Touch of Fate

Brenden rushed around the corner, still struggling to pull his gauntlet on, and narrowly avoided running headfirst into a fruit stand. The elderly owner had just gotten up to shake an angry fist at him, when he was rounding the next bend, only to bump directly into a heavyset man in merchant's garb.

"Sorry, sorry. I'm in a bit of hurry." The youth exclaimed, already trying to find a way around the man's large frame.

The merchant made sure to confirm the contents of his purse, before snorting. "Hmph, street rats. The world would be better off without you."

[Remember to smile.]

"Sorry. Won't let it happen again." He replied, smiling.

"You better not." The corpulent man said, before leisurely swaggering down the street.

Brenden burst back into a run as soon as the way was clear. He was still late and if he wanted to catch the beginner's course at the guild he needed to run quickly.

He had overslept again. It was a bad habit of his, that had earned him many beatings from his violent father. Then again, there wasn't much that Brenden could do that didn't infuriate his old man.

"Don't you look at me like that, boy." His father was apt to say right before he started beating Brenden. "You wipe that look off your face, right now." He would growl with bright, staring eyes.

It was not until much later that Brenden recognized the expression as fear.

His mother had died shortly after Brenden was born, her first and only child. His father apparently blamed him for the death. The man seemed constantly torn by abiding hatred, or even worse disgust, for his own offspring.

The result of all this, was a lonely and unhappy childhood for the young Brenden, who was allowed the basic necessities of food, clothing, and shelter, but little else. Once he was old enough, he was expected to earn his keep on the small family farm, a new form of misery for the child, as long hours of toil led to brutal beatings in the event of any small mistake.

This cycle of work and abuse continued for many years until Brenden had reached the age of eleven, when an event changed his life. He still remembered the day vividly. He was walking back from a particularly hard day in the field, hoe over one shoulder, when his father had burst out of the house with a long piece of wood. One he like to call his 'discipline stick.'

The old man was furious with Brenden. The child had forgotten to properly close the simple wooden fence that served as a gate for the cows, and they had gotten loose as a result. His father had spent most of the afternoon chasing the errant bovines and planning his revenge on his offspring.

Brenden looked at the undisguised rage and hate in his father's face, and thought. [Here it is, he's finally going to kill me.]

A small voice somewhere deep inside him whispered, "You deserve it. You should have never been born. You are the reason your mother died."

He felt a flash of rage that ignited suddenly, before becoming ice cold.

Before he knew what he was doing, the boy was striding forward to meet his progenitor, hoe raised like an executioner's axe. Brenden, now taken over by a strange, alien calm, took note of the sudden fear in his father's eyes.

The man stopped, and seemed to shrink back from his son, some instinct driven apology already on his lips, but by then the damage had long been done.

The child brought the hoe down once, twice, thrice.

The cold, unfeeling calm in Brenden's heart broke like a dam, and a surging tidal wave of rage consumed him. Every beating, every insult and word of scorn, and especially the looks, those eyes that showed disgust every time he met them. All of it came back to him in his fury, and by the time the shaft of the hoe had broken, he could no longer recognize the body of his father.

Brenden still isn't sure how long he spent on that dust little farm, staring at the corpse, but by the time he forced himself to stand and begin walking into town, night had fallen and the flies were becoming a nuisance.

The next few years passed in a blur, as the young beastman tried to eke out a life on the streets and in the fields. As a young farm boy with no experience in city living, his first few months were rough. For a while, tepid rainwater and refuse was his only sustenance.

In time he learned the unwritten rules of the streets. Trust no one but yourself. Run and hide from those who are stronger than you. Take from those who are weaker than you.

He earned a reputation for brutality and cruelty in the many minor conflicts which seemed to occur between the desperate and impoverished. The other children and even some adults would run at the sight of his cold, uncaring eyes. Eyes that would only grow colder when he needed to commit violence.

Sometimes, he would find himself wondering why life was like this. What had forced him down this path? And then the dark, angry voice from deep inside him spoke. "Its you fault. You're cursed. You were never supposed to be born. Its why your mother died, why your father hated you, why you are suffering now. You are a killer,.....a murderer."

