Praesule

     The town of Bree is larger than most would think, and unless one spends much of their free time to idly wander its cobbled-stone streets, they would be unfamiliar to them. It was the foreign feel and the strange air about the shadowed alleyways that closed in about the young Thomas Rhineheart. His eyes scanned every building, every corner, seeking some sign of his beloved parents, whom he would soon discover dead and disfigured.

"Nature's choices in inflicting suffering are not satisfactory to us. Nor are they understandable; unless innocence offends her..."

“Has forgiveness happened to you?”

Stop, I don’t--I don’t understand the question, I don’t--

“Jus’ die, yerself.”

That aching feeling that your time is near, but that there's not near enough time to relish all that is dear. Each step forward is a battering ram sending you back, and you can't help but wonder if this is punishment for all they say that you lack. “I'll be a better person, I swear!” You lie through clenching teeth out of fear. 

How many times?

How many times can you be pushed from a cliff and live?

There's got to be a final tier in the fate at hand, a band of late music announcing the cure of your agony.