RP Extra

[Fenix]

So i recently started playing actively in an RP community for the game ArcheAge. Its a pretty in depth community run in an MMO. Its all one guild, divided into about six or seven different "realms" in the guild, which are more or less factions of that guild. The faction I joined was The Bard's College, which is both the epics of musicians, and the assassins guild in combination.

Our Motto? "To Be, Rather Than To Seem."

I recently did an entire write up of his entire character background and biography tonight, so I figured I could share it here if anyone was interested to check it out. Character name is Fenix Vale, and you'll see a stark difference between that Fenix and this one.

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Fenix Vale - The Show Goes On

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Basic Information

Name: Fenix Vale
Gender: Male
Race: Elven
Age: 146

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Physical Characteristics

Hair Color: Light Black
Eye Color: Emerald Green
Height: 5'8"
Skin: Fair toned, with a light tan.

Physical Description: Fair of skin and soft of smile, Fenix holds himself proudly in his stance. He rises at full height to 5'8", but can often feel more short in stature to those around him, due to his natural inclination to the crowds. Locks of a light, deep black hang from his head, falling to just upon his shoulders in a ragged array of strands. Often found hanging unkempt, but groomed in some chaotic manner, they flow freely as he steps. His eyes, reflecting a deep, emerald green color, seem to survey everything around his person with a fierce intelligence, as if in study of the world around him. His gaze inquisitive, insightful, and intrigued by the realms he walks, the faces he meets, the sights he bares himself witness to. His skin tone, fair and handsome, tanned with the gentlest tones, gives off a smooth glow as the sun strikes it. Two ears of fine point peak from within the locks of hair, sneaking their way to the freedom of the world around them, twitching with the slightest motions as they survey each sound that peeks by. Two soft lips seem to be caressed with a gentle smirk, amused by the world after so many years of life. Though when time presents, he finds himself with an expression of serious tone, prepared for his task ahead with a fierce determination.

He often will find himself garbed in the robes of an arcane practitioner, a soft glow surrounding them as the arcane energy imbues itself into his wear. Upon his back, one may often find a staff or a scepter fitted snugly to him, laid beside a finely carved flute. At his hip, a longsword hangs, of no exceptional craft. A dagger would lie strapped within the robing, the hilt angled forth for an easy draw. At times, he may be seen relinquishing his robes for leathers, with a cloak and hood to cover his features. Often, his performances find him garbed as such, for the freedom of movement it may offer.

[/I]

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Background Information

Hometown: Velvo Saliysuli (Between Eternities)
Known Languages: Common, Elven
Talents: Writing, Composing, Affinity for Music, Affinity for the Arcane, Tinkering, High Point Balance
Hobbies: Reading, Writing, Music, Tale Weaving

Origins:

[/I] From a small town hailed deep in the remnants of the old lands, Fenix would call to mind this place as home. A town of little travel, of little faith or squabble, dreary but quaint, and settled among the depths of the wood. Velvo Saliysuli (Vel-Voh Sal-ee-sue-lee), in his native tongue, known to others of the land as the Town Between Eternities. It were a home for they whom find themselves without. Those whom were banished, criminal, escaped, or simply wished to start anew would lead themselves to the quiet homes of this village. Surrounded by the forested depths in each direction, it were but a distant thought to those of the mainland. But an ever present demise lingered upon the ends of the ancient continent.

In his earliest youths for they of his kin, Fenix were found to be spirited and carefree. He would without fail offer his smiles and sympathies to those around him, spinning the fantastic tales rivaled only by the most dedicated bards. Quick witted and sure footed, he would find himself well placed from the band of thieves to the maestro of song. With nimble fingers, Fenix would find his hands to glide across the extent of the musical pieces with ease as they flow gentle from the mouth of the flute. An alluring song is played whenever his lips meet with the reed, enticing those whom pass to listen dearly. A natural borne talent some may say.

He would often sneak his way into trouble, petty thefts or the careless prank, but seldom so in early life would he be reprimanded too harshly. Most often passed off as just a child being a child, he would find himself free with naught but a stern discussion. Other times, a trial of tongue would be had as he talks himself out of his situations. His words measured and his respect given, it were not uncommon for him to taste freedom based on chatter even at a ripe age.

Grown from youth to life, Fenix found himself alone. Only his mother to count among his company, he often beheld many the life and the death in his years. As his town were lost, so too were the people whom tread within. They whom lived and moved on, or they whom simply just passed through, it was no uncommon for many to move along to begin anew once more. In the end, Fenix found release through the melodies of life, accepting what it were and making the best of what it offered. People may come and go, but so too do the winds of life. So let them carry on your melodies, so that they may reach the ears of another.

When not cultivating his craft in the arts he so often sunk himself among, Fenix would be found in spar with the local guards. A dubious student, and fluid of motion in his fight, Fenix moved with the grade of the winds, weaving between swings and slashes, while still dealing his own right in return. Each strike landed upon himself met only with fierce resolve to better his ability. A keen smile would be set upon the serious face as he worked the balance of blade and blunt.

As age grew upon him over the course of his many years, Fenix found work in his own ways. Performance, getting to express his passions for his arts, often yielded him a few coin to bring him to care for his mother, though some of the darker tasks of his life were times he had oft never forgotten. They were a creed of his family name, and one he were born into. All of his kin seek a proud death, and the thrill of combat, and even he could never deny the taste for it. Said to be fierce in strike and lithe in motion, Fenix were not one to trifle with lightly. His attacks were few and far between, made with little pleasure but with a quiet resolve. His victims laid to rest peacefully and respectfully without fail.

Within this town, the illusions of rest were disbanded upon the falls of the old continent. The elves of his time, noble and loyal to their cause, were to fight, but to fall. And so too did a good many fall. Friends, family, those of heritage, cultures and memories washed away into the glisten of crimson stains in the grasses of the wood. The grounds razed and the buildings burnt, but with little left to prove what once lived. He stood there, blade in hand as he bent to one knee among the tens that survived of the hundred and a half that once lived. Clutching a pendant, he gazed upon the land before him, a tear falling as he accepted what was yet to come.

A slow breath drawn in as he rose, turning to meet the crowds behind him with a calm demeanor. A cracked smile pierces the visage borne upon his face as he meets the gaze of those around him. "Life is just a show, my friends. And today....that show must go on." He would find himself speaking these words to the extents of his will, meeting the eyes of every man or woman remaining. A soft cheer from their voices, as his own quiet laments echoed within his mind.

The journey to a new home was one not well taken by most, but Fenix strived to keep spirits high. Within the nights, he would steal away from the camps, often being found near riverbeds or cliffsides, keeping himself in thought, a journal held closed and clasped in his lap. With each day, those of his company would grow few to sickness or slaying, and with each day, his resolve only remained to push those solid few forward. Even as numbers dwindled at the gates of hell, Fenix pushed forward, determined to lead the few he could call kin to the next life.

Even guided by the goddess of the hells in their travel to Nuia, Fenix could only struggle for the best. The journey long and arduous with each day passing, reaching toward the gates to salvation with glimmered hope. And at their very exit, Fenix would hold the last of the bodies with a solemn sigh and a shed tear, the body of a woman clasped tightly to his chest. Stepping through the gates, the body laid near lifeless on the ground as a final kiss is placed up the cheek of a tired woman. He rises from the woman's side, clasping a small pendant in his hand as a tear draws its trail down his cheek, offering her a final smile.

"Our show must go on, mom. I'll always be with you." [/CENTER]

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Notable Information

Special Possessions: Fenix holds with him at all times a journal, within which is composed his thoughts and feelings throughout his life. Around his neck is also worn a small pendant baring a symbol similar to the ouroboros.
Companies: Since his arrival in the new continent, Fenix has come to be accepted into the Ironsworn Bardic College.
Secondary Appearances:


When garbed in his leathers, or prepared for his works for the college

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Quotes

"Life is just a show."

"The world is against those like us...it wouldn't be fair otherwise."

"People may come and go, but so too do the winds of life. So let them carry on your melodies, so that they may reach the ears of another."

[Fenix]

Forum RP Thread: The Hall of Melodies

Its a thread for the Bard's College to create a library of music that we compose in game with the music composition system available. It is also a multipurpose open RP thread to RP in our guild hall, which we will also eventually have in game.

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The Hall of Melodies
Lavish, ornate doors garnish the entry to this otherworldly realm. A gentle, sweet medley of music flows from within the depths of the room, seeking their freedom upon the airs of the leading hallway. Each tune more graced than another, in competition to strike their chords upon the drums of the ears of any passerby. As one enters, the music of the ages sweeps through, taking one into its lovely grasp. The sweet sounds entwine, encircling and snaring all into their wonders as they resound in sweet harmony.

Instruments litter the insides of this room, mounted freely upon the walls of the hall, and freestanding in preparation for the skillful touch. Some lay covered in the dusts of rest, artifacts of their ancestral histories. Students, observers, those of curious eye or ear, each bustling about the fantastical anomlies of the sweet chaos of sound. Some settle in corners, quills in hand and sheets in tow as they write their sonata. Others practice, in skill and in disdain, their trade of song. And even others simply listen, relishing the beautiful harmony of sound that strikes them. Feel free to RP freely and socially here outside of just submissions.

Along the walls, in cases, books, and shelves, vast arrays and assortments of music and melodies, written by hand both ancient and yet arisen, find their homes. Each is cared for tenderly and neatly, preserved with the utmost profession. The songs, categorized by genre, organized by title, stored with concern for being preserved, find themselves open for all to seek, to learn, to append, and to introduce. New works find their way into the library with each passing moment as the talents grow.

Fenix, the lengthful black hair hanging along the back of his thin frame, presses forward between the doors of the hall, a tender smile set deep upon the fine features of his face. Pointed ears perk with due interest as the sweet symphony of sound breaches through the doors, stealing away his interest as they serenade him. He gazes about the musty room, bowing his head to each of the students, novice and master, as they wander with haste through the hall. He wanders his step forth into the room, observing each piece of artistry with fascination, before coming to the first of the shelves. A small breath is taken, released slowly as he begins to hum a gentle tune.

"Much to be done, in a hall so long unkempt. Our works are only now starting to find their place, so let's let this show begin." A sweet elvish voice echoes from his lips, a small caressing his features. His hand reaches forward to the first book along the shelf, removing it from its resting place. He cracks the seal of the tome, as the first signs of masterpiece begin to spring forth upon the page.

Lining the shelves, an vast array of music, expanding each and every day, finds its place upon every free space along the room. Organized with the utmost concern, each finds its place snugly where it belongs. And in that place, each tune marked and labeled, for all generations to seek and discover.

[Fenix]

Forum RP Thread: The Gallery of Artisans

Its a thread for the Bard's College to create a gallery of in game screenshots, drawings, and such that can be submitted by members of the college to create a gallery for all to see. It also servces as an open RP thread to RP in our guild hall.

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The Gallery of Artisans
Within this room belies a surreal calmness. An outlandish presence within the confines of the walls. Layered with marble decorating the extents of the room. From outside, one would think it just another hall, a place of dining, a simple empty room. But within the room, behind two doors of careful carved oak, would lie a world unseen.

