[center]Peter Watson
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âA Great magician can never explain, for if they are analyzed, even of their own accord, it is no longer enchanting⦠no longer alluring⦠no longer even fantastic in the slightest! My dear Pete, if you believe yourself a fraud, than that is all you are my boy, nothing more than a fool! Yet if you never fail to remember you hold the powers to make people âooohâ, Pete. To watch the world around you go by and know that you alone possess the power to make whatever they want to see appear, Pete. To make those that are closest to your very own heart stop and stare in awe, Peter. That, my dear boy, is magic.â
Pete
Gender: Male
Age: 22
Race: Mesalian
Hometown: Grantham
Birthdate: 2nd
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-Picture TBD-
âA Great magician can never explain, for if they are analyzed, even of their own accord, it is no longer enchanting⦠no longer alluring⦠no longer even fantastic in the slightest! My dear Pete, if you believe yourself a fraud, than that is all you are my boy, nothing more than a fool! Yet if you never fail to remember you hold the powers to make people âooohâ, Pete. To watch the world around you go by and know that you alone possess the power to make whatever they want to see appear, Pete. To make those that are closest to your very own heart stop and stare in awe, Peter. That, my dear boy, is magic.â
Pete
Gender: Male
Age: 22
Race: Mesalian
Hometown: Grantham
Birthdate: 2nd
![[+]](/images/collapse_collapsed.png "[+]")
BackstoryPete watched from his crummy seat from the inn balcony as what remained of the recent rain dripped down from the corner of the roofing above. He sipped the remaining bit of mead in his glass, along with it the remaining few coins he had with him. He drank to forget, but all he could do was remember.
His memories brought him back to that night, that awful fucking night. He could still remember her eyes. How they hoped in him. Believed in him. How they still made his heart despair.
Peter brought a hand through his hair, sighing, as he cleared his mind once again and lifted his legs up on the rail in front of him. He stared out at the damp, darkened rural town he had stayed at the past week and pondered if heâd ever figure out what the fuck he was doing. Another sigh, and Pete let himself go back in time once again, turning the glass in his hand as he looked at it and reminisced rather than thinking about the last bit of currency he had just squandered awayâ¦
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His fatherâs old, cheery voice echoed in his memories, âAlright son, youâve done your worth, you can go outside and run till youâre legs drop off!â Pete of age five had just completed his daily task of helping his mother clean around the home. The child grinned a humongous toothy smile, and ran outside in a rush to encounter the grim wonders of the town of Grantham. âDonât forget to be back for supper!â His father called after his son, folding his arms contently; blessed to have a boy to grow and provide for his family, something many people had trouble with during the horrible times of Civil War.
And so he ran around town, as he always did. Speaking to the grumpy workers and salesmen in the streets, who were worried about their pay and the increasing selfishness of others as the aroma of social poison made its way into Grantham. It wasnât to harm the boy who wandered the streets gleefully, excitingly, an optimistic contrast to the decaying joy of the settlement. As one would expect however, even with the boyâs buoyant young mind, it was hard for young Pete to find anything to quench his fantastic and remarkable dreams in the dying paradise in Grantham. Not for awhile at least⦠It would be several more years before young Peter would stumble upon the man who eventually changed his life.
The boyâs steps padded up to the wise, but more so witty, old Xavier Mediciâs doormat. The ambitious juvenile knocked once. Then another. Small, gentle knocks of a young boy knocking on the door of opportunityâ¦
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Peter shook his head slowly; sighing again as the gentle knocks from his reflection were impeded obnoxiously by the rough knocks at the inn-roomâs crude door. The blows faded into reality much like the door of opportunity turned itself into a door of lost hope and forever gone ambitions. Pete forced his half-drunken self out of his seat. Slowly, he stumbled across the meager room to the door. He slammed it open, right across his toenail, stubbing his toe with remarkable pain.
âFor FUCKS sakeâ¦â He slammed his fist against the wall beside him as he glared down at the trembling woman standing in the hall. Surprisingly, the prostitute was nearly his age, and was quite terror-stricken by the man cursing at his own toes. Pete shook his head vigorously, quite disappointed with his buzzed self. âDamnit, I didnât mean to scare you my lady...â He tried to draw his focus off of the pain of a century and on the girl whoâs dignity would be lowered to the point of Pete tonight if everything went as things normally were supposed to in this situation.
The young woman looked at him, still with great fear in her eyes, though she hid it behind a small smile and a clearly forged giggle at his antics. She was acting fucking fake. But then again, didnât everyone act that way? Then, in an even more fraudulent voice containing a horrible mix of attempted seduction and solicit cheerfulness, âYouâre a very handsome manâ¦â Now Pete knew for sure she was being completely phony. He was certain that he was the most unappealing piece of shit out there, from his torn up and stubbed toe to his cut-up mess of a face from his attempts at a nice shave the evening before.
âAnd youâre fucking spectacular. Why donât you just come do your job and cut the magic?â He winced at the prospect of the last word he had just spoken, brining back the exact thing he wanted to forget tonight.
The woman didnât seem too surprised by his blunt tone, and continued on as she normally would, forging an even more artificial smile to earn her dime for the day. And then, as she pretended to playfully grab a fistful of his shirt, she said the most bogus thing one could ever, âYouâre going to have one magical night mister.â Pete glared at her, and when she threw in the cheesy wink his glare turned into a dagger, and his arm extended, knocking her off of him as well as her feet.
