Redemption

[*Anderhail]

OOC Note: Vincent is trying to publish this in Sigil as proof that redemption is possible for anyone. Starts off with few copies to begin with that he wants to leave with Khazeet and the barkeep at Foul Ole Spirit.


Redemption

From the start I always knew my place. I grew up under the teachings of the three dark gods, Cyric, Nerull, and Hextor. My first victim was an assassin who slew one of our priests during the ceremony of the Broken Sun, disrupting it completely. He was fleeing from the guards and tripped. Rolling to avoid the blades of the nearest men, he bumped into the pew I was sitting in with my family. Skillful though he was, and child I may have been, fate guided me that day. In the end, a crushed throat is a crushed throat. I was 7. That was when everyone started telling me I had a destiny, a path in the eyes of the trio. They took me from my parents and sister. I was taught to lead, to conquer, and to kill.

As I grew older, I fought my way through life, and tore through the ranks. At 16 I was a lieutenant, given command of a small raiding party. By 19 I was a captain, leading border skirmishes. And at the age of 23 I was given the rank of major by Xarxitor, a chosen of Hextor, and my personal hero. In battle I fought to the death with all challengers, showing no mercy, giving no quarter, and expecting none in return. I led my men with an iron fist and a chilled heart. And I always won.

At age 25 I followed the rituals set down in the ancient scripts and became favored in the eyes of the trio. As a token of greatness, I was given armor forged in hellfire to resemble the demon champion of our sect. It fit like nothing else but skin could, no matter what I wore under it. It cut the need for sleep to near nothing, and completely removed the need for food or water. Only those of us favored by the gods could willingly remove it, or even use it properly. Finally, it had claws of great power. One hit killed most men, and those who survived sickened and died.

From then on, I refused mere weapons, honing my mind, armor, body and soul into the perfect killing machine. I became a terror on the field of battle, killing all in my path. My place at the sides of the gods was assured.

Then it happened. During a campaign against the southern kingdoms, my unit was ambushed by a group of fierce knights while raiding a string of villages along a major trade route. We were pushed back to a river, raging with the engorgement of spring storms. Our only escape was a narrow stone bridge, where only three could go side by side at a time. I yelled for my men to fall back, telling my lieutenant to regroup on the other side while I fought a rear guard action. His orders were to reorganize our scattered men then charge back across the bridge, so we could punch through to freedom. They fell back.

And I held. I fought as the demon I resembled, killing and maiming all who came in reach. The knights had not brought archers, and weren't worth a damn on foot. The bridge was too dangerous for horses, so charging me was like asking to take that man's life. My second successfully fell the men back, rallied, and began the charge across the bridge at the front. That was the last time anyone saw him alive as the enemy hit the bridge with the catapults, crumbling both ends at once and finally showing the true trap.

I found out later what I already knew. The fall, the stone of bridge and catapults, the rushing waters and finally the deadly weight of their armor spelled the destruction of my entire force. They were wiped clean to the last man, which was ironically me. We always kept an eye out in camp for invisible foes, but in the confusion of the ambush the idea of an invisible siege weapon never occurred to us. In despair I starting swinging wildly at all my opponents, who fought much better on foot then I originally assessed, trying to sell my life for the highest price possible. I might've bought my way to Hextor's side right there, but then she showed up.

She was a paladin, and the single most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. As her men fell back, she leapt from her horse, threw a salute of one leader to another, and then attacked. She fought with a grace and power I'd never encountered. She dodged and parried every blow with such ease it looked as if we'd rehearsed it. I was a dead man standing, and everyone knew it. I heard her shout out to her god, felt the sword connect and was smote into the darkness.

I awoke in a windowless cell, the only features being a set of bars for the final wall. I tried to stand, but was unable to the first time, being too sore from laying around in armor all day. I was unused to staying in my armor this long without at least taking the helmet off, but I dared not. If it took too long, at least I'd get used to sleeping in it. I had no idea then how right I'd be.

I tried breaking the bars, but they were enchanted, which I expected. I waited for a guard to bring me food or water, but none came. It seemed they knew about the properties of my armor. I waited for someone to come for my trial, torture or execution, but no one came. A trial I could argue, or mock my enemies. Torture I could defy. Execution I could take comfort in the fact I'm going to my gods and plan on trying to take more of them with me then were already going. After a week of complete isolation, I realized exactly what they had in store for me.

I prayed every day, for comfort of my mind and soul. They kept me sane, but day by day, they lost a little conviction every time, until I realized I would hear no reply. So I stopped. I tried exercising in full armor every day until I dropped. I got used to my armor, but that was it. I tried to shred the walls, floors, and even the ceiling, but again to no avail. Their enchanter knew what he was doing. I even tried squeezing through the bars in desperation.

