Tall and lean, almost unhealthily so, Xerxes possesses a sharp, almost distinguished sort of gauntness about him. This lankiness, born of a preference for sweets absolutely devoid of any nutritional value, a relatively time-consuming occupation, and a lack of interest in food altogether, means Xerxes doesn’t cut much of a figure at all, much less one of an imposing nature. He emanates this unnerving, almost repellent sort of aura - the cheerful sort of defiance that only a hardened criminal or an absolute maniac might bear.

Lean, sharp angles mold the pale canvas of his face, carving out prominent cheekbones and emphasizing his smile. Thin lips usually rest in a cheerful, yet oddly unnerving grin, or wide, unnaturally peppy smile, soured only by the condescending gleam lighting up his eyes. A long, slightly downward-sloping nose partitions his face evenly. He’s got a striking sort of face, unusual enough to be almost attractive - certainly enough to warrant a second look. Stubble darkens his jaw and chin, adding a wild, somewhat roguish facet to his overall aura.

Down-turned, slightly droopy eyes give him a whimsical, casual sort of look. This, paired with his ever-present grin, ought to make him seem warm and friendly, but oddly enough, not a single laugh line marks his face. His eyes themselves are silver and sharp - much like the rest of him - and carry an odd, almost bitter hardness, though only occasionally.

His dark, perpetually tousled wavy hair curves to a stop just past his shoulders, falling diagonally across his face to partially obscure his left eye. The side-swept fringe flips out slightly at the ends, messy in a deliberate, almost artful sort of way.

His voice is a lilting, cheerful sing-song, often condescending and mocking and all kinds of patronizing.

Eternally smiling, be it his typical condescending, unsettling grin, a scathing, derisive sneer, or a mutinous, dangerous smirk, Xerxes's wreathed himself in an air of his own truly baffling whimsy. Working tirelessly to shroud himself in enigma - not for any contrived, cliched desire to be "mysterious", mind you; he just enjoys seeing the stupid looks of consternation on people's faces - he imparts little more than the bare minimum on whatever allies he aligns himself with, yet does it in a way that makes it seem like it's their fault instead of his.

Surprisingly deceptive despite his mischievous, childlike demeanor, Xerxes can effortlessly blend into even the most unlikely crowd. He's well trained at employing some casual misdirection, be it throwing a stone or offering a few paltry words of incrimination. This lends well to his favorite pastime: popping out of nowhere to frighten the living daylights out of random passersby. There's something so delightfully comforting about their screams - a joy, really.

Incisive remarks or petty insults don't really bother him; he's always got that infuriating grin plastered across his face. Ever the prankster, he's quite fond of feigning a complacent sort of supremacy to push some buttons, usually addressing the person in question with, "my dear", to piss them off. He tends to talk down to others as if he's patronizing a wayward, unruly toddler. His speech patterns are a tad archaic, as well; his sentence structure and word choice are reminiscent of someone constantly surprised by the stupidity of mankind.

It's rare to spot Xerxes engaging in the mundane. Even sitting down has to be addressed in the most unorthodox, complicated manner possible. It's a massive waste of everyone's time, and he knows it. He despises boredom and reviles all things ordinary, because boredom leads to a wandering mind and a wandering mind leads to wallowing in regret, and he doesn't much like whining about things he knows he can't change.

Not all of Xerxes’ childish immaturity is an act, however. He's actually remarkably obstinate, foolish enough to believe he can shoulder every burden on his own and stubborn enough to do everything himself. His excuse is Mr. One-Man Show can't have a partner, or else he might actually have to give credit where credit is due, and that's just a sad, sad travesty. He'd hide an injury to avoid drawing attention, to avoid garnering sympathy, because he believes one who's committed the same heinous atrocities as he doesn't deserve the pleasure of a sincere smile. Mr. One-Man Show has got to keep up a good act, after all, right?

He tends to opt for the easy way out, heedless of the consequences, because he's already got a karmic list a mile long tailing him, so why not see how much of the universe's luck he can waste on his own, right? Besides, he's not quite certain he knows what sincerity is - he's seen it in action, so of course he's got to believe it exists, but he's yet to experience it himself. He fancies it’s something like believing in ghosts - futile, fruitless, and an absolute waste of time.

He's also quite wistful, even if it’s expressed in his own sardonic sort of way; he's currently attempting to atone for the aforementioned atrocities he’s committed, and if that means death, why, it's certainly welcome to join him on the ride. (Except not, because while he'd never openly admit it, the man who openly declares his longing for death has seen and caused quite enough of it to know to be terrified to die. Besides, what would a lazy, good-for-nothing slacker like him do with an eternity to himself? Certainly nothing productive, of course!)

Xerxes often refers to himself as a fool - even teasingly - in conversation. Also, he's quite insulting. For example, upon seeing someone he knows, he might remark, "Oh, why, it seems the circus is in town! What a revolting surprise!" He's a massive asshole. Just. God, he's so awful.

Athletic to say the least Ligeia's pleasingly muscular figure slopes from an unobtrusive bust into belled hips and a pair of plump, powerful thighs; aggressively feminine. Her chiseled form conjures to mind the warrior women of mural and myth more than the carefully cultivated beauty of Penumbra's waifish socialites, mired dually in as much threat as allure. When paired with her maverick demeanor it's nearly enough for one to overlook the jarring absence of either hand.

