Void
Mane
Joined: 27 Nov 2007
Posts: 48
Location: GMT+2
|
 Posted:
Sat Dec 01, 2007 12:56 am |
  |
OOC Note: This text is posted with permission from approaching winter - The player of Tyrus Nightfaith.
It describes an IG occurence (conversation) which may or may not have been preserved as word of mouth.
Around the Outpost, Abyss Knows How Long Ago
Michael, one of the latest arrivals in the Outpost at the time, is a Nephilim of advanced age. He carries a full plated armour onto his wiry frame, and a large wooden shield bearing the painted face of the Ruby Sorceress, the goddess Wee Jas. His gray eyes have sunken in their orbs and his features are locked in a stern expression most of the time. Yet, when he smiles, he smiles like a child.
It is known that the Lost Layer does not feature a believable cycle of day and night. Therefore, if we acknowledge the period of time after Michael wakes up as "morning", we could safely assume that on one such morning he approaches Morticia and asks for a piece of parchment. He then sits in a corner and adjusts a long thorn to an useable writting tool. Michael spends a good few hours writing, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed. Once done, he rolls up the parchment, waves to Billy and hands it over to him together with a piece of cake: "Give this paper to Tyrus when you see him. And here is your breakfast."
Billy grants him his usual boyish smile and scampers off, announcing aloud: "I see dead people!"
"I can see them too, my son. I can see them too ..." Michael whispers after him.
Tyrus,
I told you my story is no story fit for swarmers' caves. Still, I believe none of us will lose anything if I share it with you.
Damian Nathan found me when I was a snotty errand boy in the eight layer of Baator, the frozen wastes of Cania that is. Damian was one of those tireless wizards with numberless friends and enemies, always eager to explore the world and learn new things, carrying an alchemy lab in his backpack and producing the occasional explosion. He called "home" the Candlekeep citadel in Faerun, but he rarely returned to the great library except to bring in the annual file of Automata Weekly for the gnomish engineers, and to start toasts at meetings. He often used an illusory double for the latter. Damian was a typical Faerunian dwarf from The Spine - he had bushy eyebrows, an imposing beard, a love for ale and he followed Moradin. I should admit that if he followed Moradin literally, then Moradin is quite the wanderer because there was hardly a plane which did not know the booming voice of Damian. I grew up as his page, scribe and later on bodyguard. Damian regarded me as his own son and I was a very proud boy indeed. I was "hollier than thou" from sunrize to sunset and back again, and it grew worse as years went by. I would point my finger at others and say, "I will never do what they do because I am better than them." Everyone has a time to be young and stupid, I was both and I followed Damian doing what I thought to be good deeds here and there, and thinking I was divine. Needless to say I worshipped Lathander, or rather - I strongly believed that I did.
Damian never preached on me, never pointed himself or anyone as an example to follow, all my choices were only mine to make. As years went by I - unlike him - grew less enthusiastic, I looked on the world from the lofty height of my knowledge, my purity and my dignity. One day in the Outlands, in the streets of Sigil, my dignity played me a bad joke. I saw a young woman braiding her golden hair on the stairs of the temple of Sune ... I was thirty years old by that time and by then I had not touched a woman, yet the attraction I felt could perhaps move mountains. I saw her a time and again as I passed by that temple untill I finally got over my embarassment, went in and asked the priestess about her. It occured that she was one of those women who sold their body for money, or in short, a prostitute. My dignity and my purity screamed louder than hell and I made up my mind never to look at her again. I left the temple in fury but as I was stepping out in the light a hand held mine. It was her. Marnah.
She soon became my closest friend, open-hearted as she was, benevolent, honest and understanding. She wondered why I would not touch her, and I would say, "Everyone can have your body but only I can have your soul". Marnah laughed, oh how she laughed. We looked on the world from different angles, and she was always willing to listen to me while I often frowned at her ways. Marnah changed. In a few months she wrote me a letter which struck me deeply. In it she said she wanted a child from me, she wanted to settle down and spend the rest of her days with me. My dignity whispered to me that I had saved her soul at last, and I should give her my hand so she will not fall again. I thought that I had achieved a miracle, and my pride grew higher than hope. And so I wed her. Soon, she was an expectant mother. At this point my fate took an unexpected turn and I never saw my child.
