« on: January 02, 2014, 08:23:42 AM »
Back to the drawing board.
Back to the drawing board.
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Machines have always spoken to Malek. The son of a mechanik, he was taught his father’s trade in his workshop near King’s Vine. He learned to repair all manner of things, from farm equipment to labourjacks- even constructing housing for mechanika items. All the while, watching men and women marching off to protect his homeland from zealots and barbarians.
His parents were devout Morrowans, his mother’s belief bordering on the fanatical at times. In his home, forever was the looming specter of Morrow’s wrath whenever he misbehaved. The result, being a practical young man with no time for faith. Even the most delusional madman can’t deny the existence of the gods.. but frankly, he’d prefer they were looking elsewhere.
Malek dreamed of joining the ranks of the Cygnaran military. He wanted to serve his nation, protect his home and do his parents proud. And when he came of age, he did just that. Packed up his things and left to join up. His father was understandably annoyed, wanting nothing more than him to take over his workshop when he passed into Urcaen.
His potential as a mechanik was recognized and he was put into the role of field mechanik. He was ecstatic. He’d never dreamed he’d get to work on the giant, gleaming warjacks of Cygnar. Years passed. The boy became a man and was granted rank through exemplary service and grace under fire. In that time he constructed his own labourjack from battlefield salvage. From scratch. And that’s what he named the jack. Scratch.
In his mid twenties, Malek fell for a slightly younger girl, a seamstress named Molly. Their tryst lasted years and endured the hardships of him being stationed far away. His superior officer, Captain Kurt Darkmoor, had an eye for her. Malek knew it. But he trusted Molly and so it wasn’t an issue.
Malek returned home, after six months in the field. He found Molly stripped, violated, her life snuffed out in the most cruel of ways. Shock and grief hit him in an instant. As he held her in his arms, her rigid fingers were grasping a fragment of torn Cygnaran military uniform. The embroidery reading, “Darkmoor.”
Malek’s world went red. Filled with blind rage. He sought out Captain Darkmoor and set upon him in a frenzy. When his mind cleared and he looked down upon the broken, bloody mess that was the Captain he panicked and fled.. left him for dead.
He was soon arrested, but in the light of the extreme circumstance he got off light. His punishment was being stripped of rank and being discharged from service. Malek was at a lose end. He spiraled down, through grief, depression, gambling and alcoholism. He’d lost everything. Malek became a drifter. Gambling to pay for room and whatever cheap rotgut the tavern he was staying at was serving.
On a night like any other, he was fairly drunk, gambling away what little money he had on a game of cards. For once, luck was running in his favor. He was up at least two or three hundred gold crowns, but the other players were beginning to get suspicions of his streak. Tensions flared, one of the other players accused him of cheating. The result was a brawl.
A glass went sailing through the air, colliding with the back of a brawny looking troll’s head. Raining glass. Interrupting him getting into the delicates of whatever young bar wench had taken his fancy that evening.