The flickering light from the brazier cast its warm glow on the old cloth. A dark, rough finger slid slowly, slowly across the rough fabric, gently tracing the yellowing stitches, remembering recent days.
The poems and the songs do not linger on the slog--the long, slow march through muck and mold--drip, drip, drip on the crown of the head of putrid waters and worse--the poisonous things that lurk and ooze in dank places.
Laurelin made her sneakings before us, while we splashed through the deepening waters. It is said among my people that, without water, there is no life. If this is so, then perhaps too much waters bring too much life. Things live in this place that should not live at all.
But so be it. For if the words of the gypsy bandit we captured were truthful, the path through this old mine would bring us to the lair of the bandits, where worse than bandits awaited. Much worse.
Perhaps there was a time when evil had the grace to bring itself together like the gathering of locusts on the crops, its armies assembled on an open plain. Or perhaps evil would leer invitingly from the parapet of some tower. Grand charges of legions. Mighty sieges. That is the stuff of epics.
But now evil squeezes itself into corners and cowers under rocks, waiting to strike from darkness. And so there will be no poem about Bron's smiting of mold, or Rhekka's victory over slime, unless Renunzio wrote something as a joke.
Akbar smiled at the thought, then leaned back in the oversized chair, his hand still resting on the unfurled flag draped across the large oak table. The banner depicted a sunrise in rough cloth upon cloth. Lathandar's symbol. A little discoloration here. A tiny tear there. How old? Forty years? Seventy years? Seventy plus seventy?
How many battles had it surveyed from its high place, standing firm in its stirrup on a mighty steed? What winds had set this pennant dancing? What warrior had set his knuckles white around its staff, whispering a prayer to the sunrise before breathing his last?
"Deal with the Bandits." Wolfril had taken offense at Akbar's suggestion to him, thinking the work a waste of his abilities. And perhaps it was. The bandits themselves were indeed no great challenge to men enchanted by Rhekka's protections. But there was more to these bandits. Why did they steal babies? Why did they attack in patterns, and with fire?
They had laid many traps to astound and surround us, but Laurelin can make a bountiful harvest from a killing field.
Among them were wizards adept in fire-magic but Rhekka's protections held. We charged at them in their very home-- a disconcertingly comfortable place, filled with treasures from many deadly raids.
Treasures. There are no troubles like treasures. Laurelin became like the bear with the spawning salmon, not knowing which fish to eat first. Rhekka showed her merchant's nature, avariciously grabbing at any book or jewel she could find. Renunzio, our assigned lore-master, sat uninterested in any of the books, or any help they might hold, unwilling or unable to wrest them from Rhekka's grasp. Bron patiently waited, helping where he could.
"Bron." Akbar held the banner's ragged edge in his hand, and murmered aloud, to no one. "You are a fortunate man to have many powerful friends. Your company in Hadreth's Glen is good and strong and undivided. And me? The strongest around me in this place, I cannot trust. Instead, I keep company with a comic, a thief, and a hunter. The Order of the Banner."
Akbar chuckled a little.
"One is no warrior, one is mighty, but is like a a bee with many flowers, and one, I would rather see safe at home than beside me in battle. I trust them over all things, for their hearts have been sorely tested and proven true. But we are not great powers. Who will stand with us in the darkness to come?"
Akbar stared at the banner for a long moment. "Damn you, Christophen, for leaving us."
Overlong, we lingered in the lair, fussing over treasures, and gathering armfuls to slow us down. Finally, we moved onward, into a secret crypt, where the living dead walked. The stench was like the poisoned Wadi Haf'tur, and the battles were fierce and foul, for these walking dead had strength within them that I had not seen before. But we prevailed upon them, driving them back with steel and magic and Nobanion's power until we came to a room that bore a large crypt.
There, we faced a pale-faced woman who wielded great powers of fire. I charged her and we smote her down. But then a great cloud, as a vapor, formed behind her, moving of its own accord, driven forth by force of will. Our weapons could do it no harm. Vampire. The devourer of life.
