<Character Stuff>
???? = !!!! = ()()
Forgotten.
[X][X]
(0)
{3}
~Can you not hear me?~...
???? = !!!! = ()()
Forgotten.
[X][X]
(0)
{3}
~Can you not hear me?~...
-
For all readers and writers
After much ado, our new tagging system is here and being rolled out to the userbase. Read more here!
I Am Not A Merciful God - a WoD/VtR inspired quest
- Created at
- Index progress
- Ongoing
- Watchers
- 62
- Recent readers
- 0
- Threadmarks
- 4
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Statistics (4 threadmarks, 3.5k words)
User Total shadenight123 4
The Prologue That Will Haunt You Forever
- Location
- https://discord.gg/z9tBvbh
<Character Stuff>
???? = !!!! = ()()
Forgotten.
[X][X]
(0)
{3}
~Can you not hear me?~
<End of Character Stuff>
It is a cold night.
Infant.
It is a frozen night, of ashes and fires.
Ancillae
It is a night in which death dances with soft humming from her defaced throat.
Elder
It is a night of passion, of a warm embrace, of held together arms stitched to corpses left to drain upon an asphalt of concrete and snow.
Kine.
There is little. There is none. Once, there were three. Now, there is one.
It is a tranquil night, a night of songs and beautiful, intricate stars. The tapestry of the heavens lights the silent city of concrete and glass, steel and cars. Yet, in that unearthly silence, a scream that reeks of murder, iron that smells of blood, they pour together in a masterwork mechanism of passion and grotesque, unfortunate, unchangeable reality.
In a land of twisted madness, of tendrils of dark carried on by a foreign will-
Something stirs.
Something moves.
...
The snow falls. Thickly. There is the scent of something delicious in the air. You've been there. You know among hazy thoughts that you've been there before. You can't understand, but you know the place is familiar. Cold, rugged, half-frozen by frostbite fingers touch the glass that reflects an image...
[X] A man. Weary. Old. Leathery skin and pain.
[X] A woman that could have had it all, and thus, lost it all.
[X] A naive youth, seeking fortune in a place unforgiving.
[X] An unfortunate butterfly, which bloomed once and was then crushed by cruel hands.
[X] A lost child, forever lost in his dreams.
[X] A lost girl, who sought a life of freedom, and thus in freedom found her despair.
The reflection does not last for long untouched, for a thump and a noise scare you away. Though forgotten, though aptly ignored by the masses, whenever one brings a hand, whenever one speaks-displeasure, ignorance -what are you, if not the ultimate failure of a society that refutes and destroys, that churns and murders hope, dreams, in the name of ideals born of wealth?
What are you, pathetic shell of a mortal, that dare still cling on to the last vestments of your life, you insufferable plague, you vermin of inferiority that yet dares trudge upon this vast confines of ignorance and displeasure?
Well? Who are you?
Do you even remember it, your name?
[X] Forgotten
[X] Unimportant
[X] Unneeded
[X] Unnecessary
What you were, what miserable reason and purpose animated your bones along their path to this day is honestly an endearing, and yet ultimately futile moment of passage. Your past achievements, lay them bare, will you not? You have nothing left as you trudge back into your corner of carton, of paper, of measly cents worthless for anything but for the clinking sound they make.
The cold seeps in your muscles, the bones are all that remains of your once flourishing skin. A cadaver that walks, a malnourished beast that seeks but a place to die, no longer caring for anything else.
But do not worry, pathetic mortal.
Do not fret, do not think that your life of misery is over yet.
For I am not a merciful God.
And you are a pawn. My pawn. My pawn upon a checker of delicate pieces that need to be placed, for that is my will, that is my desire-so come on then, make the move, play the game.
Your free will is an illusion I gave you. Your desire for fulfillment a fancy I can rip out of your soul in a second. I am your everything, your ground, your air, your muscles that twitch and rot and die as your stomach drains itself.
