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Stanford
Stanford
Posts: 1
Joined: December 18th, 2014, 3:40 pm
Stanford

An Exercise in Memory

Postby Stanford » December 18th, 2014, 3:59 pm

((This is mostly a dive into the world of First Person Perspective writing and it has been incredibly fun so far. It's from the perspective of a character from one of my toon's backstories. I chose him because the more I thought about it, the more I feel writing for him would be as close to "Train of Thought" as I could get while still being legible and cohesive and tell a story. Enjoy the ramblings of an...interesting fellow with his own commentary (partially inspired by Cho'Gal) in parentheses.

Also feel free to comment/critique. I ask any questions be directed to this account via PM. Thank you for reading!))




Undeath isn't so bad. I hear it’s nice not needing to eat, breathe, or relieve yourself. My problem however is I still need to do that, or at least I think I do. I’m not entirely sure what I am to be honest and my peers resort to violence whenever I ask ("Peers" is a term I use lightly). It’s frustrating when it’s someone I once knew.

I've also heard that writing helps to sort out one’s thoughts, so I started doing that as well. So far it helps to remind me of what I am, or was, or…Look…I’m Human, a guy, reasonably attractive (at least I think so), and still catching up to the times. Back in my day adventurers weren't a dime a dozen and people were polite about breaking into tombs and waking someone up (or at least they may have been). I was comfortable in that crypt, damnit. It was nice and dark, quiet, a little on the dry side but hey, what’s a little bee’s wax to fix a chapped…everything?

Long story short, my name is Stanford (my Silver Hand Initiate’s badge says so. I still have it too) and the last thing I remember was shoving some ass-hat Priest I had a thing for out of the way of a falling watchtower…or something similarly stony and heavy. One of the open windows fell on me so I wasn't crushed but the equipment inside sure made a pin cushion out of me. I knew a little about the Light (I finally managed to channel it through my big smashy hammer the month prior) and slowed the bleeding a little. It was enough to keep me conscious until some kind folks rescued me, which was good; because my lungs and throat were burning from all the yelling and the weight of ammunition crates weren't helping either (I guess it was a watchtower that fell on me after all?).

I was sad to learn the Priest (why can’t I remember his name?) wasn’t a part of the rescue team and I wanted to ask why we were going away from Stratholme. What I was able to see was a lot of smoke, red, fire, and eventually the darkness of the forest. The wagon ride was uncomfortable and lumpy and felt like I was on a pile of corpses or something (in hindsight, I probably was). I tried to mumble out something, but whoever rescued me ignored it and I set about to gathering my strength to try another (crappy) attempt at healing. After managing to roll over (thanks to a bump in the road mostly) I channeled the Light through my arms and chest. It felt warm and did its job and I recall the wagon stopping hard enough to roll me toward the driver, which sucked. The pain from the wounds I didn't close did me a mercy and knocked me out.

Waking to the sound of rasping metal was new. Likewise being bound to a stone table with (what I swear was) rusty manacles was as humiliating as it was terrifying. I thought I was saved but the more I thought about it the more it dawned on me that if I were truly safe, my rescuers would have tended to my wounds (which I later came to understand a burning sensation was a sign they were festering). In all likelihood I was a prisoner, but I didn't know under whom back then (spoiler alert: The Cult of the Damned). The robed figures around the oddly decorated room were whispering and passed around several objects and tomes and set them about the place from all the clinking and rustling. I feigned sleep and listened and eventually one of them spoke up and mentioned something about finding a fledgling Paladin (I really hope they were talking about me. Becoming a Paladin was hard). One guy went on about experimentation (which I did not like the sound of at all) and noticed that I held my breath. His laugh and a quiet background chanting was the last thing I heard after blacking out.

Then I woke up to some pesky adventurers in Eastern Plaguelands! Hooray company!

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