[Human] Manson Doktore

Manson Doktore
Your Imminently Scaleliness



General

Race: Human
Age: 27 years old
Gender: Male
Alignment: True Neutral
Class: Savant
Occupation: Public Health Commissioner of Draconia

Oh and Head Cultist of the Cult of the Great Dragon, though that position is very recent.

Personal

Appearance

Manson is typically described as "wonderfully mundane" by those who know him. So striking is he in his normalcy, and so easy to forget and dismiss that he is asked sometimes if he is actually a rogue practicing a form of social stealth. You couldn't pick him out from most humans, he may be handsome and well kept, but not distinctly so. Sure he could probably go home with the prettiest girl in the bar but no woman of real stature would ever consider a night with him as it wouldn't be anything to really talk about. I mean what's so exciting about saying something like "and he's got the most... Brown eyes like a brown... Brown. His hair is jet black like... Uh... Like a thing... That's black....". Due to his occupation and lifestyle Manson isn't that much more fit than your regular farmhand either. There's no fat on him but he lacks the bulging, explosive muscles and power of a beastfolk warrior and none of the lean grace of an elven rogue. His overall frame is a boxy rectangle, built for long hours of menial work and the occasional burst of regular running and jumping. Interestingly enough though, a skilled fighter could pick out that he seems to have enough upper body muscle with sturdy enough legs that make him well suited to heavier, two handed weapons such as pole arms and axes.

If you were trying your very hardest to make Manson look more unique then he actually is though, you could try and spy out his clothing. Manson spent a great amount of time coordinating a set that fulfills all the function he requires while still being stylish, and it's worked out thus far as it is the only way people remember that he's a Health Commissioner. Of course he also gets mistaken for the food inspector, and the "Head Doctor-man" or "that douche with the stupid haircut that said I got sick from shagging me wife!" But more because his job is so ill-defined and he's forced to take on these duties. However if you think you've got a health problem, just seek out the dapper looking gent with black dress pants, a white shirt and a black vest. Usually Manson rolls up the sleeves on his shirt to adapt to the warm climate, but he will roll them down if performing surgery in order to keep himself clean. Manson also carries a face mask to prevent sick people from coughing into his mouth and wears specialized leather gloves that can be rendered completely sterile by washing in plain water. While horribly mundane he does value these two items as they have been his constants in his career when he has been forced to perform surgery with tools such as spoons and swords.

Personality

Manson considers himself to be a man of plain logic.  To him the world has basic rules and structure that he does his best to follow whenever he can.  However the thing about these rules is that they don't tend to work in the real world because people are ignorant, idiotic creatures that do stupid, completely retarded things.  In Manson's opinion, all you need to really do in life to succeed is not be an ignorant, idiotic creature that makes stupid, completely retarded decisions.  Of course acting like this tends to prevent you from entering the Pantheon of heroes, as no hero has ever come from a place of "Doing the logical thing".  Heroes are composed of those who know they may fail and yet produce success.  Heroes are those who know the odds and then make their own. People thank the doctor when they get sick, but they nearly always attribute their recovery to "the blessing of Dragoon himself" and ignore the decades of knowledge and hard work of their forebears. Manson understands this and doesn't particularly mind most of the time but most due notice his distinct lack of enthusiasm for heroism. He is disinterested in it, and does not particularly adore it, finding those who tend to espouse typical heroic virtues to be tiring on his psyche. Blasphemous as it is, Manson does truly wish for the current "Age of Heroes" to end, though not because he would honestly prefer to be the thrall of a dragon. The young man simply feels that the world has become overly reliant on a privileged few who, in his opinion, were either born into greatness (which usually involved magic) or made idiotic gambles and won (heroes like those who slay dragons typically). However despite his beliefs Manson does not desire to take any direct action against this state of affairs as he is more than happy where he is. He has a job that pays well, a roof to call his own, and though he does not consider himself crippled for being unable to use magic he does find it amusing that he is highly respected in the medical community despite never casting a spell in his life. Manson is a man with extremist opinions who would never do a thing to see them through because of how withdrawn he is from society.

