Background Story Required. [Archive] - Wizards Community

Background Story Required. [Archive] - Wizards Community

Post/Author/DateTime Post
Iry
03-18-07, 09:46 AM Please consider this a shameless attempt to plunder the rich and imaginative minds of some of the folk here who have an excess of writing talent and free time. :P

I've struck a veritable writing wall constructing a character background. I know that I desire these traits within the background.. For the purpose of name, please use whatever fits the mood of the story.

Priest of Mercy
Wife was Murdered or died to Disease.
Helps Madmen at the Sanitarium.
Met a man who knew the "Truth".
Becomming Paranoid and Obsessive.
Chain Smoking. (Medieval equivalent)

Any free character backgrounds would be greatly appreciated. :)
JulesCARV
03-18-07, 03:27 PM Alright. There are two important patients at the Sanitarium for the purposes of this story:

One had some sort of very serious mental illness that made him prone to violence. However, over the past few years, your character had worked with him, and believed him to be cured.

The other was a sort of mad prophet type -- usually wrong, sometimes right, but seems to believe he can "remember" the future. Also may tend to hallucinate, etc.

Your character authorized the discharge of the (formerly?) violent patient from the sanitarium. When he next met the prophetic patient at some session, the prophetic patient basically said that releasing the ex-violent one was a bad idea -- that he wasn't really cured. Your priest wrote this off as usual delusional prophecy (not without justification, based on past experience).

Over the next few months, the ex-violent type continues to hang out with your priest and his family on a social basis, and seems to be adapting well to society. Then, one day, the priest comes home to find his wife murdered. The guards find that the violent former patient did it. When the priest next goes back to the sanitarium, he finds that the "mad prophet" patient has disappeared: no one knows where he went. All that's found is a diary he kept.

The diary has some parts which are much more lucid than the man generally was, but other parts are obscure and incomprehensible. None of it actually seems to be obviously delusional or insane, even if some parts seem to be in some sort of indecipherable code.

So now, he wants to find someone who can help him decipher the truth of the diary, and is rather obsessed about it.
Terjon of the Blue Rose
03-20-07, 02:13 AM Alternatively the wife can be even more significant to the character's background. If she was suffering from a disease which caused madness she can take on almost all of the requested qualities.

A simple man who pitied the poor fools in his charge, the priest of mercy spent all of life caring for the enfeebled. After years in the asylum he was given a new patient who changed his defenition of madness. This beautiful young woman claimed she always knew truth of any situation but would never speak before the truth had already revealed itself. Her disease caused more than madness however and was degenerating her whole body. The priest would have passed her over as another mad woman except for the fact that she was right. Once he had recognized a thing as hard and factual she could always tell him what he had discovered even in cases where she had no knowledge he was even working on them. He realizes she is a prophet and not a mad woman and works day and night, even going so far as to start smoking minor drugs to keep himself awake, to cure her without costing her the power she inately possesses.

He is becoming paranoid and obbsesive now, after her death, because he found a cure. The cure however was too horrible to contemplate giving her (or nearly impossable to procure) and now she is dead because he could not do what he thinks he should have (or should have been able to). Of course paranoia and obbsesion can both be a great motivations for adventuring and he may now be seeking either the cure itself or a means to deliver it to a woman he loved who is now beyond help.
Iry
03-21-07, 03:09 AM For the curious, this is what I finally wrote up based on the suggestions of the above two posters. I'm no writer, so there is sure to be a few twitches, but it's looking pretty decent overall. Thanks go to both of you. :P

'She was dead, and this wasn't going to bring her back.' the Prophet pointed out this passage in particular.

The book snapped shut in thick hands, my fingers quivering against its pages. The words were nothing, and accusations brewed in my head. "Why did you bring this to me?" my voice rumbled like granite on metal.

The scrawny man huddled deeper into his chair and gazed out the window where the rain beat like a madman upon the walls of an asylum. "I.. I saw it, and wrote it. Just like th.. the rest! You'll see, it will all come true! It's just like Caroman and his whickers." he murmured.

