Four Mages Way of the Wicked
Morgan stands at 5’7" tall with a stout 165 pounds of solid muscle on his frame. His face, while beautiful, shows the scars and damage of his childhood. What cuts and broken bones could not be healed reflect a troubled anger in his eyes. An aura of evil drips from his pores. His hair, nearly black, curls in length, slowly breaking from the traditional Paladin conformity with growth into a stripe from peak to nape and shorn upon the ears.
His style wears black silks and wool, patched with blackened leathers. His armor, the shade of steel charred by gunpowder, hints at textured motifs of the first devil. He wields a heavy mace and shield in combat.
A story without a cause has no reason to be told. They would paint this a fall, but I would protest – upon deaf ears – that this was my absolution. No soldier of God could be considered anything but. I deeply believe their wrongs have corrupted within and my righteousness will be rewarded in time. Such sycophants; believing their church superiorly good and just could be the only answer within the land.
Dominance unchallenged spurns a void to be filled within.
They claim I have always held my proclivity for evil, which is not untrue. What they gleefully omit is how they planted the seed of that evil within. From the cold nights in the orphanage, the supposed reprimands for misbehavior. The motivation to fight back grew from survival, but the faith… For a long time I believed. I believed their claims, their stories; how I had to be punished or how they needed to use me for some part of God’s will.
The Order, my one hope to be free of the horrors in my youth, proved to be nothing better than disappointment. I had been shunned for the wrongs they inflicted upon me while inflicting more out of malice. Such corruption and falsehood destroyed my ambition.
Damn them all.
At no point have I remorse for desecrating the grand cathedral. Perhaps if they knew what I knew, they would not see the molester as the pious priest that walked among them. My only regret, not even getting caught, was not getting to see their faces when they found his corpse.
O, but what a gift I gave them, Father Mitchell. Your death was a glorious sacrifice to Asmodeus. For while it may not leave much for an open casket, the pile of shit in your mouth I left sent the message intended. One can only hope they seek a new holy symbol for their Mitra, for your disemboweled sin surely left a spoiled desecration. May your afterlife be met with all the punishment deserved for posing as such falsehood, Father, and never harm me again.