Wild Hunt Heathcliff/Identity Story

Overview

Voicelines

Identity Story

Pre-Canto VIPost-Canto VI

Speaker	Dialogue
	The drizzling rain tears through my heart, shearing it painfully like cold shards of glass.
	The rain holds memories of the past, each droplet a memory of that manor carved into my very being from the day I was taken from the streets.
	So I stand in the rain, the thundering monsoon.
	Every cold sensation a painful reminder that I must become retribution itself, a vengeance to tear those accursed bastards apart.
	…Yet there was a shelter there, an umbrella, at the manor.
	It gave me reprieve from the rain, for however brief a moment, as the droplets were about to tear through my skin.
	Her name was Catherine.
	I began to think that this life, this existence, may be worth enduring between those moments of reprieve. As long as I could wait out the rain and dry my drenched clothes.
	Such were the delusions this umbrella gave me.
	Hah. Ridiculous. She never should have even existed in my life to begin with.
	The umbrella was destined for others; the shelter she gave me was inspired by nothing more than a short-lived pity, like tossing a coin for a beggar…
	What shame, what humiliation is it that I deluded myself into believing that she truly cared for me, that she loved me?
	I shall never long for such shelter, such umbrella again. Nevermore.
	To those bastards at the manor who so ruthlessly pelted me with cruel, heavy rain: I bring you flesh-rending, bone-shattering tempest of ruin.
	And that is now the sole reason my life continues.
	…This forest is on a high, silent hill.
	The damnably grand manor remains in my sight still, past the overgrown forest, even as the storm makes its landing upon the skies beneath which I stand.
	A clear sight of my target is good fuel for my rage. Like a funnel for this boiling hatred within me.
	I see the Butlers come out to dry the manor's dirty laundries. I see guests coming and going from the manor, arriving to enjoy the occasional banquet. And I recall the fleeting pockets of joy.
	I recall my caretaker, the Chief Butler, who cared for me more than anyone else despite her brusque and surly disposition.
	…No. Illusions, all.
	Hellish pain fades away into the fog of memories past, twisting them into sentimental reminiscences. This is nothing but a feeble trick of the mind, beguiling me; an attempt to paint over the hurt with joy.
	I'll obliviate them all. Once I excise them… my past, my memories… then my mind will not longer play such tricks on me.
	Catherine, the pitying umbrella… is already dead.
	There is nothing left for me in that manor, no repose, no momentary reprieve.
	When was it? Was it the day I first wielded this blade, or was it the day I met and observed my countless selves across the endless worlds?
	Or was it the day of my assault upon the Young Master's mansion, when I tore through countless Butlers and made a mountain of their corpses?
	Though its origin is a mystery still, I came to learn how to command loyalty of the dead.
	Yet I had no teacher. I suppose my transformation was inevitable, as it was for my countless other selves in the infinite worlds.
	I am perpetually surrounded by the screeching, pouring hatred of the dead; yet I find quite amusing the unfair, illogical nature of the world, that they have no choice but to bid me their loyalty despite it all.
	I led the procession of the Wild Hunt. I mauled the Young Master's useless arm off his torso.
	…And I declared from the top of my lungs that I shall soon host a banquet of my own at that accursed manor.
	I'll give them more than enough time to prepare.
	The Young Master, whose arm I mauled, will temper and whet his saber keen with hatred as his flame.
	The Chief Butler, who still seeks the long-dead Mistress, will be brutal with her serviette.
	My old caretaker, her heart gashed by betrayal, will strike me with thunderous rebuke.
	They will join my banquet with utter preparation. And only then shall I exact a revenge truly meaningful.
	I shall await them with my procession. I wish to see them charge into us, their eyes bloodshot with all kinds of emotions, their veins pulsating with tension.
	Yet, in the end, I will crush them all.
	And atop the wuthering heights, in the crumbling ruins of the manor, I will be reunited with Catherine once again.
	There, I will release my endlessly festering woe and rage at…
	…the broken umbrella, bellowing, pouring my heart out before her.
	There, I will declare my vengeance complete, my regret behind me.
	That I have finally brought ruin to Wuthering Heights, the cradle of all miseries.
	That you, me… both of us…
	…we could've been happy had this accursed manor never existed.

