Restless - Searching

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Ithildur
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Restless - Searching

Post by Ithildur »

More than anything else, it was the faces that kept him restless.

Tossing, turning, stifled gasps for air (there were moments when it felt as if a heavy weight sat upon his chest, gently crushing his lungs). Eyes wide open, then shut tight, beads of sweat formed on his brow.

Neither reverie nor sleep could be found during these moments - a rare thing, or at least, it should have been so. What was meant as a blessing, a means to rejuvenate both body and soul, to cleanse and purify mind and heart, became a curse on nights like this.

The faces... Seldarine, make it stop... please.

No! No, no... never! They are precious... I know not why, but they are more precious than rubies, diamonds or mithral. Something inside me tells me I must hang onto them no matter what - they are more precious than life itself.


Two faces. Always a pair, together.

A fair Etriel... an elf maiden with laughing eyes that sweetly pierces my heart yet makes it sing. Thick, wavy locks of silver... are those my hands stroking her hair? Her lips curl into a smile, welcoming and comforting, reassuring, then they mouth a single word pleadingly, as her countenance shifts - both hard and saddened - a look of despair?

"Remember..."

The second face - it pulls at my heart in a very different way, but perhaps even more earnestly, like a small child fervently tugging on the edge of her parent's tunic. It is the face of a young child, a sweet, Elven girl's face, rosy and round, wise and innocent, smiling, laughing, eyes vibrantly alive and full of merry mischief. She sticks out her tongue in playful jest, then flashes a smile that could melt a White dragon's heart... oh Arvandor, my heart swells with both joy and sorrow... but why?


His face glistened, body soaked in cold sweat, tense as a Cathshee about to spring as he sat upright. There was nothing but silence and darkness there to greet him.

Who are they?
Last edited by Ithildur on Thu Sep 10, 2020 5:58 am, edited 13 times in total.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Ithildur
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Re: Restless

Post by Ithildur »

It should have been a moment that brought a smile and warmed the heart, and for a moment it did- until the faces that haunted him returned to mind.

The elf silently grabbed the basket of fruit, and rushed off towards the docks as fast as he could without actually breaking into a run. He did not stop or slow down, until the children and the Etriel that seemed to be with them were far out of his sight.

Image
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Re: Restless

Post by Ithildur »

The Elf's hands were shaking, far more than they should've been. At least that's what he thought to himself.

Some adventurer I am. Tis a clean wound, piercing point of rapier going straight through the heart... and it's only a goblin besides. Tsk.

He managed to calm his nerves as he wiped his blade clean - at least this time, his heart stopped racing far sooner than it did after the previous kill. And to be fair - at least as far as he was aware or could remember - it was only what, his second or third battle?

Who knows... who can say with certainty? My reflexes, muscle memory tell me that I have training, but beyond that...

Who can say whether in the past I was a caravan guard, a veteran of campaigns against orcs? Or worse, can I be sure that I was not an assassin for hire, with dozens of victims under his belt, or some such?

The Elf who called himself Kythorn looked once more at the dead goblin; it's ugly mouth was agape and dull yellow eyes still open, and a foul colored fluid stained it's chest near the small but lethal wound. He looked down at his hands again, which had begun to shake once more.

No... not an assassin, I think. Gods, I hope not... what if the faces in my mind were my most recent victims?

With some effort he forced himself to concentrate and call upon muscle memory for the subtle gestures. It took more effort to recall arcane syllables that just recently seemed to have returned to that part of his mind that he could draw upon reliably.

As the cantrip finished the task of magically cleaning his blade to polished perfection, he noted with satisfaction that the shaking had stopped. He stood tall, taking a deep, controlled breath, and nodded to himself before exiting the building.

Good. Perhaps there's hope for me yet. Have to stay focused - get paid, keep getting paid... Stay sharp, and keep looking.

The answers will come, he reassured himself with greater effort.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Re: Restless

Post by Ithildur »

The Elf who called himself Kythorn stood still, with eyes closed in concentration.

I hold in my mind ... like a blade held ready in it's scabbard ... possibility, and wonder.

He drew his breath quietly, gently - breath that would soon be expelled with the forceful, decisive unleashing of arcane syllables.

I am ready.

Brows became furrowed as he searched, delved deeper into his mind and memory. With no small effort, he formed in his mind's eye a picture, a lithe, curvaceous shape, then a face, attempting to capture every elusive detail in his thoughts.

This will be the more difficult part. I see her, but... I must remember as clearly as possible.

"Veritas... Credo... Oculos!!"