Her face flows in broad strokes; sly, sleepy eyes nestled beneath a bantam brow like flecks of sard. Full cheeks tapering into the sort of jaw you could really tee off on and a chin that was made to be upturned. Like a wax seal her small, scornful little smirk of a mouth pulls everything together, silently assuring the world of her superiority.

A tidy crop of dark curls survives the scalp revealing trim that mows its way down into a very utilitarian cross braid a stone's throw away from being a 'hawk'. In the end she's left with a prim, all-weather cut just full bodied enough to fit a few fingers through.

Her voice is pure audio sex, a soporific melody that could make good morning sound like an invitation to bed.

Ruthless to a fault Ligeia sees her wits and wiles as little more than ready tools to be added to her repertoire, the sort of woman that spreads her legs with all the compassion of a bear trap. Often with the same result. In her mind she is the better woman. The better hunter. Much of her life spent accruing the needed skills to keep this image free from contention and eradicating worthy rivals.

The aplomb with which she greets life's hardships is itself an exercise in self-indulgence, her vanity obliging her more than any actual mettle or content of character. A gourmand when it comes to worldly pleasures, she lives to be pampered, praised and adored as much as she aches to be feared and reviled. Loving nothing save herself the triumphs and tribulations of all others are met with either spite or indifference.

Enamored with the idea of molding her own heir Ligeia has proved a poor mother, adoptive or otherwise. Her long list of proteges all having met suspiciously grisly fates as they inevitably fell from their mentor's good graces.

Life assaulted the frail form pulled forth wet and wailing from its mother, another of Lord Siccar's bastard children; the fragile infant's fledgling senses groping for purchase as that first breath sputter's and fails. Like the tide drawn out before a tsunami that chilling sight flensed the once jubilant assemblage of color before the sudden crash of shouts and commotion flooded the bedchamber. In frantic delirium the mother whimpers hoarsely for her baby, hurried hands rushing to restrain her even as other work away the umbilical noosed around its throat. It's far too late for her, the leaden ache of a collapsed lung all that she will ever know; already cooling on the bedsheets.

"I'm sorry." the midwife began, silenced not by the mournful mother but instead the tiny sound that had usurped everyone's attention. Laughter. For in all the calamity the mistress had born twins and a giggling newborn girl now greeted them with toothless grin, still toying with the fleshy tether that had ensnared her sister.

A dark blot jeered at them from her belly.

------------------------ -

"Why doesn't mother tutor me?" queried Ligeia, knocked-knees dangling restlessly over the lip of her chair. The world-weary professor whom she liked to imagine must never have been a child leveling his tired gaze with her to eke out an impeccably dry response. "As we've discussed your mother remains infirmed."

"Oh." the spritely girl chirped, dog-earing the textbook pedestaled atop her writing desk before venturing to continue. "Is that why mother never visits?" This urged her teacher only to parrot himself, stating once more "As we've discussed your mother remains infirmed." irritation soaking into the terse reply. "Strange." remarked little Ligeia. "How so?" groused the scholar.

"Because when nobody thinks I'm listening they say it's since I killed my sister."

------------------------ -

"Really now, don't you fancy me anymore Cyril?" she teased, a gloved hand walking down her tomboyish frame to explore the small knick now inlaid upon her hip. "I thought it might persuade you to give up this foolishness. If Gais knew you were sparring, and with real swords no less--" her step-brother worriedly confided, as if expecting his sudden arrival. Ligeia snickered back at him and crossed swords, reaching down to roughly seize his most sensitive anatomy in a harsh hold that had him wincing "I hardly think that's the worst we keep from father." she'd put bluntly, sidling up against her older sibling and daring him to kiss her.

Like father like son it seemed. Both so eager to be led astray.

------------------------ -

"A duel?" scoffed Tristan to the sound of hearty applause, as incredulous to the prospect as his peers. "You said I could ask for anything, did you not? I want a duel." she'd remind, already having perfected that pouty little frown of hers. "And whom shall I be dueling M'lady? You have no other suitors of which I am aware." he'd so gloriously announce, the request having caused even her father and his court to stifle chuckles. Even so Ligeia wore an entirely different sort of smile as Cyril, as much a man as she was now a lady, pushed out from his chair. This was less a laughing matter, for of all Lord Siccar's children none were so renowned for their swordsmanship.

Murmurs yipped at his heels all the way, and as he came to stand before his prospective brother-in-law the rasp of metal leaving its scabbard hissed over the growing din of protest. None were so loud as that of Gais, their father; he'd been careful to silence the spread of rumor surrounding his least loved daughter--bastard or no she'd be of use, so long as word of that damnable mark never reached the right ears. It was only as the weapon passed from Cyril to Ligeia that the room breathed a sigh of relief and a few onlookers reprised their amused tittering.

"You'd best humor her, none are so willful as my dearest Ligeia." advised the Lord, with the caveat that any wounds would be sure to spoil the honeymoon. Barely sixteen no one expected her to do more than imitate what she'd seen of her brothers. She'd be disarmed with a showy display and they'd be wed, or so was the prevailing notion. She shed those preconceptions in the instant it took for her sword to dance through Tristan's silhouette.

