Requiem Of A Bleaknik

*Nimiane
Posts: 347
Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am

Posted by *Nimiane »



Odette's reaction to the destruction of the Bazaar was one delayed; the recent influx of refugees that had packed the Gatehouse and lined the streets of the Hive holding her attention on the day of the attack and that following. After all, despite the desolation of trade hub and the many able bodied that moved to aid, there yet remained the same cycle by cycle issues that went overlooked in forgotten slums. This did not change. When Bleaker finally emerged from the almshouse of the asylum, bronze features weary and silver hair awry, it was then that her work continued. Whilst the former mercenary did her part in shifting debris, it was to the victims she was drawn; aiding to soother the suffer of loss (both material and familial) and endorse acceptance of what had occurred. Grief counselling and a warm meal for victims and workers is offered on behalf of the Bleak Cabal.


Continuing the work of cycles previous, what precious time that can be spared from tending those passing though asylum's gates, is spent in the Bazaar. It is here that many a hungry worker, or shaken victim, might soothe the rumble in his stomach and sate a needy thirst in tented alcove. Basic staples of heated soup and bread are given in moderation, similar to what one might find in the alms wing of the Gatehouse, and portions are given freely to any in need regardless of faction, rank, status or race (even those pikin' Signers). Each wooden bowl is big enough to meet the minimum requirements for fullness, and husks of bread are sized at standard fist.

In addition to this, Odette continues to tend the wounds of body and mind where able. Tears, anger, grief, detachment - none of which was uncommon, were spoken through with compassion. Scrapes, cuts and bruises are tended to with a combination of Gatehouse supplies and the woman's own knowledge of practical herbalism. It is in this manner, bleaker and Cabal lend their time and aid; jink withheld and better spent tending the round-turn needy, rather than wasted on the embellishment of trade hub. After all, such destruction was an inevitable folly and whilst planeswalkers each worked to do their bit and make their mark, it lessened not the trammel of any other cycle before or beyond. There was a need, however, real in it's manifestation, that required tending all the same; offered to those who sought to step forward and expressed themselves as they saw fit.

If and when one might ask the point of such an endeavor, or how such aid was comparable to the superfluous parting of coin, bleaker would respond with a lift of slender shoulders in a shrug. ❝Tha point? There ain't one. Tha reason for it? Well, I can only share with ya me own. For or against, everyone's got one, Cutter.❞ explained silver-haired femme, taking a moment to pause her task for explanation and the weave of gloved digits through straying locks in single sweep.

❝Ya see, in my eyes, identifying ones mental state as tha prime factor in overcomin' loss dunnae deny that our basic physical needs for food, clothing an' shelter must be met. But once these basic needs are met, tha message is clear: we don’t need more money, we don’t need greater success or fame, we don’t need tha perfect body or even tha perfect mate - right now, at this very moment, we have a mind, which is all tha basic equipment we, you, she, he, they need ta survive. More than what a lot of sods have, let me tell ya.❞ Turning back to her work - be it the spoon of bowl, the pestal's grind of herbal salve or the return to softly spoken conversation - Odette would shake her head with utterance.

❝I'm just doin' my part ta share tha burden. Make it a little less blek, if only for one cycle at a time.❞


Over the course of a several cycles, drifting in the lull between peak and anti-peak wherein alms kiosk sees it's least amount of traffic and is tended to by unfamiliar faces of the Cabal, Odette ventures into the Hive on request. Gloved fingers hovering within close proximity of blade, faction badge on display in distinction from skilter, Bleaker was no stranger to the slums she had come to call home.

Tensions were high in the bazaar, the Free League high on it's own self-importance with the flow of jink and the beautiful lie of a brighter tomorrow. Yet, it was to silver-haired femme task had fallen in extend of gloved hand to the impoverished with offer; jink for jobs. Truly, the bleaker expected it to be a fruitless endeavor despite the merit of suggestion. The destruction of trade hub was only temporary - devastating - but a shadow to which no candle could be held in comparison to the daily life of many a Hiver. Just another pair of hands. Cheap labor. After all, what had been done for them to expect that anything could, or should, be given back?