So, mortal, tell me.
Entertain me.
Tell me something that makes you afraid.
Tell me your deepest fear.
Tell me that one thing, that one tiny, little thing, that scares you into submission.
Confide in me, pray to me, believe in me-and perhaps, just perhaps, that garbage bin you are eyeing, which you checked half a dozen times and found empty of edible food might contain something you haven't found yet.
[X] Write-In
But know this, miserable worm.
Know this, pathetic bag of flesh and bones.
Though you may think there is a way out of here, a way out of this cold, dark place where you stand forgotten and alone, in the end you belong to me.
Dust to Dust.
Ashes to Ashes.
And rotten meat in the garbage bin.
AN: Hello! Welcome to Shade-Chan's magical quest of friendship and magic! This quest is...a bit different from the usual quests. First off, majority vote is meaningless in Write-IN options. You got that right! Majority vote is truly meaningless! Here is what we're going to do:
The pathos of the World of Darkness isn't pretty. It's never been, never will be. So, the more an answer feels appropriate to it, the more it feels correct, the more the chances are it's going to be taken as valid. Course, if everyone gives the option "Hug the Vampire Elder clearly in need of hugs." Then I'm going to write a Dramatic Failure response instead. Because here's the peculiarity of this game.
I am not a merciful god.
You will probably die.
But here's the thing.
It won't matter one bit.
Or perhaps it might? Who knows?
...
You know what? Play the game, seek to uncover the mystery, and know this:
This is the only AN or explanation that will ever be given throughout the entire game. Nothing else, no matter how much you ask, will be delivered.
Good luck, players.
For my mind is a dark place...
???? = !!!! = ()()
Forgotten.
[X][X]
(0)
{3}
~Can you not hear me?~
<End of Character Stuff>
It is a cold night.
Infant.
It is a frozen night, of ashes and fires.
Ancillae
It is a night in which death dances with soft humming from her defaced throat.
Elder
It is a night of passion, of a warm embrace, of held together arms stitched to corpses left to drain upon an asphalt of concrete and snow.
Kine.
There is little. There is none. Once, there were three. Now, there is one.
It is a tranquil night, a night of songs and beautiful, intricate stars. The tapestry of the heavens lights the silent city of concrete and glass, steel and cars. Yet, in that unearthly silence, a scream that reeks of murder, iron that smells of blood, they pour together in a masterwork mechanism of passion and grotesque, unfortunate, unchangeable reality.
In a land of twisted madness, of tendrils of dark carried on by a foreign will-
Something stirs.
Something moves.
...
The snow falls. Thickly. There is the scent of something delicious in the air. You've been there. You know among hazy thoughts that you've been there before. You can't understand, but you know the place is familiar. Cold, rugged, half-frozen by frostbite fingers touch the glass that reflects an image...
[X] A man. Weary. Old. Leathery skin and pain.
[X] A woman that could have had it all, and thus, lost it all.
[X] A naive youth, seeking fortune in a place unforgiving.
[X] An unfortunate butterfly, which bloomed once and was then crushed by cruel hands.
[X] A lost child, forever lost in his dreams.
[X] A lost girl, who sought a life of freedom, and thus in freedom found her despair.
The reflection does not last for long untouched, for a thump and a noise scare you away. Though forgotten, though aptly ignored by the masses, whenever one brings a hand, whenever one speaks-displeasure, ignorance -what are you, if not the ultimate failure of a society that refutes and destroys, that churns and murders hope, dreams, in the name of ideals born of wealth?
What are you, pathetic shell of a mortal, that dare still cling on to the last vestments of your life, you insufferable plague, you vermin of inferiority that yet dares trudge upon this vast confines of ignorance and displeasure?
Well? Who are you?
Do you even remember it, your name?
