Story of a Paladin

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They did not share my luck in more than a single way; they all lack basic reasoning, and possess no identity. They, still in the floors above me, are completely demented; damned by this place to become mindless beasts.

Whatever thing saved me from the same destiny, I am grateful for it. So, so grateful. But I still am here, a monster just like them, my intellect the only contrast to their hollow, corrupted essence. What stepped me aside from this fate might have been just a miracle.

Who knows who these people were. Their broken armors and ragged robes are beyond recognition. Maybe in life they had families, children. After realizing what I was witnessing before my eyes, overcoming my initial shock, I kneeled down crying at the sight of such atrocity, such crime against nature and mankind. They likely have been here for much longer than me. If I am not like them now, I might become some day, should I not escape. May my future not reside in the same dark pit. Their deformed faces... They showed horror, but also a spark of burning rage.

Reader: should you encounter the tragedy of being in these cursed corridors and tenebrous chambers, and of finding these papers; if you, unlike us, can freely enter and leave the barrier that prevents my exit, then please, in the name of love and hope, stop reading right now, for my story is less important than your own life.

Run. Get out of these dungeons, escape as fast as your gear allows you, seek to make no noise as you flee, and bring your weapons close at hand.

These monsters are armed. I dread what they might do to the living at surface. I dread what they might do to you, reader. One thing is clear: They recognize me as their own, that being further proof that inside them and I the same nature resides.



If you, reader, are now safe on the overworld, or God forbid that you were trapped, then we may proceed.

In my haste to describe my circumstances I have unfairly obscured you of the identity of my person. Right now I can remember my name, but with the situation at hand, I fear I may forget soon: The one writing is Sir Samrux, high member of the order of Paladins.





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Samrux said:
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They did not share my luck in more than a single way. They all lacked reasoning, and identity. They were completely demented, damned by this place to become mindless beasts.

Whatever thing saved me from the same luck, I am grateful for it. So, so grateful. But I still am here, a monster, just like them, but a functioning mind away. What stepped me aside from this fate... might have been just a miracle. Who knows who these people were. Their broken armors and ragged robes are unidentifiable. Maybe they had families. Children.

I kneeled down crying at the sight of this atrocity, this crime against nature and mankind. They might have been here as much or longer than me. If I am not like them now, I might become some day, should I not escape. May my future not reside in the same dark pit. Their deformed faces, they showed horror, but also a spark of rage.

Reader; should you encounter the tragedy of being on these cursed corridors and damned chambers, and of finding these papers; if you, unlike us, can freely enter and leave the barrier that prevents my exit, then please, in the name of love and hope, stop reading right now. For my story is less important than your own life. Run. Get out of these dungeons, escape as fast as your gear allows you. And bring your weapons in your flight.

These monsters are armed. I dread what they might do to the living. I dread what they might do to you, reader.

One thing is clear: They recognize me as their own. More proof that inside me resides the same nature.

If you, reader, are now safe on the overworld, then we might proceed.

I haven't even told you who I am. I am glad I can still remember. I'll introduce.

My name is Samrux. This is my log.





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What?! No keep writing hurry up! :p
 
Serial writing 101: Cliffhangers keep people interested.

I also have to slow down this weekend, for personal reasons. But a page per day is a promise I plan to keep.

As a writer, this story is my little baby. And the baby is like so cute I want to show it to everybody and make everyone know I have a baby because look it's a baby and it's so cute and I'm its father
 
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It will only be a day. You can call your friends and tell them to read too while you wait.

I am very glad you can sympathize with Samrux. It is one of the purposes of this text.
 
((The in-character roleplay part of me wants to let you know that I'm envisioning Tyrux fighting for his life fleeing the dungeon with the tattered remains of your pages clutched in his hand))

This is absolutely AMAZING! I'm glad you're rewriting this, its really cool and I'm looking forward to more :D
 
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My armor identifies me as a righteous warrior of law, and us Paladins stand in name of justice, mankind, and civilization, to defend The Kingdom. Said kingdom is the human fortress-city which resides between the Deep Woods to the West, and the Unknown Hills to the East. As so it is my duty to defend the innocent, and my huge agony to observe what has taken place in this colossal dungeon.

Truly, said armor has now just gone through rough times, and assuredly it has shined brighter before. It which is made of the hardest metal magic can forge, and which has kept me safe for years, might not be me of much use in where I am now.

I will proceed with what else must be recorded.