And yet... there might well be those among them whom would scurry forth at the promise of coin with grateful need. Perhaps it would ensure evening's meal or fresh clothes long overdue. Or, it may well be frittered away on the next hit of choice. Much like the public services of the Bleak Cabal, the opportunity could only be offered; what came of it was up to the individual.

So it was that Odette attempted to gather a group of willing sods at the behest of promised payment, collecting the names of any willing participants looking to make a few extra jink in exchange for assisted labor. The wealth passing hands might as well go somewhere useful, right?


*Nimiane
Posts: 347
Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am

Posted by *Nimiane »


Daily Roll: Normal Bleaker behavior.

wrote:

FILE: A#638-00839-03


GIVEN NAMES: Vale Reynolt.

APPEARANCE:  Human male, Caucasian, brown hair. Cog-worked mechanical eye and limb.
PROFESSION:  Former Harmonium Notary.
CASE HOLDER: Odette; Namer.
REFERRED BY: Dace Andor of the Red Death.
CURRENT STATUS: Undetained patient, treatment ongoing.
THREAT LEVEL: Orange.

SYMPTOMS: Homocidal urges, depression, voices, nightmares,  interactions with inanimate objects of whom seem to have their own personalities.
CATEGORY: C3.

DETAILS: Factor Andor of the Mercykillers expressed his concern after having encountered Vale in the Grand Bazaar and finding himself privy to some unusual quirks not typical of the man's character. Andor described the scene as troubling, explaining that Vale was openly and audibly conversing with his boots whilst staring down the barrel of a firearm to which he expressed a desire to shoot 'cake' over the local area. Said I'd have a chat with him.

Visiting Vale in his recently constructed residence in Undersigil, it's become clear that he is struggling with a multitude of issues. Despite the fact that he was relieved of duty as a member of the Harmonium, his main focus seems to concentrate on the events surrounding the War on Salt. First and foremost, distress and guilt over the death of Harmonium officers - particularly those inexperienced in the the field. Additionally, there was expressed resentment for the role of he and others; the latter of whom were referred to as the 'heroes' in the wake of self-deprecation.

Vale's symptoms have manifested two fold in personas attributed to inanimate objects; "Boots" and "Moustache". Boots is described as being 'rude', speaking 'vulgar' and 'insulting' things directly to Vale himself. In his own words, 'never really anything productive'. Upon attempting to talk with Boots, I was informed that he does not wish to speak with anyone beyond Vale as they are considered 'beneath him'. Boots was active during the entirety of our first session.

Moustache is fixated on the death of others; mentions of such expressed as murder, shooting, strangulation, drowning and restraint within burning building. Moustache goes through periods of 'sleep', during which time Vale is unaffected by the voice associated by such. Vale himself retains an element of lucidity throughout these moments, and seems to be able to say 'no' with some difficulty. Our session was cut short once Moustache 'woke' and expressed desire to see me strangled.

The life that both Boots and Moustache seemed to take on came directly after the halted dosage of unknown medication. Following the events on Salt, Vale explained that he had suffered terrible nightmares and hearing voices (possibly the aftermath of trauma) and thus sought out an apothecary in Bryn Shander. He was told the pills prescribed would help calm him, in addition to aiding in the soothe of nightmares and whispers. According to Vale, they did work though he is uncertain of what was in them. However, when his dosage ran out (or was possibly misplaced) that is when additional psychosis manifested in the form of Boots, and, one week later, Moustache.

COURSE OF ACTION: Vale has given his consent for ongoing therapy. At this point, there are a lot of issues to work through. It's possible that the pills given to Vale altered his brain chemistry, rousing genetic abnormalities associated with mental illness; similar to recorded cases of devilweed and it's affects. Possibly Schizophrenia. It's also highly likely that we're dealing with varying shades of trauma and depression. May sub-branch to schizoaffective depressive type B, if that's the case. Regardless, Vale is considered to be a medium-risk patient at this stage and may well require elevation to red in future depending on the nature of 'Moustache'.

