A Small Wooden Box

[Judas D'arc]

This is the Judas-only part of a thread originally posted on both the ARPC and Ashencrosse boards from February 12, 2012 to February 27, 2012, and written by myself and the player of Aurelia Bretane. It's also relevant because its a precursor to another thread, Dead World, which laid the foundation for a lot of current interaction and character relationships.

For the full story: www.atlanticcommunityboard.com/forum/viewtopic.php?t=28736

A whirlwind of events -- riots in Yew, drinking excursions to Ashencrosse, and even an encounter with a man claiming to be the Stranger that slew Mondain -- had kept Judas occupied these past few days. But now, with a moment to himself, he finally had the chance to pause and think about his recent conversation with SunWolf. The Militia Captain had met him inside the Yew Winery, while Judas was distracted with the sudden re-appearance of Gabriel Drachen. As their conversation occurred, Judas was trying to determine the best way to extricate the mad mage from the barrel he was trapped inside of.

"Judas, I have something of yours," SunWolf had said, as he handed over a bag.

Inside this bag was a small, locked wooden box, as well as the key that opened it. At first, he was puzzled by the gesture. He had no memory of ever owning it, and asked if it definitely belonged to him. The Militia Captain had insisted that that box came from Judas. Knowing SunWolf to be a man of virtue, and not prone to falsehoods or baseless pranks, the bard had quickly accepted the small, locked wooden box, before turning his attention back to Drachen. And he had not given it a second thought since.

...Until now...

********

Judas sat at the edge of his bed and slowly opened the small, wooden box. Inside, he found three books, entitled Northridge Report: Volumes I-III, written by his own erratic hand and addressed to himself. As he began read, a dull, aching pain filled his head. With each word, its intensity increased. He was almost tempted -- no, it was more of a compulsion -- to put down the report and never set eyes on it again. Until he came across those three little words at the end of the first paragraph. Three little words that only he could know. Three little words that meant the world to him.

The turning of each page brought only increased agony. "Vampires?!" He questioned aloud. "But vampires do not exist..." Except there appeared to be a time when he believed otherwise.

During his struggled reading, Judas was reminded of when he was twelve years old and faced inebriation for the first time. His curiosity was untempered by wisdom or experience, and he had never been taught that ale, wine, and whiskey were not intended to be mixed inside the same glass. The pain of that recovery was nothing compared to that of now.

When Judas finally finished, he was struck all at once. Anger. Betrayal. Nausea. Blood trickled freely from his nose, staining his beard and his clothing. It was quite likely that he would vomit. How could this be the truth? Yet in those three little words, he knew it was real. The pain flared once more. A brilliant white spasm inside of his head. And then it all slipped away from him.

********

Judas sat at the edge of his bed and slowly opened the small, wooden box. Inside, he found three books, entitled Northridge Report: Volumes I-III, written by his own erratic hand and addressed to himself. As he began read, a dull, aching pain filled his head. With each word, its intensity increased. He was almost tempted -- no, it was more of a compulsion -- to put down the report and never set eyes on it again. Until he came across those three little words at the end of the first paragraph. Three little words that only he could know. Three little words that meant the world to him.

The turning of each page brought only increased agony. "Vampires?!" He questioned aloud. "But vampires do not exist..." Except there appeared to be a time when he believed otherwise.

During his struggled reading, Judas was reminded of when he was twelve years old and faced inebriation for the first time. His curiosity was untempered by wisdom or experience, and he had never been taught that ale, wine, and whiskey were not intended to be mixed inside the same glass. The pain of that recovery was nothing compared to that of now.

When Judas finally finished, he was struck all at once. Anger. Betrayal. Nausea. Blood trickled freely from his nose, staining his beard and his clothing. It was quite likely that he would vomit. How could this be the truth? Yet in those three little words, he knew it was real. The pain flared once more. A brilliant white spasm inside of his head. And then it all slipped away from him.

********

Judas sat at the edge of his bed and slowly opened the small, wooden box. Inside, he found three books, entitled Northridge Report: Volumes I-III, written by his own erratic hand and addressed to himself. As he began read, a dull, aching pain filled his head. With each word, its intensity increased. He was almost tempted -- no, it was more of a compulsion -- to put down the report and never set eyes on it again. Until he came across those three little words at the end of the first paragraph. Three little words that only he could know. Three little words that meant the world to him.

