For example, he’d often ask me what my tutors had been teaching me, listen intently, and then say, ‘why?’ Whenever he asked me something, whether it was about religion, ethics, or morality, he would know if I gave the answer by rote, or just repeated it parrot fashion, and he’d say, ‘Well, you’ve just told me what Old Mr. Fayling thinks,’ or, ‘We know what a centuries-old writer thinks. But what does it say in here, Haytham?’ and he’d place a hand to my chest.
I realize now what he was doing. Old Mr. Fayling was teaching me facts and absolutes; Father was asking me to question them. This knowledge I was being given by Old Mr. Fayling - where did it originate? Who wielded the quill, and why should I trust that man?
It has come time to do something extraordinary with the Combustion Lounge! Now, there are plans to do a full length movie called ‘Special Unit’. If you have purchased from the Titus.com store and got a promo copy of the un-aired pilot, then you know what the movie will be about.
If not, imagine the Ringer mixed with Lethal Weapon. Or simply be patient and watch the pilot video on youtube (will be in proceeding post).
Posted on fundanything, which is the ‘kickstarter’ equivalent for crowd-funding. Go ahead, and give a little. or give till it hurts…
“The man that tells the tale is the one who decides history. He tells it wrong, and you have nothing more than a pretty story. He tells it right, and you have a legacy. If you want a story told right, you ask someone who helped make it happen. And if that someone is me, I’ll make it awesome.”—- Varric Tethras
“Reach down into your heart and you’ll find many different reasons to fight; survival, honor, glory. But what about those who feel it’s their duty to protect the innocent? There you’ll find a warrior savage enough to match any dragon. And in the end, they’ll retain what the others wont, their humanity.”—- Varric Tethras
“Sometimes people will surprise you. They come to you in the form of a wink and a slow smile. They’ll pick your pocket and deceive you at every turn. But, when push comes to shove, they’re the ones who have got your back. And you can’t imagine anyone else you’d rather have there.”—- Varric Tethras
“To the Elves, loss is an old and familiar enemy; their homeland, their history, their every place in the world… What would you do if you could get it all back? Would you walk down a forbidden path? Would you sacrifice your soul?”—- Varric Tethras
“Some men would fight anyone, kill anyone to gain their freedom. But I know you could break your chains and yet remain a prisoner. You can carry that darkness around inside of you, until it burns itself into your flesh, and changes you… forever.”—- Varric Tethras
“Justice is a funny concept: it’ll drive a man to perform the noblest of deeds, as well as the worst atrocities. Justice is a blade that draws blood from both the innocent and wicked alike. And when raised high, it can lead a charge that changes the world forever.”—- Varric Tethras
Shouted a man draped in cloth as two metal clad figures drag him out of a storage room of an incomplete fortress. Violently Pulling on the mas as he resisted in vain at their might. Grunting as they ripped their arms in the direction they were walking.
Kaspar Hauser, who lived the first seventeen years of his life chained in a tiny cellar with only a toy horse to occupy his time, devoid of all human contact except for a man who wears a black overcoat and top hat who feeds him. One day, in 1828, the same man takes Hauser out of his cell, teaches him a few phrases, and how to walk, before leaving him in the town of Nuremberg. Hauser becomes the subject of much curiosity, and is exhibited in a circus before being rescued by Herr Daumer (Walter Ladengast), who patiently attempts to transform him.
Hauser soon learns to read and write, and develops unorthodox approaches to logic and religion, but music is what pleases him most. He attracts the attention of academics, clergy, and nobility, but is then physically attacked by the same unknown man who brought him to Nuremberg. The attack leaves him unconscious with a bleeding head. He recovers but is again mysteriously attacked, this time stabbed in the chest.
And the chafed feet burn like hells embers, pissed off the heat bellows devils chimes and buried worlds touched by greed’s incinerating chamber. The new people piss on themselves crying for the chance to brush against fame.
Long ago, before text and theory ever instilled a sense of beginning, before day had ever began to flow, stood 3 great Titans locked in a stand off. One bulked by quantities of white and white like stones; one clad in a mixture of black and smoky stones; the third more decorated with exotic colors and textured. Massive stone giants, with engraved armor and wielding arm sized swords, stood facing, pointing at one another. Beyond their bodies flowed a circuit of energy, a stream generated by the movements of each titan.
Having been at the throat of the other, war locked for an eternity, they remained unwilling to flee. Each taking strikes at another with jagged ancient blades that appeared as if they were part of their massive arms. Swiping at their hard bodies, digging out chunks and spilling clear liquid upon making contact, but none ever took enough that couldn’t restore itself. With no bias towards which is a true enemy, they each attack either one within their reach. Sole intention of becoming the victorious yet never bending the tide of battle.
In retrospect, I had never envisioned that I would have met my demise by drowning. I dunno, I just figured i would have died any number of ways to which don’t even involve water… But eh, I guess it is unavoidable. Everyone dies after all; one thing truly democratic in this life. But looking back on it, drowning certainly wasn’t exactly what it seemed like by spectating. Watching it happen to others, fictional or real. There is a whole lot that goes on underneath…
For me, it had to have happened during the dumbest possible time; an accident. I wasn’t murdered, held against my will by another till I drowned. I was boating in a single craft, just trolling. Trying to relax - essentially just get away from everything my life for just a few hours. No cell phone service (unplanned but helped my case), no company (which seemed to had been a bad idea). All I had was a time to which I was going to go back to my life.
A heavy switch is heard being forced into a metal circuit. The surrounding lights begin to flicker, dull to bright back to dull. Electricity had been rerouted to another point. An Officer stands at attention near a closed door along the wall to the side of a group of sitting folks.
In front, another Officer is standing in front of a seated man, strapped to a heavy wooden chair. Cables danging just above his head.