At this time, Vale will be undergoing scheduled therapy sessions with castration as a last result. He has been given some sedatives to take if he feels Moustache is capable of forcing action. This is a temporary measure until our next session, during which time he will be prescribed medication as dictated by Scruse. From there, attempt will be made to work through his issues through vocal therapy. Barring that, possible hypnosis.[/color]

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*Nimiane
Posts: 347
Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am

Posted by *Nimiane »



Daily Roll: (1) Crippling Melancholy | Backdated Post | [Atmosphere]

Several months prior to cycle, a rogue sensory stone was infused with brief fragment of melancholic twenty four hours. It was not an uncommon experience for those of the Bleak Cabal to find themselves slipping into despair; more so on some days rather than others. It was likewise possible that no two episodes of despondence were or are the same. This particular stone was forged by Odette as both a training tool and an outlet, delineating the early stages of induction and the rawer emotions that accompanied. As time passed, it came to be donated one this day to the Society of Sensation through the marquess, Vherr, with warning and the firmest of instructions for private use only.

You open your eyes to blanketed darkness that adjusts to stilled focus of vision, blurred and hazy. A weight, instantaneous, has laid claim to your shoulders; threatening to drag you down to pavement even as cracked, grimy tiles are envisioned beneath stocking-clad thighs. Were it not for the wall at your back and the stream of dim, artificial light through nearby window pane, one might feel as though they were drowning; crushed one hundred miles beneath the surface, laid to rest in oceanic grave. The wails of the mad have fill your ears at irregular intervals. Some manifest as incoherent speech, others laughter, groans or sobs overlapped only by hummed notes.

Your limbs are still, legs extended before you. The chill of stone permeates tight leather, bare fingertips curling within the beam of light that shines, concentrated, through bars at window's pane onto the ground at your side. One lifts, your right, as though in slow motion; this moment in time at a standstill. Or so it feels. Before your eyes, particles dance a soulless waltz with their invisible partners, oft exchanging them for momentary cling to another before inevitably breaking apart in downward trajectory. Your fingers extend, reaching out through ghostly fragments of dirt and dust, reaching toward the light; stirring simplistic fall into lazy swirl within the room you have confined yourself.

As you look upon these specks, you understand that you yourself are among them. A single speck, adrift in the currents of the multiverse. It stirs. It brushes by you, melts and vanishes. Gently, gently. You exist. You are no different from the others. Nothing special. No one of import. You are alone. You've always been alone, in a sense. You always will be. Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself, and everything you were, for nothing. Thoughts are the dullest things. Duller than flesh. They stretch out, thereÂ’s no end to them and they leave a bitter taste in the mouth. Then there are the words, inside the thoughts. Unfinished words. A sketchy sentence which constantly returns... itÂ’s worse than the rest because you feel responsible and have complicity in it.

It goes, it goes, and goes, and goes ... and thereÂ’s no end to it. Your heart burns, convincing you that the scars that weave through freckled countenance are wreathed in fire, also. You've given everything, torn yourself to shreds in the Truth of discovery. A painful rumination: you exist, you are the one who keeps it up.

You. The body lives by itself once it has begun but you are the one who continues it. Unrolls it. You exist. How serpentine this feeling of existing – you unwind it, slowly... as if it could keep you from thinking. You try, and succeed: your head seems to fill with smoke…and then it starts again: Smoke ...not to think... don’t want to think... you think you don’t want to think. You mustn’t think that you don’t want to think, because that’s still a thought. Will there never be an end to it? Why bother at all? Why not simply stay here? It would be so much easier, after all. Hurt less.

Answers. They'll never be found because they were never lost. They never even existed.

The siren's song, a haunting melody carried on husky notes; beautiful as it is empty, increases in it's fervor somewhere nearby. You find yourself attuning to the message behind them; unsure of whether you're living a truly meaningful and authentic life as yet another day passes by and you're nowhere closer to fulfillment. You may realize that you can never escape the doubt, regrets, missed opportunities, failures and the meaningless, minor tragedies that, over time, nevertheless take their toll on your psyche; haunting your every action - for your delusional self will never know what to make of your life before it dissolves into nothingness.

It's only as your lips part, bronze of hue, that you realize the dirge within perceived memory is yours, offered up from your own two lungs to ripple it's resonance through the very fabric of the veil. Your heart's broken song... accompanied by quiet steps in the hall beyond. Additional voice is heard above others, drifting through the barred gate, yet you cannot make out the words or do not care to define them in numbed state. A creak pierces the din as gate opens, to which you make no move to prevent. You know why they have come. Words offered are gently spoken and hold a sense of familiarity you cannot place in the present, offering explanation with a small squeeze of gloved hand. It barely registers.