As steps draw one forward into the realm of forgotten age, the history of the world seems to take hold. A feeling of insight, both past and present, of what has been and what will be. The true crafts of the heart seem to speak within this shrouded grove. Each wall, each pedestal, each shelf or bookcase, every table or chair, all the work of mastery. For within those two doors, lies the Gallery of Artisans. To speak it as a hall of exhibits would do it no justice, for within these walls lies the finest crafts of any artisan.

Paintings, handcrafts, the works of hand and labor, all crafted with the blood and sweat of the passionate. Some surreal, some fantastic, some realistic, but all in common. All hold a trait that shares itself beyond simply image and imagination. That they, they whom gave life to these creations, were man or woman, and all simply a single, cumulative essence. They were all people. Borne of the arts, and so too were the arts borne of they. Passions hold no bounds here, for the only limit is the extent of the minds.

The galleries of the room find themselves in the decor of art styles both new and old, as submissions from the students both master and novice work their way upon the walls and plaques of the realm. Each is given title, dedicated to the subject of its entry, and the artist given their due credit, be it their name or a new persona entirely.

[Fenix]

Forum RP Thread: The Library of Mythos

Its a thread for the Bard's College to create a library of all of the written works of the college. This includes stories, books, tales, poems, and things of that nature. The members of the college can submit the written works to be added to the college's collection. It also serves as an Open RP thread to RP in this section of our guild hall.

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The Library of Mythos
Silence. Broken only by the small crackle of the peaceful, flickering flames of the fireplace. From within the walls, protected by the solid doors before you, would echo the most peaceful silence within this fair building. The gentle flicker of flame and candle, the soft whisper of hushed words, the light patter of footsteps, and the brushing winds of shifted pages and drawn quills. Each sound a melodic, silent harmony as they join in the silence of the room.

The doors, when pressed open, swing on silent hinges. They click forth, only the sound of the air rushing by them, before they find their place comfortably closed at the entrance. Feet shuffle quietly, voices remain a whisper, and heads keep low, offering only the briefest glance and softest smile to those whom tread near. The room, reminiscent of a study, is decorated finely with delicately carved wood, hung tapestries covering bits of the walls. Images of the Leumonts, the ancestors of the very halls we tread, hang finely upon the walls. Lit by chandelier and candle light, a grande fireplace burning upon one wall of the hall, the room offers a comforting warmth. Chairs, couches, tables, and benches all find their home here, as students occupy the free spaces where they may.

Be it on the floors or at the tables, many find their features hidden among the works stored in these graceful halls. The tales of men fallen past, the poems of the lovers and lost, the histories of this land or the other. All the knowledge and work of the bards shared solemnly in this quiet home. Each new contribution etched into its place among the library, preserved for the eternity of the college and its students.

Tomes decorate the walls, tables, and bookshelves of this vast study, lining any empty space with their contents. Each holds the key to a new world, a new understanding, a few simple phrases, or the epics of tales lost and found. Submissions from the writers of the darkest hopes, and the lightest spirits, the masters of the quill, and they whom only first have seen its ink all share their spaces here.

[Fenix]

Fenix's role in the Bard's College, and his contributions to the guild. Quick risings. (As a reference, the bard's college leadership is broken down like so. Headmaster > The Hand of Anil and the Dean of Students > Professors and Bards > Acadamecians)

[Fenix]

Thread: Amid the Hallways of the College

This is essentially Fenix making an introductory speech to the collegiates as the new Dean of Students.

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Donning a lavish robe of glistened white, Fenix steps forth from the shared office of the Dean of Students and Hand of Anil. He smoothes out the intricate folds of the robe, his hood lowered to let the long black hair hand across his back freely. His stride takes him in confidence to the grand hall of the college, perched at the invert of the staircase, looking to each of the students bustling about amid the chaos of the school, practicing their arts, horse play, or whatever their day may bring them. He regards the few passing near with familiarity, giving them a pleasant smile, but an insightful, stuious gaze layered behind his firm, lithe features.

A clearing of his throat as the voice rises above the crowds with a noble gait to it, speaking clearly to each as his eyes trace across the gathered, the silence falling upon the college as he regards the students.

"Students." Said in a clear, powerful tone as his eyes trace the crowds, commanding a silence with the simple intoxication of his voice. The touch of his tones seem to be layered with another force behind them. "I would call your attention forth, in this time. Formally, I present myself to you on this day, as the new term begins. My name is Fenix Vale, Dean of Students of this college. You may address me as Dean Vale, Dean Fenix, or simply Dean. This is to be kept on the professional level, when we are in service of the term. You may as well address me as professor, for I will be serving as one for this term in my own instructions. I will be serving you all as the head of studies in this college. Those of you with struggles, questions, temptations, seek me and I will work with you to accommodate."

His gaze pierces the crowd, keeping firm, though his lips betray a small smile, a bold contradiction to his firm demeanor. He folds his hands into the small of his back, standing somewhat more relaxed now after his initial words sink into the crowd, allowing them to linger in the air for some few moments.

"Understand me well, that I am not here to scare you off. I am not here to reprimand you for every mistake. At this college, we strive for excellence. We strive to improve, to become the top of possibility. Our motto, our lifeblood, the very words that will burn themselves into your thoughts each day and night, the words you will live by; To be, rather than to seem. These are the words you will commit yourself to. When you step through those doors, you commit yourself to a promise to fulfill this creed. It goes deep beyond simple words. We are not shadows, we are not street performers. We are the life of the room. We are artisans of our crafts. We are they whom innovate, create, and flourish."

He takes a moment to watch and gauge the reactions of each of the listeners and onlookers. His fingers slip their way through the long black locks on the front of his hair, once more adjusting his clothing.

"We do not turn any away whom have the will to strive. We all have our talents, and our capabilities. Every life has something to offer. And we will discover what that offering is. Each of you works alone, but as well, we are all united. We are all a single stanza. We are all part of the symphony that rings out. In all that we do, we do it with purpose, with excellence, and with assurance. Quality, care, and the certainty in your actions, these are the things I seek of you all. And I have my beliefs that none shall disappoint me. Those of you whom are suspect that you may," he gestures toward the entry, "please escort yourself out now. Those of you with your doubts, please escort yourself now. We do not seek your company, for you do not believe in the possibilities. But those of you who will question, those of you who will strive, those of you who will -excel- in all we do....may you find comfort in your dorms, your classes, your arts."

His expression begins to soften, the smile setting more deeply in, though his gaze transfixed with a strange look behind the two deep green eyes as they watch the crowd. His hands trace the air with an idle motion, the glimmer of arcane runes forming before him as they move with a memorized pattern through the air. Each rune lingers among the still air as it glows its dim coloring.

"I have my faith in you all. But remember, try not to take things too harsh, too serious. After all.....life is just a show."

A twist of his hand brings the runes forward, striking the shape of a circle before him. They twist, glowing a deep red before erupting out in every direction. A small glimmering flare is released, before the room becomes enveloped in a terrifyingly shrouded darkness. A slight kick from the floor is heard among the hushed and panicked voices. As the cloud of black dissipates into nothing, the doors to the office remain peaked open, as an elf in silver and red robes holds onto the handles of the two open doors, his back to the crowd a moment. He glances back for a brief moment, and bows his head.

"And that show must go on."

Spoken simply, snapping his fingers as he steps into the office, the doors being shut behind him.

[Fenix]

Fenix Vale: Between Eternity [Journal]

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//Foremost, I would like to request that no additional posts be made in this thread without permission. All feedback, suggestion, opinion, and such is heavily appreciated! But please send it in an upvote comment, or in a private message. I want to keep this thread strictly in character as much as possible.

//This thread will be serving as a journal for Fenix Vale.

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A journal, stuffed to extent with pages and memories, baring the weight of time itself upon it. The spine is aged, abused, and past its prime, though held firm and true with the same worn bindings as its first conception. The covers, made of a simple mix of leather and cloth stretched across the opposing covers. The silver of the cloth covering the front panel has since lost its sheen to time, though remains unscathed by tears or shreds. When the cover of the tome is lifted, within would reveal the timeless beauty of elven script, written in flowing handwriting. With each page, the writers skill would seem to develop from that of youth, to a man, though his words seem all too consistent in his art. Varied depictions and drawings, details, inserts, each bit of extra detail finds its place among the memories of ages long past.

Inscribed into the first page, etched with a steady hand, a few words find their home in the page's center.

Property Of: Fenix Vale
Velvo Saliysuli
"Between Eternities"

"From dusk til' dawn, and cool night's fall,
Within my page may we write all.
Mind's weary thought, each hope, each dream,
and sorrowful mourn or silent scream.
Let each find home among this page,
Preserved memory, one never aged."

[Fenix]

Fenix Vale: Between Eternity [Journal]

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-Upon the page, a flowing elvish script is trailed freely along the length of the page. A folded piece of paper is tucked into the binding on the first page. When unfolded, a picture is revealed. Two young men, appearing to be aged no more than 15 years stand before a stage. They have an arm around one another, a smile set cheerfully on their features. One seems to be human, and the other elven, though they appear as close as brothers. The picture appears to have been taken after a show, flower petals at their feet, and a crew cleaning up seen in the background.-

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-A news article describing the play is tucked into the bindings alongside the picture-

"The stage was set upon the night. Two boys, clad in talent yet unseen would take the center of the show, leading the display to be seen. The boys, calling themselves the "Jesters of the Moon" prepared their performance with a skill uncanny to those seen by even the most tested and tried bards. The moonlight swept over the stage, a small boy clad in the gold lined tunic creeps across the scene. A shadowy cloak is worn over his features, hanging along the boy's body a bit too long for his size. The other boy, clad in a blue tunic would walk before a man standing alone beneath the dim flicker of candle light on the streetside. The man seemingly lost in thought as the cigar in his mouth bellows the thick fog of smoke amongst the night air. The boy in gold pauses, letting himself lean back against the corner of a wooden home.

A soft melody began to play, the boy in blue having brought a flute to his lips. With a sway in his step, he began to play the eerie tune, the sound of which resounds amongst the quiet of the night. The howl of wind seemed to fall silent, and the cry of the raven come to an abrupt stop. Several notes of the song stand out above the rest, the man lifting his head as the innocent words of a child's voice would echo from the dark behind. The little boy in gold steps forward, a sway to match his companion, a blade drawn from the sleeve that seems to gleam in the night's light.

The tone of the golden boy's voice calm and clear, a smile set upon his face as he sings in time with the music. "Shush. Hush. Be silent, here. Let the night be calm. Be calm. Be still. A Thin blade's chill. Time...to go...to sleep."

The chills rack the man as he looks with fear between the two boys. He draws a small blade and moves to plunge it into the golden boy's chest, only to have the blade fall to the ground with a metal tang. Blood seeps forth, the droplets christening the golden hood as it gets pulled back, the features of a human boy with dark hair smiling with a twisted expression as he regards the man.

He repeats the final lyrics of the song once more, a second voice joining him from behind the slumping man. "It's time...to go...to sleep."

The body falls to the wood of the stage as two daggers are removed from the man's chest by the boy in blue, the fresh glow of blood still bathing on the metal..."

-Written upon the page of the journal-

The first show of many to come, it would seem. The long hours and late nights, early mornings and dreary, sleepless days are coming to pay off. The work Zhiek and I have put into this all, the time we have invested...it truly is all for something. Life is just a show, and we are its faithful performers, the ringleaders of action and intrigue. Or so we have so aptly been named by the local gossips.

