The Beginning of the Outrage

"Wake up Badoligo", was one word I would never hear again. My Father Giuseppe, had joined an outcry once and perished in it. My mother passed away long when I was three, attacked harassed and in the end slain by a Frenchman.

A man of twenty I am, the name's Seniore Badoligo Hiszetti. I was born about in 1238 with my two older brothers in front of me. Both supported my father in the first revolt, both were slain. After the demise of my family I vowed to take revenge and massacre the French.

I lived in the Island of Sicily, which was owned by the German Holy Roman Emperor. We respected him, as he respected the Italians, but after his demise, things fell apart like hell. The Count of Anjou, Charles I attacked the last few settlements in Sicily and in the Battle of Campinio, he defeated the German heir to Sicily, King Manfred and his son Conrad. Both were executed in the same zone.

Now I woke alone in the morning when my newsboy, Gambino delivered me a news which gave me such a powerful adrenaline boost, I never forgot it. A few nuns had gone to pray in the Palermo Cathedral in the Capital, when they were attacked by a group of Drunk French soldiers. The French attacked them and did such horrid, disgusting acts to them that the local peasants had to run in and save the nuns. The French Lieutenant, Carloais even managed to decapitate a peasent, but it sparked a rage. Carloais was pierced by a pitchfork, and slain. Later the rest were taken care too.

I exhaled a sense of happiness. "Father, Brothers, and il Mamma, you'll be avenged now by your boy".

I let out a tear, a single tear of joy. I grabbed a Shortsword from my room and put on my brother's old brigandine and rushed out to fetch my horse, and raced out to the capital.

Rushing through the gates, tackling the winds of regret, I rushed and rushed. Downing the crevase paths, crossing the lake of doom, I rushed along. Adrenaline boosting through my vessels, the swelled of rage, anger and a wrath against the French. Long had their tyranny lasted on our great island.

I reached the Capital finally. I stepped down on ground, lodged my horse and sprinted towards the Cathedral. At the Cathedral, in the Lord's preaching platform, there stood a man with a pike in his hand. He posed like a beast of wrath, his eyes darkened by the red blood of the French. On the pike stuck the decapitated head of Carloais, the French Lieutenant. This man was to become the leader of the Rebels. He was called John of Procida. "Hey mei, nunc interfecto Carloais, nunc contra totous Gallae constitutionem Panorni primum ac deinde totous Sicilian redintergare possumus, sed regular Gallixa omnini flagitiosa," he said, in Latin, which he finished with a cry of war, "I CALL UPON A REVOLT NOW! THE VESPERS OF SICILICA!"

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