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DYNASTIES. IN BLOODLINES RESIDE HISTORY. Fools seek identity in ancestry, the wise build their identity with blood and knowledge. Those who have built foundations, hope to have that name carried forward by a worthy successor.
Through our history we learn of the past that brought forth our miserable existences, we learn of hardships, struggles; of curses and of legends. We learn of the heinous consequences of the actions of those who believed they were greater, whose pride dissolved them into dust.
There was once a great bloodline of warriors. The house of Vasilios. They had been a hidden part of history. They had seen good men perish, empires fall, wars. Both the very worst and, very best of human history.
The Vasilios were feared for their extraordinary abilities and power; most had called them the 'dark ones'—they had the abilities to syphon power from the darkness and were capable of clutching the world within their fists. But, with such power, came it's curse.
According to legend, Hades had been the one to grant them this power. He had blessed a dying man's soul with his touch and that had sprouted such a connection of a human with the underworld.
He lived. He had his glory. The man grew older. His strength still intact. He had taken a wife, he bore children who were gifted with the same talents.
But, Hades' touch was rather wicked.
He would soon come to learn why.
Manifestations of his own mind played cruel tricks on him. One of his children had been born sectionable. The other as odious as ever. His wife had died in his arms, his hands shook as he buried his beloved's remains. He watched helplessly as his children grew older to suffer the same hallucinations. The shadows had turned into terrible lurking figures that had now consumed their very being. He had to kill both his children for they were far too malevolent spirits.
He spent the last of his days, praying for relief, but had found none. His only glimmer of hope was watching the flowers his wife had long planted, bloom. One particular plant would always burn his rapidly healing skin and the other, the one that bloomed under the moon's light would call out to him, with its sweet fragrance; tonight it had not bloomed. Tomorrow, he would not wake up.
His soul trembled in horror as it looked down to see a woman gently rocking a baby. His son's child. His wretched bloodline would continue.
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IT WAS NEVER A PLEASANT SIGHT TO SEE YOUR SON BECOME A DISHONOURABLE BASTARD. AN ABSOLUTELY FOUL MAN. It was far worse to see your daughter falling in love with an older, far more despicable type of scum. To see the woman you loved so dearly die a cruel death, alone. But, what hurt the most was watching your dream shatter around you, helplessly. You looked on and that dream soon turned into an incubus of broken images.
