Also known as Vampires.
"It has been said that humanities’ mortality is the root cause for its creation of art. I am the embodiment of contradiction for that theory."
The nurse put a hand on his shoulder, speaking softly, “Calm down, sir, you’re inside a hospital. You’re safe.”
The man’s eyes darted back and forth, his whole body shaking in terror, “Nooo,” He whispered, “I’ll never be safe, I saw him, I saw him jerking and writhing around, then he looked straight at me and fell over.”
"Let their bodies be consumed, so that their souls may be healed" (Consumption 1-1)
They are two sides of the same coin-either one will kill you, they’ll just think about it differently.
A perfect anarchist who was mutilated for his beliefs, but survived his torture and has created his ultimate dream. Now he presses on, crippled, but propelled by faith in a better world for all.
For as long as there have been possessions, thieves have tried to steal them, and others have tried to protect them. With the discovery of magic, however, the protection of wealth took a sharp turn for the deadly. Not to be outdone, thieves learned the magic arts, and so the cycle began anewÃ¢?Â¦ (History and its Patterns, Magnus Blackjack)
AutoMedon – A mechanical poet of renown not for his vast catalog of poetry, but for his complete lack of anything written or spoken, having had no output in his programmed profession. His creator is unknown or at least unaccredited, and there are those in great number in the artistic world who wonder and marvel at his inability to produce poetry, crediting that flaw to his creator who is unknown or at least un-credited. There is also a small faction of scholars who believe that when he finally, finally speaks, it will be the most beautiful or sorrowful verse ever spoke or will ever be spoken. Whether his creator is among either group or dead is unknown. AutoMedon sits alone under a tin roofed enclosure, upon a stone chair, with his gaze off in the distant as if thinking.
“It’s strange to look at this mechanical man and think what thoughts are working through its’ workings or even if the damn thing is” – Aralis of Qurim, poet and pottery salesman