The turning of each page brought only increased agony. "Vampires?!" He questioned aloud. "But vampires do not exist..." Except there appeared to be a time when he believed otherwise.

During his struggled reading, Judas was reminded of when he was twelve years old and faced inebriation for the first time. His curiosity was untempered by wisdom or experience, and he had never been taught that ale, wine, and whiskey were not intended to be mixed inside the same glass. The pain of that recovery was nothing compared to that of now.

When Judas finally finished, he was struck all at once. Anger. Betrayal. Nausea. Blood trickled freely from his nose, staining his beard and his clothing. It was quite likely that he would vomit. How could this be the truth? Yet in those three little words, he knew it was real. The pain flared once more. A brilliant white spasm inside of his head. And then it all slipped away from him.

********

Judas sat at the edge of his bed and slowly opened the small, wooden box. Inside, he found three books, entitled Northridge Report: Volumes I-III, written by his own erratic hand and addressed to himself. As he began read, a dull, aching pain filled his head. With each word, its intensity increased. He was almost tempted -- no, it was more of a compulsion -- to put down the report and never set eyes on it again. Until he came across those three little words at the end of the first paragraph. Three little words that only he could know. Three little words that meant the world to him.

The turning of each page brought only increased agony. "Vampires?!" He questioned aloud. "But vampires do not exist..." Except there appeared to be a time when he believed otherwise.

During his struggled reading, Judas was reminded of when he was twelve years old and faced inebriation for the first time. His curiosity was untempered by wisdom or experience, and he had never been taught that ale, wine, and whiskey were not intended to be mixed inside the same glass. The pain of that recovery was nothing compared to that of now.

When Judas finally finished, he was struck all at once. Anger. Betrayal. Nausea. Blood trickled freely from his nose, staining his beard and his clothing. It was quite likely that he would vomit. How could this be the truth? Yet in those three little words, he knew it was real. The pain flared once more. A brilliant white spasm inside of his head. And then it all slipped away from him.

********

Judas sat at the edge of his bed and slowly opened the small, wooden box. Inside, he found three books, entitled Northridge Report: Volumes I-III, written by his own erratic hand and addressed to himself. As he began read, a dull, aching pain filled his head. With each word, its intensity increased. He was almost tempted -- no, it was more of a compulsion -- to put down the report and never set eyes on it again. Until he came across those three little words at the end of the first paragraph. Three little words that only he could know. Three little words that meant the world to him.

The turning of each page brought only increased agony. "Vampires?!" He questioned aloud. "But vampires do not exist..." Except there appeared to be a time when he believed otherwise.
During his struggled reading, Judas was reminded of when he was twelve years old and faced inebriation for the first time. His curiosity was untempered by wisdom or experience, and he had never been taught that ale, wine, and whiskey were not intended to be mixed inside the same glass. The pain of that recovery was nothing compared to that of now.

When Judas finally finished, he was struck all at once. Anger. Betrayal. Nausea. Blood trickled freely from his nose, staining his beard and his clothing. It was quite likely that he would vomit. How could this be the truth? Yet in those three little words, he knew it was real. The pain flared once more. A brilliant white spasm inside of his head. And then it all slipped away from him.

********

Judas sat at the edge of his bed and slowly opened the small, wooden box. Inside, he found three books, entitled Northridge Report: Volumes I-III, written by his own erratic hand and addressed to himself. As he began read, a dull, aching pain filled his head. With each word, its intensity increased. He was almost tempted -- no, it was more of a compulsion -- to put down the report and never set eyes on it again. Until he came across those three little words at the end of the first paragraph. Three little words that only he could know. Three little words that meant the world to him.

The turning of each page brought only increased agony. "Vampires?!" He questioned aloud. "But vampires do not exist..." Except there appeared to be a time when he believed otherwise.

During his struggled reading, Judas was reminded of when he was twelve years old and faced inebriation for the first time. His curiosity was untempered by wisdom or experience, and he had never been taught that ale, wine, and whiskey were not intended to be mixed inside the same glass. The pain of that recovery was nothing compared to that of now.

When Judas finally finished, he was struck all at once. Anger. Betrayal. Nausea. Blood trickled freely from his nose, staining his beard and his clothing. It was quite likely that he would vomit. How could this be the truth? Yet in those three little words, he knew it was real. The pain flared once more. A brilliant white spasm inside of his head. And then it all slipped away from him.

