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09/15/2020 05:44 PM 

( dbd fantasy a.u. / part two - franklin mauritius )

DBD Fantasy A.U. - Part Two – Franklin Mauritius


The Realm encompasses many tales of ordinary victims who've subjected themselves to the perfect conditions for the Entity's picking. From benign to insidious, its preference doesn't seem to favour one particular personality, leaving much of its denizens to their own devices. Among the killers lie a mysterious link that is mutually shared; unspoken, but known. There is no escaping the Voices, although certain foreigners have proven to be resilient in that regard. The Executioner comes with its own brand of esoteric occultist magic that often conflicts with the objective. It's no secret that the tainted powers behind the Metatron proved to be a different kind of nightmare for the survivors, leaving the Entity to ease off for the time being.

But everyone has their share of skeletons. Franklin Mauritius is no exception, citing the profession of an infamous Resurrectionist for the time. His line of work wasn't exactly pretty, or renown for that matter; he simply excavated without a care. The dirty work was something to keep his mind off of the many suggestive thoughts that incubated within his consciousness. There's a certain pride to body harvesting that most people didn't appreciate. “He's a symbol of everything God detests. The desecration of a body is needless—find a live subject!” Though opinions differed, he was no believer in God. Some townsfolk spoke highly of the ancient texts, but where were they when he was forced to endure a reckoning beyond the Realm? Prayers never incited justice, not for him—not for anyone. It doesn't absolve the sinner of their crimes, and it didn't paint the town in a utopian delight. Often scoffed at for bearing the Entity's mark, their faces meant little throughout his day-to-day.

The disapproval was nothing new to Franklin; he's always experienced criticism throughout his years, though he isn't the oldest among the pantheon. He was always different in a not-so-endearing way, having to make the best out of nothing all while enduring the strict hand of his would-be guardians that shifted throughout his life. He knew little of his biological caretakers and dismissed the notion that a home ever existed. Despite his ploys to dismiss and separate himself, he did discover a deep affinity for camaraderie. The notions of an off-family; a brethren that stood the test of time was rather comforting. He'd never make it known, and despite the arrangements among the infamous killers, he didn't mind 'em so much.

A few exceptions came to mind that irked Franklin beyond expectation. Kenneth Chauncey, affectionately known a a jester of some kind had a nasty way of harboring his desires for debauchery and would frequently be called out by the Entity for the means he handles the female survivors. It does the cast no good if a survivor becomes unresponsive, which come in various forms. Kenneth's preferred means involved mutilation of a dangerously affectionate brand that progressed into sexual gratification. It wasn't hard to tell who he'd press continuously, as some of 'em were easily startled. Egregiously pained, their aggressiveness that sparked a flame for survival fueled his disgusting tendencies.


Franklin became cognizant of the aforementioned after a manic encounter with Meaghan Thompson—the ginger among the group. Prior to her repeat encounters with the Clown's antics, she seemed quite sure of herself and allowed for the fight-or-flight response to kick in at a moment's notice. “HEHEH! I see one of mine are up for ya' in the trial! It took some time, but she's developed into somethin' I say is worth every penny... You'll understand what I mean when ya' try to approach her. They're all like that deep down; it takes a certain touch to bring 'em out. HA! HA!” he exclaimed before attempting to pat the harvester on the shoulder.

“—I didn't need to know that, and don't f***in' touch me. You make it harder than it needs to be for the rest of us.”

“Eh? What's this about? Are ya' mad I got to her first...?”

“I don't care about the red-haired bitch, but whatever ye' f***in' did ALL OF US are going to pay for. Ain't none of this sh*t convincin' if they're burned ye' bellend. That's why I'm mad.”

“Oh, like you don't do the same thing boy? If I remember correctly—lemme' see here—the last couple punishments were because of You. Not only that, it wasn't even a criminal thing either. Ya' had somethin' going on—I lost all feeling in my gratifying hand because of you, so f*** off with the martyr talk. If I didn't know any better, I'd kill you myself.

