a sniveling child begging for scraps of food at the dinner table. you were the youngest son of many sons, all much older than you. you were an accident so claimed your father. your father was a tawdry, crude man who had delusions of grandeur. he sent your brothers off to die, and so too would come your time. your mother, as sickly as any mother in the brume, was passive, her days spent staring listlessly out the ash stained window in your small, run-down home.
you, too, had your own dreams. aye, you would join the temple knights but not because your father would dictate it. nay, 'twas out of a deep desire for more. if you were to attain knighthood, you would be able to provide a better life for your empty mother.
so you worked your way up from squire, to banneret, to at last knight. you worked hard and diligently, and you allowed yourself to be driven as a mule might be.
YOUR TALE BEGINS IN FIRE.
at last, you were given your first company, your first true assignment was to kill a fierce dravanian general. and just as the battle begun, you failed. your company was burned to naught but ash, and you the sole survivor. there was no tale of heroics, the corpse of the dragon skewered on icicles you only happened to lure it under.
at the tender age of three and twenty summers, you saw all as it was. the nobles sent you of the brume to die in their stead. you remember the tales of your youth, of dark knights coming to good halonic children and kidnapping them. you remember the bogeyman of the nobles.
and that is when it came to you.
YOUR TALE BEGINS IN DARKNESS. AND IT SHALL END IN DARKNESS.
in the depths of your soul you reach, and you find at last what you grasped for. you would return to ishgard, not a hero, but the bogeyman the nobles so feared.
and so time would pass, and you a lone dark knight in a world of injustice. the lower depths of ishgard are massive, and you found your purpose there.
but the years would weigh on you, and the depths of your soul and its emotion would take its toll. now, you are more dreaming than awake, and the hand of darkness leads you. memory is fleeting of these moments of violence, but so long as it served your own sense of justice, you cared not.
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