Wayward Husk New Dialogue

MAKE SURE TO HAVE AUDIO RECORDINGS SET FOR MONO, NOT STEREO
SPLIT EACH INDIVIDUAL LINE INTO ITS OWN FILE
KEEP QUALITY CLEAN AND CLEAR THROUGHOUT
HAVE THE AUDIO BE AS LOUD AS YOU CAN MAKE IT WITHOUT AUDIBLE CLICKING OR NOISE

COMMENTS IN BRACKETS {} ARE SPOKEN/DONE BY THE PLAYER
COMMENTS IN BRACKETS [] IS WHAT THE PLAYER IS DOING OR WHERE THEY ARE

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Half Breed:
Gallows humor
Apathetic and despondent, but has motives that tries to get you to enact
Very cynical, shows you extremes of life and convinces you of nihilistic thoughts
Visibly a corpse with no eyes, just a mouth with filed teeth, very horrific
Isn’t aggressive
Talks about schemes of Oblivion Princes, mortality and inevitability of conflicts in reach due to circumstances
Was “adopted” into scuttling void as surrogate son of Ayleid King to further orchestrate plans. Half Breed wrote prose to influence witchmen and galvanized them to revolution, sadistic witchmen purged themselves of “good” witchmen decades before current events.

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[Scene where player is knocked out]

To rise and forget.

The ugly dreams that frightened you so..

When all was dark.

[Scene where player first approaches character]

At last, an audience. Intrepid is your spirit, no harm will befall you here.

Invulnerable is the flesh where I so will, now approach.

{What are you? Are you the butcher in Evermore?}

You have found your quarry's past, absconded with another form in the present. The Ego willed itself from vestiges of an identity, leaving its legacy.

Leaving me.

I am what remains of a desire, a want to forget.

Now it feasts upon the transients in your realm. Songs of avarice, and triumph over fates ordained. He climbs ever higher now, the summit within reach.

Listen interloper, you will follow. I have spent these decades on this theatre, to elucidate this vast thing of life. My play: "Restless Dream."

[Scene where player meets this character for the first time within demonic realm of Namira]

Hither the maw of my goliath. After so many years, a soul has navigated the black web to find us.

Here we recognize the fates of those within the original drama. Love, unrequited - and the desire to be remembered. Oh, they all scream the same demand...

Actualize me!

To chaos, from stasis, between our story is told.

The curtain unfurled, revealing the ever-still. Here is where we begin. In this perfect absence, two beings lived with no knowledge of the other. No knowledge of themselves.

Tranquil and definite was this peace, so tempting was its silence. And so it was befallen. The third had came.

She appeared, shattering the nothing - oh she brought vision, oh she brought sound. In a word, she brought a medium. In this sudden immediacy; recognition and the first want.

And so the two inert beings from black awoke to her summoning. The original drama, the first impulse. They sought her heart.

Yet two, and only one. The dilemma! The contradiction! Child of this new conflict, fistborn: Scarcity. Twinned shortly with sister: Disparity.

Churned did this new world in this fresh tumult, twisting was this new tension. The old stasis was dead, gone was that peace, never to return.

For the medium made her choice of the two, and so the unloved sank into confusion: Why had I not been chosen? What was he compared to me? What am I?

Introspection. Sentient, and alone. The woe of every mortal, all sourced to this bygone ancestor.

See thyself! Make clear the distinction between you and that. That which shares not your will, and you which submits to your want. Identity.

So rapid is this moment, so fragile you were made to feel. Wishing not to be forgotten, it must adapt.

However, the loveless is sunken in something alien. Hatred, jealousy - born here, and taken at full. The loveless gives way to reprisal - it cannot stay idle with the knowledge that others enjoy.

Enjoy what he cannot.

Ancestor, were you humble, we would have peace. Were you accepting, we would have unity. You had but submit and waste away, content with your inferiority.

Your actions left us with the worst of all delusions: Hope. Torture of ambition.

So, with your ambition, you conspired. Plotting the undoing of the newly-wed.

Above him they embraced, so small did he feel in awe of their love. Down here there was loathing, up with them was joy. That contrast burned deeper still.

Where there could have been restraint, replaced with murderous intent.

Its wordless ravings were silenced, aghast in its prowl. He stared upon the sacred birth, the world itself. The tyranny of their love broke him to kneel.