------------------------ -

"Cognatic primogeniture" she'd crisply tut, it was an unusual toast to say the least, but her family had grown accustomed--if weary--of such antics in the year following her duel. "What of it?" her elder step-brother asked, arm laid lovingly across his wife Emilia. "Very much I should think, now that you've been blessed with child. Too starry eyed to notice the lovely banquet we've prepared?" that at least was something worth drinking to, and many did until Ligeia continued. "Do you think of me when you fuck her or the other way around?" she'd say so casually that the only response was a stunned 'what?' blurted by one of their many drunk uncles, she was unkind enough to repeated it for him.

Plates clattered onto the floor as the table erupted into a shouting match some forty voices strong, that one venomous barb having ignited decades of unaired grievances. It took a furious Gais to restore order, bellowing over his amassed and fractured bloodline. "You conniving, incestuous whore! I should have had the good sense to let you waste away with your mother. You've been nothing but a blight on my good name and venerable house. Out! Out I say! I disown you foul beast. I never wish to lay eyes upon you or that damnedable mark ever again!" Naught but dead silence existed in the wake of the abuse he had hurled, for he was a lord first and father second and spoke not merely words but commands.

"And you won't, father." she'd affirm, rising from her seat at the far end of the table and briskly striding to the door. "You died tragically, revenge for my slaying of Tristan. His father is known to be a vengeful man." she all but cooed, barring the exit. "Why. His men killed everyone here--it's a miracle I survived."

------------------------ -

Bleary eyes fell through the empty space each wrist now offered as a throbbing pain threatened to push her back into the void of unconsciousness. "Impressive. Might have worked if you'd just swallowed your pride and poisoned them." A gruff voice surmised, heaping something onto her chest, she didn't need to look down to know what it was. "Really have to hand it to you." quipped her abductor. Ligeia was too weak to reply.

"I hear your brother's on the mend--might not want to send him your well wishes just yet though, first words he could manage were 'drawn and quartered.' chuffed the unseen man. "But don't you fret, coin doesn't mean much where you're going." It was an impactful statement, had her tensing for a deathblow that didn't come. "Told you not to fret." the voice mocked, tussling her hair. "As it happens you did come into an inheritance today..." mused the hunter, peeling away his glove to display an all too familiar birthmark.

------------------------ -

Delicate, fragile, ethereal, all words that have been used to describe the girl. A wispy and pneumatic
state as if a strong gust of wind could easily scatter her into a million indistinct particles. A figure that does not draw eyes to it out of pity, fear or arousal. A ghostly visage that can melt into a crowd with ease. Men do not lust and womenfolk do not envy, a shadow lost in a world of shadows. What caused this can only be guessed upon was it geneticists, illness at birth, a lack of eating, a lack of caring? One can not be sure for certain.

A small and rounded face created out of pale skin akin to a doll. Wispy lips shaped like the petal of a rose are usually placed in a natural blank state; frowns, smiles and smirks do only rarely grace the face as if not to risk ruining a perfect balance that had taken place. Arched eyebrows hang above face giving her an expression of perpetual surprise and wonderment. A nose not much distinguishing in its features, not too big and not too small. In all it a face that is easily forgotten by those that witness it only as a passing fragment.

Large round eyes dominate the face, an appearance that only adds to the innocence, idealistic appearance that she always so easily portrays. The eyes themselves are portrayed as a pale blue like that of the sky on a clear day. They seem to almost radiate a certain understanding, looking into them you see the only sane person in a world slowly losing its mind. Warmth, comfort, understanding, and yet empty as the void, filled with a wrenching nostalgia of something long past. They are a canvas, anything anyone could want could be portrayed upon it.

Her hair is long and thin, tiny rivers of gold that shine in the moon's gentle gaze, causing it to float about her head like a halo. No matter how it is ruffled, brushed, attacked, it always ends up in the same neutral state falling gently below her shoulders.

To encapsulate this wispy ideal is a small and unassuming voice, a voice easily lost in the low roar of a crowd.

To be a frail thing made up of a single sliver of dark is to be born of fear. In a unforgiving city where nobody not parents, friends, strangers, or anyone cares about a small mote of dark. Where most social interactions were with people that hated her -like her parents- or people that wanted her stuff - every other person she met- there was no reason to really trust anybody. But fear is an old thing. Fear has been around since the first man looked up at the dark, but fear is what makes us strong. For there was only dark so we created the first flame.

To those that would want to take advantage of her unassuming figure would face this primal side. An innate and naturally strong survival instinct prevails in the end. To live as long as she did on the streets of Penumbra was no small feat. You learned to be observant and quick on your feet or you died. You knew the basics of reading a face and your questions were always tactful and placed with great care. To say the right words to the wrong people was a quick way to your death.

This observant nature comes off as odd at times. From her syntax to her implicit placement of emphases her sentences always have the air of a question. This confuses some who wonder if she is unsure of them or unsure of herself; her phrasing reminiscent of a thinly veiled interrogation with a confused interrogator. But the small presence of her own voice makes it an easily forgettable tangent of the self that only the keenly tuned would hear.

A general lack of desire to be the center of attention or to vocally lead a conversation leads her to be very much in a submissive standpoint. She will take most threats, insults and other comments thrown at her without barking back. In times of discussion and argument she can easily be silenced with the rising of a voice or a stern gaze as a frequently kicked dog knows when it is time to back off. Push the dog too far and it will bite back though and little creatures sometimes have dangerous bites.

Though some observe claim to see a different Caite. The first man afraid of the dark and striking away at anything that came close. A monster, something that could kill as easily as an ordinary man breaths. To talk of Caite about this is to receive a mumble about something or another that is easily swallowed up before you can make heads or tails of it.

