Daemonfey, female, and proud. The skin-crawling uneasiness she felt for hours before must be related to this abomination of her kind. It must be. She taunted Laurelin outside the cave, while the others took rest in Adellie’s magical cabin within. “Scared of the dark?” she whispered to Laurelin. Toying and teasing, she grew too confident. Laurelin stopped watching the strangely behaving wolves to inspect a poorly-buried sack in the dirt. She finally saw the creature, shooting between her wings. Instead of shooting back, the bitch teleported away.
Laurelin spared a look in the bag, recognising the contents as poison, but too shaken to remember which. She returned to the cave, making a magnificent fool of herself, shaking and stuttering. Twas not the cold of her cloak that caused it, but it mattered not. The others had more pressing matters, such as finding somewhere safe to rest. Upon leaving, she found her bloody arrow returned, knowing its meaning. One does not walk long among the dregs of society without learning this dance. Should she tell the others? The guard were weary from their ordeal, the Lady worried, Delawyn and Roderick sharing a similar expression of determination, and Adellie seemed well enough, if not a little put out that no one could make use of her cabin. No, no good will come of telling them. They could do nothing about this problem. Her problem. She pushed the bitter thoughts away and silently followed.
Only a day later, while out on her wanderings did she hear the Lady’s voice, ‘Camp compromised. We are back in the spider cave.’
Laurelin rubbed her face, looking about the few trees where the others took rest just the other night. Lady Starym was good, very good to cast Sendings without startling her, not that Laurelin would admit it. While she fell in line with the rest of the Queen’s Guard in protecting the noble lady, she was not Ar’Tel, not civilised. She sighed to herself, turning round again. She did not pay close attention to leaving the cave, so must concentrate on remembering which way to return. Perhaps it was for the best she could not walk straight to the cave, there was the assassin after all.
“Everywhere’s bloody compromised,” she grumbled, carefully choosing her footing on the hill. It could not be that they were stupid, for they were not. But how could any of them: the Lady, her guard, Delawyn, think they were not compromised? Assassins are well known to remain unseen and unnoticed until they strike, and they have known that assassins followed the lady for at least a tenday.
She pushed the musings away as daylight fled. Out alone at night, away from all the others. And holding a small bag with three green stones worth more than her life. Only an idiot would not be afraid. She was a fool, not an idiot. She put her wool cloak away, shrugging the evercold shadow onto her shoulders.
Fog. She did not remember fog last time. Her feet slowed, ears listening for anything other than the distant churning of the sea. There. A soft step, too soft to be animal, far too close for her comfort. Point, shoot, hit, spin, hide!
Pressed against a tree, she listened again. The other would not teleport away this time, not so fast. The Lady may be her assigned kill, but she wanted Laurelin dead now. Was that a spell? It felt like something tickled her mind, but more important was the direction of the bitch’s voice. West. Point, shoot, hide. A quiet grunt informed her of another hit, but Laurelin could not bask in that joy. Unseen again, and unheard this time, a bolt sank into her belly. It did not hurt, not yet, and time was critical.
Laurelin threw down her precious Darkness potion, vying for advantage. Her shadow friend came near, trying to help. Laurelin shot at every little noise, every small step, sometimes hitting her opponent. Fire burned in her belly, then her shadow screamed. Damn. Damn. Damn!
She gulped down the only two healing potions she had, praying they would be enough. She pirouetted to hide, her opponent growled. Good. “Damn you!” the abomination called out, her use of the elven tongue offensive to Laurelin’s ears. She would not call out, not call back and give away her location. But she did allow herself a sneer, No, damn you and all your kind back to the pits from which you spawned!
Laurelin cautiously wended her way towards the cave. They would resume the dance another day. Her best hope was to return the ‘kiira to the Lady, and heal. And pray.
She did not intend to scare Elvith, suddenly visible right next to him, but she did not care at the time, either. Shivering violently, she fell to sit beside him, her dark armor hiding the blood coating it.
‘She always finds us,” Delawyn spoke. Laurelin pulled the bolts from her stomach and tossed them in his direction. “The assassin?” he asked.
Stupid question she did not say. “The bitch found me,” she answered, trying to keep the wounds covered. “And I would not have found you if not for a little help. But if you wish me gone, just say so,” she snapped.
Roderick approached her, offering to bind her wounds. Neither he nor Delawyn were covered in blood, surely her wounds merited a little divine healing?
“How is it Roderick and I triapse about the countryside in shining full plate, and she finds you?” So, it was to be the night of stupid questions. Lovely.
“Because she WANTS to kill me. I shot her first.”
“So do they know we're here again?” Business first, healing second. Delawyn always.
“I don’t know,” she snapped, pulling some wet bandages from her bag, attempting to bind her own stomach. Roderick again offering to help. “I thank you for the potions; else I would not be here at all.”
“Here, let me,” Roderick offered, but she only snarled. Giving words to it would cause too much harm. He let his hand drop, backing away.
“Laurelin, let me tend to those,” Delawyn’s voice softens a little, as if just realising she might be hurt.
“If you would, I would appreciate it.” He spoke quietly, one hand on her shoulder and the other on his symbol. Her skin and muscles knitting together neatly with but one prayer. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He handed her a few bottles, whispering, “Be careful. That is my last one of any considerable strength.”
She wanted to cry, scream, shout. Instead she swallowed the threatening rage, whispered words no one seemed to believe of her, “I am being careful.” I am! I am not stupid, dammit! She settled herself in a corner, wrapping in the wool cloak that already seemed many years old. Roderick offered a blanket while the others discussed moving yet again.
Delawyn shook his head, “For now, it is one assassin. We are a large and heavily armed group. She won't venture inside without a few more daemonfey or yugoloths, at least.”
“It would take time to muster that,” Roderick reasoned.
“At this point, we just have to hope that she can't muster before our boat leaves.”
Laurelin dared speak up. She thought it stupid to assume there was only one assassin. More than one would still see that none enter the cave. “She has one target, and one desire. Our best hope is her desire blinds her judgement.”
Delawyn answered along the same thought, “You shot her, and her injured pride is going to be a distraction that will work to our advantage.”
Laurelin slowly made her way to Lady Starym, offering her the small bag. “It may be safest if you hold them after all.” She looked worried, very worried. “I mean it. It is safer if you hold them. At least you can use them. And, thank you for the Sending.”
She took the bag, perhaps a little reluctantly, “Please stay safe, Laurelin.”
“I am trying, my lady. I really am. But I am with the guard here: I have to protect you.”
She put the ‘kiira away, starting to pull out a small pouch. “I thought I had something that may aid you, I do not though.”
“I will be well with some rest, but thank you.” Laurelin resumed sitting in a corner near the lady, then lay herself down for rest. The others would stand guard, she needed to heal. Her shadow’s scream returned in her thoughts, fear washing over her in putrid waves. Burying the desperate desire to speak to Delawyn, she drifted into reverie.
Perhaps it was because a few days passed without word, perhaps he sensed it, Ilemar’s concern found her, interrupting the horrid replay of the night’s death dance. His dream hand touched hers before clasping it, voice heavy with concern, “My love?”
Barely restraining the flood of tears, she begged, “I am so scared. Tell me something good? Something happy? How.. How are you?”
He held her tight, fingers combing her hair, taking a long moment before whispering into her dream ear, “I should take you to speak with the wood elves within our ranks. They are fine archers, yes...” he kissed her temple, “but they remain cheerful in even the darkest of circumstances. Their song and dance are what keeps our camps alive. Perhaps, imagine yourself dancing around a campfire? Dancing to a lively tune?”
She calmed a little, yet still clinging tightly, “With you. Yes.”
“Of course with me,” he smiled. “Always the two of us, my love. You know the tree overlooking the forest in Emerald Springs, the one you dyed pink?”
“I do,” she smiled against his cheek.
"It is still pink,” he laughed, “Perhaps it just likes it that way, or perhaps a bit of you rubbed off on it?”
“Tell me,” she swallowed, her whisper turning somber, “tell me of news on your side?”
“Dare I ruin your mood with my news?”
“Please,” she begged. “Please, I must know. I must.”
After a long pause, he answered, “The Freehold has fallen to the fey'ri. The humans left the keep several days ago. That swath of land has fallen prey to the yugoloths. The walls of the human town have been battered, and our camp has fallen back across the river. We will hold. I have faith in you.”
“Be careful, beloved. Please be careful.”
“And you as well, my love.”
His last words echo in her memory as she roused from reverie, threatening to let her tears flow. She swallowed them down, concentrating until the jagged hiccups became smooth breaths. Too many emotions, she had to get them under control. Not that he would talk to her anyway, but she did not have to give him more reason to avoid her. She pushed herself up, pushing off the extra fur blanket. Bless him, Roderick did not deserve her snarling. She quietly spoke her thanks, pulling free her sketchbook and quill. He and Delawyn still guarded the cave entrance, she had time to put the images on paper in hopes they would leave her reverie free.
Two images of the daemonfey assassin later, she heard Roderick yawn. He needed rest. Perhaps he could rest and she could talk to Delawyn. A small chance, a fool’s chance, but a chance.
“You two ought rest,” she tried to keep her tone free of hope.
“I’m fine,” Delawyn answers.
Roderick looked to her, then back to the entrance, taking a long moment to answer, “I'm alright.”
What was he trying to prove? “You are not.” Delawyn sighed, and with it the small chance turning to no chance. Damnation.
“Well, I suppose that's true,” Roderick countered, “Allow me to rephrase. I am still capable of keeping watch.”
“Very well. But you will be a liability later.” She left the cave to them speaking in their secret tongue, only to be met with the whole area outside the cave trapped. Very well trapped. The petulant part of her wanted to leave them, but she knew what was right. She disabled all she could, marking the few she could not. Lady Starym did not deserve this.
She returned to the cave, hiding in the back with her sketchbook. So many images, and now so much time to draw them.
