The World of Layonara
Character Development => Development Journals and Discussion => Topic started by: Omniviscerus on December 13, 2004, 02:19:00 PM
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They say that patience is a virtue; that good things come to all who wait. Patience is a virtue, they say. I will wait then, as I always have... The shores of Lake Ibnoune are truly a remarkable place, as I have learned during my limited here in Hlint. The placid waters of the lake, combined with the oddly fresh and crisp air is indeed a marvelous combination... something that I've missed for what feels like an eternity now. How long has it *truly* been? Oft, I find myself asking myself that same question over and over again, and never have I found the answer. Some say the past has an odd way of catching up to us, and perhaps one day it shall catch up to me. Certainly, the lake is as good a place as any to wait for that inevitable day when the past finally comes home to roost. "Time waits for no man" they say, but I beg to differ. I've waited all my life, and I'll continue to wait... till at last the puzzle becomes clear. What I do remember is fragmented, like pieces of a shattered glass upon the floor of an old tavern. Looking at them, you know they were all once part of a cohesive whole, but the forces of entropy conspired to separate them. So it is with my memories... fragments of truth and half-truths and a chorus of voices both lost and clouded. Some of these voices are mine... the others I cannot fully recall. Perhaps they were the voices of family and friends, all dead and gone as the living are wont to do. In my dreams, they whisper to me in their soft coffin sibilance... of things I can no longer remember. Perhaps they do not wish for me to forget, and to remember. I tell myself they are only wraiths and illusions, products of a fevered and sleepless mind... that they cannot be true. But somewhere inside, I know they are right. There are some things I simply cannot force myself to forget, no matter how hard I have tried. Fragments trying to force themselves into a whole, in defiance of the mind's own internal tendency to block out "unwanted" memories. As I sit by the banks of this lake, my mind often wanders... bringing me back to a place I have seen in my dreams many times now... The white snowflakes fell in a flurry, blanketing the barren fields, the trees removed by the men who now huddled in the myriad trenches dug deep into the frozen earth. It is winter, somewhere in the frontiers of the nation of Mistone but for these wretched souls the bitter cold around them is nowhere near the chill that grips their hearts from within. Many of the "men" were barely that, boys that had barely left the womb of childhood and were now thrust into the stark and terrifying world of men... in the worst way possible. The thick trenchcoats they wore over their ill-fitting cuirasses did little to alleviate the chill, and many huddled together to preserve what little warmth they could. The meager bonfires had long been extinguished, "so that the enemy would not detect our positions" their officers said. They waited, clutching their weapons of iron close to them, waiting for the inevitable... They waited for the moment when the calm would at last be broken, and the snow covered fields would be bathed in the warm blood of the fallen... staining the cold earth... For when the trenches that they had dug to protect themselves would become their graves...
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I've often asked myself what drives men to the path of war. What motivates them to do the things that they do, and what demons within them urges them to blindly engage in the slaughter and maiming of their kindred. War is a strange thing; you'd kill a man without a thought whom you'd just as likely be willing to lend a copper or treat to an ale if you had but met him under different circumstances. But ranged as warriors upon the fields of war, you'd strike at him without a thought... just as he would you. I think it's been over a decade now since then... and still I do not understand. Perhaps that is why war is a phenomenon that will persist for as long as mortals exist, for if we could all truly understand the ultimately pointless and self-destructive nature of it we would forsake it without a second thought. But as the saying goes.... we are born imperfect. There are those in this world who believe that mortals are doomed to their fate, and that it is far better to pursue one's own agendas and gains. I confess that I was no different, and perhaps somewhere deep inside I still am not. From what I've learned though, such apathy and indifference leads us all nowhere. Our society, for all its "civilizing" aspects, is still one steeped in injustice and inequality. The rich will only get richer, growing fat off the labor of the weak and the oppressed, while the poor will only become poorer. It is a sad fact that those in power, grown so complacent and assured of their authority and position, that they no longer care nor let alone notice the common man and woman, who more often than not must struggle to make ends meet. A soldier will give his life for the "greater good" of his nation, bleeding out his life for an ephemeral cause. He is no different from the commoner, the peasant, the weak... all are tools and puppets of the rich and powerful. And it is them who must in the end suffer for the mistakes of the bourgeoisie. So it has always been.... and so it will always be. In the years that I have spent travelling these lands, it is a fact of life that I cannot ignore. Easing the suffering of the populace is one thing... but that can only go so far in the end. The roots of the problem should be addressed, I think.