If you were to try and get to know Manson you would quickly understand why and how he's gotten to his position without a drop of magic in his body. Manson is not purely tenacious, or simply talented, or plainly educated, the man has all three of these qualities in spades that makes it clear he is a bona fide genius. When presented with a problem Manson does not simply leave things be to the heroes of old, and he doesn't take stupid risks to solve these problems. He approaches them with clear logic, and reasons his ways out of situations that tends to irk those around him. Manson isn't hot-blooded, he doesn't fire up with the power of Justice to help the weak, produces a solution that requires the least amount of effort on the part of all parties while accomplishing the most good. An example of his way of thinking would be how he treated a scale-rot disease of several beast folk when he had first started practicing at 20. His colleagues took a myriad of solutions. The mages from the court tried to individually heal the sick but fell ill themselves. Several notable adventurers declared there was rumour of a fountain of healing to the east and several more searched the forest due to tales of a mystical healing tree. Manson did none of this. He first covered himself from head to toe in order to prevent infection, then personally moved the sick to a single home in order to prevent further infection. The doctor then personally inspected each and every family member of the sick, along with anyone else whom he had suspicions about, and then scrubbed down each man, woman, and child while those who were "helping" were anywhere but the village. When those adventurers came back with news that they had found the fountain and tree of healing they saw the entire village was already cured. They asked what had happened and the villagers spoke of a rude man who didn't sleep for five days straight, who lectured them and berated them, all the while making the sick eat different herbs and foods and jotting down their effects. At the end the sick returned to their families only slightly colder as the weird man had made a cream that made their rotted scales and fur fall off, but it was all already starting to grow back good as new. Then before he went to finally sleep in the shack after he cleaned it with soap and water he yelled at the village chief, calling him and everyone in it an imbecile, then warning him to never eat Phantasmals without understanding what they were and to burn the patch of purple mushrooms just outside the village. The village never had an incident of scale-rot again. Yet no legend about Manson formed from this, and he was more than happy that none had. He had performed no miracles, he hadn't vastly changed their lives. He had done nothing exciting or noteworthy at all, and the villagers will never remember him for it. Yet he himself is satisfied, because he was able to save those people. He didn't call on some image of a slayer long dead, he didn't rush out to rely on dumb rumours, he had proven to himself the value of plain and simple common sense. As mundane and anti-climatic as his methods are, Manson always gets the job done.

However to the fear of those around him, Manson possesses a somewhat sociopathic disposition.  Manson does primarily live for himself, as he believes the lives he has saved and will save in the future make it more important that he survives.  It's not that he's a coward, and would throw a baby to the floor to save himself, but if he was surrounded by a band of bandits and all they asked for was the baby he would give it up quite easily.  He is not above sacrificing a few to save the whole, as this is an unfortunate necessity of the scientific process.  Again, it is not done needlessly.  Manson does not kill your sick father to find out what's wrong with your sick mother.  However he is not above feeding you different herbs and specifically watching what reaction you will make to see how a cure can be made.  A particular practice of his that he must be careful of is his penchant for surgery and dissection.  The people of Terra Heroum still do not fully understand or accept Manson's methods of healing.  Most healing is done via alchemical, external, and magical methods.  If you had a cyst growing on your intestines for example that was causing you massive pain, you would be given a potion of some kind to try and heal it.  Your local healer could also attempt to use magic to make it go away.  Manson would perform a Laparotomy and peel your stomach open, then use a fine scapel to cut the cyst away from the intestines.  Logically this causes most people to panic, even if this is not only the fastest method, but also the safest with the smallest chance of the cyst bursting and causing more problems.  Dissection can have an even worse reaction.  The idea of cutting open the dead to find out what killed them is a science that is ill-understood by Terrans.  Manson does not even give the bereaved time to grieve usually, as the fresher the corpse the fresher the evidence.  The idea of some psycho desecrating their loved ones' bodies only makes it worse.  Although the method is effective both to solve crimes and for Manson to generate cures, his attempts to spread the art have been stone-walled by the social stigmas associated with his craft.

