Age: 19
Race: Human
Height: 6'2
Weight: 180 Lb
Physical Description: Jack is a rather tall fellow, standing slightly taller then most, and tends to draw attention to himself. His dark brown hair is longer then most, covering his eyes and ears, and falling to just touch his nose and back of his neck. His body looks thinner then it should, owing to his height and weight, and seems to be strung together loosely. His eyes are pale green, adding further to his notability.
His features could be described as aristocratic, with the sharp nose, raised cheekbones, and smooth skin hallmark of many royal families. Indeed, he dresses richly, with a thick black shirt under a brown vest, and black pants. He completes this with a long black cloak, bound to him by a silver chain of medium quality. All these features mark him as a foreigner, and people tend to stare when he's around.
Possessions:
-Three 13 fl. oz. flasks
-One silver knife, meticulously clean, with a leather wrapped skeleton grip.
-One Leather Backpack
-One red leather-bound journal
Powers or Strengths:
-Blood Magic: Jack is a very capable Blood Mage, trained from a very young age in the Crimson Arts. Through the spilling of blood, a Blood Mage can channel the arcane and shape the world around him, limited only by the amount of blood available. Some of his more common abilities are as follows:
- -Offensive:
- -Blood Shards: Through crystallizing held blood, a Blood Mage can create razor sharp projectiles, limited only by the amount of blood used. These objects are fragile, with the strength of glass, but can be reinforced by condensing the blood used. The side effect of this is that you can create a rain of weak glass shards, or send a single hard hitting projectile. A harder shard takes up to 5 seconds, while weaker ones are almost instantly crystallized.
- -Defensive:
- -Harden Blood: Through the same method that creates the Blood Shards, one can create a shell around one's body, capable of withstanding even a knife strike, and lessening the force of many blows. This is considerably easier when one applies this only to certain areas, like the hands, as all the blood is in direct contact with your skin, and one can create a current to vastly improve the speed of crystallization. For obvious reasons, it is very difficult to create a full-body shell of blood, so this is usually confined to fists, arms, and legs.
- -Blood Healing: One of the more benign techniques, Jack can slow and stop bleeding in wounds, allowing blood to clot almost instantly at his touch. The major requirement of this is that the blood must come from an outside donor, not the recipient. Resurrection is impossible. The blood to perform any healing must be fresh, flowing freely. The larger the injury, the longer it takes to heal. Illnesses affecting the blood can be healed by drawing and cleansing the blood, but requires a supply of fresh blood to supplement what is taken, and requires a rather long time to fully heal (IE, 30 minutes or more). Furthermore, if the bad blood is just a symptom, not the main cause, then just changing the blood is only going to provide symptom relief, perhaps prolong their life, but the blood will become infected again. If the blood type is wrong with any healing, Jack runs the risk of the recipient body rejecting the blood, which can lead to death, or other unpleasant side effects. If the giver of blood has any blood-borne diseases, these can also be transfered into the recipient.
-Second Opinion: Jack often hallucinates a long bony skeleton with a pumpkin for a head, aptly named "The Pumpkin King". The Pumpkin King appears randomly, but gives Jack sound and true advice, and helps him towards the light again.
Weaknesses and Flaws:
-Blood Loss: As a natural weakness of his Blood Magic, Jack needs a steady supply of blood, and the human body can only supply so much. If he takes too much of his own blood, he can suffer many serious health problems, ranging from dizziness, weakness, to death. As a general rule, the bigger and more flashy the magic, the more blood required.
-Persecuted: Blood Magic is generally feared and hated more so then other magics, with practitioners being associated with many horrific crimes regarding the source of their blood. This has a strong truth behind it, as in the past malevolent Blood Mages have killed innocents for their blood, and other horrific crimes associated with them are often true. This combined with the general distrust of magic leads to many a witch hunt against Jack.
-Stigma: In the middle of Jack's chest is a large red circle, with mystic writing around and inside it. To even an inexperienced eye, this is obviously magical in nature. In addition, Jack's arms are covered in scars, a side effect of years of Blood Magic. Anyone looking for him need only look at his arms or chest to establish identity.
-Benevolent: Jack is a good guy at heart, which seems to be code for "bleeding heart syndrome". If he hears of a problem, he tends to want to help, and it pains his conscience when he cannot. A side effect of this is he will only use blood from willing donors, which often means just him.