This was the secret of the bandits--something we had come to suspect. The Bandit leader was a willing servant to this abomination. The bandits captured babies in their raids, so that the it might feed.
Akbar held a ragged edge of the banner in his hand. In the soft glow of the Red Rock Inn, the flag shone even brighter with Lathander's light. The holy lumination bathed the palms of his hands, a present, constant reminder of Lathander's power, and his caring--something he has never known from Nobanion, not even in his time amongst the wemics. And here, Nobanion has no temples to awe the faithful, no priests to comfort or to chasten.
This vampire, it was a power we could not harm. It escaped from that crypt, into the night. Angered at our failure, and despondent at the indestructible power of our future foe, we destroyed its resting place with fire and with water. And then we left.
How to defeat such an enemy? Do we face an insurmountable darkness? Will night fall across this land again, as it did in days of old, when this banner was first unfurled?
People fear the darkness, but some love it. Even good men do. They love it in themselves, as if it is a blessing. As if it gives them balance or purpose or makes them something more interesting than simply good men. They treasure the darkness within them, and they nurture it.
Akbar looked down at the pristine ribbon on his shiny new armor. Rewards for that night in the crypt, for stopping the bandit raids.
The armor was strong, and well made. The ribbon on his chest made him proud. But this banner, this old banner, still bright like the sunrise--this was entrusted to him by Ariton himself.
There will be no poems about that night. But this banner was, to Akbar, a greater honor than any poem. An honor, and a reminder.
No matter the darkness, the sun will rise. The light will prevail. It will prevail in the life of this land. And it will prevail in the hearts of men. It will.
It will.
.
Last edited by ewayneself on Fri Apr 20, 2007 5:01 pm, edited 1 time in total.
I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn't arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I'm going to be happy in it.~~Groucho Marx
You think only of water. Babbling brooks. Talking pools.
Talking, yes. But not to you. To the druid. To leeches. To the others.
Remember your fast? How you hoped she would speak to you? How you made your hunger an offering to her? You were supposed to be fasting for Nobanion. Cats are averse to water. Did you ever consider the feeling might be mutual?
Ah, well. You're just as hungry now. And just as alone. That will do.
Why should she have spoken to you, anyway? Your pilfering friend got all of the danger done. One-eye provided the thinking, Leeches the fight.
The druid did what you couldn't.
Maybe he's doing who you couldn't.
(You know he can take on the form of a bear as he wishes?
Your marital goals are thus rendered slightly ambitious.)
Oh, the plans you made, that night by the water. Where is your Dessarin now? Was he part of Nobanion's pride, or just caught up in yours? He followed you. You got him killed.
Where is your Banner? Where is your Order? Where is your shrine? Where is your cousin?
Who mops the slave's furrowed brow?
You left a lot undone.
But then again, what did you do while you were there?
Did you magnify Nobanion among them? That was your mission, remember?
At last count, you've killed off more Nobanionites than you've made.
But oh, the respect you earned for yourself. And the station. And the gold. People look up to you. You are a leader.
And so you went chasing footprints in the desert, certain your castle of sand was strong. Did you of all people forget that sands can shift?
So lie there, just like before.
No one is coming to help you this time. You are alone. You have made certain of that.
I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn't arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I'm going to be happy in it.~~Groucho Marx
Forum: Iarwain
GSID: iarwain_benadar
GMT+1
Playing: Mondays and Tuesdays 8pm on MS
Current character: William "Will" Goodbarrel
NWN1 character: Moonshade
I suppose I ought to have said so earlier, but these writings are captivating. It is nice to see the pathos of Akbar that gives substance to the ethos. And besides that, they are a fun read. Thank you for letting us in.
It has been my experience that, given the opportunity, people will in the end do what they truly desired to do in the beginning. Save time, let them, then they have only themselves to blame or you to thank.
I sat in the firelight as the young peeked at me from behind the women's red robes. Their guard dog brayed and growled, irate at my presence, for she knew the truth--that I am no friend to these red-robed Tiyaha.