Half my age, but a friend no other could begin to match. One so true that I could dedicate the entirety of my trust in his words or his actions, and let them free without regret. This town, surrounded by woods and loss, covered in its cloud of resent and remorse, but lit by the gleam of hope for renewal...well this boy- no, this man is my own. My first true friend, Zhiek Rose. I suppose I should really get to know him more. Lest I simply begin to fear that he will stray like the others, roam away and find a land anew. But no...I don't think he will. I can't really keep thinking like that. He is no gypsy, no nomad, no merchant's child. Hes just a boy and his mother, looking for a new life. That is why our home exists. A land between the rest of the world, existing as a shadow of civilization, for those hoping to forge their life from the shattered pieces of the past. A land between eternity and the endless abyss after.

But I shouldn't stray too much into history today. This is exciting! We, the Jesters of the Moon, have actually become a hit! The enthralling grasp we held on the crowd...I couldn't believe their reactions. I lack no certainty that some felt the death to be real, others cried, and some children screamed. But such was the goal of the show. Suspension of belief entirely, to create the image of what may have truly happened, but leave few doubts to if it did or not. I suppose we have quick thought to thank for that. Although, perhaps gone smoother had Zhiek remembered to bring his flute as well. Not that I suppose it matters, he was never too skilled with the craft of song anyway.

I can only hope to value the day we shared here. If I am destined to live a show between eternity, I am glad that I have another stagehand at my side.

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//The song played on the flute, with the lyrics sinking up to the outstanding notes at 0:05

[Fenix]

Forum RP Thread: The Mad Minstrel's Theatre

An open RP thread for the performance arts and similar roleplay in the forum for the Bardic College, restricted mainly to its members or special presentations.

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To doors of grand oak, does this hallway lead. Upon the great doors, carved with the most intricate care and detail, two masks would find themselves bore into the wood, painted over in golds and blacks. Upon the left door, a smiling mask is etched intricately into the wood, the mask of "Comedie". Upon the right door, a mask with a frown set upon its features is etched with equal intricacies, the mask of "Tragedie". Shapes resembling a flowing banner find themselves carved upon the door, appearing as if the banner weaves behind or between the two masks. The words "Mad Minstrel" are etched into the banners. Above the door would remain a plaque of gold, polished and cared for. The words of time remain prominent on the plaque.

"The stage is not merely the meeting place of all the arts, but is also the return of art to life."

When the doors are pressed open, the first noted display would be the stage. Broad and splendorous, the stage finds itself front and center in the room. Two enormous red curtains, crafted of a fine satin with a golden threaded hem at the bottoms hang from the top of the stage, closed so as to provide a backdrop for the soft glow of the lights reflecting off the majesty of the curtains. On each curtain, the images of the masks of Comedie and Tragedie once more find themselves etched on the opposing curtains in the same golden thread.

The stage remains a polished wooden floor, risen above the crowd of seats before it. The room is perfected for the peak of entertainment, providing room for the extent of the college's students. Rows upon rows of seats lie before the stage, with a single private booth raised high upon the wall near to the stage, with three seats prepared with more care and for more comfort than any other in the room.

The center of the room provides a carpeted walk way, leading down the expanse of the room, with paths to each row of seats, as well as leads to each end of the room where paths to second rows of seats reside. Two stairwells on either side of the stage would provide access to it from the main pathways. Small utility doors lie hidden among the edges of the room, providing quick access to storage rooms and back paths, as well as one locked, much more lavish door which would lead up to the private booth. A second floor of seats hangs perched above the first at the back of the room, accessible from a door leading into the theatre from the second floor, as well as a staircase on either side of the room from the first floor.

[Fenix]

Anyone who wnats, I do appreciate any feedback or opinions on the rp posted here as well as I develop the character. If yku want more info avout things luke the college, feel free to ask as well.

[Fenix]

Bumping for use

[Fenix]

Well, the current leader of the Bard's College has been MIA for a couple months now, so the guild leader decided to instate me as the new head of the college due to me being active and dedicated to the community lately. So we needed an rp route for my character to meet his and gain the trust of his character, as well as take over the college. I told him I would write up a post for it all today and post it up for him to react and RP with.

Well....it was longer than I thought.

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As the weeks have come to pass, the hectic bustling of the college halls has begun to settle slow. The students, both new and returning, have found their bearings. Each awaits the welcoming faces of weary teachers, holding in their eager anticipation. Preparations for the first days of the semester have come to set in stone with finality. The last few announcements for schedules and assignments have each been finalized with meticulous care. With it all, we all look onward to the last ritual to start our school year. We all prepare for the opening assembly.

A college of bards in the prime is truly a spectacular sight to behold. No other spectacle could match in both wonder and magic, nor the experiences had in its wake. An event known across the North, drawing in excited whispers and eager onlookers from all realms. Few souls could truly say they were not excited. This ceremony was known as "Vocatio Ad Vatem", The Call of the Bards.

As per tradition, Vocatio Ad Vatem was held to star each new semester of the college, post recess. These rituals of performance were prepared with meticulous care, practiced with unyielding dedication. They were a culmination of the talents and skills of students and professors of the college, each with their own varied degree of ability. It was to be a representation of all the college had to offer, performed by the most dedicated in its halls, those whom stayed and toiled endless to perfect their crafts. The ordeal was performed as an honor to the college, and to the spectacular people whom have grown from its influence. It was a dedication to the arts, to progression, to improvement, and to the fundamentals of what bardic talent truly would come to represent.

The ceremony was lengthy at its most prime. It would open first with a harmonious orchestra. The sweet symphonies of the soft toned flutes would sing into the air, ringing in with lingered notes strung along as a siren's call. Each flutes somber cry would join in one by one, their melody dancing through the airs as they twisted into unison. As the chirping calls of the flutes began to alternate, each delicate tool producing an ambient sound to contrast its neighbor in delightful rhythm, the low strum of a trio of lutes would begin to hum into life amid the swerving sounds of the jaunt.

The strum would hum with an almost bated anticipation as the quick fingers of the players danced along the silvery strings. The gleam of the midday's sun would shine across each, reflecting like a nymph's hair the beauty of the instruments make. As the strings produced their vibrations, the low hum erupted into a furious roar of jaunt as the lutists began their wild dances. Their fingers moved as if in a waltz with their tools, producing a cheerful jaunt to match with the harmonizing flutists. The trio of players positioning in the center of the flutist circle, each facing one another at center field. Smiles brushed upon their faces as they played as if in challenge to one another. The severity of their position shown on each face in a cocky sneer as the jaunt grew in speed, procuring the feeling of a fair to the commons of the college grounds.

Crowds would look on with cheerful glee and silent respect for the players as the harmony of musical element swirled through the masses. As the lutists playing began to alternate between one another, each flute would produce an angelic pitch of high resound. The holy calls of their instruments hung in the air as quick fingers danced across the loots, before each sound ended at once, leaving a passionate silence enveloping the area. Onlookers stood in a trance as the players bowed over in the center, holding their position at that. Not a single sound broke the shroud that hovered over the area. The trickle of water from the fountain seemed almost non existent in noise as the eerie feeling of silence lingered.

Thrum.

Silence.

Thrummm.

Silence.

Thrummm. Thrummm. Thrummm.

Silence.

Once and again. Twice and again. Once and again. Twice and again. The deep bellow of a padded drum began to echo through the silence, shattering its haze with looks of surprise. The steady beat echoed from each cardinal corner of the pavilion. As a lion's piercing growls, the roar of the drums continued at their lingered call through the stillness of the land. Their steady beat rocked the grounds, echoing from unseen footing.

Thrummm.

Silence.

The drums fall quiet once more. The steady heartbeat of their echoing beats falling quiet into a flat line. A new sound began to fill the void though. Another steady rocking of sound began to click in a lighter pitch, vastly contrasting the sound of the music filling the air. The clicking snapped like a twigs branches, picking in from among the crowds. In troves of four, the clicking would begin to grow in louder, the dancers in their colorful attires appearing from amid splitting crowds. Man and woman alike, race undisputed, the dancers would click with each step, their heels coming together to produce another resounding snap of sound. From each angle, another set of four would appear, moving in a fluid step, before stopping with sharp, abrupt snaps of sound. Totaling in number of sixteen, the dancers met centering around the fountain.

Their steps drew them in a circle, their bodies moving in a motion like a leaf in the wind. Their movements were as fluid as water as their bodies weaved between one another. The flurried colors of their clothing began to meld together. In the midst of their motions, the steady beat of the drums began to overwhelm the click of their boots once more. The ring of the flutes began to scream aloud across the silence. The groaning hum of the flurry of lute strings began to echo aloud into the melting pot of sound. The roar of the crowd began to erupt in somber merriment, screams of fans and jeers of onlookers bringing in the joy of the displays. The sounds of the instruments erupted into their harmonious jaunt of cheerful song, the dancers moving to match their tune. Their bodies moved as if they were one with the music, flipping through the air and sliding along arms. Each moved was a display of its own, a perfected utilization of pure practice and dedication to the drawn art that was their representation of self.

The crowd's cheers continued like a spark, growing into a passionate flame of excitement to encompass the feelings of the moments. With each growth of sound, the crowds met the tune of the music with their own joys. With each motion of the dancers, the bodies of the crowds moved to meet their own with a gentle sway of their bodies. The hands of the crowd joined together in a roar of applause, clapping along with the music as the tones slung their way into the entranced public.

As the joys continued, a lone woman strode to the center of the display. Her figure swayed with a noble gait, her golden hair shining with the morning sun's warm embrace. The gentle smile shaped by her soft pink lips gracing her peach colored skin. Blue eyes surveyed the crowds as she turned to face each. The crowd's cries of joy fell to a hush, the dancers falling to a knee to face the gathered. The roars of the instruments began to mellow to a soft, soothing sound in the distance. The woman let her eyes fall to each in the crowd, as if meeting every one of them with personal recognition. Her lips parted, her chest swelling with air as her voice began to flow in the sweetest breaths she could muster. A power resounded behind her tones, overtaking the airs with an unexpected, unyielding, bellowing grace. Her voice filled the airs, even shutting out the first tones of the instruments as her words formed among slender lips.

Come now, hear my voice.
Let your hearts roam free.
Let your minds expe-rience,
The calling of the bards.

You hear their song, of grace, of poise.
Their melodies, as they'll be.
They'll come convince, for all to hear
The calling of the bards.

Bring all your skill
Bring all your joys
Bring all of ye, both girls and boys
Show us your worth
Dispose your fear
In these times there's one way to steer

Your road so long,
Not traveled lone
Your potential yet unseen
In time their call
Will bring it through
With friends along here, like me.

Now we all know
Bards and their songs
will draw you in to life
Don't pass it by
Don't fret and cry
The bards will help you through.

None turned away
None passed along
No greatness left alone

All have their chance
To sing, to dance,
So long as they are shown

Their times are now
So come be proud
and step with me so true

Listen strong
Hear the song
The Calling of The Bards

The woman's voice would waver in a silky tone as the words escaped her parted lips. They weaved their spell across the onlookers, each gawking as they watched her words move into their minds, the pictures painting into their souls as if they were naught but a simple canvas. As her final tones broke into the fated liberation of the winds, her lips met once more. The dancers halted and stood tall. The sounds of the instruments flurried, then drew to their final notes, before letting their sounds drift away with the wind.

