The dream of a butterfly: Benedict Lasahl

[Badelaire]

Once upon a time, I dreamt that I was a butterfly, flying about enjoying itself. I did not know that it I was Benedict, oblivious to all his torments and trials and flitted hither and nether as butterflies are want to do. Suddenly I awoke, and veritably I was Bendict once more. But was I simply Benedict, dreaming that I was a butterfly? Or was it the butterfly dreaming that it was Benedict?

[Badelaire]

22 years ago...

The attack was well under way and the city burned. With the defence force engaged at the South Wall, the Ghost Raven's broke through a token force of militia and citizens as the majority of Red Plumes were committed to stemming the flow of Zhentil Keep's heavy infantry from pouring in off the assault cogs that crashed against the docks en masse to gorge thier load onto the harrassed forces. Their forecastles launched a mixture of caltrops and incendiaries into the streets and largely wooden buildings that littered the docks. Hillsfar glowed with the fires of warfare as the clash of steel rang and the screams of the dying wailed.

A tiny little thing, a mop of blonde hair cascading over his eyes, stumbles through the debris strewn streets in tears. Momma and Pa stopped moving and would not get up no matter how much he shook them and the bad men in black kept hurting his neighbours. Sobbing to himself as the toddler picked his way over the shattered stones bare foot, a massive shape looms in front of him and he burbles in his terror. He cannot understand the zeal in the wide, blood-drunk eyes as the Hand-Tyrant stares down at him, nor understand his words impact.

"GLORY AND APPROBATION FOR THE DREAD LORD! YOU WILL S-"  

The man's words are cut off by the blade sweeping into his side and he gurgles, clutching at the heavy warblade that shatters through his ribs and bursts his internal organs, spilling his intestines in angry boiling coils that coat the street with their slick redness. The child, Aran Mason, stares in horror at the massive form that did this deed, his helm bearing a great plume of red feathers, bearing down on him and mewls with hands clasped to his eyes in the childish way of trying to pretend something terrible is not there. The voice that follows is rumbling, deep and calm and when Aran takes his hands away from his eyes, dark brown ones stare at him with compassion and sadness.

"Hush now little thing, where did you come from?"

His voice is rumbling, warm and full of the years of regret and despair of a man who has seen and done too much. Varlo Lasahl, plucks the child up in his arms, blade still at hand and soothes to him softly. Shielding the little boy quietly crying into his shoulder he steps over the legion of dead and dying, looking for an escape of his own until he cries out at the sudden impact of a crossbow bolt to his back. The sound loud and the hateful bolt easily piercing the thiner backplate of his cuirass. Tumbling to the ground, he holds Aran close against him and waits with shallow breaths...

[Badelaire]

I've made it no small secret among my peers that I share little empathy for others. This is not to say that I am heartless and care naught for anything or anyone but I am certainly in balance with my perceptions on life and my own value within it. If I was completely devoid of emotion and humanity I would have taken the final offer of the people who paid me to take so many lives and extinguished Semisi's own. I have not forgotten her deeds nor the fact I still draw breath only because she came when others fled. In the end, however I am still a man, the body is a vessel that still makes demands of the soul.

And unlike these men I serve drinks to, watching them make fools of themselves as they fawn over women paid to make them dance to the puppet strings they fix, I do not lie to myself about who and what I am.

I
am
a
murderer.

The only things that change about that are the reasons why and they are many but I'll share one of them right now. After so much hardship, the loss of two sets of parents, the beatings, the torture, the conditioning, for once it felt good to be the one doing the whipping for a change.

[Badelaire]

8 years ago...

When Varlo and Mariabelle took Aran in they called him their little benediction and so the name stuck. He had steadfastly refused to leave Varlo's side, face set in a serious expression of determination and defiance rare on children as he looked up at the Ghost Raven about to end his saviour's life, in the process of loading another bolt onto the firing shelf of her crossbow. Little hands clenched as if he could do harm with them, Aran stood his ground until the Raven herself was taken down by feathered arrows blossoming in her chest. That day marked the end of Varlo's career as a soldier however, the injury causing a painful limp that would dog his days.

They lived well enough though wretchedly poor but there was a deep love and caring for one another. Between Varlo's meager pension and the coin Mari earned repairing clothes and sometimes getting the odd order for a dress they at least didn't starve. But it was merely an existence, living day to day. Between the ages of 14 to 17 Ben took to petty thievery and gambling to try and supplement his adoptive parent's income, something common place in the slum's ward. Yet gambling has an addiction of its own and debts have a frightening way of accruing. A bad run at Hazards forces Benedict, as he was now known, into an indenture with the local Basilisk representatives, stealing higher risk wares and aiding in heists of blackmarket shipments that were still in high demand after the battles that raged a decade past. Tymora smiles on the bold but Beshaba pours woe at whim and so Benedict finds himself, along with his peers, held at arrow and sword for their part in scalping revenue from a corrupt magocracy.

The sentence, 12 years hard labour in the Anzak salt mines. It would have been more humane to have just killed them all on the docks that night. Afterall, Hillsfar is known for its "humanity"...

[Badelaire]

6 years ago...

Anzak was a literal hell on earth. Heat from a glaring sun baked both the air and the salt encrusted ground as multitudes of Hillsfar's undesireables toiled to draw out the expensive export from the cruel, unforgiving earth. Heat was not Benedict's natural environment and the first months were the worst though he slowly became accustomed to the harsh conditions. In Anzak, Benedict was the rarity. A human. Those non-humans not employed in a servile nature in Hillsfar would be sold off as slaves to places like this. The treatment of them made Barovia look positively tolerant and often fights would break out between races who would not otherwise be welcoming to one another.

