-((OOC Note: This thread may perhaps contain some grueling and mature content.))-

I can still see the small wooden cottage lodged in the swamping meadow I use to call home. The memory serves only a slight image of my childhood, but one I value over all else. She was in them. Her beauty still amazes me, even at the age of twenty eight. When I think of her, my whole body shuts down in any negative emotions. All I can feel is warming love and innocence I had in my youth. All I can see is her black curls sweeping around me as she hugged my tiny frame, and her angelic blue eyes as she told me she loved me. Any daughter would of felt so happy with a mother like her. I was happy to have known her for the first nine years of my being. Yet her death gave me the feeling I have lived off of.

Rage.

I lived with him after my mother was killed. A bastard child for most of my childhood, I can still remember my father's facial expression as he received news I'd be living with him then. Fear. No. More of a hatred so bright in burning, I nearly wept for three days straight. It's not a good feeling. Knowing your own father doesn't want you. He lived in a farming land. No city known for miles, and most unreachable on foot. Caravans traveled through on a regular basis. Father, being a merchant of his own crop usually left with goods to sell in the cities. He'd never return for days, and sometimes weeks at times. I was alone. Alone, young, and never did I fear it. I embraced it. In fact. It was when I first came across something very peculiar for a nine year old. I was good at throwing darts.

Very Good.

I feel the overwhelming desire to kill my father even now that he is dead. From the time I was ten years old to the time I reached the age of twenty his face haunts me now more then ever. To know I picked up his line of work is a gift with a curse. It's what killed my mother, his art. The shadows covering the line of foot and sight, the slow and steady assurance of quick and precise movements to be unseen and unheard. The way to flip a small blade with efficiency that the strike made the cut deadly, and painful.

Covered by his work of a merchant and farmer, he hid his true self away for many years. Always locked into the barn house or bed chamber, sometimes inviting company in the lonely nights. A man of suffering, and vileness. It only took me a few years to catch on to his plot.

On a night, cold as the spring breeze allowed, I heard the faint moan of pleasure exiting the bedroom chamber of my fathers. Female, loud and alarming. In my teen years, I've learned of the hidden secrets that fume in adult chambers between males and females. I've learned that lust is almost as forbidden as love, yet the desires being sated could stimulate even the craziest of wizards. The act somehow made me curious, yet at the age of fourteen winters past, I've seen girls wed and carrying child only a few years older then me. I should of known better then to go waltzing down the hall. The smell of sweat and something else made me fall back in step. Blood. The rustic smell made my stomach turn. I covered my nose with my hand, easing my breath slowly as I peeked inside the small keyhole.

My father stood, gazing down at the female who was wrapped in nothing but a sheer light of candle. Her redhead graced her back all the way down to the curve.

"Thank you for this evening, Clare." He spoke, glancing down to the female.

"Your welcome Master Sayne. Is there an-"

Her voice was small, delicate. It made me wonder why she stilled and went quite so quickly.

Until her head rolled off onto the bed, and I saw my father holding a sword in hand covered in blood.

When he caught me watching, he did so because of the scream I let out that was so intense he slapped me numerous times before it stopped. I remember tasting the blood on my lip and looking up into his sinister eyes, the knife in hand that still was coated with the whores blood.

"You like it, don't you."

He'd trace the knife along my chin, placing the tip right underneath at the throat pushing it until I'd whimper for him to stop. The delicate feeling of it did not ease me, but only put me at fear. I learned later it was what he fueled off. He repeated the line up to my chin and back down with the tip of the blade, casually stopping to poke the tip along my throat for the brief moments until I'd give more whimpers and cries for him to stop. He never did. He'd go lower cutting into my nightgown and making small cuts here and there. He'd make me beg, force me to scream. He never stopped.

When it was all over with he left the room to wash himself. I laid nude, abused in more ways then one and tied to the bed with cloth. When I finally stopped crying and screaming, and stopped noticing how the decapitated body laid near me I realized what I had to do.

I would learn to be the best killer. I would train myself from watching, and I would endure every little thing until the time came. I promised myself I would gut my father alive at that moment. I promised I would feel his blood on my swords, and watch him suffer as he'd made me. When the time, it was the best feeling in the world.