Character History"Babe, you're killing me with your curiosity."Murmur had not always been known as such. Far before his birth, the workings of Rhysol’s select were paving a fate for him that he would not be able to avoid. Born amongst a family of Syliran Knights in Syliras, Deven had been a relatively cheerful child, with Syliran Knight Atriso Baroth as his father and a mother who was proficient at the art of healing. His father had, at the time of his birth, been hopeful his son would follow in his footsteps and become a Knight, and throughout the months, when his duties would not steal him away from his family, he played with the young boy, telling him stories of his combat against the evil forces of the world, and of the mishaps in the city.
 When Deven turned two, his mother’s perception of reality seemed to gradually fail. More than once she had lashed out at the young boy, threw books at the child, and often ordered him to be silent when he wished his mother’s attention. Deven’s father would always return to shield his son at the worst moment, and argue with his mother over her appalling accusations.
“He is not my son, Atriso, he is not my son!” And she would scream these words, always in the darkest of the night, in the shadows of their home. Deven found himself hiding in the small crevices he could reach, to avoid the wrath of his ailing mother, but one day, she had found him. He was beaten until the arrival of Atriso, who caught his wife’s arm and jerked her away from their son. “What are you doing, Amatha? That’s our son.” “Liar!” She would shriek, “He is not, they took him from us, Atriso, they took our Deven!” The threads of insanity that snaked through her mind and the actions by Amatha were watched closely by a man who appeared just as any other citizen of the city, except for the intricate eye patch covering a portion of his face.
It was he Amatha ran to during the days that she could not stand the sight of Deven, and cried at his feet, hoping that her son would be returned to her. This man, so gentle with his words and his gestures whispered lies and corruption into her ear, urging her to take action into her own hands, that Deven was a demon! “What must I do?” She sobbed.
“Dispose of him, my dear.”
During the night of Deven’s fifth year, Amatha took her son to the outskirts of the city. He was frightened, terrified of the woman that grasped his hand in such a viselike grip, practically dragging the boy through the gates and out onto the Kabrin Road. He would cry for his father, to which a swift slap reached his lips in dark of the night. “Demons do not have fathers,” came the response of the woman beside him. He trembled, pulled at his mother’s fingers and cried, having not the notion to call for help. It would not be until twenty minutes had passed until Amatha paused on the side of the road, and ordered Deven to sit. He did so, fearing another beating where not but the birds would be able to react and hear him. But when Deven caught sight of the glint beneath his mother’s robes, instinct told him to run. Amatha had whipped out the dagger just as the boy scrambled to his feet. The blade sunk into his shoulder, but he ripped away, screaming and racing back the way they had come.
He could hear the footsteps of his mother behind him, but in her waking insanity, it was difficult to chase such a small boy in the dark. She nearly stumbled often, until her legs willed her forward in breakneck speeds, grasping the arm of her son and jerking him back into a fall. He wailed, struggling against a stronger force, kicking and punching with his small arms and legs, but Amatha only whipped her head back and laughed chillingly at the night sky. “You will die tonight, demon!” Her bloodied dagger raised, she glanced down into the eyes of her sobbing son, but the strike never came. Instead, the dull thump of the weapon onto the compact earth beneath him steadied his mind but for a fraction. Deven opened his eyes, having been tightly shut in anticipation, only to see that a bloody blade now protruded from his mother’s chest. A man stood behind her, garbed in plate, cheeks moist with the onset of fresh tears. He collapsed onto his knees, catching the woman he had called his wife and cradling her closely in his arms.
Deven did not pause in his intangible fear. He ran from his father and mother, stumbling across fallen logs and scraping his arms against protruding branches. He ran until the sight of the Stormhold Castle was just in view and his small body ached with exertion. He collapsed before making it to the doors, fatigue overwhelming him and fear now deeply ingrained in his mind. The cold air was soothing against his hot skin, and his wound, having bled profusely from his pumping heart, steadied. Deven, out of shock and desperation, blocked the pain that followed, crawling through the brush across the remainder of the distance to the castle gates, only he would never make it.
A man appeared from the shadows, the same man, with such an honest, gentle expression and the oddly displaced eye patch. He approached the young boy slowly, to ease him, and whispered that he meant him no harm. Deven shook from paranoia, expecting the worst, but only to hear soothing words escape his lips.
“So unfortunate, that a family should be torn so. Your mother did not love you, Deven, but I can.” A child was easily molded, so easily influenced by outside forces. This man, with his simple words, seemed more genuine than his mother had ever been, and in the wake of a tragic night, he needed guidance, a figure to look up to. The man had extended his hand, and Deven, after several minutes of hesitation, and seeing no glint on his person, sprung forth to wrap his small arms around the stranger’s waist.
It was then that he was taken into the fold.
Ravok was unlike anything he had ever seen. Beautiful, grand, deadly. The small boy from Syliras was awestruck, but he was, at the time, never given much freedom to explore. In fact, he seemed to be regarded with suspicion, even as he was taken under the wing of a soldier of the Ebonstryfe, named Jartu, raised for seven years and registered with the Black Sun. His love for blades was not lost, however. His mind, so easily susceptible to changes from his past was willing to embrace the teachings of Rhysol. Chaos and betrayal had brought him to this city, it had been fate. All of these things were instilled in him by those that watched him closely.
Despite some days of harsh discipline with plenty of beatings, Deven found himself practicing with his dagger and his ability to deceive. There was something in the boy that was ready to bloom, a darkness that had taken root in his mind and soul. On the day he turned twelve, the man with the intricate eye patch returned, taking him from his mentor, Jartu and bringing him to the grand structure that composed the Vitrax. Over the years, he has since learned to harness his morphing abilities and honed his stylistic dagger fighting. |
by Murmur on October 27th, 2010, 9:44 am 
