Post/Author/DateTime	Post
The Vorpal Tribble 05-11-07, 10:45 PM	Thought I might share a number of background stories to various characters of mine over the years. Suggestions and comments welcome. Faaza of the Crimson Gaze (http://boards1.wizards.com/showpost.php?p=12371929&postcount=2) Timothae, the Awakened Dreamer (http://boards1.wizards.com/showpost.php?p=12371938&postcount=3) Mahogany of the Many Trails (http://boards1.wizards.com/showpost.php?p=12371941&postcount=4) Umbra, the Shadow of the Woods (http://boards1.wizards.com/showpost.php?p=12371943&postcount=5) Josiah (http://boards1.wizards.com/showpost.php?p=12371946&postcount=6) Rose Elizabeth Daine (http://boards1.wizards.com/showpost.php?p=12371954&postcount=7) Mulch (http://boards1.wizards.com/showpost.php?p=12371959&postcount=8) Mickle the Northman (http://boards1.wizards.com/showpost.php?p=12371964&postcount=9) Deepti, the Crystal Goddess (http://boards1.wizards.com/showpost.php?p=12371972&postcount=10) The Misfortunes of Bandytwine Damps (http://boards1.wizards.com/showpost.php?p=12371977&postcount=11) Chaim Hyman, Father of the Fields (http://boards1.wizards.com/showpost.php?p=12371987&postcount=12) Brina (http://boards1.wizards.com/showpost.php?p=12383720&postcount=13)
The Vorpal Tribble 05-11-07, 10:46 PM	Faaza of the Crimson Gaze Faaza's life was a struggle from the beginning and the events of his birth may herald a promise of what his future would hold... A passing Red Plume slowed slightly as the cry of newborn broke the stillness of the Hillsfarian night. With a grunt he continued down the road to do his rounds, oblivious to the shadow behind him matching his every step. The nurse delivered a sharp blow to the infants back and it responded with a bellow. The mother covered in sweat, sunk down into the sheets of the bed, weariness forcing her into a restful sleep. The nurse turned the babe over, tucking it into a rough blanket but with a quiet intake of breath she noted the pointed ears that poked above the infant's stark white hair. "So the lass's story was true after all... tis an elf's son." The child was sickly pale and blue veins were visible beneath his thin skin. The infant was without color. The midwife gave the infant a worried glance as she laid it within a crib lined with pelts, and made soft cooing noises. The babe soon calmed and lie quiet. The nurse rubbed a cloth over its face and the infant slowly opened its eyes. The nurse stiffened in horror as a pair of blood-red eyes looked up at her. A scream of terror froze the Red Plume in his tracks. Drawing the sword from its sheath, the soldier ran back towards the sound. The soldier’s stalker was barely able to duck out of sight in time to avoid being caught in the Red Plume’s path. The screaming continued as the soldier burst through the threshold of the house to see an old midwife cowering in a corner, hysterically saying ”Demon! Demon! Demon! Demon!”. As a dark, silent shape slipped past the door unnoticed, the guard went over and shook the midwife saying, "What are you talking about woman?" "The babe, is a demon!" the midwife managed to get out before falling into a swoon. The guard scowled, sighted the crib, went over, and peered within. A newborn lie there, strangely quiet through the nurse's frantic exclamations. Curious, unblinking red eyes peered out at the guard from amidst the pelt blankets. The guard hissed and took a step back saying, "A non-human!" With a quick motion the Red Plume seized the infant bundled within the furs and rushed out of the house. He made his way to the deep refuse pit of the city and without a moment's hesitation tossed the baby in and gave a sigh of relief. Concealed from view, the dark stalker waited until the guard was out of sight before looking down into the pit. Rubbing his thin hands together the legendary Corsair muttered with amusement, "What might this guard have been getting rid of? Worn boots maybe, or a notched blade perhaps... something else surely…" With the ease of long practice, he wound his way through the junk. In a heap of moldy dung lie the pile of furs. As the man's long fingers touched it, the bundle squirmed. The old man's eyes widened and he quickly unwrapped the bundle. "Why, tis the babe!" he cried in astonishment, "What madness is this?" He stood back up when the child started to cry and slowly looked around with a strange expression on his face. He picked up the newborn, cradled it in his arm, and gazed with wonder into its crimson eyes. "So the guards now think they will take the life of another half-elf... they beat my wife to death for the same crime..." he murmured to the infant. "I'll see that you grow. That I will. My Roscia could not give me a child, but maybe I have been given a gift. I will call you…” The old brigand parted the furs and glanced between the child’s legs. Covering the babe with furs once again, the old man completed his thought “Faaza... mmm, yes, Faaza." The child he hid in secret, within an old warehouse. The improvised home was left alone by the local beggars and hobos out of the respect and awe with which they regarded the kindly old man. In an attempt to keep the child's heritage unknown the old man took a knife and trimmed the babe's ears, though his heart nearly broke to hear the agony he caused. He knew that if the baby were ever found with such pointed ears it would face certain death. When he finally dared go out into the sun with the youngling it started to cry in such obvious pain that the old man was forced to stop daytime walks with Faaza altogether. Milk for the babe was given by a wet nurse who owed much to the man's old past generosity. The old rogue filched enough to sustain the pair as they dwelled secretly in the slums of Hillsfar. As the baby grew into childhood, no more pleasurable activity could young Faaza conceive than worrying the old man by wandering far into the tunnels or climbing onto the walls to study the night stars. Guards he loved to torment in the night, slipping quietly into the shadows and taunting them mercilessly. Quick in mind and body he grew to be, and Faaza often came home with a few more coins than could be found lost on the street or morsels of food richer than what a beggar would be given. The old man was not one to complain. Indeed he had taught the lad the basic techniques of thievery himself, though he had long left the pinnacle of his skills behind him. "Sannil, Sannil! Look what I got!" Faaza came running home with a bright grin and a handful of fowl eggs. "I did pretend to weep and this lady came and asked what brought my tears. She could not see my eyes in the dark and I replied that hunger made me cry. She then gave me these eggs and patted me on the head. As she did, I as well took this!" and he showed a bronze ring, polished and shining. Sannil, as the old rogue was named, stood up with such fury in his eye Faaza fairly cringed. "WHAT?" the old man snapped. "I have shown you the ways of quick fingering and how a lock may be undone and this is how you use your knowledge? One showed you kindness and you repaid her by taking that which was probably her most precious? Shame, Faaza, SHAME! From the swaggering, merciless Red Plumes I say aye, more than aye! From the money hoarding, rich merchants I say aye, from those who have no lack and have more to spare I say aye. But when one does help you, and give what they have to help you, there I say NAY. Take not from those in need or who give you aid, for that is not worthy. In fact, you will take that ring back to her. Be sure I am aware you know where she lives, for is there a house yet in the city that you have not visited in secret?" The youth, until this point, had looked properly shamed, but at the last he did seem to brighten and the grin returned to his face as he nodded eagerly. "Return what has been taken... why, that would be almost as fun as taking it! I will be back shortly." And with that he turned and grasped the top of a wall and swung himself up and over. Sannil ran a hand over his creased face and groaned. The years passed and Faaza honed the art of separating people from their property. But he took the advice of his adopted father to heart, and often after the taxes were collected the poor would find their coins returned. Many a beating or mugging was prevented as a rock hurled from an unseen sling would slam into the temple of the offender. Only the flicker of red eyes in the dark marked a presence. Guards went about with increased vigilance and a bounty was promised to the one who could stop this 'red-eyed demon'. Faaza was the first to send in helpful information and sent many a bounty hunter on fruitless expeditions. Sannil cautioned Faaza about this reckless behavior, and Faaza humored him as well as he could. During this time there came one that was to put a damper on his almost gleeful existence. He came in the form of a tall youth just getting his man's build. Faaza and Sannil were coming in from a night's fun when an arm seized Faaza's shoulder, turned him around, and slammed him into the wall while placing a knife to his throat. "Make a move and the freak gets bloody!" the teen hissed to Sannil, sweating nervously. Sannil froze and tensed, waiting for the least opening when he noticed Faaza was grinning and gave him a wink. With a good swift kick to the groin Faaza forced the knife wielder’s eyes to open wide in pain and the assailant fell twitching on the ground. Sannil quickly seized him and bound him to a chair, demanding an explanation. The teen soon broke under the older man's glare and revealed his story. The young teen, by the name of Roursk, was trying to elude capture by the Rogue's Guild of Hillsfar. Roursk was an initiate with the guild, but on the run for some grievance against them that he would not tell of. Sannil decided to intervene in what would otherwise be the young man's murder and took him into his care as well. Roursk and Faaza's relationship did not noticeably improve from their first meeting and Sannil was kept busy stepping in between the two boys. Faaza did not care for this new distraction of Sannil's affections and was not quiet about saying so. Roursk was serious, bitter, and not given to nonsense while 'Sannil's little thin-skinned midget' was care free, optimistic, and quite mischievous, frequently tormenting the newcomer with clever practical jokes. As Sannil grew more frail with age, Roursk grew stronger, learning almost as quickly from the old Corsair as did the albino. However, while the younger albino exhibited a good and free spirit under Sannil's mentorship, Roursk was driven by vengeance against the Rogue's Guild. Roursk would often leave, apparently even traveling far from Hillsfar itself on more than one occasion. Roursk would then return driven even further to strive against the Rogue's Guild. Occasionally, Roursk returned with another vagabond in tow. In the slums of Marsember, Roursk converted his small family into a fledgling, but tightly knit Thieves' Guild called the Corsairs. Roursk and his followers disregarded Sannil's philosophies about who constituted just marks for robbery, and instead focused all their efforts in growing the small guild in wealth and power, while trying to remain a mystery to the pervading Rogue's Guild. As Sannil grew older, Faaza found that he has been forced to participate in the operations of the Corsairs, just to provide enough for himself and Sannil. Still, he had been able to cling to Sannil's good will and philosophy, but often at the cost of striking a good mark. Though Faaza barely made enough to support their needs, he often left copper pieces outside the door of a small pub run by a kind man who provided food for many who could not afford to pay for their meals. The man’s daughter served the drinks and food herself to spare the cost of hiring additional hands. Several times Faaza thought he caught a shape watching him from a smoky window as he set coins on the tavern’s doorstep, but was never certain. Soon after his eighteenth year Faaza sat upon his perch of rock atop the walls and watched a beautiful girl of almost elven height with long ringlets of brown hair through the open door of the tavern. A cool breeze off the Moonsea blew back his pale hair which he had never bothered to cut. He sighed and relaxed on the wall when a cry for help sounded from the tavern. Faaza narrowed his eyes and scaled halfway down the wall before jumping to the ground without a sound. He passed from shadow to shadow and peeked into the window to see the serving girl kick a laughing Red Plume hard in the stomach. He coughed and took a step back, holding his gut. Then with a mirthless grin he and another nearby guard drew their knives and advanced on the girl despite the cries of the girl's elderly father. "No, no, I'll give you all I have, don't hurt her!" But that just made them laugh all the louder. "We will have it anyway, but this'll teach her proper respect!" Faaza quickly reached into his pouch and pulled out a leather sling and a shard of hard stone. He placed the stone within the sling and with a few quick whirls over his head let go of one strap and the rock flew from the sling, aimed through the window. The guard poised to strike the young woman suddenly collapsed to the floor, a large gash at the base of his skull. The second guard turned his head, looking about in fury and caught a glimpse of Faaza as he ducked beneath the window. The guard crashed through the door and grabbed hold of Faaza's cloak as he turned to flee. Faaza kicked out at the guard, but his foot thudded uselessly against the soldier’s armor. With a victorious glint in his eye the guard raised his knife. Suddenly a form came screaming from the tavern and crashed full on into the guard. The young woman fell groaning on the ground as the guard rose to his feet. "Maggot!" the guard snarled as he drew his sword, and drove it at her side. Faaza gave a great cry of maddened fury and launched himself onto the guard's back. In midleap he pulled a curved dagger from a sheath hidden beneath his cloak and slashed it across the guard's unprotected throat. The soldier gurgled once and fell with a crash into the dusty street. By this time a crowd had gathered around, and the shouts of Red Plumes in the distance were rapidly approaching. The crowd gasped and started to murmur fearfully as they pointed at the Red Plume’s corpse. Faaza jumped down, picked up the girl, and motioned to her frantic father to follow. They made their way to the Corsairs’ warehouse and crept through the secret entrance. Only Sannil was there at the time and without a question the old rogue treated and bandaged the girl's head. The girl's father soon feel asleep by her side and finally Sannil walked slowly to Faaza and sighed wearily. "Faaza..." he started, "What is all this?" Faaza told of what he had done and Sannil in a soft, gentle voice filled with worry held up a hand and said, "My boy... how are we to keep them? Roursk has been dipping even into what you bring and I do not know how he'll react to them." The albino youth turned his head and watched the sleeping form of the girl with a look that surprised and heartened the old rogue. In a voice devoid of his usual frivolity Faaza replied, "If we do not hide them they will be found and taken to the arena. I will get enough for us." The girl was unconscious from the concussion for several days, and when not Out in the streets of Hillsfar Faaza kept to her side. She finally awoke and gave a cry of fear as she saw the crimson gaze of Faaza looking worriedly into her eyes. The girl's father rushed over and embraced her. She remembered nothing of what had happened, but after the story was told by her father she no longer looked with fear upon Faaza. That night as Faaza lie in his hammock a figure approached him and he swung out warily. He relaxed slightly as he recognized the shape of the girl and in a low voice she said, "You... you're the boy in the shadows aren't you?" Faaza just shrugged but blinked in surprise as she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you" she whispered and returned to her cot to sleep. The Corsairs arrived several days later and though Roursk was surprised he did not seem to have any objection to the new residents of the warehouse. This was short lived however as he found that the girl only gave him the barest of attention. Instead he found she spent most of her time with the 'little freak'. Faaza did seem to be bringing in more marks than usual though, so Roursk tolerated the guests. Every now and then a silver coin would be misplaced here, a few coppers missing there, and though the girl would later be given a new dress by Faaza, Roursk could not catch the half-human at his game, and he resented it. Kirstin and Faaza were sitting on one of the walls of an old stone building holding hands, as was not an unusual sight these days, looking at the stars over the vast expanse of the Moonsea, north of Hillsfar. Faaza was talking softly with her when he heard a rustle of fabric below him and looked down to see Kirstin's father. "Faaza, Kirstin, come on down. Sannil and I would like to have a talk with you two." They exchanged glances and climbed down. Faaza caught a glimpse of someone's form in the shadows to the side and motioned for the others to stay as he skulked ahead. The figure headed down an alley and Faaza turned to follow when Kirstin's scream sounded behind him. He ran for the corner just in time to see a half dozen Red Plumes holding the father and daughter. "Yeah, these are the pubbers. Its the arena for them." Faaza growled and reached for his dagger when a strong hand gripped his and Roursk's voice said, "Don't do it Faaza, there are too many." In a voice of panic Faaza snapped, "I will die trying then won't I?" and would have launched himself at them except that the handle of Roursk's dagger caught him in the temple and he crumpled. “Faaza! FAAZA!" he heard her cry as darkness consumed him. Faaza opened his eyes and leaped from his cot, but a bout of dizziness threw the floor at him. Sannil hurridly stood up from the nearby chair and helped him up. "Its over, Faaza, its over... they took them to the Arena. She did not suffer." he said quickly with tears brimming in his eyes. Faaza did not say a word, did not even blink. From that time forward he brought in much more than was his usual wont, and though precarious before, he became much more reckless and daring in his pilfering, flirting with death at every opportunity. Every now and then Sannil found him standing high on the wall where he had last been with her, staring up into the sky.