History

Manson's history is a story no one wants to hear and they'd never remember either way since it's so damned short.  He was born to a mother and father who made their living as Guards of the city of Cydonia.  They met due to having similar interests and personality types: first and foremost their love of heroes.  You see, his parents were a goofy sort that in fact had heritage from several noted heroes!  However these claims could never be substantiated nor proven, especially considering both of them seemed to claim heritage from the Hero King Dragoon, Necrotic Hero Demetrik, and Issac was completely, 100% assured his grand pappie once removed, twice reborn, seventh returned was the Invincible Hero.  However Issac Doktore and Miria Manson were well loved by their community despite their antics as the pair were a constant source of comedy and light-heartedness that the city desperately needed in times like these.  They also had a penchant for being heroic, though it would never be in ways that would truly garner them Legends of their own.  They were the type to run into a burning house to save the cats, Issac once dove into a lake to return a hat that a little girl cherished.  Dangerous though these things were, the couple did not do these things out of a true desire to be heroic; in fact they faithfully believed that they were heroes already due to their heritage and that their stories would be written soon.

It becomes a strange thing when Manson Doktore is born from two people like this however.  Something about Manson was considered off since the baby was born.  Although he responded to stimuli well enough, the baby had a constant look of disdain on his face.  He played with toys well enough and seemed to like eating food well enough, he even smiled and laughed when his parents were around, but with most other people Manson had an eerie look of calm that matched his utterly cool personality.  It didn't help that the child was too smart for this own good.  Manson lived at the library and by the age of 5 he could already comprehend and apply the knowledge he had learned in the medical texts available to him.  His penchant for medicine and his abhorrence of heroics could have come from this time in his life as well.  Manson still remembers an incident where the class he attended had a bird that they all took care of.  One day the bird became sick and no one knew what to do.  Manson began to read up on the bird and it's symptoms while there was a girl named Janice who would pray to the little bird each day.  The main difference between Manson and Janice was that Janice had magic powers.  Nothing too major at the time, she could conjure some flashing lights but it was enough to make the gift apparent.  This caused people to flock to Janice and she herself believed that she could do anything if her mind was set to it.  It was about three days later when everyone left for class that Janice stayed behind as usual to pray for the bird.  She usually spent a good hour there and then went on her way.  Today Manson left her alone instead of giving her the exasperated glare he usually did and went to go get some plants and fluids.  When Janice left he walked in and quickly threw out the bird's food and drink.  He probably could have stood to be a little gentler but he proceeded to force-feed it a mix of liquids and vitamins he had read up on, and then gave the bird some new fresh water and different food.  The next day when everyone walked into the room the bird was chirping and singing like it had a new life in it to everyone's pleasure.  However the first thing the teacher did was praise Janice.  She praised her and said that it was wonderful that her magic had worked and she'd healed the bird.  Manson attempted to explain that it wasn't the magic and that he had been in yesterday to take care of it but his teacher and fellow students scolded him for being jealous of her.  This made Manson cross for the first time and he explained that there was nothing magical or divine about the bird getting sick or getting better, as it's symptoms indicated that the bird had in fact been poisoned.  In reality the teacher had done this as the bird was meant to die and teach the class a lesson about death and moving on, but the fact that Manson had figured out that poison was used frightened her.  She didn't want the deed to be known or else her students would hate her, and thus berated Manson even further and declared that it was a truly sad thing that he couldn't be happy for someone else and had to have all the attention to himself just because he could read difficult text books.  Manson was more or less forgotten by the other children and everyone else that day, as he was shunned by his classmates for what they believed he did.  As he didn't seem to particularly want or care for friends, life went on as usual.

At least until what should have been a common cold took his parents from him.

