Herein we will explore the life and times of a Doctor, a Mask, and a Cracked Man.
- Author Post/Credits
- Rough Timeline
- The Cracked Man
- A Critic in Alagadda
- 035 ramblings
- An Encounter in the Shadow of the Anguished King
A canon conceived by Blacknife09 and Gabriel Jade.
Built from a headcanon proposed by Dr. Chandra
Dr Cimmerian provided early feedback that heavily shaped the course of events.
http://www.scp-wiki.net/the-hanged-king-s-comedy The link
Cracked Man conducts alchemy to travel to different realms and become sick
Cracked man meets the plague doctor that will become 049, 035 returns the journal [Encounter]
049 cures cracked man - 035 and others are exiled
049 winds up in Sumer, and begins his journey around to china, etc.
Cracked Man & 035 travel for some time and finally Cracked Man leaves 035 in Greece
035 has an absolute meltdown when he can't control the Cracked Man
Cracked man travels sick for a time and is finally contained by Serpent’s Hand
049 & 035 are contained by foundation
049 & 035 breach containment [Everyone Wears a Mask]
049 cures fifthists. [An Angel who has Forsaken Sympathy]
035 collects 049’s creations and arranges for MC&D to take custody of 049 temporarily. [Do No Harm]
035 creates the ritual site through the use of cured fifthists, then recovers the Cracked Man.
035 coerces cracked man to prepare the site while he recovers 049.
035 tricks and lies to cracked man, promising a world where 'he truly belongs' where he will be truly cured, subsequently uses Cracked Man to perform ritual to return to Alagadda
All 3 return to Alagadda. 035 sets into motion the beginnings of his plan to turn the Cracked Man into a suitable host.
Cracked Man grows resentful undertakes studies of alchemy to discover a method to leave Alagada.
049 travels Alagadda offering what healing he can.
(An uncomfortable amount of time passes)
The 3 major factors in 035's plan are The Cracked Man, The Hanged King, and 049. All other pieces are ultimately pointless; 035 needs 049 to cure the cracked man within Alagadda in such a way that the Hanged King is not aware of the surgery and subsequent wearing of 035 by the Cracked Man. Every attempt thus far has failed at or before this step.
I awoke from my slumber with a grand thought, an thought so excellent that it would allow me to escape this perpetual hell that I find myself im, and thought so sublime that this wretched abomination of a plane will be one day be purged from my memories and with it and more fulfilling life will be granted.
I arose from my bed with a fervours spring and made my daily routine and bouts in a blink of an eye, from either the twisted existence or the giddiness that I found myself in. The acts of self-pruning and gluttony were once again enjoyable as I had figured out a way of making these steps of the morning a now temporary event until I evict my self of this golden gaol.
I made more expansion on my thought in the complexes on my cerebrum, for a period of time that for once, I welcomed as I could now ponder on my escape in a seemingly endless space of time. The reason for the hatred of the world one finds themselves in, hypocritically is now one’s greatest ally in that in what it does to the lore and canon of all events here allows one an ample period to think on one’s actions.
To think that the denizens of this world do not do the same is astonishing, instead just falling to their instincts and savagery for a rapid fix of pleasure, when thinking and exploring the mind of one can grant the largest fulfilment and wonder in all existence.
This plain allows one to perform such an act, but the time taken for this can grant differing results, you may ponder the greatest complexities in the universe in a matter of seconds and leave your abode the most intellectual being of all time- or may spend an eternity deciding on one’s attire to then leave to discover that the event has passed many generations ago.
This session of great pondering was not like this, merely a moment was needed before the thought I had concocted in my dreams was a plan that could be carried out like clockwork that was dissimilar to the clock that loomed over us all in the courtyard. This was direct, linear; everything that I had been looking for in this waste of an existence.
Of course, the first step was to gather thoughts from people and creatures with brains larger than mine could ever be through the passages and texts of accords these same peoples dedicated an entire eternity to be nothing more than some thing as fickle as paper kept in bondage to farm dust for the rest of it’s life in a storage for its brothers and cousins- to one day be picked up and given the chance to express all of the intellect that the paper had been graced with.
So alas, I made my leave to the great library of wonderment and thought. What great content I would find in it's walls and pages filled my core with a sense of great yearning for the texture of the delicate pages between my polished digits.
But the sick truth of this reality had once again stuck me, for such a great deal of time had passed in my ecstacy: that the way towards the great building was no longer as I remeber it- in fact none of what I knew around me was what I know anymore. The damn clock no longer rung its calls of insults of logic and time; as the tower was no more and nor was the courtyard it were in.
An extravangantly strong rage spiked through my very core, and I could only muster a shrill cry of anguish as my emotions were once again dictated by the raw hatred I have for this realm. So I sat and moped around for minutes over some pointless trivialities like depression and motivation.
But given enough time, like all things here, I picked myself out the gutter I found myself in, and prepared myself for my grand voyage.
