Missing Whitespoor - The Ashen Muse

Jase

Amor Fati
Mentor
99030
95885
Status: ???
99031

KEY INFORMATION:
Gender:
Male
Race: Human
Height: 6'1"
Kill-count:
I would estimate your indirect kill count to be around 0-5 NPCs.
+ Rahm the Goatman [Link]
Deaths:
- Head split open by Pod's halberd in the Grand Cathedral.​

ETHICS AND MOTIVATIONS:
Personality:
Seemingly soft-spoken and mystical. A tireless idealist.
Religious Inclinations: [Jishrim Blessed]
Alignment: Chaotic Neutral

PHILOSOPHY:
Live beyond good and evil, because all that is great belongs to beauty. ~ Renzo Novatore99031
 
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Jase

Amor Fati
Mentor
98740
Art by Samiwashere

SIGNIFICANT EVENTS:
  • Converts a room inside of a house into a dark shrine to Jishrim. First prayer to Jishrim. (Link)
  • Corrupts a Shallaherana shrine in Jishrims name.
  • Meets the Fool.
  • Begins research into the Ashen Blight Fungus and discovers a method of spore propagation.
  • Begins to culture the Ashen Blight Fungus.
  • Meets the Reverend.
  • Begins to build Fel Arach, a large shrine in Jishrim's name. He works in secrecy, not willing for the work to be uncovered.
  • Diligently poisons the swamp-lands with the Ashen Blight fungus in Jishrim's name. (Link) (Link)
  • Diligently poisons the city of the Moors with the Ashen Blight in Jishrim's name. (Link) (Link) (Link) (Link) (Link) (Link)
  • After a sleepless night, he awakens to the understanding that he is now counted among the blessed. (Link)
  • Fool's death.
  • Steals a /part/ of Linden's Holy Artifact that was given to him by Vermella, the Frost Rose. He plants it in ([redacted]) and hopes to corrupt it.
  • Captured. Prayer - Deception I. Freed.
  • Writes The Dark Litany.
  • Collective Desires (Link). Contact made.
  • Withering of the Frost Rose
  • Writes The Dark Litany II.
  • Writes Unpredictable I. A copy is given to W.A.R company.
  • Spore Prayer I. Contact.
  • Passive desecration of a Grand Shrine then a DEATH (Link)
  • Frost Rose is stolen.
  • Spore Prayer II
  • The Dark Litany I is offered to Jishrim. Contact. A copy is also given to W.A.R company.
  • Misinformation is begun to be spread to confuse those who live in the city of Ralidor. (Link)
  • Writes Pathogenesis
  • Spore Prayer III
  • Establishes [Redacted].
  • Spotted in SL, and nearly gutted by Jaden (Link)
  • Works on converting [redacted]. Private Sermon in a Sanardu Shrine.

RELATIONSHIPS:
The Cherished:
+ Jishrim​
+ Fel Arach​
+ Shrine of Torment​
+ The Rat​
The Coveted:
+ Mages​
The Indifferent:
+ Nid Arach​
+ The Shroud​
+ The Bull​
+ The Accuser​
+ The Child​
The Abhorred:
+ Jishrim​
+ The Warrior​
The Departed:
+ The Fool: Fool in life, and a Fool in death. What an idiot. (Bartooliinii)​
+ Rev. Preotul Vârcolac: Damn blind old man. (Morbid)​
+ Dum'ni: May he find eternal joy in Skraag's embrace ... dUMMY
 
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Jase

Amor Fati
Mentor
96007
Art by Bartooliinii

WRITINGS AND SAMPLE PRAYER LOG:
Whitespoor kneels on the gravel. He appears to be weary and tired from his time in the cell. He turns himself to face the dark corners of the cell hoping yet fearing any response. He is praying inside the [redacted] to deceive [redacted].

O Maker of All, thou art everlasting, beyond space and time and yet thine Unearthly Light is within All unknowingly. Thou transcendeth and pervadeth all things, manifesting thy glorious Will through thine ultimate Truth and hue of Glory. Thou art our Maker and our Redeemer, our help, our hope; praise and glory be to Thee now, ever and evermore, in this world until its End. Many arms are the rays of Thy Sun. Be there anything else so perfect? Thou seeth through the sorrows of the bedridden, the helplessness of the weak, the sighing of the prisoners and the failing powers of the aged, and with clarity and grace blesseth Thy servants and draweth near to all of those who art Worthy. Thy Light is Thy Voice, creating the symphony that entereth all hearts and ears, urging all to follow Thy commandments. Thou knowest my faults, my failings, my lapses, the dullness of mine judgment in my service to Thee. Forevermore I praise Thee and Thy many-faceted aspect.

