My father was a rich, immature, foolish man, who loved me almost as much as he loved valuble items. He bathed me in them, dressing me in the finest material and coating my hair, arms, waiste, etc. With precious jewels. As amazing as that might seem, it was awful. And my step mother, she was in charge of desigining each outfit. My father and her were a great couple, especially when it came to irritating me. The dresses my step mother usually made were so thick that in winter you can feel as though it was summer, and the jewlering weighs down your limbs to a point where your head is always bowed and your arms hanging limply at your sides while you literaly drag your feet everywhere. Life was pertty misterable in the dark stone pit (castle really) I called home until the boy showed up. I had heared rushed whispers filling ones ear back and forth from many people, all similar stories of 'Demon Boy'. Anyway, I was walking down the hall when I took a turn that I hardly ever take. It led to the prisons. It opened up into another lage hall way. I stopped, I could hear loud voices steadily advancing to my position..... (And this is where the picture of Obsidian comes in
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