You have been taken by the Mists

Author Topic: A dark brown journal  (Read 5303 times)

Head Trauma

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A dark brown journal
« on: May 04, 2012, 09:13:01 AM »
My name is ....  No. My name is not important, because it is not my real name, my birth name is dangerous now, I can see that. I am living a lie. I am not who I appear to be. You see, one must sometimes end one life and begin another. Sometimes, just sometimes... a lie is better than the truth. Because the truth, unlike what some like to believe, will not always set you free.

I am more than I was when I started out, so many years ago. I have became a shadow in the night. I deal in information, I deal in the removal of lives, I deal is secrets, and most of all... I deal in lies.

Like my name, my place of birth is not important, and that place haunts me. Beginning a new life is not easy, for the ghosts of the past still haunt you, even when you cover your tracks well enough. No manner of witchery, lies, or even the death of those that once knew your former self can totally erases what was once you. Places, faces... all the familiarities of the past will some day confront you. But it is how you deal with those things, how you place the right lie, that will inevitably hide your true self.

Become a shadow. It is more than just going about unseen. Shadows don’t have names, shadows don’t have a place of birth... per se. Shadows are everywhere, hear everything, see everything. I told him I wanted to be a shadow, and with his help... I am becoming just that. I don’t like to boast, but I am getting pretty good at this.

My mind is being assaulted by knowledge and it absorbs this knowledge like a sponge. The finer points escape me at times, but ... you can’t expect someone to stand in the rain and recall every drop that hits their face. I can always ask questions.

Run. He said. Something startled him and when something startles him... it frightens me. So I ran. I did not ask question, I reacted. I don’t recall if my feet even touched the ladder, but they must have because next I was in the forest, running through the trees toward that place of despair. Gods I hate that place. I very air that whips through the back-allies and streets is made of depression. It weighs down on my shoulders like some invisible boulder. It wont win. I wont let it.

So I wait here now in my room. Wait for a sign that he’s still alive. In the meantime, I shall practice this lute, the words to the song... and my speech. And maybe have something other than broth to eat.

I must admit, I’m a greedy man. But it is not for the sparkle of gold... it is for knowledge. Not knowledge that a scholar would seek, or the knowledge that a witch would seek... but knowledge of the secrets that people hold. The deep dark tantalizing secrets that people speak about in whispers. The sort of knowledge that people will pay for, or even offer favors for. Gold is useless. It can be taken, gambled, or traded without a thought. But secrets... knowledge. These things hold true power. You can ruin a person with the right knowledge.

I sit here contemplating all this while strumming this lute. I think back on the days past and look forward to the days ahead... wondering.

Praeclarum custodem ovium lupum
« Last Edit: April 16, 2013, 04:28:31 PM by Head Trauma »

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #1 on: May 05, 2012, 09:16:39 AM »
My home coming to Vallaki did not pass by uneventful. Such a wonderful welcome “home”. I first awoke in some warehouse, seems I was waylaid on my way to Vallaki while picking herbs. My mentor gave me a fond “good morning” when I came around and then asked if I was ready to go to work. Ready to go to work? Such a silly question, of course I’m ready to go to work! I have been out of the game for so long I was over eager to get back into the game, specially with these new found skills of mine.

Ah, but my home coming did not end there, for a sweet sweet mob had formed in the western outskirts. I knew right away that it was going to rain. So delicious. I watched from the shadows and safety of the trees as the mob came forward with pitchforks. Death soon followed, but not that of the mobs quarry, but of those among the mob. The tears of terror struck a nerve in me... one might say it was like a banquet, feeding my hunger.

Then my mentor told me to keep and eye on a select few and it indeed paid off. The joy I received from watching from the shadows, listening in on their words. It sends a chill of joy through me even now. I reported back to my mentor, told him of the plans that had been whispered and off we flew like two ravens to the place where they keep their criminals. One could almost see the joy oozing from every pore of my mentors being. I could see that he too was feasting upon all of this. It was his drug, and now it was mine as well.

So many familiar faces doing so many of the familiar games. But they were like children playing with a razor sharp dagger, holding it at the wrong end. It made me feel a ounce of pity for them, but only an ounce, which quickly took to flight like a feather in the wind. Children should not player with daggers.

When it rains, it pours. Welcome home, the shadows and winds of Vallaki whispered to me. I embraced those whispers and danced in the rain.

Praeclarum custodem ovium lupum.

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #2 on: May 11, 2012, 02:04:39 PM »
I sit here studying a book on anatomy that Zach was kind enough to purchase from a Lamordian doctor for me after he got his face stitched up. What I find here within these pages is fascinating beyond words. It opens up new territories, new vistas, and landscapes to explore. I'm excited to say the very least.

