TillForPie
First Post
Got Mosier's stats. We've got a pretty cool group forming.
Nazareth Awakened [Mage: The Awakening] [OOC]
TillForPie
First Post
Everyone has their stats submitted, but you're all free to continue to make adjustments up until we start. We'll give any potential late arrivals the rest of the weekend to express interest. Even if it's just the four of us I'm still looking forward to running this and the first post of the game thread will likely go up either Monday or Tuesday, assuming there are no objections.
Good luck and have fun.
Note: I've made a note on recovering spent and lost Willpower and Wisdom in my original post.
Good luck and have fun.
Note: I've made a note on recovering spent and lost Willpower and Wisdom in my original post.
Orlando sits at a dimly-lit diner, across from a Nazareth cop. The cop wears a badge that proudly reads "R. Corbaley 1411". The place is run-down even by the loose standards of this miserable desert town. Corbaley has a most unfortunate face, through no fault of his genetics. Corbaley had earned his ugliness through too many years of booze, bar fights, and scowling too hard, to look tough.
"No more games, esé," Corbaley says with derision. "Hand it over. Now."
Orlando stares back, unimpressed by the cop's bravado. "Tough guy, huh? You know, I could give this to any cop in Nazareth. Or, you can say you're sorry, and I'll make sure the right cop gets it."
"Bull," Corbaley spits. "You'd go to jail."
"Been there," Orlando replies. For a long time, the two engage in a battle of patience, eyes locked. Finally, Corbaley scoffs.
"Just what in the hell am I supposed to be sorry for, anyway?"
"For insulting my heritage," Orlando says. "White boys aren't allowed to say esé. Now say you're sorry."
"Bull," Corbaley repeats. "Just hand it over."
Orlando laughs at Corbaley's discomfort. "You act like this is your first time," Orlando says. "Look at you. You're sweating! I thought you were experienced in this type of thing. You know, stalking women. Stealing mail." He hands over an envelope addressed to Rachel Parker, which Corbaley greedily snatches from his hands. "It's her bank statement. Do whatever you want with it, I don't care."
Corbaley tucks the envelope in his jacket and shoots a twisted look at Orlando. "You know you don't deserve her," he says. The tone is strange. He sounds almost desperate. Like a prisoner begging for mercy.
"I know I don't."
He's actually angry, you know.
"So why don't you do us all a favor, and just get outta' here? Stop wasting her time. There's gotta be someone else you can leech off of."
Orlando stares blankly in response.
This man just paid a thief to steal a woman's mail, and yet he has contempt for the thief. Delicious hypocrisy.
"What the hell are you looking at?" the cop demands.
"Er...nothing. Sorry," Orlando mutters in response.
He chases her desperately. He aches for her. But what will he do if he catches her? He doesn't even know.
"I should go," Orlando says, suddenly realizing he's been blankly staring at Corbaley for an uncomfortably long time.
"Yeah, you should." "Weirdo."
He's afraid of you. He's suddenly realized you could end his career. He regrets dealing with you now. He's fantasizing about how to be rid of you. You're dangerous. You're unstable. You're unreliable. You're not afraid of jail, but he is. After all, he's got a career. He's somebody. You're just a worthless piece of crap who just might be spiteful enough to take everyone with you when you go.
Corbaley isn't here anymore. Nobody is. Orlando is in an empty alley, miles from the diner. Why the hell is he in an empty alley, miles from the diner? Why is the sun setting in the middle of the night?
Or is it rising?
You want to know the worst part?
"What?" Orlando replies, suddenly very confused, and very, very afraid.
He's right.
"No more games, esé," Corbaley says with derision. "Hand it over. Now."
Orlando stares back, unimpressed by the cop's bravado. "Tough guy, huh? You know, I could give this to any cop in Nazareth. Or, you can say you're sorry, and I'll make sure the right cop gets it."
"Bull," Corbaley spits. "You'd go to jail."
"Been there," Orlando replies. For a long time, the two engage in a battle of patience, eyes locked. Finally, Corbaley scoffs.
"Just what in the hell am I supposed to be sorry for, anyway?"