But on that day, I sat again as a guest before their Shiekh, called Wuhaydi by his fattened scribes in their red-robes, rich from trade with the Beranni, his wadi crowded with children like turtles on a log.
With Teia and others had I come to the desert outpost, for we had learned that a nearby wadi had been scorched to glass, and wished to hear more of it.
But I had other counsel to take with the white-bearded Shiekh.
R'ghtlic, you know more than anyone how the old tales turn on men and treasure. Among my people, the stories are of Abizad the camel thief, who with his tricks separates fat chieftains and arrogant djinni from of their riches.
Always, it seems, it is the hero who seeks the treasure and the villain who guards it.
My treasure was Teia. And, like all treasures, she was a source of joy and comfort, but also a burden--something to jealously keep from harm, something to guard from others, and something to tempt me into longing for more.
So has it been that my loins have ached with desire to know her in her fullness, as a man knows a woman on the night of their wedding, though it cannot be so until my vow to find my sister Fatima is fulfilled.
In the light of the Shiekh's fire, I described to Wuhaydi the traditional dress and appearance of my tribe, and questioned him, asking if he had encountered them in his wanderings, that I might easier seek them and find Fatima.
His eyes grew wide at my words. When I finished my questioning, he answered me, saying:
Two sunsets past, at this very camp stood Ti'jah, the Trader,
Whose camel is swift as the falcon, whose henchmen are wily as the lizard,
Who stalks the land where he may, day or night, daring even shadow to slow him.
For at his command his own shadow will stand and fight for him.
Here, by our leave, he watered his camels and fed his men,
And he told us many tales, along with this strange news:
Far to the West, past the Wadi Mismayah, and days past the Place of Standing Stones,
The tribes gather together in great number, like the flies descending upon the fallen horse.
Their Shiekhs take counsel together, old grudges set aside for a time,
Their purpose as secret as a virgin's smile.
The K'licaha gather, with their white sashes, and the Black-robes and the tiny Yemarii.
And the shameful Be-lin, who expose their heads to the gods.
And lo among them also is a tribe wearing copper headbands, and tying their belts with ornate knots.
Rider on the Pale Mount, is this the tribe you seek?
Ti'Jah rode westward, toward Mismayah.
Already he is far ahead, but he travels with many. Catch him and learn the place of the gathering.
And so did I return to the outpost, delirious at the fortune of this news. Bedine do not gather. They wander. To know the location of my tribe was too rare an opportunity. But this swift Ti'jah was already two days ahead.
For a moment, I paced the creaking floor of the outpost while the others slept. In Dagger Falls, there was much I would leave undone. But so it is in the desert, as well.
I took a place at the table and carefully made my inept writings, so that Teia would know of my task. I left her instructions and told her goodbye. I folded the letter and placed it near her, and then paused by her bedside to watch her as she slept.
I kissed her warm forehead and quietly left the outpost. I did not consider waking her.
I whispered the prayer that brings my horse from the other world, and I rode swiftly into the coming dawn.
Always, it is the hero who seeks the treasure and the villain who guards it.
Indeed, It is no surprise that this is so, for the seeking hones the virtues, while the hoarding grows the vices.
But what of those who would attempt to guard one treasure while seeking another?
They are neither heroes, nor villains. They are simply fools.
Last edited by ewayneself on Sat May 26, 2007 3:01 pm, edited 1 time in total.
I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn't arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I'm going to be happy in it.~~Groucho Marx
Twice, the sun streaked across the bright sky into the west as swiftly and without pause I rode. She was greatly taxed, but Sheheradazee's otherworldly stamina did not fail, though my own body ached from the effort.
In the late hours of the second night I rested in the cleft of a rock, while Sheheradazee watched for the lurking shadows. I awoke suddenly, as if startled awake by noise. But there was no sound. Instead, there was a powerful silence and a great seething darkness rising from the west, billowing into the sky like ink dropped in water.