-Bad Luck: Jack has bad luck. Nothing jaw-droppingly spectacular, but just little, minor things, tend not to go his way. Rest assured, if in a city of 10,000, 1 criminal resembles him, Jack will be mistaken for him and hunted.
-Bad With Crowds: Jack grows increasingly nervous when he's in a crowd of people he doesn't know, which in turn makes him much more noticeable, which makes him more nervous. It's a rather viscous cycle.
-Stands Out in a Crowd: Jack really stands out, no matter what he does. He just has that aura surrounding him, drawing attention to himself.
-Squishy Wizard: Jack is very poorly trained in normal, non-arcane fighting, weaker then the average man. As a result, he tends to try to avoid conflict of that kind, preferring to use his magic if he is forced to. He has a high pain tolerance, but is rather fragile, easily bruising. If he gets into a fist fight, he'd probably break his arm, and then every other bone in his body.
-Lonely: Jack desperately wants to be accepted by people, and is willing to go to far lengths to prove himself "worthy" of their attention. As a result, he can be easily abused and manipulated by people claiming to be his "friends". In addition, this makes him even more reluctant to use his Blood Magic in front of others, viewing it to be a very bad social move (Which it generally is).
-Inferiority Complex: The feeling of never being as good as anyone else is a constant for Jack, and it makes him easier to manipulate. In addition, it can cause an extreme discouragement, wherein he becomes extremely bitter towards the world.
-Depression and Self-Harm: Suicidal thoughts, ideations, and a feeling of emptiness all pull Jack's mind down, and he sometimes cuts to relieve the emotional anguish. His emotions vary, but when he goes into his depression spiral, he loses interest in things which once he was passionate about, retreats from others, and grows very irritable towards people.
-Visual and Auditory Hallucinations: When you can't separate fact from fiction, the world becomes a much scarier place. These hallucinations tend to appear most when he is stressed, or when he is most happy, and can be terrifying things to behold. Often, they remind him of things he'd rather not remember, or voice increasingly dark views and desires in his ear. It's hard to focus on a conversation, or retain one's sanity, when you see and hear the speaker being killed gruesomely by a corpse.
-Dark Dreams: Jack's dreams are more aptly called nightmares, and it causes him to often lose sleep, leading a much more tired and upset Jack.
-Bottled Aggression: Jack bottles his anger and aggressive tendencies, causing him stress, angst, nervousness. When he finally does explode, he tends to go big, with very little in the way of compassion, mercy, or reason, just pure hatred and anger. This can result in many a unfortunate consequences, as a display of aggressive Blood Magic is the quickest way to a visit from the Battlemages, or worse.
History: Jack Chantfire was the unwanted son of a whore , the father being uncertain. For the first eight years of his life, he was exposed to violence, crime, and rape, all of which his drug addicted mother took out on him. Unfortunately, she overdosed just before his 9th birthday, leaving him with her debts, and many angry collectors. He was forced to steal to pay off the debts, and when he couldn't meet a sum (the exact amount always uncertain) he was beaten severely. In this period, the majority of the bones of his body were at one point broken, bruised, and battered. He was also avoided by other children of his own age, partly for his homelessness and trouble with the law, and partly because of a shy and highly intelligent personality. He found he couldn't communicate with anyone his own age, and those older then him beat and battered him.
At around ten his first hallucinations began. They started off simple, innocuous little things, a shadow here, a formless whisper here, but slowly grew to become more frightening. Oddly, though, he continued through this time with the same efficiency as before, just withdrawing deeper and deeper into himself. The beatings continued, the nights spent in gaol became longer and longer, and more and more people shunned him. He took to cutting himself halfway through that year, and was several times somehow persuaded down from suicide throughout the same.
As Jack became more and more withdrawn from the rest of the world, more and more people began to avoid him. This was partly due to Jack's attitude towards people. He was silent, never speaking unless he had to, and would shun any attempt to get close to him. He trusted no one, and was in turn trusted by none.
Jack grew to feel as if he didn't belong in this world, as if he was just drifting along in a nightmare, and the world would disappear when he closed his eyes. A void replaced his emotions, and nothing made him feel a part of the world. He dwindled away, finding the motivation to even get up in the morning vanishing. Only harsh, physical pain, nightmares he dreamed, and the horrible figures that haunted his waking day kept him anchored to reality. Jack grew to embrace his hallucinations as his only constant, and grew even more distant from the waking world. He gave up on trying to differentiate between what was real, and what he imagined, and plunged deeper into insanity.
At times, his nightmares departed him, leaving him stranded in reality, but readily coming back once he grew suitably depressed, leaving his emotions constantly cycling. This cycle grew to frighten those who could see it, and he was abandoned by all, not even the town guard wanting to go near him. At one moment he would be dark and sullen, eyes distant and empty, the next he would cry out in pain as imaginary figures clawed at his face, begging at the air to just kill him. Even his mothers debt-collectors left him, and the fences that he had once sold to closed their doors to him. He was alone, truly and wholly, and this only served to worsen his disconnection from the world.
Finally, he despaired that the world was truly a nightmare, and anything else, any hell, would be better than this. With that said, he hurled himself off the tallest bridge he could find, a stone tied to his leg, and a chorus of nightmarish creatures cackling as he drowned. One of the creatures, a long, tall figure cloaked head to toe in darkest black, descended with Jack, wrapping him in a comforting blackness as the water grew colder and more painful. He clung to the figure, and closed his eyes, transported by the cloak into simple, complete unconsciousness, nothing troubling him. He was, for the first while in a long, long time, at peace, as he sunk towards the bottom.
Pork. The smell of a pig, roasting away over a fire was the first thing Jack was aware of when he opened his eyes. He blinked for a few minutes, then the pain in his leg brought him out of a dreamlike trance. He winced, then realized he was, surprisingly, alive. With a start, he sat up, preparing for an onslaught of demons, wraiths, and horrors to claw at him. He waited for his emotions to leave him, to leave only an emptiness and hole in his heart, for something, anything, to tear him out of his bed and fling him to the floor, as he begged to be released from this nightmare.
But nothing came.
An old man smiled at Jack instead, laying down his book by a fire, which spat and crackled as the pig above it roasted slowly. His face was wrinkled beyond belief, but was full of laughter. His eyes were barely visible on his face, but were dark, dark red, the kind imitated by every ruby. He put out his pipe, the last vestiges of its smoke drifting into his bleach-white hair, then leaned back with a groan, his back cracking and snapping with the brittleness of old age. He regarded Jack, eying how he seemed to be expecting some horrific punishment, and felt compassion for the youth.
"So, just what exactly were you doing, that stone around your leg?" He asked, his voice crinkly and dry. Jack looked down somewhat nervously, thinking that perhaps the man there was simply another illusion, that he was at any moment going to tear into his flesh, or whip him. The old man spoke again, voice one of someone who has seen too much to be surprised by anything anymore. "No, don't say it," He sighed, "Not my business, and if you'll want to tell me, you'll tell me in your own time." He got up, walking over to the fire. He picked up a plate, bending as if he would break, and indeed, he looked as if he might. He was thin, and you could see every vein in his neck. He wore a long-sleeve white shirt, and Jack fancied he could see the veins shift around the man's back as he bent.
He cut a slice of the roasting pig onto a plate, then held it out to Jack. When he saw that the boy was suspicious, he gave another one of his smiles. "Don't worry boy, I don't bite, and if I did, I wouldn't have these, now would I?" He reached into his mouth and took out his dentures, clapping them and making meaningless, but funny, noises with his gums. Jack carefully looked at the plate, then darted his hand and snatched the plate. He eyed the man again, then slowly took his first bite, never moving his eyes. The pork was delicious, and Jack was soon ravenously devouring it, barely remembering to chew, the man almost completely forgotten.
The man waited until Jack was licking his teeth, then spoke again. "My name's Cain. Yours?"
Jack looked up, still wary, but less so from the food given to him. Still, he was suspicious. He held out his plate silently, body tense and rigged to go off if a move was made towards him. No one had ever been nice to him like this, and he was expecting a trap of some sort, something to get his hopes up then dash them again. Besides, even if this man was being kind to him, what would he expect in return? No, he wouldn't trust him, he wouldn't let himself be betrayed.
