Template:Custom Retributionist Stories

As darkness falls, a young boy walks home hand-in-hand with his mother. The Medium gently tucks her son in to bed. The boy drifts off to sleep. The only noises heard that night were a knock at the door and a faint scream.

Awakening the next day, the innocent child stares in anguish at the body of the woman who raised and loved him. As tears fall from his face, he calls out, hoping to wake up from this nightmare. Receiving no relief to this pain, the weeping boy staggers into the town square to share the horrific news. Returning home that night, the broken boy collapses onto his bed. Falling asleep, the boy looks up at the stars and wishes and prays to be with his mother again.

As the sun rises on Salem the next day, a young boy walks into town hand-in-hand with his mother. (Creative Writing Stories 1st place, credit to BraveVesperia)

She paces her room in frustration, who to chose who to chose. Who was the most valuable, and who could be valuable again? She hated having to measure her friends life to a mere amount of worth, they were all close to her. Alas, she could only bring one back from the dead. A wand given to her long ago by a kind wizard. Only one use, but a powerful use indeed. She sighs and tries once again to size up her friends. The sun is rising, she knows she must choose quickly. As the first golden rays of the sun appear on the horizon, she rushes to the graveyard, wand in hand, heart racing, her decision made. A Doctor who had helped the town tremendously, but had not thought to help himself. She kneels down by his grave and bows her head. "You were a noble Doctor, may you have life once more." She points the wand at the Doctor's grave, white light streaming from the wand and into the body below. She leaves as quickly as she came, returning to her house as the town, plus a Doctor back from beyond, rise for the day. (Creative Writing Stories 2nd place, credit to HOM3STUCK413)

The night is dark and cold, and she is sure a murderer lurks in every shadow. In one hand she holds the key to the morgue, which she stole this morning, in the other she clutches her silver dagger. With shaking hands she unlocks the door, throwing anxious glances over her shoulder. Finally the rusty lock moves. Within seconds she can open the door, rush inside, and then close it behind her. It's dark there but she doesn't dare to turn on the light. Instead she fumbles her way down the corridor, until she reaches the room where the bodies are stored. It's cold in there, which is no surprise. Usually, only one or two of the metal tables have somebody lying on them, but tonight almost all are occupied. She walks among them, checking the tags tied to their toes, until she finds the right one. She pulls back the white blanket covering the body and is greeted by a familiar face. 'Hello friend,' she whispers, and then pushes the dagger into the bodies chest. The silver dagger glows with a bright light for a few seconds. When the light disappears it's gone. 'Welcome back.' Her friend opens their eyes. (Creative Writing Stories 3rd place, credit to Norling)

Silently pacing around from one end to the other, his gaze falls over the fallen of the town, silently pondering what would be there in the afterlife. As he was talking with some of the victims, together with the town Medium, his mind keeps dwelling off to an old tome he had with him for many years, one he was ever given by a white witch when he was only an acolyte. In a small burst of light, his eyes widen as he remembers the book clearly, and walks over to one of the dead bodies. As he opens the old tome, he holds his other hand over the head of one of the bodies, with a clear white light emitting from it. "I am sorry to disturb your rest, my old friend, but it is not yet your time." (credit to Knuffeldraak)

Working with ancient magic long forgotten by any Witch, the Retributionist performs magic that can turn the tide in the Town's favor. Ressurecting one target of choice, the Retributionist drains all of his magic in this glorious act of god-like power; rendering his physical body no different than the average Town. (unregistered contributor)

The first Retributionist grew up with a Witch. Not a bad Witch, more like the White Witch. Her mother had the hands of God, the magic of no one else, and the beauty of a princess. Then one day, Salem didn't really think she was a good witch. Her mother was burned (since she was a witch), all of the arts of magic in her daughter's hands. She started digging in the notebook on the day it was supposed to be her mother's 1028th birthday. She then discovered one little page. It was titled "The Arts Of Reviving." She dug into it deeper, and deeper, and deeper. She now knew how to do a SPECIAL magic. Reviving. She would be known as the Retributionist, and she would have the gift of giving a second chance in life. She gave that chance to her mother. She was turned into a proper witch, and she and her mother became healers, retributionists, and potion makers. The first retributionist was a mentor, and she had students. The most curious were the ones to be real retributionists some day, one day. (unregistered contributor)