Damian had a deep bond with the Holy Warriors of Suffering, the selfless paladins of Ilmater. He often assisted them while he was in Faerun and I joined him as it was a chance to do a good deed, or so my pride spoke. Our last endeavour was in the caves under Myth Drannor. A cult of Bane had settled there and people from the city disappeared every other night only to reappear as undead. Damian and I followed the Holly Warriors to the caves and in the battle to follow everyone died - Damian, the cultists, the paladins, and me.
The story is far not over, indeed, as I live to tell it now.
I woke up alone. I layed breathless, bloodless and undead on the cave floor. The place had imposed its curse on me and Lathander had left me. The people of Myth Drannor had sealed the cave after the accident, but I could not leave it even if the way was not blocked with rocks - there was a magical barrier which held me back. I stood in silence as my flesh was rotting and withering slowly. I heard the voices of those I had met in my life, I realized I had loved myself more than I loved Marnah. I saw the foolishness of my pride, and I saw the vanity of my dignity. Pride and dignity are necessary, yet mine had reached extreme heights and the fall from such height broke me to pieces. Sometimes I was howling for days, sometimes I was silent and chewing on the remnants of my own flesh, but the voices inside never left me. It was my own personal hell, the boiling cauldron of my conscience and my heart.
Time goes slowly when you are undead, and foul magic stretches it even more. One day like centuries later I heard voices, and the rocks blocking the floor levitated and moved aside. A large group of people walked in, all of them in black robes with necromantic symbols. They began systematically exploring the place. They probably did not expect visitors, but a handful of paladins of the True Daystar rushed in shortly after them. Then I could see it so clearly as the forces of light and darkness colided ... Each of them had made their choice, and was standing on it. Life is a teacher, death is a teacher and even undeath is a teacher. Everything that happens is meant to happen, and it is a result of our choices and the choices of others. There is choice, there is life - and there is the deprivation of choice, death. I still had a choice, so I chose to help the paladins who were severily outnumbered. I wanted them help me to escape the prison of flesh, and I felt it would be right to help them too. Indeed, I was smited by them in the melee, just as I had hoped.
Something, however, held my soul essence in the corpse. After the battle died down, and the necromancers were victorious, a female voice echoed in my mind. "You want to live," she spoke - this was a question asked by one who knows not what refusal means. "Yes, I do." - I replied. "Then you shall live, and by your choices you shall serve me," she spoke. "Who are you?" I asked. I recieved no answer, and everything fell in darkness. At this last moment I was ready to give anything to live again and be free to make choices, any choices at all.
I came to my senses with my body restored. The necromancers had gathered around me, and helped me stand up. One of them gave me a black robe, another put a holy symbol around my neck and I recognised it to be the symbol of The Ruby Sorceress. Wee Jas had brought me back to life. I was initated as her cleric in her temple south of the Zhentil Keep by the Moonsea. I stayed there for three years, then I ventured back to Candlekeep. I met Damian's old friends who encouraged me to do what he did - go around the planes, bring back news and do what I feel to be the right thing on my way. And I have been doing it up to this very day. Wee Jas is a demanding goddess, and I am not an easy person to put up with it but we have made it together without major concussions so far.
I have hardly ever visited Sigil afterwards. My child has perhaps grown up and has children too. I would not want to upset their lives, and I know Marnah is long dead.
The last time I was there, my wish was to go to Ysgard as soon as possible. I made the mistake to trust some gnome illusionists in hope to portal directly in the Yggdrassil Roots, instead of passing through the gate city of Glorium first. Big mistake. As you have likely noticed, I ended up in a lost layer of the Abyss instead.
- Michael
Michael climbs on the walls of the Monolith Outpost, where he is soon joined by Tyrus - the fallen Nephilim. From up there, they behold the flat and deceptively featureless Lost Plains extending as far as the eye can see.
Michael: ... Evening.
Tyrus: Greetings, father.
Michael: Did Billy pass my note or he forgot about it?
Tyrus: You would have to be more specific, I am given quite the amount of correspondence.
Michael: [Smiles a little] I wasted an hour writting down what you asked about ... Some ramblings over my life, and on the ... not so fair things in it.
Tyrus: I wouldn't call it "wasted" [Smirks] I read it.
Michael: It's just an expression, "wasted"... [Leans on the wall] Don't say you learned something from this letter?
Tyrus: I know it's an expression, father, I am not daft. But this is not a good time to use the expression. The letter was enlightening.
Michael: [Raises an eyebrow] Tell me what you learned then, if you will. Would be a little pleasure to hear.
