No Faith Without Answers

No Faith Without Answers

Postby Serrus » Sat Aug 29, 2015 3:35 am

The old rock, timeless and ancient, was unaware of its occupant sitting upon the mouldy old stone, and it was of course oblivious to the sting the man sitting upon it felt as the wide steel tip cut through skin and gouged flesh. He felt the hot burn that came just after the ice of the steel, felt the trickle of blood that dripped over his eye and nose. The reflection of the stream was murky, but it was enough at least for him to see the blade and where it cut.

But it made no difference to the wound, for despite the throbbing and the mark, there was no pus, no festering to clear, simply the laceration and the blood that came from it, a cut that had seemed unchanged after so much time. He saw the reflection shimmer, saw the face in the reflection change morphing into something else. His senses reeled as the world spun, and from his ears droned the loud thrum as a blood moon shifted across the sky like a flaming torch. Incessant voices rang, voices of blessings and curses, of forgotten times and long dead wolves. It was a sea of noise, a plethora of visions upon visions, each as nonsensical as the other, culminating into the thrum that resonated through each ear until each of his senses were dulled to the sound of it.

The anger seethed through him in a great torrent, a toxic mix of ire and frustration that had culminated in sleepless nights and tiresome days, and it boiled then as he swore and through the dirk aside, the blade burying into the soil near to the hilt. A hand wiped away the crimson stains that stung and burned the eyes, while he spat the taste of iron from his lips. He would find no answers here, by the water, in the trees, Only voices, voices that gave no answers, that made him angry, made him fearful.

Forget her, she’s nothing to you now. Never was.

Elliot forgot she even existed.

And how am I to remember you , if you do not even remember yourself?

Say no more of burning trees and cruel masters.

Tell me about your Grange. Were fortunes and pots to piss in worth leaving for?


The nicker of a horse took his attentions away, and the blue roan stood aside of him, ears flicking upwards, curious, then back again, the smell of blood from its master agitating its whipping tail and shifting hooves. He looked to it for a time, watched it stare back, as if the great pools of black had all the answers he needed.

Tell me about your Grange.

He kicked a foot into the earth, still moist from the previous rains, and he leaned forward to retrieve his dirk, wiping it clean upon his trousers before sheathing it, eyes turning back to his stallion. Stone, she had named it. It was still taking time to get used to.

‘T’fuck does it all mean?” he asked the horse.

The horse could not answer, it’s ears pricking upwards to his voice, before it turned away, oblivious to his dilemma. He turned to face the water again, watched the stream bubble over the rocks, timeless, uncaring as the horse.

“Answers. Nary enough of t'speak of.”

It was dusk when the blue roan slipped out of the glen in a steady gait, where he came to the marked tree he’d been shown. Nobody knew where she lived, not the soldiers, not the militia, nor the tradesmen, the bakers, the smiths. Her name brought caution, disdain, hushed whispers. A cave, a hovel, a hole in the ground, nobody truly knew, even his rage and threats and fists had only resulted in pleas for mercy, for answers they though he wanted to hear, broken men in broken alleys of broken spirits, with nothing to offer but pleas and begging and cries of fear. Until one had given him the answers he sought, afraid, young, unknowing.

***


“A tree. She.. There’s a tree,” the youth stammered, looking for help in a dark corner that never came, shivering, afraid for his life.

"What bloody tree?! Speak sense, boy, or I'll shit on your castrated fuckin' bollocks."

"Notes, messages, by the south river, at the fork north of town... they say some leave notes, requests. Potions, spells.. dark magic.. she takes them, finds them.... that's all I know, that's all I know!"

"No messengers? Where'n t'bloody 'ells does she live, boy? Don't fuckin' like t'me...."

"I don't know! No one does, no one.. no one cares! She-- she's dark, they say she practices dark magic, an' blood rituals, an' sacrifices--"

"Young whelps, an' cuts t 'eads off of young babies, an' what any other bull's shite they say 'bout witches, aye, I've 'eard." He pressed the dirk against the cold line of his neck until youth began to shiver. "Y'know where this tree is, aye? Where she takes yon messages?"

