HISTORY
Note: His History is quite extensive. You may PM me for a pre-written Summary if needed.
Locke spent the majority of his years in Sibelvurn, a village from the small, distant, and peaceful kingdom of Dorwynn. He led an uneventful life, growing up as a rather rambunctious boy, as most did. As he grew older, he began to have an interest in daggers. His father knew a few things about the skill, so he taught his son the basics of knife tricks and throwing. Locke enjoyed it greatly, continuing to pursue this proficiency throughout the years and moving from entertainment to practical fighting skills as he reached his early teenage years. His friends did not differ much from Locke in their personalities. They all had a desire for adventure and would often seek it in any way possible.
Locke’s life was happy. He had kind family and good friends. Contentment reigned.
… But that would all change in one swift, retributive moment.
* * *
“Oi, Locke, I bet you couldn’t get within one foot of that old kook’s place!”
Locke crossed his arms and looked at Elijah, his best friend. Eli was only half a year younger than the sixteen-year old Locke, and they had become nearly inseparable over the years. Practically brothers.
“I bet I could,” Locke replied with narrowed jade eyes and a mischievous grin that was often displayed on his features. The pair was notorious in the village for getting into trouble for the sake of a thrill, and this case was no different. They peered behind an old, high stone fence, located deep in one of the forests near Sibelvurn. The boys knew these woods well; they often explored its depths with little fear of getting lost. “What do you think he’s hiding in there?”
“I dunno,” Eli replied, looking at the small house that lay a good distance in front of them. The location of this place had been their new source of excitement. “Maybe he’s just one of those plain crazy old guys who’s shut himself off from the world…”
Locke shrugged and stood straight from his position against the broken stone fence. “Guess I’ll have to find out!”
“Wha—? I was just kiddin’, Locke!”
The blond-haired youth smirked. “You bet I couldn’t do it. I’ll even bring something back to prove it!” Locke said confidently. They had been observing this house for quite a few days lately, and the curiosity was beginning to become too overwhelming. On previous days, they could catch a rare sight of the old man in the dusty window. It was both terrifying and exhilarating for Locke. He bounded closer to the house while Eli watched him with wide brown eyes.
As Locke approached the house, his gait slowed into a cautious walk. He had not entirely thought out his plan; he would rather just rely on instinct. One foot stepped up a creaking stair, followed by another, until he was standing on the porch. Locke took one step forward, but his instincts had not prepared him for the oncoming event. He gave a cry as his foot suddenly cracked a hole in one of the rotting boards, sending the lower half of his leg through the porch.
After a moment after the crash, an older man, appearing to be in his late sixties, swung open the large door. His head and face were both clean-shaven, his bright green eyes leered at Locke, looking first at the boy’s face, then at his leg.
“Get in here, boy,” the weathered old man said gruffly, pulling the boy out from the hole and into the house. Locke’s voice caught in his throat, and Eli watched from afar with desperation as the door shut.
Locke looked around with keen, observant glances. The house was moderately well cared for, though messy cobwebs were strewn in the upper corners of the wooden ceiling. It smelled musty, like a library with too many old books. That made sense, however, since shelves of books lined the walls. Strange mechanisms and small artifacts rested on wooden ledges on the wall wherever a bookshelf was not. A strange unadorned chest sitting on a shelf near the floor caught Locke’s eye, but he had little time to look at it when the man pushed him on a wooden bench.
“H-hey!” Locke exclaimed as the old man pulled up Locke’s slightly torn and bloody pant leg, examining the cut on his shin.
“No splinters. Good,” the man noted, standing and entering another room for a brief moment. Locke looked back at the small chest, no bigger than half his forearm. Perfect to carry…
The elderly stranger came back with a long strip of cloth and a wet sponge. He knelt in front of Locke and examined the wound again. “Who are you..?” Locke asked hesitantly, unsure if he was stepping outside his boundaries with the man. Instead of a grumpy scowl like Locke predicted, the man smiled faintly.
“Hamel Surian,” he replied with a rough voice, dabbing the sponge on the cut. Locke winced, but Hamel did not seem to notice. “And who are you, boy?”
“L-Locke. Locke Rinannis, sir.”
“Why were you trespassing on my property?”
Locke did not reply. The story seemed silly now. Hamel did not ask again, though Locke thought he saw a twinge of concern flash in the man’s eyes. He bandaged the leg without another word exchanged. Locke thought of how to make a quick escape. As kind as Hamel was, Locke still had a bet to win. He felt somewhat guilty for taking advantage of the old man, but his pride would not allow him to lose.