"For insulting my heritage," Orlando says. "White boys aren't allowed to say esé. Now say you're sorry."
"Bull," Corbaley repeats. "Just hand it over."
Orlando laughs at Corbaley's discomfort. "You act like this is your first time," Orlando says. "Look at you. You're sweating! I thought you were experienced in this type of thing. You know, stalking women. Stealing mail." He hands over an envelope addressed to Rachel Parker, which Corbaley greedily snatches from his hands. "It's her bank statement. Do whatever you want with it, I don't care."
Corbaley tucks the envelope in his jacket and shoots a twisted look at Orlando. "You know you don't deserve her," he says. The tone is strange. He sounds almost desperate. Like a prisoner begging for mercy.
"I know I don't."
He's actually angry, you know.
"So why don't you do us all a favor, and just get outta' here? Stop wasting her time. There's gotta be someone else you can leech off of."
Orlando stares blankly in response.
This man just paid a thief to steal a woman's mail, and yet he has contempt for the thief. Delicious hypocrisy.
"What the hell are you looking at?" the cop demands.
"Er...nothing. Sorry," Orlando mutters in response.
He chases her desperately. He aches for her. But what will he do if he catches her? He doesn't even know.
"I should go," Orlando says, suddenly realizing he's been blankly staring at Corbaley for an uncomfortably long time.
"Yeah, you should." "Weirdo."
He's afraid of you. He's suddenly realized you could end his career. He regrets dealing with you now. He's fantasizing about how to be rid of you. You're dangerous. You're unstable. You're unreliable. You're not afraid of jail, but he is. After all, he's got a career. He's somebody. You're just a worthless piece of crap who just might be spiteful enough to take everyone with you when you go.
Corbaley isn't here anymore. Nobody is. Orlando is in an empty alley, miles from the diner. Why the hell is he in an empty alley, miles from the diner? Why is the sun setting in the middle of the night?
Or is it rising?
You want to know the worst part?
"What?" Orlando replies, suddenly very confused, and very, very afraid.
He's right.
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The voice is always lurking, now. It's almost familiar. Orlando's initial terror has faded, and now only constant low-grade nervous hum remains, like a fever. With effort, he can push the voice down, suppress it like a thumb blocking a garden hose. But the effort of it is exhausting, and every now and then the voice overcomes him again.
She's coming. What will you do? What can you possibly say?
"Shut up," he says aloud, to his own annoyance. He has an uneasy feeling that responding to it makes it stronger. Better to ignore it. Pretend it isn't there.
The heat is unbearable. The Arizona sun is beating down on Rachel's single-wide trailer with merciless ferocity. A small, overworked swamp cooler miraculously hasn't broken down yet, and manages to keep the place barely habitable. A key turns in the door. A jolt of icy dread courses through him, as he realizes that once again the voice was right.
The door opens, and Rachel walks through. His mind slows the image down. She moves as if through a dream, slowly, sluggishly. Slower. He notices her name tag is askew. There are grease and tomato sauce stains on her work uniform. He smells a combination of sweat, food, cigarette smoke, and booze. Slower. She's turning to face him, the open door behind her, sunlight pouring in and casting her shadow across the opposite wall, along with another shadow. There is a figure behind her, who casually walks through the open doorway and stands before Orlando. Rachel doesn't notice the figure. How could she? It isn't real.
"This is it," the new figure says to him. Its lips don't move. The thing is genderless. Without pity. Full of judgment. There's a message in its eyes, which are burning through him, melting away his defenses, and exposing his naked soul to himself. It will never lie to him. It will never protect him or help him. It cannot be flattered. It cannot be bargained with or tricked. It is the Truth, nothing more, nothing less. "She has made her decision already."
"He told me everything, Lan," Rachel says. Her movement is back to normal, and Orlando wonders how he could have imagined she was slow before. "I trusted you. How could you?"
Orlando is standing now. When did he stand? She's looking at him. Hopeful. Even now, she's almost willing to accept yet another lie.
"Anything," she says, her cracking voice nearly pleading. "Tell me anything at all, Orlando. At least try, you bastard."
