Requiem

Name:	Requiem Shadowhawk (Retired)
Location:	Retired, August 2018
Rank:	Morale Officer (Retired)
Guilds:	The Church
Step Name:	Cabana Boy
Rogue since:	2009

Previous Ships and Ranks

The Andromeda - Morale Officer August 2016 - August 2018
The Andromeda - First Mate - August 2013 - August 2016
The Crimson Storm - held Morale Officer position, 2009 - 2013

Noted Favors, Awards, and Misc

As a Step N Fetch

• Inducted EOFP 2008
  • Sponsored by Traveler Hawk, captain of The Raging Saint Mae
  • Step N Fetch Name: Cabana Boy
• Graduated EOFP 2009

In Service of the Crimson Storm (August 2009 - August 2013)

• Winner: Pirate Trivia (Picnic and Games, Spring 2013)
  
• Winner: Treasure Hunt (Faire Season 2013)

In Service of The Andromeda (August 2013 - present day)

Personal Awards, Achievements and Acolades (August 2006 - present day)

• Black on Yellow Skull and Crossbones "Rising" token, awarded by Captain Moon, Faire 2006
• Granted Guest of Rogue status August 2006
• Awarded "Outstanding Effort - Behind the Scenes" award from Captain Morgan, EOFP 2012
• "Calico" Jack Rackham patch, presented by Big Scotty "The Conductor" on Opening Day of CRF, 2014

Miscellaneous

• Inducted into The Church of the Dirty Virgin by Father Gooey, August 2009
• Promoted to Morale Officer of The Crimson Storm, October 2009
• Became Padre of The Church of the Dirty Virgin, January 2013
• Promoted to Darkstar's Bitch of The Andromeda, August 2013

Biography

This is a work in progress. Once this italicized note is removed, the story here will be complete.

Fire. All around me is fire. The sky bleeds red as the flames lick off of the treetops and singe the rolling clouds. Yet this is all familiar. I live amidst this fire, but there is no heat. The fire burns continuously, but it does not truly burn. I don’t know how long I’ve lived here, as there is always light from the sky. Firelight and flickering shadows, the only contrast I know. It may be that I’ve existed here only a week. It may be that I’ve been the denizen of the burning woods for decades…centuries…millennia…epochs. I have no sense of the passing time, and nobody else have I passed whilst walking here. I don’t know how long it’s been since I last ate, but that doesn’t bother me. Food is a luxury I rarely partake of.

I sleep. Just like everything else, I sleep. I do not know why, for I do not grow tired. Sleep comes to me at seemingly irregular intervals, but it is never desired, never needed. I sleep, but I do not dream. In my sleep, there is only black. A constant void of light, and an absence of thought. Sleep only puts my mind at ease, if for but a moment in time.

I always awake the same way. Alone. Not even the twilling song of a bird greets me, as my eyes flick open. At least, not until this time.

Today, I wake to a pool of blood. I know, after a moment’s inspection, that it is not my blood. I look around and see a man lying at my feet, red wetness welling up from his neck. His manner of dress is not familiar. He does not wear the same ragged cloth on his legs as I do, and his shirt is not dirty with the grime of daily wear. He is dressed from head to toe in a colour I have no name for, but which is reminiscent of the shadows at the outskirts of the fire. There is a big stick laying next to him, about the same length as he himself. At the top of it is a clear rock that looks like it used to be round, but has been broken. A piece of it is sticking out of the man’s neck, where the blood is seeping from.

I try to pull the rock from his neck, and hear a noise behind me.

“Quack?”

Instinctively, I grab the large stick and spin around, still on my knees, swinging as hard as I can. I missed.

“Bazebodebatookyza WHAM!”

Ok…maybe I didn’t miss. I seem to have knocked the capability of speech right out of the man before me. He doesn’t seem to mind.

The odd man comes over and lifts the dead man up into a standing position. “Ba zebo,” he says, gesturing at how the man is standing. “De batooky.” His hands make a sign that seems to mean “explode,” then he points at the top of the stick. “Za WHAM!!!” he shouts, dropping the dead man back to the ground.

“Who are you?” I ask inquisitively. All he does is point at himself and grin, like I am supposed to know what he is talking about.

“Yes, I am talking to you. What is your name?” More pointing, thought it seems he is adamantly pointing as a piece of metal stuck to his shirt. It says PLATT.

“Your name is Platt?”

“Zelabotookysosomadopa QUACK!” This is said while he grabs my hand and starts shaking my arm to the point that I swear it will fall off. “Zo!” he says, and starts walking away, waving for me to follow. I am hesitant at first, but then a small fuzzy thing that resembles a bear comes chasing after me, riding on top of the largest rat I have seen in my life. The bear-thing is dressed the same as the crazy man, leading me to believe that they are somehow related, and compelling me to follow.

Days pass, and fade into nights. At first, I simply wait for sleep to take me as it always has, but now never does. As light bleeds to dark after the second day, I fall off of my feet, face down in the grass, and dream. I see, in my night-sleep, images of things I should not know. I see the man in the flame-shadow dressings utter strange words in indescribable tongues. "Ven aqui, digame su nombre. Glado, ya voy una pie contigo ahora, y escucharlo a su historia. Si me gusto, posiblemente escriba para ti.

I cannot see to whom he speaks, and cannot infer any meaning from the words, but it seems so familiar. As though I had, in the past, seen or heard this exchange before. I know not how, I know not where, I know not when. Upon brief recollection, I believe I know why. I was meant to hear this, for these words are the reason I am. I exist solely because of this one-sided conversation. I am words incarnate, but I fear I may never know what I mean.

