Hecktore

Hecktore

  By Andreas Haaken

  Copyright 2014 Andreas Haaken

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  Herein lays his exploits. These pages show his strength that removed the corruption of the light and brought us back to glory. The legacy of the Alcheema can be seen in this life and we would do well to remember.

   

  My death comes soon. I will finally be able to join my Khore with the true lord and find the world that was promised me. I know my mother awaits me there and I will finally learn who she truly is. My father’s corruption has been removed and I live and die for the Darkness and the Alcheema.

  My children have been working with the Tri-Consul and the first knight to write this journal for the benefit of our people. I do not see how this could benefit anyone but I will adhere to the tradition of all the other High Lords and document the things I have done and what I have seen.

  Many have called me a true Alcheema but this cannot be as my father was one of the Light. Maybe that is what it takes a balance of the two; to find that shade of grey. This is not for me to decide the dark lord has bestowed on me the power to lead our people and I will do as I am commanded until the end of my mortal life.

  I will begin briefly where I began in hopes that some understanding for my actions can be retrieved. No one would believe that a farmer’s son, a boy that knew nothing of the outside world could achieve the highest status in our land and set our world to order. The power I wield is for the benefit of our people and I will not see it tarnished; my successor will be chosen by the dark lord not by mere mortals.

  Only those that have seen and felt true suffering can understand what it is to lead; pain defines us strife is what moves us. Joy is fleeting only the darkness and the legacy of our people matter now.

  .

  I began my rise into darkness in my 17th winter. My father was a weak, pathetic drunkard. His temper was insatiable the scars on my body attest to that. I spent many days hiding in the woods near our house avoiding his rabid onslaughts. His Khore was tainted by the death of my mother he despised me as I was the cause. The day of my birth was the day of her death. Why he kept me alive as an infant I have no idea maybe he had respect for my mother but that respect was fleeting.

  In the beginning he treated me more like an animal than a boy; many nights I would eat scraps off the floor and sleep in a cold corner. There were several occasions after he fell asleep I would sneak about the house scavenging for something to eat. He caught me once and beat my legs until I could not walk for a week.

  After a few years of treating me like a stray dog he learned the value of teaching me how to read and write so I would be a more useful slave. At the age of 8 he sent me to market alone to trade what little we had produced from the farm. The local market was no more than several farmers and their families joining around a small pond in the center of a grassy valley. The families did not know each other nor did they wish too the years were hard and getting to know each other was not important.

  The first time I noticed I was different was when my hair began to darken to a mild brown color while everyone I had seen was always brighter even my fathers. Almost all the children that I saw had grey hair and as they got older over the years it became brighter. The adults had a silver or platinum sheen to their hair while the elderly had solid white hair.

  I was the only one out of everyone I knew with dark hair and as I got older the darker it got. Many of the farmers kept a watchful eye on me while I was at market never giving me too much courtesy but still willing to trade for goods. Always the outcast I still did not whimper or let fear become part of my life I would not allow it I COULD NOT!

  One of my final trips back to market; I brought back more than he expected and he whipped me with reeds across my back for being “arrogant”. The following year I received half of what he was expecting and he beat me again for my “stupidity”. Maybe this was the only way he knew how to express himself, maybe this was his way of understanding the world.

  Each time I did not cry nor did I whimper I chose to accept this pain as my life and endured it willfully. The years passed slowly while the routine of work and beatings continued but at least he always taught me something, what to eat in the woods and how to hunt fox and Brihden. He also showed me which plants were poisonous and which ones I could eat. In the winter many roots were edible under the snow.

  As I grew older I was required to do more and more and my father reduced himself to nothing more than a drunken slob barely capable of giving me the beatings he so enjoyed. A discovery in my mother’s room would soon release me from his torment. He never spoke of her, my mother I never knew of her yet I felt as if she was always near, always a part of my Khore. I did not even know her name until the night I found my path.

  One night while my father slept I snuck through the house and found a few parchments and books lying underneath the floorboard in my mother’s old room. The wood was rotten and the nails were rusted making it easy to pull the wood from the floor. The crevice was covered in dust as if no one had touched it in centuries. Pulling out a book I blew the dust off revealing a dark red velvet cover, it was so rich it looked like it was bleeding from the sides.

  Following the side of it with my finger I found a silver clasp holding the thick papers together. It was made to look like a dagger piercing a beautiful woman’s breast right above the heart. I gave a quick flick with my wrist and used a blunt dagger I had made many years ago. The clasp popped open with ease. The book fell to the floor rapidly flipping through its pages. The book stops in the center and begins to give of a light blue glow.

  I woke on my back and opened my eyes to see a giant vortex of lightning and fire. My heart sank into a pit of fear searching around me I found nothing but darkness no light, no sound nothing but absolute darkness. No fear, no Fear in my Khore it will not control me I will surpass and become strong….

  I looked into the vortex it started sucking the thoughts out of my mind a booming voice echoes around me. I know who you are son of Elindra and Ando you are of Alcheema blood one of the gifted. You……think of your mother….she gave her life for you to live. The carrier of the Maalo must give their life for it to pass to the next that is the price of the Alcheema. The words seared into mind like branding irons, “Your father knew this and has always despised you for this. The voice began to hiss in my mind and I began to shake in agony, “When you are of age you will leave your father and travel to find yourself. Be warned you must be ready before your powers awaken. Head towards the snowfields of Tadega and then head south through the pits of Dun I will wait for you.”

  The pain lingered slightly as everything faded to black and I started to question who the voice was; a gust of wind startled me and I realized I was returned to my mother’s old room. The book was now a pile of ashes on the floor; I quickly grabbed what was left in the floor and ran to my corner. I hid the parchments in a small hole under the floorboards and attempted to sleep but that night there was no rest for me.

  The day I found out why my father hated me I looked for solace in that fact that now I know why only this did not help with the hatred I had for him it only made the anger worse. I hated that man through to my Khore; the day of his death will be my day of joy.

  I left during my 17th winter my calling moved me away from his home and out into the wilderness. I would survive by my own hand and my own wit. I prepared as much as I could taking my blunt dagger
and an over coat to help against the cold. There was not much food or supplies to bring a small piece of bread and one skin of water. I gave one final look at my father as he lay there on the floor rolling in his own vomit. I felt nothing but rage and show this pathetic man that I am more than his mere puppet and plaything. He will rue the day wracking my body in pain, starving me. I will longer be his slave and show him what real power is.

  My first week away I spent traveling with only the words left from my mother’s possession to drive me. The winter was as cold and bitter as it ever was something I have become accustomed to. I survived on roots and the occasional fox that crossed my path. I tried to make some dried meat but I did not know how so I ate as much as I could hold and saved the rest in a snow filled pouch. My only friend was a small dagger I had made in the family furnace. It was misshapen and dull but is good enough for what I needed.

  The snow caked landscape started to strain my eyes and I tired of the continuous white with the occasional cluster of trees. Two weeks I had to suffer the blinding snow….starving….moving…..waiting. I was so sick of roots and what little vegetation I tried to eat, the