âGet the fuck out.â
The woman looked surprised and afraid, her act gave out for a moment and her eyes were petrified as fear found their way into them again. She stared at him to see if it was just something the man was into, but to no avail. Her eyes now transitioned from fear to sadness, but then back into her act. She frowned at him angrily like she had been told in training, and bumbled backwards out of the room.
He sighed once again. Why was he so mean to her? Whatâs so bad about being a fraud anyway? Oh wait. He poured another glass of mead, sitting on the side of his bed. He needed to think of something else before he caught a glimpse of the face that haunted him again. He downed a rather large portion of the glass, to help him summon his childhood againâ¦
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âA Great magician can never explain, for if they are analyzed, even of their own accord, it is no longer enchanting⦠no longer alluring⦠no longer even fantastic in the slightest! My dear Pete, if you believe yourself a fraud, than that is all you are my boy, nothing more than a fool! Yet if you never fail to remember you hold the powers to make people âooohâ, Pete. To watch the world around you go by and know that you alone possess the power to make whatever they want to see appear, Pete. To make those that are closest to your very own heart stop and stare in awe, Peter. That, my dear boy, is magic.â
The manâs old creaking voice seemed to carry in itself its usual and extravagant air of magic and wonder as Peter remembered. It was oldâ Mediciâs aphorism that reverberated around in his head now. It made young Pete watch the old magician in awe; yet caused the old Pete to stare in loathing at his memories. Lies.
But were they really? The feeling young Peter had all those years ago; when learning the old manâs tricks that made the world believe in him, when being taught the various smoke bombs and rune gadgets that distracted the audience into believing in him, when becoming aware that magic was truly the fulfillment of all the young boyâs dreamsâ¦it wasnât just a feeling. It had to be something more. But Magic, no. Not that work of fools.
And yet he spent countless years with that old buffoon. Learning the lies. Learning to be fake. Being absolutely synthetic⦠for what? A few coins� To feel⦠magical?
His memories jumped forward several years. Past the many subtle lessons Xavier gave him, past the hundreds of days the young boy spent at the manâs house; where he learned how to be extraordinary through sleight of hand, how to be awe-inspiring through rune technologies, how to be a truly phony miracle worker. He briefly drew to mind the day the old charmer passed away of longevity. The day when he was no longer an assistant in the roadside show the old enchanter was known for, but was the main man of the show. No longer was he simply âthe assistant,â but the young man now became the marvelous and unimaginable Peter Watson, magician extraordinaire. Although the death of his mentor was a barrier to overcome, it introduced Pete into a whole new life, leading to the experience that would eventually tear him apart; but at the same time the greatest period of his existence to date.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Peter set down the now empty glass, shaking his head once again to clear his mind. He didnât want to think about that again. Think about her. Why was it all he had on his mind when he tried to drink away the past? It was like it fucking chose the moment when he was weakest, drunk as a bard in a hotel room with no money. He peeled off his shirt, revealing his scrawny white body, and crawled under the blankets like the nobody he was. He rested his drunken head against the pillow, praying for the sake of any god who was willing that he wouldnât wake up the next day.
But if there were any gods looking over the Middle Realm that night they didnât grant Peter his wish. Nor did they even allow him to fall asleep. Like all the other nights he had spent drinking, her pleading eyes haunted his swirling thoughts. She didnât deserve what he did to her. She didnât deserve to be let down in that way. As Peter lay there, hoping to fall sleep eternally, he forced himself to think better thoughts⦠ones that didnât make him feel so terrible that he couldnât sleep them awayâ¦
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And so Peteâs thoughts churned for some time until it dwelled on the calmest thing he could recall; the great warmth of a motherâs love. He fondly remembered how she always supported him in all that he did, even when he undertook the apprenticeship of a seemingly raving old man. Even though Peter didnât bring in financial support for her and her husband, his mother was ecstatic to see him working with what he loved. She loved him, and was not only supportive because of her fondness of his joyful labors, but because she believed in him. From his heart and personality to the actual âmagicâ he performed for her as well as others. She knew her son was too kind-hearted to fool her, and Peter saw that and in turn loved her very much. Loved her to the point he decided he wouldnât ever tell her what he did was the work of a complete fake; mostly because he believed that it âwasnât- fake at this point of his life. Maybe the illusions were unreal, maybe the smoke bombs were synthetic, but the âmagic- he made in peopleâs hearts was not. So he believed.
His father, on the other hand, looked down upon Peteâs new occupation with great scorn. He knew there was no âmagicâ in the world, and therefore thought his son was shoveling him complete bullshit. The young man who was supposed to provide for those who had cared for him in his years of youth had done nothing for his family. Instead young Pete had begun the work of a con man, so it seemed to his moralistic father in sight of the decaying morality of a war-verging Grantham. Even in his job of a criminal, his father only saw Pete make a few coins per day by interested passer-bys. No money to support his family, barely enough to support himself and his âmagic.â To his dad, Peteâs magic was bullshit. Because of this, Pete saw only hate and distrust in his father despite the love his dad really did have for him. He didnât understand his fatherâs love, and so he rejected it, relying on his motherâs kind words to his father and to himself to enable him to continue the work of a magician in Grantham without his fatherâs impediment.
