First+Peron+Non-Main+Character

The campfire burns bright in producing a shadowy glow on all my companions faces. This is one of the occasional meetings that take place whenever we're in close proximity. We're all the re-incarnated souls of famous people from military generals to kings to politicians, and even a dictator. The five of us sit around a campfire, and share a story of a past life, and we all have a very unique talent for telling stories with vivid detail, and immaculate accuracy. b asically closing your eyes during a story sends you to the setting both figuratively, and literally (another part of our talent). Starting with the self-proclaimed "leader" of our group we sit in a circle with no organization. There's young Dr. Daecher a doctor in his mid-20s exposed to the concept of re-incarnation young with his German-Buddhist parents that refused name-alteration at customs. Right next to him is Ms. Baas who in her teen years decided that her parents' beliefs would have no bearing on her, and took on a mish-mash of various religions including the belief in re-incarnation. Next is me, Rex Werdschmit I was born American with a distant German heritage, and I picked up re-incarnation as a sort of side belief to my Catholic upbringing. Next is the youngest of us a run-away teen who has never told us his name, he claims that he is a Spartan re-incarnate, and definitely has the physical skills to prove it. Finally is our organizer (and "leader") Sir Flameliche, a pyromaniac who is a medieval knight in the wrong body (he relates that to re-incarnation and usually makes up all his stories).

Ms. Baas is nominated to tell the first story meaning that mine will be second. I personally nominate the teenager because I love his stories of growing up Spartan. My nomination is seconded, and the vote is passed.

"Alright, people if you want a story then you'll have one." He growls through grit teeth, pulling his hood up to set a more ominous mood.

"My last memory as a Spartan: The battle of Thermopylae where those damned Persians finished us off for good." He stands casting a humongous shadow behind him, and definitely invoking the fear of death in all of us as though we're staring at the cloak of the Grim Reaper himself. This kid's known for his physical effects, and for the fact that he was a Spartan among Spartans: always looking for a fight, and willing to die to prove he's the best of the world.

"I was out on a short hunt sitting around a campfire, not so unlike this very one when a young messenger appeared running up the hill I was situated on. He looked as though spit from the fires of Hades himself, he even had black hair to boot. He was clearly malnourished, with bone exposed at every possible angle skull included, when he first saw me he collapsed spitting and sputtering a message of damnation for all Spartans: the Persians were coming. I quickly readied my spear, and starting a quick run back to Sparta where my king awaited me.

Upon my first arrival I was greeted by my son pleading me stay with him as opposed to going out, and getting killed by some heartless Persian. I quickly dismissed his pleas, and continued on. Then I approached our military ranks all being situated, and sorted out by the king, and his various generals..." He pauses to inform us that he's forgotten his king's name. "...Then I'm handed a huge shield that I could've comfortable slept in, a small broadsword light in my grasp, and I'm handed a spear longer than myself with a light heft and perfect balance. 'Now we march to death!' The king hollered leading his men (myself included) out of the village and straight toward the Persian palace.

"With many uneventful days the attentiveness of our army was starting to be brought into question so one night my king called me personally to his side. 'I need you to bring my men back to attention. Tomorrow I'll call for a tournament to be held, and I'll place you in the first match. I want you to involve the spectators as much as possible by sending your foe into them. You are dismissed.'