…
(In shitty handwriting here)
Here it be I made it. MADE IT. I write here as I made it. To the great book place of smart, a place I forgot the reason to come for. excuse my fonts and wording- it be less than proper- see good diary one wondered these golden mazes for a good part of a milenia, maybe even two. see this horrid place doesnt want thou to leave its foul grasps , so drives a man mad to seek the knowlage to do so- so time has only been slowed to the point where every damn blink is an enternity every twitch of my digits may drive this world to a point I was a century ago. Madness followed me at every step and it was as if the Hanged King himself made my existance a misery, so my feeble mind holds on to a sinlge slither of whatever sanity I have left and for some cursed goal I set myself all those years back. I would reminice on them, but I fear that the meer thought of the past will bring it back in the most literal sense. But whatever it is, I feel like I have achieved it, for before me, a grand building of large stature, and even for Alaggadda seemingly infinite height and bredth. So I now this write to anchor my reality here as I make my entrace to this place of knowlage.
Two men sat in the mansion's study, one man
The ever twisting golden maze of endless facade and orgy was alight again with the joyous screams of lust and sharp sadism. Beautiful scarlet flowers atop such wondrous garments, danced doggedly with their hosts in an unholy display; and the dapper of a gentleman being lost in a impulsive fit of irony. These paved streets are a blessing to those who follow its vulgar dogma, and by the damned Kings they do. The thirst of these delinquents on the streets has such a profound affect, that even I; in a chosen existence of celibacy, have almost succumbed to the tainted pursuit of that abominable high.
One would think if the mongrels of the street being so entangled with the social heights of degeneracy, they would have the skill of excellent banter; but to the dismay of I, they even fail in that regard. Most of them are not able to hold a civil conversation for little more than a cluster of words, before they stumble off from a drunken concoction of poor ales and the drowsiness of reality.
Their undivided attention would be fixed on your being, and a mere blink on an eye later and the entire speech was either forgotten or ignored; lost to the back of the mind, along with other interactions to fester in a sea of madness. These memories would never to enter the thoughts of that simple brain again, until time warps once more and regurgitates these pointless memoirs to consciousness accompanied by the line, "Does thou know I?"
To lack verbose on the resolution that both parties come to: "Aye! But, neither know if that is true." For, time is convoluted in its goal of passing, and does not follow a simple path. It's twisting and contorting throughout our existence in this city realm, so events are not unique to one 'time', and instead the correct question to events is not 'when' but 'where'. You wait at one point for a lengthy period and one may find an old event. But not that this matters at all, as one's experience of this repeat is of that of one's first time. As the time of the memory had not existed so no thought remains of it, leading to bizarre moments in life of déjà vu and perplexion.
I walked past a clock tower near my abode, it towering above all below on the street in a golden excellence displaying crooked hands aiming towards ciphers and digits. Each blink or passing moment displays a face on the clock, vastly different to the one a moment before, legitimizing its entire existence in a sea of disjointed instants.
The spiteful's torment shall permit
Glom of power whence the worlds split.
And black stars hate without relent;
The King's pernicious game is spent.
Failed usurper ten trillion times,
Fueled by those two who sinned no crimes.
So now my reign stands to begin,
Anguish, the court of strife and sin
Existence within my control,
Agony wracking every soul.
Thus, I will feed the king his sin,
To die 'till he can't die again
Thereafter I will take my throne,
All flesh having been stripped to bone,
All lives are pawns of the Anguished King's
To suffer and die on my puppet-strings.
Gracefully carved pillars lined the narrow onyx corridor. Few knew, even within the King's court, that this place existed. Fewer still came willingly. The petitioner walked the hallway, accompanied only by the taps of his footfalls and the depths of his mind. The horror that had brought him here, it seemed, did not accompany those within this hidden passage of the Anguished Lord. Perhaps it was little more than a metaphor to begin with. He shook the thought from his mind and continued on. Still, the scant lucidity yet within him would not relent.
Away for the first time in what seemed an eternity from the writhing and chatter of the city, he found himself terrifyingly alone with his thoughts. The robe of black feathers, these claws, this skull… Clawtips touched the ridges of his skull with a muted clack. Have I always worn this mask? He set off down the hallway again, quickly. Why doesn't walking ever seem to get me anywhere?
"BEGONE, DISEASED VOICE" The tortured thing screamed, but he heard only his pained caws. Doubling over, he frantically clawed at his unfamiliar visage, desperate to tear apart the thoughts behind it.
This hurts.
"SICK!!"
Why can't I ever get it to come off?
"DIE AND LEAVE ME BE!"
Confused, pained wails and screeches echoed throughout the hallway; A symphony for the Anguished Lord. Trembling, wet with blood as red as midnight, it despaired that it did not die. It languished, terrified, knowing it was alone.
And then it wasn't.
The Cracked Man approached, in that queer way that the natives of this nightmare city did, such that he was not there until he appeared, looking down at the tortured beast. If he weren't dying, he might have felt bad for it.