Time stood still for an endless moment.

Another moment passed.

And finally, applause would fill the air. The roar of the crowd overtook the airs left silent by the performers. In a single, practiced gait, the performers would all take a single step forward, and bow to the crowds surrounding them. Once. Then twice. Then thrice, before standing up tall with a broad smile decorating their features. The audience would jeer and cheer in excitement to the spectacular that was witnessed in the day today. The performers wore their smiles well, having received their ultimate reward for dedication to their tasks. A final bow performed, before they each lined up, retreating among the sanctity of the crowds to the outer rims, to attend to the final stage of the ceremony.

The crowds were directed to part to the sides and front, a podium drawn into the center. In its wake, a man in a light tunic and pant of a simple black and white would follow along with a bright appearance. His long black hair was worn in a ponytail behind him, his pointed ears poking feverishly around at the sounds of the crowded murmurs and excited whispers of the events that transpired.

He steps up to the podium, glancing among the faces that are gathered before him. His eyes, a deep green shade reminiscent of an emerald, would survey the crowd with a demeanor of sheer calm relaxation. A smile decorated his face, and heavy breaths released themselves from betwixt his lips. His whole expression shown the joy he felt but moments ago from the performance, caught among the exaggerated cries of joy at the entire ordeal. As he took his place, the whispers fell to hushed murmurs, before silence entranced the crowd for one more round.

"Foremost....I think all of our dedicated performers today deserve one last round of applause, earned so rightly by their dedication to the arts. They have spent an endless, toiling amount of hours in practice and service to their performance here today. They have spent countless moments perfecting every aspect of the event, to make sure it all went on without a hitch. And I would like to formally congratulate them for the outstanding experience provided to the onlookers here today."

Another eruption of excited applause swept across the crowd, with the performers taking another final bow of gratitude.

"Good afternoon to you all. Formally, I would like to introduce myself to you each, in the most humbling and personal way I may. Though in such a situation as we find ourselves in on this day, I can safely say that we have not the hours to spend on individual greeting, though after we are through here today, I would welcome each of you to step forward to make your faces known. My name is Fenix Vale, an enrolled professor of the Bardic College, and with titles to follow. I stand before you all today in representation, to say first that we welcome you all to the new year of the college's curriculum. In this, the "Year of Fresh Strings", as many students have been keen to dub it, we find ourselves graced in our hallways. We find ourselves graced with so many new faces, each with their own fresh and budding talents. We are truly on our way to experience a year of truly amazing experiences with one another, as you have all witnessed on this day. The number of fresh smiles that I have seen among these performers here today is only a small testament to the potential that is lingering within the dormitories of the college right now."

As he speaks, his words are all pronounced with a noble sway to them, as well as a second, more intoxicating layer to his speech. They draw themselves across the crowd, as he lets the words sink into the listeners and onlookers standing before him. His eyes trace across the gathered, a smile never leaving the creases of his face.

"This year of the college is perhaps to be one of the most exciting ones in its recent history. Not since the Mad Minstrel himself have we had so many amazing and fantastic students finding their acceptance and learning their limits here in our classrooms. With each of these new enrollees, we have to remember that our roots are what brought us here this day. We remember the Leumonts themselves, the visionaries that first founded this school in their prime of life. We remember those whom have upheld its true nature, and prolonged its thriving lifeline from the past to present. We honor those headmasters whom have made this college what it is today, something to be held in the highest regards of what it is.

So too do we look toward the future, and not just the past though. We must bare witness to the changing of the times, and honor those whom currently serve in the college in high regard. It is in this moment, however, that I must first draw out an important announcement for you all."

Worried and expectant murmurs begin to peek from the crowd, as speculation takes over. Some begin to question why the headmaster is not making her apperance for the speech, others making light of the situation entirely.

"In these times of our life, we are truly gifted with fortune to have so many great talents among our ranks. With those talents though, we must also look to a true leadership to direct our prospective heroes of art into their futures. In this, we have been served overly perfect by one close to my own frienship, Miss Epiphany Pierrepoint. Under her leadership, the Bardic College has seen an immeasurable amount of fortune and progress in recent years, so much so that we could never seek a true thank you for her dedication and admirable forward thinking in the growth of our school. That is why I speak these words with a heavy heart on this day, but one of solid resolve. I regretfully inform you all that our current Headmistress, Epiphany Pierrepoint, has been stricken with a dark illness."

He lets the words hang in the air of the gathering, to be met with the shocked silence of the crowds.

"Those whom have attempted cure on it thus far have had little in the way of avail. Others have only dated her life to be lived for so much longer. In personal decision on her part, she has made a decision that she would not let such a sickness weight on her so heavily, however. But just as it will not be her downfall, she would not wish it to be the downfall of the college either. That is why, she has elected to leave the college's head for an unforseen amount of time. She has elected to live out her life and to experience the world as best she may, and to spread her influence throughout the world. To develop the renown that only a bard like her is truly worthy of. That is also why, for the coming semester, I will be taking charge as the new Headmaster of the Bardic College."

He takes a deep breath of pause, regarding the crowd with bated breaths. He lets his announcements hang in the air over the moments, awaiting the mixed array of reactions from the crowd. His smile never falters, as he holds himself high to meet the reactions on equal footing.

"To those whom may have your doubts of my candidacy, or my ability, I welcome you all to step forward after our festivities have adjourned. I would welcome you all to meet in the office of the Headmaster, to talk personally with me. Know that I do not take my position with anything less than the utmost respect and honor for the title. My intents are only that I can hope to match the achievements of Miss Pierrepoint, and the headmasters before myself.

With that being put out there, I hope fully that we can all move forward into this coming year with the anticipation that I can feel has been building from the beginning of our celebration. The Vocatio Et Vatem is one of our most prized days, and on this day we have performed possibly the most influential experience of them all. This is the type of excellence I seek to procure from all those whom will find themselves willing to put their foot forward. This is the potential that anybody can reach if they will but take our guiding hands, and to cultivate their arts. I welcome you all, welcome you each to this endeavor. Every one of you holds great possibility within yourself to experience untapped potentials. We all are always improving upon ourselves, and even I will only hope to continue to do the same. We all can do this as a unified glory.

And with that, I welcome you all to the new year of the Bard's College. I welcome you all to our celebration, to experience song, dance, food, and games at our own expense and preparation. Let yourselves enjoy the festivities, and the work that we have spent putting into your pleasure. Join us this day in our celebration, and remember to honor those whom have come before us, and whom will come in the future."

He smiles more brightly, his speech being met with another roar of applause and cheers. He takes a small bow to the crowd, as he steps in front of the podium to make his departure. He turns back to the gathered crowd one last time, tilting his head for a slight moment. A different smile creases in his lips as he speaks his last few words.

"And remember,

Life is just a show."

[Fenix]

Continuing on the announcement thread "Vocatio Et Vatem", another user posted an excellent followup performance.

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((Side Note: click the following link and you'll know the song mentioned in the excerpt here when its played.

He spent the majority of the introduction and fanfare among the crowds. The celebrations in Gwenoid were often as large, but never as extravagant. There was a part of him that felt out of sorts among it all and in some moments, a little worried. Too many Nuians, too many prejudices.

He kept a watchful eye over such worries. Celebrations were not meant for the dark minded. Before the fanfare began there was a few whispers in the crowd of such negativity. Those students that couldn’t ignore it or shake it off found a bit or reprieve in Bink’s method of gentle persuasion. He had one of the students observing carry his Lute around so when in any case someone get too rowdy, his response to grab his Lute and caste confusion upon the other and let the music lead him away from the source of friction.

Once the actual ceremony began such sneaky tactics were no longer needed. The eyes were on the fountain, the dancers, the musicians and colors. They were cued into life and the podium, as they should be. Even Bink found himself watching in silence. It was somewhere between awe and respect. in that moment he couldn’t measure how much of each he felt. In the grand scheme of the moment, it didn’t matter.

As the end of the speech happened and the roar of applause caused the ears to ring from the volume, Bink made his movement. He turned from the podium. reaching to his belt, he grabbed the black cloth that hung from it and raised the cloth to his face. He fastened it around his eyes, blocking his sight of the world. The world could still see him. The black cloth had small silver chains, bells and various decorative jangles upon it. Even the sides of his boots and wrist guards had the same ornaments upon it. They whispered as he walked, a skill all his years of hardened training brought to his unearthly grace. He could make himself as silent as he wanted until he wanted. He was practically invisible to the group, and this suited him fine.

he quickly climbed the fountain in this unnoticed phase of himself, his twin katanas at his backside. their hilts had ribbons and silver chained bells that draped down the length of the sheath. As he made it to the fountains top, Fenix had turned to smile at the crowds.

‘ and remember….. Life is just a show.’

Simple words that were the lifeblood of so many. BinkBink couldn’t see the smile the Headmaster gave, but he knew it was there. He could feel it. He stood atop the fountain, spreading his legs enough to change the spray of the water enough to grab attention. It took a moment for people’s eyes to shift from podium to fountain, but as they did, the quieted murmuring began. In that time, Bink reached up and wrapped a hand around a katana. He didn’t draw them, but he did wait.

slowly the drums around them began a slow and rhythmic beat and the sound of deep horns and strings reverberated in the air. The sound was dark and almost foreboding, but to the Elf on the fountain, it was the beating of a heart.

Vocalists began to harmonize in a rhythmic and echoing cry. His drew his katana and arched his arms high overhead, resting them at shoulder’s level. Still outstretched, he tilted the blades to catch the glow of the sun, a sun he couldn’t see. The bells on his body chimed as he slowly moved, the glow emitting from the metal creating a paled prism dance of light around his slowly turning body.

A louder chime was heard, and the drums and harmonizing stopped. In the crowd, faceless, a solo voice began to sing. ‘I was looking for a breath of life…. a little touch of heavenly light….’

His movements changed with the chime. His leg was drawn out, his blades lowered. His back bowed forward as he made a low sweeping movement over the crowd. From there, the words of the vocalist, though haunting as the melody, played to the accent of his movements.

He swept the verse in that fluid movements and ducks and spins, as his feet stepped, the precision to the water’s top would change the direction the water sprayed out. those closest to the fountain would at time feel a but of the spray, but none seemed to mind. It was all about a show of his body movement.

As the music intensified, so too did his movements. In such a small space, he made a stage. In an awkward position, he made a show. Blades whistled through the air as he spun them, at times threw them into the air. The entire time never seeing them or the looks of the people at the ceremony. As as the music went on and built its intensity, his heart began to pick up with the momentum. He danced out his own pains. He danced out his worry and dread. He danced them out not because he was perform, but because he was celebrating.

He was celebrating life in a show. Every movement he made could be a move for death before an opponent, to the crowd themselves, but no such death came. It was instead a reverence to life. Life and the College. As the music began to wane, his movements slowed, hushed by the quiet. The sweeping and spray even lessened. All that remained was the glow upon the blades, the soft rainbow prism that reminded the world of the rainbow after a fierce storm. As the song mentioned, a tiny breath of life. The one thing all in the world sought for to continue living.

And as the final notes were sung, his blades were lowered, outstretched only enough to keep that haunting glow of life. For a moment only the continual murmurs of the water itself could be heard from the fountain he stood on. But slowly from the softness came the growing roar of applause. And that…. was all he needed to know to make him smile.

