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A man of the cloth.
Or so he so dreamt.
He was born of the unholy fornication of priest and whore. While he had holy blood, his mother (whom he had never met) prevented him from ever joining the church he so lovingly praised.
Up until the age of ten he was abused by the local pig breeder, the only family he grew up around. His adoptive father was a fat, loathsome drunkard who saw women as more a luxury rather than a partner and he would witness a new whore every night he came from the sty. His mother, a large built harridan of a woman, accepted her husbands disgusting ways so long as her own children were fed.
He had five sisters and eight little brothers. All suffered equally at the hands of their father, be it a shoe upside the head for speaking too loudly, or a 'misplaced' hand when they were washing, their mother having no interest in their suffering. They had no friends, no toys, nothing to call their own but the skin on their back and their sibling beside them.
By the age of 15 Heinsfell had grown resentful of seeing his own father harassing his older sisters, hearing their cries for the last 14 years had turned him into something of a violent child. And by the age of 16, he had finally snapped. Leading the man out into the pig sty, he had picked up the blade he had had to use all his life to slit the poor animals throats. He put this practice to use on his father. The first fast strike cleaving his belly apart, steaming organs poured out into the hay as the man stood screaming. The second swipe cleanly removed his head, silencing the man instantly.
For the murder of his own father, he was thrown in prison for ten years of his already introlerable life. Inside, he met many good men, and many who would use him as lover while he was too young and weak to defend himself. When he finally reached manhood at the age of 20, he had become a deeply silent and disturbing individual. He had killed five prisoners by his own hand by the end of his ten years, his eyes having seen many horrendous sights within that foul place. His physique was heavy, having spent his spare hours toning his body to better fend off any who saw him as their next skin ticket. His broad jaw and crooked nose telling of many fights within the cages he was pushed between. A deep scar sat over his left eye from a fight with a guard, having had a shield swung upwards into his face.
The day he left that place he swore to never kill again, though he was often tested when witnessing the frequent cowardly male strike a woman, his years of thought having brought him to the conclusion that women are the truely pure ones of this world.
At the age of 26 he had joined the kings army, the only place he could find a place in life after his time in prison. He favoured swords and axes on the battlefield, but stayed true to his oath, he only ever disarmed those who had to combat him and he gained a reputation as an angel on the field. His ways with his fellow man were astounding, being able to bring such hope to any without so much as a whisper in the ear.
The ways of war were not for him however, everytime he saw a man die, he could feel the pain of the family and the agony of the blade as his own. His skills in war hadn't gone unnoticed however, and his pure ways had gained the attention of the church. He was quickly inducted into a small group of priests, going through purity ceremonies to allow his bloodlines to be forgiven by the Father.
And upon completion of his induction, he was accepted into a group of witch hunters who scoured the lands of plague.
Nocturnal parasite · Sat Jun 13, 2009 @ 09:09pm · 0 Comments |
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