Tasked with aiding a hulking half-orc who only grunted the word "There!", it was Benedict's job to weaken salt seams with a pickaxe he could barely wield, never being the most well developed of physiques. After the Plods gave him a round beating for stopping to get his breath back once, he ignores the pain that seeps into his limbs and back and the heat of the sun overhead. Time has no meaning and he long stops counting the passing of days after the sixth month. After two winters, it felt like he had been there all his life. Thoughts of his parents and home were a dim candle, threatened by a raging maelstrom.

One thing you can count on though is that elves do good by their kin and elves made up most of Anzak's workforce. In a seldom experienced moment of good fortune, a warband from Outer Comranthor attack the mines, setting free their kinfolk and providing the rest of those enslaved there an opportunity to escape. Something which Ben does without wasting a single minute, finding his way to Hillsfar after an arduous 2 months skirting the Moonsea.

The home he once knew is no longer Varlo and Mariabelle's however and he is chased from the door, mistaken for a beggar in the rags he wears. It is a frigid winter but the numb of the cold is nothing compared to the numb in his heart. It takes a week of questions around the vast slums ward before he finds where his parents dwell. A pathetic shanty, one among thousands with a flimsy canvas roof sagging from the snow.

For a very long time he knelt there before his parents bodies, frail and thin, not noticing the ache from the cold. They were nestled under a woefully inadequate blanket with arms wrapped around one another, huddled together in death. For a very long time he knelt there until the last 19 winters of life crashed down. Clutching his hands against his head, teeth clenched, tears stream from his eyes and the scream of loss, anger and despair rings out. An animal sound of something broken beyond its limits...







((About the only sound I could think of even close to Ben's grief))
http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=J913Y6qUE5c

[Badelaire]

5 years ago...

A dead man has no need of food, has no need of comfort, has no need of anything and Benedict was truly dead. With a blank, expressionless face he ignites the old ramshackle thing his parents sleep in and sends their bodies to the afterlife. Walking through the streets a seed, buried deep propagates and multiplies. Revenge, cold and cruel and so starts a path of murder. It was fairly easy to find the ones involved his imprisonment and the eviction of his parents and even easier to kill them. They did not die well nor quickly, Ben having no skill in the art carves and cuts wildly with a rage. Such brutish methods do not go unnoticed and soon enough bounty hunters find him. Grim-faced men bearing the coins of Hoar around their neck, their cold expressions mirrors of his own. People who have no aversion to taking life when it is needed. The fire is extinguished in Benedict, the fight left him. He offers no resistance and the only thoughts in his mind as one of the men chokes him out  is that he couldn't complete the list in time. The last thought:

'Just let this be the end.'

Beshaba pours woe at whim.

In the death cell he sits with eleven other men, their final meal laid out by Ilmater priests as those of Kelemvor say their final rites. The scent of food brings Ben out of his trance-like state and with the other men, desperate like he, they gorge themselves on cuts of meat, eggs, bread. Benedict has never eaten so well and sobs with the shame of it while his parents are dead. With a resounding gong, their time had come. Hung at the neck till dead. Some of the men weeped openly, some tried to hold tears back with bravery, others bore their heads proudly and others still showed not a single human emotion. As they shuffled into the gallows yard, manacled at the feet and hands, some of them started praying to the gods for mercy. Benedict tried to keep his head up like some of the men still holding onto dignity though his eyes burned with unshed tears and his chest wracked with heaving panic breaths. He was going to die and it would be terrible. He had witnessed many hangings before, watching those whose necks didn't break twitch with bulging eyes and faces until they strangled.

Led one by one, gaurds watching from the walls with nocked arrows, each man stood on his own stool. One by one the executioners drape the nooses around their necks and when Ben's was secured, it already felt like it was choking him, bearing down on him like some great weight. Gulping in huge lungfuls of air, it seemed almost silly that he would regret not seeing the morning sky turn to dusk this day. It only entered his thoughts for a brief moment why this was a private execution but the ponderance is pushed away by thoughts of his parents and the tears stream down his cheeks.

'Please, please, please for once in my life let me get what I want. Let my neck break so I can be with them swifter.'

Drums beat a steady cadence, a dirge for their last moments along with the despairing wails and pleas of innocence from some of the other men. Behind his closed eyes Ben wills himself to die well and the drums suddenly stop and the world falls away underneath him as the trapdoors are opened. As he falls he can hear the sickening snaps of neck and the wet chokes of men not so lucky and in that strangely infinite moment he ponders why his rope is so long compared to the others. The impact with the ground, 15ft below brings him to reality and he cries out in agony as his shoulder and back take the force of the fall.

The gaurds simply stand their at theirs posts, not even looking at him so surely he was dead and this was what the afterlife was to be? But the dust billowing around him and up his nose in the turbulence of his fall and the sharp pain lancing through his side feels real. Getting his legs up from under him shakily moving onto his knees he looks up to indeed see that his rope is far too long to kill someone but the eleven other men swing in the cool morning air dead. Confusion overrides all senses and he consciously takes off the noose around his neck, expecting arrows to feather him in an instant but none come. What cruel joke was is this staged execution?

The answer comes from the under the eaves of the battlements.

"If you had not risen and taken the rope from around your neck, you would have been killed. As it stands Benedict Lasahl, you are for all intents and purposes a dead man and my property."

