I am nameless.
Names are an obstacle in my line of work. Names identify, they personalize, and they humanize. People don't want executioners to be human beings.
Life shouldn't be like this, but it is anyway. I'm the bastard son of a whore and a minor member of European aristocracy. I never met my mother, I've heard it rumored that "Daddy Dearest" had her killed when he found out that she was going to hide his only son from him.
My father wasted no time in inagurating me into the family business: death. I will credit my old man with one thing, which is that he could spot talent.
No one kills better than I do.
I have talent from my metagene, it grants me powers far beyond normal men; far beyond normal metas. The planes of existence are my bedchambers and eldritch forces my toys. I am a sorcerer, and I have yet to find my equal.
My success allowed my father to rise from his comparatively low station to one of high esteem in the Society of which we were both parts. However three months ago I was given an assignment I could not complete. It was like any other, but when I looked at the young mother and her children I couldn't bring myself to send their souls screaming into the Abyss. Something was different within me, and it held me back.
For my failure and for the disgrace caused to my father I was sentenced to death by the Orbis Lunatis. I escaped to America, albeit barely, where they hunt me still.
I will uncover the truth about myself and my power.
I will kill anyone who stands in my way.
[ 12-02-2001: Message edited by: Avatar ]
