Basic Information Name: Amir 'Neath Aliases: A. Gender: Male Race: Moon Elf Age: Anywhere from 65-70, though, often seems far older than he is. Profession: When not working for the Bleak Cabal, is a Mummer by trade. Languages: Common, Elven, Sylvan, Draconic Accent: Heavy Sigil accent
Physical Information Height: Shorter, around 5' Weight: Rather skinny, probably somewhere around 100 pounds Body build: Skinny, small amount of muscle mass Skin type: Smooth, besides around the hands, which is rough and calloused Hair style: Usually wrapped up in bandanna, longer and messy when not
[b]Hair:[/b] Black, blue highlights [b]Eyes:[/b] Blue, slight lavender tinge [b]Skin:[/b] Biege, tinged with gray [/li]
Mental Information Alignment: Chaotic Neutral, Neutral tendencies Philosophy: "There ain't no soddin' point. All ya can do is go along with the ride, and try ta make the ride easier fer those around ya - lookin' fer more than that be pointless." Deity/Beliefs: No deity, sees worship as pointless. Personality:
[u]Bitter[/u]: [i]Past experiences have left Amir cynical and somewhat surly at times.[/i] [u]Cautious[/u]: [i]Always tries to be a step ahead of potential danger, almost to the point of paranoia.[/i] [u]Chronicler[/u]: [i]collects information on Sigil's history, and past.[/i] [u]Cranky[/u]: [i]Hours of working with people who are insane, hungry, or under the age of 17 often leave Amir in a bad mood. [/i] [u]Exhausted[/u]: [i]Is more often than not tired, and worn out.[/i] [u]Fatalistic[/u]: [i]Readily accepts the fact that there is no point to anything and nothing can change that.[/i] [u]Jaded[/u]: [i]Much like any other native of Sigil.[/i] [u]Nihilistic[/u]: [i]Obvious, considering he's a member of the Bleak Cabal.[/i] [/li]
Additional Information Gear: A harp at his hip Jewelry: None Habbits/hobbies: Smokes herb-filled cigarettes, composes music and often writes poetry. General Health: In decent health for his age. Favorite Drink: Clean water. Weaknesses: Doesn't like being touched (especially from behind), given to fits of melancholy and mania.
When ya see me walkin' down the streets o' Sigil, ya ain't that impressed, I imagine. Probably thinkin' o' me as some sissy elf just crawled out o' his boyfriend's bed, aye? Don't feel bad, I certainly don't blame ya. Ya half right, cutter. I ain't nothin' special. Is anythin' really that special in Sigil anyway?
It's only when ya get a closer look at me that I perk ya interest, yeah? Ya certainly ain't no Signer (thank the Powers fer that.) I'm sure the color o' me clothes, or the badge on me chest caught ya interest - and ya just had ta ask if I was doin' alright - as if bein' a Bleaker makes me magically depressed.
Ya, I be a Bleaker. Don't gimme that look. I know whatcha heard. Stuff about people goin' barmy, and a bunch o' cutters bein' half-insane already. Ya, I don't look that barmy, do I? No? Didn't think so. Whatcha hear from some Hin tattler ain't always the truth.
Funny thing 'bout truth, anyway... Ain't no real thing be true, aye? All up to perception, all up ta whatcha think is right. Two people can see the same question and come ta two totally different answers - then they go ta fightin' and arguin' about the real answer ta that question... Soddin' fools. Neither o' them are right or wrong... Ain't no question got no answer unless ya can prove it with ya maths or ya senses, and no, I wasn't a sensate in a 'former life', so shut ya trap.
But, aye. As much fun as rattlin' me bonebox is at ya, I got a triple shift at the Gatehouse. Do me a favor, and tie me a noose will ya?"
Bedlam In Bohemia: Chapter One - "When Barmies Howl"
(Please note that the Characters mentioned in this short story may not be canon)
Amir felt like he hadn't slept in months. Perhaps he hadn't. He couldn't ever remember his exact sleeping schedule, as he was usually busy doing something. Today, he was working the Gatehouse - more importantly, he was working a small section that most Bleaker's call the 'Howler' cells.
He sighed, rubbing one of his eyes as he stepped over the large portcullis that lead to the main hall of the Gatehouse. A long line cut out of the enormous gate, into the courtyard behind it. He totally bypassed the line, the Hivers patiently waiting for entrance into the intimidating building gave Amir large stares - asking, perhaps pleading to follow him in. He payed them no mind, they would get fed and healed eventually.