The voice that spoke was hollow, muffled and now as three shapes move from out of the morning shadows towards he can see why. They bored masks drawn into sardonic, mocking expression of cruel mirth. They wear grey robes over armour, belted with red sashes that drip with all manner of strange and medley things. Ears, teeth, jewelery, buttons, patches of fabric, the odd link of chainmail. Doombringers, openly bearing trophies from people their judgement has fell upon.

"I don't understand, who are you, what is all this?"

The three figures move forward and the lead removes her mask to reveal her gender. Stark, angular Chessentan features and almost black eyes observe Benedict like a predator studying its meal. The gaurds all keep their eyes firmly on the morning duties they set about to now, letting this strange meeting play out.

"Your case attracted our notice, one of revenge and revenge we serve."

Holding up a copper coin, a dual-headed cameo of two joined faces peering in each direction, she moves closer ever still to Benedict.

"You, unlike these men." She gives a dismissive wave with her hand "Have been given a choice. If you decline, you die. If you accept, you might die anyway."

"What does accepting mean?"

"Atonement. You are still charged with the gravity of your sins in killing those who death was too great a punishment for whatever your motivations."

"Atonement? Maybe I don't want to be forgiven."

"Then you are of no use to me" She motions to one of the gaurds who drops to one knee and readies his bow, aimed at Benedict. "Your answer?"

Swallowing painfully Ben nods his head twice. "I accept."

"Good."

The Doombringer smiles though it is not in the least bit pleasant and steps forward once more to Benedict again, a handspan away from him now and looks down at his feet. Confused, Ben follows her gaze until he curses himself for falling for such a cheap trick. The last thing he sees before the world turned black, was the woman's sabaton rushing up to meet his face.

[Badelaire]

3 years ago...

Life at the monastery was not easy nor did anyone who arrived there expect it to be. The Fateful Claw, dedicated to rooting out and punishing people the church had decided Hoar's judgement should fall upon. Between constant conditioning of mind, body and soul there was a working farm to tend to as well as the multitude of various tasks in the upkeep of the stark, severe, colourless place.

Work was expected from everyone and no more so than the Penitents of which Benedict was. They wore blood red scarfs around their heads to mark their division from the rest and were the hardest pushed and the most severely punished for even the slightest of mishap. They were not allowed to associate with one another nor any of the others and so Benedict spent his days to his chores, soaking up the lessons in the killing arts in which he gradually became more and more experienced in and at night, in quiet repose until the day was to repeat.

He had been there for 2 years now, the first was spent as little more than a body slave expected to work without complaint. Complaints he had none of however, there was structure, purpose, there was no need to think of anything else but the task at hand and the wounds of the past healed over. On the days he was allowed time to himself, he spent his time in the libraries learning how to read and write from the scribes and delving into the worlds books reveal. It was on one of these days when an Eye of Irony humbly asked him to enter the proving grounds and when he arrived, all 20 of the Penitents were ordered to stand in to lines of 10 men facing one another.

Doombringer Shulta, their leader who "recruited" each man personally, made her presence known on the dias that overlooked where the monks practiced with one another. Those in the monastery lived in a constant state of warfare and none more so than the warrior-monks, the Ashkan, flanked by Oritori, lay members of the sect who act as its mercenary force and Knightran priests who oversee the spiritual affairs. Today was very different, auspicious even if their training was to be overseen by such an audience. Auspicious indeed.

"Gentleman, you are here because of a culmination of fate and your own follies. In this place you have given up immorality, greed, want, self. But the path of the White Road is tenuous. A path not all of you are suited to. I have paired you off like this for a set purpose." She sweeps her gaze across them each, strangely lingering on Ben before moving on. "Herds are culled to prevent infection, to separate the weak from the strong. Your task is this: kill your partner and once you have done that stand here before me. If you refuse, you will both be killed." Several Oritori draw their swords and Ashkans ready the glaives they fight so effectively with to reiterate that point.

No one refuses.

They move on silent feet, the rustle of their habits the only sound as they square off with one another. Benedict adopts the Hunting Spider to counter his opponent's Falling Dragon. He doesn't know his name, where he's from or what he had done to end up here. All he knows is that with the thudding in his chest, this man is now his enemy and he must die or be killed himself. Some of the men launch at one another with the hysterical screams of the desperate, the sounds of flesh being struck and bone cracking off one another the only music to this macabre dance.

Ben's opponent moves with as much grace as he and they shift their styles trying to find a weakness in one another's techniques until Ben launches forward and delivers a high over head kick, bringing his heel sweeping down towards his opponent who neatly blocks it before it has a chance to come down beyond its arc of impact and drops low to sweep the point leg. Ben leaps back expecting this and stamps his foot down onto the oncoming leg, the Woodcutter as it was called. Howling in pain as Ben smashes his heel down into the knee of his opponent, a satisfying crunch of cartilage, he attempts to recover but Ben is on him, harrying him. They trade blows back and forth as the other men dance and snarl around one another, blood splashing from broken noses, split lips and even a gouged eye.

But his opponent weakens, repeated attacks to the vulnerable leg force him to his knees and without missing a beat, Ben yanks the scarf from his head and wraps it around his opponent's throat. Using the momentum to get behind him, he drops to the floor under the man and presses his knee into the back as he pulls back on the makeshift garrotte and waits for his opponent's thrashing to subside. Even when he is still, Ben keeps the pressure on for a further ten minutes until a Knightran orders him to release his obviously dead opponent. Walking to the dias, there are only another 2 of the Penitents who survive. The others lay dead or dying from their injuries and those still with life left in them are quickly seen to by Oritori blades. As he goes to don his head scarf once more, Shult places her hands on his arms to stop him.