One day I started screaming for someone, anyone, anything, SOMETHING, but all I did was tear the muscles of my throat to the point where breathing was a trial. Three days later, after my voice healed, I did it again and kept screaming even when I couldn't hear myself, at which point I was reduced to scrabbling around on the ground, along the walls, even trying to dig under the bars until pain dropped me into a tormented slumber. Finally, around the twentieth week, I broke down and started to cry curled up in a corner. In a burst of insanity, I tore my helmet off and let it fall to the floor. It was as I laid there, my life sustaining enchantments broken without the helmet, waiting for the end, waiting to die, that she walked into view.

She did not have a triumphant look on her face. She did not gloat, smile, curse me, or even say a word. She did nothing, just looked at my helmet until I put it on. Then she turned and walked away. Even though she had captured me, was a mortal enemy, and had cost me everything, I screamed for her to come back, begged her to return and started to weep with joy when she turned around. She came and sat on the ground outside my cell, out of arm's reach, though I wouldn't have done anything had I even thought of it.

She told me that I could finally feel the effects my crimes had on others, could feel a fraction of the pain an orphan feels when she sees her parents killed in front of her. She told me I could finally understand what it felt to truly suffer. She talked to me like a parent to a wayward child, though I was older by far. She asked if I knew what wrongs I had committed, why they WERE wrong, and why I had done so. She asked me why I am what I am.

I looked into her eyes and realized that nothing I could honestly say would sway her. So I remained silent, unable to justify that which, until now, needed no justification. She seemed to understand my turmoil, so she talked to me. She told me legends from a perspective I'd never heard before. She spoke of surrounding lands. Sometimes she would sing soft, sad dirges to the fallen. Every day she came to my cell, and talked to me for hours.

All through this time she never spoke her name. A whole year and more had passed since my capture. And then, at age 27, the army of the trio stormed the castle. As I sat there that day, somewhere in the dark, a wizard died, and I watched as his enchantments died with him. I tore free of my prison and ran through the halls. By luck or fate, I happened to find an exit without running into anyone. I emerged in a courtyard, where, though it was crowded, all was silent save the sound of a duel.

There, in the center of the yard, my captor battled with Xarxitor. In a horribly ironic twist of fate, under the eyes of the combined armies, she was outmatched, and everyone sensed her doom approaching. She was going to die. Even as her weapons did more damage to me and my ilk, so too did Xarxitor's to her. Even worse for her was the armor he wore muted the blessings of her god. Finally, unlike her or myself, he never tired, and her army was pushed to the walls, too weak and demoralized to help.

As her shield and arm both crumbled under his mace I realized that I wanted to know her name. As her sword slipped from numbed fingers, I realized I wanted to know more than that. And as his mace swung down for one final, skull crushing blow, I realized that I was already under it. The powerful blows that had shattered her shield, and broke her arm merely left a bruise on me, for we were the same. And on some deeper level of instinct, I knew what to do. As I spun toward him my hands snatched the recently dropped sword.

The handle burned my hand upon grasping it, and the pain worsened every second I held it, but I held it long enough. Xarxitor looked into my eyes as I whipped the sword around, a sense of shock, comprehension, and a hint of fear in his own. I screamed as the magic of our armors and her sword all met in one telling strike. Xarxitor didn't scream. He didn't have a chance, as the blade passed through his neck as if it were merely air. As his head fell from his shoulders, and his body crumpled to the ground, the burning stopped, and I dropped the blade.

But everything has a price. That day I paid in full. A scream was torn from my throat as the worst pain to ever torment me ripped through my nerves, my whole body left an unceasing hell storm of torture as the dark trio vented their wrath upon me. I screamed even louder as my armor sealed itself to me, irremovable except by the willing hand of a chosen of all three gods. After a stretch of time that felt immeasurably long by mortal standards, the pain faded, but I felt a gnawing weakness, as a part of my essence, my very being, was siphoned away by this dark armor.

By this time the battle had rejoined and ended with a bloody victory as Xarxitors's troops lost all will to fight, and were beaten back easily. As I lay there, unable to stand, barely able to twitch, I felt eyes on me. She was there, arm in a sling, only a foot away, the closest she'd ever been. And for the first time in the year I had known her, she smiled at me, and said,
"Hi. I'm Kara. What's your name?"
My fall from power, the cursed armor, the lingering pain and weakness that would never leave all faded into insignificance as I replied.
"Vincent. It's my pleasure to meet you."

(OOC: There may be a bit of retconning in previous rp to accomodate this. I designed Vincent off this backstory, but getting the gear in game took a bit longer and was a necessary step in playing him properly)