I was born in a land torn by war and strife. My birth was no big event, other than on a local scale and my childhood was neither remarkable or special. I did the things most boys my age would do, but there was always an air of dreadful anticipation. All of us could feel it, though we were too young to understand its source. We realized its dark meaning soon, though, when first taxes began stealing food from our mouths and then, when it became obvious the war was going badly, soldiers coming through our village and making their own law. It was a time of bandits, thieves and cutthroats and if you weren't one, you were a victim. I was no victim.
I learned the art of murder from a very young age and grew to competence over the years. I was an unruly miscreant with no moral compass beyond the needs and wants of the moment. The only thing I had was my own pervers sense of honor, which mainly involved perceived insults and threats. I had a hair-trigger temper and I used it often and to my own advantage often. Soon enough, though, I found someone who could be neither frightened by my posturing or disposed of through my haphazard skills with the blade. He was a dark, brooding foreigner, whom I learned was a deserter from the enemy's army.
The man looked rich and woefully naive to my practiced eye: the perfect target. I set up an ambush and awaited him in the dark alley from a tavern he frequented. In the middle of the night, besotted with drink, I saw him come stumbling out of the tavern and waylaid him with the point of my knife. Even now, his reaction speed astounds me. He disarmed me with the practiced ease of a trained killer and stared at me through drink-clouded eyes while he outlined my options. He must have had a soft spot for me, because instead of killing me, he took me on as his personal servant. Hardly grateful then, he had to beat me into submission dozens of times before I finally feared him enough to stop testing him.
Eventually though, the beatings stopped and a tentative relationship began to grow between us. Less a father-son and more a master with his favored servant. I was wary of him always, but he showed his growing trust in me in various small ways. Eventually, he even taught me the rudiments of fighting and I learned quickly enough. It was, all in all, one of the happiest times in an otherwise hard life.
All good things come to an end though, and my master was too fond of the drink. He died in a tavern brawl when even his skill with the blade was no help and as his blood dried on the sawdust floor, I took his purse and his weapons and set out on my own.
I've had many various adventures, many dead opponents lie in my wake, but I have much to learn. I am no paragon of virtue, but my emotions have little sway on me now and I kill with a cold calculation that serves me better than the hot passion that moved me in my youth. The passionate make fatal mistakes while the one who keeps his head stays alive. I strive for betterment in all that I attempt, and killing is my profession. So, 'ware my blade, those unlucky enough to earn my wrath and those unfortunate enough to have what I want. Saris stalks the roads.