[ WP ] When a child is born , he is born with tattoos that will tell the story of his life . He spends years trying to decipher them , but - as it is with everyone - he is unable to . As life goes on , however , situations surface and he begins to understand his tattoos .

Rough bit of writing, seems like too much work to go through it and rewrite sections so here it is! 
 
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 Josa was like any other, rich tattoos covering his skin. Absently he scratched at one on the back of his hand. It reminded him of lightning - it's forked spikes reaching from wrist towards knuckles. He stopped his observations however as the master passed by and instead kept sweeping. As an orphan and an outcast he had no rights and thought himself lucky that he at least had a few meals a week. 
 
 It was funny really. Without the outcasts to sweep, mine and toil the citizens would have no crafts or livelihoods with which to placate the high class. And if *they* were not placated then they would skip the citizens and merely execute a few dozen outcasts. Surely if that continued then a time would come when there were no outcasts to toil, *then* who would they slaughter? Probably not the citizens, because it was n't *their* fault that the Gods had vanished three centuries ago. Oh no, that was the *outcasts*. Of course. 
 Josa kept his thoughts locked inside his own mind, to question a higher class was to be executed and he had no intention of following in his father's footsteps, or his mother's for that matter. 
 
 At thirteen or so Josa was too young to work the heavy machinery in the textile mill, but in a few years he would be under the master's whip. Thankfully Josa's fascination with his markings kept his mind from that most of the time. Everyone in Ladenel had markings. Inky black stains that formed patterns and shapes. Josa always thought his were different but it seemed everyone thought the same about their own. Other people's markings were just squiggles to him, but his own had a pattern. The one on his hand was like lightning, his arms contained quick lines like the hurried strokes of a high class painter - seemingly making no concrete shape and yet having a pattern to them all the same. Here and there flame-like shapes licked his skin, perfect, dark circles the size of small fruits dominated other areas and something shaped like the sun sat on his forehead. A pale circle surrounded by lines shining out from it. 
 He had spent countless nights sitting and staring at his marks by moonlight and still had no answers. Some of the high class scholars believed that they predicted the life events of the person. A few radicals thought they were events from a past life and setup whole libraries to catalog and study them hoping to work out who a person was in their previous life. Josa did n't believe either. It was n't that he thought they were *wrong* just that he did n't think they were particularly *right* either. Perhaps the lightning meant he would be struck one day - killed even. The sun on his forehead could be the God under which he was born. The circles? He had n't decided those yet, nor the lines and flames. 
 Shouts shocked Josa back to the real world. A commotion was brewing outside the mill. Men's voices shouting at each other. Josa glanced around and did n't see the master so he made his way towards the sounds at the far end of the mill, near a wide sliding door. It was shut but it was also very thin. Through he he could hear the voices more clearly. It was a fight of some kind. Not that unusual, but then the faint clinking of chainmail and drawing of swords. Josa slid the doors open a slither and peeked out. What he saw terrified him. 
 Three burly outcasts - marked by their ragged clothing and dirty skin - stood above a motionless guard. His vibrant cloak lying limp on the floor revealing his sparkling chain stained crimson. Two of the men held swords. One looked fine and ornate - the guard's most likely Josa thought - and the other was much more basic and less kept. The shouting had stopped and the three men regarded their equally numbered counterparts eagerly. 
 The guards wore their own rich, red and blue cloaks. Square looking hats adorned their heads and golden buttons accentuated both cloak and hat. Beneath the finery however was a soldier's garb. Chain mail and leather. A large sheath and a smaller knife pouch - after all, the outcasts vastly outnumbered the guard. 
 A flurry of activity began, slashing swords glinting golden sunlight, brilliant cloaks flapping with motion. A few cries, a scream, a thud and a clang of steel. Then the street was silent again. One man remained standing, four dead guards, two dead outcast and a lone, bloody figure standing above them all. Then the man dropped his fine sword and ran. Seconds later Josa heard the shouts and pounding feet of reinforcements drawn to the commotion but the man, the hero, was long gone. 
 What man would dare do such a thing? Josa was part awed and part terrified. He longed to stand up to the high class himself. Not five years ago they had killed his parents by execution for no crime. They were merely outcasts and therefore deserved no life. But despite his brave desires he was too small, too weak and too scared to do what that hero had just done. 
 The approaching guards checked the bodies for life and then began to search the area. One looked Josa's way and caught a glimpse before the boy dashed away. A moment later the doors were wrenched open by two of the guards. 
 Josa ran. But a half starved boy had no chance outrunning well fed and trained soldiers. The mill was big, and had rows of fast moving, spinning machinery, dangerous machinery. The perfect place to hide. Josa sprinted down an aisle between machines. Surprised workers ducked away then cowed as they saw the guard approaching. 
 Josa dashed left, rounding a huge loom and hoping it gave him the seconds he needed to dive under it's whirling mechanisms. He scrambled under spinning wheels and threading needles just as booted feet sprinted past. Josa breathed a sigh of relief and then panted heavily – the overwhelming sound above masking any noise he made. 
 Then the world was yanked away. No, he was yanked away. Pain erupted in his shoulders are gloved hands gripped tightly. He was forced to his feet and held there. He tried to spin to see his attacker but caught only a glimpse of a guard uniform. A dozen paces away a scrawny worker stood, looking guilty. Josa spat at him as the guards dragged him away. 
 
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 Part two:
