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"Boy!" The shouts of the young, shaven-scalp Mulan man (too young to be father to any child, in fact) echoed through the shop, a faint hint of a whiskey slur in the voice. As many times before, the mop-headed, fair-haired child appeared, obsequiously, in the frame of the back-room door. "Come, boy..." said the Mulan, giving a beckoning gesture and almost too hastily, the boy darted forward. "Yes-suh?" He never saw the back-handed slap that bloodied his lips and turned his head. "Stop speaking like an urchin! I won't have it! Do you hear me, boy!?"
A deep rage arose within the boy, such unlike he had ever experienced. When his mother took up with Sezer, everything had been perfect. For the first time in his life, he had a family. No longer had he and his mother panhandled and defrauded for their necessary pittance. Life had become a dream, for he had a loving mother and an able father (although his father was scarcely old enough to be his older brother), and his father was even teaching him an honest trade: coiffeury.
Almost a year ago, his mother had taken ill and died, leaving him the ward of an abusive, melancholy alcoholic. Such insults and pain he had suffered, and for what? To be the personal whipping boy of some whelp who felt that the world owed him something? In that very moment, with that strike, the Sezer had sealed his own fate. Rocking back from the force of the blow, the boy snapped a punch with all of his weight behind it. His fist struck Sezer square in the gut and the breath left him, followed by that day's meal, some whiskey, and bile.
The boy seized one of Sezer's retractable straight razors and flicked it open with a quick, practiced stroke. "My name," the boy said softly, "is Deacon." He wrapped a small arm about eye and temple length of Sezer's head. "Not boy! My name is Deacon!" He drug the precisely-hewn blade across Sezer's throat with such force that the blade nearly decapitated him.
Nine years later...
"That was the day," Deacon said to himself, "it must've been." "What are you goin' on about, Deac?" Seren's soft, feminine voice rang out. Well, actually, it hadn't rang out, but because Deacon was lost in thought, it seemed to. The tanned man with the clean-shaven scalp looked to his gang.
Seren Windsong was like his right hand. A multi-talented lady with a gift for gab, she was adept at making contact with the right people to ensure the details of each job were correct.
His other three compatriots were Hezka One-Tusk, a vicious, but loyal half-orc brute, Morathos Davaar, a rather unscrupulous human sorceror, and Hamamoto Nobinaka, Shou so-called "martial artist." Truth be told, they were not much of a gang...but they were hungry. Each of them was willing to walk through all Nine Hells barefoot to acquire that which they wanted, either seperately or in concert.
Deacon remembered the day it all fell apart...
The plan had gone perfectly. A flawless execution. They had stopped a small caravan by lodging a fallen tree in their path that would need to be circumvented if they were to continue. Morathos has enspelled several of the guards riding along the caravan to fall into a deep slumber, and Hezka and Nobinaka had easily surmounted the others. Arrogantly, Deacon and Seren had marched the merchants from their wagons while Nobinaka and Hezka searched within.
"Fahnd it!" Hezka shouted with excitement. He exited the middle wagon with a medium-sized chest that seemed hefty. Deacon went to work on the lock and, seemingly in no time at all, the mechanism clicked and, with Seren still watching the merchants, the four men gathered around the chest to find..."A rock?" Nobinaka was incensed. "We pulled off this robbery for a rock!?" His dread glare went to Seren, who had set this whole thing up.
"I thought we agreed no more of these specialty jobs. It seems like the people who hire us always try to kill us upon delivery." Deacon stated, calmly. "We've managed to survive, each time." Seren said, defensively. "Dun'n't matter..." said Hezka, "we still dahn't get paid." Morathos clicked his tongue, studying the rock. "I sense no palpable energies. This rock is useless to me, or any other mage."
Deacon closed the chest. "C'mon...let's get moving." He glared at the merchants. "Any of you start thinkin' heroic thoughts, I want you to think back on how easily we overcame you in the first place." With that said, they left for the small cave they had been using for a hide-out. Upon arriving at the cave, Nobinaka took Deacon aside. "If you don't do something about that bitch and her whimsies, I will." he said, straight-forwardly. "You tryin' to be the boss, now, Nobi?" Deacon stared him down. Nobinaka stared back before quietly acquiescing.
