Talon

Talon
Name: Talon
Email: Belalshallshatterthewitchtower@gmail.com
Age: 33
Description: medium height, medium build, green eyes; dark blonde hair.
Birth place/place of raising: pretty sure that isn’t important *now.*
History:
What is in a name, for I have known many: deciever, monster, murderer; traitor. My mother called me son; my father called me unloved. To what is my allegiance owed: the names my mother gave me while tending my bruises; the names my “father” gave me while inflicting them; the name gifted to me at nascence, or the one I gifted myself? I am more than a name, but less than a man. I am a tool. One of many. I am bird of prey. I am scavenger of the dead. Ever will my talons scar the eyes of the light.
I travel back to my first, each detail clean and beautiful. The one act of righteousness I will ever claim as my own. Perhaps when I stand before the creator, the weight of my black heart will find balance from it. To consign my soul once more into the light . . . such heresy. I will do what must be done, from the first, so until the last. To have slain my father, my most commendable service in the eyes of his dark grace. The one part of myself that will never be his. My father’s blood; its warmth; its texture: no one will share in that moment. It is mine.
I remember her, through whom my faith was first confirmed. Her presence. Her will. Her [I]power.[/I] Capricious; lethal. I remember the sensations of her rewards; I remember the agonies of her displeasure. I served her well. Even as her unique taste began to erode my purchase on sanity. I stepped through the threshold a man. Her dark coven returned me as something else. Clothed in darkness; armed with secrets. I followed her with blind zeal, my faith fueling me beyond the limitations of mere mortality. Through me the Great Lord touched the world. I was blessed.
For each way to live there is a way to die: endless possibilities; explosive passion; premeditated, calculated; vulgar; bizarre; loud; silent. I have manufactured scenes of them all, to cast blame, to inspire fear, and to make men disappear. With every deed I felt closer to the Great Lord. With every act I began to question she who called herself my master: she whose madness marred her worship, she who would scupper her loyal and her sworn.
As I destroyed those who opposed my lord, I felt more than alive, I felt communion. As my faith deepened and matured, I experienced disquiet. Her hunger for glory had superseded the will of my lord, and he was no longer with me. A death for her became a death for me. Little by little my humanity receded, in its place stood emptiness. In its place stood nothing.
False worship and hedonism would not be the cause of my downfall; the ruination of all I could offer. I believed myself to be worth more. If epicurean vice was the totality of what it meant to walk the dark . . . if my thoughts spoke betrayal to my lord I would fail, this I had to believe. What was left for me then, but to desert? No choice I could accept and I devised my own execution, using that language of deceit taught to me by those I would attempt to fool. I waited–and still I wait–for my ploy to be unearthed, and for former allies to rise with terminal forethought.
I went in search of verity, that deepest of truths; truth anterior. What I found was a man with a garrot–Aventari. I was offered no lord. I was offered no higher calling. I was offered the breath in my lungs and the blood in my veins. I was offered survival. The scar upon my flesh reminds me of that choice. I knew “of” his guild, at times working alongside them, but never was I brought within the circle and never did I wish it. I was something else, a separate entity. For once my profession served me, with no divine conscience to absorb my guilt, no delusions of right and wrong. It was exhilerating. Under Aventari’s guidance my fetters corroded, I felt a . . . change. I felt [I] free.[I/]
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