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The Book of the Damned

The Book of the Damned


A one on one rp for me and Anna

1,176 readers have visited The Book of the Damned since blackrider created it.


“You stand accused of being a spy for the north! How do you plead!?” The judges thunderous voice boomed throughout the small court house followed by a series of loud clacking of wood on wood as he raised and lowered the gavel repeatedly in an unnecessary rage. The judge, who’s old age was clearly shown by the many wrinkles and alarmingly bald head, looked extremely frail as if a small wind could knock him over. His small beady coal black eyes were transfixed on a shabby looking man before him, the old judges eyes seemed as if they were looking at evil itself.

The poor man who found himself under the judges bone chilling gaze seemed unfazed by the accusation, and used to the hateful look of the judge. The man straightened, his solid frame resembled that of a soldier saluting-his stance sharp and crisp. His hair, unlike many of the blonde haired clean cut citizens who filled the old courthouse, was a dark black, and his eyes, also unique, were that of a dark green with specks of brown. His face, which was actually rough with cuts and grime, was covered in a large black beard that trailed to the midsection of his chest. Along with his long dark hair that reached down to his shoulders, which had begun to mat together due to little hygiene, the man looked as if he was straight out of prison-looking to be in his mid thirties, his torn up pants, grimy white shirt, and grey animal pelt vest didn’t make him look any better. Yet, still with the look of a poor beggar, the man carried himself with a certain pride and manner that demanded respect. “I, Sir, Am of no such thing.” His voice boomed, cool and calm, but at the same time angered by the accusation. The truth was, all he was was a simple mountain man, living right on the large treck of mountains which separated two Kingdoms whose war had gone on so long none even remembered the cause, but fights were constantly arisen due to pure malice and hate between the two great warring factions-the only incentive to fight was to kill.

Unfortunately for Flint, who was the bearded man standing trial, he was born and raised in the Northern Kingdom, Opening him up to extreme racism and bigotry in the Western Kingdom. That meant that this was already an open and shut case, which always resulted in one outcome, a nice thick rope tightened around the spy’s neck. “LIES! LIES! LIES!” The judge roared, practically jumping his small old frame out of the creaky chair he resided in, placing both palms on the large table with a loud thud, his beedy eyes seemed to grow with even more hate “You were found by the Royal Scouts of the King himself plotting secret paths through the mountains for your fellow Northern scum!” The Judge roared slowly sinking back into his chair all, coughing the whole way down. He grew quieter, wheezing heavily. Flint thought it sad that the old man had worn himself out from a mere short shouting spell, as for what the judge had said however, Flint was amused…because the truth was he was merely hunting deer when hed run into “the royal scouts”.

Flint began to speak a response, but was quickly cut off by the lightning crack of the gavel, it seemed the judge was in the mood to yell again, his beady eyes turning to smaller slits like they did every time he yelled. “I deem you guilty of the accused crime! The punishment is the same as is for all other spys!” The packed courtroom burst into cheers and whistling, “HANGING!” The Judge hollered over the mallet, which was currently repeatedly striking the ancient table.

Before Flint knew it he’d been drug out side, being led onto the gallows where so many men-innocent and guilty-had been taken unwillingly by the cold hands of death. The crowd, which had now grown, roared and jeered as the rope was fastened tightly around Flint’s neck. It all seemed unreal to Flint, here he was, one pull of a lever away from death, and yet he wasn’t afraid. The large masked executioner grasped onto the handle, which when pulled would drop the floor out from under Flints feat, if he was lucky his neck would snap….if he wasn’t….then the true horror started, as the crowd was treated to a poor soul kicking and flailing limply in the air like a rag doll until the life was slowly choked from him.

“Wait!” A young voice shouted from a distance, the sound of hooves scraping the cobbled streets approached as the voice grew louder. “Wait!” It proclaimed again, the horse plowing through the crowd. The large executioner looked up from the lever, the man on horse carried the kings emblem. “This prisoner is to be takein to the castle dungeons immediately, by direct order of the king himself!” The large executioners hand twitched, as if called by the lever which held Flints fate. “Buh e’s been provn ta be a spy” The Neanderthal of an executioner said, pure and simple he wanted blood. “You dare to question your king?” The young errant said, raising a slender eyebrow on his young face. His right hand slowly found its way to the hilt of his sword, as if dareing the executioner to try anything stupid. “Righ then!” The executioner boomed “Guards! Get up ere ye stupid gits!”

