London, 1862, Sunshine, a small orphanage in the middle of a small road. This was the place where Verity, no last name given at the time, eventually died
It was the same routine day in and day out, wake up, eat, learn, take a beating for asking questions, eat, go to bed as you pray to be adopted.
Of the orphans present, one brunette with curly hair stands out as the third eldest there, her. Every time she would bother asking the origins of her name, it was always the same answer; the paper with her name fell when she arrived.
She arrived at the age of 2.
SMACK! SMACK!
The ruler hit her hand over and over again. She always tried to explain why she couldn't pay attention, none of the matrons would have her excuses.
I'm sorry ma'am, but my body hurts so much I…
SILENCE, child.
Her stomach, her intestinal lining, was turned into an acidic pit. A leaky pipe, the intestines being destroyed day in and day out every single day. The orphanage's doctor hardly said a thing, usually prescribing her the same faulty medicine that would wear off by the time lunch time finally came around.
EAT!
They would scream that simple word every single time the girl refused to eat the food in front of her, knowing the internal punishment that would follow. The inferno that was everything in her day to day life became the usual routine. Not a smile was given aside from the mere prospect of adoption. But, as parents came and children left, Verity stayed.
At the age of 15, she finally said the one word that would change her life forever. As her teacher once again reached for a ruler in a mandatory etiquette class each of the children were forced to take, with herself being an assistant to her, the class all looked about as her eyes simply rolled as she presented her wrist. They watched from the door. Some children laughed, few of them cried, the teacher's pet did nothing but smile as her superior was left with the torturous instrument.
The ruler met her wrist once more as she had simply grown numb to the pain, until the pain that truly mattered finally began to emerge in her digestive system.
"Look, I'm sorry, alright? Just let me get my medicine, please." she begged her to stop as the ruler was raised once more.
"Inexcusable!" screamed the orphanage's mother. One more smack on the wrist and the girl was sent to her room for the night. No food, only a cup of water, and another verse of the good book before being put back to sleep once more.
It was 6:30pm when the acid began to attack the intestines. The inside of her body became a raging inferno with no way to possibly put it out. The inside of her body nearly melted away as she could hear the other children laughing, playing games. A voice in her head began to chant.
They don't need you.
They don't need you.
You're trash, scum, filth
The pain was truly unbearable for her, even in her young age. She needed it to stop. The pain, the voices, all of it. She reached over for the nearest object she could find to end her suffering, a letter opener on the desk next to her bed. She took the letter opener, she stabbed herself in the heart and as her sickness began to spread, her final words were finally uttered.
Why couldn't my life be happy?
As her eyes began to close, a bright light could be seen in the far distance as an angelic figure with a large sickle came down from the ceiling.
She should be afraid, terrified.
So then why did she feel so at peace at the fact that she's finally leaving the mortal world?
This was all about 300 years ago.
2547Q; 3:30 pm, Landfish Island, Middle of Nation 9:
It had been nearly 15 years since Verit arrived in Wondertale and gave herself her new name. She came to accept the name as her own, as a very simple yet complex name, and ever since then it was simply one haunt after another.
Reports of the girl's exploits were all over every major news outlet of Wondertale's Ten Nations, albeit far from being the headline of any story.
Today, she floats aimlessly with little to no direction. The sky began to glow in the afternoon's second sun, a star showing itself to be blue as the moon came out a gorgeous shade of orange. How these phenomena came to be, she never bothered to ask. All she did know was that as she floated weightlessly above the clouds so dense she could swear a few kingdoms could be built on one, she saw a target.
"Finally." She said with a small smirk, her undead eyes shining but a bit at the slightest bit of inspiration.
"I was starting to think nothing worth my time would come around."
She all but dove through Wondertale's first and second layers of clouds in the sky. Why she could only reach the second, again, she never bothered asking for an explanation in her three centuries worth of life beyond the grave. Her target, a simple man, yet one some would consider evil. But to Verity, she saw an opportunity for a little bit of fun. Her target, a man in a fake chaplain's robes, the cross on his neck hardly centered as the robes on his body barely give his feet the room required to functionably walk.
The so-called chaplain sits in an empty church on the verge of collapse with the stained glass windows around him close to shattering. He stands in front of a crowd of followers in praying hands, each member holding the same pendant as he.
"My children, we are gathered here today to celebrate the life of our former pastor, Pastor Morgan. He died the way he lived, under the grace of Tsekouri. Lord of the Axe. He who chopped the tree of knowledge to create half the land we walk on."
The service continues as the listeners continue to pray as one boy in jet black hair makes the mistake of opening his eyes during prayer, to which the 'pastor' notices as his mother slightly gasps.
"Young man. I see you have opened your eyes during prayer. Is there something you wish to say in regards to Tsekouri?" the 'pastor' asked with little to no curiosity in his voice, but rather a faint whisper that barely held a resemblance to the concept of a voice at all.
The boy of jet oil black hair murmurs to himself, nearly to the volume of a soliloquy of a pity dream that he fears to be said.
"I…." The boy hesitated as the church looked on.