Naboris Narrows was born to a lower middle class family consisting of a Franz Narrows and a Varvara Narrows. Naboris' father, Franz, was a gunsmith by trade while his mother, Varvara, was a housewife. Naboris was an only child, his mother having had several miscarriages before him. In truth, Naboris' conception and birth were surprising to the Mr. and Mrs. Narrows, who had resigned to their apparent fate of being childless and stopped trying long before. Naboris was both a welcomed surprising and source of great concern for the crestfallen couple, ever worried by the peculiar birthmark that haunted their only child's left shoulder blade. Anyone could see that the birthmark had a design to it, far too intentional and clear in form to be by coincidence. The Narrows kept infant Naboris away from others well into his adolescence, at which time he had grown so used to the seclusion and secrecy that he began to hide himself away from the world.

Naboris was taught his father's trade by default, as he was the only child. Long hours in the basement of his father's shop was the perfect solution to the problem of concealing a boy from the world. Naboris minded his isolation, as any young boy would, but did not push the matter. He had already grown accustomed to it, and by the age of nine had stumbled upon a second, more unnerving quirk. A quirk which he felt was a perversion of nature itself, if the consequence of merely having a queer mark upon his back was anything to judge by. Naboris, frightened of himself, said not a word to either parent hoping to bury his blight with forgetfulness. If he didn't think about it, if no one knew about it, the young Naboris thought that it might just disappear one day; perhaps taking the mark that had plagued his existence along with it. Naboris decided to dedicate himself heart and soul to his father's trade to that effect, hoping for a change.

As time passed and Naboris grew older, urgency to forget his abnormalities passed. It was no longer a continuous effort to ease his mind from the burden of being strange, Naboris just didn't concern himself with it anymore. He ,and his parents, now saw it as just a fact of life. No doubt Naboris' concealment of a deeper oddity helped, but it really didn't matter anymore. Naboris spent less time toiling away in the basement and more time working at the counter of the shop, even running errands on occasion in the evenings. At the same time, requests for unusual work on firearms began to come in from a small group of clients. While the men, and one women, never entered the shop together, or even hinted at being affiliated, Naboris and Franz noticed that their initial orders all came in during the span of a week. All custom work, either bizarre designs that seemed impractical for use by a normal person, or modifications to preexisting firearms that seemed entirely unnecessary. Once the requests for unconventional firearms stopped, the requests for repair work and general maintenance piled up. Franz Narrows became concerned over his new, small flock of customers. They paid a premium, for which Franz never turned down a request, but he couldn't think of how these people where getting so much use out of such odd, sometimes entirely impractical firearms. Meanwhile, Varvara Narrows began to fret over the rising rate of murder and disappearances in their part of town. Franz did ponder aloud to Naboris to whether or not there was a connection between the rise of worrisome events and the new clients strange requests, but quickly silenced himself and told Naboris not to utter a word of it to his mother.

It was a hot, summer afternoon that Naboris' secret was discovered. Fraz and Varvara told Naboris that they were running an errand together, though he was certain it was a date. Business had been slow that day, and so Naboris retreated to the basement to work on another odd order. The heat of the day mixed with the heat of his work, and so Naboris took off his shirt to help keep cool. Naboris was unconcerned with keeping watch over the shop as he could hear anyone enter through the thin floor boards. Naboris was wiping the sweat from his brow when he heard a man utter a long "Uhhh..." from behind him. Naboris stiffened up and froze like a thief caught red handed. Naboris slowly turned around, surprised that he had not heard the man enter the store and descend down the stairs to the basement. "Y-yes?", Naboris asked, too nervous to question the man as to why he felt so inclined as to trespass into the basement. "Is this the shop of a Mr. Franz Narrows?", asked the man. "Yes", Naboris responded, "But he is out for the day. I am his son, Naboris. I can handle any business you may have". Naboris felt cornered in the basement, a room which once served as a fortress of solitude. As the man began to speak Naboris began to take in his appearance. Something was... "Off" about him. Uncanny, even. "So, he won't be back then, a pity... May I ask you something, boy?" The man said as he took a step closer. Naboris had not realized just how imposing the stranger's height was until he took that step, but now his was looming in. "How did you get such a strange mark down your back?". Naboris blinked for a moment, "Uhh, it was a brand. Requested by a client. My father heated it to mark the stock of a rifle with, but I was not paying attention and backed into it as he pulled it from the furnace. Left a nasty burn -as you can see.". The man seemed to think to himself for a moment, then his face lit up and his demeanor changed. "Fair enough! I'll return on the morrow, Mr. Narrows should be back by then, right?" He did not wait for an answer as he turned around and began to climb the stairs. As he ascended the final step he called down to Naboris "I'll see you again, boy!", and left the store. Naboris begin to sweat doubly in anxiety as he put his shirt on and returned to the counter upstairs, unsure of what to do.

It was early in the night when the Mr. and Mrs. returned home. Naboris had just finished closing shop when, and his father asked him if there had been any costumers. Naboris told him of the only one, the uncanny man who let himself into the basement. Franz asked if he was one of the clients with odd requests, but Naboris reaffirmed that he did not seem like one of them and said that the man would return tomorrow. Naboris decided to leave out the bit about the man seeing his back, thinking that his poor lie may have worked. The family of three returned to their living quarters up stairs, ate dinner, then retired to their respective rooms. Naboris fell asleep quite easily, putting his mind to rest with the thought that the strange man might not return at all.

