Sebastian had never seen men fight. Once when he was very young, he remembered his father had put an arrow in a man that lingered for far too long near his cottage outside the walls, but this was different: This was the desperate attempt to kill or be killed. The chanting of the crowd was loud enough to be heard throughout the city. Tournement Day was an eagerly anticipated event, whether for profit by gambling or simply bloodlust appeasing the senses while silencing some everyday quiet frustration. This was life and death. The people of Dasar had grown accustomed to violence, to the point that it was both entertainment and justice.
The larger of the two combatants was obviously part orc. His tusks could be seen beneath the rim of his visored helm. He held in his hands a long spear with a ghastly barbed tip covered in blood. He was bleeding from several wounds to his abdomen. His right arm was covered with metal plates with which he sometimes blocked the blows of his enemy. He seemed to have the upper hand. Both men were shackled at the ankle, a few lengths of chain stranded between.
The other warrior was smaller and more compact. His complexion was that of a man of Cuhanna. His arms and shoulders were very muscular. He bore two curved daggers and wore a dented iron breastplate. The man's cheek was flapped open, his left ear hanging conspicuously from the side of his face, the long hair matted with blood. He limped as he matched steps with the spearman, arcing in a wide circle in a large pit of sandy earth. Much of the sand was stained red.
The Cuhanna man stepped forward, then rolled past the thrust of the taller warrior. The orc backed up quickly just beyond the slashes of his opponents knives. Slashing three times to no avail, the dagger-wielder slid to the ground, just avoiding the spear in a spray of sand. He Swung backwards, the blade meeting flesh and and spraying the ground with blood. The Orc-man fell to his knee, the tendons parted by the blow. The Cuhanna Leapt at his crippled foe but was thrashed soundly on the sternum with the butt of the long spear. There was a crack of wood and the gong of a hit on armor as wood splinters flew through the air. Both warriors fell backwards as the crowd's screams grew to a crescendo.
The Cuhanna man panted heavily, his lame leg costing him balance. His left eye twitched with the sting of blood. He raised his daggers slowly to a defensive posture before realizing he held only one dagger, as the largest three fingers of his right hand were missing. Blood streamed down to his elbow.
People laughed somewhere near the boy. Sebastian could only stare in horror at the grievous wounds.
The spearman crawled along the ground, his leg straight and knee rigid. His breath came hard and fast beneath his helm. Part of his gut was hanging from his belly, the leather belt keeping it within his abdomen. He looked down at this, then was covered with shadow. The dagger wielder was pouncing upon him, but the orc was ready. He held about a foot-and-a-half of the blade end of his broken spear which he braced against the sand, tip upwards. The dagger wielder was caught upon it at the neck, just above the breastplate. The Cuhanna man's body succumbed to sudden weight, the legs dangling as his sandals scraped against bloody sand. The knife dropped. His head moved twice jerking upwards, then the roar of the crowd was all there was. The bloody Orc kin thrust both fists repeatedly in the air and screamed in victory.
That Long-Awaited Dream
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Shea_EvilBane
- Commoner
- Posts: 16
- Joined: Sun Dec 17, 2006 10:26 am
- Location: Australia...lol no where better
"...and it was a festival day, and there were people everywhere!" He blurted, the echoes filling the dark chamber. Sebastian gathered his wet hair and tied it back.
A single moonbeam ghost-lit the tower.
The old man listened and smiled a little smile. To the boy, he looked older somehow since when he left. Grayle finished etching the two-hundred and seventh-day of the seventh year since the boy's imprisonment, minus two days that the boy had wandered Dasar again, among those who walked the streets and sold thier bread in only a slightly larger cage.
"I smelled vension and sweetloaf, malry-berry pudding and fresh bread. A man even gave me rum, but I didn't care for it. Horses smell awful, except for the one from Corda I saw. A knight was riding it. It was white and he looked down at me and smiled. The horse, I mean. The man riding it didn't look friendly."
The old man listened, so proud and relieved. He never thought he would see the boy again.
"There are girls severywhere. One of them threw a bucket of water on me from her window."
So proud, so relieved.
"I was on my way to a shrine I saw when I came past a well. It was so pretty, and right before it was a shiny crown, just sittin' there."
"Did you spend it?" The old man's bushy eyebrows raised.
"I made a wish and tossed it in the well."
The old man chuckled.
"But the world beyond offeres me nothing. How could I return to my parents, a fugitive who should be dead? They would then be guilty of harboring an escaped fugitive. Where would I go? Where would we go? I'm sure I could find a way to get you up there and out." The old man tut-tutted this with a smile and a dismissive hand.