Hamel nodded to himself, satisfied with his bandaging work; he stood and began to walk back towards the other room. As soon as his hand touched the door, he heard loud footsteps clatter across the wooden floor. Hamel turned in time to see Locke snatch the chest and start dashing out of the house.
“Wait! Come back!” Hamel shouted, noticing the chest as the boy burst through the door, jumping over the hole in the porch. “No… You don’t know what that is!” His aged body did not have a thread of hope to keep up with the young boy. He staggered a few steps outside the door as Locke sprinted away with Eli at his heels, laughing and shouting whoops of victory. “Come back..!”
Despite the burning cut on his leg, the adrenaline in Locke’s body pushed him further from the house until it could no longer be seen far in the distance. They finally reached a road that cut through the forest and led to Sibelvurn. The sky was a pale orange with the beginning setting sun. Locke stopped with Eli still right behind him.
“That.. was.. awesome…” Eli panted exhaustedly, bending with his palms on his knees and head facing the ground. Locke breathed heavily too, sitting on the dirt road and setting the small coffer beside him. The panicked look on Hamel’s face as Locke fled still lingered in his mind, but he shoved the mental image aside and celebrated their success with his friend with broken laughter and relieved panting.
After the boys had caught their breath, Eli looked at the chest curiously, scratching his messy blond hair. “What’s in it?”
Locke picked up the box and set it in his lap. It was not locked, but something inside him hesitated when he tried to open it. Eli watched as Locke lifted the lid and looked inside. An amulet of rugged black metal on a long chain was within, and imbedded in the center of the large, ancient-looking pendant was a small, bright red gem that glimmered mysteriously. The boys exchanged glances of awe before looking back at the artifact inside. Locke lifted his right hand and touched the dark metal…
A sharp pain shot suddenly burst through his right hand and spiraled through his whole body. Eli shouted Locke’s name in urgency, not sure what else to do. But to Locke, the voice seemed like a whisper in comparison to the excruciating pain that seemed to be coursing through his very bones. He could not even tell if he himself screamed or not…
Then, his sight then became tinted with red, followed by his consciousness being consumed by blackness.
…
Locke awoke with a terrible headache. He found himself looking straight up at the vivid orange and red sky as the sun sunk deeper into the horizon. He moved his right hand to rub his eyes. However, before his fingers reached his face, Locke stopped. His hand and arm were covered in wet blood. A breath caught in his throat as he jolted upright, pain racking through his body.
Chaos surrounded him. Long marks of daggers, fingers, and boots raked across the dirt road, the shards of bark from nearby trees lay scattered from their boles, and a broken body rested a short distance away.
“Eli!” Locke's words choked as he saw his best friend. Or rather, pieces of his friend… The sight made his stomach lurch, and he had to pull his gaze away. He brought his forearms to the ground, his head cradled between them. “Wh-what's happened to me..?”
The amulet rested outside the chest. Its red gem had darkened and become almost coal-like. The power had been released.
* * *
Bound with chains around his arms behind his back, Locke looked down with eyes half-closed as people around the outside plaza—civilians and authorities alike—watched him from all sides.
“Locke Vun Rinannis,” a commissioner read from a piece of parchment, “you are hereby proclaimed guilty for the death of Elijah Lael Enguerrand. Your punishment shall be merciful exile not only from Sibelvurn, but also from Dorwynn in its entirely. You are named as unstable and a danger to those around you, and we cannot allow you to continue your existence in this kingdom while this curse is able to control your mind. You have twenty-four hours to leave this village and three days to leave Dorwynn before you are judged with the complete punishment of death.”
Locke, his head still down, bit his lower lip as he heard those words, holding back his tears. His life had come crashing down in one fateful day. No one could trust him; he could not even trust
himself…
A dull, painful throb still reverberated through the bones in his right hand. A name was etched in the dark amulet that had been wrapped several times around his right wrist. It was useless now, all the energy coursing into Locke after the initial contact by the boy. He could feel the strange power resounding faintly within him.
The name read
Everto Saevio. "The Rage of Demons.”
* * *
His parents stayed in the other room as Locke prepared for his exile. They were aghast and ashamed, unsure if they should be around their son for too long. The slaughter of Elijah weighed heavily on their minds. So they instead chose silence, allowing Locke to mourn and reflect on his own as he packed. Locke thought no less of them for this. He actually wished it as well, not knowing the full explanation for his bursts of uncontrollable rage. As far as he knew, it could happen at any moment. The instability horrified him.
