And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty
death
Virtrioll - May 16, 2006
" I am in blood
Stepped in so far that, should I wade no more,
Returning were as tedious as go o'er. "
Macbeth, 3. 4.
It was late, the commons area of the grim guildhall was
enshrouded in an oppressive darkness, one that consumed
everything save a few bastions of light in the form of flickering
torches that rebelled futilely against the encroaching shadows.
Vitrioll made his way into the silent room with his head held
low, the expression on his face one of distraction and tortured
frustration. He was glad to be alone for once, he didnt want to
face the other members of the grim when he was like this... they
would think him weak.. unworthy of the title he had worked so
hard to attain.
Finding a comfortable chair he fell lifelessly into it's soft
folds and remained motionless for a long time, staring at the
opposite wall waging mental battles against the demons of his
past. After a long while his hand moved, slipping into the pack
he had dropped next to him to produce a familiar tube. The long
flexible thing was painful to use and annoying to explain to
others, however; for all the frustration it brought him , the few
moments of drunken bliss it allowed were more than worth it.
Having the particular "handicap" that he did made imbibing
anything nearly impossible, but he was clever when it came to
indulging his earthly pleasures and neccessity is the mother of
invention.
Affixing the tube to his esophagus, he produced a rather large
jug full of black liquid and began to pour it into the tube...
Vitrioll woke with a start.
Everything around him was black and for a moment he feared his
sight gone, but he soon saw the fading glow of torch embers and
chided himself for a fool. "Once again, darkness has triumphed
over the light.." he thought, beginning to wax philisophical but
shook his head to try and focus on tasks ahead of him. A mistake
he instantly regretted making as the shaking of his head awoke a
hangover of particularly intense ferocity, like a trog with a new
club the pain beat tormentingly on his brow with painful
regularity. Staggering to his feet Vitrioll grabbed his pack and
stumbled out of the guild hall, slamming the heavy ironwood door
behind him.
In the commons room of the guildhall the last of the embers died
out with the coming of the dawn,through dirty and broken windows
the first dim hints of the morning sun illuminated the area. The
room unchanged, save for a slight tumult where the most
comfortable chair present had been knocked onto it's back, a jug
of some sort of ichor that had been carelessly discarded , and
what looked like a book that lay forgotten upon the ground. Upon
closer inspection one would notice that the book was either new,
or has been meticulously taken care of, the red leather cover
oiled and kept soft, the pages crisp though yellowing slightly
with time, and the gold leaf of the lettering on the cover
glinting brightly without defect. Upon the cover each word was
written with extensive calligraphic dexterity and skill, all in
pure gold leaf taking care to pen even the slightest of lines.
The cover text read as follows:
"And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty
death."
and beneith that, at the bottom of the cover, a single name:
"Vitrioll"
The book had no latch or lock, and were it to be opened the pages
would read as follows, each word written in the same elaborate
style as the cover.:
As my status among the brotherhood of shadewalkers grows, so grow
the numbers of my enemies. This being the case, it becomes
painfully obvious that my anonymity has been compromised. It may
be that my days existing as a forsaken are numbered.
Let it be so, I welcome the freedom from this curse of undeath.
And yet a lingering feeling of dread clings viscously to my
heart. More and more I find myself dwelling on past events,
exploits of a life long since abandoned (by necessity). My
dreams, haunted tirelessly by ghosts of my past, plagued by
etherial wraiths that delight in the suffereing that only a
history of regret can bring. Lack of sleep sowing seeds of
fetigue, nearly falling in battle twice in so many weeks. It is
only through quick wit, force of will, and sheer luck that i
survive to write this.
Sensing my end draws near, i realize that nothing of my legacy
will survive my passing into the next world. And so i write this
journal, an autobiography of my past, a validation of the reality
of my existance in this world.
A world that would rather see me forgotten for what I have
become.
I suppose that the best place to start would be a place that i
have not returned to since leaving it so long ago, a place i
shudder to return to even now, my childhood home......