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'''Revival, Pt. 1.''' '''by Treadeau Du'rome''' Forward: An excerpt from my personal journal after my disappearance as Mayor of Caina. “From your flesh, I gain strength. From your bones, I gain sustenance. For your love I live. For your sanity I die. For your treachery, you gain death. For your beauty, you gain immortality. Forever shall you be bound to me. Revival. Revival. Revival.” His head cleared. He remembered nothing. Cloak tattered, doublet ruined, boots soiled. This will not do and is thoroughly unbecoming. If he could see himself he would not recognize his own countenance, as his face was thoroughly haggard, gaunt, his clothes ruffled from seeming years of use. He sighed heavily; his associates would say this was his most used action. Sighing at good news, exhaling stiffly at bad news and only when engaged by a new act of devilry and debauchery would he gain his dreadful vivacity. This time was like the last time, the time before that, and it will happen again in the future he thought. Oh yes, he would stake his fortune upon it happening again. He lost awareness completely and all that was left were mental images of deeds done. Perhaps part of his conscious still lurked in this realm but he recalled very little of it. He had been somewhere else. As he sighed he stumbled through the forest and saw trees, the landscape was covered in tree. Yes, majestic trees and most as large as a peasant’s hovel surrounded by the most serene wildlife nature could imagine. He knew his location and it was Yew. Oh yes he was always drawn back to Yew his once home. Always back to the place where he arrived in this shard of reality when it began. “The Abbey is that way.” He said adjusting his keen sense of direction with the hanging sun and pointing a ruined black leather glove. “Perhaps its time to pay Sheryl a visit” he spoke in a pronounced stage actors voice to the chirping animals. “Sheryl, yes my dear Sheryl of Jhelom. If I have not been gone long, Sheryl will do just fine. Yet, first things are first and lets insure that the avaricious little monks of the Empathy Abbey have not foreclosed on my account.” He trudged slowly and surely towards the Abbey trying to regain his proper balance and cognizance. He began reciting lines of poetry as he walked trying to regain his meticulous command of the spoken language: “Feed us, come to us, we are your children. You are Our Beauty. It is Our Garden... We shall behold the Savage Garden with all of its carnal Beauty. We shall walk the gardens crimson lawns to the Plutonian shores. We shall approach the apex of the Beauty at the pinnacle of Night. Feed us, come to us, we are your children. You are Our Garden... It is Our Beauty. It shall scream to us with its lecherous cries. It shall teach us the cries of hopes bludgeoned and of dreams destroyed. It shall see pleasure in experiences shattered. It shall beckon us within and we turn to embrace its knowledge. It shall give us its erudition and we are now its children. Feed us, come to us, we are your children. You are Our Beauty. It is Our Garden... We Your Children cannot hide from the Immolation of the Light. We Your Children shall have our Bells Immolated. We Your Children shall have our Garden Immolated. We Your Children shall have our Beauty Immolated. We Your Children have been chosen to Die by Immolation. We Your Children must sup from the Cup now or face Immolation of Damnation later. Feed us, come to us, we are your children. You are Our Garden... You are Our Beauty... We are Its Children...” As he finished the last line, he noticed that he was within the confines of the Yew Abbey. In the only part of the Abbey, he found delightful; a memory flooded back to him as he remembered that the wine here was quite putrid. At least the monks had sense of enough to dedicated part of it to money changing. He then realized that he was performing at the top of his lungs and his clamor along with his appearance was causing a commotion. He sighed and immediately picked up his more energetic attitude of old. He tipped his battered and holey hat then giving a courtly flourish of a bow to a striking group of women at arms. As he rose from this most dramatic gesture his was met with the visage of a monk, “Excuse me sir. I must explain to you that if do not have business within the confines of this building you will have to leave.” “Wonderful, wonderful, just the sort of man I wanted to see. Right down to business, focused, determined, and insightfulness are among his virtues.” He said with a mischievous grin. “My business goes as follows:” he took a dramatic breath, “My name is Treadeau Du’rome- Vile Bishop of the Ebon Skull, once Mayor of the City of Caina, occasionally necromancer and a peruser of the fine arts.” He tried to let the full weight of his own self-importance impress the dutiful monk but he merely received a confused stare. Treadeau continued quickly after finding his arrogance and wit was unappreciated. “You will find in one of your many safety deposit chests one with my name with a considerable amount of gold and some of my personal effects. Fetch it for me. Quickly at that!” He gave a resounding clap that silenced the chattering in the Abbey. After considerable hassle with the monk, he had seen that all his items were in place. He withdrew the proper amount of money, his magical equipment, and a small chest full of paint pigments and brushes. “Now to visit my very dear Sheryl… My wonderful little tailor who has undoubtedly ran back to the little home I bought her abandoning me and my own needs”, He said mockingly. He opened his personal rune book of locales his eyes flashing from page to page. It must be here somewhere. He found it soon after and began chanting the words of power which would take him to the marked destination... Continued in Part II. [[Category:Dark Lore]]

Return to Revival, Pt. 1.