As I was visiting my late Uncle Malak's remains, I found betwixt his
branches a sheet of paper, and a story inscribed upon them. I do not
know the story, or it's whereabouts, or even how it was written, but it
is here, and I have decided to post it upon these boards in his stead,
as I am sure he would certainly want to post it.


-- "You okay, man? Look a little down on your luck." The tongue flickers
out of Exalus' mouth as he finishes speaking. It swipes across the top
of his lip, delivering a stray bit of bread to his cavernous maw. He
brings the rest of the bread to his mouth and chews on it
absentmindedly, watching my reactions.
I smiled. I wasn't feeling too bad at all. In fact, things couldn't have
been going better for me. I had a lot of options opening up left and
right in the city and the guild, and my relationship was steadily rising
to it's peak.I shake my head at him, the braids rolling across my back
as I do so. "Things couldn't be better, my friend. I was just about to
run a few errands, so maybe that's what you're seeing!"
We laugh together for a minute, knowing that errands were extremely
boring. Y'know, the kind that you do when you fetch umbrellas for the
idiot up in the northeastern section of Ashtan, or hoods for the
executioner who constantly loses his. Stupid stuff. Tedious.
"Dont' mind if I keep you for a few minutes, do you? Get kinda bored all
by myself.. Well, me and ol' Zarathustra." Exalus slaps the foot of the
gigantic statue of Zarathustra that stands at his side, and begins to
rummage through his pack. After a second of searching, he yanks out a
pipe and a few sprigs of brownish colored weed. Likewise, I pull out a
pipe from my pack as well, and he hands me a sprig, which I promptly
stuff into my pipe.
"This junk's from back in the day. Y'know, with the Legion and all. Good
times." Exalus follows suit, and stuff his sprig into his pipe. I
remember those days. I thought back then that times couldn't get any
better, and they did, when I joined the Warlocks. And even then, I
didn't think it was possible to get better, yet it still did, when I
found a wonderful mate and position in the world. I am a lucky bastard.
I take a long drag off the pipe and stare down the Parade, towards the
gate. Nothing unusual. Same old thing. Folks moving in and out in the
commute from Ashtan to wherever the hell the people went. A few fellows
were standing around idly, though, doing nothing other than huddling
together and chatting. Still, nothing unusual. I take no note of the
boomerang held steadfastly in the hands of one of the strangers, and the
constant glances in my direction.
Warlocks weren't doing so well in public view lately, and I was getting
a lot of slack from jack asses anyways, so it doesn't mean anything to
me. I sit there and chew the fat with Exalus for a few minutes, sucking
the sweet smoke into my lungs.
"I was thinking about starting up the Taterian Empire's stronghold,
soon. Think I might put it out near Ashtan, overlooking Twilight's
shrine. It's kinda pretty, with the-"I stop talking, because the air is
shoved out of my lungs. It takes a moment to register just what's going
on, but by then, I'm already halfway across the Parade, and I notice
that Exalus is staring in awe in my wake. I look down to see the
boomerang pulling me back. Must have lost my breath with the impact.
Still, as I travel towards the pack of people, my mind has trouble
grasping exactly what's happening, and my breath is still wandering
mindlessly outside of my body. I watch the mighty gates of Ashtan flash
by and then crash into the ground as the boomerang returns to it's
owner, who stares malevolently down at my sprawled form. Three others
stand there, as well, weapons poised. And still, before I realize my
situation, I am pounced upon.
I know the fight isn't going to last very long. I'm not a good fighter.
I resort to kamikaze tactics most of the time, and manage to succeed. I
am a lucky bastard. I feel the webbing cover me. I struggle to get free,
even as I feel the rock-hard fists crush my ribs, the fangs sink into my
head and make my body stiffen, the swords dig into my flesh. Somehow I
manage to wiggle free, but it is useless as I feel another pair of
swords eviscerate my backside.
It was agony to go through death. I hate to die. I hate to pray for
salvation. The blood slides, boiling, through my veins and out of my
body. Anger. That's all I feel as I begin to pray.I do this out of
habit. This happens all too offten. But for more. How dare these
imbeciles do this to me, for no reason? I will take care of them the
best way I know. As I begin to materialize, my plan is already clear.
A new policy. My blood is so hot that each time my heart pumps, it feels
as though I should burst like a volcano. I hastily pull out quill and
paper, to scribe the messages to my wrongdoers. I had a new policy,
however useless. Someone messes with me for no reason, I harass them for
the next two years. I am the victim.
The messages, they are gory. I make them so. I tell my new initiates
into the policy, that I will molest them. I will enter where even lovers
do not enter, and then I will rip it, and stitch it back together. I
point it out that I will collect the tears in a bucket. I would drink
those tears and that blood.
Welcome to my new policy, I say. As I send the four messages out, my
veins turn cold, the blood cooling, and I am normal once again. I know,
somehow, that I have overstepped my mortal bounds, and I run. I hide
within my guildhall, waiting.
Days later, inevitable, I knew it would happen. I grow stiff.Not unlike
the adverse affects of curare. My body slowly begins to turn from
vibrant pale to earthish brown, from straigh tand slender to gnarled and
stunted. Leaves begin to sprout, sliding up my back, over my head, and
conquer the rest of my body. Hopeless. I rustle.
--Malak Aramar


Signed,
Uiro

Penned by my hand on the 14th of Scarlatan, in the year 320 AF.