[Judas D'arc]

"Trust no one," he had warned himself, though the Judas-of-now was certain that the Judas-of-then did not truly understand the consequences involved.

Since rediscovering what was once known about the vampires of Northridge, and learning that this knowledge had been stolen from him, all sense of continuity had been lost. His mental narrative meandered from one disconnected moment to the next, with only the taste of whiskey capable of shielding him from the pain of non-memory. Whatever had occurred during his meeting with Countess Isabella de Mor and her Vampire Master, Judas had been unprepared for it. He simply knew he could no longer wander this shattered path alone.

Briefly, he had flirted with confiding in the Gypsy Girl. She belonged to his list of suspects, but the Countess de Mor had named her as something different than the others. A vampire was what he needed, but who? Isabella had clearly broken all her promises, which ruled her out. Jolicia had betrayed him once already, and where she walked, so did Balam. Judas was not well-acquainted with Jane or the man presumed to be Nic, nor did he know where to find them. Perhaps it was his alcohol-diluted logic, but he never even considered his only real choice until she appeared before him at the Lush House.

Back in Ashencrosse, her touch calmed his thoughts back into focus. Secrets were shared and plans were devised. A few days before, he had been the one to approach her with friendship and support. How small his gesture seemed now, in the wake of all she offered. When she kissed him, he was surprised at how eagerly he misread her intentions. But he quickly accepted that it was the most effective way to initiate the bond that provided him a temporary cure. Only a fool would mistake her Compassion for passion, and Judas was well-aware of his own limitations with women such as her.

"Trust no one," he had warned himself. But then again, the Judas-of-then had never planned for Aurelia.

[Judas D'arc]

Soon, Judas would be kissing her again. Not out of love or lust, nor any of the proper motives that compelled young lovers into each others' arms. This was no storybook tale, or even a drunken, back alley affair. His very sanity was at stake, and this bond between them was his only salvation. Of course, Aurelia's recent revelation only served to complicate matters. Usually, when Judas probed those unfortunate enough to enter the domain of his conversations, he was able to anticipate their answers. But once again, she had surprised him, stripping away any advantage that might have remained.

Hours later, her words still lingering in the back of his mind, Judas found himself back at the Bramble Rose Theatre in Ashencrosse. Instead of his usual drinking companions, the wayward bard was joined by an eclectic assortment of faces: Striker, a stalwart mage who fought to protect Yew from the current riots; Paine, a new acquaintance with a gaggle of former wives and a poorly honed dagger balancing act; and Dezera Blackwell, a confident, dark haired beauty with an enticing smile. Strangely, Judas did not carry a drink in his hand. Not after his recent descent into whiskey madness, and the ones he feared were soon to follow.

In what seemed all too common these days, their conversation quickly turned to vampires. Both Paine and Dezera seemed knowledgeable on the subject, with the former proclaiming that the study of the Undead was a particular passion of his. Initially wary of engagement, Judas attempted to manipulate the discussion with a series of questions: Do vampires love? How do they really see humans? Could a vampire ever come to love one?

Each had their own answer. None satisfied his selfish curiosity.

"They feel most of the same emotions as you do ... only many can't focus long enough," Paine explained. "Love surpasses all races. It can't be limited to humans alone." An unprejudiced response, but the one most difficult to swallow.

"I believe they feel emotions, yes," Dezera offered. "As for what they think of the rest of the world, I would imagine it depends on how hungry they are." Whether tongue in cheek, or completely sincere, her words possessed a wise, yet harsh, practicality.

"And one only need to understand one basic rule when confronted by a vampire," Striker stated boldly, ridiculing any possibility of ambiguity. "Kill it before it kills you." Honest, effective, and frighteningly reminiscent of his own former perspective.

Minutes later, as Judas departed the Bramble Rose, he knew that tomorrow held no better answers. Only more questions, and the promise of a kiss...

[Judas D'arc]

A second kiss between them, this time more urgent and profound. Perhaps it was knowing what she felt for him, or simply their bond toying with his imagination, but this one seemed far more difficult to yield. It left him wondering what the consequences of their next might be, for he had already accepted further intervention was inevitable. Three days had passed since their first discussion, and Aurelia's efforts to save him, though admirable, had uncovered little. Her unnamed Vampire Master surpassed her in both age and power, and the magic used to steal away Judas' memories was still unknown to her.