With this negativity more of Peteâs pessimistic memories entered into his flashback. As the hostility of the wars grew worse and worse in and around Grantham, money grew harder and harder to come by. Very few people were willing to waist their money on a magician anymore, whether he was a fraud or legitimate it didnât matter. Not to mention supplies for his trade were nearly impossible to come by during a time where food and survival was the main focus for the people in Grantham. Pete was now not only unable to support his family, but himself as well. And so, reluctantly, Pete accompanied his father for a few beginner lessons in the cruel and dark mines. He hated it, and although at first he had convinced himself he did it to learn how to mine rune dust and other supplies to use for his show, he began to realize the real reason he was allowing himself to follow in his fatherâs work during this time: because he saw some truth in what he had told him. Where was magic getting him?
Yet, like any young man, it wasnât long before he rebelled against his father again. Although at one time he saw truth in his dadâs words, he now so only what he knew, that magic could take him where he wanted to go. So; after learning the basics, and being able to mine what he needed for his work to some extent; Peter went and did what he âwanted- to do again, rather than trying to please his father. Naturally, the income that kept his family fed and safe diminished when it came to be only the head of the house brought in money. Peter would keep himself fed by spending the one, maybe two coins he got from a gig on a loaf, but there wasnât any surplus to help his family. Consequently, his father and mother suffered from malnutrition and lack of valuable trade items to get the herbal medicines they needed in the tough times of Granthamâs Civil Wars. Although Pete didnât realize it, he was killing his family.
His actions would lead to the tearing apart of his compassion and innocence. All whenâ¦noâ¦he couldnât think about that. He needed to sleepâ¦
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Peter growled at himself, angered with his thoughts. It was time for him to throw them aside. Maybe tomorrow he could find a job, maybe work in the fucking mines or something. But to do that he had to be in his right mind, if that was even possible. Pete sighed, shoving his face deeper into his pillow, he covered his exposed ear with the other. He closed his eyes, and eventually his thoughts settled, and he fell asleep.
But his memories didnât cease in his hibernation. The visions came back in his dreams, the horrors of that nightâ¦
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â¦It was the dark, candle-lit bedroom where a measly cheap painting hung over his parentâs bed. He looked down into the eyes of a frail, sick, woman with the love of an angel in her eyes. His mother stared back at him, coughing from the awful fever that ached her body. The malnutrition and horrible conditions of now war-torn Grantham had brought her immune system to little hope of recovering. As both Peter and his father knew as they looked down at mother, she was not going to survive. And then, a flash of hope in the motherâs faint eyes, a small little smile at Pete. Pete smiled sadly back, comforted only a little that she could accept what was happening to her. But then, a hopeful whisper emanated from her lips, a twinkle in the weak womanâs eyes.
âSave me, Peter.â A racking cough sent guilt-laden spittle into Peteâs face. âIâ¦believe in you sonâ¦use your magic.â She smiled faintly, a look of intense belief and hope came over her as a wave of dread and guilt poured over Peter.
A tear dripped onto the womanâs face; the more Pete hesitated the more her eyes lost their glimmer, their hope. âQuick Peterâ¦Iâ¦donât feel wellâ¦â another faint smile. He battled with himself. His emotions overtook him as he tried to decide if he should tell her the truth of what he had just discovered right then: that he was a fraud, that he was a phony, that he was nothing but a con man, a fucking waste of aether. Should he let her die knowing what a liar he was? Or would he let her fucking die in hope of the lies he now hated saving her? âPeterâ¦â He couldnât take it anymore, he let loose his emotions, his face contorting in sadness and anger.
âIâ¦I canât maâ¦â His mind tells him to stop now, stop his loving mother from knowing what a fool her only son was, but it was too late. The emotion rushed through him, and so he knelt down beside her bed, burying his face into her shoulder. âI canât save you maâ¦Iâm a fucking fakeâ¦good for nothingâ¦Iâ¦canât.â
The womanâs hopeful eyes dissipated, and she reached a gentle hand to brush her sonâs hair as she took her final breath. Peteâs father looked on in a fight with his emotions, realizing his wife was gone for good, but denying it to himself as his son cried over the body. Then he watched Peter stand up, take one last look at his despair-ridden mother, before staring hopelessly at his Pa for a few, long moments. His father looked back at him blankly, not wanting to release tears in front of his boy. It was then that Peter finally gave up. Without another word, he left the room grievingly as his father looked on once more, broken.
The day after he departed from home, despite his dadâs motives to hold him back. He wanted to get away from it, from his lies, from his mistakes, from his fake fucking world. He ran way from the nightmare that would never end, into a world who didnât know him. Eventually he made his way to the town he was at currently, knocking on the door of the inn hauntingly; knock knockâ¦knock knock⦠the torture. Knock knockâ¦knock knock⦠the pain. Knock knockâ¦knock knockâ¦
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The knocking awoke him. The door took a rough pounding, and it was obvious to the groggy Peter that whoever it may be was quite pissed off. The nightmare still rang through his head as he lolled in the bed for a few more minutes, not wanting to get up but the pounding at the door continuing. Finally, as the dizziness finally began to leave his mind, Pete threw the pillow aside crabbily and stood up, staggering towards the door with squinted, tired eyes. He swung it open hard, careful not to fucking stub his toe this time. Peter peered down at what seemed to be a short, older man, wearing some kind of weird-ass hat with a feather in it. He looked quite gaunt but at the moment was quite red in the face, obviously peeling with anger. Behind the old hoot stood the young prostitute from earlier, off to the side and keeping her eyes glued on the back of the manâs head.