"No whickers, never was. You're making this up like the rest of the story." I leveled a finger firmly, as if that alone brought it to a close.

"No! Nonono, it was there just like I dreamed! The c.. clouds and the knife with blood everywhere. The house was upside down, though. Not.. no idea why."

I gave a shake of my head, little tassels bobbing merrily at the so-called Prophet. "Time to go back to your cell. I don't think the potion the lady herbalist brewed up is taking hold." And I rose to the crack of thunder.

"NOOOO, GODS NO you don't see the rats, the rats in the cell at night who look and look and watch." He broke into sobs at his own memories. Were they his memories? He sometimes simply imagined things, or got lucky upon occasion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~

It was some days later from that haunting occasion when I met Jericho in the lounge with a half dozen so-called holy men who put the lives of their patients above their own lives. Heedless, they murmured to each other about unrelated issues and shuffled around papers. Mine were neat. Jericho had been showing improvement for some months now and the cells were getting terribly full. This wasn't my asylum, but I've been asked on more than one occasion to come in and care for a few 'special needs' cases.

"Tell us why you think you're ready for life outside." one old man muttered forth. It was a tried and true ritual.

"Because I've fought my inner demons and purged them from my system. I've found a new life in my faith and he stands now with one hand upon my shoulder to offer guidance and purpose to my life. It is true that there have been times I've done terrible things, but I realize how wrong I was to have done them. My faith is my shield now, and with that shield I shall use it to defend the people of this town." Jericho smoothly proclaimed.

I involuntarily found my fingers rapping upon the wooden table in dainty rhythm. The man certainly seemed sincere enough, and I'd spent many an evening talking things through with him. In the beginning there was always blood. He'd tear himself asunder against the windows and lash out at the other priests and pilgrims of mercy. He was never struck down, for we didn't believe in such things. "I belive his treatment has progressed well, and he does well with the children. They seem to liven him up. This city needs another bright dawn upon it's horizon."

5 - 2 in favor. That day, Jericho went home to see his family. It was things like that which made it all worthwhile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~

The Prophet would be at it again, howling out at the bars for half the night. I should tend to him. No, let the guards handle that. I found myself taking a long pull of the smokestick I'd assembled myself. A few of us were here tonight, in the sitting room. The medicines we used weren't just for the patients after all, and doing the work of mercy was a nerve-breaking experience.

The pages flipped open, and I knew I shouldn't have gotten curious today. I read to myself in a hushed whisper, 'Do you remember that night? The hammering blows with the knife? That wasn't your blood, was it Jericho?' then gibberish. That caught my interest. It took a half page flip to find the remainder of the dialog. 'N.. No.. It was.. my blood. I hated doing it, but she wouldn't stop talking.'

I.. I remembered that. That was a conversation we'd had. Me and Jericho. But why in the Prophet's book, and why wern't the words quite right? Even now the Prophet's voice echoed up from someplace dank. He'd be silenced soon, when the guards did rounds. As if driven I pawed through pages of diagrams and non-sense looking for some hint of reasonable conversation.

'Talking about what? Was she insulting you?' and 'No. Not insulting. Asking me to do things. Bad things. The Knife was my own idea.' were just one page away.

'Then why was it your blood?' followed by a diagram of a circle swarming with something profane.

'They all asked me things. Kept asking. I couldn't let them down. Couldn't say no. This way I was free.' and the next page was a list of reagents and a... shopping list? What followed practically chilled my bones, 'You're still alive.' ...

'I'm seeking absolution.' It went on..

'I wasn't in time.' the dialog ended.

My colleagues were startled when I flew out of the chair. My destination was someplace dank. The howling below had gone quiet, and a gurgling thump was head. Jeers, and calls up from cells were almost unintelligible. "He's dead! By the gods, what did he do that for?" a dirty man called out. The hallway was mine, then. "Rahman! He was calling for you... calling, this whole time." one patient blathered helpfully from his stool in a cell.