The youth nodded, his rasps thin against the press of cold steel.

"Show me."

***


The dusk was a pale orange, and he watched it set behind the trees, long shadows reaching across the path like tendrils, his rouncey's coat a silver sheen, hooves shifting as the man moved upon his saddle. Soon the dusk would be twilight, and the moon would be out with all its brilliance, and he would look upon it's pale cast of blue and scowl. But the sellsword could wait, would wait until the next dawn if it meant finding a sliver of truth within all this madness. A connection between bitter words, between hidden whispers and a name that made them look away, made them look distant, dismissive. A name that seemed to mean something, about a time forgot, about someone changed.

Sometimes, a man choses t'forget, simply as he don't want t' remember.

Perhaps the witch would know.
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Re: No Faith Without Answers

Postby Jirai » Sat Aug 29, 2015 4:30 am

There was a tree.

In truth, she had little use for the thing. It had come into being sometime after the Red and Gold summer, when the town's opinion had swung even more strongly against magic. Against a young woman who had not stayed as dead as they thought her. Understandable. Perfectly understandable.

She did not much care for the tree, but the notes and pleas left there were, on occasion, interesting. Most were worthless, but some held useful bits of information. And sometimes, very rarely, she might even act on one - though not, usually, as the author had intended.

The moon was high when she found herself near the tree, watching the man and the horse waiting there. Sometimes people tried that, waiting for her here. Inevitably, she saw them and left before they became aware that she had even been there. But this one she knew. More, at least, than she knew most. After several moments thought, she stepped into view.

"I assume you're here to find me."
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Re: No Faith Without Answers

Postby Serrus » Sat Aug 29, 2015 12:14 pm

The moon was shining a blue and grey cast upon the earth, frogs and crickets making their chirps, while distance nightbirds sung their lonely song. The goatskin was long dry by now, the spiced wine well gone through his belly and left where he'd pissed it upon a distant tree. Such was the passing of time where he was, hours going by, to the point where she had come across the long-dead oak, he was standing aside the rouncey, arms folded, watching the moon reflect off the distant water.

The stallion could smell and hear her long before the sellsword would ever be alerted to her presence, head turning abruptly with ears swivelling to and fro while nostrils flared and a cough of a wary nicker, black tail sweeping through the moist air. He followed the horse's gaze, hand tightening on the long leather pommel of the curved sliver of steel beside him, loosening when Niall stepped out into the moonlight.

A pause to her words, and Belcaw spoke none of his usual quips or rapier-sharp rejoinders, merely nodding once. "Aye."

Steps were taken to close the distance, two strangers on the road who knew about as much about each other as their appearance dictated. The tattoos, at least the ones he could see, were observed briefly. She was truly younger than him, but the markings and runes appeared timeless, carrying a meaning of something... something he could perhaps never understand.

"I need answers. T' truth, an' not bandied 'bout words or riddles like some mummer. Answers about that squire boy, an' 'bout that Olwak woman. T' mind witch." A statement upon itself, he rolled his shoulders, no easy feat in chainmail and brigandine, while he looked towards town. "Wynsee 'll tell me nowt t' save that stupid pride of 'ers. An' Nova's 'bout as resilient as a wet bloody reed in a winter storm."

Dark eyes returned to regard Niall, the man's expression as unreadable as his horse.

"So I guess that leaves you."
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Re: No Faith Without Answers

Postby Jirai » Sun Aug 30, 2015 2:46 am

She was younger. Twenty, perhaps, give or take a couple years either way. Niall seemed older, though, and only part of that was due to the tattoos. She watched as he approached, arms loosely folded over her chest. Here, at this tree, everyone needed something from her. Potions, spells, something to make their lives easier, something to make their enemies' lives harder.

Serrus came with questions, and what questions they were. Name after name, each sending a dull ache through the scar on her palm.

"That is not a quick story to tell." Nor a swift one either. "I did not know that you know Nova."

She was silent for a long moment, thinking. Considering him. Then she shifted her shoulders in something of a resigned shrug.

"I don't suppose you brought any scotch with you."
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Re: No Faith Without Answers

Postby Serrus » Sun Aug 30, 2015 3:15 am

Their acquaintance was one by profession and employment rather than anything particularly of any sort of friendship, or any sort of camaraderie for that matter, at least that's how the sellsword saw things. There was still no denying that a part of him did not fear the woman, rather what she was capable of. If it took one woods witch to steal away his own summer, what could a rune witch do? But she was here, as was he, and they had some connection, even if that connection was a shiny small insignia of the Lady Warden pinned somewhere to their fabrics. That at least had to stand for something.

"Nova? Aye. She's a gentle sort. Like a dove, more like."

She asked of scotch, the one language he could understand in this province of madness and devilry, but all he had was his wine bladder, and that was long since drained. He looked to the empty goatskin hanging by the horse's tack, shaking his head to her question. "Might be a know a place in them Hollows. Cheap swill, but t'bourbon's not too shite." He rolls a lazy shrug. "Less you 'ave another place in mind t'let on. Sittin' 'ere dry with frogs an mosquitoes in't summat I'd be keen on."

He reached up, pulling straps to loosen the tack and shift the saddle and stirrup lower down by the stallion's side as rouncey shifted its hooves. "Be far quicker if we rode," he suggests, letting her decide. Given his posture, she'd be safe to assume he didn't mind either mode of transportation.
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Re: No Faith Without Answers

Postby Jirai » Sun Aug 30, 2015 6:47 am

It was a thin and tenuous connection between the two, to be sure, but it was more than Niall shared with many these days, and the reason for that was in the truths the man had already requested.

"Gentle, yes. She is that."

Niall considered a moment longer, then made an odd, dismissive gesture with one hand.

"The place you know is fine," She frequented some of the darker places from time to time, the sorts of places where one could buy almost anything (if you'd the coin), and not many questions were asked.

"But I think I shall walk." Not that she couldn't ride. She had a horse, even, or did once, and she'd pursued acquisition of those skills as intently as Niall did anything. She didn't have a horse here though, and riding with Serrus would put them too close for either of their comforts.
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Re: No Faith Without Answers

Postby Serrus » Mon Aug 31, 2015 3:46 am

He considered her talk of walking, of the long walk back to town, where eyes might pry, and lips might loose. It was one thing to be associated with someone by reputation, another to be seen with another in some ale dive in a place normally reserved for men looking for whores, where there wold be distractions, where he wouldn't allow his mind to to clear, less clouded by the anger, by voices of others.

"I know another place, s'not too far."

He saddled quickly, leading the stallion along the path through the thicket, south along the stream in a steady pace that would not provide Niall with too much difficulty in keeping up. Through trees he led to traverse silently, his glance staying ahead, his voice silent, the only sound being the occasional nicker or snort of the horse, the chiming of the bit and the creaking of leather, hooves making their soft swish and clump with each slow walk downwards. The moon had shifted in the sky, a fair walk, but not near as far as if they'd walked back towards town. The forest was the dwelling of monsters, but not cutthroats and footpads looking to slit throats and steel purses.

A group of trees passed them by, the phased moon a bright cast of grey and blue, where the forest path lies behind them, winding its way back towards the southern road. So deeply embedded in brambles was the abandoned thatched dwelling that it was almost hard to recognise at first, with small trees and grasses growing through many holes the roof, where one half of what was once a small cottage had completely grown into a mess of grass and leaves. There was no door, long since gone, only an area of shelter at the back that could just be made out in the moonlight.

He brought the blue roan to a halt, its ears flicking, new scents wafting over its flaring nostrils.

"After Wynsee's boy had at me that night, an' that woods witch said 'er words, I don't remember much else. But I remember comin' t' this 'ere den. When I woke up, it wer't winter or spring no more." He swung off the saddle with a grunt, looking towards the ramshackle mess. "I come 'ere a few times while dawn. Some o' time at night, looking m'self for answers, owt that'd tell me what 'appened. Don't seem t' help much."

He turned, loosening the the strapping and bit from rouncey, the stallion shaking the black mane in releif, as it tuned to the forest for a time, watching as the sellsword made his way through the mess, kicking his way past a thick set of bushes to find his way in to what was once probably a kitchen of some sort.

"Make y'self at 'ome," he remarked in a voice that sounded anything but sincere. He looked over a shelf that stank of moss and mildew, finding a large bottle not near as old or dirty as the others beside it; a testament to his previous statement that the man had been here before.

"There's a lantern somewhere's by that table. Be a good girl an make y'self useful, eh? Or you could waggle them fingers an' light us a fire, as like."
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Re: No Faith Without Answers

Postby Jirai » Mon Aug 31, 2015 3:19 pm

Another place. That was fine. She did not much care, really. The woman had no trouble keeping up with the sell-sword and his mount and followed them silently until they reached the place he had intended. As he dismounted and explained how he knew of this place, she turned in a slow circle, observing her surroundings silently.

She joined him in the shack after a moment, each movement restrained and precise. Still silent, she tipped her scarred head slightly at his direction and sorted through the mess to find the mentioned lantern; the light flared up while her back was to him, and when she turned back around, light in her hand, she was pleased to see that he had at least found a bottle.

"Elliot and Rhaena, then." She said quietly. "Because Gloria will not tell you, and because it is a story that causes Nova pain." Niall was not Nova. The two of them shared exactly one thing in common - and that, perhaps, was a part of this story as well.
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Re: No Faith Without Answers

Postby Serrus » Mon Aug 31, 2015 11:53 pm

There were chairs, at least, or what could be accounted for chairs: old worn stumps and pieced of wood, rotting and moist in some parts, filled with the smell of moss and rotting wood that wrinkled the nose, but it was tolerable enough. Holes in the roof opened up to let in streaks of moonlight, the dwelling not weatherproof in the slightest, but a far better shelter than the open outdoors.

There's the telltale popping of a cork and the scraping of glass along old wood as the bottle was passed across. "Sweet hipocras from Collingford, like. It's not your scotch, but everything's easier with some wine in the belly, eh?" He would let her take her fill, finding a comfortable position by the lantern light in the ramshackle shelter.

"I met 'im once. That squire boy. Di'nt think much've him at t' time. Right upstart he was, bold as brass like he owned t' place. Don't think he much took a fancy to me, neither." His attentions turn back to Niall, a steady gaze. "Pain, ye said. What, she love 'im, then?"
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Re: No Faith Without Answers

Postby Jirai » Tue Sep 01, 2015 2:13 am

She settled herself down on a stump, the quality of the hovel not an issue in the slightest. Niall had spent time in far worse places, after all. A tip of the bottle into her glass, a good sip of the hippocras, and that was a much better way to have this conversation.

"That, you'd have to ask her." Nova and Niall did not discuss such things. Really, they didn't discuss much, but certainly not that.

"But she cares about him and he cares about her." Shoulders rose and fell in a shrug and she took another sip of the wine, her voice hardening.

"Rhaena did not much like him either. The why of it doesn't matter now, I suppose. You were here for some of it. You know how she... changed people. Made them do things they wouldn't have normally done. For the most part, what she did seemed to end when she did. Elliot was different."
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Re: No Faith Without Answers

Postby Serrus » Wed Sep 02, 2015 11:54 pm

"I wert 'ere for none of it," Serrus was quick to correct. pouring himself a tall drink of his own in cups that barely resembled glasses. "That Olwak woman, an' this whole... 'Long Summer' nonsense." He wavered his own cup towards the windows. "I never stayed in Myrken long, back then. Still don't, really. See, t' devilry done by that Olwak woman? How she changed folks minds? All I know is what people tell, an' what people tell me is shite. Most people don't want t' talk 'bout it, an' I suppose I c'n understand why."

What she did seemed to end when she did.

"Aye. I heard some folks killed 'er. Or someone did. Too little, too late, I s'pose.". He shifted back in the chair, turning to her askance. "So tell us 'bout this squire boy, then. How was he different, an' how'd you get y'self involved? Tryin' t'knock off some local competition, then?"
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Re: No Faith Without Answers

Postby Jirai » Thu Sep 03, 2015 6:53 am

"Mmm. Better to not have been here, then." Niall accepted the correction with a shrug, taking another sip of the drink. She did not look at the sellsword. Mostly, she stared at the bottle.