The Vorpal Tribble 05-11-07, 10:47 PM	Timothae the Awakened Dreamer That music... it was wrong, it was EVIL. He had to stop that music! -- A young woman quickly sat up in bed, and cocked her head to the side, listening. The soft pattering of bare footsteps and the thud of the closing door. She quickly rolled out of bed, and grabbed a shawl off its hook and ran outside. There, in the distance was her five year old jogging down the sandy street, heedless to the tiny pebbles that must have been badly bruising him. She herself winced as she took after him, the salty breeze blowing her slightly to the side. "Timothae!" she cried. "Come back!" -- Something coming in from the woods... going for the music. It was that girl again... 'Who is she?' he wondered. "Come back!" he shouted and took off after her, to warn her away from the music. -- The watchman started in surprise as the little figure ran past him for the shore. "Whoa there lad, where you headin'?" he called. When no answer was forthcoming he ran forward and stepped before the child. The boy stopped abruptly and stood there, his eyes staring blankly ahead. The watchmen lifted his lantern to shine into the boy's face and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright there?" he asked a touch confused, and if it wasn't for his old eyes he could have sworn that mists were coming off the little one. He raised the lantern up as the form of his mother came panting down the road. "Thank you so much Mr. Burns!" she breathed and reached down to take the boy's arm, "I can't imagine what would bring him to do..." she gasped as the watchmen grabbed her arm. "No lass, no!" he said in an urgent whisper. "He's asleep walkin'. Ye must never awaken those as do that. 'orrible things are asaid to happen. Just lead'em quiet like back." The woman smiles slightly and nodded. She gently turned him around, and he went along with her gentle pressure. He instinctively climbed back into bed. She went about locking the doors and windows in the house. -- He chased after her but could never catch up. Suddenly a wind picked him up and blew him over the treetops and away.... -- For the next six years Timothae's mother was kept busy everynight, sometimes sleeping at the foot of his door to be awakened by his walks. The night watchmen were always on the alert for his passing, for despite the mother's efforts, she would fall into a deep sleep or walk off, inexplicably forgetting her vigil and he would unlock doors or unlatch windows with subconscious zeal. Of his late wanderings his father was never told, and being away for months at a time on voyages across the great lake the Captain was rarely home for very long. When he was the young boy was overjoyed and oddly enough his walkabouts ceased, but the following days after his father's usual departures his treks would start once more. The father was never told of his, for he resented weakness in any form, and to find anything odd about his son would be a blow to his pride. His first attempt at halting these wanderings would be a solid thrashing with a belt. Timothae's mother could not bear the thought of her quiet, gentle son being treated thus and so it was kept a secret. -- Eight years later... Timothae looked about in astonishment as he strolled down the street of his home. The smith he knew had been dead for years looked up from his shop and waved. All about him, people he had once known but had died walked around him. Suddenly a movement caught his eye and he saw the girl. She grew as he did he realized. As always he caught nothing of her face as she walked into an alley. However, as he turned within, he stopped dead in his tracks for she was turned towards him. Her face was almost elven in its beauty, and for the first time he looked upon the kind but worried gaze of her green, almond eyes. She reached out her hand and in sweet tones she urged, "You must come with me quickly!" Still staring deep into her eye he took the hand, and the world dimmed. His intake of breath brought to him the smell of burning wood... and flesh. She pulled him back out of the alley and he saw dust and fog in a great cloud that blocked the sun for as far as he could see. What was dimly illuminated struck to his heart. Nearly the entire town was reduced to rubble. Moans and screams of pain and fear reverberated about the wreckage. The ground suddenly rumbled and shook, nearly knocking him off balance, only by leaning together were the girl and he able to maintain their footing. "This way!" she shouted urgently and half dragged him down the path. Instead of taking him down to the seaside he found himself in a forest. As she took him they seemed to become larger and taller, many seeming to have been uprooted and twisted by a great force. As he went along they became larger and eventually she stopped before the largest of them all, a tree so high that only the lowermost branches were visible, the top being lost to sight. At the base of the twisted and gnarled trunk sat an ancient looking man, bent with age. He stood up from his contemplation with a look of deep sadness and beckoned. He turned about and like a fly started to clamber up the trunk. The girl gave him an affectionate smile and followed suit. Together they soon came to a ledge and pulled themselves above it. Timothae blinked in astonishment, for the trunk of the tree has split off and formed many, many small trunks that held up the top. They were formed in the shape of living arches and the middle was left bare leaving plenty of room to move about. In each arch were the standing forms of mummified remains, their parchment-like skin weather beaten and spider webs were woven about the exposed bones. Pieces of torn fabric blew about in the breeze. They all were turned face outwards, looking towards the horizon, each one with an expression of utter sorrow upon their dried features. The old man reaches over and took him by the shoulders and turned him to look around. The beauty of the forest and seas of grass shocked Timothae to inner stillness. The view was shortlived though as the sun dipped below the distant mountains and the land took on the color of blood. Timothae felt himself suddenly shoved from behind and staggered off the ledge of the tree. Though the ground rushed at him no fear did he feel. He landed softly on his feet which somehow took the shock easily. The girl and man land beside you and start to run. With great speed they dash and before they are out of site you hear the aged one shout, "Up and over, faster, faster! Do not be left behind!" Obeying his urgent commant Timothae started to run and was soon leaving the wind behind in his wake. In moments he was back at the town but now, though it wass dark, it was no longer in rubble. He saw the man and girl turn around a strange building and so he head for it as well. Around the curve he came to a stop. A great multitude of everyone he knew stood before him. The ancient man nods to you and and the girl squeezes your arm. From the center of the crowd stepped his mother, who handed him an odd silver dagger... -- "Timothae... Timoathe!" his mother said loudly, shaking him. She knew him to sleep deeply, almost in death would he appear when he did not wander, but never before had it been this difficult. Only the rise and fall of his chest told her he was alive. "You father sailed in early, Timothae!" she said still shaking. He sat up suddenly and she felt a piercing pain in her knee she was leaning forward upon. Through the blanket a shining glint caught the morning sun coming in through the window. She fell backwards, and a tall, burly man with skin as dark as wet sand jumped forward and caught her. "TIMOTHAE!" she gasped. "Why are you sleeping with a knife?" "Wha' kni..." he asked groggily but his eyes widened in shock at the blade within his hand. "You gave it to me... but that was only a dream!" he whispered. Timothae's father set her down in a chair and took a step forward and siezed the boy's wrist. "Where did you get this?" he demanded, but for a moment even he was memorized by the weapon, though he rallied and said sternly. "None of us could afford such a blade." "Mother..." Timothae started. His mother shook her head in bewilderment, "I have never seen it before, Locklane!" Locklane shook the boy arm, "Did you steal this?" he hissed in fury. "I wouldn't..." "Then how did you come to have it? I have been far too negligent of late." he turned and looked to Timothae's mother. "Feleen, you have that scratch looked at. Never know what might be on this." "Locklane, no..." she started. "Feleen, leave us." he said in tones that brooked no argument. He quickly closed the door as she walked out, limping slightly. He turned back to Timothae, "Our family has had a tradition of honor and integrity. You will tell me from whom you took it." "Father, I did not..." "LIES!" he fairly roared. "No mark on my family will be tolerated, and theft of arms is a black smudge. You will learn what the price of dishonor is." and pulled from around his pant a thick, wide leather belt. -- Feleen buried her head in her hands at the sounds of Timothee's agonized cries, and her tears leaked between her clenched fingers. Timothae did not come forth from his room once that day and Locklane forbade her to enter to comfort him. That night she sat up and with a sick certainty knew that he had gone wandering. She tried to get out of bed quietly, but Locklane unlike his son slept light and questioned after her. She trembled slightly as she responded, "He walks at night, asleep." she grabbed his arm as he swung his legs out of bed. "He doesn't know what he does, Locklane!" she implored. "Thats what he tell you is it?" Locklane said darkly. "This is when he goes out to steal! Apparently his flogging wasn't enough. He'll learn this time. Oh, how he'll learn!" he quickly pulled on his boots and walked out the door. Down the road, heading towards the beach walked Timothae, a shattered lamp held in the hand of a crumpled figure at his feet. Going around the figure, Timothae continued walking. Locklane's fists bunched in fury and shame and he ran down, his boots sending gravel scattering. -- "Timothae, oh Timothae!" he heard the girl shout. He looked out the window and rising from the sea was the moon, the color of blood. Timothae quickly squeezed through the window frame and jumped lightly to the ground. Shadows oozed out of nearby doorways and from chimneys and under window sills. He ran all the faster but skidded to a stop as one stepped before him. In its hand shone a bright fire that it drew back to throw. Timothae's anger filled him at the obstacles keeping him from the girl to whom he had fallen in love with. His head seemed filled with light, and he hurled it at the shadow to destroy it. The dark shape staggered back and fell to the ground where a dark puddle formed. The fire hit the puddle and sizzled out. He did not have a moment of satisfaction however as her voice echoed from the waves ever more urgently. He walked around the puddle and dashed for the waters. He screamed in pain though as he stepped upon the pebbly shore, for no longer was it covered in pebbles. Tiny figures were standing up from their prone positions, some several inches tall, thousands of others only the size of grains of sand. Each one though had glinting claws coming from their tiny hands and their faces contorted and rotten. With these claws they tore into his foot. Farther out upon the waters the pleading tones continued. Timothae leaped into the water and flicked his foot, washing off the dead men. The salt stung his wounds viciously, but he couldn't return to the beach. Specially because out on the lake was a small boat, with the girl standing upon it. A dark arm was around her throat which connected to a demonic form wrapped about in a black cloak. He laughed horribly and lifted the other arm alike to a bat's wing. The wind quickly took the membrane and the girl's screams disapeared in the distance. 'This is a dream...' he said to himself in realization. 'This is MY dream... AND I CONTROL IT! and started to wade outwards when something took his shoulder. He felt a great ripping of something deep within his being, but it was not he that tore, but something that had come along. For several dark moments, an unbearable weight clung to him... --- Locklane dashed over the pebbles when a swirl of fabric flapped behind him and a slim hand wrapped around his arm. "Locklane, you must listen to me!" Feleen pleaded. "He mustn't be awakened. He mustn't!" Locklear shrugged away her grip. "You've been listening to those old wives tales. If he's really sleep walking, and I doubt this, he'll be woken up. It may take some time, but anything can be beaten out of you if its caught early!" and grabbed Timothae's shoulder and spun him brutally around. A silent explosion seemed to pass through Locklear and Feleen's minds and the sky turned a horrible shade of dark ochre. Rising from the ocean was a bloated moon far too large, casting the hideous light. Most horrifying of all though was the figure that turned to them shrieking, "This is MY dream!". Though still bearing a resemblance to Timothae, the being before them was out of their worst inner fears. His skin, a horrible pale shade, literally CRAWLED, like maggots unable to quite push through from beneath. His eyes were missing, and in their place were pulsing orbs of light, chasing and roating about one another. His hair were tentacles that went down to his back and rose into the air. His arms and legs were obscenely thickened and bloated, and from his fingers and toes grew viciously curved talons. He opened an unhinged mouth that showed a veritable forest of never ending needled teeth and his barbed tongue snaked out, "Dare you take their form, demons? No more... NO MORE!" and stomping forward he reached down and gripped the ankles of Locklane. Whipping the man around and around his head, Timothae released him. Locklane sailed far over the waters towards the rocky reefs. There was an audible 'CRACK' as his body met the unyielding stone, and he slid down into the turbulent waves. Timothae then turned to the second cowering figure, her mouth opened in a silent scream too fearful to have sound. "Return to the nothingness of defeated nightmare and plague me no more!" he screamed and reached out a hand. From her body a thick, roiling substance streamed. He bound it within his palms and rearing back, hurled it into the sky, where it sailed higher... and higher. The figure collapsed to the ground. He turned back to the waves and was preparing to fly for the boating demon when suddenly he felt dizzy. The water far out to see parted and a dark, monstrous figure rose up and laughed humorlessly, shaking the land. "You have finally released me from my prison after all these years, and so I will alow you to live. May we never meet again..." and he wafted a hand at Timothae as if to dismiss him. As he fell to the sand he abruptly noticed that the beach was no longer anything but pale pebbles and sand, and no red moon hung in the sky... --- When Timothae awoke he felt light headed, and couldn't quite remember how to open his eyes. Voices were around him, whispering, but quickly became louder. Eventually feeling came to his arm and he reached to find why his eyes were so heavy and felt a damp cloth. A voice responded above him, "Why he awakes!" The cloth was pulled from his head and he slowly opened his eyes. It was several moments before he could focus, but when he could he saw that he was within the apothecary. The healer's elderly face was looking into his. He glanced over and saw his mother lying still on a cot nearby and said with a croak, "What happened?" "Well lad..." the healer responded slowly, "I've got some bad news...." -- No one quite understood why Timothae ran out of the apothecary screaming, "Dreams are real, and real is dreams!" and locked himself in his home. Over the next eight days many tried to get in to check on him, but he ignored their calls. Finally, after several days had passed a couple of Locklear's mates hoisted up another of the sailors, and peering through Timothae's window, saw him rocking back and forth on his bed, his eyes wide and unseeing and his mouth saying something over and over. During this time Timothae slept not one wink. He would pinch himself or dash himself against the wall along with a wide variety of things to keep from sleeping. Upon hearing about his parents he refused to sleep, for to sleep was to dream, and to dream was to kill! He must never sleep again, for he could not know what might happen once more. By the eighth day he had been seeing hallucinations and was sure that his dreams were out to get him. It was on that eighth day that his mother died, unable to stay alive any longer within a coma. He watched blearily as her coffin was carried to the graveyards by Lacklear's crew, followed by Feleen's friends. The madness that was building within him from shock and sleep deprivation finally took hold as his lids grew droopy. He could not sleep if he could not close his eyes! This was the only thought in his mind as he walked out of his room and went to the stand where Locklear kept his things. Timothae rooted around and pulled out his silver knife. In the kitchen he brought forth a bowl of water and looked within to see his reflection. He then brought the knife to his eye... -- Several days later the neighbors were shocked to finally see a figure with a hooded cloak pulled over his head emerge from the house...