[X] Forgotten
[X] Unimportant
[X] Unneeded
[X] Unnecessary
What you were, what miserable reason and purpose animated your bones along their path to this day is honestly an endearing, and yet ultimately futile moment of passage. Your past achievements, lay them bare, will you not? You have nothing left as you trudge back into your corner of carton, of paper, of measly cents worthless for anything but for the clinking sound they make.
The cold seeps in your muscles, the bones are all that remains of your once flourishing skin. A cadaver that walks, a malnourished beast that seeks but a place to die, no longer caring for anything else.
But do not worry, pathetic mortal.
Do not fret, do not think that your life of misery is over yet.
For I am not a merciful God.
And you are a pawn. My pawn. My pawn upon a checker of delicate pieces that need to be placed, for that is my will, that is my desire-so come on then, make the move, play the game.
Your free will is an illusion I gave you. Your desire for fulfillment a fancy I can rip out of your soul in a second. I am your everything, your ground, your air, your muscles that twitch and rot and die as your stomach drains itself.
So, mortal, tell me.
Entertain me.
Tell me something that makes you afraid.
Tell me your deepest fear.
Tell me that one thing, that one tiny, little thing, that scares you into submission.
Confide in me, pray to me, believe in me-and perhaps, just perhaps, that garbage bin you are eyeing, which you checked half a dozen times and found empty of edible food might contain something you haven't found yet.
[X] Write-In
But know this, miserable worm.
Know this, pathetic bag of flesh and bones.
Though you may think there is a way out of here, a way out of this cold, dark place where you stand forgotten and alone, in the end you belong to me.
Dust to Dust.
Ashes to Ashes.
And rotten meat in the garbage bin.
AN: Hello! Welcome to Shade-Chan's magical quest of friendship and magic! This quest is...a bit different from the usual quests. First off, majority vote is meaningless in Write-IN options. You got that right! Majority vote is truly meaningless! Here is what we're going to do:
The pathos of the World of Darkness isn't pretty. It's never been, never will be. So, the more an answer feels appropriate to it, the more it feels correct, the more the chances are it's going to be taken as valid. Course, if everyone gives the option "Hug the Vampire Elder clearly in need of hugs." Then I'm going to write a Dramatic Failure response instead. Because here's the peculiarity of this game.
I am not a merciful god.
You will probably die.
But here's the thing.
It won't matter one bit.
Or perhaps it might? Who knows?
...
You know what? Play the game, seek to uncover the mystery, and know this:
This is the only AN or explanation that will ever be given throughout the entire game. Nothing else, no matter how much you ask, will be delivered.
Good luck, players.
For my mind is a dark place...
Last edited:
Maragas
Nothing to see here.
- Location
- Tree House
[X] A man. Weary. Old. Leathery skin and pain.
[X] Unimportant
[jk] Fluff ! Cuteness ! Happiness !
[X] Being powerless,After all.If you can't make a lemonade it doesn't matter if life gives all the lemons to you.
Let's play as an Old man (Totally not Zouken from Fate) who tried his hardest in his life,but couldn't make that lemonade.Maybe unlife would be more lucky or even a Magical Life (if we aren't a vampire )
[X] Unimportant
[jk] Fluff ! Cuteness ! Happiness !
[X] Being powerless,After all.If you can't make a lemonade it doesn't matter if life gives all the lemons to you.
Let's play as an Old man (Totally not Zouken from Fate) who tried his hardest in his life,but couldn't make that lemonade.Maybe unlife would be more lucky or even a Magical Life (if we aren't a vampire )
Last edited:
- Location
- nowhere
[X] A lost child, forever lost in his dreams.
[X] Forgotten
[X] The wrath of the writer. to truly comprehend this world is to see the evidence of his existence. see his hand behind the simplest of things to the most Machiavellian of schemes. know that his anger would be great and terrible, and pray that his coffee flow freely, and fluff be eternal.
[X] Forgotten
[X] The wrath of the writer. to truly comprehend this world is to see the evidence of his existence. see his hand behind the simplest of things to the most Machiavellian of schemes. know that his anger would be great and terrible, and pray that his coffee flow freely, and fluff be eternal.