Time was running out for the town. It was down to the Retributionist, the Godfather, and the Jester. The Retributionist had only one shot. He had to make it count. He paced back and forth along the graves, carefully thinking. He thought about the Jailor. He could execute the Godfather and bring an end to this chapter. But the Jester was in the Godfather's pocket. They'd lynch the Jailor in the morning again. After another half an hour wandering back and forth among the graves, he stopped and looked at one. Why didn't he think about that before? He quickly knelt down, setting his tome down and preparing the ritual. He whispered quietly to himself, the chosen grave glowing white. Then a hand forced its way through the dirt. Slowly, the occupant rises from the dirt, coughing and spluttering as he spits dirt out of his mouth. The Retributionist smiles at him, happy with his decision. Even if the Godfather shot him when he went back home, he knew that this would be the one decision that turns the tables on the Godfather, whether the Retributionist lived to see it, or not. As the resurrected person gets to his feet, so does the Retributionist who offers his hand out for a handshake. "Hello again, Mayor. Time to get some revenge." (Credit to The Nightmare Tank)

Investing her time within Magic from the dead witch had paid off, she turned out to be a better witch than anyone ever was. If she had a nickel every time a Townie died, 5 nickels would lay within her hand. With the crime of these killings still unsolved, she didn't think with her mind, but with her heart. "Who had the most injustice done to thee?" She asked. Before even asking herself, she knew the answer. Hanging an innocent was the worst injustice, she shuddered at the thought that the Veteran was betrayed by his own town, and to think she, SHE thought he was guilty? Surely, the Veteran was it. She dug the grave out, and with the last of magic she had gained from the witch, she gave the Veteran another life. During the day time, she was discovered to have done things to the Veteran which gave him life again. Some claimed her to be a witch. "No!" The Mayor exclaimed as he rose up. "She is a Retributionist." (credit to Nedly)

The young woman buried her face in her hands. There had to be a way to do this. Something, anything, that could help them, or the whole town was doomed! She thought about it, the faces of everyone they'd lost flashing through her mind. They had all been so good at things. The kindly old Mayor, able to sway everyone's opinions and unite them towards a common goal, the doctor and his unparalelled skill with an injury, even the old Veteran who lived at the edge of the town had been more help than her, shooting the Serial Killer when he came looking for prey. She curled her hands into fists thinking about him. How that man at the jail had trusted him, and instead of being thanked, had just gotten murdered for his trouble by the very man he'd set free. She knew in her heart that he could keep everyone in the town safe, if only he hadn't been killed so horribly, so thoughtlessly. If only...

It was stupid. Pointless. Thinking about it wouldn't help any, but she kept it up. The Jailor's warm smile, his arms strong but not intimidating. The more she thought, the more it ached, until she couldn't take it anymore, until she cried herself to sleep.

The next morning, at their town meeting, there was a familiar face. There was also one less familiar face. The Jailor explained that, in the afterlife, the dead Sheriff had told him who was responsible for the killings, who the Godfather's pawn was. They wouldn't kill the Mafioso, no. Then the mafia would just elect someone to take his place. With the only person willing to get their hands dirty trapped, however, the rest were slowly weeded out. And then, once each of them had been dealt with, the Jailor finally put a bullet in the Mafioso's head.

She should have been happy. Finally, the town was safe. But the Retributionist missed all of her friends. No matter how hard she thought of them, how much she begged and pleaded with every diety she could think of, it appeared that the Jailor was the only one who would ever come back. (Credit TehMorganator (talk))

The weary middle-aged man collected himself, grabbing a large stone cross-like artifact from beneath his bed. The Retributionist opens his door as silently as possible, trying his hardest not to make a sound. He breathes a heavy sigh of worry, as he hastily makes his way around to the back of his house, being as stealthy as possible, hoping to avoid the night’s evils. When he finally feels safe around the backside of his home, he breaks into a sprint, running toward the old graveyard in the forest on the outskirts of Salem.

The powerful mystic sets up his ritual there, in front of the Jailor’s grave, stabbing the giant artifact into the ground directly in front of the tombstone with all his might, so that it loomed over him and everything else he planned to set down. Throwing off his pack, he carefully removes and places runes, artifacts, and bones in a circle around the recently filled area where his allies’ body lies. Fall leaves floated down gently as a soft cool breeze picks up, carrying the plants as dead as this mellow places citizens across the air.

He waited for the moon to rise to the point where the intersection of the cross splits it into four even quadrants, segmented by the arms and head of the massive relic. The shadow from his artifact lined directly down his face, a perfect blackened line to seemingly cut it in half.

“Ego veni ut vitam tibi alter locus. Placet spiritibus, et educeres de conclusione dicimus suscipiet munera mea custodi. Et dabimus vobis maxima parte. Tibi gratias ago, sodales,” he prays an ancient verse to the spirits of past town members whom now reside in the graveyard. “REDEMPTION AWAITS!” he shouts in finality at the moon, yanking the giant cross from the ground as it begins to vanish in a ball of light. The man stares down, as the arms of the Jailor break through the soft dirt only recently thrown upon him. The Retributionist waited not to see his old friend… especially if it meant the Mafia may track him down too. As quickly as it all happened, the Retributionist was gone. (Credit to ZathusTheMageV).