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"Whose ghosts these are I think I know, their graves are in my dreams, you know" With each passing day, I grow colder... Not unlike the dead interred beneath the grounds that I now find myself watching over, more and more these days. As I walk amongst them, I often ask them what is the purpose behind my vigil... what I can possibly hope to accomplish watching over the detritus of life. Perhaps it is a feeling of belonging then, the wretched creature that I have become. Wraithlike, I drift through this abode of broken dreams... And I feel at home now. As the days go by, I feel less and less in touch with the living around me, their cares and passions now all but meaningless to me. After all, what business do the dead have with the living? No... I take comfort in the company of the dead, so like they I have become. I am truly nothing but a mere husk now, and there is no turning back from this... Not with a price so high... I find myself sometimes speaking to them, the "silent" denizens of the cemetery, perhaps out of madness, or perhaps out of kinship. I've realized that if one would only stop to listen, ever so carefully, the voices of the dead become quite apparent. I have tried to document this phenomena, if only to sate my own curiousity, but with little luck. It is like.... a chorus... no... a *sea*... of voices all at once, all clamoring for their voices to be heard amidst the pandemonium. When I first began to hear them, I had thought that I had truly slipped away from the world of the living and become one of them... until I heard them refer to me constantly as the "living spirit". I could not drown out their voices, not even when I attempted to push away all thoughts from my mind... It was maddening at first, to the point of driving one mad... but in time I learned to appreciate them... Night by night, I walked in their midst, listening to them... until I could finally discern an individual voice from the sea of others all vying for attention. I have not found the one voice I wish to hear yet... but soon, I know I shall... I draw closer with each passing night, and it is only inevitable that we shall speak once more... Just as we did so long ago...
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"If Life is but a dance, it is then only fitting that death should sing the tune..." It has become increasingly difficult for me to gather my thoughts together in the past few nights now, so distanced from the living I now feel. Things that came easily to me in life are now blurred and murky, their meanings becoming less and less apparent to me. I no longer struggle against who or what I have become now; knowing what I do now. My decision may have ultimately cost me my humanity, dooming me to this state, but I will not struggle against it. For what good would such a thing achieve in the end? There is nothing for me amongst the world of the living... all those whom I have held dear have all faded like leaves... now all denizens of the realm I dwell in. The joy of meeting old friends and loved ones cannot be compared to anything, I would think, and many indeed would go to great lengths to achieve such a thing. I ask myself, is it truly so bad to be like this then? The worries and sorrows of the living no longer plague me, and I have at last found the peace I have sought for so long... The question then is: Why? Why should I go back to an existence that has brought me only weariness and grief, when I have at last attained that which I had sought, if only inadverdently? The living presume that all spirits are nothing but tortured revenants, driven by nothing but malice and an overpowering hatred of life. In my present state, I honestly say that that is a complete load of manure. If only the somnambulistic fools would open their eyes to the world beyond them and see for themselves... Not all of the dead choose the afterlife, this I now know. Some wander the world as wraiths, seeking vengeance against the living who wronged them in life... while others simply wish to observe... Some stay out of duty, others out of loyalty to an oath or promise they made long ago. The reasons are many, but what unites them all is the will to persist. On the contrary, the majority of the spirits that walk amongst the living are entirely harmless, wishing only to observe the living and their daily affairs. Curiousity is not limited to the living, contrary to the hubristic beliefs of mortals. Just as the living are often fascinated with the dead, so it is true the other way around. My time amongst these spirits has been interesting to say the least, and I find myself learning more and more from them with each passing day. As of late, I find myself increasingly restricted to the cemeteries, as that is where I seem to feel the least stress upon my form. I can still retain some measure of physicality it seems, taking a somewhat corporeal form when I focus hard enough upon it. But that is growing more and more difficult, a byproduct of my increasing familiarity with my own condition. Rather than struggle pointlessly against what I have become, I think it would be far more fruitful to accept what I am and make the best of it. Certainly, Erag has appreciated the help as I now reside in the cemetery, tending to the gravestones and keeping watch over the more... restless... dead in the crypts below. Rarely do I find myself amongst the living now, and only out of necessity. I understand that the common view of one such as I is that of an abomination, a creature of Darkness, and I do not blame them. The living fear what they do not understand, and they always will. That's an inescapable fact of... life... really. I am fortunate in that no attempt has been made by any would-be heroes to exorcise me or whatnot, though I fear Lessia continues to give me a hard time. To this day, I do not understand what motivates this woman. Why must she plague me so? She speaks of visions and prophecies, but such things can just as easily come from the minds of madmen and lunatics. I have absolutely no desire to be her pawn, not when she seems to view all those around her as mere objects and resources. While I pity her, I grow weary of this game that she seems intent on playing with my mind. The harassment persists, and I simply wish to be left alone above all else. Perhaps if she made some sense, I would understand. But as it is, I can do nothing but avoid her. In spite of all this, I am glad to know that not all view the living dead in such an openly hostile manner.. Some would even be openminded enough to take the time to speak to a creature whom most would simply greet with drawn weapons. They are few and far between I fear, and that is to be expected. I recently encountered a young woman by the name of Ambryn, an aasimar if my memory serves, and she did not seem to be taken aback at all by my presence. While I did draw some measure of comfort from her words, I fear that I have grown exceptionally reluctant to place my trust in the living. It eases my mind to know that not all view me as a monstrous being, though that is perhaps what I am, but rather with some measure of understanding and empathy. I want to believe her words, but the cynic in me tells me that to trust the living is both foolish and dangerous for what business do the dead have with the living? Only time will tell... though I fear it will be with great caution on my part. People are never what they seem... My spirit grows weary, and I fear I cannot maintain this form long enough to write any further. I shall retreat to my home in the graveyard for now, and take my place amongst the slumbering dead as I have for so long. My enemies are many, and my friends are few. I would do well to be wary in the coming days...