It was another cell I was concerned about. This one had a head wedged half-way between two bars. A single eye dangled by something slick and red that blanched out. A puddle of crimson was forming. The mad writing across the walls looked to be a map of sorts. There was something inside, though. A rat! The keys at my side quickly found their way to unlocking the door. Click.

Thank the gods the Prophet wasn't wedged between the bars of the door. My shouts echoed in my mind. I think I was calling for the guards, but my hands were drifting towards the center of the cell where something was wedged in blood. My fingers were covered in the blood as I pried it forth. A ring? That made no sense, but... wait... under the ring was.. a map of my house?

The guards burst in and swarmed past. In shock they halted, and peered around. A few murmured, "Made some enemies, eh Rahman?" I had no reply. I wept tears of silence while my face never moved. Just a stray droplet to mingle with the puddle I was now standing in. Somewhere, the rat scurried into a crack in fright.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~

"We don't think it would be right for you to stay on here as Saint Bernice. You've been a great help to us so far, and we're sure you've done nothing, but some families are worried that you just arn't helping. Not since the Proph.. er, Lord Foresk killed himself. He was under your care."

"I.. I understand." I didn't. "He was a very troubled man." He was. "Do you know why he drew that map on the floor?"

"No, we all guessed it was because you told him about it, at some point. But you shouldn't worry. He's was a madman no matter how noble his parents were. Inbreeding, I think. It sometimes does that. Unfortunate."

"Yes, very unfortunately." It wasn't. "I.. I should go home, soon. I've got some other business in one of the more charitable establishments." this last was a bit of petty jealousy. There were none so big as Saint Bernice.

That was over a year ago, as I recall. Since then, things have been well enough. I still get some work here and there helping those in need, and my faith has not forsaken me. Still, the words in the Prophet's diary haunt me to this day. I've poured through the book without end and seek to find some truth behind the words. There are some things, magicks that have long been known but neglected. It even hints on how to raise the dead, for a price.

What priest could fail to beg aid from the gods and receive it, as a miracle from afar? There was little need of it in my line, save to ward away thugs and thieves in the night. My mind whirled over the diagrams in the pages, finding things subtly wrong. Askew. Pfeh, I wondered if they even worked.

They did. What came forth is frightful indeed but still recognizable. I worry that the writhing insects and scaled things I call are in pain, and it troubles me that they might be. Still, they're smarter than when I was but an apprentice and that has some merit. Never would I guess that a dog could guard so cunningly. The creatures watch me, and seem to know what I want, but theirs is an impatience and hatred that I should seek to cure.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~

Jericho is outstanding. Why, just an evening ago he brought down a group of criminals that had us all hugging our coats taught upon those late night journeys home. My thoughts wandered to those moments over a year ago that we voted him free. He truly has turned over a new leaf, and persues the unjust with a vigor rivaling that of the holiest of priests. I penned him an invitation to dinner tonight with my wife that is a sort of special thanks on my behalf.

A man was having a breakdown. I stayed late that night, though I knew Jericho would understand. It was pouring rain and thundering against the roofs the whole while. I remember a night like this many moons ago. It reminded me of a peaceful picnic with my wife that was broken by a peal of thunder. How we squealed in playful dismay and had to pack up swiftly. When I finally made my way home there was only a single candle flickering inside the window. Odd.

Creak. The wooden door floated open almost of its own accord. The walls were a deeper shade of brown than I remember, from the guttering candlelight. "Hello.." or some such thing was what I shouted. What came next was the rush of something forsaken by the gods. The burly form bared down with knife in hand and cleaved straight to the wood of the door. I collapsed in a fit, but it wasn't the first time a madman had taken a swing at me.

A swift whirl of commotion and I found the doorway in haste. The candle was tipped and catching to cloth hanging along the windows. They went up, roaring their mighty protest against the shadowing rain and the world turned upside down. Blood coated the walls in an eerie vibrance of red given life by the rising flames. The empty look of shock upon my so-beloved Loriel's face stared back at me, her tongue ripped out, and the rest of her was nowhere to be seen. Yes, it was. On the walls, in entrails.

