The Scribe

The Scribe
Prologue: Document of Insanity



Such a pitiful life lived by such a chromatic gentleman. Twas anything but the valiant life which he had foreseen. Garnet eyes got him nowhere; such a thing would be foolish to believe in. Ah, but such a magnificent and malicious gentleman, he was. Always enduring the hardships of betrayal and backstabbing; twas impossible to assure him fortunes in life.

I witnessed his death, and could have done nothing to prevent it. Such an ironic ordeal could not have been ignored, nor attended to. Twas such a piteous moment—when the hands of death wrapped around his little neck—twas such a wondrous, piteous moment.

Deprivation of the soul had rotted him internally, to the very core. A man with no soul--so cliché. Oh, but the wonders he had seen, the struggles he had persevered, the importance of his very existence… Twas a shame that he had passed away in such a manner. You would have expected that such a skilled artisan of ink and pen would have been more careful in what he wrote about. Twas his very profession that had killed him.

Now I jot down meaningless words upon a piece of his scribal scrolls with his feather pen. He would not mind; he does not have a mind of his own anymore. Some say that he is knitting with only one needle these days. True enough, he’s insane. So what if he’s not exactly the sanest of us all? We’re all somewhat insane on the inside; we just need the right circumstance to bring it out. After all… The insane are saner than the sanest of the sane.

I’m sure he’s looking down at us laughing right now; he had the most heartwarming laughter. I can recall his very last words… Words in which I shall never forget… “Insane? You label me insane? Tis yourselves in which the corruption of sanity prevails! Ignorance… Ignorance… You are all ignorant fools! The day shall come… Shadows shall creep across the land, overwhelming this world in darkness. The Seven Seas themselves shall turn to the most crimson of liquids; blood. Blood shall rain from the skies, like a storm of incredible caliber! Your last breaths shall be not of air, but blood… And when you’re choking on the cardinal taste of blood, gasping for air, remember my words…” I title this work: The Document of Insanity.