THE TEACHINGS OF Hendrake, those of Honour and Glory, were not lost upon the young master. Not entirely. Duke Larsus had prayed to the Serpent for a child who would follow his path, become a noble warrior whose service to Court and Crown was unmatched in dedication and prestige. The Serpent had other plans for Master Chinaway.
Grandfather Hendrake could not help but be tickled with amusement at his only grandson's single-handed victory over the wild zhind and, when the young master pleaded, the former Lord of Hendrake had the head cleaned, stuffed, and placed above the child's bed. Silently, as the boy stared up at the zhind's lifeless face, I know my master must have finally found something in life that surprised and pleased him. When speaking upon the incident, Lord Chinaway has always insisted that turning was the most vivid event of his childhood.
It was man against beast. Hand to hand. A simple, primal struggle of life and death. The feel of his hands gripping the creature, muscles bunching as his fingers gradually squeezed the life from the zhind. The satisfying pop of bone and cartilage as Master Chinaway twisted off the animal's head. That rush of pleasure that left him all but senseless. But I may only speak of these things secondhand, they are alien to me. I am not warrior, or a poet. I can only convey what my master has told, and hope my words remain true to his sentiment.
The others did not understand my young master and thought his fascination for hunting, his drive to see his own wall as decorated with the heads of those who fell before him as his grandfather's, was a passing fancy. For many a turning Master Chinaway would gaze into the glazed eyes of that zhind, as if he could read the beast's dying thoughts. Learn the animal's secrets by some grizzly transferal through death. It was the most ultimate of victories, taking the very life of a foe, and it brought him what he had hungered for before he even knew its meaning. It brought the young boy glory.

"Which is the greater strength, the sword or the hand that wields it?"
Traditional Hendrake Zen Mantra

YOUNG LORD CHINAWAY was soon to bring back other trophies to join that first zhind that inflamed his youthful passion. Duke Larsus was concerned initially, unwilling to lose his heir to a boyish fancy, but his concerns faded as he heard and witnessed for himself his son's mastery and love of the hunt. The wilderness of the Horned Lodge was more a home to my master than the strict Halls of Hendrake, and his aging grandfather prided himself on the tales of the boy's many victories.
Like all Hendrakes, young Lord Chinaway was taught in the way of the blade, gaining noted skill and excellence in its use. The crossbow, fandon, mace, flail, trisp, whip, none were unknown to my master. But at each hunt, when the quarry was cornered and it came time to confront those lethal claws and toothy maw, Lord Chinaway would dismount. The retainers of the Lodge gathered about in a circle and watched from their steeds as the young master wrestled the beast into submission, then unto death.
The maturing lord quickly grew into the Art of Flesh, learning to mold himself into a living weapon. Constantly he practiced the use of the gnarled bone claws he would extend from his fingertips, razor sharp and strong as steel. Nothing could compare to that intimacy with death he felt as a boy, a morbid delight that would carry into his adulthood and escalate into what the least respectful of the Houses would call obsession. He preferred facing death up close and personal.
Such were the series of events that lead to the unfortunate Death of Lord Karstigan.