Manson never talks about the death of his parents most of the time.  However if you can get him to say anything about what happened he will only retort "they were murdered by idiots and the cause of death was stupidity".  It was after the death of his parents that he more or less disappeared from his home and sought out knowledge that would allow him to "cure the rampant retardation affecting the people of Terra".  Manson received an education via scholarships he earned almost unfairly as there was no one to truly challenge his intellect.  At the Faustus College of Alchemy he spent his formative years honing his scientific prowess and abilities to analyse and understand the Terran body. At the age of 19 he had graduated with enough accreditations and degrees that would make Valentine's eyes cross from having to read them all. However the young man also found himself without a job to begin with. After all no one would believe a man that said he could heal you without magic or alchemy. Manson was offered a teaching position at Faustus, however he promptly blew it by attempting to make a joke about the irony that the students should have been paying to learn, not to feel inadequate in front of him.

From there, Manson groaned the hardest he had ever in his life, and began to wander. He spent the next seven years of his life being the most well-dressed hobo there was and essentially was a Doctor without Borders. From scale-rot epidemics, to premature births and everything in between including an infestation of zombies one unlucky man had in his basement, Manson had little journies of his own though his attitude about things made him hard to remember. It was about a year ago when Manson had his first real break and was discovered by Hilda Brandr, Humanity's Representative on the counsel. Cydonia had weathered an attack on its walls by several Phantasmals, and though the defence was a success the attack had an unfortunate consequence. Men and women suddenly began to die by the dozens from a horrifying plague and it was hard to find the source. What investigators eventually found was that the creatures had left their bile and other foul fluids in the farmlands they attacked, and the livestock would graze on the poisoned land. When the animals were then consumed themselves they passed the plague onto Terrans for whom a cure was near impossible.

Hilda's investigators rushed to notify the butchers and farmers, but when they arrived they were told that there were no more problems with the land and animals, an uptight gent wearing glasses told them how to completely clean the meat of all possible infection. He had berated them and insulted them, at first they didn't believe him but after he showed that he was so sure he was right that he ate a full steak from the most plague infested cow they could find, they had no reason to ignore him. They asked the farmers about the sick and they said that more or less most had survived save for the poor souls who caught the plague first. They didn't like the man however, they said he performed some weird knife wizardry, his patients all said he could cut them open and put them back together again. One patient even arrived and told the investigators that she'd been cut open only a fortnight ago and felt good enough to walk and talk in only three days since. What was even weirder were her symptoms, she said she was vomiting black pus before he worked his sorcery and now was fit as a fiddle. Even some of Cydonia' best healers had difficulty saving people from that stage of the sickness, it was considered terminal if not treated within hours. They demanded to see this strange man and asked where he was. The patient led them to a barn where a family of 20, from baby cousins to great grand uncles all sat outside and prayed. They told the investigators that the weird man was inside working on Thomas's son, he said it was a long shot but he could save him. They had asked all the healers and mages for help and offered the world and a half but they recanted that the best they could do for the boy was to end his life without pain. Thomas couldn't take that. He had lost his wife to child birth and Dragoon be damned if he would lose his only child. The investigators had a job to do however. They had to stop the operation for fear that the man inside was performing necromancy. He wasn't saving those people at all, he was reanimating them. A fight broke out suddenly as the investigators made to open the door and stop the man. Even if he was some kind of abomination Thomas didn't care so long as it was his son. They were repelled. They called for back up and it arrived in the form of Hilda Brandr in the very flesh.

"I wish I didn't have to do this Mame."

"I know."

"He... He's me only son Mame."

"I know."

It was mercifully swift. In a single motion Hilda peerlessly disarmed him and knocked him out with a blow to the temple. The rest of the family went silent. Without further resistance she motioned to her men to let her go in first.  As she slipped through the door what first hit her was... the air.  It was clean.  Incredibly clean.  It didn't match the smell of a barn at all.  It was sterile in fact, as she proceeded further into the barn she felt almost dirty to be there.  Hilda had never been one to always care for prettying herself up, more than once she arrived at the residence of a nobleman clad in full armor.  She hadn't cared then, but at this time the raw sterility of the ground beneath her and the air around her made her feel as if she was intruding.  A voice called out to her, making it clear she was.

"Are you clean?"

"Excuse me?"

"Are.  You.  Clean.  Are you free of dirt.  Yes?  I highly doubt it.  No?  Then stay there and try not to make me screw up."