The Gatehouse really was an intimidating building - even on the inside. Stepping into the large main hall, all sounds echoed off of the semi-polished floor. As you looked down, the large mosaic that inspired the Bleak Cabal's stymbol stretches out across the floor. It almost seemed to contrast with the gloomy Gatehouse, the symbol itself almost having a... Hopeful look to it, an academic look. Amir found himself wondering everyday where it came from, and what it meant. He was pulled from his thoughts as he approached the main desk - a large stone thing that took up quite a bit of room, two Bleakers standing inside, and directing people to the proper place. They both looked dismal, wearing the colors of the Cabal with a bit of grim pride.
Both were human, and they both looked strikingly similar. Amir learned early on into his career as a Bleaker that they both were twins. The older one, named Sisular, kept a neutral look on her face. Her eyes glinted like ice as she stared at Hiver after Hiver - directing or turning them away. She was a real pistol, looking over each Hiver with the look of someone who really has seen it all. Her younger brother, who used the name 'Jerry' for himself, atleast had the ability to smile. He was the gentler of the two, guiding more than directing the Hivers. It was a well known fact that most of the Hivers preferred to be in his line.
Amir smiled a bit as he approached them both, holding up his hand in a easeful wave. They both looked up, and returned it at the same time. He walked to Jerry's side. " 'Ey, Jerry. How's tricks?" Amir said, resting his hands on the stone desk. "Not so bad, today. I sent Sissy after those damn little orphans who kept pulling them on me." Jerry grinned wide. "... Any o' 'em still alive?" "To be honest, I didn't check. Hah." "You're soddin' terrible." Amir grinned in return to Jerry. Both of the men paused as Sisular's gaze shifted to them both. They both smiled nervously, wincing as she began to speak. "Amir. You have Howler Duty. Get there now 'fore ya late." She said, her gaze unchanging. Amir found himself getting ready to flee - but paused, not wanting to give the powerful woman offense. "Uh, yeah, yeah. I'm on me way, Sissy."
Amir turned, moving away quickly to the door. If he knew how to move his ass any faster, he'd probably invent new portals. ____________________________________________________________________
The sound of screaming filled his ears... Screams of pain, and confusion. Amir was use to it. It reminded him quite a bit of Pandemonium. This section of the Asylum had seen better days. Blood-red rust covered the walls and floor, almost mimicking blood. Parts of the ceiling hung downwards, letting streams of light down onto the floor. The air was filled with dust that seemed to manifest under the light... He passed open doors, people who's minds matched their surroundings banging on the door, and begging for release.
He sometimes wished he had the heart to do that.
Amir moved a strand of hair that had found its way outside of his bandanna from his face, pausing at a door with a warning sign on it. He always did this. It was a ritual to remind him where he was going - it reminded him that the path he was taking was into the hearts of madness and mental illness itself. A trip not to be taken lightly, as any Bleaker would know. As the Bleakers inside the cages past the door knew better then them all.
The sign was of poor quality, though the writing on it was not. It was heavily inked, and emblazoned to warn the stray thief or new Bleaker just where they were going. He scanned the words, his eyes moving over the familiar words quickly.
"HOWLER CELLS INSIDE. DO NOT ENTER UNLESS PERMITTED. USE EXTREME CAUTION."
He took a deep breath, and slid a key into the door's lock, twisting it, and pushing the metal door open. It screeched as it slid open, all of the cells behind him going silent - even in their madness, Amir supposed they were all wishing him luck. He moved inside, closing and locking the door behind him. ___________________________________________________________________
Wind. It rang through his ears, and carried with it the cries of those within. Most of the voices didn't even sound mortal anymore, warped by years of crying and screaming.
The idea of him coming to a place like this was simple. It was a one of the few things Amir considered a duty. He walked through the dark hallway, the wind becoming unbearable at a few points, forcing him to cover his ears. Though, whether it was wind, or whether it was the cries of the people inside he still didn't know.
These people here... They needed him. They really did. No medicine can help, no magic can save them... They never sleep, they eat and drink so little... They haven't been seen in years upon years. No Bleaker even knew if they were alive, and it was simply their spirits that lingered. It didn't matter, did it? Just another part of this pointless existence.
Yes... Pointless. Coming here always made sure he knew that. There was only one thing he could do in a place as pointless as this. He lifted his flute up to his lips... And began to play.
Bedlam In Bohemia: Chapter Two - "Hymn Of Pandemonium"
"It is said that to be a bard... One has to be looking for something. One can't simply lift up a lute, play a little ditty, and declare themselves a bard. No, much to the surprise of many... Taking on the mantle of a bard is quite a complicated prospect. For one, not everyone is born with the talent for music or poetry. Or both. That eliminates more than half of the population of any given plane. Secondly, naturally inborn magical talent is even more rare than the talent for music or poetry - and to be a proper bard, you need all those things.