"You have earned your atonement, as you earned the right to take that noose off your neck that day." Looking to the other two men, still panting from their exertions bruised and bloodied, she includes them in her statement. "All three of you have. The strong kill the weak. It is a harsh lesson but we kill the strong. That is the way of this sect, to punish the corrupt and to lay low the tyrant." It dawns on Benedict why the monastery is so close to the Moonsea now, tyranny indeed but she continues. "Your names, so that Thunderous Praise may be given on this day."

They speak as one.

"Strakken"

"Ondo"

"Benedict"

Three new Thunders to kick over every stone they were sent to upturn.

[youtube=425,350]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5eRyzZJML78&feature=player_detailpage[/youtube]

[Badelaire]

I stopped tracking days and nights, they blurred into one when you live in a constant state of alertness. But the Nymph provided me with something, an anchor, something to focus on beyond the killing arts and perfecting them. Though myself and Semisi do indeed still push our mental and physical beings from time to time, it is the closest thing that either of us has known as home. A home both of us defend fiercely when idle men think it their personal whore house. In hindsight I should have perhaps chosen my lovers from further afield but Semisi and Serafim are as sister and long got over the notion of any form of rivalry. It is heartening to be mocked and teased by them for my current choice in Tatiana but that only goes to show they care.

And then it struck me.

When did I start to like life here? When did I start caring about these people, working in this place because of no other choice, desperation or just the desire to be someone else in the short moments they dance? When did they stop being other workers and start being my new family? There is not a day that goes by when I do not think of the Cristanceau family. How happy they looked, the fear on the child's eyes when I told her:

"It is better this way. A fleeting moment of pain to spare you an entire lifetime of it. Your parents are waiting for you and thou shalt with them hence."

I feel almost absolute despair when I know they were doomed anyway. If it had not been me, another would have carried out the task and they may not have been as swift or merciful as I. This current predicament with Tatiana's previous lover will be an irritation but this is the way of things. It is easy to prick at male pride with the choicest of words but in the end words are trivial next to action. Violence is the only thing these people understand, these "outlanders" as we are called. Force the only language they comprehend.

[Badelaire]

[youtube=425,350]http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_detailpage&v=1dE564e1uz4[/youtube]

You could reason it coldly in any way but this was Benedict's fault for pushing the issue of digging the grave up for proof. With the coming dawn their acts were discovered by the Morning Lord procession with outcry. Ben could have fought, killed and fled like many times before but he wasn't alone. He couldn't abandon Semisi and Tatiana just to save himself so they submit. There are accusations, shouting, turmoil. The situation was out of control and yet the facts were not laid out.

The grave was not a grave for all it held was an empty coffin.

Tatiana begged and pleaded, tried to tell the truth of their goal there but all attempts fell on deaf ears. The garda, a pig of a man, takes Tatiana away with Benedict and Semisi in tow. With a leering expression on his face he gazes on Tat's form and hints at the obvious, a way out that had nothing to do with the law but a cheap way to slake his lusts. Benedict bristles, the garda is alone and no one even thought to take their weapons, they could just kill him and flee. It wouldn't have been the first he has killed that got in his way, there had been may others like in the crypts and streets of Vallaki or that time up in Krofburg. He could have just reached out and crushed his windpipe, folding it in. He could have smashed a leg into his ribs forcing them in to burst his internal organs. He could hear the head Ashkan's lessons in the killing arts in his mind.

"Always aim at the vital organs. Always attack and viciously too. The head's a good place to go for, attack the throat. Claw at the eyeballs. Hit the weak spots. Smash the kidneys. Kick at the groin. Aim to cripple, to maim! You're dancers here, dancers of the killing arts. Anything less and you're just thugs, ruffians, amateurs!"

But he is not alone, Semisi pleads with her eyes at Ben not to strike, shaking her head in fear. The noise, the chaos, watching Tatiana being led away by the arm, the leer on the garda's face. Hands clench, muscle groups bunch, a snake poising itself to strike. The spring uncoils slowly when Mihas comes running, the gaurds argue and bicker. Clearly there's enmity here and uproar when Semisi punches a guard who lays a hand on her and drives her knee hard into his groin. They now face the manor and the callow bitch Vanda within.

He shuts the senses out, stands in his Calm, as they wait in their cage . The other two show various signs of fear and apprehension, trying to comfort one another until their sentence is given by the shrill Burgomistress. 20 lashes, increased to 30 for the insolence of Semisi by the cold Lieutenant Ionache. Ben knows a killer when he sees one, recognises his own kind. When their time comes they are led to the posts set up in the village. To Ben it all seems to happen in slow motion, he's a youth about to be flogged for thieving once more, the faces of the crowd. Fear, disgust, pity, anger, sympathy, malice, compassion. All facets of the human condition in their best and worst moments as these outlanders, the word like the gravest insult, face the Count's summary justice.

Poor Semisi is first, Ben's comrade in arms, his best friend, the first woman he had taken to his bed in a decade. She's known abuse though, suffering at the hands of cruel men with cruel tastes, she screams and recoils under the scourge but her mind won't break. Only her body. She sags to the floor once all is done, mewling like a wounded animal. The scourge bearer skips Ben at the middle post and moves to Tatiana who tries to struggle against her bonds. The third and final woman Ben would take as a lover, their story a strange one entwined amidst chaos and violence. She cries in agony against the barrage of strokes as men call out salacious comments, like Semisi, sagging to the floor with subdued cries as it is over.

