A Tale of Valtameri's Past

My mother died as they pulled me screaming from her womb. All I had to know of her was the blood coating my skin, and that was washed away moments afterwards. Though I had a father, he was at sea more than he was home. And if not there, he'd be at the Preening Parrot drowning his thirst in ale or at the Captain's Booty satisfying other carnal hungers. And though he presumed to follow the God of Good, Austinian, he never set foot in a temple all the years I knew him. I suppose he left the praying to me, though I doubt he was conscious enough to notice my regular travels to Nadrik's shrine. Regardless, none of my prayers seemed to improve my situation. Haven was a hard city for a small child, especially a girl, and I soon learned that there was nothing to gain from depending on others.

I took a job on the ships as soon as I was able and used them as a refuge from what was called my home. I left on a small trading ship and was gone three months and twelve days. When I returned to Haven, I found my father swimming in his cups in the Preening Parrot, so far gone he hadn't even realized I'd left. Two days later I left again, obtaining work on a somewhat larger vessel. I continued like this for some time, talking any work I could to get me away from the land I was born on. When I turned fifteen I took a permanent position on a merchant schooner and left Haven behind. I have not spoken with the man who spawned me since I was twelve and with all hopes he has died or found some harsher punishment by now. I lived the next five years of my life on the decks of ships and quickly became known as a Corsair.

My second year on ship, the Captain discovered I had a knack for writing. I was quickly installed as the ship's correspondent, writing ledgers, forms, anything needed and more. Stacks and piles of parchment and leather-bound volumes covered my diminutive room, the mess taking up more of the room than the combination of myself and my personal belongings. Soon, my composing skills paired with my sailing prowess brought me up to ranking with the Captain himself, at least to the crew and any one else with whom we dealt. The Captain either knew nothing of the unofficial rank I had been bestowed, or simply choose to ignore it.

A year after achieving the aforementioned position, I met the man who would change my life forever. The ship had put into Icewall's Port to make a delivery to Nordmaar. The Captain, being as alcohol-adoring as any seaman, decided the crew could do with some well deserved land-time and, of course, some time to delve into the local taverns and alehouses. The second day in port, I acquired a mount and traveled south to the nearby Temple of Nadrik. Throughout my life, I had made it a ritual of sorts to regularly pay my respects to the God I had sworn to. I now look back and wonder at my steadfast dedication. Perhaps it was merely a physical attempt to set a meaning to my life. A steady pier in the twisting winds of my existence. Regardless, it matters not. They were meaningless words to a meaningless God.

That day, as I knelt whispering my prayers, another entered the temple. In the still candlelight, their footsteps echoed through the tiled chamber. I raised my head, glancing to my left to find the origin of the noise. My eyes revealed one other follower. He was tall enough to cause me to mark it. His solid shoulders stretched the width of his polished platemail, the only mar to his brilliant armor the thick length of deeply auburn hair plaited to his hips. Feeling my gaze on him, he turned, his pale jade eyes cutting into mine. I could only stare back at him, the prayers on my lips dissolving in the face of his presence. He smirked and strode over to where I sat, his boot heels snapping loudly on the floor tiles. He stood over me huddled in my pew, my hands clasped firmly between my knees. Settling his grip loosely on the pommel of his sword, he allowed his tear shaped eyes to survey me up and down, the creamy gaze seeming to slice through the leather of my garments.

"Greetings," he murmured, the deep tones echoing against the polished walls and through my thrumming skull.

His name was Sato Sakamora, a Knight of the Rose. We spent that night together and many more over the next two years. He was a man devoted to his God, and declared that he would follow Nadrik's will with all his being. He solidified my faith and gave me a true reason to believe. He made my dedication to Nadrik justified. The time we spent together taught me many things, and yet, as I know now, depraved me of even more. I took what I learned and have not looked back. Howeverour separation was the origin of my devotion to my Lord. Therefore, I shall skip over the banal days and carnal nights to the final chapter of our relationship.

My ship had returned to Icewall on an early spring afternoon. I knew Sato would be there and we had already agreed to meet that evening at a tavern. Then fate decided to step in, pulling a few strings and delaying our docking and the report of our goods and cargo. The sun had been set for houre by the time I managed to depart for the city and it was past the mid of night when I finally arrived. I rode through the streets, hurried if not rushing, and silently cursed who or whatever had caused the obscene delay. My brisk pace shortened the trip to the Black Rose. As I arrived before the inn, a trickle of citizens moved steadily, if somewhat crookedly, away, some still chest-deep in their pints. I paid them no attention and quickly dismounted, tossing the reins and a coin to a stable boy who looked more surprised than he should have. But my mind was on the man awaiting me and I took no notice of his sickened expression.

I entered the inn forcibly enough to cause the heavy oak door to crash on the wall, startling the four people inside. My first thought was to the empty state of the room. A tavern of the Black Rose's repute would never be this bare in Nordmaar. My second was that three of the four men were of the Knighthood, men I recognized as companions of Sato. The fourth was the innkeeper himself, bound to a chair and gagged, blood coating his face and the flesh of his arms. It was then that the stench of burning flesh hit me and I realized one of the Knights held a blistering hot poker against the arch of Master O'Toole's bare foot.

I stared in shock, unable to believe what I was seeing. The Knights did much the same, frozen in their spots and Master O'Toole whimpered through the gag, his tear-streaked eyes begging me to help.

