Within the swirling Mist (IC) > Biographies

Apex of Oblivion - Theodore Brosk

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Bastard Son:


"At the end of the day, the only thing a man has is his name, pretending to be someone else is for cowards boy, never forget that."
Harlan Brosk

The Scaffolds, Paridon
"And how is the seed of divinity nurtured within us? . . . Come on, come on, this is very basic." The older fellow in his weathered blue robe rubbed at his own lined face with frustration, a reflex he quickly suppressed. The boy he spoke to lowered his face in embarrassment, dull blue eyes cast to the ground, his grubby face looked away from the Monk at all times, as though refusing to see him would halt the chastisement. "With inner reflection and refinement of the soul through the apex of experience. . " He answered his own question with a deep sigh of painful exasperation. "Where is your book of meditation?" A wizened hand slipped from the blue robe sleeve, awaiting the mediation journal.

The boy rose up, he had sat atop it, a subconscious attempt to hide it by shielding its existence by sitting atop the small book. The monk took it, prizing it open, his pale eyes closed almost immediately, like he was slamming closed the doors to his mind. "What is this Theodore? . . ." The question was laden with frustrated patience. "A thistle guv. . ."  The boy answered back just above a whisper, the image of a scraggly thistle emblazoning the first page in dark pencil.  "My name is not Guv, Theodore. It is Celebrant Wally- Wallace!" He corrected, his jowls jiggling as he grew flustered. A wizened, pudgy hand smoothed back his wispy hair, wiping sweat from the bald pate of his head.

"I just. . I find it hard to think Celebrant. . Loike I meditate but. . I just miss my mum. ." The boy seemed to visibly deflate, his shoulders slumping. "And thats why you drew in your book? Drew. . this?" He asked with clear disbelief and disdain for the drawing. "Yeah she likes Thistles. . I. . maybe if I . . drew her some. ." Each words sucked more of the life from his body, as he shut down further with each word. The celebrant followed his growing despair, and at the apex, swept his arms about the boy, patting his hand down upon his head. "Oh Theodore. . Whatever shall we do with you."


Many decades later - Barovia
He coughed into the mud, spluttering madly as he sucked the filthy water into his lungs, he was DROWNING! He tried to press up from the sodden earth, his limbs quivered like the legs of a newborn dear and he dropped again, the filth water that waterlogged his beard caused his breaths to be hazed with water. Lights flared in his eyes, sparks clouded his vision, thankfully however, his limbs twitched, rolling him over enough to breath through the filth encrusted beard. Wheezing he looked out to find the ocean he had somehow begun to drown in.

A chorus of cackles erupted from nearby, and as crusty eyes made painful from dehydration opened, the sunlight far too bright for his gaze rushed in, he saw them. . Vistani. A whole camp, some stared at the fool as he laid beside the small puddle of muddy water, languishing in his own indignity He was a sorry sight, dressed in a full suit of paridonese make, fine lines that followed his form, and bright brown snake skin shoes, a once fine jacket was stained with muddy water and vomit. His bloody hands leaked their precious vitae, he lay there. Staring up at the sun, letting the brutal pain of the light, punish his soul until he rose up, sitting in a pile of nausea and once finely tailored cloth. "Aw shit. . . this isn't Paridon. . "

Bastard Son:



The Scaffolds, Paridon
Each deep wheezing snore that ripped through the small home, was followed almost immediately by a great deflating exhale that filled the surroundings with the putrid aroma of whisky and curdled cheese. The small area around the snoring man was pungent with tobacco smoke and sweat. He was a mountain of a man, a great fleshy lump spread across the sagging table, his mighty mustache bleached yellow with persistent vomit from binge drinking, a bloated ruddy face, and a sweaty mop of hair. Once he had been very handsome, but drink and neglect had run it all to waste.

He was of course, who the boy wished to avoid, bare feet tapped softly through the dust, carrying his haggard shoes in his hands, his skinny frame dipped through the room, avoiding the sleeping man until he vanished through the door like a ghost. Exploding down the street in a rush of long limbed footsteps till he skidded into a group of other children assembled in the courtyard of the chapel. "Marianne? Here. Hector? Here. Bruce? Present. Theodore?" "HERE!" He scooted in beside the rest of the children, Celebrant Wallace looked over them all and waddled around to the heavy book explaining the fundamentals of unarmed combat. "Alright, alright. . Now. .  who here has thrown a kick?"

Barovia, Later
A thunderous backkick split the spine of the skeleton in an arc of snakeskin covered fury, sending ribs and limbs flying into the stone of the crypt. The skeletons tried to moan out without words, lungless forms unable to manifest words. Rusted weapons slashed over head sheering away matted hair as the dozen foes charged the man and his companions. Shoving away the dead with his bandaged fist, only to crack another with the opposing. His companions rushed the others with steel and magic, his hands kept the mass of skeletons busy. Another swift kick landed, lodging in the armored chest of the dead man, it turned, running of in a faux expression of self preservation, yanking the puglist off his feet. His shoe remained inisde the dead as it scampered off into the dark.

Bastard Son:
A bottle smashed with a high pitched keening against the wall, the young man ducked beneath it with practiced reflex. "You think you're going to marry that rich girl and move out of Blackchapel huh? You stupid little bastard!" The mans mustache shook with  the force of his words, blue eyes wide with the heightened emotion. "She actually supports my painting father! She actually-" Another bottle exploded against the wall, the young man did not even bother to duck, he was not truly trying to strike the boy.

"Its a dream Theo! The painting? You're a bloody trashpicker! You've got a decent arm but no one wants a bloody painting from a trashpicker!" He stormed back and forth, till the fuming overwhelmed him, pudgy hand roughly shoved the old splintery table before him away. His jaw clenched, bright blue yes glowering at the boy intently. The subject of his ire moved to speak but was cutoff as the ranting began once more. "That stupid girl has no idea what it's like not to have money Theodore, and as soon as she does shes going to break your heart and leave you a lonely, stupid fool!"

