Learning to Dance

[Misty]

“Your Sy'Tel blood is showing.”

My Sy’Tel skin, too.

They will harass you.

They never stopped.

What would your mother say?

That I am still overdressed.

What would your father say?

Grow a nararoot garden.

How long has it been?

Fifty years, this night.

Do you miss them?

No.

Liar.

They rejected me.

Do you miss them?

I miss being in a family.

Your new family awaits.

[Misty]

The nightmare dreamwalk returns, beginning with you stalking the Tethyamarside trail, Akbar and the others behind you. As you leave Tethyamarside, Akbar begins to get ahead of you. You let the traps in your satchel rattle so he can hear you, then you remind him, “Akbar, the rules still apply to you and your horse.” Meaning your one rule for scouting: You will allow anyone to pass you in scouting, letting them take the position while you fall back in silence.

He falls back, too far back. You suppress your irritation, for the others do not know your system. You return to tell them the way is clear, a waste of time to your mind, but necessary. You cannot get too far ahead, else both you and the group are in more danger rather than less.

Soon after crossing the snake bridge, you smell smoke, see a vague cloudy shape of it from the southeast. This must be the camp. The others wait while you scout. Dogs. A dwarf. Set some traps, circle the camp to the north. A few people, tents, wagons. Set another trap, circle back to report. Akbar gives the command before you are quite ready. Not enough traps set. All too soon it is chaos, your group running in separate circles, the caravan guards chasing. Your arrows do not do enough damage. Too many of them plink off their armor.

Hours later it feels, they are dead. Looking over the bodies, one of yours is, too. Some noise from within the wagon, you ignore the others to work the locks. An eternity later, they are all open. People stumble and fall out, a mighty cloud of sweat, blood, human waste follows. A chain connects them at the ankles. You kneel to work the chain, asking their names. The few who answer speak no words, but mumble and moan incoherently. You study them, one of them must be Christophen. Finally your eyes settle on a haggard looking man, his posture similar to the man you once knew, one eye socket empty and surrounded by sores.

After the ankle cuffs are opened and the chain pulled free, you ask him if he remembers his name. He barely nods. Good, coherent enough. You bribe the others with promises of food. They remain in Tethyamarside. Akbar and the others go on to Dagger Falls, leaving you and Christophen behind. He bathes in a creek. You offer to fetch him a robe, but he refuses. You walk back, openly, ready to defend him, while he stumbles behind you.

Finally, no dangers on the road, you march him straight to the garrison. To Mestin. He falls to the grass, she talks to him. You keep your promise to Bannock, vouching for him to Mestin, but she does not seem to hear you. You leave the only spoils you took: healing potions and a little more gold than you lifted. You leave.

You go to your room first, putting the traps away. You try to finish packing for the forest, but the wounds, exhaustion, painful irony crash down around you. One lost, for one gained. You fall, crying.

[ewayneself]

Heh. Well that is certainly one version of events.

Maybe I'll post an alternate version when I can type again.

[Misty]

Disclaimer: this and all stories I post in this thread are from Laurelin's perspective, not mine.

hush Lameboy. Get better first!

[ewayneself]

[Misty]

“Maybe I'll just hunt fish,” I say, licking the taste of silverfin cooked in butter off my fingertips. “A lot less dangerous.”

“Yes,” Zuna states. She relished the three pounds of fish I served her, and the bread. Five pounds of it lay on the bar, waiting for the hard warrior maiden. Or Renunzio. Either way, I knew it would be eaten. Zuna is an amazing warrior, dark and hard and fearless. She looks again at the fresh scar on my thigh, memoir from an angry boar, I called it. “That is all that you saw in forest? No angry treemen that wish to crush you?”

What else did I see?

The forepaw of a massive bear, come to kill me for its dinner.

One friend’s pallid eyes, healing then teaching me.

The gift of continued life, thank the Trickster.

Solace come to me in the midst of my time there.

The gift of death put in my hands, when next I return.

My green-stained cloak changed, it now reflects no light.

The pirouette that starts the new dance.

The road to Dagger Falls empty, again I thank the Trickster.

The mark on my leg that will never fade. The second scar of death escaped.



“You will not say, will you?” Zuna’s disappointed sigh returns me to the Red Rock and her company.

“Hmm?” I stall, trying to cover for my rudeness. “No, no angry treemen.” She is not satisfied, but neither does she press. I like her.

[Mizbiz]

Nice entry Misty.

[Misty]

“Hello there, Sugar,” I renamed the cow. Not so full as the night before, she is calm. This morning’s milk will be sweet. Not as sweet as if I stole it, but good enough. I tip some out of the bucket before delivering it to Kessla. I often ask her to make warm spiced milk, it seems natural to give her the bucket. Kiksa stops by on his way to the outlying villages, handing me the curfew notice. He gives a sympathetic smile before riding away. The easy part of the morning is over.

We cannot burn the farmhouse, because the stables are so close. So it must be cleaned. I had hoped to pay someone to help me, but no one volunteered. No matter. I can clean the house and do some good while my leg finishes healing. I borrow buckets and rags from the stables, fill them with water and take to the farmhouse. Now the hard part. I open the door and windows, willing my stomach to not reject breakfast. This day it obeys and I do not get sick.