Tyrus: Nothing that in my life I have not already learned ... But things to hear that I have not in some time. Reminders.
Michael: [Nods slowly] I guess you are given reminders here, too ... just for different things.
Tyrus: Yes ... but the reminders here are not always that which one wants to be reminded of.
Michael: And it is just them that are mostly needed. [Quiet laughter] I can only wish you can enlighten me too and tell me a little dry factology about your own path.
Tyrus: My own path ... is for me to walk. I would not burden its weight on any other ...
Michael: Please.
Tyrus: There is little to tell ... I was born in Sigil ... and ... Events led me here.
Michael: [His eyes narrow] Damned Sigil ... [All of a sudden he laughs aloud]
Tyrus: It is not grandiose or of any epic nature.
Michael: Did I ever say I expected it to be?
Tyrus: Well ... Where do you want me to start?
Michael: Where? In the Slaad's Garden. [Looks over Tyrus' shoulder to Khasta] I see foolish adders around.
Tyrus delays a little, and when he enters the Slaad's Garden, Khasta - the Siph in disguise - is following him.
Michael: She is deffinitely looking for a slap. [He sits, leaning his elbow om his knee, and his chin over his fist]
Tyrus: This garden is lush and peaceful ... a strange contrast from the Outpost ...
Michael: [Rubs chin] So start from the beginning. Sigil it is, then it's the place to start.
Tyrus: [His eyes flicker to a soft blue, the glow from his neck diminishing] Sigil ... The Cage. [His voice less harsh and cold] I don't know where to start ... that seems like lifetimes ago.
Michael: Pathetic as such a question may be, what was your first conscious memory?
Tyrus: [Sits silent for several moments, staring at the fountain. Then he suddenly flinches, as if in pain] My mother ... my mother's face.
Michael: [Remains silent and is staring in the water, as well]
Tyrus: And that is the last and only time I ever saw her ... After that the Mercy Killers came. I'd been home alone for several weeks, starving. And they came to throw me out onto the streets alone, the house hadn't been paid for and the eviction notice had already been torn down by some tugs I assume. This was in The Hive ... A horrible place for a young child, but I managed to survive, by catching rats or whatever I could find.
Michael: [His expression changes a little now and then, but he still says nothing and is listening intently]
Tyrus: Digging through garbage, or drinking from waterholes on the sides of the street. After some time I managed to find myself a member in a street gang of children, I was the youngest ... and I became their mascot. * Smiles a little at this. [Looks over at Khasta for a moment and smiles slightly, then looks back at the water] After some time as I grew a bit older I went off on my own. And the day where everything changed started no different than any other, I was starving and thirsty. So I decided against whatever judgement decided to leave me that day ... I decided to raid the trash behind The Styx Oarsmen. The Styx Oarsmen is a tavern that caters to the denizens of The Lower Planes ... It is not unlikely to see a Tanar'ri arm-wrestling with a Baatezu to settle a difference.
Michael: Familiar name, but I have not been there. [Nods]
Tyrus: So the Gith proprietor found me out back and knocked me unconscious. When I woke up I was tied to a table inside, where the customers were deciding what to do with me - to eat me, kill me on the spot, sell me into slavery, or other ideas I don't care to mention. I still remember this Vrock standing staring at me ... drooling. I remember him because he was the first to be killed. Everything within the tavern went crimson red ... my eyes felt ready to bleed from the pain. And the shrieking and hissing of the fiends was enough to nearly cause my ears to burst. Then the doors of the tavern ... evaporated. Not opened, or blown from their hindges. They just vanished. And Raziel walked into the tavern. The Lord of The Fifth Layer of Celestia.
Michael: [Eyes widen] I know who he is.
Tyrus: Khasta might not have known ...
Khasta: Heh ...
Michael: [Shrugs] Noone invited her. Go on.
Tyrus: And he took me from there, and brought me to Empyrion, The City of Tempered Souls ... I invited her, Michael.
Michael: Good. Your will it is, then. [Speaks in an even tone] Go on.
Tyrus: The next several years of my life were spent training to be a Fist of Raziel, to be a paladin of Heironeous. Weapons training, planar lore, religious dogma ... constant lessons.
Michael: And you were eager to learn? [Tiny smile]
Tyrus: I completed my training, and I was told to pick a place to go. I wanted to find the place where my parents might be, where my father might be. So I chose the Abyss ... I couldn't think of a better place to help others. And before I knew it, I was here on this layer.
