Here's my try at it


[hider=Ishmael Consanin]
The dredges of the Underhive, a place where the foulness of man runs rampant. Where the cesspool of sin cumilates and profilerates itself in a variety of forms, within all that are cursed with the unfortunate circumstance of living there. From those that domineer their fellow less-fortunate man to those taken advantage of, each find their own way to cope with their dreadful existence.

Ishmael Consanin was one of the unfortunate multitude to into existence within the slums of the Underhive. A child born of a gang enforcer forcing themselves onto his mother while working within a labor-camp under the local gang's control to earn scraps to live by, the beginnings of Ishmael were already marked with the disgusting taint of sin.

And forced to toil away to live by during his earlier years to live by the same scraps his mother did, the ideal of having control something, anything would come to his wretched life.

First as a child, it began when he had his spare moments of free-time. His hand caught a squirming insect within his hand, one of the many that infested the squalor he lived in. It writhed and stayed within it's grasp, just he did in the labor-camp, but unlike the labor-camp, Ishmael held every aspect of control over the little vermin.

Those sunken eyes of his would stare at his catch, watching it move helpessly about. Until he got bored of it's writhing, and began pulling it's limbs off one by one. Boredom alleviated by watching how much dominance he held over such a miniscule and insignificant creature, and how it reacted to whatever torture was inflicted onto it.

But insects could only express so much with their body and instincts, and so a growing Ishmael would turn to larger vermin in time, the ilk of rats and their sort. The agonies he inflicted onto those creatures were given reactions in ways a mere bug never could. Blood, crying squeaks and the fervent attempts to gnaw and claw  at his malnourished hands made it all the more engaging for the teenage youth.

And by process of evolution of his wicked desires again, did that gaze of his rise from mere animals which responded off of instinct, to his fellow man. It was by this time he reached adulthood his mother had already died, and by cursed miracle, had he found himself within the very same gang that oppressed him and his mother when he was younger, and still did as the bottom grunt of their operations.

But what did he care if they once worked him to the bone? Control... self-gratification from seeing those creatures beneath him be manipulated by him to his whim was the perverse obession that held within his mind now. The gang was now only seen as a way to finally reach the next level of that craving, one that would be the indulgence to send him spiralling over the edge.

Ishmael Consanin, one of many enforcers of the labor-camp walked through the lines of the down-trodden souls that worked for their next scrap of sustenance, his eye falling on one woman evidently too 'slow' in her work.

One out of the many slaving away wouldn't be missed, not that Ishmael would take take too long anyway...
[/hider]