Cain laughed again. "I suppose you're right to be hungry. You barely fit the clothes you wear."He said, ignoring the lack of etiquette or name. This child was wary, and the bruises, marks, and cuts he had on him, in addition to his wasted frame, made Cain suppose this wasn't a normal thing for him, someone doing something kind for him. He cut another, thicker, slice of the pig off, and tossed it onto the plate. Jack took to this piece his hands again, wolfing it down as the old man lifted a smaller slice onto his own plate. He then picked up a bone fork and knife and set to his.
They both ate in silence this way for some time, the crackling of the fire the only noise in the room. Jack's suspicions were still high, but the food in his stomach, combined with the fire's warmth and the soft bed, were beginning to weaken his defenses. To distract himself, he began looking across the room, inspecting where he lay.
It was rather large hut, a semi-circle with a thatched roof. At the apex of the semi-circle the fire nestled, opposite to the bed where Jack now laid. A small cupboard occupied the right corner, filled with cups, bowls, and all the things cupboards were usually filled with. The door was in the left corner, with a small latch the only security. The floor was strewn with straw, giving the whole place a somewhat barn-like smell. The place had two windows, beside each corner, but besides that lacked any real detail, giving the entire room a bare, empty feeling to it, as if this was recently moved into. The roof was thatched, rising about nine feet off the ground, and well-maintained.
Light was streaming through the windows now, dark golden and red beams of sunset that lazily stretched across the floor. Cain looked out, putting his cleared plate down neatly, then yawned loudly. "Sorry lad, I'm a bit tired from today's work, no small part from you I might add. We lead the sheep out to pasture when the sun first rises, if you want to join me. If not, then you're welcome to stay long as you need." With this Cain dragged an old, salt-battered chest out from under the bed, opening it to grab a small, brass key. With a smile, he closed the shutters and left. Jack was alone with his thoughts in the ember-lit room, the fire having died down.
No nightmares, and no pain. How could this happen? All that he had counted as a constant in his life, his delusions, his emptiness, had abated. He had tried to end his life, he truly had, but now...He felt real. The food in his stomach, the ember's dying warmth, Cain's smile.....He was confused. What was this? Had he woken up from his nightmare? Was this temporary? Jack didn't know what to think. But he knew one thing. This old man was different, he was real, and maybe, just maybe, he could dare to hope that he was kind. Maybe, he could expose himself that far. Maybe spend a day. See if anything changes.
With that resolution made up, Jack drifted off to sleep, the embers slowly fading to black.
The morning came, and with it a slight sense of unease, like something was waiting for him in a corner, watching him from the shadows. But, true to his resolution, he ventured outside, smelling the sheep before he saw them. Cain was leading them out of a large pen, nudging them along with a staff he had in one hand. Seeing Jack coming, he motioned him to the rear end of the flock with his free hand. Jack quickened over there, and within minutes was herding sheep with Cain. The unease was there, but he could focus on the work on hand, and he found he really enjoyed seeing the animals just enjoy themselves.
When they had reached a farther field, and the sheep had settled down to graze, Cain walked over to Jack
In the weeks to come Jack found himself following Cain around, learning the old man's routines and habits. It was...calm, in a way, with the simplicity that a farmer's life brings with it. Cain for his part seemed to enjoy the young lad's company, eagerly showing him whatever he showed interest in. Jack's mind was clearer than any time he remembered before, and he started to grow fond of the old man. He was patient, and always saw the beauty in everything around him.
Just as the autumn turned to winter, Jack was herding in the last of the sheep, Cain having gone into the distant town on one of his errands. The sun was low in the sky, and the birds that remained calls echoed far. A couple of riders were heading by on the dirt path by the pen, a rare occasion. Jack closed the gate, then stopped to lean and watch the riders. They slowed as they passed by, a smile on the head rider's face. He held a hand out the the other riders, and they slowed to a trot to go by Jack.
"How do you do?" The rider said, trotting just a bit closer to Jack. The other riders seemed pleasant people, all smiles and laughter. Jack leaned off the fence and waved, then started towards the house. Most of the time, when visitors like this passed by, they were bored nobles, more money then sense, and if you left them on their own for a while they'd move on. Both Jack and Cain valued their privacy, and these men tended to be very intrusive.
Two other riders cut him off, and the man who had just talked clucked his tongue. "Now now, that isn't very polite. Here I am, trying to be friendly, and you don't even say a word back? I'm upset." Jack turned back to face the man, who had now dismounted and was inspecting the pen. The other men followed his suit, and started strolling around the premise. The man turned back to face Jack, and casually wandered up to him. "So? Aren't you going to say hello?"