Thanks be to Thee, for all that Thou hath provideth me. I hath home, lord, land, work and thy Blessing! Thanks be to Thy Word, teachings, inspiration, direction, and knowledge! Thanks be to Thine expression of Thy Will upon Altera, showing that thou hath not abandoned even the humble widow amongst us, thy believers true and faithful! Though neglecteth I be in practicing what I knoweth and visiting Thy temples, I beseech Thee to granteth me the strength to correct mine wanderings, repaireth the ravages I hath suffered and without fearing deceit or webs of duplicity, guideth me safely into Thy Luminescent Realm.

Manifesteth Thyself unto me, I beseech Thee! Showeth to Thine unbelievers Thy puissance power! Riseth like the Phoenix before me, and incorporateth Thy humble servant into Thy work!

Though I be humble in nature and miserable in Thy Sight, I offer Thee of mine labour blood, sweat and tears. Should Thou deign to rescueth Thy servant from gross servitude and the even grosser hospitality I suffereth, I will dedicateth to honour Thee: a measure of mine life, a great work of Monolithic proportions and faithful exultation of mine everlasting joy!

Whitespoor shifts, and waits for a long moment, waiting for an answer. Hearing none he scowls and continues.

Damn you. Amen! Amen to Thee!
Oh, come, come – come to me! Come!

Come and listen to the illuminating songs of my perverse, accursed lyre. Come and listen to the joyous melancholy of my heartstrings …
Come and listen to the glorious crescendo of my decadence and debauchery. Do you hear it soar over the highest of symbolic peaks? Come and listen to the whistling of the mysterious wind which caresses mine breast …

What are you afraid of? What are you afraid of?

Are you afraid of the roaring depths of my sulphurous hells where furious flames burn with abandon?
Are you afraid of the bitter and barren savannahs of my soul where I wander?
Are you afraid of the endless abundance of light and truth and the intensity of joy that falls, drop after drop, word after word – to the tempo of tender seduction?
Are you afraid of finding the grandest of sapphire gates, and a realm where unknown springs gush the coolest of drink?
Can’t you understand me? Don’t you understand me?
Couldn’t I be the false note in the divine concerto, the note that shakes and spins and whirls with a consuming irony?

Oh, come! Come!

My demons are in slumber today, and so are too my Crusades …

Come, Come!

I will show you the radiant flowers that grow in the human garden under the light of my tormented soul. See! How beautiful are they? They are tulips of pity and sorrow, and roses of blood and love; they are of shudders and an endless well of tears.
The tears of flesh and the shudders of the perfect – the symphonies of urgent life, flights of spirituality …
I will show you the suns many golden arms, and we will listen to the chords played by the oaks and pines. I will show you the worst of tragedies, and the strangest and deepest of mysteries. And we will soar …
I will show you the depths of love and together we will thirst for the infinite, falling headlong into the abyss with our hearts soaring towards the skies and our minds intoxicated by the stars. And we will dream …
I will show you the regret and remorse of martyrs, monsters full of fear and terror, the sower, the widowed virgin, the angel full of torments and sin … And we will see …
Come, touch the ecstasy of my hells and smell the infernos of my paradise.

Come, Come! It is time.

Let go of ancient regrets and torments that trouble your heart. Come and listen …

What are you afraid of …?
Oh come, come to me! Come!

Come and listen to the sweetest of melodies played by my perverse and accursed lyre ...
Come and smell the richest of flavors of fine spices and meats from the golden plates of the hungriest beggar ...
Come and see the joyous tears of the weeping widow as she revels in her own melancholy ...

Come! Come to me!

What are you afraid of?

Are you afraid of finding the plumpest of divine fruit in the barrens and ruins of the once grandest of cities?
Are you afraid of finding the most sacred, most hidden of truths in the deepest of the sulfurous hells?

What are you afraid of? Why are you afraid?

Why are you afraid?

Come! Oh, come to me!

I will show you the garden where white daffodils thrive on the deepest, darkest and most luminous of sensations, and together we will allow our winged minds to leap, soar and play with the stars above us ...
I will show you the most fragrant of roses that thrive upon the screams of the undying martyr ...

Come. Come to me.

Why are you afraid ...?
I lay upon a grey bed, broken and battered – I don’t know for how long. It was a cold distant winter, with the great sun hidden from my skies as my aging spirit wandered the crags and crevices through the divine gardens. My colour was grey, my temples throbbed with abandon and my forehead burned as in a fever. Murky thoughts swirled around my mind, and pleading, cursing, I implored the Grey Lady to take me into her arms …

And then – suddenly – I saw the room to my door burst open, and there, gently, an Unpredictable entered.