Dancer Between
-
Misty
- Proletarian Librarian
- Posts: 1332
- Joined: Wed Jun 16, 2004 4:10 pm
- Location: Lazin' by el Rio Blanco
Adellie’s shriek began the dance.
The pair of Luskan ships that flanked their own fell back, their crew resembling porcupines more than men. Lady Starym and the two guards above deck suffered little in the fight. Adellie went below, Laurelin was not sure why, but thankful all the same. She shrieked, calling up through the open door, “WINGS!”
So it began.
The others run down into the hold, with no thought for stealth or strategy. Laurelin calmed herself, walking silently with her newly acquired poison arrow nocked. She would thank Roderick again later, for poisoning her arrows. The magical darkness thrilled her eyes, ears training on sounds other than her loud, and, she sniffed, now bloody companions. Upper lip curled into a sneer, the other attacked first. She missed, her arrow missed, spin, hide. Too much noise to find her enemy. No, them. More than one.
Pain between her shoulderblades! Teeth glinted when she spun round, missing her target again. He, yes he, stabbed her belly. Laurelin spun off the blade, off balance and hitting the wall with her shoulder. She bit her lip through the pain, only long enough to down the potion Delawyn gave her the night before.
Noise of battle and confusion faded, tumbling up the steps to the deck. One left that way, but one remained below. Laurelin pushed off the wall, nearing Beleg, who grunted with pain, his sword swinging wild. “Let me at HER!” she demanded, trying to draw the fight, her fight to herself. Delawyn and Roderick joined Beleg, she could hear their armor rattling in the song of war. Laurelin listened, training her ear to find the center. One arrow loosed, and one body fell. She tripped over it, happily, triumphantly. Her companions still drew breath, though strained and ragged.
“Did,” Beleg gasped in the dark, “did we get both?”
“I don't know,” Adellie answered. “I couldn't see half the time. Where is the lady?”
“Up top!” Roderick cried, running for the stairs.
The body underfoot was daemonfey, yes, but not the one Laurelin wanted. Not the one she KNEW was present. Laurelin stood, listening again. The small creak of wood sang of Beleg leaning against it, still panting, speaking of the numbers. Delawyn’s voice sang of concern for the poisoned Elvith. Adellie asked how the assassins made it to the hold. Laurelin tuned it all out, eyes closed. Roderick cried from above, “Up top!”
Laurelin danced above with the others, but the one already took to the sky, flying away. She returned below, to her hunt. The cacophony above continued, but she listened for another. Even Delawyn’s desperate lullaby to wake Elvith faded. She kneeled by the fallen one in the middle of the hall, touching the shaft of poisoned arrow that protruded from her neck.
The electric pain in her hip kick-started the dance. Her partner hissed, Laurelin pirouetted. Another healing potion down, soothing the pain. Her partner mistepped, and Laurelin loosed an arrow. And another. And another. The base line of each hit made her grin. Though the bitch had healing of her own. Still they danced, down the hall, through all the rooms of the hold. The incongruous countermelody of casting brought Laurelin closer, and a few arrows lighter. Her partner ran, she followed, each shooting at the other.
Her partner fell in a graceful mess, Laurelin stumbling to reach her. First her boot in the bitch’s throat, to be sure the dance ended. The ship rocked, stealing her balance. She fell into a crouch atop the body, their blood mingling to paint the floor red. Roderick’s faint exclamation preceded some measure of healing, but she did not hear through her own guttural snarling. Her hands wrapped around the other’s throat. She fell over the body as a hand touched her shoulder. The songs of the others slowly returned to her ears: Delawyn organising, the others following. Roderick’s hand followed her to the floor.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
Laughter burst in her head, but none sang out. Just in case he could not see the bolts sticking from her own body, she answered, “I am really, really hurt.” His foot nudged the body beside her. “She’s mine.” Laurelin hoped she did not snarl at him, but could not be sure. She kept silent when he dressed her hunting kills. She claimed little to nothing in the other excursions, content with her duty. But this was very, very personal.
He nodded a little, nudging the crossbow the other had with his foot, “She’s the one who you’ve been hunting then.”
No, she was the one hunting Laurelin. “Yes,” she answered, pushing herself up.
“Congratulations, then,” he smiled. “Let's get you to Delawyn.” Laurelin accepted his help, then grabbed the daemonfey’s foot. Her kill, her spoils.
“Need to be carried?” Roderick whispered.
“No.”
She only made it partway down the hall, for several others milled about, asking, discussing, healing. Beleg himself wore more blood than mithril. “Lo-“ he started, correcting himself upon seeing her. “Oh, Laurelin,” he sighed. Delawyn slapped him with a healing prayer, making him shiver.
“I got her.” Laurelin looked at everyone in the hall, dropped the foot. Fatigue quickly turning her muscles to jelly. Delawyn touched her with another healing prayer, but she did not get up. It felt good to sit. Beleg sat with her, the others took to their various dances, ignoring the pair.
“Beleg?” she sighed, “Look at her things? Tell me if I can use them?”
His eyes shone with the old light she once loved, “Marvelously fought, Tambina. That one made me look like I'd never picked up a blade before.” She could not answer, and instead put the crossbow and bolts before him, then pointed to the dead creature’s armor. His eyes widened, “Fine arrows. And bolter.”
“Yes. They hurt a lot.”
“Give me a few minutes with the armor. I'll puzzle it out for you.”
She nodded, turning to strip her prize from the body, with no more emotion than pulling a pelt from a deer.
“Tis,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck, “some enchantment, might go well with those bracers in the end.” His voice dropped to a whisper, she thought he seemed afraid of the answer, “Was that the same one? Or were there three here then? The one that... god, he was magnificent with a blade.”
“I killed two.”
“He was down here with the fey'ri when we got here,” he sighed. “The third above flew off.” She finished prying the armor from the body, holding it in her lap. The designs, symbols on the chest held such beauty. Beleg removed his gauntlets, fingertips gently touching her cheek. “Bonny lass, you did kill them. Thank you.”
She looked to him, too numb to feel the pain his touch might bring under normal circumstances. “I told you. Hard...” He nodded, seeming to finally understand. A violent shiver ran up her spine, she returned to stripping her kill.
“Love, I know,” he answered with words he was not supposed to say, but she allowed it. “I had to hide and run. That one,” he jabbed a finger towards the other body in the hall, “I was a toy to him. I'd not have lasted a minute alone.” She stared a moment, thoughts racing too fast to assign words. His voice dropped to a whisper, “I have a potion that should let me make sense of that shirt you hold. Let me look again. Or after the others show me what else they have found.”
The others walked and discussed poisons around the pair on the floor, who both ignored the naked corpse beside them. “I want to know now, if possible.”
“Without the others knowing?” he had the potion half out of his pocket.
“Yes. I hear they stripped the other body already. And possibly this one as well, if Roderick searched two,” though she did not see him take anything, she was also half-dead herself when he found her. “She was my kill. My spoils. And you know I claim little.” She handed the armor over after he finished drinking.
He hissed. He hissed again in the forest tongue, “Beware this, love. Please.” She cradled the armor in her lap, examining the symbol. “Tisn't a simple enchantment. Nor something,” his voice hitched as he shivered. “Twasn't made for anyone with a warm heart.” He recomposed himself, she rose.
“I need to go clean these.”
He watched her with so much worry, she could feel it without seeing his face. “The Lady might be able to tell you more of that, Laurelin.” She nodded, walking away from the din to find a quiet corner with pitcher and wipe down the armor. She could have a cold heart, it was tempting in these times. The damnable moodswings would go away. The pain of her family leaving would fade as morning dew. She delighted in the hunt, the kill, the spoils. No more distracting silliness, no more the fool. Tempting.
She returned to the others, stopping to ask quietly of Lady Starym, “When you've a moment, lady, Beleg wishes I ask you of this shirt. He worries, but will say no more.” Again his worried gaze followed her. She tired of being worried after.
Beleg followed her to the corner where she sat, studying the beautiful threadwork. “Thank you,” his relief palpable. “I can tell you, but the Lady likely knows more.”
‘Hmm?” Isania returned from her thoughts, then amended, “I'll do what I can.”
Laurelin traced the center symbol, “What is this part, at least?” Isania frowned. “That bad?”
Beleg kneeled beside the Lady as she whispered, “It is the work of the elven kingdoms of old, Laurelin.” She brushed her hand along the symbol, whispering the name, “Aryvandar.”
“Aryvandar?” Laurelin repeated louder than a whisper.
Beleg frowned and nodded while the Lady continued, “Definitely the work of the Vyshaan. Sometime after the Third Crown War.”
Delawyn stopped whatever he was doing, hurriedly speaking, “Get rid of it. No good will come of the artifacts of the Vyshaan.”
Isania amended, “Only if the person who uses them is unpure.”
Unpure. Pure. Delawyn was pure. Laurelin sulked, knowing where she stood.
“I've dealt with one such thing before in Baldur's Gate,” Delawyn shook his head, turning to go abovedeck. “No good will come of it.”
She kept her head bowed as she rose. “Tis meant for the coldest of hearts, Laurelin,” Beleg pleaded for her to not keep it. She dragged the armor behind her, reluctantly following Delawyn. Isania called to her, but when Laurelin stopped, she did not finish her thought. “You don’t need that power,” Beleg continued.
She saw Delawyn at the bow of the ship, so she did not get near, but turned to the side. Running her fingers over the magic threads, she allowed herself a moment of great longing. A cold heart would fix many things. But she had to come to it herself. Too much strife existed, just possessing the armor would cause more where she sought less. She pushed it overboard, folding her arms over the railing and resting her chin, watching it disappear in the spray. She thought she heard Delawyn’s soft voice on the wind, telling her to stop, but disbelieved it. Fool’s hope, that he would speak to her more than absolutely necessary.
Beleg’s staff and armor announced his approach. “It was beautiful,” she sighed.