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*A hastily scrawled entry in the worn journal* Success! I did not think the process would work, but it seems it has against all odds shown some measure of success. Knowing that I have not entirely slipped away into undeath, as I seem to be still affected by magics that affect the living, I have as of late begun conducting some experiments to ascertain my nature. Neither dead nor alive, I seem to walk the line somewhere in between. The results of my recent experiments do show that I can regain my physical form and retain the semblance of life, if but for short periods of time. However, in order to achieve such an effect I am required to feed off of the life energies of a living being! Such a thing is absolutely horrid, but I have worked out a way around that, or so I think. It seems the life energies of any living being will serve, and as such I have taken to preying upon vermin and fish in order to sustain myself. So far it has worked, and for brief periods of time I am even able to blend in perfectly with the living! This may prove to be useful given the continual harassment that I face from would be hunters and other unwanted intruders... Now to test it out in full..... *Spatters of what looks to be blood covers portions of this page, seemingly dripped onto it accidentally by the writer from an unknown source*
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*The following entry is barely legible, the ink smudged in many parts while the page itself is torn in places and covered with spatters of dried blood* Miscalculated... could not control urge to feed.... Rodents proved insufficient... The sensation is utterly intoxicating... life energies of sentient creatures proved to be more useful... did not wish to resort to such a ghastly form of self-preservation but... acted in self-defense...
*Much of the rest is covered in thick spatters of blood, along with looks to be claw marks made by an unsteady hand*
Goblins... drained it completely... could not stop myself... the rush is euphoric and I now know... I must learn to curb myself.. and feed only when necessary... Perhaps she was right after all... I fear there is no cure to my present condition now... it is too late... But now there is the hunger... and I must fight it...
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*A single entry, scrawled in a horribly unsteady and shaky hand; the writer clearly under great stress* FORGIVE ME.... Cele- (The rest of the page is torn out and what remains charred away by some form of energy)
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There are far too many thoughts within my mind for me to effectively commit to ink now and I do not know how long it has been since the last time I attempted to collect my thoughts together. The events of the past week has been but a blur, and try as I might I cannot recall what happened since the time of my last entry. But I fear the worse, for I awoke in the middle of the Dire Woods, surrounded by what appeared to be the decomposed corpses of a group of mercenaries. My hands were covered in blood, as were my raiments, leading me to believe that I was directly responsible for the deaths of the swords for hire. But how could that be, given the state of their corpses? Some were horribly decayed, beyond even recognition, while some seemed utterly withered from within... as if somehow drained. I do not know what circumstances lead up to this ghastly incident, but I cannot hide from the obvious truth. I know not who or what I truly am now, and this emptiness within me has grown increasingly painful with each passing day... I do not know what is happening to me now, but I suspect the end draws near. I cannot in good conscience continue to sustain myself upon the living like this, feeding off of them like some accursed parasite. Up to this point, I have managed to sate myself with common beasts and riffraff but I fear I may not be able to control myself should this keep up. It is only a matter of time now, and as the hunger and coldness becomes increasingly unbearable, so has the frequency of the voices. I have been hearing them for quite some time now, but given little thought to them. Day and night they chatter, always calling to me... begging to be heard. Why won't they leave me alone...? Why...? It has been four days since I last closed my nights, but I fear that if I do I will be drowned in this cacophony and swept away. This fear is entirely irrational, I tell myself, but I cannot bring myself to close my eyes for fear that the voices will overtake me... I grow weary. Sometimes I think I can hea.............
*The entry ends abruptly, only to be continued several lines later in a ragged and frantic script, its author clearly under either great duress or suffering from intense hysteria*
They are EVERYWHERE... All around me! So empty and cold... they will not cease hounding me! But could they be right..? Have I truly been living a lie, dedicating myself to a life and cause that is FUTILE? They tell me of many things... so many things... and they simply will not go away! Make them go away! Away! Go! Does the rat beg its killer for clemency as it lies bleeding on the ice? And what of the lone traveller doomed to find that which he has lost forever? What can he possibly find in this charnel house..? Oh, the music around me is heavenly now... like a chorus of voices all singing in cacophonous harmony... Grotesquely esctatic they say whisper....
*The rest of the page is filled with utterly nonsensical ramblings and entirely incomprehensible gibberish, filled with bizarre statements and psychotic ravings, all extremely disturbing. None of it is decipherable, as the latter half seems to be written both backwards and inverted, in an illegible but unsettling script*
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For the time being, the voices have lessened somewhat in both their frequency and urgency since the night before. I have forced myself to read the entry of the night before, knowing full well I should have simply burnt the page, but I fear I could not bring myself to do it. The ravings make absolutely no sense to me, mired as they are in the insanity of my situation. In the meantime, I have taken care to leave not a trace of my presence in Hlint, as I now make my way to the Greypeaks. Remaining in the presence of prying eyes would only bring the suspicion of the ignorant upon myself, and that is a mistake I simply cannot afford to make. There is much that I need to understand and do before the night is out, and the trip itself will be a long one. I am reluctant to leave behind her grave, but perhaps in Lar I shall become closer to her presence still. My investigations into the house reveals that to this day it still stands just as we had left it all those years ago, literally untouched. The key is still in my possession, though part of me would like to never set foot in that house again. But I have little choice... There is much work to do.
