Nocturne (Movement 3)

[ecclessia]

Sul~falaer Dhamphil's Nocturne, Movement III.... the Life and Death of Regret.

1. Taking Him Apart.
The scarred elfmaid looked at him sarcastically and spoke in her otherworldly dialect... Where had he heard that before?

No matter... as she spoke, the gears in his head turned, grinding her words, digesting them... her wit intrigued him, as did her coy manner and her shocking appearance...

One feint after another, the two whispering elves circled each other's words carefully, baiting the other one, waiting for the traps to find their prey...

"Do ye feel better, er worse, for takin' apart what I said fer yer own use, fer makin' part o' ye, what was part o' me?"

The biting, rhyming question actually stung... why? Regret... Vilya had asked whether he was enjoying her company... or exploiting it... or maybe neither. Whatever the meaning behind the question, it was heavily laden, and Sul's head swam.

She was too mistrusting to fully trust, but part of the dark hunter actually desired to know her...

Perhaps it was the fact that she could be as bitingly cynical and dark as Sul~falaer... perhaps more on both accounts? Maybe it was that the dark hunter couldn't wrap his mind around her intentions... perhaps she was a challenge?

Whatever the case, the hunter furrowed his brow as she walked away, shaking his head in thought...

2. Dress Up
Vilya's accent... was extraplanar...

Sul~falaer had heard it from a few troupes of bards that passed through the Ailing Forest in the decades before... hmm... they traveled the planes and shared the same sarcastic lilt to their voices... the same slang... the same biting style...

Indeed she was in top form today.

Her questions had been more probing... direct - and Sul was distracted.

His week had been one disappointment after another, and he couldn't hide behind riddles or shadowy rhetoric...

Vilya continued probing.

"I answered your question..." the hunter stated flatly. He had, but not fully, and she knew it.

Was it gold...fear... hatred...? Sul~falaer didn't fully know why he hunted. Certainly it had always been for the money... but outside of the Shadow Stalkers of Tethyr, what was the point... why roam Faerun?

Sul returned her questions with some of his own, and slowly a picture of the scarred elfmaid's past began to emerge... still muddy and labyrinthine like her tattoos...

She had been Regret... to all who hadn't any... couldn't... wouldn't... or needed to...

As the dark hunter struggled to understand, she brought her hand to his face...

He saw her, her scars and tattoos fading to beautiful, soft skin, her countenance becoming pleasant and radiant... Bewildered, Saddened, the shadow stalker was taken by her sudden beauty and then his heart broke as his vision blurred...

Like someone was squeezing the blood from his heart, Sul felt pain, and he witnessed in a few moments that last weeks of his mother... her failing health, her love for her unborn son, her fear at his appearance upon his birth, and her death shortly after...

Swooning, Sul~falaer rose, pulling a small, old, elven doll from his pouch, the pouch right next to his purse...

"You asked me why?" He stated grimly, with a slight tinge of regret, "This is why."

Walking off, the hunter clutched his hard and stumbled... only to be caught by his Regret...

"Why ded ye show me?" She asked.

"Why does it matter? I did."

Pushing up against him roughly, and setting the doll in his hands, Regret stormed off... "Et doesn't"

Sul looked down at the last remnant from his mother and grimaced...
The next day, she pressed on... "Who gave ye thet toy? Who wes et, Dhamphil?"

He saw no escape that wouldn't have been terribly obvious - so he suffered... as she tore through his resolve with probing questions and a wisdom that gave reason to her scars, Sul cracked and broke over and over, his face falling and drawing tight in failed efforts to maintain his grim, calm countenance.

"Do ye remember whet et es to smile, an mean et?"

No... he didn't. He didn't remember that... he didn't remember his own mother. He remembered hunting... he remembered payment... he remembered sitting around a fire and jesting about the fools he had for clients with the rest of his fellow shadowstalkers... he remembered his shadowdancing leader/ foster father that so deftly danced in and out of eyesight while jumping from treetop to treetop through the Forest of Tethir until his final mission... the three decaying heads that were delivered to his mother's home village... The final flight out of Tethir when the village connected him with the adulteress that died of fright, grief, and illness over the dark eyed child that was stolen away by men that moved through shadow.

"What is you want to know?" Sul asked in desperation... squeezing back the rush of memories that Regret could bring him... had brought him... would continue to bring him.

