MacLear: Home
MacLear: Vanguard
MacLear: Vanguard

"The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong... but time and chance happen to them all."

Clan MacLear is a roleplay guild, essentially. We began on September 30th, 1997, as Hand of Virtue in a game called Ultima Online with the greeting, "Mi faultich thu co sàor neach !"

If you're interested in an online family of mature gamers, consider joining us via the link below.

Join Clan MacLear

Author: Nosferum; Nov 1998

(This was written around November of 1998, before I even played EQ. It was written to flesh out my character's past. Instead of giving any details, I only gave what my character knew up to the point, chronologically, that EQ went live. The rest of the details he would learn throughout my gaming. The details are not specific to EQ, so as I play Nosferum from game to game, this portion of his history is always retained.


I breathe. I listen to myself breathe for an hour or more. My expiration, tedious as it is, becomes my only entertainment as, drained and confused, I remain lying; attempting to gather my thoughts. Several minutes pass and I cannot even think how to spell my own name. Frustration builds, then crests, as my inability to hold a string of thought evades me. I hear myself sigh, bringing a smirk to my face. I soon notice that I cannot see. By the heat on my face and the dew in my ears I estimate it is morning. I do not hear any birds, though; only the wind.

Light. My eyes open and I begin to recognize the warm, bright hue before me. I can focus on an over-passing cloud, even. Within a few minutes I can move my hand, and soon my arms. I make the most of this opportunity to probe around to feel that I am lying on thick grass, lightly sprinkled in what feels like sand. There appears to be some sort of shell covering my arms, legs, and my torso. Soon, I can roll on my side and then sit up. I can see.

I rest on the slope of a large field, nestled between two wooded groves. It's like an old trail, now overgrown; but all is not natural. The grit I thought was sand looks more white, less stony. It blankets a very large portion of the field-- perhaps eighty rods in each direction-- sparse in some places, lightly piled in others. It covers even me. "Me"... there's an odd thought, and worrisome. I can't seem to recall who "I" am. I must be dazed; it will pass.

I gather clues; piece evidence together. The "shell" turns out to be carboulli-bronze plates wrapped in hardened leather. I appear to be dressed in it; waist to toe, and on my arms. Rather noticeable, though; I appear lack chest protection; but... ah! There. Beneath me, and strewn about me, I find small remnants of the chest plate, burnt and twisted. Where it once rested I can feel my bare chest, sunken and very bruised. Pain! It shoots through me as I try to trace the contours of my belly. With a grimace, I work to find my balance as I gather the will to stand.

Lesson number one: Patience supercedes curiosity. I, of course, crumble and fall on my side and, again, face the sky. In due time-perhaps an hour-I regain my stamina and sit up to more thoroughly investigate my situation. I have been in an accident or a fight, most likely. I fumble about my person, searching for any helpful clues as to where I am-- landmarks. Well, most likely, there is a road or city in either of two directions with this grassy path. I resolve to stand and walk. Realizing that I may do well to not lose the momentum-if I do stand-whatever I might do while sitting I should do now. I collect a sufficient sample of this gritty, white firmament, but I have no pouch to hold it. I fold down my gnarled boot to roll up my pant leg. I deposit the grit into the fold and roll the pant leg up, over my knee, to secure it. I see my bare skin. I am pale, very pale. To ensure I am not over-encumbered I cast off the carboulli that covers my legs. Ah! Much better. I steadily lift onto one knee then, with a shift, onto both feet. My weakness multiplies as my weight bears down on me.

What happened to me?

Surely I am not so foolish to have strayed far from a road. I must have been attacked, then dragged here and left for dead. I debate for some time which direction to go. Also, I use this time to muster the strength I will need to walk upright. I had not anticipated to become so winded by simply standing. I can barely move my head. I even toy with the notion I am actually dead and animated by some madman I cannot see. Well, I need food and drink more than I need humor, so I lean to the right and stumble on.

Here is where my memory fades out again. I remember not finding and road or people. I recall nearly kicking myself--, despite my current state-- for not going left, but I hadn't the strength to turn back now. Also, I have no concept of direction. All the trees look the same. I do notice I am seeing animals now; something the valley noticeably lacked. Hours turn to days and I fear my own ignorance has doomed me. I take up eating bugs; mainly the locust. A few days of beetles and the unfortunate incident with an inviting purple berry incite me to move on. As I wander I cannot concentrate enough to build a fire without misplacing the twigs. If I can't think soon, I will surely die. My hair appears to be white and stringy. I know this because I've been pulling it out for days. It falls out easily, so it must be alright.

Settling. Some time, within a week or two of awakening, I build a lean-to of local foliage. Avoiding all colorful berries I reduce my diet to any bug slow enough for my fumbling grasp. Red ants, by the way, are not a good idea for dining. I retrain my gait now. I walk smoother and more deliberate, but still I lack strength. I learn more patience than agility at this rate. By now my head holds only a few wispy locks of whitened hair.

Companionship. At some point-and I don't know when-I meet up with another person, similar to me, but much shorter and far faster. He talks occasionally, the vast majority of which I don't understand. We communicate through motions and grunts-it is through this that I learn he, too, is versed in patience. Initially, I ask if he recognizes me, or if he has seen any roads near here, but my words come out sideways. In only a day more I am already thinking better; even asking him if he wishes to share in my insect diet. He declines. He sounds different from me; a dialect fills his words, but there is a common language. He asks my name.

I had not thought about it for weeks, but I still don't know. In fact, I don't know anything. I can't remember who I was. I can't even recall my mother's face. He tells me his name, but I quickly forget it. Curse my wiry brain!

Months pass and the little man stays with me. He teaches me to walk better, teaches me to speak more clearly, and shows me the wonders of eating fish. I stop eating locust. I still cannot run, though; nor can I lift enough weight to gather wood for the evening fires. He does not mind, though. He teaches me to defend myself with my hands since I can't bear much weight for weaponry. He moves smoothly; with grace and conviction, without sacrificing force.

Just as I was beginning to gather my mind and my body to retrain them I lose the little man. To shorten a long story, I flee my shelter, one dusk, from an Animated Corpse, lose my way back and never see my friend again. I fear he may fall victim to the walking dead. Distraught, I wander for days until I happen upon a hamlet of Humans. I am found.

Over the next three years I learn nothing of who I am, why I was lost, or where my friend is. I find no relatives-- no one to claim me. The Human kingdoms are vast, but no one recognizes me. I was not a peasant, I am sure. The peasantry don't adorn the sort of armor I was wearing when I first woke. I do, however, identify the white dust I carried on my person so many months. The alchemists tell me it is bone; rather, ground bone. They hypothesize fantastic tales of Skeletal warriors who leave behind bone fragments similar to this, but not as fine in grit. Was I attacked by one of these skeletal brigades? Why was I the only one left?

I do not fit in well with Human culture. I frequent villages and hamlets, but prefer the woodlands. I now have full grasp of my faculties and speak almost as well as the lofty Erudite. More importantly, I discover a capacity I never imagined. I am blessed by a benevolent power. She is well favored among many Humans and Her teachings may well piece together my broken mind. She teaches us that we must prepare ourselves. I must remain pure if I am to become Her vessel. She empowers my form and enforces my resolve. Sans weapon, I take up no impurity to ensure a proper mind, soul and body, for I am Her temple. I am, however, incomplete. She teaches us we must strive for wholeness if we wish to bask in Her light. I rise to meet this task. I feel the thunder gathering even now.

© Chris Chandler 2006.