Diaries of a Madman

[Fenmapus]

In 624 by the King’s Calendar (6 months after the Fall of the Lich King) the criminal mastermind Prof. Fenmapus Felsapper was captured and apprehended by the SI:7 with the aid of the Kirin Tor, Darnassus and the Exodar. His trial was held 2 weeks after his apprehension where, on various crimes against the nations of the Alliance – including, but not limited to: murder, theft, genocide, instigation, sacrilege, kidnapping, associating with demons and the practice of forbidden magical arts – he was found guilty. The sentence: death by burning, which took place on the day of his trial.

Today - merely two years later - the SI:7 has decided to release declassified information about the Felsapper case to the general public. Entitled „Diaries of a Madman”, the exhibition invites the inquisitive into the mind of a twisted, yet brilliant criminal and sheds light into his operations that span over a decade.

Fenmapus Felsapper kept detailed and neatly organized journals and letters about all his machinations. During the exhibition visitors are shown excerpts of these journals, highlighting his most reprehensible deeds.

Featured below is the metaphorical road that lead to Professor Felsapper’s descent into madness and utlimetly his apprehension and inevitable execution.
Let the folly of one man, who let himself be utterly consumed by his ego, amorality and selfishness, be a lesson to us all!

623 by the King’s Calendar, 23rd day of the 2nd month, 3 o’clock in the morning
(1 ½ year before the Fall of the Lich King)


"Survival of the fittest. Thriving through excellence. Building through the sweat of one’s own brow. These are the tenets by which we gnomes live.

Long ago we have abandoned the notion of kings and nobility, people whose greatness is defined only by the circumstances of their birth. In Gnomeregan greatness was achieved only through intellect and determination. Gnomeregan was a city where the artist did not fear the censor, where the scientist was not bound by petty morality, where the great was not constrained by the small. True equality, the likes of which no mortal race has ever exeperienced, was found under the frozen surface of Dun Morogh.

That paradise was forever lost with the invasion of the trogg. In the course of a week nearly eighty percent of the gnomish race was decimated. We became an endangered species. The few of us who survived the calamity sought refuge in the mountain kingdom of Ironforge. There we became second-class citizen, forced upon us an ideology we have discarded centuries ago.

We became the subjects of the King’s taxes. Our scientific exploits were obstructed by the Church of the Holy Light. Our ingenuity and determination were no longer our path to greatness. They became tools for the „greater good of the Alliance”!

I rejected this philosophy. In a world full of parasites, however that makes one the enemy. The parasites claims the fruits of other people’s labours. They strip one of the possessions one has worked hard to gain in the name of equality, morality and religion. Should one resist, they will destroy him. Should one hide, they will find him. The parasites know no justice, they know no order. They would rather have us all live equally miserable, than to allow one person to thrive through his own merits.

History teaches us that a man cannot exist without the hand of the parasite looming above him, eagerly awaiting to profit through the labour of others. So it happened with Dalaran. So it happened with the Society. So it happened with Gnomeregan.

They call me a monster for the acts I have performed in the name of science over the years. They call me a villain for the ways I treat the magical forces of Azeroth.

They do not understand. They do not see that I am merely following Azeroth’s most basic law. Eat or be eaten: the survival of the fittest.

And I will survive."

- Fenmapus Felsapper

SI:7 Notes: Prior to his descent into dementia in 617 by the King’s Calendar, Professor Felsapper appeared to be the member of a secretive order within the Kirin Tor known as the „Society”. Next to nothing is known about this mysterious brotherhood other than it seems to share its idealism with Prof. Felsapper.
We theorize that they were likely mages and scholars who –out of scientific curiosity- delved deeper into the forbidden and fringe areas of magical studies.


(( OOC Disclaimer: The beginning of my RP story series "Diaries of a Madman". Basically they will feature stories Fenmapus has performed over the years he lived on Azeorth in forms of journal entries, letters, etc. This particular storyline is the most important of the series, as it will tell the complete story of how he became the crazy bastard he is today.
This story is also the Prologue to my upcoming RP storyline entitled "Damages", telling the story of how Fenmapus Felsapper finally got what he deserved. I hope you'll enjoy it. ))
_________________
"The road to hell is paved with good inventions"

"I've got the soul of an artist... right here in my jar"

"You can't spell 'slaughter' without 'laughter'" - Warlock's Creed

[Fenmapus]

Excerpts from the journal of Henry Talespinner, wandering bard

608 by the King’s Calendar, 12th day of the 11th month, midnight
(16 years prior to Fall of the Lich King)
Day 1

It is well past nighttime and I am deadly tired, still sleep keeps eluding me. I look outside the windows and I feel uneasy. I look outside and I see thick fog clinging at the streets of the town, the mist almost palpable even from the safety of my room. As I listen to the insistent whisperings and murmurs under my window, the sounds of a town that apperantly never sleeps, I give up trying to find a good night’s rest. Instead I spend a few more hours awake, updating my journal.