But... Even if you have all those things - a bard also needs a drive. A motivation. You see, even if the bard isn't an actor by trade, they're still on a stage. A bard is always on a stage. However, what that motivation is up to the bard. Some seek knowledge, control over their audience, perhaps they seek nothing at all? The paradox of a bard is that the motivation to find nothing at all is just as good a motivation as looking for some hidden song!" - Some barmy Prime
Amir had remembered reading that quote in a book in the Hall of Records. For the most part, it was right. Though, Amir really didn't care for how dramatic it was. It was obvious to him that the quote was written by a bard. Which made the whole thing wrong on so many levels - but Amir wasn't in the mood to go into the finer points of logical reasoning and argument.
The point was clear - a bard needs to do something. He had first read that quote when he was rather young, and first manifesting his talents with magic and music. Most children would have gone around showing off, and here Amir went and read about it. He quietly chided himself for lacking a life. Though, it raised the question... What is Amir's motivation?
Is he one of those special bards that lack any? Amir shook his head to himself. Of course not. He rubbed his face, looking over his notebook with frustration. He had a motivation. A motivation that had been driving him for something going on sixty years, now. He leaned forward, and wrote something quickly down onto the notepad below him. "*** writers block!"
That was what his years and years of work had given him. Absolutely nothing. It was starting to drive him mad! Well... Madder. What was his goal? Well, it's simple, and rather complex all at the same time. Amir wished to compose a song that could harness the winds of Pandemonium themselves. Though, for such a feat... He had realized early on that it would require both verbal and musical cues to work properly.
He had gone through notebook after notebook, trying to work out verses and notes to call upon such a force. Though, what spells had worked had drawn wind not from Pandemonium - but from the plane of Air. That had really peeved the elf off. The hard part was characterizing a whole plane. But, it was a rather fine line - as doing so could either rip open a portal to that plane, or just summon an effect from it. Since Pandemonium's winds were essentially the key part of the plane, it's like trying to explain the essence of the Multiverse to a newborn prime when composing it into words. "... Shite! What the hell am I doin' wrong?" He slapped his forehead a few times, and leaned back in his chair - barely noticing the loud creaking sound the wood gave off. "I ain't gettin' somethin', here..." He rubbed his face, letting out a mournful sigh. But, then - the little candle lit over his head. An idea. "Thats it! Shite. It's so soddin' simple!"
He ripped out the page from the notepad, dipped his quill into the inkwell, and went to composing again. It all clicked together - though, he had moments where it had done so in the past. "... Not only does the verse and music have ta represent the winds o' the plane... But so does the instrument ya playin' them with." He grinned wide. All this time - he had been writing the song for his harp. But, what instrument could best portray the blow of wind? A flute!
As he finished the first line of notes, he leaned back and ran his hands through his messy hair. "And the words... They gotta describe the mood o' the plane..." He nodded to himself, his eyes vacant as his mind mixed the words together in some kind of word jumble.
Oh yes. He was onto something. His greatest work. His hymn to madness. His hymn to Pandemonium.
Bedlam In Bohemia: Chapter 3 - "What's the soddin' point?"
"Hear the barmies howling in the Mazes? If you're here to learn the secrets of the multiverse, you might as well save yourself some time and go join 'em, 'cause that's all it means--that and nothing else." - Factol Lhar ___________________________________________________________________
"Have ya ever questioned your own sanity before? It ain't exactly a ya usual pastime, I know. But, ya gotta understand - A bleaker be questionin' themselves every single day. When they be lookin' inwards, tryin' ta be findin' their own reason ta exist... What they see could always be changed, or shifted to somethin' new. Thats just part o' bein' a Bleaker. Ya head moves along with the Winds, they do.
One o' the main things I be asked as a Bleaker is iffin' there ain't no point, why do we be botherin' with lookin' inward, or with charity? The answer be simple. When a Bleaker looks within, they be seein' one thing universally. Pain. They got their own sufferin' ta be dealin' with!
When ya see the sufferin' around ya, and the sufferin' ya feel within... Knowin' that there ain't gonna be no one else but ya to do anything 'bout it... What do ya do? Ya do somethin' about it! If their ain't no point ta the Verse, there certainly ain't no point ta needless sufferin'.
Another question I be gettin' asked is... Well, the easiest one fer me ta answer. Berks like ta be askin, 'Well, Amir... What's the soddin' point?' I'm sure ya know how I answered. There ruddy ain't one!" - Journal Entry
Bedlam In Bohemia: Chapter 5 - "From the mouth of a Bleaker"
"If ya had a choice, would ya choose ta believe that there ain't no point ta nothin'? I can't answer fer ya, so I won'... But, the answer I think is most common would be an absolute denial. We do what is naturally most comfortable fer us, aye? That includes most Bleakers.
I ain't implyin' that I be any different... I do take comfort in the fact that I got this group that just follows Nothin'... But that ain't why I do what I do everyday. Me job, and charity work don't make me feel anymore satisfied fer doin' 'em... I do it cause there ain't no one else ta do it. Ya don't see the Hardheads, 'er the Signers out here in the thick o' the Hives feedin' mouths, do ya?
