And continue that ad nauseam.
Timofey Gafkovich was a writer and a (bad)
poet, but not one of any special talent-- or so he thought. It turns
out that the novel he had been toiling over at night for the previous
five years was so absolutely brilliant that, when he at last worked up
the courage to show it to a publisher, the publisher decided he wanted
it for himself. Everyone has at some point read a book that they wished
they had written, but this dastardly man decided to make that envious
wish a reality. He was already seeing Timofey's young wife behind
Timofey's young back and together, the two of them plotted the author's
However, neither realised that Timofey had
sold his soul to a gypsy years ago. He was cruelly murdered but his
soul remained. Bound to the living world, he watched his wife wed the
publisher, the publisher publish his novel, and the both of them grow
fat and rich off the profits.
There is, alas, no happy end to this tale.
Timofey wanders the world still as a morose wraith, often evanescing in
a boyish form as a reflection of his uncertainty (and in an attempt to
win sympathy). He's a roleplaying character of mine and a longtime
companion and servant of my necromancer. He also was loosely inspired
by a character in some of Karen Elizabeth Gordon's grammar books.