Don't think for a f***in' second just because there's four of—oh, wait a minute! There Used To Be four of ya'. What happened, Franklin? That was Your Fault, wasn't it?”
Engorged lips curled into a smug expression, satisfied with the end result. He knew where to hit 'em if all else failed. Franklin had a penchant for pissing him off more than he count account for.

“F*** off with that. I ain't talkin' about it. Ye' don't know sh*t.”

“Awh, I'm so sorry for your loss—I really am... You ain't been the same since. It's not like they're dead or anything! HAH!”

“...”



The tale the Clown mentioned dates back before the Fall. Franklin is no stranger to troublesome situations, and somewhere in a past life, his sins have caught up to him. Amidst the public eye among the killers where punishment must be paid in full, the Entity had a unique set of arrangements for him all along. While it took some time, the anticipation that derived from his untimely fate would delve a mighty blow to the lonesome fellow. For particular problems, the Entity relocated the pantheon to a sub-realm where swift dealings could be handled. In Frankli—Frank's case, he sought the highest forms of treason against the Entity with utter disregard for the rules. And with each debilitating stretch, his body dwindled in manners that couldn't be supported on vitality alone. He's a defiant one, and would often dismiss the claims of his actions that had an adverse effect on his fellow killers.

It was never in the cards that a situation could arise wherein hearts could collide in a tangled mess that stressed the very Realm beyond its means. Despite his connection to the Voices, he stayed true—very much so, to one particular individual. He fought for his time, swindled the proverbial clock every which way all while ascertaining a selfish, self-serving delight that bewitched him at every turn. And what began as a test of sexual reprisal; an arrogant, pompous taste of unrelenting pride twisted into an entirely different spectacle. At the height of their exchange, it's been made bold that his affinity for that damned woman remained fixated. Unbreakable even with the inconvenience of separating the two. They still managed to come together, even if Benedict's theories coupled with Vigo's many experimental advancements were all but a pipe dream.

It seems the two have braved the depths of the Realm, though not quite the Void, over an impulsive, developing feeling that something more can exist. Unforeseen, and untold, the whispers of a loving reprieve couldn't be any truer.

Forged from the deepest flames, seated on a whim, for the life of him, he couldn't remember the final moments before the Entity stepped in to whisk him and the crew away. He wasn't the only person to incur the punishment meant solely for Frank Morrison, but its effects stuck with him throughout the transition. A burden for each, three souls that laid strewn in their purest form. Deep down, his lone style is merely a cover-up for camaraderie he much desired. The assembly of the Legion couldn't be whole without 'em, but how about in Him? Through the Entity's mysterious means, it struck an accursed brand upon him by infusing his spiritual essence with the souls of his “friends”. With each soul carries a great burden he's forced either to endure, or overcome. There is no clear-cut means to solve each individuals' restlessness, but if he wanted them back, he'd have to come to terms.

For Joseph, the symbol of death—a harbinger of the reaper tinged from his throat. A thirst for souls developed into something far more decrepit. While Franklin wasn't the most particular in-regards to his palette, he'd never find himself having a taste for emaciated flesh. The decay, the pestilence, its diseased-ridden entrails do little to deter the man from the march. Coupled with Joseph's spirit, there are instances and outbreaks where a feverish thirsty for live meat becomes insatiable. The death of someone—something along the way has its means to quell the aches, but it does not replace the sensation of flesh. Raw, preferably. It seems that Joseph has always had a taste for murder, there's no mistaking his aggressive ways, but he's also been a curious individual at heart. Quick to skim through the finer details, there was once a desire for understanding. He's had a keen awareness for the things around him, even if he wasn't very famed for anything beyond petty crimes. But despite this, he's never been satisfied with his findings, and would often be angered at the prospect of false truths. He sought something for the longest time, but the others had no clue of what. What was he hiding?

