Master, yes master.

What time of day it was he did not know, nor why he was unable to move. Darkness was all there was and soon he came to realize that the dawn of yet another day had begun as he distinguished the light along the horizon. He who had sought so little, gained so much, and lost it all where forever unhappy.

Once upon a time he had joined a band of pillagers as they had caught him off guard and many years later he had joined the army. By that time he was not more than seven and when he rode to war for the first time by seventeen. During those ten years he had come to grasp the pleasures of life, but never bad the chance to bite the apple of love. In their camp they had been twenty men, thirty, or maybe forty, but to him it did not matter. He had been tough all he knew about life and they were his family until the day that he got lost, and almost killed. Only then he saw the true men who had forever been him kind, having to choose between to save him from the lord's troops or to let him die, they chose the later. It did not strike him that he would have done the same that day if he were in their shoes, that he was not any better than them. Nor that he himself had chosen it as the night before he had raped another little girl rendering his trust even lower among his comrades. That habit of his led to his death, in their mind, and in his that was what distinguished him from the lot.
Having to taste the steaming irons in a dungeon he would never forget the pleasure of women. Twisted in his mind, scarred in his soul as they had carved away what had been his love, his lingering to the pain, he had committed to a crime that he would never be forgiven for.
As he rode to war he did it in faith, in robes. He did not carry a sword, bow or gun, rather he bore the insignificant gift of mind. Being able to not only twist the mind of his audience as he had been thought in the arts of alchemy. Being able to kill without a sign where his specialty, and religion his disguise. He had traveled from house to house, country to country in the name of his master. Countless foes he had slain, but to what gain?
The habit of his he had lost, as the irons had rendered him in half, half a man. Even though he thought of women the same way he had realized they offered him nothing but pain as nothing could satisfy his needs. As such, he had resorted to another mean of lust: pain. He found inflicting pain in others to be a way to dampen his needs and over time he found himself addicted of its slight effect. The higher the person stood in hierarchy, the better, the more he was able to torment their minds, the better and inevitably he found himself in his masters dungeon one day standing where his master once had stood with his master daughter in front of him.
His plan where simple, and his hands where quick. Without the guards realizing his true nature he did after ten years of service manage to place his master in the chair of pain. Having both his master and his daughter for days in the dungeon freed him from his pain, but the guards noticed their absence on the third day, and on the fourth he was caught.

Their bodies where buried alongside the bodies of their house, but of him there were nothing but a club to the head, and so he woke up.
When his eyes finally where able to adapt to the night he saw himself bound by every joint to a wooden plank. Unable to move his head, or feel his arms, legs or stomach he tried to cry out in terror, but failed. Chewing he still could, but he did not feel the jaws move, nor hear the tongue being chewed apart. Soon he became aware of his breath becoming heavy, and as he cough out and heard the blood splattering down in the moat he became award of his position. He would soon die.
What had it been of his life, had he done good? His parents, where they dead, his sister? He did not know, and he never would, instead reality caught his attention again. A crow sat down on his shoulder. He heard how its talons cut deep in his flesh, and he must have thought that this where his grave, that he would never have to feel the pain of death. But oo' so wrong he was, as the crow began to consume his skin along the skull he felt the unease of not knowing his faith. As it slowly disintegrated his skull he did but hear the sound of it. Mad he became, in fear of pain he tried to move, only to scare the crow away. It flew, only to sit on a scarecrow on the field before him. Fearing that it would come back to end his life he stared it in the eyes, and so time passed by.
But time would not let him suffer less than his victims, as the dawn turned into day, and then to dusk the crow returned. It sat down on his shoulder, but this time he did not hear the flesh being crushed below its clenching claws, he only heard the wings as they hit the board. In slowly it started to pick away the last layer of bone, and so the brain became visible for a two naked eyes on the far end of the stonewall on which his stage where hanged. He never knew whose eyes that saw him as he slowly where to die, but I can tell you that this child where his, and his sisters. The child would never know this, nor his mother, nor his father. This child where nine, three moths and four days.
As the last layer of his skull had been taken care of the crow resorted to what it wanted, the fatty brain within. This, he felt but was unable to prevent. Tainted by pain he would die a fitting death, and none would spare him from his suffering.
His child could have sent him of to the afterlife in hell, but he chose not to. Instead, he chose to walk the same path as his father, but in another manner. He married his father's master's second daughter. He chose to wage a war upon the neighboring country and this war he would win. In history he would be remembered as a good man, a man of faith, a man of honor. He had the same habit his father once had and so he raped more women than any other man in history, but that the scripts never told, nor that the man he described as the most evil man he had ever known, was his father, the assassin who had killed his wife's beloved father.

Would that have changed the fact that one of them where evil and the other good in the eyes of those who came thereafter, does any of it change the fact that one man's mistake to rape his sister changed the tide of men, the tide of war? To you it does simply not, as you do not know of this. And as such you disregard it as if never happened, and by that reasoning you prove that I as a puppeteer of life should walk this earth to tell you how to live your life, and how to not live it. And who am I, nobody, everyone and one. In the story I told I am an ancestor, but to the world I am nothing but a prophet of death.
I ask you now, have you ever watched the horizon from pitch black until the sun stands high above your head and then sets by dusk again to dispensary behind your back. If you have not, who are you to say that I am wasting time. I have died and I have reborn. My memories intact and my belief preserved. I invite you now to my table if you want, but you do not listen though I am a parrot and you my master, in this life.

- S49]