By the time your find yourself lent forward, silver strands of hair blocking your vision momentarily; cloth gag slipped between lips and teeth, you have already accepted your fate. You do not resist, not this time, bequeathing only a few nods as the song is muffled and silenced before it can cause further harm. The stone's recording ends as you lean back against the wall, the slow draw of eyes closed forcing salted trickle over cheeks, leaving you with the imprinted notes of Bleaknik's lingering dirge.


Hymn of Sorrow: Bringing forth feelings of grief and sorrow about the meaninglessness of the multiverse, Lament of Sorrow deals one point of temporary Wisdom damage to each person listening every round. A Will save negates Lament of Sorrow, and a new save must be made every round. It lasts as long as it is sung by the Bleaknik, and for five rounds after she stops. (Will Save DC: 33 - 10 + BRD levels + CHA mod)

OOC Note: This entry was written as an attempt to describe the first instance of rolling a "1" on a Bleaker's daily mood check. The Hymn of Sorrow and it's DC are flavor only, and it's effects are dubbed 'opt-in' by consent. Some characters may be more susceptible than others. This post will link to the entry in the Feasthall's Private Sensorium when it is up.


*Nimiane
Posts: 347
Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am

Posted by *Nimiane »


Daily Roll: Normal Bleaker behavior. | [Atmosphere] | Backdated Post.

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☽|☾


Odette stared at her shattered twin, the shards of the mirror before her reflecting, with gleam, the badge on her collar. Factotum. She had found it there, waiting for her, at the start of the cycle. No note, no words of encouragement, no fanfare; a Bleaker's work was never rewarded, only weighed with further responsibility and the simple acknowledgement of existence among the numbers of the Cabal. Rank was meaningless, after all.

The bard didn't spend much time looking in mirrors, these days. Where once stood a vision of cascading blonde locks and wily pout, it's cracks were all too eager to reveal her for what she was. Odette saw her scars; the crimson rivers that mapped her decay of trust. She saw the angular sculpt of her jaw, once round, that defined idealistic downfall and the satin strands of silver that bespoke torturous regret. It was in her eyes, however, she found herself lost as many before her; oceanic depths of a gaze near bottomless, an electric tempest of sorrow and silent strength that served as siren's haunting song manifested.

With an air of acceptance, the woman's scarred fingertips brushed tenderly over the metallic pin for a passing beat; a gentle touch, one commonly disassociated with persona but not one considered rare within the walls of the asylum or with those that knew her. Away fell her hand, grasping at leather gloves en route to the door and the hallowed activity beyond that signified the coming of the kitchen's roused activity. A Bleaker's work was never done.


*Nimiane
Posts: 347
Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am

Posted by *Nimiane »


Daily Roll: Normal Bleaker behavior. | Backdated Post.

"Was the tour of the gatehouse still an open offer?" the girl had asked amidst the din of the bazaar. "I'm ready."

Located on a slight hill on the very edge of the Hive Ward in Sigil, the massive Gatehouse lay at the end of a curving, elevated road called Bedlam Run. It's central structure: a tall, semicircular, roofless tower with numerous sprawling wings attached to it. Outside the headquarters of the Madmen, sods without a coin to their name lined the street, waiting for their turn to enter; sad parents waiting in line with children they can no longer care for, ready to hand them over to the orphanage, and just as many tearful children waiting to commit their aging, addle-coved parents to a mental health wing.

"Here we are," announced silver-haired femme, having gestured with a roll of her wrist over the surrounding area. An immortal, a sensate, an experiment and a minotaur were ushered through the gates; past the depressed, the despondent, the mad and the Bleakniks who entertained their wait with anguished poems, elegant dirges and gloomy stunts. The entry to the building appeared to be nothing more than a giant portcullis, with steel bars a full five feet in diameter that proved impossible to move but wide enough apart to allow the thronging poor and the lost inside. "Won't be takin' ya deep, but I do have ta ask that ya refrain from spreadin' around what's seen behind these closed doors... or recordin' them." A glance shifted in Sasha's direction mid-sentence. "... as a gesture of good will." Behind her guests, Odette wriggled through the gate to remove her cloak and set it upon nearest bench, azure gaze weaving in the direction of Sensate Factor before dancing over the interior of the hall.

