Lord's Rest Inn

*ello*

Far from a bygone era of fear and iron, a man awakens. He digs himself out of a mass grave filled with other remains of those who died long ago. He violently coughs, taking in the cold air as it fills his dry lungs. He grips the ground, fingers digging into the soil as his mind returns to him. He blinks at the morning sun, his eyes getting used to the brightness of day. His hair and beard are short, almost cropped, with a silver color that glimmers like the sparkling bars of iron used to forge dreadful weapons. His skin is weathered and dirt-stained but has a warm almond color that hints at a life spent outdoors. His eyes are like his hair - silver - but with a warmth that belies a kind soul. The clothes he wears - a shirt and breeches that seem to be from a bygone era. They are torn and rotten from the ages that have passed, but they still hold a sense of elegance and grace. The fabric is soft and supple, a testament to the quality of craftsmanship that went into creating them.

He slowly stands up, leaning against a tree. He throws up, body repelling the dirt that once filled him. He wipes his mouth, crumpling to the ground.

Quote from WendigoOfLore >>

"Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you." He said out to the crowd before him. Vittorsi stood on the gallows, the rough rope cutting into his skin. His warm silver eyes stared at his captors, not in anger, but in forgiveness. He has been captured for preaching against the Gods of Darkness, for rejecting those gods in favor of the Gods of Life.
"You are worthless." Toro snarled, gripping the rope tighter around the older man's neck "You will rot and be reborn as a servant to us. This foolish streak of kindness and selflessness will end and you will become one with the darkness like all of us." the shadows writhed around Toro's feet, hungry for a new host.
"Vittorsi 'Virtue' Ortensia. You are charged for disobeying the Gods of Darkness, for seeking the Gods of Light. You are faced with three charges of treason, of conspiracy, and for trying to overthrow our way of life. For this, you will hang till dead for it as punishment." The executor sneered, his head covered in a skull-like hood that hid his deformities.
Vittorsi simply smiled gently, warmly. His features are calm, ready to accept this. He closed his eyes, feeling as if the ground disappeared from under him and the air had left his body.

Was this his sixth or seventh life?.. He was unsure, he stopped keeping track after the fourth death. He stood in the empty void of light grey mists, swirling around his presence like the ocean currents. He felt around his neck, the rope was gone but the marks were there, another reminder of what he lived through. Marks around his neck, scars on his back, bullet holes on his chest, shrapnel in his stomach. He could feel all of them like they were fresh.
He sighed, regaining his composure. Dying in any way always left him shaken. The feeling as his flesh knit back together every hundred-so years. The anxiety that he could never be truly free from living, that he could never truly reach death. He took in a deep breath as he returned to the living world again, opening his eyes.

Far from a bygone era of fear and iron, a man awakens. He digs himself out of a mass grave filled with other remains of those who died long ago. He violently coughs, taking in the cold air as it fills his dry lungs. He grips the ground, fingers digging into the soil as his mind returns to him. He blinks at the morning sun, his eyes getting used to the brightness of day. His hair and beard are short, almost cropped, with a silver color that glimmers like the sparkling bars of iron used to forge dreadful weapons. His skin is weathered and dirt-stained but has a warm almond color that hints at a life spent outdoors. His eyes are like his hair - silver - but with a warmth that belies a kind soul. The clothes he wears - a shirt and breeches that seem to be from a bygone era. They are torn and rotten from the ages that have passed, but they still hold a sense of elegance and grace. The fabric is soft and supple, a testament to the quality of craftsmanship that went into creating them.

He slowly stands up, leaning against a tree. He throws up, body repelling the dirt that once filled him. He wipes his mouth, crumpling to the ground.

 A large man is watching from a short distance away, dressed in a trenchcoat and visored WWI helmet, his body loosely wrapped in barbed wire with little bits of meat stuck to it. A trench shovel hangs from his hand, the rust almost as red as his lips.

He seems indecisive about it, but eventually, he moves to hold out a hand to the man. "Need some help? I've been buried before, and I know it usually isn't fun." He speaks in a soft, gentle voice. He sounds nervous.

*Also, good morning, Wendi!*

Quote from WendigoOfLore >>

"Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you." He said out to the crowd before him. Vittorsi stood on the gallows, the rough rope cutting into his skin. His warm silver eyes stared at his captors, not in anger, but in forgiveness. He has been captured for preaching against the Gods of Darkness, for rejecting those gods in favor of the Gods of Life.
"You are worthless." Toro snarled, gripping the rope tighter around the older man's neck "You will rot and be reborn as a servant to us. This foolish streak of kindness and selflessness will end and you will become one with the darkness like all of us." the shadows writhed around Toro's feet, hungry for a new host.
"Vittorsi 'Virtue' Ortensia. You are charged for disobeying the Gods of Darkness, for seeking the Gods of Light. You are faced with three charges of treason, of conspiracy, and for trying to overthrow our way of life. For this, you will hang till dead for it as punishment." The executor sneered, his head covered in a skull-like hood that hid his deformities.
Vittorsi simply smiled gently, warmly. His features are calm, ready to accept this. He closed his eyes, feeling as if the ground disappeared from under him and the air had left his body.