The Vorpal Tribble 05-11-07, 10:48 PM	Mahogany of the Many Trails A scream came from a nearby cottage. Arlus's mother quickly pulled the blanket over the window and dashed to take a pitcher from the table. Her hands trembled as she doused the dying embers in the hearth. She grabbed him by the arm and half pulled him over. "Arlus," she started with a quavering voice, "You must be hidden. Lets cover yourself in the ashes. No, just DO IT!." she implored frantically. She wrapped him in a cloak and held him tight a moment before using her bare hands to sweep a section of the deep char to the side. He rubbed the soot over his face and throat as she piled the soot about him, and drew his head back within the hood as she sprinkled the last bit. She quickly wiped clean her hands with an old rag. The door was then shoved open and tall men entered, their skin stained with filth and blood. One grinned, showing yellowed teeth and stepped towards her. She backed away to the table and as he advanced she reached aroubd and grabbed the earthen pitcher. He raised it up swiftly and slammed it over his head. He staggered a moment as two more leaped forward to grab her. A hand to a bleeding cut on his forehead the wounded barbarian made a swift movement and she crumpled. Arlus gasped unthinkingly and drew in a lungful of ash. The bleeding man quickly jerked his head to the hearth as a wheezing sound was accompanied by a billow of soot. The man reached down and drew a dagger from the still form at his feet and stalked towards Arlus with a sadistic grin. Arlus saw his reflection in the blade for a brief moment as the point came to his eye... "Arlus... ARLUS!" a voice came to him. His eyes opened but he could see little for the tears streaming down his face. "Arlus, its alright, its alright. Wake up, heed me little one." A bit of cloth was wiped across his face and he blinked up to see his mother's worried face. He realized then that he was still screaming and stopped, taking quick, frantic breaths. "MAMA!" he whispered loudly, and wrapped his small arms around her, shuddering violently. She rubbed his shoulders and murmered to him until he calmed before asking him what had so frightened him. He began to tell her when a thought occured to him. "Mama, we must go, now!" he insisted, sliding out of her lap and pulling at her hand. "Arlus it was only a dream, you..." "NO! WE MUST! Mama, we MUST!" She looked down into his red eyes and smiled. It would help him to forget afterall. "Alright." she proclaimed. "How about we go pick some berries for breakfast." He quickly nodded and hobbled out the door, limping on his clubbed foot. Twitching in a fearful way he breathed a sigh of relief when she finally came out with the basket. He tugged and scolded her at her slowness until they were out of the village and down into the valleys between the hills. A dense blackberry thicket was giving up the last of its fruit for the year, and... a long scream echoed from the distance. "Arlus, stay HERE!" she said strictly and hiking up her skirts jogged up the side of the hill. A hand went to her mouth at the sight of a hoarde of barely clothed men in skins bareling into cottages and dragging out bodies. She half slid, half ran down the hill. "We must fly, little one!" she exclaimed and picking him up in her arms, shielding him from the thorns of the bushes as she shoved her way through. She hurried past scavenged fields and burning farms for some time before she set Arlus down and lie in the grass, breathing hard. It would be several months before they stopped fleeing, as the barbarians made raid after raid. They finally stopped as they reached a rural town of many huts sprawled out amongst the nearby mountain ranges. Here Arlus and his mother spent the next twenty years of their life. With his club foot none were willing to take him as an apprentice, and so he and his mother made do with him earning an odd copper here or there for him carting manure, keeping goats, along with repairing boots and the occassional bit of leather. It was their twenty-first winter there his mother passed away from pneumonia. She smiled and reached up and ruffled his red hair. With a rattling breath she said, "Goodbye, my mahogany haired lad." and though her lungs rose and struggled, another breath did not follow. Having come from nothing, and dying with nothing, her death was of little interest to any but Arlus. By himself he carted her body to a small plateau where she and him had so long ago picked wildflowers. He covered her over with stones, and sat beside it as the sun slowly disapeared below the peaks. He lied a hand atop the stone pile and bowed his head. He then recovered his meager sack and started down the hill. A sad smile came to him as he thought, 'Lets see whats over there...' "MAHOGANY! Mahogany is coming!" the children called as he leaned against his walking stick and grinned. Mothers stood impartially inside doorways, watching with a hint of disaproval, but also curiosity. Bards and travelers alike were ofton hounded by the townspeople, hungry for news or song, but Mahogany was different. The old vagabond always had too much... or, well, he shouldn't know about... decent people were never known to go into those reaches, but... it was difficult for others to explain their feelings. Many only remembered him from their own childhood, a fleeting memory of his tales, a line from an odd song whistled. However, the man was completely harmless, this was apparent. The children loved him and they slept soundly nights when he was about, dreaming the night long of the places he had visited, the people he had met, which was an inexhaustible list to say the least. Beside the children, map makers and the occassional learned one was known to take him to the side and question him on details of this and that region. Then, once dusk came, and the men returned from the fields, there would always be something needing repaired, or a need of aid here, something that would gain him something hot from a pot. A loaf of bread here, some stew there, or even a new vest maphap, and then he would be on his way again, not to be seen again for years, if ever. Thieves, highwaymen, or even the casual pick pocket; none of this type had ever seen him. The inside of his sack and pockets were a mystery to all. By chance he simply managed to show when they were preoccupied elsewhere. Eventually many ceased to care, though a curiosity of that sort was not so easily put aside. -- Arlus smiled and waved to the small number of children who had awoken to see him off, many having slipped out of windows and stood barefoot on the chilly streets. His heart always soared to see their honest, uncomplicated faces. Their insatiable curiosity, so much like his, waiting to be filled with ideas and stories. Despite this he felt relief as he nodded to a passing night watchmen wearily plodding home. No town or city was... large enough. Even the most sprawling metropolis was cramped and narrow compared to the vast plains and hills. Freedom and never ending discoverings were to be found out here. Months, and even years could go by before he stumbled across the next village, his time filled with thinking and pondering over existence. Wondering what might be over the next mile, the next hill, over the horizon till it met with the sea. Dark places of reported evil he passed by unscathed, and areas reported to be filled with lurking beasts and demons he traveled through without difficulty. Kingdoms and villages, and caverns and beaches and fields that were told in no story he had ever heard he saw, and such was his life. Contentment was to be found out upon svelt and wood. Many times he had even led warriors and historians and many others to places, guiding them through its long-familiar hazards and returning them safely to be given rewards of gold he gave to others. Such joy it was as they discovered new things and secrets revealed, this was his reward. A universe of surprises was the one thing he wished, if anyone had asked. Nearing his seventieth year he pondered the direction of a split in the road to a place yet untrod by his feet. One did not appeal to him while the other... he had an inexplicable feeling that he might be needed, and that it would lead to that path. Such feelings were so much reflex to him. He had long since ceased to notice that his instincts were so invariably correct. He was old, and had seen many things. Let his feet take him where they would lead, all paths were one to him...
The Vorpal Tribble 05-11-07, 10:49 PM	Umbra, The Shadow of the Woods Before mind pictures of darkness. Darkness with moss. Where did I come from? I am deeply at loss. Moss and needles of pine and the leaves of the oak.. I have mind pictures of the sky, of how the wind spoke. Forest... jungle... wood? I learned these mouth noises later when I could. So inadequate these words, of the home of my kin Better knew the robin's call, the song of the wren And even more knowing was the owl and the bat As were the gliding moth and the hungering rat. Who could sense the forest without the great Gleam For my after-dusk brothers were it's after-dusk dream. Born into darkness, life at a nocturnal pace Of this I am, of this star lighted place Their pinpoints shown down through the canopy gloom Under the glow of the great shining white moon The forest, it protected, provided a home It fed us, it sheltered, grown up from the loam. The twisted trunks were the pillars of our living house From the mightiest bear to the lowliest louse. Of this I accepted, knowing nothing else more The trees and the lakes and their lichen green shore This was the center of my universe, the limit of all Little did I know that my knowledge was small One dusk I looked to the bank of an orange glowing lake There I saw something like me, there must be a mistake It raised it's furry maned head and blinked in surprise It rose up, but stopped upon seeing the wary look in my eyes To shorten my story I merely will say That I met my friend and mentor that day I learned much of the world and was never the same But I am still one with the forest, and I'm certainly not tame...
The Vorpal Tribble 05-11-07, 10:49 PM	Josiah Josiah carefully closed the door to the house, making sure not to make any unneccessary noise. The sun had not yet risen and his aunt needed her rest. He swung his axe over his shoulder and as he proceeded down the dark, chilly streets. A purple haze suffused the horizon, the only source of illumination aside from the sparks of a distant smithy warming up for his day's work. Josiah took a breath of the biting air and smiled despite the coarseness it produced in his lungs. The approach of fall was well on its way but reguardless of the time of year he relished the solitude of pre-dawn. By the time the sun rose enough to cast its first rays he had followed the worn forest trail to the river. Along one side of its steep, twisting banks a hundred or more logs stacked atop each other, ready to be released down the rollway. The other men would be along in time, but for now he stood alone, watching the scarlet play of sunlight upon the rushing surface of the river. Or perhaps not quite as alone as he had at first thought. Something lie on the opposite shore in the distance, at a bend. Curious but not yet alarmed he shoved a loose log down into the water and slid down after it. With practised ease he balanced upon the log, quickly rolling it along till he came to the opposite bank. He walked along side the bank and came to the cloaked figure. It lay sprawled in the cold sod unmoving. "Hello?" he called, and then nudged it with a toe, neither recieving a response. Josiah reached down and pulled away the hood to show a head of dark blonde curls. Uttering a logger's curse under his breath he cleared the hair from the face and his heart beat a tad faster. Though with a scratched face and chapped lips deep blue she was the match of any girl in town. Putting a hand beneath her nostrils he dared to believe he felt breath upon his knuckles. He reached down to pick her up and was mildly shocked by her feather lightness. Dressed in a thin dress of cotton with only the threadbare cloak to keep off the chill, she felt like ice to the touch. Three men meantime came to the bank laughing and talking amongst themselves when they spotted the boy. "Well look right there, is he bringing the lasses to work with him now?" said one. "He's got the eye of most of them anyhow. Hey, that ain't your Betsy is it?" said a second jokingly. The third gave the second a friendly shove in the face and his annoyed scowl turned into a puzzled frown. "Whats he wavin' and hollerin' for?" "I think he's calling for help. Maybe the lass fell in?" Josiah watched with relief as the jam was removed from the stacked logs. They tumbled with a muted roar and soon lay in a jumbled mess in the river. The three men spryly leapt down and walked across the slippery bark, keeping to areas of sticky resin when possible. Soon the girl had been handed across the river to the opposite side and one of the men sent for the healer. -=-=-=-=- Josiah smiled as he passed by Granta's seamtress shop. There was Elizabeth already out, as she normally was, sweeping in front of the store. She had filled out since she had taken to working for Granta, whoes seamstressing had slowed from the shaking joints of age. All signs of her seeming starvation and near freezing were long gone. She gave him a broad smile and waved. He waved back and continued waving as he turned and jogged backwards just in time for a dog to come running from a nearby yard. He tripped backwards and landed hard on his rear. Elizabeth covered her mouth though her entire form shook with laughter. Josiah slowly stood back up and with a mock air of injured pride and strutted his way down to the river. It was apparent to all who knew Josiah that he was smitten with the new arrival to the village, and no less so she. The other fellows around envied him, but Josiah was a good friend to all about him and none begrudged him. He often took his lunch with her, and by the end of another month they were often seen chatting away. Often he took her to visit the small falls that dotted the forest, some no other had yet found. However, he noticed how the deeper his feelings grew for her, the colder she seemed to become. She would be laughing and smiling one moment, but if he were to try to take her hand she shied away and quickly made excuses to leave. Even when she didn't think he was looking he would see her staring upon him as he passd by her home, but when he turned to face her she would always turn away. If any mention was made of their future or his feelings for her she would quickly change the subject, become silent, or walk off. The next day she would act as if nothing happened and would again laugh and chatter. She encouraged him though in his actions, but seemed content to play and tease and provoke. Finally during a picnic he surprised her by leaning forward and kissing her. She instantly melted but then it was as if a tree fell between them. She shoved him away and ran, almost tripping in haste, out into the woods. He did not return for three days, and despite her treatement he was filled with anxiety for her. When she returned it was to the healer's she went, her fingers and toes frostbitten with the winter air. A rattling had also started in her lungs that worried the healer. For the next several months it was touch and go as Elizabeth improved and declined at random. But though he was forced to work to provide for himself, and though Elizabeth never knew it, her as well, for kind as Granta was she did not have the money to pay for a second mouth whom could only lie in bed, he would spend his nights in a cot by her side. He never brought up her disapearance and she never ventured anything herself. Every now and again when she thought him asleep he would hear the markings of pen on paper but when he roused himself she quickly hid it from sight. Secrets, always secrets with her. Why could she not simply trust him? It was the beginning of spring before the cough finally was defeated and Elizabeth felt well enough to leave her home. He held her to keep from wobbling for she was quite weak, and to provide extra warmth. She accepted this kind embrace unlike in past times he had tried to hold her, and for the both of them the day was beautiful. He had waited long and patiently for this day, and he took her to a spot he had never shown even her. Along side a small fall was a pool that led down a creek of moss-covered rocks. Leaning over the creek was a dogwood rich in blooms. Beneath it lay a rough bench he had made himself. She was momentarily stilled at the beauty of the place and when she looked to him tears were in her eyes, and she smiled with such tenderness he knew it was the right time. He led her to the bench and then knelt by her. "Elizeabth, my dear one, will you be my wife?" he recited solemnly the words he had practised over and over again in his head. A look of joy suffused her face and his heart soared but then her face went pale, so dead pale he momentarily feared for her. She stood up quickly and her eyes flicked from side to side like a frightened animal. "N... no, no I..." she stammered, and gathered up her dress to run. "But why?" Josiah demanded, agony filling his words, "Why do you pluck upon my heartstrings? No crueler hand could play them. Why, just answer me this one time. If you have any affection for me at all just tell me WHY!" Elizabeth shook her head quickly, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Josiah, you will never be my husband." she whispered. All his confusion and hurt came together into a powerful backhand slap that caught her across the cheek. She fell backwards, hitting a clump of ferns hard. A look of sorrow and desperation turned her features as she opened her mouth, but before she could speak Josiah put a booted foot to her side and shoved her end over end into the chill pool. "Go back up the stream where you came from." he spat, and without a further glance turned his back upon her and trudged down the hill. -=-=-=-=-=- Josiah laughed and made a point of putting his arm about the waist of the tall, redheaded girl at his side as he passed Granta's store. It had been many weeks since the episode at the falls and he had become very friendly with Tabitha whom had made eyes at him ever since they were young. He didn't even turn to Elizabeth whom stood in the doorway. Tabitha didn't know why he treated Liz like that, but she'd always been more than a little jealous and if it pleased Josiah all the better. As they passed she turned her head back and smirked at the stricken faced girl, and put her head against Josiah's shoulder. A month later he proposed which was eagerly accepted. The next day as he was chopping one of his friends from town came running in, winded to the point he could barely speak. Two words though were enough to set Josiah in motion however. Elizabeth. Dead. He had thought he had expelled her from his heart but the turmoil that rose up to claim him was stonger than anything he had ever felt. There was a small crowd outside Granta's shop and as he approached he heard 'hung herself'. They parted immediately for him and he dashed inside. Granta sat in her chair ringing her hands while a couple other woman sat around her speaking softly. He ran to her room and for a moment he was confused. She merely looked asleep. They had layed her down upon her bed, but then he saw the deep purple bruises about her throat. As he knelt by her bed something inside him rose up with a roar that would have shaken the house had it been released, but no sound came from his throat. He didn't know how long he was there, just peering into her face, unable to feel anything. After endless years, or perhaps only seconds he stood and approached her simple desk. Opening a drawer he found her writings, bound in leather. He sat down where he stood and began to read them. A terrible expression came to his face he began to read, a look that would have made shiver any of the men outside. 'A curse...' he thought to himself over and over, 'She... loved me..." for what he had found was a diary of sorts. It told everything; a hag taking her as a child from her family and being raised by the foul being. As she had grown in beauty the hag's jealousy had as well. She threw the girl from her house, and bid her never to return. But before that she had marked her, body and soul. Though as beautiful within as without she would never be able to return another's love. Furthermore she would never be allowed to speak of the curse, or even mention it to a single being. And he had struck her. As beautiful as he had thought her he knew now she was even more so. She had loved him, deeply and with all her soul. It was written down. He had been whom she trusted enough to partially defy the curse of the hag, at great pain it appeared. And he had struck her. Struck her, mocked her, and treated her with callousness that would have shocked the most lecherous swain in the town. He had caused her such pain that she had ended her life. He had killed her. He set her book back within the desk. He reached out to touch her cold face but checked himself. He lifted his hands and peered at the palms with disgust, as if they dripped with filth. In fact, he saw blood on them as clearly as her face. No, he would not soil her with his touch. He would never touch another again. An hour later everyone saw him emerge from the house. His face was dead. Not just emotionless but without even enough care to show numbness. Numbness was still something. No, this was nothingness that showed. Several called out to him but he didn't answer. Once out of sight he ran. Ran with all the power in his legs and all the drive that could be willed. Let them be stretched one last time. To the tallest, rockiest fall he had yet found he took himself. He stood near its edge for some time, remembering his life. It had been a good one, a heavenly one for the last year... and he had no one to blame but himself for the events that had turned it on its head. He tensed to thro himself down it but something within, something deep inside spoke. 'You are not worthy of death... its too easy, too swift... what of the others in this world who are treated as cruely? Will you end your life when you still have breath to fill your body and move it against the lovers of other's pains? If you jump now you are certainly all you think of yourself now, and more...' He backed away from the edge and looked out over the treetops. He didn't know if he was capable of anything the voice had mentioned, but he would try. Turning his eyes to the sky he swore to Elizabeth that he would at least try. He would remember her and what she in death had taught him about himself that she could not say in life. Once the stain upon his hands was clean would he stop. But this, he knew, would never be. For her blood would always be on soul, and no scrubbing could cleanse that. He would do what he could though. Now the hot tears could flow.