Naboris awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of a loud bang. He sat still in his bed for moment, thinking that the sound was a burglar in the shop down stairs. His father had much same thought and began yelling as he descended the stairs. Naboris jumped up and rushed to his door as he heard the deafening roar of gunfire from below and the screaming of his father in agony. Naboris opened his door and peered into the darkness of the unlit stairwell leading down into the shop below. All he could hear was a soft crunching sound, like that of a dog gnawing on a bone. Naboris found himself in a cold sweat as he attempted to call out into the darkness. He opened his mouth, but words would not come out. The silent gnawing of the night was broken by Naboris' mother crying his name as she stumbled of her room shivering in fear. The sound from below ceased as Varvara stepped on a creaky floor board. Naboris could not see past the thick veil of black below, but felt something starring back at him intently. Varvara latched onto Naboris' shoulder and peered down the stairs with a whimper, "F-Franz?" she beckoned meekly. As if on cue, something emerged from the darkness so quickly that it looked like a white blur. Naboris tried to push his mother back but was thrown back into his room by the impact of the unknown attacker. Naboris heard Varvara scream in terror for only a moment before she was silenced with the visceral sound of flesh being torn. Naboris propped himself up against his bad as he looked out through his doorway. Nothing. For perhaps a minute, there was nothing. No movement, visual or audible. Just then, blood seeped down the hallway and into his room. With it were the sounds of heavy feet pattering in on the damp floor. The creature peaked its head in through the door first, the rest of it's body following. It was a head taller than a man, skin hairless and pale, splashed with blood and other bodily matter. It's head and face looked like something between a man and rat, it's body was muscular but seemingly malnourished, with skin pulled so tight that it was nearly translucent and looked as though it might rip with every moment. As the horrid beast loomed closer, Naboris peered into it's eyes and recognized it immediately. It was the man from earlier today! He was now disfigured and morphed into something nightmarish monstrosity, but Naboris was certain.

The monster opened it's mouth slightly, and spoke through it's maws with a harsh, guttural sound "Youuu. Youuu, cooome to me, boy". Naboris inhaled deeply but felt strangled nontheless. He stood up and immediately dash over his bed for the window. It was a two story drop, but anything was more feasible than surviving this beast head on. Naboris' fingertips did not so much as touch the window pane before he was pinned down on his stomach by the monster. It ripped at his shirt leaving a nasty wound on his right side. Naboris struggled futilely as the beast's maw neared the back of his neck. Then, suddenly, the beast was on his back no more. Naboris felt it hit the ground with a thud, and turned around to see it dragged to the center of his room by a shining, metalic rope and was wrapped around it's neck. At first one man, then another, and finally a women rose up from the darkness of of the stairway leading into the shop. The women shot the struggling beast in the head with a blunderbuss, only seeming to anger it was small traces of blood splattered from the top of it's skull. "Its tougher than expected", she complained as she drew a long, thin blade of some kind and began stabbing it. One of the men joined in on butchering the beast with a saw like weapon, while the last man restrained it with the metal rope which Naboris could now see was some kind of whip. In moments the beast was practically drawn and quartered right there in his room. Naboris found breathing hard as he went into shock, slumping over his bed with his back the trio. "The Narrows boy, he he is marked", said the women. Naboris peered over his shoulder and looked back at the three, recognizing them as three of the shop's unusual clients. "We should take him then, there is nothing here for him now.", Said one of the men. "Let us make haste then. We'll have to burn it, too"

Two of the Hunters hurried the injured and scared Naboris out of the shop by the back as the third set fire to it. Naboris looked back only for a moment before passing out.

So, there I was naked, covered in blood, screaming my head off in a room filled with my closest kin and a number of well wishers. Do any of them help me? No. All they do is stare and whisper about a little birthmark. Sure, it kinda seemed to glow ominously but I blame that more on the fact that I was covered in blood with the moonlight spilling in through at just the right angle to make it weird. Also, how creepy could it have been what with me being only being a baby. Did I forget that part? Right. Well, I was just born and the blood was my mother’s. Mostly, I think.

I guess what I’m say is that it didn’t quite go to plan.

Complications. That’s what they told me. Which is a very political way of saying shit happened that nobody was prepared for. I don’t know the exact details of it all but it was properly fucked. Especially, when you realize that it my dad who was doing the doctoring. People talked. They always do. It wasn’t enough for him to have been stuck with a child of the brand but fate had tossed in a dead wife to sweeten the deal. He got through it though. Dad’s good like that.

Family was the talk of the town for a while though not a lot of people bothered to show up for the funeral. It was a closed casket affair which my uncle assures me was for the best. Again, I don’t the specifics of the complications but Mortimer at least was an open book about the embalming. I could go into detail here about what he told me but some have pointed out that I can be a tad macabre. Guess that runs in the family.

It’s a good family though. I know that my uhh...start? Was a bit rocky but they were good by me when they didn’t need to be. Ditching marked babies after birth wasn’t abnormal or that frowned upon. They were good to me though. Well, at least the ones I knew which I guess was only a few.

