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Julius Justinius Jove was born to a high Praefect,
one of the greatest of his time. His campaigns were legendary
and his name well-known through the ranks. His wife, also of
nobility, possesed a keen mind for the political arena and
even went to the front at her husband's side to show her
support, making a proud statement for the Empyrean family.
When their son was born, he was cherished and adored. His
father was old and his mother had had a difficult childbirth;
suspecting this was their only heir, they spoilt him and
lavished him in all the richness a noble house could give.
When his father was called to the field once more, their son
also accompanied his mother with Justinius and quickly became
a favorite pet of the soldiers and served as their mascot.
Julius' early childhood was filled with love, attention and
comfort.
... he remembers very little of the day's events,
save the sounds of a game with Ceterion Cassius and his
mother's nagging tone that he shouldn't hurt himself. As the
war waned its last, Justinius father had set up a small camp,
enshrouded from the front lines, planning his pull back.
Nestled in the furthest corner from the battles, most of the
soldiers has settled their sights on home and hearth.
Not on the incoming Varati.
Scouting out their camp, the enemy had not planned to let
the Empyreans go home without as many causalities as they
could burn on a funeral pyre. The raid was cruel,merciless
and surprisingly quick. His mother's wails, his father's
shouts, the screams of agony from the men was all he took
with him as Julius ran when the battle struck, burrowing
behind a rock and pressing his hands over his ears.
The Varati found him, spattered with the blood of
their foes, but very much alive. They bartered his existence
for awhile before taking the munafiqun child as a trophy of
war. From the time he was 12 to the time he was 18 years of
age, he was whipped, beaten, starved and tortured, their
naraki. He slowly learned not to cry, not to flinch or to
show fear. He bore his burdens, took his lashes and wept
silently and alone. Their grip was tight about his throat;
when he was first captured, a steel cord was lashed tightly
about his right wing, still young and growing feathers and
stronger bones, with a small grip. Everyday the grip was
tightened more and more, leaving the wing to seer, bleed and
atrophy.
Kicked about as the Nayaka's house slave, pinched and
spit upon by the women, kicked and scorned by the mongrel
slaves, his will had been slowly dulled by the constant abuse
and harsh treatment. All his memories of his parents and home
were slipping from him; desperation was ebbing in his heart.
There comes a time when every man breaks. The soul
can only take so much and will snap if the pressure and
suffering is too great... snapping like his right wing did, a
wretched and gruesome sight as they yanked what was left off
of his body. It was their kindest favor. He could take no
more.
That very night Julius howled in pain for the first time
since he was put under the lash as a boy, and ran. Their
blows didn't matter and didn't keep him down. Their shouted
curses never reached his ears. A gleam never before seen in
his blue eyes flashed into life as he kicked, clawed, and ran
his way free. Eventually, his damage wrought and his obvious
impairment kept them from chasing him further. It would serve
him right to lay out in the cold to die like the filthy dog
he was.
And that he did. Nothing but rags about him, he
scrambled as far and fast from Varati territory as he could,
trudging on where the average man would have slumped over and
died. But he wasn't going to let them have that pleasure.
Lack of food and exhaustion forced his body to shut down
eventually, hitting the dirt of a wooden path and letting his
eyes close for what he thought to be the last time. He was
quite surprised to see them open again and to the face of a
young woman and man. They told him of their finding him along
the road they traveled and taking him in. He said nothing.
The woman patted his hand as the man simply brought him more
soup.
It was a slow process, taking 5 and a half years, to
teach him how to live again. To eat more than ire and hate,
to speak with his own tongue and to look without flinching.
The two were brother and sister, a wandering pair of Sylvans
who took pity on his condition and story. He helped in their
travels as best when he was able, learning so much all over
again.
Eventually, they thought it best if he should find
his own people and live with them. His healing would never be
complete if he didn't face his past and make a new life where
he should. He agreed and parted company, living on his own
for awhile before coming to Haven. Part of him feared this
new start, part of him relished it.
But in the end, it was his destiny.
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