He told her... anything to stop it... maybe anything for her...
what? what was it in her that opened his mystique...cracked his resolve?

She cared... for once, someone wasn't concerning themselves with only the bag of gold he brought home or the social virtue of being a bounty hunter...

Of course, she could be setting him up...

So he told her... about his mother... about his birth. And he stopped. Nothing more about him... nothing more about his life. Just the time before his birth, and the short time after as his mother withered away... just the most vague details of his life...

But it wasn't enough... she was coming back for him... she'd drag his soul to the surface, the flaring soul of a dark, tortured, hunter. And then she'd either kill him or betray him once she had his past...

Sul smiled grimly... "well, until then... maybe I have a friend."

3. Healing Wounds
"Grey shadow to the last, ye are." Her accented cant always did cut right to the most poignant of riddles possible...

Vilya's behavior at the table was bizzarre, indeed... especially after seated... upon rising, she blushed with embarassment over her conduct - and the two were set off-balance.

"Still hunting the Deaders?" One after another today... she came on relentless, the questions with hidden meanings... "Aye, yer still prey to the past..."

The hunter thought it wise to turn the tables... "What hunts you, Vilya? What chases you?"

Without a word she took off his leather gauntlet and placed his fingertips upon the deep, rough scars on her face, the scars that took her beauty...

Guards approached, and Vilya slipped quickly away, leaving Sul~falaer standing confused, staring at a pasty white hand with tingling fingertips. Watching them with a cold stare, Sul sat down and absentmindedly studied his fingers... finally pulling the glove back on.

The tattoed elfmaid appeared behind him, injured, and walked right past him. An odd feeling came over the hunter as he saw the continuous cut across the woman's neck and collar, still bleeding slightly as she strode north. For the first time in decades, he felt concern for another.

You can't worry about them, Dhamphil... they know the risks and they make their own choices...

His foster father's words came back to him only briefly... not quickly enough to stop the berry balm from coming gently from his hand, to her bleeding neck...

And he stood speechless... he'd aided her... he'd been concerned...

He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

"Ye look to 'ave a few scratches, yerself, Sul...Will ye let me return the favor then?"

Dumbfounded, Sul unlaced the side of is tunic, revealing several reddened, slow healing slashes and punctures from cruel knives and swords. She tended to them with the natural balm, blowing on it to ensure it dried properly, starting in on the monologue that would break Sul's final wall...

"Ye know, I dunna believe thet the greatest evils en the planes er devils un demons, for they aren'a enytheng but the dark dreams o' mortals brougt to life. Et's the others, the men un women, the elves un humans un rabgabs un thinktinks thet are th'trouble. They have good and bad, they kin choose... as to what they are to be. An when the choose the dark path... et's like makin' another fiend and killin a deva all in one shot an one blow.

Evil - et's en choice. Not en birth. Not en bein'."

Vilya raised a hand, almost touching Sul's face, but dropping it just before...

"The one... es gave ye the doll, Sul. She knew et - she knew you weren'a monster.

Ya dunna chose ta be. But she chose to let ya be. A woman... she didna have to bear a babe. There es ways, but she knew.

She knew evil wesn't born for pointearr, no matter what else yer blood 'as en et. A drop o' pointears blood: Et means 'choice.'

Un... ye kin take as long as ye want to decide, Sul. Es no one kin make the decision o' what ye are, but ye.

"Concieved en Nightmare" whatever Sul, Ye were born en love, 'cause o' her love. And thet's what wins out en the end. No matter what daft berks'll say."

Sul broke. His resolve, his resistance... all crumbled after her contant care... her involvement in his life. The only person that ever looked past the mystique to see anything other than a bounty hunter or a monster...

"I trust you..." He admitted to her.

She was speechless now... her face pulling out all the rules of emotion and hammering them to pieces...

A long wait... some small conversation...

"Ye... ye kin trust me, Sul."

4. The Thorned Rose of Regret
thorned roses bloom
bleed fingers dry
pricking like the constant wound
the telling silver eyes...

The second journey to the camp started uneventfully... Vilya, and the dark hunter, heading south along some semblance of Sul's normal route to the camp...

Before the journey'd began, Sul~falaer presented Vilya with a fine ashwood longbow... a practical gift... but a gift nonetheless... and she'd been surprised.

Whatever Vilya's role in his existance... sister, mother, friend, lover... he wanted to make sure her life sustained to be there for it. In a sense, the scarred elf was his only connection to the life he may have had... and could have? She was beaten, marred, and used up... and she saw past Sul's antiheroic demeanor to the person behind it.