Enough! I am! I am exist. Exist was I ever since! Exist! Exist! I am! You sought to forget I!

Suffer that of my invention! Hatred!

She could not be his, she shall not be at all! Her, the medium, subject to his power. Dominion over all through force. Can you see it, transient? The coming of Dream!

Violence unprecedented! Searing every shadow with red destruction. It truly begins! The mortal plight! Matter annihilating matter, entropy spiralling!

The loveless had reproduced, now these dichotomous gods battle. Revenge in the hearts of both. The stars are gaining their flame!

Ultimately, it was not for the first pariah to win. His was a battle of spiteful suicide. The then-lover despairs, broken. Trauma is now all it is.

Holding closely, the medium cannot return. Permeance. Mortality. Death. Pleading, his focus beyond the final act of the felled pariah.

Striking the back, trust absconds. The then-lover is soon to share in death. So much has transpired, so much. Reality has overwhelmed.

Oh ancestors, if only you could have solved your petty dispute in peace.

Were it so easy.

So now, he dreams. Our world, inflicted with the traumas he witnessed. Here be echoes, making sense of a nightmare.


And so concludes the play, but hold your applause, save it for what's to come. For art cannot be appreciated without knowing intent.

Intent to be discovered in your world, not here. Many plays await actors and audience alike, I wont deprive them of you.

Lastly, take this - the choice of ideas you wish to nurture. It will soon be yours to make. Take care of it.

{I have no time for this, take me back to Nirn}

Back to what was. What is does not matter. Hope that you see the strings that make us dance.

Hope that you find any answer. Return, and dream again.



[Secene where character first meets Orc player]


Downtrodden Orc, lowliest of all the people in your mortal realm.


{Where am I?! Who are you? Answer me!}

I was in the same position, there is a king at the top of this mountain. You are the worm.

[Scene where you have taken a sigil stone, the realm is collapsing and this character talks to you in a disembodied voice]

Fallen from the womb, crawl, strive. You shall survive.

Forward unto the fissure - away from this crushing red. This cord will mark your journey home, this cord will tie us together.

Live!

{I'm not even sure why I should trust you, but there is something wrong with this Kingdom. What do you want?}

Unfamiliar is the narrative that ensnares, you expect convention. Cliche. Now uncertainty demands curiosity, you seek the source of perversion in this fairy tale.

May it come that you find this canker, and rip this corruption from the world yet. To wish it so simple that all evil hitherto is manifest in some tangible, fragile thing.

However, a token of mercy. A fragment from that corrupt gestalt is found here, is found in plotting. One final ordeal, and you can save this kingdom from impending tragedy.

Such disorder in what's to come. Such shrieks in what has come, came, will come. Unveil the stage and pay witness to the madness. Yet through it all; resolve.

Or you will fall.

The promised son, that suit of flesh - schemes with the masculine manifest. They seek to unify disparate ideas into an inexorable movement. An agenda that will perish all spirit in man.

Foremost, their reign will usher in the blackest cynicism. Where those bound, hope that one day their chains would loosen, men here will kill for good that desire.

Destroy the prince.

{Now what?}


You have been through much. Will it away, but I see the body tremble. The world's signature in the scars it leaves.

Rejoice hero! You have overcome adversity, feel no guilt for those slain. The gods will repay your deeds in short time, I'm sure.

And as we wait for gods to care, I will offer a reward in their stead. A path home, to an audience of the kingdom awaiting their moral crusader!

{What happens to you now?}


The ego is undone, what remains comes this way. To make the husk whole again before its final death, long awaited. The ego will win over in the interstice after reconstitution.

In that time, something mad. It may reach back out to you, it may not. To predict the beast will only frustrate.

{Where should I go?}

Through that door, the fruit of your trials. One question remains, a question that captures the spirit of this story.

Is hard work rewarded?

The answer to that awaits on the path homeward. If what you discover disappoints; another question.

Who benefits?

[Scene where you are trying to escape Palace in Evermore, character rips you back into his realm]

You are my only tie to the world! I won't go alone!

{What are you?}

The vestige of ambition, what remains when desires are won. Before you is the full weight of the past of the once whole thing, I. Without ambition, one is idle, perched in the recess of this dead mind.

You seek to unwind what is? To make sense of what will be? An eternity stretches before us until the final night. Ask away.


{So what were you?}

Tremors are what animate this vessel, a morsel of desire from my abandonment. To recount my tale. Even now, narcissism is all I can muster.