Zach’s face looked like someone put it through a meat-grinder after he was attacked by that creature and as luck would have it, we stumbled upon the Lamordian as we were heading to the temple to get him fixed up. Now, I’m not one of those superstitious louts that shy away from witchery, but I don’t trust Lamordians at all. But there he was.. as fortune seemed to favor.. and we made our way to a room at the Blood of the Vine to fix up Zach.

Was I worried for Zach? Worried that this doctor was going to mess up his face further, or drug him to unconsciousness and remove a kidney or a liver? Yes. Yes I was. See, Zach had become more than a mentor to me in the last few weeks and months. He’s become something of an older brother, a dear friend... I can’t believe I wrote that. Friend? Yes. Yes he is.

I am glad I was there to oversee things. Not only for the prospect of procuring this lovely book on anatomy... but also to keep an eye on the Lamordian. Image if I was not there, imagine if Zach was going at this alone. Not only would I have lost a mentor, but I could have lost something that I never had before. A true brother and friend. I never had a brother before, not a real one. I’ve always felt alone in this world, and I still do to some extent.

After the doctor fixed him up - I watched closely as he did the stitches - he went off to get something to eat. He was gone a long time and thoughts began to creep their way through my mind. I asked Zach if he could walk... I wanted to get him to some place of safety, some place that he could rest and recover that was secure. Thoughts of just taking the items left behind, the book most of all, but so too were thoughts of making a possible contact with this Lamordian... another thought also came unbidden into my mind. I had this text book, I needed a test subject, and the Lamordian could be fine canvas for my eagerness.

In the end I decided to wait. Zach has taught me well after all. Grabbing the items and running for it would have been unwise to say the very least. The Lamordian had seen our faces. Running was not an option. Killing him and making use of his body for my studies was not an option either, he even said he was on his way to a conference, so he was expected. Granted, there probably was no way to track him back to us, but someone could have seen him going upstairs with us.. Contacts. Zach always speaks of contacts. So the only reasonable thing to do was to make this man a contact. Perhaps a trip to Lamodia would be beneficial in my near future.

But I ramble now, writing the same thing over and over again... I'm just giddy with excitement over this book. Eager to learn. I think I understand what Zach means now by the music playing in his head again. I think I hear it too. And what beautiful music it is.

Praeclarum custodem ovium lupum.

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #3 on: May 11, 2012, 07:11:12 PM »
I hate mirrors, always have. Even when I was young, before my mother died, I would ask her to cover the one in her room before I would enter. Over the years I found new reasons to hate mirrors. My father, in a drunken rage, threw me through a mirror once and in the jagged shards that still hung in the frame, I saw him... and the rage in his eyes.

Not so long ago when I was coming off of opium, I would see him in mirrors. His mouth moving soundlessly, cursing my name, cursing the day I was born. It was the rage in his eyes that still haunts me and as I sit here writing this I look to the drawing I just finished, and I shudder. I think I captured his likeness too well. The rage in those eyes bordering on insanity, they bore into me.



Mirrors. They show up every flaw. I often times remember as I passed them seeing things in them that were not there, or at least I like to tell myself. A blurry image just over the shoulder, or something moving far off in the background when nothing is back there. Trust me, I have looked. I would stand there looking in the mirror and see something and turn my head quickly to gaze behind me. Nothing.

---------------------------------------------

I had a friend once. One that I shared everything with. There were no secrets between him and I. We grew up on the streets together, watched one another’s back. After his death I swore to him I would never let anyone that close again. Sorry, Jason... I lied.

I remember it clearly, the day of his death. Jason had came to me, telling me he met a woman. He told me she was the one. I remember laughing, I remember him frowning. I recall asking him what made her so much different from all the others he said were the one. He said it was something in her eyes. Something about the way her long crimson hair would spill over her shoulder and shine in the right light. I never trusted red headed females after that.

A week had passed with no word from Jason, I began to worry. I went to the place he said she lived and found it to be abandoned. I crept inside, my eyes darting around to the shadows even at that young age. The hairs on the back of my neck standing erect. That’s when I spied the mirror. Half covered with a stained bed sheet. I recall approaching it slowly, dreading the thing. My hand slowly took hold of the sheet and I pulled. What I saw there in the reflection was an image into another room, one which was just off to my right. I saw spider webs. Covering the other room like gauze... and Jason’s face. Frozen in terror.

I really don’t want to think on it overly much. I sometimes still have nightmares of seeing the tiny spiders crawling out of his mouth.. small red spiders. I learned later that this crimson haired vixen was what some call a Red Widow. A shapeshifter I was told. One which takes the form of a beautiful woman with long red hair, but in reality... she is a huge spider that mates and kills then plants her offspring in the body of her victim.