Jack turned his face, now knowing what this was. This wasn't a bunch of bored nobles, these were raiders and thieves, attracted to the isolated farm. Most of the time Cain would give them something warm to eat, and generally talk them into leaving. But these ones were...different. The raiders never laughed like this, or smiled so much.
"Anyways, we've come a long ways, so you won't mind if we dine with you?" He tossed open the pen, and motioned the men into it. They drew their swords and walked in, and moments later the screams of sheep were heard. Jack winced, feeling an instinctive urge to run to help the fearful sheep. Still, he just stayed still, fists clenched, while they continued their slaughter. Eventually they dragged out three bloodstained lambs, slung over their shoulder, and gave thumbs up to the leader.
He gave another one of his infectious smiles, then motioned for the house. "Now, would you mind putting the fire on for us? Don't worry, Donny and Traz here will give you some company, won't you lads?" With that Jack's fate was sealed for the rest of the night, as they helped themselves to his generous "hospitality". He was made their slave, doing everything they wanted, for fear of offending them. The rider, whose name turned out to be Gerrin, in particular seemed to enjoy making the young boy work, never quite being menacing, yet never quite being kind as well.
Eventually they got out the wine, and that's when things began to grow worse. The men got drunk quickly, and started throwing their cups at Jack, and when he attempted to move away would beat him viciously. Gerrin never touched the wine, but just kept staring at Jack, smiling at his abuse. He served them all through the night, never speaking, daring not to do anything to offend the heavily armed men. He found himself praying that Cain would soon return, and fix everything, like he always did.
When the fire grew dimmer, the men had finally drunk themselves to sleep, and Jack was moving to a corner near the stove, when a firm, heavy hand landed on his shoulder. "Now, now, lad, your job isn't quite done yet," Came the familiar voice, still as charming and full of smiles as ever. He steered him towards the door, then released him once they were a distance away from the hut. The moon shined down, reflecting off Gerrin's saber at his side.
Jack was led back in the door then pushed into his corner, where Gerrin Jack's hands together and a foot to the stove. He leaned down to him then, whispering almost conspiratorially "Don't you worry, boy, we'll have some more fun, you and I, just you wait." He kissed the boy, then slapped his face away, turning back to the main bed he had claimed. Within the hour he was snoring away, and Jack was left with the glowing embers to keep him company.
He cried then, letting all of his frustration, sadness, and anguish at his fate out. He had escaped this once, why was he back? Where was Cain when he really needed him? Why couldn't he just be peaceful? All these questions raced through his mind, and eventually he fell into a deep, dark sleep.
As the sun first began to rise, he was rustled awake by another firm hand, this one familiar and welcome. Cain smiled as he brought his hand over Jack's mouth, then whispered to him. "Not now, we'll talk when we're away." With this said, he sliced away Jack's ropes, and led him towards the door, stepping carefully around the raiders. Then, they were free!
Cain led him to the road, then grabbed his shoulders again, inspecting his face. "Dammit, the bastards hit you didn't they? Are you alright, Jack?" The old man had sworn for the first time in front of the boy, and Jack realized just how much he cared.
"They killed the sheep." Jack started, but the old man gave him one of his warning glances, and looked him in the eyes.
"Are you alright, Jack? Did they make you do anything? Gerrin is a wanted man, and the town guard have been slapping posters of him everywhere. Apparently he makes the lads do some.....well, that's not important. Did he make you do anything?"
Jack's face whitened. So he knew. He knew what he had done. The shame made him turn his face away, while tears burned his eyes. It wasn't his fault, he knew, but he had still participated in it. He was weak.
Cain's grip tightened, then he almost pushed Jack away. "That fucking bastard raped you, didn't he?" He drew his knife again, then started towards the house, the rage coming off him in waves. Jack rushed over, trying to stop the old man from killing himself.
"They have swords! And they're big! Just let the guard handle it, please don't do this! They'll kill you!" In a display of verbosity unlike any the quiet Jack had ever displayed, he pleaded with Cain as he stormed towards the door, but he remained silent, a look of pure rage on his face.
