Sensory Stones - Part I

Sensory Stones - Part I

Once there was a man who simply would not die for good. He would roam around looking for answers and find himself killed, by accident or deliberately. Then he would simply wake up again on a slab in some morgue forgetting everything there is in this world, including himself. But most of all, he always wondered what made him immortal in the first place.

He did not know what previous incarnations have done and how closer they are to the truth. Sometimes he stumbled upon the kindness of his previous self, and sometimes he discovered the horrible deeds his cruel self had done. Nevertheless, he made it his personal quest to find the truth.

One day he came upon the Public Sensorium while exploring the city he always find himself awake in. The Sensorium held 'sensory stones' - magical stones which held specific feelings and experiences of those willing to share them for visitors of the Sensorium to experience. These stones appeared like normal rocks, apart from the familiar glow they emit, and they are set on waist-high pedestals.

The man approached on the stones. They title card on the pedestal read: 'mind-numbing tedium'. He placed his hand on the surface of the stone and closed his eyes.

The experience couldn't be more than a few minutes long, but hours seemed to pass... a long, boring lecture in the driest, dustiest hall in the University of Chalm. I looked about the vast hall, hoping to catch someone's eye to pull a face at - but the other students were either asleep or staring listlessly into space. I dropped my quill pen, picked it up, and dropped again... just for something to do. I considered stabbing myself in the eye with it, just to see if my sense hadn't been wholly numbed by the incredible boredom...

Perhaps there was some benefit in not remembering, an immortal's years must include long stretches of tedium.

The man touched the experience 'bitter loathing'.

Venomous tears of pain brimming in my narrow yellow eyes, I gathered the tattered remains of my small, scaled, red wings off the floor. I humbly backed out of Groba's studyy, gritting my needle-like teeth beneath sealed lips.


Sure, I was only a spinagon - least among devils - but that was no cause for Groba to tear my wings off because he didn't like the message I had brought him! What would my master do, now? He certainly couldn't say anything to Groba, and what use was a spinagon without its wings? I would probably get cast into the Pit of Flame for "incompetence"!


Vengeance out of the question, there was little to do but shake my clawed fist and hate, hate, hate Groba with all the loathing my hard little black devil's heart could muster...

Besides the many the immortal man had killed in his lives, there must have been others, the friends and lovers of those he killed, anyone who stood in his way, who had loathed him.

The experience 'pure glee'.

Dancing and leaping about in a rhythm with the wood elves' bouncing festival music, I and a dozen other dancers spun through the forest clearing like a whirling dervish, smiling and laughing like mad. As the cheering forest dwellers whooped, clapped and danced alongside me, fairies careened through the air above our heads, leaving sparkling trails of coloured light...

The man was in a rare good mood for some minutes after this experience.

The experience 'consuming impatience'.

I stood debating with Amnas the Horribly Slow, who is the keeper of the Lion Key, as to whether or not my quest was important enough for him to relinquish the key into my care. The whole experience was an exercise in sheer torment... each and every one of his words was followed by a significant pause; each and every point he made was reiterated time and again before he let me speak. I presented an argument... then waited, and waited, and waited while he made his counterpoint. To which I shot out a snappy counterpoint of my own... then must wait yet again for another of Amnas's drawling, meandering, seemingly endless counterpoint. It was everything I could do not to simply lop his head off and snatch the key from his corpse...

This reminded the man of his frustration at not being able to read the language in which the journal he found was written.

The experience 'horrible regret'.

I stood on the deck of my flagship, the Divine Hammer, as it floated over the continent of Agarheim, held aloft by the winds. The very landscape roiled and shuddered beneath the bombardment of my fleet, one thousand ships' cannons and bombards hurling their sorcerous fire down like vengeful beings. The shockwaves had begun to hit my ship only minutes ago - a constant vibration that sent shudders through the whole of the ancient craft and moved my very bones - accompanied by a constant, rumbling bass. As the land's mountains began to sink and the seas that surrounded it began to boil off  into the atmosphere, my first officer came to stand beside me.


"My Lord Admiral... permission to speak freely, sir."


I nodded my acquiescence, my stomach sinking as I guessed at his question.


"My lord... forgive me, but how? What gives us the right? A billion lives..."


I spoke without turning to him, unable to take my eyes off Rhumos, the nation's vast capital city, as it vapourised into a cloud of super-heated gasses twelve miles across and growing ever-wider. "If you only knew the full treachery of the Agarites, First Officer Felm, one which is beyond most any man's comprehension... then you would know. You would speak of our right to annihilate them? We've no right to let them live."


