Post by robbiemiller on Jun 24, 2006 14:04:19 GMT -8
This is a Fan-Fiction
Prologue
Redin Outmir killed the last theif, ignoring his plea for mercy. He'd grown accustomed to the pathetic wails, the promises for power, and the claims of wives and children. He'd killed for so long that it was like a ghastly orchestreal piece, in which the sound of the halberd singing as it cut through air and flesh alike was a prelude, the terrified screeches of his victims was a suite, and the dying gasp, the finale. He played death with gruesome effeciency, ignoring it's threats to come one day to claim him. Killing had become more than an instinct, more than a second nature.It had become a need. It was an unsatisfiable lust to kill. It was slowly taking away his sanity, stroke by stroke, bit by bit, untill it consumed him.
It terrified him.
Despite all this, he couldn't bear to kill meaninglessly. Maybe it was the small amount of sanity he had left that was fighting a losing battle against a oncoming wave of corruption. Maybe it was because killing indiscriminately didn't have as much thrill. Whatever it was, it was what caused him to be a mercenary. When he was enlisted, he killed at a moment's notice. When he wasn't, would-be avengers sacrificed themselves on his blades, it was an equilibrium.
There were times, however, when neither situation would present itself, and he felt himself slipping into madness. It was times like that when he would take it upon himself to slay those that would foolishly block his path, unleashing an almost otherworldly fury on his hapless victims, holding nothing back. Sometimes he would lose himself completely, seeing a group of theiving foxes one minute, then seeing all of them completely dismembered, his halberd glinting crimson in the sun's glare.
He constantly found himself thinking back to when it had revolted him to see vast amounts of blood and parts of the inside of the body. It was a time when all the pain and strife in the world had been set upon him in a second, crushing his perspective on life, brutally cutting short the sheltered life that he had lived, and thrusting him into an unfamiliar world where the cruel outnumbered the merciful. He had grown up cruel himself to survive, seeing the merciful as weak, stupid animals who were bound for a short life. He was determined to survive all the pain he had felt, overcome it and weild it himself, never knowing why, never really caring.
And so he became. He learned quickly that one would have to be stronger than one's antagonist to survive, as well as a reliable blade. Nothing he weilded felt right in his paws, so he made his own weapon. At first it was a branch that had split from a large oak. He shaped it into a staff, not a deadly weapon, not yet at least. He recived his idea for his weapon when, concluding a battle, Redin found a discarded Scytheblade embedded in a tree. He attached it to his staff and swung it a few times. It fit perfectly.
He cut short his reminiscence bitterly. He hated thinking of the past, of it's truths that he could not bear. He sagged slightly. He was weak of hunger, he realized. He was lucky enough to have found these bandits at all, otherise he would have starved. He foraged what food he could, devouring it hungrily. He came to a loaf of bread that was half-soaked in blood. He had to force himself to not eat it, for he naturally relished the taste of blood, and after a mere taste he would end up lusting for more.
Prologue
Redin Outmir killed the last theif, ignoring his plea for mercy. He'd grown accustomed to the pathetic wails, the promises for power, and the claims of wives and children. He'd killed for so long that it was like a ghastly orchestreal piece, in which the sound of the halberd singing as it cut through air and flesh alike was a prelude, the terrified screeches of his victims was a suite, and the dying gasp, the finale. He played death with gruesome effeciency, ignoring it's threats to come one day to claim him. Killing had become more than an instinct, more than a second nature.It had become a need. It was an unsatisfiable lust to kill. It was slowly taking away his sanity, stroke by stroke, bit by bit, untill it consumed him.
It terrified him.
Despite all this, he couldn't bear to kill meaninglessly. Maybe it was the small amount of sanity he had left that was fighting a losing battle against a oncoming wave of corruption. Maybe it was because killing indiscriminately didn't have as much thrill. Whatever it was, it was what caused him to be a mercenary. When he was enlisted, he killed at a moment's notice. When he wasn't, would-be avengers sacrificed themselves on his blades, it was an equilibrium.
There were times, however, when neither situation would present itself, and he felt himself slipping into madness. It was times like that when he would take it upon himself to slay those that would foolishly block his path, unleashing an almost otherworldly fury on his hapless victims, holding nothing back. Sometimes he would lose himself completely, seeing a group of theiving foxes one minute, then seeing all of them completely dismembered, his halberd glinting crimson in the sun's glare.
He constantly found himself thinking back to when it had revolted him to see vast amounts of blood and parts of the inside of the body. It was a time when all the pain and strife in the world had been set upon him in a second, crushing his perspective on life, brutally cutting short the sheltered life that he had lived, and thrusting him into an unfamiliar world where the cruel outnumbered the merciful. He had grown up cruel himself to survive, seeing the merciful as weak, stupid animals who were bound for a short life. He was determined to survive all the pain he had felt, overcome it and weild it himself, never knowing why, never really caring.
And so he became. He learned quickly that one would have to be stronger than one's antagonist to survive, as well as a reliable blade. Nothing he weilded felt right in his paws, so he made his own weapon. At first it was a branch that had split from a large oak. He shaped it into a staff, not a deadly weapon, not yet at least. He recived his idea for his weapon when, concluding a battle, Redin found a discarded Scytheblade embedded in a tree. He attached it to his staff and swung it a few times. It fit perfectly.
He cut short his reminiscence bitterly. He hated thinking of the past, of it's truths that he could not bear. He sagged slightly. He was weak of hunger, he realized. He was lucky enough to have found these bandits at all, otherise he would have starved. He foraged what food he could, devouring it hungrily. He came to a loaf of bread that was half-soaked in blood. He had to force himself to not eat it, for he naturally relished the taste of blood, and after a mere taste he would end up lusting for more.