"The next morning, as a red dawn crested the sky, the fight was on. The army had created a small circle using both rocks, and the bodies of the crowd. The cheering pushing me forward I faced my first foe, a smaller man with the Spartan build with a pointed chin, and a slight pig nose on a round face. He charged with no hesitation swinging first for my shins with his bare foot, and as the hit collided the pain rippled up my whole body threatening to drop me then and there. After a short moment of pain I recovered, and delivered a powerful blow right to his chin using my entire body weight channeled into five knuckles. The man instantly collapsed, and was carried out of the circle just as another was taking his place. this one was taller with a strong chin, high cheek bones, and a powerful body. He held up for quite a while longer keeping our crowd on their toes at all times, until finally he was felled by a combination of a punch to the ribs followed by a knee in the thigh. The fighting continued in that manner, each foe lasting longer than the last until I'd dispatched at least a dozen challengers. Then as the thirteenth man approached I could feel this would be my final battle. The fight was long and excruciating with nobody gaining any ground, and then I saw in his one hand he had a nice sized rock he'd picked up after the last short burst of fighting. I decided my time on top should come to a close so as he charged me with his rock-hand poised for a winning blow, I expected a shot to the chest to drop me for the day. When the hit finally came after what felt like a century of waiting it didn't hit me in the chest, instead he decided he was sick of me altogether, and nailed me directly in the trachea. As soon as he made contact I knew it was fatal, and as my breaths became more ragged and short, my vision darkened and I heard the satisfying sound of people screaming and killing my attacker. That is my last memory of being a Spartan warrior."

We all suddenly snapped back to reality, and quickly applauded the grand performance as the young man sits back down removing his hood. Sir Flameliche is next, his stories are generally of grand battles, and heroic deeds.

"I suppose that makes me next?" he looked around for approval, and we all used cliched, and generic phrases of encouragement to inspire him to rise for his tale.

"Instead of my usual doings I think I'll give you a story of before I was a knight, and more of a cutpurse, and how I came to be of knightly stature...Now this story will probably be more hazy than my usual quality, but it's hard to remember all the details clearly. Well here goes...

"The moon was high in the streets of the little village I'd chosen to take a bed in tonight, when I spotted a man riding slowly by in a shabby home-made suit of armor. The guy looked weak and harmless with his twiggy build, and lack of weapons. Without a moment's hesitation I drew my dagger, and decided I'd camp in the woods tonight. I started darting between moon-cast shadows, and into shrubs all the while moving closer to my target, who as I approached I could hear jingling coins from his purse. Before I made my final leap I placed a stick pointing upward in front of the sickly horse the man rode, and then I dove behind one final bush before I heard the horrid sound of a horse in agony. As I heard the phony knight hit the ground I quickly, and silently ran up behind him and sliced his purse wide open causing an avalanche of small silver, and gold coins into my purse. Before I could even turn to run I heard him stand, and I heard his voice 'You dare wound my horse you dirty little cutpurse?! I'll skin you alive for such a deed!' I immediately booked it out of there. Before I'd gone ten meters I felt a solid collision with the back of my skull as the man chucked a rock at me, I blacked out. When I'd awoken I found myself being stood over by a much more regally dressed knight wearing a suit of black armor, and glaring down at me through squinted eyes. He picked me up by the hood of my little black cloak, and I looked into his eyes; black pools that suck in all fear, and loathing converting it into the tint for his armor. I instinctively shrank back into myself, he just looked at me then he spoke his voice just as grave and as his eyes and armor. 'You dare try your cutpurse antics in my realm? The only suitable punishment is a fight to the death between you, and your attempted victim. If you should emerge victorious then you will face me for it is my land you have defiled with your very presence.' With no hesitation I slowly grabbed for the miniature dirk I always keep strapped to my person. Luckily he's so busy gloating his own 'accomplishment' like taking over this place, to notice my motion. After the blade is drawn I choose my target: the throat.

"When my thrust lane is clear I make my move, exerting all muscular ability I have in my right arm using my left hand as a guide to my intended point of impact. My captor releases a silent scream as my blade penetrates his flesh going through his Adam's apple, his trachea, and stopping at his spinal column. The blood runs warm on my hands as the last bit of air escapes the dead man's lips, and I hit the ground hard on my tailbone.

As I glance around finally taking in my somber surroundings I see it's all very dark, and gloomy with no windows, only one door, and a few freshly dead bodies (including the man I'd killed). I pull open the door to a crowd of anxious-looking scrawny people.

'Who are you?' one of the smaller men asks clearly being of the serving class (whether forced or willing).

'I don't have a name.' I reply firmly.

'You are not our king.' He looks clearly afraid.

'Be at ease friend, your king is dead.' I reply showing them the bloody dirk.

'You've slain him? Oh, 'tis a holy miracle!' He shouts simply pouring tears of joy.

