Atreju's Journal (Private)

[Jenn]

Atreju leaned eagerly over a small desk set up in an abandoned attic, spreading out several items almost reverently across its surface. A small inkpot and simple white-feathered quill were placed in the upper left corner, with a blotter not far off. A cheap blue vase sat on the top-right corner, filled with several dead roses. The smell of their potpourri lingered in the air and he breathed in deep, thrilled with this private place that he had found for himself.

Carefully he placed a brown leather-bound book in the middle of the desk and caressed its cover with his hands, the paws transformed to allow him greater mobility. How could he write with paws? It was ridiculous. Hands were the only way to go when it became time to express his true artistic talent.

Many other Script Writers focused on plots and schemes, immersing themselves in the political and decision-making aspect of their respective casts. He, on the other hand, was fascinated by the process of writing, crafting words and phrases in his mind and bringing them alive in the pages of a book or on a scrap piece of paper. They could have their politics. He would settle for his art.

Almost holding his breath, the young Euclides opened the cover of the book to its first blank page and stared at it for several moments, entranced by its sheer emptiness. The potential was almost overwhelming, palpable. It called out to him like a siren song, and yet he was almost afraid to answer.

Nonsense. Him, afraid of his art? Hardly. A slow, delighted grin spread across his muzzle as he reached over for his quill. It was freshly cut, never used, a vision in white. With intense pleasure, he reached to dip its point in ink, marring that white perfection forever. His mark. His. With deliberate movements, he drew his arm back to the book and touched the dark tip to the top of the page. It was time to start writing.

[Jenn]

*Excerpt from Atreju’s journal:

The costumes should be grand to reflect the environment of the characters. Rich reds, violets, blues, and especially golds are important to show their place in high society and the life of luxurious pleasures that they lead. They are the elite, the privileged, the few...the arrogant, the perverted, the debauched. The city supports them and they go about their lives with nary a care for the common folk upon whose backs they trod. The live a glorious reality that is built upon lies, deceit, and exploitation.

They are to be the heroes and heroines of this story.

Madame Alexandra reclines on her fainting couch, dressed in brocades of crimson and gold, her cheeks rouged subtly to match. Her silk stockings are black and just peek through the hemline of her extravagant gown, her shoes long gone as she lounges with friends and close acquaintances. They speak, she responds, and the entire group titters in appreciation. What a charming guest she makes...the life of the party.

From nearby, an enormous fireplace of ornate gold and mahogany fixtures blazes, bathing the room in a flickering orange glow. It casts eerie shadows across the guests and their host, a man dressed unlike the rest of his company. His cravat...

[Jenn]

*Excerpt from Atreju’s journal:

Winter’s chill has touched all the land, casting its gray and white palette upon everything it meets. The trees are stark in contrast with the gray, snow-laden sky, their branches bare and reaching to heaven in a silent plea for mercy that goes unanswered for all of forever. One lone bird, its feathers a dull matte black, sits forlornly on a low branch of one such tree near a small cottage in the woods. The children had been throwing out breadcrumbs for the decrepit creature, too old to travel with its flock for warmer climes, but for the past two days there have been no crumbs for it to eat.

The cottage itself is a tiny thing, no more than two rooms, and built of wood native to the area. It has a small stone chimney that would normally be expelling steady puffs of smoke into the frigid winter air. For the past two days, it has remained dormant, nothing escaping.

Wind blows lightly, casting wisps of snow through the open door and into the cottage. There is already a small pile collected near the opening, with more likely to come. Not far in is a small table with four chairs, all of them rough but sturdy and well-used. Cups and plates have been set on the table and forgotten, their surfaces already starting to collect the faintest sheen of dust from disuse. Dinner was never served.

Off to the left is a ladder leading to a small loft, its rickety rungs nearly bowed from regular trips up and down to the sleeping space above. A small pool of frozen liquid is collected near the bottom of the ladder, obviously having dripped down from the hole above. Looking up, there hangs a hand, icicles of red and white clinging to its dangling fingers like claws. If you looked more closely...

[Jenn]

*Excerpt from Atreju’s journal:

The girl’s delighted laugh catches his attention as surely as the sounding of a dinner bell, its clear peal setting his stomach to growling. The castless Euclides hunches his shoulders, rolling them forward and down so that he might make himself more compact in his small hiding space. Children, none of them older than the age of eight, pass by him in oblivious enjoyment of the sunny day. He growls in his mind as he does not dare to growl aloud, nose quivering at the smell of their tender young flesh so near.