My dad, Hendrick, was a doctor. I mentioned that already but it’s kinda important so it’s worth repeating. Doctors come across as kinda callous and cold but that’s how it is. They care, of course, but they also have to keep a certain distance. They grow a thick skin. I think that’s what allowed him to ignore the talk. He didn’t move or close his clinic either. It was just business as usual. You’d think with the talk people wouldn’t come around but they did. Can’t just not go and see the doctor because of rumors, right? I mean, some didn’t but they dumb and deserved whatever disease they got.

Hendrick kept me close for a long time. I think he was worried someone would just up and take me away if they found me alone. That sort of did happen but I don’t think it was in the way he was guarding against. Not that he could of even if he had tried but I’m getting ahead of myself here. What I’m trying to say is that I spent a lot of time around him when I was younger. He made me his little assistant. I didn’t really do much at first beyond run around doing chores and handing him things when he asked. Spend enough time in a clinic though and you will start to pick up a thing or two. It helps when they start to train you. He wasn’t trying to make me into a doctor though. Don’t think Dad ever really wanted that for me. The men in the family are simple thinkers and if teaching me some skills let me help him then it was a positive.

Mortimer was a lot of the same. He’s my uncle and a mortician as I’ve mentioned. Yeah, I know. Morty the Mortician. You can laugh. It’s funny. He knows it. Told me that his path was set the day they named him. Who is he to deny such a fate? Personally, I think he liked playing with dolls a bit too much as a kid and sees the dead as just bigger dolls. I don’t say that though. That’d be rude and he doesn’t deserve to be talked about like that. Not that I think he’d mind. Nothing much seems to bother him. See, after a while with my dad he eventually started to loosen the reins and let me go out on my own….under the stipulation that it was just to my uncle’s. You know, the Mortician? See where I’m going?

I’ve touched a lot of dead people in places you can’t mention in polite company. Well, any company really. Very few people consider it dinner conversation. Which is silly. You ever played around with a corpse? I’m talking inside and out here. Clean em out and get them all dolled up. You do that all day and you are going to want to talk about it. Trust me, you want them to talk. Morticians have some of the best stories. No question. The things my uncle has seen deserve to be in a novel. Where they’d be taken for fiction because some things people just aren’t prepared to believe.

See what I did there? Catch the double meaning? Yeah, I’m sure you did.

So I did that for a while until my next and last close kin needed a steady pair of hands. Derrick is my brother and he hurts people. Purposefully. We all tried to talk him out of his chosen profession but he was dead set on it. I don’t know what happened to make him this way as a boy but somehow he came to enjoy strapping people into chairs and working them over with his tools. Honestly, I didn’t think he’d be able to make a living at it but the people just keep coming.

Derricks a dentist.

He’s older than me. I mean a lot older. Derrick was almost an adult by the time I was born. Dad says mom was one of those women that just had a hard time conceiving. The fact that she ever got pregnant again after Derrick was a surprise to both of them. With the age gap between us and the happenings around my birth I can’t say I would have blamed him for being completely distant. He wasn’t though. We weren’t really close for a lot of years but that’s more to do with him throwing himself into an apprenticeship under a dentist and dad not letting me leave home. Once he set up his own shop and I was helping him we hit it off pretty quick. Turned out he was just as odd as the rest of the family. See, he actually enjoyed the work. I don’t see the fun in it but he could just scrape and pull all day long. Some days I’d have to literally pull him away.

Derrick was an odd one. Not as bad as me though.

It started when I was working with my brother. I didn’t enjoy the work but something about seeing all those teeth really...fascinated me. I couldn’t of told you why. There was just something about them that drew me. When nobody was around I’d just play with them. Run my hands through piles of the things. One day, I took it further. It was just a whim. A stupid idea that came into my head from somewhere dark. Didn’t even question it though. I just ran with it. Picked up an old molar and tossed it in my mouth and bit down.

Yeah. I know. That’s weird, right? People just don’t do that. I did though. I bit down and I savored the feeling as it shattered. The crunching sound though was the best part. It’s as loud as you’d expect but inside your head it echoes around in a very intoxicating way. You wouldn’t understand. For me though, it just took the once to get hooked.

Guess you could say things went downhill from there. Everything changes from that moment on. I changed. Something inside of me was different now. I knew that. Could feel it. I’m being literal here. I physically could feel something changing inside me. I didn’t know what it was at the time but I did know what caused it. That tooth set it in motion and the more I ate the greater the change became.

It wasn’t just the teeth though. I mean, at first, yeah that was all but then I taste for something more. I just so happened to have relatively easy access to it too. Let’s not beat about the bush here. I wanted bones. Know who has bodies around? Morticians. Now, let’s be clear. I’m not a cannibal. I’ve no interest in fleshy bits. Just the bones. See, Mort also did cremations. If you timed it just right you could take the body out a bit early. Sure, the goods are a bit on the charred side but I’m guessing by now you realize that wouldn’t bother me. The problem is that my appetite increased while my uncle didn’t always have bodies on hand to steal. Sometimes I had to find my own.

You might have heard about the recent the grave robbings from a year or so ago. That uh...well that was me. I dug them up and got their bodies to my uncles and then you know what happened. It sounds like a lot of work sure but you underestimate how much I wanted the bones. Also, I’m surprisingly strong. You wouldn’t think it from looking at me but yeah. I am. Not particularly sneaky though.

See, guess the hunters thought it was a ghoul or something that was doing it. They camped out the graveyard and didn’t find a monster. They found me. Which led to a very frightened series of lies from me which were followed by a very concise version of the truth. Which they understood and one of them asked me to follow them.