'Your king hath fallen!' I announce to the gathering crowd of servants, and warriors alike.

'Praise be to holy God!' 'Finally, freedom!' 'Lousy bastard deserved death.' All the kind's of shouts, and grumbles I heard in the next few moments.

"After that I'm lifted up into the air, and carried to a beautiful carriage to be taken to the actual king of the land who then knighted me in a glorious ceremony. Fin."

After Sir Flameliche's story is closed the looks from around the campfire are filled with the usual awe, and snaps back to existence. Glancing around the fire again I notice that not everybody is coming back to awareness like they should. This is a common problem they just need a little shake, and some reminder of where they actually are. I move to the teen, "hey wake up c'mon the story's over." I shake his shoulder rather roughly causing his eyes to snap open instantly in a look of pure shock. As those of us awake start rousing the others we all glance around to decide who's story should follow. The next one in the circle is Dr. Daecher

"Today my friends, and acquaintances you will here of the first assassination attempt on my old life of dictator. Now keep in mind this whole thing is very low tech, and the society was small so you may have never even known they had a dictator." He says rising to make him appear ominous, and dark.

" 'Twas many a year ago in a small border country in South America...Come to think of it I believe they've recently conceded to separate into two countries. At any rate I was sitting on my grand wooden throne awaiting my nightly dinner feast when a young man came up to me looking only twelve not even a man yet, and says 'you've no right to rule! You stole this land from its rightful rulers, and damned us all to a life of misery and pain.' Of course I had him executed on the spot, and at that moment my grand feast appeared consisting of any meat, and vegetable found in the area. As per the customs I'd invoked to prevent my own poisoning I told my youngest servants to sample everything first. That took much longer than I'd expected, and by the end my stomach was growling not unlike the two male panthers I'd had as pets. When finally that ritual was over I ate my fill of everything in front of me, and as I walked out of the mid-sized throne room I released the two black panthers, and left the servants to fight with my pets over the rest.

When I arrived into the humid shadows of the large-leaf trees that overlooked the entire village I immediately noticed that something was very wrong. The more I looked the more apparent it became: there is nobody out here. Immediately panic sets in as I try to rationalize; maybe it's later than it looks, maybe everybody is enjoying their dinnertime simultaneously today. Yet deep inside my own chest I knew it was all false hope, something had made them either hide or leave. Now squinting I see the driving force across the meadow, and in the market square he sat. He was a large man built like the very tree my throne room is built into, and with a glare of intensity that could strike fear into the very gods. After a few eternal seconds he glances my way, and in a flash launches two knives my way which effectively de-pierced my ears by the hilts catching the rings, and yanking them from my skull. The pain doesn't even register through the shock as my personal security rushed to my aid, and attacked the anonymous individual. As they approached he drew his small stone knife, and to my pure astonishment he started striking them all down in two's and three's. With ease he was dropping all members of my personal guard obviously only intent on ending my life. Then after my supply of soldiers had been exhausted he approached me calmly even sheathing his knife, and said one single word to me 'damnation.' He drew his wicked reddened blade, and ran it across my forehead then down my nose. As the blood filled my vision I truly experienced the fear of dying. Finally as his blade touched my throat I heard a feline roar behind me, and the larger of my two panthers bust through the twig door sending us both reeling.

When I finally rose I realized he'd had plenty of time to kill my precious panther, and take me out of my village. Then as though the gods were looking down on me that day, he accidentally stepped into a hunting snare, and was pulled off his feet freeing me. With no hesitation I grabbed the man's knife from his sheath, and dug it deep into his rib cage, and miraculously sliding it between to ribs and into his life-pump. The man fell limp instantly, and as I began my walk back to my village I realized I'd have to train my security better. The last thing I remember from that day is thinking that my personal guard is dead, and wondering what in the name of Hell I was to do now."

Dr. Daecher's story while well said, and done was not the norm for him he generally disdained his life as dictator...even though in our eyes he was more of a king, and less of a dictator.