Last edited:
- Location
- Québec
[X] A lost child, forever lost in his dreams.
[X] Forgotten
[X] The agony of silent darkness, of ignorance. Man fears the unknown; would a child not fear the unknowable? / The Curse of Sisyphus; to see your work, your actions, be for naught.
Child protagonist FTW, because Break the Cutie. And, well...
There is a delightful beauty in having an earnest child commit unforgivable sins.
Now, bring forth the angst~
[X] Forgotten
[X] The agony of silent darkness, of ignorance. Man fears the unknown; would a child not fear the unknowable? / The Curse of Sisyphus; to see your work, your actions, be for naught.
Child protagonist FTW, because Break the Cutie. And, well...
There is a delightful beauty in having an earnest child commit unforgivable sins.
Now, bring forth the angst~
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CaesriusPolybius
Worldgate Mechanic
- Location
- United States. Ish.
[X] A man. Weary. Old. Leathery skin and pain.
[X] Unimportant
[X] Loss of Agency.
[X] Unimportant
[X] Loss of Agency.
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Mockingly-Tricky
Ketchup Enthusiast
- Location
- Happy Funtime Candyland
I need an adult.
[X] A man. Weary. Old. Leathery skin and pain.
[X] Unnecessary
[X] To lose control and watch myself cross boundaries I made to keep others safe.
[X] Unnecessary
[X] To lose control and watch myself cross boundaries I made to keep others safe.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
There are no adults here, only burning babies and love. Love.
Random Member
Gardener of Human Happiness
- Location
- Behind You
[X] A lost child, forever lost in his dreams.
[X] Forgotten
[X] The agony of silent darkness, of ignorance. Man fears the unknown; would a child not fear the unknowable? / The Curse of Sisyphus; to see your work, your actions, be for naught.
[X] Forgotten
[X] The agony of silent darkness, of ignorance. Man fears the unknown; would a child not fear the unknowable? / The Curse of Sisyphus; to see your work, your actions, be for naught.
[X] A lost child, forever lost in his dreams.
[X] Forgotten
[X] The wrath of the writer. to truly comprehend this world is to see the evidence of his existence. see his hand behind the simplest of things to the most Machiavellian of schemes. know that his anger would be great and terrible, and pray that his coffee flow freely, and fluff be eternal.
[X] Forgotten
[X] The wrath of the writer. to truly comprehend this world is to see the evidence of his existence. see his hand behind the simplest of things to the most Machiavellian of schemes. know that his anger would be great and terrible, and pray that his coffee flow freely, and fluff be eternal.
Sic transit tyrannus, vox populi, vox dei.
- Location
- https://discord.gg/z9tBvbh
Sic transit tyrannus, vox populi, vox dei.
Youth intermingles with pain, a young man, barely out of his home. Barely an adult, who dreamed to see the world. Did you enjoy it, I wonder? Did you enjoy the world that took your dreams and crushed them, ground them under its soles until they were nothing but ashes, and fed them to the wolves of spite and coy smiles?
Tell me, young man, tell me, young, pathetic, sniveling worthless mortal barely a snot on the nose of a mocking child-do you feel like you made it?
As your cold, grasping senses die one after the other, as your breathing hitches and your heart trembles in fear and sheer sadness, as grief and depression cling your soul like a mantle of darkness...
Do you feel like you made it? A blazing sun, a thundering inferno, an orchestra that sings your hymn-
Here he comes! Here he comes! Your name, forgotten. The ice, the cold, the hunger-everything, even the sickness if you have one...even that took it away from you!
You have nothing, because you are nothing.
You are nothing more than a burning mass of cells devoid of greater purpose, of greater understanding.