"But... sir? Traitors, all of them? Surely, among the hundreds of thousands. How many innocents--"


"Silence! Speak of it no more - our king has spoken, His will be done. The task set to us is a horrible one, not fit for contemplation or questioning. There is no room for pity, no room for remorse - only duty."


The two of us stood silently for a time, watching the last minutes of Agarheim. At long last I sighed... a low, stuttering exhalation that sounded as if something had broken inside me. Beneath the brazen plate that covered the ruined half of my face, my dead eye began to weep...


"Falm... my friend... I would have you understand. I know now, as I look down at what I have wrought here, that were I to think upon what I have done... what I have truly done... I would be struck mad. A deed such as this... the anguish would overwhelm, destroy me. So, First Officer Falm, it must be that there are no innocents in Agarheim... no mothers, no children, no people. Only traitors. Vile, cunning traitors, who deserve no less than the full brunt of our King's wrath. Do you understand this?"


"Y-yes, m'lord."


"Good. Now go... I wish to be alone, here."


"By your command, Lord Admiral." Falm bowed his head and returned below deck, leaving me to stand over the end of a civilisation.

The fact that this experience was here at all in this hall indicated the admiral must later have had second thoughts. The crime committed was horrible, awful, almost inconceivable, yet the man wondered whether he had done worse.

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(image credit: Rachel-17 @ deviantART)  

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Short stories

Short stories

I - The Aging

Once came a man  who had experienced the most beautiful thing in the world. It was his intention to place the experience within on the sensory stones - magical devices which held feelings and memories for an eternity, leaving them for others to partake of.

But he thought about it: wouldn't it being shared dilute the experience? So he held it to himself, precious thing that it was, and aged with the memory. But as he aged, the memory became tarnished and beaten, and he could no longer recall the glory of the experience.


II - The Execution

Once, a murderer roamed the streets, a black-hearted man by the name of Kossacs. He had been blessed by his fiend mother so that no one could strike him with an intent to harm or they themselves would die. He revelled in his blessing, using it to start fights and murder anyone who crossed his path.

During one of his murderous rages, he was captured by the Harmonium Order with nets and brought before the Guvners. The trial was short, final, yet Kossacs laughed at the proceedings, knowing that no one among them could harm him without dying horribly. At the final day of his trial, he was proclaimed guilty and sentenced to death.

Kossacs's sentence proclaimed by the Guvners was this: 'Confinement for thrice thirty days, during which time you shall give up your life, be declared dead, and your body removed when all signs of life cease.' Kossacs laughed and dared any of them to try and harm him, yet the court was silent.

The Harmonium lead Kossacs to their prison and locked him in a dark, empty cell. There was no cot, no lights, and the only door was a steel grate in the ceiling.

As they lowered him into the cell, the Harmonium told him, "In the corner of your cell will you find a chalice. It holds poison. Your death will be swift."

"Aren't you going to execute me?" Kossacs snarled at the guard.

"No one shall lay a hand on you with intent to harm," came the Harmonium's reply.

"Then I spit on your cowardice!" Kossacs laughed, feeling for the chalice in the darkness, then hurling it at the wall and shattering it. Its poison dripped from the walls and dried, until it was no more. "Come then - you will have to try and kill me now."

But there was no response from the grate in the ceiling. It was then that Kossacs noticed the cell had no cot. No lights. And no food and water. All that remained was the chattered chalice, the poison gone. And for the first time, Kossacs knew the icy touch of death's approach.

In thrice thirty days, the grate opened, and Kossacs's body, now cold, was taken from the cell. It had given up its life, and the execution had been carried out.


III - Three Wishes

An elderly man was sitting alone on a dark path. He wasn't certain of which direction to go, and he'd forgotten both where he was travelling to and who he was. He'd sat down for a moment to rest his weary legs, and suddenly looked up to see an elderly woman before him. She grinned toothlessly and with a cackle, spoke, "Now your third wish. What will it be?"

"Third wish?" The man was baffled. "How can it be a third wish if I haven't had a first and second wish?"

"You've had two wishes already," the hag said, "but your second wish was for me to return everything to the way it was before you had made your first wish. That's why you remember nothing; because everything is the way it was before you made any wishes." She cackled at the poor man. "So it is that you have one wish left."

"All right," said the man, "I don't believe this, but there's no harm in wishing. I wish to know who I am."

"Funny," said the old woman as she granted his wish and disappeared forever. "That was your first wish."


IV - The Parched Land

Once, a large village was struck by a terrible drought. A farmer journeyed to the Worshipping Stone, and again implored it as to the cause of the drought. He asked the Stone why it did nothing when the fields were parched and dying, why the animals and the people suffered while the Stone did not a thing.