Now Flint was almost sure this was a dream, the events that had just taken place were far to far-fetched to have actually occurred. He desperately wanted someone to pinch him and wake him up, but the large guard who approached him did him one better, sinking his large muscular arm into Flints stomach, quickly sending him to his knees with an extremely loud ‘thud’. At first flint felt the searing pain in his stomach, and then his world was swallowed into darkness.

Flint awoke in a start, cold sweat rolled down his forehead and had covered much of his now damp shirt. He quickly looked around, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head “Where am I!?” He roared, echoing long down the cold damp hallways that lay before his cell. Gripping the iron bars, yelling like a mad man he began thrashing at the bars, as if trying to rip them from the cell wall. It was now that realization set in, remembering clearly the events that had lead to where he now was, in the dark cold cell, god knows how many feet underground, all because he was born in a different place. He sank down to his knees, despair taking over, who knew what would happen to him now. It was hear, kneeling on the cold stone floor, he finally noticed the second man standing in the cell, a long dark cloak hiding his features, and the main reason Flint had not seen him until this moment. Flint stared at the figure for a long moment, slowly arising with his fists clenched, he didn’t know if the man was a friend or foe.

“So I see you’ve finally noticed me, Sir. Aiden.” The figure said, taking a step forward. His voice was sly and sharp, and contained the hint of forced kindness. “Quite a fit you had there, isn’t it? Id hate to run into that on the battle field…” he said it as if hinting at something. “…Any how….Are you familiar with folk tales, Sir Aiden?” Flint was silent, anger growing in him, here he was in a cold dungeon accused of being a spy and left to rot, and his cell mate wanted to talk about fairy tails. “What are you talking about!?” Flint barked angrily, taking a step forward. The cloaked figure stepped back, but then thought better of it, regaining his lost ground. “Well…uhm…” He coughed nervously “What if I told you I could grant you your freedom?” The anger in Flint rose, going from talks of make believe to that of false hope. “And how do you propose that…” Flint grunted as he sank back to his knees, resting his back against the cold stone wall, this man was obviously a crazy. “Just receive a simple artifact for me! You’ve heard of the book! The book of the damned! The book of darkness! His book!” Flint knew of the tail, as did every child in their lands, he simply chuckled. “The book that the gods themselves banished because no man nor god could control its power!” Flint shouted, it was the last lines of the story. He began yelling again “Yes! Ill get the book for you! Just as soon as I rip these iron bars from their place, storm my way out of the castle weaponless, and journey into the mountains to wherever it is the gods hid the book to end all days!”

“Tsk tsk tsk, Sir Aiden” The cloaked figure said, pulling his hands upwards to his hood, slowly drawing it back. The site of the man made Flint jump to his feet, even though the darkness hid most of his features, Flint could still recognize the cold deep eyes anywhere. The main continued talking, unafraid that Flint was on his feet “To talk to a king with such sarcasm! Indeed they named you The Brave Aiden for good reason!”

This was the final straw for Flint, his face contorted in anger as he launched himself at the man, grabbing him by the scruff of his hooded cloak he threw the man into the dark stoned wall with a loud crash “And what’s to stop me from choking the life from such a great king!?” He roared, his large callused hands wrapping tightly around the fair skinned king, who only smiled up at Flint. “Your life…” he replied quietly, it was rather hard to speak with your wind pipe slowly closing in on itself. The anger in Flints eyes didn’t die but his grip slowly loosened, until it was non existent altogether. “Your serious?” Flint asked, still finding it hard to believe “You want me to find you…this book? And if I do…I can leave?” The King simply nodded “….And if I fail?” Flint asked, as if weighing his options. “Then you shall at least get to taste the fresh air one last time.” The king said with a smile, already knowing his answer. And Flint knew he couldn’t refuse, sure there’s no way he could find a make believe book, but he was sure if he got into the mountains he could easily slip away from whatever goon, and he was sure there’d be one, that the king sent to keep an eye on him. “Ill do it…” Flint grunted with disgust, he hated the man.