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Midnight in the cold town of Lar, the snowswept streets devoid of the sounds of traffic and life. Few are out in the streets of the cold hamlet atthis twilight hour and the hush of darkness falls upon its sleeping denizens. It is a starless night, the streets illuminated only by streetlamps keeping their quiet vigil. However, the near total silence issuddenly broken by the soft sounds of footsteps on the snow.... A lone figure makes his way down the old and weathered stone, the sound of his boots against the road soft piercing the silence of the night. Dressed in a dark long winter coat, the stranger stops at the base of a street lamp and leans against it as he reaches into the depths of his coat. Looking out into the dark night, he pulls back the hood of his coat, revealing long silver locks that reaches nearly to his shoulders. A swoop of hair obscures much of the left side of his face, but he makes no attempt to brush it aside. What can be seen of his face reveals him to be a young man, perhaps in his early to mid twenties. His skin a pale and deathly pallor, he is both eerily handsome and unsettling to look upon at the same time. With his piercing sapphire eyes, the pupils reminiscent of those of a reptile, he calmly scans the quiet streets looking for nothing in particular... unblinking. Numbly running a hand through his coat, he lifts a cigarette to his pale ruby lips. With a tiny jet of flame from his fingertip, he lights the cigarette and takes a deep pull. Looking down, he notices a tiny shadow scuttling at his feet... a lone snow hare. Digging into the depths of his coatpockets he fishes out a few bread crumbs and throws it to the creature, a look of amusement crossing his austere face. He watches the creature, hesitant at first, grab the morsel sand smiles as he watches it scamper off into the night.
Taking a final pull on his cigarette, he crushes the still glowing stub with his fingers and throws it away as he steps away from the light of the street lamp. Without a word, he continues on his way down the street, his purpose clear. Weaving through old farmhouses and fields and past the rows of dilapidated shacks and battered old tenements, his route takes him far to the outskirts of the town. Finally stopping at a rather nondescript and shabby looking house, he removes a single brass key from a keychain on his belt. The windows of the house are all darkened by black curtains while the entire facade appears worn and weathered, much like the countless other houses surrounding it. Walking up to the doorsteps, he slides the key into the lock and waits for a familiar click. Interestingly, the keyhole seems worn and scratched...evidence of numerous attempts at forced entries. The stranger looks at the door, perhaps hesitant to open it, and grips the doorknob with a slightly trembling hand. The door opens with a loud creak, its hinges rusted and ancient, revealing what appears to be what would have been a rather comfortable and pleasant home for two, the halls now covered in cobwebs and layers of dust. He slowly makes his way to the room across the old hall, brushing aside layers of cobwebs obstructing his path. His eyes brush past the door to the chamber adjacent to his destination, his eyes betraying overpowering feelings of both guilt and sadness, before he finally forces himself to look away and open the old oaken doors leading into his study. An old and scratched table lies in the center of the room while a small desk rests in a dark corner. Numerous vials of what looks to be oil paints and various other compounds lies upon the table, along with numerous paintbrushes of various shapes and sizes. The walls, the paint peeling and covered with numerous gouge marks made by claws, are covered with numerous charcoal sketches, the parchment decayed and yellowing, and paintings in various states of completion. A thick layer of dust covers this all, like a ghostly shroud.
Looking into the room with haunted eyes, the young man unbuttons his coat and drops it to the floor beside a small pile of balled up parchments and torn pieces of paper. Making his towards the desk, he reaches into a pouch hanging from his belt and places on the table a small jar that holds a thick green fluid within it. Sitting down on a scarred wooden stool, he reaches over and lights the ancient oil lamp while pulling out a large leather bound sketchbook from a creaky drawer. Carefully setting the book onto the table, he forces himself to open the heavy cover and to look upon the sketches within. The entire book, perhaps containing hundreds upon hundreds of pages, all seem to be filled with pencil and charocoal sketches of the same subject. The figure is distinctly female, and as he nears the final few pages one can clearly make out what looks to be a young woman with a slender frame dressed in a long and flowing gown. His eyes remains focused on this final image for what seems to be an eternity, his hands slowly drifting to the silver locket that had lain upon the desk. Brushing away the layer of dust coating it, he gingerly opens it, his eyes filled with sadness and remembrance. Within the recesses of the locket lies a single chrysanthemum petal, stained by three crimson droplets of blood, which is encased by a solid covering of glass.
Closing his eyes, he closes the locket once more and sighs deeply as he forces himself to remember the present... and his task at hand.With a final glance at the sketch, he returns the sketchbook to the drawer and makes his way to the table. Swiftly, he gathers up the myriad vials of paint strewn about the table's gouged surface and hurriedly mixes them upon a large ceramic plate. He does this without even bothering to look, so familiar is he with this process, but rather takes his time to select a set of three brushes instead. With his equipment, the stranger makes his way towards a large easel propped upin the corner of the room. In a single fluid motion, he pulls down the white linen cloth draped over it and strips down to the waist, casting his black silken shirt to the ground. Standing before the blank white canvas, he stares intently at it with his unblinking sapphire eyes as if painting with his mind alone... And in a way, that is perhaps *exactly* what he is doing...