Michael: [His lips form a soundless "Go on."]
Tyrus: There is little more to tell ... mostly a haze of events and situations. Problems, and pains. All that would lead me up to where and who I am now.
Michael: One question ... Did he find you, or was it you who found your Green Lord?
Tyrus: I found him ... He only sent another to guide me to him. But while my wings may not have been black before we met ... other aspects of mine had already grown that colour.
Michael: I wonder what would you say to your father when you meet him. [Drums his fingers over his knee] I neither knew mine, nor wished to ... In Cania you mostly wish to survive. And sometimes you don't wish to.
Tyrus: The frozen hell ...
Michael: I omitted a lot in that letter ... I simply outlined who I was and how come I ended up what I am now. Still I suppose you have learned about Cania - no matter your love for the lore of the hand held higher than the book, Raziel is a ... demanding teacher.
Tyrus: Indeed he is ... and the closest I had ever had to a father up untill that point. Raziel and uncle Heironeous. Oh how the priests beat me when I called him that ... despite how hard he laughed. [Laughs to himself at some distant memories]
Michael: [Smiles a little] I sometimes wish Damian Nathan had hit me even once ... But no. As I told you, or wrote, he always left me on my own... never gave examples ... The more hit I was after that.
Tyrus: He allowed you to learn through your own mistakes.
Michael: Yes, that he did. He was the best teacher by not pouring anything into my head and leaving me beat it on my own. [Smiles wider]
Tyrus: Well, living in the city of paladins ... You can guess how strict that might have been.
Michael: I somehow don't feel like imagining it. [Grins]
Tyrus: And coming from the background I had ... I was always getting myself into trouble.
Michael: You tied the shoelaces of uncle Heironeous to each other.
Tyrus: I didn't have the greatest respect for authority ... the only I would listen to were Raziel and Heironeous. And due to their positions neither were around as much as I may have liked. Worst ... I stole one of Raziel's swords once ...
Michael: [Laughing out loud] What for? Just for sake of stealing or to do something with it?
Aile-Dreep Troggs, a female albino dwarf, enters the Garden.
Tyrus: Or tried to ... touching it left me in the infirmary for a week. I don't know ... I suppose I respected him so much that I wanted something of him to carry with me. Even though it was larger than me, and it would have been impossible to hide. [Smiles at Aile]
Aile-Dreep Troggs: [Hurriedly] Oh yes, oh yes, I am so sorry to intrude ... I was just on my way to see Sirion.
Michael: Somehow I believe Raziel enjoyed this ... * Looks up. *
Tyrus: Oh, not a problem dear ... you are more than welcome to sit.
Aile: Greetings. [Bows politely]
Michael: Tyrus.
Tyrus: Yes, father?
Michael: I believe I just learned something, son. [Smiles warmly] The young lady was listening very carefully.
Tyrus: I hope so. [Smiles at Khasta]
Michael: Even when my words might have been bitting, she did not interrupt. Willingness to learn is a useful tool. [Rises slowly]
Khasta: Heh...
Michael: Remember when I asked you for your hand, child? [Still smiling]
Khasta: Yes, I remember ... And if you're expecting it now, you're still out of luck.
Michael: But I am begging you. I shall not hurt you, neither I shall mock you. The worst thing that may happen is that you may learn something.
Tyrus: [Slowly the cold gray comes back to his eyes, and the red glow begins to grow back to its intensity on the tattoo on his neck]
Aile: [Studies Michael closely]
Khasta: What's your obsession with hands anyway? Do you have some sort of unhealthy fixation?
Michael: No. Merely wanted to show you something that in fact has nothing to do with hands. And to show Tyrus, too. [Shrugs] But who am I to insist?
Tyrus: No, Khasta, he's only an old priest who thinks he may teach you something. [His voice also having lost his previous kindness and soft tone] Take it, Khasta ... He won't harm you, nor do I believe this to be some obsession.
Khasta: Heh, well I doubt he'd be happy at my touch. I'd rather not ...
Michael: Dear child, I have been undead for a much longer time than I would like. I am surprised you care, though. [Offers his hand]
Alie: [Listens carefully]
Tyrus: She isn't injured, Michael, she is only trying to scare you away. [Grins at Khasta]
Khasta: Whoever said I necessarily had to be injured?
Michael: Tsk. [Smiles, still reaching his hand out] Last chance, and I am not going to bother you with it anymore.
Aile: Who are undead?!