“Excellent!” The king exclaimed happily, as if Flint was happy to help. “Well we mustn’t keep your comrades waiting! Come come!” And like that the king was out of the cell, opening the large iron door with an extremely loud creaking noise, his feet raping against the cold cobble stoned hallways as he sped off. Flint nearly had to run to keep up with him, a large frown on his bearded face, it was like chasing after a child. The king lead him along the long cold halls of the dungeon, until finally taking him up a large flight of twisting stairs, which opened into somewhere deep within the castle. Flint wasn’t exactly sure, but he was sick of walking through the lavish palace after about fifteen minutes of having to walk on the dark red velvet that trailed throughout the castle halls, he hadn’t seen one window, and he hated being cooped up inside (nearly spending all of his time outdoors). He also hated the millions of pictures that must have hung on the dark stone walls, all of old kings or famous heroes who had slaughtered his people by the thousands. He wanted to set fire to the palace and watch as the damned thing burned to ash, a task he’d almost accomplished long ago. “Where are you taking me!?” Flint thundered, sick of everything surrounding him. But before he could finish his statement the king had vanished through a large wooden door, decorated with lavished carvings of some forgotten battle in a forgotten time, Flint quickly followed.

Flint now found himself in a large banquet hall, a long oak table spread out before him with various meats and fruits, some of which he’d never seen, it was the most food hed seen at one time however. Somehow the king had already made it to the end of the table, sitting in a large golden chair with a warm plate of food already awaiting him. Two large, and heavily armed, guards stood at each side of the king, spears raised high with a lifeless look across their faces. It was now that Flint realized guards like this stood everywhere in this room, hidden well next to large statues, or in the cover of opened doors (which were evenly spaced throughout the room) Flint walked towards the king, who beckoned him to sit next to him….instead Flint took an opposite seat, sitting at the very end of the table. “Eat my friend! Have your fill!” He answered the kings request by sending the nearest tray of, what appeared some strange fruit, clashing to the floor, sending the contents everywhere. “All you northerners are alike!” the king roared, jumping from his seat “ Barbarians! The lot of you!”

Flint to sprang from his seat, hearing the unsheathing of swords all around him he slowly sat back down, pure malice in his eyes as he looked at the king “Then let me be on my way! Give me my damned burdens and let me go!” Flint roared back at the king, referring to “burdens” as his comrades.

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Character Portrait: Elizabeth Moore Character Portrait: Flint Character Portrait: Warrick
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"We have to."

Ugh... Flint moaned to himself as an infectious grin spread across Waricks lips when Elizabeth gave her word to help. Leave it to a Southern woman to want to go back to the insanely powerful witches lair. He continued to monologue to himself while grumpily making his way around his cabin silently all the while radiating an attitude that angrily screamed "Fine!" In what seemed like only a few minutes he had a weeks worth of supplies crammed in his signature traveling bag.

This time he'd made sure to grab his overly used bow along with a quiver full of arrows. By the time he was ready to go the large bulging pack on his back combined with the various furs and leathers made him look almost like a giant woodland animal-a sight that was only reinforced by his large bushy black beard and dirty skin. Standing next to the finely armored Warrick and, well, it was quite the contrast to say the least-the two being polar opposites right down to the expressions on their faces. Warricks sharp handsome features were relaxed and, as usual, was sporting a large genuine smile-meanwhile Flints blunt features were stuck in a look that could best be described as "Im really trying not to throttle Warrick."

"Well then are you all ready to go?" Flint all but barked at Warrick and Elizabeth, apparently his anger wasn't souly pointed at Warrick-he wouldn't even look Elizabeth in the eyes.

"First we should speak of payment." Warrick said, turning towards Flint as he put his medallion back around his neck. "If you are to be my guide you deserve your pay, afterall." Finishing his statement Warrick untied a decent sized leather pouch from his belt-the way it jingled the contents inside were no doubt worth quite a bit.

"Don't you get it? Apparently I'm just a prisoner, I don't have a choice." Flint spat at Warrick before turning and storming out the door; It was clear his words were meant more for Elizabeth then Warrick.