Suddenly, he understands what he must do and pulls a brush from the holster on his belt and dips the fine bristle into a plate of paints. Lost in this art, the young man is utterly consumed by his work and oblivious to the world around him. His every stroke bespeaks a talent both honed through years of practice, but also gifted with a natural and innate talent. To a casual observer, he would appear to be like a madman, every stroke seemingly random and spontaneous with no thought beforehand. However, what he seeks to capture now is a single vision that has haunted his every waking moment since that day so long ago now... His hands guided not merely by his mind, but also by raw emotions he gives in to the compulsion and loses himself entirely for what seems to be an eternity. At last, he puts down his brush with a trembling hand, his chest covered with splatters of paint, and regards his work calmly.
The backdrop of the painting is a cold and beautiful winter landscape, the snow covering the land like a soft blanket of white silk. The night sky is filled with the luminations of stars and constellations presided over by a pale full moon, set in the winter sky like a ghostly galleon sailing through the vast ocean of the cosmos...
Wildflowers in full bloom rises from the blanket of snow like a sea of crimson and gold, surreal and beautiful because and in spite of the cold winter landscape. In the center of this all there stands a lone chrysanthemum tree in full bloom, the blossoms and branches covered by a light layer of snow. But what truly catches ones eye is the subjectof this painting itself, the same figure from the countless sketches lining the walls of the studio and filling the pages of the sketchbook. A hauntingly beautiful young woman stands by the tree, leaning lightly against its trunk...
Her delicate and fragile features, with her white and snowy skin, are framed by long curls the color of deep crimson. While seemingly of elven blood in appearance, she possesses traits that are utterly alien to any race of elves as well. Her large almond eyes are of a deep shadeof amethyst, and one cannot help but look into their sad and melancholic depths. She is dressed in a somewhat transparent gown of an unidentifiable material that seems to shimmer in the moonlight, perhaps quicksilver. And in her hands, she holds a single flower, called a Winter Rose by many for it sability to survive and flourish even in the heart of winter. She seems to look directly at you, a sad and slightly sorrowful look in her eyes while a faint smile plays across her blue lips... Who could this mysterious young woman be...?
Motionless and breathless, the young man stands before his now completed work, not fully comprehending what drove him to paint this, let alone how he was even able to accomplish such a feat at all. Suddenly out of the corner of his eye he notices a slight imperfection in the shadows. How could this be?! Trembling, he covers his face with his hands and stumbles back from his work. His dulled emotions crushed by his own perceived failure, he suddenly lashes out with a frost chilled hand and smashes the fragile painting into fragments. As he looks down upon the broken canvas, he suddenly realizes what he has just done and drops to his knees clutching a shard of the portrait.
"I.. I simply can't.. I.. I'm sorry.. So sorry for everything... I failed you then and I've failed you even now...", he whispers softly to the fragment he holds in his hands.
But at my back I always hear Time's winged chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found, Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long preserv'd virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust. The grave's a fine and private place, But none I think do there embrace. - Excerpt from the poem "To His Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvell
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... Hunched over the worn and weathered desk, he clutches an ornate dagger in his right hand tightly. The room is in shambles, and every torn parchment and shattered vials of oil paint litters the floor, leaving a sea of glass shards in their wake. Bits of canvas lies in a heap in one section of the room, covered in dried and crusted spatters of paint and blood. A deathly chill permeates the very air, even as a thin layer of frost covers the walls and battered furniture. An old fireplace rests in the corner, long since unused judging from the frigidity of the surroundings.
As the door slowly swings open on its rusty hinges to reveal the inquisitive face of a large snow hare, the lone figure at the desk slowly rises from his stupor. Partially coagulated blood, freezing in the bitter cold, oozes slowly from a grotesque gash on the palm of his left hand, which leaves streaks of blood as he runs it across the surface of the oaken desk lazily.Setting down the dagger, he takes no notice as the jagged fragments of glass littering the desk slices into his pale flesh like minuscule razors.... The icy blade of the dagger is coated with a thick layer of a dark red fluid...
Stumbling towards the door he holds a bloody hand to his chest, now covered with countless tiny wounds and slices, the skin flayed in some parts of his back. His gait is awkward and clumsy, but possessed of a singular purpose known only to him. Shaking, he runs a hand through his long silvery locks slowly, covering it with a thin layer of blood even as a thick and oily black substance oozes from the the broken horn on his head. The blood trickles down his neck, following a road down his back as it forms a steadily growing pool at his feet.
Its eyes revealing both fear and curiosity, the hare approaches the bleeding man hesitantly. Its dim animalistic memory tells it that this same creature before it once showed it kindness with an offer of food. Perhaps it would do the same this time... Its paws leaving tiny redprints on the paint spattered floor, the beast scampers towards the man and waits patiently at his feet as it looks up at him with its questioning eyes.
