MattBird

The story begins like many of it's time. David Gregsson is a man, a man of ordinary stature, of ordinary cloth, of ordinary origin. But his story was turned on it's head, much like his view as he plummeted downwards into a shallow grave, and his vision faded to black. When he next opened his eyes the blazing sun was directly overhead, and there was a warm bullet sitting on his chest, seemingly pushed out by his now reformed muscle tissue, "What in the fuck?" He gave an audible groan of displeasure as he pulled himself out of the hole and dusted himself off. Directly ahead, about five paces away, was a familiar black horse with a familiar midn

 As class let out for the afternoon break, Gregario slipped out of his classroom, making his way to his office through the now empty hallways, a chill running up his spine as he turned the small brass doorknob and slid inside, his back pressing through the frosted glass, letting a breath out as he looked at the small rose on his desk, reaching back and pulling the small tie from his long hair, shaking it out into its wild formation. He took a seat, staring at the flower, his thin finger drumming against the desk. A chill coursed through him as he felt cold hands grip his shoulders lightly, and lips press softly to his earlobe, a finger tracin

Gregario, heard the screams ringing in his ears, the pounding pulse of his heartbeat thundering, the feeling of a saw meeting flesh. The sickly sweet afterglow of a fresh 'experiment' a fresh kill. The scent of blood filling his nostrils and a loud thud as a mug was slammed onto the bar next to him, snapping him back into the current world, music and laughing filling his ears, his head wrap feeling warm against him, still going under the pretense of a middle eastern trader Zahiid Tamriella, a man bent on bringing technological wonders of the east to the west, most of them being his own inventions he had cooked up in china. His hands trembled

The words leave her thin lips and smack into Gregario's eardrums. He looked down at himself, covered in mud from running through the Italian countryside, It was pouring rain and Madison was on the porch, his face contorted in pain and disgust. "What do you mean you can't come with me!?" he shouted, his heart thrumming with the power of a thousand side show strongmen. His fists closed hard around the locket in his hand, the small Brass locket that he had just finished and put in the velvet pouch he now held. His skin was alight with his anger and confusion and childish anger, throwing the pouch at her feet and turning, starting down the path,