"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."
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.
In a small inn (the more remote the better), a man turns up dead. There are no wounds on his body what-so-ever, and he aboslutely reeks of garlic.
The man died of a curse that forced him to eat a clove of garlic a day or suffer the penalty. This gets really interesting if the body somehow appears on top of a someone the villagers are suspcious of.