Remembering the life before awakening here is like reading a book long lost inside my mind, and which has gathered dust in its abandonment as its shelf becomes forgotten.

While I can only see it through fog, I fear for my home, and the people once living in it. I do not know how long it has been; it feels as though eternity has passed and yet my sleep was an instant long. The Kingdom may have fallen throughout all this time. Humanity might have been overrun by the beasts of the wilderness, and I would have not been there to provide help none.

The sacred lights of Water, barely lighting my surroundings, tell me that this place belonged to the realm. Their still burning fire gives me hope that magic survived. But I still dread; this place is buried under rock, and cursed with death and misery beyond the imaginable. Could I expect that the Kingdom whole is in ruins, and for all of its poor people to be living in death like us? Could the adventurers finding these pages have traversed the remains of a destroyed city to arrive here? Could they be future historians, or treasure-hunters? Are they human? Will they understand my language? These questions are the ones now important to me. Maybe the invisible wall preventing my escape will as well hide my story from the living world forever. I hope not.

Oh, reader, I wish I could talk to you. Tell me where you come from, tell me what led you here, if you exist. Oh, reader, it has been just hours, but they have felt like eternity.

Oh, reader, should my captors not present themselves soon, I dread this might never end.






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Reader, should you ever come here and find these pages, and survive, and if the magic that has kept me alive but dormant for so long has not yet run out by the time you arrive, making me die of thirst or hunger, or by my wounds; and if my captors have not yet spared me, should they still be alive, or here, or be beings capable of having mercy; and if those who turned us into monsters and wanted to prevent our escape haven't lifted the enchantment and set us free, or have let us die at last; and if I, as happened to the rest, haven't turned demented, and taken my own flesh off under my mental torture, making me unreanimable; and if you, reader, have not been corrupted by the unholy presence lingering over this place, and I hope you never are;
If any of these things haven't yet occurred by your time, oh reader, please, please come back, and come prepared; bring an army if necessary, bring the holiest and most powerful magics your civilization has to offer,

and rescue me.





So is my testament. /











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The story's summary, as posted in reddit:
( Post in r/Terraria | Post in r/LifeasanNPC )


Samrux, a paladin of unknown origin, will write his own story as he finds himself trapped in a cursed, buried structure, from the first day he wakes up. He doesn't know where he is, and suffers from partial amnesia, but he recognizes the place as familiar. Mysteries will be unraveled. The truth will arise. What the heck happened to him, and why is he here? What is the "Dungeon", and who built it? Who are all these skeletons and spirits, trapped within? But before he can answer those questions, he will have to survive among the undead. And ultimately, become one of them.​


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The Paladin tries to retain hope


Yesterday, I couldn't sleep. Not even close an eye. If it has even been an entire day, that is.

Between the screeches of the bodies, the putrid stench that got stuck in my senses, the dusty hard ground and the effect this place has on my head, I couldn't even think or breathe normally to try to rest. Envision my grief. But even then… I don't feel much more exhausted than the last time I touched the quill.

I have locked myself in a chamber with just a single door. Nothing that moves seems to get this deep down into the building, to my pleasure. I got everything I need to be able to write in here: Many jars of ink, empty books and scrolls, a decent table that will hold. These floors might become the closest thing I could have to a home, for as long as I remain here. I am, against my hopes, prepared for the worst, and this is it. I remember my survival lessons. I was the teacher, not the student. I have tried to keep myself entertained with numerous activities, to keep up my hopes, my strengths, my creativity, and, above all, my sanity. I made a list, as forethought. The list was also one of the tasks to perform.


I will write once something comes up. /





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Samrux said:
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Yesterday, I couldn't sleep.

If it has even been an entire day.

Between the screeches of the bodies, the putrid stench that got stuck in my senses, the dusty hard ground, and the effect this place has on my head, I couldn't even close my eyes. Envision my grief.

But even then... I don't feel much more exhausted than the last time I touched the quill.

I have locked myself in a chamber with a single door. Nothing that moves seems to get this deep down into the building. I got everything I need to be able to write in here: Many jars of ink, empty books and scrolls, a decent table. These floors might become the closest thing I could have to a home.

I remember my survival lessons. That's because I was the teacher. I have tried to keep myself entertained with numerous activities, to keep up my hopes, my strenghts, my creativity, and my sanity. I made a list, as forethought. The list was also one of the tasks to perform.

I will write more once something comes up. /









Dammit. What is even the point in doing this? (...)




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how you got the hammer :p?
 
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