Speaker	Dialogue
	The drizzling rain tears through my heart, shearing it painfully like cold shards of glass.
	The rain holds memories of the past. Each droplet a memory of that manor carved into my very being from the day I was taken from the streets.
	So I stand in the rain, the thundering monsoon.
	Every cold sensation a painful reminder that I must become retribution itself, a vengeance to tear those accursed bastards apart.
	…There wasn't even a shelter, an umbrella to shield me from the rain.
	Nothing gave me reprieve from the rain, not even the thinnest layer of fabric to stop it from tearing into my skin.
	A delusional thought that this life, this existence, may be worth enduring if I could have those moments of relief…. that, as long as I could wait out the rain and dry my drenched clothes…
	I did not have even the faintest mirage of such hopes. I knew this life was not to be one of relief.
	Hah. Good. I don't need anything like that holding back my rage, my vengeance.
	I have already lost my recollection of a few things that set me off on my path of revenge.
	There was something there, something that kindled this rage within me, something that set me on this path of destruction the moment I left the manor. But…
	No. These are but meaningless ruminations. There is no straying from the path of retribution.
	To those bastards at the manor who so ruthlessly pelted me with cruel, heavy rain: I bring you flesh-rending, bone-shattering tempest of ruin.
	And that is all I need to perpetuate this existence. That is more than enough reason to live on.
	…This forest is on a high, silent hill.
	The damnably grand manor remains in my sight still, past the overgrown forest, even as the storm makes its landing upon the skies beneath which I stand.
	A clear sight of my target is good fuel for my rage. Like a funnel for this boiling hatred within me.
	I see the Butlers come out to dry the manor's dirty laundries. I see guests coming and going from the manor, arriving to enjoy the occasional banquet. And I recall the fleeting pockets of joy.
	I recall my caretaker, the Chief Butler, who cared for me more than anyone else despite her brusque and surly disposition.
	…No. Illusions, all.
	Hellish pain fades away into the fog of memories past, twisting them into sentimental reminiscences. This is nothing but a feeble trick of the mind, beguiling me; an attempt to paint over the hurt with joy.
	After all, my memories with her have now long faded past the opaque mist.
	Yet I wasn't alone in those memories. There was… there was a…
	No. I'll obliviate them all. Once I excise them… my past, my memories… then my mind will no longer play such tricks on me.
	Nothing but pointless memories, nothing but hurt painted over with false joy of reminiscence.
	There is nothing left for me in that manor, no repose, no momentary reprieve.
	When was it? Was it the day I first wielded this blade, or was it the day I met and observed my countless selves across the endless worlds?
	Or was it the day of my assault upon the Young Master's mansion, when I tore through countless Butlers and made a mountain of their corpses?
	Though its origin is a mystery still, I came to learn how to command loyalty of the dead.
	Yet I had no teacher. I suppose my transformation was inevitable, as it was for my countless other selves in the infinite worlds.
	I am perpetually surrounded by the screeching, pouring hatred of the dead; yet I find quite amusing the unfair, illogical nature of the world, that they have no choice but to bid me their loyalty despite it all.
	I led the march of the Wild Hunt. I mauled the Young Master's useless arm off his torso.
	…And I declared from the top of my lungs that I shall soon host a banquet of my own at that accursed manor.
	I'll give them more than enough time to prepare.
	The Young Master, whose arm I mauled, will temper and whet his saber keen with hatred as his flame.
	The Chief Butler, who still seeks the long-dead Mistress, will be brutal with her serviette.
	My old caretaker, her heart gashed by betrayal, will strike me with thunderous rebuke.
	They will join my banquet with utter preparation. And only then shall I exact a revenge truly meaningful.
	I shall await them with my march. I wish to see them charge into us, their eyes bloodshot with all kinds of emotions, their veins pulsating with tension.
	Yet, in the end, I will crush them all.
	And atop the wuthering heights, in the crumbling ruins of the manor, I will stand alone.
	There, I will release my endlessly festering woe and rage at…
	…At…
	Who… was to hear my cry? To whom was I to pour my heart out?
	No, that's… There's…
	Everything I've done has hinged on… It was all to…
	…Ah, it's raining again…
	If, even the cutting raindrops fail to summon this memory, then…
	…it cannot have been more important than the culmination of pain that I endured.
	Thus, the lost memory signifies nothing to me.
	Perhaps it will return once I raze this manor to ashes.
	…Then I will have reached my destination, my vengeance complete, however lost my memories may have become.
	…Perhaps the mirror is full of lies.
	All that remains in the fog of my memories… are these words someone had once conveyed to me.

World of Wuthering Heights Identity Stories