Alfonso Pura: Son of Oppression
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Character Name: Alfonso Pura
Login Name: JSRBThe smooth trill of the flute brought mist into his eyes. He stared hard at the landscape, battered by time and age, the wind whipping it solemnly. The roseate sun drew memories from a chest he did not wish to reopen.
He was young. The Pura manor was a magnificent place, the blood, sweat and industry of his Amnish ancestors. They had fled the homeland in its darkest hour. Establishing themselves in the heart of Selgaunt, they now held a political power they never foresaw.
The breeze continued to blow, the flute subtly playing in the background.
A mentor was given him. An Amnish warrior, Gilberto. Ahh, yes. Master Gilberto. The man who had beat him countless times, urging his perennial practice. Like the wine crushed by feet, the juice was satisfying. His sword arm was polished. Polished, glimmering brightly.
He heard the cry of a hawk in the sky. He lifted a finger and rubbed his eye.
Yet Sembia is a place far from peaceful. Enemies, shadows in the dark, crept, lay in wait to strike. Plenty was to be gained. Annihilate the Puras. Kill them all, and power will be yours. Wealth will be yours. Rekindle those black flames of hatred and envy. Such was Sembia.
In its sharp crescendo the flute gave more powerful effect to his recollection.
They had come silent. The servants had been replaced. They were dining. And then drawn knives. Screams. Moans. Helpless prayers. He saw a glint of steel from Gilberto, but the stilettos paid no respect to his skill. He fled. He scampered, reaching for his master's sword, impaled in the heart of an assassin.
He rubbed his hands, a wan look on his face as the song began its somber drop.
He was aboard a musty old ship. He clutched a note in his hands. Two years since the massacre, and he was sent a letter by his father's friend in Peltarch. Gilberto's blade remained in his hands, the black lacquered scabbard beginning to age. He had to find work in the darkest places. Bodyguard for wizards. Sword for sale.
He looked up to the crimson heavens, reddened by the setting sun.
Yet he never forgot integrity. His parents had prodded him to live faithful to Waukeen. Master Gilberto had urged him praise Torm. But he felt no attachment. He did not live on wealth alone. He did not live on chivalry. He had found a patron. The god of Anhur, the one of retribution. Poetic justice. Vengeance. Hoar.
The flute's deep note punctuated his reminscing.
Narfell. A land harsh and untame. Beaten by the fortunes. This is where he would stay. Make a name. Make a fortune. Hone his skill. And eventually…
Pay blood for blood.
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