"I'm sorry," he replies, walking past her, to the door. The pale figure follows. You don't mean it.
Of course he doesn't mean it. He's not sorry. She's nothing to him, and always has been. She's crying now, but he barely registers the sound as the door closes behind him.
"You can lie to anyone," the figure remarks, "except yourself."
Orlando looks behind him. The trailer park is so far away that he has trouble distinguishing it from the heat shimmering around it. He can't even remember taking the first step off Rachel's porch. He turns to look the opposite direction. Before him is a tower, expanding infinitely to the heavens.
"You alright, pal?" a hand is on his shoulder. Orlando shrugs it off.
"Yeah," he says absently, entranced by the majesty before him. He takes a step forward, and the tower beckons to him.
"You're not ready," the pale figure says to him. "Only when you can confront the truth, will you be allowed to enter."
Orlando breaks into a sprint, but with every step the tower seems to grow further away...
She's coming. What will you do? What can you possibly say?
"Shut up," he says aloud, to his own annoyance. He has an uneasy feeling that responding to it makes it stronger. Better to ignore it. Pretend it isn't there.
The heat is unbearable. The Arizona sun is beating down on Rachel's single-wide trailer with merciless ferocity. A small, overworked swamp cooler miraculously hasn't broken down yet, and manages to keep the place barely habitable. A key turns in the door. A jolt of icy dread courses through him, as he realizes that once again the voice was right.
The door opens, and Rachel walks through. His mind slows the image down. She moves as if through a dream, slowly, sluggishly. Slower. He notices her name tag is askew. There are grease and tomato sauce stains on her work uniform. He smells a combination of sweat, food, cigarette smoke, and booze. Slower. She's turning to face him, the open door behind her, sunlight pouring in and casting her shadow across the opposite wall, along with another shadow. There is a figure behind her, who casually walks through the open doorway and stands before Orlando. Rachel doesn't notice the figure. How could she? It isn't real.
"This is it," the new figure says to him. Its lips don't move. The thing is genderless. Without pity. Full of judgment. There's a message in its eyes, which are burning through him, melting away his defenses, and exposing his naked soul to himself. It will never lie to him. It will never protect him or help him. It cannot be flattered. It cannot be bargained with or tricked. It is the Truth, nothing more, nothing less. "She has made her decision already."
"He told me everything, Lan," Rachel says. Her movement is back to normal, and Orlando wonders how he could have imagined she was slow before. "I trusted you. How could you?"
Orlando is standing now. When did he stand? She's looking at him. Hopeful. Even now, she's almost willing to accept yet another lie.
"Anything," she says, her cracking voice nearly pleading. "Tell me anything at all, Orlando. At least try, you bastard."
"I'm sorry," he replies, walking past her, to the door. The pale figure follows. You don't mean it.
Of course he doesn't mean it. He's not sorry. She's nothing to him, and always has been. She's crying now, but he barely registers the sound as the door closes behind him.
"You can lie to anyone," the figure remarks, "except yourself."
Orlando looks behind him. The trailer park is so far away that he has trouble distinguishing it from the heat shimmering around it. He can't even remember taking the first step off Rachel's porch. He turns to look the opposite direction. Before him is a tower, expanding infinitely to the heavens.
"You alright, pal?" a hand is on his shoulder. Orlando shrugs it off.
"Yeah," he says absently, entranced by the majesty before him. He takes a step forward, and the tower beckons to him.
"You're not ready," the pale figure says to him. "Only when you can confront the truth, will you be allowed to enter."
Orlando breaks into a sprint, but with every step the tower seems to grow further away...
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GlassEye
Adventurer
Good to see some non-PF games around here.
I'm interested but I'm not familiar with the World of Darkness or Mage. I've been reading through the books but I've still got a lot to read. I think I could get a sketched-out character by Monday night, a finished character would take me a bit longer, but I don't want to slow you all down. If you can deal with my lack of knowledge and slow start I would like to play.