"May I have some food, sir?", it seemed to ask in its posture. It is then that a dark and undeniably psychotic grin forms upon the pale crimson lips of the bleeding man, a smile borne of pure madness. Without a word, he lifts his boot and crushes the pitiful creature, its entrails smearing the cold hard floor of the dilapidated study even as its soft bones crunches under the weight of its killer's foot. Old memories return to him, memories of a not too distant past, memories awash in blood and numbing guilt. He exhales slowly, and watches as the breathe instantly crystallizes in the icy air.
But amidst the madness, the memory of a single tune returns to him... a simple tune... Clutching the eerily beautiful pendant that now hangs from his scarred neck, he forces the tune from his mind even as he focuses his gaze upon the single crimson gem set into the center of the locket... There is something odd about it... Something that he cannot place his finger on... Yet at the same time it feels so very familiar to him....Entranced by its otherwordly beauty, he continues to stare into its unfathomable depths before he finally turns his attention to the open door and the blizzard raging outside.
Smiling coldly to himself, he holds the amulet close to his bleeding chest and steps out into the cold, winter twilight...
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*This page appears to have been written independently of this journal by the author, scribed on what appears to be a sheet of tanned hide using ochre ink* Case Study #4 (Previous tests have thus far proven to be inconclusive and tainted)
Subject: Name Unknown
Race: Elf
Age: Unknown, but general appearance suggests adult
Gender: Female
Condition: Advanced State of Decomposition (All previous subjects have been too "fresh" for tests to be entirely conclusive. Current subject's decayed state rules out all possibilities of resuscitation by "conventional" means)
Cause of Death: Multiple lacerations to the abdomen (Likely result of bladed implements), Severe Trauma to the thoracic cavity (Bludgeoning?), Subject likely died from massive blood loss resulting from the aforementioned wounds.
Note: Tattoos of a decidedly arcane nature discovered on the arms of the subject suggests a practitioner of the magical arts Specimen #4 was discovered two days prior, near the outskirts of Point Harbor. Exhumation of subject was particularly difficult, due to the decomposed condition of the corpus, and required extensive effort on the part of self to extricate from its site of death. Evidence around the site suggested that a skirmish had occurred in this area, most likely between a band of would-be adventurers and mercenaries, of which Specimen #4 was likely a member of.
Upon closer examinations, the state of Specimen #4 proved to be "worse" than previously estimated, with the internal organs in dire states of necrosis. Subject most likely expired over two weeks ago, judging from the coloration of the viscera, and presence of maggots in near adult development corrobates this hypothesis. Unlike previous subjects 2 and 3, the chances of conventional means of resurrection for Specimen #4 is all but impossible given its state. Subject fails to respond to any forms of divine healing, and all attempts at resurrection likewise proved to be unsuccessful. In short, Specimen #4 is genuinely dead...
Interestingly enough, the specimen proved to be perfect for the process of reanimation, meeting all the prerequisites for said procedure. Tests using spells of Animate Dead under controlled conditions proved to be highly successful, with reanimation time being nearly instantaneous. Attempts to restore the subject to full life upon reanimation proved to be quite disastrous, with the specimen immediately reverting to its previously inanimate state. Clearly, attempts to bypass conventional resurrection through reanimation has been ruled out, and supports the findings from experiments 2 and 3 (Note: The zombie used for Specimen #2 displayed brief signs of true life prior to its destruction after being administered the contents of a restorative intravenuously). In addition, injecting the reanimated specimen with said restoratives proved to have the same effects, with stronger doses producing near instantaneous expiration of the specimen. Interestingly enough, the specimen was heard to have uttered a single coherent statement prior to expiration after being dosed with the contents of a highly potent draught of healing. This suggets that while the process of necromantic reanimation renders the corpus incapable of full restoration, there exists still a faint spark of true life within the shell even after advanced states of decay. As the saying goes "Nothing is Impossible" and further experiments will be needed to ascertain a possible "cure". I think I have made true progress this day, and it will only be a matter of time before...........
*The passage ends here, most likely a fragment of a larger work by the author. Oddly enough, the reverse of the parchment is filled with nonsensical rhymes and ramblings of both paranoid and utterly incoherent natures. Still, there is a method to the seeming madness of the author as immediately after the nonsense there lies a detailed recipe, written in the same red ochre as the previous document*
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Smoked Saddle of Wild Boar with Currant Sauce (A most *delightful* dish indeed!)
Serves 6 (Or just for that special someone...) Ingredients:
- 1 saddle of wild boar
- charcoal and wood chips for smoking (hickory, pecan, and applewood)[/SIZE][/FONT]
Brine For Smoking Process
- brine for smoking:
- 2 cups cider vinegar
- 4 cups water (Holy Water works quite well)
- 1 cup water
- 1 tablespoon black peppercorns
- 1 teaspoon juniper berries, crushed
- 1/2 cup firmly packed dark, brown sugar
- 1 bay leaf
- 4 whole cloves
- 2 teaspoons grated orange zest
- 2 tablespoons chopped fresh parsley
- 1 medium yellow onion, chopped
- 1 clove garlic, halved
- 1 medium carrot, peeled and sliced
- 1 medium celery stalk, sliced
- 1 cup dry red wine[/SIZE][/FONT]
The Sauce
- 1/2 cup dried currants
- 1/2 cup dried creame of cassis
- 1/2 cup red wine (For a fuller taste, I recommend elven wine)
- 1/4 cup black currant jam (The halflings make such exquisite jams...)
