Name: Attilio
Species: Human
Age: 36
Gender: Male
Appearance:
The man wears a cloak, preferably with the hood more or less hiding his face seeing as he has multiple scars over his left eye and both cheeks in his once delicate face from the torture he received after the terrible events he caused. Those scars on his face are not the only ones, however. His body is slender, though muscled, but not overly so, from years of training. He is tanned and his medium length hair is of a very dark colour, seemingly black but actually being a tint of brown, and has some waves in it. It is rather jumpy and appears to be tangled a bit. Under the cloak he wears his breastplate, under which he also wears a chemise, simple pants and heavy boots. His sword is sheathed on his left side and Attilio also has some rings that he wears on his left hand.
History:
The birth of the king’s sons went spotless, that is, until Vidar was born. The Lady’s nurse quickly muttered to herself with her old cracking voice, her actions becoming more frantic and nervous than before. “Get some hot water!” the head nurse yelled angrily at the servants, who currently were trying to hide in the kitchen from the piercing screams and old woman’s harsh ways. “Quick, ye filth, bring it!” The hag’s eyes widened surprised as suddenly the heavy doors slowly were being pushed open, letting in a rather pale looking robust figure. The king, upon his realization that something was off, furiously tramped inside the dark and musty room. Expensive curtains concealed the enormous windows, an intimidating stone fireplace was lit, warming and lighting the king and queen’s bedchamber. The walls were filled with paintings, made by brilliant artists, of once great ancestors. Your attention, however, was immediately being pulled towards the huge royal bed with its heavy covers, made of the finest silk and overdone decorations. Excruciating screams erupted from the young woman who was helplessly writhing in said bed. Her body, covered by sweat, tears and blood trashed violently as contractions mercilessly swept over her torn body. The blonde-haired king rushed over to her side, tightly gripping her hand with his own clammy one as he angrily snapped his head towards the nurse. “Woman”, he sternly demanded, his threatening voice hiding his own fears, “my wife already has delivered my son, what is the meaning of this?” The elderly woman anxiously moved around, back and forth with her medical tools, quickly wiping away the slowly forming sweat on her forehead. “My lord, you must understand-”
-A heartwrenching scream interrupted her raspy voice. She breathed deeply, only slightly calming herself as she went over to the so terribly suffering woman again. “There has been a… Misunderstanding.” The husband growled as he jumped right, forcefully gripping the woman’s throat. “A misunderstanding?” he hissed, narrowing his eyes while he increased the force his hold had on her throat. “M... My lord” the poor nurse hoarsely whispered due to the lack of air, her old papery hands fruitlessly clenching around his much stronger and larger ones, “I could not know, my lord, but the lady is having twins... Another heir is what you shall receive.” A menacing sneer appeared on the man’s strong features; he released the nurse and glanced concernedly back towards his beloved who was bravely fighting terrible pains. “Do what you must”, he coldly replied, marching to the large oaken doors once again, “but she shall live. I already have been blessed with a heir” The king couldn’t help but quickly glance backwards yet another time to his wife as he went to leave the chamber, eyeing the increasing amount of blood and her visibly weakening form with sheer horror in his heart. For the last time, he once more turned towards the nurse, his message clear. “Do not disappoint me.”
His father never forgave him.
Happy was not the way his youth could be described with, neither his current situation, to be honest. As long as he could remember and his memory reached, he had been living in the shadow of his oh so dear brother, Vidar. Vidar, the gentle boy with his angelic face, gorgeous blonde curls and striking blue eyes, the one who could never do the slightest wrong, he was everyone’s favorite. The absolutely cunning boy was able to manipulate everyone to get exactly what he wanted and nothing less.