âYou owe this woman her money you little fucker.â The man took off his hat to reveal an ugly, bald, head as he wiped some sweat from his brow.
Pete sighed deeply. At least this guy wasnât phony about it. Nonetheless he didnât have a fucking coin on him, so he wasnât going to be giving the little turd anything tonight. âLook man, I didnât even uhâ¦â He glanced at the girl anxiously, feeling significant pity for her even though this whole situation was crap. âYâknow⦠I didnât do anything that would cost me even a coin sir. Iâm sure she told you that.â He nodded tiredly towards the woman, grimacing a bit.
âShe told me all I needed to fucking hear mister, so just pay up the few coins and weâre done here.â He placed his hat back on, and stood up straight, almost as if the buffoonâs hat gave him some special privilege or something.
Pete lifted his hands in the air, shrugging. âAlright, alright, Iâll grab a few coins, sheesh.â He laughed nervously, and turned to look at the room he had been staying in. âTheyâre just in my bag over here.â Peter sighed deeply now as he turned to shuffle slowly towards his bag on the ground near his bed. It was packed to leave since before he drank, in full knowledge that he would have to leave early in the morning before the innkeeper came for his pay. With this new situation, Pete realized he would have to depart prior than his original plan suggested.
With another sigh and a deep breath, Pete heaved the light bag back up into his hands and turned to look at the man in the doorway for a few silent moments. Then, he sprang into action, dashing past the fellow in a full out sprint and down the hallway to the exit of the inn. He glanced one last time behind him, where the man had tripped over his feet and was on the ground with a knife by his side. And then his eyes met the troubled eyes of the woman. Her heavyhearted look of despair almost made him turn around right then to do something for her. But he couldnât rid himself of his selfishness, and knew he only had this chance to get away from everything. And so he unwillingly broke the gaze, and continued into the night.
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The docks were where Pete finally arrived after the incident at the inn. The dawn was just about to break, and a single rune lamp gently illuminated the carving on the side of the large vessel at which Peter looked up at despairingly. With the greatest of irony that could only have been sent than none other than the gods alone, the name read, âHopeâs Voyage.â
And so Pete smuggled himself into the large ship, stowing himself away amongst various crates of supplies in a storage room. Many quiet breaths later, Pete felt the ship move beneath him. This was what it had come to. Stuck in a fucking crawl space, the young man could only foster his small hope that the shipâs title was not a lie⦠like the rest of his life had proven to be.
His memories brought him back to that night, that awful fucking night. He could still remember her eyes. How they hoped in him. Believed in him. How they still made his heart despair.
Peter brought a hand through his hair, sighing, as he cleared his mind once again and lifted his legs up on the rail in front of him. He stared out at the damp, darkened rural town he had stayed at the past week and pondered if heâd ever figure out what the fuck he was doing. Another sigh, and Pete let himself go back in time once again, turning the glass in his hand as he looked at it and reminisced rather than thinking about the last bit of currency he had just squandered awayâ¦
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His fatherâs old, cheery voice echoed in his memories, âAlright son, youâve done your worth, you can go outside and run till youâre legs drop off!â Pete of age five had just completed his daily task of helping his mother clean around the home. The child grinned a humongous toothy smile, and ran outside in a rush to encounter the grim wonders of the town of Grantham. âDonât forget to be back for supper!â His father called after his son, folding his arms contently; blessed to have a boy to grow and provide for his family, something many people had trouble with during the horrible times of Civil War.
And so he ran around town, as he always did. Speaking to the grumpy workers and salesmen in the streets, who were worried about their pay and the increasing selfishness of others as the aroma of social poison made its way into Grantham. It wasnât to harm the boy who wandered the streets gleefully, excitingly, an optimistic contrast to the decaying joy of the settlement. As one would expect however, even with the boyâs buoyant young mind, it was hard for young Pete to find anything to quench his fantastic and remarkable dreams in the dying paradise in Grantham. Not for awhile at least⦠It would be several more years before young Peter would stumble upon the man who eventually changed his life.
The boyâs steps padded up to the wise, but more so witty, old Xavier Mediciâs doormat. The ambitious juvenile knocked once. Then another. Small, gentle knocks of a young boy knocking on the door of opportunityâ¦
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Peter shook his head slowly; sighing again as the gentle knocks from his reflection were impeded obnoxiously by the rough knocks at the inn-roomâs crude door. The blows faded into reality much like the door of opportunity turned itself into a door of lost hope and forever gone ambitions. Pete forced his half-drunken self out of his seat. Slowly, he stumbled across the meager room to the door. He slammed it open, right across his toenail, stubbing his toe with remarkable pain.
