I am Talako

I am Talako, a name of my own choosing, for who would have the ability to choose my identity? For those of you that have not had the honor of my presence, I will disclose a few personal tidbits, so that you may to bask in my glory.

I was born on the barrens of Wasteland, at a time that is unimportant to your conception of me. My parents being quite extra ordinary as they gave life to me, and few missed attempts at perfection prior to my conception, older siblings as some may call them. Childhood gave me an early introduction to the poisonous arts, as a local apothecary seemed taken with my charm and facilitated my inquiries. Being of the Sand Clan, I was trained in the arts of stealth and horsemanship. Nightwalkers some may call my people, with none so cunning as your narrator. Long hours on the barrens tracking horses and the occasional game, gave way to my boredom and subsequent poisoning, stalking and eventual experimentations with anatomy. Dare I say a fascination with mortality began to bloom? Well let’s not digress to the obvious; your life is to short for that and I have better things to do.

Lets jump ahead a few decades; the now 46-year-old Talako is beginning to realize his lot in life. The fact that it took long to reach the conclusion of my own greatness is not lost on me. I am not completely infallible after all. Oh, yes 46 years of age and a conception of your desires to know and love me. This is the time of my life that begins with you saying oh my, how awful. Don’t you fret, I survived it and with the exception of a minor accident, something was learned.

What I refer to here is the accidental blinding of my homely nephew. Yes, yes, it was an accident; I meant to put the poor ugly child out of his misery. Being cursed with such hideous features begged for my intervention, and I am a being of sensibility am I not. Evidently I underestimated the youth’s constitution and did not add enough of my merciful elixir to his drink. The fact that I was trying to save the child from years of ridicule was lost on his father, or as he called himself, my elder brother. An altercation ensued, and through no fault of mine, this unawares sibling lost his life. Oh my, dear friends did the people wail. I for one agreeing, as this ignorant lost father marred my perfect physic. With the uproar about my one failing as a tactician of death, I decided the nightwalkers no longer deserved my presence. So I decided the world needed me, and left to appease the broader scope.

Earlier I referred to the tactician of death, I will now explain. For some thirty years I traveled the trade routes of our fair land perfecting my art. The first being a traveling haberdasher that had the misfortune of disagreeing with a price set forth by yours truly. The silk was not all so grand as he had claimed after all, so I went to get my coins back. Learning from my one mistake in life, I ensured the clueless trader drank enough stunning poison to make him lie still and listen. With such a willing participant I began to study of the anatomies of our various races. The first time was a bit messy, but sacrifices must be made to ensure perfection. There after, the only real anomalies occurred when a new race was blessed with my inquiries. I found that the bone-handled skinning knife of my youth made for a proficient dissection tool. While on my travels I decided to take up the art of archery, while my abilities with a short blade is unstoppable. The eloquent action of a well-placed projectile was intoxicating to me. Not only did I learn the shortbow, but also my abilities with the crossbow astounded even me. A whole new era of experimentation began. First simply killing my subjects with a well placed shot. Then combining my natural aptitude with poison with a wounding shot, I could then dispatch them at my leisure or have them beg for my intervention. Either way, perfection is a glorious thing to behold.

All the while friends, yours truly learned the art of urban concealment. The society affairs, the royal banquets all there as a playground for me learn my craft. It is at this time that another student of the art approached me. We shall call this matron of death “Goshawk”. While she obviously envied my beauty and skill, I was useful in her assent to power. While I have no desire for power, her status and connections within our world made a mutual agreement useful to me. For some time I was compensated by the Goshawk for performing my craft, all the while having the world cater to my every whim. My new benefactor saw fit to set a handle on me. Apparently she felt that I was drawing attention to not only myself but to my affiliates as well. From that time till this I have been called the “Leopard”, reasoning supposedly related to my ability to blend in. I supposed I should be flattered by the renown, if not for the fact that I am just that good. Shortly there after came the trappings of war. A war-mongering Lord by the name of Sorrow, made my ability to blend in more and more difficult. While this war was profitable to one of my ability, the attention that was brought upon me was great. I again began to travel.

I have labeled the next few years of my life perfection for reasons that will become obvious soon enough. With my traveling, I began to realize that my skills afield while good had lapsed in the years of association with the Goshawk. The ability to continue my trade within the auspice of war startled my sensibilities. My subsequent departure gave opportunity to train old skills and new. I moved first to a little known mountainous island in which I perfected my skills at scaling all forms of obstacles and swimming. Adapting to and escaping any situation became my first and foremost occupation. While in this time of perfecting my survivability, I contemplated the necessity of defense. While my skills at attack were beyond reproach, I felt the need to waste my precious time on needless tasks were blasphemous to my trade. I was to good to worry about death; only the lack of perfection within my art threatened me.

While the lack of society gatherings was scarce, thinning the islands population to keep my wits about me was sustaining. One evening while I was blessing a local politician with my tender touch, I noticed a cloaked figure skulking nearby. Irritated that I had let him go unnoticed, I slipped into the shadows, intent on teaching this intruder how to respect Talako. Prior to expiring, the whelp was able to hold a single black and white striped tail feather of a bird of prey. A since of pride and excitement welled up from within. The world missed Talako, I shall return.