"Have we not given enough offerings?" the farmer asked, begging almost upon his hands and needs. But the Stone did not respond; it merely sat, and cast its shadow.

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(image credit: l2ebis @ deviantART)

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Dhall

Dhall

Media: Black ball pen on paper

Date of start: 27.7.2009

Date of finish: 27.7.2009

Description:

It was a quick (lazy) sketch of Dhall, whom The Nameless One met only to find even more questions. Took me less than an hour to draw, so I don't think I'm doing the character much justice. Well, he certainly did not look like how I imagined him would be. I suck at sketches.

Dhall is extremely old, and definitely not human. His skin has a trace of yellow, like old parchment. Dead charcoal gray eyes lie within an angular face... a non-human face, as the ears narrow to points. A large white beard flows down the front of his black robes like a waterfall. He coughs occassionally. The book he works in front of is huge, and seems to contain many names of corpses that have been brought to the Mortuary.

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PST: The Mortuary (1-3)

PST: The Mortuary (1-3)

Chapter 1-3

In the centre of this room stood the largest book I had ever set my eyes upon. It was placed on its metal stand so that the bottom nearly touched the floor, and it was tilted about 30 degrees from the vertical plane. Taller than an average man, the old book was bound in brown leather of unknown origin. Concealed behind the book was a living person, obviously one of the Dustmen. He was attentively writing in the huge book.

The scribe looked very old… his skin was wrinkled and had a slight trace of yellow, like old parchment, like the pages he was writing on. Charcoal-grey eyes lie within an angular face, and a large white beard flowed down the front of his robes like a waterfall. His breathing was ragged and irregular, but even his occasional coughing did not slow the scratching of his quill pen. The book he was writing must have contained thousands of names. As I approached him, he did not look up from what he was doing.

Morte interrupted, “Whoa, chief! What are you doing?!”

“I was going to speak with this scribe. He might know something about how I got here.”

“Look, rattling your bone-box with Dusties should be the LAST thing—”

Before Morte could finish his rant, the scribe began coughing violently. After a moment or two, the coughing spell died down, and the scribe’s breathing resumed its ragged wheeze.

“And we especially shouldn’t be swapping the chant with sick Dusties. C’mon, let’s leave. The quicker we give this place the laugh, the bet—” Before Morte could finish, the scribe’s grey eyes flickered to me.

“The weight of years hangs heavy upon me, Restless One.” He placed down his quill. “…but I do not yet count deafness among my ailments.”

“ ‘Restless One?’ Do you know me?”

“Know you? I…” There was a trace of bitterness in the scribe’s voice as he spoke. “I have never known you, Restless One. No more than you have known yourself.” He was silent for a moment. “For you have forgotten, have you not?”

“Who are you?”

“As always, the question. And the wrong question, as always.” He bowed slightly, but the movement suddenly sent him into a bout of coughing. “I…” He paused for a moment, caught his breath. “I… am Dhall.”

“That question was but the first, Dhall. There is much I wish to know…”

“Very well. What did you wish to know?”

“What is this place?”

“You are in the Mortuary, Restless One. Again you have… come…” Before he could finish, Dhall broke into a fit of coughing. After a moment, he calmed himself and his breathing resumed its ragged wheeze. “…this is the waiting room for those about to depart the shadow of this life.”

“This is where the dead are brought to be interred or cremated. It is our responsibility as Dustmen to care for the dead, those who have left this shadow of life and walk the path to True Death.” Dhall’s voice dropped in concern. “Your wounds must have exacted a heavy toll if you do not recognize this place. It is almost your home.” His last sentence sent shivers.

“Shadow of life?”

“Yes, a shadow. You see, Restless One, this life… it is not real. Your life, my life, they are shadows, flickerings of what life once was. This ‘life’ is where we end up after we die. And here we remain… trapped. Caged. Until we can achieve the True Death.”

“Restless One? Why do you call me as such?”

“Restless is as good a term as any…” Dhall drew a ragged breath. “Something keeps you here, does it not? Something that must be resolved, some passion that must be quenched before you can reach the True Death?”

“True Death?”

“True Death is non-existence. A state devoid of reason, of sensation, of passion.” Dhall coughed, then gave a ragged breath. “A state of purity.”

“Sounds like oblivion. Why would anyone want that?”

“Is it worse than remaining in this shadow of what life once was? I think not.”

“Perhaps you can explain why the Dustmen want me dead.” I recalled Morte's warnings about these people.

“We Dustmen are a faction, a gathering of those of us that recognise the illusion of this life. We await the next life, and help others on their journey.”