[Fenix]

I recently started playing on a Modern Zombie Survival server, taking place in Georgia. Ive been spending much of my freetime there currently, developing the character Zachary Strix. I just finally began writing up a bit of his backstory, told through the journal entries of his life time. These are the first few in the coming posts, and more of his life will be expanded on in later entries as well as he flashes back to the past. Zach uses this journal to write out what is on his mind, and this journal is a reflection of his inner thoughts.

SPOILER: Click to show

Download Link
www.dropbox.com/s/fefng46q23uwnnb/Zachary%20Strix.rar?dl=0

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Basic Information

Name: Zachary Strix
Gender: Male
Age: 28
Race: Caucasian

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Physical Characteristics

Hair Color: Faded Black, With Some Graying
Eye Color: Hazel
Height: 5'9"
Skin: Naturally a light tan

Zach presents himself at least moderately welcoming, most of the time. He keeps an easygoing smirk settled onto his features, the ashy black hair falling to frame his slim features neatly. His hair is often kept tied back in a short ponytail behind him, with a few strands seemingly intentionally left to swing in his face. Hazel eyes peek from beneath the ashy locks, studiously watching over whatever most suits his attention for the time.

His physique is by no margin impressive, but he keeps himself in a fairly toned and well maintained shape. He is slim, light on his feet, and has a small bit of muscle built up on his arms. When his chest is bare, various smaller scars are faintly visible upon his skin. These scars have faded with time, and would present themselves to be from various minor cuts and wounds that just simply never healed properly. Upon his left shoulder, however, a dark patch of skin would reveal a dark burn scar that contrasts the rest of his body. The patch of skin seems horribly scarred, the wound having faded from time to some small extent.

[Fenix]

~A picture is tucked into the page, held to its top with a paperclip. It is worn out and faded, but still identifiable. The picture depicts an old, rickety ranch house on an open field. A mailbox sits out from of it, with the worn letters spelling out "STRIX" on its surface. On the back of the picture in red pen, the date and place of the picture is written in a crude handwriting.~

"Elm Springs, Arkansas
October 17th, 1996
Home."


Y'know, I once heard a fella tell me that ain't no man walks in the same river twice. Cause after some time he ain't the same man, and that ain't the same river. I pondered on it for a good long while, back in those days ah my youth. Figured the *bleeper* was just babblin on in senility. Ramblin' on with whatever crap the old folk were tryin' to tell me about their gods an' this an' that. *chickenwing*, hell if I had any idea back then.

But as I got older, I had to really start thinkin' back on those words. Had to really get the true meanin' ah what the guy meant. An' even after all these years, I still ain't so sure I grasped the true scope of it all. Think it goes a hell of a lot deeper than I realize. But I can scratch the surface of it. An' thas really all that matters, now ain't it? Knowin' that it was all about growth. About change in our lives. Hell, did I experience a hell of a lot of that over time.

Back then, things was easy, really. Ya were a kid, ain't no one really bothered to put ya down or give ya too much *chickenwing*. Ya woke up an did your chores, kept up with your schooling, and made it home midday to do what ya wanted to. 'Course for me that was always chasin' dad into the barn to work on that old damn truck. Sometimes ya would think the man cared more about that thing than his own flesh an' blood, though we new better than to say it.

Things were easy then. Just me, Annabelle, and Claire. Bein the oldest, I got the best of the lot too, for a while at least. Had two lil' sisters I had to watch out for. Had to be a man right quick back in those days. Maybe a bit quicker than I was really hopin for...

[Fenix]

~Two pictures adorn this page, taped carefully to the center with a careful hand. The first depicts a young boy carrying a much younger girl on his back. They appear to be running alongside a river in the background of the image. The other would be a picture of that same little girl, a bit older, and a much older girl hugging together in smiles. They sit together in this way, posed in front of an old, rickety looking ranch house.

Upon the backs of the pictures, small notes are made in red ink.~

"Zach (13)
Claire (3)
July 2nd, 2002
"I'll carry the weight of your world."

Annabelle (10)
Claire (4)
August 17th, 2003
"Sisters."

I never did get the chance to settle down, not properly anyways. Ain't gonna fool no one, I had me a few lady friends here and there, but....nothing was ever too solid. Drifters, lookin' for a home, more or less. Whether it was just to bum a few bucks and a place to stay off me, or some actual genuine concern before things turned south...who the hell really knows. One things fer sure though, no lady was ever gonna take the place in my heart from those two girls. An that ain't for a lack of a few tryin, too.

Sayin those two were like my pride an joy would be puttin' it weak on such a level, that's fore damn sure. Annabelle and I grew up close like, though her bein a couple years younger always made things interestin'. She was always tryin' to be wit her older brother, doin what he does and hanging out with his friends. Got us into trouble more than one night when I would try to sneak out and find a little mouse followed me, making damn too much noise to boot. A real sweetheart despite the misgivings, definitely the smart one of us.

Claire though, she was a different case. That lil' girl was spirited, full of life. Always bouncin' around all hyperactive, tryin to be in yer business whenever she could. Always wanted to see the world, talkin about her dreams to travel all over. That girl had a real damn good imagination, too. She was a dreamer, and she never did stop dreamin' too. She always came up with all these fantastical stories 'bout the world, the people she meets, the things she wanted to do. When that lil' girl got her hands on you, she would hang on to ya fer hours on end just to talk ya ear off yer head. Could swear to myself that girl was destined to be an author one day. Gonna write up the next Lord ah the Rings or somethin with all the things she would bring up.

Hell, she used to have nightmares about the livin' dead, some *bovine manure* like that. People comin' back to life, chasin' ya around with a hunger. They would come fer ya. If you were the lucky one, ya might survive a day, or a few, or many, she would say. But in the end, they would get ya. Some people were lucky to just die, but others...others joined the hunt. Wild crock of *chickenwing* if ya ask me, but I ain't the type to dismiss a little girl like that.

After things went bad back south, I made it my purpose to give these two girls what they weren't gettin rightfully. Specially Claire, who was already stripped of the childhood she wasn't gettin to see right yet. Rounded them up and brought them up here to live with me. I may not have been doin' great, but its family, y'know? Gotta stick with family, no matter how hard things would get. Damn, did they ever get hard too. Dead end jobs and seasonal shifts just weren't cuttin the bills no more, and I had rent to pay. No way I was lettin Annabelle work in downtown, and Claire was too young to hit the job market jus' yet. Ended up droppin myself outta college to work more, all for the sake of what though?

In the end, I heard the call to arms. War is always a beggars game, and the opportunists are the ones who benefit from it the most. Maybe that was what I liked to think of myself as too, an opportunist. It was opportunity at my door with that rifle and those spit shined boots. It was opportunity that gone shaved my head and suited me up. Opportunity came knockin that day, and hells did they swing hard. A life in the marines wasn't the kind of life I was lookin to live, but it was something good. Could send the money back home, help Annabelle and Claire live. Hells, maybe if we got enough we could look into gettin' some of Claire's stories published too! I reckon she would absolutely love that.

If that smile was what I had to look forward to every day, I guess it was all alright then.

[Fenix]

~A crumpled picture is tucked into the page here, signs of age and wear having taken their toll on the old image. The picture has faded some from its storage, but is still clear enough to be made out. It depicts a platoon of United States Marine Corps trainees in full dress. The group stands at attention, though many of them seem lanky and untrained. Upon the back of the image, a note is made in red ink.~

April 15th, 2006
Parris Island, South Carolina
USMC Basic Training, Week Two
Training Platoon 98
"Duty."

"Semper Fidelis." Definitely one of the things gettin drilled into my head durin' those weeks back in hell. Heh, hell certainly is a good way to put it too. Been through hell all my life, what with the day to day life of a kid back in Elm. But this....nah, this ain't compare to nothin' else in my life. Hell was gentle puttin' for it, really. Hell made it soun' easy, soun' like something I could jus' brush off and push through. Wit' hell, ya know what to be expectin'. No, this was somethin' worse. This was Purgatory.

Everyone there had their own reasons to be, o' course. High school dropouts, low lives, family lineage an' all that *bovine manure* clouded in with one another, a sob story after another for some. Others did it for the pride, the respect, the honor and all that. A few of us were just there doin' our duty, though. Some of us kept askin' though, to who? A few of them kids seemed to have all the answers then, too. "My country, o' course. God bless 'merica." But the way that they said it....it was such a hollow lie. Nothin' but a vessel for some other *bovine manure* drilled into their heads so clear and clean. Probably implanted by their god lovin' parents back home, or their military dads that gave em it all and expected tradition to hold up. Couldn't say I was the same way, though. I was there to do my duty, but it ain't to no country that's jes gonna make me a number. It was for those girls, Claire and Annabelle.

Y'see, I feel like I owed it all to em. They ain't get the same kinda *chickenwing* I did back home, the same few breaks I got. That *chickenwing* wasn't handed to me by any margin, I jes got lucky. I got out, I got on. May not have been the right way to do it, but I found my own way. None of that foster home *bovine manure* and "praise be to god" temple shittery. Tried the prior once, and I learned my lesson. That's all I could see too for them, the same sufferin' I had to deal with in that house ah crazies. Nah, it was my duty to give these girls a good home. That's what I was tryin' to get done here, right?

My fourth week into basic, definitely the one to really make or break me they would say. By now we'd already gone through all the motions. Marchin in formation, learning parade rest, all the 3am *bovine manure* wakeups. Learnin' how to *bleep-itty-bleep* up properly, learnin to *bleep-itty-bleep* up as a team. Then learnin' there ain't no room for *bleep-itty-bleep* ups. If one of us fucks up, we all *bleep-itty-bleep* up here. We're all liable, cause its our respons'bility to watch out for one another. We ain' just numbers, were brothers. We ain't soldiers yet, but were damn near on our way. Bottom of the barrel slime is what we are, but we might get graced to shape into somethin. Week four, we were just startin to take form. Same time as all that, we started seein' the pruning process. Who was gonna get cut? Who was gonna snap? Some of us handled this *chickenwing* real well, an' still others jus' couldn't get their hands 'round it all.

Had a battle buddy back in basic. Met 'em a few days in, when we had to choose us one. Ya didn' pick, ya would get assigned one. Seein' as most of us didn't know for *chickenwing* who one another was, it was no surprised we didn't get to pick *chickenwing*. Some of us got paired with the guy who crossed streams wit em. A few weirdos, psychopaths, or just plain bitches that couldn't take life seriously for a change and man up. Guess I lucked out in a sense. Y'see, Derrick Carter, the man I got put wit...he definitely was no real hot shot, much as he fancied himself one. He was a straight talker, knowin what was right for him. He knew what he was doin, an why he was here. Figurin that's why we got on so well, too. Not cause we became best friends or any of that *chickenwing*. We bonded cause we were both there for the same reasons. He had a wife and kids to care for, and I had my own family to handle. He was much older than me, but he damn well didn't always act it. Almost endearin' really. Made him bareable.