When someone armed to the teeth who catches you eating bones asks you to follow them, you do.

Which is how I got here.

There is no way around the admission that Silas King is a big man.

He stands head and shoulders above most, and that even is disregarding the unusual breadth of his shoulders and chest, the impressive musculature of his arms and thighs. Robust, one might say, though he carries himself as well as any gentleman can be expected to. Though his lips are wide and somewhat bland they bear his most obvious scars, one even pulling them into something sardonic as it tugs at the memory of a bottle.

It does not make him look cheerful.

Strong chinned and classically boned, he watches the world through deep-set slate, his brow ever furrowed in frustration or in thought. Though he feigns gentility he is a thing for breaking and battering and it shows in his heaviness, craggy features carved from stone. Nowhere, however, is this more apparent than his hands--massive things with powerful knuckles, thick fingers and sturdy nails. Leathery and well worn, he gloves them to hide the nicks and cuts that should hardly be present for the man he pretends himself to be.

The seal of his station rests on his breast above his heart. He can feel it, as it beats, as he always has.

He speaks quite softly for a man of his size, a rumble as much felt as heard, and such dislikes crowds.

It has taken Silas King a great deal of time to come to terms with that fact that men like him were born to end lives.

In another time he might have been a hero, striding across battlefields laying waste to any insolent enough to challenge him, but in the city of Penumbra his talents are found considerably less savory. Since he was a boy he has had quite the temper, and for a man like Silas this has caused him a great number of tragedies. Though once upon a time he lived to make the best of things, to ignore the call to arms that beats on his chest with every breath he has finally been forced to accept that civility and normality are simply not in his cards. That it came at the cost of his wife and child was a tragedy, a price unwillingly paid, but rather than wallow he chooses to accept.

Emotional pragmatism, then, is his bylaw, control his native state. He is reserved in the extreme, bottling his passion with such ferocity that he often is accused of being as cold as the statues he so loves to examine in his free time. At best a good puzzle and at worst a nuisance, he cares little for others yet feels a need to understand them, a paradox that frustrates him as much as anything. He wastes little sentiment on mercy or guilt, lamenting the loss of control far more than either as he pursues his duties.

He enjoys a fine drink, scotch if on hand.

They say he kicked his way out.

They say she burst like a balloon, all raspberry jam and meaty porridge. It was a rough old time of it, the girls that remember it prattle on when Master King wasn't about. Scrubbing out that mess, well, they couldn't manage it, could they? Had to toss the whole bedding, awful waste you ask me, but they couldn't very well just shop out the Lady's four poster. It's still there, if you go poking around where you ought not to, locked up in the old regency room with the rest of her Lady's things. They say all the fresh sheets in the world can't hide that brickabrack mess her little beastie made of her, all popped open like a Christmas cracker. Ask anyone.

The only ones won't wag on about it are those that were there, and mum's the word for them lot. All they talk about is birthmarks and the devil to pay, silly old things.

------

You seen what that little lad's done now? Quite the temper he's got, little Silas, but mighty God if he's not strong as an ox. Never seen toys broken up like that, all gone to splinters in his fat little fingers, and Lord above don't you let him get hold of you. Heard one of the girls screaming her bloody head off the other day, no lie, going on that he ripped her sodding ear off, and I'd never believe a thing at all out of Millie Thomas but for what I found cleaning that little beast's playpen. All tucked away in a corner like a pup that's done wrong, can you Adam and Eve it?

I won't say it was Millie's, but I've never found an ear in no baby's crib before. Not once on my life. Won't say a thing of it to Master King, neither, not with the way he looks at girls who wag their tongues. Keep quiet and there's a nice tuppence, chatter on and it's the boot.

-------

Well if that wasn't just a laugh and a bloody half.

You hear what they've had me doing, then? Can you bloody believe it? That poor little dog! Now I know what I saw and I don't care what his Lordship says, that's not on. I walk in his bundle's room to tell him time for his lessons and there he is sobbing like nothing else, and do you know what the devil was left of his pooch? Table scraps, I'll have you know, nothing but bits and bloody pieces, a sodding butcher couldn't have done it better. He pulled it right apart, hand to God, I can still see its white little teeth all mashed up and it's ribs all crackled like a house of sticks. Said it bit him and I'm sure it must have, face all cut up like that, but for all I know he bit the sodding thing right back!

And that father of his, coming in like a storm! Doesn't say a word, doesn't speak at all, just walks on over and starts laying the young master out! Something wicked, no less, I've seen boxers less swabbed, all muttering under his sodding breath. "Keep it under wraps," he finally says, "get yourself together!" Pot calling the bloody kettle black on that one, you ask me, I don't know whether to feel worse for the boy or the damn dog anymore.

Wasn't for the extra toss I got for keeping buttoned and cleaning up after I'd have left years ago. Little Silas King and his bloody father...they'll be the death of me, you wait and see.

----

They don't none of them see it!

These new girls, they're all sixes and sevens, not a brain in the bunch! If they'd been around for his worst there'd be none of this tittering behind my back. 'Granny's at it again' they're clucking, like my greys aren't owed to that sour little so-and-so, 'she's telling war stories!' Granny my garters, I've a full score ahead of me even if I might have worn out a few boots in my day.

They don't know the bleeding half of it.