Dhall sighed. “It is said there are souls who can never attain the True Death. Death has forsaken them, and their names shall never be penned in the Dead Book. To awake from death as you have done… suggests you are one of these souls. Your existence is unacceptable to our faction.”

“ ‘Unacceptable?’ That doesn’t sound like it leaves me in a good position.”

“You must understand. Your existence is a blasphemy to them. Many of our faction would order you cremated… if they were aware of your affliction.”

“You’re a Dustman. But you don’t seem to be in favour of killing me. Why not?”

“Because forcing our beliefs upon you is not just. You must give up this shadow of life on your own, not because we force you to.” Dhall looked about to break into another coughing jag, but he managed to hold it in with some effort. “As long as I remain at my post, I will protect your right to search for your own truth.”

“You say that I have been here more than once. How is it that the Dustmen do not recognize me?”

“I am a scribe, a cataloguer of all the shells that come to the Mortuary.” Dhall broke into a fit of coughing, then steadied himself. “Only I see the faces of those that lie upon our slabs. The dark of your existence lies safe with me.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“I know scant little of you, Restless One. I know little more of those that have journeyed with you and who now lie in our keeping.” Dhall sighed. “I ask that you no longer ask others to join with you, Restless One — where you walk, so walks misery. Let your burden be your own.”

“There are others who have journeyed with me? And they are here?”

“Do you not know the woman’s corpse interred in the memorial hall below? I had thought that she had traveled with you in the past…” Dhall looked like he was about to start coughing again, then caught his breath. “Am I mistaken?

“Where is her body?”

“The northwest memorial hall on the floor below us. Check the biers there… her name should be on one of the memorial plaques. Mayhap that will revive your memory.”

“I don’t know. I don’t recall ever travelling with a woman.”

Dhall made no response to this. He simply stared at me in silence.

“Before, you said there were others interred here who journeyed with me?”

“Doubtless there are, but I know not their names, nor where they lie. One such as you has left a path many have walked, and few have survived.” Dhall gestured around me. “All dead come here. Some must have travelled with you once.

“How did I get here?”

Dhall snorted in contempt, as if he found the memory repugnant. “Your mouldy chariot ferried you to the Mortuary, Restless One. You would think you were royalty based on the number of loyal subjects that lay stinking and festering upon the cart that carried you.”

“I arrived here on a cart?”

“Yes… your body was somewhere in the middle of the heap, sharing its fluids with the rest of the mountain of corpses.” Dhall broke into another violent fit of coughing, finally catching his breath minutes later. “Your ‘seneschal’ Pharod was, as always, pleased to accept a few mouldy coppers to dump the lot of you at the Mortuary gate.”

“Who is this Pharod?”

“He is a… collector of the dead.” Dhall drew a ragged breath, then continued. “We have such people in our city that scavenge the bodies of those that have walked the path of True Death and bring them to us so that they may be interred properly.”

“Doesn’t sound like you like Pharod much.”

“There are some I respect, Restless One.” Dhall took a ragged breath and steadied himself. “Pharod is not one of them. He wears his ill repute like a badge of honour and takes liberties with the possessions of the dead. He is a knight of the post, cross-trading filth of the lowest sort.” He frowned at further thought of Pharod.

“Knight of the post?”

“A knight of the post…” Pharod coughed. “…a thief. All Pharod brings to our walls come stripped of a little less of their dignity than they possessed in life. Pharod takes whatever he may pry from their stiffening fingers.”

“Did this Pharod take anything from me?”

Dhall paused, considering. “Most likely. Are you missing anything… especially anything of value?” His voice dipped as he frowned. “Not that Pharod would take exception to anything that wasn’t physically grafted to your body, and sometimes even that’s not enough to give his greedy mind pause.”

“I am missing a journal.”

“A journal? If it was of any value, then it is likely it lies in Pharod’s hands.” The instructions tattooed on my back told me to read the journal, then find Pharod. It seemed that I have to act in reverse, if indeed this man kept my journal.

“Where can I find this Pharod?”

“If events persist as they have, Restless One, you have a much greater chance of Pharod finding you and bringing you to us again before you find whatever ooze puddle he wallows in this time.”

“Nevertheless, I must find him.”

A slight warning creeped into Dhall’s tone. “Do not seek out Pharod, Restless One. I am certain that it will simply come full circle again, with you none the wiser and Pharod a few coppers richer. Accept death, Restless One. Do not perpetuate your circle of misery.”

“I have to find him. Do you know where he is?”

Dhall was silent for a moment. When he finally spoke, he seemed to do so reluctantly. “I do not know under which gutterstone Pharod lairs at the moment, but I imagine that he can be found somewhere beyond the Mortuary gates, in the Hive. Perhaps someone there will know where you can find him.”