There was a knock on the door, and from his room Locke heard an exchange of words from their parents to the visitor. He opened his door slightly and looked through the crack.
It was the tall form of the old man, Hamel Surian.
Hamel looked remorseful and apologetically at his parents, and though Locke could not hear his words, he could imagine that Hamel was explaining the entire situation. His father nodded while the old man spoke; he wrapped an arm around Locke's mother as she held her hands to her lips. Locke closed the door, not wanting to see more.
A few minutes passed, when Locke’s door opened again. The boy was putting together his essentials on his bed.
"Locke,” said a gruff voice. Locke slowly turned and saw the old man standing in his doorway. Hamel entered and shut the door behind him.
Locke startled quietly, his eyes cast downwards and his fists curled at his sides in remorse. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—I mean, I didn't know… … …What’s going to happen to me..?” He closed his eyes tightly as desperate tears ran down both cheeks. The death of his best friend by his own hands, his exile, the detachment from his family, it was all too much…
“Stop crying, boy,” Hamel said sharply, lifting the boy’s face up by pushing back his shoulders and looking at Locke’s jade eyes. “What’s done is done.”
“But—“
“Stop,” Hamel’s emerald eyes glared harshly with authority. After a brief moment of silence, his expression changed slowly to that of pity. He sighed. “You must keep yourself under control. The curse inside you… It feeds off strong negative emotions.”
“How do you know..?”
“I’ve spent my life researching artifacts such as the one wrapped around your wrist. I’m by no means an expert, but I know enough,” he paused, “.. and that’s why I’m going to go with you.”
* * *
The next morning, Hamel led Locke out of the village of Sibelvurn. As the village slowly disappeared from view, Locke looked back at his home one final time. Hamel did not interrupt his gaze, understanding the amount of sadness that the doomed boy must be feeling. Locke sighed and looked back ahead, knowing that he would never see Sibelvurn again. A comforting hand rested on his shoulder, and Hamel gave a small smile of encouragement.
As soon as his hometown could not be seen, Hamel stopped. Locke frowned, but the old man reached into his bag and pulled out a small chest that was wide but rather short. The boy looked at it curiously, and Hamel offered it to him. Locke hesitantly opened it, and inside lay four daggers, each one’s appearance representing four different elements (earth, fire, wind, and water). Hamel stated that they were his to keep. Surprised, Locke questioned why he was being given these, but Hamel simply smiled and told him to use them well, and to not just leave them lying useless in the box. He assured Locke that he would need them.
They left Dorwynn two days later and ventured to many other places, though they never stopped for long. Despite his age, Hamel spryly kept them moving. He taught Locke both the ways of archaeology and the necessities of keeping his temper in check. The man was too old to teach swordplay, but Locke continued honing his skills with the daggers as they ventured. The pair built a strong bond over time; Locke eventually grew back to his normal confident self.
For over four years, Locke struggled to not commit another outburst of destruction since his initial contact. However, when emotions would overwhelm him—particularly when he thought of Eli’s death, he could see the edges of his vision blur with the familiar red hue. Hamel had always been able to force him out of the mindset, and the hue would eventually recede and disappear. On several occasions, Hamel would leave the camp for some reason or another, and would return with the site in ruins and Locke huddled in a crumpled mess of dirt and blood—his own or an animal’s. The fear of himself burdened him greatly, and after such occasions, he would sit for a few hours with his face in his trembling hands. Fortunately, the curse required some sort of cool-down period, or else blind, demonic fury followed by the horror afterwards would become an endless cycle. Both Locke and Hamel were unsure how long it would wait, and they never attempted to test it.
Locke more than understood the urgency of such situations and did all he could to keep himself relaxed. He grew so accustomed to it that it eventually became part of his personality—instead of despairing at his past, he chose to live life for the present. He found that it often kept him easygoing and good-natured, much to Hamel’s approval.
Another three years later, with Locke being age twenty-three, Hamel was reaching quite an old age, and he was not able to keep up with Locke as much as before. Their travels slowed, camping or staying at inns longer, even when Locke had run enough odd-jobs and knife performances to continue their contented wandering. Finally, two years later, Hamel admitted that he could no longer keep going. He assured Locke not to worry—he trusted that Locke was capable of keeping himself in check on his own, but that he must learn to be extra careful. At the next village, Hamel left Locke’s company in order to spend the rest of his days in tranquility. Their parting was not one of sadness, but instead joint determination. Before the cursed young man left, Hamel gave him one last instruction.