The utter disdain was palpable.  He didn't even bother to look up at her, the horrid scene sitting on the table just below his chest seemed much more engrossing.  What a grisly scene it was as well.  Hilda had seen many things on the battlefield, men cut in two from the head to groin, stomachs torn from their cavities, eyes gouged from their sockets.  However she hadn't seen gore so... curiously endearing such as this.  A small boy lay on the table, no more than ten winters young.  His chest was split cleanly open and spayed for the world to see his beating heart and fluttering lungs.  The rude man had his hands fully engulfed in the boy's guts, wielding a knife whose edge seemed like paper but cleaned through the boy's fleshiness without resistance.  There was a small table next to him, and a bowl upon it filled with what looked like the vomit of a demon.  Swirling yellow and black, with tinges of red here and there.  Hilda's ears perked up at a small squelching noise.  A spurt of blood jumped up and dirtied the man's vest, joining a myriad of browning stains on his shirt and arms.

"What have you done!?"

"Shut up shut up shut up shut up shutuuuuuuuuuu-there."

He removed a small bud of flesh.  It seemed almost like the rotting root of a plant, still with bits of red hanging off it.  He pulled it away gingerly, making sure not to let it touch the other organs before dumping it into the bowl.  It dissolved into the goop, you could nearly hear it scream.  After that it was a series of movements the likes of which Hilda had never seen.  Within the next two minutes the man produced from his opposite side a needle, thread, and some strange green gel.  With it, he would sew up the wounds like the holes in a jacket quicker than any grandmother Hilda had seen and then apply the gel to the sewing.  He seemed to go upwards in layers, until it was like the gore had never been there in the first place, with nothing but the stains, the bowl, and the memories to betray it.  The man looked over at his watch and huffed in annoyance.

"Two hours and thirty seven minutes.  Seventeen minutes slower than my usual time, but that's what I get for not sleeping for two days...."

He then finally raised his eyes to meet Hilda's and glared at her.

"At least I COMPLETED the surgery though, or else I could have killed someone if A CERTAIN JACK ASS didn't SHUT UP!!!!!"

Manson was subsequently sent to jail.  Hilda probably won't admit it in public but it was definitely more for the attitude than the suspected necromancy.  However it was several days after first landing in jail that Hilda saw Manson again, coming to him with the expectation that his mouthiness had improved.  Thankfully the handcuffs did their work and although he was still quietly surly, he was at least willing to let her say her peace.  Hilda came to Manson with an offer.  He very obviously had no magic, yet had accomplished more good than a single spell could ever do.  As the boy had awoken and was making a full recovery she had no reason to believe he was a necromancer.  As gory as the method was, it had saved him.  There was also the fact that Manson had arrived on scene and solved the problem before Cydonian investigations.  When she began to ask him about his education and experience Manson told her curtly that he had had plenty of practice and was well-traveled across Terra itself.  He had picked up the meat purification from an Elven cooking text, and the plague matched a similar condition that had cropped up about ten years ago that had wiped out a small Beastfolk village.  As Representative of Humanity, Hilda explained the offer to Manson.  Terra would always have heroes to protect it from Phantasmals, but it was unclear for how long Terrans could pay these costs in blood.  Even if they could save a city from dragons, their flames and the battle would raze the crops and destroy their homes.  Even if they could slay a Hydra, they could do little to save the people from it's poisonous corpse.  Magic always had a cost, and the idea of being permanently indebted to the Valentine Academy weighed heavily on the conscience of the people.  If there could be ways to cure these pains without the costs of magic, if there were ways to heal the sick and feed the hungry without having to ration what little they had, how could Hilda in good faith not explore these avenues.  However she was more or less built to solve the problem of war.  Mages could only solve problems the only way they knew how.  A man like Manson was a rarity, and she'd have him properly compensated while giving him the proper space to do the research he needed to produce more nuanced solutions.  Of course, he would inherently be only an advisory role to the council but it was still a position of immense responsi-

"Can I start getting paid now or is listening to you part of the terms of employment?"

