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Description
When I was born, I killed my mother.  I killed my father.  My nurses.  Clergymen offering their blessings of protection.  And everyone else in attendance.  I was born a Redmarshal; a title that entails a curse of a life and the death of many.
I was swooped up by the Sect moments after I drew my first breath; swooped up and put to the brand.  Burned and marked like cattle.  A necessary sufferance to have the curse of the Redmarshal quelled.  We all go through this when we're discovered.  It's called the First Burning Day, and the brand that adorns us is known as the Soterus.  Without it, our curse runs rampant and all magic goes wild in our midst.  So much so that passersby become tangled messes of bone and blood, trees wither and splinter, and grass burns to ash.
Growing up in the Sect, you begin to fear your subsequent Burning Days.  For children, being burned with fiery iron can be as terrifying as death.  Our brands never last an entire lifetime.  The taint boiling beneath our flesh slowly rears its head, bypassing any brand over time.  Some Redmarshals go a decade before needing a new one.  Some go two days.  It's subjective, and keeps us in waiting; just one more thing for us to worry about.  It becomes a lifestyle that you build your world around.
In no time at all, often after no more than a decade of preparation, a Redmarshal is utilized by the military and appointed to a small squadron of their fellows, comprised of no more than five and no less than three.  These squads are the ghosts of the military, dealing with what a normal soldier could not so much as hope to survive: Magi.  There are three illegal magics practiced throughout the world: Necromancy, the raising of the dead.  Ambromancy, prolonging one's life through the death of others.  And Blackchurn, conjuring the essence of disease and binding people in hexes.  In the Sect, we call them the Three Sisters, and dealing with any practitioners is our duty.

Description
When I was born, I killed my mother.  I killed my father.  My nurses.  Clergymen offering their blessings of protection.  And everyone else in attendance.  I was born a Redmarshal; a title that entails a curse of a life and the death of many.
I was swooped up by the Sect moments after I drew my first breath; swooped up and put to the brand.  Burned and marked like cattle.  A necessary sufferance to have the curse of the Redmarshal quelled.  We all go through this when we're discovered.  It's called the First Burning Day, and the brand that adorns us is known as the Soterus.  Without it, our curse runs rampant and all magic goes wild in our midst.  So much so that passersby become tangled messes of bone and blood, trees wither and splinter, and grass burns to ash.
Growing up in the Sect, you begin to fear your subsequent Burning Days.  For children, being burned with fiery iron can be as terrifying as death.  Our brands never last an entire lifetime.  The taint boiling beneath our flesh slowly rears its head, bypassing any brand over time.  Some Redmarshals go a decade before needing a new one.  Some go two days.  It's subjective, and keeps us in waiting; just one more thing for us to worry about.  It becomes a lifestyle that you build your world around.
In no time at all, often after no more than a decade of preparation, a Redmarshal is utilized by the military and appointed to a small squadron of their fellows, comprised of no more than five and no less than three.  These squads are the ghosts of the military, dealing with what a normal soldier could not so much as hope to survive: Magi.  There are three illegal magics practiced throughout the world: Necromancy, the raising of the dead.  Ambromancy, prolonging one's life through the death of others.  And Blackchurn, conjuring the essence of disease and binding people in hexes.  In the Sect, we call them the Three Sisters, and dealing with any practitioners is our duty.