Was this his sixth or seventh life?.. He was unsure, he stopped keeping track after the fourth death. He stood in the empty void of light grey mists, swirling around his presence like the ocean currents. He felt around his neck, the rope was gone but the marks were there, another reminder of what he lived through. Marks around his neck, scars on his back, bullet holes on his chest, shrapnel in his stomach. He could feel all of them like they were fresh.
He sighed, regaining his composure. Dying in any way always left him shaken. The feeling as his flesh knit back together every hundred-so years. The anxiety that he could never be truly free from living, that he could never truly reach death. He took in a deep breath as he returned to the living world again, opening his eyes.

Far from a bygone era of fear and iron, a man awakens. He digs himself out of a mass grave filled with other remains of those who died long ago. He violently coughs, taking in the cold air as it fills his dry lungs. He grips the ground, fingers digging into the soil as his mind returns to him. He blinks at the morning sun, his eyes getting used to the brightness of day. His hair and beard are short, almost cropped, with a silver color that glimmers like the sparkling bars of iron used to forge dreadful weapons. His skin is weathered and dirt-stained but has a warm almond color that hints at a life spent outdoors. His eyes are like his hair - silver - but with a warmth that belies a kind soul. The clothes he wears - a shirt and breeches that seem to be from a bygone era. They are torn and rotten from the ages that have passed, but they still hold a sense of elegance and grace. The fabric is soft and supple, a testament to the quality of craftsmanship that went into creating them.

He slowly stands up, leaning against a tree. He throws up, body repelling the dirt that once filled him. He wipes his mouth, crumpling to the ground.

 

*this is awesome, i am stoked to learn more*

Quote from Baalzeboop >>

Quote from WendigoOfLore >>

"Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you." He said out to the crowd before him. Vittorsi stood on the gallows, the rough rope cutting into his skin. His warm silver eyes stared at his captors, not in anger, but in forgiveness. He has been captured for preaching against the Gods of Darkness, for rejecting those gods in favor of the Gods of Life.
"You are worthless." Toro snarled, gripping the rope tighter around the older man's neck "You will rot and be reborn as a servant to us. This foolish streak of kindness and selflessness will end and you will become one with the darkness like all of us." the shadows writhed around Toro's feet, hungry for a new host.
"Vittorsi 'Virtue' Ortensia. You are charged for disobeying the Gods of Darkness, for seeking the Gods of Light. You are faced with three charges of treason, of conspiracy, and for trying to overthrow our way of life. For this, you will hang till dead for it as punishment." The executor sneered, his head covered in a skull-like hood that hid his deformities.
Vittorsi simply smiled gently, warmly. His features are calm, ready to accept this. He closed his eyes, feeling as if the ground disappeared from under him and the air had left his body.

Was this his sixth or seventh life?.. He was unsure, he stopped keeping track after the fourth death. He stood in the empty void of light grey mists, swirling around his presence like the ocean currents. He felt around his neck, the rope was gone but the marks were there, another reminder of what he lived through. Marks around his neck, scars on his back, bullet holes on his chest, shrapnel in his stomach. He could feel all of them like they were fresh.
He sighed, regaining his composure. Dying in any way always left him shaken. The feeling as his flesh knit back together every hundred-so years. The anxiety that he could never be truly free from living, that he could never truly reach death. He took in a deep breath as he returned to the living world again, opening his eyes.

Far from a bygone era of fear and iron, a man awakens. He digs himself out of a mass grave filled with other remains of those who died long ago. He violently coughs, taking in the cold air as it fills his dry lungs. He grips the ground, fingers digging into the soil as his mind returns to him. He blinks at the morning sun, his eyes getting used to the brightness of day. His hair and beard are short, almost cropped, with a silver color that glimmers like the sparkling bars of iron used to forge dreadful weapons. His skin is weathered and dirt-stained but has a warm almond color that hints at a life spent outdoors. His eyes are like his hair - silver - but with a warmth that belies a kind soul. The clothes he wears - a shirt and breeches that seem to be from a bygone era. They are torn and rotten from the ages that have passed, but they still hold a sense of elegance and grace. The fabric is soft and supple, a testament to the quality of craftsmanship that went into creating them.

He slowly stands up, leaning against a tree. He throws up, body repelling the dirt that once filled him. He wipes his mouth, crumpling to the ground.

 A large man is watching from a short distance away, dressed in a trenchcoat and visored WWI helmet, his body loosely wrapped in barbed wire with little bits of meat stuck to it. A trench shovel hangs from his hand, the rust almost as red as his lips.

He seems indecisive about it, but eventually, he moves to hold out a hand to the man. "Need some help? I've been buried before, and I know it usually isn't fun." He speaks in a soft, gentle voice. He sounds nervous.

 He looks up at them, eyes still blinking to try and ease the light filtering into his eyes. He seems hesitant for a moment, before taking his hand and shakily standing up. "Quite sorry.." He says softly "I wasn't expecting to be back so quickly.. What year is it, doesn't seem like 404 BA.."

Quote from Baalzeboop >>

*Also, good morning, Wendi!*

 *Morning! Love your new character!*