Thus for the last year, Manson has been diligently tucked away in his office.  He is known to the council, but not so friendly that he's ever been officially called upon.  His days thus far have been filled with nothing but berating other officials for unhealthy practices, such as allowing workers to handle meat without washing their hands, or helping solve the occasional murder.  As creepy as he is considered, there is no one else better at telling you how someone died.  Manson is rather tired lately however, and blames this on a 'part time job' he's been forced to take on.  It's a night thing, and when asked about it he always makes up something about patient confidentiality.  Thus far, he's pretty sure he's got the secret on lock down.  He sort of has to.  He's fairly sure that the council wouldn't take too kindly to his moonlighting as "RA'DOH VAS SHADAH, CHOSEN SON OF THE GREAT DRAGON" as the other cultists refer to him as.

Oh it was supposed to be such a simple evening.  It had been a year since he had started with the council, and life was pretty good.  Though not one for wanton celebrations, Manson thought he had earned a night of good food and drink for a year well done.  Something from the hidden menu at Draconia's best restaurant, a little something else from their wine cellar, and he was pretty sure the waitress would be dumb enough to go home with him if he pretended to care enough.  It was a fine enough dinner and things seemed to be going well enough, in fact she proposed that he join her as she walked home.  Things progressed as they did, until she broke out the shot glasses.  He never should have taken that bet.  She drank him under the table and through the earth itself.  He awoke several hours later to the sound of chanting and feeling his hands and feet bound to a pole.  He was surrounded by cloaked figures on all sides, while dragon-masked women dressed scantily clad around a vast pot boiling orange liquid.  His screaming and shouted was noted, and then ignored with rousing laughter.  They spoke of how on this day, the anniversary of their message thirty years hence, that the Great Dragon had gifted them a wondrous present.  Though a member of the council he was not, this gift was a sign that their day would come.  If they could take an advisor so easily from the Council's clutch than the representatives were not far behind.

The loudest cult member, wearing a purple cloak with a golden mask rushed to him, his mania clear in his eyes.


 "Do you accept it, brother in waiting?  Do you hear the cry of our Mother dearest?  Will you take the Dragon's love into your heart, and spread it to our brothers and sisters without it?"

"I just wanted to get laid tonight."

The cultist met him with screeches of laughter, and ordered the dancers to show him what the 'Blood of the Great Dragon' could do.  Without question they all jumped in, and without a single cry of pain they burned to death and were reduced to melted bones.  With barely any time to mutter "Well fuck" Manson was thrown presumably thrown to his death for, as the cultist declared, 'if he will not join us in faith, let his body feed the great Dragon's return'.  What happened next was a quirk of fate the man is still attempting to understand.  The world turned black as he entered the liquid, but he felt no burning sensation or the specter of death surrounding him.  In fact he felt... warm.  Encapsulated.  Even safe.  He seemed to be falling, yet felt like he was within the grasp of a force that was all around him.

"So similar.... and yet so radically different..."

He could see flashes of images.  Scales, red eyes, wings.  A nest of eggs, full of warmth and burgeoning life.  A grand figure in the distance, powerful, grand.  A small man walking forward, blade drawn.  A small man walking away, drown in blood.  The screaming of the weak, the screaming of the strong, screaming and crying and roaring and dying all around until the voice cuts through the din again.

"Oh the mysteries and joys of progeny..."

He would've quipped but for once in his life the words were escaping him.

"Fear not child.  You will learn..."

"I really don't want to."

"And yet... you shall."

The black became orange.  The air was sucked from his lungs, he flailed upwards wildly and pulled himself from the pot gasping.  Swearing and coughing were all that filled the room, it even took Manson himself a few moments to realize all the noise was coming from himself.  He roared at them, wanting to know where all the clamor from before had gone.  "His eyes..." he heard in whispers around him.  He blinked, nothing felt different.  He looked behind him back into the pool and saw two red globes staring back at him where there should have been mundane brown.  His swearing was cut off once more as the cultist roared "He... IS ARISEN!!!" which was met with resounding cheers from the gallery.  A chant of "THE CHOSEN SON" marched through them and the synchronized stamping threatened to bring the roof down upon them.