“Aye,” he agreed. “It was. Magic like I'll never cast, both in its complexity and,” he swallowed, “and its depravity.”
She tossed the crossbow and bolts over, too. “Doesn’t matter.”
“The blade of ice melted. Marvelous spell, or weapon.”
“You keep talking about it.” He made a questioning hum. “If it is of Aryvandar, will you keep it?” He did not answer as quickly as she wanted. “If you say yes, I promise to stab you.”
“No,” he chuckled, maybe thinking she played. “I'm more shocked that Delawyn wouldn't keep it. And he wanted me to paint over the Drow shield.” He sobered, “Not that armor. Twould have taken a lifetime to cleanse it.”
“I'm sorry, Laurelin,” Delawyn spoke softly as he passed by.
“Talk to me later, Delawyn. Please?” She looked over her shoulder, but he was already belowdeck. Of course. She sighed, resting her chin on her arms again. It was only stuff. Really nice stuff, but stuff nonetheless. Someday she will have enchanted armor again. So the dance came to a quiet end.
The pair of Luskan ships that flanked their own fell back, their crew resembling porcupines more than men. Lady Starym and the two guards above deck suffered little in the fight. Adellie went below, Laurelin was not sure why, but thankful all the same. She shrieked, calling up through the open door, “WINGS!”
So it began.
The others run down into the hold, with no thought for stealth or strategy. Laurelin calmed herself, walking silently with her newly acquired poison arrow nocked. She would thank Roderick again later, for poisoning her arrows. The magical darkness thrilled her eyes, ears training on sounds other than her loud, and, she sniffed, now bloody companions. Upper lip curled into a sneer, the other attacked first. She missed, her arrow missed, spin, hide. Too much noise to find her enemy. No, them. More than one.
Pain between her shoulderblades! Teeth glinted when she spun round, missing her target again. He, yes he, stabbed her belly. Laurelin spun off the blade, off balance and hitting the wall with her shoulder. She bit her lip through the pain, only long enough to down the potion Delawyn gave her the night before.
Noise of battle and confusion faded, tumbling up the steps to the deck. One left that way, but one remained below. Laurelin pushed off the wall, nearing Beleg, who grunted with pain, his sword swinging wild. “Let me at HER!” she demanded, trying to draw the fight, her fight to herself. Delawyn and Roderick joined Beleg, she could hear their armor rattling in the song of war. Laurelin listened, training her ear to find the center. One arrow loosed, and one body fell. She tripped over it, happily, triumphantly. Her companions still drew breath, though strained and ragged.
“Did,” Beleg gasped in the dark, “did we get both?”
“I don't know,” Adellie answered. “I couldn't see half the time. Where is the lady?”
“Up top!” Roderick cried, running for the stairs.
The body underfoot was daemonfey, yes, but not the one Laurelin wanted. Not the one she KNEW was present. Laurelin stood, listening again. The small creak of wood sang of Beleg leaning against it, still panting, speaking of the numbers. Delawyn’s voice sang of concern for the poisoned Elvith. Adellie asked how the assassins made it to the hold. Laurelin tuned it all out, eyes closed. Roderick cried from above, “Up top!”
Laurelin danced above with the others, but the one already took to the sky, flying away. She returned below, to her hunt. The cacophony above continued, but she listened for another. Even Delawyn’s desperate lullaby to wake Elvith faded. She kneeled by the fallen one in the middle of the hall, touching the shaft of poisoned arrow that protruded from her neck.
The electric pain in her hip kick-started the dance. Her partner hissed, Laurelin pirouetted. Another healing potion down, soothing the pain. Her partner mistepped, and Laurelin loosed an arrow. And another. And another. The base line of each hit made her grin. Though the bitch had healing of her own. Still they danced, down the hall, through all the rooms of the hold. The incongruous countermelody of casting brought Laurelin closer, and a few arrows lighter. Her partner ran, she followed, each shooting at the other.
Her partner fell in a graceful mess, Laurelin stumbling to reach her. First her boot in the bitch’s throat, to be sure the dance ended. The ship rocked, stealing her balance. She fell into a crouch atop the body, their blood mingling to paint the floor red. Roderick’s faint exclamation preceded some measure of healing, but she did not hear through her own guttural snarling. Her hands wrapped around the other’s throat. She fell over the body as a hand touched her shoulder. The songs of the others slowly returned to her ears: Delawyn organising, the others following. Roderick’s hand followed her to the floor.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
Laughter burst in her head, but none sang out. Just in case he could not see the bolts sticking from her own body, she answered, “I am really, really hurt.” His foot nudged the body beside her. “She’s mine.” Laurelin hoped she did not snarl at him, but could not be sure. She kept silent when he dressed her hunting kills. She claimed little to nothing in the other excursions, content with her duty. But this was very, very personal.
He nodded a little, nudging the crossbow the other had with his foot, “She’s the one who you’ve been hunting then.”
No, she was the one hunting Laurelin. “Yes,” she answered, pushing herself up.
“Congratulations, then,” he smiled. “Let's get you to Delawyn.” Laurelin accepted his help, then grabbed the daemonfey’s foot. Her kill, her spoils.
“Need to be carried?” Roderick whispered.
“No.”
She only made it partway down the hall, for several others milled about, asking, discussing, healing. Beleg himself wore more blood than mithril. “Lo-“ he started, correcting himself upon seeing her. “Oh, Laurelin,” he sighed. Delawyn slapped him with a healing prayer, making him shiver.
“I got her.” Laurelin looked at everyone in the hall, dropped the foot. Fatigue quickly turning her muscles to jelly. Delawyn touched her with another healing prayer, but she did not get up. It felt good to sit. Beleg sat with her, the others took to their various dances, ignoring the pair.
“Beleg?” she sighed, “Look at her things? Tell me if I can use them?”
His eyes shone with the old light she once loved, “Marvelously fought, Tambina. That one made me look like I'd never picked up a blade before.” She could not answer, and instead put the crossbow and bolts before him, then pointed to the dead creature’s armor. His eyes widened, “Fine arrows. And bolter.”
“Yes. They hurt a lot.”
“Give me a few minutes with the armor. I'll puzzle it out for you.”
She nodded, turning to strip her prize from the body, with no more emotion than pulling a pelt from a deer.
“Tis,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck, “some enchantment, might go well with those bracers in the end.” His voice dropped to a whisper, she thought he seemed afraid of the answer, “Was that the same one? Or were there three here then? The one that... god, he was magnificent with a blade.”
“I killed two.”
“He was down here with the fey'ri when we got here,” he sighed. “The third above flew off.” She finished prying the armor from the body, holding it in her lap. The designs, symbols on the chest held such beauty. Beleg removed his gauntlets, fingertips gently touching her cheek. “Bonny lass, you did kill them. Thank you.”
She looked to him, too numb to feel the pain his touch might bring under normal circumstances. “I told you. Hard...” He nodded, seeming to finally understand. A violent shiver ran up her spine, she returned to stripping her kill.
“Love, I know,” he answered with words he was not supposed to say, but she allowed it. “I had to hide and run. That one,” he jabbed a finger towards the other body in the hall, “I was a toy to him. I'd not have lasted a minute alone.” She stared a moment, thoughts racing too fast to assign words. His voice dropped to a whisper, “I have a potion that should let me make sense of that shirt you hold. Let me look again. Or after the others show me what else they have found.”
The others walked and discussed poisons around the pair on the floor, who both ignored the naked corpse beside them. “I want to know now, if possible.”
“Without the others knowing?” he had the potion half out of his pocket.
“Yes. I hear they stripped the other body already. And possibly this one as well, if Roderick searched two,” though she did not see him take anything, she was also half-dead herself when he found her. “She was my kill. My spoils. And you know I claim little.” She handed the armor over after he finished drinking.
He hissed. He hissed again in the forest tongue, “Beware this, love. Please.” She cradled the armor in her lap, examining the symbol. “Tisn't a simple enchantment. Nor something,” his voice hitched as he shivered. “Twasn't made for anyone with a warm heart.” He recomposed himself, she rose.
“I need to go clean these.”
He watched her with so much worry, she could feel it without seeing his face. “The Lady might be able to tell you more of that, Laurelin.” She nodded, walking away from the din to find a quiet corner with pitcher and wipe down the armor. She could have a cold heart, it was tempting in these times. The damnable moodswings would go away. The pain of her family leaving would fade as morning dew. She delighted in the hunt, the kill, the spoils. No more distracting silliness, no more the fool. Tempting.
She returned to the others, stopping to ask quietly of Lady Starym, “When you've a moment, lady, Beleg wishes I ask you of this shirt. He worries, but will say no more.” Again his worried gaze followed her. She tired of being worried after.
Beleg followed her to the corner where she sat, studying the beautiful threadwork. “Thank you,” his relief palpable. “I can tell you, but the Lady likely knows more.”
‘Hmm?” Isania returned from her thoughts, then amended, “I'll do what I can.”
Laurelin traced the center symbol, “What is this part, at least?” Isania frowned. “That bad?”
Beleg kneeled beside the Lady as she whispered, “It is the work of the elven kingdoms of old, Laurelin.” She brushed her hand along the symbol, whispering the name, “Aryvandar.”
“Aryvandar?” Laurelin repeated louder than a whisper.
Beleg frowned and nodded while the Lady continued, “Definitely the work of the Vyshaan. Sometime after the Third Crown War.”
Delawyn stopped whatever he was doing, hurriedly speaking, “Get rid of it. No good will come of the artifacts of the Vyshaan.”
Isania amended, “Only if the person who uses them is unpure.”
Unpure. Pure. Delawyn was pure. Laurelin sulked, knowing where she stood.
“I've dealt with one such thing before in Baldur's Gate,” Delawyn shook his head, turning to go abovedeck. “No good will come of it.”
She kept her head bowed as she rose. “Tis meant for the coldest of hearts, Laurelin,” Beleg pleaded for her to not keep it. She dragged the armor behind her, reluctantly following Delawyn. Isania called to her, but when Laurelin stopped, she did not finish her thought. “You don’t need that power,” Beleg continued.