"YOU BASTARD! YOU THINK YOU CAN HIDE YOUR HERESY HERE WHERE THE WORLD WILL NOT FIND IT?!" the man howled. Face coated in gore. Jericho's face, and as mad as the day I first met him. The knife in his hand whistled happily as I crab-walked backwards, shocked. "SHE **** HERSELF, CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? SHOWED ME WHAT YOU WERE SO PROUD OF ALL THIS TIME, THAT DAMN BOOK AND YOUR WRITING!" to which Jericho leveled the knife towards a hallway where I'd scribbled diagrams all along the walls of the study. I admit, it had bothered her. It bothered the neighbors too, that one last time they'd come to visit.

How did I let things get this far? How could I have sunk myself to having no other friends? Each of them tangled away one by one. Only those few mad souls in the Asylums would call me friend anymore, and my colleagues just let me work. I was good at it. KRACK! The knife bashed cinders into my eyes, and they stung like hell. So, I picked myself up and ran. I ran away.

Into the study I fled. That's all I could think of in the face of the mad Jericho. "THE GODS HAVE FORSAKEN YOU, AND THEY SHOW ME THE WAY." He stalked after me as a looming silhouette, howling those words with a grinning face in stark darker-than-dark bloody relief. Only his teeth shone. It's odd the little details we remember.

The book was already in my hands, calling upon the mercy of those I prayed too. Calling upon aid. But, the circles were those of the book. The walls came alive, twining in insectile insanity, chittering and calling a merry sing-song to the howling of Jericho. Twice did I have time to mutter before the knife was planted in the meat of my thigh like I was a split pig at a festival. The bloodloss drew me to darkness, and I dreamed deeply of smiling mad zealots, walls comming to life, chittering things crawling off every wall to rip at his flesh, and flames dripping off the ceiling to damn us all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~

Somewhere distant I felt cold. The rain again? Sweat. It trickled down my brow and across the warm blankets of a room that only now became more than a wall of fuzz.
I was someplace dank, and the bars were dull to the window high above. I don't remember exactly how I got here, just that I was accused of murdering my wife. I rambled on about the book having shown it all, and even showed the passage to one of the merciful priests. My thoughts ground to a halt as I caught the sight of long since dried blood on the floor. Little more than the shape of a puddle.

The wind bit viciously through the window, chill on bones. Gathering my things I knocked and waited, but to no avail. I shouted for the guards, to no avail. I hollered for answers and demanded my due, and the other patients shouted their needs as well. It was a long while before the answer came knocking. On my ribs, as the guards taunted me as they pounded away my cares into unconsciousness and a cold, blood-stained stone floor.

I was let out eventually. They said a man came forward seeking 'absolution' and confessed his crimes of killing my wife. Burning down the house. Into a room I was pushed, with six elderly men of whom four looked at me with sadness and pity. I understood their pity, but hated it regardless. "Since I've been here I've fought a war with my inner demons and purged them from my soul. In my faith I've found a new life, and the gods and I stand to offer guidance and purpose to those who need it. It is true that I turned away the world to study that which I shouldn't, and it was a terrible thing but I realize now what a hollow end that is. My faith is my guidance now, and with the gods guidance I'll turn my efforts to helping the people of this down when and where I can."

Somewhere, a part of me laughed at the irony. But, it was true. I was no less a caring man than I was, but what the future held I could scarcely guess. I gathered my belongings and packed up to rebuild a future. 4-2 the vote was in favor. I've got as long as I need. The city hasn't forgotten me entirely, and to a rare few I'm still a saint. This ring is my reminder of all things that have come to pass, and most importantly the proof that my marriage was not an illusion. It was not a mad and fevered dream. There are some that say the past should be forgotten, but past is the fevered purpose of my life.