I told you, Jason. She was not the one. I’m sorry I was not there to watch your back.. and I’m sorry I lied about not letting anyone that close again. I make a new promise to you now. I wont fail him like I failed you.

Praeclarum custodem ovium lupum.

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #4 on: May 14, 2012, 04:41:27 PM »
I spent some time in the Vistani camp within the mist, waiting patiently for a ride to Port. Night had fallen and I sat away from the rest of the Vistani. I watched and listened to their singing and dancing, multi colored skirts swirling around as female dances spun around the bonfire. Alluring and provocative. I felt a stirring of desire, but banished it almost immediately. Instead, I turned to this journal and with dark thoughts.

The music lulled me into a false sense of security. “You are safe here, be at ease." it seemed to whisper to me through the notes and swirling skirts. The mist there surrounding their camp seemed to react, swirling, ebbing, flowing over rocks and grass... like a beast in waiting. I would spy from time to time a tendril of mist reaching out like a hand, an ever eager butler ushering in guests to dine at a banquet, “Come, taste some of my masters fine cuisine." I was not going to fall for such tricks. To dine at that banquet was to dine on your own soul and sanity.

I turned my attention to the nearby vardos. The craftsmanship was exquisite. Such beauty shinning peacefully in the night... I knew it for what it was, of course. Just another lure to entice the unwary into an early grave.

One such vardo caught my eye. A regal young vistana sitting at the edge watching the others dance and listening to the music. I recall seeing her before, dancing among her fellow vistana. I began to draw her and the breathtaking vardo she sat upon.



It was sometime later that I decided to get a reading from the elderly vistana in this camp. As like with my first reading I had when entering Barovia for the fist time... it was dark and foreboding. For the sake of my own sanity and peace of mind, I shall not record in this journal what the reading was. Best to just forget such things and pray that it never comes to pass.



When morning arrived and I paid the required price for passing through the mists, I arrived within Dementlieu. Port-a-Lucine was not so far away, so I at once headed toward the city. It struck me as similar to my home, which I did not like one bit. Too many bad memories, too many lost friends... too many nightmares.

Praeclarum custodem ovium lupum.

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #5 on: June 09, 2012, 06:58:41 PM »
I sit here in some dark dank cave with a body stretched out before me. The things a person does to learn a craft.

My first time doing this was rather messy. I remember the sensation I felt that first time. It reminded me very much of the days when I was young and I pulled the wings off flies and legs of frogs. Only this was no frog or fly. It was a human being, a outlaw of sorts... hiding away in the forest. I played with his internal landscape. The heart, lungs, liver, and intestines. To most this would likely sicken them, the smells one catches when you open a human body can be gut retching. One must have a strong stomach.

Cutting the carotid artery in the throat will make a nice shower of blood. A bitter sweet coppery smell painting the cave walls in crimson tides. The first time I read of the carotid artery I tested this theory out. I snuck into the cave and up behind the sentry, my left hand slowly crept out to cover his mouth so as to not allow him to cry out a warning, my dagger in my right hand sliced through his neck.

For a moment I was hypnotized by the spry of blood. Perpetual poetry in motion. The sound that came from his mouth as I released him was like a scream of a butterfly, soft and delicate like a budding flower. His decent to the ground seemed to take a life time. I stood there for what seemed hours looking down at him and the gathering pool of his dark life’s blood. I looked to the cave wall and the spray of blood there that slowly flowed over the stone. I heard the music playing in my head and saw images in the blood. There are no words that come to mind that describes the feelings I had at that moment. It far surpasses joy... I felt lightheaded, giddy. It felt like the first time I did opium.

Other such experiments have yielded varying results of ... dare I say pleasure? Some of the lives I have taken in my self training do not seem to give as much joy. I often times ponder the reasons while I sit awake at night, staring into the gloom. Perhaps Owl or Raven could explain this to me. Would they think me a psychopath, have me locked away in Zarcroft? Do they see the beauty in taking lives, as I do?

I sometimes wish I could speak to the ones I have killed. To ask them how it felt, or if they felt anything. Does it feel like slipping into a warm bath? I wish I could look them in the eyes as the last shred of their life slips away. What would I see there? Recognition? Their soul slipping away? A sweet release?

[Blood stains the parchment.]

I really must keep my mind on what I’m doing here. All this philosophizing while trying to delicately dissect this body has made a mess of my notes.

~ Capere in nocte

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #6 on: July 25, 2012, 02:11:29 AM »
It is a game of chess.

It began to rain today in the outskirts and for a moment I was enjoying gathering puddles. It stopped too soon though. Too many distraction. Frogs jumping in the puddles. Rats in the walls looking for food... sniffing out the cheese.

Get a hold of yourself, Ferret. It is only shadows. Nothing more.