The Vorpal Tribble 05-11-07, 10:50 PM	@}-,--`-,-Rose Elizabeth Daine--`--,-`{@ She was brought in about an hour from dusk, in the middle of the week. It was later summer, but the sky had been grey for weeks, bringing an almost continuous drizzle. A small face watched from the upstairs window as the carriage carrying the body pulled up to the house, surrounded by a dozen or more other riders on horseback. The face was filled with a terrible knowingness. Another one found. Not just another though, not to the young girl wearing the cold face, pale with the horrible turmoil within that was too great to be let out. The next day she was taken into the parlor where the body was layed out. She didn't look like she had been hurt; they hadn't told her that her mother's heart was missing beneath the dress. It didn't matter anyways, her mother wasn't there. This greying, waxen figure was a stranger and the girl shied away, refusing to go close. Her father frowned down at her but saw a figure in a dark suit step within the doorway and he left her alone by the coffin. The two spoke in hushed voices but she heard a few minutes later, "Certainly she will sing, it was her mother afterall..." A cold feeling stole over her as she heard this, and when the man she recognized as one of those from the church walked off she approached her father. "I can't." she whispered, looking up to him. "You can't what?" he asked quizzically. "Sing." she replied. "Of course you can. You sang for your Grandfather and Aunt Vale." "They weren't..." "Weren't what?" "Mother." Her father reached down and put a hand on her shoulder and the other lifted up her chin so that she was looking right at me, "You will sing." "Please, don't make..." "You would shame me? Shame yourself? She is your mother for Lamentea's sake! And I have already promised. You will sing." and he turned her and gave her a small push towards the stairs. He then returned to his chair by the double doors, ready to greet the others who had begun to arrive. As if to mock her the next day the rain stopped and the sun shone through gaps in the thinning clouds. She walked with the bearers of the casket by her father's side. In clinched white hands she held a single rose, her namesake, even though the thorns bit and caused blood to flow from her hands. She felt it not, for the pain within overwhelmed that without. As the casket was taken into the temple the candles were lit and the High Priest spoke over the remains of her mother, and gave words to all meant to comfort, but there was no comfort possible for the child with hands that had been bound with clean cloth over the cuts. Rose was then encouraged by the priest to step forward as he finished the final prayer. She gave her father a final pleading look but that stern, silent command remained upon his face. Walking up to the coffin, she did not look within. She opened her mouth and began with but a whisper a song that came unbidden that none there had yet ever heard, but at the same time felt familiar. As she sung her heart broke, and something else was stretched to the snapping point. But it didn't... quite. The tone rose in volume and the threnody turned sweeter than any they had ever heard her sing. There was a new quality to it, something that caused those to hear her to almost experience the loving anguish that she herself felt and even the hardest of hearts wept that day. A smile came to her lips after she finished, for there before her was her mother, standing before her with a radiant look of pride. She then blew a kiss and turned, walking down the aisle and out the doors. Rose looked down as something cold was felt against her chest and she found it was an old necklace of her mother's, an exquisite silver chain with a beautifully wrought rose. Rose was never quite the same after this, and all noticed the change. It seemed she had become more and yet less. She began to sing at every death, and each time a new song came from her lips, a dirge that seemed to take the burden from the hearts of the grieving. Some began to say that she sang to the spirits themselves and that none were truley dead to the child. Others who were jealous of her beauty which extended beyond her voice to her face and form were wont to say she valued the company of the unliving, but little could be farther from the truth. In the face of death there rose within her a thirst for life. When one grieved, she visited, comforted. When tears were shed, they ran down her face no less thickly. But there were also her midnight wanderings in the dark, often visiting the cemetaries, the crypts, singing softly as if to lull the spirits. When others brought it up she seemed to have no memory of it, and more than a few ventured that it was her own spirit, restless and wandering from her own body as she slept. Her compassion was overflowing though and her sympathy always present, and so she was forgiven her eccentricities and became a cherished, much-loved member of her tight-knit community, all the tighter for her efforts. But she never again visited the parlor where her mother was first brought, nor was she ever known to actually ever touch a body. She secretly pretended to eat the meat she was given, but since her mother's death the thought of an actual dead thing coming in contact with her was abhorent to the extreme. Every now and again they would see her fingering the necklace which she never removed, a faraway look in her eye. When she was asked what she was thinking she'd just smile in answer and walk away...
The Vorpal Tribble 05-11-07, 10:51 PM	Mulch The snow would soon begin to melt, and the shoots of brave but incomprehensively foolish spring flowers were already beginning to push themselves above the frost. They would likely die that night as the temperatures dropped below freezing, but for the time being they soaked up the light. It was in this glade within the deep of the forest that a crowd was gathered. One might have thought it a crowded grove though if not for the echoing voices that stretched into the distance. It was as the moaning of the winds of an approaching storm through branches. Despite that it was still in the midst of winter all the trees of this clearing were lush with blazingingly bright foliage, vibrant magentas and striking umbers like that of a fine fall day. These trees formed a circle around a much smaller clearing, one just large enough to allow the two creatures within room. They were alike to the other trees but their leaves had turned green, and creamy buds sprouted upon them. They danced and twirled about each other and then the circle parted as it sang. Through this gap they rushed, branch and twig entertwining momentarily before releasing. The circle spread wider and wider, as the branches of the greater trees above, still bare, began to weave together into an almost solid mass. Creepers and vines spread across the trunks, the circle of tree-beings ducking out at the last moment, though their song went on. Soon the glade was blocked off in all directions. A delicious warmth slowly built and the tree the dancing pair ran about began to buzz. After several hours of this the pair embraced one another and their toes dug into the earth. Their movements became stiller and stiller until not one leaf quivered. They remained thus into the night and the following day when the first fuzzy form of a honeybee lit upon one of the blossoms that had opened during the dark hours. More soon joined and soon both forms were covered with the sound of excited busy bees. It was to be nearly a week before the tree-beings would move again, blossoms shriveling and disapearing. One of them however had begun to grow a number of seed pods. As the two awoke the glade seemed to as well, branches releasing and vines dropping. They strode away together, singing to one another. That spring nearly thirty shoots sprang from the family plot, tended lovingly by their parents. Years later, long after they had begun to move and were nearly as thick around as a strong man's arm and over two meters tall, they underwent the ceremony to welcome them into the Lichenglade band. Carved stones were pressed tightly to their thickening skin and wrapped about tightly with vines. After several years this would be removed, the symbol forever marked upon them, expanding and growing as did they. Life went on as it had for centuries, the occassional fire, perhaps a fleeing convict or the passing of a murmering hermit, but for the most part it was a quiet, content life. Of the unrest in the world and the armies that fought, they knew nothing. None of that had reached this far into the wilds, but that was to change. They felt the anger in the trees the moment they arrived, with their axes and fires, downing the wood and roasting its inhabitants upon the burning remains. The treants had tried to warn them off, but they wouldn't, they sought too greedily the trees which were hauled away on great contraptions pulled by mighty beasts. The recently deceased trees were even offered, but they would not negotiate. Soon they began to near the trees that housed the great pollenators, the buzzing, furry bees that negotiated the pollen between mates. It was then that those of Lichenglade would stand peacefully no more. It was war. The battle was fierce yet ultimately futile, the men with their burning and chopping far outnumbered the treants, though acres of them poured on. They were forced to flee, especially as the Dead Men began to come, beings built of the very trees that had been murdered and given a mockery of life. The more trees that were lost the more there became of these. As the treants went for the deepest of the forest, where thorns grew thick and the trees were gnarled and ancient, a number of their brethren stayed to keep away persuers. Amongst these were a number of the sons and daughters of that mating over fifty years before, giving their last beneath the boughs where they were conceived. One though was but fatally wounded, and in the coma of approaching death it was taken several days later. Mistaken for a downed tree it was loaded up beside the tree of the Pollenators. While still alive it was fed into the fantastic machines of these destroyers of wood and the treant that it once was was killed. -=-=-=-=- A star shot by, trailing fire in the sky. Few noticed it aside from the animals, who forgot it moments later. One saw it however, and wondered. He didn't know for how long he had been trapped beneath the weight of the mangled seige engine. It has been both his first battle and his last. He had not even seen what he had been fighting. There had been a great flash of light and an explosion. When he had awoken it was quiet, and he was caught under tons of wood. He had spent over a year steadily trying to escape, but to no avail. He watched as the days passes, and the night, moon flashing overhead and the stars whirling in their steady path. He came to know them light friends, regularly disapearing and being replaces with new ones to return the following year. He had begun to try to count them, and had had to invent new words for their numbers. Plants themselves soon gran overtop him, and most of the metallic bits corroded. He would spend days just listening, noticing where the wind came, and whether it would foretell rain or dry, snow or thunder. He soon forgot what movement was like, his world limited to the grass and trees and sky around him, and he was content. It was then he heard somethign new, the sound of wheels and the voices of men. These men turned out to be scavengers of the wars, going from battle scene to battle scene, collecting what could be found. They were more than pleased to find him, and stuck him in a line with a number of other units too damaged to move. They were given minor repairs and immediately put to work. Once they had collected a couple more they sat out for the market... -=-=-=-=- The being had stood obediently still for days, the speel for his own sell always ready if an interested customer happened by. He did not miss his other brethren sold some time before, though he did envy them greatly. In the meantime he traced the beautiful whirls that trailed across the wooden wall with a strange fascination. It wasn't the beautfy, in fact it filled him with a strange revulsion. Yet still it intrigued him, the natural patterns that flowed all about and repeated on other boards. It was a macabre fascination, and he felt guilt in doing so that he could not explain. A man with a wagon full of apples passed by, which did not interest the warforged. That is, until its driver returned with the man that had rescued the warforged from the wreckage. "Your joking! Lookit the thing! I got a mound of muck with less of the green!" the driver haggled. "Buts its strong, and tireless. And always does what its told. It may not have the edge the war puts on'em, but it can keep away the bandits." "It'd better, or I'll be back with it and you'll be owing! My master doesn't send me for trifles!" the man warned. He then gestured for the warforged to his wagon. "C'mon you pile of mulch." All this the being took in without much interest. It did what it was told and was glad to be given a task. -=-=-=-=- Mulch, as he came to be named, was driven to a minor manor far out within the hills of the country. Orchards of apples spread out for many many acres behind, which was soon to become home to the warforged turned gardener. His new home was amnemable to his tastes, though he had heretofore not known he had any. There was great satisfaction with picking apples and tending to the trees, even if it meant spending days of labor mixing manure and carting away the rotten produce. During the winter and spring however there was little to do but wander valleys of trees, watching for intruders. Something deep in his being was being satisfied and he knew little of what it was, but every now and again he would have strange thoughts. If he had need for sleep he would have thought them dreams, but it was more like memories. Memories of something before awakening to join the legions of others to fight. Seasons flew by and Mulch sought more and more these flashes of strange thoughts that did not seem his own. Certain events would trigger them, the full moon and the clouds rolling by, the first buds and blossoms of the trees, the wailing wind of the passing storm. He would delve into the feelings these provoked, unbidden emotions welling up within. He began to experience what few warforged could, the appreciation of beauty. It was many seasons later as he was passing through the furthest fringe of the orchards, where the nearby woods threatened to encroach, that he heard the strange wind. It was unlike any he had heard, it was almost alike to the ditties the old groundkeeper use to sing before he had passed on, though far more pleasing. Expirementally he called out as close as he could imitate to the winds and suddenly all stopped. Then a single note sounded, louded and clearer. He repeated it, and was rewarded with a much more complex variety of sounds. He tried as he could to reproduce it, and moments later something approached, outlined against the stars. It towered over thirty feet and its footsteps could be felt as it approached. Strangely though Mulch fell no fear, merely a sense of the familiar. The creature was as a tree but one far more flexible than any the warforged had yet seen, and it seemed to have a face in its upper sections, and true limbs with grasping twigs. Suddenly Mulch had the clearest vision he had yet experienced, of the deep woods, where moss grew thick upon the boles of ancient trunks and dozens of this tree-being dancing about singing. The being leaned over and gave him a piercing look when it stiffened. It threw back its head and howled. It clutched the warforged and plucked him bodily from the ground. It swung him up, prepared to dash him to the ground when Mulch called forth a name. Or he assumed it was a name. It was but a bit of sing-song whistling to his ear, but it belonged to the being. It described him Mulch knew, though how he did he could not say. The warforged was lowered and the being whispered something. It then hurried away to the confusion of the warforged. It was to return to the orchard many times, and eventually Mulch learned its speech, along with many other incredible things. For one, the bole upon his head was that of the treants brother, lost over a century ago in the great raid of Lichenglade, and still bore the tribal marking. When Mulch described his visions the being was both horrified and yet strangely elated. His brother had not fully died, his essence surviving. He had always had a particularly strong tie to the flow of life within the forest, and had exhibited many strange abilities granted him by this knowledge. It was strange that he would try such a thing as this, but the warforged knew things that none other could know. Mulch soon became obscessed with rediscovering his identity, and yearned to join with the others, but until he found himself he would not be trusted by the others. Many that bore great hatred for men and their creations would not believe the warforged's tale and kill him quickly. Mulch left the orchards sometime later, setting out for wherever chance would take him. For the first time in many years he was doing as he wished, persuing a goal that was of his own choosing. He felt something flowing through him. Something that felt incredibly familiar yet strange at the same time. A young child would have recognized it, but not Mulch. What he felt was life.