Every mornin we would wake up, run ten miles if we were lucky, and just damn possibly make it off to chow in time for some food. They'll make sure ya eat, just won't make sure it will be comfy for ya. Ya damn well didn't complain, either. Really, none of us ever did. All that *chickenwing* was well enough for us, it was the least of our worries. Each week goin by, ya saw these kids turnin' into men. We all started bondin' like we really was soldiers. Ain' gonna let us forget were not, but it started feelin like it. About six weeks in though, I really had to start askin myself a lot of things. Anythin' from if I was a soldier, to if this is where I belonged. Really, those questions kinda went hand in hand, too. Derrick an' I shared that sentiment strong-like. We were no exceptional performers in Purgatory, but we ain't no slouches either. But was this the *chickenwing* we saw ourselves livin' for?

Y'see, I wasn' so sure of myself by that seventh week. I wasn' so sure this was really the best thing for me. I mean hell, I wasn't nothin but a near 19 year old kid at the time. The hell did I think I was doin here? My life was jus' startin out right now. Sure, I had my duty to those girls back home, but...what kinda fuckin' justice would I be doin 'em from here? Whenever Annabelle would bring home a boy, I would always ask the lil *chickenwing* if he was willin to die for her. Id kick the *bleeper* out that said yes. I wasn't lookin for her to be around a boy that would die an' leave her all alone. So what the hell was I doin here, livin that same standard? I die in combat, I ain't doin these two girls any good. That's for sure.

End of the seventh week, I finally started sharin my thoughts about that with Carter. Turns out the *bleeper* wasn't too far behind me. Kinda weird how we both were piecin' it together like that. Guess that battle buddy thing had a bit more too it than we realized. Next day, our *chickenwing* was packed and we were on a busride home. Ain't nobody that was too proud about it, but we resigned honorably. The C.Os. were pissed, thas for sure. So close to the end and we just went and gave up. But somethin' SSGT Martinez understood well about it, was that we weren't givin up at all. We were doin our duty.

But that duty jus' wasn't here.

[Fenix]

~An old picture is folded up, clipped to the side of the page here. A newspaper clipping is tucked in with the folded picture, which falls out upon its removal. The image depicts a ranch house, still burning as its husk falls to the ground. The contents of the house seem to have been destroyed in the fire, with the landscape around it seeming to have suffered equally. One wall seems as if it was blown apart entirely. The back of the photo has a note on it in red ink.~

August 7th, 2007
Elm Springs, Arkansas
"Happy Birthday."

Paradise Lost - Local Farm Burnt Down
Elm Springs, Arkansas - "Local farmhouse burnt to the ground in massive inferno. Authorities arrived on scene within moments, to find a scene of utter chaos. The inferno raging around the household, the walls shattered and torn apart from the inside out, the scene was nothing short of grizzly. Sources are stating that no survivors have been formally declared, although investigations are still ongoing. Known inhabitants were the Strix Family, consisting of Father and Mother, Jason and Emily Strix, as well as three children; Zachary, Annabelle, and Claire Strix, of ages 20, 17, and 9 respectively. Noth-"
*The newspaper clipping is torn off at this point.*

Official story was always just a gas fire in the house. A bit of reckless livin', a few unattended household devices, an' a gas leak all just built up together before it all boiled over. A mighty great story for it all, too. Explained the blown out wall, explained the spreading flames, and the lack of survivors in the household. All of them killed on contact, or declared missing. No reason for investigation or care, whatsoever after all that. Didn't even hear about it on the news, either. Just another case of reckless home owning, and another argument for stricter protocols for houses. A push toward standardized buildin' an all that *chickenwing*! Elm Springs would never hear the fuckin' end of it.

I went to visit, though. Told Claire and 'Belle that it was just a trip fer work. That I was just headin' south to pick up a few parts, an' that I would be back soon as I could for em. Wasn't lying to the girls either, since I really did have some *chickenwing* to take care of there. But I figured I owed it to the rats asses that brought me into the world to at least show em I was alive and well for a while. Rolled into town and stopped for a coffee, snagged myself a newspaper, and caught a glimpse of the headline. Nearly knocked out an old man runnin' out that doorway. Pulled right up to see the remains, only a day after the accident. I knew what the paper said, but I knew that it was a real crock of *chickenwing* too. May as well find out for myself though.

Picked 'round in the wreckage a bit, some of it still warm and burnin' from last night. Nothin' dangerous left, but it could cause a problem if left untouched. I wasn't there to make amends or any of that *chickenwing*, I just wanted proof for my own eyes. Place was a shithole, through and through, but it was home. Well, home as much as I could fuckin' call it back then. Real home had real parents, a real family, and that wasn't any kinda *chickenwing* we knew there. Guess this wasn't really home, much as just a place I lived. But it was some place.

After a lil' while, I found exactly what I figured. I knew my old man and his lady weren't nothin special, nothing great. They provided for us, if only the bare necessities. As the years went on though, that got less an' less, and they got more and more angry. Always dippin' in an' out of the hospitals, locking themselves in the room at the far side of the house, keepin to themselves often. Always we were gettin told to stay outta that room, keep our noses outta *chickenwing* that we don't belong in. Claire an' Belle listened without question, 'course. But I was a little *chickenwing* of a kid and pushed my nose where it didn't belong. Got beaten hard for that *chickenwing* with a hot iron rod back then, makin' sure I never did it again. Lesson learned well, but their's definitely wasn't. Dear ol' ma an' pa weren't the sweet little farm couple that some fancied 'em to be. An' this wasn't no gas fire either.

Crystal Methamphetamine, a very, very potent drug used to treat those who had trouble focusin'. Addictive as all hell, which made it quite the little substance to get hooked on. They say a single hit could give ya highs that were nothin' like anything you ever experienced. But that same hit might change ya life forever, too. *chickenwing* was pricey, strong, and illegal. Dear ol' parents liked to cook the *chickenwing* in our very own home, too. For how long, I ain't really sure, but they did it for a livin'. Never got caught for it all, either. They had a damn number of people hooked, and all people in the right places to cover their asses. They didn't care none neither about the kids in the house, bout the example they could be settin'. They didn't care none about the impressions it would be leavin' on us three, specially if Annabelle and Claire were to find out. Used to keep that *chickenwing* goin for ages, too. Always burned out every day, addicted to the same *chickenwing* they were cookin' up to sell. Shittin' where they sleep, in its purest form.

Right here though, it was a sign loud and clear. All that *chickenwing* they were doin' there, it all fuckin' caught up to them finally. What the town wrote off as a gas fire was much, bigger. The lab exploded, blowing out the wall to the outside, and sendin' the door out the other way. It was no small explosion, neither. *chickenwing* caused half the house to collapse in on itself 'fore the fire even started. Ain't no architect, but I could tell ya just where to hit if you wanted that place to go down. That lab was the epicenter of it all, too. Corpses of the two parents were buried under so much debris that they were just left there to be unburied later on. Looks like dear ol' dad was the one who *bleeped* it up, too. His skin was right burnt straight from his bones, probably died damn near straight away. Momma was soon to follow in the wreckage. Maybe even suffered a little while too. Wonder which one was the lucky one. Wonder if I even care.

I didn't want anything from them two, anything from this *chickenwing* hole that I was forced to call my home. But there are some things you just don't let go of. Half the *chickenwing* was burnt to all hells, if it wasn't just blown to bits right out. Even their little safe took a toll, the one hidden beneath the carpet in the kitchen. Dug my way through the *chickenwing* 'round it and popped it open easy. Didn't give much a damn about the money or the jewelry, *chickenwing* was mostly worthless anyways. Fake gems, just like the idea of parental love. Dug down intot he bottom, takin' the beaten, slightly burnt up photo album from the bottom. Some of the photos were a bit shot, but most of em made their way out. Tossed it in my truck, and said my goodbyes to the hellhole. May have been shitty parents, but we owe everyone our respects in the end.

Never had a funeral. Never had no ceremony for it all. Drove the girls down to say their goodbyes in a private cremation, nothin' fancy at all. Didn't have the heart to break the image these girls had of their parents, not at all. Let them believe the papers for now, they could find out for themselves later.

Stopped for a few drinks on my way home. Twenty years old, now. May as well make the most of it. Start my life for real, from the dust.

[Fenix]

~A crumpled picture is stapled to the bottom of the page. The borders of the photo are charred, burnt away by an ancient ember, as if there were once an attempt to destroy it. A man with long, black hair tucked inside a cap is crudely depicted, a length of cloth tied around his upper arm. A syringe is in his hand, being self induced into his upper arm. From the angle, it seems the picture was taken secretly, in a rush. On the back of the photo, a note is penned in red ink.~

March 16, 2008
Detroit, Michigan
"Salvation"

"Life ain' always an easy pill to swallow. An' I had one hell of an experience with both, on more'n one occasion. Y'see, comin' home and explainin' why ya didn't follow through witht he toughtest of 'em ain't exactly a moment of pride for everyone. 'Course Claire was happy to see me home, but the look on Annabelle's face was just....well, it said it all. Ain't nothin but disappointment in them big blue eyes. Couldn't meet em from the moment I got home. We both knew why.

From the time each of those gals was born, I rarely was livin' for m'self. Always talked about bein' strong or tough, but I ain' never pursued it much. Sure, I did well enough with my body, but ya make some sacrifices in life for the sake of others sometimes. It's like I said, it was always jes duty. Some things are a bit more important, when ya put them in perspective. Thats when ya start focusin on those things, an' those people. But thats a hell of somethin' in itself.

Few weeks went by while I got accustomed to real life again. *chickenwing* really did a number on ya in such a short time back there in that fuckin' hell. The stress, fatigue, frustration, the nightmares, it all piles up right quick iffin ya don't face it head on. Thats jes' what I did, too. Wasn't letting a few harsh words, hard days, and bad experiences fuckin' hold me back. Took up work tendin' a bar in downtown after about a month just to show I was givin' a damn. Hell of a place to be, too. One of those skeevy bars tucked in the low roads, but its own lil' slice of heaven all the same. Wasn't the classiest place to be, but they were willin' to hire a dropout. That's all I needed to hear right there.

Staff there was small, runnin' kinda barebones for the most part. Had only jes two bartenders, Me and a blonde gal named Krista. Fer the food serving, we has Jason, Tara, Steve, Darron, an' Jess workin' the tables intermitten'ly. Then, lordin' his lazy ass over us all was Clarke, the owner an' manager of the joint. Most've us were workin double damn near every day there, thanks to the short staffin'. *chickenwing* like that really did a number on you, but the money....nobody was passin that up. An' the best part was that there was always a bit more to be made. A few free drinks speakin themselves, a few missin things from the shelves, or a few of our regulars comin' by for some extra products made us a dream kinda number in cash to bring home. You just had to know how to keep up.

An' we all had our ways of hangin on, too. Everyone had their own little *bovine manure* excuse, sayin that they slept all day after work, or they just were dieting on caffeine, an' others just proclaimin' it was pure natural talent. Thing was, *chickenwing* all passed by right under the radar, if ya didn't try to look beneath the surface at least. Those twitchy movements, those bloodshot eyes, that calm, cool demeanor...all just a little ruse. Ya wouldn' think too much of it at first, but some things were a give away. The smells, the sluggish reflexes. Ya see, what really made ya keep up, was getting your fix.