"Well then.." Warrick began, obviously slightly at a loss for words as he turned his attention back to Elizabeth "I am ready, that is if Lady Elizabeth is feeling well enough to travel?" Warrick stated while offering a metallic hand towards Elizabeth; clearly offering to help her out of bed. He wore a quizzical expression on his smiling face as if awaiting her response.

Flint had seemingly already left and was outside, Catdo having quickly followed in his masters footsteps.

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Character Portrait: Elizabeth Moore Character Portrait: Flint Character Portrait: Warrick
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Elizabeth Moore

Elizabeth watched Flint as he angrily made his way around the cabin, getting everything they would need to face the Mystic again, a slight frown tugging on her lips as the anger rolled off him. She didn't like that he was so angry, but she couldn't just let the Mystic go unchecked, she could be an immanent threat to the king and the people she cared about. She didn't say anything as Flint and Warrick spoke, but her frown deepened at Flint's words of not having a choice. Sure, it had started out that way, him being a prisoner, but somewhere along the way, it had stopped feeling like it, they'd had a nice camaraderie, or at least she thought so. With a quiet sigh, Elizabeth reached out and took Warrick's hand as he offered to help her up from the bed, it still surprised her to find the pain her chest completely gone. "Thank you," She said to him, quickly adjusting her father's sword in its' holster at her waist as she walked out the door, following behind Flint.

Elizabeth was never one to grovel or ask for forgiveness, if Flint wanted to be angry with her, that was his prerogative, she wasn't going to apologize for doing what she felt was right. Glancing between the two men, she couldn't help but to notice their numerous differences, Warrick looked like the kind of man her father would most likely approve of, if Elizabeth ever did start thinking about settling down and getting married, though that wasn't likely to happen any time soon. She'd worked to hard to prove herself in the guard and she wasn't going to give up that position just to be a house wife and raise kids like most women did, that just wasn't her. Elizabeth shook her head slightly, clearing the thoughts from her mind as she continued to follow Flint through the woods not saying a word as she glanced around, on full alert with her hand resting on the hilt of her sword.

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Character Portrait: Elizabeth Moore Character Portrait: Flint Character Portrait: Warrick
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As the newly formed group of misfits made their way through the mountainside it didn't take long to realize that Flint was intent on holding his recently formed grudge. Seemingly every time Warrick and Elizabeth tried to catch up to him (he'd been walking a good twenty feet ahead of them both) he'd match their increased speed so they literally couldn't catch up to him; all the while Catdo kept at his heels as they paved their way through the mountainous woodlands.

The truth was Flint wasn't just upset at Elizabeth or Warrick: one of the real main reasons he had set off and takein the lead was he was hellbent on trying to catch the Mystic off guard for once-a feat that would be next to impossible if the two loud Southerners were smashing through the woods along side him. Also, although he wouldn't admit it, he didn't want to see anyone in his group hurt again. Actually if Warrick got injured somehow Flint wouldnt lose any sleep, atleast thats what Flint thought to himself as he pushed on towards the Mystic yet again (although he really didn't have a set destination, just like last time.)

The distance Flint had been putting between himself and his two traveling companions had givein the newcomer to the group the chance to get to know Elizabeth a little better and vice versa. After about an hour or two of traveling (and Flint seemingly tensing up whenever he heard the two laughing) Warrick and Elizabeth had talked over a range of subjects: from small talk about preferred proper sword techniques (a topic Warrick was surprisingly well versed in for seemingly having no visible weapon) to more serious questions about his duties in the highly renowned Order of Rusak. Despite having just met Warrick carried the entirety of all the conversations out with pure genuine interest and a smile that never seemed to fade-there were even a few times where he tried to bring Flint in on the conversation but was met with little more then a grunt from up ahead. To top it all off the whole time he reffered to Elizabeth as "Lady" and "His Majestys Guard" along with every other title and proper displays of Southern etiquette.

"So, Lady Elizabeth, how long have you had the pleasure of Mister Flints company?" Warrick asked curiously as the trio made their way through a particularly thick patch of trees, the word "Mister"causing Flint to let out a brief contemptible burst of laughter from up ahead.

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Mountain man of the North


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