The long road home
Posted: Tue Dec 01, 2020 7:49 pm
Elyas sat at his usual table, the chatter and laughter of the inn's occupants around him standing in stark contrast with his own blanket-wrapped quietude. He slowly raised the tankard from rough wooden table surface to his lips. The hand holding the tankard shook a little and he let it drop, all his attention fixed on the book he held propped in his left.
'The Abbey of Chauntea was one of the city's oldest buildings, built in the Year of Waving Wheat (574 DR) during the era of..'
as he turned the page, a scrap of note paper fell from the dry leaves of the book. He glanced at it as it settled on the table, then looked again. It was a half-finished note to Gael. Why had he been writing a note to his friend?
As he scanned his own handwriting, a word pricked out at him.
'Blademas-' Elyas stopped reading before he finished the word. His mouth twisted a little, the hand holding the tankard banging it carelessly back onto the table as he grabbed the note, crumpled it in a shaking fist and threw it into a nearby fireplace. He did not look to see the parchment curl up in flame, and perish.
Shaking himself, the young half-elf settled back down in his chair and turned once again to the book. In it lay one part of what he sought. He felt as much.
As he drew a breath and tried to focus bleary eyes once more upon the page, a sound pricked his ear. Just faintly, as at a distance. Something outside in the square perhaps.
A singer of some kind, hawking for coins at the feet of Kerrigan's statue no doubt. His eyes focused on the ragged page before him.
'The abbey fell in fire and ruin during the Second Troll War and was never rebuilt...'
There is was again. Elyas frowned, his still-boyish features turning a little in the direction of the noise. It felt.. familiar, somehow. Like a song he once knew...
He blinked.
The pale face stared at him, closer and closer
Elyas was frozen in his chair. Around him, half-drunken laughter and merriment continued as a group of tavern-goers raised a fresh round of ales.
A sickening crunch, as the heavy dark blade landed across his shoulder and chest. Bone, shattered. Sinew tore.
In the flickering firelight of the Safehaven, Elyas's left hand slowly lowered to the hilt of the rapier at his waste. The half-elf himself, did not notice.
That song...
The page of the book before his eyes no longer existed. Only visible were the other's eyes. Dead, pale eyes, looking into his. Closer, and closer.
As if he was a thousand miles away from his own body, Elyas felt his left hand tightened still further.
The Pale One's voice rang in his skull like a choir pealing out a temple song, like a cold, desolate cry from an icy mountain-ledge high above; like the blackest, foulest thing he could imagine hearing. He could not stop it. Could not.. feel.
His grip on the hilt was as iron now, his other hand shook as he tried to reach for his tankard - something to drown out the noise, something to forget...
The voice said: LOOK...
Just then, amidst the clamouring wail rising from his memory, amidst the crunch and the thud of his knees on cold stone that made him want to vomit, made him want to curl up and cry like the boy he was... he noticed something.
A thumb.
A thumb, running over the outline of an engraved letter, sunken into the wood between two lines of silver inlay.
His thumb.
A hilt, wood with an engraved shape of a letter.
The hilt of his - her sword.
That shape. A downstroke, then an up.
Down, and up.
'V'
He blinked, for the first time in what seemed like forever. He breathed, following again with his thumb that line; down, then up.
Down, then up.
Slowly the world came back into focus.
The noise of the tavern filtered back into his mind, and that.. other.. voice, drifted away. As the last remnants of it left his ears, he shuddered as if doused in icy water.
Elyas reached for his cup, hand still shaking. Finally he was able to grasp it and bring it to his lips, taking a long, gasping gulp.
With a great effort, he slowed his breathing. Gradually, he was able to bring his gaze back to the weathered volume lying on the table before him. Blinking again, he gingerly reached and brought the book up into the candle light.
'Chauntea was...'
He stopped, and looked up.
His left hand still grasped the hilt that sat at his hip.
For a long moment he sat stock still, one thought flowing through his mind almost as clearly as the haunting voice had done not a moment earlier.
But this was no paralysing memory.
With purpose, and a vigour that belied his palid and uncertain frame, he stood, folding the book and downing his drink. Tossing a few coins on the table, he strode out of the Safehaven without a backwards glance, hand still grasping hilt at his side as he walked.