How many days has it been since his last meal? The neglect and starvation shows. Thrown out from society, ill and torn and beaten, his meals have been little more than scraps and garbage, the leavings of his true prey. The thought turns his stomach. His pride, which would have screamed in outrage at the situation only a fortnight past, can’t even muster a token protest at the indignity. It has suffered too much, been torn and beaten and left for dead even as he himself has been.

It would be humiliating if humility isn’t all he has left.

One of the children throws the doll of another over a fence and the victim complains loudly, hitting at the antagonist ineffectively with her small fists. He and his companions laugh, walking on and leaving her to stare forlornly at the fence. Alone. Untended.

His interest piques as she stayed where she is, her friends having moved on several minutes before. This may very well be his first chance in forever for a real meal. Slowly, with much care, he...

[Jenn]

*Excerpt from Atreju’s journal:

A young human girl sits in a field of flowers, a few wispy white clouds drifting lazily past the sun, unable to hide the brilliant azure of an early spring sky. She is clothed in a pretty blue dress tied with a white sash and apron, humming as she works on combing out the hair of a large china doll sitting lifelessly on her lap. Its dark gold color is a close match to hers, falling in false but attractive waves around the doll’s pale face. The two of them could be siblings if not for the difference in size and composition. Its dress is a darker blue tied off with a cream-colored sash, its stiff legs adorned with similar cream stockings. Despite the quality of the apparel, a rip can be seen on the hem of the doll’s dress.

Not far off, an iron gate opens with a creak and another young girl walks into the field, her own dress a sunny checkered yellow and her hair a beautiful chestnut. She smiles and waves at the girl, who looks up in surprise and waves back. She had not expected anyone joining her, that much is obvious. The other girl approaches and crouches down next to her, admiring the doll for a brief moment before turning her attention back to the young human’s face.

“You have a beautiful doll,” she complimented, her own smile as picture-perfect as the doll’s delicately painted porcelain lips. “My uncle works in a theatre and I love watching him dress the dolls for his shows.” At that moment she seems to notice the tear in the doll’s dark blue dress for the first time and lets out an artful little gasp. “Oh my, her poor dress! You know, I’ll bet my aunt could fix that up in a jiffy. She sews all of the clothes for the dolls in the theatre. If you ask nicely, she might even be willing to give you a brand new dress for her!”

The young human’s eyes, an attractive shade of honey-brown, widen as she listens to this strange, pretty girl. “That would be just lovely!” she exclaims, standing and holding on to her doll. “Marie’s dress has been torn ever since my brother let the dog into my room. If your aunt could fix it...well, that would be wonderful! What did you say your name was? I’m Claire.”

The dark-haired girl smiled, her brown eyes almost glinting red in the sunlight. “My name is Tresibella, but you can call me Tess.” She put a guiding hand on the other girl’s back and led her from the garden...

[Jenn]

*Excerpt from Atreju's journal:

Prince of carrion, lord of eye-snatchers, master of corpses...the raven flies from victim to victim, taking what he pleases and leaving the rest for the hungry dogs behind him. None of the mindless, starving curs realize that it, too, is following in the wake of an even greater flesh-eater.

The Euclides surveys the scene of death and destruction with a delighted expression. Sickness has recently hit this small hamlet, his doing, and the smell of rotting flesh and baking meat, unbearable by any other standards, is to him the finest of fragrances. It smells like dinner, like a buffet, all there for the taking. He snarls and lashes out as a stupid dog moves too close, the mutt yelping at the claw-mark that appears on his shoulder. Soon it will become infected and spread, killing the creature more surely than the starvation it now faces.

It is a dangerous combination that brews within this Euclides, the breeding ground of pestilence that is Infection mixing with the love and desire of death that screams Carrion. Even more deadly, he is not the stupid, shambling creature that Infections are comdemned to be. No, he inherited the cunning and intelligence of his Carrion mother. He infects, he kills, and he feasts on the corpses for weeks to come until not even the marrow remains in their sun-bleached bones.

None can stop him. None have ever tried...and lived. He moves...