The price of madness vol.01 : Dream and Condemnation

Mask of Hate

A morning like any other in this shitty life. Awakened by the sound of practice swords clanging in the yard. Again. Knocking on the door of the barn where he spent his nights, his aunt, Keryll, tried to get his attention.

"Hey kid ! Hurry up or you're going to take a beating again!"

Not without a groan he stood up and grabbed his heavy iron helm lying next to the pile of straw that served as his bed. He opened the door and burned his retina despite the very thin slits that allowed him to see through his prison of rust.

"You should go wash up, 113. You stink like a wet dog." She threw at him.

"You pay the water?" He retorted.

She swallowed her displeasure. She was in thick armor entirely blackened by the wear and the flames of her many fights, wearing a raven sigil on her chest. His hair was brown with a few gray tips here and there and topped with small coyote ears. Her face was soft and young in his thirties despite her stern expression. Her hazel eyes stared at him with a vaguely disdainful air.

"Hold your tongue. The matriarch arrives today to see our progress."

His blood froze and his breath hitched. He leaned against the doorframe just before Keryll's hand came to rest on his head.

"Don't worry, I'm here. Stay quiet and everything should be fine."

He put his hand on his chest, still encased in a heavy iron breastplate which he pulled a little to take a deeper breath. His gaze fell on her. He wobbled a bit.

"Should ?"

She could feel his distress behind his tortured face mask. It must have been years since she had seen his face. Since entering the order of the War Sisters... Men are not welcome there except to be slaves of the Sisters. That's why they usually don't risk it unless they have to, like him. Grandson of the matriarch of the Order, tortured from an early age for the mistakes of parents he didn't know, knowing only the cold of nights in kennels and the smell of dog food.

Only his aunt brought him some comfort despite the matriarch's disagreement. Being the prodigal daughter, she had a few privileges and took the opportunity to give him a little love. Many could have said that she was an angel for her kindness, but those who didn't know her very much thought that she remained the worthy daughter of her mother. Cold and tough most of the time as well as willing to give anything for the Order she serves.

"Come on, let's go. Let's make sure you don't have a reason to get beat up this time."

Mechanically, he ran his hand over his back where old whipping scars awoke slightly. He followed her with slow, uncertain steps. As he passed through the muddy courtyard of the fort guarded by her garrison, he crossed paths with young recruits led by a veteran of the Order: Brena. He could not see her in painting, each time she crossed him, she took the opportunity to add a layer to him. And this time was no exception. Standing seven and a half feet tall, the mighty Nar'Govath, a people of beastmen with feline attributes, considered the fifteen-year-old boy little more than a torn old rag doll. Her tanned skin and silvery hair were the envy of many Nar'Govath because they were symbols of the Dayand nobility, a country to the east of the Asterite continent. Her father was a merchant and her mother a respected War Sister before her death on the Western Front, against the humans. Even his jaguar ears and tail were rare. Despite all this, she never had any special treatment and many respected her for it. She grabbed him by the shoulders and threw him to the ground a meter behind, despite the boy's heavy armor. He fell in the mud which splashed the people around him, including his aunt, slightly.

"So, insect, we take a swim ?"

Unfortunately for him, 113 was acting sanguine and jumped up. Brena was waiting for this, a good reason to start again but when he rushed, Keryll intervened with a blow on the top of his helm. The blow wasn't powerful enough to hurt him, but the resonance unsettled him.