He's a 16 year old youth about to be flogged for thieving in the Justiciero's courtyard once more. He's seen his closest friends, his lovers, two of three and only they have seen the man born as Aran Mason and not the killer that would become Benedict Lasahl. He's a youth. He's angry. They hurt his friends but he cannot fight chained like this. So he offers the only thing he can. His scorn, his defiance. And he pays for that act.

"I hope you do a better job on me than you did them you ugly, fat bastard."

Pyotr brings the scourge back in rage as the crowd gasp and launches his assault at Ben with far more fury than the women. Ben knows pain, can overcome it with his mind, find the Calm where nothing can touch you. Until now. It's like a trying to snatch a feather in a hurricane, agony explodes into every ounce of his senses and fibre of his being as animal cries of agony snarl through teeth clenched to prevent him from biting his own tongue off. His blood sprays across the cobbles until 30 lashes of the scourge are met and he sinks further to the floor than his dear friends, defeated. The heavens in their mercy open up and the torrent mixes their lifeblood with cleansing water, causing each to turn their pained faces skywards. A bond was formed at that moment, forged in their own blood and mixed with their own agonies. These three would die for one another if it came to it....

[Badelaire]

Many want to learn the way to win, but never to accept the way to lose. To accept defeat. To learn to die is to be liberated from it. So when tomorrow comes, you can face that prospect with head held high. The art of dying.

[Badelaire]

"What is self? There is no right or wrong answer, what is important is the logic behind."


"Self.. to me.. Ugly. It is the inherited beauty I have forsaken for the sake of petty revenge, pain and misery. It is ugly because I do not control it, yet I know it."


"My definition of the 'self,' you say... mmh. A question that no one has asked me as of yet. The self, to me, is undefined. Until I know myself, then I can only seek to define it... from what I have gathered; darkness, Night. It's where myself feels safe and secure."


"Self is who we are, from our appearance to our emotions and senses, to how we reason, adapt, react... as well as our habits, likes and dislikes, our will, faiths... Our entire being."


"Each very good answers, my own is this: There are people in life who say they can take the pain you feel everyday for the past away but I refuse. Because I made a few wrong choices in life? Turned left when I should have turned right? I don't need to learn anything about myself, I know what weaknesses are, I don't need another to take me on a tour of them as do each of us.

Pain and guilt cannot be taken away by the wave of a wand. They're the things we carry with us, make us who we are. We lose them, we lose sight of ourselves. I don't want that pain taken away because I need that pain to remind me I'm still human, I'm still here.

That is what self is to me. The culmination of everything high and low we ever experience in life. To refuse to acknowledge either is to refuse your very self. Without pain, there is no achievement Physical, emotional, spritual."

[Badelaire]

