Caliban Stormcrow

Caliban Stormcrow had been—in his “first life,” as he liked to call it—a slave and a gladiator. He was famed throughout the land of Gir for his skill, his showmanship, and his savagery. But that was outside the arena. Inside the arena, he was famed for his cleverness.

It was during a death match that Caliban had a moment of inspiration. His opponent was lying bloody and defeated at his feet, and the crowd was chanting for the fallen man's death. Caliban had killed many men to survive the arena, but on that day, he was feeling the weight of all those souls. One more would be one too many. His own soul could not survive it. So instead of killing his opponent, he drew his dagger and carved his personal sigil—the one that adorned his weapons, his shield, and his armor—into the man's cheek.

The gambit worked. The crowd loved it. But what they saw as an act of brutality was actually an act of mercy. And both gladiators knew it. From that point on, it became Caliban's trademark, and it allowed him to spare more opponents than he killed.

Caliban's popularity grew and grew, and he was eventually able to buy his freedom. He traveled to Ree, as far from the arenas as he could reasonably get, and settled down to become a farmer. From that point on, all he wanted out of life was a good crop and a healthy family. But like all gladiators, he bore scars. Not just in body and soul, but in mind as well.

Caliban knew nothing of the invisible wounds he carried still. He knew nothing of neural trauma or scar tissue or the effect a series of cascading mini-strokes could have on an already damaged brain. And mercifully, he knew nothing at all on the night that he took up his old gladius and his family died.

With his sigil carved into their faces.