The Vorpal Tribble 05-11-07, 10:52 PM	Mickle the Northman The thin frost glittered blindingly with the reflected rays of the sun, piercing as shards of crystal in the clear artic sky. Huge, browned men in layers of furs that glistened with oil pushed and pulled the oars of their wide knorr tirelessly through the ice coated sea. The single large sail in the center of the ship lie flat and untouched by any winds, as it had for the last week. Three of the men and an older boy did not row, peering over the side into a cloud of tiny shrimp darting around the bow. Occasionally one of the krill would dart off from the main group and disapear for a time. One of these men abruptly lifted his head and pointed out to sea. The boy dashed off to the keel and redirected the course of the ship. A shadow of a single resting beluga just beneath the surface came into view some time later and all fetched their long-bladed spears. The boy took a large, weighted net from a corner and squatted patiently by the boatside. At a gesture from one of the men, he tossed out the net with a practised motion over its form and quickly bent to tie the attached rope to a hook. Inexperienced, he assumed the whale would be in deep sleep, and was startled to see it swiftly dart forward within its entanglment. As he was pulled over the side one of the whalers hurled his barbed spear into the side of the beluga. It thrashed about wildly and dived deep, dragging the boy deeper and deeper within the frigid waters. Moments later he slashed through the rope with his knife but as he swam for the far surface he felt his muscles slowing as the cold invaded his body. With the blackening sight of oxygen deprivation he forced himself to calm, slipping into the trance of prayer meditation. As his lungs screamed for air and all feeling faded, he prayed with desperate pleading, "Please aid me..." He felt death claiming as his trance became deeper than he had ever known, and knowledge of inner abilities he never had dreamt existed raised up within and claimed him... "Mickle... rise and shake yourself, rise now and take in breath!" a voice inside his head commanded gently. Vague feeling and an awareness of self slowly came to him, along with the rush of memories of his life. His body came under his control and he opened eyes that saw naught but shadows that quickly took on the color and shape of the eldestmost priest of his village. "Ahh, he awakes." the priest said, his head turned to a man from the whaling ship, who towered over the boy, his expression of relief unreadable to any but those who knew him well. "It was instinctive, his turning to the way of the living death. No training has he recieved?" "None." the man said calmly, his hand taking Mickle's, looking into his eyes sharply. The priest nodded thoughtfully, "The Lord has shown his pleasure and blessed your son, Chamblen. I would venture to say that he will be Sent. " "Sent..." Chamblen echoed. "A boon to us all." As Mickle's hearing returned to him, he listened silently and with a growing feeling of purpose. His thoughts were put off for a time however by the arrival of his anxious mother and five energetic syblings. For the next eighteen years of his life he was trained in the discipline of his people, in the meditative prayer that opened their minds to their god and to their inner selves that combined had allowed them abilities unknown to other mortal folk. Otherwise he led the quiet life that most of the villagers were content with. Any possible fear of the water he may have had left over were conquered by his continuing trips out with his father. Once he was older he made many trips himself, studying the stars and exploring the coastline. His insatiable curiosity also took him to traveling for months through the mountain ranges that stretched out of sight around his large village of Poqt. While out he would fast for many days, devoting himself to pure contemplation and prayer, seeking God's will for his future. The priests saw within Mickle a well of fathomless depth to draw from. A priest he would never be they had long since decided, for he was as interested in the material world as the spiritual, and did not feel the need to dedicate himself to any one thing. He was taught the common language of those of the warmer lands, and learned of the battles and horrors that he would find. Only one per generation was ever Sent from the safety of their mountainous area to aid the forces of good and very few ever were able, or lived long enough, to return. Mind contact would be established with the voyager by the strongest of the telepaths until he was out of range. Above all he was determined to learn command over his own self and body, for how, he was known to say, could he trust himself against Evil if he did not have full control. At the age of twenty-seven he bid farewell to the village and his family, and was blessed by the priests. He then boarded his small ship loaded with a month's supply of meat and whale blubber. Knowing he would run out of food long before he hit the mainland. Those skilled in the proper devotions aided his own power and together put him, not for the first time, into the living death of suspended animation, to wake not until halfway along his journey. The wind caught his sails as his heartrate dropped to near nothing, and his sight turned inwards... Eight months later... The boat rocked as a leather clad figure leaped onto the craft. A dark, scarred face peered into the huge, oiled one of Mickle and jabbed him smartly in the throat with the butt of his whip, initiating no response. "EIAH! Cold meat! Giant flesh mebbe... come'n'get'um!" The goblin stood to the side as several others came aboard and started tugging on Mickle's still form. "Curse of Dark One!" one of them snarled, "Heavy!" "Use knife, bring pieces!" The goblin pulled forth a jagged bronze dagger and plunged it into Mickle's arm. Something inside of him awakened and noted that harm had been done, which then nudged another bit of his mind that started the process of revival. "It is too early, what has transpired..." his rapidly strengthening thoughts asked of themselves. As he felt his metabolism quickening, the shock of pain invaded his senses. The goblin raised his knife for another slash when a huge hand reached out and grabbed the goblin's wrist tightly, "Lets have no more of that." Mickle said calmly. The goblins let out a stream of surprised curses and leveled their knives at him. For the next two years Mickle remained upon the goblin's slave-manned galleon, rowing, fishing, whatever was required. He might possibly have escaped by fighting off the much more dimunitive goblins, except for his steadfast refusal to inflict harm to another unless his life, or another's, was directly at state. Moving with such a steady, thoughtful motion, they at first whipped him for laziness, but eventually left him be. The meager leavings and dried strips of meat made from dead workers was all he was given to eat. He was allowed no time to rest, to meditate, to even be still for a moment of prayer aside from three hours of meager sleep in the heat of the day. His carefully established bulk slowly lessened, though he caught rats for his dinner, and he survived, and gave encouragement and hope to his fellow prisoners during times when the guards were least watchful. He would be free someday, he knew, he just had to have patience and faith. Near his second year of captivity a storm of sleet and icy rain took the ship. The weight of the frozen liquid upon the masts caused them to snap with the sound of thunder, ramming holes through the deck to the prisoner's space, killing most that were not at work above. Roaring abuse at those remaining, the goblins forced the already half-dead prisoners to repair the ship without sleep for several days until many collapsed. Mickle was whipped severely for his mention that portions of the ship were utterly ruined. Eventually they were forced to face reality and several slow weeks later put into the nearest seaport. To pay for the materials for its repair the goblins sold the slaves to the nearby mines, as well as one of the slavers themselves who had been too frostbitten to be of any further use. He weakly spat promises of vengeance at the sailors but could not bring forth the strength to resist Mickle who was commanded to carry him along. As he hoisted the smelly form of the goblin and followed his fellow chain-led prisoners, Mickle looked to the mountains, his face shining with hope...
The Vorpal Tribble 05-11-07, 10:53 PM	Deepti the Crystal Goddess An elderly woman, though of no great age, ran from the building with a cry and fell down to her knees. Wailing and tears streaming from her eyes, the assembled sitting within the cool night air feared the worst. "The birth, it was difficult then?" one of the men said with dread in his voice. The woman wailed all the louder and they realized she was laughing and crying with joy. "Twins!" she managed to get out, before falling back to the ground prostrate, praising estatically the gods. The anxious family broke out into grins and cheers. An extremely tall man, all arms and legs covered with leathery skin, bent deeply to clear the doorway of the home. In each lengthy arm he nestled a tiny baby girl. Grining from ear to ear he merely nodded to his brothers, sisters, cousins and friends. The gathering moved forward as one, though none touched or made sudden movements that may startle the whimpering babes. "What have you seen... Papa?" a man slightly older than the beaming father whispered expectantly. The father pulls the girls in close in a hug as he closed his eyes, a bemused look spread across his face. "Their fates, they are one." he said thoughfully. "It is as I hold but one babe..." This soon came to be obvious as they grew. Like in body, like in mind; even years later mother and father could not tell one from the other. They spoke as one, played as one. When one walked, the other took its first step in time with the other. Teeth came together, first words spoken simultaneously. -=-=-=-=-=-=- Kupati sat within the stone circle, the surrounding jungle blocking off the morning sun that had just risen, though the heat and humidity were already causing him to perspire. He did not mind, or notice for that matter, such mornings were his joy. He stretched forth his legs and leaned forward till nose touched the rock between his knees. With practised slowness he brought his legs up and folded them overtop his head. He then wriggled his toes comically. The sound of giggling came from behind him and he smiled as he retained the position for a few beaths longer before straightening up. He did not have to turn to know what the two of them were up to. Despite their laughter they would be attempting to mimick his contortions, though with only varying degress of success. But they would learn. As soon as they could walk they had attempted to follow him to his circle of contemplation, the both of them. Of course. He had rarely known of them to speak aloud to the other. They knew just what the other was thinking, literally. He had grown curious and seperated them one time, taking Manisha with him into the village, and Deepti staying home with her mother. He returned that evening to find several drawings of Deepti's showing childish renditions of places he and Manisha had visited, but that he knew his other daughter had never been. Had they been boys he would have been pleasantly surprised, for every few generations his family had had a child born to the Deeper Knowledge, but always a male, such as himself. Two daughters though... it had shocked he and his wife but as he had said with a smile, "Nor was our mothers or their mother's mothers ever known to have born twins." No one was told of this, for he wanted a normal life for his daughters, and husbands may well be wary of what they would grow to be. His contemplation was disturbed as the first petitioner of the day arrived with a bow and set down his covered basket from which the smell of freshly baked bread rose. Kupati sent his daughters off to breakfast with the basket. The newcomer voiced his concerns and gave a direction for Kupati's mind to follow. The fakir leaned back physically, but forward mentally, traveling the roads that connected all to one, and one to what was to come. His body then grew rigid. His eyes opened and in a single maneuver he was bowling over the young man before him as he ran headlong down the path. He then heard the screams, but sights he had seen had come too late. Within the coils of a massive constrictor was Manisha. Deepti was screaming in fear and obviously anger, for as he ran forward he was further shocked by her ferocity. The eight year old clung to the back of the snake's neck, digging her fingernals into its eyes and biting at its scales in desperation. Kupati's mind stretched out once more and with great effort he wrenched every road the snake would travel or had already traveled and coiled them about its present just as the monster held his daughter. Great lesions opened up across the massive reptile and bones snapped like thunder. It let out a hiss before blood gurgled out its maw as its skin sloughed away. Its head fell limp to the ground, and Deepti tumbled hard off of it. Kupati stepped forward and with all his might pried loose the exposed spasming muscles of the constrictor but Manisha lie limp and blue faced from lack of breath. There was a horrible sadness spread over the village, for the twins of the fakir had been known and loved by all. Deepti though seemed more confused than saddened, and when she was asked if she understood that her sister was dead she would merely reply, "Not dead, with me. She still talks, but she always hides now." Her parents and grandmother worried for her, especially as she never spoke as if her sister had really died, but merely as f she were in hiding. The attack was but a precursor of what was soon to come. From that point snakes began to infest the village. Large and small, and all violent. -=-=-=-=-=- Deepti sat humming to herself as she expertly wove the tiny gold threads into the links of a tiny chain. After the death of her sister her mother had begun to keep her busy, teaching her the intracies of jewlery. As well, quite a number of pottery fit to grace any wealthy man's home was spotted about the store. Talent Deepti had, and it had brought the family prestige and wealth themselves till they were one of the most well off families of the all the surrounding villages. Her father continued with his predictions however, seeing it as a service to the people, though over the last few years he had been called forth as a seer to the diplomats of the Rajah often. "Very, very good.Why do I even come here, you shadow me." he mother said, leaning over to kiss the top of Deepti's head. Deepti didn't look up, but grinned. "Those who teach too well have but only themselves to blame and no right to complain." she responded flippantly. "Along with the tongue of a philospher coupled with the sauce of a storyteller. My daughter, you possess too many talents for your own good." came the reply from a nearby room. Deepti just laughed and then bit her tongue as a strand of gold wire snapped. "Mother! Look what you've..." she exclaimed when someone flashed past their small shop shouting "AYE! AYE!" Setting down the gold chain and the tiny tweezers she was using she stood and jog out the door. "Men of Taim, hear me!" the figure shouted, hopping off his horse by a large fountain in the center of the square. "The Yuans have broken the treaty and taken over the palace! These snakes that have plagued us, they are their spies and servants. Every healthy man is needed to..." Suddenly a large viper reared up out of the fountain and struck the leg of the messanger's steed. The horse reared up with a scream, smashing into the messanger. He slumped heavily to the ground, knocked out as the horse vaulted his body and galloped across the square and trompling a wandering dog. Deepti circled around, reaching down into the water and grabbed the snake by the tail. With a quick jerk she whirled it over her head and brough it down with a crack on the side of the fountain, its fanged head pulped. So was the start to a horrible war that rage for more than a decade as the Yuan'ti, having won the confidence of the rajah and placed their pieces well, had taken over the lands for a hundred miles around, many of its citizens pressed into slavery or worse, food. However, it was not completely one sided. Aid had come to in a way mysterious and unexpected. When the first possibility of Taim being captured became a near certainty, that night a figure appeared out of the darkness, a figure alike to a goddess. A woman whom seemed to be the canvas to a great masterpiece, and with three eyes, wrapped moonlight about herself as she passed into the night for the enemy front. The expected attack did not come, and for several days its people waited anxiously before venturing out. Volunteers scouted ahead and found no sign of the enemy, aside from a single exceptional find of a yuan'ti encased in crystal. The morning after that first night the figure slipped around the village and entered into a certain jewlery shop. Looking into a mirror Deepti palmed the eye-shaped stone off her forehead. The fabulous lines covering her face and other bits of exposed skin twisted and spun as they flowed away like a living thing to be concealed by her clothing. With a wet rag she then began to remove the elaborate make-up she had used to change her appearance. She then removed the elaborate satee to show the much more drab, utilitarian clothing she wore everyday. The satee was carefully folded and placed in a wooden box beneath her bed. Though she was exhausted by her efforts of the night before, to keep appearances she exited the shop to meet with her father in his contemplation circle. Of all the people of the village he was least likely to be surprised by attack troops and so continued his morning ritual despite the possible danger. He said not a word, knowing what she had done. He had long ago forseen the path she would be forced to take and so had helped in training her mind which in its potential far surpassed his. Nor did she have any illusion that he remained ignorant of her deeds. The both of them were gentle folks of gentle natures, but out of love for their people they had given up their quiet lives to endeavor against the yuan'ti. Kupati often wondered at her strength and when their minds interacted he could not help but feel he was speaking with two, a second figure that could only be seen out of the corner of his mind's eye. The war continued to rage and Deepti became known as the Crystal Goddess, or Lady Deatheye. Her mother eventually found out, and though was concerned, she put on a brave face and hid her fears. With Deepti's aid, and reinforcements from nearby nations, the war became a stalemate with neither side able to win. It was then, literally overnight, that the reptilian beings disapeared. Many thought it a trap, but after months even the most suspicious began to wonder if the yuan'ti had truley given up their attempt at conquest. Villages were rebuilt and life slowly returned to normal. Every now and again however, under the pretense of going on a trip to sell her jewelry of unmatched quality to distant patrons, Deepti would seek for sign of yuan'ti deception, going far into the jungles or visiting far-off villages. The Crystal Godess has not been seen for some time, but shes there, quietly waiting until she is needed.