Tyrus: Michael was ... once.
Aile: Oh, but now given life?
Khasta: Heh... [Looks the old man up and down] You were warned. [Stands and holds her left hand to him]
Michael: [Is standing with a mostly serene expression on face] Relax ... I sense tension in your wirst.
Khasta: This is rather boring, finish whatever undoubtedly morallistic favoring your patron this is quickly, okay? Like all senile priests.
Aile: [Raises and stretches]
Michael: My patron is a Mistress of Death, and what I do now I do it on my own accord, and not for sake of her. [Slaps his own cheek using her hand, then kisses her fingers and lets go] There.
Michael slowly leaves the Garden and enters the Temple of Forgotten Gods. Soon Tyrus comes in, to find him sitting on the floor, leaning on a pillar beside the repenting demon. The Siph's draining touch has crept into him.
Repentant Demon: Ilmater, please forgive my sins!
Michael: Let me guess. [Smiles] They think I have lost my mind. At least I guessed one thing for certain - she is a Siph, just as I suspected. [Spits blood] And she does not like being reminded of it.
Tyrus: What exactly was your reason for making her slap you?
Khasta enters.
Michael: I can always tell you later. [Looks to Khasta and smiles] So why do you seek to hide what you are?
Khasta: Heh, why shouldn't I?
Michael: [Shakes head] Accept your nature and use it. I alas have no much wise teachings. [Laughing] If ever I had any ...
Tyrus: Perhaps she hides what she is to save herself from others acting on the stereotypes given to her race.
Michael: Perhaps. You were frustrated with me at a point, lass, not a good feeling. I do hope you have let it out now.
Khasta: Heh ... Tyrus knows several of the reason apparently.
Michael: Yes, he does. And you are slow to trust anyone, which I understand too. Just don't hold back anger. [Shrugs] Done watching me?
Tyrus: Khasta, dear, I know the reasons. But I don't think you should worry so much about them ... You think it's hard to be a Siph in this place? Imagine walking into the Abyss with the countenance of one of the Upper Planes hosts. But we still survive... even if barely at times.
Khasta: Heh, that's not so hard when there's so many of you about lately.
Tyrus: There always are ... several come in droves. Then before you know it they are all gone. I remain the only to have not been consumed by this place ... and I've only survived by making heavy sacrifices.
Khasta: Same with the Siph, except I am just about the only one left around here. The new ones that wander in disappear after they wander out. I am just about the only one that has survived for so long here, or is even really around besides for that one paladinic man.
Tyrus: Yes ... A Siph paladin. [Grimaces] One can only wonder what Abyssal entity is pulling his strings.
Michael: This is laughable, but let's just imagine what he feels like on the inside. [Shudders] Better not imagine.
Khasta: Yes, he's an odd one. Fights strangely for a holly man.
Michael: [Rises and puts a hand on Khasta's shoulder] You are still listening carefully... amazing. I thought you might have not heard me. You can try and slap me again ... mind that I shall not let you easily to it now, though. [Grins]
Tyrus: ... And that other, the one Oriel. She should thank her god I have not left her to rot on the sands.
Khasta: [Brushes his hand off] You're overconfident, for an old man.
Michael: Not useful for surviving, I admit. [Turns to Tyrus] What about Oriel? I barely saw her.
Tyrus: Merely spouting out her moralistic rhetoric, believeing herself to be higher and better than myself. Thinking she is her god's gift to the crippled masses of the Abyss.
Michael: [Shakes head] "Hollier than thou" ... Her lesson to learn shall perhaps be more bitter than you can offer her. Or one never knows, miracles happen here and there. Even here.
Tyrus: Miracles do not "happen" here, old man, we forge them with our blood and tears.
Michael: Never even thought the contrary. [Smiles]
Khasta: So, old man, from what I have gathered you are in some form of undeath, no?
Michael: Ah, not at present.
Khasta: Heh, I see then ...
Michael: I woke up as undead after a battle ... Spent what seemed like centuries reflecting over things. Then a Goddess of Death restored me, as her servant. We do not bear each other well all the time, but we have made it so far somehow. [Winks]
Khasta: Seems rather odd, choosing you over some higher form of undeath.
Tyrus: Well it is much harder to have a priest to spread your name around the planes around the planes when he is a liche.
Michael: It was precisely about choice, the whole thing, Khasta. [His face straightens up] ... And yes, Tyrus, you are awfully right again. Son, I hear the way to the City of Rust is barred?