His anxiety began to weigh on his head as if the bowl cut he had been given became an extra ten tons in weight as his shoulders tightened.
As he took multiple deep breaths, the boy finally stood forward. He points to the so-called pastor and announces a speech with the wave of a single finger.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I find it my duty to inform you all that not only is the pastor in front of you a fake, but is using the name of former Pastor Morgan to cover a fraudulent lie of his past. He is the blood red moon, the tree of knowledge that your god Tsekouri so despises."
The church gasps as the young man smirks with the visage of a man thrice his own age, a man who is a graduate, a man who was intelligent, well spoken, and literate in every possible horror to the human mind. The pastor stumbles backwards as his words begin to slowly crumble.
"LIES!! ALL LIES!!!" The pastor screams as he falls back. As he hits the floor, he blinks twice only to see the demonic yet somewhat angelic figure to be completely gone.
In truth, the monologue he was shown, the speech he was forced to be the center of, was simply gone. The boy simply sat there with his mother, his hands on his knees as the pastor screamed. He begins to hear a voice. A feminine voice, as he looks on, the rest of the audience is close to meeting his point of view.
"Well, that was a drag. A good laugh, but a drag." Verity says as she floats and disappears from the rest of the audience.
The sermon turns into a zoo of wild animals as one person starts screaming after another. The statues of Tsukouri in his port yet built nature shattering to the ground in the hysterics of the chaos. The ghost herself simply takes a breath of satisfaction as the screaming continues
"OUR COMPANIONSHIP WAS A LIE!!!"
"WHERES MY MEDICATION?!"
"PLEASE LORD TSUKOURI, SAVE US FROM THE HASTE!!"
As Verity's laughter begins to die down with the sense of humor of a young lady laughing the way they'd usually laugh only when alone with no sense of public perception, she walks over to the boy whose hands are clasped on his ears and taps him on the shoulder. She floats him out to an empty hallway onto a bench and pats his head. As the boy looks up to Verity's eyes, she gives a small, almost motherly and assuring smile to the boy.
"Look, sorry 'bout all tha', brav. Just needed a lil laugh."
As the boy continues to look towards the ghostly pale white lady in front of him with a slight bit of hesitation, he makes a small attempt to move towards the door moreso. The noise begins to practically ring in his ears as Verity still sits in place, listening to the satisfying sounds of screams and torment while leaning her head back as her breathing slows down, finally with a chance to rest. The boy continuously trembles as the noise grows and grows, only for Verity to speak up once more.
"And that there, boy, is how you dismantle a regime in only one minute." She says pointing to the pastor.
"Khoma."
Verity looked at the boy in a bit of annoyed confusion.
"My name is not a boy, it's Khoma. I've- I've been indoctrinated here for a while. My mother was always big on the idea of smaller and bigger gods and I've been stuck with her since she left my dad. If anything, I'm grateful you did this ms…"
"Verity. My name's Verity."
"Ms Verity, what do you do when you don't want to do something, but there's nothing you can do?"
Verity raises her finger and opens her mouth slightly to speak but, only for her thoughts to be interrupted by the sound of doors opening with the noise only getting worse as the fake pastor runs out the building.
The front doors are opened as a man with white hair and a pink fur coat is there to greet him, his arm a darkened oak wood with a box in that exact hand, his left arm of skin and bone just raised to knock on the door.
"Pardon me sir, I have a delivery from Anamdead's Contracts and Such. All I require is a signature or a stamp."
The ghost and the boy approach the door, the pink furred man handing the package over as the pastor stamps a smear of blood on it. The box opens to reveal a sort of indistinguishable sphere of light and strange mist-like gas. "Axe Magic" the package reads.
The fake pastor attempts the man away, his robed arms only making a few inches worth of a push as he runs away as fast and as far as he can from the crowd behind him.
"My, oh my. That's a disappointment. Not a minute in and the order has already been canceled. Oh well."
The old man opens the package himself and reveals a small sphere of a holy light and a demonic mist-like energy with the simple name of "Axe Magic" written inside of it. The crystal-esche sphere assimilates into his body with an energy similar to a wave of water surging through him. He gives a small sigh of relief and turns to explore more of the island he found himself on. Just before he's able to leave, a certain letter opener flies right past his ear.
Verity stands by the front entrance with Khouma shaking on her leg. Her hand is in an obvious throwing position as the man has his head turned to the side just enough to not only dodge the letter opener, but also allow it to land on the fake pastor's cloak, pinning him to the ground as the crowd is left to have their way with him.
"Ahhh." Says the old man as his head turns from Verity to the pastor. He looks to Verity once more and gives her and Khouma a smile, ever so slight.
"It seems a bond was created." He says, walking past them both, leaving the building altogether.
Verity and Khouma both look his way and eventually at each other, the two of them unanimously thinking the same thought.
"Who the hell is this old geezer?"
"Arthur." the old man said.
The ghost and the young boy both look at the old man with a sense of confusion in both of their eyes. A small smile can be seen on his face, both at their faces and the scenery behind him.
"Arthur Anamdead. Traveling Shopkeeper. Pleasure is mine."