The hair on his neck stood for a moment as he felt the release of energy and power - the unseen substance all around him, the working of the Weave. Within moments a shape began to form (or so it would've appeared to a casual observer) before the Elf's very eyes. As the spell's results fully manifested in the room, it appeared to all intents and purposes that a silver haired Moon Elven maiden stood in the middle of the chamber - tall, graceful, and fair, just as Kythorn remembered her.

Maintaining the required concentration, Kythorn began to circle the soundless image, examining and studying, attempting to critique his work - the details and nuances, colors and shapes - with cool, detached analysis.

He soon found this difficult. His heartbeat had quickened just a touch, he realized, and soon he began to find himself fighting back emotions that he simply could not explain - anger, sadness he recognized, a hint of something he recognized as loss, perhaps grief - and something more.

Thrice cursed shadow... Who ARE you? I must remember!

Opening his leather bound journal to the next blank page, Kythorn attempted as best as he could ("Whatever I am... I certainly am no trained artist" he thought to himself) to sketch the image of the Etriel, along with noting various details and features. Having finished the task, he flipped back several pages, all of which were filled with the same exercise with varying degrees of detail and results - the work of many days of obsessive repetition.

I must remember. Please... help me remember.

Kythorn put his journal back down, and prepared to repeat the strange ritual once more.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Re: Restless

Post by Ithildur »

Awareness slowly returned.

With uncannily precise timing, the mystical trance of Reverie was coming to an end, and the Elf who'd adopted the name of Kythorn lay perfectly still on the unfamiliar bed, staring at an equally unfamiliar (yet oddly comforting) ceiling.

The routine was one that likely had become second nature decades ago (if only he could remember!), though with subtle, yet distinct differences from time to time. Indeed, for the past few cycles Reverie had been less than the peaceful, soothing and restorative activity it should have been night after night, and more recently he'd begun to forego attempts to get any rest at all for days on end.

But today was very much a new day, Kythorn thought to himself.

"No, a new season." he whispered quietly.

With that, the half dressed elf practically leapt out of the bed and dropped onto the floor nimbly onto all fours. A series of vigorous exertions ensued, an exercise and calisthenics routine that would've seemed both familiar and strange to non Elves (the stretches certainly would've been painful for most humans and dwarves just to watch) - all performed with a focused intensity, yet quietly enough that another sleeping on the bed would scarcely have noticed.

"New hope, Seadin. And yes, Bae'ithra was right - new purpose."

The words spoken in Espruar came forth in brief, hushed whispers in between controlled, measured breaths (Seadin apparently did not care to respond). In spite of himself, Kythorn found that a smile was forming on his lips.

"And yes, new fears."

The exercise movements came to a halt for a tense, lingering moment. A single bead of sweat rolled off of his forehead, before he forced himself to continue in silence.

Then Kythorn remembered.

"Focus. Focus, Kythorn."

"Focus and breathe... that's how one staves off fatigue, nerves, fear... the sweets you hastily consumed before going to bed!"


Kythorn remembered the words, and the gentle, yet surprisingly strong clear feminine voice that spoke them over him.

Then in a flash, a fraction of a second, he remembered the same words being spoken by himself over another. And another. And another.

He began to remember their voices - young, mischievous, shy, petulant, cheerful, fearful - sweet, high pitched voices.

Osi! Father!

Teacher.


Kythorn had begun to remember.

And in that moment, he felt no fear.



Image

Image
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Ithildur
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Re: Restless

Post by Ithildur »

I've no idea where I might have heard of this notion... that one's life flashes before their eyes just before impending death.

But apparently it's true.


Kythorn's thoughts had been a whirlwind for some time of late, but today especially - and especially from the moment earlier in the day that he made the decision to perform the grim interrogation. Even as the raging orc's blade sliced through the air towards him, the images flashed in his mind with impossible speed, one after the other, and yet, somehow he was able to ruminate over each one of them, all in the space of a fraction of a second. Chalk it up to the mysteries of the Mind, and Time.


Image

Time. That was the essence of the problem, was it not? Mere days before, others had attempted to interrogate an orc, mostly by shouting at it. The results were rather unfruitful, in the end proving to be a futile expenditure of time and energy while standing in a most vulnerable location within the Pass. But that was acceptable - an attempt, a failure ... such was to be expected - from time to time. Kythorn had only recently (and reluctantly) begun to accept that he seemed to have been placed on the path of an 'adventurer' of some sort - and he reasoned that such a path would inevitably lead to risks, and risks meant the very real chance of failures.

However, this second attempt on this day was somewhat vexing. There was no change to the method, other than procuring two orcs that had been knocked out cold rather than one. More talking, questioning; though he had said nothing the previous time, it was clear even then to Kythorn that these fanatical orcs, these primitive savages, brutes, would not respond to such. Even if he had no memories at all, no awareness of the history of orcs in the North, or a deep, instinctive racial* understanding of these creatures, he could see methods would either need to be much more subtle, or much more direct.