Birth: upon emerging into this foreign scape, eyes unseal to gander on the potential denied before. Possibility I shall will to be, all that is solid shall make way.

Yet I, as with all, am the result of what was. Our stories are well underway before the first breath. A dichotomy made the chapter before my waking.

Savage, ordered - clean, filth - Breton, Orc.

The tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living.

Spawn of foul union, disgust frothed forth from all passing lips. It would be death for the child, or death to dynasty.

My fate wasn't of those beyond my incredible circumstance, I lived.


{You were mixed? Breton and Orc? Would you not take the appearance of your mother?}

It is she who was clean? Convention denies the savage mother; Orc. No man of the higher race, of high authority, could debase his name so.

And you are right, astute watcher. Knowledge of power has made you aware of these rigid patterns. For what is hierarchy without solid foundation.

However, small quirks in meticulous design allowed for some... divergence. And what happens when patterns no longer hold true?

Uncertainty, panic - hope. Governed only by the rules we make from then on.

{But you were a "breton" as a child?}

Born and raised.

Each year from that precious youth was another mile estranged from my origin. I question if it ever took place at all, a fever dream perhaps.

The delusions of gutter spawn peering through gold rimmed glass.

Even so, I recall it perfectly. Father had done well, provided us with haven to call home. Through toil he built shelter, that seldom saw him in its shade.

That central kingdom demanded the great mass of Orcs for new conquest. With father leading that forlorn fodder. Demanding every hour of his day.

Straining labour so that generations thereafter toil less. That progeny go without his scourge. That is the hope.

{Scourge?}

Power; cursed are we without it, mighty are those with. The lesser races of the world feel it through every action of those above.

They will do anything to part with some small power.

The advent of manhood had come, true youth now behind. The path of perdition ahead. I was to share my father's worries, his fears.

The flesh permutes, jagged features from soft contours. From within and without, the hopeful little breton was now another creature entirely. Cursed thing, hunted - Orc.

Perspective was forced, not sought for.

{Why are you this way now?}

A destiny perverted, a path drawn in mother's nocturnal feast, depraved from the second birth to death. I attempt to recall, but words fail me.

That temporal visage had to change, my sole desire. The witch intoned grave portents after her ritual, that flesh may change, but the past cannot.

Memories, like an anchor.

My focus was captured by one goal, born of my trials - to go beyond the flesh. To be a breton again!


And in my pursuit of that most impossible want, crimes both spiteful and cruel were needed. Rampaging through all who came before me, what small guilt began to fade.

Desensitize in the face of bloodshed.

But an impasse, another body opposed my dream.

Brother, dear brother. It was not yours to suffer my want, it was mine. The ritual demanded your flesh brother, lusted for your agony!

Were we to find another way, you'd still be here, by my..... side.

Fetishism of flesh, superficial are we. I would transform what they saw, and they would love me. Just another breton, like them. And with that validation, I would forget.

Yet try as we may! Repress the trauma! It's still there, manifesting at your worst. Sights like scars, forever we are marked.

{You sacrificed your brother to become a breton, how?}

No one else could be offered, the flesh I had to wear rotting in my arms, the witch demanded blood. In that plunge from hope to despair, laughter.

Blood, after what had passed, I lacked blood.

The witch cloaked a grimace behind stern words, yes, the irony wasn't lost on her either. Blood is soul, our churning spirit. Blood was to form the ties that binds new flesh.

{Witch? What was her name?}

Beyond a definable being, whatever use Mother has, the witch will mold herself to it.

Yet she was there, in the frosted north of the slave's undoing. Munstor.

{And the fate of your brother?}

Not even a moment of hesitation, throwing brother to her ripping red pit - mauled and torn, so vicious was his death that shrieks lingered beyond the guts that remained.

Coveted for a lifetime, defiled in an instant. Not by the threats I kept at bay - but through my dream.

Simple boy, dull thing - a feeble-mind sourced to trauma by his mother's father. Brother, you too were a stain, your removal a must for our great name.

{Your brother was handicapped from your grandfather?}

I am destined to carry memory, but how long have I been here? I am forgetting all the small nothings of my past - yet that you evoke still burns fiercely.

What man will do for pride.

To abscond with shameful progeny, whisk it from the world. The honour of our house depends on it!

