| *She presses her face against the window from the outside, speaking* “Stop! Stop. Just… just take a second and stop… okay? — Don’t you feel it anymore?” *There is no fog on the window, where her breath hits as she speaks. I never reply. Every word is hers alone.* “The chill on your spine? The raising of the short hairs on your forearms — tingling with cold energy? The dilation of your pupils and the rush of blood that runs through to your wildly beating heart, despite the quiet calmness of your mind? Don’t you feel those sensations anymore? Not even now and then? It used to be every day, remember? Remember? And now you’re telling me you don’t even… that you don’t even feel it anymore at all — ever?” *Her palms press against the glass, next to her face as she stares at me* “It was a mistake! You made a mistake. That’s okay. It’s okay. We all make mistakes, I understand,” soothes the voice. “You can come back. You don’t have to live like this,” she explains. “You can be happy again. We can be happy again,” she promises. I am not surprised that she found me, only how quickly it happened. *She purses her lips, looking as if she is about to cry as I lift the shard of glass to my throat* “STOP!” she screams, desperately hitting against the window but never reaching me. “I’ll leave! I’ll leave you alone and never come back! Just STOP!” she cries. The blade of glass cuts along my throat as I push it in deeply, past the old bite scars. Red gushes out. I’ve healed the vampire’s curse. I’ve regained my humanity. I will not let it be taken from me again. I’m never going back. The hairs on my arm stand on end as I gargle blood and fall over, my vision fading, only to see an empty window as I fall. |
~ The last memory of a man who was best friends with an elder vampire for about a week
| ~ [Beulah] ~ |
| Human, Male, Shrine-Master |
| Location: The Distant Wild-Lands |
There’s no such thing as honor amongst thieves.
The man stands there, below the night, having run leagues for days and nights now — though it would be impossible to say that for sure, given the fact that the sun never rises anymore. His eyes wander up towards the sky, towards the pinpricks of greedy light that shine in from above, piercing through the clouds as if they were eyes that would not be denied the sight of the world below — stars.
The act of thievery has been romanticized and glorified by stories and tales. There is a difference between a ‘thief’ in the term used to describe one who steals and from the actual class, defined by the system, ‘Thief’, which is held in higher esteem. The two often, however, are conflated often.
To be a thief for your primary class is to always be under suspicion, no matter what noble heart or honorable hands lie within that person’s control. Party members in groups will always watch you more closely, and shopkeepers will never give you an easy bargain — if they don’t have you thrown out immediately right away. This is all despite the fact that most people of the class ‘Thief’ never actually steal from humans or anyone else in the city. It is a prejudice of sorts.
But this stems from the fact that the class is connected to the term ‘thief’, referring to one who steals from others in an unsavory context.
This term has become romanticized.
People still hate thieves, yes. But there are stories crafted about them, tales and fables woven over fire that glorify their misdeeds and that paint them as honorable scourges and dashing rogues — as good people who simply exist outside of society’s generally accepted moral compass. They are painted as the heroes of the poor and the enemies of the rich and established.
But this is nonsense.
Thieves steal within their own domains, never outside of them.
The poor steal from the poor, never from the rich. Why would a man risk life and limb to ambush a noble tax-collector, who is heavily guarded, when he could just ambush the unprotected tax-payer with no method of repercussion instead? The numbers are smaller, but it is safer, easier, and more repeatable.
A sense of community and solidarity could be assumed to be the barrier to this, no?
Yet, if a thief had such a thing, he wouldn't be a thief to begin with, thereby losing the point.
No.
There is no real honor among thieves. Thieves are those who look after themselves primarily, and then their own, at the expense of their own communities and greater society. It is trade that seeks short-term reward at the expense of long-term stability, always, for the poor that the thief continually steals from eventually collapse under the burden themselves. Shops close for lack of sustainability, families wither for lack of money and security, medicine, food, and other needs fail to be bought and produced, and soon despair begins to grow within places that could have once been different.
Thieves are the seeders of entropy in a community. They are not romantic, dashing things. Thieves are ugly, cruel, and selfish, and are rightly ousted by those who discover their ways.
Beulah, the man who was once a thief, stares at the stars that stare down towards him as he stands up high atop a wooden frame — a gate leading into a distant shrine, erected for Isaiah in the far north. Sitting there with him are three other figures, the shrine-maidens who he had, well… for a lack of a better term, stolen from Isaiah.
They’ve come very far from the south now.
“Beulah,” says a voice, the middle sister, as she points out into the forest ahead of them. Lights move in the distance between the trees.
“Hunters,” remarks the oldest one, her long ears perking up in the cold winds as she listens to them. “Their boots are soft.”
The man rubs his chin, watching the lights. “What are the chances they’re interested in hearing about Isaiah?” he asks, jokingly, looking down at the third shrine-maiden — the youngest, who lowers her head, covering her mouth to suppress her yelp as her older sister tugs on her ear.
“Sorry~!” she whines, batting her older sibling away. “I won’t do it again!”