I looked at her: her deep blue eyes seemed to contain the darkest of depths, the highest of symbolic peaks, the expanses of the seas and the deepest of mysteries. Her hair was long and blond, and she moved with the grace of a most heavenly seraph. The smell of sweet pomegranate wafted towards me from the most beautiful -- most tender of lips, her hands were fine and gentle as she stretched them out towards me. Had I ever seen something so beautiful?

Who was she? I don’t know. But I know that she was unlike any other Unpredictable I had seen before. Smiling and sweetly, she glided to my side, and kneeled, her hand caressing my cheek.

“My sweet … my poor, poor man. Why must you torment yourself like so?” She said to me. “Can’t you see how white your hair has gotten? How cold, clammy and sallow your skin has become? Cannot you see how much your poor eyes bulge out from their sockets and how your torments have marred your expression and twisted it into such a violent appearance? Don’t you see this? Am I not the one you have searched for? Longed for? Am I not the one you have dreamed of? Yearned for? Ached for? Here, here I am!”

As she says this, her hand stroked my long, scraggly unkempt hair.

“My sweet … come … come with me … my tender love. You love flights, summer days and deep seas. I know! I know you and I understand you.”

“Come! Come! I will take you far, far away, where water meets golden sand. We will sail upon gentle seas into the clouds that wander throughout the heavens. A glorious scent of divine madness will waft across our boat in a radiant dream, emanating from the great Unknown, and we will be happy – happy! The Sun will shine upon us, bathing us in an abundance of light, and there, I will strip my veil off for you and let you taste my fragrant scent and youth … And I will lay at your feet, and play a song with my lyre, the most beautiful song that could ever grace the heavens… We will have a bed of white daffodils that will never wilt, and we will be happy – happy!”

As the Unpredictable spoke, I had to be pale at that thought. As she spoke, she spoke without pause, her soft and tender voice was a melody that soared and flew, and her gentle words penetrated my mind like sweet, tender music.

My heart was moved, and my eyes were bathed in tears.

“Come, Come!”

Her deep blue eyes reached into my aching soul, as her hand stroked my cheek once more …

“My poor, sweet man … You are ill, very ill, and I can heal you or I hope I can …”

My bony, pale hands reached out to her to embrace her there and then, as moved as I was by her, wanting to grasp that blond crown and pull it against my panting breast …

“No … No. Not here. Not until we are there …”

“Come, Come!”

The night that followed was the worst I had ever been in. My fever burned an unending inferno and my colour was sickly and cold. My bones were weary, and my earthly torments gave me no reprieve. And yet, still, I followed her and together we wandered through that star-spun night, and then the whole morning together in silence. As midday neared, we reached the place where golden sand met the bluest of crystal waters. We boarded a boat and lay upon a bed of sweet daffodils.

And there ... the Unpredictable kept her promise … she slid out of the ruddy veil that concealed her radiance, her beauty, and naked and glowing in the glory of the sun she offered herself up to my hungry eyes. She shook out the curls of her golden hair, and grasped by the light breeze, they floated out around her, a glorious halo of a perfect angel. She then laid at my feet and took up her lyre and with the clarity and grace that I could only describe of as divine, she sang to me the most beautiful song that one could hear.

How it soared into the clouds that wandered throughout the heavens!

How it swirled and spun in a glorious crescendo that resonated deep in my mortal being …!

She sang while she gazed earnestly into my gaping eyes as if she was searching there for my soul …
She sang while she gazed earnestly into my gaping eyes as if she was searching there for my heart …
She sang while she gazed earnestly into my gaping eyes as if she was searching there for me – Me! …

I was overwhelmed, intoxicated by her … I kissed her savagely, fiercely on her moist mouth of that fragile rose.

Ah! Fatal kiss …

Her face turned pale, purple and blue, her eyes glazed over and the fire in her beautiful pupils spilled out and rolled as tears down her clear blue eyes as her adorable body stiffened in my arms.

She was dead!

Had I killed her? Had she wanted to die?

My muse is now shrouded in black, and my “perverse, accursed” lyre plays dirges at my own funeral. A veil of black covers my emotions.

I know that my muse wishes itself to be free to once more traverse the paths that the largeur of summer blesses with herbs and flowers; but Fate, against which a man helplessly curses and roars against, has mortally wounded her. The flowers – the beautiful white daffodils – withered in her name, and the clouds which wandered the heavens dispersed – the boat that rocked upon the divine dream – and clasping the carcass of the Unpredictable, I fell into the void.

Today, a funeral procession treads the paths that encircle my soul. But perhaps – tomorrow, I too will be dead.

Now, tell me, how can I laugh at anything or anyone? Am I not alone in my sorrow? In my melancholy? I am a rose born in the field of death because I feel within myself the anguished and tormented moans of all the deceased.