I ain't talkin about energy drinks and caffeine neither. *chickenwing* like that ain't the kinda hard high ya needed to try an keep yerself goin' through all this. Started out simple, a few stolen drinks from the bar to knock ya senses, an some unnamed pills that would kick ya body into overdrive. Cloud the mind, keep the focus, and lose yerself to the feelin', thats all we would do. It was hard not to, the way it lit ya up to the world. Ya were on cloud nine, glidin' through the air like it wasn' nobodies business. But after a while, that *chickenwing* lost its potency, ya know? We started easy, just prescriptions and painkillers. After a while, we started movin' up to the harder *chickenwing*. Stronger painkillers, hardier drugs, ecstasy. Anything that would give ya world a new outlook to experience. The best part about it was that ya could hide it all easy. Ain' nobody knew, an ain' nobody really cared neither.

But that *chickenwing* all lost its abuse quick. With how much we were sinking them in, it was a wonder we didn't just OD some days. An with the need for the feelin to keep going eatin at us, we started explorin. That's when Steve brought it in. A small case, containin nothin but some bandages and a few needles. Nobody had to ask, an' nobody had to guess. It was a world that we had not tapped, and some of us weren' sure we wanted to. I can tell ya straight that Jason, Darren, an Krista wanted no part of it. They even got scared of the *chickenwing*, swearin off everythin' else in the process. They knew when they saw that *chickenwing* that they were goin to far an' needed to get clean. Not th' rest of us though.

One hit. One hit is all it takes to become an addict. One drink, one pill, one injection. Just one taste will sink you into a new world, and there might just be no stopping it. This, this was the purest *bleeping* high ya were ever gonna feel, too. That single needle sent me soaring away, to places I ain' never thought I could feel. It lasted for hours, too. Kept us going through the shift and then some, mixing it in with the liquor and the adrenaline. You just didn't know what to do, you felt so on top of the world. What was a once a week thing or so, became once a few days. Then it became a daily habit. It degraded from there, too.

Now, with all this goin on, I had to remember why I was at this job. I was workin to support Claire and Belle, so that they could live all the ways they wanted to live, an I could feel proud of myself for providin' fer them. But with all this going on, that *chickenwing* was pushed into the depths of my mind. Coming home late nights, like a kite in the wind from the feelings I was reaching, I couldn't even think about any of that. As long as I got my fix. As long as there was a needle fitted the right way, the world stopped mattering. The hell, the purgatory, the sufferin' and pain that I had to deal with for-*bleeping*-ever had finally just disappeared for me. In its place, I found my salvation.

Then it shattered.

Whats a habit but another part of ya daily day? Ya wake up, inject a needle, eat ya breakfast an brush ya teeth, maybe pop another. Wash it down with a drink an drive to work. Clock in an the needles already hittin the can. It just repeated, never ending, never disappearing. Soon enough though, it became a problem. Not to say it shouldn'a been already, but....things started to go missin'. First started with my patience. Got aggressive, got intolerant, got angry, all really damned easy. Figured it was the stress of work, so I took a few days off now an then. Then the money stopped comin in so much. I was still makin the same amount, but it was all just vanishin' somewhere else. Things started disappearing at home, nobody seen nor heard a thing about it. We ate a little less, drank a little less, but had to make do with what we had. I started passin' my meals by, lettin the girls eat instead.

It wasn't the flash of blue an red lights bustin into the bar that struck my world together. It wasn't the cops screaming, guns drawn at us. It wasn't the panic, the gunfire, the terror on people's faces, or the blood. None of that sank in to me. I walked away, scott free and just an innocent bystander, sneakin' out the back when it all went down. It wasn't even hearing about the drug bust on the news, knowin that I was out of a job, out of a life there. Knowing that everything was turning around on me again. None of that was what brought it all to me.

It was this damn picture. It was those sparkling blue eyes behind the camera. They weren't sparkling from love, neither. It was that same look of disgust I saw six months before. That wasn't joy, it was disgust. It was sadness. I stopped bein who I set out to be, I stopped bein anythin' other than a failure right in those moments. Meetin that gaze with a needle dug into my arm, scrounging the last of my stock for my *bleeping* fix. It was seeing how pathetic I looked in that moment, and watching me destroy the life of a little girl. A life that wasn't even my own.

It was watching all hope for me, all the admiration, the reverence, the respect, and the thankfulness...all of that just being forgotten. It was seeing all the work, effort, and time given to them being destroyed. Watching them realize that I threw my life away, an' I didn't even realize it. That's what brought me crashing down. I wasn't anything anymore. Just a shell crumbling into dust, with nothing left to do right. It was the tears that made it the hardest. Not even just theirs. My own, stinging my putried, decaying body. Knowing I was killing myself a quick death.

I needed *bleeping* help.

[Fenix]

~The contents of the page seem to have been written very crudely, by a very shaken and unsteady hand. Much of the text is distorted and smudged, while other parts seem almost entirely illegible whatsoever. The same few words appear repeated, scatted around the page sporadically.~


I AM NOT A CRIMINAL. I AM NOT A CRIMINAL. I AM NOT A CRIMINAL. I AM NOT A CRMINL. I M NOT A CRIMINAL. I AM NOT A CRIMINAL. I AM NOT A CRMNL. I AM NOT A CRIMINAL. I AM NOT A CRINAL. I AM NOT A CRIML. I AM NOT A CRIMINL. I AM NT A CRIMINAL. I AM NOT A CRIMINAL. I AM NOT A CRIMINAL. I AM NOT A CRIMINAL. I AM NOT A CRIMINAL. I AM NOT A CRINAL. I AM NOT A CRIMINAL. I AM NOT A CRIMINAL. AM NOT A CRIMINAL. I AM NOT CRIMINAL. I AM NT A CRIMINAL. I AM NOT A CRIMINAL. I AM NOT A CRINAL. I AM NOT A CRIMINAL. I AM NOT A CIMNAL. I AM NOT A CRIMINAL. I AM NOT A CRIMINAL.

FREE IAMFREE IMFRE IAM FREE I AM FREE I AM FREE I AM NOT A CRIMINAL I AM NOT CRIMINAL I AM FREE NOT CRIMINAL I AM FREE NOT FREE CRIMINAL I AM NOT

I AM NOT FREE

~The text continues on illegibly, spread across the surface of several pages, all in the same manner. It ends abruptly.~

[Fenix]

~A series of medical prescriptions, mental evaluations, and institutional documents decorate an array of the next few pages. All of these documents have been attatched to their locations in various manners, with some overlapping another. Various details have bene circled or have had additional commentary added to them. All of the documents are labelled accordingly, with the same header across them, a symbol following thereafter.~

New Hope Rehabilitation & Re-education
"A directive for direction. Let us help you help yourself."

PATIENT #06428100
PATIENT IDENTIFICATION: STRIX, ZACHARY LEE
DATE: JULY 1, 2008
PROCTOR: DR. MITCHELL CARTHEAU
OBSERVANT: DR. JAMES WESKER
The information contained within this file is protected by New Hope Rehabilitation and Re-education Asylum. The data contained within is sensitive, and under protection of the NHA Patient Confidentiality Agreement.

FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY

TRANSCRIPT BEGIN
-----
DR WESKER: We will now begin the thirty day evaluation of progress for PATIENT 06428100. This evaluation will be conducted by DOCTOR MITCHELL CARTHEAU, and transcribed by MISS JASMINE KRIS. I, DOCTOR JAMES WESKER will be monitoring for proper conduct during the procedure. You may begin (CARTHEAU).
CARTHEAU: Please state your name.
STRIX: Zach.
C: Your full, legal name please Zach. We have gone through this every time, I swear.
S: I ain' a fuckin' fan ah my given name, a'right? Some kiddy soun'n *bovine manure*.
C: Zach, please? We both know you want to be done here.
S: Zachary Lee Strix, Doctor Cat Hose.
C: The sarcasm was unnecessary, but thank you. Also, it's Doctor Cartheau. I told you you can just call me Mitchell. No need for formality.
S: Whateva'. Jes' ge' on wit' it.
C: Right. Do you remember why you were checked in to our facilities thirty days ago, Mister Strix?
S: Cause ahm ah dirty fuckin' convict.
C: Language.
S: *bleep-itty-bleep* you.
C: Care to try again?
S: We both know ya jes want me tah act like it ain' true.
C: No Mister Strix. YOu were initiated due to a dependence on Diacetylmorphine.
S: Could jes say fuckin' heroin like tha res' of us.
C: Would it please you if I did, Mister Strix?
S: It'd paint me fuckin' sparkled. An' stop callin me -MISTER- Strix. -MISTER- Strix was my pa, an' I ain' nothin like that degenerate shitpile. Jes call me Zach.
C: Language.
S: Please?
C: Alright then, Zach. You were brought in due to a heroin addiction. Want to tell me how it came about?
S: What ya wanna know?
C: Well, who fed it to you first?
S: Fuckin' steve.
C: Zach.
S: Steven Rackers.
C: Where did you meet Steven?
S: Work.
C: The dive bar you used to work at?
S: Yep. Th' fu-....The guy was ah waitah at th' bah.
C: You were the bartender, right?
S: Yeah. An' I knew my way 'round tha tbah too. Like no one else. *chickenwing* came second nature to me.
C: You miss working there?
S: A bit. This got anythin' tah do with m' damn insanity?
C: You're not crazy, Zach. This is the most you've opened up to us in the entire time you've been here.
S: I guess. Can we jes move on Doctor Cartheau?
C: Mitchell. Sure. So your addiction was introduced by Steven? Was it just you?
S: Nah, it was' buncha us. Few of the others dipped out, but near everyone gave it a try.
C: Why'd you stick to it?
S: I don' know how to answer that...
C: Try.
S: I don't know. It jes felt....right? I'm not sure how tah explain it. Like mentally ownin th' world, bein in control.
C: But the physicalities were much different, weren't they.
S: Yeah...I guess.
C: Moving on. Tell me about your sisters. Claire and Annabelle, right?
S: Yeah, tha's right.
C: Lovely names.
S: Lovely gals. I would do anythin' I could for those two.
C: You raised them, didn't you?
S: To a degree. Can only do so much fer em. But I tried my hardest tah.
C: I have no doubts they appreciate it. You didn't have to do that for them.
S: I did.
C: Why do you think that?
S: I jes did. It was my responsibility to 'em. Ya always gotta look out fer family jes as much as yerself. I may be a degenerate, but I still got m'self values, y'know?
C: I don't think you're a degenerate Zach. That's a pretty noble thing to say. You're giving selflessly for their sake.
S: Ain' selfless if it ain' all for them. For my sake jes as much...
C: What do you mean?
S: I don' wanna talk about it.
C: No problem. So did they know you were dependent on this drug?
S: Nope.
C: But they know now?
S: Annabelle does. Claire don' need to know. That little girl's heart don' need breakin'.
C: So where does she think you are?
S: Vacation, helpin a friend fix his house that got burnted down.
C: So you lied to her?
S: She didn' need tah know. She's still a lil' girl.
C: She could find out. What then?
S: Cross that bridge when I come to it.
C: Right. Do you regret your actions?
S: ...
C: Zach?
S: ...
C: Did you hear my question, Zach?
S: Yeah I fuckin' heard ya fuckin' question! (Incoherent mumbling)
C: Would you like a minute?
S: No I don' need a fuckin' minute. I jes can't answer that.
C: Why not? It's a simple yes or no, that's all.
S: It ain' a simple as that though...
C: Alright Zach. It's clear you're a bit too stressed for this right now. But you're making progress. How about you head back to your quarters and we can meet again in a few days, okay?
S: Few hours is fine....jes need a few hours.
C: I will see what I can do for you Zach.
S: THanks, Dr. Mithcell.
C: Have you anything to add, Dr Wesker?
W: THe patient has shown cooperation, I see no further necessity to hound him. So no, your assessment can be delayed as decided upon. Convene again six o'clock tonight.
C: Very well. Zach, you can join your escorts outside the room. Enjoy your evening.
S: Dr Cartheau?
C: Yes Zach?
S: I'm sorry.
C: For what?
-----
END OF TRANSCRIPT
PLEASE REVIEW NHPTS#037C FOR FOLLOWUP

~The document shows signs of being crumpled, stained with water and blood from its storage. It is faded with age, the ink running a small bit. It is clear this document was not supposed to be removed from its initial place of filing. It references a followup document that does not seem to be located among the pages of prescriptions and analysis.~

[Fenix]

My friend (Torkrin Darkmoon) has been trying to get me to pickup campaigns on Roll20.net with him for some time now. Tonight he sent me a Shadowrun campaign that I caught some interest in that was looking for 5 players. The application was a prompt, so I figured i'd give it a shot and responded with an IC post.