I know from the Prophet's diary that this was all to pass. Something else lies in these pages, wrongful twisted things, but that doesn't mean I can't make them right. I caught a glimpse of the pages. A cinder of hope, that I might even be able to bring back my beloved wife. No, not as an abomination, but truly bring her back.
Terjon of the Blue Rose
03-24-07, 04:52 AM I'm no writer

LIAR

:weep: :clap: :weep:

Post/Author/DateTime	Post
Iry 03-18-07, 09:46 AM	Please consider this a shameless attempt to plunder the rich and imaginative minds of some of the folk here who have an excess of writing talent and free time. :P I've struck a veritable writing wall constructing a character background. I know that I desire these traits within the background.. For the purpose of name, please use whatever fits the mood of the story. Priest of Mercy Wife was Murdered or died to Disease. Helps Madmen at the Sanitarium. Met a man who knew the "Truth". Becomming Paranoid and Obsessive. Chain Smoking. (Medieval equivalent) Any free character backgrounds would be greatly appreciated. :)
JulesCARV 03-18-07, 03:27 PM	Alright. There are two important patients at the Sanitarium for the purposes of this story: One had some sort of very serious mental illness that made him prone to violence. However, over the past few years, your character had worked with him, and believed him to be cured. The other was a sort of mad prophet type -- usually wrong, sometimes right, but seems to believe he can "remember" the future. Also may tend to hallucinate, etc. Your character authorized the discharge of the (formerly?) violent patient from the sanitarium. When he next met the prophetic patient at some session, the prophetic patient basically said that releasing the ex-violent one was a bad idea -- that he wasn't really cured. Your priest wrote this off as usual delusional prophecy (not without justification, based on past experience). Over the next few months, the ex-violent type continues to hang out with your priest and his family on a social basis, and seems to be adapting well to society. Then, one day, the priest comes home to find his wife murdered. The guards find that the violent former patient did it. When the priest next goes back to the sanitarium, he finds that the "mad prophet" patient has disappeared: no one knows where he went. All that's found is a diary he kept. The diary has some parts which are much more lucid than the man generally was, but other parts are obscure and incomprehensible. None of it actually seems to be obviously delusional or insane, even if some parts seem to be in some sort of indecipherable code. So now, he wants to find someone who can help him decipher the truth of the diary, and is rather obsessed about it.
Terjon of the Blue Rose 03-20-07, 02:13 AM	Alternatively the wife can be even more significant to the character's background. If she was suffering from a disease which caused madness she can take on almost all of the requested qualities. A simple man who pitied the poor fools in his charge, the priest of mercy spent all of life caring for the enfeebled. After years in the asylum he was given a new patient who changed his defenition of madness. This beautiful young woman claimed she always knew truth of any situation but would never speak before the truth had already revealed itself. Her disease caused more than madness however and was degenerating her whole body. The priest would have passed her over as another mad woman except for the fact that she was right. Once he had recognized a thing as hard and factual she could always tell him what he had discovered even in cases where she had no knowledge he was even working on them. He realizes she is a prophet and not a mad woman and works day and night, even going so far as to start smoking minor drugs to keep himself awake, to cure her without costing her the power she inately possesses. He is becoming paranoid and obbsesive now, after her death, because he found a cure. The cure however was too horrible to contemplate giving her (or nearly impossable to procure) and now she is dead because he could not do what he thinks he should have (or should have been able to). Of course paranoia and obbsesion can both be a great motivations for adventuring and he may now be seeking either the cure itself or a means to deliver it to a woman he loved who is now beyond help.
