Aljistar's Auto-Biography
December 2018

(Note: this is a Dungeons and Dragons setting, and there is violence and abuse.) It was initially intended to use this as an outline for a longer story hence the ‘chapters’.

Prologue:

By candle light the quill gripped in the massive white furred hand dipped into an ink well and then touched the blank sheet of paper: 'My name is Aljistar. Just Aljistar; I don't have a clan name, or a sire name.' He wrote in the sharp and unimaginative script he had learned. 'I don't know who I was born of, or where. I grew up in an orphanage hall, and not a good one, it was a shit one to be exact. The Head Master to the house helped make sure we knew right from the start we were trash. Unwanted and useless.' the quill dipped in the ink once more before continuing: 'But we were not irredeemable, strict discipline, complete submission to the Head-Master's authority, and hard labor could give us some value.' The bull stopped and thought back about those years, trying to survive the harsh world of a poor and abusive hall, one ruled with a wooden rod. The white bull shook his head sadly, and continued to write.

Chapter One: The 'Refuse Heap'

Clambering back into his small bed, the all-white runt calf shook in fear as he pulled the blanket up over himself to the sound of hooves stomping loudly up the wooden stairs which signaled the angry approach of the Hall-Warden. The sound of the iron door being unlocked with a rattling of keys on the frame and the loud 'chunk-thunk' of the latch releasing, before the door burst open. An all-black bull with a wooden rod in hand threw the door all the way open slamming it against the wall.
"Who the FUCK made that noise!" he said as his large iron key ring swayed from a piece of twine tied to his belt.
Several shaking calf-hands pointed to Aljistar. He didn't blame them. If it was someone else he would have done the same. No one wants to be beaten.
The hall-warden fixated on his target and strode over quickly, grabbing the runt through the blanket. No more than nine years he could have been, and the black bull threw the runt to the floor in the middle of the hall.
The blows were quick and hard, there were eight in quick succession then ending in two slower final strikes to the now motionless calf on the floor.
"Candles-out means stay the FUCK in your bed and shut the FUCK UP!" the bull roared at the silent dormitory before stomping out of the room, slamming the iron door shut and locking it followed by the sound of hoof-falls fading down the stairs.
This was the way of the orphanage, the refuse heap.