What a year! Being a minstrel has never been quite so rewarding! It is several year after the Second War, and still people are thirsting for songs about heroism on the battlefield. The last few months in Capital City have proven especially lucrative, epic tales about the Grand Alliance and Lord Lothar are still in high demand. The good citizen rarely leave the safety of their great walls, which enhances their appetite for my stories.

Winter, however, is approaching rapidly and as the winds grew chillier with each passing day, I have decided to take my leave from Lordaeron. My plan is to board a ship to south before the weather grows too cold for sailing.

I arrived to the Hillsbrad Foothills, and in particulr to the small port town of Soutshore earlier today. It was here I inteded to find a ship that would take me south.

Soutshore is a rough town full of loggers and fishermen, home to simple folk with simple lives. I could describe the town best as gloomy during the late autumn seasons, for there appears to be a constant fog blanketing the entire town. The townfolks seemed to mirror its atmosphere, for although they did not show any open hostility towards me, I did catch several frowning glances towards me. It is hard to describe but the whole town seemed to… agitated by something, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. May it be that they are so distrustful of outsiders? Hard to imagine Soutshore of all places to be a town that sees visitors rarely.

My first stop was the wharfmaster’s office. There I learned that because of the thick fog, traffic on the seas has been moderated. Other than for cargo ships, the docks of Southshore have been shut down until the weather clears itself. However, after much persuasion and a considerable amount of „donation” towards the wharfmaster, I managed to book passage to a cargo ship, set to leave for Menethil Harbour in a week’s time. If my estimations are correct, I should arrive at the shores Azeroth before the first snowflakes start falling and then it’s off to Khaz Modan, fabled realm of the dwarven people! I am quite anxious. Why wouldn’t I be? In a few more weeks I’ll be dining with folks who are even more fascinated by wonderous tales and fables than I am.

After that particular business was taken care of, I decided to visit the local inn, in the hopes of a warm meal and a dry bed. Being in an adventurous mood, I decided to order the local speciality, the „Turtle Bisque”. The innkeeper, a certain Anderson, claimed that people from as far as Stormwind travel to Soutshore just to enjoy a bowl. The meal had a unique taste, unlike anything I’ve eaten before. It was not at all unpleasent, it was simply… unfamiliar. (note to self: ask Anderson for recipe later). After dinner, I decided to linger around in the inn, trying to pick up some of the lore of Soutshore and the Hillsbrad Foothills.

Innkeeper Anderson was surprisingly accomodating. It appeared he was not affected by the general gloom that seemed to take hold of the town and we chatted through most of the evening. Though it took a fairly generous tip and a few rounds of the local brew to finally loosen his tongue, I learned much about the recent events regarding the small port town.

„Now, listen ’ere, sonny” he said „That there fog out there… it ain’t the natural sort. It’s not goin’ away, it’s been here fer two bloody weeks! It clouds not only yer eyesight, nay, it coulds yer mind too! It makes people edgy an’ angry… just last week the town guard had to step in when Nat Pagle an’ Hal McAllister (two fishermen’s lads) were at each other’s throats. They were arguin’ ’bout fish! ’bout fish, for Light’s sake! The boy’s been best buddies since they were toddlers! Ain’t never seen ’em lose their minds like that. They’d have killed each other if the guard hadn’t stepped in… there be some dark magics afoot here.”

I exchanged stories with Anderson for several more hours. He told me about his service in the Second War and in return I told him stories I picked up on the road. But as time passed and the shadows grew larger outside, we kept returning to the hardships tormenting the good folk of Soutshore.

„Them people are starvin’, kid! The fish barely bite anymore an’ the farmers o’ Hillsbrad Fields are lucky if they have enough grain to feed their own mouths, let alone send us food! An’ with that blasted fog coverin’ everything, an’ the docks practically shut down, we barely see any ships anymore! An’ to make matters worse, the beasts in the area are gettin’ more an’ more aggressive as well. Just last month we lost a whole hunting party to a group o’ bloody mountain lions! Them blasted cats were never this much a nuisance! I’m tellin’ ya… evil is afoot! We haven’t had this much trouble when the orcs were up an’ about, destroyin’ everything!”

Here I sit now, at the end of a long day, alone in the rented room of Soutshore’s only inn, wondering about my future travels and about the time I will spend here. I look at my pocketwatch and realize it is well past midnight. Yet, the whisperings and murmurs under my window just refuses to subside. I look out the window one more time, but again I see nothing but the thick fog. A chill runs down my spine as I gaze into the mist, now lit slightly by the pale moon high above. The scene gives the whole town a ghastly image and makes a man, who spends too much of his time travelling, imagine all sorts of things. I’m not sure if it were Anderson’s stories, the Turtle Bisque or just general weariness, but tonight I feel I must do something I haven’t done in years… before going to bed I will say a prayer to the Holy Light…
_________________
"The road to hell is paved with good inventions"

"I've got the soul of an artist... right here in my jar"

"You can't spell 'slaughter' without 'laughter'" - Warlock's Creed

[Fenmapus]

608 by the King’s Calendar, 13th day of the 11th month, 4 o’clock in the morning
(16 years prior to Fall of the Lich King)
Day 2

"Anderson’s stories must’ve had a greater influence on me than I realized at first. An hour ago I awoke from one of the worst nightmares of my life. A storyteller’s imagination often plays cruel tricks on him, especially during the lone nights of his travels. I am accustomed to dreams, even nightmares. But this one… this one was something else. I hastily grab a pen and start writing down what I remember. The insistent whisperings under my window (I can’t believe people are awake at this hour) and the spookish mist outside give the perfect atmosphere for a scary story. They sell well, especially in the winter seasons.

