Romulus
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Des ombres sur le mur de l'esprit de Romulus se mirent à faire des gestes et à bouger. Des souvenirs rampaient comme des araignées dans des endroits lointains. Des visages et des meurtres mêlés. Son souffle anxieux a rempli ses poumons, l'air. L'air pur s'est déversé dans sa poitrine lourde et il a ouvert les yeux.
Une fissure de lumière divise l'espace dans la boîte. C'est une boîte? Ou un cercueil? Quelle scène est-ce? Son esprit brouillait des significations et des mots qui donnaient peu ou pas de relativité à sa disposition. Romulus poussa contre l'obscurité et sentit la résistance. Il repoussa à nouveau, ses muscles travaillant pour la première fois depuis des siècles. Les ténèbres ont cédé la place et la lumière a rempli sa vision. Romulus ferma les yeux sous l'assaut du soleil et s'écroula sur le couvercle du cercueil.
L'air chaud et humide s'est lavé sur son corps et sa tunique en coton léger s'est collée dans son dos. Il faisait chaud et humide, bien plus chaud que Rock Bridge. Romulus regarde vers le haut, blindant ses yeux d'une main, des souvenirs refont surface. Prison... meurtre. Meurtre. Moi. La Pierre. La mort. La mort. La mort... la mort... la mort...
Il a entendu des voix de quelque part.
"Bonjour?
"Hé!"
-- Qui est-ce?
"En haut!" 

"Un ami,"
-- Pouvez-vous me voir?
"..j'espère."
Au-dessus ou au-dessous. Peut-être les deux? Romulus était toujours désorienté de son épreuve dans le cercueil. Qu'il se levait doucement. Il était sur une passerelle, entouré d'une douzaine de chambres. Il entendait le bourdonnement constant des machines mécaniques et, peu à peu, loin de là, quelqu'un chantait. Romulus pouvait dire que le temps avait touché cet endroit. Puis il s'est souvenu de la pièce...
NAME: Romulus "Salacious" Wisher
ABSTRACT: Mad Actor Tainted by Evil
DETAIL: Romulus was raised in a well adjusted middle class family. His father worked hard, his mother and siblings all loved one another and everything was generally GOOD. Romulus had a mind for the fantastic from an early age, and especially loved the stories told in local taverns. Whenever the troubador or traveling actors troupe would stop by his home village he was front and center, eyes affixed to the stage. And so he decided to abandon a life of toil in agricultural work and fled for the nearby city of Rock Bridge when he was 12 years old.
In Rock Bridge, Romulus quickly fell in with an acting company doing small jobs around the theatre for free. He learned what he could and over the years ingratiated himself enough with the company to actually get some stage time. He made a little money, bought a few books, borrowed some manuscripts and plays, and taught himself the trade. He flourished under the guidance of various actors; Romulus soon began to realize his silver tongue could win over not just audiences, but individuals, and that gave him power to manipulate and control. Romulus flourished first in Rock Bridge, and then the larger cities in the kingdom.
Taking the stage name Wisher, Romulus gained notoriety performing one-man versions of popular plays of the time, some scandulous, some political satire that landed him in hot water for a time. He wrote a few plays himself but nothing ever caught on. He peaked and began to fade as new acts made the rounds and his name was slowly forgotten...At age 28 Romulus had hit rock bottom. He decided to travel.
He traveled for many years, to distant lands and places. He drank, he fought and loved. He killed once, but in self-defense. He disappeared. He returned once to Rock Bridge but all of his old friends were dead or in prison and the old theatre had long ago burned to the ground. He searched for his home village, but could not remember what it was called. He traveled for many more years.
At the edge of a forest, near a mountain peaked with grey snow, Romulus fell into a pit one night. Fumbling around in the darkness, clothing in tatters, grey beard and withered soul, Romulus found a door. It was very old, covered in runes around the molding. The old oak beams had long ago been smashed in, and this revealed a tunnel. Romulus entered the darkness.
He awoke later, near a town he remembered passing a few days prior, his clothes were still ragged, his beard and hair thin and matted. But his soul...felt...young again. He found in his possession a small black book containing a play he had never heard of before called The **** and ***** of *****. It was a very thin book, of common print paper. No author listed, no publisher. The first page simply began: ACT I, Scene I.
The play so enthralled Romulus he read it cover to cover wandering around the small town. Every line a masterpiece. Every scene perfection. Each character seemed to speak to him personally, pulling some misunderstood fragment of his own strange life to the foreground, revealing for him the truths those pieces truly held. He became enamored of the piece and could not wait to reveal the genius hereto within contained to a new audience.
He found himself at the local tavern and suggested to the barkeep he give a read of a masterful new play he had written for a drink or two (...I was an actor once you know...long ago..). The bar keep agreed and the townsfolk gathered around the fire and this strange old man who wanted to entertain them for the evening.
And so Romulus began. He poured his heart into that play. Each line, each refrain. Romulus had read it only once, could feel the heart of the story in his tongue, his bony fingers. His soul laid bare for those strangers for an hour, maybe six. He began to wheeze and cough. His mouth was dry. His throat burning with the fire of the sun; And then he was finished, panting, laying prone on the floor. Coughs shook his body. And there was.....silence. The townsfolk began to murmur. "Get on with it you crazy bastard..."
Months went by. Each time Romulus attempted to perform the strange play it was as if the audience heard not a word. Furthermore, he discovered the time it took (about 2 1/2 hours) to recite the damn thing seemed to not exist. At least not for the audience. Whenever Romulus attempted to talk to someone about the play, even mention the title they seemed to not understand, or act as if he had not been talking. It was as if Romulus was the only person in the world who knew of it's existence, or ever would.
And it destroyed him. It was not long before drink and anger, sadness and disparity began to tear the mans psyche to pieces. His infatuation for the play only deepened, only widened the gulf between reality and himself. He got violent. Really violent. He was caught during the third one. Imprisoned. Sentenced. Sent to the Stone.
But he managed to hold onto the book...