Prologue

With fearful eyes she held the child, her expression as loving as it was frightening to the unknowing bundle of meat, looking up into the endless black of her pupils. No cry, no scream was found in the youngling to express the feeling with which he was passed to the man beside his mother. A face with the first traces of age wrinkles, a few grey strands tangling towards the boy, an uncomfortable confidence radiating from the man, as he lifted the child up before his face. "What a boy", were the only words, before the two adults disappeared into the night.

/Narrative halt. A distant love was picked up in the eyes of his mother, but a tingling uncertainty held their junction at bay, while the boy grew to understand the fear a real love carried with it.

The child was now a few years old, speaking little and remaining a cold neutrality in human interaction. Deeply staring into the eyes of his parents as they spoke to him, but not with affection as much as wonder and expectation. Her words were plagued with a constant stutter, afraid to tell the truth, even when the man held the two tight, providing a warmth the boy should learn to miss.

/Narrative halt. Clearer and clearer became the boy's unconscious concern to be the cause of her fear, as he stood still, afraid to reach for her in search for warmth.

She made him food, she gave him clothes, but never did she bring them home herself, the boy understood that, as he began to follow the aging man along the cobble roads. Not long til the kid had found a new adventure, finally having escaped the constant fearful eyes of his mother, he fell in love with his father's workshop at the age of four. Fascination flushed the child's mind for the first time, as he explored the various tools and materials in the little shop.

/Narrative halt. No metal he won't feel, no wooden handle he won't swirl in his little chubby hands, as he had finally found a distraction from the concerns of home; the breather allowing him to return with a renewed craving for the warmth of his mother, who felt bestowed with just a tad of confidence.

The man had begun teaching the little boy the jist of his craft, spending most of their days leathering and smithing. The boy learned fast, his natural affinity to the craft quickly becoming obvious, as his father grew prouder and stricter with his son. The observant boy he was, he soon became a skilled listener, achieving abilities at a speed irregular for a child of his age.

/Narrative Halt. The creation of beautiful and functional shapes of metal and leather were to become this boy's greatest inspiration. There was no fear, no love, no emotion in the variation of molten and solid steel, the flames were only a tool, but his creations became treasures.

At the age of eight years, the little man had learned the making of swords, and while father and son worked together daily, sweated together in the face of iron melting fires, and celebrated together the creation of a new beautiful piece, the two distanced themselves, as the boy showed more and more traits and talents incomprehensible to the old man. He had tried to accept the boy as his son, and there was very little the boy believed more than the lie, that slowly creeped up the exhausted father's spine.

/Narrative halt. Whilst learning the importance of hard work and the freedom of creativity, the boy was yet again held away, temporarily chaining the confidence and doubting his place.

Another boy, a few years younger, soon began following him around, awaiting him at his father's shop at the end of every workday, to stroll through the city and play catch. One day, his younger friend challenged him to a dual whilst pointing a stick in his face. He grinned, as he had held and swung a sword before that his father made for him. It didn't take long for him to disarm and poke his smaller opponent, threatening to give him a playful final blow, when suddenly a strong hand grabbed his stick.

/Narrative halt. For the first time being superior to someone he cared about, he began developing a feel for responsibility. Yet slacking, he let his young fan rile him up into all sorts of stupidities, and a slight spite arose in him in the face of the challenge, feeling disrespected in his superiority, he was ready to show the nipper his place.

A hooded man had stopped his blow, the young boy before him shaking in fear before rushing off into the dirty streets. The man let go of his wooden weapon, before picking up his former opponent's stick. Wordless they fought, but it was a desperate effort; unable to reach the man he had soon been disarmed, but not beaten like he himself had intended to punish his former friend. "Fight with respect, not with intent. Meet me here tomorrow at this time."

/Narrative halt. A sudden wave of respect, only disrupted by his rage to be put in place, flew through the boy. Anger, mixed with delight; excitement, mixed with fear; spite and admiration towards the confidence and skill of his new mentor filled the boy.

Many days in the week, the boy would return to the place of their first meeting to find the man awaiting him with wooden sticks. The very few words the man spoke were of wisdom, while the boy sweated and cried, but was unwilling to rest.

"The only training you need is that necessary to survive."

"There is no unbeaten man, we all lose."

"Stand back up and fight again, or I see no sense in coming back."

A week into the training, his young friend had returned, creeping up to the street to watch his abuser beaten daily.

/Narrative halt. There was no feeling grander, no purpose stronger, than to dance over the uneven cobble of the dirty street. The boy learned his lesson, and his young friend forgave him, as his mentor's proud smile branded itself into his mind. Respect had become his strongest handle.

The first day the hooded man didn't come, the boy knew that his training was over. Yet insecure of the reason, he was comforted by his hopeful friend, who had watched the two day by day. The feeling that all that he loved would always distance themselves from the boy's grasp, overcame him, forcing the tears of early adulthood onto his cheeks, as he closed his eyes and tried to understand. Understand the pain, the joy and the fear his life had brought to all he valued.

/The narrative lost its halt.

What is a name after it left your life?

A distant call for forgiveness.

A forgiveness that a young boy is too blind to give.

Angeli Dame.

Gorand Beilith.

Sundgar Nahas.

Doran Stein.

Each name disappeared in blight and lost its tone, as only one found importance in the boy's ear.

Sarius Condotti.

The name of a father he never had and never will.

The name of a father he would follow into the darkness and beyond.

The name of a father he would forget their names for.

The boy had recently turned fifteen when a troop of mercenaries marched through the city's gate. They brought a name, and the name took the boy and never let him go. The boy became a Condotti. Kandor Condotti.