So there I was, growing up with all sorts of humungous expectations of my parents hanging over me. I liked working with wood, so I became a carpenter. But no, that was not good enough. Dad wanted me to follow in his footsteps, while Mom was always bitching about how little coin I was bringing in as a woodworker, and why could I not be more like Dad?
So I got fed up and ran into the desert. Half-delirious with thirst and hunger, I discovered something. Crazy people, with the right friends, can influence people. So I went back to the cities, did some crazy stuff, made some good friends, and raised a little hell. It was fun.
Then that party-pooper Pilatus got in my shit and nailed me to a wooden cross. How is that for irony? A carpenter nailed to wood?
My friends were sad, of course, and tales of our hell-raising became tales of dead-raising, and before I knew it (well, my soul knew it. The body was long dead), I was considered the Savior of All Mankind.
I guess Mom can stop whining now, eh?
[This message has been edited by Terikel Grayhair (edited 06-14-2017 @ 06:24 AM).]