That voice never left him alone for long.

Roughly about the time Brenden had reach the age of fourteen he had an encounter that would change his life forever. He had found an injured old man, lying in the gutter of a city he had never bothered to learn the name of.

The man was bearded and dirty, with matted grey hair, wearing effectively nothing but rags. His pained breathing and sightless eyes spoke of one who was not long for this world.

As was his habit at the time, Brenden started carefully, rifling the man's pockets. He had run into a few of these dying vagrants on occasion and had learned to be careful of them. Despite their appearance, there was a lot of fight left in them.

However, despite his best efforts, he couldn't escape the lighting fast grasp of the dying man, nor the terrible strength in his grip.

The man looked a Brenden with eyes half mad with pain, and did the most unthinkable thing. He smiled.

Brenden was so shocked by this, that he momentarily stopped struggling, and was face down on the ground before he knew it, arm twisted behind him.

He felt the hot, wet breath of the man on the back of his neck as his aggressor whispered into his ear. "You have some excellent eyes."

He paused, as if considering something. "Do you want to be strong, boy? Do you want to take what this life has to offer, rather than begging for the scraps of refuse left to you? I can make that happen."

And that was how Brenden met the man who became his master. Erin, as his named turned out to be, was once a famous duelist until he lost, and in the process lost the lower portion of his right leg. He was able to work as a swordsmanship instructor for a while, but became addicted to gambling. In time he ended up on the streets. Homeless, and friendless.

After he had nursed the injured old man back to something resembling health, Erin began to teach Brenden swordsmanship, seeing in the young beastman a great deal of potential.

"You have been blessed, Brenden. The Warrior class, while not rare, is a solid and dependable one that will provide you a great deal of benefit so long as you put in the effort. So why is it that you still can't defend yourself properly after weeks of training." The old man harangued his charge still sprawled out on the ground.

"I'm trying master, but you always attack when I'm not expecting it." Brenden said while getting up.

"That's the whole point, boy. Fighting, and dueling especially, is all in the mind. When your enemy is focused on you, everything you do becomes a means of influencing his behavior. A single gesture or facial expression at the right moment is often all it takes to decide the outcome of a duel."

"I don't really understand." Brenden grimaced.

The old man took a swig from his jug, before continuing. "Try to think of it this way. Your face is grim and menacing. Like an unsheathed blade. This can be useful in certain circumstances, but wearing that sort of expression all the time can cause more problems than it solves. Build a mask to hide your true thoughts and intentions."

Brenden simply listened attentively.

"Try playing the fool. Smile and nod. Act as if you haven't a thought in your head, and your enemies will underestimate you, think that you are incompetent. Use that against them."

The old man's face broke into a feral smile. "Remember to smile. Smile so that they don't see the killer underneath."

For some reason that lesson always stuck with him, long after the memory of that day had faded.

This training continued until Brenden was 16, at which point his master declared. "I've taught you what I can for now. Come back once you get some experience."

With little else he could do, Brenden joined the Adventurer's guild and was able to advance to Rank 2 after a short delay. His sword skills proved sufficient to complete the basic subjugation quests necessary to advance.

Lacking adequate options to continue practicing, he decided to travel to Wyrport and try his luck in their famous dungeon. Unfortunately his bad habit of oversleeping surfaced again.

He entered the guild, sprinting past the protesting guards, asking for quick directions from a bewildered receptionist before running up to the waiting room door. Walking through it would be the next step on his path to true power.

As he paused to catch a breath, he thought he could hear a quiet, serpentine voice whisper, "Murderer." For a moment, Brenden's true face returned. The face of a man who killed his own father, who spent years on the street lying, stealing, and if necessary killing to survive. If someone was observing him at this time, they would be struck by the cold, emotionless eyes.

With an effort of will, Brenden rebuilt his mask. He mentally chanted the mantra his master had taught him without meaning to. [Remember to smile. Remember to smile.]

The young beastman opened the door and entered the room full of fellow newbie adventurer's, an idiotic grin already plastered on his face.