The Evil Within by Mordecai- Prologue

I can't justify my reason for existence at all. It's a sad, somewhat disturbing thought but 
there it is. I was born of a liason between the Queen of Sylvain and a common carpenter, hired 
to carve an ornate,gilded throne for her ladyship. So, even at birth I was a burden on society. 
My half-sister Shalukh inherited the throne when my august mother died unexpectedly. An 
accident, it was declared, and if you define sharp Loiren steel and glinting Loiren gold paid 
to the court physician as an accident, then a tragic series of coincidences it indeed was.

So I was eight years old, Lykath sur Sylvain, born on the wrong side of the sheets. My mother, 
and later my sister, kept me at the palace, bringing me up as a young noble. It was done, of 
course, for fear of scandal, Sylvain is a respectable place and also for an odd sense of guilt. 
I was after all, a royal bastard. My mother had not done me any favours by bringing me into 
existence, and the least she could do was see I was well brought up. I soon recognised the 
guilty glint in her eyes when she looked at me, and I learnt to play on it, getting myself 
granted childish things I desired by assuming a winsome, lost-foundling expression.

As I grew older, I learnt to recognise what I did, but my self-disgust was not sufficient to 
stop me practising it. So I was first and foremost, a parasite, an emotional parasite, stealing 
the affection my mother had for her 'true-born' children and also a parasite on the state of 
Sylvain . Sylvain is not a rich place, and it relies on it's nobles to command or manuever. I 
did neither but, lolled in the palace, idle.

But I soon realised my parasitic nature extended to all spheres. At twelve, my half sister 
declared that I was to have lessons in music. I had shown some talent in that direction and I 
think Shalukh may have wanted me to express an individual talent, become less of a clinger.

I was set an instructor, the sur Sylvain Housebard himself. He was a tall, dignified old man, 
a bald head protuding a mass of leonine gray hair. He told me to play the 'Dance of Shadows', 
an eerie, graceful melody by an unknown composer shortly after the Awakening. This rhythm was 
a slow, elegant piece of music, ponderous, I can remember thinking of it.

I played it on the flute, at first exactly laid out. But my fingers itched. This music was too 
slow and sombre, I wanted something with more swing to it. I started to insert chords not 
directed in the music sheet, making it start to move faster, making it jingle more. My 
instructor had been listening in seraphic contentment, head leaning back, eyes closed. At first 
he did not notice my inserted chords, but suddenly, at a particularly livened up space they 
shot open.

'What are you playing, boy?'

I lowered my flute a touch guiltily. 'The Dance of Shadows, sir'

'That...jingle is not the Dance'

I really did try, but no matter how I played it the Dance of Shadows just came out as an 
undignified beat, the kind of little tune that stays in your head for a few days and then you 
forget forever. The House-Bard actually burst into tears. Now he had heard it reduced to this 
silly, sensous little melody I believe it would never be the same for him again. 'This parody 
destroys the greatness of the music', he told me brokenly, more in sorrow than in anger.

I, of course, realised what I had done. By nature a parasite, I had taken the grand heights of 
the music and absorbed them, sucking out the worth and replacing it with hollow, catchy 
meaninglessness. That was my last lesson in music and the bard never played again. 

What I take is genius
What I take is greatness
What I take is everything