Iry 03-21-07, 03:09 AM	For the curious, this is what I finally wrote up based on the suggestions of the above two posters. I'm no writer, so there is sure to be a few twitches, but it's looking pretty decent overall. Thanks go to both of you. :P 'She was dead, and this wasn't going to bring her back.' the Prophet pointed out this passage in particular. The book snapped shut in thick hands, my fingers quivering against its pages. The words were nothing, and accusations brewed in my head. "Why did you bring this to me?" my voice rumbled like granite on metal. The scrawny man huddled deeper into his chair and gazed out the window where the rain beat like a madman upon the walls of an asylum. "I.. I saw it, and wrote it. Just like th.. the rest! You'll see, it will all come true! It's just like Caroman and his whickers." he murmured. "No whickers, never was. You're making this up like the rest of the story." I leveled a finger firmly, as if that alone brought it to a close. "No! Nonono, it was there just like I dreamed! The c.. clouds and the knife with blood everywhere. The house was upside down, though. Not.. no idea why." I gave a shake of my head, little tassels bobbing merrily at the so-called Prophet. "Time to go back to your cell. I don't think the potion the lady herbalist brewed up is taking hold." And I rose to the crack of thunder. "NOOOO, GODS NO you don't see the rats, the rats in the cell at night who look and look and watch." He broke into sobs at his own memories. Were they his memories? He sometimes simply imagined things, or got lucky upon occasion. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ It was some days later from that haunting occasion when I met Jericho in the lounge with a half dozen so-called holy men who put the lives of their patients above their own lives. Heedless, they murmured to each other about unrelated issues and shuffled around papers. Mine were neat. Jericho had been showing improvement for some months now and the cells were getting terribly full. This wasn't my asylum, but I've been asked on more than one occasion to come in and care for a few 'special needs' cases. "Tell us why you think you're ready for life outside." one old man muttered forth. It was a tried and true ritual. "Because I've fought my inner demons and purged them from my system. I've found a new life in my faith and he stands now with one hand upon my shoulder to offer guidance and purpose to my life. It is true that there have been times I've done terrible things, but I realize how wrong I was to have done them. My faith is my shield now, and with that shield I shall use it to defend the people of this town." Jericho smoothly proclaimed. I involuntarily found my fingers rapping upon the wooden table in dainty rhythm. The man certainly seemed sincere enough, and I'd spent many an evening talking things through with him. In the beginning there was always blood. He'd tear himself asunder against the windows and lash out at the other priests and pilgrims of mercy. He was never struck down, for we didn't believe in such things. "I belive his treatment has progressed well, and he does well with the children. They seem to liven him up. This city needs another bright dawn upon it's horizon." 5 - 2 in favor. That day, Jericho went home to see his family. It was things like that which made it all worthwhile. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ The Prophet would be at it again, howling out at the bars for half the night. I should tend to him. No, let the guards handle that. I found myself taking a long pull of the smokestick I'd assembled myself. A few of us were here tonight, in the sitting room. The medicines we used weren't just for the patients after all, and doing the work of mercy was a nerve-breaking experience. The pages flipped open, and I knew I shouldn't have gotten curious today. I read to myself in a hushed whisper, 'Do you remember that night? The hammering blows with the knife? That wasn't your blood, was it Jericho?' then gibberish. That caught my interest. It took a half page flip to find the remainder of the dialog. 'N.. No.. It was.. my blood. I hated doing it, but she wouldn't stop talking.' I.. I remembered that. That was a conversation we'd had. Me and Jericho. But why in the Prophet's book, and why wern't the words quite right? Even now the Prophet's voice echoed up from someplace dank. He'd be silenced soon, when the guards did rounds. As if driven I pawed through pages of diagrams and non-sense looking for some hint of reasonable conversation. 'Talking about what? Was she insulting you?' and 'No. Not insulting. Asking me to do things. Bad things. The Knife was my own idea.' were just one page away. 'Then why was it your blood?' followed by a diagram of a circle swarming with something profane. 'They all asked me things. Kept asking. I couldn't let them down. Couldn't say no. This way I was free.' and the next page was a list of reagents and a... shopping list? What followed practically chilled my bones, 'You're still alive.' ... 'I'm seeking absolution.' It went on.. 