Finally my time comes I'm usually the longest pre-tale rambler, and after using the moments between stories to ponder what my own will be I decide to try my hand at remembering a distant life...a medieval serf.

"Before I begin I'd like to re-welcome you all to this event of stories, and mystic achievement, as well as welcome you to my personal theater. I'd like to take you all through a certain day in the life of a serf of medieval England. Although it sounds boring I promise you it'll be anything but. Keep in mind life was extremely hard back then, and most didn't live to hit thirty. Though it seems Dr. Daecher has well expended that limit eh, doc? Haha, but enough of my ramblings let us venture to the times of old where a man's imagination strayed no farther than a simple day off..." I allow my voice to trail off there as I stand, and move to the far side of our small flame to behind Sir Flameliche. As the crowd turns toward me like a group of young children watching a parent run through the house late for work I begin to tell of the setting for my tale.

"Twas a rather drab morning as I rose to don my only tunic; scratchy, brown, and stained a hundred times over. As I looked out my window I couldn't help but wonder of life within the walls of the estate centrally located on this small fief. I immediately went to the small privy in the backroom, and did some morning doings. After I emerged, I went outside to set to collecting my chicken eggs. As soon as I opened the wooden plank serving as a door I couldn't help, but exclaim "God's arms it's cold out here!" (Now for those of you who don't know saying God's arms or any other part of His body is of the most vile curses of the time.) Instantly I saw the looks from the others allowed to work this land for our lord, looks that screamed hatred and made your soul itself weep with remorse for your curse. In an instant I dropped to my knees, and begged for forgiveness; praying with all my heart.

After my prayer I commence my slow, drudging walk to the chicken coop, where the manor lord has dozens upon dozens of chickens of all breeds. At first one of the cocks begins his morning crowing as another one's starts clucking angrily at me, and pecking at my feet causing slight pricks of pain as well as a few small trickles of blood where he'd pecked especially hard. When I enter the make-shift abode of the chickens I'm greeted with a wall of white, black, and brown feathers. When my first step touches ground (and I get one of the hundreds of splinters I'll acquire in this day) the hens and cocks alike begin a frantic clucking, and crowing festival. After so many years tending chickens I've become very accustomed to this sound almost as though it offered asylum from my miserable life. Finally after a few hours I hear the wife call for me to come eat my lunch, and so I grab the last few eggs I manage, scatter a decent bit more seed on my way out, and once again get pecked brutally by the alpha-cock.

"My wife's lunch consists of the usual: a single stolen egg, a loaf of grain-less bread, and slightly green creek water. Though I can't say I'm impressed I am more than satisfied with the little lunch, and for the small bit of family time this gives. My two sons quickly approach the table absolutely caked in mud, and dung no doubt acquired from fooling around when they're supposed to be dropping hay for the grazing cattle. 'Go wash yourself. When you've done you may have whatever is left of lunch. Now go!' my wife quickly reprimands them, and points them to the bathing trough. As usual I eat alone with my wife, whom unlike most I'd married out of actual emotion, and not political need or family pressure. After the food has been expended (not counting a couple pieces of bread I left for the boys) I kiss my wife, and depart for the chicken coop yet again to finish the venture I'd been on before the interruption for food.

"After I finished that bit of tedious labor I'm called unexpectedly to the manor house. All I remember thinking is a quick prayer that nobody had found out about my stolen egg for that could either mean expulsion from the fief or death (honestly death is the easier sentence). Upon arrival I'm treated very well the lord -whom I'd never seen in person- is called for and arrangements are made for a dinner for me, and him to eat alone. I was to be treated as though royalty: given top quality wines, finest meats of the finest beasts, and some appropriate dress for the occasion. As the dinner hour rolls around I am escorted to the gargantuan dining hall easily capable of containing the entire village (people, homes, etc.). I remember wishing this was a life I had then instantly banished the though, and muttered a quick prayer to cleanse the envy of my body and mind. Finally once I'm seated in the place of honor next to the lord (reserved solely for the guest of honor at all banquets) I see him: not much taller than myself, though built like a well-fed bull, and with a voice that resonates as though from cavernous Hell. When he's seated next to me his eyes speak of kindness and generosity, but quickly I knew something was amiss when all that was offered to eat was eggs cooked in all ways. Then the final signal that all was wrong was one statement from the lord I've been no less than loyal to my entire life: 'Eggs, no doubt a cuisine your accustomed to.' His manner of speaking would have betrayed nothing to the average person, but no doubt he'd chosen his words carefully.

