Sekmeht/Story

Early Years

As a young Gor'Tog, Sekmeht grew up in a small village on the outskirts of Knife Clan, Zoluren. His father, a well-known retired veteran of the local militia, and his mother, a well-respected emergency medic of the local town, loved their son greatly. Sekmeht’s upbringing in combat lore, knowledge of anatomy, and respect would turn out to be fundamental influences on his overall personality.

Since childhood, Sekmeht’s father had taught him how to channel and control his emotions and anger while focusing on the tasks at hand. Whether cleaning up his room, the yard, performing tasks, hunting for food, or standing up for himself, patience and focus were always important lessons. His mother played a significant role in his life by teaching him compassion for people and life in general while primarily being a housewife. It’s no wonder that over the years Sekmeht would inherit his father’s focus on hard work and respect and his mother’s empathetic view towards others and their belongings.

One day, after regular sparring sessions with his father, Sekmeht lands a heavy blow that splits his father’s lip and sends him stepping backward, stumbling to the floor. Sekmeht runs to his side and asks his father if he is okay. His father laughs, exposing his bleeding split lip, and says, “My son, that was wonderful… You make me proud.”

Sekmeht helps his father to his feet, brushing leaves and dust from his father’s battle-scarred sparring leathers. “You know, son, rage can corrupt the soul of a man and make him falter when intense concentration is needed. This can be a critical and often lethal mistake if the situation permits. Focus and keep control of your mind, and you will be unstoppable…” his father says, laughing as he beams with parental pride, still gathering himself from the fall.

Sekmeht glances up at his father with a look of acknowledgment. It is then that he notices his badly bloodied fist. He raises his fist to the sunlight to better inspect it, slowly rotating it, gazing almost hypnotically into the hues of red crimson. “Sekmeht? Are you going to join me?” his father says, noticing that his son seems distracted with his fist.

“Yes,” he replies, nodding slightly, obviously distracted by the intense sensation he has received from gazing into the blood. “Good! Your mother will look at your fist AFTER she looks at my face,” his father says, laughing. Both men enter the house to prepare for supper and evening sleep.

Over time, Sekmeht’s mother and father notice a peculiar thing. While being injured or injuring another, any time blood is spilt, Sekmeht becomes increasingly distracted by the sight, often becoming almost another person or beast. His stamina, speed, and focus all begin to increase, often to where his father needs to stop or distract him to calm him down, sometimes taking hours for it to subside before returning to a normal pace.

“Do you think he’s a Berserker? I’m concerned that now that he’s an adult, he may hurt himself, someone else, or even us?” the mother asks with a concerned demeanor.

“I think he may indeed be. I’ve noticed over the years the focus and control slowly becoming lost when bloodied. I think his abilities would be best put to use in the militia or military,” his father confirms.

Sekmeht’s mother and father eventually convince him that he’s born for combat and that the militia would be the best place for fighters of his standing. Sekmeht agrees in his early 20s and joins the local militia that his father was once a member of.

Time passes, and his father becomes mortally ill. In his late 20s, Sekmeht has learned much of what his father has passed down to him both philosophically and in combat techniques.

“Sekmeht, I am sick. It’s up to you to become the head of this family,” he says with quivering lips. “Go forth and fight for the good of our family name and for yourself.”

Time passes, as does his father. After a ceremony, his father is finally laid to rest at his family cemetery. Sekmeht continues a close relationship with his loving mother for years to come, often checking on her and helping around the house.

The Rage is Exposed

One day, while passing close to where his mother lives during a hunting trip, Sekmeht sees a fire and smoke billowing from the distance. He quickly recognizes the location of the smoke, knowing this can't be a good thing. He begins to sprint towards the location with his Kertig bastard-sword drawn into a defensive position, clenching the pommel tightly in one hand and draping his shield across his shoulder and arm with the other.

As he turns down his street, the street he grew up on, he sees what looks like his mother standing in the doorway, waving towards him. He begins to sprint towards her, sheathing his sword and putting his shield back across his shoulder. As he gets closer, his sprint turns into a dead stop as he gasps, noticing his mother has been impaled on a spear. Her face is painted with pain; she is dead, her arm raised as if she attempted to avoid the attack.

Sekmeht releases a thunderous roar. Something slips in the back of his head, images begin to roll. Everything that his father had taught slowly unravels. The image of him as a child with blood across his hand becomes vivid as his vision begins to fill red, tainted with rage and anger. He paces slowly; his shock and horror turn into laughter, his brows flare, and his nostrils flare as his eyes become bloodshot.

Grunting, he snarls and leaps into the air, landing softly with his head snapping side to side, cackling. He walks up to his mother with a grin, wipes a tear from her cheek, closes her eyes, then softly cleans her face with his palm, freeing it from its bloody, pain-tormented appearance. Slowly he pulls his hand back, gazing at it sharply, and begins to draw smears of the fresh blood across his face. The feel and smell of it invigorates him as his inner fire and rage burn brightly.

All of a sudden, a creature crawls from out of the side window of his mother's house with items falling out of its backpack. Immediately noticing that this creature did not belong there, Sekmeht begins to engage.

"Rage can corrupt the soul of a man and make him weak. Focus, relax, and you will be unstoppable, my son..." booms within his mind, like glass shattering.

"Remember, son... Rage can corrupt the soul of a man and make him weak," also begins to echo within his head.

Time begins to slow as he licks his lips, gazing at the pillager. The creature turns, and in a startled moment, fires a crossbow bolt, which slices through the air, lodging itself into Sekmeht's thigh.

"Remember, son... Rage can corrupt the soul of a man and make him weak. Focus, relax, and you will be unstoppable..." Sekmeht utters softly. At pole range, he roars, "Rage is so much more enjoyable. It invigorates the soul and body. Guide your hatred and anger with your inner fire, and you can destroy all things!" Sekmeht launches into the air, drawing his sword; he turns, slicing deeply across the creature's chest. The creature drops to its knees, gasping in shock and horror as its sternum is split.

Sekmeht lands, back turned towards the creature; he gazes down quickly at the inscription on his sword, covered in a thin red coat. Cackling, he turns and walks over to his mother's murderer, staring at him with darting bloodshot eyes.

Weeping softly, it says, "Forgive me." Sekmeht raises his sword high into the air, his eyes beaming down hatred; he cleaves the top of the invader's skull, killing it instantly.

Now covered in blood, and his enemy vanquished, the rage begins to fade. It's over for now. Sekmeht returns to his mother and gives her a proper burial, rightfully next to her husband. He places the final rock on the mound; he knows now what he must do, he knows now that a beast lies within. Rage Revenge!