Godric Blackburn D1 CB [Fin]

Blackburn is nothing more than a whisper in One.

People whisper about the incident of the Eightieth election. A swordsman with no hand, how ironic for the sharp tongued man. The words have now festered into his mind as a barrage of the failure that coats his name. Quentyn, his son, his glorious son has even turned away in disgust, but not because he lost the election. No that was too easy. It's because he lost every tradition about the Blackburn family within a day.

"A Blackburn without a sword will never be a Blackburn."

Born from silver and blood, he's no longer a swordsman. The silver tongue of his grows into the serious disappointment in himself. Silent curses under his breath as he practices with his other hand, trying to retain the Blackburn name. Mayor candidate to weakling, all in one strike of a sword. An accident by all means, but it still burns like a fire in his chest. Humility makes beings stronger from frustration of the failures they carry. Humility is what he needed in order to come back with the silver and blood that runs through his veins.

As a father, he's been hard on his son. Expectations are high from the moment Blackburn children are born. Born from silver and never gold, they all carry the standards of the generation before them. Honor, duty, and glory on the edge of their youth, until they fade out like him. Once that youth is gone, life changes from one's own glory to bringing up the next generation of glory.

Godric was not a perfect Blackburn. Growing up he had pressured the system of tradition until he broke. Children growing up too fast with a lack of remorse or emotion. Training for years and praying his name would be called for his own urgency of freedom. That had never came and thus he became this man. Handless, broken, lost, and forever the dirt on someone else's boots.