She saw Delawyn at the bow of the ship, so she did not get near, but turned to the side. Running her fingers over the magic threads, she allowed herself a moment of great longing. A cold heart would fix many things. But she had to come to it herself. Too much strife existed, just possessing the armor would cause more where she sought less. She pushed it overboard, folding her arms over the railing and resting her chin, watching it disappear in the spray. She thought she heard Delawyn’s soft voice on the wind, telling her to stop, but disbelieved it. Fool’s hope, that he would speak to her more than absolutely necessary.
Beleg’s staff and armor announced his approach. “It was beautiful,” she sighed.
“Aye,” he agreed. “It was. Magic like I'll never cast, both in its complexity and,” he swallowed, “and its depravity.”
She tossed the crossbow and bolts over, too. “Doesn’t matter.”
“The blade of ice melted. Marvelous spell, or weapon.”
“You keep talking about it.” He made a questioning hum. “If it is of Aryvandar, will you keep it?” He did not answer as quickly as she wanted. “If you say yes, I promise to stab you.”
“No,” he chuckled, maybe thinking she played. “I'm more shocked that Delawyn wouldn't keep it. And he wanted me to paint over the Drow shield.” He sobered, “Not that armor. Twould have taken a lifetime to cleanse it.”
“I'm sorry, Laurelin,” Delawyn spoke softly as he passed by.
“Talk to me later, Delawyn. Please?” She looked over her shoulder, but he was already belowdeck. Of course. She sighed, resting her chin on her arms again. It was only stuff. Really nice stuff, but stuff nonetheless. Someday she will have enchanted armor again. So the dance came to a quiet end.
Last edited by Misty on Mon Apr 28, 2008 3:39 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Last PC: Laurelin ~ dancer, trickster and professional pain-in-the-backside
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
*grins, wipes an eye*
Making me cry at work.
Great stuff Misty, fun session with all sorts of things weaving together under the surface of the battle at sea. And one of the cooler descriptions on a suit of armor I've seen in ALFA.
*wipes another tear as the leathers sink slowly beneath the waves*
-Bill
Making me cry at work.
Great stuff Misty, fun session with all sorts of things weaving together under the surface of the battle at sea. And one of the cooler descriptions on a suit of armor I've seen in ALFA.
*wipes another tear as the leathers sink slowly beneath the waves*
-Bill
- Currently NWN1 ALFA: Ryld Ky'bler
Currently NWN2: Gwindor Faelivrin, still not actually dead!
Formerly: Timyin Tim, Glorfindel Inglorion and Beleg Thalionestel amongst others.
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Legionnaire
- Githyanki
- Posts: 1387
- Joined: Mon Oct 11, 2004 11:23 pm
- Location: NY, USA (GMT-5)
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Misty
- Proletarian Librarian
- Posts: 1332
- Joined: Wed Jun 16, 2004 4:10 pm
- Location: Lazin' by el Rio Blanco
Laurelin sighed, rising from her knees to stretch her back. Resting on her altar put moss on her cheek and hair, and she made small show of removing it. Isania continued her seemingly peaceful rest, but she worried over the long-term effects. Laurelin had been able to get some water down her throat, comb her hair, fuss with the bearfur blankets to keep her comfortable. She put Rarierion’s gifts at the edge of the furs, so that if, nay when Isania woke, she would not cut herself on the arrow.
Leaving her room, she cast a look to her workroom, but instead went down to the kitchen to make scones. Rarierion would be hungry soon, even if he would deny it. She waited to reach out to him, the one who seemed bitter with his duty. She could not blame him, having lost all his companions to this one task of keeping the Starym girl alive. He needed someone to talk to, the Lady’s last surviving guard. No, that was not entirely accurate. He was the last surviving guard sent by the Queen.
She put the plate of scones on the table, half covering the two poems Beleg had tied to bottles and left for her. She allowed herself a sad sigh, then set three simple bone cups on the table. Painful as it might be, she still hoped the Lady would recover of her own will. She filled one with milk, a sip half down her throat when Rarierion returned. She pushed the plate a half-inch towards him, studying his face.
He grieved, yet tried to hide it. Without looking to Laurelin, he turned up the steps to check on the Lady. Unchanged, he returned to the table, still not speaking. His eyes drifted over the sylvan poems, slowly taking a modest scone for himself. Opening one bottle of Evermead, she filled the two remaining cups, still studying his face. He came out of his thoughts to look at her, a little uncomfortable with her unwavering study.
Wordlessly, she smiled just a little bit, pushing one cup towards him while taking the other for herself. Slowly he wrapped his hand around it, but did not sip. Laurelin rose with cup in hand, moving to the stairs. She invited with a tilt of her head, hoping he had the sense to know she did not invite him to her bed. The Lady lay there.
When he followed, he found her lighting the sconces in the corner of her workroom. She gestured to a nearby pile of cushions with her cup, took a small sip, then set it down at her paint table. Lacking anything better to do at the moment, he lowered himself, pretending to relax. Laurelin unhurriedly mixed paints, listening to him as he watched her. She dropped a white-coated paintbrush into her mead, stirring without making any noise. He waited a moment, then finally took a sip of his own. She would paint him, but not today. Today was for Elvith.
Lifting the brush to the canvas, she finally whispered, “Tell me something happy.”
Leaving her room, she cast a look to her workroom, but instead went down to the kitchen to make scones. Rarierion would be hungry soon, even if he would deny it. She waited to reach out to him, the one who seemed bitter with his duty. She could not blame him, having lost all his companions to this one task of keeping the Starym girl alive. He needed someone to talk to, the Lady’s last surviving guard. No, that was not entirely accurate. He was the last surviving guard sent by the Queen.
She put the plate of scones on the table, half covering the two poems Beleg had tied to bottles and left for her. She allowed herself a sad sigh, then set three simple bone cups on the table. Painful as it might be, she still hoped the Lady would recover of her own will. She filled one with milk, a sip half down her throat when Rarierion returned. She pushed the plate a half-inch towards him, studying his face.
He grieved, yet tried to hide it. Without looking to Laurelin, he turned up the steps to check on the Lady. Unchanged, he returned to the table, still not speaking. His eyes drifted over the sylvan poems, slowly taking a modest scone for himself. Opening one bottle of Evermead, she filled the two remaining cups, still studying his face. He came out of his thoughts to look at her, a little uncomfortable with her unwavering study.
Wordlessly, she smiled just a little bit, pushing one cup towards him while taking the other for herself. Slowly he wrapped his hand around it, but did not sip. Laurelin rose with cup in hand, moving to the stairs. She invited with a tilt of her head, hoping he had the sense to know she did not invite him to her bed. The Lady lay there.
When he followed, he found her lighting the sconces in the corner of her workroom. She gestured to a nearby pile of cushions with her cup, took a small sip, then set it down at her paint table. Lacking anything better to do at the moment, he lowered himself, pretending to relax. Laurelin unhurriedly mixed paints, listening to him as he watched her. She dropped a white-coated paintbrush into her mead, stirring without making any noise. He waited a moment, then finally took a sip of his own. She would paint him, but not today. Today was for Elvith.
Lifting the brush to the canvas, she finally whispered, “Tell me something happy.”
Last PC: Laurelin ~ dancer, trickster and professional pain-in-the-backside
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
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Misty
- Proletarian Librarian
- Posts: 1332
- Joined: Wed Jun 16, 2004 4:10 pm
- Location: Lazin' by el Rio Blanco
Stolen from those not in need,
To the One who's call I heed.
Call the Tune and rule the Dance,
I give all for this Last Chance.
Some of the soldiers behind Laurelin murmur prayers, some continue to keep watch. Naught but a silver ring she offered, a minor token compared to the blood they will soon shed; or more than blood. Buried at the base of the battered northeast wall, she prayed it would help hold against the demons. Someone shuffled towards her, basket on one arm while she finished patting the dirt over the offering.
“Have a care. Battle comes,” she spoke with as little feeling as possible. Perhaps she could push Beleg away as she did Roderick prior to her prayer with feigned callousness. Push them all away, lessen the loss just a little. She had even echoed Delawyn’s words, for simple delicious irony. Such is war, is it not?
“You are-,” Beleg’s voice so rough she could not hear if he smiled, “Oh bother, and I have not eaten in days.”
She stopped her survey of the elven soldiers to look at him more closely. “You are unwell, Beleg.”
He answered by lifting his hooded face, showing such tired eyes they seemed bruised. “Spell failed. Bigger one. Del forgot to tell you?”
“Delawyn? Talk to me?” her bitter laugh sounded sharp in the pre-war calm. She still did not know the why, but she accepted that closeness they once shared had quite ended. Beleg pulled the napkin from the basket, showing a sizeable collection of breads, cheeses, nuts and fruits. And two bottles of mead. A lifetime ago she would have been delighted. She sighed, pushing away the pain it brought. “I am sorry there is no time for picnics, Beleg. Let us check on the lady.”
He nodded with a sigh, covering the feast. “I didn't realize he was getting so forgetful of things again. Eat while we walk,” he followed, snacking on some cheese.
“He is not forgetful,” she managed to not let her lip curl.
The tent Isania stayed in was larger than the rest, but unremarkable in every other way. She sat within, tentflaps open to let the light breeze through. Delawyn, Adellie and Roderick stood not far from the tent, talking amongst themselves. Delawyn greeted their arrival, Beleg nodding between large bites of bread.
“How is the Lady?” Laurelin inquired.
Adellie shrugged. “Haven’t seen her yet. Hopefully soon.”
“I will return to the wall, then,” Laurelin announced, spinning on her toe. No point in milling about without direction, Lady Isania had plenty of attention smothering her. Laurelin did have a place: with the scouts on the wall. A few soldiers smiled while she danced upon the fence posts, balancing on one foot or the other. May as well have a little fun before the battle.