In Suzanna's case, it was difficult to pin-point the remnants of her spirit. She's always been a reclusive one who traversed the dream world within her affectionately famed imagination. A stargazer, and someone who'd wish the very moonlight to rain down upon the nocturnal realm, there was always a child-like disposition to her the others hadn't understood. In her past life, she was something of a thief. Impulsive in every way when an opportunity presents itself, her deft hands made quick work of just about anything within her means. Her spirit is plagued with guilt, occluded by a dark tinge to the purple spectacle that housed her sixth sense, it often 'caused conflict with Franklin's head—having already been afflicted with the Entity's accursed muses. A deep desire for penitence; reassurance from the others were things he couldn't bring himself to admit. The lack of empathy presented towards Suzanna's case made it difficult to sleep, though he never considered the fact that their energy could have such an effect.

The past suggested of another, a woman in this case. A foreigner to a different continent within the countryside along a realm far more lively than the Entity could provide masked an old heart that the past left behind. Though the two scrounged their differences and managed to maintain the 'guise of the Legion, the pieces of a broken relationship were the biggest burden of all. Peering into the amber wisp, the two were a product of survival. Mean-spirited but menacing a dark shadow lays upon Julie Kostenko. An expression so sinister Franklin could feel its weight within his chest, obfuscated by the ethical take Frank sought to rectify that fateful night—all of which have been obscured within the memory. It isn't his place to peer, but the feelings run rampant. Confusion and mistrust; contempt that holds a passionate, crackling spark beneath any light, Julia Constantine has been wronged. It's woefully telling in the inability to mesh with his vitality—a refusal even the Entity itself couldn't force.

It appears that beneath the surface, her past isn't lingering onto an old relationship, but rather, resolution. A respectful peace to ease the masses, she was always left behind when the time was convenient. The narrative in-question set the pace for a far more insidious interaction, with a hint of violence that remained unsettling within the Realm. Did she share her pain with the others? The survivors, even? She's hidden something, much to Franklin's dismay.


“You just 'gonna stand there, or you got somethin' to do? Don't make me invade those dreams of yours—the mind ain't protected by the Entity, heheheh.” Whisking of the blades, and that clandestine laugh. It couldn't of been anyone else but Frederick Krueger himself. Always one to press Franklin, he wasn't the type to sit back and take his demeaning commentary.

“It'd be a f***in' shame to get rearranged in your own realm, wouldn't it Demon? What do I do, call out to you? Demon of the Sands, Oh Demon; won't you come through with an Alchemist's elixir~? Piss off! I got better sh*t to do than to f*** around with you.”

“You're right, kid. You do have better things to do. You're living on borrowed time, just like the rest of them. Even I know that, and I'm not real. Hahahahahaha! Better move quick, Body Snatcher. I can smell their lives fading. Imagine that, a four-for-one special, and I ain't impressed in the slightest.”

“Ye' know what else ain't impressive? The fact that ye' forget how easy it is to get 'outta ye' bullsh*t. Those survivors turned your head on a swivel with their alchemy. Ye' never guessed what metallic seasonin' could do to the lucid mind.

But tch, whatever. I'm 'outta here. Keep your hands off of the kids, Chester. It'd be a shame if this place went to ruin because ye' thought ye' could pull a fast one on the Entity.”



After the get-together and formalities settled, he ventured off with the notion that his time was facilitated. There's also a festering hunger he'd rather not get involved with publicly. The shame that came with his festive consumption was often unsightly, and outright embarrassing for him. The shame coupled with Joseph's combined insatiable feast made it difficult to deny his urges. Feral Frenzy for the most part was controllable—during trial hours. Longer periods without a trial in-sight presented a whole new host of issues for Franklin that couldn't be subdued by simple prayer or the Entity's punishment. He needed something more—hard-hitting, if that made sense. His search for the next best thing came with another sighting. An older order that was filed for the days to come requested the pilfering of select goods off of an antiquated harvest, suggesting the body laid in a sepulcher akin to the high and mighty. The thought alone repulsed him, but he made due with the opportunity for some coin. Oddly enough, it was rare for the client not to request the cadaver itself—just their belongings? Seems as though they're in a similar predicament, but he wasn't one to discriminate.