Chapter Two: The House of Shadows

The orphanage was the perfect place for the House of Shadows to recruit. They could get them young. And since the calves were nobodys they wouldn't be missed and wouldn't be recognized. They were unwanted by the rest of the empire, making them perfect for training as assassins. It made it easy really; young, impressionable, traumatized, and wildly desperate for attention and purpose. The calves all wanted to prove themselves. The House of Shadows would gladly allow them to think that by joining they would be given that.
And when Aljistar was approached by the house, he was thirteen; he was lured-in with the House's standard form: an impressive show, and a promise.
One day while on cleaning duty, sweeping the basement and the storerooms, he saw a glint of steel in the corner of the dark room. He almost ignored it, but after a second thought he took the lantern and investigated. As he approached, there was a steel blade, a long sharp dagger laying on a pile of sacks. Setting the lantern down, he carefully picked up the blade. It was heavy... it was real! Not a stick or a piece of wood shaped like a toy sword, this was a real blade. Admiring the blade and its intricate finish that looked like dizzying lines etched in to the steel, with a dark almost black finish. The calf hefted the blade and gave it a experimental swing followed by a short thrust towards an imaginary foe.
"That could be yours if you want." the adult voice said coolly from behind him.
The calf spun about with the blade, he was caught! He'd be caned for sure!
An all-black bull he had never seen before was standing in the darkness and moved closer to the light. He was dressed in all flat-gray leather armor and his eyes were fixed right on the calf. He had a sword sheathed on his hip too, the calf noticed.
"That blade can be yours. But you'd have to earn it." he said again taking a step forward.
"...How?" As Aljistar stepped back he formulated some words despite his uncertainty and fear."Your not from the Orphanage..."
The Black Bull smiled: "No, I'm not. Quite astute of you. I just travel the realm looking for the most promising young warriors. Then I test them."
"Test them how? Why?" the calf wondered.
"First I ask them to do a few things. Show me that they are worthy... then I give them an special offer... An offer to train in one of the great Houses of War..."
"But I don't have a clan!" the calf blurted his shameful failure, and lowered his head.
"Do you know of the clan of Wrath?"
"No.." The calf said looking at the blade in his hands again.
"But you probably know of us, of our great victories. You have hear the story about the sack of Timnaius? Or about the victories of the Raider-king Armaguath? The stories of the raids of the eastern isles? Those were all exploits of the clan of Wrath!" the mysterious bull said excitedly, stepping in closer.
The calf looked up from the dagger with wide eyes, those were legends and stories from history, great warriors who were never forgotten... The bull wore armor that had intricate designs on it, not the armor of a commoner.
"You see boy, we are a mercenary clan. You don't have to be a high born member of a great clan or member of a noble house to become great and wealthy." He moved over and sat on a mound of burlap sacks of rice.
His tone changed softer. "Do you like that dagger?" he asked.
"Yes sir, its very nice." the calf responded looking at the fine blade in his hands before holding it out to the stranger to return it.
"Do you want it?" the stranger asked.
"What?! The Hall-warden will never let-" he started before the stranger interrupted.
"That is your first test my boy. You must keep the dagger in this building without any one knowing you have it." he said standing back up. "Keep the dagger hidden and its yours. This is your first test... If you pass all the tests I will get you out of this dump, and you will be trained as a warrior. You will become great and powerful." the bull looked at him with a mysterious gaze, as if judging him for his worth.
"What if they find it?" Aljistar asked terrified of the answer
The armored bull strode over to the runt, taking his face in his hand. "It looks like the Hall-Warden will take a rod to you." he said examining the black eye and bruised snout."Do you hate the Hall-Warden?"
"Yes." he replied softly.
"Do you want him to know what its like to hurt?"
"Yes." he replied sternly.
"Good. Keep that hidden. I will come by in a few weeks to see if you still have it." and he turned to leave.
"Why me?" the words were quite, and spoken from self doubt.
"Did you know I grew up in this orphanage too?" he said turning back to face the calf.
"You did?" A spirit was uplifted.
"Yes. I did. And I was given this very same test...I see in you what they saw in me." The black bull lied ruthlessly.
"What do you see in me?" he asked bluntly.
"Something special, a true warrior, capable of great things." the older bull lied as he stalked back in to the dark corner out of the lanterns light. "Don't let us down..." he said as he ...vanished.
"I'm... special." the young one said under his breath as he looked at the dagger. No one ever said anything like that about him before, he felt ecstatic. He already knew where to hide the dagger that no one would find it.

Chapter Three: The First

After a  few years of maturing and grooming, the candidate was ready. He had passed all the tests. Drive, Loyalty, and Obedience. The tests were made to draw them in, sink the hooks in, and trap them in a tightening web. Steal from the hall-warden. Plant evidence on another orphan and make sure he gets caught. Attack and beat an other calf selected by The House. Sneak out of the orphanage at night and kill the Head-Master's dog. Sneak in to the Hall-Wardens dormitory and poison his beer to make him sick. But all that had to lead up to something; culminating in The First.
The Circus. Every boy dreamed of it, every adolescent would face it. Your worth and purpose as a Bull would be weighed by that moment, that fight. Unless you were a slave or a clan-less bastard. Unworthy. Not an adult, not a warrior, not citizen, just living refuse.
"...and so you cannot go to the Circus. It is not your place." the Headmaster told the assembled sixteen year olds.
The room was silent. There might have been arguments, or even threats, but the elderly Headmaster wisely had the Hall-warden present, standing behind them with his stout wooden batton.
This was a death sentence. Seventeen was the year of the Circus. And we would not be granted approval.
Sleep did not come to him that night. But that didn't matter, he had to stay up anyway and count the bells tonight.