She sat upon the fence, playfully swinging her legs when Beleg returned. Lord Miritar arrived. It was time for her duty. The lady had only three other guards, how many would fall this time? She hopped down, following Beleg to the discussion well under way.
“I have a darkness spell ready, if that will help you at some point,” Beleg whispered. Haggard as he looked, Laurelin decided to not answer with more than a nod.
“We could try his ploy from the Springs,” Delawyn suggested, face intent on the strategies with Lord Miritar. “Challenge him to a duel with our best. If he is fool enough take it, we all hit him at once.”
“Lady Starym discussed that fact as well,” Lord Miritar nodded. “She may be able to use the tel'kiira themselves to lure him out. Though it will likely bring out his horde as well.”
“At what risk to herself?”
“Might I ask,” Adellie interjected, “what she found?”
“A spell to banish this demon. It is there,” Isania flatly answered, no longer resting in the tent but standing among them.
“She will be safe as long as you all are there to protect her,” Miritar leveled his gaze at the small group.
“I simply need one hour to concentrate,” Isania’s voice dull, she soon fell quiet while the males descended into war talk. Laurelin watched her: she stood with back straight, her face a mask poorly hiding her resignation. Yes, she would paint this - the image of Duty.
“Delawyn,” Lord Miritar’s voice interrupted Laurelin’s study. “Will you and your companions act as her guard?” Laurelin’s lips twisted into a smirk. They would wish to, but could they really?
“I will, and they are usually foolish enough to follow me,” he smiled.
“I am foolish of my own free will, thankyou,” Roderick pretended to object. Again they talked strategy and planning, until JenWa’s arrival.
“We will not let you down, milord,” Delawyn bowed to Lord Miritar.
“You have never,” the lord answered, giving a slight bow in return. Both priests turned to their companions, the lord walking away and conferring with his, Delawyn finally showing his delight with JenWa.
Laurelin returned to Isania, speaking her commitment where no others would hear it, “I am ready, Lady. My life for yours, let us end this.”
“Let us hope no more lives have to be sacrificed than necessary,” she ominously whispered. “I need some time to collect myself. Excuse me. I will see you shortly, Laurelin.”
“Like I said,” Delawyn reiterated a little louder, “I should be back in an hour, try not to start without me.” Adellie snorted in answer.
Laurelin looked to Elvith, then took up the guard position on the other side of the tent flap. Countless horns sounded to the south. Against the calm of the night, their eerie sound sang out. The others talk in hushed tones, bringing JeWa up to date and discussing tactics. Another series of horns resounded to the north, a little closer. Horses galloped on the other side of the gate. Beleg came near to offer encouragement through his spells to Sarian, the grumpy ranger who chose to accompany us. She resolved to ask what changed his mind, when they had more time. Beleg again whispered his most earnest wish to Laurelin, then promised better dances to come. She only smiled to the grass. There was no pushing Beleg away.
Soon enough Delawyn waved to Beleg and Laurelin, calling them away from the tent. As they approached, he, then the others turned to walk even farther away. “Out of earshot,” he explained. Once there, he turned round with a pointed glance to Roderick. “We have good reason to believe this banishment spell will take Isania's life.” He paused a moment for the shock to set in. It certianly explained her odd demeanor of late: sad, quiet and determined. Delawyn continued, “The general must be killed before she can finish the spell.”
Fidgeting and frowns met this directive, until Adellie spoke up, “But can we?”
“We will have to try,” he simply answered. “Elvith is right, we will need a defensive position to keep her safe, but we have to retain some ability to strike at him. We cannot hole up and wait for her.”
“Very well,” Laurelin coldly answered. Again they talked strategy, using Roderick’s vague memory of the freehold where the general, a yugoloth of even more power than the ones they had yet faced, was suspected of staying. Laurelin had her goal: to keep the lady alive. The rest were details that would likely unravel during the battle to come. She looked behind her, where Rarierion took her place by the Lady’s tent. Three of them left, and one of her. Would it be enough? “I must return to my position,” Laurelin interrupted, then left.
Moments later, Beleg approached again, “Laurelin, we have a question for the Lady if she can be disturbed.” She relayed the message, The lady nodded her consent to be asked. “The spell,” he swallowed, then began again with firmer voice, “will it hold the beast in place at all while you cast?” She shook her head. He resumed, “Then we need to anchor it with another spell. Dimensional anchor or something like it. Have any of the mages such a scroll? Something to prevent its escape?”
The gall offended Laurelin, her voice sounding more a hiss than a whisper, “She plans to give of her life, is that not enough to ask of her?”
Beleg looked as if whipped, his eyes pleading to Laurelin, “We can cast it if someone has such a scroll.”
“We knew this day would come. It is no surprise,” she forced her mouth closed, remaining silent. Reprimanding anyone for their lack of preparation would damage what little morale they had. And it was not fair to speak so to Beleg, who had not been conscious for most the previous tenday.
“I do not have such a spell in my spellbook, Beleg.”
“Thank you lady. We will find another way. I shall tug at the sleeves of the other mages.” Adellie gently pulled Beleg away while he muttered the names of others he could ask.
Delawyn cut all their thoughts short, slipping his hand into Adellie’s. “There is the Sending. They are across. Is Lady Starym ready?”
Elvith commanded the other guard, “Isiolia, Rarierion! On me! Delawyn, we will make way to the gate.”
Thank you, Elvith,” Delawyn nodded, then turned to bow to Isania. “Lord Miritar has crossed the river. We should leave shortly.”
She met Delawyn’s eyes, her back straight and proud. “Let us go.”
To the One who's call I heed.
Call the Tune and rule the Dance,
I give all for this Last Chance.
Some of the soldiers behind Laurelin murmur prayers, some continue to keep watch. Naught but a silver ring she offered, a minor token compared to the blood they will soon shed; or more than blood. Buried at the base of the battered northeast wall, she prayed it would help hold against the demons. Someone shuffled towards her, basket on one arm while she finished patting the dirt over the offering.
“Have a care. Battle comes,” she spoke with as little feeling as possible. Perhaps she could push Beleg away as she did Roderick prior to her prayer with feigned callousness. Push them all away, lessen the loss just a little. She had even echoed Delawyn’s words, for simple delicious irony. Such is war, is it not?
“You are-,” Beleg’s voice so rough she could not hear if he smiled, “Oh bother, and I have not eaten in days.”
She stopped her survey of the elven soldiers to look at him more closely. “You are unwell, Beleg.”
He answered by lifting his hooded face, showing such tired eyes they seemed bruised. “Spell failed. Bigger one. Del forgot to tell you?”
“Delawyn? Talk to me?” her bitter laugh sounded sharp in the pre-war calm. She still did not know the why, but she accepted that closeness they once shared had quite ended. Beleg pulled the napkin from the basket, showing a sizeable collection of breads, cheeses, nuts and fruits. And two bottles of mead. A lifetime ago she would have been delighted. She sighed, pushing away the pain it brought. “I am sorry there is no time for picnics, Beleg. Let us check on the lady.”
He nodded with a sigh, covering the feast. “I didn't realize he was getting so forgetful of things again. Eat while we walk,” he followed, snacking on some cheese.
“He is not forgetful,” she managed to not let her lip curl.
The tent Isania stayed in was larger than the rest, but unremarkable in every other way. She sat within, tentflaps open to let the light breeze through. Delawyn, Adellie and Roderick stood not far from the tent, talking amongst themselves. Delawyn greeted their arrival, Beleg nodding between large bites of bread.
“How is the Lady?” Laurelin inquired.
Adellie shrugged. “Haven’t seen her yet. Hopefully soon.”
“I will return to the wall, then,” Laurelin announced, spinning on her toe. No point in milling about without direction, Lady Isania had plenty of attention smothering her. Laurelin did have a place: with the scouts on the wall. A few soldiers smiled while she danced upon the fence posts, balancing on one foot or the other. May as well have a little fun before the battle.
She sat upon the fence, playfully swinging her legs when Beleg returned. Lord Miritar arrived. It was time for her duty. The lady had only three other guards, how many would fall this time? She hopped down, following Beleg to the discussion well under way.
“I have a darkness spell ready, if that will help you at some point,” Beleg whispered. Haggard as he looked, Laurelin decided to not answer with more than a nod.
“We could try his ploy from the Springs,” Delawyn suggested, face intent on the strategies with Lord Miritar. “Challenge him to a duel with our best. If he is fool enough take it, we all hit him at once.”
“Lady Starym discussed that fact as well,” Lord Miritar nodded. “She may be able to use the tel'kiira themselves to lure him out. Though it will likely bring out his horde as well.”
“At what risk to herself?”
“Might I ask,” Adellie interjected, “what she found?”
“A spell to banish this demon. It is there,” Isania flatly answered, no longer resting in the tent but standing among them.
“She will be safe as long as you all are there to protect her,” Miritar leveled his gaze at the small group.
“I simply need one hour to concentrate,” Isania’s voice dull, she soon fell quiet while the males descended into war talk. Laurelin watched her: she stood with back straight, her face a mask poorly hiding her resignation. Yes, she would paint this - the image of Duty.
“Delawyn,” Lord Miritar’s voice interrupted Laurelin’s study. “Will you and your companions act as her guard?” Laurelin’s lips twisted into a smirk. They would wish to, but could they really?
“I will, and they are usually foolish enough to follow me,” he smiled.
“I am foolish of my own free will, thankyou,” Roderick pretended to object. Again they talked strategy and planning, until JenWa’s arrival.
“We will not let you down, milord,” Delawyn bowed to Lord Miritar.
“You have never,” the lord answered, giving a slight bow in return. Both priests turned to their companions, the lord walking away and conferring with his, Delawyn finally showing his delight with JenWa.
Laurelin returned to Isania, speaking her commitment where no others would hear it, “I am ready, Lady. My life for yours, let us end this.”