I awake. I know that I awake only because I finally can see me, and because the strange man in bright colours is standing over me quacking at a bowl of soup. After two days, I still do not trust this man's cooking any farther than I can throw it, but I require its nutrients. A paradox, inexplicable, but I find that I cannot gather the strength to walk without partaking of the comestibles proffered by this Platt. I dare not, however, ask him what it is he is feeding me. Not that I would know what he said if he answered, but that non-withstanding.

It is now the third march since awakening into this life, and I still don't know where he is leading me. I follow because I have no place to call mine own, now that I have been ripped from the womb of my burning forest. I follow because I do not know how to prepare sustenance in this land, I do not know if the local fauna is poisonous, and he provides my well-being, as it were. I can only hope that the walking is close to over. My feet are threatening mutiny if I go one more day without a week of reprieve.

Mutinous though my feet have become, I trek on. The land has become less rolling, the flora and fauna more sporadic. There is a steady and constant breeze here, in the flat lands, and it is welcome. I can smell the salt of the seas from here, but I still don't know where "here" is. I wish with each passing footstep that I will find someone who speaks a tongue discernible to my humbled ears.

I have learned the motions of hunting from watching the Platt and his rat-riding companion over the last several days. From what I have seen, if it has feet it can be consumed...though some of these animals simply look dangerous to eat. I have taken up the task of hunting, though Platt still is the cook. This time spent with flying sticks and sharpened rocks, chasing after airborne and land bound creatures alike, has a calming effect on my weakening mind. It gives me reprieve from the inane chatter at mindless syllables of the multi-coloured man. I fear that someday I may learn to understand his babbling ways.

Morning comes, and evening passes. The days themselves are growing shorter, with the darkness cloaking the lands for extended times. It is colder at night, but the breeze from the sea makes it bearable. I have noticed, in the dark times, a shadow against the black, staying away from the firelight, and sleeping amongst the trees.

For the first few days, this shadow of shadows bothered me none. I had thought it to be another of the colourful man’s tricks to keep away the wolves at night, though I still hear them baying in the distance. After about the fifth night, I pointed him out to the one called Platt. “I know you understand my words. Look there, into the woods. There is a shadow following us. Is it kin of yours?”

Platt makes a show of marching up to the edge of the fire, as if he’s the most important person in the whole of creation, unable to be harmed by anyone or anything. This charade continues right up until a sound emits from the shadow.

A deep, guttural “BOO!” bellows from the shadow’s proximity, and Platt screams in such a shrill manner that my ears alight in pain. He promptly runs behind me, shoving me toward the shadow and babbling incoherently, “Wazamstuflee ahkozeerum yum-yum grazabolunky ogreman bazomoostaky wahrakooza!”

At this, a laugh emanates from the shadows, and out walks a giant of a man. He stands head and shoulders taller than I and is built like a tree, with long grey hair and tusk-like whiskers protruding from his chin. He seems to be harmless, at least outwardly, though the Platt-man is still cowering behind me in fear.

“Platt, you damnable jester!! Come out from behind him and quit your whimpering. You know I’m not going to eat you,” he says, in a rumbling tone.

It takes me a minute, but I realize that I understood him. This man does not speak the jumbled mix of syllables that my companion utters. “Who…what…where am I?” I finally stutter.

Seemingly amused, the talking tree of a man grins at me. “I am Ogre. I’ve been wondering why you have been following that,” he says, pointing at Platt. “I can understand now, since you don’t know where you are, why you keep walking in circles with him. You are on the border of the land called DragonFen. It would be wise of you to speak to the ruler of the Granite Tower, but I would advise against following the jester there. He’s something of a criminal in those lands.”

At that, the Ogre simply started walking. Platt stuck his thumbs in his ears, the other fingers splayed, and made a buzzing sound with his tongue, then stormed off to the campfire to finish burning his dinner.

It only took a moment of contemplation for me to decide that I’d rather travel with someone whom I could understand and speak to before running off after the Ogre.

"Is your name Ogre, or something other? I fear that the words that the....jester?...spoke made less sense to me than liquid rope," I say, after an hour of silent walking. My thoughts have walked ruts in my mind, trying to sort out all of the questions that I wish to ask this man.

He doesn't seem to register that I have spoken to him, at least not for the first few heartbeats. Then, with a slight turn of his head, he speaks. "Ogre is."

"'Ogre is?' Ogre is what?" I am mildly befuddled at this response. It makes sense, yet it doesn't.

"No. Just 'Ogre is.' Nothing more. My name is Ogre, because some, like your jester, think I am an ogre. Therefore, 'Ogre is.'"

Ah. I see now. I think. Now to parse out my other questions for this lumbering giant before me. Do I ask him what this Dragon's Fin is that he wants me to go to is? Do I ask him if he is himself going there now, and if so, why?

---

An hour or two go by, and the scenery changes. No more am I walking in a forest, nor am I passing by that moss covered boulder that started to look familiar the third or fourth time Platt broke camp next to it. I still haven't sorted out my questions for the Ogre yet, and he doesn't seem to have any interest in speaking. At least, he has not asked me yet why I am following him, nor told me to bugger off. Come to think of it, he hasn't said a word, even to himself, since the latest rendition of "Ogre is" was explained to me.

Still, in the dark of night, I ask the Ogre my first in what will hopefully be a series of questions. "Do you plan on making camp? Daylight is best to travel if at night you can rest."

At this, the Ogre paused, looked down at me, began stroking his whiskers, and said, "If ye can dig up something to eat, I'll allow you to camp here with me. I'll start a fire over next to that tree," he said, pointing a dozen yards ahead, "and give ye one hour to come up with a meal." He then wandered off, I assume to get the workings of some tinder and firewood. I decide, with a gentle nudge from my innards, to follow suit and snare some food. It doesn't take long before I have two rabbits and a small feathered animal of a sort I've never seen before, and get back to the appointed campsite, eager to find out where I am and where I'm going.