And thus you will die alone, a gnat in the corner of a street to found on and pitied by the folly of creatures that care nothing for the invisible suffering of the living...but will write hymns and compose poetry for a dead young boy in the prime of his youth, forgotten by all until the moment he croaks.
You live in a world that venerates death, Forgotten.
You live in a world where the dead receive higher praise than the living. You live in a world of pain and misery that is happily ignored by those pathetic living beings that bleed and snivel and go about their daily lives thinking they have reason, they have purpose-but you know better.
You know better.
And you see it, in your agonizing throbs of death, you see the clicking of mechanisms and the whirring of cogs. You see the God that I am snap eyes and thundering fingers, you see the purpose behind the project, or perhaps you glimpse at a blueprint of something forgotten, unknown-of something that has long since been part of plans greater than you will ever be.
And as you die, as you exhale your last, pitiful throbs in a world that does not care, something awakens.
"Oh you poor little thing," a sweet saccharine voice. You thought your life would be over, but it won't be.
No indeed, for you have not forgotten so soon, I hope, the truth of this world of darkness that you live in.
I am not a merciful god.
Chapter One. In a world without chapters, he who holds the ink is god.
The warmth of a bed is a foreign, alien sensation. For someone as pitiful as yourself, only the cold dirt of the asphalt might suffice. You deserve to choke on the gas exhaust of cars, you deserve to suffer untold misery and pain for everything you are, you do not deserve the warmth of a bed, the softness of a pillow, the beauty of a ceiling that holds back the water and the strength of walls that keep you safe and the howling winds outside in check.
For outside a hurricane is brewing, but the water can do nothing against the tempered glass of this apartment.
A figure, silent and unquestioning, stands at the end of the bed you are inhabiting. A butler, like one of those old movies, lingers there in wait. He says not a word as his eyes fix you, and you say none, pathetically trying to make your brain work, for in countless minutes of awkward silence, nothing comes to your mind of worth.
Or is there?
Is there perhaps something your cracked voice would like to ask? Is there something your unworthy self would like to obtain? Are you so selfish, you pitiful spawn of Adam and Eve, that you seek something from a stranger when you should instead prostrate yourself at his feet, and kiss the ground he walks on for if you live, if you are alive now, you owe it to this man?
Well, sniveling excuse of a man, what is your answer?
[X] Write-In
Youth intermingles with pain, a young man, barely out of his home. Barely an adult, who dreamed to see the world. Did you enjoy it, I wonder? Did you enjoy the world that took your dreams and crushed them, ground them under its soles until they were nothing but ashes, and fed them to the wolves of spite and coy smiles?
Tell me, young man, tell me, young, pathetic, sniveling worthless mortal barely a snot on the nose of a mocking child-do you feel like you made it?
As your cold, grasping senses die one after the other, as your breathing hitches and your heart trembles in fear and sheer sadness, as grief and depression cling your soul like a mantle of darkness...
Do you feel like you made it? A blazing sun, a thundering inferno, an orchestra that sings your hymn-
Here he comes! Here he comes! Your name, forgotten. The ice, the cold, the hunger-everything, even the sickness if you have one...even that took it away from you!
You have nothing, because you are nothing.
You are nothing more than a burning mass of cells devoid of greater purpose, of greater understanding.
And thus you will die alone, a gnat in the corner of a street to found on and pitied by the folly of creatures that care nothing for the invisible suffering of the living...but will write hymns and compose poetry for a dead young boy in the prime of his youth, forgotten by all until the moment he croaks.
You live in a world that venerates death, Forgotten.
You live in a world where the dead receive higher praise than the living. You live in a world of pain and misery that is happily ignored by those pathetic living beings that bleed and snivel and go about their daily lives thinking they have reason, they have purpose-but you know better.
You know better.
And you see it, in your agonizing throbs of death, you see the clicking of mechanisms and the whirring of cogs. You see the God that I am snap eyes and thundering fingers, you see the purpose behind the project, or perhaps you glimpse at a blueprint of something forgotten, unknown-of something that has long since been part of plans greater than you will ever be.
