A dead hexer's plea [PK|

[Jentos 9425]

 

[Mood Music]

Spoiler

 

"My song near's it's end."

 

Eerie laughter, painful groans came from down beneath a barrow of stone.

Deep within, antique walls covered with ancient etchings, the smell of ash, blood and now wine wafting free from within.

 

And so in the shadows lurked a most broken, fearful thing.

A failure of a thing.

Within the tomb was a wounded, disfigured creature, laughing to itself, cursing itself, drowning itself on liquor.

This thing was a man.

Or however it is that you’d define mankind.

For his mind was mangled, spirits broken, soul halved.

Nothing but a flightless raven, fallen down at the bottom of a well.

 

For that, was his curse.

 

Within these shadows was pale, scar covered flesh.

Grey, bloodshot eyes. The man’s chest weakly heaved up, and down with every ragged breath.

Sitting within a pool of decay. His garb was in tatters, his unkept beard in disarray.

And so there he was, a mad hexer singing in a grave.

 

His fingers were little human, the nails ravaged, bleeding with hours spent scratching stone.

 

His body slowly rose, weak, shaking legs barely able to support him as he gingerly clambered out of the dark place, faint whispers, murmurs echoing from him.

 

Pale flesh twisted by scars, filth drenched hair and bloodshot eyes were shown to the world as the broken Hexer was revealed by the light of the moon

 

What broken truths were the ones that drove him mad? What twisting of reality had eaten at his brain? Oh, we cannot say. But as the light reached him, he sang.

 

Yet there was no moon, for the tainted eyes of the madman see beyond.

For the madman need not logic. For logic is a thing of the weak. Is it not?

 

No, the moon was not.

Naught but a pit of darkness within the sky where the pale thing once was to his eyes, an empty hole carved within the cosmos.

And so the hexer screamed, screaming to his frame, to his limping, almost dancing frame.

He flailed his arms, up and down, pleading.

He stomped his feet against the ground, like an angry child.

There he was, a Marked Man singing to the moon.

 

Singing to a pit in the sky of eternal darkness.

What was the meaning of this dreadful thing?

A moon that does not exist?

Perhaps all along was it not but an illusion of the mind, unable to process such lack of matter as was the gaping pit in the sky, thus making the moon.

Or was it the hole, where a Thing of great prowess had left the world?

Was it by that hole that God left his creation?

 

The drunken, rabid man had little to say.

Perhaps his tongue had been devoured by the things he'd heard?

Touched by the Pale City.

 

No matter

 

Now the man limped along, he was wounded, blood dripped from his side.

He was nothing but a broken toy.

Discarded by a spoiled child.

 

Was he not the creation of an Elder Thing?

A thing that may hold humanity?

Or was it that this humanity was stolen away, all those years ago, now he being a hollow vessel of flesh.

Or was it that humanity was naught?

An illusion set in place to greaten the vision of men?

 

No matter.

 

The man walked along the barren fields, his mind was lost to the stars he peered at, lost in thought. Horror filled visions struck his brain, yet none connected. As if he did not perceive them, as if those old memories of the Hunt, did not belong to him.

 

 

This man, one of the last of the Marked. Had two scabbards, yet only one sword.

Where the missing one had gone, is not important, nor would any man wish to learn of its gruesome fate.

Or is it that to hear of the death of a child something you revel?

 

Oh, dear reader, you're a twisted little devil, aren't you?

 

Now this very man I speak of, Feremyr. Is a most unlucky, but, lucky man.

Hear me, he's survived the destruction of a collapsing bridge, the search of the unGodly kin of Mordskov, the taint of witches, the fire of the alchemist he inflicted upon his self and much, oh, much more.

 

But he was doomed from the start.

You see, to share the blood of a Blackwood, Sazaderevo, is to be in a prison of flesh.

Knowing very well that what you hold is held back by a single thing.

And that is flesh.

Men put such power in the hands of blood, when truly, it is flesh that truly makes the man, define his form and his history. It is the vessel that keeps blood and spirit.

Blood is red, and for man will always be.

Flesh, differs.

And so with death comes decay, and with this decay the rotting of the shell.

 

Oh dear, and how I fear what this shell holds within.

 

But that is not all.

For the curse of the Blackwoods does not only reserve itself to this unique aspect.

You see, Blackwoods are cursed, to be cursed. They are destined to have their souls twisted, one way or another.

So that they may toil in the depths of the plane of the accursed, picking at the locks that will free their ancestor from his deathly prison.

 

For if the cosmos is truly without end, and time being nothing but an illusion, then someday, in some way. Are we not destined to come back, is some other human not to be born, in exact same shape and form?

 

You are confused.

 

You think I am mad.

 

Correction.

I am dying

 

And death is a punishment, nothing more

 

This man I speak of, in this text, is my very own self.

Ah. What a pain you were, unsightly beast…

 

 

I sit, in a puddle of my own blood as I write these words.

 

No, I cannot die.

 

I will not die.

 

Mother

 

Help me, I beg you.

Mercy, I do not want to be forgotten

 

Siegmeyer, Bart, Vicelin… Sighard, where are you.

Why have you left me?

I cannot see you.

Only these

 Headless

    Men

               Calling

   Out

 

To

 

        Me

 

Dear God, dead God

Help me

 

[*]

 

Upon the ground where the writings where found was but a pile of ashes, along with a decaying sword of iron.

Where poor Feremyr is, but the Divine know.

Likely not, in a good place.

 

 

[Here come the end of the Marked Men, good old Feremyr lasted almost two years with a strict death=pk clause, had a blast]

[Skylez 870]

An old metallic artificer grumbles, waiting to teach the man that would never come.

 

 

"Perhaps he would have been better off without it."

[Joltastik 506]

“Hexers never die in their beds. . .” Sighard murmurs, awaiting his brother within the hexicanum in the skies.

[GDPR 014 48]

"Alone." A fellow drones, cutting some wood. 

 

"That's the tragedy of a Hunter. Consumed by their hunt unless something brings them out."

[Callistus 988]

"Death is but a reprieve."

[Burnsy 437]

Moved to The Great Library. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.

 

If you feel this is a mistake, please contact myself or any FM and we'll restore it.