As soon as Deacon and Nobi had rejoined the group, Seren started in. "Deacon, I'm sorry...I mean--" In the space of those words, Deacon had quietly drawn a kukri. As she spoke the word "mean," Deacon gave a back-handed slash and opened-up both her jaws even with her lips. It made her look like she had a very elongated smile. The suddenness and brutality of the act caught the other three by surprise and even Morathos was forced to raise an eyebrow at this.
Seren began to issue a blood-curdling scream and Deacon looked to Nobinaka. "Sew her up..." he said, coldly, "and make sure she has the scars to remind her." Deacon left the company of the others for some privacy, in which he proceeded to vomit, disgusted by his own casual cruelty.
Six years later...
The fiend stood, ensnared by some mystical force beyond his comprehension. "Releassssse me..." it beckoned. There were others gathered at that farm by the Crossroads in Sundren. A sacrifice of two children were brought before the make-shift altar and the damned creature, there before. A dissenting voice arose, which Deacon was all-too-eager to silence...something about this situation fascinated him and he wanted to see how it played out. Just then, more dissension.
Two children stood before the fiend, and as the fighting continued, a white-haired lady spilled the blood of one. The fiend demanded the other die, and since no one else stood to the task, Deacon approached the child. The little boy reminded him a lot of himself when he was young. As he looked upon the child, resentment and self-loathing for allowing himself to be abused all those years arose within Deacon. With a quick swipe of his kukri, he also spilt the blood of an innocent.
With that, the fiend was unleashed, and he gifted Deacon with something before returning to whatever hellish plane he came from.
A few days later...
Deacon woke from a nightmare, sweat-soaking the sheets of the Inn's bed. He breathed heavily, staring into the darkness, where he thought he could see the shadows reaching for him, but retreating upon his awareness. "Lord Mask..." he said, softly, beseeching his God to favor him with some respite. After relieving himself and taking a draught from one of his wine-skins, Deacon crawled back beneath the chill, sweat-stained sheets and drifted into a dreamless torpor.
A deep rage arose within the boy, such unlike he had ever experienced. When his mother took up with Sezer, everything had been perfect. For the first time in his life, he had a family. No longer had he and his mother panhandled and defrauded for their necessary pittance. Life had become a dream, for he had a loving mother and an able father (although his father was scarcely old enough to be his older brother), and his father was even teaching him an honest trade: coiffeury.
Almost a year ago, his mother had taken ill and died, leaving him the ward of an abusive, melancholy alcoholic. Such insults and pain he had suffered, and for what? To be the personal whipping boy of some whelp who felt that the world owed him something? In that very moment, with that strike, the Sezer had sealed his own fate. Rocking back from the force of the blow, the boy snapped a punch with all of his weight behind it. His fist struck Sezer square in the gut and the breath left him, followed by that day's meal, some whiskey, and bile.
The boy seized one of Sezer's retractable straight razors and flicked it open with a quick, practiced stroke. "My name," the boy said softly, "is Deacon." He wrapped a small arm about eye and temple length of Sezer's head. "Not boy! My name is Deacon!" He drug the precisely-hewn blade across Sezer's throat with such force that the blade nearly decapitated him.
Nine years later...
"That was the day," Deacon said to himself, "it must've been." "What are you goin' on about, Deac?" Seren's soft, feminine voice rang out. Well, actually, it hadn't rang out, but because Deacon was lost in thought, it seemed to. The tanned man with the clean-shaven scalp looked to his gang.
Seren Windsong was like his right hand. A multi-talented lady with a gift for gab, she was adept at making contact with the right people to ensure the details of each job were correct.