'Course, I say little but he's grown up to be anything but, hasn't our Silas. He might make a ladykiller--lady killer, that's bloody rich--out of hisself if he didn't play the cold fish like his father. Thank God he's gone chill, I remember back when, well, I'll tell you what if I'd thought he wouldn't have it under wraps by now I'd have bundled off quick as could be already. Nowadays its glasses not bones, tables and chairs not growing things. Maybe he's grown a tad himself, maybe he's just bottling, but believe you me it's a relief by now, went through a bloody menagerie trying to keep him in pets.

War stories, they tell me.

Not the bleeding half of it.

------

Silas King, eh? 'Course I know of him, you clod, I'm his bleeding nanny!

Not that he needs one these days. He grew up all fine, didn't he, best foot forward and all. A banker now, can you Adam and Eve it? He never did like people but I'll bet he's a right head with their numbers. Certainly sharp enough, head always in some book, which was the right place for it you ask me. I thank the good Lord he didn't find himself a girl while he had the devil in him, but even now I fear for that little wife of his, I really do. It's still there, you know, under his skin, and damned if it won't claw its way out soon enough.

What's he like? Oh love, you don't want to settle yourself in that house, mind you me, the things I've seen. Nothing good about that man for all his fine talk and manners. Bad blood, love, breeding will out, and that father of his weren't no better. No, no, ducky, you find yourself a nice manor with a cheeky young thing that'll ruffle your skirts and pay to keep your gob shut.

Better that than old King manor. You know they never did find that old father of his, and don't you 'run off with some trollop' me. We all know who done him, only is that it only weren't both ways. Devil you know my ass, better no devil at all.

Why's I still there? Lord, ducky, I know too much! They don't keep me for my looks or my cooking, God knows, but I've been with the Kings since mister banker was a messy little thing. Can't let a tongue like that wander far these days, now, can you...

-----

I knew it, I knew it, I bloody well told you, sitting there with a kerchief wiping blood from his knuckles. That poor woman, that poor boy, God alive I knew it all along. Constable, you've got to listen, with that man out of irons it's a matter of bleeding time. Don't you 'upstanding this' and 'well-respected' that, he's a devil in disguise and always has been. That poor woman, that poor boy!

Like I sodding told you, I popped in to the study to bring him his night cap as always and there he was, bold as fucking brass in his chair, and she...Lord God, and she... it was the damn dogs all over again, the dogs and cats and bloody damn parakeets, and I knew it, God knows I knew it, and I told them, God knows I told them...

He sat and he watched, governor, I swear on the cross. She weren't dead when I walked in, still waggling her tongue with no mouth to hold it in and no eyes left to see, and he watched, he bloody well watched! Just rubbed his sodding knuckles with that kerchief of his, all pale and shaking, and that's when I heard him behind me. Quiet as a church mouse and all in black, but a big man, the kind of man that looked like he might be the sort to deal with our bloody Silas. I try to talk to him, to warn him to do it quick, but he puts a glove to my lips and never-you-mind's me and steps on in as quiet as can be, and I don't see the bloody rest. I run for the stairs, to find the young master and spirit him out, and I... I...

God no, I can still see it. I can't even say. God help that poor boy, I hope it was quick. Not like his mum. Not like his bloody father deserves, the fiend, but I stumble back down and check to see the deed is done and they're gone, they're sodding gone! Why I thought he might put him down I don't know, but I was scared, constable, I really was. But they're out there now, and that's me in the ground, isn't it? I've seen too much, I know too much, I've told too much, you're my only hope.

Don't let him take me, constable, don't you dare let him take me. I've seen the devil, and he wears Silas King like a sodding finger puppet.

God help us all.

Sunday Finest -- Custom tailored to his broad and tall frame, Silas is never without slacks, shirt and waistcoat. Woven as they are with threads of thin metals and crafted to allow a freedom of movement rarely seen in such garments, they provide a modicum of resistance against various forms of damage. Combined with his natural resilience, it has made him quite the opponent. In addition the arms are fortified beneath the sleeves with proper gauntlets, the better to defend himself in the close quarters he prefers.

Long Day's Work -- A great topcoat that would buckle most men, the Long Night's Work is a stodgy Alastair topcoat in charcoal that falls to mid-calf and covers even Silas. It is also a veritable suit of armor in and of itself, its woolen interior lined with leather and plated with metal to guard against even the sharpest of claws. Though oft discarded in the heat of battle for greater mobility and ease of use, it is a modern gentleman's suit of armor and Silas wears it to battle as such.

God Save the Queen -- Far more skilled with brute force than subtlety or technique, drastic times occasionally call for drastic measures. When needs must and a nail needs hammering, Silas has just the thing in his affectionately named monstrosity. Attached to a wicked staff of black steel is a massive flanged mace-head of steel, heavy enough that even most hunters would balk to haul or sling it about. In battle it is a brutal weapon, its sheer weight often enough to deliver a fatal blow, but Silas has learned to turn it into a mechanism of momentum. A stored darkstone engine in the haft provides, for the element of surprise, a single forceful burst that rockets the head off its length--when necessary a winch can be activated along the handle to coil and affix the mace more directly but he is loathe to do so. It loses something in its reduction.

King and Country -- Silas' go to weapons, a heavy silvered pair of trench knives add weight and power to his already overwhelming brutality. He carries them with him at all times and is unafraid to engage even the most vicious opponent with them, trusting the focused application of might to see the job through.