Gypsys, Tramps and Theives.

[TheBrogueadier]

During my life I’ve had a few occasions to wonder about my mother.

“Who was she?”
“Where is she now?”
“Was she rich or poor?”
“Is she alive?”

Fairly common musings for anyone who’s gone through life as an orphan or foundling, but, alas, these are not the main wonderings.

“Did she scream when she saw my face?”
“Did she wonder what god had cursed her”
“Does she even know I live?”

I suppose I should explain a little. You see, I am an ugly man. Beyond ugly. I cannot easily put into words exactly how ugly I am. Even a detailed description of my own unfortunate face will do little justice to the horror that sits outside of my skull. Perhaps it is best if I simply give a few examples of the reactions my ugliness tends to generate.

Three priests of various orders have attempted to call down their gods divine power to release me from my tormented undead existence. One priest begged his god to bind me to his will. All four had the decency to look suitably ashamed when they realised I was not a walking corpse.

I have lost count at the number of people who have cried, sobbed, fainted or fled when they have first had my face revealed to them. Thirty four people have vomited and one has miscarried. All despite having had good warning.

Three devout followers of Sune have attempted to murder me for being such a monstrous, and so obviously evil, thing.

One hundred and twelve requests have been received for me to leave my body to the requestor for study and nine attempts at kidnapping. The master of our caravan claims to have been offered thousands of coins, thousands of times for my ownership.

I believe that should give a reasonable indication of my looks, unpleasant would not be the word. If I were to list the nicknames I have been given I suspect I could fill some thirty or more pages of this book.

Oh, I should also note that I have received twelve offers of marriage, and have never lacked for courting partners. I suppose most of that can be put down to teenage rebellion, curiosity, dares, madness, desperation, pity, bardic influence, would-be necrophiliacs and my winning personality.

Have no doubt, this is a face that will not be fixed merely by removing my spectacles, and having a haircut.

Now, for the first time, I find myself alone and a few days out from the shores of a new land. My travelling partners are dead or scattered, mostly thanks to the folly of love, and with only a handful of coin to my name.

I do believe that the next few days could be quite interesting.

[TheBrogueadier]

My previous job, before the hanging and disbanding of our troop – As an aside I must implore any and all would be thespians who may read this document to please, please ensure that stage knives are indeed stage knives, and have not, for example, been swapped for extremely real, and extremely sharp normal knives. This is particularly important if, again as an example, you have just been caught cheating on your partner by a jealous spouse. – was probably the most wonderful job a man like me could have.

We spent the majority of our time moving from fair to fete, festival to carnival or pretty much anywhere that a small group of misfits, musicians, acrobats, freaks and all round entertainers may be needed. Within our great group we all played many parts, sometimes I was a devil, summoned up from some smoky abyss to variously make soul-binding pacts with the power hungry or to spirit away some imperilled beauty to taunt and mock her before the hero of the hour arrived. On other occasions I was that red robed man, perused by a rich man through the halls that may well be his mind. The dropping of my hood and the nobles wordless death always brought a round of screams, as if for a moment the audience also believed I was a most unpleasant disease manifested as flesh.

The role I enjoyed the most however was a much simpler affair. I would simply sit and read.
The audience would be ushered into a tent that contained a small raised stage that was closed off with a simple curtain. My announcer would make some speech about a captured demon, devil, half-vampire or some other monstrous thing. He would, of course, make a large fuss that I was not to be disturbed, that if my concentration was taken from the special tome that held my mind in flux, then he would not be responsible for their safety. The curtain would be slowly drawn away, revealing the strange and dangerous lair in which I sat.

The lair of some mad artist, the walls festooned with pickled creatures and strange shapes, jars that bubbled or smoked, diagrams of interwoven figures, some flayed, all grinning. I sat in the centre, hidden within the silhouette of a great throne, topped around with antlers and horns. After a moment a spotlight would light me, for the first time the audience would see me fully in that harsh light, they would see the book that I was reading. There would be a gasp, there always was, and with that gasp I would look up, for they now had my attention.

The book was always important, I had a small selection of tomes that I would choose from; a Sharessian tome, its graphic cover illustration leaving no doubt as to the depravity of its reader. A copy of the Sutilus Malefica Solium, bound in a thin layer of tattooed pigskin, and numerous other, equally intimidating, titles. On hearing the gasp my eyes would dart up and take in the audience with a baleful gaze. I would slowly place that book down, ensuring of course they could see it’s title and guess at it’s contents. I would then gather myself much like a cat preparing to strike, an angry, ugly, hateful predator faced with an audience of mice. And then I would pounce.

I cannot recall a time when the audience did not flee from the dark tent, their screams of fear and shock as they fled turning to a relieved and entertained laughter almost as soon as they burst back out into the fairgrounds. I would take my seat again, smiling at a job well done, then resume my reading until the next audience hoping for a fright packed themselves around my stage.