Post by dazbreaker on Jul 28, 2019 10:07:30 GMT -5
Wicked had chosen the island of Illusia randomly. There had been no real decision making or reason for her choice. It had sounded as good as any other to the girl who had never known any world but her small island and the death it now embodied.
Though it was quickly beginning to wear on her nerves. Wicked wasn’t a complicated person. Not really. She wanted to do what she was trained to do, see to the needs of the dead and tend to their graves. This place was strange about death though. They had a strange religion that told them strange things about death. That religion was tied to a group of people who ran something the Kingdom referred to as a ‘church’. She didn’t understand that. It was alien to her to think about a group of people telling others what to believe. For her people, they lived in harmony with nature and embraced death as a part of life.
These people weirdly saw death as something to fear. They buried themselves with their valuables, hidden away in caskets where they had no value. Their headstones were sad things. No stories of their lives. No art or beauty in their design. They existed simply to mark that someone’s dead body was there. That part saddened Wicked perhaps more than anything else about this kingdom. As big as it was, it felt remarkably empty to her.
When she finally found a small enough village for her tastes, she spoke to an elder on going about her duties as Gravedigger. The elder and a spokesperson for the Church viewed her suspiciously as she explained what she wanted. Perhaps it was her appearance, a petite young woman with massive black princess drills hanging about her shoulders and dressed in a frilly black dress was not what they expected to see in one who would tend a Cemetary. But she asked very little in return, and they allowed her to see to their graveyard on a trial basis.
The priest of this Church tried many times to discuss their religion with her, perhaps hoping to bring her into the fold. Though every time he walked away frustrated and angry at being unable to penetrate her beliefs. She knew the truth of the world. Wicked had no need of someone else’s beliefs to give her life meaning.
And so she spent a couple weeks tending the small graveyard of Gama village, living in a small but comfortable cottage just outside the Cemetary gates. She quickly decided that she would be moving on soon, but for the time being, this was a good way to save up money and do what she loved. Wicked cleaned the headstones beneath a canopy of tall oak trees that made up a thick forest around the village, a forest that extended for miles. Wicked cleared the graveyard of leaves and weeds, careful only to summon her skeletal minions when she was sure she was alone. Wicked didn’t like the fence that surrounded the graveyard, but she acknowledged these peoples felt it necessary for some reason, and fixed that as well. In her final nights, she started to work on the headstones themselves, learning of the dead’s life and stories from the people in town. She used these stories to carve the stones in a fashion that gave respect to the dead, telling their tale in abstraction as her people had once done.
One night. She wiped sweat from her brow, fanning herself as she sat upon a gravestone, looking at her most recent work with satisfaction and a little bit of sadness. She wished she could discover more of the woman who had only been buried their a few days ago. Wicked had dug the grave herself, noticing how the poor woman buried herself with the few scant valuables she had, a handful of coins and a golden locket. She had been a mystery that Wicked couldn’t solve. Just some old lady who lived on the edge of town, kept to herself, and came to Church every night until the day she passed in her sleep. Wicked had tried to carve her stone as well as she could, depicting someone humble and devout in her faith.
Wicked was wearing a more practical outfit at the time, a simple and functional black dress that hung from her shoulders by crossed straps. Beneath was a simple, frilly grey blouse that buttoned all the way up her high collar. What little of her legs that were exposed were covered by black leggings. She sat upon the headstone, sonderously admiring her work, wishing she could have learned more of the woman it stood tribute to.
Though it was quickly beginning to wear on her nerves. Wicked wasn’t a complicated person. Not really. She wanted to do what she was trained to do, see to the needs of the dead and tend to their graves. This place was strange about death though. They had a strange religion that told them strange things about death. That religion was tied to a group of people who ran something the Kingdom referred to as a ‘church’. She didn’t understand that. It was alien to her to think about a group of people telling others what to believe. For her people, they lived in harmony with nature and embraced death as a part of life.
These people weirdly saw death as something to fear. They buried themselves with their valuables, hidden away in caskets where they had no value. Their headstones were sad things. No stories of their lives. No art or beauty in their design. They existed simply to mark that someone’s dead body was there. That part saddened Wicked perhaps more than anything else about this kingdom. As big as it was, it felt remarkably empty to her.
When she finally found a small enough village for her tastes, she spoke to an elder on going about her duties as Gravedigger. The elder and a spokesperson for the Church viewed her suspiciously as she explained what she wanted. Perhaps it was her appearance, a petite young woman with massive black princess drills hanging about her shoulders and dressed in a frilly black dress was not what they expected to see in one who would tend a Cemetary. But she asked very little in return, and they allowed her to see to their graveyard on a trial basis.
The priest of this Church tried many times to discuss their religion with her, perhaps hoping to bring her into the fold. Though every time he walked away frustrated and angry at being unable to penetrate her beliefs. She knew the truth of the world. Wicked had no need of someone else’s beliefs to give her life meaning.
And so she spent a couple weeks tending the small graveyard of Gama village, living in a small but comfortable cottage just outside the Cemetary gates. She quickly decided that she would be moving on soon, but for the time being, this was a good way to save up money and do what she loved. Wicked cleaned the headstones beneath a canopy of tall oak trees that made up a thick forest around the village, a forest that extended for miles. Wicked cleared the graveyard of leaves and weeds, careful only to summon her skeletal minions when she was sure she was alone. Wicked didn’t like the fence that surrounded the graveyard, but she acknowledged these peoples felt it necessary for some reason, and fixed that as well. In her final nights, she started to work on the headstones themselves, learning of the dead’s life and stories from the people in town. She used these stories to carve the stones in a fashion that gave respect to the dead, telling their tale in abstraction as her people had once done.
One night. She wiped sweat from her brow, fanning herself as she sat upon a gravestone, looking at her most recent work with satisfaction and a little bit of sadness. She wished she could discover more of the woman who had only been buried their a few days ago. Wicked had dug the grave herself, noticing how the poor woman buried herself with the few scant valuables she had, a handful of coins and a golden locket. She had been a mystery that Wicked couldn’t solve. Just some old lady who lived on the edge of town, kept to herself, and came to Church every night until the day she passed in her sleep. Wicked had tried to carve her stone as well as she could, depicting someone humble and devout in her faith.
Wicked was wearing a more practical outfit at the time, a simple and functional black dress that hung from her shoulders by crossed straps. Beneath was a simple, frilly grey blouse that buttoned all the way up her high collar. What little of her legs that were exposed were covered by black leggings. She sat upon the headstone, sonderously admiring her work, wishing she could have learned more of the woman it stood tribute to.