Beulah sighs, looking back ahead to the forest. The hunters are out scrounging about because something has been hunting in the night, breaking into chicken coops and stalls to eat the animals, and causing other problems of such nature with the locals. Foxes are clever creatures, but they are also highly mischievous, and, depending on their personalities, they skew either way.
Given their ‘inorganic’ origins, they seem stiffly defined in their personalities, which are still developing and becoming much more loose and free as they grow as people. The oldest is the smartest and most responsible, with this trending downward to the middle sibling and then finishing at the youngest, who lacks in both qualities currently.
The middle sister crosses her arms. “You’ll give Isaiah a bad name if you keep doing this everywhere we go.”
“I said I’m sorry!” remarks the youngest, crossing her arms. “As if you didn’t give Isaiah a bad name when you carved those rude things into the last shrine!” she protests. “I worked so hard on those decorations too!”
The middle sister turns to look at her younger sibling. “Heeeh?” she asks in a long, drawn out breath, leaning down. “As if those ugly things didn’t offend Isaiah to begin with,” she remarks, the two of them devolving into a tussle atop the thin ledge they’re all still atop, until the oldest pulls them both apart by their ears.
“It’s time for us to keep moving,” she says, looking up at Beulah.
He nods, looking behind himself. This shrine is finished. They can never stay too long in one area. Given his class and theirs however, they are strongest within a shrine and weakest when outside of one, so traveling is always dangerous. But they move fast, and it doesn’t take too long to start construction on a new one elsewhere.
The youngest one whines, lifting her head. “I’m tired of running around. Can’t we just stay somewhere nice forever?”
“We could, if you’d stop causing problems!” barks the middle sister, whose ear gets yanked on for her trouble. The two of them are torn apart again by the oldest, who sighs, rises to her feet, and lifts both of them up.
“Once we’re done,” replies Beulah, staring at the stars. “Once I’ve paid back Isaiah for everything and we’re even, then we can find a spot,” says the man.
“Heeeh?” asks the middle sister. “Why can’t we just do that now?” she asks. “It’s not like Isaiah is here,” she remarks. “Why should we care?” asks the shrine-maiden, batting away her older sister’s hand, which was starting to twist her ear.
The lights emerge from the forest, beginning to enlighten the shrine they’re at as the hunters approach, not seeing them yet. Beulah looks down at her, shaking his head. “Because,” says the man, looking back toward the distant horizon. “Isaiah gave us something. So we give something back,” he explains. “We’re not thieves.”
The man vanishes into the night, followed thereafter by three silhouettes as they all vanish into the forest, dodging the lights of the approaching people.
| *She presses her face against the window from the outside, speaking* “Stop! Stop. Just… just take a second and stop… okay? — Don’t you feel it anymore?” *There is no fog on the window, where her breath hits as she speaks. I never reply. Every word is hers alone.* “The chill on your spine? The raising of the short hairs on your forearms — tingling with cold energy? The dilation of your pupils and the rush of blood that runs through to your wildly beating heart, despite the quiet calmness of your mind? Don’t you feel those sensations anymore? Not even now and then? It used to be every day, remember? Remember? And now you’re telling me you don’t even… that you don’t even feel it anymore at all — ever?” *Her palms press against the glass, next to her face as she stares at me* “It was a mistake! You made a mistake. That’s okay. It’s okay. We all make mistakes, I understand,” soothes the voice. “You can come back. You don’t have to live like this,” she explains. “You can be happy again. We can be happy again,” she promises. I am not surprised that she found me, only how quickly it happened. *She purses her lips, looking as if she is about to cry as I lift the shard of glass to my throat* “STOP!” she screams, desperately hitting against the window but never reaching me. “I’ll leave! I’ll leave you alone and never come back! Just STOP!” she cries. The blade of glass cuts along my throat as I push it in deeply, past the old bite scars. Red gushes out. I’ve healed the vampire’s curse. I’ve regained my humanity. I will not let it be taken from me again. I’m never going back. The hairs on my arm stand on end as I gargle blood and fall over, my vision fading, only to see an empty window as I fall. |
~ The last memory of a man who was best friends with an elder vampire for about a week
| ~ [Beulah] ~ |
| Human, Male, Shrine-Master |
| Location: The Distant Wild-Lands |
There’s no such thing as honor amongst thieves.
The man stands there, below the night, having run leagues for days and nights now — though it would be impossible to say that for sure, given the fact that the sun never rises anymore. His eyes wander up towards the sky, towards the pinpricks of greedy light that shine in from above, piercing through the clouds as if they were eyes that would not be denied the sight of the world below — stars.
The act of thievery has been romanticized and glorified by stories and tales. There is a difference between a ‘thief’ in the term used to describe one who steals and from the actual class, defined by the system, ‘Thief’, which is held in higher esteem. The two often, however, are conflated often.
To be a thief for your primary class is to always be under suspicion, no matter what noble heart or honorable hands lie within that person’s control. Party members in groups will always watch you more closely, and shopkeepers will never give you an easy bargain — if they don’t have you thrown out immediately right away. This is all despite the fact that most people of the class ‘Thief’ never actually steal from humans or anyone else in the city. It is a prejudice of sorts.