"You could seek Utu's guidance." The old man offered.
"I'd have nowhere to go."
"We should spend some time thinking about what to do. Here...the guard dropped this through the bars just a few moments ago. I picked the weavels out of it already."
Within a few days the boy tried once more, but puberty is a strange time for a youth. Sebastian had grown in frame since then. He tried three more times over the next few weeks, but no matter how hard he tried to squeeze into the small cavity was never able to fit into the cistern again.
A single moonbeam ghost-lit the tower.
The old man listened and smiled a little smile. To the boy, he looked older somehow since when he left. Grayle finished etching the two-hundred and seventh-day of the seventh year since the boy's imprisonment, minus two days that the boy had wandered Dasar again, among those who walked the streets and sold thier bread in only a slightly larger cage.
"I smelled vension and sweetloaf, malry-berry pudding and fresh bread. A man even gave me rum, but I didn't care for it. Horses smell awful, except for the one from Corda I saw. A knight was riding it. It was white and he looked down at me and smiled. The horse, I mean. The man riding it didn't look friendly."
The old man listened, so proud and relieved. He never thought he would see the boy again.
"There are girls severywhere. One of them threw a bucket of water on me from her window."
So proud, so relieved.
"I was on my way to a shrine I saw when I came past a well. It was so pretty, and right before it was a shiny crown, just sittin' there."
"Did you spend it?" The old man's bushy eyebrows raised.
"I made a wish and tossed it in the well."
The old man chuckled.
"But the world beyond offeres me nothing. How could I return to my parents, a fugitive who should be dead? They would then be guilty of harboring an escaped fugitive. Where would I go? Where would we go? I'm sure I could find a way to get you up there and out." The old man tut-tutted this with a smile and a dismissive hand.
"You could seek Utu's guidance." The old man offered.
"I'd have nowhere to go."
"We should spend some time thinking about what to do. Here...the guard dropped this through the bars just a few moments ago. I picked the weavels out of it already."
Within a few days the boy tried once more, but puberty is a strange time for a youth. Sebastian had grown in frame since then. He tried three more times over the next few weeks, but no matter how hard he tried to squeeze into the small cavity was never able to fit into the cistern again.
Dear Grayle,
What is it that makes a man wish to explore the unknown? The forested valleys of the land offer little in the way of safety or shelter and the ruins of the great war abound with curses and witchcraft. To one such as my friend Jack, perhaps there is easily enough found refuge in the wilds, but not to me. Not to most of those I call friend and camrades. Lok is clever enough, able to remain hidden if he wishes so that danger might pass him by. Satin and Draco both control magics I could never understand. William is blessed with wisdom and favored by the gods so much so that even in forgotten places, he is never forgotten. I offer so little...and a twisted ankle on some forlorn hill could lead to death. The onset of fever in a distant swamp, with noone to help...no safe bed in which to rest. Why would able-bodied and sound-minded men and women seek to trek into the wilderness where life and limb are in constant danger? Is treasure enough? Is knowledge enough?
To ones such as you and I, who spent so much time constrained to bondage, the desire to walk about and see all that can be seen is easily enough answered. And yet, you were never discontent with your imprisonment, while I pined and nearly scratched my fingers to the bone with my desire to escape. But I could never leave you there alone. Not until you left us all. So few knew you, and who you were. Not even myself, yet I am certain that your death in such a place of despair is a loss to the entire world. A loss to life itself. An injustice that can never be mended, and there your bones lie still.
Why venture into the unknown?
Society.
It is not enough to show ourselves smart by exposing lies, and Varana stupid for perpetrating them so clumsily. We must go further and show that these frauds are the inevitible manifestations of a fraudulent system, a system which is fake to it's very core, a sham which by it's very nature cannot endure. To do that, the Grey Company must seek hidden secrets of the past, forgotten places where forgotten truths abound, so that we may know what life was like before it was dictated to us by the yoke of tyrrany.
I long for the widom of your guidance. I wish you could have seen me as the man I am.
~Sebastian
What is it that makes a man wish to explore the unknown? The forested valleys of the land offer little in the way of safety or shelter and the ruins of the great war abound with curses and witchcraft. To one such as my friend Jack, perhaps there is easily enough found refuge in the wilds, but not to me. Not to most of those I call friend and camrades. Lok is clever enough, able to remain hidden if he wishes so that danger might pass him by. Satin and Draco both control magics I could never understand. William is blessed with wisdom and favored by the gods so much so that even in forgotten places, he is never forgotten. I offer so little...and a twisted ankle on some forlorn hill could lead to death. The onset of fever in a distant swamp, with noone to help...no safe bed in which to rest. Why would able-bodied and sound-minded men and women seek to trek into the wilderness where life and limb are in constant danger? Is treasure enough? Is knowledge enough?