“Earlier you mentioned my wounds. What did you mean?”

“Yes, the wounds that decorate your body… they look as if they would have sent a lesser man along the path of the True Death, yet it seems as if many of them have healed already.” Dhall coughed violently for a moment, then steadied himself. “But those are only the surface wounds.”

To my questioning look he replied, “I speak of the wounds of the mind. You have forgotten much, have you not? Mayhap your true wounds run much deeper than the scars that decorate your surface…” Dhall coughed again. “…but that is something that only you would know for certain.”

His coughing now and then brought about a trace of concern within me. “You sound ill. Are you not well?”

“I am close now to the True Death, Restless One. It will not be long before I pass beyond the Eternal Boundary and find the peace I have been seeking. I tire of this mortal sphere…” Dhall gave a ragged sigh. “The planes hold no more wonders for one such as I.”

“Are you certain? There might be some way I could help you.”

“I do not wish to live forever nor live again, Restless One. I could not bear it.”

I stood for a moment, considering him. However, I needed to find a way out of the Mortuary.

“Can you tell me how to get out of here?”

“Hmmmm… the front gate is the most obvious exit, but they will not let anyone other than Dustmen pass…” Dhall broke into a ragged cough, then continued. “…one of the guides by the front gate has a key to it, but it is unlikely he will open it for you unless you are extremely persuasive.”

“Thank you. Farewell, Dhall.” As I turned to leave, Dhall spoke.

“Know this: I do not envy you, Restless One. To be reborn as you would be a curse that I could not bear. You must come to terms with it. At some point, your path will return you here…” Dhall coughed, the sound rattling in his throat. “It is the way of all things flesh and bone.”

“Then perhaps we will meet again, Dhall.”

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Glossary:

1. Dustmen: The "Dustmen" are the caretakers of the Mortuary, a huge morgue filled with bodies. The faction seems to be a pretty somber bunch, rarely showing expression or interest in anything. They seem intent only upon taking care of all the dead bodies that come into the Mortuary, catologuing them, preparing them, then burying them... somewhere.
2. Bone-box: The mouth; named because of its inherent nature - the teeth, jaw, and skull make up the bony structure of the mouth.
3. Copper: The currency used in the city of Sigil; a coin made of copper.

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PST: The Mortuary (1-2)

PST: The Mortuary (1-2)

Chapter 1-2

     “Pssst… Some advice, chief: I'd keep it quiet from here on — no need to put any more corpses in the dead book than necessary… especially the femmes. Plus, killing them might draw the caretakers here.”

     “I don’t think you mentioned it before… who are these caretakers?” I felt my uneasiness spread.

     “They call themselves the ‘Dustmen’. You can’t miss ‘em: They have an obsession with black and rigor mortis of the face. They’re an addled bunch of ghoulish death-worshippers; they believe everybody should die… sooner better than later.” I wondered about the caretakers.

     “I'm confused… why do these Dustmen care if I escape?”

     “Weren’t you listening?! I said the Dusties believe EVERYBODY'S got to die, sooner better than later. You think the corpses you've seen are happier in the dead book than out of it?” Once started, I found I was full of questions.

     “The corpses here… where did they all come from?”

     “Death visits the Planes every day, chief. These shamblers are all that’s left of the poor sods who sold their bodies to the caretakers after death.”

     “Before you said something about making sure I didn’t kill any female corpses. Why?”

     “Wh — are you serious? Look, chief, these dead chits are the last chance for a couple of hardy bashers like us. We need to be chivalrous… no hacking them up for keys, no lopping their limbs off, things like that.”

     “Last chance? What are you talking about?”

     “Chief, THEY’re dead, WE’re dead… see where I'm going? Eh? Eh?”

     “No… no, I don’t, actually.”

     “Chief, we already got an opening line with these limping ladies. We've all died at least once: we'll have something to talk about. They'll appreciate men with our kind of death experience.”

     “Wait… didn’t you say before that I'm not dead?”

     “Well… all right, you might not be dead, but I am. And from where I'm standing, I wouldn’t mind sharing a coffin with some of these fine, sinewy cadavers I see here.” Morte started clacking his teeth, as if in anticipation. “ ‘Course, the caretakers would have to part with them first, and that’s not likely…”

     Morte continued, “Look, chief. It’s obvious you’re still a little addled after your kiss with death. So two bits of advice for you: one, if you got questions, ask me, all right?”

     “All right… if I have any questions, I’ll ask you.” I lazily responded.

     “Second, if you’re half as forgetful as you seem to be, start writing stuff down — whenever you come across something that might be important, jot it down so you don’t forget.”