I must school myself in self-restraint.

Praeclarum custodem ovium lupum.

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #7 on: August 05, 2012, 12:56:07 AM »
I had forgotten how beautiful women from my homeland were.

It’s not Azalin. It’s Lord Azalin.
It’s not Strahd. It’s Count Strahd.

Is she a agent of Lord Azalin?
Is she a Kargat spy?

I think I shall leave her a apple next lesson.
Perhaps I shall dream of her tonight... I can only hope it is pleasant dreams.

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #8 on: October 26, 2012, 12:49:38 AM »
[Written in Darkonese]

Lately I have been thinking a lot of Gregory, my surrogate grandfather in Martira Bay. If I were to trust anyone I believe I could trust him. I know I could not tell him everything that has transpired since I left my homeland of Darkon, I know he wouldn't approve. But... I don't think he would lecture me on my chosen profession, he never did when I was growing up.

I wonder how he is doing and if he still has that little bookstore. I should visit him sometime soon, I miss our long talks and those dusty tomes. I've almost forgotten the smell of his bookstore, and the taste of that honeyed tea he was so fond of. Perhaps I'll buy some books from his store, like that dreaded book by van Richten that he read to me on stormy nights in front of the fireplace. I honestly think that old man got a kick out of the terror it would cause me... I never did like ghosts.

It's settled. Once I tie up some loose ends here in Vallaki I shall go see Gregory and his bookstore in Martira Bay, at least for a while, perhaps a week at the most. I could never be away from the Game for too long. I shall travel to Dementlieu via the Vistani and then follow the coast up into Lamordia and then into Darkon. Perhaps I could seek passage upon a ship and sail to Martira Bay right from Port-a-Lucine.

Praeclarum custodem ovium lupum.
« Last Edit: January 09, 2013, 05:37:50 PM by Head Trauma »

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #9 on: November 14, 2012, 05:00:56 AM »
[Written in Darkonese]

It took me some time to discover a book on botany, but discover one I did. I really should look more into the study of botany at some point, the knowledge of different plants as sedatives and poisons could prove quite useful.

The reason for looking for a book on botany was due to a strange encounter I had just recently. A caldura rose was presented to me. After hearing the mans Borcan accent, I dared not touch the rose, in fear that it could be poisonous or have some Borcan contact poison upon it. Never trust a Borcan. But here I am going off topic.

Caldura roses, or so this botany book says, notable for their long thorns and pink-tinged blooms of white, exhibit a delicate aroma that reputedly drives out disease and similar bodily taints. If a caldura rose is severed from its roots, however, its violet sap spoils, subtly subverting the aroma's properties. They can also drain the vitality of those who linger nearby. Caldura roses often symbolize marriage when intact, but adultery when cut.

He said, “We will all be friends soon enough.” Just what does he mean by that? Is this caldura rose some sort of invitation? If so, a invitation to what exactly? Sadly the only Borcan I know is dead, so I shall be unable to ask him any questions.

I shall be vigilante and aware of my surroundings more in the coming days. I can honestly say I dislike being taken unaware like that. It unnerves me.

Praeclarum custodem ovium lupum.

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #10 on: November 18, 2012, 05:22:07 AM »
[Written in Darkonese]

Being tested, and by a Borcan of all people... need to stay on my toes with this one. He said, "our intelligence was not wrong." Our intelligence? Just who is this mysterious Borcan and who does he work for? One thing is for certain, my skills have not gone unnoticed. Which means either they have been watching me for sometime, or word has gotten around to the right ears (or wrong ones) about the Ferret.

To say I'm paranoid would be a understatement.

Praeclarum custodem ovium lupum.

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #11 on: January 09, 2013, 05:47:17 PM »
[Written in Darkonese]

A Borcan businessman. I was poorly dressed for the encounter.

I knew there was something off when he twitch when I said, The Raven is dead.

His brother, would he desire the blade on my right hip if he knew it belonged to his brother?

Raven floor tile.

Treachery.

He probably thought I was joking about the dagger in his left eye.

Cherry under the cup.

Contracts, contracts, contracts.

I should have been born Borcan.

Praeclarum custodem ovium lupum.

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #12 on: January 10, 2013, 03:35:27 PM »
[Written in Darkonese]

Gregory and I sat in the backroom of his bookstore in front of his fireplace. It seemed almost like old times, only I was five years older. We drank tea like we did back then and sat in silence for a time. This was our ritual. We would sit and drink tea, both of us silent until I felt comfortable enough to begin speaking.

The wood crackled and sparked within the fireplace and warmed the small room. The wing backed chairs we sat in were so comfortable that I often would fall asleep without knowing I did so and Gregory was kind enough never to wake me. But he knew I had something on my mind, I had told him so as soon as I entered the bookstore and the little bell above the door announced my arrival.