To ones such as you and I, who spent so much time constrained to bondage, the desire to walk about and see all that can be seen is easily enough answered. And yet, you were never discontent with your imprisonment, while I pined and nearly scratched my fingers to the bone with my desire to escape. But I could never leave you there alone. Not until you left us all. So few knew you, and who you were. Not even myself, yet I am certain that your death in such a place of despair is a loss to the entire world. A loss to life itself. An injustice that can never be mended, and there your bones lie still.
Why venture into the unknown?
Society.
It is not enough to show ourselves smart by exposing lies, and Varana stupid for perpetrating them so clumsily. We must go further and show that these frauds are the inevitible manifestations of a fraudulent system, a system which is fake to it's very core, a sham which by it's very nature cannot endure. To do that, the Grey Company must seek hidden secrets of the past, forgotten places where forgotten truths abound, so that we may know what life was like before it was dictated to us by the yoke of tyrrany.
I long for the widom of your guidance. I wish you could have seen me as the man I am.
~Sebastian
Grayle thought about the woman who had smiled at him today. No words, no courtesies other than a simple soft parting of the lips. Her teeth were very white and hair fell about her delicate cheekbones. Yet, he pondered the lady, for lack of a better word to someone of Sebastian's class. She walked upright, a determination in her eyes, even if it was only the way she walked down the mortared thoroughfare. A singular flower she was, sprouting through dead stone baldricked with a blade at her hip. She even smelled good.
His thumb and forefinger began a slow imprintation in his iron Cloakpin as he habitually rubbed it. Swirling his drink and regarding it within the battered tankared, he thought about the life he has begun and the life that could be. Marriage and solitude in passion. Raising crops maybe, where someone always has to shade thier eyes with the shadow of thier hand. Children. A home with his own tree. Kissing her over-and-over. hunting hare in the woods. A faithful canine...
Children. The word was one to the breastplate.
The first thing he thought of was strong young boys running about in the grass. He recalled the few memories of his boyhood before the bars. And yet, even as he, they would be born secondary to Varanite children. They could be born to slavery one day, perhaps at the hands of Cuhanna or maybe even the land unto which he was born. Yes. Anything was possible at this point. Whatever gold Sebastian had managed to save, even with the contributing of the Company, could not guarantee thier freedom, thier safety. He saw her in his mind's imagining, staring up at him in wonder and confusion as her home burned around them, an infant in his arms as he mightily stood at a doorway, sword in hand, defiant and brave, and yet all of them doomed to a heratic's death. The worst possibilities were imaginable to his dextrous mind. So beautiful. So beautiful. Such a beautiful woman. He could see why some men would die for a woman. Ancient hereoes and beasts of children's stories. Good, evil...Love, the ancient motivator.
He saw her. They smiled. He said nothing as she walked on by.
He guessed that was love. He resolved that next time he was around her, he would pretend he never felt any of this. Love was dangerous...Times were uncertain.
His thumb and forefinger began a slow imprintation in his iron Cloakpin as he habitually rubbed it. Swirling his drink and regarding it within the battered tankared, he thought about the life he has begun and the life that could be. Marriage and solitude in passion. Raising crops maybe, where someone always has to shade thier eyes with the shadow of thier hand. Children. A home with his own tree. Kissing her over-and-over. hunting hare in the woods. A faithful canine...
Children. The word was one to the breastplate.
The first thing he thought of was strong young boys running about in the grass. He recalled the few memories of his boyhood before the bars. And yet, even as he, they would be born secondary to Varanite children. They could be born to slavery one day, perhaps at the hands of Cuhanna or maybe even the land unto which he was born. Yes. Anything was possible at this point. Whatever gold Sebastian had managed to save, even with the contributing of the Company, could not guarantee thier freedom, thier safety. He saw her in his mind's imagining, staring up at him in wonder and confusion as her home burned around them, an infant in his arms as he mightily stood at a doorway, sword in hand, defiant and brave, and yet all of them doomed to a heratic's death. The worst possibilities were imaginable to his dextrous mind. So beautiful. So beautiful. Such a beautiful woman. He could see why some men would die for a woman. Ancient hereoes and beasts of children's stories. Good, evil...Love, the ancient motivator.
He saw her. They smiled. He said nothing as she walked on by.
