This, my new friends, is the biography of my character; Mr. Hale R. Kaverek. It'll probably be a little long, so maybe that'll deter some of you know. Okay then -Clears throat.-
A popular saying in the glorious east read: "The red star blesses those who build upon misfortune and trust the eye of oppurtunity".
Political jargon? Mostly. Yet this tale orbits a man, who in a dusky adjourn, out-flares any star. One who embodies that lie, and in sheer magnitude rewrites the content of its sheers.
Hale Renoir Kaverek was born into orphanage; his mother didn't survive his delivery, and a father was never located. He was brewed in a moderately average home, and surfaced in the care of many foster parents. He was a despondent, rebellious lad with quick hands and an even quicker tongue. While in the custody of the third caregiver, he simply left, and became nothing more then an urchin of the streets.
He wasn't part of any band of thieves, nor did he find ties with any of the other riffraff of the street. That way anything he took, he kept for himself. Hale was a skinny, fair lad with a pair of deathly pale blue eyes. He was complimented on them often, mostly by people he didn't even know. Even sometimes by those he'd stolen from. They were said to be quite hypnotic, and his best feature. Atop his head grew stringy tiers of black hair. At this time, he was only twelve years of age.
One afternoon Hale found himself treading out of his area of familiarity; the western section of the great city he resided in. The people there kept a bleak, disciplined air; tied in tight accordance to their indifferent expressions. They all carried swords, and other edged weapons tied to their belts, or strapped to their backs. Hale kept a small, pathetically dull-tipped dagger napped tightly into his pants. He'd drawn it several times, but only to give him running distance from the authorities.
Taking a small breather, he went into his scouting routine. Many different things laid judgment on who the best target would be; such things as age, weight, and of course, how wealthy they looked. He was usually picked quite suitable targets. Yet now and again ... he'd miss the mark.
His eye fell victim to an elderly man. About him stemmed a stately air; something like a politician or noble. Hale had dreamed about being able to single out someone like that, but could never get close enough because of their bodyguards. Yet, this man walked alone. Although at his side was a reputable sword, Hale wrought it out as nothing but an ornament. Perhaps it didn't add up, but his fingers were all ready tingling.
Stalking behind casually, he was surprised how swiftly, and consistent the man's strides were, seeing how haplessly aged he seemed. His ripened visage held eighty years at the very least. That enticed him even more so. Staying behind him, he followed him around a corner and down the dusty way. At the very end of the street stood a massive stoop that fed the mouth of a large temple-like structure. Each step brought him closer to his target, and every padded step caused a thump in his lungs. At an arm-legnth away he spotted what it was he would snag. The man wore a brilliant belt that was studded with a bar of pure gold at each side. Hitched on the left was a stunning silver sheath that swallowed his even more magnificent weapon. Hale grinned at the crystal that was embedded in the hilt of the thing. This would feed him for a decade.
Then rose the question ... how would he separate the man from the belt? He couldn't very well unhitch it right in front of him! He was nimble, but even that was out of his league. But a solution quickly usurped; since he wasn't very well going to -wear- the bloody thing, he didn't necessarily need it in one piece. In the back, where the gold links parted, he'd simply cut the soft material and quickly recoil with a smart jerk, and scamper off while the old bastard's trousers fell around his ankles. Even he thought it was quite genius.
So, sneaking up, his thoughts clouded in the glory of this hefty goal, his right hand reached around his waist, slipped beneath his shirt and clasped the hilt of the small dagger. Although daggers aren't typically edged, he'd sharpened one end; it came in handy. He reached out his other hand; his floated but a breath away from the man's back. At that moment a cancer of frost coated his lungs as an ominous gauge writhed in his heart. Without rhyme or reason all he could think to do was let his body stick to the earth, and to let gravity absorb him to the curvature of the plane. A streak of pure silver rioted above his head; departing hair from his head in the process. All this and he hadn't even hit the ground yet. When he did his lungs couldn't process a pump of oxygen. His eyes were clouded with an ecstasy he'd never experienced before. Looking up, several seconds passing now, he didn't have a clue. Peering down through the disdaining smirk of excellence, the old man looked down as he re-sheathed his weapon.
"That wasn't half-bad young man."
( ...well, that's the end of the first part. I'll add more later maybe. Questions or comments welcome. Thanks! )