He came to revel in her company... grey with grey. His cold loneliness faded in her presence, the cold loneliness he was so comfortable with. He was continually tested.

She dug, she pryed, she searched... until the floodgate of his past broke free and she knew everything... well... almost everything.

He feared her for it. He loved her for it. She was direct... poignant. He was the adopted son of a Shadowhunter... he spoke in riddles, feinting until his prey was vulnerable. Regret... Vilya... was unrelentingly biting when she wanted to be. And it tore him apart. And it pieced him together.

Until that moment, he'd never felt the way he was about to feel... the day before goblins had caught them unawares and he'd reacted in time to slip from the shadows and snap their necks before they ever reached her... Today was not like that at all.

The howl echoed from the trees, bouncing form trunk to trunk in a macabre waltz that taunted the trio with danger they couldn't see.

Vilya suggested worgs... and Sul spied a pair of red, glowing eyes pacing to and fro, slowly... hunting them...

Sul became concerned for the woman... he feared for her life and cursed himself silently for bringing her into danger.

In the black tongue of the hells he told her to flee, pleaded with her to turn back... She didn't. The dark hunter tensed his grip on his bow and let loose an arrow into the large beast loping toward them.

"Know better than to hunt the hunter!"

Sul screamed at it as the huge animal bounded toward the group with an entourage of goblins...

Sul~falaer peppered the charging worg with arrows, felling it with the ferocious drink of Nightthirst. The rest of the goblins fell easily.

The dark hunter looked to Vilya with relief in his heart, and the two continued on...

5. Another Time
Bandits warring with goblins and a worg in the midst of the southern fringe... Sul~falaer felt tense and a bit unsettled by the mounting danger.

The dark hunter actually worried about someone other than himself and his knuckles were white around his longbow, hidden by his leather gauntlets... whose material pulled and strained under the tenacious, anxious grip with which he held the weapon.

She was clever and evasive at the camp... selling knowledge of their journey for the satisfaction and pride of Sul~falaer, it seemed.

The dark-eyed elf watched with amused admiration as she pawned the tale of their journey to a ranger for a bag of coins and spite from some druids... Vilya was in rare form.

Indeed rare, for she caught the hunter completely off guard. He had been dancing in and around the shadows she garbed herself in, revelling in their mystery but always trying to cut to the center, to know what being in -her- grey meant...

Directly, as usual, she cut to his intentions with a deft flick of her tongue.

"What do ye want from me?"

The dark hunter froze, predictably caught off guard by the direct inquiry... She knew him well enough to know how to throw him off-balance.

She brought her hand to his face, and the dark hunter could feel the rush of warmth to his cheeks, the pale grey skin almost taking color. She wrapped her fingers in her hair and brushed his ear, studying his expression.

what -did- he want?

He wanted to know her... He wanted to be in her company... He enjoyed her company, admired her manner, and cared for her well-being.

Was there more?

Sul~falaer was saved by another ranger's approach from the southeast.

Vilya leaned exceedingly close to Sul, her lips lightly brushing his as she whispered with a smile.

"Another time."

She slipped gracefully away, and Sul watched after her with a deep breath of relief, confusion, frustration, and all the tenuous bridges between.

With a heave he leaned against a tree and closed his eyes, relaxing as the blood slowly left his face, his palour returning to its normally cold grey.

6. A Mother's Love...
He smiled up at her and stood, skirting around words like children chasing each other around a yard in a game of tag.

Some things were worth dying for...? She said so much.

Brief worry crossed Sul's mind... he hoped with all his heart she didn't mean him.

And what things would those be? Eh?

Her response was worse than anything he could have imagined...

"Yer mum thought ye were werth it, if I think right..."

Sul hadn't heard that one... he filled with anger over his mother's mention and let fly with a facetious comment that earned him naught but scorn and anger...

If he'd touched a nerve, he didn't know it, as he growled in anger at her tirade about his mother's loss and grief over him... he drew his sword and beat it into the tree while the assault continued... words flew faster than blows ever could, and Sul turned and walked a few yards away, while Vilya turned, threw down the ashwoood longbow, and strode off...

Swallowing his pride, he grabbed up the bow and followed... tracking her through the forest... he'd been so caught up, he'd forgotten to dress for possible battle, and four goblins found all the mistakes in his movement. Bleeding but worried, Sul continued the search.

