They took everything from me. Those damn Darius clowns took it all, leaving my family in ruins, our once good name thrown about in the dirt like a stray dog. How could we live like that? We, the Aumarch clan, who had once been high nobles in this country? The only answer my family could find was this: we cannot. So, we journeyed across the sea, finding ourselves amongst new peoples. At first, the histories say, our lives were difficult, lashed with the same misfortunes that had plagued us in Talingarde. We may have lost ourselves there, if not for faith in our words, our motto: "Toward the New Path". It is said that my great-grandfather found the recipe for black powder on accident. That is the rumor. We in the House know it to be no rumor, however. He made a pact, one created from hate, blood, and fury. With these elements, he summoned up hellish beings, from whom he took the knowledge to create black powder, and how to craft a weapon more destructive than any seen before. He created a new weapon, something that would someday allow us to return home, triumphant, and take our revenge upon that damned House Darius.
He created the gun.
For years he experimented, finding exactly the right combinations of elements to make the most stable powder possible. He died before he could finish the weapon to use it to best effect. His notes have been scattered to the winds now, but we still make use of his last version of the weapon.
It is that weapon that I intended to use to assassinate the King.
The bribes had been made, the roof cleared of its guards. I had the perfect shot, the utmost best conditions to blow a hole straight through the traitorous Darius crown, along with the head that wore it. What happened, however, was not what I planned. So much time training, so much effort smuggling the materials into the country. Even the sacrifices I had made to the Seven Lead Devils, those mercurial creatures from the Hells that are said to have blessed our House with the knowledge of our new birthright, was for naught. The shot went wide, striking the gleaming shield above the king's throne. My weapon jammed, and with no other weapon but a dagger, I had no choice but to flee.
The city streets were already resounding with church bells proclaiming the alarm by the time I left the palace grounds. Little wonder that I was dodging guards as soon as I found the streets. As I ran, I found myself thinking about what could have caused such a malfunction in my weaponry. I kept the gun immaculate at all times. How could it have misfired on me at the very moment I needed it most? I found the answer when I returned to my hideout.
The captain of the guard was waiting for me, smiling like the oafish pig that he is. Shackled at his feet was my accomplice, Jureth, the conniving weasel who had gotten my equipment and me into the city. The bastard had obviously double-crossed me, and now he was going to pay the same price that I would. At least I tried to fight back, unlike that coward. I killed one guard, and injured at least two more before they could fully accost me. The last words I heard before they placed the bag over my head were these: "Rest peacefully in Brandescar, traitor. You'll be drawn and quartered the very day you arrive!"