"This place was once known as the Bedlam Blight," explained the Bleaker as the group entered the main hall. Against the trunk of a withered tree in central planter, the woman's hand rested upon the bark in a reassuring manner. Turning to the quartet, a husky informative tone continued. "To give ya a bit of history, the building's original function was ta house the contagious. Bleakers took over the asylum, renaming it the Gatehouse. As ya can see from outside, there's usually... a lot of demand ta get in. Sad fact is, most of the folks who wait patiently ta enter tha doors are mentally ill. Some sods seek treatment on their own; others are brought by caretakers as a last resort. We try ta accommodate everyone, but things are so packed here an' our resources ain't so high, so we can only let fifty bodies in each cycle, regardless of which wing they're directed ta. It's one of a few reasons why we don't go draggin' in every barmy walkin' tha streets - we simply don't have tha space."

Withdrawing her hand from the tree, it joined it's twin at the small of her back in the answer of questions posed. "Lot of folks are simply looking for a hot meal and a bed for a few days before having ta return ta their slums. Tha main hall, here, is where we do most of our processin'." Odette elucidated, offering commentary for the practice taking place before their very eyes. "Sods being admitted to the asylum are separated from their caretakers, Bleakers'll then escort tha new inmate ta the proper wing." And it was into one of those very wings the group was lead, trailing behind the Factotum in a cloud of tiefling's spiced smoke and the conversational chatter of participant.

Aforementioned under-staff and abundant use of resources became evident beneath footsteps that yielded pass through cramped, dirty, and squalid interior of the Almshouse wing; as dictated by the Bleaker at their fore. "Ezra regulates tha number of sods who're let in each cycle, how long they're allowed ta stay, and what work they must perform in exchange for tha charity. Usually it ain't a requirement if a body's unfit ta handle tha work, but if there's a need it ain't overlooked. Sometimes we get outside folk comin' by ta lend a hand too, a sod or two who wants ta do their part for whatever reason they deem necessary." Having given insight to the various bunk and bedding situations, it was upon the door of the orphanage a knuckles gently rapped against wood with a soft knock.

Inside, numerous children under the age of fourteen played with their toys; of which were worn and weathered. The conditions were much the same as the rest of the Gatehouse. Despite this, the rag-clad children were well cared for in the best manner afforded by circumstance. Greeting Sable at the entry, and the children shortly after in sing-song tones, Odette took her place at the center of the room. Some were responsive, others not."This here's our orphanage. Quite often, a lot of tha new blood of tha Cabal start out here. I think it's... that contrast of dealin' with such a fragile reality that helps folks understand on a fundamental level. They didn't choose this life, see. Not that anyone really does." A gentle pat was leant to the russet crown of a young girl whom had attacked herself to Bleaknik's leg, a gesture warmer than most would see her display in day to day activities.

It was on the Sensate the girl's doe eyes had turned, eyes wide and fingers curling into the worn fabric of Odette's charcoal-clad hip. The innocent question that followed was one that caught Sasha by surprise, and indeed among the minotaur's tears and the tiefling's pranks, the woman had panicked mildly in her surprise. "Will you by my Mommy?" A glance passed between the two, a look shared with the sad curl of bronze lips that parted with hollow chuckle. The bleaker knelt to ruffle the young girl's hair and answer on Sasha's behalf. "Not this cycle, precious."

The remainder of the tour passed by without hitch, the Bleaker explaining what she knew and understood of the Cabal's public image and the service it offered. Final stop, forgoing the private levels of the headquarters and the wing for the criminally insane, the Mad Bleaker ward was enough to bring the excursion to an abrupt halt. "How long the Bleaker chooses to remain 'ere - forgoing all food and drink, in a state of transcendent despair - is up ta him." With final observation of the two hundred and eighty barren cells in addition to the three floors filled with Cabalists struggling to regain their minds, the image that was to linger in the mind's eye of the quartet was a ten foot squared cell, containing only an old straw pallet for bedding beneath singular window - barred and shuttered.