He strode to the glades, looking around frantically, losing the tracks amongst goblin prints that mashed down the tall grass... Instead of Vilya, who he was beginning to think of as Regret, he found more goblins... or rather, they found him.

He'd been frantic. He'd been careless... the half dozen goblins attacked from all sides, and Sul felt his back and sides warming under the flow of his vital crimson ichor. For a split second he welcomed death, but Regret found him instead...

From behind she dispatched one, allowing the dark hunter enough time to finish the rest.

The scarred elfmaid, his only friend, if she still was a friend, looked at him coldly as he collapsed.

She cut away his tunic, and cleaned and cauterized his deep wounds, leaving scars several inches long acrossed his back and sides, companion to the scars that were forming in his psyche as Regret threw insult after insult at him...
After a day had passed, Vilya was present again... looking weary and seeming less furious at Sul's oversight... whatever it was.

Do ye love her, Sul?

The question about his mother baffled him...

Love? of course he knew what it meant... but he'd never really seen it before... never really felt it before. He offered confusion, and some brief words between them ended with yet another riddle for the dark hunter's already strained psyche...

Idy'id.

With that she fell lightly against him, taking reverie... Looking down to her with bewilderment, Sul~falaer gingerly wrapped his arms around her, holding her up while she sat in trance... and pulling her close in relief at a time she wouldn't notice.

In this moment, the dark hunter was honest with himself... in this moment, his heart throbbed for the love of his mother... in this moment, his heart throbbed for the love of his regrets manifest in a scarred, unconscious elfmaid... the only companion he had.

Sul~falaer Dhamphil looked from the horizon, to his left pocket, then to Vilya as she lay still against him...

He closed his eyes in silent contemplation, lowering his chin to his chest and letting his auburn tresses cascade down off his shoulders like a turbulent sea of rust...

His heart's stone shell was crumbling... and the tender, atrophied muscle underneath ached more than the knotted muscles and scarring wounds on his back and sides...
When he awoke, she was gone.

7. Deal
He sat on the bench under the stars, and stared into the sky... so many cold beacons, seeming to beg for warmth that the sun coveted for itself and shed upon all so that it's glory would outshine even the brightest star of the night...

And she was was the brightest star... As she leaned against the inn next to him, he looked up and smiled...

"A smile? Not smirkin as usual, Sul?"

I'm not?

He wasn't... and he couldn't explain it. He watched as Vilya took from her back a folded black tunic, and handed it to him.

"Here... yer rags er all torn en bloody... Yer makin me look bad."

Sul turned the outfit over quizically and stepped away to put it on... He looked at his continually torn and mended tunic, and slipped it away in to his bag... he returned to a light rain, and Vilya standing in it, uncloaked... the water pouring over her and soaking her clothes...

"You need a cloak." Sul said flatly, unclasping his and handing it to her...

She looked at him, visibly startled as he handed her the warm elven cloak and pressed himself under the awning of the Wayfarer with a light nod.

Vilya studied him with curiosity as the rain continued, and as it stopped, she handed the cloak back to him, smiling...

"Sul... every berk has 'un. What's your dream?" Vilya ran her hand lightly over Sul's pale face, ever so lightly, and he melted under the touch, opening the gates wider, allowing the enemy within the walls...

Sul~falaer stammered a bit before catching himself and turning the question... catching her hand from his face and pressing it against his chest, now pounding with confusion and a whirlwind of other emotions.

"I'm sorry... refresh my memory... what was it you said you wanted..."

Vilya faltered... "I ...I want ta know... thengs..."

Sul~falaer followed suit as she recovered and persisted... "Jes say et, Sul."

"I think... you... are my dream... right now."

She was. She as the closest thing he'd every have to someone who cared about him, and even if she was using him or only a business partner or traveling companion... the dark hunter treasured that.

Whether it was friendship, brotherhood, or romantic interest that he felt for the crafty elf-maid, Sul's heart stirred in his chest... and he felt sick.

Frowning grimly and replacing his countenance, Sul watched Vilya from a distance as she strode off, leaning wearily against he wayfarer... her parting words coming back to him every second:

I trust ye, Sul... If you stay weth me... I'll stay weth ye... Deal?

Deal...

Sul~falaer had always kept his word... this time was no different. A deal's a deal... and the profit for this one... the company of a potential friend... perhaps more... was immense.