First, I tie rope around the ankles of the two headless corpses on the bed. They were once proud parents, celebrating with their baby. Now they are slimy, skin a nasty green and black, maggots already burrowing under the skin, staked through the heart and heads removed as a precaution. I dig my toes into the floor to drag them out. Grateful I am that this small task did not require touching the corpses any more than necessary, for I left my leather gloves in my room. I leave them twenty yards away from the house, cutting my rope from the knot so I do not have to touch them. I turn back to the house, paying the rain no mind. The stench brings flies, but it also slowly, slowly dissipates. I put the vomit-filled cradle on the ruined blankets. I could not help but empty my stomach last night, and the cradle seemed better than Christophen’s boots. The child no longer needs it, nor would it be used again. Then the rotten food and plates in the cradle. I pull up the corners, and drag outside to the bodies.

I bring one bucket and some rags inside, kneeling to scrub the floor of old tacky blood and zombie goo. It gets runny and spreads rather than washing up. There were zombies last night, but I did not fight them. Renunzio had called for someone to tell the guard, so I did, while the others fought. I stand, stretching my back before throwing the bucket over the blood trail to the door. I should have borrowed a mop, but I forgot. Instead I kneel again, favoring my left leg as the ache returns. I use the rags to push the wet bloody mess out the front door.

I leave the empty bucket out to gather rainwater, bring the other in, cleaning the tables. The sun sets as I leave with the second bucket. Damnation, already the curfew chafes. I dumped the bucket by the corpses, again too wet to build a fire. I sprinkle holy water over the gory mess, promising to whoever listened that I would return in the morning to clean it up. Though the big messes are out of the house, it is not yet clean. And someone needs to milk Sugar.

The sheep and cow slowly return to their pen, their lives closer to normal. I return the buckets and rags to the stable with thanks, then head to the Red Rock. I dry before the fire while Kessla prepares a large tankard of warm spiced milk. She said once that it helped put humans to sleep. I think it might put elves into Reverie, too.

[Misty]

I dream.


I sit at the roots, watching the sun set. Light bowing to dark, the summer cicadas tickle my ears with their songs.

My daughter skips down the steps within, meeting me at the base as the last rays cease to shine. Dark of hair and eye, she is much like me: a dancer of the wood, and full of mischief.

The moon rises high, shining in her eyes as she looks to me, asking.

I smile my answer, listening to her dance on the forest floor. The fireflies swirl and shine around her.

Yes. Yes, this always.

Another joins the dance, a young girl. Their laughter is music to my ears.

The dance gives way to a game of chase.

The laughter fades.

One screams.

My daughter returns with a triumphant smile.

The moonlight glints off her fangs, the blood at her lips.

I scream.


I scream.

[Misty]

...like a plant needs water...

I sneak away from the world of Not People. I tell no one I am leaving this time, I cannot face the reprimands again. The Forest. Joyful sanctuary from their world. Reminiscent of my childhood, when my father indulged my mischief, and mother still doted on me. Yet a different forest, to remind me I am home now; new forest with a new family.

The scent of flowers and breathing of the trees washes away the stink of Not People living together. The walls block the wind, the city too warm and stinking as a stagnant pool, giving rise to parasites who feed off those within. They call it safety.

Gleaming leaves in the sunlight, the many intertwining limbs providing a cool shadow to soothe my eyes of the harsh boxy construction of Not People shelters. Trees felled and mutilated, to build the ugly structures they call home.

Birdsong in my ears, drowning out the memory of so many Not People bustling, barking, yelling, calling. Their music indelicate, their manner coarse. The many arguments with them fading, fading until all is left to hear is the calming bustle of the forest. It seems quiet at first, so easy to not hear the leaves tickling above, and the sound of different leaves rustling below, birds calling, insects buzzing, distant water lapping.

The wind washes away the frustration of Not People’s cruelty to children. The notion to use those with gifts, as if they were strong enough to face the world as adults. Callous need leading to pressure upon the child, leading to pain and fear. Twisting a child’s mind to cope, the results rarely pretty or good.

The dance takes it all away. Melody of leaves and rhythm of wind, my limbs stretch out and move to the forest song. The toxins of the Not People world leave, the pure life of the forest replenishes.

...like a plant needs water...

[Misty]

Seven Pixies in a dance,
Twirling dusty radiance,
Luring you into a trance
With a giggle and a glance.

Bow and rise, hop and spin,
On this night they let you in.
Wine they offer with naughty grin,
Lose yourself in the drunken din.

Morning comes and they have fled,
Leaving you in a leafy bed,
Knotted hair and painted eyelid,
Pants all torn and tunic shred.

Return to friends and family right,
Older they seem to your sight,
All do greet you with a fright,
Ten years passed in one night!

Mind you the gifts of fey,
“All in fun,” do they say,
Many years will you pay,
To have a single night of play.

[Inwintersshadow]

Another one for the DD library of lore?:)

[Mizbiz]

Wonderful!

[Brokenbone]

I like.

[Burt]

Niice!