“During our journeys together, I’ve been researching your curse at every village, but I’ve found little information… I know the answer is out there. You
must find it.”
Locke agreed, and the two parted ways. He only traveled for two weeks alone until he met a group of carefree but very skilled mercenaries,
Selgaires, led by Madoc Parnell. He was a tall and muscular man in his late thirties with tanned skin, sharp features, and chin-length black hair. His ambitious brown eyes displayed the confidence and discipline required of a good leader. After testing Locke’s skill with a dagger, Madoc offered him a job as part of the group. Locke gratefully accepted.
* * *
Eight years later, Locke had grown to become one of the best mercenaries in
Selgaires. His cool head became intuitive with his every thought, and his laid back personality kept him on good terms among everyone in the group. Patience and emotional self-control had become his strongest virtues, and his skills with the four daggers exceeded most of the other fighters. He altered his technique slightly, focusing on speed and incorporating hand-to-hand combat in combination with his blades. He had become quite formidable.
On the chance that his anger or depression would become dangerous, Locke escaped to the wilderness. When he returned battered and bloody, he ignored the concerned questions from his fellow sell swords. He only told one other person of his curse. Madoc Parnell, and that was only because it was commanded from him when Madoc refused to hear any more excuses. Knowing the truth, Madoc discouraged the other men from worrying themselves over him, usually by jesting or taunting the mercenaries. Every time the topic changed, Madoc would meet Locke’s eyes and nod once. That was all that needed to be shown.
During one of his missions, which happened to concern an abandoned library, he happened upon a dusty old table with a gritty book on top. It had strange, undecipherable symbols on its leather cover. Curious, Locke casually thumbed through the pages. It was written in a language that he had never seen before. However, the mercenary’s heart jumped when two words entered into his vision:
Everto Saevio.
He scanned desperately through the lines of text, trying vainly to understand anything that it said. He could only see one other word that even remotely made sense. ‘Valear.’
Locke snapped the book shut with an excited smile. He had a lead.
As soon as the job was complete, Locke privately explained his finding to Madoc that night, showing him the book and the strange words inside. Madoc nodded as he listened. The fire from the lamp on his table cast a golden glow on the two fighters.
“Valear, huh?” Madoc’s hard voice questioned, looking at the leather-bound book.
“That’s what it says! I don’t know what’s in Valear, but…”
The corners of Madoc’s mouth curved into a smirk. “Seems like you need to go there. Right now.”
Locke’s eyebrows shot upwards in concern, “And leave
Selgaires?” He shook his head. He loved being part of the group and had no desire to leave.
“Look, Locke, you can’t keep running off to the bushes whenever you feel your fury rising. You need t’get rid of that thing once and for all.” Madoc crossed his arms and leaned back in his wooden chair. Locke nodded and then was silent, his gloved hands resting on both sides of the book. “It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” Madoc asked. Locke’s brows furrowed, and he looked at the ground. Madoc frowned, looking at Locke’s right arm. “Show me.”
Locke grimaced, then reluctantly took off his right glove and pulled up his sleeve. The black scar that had a fourteen years ago only been half an inch long on his middle finger now spread like a chaotic ebony web over the underside of his hand and wound around his entire lower arm up to his elbow. Madoc eyed it, his acute glances observing the pattern. He put his one of his hands to his chin in thought. “How often?”
The mercenary knew what Madoc meant. “That depends on how things are going…” Locke said while putting his glove back on and rolling down his sleeve.
“What about this month?”
“Just once, but I could still tell it was coming and could get far enough away in time.”
“Were you upset? Angry?”
“Well, n-no…”
“Locke,” Madoc said, meeting Locke’s jade eyes in a way that felt familiarly like Hamel once did fourteen years ago…
“Sir?”
“Go to Valear. That’s an order.”
Locked sighed. He knew that his curse had become much worse over the past few years. Despite his calm personality, the sessions began to come without being triggered by an extreme negative emotion. A mysterious heat would slowly grow in his chest, indicating that he had to get alone as far and fast as possible. He could also retain the red consciousness a bit longer as he grew older, though it still always quickly gave way to blackness.
The mercenary nodded, then stood, “Yes, sir.” He turned to leave Madoc’s room.
“And Locke,” Madoc added, standing from his chair. Locke turned back, and his leader smirked faintly, “Like all missions, come back when you’ve finished it.”
Locke smiled and nodded once. Madoc echoed the motion.
The cursed mercenary left the room and prepared for his journey. Valear awaited.
' Bloody heck, two jobs and a BUNCH of kerfuffle later, and I'm back AGAIN.