Upon his death, it is said that it would not last. Day and night pass, his body has grown as cold as the ground - no life remained. Upon the third day, his body had vanished without any trace. Only to blindsided another by his giving hands, a comfort extended to prove it was real. Yet upon his embrace, he unleashed a plague unto Man.
Returning to life to fulfill his path, only to offer another gift in its place. It shall spread from man to man. From woman to woman. From child to child. All of human kind shall be purged of the comfort of death knowing their bodies shall not rest, only to rise once again. Vicious beasts guided only by gluttony.
Upon his rise, he gave man his gift, yet with this gift came a perverted sickness. Unknowing to Man, who accepted the gift in good faith to forever pass it from generation to generation. Only few succumb to the sickness, but the more the body grows frail, more dependent, the more the sickness emerges.
From the Dark Ages to the Black Plague. To the Witch Trials… Events triggered, in cases of Dark Ages, affected customs of battle, by this human sickness, this beast. The longer Man lived, the more he discovered, medicine, constructs, etc. Yet the more Man created, the more vulnerable he was to the sickness…
Comes to Modern Day. Society slowly falling apart at the seams as the gifts sickness re-emerged as a new threat, a new enemy to Man himself.
Walking around a new and unfamiliar town, Bryce was clueless to how different this newly taken country had developed. It was similar to one over sea but not, by it’s own right. Feeling completely isolated, like usual, he continued walking around just looking at what is being constructed. Until he grew tired of it and stopped in at the only tevern around. He drake before, during his life. Mostly after his ‘incident’ in the past but the longer he lingered alive, the more drive there was to escape. Alcohol has ‘saved’ him a few times. At least with amounts of alcohol, it brings the sleep.
Taking a seat away from anyone else, he remained. Silently sitting, until he made up his mind to once again escape by the bottle. Standing up and approaching the one who could trade for drink.
“I tell you now the words of Red Moon: From the Great Spirit was born the Wolf and Man became its messenger. The Beast lives his life in silence, abiding where the blessing of the blood of the gods is bestowed upon him. The White Flower, after winning the favor of the lord of the night, will share her scent, preordained and eternal in countenance is of a lily white supple maiden. She distills and condenses all of time, until it becomes a precious frozen mass. Only then will appear the wretched beast.”—- Darcia
“Humanity can evolve past its petty tendencies, and I will make it do so. My methods themselves will live and grow as humanity grows. Long after I am gone, my legacy will still shine brightly throughout the world and humanity will look upon its benevolent splendor and know the world is good.”—Diary of Xeust Lambert August 13, 2029
A faint shout barely heard among the many Musket explosions. The spraying of burning powder, the flying metal spheres crashing into their targets long before their tailing sound catches up. Bryce looked around the field of slowly lifting smoke and debris for whoever could have shouted his name. Not seeing any recognition, he stood up, facing those opposing to his end and fired his Musket. Kicking back hard, his right shoulder seemed to dislodge.
Slamming back down behind his cover, he grabs his left shoulder and twists is back into place. His rifle sitting firmly in his lap, he then proceeds to pack in another bullet, twisting his head slightly to see what he was doing - wearing a make-shift patch to cover his right eye was making it a bit difficult than he was used to.
Normally Bryce wouldn’t worry about such things, but he joined this Red crowd to come over sea. He didn’t want his eye to cause a problem, didn’t want to exploit his immortality by being a one-man-army and didn’t want to get persecuted as a witch. He was well aware of the fears that plagued many of these men and knew his ‘condition’ could play on those fears.
Grounded, struggling to move, Cypher strains to reach towards Bryce. Not making much progress, light tears drip from her unfocused eyes as she goes limp. Gasping a final taken breath, her head rolling to it’s center as her eyes continue looking. Staring at Bryce whom was just out of reach, who was also attempting to get her hand. Looking into her eyes, he fills with pain, anger. Sorrow, despair. Her eyes saying “I’m Sorry.” in case her words didn’t reach his ears.
Bryce shouted as he managed to grab her lifeless hand, trying to hold onto her life now since passed.
Bryce shoots straight up within his bed. Panting, seething with regret, he lashes out with his fists down into his bed. Absorbing the impact, he remained sitting, his arms throbbing with rage from once again witnessing his loss. Always so vivid, every nightmare he has of his defeat; his loss of Cypher… his fall from his path.
Switching on a lamp next to his bed, he grabs an almost empty bottle of liquor. Swigging the last of the brown sour liquid, he exhales in anguish. Anticipation for more instantly overcame his lust to escape. Throwing the bottle to the ground, he stands up, scratching his neck and back. Getting irritated, he grabs his left arm and with a tug, pulls his arm free. Re-grabbing it, he drags his fingers across his back, getting the itch present along the lower part of his shoulder blades. Sticking the fleshy torn skin back to his body, the inner flesh takes grab and pulls itself back together. Rotating the shoulder with his right hand, he hears a moist snap, recognition of his arm clicks with his nerves as he clenches his fingers into his palm.
"Not even the night can let it go…"
Looking over to the bottle, seeing a portion of his reflection looking back at him - the Yellow Eye. It seemed not even the little things would let such failures go. Picking up a cigarette from his nightstand, he lights it up, taking a deep drag then exhaling with force towards the bottle’s mockery.
"Ugh, I got to get out of here."
Throwing on his shredded looking overcoat and placing his gun harness across his back like a metal rod backpack. Taking a set of assault rifle looking guns and placing them within the harness on his back, he approaches his apartment door. Grabbing a folded piece of metal as he leaves.
"Same thing, over so many nights… Time to go release some of this aggression on some demons… And find myself a drink."
The door slams against the frame as he storms off.