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̽̃̊I̔ͭ̋̆̎͗ͩ͂ͩ ̓̉̅̏̚C̅̏A̿ͩ̄̿Nͪͮ̈́̆̄̇Nͮ̃͌͆Ȍͩͯ̌͑̇T͆̋͂̌̿ͮ́ͩ ́̃̽ͭ̓ͣ̉͑̋W̓ͭ͌̋̅Aͨͫͫͧ̑ͯK͗̈ͤ͛ͧ̾E͗̃̆ ̈́́͂̉̑̓̇͗U͊̌̇P̓̆ͥ̿̿ͨ̄̃̚ ̔̄Ḧ́ͩ̂̋̓ͨ̎E͒ͯ̅̀͊ͬ͂L̒̉ͤP̿̂ͧ ͪ̇̎̒ͮ̏ͯͣM̓͌̆̒̄̀E̾̅ͨͦ̋ͨͮ̎ͣ ͯ̌͒
̇͋̽́R͌E͗̆̈́ͤͩD͂̀͗̾ ̒ͣC̅̅ͦͬͭ͐̚R̉Ĩ͑̃̃ͤM̋Sͪͬͪ͂ͤ͊O͐̓̑̽N̐͊ͧ͂͊́ͫ̊ ͦ̍͒͌̑
̇̍Wͣ̐Hͥͣ̉̋͌Y̓̓ͫͭ͊ͩ̽̍ͣ ̾͛ͤ̔̂̾̋̃W̎̾̅̄ͬͣ̔̅Ō̚Nͯ̐̎̎͋ͩ̉ͩ͒'̌̄̓̚Tͥͩ ̎ͪ̃Y͆ͤ̈Oͬ́̏U͋̊ͬͤ ̒HͧͦĖͤ̅̃͒̑L̈́ͫͬ̔̓P̎͛ ͩ͑̐̂͒̎ͣ ͊̌
̅B͌̅̀L̃̍̔͛ͦ͑Oͯͤ̄͊ͦ̀O͋̈̂͆̆̌͛ͬ̚D̈͊͆̓̃̀ͩ ͤͨͨ̈́͂̈̽ͮBͥͪ̎̅ͨͭ̒̅L͗̈́̀̍O͌̒ͤ̃͛̏Oͣ̇̇̐̐ͣ̐͐D̂̽͂̓͋̔ͬ̚ ͑̔B͑͒̃ͨ̃̔L̒̐ͦ̈́͌̂O̐ͬ̂̂̉̅̇͂O̎̓͒̇̆D̈́ͮ ͩ̄B̌ͤ͋̇̚L̈̔̉Ȯ̓ͦͪ͒ͥ̂́OͤͣDͫ͗̊͋̊ͯ̌ ́ͣ ͣ̈̈̉̈́ͩ̚
̅̊ͪ͗̔͗W̿̿ͯ̔͋̇H͒Yͩ̍ ̇̈ͪ̽͑̈́̇͗W͊̆H́̎̍̇͛̒ͣͣ̚Yͮ͗̅̚ ̌̀̎ͭ̄̆̎W̚Hͭ̄ͧ͂ͧ́͆̄Y̋̾ ̽̔̏̊̏ͥ̚W̊ͣͤ͂ͯH́̂͗̀͛̅̑Yͤͧ͌̄̍͌̄̈ ̒̄̔̃W̎̔̄͊̑H̎̾̄Yͮ̉͛ ̒
ͥ̊ͨ͐̅͛̚Bͥ̄̽̚L͗͗Ŏ͆̾ͬ̓ͭ̾̚O̔̏ͦ̏ͤDͭ͊͑͊̓ ͮ̓̔̐̒̈́ͫB͒ͣ͑L̾̈ͭÓ̔̍̌̉ͣO̎̍̇͛̐̄Dͪ̀͋ͪ͑ ͗͌B͛ͯ̉ͯͯ̈͑̌L̓̒O̿̿̒Oͥͥͨ̅̐ͩ͋̑͂Ḋ̔ͪ ͑́Bͦ͗ͧͥ͂͑͐ͯL̋̆Ỏ͑͋̂ͥͮ̍̚Oͧͬ́Dͨ͋͊ͮ̒̆ ͪ̈́̚ ̅͊͌̃
͑͛͌ͬͮ͊̓S͂ͫͫͭ͗̎T͐͒̑̃̑O͌P̿̈̋̇ͤ̉̐̌ ̄̋T̽̍H͐̿ͧ̒ͯEͫͪ ̿̓ͣ͊S̋̄̉ͭ̊C̍͌̃͋͌ͥ̿̓R̾ͯ͆ͤ̿ͨ̀ͯÈ̈́̒̑ͤA̍͑̾ͣM͛ͦͤ̓ͧI̓̐N̾̓͌ͩͣ͐G̀̂̾͂ͪ́ͧ̚ ͂͋͆͐ͣ͌ͨ
̒̽͊̍͛̒Bͫͯ̓L͛͂͑O̔ͪO̐D̃ͦ̓̚ ͌̏Īͯ̏͗̑̾̊̚S̾̉͗͒ͧ ̾L̋ͦͩͮ̿ͨͨÎ̌̑͗̔́F͐̈ͯ͑̽͊̏Eͤ̓̆̐̊̈́͋ ͭͧ̃ͬ̅͛͊Dͯ̏̽Rͣ͒͂̀͑ͫỈ͊ͥͯ̊̐N̒ͣ̃̎́ͤ̅̐Kͤͨ̇͐ͬ ̇ͥD̄͒͊̂ͨ͗̇͆E͛͛͛E͋̿̏͋̂̉̒P̍̾͗̃͒̃̚ ͨ̍̾̋ͭ̂͌ͥ̌D̊̋̇ͤRͪ͗ͫI͂Ňͮ̚K̋̐͂ͥ͗̾ ̾̀Dͤͧ͑R͛̈ͥ͐̎ͥI͋͒͒͒N͌̿́ͥ͋̿̌̋̚Kͧͦ̃͐ͭ ͬ͋̄͛͛̉͂D̏̅̆̾̅ͩ̓R͆̽́̊Iͨ̓̆̽͌̍͂͂N̅̊̓Kͭ̿͌̅͊̉̄ͣ ͯ͊͌͊͗ͮͦ̅̉
̋Ḧ̇ͪE̐ͭ͊L̋̓P̄́̌ ̐͂͆ͩḾÈ͆̽͊́̌͒́ͥ ̔͌
̒ͨ̾͐̽̓̓ͣD̑̓O͗̏̉̆ͪ͂N̿ͭ'͛ͭ͒ͯ͗T̾̓͛̉ͨ̚ ̈́ͯL͋ͤ̑ͨͯ̅͊ͮEͨ͂ͫ̾̽̊̽ͤͧA̔ͯ̂Vͦ̉̐̂ͪͣEͫ̀ ͫ̿̉M̄ͪ̈́ͫ̉ͮEͮ̆̌ ̓͐͗͐̄̀ͨ̉H̓ͧ͛̆E̍͆̽ͦ̈́̽̃̚R͊ͯ͌ͥ͌̓̐̈́͌Eͣ ̀̒Tͧ̿ͨ̔̓̿̈O͋̒̐͑̌̀̑ ͯD̽̎̇̅̈I̓̎́ͩͦͫEͪ̿̄ͦ̍́̅ ̔̂Aͥ̍̂ͦL͒̓ͩ͗͑Oͤ͋Nͩ̽ͮEͨ̾̅ͬ͌ͨ ͗̍͌ͮ͐̀̈
͗͛̐ͤR̃͒͌́̅Ùͨ̊̐͂̋̄N̆ͫ̉ͯ͗̅̚ ̋ͮR̾͛̀̚U̐̿̂ͨ̾N̈́̌ ̊̃͌͐̐̿͌R͛̈ͧȖͪ̂N͒ͦ͂̎͌͂͋ ̍ͪÅ̌͂͐̿͋Wͤͬͮ̏̾̌͛A̓͒̄̌̾ͦ̚Y͐̃̒̋͊ ̇D́̊̌̏͆O̍̾͋͒͊ͬͦ̊̄Nͤ̽̿͋͐'ͥ̒͒̂̓ͨ͑ͯT̃̃̚ ͣͮ̾̊Lͯ̉̀̓͗́͛͗͗E̔͋̋̀͆̄ͨT̄̚ ̍̌ͩ̉͋ͨͨ̅T̔̊̒ͪH̆͒̈́ͪ͊Ȇͬ̾ͬͩMͯ̈͊ͣ̒͌̿̔̚ ͌ͤͮͨC̽A̿̍ͦ͊͛ͧT̓͂ͦ͊͒̋ͦC̉͌͆̅͂H̔̊̐ͩ ̽ͮ̅̏̽̊Y̾̉ͯͩ̑O̿ͮ͌ͩͩ̔̊Uͪͭ̔͌̐ͬ̍ͬ ̈́̒̑͊̒̃
̚G͆̚Eͦ̋̈̄ͧ͂T̂ͣ̍͒̈́̓̚ ͯ̈́́̈ͬ̆̇O͐̇Ŭ͂T͑̇̑ ̉ͤͧOͫ̆͆̄͂͛́Fͮ͋̓͂ͯͪ ͧM̓̔Ẏ̉̔̄͒ͣͪ ̄ͯMͬ̽ͭͯI͗ͩ͆N͒́D̽̉