Meanwhile: The Soul of His Lover (written by l.m.r.)
She still had her pride. After all that had happened, all of her past, she still had her pride. And she would be damned if she would yeild to any one, for even a single moment, a single breath. She had endured, and now she was free, her body was free, and she would not let others shackle her will. For centuries, she allowed herself to negotiate her limits, and concede her principals, again and again, bargaining away her dignity bit by bit for a chance at survival. Her pride would not let her die. Her pride told her she was better than the monsters that surrounded her, that she had a debt to pay, and she would repay it, but to do that she needed to be alive.

Soon, her pride was all that she had left. She had been stripped down to the bone, and so she wrapped herself in her pride. It was her shield, her defense, her weapon. It had to remain strong. Her pride would not yield

They could slander her beauty. Her scars. They were a mark of pride. Proof of what she had endured, of what she had been willing to endure for the one she lost. Appearance was nothing. What was beauty, but a servant to the observer's pleasures? They could mock her scars, and her pride would not yield.

They could slander her speech. Her tongue. It marked her as different. But she was proud of her speech, it was proof that she had adapted, that she was from a brutal place and had survived it, learned to live within a system that does its best to destroy those within it. She could lie, decieve, and mislead when the need arose. She could insult and slander and mock with the lowest and basest of them. She had used her words and wit to dance circles around those who could overpower her in any other way. Her mind was never chained and she used her words to flaunt it. They could mock her speach, and her pride would not yeild.

They could slander her morals. Her ethics and tact. She made no excuse, she saw things as they were, and she knew how to survive. She could lie and steal and decieve when she needed to. She knew the truth, plain and bare and ugly as it was. She had made her choices, long ago. And she knew where true evil and true goodness lay. And she had suffered for what she believed in and suffered still. They could mock her morals, and her pride would not yeild.

They could not slander Sul. Her.. Sul. She would not let them. He was better, better than they knew. And they judged him. Oh how they judged him. And they didn't even know him well enough to be his judge, no one did, except for her. And she would not judge him. She would never judge him. And yet they spoke... they called him untrustworthy, when he had been honest to them. They called him small minded, when they had made him an outcast because he did not fit their mold. She did not let them get away with it. She was not vindictive, but she would protect him, in all the ways, in any way, that she knew how.

And so, she spoke for him. And for him, she yielded her pride. And it cut straight down to the bone.

8. Reflections
The dark hunter pressed his back against the boulder, nocking an arrow and pulling the string taught. As the goblin predictably barrelled around the corner, Sul whirled and loosed the arrow, not a foot from the greenskin's forehead.

With a grim smile, Sul~falaer watched as the beast hurtled backward, skidding upon the grass with a dull thud and a muffled gargle.

Bending down to claim the beast's sword, the dark-eyed elf caught his reflection in the pond to his left, and was flooded with memories of the night before.

He had been evasive... but he was worried. The druid was becoming at least a minor threat to Vilya's safety, and therefore deserved at least a little attention... One angry forester was a nuisance... this one came with a mutt and a human lap dog that would make a nuisance a full blown problem if words came to blows.

What was worse was the manner in which the druid threatened Vilya... always directing her words at Sul~falaer, using the scarred elfmaid as leverage in a cruel game. The position the hunter held was a precarious ledge, and he didn't like it.

Worried or not, Vilya was angered at Sul~falaer's dodges, and it became rapidly clear that hiding in the shadows wasn't going to save him from her disdain. With words and rain, relief ran down Sul in rivulets that cooled the anger in the woman's eyes and refreshed the bounty hunter's weary heart.

Sul had once more slipped to the shadows, and crept up nimbly behind yet another goblin. With one swift, silent motion Nightthirst flew through the goblin's head and let it's flat side come across the humanoid's tunic, cleansing itself from it's deed before the skull rolled from the body with a muted thump as it hit the ground, just a hair before the body crumpled to a heap.

Sul stared at Nightthirst with a slight smile, admiring it's dull sheen, and losing himself to more memories...

She stood at the garden, and they danced with words... They were talking about rose bushes, but she was really talking about herself. Or so he thought.

Something in her voice led him to assume that she thought she could or would be plucked and thrown away to wither, like a cheap, thorny amusement that is nurtured only to be killed by a fool's fancy.

I wonder if it goes both ways?