Still, she was quick to name the one advantage in her favor. "I want it more than he does." One glance at those pale blue eyes, and Judas believed every word.

He had always viewed knowledge as a commodity, and it troubled him that he understood so little about the nature of vampires. But he knew that if they were anything like the masquerades they perpetrated, then petty differences must also exist between them. If there were others of their kind unaffiliated with her Vampire Master, then other opportunities existed. Of course, his brief venture into their world had been responsible for his current predicament, and it was up to Aurelia alone to explore these possibilities. Still, Judas was not fond of her bearing this burden. The deeper she descended into that darkness, uncovering all of its secrets and temptations, the greater the chance she might turn into that which she served.

"I do not want you to become like that," he tried to explain. "Not over me, at least. I am not worth it, really."

"Yer worth everythin' Judas," she responded, without a measure of doubt.

If only he agreed.

[Judas D'arc]

He always believed his life a narrative that journeyed from opening to conclusion. The choices might sometimes stray or surprise, but the path would always provide continuity. But when the connections started to erode, and the threads began to bare, all that remained for him ... were moments.

********

"Landed gentry rationalize!" the rioter shouted. The ropes that bound his hands failed to discourage his outraged expressions. "Anarchy! No one is going to keep us down!"

As Judas led his prisoner across the twisted paths of the Deep Forest, he was glad for the encounter's peaceful resolution. While complaints that could be redressed with fish steaks and gold coins were preferable, scattered flames and garbage were still an improvement over violence. Still, the City of Yew, like the rest of the Kingdom of Britannia, was falling apart. How much longer --

"Our lands are torn asunder!" The man's chanting interrupted his thoughts.

-- how much longer could something so fractured endure?

Judas sighed, unable to hide his disappointment at the rioter's stained brown robes. Even the monks of Empath Abbey had decided to join the revolution.

********

"I have faith this will work out," Judas spoke confidently, attempting to ease Striker's mind.

His fellow Yew citizen had stumbled into the Bramble Rose, distraught and looking for comfort in a bottle of alcohol. He spoke of Ditto and the Atalan. Of his feelings for Cat. Of his intentions to make a difference. A moment of reflection, and Judas realized he had an opportunity to preserve something pure.

Judas lied to his friend because it was what Striker needed to hear. Because he did not want to disappoint. Because he knew in his heart it could only get worse.

********

Their discussion of the Atalan and those that opposed them at an end, Judas quickly moved to alleviate his curiosity. "What was she like, as a child?"

"Sunny. Ne'er discouraged," The dark haired knight replied.

"And as a young woman?"

"Boy crazy as a lass, but ne'er found one who made her happy I think." She continued. "She was always th' sort to get wrapped up in her hobbies. Falconry mos'ly."

"Anything else?" He pressed her further.

"If she'd e'er found someone who did -- she'd 'ave been loyal till th' day she died."

When Eclyse finished speaking about Aurelia, Judas could not help but hate himself a little more.


********

On a pleasant New Haven afternoon, Judas shared ale and conversation with the Gypsy Girl. He envied how easily she spoke of freedom -- running through the forest, hair blowing in the wind, untethered to any burdens. He also recalled his own years of wandering, the loneliness and disconnection from the world around him. But there was no choice left for Judas, and all he could do was stumble forward.

And then she danced for him.

********

As the council at Serpent's Hold slowly unfolded around him, Judas continually reached for the comfort of his half-empty bottle of whiskey. For weeks, this was all he had struggled for -- the important folk of Sosaria gathered together to oppose the Atalan. Under ordinary circumstances, he could endure, possible even enjoy, the pretenses and political maneuvering. But the throbbing of his head and sliding focus were far from ordinary. And despite his rambled efforts to participate in the discussion, he was unable to move past the primary source of his discomfort: Countess Isabella de Mor.

-- beauty -- perfect -- distorted -- truths -- broken -- promises -- lies -- betrayal -- intimacy -- shared -- taste -- seductress -- lips -- body -- curves -- softer -- places -- pain -- across -- table -- hands -- circle -- throat -- squeezing -- screaming -- die -- vampire -- die --

Once more, Judas grabbed for his whiskey bottle.