He guessed that was love. He resolved that next time he was around her, he would pretend he never felt any of this. Love was dangerous...Times were uncertain.
Last edited by Grayle on Wed May 30, 2007 8:48 am, edited 1 time in total.
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SnorriHT
- Dasarian Hero
- Posts: 787
- Joined: Sun Feb 18, 2007 8:22 am
- Location: Taswegia, in the land of Oz
((Uplifting and sad at the same time. And yet, there is a hint of hopeGrayle wrote: ...
He guessed that was love. He resolved that next time he was around her, he would pretend he never felt any of this. Love was dangerous...Times were uncertain.
Latishe Vaine - Priestess of Brintha, and Daughter of the Earthmother
The dead.
I have seen the dead walk. These were not goblin-men maneaters. these were not rabid animals nor magical beasts or trolls or any of the other horrors which seem to abound in this land. These were the dead, returned from what should be thier peaceful eternal rest, to unleash yet more death. At one time, these were sons and daughters, mothers, fathers. Friends. Perhaps some had done honorable service to the Empire or supplicated themselves to a god of charity or learning. Criminals and healers, slaves or nobles...now they were but shells of thier former selves. They had become as the plow: machines to reap an unwilling crop. But who is the farmer? The Baron of Aucklorn? Culnul himself? Who here prays for the god of deaths intervention? Grayle told me Nergal was greedy and voracious, his ever-hungry maw absorbing the dead into the godhead. Why would he allow such creatures to wreak thier havoc here? To what purpose?
The bodies are mindless, that is obvious. They have no will of thier own, no lust save for hunger and malice. I am not even certain they seek to devour us, for I have not yet seen it. They simply kill, as they are instructed to do. Draco said he heard them speak. Jack confirmed this. Many in the tribe have told tales of the Dead encroaching the barriers of this land.
These bodies...where are they coming from? Was this land at one time the site of some great battle? Is there a larger graveyard near supplying the ingredients to make this dark necromancy possible? It is disconcerting enough to see the rotting zombies themselves, thier bones and flesh torn into unatural angles...even thier movements seemingly impossible with tendon and ligiments askew. To think of the contemplations and motivations behind such...such horrors send shivers down my spine, and yet, I do not fear the dead: I fear the unknown reasons for thier presence. It is not the symptom that concerns me greatly...the brave people of the Mill have withstood these wights for many a year. Cear is a mighty citadel, with a standing army and militia. Unless things change, the danger is much less to us than it is to the folk of Aucklorne Mill.
The cause. What is the cause? There are dark minds at work. What is to come?
I have seen the dead walk. These were not goblin-men maneaters. these were not rabid animals nor magical beasts or trolls or any of the other horrors which seem to abound in this land. These were the dead, returned from what should be thier peaceful eternal rest, to unleash yet more death. At one time, these were sons and daughters, mothers, fathers. Friends. Perhaps some had done honorable service to the Empire or supplicated themselves to a god of charity or learning. Criminals and healers, slaves or nobles...now they were but shells of thier former selves. They had become as the plow: machines to reap an unwilling crop. But who is the farmer? The Baron of Aucklorn? Culnul himself? Who here prays for the god of deaths intervention? Grayle told me Nergal was greedy and voracious, his ever-hungry maw absorbing the dead into the godhead. Why would he allow such creatures to wreak thier havoc here? To what purpose?
The bodies are mindless, that is obvious. They have no will of thier own, no lust save for hunger and malice. I am not even certain they seek to devour us, for I have not yet seen it. They simply kill, as they are instructed to do. Draco said he heard them speak. Jack confirmed this. Many in the tribe have told tales of the Dead encroaching the barriers of this land.
These bodies...where are they coming from? Was this land at one time the site of some great battle? Is there a larger graveyard near supplying the ingredients to make this dark necromancy possible? It is disconcerting enough to see the rotting zombies themselves, thier bones and flesh torn into unatural angles...even thier movements seemingly impossible with tendon and ligiments askew. To think of the contemplations and motivations behind such...such horrors send shivers down my spine, and yet, I do not fear the dead: I fear the unknown reasons for thier presence. It is not the symptom that concerns me greatly...the brave people of the Mill have withstood these wights for many a year. Cear is a mighty citadel, with a standing army and militia. Unless things change, the danger is much less to us than it is to the folk of Aucklorne Mill.
The cause. What is the cause? There are dark minds at work. What is to come?
The grey-bearded Magistrate stroked his beard as he contemplated the morning's events. His butler stoked the fire with an iron rod. Near the giant hearth, two greyhounds sat patiently, ears alert.
