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Boruto

Born Amidst Sin

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An old backstory I had written half-sanely a long while ago. Enjoy (or not)

 

 

 

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What a poor thing, he was. The lost dog. Not only a bastard, and a fatherless orphan, but it was before his very own eyes that his mother died.

 

A *****, a ***** of a mother, who cared not an ounce for the child. Not a modicum.

 

But she begot him, and she flung at his weak hide, rending him with horrid scars, and to this day do they linger upon his skin, like memorial marks, a relic to endure the ages. She cared little, and yet she kept him alive. The feeble, piteous thing. 

 

Yet fate followed not far behind her, the wench. The perfidious fate that would, time and time again, befall sinners like her. But fate was also a *****. It also trailed after the pureblooded, the pious, and even the heathens. And such fate, of the ill-sort, ordained itself unto the wench, restless may she ever be in death, ever hung and festered within a sarcophagus of old dirt. Rubbish. Such was her worth. A coffin of manure, and rotten copse.

 

She fell, that one, dreadful night, to the blade of an honorless ravager, in an assailed tavern. How he relished her death, it was almost as if, deep within, he knew of the rot that lurked within her heart. The bitter seed of a bastard’s mother, and the wife of a drunk. He played with her scalp, the brigand did, and feasted on her flesh. For what else was there to eat? He beckoned his comrades over, and they drunk their fill, and drowned their sorrows away – those brought on by the war so feverishly raised in the Aeldinic mainland, by the province of Morce. 

 

 

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They drank the wine from her thick skull, and they whispered secret tales amongst one another. Forbidden lies of the age of yore, and tales of an unsung lore. Dark, forgotten truths. And they bartered jokes, and they howled in laughter. Whilst there, peering from the broken shards of a window, stood the child, gandering at the remainder of his mother, what was left of her that hadn’t gone to ash or wronged scalp. He watched, silently. He couldn’t recognize the head; for how could he? It was but a skull. No. A carved dome. A figure of bone. But he knew it for what it was. No other head could have been so rotten, so vile.. a thing of foul progeny. But he recognized it upon dry blood. The wrong, misgotten blood. That of bastards and whores. Of his own lineage. The boy would not forget that blood, spilt at the night of reckoning, the night on which justice, a sore lie, reigned.

 

Soon, the child, orphaned all the more without mother nor father, fell in service to the mark of the broken lance. Where he was properly fathered, and trained more akin to dog than man, to service his clients’ bids. Blades drawn, the dogs – or better yet, Jackals – ventured into the accursed swamps, basins and troughs, and they all drenched their steel in the blood of beasts. Him and his brethren, shoulder-to-shoulder, ridding the land of all prancing monstrosity. And they did, for years, even beyond his coming of age.

 

But the poor, wretched thing.. Even he knew, that fate hadn’t meant for him to last that long. Nought would last, and even the greatest of feasts are wont to be dined upon. Thus, the night came. And the crows sung, and the dead cried. When within dark fogs, they danced away. Striking their blades unto craven foes, and risen dead. But another hound yet came. And another. And another, for much time. Whereupon a head sprung aloft, and the weak screams disgorged. The screams of children, who hadn’t any time to grow. Little Jackals. And who knew not playthings and games, but hunger, steel, and wretched stains. Blood of brothers, not foes. He veered abruptly, trying to catch a look, but there, he froze. Speechless, he stared at fate, and fate stared him back, and his mouth fell agape. Dancing, flurrying, their blades ceased. The murky dirt was drenched wet beneath the severed head, with blood gushing abundantly, a feast for the earth. But the poor, abject child.. he could not even weep the death of a friend. But more; a brother. Another figure prowled against the boy’s back, and plunged a blade deep – low into the broken soul of a sorry thing, not even meant to be born. The offspring of godless sin. 

 

The child awoke after the passing of many months, but alone. In the warmth of their keep, beside a kindling hearth. He rose from the bed, jolting at the agony within his abdomen. Alive, but among the dead, who knocked at their coffins underneath, deep below. He could feel their hideous teeth clattering, smiling at his paltry self. At his misguidance. And he wearily limped, and trudged farther, and the ages passed, but nary a trace was left of his brethren. Naught.

 

But the man still hunts, even now.

Lest fate befalls him, as it did they.

 

. . But it wouldn’t. It’s all a terrible antic.

A mad verse, the lot of it.

 

Farces, and frivolous blood. It’s enough to make a man sick

 

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