I sat forward in the chair, my hands cupping the tea cup and my elbows on my knees. I started into the fireplace and began to speak to the man I had came to think of as a grandfather since I was very young, “Gregory.. I have things to talk to you about and I know you wont approve of them. But I need to get these things off my chest and you're the only person I really trust anymore. You've always been there for me and practically raised me from the age of six until I left here and went to Barovia.”

I paused, taking my eyes off the fireplace, head slightly lowered and not quite making eye contact with Gregory. Gregory turned to look at me also. The shadows being cast by the light of the fire making his face seem more wrinkled then it was. He nodded and waited for me to continue.

I fought for the words. I'd open my mouth to speak and then close it again, finally the words came, “There was a man training me in particular set of skills, these skills are the sort that one would use to spy on others and assassinate people. It would appear I was very good at this sort of thing, because it didn't take long before I was like a shadow in the night. Few could see me unless I desired it.

Now, this man is no longer around, which means one or two things. One, he's dead, which means he wasn't as good at this sort of business as he thought he was, or two.. he's in hiding. But that's not what is bothering me, avus.”

Again I paused, sorting out my thoughts...

“What I want to talk about is the fact that there was times when he was at his most vulnerable that I wanted to slit his throat. Not because I was angry with him, but because I felt that he was weak, because I thought he was using me, because I can't stand arrogant people, and mostly because I knew I could.

I say he was weak because even after another business associate of ours betrayed someone else that we were working with, he wouldn't follow through with the punishment he was threatening him with. That being, the removal of the man's tongue. Even the other man in the room with us agreed that this man that just betrayed a ally of ours should be given a second chance.

I honestly could not believe the words coming out of either of their mouths. I wanted to rush forward, slam the betrayer's head against the table and remove the tongue myself... and then do the same to the other two.

See, my anger has become that great, avus. So great that at times it scares even me. I see someone walking along with a stupid look on their face and I want to remove it with a dagger. I want to stab them over and over again, pouring all my hate, all my anger, all my strength into each and every stab until I collapse from exhaustion.”
Yet again I paused. I sat the tea cut down, stood and walked over to the fireplace. I put my right forearm against the mantle and leaned my head on it and gazed long and hard into the dancing flames.

“I don't know where all this anger comes from. I don't know why I can't trust anyone, why I wear this mask of detached emotions and calmness.” I turned my head on my arm to look at Gregory, “Avus, I'm a raging storm of hate inside. I have no friends. All I have are contacts, business associates, and employers. I'm always paranoid. Even now in this place here,” I motioned around myself with my other hand and then ran my fingers over my bald head, “I don't feel safe. It's like I'm being watched every day and every night, and I /can't/ shake that feeling!”

My voice rose there at the end, and I turned from the fireplace and began to pace before it. My hand instinctively reaching for a dagger, one that I never let anyone know I had. I stopped the betraying hand before it reached the hilt and sought out another dagger. I pulled the dagger free and began to toss it into the air and catch it as I paced.... a habit I formed some time ago.

Even though all of this, Gregory remained silent. He was always good at that, listening to me rant and rave about all manner of things. Perhaps that is why I respected him above all others, why I trusted him, why I loved this man I thought of as a grandfather.

I released a sigh, forced myself to relax, concentrated on the flipping of the dagger. It always soothed my troubled mind. “You know I've even thought of just ending it all? I've sat in a opium den with a dagger close to hand and a glass of wine laced with poison. But something always stops me from doing what must be done. You see, I can't let them win.” I looked at my grandfather, “They wont break me, I wont allow it.”

I returned to my seat and Gregory refilled my tea cup. I took up the cup once again and sipped, nodding my thanks to him, he returned the nod.

“Remember when I was young and I told you how much I feared mirrors? I still fear them, you know. I walk into a inn room and the first thing I do is toss the top sheet of the bed over any mirror in the room. I then search the room from top to bottom, lock, unlock, and relocked the door.. I sometimes even trap the door and the windows to be absolutely sure I wont be disturbed, and you know what? I still don't feel secure.” I fell silent and sat back in the chair with my eyes closed.

It was some moments later, I don't know how long had passed, that Gregory finally spoke up. “Did that help any? I know you didn't come all this way from Barovia to lament and get advice. You came to talk and get this weight off your shoulders, I dare say though I doubt it helped very much. The weight you are burdened with is the like of which few men can carry.”

I looked over at Gregory, “You're right, I didn't come here for advice, I came here to hear myself talk.. to finally say what I've been thinking and feeling.” Gregory simply nodded and replied, “You know I don't approve of what you do for a living. But it's not my life to live, paulo migale, so I wont tell you what to do. But I will say this... be careful, ita? Not just for me, but for the memory of your mother and most of all for yourself. Now, have some more tea, it's good for you. I'll even read one of those ghost stories you loved so much as a child.”

