Dearest Caj,

If you are reading this, I most likely have gone unto the reapers harvest, to be taken up and sown out upon the world once more. I do hope that you are reading this later rather than sooner, but I have seen to much to expect that. I never was a religious man in my youth, but I find myself tending towards it more and more in my old age. When a man ages, his knees turn to creaking, his back to aching, and his heart and soul to the worry of the afterlife. I digress, however, as this is not the purpose of this letter. By now, I am sure you know that I am much more than a Gravedigger, or A soldier, or a noble. The truth is, that I am a little bit of all three. My real name is not Narm, and as you so astutely observed on your nameday, I did not get these scars from falling into a grave. My true name is Norman James O’Brien. I am the eldest son of the late King Thomas, and his first and only acknowledged Bastard. I grew up firmly in the grasp of the King’s manipulations. Thomas was a clever man, and he saw the value of a Bastard as a potential dignitary. It was a good idea, truly, and one that is still in frequent use today. I must confess, I was too indelicate for such work… I preferred to do my negotiating with my fists or axe. I will not bore you with details, but sufficient to say, I was not always so well controlled as I am now. There was a time when I let emotions rule me. I was a cruel and selfish, as young men are wont to be. So, I became an enforcer of sorts for my father, dealing with the darker side of the family the business. The side that would be unseemly for a King to touch. I imagine that by this point you aren’t so naïve as to think that ruling a kingdom, or even a city, is always done through legal means. When dealing with the “Riff-Raff”, as Thomas called them, he would send me. One could not ignore the son of a King, a prince in all but title, but I was distanced enough from Thomas that if anything was discovered, I would just be another criminal, another Bastard. Eventually, through some good fortune and some very bad, neither of which I will record here, I became the Kings Headsman. It was a job I was good at, perhaps too good. Killing men has always come rather easily to me.

All was well for a long time. I got married to a beautiful nurse by the name of Imogen, and we had three lovely daughters, and we adopted a boy. Our son, Dean Rankin. Yes, Caj, the very same.

Dean was unwell. Not physically of course, physically he was as strong as a horse, and damn near fast as one. But mentally… Dean cannot feel. What I mean by that is that Dean would just as soon kill Imogen, myself or my daughters as look at us. He would feel nothing. No pain or sorrow, but no joy or happiness either. The only reason that he doesn’t kill every person he sets eyes on is that it doesn’t make sense. There are only three things that he feels, as far as I know: Anger, Pain, and Shame. The first two fascinate him, and the last he hates. Pain in particular is a love of his. He tortures people, but not because he hates them, but because Pain is something that they share, something that makes them the same. He seeks to find himself in their pain, and so makes a study of it.

When Thomas died, and my younger brother Richard came to the throne, he worried that I would try and dethrone him, imbecile that he is. He somehow, and to this day I still am unsure of how, got Dean to agree to kill me. Dean attacked me in a local Pub in Great River, and almost killed me. Got one of my eyes. That’s his signature, as far as I can tell, he cuts out the eyes of his victims after they die. I think it’s because he doesn’t like the way that they look at him. Anyway, he thought I was dead, but I woke up as he was cutting my left eye. Gave him a nice dent in his chin with my tankard for that little shenanigan. I ran then. I ran to your mother, who was an old friend, and your father, who was an old student. They gave me shelter mercifully, and hid me with the Murphy’s. Then four years passed. Four blessedly quiet, miserable years. Until one morning, on one quite possible the poorest day for digging graves that I have ever seen, the supply wagon rolled up, carrying three additions to the normal load. Two dead members of the nobility, and a baby boy.

That was the day everything changed. You have no Idea how much raising you did for me as a person. You gave me a purpose again Caj, a life again. You gave me a goal, a reason to be better than I had been the past, a way to leave a positive mark upon this world. I love you more than you will ever know, Caj, my son. And it pains me to write this, it pains me oh so much. I watched you grow from a curious toddler into a strong-willed child, and then a young man who any father would be proud to have. You should know Caj, that that is how I see you, As my son. I may have never said it, but you should never doubt that you are my son. Blood does not make the man; Man makes the blood. And you are my blood, Caj, in all the ways it counts. I am only sorry that I cannot give you all the things in this life that you deserve. Instead, I can only give you this letter and the contents of this box, and the advice of a dying old man.

The first thing I would like to say Caj, is this: Don’t get old, it’s terribly uncomfortable. On a slightly more serious note, do me this favor. Never forget your birthright, you were born Lord Caj Donovan, the future Duke of Goldstern, and the son of two of the most respected members of the peerage, not just in Whoid Stria, but on the entirety of the continent of Fleigula. However, as I call upon you to never forget your birthright, I also call you to never forget your upbringing. You grew up rubbing shoulders with the common man, eating the same food as the cobbler’s son, and drinking the same water as the postman’s daughter. Remember who you were born to be, and become that person. I charge you to accept no noble title save for that which you were born. However, In you effort to become the man whom you were indeed born to be, don’t lose the man who you already are. Make the world a better place, then you will be truly satisfied, regardless of your societal station, wealth, or health. Remember that a true leader is a sacrifice to their people, putting the well-being for others above their own.

The second this I ask of you is this. I did not raise you to live a peace-filled life, although if you choose to do so, it would not upset me in the slightest. No, I raised you to be a warrior, a fighter. I raised you to be a Sickle of the Reaper, taking life from those who stand in your way. Remember this Caj: Though you may walk with death, never become his harbinger. Never kill because you can, but only because you have to. Don’t make my mistakes. I love you more than you can ever know Caj. I swear it.

Signed With Love,

Norman James O’Brien