He, Attilio, had always been ignored, accused and beaten around without mercy. They blamed the poor boy to have caused their beautiful queen’s death. He was shun by everyone, even his own sire did not wish to have anything but the utterly necessary to do with the inconvenience his second son was. After all, that was all Attilio was and would ever be; the second one who was never expected nor longed for to be created. Vidar, Vidar, Vidar. Always Vidar, the incredibly and outright perfect son. He himself was an accident, an annoying incidence that would be erased if possible. Words inaudibly traveled through the air, tangling themselves where they could. He was not one of them, the winds whispered scornfully, but demon breed. “Witch child”, they silently murmured as he passed, the string of sounds leisurely starting to echo everywhere. His dark hair and slender appearance opposing to the normally robust, blonde and strong impression of the lineage of kings. Only his piercing blue eyes screamed the consanguinity of him and his twin brother. They were different in each and every manner imaginable, although perhaps their eyes and love for swords and fighting were shared. The saddened boy who did not understand why his own father and actually everyone –not even his twin brother, who was, in his own mind, supposed to support and help him- so heartlessly beat and scolded him, grew to be a bitter teenager. He left the home that had never truly been a home in the first place and lived with his father’s hunters and mercenaries, still not far away from the castle he used to reside in. He had to admit that, after all, that cold place still kept the illusion of being a home.
During his life with the fighters he was being taught to hunt and was introduced to swordsmanship by masters of these arts. The black-haired youngster did not only practice the skills the mercenaries educated, but also studied subjects like military strategies, geography, reasoning and other different things from the books he had secretly taken with him when he left. In other words; he was silently preparing himself to challenge Vidar when the time would definitely come. Too long had he been walking in his shadow, too long had he been set aside. He refused to back off, to show himself weak. He would punish everyone for every beating, every scornful comment. They would pay for everything. For every single thing they had caused. All those years he had suffered and now he was planning to wreak revenge, to let the rage and sadness that had been gnawing on him, consuming him wholly, freely reign. For the biggest part of his life he had to hide away, seeing as literally nothing was safe, between the shadows and other forgotten things. Bitterness and anger started to cloud his mind and heart. Often he had to steal to more or less get something, anything, to eat. Some servants, however, even though they were strictly forbidden to aid him in any way, seemed to sometimes help him; whenever he desperately needed something, at times when he had gotten sick for example, medicines seemed to somehow appear on his path, in places he thought were known only to himself. But the years of suppression, of absolute jealousy and hate easily outran these little specks of light.
The sole reason he had been allowed to stay in the castle was because his father, king Vidar, who named his firstborn son after himself, could not afford to eliminate him. If something indeed was to happen to Vidar ‘junior’, he would always be able to return to the other plan, making Attilio the heir of his kingdom. Although as much as he might have wanted, the grieving king could not help but blame this unexpected second son for the death of his beloved. This restrained him in everything that had to do with the dark haired boy, who was so unlike himself or his wife for that matter. The old king had often wondered if the boy indeed was his, if he truly was the Devil’s cruel interference in his life. Nevertheless, how sorrowful and blinded by hate the king might be, he could not possibly deny the fact that this boy, his son, possessed the same eyes his love and firstborn have. That on itself was the proof that Attilio in fact was his other righteous heir. This was something the king was not bothered by. Not yet, that is. Ah, how many times he had punished the boy, whipped and beaten him for trivial matters. He simply let out all his fury and sorrow on this creature that had callously taken away that which he loved most.
As the years passed, Attilio became a strong man. His skin had tanned from working and practicing outside, improving his abilities. He now was very skilled with the sword, the result of having trained years and had developed a nice amount, but not overly, of muscle and endurance. For the first time he had friends, their strong bonds forming over the time they had been training together. These guys, as old as he was, felt more like his brothers than Vidar had ever been. They all were a family, taking care of each other and making sure everything was alright with its members. He was happy, finally. He felt as if for the first time he had found a nice place. Yet, the hate and darkness inside him had not left, if anything, it had only gotten more intense and heavier than before, easily clouding his thoughts. Then, on a certain day, rumors of the dying king drifted across the land. This was the moment he had been waiting for, training for and had withstood all harsh happenings. This, this was his chance at justice. It was night when he left in silence, taking with him only his own sword and gear. The resentment inside the man seemed to be awakened with full fury once again, scorching him inside.