And as you die, as you exhale your last, pitiful throbs in a world that does not care, something awakens.
"Oh you poor little thing," a sweet saccharine voice. You thought your life would be over, but it won't be.
No indeed, for you have not forgotten so soon, I hope, the truth of this world of darkness that you live in.
I am not a merciful god.
The warmth of a bed is a foreign, alien sensation. For someone as pitiful as yourself, only the cold dirt of the asphalt might suffice. You deserve to choke on the gas exhaust of cars, you deserve to suffer untold misery and pain for everything you are, you do not deserve the warmth of a bed, the softness of a pillow, the beauty of a ceiling that holds back the water and the strength of walls that keep you safe and the howling winds outside in check.
For outside a hurricane is brewing, but the water can do nothing against the tempered glass of this apartment.
A figure, silent and unquestioning, stands at the end of the bed you are inhabiting. A butler, like one of those old movies, lingers there in wait. He says not a word as his eyes fix you, and you say none, pathetically trying to make your brain work, for in countless minutes of awkward silence, nothing comes to your mind of worth.
Or is there?
Is there perhaps something your cracked voice would like to ask? Is there something your unworthy self would like to obtain? Are you so selfish, you pitiful spawn of Adam and Eve, that you seek something from a stranger when you should instead prostrate yourself at his feet, and kiss the ground he walks on for if you live, if you are alive now, you owe it to this man?
Well, sniveling excuse of a man, what is your answer?
[X] Write-In
[X] "In that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil." Where am I?
In case it is not clear the first sentence is supposed to be a quote that the protagonist says to himself while the second sentence is a question directed at the butler. I would like our character to be fond of using quotes from Shakespeare and other noted authors. This is a character type which I really enjoy but is badly underrepresented.
In case it is not clear the first sentence is supposed to be a quote that the protagonist says to himself while the second sentence is a question directed at the butler. I would like our character to be fond of using quotes from Shakespeare and other noted authors. This is a character type which I really enjoy but is badly underrepresented.
- Location
- Québec
[X] His name, our location and perhaps a glass of water?
Shade is really laying it on with the narration.
EDIT:
[X] "In that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil." Where am I?
Eh, seems good. A bit tongue in cheek too, considering the God Writer.
Shade is really laying it on with the narration.
EDIT:
[X] "In that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil." Where am I?
Eh, seems good. A bit tongue in cheek too, considering the God Writer.
Last edited:
CaesriusPolybius
Worldgate Mechanic
- Location
- United States. Ish.
[X] "In that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil." Where am I?
(Following Ct613hulu's post and actions, if it's unclear)
Eh, why not.
(Following Ct613hulu's post and actions, if it's unclear)
Eh, why not.
Last edited:
CaesriusPolybius
Worldgate Mechanic
- Location
- United States. Ish.
Really? With his writing speed, him and quests seem like a match made in Melbourne...
- Location
- Vestiges of Yesterday
You can scan the archive of all his threads. The quests are started, abandoned, restarted anew or returned after a time - if the finicky muse allows it - only to be abandoned again.
No, Shade, I will not forgive you for muh precious Welcome to Hogwarts Quest. This grudge will never ever go away! Ever.
Shade doesn't finish quests.
EvilPorygon
Cookie Monster
- Location
- a phone
[X] "In that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil." Where am I?
Beneath the princely smile, lies the eldritch horror with a thousand barbed hooks dipped in an inkpot woven out of human veins.
Beneath the princely smile, lies the eldritch horror with a thousand barbed hooks dipped in an inkpot woven out of human veins.
Thee are pathetic, know thyself to know thee place.
- Location
- https://discord.gg/z9tBvbh
Thee are pathetic, know thyself to know thee place.