He kicked open the door, and a startled bandit almost flew away from his corner. The startled bandits all moved up, swords, daggers, maces, and a single unstrung bow all at the ready in seconds. Cain waved his dagger around wildly, then shouted, "Gerrin, get the fuck up now!".
"Now, now lads, no need to worry," Gerrin waved his lads weapons down, lazily stretching up from Cain's bed. He grabbed his sheathed dagger and tied it to his waist, then turned to face the pair, clad in the same clothes he had worn the night before. "What seems to be the problem, sir?" He said mockingly, then noticed Jack. "Oh! You have the boy! This just makes it better. You could tell us his name!"
"Gerrin, you son of a bitch, what did you do to Jack?" Cain shouted.
"His name is Jack! Such a simple name, really. He really has the most beautiful ass out there, I swear. We had some personal time, to answer your question, isn't that right Jack?" Gerrin winked at Jack and Cain roared.
"I'm going to give you and your band of thugs ten fucking seconds to be gone, before you and the rest of the bastards are dead."
Gerrin laughed a chuckle, then turned to his men. "Well look at this, gentlemen, we seem to have a mighty warrior threatening us. Quick, gather your things, or he may throw his cane at us!" He turned back to Cain, then drew his blade, rushing the old man. He threw him against the wall, and held the blade to his throat. "Now, how about this you old cunt, you beg my forgiveness, you get on your knees and lick my feet, and I'll let you keep your life. The boy stays with me, and you'll be happy that I'm not making him kill you, okay?" A slice of blood dripped from Cain's throat, and he simply started counting.
"Ten, nine, eight..."
"Funny man, aren't you? I'll give you the same deal. When you reach zero, you start begging, and you'll live."
"Three, two, one."
The drop of blood shot out from Cain's neck, cutting straight into Gerrin's neck. He never had the chance to be shocked, though, because a moment later he, well, exploded. There was no other word for it. His blood just tore outwards, sending chunks of flesh all around us, the blood still floating off from them. Gerrin's blood gathered around Cain's hands, floating suspended as he evaluated his targets coldly.
The blood shot out from Cain's hands, forming long tentacles as they raced across the hut. They split and went for each individual man, still shocked from the gore they had just seen. The tentacles penetrated each man's chest with a distinct sound, ripping through the bone as if it were clay. The men just collapsed on the ground in uniform, as their eyes, mouths, ears, and noses started pouring blood.
Then, it was over. In five seconds Cain, the old man who got panicked when he heard wolves, had cleared the room of wanted bandits. Not only that, but had obliterated them; their bodies were unrecognizable, in Gerrin's case non-existent. The wind howled eerily at the sudden silence inside the hut.
Cain started towards his bed calmly, ignoring the blood all over him. Then, just as calmly, he collapsed onto the bed, sweating and shaking profusely. Jack stared at him, not quite sure what to think of, as Cain greedily started licking the blood around him, disturbed as he shamelessly bit into a piece of Gerrin and swallowed, almost without chewing it. He sucked the moisture out of the blood-stained sheets, drinking everything he could.
Jack stumbled back, feeling nauseous as what he just saw hit him. He stripped off his shirt, using the less-soaked inside of it to wipe off his face quickly. He threw it away, then turned from the hut and vomited. It was terrible, the stench, the feel, of the blood he couldn't get off him, no matter how hard he tried. Then, the crying began, as he realized the enormity of what he had just seen. Cain, the only man who had cared for him, who was gentle and kind and caring, had just slaughtered the men before him with the darkest of magicks, for Jack's sake. Cain, who was the closest thing Jack ever had to a father, was a murderer.
Jack fell asleep again, sometime around midday, and dreamed. In his dream he was walking through a graveyard, the tombstones and crypts rising taller than the eye can see. The shadows filtered down oddly, as if the sun and the moon weren't in the sky, but rather behind each and every stone, shifting constantly to keep Jack in the shade. He kept on walking, onto a hill that seemed to be in the center of the graveyard. He climbed the path, vines grabbing at his feet as he did.
The more he climbed, the more the vines grew around him, growing thicker and thicker, until he was forced to climb them, growing larger then the steps. But move he did, and he reached the top without incident. He looked back down, where he had come, and saw how the vines grew like spiderwebs, at the center of each web sitting a bright orange jack-o-lantern, smiling their evil smile. It sent shivers up Jack's spine, and he turned back to the hill's crest.