The door to the kitchen burst open, the sharp crash breaking the spell. We all turned to watch Sato stride in, a full pint of ale clutched in his bloodstained fingers. The grin he wore was more suited to a fiend's visage than his angelic one. Seeing his companion's stricken faces, he turned and saw me. His grin widened and worms crawled under my skin.

"Valta!" he exclaimed cheerfully, "I had thought you wouldn't show tonight. Hard time on the dock?" he strode over to me, still standing paralyzed in disbelief. He reached out a hand to grasp my elbow, smearing blood against my skin. It was still warm. Finally, my rage ate away at my shock and as he leaned over to press a kiss to my cheek, I punched him in the face. However, it was a left-handed blow that did little more than knock him back from me and spill his ale.

He just laughed. "Feisty tonight, aren't we?"

"What are you doing!?!" I screamed, ripping my voice from where ever it had been hiding.

Sato arched a brow, chuckling slightly. I could hear a few hesitant laughs from his companions. "The fool decided we'd had enough pints...We decided we hadn't. Come on, Valta, it's not as if we've never done such before, never knocked some..." he paused, licking a trail of ale and blood from his hand, "...Sense into a moron or two." More laughter followed.

I seethed, every muscle in my body clenching. How could they do this? Such noble men, follows of Nadrik. They had once sworn to protect this man and his inn. Perhaps it had been an off-hand jest, yet true followers, as they had played at being, would still honor it. And they stood here, torturing this innocent man as if it was nothing. Sato had strengthened my faith, had made me see some good in the Light of the world. And he stood, spitting on everything our God stood for.

Sato turned and moved over to where Master O'Toole sat. The man who had been scorching the Master's foot had tossed the poker back into the flames, leaving a blistering mark on the innkeeper's foot, seeping with blood and something clearer. My stomach heaved at the sight as Sato gently retrieved the poker and examined it.

"How..." I stammered, "how can you, any of you, do this!?! You are followers of Nadrik! How can you...You betray everything He stands for!!"

Sato chuckled, the malicious sound rising my anger and incredulity to a pitch I can't even recall. "If Nadrik is so against what I do, why hasn't he stopped me?"

With a smirk, he turned and thrust the sparking poker into Master O'Toole's chest, straight through his heart. The innkeeper blinked, his mouth chewing vainly at his gag as blood blossomed on his stark white apron. His head slowly tilted back to thump against the chair, his eyes seeing nothing as they started blankly to the ceiling.

Sato raised a hand to his ear, as if listening for some response. "See, darling," he stated. "Not a sound."

I screamed. Rage, hurt, sorrow, and other loathsome human emotions there are no names for clouded my eyes. I am not sure what occurred next, but I knew my first mistake: I had paid no attention to the three other men in the room and had no mind as to where they were. My second mistake was taking on four Knights with nothing but my rage and a knife, albeit a large one. It was my worst choice, but the only thing I could fathom attempting.

By the time they dragged me into the dark alley behind the tavern, I already had a broken arm, three broken ribs, more cuts and gauges than I care to remember, and a dislocated shoulder. (DI could only see through one eye and can only assume they had burst a vessel in the other. They continued to beat me, but it was almost halfheartedly for I had stopped trying to retaliate and merely lay there, limp as they continued to pound the blood from my body. Perhaps I seemed dead, but I held onto some consciousness. I lay there, doing what I know I had done since my assault began: praying to Nadrik. Praying and praying and praying and hearing nothing in return but the pounding of my blood in my ears.

They left me some time later, hidden by the darkness of the alley. The loss of blood if not my injuries would surely have killed me and they left them to do their work. And, as I lingered, feeling my blood and life seep through my skin, I realized the truth of the Light. It is a gilded chalice, filled to the brim with a wreathing mass of false hopes, deceit, lies, and betrayal.

And, there, laying in His saving darkness, my Lord Necrucifer found me. I did not know Him then, but I felt his breath on my brow and understood. He pressed His hand to my temple and hence the mark of my Lord appeared: a thick strip of ebony hair bleached to a white whose purity could rival snow.

With only a slight increase of bloodflow, I sat up and stumbled to my feet. I know it was only His power embracing me that gave me this strength. I stayed to His shadows and stole through the darkened city, seeking those who had dared to lay hands on one who would be His servant. I found them some time later, I don't know how long it had been, but from their drunken giggling, it was enough for them to be drowning in their cups. They were camped just outside the city, hidden amongst the thick trees. I moved silently into their camp, a macabre wraith draped in blood and unfelt pain. I slit one man's throat before he realized I was there. The others followed quickly, dropping in a spray of blood till only Sato remained. He was a coward at the end, crawling from me on his knees, begging for forgiveness as tears and spittle stalked down his face.

"Nadrik!!" he screamed, over and over again seeking some savior from beyond who would never answer his call.

I smirked, pressing the knife to his skin. "He does not listen..." I whispered and pushed the blade home.

I believe I passed out then for the next thing I remember was waking in Necrucifer's temple, being tended by His priests. I know not how I got there and have never questioned it. Soon after, I abandoned my surname, taking the one word that reverberated through my mind as my own: Turael, the name of an angel who saw the truth and left the Light behind. I remained in the temple until I was fully healed and departed, knowing my path. I have never returned to the sea but for travel and have lived my life on the back of a horse since.

I still feel His presence within me; feel His voice in the depths of my mind. I have never questioned Him, never asked for more than His blessing and the ability to serve Him. For I know, that when I entered that temple, my eyes were a pale blue, my skin a deep tan, and my back bare of any wings.