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Born Horacio Militus to a wealthy spice merchant, Hocho, who got his nickname as the result of a younger sister who could not pronounce his proper name, took more after his grandfather. Americio Militus had been a renowned military commander and later a regional governor upon his retirement.
Hocho’s father, Banco, preferred the clash of gold to steel, and proved his talent by creating a great deal of it (gold, that is). He was a tyrant to his wife and children, so of course Hocho was having none of it. The third son, entitled to little but his name a small stipend, Hocho proceeded to stain the family name through his drinking and whoring as soon as he left his formal education at Jerome’s School Of Business where the art of trade and gentlemanly manners were taught. Future alumni most often referred to it as “J’s SOB.” After six years of tolerating his son’s misbehavior, Banco cut him off and vowed that Hocho would have to make it on his own for a year before he would be restored to good standing within the family.
Twenty-six years old and with no discernible skills that he would care to employ, Hocho once again poked his old man in the eye by entering a monastery, The Perfect State of Joy of Irori Temple, in Azencar. Things went okay for a time, but it wasn’t the proper place for Hocho. Oh he was loyal and faithful to his chosen pursuit, but not well-suited to it. His training as a monk was imperfect, with his most common correction being that the purpose of combat was not to win, but to grow. He could see it, but he just couldn’t feel it.
After ten years of Hocho failing to make it to the first tier of monkdom, the Counsel of Seven decided that he was more suited to be a priest than a monk. Into training he went, and he showed some talent, but it soon became obvious that he would never rise beyond the lowest levels of priesthood. Wisely, the Counsel determined that Hocho and the monastery would be best served if the now 38-year-old priest were sent out to save the world from itself, one of those missions with infinite potential and low survivability. Hocho was immediately taken with the idea.
He was able to make it across the chasm with help from Irori’s Highway, a series of agents of Irori arrayed across the west who purpose it was to taken in runaways from the east and help them to civilization and safety, while also acting as an injection point for misfits in the church to be rendered harmless behind “enemy lines.” Few ever returned, and those who did were often quite subdued. It was a benign form of neglect, but quite typical for Irori’s followers.
Patre Hocho made his way east, following rumors of war and battle, hoping to do some good for the forces of civilization. He was at time amused, but more often appalled, at the lawlessness of the land. He was a terrible healer, although he knew his way around a bandage, but what got him along with those he met was his love for battle, a pursuit in which he had little skill, but great knowledge and enthusiasm. There were and are no lack of conflicts for him to hone his skills in the east. No lack at all.
Well done, sir. But didn’t he die yesterday?
Okay, likely not. He should have little trouble making friends.
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