Curious as to the result, Sul turned the metaphor on himself... and the battle began. Immediately on the defensive, Vilya seemed injured by the hunter's snare, and he inwardly cursed himself for it.

He cut the snare with a new metaphor... speaking of his death and his need for it... And once again, his inability to come into the light was affecting Vilya in the opposite way he intended...

Are the shadows so comfortable? He could almost hear the voice of Regret mocking him, chiding him... what a fool he was.

She looked up with a tinge of some negative emotion, Sul~falaer only knew he didn't like it, and she walked off with a whisper.

Ye deserve better.

He stopped her, doing the closest thing to pleading that he could bring himself too... and he might have succeeded. He wasn't sure, but the tear stains on his collar and the final, pleasant goodbye she offered let some of the anxiety off of his weary heart...

The tingling sensation still resting on the right corner of his lips from hers stirred his heart and confused his thoughts into a whirl of emotion.

Fear, hope, anxiety, and the resultant confusion that followed.

Sitting in the shadow of a huge oak, Sul~falaer Dhamphil stared into the campfire of the Mhyrrwood outpost...

Words came back to him with shifted meaning.

Do ye love her?

The dark hunter closed his eyes and winced...

Did he?

9. The Last Scar
When his mother died, and he was taken away from his village to the hunter's camp... no one cared what was best for him.

When he was given the blade Nightthirst and taught to kill without mercy to fulfill his job... no one cared what was best for him.

When he watched his foster family die, one by one, and yet was still sent out... no one cared what was best for him.

When he was ostracized by village after village - even after fulfilling his obligations to them... no one cared what was best for him.

As he stood against the fencepost, vulnerable to every assault... she cared what was best for him.

The pain was excruciating. The embrace was salvific. The dagger on his throat as she slowly pushed away was cold and oddly welcome.

Her use of it... was not.

The dark hunter only watched as what was once Regret cut down from her eye across her cheek, leaving a crimson tear line over her already marred face.

"Thes one's mine... a reminder for the livin o' somethin' important ta me, not for the death of somethin' important ta me."

Sul~falaer swallowed hard and could only nod in response...

The previous day's events faded to the shadowy grey of memory. He felt safer... more complete, perhaps, but at this point, he had bigger things to think about.

Meanwhile: Regrets (written by l.m.r.)
Today was her birthday.

Centuries since it had mattered, and still each year, the memory returned, a small spark of the past that emerged from the darkness to burn her once again. A sting to remind Regret, now Vilya, that she alive, making her question once more: which was worse, the fire or the void? Vilya shook her head, annoyed to find her thoughts turning to abstract sentiment and self-pity.

Unnoticed, Vilya slipped away to allow for her one indulgence, one even Sul did not suspect. Nor would he.
Running her fingers over the tall grass she stepped silently toward the tree, and sat down in its shadow to await the morning light. She waited both still and silent, ready to melt into the shadows should another approach and begin to suspect her secret. The pale rays of dawn gave way to the harsh light of morning while Vilya waited in unsettling anticipation. At the stroke of the seventh hour, Vilya relaxed her guard, and let drop her defenses.

The child came every morning at the same time, as if waiting indoors another moment was unbearable. She was unaware, and uncaring of the dance of light that took place in her golden tresses. Her brown fawn's eyes were distracted by the more pertinent concerns of daisy-chains, climbing trees, and a well worn rag doll. Her attention was fleeting, she would coddle her rag doll, then drop it, forgotten, only to weep, for its loss a moment later until a kindly stranger could find it for her. Once reunited with her treasured companion, she would whisper sweetly to the doll, promising to never forget it, and to never leave it behind again. A promise she always meant, and always broke.

In these moments alone Vilya knew peace. She could remember what was, a the bright and trusting eyes of a young elf with silvery hair. The child that believed everything had a reason, that she would make everything all better in the end. That love was unconditional, and those you loved, you could trust. Betrayal was beyond her scope of experience. Even as the world burned to ashes around her, the child still believed she would be alright, the one who held her hand would protect her, keep her safe, take her away.

The child was no more than memory. But Vilya survived on little more than memories and a pale thread of hope.

As the sun faded, turning the golden tresses of the child to a mellow auburn, Vilya stood to return to the shadows. As the sounds of night began to surround her, she looked once more to dying rays of light to the west.

Today would have been her birthday.

