Editing OotMS:Kun Han
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Sent from court in disgrace, they believed that he was harmless. He took residence in a small villiage at the root of a mountain. He took a wife, a young peasant woman named Isa. He had hidden much of his fortune, but lived comfortably. She bore him a single son, Kun Han. It was not the family name either had been born with, but they had taken it to live in peace. On the day of his birth, their house was struck by lightning three times. | Sent from court in disgrace, they believed that he was harmless. He took residence in a small villiage at the root of a mountain. He took a wife, a young peasant woman named Isa. He had hidden much of his fortune, but lived comfortably. She bore him a single son, Kun Han. It was not the family name either had been born with, but they had taken it to live in peace. On the day of his birth, their house was struck by lightning three times. | ||
| β | But a dark hatred and a bitter rage was born in his father's heart, a rage that passed from father to son as he was taught the ways of combat and strategy. Every day was training, in writing, politics, or warfare. His schooling was his life, and thus he lived a solitary | + | But a dark hatred and a bitter rage was born in his father's heart, a rage that passed from father to son as he was taught the ways of combat and strategy. Every day was training, in writing, politics, or warfare. His schooling was his life, and thus he lived a solitary existance. Those he did get to know were martial artists that his father had convinced to help train him or simply to spar with boy. His mother took ill and died soon after he was born, though none could name the contagion |
| β | On his eighteenth birthday, his father spent 20 days and nights forging a sword of unique quality. At the end of final day, he plunged the sword into his own heart. His cooling blood tempered the steel, leaving the blade a blood red. With his last words, he bid his | + | On his eighteenth birthday, his father spent 20 days and nights forging a sword of unique quality. At the end of final day, he plunged the sword into his own heart. His cooling blood tempered the steel, leaving the blade a blood red. With his last words, he bid his sone tak vengeance on those who had done such evil, men who is own oaths of loyality could not have touched. |
| β | + | Now he journies across the land, his father's vengance in his hand. He can feel it call for the blood of the Hell Clan and the bloated Tick of an Emperor. He was more than happy to ablidge. | |
