Ghutaal the LightSlayer

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Role

Chapter 1

Why is it that we cling so drastically with arms extended and eyes wet with
tears to that which we have held close for even the shortest amount of time.
And why is it that I have slowly let the faded sands of my past sift through
my dark fingers without even trying to slow the fall. I am not sure exactly
when that fall began, but I have a very strong idea. He took me back to the
simply furnished cave and made a palet for slight comfort for this now
houseless homeless orphan wretch of drastically blaspheming parents and began
to work to make me his slave like apprentice in training. Slowly at first I
began to learn from him, for I was still simmeringly furious in my silent way
about his self-prospering actions against those that raised me in such a
sheltered way from the destructive and cold actions of our kind. Our kind I
say for as the sand has slipped through my fingers and I have found something
knew to strive for and to cling too I have become so very chilled within, ice
now surrounds my heart at almost all times. At first he must have thought I
was merely in shock, for after I realized that I could not leave this place
of horror, the place of my parents murderer, I began to take what I could
from him and grow as I could. He had to have been worried as I learned little
from most of that which he taught me at first, the holy rituals were easy,
though the power that he could gather from them I felt nothing for, only a
simmering of anger as I watched him grow ever stronger. I found few things I
could do with a strange sort of relative ease, words that I could decipher
through careful study when that one would sleep, and objects that somehow I
seemed to know what their use was, though I never did try out what I
imagined. I know now as I sit and ponder that the sand that was the heat of
my joy for life and love began to sift the night I slit his throat and read
that scroll. Too much I had taken by his hand, to much was the torture of
watching him breath that I lost the hold I had on my judgement and cut him
with his own sacrificial dagger, as he thrashed, breaking his prized holy
relics, as those that were coming to wake him began to draw more quickly
closer, I chanted the scroll I had found. I cared not what it did nor did I
know, I just knew that I had to end the current existance I had surrounded
myself with, the fire had finally burst forth from my soul as his blood burst
forth from his neck and the world shifted and I was elsewhere. And now I
still think on those days as I make something new for myself, as I let that
which burst forth from my soul and from the chant of my voice guide me, it is
all I have now, it is what I am, it is what makes me feel alive.

Role

Chapter 2

Memories are fleeting at best, though for some reason we remember those that
seem to mean so very little at the time though a so very great later in life.
The small things that linger in the back of your mind, tickle your dreams,
and haunt your nightmares. I seem certain why these memories haunt me, though
this certainty, transparent at best, is fleeting and fading away. I think I
did care once, so very long ago when I was not the man I am now, about those
that brought me into this world. They were abnormal for our people the great
cleric would spit forth from behind the mask of a wild cave beast as the
various bones hanging about his person rattled a sort of tune to his
rythmically jerky body shifts that would hold the eyes and minds of those
drug induced crowds worshipping in masses. His vicious words still bounce
about in mine memories so vividly, though his following actions do not for
some reason, pull themselves through the fog. I do not remember their deaths,
nor the ensuing degredation of their now silent and still bodies. I do
remember the hate and anger that I stiffled for mine own sake of existance
that burned so clearly. I remember the sudden foreign energies that jumped
along my arms as I stretched the forth towards the shaman, the energies that
sprang to my tongue as I whispered strange too smooth enticing words. But I
remember the most, how I let the words die, how the anger pushed further down
into my concience and into my soul, and the so pathetically feigned look of
concern and agony for my person that showed on the cleric's face as he lifted
the beasts mask from his head. I remember so clearly, so very clearly, the
creature of hatred moving towards me and then clasping my hands in his as I
still held them forth infront of my person after the most defining moment of
my cowardice or instinct to survive took over. I remember the burning in my
soul that I am still sure is driven by hate, but now I know it is not hate
itself. Memories are a thing that I find funny, why I find them funny I am
not sure, perhaps it is my perverse thoughts that possibly, so possibly, the
memories are not even true and all is distorted and misconstrued is such a
way as to further myself through mine own subconcious. For the subconcious
and that which burns in ones soul and behind ones deepest desires is what
truly pushes one foreward.