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eponymous_en-
nui

Avatar: Piercing Jewelry

[the abyss]

Level 10 Emo Kid

“Gloomy Gus”

Cenbuma

They called you crazy when they kicked you out of the Academy. Said you were insane, that you were obssessed and a lunatic psychopath. Not like it mattered what those simpletons thought. You knew that true power only came to those who weren’t afraid of it, afraid of the sacrifice and dedication that it takes to be able to master one’s destiny. Those fools, the Xammux take them, let their own fear and “morality” keep them from attaining real power.

So you left the Academy and set out on your own path to greatness. The cheapest place you could find for rent was a dingy manse on Cross Street: the neighbourhood was quiet, with a fair number of the homeless that nobody would notice if they “accidentally” went missing some day. It was good.

Good, that is, until the day the Night Watch caught you digging up a freshly-buried corpse at the local Temple to Wee Jas. The ground was harder and the digging tougher than you had expected, and you grew tired; tired enough that you did not see the light of the patrol until it was too late.

They charged you with necrophilia. When you protested that you would never do anything like that, that you were merely seeking to learn, the crowd did not respond like you had anticipated; instead of letting you free like a sane court would, they condemned you to a life sentence in the dungeons for practicing “unnatural arts”. Unnatural arts! Were these people so ignorant that they could not even recognise knowledge for knowledge’s own sake? Was it that difficult to comprehend that there could be an individual who was not satisified being a plebian peasant and wanted to rise above the great unwashed mbumes?

But they threw you into a cell anyway. The place smells of urine and fecal waste, but beneath it all you think you can barely just detect the sickly sweet familiar stench of decay. Hmm.

Your new cellmates are looking at you expectantly. Better get these ‘introductions’ out of the way before you forget how it’s usually done.

 

I like my coffee like I like my prisoners: pale and interesting.

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