"Have you come here, too, to escape death? Or are you just some mad beast caught in a trap?" The man's porcelain cheeks fractured and snapped, tiny cracks adding to his crumbling form with each motion. His face had mostly fallen away already, exposing the hollow form within. His single remaining eye looked out from precipitously close to the chasm that had swallowed its companion.
"Death… death is no matter." The creature's pupils contracted slowly at the noise, until this newcomer was focused in his vision. "But there is a sickness in you. I should know - I should know - how to cure you!" Its body rose as it spoke, and it stared at one bony talon, outstretched towards the Cracked Man. His other talon tried, now lamely, to rip himself free of the body he wore. "Yet I have worn this nightmare mask in this damned city for…" He paused, contemplating the very passage of time in this world of four lords. His breath grew swift and ragged, his thoughts emerging as a small, fearful whimper at the enormity of the eternities he had been lost in the city of strife and sin.
The black beast staggered a few steps down the corridor, which drew a derisive stare from the Alagaddan native's artificially cyclopean orb. He appeared once again next to the staggering creature, his posture and position changed in the time that passed unseen between the seconds that elapsed.
"Speak for yourself, wretch, you seem every bit as sick as I am." It wasn't wrong though. His condition had progressed to the point where he had to be judicious with his words, lest he lose his mouth.
"I am not sick, no, no, never sick. You! Sick and Crack-ed — Crack-ed" it cawed at him in distress. He ached, a man trying to remember a pleasant dream in a waking nightmare. "But my book, I have been here without it for — for so long I have forgotten the procedure!" The raven-quilled healer took another dozen, staggering steps before turning again to face the man, who was watching his strides with contempt. "You. You never told me your name, Crack-ed man."
"It seems you already know it. What bitter irony, that I cross paths with a doctor that can prescribe my name, but not my cure. What, then, do you seek this book of yours in this shadow of a shadow?" He appeared again, hands folded behind his back, eye-to-eye with the beast, or at least as near as its beak would allow. "If you had it, then could you free me from this pain and sickness?" Porcelain shards fell from his splintering lips as he spoke.
The yellow iris constricted the black of the beast's eye to a pinprick. "I could, and there is no doubt of it." The avian skull, covered with a hood of midnight plumes, turned slowly back to the direction he had been travelling in. "Still… it is as though this place is without end. What resides here?"
"That's simple. What brought you here?"
The sight of the terror that had lead him to this corridor filled his mind again. Only in his memory, it seemed, could he see it clearly, and he had only one word for it. "Anguish."
"Anguish." agreed the other.
"Anguish!" confirmed the walls as they melted away, seeming to turn all at once from black marble to inky acid.
The Anguished Lord made his countenance to shine down upon them. From the void of pitch above emerged, as though from an immense distance, an alabaster mask. It glared down at them, impossibly large, twisted at once with sadistic glee and unimaginable agony. The Lord's gaze stripped their thoughts, their egos, their very selves away, and twisted them like puppets.
They both watched in horror as one of the beast's bony talons extended slowly out and tore open the Cracked man's chest, fracturing porcelain with his touch like knives. It crushed the fragments of his body, and reached into the man's very core, where the Anguished Lord had hidden his memory, an eternity ago. His clawtips touched lightly against the familiar, comforting shape of his journal.
The Cracked man fell, twisted and, he hoped, dying to the ground. He felt his back crunch and splinter apart painfully as he struck whatever imperceptible force suspended them in the black void surrounding them.
The doctor's mind sat there, in his hand. Almost afraid to believe it, his other talon reached up, pulling the covers of the book apart. The pages, the writing, the procedure. It all came rushing back, almost as though it had never left, as his hand turned frantically from page to page, needing no more than an instant for each to sear itself back into view from the long-lost pits of his memory.
His purpose returned, he fell to his knees, withdrawing his tools from his bag, working fast to apply the cure he had spent so, so long unable to. His actions blurred the line between earthen-work and medicine, piecing the broken and dying patient back together with a calm and determined claw. He didn't look up when the Anguished Lord drew so near overhead that its ink-black hate dripped into the fractured lines of the Cracked Man; indeed he had been wondering where he was to procure such a rare reagent. He wasted no time filling the beaker he had—
the beaker he had made long ago?
By the time the Doctor's mind found its way from the labyrinth into which it had stumbled, his body had finished the surgery without him.
The Cracked Man stood, his sickness gone, though the black resin of the cursed Lord's hate lingered between the repaired fragments of his form. Judging by the vigor with which gesticulated, his pain was gone as well. He was holding the sneering mask, arguing with it.
"You think what, that I would be so overjoyed at my treatment that I will offer you my very body in recompense? You tyrant, you demon, I will have no part of your schemes. I have my health, and you have my thanks, and those are all the gifts that will be exchanged between us." He flung the mask from his right hand.
It reappeared in his left. He glared at it, icily. It laughed at him, mockingly. When it spoke, its voice dripped with venom. "You act as though you ever had a choice in the matter." Ebony tendrils snaked from its mouth as the lord of Black expressed his only act of loyalty to his Hanged King: "None shall walk Alagadda without a mask!"