âFor FUCKS sakeâ¦â He slammed his fist against the wall beside him as he glared down at the trembling woman standing in the hall. Surprisingly, the prostitute was nearly his age, and was quite terror-stricken by the man cursing at his own toes. Pete shook his head vigorously, quite disappointed with his buzzed self. âDamnit, I didnât mean to scare you my lady...â He tried to draw his focus off of the pain of a century and on the girl whoâs dignity would be lowered to the point of Pete tonight if everything went as things normally were supposed to in this situation.
The young woman looked at him, still with great fear in her eyes, though she hid it behind a small smile and a clearly forged giggle at his antics. She was acting fucking fake. But then again, didnât everyone act that way? Then, in an even more fraudulent voice containing a horrible mix of attempted seduction and solicit cheerfulness, âYouâre a very handsome manâ¦â Now Pete knew for sure she was being completely phony. He was certain that he was the most unappealing piece of shit out there, from his torn up and stubbed toe to his cut-up mess of a face from his attempts at a nice shave the evening before.
âAnd youâre fucking spectacular. Why donât you just come do your job and cut the magic?â He winced at the prospect of the last word he had just spoken, brining back the exact thing he wanted to forget tonight.
The woman didnât seem too surprised by his blunt tone, and continued on as she normally would, forging an even more artificial smile to earn her dime for the day. And then, as she pretended to playfully grab a fistful of his shirt, she said the most bogus thing one could ever, âYouâre going to have one magical night mister.â Pete glared at her, and when she threw in the cheesy wink his glare turned into a dagger, and his arm extended, knocking her off of him as well as her feet.
âGet the fuck out.â
The woman looked surprised and afraid, her act gave out for a moment and her eyes were petrified as fear found their way into them again. She stared at him to see if it was just something the man was into, but to no avail. Her eyes now transitioned from fear to sadness, but then back into her act. She frowned at him angrily like she had been told in training, and bumbled backwards out of the room.
He sighed once again. Why was he so mean to her? Whatâs so bad about being a fraud anyway? Oh wait. He poured another glass of mead, sitting on the side of his bed. He needed to think of something else before he caught a glimpse of the face that haunted him again. He downed a rather large portion of the glass, to help him summon his childhood againâ¦
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âA Great magician can never explain, for if they are analyzed, even of their own accord, it is no longer enchanting⦠no longer alluring⦠no longer even fantastic in the slightest! My dear Pete, if you believe yourself a fraud, than that is all you are my boy, nothing more than a fool! Yet if you never fail to remember you hold the powers to make people âooohâ, Pete. To watch the world around you go by and know that you alone possess the power to make whatever they want to see appear, Pete. To make those that are closest to your very own heart stop and stare in awe, Peter. That, my dear boy, is magic.â
The manâs old creaking voice seemed to carry in itself its usual and extravagant air of magic and wonder as Peter remembered. It was oldâ Mediciâs aphorism that reverberated around in his head now. It made young Pete watch the old magician in awe; yet caused the old Pete to stare in loathing at his memories. Lies.
But were they really? The feeling young Peter had all those years ago; when learning the old manâs tricks that made the world believe in him, when being taught the various smoke bombs and rune gadgets that distracted the audience into believing in him, when becoming aware that magic was truly the fulfillment of all the young boyâs dreamsâ¦it wasnât just a feeling. It had to be something more. But Magic, no. Not that work of fools.
And yet he spent countless years with that old buffoon. Learning the lies. Learning to be fake. Being absolutely synthetic⦠for what? A few coins� To feel⦠magical?
His memories jumped forward several years. Past the many subtle lessons Xavier gave him, past the hundreds of days the young boy spent at the manâs house; where he learned how to be extraordinary through sleight of hand, how to be awe-inspiring through rune technologies, how to be a truly phony miracle worker. He briefly drew to mind the day the old charmer passed away of longevity. The day when he was no longer an assistant in the roadside show the old enchanter was known for, but was the main man of the show. No longer was he simply âthe assistant,â but the young man now became the marvelous and unimaginable Peter Watson, magician extraordinaire. Although the death of his mentor was a barrier to overcome, it introduced Pete into a whole new life, leading to the experience that would eventually tear him apart; but at the same time the greatest period of his existence to date.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Peter set down the now empty glass, shaking his head once again to clear his mind. He didnât want to think about that again. Think about her. Why was it all he had on his mind when he tried to drink away the past? It was like it fucking chose the moment when he was weakest, drunk as a bard in a hotel room with no money. He peeled off his shirt, revealing his scrawny white body, and crawled under the blankets like the nobody he was. He rested his drunken head against the pillow, praying for the sake of any god who was willing that he wouldnât wake up the next day.
But if there were any gods looking over the Middle Realm that night they didnât grant Peter his wish. Nor did they even allow him to fall asleep. Like all the other nights he had spent drinking, her pleading eyes haunted his swirling thoughts. She didnât deserve what he did to her. She didnât deserve to be let down in that way. As Peter lay there, hoping to fall sleep eternally, he forced himself to think better thoughts⦠ones that didnât make him feel so terrible that he couldnât sleep them awayâ¦
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And so Peteâs thoughts churned for some time until it dwelled on the calmest thing he could recall; the great warmth of a motherâs love. He fondly remembered how she always supported him in all that he did, even when he undertook the apprenticeship of a seemingly raving old man. Even though Peter didnât bring in financial support for her and her husband, his mother was ecstatic to see him working with what he loved. She loved him, and was not only supportive because of her fondness of his joyful labors, but because she believed in him. From his heart and personality to the actual âmagicâ he performed for her as well as others. She knew her son was too kind-hearted to fool her, and Peter saw that and in turn loved her very much. Loved her to the point he decided he wouldnât ever tell her what he did was the work of a complete fake; mostly because he believed that it âwasnât- fake at this point of his life. Maybe the illusions were unreal, maybe the smoke bombs were synthetic, but the âmagic- he made in peopleâs hearts was not. So he believed.