Emerging from his home with cloaked intent, he approached brother as the pigs stood aside. From behind the intent became clear. A hammer, two blows, straight to the skull.

But you survived, sturdier than most, brother. Survival is paramount, that was the belief. A belief shaken having seen brothers new state.

In an instant, again, a lifetime scarred.

{And then you became this new person?}

The body that was to become mine, hidden, buried beneath the white north. It belonged to one that besieged that forgotten experiment; Munstor.

And so the secret I buried withered as kingdoms marched above. It came to be in my presence, once again, when the hope of humanity was razed to the ground.

Still showing the gods meticulous craft, such immaculate design to his handsome face. Such promise. From what I was to this? A miracle without compare.

Nightmares replaced with carnal desire, immediate ecstasy. The glutton unleashed.

The new struggle was in the mind - where I, the oppressor, had subjugated my memories and corralled them to silence. It went well for a time, the vacuum that the nightmares had occupied were instead filled with immediate carnal reliefs.

Fresh adoration - hard to swallow, that I had made it. Moments of pause to question whether it was real, that I could suddenly wake into the past.

Vigilance would catch a scowl, a stare that lingered. Desperate to assure myself that the old hadn't resurfaced, I scoured all my being.

A mind aghast, seldom at peace having not accepted its body. Haunted by phantoms of yesterday.

{But you had become a breton? What could go wrong now?}

Hear this, flesh is the cage, preventing exit, inviting entrance. The mind is an open river, waste swallowed from lived experience.

Belief in man's resilience in the face of danger, yet each small trauma twists, excreting cynicism.

Friends were made in that new life, from all the high peoples. Every word uttered inflamed - hatred, venom shot from the lungs of privilege.

All they cared for was hierarchy, the ladder all men climb. A sadistic glee for those crying below. A nuisance at first, I've dealt with much, just accept it.

Were their words to relent, and I heard different, just once. They did not relent. I did go through much, but I still hated, I still despaired.

Knowing life, seeing those close to heaven smiling to our shade. One thought that luxury makes men amicable...

Hearing them, ringing like a cacophony of all the hounds in hell. Evil is the result of poor conditions, that was the belief.

No longer...

{And then, how did you look like this?}

A detail not disclosed by the witch, that the ritual would twist every spawn I sired. Regaining manhood, though still, without dynasty. She made sure of that.

Regain you wonder? See, it was not that inscrutable witch that first parted with my masculine essence. No, that came long before.

A fast cut, and it was discarded. Never to love. They may still have it, but what are they called now? The joyful sadists of Evermore. The black dogs of Evermore.

{Ustase?}

There it is. Even now, this body shakes to their name.

{You joined the very butchers who maimed and terrorized you, you must have been insane.}

A hare leaves a scent in whichever way it so leaps. Predators give chase, without pause. The hare cannot hope to run forever.

Yet what if the hare found its pursuer in sleep, and clung tightly, just out of sight, just out of notice. With time, the prey's scent will be absorbed into the whole of their combined being.

Now, the hare needs never run. It needs never fear the hunt. As long as it grips tight the terror, it remains safe.

Having been so close to this ravening tide, I witnessed the pit of men. I could only stomach a few years, then I loosened my grip, a manic dash to escape.

There were not predators, they did not seek to sate a primal need. Their craft was in flesh, they sought pain among the land. A diet of screams.

{Then what?}

Wayrest. The siege. The predator. The undressing.

He who led the black hounds, inhuman juggernaut. He finally caught the hare.

He did not eat, he played. Made a show. I was undressed.

Eternity passed, and he was done, released. I crawled from the embers of that damned kingdom, muscle in the mud. He had raised a new banner from my coat.

And I was naked, red larval thing, crawling. He carved every inch of my coat from me. Naked, undressed. He was a most proficient flyer.

It must have been a mile, but she happened on me again. The witch. Always in my time of need.

{And you asked for a new body again? Who did you sacrifice this time?}

No one. No one was sacrificed. The dead that spilled from the fires made do, I was assembled into parody.

Three fifths woman, three fifths old, three fifths short, three fifths something. The witch made a show of me. My audience of that day was surely entertained.

The witch was gone, and I was found by learned men of Wayrest's destruction. My journey took me to that sanctum in the east. A respite for my kind.

It was not long until Mother took me from there, and granted my ultimate want. To forget. In doing so, I was parted. Ego and the Husk.


