Entry 1: I did not learn how to write, I just do. Where the memory for this and other things comes from I do not understand. Maybe it is the hand that holds this pencil, oblivious to the arm it is attached to now, going about what it did in life?
But I guess I should start at what I first remember.
When I woke up from the ritual that first made me aware I remember the smell from inside that moldy warehouse on the edge of Cherry Hill and Eastgate Park. Everywhere the structure was crumbling but the Circle of Thorns cultist seemed content to live there. The place allowed them to be out of sight of prying eyes and free to work their necromancy rituals. The anarchy of the Hollows also added to the isolation in a way. All though every so often Id hear the sound of an attack by one of the rival gangs trying to muscle their way in, or the cries of an unsuccessful hero as they realized too late how unwise their intrusion had been.
I somewhat understand what I am, and was supposed to be. I remember one of the Circle members talking to me on the day they were grafting my spine into place. The cultist surgeon told me how I was his proof of concept in refining the technology of someone named Doctor Vahzilok with more mystical elements.
Those first few days ranged from awkward to stressful at times. I still hear the sound of my creators voice cursing in my mind when he was trying to pop my left femur bone into its socket and slipped on some embalming fluid that had spilled onto the floor. I did not have my throat put together yet, but if I had Im sure I would have been laughing at him. The process was not painful, I know that, but there was a sense of complete helplessness. No sooner would I feel an arm attached and be able to feel my new fingers for the first time then one of the Circle cultist working on me would be lopping it off again to make some adjustment or another.
All told it took them around a month to complete me I think. The last part was putting in place the mechanical apparatus that now makes up my face. It was the most grueling of their operations on me. To finally have sight, then hear one of them say there was a problem, and take it away again. I never knew anything but the darkness and sounds of that warehouse for that first month. In all honesty, given the things Id heard, I am rather grateful that they completed my vision last. Still though to spend all that time in an abyss then suddenly have things like color, and shape, even in an unholy place such as that gave me a feeling of awe.
Soon after I was done was when I escaped. I dont really want to recall it now here though. The memory of losing my first friend makes it a little too hard to think on. Ill write about it later, once I have some time to work it out.
Entry 1: I did not learn how to write, I just do. Where the memory for this and other things comes from I do not understand. Maybe it is the hand that holds this pencil, oblivious to the arm it is attached to now, going about what it did in life?
But I guess I should start at what I first remember.
When I woke up from the ritual that first made me aware I remember the smell from inside that moldy warehouse on the edge of Cherry Hill and Eastgate Park. Everywhere the structure was crumbling but the Circle of Thorns cultist seemed content to live there. The place allowed them to be out of sight of prying eyes and free to work their necromancy rituals. The anarchy of the Hollows also added to the isolation in a way. All though every so often Id hear the sound of an attack by one of the rival gangs trying to muscle their way in, or the cries of an unsuccessful hero as they realized too late how unwise their intrusion had been.
I somewhat understand what I am, and was supposed to be. I remember one of the Circle members talking to me on the day they were grafting my spine into place. The cultist surgeon told me how I was his proof of concept in refining the technology of someone named Doctor Vahzilok with more mystical elements.
Those first few days ranged from awkward to stressful at times. I still hear the sound of my creators voice cursing in my mind when he was trying to pop my left femur bone into its socket and slipped on some embalming fluid that had spilled onto the floor. I did not have my throat put together yet, but if I had Im sure I would have been laughing at him. The process was not painful, I know that, but there was a sense of complete helplessness. No sooner would I feel an arm attached and be able to feel my new fingers for the first time then one of the Circle cultist working on me would be lopping it off again to make some adjustment or another.
All told it took them around a month to complete me I think. The last part was putting in place the mechanical apparatus that now makes up my face. It was the most grueling of their operations on me. To finally have sight, then hear one of them say there was a problem, and take it away again. I never knew anything but the darkness and sounds of that warehouse for that first month. In all honesty, given the things Id heard, I am rather grateful that they completed my vision last. Still though to spend all that time in an abyss then suddenly have things like color, and shape, even in an unholy place such as that gave me a feeling of awe.
Soon after I was done was when I escaped. I dont really want to recall it now here though. The memory of losing my first friend makes it a little too hard to think on. Ill write about it later, once I have some time to work it out.