His other three compatriots were Hezka One-Tusk, a vicious, but loyal half-orc brute, Morathos Davaar, a rather unscrupulous human sorceror, and Hamamoto Nobinaka, Shou so-called "martial artist." Truth be told, they were not much of a gang...but they were hungry. Each of them was willing to walk through all Nine Hells barefoot to acquire that which they wanted, either seperately or in concert.
Deacon remembered the day it all fell apart...
The plan had gone perfectly. A flawless execution. They had stopped a small caravan by lodging a fallen tree in their path that would need to be circumvented if they were to continue. Morathos has enspelled several of the guards riding along the caravan to fall into a deep slumber, and Hezka and Nobinaka had easily surmounted the others. Arrogantly, Deacon and Seren had marched the merchants from their wagons while Nobinaka and Hezka searched within.
"Fahnd it!" Hezka shouted with excitement. He exited the middle wagon with a medium-sized chest that seemed hefty. Deacon went to work on the lock and, seemingly in no time at all, the mechanism clicked and, with Seren still watching the merchants, the four men gathered around the chest to find..."A rock?" Nobinaka was incensed. "We pulled off this robbery for a rock!?" His dread glare went to Seren, who had set this whole thing up.
"I thought we agreed no more of these specialty jobs. It seems like the people who hire us always try to kill us upon delivery." Deacon stated, calmly. "We've managed to survive, each time." Seren said, defensively. "Dun'n't matter..." said Hezka, "we still dahn't get paid." Morathos clicked his tongue, studying the rock. "I sense no palpable energies. This rock is useless to me, or any other mage."
Deacon closed the chest. "C'mon...let's get moving." He glared at the merchants. "Any of you start thinkin' heroic thoughts, I want you to think back on how easily we overcame you in the first place." With that said, they left for the small cave they had been using for a hide-out. Upon arriving at the cave, Nobinaka took Deacon aside. "If you don't do something about that bitch and her whimsies, I will." he said, straight-forwardly. "You tryin' to be the boss, now, Nobi?" Deacon stared him down. Nobinaka stared back before quietly acquiescing.
As soon as Deacon and Nobi had rejoined the group, Seren started in. "Deacon, I'm sorry...I mean--" In the space of those words, Deacon had quietly drawn a kukri. As she spoke the word "mean," Deacon gave a back-handed slash and opened-up both her jaws even with her lips. It made her look like she had a very elongated smile. The suddenness and brutality of the act caught the other three by surprise and even Morathos was forced to raise an eyebrow at this.
Seren began to issue a blood-curdling scream and Deacon looked to Nobinaka. "Sew her up..." he said, coldly, "and make sure she has the scars to remind her." Deacon left the company of the others for some privacy, in which he proceeded to vomit, disgusted by his own casual cruelty.
Six years later...
The fiend stood, ensnared by some mystical force beyond his comprehension. "Releassssse me..." it beckoned. There were others gathered at that farm by the Crossroads in Sundren. A sacrifice of two children were brought before the make-shift altar and the damned creature, there before. A dissenting voice arose, which Deacon was all-too-eager to silence...something about this situation fascinated him and he wanted to see how it played out. Just then, more dissension.
Two children stood before the fiend, and as the fighting continued, a white-haired lady spilled the blood of one. The fiend demanded the other die, and since no one else stood to the task, Deacon approached the child. The little boy reminded him a lot of himself when he was young. As he looked upon the child, resentment and self-loathing for allowing himself to be abused all those years arose within Deacon. With a quick swipe of his kukri, he also spilt the blood of an innocent.
With that, the fiend was unleashed, and he gifted Deacon with something before returning to whatever hellish plane he came from.
A few days later...
Deacon woke from a nightmare, sweat-soaking the sheets of the Inn's bed. He breathed heavily, staring into the darkness, where he thought he could see the shadows reaching for him, but retreating upon his awareness. "Lord Mask..." he said, softly, beseeching his God to favor him with some respite. After relieving himself and taking a draught from one of his wine-skins, Deacon crawled back beneath the chill, sweat-stained sheets and drifted into a dreamless torpor.
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