'I wasn't in time.' the dialog ended. My colleagues were startled when I flew out of the chair. My destination was someplace dank. The howling below had gone quiet, and a gurgling thump was head. Jeers, and calls up from cells were almost unintelligible. "He's dead! By the gods, what did he do that for?" a dirty man called out. The hallway was mine, then. "Rahman! He was calling for you... calling, this whole time." one patient blathered helpfully from his stool in a cell. It was another cell I was concerned about. This one had a head wedged half-way between two bars. A single eye dangled by something slick and red that blanched out. A puddle of crimson was forming. The mad writing across the walls looked to be a map of sorts. There was something inside, though. A rat! The keys at my side quickly found their way to unlocking the door. Click. Thank the gods the Prophet wasn't wedged between the bars of the door. My shouts echoed in my mind. I think I was calling for the guards, but my hands were drifting towards the center of the cell where something was wedged in blood. My fingers were covered in the blood as I pried it forth. A ring? That made no sense, but... wait... under the ring was.. a map of my house? The guards burst in and swarmed past. In shock they halted, and peered around. A few murmured, "Made some enemies, eh Rahman?" I had no reply. I wept tears of silence while my face never moved. Just a stray droplet to mingle with the puddle I was now standing in. Somewhere, the rat scurried into a crack in fright. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ "We don't think it would be right for you to stay on here as Saint Bernice. You've been a great help to us so far, and we're sure you've done nothing, but some families are worried that you just arn't helping. Not since the Proph.. er, Lord Foresk killed himself. He was under your care." "I.. I understand." I didn't. "He was a very troubled man." He was. "Do you know why he drew that map on the floor?" "No, we all guessed it was because you told him about it, at some point. But you shouldn't worry. He's was a madman no matter how noble his parents were. Inbreeding, I think. It sometimes does that. Unfortunate." "Yes, very unfortunately." It wasn't. "I.. I should go home, soon. I've got some other business in one of the more charitable establishments." this last was a bit of petty jealousy. There were none so big as Saint Bernice. That was over a year ago, as I recall. Since then, things have been well enough. I still get some work here and there helping those in need, and my faith has not forsaken me. Still, the words in the Prophet's diary haunt me to this day. I've poured through the book without end and seek to find some truth behind the words. There are some things, magicks that have long been known but neglected. It even hints on how to raise the dead, for a price. What priest could fail to beg aid from the gods and receive it, as a miracle from afar? There was little need of it in my line, save to ward away thugs and thieves in the night. My mind whirled over the diagrams in the pages, finding things subtly wrong. Askew. Pfeh, I wondered if they even worked. They did. What came forth is frightful indeed but still recognizable. I worry that the writhing insects and scaled things I call are in pain, and it troubles me that they might be. Still, they're smarter than when I was but an apprentice and that has some merit. Never would I guess that a dog could guard so cunningly. The creatures watch me, and seem to know what I want, but theirs is an impatience and hatred that I should seek to cure. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ Jericho is outstanding. Why, just an evening ago he brought down a group of criminals that had us all hugging our coats taught upon those late night journeys home. My thoughts wandered to those moments over a year ago that we voted him free. He truly has turned over a new leaf, and persues the unjust with a vigor rivaling that of the holiest of priests. I penned him an invitation to dinner tonight with my wife that is a sort of special thanks on my behalf. A man was having a breakdown. I stayed late that night, though I knew Jericho would understand. It was pouring rain and thundering against the roofs the whole while. I remember a night like this many moons ago. It reminded me of a peaceful picnic with my wife that was broken by a peal of thunder. How we squealed in playful dismay and had to pack up swiftly. When I finally made my way home there was only a single candle flickering inside the window. Odd. Creak. The wooden door floated open almost of its own accord. The walls were a deeper shade of brown than I remember, from the guttering candlelight. "Hello.." or some such thing was what I shouted. What came next was the rush of something forsaken by the gods. The burly form bared down with knife in hand and cleaved straight to the wood of the door. I collapsed in a fit, but it wasn't the first time a madman had taken a swing at me. A swift whirl of commotion and I found the doorway in haste. The candle was tipped and catching to cloth hanging along the windows. They went up, roaring their mighty protest against the shadowing rain and the world turned upside down. Blood coated the walls in an eerie vibrance of red given life by the rising flames. The