"In that sleep of death," your words slip out of your tongue like ash, and like ash they disperse into the air unworthy of anything but a swift swiping away, a pathetic annoyance, which must be removed by a firm action. Did you think yourself a poet? It is enough if you are spit on the side of the street, or yellow snow trudged on by dogs in need. You have no right to breathe, so why are you trying to talk like you mean it?
Do you not understand your place yet? Are you trying to achieve something here? My word is law, yours-at most it is merely a passing fancy. You don't even know yourself, so how dare you think you have rights, wishes, desires?
"Where am I?" the question you ask could have been just as well an insult, for the butler stares at you with a scowl and a visage that means that you are an unpleasant presence, a disgusting wretch, a shell of a man unworthy of even the basic decency of kindness.
"You are," his voice is rich, cultured. He is a hundred times the man you will never be, a thousand times the human being you are unworthy to as much as touch. How does it feel to be pathetic? How does it feel to be such a disgusting and unworthy creature? "in the house of Mistress Miranda LaFaix, in Shellington High," what is the name that reeks of high-class? What is the place that stinks of rich obnoxious gold and luxurious items? Why are you here? A passing fancy, a forgotten debt, an IOU from organizations best left unmentioned?
Yet you dare ask more than your worth, "A...glass of water," you speak with a croaked voice, a torn throat that belongs to the realm of suffering and pain, an agony of a hundred tiny pins into your flesh. Yet, for your pain, some sort of gift was left into the flesh that you possess. A warmth that makes your stomach less willing to die on you, a strength that reeks of the unholy will of a creature far more great than you will ever be.
You do not know this, pathetic mortal, but you have been blessed with a curse, or cursed with a blessing.
"Please," you add, as if your pitiful pleading skills needed to be used, or else they'd rust. How many times did you plead for spare change from people who trudged on the street ignoring you? How many times have you smiled at the sight of single, dirty coins that in your youth you squandered inside arcade shops? Did you think yourself happy by the sight of a mere penny? Now is a glass of water worthy of your eternal gratitude? Let us not kid ourselves. You'd sell your soul for a penny, would you not?
How does it feel to be such a sniveling mass of worthless flesh?
And if you think I will let you go, if you think I will let you enjoy your life-then know this.
I am not a merciful god.
And you are my toy and mine alone.
The glass of water arrives in a dark glass, the color of the night. As you sip it, the taste is bliss. This is not normal water, it cannot be. Perhaps liquid heroin was added, perhaps cocaine. Perhaps amphetamine-LSD, things that you have tried, things that you've been forced to try-and yet, with each passing second, you drain the contents with the sheer delight of a man that was about to die, and yet has stopped. A man that has stopped not because he sees the light, but because a cold, cadaver hand clasps his heart and squeezes firmly, holding it even as his veins struggle and rip from his flesh and nerves with unquestionable pain.
You thought your torments over, but think again.
We are merely beginning.
"The mistress will speak to you tomorrow night," the butler says. "You may visit the apartment as you please," he adds. "For breakfast, what do you prefer?"
A question. A question for you. A question meant for someone worthy of being asked questions.
You feel yourself famished, you feel as if another glass of that delicious water would make you the happiest man on earth, and yet, even as your tongue savors the passing aftertaste, you find yourself in desire of mere mortal needs.
What is it then, that your traitorous organs desire on this morning marked by a tempest that makes you wish only to stay inside, to not venture out into the city? What is it that your body, dressed in simple, grey and dark red clothes of a pajama that reeks and oozes money, desires? Come on, tell it to me.
Tell me what you seek.
[X] The breakfast of a mother that never loved you.
[X] The dull chew of the army that spit you out without even giving you a chance.
[X] The sickening remains found in garbage bins, for that is your worth, and that is what you should eat.
[X] The taste of platters long forgotten, of a good night, of a holy night.
[X] Nothing. No, less than nothing. Purge yourself, suffer-and be purged in turn.