In my dream I walk down the main street of what I think is Soutshore. It is night and the streets are empty. The eerie fog still permates everything, but instead of being chilled by it, I welcome it as a warm blanket, protecting me from the cold night air. I spot the town’s well ahead of me. The town is empty save for a single white stallion standing near the well, looking straight at me. I hasten my steps, eager to reach the town’s well. I expect the horse to shy away, but instead it just stays there, its gray eyes fixated on me curiously. I reach the well and I stretch out a hand over it, only to realize it is not my own! Instead of a man’s arm I behold a monstrous, bestial hand with four long, skeletal fingers that end in pitch-black, wicked talons. I gaze at the hand for a few short seconds, terrified by its unnaturally pale skin, adorned with bulbous, disgusting growths. The white horse keeps its yes on me, observing my horrible realization with indifference. I watch in horror as I reach out my other hand and jab one of my wicked claws into my wrist. Strangely, I feel no pain. Not even, when my claw opens a deep wound on my wrist and thick, black blood starts pouring from it. Desperately I try to pull my hands away, but I am unable to do so. I feel like a concious puppet, able to perceive my surroundings and what’s happening to me, but unable to resist the will of my puppetmaster. The thick, sickeningly black blood keeps gushing from my self-inflicted wound as I hold my arm above the well, letting the blood flow freely into the waters below. Again, I struggle to pull my hand away, but to no avail: it stays there, the black life-fluid flowing freely from it. At last, after many horrible minutes I retract my arm, nurturing my wounded wrist. With the task done, I lean over the well, gazing into its dark waters. In the pale moonlight I see my black blood slowly mixing with the waters. As the surface clears, for the first time, I catch a glimpse of my new face. A being of pure horror looks back at me. It’s unnaturally long, eerily pale face ends in two, wicked horns jutting out from its bald forehead. Eyes, glowing with intense green fire burn into my own. Its mouth curls up into a demonic grin that goes well beyond what should be physically possible, revealing a row of razorsharp fangs. I reach into the waters of the well with my ugly hand, scooping a portion of its waters. I motion for the horse next to me to come closer. Without a sound, it complies. I offer it the water I hold in my palms. It leans its big head closer to my hands, stretches its tongue out and starts tasting the water. No sooner as it finishes its first sip, it bursts out into a neigh of agony. It falls on the ground, its legs scrapíng the ground pathetically as clearly agony eats away at its body. I try to run, I try to escape but once again I realize I do not control this horrific body. I stay there, watching as the stallion’s body spams as waves of agony wash over it. Summoning all its strength, the horse raises its head to the skies, releasing one last, tormented neigh.

That is when I wake up, screaming and sweating and that is where the dream ends. Looking back at what I’ve written down, I wonder if all these years of telling wonderous stories have finally made me lose my senses. I once heard during my travels, through the magical realm of Quel’thalas, that there exists a mystical realm beyond our own where the souls of all mortals go to dream. Elven legends say that in this magical world the dreams of all mortals become reality. I always wondered if that legend holds truth. If it does, then surely I just caused a great deal of havoc in the mystical realm of dreams.
At any rate, the frame for the story is completed. With a few basic modifications, it will hold its ground during those dark winter night when people are looking for a thrill. I put down my quill and realize that my lids are getting heavy again. I realize I have not slept for more than a couple of hours.

(Note to self: visit the local alchemist tomorrow. It would appear some people refuse to sleep even during the night and I have a hard time finding rest if people constanly murmur under my window. Also, ask him if he has any medicine against nightmares. Scary stories may be lucrative, but they won’t do me much good if I’m too tired to tell them.)"
_________________
"The road to hell is paved with good inventions"

"I've got the soul of an artist... right here in my jar"

"You can't spell 'slaughter' without 'laughter'" - Warlock's Creed

[Fenmapus]

Reserved.
_________________
"The road to hell is paved with good inventions"

"I've got the soul of an artist... right here in my jar"

"You can't spell 'slaughter' without 'laughter'" - Warlock's Creed

[Fenmapus]

Reserved.
_________________
"The road to hell is paved with good inventions"

"I've got the soul of an artist... right here in my jar"

"You can't spell 'slaughter' without 'laughter'" - Warlock's Creed

[Fenmapus]

Updated: 2010.07.23
_________________
"The road to hell is paved with good inventions"

"I've got the soul of an artist... right here in my jar"

"You can't spell 'slaughter' without 'laughter'" - Warlock's Creed

[Fenmapus]

Updated: 2010:07.28
_________________
"The road to hell is paved with good inventions"

"I've got the soul of an artist... right here in my jar"

"You can't spell 'slaughter' without 'laughter'" - Warlock's Creed