The next evening he already had arrived at the castle, having exhorted the horse he had stolen to its limits. As he deliberately entered the large hall again, painful memories assaulted his mind. Never would he be the weak, pathetic second again. Never would they forget him, the misfortune. The large marble stairs and many sculptures seemed unreal as he now, with much more ease than all those years ago, climbed them with the intent of entering his father’s chambers at the end of the large corridor at the left. “He has passed away already”, a deep, strangely familiar sounding voice menacingly stated behind him. Attilio swiftly swirled around, unsheathing his deadly blade, only to stop it right in its path through the air. A man, the striking image of his own father, yet he seemed of the same age, stood before him. “Vidar”, Attilio hissed poisonous, his calloused hand holding the heavy metal sword high. The tanned man slowly took some hostile steps forwards only to back off in surprise already as he noticed the magnificently decorated golden crown. “No”, he heard his own voice in surprise exclaim, “you are king already.” Laughter resonated through the large hall, to his shock immediately showing the accuracy of his assumption. This was not going according to plan. Attilio realized he could never possibly attack the king and get out alive. “Hm…”, the much deeper voice started again, blue eyes that were so alike to his own traveled over his form, “you have changed a lot, Attilio, my brother.” The tension hung heavily through the air. Then suddenly, it was almost ridiculous, he felt two strong arms embracing him. “Ah, my brother has finally returned”, Vidar spoke, contentment apparent on his strong features, “I waited a long time for this moment to happen.” ‘You have no idea’, Attilio thought darkly, new rage quickly spreading itself like a disease inside himself. He somehow managed to keep it down, and simply returned his dear brother’s embrace.
Attilio stayed at the castle, the place that harbored every single one of his hateful feelings. It was tormenting, having to stay there. Having to experience how yet again, he was being ignored, pushed aside. Less than filth. And Vidar… He did not wish to start about that. The swordsman was wandering around the royal gardens, as in the midst of the high grass, between beautifully blooming flowers, another flower, far more beautiful than any rose he had been privileged to see, silently lay on her back. Her hair was long, blonde and flowed around her delicately sculpted head as she so wordlessly watched the skies and clouds, her gentle green eyes half-closed as she snoozed away, undoubtedly dreaming of fantastic things. Attilio’s heart seemed to have somehow come alive. For the first time in his life, a truly pleasant, fluttering, feeling in his chest made itself apparent. As in a dream, he paced over to her, and let himself fall softly next to her in the fresh, green, grass. They talked, kept talking. And for a long time, they met there everyday, on that same spot, under the bright sun at noon or the ever shimmering stars when night had spread its wings over the lands already. Nothing else but she mattered, for when he talked to her, he felt truly at ease. He felt… At home. Every single day he longed for the moment when he would travel to that field again, and wait for her to come. She did come, every single time. He heard and saw her from afar, her dress floating around her body, and as she let herself fall down next to his larger and much more tanned form on the grass, it hugged her curves in the most beautiful way, he noticed. Attilio, the man truly was in love. He was convinced; this was not merely a short fleeting romance, but a feeling, a mutual feeling, that went much deeper. This girl, this woman, was someone of whom he was more than absolutely certain he could share his life with and never stop loving. Their meetings went on for more than a year, seasons passed, different flowers were being planted. She was a servant, assigned to take care of the incredibly large garden together with some others. But, whenever the woman had some free time, she would happily dart towards ‘their place’, waiting for him to come to her. At night, when no onlookers were there to disturb, they kissed, caressed and loved each other. They embraced each other as they dreamt of their future together.
One night, however, she arrived there crying uncontrollably. Attilio’s heart darkened a tad again, the light feel it had for months now slowly giving a bit of its place over to the anger and sadness his heart used to contain before. Vidar had chosen her to be his bride. A memory surfaced; one time they had strolled at night, arm in arm, enjoying each other’s company as suddenly his brother passed by, greeting them. To his feeling, the other man’s blue eyes that so resembled his own had rested an instance too long on the woman at his side. Afterwards he had simply shrugged it off, after all, what would a king want to have to do with a mere servant? A lot more than he had thought in the first place, obviously. There was nothing he could do against this. Absolutely nothing. And this powerless feeling… It caused a rage, greater than anything he had ever experienced before. They embraced each other, comforting the other although both realized it was a lost gesture. That night, the last time they could truly see each other before she would wed, thus having her taken away forever from him, promises of love were made. That night, was when she freely offered herself to him; he tenderly accepted.