His father, on the other hand, looked down upon Peteâs new occupation with great scorn. He knew there was no âmagicâ in the world, and therefore thought his son was shoveling him complete bullshit. The young man who was supposed to provide for those who had cared for him in his years of youth had done nothing for his family. Instead young Pete had begun the work of a con man, so it seemed to his moralistic father in sight of the decaying morality of a war-verging Grantham. Even in his job of a criminal, his father only saw Pete make a few coins per day by interested passer-bys. No money to support his family, barely enough to support himself and his âmagic.â To his dad, Peteâs magic was bullshit. Because of this, Pete saw only hate and distrust in his father despite the love his dad really did have for him. He didnât understand his fatherâs love, and so he rejected it, relying on his motherâs kind words to his father and to himself to enable him to continue the work of a magician in Grantham without his fatherâs impediment.
With this negativity more of Peteâs pessimistic memories entered into his flashback. As the hostility of the wars grew worse and worse in and around Grantham, money grew harder and harder to come by. Very few people were willing to waist their money on a magician anymore, whether he was a fraud or legitimate it didnât matter. Not to mention supplies for his trade were nearly impossible to come by during a time where food and survival was the main focus for the people in Grantham. Pete was now not only unable to support his family, but himself as well. And so, reluctantly, Pete accompanied his father for a few beginner lessons in the cruel and dark mines. He hated it, and although at first he had convinced himself he did it to learn how to mine rune dust and other supplies to use for his show, he began to realize the real reason he was allowing himself to follow in his fatherâs work during this time: because he saw some truth in what he had told him. Where was magic getting him?
Yet, like any young man, it wasnât long before he rebelled against his father again. Although at one time he saw truth in his dadâs words, he now so only what he knew, that magic could take him where he wanted to go. So; after learning the basics, and being able to mine what he needed for his work to some extent; Peter went and did what he âwanted- to do again, rather than trying to please his father. Naturally, the income that kept his family fed and safe diminished when it came to be only the head of the house brought in money. Peter would keep himself fed by spending the one, maybe two coins he got from a gig on a loaf, but there wasnât any surplus to help his family. Consequently, his father and mother suffered from malnutrition and lack of valuable trade items to get the herbal medicines they needed in the tough times of Granthamâs Civil Wars. Although Pete didnât realize it, he was killing his family.
His actions would lead to the tearing apart of his compassion and innocence. All whenâ¦noâ¦he couldnât think about that. He needed to sleepâ¦
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Peter growled at himself, angered with his thoughts. It was time for him to throw them aside. Maybe tomorrow he could find a job, maybe work in the fucking mines or something. But to do that he had to be in his right mind, if that was even possible. Pete sighed, shoving his face deeper into his pillow, he covered his exposed ear with the other. He closed his eyes, and eventually his thoughts settled, and he fell asleep.
But his memories didnât cease in his hibernation. The visions came back in his dreams, the horrors of that nightâ¦
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
â¦It was the dark, candle-lit bedroom where a measly cheap painting hung over his parentâs bed. He looked down into the eyes of a frail, sick, woman with the love of an angel in her eyes. His mother stared back at him, coughing from the awful fever that ached her body. The malnutrition and horrible conditions of now war-torn Grantham had brought her immune system to little hope of recovering. As both Peter and his father knew as they looked down at mother, she was not going to survive. And then, a flash of hope in the motherâs faint eyes, a small little smile at Pete. Pete smiled sadly back, comforted only a little that she could accept what was happening to her. But then, a hopeful whisper emanated from her lips, a twinkle in the weak womanâs eyes.
âSave me, Peter.â A racking cough sent guilt-laden spittle into Peteâs face. âIâ¦believe in you sonâ¦use your magic.â She smiled faintly, a look of intense belief and hope came over her as a wave of dread and guilt poured over Peter.
A tear dripped onto the womanâs face; the more Pete hesitated the more her eyes lost their glimmer, their hope. âQuick Peterâ¦Iâ¦donât feel wellâ¦â another faint smile. He battled with himself. His emotions overtook him as he tried to decide if he should tell her the truth of what he had just discovered right then: that he was a fraud, that he was a phony, that he was nothing but a con man, a fucking waste of aether. Should he let her die knowing what a liar he was? Or would he let her fucking die in hope of the lies he now hated saving her? âPeterâ¦â He couldnât take it anymore, he let loose his emotions, his face contorting in sadness and anger.
