BoredBrit
Bored Brit
BoredBritishGuy
Legend
My name is Francis Donnchadh MacRammbar and I was born to the most hateful man in the Eastern Kingdoms. Maceo de Courtnay was a vile and racist zealot that cared for little more than his perfect God. I was his firstborn, a living reminder of the wife he lost and the Son he never got to hold. It is little wonder, then, that he cast me aside. He thrust me into the arms of my grandmother and went off in his service to the Sun.
I believe I was three when he died, I am unsure, I just know that I was brought to his funeral and the whole family had gathered to shed their tears and pick apart his estate. I remember believing there couldn’t be anything worse, my mother and my father both gone.
I suppose it is only funny then, that less than a year later, my Grandmother left me too. To Queensport, I believe, off to see to her friends there, promising that she would return for me but never doing so. So, I was four and alone in a dusty forgotten palace among servants that couldn’t care less about whether I was lonely. Sometimes stories would reach me about my Father. He wasn’t dead, you see, the Gods had raised him and now he was walking about the world once more. And so, every morning, I would do my prayers to his perfect Sun, I would be dressed in the finest clothing and I would wait. Where I waited often changed, but I would wait for him to come back and whisk me off onto his adventures.
I waited for four years and on my eighth birthday, I stopped waiting. A man had come to take me away from this city, to grow up among the stones and trees that my mother had once played in, he said. I didn’t realise it at the time, but he was crying just as much as I was when I ran into his arms.
There began the best four years of my life, carefree under the watchful gaze of my loving Uncle. I still find myself dreaming of my days in the Motte, wishing I could return there, to the way things were.
At twelve, I was orphaned once more. Or rather, I was made fatherless again. This time, Courtnay had angered somebody in Queensport and my Uncle thought it prudent that I travel there, to ensure that whatever issues there were with Maceo, they would not be repeated with me. I was invited to live among the Kanes, I even became the Squire to the King. His gift to me, was every bit the curse he promised it to be. Sparked into the magics of Eviscism, I witnessed the death of Marek Brume. A man whose body became nothing more than a smattering upon floor and door. Days after the activation of the very arcane potential within me, I was murdered. I still know little of how it happened, only that I lay in the arms of my only friend as the blood, and the life, left my body.
I would love to say the story ended there, but if it had I would not be telling it. I rose again, a pawn in the silly games that the Gods play with us mortals. I rose and sought out those that I had left behind, only to find loss. My mentor, my queen and the very nation of Kaltstaat had crumbled; destroyed by the hands of a treacherous disease within Hawklight.
The years following passed by with little note, until the days of the Ashen Blight where I was reunited with a man I’d not thought of since I was four years old. A certain red-haired fuck who had worked at the palace, who always made sure I looked presentable. It was through Podric that I found God. I renounced the arcane ways and turned to the God of my Father, promising all that I had and more, if she only recognised me as hers.
I still bear the mark of her recognition. To this day, it burns on my back. You see, I followed Synnove and became so blinded by their light. I gave my life for her Glory, only to be ignored on my return. Desperate for guidance, I turned each way in search of a patron. I took paths I shouldn’t, I found myself cursed and without friends for my efforts.
I sunk into despair and madness, only to be pulled out once more by that fucking red-head. Gods, I searched so hard for a reason to hate him, but no matter how much I stumbled hewas is there. It was he who suggested I take this journey that I am on, back to the motte. To walk among the stones and trees that my mother had once played in.
Surrounded by her memory, I have spent months trying to rebuild who I am. Trying to justify my actions and make amends for what I have become. My mother, my father, brother, mentor and uncle; I swore oaths to all of them and each put their faith in me. Each of them died whilst I still remained. Each breath I take betrays their memory and yet I continue, I pass into each coming day with the hope that I will do something, just one thing that will make them proud. Each day I pray, to no one in particular, that I could do one thing to make my mother smile.
I believe I was three when he died, I am unsure, I just know that I was brought to his funeral and the whole family had gathered to shed their tears and pick apart his estate. I remember believing there couldn’t be anything worse, my mother and my father both gone.
I suppose it is only funny then, that less than a year later, my Grandmother left me too. To Queensport, I believe, off to see to her friends there, promising that she would return for me but never doing so. So, I was four and alone in a dusty forgotten palace among servants that couldn’t care less about whether I was lonely. Sometimes stories would reach me about my Father. He wasn’t dead, you see, the Gods had raised him and now he was walking about the world once more. And so, every morning, I would do my prayers to his perfect Sun, I would be dressed in the finest clothing and I would wait. Where I waited often changed, but I would wait for him to come back and whisk me off onto his adventures.
I waited for four years and on my eighth birthday, I stopped waiting. A man had come to take me away from this city, to grow up among the stones and trees that my mother had once played in, he said. I didn’t realise it at the time, but he was crying just as much as I was when I ran into his arms.
There began the best four years of my life, carefree under the watchful gaze of my loving Uncle. I still find myself dreaming of my days in the Motte, wishing I could return there, to the way things were.
At twelve, I was orphaned once more. Or rather, I was made fatherless again. This time, Courtnay had angered somebody in Queensport and my Uncle thought it prudent that I travel there, to ensure that whatever issues there were with Maceo, they would not be repeated with me. I was invited to live among the Kanes, I even became the Squire to the King. His gift to me, was every bit the curse he promised it to be. Sparked into the magics of Eviscism, I witnessed the death of Marek Brume. A man whose body became nothing more than a smattering upon floor and door. Days after the activation of the very arcane potential within me, I was murdered. I still know little of how it happened, only that I lay in the arms of my only friend as the blood, and the life, left my body.
I would love to say the story ended there, but if it had I would not be telling it. I rose again, a pawn in the silly games that the Gods play with us mortals. I rose and sought out those that I had left behind, only to find loss. My mentor, my queen and the very nation of Kaltstaat had crumbled; destroyed by the hands of a treacherous disease within Hawklight.
The years following passed by with little note, until the days of the Ashen Blight where I was reunited with a man I’d not thought of since I was four years old. A certain red-haired fuck who had worked at the palace, who always made sure I looked presentable. It was through Podric that I found God. I renounced the arcane ways and turned to the God of my Father, promising all that I had and more, if she only recognised me as hers.
I still bear the mark of her recognition. To this day, it burns on my back. You see, I followed Synnove and became so blinded by their light. I gave my life for her Glory, only to be ignored on my return. Desperate for guidance, I turned each way in search of a patron. I took paths I shouldn’t, I found myself cursed and without friends for my efforts.
I sunk into despair and madness, only to be pulled out once more by that fucking red-head. Gods, I searched so hard for a reason to hate him, but no matter how much I stumbled he
Surrounded by her memory, I have spent months trying to rebuild who I am. Trying to justify my actions and make amends for what I have become. My mother, my father, brother, mentor and uncle; I swore oaths to all of them and each put their faith in me. Each of them died whilst I still remained. Each breath I take betrays their memory and yet I continue, I pass into each coming day with the hope that I will do something, just one thing that will make them proud. Each day I pray, to no one in particular, that I could do one thing to make my mother smile.
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