A year can feel like a long time living on the streets. No real friends, no family and hungry all the time.

In the hidden recesses of Trevor's mind, a relentless storm of darkness raged. Shiv, his chaotic alter ego, existed as an entity cloaked in perpetual darkness. He lingered in an constant state of unknowing, in a realm untouched by the light of consciousness, where time held no meaning. The very essence of his being was shrouded in obsidian shadows that seemed to stretch into infinity.

He was an eternal prisoner of night.

Punch, slap, back hand, rake and chop were delivered with increasing power, each strike progressing fluently from one attack to another. The powerful series of attacks were finished with a punishing thrust kick that left the bag swinging from its beam but had failed to exorcise the nagging doubts that clouded Byron's mind.

The back handed slap rocked Byron back, the power of his opponents casual attack catching Byron unawares, another slap sent the young man spinning, then a balled fist bending him double. Byron's stringy 13 year old form hit the ground his breath catching somewhere between his guts and his mouth, unable to draw a breath. "Get up and fight you worthless whore-son.!”

"Alright lads, let's not turn this fine establishment into a battlefield," The Half Orc rumbled, his voice carrying a stern yet comforting tone.

The thugs exchanged glances, sizing up the imposing figure before them. Unfazed, the Half Orc continued, "Now, I've seen enough scraps to last a lifetime. How about we settle our differences over a pint instead of blades, eh?"

19 years ago Taylan was abandoned as a baby due do him being a half elf and having the strange talent of turning his hands into claws. …

He was ready to fight! And by God, what a fight he’d put up. A fight the likes of which the world would forget! He’d rip and tear, slaughter and butcher, mutilate and rout, maim and murder, decimate and massacre everything and everyone in his sight….

It was common in the Orphanage to hear crying in the night, and most people just covered their ears with their pillow to try go to sleep. But on numerous occasions you’d hear one of the bigger children get up and punch the living daylights out the kid crying cos they were sick of the noise…

Eschewing weapons such as knives, swords and bows, Byron would rely solely on his hands with the wraps around his hands often being stained and saturated with the blood and flesh of his opponents after his many fights. With every victory Byron would have his skin marked he was soon becoming heavily tattooed.

As Byron moved through the throng of people towards the fire-lit wall sconces which illuminated the nights bouts which were well underway, he was greeted with cheers and off colour jests from the anonymous depths of the crowd. The smell and the sound was intense, a sense of excitement was building within Byron as his tall massively muscled frame moved towards the fighters corner, a crude rudimentary area furniture with a few battered benches and a couple of barrels already filled with bloodied water and bloodied bandages already littering the floor, an area partitioned from the general press.

”Something terrible has happened. No one’s telling me anything but Archie hasn’t come home and every time I approach a room I hear the grown-ups speaking in frantic whispers. There was a messenger early this morning and Father stormed out wearing his stations of office. When I ask their eyes are awful all filled with fear and pity. They won’t even let me leave to meet Daesha for tea! Well. This will never do!”

The guards fought well. The guards were smart, fast, and better equipped. But there hadn’t just been two robbers, after all. The original two were dispatched, and two more appeared. També pulled out a whistle and began blowing, letting the loud, shrill noise summon any nearby watchmen. He only managed to signal three times before he was taken down.