I froze in my chair and slowly turned my head to look at Gregory, “You know all too well I hated those stories, avus.” He poured fresh tea for the both of us and smirked.. “Ah ita, you did... but you never stopped me from reading them, if memory serves me correctly.”

I took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of the tea, “Ita. I never did stop you... very well, do your worst, avus. Fear keeps us on our toes, isn't that what you used to say to me?” He smiled over at me, “Ita. I did say that.”

And so he read from a well worn book on the mantle, one that I came to fear and love in equal parts. I hope he dies of old ages, sitting there before the fireplace, wrapped in a woolen blanket... and in his sleep, peacefully.

Praeclarum custodem ovium lupum.

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #13 on: March 19, 2013, 04:15:35 PM »
[Written in Darkonese]

Spells lay daggers before me
Passion speaks in grue vehement stabs
Trance my eyes, fix my focus to pain
The tumor grows until the enemy is slain

Sightless storm
Knee-deep in hate I seethe
My purpose here has woken to breath
Total war on the brethren of Men
Millions regardless
Dying by my hand

A Black Age Of Fire
Brief in it's vicious eloquence
Removing the dross
Love will arise from the ashes of your loss

Then and only then
Will the pleasure of Eden be mine
And the sinews of life itself will be tied
In the very veins of my bloodline

And their tears taste like wine...

I kill without scruple or silent regret
In haunts of the sinister lunar aspect
For I am the pleasure that comes from your pain
Tiny red miracles falling like...rain

The incessant pall of death surrounds me
But this is not the part of me that wishes to breed
There will be no dread thereafter
The mysteries I reveal unto thee

I stir the hearts of the wisest
By the fools I will always be feared
My Kingdom feeds off their slaughter...

A crescendo of passion bleeding...
On the pale reflection of dawn

Devour The Sun

"The Great Man of his time
Is He who expresses
The Will of his time;
Who tells his time what it wills;
And who carries it out"

Praeclarum custodem ovium lupum.

OOC: Lyrics to the song: A crescendo of passion bleeding, by Cradle of Filth

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #14 on: April 16, 2013, 11:59:04 PM »
[Written in Darkonese]

Odio necesse est insipiens actus imperasti passurum.
Lupus invenit dente relictam sanguine maderent. . .
Et mea odio urit ut glaciem.



Mea dulcis Vista-Chirir, uniuscuiusque momenti tollatur a vobis similis est annos absque lux solis. Temperat et intra se violentum impetum non modo ea sine alios scire. Et ruinam utriusque scribere potuit enim non videre natu damnum. In temporibus primum sentio unciam pacem. Sicut cum sentit contremuit terra sub pedibus meis osculum. Mulieres osculatus sum, sed nunquam tale. Non tantum quod eodemque metus.

Eam susurris iterum, tempus ut pasceret eam.

Praeclarum custodem ovium lupum.

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #15 on: April 20, 2013, 09:03:28 PM »
[Written in Darkonese]

I have finally received the trophy I've been seeking for. Denied to me for so long, since that night in the Drain with Raven, Owl, and Fox. It is mine, and I have Drukker to thank for it. All these years I've spend in service to a few and Drukker is the only one that seems to appreciate my talents and rewards me for my work.

For many nights now, after watching Vista Chiri fall asleep I rise from the bed and gaze out the window toward my homeland so many miles away. Darkon. It calls to me, as does the whispering from my only friend. I plan in the next weeks to prepare myself for the journey ahead. I shall present myself to my one time lord and give onto him a great and powerful gift. My only hope is that he shall not destroy me after I hand it over.

Looking upon Vista Chiri even now I feel that weakness within me. Love. It grows within me like a sickness, a disease. And yet I embrace that weakness with open arms. Yes, I shall admit it now, I love her. But if she only knew that part of me that I keep so well hidden from others. . . would she shun me? Turn away and walk off without a glance back? I don't know, she confuses me so very much, even without speaking.

The whispers tell me to end her life, much like they do when I see Drukker, and Gregory. I wont give into those whispers. Drukker is not only my boss, but my mentor as well. I owe everything to that man, besides, he pays well.

Gregory. My dear adopted grandfather. I love him as if he were my own blood, and just like Drukker I could never bring myself to cause him harm.

And then there is Vista Chiri. I've not known her very long but those stirrings of love are there. I'd kill any man or woman that sought to harm her. Simple as that, and I'd bath in their blood.

