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Your mother abandoned you on the steps of a church when you were just a baby. You've been told you were ugly, even then, and as you grew up, your looks only got worse. It's been a hard life. People see you and think they know your character from the wideness of your eyes, or by the brokenness of your teeth. Even in the church, where every weekend they would preach that everyone was equal in God's eyes, that it was the good inside that mattered, not appearances, even there, you were the invalid. The other kids learned quickly how little the nuns trusted you and how easy was to shift blame to the "ogre" (so they called you), and you learned how vicious the nuns could be with the rod when they wanted, and how futile are the cries of mercy of an ogre.
You ran away from the church the moment you reached manhood, and then you pursued a wanton life of banditry and pillage. For a time, your disfigurement didn't matter, and became almost a strength. You yourself became strong and others cowered at your feet. If they didn't love you, at least they feared you. Then you were brought to justice. You were shackled, whipped, imprisoned, then sent to this godforsaken island to work off the remainder of your sentence in dismal disgrace.
You've been here two years and carved out a crude kind of life among the other convicts. They leave you alone on account of your bulging muscles and relatively short temper. A few of the weaker ones do little odd jobs for you in exchange for protection from the others. One of them has even become something of a close friend, an old codger named Milosh, who you saved from being harassed by the Roarke gang his first day off the boat. He's a sharp, merry fellow, if a bit mysterious. No one knows what he did to get here, and he won't say, but everyone agrees that he doesn't belong. His cheerfulness rubs some people the wrong way–misery loves company–but you find in it a strange comfort. He reminds you a little of the only man from the church who ever showed you any kindness or love, Bishop Hugo. You've never forgotten him.
You ran away from the church the moment you reached manhood, and then you pursued a wanton life of banditry and pillage. For a time, your disfigurement didn't matter, and became almost a strength. You yourself became strong and others cowered at your feet. If they didn't love you, at least they feared you. Then you were brought to justice. You were shackled, whipped, imprisoned, then sent to this godforsaken island to work off the remainder of your sentence in dismal disgrace.
You've been here two years and carved out a crude kind of life among the other convicts. They leave you alone on account of your bulging muscles and relatively short temper. A few of the weaker ones do little odd jobs for you in exchange for protection from the others. One of them has even become something of a close friend, an old codger named Milosh, who you saved from being harassed by the Roarke gang his first day off the boat. He's a sharp, merry fellow, if a bit mysterious. No one knows what he did to get here, and he won't say, but everyone agrees that he doesn't belong. His cheerfulness rubs some people the wrong way–misery loves company–but you find in it a strange comfort. He reminds you a little of the only man from the church who ever showed you any kindness or love, Bishop Hugo. You've never forgotten him.
