Trayer Hundred Knives's page

I was pledged to the Church of Set on the day of my birth and given
the name Betrayer of Hope.

In service to the Father of Jackals there are no parents, so I grew up
begging and washing the bloodied floors of Jasher the Surgeon, who
stitched-up wounded cultists and dismembered enemies of Set captured
in our holy war against Horus. He was a monstrous caretaker for me,
amused by thresholds of suffering. My first memory is a death-scream.

My first kill was at the age of seven. He was my only friend whom
I trusted with my life. Each of us was tasked with killing the other to
prove our loyalty and worth. And though I bartered his name to Thoth
for a secret, I recall the night I returned to my masters, having earned
my name.

I still have his knife.

I have been called Hundred Knives. Its actually closer to one hundred
and eighty, but who's counting besides me? Each one is a story, a
person, a death. Every one of these gods-forsaken things has a name.

"Hazimel at Midnight."
"One-Eyed Bandit on the Rooftop."
"Dakari by the Oasis"
"Pockets Saving a Friend"
"Sacrifice of the Black Fox"
"Amiri Opening the Gate"

And I remember them all. Some were friends. Some went to Osiris
by my hand. They remind me that everything ends; love, regret,
friendship, guilt, happiness, life. Especially life. The one constant
thing is memory. When I start to forget the important things, then old
Beezle Forked-Tongue, who tried to slit my throat in a brothel over a
pretty whore will whisper gently to me from a wide-pommeled stiletto in
my boot.

"Do you remember what happened when I tried to swindle that
pretty whore from you?" he asks. Oh yes Beezle, I do remember.

Helpful fellow, that Beezle. He's like a brother to me now. These knives
are the family I never had, reminding me who I am and what I've
done. Each one is a lesson that makes me wiser. I am the keeper of their
secrets and they keep mine. A knife even made me a healer, a dirk with
silver-leaf etching and antler handle. I often recall the words of its owner
as I took it from her sheathe...

"Remember that man is mortal. No matter how strong you become,
how many coins you steal or men you slay or legends you write, one
day you will lay where I am now, with a blade in your back and a killer
standing over you. But I go to Ilmatar's paradise with no regrets. What
awaits you on that day? The vengeance of your victims? A traitor's hell?
No man can outrun his deeds."

That was my last mission for Set, Great Defiler of the Dead. All
my fellows lay slain in the completion of our task so I alone returned
to Mulhorand, everything I could take from that cursed woman heavy
in my pack. I was a thrice-damned hero when I arrived home, secure in
favor and wanting for nothing. Within a month I faked my death,
forswore my god and started a new life.

Because the damn woman was right. I began to doubt. The
mission. The holy war. My life. The God of Lies himself. Everything I
had been raised to believe. Eventually, so many people had died around
me and blamed me for the dying part that I decided to try saving them
for a change. This is also the reason I fear to die. Who wouldn't be afraid
with so many angry ghosts waiting on the other side?

Fortunately I have a plan.

I can tip the scales back in my favor if I save enough lives or help
enough puppies, but I need time. More time than a middle-aged ex-
Setite mercenary can expect. So I just won't die. I've heard stories my
whole life about magical potions that grant eternal youth. I live in a land
where immortal gods engage in carnal acts and father dynasties. Stories
tell of the ancient wizards who cheated death for centuries. Surely there
is some vow or ritual or elixir out there for the truly motivated.

I suppose the appropriate term would be HAD a plan, because if
you are reading this then I have failed. I have made no redemption. The
Old Serpent has won.

For what its worth, I regret all the things I have done and have
tried to make some small amends. Also I suspect my devotion to Hathor
may be genuine (her Rites of Blossoming Spring are enough to convert a
eunuch). Please bury me according to her customs and let not a single
serpent adorn me as as I leave this world. Maybe I can slip away
before my former employer knows I'm gone. Give my coin and
possessions to my companions but melt those accursed knives to slag.
Let them and what they represent be forgotten.

All except the Damaran dirk with the silver-leaf etching and antler
handle. Its hidden in the folds of my pack.

I call it "Tessa by the Willowtree".

Give that one to Crysix and tell him I am sorry. Tell him also this:
Ennok, son of Jasher took delivery of the shield.