But this stems from the fact that the class is connected to the term ‘thief’, referring to one who steals from others in an unsavory context.
This term has become romanticized.
People still hate thieves, yes. But there are stories crafted about them, tales and fables woven over fire that glorify their misdeeds and that paint them as honorable scourges and dashing rogues — as good people who simply exist outside of society’s generally accepted moral compass. They are painted as the heroes of the poor and the enemies of the rich and established.
But this is nonsense.
Thieves steal within their own domains, never outside of them.
The poor steal from the poor, never from the rich. Why would a man risk life and limb to ambush a noble tax-collector, who is heavily guarded, when he could just ambush the unprotected tax-payer with no method of repercussion instead? The numbers are smaller, but it is safer, easier, and more repeatable.
A sense of community and solidarity could be assumed to be the barrier to this, no?
Yet, if a thief had such a thing, he wouldn't be a thief to begin with, thereby losing the point.
No.
There is no real honor among thieves. Thieves are those who look after themselves primarily, and then their own, at the expense of their own communities and greater society. It is trade that seeks short-term reward at the expense of long-term stability, always, for the poor that the thief continually steals from eventually collapse under the burden themselves. Shops close for lack of sustainability, families wither for lack of money and security, medicine, food, and other needs fail to be bought and produced, and soon despair begins to grow within places that could have once been different.
Thieves are the seeders of entropy in a community. They are not romantic, dashing things. Thieves are ugly, cruel, and selfish, and are rightly ousted by those who discover their ways.
Beulah, the man who was once a thief, stares at the stars that stare down towards him as he stands up high atop a wooden frame — a gate leading into a distant shrine, erected for Isaiah in the far north. Sitting there with him are three other figures, the shrine-maidens who he had, well… for a lack of a better term, stolen from Isaiah.
They’ve come very far from the south now.
“Beulah,” says a voice, the middle sister, as she points out into the forest ahead of them. Lights move in the distance between the trees.
“Hunters,” remarks the oldest one, her long ears perking up in the cold winds as she listens to them. “Their boots are soft.”
The man rubs his chin, watching the lights. “What are the chances they’re interested in hearing about Isaiah?” he asks, jokingly, looking down at the third shrine-maiden — the youngest, who lowers her head, covering her mouth to suppress her yelp as her older sister tugs on her ear.
“Sorry~!” she whines, batting her older sibling away. “I won’t do it again!”
Beulah sighs, looking back ahead to the forest. The hunters are out scrounging about because something has been hunting in the night, breaking into chicken coops and stalls to eat the animals, and causing other problems of such nature with the locals. Foxes are clever creatures, but they are also highly mischievous, and, depending on their personalities, they skew either way.
Given their ‘inorganic’ origins, they seem stiffly defined in their personalities, which are still developing and becoming much more loose and free as they grow as people. The oldest is the smartest and most responsible, with this trending downward to the middle sibling and then finishing at the youngest, who lacks in both qualities currently.
The middle sister crosses her arms. “You’ll give Isaiah a bad name if you keep doing this everywhere we go.”
“I said I’m sorry!” remarks the youngest, crossing her arms. “As if you didn’t give Isaiah a bad name when you carved those rude things into the last shrine!” she protests. “I worked so hard on those decorations too!”
The middle sister turns to look at her younger sibling. “Heeeh?” she asks in a long, drawn out breath, leaning down. “As if those ugly things didn’t offend Isaiah to begin with,” she remarks, the two of them devolving into a tussle atop the thin ledge they’re all still atop, until the oldest pulls them both apart by their ears.
“It’s time for us to keep moving,” she says, looking up at Beulah.
He nods, looking behind himself. This shrine is finished. They can never stay too long in one area. Given his class and theirs however, they are strongest within a shrine and weakest when outside of one, so traveling is always dangerous. But they move fast, and it doesn’t take too long to start construction on a new one elsewhere.
The youngest one whines, lifting her head. “I’m tired of running around. Can’t we just stay somewhere nice forever?”
“We could, if you’d stop causing problems!” barks the middle sister, whose ear gets yanked on for her trouble. The two of them are torn apart again by the oldest, who sighs, rises to her feet, and lifts both of them up.
“Once we’re done,” replies Beulah, staring at the stars. “Once I’ve paid back Isaiah for everything and we’re even, then we can find a spot,” says the man.
“Heeeh?” asks the middle sister. “Why can’t we just do that now?” she asks. “It’s not like Isaiah is here,” she remarks. “Why should we care?” asks the shrine-maiden, batting away her older sister’s hand, which was starting to twist her ear.
The lights emerge from the forest, beginning to enlighten the shrine they’re at as the hunters approach, not seeing them yet. Beulah looks down at her, shaking his head. “Because,” says the man, looking back toward the distant horizon. “Isaiah gave us something. So we give something back,” he explains. “We’re not thieves.”
The man vanishes into the night, followed thereafter by three silhouettes as they all vanish into the forest, dodging the lights of the approaching people.
