The Shattered Saviour

In a land of valiant deeds and noble knights, There once dwelt a hero, shining bright, But envy and fear twisted their sight, And he was betrayed, cast into the night.

Tortured and sentenced for crimes he did not commit, His heart turned to rage, his mind filled with wit, He sought revenge on those who caused his fall, A former hero now stood tall.

Through mountains and valleys he roamed, Seeking justice for the wrongs he bemoaned, With a heart blackened by the deeds of man, He vowed to make them understand.

The world that once hailed him as their own, Now trembled at the sight of his scorn, For a hero betrayed is a dangerous foe, And he reaped vengeance wherever he would go.

But in the end, his heart still yearned, For the light he had once so fervently spurned, And as the world lay broken at his feet, He realized revenge was bitter sweet.

Did they realize the gift they had? Had they grown too accustomed to it, not realizing the magic about them?

There'd never been a chance for them to experience a place such as the so called Darkmoon Faire; a place of seemingly perpetual night yet aglow with sights, sounds and delights for all of their senses. Much of their life was spent within dark dungeons torturing poor souls that ran afoul of what they eventually realized were corrupt 'holy' men, or in the blood caked fields of battle terrorizing the backline of an enemy force. There was no time for revelry or bemused wonders of simple joys; just the cold hard truths force fed from a crooked tongue.

Hood of their long coat pulled over their alabaster mask, they gently walked amongst the masses of placated masses, watching the joy and merriment rushing from their bodies to their faces. The Being watched them, in something less than hate but not quite pure disgust, at how this place caused these fools to forget about their pain and woes, the cruelties their lives hoisted upon them day in and out.

Jealousy...

Perhaps that was the word for it. The Being's life was forced into a world of darkness dressed in 'holy light' while these forsaken fools were allowed the joy and beauty of forgetting, for even a time, in a place that held wonders around every corner. Their leather gloves gently squeaked as the grip tightened, a secondary entity's rage seeping into the already tumultuous emotions roiling beneath the skin.

A sudden tap upon their shoulder pulled the alabaster masked being from their current moment, forcing their eyes upon the creature that pulled them from their darkened thoughts. " Here ye' go, looks like ye' could use something to drink an' eat t' get into the spirit of the Faire!" A smiling troll handed the masked individual a frothing mug of some kind of ale and what looked like some kind of meat tube held between a bread roll split in two before offering a bow and turning back toward a crowd of overjoyed children.

Hesitation in a visceral reaction came from the Being before turning away to find a darkened corner to slip free their mask to sample the offered gifts.

"Ϛմçհ ժҽӀìցհէʂ ąɾҽ աąʂէҽժ օղ մʂ" ,whispered a voice from within the Being as the last bits of joys were devoured into ash within their mouth.

Perturbator - Lustful Sacraments

(( Song here))

Stalking the halls of disfigured holiness, drenched in the excess of greedy priests and their lustful designs only strengthened a resolve that needed no justification. Righteous men succumbing to base desires turned toward corrupting innocence, youth, in the name of the "Light's Plan". There were no gods here, no divine purpose that ordained its wishes to be followed thusly nor messenger from on high belaying doctrine in efforts to save the lowly parishioners souls.

This chapel of lust had become a mockery to the effigies laid bare upon the walls… And it was now time to offer up a sacrifice.

"A Necessary End" = Saltillo

Death comes as it will, in its time and in its perfection.

Death's claim upon their life was ripped away, torn asunder a thousand times over, yet it's curse still crept deep within their veins. With every end that came from their hands, a shred of satiety was offered to thirsting gods that sought the spirit of them that got away. Each death was necessary, each kill was an end that bought time for yet another to be found and vulgar justice enacted upon them within this ouroboros they found themselves in.

Cowards die many more times before their death.

Justice...

What is justice; it means something different to different people. To the rich, some would say justice is when a peasant gets his hands cleaved from his arms for taking a few rotten seeds of wheat to keep his family fed. A poor village would say justice comes in the form of the bandits that attack them incessantly being slaughtered, or dangling from the gallows near the center plaza. Justice is often given to the greedy or to the masses to distract them from their pain.

Justice doesn't offer solace to one such as we, doesn't replace the memories or pain flayed within the skin. Death begets death, pain begets pain; there is only one thing we wish to make any of them do.

"Sᑘᖴᖴᘿᖇ.."

" That would offend me if that was my intention; fear can be a useful tool but ultimately, one cannot trust someone that's full of fear. If I flense the flesh from your fingers, the pain will loosen your tongue but how can I trust what you say?"

Slowly they spun the knife around their hand, the dexterous nature appearing more of a dance between leather and steel clad lovers. The metal rang softly with every flip and turn, the melody gently flowing to fill the space.

" A fine shot, kid; with a little more training, you could take an orc out at a hundred yards."

The days spent learning the bow was an exciting thing for them, to hear words of praise spoken from the Quartermaster was always a highlight of the month. To feel the tension of the string and have it enact with precision their will wished, it was perhaps the only joy they had during these times. " I'm promise I'll keep up with my training, Master; I'll be good as you soon if I keep at it!"

A swift hand smacked the young child's face, stifling the whisper of a voice before the same hand forced the child's chin toward him. " You'll need to be better than me! You'll never survive this world with being satisfied with good enough! Knock your bows and fire again!"

Even with being struck, these exercises were more a peaceful time than when they returned to the brick building they called an Orphanage. That's what they called it, Orphanage; it was more akin to a military school for children that had nowhere else to go and that had no one that would miss them. Hard tack and onion soup for meals; stagnant water for thirst and ritual beatings alongside the proselytizing hymns of " Light fearing" men.