[X] [Write-In]
"In that sleep of death," your words slip out of your tongue like ash, and like ash they disperse into the air unworthy of anything but a swift swiping away, a pathetic annoyance, which must be removed by a firm action. Did you think yourself a poet? It is enough if you are spit on the side of the street, or yellow snow trudged on by dogs in need. You have no right to breathe, so why are you trying to talk like you mean it?
Do you not understand your place yet? Are you trying to achieve something here? My word is law, yours-at most it is merely a passing fancy. You don't even know yourself, so how dare you think you have rights, wishes, desires?
"Where am I?" the question you ask could have been just as well an insult, for the butler stares at you with a scowl and a visage that means that you are an unpleasant presence, a disgusting wretch, a shell of a man unworthy of even the basic decency of kindness.
"You are," his voice is rich, cultured. He is a hundred times the man you will never be, a thousand times the human being you are unworthy to as much as touch. How does it feel to be pathetic? How does it feel to be such a disgusting and unworthy creature? "in the house of Mistress Miranda LaFaix, in Shellington High," what is the name that reeks of high-class? What is the place that stinks of rich obnoxious gold and luxurious items? Why are you here? A passing fancy, a forgotten debt, an IOU from organizations best left unmentioned?
Yet you dare ask more than your worth, "A...glass of water," you speak with a croaked voice, a torn throat that belongs to the realm of suffering and pain, an agony of a hundred tiny pins into your flesh. Yet, for your pain, some sort of gift was left into the flesh that you possess. A warmth that makes your stomach less willing to die on you, a strength that reeks of the unholy will of a creature far more great than you will ever be.
You do not know this, pathetic mortal, but you have been blessed with a curse, or cursed with a blessing.
"Please," you add, as if your pitiful pleading skills needed to be used, or else they'd rust. How many times did you plead for spare change from people who trudged on the street ignoring you? How many times have you smiled at the sight of single, dirty coins that in your youth you squandered inside arcade shops? Did you think yourself happy by the sight of a mere penny? Now is a glass of water worthy of your eternal gratitude? Let us not kid ourselves. You'd sell your soul for a penny, would you not?
How does it feel to be such a sniveling mass of worthless flesh?
And if you think I will let you go, if you think I will let you enjoy your life-then know this.
I am not a merciful god.
And you are my toy and mine alone.
The glass of water arrives in a dark glass, the color of the night. As you sip it, the taste is bliss. This is not normal water, it cannot be. Perhaps liquid heroin was added, perhaps cocaine. Perhaps amphetamine-LSD, things that you have tried, things that you've been forced to try-and yet, with each passing second, you drain the contents with the sheer delight of a man that was about to die, and yet has stopped. A man that has stopped not because he sees the light, but because a cold, cadaver hand clasps his heart and squeezes firmly, holding it even as his veins struggle and rip from his flesh and nerves with unquestionable pain.
You thought your torments over, but think again.
We are merely beginning.
"The mistress will speak to you tomorrow night," the butler says. "You may visit the apartment as you please," he adds. "For breakfast, what do you prefer?"
A question. A question for you. A question meant for someone worthy of being asked questions.
You feel yourself famished, you feel as if another glass of that delicious water would make you the happiest man on earth, and yet, even as your tongue savors the passing aftertaste, you find yourself in desire of mere mortal needs.
What is it then, that your traitorous organs desire on this morning marked by a tempest that makes you wish only to stay inside, to not venture out into the city? What is it that your body, dressed in simple, grey and dark red clothes of a pajama that reeks and oozes money, desires? Come on, tell it to me.
Tell me what you seek.
[X] The breakfast of a mother that never loved you.
[X] The dull chew of the army that spit you out without even giving you a chance.
[X] The sickening remains found in garbage bins, for that is your worth, and that is what you should eat.
[X] The taste of platters long forgotten, of a good night, of a holy night.
[X] Nothing. No, less than nothing. Purge yourself, suffer-and be purged in turn.
[X] [Write-In]