Beneath Willie's tavern lay a basement kitchen, the twin chimneys above ground that could be seen a few steps past the building the only visible sign it was there. Yet the smell of fresh baked breads, cooking meat, and the occasional sweet treat would gently drift through the city.

Inside a man, not quite five foot ten, just about a hundred and sixty pounds. He seemed in his late thirties, but his movements were unusually stiff and slow, his body tended to make odd snaps and pops, his long sleeves did well to conceal all the scars, but his hands always gave it away. Heavy scars, signs of a deep cut, all running very straight, made carefully with very sharp instruments. On his left they started at his nails, joined at the wrist and disappeared under his sleeve. On his right they started at the tips of his fingers, ran over his palm, joined at the wrist and again disappeared beneath sleeve.
His hair was a deep brown, worn a bit shaggy to conceal the scars at the base of his neck, his eyes a dark hazel, his beard trimmed but not perfectly kept. His clothes were plain, always long sleeved even in the heat of the kitchen. A fresh loaf of sourdough cooked slowly in the hearth, as he waited he would pick up an odd piece of metal from a nearby shelf. Slowly lowering himself to sit he would turn it over in the hands, countless times he'd examined the texture of ferro fibrous armour, metal strands woven a thousand times tighter than silk, so smooth under finger. This half scorched fragment was the last he would see of it.

It seemed like three life times ago now. He was a warrior. Raised under the jade falcons, taught to slaughter and kill with the most sophisticated technology any humans had yet developed. He was their tool, an instrument of swift wrath in the trial of refusal. He was frustrated by it, day after day year after year of honourable combat trials had worn on him, they never changed anything. Perhaps that was why, when the honourable choice was either die fighting or accept honourable surrender he made the choice that lost his soul, a crime by laws far above those of the honour bound clans. A story he shared with only the closest few.
Afterwards he was stranded alone on an enemy world. Distraught, feeling too cold to so much as fight to the death he was eventually captured, and under the rules of honour taken into service as a slave. The truth of the incident concealed, a few short years brought him the opportunity to rechristen himself, to become a warrior for his former foes. He would become Star Captain Marauder, commanding officer of the three hundred seventy second assault. Devoid of honour by clan law, devoid of something more by universal decree. Those years would define him in so many ways, but the piece of metals in his hands was the last token he had of that time. So much destroyed in crossing, so much ruined in the cataclysm that followed. The rest destroyed by choice as it had no place, he burned it all with fire and acid, keeping only one small scrap. Proof it was, if only for his own sake.
The years that followed were so different, reuniting with what remained of the family that turned him to the clans, the title he should have carried, his nature.

Nature and scrap, what use had he for either? All the tools he was raised to use, respect, and dispatch his enemies with were lost to him. The gods had rendered a punishment he could not bear. He was told he was not a man, but what if it was the only form he'd ever known? Could you not believe your own skin?

Yet, those years carried so much good. The friends he made, the lover he met, disavowing that war and ensuring all those under his command escaped it alive and happy. He would never regret a second of that time, that home served him well for many years, until the new war, new losses, and after a few years of pain he sought a new home. He would set the piece of metal back on the shelf, pulling the pan of baking bread from the hearth, giving it a few moments to start to cool as he prepared his best bread knife.

A knife was a tool, like the ferro armour, like the heavy hammers and saws he wielded. He was always very strong, but there was more. From having to repair his equipment in the field, prepare for assaults and mount them himself he knew quite a bit about these tools, how they could be wielded and employed. Construction was an excellent fit, it occupied his body and mind. He would work till exhaustion, not giving himself a second to dwell on the past. Those few years were a blur, hardly remembered, until something more found him.
That brought a new home, new employment tending the bar he'd just helped construct. A time happy enough, easy enough to imagine finishing his time in that town, tending bar in the evening, sleeping till mid day, on until his last breath. A few years in and he had no expectation of it, no reason to guard himself carefully.

For that nature he dismissed, for those crimes of his past, for what he expected he earned he was given punishment. The room was cold, perhaps ten by eight as most, solid rock, heavy metal door, table made of raw wood, restraints of chain and leather. They worked in shifts. The first would come, cut and examine speaking without any care of his shouts, not that his voice lasted long. Right after others would come to ensure he lived. His naturally fast healing aided them, something he would curse in those few moments of clarity he suffered there. He would never know how long it had been, no lovers, friends, ever showed for him. That special envoy of the gods had not followed him to that place, even that hated presence would have provided too much comfort.

The memories always came in quiet moments alone, here where he should be content with his work he would break into a cold sweat, like instead of a warm hearth the walls had closed in and he was once more restrained, an object for objective experimentation. Couldn't they have hated him? Screamed curses at him each time they drew blood, laughed as they peeled back his skin, demanded answers when they couldn't find scale, nor wing, nor tail? They hated anything that was not pure human, they knew he wasn't. Instead he was a object, something that happened to bleed while they studied it. He would tear up, shaking for a moment before his eyes focused on that loaf of bread, cooled just enough to separate slightly from the pan.

Quickly and carefully his knife would trace the edge of the pan, then a quick flip and a solid hit on the bottom the loaf would slide free. A work to be proud of, only a few loose crumbs stuck to the pan, indeed this was a masterwork of a craftsman. All those years having to prepare his own meals he never expected it to be the thing he would turn to to sustain himself. After those few had come looking for their friend, they set him free because they happened to find him there. He left that city, least he be captured again, unable to fight even if there was warning. Settling into another city he discovered tending bar required gripping bottles and glasses quickly and tightly, something he no longer could. But the tools of the kitchen were still accessible, and no drunkard demanding his refill promptly. Customers didn't mind a few moments more if it meant an excellent meal.

Over time he would regain some dexterity, but overall his body had deteriorated badly. It seemed his body simply no longer took to healing, so bad was the damage that natural ability had turned against him. This concerned him little, his new life had little need for speed, or to heft hammers, or the wield weapons. No, in his new city, in his new kitchen the one who was his soul-mate, the one with whom he'd parted ways so many years ago stepped back into his life. Together they would make a better home, a place where they could be happy.

The scent of sourdough hung heavily in the air as he sliced it slowly and carefully, each slice thick and even before loading it all into a basket. As always he'd ignore the sounds his body made, all the aches dull and sharp as he ascended the stairs back into the natural light. Those who came in, wither to order a drink, a meal, or simply to sit in peace could be assured they'd get something fresh and free from the hearth to fill their stomachs. Perhaps he was no longer of the warrior caste, or had the privilege of constructing great works, but he could find some pride in his work, retain some honour in his actions. At least those thoughts would keep him grounded.

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- I know what is right, I just don't feel that way.