In the shadowy corner of a dimly lit, dirty hovel, cowers the small frame
of a peculiar child. His body shakes dramatically, but not as a result of
the cold draft blowing through the ramshackle house. A sudden crash
resounds through the night as a not-too-distant door is kicked open,
followed closely by the bellowing voice a drunk man. The small child
tenses, his fear climaxing, as he prepares himself physically, mentally and
emotionally for what he knows will come next.
The mornings first light creeps in through the hut and amongst the
glittering motes of dust the child begins to stir. Battered and bruised
he slowly wakes from the sleep he had cried himself into the night
before. He notices blood dried and crusted across his face. He
stumbles outside and washes up, nursing only slightly the many
wounds he has sustained, it has become all but routine for the small
boy.
An Enemy
Raised voices echo across the still night, 'Get away from me old man!'
You shut your mouth boy! You dirty elf!
Youre the one that slept with her! I didnt choose this!
Its your fault she didnt keep ya! Not even them pointy eard bastards
want you!
Tears slowly slide down the boys face, and in his moment of weakness,
his father raises his hand to strike. The fear of his childhood floods
through him and his only response is to cringe as the blow is struck.
Another follows it.
And another.
Drowning in his despair, overcome by hopelessness, numb even to
the pain of the blows he knows so well. His sanity has remained
intact this long only for the fact that he has given a name, a face, to
his torturer, not the man, not his father, but Evil.
Retaliation
In the shadowy corner of a dimly lit, dirty hovel, cowers the frame of a
young man. His body is tense, his senses alert, his eyes are closed and his
breathing is measured and controlled. He waits and listens for what he
knows will come. He hears the crunch of boots on snow outside the door, his
eyes snap open and his breathing stops. The wooden door creakes on old
hinges and the shadowy form of a worn man stumbles through the door.
Jumping from the shadows he strikes out and tackles the man. After a brief
wrestle the young man subdues his opponent. Silence reigns as they stare
into each other's eyes. The smell of alcohol flows from the older mans
mouth in noxious waves, and yet, his body relaxes, and his eyes soften as he
slowly nods his head in surrender and perhaps even acceptance. In a quick
and fluid motion the young man spins his preys right arm and a loud crack
resounds in his ears followed almost instantaneously by shrieks of pain.
The young man walks calmly and even confidently through the streets
and off into the night, determined to find, and defeat his true foe.
Evil.
Description:
A small man stands casually in the corner of the room, his posture portraying disregard and indifference. Midnight black hair covers his head and sticks about in a haphazard fashion. His skin is ever so slightly pale and unnaturally creamy. Big almond eyes look out under long curling eyelashes. His frame is lithe and devoid of any defining characteristics. He looks much the same as any other misguided youth.
Assassinate isn't reliable, stick around for more than eight deaths and figure out how to kill. Throw is probably the most valuable underutilized mechanic of the game.
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