     “If I had that journal I was supposed to have with me, I'd do that.”

     “Start a new one, then, chief. No loss. There’s plenty of parchment and ink around here to last you.”

     “Hmmmm. All right. It couldn’t hurt… I'll make a new one, then.”

     “Use it to keep track of your movements. If you ever start to get cloudy on important things, like who you are… or more importantly, who I am… use it to refresh your memory.”

     “All right… I got it. Let’s go.”

     The next room was similar to the previous on, albeit cleaner and less gory. At the centre of the room was a metal slab much larger than most of the other slabs and was sitting on a platform that allowed it to be rotated. Blood stains, rust, and other remains cover the surface.

     More zombies dragged around, most obviously on tasks set by the Dustmen. A shambling corpse gazed at me with vacant eyes. Her skin is paper-thin, almost wispy… it is like someone draped a sheet of cobwebs across her frame. The number “594” has been scratched onto her forehead with a charcoal pencil.

     “So… doing anything later?” I asked, knowing it was a trivial pursuit. The corpse continued to stare at me.

     “Psssst. You see the way she was looking at me? Huh? You see that? The way she was following the curve of my occipital bone?” Morte was getting excited, I sensed.

     “You mean that blank-eyed beyond-the-grave stare?”

     “Wha – are you BLIND?! She was scouting me out! It was shameless the way she WANTED me.”

     “I think you and your imagination need some time away from each other.”

     “Yeah, yeah, whatever. When you’ve been dead as long as I have, you know the signals. They may be too SUBTLE for you to pick up on, but that’s why I’ll be spending my nights with some luscious recently-dead chit while you’re standing around goin’ ‘Huh? Whatzz goin’ on? Where’s my muh-muh-memories?’ ”

     “Whatever, Morte.” He sure liked to talk.

     Another zombie caught my attention. The male corpse was lumbering along a triangular path. Once it reached one of the corners of the triangle, it paused, then turned and staggered towards the next corner. It had “965” tattooed on the side of its skull. As I approached, it halted and stared at me.

     “Heh. Looks like someone forgot to tell this sod to stop walking the Rule-of-Three,” Morte commented.

     “What do you mean?”

     “These corpses don’t have much left in the attic, so they can’t do more than one task at a time… when they’re told to do something, they'll keep doing it until someone tells them to stop. This poor sod probably finished some task, and they forgot to tell him.”

     “You said something about the ‘Rule-of-Three’. What did you mean by that?”

     “Eh? Well, the Rule-of-Three is one of those ‘laws’ about the Planes, about things tending to happen in threes… or everything’s composed of three parts… or there’s always three choices, and so on and so forth.”

     “You don’t sound like you hold much faith in it.”

     “It’s a load of wash, if you ask me. If you look for a number, any number, and try to attach some great meaning to it, you’re going to find plenty of coincidences.”

     I left the corpse tracing its triangular path and looked for a way out. A menacing door on the wall I was facing was left open. Beyond the door, as I walked closer I could see more cupboards and slabs tightly arranged near the left wall. I entered the next room. 

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Glossary:

1. Zombie: Zombies are mindless corpses animated by necromancy. Unlike skeletons, zombies still have a great deal of flesh attached to their frame, and this is both an advantage and disadvantage... it makes them tougher and stronger than skeletons, but at the same time, rigor mortis hinders their movement, making them much slower than a normal human being.
2. Plane: A Plane is an infinite expanse of existence, separated from other similar expanses by a metaphysical distance rather than a physical one.

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Morte

Morte

Media: Black ball pen on paper

Date of start: 16.3.2009

Date of finish: 17.3.2009

Description:

One of the most interesting characters I have ever came across. You'll learn to love him. He is simply the funniest floating, talking skull ever. But then again, he's probably the only floating, talking skull you'll ever meet.

Morte is a talking skull. His sole weapon seems to be his mouth, whether by taunting or biting. He seems to be along for the ride, whether you want him around or not.

You are somewhat curious as to how he is able to float around.

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PST: The Mortuary (1-1)

PST: The Mortuary (1-1)

Original text by Chris Avellone and Colin McComb

Original novelisation by Rhyss Hess

Chapter 1-1

THE MORTUARY

 I had a vague but strangely familiar sensation as if I am lying on a cold hard slab and that someone is slowly pushing it towards a detested destination. Then a series of peculiar dreams filled my mind: A black pillar covered with white inscriptions. Rows upon rows of skulls on shelves. A symbol burned in flames. A woman smiling at me and yet seeming so sad. A petty thug slashing his knife at me. An ethereal ghost.