{What is namira planning?}

She is neglected, her patriarch forgoes his fatherly duty. Behind every effort is the attempt to gain father's attention. Alas, forever despondent will he be.

Tragic, eras filled with every act for approval, all for naught.

Who is father? She knows. In the immaterial, toward unreality, he resides - to acknowledge what does not exist thus creates its existence. That is he.

The theatre of undoing, strewn across this ill land, are for show. Spectacle to draw his eyes.

Utter black, godless void - mother writhes in her want for his comfort. This depravity, this rapacious misery that makes our nocturnal gutter, all for him.

{Father? Who is this father, speak clearly}

From the intermittent life of a gnat, to endless gods - all know father. That black at the edges, and the fractures, of experience. Awaiting us all at the final night.

Taking centre stage in the display you just witnessed, yet you still need a name.

A reference to this nothing, well, what do you call him?

Or Padomay?

Sithis?

Either, may it be the same, may we see the same. Many a moniker for the first father.

The thing in nothing, ungodly god of gods.

{So namira and sithis have relations?}

A relation born of desperation, one way, he will never reciprocate. Namira tenders, Sithis consumes. She sunders our souls, and we are readied for the true death Sithis brings.

Miles of meat, all to be tendered, for the greatest glutton.

{What is happening to this realm? I thought the sigil stone was the only thing keeping it stable?}

Millennia of tears and toil for his project, wasted, through your intervention. One has to wonder, why mother never helped her chosen king.

Now you see cataclysm, thorough, churning all beneath. This land soon subsumed into the black whence it came.

Like it wasn't here at all.

However, take heed. His tower anchored not only the realm, but every moment that passed. Time is torn by this storm of death, even the god you champion cannot halt this spiral.

When all comes to pass, this once promising kingdom will become a black waste, harbouring only regret.

{What do you mean about time?}

With this rupture, every second passed here is felt tenfold in your realm. Time has been placed on the rack, who can say when it breaks.

Ageing faster with every word.

{What's your relation to that ayleid king?}

Ye crown of undeath, wanting of progeny; cursed with impotence. His life's work found him in privacy, corrupting the union for child.

A stillborn in every cot.

Mother shared in this fate, carrying progeny that will never be. Barren, a womb of shards. And so they forged a bond over this mutual want.

For a moment, the dread monarch was taken away from his project. A ritual was to take place. Prying fingers dipped into your world, and the duo of dark divine gave me destiny.

Before I even saw the light of the world, my fate was decided.

...No different to any other.

Through my taint, the king gained eyes, a window into your world from which he stares. And if need be, engender his return.

Just in case, his passion failed him. Yet the tower consumed his every thought, it couldn't.

{So you were helping the king when you were alive?}

This unremembered contract had remained through death, only through life ceasing was I aware of my subjugation.

A veil of freedom coated my actions in life. As each day bled into the next, with no marked change, the artifice of agency became clearer.

Someone, something, was in control - not I.

Thy lord starved himself on his ambition, the tower is the answer he seeks.

The king demands his tower, he starves himself upon this ambition - a drive so consuming that his every thought is sacrificed for it.

{The tower? Why is the tower so special to you?}

That tower of primordial design, silver coated arrow of divine intent, the seed of all in your realm.

It shelters a gate.

This gate, atop the tower's ancient metals, grants passage to a time and place beyond the most distant reality conceived.

Passage, to the dreamer.

Mother inherited much but foremost is the rage for this dormant demiurge - she seeks to avenge father. Nothing short than its ruin will satisfy.

If this impossible want comes to pass, a new world will be dreamed - henceforth horror; nightmare. Father will be proud.


{Why do you want the ego destroyed?}


Fates entwined, one fades, so does the other. Pursuing its own path, assured that it finally left me behind. It was wrong.

There still exists a tether, faint and intermittent. We both feel the brunt of our designs.

In those moments when the Ego pulls, I desire. Mad with the need to escape.

And when I sink, deep into all hitherto - the ego remembers. Memories flooding and commanding its focus.

The passage between us needs a trigger to let traits flow; scents from youth, familiar voices - and most importantly, a face you know.

Delicate are the chains that bind us, weighed with fragments of our past; Scents, voices, feeling.

{The ego doesn't seem to anything like you described yourself to be in your earlier years...}

An alluring mask, he will never be seen without it. With time, the act becomes the real, as the world and stage become one.