Rough concept: A young man of strong religious belief lost his faith while studying at college. Unable to find a job he moved back in with his parents until the conflicts over their differences of belief drove him out of the house. Now homeless he makes enough to barely survive on by playing guitar on the street. His Awakening was (probably) violent but opened his eyes to a concept of the divine totally different than he formerly believed. Could be Obrimos but what I've read of Life/Spirit appeals to me more than Forces/Prime so I'm thinking Thyrsus.
I'm interested but I'm not familiar with the World of Darkness or Mage. I've been reading through the books but I've still got a lot to read. I think I could get a sketched-out character by Monday night, a finished character would take me a bit longer, but I don't want to slow you all down. If you can deal with my lack of knowledge and slow start I would like to play.
Rough concept: A young man of strong religious belief lost his faith while studying at college. Unable to find a job he moved back in with his parents until the conflicts over their differences of belief drove him out of the house. Now homeless he makes enough to barely survive on by playing guitar on the street. His Awakening was (probably) violent but opened his eyes to a concept of the divine totally different than he formerly believed. Could be Obrimos but what I've read of Life/Spirit appeals to me more than Forces/Prime so I'm thinking Thyrsus.
TillForPie
First Post
I had a hunch we might fill our last open slot at the 11th hour.
Your concept is strong, feel more than welcome to keep developing it. Delays are something every PBP experiences at some point or another and I'm willing to endure one to give you a chance to submit a character. We'll aim for a Tuesday or Wednesday start, assuming you don't manage to finish by tomorrow.
With you having access to the books a lack of experience with the system shouldn't be too much of an issue: The apprenticeship under Penrose provides a framing device for introducing concepts throughout the early game so you'll get the opportunity to learn along with your character. Keep us updated and let me know if you have any questions.
Hello! Looking forward to playing with you.
What a crew this is shaping up to be. A nutcase conspiracy theorist, a homeless street performer, a cold-hearted con man, and a no-nonsense cop. Enemies beware!
Rubberneck
First Post
The wails of his siren could probably be heard for miles as he raced through the dark empty street. The flashing red and blue reflecting off storefronts could be disorienting for someone not used to it. This was one of the parts he loved most about his job, adrenaline coursing through his veins, reminding him just how alive he is.
The call came in as a simple domestic dispute, no cause for alarm, unless of course the call is dropped and the last thing that was heard was
"He has a gun!"
That makes things more interesting and warrants the need for haste. The 90s style Ford Crown Victoria was once an amazing vehicle. Over the years however, they tend to decline. Steering gets sloppy, the suspension gets soft, and the body roll makes it feel like you're flirting with disaster in every corner. There is one thing the old war horse didn't lack, and that was power.
Hawthorne smashed the gas pedal to the floor and the squad car came to life as he rocketed down the street. He blew through intersections at high speeds on city streets, being as early as it was he figured the chances were low that someone would be in his path. Well he was wrong. As he entered the intersection he could briefly remember glancing to his left and the glare of headlights as well as a moment of weightlessness before blacking out completely.
The sloshing of water brought him to and all that could be seen was sky. Was he moving? Hawthorne rose to a sitting position, strangely calm. He was in a small wooden rowboat at sea. Around him was nothing but black water and night sky. How did he get here? A dense fog made it nearly impossible to see anything, save a brief light. Every few moments a beam of light swept across the water and Hawthorne followed it to its source. Then he saw it, through the fog stood a lighthouse, a beacon to guide him to his salvation. It stood on a bluff that overlooked the sea.
Hawthorne began rowing, fast deliberate strokes, the tower at his back, and felt resistance in the water. Looking over the side of the boat he could not see what impeded his progress, but when the light swept past it revealed a floating body. The sight made Hawthorne jump back, nearly tumbling out of the boat. The light swept by and Hawthorne saw more modies, surrounding him. Floating, bobbing in the water. Each time the light swept by he could see more and more. The sea was filled with them.