The Vorpal Tribble 05-11-07, 10:54 PM	The Misfortune of Bandytwine Damps A flash of lightening lit the expanse of murky dark water, illuminating a tiny creature floundering about with growing weakness. The rain came down with such ferocity that it was difficult to discern where the waters ended and the pounding droplets began. It made little difference to the figure who knew he would drown opening his mouth into either, only the air clear beneath his expansive nostrils allowing him to gain breath. Normally there would be many trees within which he could take refuge, but all the bottomreachers were covered over by the arcing waves of the flooded marsh. These waves had swamped the craft upon which his grandfather and he had been sailing. The rushing waters had quickly separated them. Of floaters there was no sign, unless the occasional deeper shadow against the horizon was indication. The rainfall had continued for days it seemed, with the dusk of the great clouds darkening to an almost impenetrable gloom that even he could not see far through. He rolled onto his back to rest, but was only able to remain that way for several moments, his hands held to shield him from the choking downpour in vain. As he began to turn back around to paddle he felt something scratch his scalp painfully. Turning around, he saw a dark shape before him and scrambled for it in desperation. Beneath his hands was the rough feel of reeds, sticks and other buoyant bracken. His arms felt like they were weighted down with the world as he slowly, with agonizing exertion, pulled himself up. There he lay panting for several beautiful moments as he was able to rest. Then, as best he could, he attempted to burrow down into the debris to shield him from the water. He was awakened by a sudden jolt and felt that his haven had come to a stop. The clouds had let up slightly, the rising sun causing many to glow with colors while the opposite horizon remained in stark dark contrast. Illuminated before him was his haven, far larger than he thought, though still only maybe forty feet across. Its motion had stopped as it had bumped up against the edge of an island. It was a real island, one of the few he had ever seen, composed of earth and actual stone. The small beach here was of sharp pebbles surrounded by cliffs that seemed immense to his height of hardly more than a foot. Though he was grateful to his bobbing brick and brack, he held no loyalty to it and jumped for land, his thick, bare feet being uncomfortably pricked by the rocks. Following the beach showed that it was larger than he thought, continuing into a canyon that fit narrowly between the two faces of stone. The canyon was concealed by fog and as he entered he saw that many odd formations of curving deposits spotted the valley, filled with steaming waters tinted with a living crust of floating green and yellow. He at first enjoyed the warmth, but the fumes made his throat burn and his eyes water. While seeking the other end he came across a sloping path that rose up through a crack in the cliff walls. As he climbed it rapidly grew cooler and wild rhododendron began to grow in the sparse pockets of captured soil up the wall's side. Moss began to grow and by the time he had come to the top he was in a lush forest. The path continued, ferns outlining the twisty course. Within a short time he found himself standing before a mud and dabble hut with a roof thatched with reeds. A brick chimney protruded from the roof in the back with a faint trail of foggy mist rising from it. Surrounding it was many strange trees thick with moss and mistletoe, few which he could recognize or that he had seen in the rest of the forest. A small garden stretched out to one side, though the trees grew even amongst the currently flooded soil. Though he could not smell the smoke, his stomach rumbled, reminding him that he had not eaten since the storm began. He pressed an ear against the cottage's door but could hear only a faint bubbling sound. He tentivaly knocked, the thin door shaking with his minuscule force. There was no answer so he simply lifted the latch and stepped within. It was oddly large inside, seeming somewhat bigger than it appeared without, and if the outside seemed damp, he felt he was almost swimming again in the strangely-scented humidity within. Shelf after shelf of jars and pots lined the walls, beneath which were lidded wooden barrels with damp green moss growing upon them. A wooden table stood to one side of the room which appeared to be quite rotten in places, sprouting large toadstools. A wide fireplace sat within the opposite side of the room with a great black kettle bubbling above the dying embers. His stomach twisted with hunger so with a leap he chinned himself onto one of the barrels and pried at the lid of its neighbor. He finally succeeded with a great heave and glanced down to see what was inside. He froze in horror as a huge eye gazed up at him, filling the barrel's rim. He gave a great cry and dropped the lid back down as it blinked in confusion. He immediately leaped to the mossy floor, falling to his knees as his legs shook crazily. He then gasped and fell backwards as a hermit crab climbed out of a clay pot on the overhead shelf and scuttled down the wall directly in front of him to squeeze within a mouse hole. Breathing wildly, he stood and ran back for the door when a giant raven with eight legs lowered itself on a silken string from the ceiling and grabbed at him with its talons. He screamed hysterically and backed away towards the cauldron. A deafening hiss sounded behind him and a tentacle shot out of the boiling liquid to wrap around his throat. He gurgled in pain and horror as he was slowly pulled towards the scalding pot. The raven lowered to the floor and its form shifted and sloughed as it grew into an enormous woman, to the gnome's mind. Her face was exceedingly fair and ageless. Her hair was a dark grey however, and dropped completely down to her feet. It draped before her, she sporting no other coverings. She lifted a hand with long nails and the tentacle lessened its grip to let him squirm out. The woman knelt down beside him and her lips parted to show blackened, broken teeth as she grinned. "Hello little one." she crooned and before he could move she had snatched him up by his hair. Though he struggled mightily she held on easily and lifted him up into a large jar filled with an amber liquid. She dropped him in and before he could move a lid had closed over him. He held his breath as he frantically pounded on the thick glass but as he felt he was going to blacken out he was forced to breathe in. He choked as the liquid filled his lungs but oddly enough he did not feel as if he was drowning. Within several minutes he was freely inhaling the liquid without difficulty. Fear soon gave way to anger, and from anger to boredom. He felt neither the need to eat nor that of drink. When he did not sleep, floating curled up in the strangely sustaining medium, he tried to watch the goings on without. He could only see vaguely through the liquid, barely capable of making out many strange things, both those fascinating and terrifying. Then one day as he slept he felt strong fingers wrap about him and lift him dripping from the jar. He hyperventilated for some time as he tried to accustom himself to breathing air again as the strange being set him down on the floor. "I think I may have found use for you little one. There are a number of things I require but I cannot leave during the coming phase of the moon. Now that I have you, you will gather them." she announced. The little figure puffed out his chest and folded his arms stubbornly. Her smug grin went immediately to that of vicious ferocity. She grasped him so hard the air was forced from his lungs and she ran swiftly out of the house and through the forest. She skidded to a halt a hair's breadth from the edge of the cliff. "You will obey me or I will dash your puny puss sack against the stones!" she screeched. The figure would have squealed in terror, but he had not the breath. She shook him and he nodded vigorously and took a deep breath as her grip loosened. "Now don't get any funny idea about escape. You cannot escape me!" With that she whistled piercingly, and from below the island he had ridden upon began to lift. A frightening creature leaned partially up the cliff. It was alike to a crab, but one of such size it could lift a quarter the way up the cliffs. Its shell was meters thick with mud, to which the bracken had been collected and meticulously entrenched. The woman whistled again and a strange bubbling language came form her throat. The crab's antennae wriggled and fell into the marsh, sending a massive plume of water shooting into the air. "He can smell a mouse through a league of water." the woman said with much satisfaction and dropped the figure onto a clump of moss. "Now, what are you called?" "Bandytwine..." the gnome child squeaked and then began to bawl. -=-=-=-=- For the next fifty years he remained a prisoner to this creature, a hag beyond the powers of any he had heard in tale or story. Though he was often used only to gather within the island, he was often gone for weeks upon the waters, riding atop the shell of the enormous crab, searching for rare flora and fauna to be used in her craft. Despite her cruelty, the hag was was never overly abusive, and seemed almost eager at times for one to speak with. Though his hate for her never lessened, a grudging respect and eventually admiration began to develop towards her. She was wise in ways he had never dreamed, and he learned much just by watching. When he angered her however, when he could not hold back his rebellion, she would set him in the garden and turn him into a tree, rooted to the ground, or perhaps into a patch of glowing toadstools sticking forth from her mulch pile. He might stay there a month, by the end of which he acted properly chastised. What she did not realize however was the strange bond he had begun to have with the plants of the island. As much as he hated the hag he loved her trees, the moss, the fragile mushrooms. The hag, she but grew them up and then reaped what they produced. He treated them as friends, having no others about. They seemed to sense this and he would find they parted for him as he walked, or reached down their branches so that he would not have to shimmy up their treacherously slick trunks. The island had had enough of the hag, and had acquired an ally capable of movement and action. A plan had slowly come to his mind as he learned more and more of the hag's craft, and he soon set it into motion. He acquired materials in addition to that requested by the hag and hid them in a deep crevice of a tree until he had all that he would need. That night he steeped several roots he was to bring her in a special concoction of his own, brewed off the island. As was usual the hag lifted him into his jar, which had somehow grown to fit his now much larger frame. She then began to brew. He waited with a grin as she dropped the roots in and... *BOOM*. He felt himself flying and the jar, along with much of the rest of the shelve's paraphernalia, were hurled across the room. The glass shattered and he landed in a sodden heap upon the floor. The witch lie dazed nearby, the roof and wall gaping with a great hole as the remains of the hearth lie crumbled in the backyard. The hag then screamed as the clouds gave way, the new moon failing to shine down, though Bandytwine could see its shadowy form high above. She continued to scream as her form began to melt and congeal, forming a mound of purple, jellyish fungi that quivered in agony. Bandytwine keened in his victory and ran out of the cottage for the forest. He reached into the tree and pulled forth a tiny pot of, to him, odorless liquid. He knew however that the crab would not find it so, containing concentrated pheromones collected from the waters during its latest mating journey. From a nearby pond he then called forth a fish and dunked it several times in the pot. Thoroughly soaking it, he let it fall over the side of the cliff. The crab below immediately shifted and began to turn to chase the bate. To cover his own scent Bandytwine then upended the remainder upon himself and hurried for the beach. As the crab disappeared into the distance Bandytwine dived into the waves and set out in the opposite direction. His legs and arms converted into fins and he streamed away, concealed within the shadow of the hidden moon...
The Vorpal Tribble 05-11-07, 10:55 PM	Chaim Hyman, Father of the Fields "NrrGAH!" a woman's voice cried out over the wailing of the wind. "Are you al..." a man by her said anxiously. "I'm fine, but its being... stubborn." she gasped out. "Thats it, I'm fetching the midwife." he said gruffly, standing. "We don't have the money, you know that." she said pushing herself up on her elbows and giving him a stubborn look. "The farm is on its last legs and if we're to go out, it'll not be in debt." Her look then softened, "I'll be fine, as long as your by my side." The man looked skeptical but he knealt back down by her. Soon a new wail joined the wind, though the latter this time overpowered the mere lungs of a babe. Several tiles flew off the tiny home and soon two figures exited the structure, a bundle held between them. Struggling against the strong winds they made their way slowly for the barn. The man pulled the door open just enough to admit he and his wife and the two squeezed within. The new father helped the mother onto a pile of hay and took from her the bundle. She lie gasping for breath as he nudges its tiny cheek with his knuckle. A pounding sound then began a rat-tatting atop the roof, like thousands of tiny stones striking. "Hail!" the woman cried out, struggling to her feet. "Get down, Helen, your in no shape to be grabbing crops!" "This is my farm as much as yours and I've poured out my blood and sweat upon it! I'll make do." They set the new babe in a feeding manger, filled with fresh silage. Both stood over it for several moments before a reknewed gust of wind shook the barn hard. Reluctantly their way back outside, sacks held over their heads to fend off the falling hail. The fields were still immature, but enough would be grown to replant this year for a meager gain. Sacks were filled and loaded onto the back of the wagon when they heard a great roaring in the distance. The mother screamed hysterically as the barn leaned over and toppled onto its side, shattering and scattering like a dropped dish. Hay, silage, chickens and other debri were whisked away. Horror lending them strength they ran for the remains in time to see the twister in the distance. The mother ran for the debris, falling to her knees as she saw the crib in pieces and everything about it blown away. The father uttered a cry and gnashed his teeth. Still bared in anger and loss he picked his wife up and ran for the hills in the distance. There the two huddled in a muddy gash between two rises as the swirling winds swept by. The man walked amongst the ruin of the field the following morning, kicking at the shredded refuse, unheeding of the world about him. His wife was in her bed and feverish, his crops gone, half his lifestock taken by the storm and the other half scattered... and the ba... his thought wouldn't finish itself. He glanced to the side to see the legs of a heifer sticking out from beneath a pile of corn. He could sell it for meat if nothing else, he thought glumly. Idly he nudged aside the ruffage to see the condition of the body when he heard a squeal. Before his mind could register the sound he'd already gone down to his knees and began searching. Protected within the crook of the bovine's belly was a feed barrel. Within it was a wriggling infant clutching several strands of wheat and weakly batting itself in the face with them. Suddenly the world brightened so that if the sun had failed that day he wouldn't have noticed. "YEEEEEEE!" he crowed, looking up into the sky as tears rolled down his cheeks. -=-=-=-=-=-=-=- "Chaim! CHAIM?" Helen called, leaning out over the porch. That boy was gone again. She couldn't keep him inside, never had. When he'd first learned to walk he'd snuck outside and fallen onto his face. Didn't stop him from trying a second or a third time. He did his chores with a zeal she knew she'd never had, taking an intense pleasure in just watching the animals feed. She suspected that with lack of syblings and no nearby neighbors that he'd begun to think of the beasts and fowl as his family. He'd bawled for days after one of the hens had become dinner. Being on a farm there was no help for it though and he'd now just go and leave if any slaughtering was to be done. However, he got so excited during planting day she could hardly get him to bed at night. It'd been that way since the beginning. The child