Vylqith was not one born of honor, nor of love.
There are memories, faint visions of ones whose skin brought warmth and whose words stirred comfort. Brief, however, marred with pain and agony of a burning flame, one that left its mark upon their skin. Where there was once peace and kindness was now replaced by rough voices, ones that only demanded. Wanderers of his kind, cursed, disgraceful dar elves who were nonbelievers, corrupted with greed and whose morality was swayed by coin. Vylqith was shaped by this, what was shaped of their past, buried nearly entirely.
Until came their 16th year.
There was something familiar about the scene that unfolded before him when they came upon the small village.
Something about the burning torch that raged in their grasp.
And how the villagers' bodies were consumed by it.
That night, Vylqith fled from the nomadic mercenaries. Sickened and driven with anger at what he had become a part of. For two years, Vylqith wandered, haunted by their past, and weighed down with regret. If they had not discovered San'Khatun, they likely would have succumbed to the wilderness entirely in their despair. There they remained for a few years, where their anger festered and waited, desperately holding the desire for redemption.
When Vylqith turned 21, they left San'Khatun on a journey to do just that. Two years spent searching for the wanderers who had stolen him all those years ago. Following ruined encampments throughout the outskirts of Thales, where the flame left behind soon became more than cold embers.
Vylqith would get their redemption.
"Do you remember?" Vylqith uttered, their blade sinking into the final mercenary, the one whose hands drew the most blood from their body.
"The cries of my mother," their voice falling to a whisper, yet filled with wrath, not realizing how the light had long since faded from the others eyes.
"I... remembered."