After the Eleventh Bell:

He had killed animals before. He had even stabbed or beaten other orphans, and even watched a slave die, but this was still a big step. The appointed place was a barge dock after the eleventh bell. The city was dark and quiet. The night air was cold. Climbing through the unlocked window of the warehouse he dropped down to the cobblestone floor. A lantern in one corner drew his attention. He got closer to a bull tied to a chair with a bag over his head.
"Good your just in time." the familiar voice of his handler echoed the room, but he was as yet unseen.
Aljistar bowed for his handler, where ever he may be in the room.
"Tonight is the Final Test. Tonight is your Circus." the shadowy voice said with a cold and wicked grin.
Aljistar jumped visibly at the comment. Would he have to fight another tonight?
"Your task is simple. Show us you are worthy, show us you can do what needs to be done. Show us you are a Bull, not a calf." the voice said smugly.
"What am I to do." Aljistar flatly asked the darkness in the deepening voice of an almost-adult.
"Pull off the Hood."
Aljistar stepped up to the tied bull. He grasped the sack and pulled it off.
Confusion and panic filled him his heart was racing.
It was Karahso. His best and only friend from the orphanage.
Aljistar's heart dropped. He felt sick.
Karahso's muzzle was tied shut tight. His eyes were red from tears, he was terrified.
"Grab his throat." the voice of darkness commanded.
Aljistar did something he had never done before. He didn't listen to the voice.
"You have never disappointed us before. What a pity." the voice mocked wistfully from the darkness.
"Now put your FUCKING HAND around his Fucking Throat!" it commanded with anger and venom.
Slowly Aljistar's white pelted hand rose shakily up to his friend's throat. He looked Karahso in the eyes, trying to re-assure his friend.
"Good. Draw your blade." the deep bovine voice somewhere behind him almost purred.
Slowly his hand gripped the pommel of the dagger on his belt. It was bad to not do what the Shadowy voice told him to do. He had seen examples of that first hand and shuddered at the thought.
"Good boy." the voice slithered as the blade slowly drew out of the scabbard. "Remember this is your Circus. Fail this, and you fail yourself. Fail this and you fail your people. Fail this and you fail us. Fail this ...and you will be sitting in that chair." the intonation was stern. At Threat and a Promise.
After a moment of staring into Karahso's eyes, who silently begging for him to not do this.
"Touch the tip of the blade to his throat, between your thumb and pointer finger." the voice guided him softly.
Slowly and shakily he raised the blade to the spot. Karahso didn't want to die. And Aljistar didn't want him to die either. Maybe, maybe this was just a test. He wouldn't actually have to do it...Yes... Just a test.
"Kill Him." the words were cold, flat, and merciless. A command. An Order.
He stood holding the tip of the blade pointed to the center of his friends throat, looking him in the eyes.
The voice spoke loudly, echoing the dark room as if it was the voice of gods: "The headmaster told you that you were refuse. The Hall-warden beat you senseless every night for the first week." Switching track the voice used a trigger so carefully cultivated: "And they are right about you; they knew you better that I thought, you are absolutely worthle-" the voice stopped mid-syllable and formed a disgustingly evil grin as the blade sunk in.
Karahso's eyes bulged and lost focus and a sickening gurgling sound emanated from his neck, blood both oozed and squirted out from around the blade. There was a moment of panic. Aljistar pulled the blade out, but that made it worse, the blade dropped to the ground, he tried to cover the hole with his hands, but the blood just kept coming out...
It took Karahso an eternity to die, and all Aljistar could do was panic and try and cover the hole he had made, to say he was sorry, so sorry. Once Karahso stopped moving and the blood stopped coming out Aljistar stopped panicking. He stood there at a loss. Empty. Numb.
Lifting his hands, the white pelt was stained with his only friend's blood. What had he done?
The voice was pleased, but offered no condolences.
"Saw the head off. Bring it to the alley behind the Temple before the 12th bell. Do this and you will be a warrior and have your day in the Circus. Fail, and you will be thrown to the Dungeons."
He didn't bother to ask any further questions. He knew the Shadowy Voice was gone. After some time He looked down at his blade soaked in a pool of blood.