Swiftly, I muttered the prayer to send Sheheradazee away, that she would not perish in the storm, for there was no shelter for her in this barren place. The rock that had cradled me in the night was too small to fully protect even a man from the trial to come. I dug frantically into the sand at the base of the rock and huddled there, my back yet exposed to the elements.
The time was long. The heat and the stinging pain were maddening. Hunger crawled in my belly like a scorpion, stinging without remorse.
My mind grew impatient like a dog with the heat. Finally, it would no longer remain tied to its tether. It broke free, jumped the fence, and wandered aimlessly through places and times.
I saw the wedding of Silvi to a handsome man. I saw Ariton holding a baby boy. I saw Bron and Teia together. Laurelin and Dolen. I saw Renunzio with fangs. I saw Zuna's grave. I saw many more things. Strange things. I knew these visions to be mere fancies, and yet I did not, for they seemed more true to me than the world that swirled around my stinging body.
The sight of these things taxed my mind until it sorely regretted its wanderings and wished to return to its tether, for despite its anxiousness to escape, the dog always wishes eventually for home.
I cannot number the days or hours sheltered against the rock, for the storm makes the sky the color of burning embers, day and night. Even when the spitting, stinging sands are no longer deadly, the sky covetously hides the sun as a man conceales a treasure.
When finally it was safe enough to travel again, I stood, creaking and popping like the hinge of an ancient door. The tracks of my pathway were long wiped away. I wanted for the prayer to bring Sheheradazee to my rescue, but could not bring it forth, for my thinking was yet lost to me.
And so I walked, seeking food--any food--as I stumbled through the haze.
Soon, I came upon a lizard standing on a cactus. I reached out to grab it, but it did not run. Instead, it spoke unto me, saying:
Whither goest thou, Lionbrother?
Seeketh thee thy peoples?
The hin who speaketh many words, listening to none?
The elf who cares only for the elf?
The daughter of heroes who makes mirth at thy courtship?
One eye, who suffereth the lash of the woman?
Leeches, whose deeds betray his words?
They knoweth thee not. Thou knoweth them not.
They seeketh thee not. Seeketh them not.
I fell to the ground and darkness took me.
When I awoke, the sky was no longer an orange haze. I could discern direction by the place of the sun. But I did not know which direction to go. I stumbled along in the heat.
Soon, I came upon a scorpion, who spoke unto me, saying:
Whither goest thou, Lionbrother?
Seeketh thee thy god?
He who rejects your fast?
He who lets your pridebrother die?
He whose power was insufficient at the pool?
He who was forced upon an ignorant lad by a people not his own?
He who leaves you to die even now?
He knoweth thee not. Thou knoweth him not.
He seeketh thee not. Seeketh him not.
I fell to the ground and darkness took me.
When I awoke, it was nighttime. I no longer remembered the prayer to bring water to myself. Desperately, I stood and wandered, hoping that every dune I climbed would reveal water below.
At last, I came upon a snake, who spoke unto me saying:
Whither goest thou, Lionbrother?
Seeketh thee thy station and thy home?
Brother of the Lion, who longed for the waterlady?
Sergeant of the Militia, who led Dessarin to his death?
Teia's man, who breaks her heart?
Keeper of the Banner, who abandons his friends?
Maker of promises that cannot be kept?
Thou knoweth thyself not.
Seeketh thyself not.
I fell to the ground in despair and thirst, waiting now to die.
And I heard a quiet voice, who spoke unto me saying:
Whither goest thou, brother?
What treasure seeketh thou?
That which can be sought, but not owned?
That which can be valued, but not guarded?
That which can be given, but not bought?
That which can be asked, but not commanded?
That which can be given, but not taken?
Love is no object. One does not seek it.
One awakens to it in himself, in his god, in his people.
I awoke again to find tracks in the sand, left by a fourlegged beast. I followed them, crawling, half-consciously, desperately. I do not remember seeing the Militia Outpost. But I remember waking there to see Teia.