Role

Chapter 4

Rubbing his beardless chin, Sekpak wandered through the village that he
had made his home. The war had taken a toll on his body and he had scars
where you could not even imagine. Yet his mind, his mind simmered like a
burning fire. Each magi he killed brought no release to his rage. On the
contrary it fuelled him and drove him to fight harder, fight stronger and
to fight with the unbridled fury of his past. The ghosts of his men walk
in his shadow, haunting him with whispering voices and curses of betrayal
that keeps him from restful slumber.

Rubbing a hand along his sharpened blades, he paused to reflect on a path
that brought him to the pinnacle of his guild and he dared to wonder of a
world that awaited him in the future. Friends were few and far between as
he grew, he found solace only in the company of others who bonded over a
hatred for the magic that defiled Thera. He trained hard with his blades
and when the time came, he selected the use of flails and whips to join a
polished set of sabres that found their homes in sheathes strapped behind
his back.

And how he delighted in those flails. He chuckled gruffly to himself and
recalled the fleeting terror in his enemies eyes as he lashed out with
these marvellous creatures and entwined them to the prison of his rage. A
first row seat to his performance, he would sing his warsong and loose an
insatiable rage upon them. His blood would boil and these actions of his
worship ignited him. He found himself wishing that these glimpses of an
unearthly euphoria would last forever but as the fatigue of battle slowly
seeped into his bones the aftermath of bloodshed brought only the images
of his men to his eyes.

He would avenge them, no matter what the cost. Just as he would continue
to defend his new clan. NO MATTER WHAT THE COST! Sekpak still dwells in a
realm of his own anger and rage.