"Let the celebration commence... FOR THE AGE OF HEROES... WILL SOON MEET IT'S END!"

With that, the Head Cultist's robes fell off his body and he put his hands together in prayer.  With a look of utter peace on his face, he leaned into the pot and burned to sludge like those before him.  Manson was pulled from the pot, with fresh water thrown on him to clean off the liquid.  He was hugged, kissed, possibly groped, and definitely prayed to.  They placed a new mask upon his face, a golden facsimile of a Dragon's head and shoved the corpse of a slain grey fox into his arms, a gift to him in prayer that Draconia falls first to his 'divine justice'.  Manson spent the rest of the evening with something of a dead look in the eyes, not even responding when several rather fetching cultists propositioned him for an orgy.  Several hours later, in the dead of the night he was dropped off in a discreet location near his office and the cultists apologized for the circumstances.  While they would have much rather desired he begin leading them immediately, they had to properly prepare and notify the other chapters of his arrival.  They would arrive as soon as possible to retrieve him once they had prepared a fitting reception for him, and with that they left him.  He regained some of his body's functions and stumbled towards his office.  No one had seen him as he required no guards due to the banal nature of his position.  This was... a travesty to say the least.  The man was truly praying for once in his life that everything that he had just been through was some massive cosmic prank.

He reached the mirror and stared into it.  The same dumb mask.  The same stupid robes.  Those damning red eyes.  He flew into a rage, cried and screamed and trashed his entire office, breaking chairs and even desks, punching everything with a flat surface till his knuckles turned raw.  What would he even do?  How could he even go on living?  He was in a Pact with an enemy of the world itself.  There was no procedure, magical or physical that would cure this.  All the knowledge, all the experience, the years of research and this is how it would all disappear?  =purple]"No... no it doesn't go down like this..." he muttered, the mask obscuring his voice.  "I have come too far... saved too many... learned too much to lose this all now..." he hissed.

"When the heroes lose their fingers, who do they come to... when their own mistakes catch up with them, who are they going to beg... when the politicians become sick, when the leaders cannot lead, who are they going to ask for help... ME."

He looked around his office and regretted his anger.  It would take weeks to piece the fine order he had back together.  He was still holding that idiotic grey fox corpse.  Actually, that would be convenient.  He threw the corpse onto the center table where he laid his dissected subjects.  It was an easy ruse, they were all too dumb to question it.

"If the council finds out an adviser is the Head of the Cult, even if I escape it'll start a purge of genocidal proportions.  The people won't be able to handle the idea of someone so high up being in the Cult.  I could run, but never for long.  No... I can use this.  I can do even more... I was only one but now I have... resources... power.  Even if my Pact activates, the Dragon wouldn't be so stupid as to make me kill in broad daylight.  Even then, what's the worth of a dead kid or two, what would they have done when I can save thousands, hundreds of thousands, even the world itself from it's own rampant idiocy.  Then finally... finally things will be as they should be..."

Manson stumbled out of his own office, desperate for a rest.  It was his day off tomorrow at least.  He could sleep in.  On the way he ditched the robe and mask, burning the evidence.  When he awoke the next day, he found his eyes had returned to normal.  Good.  He had time, he could figure this out.  As long as no one knew, the hardest part of all this was just to keep the secret.

Little does Manson know that it's already out, to a degree.  When he was told what had happened he deduced it must have been the Grey Fox who trashed his office.  It was easy to blame a phantom thief when no one knew who they were and no one could catch them.  Ironically however, the Grey Fox HAD stolen things from his office.  In fact they were there the entire time, and now knew that the Head Cultist of the Cult of the Great Dragon was nearer to the council than the cult had ever been.  Tis sad that a man who desired no renown, has now become the world's most hated villain.

Extra

Other Information

Any other random information about your character

OOC Name

Loxos

How Did You Find Us?

I made you angry and you can't seem to make me go away.

Face Claim

[*code]The Evil Within - Joseph Oda, Manson Doktore[/*code]