"Lochwar demands all executions are to be taken place within the temple, for all to see." The Priest was adamant, sure this morning's act was proof of the negligence of parents and teachers.
"Consul, we cannot dismember an eight-year-old boy in the center of the capitol. A Dasarian boy, no less. Can you imagine the ..."
The Magistrate made a gesture both smooth and direct.
The Templar tucked his helmet beneath his arm and whispered, "The native populace would be in uproar. So many wounds of the great war cured by the wisdom of the Emporer would be ripped open. It would create much negative sentiment."
The Priest glared at the Templar, his jeweled fingers running across the surface of his tome. "Might I remind you we are talking about a criminal? One whose guilt was not only witnessed but admitted! He is a thief and a murderer! Lochwar deliver us from lenience."
"It's a child, sir."
The Magistrates eyes regarded both the faces of the Priest and the Templar. He sighed and wandered over towards his hickory desk, orange in the reflections from the blaze. A shadow fell upon his face and neither of his advisors could see his expression. They looked at each other, the Templar grave...the Priest looking down his nose.
"What do you think, DuMain?" The Magistrate asked, his back to the other men. "How would they handle this at court?"
The man DuMain leaned against the hearth, barely visable beneath a black cloak. A black spur jangled as he adjusted his leather boot.
"I'm just a soldier, sir."
"Do not patronize me. Regardless, what would you do?"
DuMain looked at the magistrate's eyes and cooly replied "I think the problem should just go away. It's a non-story, it never happened. I'll take care of any witnesses. What...some batchelor guard and a couple of laundresses? Everyone else will turn a blind eye out of fear, and wonder whatever happened to so-and-so the peasant nobody, and forget."
The Templar's eyes went cold and regarded the Magistrate. The Priest's eyes went cold and regarded the Magistrate.
DuMain raised a burning wick to his pipe.
"I think we will make it go away." said the Magistrate. He tossed a slab of meat to his dogs with a silver fork. The hounds tore at it until the larger bit the snout of the smaller. "Drop him in a hole somewhere. None of this ever happened." He placed the fork carefully upon a silver platter and wiped his hands together.
"Let's move on. Now, about those Cuhanna ship builders..."
"Lochwar demands all executions are to be taken place within the temple, for all to see." The Priest was adamant, sure this morning's act was proof of the negligence of parents and teachers.
"Consul, we cannot dismember an eight-year-old boy in the center of the capitol. A Dasarian boy, no less. Can you imagine the ..."
The Magistrate made a gesture both smooth and direct.
The Templar tucked his helmet beneath his arm and whispered, "The native populace would be in uproar. So many wounds of the great war cured by the wisdom of the Emporer would be ripped open. It would create much negative sentiment."
The Priest glared at the Templar, his jeweled fingers running across the surface of his tome. "Might I remind you we are talking about a criminal? One whose guilt was not only witnessed but admitted! He is a thief and a murderer! Lochwar deliver us from lenience."
"It's a child, sir."
The Magistrates eyes regarded both the faces of the Priest and the Templar. He sighed and wandered over towards his hickory desk, orange in the reflections from the blaze. A shadow fell upon his face and neither of his advisors could see his expression. They looked at each other, the Templar grave...the Priest looking down his nose.
"What do you think, DuMain?" The Magistrate asked, his back to the other men. "How would they handle this at court?"
The man DuMain leaned against the hearth, barely visable beneath a black cloak. A black spur jangled as he adjusted his leather boot.
"I'm just a soldier, sir."
"Do not patronize me. Regardless, what would you do?"
DuMain looked at the magistrate's eyes and cooly replied "I think the problem should just go away. It's a non-story, it never happened. I'll take care of any witnesses. What...some batchelor guard and a couple of laundresses? Everyone else will turn a blind eye out of fear, and wonder whatever happened to so-and-so the peasant nobody, and forget."
The Templar's eyes went cold and regarded the Magistrate. The Priest's eyes went cold and regarded the Magistrate.
DuMain raised a burning wick to his pipe.
"I think we will make it go away." said the Magistrate. He tossed a slab of meat to his dogs with a silver fork. The hounds tore at it until the larger bit the snout of the smaller. "Drop him in a hole somewhere. None of this ever happened." He placed the fork carefully upon a silver platter and wiped his hands together.
"Let's move on. Now, about those Cuhanna ship builders..."
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Rheia Althia
- Dasarian Scout
- Posts: 318
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- Main Player Character: Maeve Eamnon
- Other PCs: Captain Leyland Lamond
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