"I might end up here someday still." Spoke the dark-haired girl, in the wake hurried departure of those by her side. Around remaining duo, the sounds of the mad echoed in the halls; sobs, screams, senseless muttering, and for some... eerie silence. The reply she received was a solemn one; "For both our sakes, Lass, I hope not."[/size]

[/font]
*Nimiane
Posts: 347
Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am

Posted by *Nimiane »



FILE: A#638-00839-03
RE: Correspondence
Theorum of Neutrality wrote:Oddie,

Worked through some stuff with Vale. It's gonna get worse before it gets better. Details below.

Vale is an obsesser. Breaking him out of his self-destructive habits is gonna be a two person job.

-A
Theorum of Neutrality wrote:Vale Reynolt - Updated Dossier

RACE: Human, Baatezu ancestory

SYMPTOMS: Patient was either forced or discovered a method for removing his own memory, using a Shard Canister. Suffering from severe amnesia, with little alleviation of other symptoms.

DETAILS: Patient was encountered in the Bazaar. Isolated him in his domicile to conduct a basic detailing of his mental state after noticing memory deterioration. Patient was gently encouraged to remember the battle at the Plane of Salt, resulting in a breakdown. Some parts of the memory are still vague for him, but they may eventually return.

Losing his memory has caused the problem to become more complicated. Patient is desperate to escape the pain, but unwilling to deal with it.

REVISED DIAGNOSIS: Patient has a classic case of trenchshock. His various psychoses are manifested from his desire to escape the pain and guilt of the battle at the Plane of Salt. Homicidal tendencies likely stem from a desire for vengeance.

COURSE OF ACTION: Patient is in dire need of routine therapy and reprogramming via hypnosis. Medications to keep the patient sedate is called for. Getting the patient to a place where he can remember the battle at the Plane of Salt without reliving it is critical. Holding him at the Gatehouse in case of a psychotic break will likely prove dangerous - transfer to Pandesmos.
Nimiane wrote:????,

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- ?

*Nimiane
Posts: 347
Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am

Posted by *Nimiane »


Daily Roll: Normal Bleaker behavior || A poem written on discarded scrap of parchment and left at the Zero.



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*Nimiane
Posts: 347
Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am

Posted by *Nimiane »



wrote:

FILE: A#638-00839-04


GIVEN NAMES: Altair Tsaryov.

APPEARANCE:  Humanoid; long grey hair. Indistinct lycanthropy.
PROFESSION:  Co-Owner and Proprietor of the Wild Side.
CASE HOLDER: Odette; Factotum.
REFERRED BY: Kaltia Tsaryov of the Wild Side.
CURRENT STATUS: Ongoing therapy.
THREAT LEVEL: Green.

SYMPTOMS: Varied.
CATEGORY: Bereavement counselling.

DETAILS:

Session One: Our first meeting was one primarily focused on speaking of the deceased and past times. Altair was encouraged to describe what his late daughter was like: her foibles, her likes and dislikes, and even her weaknesses, as they came up. We spoke briefly on how Mist would have wanted him to be living now, any last words and even what advice or comfort theyÂ’d give if they could.

Session Two: An extension of session one, the second was a dual sitting for Altair and Kaltia both. We sat in the gardens of the Gatehouse and spoke once more of the past, before moving on to distinguish grief from the trauma of the events that had transpired. Given the way in which Mist met her end, and the hand that played into it, Altair is traumatized by both memory and manner in which he passed; we need to help them by detraumatizing those memories so they can feel 'free' to grieve properly. We spoke of ways to honor Mist's memory.

Session Three: In the depths of Karasuthra, together the tributed flowers were tended. Given the location, and the effect it has on lycanthrope form, I tended the patch at Altair's side. It was a quiet time of soft melodies and the simple reflection. Being able to 'organize' the grief into allotted periods of mourning is essential in overcoming guilt associated with the volume of grief and eventual acceptance to move on.

Session Four: Altair has began to show signs mild signs of paranoia in the aftermath of Mist's passing. While understandable and justified, we worked through the things that weighed on his mind; threats to and by family, gut instinct, action and reaction and the harmful effects  excessive mistrust can have on the psyche. We spoke of ways of discerning between what is real and what is fabricated, coping with the situations at hand and learning from experience.

COURSE OF ACTION: Dispense information available and inquire for updates. I have taken Altair on as my own personal 'patient', and in doing so made myself available for future psychotherapy and confidential discussion - both as a friend, and therapist.

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