"I suppose to put with quill, as a means, if any to record what occured, both of fact, and what fallacy memory brings with it in the act of looking back. I sit, and try to compose mind and hand, for what the ink holds is a hands weight, heavy. I, I shall begin first in the act. It's not been long really, maybe a decade, or a few years more. A kid, in the sense of the word, young, naieve, unprepared for what suspicions abounded of magics heritage. And what price i paid to live that day. It's funny, that those details always seem to bother more than day in hindsight, grown accustomed to what my pact entailed. I wish, I do wish, I could claim it raining, when my da answered the door. The men of cuthbert asked for me then. Cold men, hard, ugly,, not of appearances, but of juy. Da stood proud, or so i think to, said no. They.. I'm sorry, that I pause so in writing of his, no my journal. Its, it has been many days since i could pick back up the quill to write again, the wine helps, half gone. But to say, the hunters, cuthberts damnable demon hunters! They cut him as the pig, a slit throat and marched over him, dying and dead already.. Mom, ma.. I'm sorry, I can't not now, not yet. They found me, not long, dragged me, a miserable, dirty kid, eyes, filled with tears, not a mess, to the gallows, my fate to hang..
I start again, its been some time, a few places, a couple fights, old things, old scars. The new bottle is gone now. Drained, what little courage I dared have from that day, they dragged me, eyes staring, mouth pleading, the damned hope that they would pity. His kind knows none, they care not. No, his lot claim only for justice, the law, at all costs... The minstrel below carries on in a jaunty tune, souring my taste. I can't hide this as pretty, kind or noble, no hero to save a kid, no one to listen to a simple scapegoat.. The town was there, the fear, the worry, and a post, it was a torchlight in the night, a round of the guard. I, saw him, remember his smile, now, hiding his fear. Demon monger, unclean, they so quickly turned out of fear, not me, but the thrice be damned priests! They yanked me, hard, my arm and mouth giving a shriek in pain together. Onward, the crowd parted, the armed men meeting not a single soul brave enough to stop them. I asked, i looked, not one would look to me, care, of an orphan now, a memory they could forget. The bottles shattered now, and I care not how it fouls in part the page of what i write now. They settled the noose, tight, the look they gave, chilling, i was anathema, abomination, unclean.. They pulled it tight, ready, of a practiced hang, and I pleaded, I begged once more, tears and dirt mingling in the time of the moment, anything, to live, my apologies, not knowing what my crime was. Unheard it all went, save one. A voice, speaking, rose up, to speak, not a one heard, save me. He looked to me in the crowd, and asked, and I answered. I answered.... He smiled then, a terrible thing, i see all to much now, but then, glad to see someone, anyone that believed me. He walked forward, and they turned, oh, how they turned, and the world shattered. An echo, terrible, chilled everyone, it was more than a scream, it was the shee's wail, the bane of all. Men, women, all grasped, gagged, bodies boiling, blood pooling at their feet from corpses already warm. They charged the figure, human, simple, majestic, terrible, all to real, and all to much a figure of horror, abject, terror, a foreboding promise of death at its most fresh. The first man swung, i watched, awestruck, as it landed, a fell blow to which the man laughed, and the man screamed, and slumped, a fleshy mass of pain, his shriek, a wail adding to the souls of the feeding damned. They charged regardless, each weapon of power to fail, insignificant against his name. One, by one, each died, they suffered, the screams, the rending, the pain each howled to in perfect counterpoint of their predecessor in death. None stood in the span of minutes, save him, and I. I could have run, little good it would have done, not by then. He smiled, and he spoke. Oh he spoke.. Words of power, old, ancient, harsh, no aspect of kindness in such, and then, he spoke to me, and held out his hand.. I ran gladly to him, glad to free, in that moment, he had saved me. Saved me, if such was true, yet he had. In one moment, and the next, the pact made. Oh the moment in clarity for a moment, a town of hundreds, each a spirit in silent witness, to a damned soul. A pact made, and every single one, a wail of utter despair, a gate of such misery that might stretch high to the realms hidden amongst gods, and show them a defiance of ages, ground blackened, nothing would grow here, nothing would live here, nothing would remain but the true sight. The price made for my life. Days, minutes, hell, weeks, I dont know, they stopped, as they screamed a final time, a hollow sound to me, and how little the sight of a charnel house the area was mattered to me then. And dragged down each and every soul was, never to reach their heaven, or their god. A sacrifice for a new apprentice.