Madness in the name of Right

[Biske]

".. Have you thought of me, boy? Even when I was rotting, even when I was dead, did I come to you in your dreams, or haunt you in the shadows of your drunken tomfoolery? And look what it has done to you."

".. How does it feel to be a murderer, Biske? We are not so dissimilar."


"I don't know what you're talking about! Oh gods, please...!"


"How does it make you feel, Reagan Biske, to know that everything you have done -- perhaps for good, perhaps for your own safety -- is now hidden beneath those wax words? .. Reagan Biske the murderer."

He was a shadow. Here they were; the lanky man, the sobbing, hulking Scribe. The blackness of obsidian axe driven into the ground between them; it sucked away the light, it hid them from view. The scraping of bone and nails on hard-packed dirt, the frighten man-child's sobs and cries for help - it was a bit disconcerting, to watch Militiamen pass not three feet in front and not react.

He had made sure to make the boy write his messages, first. Before those thick hands, so unlikely set at a scribe's task, were ruined.


"You are a murderer .. and they come at you with blades, and your only choice is to murder to stay alive. You are on the other side of the stones, Biske, and they will throw them upon you."

He was so careful, careful, in his choosing; the axe had aided. They had all confessed. They had all written his message. They had known, and done nothing.

"The same reason we did it to the rest of the Council, Biske. Convenience. Do you think they ever came back from their tea party?"

"I don't want to die; I don't want to die; I don't I don't I don't I don't..."

The child-giant had stopped; his face was buried in his ruined hands. He hunched in the hole he had been forced to dig, under pretense and *lies*. Biske would have done this. Strength; strength. He was only sorry because he had been *caught*. Because his work with the drow had been his undoing.

Of course they would tell the truth, if threatened with painful death. It didn't make sense for them to all *lie*.

"And what will you do, Biske? .. Will you tell them that you have killed me? Good things are often lies wrapped inside of the guise of herosim. Good things are merely selfish desires brought to fruition and served like pastries to people willing enough to devour them."

... bare fingers snaked forth, clouded webbing clunging to long didgits even as they curled about the sobbing young man's shoulder. Comfort, unexpected - the boy, in his pain, could barely notice the gentle press of fingers. There would only be a flash of pain - pain that brought *blissful* relief, as the long stake drove into his muscled back, piercing his heart - though it left his eyes wide in their terror, as he slumped forth into the hole he had so obediently dug with his bare hands.

".. Cured? No, Reagen Biske, you are merely .. distracted. No longer a beast, at least on the inside.. but you have replaced that identity with one of a murderer, now. Cured, you might be -- murderer, you will always be."

His fingers slipped from the boy's shoulder as the body fell. The child that had been sobbing, *pleading* for his life mere seconds before had become an *it*, a thing; a non-entity, soul and spirit released from their fleshy prison. But he would stare; he would bow his head, as the rain began it's gentle fall, a hand reaching to twine fingers about the haft of obsidian axe; almost like the way shy lovers fumbled to hold hands, as Biske and Daisy had done a month before.

"Audmathus merely leads you about so he can keep you from killing him...

... he fears you."


"WHY DO YOU RUN FROM ME????"

[Biske]

The rain was light, running in gentle rivulets down the sooted roofs of Baker's Street; pattering warm splashes on all those who rushed to business this night.

Lane Grant. Part-time playwrite. He's not very good...
His bills are paid by filing the Council's records.

The studious young man had found a note at his door, request his *urgent* and *immediate* presence; water-proof leather bag was held over his head as he strode through the mud. He wasn't sure what sort of *prank* this is; five minutes ago he had arrived as instructed, only to find it *empty*, as always - the Brotherhood guards expressing bewilderment.

He was far too absorbed in his black thoughts, the *letter* he would write in protest! What he would *do* to whatever miscreant had summoned him out on such a night. He paid little heed to the scruffy vagrant in threadbare clothes, lanky back leaned heavily against brick building, bearded chin dipped upwards as he drank greedily from a half-empty whiskey bottle. Common enough sight; these drunks, smelling of their poison of choice, were *everywhere*. Lane would pass by the man haughtily.

He did not notice the gradual absence of light; lanterns clearly lit, but it was as if the warm glow they radiated was extiguished, *sucked* from the very air. One moment Lane would be filled with his riteous anger; the next he would find himself, bewilderingly enough, on the ground; glass litered about him, he had the sense to flounder in the mud, eyes wildly searching the sudden dark, mouth hung open to admit huge gasps as his head began a *sudden* pounding.

The sound of a match striking, yellowed flame sulfuric and thick; it sent out the only light to be found, highlighting a single, pale-brown eye; a face drawn in profound sadness, in profound *weariness* at the world and its ills; glazed, perhaps, from drink. Sulfur and whiskey; Lane would slowly realize that he was *covered* in the stuff; that the bottle must have been smashed over his head, spilling amber contents all over his clean, if worn, clothing.

"... Lane *Grant*." It was a voice that grated; it did not snarl, or touch with anger. It was as his eye; weary, condescending. "... Ye've been found guilty of aidin' Myrken's enemies."

The rain was a gentle thing; it coursed down Biske's crooked nose, the tortured, scar-ridden lines of his face; it caressed strands of curled, slicked-black hair. It would not stop a raging inferno.

The match, to Lane's horror, was flicked at his alcohol-drenched form.

He burned.