Yes, I can still feel the warm tender kiss of the sun across my brow and the caresses of the wind through my hair, but my illness – my real illness – comes from the roots that still cling to the land in which I was born.

My illness is such that I now see the whole face of reality.

Unsatisfied, unhappy, therefore, with the world of fellow men, I have developed the need for a life that I could not live and perhaps none could live. My brow is marked with large black roses: the roses of death, the bruises of life …
How long did I search of yore?
Your blessings, your favour?
My weeping eyes could not see;
Prostrated as I was for thee.

But You came and whispered.
‘Doth thou feels it absurd,
For a slave to worship his chain,
But He who frees him is insane?’

Perhaps unwisely I mocked the Stranger,
‘Thou cannot be trusted as thy lies endanger.’
With a chuckle You caressed, ‘Lies?
Cannot thou trust thine own eyes?’

And no longer was I in Thorne’s Cathedral;
But within the Garden, so beautiful.
Asked doth I, ‘Where am I?’
And the Stranger replied.

‘The Child’s realm where Light eternal shines,
For Truth thou seeks and so shall find.
Where within this place I am thy guide,
And watch the many tears that fall uncried.’

Before me rose a towering throne,
Reigned by Child of Glory shown.
Crowned by Light, a holy master,
Her skin like gleaming alabaster.

So wondrous that She struck me dumb,
Still She spoke, ‘Thou art welcome.
Walk by me and in the Garden see,
How Order becomes thy destiny.’

Row by row of endless flowers arrayed,
Whose faces see Her Light and turn away.
For how can a Man-Flower be worthy;
Of Child’s tender love or mercy?

She rips out those blemished or bent,
Their unheard screams none lament.
But still the Stranger sees.
‘Let me heal thy miseries.’

Comes forth Her servant, the Accuser.
Clad in crosses and shining silver.
By thundering voice he declares,
‘The impure only bring despair.’

In softness, the Stranger replied.
‘None art lost or broken, only despised.
Man’s weakness is their birth,
And for this, they’re returned to the earth?’

The Accuser bleats an almighty bellow,
‘Thou leads them astray with promises hollow.
All those deaths, plagues and chaos,
And thou claims thee art virtuous?’

‘I am a servant of man’s desires,
Should I be faulted?’ The Stranger inquires.
‘Your Order protects power and wealth;
But I advance those that Misfortune dealth.’

Child’s face is like marble stone,
Unmoved in judgement upon Her throne.
Below Her the Man-Flowers bend;
Carrying the weight of Her ascend.

Feeling their pain I turn away,
The Stranger’s shadow in my sway.
I see now as my eyes awaken.
How was I so mistaken?

Endless paths before my feet,
My task yet incomplete.
In the distance comes the rings,
That truth alone sorely brings.

The Warrior of stature tall,
Who takes the Flowers whole;
Who hammers them with vigour.
A flesh that feeds the flames of war.

Discarded limbs fall all around,
Their broken owners make no sound.
Why blame Man that wields the sword;
When a jealous god says the Word?

With that thought, my skin crawls.
A lover’s kiss that saves my soul.
Twitching rot cradles my arm,
Freeing me from lies and harm.

The Stranger gently took my hand,
‘Doth thou see and understand?’
‘Was once lost, but now made whole,’
I replied to the Stranger’s call.

Following my guide, all revealed,
I sight the Doll left abandoned afield.
No sound it makes but soft whispers,
Out of the mouths of passing drifters.

The sky darkens with silent dread;
Shadows linger like restless dead.
Furtive eyes watch and wait,
Undisturbed by a stalker’s gait.

A flash and my face comes apart,
The Accuser’s blade bleeding sharp.
Damned down in scarlet weep,
But I cannot surrender to sleep.

His mocking gaze tears my flesh,
Condemning all with his transgress.
‘All foul things die cornered,
All alone and dishonoured.’

In disbelief I turn to my guide,
The faithful Stranger at my side.
‘Won’t thou save thy servant?’
I plea to You in earnest.

‘I cannot.’ And the Accuser laughs,
Would such cruelty be my epitaph?
Chuckles follow him away,
Left to die in the Garden way.

Softly the Stranger says,
‘I can only save what now is;
No longer what thou were.
Arise now, Whitespoor!’

WHAT OTHERS THINK OF HIM:
[Redacted]:
"Others may not understand it, but you are doing the people of this city a great service."
Jaden: "Whitespoor, have you come on the whims of your masters to spread the blight here?"

ART:
98845

Raal :heart:

PLEASE DON'T POST HERE. Pm if you want a detailed relationship.
 
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