He couldn't stop rowing now, he had to get to the lighthouse. Furiously he rowed, water splashing into the boat, the lighthouse still at his back. He occasionally looked over his shoulder to see his progress but the lighthouse never seemed to get closer. What was this madness? He had been rowing for what seemed like hours. Out of the corners of his eyes the bodies seemed to move, taunting him, stopping his progress, testing his resolve. He fell to his back, frustrated and exhausted. Wiping sweat from his brow he laid there staring into the dark sky. It was slowly filling with angry clouds. A storm was coming. He felt a drop hit his forehead and he knew that if he couldn't get to land the sea would wash him away forever. Why were the bodies so relentless? Oars in hand again, he pleaded with them to let him pass. When next he plunged the oars down they dug into something. He turned to look and there before him was a beach. He had made it. The tower above, light spinning, beckoning to him.
He got out of the boat. He was surrounded by fog and the storm was finally upon him, wind howling. His journey wasn't over yet. He had to get to the lighthouse, his refuge from the storm. He started jogging toward it, toward the lighthouse that overlooked the sea of the dead. When he finally reached it it was much taller and beautiful than it had seemed from a distance. It was a thing of purity, its guiding light spinning faithfully at its top. He reached for the door and it dissolved before him, denying him entrance, replaced by names scratched into the wall. He circled the tower in search of another door but saw only more names. Was he going mad?
Hawthorne reached to his shirt pocket. He always kept a pen on him when he was on duty. He didn't know how, but he knew what he had to do. He approached the list of names and found an opening, adding his own, Dominic J Hawthorne. The spinning light of the lighthouse grew intense, fighting away the fog, rain, and clouds, and above the sky was bright, so bright he had to shield his eyes from it. Rays of sunlight seemed to envelop him completely.
He blinked and rubbed his eyes and above him was florescent lighting. A subtle beeping of an ECG machine beside him, IV in his arm. He was in a hospital room.
"Doctor! He's awake!"
The call came in as a simple domestic dispute, no cause for alarm, unless of course the call is dropped and the last thing that was heard was
"He has a gun!"
That makes things more interesting and warrants the need for haste. The 90s style Ford Crown Victoria was once an amazing vehicle. Over the years however, they tend to decline. Steering gets sloppy, the suspension gets soft, and the body roll makes it feel like you're flirting with disaster in every corner. There is one thing the old war horse didn't lack, and that was power.
Hawthorne smashed the gas pedal to the floor and the squad car came to life as he rocketed down the street. He blew through intersections at high speeds on city streets, being as early as it was he figured the chances were low that someone would be in his path. Well he was wrong. As he entered the intersection he could briefly remember glancing to his left and the glare of headlights as well as a moment of weightlessness before blacking out completely.
The sloshing of water brought him to and all that could be seen was sky. Was he moving? Hawthorne rose to a sitting position, strangely calm. He was in a small wooden rowboat at sea. Around him was nothing but black water and night sky. How did he get here? A dense fog made it nearly impossible to see anything, save a brief light. Every few moments a beam of light swept across the water and Hawthorne followed it to its source. Then he saw it, through the fog stood a lighthouse, a beacon to guide him to his salvation. It stood on a bluff that overlooked the sea.
Hawthorne began rowing, fast deliberate strokes, the tower at his back, and felt resistance in the water. Looking over the side of the boat he could not see what impeded his progress, but when the light swept past it revealed a floating body. The sight made Hawthorne jump back, nearly tumbling out of the boat. The light swept by and Hawthorne saw more modies, surrounding him. Floating, bobbing in the water. Each time the light swept by he could see more and more. The sea was filled with them.
He couldn't stop rowing now, he had to get to the lighthouse. Furiously he rowed, water splashing into the boat, the lighthouse still at his back. He occasionally looked over his shoulder to see his progress but the lighthouse never seemed to get closer. What was this madness? He had been rowing for what seemed like hours. Out of the corners of his eyes the bodies seemed to move, taunting him, stopping his progress, testing his resolve. He fell to his back, frustrated and exhausted. Wiping sweat from his brow he laid there staring into the dark sky. It was slowly filling with angry clouds. A storm was coming. He felt a drop hit his forehead and he knew that if he couldn't get to land the sea would wash him away forever. Why were the bodies so relentless? Oars in hand again, he pleaded with them to let him pass. When next he plunged the oars down they dug into something. He turned to look and there before him was a beach. He had made it. The tower above, light spinning, beckoning to him.