empty look of shock upon my so-beloved Loriel's face stared back at me, her tongue ripped out, and the rest of her was nowhere to be seen. Yes, it was. On the walls, in entrails. "YOU BASTARD! YOU THINK YOU CAN HIDE YOUR HERESY HERE WHERE THE WORLD WILL NOT FIND IT?!" the man howled. Face coated in gore. Jericho's face, and as mad as the day I first met him. The knife in his hand whistled happily as I crab-walked backwards, shocked. "SHE **** HERSELF, CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? SHOWED ME WHAT YOU WERE SO PROUD OF ALL THIS TIME, THAT DAMN BOOK AND YOUR WRITING!" to which Jericho leveled the knife towards a hallway where I'd scribbled diagrams all along the walls of the study. I admit, it had bothered her. It bothered the neighbors too, that one last time they'd come to visit. How did I let things get this far? How could I have sunk myself to having no other friends? Each of them tangled away one by one. Only those few mad souls in the Asylums would call me friend anymore, and my colleagues just let me work. I was good at it. KRACK! The knife bashed cinders into my eyes, and they stung like hell. So, I picked myself up and ran. I ran away. Into the study I fled. That's all I could think of in the face of the mad Jericho. "THE GODS HAVE FORSAKEN YOU, AND THEY SHOW ME THE WAY." He stalked after me as a looming silhouette, howling those words with a grinning face in stark darker-than-dark bloody relief. Only his teeth shone. It's odd the little details we remember. The book was already in my hands, calling upon the mercy of those I prayed too. Calling upon aid. But, the circles were those of the book. The walls came alive, twining in insectile insanity, chittering and calling a merry sing-song to the howling of Jericho. Twice did I have time to mutter before the knife was planted in the meat of my thigh like I was a split pig at a festival. The bloodloss drew me to darkness, and I dreamed deeply of smiling mad zealots, walls comming to life, chittering things crawling off every wall to rip at his flesh, and flames dripping off the ceiling to damn us all. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~ Somewhere distant I felt cold. The rain again? Sweat. It trickled down my brow and across the warm blankets of a room that only now became more than a wall of fuzz. I was someplace dank, and the bars were dull to the window high above. I don't remember exactly how I got here, just that I was accused of murdering my wife. I rambled on about the book having shown it all, and even showed the passage to one of the merciful priests. My thoughts ground to a halt as I caught the sight of long since dried blood on the floor. Little more than the shape of a puddle. The wind bit viciously through the window, chill on bones. Gathering my things I knocked and waited, but to no avail. I shouted for the guards, to no avail. I hollered for answers and demanded my due, and the other patients shouted their needs as well. It was a long while before the answer came knocking. On my ribs, as the guards taunted me as they pounded away my cares into unconsciousness and a cold, blood-stained stone floor. I was let out eventually. They said a man came forward seeking 'absolution' and confessed his crimes of killing my wife. Burning down the house. Into a room I was pushed, with six elderly men of whom four looked at me with sadness and pity. I understood their pity, but hated it regardless. "Since I've been here I've fought a war with my inner demons and purged them from my soul. In my faith I've found a new life, and the gods and I stand to offer guidance and purpose to those who need it. It is true that I turned away the world to study that which I shouldn't, and it was a terrible thing but I realize now what a hollow end that is. My faith is my guidance now, and with the gods guidance I'll turn my efforts to helping the people of this down when and where I can." Somewhere, a part of me laughed at the irony. But, it was true. I was no less a caring man than I was, but what the future held I could scarcely guess. I gathered my belongings and packed up to rebuild a future. 4-2 the vote was in favor. I've got as long as I need. The city hasn't forgotten me entirely, and to a rare few I'm still a saint. This ring is my reminder of all things that have come to pass, and most importantly the proof that my marriage was not an illusion. It was not a mad and fevered dream. There are some that say the past should be forgotten, but past is the fevered purpose of my life. I know from the Prophet's diary that this was all to pass. Something else lies in these pages, wrongful twisted things, but that doesn't mean I can't make them right. I caught a glimpse of the pages. A cinder of hope, that I might even be able to bring back my beloved wife. No, not as an abomination, but truly bring her back.
Terjon of the Blue Rose 03-24-07, 04:52 AM	I'm no writer LIAR :weep: :clap: :weep: