Common Heroes

Common Heroes

Postby Heldenbrand » Sun Oct 26, 2003 12:19 pm

OOC Side-Note: This is an open, common story without any links to major plotlines or character to character interaction beyond NPC's. It's for entertainment purposes, however, do -not- just make killing the characters in it your priority. Feel free to bring in your player characters from BD to help out the NPC's, post at leisure. Same rules on the forums and in the channel itself do apply here.

Common Heroes: Dogs are not always man's best friend...

Winter was coming, the chills of the north already swept absent fingertips about the trees. Tell-tale hues of a twilight horizon splashed atop all the foliage and begun to fall from shedding branches. Already he'd bound himself within pelts and furs, hardened leathers to resist the intemperate season about to descend upon them all. It'd been another long year, the hungered bellies of many families had forced them to desperate measures. Brigandry within the forest roads, the Guard was swamped as it was with things so unnatural. His homestead was not large by any manner, a few miles north of Myrken Town, emeshed within the thick of the Wood -- but it was his.

Benjamin Tien, amongst a crowd he'd be nothing, another face to blend in amidst dozens. Unremarkable to any degree, gaunt features drawn with crimson flush, staving off zephyr's chill, lean frame that was neither bulky with muscle nor fat; rather he was a combination of both, layer of insulation strewn over hardened sinew. He was forged by this land, by many years spent with such winters as this, dusty brown hair, unkempt and grown, tied back into a tail to keep free of his eyes. Dark gaze drawn unto the heavens, clouded by gray and occasional splash of amber hues. Callous fingers wove tighter about his axe, blistering palms aching with a refastening grip to the impliment.

He was a lumberjack; it was no glorious life, rather one filled with hardship. Wolves prowled the forest at night, sometimes things far worse. And yet he'd prospered, his children grown and spread out to their own lands, wife long succubmed to child-birth at their fourth. Soon, with those stark, lengthy streaks of gray, he'd join her. Arm shifted to the side, letting iron head of the keen axe touch against the soil, brought up then and with momentum to hack back downwards. A practiced movement, one he'd repeated so many times through his life he could nary count -- timber split, shards of wood spraying out.

A careful process of choosing just exactly which tree to fell, those aged and already dropping their seed to the earth. With the cold on approach, it'd be a valued commodity; hundreds all across the province and even those in surrounding lands would need the lumber for hearths and building. Seasonal work, during the winter most of the men left the stagnant fields and into the forest. For Ben, it was no different. Yet light was dimming, weathered brows furrowed inwards and he turned back towards the beaten shack he called home.

"B..Ben!" Gasping words, from lungs that had only a bare amount of breath for which to form them. This brought about the aged veteran of the wood to gaze at the stumbling form of Cal, a neighbor as it was; fair distance off but his nearest companion. Sweat stained shirt, tiny rivulets of it still dripping free of his forehead. Far younger than Ben, he still had a growing family, two children and a vibrant wife of eighteen.

" 'allo, wot's 'dah bodder, 'uh?" The old man knew it was nothing like inviting him to dinner by the sheer frantic splay of fear upon Cal's face, axe wrought up and hoisted to his shoulder.

"P..pair o'.." Flustered, breath heaving through shuddering lungs as he attempted to still a wavering tongue, threatening to merely splur off into some babble. Doubled over, hands rested atop knees as his jaw slacked open, coughing lightly. "..'abid 'untin' mutts, 'round my place.. wun't 'eave." Likely leaving his family trapped inside, of course, rabid animals were definitely a problem in these parts. Driven mad they often were single-minded in their pursuit for food, the dangerous part was being bitten. One little knick and you'd get the mind fever too. Cal was smart in coming to Ben, trying to kill them himself would likely just get him torn apart.

"..a'ight, c'mon laddie, 'dere be anudder 'atchet in 'da s'ed. Go git's it and we best git goin'!" Blistered thumb gestured over his shoulder towards the smaller outcropping of his house, some attached shed or another likely holding all the sharp instruments, so long gone children would not endanger themselves with foolishness. Cal was only gone a minute before he returned from the place with a small hand-axe carried, it'd suit their purpose just fine.

And with that did the two men jog off into the woods, racing for Cal's home before those animals might find a way into that house and ravage the family within.
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Postby Heldenbrand » Sun Oct 26, 2003 3:12 pm

Droplets of sweat creased across his brow, drowning vision within a blur of heat and salt. While age may weary his bones, slow to rise within the morning, Benjamin Tien carried himself without pause or hesitance. Swift legs brought him over risen roots, ducking at time to avoid low-hung branches -- axe carried at its choke to lessen the weight of the head. Cal was quick to follow, his heavy breaths churning through Ben's ears as if predator was quick upon his heels. It may as well have been, there had been some time to pass; while terms such as neighbors may seem to relate a close distance, it was not so to such an agricultural people. Five miles, through such thick terrain; but it was a well traveled route.

Endless silhouettes of trees blended one after another, repetitious and mundane, it was easy to become lost in a sea of similarity. Abruptly, the elderly lumberjack skidded heels into the dirt beneath him, shifting wearied and heaving frame to one tree. His breathing was heavy, pulsing race of his heartbeat yet to settle. Cal was no better off, having allowed himself to merely slump to the earth; twice he'd made the passage, exhausted. Warriors they were not, tremoring limbs unused to such abrupt exertion, rather the tedious long days stirring through a field and felling trees. Thighs quivered and their throat stinging with chilled air, as if it now constricted upon itself to slow the encroaching cold.

There was no time for respite however, moving forward to breach the encirclement of trees and clearing that contained the single roomed house. It was easy to see the movements of those rabid beasts, numerous paw prints marked upon the loose dirt; but no animals stirred about. Pupils dialated as the axe was hoisted up, gripped within two callous limbs. "W'ere 'dem 'amn mutts 'eh? Thin' 'dey run off?" Dark gaze turned towards his companion, grayed brow lifted as if expecting him to know. There would be no answer of course, as abruptly he merely jerked his head towards the home.

Shadow drew over the length of Myrken Wood, sun fallen behind the horizon and darkness emeshing itself amidst the terrain. Side by side they paced forward, scuffling booted heels upon the soil, tensity coiled throughout them as orbs shifted back and forth across the landscape. Cal was the more insistant of the two, quickly shuffle stepping to his shack and pressing his shoulder against it. Wavering voice, shuddered with still heaving lungs and nervous fear; "P'enny, y'in 'dere?" Chin lifted somewhat to try and peer through the window, scanning for some sign of life within it.

And equally returned, for all that fear, feminine voice that rung out just beside the opposing side of the wall and window. "Cal! 're the' gune?" Her question was answered without her husbands voice, rather a sepulchral growl, twin animalistic utterance as Ben's knuckles tapped against his shoulder. Whirling figure, the pair of farmers to level gaze atop the dual shadows. Dogs they once were, perhaps proud animals of some noble; now emaciated, their ribs pressed against ruined hide, scarred by bites and claws. Clapping jaws that sent out bellowing barks, foaming and drooling, fallen to the earth in the sheer rabid insanity, markered with a blaze of hellfire within their doll eyes.

"Dun't let 'em bite'cha, la'ddie..." Idle commentary by the elder, stout nod by both as he turned to plant one foot to the forefront. Body turned, axe readied just for one necessary swing. Cal merely held the hatchet at the ready, it should not be difficult after all, they were merely animals. Ben was not so confident, insanity and hunger made for vicious beasts, despite their size. And impatient ones as well. Charing forward, their growling maws lain open to clamp into flesh they could find.

Timing was important, measuring the exact moment for which to strike and embed their axes within the skulls of the beasts, to make it quick and painless. As the weighted keen surface of Tien's axe rose and fell, impacting into bone and abruptly sending the animal to the earth, Cal's was not so lucky. Young and relatively new to such matters, the hatchet's edge clipping off hunched shoulderblades, shearing away flesh and fur. Enraged further, its paws planted against his chest pushing him unto the earth.

Hand-held axe flew off, bouncing off the wooden surface of the home and bared hands now gripping at the neck to hold away the attacking beast. Screams of fear and rage echoed from the man, convuleted feelings, primordial in nature as adrenaline surged through him. Undiscernable curses and words poured from his mouth, save for one; "Ben!"

Word caused the aged lumberjack's head to turn, watching the display and deadly, haggard teeth reaching for the man's neck, to engage in a wicken grip and crush the larynx. Horribly scented breath flushed through its nostrils and gaping jaw, drool falling unto his jerkin and face. Some said their lives passed before their eyes just before they died, others a bright light, for Cal there was only fear and then darkness as he squeezed his eyes shut. He could not breathe, weight atop his chest, the sickly feeling of the animal about to end his life and thoughts of his wife and children streaming throughout his mind.

Abruptly that was silenced, as the barking, growling and yowling sounds of the dog atop him was stimed, tossed away by the hands of that aged lumberjack; slittted orbs opened just as that weighted axe split its brow, cleaving through the eye and inside. Fallen to the earth in gore and silence, twitching limbs scampering against the earth.. slowly Cal pushed himself up to cast his thankful gaze and words towards Ben. That's when he saw it, blood trickling from his friend's forearm. Four little puncture wounds, atop and below, a maw having briefly sunk into the skin. For a moment the two men merely gaze at each other and then Mr. Tien would speak, a voice heated with the exhaustion that pulsed through him and the adrenaline all the same;

"I..ain't gunna 'nd up li'e 'dem.."
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Postby Heldenbrand » Mon Oct 27, 2003 7:50 pm

A moment of warmth and love; even as the sun spent its final rays upon the horizon, arms ensnared about one another Cal and his family reunited and safe. Murmured words to children and mother alike, gripping embraces that went on for seeming hours. To Ben, the world never felt so cold -- as those laughters of love continued on, did he drag away the carcasses, intent on moving them into the wood. Corpses would have to be burned, that no other beast could catch the disease from carrion. His hand hurt, weathered and sun tanned flesh spilt, rivulets of ochre streaming downwards without effort to stime, intermingling with the animal bodies rested upon the soil.

It didn't matter, in all truth, the beasts' saliva had already mixed with his blood, the rabid mind-sickness would pass onto him. Breaking his sanity and destroying all that once was of Ben Tien. There was not enough coin in his pocket to go unto the apothecary and seek some treatment, either herbal or magical. Tiny digits curled into the bloodied sleeve of his jerkin, insistant tugs that wrought about his stone hardened face, denial of the realization that was slowly seeping into his consciousness. Bethanie, one of Cal's children, lovely young girl -- the spitting image of her mother. Shy smile creeping across her lips, revealing well tended teeth of the girl, errant locks of cherry red hair dancing about her rosey cheeks.

" 'allo meester Tiiien. Ah' jus' wan-ted to tenk you fer savin' us with dahdy." Other hand carried upwards, daisy flower plucked from a dying soil, one of the last to survive the Fall, limp neck allowing petals to arch towards the ground. Sweet smile of innocence brought unto Benjamin then, presented out in offering to take. "...why ar' y'ah cryin' meester Tiiien?" And sure enough small tendrils of crystalline tears wove an errant pattern across his dirt and wood saw covered features. Still, a tremoring smile writ itself so slightly against his lips and callous hand extended to take the flower, curling fingers about it with all the delicacy that he might hold an infant.

"T..ank' y'ah verra'h much miss.. go feetch y'er fadder f'er me." Thick lump within his throat barely made the words coherant, a renewed clenching at his jowels as her lips pressed in absent kiss to his cheeks, then whirled about as a fiery devil skipping off to her still celebrating father. Tugging upon his sleeve, much as she did Ben's, his eyes were broken from joyous reverie to settle upon the eldery man now fixated atop the dying flower.

"Ben... I..." Abrupt words of some thanks that could not be rightly formed, not after he'd seen those jaw marks imprinted upon his forearm. How could he convey anything to even vaguely express his sentiments. A hand from Ben lifted, presented palm up towards the man.

"I..ain't gunna 'nd up li'e 'dem.." A repeated sentence, as those now shimmering dark eyes leveled atop Cal. "Take y'er 'atchet.. make it 'uick.." Those were words that could not be misconstrued in their meaning, even as the aged man moved off towards the dark of the forest once again. He could not do it in front of those children, no honest god-fearing man could. For a moment, that young man could merely blink at the silhouette shifting off, then turning back towards his own home with chewed lip, so gnawed that minor well of blood formed atop his chin.

"P'enny.. take 'deh kids inside.. I be bac' in a bit." Loving kiss perched atop her forehead, wisps of crimson hair dancing atop his now damp cheeks. Perhaps she alone had some inclination as to what was about to happen, as dish-washing smooth had rose up to brush palm against the grizzle adorned cheek. Without mention she then spun about to hasten the children within, even as Cal stooped to recover an absent mindedly dropped hatchet. Surface still dripped of ochre, moving off towards the departing form of Ben.

That was the last any saw of Benjamin Tien; it wasn't his duty to beat back the rabid animals, nor even to risk grasping the collar of the beast to save his friend. Likely he'd not even be remembered but for the life he lived, but then... not every hero is recieted within legend. Not every hero to be remembered. But as he was lain to rest within the deep of Myrken Wood, aside his wife, fingers wrapped about that single daisy, there were no regrets; only a small smile.

A hero needs no shining armor, no mythical powers or weapons. True heroes are but the common person, putting aside themselves to help others, even if it might cost them everything.

These are the true heroes of Myrken Wood and they write their own legends, everyday.

OOC End Note: This is but the first story of many I hope to write about the common people of Myrken Wood. I would greatly appreciate others involving their characters within it. Whether mundane or otherwise, please let me known in private message or on IRC if you'd like to contribute. Feel free to post your own stories about the people of Myrken Wood in this topic in a -positive- manner, do not demean them, otherwise I'll ask that a moderater delete the post from this thread. Thank you for reading and please have fun with it!
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Life Death and Choices

Postby Sherazade » Wed Oct 29, 2003 1:03 pm

Ronan Longbows’ Fifth child a daughter had come as an unwelcome surprise. Oh it wasn’t that he disliked hated the girl. No it was merely that he was well past fifty when Nimah made her disruptive appearance, and his wife was well past forty. Their youngest boy was twelve and Adele had not conceived in all those years.

Who, Longbow asked himself as he stood in the upper room under the slanting rafters, looking down on his wife’s still face, would have expected this?

The sun shining through a roof louvre showed the dancing dust motes caught within a ray of sunlight. Seeing them made him angry, for they looked as if they were alive, while Adele was not. He was going to be lonely. He had been that while she was alive. But now it would be worse. His home was in here in Myrken wood now but he was not a native. Ronan Longbow was Irish. He had followed his exiled lord, long ago. But when the lord made up the quarrel, which had sent him into exile, and went home, longbow had stayed behind.

He had stayed, because by then he was married and Adele, cut off from her small holding and her own language, would have been far more lost in Ireland than he was here in Myrken. She had married him believing that he would remain with her on the holding and he would not break even an unspoken agreement, not when it would cause her so much anguish.

She had spoken only the common tongue and he had never realized, until his lord had gone, how much one’s own language meant. Even the dullest remarks would have sounded like music, if he could have heard them in Gaelic.

But she had cared for him and their four sons, worked like a demon to make the holding productive. She had tried hard to learn his native tongue; she had loved him. Moments of true clarity are rare being aware of them even more so but it was then in such a moment, he came to know he loved her. Staring down at her still, at the stray lock of hair that always fell across her face, he felt a lump rise unbidden in his throat. Callused fingers reached out with a gentle touch not many knew he had and he tucked the errant lock behind her ear and leaning over placed a kiss upon her brow. Straightening he drew the rug over her face and turned away to descend the ladder to the ground floor, trying not to cry. It wouldn’t bring her back, nothing would.

The room below was sunny and spacious and as he stepped off the ladder he realized it was lacking in something, missing a piece of itself. It took only a breath, a heartbeat or two for him to know it was her soft words of greeting, then his gaze dropped to the clean floor. A floor that was clean because Adele had swept it only moments before her pains had begun.

The need to grieve overwhelmed him and he blundered, eyes flooding to a stool, ignoring the two people who were already in the room - three, if one counted the child in the cradle. The others were the midwife, who was clucking over the newborn bundle which was his daughter, and the cleric who had blessed both mother and babe, just in case, though the brat seemed healthy enough, Ronan thought with bitterness, burying his face in his hands.

But although he didn’t want to be pestered with any of them, it was clear after a few moments that something was expected of him. The cleric was clearing his throat. Ronan raised his head and realized his youngest son was missing. “Where’s Ward”

“I sent him to town” It was the midwife that spoke and Ronan became aware of something else tension between her and the cleric, and although he knew what was coming what she was going to say he waited for her to finish. “The child needs milk. I sent for Sorcah.”

“The witch “ sputtered the cleric clearly displeased and about to go into a tirade about the devil and his workings.

“There is no choice” Ronan said shortly. “As the midwife here says, there is no one else who will do”

“But Sorcah! And where did her baby come from, I’d liked to know? Devils spawn, if the tales are true.”

“Tales are just that Tales” Snapped Ronan “There is no proof of sorcery, only the word of the girls uncle” It was clear from the way he spoke the word uncle he was one of the few who believed the girls claim of rape against him. The man was another who had followed the lord and chosen to stay behind and there were rumors he had treated other women in such a fashion back in Ireland.

Something in Ronans face in his expression made the cleric swallow his argument and nod “tongues will clack true enough” came the words of peace offering “some would do better to say their prayers than engage in idle gossip.” The clerics gaze then went through the open door “here is Ward with Sorcah now”

Ronan sighed and then, because he sensed that they thought he should, he went across to the cradle and looked down at his new offspring. Eyes closed tiny hands curled into fists she looked so peaceful did she know what a stir her birth had caused what grief. Those eyes came open then and seemed to look straight through him. There was a moment when there was only him and her nothing and no one else existed until the cleric disturbed them both by closing the door with a thump in his wake. Tiny mouth opened then and the babe began to wail "Tis alright Nimah it was only the door ” he found himself murmuring softly even as he bent to pick her up. Cradling her against his chest he was surprised to find a smile tugging at his lips as she began to quiet found comfort in his arms.

There had been just one real dispute between him and Adele. She wouldn’t let him teach the boys Gaelic. She’d feel shut out, she said if father and sons got to chattering in a foreign tongue. Well he would teach this knew child Nimah to speak it She could learn from babyhood. It was a plan for the future, something to look forward to, that he could think of as important, It made him feel a little better. He turned quite amiably to greet the girl Sorcah, thinking that perhaps he wouldn’t be quite so lonely after all.

[Note] I love the idea of this thread and will probably post here again yet :)
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Postby Heldenbrand » Wed Oct 29, 2003 7:34 pm

Common Heroes: Old Scars

War; from the dawn of man’s existence it has been beside us. Guiding our feral hand with the urge to dominate, it is our own inherent nature. The land of Trae Kelsa is no different. Six months ago two provinces, Thessilane and New Dauntless were on the verge of war, people on the borders began to exodus from their homes, fleeing to neutral territories to escape the ravages of conflict. And then, before the declaration of war could be made, the hand of fate took a sudden turn. The ruling liege of the land was slain by a young woman, the claimer to his throne on more amicable terms with the Duke of Thessilane. In not but a single day, the tensions lessened and troops began to be recalled back to their nominal posts.

Still, not all bloodshed had been averted. Throughout those days and weeks of growing hostilities, forces clashed in minor skirmishes – many soldiers lost on both accounts, for reasons that were now utterly moot. Many resigned, others merely defected, escaping to neutral territories so desolate and unwanted by any other province, that the concept of being conquered seemed almost laughable. Myrken Wood became the new home of many… Jonathon Griers was among them.

Winter was coming, the minute bite to the wind told this story with surprising ease; a deathly chill to all the better represent what a horror this year had been. Farms are not uncommon within Myrken, nor are share farmers; those who manage a noble or rich man’s land, in return for a home and meager share of the profits earned of the crop. There had been little time to gather up what he owned; Jon had fled here with his wife and newborn child, hoping to give the latter a relatively peaceful home to grow up in. Life was hard for the gaunt man, toughened by the rigors of warfare and further by the harsh life he was now enduring for his family’s sake.

Slender in general stature, the precept of musculature was hard to discern upon him, usually masked as it were, by layers of woolen cloth. Haggard fabrics had long been hand-stitched, likely to be passed on to the child when he came of age. Dusty blonde hair settled lazily about his ears, errant locks to be flicked away before his eyes. Since before the first orange rays of dawn had broken the horizon, he’d been awake tending to the livestock that would provide the majority of the cash crop until the next growing season would arrive.

It was a dirty life, tedious and boring, but for those who had bathed their hands in the blood of combat; it was a far more peaceful one. With pitchfork gripped amidst callous and blister worn palms, the second hour of shoveling hay into the back of repetitious carts continued onwards, still the youthful former soldier was known for his pleasant disposition, far more often burdening a wide smile or boyish grin than a frown. It was only with the presence of another did that expression fade into darkened glower.

Dreman Tiel had come to this place much under the same premise as had Jonathon, seeking escape from the horrors of war. He, in retrospect to the Thessilane soldier, was large and muscular, a requirement for those rather large pikes and halberds atypical of the New Dauntless forces. Hulking frame reached nearly six and a half feet tall, lined thickly with sinew and simple cloth. Dark hair drooped frequently over similarly shadowed eyes, by nature he did not seem an overtly hostile man, rather one that was avoided for sheer intimidation. Never were there any words shared between the two veterans of that guerilla conflict, only avoidant gazes and placements.

Cold air abruptly spliced in noise, triangle sounded – breakfast. Most would think that rather than gather, each man would return unto his family and eat in peace, but times were harsh now. Drow magic had darkened the skies for far too long, killed many crops; even their own were affected despite tender care. Food was not so much scarce as expensive, carefully rationed as to ensure that everyone ate properly but not overly much. Serfs abound began to move off towards the communal table prepared out by the women, their haphazard conversations joining with the men’s own as children danced and played not too far away.

The scent of morning’s meal wafted high into the air as families settled down aside one another, awaiting their apportionment to come, some might have whispered words of prayer, but few would even bother in this hellish land anymore. It seemed of trite circumstance, the advent of the Inquisitors had done little to stop the horrible things that stalked through the deep reaches of the forest or shield them from the menace of that loathsome drow. Seated aside Belle, his wife of young age, baby Johnny cradled within her arms, Jonathon sat uneasily opposite of Dreman.

Neither had any real comfort in their company, their eyes continually averted to rest to either side of them or merely down to the plates as they awaited the food to come their way. Murmured words of the gathered men and women, a din of errant background noises as a nearby conversation broke free of the noise. "N’ah mooch to eet. N’aht verr’ah gud ei’der." Harsh accent of the woman nearby barely coherent to most, but still perceived for the most part.

"Better than Thessilane gruel." Dreman's interjection might have not been meant for a coy insult towards Jonathon, but it seemed interpreted as such. Crimson flush blew into his cheeks as the enranged Jon barely managed to keep that temper in check, fingers lowering to slide within the pocket at his waist tapping against some object.

"At least it isn't stolen like New Dauntless trash." Jonathons' words perhaps harsher than the others and meant more in direct reposte to the attack upon his home country. Certainly they seemed to have caused a direct response in Dreman, rising up in infuriated tempest, writ across his features massive palms slamming against the table.

This was an event long time coming, as those fellow farmers knew; something that would not find any sort of peace or remittance until it'd taken its course. And while Jonathon rose in retort, even despite his wife's blatant tugs upon his arm to issue a contrary motion, he stood stalwart to his much larger opponent, now speaking; "You got something to say to me, boy?" Dark brows furrowed inwards with the words, perhaps merely attempting to quell Jonathon by disposition alone.

By now the entire region had gone quiet, awaiting what was sure to come. And indeed it did, as the rather lithe Jon leaped across the table reaching with one hand in recoil to lash out at Dreman's jaw, a return punch was sure in formulation, both would have likely impacted were it not for an abrupt gathering of hands from other farmers pulling the men apart, despite their lashing limbs and fevored curses. Belle, Jonathon's wife, soothing her hands across his chest, directing him back away and towards their home.

Minutes passed, then within the confines of their humble abode, her hands grazing across the firm tone of Jonathon's arms, cheek rested against his spine as he presented but it to her. His gaze lain upon the window, prying past the glass and unto the distant silhouette he merely assumed to be Dreman, mulling about his own daily routine. "Why d'ye hate him so much?" So sweet her voice, sirines soothing upon his frayed nerves, as collar bone slumped and shoulders much the same, head canted back to expose his throat to the ceiling.

"When.. Dauntless and Thessilane were about to go to war.. I was part of the border defense guard. There were a few skirmishes here and there, but nothing too serious.. until one night." His words were not meant for any direct conversation, rather a story to be told; distant, sepulchral and somber in tone. "My best friend, Timothy, and I were part of a unit sent out to intercept a band of Dauntless raiders crossing the border. He was... killed. His chest was cut open by onn'a their spears, while he bled to death, he gave me this..." Limb withdrawing from his pocket to reveal the solitary locket he'd kept stashed away and close at hand, parting open the metal structure to reveal the magick imprinted image of a woman upon it. "...his wife. He told me to keep it and remember."

"But, why hate Dreman so much?" Belle interjected, her brow lifted as she gazed up from the perch of her jowel against his back.

"...he was one of those raiders that killed Timothy."
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to hear the calling.....

Postby Khalika » Thu Oct 30, 2003 1:03 am

It is the simple things one remembers in time of war and conflict.. The memories of days past that fill ones mind when exhaustion is so great that death might be a blessing if it meant a moment to close ones eyes without fear...

These are the things Gillian pounders as she stands in the threshold of the barn, which has been turned into a makeshift hospital to house the incoming wounded of the newest skirmishes between the lands of Thessilane and New Dauntless.
Having been born and grown up in or around the woods of Myrken, she heard the call...The call for any with healing skills or knowledge, and after being raised by her Grandmother
a follower of the old ways...she came at once to aid the fallen.

It had never occured to her that her aid would not be wanted, that the clerics and surgeons would call her simple skill with herbs and healing heritical, and against gods will. Well she knew not of their God..This Carpenter and his ways...She was raised in the woods , by a women who prayed to the pan and his consort. She was not evil, wished them no harm...but still had it not been for a Lietentant whose own grandmother held similar views she would have been torched were she stood.

But Desperate times call for desperate measure and helping hands were in a shortage. So the man convinved the other to allow her to aid them...They agreed under the condition she used none of her heathen arts on the wounded...

So here she stood going on her 40 hour of work. bringing in freshwater for the wounded..She had spent the last night and a bit following after a surgeon, well more like a butcher,how that man was ever thought to have saved lives was beyound her thinking....but follow him she did...and after each patient he left, she would come in and adjust the placing of a leech, rewrap a loose bandage, tighten a turnikey, and anything else she hoped would help these poor souls make it through another night...She almost relived her supper when the blasted man took a rusty blade to a poor soldiers leg. it made her shudder with anger that he was the reknowned and she the flithy witch..

"Water"
She blinks...not even realizing she had walked from the entrance to the far wall....the sound of a man voice brings her out of her passing thought...she looks down and see a hand outstretched..kneeling by the man, she dips the small wooden cup into the bucket and brings it to his lips..her free hand lifting his head gently...

"Not to fast...easy now..." She whispers as he takes in the full amount in no time..his head placed gently one again upon the make shift bedding upon the barns dirt floor..

"your....your an angel.." His voice is horse and ragged as he looks up to her....but she can only smile resting a blood stained hand upon his cheek...

"I am no angel...just a girl..doing what needs be done..." Nothing else could be spoken, for shouting and action soon
took her attention. The latest party had returned, four wounded by first glance..no..no five and one it seems was a New Dauntless soldier...leaving the water by the mans side she headed over to the frey...

"We take care of our own first...let the Dauntless scum wait till the end. If he still lives at dawn we will see about his wounds.." The head surgeon spoke directing the others
about as if he were a General....But she could not have heard him correctly..how could a man of healing toss away life any life so caliously?...She could not allow this...would not allow this!..

"No!" before she had a thought the word echoed throughout the barn..."Let me see to him...Since you refuse to let me help were my own countrimen are concerned....Then let me see to my enemy...if he dies it is of no loss to you.." She has never outwardly defied the elder man...so far content to work behind the scenes....but she would not stand by and let a man die because of the color of his tunic...

Before the surgeon can even reply to her outburst the Lietentant made his way through...a raise of his hand had them all silent and she thoguht for sure he was regretting his past decision were she was concerned...but instead he merely sighed...

"The Lady Gillian can do what she will...if she can keep the Prisoner alive till morning..then let it be...you have others to attend to.." He spoke directly to the Surgeon and then the matter was settled for he continued on..And she was left to look at the New Dauntless Soldier...whose arm held a horrific Gash just above the elbow...

"Set him down over there.." She direct them to an empty bed roll near by..but when they arrived one leaned down
and removed the beding..
"We have good soldiers who deserve this more then he.." One spat as they litteraly dumped the man down to the ground.

A heavy sigh slipped from her lips, as she removed her apron to give him a small amount of comfort, placingit under his head. Her own shakingat their cruelty, but she had no time to pounder the ways of war for the man was dying at her side...She pulled her bag to rest beside him. then rolled him to his back so she could look at the wound. It had already started to stink with the scent of rotting flesh...maggets already gnawing away at the inside...it nearly had her heaving beside him...but she could be sick later..he needed her now....her hand reached down to pull away the material whenhis other snaped up and grabed hers...

"You will not touch me thessilane witch" He choked out...eyes barely able to focus but his grip was still strong enough to bring her to wince...

"you have two choice soldier....Either allow me to tend to your wound....or we wait for the Surgeon to get around to you...by then the only recourse will be to remove your arm...." Her words are sharp and hide the fear that swells up inside of her...but adhrenilene breeds courage it seems for she speaks again.."Be quick with your choice sir...for the magget eat swiftly at your flesh..." It seems those words have him to loosen his grip...as a faint nods has her returning to her work.

Hands tear at the tunic ripping the bottom half of the sleeve clean off. then to her bag they go pulling out a small roll which is unfolded at her side...it holdsa straight line of thin pins..seems herbs were not the only thing her Grandmother taught her..Three pins were removed and placed strategicly above the wound to prevent further bleeding, another placed at the side of the neck, to hault his movement and relieve some of the pain.
AS she worksanother of the voulenteer women came to her side..a pudgy woman of middle age and grey hair..knelt beside her...

"What can I do Gillian?" She asks putting a supportive hand upon the shaking youngers shoulder....

"Water fresh and clean and bandages the same if possible" She responds..not needing to look up to know it was Dedra..a old friend of her grandmothers...Without another word the elder woman was off to gather what the younger required....

Gillian herself was taking another package out of her bag...this one held a variety of herbs and roots...pulling out one of the roots she bit off a big chunk...chewing it quickly it started to emit a strong powerful odour...taking away the wounds stench from her nose...and then before she could rethink the mess she had gotten herself into a hand dug into the wound and started to dig out the magget...

To be continued
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To know thy Enemy...

Postby Khalika » Thu Oct 30, 2003 1:42 am

Hours had passed...the mans arm had been saved...and a touch of respect gained, by those who stood by and watched as she did what she was born to do...save lives....Sleep had finally come over her...and she would have slept forever it seemed, but the rising suns rays batted against her eyes and slowly she awoke. Only to find her apron laying upon the ground, but no soldier....She rises about to ask where he had been taken when one of the guardsmen comes up and ruffly pulls her from the ground....

"Your day has come witch.." He snaps..dragging her outside by the long strands of her hair....had she not been so startled, so awestruck at this sudden treatment she might have cried out... The sun hits her like a bolt of lightening...and she can hear the shoutings of a large gathered crowd...eyes seek out a friendly face to explain why she is being treated in such a way..but all she is met with is a rotting piece of food...

"Witch..Dauntless Whore!!" These words are screamed out at her as she is thrown to the center....caught by the soldier...he looks down to her...helping her regain her balence...

" I am sorry Thessilane...you saved my life..I had no intentions of taking your.." His words are sad..as if he has some clue as to what was taking place...finally she finds her voice...

"What's going on?" They are little more then whispered, but it seems the ring leaders heard her clear..the head surgeon, and the Cleric...both small minded little men who had personal grudged against the women because of her faith and her skill...

"Quiet Witch!..your treachery has been discovered at last...did you think you could keep it from us forever?" The cleric spoke first...shaking a boney finger acussingly at her..sending her to reel back into seemingly her only friend...Her enemy...

"But I have done nothing....why do you accuse me so?"
She is near tears now..these were her countrimen...her allies...she trusted them everytime she closed her eyes, and now..now they spit at her feet and call her betrayer...

"Our soldiers died last night...and yet he lives!... Now it is the surgeon who speaks..hoping to hide his bumblings by accusing her of being a traitor...

"This isn't happening...." She utters to herself "You can't be allowed to do this!..Where is Lt. Caplan?..He would never allow this to happen!" Her words are cracking now...under her fear that they finally got to her while the Lietentant was off on patrol....but the Clerics smile tells another story...

"Your New Dauntless co-hort has already been dealt with" He points to a slumped over figure just outside the circle..it was indeed Lt.Caplan, without his head...her breath is lost...as she drops to the ground weeping for the man who for no reason trusted her and her skill...

She did not know he was a spy, and had been since before she had arrived. But in truth that had nothing to do with his kindness towards her...but the cleric and the surgeon saw it another way..Once his alliance with New Dauntless was discovered...they took his kindness to her to be nothing more then co-conspiriators, plotting to do them all in. and with her saving the life of a New Dauntless soldier at the Lietentant allowance seemed to seal her fate...

"I have done nothing wrong..you have no right!" Her words mix with the salt of tears...but they hear none of it..and soon she and the soldier beside her are being bond...hands tied tightly behind her back. She can see Dedra in the distance but does not look to long in fear she too would be accused....but she could not miss the horror in the womans eyes...
The next words that are spoken are a blur...lost in her fear...she cannot even hear the charges against her...though through it all comes a soft yet hoarse tone..

"Be brave Thessilane..as you were last night....it will all be over soon She is looking now, at the New Dauntless soldier... frowning as she doesn't understand what is to come next..

All she can think of to say is so simple as if they had meet on the side of the road..."I am Gillian.." such foolish last words one might think...but to be deemed simple Thessilane..seems to sicken her at the moment...he smiles cracked and scared lips of a soldier reply in turn...

"And I am Edward.." no not a demon...not Lucifer himself...just Edward...she knew an Edward, he cut wood for her grandmother when she was young...how funny the world works...but before another word can be spoken..her face is wet, lashes thick and hold an all to familar smell....it takes her a moment to see...to hear his behead form hit the ground...her enemy....

That word has always puzzled her, she had not heard it but twice before she arrived here 6 months past, and since then had heard it in abundance...but now all the terms, all the definition are skewed. Perhaps if she were to live past her 23rd year she would have had a better understanding...Had she not grew up in such solitary surrounding she would have known better then to save a mans life simply because it was the right thing to do...but it is too late now..for she too lies without head beside the New Dauntless soldier....

Enemies...allies...how do you know which is which?..
When kindnessn is greeted with a smile from a stranger....and knowledge is greeted by fear from one who is not....Perhaps she knows more of the Carpenters following then she thought, for wasn't his end so close to her own?....
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Postby Heldenbrand » Thu Oct 30, 2003 8:44 am

Common Heroes: Old Scars

Belle's response may have been something akin to a gasp, or perhaps words to comfort Jonathon; but those were abruptly stilled by the ringing call of the triangle once again. Certainly it caused both to raise their brows, the young soldier moving towards the window to peer out and about. Piercing words then called to the air, screaming accompanied it in macabre chorus; "Bandits!"

While he'd since sold his sword for meager coin it provided his family then, Jon moved towards the doorway, intent on the pitchfork that lain just beside the door. "Stay inside, no matter what, hide with Johnny under the bed and keep quiet!" Hand only briefly settled atop her lithe shoulder before pushing out into the field. Scene of chaos brought to his eyes, homes already afire, haggard men on horseback striking down those who tried to defend themselves, and others on foot breaking into houses to take what supplies they could.

Callous hand wove its grip about the farm impliment, charging off to face the nearest brigand, simplistically fought, the forked end piercing through this gut by one swift push from Jon's arms, withdrawn then to let him sink to the earth. His verdant vision clouded by the haze of slate that plumed free of burning thatch, screams churning all about him in a cacophony of death, upon both sides. Bandits encountering more difficult resistance than initially expected began to take no quarter, simply slaughtering any they came across. Women, children, scrambling to get to their shelter.

Driven by such a sight, blood haze jaded within their eyes, so did those serfs fight with ferocity, killing the horse just to get at its rider, tackling armed men and beating them with bare fists. Jonathon himself was not above such a rage, for those few who fell before his bloodied polearm were then privy to a sacreligious post-mortem stabbing, driving the iron prongs repeatedly into their chest even if no breath drew. Amidst such a reverie of macabre blood, perhaps he was unaware of what was on the fast approach -- as Jon stood straddle over one such dead bandit, another upon horseback raised speararm.

And then... Dreman. Breaking through the veil of smoke that had enshrouded all, his shout of warning broke through to the ears of Jon, whirling about to horrific sight, the brigand's spear protruding from Dreman's stomach. Memory. Like a sharp flash of light through his mind, erasing the distance of time and space, brought back to that single moment in which Timothy had fallen. That weapon too had been destined for his body, insane fury blanketed his eyes, faded from this reality and to the next, the pitchfork simply thrown at the bandit while he charged forward. Fingers gripped about the saddle, breaking through leather straps keeping him upright, torn aside and jerking the horse, causing its rider to fall to the ground in a heap.

Fists rose and fell with repeated anger, bashing flesh and bone until it was but a bloodied pulp, his limbs bathed in the ochre once again as they had been so long ago. It was only until a hand rested atop his shoulder that he would find cessure, pausing abruptly with bared feral teeth to cant his chin over his shoulder. Dreman lay fallen still, men about him hefting the New Dauntless soldier up with gentle care, to take unto the nearest available home. "Eet o'fer, Jon." Softened words from the gaunt and blood stained farmer that gripped his shoulder so.

"Dreman, is he alive?" Insistant and pleading words from the man who'd just recently so wanted him dead. That indeed caused an upturned brow from the farmer man, before offering a supplicating nod and pointing off towards the distant silhouettes, now disappearing into the homestead.

"'oounded p'erty bh'ad, boot 'eel make it." And so did Jon then nod, only to turn his attentions back another direction entirely, his own house. It stood still, the door bolted shut as he had left it. A miracle in and of itself, even as he approached to gently rap upon the door, his cheek lain against it, whether in intent to listen or mere exhaustion, he could not really know.

"Belle, its me.. the bandits are gone." Immediately the sounds of scrabbling footsteps upon the floorboards could be heard, as that young woman raced forward to throw open the latch and then her arms about the shoulders of her husband. Sobbing tears shed into his neck, even as wearied arms encircled her in return. "It's okay lass, calm down..." Faded words into the silence that seemed to settle slowly over the land... over the moaning cries of the wounded and those homes still yet burning.

Hours passed, darkness begun to take the place of that devestating afternoon, the living begun to bury the dead and those who were mortally wounded to take to prayer at last and sharing final goodbyes with loved ones. Jon's form was not a rare one to be seen on the farm, but in this place it certainly seemed out of the ordinary. Within the darkness of Dreman's room he now stood, coming to settle uneasily at his side. That large, dark haired man allowed his forehead to droop to one side, casting speculative eye to the youthful Thessilan he'd just saved. Was he here to finish the job?

There indeed seemed to be some trouble brewing within Jonathon Griers' mind, hand withdrawing from the pocket as slowly that furrow creased out. Tremoring limb to reach for Dreman Tiel's own, to find that clammy, callous skin and press warmed metallic into his palm. Held for a moment in that contact that could have been percieved by any other as a mere handshake, but for what passed seemed entirely different, as small tendrils of tears creased down Jonathon's cheeks. "He would have wanted you.. to have this now." Who he was, Dreman could only guess, as weakened fingers coiled their grip a bit firmer into Jon's, who then slowly tore away.

A shared nod between the pair, as a woolen sleeve swiped across his eyes and then he turned and departed.

Sometimes a hero need not sacrifice himself, sometimes all a hero need do... is forgive.
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Common Heroes: All things dark and feral.

Postby Kaz » Fri Oct 31, 2003 4:49 pm

Common Heroes: All things dark and feral.

Samhain, Halloween. All Hallow’s Eve. The time when the dark and fey roam, released from below, or can slip between the borders betwixt this world and the next, and take out their dread geas’ or joys on the living. A time when powers unseen surge strongly, able to be grasped, or touched, or honored. When the old gods and the ancient ways live, alongside the newer ones. A night to stay inside and pray, or dance in a circle beneath the open sky. A time to fear, or a time to celebrate. The time of villains and devils, heroes and saviors. Even unlikely ones. Each to their own, and yet, when roads cross, when so many of varied races meet, there are bound to be intersections. Where ways and powers converge, reaching out to touch.

Lirin Ilisdotter was the only daughter of a forester and his wife, and though her da was five years gone and dead, his work in teaching his sons and, more reluctantly, his youngest, simply by sheer dint of her persistent presence at one of her brothers’ sides, was well done. All but one of her three brothers had moved away and married, and her ma was starting to hint strongly that it was time for Lirin to abandon the hand-me-down trousers she pilfered from her brothers and put on a skirt, and get herself a husband, a croft of her own. Lirin escaped this by spending more time in the greenwood than before, sharpening those gleaned skills and trying to prove her worth in another fashion than sewing quilts and learning to tend a vegetable garden. It wasn’t working, however, and she despaired of wandering in the forest like she so often had in her youth.

That had been before meeting her first elf. Her da had known a few, but his children had only caught glimpses of those slender, elusive shapes fading away into the very air and shadow now and again, when their father had treated with them. But one day, ah, one day when the sun was bright and her mood so dark, and she sat by a brook in her favored retreat, looking into the water and seeing the faces of the young men her ma had pointed out to her as her choices… then, had the elven shown himself. Long a friend of her da’s, and having watched over her and her brothers while they grew and learned, Samarkanael had become her friend, and then, a bit more. He would let her be what she wanted, and she loved him. In a way, she had done what her ma wished, for she had a croft of her own, but it was deep in the wild woods, and like nothing her parents had ever dreamed for a home. Happiness of a few sweet years, and then, her baby. Shortly after the boy, with faintly pointed ears, was born, her husband was called away by his folk, for some reason he seemed reluctant to share. Her handsome elf had kissed her brow, promised to be home soon, no more than a week, and slipped off into the star-spattered night. He offered no cautions to her about the approaching Hallow’s Eve, for the elven did not fear the night. Through him, she did not fear either, and so, when she went to visit her mother in the daylight, taking her three month old son, she laughed and kissed her mother when the elder lady fretted, trying to convince her to stay the night or leave in time to be within her own home’s walls by darkfall. “Th’woods are me home, mama. They’ve been nothin’ but kind, and we’ll be well. I love ye.” A kiss, and Lirin hugged the baby, saying her farewells and heading out when the light was starting to dim, but still present.

Not all bogies and beasties are confined to the dark, however. Some only require the sun’s sway to be waning, and losing strength. As Lirin walked through the woods, humming softly to her child, in the distance, a hunter’s horn sounded. And another. Hound bayed, and began shortly tounging the scent of prey. Twilight coming, and though Lirin heard the well-known sounds, she thought little on them, except for idly wondering if the hunters would continue to course even to the darkness. Foolish to do, on horses at night. Perhaps the quarry they’d been pursuiing was close then.

Her first hint that there was something wrong came when the hounds’ voices came closer, closer. The forest went silent, its very breath of animals, birds, and insects, held. The hairs began to raise on the back of Lirin’s neck, and she froze, eyes widened, senses alerted. Her arms tightened protectively about her son, as she looked back across the meadow she’d just crossed, having reached the other side and already slipped into the grasp of trees once more. The hounds were first. Great black beasts, red eyes and red tongues, the former blazing like fire, the latter lolling in pant in between licking great fangs and baying, straining against their holders. The horses the hunt party rode were mostly ebon-dark, and fire sparked from their hooves no matter what surface they trod on, eyes as burning with fire as those of the hounds. There were a few that were grey, and only a pair which were white as mist and just as substantial, the shapes of things visible beyond them. The lead hunter was a fearsome man, his red beard and hair tangled as a wild wood, an otherworldly feeling pouring from he and his company and beasts. The forms beyond him, on the other horses, they were dread as the hounds and horses, looking on with dead, ghostly eyes, despite their great and sudden outcry, that the lead huntsman both shared and surpassed. Lirin’s heart siezed, and she called on her husband’s protective spirits, but they did not answer her human voice, and her half-elven son too young to echo them for many months yet. The hounds bayed, and the woman turned, thankful now that she had not let pregnancy soften her frame overmuch, as blood flowed hot and cold in her, the rabbit’s run for life now hers. The Wild Hunt was loose, and their prey was always human.

-being continued-
The boy waved a wooden sword at the minotaur he'd tried to 'slay'. "I wanna be a hero!"
Furred arms crossed loosely, the warrior's rumbling voice was mild. "What kind of hero?"
The boy scoffed. "There's only one kind!"
"Oh no," The minotaur replied. "There are a few. Ones that are heroes after they are dead, ones that are called such who do not deserve it, old heroes and young ones, new and tired. Willing and unwilling. Heroes to the masses, heroes to a few, heroes for the bards' songs."
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Postby Kaz » Fri Oct 31, 2003 7:21 pm

Common Heroes: All things dark and feral.

The race was terrible, and it was cruel. Lirin’s way was barred from the safety of home by the barking of the black hounds fanning out behind her, driving her this way when she sought to go that. Branches that had once caressed now grabbed and struck stinging welts, clawed at her tunic and skin, taking their toll in blood what she refused to yield in speed. Her long brown hair came loose from its tie, and streamed out behind her, snagging on this and that, tangling in autumn leaf of many colors and bare brown twig, only to wrench loose and carry it away with her. The Wild Hunt howled and shouted at her heels, and Lirin’s run stretched on, a mother’s determination and fear mingling with the need to protect her child, so newly come to the world, urging her to speeds she never would have believed she could achieve. The huntsman blew his horn in joyous call behind her, closer, then farther, and closer now. Was the spirit hunt toying with her, or had she really a chance of outrunning them? It would seem impossible, but they’d not caught her up just yet. So she ran, and ran, pushing herself beyond all boundaries, racing through the darkened wood, across meadow and through briar, head lowered and arms clasped tight to protect her face and her son from thorns.

Breath sobbed in her throat only from exhaustion, desperation. How long had she run? Her legs felt as if they would give at any moment, muscles burning beyond anything she’d felt before. Gods, she wanted to see Samarkanael. Wanted to bury her face in his glorious black hair, breathe in his scent of secret forest places, and feel him wrap those strong, slender arms about her, protect her and cradle their son. Samar! He won’t even know what happened! It chokes her, eyes blurring with moisture. She was going to fall, and her son would die, her husband grieve and search. Would anything be left of them for him to find? Would he be able to read the signs of this chase? Her son had been crying on and off… she couldn’t blame him, and really, did it matter? The baying hounds never seemed to lose her trail, no matter how many waterways she sought to confuse them, how many obstacles she ran through. When there were open spaces, a thicket, or a clearing, she would cast a look back, and see the Hunt. See the dogs, the horses, the hunters. They played with her. They must. She was too tired and burned out. The last flush of panic lent a new spurt of strength, but it wouldn’t last long.

Lirin cried out as she collided with a large, furred form, which yelped as both tumbled to the ground. The woman snatched at her son, fumbling to make sure he was all right. His wails had renewed, but otherwise, he seemed unhurt. Lirin hunched over him, expecting to feel claws and teeth at any moment. The scent of unwashed canine had been heavy when she’d run into the form. The Hunt had caught up to her.

Or had it? No, not yet. A whimper, decidedly -unferocious- makes the gasping woman look again. It wasn’t a hunting hound. Sprawled out on the ground, dazed by the impact, was a bipedal canid, dingy tan pelt spotted with black, lanky and scrawny and black on the limbs, and on the muzzle. Looking like nothing so much as a hyena, the gnoll was kin to orcs, a goblinoid that she knew as being generally dimwitted, theiving, and in packs, dangerous. Her husband hated them. He’d been picking off the members of a pack that had tried to move into their section of the woods, and had started to plague travelers, farmers, and anyone else who tried to make a living from the forest. She had seen some of those beasts, seen the damage they could do. The hounds, or this gnoll. Did it matter whose teeth ended her life? She struggled, but knocked down, momentum spent, she couldn’t manage to get to her feet again. She floundered, and cursed at the gnoll, who was sitting up and cringing.

-continued later-
The boy waved a wooden sword at the minotaur he'd tried to 'slay'. "I wanna be a hero!"
Furred arms crossed loosely, the warrior's rumbling voice was mild. "What kind of hero?"
The boy scoffed. "There's only one kind!"
"Oh no," The minotaur replied. "There are a few. Ones that are heroes after they are dead, ones that are called such who do not deserve it, old heroes and young ones, new and tired. Willing and unwilling. Heroes to the masses, heroes to a few, heroes for the bards' songs."
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Postby Heldenbrand » Sat Nov 01, 2003 5:53 pm

Common Heroes: The Last Goodbye

To the Guard it was a rape and triple murder -- a case in which the villians had no faces and a witness barely clinging to the threads of life. No one would be found, no one to suffer the penance of such an act. To David Throne it was his life, gone in hours of tormented suffering. As his lungs gasped through their own blood, eyes faded to blackness and the searing realization of his own demise crept across his mind as a slow dagger, rending across the layers of his consciousness and tearing apart all that was once him. When memories are so clear, as a shattered mirror, reflective shards to show what might have been. Tormenting him with the possibility that it could have all been stopped. And then she screamed, as she had done so many times throughout that time, his wife, her final gurgling moments crying out his name and then faded.

Blackness receeded, sweat curling over every apportionment of his flesh and burning at his eyes. Heaving chest, breath that would not come and a heartbeat that would not slow. A nightmare that come for him every night, so much so that no longer would sleep come of his own volition, rather to succumb to sheer exhaustion before he be tortured again. Trembling fingers reached for a discarded jerkin, pulled near and over his head. Still those fingers felt, grazed along the cleaving path of a scar, the jagged wound of a blade, torn across his chest. By not ensuring his death, those brigands had left him one final pain... that he had not joined them. His wife and two sons.

Once, long ago, he would have been considered a handsome man, comely by many standards as perhaps had first drawn his to-be wife's eye. And now, delapidated, disheveled with gaunt cheeks. Faded color from his skin, eyes sunken into the skull and staring blankly outwards, hair shocked with stressed gray, its color barely discernible between brown and blonde, a dirty hue, rarely washed. Coin lost within drink, exhausted as his body refused the soothing inebriation and the alleviation from his chronic pains. Years past, but still it had hurt, still it lingered as a splinter shard lodged in his brain, flashing images of her at every street and every window.

And then those images of placid love would receed, only to that shocking vision of her suffering and then death, then... them. Those men without face, or perhaps his heart could merely not bare to recall them. How they'd taken away everything from him, to satisfy their own carnal and drunken lusts. Killed without reason those children, for shedding their tears and crying when harsh words did not cease. He had been forced to watch, his eyes open to find respite upon his wife -- subjected to those brutish men, their lusts exerted until they'd found no more. And then she too joined their children. How he'd survived after they'd cut him so, he cannot remember, perhaps a passing neighbor, to stitch together his flesh, then call the Guard, but how he wish he had not...

Weary limbs pushed to the side, lifting him free of the bed and stepping towards the shadowed door not so far away. Shutters closed, the afternoon sun could not breach past, exploding unto his eyes then as he would step out into the world. Crunching dirt beneath his feet, wandering through a short distance of clearing and then to stumble upon Myrken Town. Since that day, he'd sold the land, enough coin to haze away his days in alcoholic stupor. No longer the sun seemed to shine upon his shoulders, blanketed by clouds of gray, callous hands stuffed within his pockets and chin drooped. Through the town he meandered, mothers pulling away their children as this bum seemed to come to life and walk through the region. His destination was a habitual one, wearied steps that stumbled him forth to the tavern, eyes half-lidded in their sleep kept reverie. Balled fists rose up to rub against them with vicious pressure, before gauffing laughter stopped him short.

Perhaps it was all but a dream, a requeim of that event so long ago, or a lingering refraction of what still lingered. Swaying torso, lithe and sickly, pressed to the wall and eyes peering through dirtied stain glass. Dim within, illuminated only by the stagnant sunlight, shadowed forms moved here and there. All fell silent, as if the world evaporated away save for that peripherial vision. To the forefront it remained, swelling with tears. They'd come back. Four men, swaying about in drunken reverie, ugly as those years ago. Knees buckled and his body dropped, fallen to the earth with a mixture of fear and untempered rage. What could he do? If recognized by them, he would be shortly joining them. No! Not now, it was his chance.. revenge. David turned, scrabbling up from the cobble-stone side-walk, scampering towards the tannery. Joseph, one of his few remaining friends worked there, he'd mentioned someone to handle such matters.

For how could he trust the Guard? The recent escapes of all those destined for the gallows did little to appease many's sense of justice. Strength that had been so long denied him flooded back in explosive force, slamming against the oaken portal and shoving his way onwards within. "Joe! Joe! T-t-hey're.. h..ere!" Between gasped breaths did his voice croak forth, threatening of those tears that simmered at his lids, even despite limbs that quivered in a wish to merely choke them free of life. Customers and workers alike startled by the outburst, canting their chins towards the gaunt figure, seeming long destined for a mental institute. And yet the words destined reached their intended, a slender looking man, slight with a gut for ale sauntered free of the backroom, squinting eyes leveled atop David.

"W'ot's 'zah both'er now?" As bloodied fingertips were wiped against his apron, fresh from skinning some dead beast no doubt. As men and women went back about their business, David nearly collapsed unto the floor once again. How he struggled for some way to pry past the thousands of thoughts, memories and demands that filtered through his mind, screaming for one singular point. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, a moment of singular clarity, stark in comparison to the menagerie of others that always flowed through.

"The men.. that killed Elisabeth and m'boys... they're at the tavern!" Hissing voice, that others would not hear, so that they would not report such to the Guard. No, even as the tanners' eyes widened to a further degree.

"W'ot?! Ar' ye' sure?! ...c'mon lets go git 'zah Goord." Even as the man began to rise, fingers latched about his forearm tugging him back down to the crouched position aside the door as David had taken. Such fury that emblazened within his eyes, intemperate, unremitting -- simmering to no end.

"No! That man.. the one who can.. take care of things. I don't want the Guard to bungle this up and let them go free." For which they'd likely then flee to other lands, knowing the heat was on. David was pleading, praying to break through to common reason with the man, even if his idea was so very insane. Fingers which had seemed to pierce through sinew and bone, given no relaxation upon Joe's arm, not until he would agree. "What was his name?" Pleading, needful within those eyes.

Joe paused, waited a moment. Many had heard of them, it was becoming hard not to... but how he wished it was not an option. Still... "...Heldenbrand."
"Nice guys are fine, gotta have someone to take advantage of." --Porter, Payback
Heldenbrand
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Joined: Sat Aug 23, 2003 12:16 pm
Location: Halls of Valhalla

Postby Heldenbrand » Sun Nov 02, 2003 5:32 am

Common Heroes: The Last Goodbye

Heldenbrand, the name itself drew up some imagery and mixture of trepidition. By all accounts the man was very much so human, surmouting certain tasks that had left even mythical creatures inept. It was not by skill alone that he was mentioned, staunchly supportive of humankind and actual justice rather than what law prescribed. David remained uneasy however, crossing the blurry line of what was right and wrong, sometimes hard to measure, but his nod towards Joe left little in the way of amibiguity. Slowly the tanner rose back up to his feet, David doing much the same. "Ah'll set up a meetin' at yer pla'ce."

"Thanks..." Nearly whispered beneath his breath, a much needed vengence at last nearing hand -- exhausting heart and mind. More than all those nights of sleeplessness and nightmare wakes, he felt so shorn of life. A candle at last spent of its wick. Pushing himself away from Joe, who consequently moved back to his duties, he shuffled off towards home. The path felt longer, meandering through lifeless trees and foliage, not captured with any drunken stupor this night, his mind free to wander. And even as it churned over thoughts of her, it could not help but scream its glee. Soon it'd all be over. But when he collapsed unto that bed, there were still nightmares...

A knock at the door, shattering him from the turmoltuous dreams that furrowed his brow eternal. Mornings' rays crept beneath the door frame, shadowed by a silhouette, tentative steps brought David near it. Perhaps those brigands come to finish the job? Let them. As the door was unlatched and open, he was greeted by a far different sight. Lone man, one that he could match to no legend or myth, tall and lean, the articulate muscle curved beneath its flesh and the weight of a cow-hide coat skirted about his ankles. Gray scorched hair, much as his own, blue eyes alit in some chilly flame staring listlessly outwards. By all these, he could slip within a crowd of outdoorsman, even the massive knife clung to his thigh, leather encoasement. Shiver wrought through the man's spine as pupils touched upon it. Memory. "Heldenbrand?" And there but a nod at first.

"Before we begin, this meeting never occurred, you never heard of me. If I hear differently from any Guardsman, I'll come for you." How harsh those words, guttural articulation as if but a wolven beast donning man's skin. Sandpaper tongue that lashed free words that were not so much intoned as a threat, but rather the simple business of murder. David, drawn unto a reverie of such imagination was broken by slitted pupils, boring through his skull to percieve what thoughts of avenging creeped through his conciousness, nodding merely his assertion to this. Slowly he pushed aside, stepping and gesturing the lean soldier inwards to make himself at home.

"Now, what is this matter that needs to be 'settled'?" Six-feet under, the drunkard former-farmer thought, both stepping towards a center table, cluttered with empty bottles and unclean plates. Adhering to matters of etiquette he sat first, then gestured outwards for Heldenbrand to take seat as well. So it was done, hands meshing atop it, fingers woven together and forearms rested to triangular angles. Quick to the point, without the general innuendos that would be lingering about, skirting the issue. There was nothing amazing about this one, thought David, perhaps that was an advantage more than not, to be underestimated and unknown.

"Four men... rapists.. murderers. They took and killed my wife.. and my kids.." So quickly his lips began to tremble, a pertinent hurt, exposed to another as it had not been done in years. Still, there was a measure of will then to be exposed, as he steeled his jaw and raised chin. He would not show such weakness unto this one. "They musta just gotten back from more pillaging.. they were at the tavern yesterday." What he wanted seemed simplisticly obvious, there were few that just wanted the soldier to 'talk' to someone. There was a general pause about Heldenbrand, who remained steadfastly stoic, intent upon the matters at hand. Stories that he no doubt heard of similiar tragedy, enough to break any man from his belief in their species. A blink, a loss of that immortality he possessed, lingered away to a realization of that pain. He took no visible notes, David discerned, likely to memorize every detail.

"Any trophies you wish?" While the concept would have made many men blanche, David understood why some may be driven to such macabre ends. Where satisfaction beheld at an ear, an eye, or a hand of those that'd taken everything. But then, that was what he was hiring this man to do. To take away everything they had, and everything they could ever do. But what could they do but further evils? He did not stop to think of redemption. Only the three graves he watched be dug, when he was too weak to do it himself. However, humane he still was, shaking his chin slightly in the negative. "Fifty shillings per head. Two hundred total." That was surprisingly cheap, the farmer noted, far less expensive than Joe had usually noted. Was it an alteration? Perhaps some sympathy for the cause while maintaining a business like auroa? He didn't question.

Coin splayed upon the table top after a moment, a bag full of shillings after mulling through his desk. Heldenbrand glanced at it, then gripped up the pouch, without bother to count. This business based around trust, if ever violated the reprecussions would likely be severe. "I'll leave a note at your door when it has been settled." And with that, the soldier rose and left. Leaving David alone, to contemplate what he'd just done. Though the blade would not be in his hands, four would die, four would die for the three. They could not die enough times to make up for what they had done! Still...

"...god forgive me..."
"Nice guys are fine, gotta have someone to take advantage of." --Porter, Payback
Heldenbrand
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Posts: 21
Joined: Sat Aug 23, 2003 12:16 pm
Location: Halls of Valhalla

Postby Heldenbrand » Sun Nov 02, 2003 6:10 am

Common Heroes: The Last Goodbye

Sleep did not come easily that night, the day spent at home mulling over what had been done. The sentence he'd imposed upon others for their crimes. How could have justice been served, when so easily they might escape the gallows? And even when that blessed darkness overcame him, it was left in fear, stirring through an unknown future, assaulted by those shards, those visions of what could have been. Memories of Elisabeth, of her smiling face, of her face lined in blood, lips manipulated to scream his name, locked within such a death mask. His children, stirring in play, then lain in a pool of their own essence upon the floorboards, clutching to one another.

Everything afire, pain and darkness. Hell? Was that his future now? It was his own shout that awoken him, risen up with a start to the ebony shroud of his room, heavy movements of his chest, rampantly shifting in the breath that would not come and a heartbeat that would not slow. Light streamed from the doorway once again, ungainly footsteps brought him to it, as if a child racing for the hearth at morning Winter's Solstice. Present he found as the oaken portal swung open, a single parchment, clung to the earthen floor. ~It's done. H.~ So simple, so gratifying. All at once did tears fall, all at once did his heart leap. Emotions that flung about with chaotic imposition, colliding into one another until no sense could be made.

Shoulders turned and sunk back against the doorframe, his chin drooped as paths wove across his cheeks and a smile tugged at his mouth. How bright the sun felt then, a warmth returned from the heavens that'd lingered so cold. His feet nearly skipped against the soil as he made his way towards the town. Though his vengence had not brought them back, secure in the knowledge then that they could rest easy. Their deaths not without meaning, now those men would no longer plague the earth. They would no longer do harm unto others.

The town was abustle with news of the deaths, four men found dead, slaughtered in their sleep, throats slit to bleed upon the beds. Stripped of their belongings those Guard sent to investigate could only assert that thieves had found thieves. There was no evidence to the contrary. Joe found him first, as David stood before the tavern that was the sight now of so many standing about, murmuring in silent speculation. Fingers curled about his arm, causing the redeemed farmer's eyes to turn and face the tanner then, grateful smile worked across emotion stormed features. "It's over Joe.. f..finally over.."

What could the tanner say? In some respects he did not think the farmer would have done it. But he had, there was no changing the past. Could murder be justified, even if done to those that truly would have deserved it? Who could say in their moral degrees? Judgement was reserved for the life after, they would all be weighed by that of their deeds, if it could be forgiven.. it would be. No more, no less. Hand rested against his arm for only a moment more, before he drew away and stalked back towards his work. David remained for a time after.

It was later that evening, with the moon lining the heavens that the farmer returned after weeks of absence to the graveyard. Overgrown tombstones, three in a row, a fourth would lay beside them eventually, but not yet. Come to knee before it, his fingers brushed away at the foliage. Fingertips, scarred and callous, sifting through the wreckage of his life. Did they know of what had been done? It didn't matter... not now.. not anymore. "I miss you..." Nothing else came to mind, so long it'd been since he'd spoken to them so. Leaning forward, pursed lips touched to cold stone, three times, before standing slowly.. to walk away. To carry on.

Is heroism to kill? To avenge? The true stuggle in life is to move on, to continue despite what tries to break you. Heroes in life, need only to survive.
"Nice guys are fine, gotta have someone to take advantage of." --Porter, Payback
Heldenbrand
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Joined: Sat Aug 23, 2003 12:16 pm
Location: Halls of Valhalla


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