Revisionist Diaries developmental fiction -- Skinthief
Excerpt from an anonymous diary, found on an unidentified corpse.
Old Mercy has finally granted me one of his finest gifts. Today I wore the skin of another man for the first time, and words cannot express the joy I felt as my soul, my consciousness blended with his. Like an innocent and tender youth I felt again, in the hands of that beautiful whore in Paris, surrendering myself to knowledge that I could only attain in fevered dreams. I'd thought of stealing skin as uncomfortable, as being two souls wedged into one too-small vessel, but it was far, far from the excruciating sensation I predicted. No, instead it was... exquisite. I doubt in all my life I will ever find the words to explain it.
I took him quickly; he was a mere Limey footman and an inept one, likely some untrained replacement. His throat fairly sang for my touch, and I was as gentle as a mother with her babe as I wrapped my fingers around that delicate column and drew across my fingertalons. The poison and the shock was too much, I fear, and he gurgled to his demise oh so quickly. It was all I could do to keep his body from making a sound as he slumped. And it was only then, when I cradled his corpse in my arms to keep him from crashing to the ground, that I felt the tingle of... of magic. It pulled at the nape of my neck, like a string drawn from my spine out through my mouth, and I felt as though I were melting, oozing...
And I saw the world through his eyes, not my own. His inexperience, his fear, coupled with my own consciousness, a strange duality of well-trained killer and unblooded youth. It was all I could do not to laugh in his voice as I continued his rounds, passing his comrades, trusting the remnants of his spirit and will to form the proper salute and words. Hearing foreign words spill from lips that felt like my own was disorienting, to say the least, but it was surprisingly easy to play off. The camouflage was almost complete, but I think I betrayed myself with a few of the youth's closer friends. They gave me strange, uneasy glances as I sat with them at evening mess, but said nothing.
That night was the most glorious of all. A wolf sleeping amongst sheep, I waited until the shadows were at their longest before I struck, my dagger laid over with venom and my heart full of ice-cold malice. One by one I stained their sheets with lifeblood, my revelry silent and slow as I crept from bunk to bunk. How dare these fat British bastards lie so comfortably beneath their thick blankets, while my brothers-at-arms lie freezing in the winter fields and forests? How dare they enjoy a meal of meat while my comrades squabble over potatoes and stones? Their spilling blood justified every sacrifice I have seen made in the name of the Reich, and I longed to coat my hands and face in the stinking gore of these English pigs, but instead I knew I must lie in my bunk again, reluctantly giving this body up to the slaughter that I'd created, seamlessly becoming part of the charnel-house scenery. Not a one who saw this tableau come morning would expect that the massacre had come from within. No, no, they would stand with their hands on their hips, the British men, hemming and hawing and cursing unseen enemies that slink in the night, mourning the loss of their comrades, never suspecting that the fresh-faced young buck who lies with a slit throat and the bitter stink of almonds rising from his corpse could have ever acted in such glacial blood.
An excerpt from the backstory for Revisionist Diaries, about a Skinthief stealing the body of a young English infantryman, and wreaking havoc within the British camp near Bastogne. I'll probably use part of this in the game manual, or somewhere in the promotional materials, along with similar snippets for each of the other character classes.
Old Mercy has finally granted me one of his finest gifts. Today I wore the skin of another man for the first time, and words cannot express the joy I felt as my soul, my consciousness blended with his. Like an innocent and tender youth I felt again, in the hands of that beautiful whore in Paris, surrendering myself to knowledge that I could only attain in fevered dreams. I'd thought of stealing skin as uncomfortable, as being two souls wedged into one too-small vessel, but it was far, far from the excruciating sensation I predicted. No, instead it was... exquisite. I doubt in all my life I will ever find the words to explain it.
I took him quickly; he was a mere Limey footman and an inept one, likely some untrained replacement. His throat fairly sang for my touch, and I was as gentle as a mother with her babe as I wrapped my fingers around that delicate column and drew across my fingertalons. The poison and the shock was too much, I fear, and he gurgled to his demise oh so quickly. It was all I could do to keep his body from making a sound as he slumped. And it was only then, when I cradled his corpse in my arms to keep him from crashing to the ground, that I felt the tingle of... of magic. It pulled at the nape of my neck, like a string drawn from my spine out through my mouth, and I felt as though I were melting, oozing...
And I saw the world through his eyes, not my own. His inexperience, his fear, coupled with my own consciousness, a strange duality of well-trained killer and unblooded youth. It was all I could do not to laugh in his voice as I continued his rounds, passing his comrades, trusting the remnants of his spirit and will to form the proper salute and words. Hearing foreign words spill from lips that felt like my own was disorienting, to say the least, but it was surprisingly easy to play off. The camouflage was almost complete, but I think I betrayed myself with a few of the youth's closer friends. They gave me strange, uneasy glances as I sat with them at evening mess, but said nothing.
That night was the most glorious of all. A wolf sleeping amongst sheep, I waited until the shadows were at their longest before I struck, my dagger laid over with venom and my heart full of ice-cold malice. One by one I stained their sheets with lifeblood, my revelry silent and slow as I crept from bunk to bunk. How dare these fat British bastards lie so comfortably beneath their thick blankets, while my brothers-at-arms lie freezing in the winter fields and forests? How dare they enjoy a meal of meat while my comrades squabble over potatoes and stones? Their spilling blood justified every sacrifice I have seen made in the name of the Reich, and I longed to coat my hands and face in the stinking gore of these English pigs, but instead I knew I must lie in my bunk again, reluctantly giving this body up to the slaughter that I'd created, seamlessly becoming part of the charnel-house scenery. Not a one who saw this tableau come morning would expect that the massacre had come from within. No, no, they would stand with their hands on their hips, the British men, hemming and hawing and cursing unseen enemies that slink in the night, mourning the loss of their comrades, never suspecting that the fresh-faced young buck who lies with a slit throat and the bitter stink of almonds rising from his corpse could have ever acted in such glacial blood.
An excerpt from the backstory for Revisionist Diaries, about a Skinthief stealing the body of a young English infantryman, and wreaking havoc within the British camp near Bastogne. I'll probably use part of this in the game manual, or somewhere in the promotional materials, along with similar snippets for each of the other character classes.