He got out of the boat. He was surrounded by fog and the storm was finally upon him, wind howling. His journey wasn't over yet. He had to get to the lighthouse, his refuge from the storm. He started jogging toward it, toward the lighthouse that overlooked the sea of the dead. When he finally reached it it was much taller and beautiful than it had seemed from a distance. It was a thing of purity, its guiding light spinning faithfully at its top. He reached for the door and it dissolved before him, denying him entrance, replaced by names scratched into the wall. He circled the tower in search of another door but saw only more names. Was he going mad?
Hawthorne reached to his shirt pocket. He always kept a pen on him when he was on duty. He didn't know how, but he knew what he had to do. He approached the list of names and found an opening, adding his own, Dominic J Hawthorne. The spinning light of the lighthouse grew intense, fighting away the fog, rain, and clouds, and above the sky was bright, so bright he had to shield his eyes from it. Rays of sunlight seemed to envelop him completely.
He blinked and rubbed his eyes and above him was florescent lighting. A subtle beeping of an ECG machine beside him, IV in his arm. He was in a hospital room.
"Doctor! He's awake!"
Nazareth is long gone. Infinity stretches before him, and behind. Only the tower is real, looming ahead. Wherever he turns, the tower fills his vision, as if space itself exists simply to present the colossal iron structure to him.
"I can't," Orlando whispers. His voice is a hoarse croak. Dry. Exhausted.
Not yet, the demon agrees. The thing is maddeningly immune to the heat, hunger, and exhaustion of this infinite journey.
"Why not?" He's sure he said the words aloud, but no sound comes forth.
You lie to yourself, yet, the demon offers simply.
Orlando doesn't understand. He's on his knees now. The end of his strength. Vultures circle above him. Or is it below? The tower continues to stand in the distance, in judgment of him.
"Please," Orlando says. "I am worthy." His eyes close as the vultures descend.
Mastigos is not a gift, foolish man. It is not something given to the worthy.
The buzzards begin to tear into his flesh. Each beak that pierces his skin is a painful reminder of all his failures. He is weak. His character is flawed. He thinks himself clever, but he is terrified of being exposed for the imbecile he truly is. He failed in school. He failed in life. Even worse than failure; he never even tried.
Now you begin to see, perhaps too late. You shall not enter the Iron Gauntlet until you see yourself as you truly are. Lazy. Pathetic. Stupid. Parasitic. Deceiving yourself to the contrary is pointless. Know yourself. Know your weaknesses, and your strengths. Only then can you turn your sight outward, to others.
Lazy. Pathetic. Stupid. Parasitic. As the demon vultures consume him, Orlando feels himself become lighter, as if the flesh being torn from his body is revealing a stronger, more vital core. Confronting the truth of himself, far from being debilitating, is actually invigorating. His concentration is freed from the burden of his own self-deception.
He can stand again. The demon vultures lay dead all around him, poisoned by Orlando's very nature.
Mastigos is not something given to the worthy, the pale demon repeats to him.
It is something taken, by the strong.
Orlando finally understands.
"Welcome," he says, arm outstretched to the pale figure. The demon figure mirrors his motion, and the two hands clasp together.
Welcome.
Orlando and the pale demon turn together in unison. The drawbridge opens, and Orlando confidently walks across, leaving the demon behind. From the outside, the tower is vast, soaring into infinity, and wider than his vision. Inside the tower is a small, simple library. There is no door, no window.
A single chair is pushed to a small table. A closed book is on the table. The book is bound in flesh, and the red ink of the title glows with power. "Know Thyself"
He opens the book to find a list of names. The pages turn and turn, but the end never comes. There is no final page. No end. A cold iron dagger lies next to the book, its tip sharpened to an impossibly fine point. The book is open to a blank page. The Awakened pilgrim takes the blade and neatly slices the index finger of his right hand. As he writes, his blood stains the page. He tries to write "Orlando Raleigh" in the book, but the blood begins to pool around the letters, smearing them into obscurity. As it dries, his new name is all that's left behind. His Shadowname.
"Agnasci." Growing. Learning. Improving.
Unworthy.