10. From a Distance
The grass was soft, and the long, dark shadow of the wayfarer at twilight provided ample cover for one such as he. Sitting against the whitewashed slats, the pale elf with the crimson flecked eyes furrowed his brow and stared through his lightly folded hands, his finger tips drumming together as he gazed across the soft, waving grass. He spied her at a distance, relaxing under a tree, running her hand through blades of grass, seemingly lost in thought.

A month before, he couldn't have fathomed such things existed with the realm of possibility... a month before, the cold, callous hunter had strode mightily into the hamlet seeking to eak out a living away from the tall oaks and maples of the Tethyrian Wood... A month before it was bitter memories, a full wallet, and Nightthirst that sustained him. They were all he needed; they were all he had.

She complicated things. Her initial stunt was amusing... deftly lifting his purse, and handing it back to him before he noticed it was gone - clever. As time wore on, so did their relationship with each other, rivalry fading to interested caution, caution to pensive friendship, friendship to trust... trust to romantic interest... romantic interest to...

The pale elf shook his head. He did. He came to it as her lips had come to him just a night before... hungrily, with longing and starvation that cried out desperately for satisfaction. And he recieved it... He felt more whole... Hers was a shadow that brought comfort, and he reveled in it's depths.

The sun sank lower in the sky, and the shadow of the Wayfarer became longer and longer, until its tendrils touched her, and she looked to the whitewashed slats. A pale hand rested itself gently on her shoulder, and she tensed momentarily before raising her silver eyes to his with a look of sarcastic amusement.

He returned the gaze with a wry smirk and a mischievous flash of his crimson flecked eyes.

He did...

11. Silver Tears from Crimson Eyes
He strode to the gates and froze...

The bag he saw first... familiar to him, it's supple leather he'd seen many an evening as he walked through the hamlet, or strode through the glades.

The goblin lay cold as stone... it never had a chance in the gates of the town.

But she...

I trust ye, Sul... If you stay weth me... I'll stay weth ye... Deal?

Her words came back to him, and his crimson flecked eyes stung... the dark hunter swallowed hard.

The limp, battered form of Vilya lay in the grass just outside the gate, lifeless.

His once warmed heart burst, spraying shards that cut the fabric of his being into ribbons and tore away the soul she had once found. The vessel she had opened and filled now spilled empty, the warm, comfortable ichor it once held souring and poisoning the hunter's essence, eating away at his shell, cracking his poise, and crumbling his demeanor.

Kneeling, Sul~falaer Dhamphil gingerly gathered his freed breath into his arms, cradling her limp head against his shoulder. Rising, the hunter walked slowly to Mourning Pass, silent tears flowing continually in silver streams down his pale grey cheeks, dropping with moonbeams to toast a lifeless love.

He reached the tree.

You asked me why.

This tree was where he first felt it... the moment she asked him what and why he hunted;the moment she first began to crack his hardened heart.

She wasn't like any other... she had cared. She had dug deep, through pretense and shadow, to find a heart worth loving. And she did. And he did.

And now, Sul dug... in between beautiful cascade and melancholy graveyard, under the oak of the Mourning Pass, Sul~falaer laid the breath of his heart to final rest, never more to be hurt or scarred by anyone or anything. A final, cold kiss and a forlorn gaze was all he could offer her as he draped her woolen cloak - the cloak that he gave her - over her stilled frame.

Hours passed...

The dark hunter's tears were hidden by rain and mist, and his tunic, the tunic she had made for him, clung to his knotted, fatigued body as he rose, supporting himself on the bark of the tree. Kissing his fingers, he held them to the moist earth, then wiped away his tears with his damp sleeve.

The hunter peered north, to the beautiful cascades... then south, to the dreary cemetary.

Grey shadow to the last...

With one last sigh, and heart-torn look, the hunter turned, and walked down the hill...

He did...

[Mord]

Sweet d00d!

[Misty]

Wow.


Very cool

[PensivesWetness]

Wow.


Very cool

for reference, these are, i think, events that occured during Sul's stay in the Lower Earthspurs... in a quiet region of the Myrwood and Vesper River, like... a lot of miles inland from Procampur.... kinda...

Sul's story ends, as i recall... badly, unless i am incorrect, of course.

and if i am incorrect, i am eager to see that correction written, yes?









And WTF is any reference to the GIRLS, Ecc? Ginnia thought Sul was a ponpose Elf Ass but at least Millia liked you...

[ecclessia]

PW, I'll get the rest of the story up soon.