********

Upon reading his Northridge Report, and discovering what he had lost, there was one person Judas blamed above all else. Unlike their unnamed Vampire Master, or even Isabella, with Jolicia, there had always been expectations. He had trusted her with his life and his affections, and she violated his trust and his mind. When Aurelia turned to her for help with his troubles, Judas rushed towards confrontation. He wanted her to suffer. But harsh words and insults brought him little satisfaction, and he realized that she still deserved the opportunity to explain herself.

By their second conversation, his stance towards her had softened considerably. Through the haze of his whiskey-soaked brain, forgiveness no longer seemed impossible. She was still as stubborn as he remembered, and her reasoning hurt him almost as much as her betrayal. But she did not retreat from his interrogations, and her twinge of regret was almost palpable. They parted there on the roof of the Bramble Rose, a promise of future conversation and re-ignited friendship.

As he left her there, he tried his best to ignore her sobbing.

********

In the aftermath of their third kiss, Aurelia led Judas into the gypsy tent. He was still struck with the horror of what he had done. He could not fault their bond of blood for this, no matter how much she tried to excuse it. There was something inside of him that was dark and twisted, capable of perpetrating an unspeakable act. Whether or not he would have succeeded, his intentions were clear.

Still, his body exhausted, he lacked the will to retain consciousness Comforted by her watchful presence, Judas closed his tear stained eyes and fell to slumber.

It emerged slowly from the night, quietly and unnoticed by all. Lacking true form or substance, it slipped inside of him, nestling comfortably at the usual place against the back of his mind. A woman's voice, of which he was intimately familiar, whispering the same three words that he never failed to recognized.

"You're no good."

[Judas D'arc]

One more day.

If Judas were to accept what he had learned from himself, his previous venture into the vampire's den had been accompanied by his very best plotting and preparation. Not this time. Tomorrow, he placed his fate solely in the hands of others. He had no doubts about Aurelia, and even trusted Jolicia, at least in this. But the elder vampire they had recruited? He might be their ally and they might trust him, but to Judas, he was still another blood-sucking horror of the night. And one "sired" by Isabella de Mor, no less. Whatever a "siring" actually entailed, Judas did not want to know. And then there was Paine. The talkative vampire scholar had turned out to be far more than that, and he offered assistance they could not refuse. Yet another troubling unknown.

As he lay in his Empath Abbey bed, Judas briefly considered pleasuring himself to sleep. This might be his last chance, for their proposed cure could kill him, or transform him into a drooling, mindless shell. But he also knew that the gesture would fall far short of true satisfaction. Only one was capable of giving him what he needed now ...

Poor Aurelia. No matter how foul his words or unkind his actions, she had remained at his side, disregarding all harm to herself. He could no longer push her out of his head. The pain in her voice as he struck with insults and accusations. The sight of her at the edge of his bed, dagger in hand. The trickling taste of her single, bloody tear. This needed to be over for her as much as for him. Then she would come to understand that neither his sins nor desires were the consequence of any bond between them.

They were simply Judas.

[Judas D'arc]

Dawn was breaking, and inside the small bedroom, Judas slowly dressed. As he slipped on his dark boots, he glanced over at Aurelia's naked form, still posed in slumber. So peaceful, her delicate features no longer marred by the troubles he brought to her. After everything she did for him, he would give the world to see her undisturbed. There was no longer a bond of blood between them, yet compulsion lingered. Calling to him. To return to his place within that empty space that waited beside her body. Could any blame him for wanting to remain?

But after all that was done and said, Judas knew better.

********

There were five of them within the Outpost of Ashencrosse. Five gathered for a single purpose, to save the life and mind of Judas the Bard, victim of a master vampire's curse. In addition to he-who-was-their-why-and-wherefore that evening, Aurelia and Jolica were also both present. As were Paine, the immortal expert of the undead who eagerly offered his assistance, and Averi, the elder vampire who reluctantly did so out of obligation. An odd assembly for certain, it was most likely the first and only time these five would ever come together.

All eyes were skeptically fixed upon Paine, especially those of Jolicia, who did not bother to conceal her distaste for the purported immortal. Following his instructions, Judas stood and removed his shirt, the metal of his ankh a cold dangle against a bare chest.

