Author Games: Path of the Guildpact

Quarterfinals: Iracun Rumpig

Iracun was smiling.

The words were coming out faster, slowly morphing into something beautiful. Tomorrow, he knew, by tomorrow he'd be done. Just a few more chapters, all of which he could write. Sleep had only besought him for a few hours the previous night, just a mere five or so of the dark non-death; he could accept that. Acceptance, he knew, was key to allowing himself to change. For the better? Ah, but was every change that significant? He didn't know, but he didn't want to.

There was something missing.

Rakdos.

Iracun needed to obtain the Rakdos signet--which he did, of course, but how? Ah, to think back to when one was young...even the old forget, and this memory lies beyond him. It must've been easy then, for if it were hard he surely would remember it. Significant things were known, of course, so for those of his students wondering where Rakdos went--ask yourself, what is so easy that it can be forgotten, and yet so hard it was a task to be completed?

With everything I have done in my life, it is easy to say that I am a man of honor. Iracun Rumpig, t'is I, yet here I have been speaking about myself, rather than for me. Allow me now to taste the skills of the universe, without erasing these words of mine, and tell a story akin to this dilemma.

What is wholly evil and terribly complex, yet easy enough for the mind to forget?

For that is why Iracun shudders in his sleep, thinking back to himself on the days of his trials. There, to complete his task, he had encountered a problem that he couldn't truly answer. For him to hold on to who he was, to hold on to the truth of his being, he would have to let go of his desires. To accomplish a task so cruel that he couldn't breathe thinking of it meant to let go of his being. He couldn't hold onto both, yet you cannot possibly know what it meant for him.

A task like Rakdos doesn't go away in the minds of any, yet it never truly surfaces. When thinking of it, Iracun, finds that he cannot even remember why it was as it was. No, I cannot remember--there is no hiding the difference between us, for I am him, and he is I, a writer writing about themselves; a character in a novel of my own creation; a truth written in whole; a mere part of a being that has become something that I cannot explain.

My head aches as I write this, for the memories of my younger years return to haunt, eating away at my soul, breaking apart my heart as I tear into this story. Tearing at myself, truly. This recollection is wholly true; no altercations can I make that would disguise the ugly truth.

"Grandfather, why do you look upset?"

A deeply rooted sigh escapes him, filling time as it came. "I'm so older now," he told her. "When I was younger, it was different...I cannot take this truth into my heart without remembering what it was I'd done. I remember, Zelia, a truth that weighs heavy on me. I need your help, take this from me, take it away like you do with so much, with the stories I tell you that you forget--how does your mind allow you to forget such importance? How might I forget?" He was begging so formally, as though she were higher than him, and for once he allowed himself to not be cocky because he was feeling something in his chest that he hadn't in such a time.

It ached and he trembled, shaking before her. Something wet was on his cheeks. Oh, it hurt, being in such a state of unrest, yet he knew it was true. It burned inside of him, in his joints, mostly inside his chest and his throat. The head rose, swelling, the air trapped, unable to escape, unable to enter. The day prior, he'd had a false memory of horrors in his mind--now, he had a true memory, one where he'd taken the lifeblood of a pure being, destroyed their chances of life. One where it was real. A reality of death that he wrote, fingers shaking, words unsteady.