     I awoke to find myself on a slab, made of carved stone lined with rusty metal along the edges. Briefly glancing around, I realised that I was in a middle of a large room of bizarre qualities. As I levered myself up, I caught movement from the corner of my eye. A floating white-grey skull with a perfect  pair of eyeballs in the eye sockets. No, I realized as it spoke: a floating, talking, skull.

     “Hey, chief. You okay? You playing corpse or you putting the blinds on the Dusties? I thought you were a deader for sure.” I was confused, and had trouble focusing on what the skull was saying.

     “Wh…? Who are you?”

     “Uh… who am I? How about you start? Who’re you?”

     “I… don’t know. I can’t remember.” It was an overwhelming experience to discover that my memory was a blank slate.

     “You can’t remember your name? Heh. Well, NEXT time you spend a night in this berg, go easy on the bub. Name’s Morte. I'm trapped in here, too.”

     “Trapped?”

     “Yeah, since you haven’t had time to get your legs yet, here’s the chant: I've tried all the doors, and this room is locked tighter than a chastity belt.” I needed to orient myself and find out from the skull where I was.

     “We’re locked in… where? What is this place?”

     “It’s called the ‘Mortuary'… it’s a big black structure with all the architectural charm of a pregnant spider.”

     “ ‘The Mortuary?’ What… am I dead?” I did not think this was all still a dream.

     “Not from where I'm standing. You got scars a-plenty, though… looks like some berk painted you with a knife. All the more reason to give this place the laugh before whoever carved you up comes back to finish the job.”

     “Scars? How bad are they?”

     “Well… the carvings on your chest aren’t TOO bad… but the ones on your back…” Morte paused. “Say, looks like you got a whole tattoo gallery on your back, chief. Spells out something…”

     I looked down at myself, and realized the truth about the scars Morte mentioned. They covered nearly every visible bit of my skin. There was a tattoo on my arm as well, the same one I saw from my dream. I wondered what was on my back, though.

     “Tattoos on my back? What do they say?”

     “Heh! Looks like you come with directions…” Morte cleared his throat. “Let’s see… it starts with… ‘I know you feel like you've been drinking a few kegs of Styx wash, but you need to CENTRE yourself. Among your possessions is a JOURNAL that'll shed some light on the dark of the matter. PHAROD can fill you in on the rest of the chant, if he’s not in the dead-book already.’ ”

     “Pharod…? Does it say anything else?”

     “Yeah, there’s a bit more…” Morte paused. “Let’s see… it goes on…”

     “ ‘Don’t lose the journal or we'll be up the Styx again. And whatever you do, DO NOT tell anyone WHO you are or WHAT happens to you, or they'll put you on a quick pilgrimage to the crematorium. Do what I tell you: READ the journal, then FIND Pharod.’ ” Morte sounded very serious.

     “No wonder my back hurts; there’s a damn novel written there. As for that journal I'm supposed to have with me… was there one with me while I was lying here?”

     “No… you were stripped to the skins when you arrived here. ‘Sides, looks like you got enough of a journal penned on your body.”

     “What about Pharod? Do you know him?” I was curious as to how this person’s name got on my back. Was he a friend? Someone important, perhaps?

     “Nobody I know… but then again, I don’t know many people. Still, SOME berk’s got to know where to find Pharod… uh, once we get out of here, that is.”

     “How do we get out of here?” I looked more intently around the dimly lit room. It was shaped, interestingly enough, like a slice of a cake. The floor was constructed of tiles of uneven shape with shades of grey, green and blue. Occasional railway tracks ran across the room. I was still wondering what those tracks were for until I realised that they were for the seven or so slabs in the room, seeing a railway track crossed underneath the slab I was on.

     “Well, all the doors are locked, so we'll need the key. Chances are, one of the walking corpses in this room has it.”

     “Walking corpses?” I queried.

     “Yeah, the Mortuary keepers use dead bodies as cheap labour. The corpses are dumb as stones, but they’re harmless, and won’t attack you unless you attack first.” Morte was suggesting that I kill these corpses. How ironic.

     “Is there some other way? I don’t want to kill them just for a key.”

     “What, you think it’s going to hurt their feelings? They’re DEAD. But if you want a bright side to this: if you kill them, at least they'll have a rest before their keepers raise them up to work again.”

     “Well, all right… I'll take one of them down and get the key.”

     I surveyed the room again and saw some zombies at the far right side of the room beside several slabs, almost hidden in the dark shadows. They appeared to shuffle around slowly, attending to whatever work they were assigned to, presumably. I was about to approach one of them before Morte interrupted me.

     “Well, before you do that, arm yourself first. I think there’s a scalpel on one of the shelves around here.”

     “All right, I’ll look for one.”