"Hrmmmm. Someone's been feeding you kindred blood," the undead expert noted, "Naughty, but easily fixed." He grabbed his patient, sending a stiffness throughout the bard's entire body. Reaction was immediate, and blood-stained vomit splashed upon his benefactor's shirt. "I should have seen that coming!"

"Ye hurt him an' I swear by the' gods," Aurelia warned.

As Judas wiped his mouth with his wrist, he quickly glanced back at her. There was an absence of something -- as if the bond between them was now severed.

"Now that you have expelled all the vampiric blood, my attempt won't kill you. Good thing I checked first, huh?" Paine laughed madly and uncorked a bottle of silver liquid. He dipped his finger inside, and then used it to draw a silver eye upon Judas' forehead. Further banter followed, and then the immortal suddenly punched him in the face. The blow, which was accompanied by a sound akin to thunder, knocked its target backwards. Judas fell --

*visions of pain no Paine of his betrayal and death at the hands of red-headed woman with a wicked smile of a chess game played for his very survival of the trickery and cunning that caused his transformation into what he now was*

-- into the corner of the stone table behind him, and then down onto the floor. Everyone moved quickly, no longer restrained in their suspicion of the undead expert. Still, after a tense minute of confrontation, all doubt was eliminated with a simple question.

"How does the word Vampire make you feel?" Paine asked Judas.

Ignoring the bloody bruise on his back, the bard instinctively reached to shield his head from the expected agony. Nothing. He rose to his feet and looked intently between the faces of the three vampires. Nothing. He approached Averi, and with an apology, embraced him. Nothing. He rushed towards Jolicia and hugged her as well. Nothing. Finally, a well-deserved kiss for Aurelia. Nothing. The painful backlash to their kind, which had been implanted inside his head by the Vampire Master, was gone. Whatever his methods, Paine had succeeded in his part of the task.

A few minutes passed, and Judas sat before Averi, ready to take his next step out of madness. "You will not punch me in the face?"

"Unlike these...few here...I carry no pretense of caring for you," The dark haired vampire informed him. "What I do is for them, not for you. They have asked. And as their kindred, I will oblige."

"Well, despite all that, thank you."

"Thank me if you live."

"Unless you do something bad to me," the bard smiled. "Then f*** you in advance."

"Si, and if I kill you...in advance...Mi dispiace."

This time, it was more subtle, lacking the spectacle and fanfare of Paine's efforts. Averi and Judas locked eyes, the former's voice soothing and caressing the latter into comfort, followed by the soft thrust of mental penetration. No words were necessary, as the handsome vampire gently massaged the bard's mind, eroding the barriers that had been erected. Slow and gentle at first, then becoming harder, faster. "Remember," he commanded. "Gather. Release." And with little resistance, they came, the explosive discharge of memories restored, and --

*a deluge of images a dark haired female unknown to him broken and kneeling and drained of blood the one he knew as Nic buried and tortured within a coffin of silver Aurelia her body bound and burning a final warning from Averi this is what vampires do to their own*

-- the mind of Judas fled from consciousness.

********

When he awoke she waited for him at the foot of the bed. As was expected as it was supposed to be. For this was their moment. To discover whether it was love or survival that connected them. The roles they played in the outside world were of no importance here. He was simply a man finally able to choose. She was just a woman who needed to know. She anticipated his retreat with the once-bond they shared held to blame. He explained that the sins and desires had always been his own. In between the awkward silence and stolen kisses and hard words all stood revealed. Their hopes and regrets and why this should never be. And then they were kissing. And then he was inside her. And then they were together because they were no longer willing not to be.

********

His hand resting on the door knob, Judas turned back for one final glimpse of Aurelia. As daylight beckoned, the intimacy they shared was no longer enough to deflect that which had been returned to him. He was a human, mortal being, and for all that she was in this world, she was not that. He would die before ever becoming like her, and she could never again be like him. All possibilities were irreconcilable.

"I wish I had known you before you were..." he had confessed to her the night before . "I love who you are. But I -- I despise what you are."

"If there were a way t' take it back, Judas."

He wanted to make it go away. All his truths and beliefs and memories. All his fears and disgust and self-doubts. To lock them inside a small wooden box and forever lose the key. And then he could fight for her and then they could be together and then they could --

-- but after all that was done and said, Judas knew better. So he quietly opened the door and he left her behind.