Killing the Fox was easy. So many mistakes he had made, so many enemies. And whom did he run to when the going got tough? The Reds. Would I do it again if I had the chance? Of course I would. He was just a pawn in the game of chess that I play each and every day. It was nothing personal, well. . . besides the tongue. I was owed that many times over. That gruesome trophy is now mine for all eternity.

Plans are set in motion, as soon as I am able I shall head to Darkon and to Castle Avernus, present myself before my lord and gift him with a powerful artifact. My he have mercy upon me afterward.

I look to Vista Chiril, how peaceful she looks fast to sleep. I envy her that. I've yet to have a good nights sleep in ages. Part of me wonders why she feels the way she does about me. What do I have to offer her? A early death and all she would have left of me is memories. I have no illusions that I shall die young. A person in my line of work doesn't live for very long.

I end this note and find my knife to slit a throat. My list is growing long and they all will feel the sting of my anger, feel the pain of my blade, and see the hate within my eyes as their last sight upon this existence.

My hate burns like ice. . .


Praeclarum custodem ovium lupum.
« Last Edit: April 21, 2013, 08:50:09 AM by Head Trauma »

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #16 on: April 21, 2013, 11:45:12 AM »
[Written in Darkonese]

I realized something today as I walked with Drukker from the Theatre to where he was to turn himself in. . . He's become like a father to me. Someone I look up to, someone I learn from, someone to model myself after, someone I will not and can not fail.

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #17 on: April 24, 2013, 09:56:55 AM »
[Written in Darkonese]

These last few nights have been painful for me. Most nights I can't sleep as it is for long, every little sound wakes me and I find myself holding a dagger. But there for a while I was sleeping soundly, with Vista Chiri by my side. Her steady breathing lulling me to a restful slumber. But I've only seen her in passing twice since the night of Une nuit de terreur, and she'd only give me a passing glance. Perhaps she's still angry with me. I dearly hope not.

“Pale and Dark and Tortured Blue,
behind a veil you find serenity.
I guess that's something we share,
violently fading into nothing to find peace,
or escape it.

Curious, majestic black strands cover you entirely,
yet I may there.
Always being tested,
an eternal game that must leave your soul in shreds,
as it does mine.
You have my sympathy,

but forget about everything just for tonight
for this moment in life,
this moment in time
could be your first,
or your last.
You abandoned hope long ago,
you abandoned love,
or it abandoned you,

but now is the time for beauty,
violent beauty so pure it's scary,
the past is over,
this is something new,
altogether alien, exotic, and welcome,
erasing what came before,
with a blink of her amazing eyes...” Song by LAM


I dislike it immensely when people call ferrets rodents. Ferrets are not rodents, only a uncultured ignorant simpleton would call a ferret a rodent. Ferrets are not scavengers, they are hunters, trackers, and killers. If anything they kill rodents, and do so for fun. Perhaps I should take a lesson from my name sake and start killing for fun.

These simple minded people that try so hard to display bravery to my face, do that not understand I can see the fear in their eyes. They know, deep down that with a flick of my wrist I could have a dagger or shortsword in hand and end them right there. That's not bravery on their behalf, it's stupidity.

Ardmor went to Drukker to explain that the Theatre troupe is fearful of me, and so they should be. But what have I done? So I might seem that I'm glaring, not my fault. Is it my clothing? Should I wear pink to better fit in with these actors and actresses? I think not. Is it because I rarely speak, that I watch their every move? What do they expect from me? To be some laughing joking fop? I can not, I am not like the sheep. I am praeclarum custodem ovium lupum. I'm good at what I do, and what I do is not nice.

The One Rule. So easy to follow and yet there are people that break it so often, thinking themselves above and beyond their equals. There are predators among these sheep, and they don't even know it. Even some of these predators are not even predators, they act the part sure, but I have seen them weeping when the horrors of these lands descend upon them. Weak and pathetic.

Et odia meus aestuat ut glaciem. Remitte mihi avus Quid feci.

Praeclarum custodem ovium lupum.

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #18 on: May 10, 2013, 03:17:01 PM »

[Written in Darkonese]

The passing down of knowledge. I'm here to train him in a particular set of skills, a art-form, if you will. I told him that the knowledge that I was to pass along to him was not to be taken lightly. So far he has been an apt student, absorbing my lessons like a thirsty sponge does water. If I were a lesser man I'd be proud of him. . . but I am not proud. What I teach him is to kill without scruples or silent regret. Perhaps someday he'll pass on this training to another and in doing so I shall live forever.

I don't believe myself a harsh taskmaster. But I do expect those I train to listen and remember the words I speak, the art that I paint and sculpt. I've seen the eagerness in his eyes and it reminds me of myself at times.

Perhaps my next task I shall ask of him is to kill someone. He makes a poor spy and information gatherer, but at least he may turn out to be a predator of men, an apex predator. My only regret is that I have very little to teach him. I myself was self taught in these skills. But I believe my skills are sufficient enough to teach him, the rest will be up to him.