[Badelaire]

I feel like my brain has been scorched, baked too long in the sun. I can't remember how we got back, I just found myself stood in the outskirts with Tatiana looking up at me concerned. When I try to think of what occurred after the butterfly fell at me I feel a searing pain like a tiny pinprick of white-heat is being lanced through my head. It's my belief this is my consciousness protecting itself from something it doesn't wish to recollect.

The other speak of things past that I do not recall and yet it has been several days since we ventured out. I became keenly aware of the caked on blood and went to wash in the lake, disgusted that anyone would let me walk around like such. Semisi was there also. I'll recover, I have to, I can't depend on others like others have depended on me. Not even the kindness of the stranger who came into the Nymph.

I had become full of my own confidence, striking down those towering demons like a child pushing over skittles, striking through their core to the diseased ki that charges them. It's painfully evident now that not all foes can be fought physically. Not when the foe dwells within.  

My head's doing it again. I need to lie down. I just hope I don't dream this time.

[Badelaire]

Submergence

Contagion

Suggestibility

The wheel turns and these people show their true selves when exposed to scrutiny. They clamour for their petty vengeances. Girdled and choked by them, refusing to admit what their inner most desires crave. Let's do this Semisi's way and watch them consume one another while the world crumbles and burns around them. They deserve no less. An eye for an eye. A demon for demons.

The iron scent of blood has its own addiction.

[Badelaire]

I've got no strings
To hold me down
To make me fret, or make me frown
I had strings
But now I'm free
There are no strings on me

Hi-ho the me-ri-o
I'm as happy as can be
I want the world to know
Nothing ever worries me

I've got no strings
So I have fun
I'm not tied up to anyone
They've got strings
But you can see
There are no strings on me

[Badelaire]

[youtube=425,350]http://www.youtube.com/watch?list=UUuMl1yyuN4ZFucCXnu_jcnw&v=Ru5SHu-H59I&feature=player_detailpage[/youtube]

They feed off one another and she is at the head of it. A parade of leeches sucking from the teet of a whore in every sense of the word. I snip the diseased umbilical and walk away, the lesson learned twofold. I walk back onto the White Road once more, tread from the calming influence of water to the path I have been given. Blood is life, the Nightmare Lands taught me that as we ran through the echoes of the screaming maelstrom.

Nothing is sacred.

[Badelaire]

It's for the best that I decide to do this. There can be little recourse anymore and I find myself snapping and biting like a rabid dog at those around me. What may have once been a strange new experience of normality and calm, a sanctuary against the darkest of nights is little more than a threadbare dream. Those that frequent are rather base and their motives obvious. The lies others speak to one another even more ridiculous when proven fact and truth are recounted in front of them, to hear the denials and pleading of innocence. These people suit one another well, in due time they'll devour each other, climbing over the remains to get at her. Well they are welcome to it, it's no longer home, it is a prison.

[Badelaire]

[youtube=425,350]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x1VgY8JMhbY&feature=player_detailpage[/youtube]

I've walked for a long time now, hidden and concealed by myself away from the insecurities and cravings of those others. The time alone has helped a lot, let me get my mind in order once more with no distractions and whispered words. The less contact I have with people, the more certain I am that this is where I should be. Always on the outside looking in, watching as both witness and judge at the same time. The things I have seen them do to one another when they believe no eyes gaze should shock me but I find myself numbed, unable to feel anything but disdain. Why hunt what kills itself with its own folly anyway? I have only one regret, well three, the Cristanceau family. The others can burn in the hells I sent them to. They knew what they were getting into and so do I.

They all smell the same when they burn, like pigs on a spit. Only pigs have more decency.

[Badelaire]

They attacked the travellers and took their gold with little resistance. I revealed my presence while they were drunk with their victory and overconfidence. They died screaming in pain and anguish as my fingers wormed into their organs and snatched the spark Ki grants away and yet those on whose behalf I intervened looked at me like I was the monster. I miss Semisi's constant scorn. Just the sound of something other than the prattle of lesser men who would rather offer their throats up for morality's sake would be welcome right now. Not even a single thank you. Life is cheap indeed.