     “One last thing: Those corpses are as slow as molasses, but getting punched by one of them is like being kissed by a battering ram. If they start getting an edge on you, remember you can RUN, and they can’t.”

     “All right. Thanks for the advice.” I sheepishly replied.

     I spotted a cupboard against a wall behind me and started to walk towards it. I passed by another slab, then briefly stopped to examine it. This slab was covered with dried blood and other remains. A device sat at the end of the slab, looking like some sort of sewing machine… arms with hooks, tubes, and metallic thread hang from it. Beside the slab, just on the floor, were barrels containing a murky liquid. It smelled like a cross between vinegar and formaldehyde.

     I finally reached the wooden cupboard to find it almost as disgusting as the slab I just encountered. Bandages, jars of fluids of various colours, and some rags covered with blood line the shelves. On the counter lie several dirty surgical tools and a pool of red blood awaiting evaporation.

     I searched the drawers until I came up with a scalpel. The simple surgical cutting tool looked like it has seen a lot of use. Morte, who was floating and following my every move, chimed in.

     “All right, you found a scalpel! Now, go get those corpses… and don’t worry, I'll stay back and provide valuable tactical advice.”

     “Maybe you could help me, Morte.”

     “I WILL be helping you. Good advice is hard to come by.” The jabbering skull could be annoying.

     “I meant help in attacking the corpse.”

     “Me? I'm a romantic, not a soldier. I'd just get in the way.”

     “When I attack this corpse, you better be right there with me or you'll be the next thing that I plunge this scalpel in.”

     “Eh… all right. I'll help you.” Morte tilted up and down in a nod.

     “I’m glad we understand each other.” I smiled sarcastically.

     “Time to introduce these corpses to the second death, then…”

     “Let’s go.”

     I approached one of the zombies mindlessly moving about the room. This shambling male corpse looked like it has been dead for several years. The skin along its forehead had peeled back, revealing its chalk-white skull. Someone had chiselled the number “569” into the exposed bone.

     “I’m looking for a key… do you happen to have one?” I asked the corpse.

     “Uh, chief… they can’t hear you, all right? They’re dead.” Morte swished from behind me.

     “But you’re dead. And you’re talking to me.”

     “Yeah, but I’m special. Death couldn’t kill my zest for life. These corpses here…” Morte rolled his eyes. “They probably didn’t have much personality to begin with.”

     “I… see.” The first few minutes of my lucidity was getting increasingly weird.

     I examined the corpse, but it did not appear to be carrying a key… and it did not look like it would be able to use one if it did. Its fingers were broken, as if someone smashed them with a hammer.

     Behind the zombie was a body supine on a slab. It looked like someone was in the middle of dissecting the corpse. It was turned in inside out; a machine at the head of the table has peeled the skin off the forehead to give direct access to the skull. I doubt it was the zombie’s work, however.

     I left the walking corpse in peace and went closer to another zombie nearby. Again, I was distracted by a dead body on a slab beside the zombie. A bloody cloth covered the remains of the cadaver. The stench rising from the body is almost unbearable.

     It puzzled me how I did not feel disturbed with the state of this room: multiple slabs covered in blood, cadavers dissected open just waiting for the dissector to complete the job, bodily remains kept in jars while some spread over tables, and the odor of embalming fluid mixed with the smell of decay wafting in the cold air. I imagined any other person would drown in fear.

     The corpse stopped and stared blankly at me as I approach. The number “782” was carved into his forehead, and his lips were stitched closed. The faint smell of formaldehyde emanated from the body.

     “This looks like the lucky petitioner here, chief. Look… he’s got the key there in his hand.” I didn’t need Morte’s help to see that. It was holding the key tightly in its left hand, its thumb and forefinger locked around it in a death grip. I probably needed to hack the corpse’s hand off to free the key.

     “I need that key, corpse… looks like you’re not long for this world.” I muttered to myself.  Several calculated thrusts with the scalpel and a couple of bites from Morte killed the creature swiftly that it barely was able to retaliate. I forced the key out from its dead hand.

     The key was tied with a dirty cloth labelled “Preparation Room Key”. The head of this bronze key had been twisted around itself several times, so that it resembles a screw. If Morte was to be believed, it would unlock one of the doors in this room.

     There were three door; two on the wall with the cupboard and another on the opposite wall. At random, I chose the door nearest to me, which coincidentally was the farthest from the cupboard.

     The metal door was double-hinged and large enough to be a gate, with a dull design of vertical stripes but oddly menacing, as if the designer intended that anyone wishing to pass through this door to have second thoughts.  I used the key nervously, not knowing what would lie beyond this room.

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