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(ooc: totally his first post on the other game two LOLONETRICKHORSE)
Beloved Reader, I've a puzzling tale to tell you.
Imagine that you find yourself on the brink of death, and all the putridness that this may imply. Your body is broken; you can feel it consuming itself out of starvation, and it is covered in welt and open wound, and finally in excrement, as you haven't the strength to stand and clean yourself, or find some corner with which to deposit your relief. The stench is terrible. You might plead with your captors for assistance, but you haven't a tongue with which to speak, just an aching emptiness, the feel of a hard stump somewhere toward the back of your throat where that appendage once began and should have stretched onward. No, the only thing pressing against the back of your teeth is a hard wad of linen, forced there to catch the blood that still threatens to choke you.
Can you perceive that agony, reader?
Beautiful, no? I have written of many horrors, disclosed them to you unabashedly, but my conception of torture has never been so vividly outshined.
Your final hour approaches, and it is not the guard that comes to you now, possibly hoping for your expiration, that your body may be disposed of. It is a friend, one whose bonds with you have been tried unforgivably in the recent weeks, one whose hands had provided much of the punishments you have endured, all of which brought you to this state.
Could one blame you, reader, for rejecting his prayers for you? Prayers that felt false not in his sincerity -- though you wish they had been, as it is so much easier to dismiss a person if in your last moments of pure helplessness your anger remains hard -- but false in the sense that the only people who hear them are the two of you.
There is no God. He professes now that no human being is exempt of divine mercy, of passage into paradise, and yet here you lie, in the lowest caverns of Hell, and you wonder why the man's convictions can run so steadfastly to God, but no defense arose when you were still yet clothed and healthy and safe, before his betrayal broke you.
Would you do as I have done, reader? He offered his rosary to me to kiss in acquiescence, and I consumed it, though his fingers pried at my teeth, I permitted the hard metals to slide down, lodge sharply in my throat -- I could feel it puncturing even as that final moment arrived.
I wish I could profess with full honesty that it was my greatest victory, but none in my state could have done better.
Here lies my confusion, reader: This surely would bode the end of a story and not the beginning, oui? It is with this, encased in vivid personal recollection, that I put my quill to paper now, coming to the slow but confusing realization that while this surely happened, your faithful author continues to exist, continues to write, and continues to be who he always has been.
The afterlife? Perhaps. Heaven or Hell? Hardly. Though this was not to be expected, there is still no God or Devil to be found, and that satisfies me. Nature suffices unto herself without need of a creator -- although this turn is most definitely not one I thought Her capable of.
-MDS
Beloved Reader, I've a puzzling tale to tell you.
Imagine that you find yourself on the brink of death, and all the putridness that this may imply. Your body is broken; you can feel it consuming itself out of starvation, and it is covered in welt and open wound, and finally in excrement, as you haven't the strength to stand and clean yourself, or find some corner with which to deposit your relief. The stench is terrible. You might plead with your captors for assistance, but you haven't a tongue with which to speak, just an aching emptiness, the feel of a hard stump somewhere toward the back of your throat where that appendage once began and should have stretched onward. No, the only thing pressing against the back of your teeth is a hard wad of linen, forced there to catch the blood that still threatens to choke you.
Can you perceive that agony, reader?
Beautiful, no? I have written of many horrors, disclosed them to you unabashedly, but my conception of torture has never been so vividly outshined.
Your final hour approaches, and it is not the guard that comes to you now, possibly hoping for your expiration, that your body may be disposed of. It is a friend, one whose bonds with you have been tried unforgivably in the recent weeks, one whose hands had provided much of the punishments you have endured, all of which brought you to this state.
Could one blame you, reader, for rejecting his prayers for you? Prayers that felt false not in his sincerity -- though you wish they had been, as it is so much easier to dismiss a person if in your last moments of pure helplessness your anger remains hard -- but false in the sense that the only people who hear them are the two of you.
There is no God. He professes now that no human being is exempt of divine mercy, of passage into paradise, and yet here you lie, in the lowest caverns of Hell, and you wonder why the man's convictions can run so steadfastly to God, but no defense arose when you were still yet clothed and healthy and safe, before his betrayal broke you.
Would you do as I have done, reader? He offered his rosary to me to kiss in acquiescence, and I consumed it, though his fingers pried at my teeth, I permitted the hard metals to slide down, lodge sharply in my throat -- I could feel it puncturing even as that final moment arrived.
I wish I could profess with full honesty that it was my greatest victory, but none in my state could have done better.
Here lies my confusion, reader: This surely would bode the end of a story and not the beginning, oui? It is with this, encased in vivid personal recollection, that I put my quill to paper now, coming to the slow but confusing realization that while this surely happened, your faithful author continues to exist, continues to write, and continues to be who he always has been.
The afterlife? Perhaps. Heaven or Hell? Hardly. Though this was not to be expected, there is still no God or Devil to be found, and that satisfies me. Nature suffices unto herself without need of a creator -- although this turn is most definitely not one I thought Her capable of.
-MDS