Tyrus: The pathe is blocked, yes, and has been for quite some time. Only caravans are able to make the journey, and even then only with carrying massive casualties. The Bastion will be like the first city to open its gates ... and that should not be far off.
Michael: I hope so. I deffinitely have to reach the Yggdrassil roots. And one never knows, I may make it, I may not - I may make it and come back. Depends.
Khasta: The Bastion is a place I wish to see for myself, the guard at the gates is rather rude.
Tyrus: [To Michael] Well, I can tell you again, the chances of that happening are slim ... I doubt the Green Lord to allow just anybody to use his portal to leave the place. Likely he will require something of you to leave... and I doubt the price will be the one you wish to pay.
Michael: [Nods to Khasta] If you should see it, you perhaps shall see it. As for me ... I am not "anybody", nor you are "anybody". I doubt any of those present are "anybody".
Tyrus: But all the same, I will tell him of your desire to speak to him. I will take you on a tour of the City when it has opened, I promise that Khasta. At least the parts I am allowed to bring you.
Khasta: Heh, I will not hold you to that.
Michael: He will hold himself to that, I am certain.
Tyrus: My word is honor. So where have you been staying, Michael? Sleeping.
Michael: Here.
Tyrus: I figured as much.
Michael. Trying to make him go out, as a pre-breakfast exercise. [Gestures to the repentant demon]
Tyrus: I doubt he will ever leave this place ...
Khasta: Rather filthy place to sleep.
Michael: [Shakes head] Filthy?! Why filthy, lass? [Seems amused]
Tyrus: Considering the acts Paieon and Darilis have performed in the rest area... I doubt this to be much worst.
Khasta: Heh, I'd avoid that place even further than this.
Michael: So why filthy? And what acts, Tyrus?
Tyrus: Copulation, Michael.
Michael: [A sincere smile flickers in his eyes] Clever people, how now. There is less sand here.
Tyrus: Indeed, but I prefer to sleep at the Inn ... Although I spend most of my time in an oasis on the Lost Plains.
Khasta: [To Michael] Yes, but the demon and the cultists tend to not keep in in good cleanliness.
Michael: The repenting demon rather makes a pitful sight ... There, he's lost in self-pity again. I don't mind him and it's all right with me.
Tyrus: Have you touched him as a zombie?
Michael: Hells no. In fact, on that occassion where I came to as a zombie, I had all the things Morticia wanted me to bring, by people's kindness ... I had recieved them thanks to Xanthalas' self-sacrifice and Dante's good will not long ago. And the cockroach juice I got thanks to the succubus who shot the cockroach through the fence. Little things one can learn from ...
Khasta: You should get some mints from her as thanks.
Tyrus: [Has to try hard to not laugh at this idea] So you've only once been a zombie?
Michael: In here? Oh yes, Tyrus. [Rolls his eyes and winks] Khasta, I warned you about mints. [Grins] Keep them to yourself.
Tyrus: Except that number to rise dramatically. You have yet to experience the Abyss untill you have trekked from the bowels of the burrows to see Morticia only to find she has gone out to lunch.
Michael: Would be quite the experience. Wee Jas shall laugh a lot, I guess. The gods always laugh in the end, they say - but it is a lie, they laugh all the time.
Tyrus: I doubt the gods in the Astral Plane laugh very much ... [Smiles]
Michael: This is only their problem, noone else's. [Grins] I am off for food.
Tyrus: Here. I have some leftover from last night, it should still taste quite nice. [Pulls a grease-stained paper package from a pouch]
Michael: ... I rather would move these old bones a little. Been spending my time reading, mostly. Thank you, son.
Tyrus: [Nods] And do be sure to visit the demon when next you are ... a zombie. His reaction to your touch is quite humorous.
Michael: I will ... Old bones, heh. Who am I fooling, I am fourty-seven years old anyway, if you don't count a dozen decades as undead. [Changes into his armor]
Repentant demon: Ilmater, please forgive my sins!
Michael: [Turns to the demon] ... Oooh, shut up. [Then, to Tyrus] I shall see you sooner or later, son.
It is known that Michael addresses the others with "child" or "son", after his habit as a man of faith. It is known that Tyrus addresses him with "father" after the same circumstance. It is rumoured in the Outpost that Tyrus has later found himself to be Michael's grandson. It is now known to many that Khasta is a Siph. |
_________________
Just because you are paranoid, does not mean they are not after you. |
|