I do it cause I want to patch 'em up - help 'em live through another day o' hell in a pointless existence. I give these people hope to live another day. They call us the Hopeless... But, I guess thats 'cause we be givin' out all our hope everyday ta these people.
In it's own way, seein' these faces everyday gives me a sick kinda hope. The hope ta know that what I do can make this long, dark ride easier fer another person. The hope that I can actually do somethin' fer someone. Even if it'll drive me mad eventually, even if this existence lacks meanin' 'er point... I still got that, even if thats it.
Hey, it's a bleak thing ta consider - but, not ta radle ya brainbox, but it's a rather Bleak Cabal. Now, get outa me face, I have soup ta be servin'."
It was his birthday, today. Colors swirled evanescently around him, and the world around him. He felt contentment, ease. Calm. He paid attention to none of it. This world no longer had an effect on him... Not after he came to understand the truth of it. Elysium. The haven of true beauty.
He rested against the headstone, rubbing his cheek against it affectionately. He did this every year. Every year since she died. His hands moved to the harp of hers in his grasp, and he began to play gently. "Ya know, ma... I wonder if ya soul ended up here ta." He smirked, amused by the thought of body and soul resting on the same plane.
He remembered her words ringing through his head. "Don't lose your smile, Amir." He had lost his smile. He had lost more than his smile. She was probably pissed.
His ritual was the same every year. He'd come to Elysium, play a song over the grave and contemplate the year. He always brought a cupcake with a single candle to enjoy - something his mother had started when he was very young.
The cupcake in question rested on his thigh, candle unlit. He looked to the little pastry, more voices of the past ringing through his mind. "I've seen it in your eyes ever since I got sick, love. Darkness. Don't let it consume you! " 'Fraid she ain't no more, cutter."
He whispered a small poem, waving a hand above the candle. The light suddenly flickers to life, and he leans back, letting the wax burn. The candle burnt, and burnt for many long moments. He leaned forward, and blew the candle out. "Ain't me ma na more. Nothin' but bones."
A Bleaker's life was defined by it. It was the single, elusive reason they got up in the morning to stare a cruel and pointless existence in the face. Thats what made a Bleaker a true Bleaker. It wasn't depression, or the ability to call the Multiverse pointless that gives you that name - it's the ability to recognize it, and to still find the power to bandage the world's pain everyday.
Amir had it. Where it had come from, he didn't know. Perhaps compassion is what makes the heart bleak? He couldn't say. When he often spoke of the dark hope that Bleakers had... It was compassion that he referred to. An amicable form of insanity which prompted them to ease the pain of others.
It reminded him of a creature who, in spite of it being painful, still mended the hurts of the wounded. In spite of the wounds manifesting themselves on the creature's skin, they still went about healing every single day. That's what the Cabal was. A masochistic healer. Oh, how he loved irony. "We really are madmen..." "Hello? Ya there, Mister Amir?" A young girl asked, holding up her wooden bowl. "Eh? Oh, sorreh..." He gave the girl a faint grin, and she returned it in kind. Amir spooned some broth into her bowl. "Na ya go hurry aftah ya mothah. Her memory ain't doin' sa well anymore, an' we can' be havin' her forgetten' ya." "Yessir!" The child ran off into the rain, disappearing into the dirty fog.
I've been thinking less and less of... Anything, lately. It's all been coming to me naturally. What to do, what to say - I haven't considered anything in a long time. When I sprawl out on the beach of Elysium, thats all I seem to do, while before thoughts of meaning would fill my mind.
In the place of hopeless thoughts, there's been frustration. Sexual frustration, emotional frustration... I can't stand it. What happened to the days twenty years ago, where I didn't have to suffer through my own hormones?
The emotional frustration is leaking through mostly due to my own dedication of being there to catch others as they fall. So many of those around my are content to subject themselves to unneeded suffering... I don't understand it, and I doubt I ever will, to be honest. When you cast off the chains of delusion, what is there left to understand?
Teir is missing without a trace, and Mal is dead... I must attract destruction. I just wish Teir would come back - I'm always given to sudden bouts of worry, but this is ridiculous. Where these feelings came from, and so suddenly, is beyond me. I miss him horribly. I miss Mal more - but, I can visit him, at the very least.
I had gotten Mal's body. Having friends who are Dustmen can have it's upsides...Especially if you're a Bleaker. His brother helped me carry him to Elysium without notice- and I buried him next to my mother. Though, if he'll stay buried I don't know for sure.
Would he want to come back, if I found someone to raise him? I don't know. I just need him to be alive again. I can't stand the fact that he isn't around, and it was my own laxness that caused it. The fact I couldn't stop him from being a fool.