[Badelaire]

A large gathering. Many, many faces sat around a fire oblivious. Probing, choice words used to gauge reaction and preparedness. Only three showed any form of promise, the pen is not mightier than the sword as one said. That is unless you can catch the sword bearer unawares and gouge his throat out with the nib. The reactions much as I expected and more than a little disappointing. The earth follower, Lathandite and the hin with the most sense and may perhaps benefit from being shown the means to survive if they are receptive. The ones who got upset by mere words will likely never achieve greater things, adversity reveals itself without a single utterance often. Just like the Horseman. How strange after all this time it shows up when many gather in the night oblivious to the true predators that watch while eyes are blinded by the fire. Of course how does something without a head see?

[Badelaire]

A curious turn of events. My back against hers like old times, facing what comes. Wandering and watching, observing. It started when that vardo plunged into the ocean, kicking out the window so I could escape and watching the others struggle with the door in their armour as the waters consumed them. And then later clinging to the side of the cliff, watching to see if their faith and their desire to live outweighed the force of the current. To see if they could save themselves.

Clinging to the shadows I've continued this curious mindset I've developed and have started teaching to others with backgrounds and training similar to I. In gaming terms the wildcard is a random element. It neither helps nor hinders and yet if played at the key moment can turn the game or lose it with no hope of recovery. And this is how we should be, a random element that simply needs to be called on to change the tide or we simply watch the floundering and sheer luck of others less enlightened to this world and its hidden geometry of chance.

A diseased ritual poisoning an already tainted land. Powerful living elements, the need for cleansing and careful assessment. But no, blundering in without heed to a warning. Mages who looked like cheap hedge-witches, priests barely able to walk in the heavy rainments they wear, fighting men who need a few more seasons behind their belt before walking in the presence of such things. Children trying to run before they can even walk. Crawling at the feet of greater powers, falling constantly with no evident self-preservation.

I've dwelt on the matter some time. Mercenaries fight for money. Knights fight for honour. Soldiers fight for beliefs. What do these people fight for when there is no gain, no recognition, no real reason to risk themselves so needlessly when they find no answers to a cause. Perhaps they just want to die but are too coward to take their own lives? Who knows, I'll query Cervantes on his thoughts the next I see him. At least I know why he fights.

[Badelaire]

Man was born for society. However little he may be attached to the world, he never can wholly forget it, or bear to be wholly forgotten by it. Disgusted at the guilt or absurdity of mankind, the misanthrope flies from it. He resolves to become a hermit, and buries himself in the cavern of some gloomy rock. While hate inflames his bosom, possibly he may feel contented with his situation. But when his passions begin to cool; when time has mellowed his sorrows and healed those wounds which he bore with him to his solitude, think you that contentment becomes his companion? No.

No longer sustained by the violence of his passions, he feels all the monotony of his way of living and his heart becomes the prey of ennui and weariness. He looks around and finds himself alone in the universe. The love of society revives in his bosom, and he ponders to return to that world which he has abandoned. Nature loses all her charms in his eyes. No one is near him to point out her beauties, or share in his admiration of her excellence and variety. Propped upon the fragment of some rock, he gazes upon the tumbling waterfall with a vacant eye. He views without emotion the glory of the setting sun across myriad lands. Slowly he returns to his cell at evening, for no one there is anxious for his arrival. He has no comfort in his solitary unsavoury meal. He throws himself upon his couch of moss despondent and dissatisfied and wakes only to pass a day as joyless and monotonous as the former.

[Badelaire]

[youtube=425,350]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PDyYEByB62Y&feature=player_detailpage[/youtube]

The First. We stumbled on the body of an unfortunate adventurer. I presented the options: Rob. Leave. Aid. He chose aid and so I watched him bear the burden to the Morning Lord's place of worship. There he paid for the cost of calling the dead from the grave. During that time he found the friends of the slain and perhaps new companions in this dark plane of existence.

The second. A young woman who had been accosted by brutish men trying to take her by force. By my own design I intervened and they lay spread out like lambs to the slaughter. The options: Present a case to the law. Forgive. End so they could not do wrong again. She chose to end and I presented the sickly, poisoned blade to her I carry with me. She deftly slit each throat from ear to ear without emotion. Clean and precise.

The third. Hanging bodies swinging from the arms of  an oak tree. He was shocked and upset. The options: Ignore as a cruel fact of life in Barovia. Intervene. He chose to intervene and so we cut the bodies down, clawed graves in the resisting earth for them and prayed for their souls to find peace alongside one another.

There will be many more and I will provide the comfort that options of choice bring. The final decision rests entirely in their hands and I will not judge them for it. Merely bear witness.

[Badelaire]

Women. Can't live with them, can't kill them. Their friends always complain.

[Badelaire]

Firing another bolt at his mark on the tree, Benedict couldn't help but smile. He hadn't found something of use to him like this in a long time, let alone so deadly.

"S-s-sir, c-can I h-h-ave my m--m-oney now?"

"What was that? Oh yes, of course. That was the deal afterall. "

Cutting the man's bonds from the tree, the fellow falls to the ground shaking like a leaf.

"And what did we learn in all this?" Benedict inquires, tossing a hefty sack of gold to the ground with an audible thud in front of him.

"Always ask about the job before accepting. You're insane!"

"That is a possibility, I have undergone some rather traumatic experiences lately. But I'm not the one who agreed to get tied to a tree and shot at now, am I?"