Rhistmaege

Venom

Montiverus Macabre was a man who could cast shade on mountains. His shoulders were broad, and thick arms framed a colossal chest.

"Can't you just let it slide? It's been a few days. He's made progress." Dovi's mother, Chalia, pleaded for her son. Green, sodden eyes begged for mercy. She ran a shaky hand through gray streaked raven hair.

"Punishment makes him progress. Boy needs more of it. You saw what he did. Burned his pallet's straw and his small-wears. He basically stole from us. I've been pinching coppers and he throws away what we spent good money on. Tired of this!" Monti wheeled around and backhanded Dovi, knocking him off the hard-backed chair.

"Dovi! Stop it!" screamed Chalia.

Dovi staggered to his feet holding his cheek and stared defiantly at his father. He knew how this would end. It always ended the same.

Monti muttered to himself as he walked to the window. The torrential rain hammered against the roof.

"Boy was late too!" Monti looked unsteady as he returned to face Chalia. His eyes had a maniacal glow. A meaty hand pushed disheveled hair away from his his brow.

"Missed chores can't be tolerated. My bones ache from double duties. He's got to learn a lesson. Plain and simple. Hell, look at him, sitting there all smug. Not even a sorry. Maybe he's being spiteful over having to clean out the Bernbell's waste-house last week. At least that earned us five coppers. Covers him ruining his small-wears."

How had he ever looked up to his man? How naive I had been. I should have seen it back then.

His mother always did her best to frame Monti's good side. She tried to hide his unbridled, raging temper. Said her bruises came from clumsiness- a stumble over a misplaced boot; burns from dropping the boiling kettle upon her arm; broken bones from Tracer bucking while changing the horse's shoe.

Tonight Dovi wouldn't offer a snivel. Not even a hard swallow. Not a twitch of the eye. He would show no hint of tears. He'll get no satisfaction from me.

Montiverus Macabre once had aspirations as large as his biceps; had been a Kingsman, his mother reminded him from time to time. Of course the bastard failed at that. He failed at everything. Dovi knew the stories because his father would recite them during his drunken benders:

"W-would have been a Knight Elite, if it weren't for that back-s-stabbing rat Westlin Jaegenhart. I beat the hell out of them scum." He would stop and smile. "They all deserved to die. Got exactly what was coming- to hell with an honor code. S-should have gutted Jaegenhart on the spot. War is no place for a conscience."

On the really horrible drunken hazes, he would grab Dovi roughly about the neck and reenact his culminating, glorious stand- the infamous Butchery of the Breckenridge Boys.

Monti had been tried as a war criminal; was found guilty of murdering four young boys from Breckenridge; served time in Fentbottom over in Drury Hills. Monti wears that black mark like a badge of courage even today.

Dovi's gray eyes simmered and flashed.

"He explained that already. He told us - the boys from school roughed him up again and made him late." Chalia lifted a hand in exasperation. "You're being unreasonable."

"Don't get snippy with me," barked Monti. "I heard what he said. Heard another lie. Look, there's not a mark on him. Three against one, and not a scratch. The devil's tongue burns with lies." He stomped over to Dovi. "You lying sack of- Caused me nothing but trouble since you were born. Should have ended you a long time ago. You burn my coppers and bring shame to my name."