'Nay, sir. My pallet doesn't exceed tasteless bread, and dirty water.' I reply forcing my voice to not quiver.

'Well then by all means you must try at least one of every concoction here.' he answers eying me close.

'Aye, my lord I believe I shall.' Though I don't move for fear of my bodily shivers betraying my guilt.

'Then by all means have at it my friend.' The last word almost at a hiss with contained rage, and suspicion.

'I don't want to impose upon you' I reply steadying my nerves, and adjusting to being in the presence of the man who's ruled my whole life

'No imposition at all 'tis my gift to you. Enjoy.' He narrows his eyes to slits.

'Well lord if you insist than I shall enjoy, but in my raising the higher power eats his meal first.' I reply growing suspicious of this lord.

'Just eat the damned food or so help me God I will have you executed on this very day!' He yells filling the hall with the power, and immensity of that command a hundred times over.

'I refuse as I've just eaten, and would definitely not wish to offend you by eating before my esteemed host.' I reply forcing myself to be calm.

'Fine, then I will eat.' And eat he did, though it be his final meal as all my suspicions had been correct, though I hate to admit it.

As the poison reached his stomach his angry voice had turned to strained sighs, and tearful groans. Finally his death groan reaches an apex as he curses me to the deepest pits of Hell before his chest deflates for the final time. I rose solemnly saying a silent prayer for the dead, and instantly filling with remorse for my folly of petty theft.

"That, my friends is my tale of the petty wholesome life of the lowest level of feudal life." I look around at my entranced audience, and see nothing but awe. I just think to myself how grand a sight it is to see my story-telling reach such a level. I love these times as they provide the only opportunity to practice my chronicling ability, and allow me the chance to experience the abilities of my peers. As I take my place in the circle I get the usual applause we give our own, and I'll admit I allow myself a moment of self-satisfaction at the sound. I give ms. Baas history's slightest nod to assume the opportunity to work off the awe I'd left in the crowd.

She replies to my nod with one of her own, and stands up to take her place at the head of the fire to tell her tale. I look up and down her somewhat larger body, with her oddly shaped head that wider around the forehead, and chin than it is at the cheeks.

"As you all know even in past lives I've never actually amounted to much of anything, sad as it is to say. Today I'll try to send you through the mind of a petty criminal on his way to the top, the time period is around the 1950s, and I can't say I remember the place too well, but rest assured that won't damage the tale none." She glances around to make sure she's gained all of our attention. Once satisfied she commenced.

"Now as I recall I was already on the run from the local authorities for stealing a woman's handbag, a plain black thing with a simple shoulder strap. The thing that caught my eye was the fact that it was made of a sort of horse leather clearly of the far east. This woman had money I'd only hoped she'd kept it in her purse, of course she hadn't, but that didn't discourage me as I still had the purse which I'd no doubt could've fetched a hefty sum sold to the right people. Now all I was doing was hiding under a little grate that lead to a water line about five feet straight down with barely enough room for me let alone me, the purse, and the garbage people threw down those things. It was cramped, wet, uncomfortable, and quite dangerous as there was a good chance I could've been equal parts stuck, and screwed. Soon I heard the sirens of the police following a cold trail fade into nothing as though eaten by the impending nightfall, and immediately I pushed the grate upward using my head; as, my hands were occupied being stuck to my sides in the tight confines. After miraculously arranging my freedom from the claustrophobic area of the rain water run-off grate I immediately ran to the nearest shop to get my latest acquisition appraised, and possibly sold. The place I finally stopped looked to be a bit of a dump (don't judge a book by its cover right?) and in all honestly I was in no hurry to get in there, but I had business that needed to be done so I went in, and inquired about the manager. No sooner were the words out of my mouth than a gangly-looking man who looked to weigh around 100 pounds when soaking wet. He asked what I wanted with great disdain for even my presence as though this little shack were the White House. I responded that I'd needed an appraisal done for a purse, and he looked me up and down with great interest before asking to see the item in question. When I presented him the purse he laughed whole-heartedly directly at me which naturally pissed me off a little bit, but I held my tongue to just asking what was so funny. He replied that the purse was made of faux-leather, and wasn't worth more than, and I quote 'a peasant's piss.' So after being shown out by a rather brutish man I went home to my little apartment with nothing at all except a floor, and a roof. Just before I let the heavily desired relief of sleep overtake I made a silent vow that the next day I'd either pull the biggest heist of all time or die trying.

