Prologue
Ruthless and barbaric practices have forged the most unlikely of survival stories. This is a story where the sins of one’s father carries heaviest on the shoulders of those who precede him. The father’s first son typically precedes him, and with that he will carry the heaviest of burdens that not even the second son could comprehend. Heavy are the consequences to the first son that fails. Heavier are the consequences of the first son from a father that failed. In this story, the father failed.
Pfevet, Son of Pfavot, begot a liking to the archaic arts at a young age. He would dive into Old Bretic literature, even if after the sighting of such tomes, it would lead to his siblings being beaten and the pages burned. But never him. Never the firstborn, not yet anyway. After a challenging adolescence of countless burnt books, beaten siblings, and rigorous mountain training; Pfevet felt eerily more comfortable in his skin and in the way of his people.
Then came a several year gap between the brutal adolescent beatings and the tearful conclusive act in this family’s story, one that would leave its mark on the legacy of this bloodline for the rest of time. It occurs when the sneaky Pfevet was caught red handed by his father, ratted on by one of his nosy and jealous siblings. He was caught communicating with a Nordic woman atop a secluded cliff. She was teaching him the Nordic language.
With no hesitation, a dagger cut through the thick mountain air and into the chest of the Nordic woman, leaving from Father Pfavot’s hand. Following that, an arrow pierces the air and sends her aback, leaving her stumbling to a descent that would be the death of her. There was no doubt in the father’s mind that he knew his mistake was egregious when he managed to grasp the emotion sprouting from the eyes of his firstborn son. He knew he would not be forgiven, for he had murdered his firstborn’s beloved. So in the act of shock, he tossed poison into the eyes of his son, and dragged him the way back to camp.
In what would be the longest two day period in the recent history of this tribe, Pfevet was stamped as a martyr. He was stripped of his belongings and left caged in the middle of their uncivilized world. He was put in the hands of starvation and thirst until either had its way with him. There was no hiding in the fact that he was meant to die. But his father couldn’t take the pain and suffering on his name any further. So on the second day, he released his half-dead, naked, firstborn son from his cage, and he dragged him, once more. Pfavot dragged his son to one of their peoples’ sacred locations. A location only meant for the practice of one thing, slaying a living soul as sacrifice before The Old Gods.
Pfavot, in prayer, swung and slashed his axe across the chest of his firstborn son.
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