ground and receive open hand blows from Sleetbomb until none more could be taken, that Hudson took for himself his gladiator surname, “Three Blows.” In truth, it was an unostentatious title, together matching Hudson’s love for the sport, which was minimal to say the least. For as it was measured, “one blow” was a truly dismal grade, and two only a step above that, with three being “average,” and four, or in the rare case five blows, being the pinnacle of gladiator stardom.

And so Hudson’s career as a gladiator began. There were many a group fights, and savage fights, and one-on-one fights (usually to determine a criminal’s guilt or innocence), even water fights (through which Hudson learned how to swim), but none of it thrilled him. It was a job to him. A lazy pastime, really. Nothing special. The cuts and bruises healed like any other, and more often than not gladiators who were most highly regarded (the “Five Blows” variety) participated in the most gruesome matches. The average gladiators, like Hudson, simply held their own, some because that was all they could do, and others, like Hudson perhaps, because they knew better.

Years lapsed like the wheels of cart hoeing a row in the same old road, again and again. And it was not long after Hudson’s twenty-fifth year that he found himself carted off in a caged wagon, not unlike a load of livestock, ready for market. He was going south to Westgate and to new fighting grounds where his northern-honed skills would fetch a greater price (or so his masters hoped, lest they decide to throw him and others the arenamasters had grown tired with “to the dogs” in a final high price match to the death). It seemed Hudson “Three Blows’” abiding ways had come back to bite him. But it was not to be.

As the slave wagons turned east past the Standing Stone to delve into the trade lands of Sembia, a great clamor went up as raiders sacked the caravan. At first, an errant arrow or two knocked into the wood frame of Hudson’s cage, then a frantic melee of shadows erupted around him, during which a stranger approached and bashed the lock of his cage. Why the stranger had done so—either to warrant Hudson’s help in the brewing fight, or else out of the kindness of his heart—is unknown, but what is known is that Hudson took the opportunity given him. Not long having pondered what he would do in the face of freedom, Hudson ran, leaving the combatants to their fate and retreating to the Standing Stone. From there three choices confronted him. One, go back down the road behind him, joining the fight or else fleeing around it. Two, go north, back to Hillsfar and the only world he’d ever known. Or three, turn west and away from it all. The choice was simple.

The first night alone, Hudson thought he had chosen wrong, sleeping on twigs in the cold with nothing to protect him. But, as the days wore on, he slowly grew to discover that this time alone was not unlike the years he had spent growing up in the Arena, surrounded as he had been by his “brothers and sisters.” Eating crops from farmers’ fields, begging on the roads, and getting into scrapes with local brigands he met along the way occupied his days. He even found an old rusty greatsword (not unlike the color of his full beard) among discarded tools in a fallen shed he passed that first ride out. The few ruffians he slew with its edge were the only human kills Hudson never felt sorry for (ironically, he took these unfortunate men as “roustabouts” whom he thought had been sent to recapture him). After while, Hudson began to catch the eye of interested locals who were wary of his impressive size and would employ him to simply sit or stand outside their establishment as a deterrent to would-be miscreants. He didn’t mind.

Other adventures proceeded thereafter. A mage sponsored hunt for a dragon’s tooth; rolling boulders down on the heads of giantkin; and scrambling on hands and knees inside the tunnel-ridden burrows of kobold holds. He even once sailed across the vastness of the Dragonmere and single-handedly defeated a flesh golem in the home of a “nefarious” wizard. But none of these things removed the memories of the Arena and his first life as a gladiator. So far had he come from those times, and yet still Hudson of Hillsfar he remained, not wanting to go back, but not able to forget.

Recently, in his adopted home of Arabel again, he’s begun to hear stories of mysterious kidnappings: babies and children gone missing without a trace. Though he does not see himself as a charity worker, deep down Hudson knows these things are wrong and would see them ended if he could. (Unknown to him is that his mother and The Raggedy Man still live to this day. His mother, Matlin, is in her 70s now, having bore Hudson, her only son, late in life during her early forties; his father, Dharnel, died of heartstop while in desperate search for Hudson shortly after he went missing. Hudson’s father had served with Azoun IV during several rides to quell the frontier in the Stonelands. As for The Raggedy Man, his whereabouts are always changing, and his methods and aims have not wavered from those he used decades ago.)