âIâ¦I canât maâ¦â His mind tells him to stop now, stop his loving mother from knowing what a fool her only son was, but it was too late. The emotion rushed through him, and so he knelt down beside her bed, burying his face into her shoulder. âI canât save you maâ¦Iâm a fucking fakeâ¦good for nothingâ¦Iâ¦canât.â
The womanâs hopeful eyes dissipated, and she reached a gentle hand to brush her sonâs hair as she took her final breath. Peteâs father looked on in a fight with his emotions, realizing his wife was gone for good, but denying it to himself as his son cried over the body. Then he watched Peter stand up, take one last look at his despair-ridden mother, before staring hopelessly at his Pa for a few, long moments. His father looked back at him blankly, not wanting to release tears in front of his boy. It was then that Peter finally gave up. Without another word, he left the room grievingly as his father looked on once more, broken.
The day after he departed from home, despite his dadâs motives to hold him back. He wanted to get away from it, from his lies, from his mistakes, from his fake fucking world. He ran way from the nightmare that would never end, into a world who didnât know him. Eventually he made his way to the town he was at currently, knocking on the door of the inn hauntingly; knock knockâ¦knock knock⦠the torture. Knock knockâ¦knock knock⦠the pain. Knock knockâ¦knock knockâ¦
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The knocking awoke him. The door took a rough pounding, and it was obvious to the groggy Peter that whoever it may be was quite pissed off. The nightmare still rang through his head as he lolled in the bed for a few more minutes, not wanting to get up but the pounding at the door continuing. Finally, as the dizziness finally began to leave his mind, Pete threw the pillow aside crabbily and stood up, staggering towards the door with squinted, tired eyes. He swung it open hard, careful not to fucking stub his toe this time. Peter peered down at what seemed to be a short, older man, wearing some kind of weird-ass hat with a feather in it. He looked quite gaunt but at the moment was quite red in the face, obviously peeling with anger. Behind the old hoot stood the young prostitute from earlier, off to the side and keeping her eyes glued on the back of the manâs head.
âYou owe this woman her money you little fucker.â The man took off his hat to reveal an ugly, bald, head as he wiped some sweat from his brow.
Pete sighed deeply. At least this guy wasnât phony about it. Nonetheless he didnât have a fucking coin on him, so he wasnât going to be giving the little turd anything tonight. âLook man, I didnât even uhâ¦â He glanced at the girl anxiously, feeling significant pity for her even though this whole situation was crap. âYâknow⦠I didnât do anything that would cost me even a coin sir. Iâm sure she told you that.â He nodded tiredly towards the woman, grimacing a bit.
âShe told me all I needed to fucking hear mister, so just pay up the few coins and weâre done here.â He placed his hat back on, and stood up straight, almost as if the buffoonâs hat gave him some special privilege or something.
Pete lifted his hands in the air, shrugging. âAlright, alright, Iâll grab a few coins, sheesh.â He laughed nervously, and turned to look at the room he had been staying in. âTheyâre just in my bag over here.â Peter sighed deeply now as he turned to shuffle slowly towards his bag on the ground near his bed. It was packed to leave since before he drank, in full knowledge that he would have to leave early in the morning before the innkeeper came for his pay. With this new situation, Pete realized he would have to depart prior than his original plan suggested.
With another sigh and a deep breath, Pete heaved the light bag back up into his hands and turned to look at the man in the doorway for a few silent moments. Then, he sprang into action, dashing past the fellow in a full out sprint and down the hallway to the exit of the inn. He glanced one last time behind him, where the man had tripped over his feet and was on the ground with a knife by his side. And then his eyes met the troubled eyes of the woman. Her heavyhearted look of despair almost made him turn around right then to do something for her. But he couldnât rid himself of his selfishness, and knew he only had this chance to get away from everything. And so he unwillingly broke the gaze, and continued into the night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The docks were where Pete finally arrived after the incident at the inn. The dawn was just about to break, and a single rune lamp gently illuminated the carving on the side of the large vessel at which Peter looked up at despairingly. With the greatest of irony that could only have been sent than none other than the gods alone, the name read, âHopeâs Voyage.â
And so Pete smuggled himself into the large ship, stowing himself away amongst various crates of supplies in a storage room. Many quiet breaths later, Pete felt the ship move beneath him. This was what it had come to. Stuck in a fucking crawl space, the young man could only foster his small hope that the shipâs title was not a lie⦠like the rest of his life had proven to be.
Pete is an ISFP.
In the past, Peter was once charming, witty, smooth-tongued, but his life has changed him into a pessimistic grump; though their may be times when his old self is spotted.
Pete's outer goal is to make a good impression on those he meets. Although, due to his past experiences, he believes firmly that being 'good' refers to being grounded in reality. His advice to those who dream is to think realistically, because you're not going to get what you want in life. It is difficult for Pete to grow into any kind of friendly relationship with anyone, because he constantly closes himself off, believing that obligations will only bring sadness in the long wrong. And yet, even though he tries to tell himself that, and to those who interact with him, deep down he knows that he needs a person, or a few people, to open up to. But he's too stubborn to do so unless he is unraveled deeply by someone he trusts fully.
This frank mindset, however, is a fraud. Peter puts up not only to fool others, but to fool himself. He doesn't want to get trapped in the lies he was trapped in before, he doesn't want to be lied to or provide others with a false sense of security. And yet, somewhere in his heart, he still holds his childish hope that everything is possible; that people are generally good. But he would not tell this to a soul. After what happened with his mother, Pete never wished to open up again, at least not with ease. His conflicting attitudes of realism vs. romanticism and goodness of a soul vs the evil it holds inside is too strong a battle for him to ultimately decide.