simply wouldn't sleep unless he was walked amongst the fields. They'd began to use it as a good luck charm as ever since the storm the soil had seemed to grow richer and the crops heartier with each passing year. Thats probably where he was right now she thought, rustling about the produce. Right she was. Chaim whooped as he ran between the rows of tall corn, their tassels beginning to show. A hill rose up and he clambered up it. The sun beat down and he spread his arms to it when he heard the bell ringing. The moment over, he tumbled down and hill and took off across the grass, leaping like a young buck and with twice the energy. Behind him the corn that was left in his wake began to shiver as the ears visibly swelled. "And then the hare leaped right up onto the other one and they made the silliest sound I ever did hear." Chaim rambled as he spooned the mashed cornbread into his mouth. "'at do you tink da were opp ta?" he continued around a bulged cheek. "Mmm, wouldn't rightly know..." Father mumbled, not daring to look up. Mother cleared her throat and wiped off her mouth, "No more talk of animals at the table. Theres plenty of that in the day. Why don't you play for us now that you're done?" "Yes'm." he said with resigned tone. Taking the old fiddle down from the hearth he began to play a simple song. It was one of the few his father had recalled, and he'd taught Chaim a bit when his own fingers had been too raw or tired from pulling weeds and lifting hay. He closed his eyes and let the song go someplace out, and he tried to mimick the birds you could hear at night in the woods out past the fields. Helen smiled but then frowned as the dried herbs hanging up overhead began to rustle. Reaching up to make sure no insects had nestled down she gasped as the dry stems swelled and the long-dead flowers opened and rippled with their former colors. Even their scent began to waft about. She saw Hammond glancing up as well, milk dripping and running down his beard as his mouth gaped open. -=-=-=-=-=- There was a rustling in the grass and Chaim squeezed through the corn stalks, creeping forward. Standing high upon the hill was a dead horse, flies buzzing about its molding flesh. It snorted a cloud of gnats and leaped down into the flora. The stalks immediately turned an unhealthy yellow and then brown as blue and black spots sprouted upon the surface. Everywhere it went they curled up with rot and fell in stinking rows. It then knickered at him and knealt down to be mounted. "Chaim? Chaim!" it hissed at him and worms curled out of its eye sockets as the world shook. CHAIM... Chaim blinked and looked up, the shadow of his mother leaning over him. "Chaim, get yourself up, Father needs you out with the mare. She's having problems with the colt and needs you to calm her down." she whispered. Chaim crawled out of bed and shucked on his pants and slipped into his boots before heading out the door. The massive clydesdale lay on her side, and most children would have been intimidated, but Chaim knew her well, and she him. She let out a pained whinney and Chaim bit his lip against the tears of compassion that threatened to flow. Father squatted beside her, massaging her flank. The mare convulsed and Chaim glanced over to his father whoes arms were running in blood. Chaim found he could feel the life draining from her and her eyes began to droop as she bled. "I'll have to cut the colt out, or we'll lose the both of them." Hammond replied tensely. "No, no..." Chaim whispered. He shift over and laid his head against her bulging sides as he stroked her. "Be strong and well..." He then blinked as he found himself thinking of the mare as his mother, and he could sense a warm, dark wetness surrounding him. Be well... Hammond watched as the blood rapidly stopped gushing and the mare's quivering lessened into normal contractions. Strength seemed to pour into her and with a great heave the colt emerged. Chaim, his head still pressed against her foamy sides, smiled peacefully, his eyes closed. Hammond helped free the colt, which was incredibly large for its size and strong, so much so it already seemed to be trying to stand. The man looked at his son and stared in wonderment. -=-=-=-=- "Did you wash behind your ears and between your toes?" Helen questioned as he emerged from a side room. "Of course, mama..." he said with a martyred tone. She asked more out of habit than of any doubt. The boy kept himself clean. No matter how many tussles he and that colt got into, he didn't get smudged up. He'd said that all the animals kept themselves clean, and the cats did it all day long. They may think they're better than all, but he said he was as good as any cat. Where these strange notions came from she'd never know, and sometimes she couldn't help but laugh at his tales of barnyard drama. "Must I come? I would be glad to, eh, pick beans. I'll even shell them!" he promised ingenuously. "Mmm, mmm, you are our only son and so it is your place to join us. There'll be a dance at the barn raising. You'll enjoy it." "Not a one of them can hold a candle to Long John..." he grumped. "Well then, you can just ride him over. He needs to start learning how to carry his weight and more." Chaim perked up at that and quickly dressed to go saddle the young clydesdale. -=-=-=-=-=- Chaim galloped about the clearing, grabbing up materials and spurring Long John forward. Too young to be much help with the heavy work, he was naturally assigned as the 'go-for'. He found himself enjoying the day despite his dreary predictions. Other boys were there, but most were rough, and though Chaim was certain he could have gone up against most of them, he had no desire to do so. Instead, during his breaks he kept near where the girls were helping their mothers, flashing a grin and in general teasing them. His mother pursed her lips with disaproval, most boys his age disliking the company of girls, but her son seemed to not care. He never did anything to shame himself, and was courteous at all times as he had been raised, but there was a mischievious sparkle in his eye when about them that she altogether did not care for. The boy was all together too fascinated with life and its processes. The barn was finished an hour after the sun had set and lanterns were set all about the beams. The musicians, including Hammond, began a lively tune and soon the barn was filled with the forms of men and women changing out and twirling in in time with the beat. Chaim danced with his mother, nearly her height despite his ten years, having grown much since the winter. Several of the other girls he also won over to the dance floor with a smile and a courtly bow. Though not in the least bit tired, he'd worn out most of the others except for one he hadn't noticed before. She was alone to the side, in the shadows, dancing and twirling by herself, stopping every now and again to watch the others. Though she was at least a year or two younger than he the boy was smitten. She was by no means a beauty, densely freckled and with straight blond hair that had as much body as a cornstalk, not to mention skinny to the point of boney. What he saw, or more sensed, was the life within her, the vibrancy. He glanced about and walked backwards into the shadows and alongside the inner wall. When nearby he began to mimick her movements, dancing by himself and forcing himself not to grin. The girl glanced over and immediately froze, giving him an annoyed look. "Shadows aren't very good partners are they?" he drawled and hopped on one foot as he pretended his foot had just been stepped on. "I wouldn't mind if you cut in myself." "I can't dance." she said softly, leaning against the wall. "You were doing fine to my eyes." "No I KNOW how to dance. Papa just says I'm not to." "Well, I'm sure he knows best..." he quipped and began to walk off, and heard her kick the wood. "But... I bet you he didn't say you couldn't take a ride?" he said over his shoulder. "What? A ride... well... no." "Well then, if you can't dance but you can ride, lets go." He turned and grinned, holding out his hand. The girl stood a moment, blinking, not sure what had just transpired. She then smiled uncertainly and walked forward. He jerked his hand away though as she reached out. "Wait, theres a problem though..." he said, frowning. "What?" "I can't just hold the hand of a stranger I don't know the name of." Finally a toothy smile broke out across her face. "I'm Hazel." He bowed deeply until his head almost touched the ground. He straightened back up and reached for her hand, but she put it behind her back. "You may know me, but who're you?" she asked, affecting innocence. "Chaim." he said, returning her grin. Together they ran out and and he called for Long John. The colt's answering whinney came from the fields and soon it was running up. He was already as big as most ponies so Chaim had him lie down so that Hazel could clamber on. The moon was waxing gibbous as it rose above the treeline on the horizon. A gentle breeze blew about, bringing with it the call of a whip-poor-will from the far-off forest. Chaim swallowed and then pursed his lips, replying to it with perfect mimickry. The bird replied back in a slightly different tone and he replied in kind. "What are you saying to each other?" Hazel inquired. "Oh, just pleasantries. Seeing what the other is doing. Its clinging to a tree trunk and I'm on the back of the horse with a girl. It agrees that I've got the best of the night." Chaim replied deadpan. "Mmm hmm." Hazel responded. "And how fast can this horse go?" "We can see, hold tight!" he said, and patted Long John's neck. The young horse cantered off through the grass, gaining speed as it went. Sometime later they came to a stop nearby the barn, laughing. Hazel put a hand to pull the hair from her face and felt about. "Oh no..." she sighed. "What is it?" "My bow, it blew off somewhere out there. We'll never find it." Chaim thought a moment and glanced about, spotting a flickering form around one of the lanterns within the barn. He held out his hand and a large luna moth sailed out from the structure to waft unto his hand. "Here, how about this..." he said, and let the insect crawl onto her head. Its feathery antennae twitched and it began to collect strands of her hair and hold it in place. Hazel cautiously reached up and brushed the furry creature. "How did you do that?" she asked, looking at him in wonder. "You just have to let them know you're a friend." he said with a shrug and then smiled, "Are you?" Still brushing the down of the moth she looked back and nodded. -=-=-=-=-=- The three became inseperable, boy, girl and horse. They would race each other between the rows of corn and play hide and seek amongst the wheat. This they did after the neccessary chores were done and the parents looked on in wonder at where they got the energy. Most other children would have been set down and shown the seriousness of farming, but when it came to caring for the land, and the plants and animals that lived upon it, none were more serious than Chaim. Daily he taught Hammond things that the older man had never realized before. He'd know when a frost or storm was about to hit days before, giving them time to do what they could to prepare. The boy was a marvel in more ways than one and wholey devoted to this land, and the land to him it seemed. The years past and the crops continued to thrive. They had been particularly productive this year and the festival of the Harvest Moon was reported to be of particular magnificence. Long John, now a right monster in size, was hitched up to the wagon in his finest barding and the family set off early, Hammond and Chaim asked to play their fiddles. They stopped on their way to pick up Hazel but were greeted by her father. "Hazel will not be coming tonight." he responded to Chaim's query. "But sir, she's been..." "You young man have seen entirely too much of my daughter of late. Whenever she returns she can only give me these wild tales to cover up whatever it is you both do out there. I won't have it. Not anymore." Hammond then raised a hand to cut off Chaim. "Lan, you know my family and Chaim in particular for many years. You know the boy would never dishonor her." "Hammond, you've been a good neighbor and I'd not have my barn if it wasn't for you gathering the locals, but when my daughter is gone from me and returns all messed and stained with grass to tell me they've been running with the deer or singing to corn... I won't be believing that. Now get along while I still have my temper in check." "Lan, I never thought you'd besmirch our name, and so help..." Helen began but Hammond just put an arm around her shoulders to silence her and gave Lan a cold, wordless look. Chaim's muscles on his neck stood out and he clutched the reigns tightly as he clucked for Long John to continue. He glanced out into the fields as they departed the house and saw Hazel standing atop a hill, the wind rustling her skirts.They passed each other without a word, their eyes saying all that was needed. His playing that evening was noticably lackluster. He then saw Lan in the crowd, having arrived with an enormous pumpkin for judging. He plucked so hard at the string that it snapped, a discordant note ruining the waltz. Mumbling an apology he left the stage and took a cup of chilled cider. Long John clopped beside him and huffed warm, moist air over him. Chaim glanced up and could have sworn the horse winked at him. Glancing over at Lan who was talking with some other old men he then looked back to Long John. To hades with decorum. He mounted the clydesdale and nudged him into a gallop. Filled with anger and hesitation Helen paced about in the barn, twirling with her shadow as she had done so long ago. In her mind though this shadow had a shape and a name. At first she thought it was her imagination, hearing what she wished, but then the sound of a fiddle playing came nearer and she knew it was real. Fireflies began to swarm in and lit upon the rafters and supports until the room glowed as if surrounded by starlight. Soon after Chaim entered, playing a haunting melody across the strings. Hazel smiled with delight and danced about him as he played. The young man then released the bow but the song continued on. Crickets within the hayloft above were chirping in time with the song in perfect harmony. He set the instrument down and bowed to the young woman before him. She curtseyed and they took one another's hands, dancing together by the light and sound of nature's orchestra. For how long they waltzed neither could tell. As the moon overhead turned a deep red they moved closer, looking into one another's eyes. She reached up and pulled his head down to a level with hers and they kissed. Outside, a mile down the road, Lan cursed and ranted at the enormous horse that lie down in the middle of the road, blocking passage. It snorted and shifted as if asleep. -=-=-=-=- Chaim removed the hat from his head, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow before turning back to the well. He turned the crank for several minutes and brought the bucket up.He tipped it, washing off the dirt from his hands. He the wiped them dry on his neck and face, reveling in the momentary coolness. "Papa? PAPA!" he heard, and three girls and a boy hurried up to him. All held eggs in hands and pockets and they held them up to him. "Which ones, Papa?" the youngest girl asked. He reached down and took the large brown egg from her hands and pressed it to his ear, concentrating. No, there was no life in this one. He performed the ceremony with several dozen. The majority were taken inside the house for breakfast, and those that he could sense the forming embryo would be taken back and hatched. He'd speak with a hen once enough had been gathered and talk her into setting. He followed them up and inspected the house before him. It was one of the largest about, but with his family he'd had need of it. Hazel sat on the porch, enjoying the morning sunshine as she held little Kaniel against her. He glanced in at the 2-month old bundle over her shoulder and kissed the back of her head. She leaned against him and they both surveyed the hills before them. Chaim had become the wealthiest farmer about and the once baren lands his father had strived to get the meagerest growth from now was so rich you could practically spit on it and something would grow from it. Men would come from miles around to ask advice of Chaim and to let them know what he felt in the weather. Sick animals were also brought, and no matter what Chaim never would take a copper for this. His words were that it was man's place to care for the land and its children, not a service to be payed for. He'd had rewards enough anyways. The proof of that nestled against him and ran about shrieking and arguing inside the house. Nothing could be more precious.