A single pumpkin lay on top of a grave plot, no vines emerging from it, just small stones marking the edge of the grave. No tombstone graced the plot, just the pumpkin. Jack approached the curious thing, wondering why this one wasn't carved as the others were. No candle shone near it, yet it glowed with it's own golden light, more brilliantly than anything else in the graveyard. Jack reached out a hand towards it, trying to touch it.
Skeleton hands broke out from under the dirt, grabbing at Jack's legs. Jack yelped, then jumped back. The hands clawed at the dirt, then seemed to brace themselves on it. In a moment, arms followed them, and then pushed. The pumpkin rose with the skeletal body, and then stretched, his long and elegant body towering over Jack by at least four feet. The skeleton looked down for a moment, then brought itself to face Jack, eyes and mouth appearing, almost grinning at him.
"Well well, what do we have here? A scared boy, running from his scary father. How could he murder those people! How could he use such scary, scary magicks!" The pumpkin paused for a moment, thinking, then smiled again. "Surely, Cain should have....what, exactly? Let them take you? Let Gerrin rape you again? Bow down and let these men, who would go on and kill so many more, free? He did what had to be done. He defended you, he used what gifts he had been given to fight for your life."
Jack opened his mouth, but nothing would come out. The pumpkin laughed, then brought a bony finger over Jack's lips. "Please, Jack, let me finish. Magic is a tool, like any other. Some tools are scarier, like a scythe, or a blade, but all have their purpose. Yes, the blade can stab you, can cut you, and very easily kill you. But where would you mortals be without the ax to cut your wood? Probably using magic, now that I think about it. It's up to the user to determine how to wield it. Cain defended you with the only way he knew how. He is still the same man you knew." With this blackness fell over Jack, and he woke up.
He went back to Cain the next morning, when Cain was somewhat more rested. They spent an awkward week of partial silence, the elephant in the room painfully stomping, but the next week was different. They had frank talks on what had happened, and were back to how things used to be, with small changes. If a sheep got injured, Cain would rush over and use either his or Jacks blood to seal the wound, describing the process to Jack. Jack, for his part, grew more and more curious every time he saw Cain preform a feat of magic, till that was almost all he ever talked to Cain about.
Eventually, Cain showed Jack his journals, detailing how every spell of his worked, and the process of Blood Magic. The tattoos that covered his chest, he explained, were what allowed him to manipulate his blood. How that normally Mages could only manipulate their own blood from a distance, but the complicated tattoos that Cain had developed over the years granted him a very special ability. He focused on emphasizing the positive, healing effects of the Blood, how he had first saved Jack from the river by mending his lungs and legs with his, and a recently killed pig's, blood.
Within a month of that, Jack was given his own tattoos, and officially became Cain's apprentice. He proved to be a quick learner, eager to try all that Cain showed him. Cain beamed with pride when Jack performed his first healing, and their bond slowly grew more and more. They became father and son, each growing to rely upon each other more, and enjoy each others company. Jack helped Cain however he could, from herding the sheep, to feeding the pigs, to being a willing source of blood for Cain's many spells. Cain taught Jack more and more, nursed him more and more, and brought him wherever he went. The Pumpkin King, as Jack referred to the skeletal pumpkin from his dreams, encouraged him at night, building up his confidence.
Still, like all good things, it must come to an end. When Jack turned 17, Cain grew sick and frail, taking to his bed earlier and earlier. No matter what Jack or Cain did, he kept growing weaker, until he one day passed away, peacefully, in his sleep. Jack mourned for a month, weeping over his father's grave, his only companion the Pumpkin King, consoling him and weeping with him. Then, at the years end, Jack knew what he had to do. Like Cain before him, he had to go out, truly learn who he was, and journey the world. Settling his affairs at the farm, he left, journeying down the road with a heavy heart and an open mind.
Sorry about the overpowering, I was just kinda writing whatever I thought. As for the bonds, I would say that he's only really ever had one strong connection, and that was with a thoroughly patient and kind man, one who saved him from death. The leadership I would say is one of the innate talents, like how some are born with the ability to sing. Without training it's rather weak, but the potential is there. At the same time, I feel as if it doesn't quite fit with Jack, so I'll edit that out as well.