The Twelfth Bell:

The sack holding the head in hand, he stood at the back door to the Temple of Victory as the twelfth bell rang.
"I had doubts." The voice said from behind him, Condescending.
Turning he saw his handler fade in to existence.
"But I was wrong- you have passed your Circus- you are now Aljistar of clan Shadow Hoof. Welcome to the darkness my son."
Chapter Four: Walking into the Dusk
The quill dipped in the ink pot one more time before starting on a fresh page:
'Chains in darkness. Chained to Darkness. If I or any of my brothers had known what it would actually mean to be in this clan, we would have killed ourselves first. The House of Shadows and the Shadow Hoof clan were a lie. There was never one place or organization. There was no great history or clan behind it. It was a fraud. A deadly lie. The place we were kept and trained in was an old butcher and smoke house, long crumbling and unwanted. Examining the registers in later times I found that it was sold to some fake-name shortly before we were recruited. The 'house of shadows' was whatever decrepit structure was cheap, available, and private. The 'clan of shadow hoof' only existed when a contract was signed, and would disappear as soon as it was fulfilled. We were tools to be used for a goal, then tossed in to the sea.
The first week in the House of Shadows was a nightmare. I wished for death every day. Steel cuffs were locked to our wrists and ankles. We were all fitted with steel collars. We were lower than slaves.
Light was a privilege. Speaking was a privilege. Being unchained was a privilege.
There were mantras to be repeated without mistake to avoid the rod.
Food portions were based on strict adherence to training regimes.
Speaking an others name meant receiving a "quarter century of lashes". Here we were only brothers in the silent darkness. Our dormitory was a sub level where six of us were kept chained together in an old drying room. There were no windows, no lanterns, no clothes, and we could only sit or lie on the floor. Bells were fastened to the chains. Too much noise meant we all received a lashing.
We trained constantly, we trained hard. Weapons and anatomy, memorized training mantras, and studied our various fake identities. Those were a blessing, the only real escape- acting and pretending to be someone else, learning their dialect and behavior patterns. With a snap of a finger a broken adolescent slave could become a wealthy traveling merchant, or a tax and levy examiner, or other generally unremarkable but mobile and moderately influential bull. We all lived in those false identities in our heads during quiet times and sleep, it was our only escape.
Missions were both wonderful and horrendous. They removed the steel cuffs, and we were given street clothes and weapons. But you never knew what you you would do, who you would meet or what was next. Orders were specific, meaningless, and usually a long series of seemingly pointless relays. Things like: 'Give this order to this bull'; or 'Wait in this place for two nights'; 'travel to this place and meet with a bull'; 'Take this satchel to this place and leave it under a bed'; 'Travel the road between this point and this point, on this specific day.' There was often little meaning to us for what we did. It sounds ill to say it now, but we looked forward to the missions where we would kill.
The best mission was one where you were sent to yet another meaningless place, but brother would pass you a kill order: 'Go to this building, a knife is in the windowsill of the second floor, target sleeps in the big bed, no witnesses, set it aflame before you leave, the drop point is the alley behind the brewery.' In that dark deed we were free, our powers were unleashed. For a hour you weren't a slave in the darkness, but its powerful avatar of wrath. We were trained to be submissive when in chains, but once unleashed on a mission, merciless monsters. Entering that building you became death's will, and nothing could stop you.
Chapter Five: Leaving no Shadow
The years of training and operations of the clan had lead up to a mission, one grand plot. Everything until now was just training and testing, only with the goal of readying a force for a single large operation. This was the reason they were created.
The relay of orders, movements and objectives was the same, but the terseness and venom behind the orders was thicker. All Assassins were dispatched this time, as usual watched closely by handlers and other assassins. Weeks of travel, laying cover, watching for counter operations, and moving weapons people, and materials in to place.
The board was set.
Pretending to be a rug merchant staying in a cheap in for a night was fun. Drinking, reading, eating whatever he wanted. Taking a slave up to his room for the night, and sleeping in a bed not a cot. Living a normal life...
One of the Shadow-brothers entered the room and stood motionlessly in the dark corner, unseen by the human slave-boy. Aljistar noticed him and shooed the slave-boy away, making sure he didn't see the stealthy guest. It would have been sad to kill him if he had. Once the door closed, the shadow-brother attacked Aljistar with lightning speed. Silent hoof-steps and he closed the distance armed with a sword. Aljistar rolled silently to the floor, and as he stood drew the wood-axe he had hidden under the bed, and used the beard of the axe to hook and redirect the blade that was making swift and precise arcs where he had just stood. Moving back he underhand slung the blade and hammered the Shadow Brother in the gut, slowing him for a second. It was just long enough for the axe to stop and come back down in to his neck. The sword dropped, Alistair's training kicked in and he stepped on the blade swiftly to prevent it from clattering on the floor. The Brother was dying but not dead; on the floor clutching hi neck, blood pooling, he sprung back up with a dagger in hand, lunging to Aljistar. Using the butt of the axe handle to first knock the blade aside, he swung again, ending his brother.
Aljistar knew he was marked. His time was short. Quickly he searched the dead brother, there was a envelope, he removed the brother's outer clothes and any that were bloodless he put on, taking the swords and scabbard too, he would assume the brothers identity for the moment. Looking at the dead brother wistfully, he thought 'Aljistar is dead now'.
He looked at the orders in the envelope: 'Sword is on the roof. kill the target. No witnesses, burn the evidence. Drop point is in the street behind the temple.' That meant he was expected to go to the street and drop the sword, where a handler was probably waiting to dispose of the brother too. The handler was close, maybe even watching. He would have to feign following orders, but disappear at the last minute. So he set up the room, laying the brother redressed in Alistair's clothes on the bed, and then set the room aflame with some hay, broken furniture, and a 'knocked over oil lamp'. He watched the pyre burn for a moment, saying a silent goodbye to his nameless brother, and also himself. Aljistar must be dead now. He exited the window the brother had entered, and clambered down the roof and wall to the alley below. Moving towards the street by the Temple, he formed a plan. The fire in the building was causing a commotion, and he would use that to disappear. He saw his handler watching from a vantage on a balcony down the street. No doubt his handler saw him, but likely at this distance would not know his true identity. Aljistar acted like he didn't see the handler, and acted was heading to the drop point, but then was interrupted by the commotion and guards running to the burning inn. He looked around and up and down the street, and acted like he wanted to head to the drop but could not, and would need to take an alternative rout. Then heading back in to the alley and out of site of the Handler, he moved quickly away from the area.
Interlude
Aljistar stopped to ink his quill once more and ponder the 'clan' of Shadow Hoof.
'They felt that an assassin's First should be memorable. That it should be a bull's most difficult kill, so that every one after that would be so much easier' he wrote. He thought sourly of the 'clan' he learned to despise so much. The House of Shadows was a lie. It appeared whenever their was a large enough contract, recruited and trained orphans to be disposable assassin-slaves, used to complete dangerous missions, then liquidated all the 'liabilities' before fading away in to piles of bloody coin.
He never had a family. He killed his only friend. He was kept in chains in a cell. Forced to murder innocents and guilty alike for his so-called 'clan'. Bitter. Empty. Lonely. That was his life then.