He was furious, enraged as Vidar. Vidar, Vidar, Vidar. Always Vidar. Had once again gotten that what he, Attilio, so frantically longed for. It was about 8 months ago since they had married. At times, he had been able to steal a glance at her. However, as time passed by, she responded less and less to his desperate attempts at trying to make contact. When the man had been wandering alone in the garden, sadly remembering their times together there he suddenly stood eye in eye with the subject of the biggest part of his thoughts. The reason why she had been avoiding him very apparent on her belly. She was pregnant. That bastard had impregnated his woman. And she, that filthy impure whore, shamelessly enjoyed the luxury and everything that came with being a queen very much. She simply deposed of him, throwing him away. He had been nothing but an unimportant flirt, one of the many. His never ending sorrow started to distort into an ugly monster. Jealousy. His love, however, became a blinding rage as he witnessed how, as time passed further, her swollen stomach naturally grew further. It drove him insane, clouded his mind. She was his, that child, her child, should have been his. The longer he pondered about these facts, the more enraged Attilio became. Vidar was taking everything that belonged to himself, Attilio, for his own. Again. He exploded on the inside, the scorching, clawing beast that had been forming inside him for such a long time finally started to tear its way out. He had made his plan already, too long had he been distracted by that witch and trivial nonsense. She would pay. Everyone would pay.
Cloudless was the pitch-black night when he decided to carry out his terrible plan. He silently sneaked up the marble stairs, as he had done when he arrived here, a few years ago, and inaudibly walked to the King and Queen’s bedchamber. Loud snoring sounded through the heavy oaken closed doors. Attilio somehow managed to open them, the small creaks –luckily- not waking the sleeping persons. He crept over to the royal bed, discerning the two figures that lay there as he noiselessly went to the right side of the bed. He soundlessly unsheathed his sword, the slight screeching of the blade causing a slight frown on the face of the one sleeping on the side of the bed he was standing at. A cruel smile tugged at his lips, he slowly held the sword high. “How sad”, he mockingly whispered. The sound of metal being swinged forcefully through the air filled the room for a fraction of a second, before the tip mercilessly pierced skin, flesh and bones. An excruciating scream erupted from the woman’s throat, as her swollen stomach and unborn child were being ripped apart. Incredible amounts of blood and amniotic fluid immediately covered the sheets and wooden floor. The husband, Vidar, violently jumped right, almost fainting as he saw what was happening. His eyes widened disbelieving and the king rapidly shifted around and vomited; his stomach not able to handle the absolutely horrifying sight and smell. No words were able to describe the horror that was happening in this chamber. The woman’s beautiful green eyes uncontrollably shed tears as she rolled out of the bed, frantically holding her now completely torn open stomach as she somehow, even in her lethally wounded state, stood right.
“IT’S YOURS!” she desperately screamed at Attilio, appallingly cutting her own hands and arms, stumbling back against the wall, while she tried to protect herself from the sword, as he heartlessly continued to stab her body, specifically her stomach, multiple times. “NO, Attilio!” Vidar’s deep voice yelled in horror, his robust form staggering towards him. The woman’s battered form suddenly launched forward at him; however she crashed down against the floor again before she could properly reach him. She held her head, her hands clawing in her hair as her body twisted and turned around in excruciating pains over the floor. In between her heartwrenching cries she kept repeating inaudibly, like a mantra, “My baby… My poor baby…” All of a sudden, menacing laughter filled the room, sounding eerily in the situation, surrounding the three persons. He slowly walked towards her broken form, pointing the sharp point of his sword at her throat. Attilo stared uncaringly in his own beloved’s outstanding green eyes, that desperately looked up at him, pleading the man she loves to let her live as her eyes cried hysterical bitter and painful tears.
“For you, my love”
Powers: None
Personality:
He is a broken man, sorrowing and grieving about everything he has done and caused. He has a temper, tends to get angered quickly. Jealous, especially, though that depends on what exactly (read: his brother) He is a cold person that does not shun terrible manners to get what he wants. He is very hateful and closed, does not easily open up to people. But, aside all that, he has a high sense of honor and justice, according to his own opinion of course. Patience is a value he learned over time. Attilio does not effortlessly give in, he will always fight back, no matter what. Even if it might destroy him.
