Octavia Shadowmeld

Octavia made her way into the dungeons of the Cruel Mark. It was cold, but she ignored the discomfort. She hurried past empty cells, the orange glow of her oil lamp lighting the way. The gnome, Klaansmyrt, was still working in his laboratory. Judging by his rumbled clothes and disheveled appearance, he hadn't left since she last saw him almost a week ago.

“I was expecting you earlier.” Klaansmyrt didn't turn but continued to fiddle with a small cluster of wires.

“Banu needed me,” Octavia replied.

“When the little princess calls, her sister will always answer.” He set the wires down and turned. “Pass me that box, would you?” He pointed to a large crate on a nearby shelf.

“My sister means everything to me. You know that, Klaa.” Octavia grabbed the crate and carried it over to the workbench. “I take it you've finished?”

Klaansmyrt rubbed his small hands together. “It's ready for you to try. Whether it's finished… well, we shall see.”

From the box, Octavia lifted a large, glass, cylindrical tank filled with a black liquid. She loosened the shoulder straps and shrugged it onto her back. The liquid sloshed about inside the tank.

Klaansmyrt smiled. “Now, fasten the metal tubes into the skulls on your gloves.”

She twisted the ends of the tubes into the skulls fitted to the knuckles of her fighting claws until they clicked into place. Then she tucked the tubes out of the way under her arms. “So, what does it do, the black stuff?” she jabbed and slashed at the cold air.

“I call it nocturne. It's harvested from the nectar of moon orchids.” Klaasmyrt's grin widened. “It becomes a gas when it's exposed to air. Burns the airways, chokes the lungs… disorientation, panic, death. All that good stuff.”

Octavia stopped what she was doing and frowned. “And what about me?”

Klaasmyrt reached into the box and pulled out a face mask. “You'll be just fine if you're wearing this,” he said and winked. The dark fortress of Azul had been home to the Shadowmeld family for centuries. Octavia was only nine years old when her mother and father celebrated the birth of her sister. The celebrations lasted for an entire week. They invited the local townsfolk and villagers to generous banquets, colorful festivals, and extravagant displays of fireworks. It was the final night of festivities when the attack came. Dark assassins moved through the revelers, cloaked in gray and carrying the touch of death. The personal guard were the first to fall, causing widespread panic and disorder as people fled for their lives. Octavia raced to find her parents, but when she came upon them in the great hall, there was only death. Her parents were slumped on their tall thrones. The steps below them were a river of crimson. A long howl echoed along the corridors, urging her on. She raced from the gruesome banquet, grabbing a knife as she went. If she could save her baby sister, then all was not lost.

Bursting into the nursery, she was met with a scene pulled from her most ghastly of nightmares. The broken bodies of guards and assassins littered the floor. Some had died through swordplay. Others had been mauled almost beyond recognition, limbs torn from bodies or hanging by thin sinews of flesh and muscle. The family's wolfhound, Kahn, stood over the upturned crib, blood dripping from his maw. Beneath him, Octavia could see the spilled blankets, partially covering the still form of her sister.

“What have you done, Kahn?” she stumbled forward, gripping the knife.

The wolfhound turned up its lip, bloody drool trickling onto the white bedding. Octavia felt a flash of rage and ran at him. He didn't move. He just stood there as she stabbed the knife into his neck, over and over again. When he eventually fell, Octavia crumpled beside the form of her sister, tears coming unbidden to her eyes. How could this have happened? Why did the loyal Kahn turn against them? The questions ate at her mind. And then the smothered cries of her sister reached her, small legs desperately trying to kick the blankets from her body.

Octavia flung the bedding aside and scooped her baby sister into her arms. Happiness threatened to overwhelm her before the realization of what she'd done dashed it all to tiny pieces. Kahn had been protecting her sister. He'd killed their foes, torn them apart so they couldn't hurt her, and Octavia had slain him for it. The guilt made her choke, and she fell against his still body, breathed in the bloody scent of his gray fur, and sobbed uncontrollably.

Since that day, Octavia has never smiled, and on the anniversary of that fateful night, she heats the medallion from Kahn's collar until it is red hot before burning its mark onto the skin of her forearms, feeding a vengeful death magic that resides deep within her soul. Many have whispered of this practice but never within earshot of the deadly Octavia. She has her own reason to wear the scars she bears, the mark of cruelty, a memory of the night she slayed her sister's faithful protector. The night she became a killer.

And so, the Cruel Mark was born, a deadly organization of assassins led by Octavia Shadowmeld herself. At first, she only recruited orphans, desperate to give them another chance at life. Then she became even more fastidious, choosing her recruits after careful selection. These assassins were feared throughout the land, and many solicitors came to her with riches beyond compare, requesting contracts against their enemies. Octavia denied them all. There was only one person that would decide the names written within her ledger, and that was her. The Cruel Mark could never be bought.