He did his best not to be seen, making use of similar movements his adept companion would've been akin to had she been around. Despite his hungered state, he wasn't frail and was able to maneuver in ways most of his colleagues would gawk to recreate themselves. The travel was light, only packing the essentials—an old scythe to weave out troublesome stones and debris; a shovel to clear a path and an old metal rod fastened with a stone to create sparks necessary to relight the torch he carried 'round for deep-dive investigations. He could do for some tobacco, but the Entity wasn't so kind to provide and the local flora couldn't provide the nutrients necessary to facilitate growth. Tragic, really.

Traversing the tomb, he picked and prodded away meticulously as he would with any other interior. He's quite pedantic with his work, always making sure to double check the loose stones for traps and other unwelcome gizmos stashed away. The infamously wealthy wouldn't allow a peon to sift freely—usually. He did eventually come across the tomb, labeled in some estranged archaic runic language. There's no way to decipher the codec beyond the reference sheet he possessed, but he didn't pretend to know more than he was informed of. It's needless, but he proceeded to overturn the stone covering. The contents were there—a handful of wares that were keen for the client, and the corpse itself looked to be fairly recent. Give or take a few days, but the signs of a still corpse conjured nauseating thoughts. With a glance, he looked back before delving in to the bed.

A brief appreciation, while repulsive as dirty fingertips graced the deceased. Scarlet brightened within his eyes, citing the might of Feral Frenzy with hastened strikes. Nails dug deep, clawing with a visceral take and bloodspatter aplenty 'til the decaying chunks were enough to pick away at. Ragged, but gloved hands peeled away at the darkened matter before carrying out his consumption. The struggle to keep a straight face as he tried to look away didn't help that deep-seated satisfaction he got from every bite. The sensations of meat akin to a mushy but viscous texture gave the tongue mixed signals. There was nothing to scoff at in that department, but the taste left much to be desired. If the blood hadn't gone rancid, he'd actually have something to appreciate. In a quiet Hell he quickly consumed what was required before covering the body back up. Bloodied fingerprints laid strewn against the stone cover, but it couldn't be helped 'til at the very last moment, something slipped between the coffin and its cover: a note. It looked awfully old, and appeared to have a bit of text that suggested a forest of sorts.

“The darkest of conditions were obstacles to overcome. For the elusive mist of the Forest Past would become a place that soothes. Dangerous and astray, it's an arduous trek I'd say. But if you feel ill, take a moment, if you will. There's always something of value in the farthest of places; out of reach, but not out-of-sight. If you can manage, you may find what you are looking for. A sleepless night? Pain that gouges the essence of the soul? Begone as one of the Forest would suggest. It's all but a rumor. If it's a 'gest, the creatures of the night will put a swift claim to the Soul, no matter how blood-stained or bastardized you might be.”

He couldn't believe it. Did such a thing exist? Did the realm beyond the border hold such a remedy even for an accursed man? He wasn't exactly a believer in heresy, but something tells him he didn't have much of a say in the matter. A body harvester with nothing to lose, the odds were against him. Tired, and confused, he dug himself out of the tomb's hole before following the loose illustration beneath the text. The labyrinth of the town had to have an exit of some kind, farce to say. It's also unlikely that the others knew much about it, and he couldn't approach survivors without a third party getting in the way.

To say the journey would be simple was understating it severely. While he's no home-body, he never dared trek beyond the borders. It's something of a mystery, even for him. As many bodies as he's desecrated, the few notes he's managed to scrounge together only suggest a timeless passage. The air's different beyond the town, and its denizens that stalk the borders are creatures of unrivaled capacity. Benedict suggests that the lot are illusions, eclipsed by the moonlit waters that surround the land. The images around 'em are rather deceitful, and prove to shapeshift just as he could when the situation calls for it. It was all theories however, and without any certainty beyond his shovel and trusted armament, he'd only find out first-hand.

Sometimes, if you call out to the mist a wisp of energy appears. Captivating in every way, her elusive presence can be seen when visions become obscured by the climate. Her powers are esoteric and seem to transcend the boundaries of what the Entity has agency over, but perhaps it's a different kind of magic within itself. It's all word-of-mouth, but—there has to be some truth to everything.


( to be continued - part III )

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