Kythorn had exchanged glances with Baei'thra; he had doubts about the other Elf's plan but had been willing to see it attempted. It was based on the hope that orcs would respond to a one on one duel, resulting in the honoring of the winner's demands, but these chaotic savages... what were the chances such creatures would be bound by such an arrangement, even ones who were not fanatical or fearful of this Marpenoth?

In any case, the orcs did not seem to be interested in responding to the notion of a challenge, though perhaps something had gotten lost in the translation. The fruitless interrogation continued, and Kythorn could feel precious time slip by - time that the survivors might not have the luxury to afford. He made his decision, fully knowing how it would be seen by some.

A minute or so later, one orc lay on the snow unconscious with his jaw barely connected, hanging slack and loose in a manner it should not have been. The other orc's eyes were filled with dread, as he began to speak. Secrets spilled forth - a location named.

Kythorn was satisfied, though eventually he had to turn away from the others to hide his shaking hands. He could hear someone in the group vomiting into the snow, and the complaints and protests from another.

"It's a damnable orc," Kythorn whispered to himself under the howl of the chill wind, and let out an unhappy sigh.

************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

He had decided to keep the mangled gauntlet, though he wasn't sure why - then or now, as the memory of the event faded, giving way to another...







*more correct terminology would be specist (speciesial?) since this isn't about human ethnicities but rather completely separate species - a distinction I think is very much relevant to Kythorn's thought process! However DnD unfortunately/traditionally uses the term 'Racial' i.e. 'Racial bonus of orc/elf/dwarf etc'
Last edited by Ithildur on Thu Sep 10, 2020 6:00 am, edited 2 times in total.
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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Ithildur
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Re: Restless

Post by Ithildur »

"Get up E'Sum! Up, I say, spit - spot!"



Image

The melodious voice (but with an edge of steel to it!) called out, half exhorting and half teasing. A much younger Kythorn gave out a small grunt, rubbing his backside as he rose to his feet. He opened his mouth to counter with a quip or complaint, but for some reason, the words did not seem to come out.

I remember this... yes. But why can't I remember... hear myself?

"Quickly now! Your opponent will not dally all day and wait no matter how much you wish they would - but remember, do not ..."

With a sudden move, Kythorn had sprung forward and attempted a rushed, hurried thrust while the Etriel was still speaking, hoping to catch her off guard mid sentence. The strike was parried easily and countered, while Kythorn found himself off balance once more - a detail that the Elf maiden's alert and amused eyes did not miss.

A fraction of a second later, Kythorn was down on the ground yet again, and though the words still were not audible, he could sense the string of mild profanities being poured out.

"Really now, sir Ardavanshee! Such uncouth speech is unbecoming of a proper dignified Quessir! Shame on you!"

Kythorn saw himself chuckling - the word Ardavanshee wasn't the most flattering thing a young elf could be called, but it could also be teasingly spoken of with some affection. Then he remembered suddenly the fact this Etriel had a particularly pronounced disdain for what many would consider 'proper dignified Quessir-isms', and the full depth of irony and humor sunk in.

"What's this now? You seem to be taking your time getting up young sir! Why, there is but only one remedy for such laziness!"

Kythorn remembered what followed: as a reward for his many offenses during this sparring session, he received an icy cold (also quite harmless and refreshing, though he never admitted the latter) arcane blast of water in his face, which as usual resulted in a hasty scramble to his feet accompanied by frantic, but less profanity laced protests.

O'si. I remember.


And just like that, the half remembered glimpse of a memory faded from Kythorn's mind, to be replaced by the next. Meanwhile, the orc's deadly sharp blade edge seemed to move impossibly slowly, nearly frozen in time...

... but doomed to find it's mark in Elven flesh.








Ardavanshee – ‘Elven Juvenile Delinquent’
E’Sum – ‘Son’
Etriel - ‘Noble Elven Girl’ (respectful/polite way of addressing a young Elf maiden)
Etrielle- ‘Noble Elven Woman’’
O’Si – ‘Female Parent’ (Mother)
Quessir – ‘The Elven People’ (also used as a generic term to politely address male elves)
http://www.candlekeep.com/library/artic ... on_elf.htm
Formerly: Aglaril Shaelara, Faerun's unlikeliest Bladesinger
Current main: Ky - something

It’s not the critic who counts...The credit belongs to the man who actually is in the arena, who strives violently, who errs and comes up short again and again...who if he wins, knows the triumph of high achievement, but who if he fails, fails while daring greatly.-T. Roosevelt
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