//Before I start this, for those who do not know of this character, he is called Salazar Kithe and I have a loooong not very well written story somewhere hiding in this forum somewhere. From now on, I will be writing shorter, 10 ish post stories showing parts of Salazar's life and dealing with a certain issue. This should give me an opening, middle and close instead of an ongoing open rant about various crap. So there.
As always, if you would like to write with me, I am open to that, but I insist upon a storyline before regurgitating random words onto the forums. It's not constructive and it leads to pointlessness.
I AM hoping that someone comes up with a sort of hero to battle Salazar's pure evil here, I've been hoping for it for years, since I invented him, but rest assured that if you don't have the ability to write interesting and creative ways to fight him, your character WILL die at Salazar's hand. Be warned before you try.
As always, constructive criticism is welcome and wanted, and I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it. Expect one post a week.
*Planet Leeds, Leeds System*
It had been a hard fall from ultimate power. One minute he was high, seated arrogantly upon the chair of his behemoth, striking foes from the skies and bringing destruction with a flick of his finger. And then, somehow, his humanity and emotions clouded, and he sacrificed his ship for the protection of his daughter.
The wormhole had closed half way through his beloved dreadnought, slicing it in half almost lazily. No resistance. The bomb planted in his engine section had done the rest, sending a ripple through the metal before it flexed and finally exploded outwards. A might of power and death reduced to ashes and twisted metal.
He had been on the bridge, in the fore of the ship, and managed to pass through the wormhole before it had closed. It was hardly a blessing, the energy wave from the bomb passed through the bend in spacetime as easily as the mass of his ship had, sending flame and light and radiation tumbling into his open, wounded construction, propelling it forwards towards Phoenix Shipyards. His eyes looked out at the window, seeing the shipyard get larger and larger, before the ship tumbled round, giving him nothing but empty space to look at. The front of the battleship, spraying air from the open corridors at the back of the wreck, span as it shed metal and flames alike, on a perfect collision course towards his base.
He had closed his eyes, and prepared to die.
The impact had thrown him clear across the room, the iron composite of the ship crushing and buckling as it collided with rock and glass and more iron. Surprised at being alive, unknowing and uncaring of the chaos outside, he stumbled to an escape pod at the side of the bridge, hit the button to close the door and eject, and then waited. The small capsule had taken him away from the exploding, imploding, death throes of his empire, some of the gunboats and cruisers frantically escaping from their certain doom. He closed his eyes, and started to wonder what came next.
The transport 'Destiny' found him 4 days later, almost delusional from a lack of water and cramped from his small capsule. They gave him water, nursed him back to health and continued to their destination: Leeds. Possibly the last place he wanted to be, but still better than in space right now.
'Man! Get down to the cargo hold and help Jones with the landing gear!'
They had taken to calling him 'Man'. He hadn't told them his name, obviously, and had barely muttered three words since they had pulled him from his pod. Now, as the ship descended through the murk of Leeds towards Spaceport 3, he had been put to work as payment for his passage. He didn't mind it, it kept his mind from other things.
Exploding with light, the landing thrusters slowed the giant ship before it slid into a large transport shaped bay in Spaceport 3, central axis of Leeds. The ten thousand hectares hosted a thousand ships, their crews, the ground staff, enough alcohol to down an army and enough money to buy a battleship, including the bribes required.
Kithe stepped from the ship, raising an eye to protect his tired eyes from the glint of the star. The long road leading between sets of ships was full of people, cars and transport dollies. He looked back at the Transport, noted the name and then walked away.
Weeks later, the madness finally hit.
How could he, the great Salazar Kithe, be moneyless, homeless and shipless on this dustbin of a planet? He was a lord, a celebrity, a god. He commanded armies and admiraled ships. His fist was strong and his head was wise, striking fear into all those who dared to oppose him. Battle groups had approached him and died. He had attacked Leeds, burning the skies with his ship and laughing as the mortar blast ripped matter from existence, exploding into a bright, evil fireball of death.
And now he begged for food, and sheltered in a dark, empty ruin of a house.
Days turned into nights, and nights turned into days. Every turn of the sun was just another click in his mind, another pointless tally to a pointless count. He haunted the street, pulling bulbs from street lights, retreating to the darkness and becoming the vampire of a small street in a big town. He restarted his terror, smaller then before, yes, but the downgrade reminded him of who he was. Why he was doing what he was doing.
Salazar Kithe was a god, and the people of Bretonia would soon recognize that. Bretonia was his. Bretonia owed him for what they had done. Bretonia would pay for what it had done.
![[Image: SethSig.png]](http://i130.photobucket.com/albums/p272/Sedrander/SethSig.png)