“Let us hope no more lives have to be sacrificed than necessary,” she ominously whispered. “I need some time to collect myself. Excuse me. I will see you shortly, Laurelin.”
“Like I said,” Delawyn reiterated a little louder, “I should be back in an hour, try not to start without me.” Adellie snorted in answer.
Laurelin looked to Elvith, then took up the guard position on the other side of the tent flap. Countless horns sounded to the south. Against the calm of the night, their eerie sound sang out. The others talk in hushed tones, bringing JeWa up to date and discussing tactics. Another series of horns resounded to the north, a little closer. Horses galloped on the other side of the gate. Beleg came near to offer encouragement through his spells to Sarian, the grumpy ranger who chose to accompany us. She resolved to ask what changed his mind, when they had more time. Beleg again whispered his most earnest wish to Laurelin, then promised better dances to come. She only smiled to the grass. There was no pushing Beleg away.
Soon enough Delawyn waved to Beleg and Laurelin, calling them away from the tent. As they approached, he, then the others turned to walk even farther away. “Out of earshot,” he explained. Once there, he turned round with a pointed glance to Roderick. “We have good reason to believe this banishment spell will take Isania's life.” He paused a moment for the shock to set in. It certianly explained her odd demeanor of late: sad, quiet and determined. Delawyn continued, “The general must be killed before she can finish the spell.”
Fidgeting and frowns met this directive, until Adellie spoke up, “But can we?”
“We will have to try,” he simply answered. “Elvith is right, we will need a defensive position to keep her safe, but we have to retain some ability to strike at him. We cannot hole up and wait for her.”
“Very well,” Laurelin coldly answered. Again they talked strategy, using Roderick’s vague memory of the freehold where the general, a yugoloth of even more power than the ones they had yet faced, was suspected of staying. Laurelin had her goal: to keep the lady alive. The rest were details that would likely unravel during the battle to come. She looked behind her, where Rarierion took her place by the Lady’s tent. Three of them left, and one of her. Would it be enough? “I must return to my position,” Laurelin interrupted, then left.
Moments later, Beleg approached again, “Laurelin, we have a question for the Lady if she can be disturbed.” She relayed the message, The lady nodded her consent to be asked. “The spell,” he swallowed, then began again with firmer voice, “will it hold the beast in place at all while you cast?” She shook her head. He resumed, “Then we need to anchor it with another spell. Dimensional anchor or something like it. Have any of the mages such a scroll? Something to prevent its escape?”
The gall offended Laurelin, her voice sounding more a hiss than a whisper, “She plans to give of her life, is that not enough to ask of her?”
Beleg looked as if whipped, his eyes pleading to Laurelin, “We can cast it if someone has such a scroll.”
“We knew this day would come. It is no surprise,” she forced her mouth closed, remaining silent. Reprimanding anyone for their lack of preparation would damage what little morale they had. And it was not fair to speak so to Beleg, who had not been conscious for most the previous tenday.
“I do not have such a spell in my spellbook, Beleg.”
“Thank you lady. We will find another way. I shall tug at the sleeves of the other mages.” Adellie gently pulled Beleg away while he muttered the names of others he could ask.
Delawyn cut all their thoughts short, slipping his hand into Adellie’s. “There is the Sending. They are across. Is Lady Starym ready?”
Elvith commanded the other guard, “Isiolia, Rarierion! On me! Delawyn, we will make way to the gate.”
Thank you, Elvith,” Delawyn nodded, then turned to bow to Isania. “Lord Miritar has crossed the river. We should leave shortly.”
She met Delawyn’s eyes, her back straight and proud. “Let us go.”
Last PC: Laurelin ~ dancer, trickster and professional pain-in-the-backside
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
-
Misty
- Proletarian Librarian
- Posts: 1332
- Joined: Wed Jun 16, 2004 4:10 pm
- Location: Lazin' by el Rio Blanco
May this little piece of lore
Please our Father of Song and War.
For even on fairest Evermeet,
Where we could no more retreat,
Hatred and Death found a way in,
The slaughter surprising our kin.
Dhaerow first, then daemonfey,
Attacked our isle, and many slay.
By those losses did we learn,
Time had come for our Return.
He called upon Seiveril Miritar,
Guiding him to lands afar,
Lead the return to correct,
The evils escaped in neglect.
Six thousand did willing agree,
To follow Miritar across the sea,
Daughters followed fathers,
And sisters with brothers.
The betrothed and the wed,
Offered blood and more to shed,
Trusting in the visionary star,
From Our Father to Miritar.
Great is the cause, right is the way,
To put Sarya and her army away.
For only misery and death
Follow House Dlardrageth
Sarya’s army felt Corellon’s wrath
From Evereska to Myth Ondath.
Until the blood came to pour,
In the untamed Cormanthor.
Allies called from far and wide,
Humans and elves, side by side,
Marched under one great banner,
To take again old Myth Drannor.
Among the ivy, rubble and weed,
Did all sides hurt and bleed,
While into the castle he did run,
And Sarya became undone.
Do not weep for Lord Miritar,
Corellon’s voice and favored star,
He saw his dream brightly burn:
The rise of our Return.
Please our Father of Song and War.
For even on fairest Evermeet,
Where we could no more retreat,
Hatred and Death found a way in,
The slaughter surprising our kin.
Dhaerow first, then daemonfey,
Attacked our isle, and many slay.
By those losses did we learn,
Time had come for our Return.
He called upon Seiveril Miritar,
Guiding him to lands afar,
Lead the return to correct,
The evils escaped in neglect.
Six thousand did willing agree,
To follow Miritar across the sea,
Daughters followed fathers,
And sisters with brothers.
The betrothed and the wed,
Offered blood and more to shed,
Trusting in the visionary star,
From Our Father to Miritar.
Great is the cause, right is the way,
To put Sarya and her army away.
For only misery and death
Follow House Dlardrageth
Sarya’s army felt Corellon’s wrath
From Evereska to Myth Ondath.
Until the blood came to pour,
In the untamed Cormanthor.
Allies called from far and wide,
Humans and elves, side by side,
Marched under one great banner,
To take again old Myth Drannor.
Among the ivy, rubble and weed,
Did all sides hurt and bleed,
While into the castle he did run,
And Sarya became undone.
Do not weep for Lord Miritar,
Corellon’s voice and favored star,
He saw his dream brightly burn:
The rise of our Return.
Last PC: Laurelin ~ dancer, trickster and professional pain-in-the-backside
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
*applauds, throws roses on the stage*
- Currently NWN1 ALFA: Ryld Ky'bler
Currently NWN2: Gwindor Faelivrin, still not actually dead!
Formerly: Timyin Tim, Glorfindel Inglorion and Beleg Thalionestel amongst others.
-
Misty
- Proletarian Librarian
- Posts: 1332
- Joined: Wed Jun 16, 2004 4:10 pm
- Location: Lazin' by el Rio Blanco
“Daddy, I do not understand.”
Cirdan sighed as he finished wrapping the twine around a group of long brown feathers. More and more often she came him with questions over her mother’s lessons. Laurelin twisted her hair several times, then tied it into a knot. She helped herself to his trap table, picking out the thorn-studded cord and pliers. “What is it today, sweetie?” he asked, reaching for another group of brown feathers.
“She talked of Myth Drannor today.” Cirdan rubbed the bridge of his nose, then looked at her. His daughter’s attention focused on not hurting herself, tongue sticking out as she concentrated. “Is it true?” she brightly asked, still looking at the trap instead of him.
“Please use full questions, dear. Is what true?”
“She said the city fell because of the humans. That it was open for anyone to live there, and that made it fall to the demons.” She finished the simple snare, large black eyes staring right at him.
He swallowed, looking at the mangled feathers in his hand. They were suppose to be a mark for his scouting, but he was not prepared for this discussion. Not yet. Not so soon. Why did she have to question everything? Why was she not playing with Celendur? It was about time she started laying with him, playing at love. “That,” he sighed again, praying she would get distracted, “that is a simple way of stating it.”
“Daddy, she hates cities. All cities. So why am I supposed to be upset that a city fell?”
“Because it was more than a city, to start. It was an empire. The city was protected by a mythal. Do you remember what that was?” The annoyed scowl answered loud enough. “Fair enough, dear. I thought she might have forgotten to tell you.” He smiled, both knowing he lied. But a small lie did not hurt anyone. “The old forest around the city was home to many, your mother’s family to start.” He ignored her doubting look, “Long ago, of course, long ago.
“Coronal Eltargrim had admirable ideals. I understand wanting to believe in the good of everyone, not just our own kind. He simply failed to be practical. The races cannot get along, not like he hoped.” He sighed again, reaching for his cup of water. Was it not time for her to get bored? He lowered his cup to see her eyes fixed on him, narrowed a little. How was it that a butterfly always distracted her from learning how to track their food, but she insisted on questioning everything her mother said?
“But Daddy, it had to be more than just allowing humans in. I know I am not supposed to go out, and you know I do anyway, but I have seen some that really seem to understand the wood.”
“Yes, there was more than just opening it up to the rest of the world. A lot more. But the root of the problem was still about letting the Not People in. It was the beginning of the end.” He raised a hand to stop her argument, then continued in as patient a tone as he could muster. “Our families left. We respected the Coronal, and did not wish to fight. My grandsire even advocated our stay, to give the Coronal’s wish a chance to flourish.” He looked at the mangled feathers again, his words fading until only his lips moved.
How long he lost himself in memories he could not say. Minutes or hours, when he looked up, his daughter’s large black eyes continued to watch him. Unnerving, how she could focus so. “Your mother is correct, Laurelin, though she likes the simplest explanations. Allowing humans into our world destroyed the most beautiful city the People made.”
“Daddy?”
“No, Laurelin. I am tired. Is not Celendur looking for you?”
Her eyes narrowed, he saw the lightening forming. His jaw set, looking directly to her, daring her anger. She was but a child still, though not for much longer. She turned, hair falling free as she marched out.
-- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Her chest swelled, love and pride intermingling until she laughed for joy. She stood within the giant ivory tree, staring up at the moonlight streaming down. The old paintings triumphantly declaring their presence, visually shouting, “I did not fall!” The sound of her brother’s beautiful prayers echoing throughout.
They were wrong. Her parents, their friends, all of them. They were wrong. A combined force of People and Not People wrested the city from the control of the daemonfey. Together they stood, fought, bled, and died. Together they would restore the city.
Laurelin laughed.
Cirdan sighed as he finished wrapping the twine around a group of long brown feathers. More and more often she came him with questions over her mother’s lessons. Laurelin twisted her hair several times, then tied it into a knot. She helped herself to his trap table, picking out the thorn-studded cord and pliers. “What is it today, sweetie?” he asked, reaching for another group of brown feathers.
“She talked of Myth Drannor today.” Cirdan rubbed the bridge of his nose, then looked at her. His daughter’s attention focused on not hurting herself, tongue sticking out as she concentrated. “Is it true?” she brightly asked, still looking at the trap instead of him.
“Please use full questions, dear. Is what true?”
“She said the city fell because of the humans. That it was open for anyone to live there, and that made it fall to the demons.” She finished the simple snare, large black eyes staring right at him.
He swallowed, looking at the mangled feathers in his hand. They were suppose to be a mark for his scouting, but he was not prepared for this discussion. Not yet. Not so soon. Why did she have to question everything? Why was she not playing with Celendur? It was about time she started laying with him, playing at love. “That,” he sighed again, praying she would get distracted, “that is a simple way of stating it.”
“Daddy, she hates cities. All cities. So why am I supposed to be upset that a city fell?”
“Because it was more than a city, to start. It was an empire. The city was protected by a mythal. Do you remember what that was?” The annoyed scowl answered loud enough. “Fair enough, dear. I thought she might have forgotten to tell you.” He smiled, both knowing he lied. But a small lie did not hurt anyone. “The old forest around the city was home to many, your mother’s family to start.” He ignored her doubting look, “Long ago, of course, long ago.
“Coronal Eltargrim had admirable ideals. I understand wanting to believe in the good of everyone, not just our own kind. He simply failed to be practical. The races cannot get along, not like he hoped.” He sighed again, reaching for his cup of water. Was it not time for her to get bored? He lowered his cup to see her eyes fixed on him, narrowed a little. How was it that a butterfly always distracted her from learning how to track their food, but she insisted on questioning everything her mother said?
“But Daddy, it had to be more than just allowing humans in. I know I am not supposed to go out, and you know I do anyway, but I have seen some that really seem to understand the wood.”
“Yes, there was more than just opening it up to the rest of the world. A lot more. But the root of the problem was still about letting the Not People in. It was the beginning of the end.” He raised a hand to stop her argument, then continued in as patient a tone as he could muster. “Our families left. We respected the Coronal, and did not wish to fight. My grandsire even advocated our stay, to give the Coronal’s wish a chance to flourish.” He looked at the mangled feathers again, his words fading until only his lips moved.
How long he lost himself in memories he could not say. Minutes or hours, when he looked up, his daughter’s large black eyes continued to watch him. Unnerving, how she could focus so. “Your mother is correct, Laurelin, though she likes the simplest explanations. Allowing humans into our world destroyed the most beautiful city the People made.”
“Daddy?”
“No, Laurelin. I am tired. Is not Celendur looking for you?”
Her eyes narrowed, he saw the lightening forming. His jaw set, looking directly to her, daring her anger. She was but a child still, though not for much longer. She turned, hair falling free as she marched out.
-- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Her chest swelled, love and pride intermingling until she laughed for joy. She stood within the giant ivory tree, staring up at the moonlight streaming down. The old paintings triumphantly declaring their presence, visually shouting, “I did not fall!” The sound of her brother’s beautiful prayers echoing throughout.
They were wrong. Her parents, their friends, all of them. They were wrong. A combined force of People and Not People wrested the city from the control of the daemonfey. Together they stood, fought, bled, and died. Together they would restore the city.
Laurelin laughed.
Last PC: Laurelin ~ dancer, trickster and professional pain-in-the-backside
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
-
Misty
- Proletarian Librarian
- Posts: 1332
- Joined: Wed Jun 16, 2004 4:10 pm
- Location: Lazin' by el Rio Blanco
Ten years ago, this night, it happened.
Two despairing months spent with the bond silent, but not broken. Taken by Zhents was the last she heard. The once kind militia, open and honest with her, hid behind their shields and ignored her. They knew him longer, what right did she have to her worry? Her fear?
Midst the despair, she was not wholly alone. Beleg swore to not let her fade, Isilia watched her when she could. To a single hope did they hold. Not to scry, for the Zhents had resources and wealth enough to shield anyone, but to find something of the lost bard. Something unique, and perhaps cast aside in his capture.
His drum.
Laurelin spent months having it made, keeping the secret close. Christophen knew, because he was not so dull as some would assume, but she did not mind. The skin from an animal she hunted herself. A pattern from the wings of a dear friend to him. The wingprints painted by the odd-speaking woodsman in greens and browns, with a single white pair. The frame imported from a strange land to the south. The skin stretched over the drum frame, with Morat painted on the side: Joy.
What use would the Zhents have for a drum?
The three went to the dance school, to attempt to find the drum. Isilia watched, wary should the spell go wrong. Priestess of Corellon, she had blessed the bond. Beleg sat in the center of the empty floor. Kiksa named him her lover before it became true. Perhaps he knew he would die, but would not tell her. Jerk.
Spells, and more spells. He cast protection upon protection to himself and her. Normal caution, or fear? He sat himself as comfortably as possible, concentration clear on his face. Can one locate an object he had seen once with his eyes, and a dozen times in shared reverie?
Several moments of silence, dread anticipation thick in the air. She lifts her eyes, daring to look at Beleg. His hand rests on the drum in the dance school, hardly used. His other beckons to her, long pale fingers curling towards himself once, then extending with his hand, waiting for her.
Reluctantly she rises enough to move closer. Why need he hold her hand? This was Art weaving, and she held no talent for it. No patience. She slides her hand over his. The tension in his shoulders slips free, seizing hers.
An image of Kiksa, Beleg, and Laurelin sitting in the woods sharing reverie assaults her mind, shifting before she can relax. Then she sees the drum, discarded in a field, abused but not wholly ruined. She gasps, eyes open wide but unseeing towards the blue-haired mage before her.
Painful waves course through her small frame, her hair standing on end, the ends of her toes and fingers and ears tingling. The long silent bond reopened, hurting her with its return. Exhaustion replaces the shock. He had not rested, he could not rest since it went silent.
Reconnected, yet closer than before, she stands where Kiksa stands. No, her toes brush the floor, she hangs where he hangs, stomach gnawing her gut and her back smoldering. The last whipping was but a few moments ago. Every blood spatter she sees, the topmost layer hers. No, his. Theirs. Fear, malice, venom, hate, rotting flesh all assault her senses, every heartbeat making the sensations clearer.
She, no he faces a mirror. Scrying mirror. A small elven lady fills the center, pale and sorrowful, her blue-haired friend walking beside, casting worried glances to her when she is not looking. A long, pitiful moment it takes before she recognises herself. They walk through the Spiderhaunt, she recognises the trees, the path to the bog, the other path.... behind her. Another woman follows, the pair in the glass do not see her. So close she is, so hateful.
“See that woman behind her?” warm, fetid breath speak behind her. No, Kiksa. He speaks to Kiksa. “That one is ours,” he gloats. Kiska’s heart almost stops, while the foul voice continues, “Your precious Laurelin won't escape my assassin. And my assassin awaits my signal. Now... 'Kiksa elf'...We will have our answers. Tell us what we wish to know of Morn. Or your beloved will die,” Despair weighs the mangled bard more than the pain. How did they find out?
How did they find out?
The clearer than life image fades as Beleg’s hand slips from Laurelin’s. He asks something, the pain in her body, her soul, building. She saw him, she knows he is in the tower. Or was but a day previous. She could sneak past the giants. She managed it once before, after all.
She howled. A loud, shrieking feral yell that would surely get her committed to the Sanitorium. Beleg reaches for her, but she violently pushes him away. She turns to run, run to the tower, run to find him, or die in the effort. Again, they whip Kiksa.
Belg chases, casting at her. Calling to her. Tripping her. Isilia commanding them to stop. Or her? Beleg helps her up, but holds her tight, braced against her outbursts. She kicks, screams, whimpers, cries, screams again. He tries to talk reason, gather allies. He does not understand. “It's me or Morn, he has to choose. But. But they are cruel. We will both die.” He holds her until the rage passes. She crumples, sobbing. “They're going to kill me anyway, that's the way they are. Don't you understand? I'm already dead.”
“You'll not die! You know that is up to you now.” Does he speak to her, or himself?
Isilia watches silently. She and Beleg agree without speaking to drag Laurelin to the falls. It will calm her, they need only to keep her from drowning. She sits against the cliff. Beleg near, but not draped over her as he often was. Did her small fists hurt? Or maybe her words? She breathes deeply of the waterfall’s spray, then curls up in a sad, pitiful ball. Beleg offers a hand, speaking something soothing.
She slips her hand into his, murmuring as exhaustion settles, “They are whipping him. It hurts. It hurts so much. Stone floor. The mirror... it must be what they used on Christophen. Blood. Waste. Wailing...” Her voice fades as the vision returns. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she curses the Art misbehaving.
“Tell us what we wish to know of Morn, or your beloved will die....”
Kiksa elf turns his head slowly, facing his torturer. His breathing slows, his face sallow and distorted with sadness as he rasps, “Then she will die.”
His torturer steps back, visibly perplexed. “But she's your... you are bonded. You would let your beloved perish?”
Kiksa replies, “I honor my first vow first.”
“Then you both will die!” The torturer signals, and a heavy-set guard approaches, drawing his sword.