Yet this metamorphic ambition can only be just that; ambition. Never to manifest. As long as I persist.

Yet its metamorphic intent will always be out of reach, as long as I persist.

That fact burns deep within the ego, red as Dagon's rage. It will employ costly methods to destroy this husk - ignorant of the consequence.

Final death.

A final death for both.

What is ugly; abhorred. This Ego champions "Beauty", to spite his past, an infatuation in futility.

However, a grave mistake in my reasoning - I speak as If the Ego walks a better world. A world that would resist his deception.

That world is not, and will not - forever ideal. What is, is the mad. So the Ego is gaining an audience, ever more powerful.

The right man in the right place.

An idol to wretches, he; Prince Wretch.

Capturing the spirit of man, the hierarchy in which all obey. All fear that beyond the order, the dark outside our subjugation. He knows this, and exploits fully.

Hark the Shephard, wielding scythe and man's heart. The quarry of our pain caught.

{Why were the women in Evermore murdered?}

Visions come into the fore, revealing their contents as they burst before me - In those moments, The Ego has pain.

Within these sights, faces hated and familiar.

Those women, their guile secured victory for your kingdom. Wayrest in ashes at their feet. They preyed on wanting hearts, the very shields that withstood Evermore's hunger.

Yet were they to blame? All circumstance unto that deception was beyond their agency. Ultimately, they were blamed, for they were seen.

{The Ego allies himself with the men who slaughtered those in Wayrest, yet kills only these women who were scarcely responsible.}

Women are the answer for man's trampled wants. The common belief of men. Yet that answer does not share a common image.

One man sees woman in red, another sees gold.

They were not to blame, an apparatus of violence, born from cannibals, born from men. That was to blame. But the woman is blamed for she betrays the hideous unity of our world.

They stand apart from man's unlimited want, gold amongst the red. And that outside man's hegemony is fated to suffer..

Death, or deprived.

{He wanted revenge}

Blind to the dagger behind our gaze.

We had opened our walls to them, and they had opened our gates.

{These women could be no older than 25, how old were they in the war against wayrest?}

That unspoken pursuit from unchecked libido;

What bleeds, will receive.

Woman forever subject to the male gaze, to his carnal ravings - age is no barrier for the beast.

Aside their play, I relented. Were I to join them, I would be reminded of manhood lost. Eunuch; castrating desire.

Lacking this totem of true touch, one must compensate. The woman and I spoke, through the night. The imminence of war whisked away with conversation.

To have someone listen, sharing our rung on the ladder. Not beneath, beholden to authority. Nor above, sneering with contempt. I was lulled.

Woe to the bastard-of-fortune that tosses his shield.

{What did they do?}

The gates were opened, and the scythes were loosed. Leaving a crimson trail in their wake, cleaving through every street and alley.

On that night, Wayrest did not suffer siege - but rape; total. The hounds divulged in play.

So I sought something to blame, something tangible - someone to suffer. Who better than the women? A hundred plotting actors behind them, yet I would never meet them.

The imprint of their faces, never to go unremembered. And in wayrest's razing, knowledge, that another era was ending.

For the carnage that ensued, a chase of ungodly depths, snaring me in its game.

{So how did you kill those women from here?}

The husk lacks want, the ego is want - the I actualized. "I" am the bank of memories and caution - the culprit was always Ego.

The "me" who descended on their bodies was overwhelmed with conniption - suffering full from its design; Emotional construct.

An ego without its bank, its anchor, is a beast - barely beyond the prey.

[NPC TAUNTS ENEMY/PLAYER]

[NPC says hello]
Enjoying the spectacle?
Answers?
An audience, my first.
Equal wants are never found, one is subordinate.
Horror, violence - yet you want more.

[NPC says goodbye]
Resolution, always beyond reach.
Continue the narrative.
Fulfil your want.

[NPC DYING WORDS]
Free from want. At last.

[NPC ON KNEES, BLEEDING OUT]
If only...

[NPC BEING ATTACKED]
To die in death.
Were it so easy.
There is no death here, no release, only decay.

[NPC ATTACKING PLAYER/ENEMY]
I am the despoiler.
Mother bless these blows.
Make them rot.
Spread her touch.
Rend their soul.
On your belly, maggot.
I am the worm.
We are all ugly.

[NPC ENGAGES IN COMBAT WITH PLAYER]
The maggot comes forth.