And so ultimately Peter's thoughts lie in a conflicted state. He currently holds a pessimistic view of the world, and anyone who speaks to him without trying to gain his trust will certainly see him as fowl and gruff. But deep inside Pete holds a small hope, even if magic was never real or goodness a lie, that he will see the good in the world. And so he secretly searches for it every day in the chamber of his heart.
In the past, Peter was once charming, witty, smooth-tongued, but his life has changed him into a pessimistic grump; though their may be times when his old self is spotted.
Pete's outer goal is to make a good impression on those he meets. Although, due to his past experiences, he believes firmly that being 'good' refers to being grounded in reality. His advice to those who dream is to think realistically, because you're not going to get what you want in life. It is difficult for Pete to grow into any kind of friendly relationship with anyone, because he constantly closes himself off, believing that obligations will only bring sadness in the long wrong. And yet, even though he tries to tell himself that, and to those who interact with him, deep down he knows that he needs a person, or a few people, to open up to. But he's too stubborn to do so unless he is unraveled deeply by someone he trusts fully.
This frank mindset, however, is a fraud. Peter puts up not only to fool others, but to fool himself. He doesn't want to get trapped in the lies he was trapped in before, he doesn't want to be lied to or provide others with a false sense of security. And yet, somewhere in his heart, he still holds his childish hope that everything is possible; that people are generally good. But he would not tell this to a soul. After what happened with his mother, Pete never wished to open up again, at least not with ease. His conflicting attitudes of realism vs. romanticism and goodness of a soul vs the evil it holds inside is too strong a battle for him to ultimately decide.
And so ultimately Peter's thoughts lie in a conflicted state. He currently holds a pessimistic view of the world, and anyone who speaks to him without trying to gain his trust will certainly see him as fowl and gruff. But deep inside Pete holds a small hope, even if magic was never real or goodness a lie, that he will see the good in the world. And so he secretly searches for it every day in the chamber of his heart.
Peter's untamed long brown hair that cascades nearly to eye level sets the stage for the rest of his draggy looks. His absence of care for details of appearance is obvious in his raggedy impression. The long hair is thrown every which way and that, messily strewn across his head and dangling down like unkempt foliage. His chin is home to a unkept beard, in which any attempts to shave have just made it more shady and uneven. His eyes are slightly sunken, and wide, and reside above two forever-frowning large lips. His cheeks are somewhere in-between bony and normal-looking, which matches his scrawny body-shape.
Pete wears a tattered attire along with his shabby expression. A small brown jacket resides over a plain white shirt stained with various spills from wine, to coffee, to mead. He looks as if he was from straight off the streets, and his brown, coal-stained work pants don't change the impression whatsoever.
Ultimately, Pete doesn't really care anymore. There's no magic in looks, so why bother with it? There's no need to impress anyone, so why look nice? There's barely enough money for mead, so why waist it on food?
Pete wears a tattered attire along with his shabby expression. A small brown jacket resides over a plain white shirt stained with various spills from wine, to coffee, to mead. He looks as if he was from straight off the streets, and his brown, coal-stained work pants don't change the impression whatsoever.
Ultimately, Pete doesn't really care anymore. There's no magic in looks, so why bother with it? There's no need to impress anyone, so why look nice? There's barely enough money for mead, so why waist it on food?
Occupation
TBD
Skills
-Rune/Mechanical Engineering (Competent)
-Explosives (Apprentice)
-Mining (Novice)
Traits
-Empathetic
-Kind-hearted
-Brooding
-Gruff
-Pessimistic
-Imaginative
-Borderline Alcoholic
-Sentimental
-Cowardly
-Witty
(I know these all conflict quite a lot. But as I described in the personality section, Pete conflicts with himself a lot. One day he could be the most pessimistic jerk you've ever met, drinking his sorrows away until he's a happy little drunk. The next he could be trying to get a new grip on life, trying to be nice to others for a change).
TBD
Skills
-Rune/Mechanical Engineering (Competent)
-Explosives (Apprentice)
-Mining (Novice)
Traits
-Empathetic
-Kind-hearted
-Brooding
-Gruff
-Pessimistic
-Imaginative
-Borderline Alcoholic
-Sentimental
-Cowardly
-Witty
(I know these all conflict quite a lot. But as I described in the personality section, Pete conflicts with himself a lot. One day he could be the most pessimistic jerk you've ever met, drinking his sorrows away until he's a happy little drunk. The next he could be trying to get a new grip on life, trying to be nice to others for a change).
Long Term:
Find a New life.
Make enough money to live on.
Find something (or someone) meaningful.
Short Term:
TBD
Find a New life.
Make enough money to live on.
Find something (or someone) meaningful.
Short Term:
TBD
Will get here eventually.
Humble Servant
Gentle Peacekeeper
Zealous Prophet
Heartfelt Evangelist
Twisted Entertainer
Lost Wanderer
Vibrant Adventurer
Gentle Peacekeeper
Zealous Prophet
Heartfelt Evangelist
Twisted Entertainer
Lost Wanderer
Vibrant Adventurer