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

"You are in a darkened room, the light from a flashing neon light barely adds a dim glow to the room. You are sitting on a pile of tattered, albeit soft cloth. In this room is a table, on which is a flashlight and a worn down set of keys. There is also a chair (with one leg missing) and some torn of strips of leather on the floor. The window, as far as you can see, has a thick metal screen over it. What do you do?"
​
​My eyes took on a hazy gaze as I let them drift through the somber neon glow of the room, flicking them up to the creaking shaded lantern swaying its empty gait above. The shattered remains of the bulb littering the floor beside the table, illuminated only by the faint blue glow of the neon through the grated window. Calloused, bloodied hands rise to my face, rubbing across it at first, before dirty nails dig into my skin, scratching away at the sweat layered grime and dirt covering me like a woolen blanket. My tongue draws across my lips as I rise from the pile of tattered clothing beneath me, spitting a lick of saliva onto the graveled floor.
​
​"Is it supposed to be so damned brown?" I think to myself as I watch the saliva roll across the floor, the viscous liquid spreading out as it seeps into the dried ground. I look to the rest of the empty room, shaking my head vacantly as my legs draw forth in a tired, monotonous pattern, almost like an ethereal memory of a path once walked. I bend low beside the crumpled chair, grabbing a strip of leather and weighing it in hand. "Still has some kick in it I reckon.", the words escaping through a tired mind and dry throat, "wonder'n if we're gonna get a lick of nothing out of 'em jes' yet." I pause, glancing to a figure in the far corner, his lips gagged, his arms bound, his legs tied to the metal grating of the window overhead. I shake the thoughts away as my feet guide my body forward, my hands working the bindings from his feet as the youth drops from the window, crashing to the ground with a mild groan.
​
​"We ain' done here kid. Get yer ass up and find that damn stick ah yall's." I utter in little more than a mumble as I turn toward the door, resting halfway across the room on the creaking table. The sand haired kid grumbling as he rolls over and drags himself to his feet along a flurry of obscenities. He cuts his ropes with a rusted kitchen knife, tugging on fingerless gloves. I wrap the leather around my knuckles as we open the door, walking down the hallway without a word between. The thin aluminum of the door gives a faint echo down the empty passageway, more shattered shade lights decorating the hallway intermediately. Thirty feet down, we stop, turning to another door just like the last. I look to him. "Y'ready for round two, kid?"
​
​He just nods, pushing the door open. He steps into the middle of the room, crouching low in a clumsy, defensive posture. I walk in under the false pretense of a mentor. "Little *chickenwing* ain't got a clue what he's askin me for." I think as I stand before him. We share a nod, the thoughts drifting into evanescence as the boy takes a few steps forward. My grip on the strap of leather tightens as it coils around my knuckles and down my wrist.
​
​Crimson greets the stone floor like an old friend.

[Fenix]

A small excerpt of dungeon lore ive been writing for Hill's Edge.

---

As the cities fell I could do nothing but look onward as the true weight of my folly came crashing down upon me like our homes into the ground. My body was frozen, but not from fear or cowardice, but from the slow descent into the void of death, my mortal coil petrified in stone. My blood was cold, and my final punishment was to watch all that I had ever known be destroyed. All because of my hopes to save them.
~Karsus' Final Moments, -339 Dale Reckoning


As the mantle of divinity was wrestled from Mystryl, Karsus was overwhelmed with insurmountable amounts of power, a wealth of knowledge that transcended what any mortal should ever experience. So too did the weight of his folly become apparent. All that binds the weakening strands of the weave, the only being that could hope to hold the realms together was severed instantly. Magic ceased to function, releasing the cities of the Netheril empire from their arcane tethers that held them so high in the skies. Flames erupted at their edges as they were cast down to the earth once more. Screams echoed for miles, but they were to go unanswered. They were vain, the kind of sound you make when you're helpless. The kind of sound you make when you see your death upon the horizon, awaiting you at the end of your journey to greet you like a lost friend. So those screams echoed, and so too were they silenced long before the cities crashed.

But not all of them did crash. As Karsus was bound to stone, the new godly spark of Mystra erupted to life. Four cities were saved, but only barely. Destruction was wrought upon them as their titanic forms cascaded to the ground, only barely saved by the powers of the new Goddess of Magic. People stumbled from the catastrophe's heart, their voices lost as the winds took their screams from them only moments ago. Their feet led them through sand, their hearts were as empty as their minds. Nothing could reach them as they stumbled together, devoid of thought, seeking only the sanctuary of solid footing. Some of them sobbed. Others were driven mad. Still others could do little more than collapse into heaps after a few miles, succumbing to shock. One city was lost entirely, pulled into the shadows by the beasts that saw opportunity. Those souls were the less lucky.

Some few managed a look back, seeing the remains of their civilization now in rubble. Buildings either crumbled or were cast away for miles. The last tendrils of uncontrolled magic ran rampant as the goddess fought to wrest them under her grasp. Blue flames and wild beasts careened through the streets. Buildings were bent at odd angles, some pouring unidentified solutions from the cracks. Others were raided by a cacophony of explosions as volatile components mixed. But one stood out. It was a token of silver buried in a pool of mud; The Library of Karsus. At its foot stood the shimmering stone form of a man, the last foolish choices of his mortal life etched in every crack on his stone form. The building shimmered, the man with his hand on the door succumbing to the very same. Nobody departed from that hall, and none ever would. A final eruption of arcana enveloped the silvery monument, blinding onlookers. When the light cleared, there was nothing left. 

The Library of Karsus was gone. So too was the folly of a man whose greed outweighed his life.

[Fenix]

Excerpt 2 for Hills Edge

---

When we dug, we thought it was just a vein of silver. When we struck, it was so much more than that. It was the answer to questions we had, but it was the beginning of so many more. Then we found the door. We found questions that should never have been answered. We opened things that were closed for centuries, and we began to understand why.
~Jegran Frost, 3rd Rank Brother of the Stonemasons, 1310 DR

Hill's Edge has been an eternal oddity of a town ever since its erection in the middle of the Sunset Vale so many years ago. A trade city influenced by the powers that be, forged by people with hands in the pockets of even worse people that committed all the same. Open worship of forces of light, forces of dark, and the once that existed in between. But it was hardly the trading houses that drove out the hierarchy of the city. It was the knowledge of what the city was founded upon. It was the answers that nobody wanted to know.

The museum was the first place to discover texts lost to time. It was simple and broken, an incomplete piece of a greater whole, but not one that any could truly fathom. It was a large chuck of coal at first, thick and grimy and coated with years of dirt. But it wouldn't burn, and no forge could seem to light it. It wasn't until the fires burned away the layers that the nature of the two foot chunk was revealed. Dirt and ash fell to piles on the floor, revealing instead a blue tinted sheet of silver. Inscriptions decorated every inch of the surface in a language that was no longer spoken. Runes were etched so purely, hardly marred by either the forges fires, or the time that preserved it. But for the ones that found it, it was a secret that was meant to have been left buried.

It was three days later that the smith was found strung from the rafters in his shop. Most thought him ill at first, he was always a recluse when he wished not to work. But the need in the city was great, and so the apothecary went to check on him. His burly, muscled figure was now wan and bare. It was not as if he had gone sickly and lost weight, but instead were his muscles cut from him. His skin was stitched back on in place, and his body strung up with iron chain. The bits of his body that were missing were found in the cold of the forge, charred grotesquely. The whole scene was gruesome, but not because of the carnage. It was the manner in which the wounds were delivered. Every sign on the man's body dictated that they were self inflicted. The tools lie on the floor, hobbled in a pile beside a pool of his own blood. On his anvil sat a two foot long slate of blueish silver with ancient inscriptions and timeless runes. A single word was smeared across its surface.

"Folly"

[Fenix]

Since i've started writing, i've always noticed that I tend to have dreams that are substantially more vivid than most more frequently. Over time, its made me understand just how powerful our minds can be, to construct worlds that we couldn't fathom, or to make you long for someone that never existed at all as if they were an old friend that you saw just yesterday. Most of the time those things kind of fade away with time, but some stick with you a little longer, in bits and pieces.

Not all of it makes sense to me, but I feel there are details we pull out from some of them that are important for a reason. Maybe it brings out something we missed, maybe it just means there's more to it than we're sure of. But there's no justice in skipping out, even if it doesn't really make sense.


---

"You're never high up."

I clutched the pasty red balloon in my hand, those words etched in sharpie on its side facing back at me as I just stood there. Tears filtered through my eyes, stealing freedom as they dripped down my cheeks to meet my smile firsthand. I turned it around in my hands, looking for more, my breaths catching in my throat with a stutter as memories flooded me. At the bottom, in a child's writing, that same sharpie was used. "But I am. 15 Pounds." This was followed by two exclamations, and a small drawing of a house.

At the time, none of its meaning dawned on me. To this day, I don't think the full weight of it all reached me either. I don't understand, but I knew to cry. Because what more can I do? Sometimes our memories sneak out of our eyes and drip down our cheeks, and all we can help but do is just to let them taste the cool, morning winter air. I let my smile dance on my lips familiarly as every scene ran through my head.

"What does it say?" asked Anna, standing beside me with concern as I sank to the grass and crossed my legs. Her blonde hair hung behind her at shoulder length, seeming all the more glowing in the moment. Maybe it was just a trick of my wandering mind.

"It says that she's happy," I sputtered out through happy, unsteady sobs, "And that she's doing well."

The balloon squealed slightly as my grip shifted on it, then slowly began to drift to the sky as I let go. I glanced right to see a group of them all chasing after something unseen in the field, and couldn't help but laugh to myself. I couldn't look away.

"She? You mean Callie?" she questioned, her fingers drawn to her lips. "But you know she's..."

"Gone?" I finished for her. I spared her a look, a knowing, shattered look that said a great deal more than I could. Thousands of words at my tongue, and I was all but at a loss for any of them. "I know. But this was her was of letting us know."

My eyes were perpetually drawn back to that group, people chasing something back and forth, laughing and lost in the weightless merriment of their world. To Callie, standing there with her cascading brown hair and soft, sky blue eyes, looking back at me. Smiling at me. Then turning, and being swept away by the wind like a lost memory.