The Vorpal Tribble 05-13-07, 11:38 AM	Brina A hand reached up and cupped a small branch filled with tiny white flowers, the leaves still mere buds that would sprout by the time the blossoms had shriveled. A tiny bee crawled out of a flower, annoyed. Upon touching the arm of the disturbance, the insect calmed and crawled quickly up the limb and along to a slender neck. Continuing up, a mouth was opened and the bee crawled within docilely. It reached back and brushed the pollen from one of the pockets on its back leg, the minuscule amount of dust falling onto the tongue. This was extended and the bee buzzed up and away. The mouth then smiled, pleased at the offering and finished the inhalation of the blossom's scent. The figure then walked on, clearing the last of the trees, though the small vines that often wound about them continued on to do battle with the grass for space and sun. She looked out across the hills to where the village was to be found nearby the stream that flowed out of the orchard. Down the hill two woman waited, one of great age and the bearer of many children, the other a virgin only come into womanhood since the spring solstice. One on each side of the small river they waited. They wore matching tunics of golden brown that barely reached their thighs. Displayed was the intricate red markings painted upon them with the collected blood of newborns that had tragically died during the harsh winter months. Each held ropes of hemp that attached to the sides of the craft. "Caoimhe." they spoke, opening their mouths wide. The old woman smiled comfortably, no stranger to the ceremony. The girl though looked upon the woman nervously. She had seen the goddess from a distance every year, a beautiful woman, her belly bulging, forever pregnant with life. Caoimhe smiled reassuringly at her and the girl managed to stop fidgeting. Two large bees flew from her dreadlocked, pollen-drenched hair to settle upon their tongues and regurgitate their nectar. The bees then flew out and lit upon their foreheads. Caoimhe stepped lightly into the boat and the two woman let the ropes go slack, allowing the current to take the boat. Thus they slowly came to the town, the women only having need of the ropes to lead it away from rocks or approaching too close to the bank. Such was how she had entered the village for over a century. She would perhaps spend the rest of the week blessing the crops and midwifing. Many commented amongst themselves on her conduct of the latter, visiting all the expecting, delivering and even those who had recently given birth when normally it was only the ailing mothers and babes she gave her attention to. As well, a few of the more observant noticed the quiet desperation in her eyes and dread filled them when they realized their goddess herself was fearful. This fear was lessened though as she was taken to the home of a woman that had been in the midst of labor for nearly a week. Caoimhe gasped as she put her hands upon the mother's abdomen. Such strong life she had never experienced in all her trips to the village. This was precisely what she had been looking for... "What is your name?" she questioned gently. "Lorelai... Brent..." she gasped out. Caoimhe suddenly felt weak. That name... Brent... she could remember it. It had been her father's name, a man whose face she still saw clearly despite the last couple centuries. This woman was her many times grand-niece... She immediately commanded for all to clear the room. She smiled down at the woman and put a hand to her sweating forehead and bid her to relax, to sleep... -=-=-=-=-=- She had the still, blue-faced child she delivered laid in a basket within her boat. To the priestess's confusion she had not allowed them to take any of its blood for the ceremony of the Grieving Mother. "This child is special and it will hold an exalted place with me..." she had said to ease their minds. She was pulled back up the river against the current, the ceremony of the spring solstice over and the task now given to the stronger women of the village. She reached down and removed the child and held it to her breast as she ascended the hill into the orchard. Deep within, she reached into the memory of the roots and branch and found that none watched her. She brought the child's face to her lips and breathed deep into its lungs. The blueness and paralyzation she had induced upon the healthy infant faded away and it bawled loudly. Caoimhe smiled and a tear ran down her cheek. "You are called Brina." she informed the child, holding it up to look into its eyes. "For you will be the protector and guardian-mother all your days..." -=-=-=-=-=-=- A small girl ran through through the patch of moonlight quckly, swerving to hide behind the trunk of a gnarled old apple tree. Breathing hard, she glanced about, pushing away a lock of pale strawberry-blonde hair from her face. A dark shadow then momentarily blotted out the moon as it leaped from the branches above, wrapping its arms strongly around the girl. She screamed in fear and delight as Caoimhe shouted, "I got you!" The four year old reached up and grabbed a limb, squirming out of Caoimhe grasp to the fey's surprise. The girl chinned herself onto the branch and did a quick flip onto the ground. She then leaped away like a deer into the shadows. "Oh, very good, Brina!" the fey woman called out, beaming with pride. She'd give her another few minutes and then give chase. So deep into the night that it was better to be called morning they halted their game of hide and seek. The little girl snuggled up to her as Brina lie in a thick carpet of moss. She sang through the rest of the night, leading the girl's mind away from the normal lands where the mortals went to dream. Instead she took her to a safe place as she had every day since she had taken the child from its mother. Once lead there, she would join the child and together they danced until the sun was high into the sky. Such was the strange life of Brina. In all ways protected and loved, and allowed all the freedom she could wish for. Though this wilderness of fruit and blossom, wildflower and moss held many dangers, from the giant insects to the snatching tendrils of predatory vines, she was never harmed. These woods, they knew who their mistress was, and none would truly give her hurt. Brina did not know this however, and so though she grew happy and carefree, she was always just a little afraid. This edge kept her from becoming complacent in her happiness. Much of the time though she preferred to stay near her 'mother', who would teach her the ways of growing things and the life that filled the world. Not for Brina was it to ask where babies came from, for Caoimhe took her many times to witness the convievings and birthings of everything that grew. From the bees and the flowers to the deer in the glade and the fish in the river. It was then at the encroaching dusk that the truly serious lessons began. Young Brina never quite grasped the gravity of what she did, treating it all as games and contests. To leap and run and hide and move so that she could say even the trees would whisper, 'Where did she go?" to one another. Every now and again the more dangerous inhabitants of the orchard would be allowed to pursue the child if she crossed their path, Caoimhe always hiding close-by. The young girl would then be forced to put all she had played at into practical practice, but it was as if the girl had no fear. She would laugh and mock them into a fury, even when claws had drawn blood or teeth snapped but a hair's breadth from her. Caoimhe realized that the girl knew the danger, but delighted in life all the more for it. It was upon her eighth year when Caoimhe gave her her first taste of responsibility. A couple months before they had both witnessed a wondrous thing, a fawn was born beneath the full moon completely white. Once it had been weaned she brought it to Brina. The young girl delighted in it and the both would attempt to outrace the other and would romp for hours. Together they became inseparable and it grew into a handsome stag. A couple years passed, and it was during one of her many excursions to the fringe of the orchards where she had been very deliberately told not to go, that she met a Man. He was stalking something, a strange contrivance in his hands. Caution waged within her as she had been told to avoid these creatures, but curiosity got the better and she followed it. He appeared to be watching tracks and came to a small clearing where her stag was nipping unripe fruit from the lower branches. The man knelt and held out the thing in his hands. Brina had no idea what he was doing, but whistled like a raincrow and the deer lifted its head, sniffing the wind. It caught the scent of the man and before the hunter could release the string of his bow it had leapt eight feet up and straight into the branches and behind the trunk. The man gasped and Brina could no longer hold it back, bursting into laughter at the look upon his face. She had never seen a Man before, but he appeared young, not a great many years older than her. He turned quickly to her, his eyes widening. The girl before him was one of the most beautiful, vibrant and, yes, wild creature that he had ever seen. Her wavy, pale yellow-red hair fell far down her back and despite the chill of the early morning she did not seem to notice despite wearing only a tunic of gauzy material. "Fellin? Aimey w'alo?" she said questioningly. "Huh? What?" he stammered. Brina chided herself inwardly. He spoke man speak of course She thought back to her lessons from Caoimhe and repeated slowly, "Hello. What is that?" The words felt coarse and hostile in her throat, though he stood as if mesmerized as the girl seemed to sing to him. As he remained still she grinned and reached out to take his bow. That broke the trance and he snatched it back possessively. "Its a bow. You, ah, shoot things with it." "What is a 'shoot'?" she questioned. With a flourish he brought the bow up and released it. The arrow flew and by chance impaled an apple before falling to the ground. He winced in chagrin... he'd been aiming for the trunk. Brina though clapped enthusiastically, laughing. "You can 'shoot' farther than I can throw! I must try! Come, come!" she said passionately. He looked at the bow reluctantly, but then she jumped up and kissed him on the ear. So shocked was he that he didn't at first notice she had taken it from him. "What should I shoot... that mistletoe, up high!" she crooned. He looked up and laughed, "You couldn't reach that." "Yes? Why not?" she demanded. He just smirked and handed her another arrow. She fitted it in and looked close at the parasitic plant high in an ancient tree. She then closed her eyes, seeing it in her mind. With a languid, almost lazy motion she put the bow to her ear and pulled back on the string, not strongly, but relentlessly. She released it suddenly, and hummed along with the vibrating string as it sailed high, up. It passed through the plant and continued on as a sprig bounced from branch to branch to lie down. She finally opened her eyes and squealed as the young man stood open mouthed. Still holding the bow she wrapped her arms around him joyfully. She looked up, her eyes shining. He looked into them in wonder at this strange girl. Almost as if there were a physical pull he found himself leaning down to brush her lips with his own when he felt a great stabbing pain at the back of his neck. Another followed in his arm, and another on his back. Reached back he felt the furry bee that was crawling angrily upon him. Shouting, he slapped at it and rushed from the forest as the swarm began to surround him. The girl sighed and fell backwards into some vines and looked up into a protruding stomach. Further up was the face of Caoimhe. "That wasn't very nice!" Brina quipped. "He wasn't dangerous. I liked him!" "Oh ho ho ho, alright, little pullet. Come along, you've had your fun. There are more dangers than the kind that can do harm. Especially when you are a woman and the other a man." "Not a woman yet, unless you've not told me something." the girl replied smugly. "But you will be soon. Come, and bring the deer. He's man enough for you right now." Brina raised her legs and arched her back, throwing herself to her feet. She looked at the bow she still held and grinned. -=-=-=-=- Caoimhe was correct, knowing well the signs, and several weeks later the fey performed a special ceremony over her to usher in the new chapter to the girl, now woman's, life. "Brina, with this change comes the day I have waited so long for. You already know that I am not the one who birthed you, though I could not love you more if I had. But what you do not know is why I took you from your mother. I told you before that I had risen you for a purpose, and now that womanhood has claimed you, it is time for this purpose. I have asked you not to leave these orchards. It is a very large cage, but a cage nevertheless and I am sorry to have kept you here when there is so much to see. It was to keep you from being seen by others who must not know of you. I no longer bid you to these trees, but I free you, to go far into this wide world." She paused, to gage the girl's reaction. Brina's eyes were shining, though part of it was due to the tears of both happiness and sadness she saw in her. There was no fear or even nervousness. She could not have chosen better in all the ages of the world for this task. "In fact, after this night we may never see one another again." At this point Brina reached out and fell into the fey, hugging her tightly, wetting her bare skin with her tears. "This I want and this I do not want. How can it be?" she whispered. "Because it is the way of such things. I will have to leave soon, and will be gone for a day, perhaps another. I will take you to a place you have never been. There you must wait. If I am not returned in a seven-day, run. Run as if your feet were wings." Brina and her stag followed as the fey lead them up and down hills, through tree and across creek. Finally they came to a place where the apple trees were so large that they might have been oak. This could not be readily seen however for enormous, twisted vines rose up to and carpeted the land between them, stretching from trunk to trunk. They held a winsome scent, and the fruits of the grabbers hung from them, but Brina had never seen the predatory vines so enormous nor so thickly grown. They twitched slightly as there were neared, but Caoimhe's presence kept them docile. She opened her mouth and hundreds of bees poured out, alighting upon the lush flowers of the vines. These parted like a curtain, showing the interior. Except for the light from without, it was completely dark, the vines crowding even over top to form a dense canopy. Despite this a strange low-growing plant with thick, fleshy leaves covered the ground, of a green so dark as to be nearly black. In the very center of the clearing rippled a murky, stagnant pond, algae growing in cracked profusion across the majority of its surface. At the edge of its eastern side an odd stone object rose. It rose about a stride high, a slab of cracked, weather worn marble. Near the top a window had been cut within it, upon which a clay pitcher sat. Its front part extended into the water, a square basin of stone with water that looked fresh and pure despite the unsavory liquid surrounding it. An elaborately wrought iron faucet protruded from the back slab to hang over the basin, continuously pouring out clear water. "Wait for me here, and do not touch the water." the fey instructed. "And be ready for anything as I return, especially to run." She smiles encouragingly and reached for a large iron ring above the faucet, pitted with age but unrusted. As she turned it the waters coming from the faucet changed drastically. With one turn it was black, almost inky, the next a cold blue, and the other hardly more than mud. Caoimhe then gave it a turn and stood as the what poured from the faucet was nothing. The water though glowed as if struck by the light of the full moon. The fey took the pitcher from its alcove and dipped it into the shining water. She then pulled it up and approached the murky waters. Reaching out, she poured the contents of the pitcher into the pond, which rippled once and began to shine, all sign of algae gone. Brina risked looking over the edge and frighteningly strange images could be seen impossibly far below the surface. The fey replaced the pitcher and winked at Brina before stepping down into it. She disappeared beneath its surface and was soon out of sight, swimming strongly for the distance light. It was five days before she was to return, rising up with desperation. Brina was picking ticks from the stag's fur when the fey's head rose above the water. "Quickly, Brina, smash the fountain!" she gasped. Brina stood up to do so but then stood rock still at the strange sound that erupted from the blanket Caoimhe held. "BRINA!" she shouted. The girl snapped out of it and grabbed a branch from just outside the vines. She ran back and began to beat at it. The metal groaned after several moments and the waters began to change back into the stagnant pond it had been originally. Right before it snapped off however something rose from the water, rolling quickly out as the surface darkened. The man-like creature glistened like moon on fish scales, though its face was a blurred nothingness. Its movements made Brina's eyes cross, and it brought to mind brief memories of her dark waltzings. All beautiful nonsense. "RUN!" shouted Caoimhe, dashing through the vines. Brina and the buck leaped as one. The creature quickly gave chase, but blanched at the touch of the noon sunlight. At a gesture from Caoimhe the vines snapped closed. There was a horrible sound that Brina heard in her head, completely bypassing the ears. That then faded away as the vines eagerly gripped the apparition. They ran for much of that day, Caoimhe having to mount the buck, fatigue visible in her face. They continued into the night and it was right before dusk before Caoimhe allowed a stop. Still clutching the bundle she lay down. Once both their breaths had been sufficiently caught Caoimhe held it out to Brina. The girl opened it and gasped in wonder. Within was a baby, though one of pale skin and sky-blue eyes. It had the strange, eye-catching look as the creature that had emerged from the pool. Like the memory of a dream. Its ears those were large and pointed, and despite it being only a day or two old, it already possessed teeth, most of which came to points. "This is who I have raised you to meet my precious one." the fey responded to her astonished look. "You must protect him at all cost. As of this day, you are his guardian, his nurse maid... and his mother." "But, but, how shall I care for him? I cannot even feed him." Brina said, overwhelmed. "Dear Brina, I am honeydew..." Caoimhe responded and put her palm to the young woman's breast. Brina felt something odd stir within. The babe reached out and touched her chin and the urge to hold him forever filled her. Caoimhe watched her expression with compassionate understanding. "I will never let you go..." Brina whispered. "Nor must you, until the end of your days. For he is of Faerie my dear, and he has been taken away. He will never grow a moment older unless he is returned, and that is something that must never be." "Whyfore not?" Brina questioned, running a finger along his cheek. "Because he will bring destruction upon us all." "What?" she exclaimed, looking up. "His future has been foreseen. I was his nursemaid long before I found you, but time passes differently between our two worlds at times. You and he were born upon the same day, and upon that day I saw the lay of his life. I might have ignored it, but within the Twilight court such things are not idly seen." "What is the Twilight court?" "As long as you hold that infant, your enemy. They do not know of my vision and must not. You must always been on the run, always going through new lands, never allowing him to be caught or he will be taken back to grow and fulfill the vision, and this MUST NOT BE! I cannot care for him, for they know me too well. You I have risen in hiding and your mind will never visit the dream realm of the mortals where they will look for you." she reached out and tiredly embraced the two children. "Forgive me this burden I have put upon you." she whispers. She then looked up and was surprised as usual by the girl who was beaming. Brina hugged the fey-child to her, "Oh mother mine, such an adventure I could never have believed possible. Thank you, thank you!" -=-=-=-=-=-=- They parted tearfully with Caoimhe laying a blessing upon the both of them. They sang as they parted, each one taking a verse until neither could hear the other. The mother fey went to muddy and bewilder the trail of her daughter, while the new mother set out for parts unknown. She quickly learned to feed the child from her own body, and such joy did she experience at so small a thing she before could never have imagined. Weeks became months, and months years. Full decades passed and Brina faced many of those of the Twilight court, but always she was able to somehow evade them or in rare instances, fight them off. Her outlook on life never dimmed, nor did her spirit. In fact it was honed into something that cowed even these beings of dreadful fancy. Coupled with the ferocity of the mother's protective instinct, she was a force to be reckoned with. It was near her 60th year that she began to realize something was wrong. Whenever she found herself close to death the wild, fey side of her would erupt and she knew nothing but a euphoria where even battle overjoyed her and she not only no longer feared death, but treated it with disdain. Once it passed she would truly knew fear for the first time in her life. She knew not friend from foe and it chilled her down to her soul. And it was becoming more and more frequent as she felt herself growing older and the inevitability of death encroaching. She knew not what to do but if she must die, it would be protecting the things she loved, and old age and death could just bloody wait for her convenience. She would continue to dance with all she had in her, beneath sun or moon, with friend or foe.