- 2 cups veal, beef, or game meat stock (It is advisable to be selective in this regard)
- 3 shallots, chopped
- 2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice
- 1/2 teaspoons Pranzis mustard
- 2 tablespoons butter (Preferable created from milk produced by cattle fed on high grade grains)
- Salt and freshly ground black pepper[/SIZE][/FONT]
Directions:
[list=1]
- Brine:Combine all ingredients, except wine, in a large, saucepan and bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer for 30 minutes. Strain into a large container;add red wine. Place boar in brine (fully covering the meat) in ice a couple of days in advance of cooking. Magical means serve just as well,and can even ensure extended freshness.
- Remove boar from brine and allow to sit for about 45 minutes before smoking. Use a covered grill and indirect heat; after the coal have burned for 30 minutes, make 2 piles of coals with drip pan in the middle. Sprinkle each pile of coals with 1 cup wet wood chips that have been soaked in water for 20 minutes and drained. Place boar on grill and cook,covered, for about 1-1/2 to 2 hours. Replenish coals and chips about every 30 minutes. For best results, use Darkfire (Smoother texture compared to conventional flames)
- Sauce: In a small saucepan, soak currants in cream of cassis and wine for 45 minutes. Add all remaining ingredients, except butter, salt and pepper, and reduce over medium heat to a light sauce consistency. Swirl in butter. Season with salt and pepper. Keep warm.
- Remove boar from grill and let rest 10 minutes. Carve and serve with sauce. Enjoy... Oh yes, *enjoy* [/SIZE][/FONT]
*The rest of the page immediately following this detaile recipe once again decays into the incoherent scribblings of before, and ends abruptly...most likely due to the author running out of space*
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It is common knowledge that the practice of necromancy, truly an art form in my humble opinion, is one that is both shunned and deeply misunderstood by the general populace. Ignorance and superstition runs rampant through the lands of Mistone, and even more so in certain regions. This is only exacerbated by the presence of religious zealots and would be "liberators", making the deathly arts an exceedingly rare practice indeed. Personally, I have already encountered a few such individuals, with the most persistent being an elven paladin of Aeridin. She seemed rather determined to "put me to rest", though I was able to throw her off with some carefully formulated lies and obfuscations. Only time will tell if this self-proclaimed savior will pose to be a serious threat... In addition to all this, procuring the necessary supplies for my research has been difficult at best, and dangerous at worst, and great care must always be taken to ensure secrecy and anonymity, lest I attract unnecessary attention to myself. It has been well over a month now since I first began my "experiments", and while I have made great gains in my examinations there remained the ever present scarcity of subjects. The crypts in Hlint have proven to be a useful source for corpses and materials for my earlier experiments, but I fear that I have already attracted too much attention to my activities. A few nights ago, while exhuming the grave of a recently deceased farmer I felt as if I was being watched... While I could not confirm this suspicion, to take such a risk now would only jeopardize all that I have worked towards... and that is a risk that I simply cannot take... not for her sake. Strangely enough, I believe that I may not be alone in my operations in this region, for there are words of other individuals with similar persuasions rumored to be practicing the arts in secret. From what I can tell, most are merely dabblers or members of the Corathian faith. While the tenets of Corath's faith are intriguing, to say the least, their members have done far too much to attract far too much attention to both themselves and their activities... a dangerous mistake. However, in recent nights I have heard word from some of my "suppliers" that perhaps a new cabal of necromancers have been operating in Krandor as of late. Indeed, the recent brisk trade in necromantic foci and rash of mysterious exhumations corrobate this fact. Little is known about these newcomers, and even less about their intentions here in this region, but it would be prudent on my part to investigate this further... Oddly enough, the rumors hold that this cabal once held some measure of power and influence in the frontier lands... Something about this all is strangely familiar to me, but my memory seems to fail me at the moment.
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It is my regret to announce that the latest phase of my grand experiment has come to a screeching halt due to a grave miscalculation upon my part. I had falsely assumed that the soil of the Krandor crypts held the sample that I was looking for all this time, and instead found quite the opposite. The composition of the graveyard soil did held nothing remarkable within its grains, and was in truth no different from samples that I have collected in Hlint prior to my own self-imposed exile from that accursed town. However, I am confident that this latest mishap will be just that; a minor obstacle that I will surmount soon enough...