His eyes blink awake, as a fist smashes into his jaw. Agnasci staggers backward, his heel striking the curb, sending him stumbling to the concrete ground.
"Tonight, you understand?" An unfamiliar figure growls, looming over him. "One way or the other, you won't be anywhere near Nazareth tomorrow."
"Yeah, sure," Agnasci mutters. He feels a trickle of blood from his mouth. The thug raises his booted foot and uses it to pin Agnasci to the pavement.
"Next time I see you, you're a dead man," the thug says again. He doesn't mean it. The tough guy act is just for show. Inside, the man is terrified. Desperate.
But Agnasci humors him, and pretends to be scared.
"You won't see me again," Agnasci lies.
"I can't," Orlando whispers. His voice is a hoarse croak. Dry. Exhausted.
Not yet, the demon agrees. The thing is maddeningly immune to the heat, hunger, and exhaustion of this infinite journey.
"Why not?" He's sure he said the words aloud, but no sound comes forth.
You lie to yourself, yet, the demon offers simply.
Orlando doesn't understand. He's on his knees now. The end of his strength. Vultures circle above him. Or is it below? The tower continues to stand in the distance, in judgment of him.
"Please," Orlando says. "I am worthy." His eyes close as the vultures descend.
Mastigos is not a gift, foolish man. It is not something given to the worthy.
The buzzards begin to tear into his flesh. Each beak that pierces his skin is a painful reminder of all his failures. He is weak. His character is flawed. He thinks himself clever, but he is terrified of being exposed for the imbecile he truly is. He failed in school. He failed in life. Even worse than failure; he never even tried.
Now you begin to see, perhaps too late. You shall not enter the Iron Gauntlet until you see yourself as you truly are. Lazy. Pathetic. Stupid. Parasitic. Deceiving yourself to the contrary is pointless. Know yourself. Know your weaknesses, and your strengths. Only then can you turn your sight outward, to others.
Lazy. Pathetic. Stupid. Parasitic. As the demon vultures consume him, Orlando feels himself become lighter, as if the flesh being torn from his body is revealing a stronger, more vital core. Confronting the truth of himself, far from being debilitating, is actually invigorating. His concentration is freed from the burden of his own self-deception.
He can stand again. The demon vultures lay dead all around him, poisoned by Orlando's very nature.
Mastigos is not something given to the worthy, the pale demon repeats to him.
It is something taken, by the strong.
Orlando finally understands.
"Welcome," he says, arm outstretched to the pale figure. The demon figure mirrors his motion, and the two hands clasp together.
Welcome.
Orlando and the pale demon turn together in unison. The drawbridge opens, and Orlando confidently walks across, leaving the demon behind. From the outside, the tower is vast, soaring into infinity, and wider than his vision. Inside the tower is a small, simple library. There is no door, no window.
A single chair is pushed to a small table. A closed book is on the table. The book is bound in flesh, and the red ink of the title glows with power. "Know Thyself"
He opens the book to find a list of names. The pages turn and turn, but the end never comes. There is no final page. No end. A cold iron dagger lies next to the book, its tip sharpened to an impossibly fine point. The book is open to a blank page. The Awakened pilgrim takes the blade and neatly slices the index finger of his right hand. As he writes, his blood stains the page. He tries to write "Orlando Raleigh" in the book, but the blood begins to pool around the letters, smearing them into obscurity. As it dries, his new name is all that's left behind. His Shadowname.
"Agnasci." Growing. Learning. Improving.
Unworthy.
His eyes blink awake, as a fist smashes into his jaw. Agnasci staggers backward, his heel striking the curb, sending him stumbling to the concrete ground.
"Tonight, you understand?" An unfamiliar figure growls, looming over him. "One way or the other, you won't be anywhere near Nazareth tomorrow."
"Yeah, sure," Agnasci mutters. He feels a trickle of blood from his mouth. The thug raises his booted foot and uses it to pin Agnasci to the pavement.
"Next time I see you, you're a dead man," the thug says again. He doesn't mean it. The tough guy act is just for show. Inside, the man is terrified. Desperate.
But Agnasci humors him, and pretends to be scared.
"You won't see me again," Agnasci lies.
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