"Someone killed her. No one knows who. It seems as though everyone in town lost their memory of the hour or two prior to her death. I suppose Burnie might know, if anyone, but I doubt he'd say if he did." Niall was of the opinion that the former Governor should have ended the same way his woman did.

"When she died, people came back to themselves. She'd changed them a little. Made them do things they wouldn't have done, normally. A little here, a little there. Elliot, though..." Another drink was necessary here. All the cold anger that had been in her voice when she spoke of the Mindwitch was gone, replaced by absolutely nothing. Completely emotionless. It was necessary.

"She did not change Elliot. She... removed him. Entirely. And replaced him with someone else. And when she died, the new Elliot remained." Dark eyes lifted to Serrus, finally.

"I? The moment she involved Elliot, she involved me. Elliot is mine."
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Re: No Faith Without Answers

Postby Serrus » Wed Sep 09, 2015 2:54 am

Her words carried along with each draw of the hippocras. He longed for ale, and he supposed she longed for spirits, but the spiced wine would have to do for now.

The witch spoke of a few things, namely the changing of people. Of souls and minds being reunited with the self, only to find part of that self was gone. A man might lose a hand, an arm, a whole limb, but to lose part of your mind, to be forced to become other things, to do things that others did not want to do. And then of the squire boy, something greater foretold, of a mind destroyed and replaced with not only someone, but something else. She might have tried to steel herself, to remain impassive, but the subtleties are noticed, if only on the cusp of her intones shifting when words speak of the squire boy. Of Elliot.

And when she died, the new Elliot remained.

Sometimes, a man chooses t' forget, simply as he don't want t' remember.

Elliot is mine.


"Yours," reiterated the sellsword, voice firm. "What then? Thi brother? Thi lover?" He gave a waver of his hand, drinking more. "It's nary my concern nor business, anyroad. But I need to know an' understand. Might be t' same thing happened to missen. Mind workings, as like. Might be that woods witch did it, might be t'was another, I can't be certain. I just need to understand, is all."
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Re: No Faith Without Answers

Postby Jirai » Sat Sep 12, 2015 2:30 pm

The wine was, at least, better than nothing. Scotch would have been better, of course... or perhaps it would have been worse. Since there is no scotch to be had, though, the question is moot. Spiced wine it is, and she drank again.

"Mine." The sorceress reiterated, fingers flicking impatiently at his questions. It was not something she would need to clarify in her own tongue, and rephrasing it in this language would not be quite right. So she offered no further clarification.

"Magic of the mind is not something I know. I have seen this witch you speak of once... twice." Niall would learn more of her, certainly, for Niall's own reasons.

"Do you dream, Serrus Belclaw?"
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Re: No Faith Without Answers

Postby Serrus » Sat Sep 12, 2015 10:54 pm

He didn't press her on her position with Elliot, since he stood by his conviction that aspect didn't matter, and it wasn't his concern. There had been a statement of magic of the mind, of how his questions interconnected with his own search for answers, how the woods witch had spoken her words and taken away his own memories of summer, to do what? He could recall nothing of the time elapsed, of what had gone by, where he had been, or what he had done.

He didn't feel any different for the way things were, simply confused. For what foul purposes would a mind witch use a skilled swordsman? Would he be used as a puppet on strings, as Niall suggested had happen to this squire boy? To think the woods witch might have used him for her own agenda, her and the moon-devil Catch... it plagued him, a cold thought ready to be ignited by his seething ire, before Niall's question derailed his chain of thought.

Do you dream, Serrus Belcaw?

It was an offhanded question, one to help ease troubled thoughts. And so the sellsword relaxed, boots shifting up to rest on the table opposite her side as he leant back in the chair in his usual slouch, shifting his head a little in thought.

"Same as most folk, I s'pose," he answered. "Quiet dreams, most times. Other times not s'much." He turned back to her, pensive. "Course, there's been talk from others 'bout a Golden City, or summat. Might 'elp if I knew what they were talkin' of, since I seen no such thing. Least far as I remember."
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