You may have heard of me before, whether it be from my friends or my enemies. The latter of which I have many – the former, not enough.

If you are neither and have never heard of me. If for some reason unbeknownst to neither I nor Fate, my ramblings become the sole voice to travel through the eons it would take for the world to recover from its scarring and forget my name, then I welcome you, explorer of dusty words, to my world, through my eyes.

I mention Fate. I know her. She isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but she’s as sweet as a plum. Perhaps you don’t believe me. Perhaps you’ve been trodden, spat on, and shat on your whole life. Where was the sweetness of Fate in all of this?

I don’t know, and I honestly couldn’t care less. All I’m saying is, she was kind to me and I’d suggest you watch your words, speaking ill of a good friend of mine.

Regardless, this is my story, and I hope you’ve sat tight. I’ve got all the time in the world to reminisce and you better believe I’m going to make use of it.

To start things off, I’d like to introduce to you the very intelligent scholar, Edgar Theron. He stated that there were only two ways to break a Promise – that’s a capital ‘P’ mind you. Anyway, the two methods: death or dishonor.

He was wrong. There was a third method. It turns out, the less intelligent barbarian lord Blood Killer, Mongrel Masher to his friends, was absolutely correct when he said that enough magic and force would break anything once applied vigorously enough.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

What does this have to do with anything? Here’s a good clue for you: Why do you think you’re jotting down my words in this dingy tavern and not in the castle I should’ve been awarded?

What, that doesn’t help you at all? You’re a smart one, scribe, and all. You’ll figure it out. Hey, are you writing this down?

Bastard.

Fine. Let’s start at the beginning then, for your benefit.

I was a noble birth if only as much a cow was a horse because it was four-legged and weighed as much as it stank. My father was a minor baron and my mother, a whore, was stabbed in an alleyway as I was born.

It was fairly traumatic, obviously, but I was made aware by an aunt that it was probably better for my mother in the long run. She died in the alleyway of course. My birth mother, that is. That foul aunt kept kicking for another good twenty years. I was ten at the time.

Even if it was better for my dear old mum in the long run, it got much worse for me in the much shorter run. The aunt was a terror and I did right by myself leaving when I could – a month after the first role-giving.

Here’s where having me as your narrator will do historical accuracy some good. My enemies would have you know I rolled ‘satan’s little helper’ or something similarly gross. My few supporters would tell you I was granted some sunshine-shitting role like ‘divine official’.

Actually, the small crystal ball that dictated entire lives in a flawed governing system had determined me to be a fantastic ‘barmaid’.

And that was it all really started wasn’t it? In a rural backwater Seer’s Tent somewhere in the ass-end of the great Sigel empire, where the disappearance of young adults wasn’t looked into as well as it probably should have been.

Or pregnant young whores, apparently.