He needed to find that smith.
He needed... something more.
Because next time, things would go differently.
Next time, in the end, -it- would be the one left lying on that cold, hard stone.
'The Abbey of Chauntea was one of the city's oldest buildings, built in the Year of Waving Wheat (574 DR) during the era of..'
as he turned the page, a scrap of note paper fell from the dry leaves of the book. He glanced at it as it settled on the table, then looked again. It was a half-finished note to Gael. Why had he been writing a note to his friend?
As he scanned his own handwriting, a word pricked out at him.
'Blademas-' Elyas stopped reading before he finished the word. His mouth twisted a little, the hand holding the tankard banging it carelessly back onto the table as he grabbed the note, crumpled it in a shaking fist and threw it into a nearby fireplace. He did not look to see the parchment curl up in flame, and perish.
Shaking himself, the young half-elf settled back down in his chair and turned once again to the book. In it lay one part of what he sought. He felt as much.
As he drew a breath and tried to focus bleary eyes once more upon the page, a sound pricked his ear. Just faintly, as at a distance. Something outside in the square perhaps.
A singer of some kind, hawking for coins at the feet of Kerrigan's statue no doubt. His eyes focused on the ragged page before him.
'The abbey fell in fire and ruin during the Second Troll War and was never rebuilt...'
There is was again. Elyas frowned, his still-boyish features turning a little in the direction of the noise. It felt.. familiar, somehow. Like a song he once knew...
He blinked.
The pale face stared at him, closer and closer
Elyas was frozen in his chair. Around him, half-drunken laughter and merriment continued as a group of tavern-goers raised a fresh round of ales.
A sickening crunch, as the heavy dark blade landed across his shoulder and chest. Bone, shattered. Sinew tore.
In the flickering firelight of the Safehaven, Elyas's left hand slowly lowered to the hilt of the rapier at his waste. The half-elf himself, did not notice.
That song...
The page of the book before his eyes no longer existed. Only visible were the other's eyes. Dead, pale eyes, looking into his. Closer, and closer.
As if he was a thousand miles away from his own body, Elyas felt his left hand tightened still further.
The Pale One's voice rang in his skull like a choir pealing out a temple song, like a cold, desolate cry from an icy mountain-ledge high above; like the blackest, foulest thing he could imagine hearing. He could not stop it. Could not.. feel.
His grip on the hilt was as iron now, his other hand shook as he tried to reach for his tankard - something to drown out the noise, something to forget...
The voice said: LOOK...
Just then, amidst the clamouring wail rising from his memory, amidst the crunch and the thud of his knees on cold stone that made him want to vomit, made him want to curl up and cry like the boy he was... he noticed something.
A thumb.
A thumb, running over the outline of an engraved letter, sunken into the wood between two lines of silver inlay.
His thumb.
A hilt, wood with an engraved shape of a letter.
The hilt of his - her sword.
That shape. A downstroke, then an up.
Down, and up.
'V'
He blinked, for the first time in what seemed like forever. He breathed, following again with his thumb that line; down, then up.
Down, then up.
Slowly the world came back into focus.
The noise of the tavern filtered back into his mind, and that.. other.. voice, drifted away. As the last remnants of it left his ears, he shuddered as if doused in icy water.
Elyas reached for his cup, hand still shaking. Finally he was able to grasp it and bring it to his lips, taking a long, gasping gulp.
With a great effort, he slowed his breathing. Gradually, he was able to bring his gaze back to the weathered volume lying on the table before him. Blinking again, he gingerly reached and brought the book up into the candle light.
'Chauntea was...'
He stopped, and looked up.
His left hand still grasped the hilt that sat at his hip.
For a long moment he sat stock still, one thought flowing through his mind almost as clearly as the haunting voice had done not a moment earlier.
But this was no paralysing memory.
With purpose, and a vigour that belied his palid and uncertain frame, he stood, folding the book and downing his drink. Tossing a few coins on the table, he strode out of the Safehaven without a backwards glance, hand still grasping hilt at his side as he walked.
He needed to find that smith.
He needed... something more.
Because next time, things would go differently.
Next time, in the end, -it- would be the one left lying on that cold, hard stone.