"What? Like mother did to you!?" He snapped back with a clenching of bruised, shaking hands. The father stood for a time, silent. He turned quietly upon his large feet and stormed out of the small house in a quiet but terrible rage. Theodore rushed quickly into his fathers room, he needed money, enough money to leave this house and rush off with Connie. He pulled free the boxes of papers and slips of old diaries his father kept beneath his bed, until a wrapped object and letter attached caught his eye.

"To my son"

Within the package lay a knife, distinctly chipped from Obsidian, broken in pieces it had long ago been rendered unusable. A letter penned in a flowing delicate hand, he read with his heart risen up in his throat, eyes filled with rage and betrayal. When the letter was done, he packed away all he had found with a calculating cold efficiency, making a cursory effort to leave it as it had been before he looked. Only the broken tip of the obsidian knife tied as a pendant around his throat. And there it would remain onward.

Bastard Son:
Earlier, Paridon

White flares appeared in his eyes and his knees vacated their duties to let the limbs collapse into a wobbling jelly beneath him, open battered hand found the cobbles beneath him. Kicking out with his legs, he felt the covered boots catch upon the stone propelling himself backwards, just in time for the metal capped heel of the other boys boot to crash down with a crack against the cobbles where Theodores leg had been a moment before. His opponent, Jackmire Sykes had grown tall, long limbed and sharp featured, a favorite of the Celebrants if only for his physical excellence.  Theodore unfortunately was not so much, tall enough but with short limbs and a bullish face, currently swollen and bleeding from the beating he had received.

The boys and girls that encircled the fight cheered loudly for their favorite of the two fighters, many themselves bearing the recent damage of brawls just occurred, Theodore recognized some, Hector with his lanky arms waving, William looking as mindless as always and Noel, quiet Noel. Hands both bloody and not sought to push Theodore back up into the fight. With a drunken stumble the teenager dipped forward, the weight of pain drew his body downwards to the filthy cobbles, the textured stone, hand whipped out, blood arching through the air despite the bandages across his skin. Knuckles crushed against Jackmires orbital bone, sproinging back as the vibrations ran through the bones of Theodores arm. "Oi wots all this then!?" The youth reacted like a den of Jackrabbites and suddenly ran, boots and barefeet scratching noisily against the stone in a mad dash away from the voice, trampling over each other, leaving the bloodied fighters with the shadowy figure, baton in hand.

Present, Barovia.

The shadowy figure stepped noiselessly through the sewer water, composed, calm as always. To Theodore it made him seem less human and more something else. The figure dark as shadows seemed to remain for a time in the darkness, but it could have been a trick of the eyes, any thought of this however was quickly chased away as the nausea of the hangover overcame the pugilist, the rush of bile and half digested food expelled out of his mouth into the water, a rushing of poison and antidote that left him panicked and shaking amid the filthy water, water that already had tainted and ruined the suit he purchased to make himself feel less horrific then he had in his time within the Core.

He dragged his waterlogged form to a quiet section of the sewer, fear, alcohol abuse and the simple pain of existence made his hands shake as he brushed the battered fingers through his greasy hair. Eyes wide and buggish. Pondering over the truth and the philosophy that had challenged all he had thought before, and resonated with understanding. Death, Life, the Grand Pyramid of Ascension.



A being is only complete once it has undergone metamorphosis.

Bastard Son:
Earlier, Paridon
"Go back to your part of town you bloody half breeds!" Quickly a bottle was whipped towards them, following the harsh words from the older gentleman, exploding over the head of the three young men huddled in the alleyway, conspiring. They lept up all together in a flurry of anger, slapping their own chests with angry shouting as the toothless old man faded back into the throngs of people milling past, the vague aura of disdain towards the half bloods of Blackchapel had swelled more then usual in recent days, a greater wave of famine passing through the poor quarter was blamed quickly on those whom it was easiest enough to blame, this season it was the Vistani.

The young men, despite the only vague aura of heavy Vistani features about their visage were 'tainted' with the itinerant peoples blood, and had bonded as their own tiny tribe amid the skirmishes of Blackchapels streets. "Old bastard. . Alright we all know the plan?" Theodore spoke with tired frustration to the other two lingering in the cramped cobblestone alleyway, the garbage of the city whipping around their legs. "Yeah, gold comin' in from the Cadaver trade, swipe it, leave." Hector answered as the other squished in close handed over the ancient flintlocks wrapped up tight in cloth to hide their existence from sight, as he slapped his hand on Theodores shoulder. "You'll have enough to run off with that cute Kings-girl soon enough eh?"

The Manor Retreat, Port-a-Lucine - Dementlieu
With the small point of the knife, he snipped away the branch growing from the tiny tree, its growth stunted by the pot it rested within, sheering away the excess limbs to make room for the veined cocoons that hung from the rough body of the plant. Fingers reached out to check one of the bulbous growth pods affixed to the tree in silent contemplation. With a noiseless unfold the cocoon began to open, he sat back into a lotus position, legs folded beneath himself. He sat back to observe, adjusting the heavy flintlock against his lap.

A centering breath rain through his body, his eyes focused sharply upon the cocoon. Fingertips followed the form of the pistol. The blunt head of the moth split the membrane of the cocoon and slithered free, clambering its freshly formed legs around the outer layer. Shiny new wings squished hard against its newly forged form, unfolding out in a wave of darkness, before it took off, flapping clumsily around its home tree, observed. Understood.



"The soul is nothing but smoke, function without form, subsistence without substance"

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