"The next day with the rain drizzling onto the sidewalk, I hopped on a bus to New York City to pull the heist of my life. The bus ride was uneventful, and boring. When I finally arrived in the Big Apple I immediately booked it toward Wall Street where my plans would finally come to fruition: The stock exchange. Keep note, I wasn't a bright person now I know of course robbing the exchange would garner nothing. Upon walking in the front door due to my looks I already received unusual looks, dressing as street scum didn't exactly earn you a respected position in the New York Stock Exchange. When I pulled the gun the common folk got scared, but the security guards immediately dove on top of me crushing the gun from my hand, and knocking me entirely unconscious.

"Upon regaining my consciousness I found myself tied to a chair my intentions being questioned. I was still too tired to even mutter English, and so I just kinda mumbled out some gibberish. When I come to I start kicking, and fighting the tight restraints. Immediately I'm clubbed in the head, and told to be only speak when spoken to. I nodded numbly still fighting through the pain radiating from my skull, and down my spine. Again I'm asked why I did it, and this time I manage to mutter out my vow from the previous night. When I mention my intention to kill myself for my failure a few thoughtful 'hmmmms,' surround me. I'm clubbed unconscious again, and as my head gets heavy, and my sight fades to black I hear a few slight sniggers as my tormentors plot.

"This time when I awake I'm alone in a room with a gun, and a door. I first test the door; unlocked, quite a curious situation. Without warning a voice comes through a speaker.

'You've been given two choices in this room, both are freedom.' The well-disguised voice says flatly.

'No, one is death the other is freedom.' I reply yelling at the wall like a loon.

'Death is its own unique freedom. Think about your life, what do you have to keep fighting for. If you go through that door it's back to your old apartment, and petty life of larceny.' The wall replies, this time making it clear that the speaker is smiling somewhere unseen.

'How do you see death as freedom? Just because my life isn't ideal? Your sick!'

'Death liberates those uncomfortable with ordinary life. Look at any soldier of the world. They find civilian life unbearable so they fight for the sake of dying. They don't want any freedoms for their people, they don't care about beliefs, they only want death to both themselves, and others.'

'Well I actually enjoy my life, I like the life of a petty thief. I hate conformity!' I actually scream at the empty room.

'You like your dead-end life?' it replies genuinely curious.

'It's only dead-end until the big score!' I rebut.

'When's that big score?' it argues.

'Whenever I finally get it.' I say starting to see the reason in the person's voice

'Your last chance was today, and you just lost it. Now what?'

'Now...I honestly don't know.' I reply looking hesitantly at the handgun.

'You'll just go home, and rot in your apartment. Is that really what you want? If not your freedom lies a trigger pull away.' The voice sounds even calmer than before almost as though trying to soothe me.

"Before any more can be said I bull-rush the door, and burst through it instantly cut short by a mounted rifle round straight through me. Unfortunately this is my tale, and though it isn't exactly cheerful it truly encompasses how messed up our government is."

Ms. Baas then retakes her place by the fire waiting to see if anything else is going to happen. Everyone glances around at each other before the teenager breaks the silence by announcing that he's going to bed, and walks off. Sir Flameliche, and I both wonder aloud where he sleeps, and who he actually is. Then one by one all of us head on our own way to the various hotels, motels, and tents we may have decided to stay in.