Chapter Six: Fleeting Ghost

Aljistar quickly moved through the night, he stopped in a fenced yard and stole a change of clothes from a clothes line. His old clothes had to be hidden elsewhere as not to be found. Then he moved to the harbor before dawn, and stowed away to a ship that was finishing loading up cargo, hence likely to leave soon. Once it was at sea he just pretended to be a new-hired hand doing the most grueling work so no one would question or complain. It was a week in to the voyage before the deck-boss asked up the chain and found out no one had hired a new sea hand. After a beating, day in the brig, and some questioning, Aljistar made the Deck-boss an offer. Let him stay aboard the ship, his only expectation is food and water, and he will work as hard as he did before they found him out. It was an easy offer to accept, Aljistar was the hardest working bull on the ship, and he didn't want any coin. This arrangement remained for a year before the captain insisted Aljistar be paid. Aljistar spent his years after escaping the clan hiding, as a hand on different cargo ships, dying his pelt brown, using assumed names, and never stopping, always running.
Chapter Seven: Walking in to the Dawn
And so jumping off the cargo ship on to the quay he slung his backpack and headed into the town. Now aged thirty-three, It was as if the last few years spent working at sea had cleansed him of the darkness that weighed on him. He was far enough removed from his people and lands in both time and distance that the darkness shouldn't find him here. Heading to the first building at the shore side of the quay, he wasn't sure what he would find, and was nervous, still feeling a bit like an inauthentic shadow, not a real or 'normal person', but he was also optimistic. His time, friends, and travels at sea had marked him too. Now he knew how to smile authentically, how to smile because he felt good. He was himself. He was... Aljistar. He was alive now, he was free now, free to choose his fate.

(This is where Aljistar enters a DnD campaign.)