Praeclarum custodem ovium lupum.

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #19 on: May 11, 2013, 11:11:56 AM »
[youtube=425,350]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IjxX0Lybmd0[/youtube]

[Written in Darkonese]

I find myself sometimes reminiscing of the past when I was younger, before my mother died giving birth to my stillborn sister. Something woke me from my sleep, a creaking board or perhaps the limb from the tree outside my bedroom window.

Shadows danced and crept just out of the corner of my eyes. I'd turn to look but they were still, mocking me, they knew, they fed on my fear. I tried to close my eyes, telling myself that if I did they would no longer be there. Out of sight out of mind, as the saying goes. It did little good, I could feel them creep slowly across the floor, slithering like those black serpents of Har'Akir. Hungry for my fear, beckoning.


I remember it so clearly now, my heart racing, silent scream upon my lips, and just as I could take it no longer, eyes squeezed tightly shut I screamed like a wailing spirit. I heard footsteps racing to my room, a dim light coming into focus and there she was, my loving mother, smoothing my hair back from my damp forehead, the shadow of my father behind her.

Her soft words consoling me, my fathers harsh voice scolding me. Even then he hated me I believe.

Praeclarum custodem ovium lupum.

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #20 on: May 14, 2013, 01:55:04 AM »
[Written in Darkonese]

I sit here gazing upon a tongue in a jar filled with formaldehyde. I guess one might call it a trophy of sorts, and in a way it is.

I feel most comfortable these days in the lab. Pouring over texts on anatomy and dissecting specimens. I obsess over the knowledge, it's never enough. The more knowledge I absorb the better at my art I become.






The humanoid body is such a wondrous and vast landscape to explore. I fear at times I could become lost within these cadavers for weeks and forget to take care of my own personal needs, eating and sleeping. Speaking of which, I should do so now before I become to obsessed with my work.

Praeclarum custodem ovium lupum.

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #21 on: June 09, 2013, 06:57:00 PM »
[Written in Darkonese]

I gave Ema a pep talk, too bad he's too far gone to have heard it. Thankfully Shiv wasn't around to hear it. I told him I could end his suffering, just a slip of the hand over his bowl of soup and it would all end. Would it be a act of mercy? He did come to me once asking for my mercy. . . at the end of a blade. Is that what my mercy is, the business end of a blade? Perhaps so. Better to be dead and gone then to lay there in a vegetative state for the rest of ones life. I'm no angel of death though, or am I?

Praeclarum custodem ovium lupum.

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #22 on: June 11, 2013, 01:30:42 PM »
This may sound really off the wall
But listen to me
You've got to believe me
I've not gone crazy and I'm not fooling around
At first I thought I was loosing my mind
But now I know I'm not
It's this whole town
It's invaded by someone's nightmarish delusions
Little by little it is spreading
Trying to swallow up everything in darkness. ~Author Unkown

[Written in Darkonese]

I recall my father saying to me once after the death of my mother, “You're not the son I wanted but you're the son I got.” I was only ten when he said that in a drunken stupor. That along with countless other insults and putdowns have made me what I am today. I believe I can't live up to anyone’s standards. Well, I guess I can't blame him for everything, but I sure can blame him for most of it.


Maybe that's where all this anger comes from. All this hate I feel raging just beneath the surface. I hold it in most the time because to allow it freedom would mean to end lives, innocent lives, lives of people I have let get close. People I almost trust.

Praeclarum custodem ovium lupum.

[youtube=425,350]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rwMQcF2ZOSs[/youtube]

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #23 on: July 05, 2013, 12:15:50 AM »
[Written in Darkonese]

It's good to at long last be myself once again and not pretend to be someone I'm not. Psychopath, sociopath? Truer words were never spoken.

Praeclarum custodem ovium lupum.

Head Trauma

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Re: A dark brown journal
« Reply #24 on: August 02, 2013, 07:52:35 AM »
[Written in Darkonese]

[youtube=425,350]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PMvOkUMPZ0g[/youtube]

I recall before my mother died that I was very close to her. I loved her with all my heart. It is said mother is the name of god on the lips of all children. After her death though things changed. My father became a drunk tyrant, beating me, berating me, causing all sorts of physical and mental trauma. I placed most the blame on him, but a small part of me blamed my mother as well. I began to despise her. She left me to this torment, motherless and to a father that cared very little about anything but his next bottle.

Can I blame my childhood for what I've become? Can I place blame on my dead mother and father? No. Not all blame can be placed upon their shoulders. Some of this blame is my own cross to bear, and still others that I've met over my life.

Odia Meus Flagret Sicut Glacies