The pierce of the blade is halted, as an explosion rocks the room. Several strangely familiar figures cascade into the chamber. Freedom riders. Kiksa grimaces, his eyes shut tight against the sting of his tears.
She feels him no more.
No more.
No home.
No family.
Beleg takes her south, away from the land of sorrow and hate. To start anew. Ten years ago.
Two despairing months spent with the bond silent, but not broken. Taken by Zhents was the last she heard. The once kind militia, open and honest with her, hid behind their shields and ignored her. They knew him longer, what right did she have to her worry? Her fear?
Midst the despair, she was not wholly alone. Beleg swore to not let her fade, Isilia watched her when she could. To a single hope did they hold. Not to scry, for the Zhents had resources and wealth enough to shield anyone, but to find something of the lost bard. Something unique, and perhaps cast aside in his capture.
His drum.
Laurelin spent months having it made, keeping the secret close. Christophen knew, because he was not so dull as some would assume, but she did not mind. The skin from an animal she hunted herself. A pattern from the wings of a dear friend to him. The wingprints painted by the odd-speaking woodsman in greens and browns, with a single white pair. The frame imported from a strange land to the south. The skin stretched over the drum frame, with Morat painted on the side: Joy.
What use would the Zhents have for a drum?
The three went to the dance school, to attempt to find the drum. Isilia watched, wary should the spell go wrong. Priestess of Corellon, she had blessed the bond. Beleg sat in the center of the empty floor. Kiksa named him her lover before it became true. Perhaps he knew he would die, but would not tell her. Jerk.
Spells, and more spells. He cast protection upon protection to himself and her. Normal caution, or fear? He sat himself as comfortably as possible, concentration clear on his face. Can one locate an object he had seen once with his eyes, and a dozen times in shared reverie?
Several moments of silence, dread anticipation thick in the air. She lifts her eyes, daring to look at Beleg. His hand rests on the drum in the dance school, hardly used. His other beckons to her, long pale fingers curling towards himself once, then extending with his hand, waiting for her.
Reluctantly she rises enough to move closer. Why need he hold her hand? This was Art weaving, and she held no talent for it. No patience. She slides her hand over his. The tension in his shoulders slips free, seizing hers.
An image of Kiksa, Beleg, and Laurelin sitting in the woods sharing reverie assaults her mind, shifting before she can relax. Then she sees the drum, discarded in a field, abused but not wholly ruined. She gasps, eyes open wide but unseeing towards the blue-haired mage before her.
Painful waves course through her small frame, her hair standing on end, the ends of her toes and fingers and ears tingling. The long silent bond reopened, hurting her with its return. Exhaustion replaces the shock. He had not rested, he could not rest since it went silent.
Reconnected, yet closer than before, she stands where Kiksa stands. No, her toes brush the floor, she hangs where he hangs, stomach gnawing her gut and her back smoldering. The last whipping was but a few moments ago. Every blood spatter she sees, the topmost layer hers. No, his. Theirs. Fear, malice, venom, hate, rotting flesh all assault her senses, every heartbeat making the sensations clearer.
She, no he faces a mirror. Scrying mirror. A small elven lady fills the center, pale and sorrowful, her blue-haired friend walking beside, casting worried glances to her when she is not looking. A long, pitiful moment it takes before she recognises herself. They walk through the Spiderhaunt, she recognises the trees, the path to the bog, the other path.... behind her. Another woman follows, the pair in the glass do not see her. So close she is, so hateful.
“See that woman behind her?” warm, fetid breath speak behind her. No, Kiksa. He speaks to Kiksa. “That one is ours,” he gloats. Kiska’s heart almost stops, while the foul voice continues, “Your precious Laurelin won't escape my assassin. And my assassin awaits my signal. Now... 'Kiksa elf'...We will have our answers. Tell us what we wish to know of Morn. Or your beloved will die,” Despair weighs the mangled bard more than the pain. How did they find out?
How did they find out?
The clearer than life image fades as Beleg’s hand slips from Laurelin’s. He asks something, the pain in her body, her soul, building. She saw him, she knows he is in the tower. Or was but a day previous. She could sneak past the giants. She managed it once before, after all.
She howled. A loud, shrieking feral yell that would surely get her committed to the Sanitorium. Beleg reaches for her, but she violently pushes him away. She turns to run, run to the tower, run to find him, or die in the effort. Again, they whip Kiksa.
Belg chases, casting at her. Calling to her. Tripping her. Isilia commanding them to stop. Or her? Beleg helps her up, but holds her tight, braced against her outbursts. She kicks, screams, whimpers, cries, screams again. He tries to talk reason, gather allies. He does not understand. “It's me or Morn, he has to choose. But. But they are cruel. We will both die.” He holds her until the rage passes. She crumples, sobbing. “They're going to kill me anyway, that's the way they are. Don't you understand? I'm already dead.”
“You'll not die! You know that is up to you now.” Does he speak to her, or himself?
Isilia watches silently. She and Beleg agree without speaking to drag Laurelin to the falls. It will calm her, they need only to keep her from drowning. She sits against the cliff. Beleg near, but not draped over her as he often was. Did her small fists hurt? Or maybe her words? She breathes deeply of the waterfall’s spray, then curls up in a sad, pitiful ball. Beleg offers a hand, speaking something soothing.
She slips her hand into his, murmuring as exhaustion settles, “They are whipping him. It hurts. It hurts so much. Stone floor. The mirror... it must be what they used on Christophen. Blood. Waste. Wailing...” Her voice fades as the vision returns. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she curses the Art misbehaving.
“Tell us what we wish to know of Morn, or your beloved will die....”
Kiksa elf turns his head slowly, facing his torturer. His breathing slows, his face sallow and distorted with sadness as he rasps, “Then she will die.”
His torturer steps back, visibly perplexed. “But she's your... you are bonded. You would let your beloved perish?”
Kiksa replies, “I honor my first vow first.”
“Then you both will die!” The torturer signals, and a heavy-set guard approaches, drawing his sword.
The pierce of the blade is halted, as an explosion rocks the room. Several strangely familiar figures cascade into the chamber. Freedom riders. Kiksa grimaces, his eyes shut tight against the sting of his tears.
She feels him no more.
No more.
No home.
No family.
Beleg takes her south, away from the land of sorrow and hate. To start anew. Ten years ago.
Last PC: Laurelin ~ dancer, trickster and professional pain-in-the-backside
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
*wipes a tear from his eye*
Making me cry while I'm at work. No fair!
*hugs*
-Bill
Making me cry while I'm at work. No fair!
*hugs*
-Bill
- Currently NWN1 ALFA: Ryld Ky'bler
Currently NWN2: Gwindor Faelivrin, still not actually dead!
Formerly: Timyin Tim, Glorfindel Inglorion and Beleg Thalionestel amongst others.
Zyrus Meynolt: [Party] For the record, if this somehow blows up in our faces and I die, I want a raiseSwift wrote: Permadeath is only permadeath when the PCs wallet is empty.
<Castano>: danielnm - can you blame them?
<danielmn>: Yes,
<danielmn>: Easily.
"And in this twilight....our choices seal our fate"
-
Brokenbone
- Chosen of Forumamus, God of Forums
- Posts: 5771
- Joined: Mon May 16, 2005 1:07 am
- Location: London, Ontario, Canada
Shut up and eat yer rats, or ye'll have none t'morrow!danielmn wrote:
ALFA NWN2 PCs: Rhaggot of the Bruised-Eye, and Bamshogbo
ALFA NWN1 PC: Jacobim Foxmantle
ALFA NWN1 Dead PC: Jon Shieldjack
DMA Staff
ALFA NWN1 PC: Jacobim Foxmantle
ALFA NWN1 Dead PC: Jon Shieldjack
DMA Staff
-
Misty
- Proletarian Librarian
- Posts: 1332
- Joined: Wed Jun 16, 2004 4:10 pm
- Location: Lazin' by el Rio Blanco
Re: Dancer Between
The flowers smelled so nice.
Laurelin rubbed her face as she roused from the unconscious state from a few moments before. She could not tell if she slept or had reverie, and this night, she did not care. She dropped her hands, staring up at her tree. Far, far too intoxicated to climb, she remained in the yellow flowers below. On her chest rested the new pipes - pale pink with the faintest hint of a glow and doubly enchanted: once for sound and once for healing.
A half-full skin of wine lay beside her head, somehow corked and tied shut. Her eyes closed, inhaling the scent of the wineskin and flowers. Snippets of the heady nights came to her: her old teacher found her, the new pipes on her doorstep, winning a bet with Terntopinil. Laughing and dancing with Qillia and the silly satyr until... until she found herself waking in the flowers. A fleeting concern danced in her disjointed consciousness, curious where the other two ended the night.
She attempted to rise from the flowers, but her muscles screamed in protest. Exhausted still, she hugged her pipes, eyes closing to Reverie over old times and new.
Laurelin rubbed her face as she roused from the unconscious state from a few moments before. She could not tell if she slept or had reverie, and this night, she did not care. She dropped her hands, staring up at her tree. Far, far too intoxicated to climb, she remained in the yellow flowers below. On her chest rested the new pipes - pale pink with the faintest hint of a glow and doubly enchanted: once for sound and once for healing.
A half-full skin of wine lay beside her head, somehow corked and tied shut. Her eyes closed, inhaling the scent of the wineskin and flowers. Snippets of the heady nights came to her: her old teacher found her, the new pipes on her doorstep, winning a bet with Terntopinil. Laughing and dancing with Qillia and the silly satyr until... until she found herself waking in the flowers. A fleeting concern danced in her disjointed consciousness, curious where the other two ended the night.
She attempted to rise from the flowers, but her muscles screamed in protest. Exhausted still, she hugged her pipes, eyes closing to Reverie over old times and new.
Last PC: Laurelin ~ dancer, trickster and professional pain-in-the-backside
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.
Currently living like Rip van Winkle.