It has been many weeks now since I have visited her grave, though it has felt more like an eternity to me. However, my absence from Hlint is for the best, as I have no wish to attract further attention to myself nor my activities and thus also place her in danger as well. Failure is not an option, and if ensuring success means breaking away from my own faith, then so be it. I can see now that the world is but a cruel and pathetic place, whose inhabitants are all driven by their own selfish agendas. With each passing night, I question my hollow devotion to a deity so very out of touch with this world... and with each passing night the void deep within grows wider. The incident with the lich has opened my eyes to a whole new world, and presented me with a glimpse at the stark truth that I was simply too naiive to admit. Darkness and hatred permeates the hearts of all men, no matter how virtuous they may claim to be, perpuating a cycle that is sending this pathetic world hurtling towards its own doom even now. I have resisted this inevitable fact all my life, believing foolishly that I could make a difference... when in the end I had lost the one thing I held more dear than all creation itself. In my quixotic pursuit of "good", I had failed to protect the one person that drove me upon that path in the first place. No more... Since the night I first began delving into the necromantic arts, I had myself placed upon an irreversible path from which I can never turn back and the time has come when I will finally shed the last vestiges of the fool that I once was and embrace the darkness around me. I am more than willing to give up what remains of my own humanity to reclaim what I once lost... and if that means others will suffer, then all the better. It is the mistake of the living to assume that the undead are trapped in eternal torment, for only through suffering and pain can true enlightenment be achieved...
This was the path that I was meant to walk all along, as another damned soul in the danse macabre. Woe to the ignorant and the weak...
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*This last entry in the journal appears to be the only one the writer has made in quite some time, likely written some time ago judging from the noticeable gap in time*
My dearest Celene, it is with a heavy heart that I write to you now, for it may very well be my last testament. Not a day goes by when I do not remember the sound of your voice or the radiance of your smile. Tonight, it will be 6 years since that cold winter eve that I bid you farewell, and I suppose it is as good a time as any for me to make my thoughts known to you. I fear that the end approaches for me, and even now as I write this I can feel it, for He is a vengeful god...
Celene, I have been living a lie all my life; a slave to an ideal and a cause I never truly believed in. When I took up the robes of Aeridin, I had believed I could escape my own past and undo the mistakes of the past. All my life I told myself that my mother and father were victims of the Dark, brutally murdered by fell beasts... That was the story I wanted myself to believe, Celene, but in truth another part of me told me otherwise. The fate of my parents were in truth no different from countless other so-called "innocents", victims of a cruel and pitiless world and the hypocritical gods that governs it. My father, in his grief and anguish, failed to see this... turning to a false and uncaring god seeking succor. But instead, "Lord" Aeridin, in all his infinite "wisdom" and "mercy", turned my father Lucian into a pawn, sacrificing him without hesitation to further his own vendetta against the dead. I still remember my father that afternoon before he left on his ill-fated quest, never to return... I could still remember the *conviction* in his eyes... the belief that somehow Aeridin actually *cared* for us mere mortals. He walked into his own death that day, a tool and plaything of a god hiding behind hollow promises and deceit. In my time as a priest of his faith, I have seen for myself the extent of that sad reality. Propaganda and conventional knowledge would have us believe that Aeridin's faithful are compassionate and altruistic, but in truth they are often no different from the same "villains" and "monsters" that they so vehementle denounce in their harangues. Fanaticism and ignorance runs deep in the veins of the Aeridinian faith, with many proclaiming to be his faithful behaving in a manner no better than witchhunters and bigots... It is a testament to my own naiivete then that I refused to see the truth, holding fast to the dogma. I don't know what haunts me more now... my father's grisly demise or the look of absolute faith in his eyes *before* he embarked on that quest...
Since my return to Hlint, I have seen only the darker side of mortals. Blinded by their own petty greed and personal agendas, they scurry about furthering their own causes without regard for others. What use is "helping the suffering" and "aiding the sick" when the world and society itself works against those very same ideals? No more than lies and falsehoods, they are... In this world the weak exist only to be culled by the strong, without mercy. Looking back on it now, I would think that I *owe* it to that lich... for opening my eyes to the truth of the situation. My brush with undeath taught me much since then, opening both my eyes and ears to a world I had viewed only with animosity before. The undead are truly blessed, their supposed torment in truth an ecsatasy the living cannot comprehend. Even now I can hear their whispers all around me, Celene, voices of insight and truth... Seeking to understand, I pursued the forbidden art of necromancy, turning myself ever more from Aeridin's tenets. As my research progressed, I delved deeper and deeper into the dark arts, often turning to Corath, the Lord of the Undead, in my prayers. Subverting the very rituals of Aeridin's faith and perverting his magics, I openly defied Aeridin as I crafted undead in increasing numbers, in order to understand their nature. Twisting the powers once granted to me by Aeridin, I dedicated myself to Lord Corath... I will not ask for your understanding nor even your forgiveness in this, my dearest Celene, as I have come to realize that this was my true purpose. But by openly defying Aeridin and using his magic in the name of Corath himself, I have also sown the seeds of my own destruction. Aeridin is a jealous and vengeful god, and it is only a matter of time before the fool will finally notice my actions. I am no stranger to death, my dear Celene, and have seen it all its shapes and forms throughout my life... and without you I have nothing to lose and only everything to gain by dedicating myself to Corath. Let Aeridin send his wrath in whatever manner he may wish, for I care not. It up to the Black Sun to decide my ultimate fate...