The Fiddler

The Last Stand of Elliot Brown

Postby Glenn » Sun Jun 02, 2013 12:54 pm

Waldemar said something about Elliot not understanding something or other. That wasn't too surprising. The old coot didn't think Elliot understood anything. Senility was obviously kicking in. There was some further disturbance from the cave. That was vaguely horrifying, though by this point one horror was just piled upon the next. It wasn't desensitizing, not really, but it didn't change anything. Elliot and Cat were going to get away. He had one eye on Jirai as he left the circle. If she chased after, he wasn't sure what he'd do, take to the trees with the kid and try to find cover for all the good it'd do them. They HAD to go, though. They just had to. Every ounce of his being screamed it so when she said that it was over for now, even if not in those exact words, he was relieved.

"Come on," softly but with a confidence he hadn't possessed a moment before. Cat was hoisted over a shoulder still and they were able to move at a fairly good pace for a while like that, the teenaged rogue's strength and stamina bolstered by months working with blacksmiths. After about two minutes, he'd let Cat, hopefully more clearheaded now, start to run beside him.

It was another minute still before there were signs of people approaching. Elliot had been turned around somewhat by everything but he still was fairly certain they weren't back to the carnival yet. Maybe Catch had convinced others to help. "Oi!" he shouted, fairly out of breath. "A monster was eating the kids in town. Old Man Waldemar and ..." and what? Suede and Jirai? They had been a tight little group for a few minutes there, but he couldn't just outright say that. "and me and a few others went to help them but it got nasty in there! The old bastard's protecting the remaining kids and i think the worst is over but he sent me... us back for help. They're hurt and..."

It wasn't a bad lie. In fact, it was the best sort, one full of lots and lots of truth, the sort that would almost always work. This was the almost, though, for coming through the tree line and surrounded by a gaggle of Constables were Glenn Burnie and Rhaena Olwak. "Elliot, Cat" this from the Governor with a fairly dangerous tone, the sort that would brook very little in the way of well... anything at all. The two young men, one either a few years or a thousand older than the other, had not seen each other for quite a while. They did not travel in the same sort of circles. The rogue started going to the Dagger more and more only after the once-mapmaker had left it for the needs and necessities of politics, after Underdark had left him forever changed. Years ago, however, they had once toiled a field together. It was not the sort of bond that lasted through all things, not after the way the youth acted around the Governor's Lady.

"I'm taking Cat back to town. Go on." This was all the thief would say and he started to move past them, just like that.

Glenn's sword was still drawn, and it seemed, for a moment, that he'd run the teenager through for expediency's sake. Any number of the Constables would have applauded such a decision. It seemed, for a moment, that he would have the fool and his little friend clapped in irons as the instrument of all of this had been and brought in for questioning, perhaps to never see the light of day again. There was, however, a little look to Rhaena, a curious thing, an almost suspicious thing, but then she had hastened him with the Storyteller just a few minutes before. Still, mercy? In the face of this? In the face of the lingering questions and uncertainty? After what the boy had done both to her and others? It would be a tussle. It would delay things. It would use up resources. "Elliot," he finally relented, not convinced, not mollified, a bit disquieted by his bethrothed's insistence but no longer willing to argue the point. "Go. Take," the slight of hesitation, "the child back to town. If you lied to us, you'll learn the consequence to your action, all of your actions, sooner than you think. We know, Elliot Brown, we always see and we always know."

The youths had been walking on past them in the midst of this tense little affair and while Elliot wanted to shout out what GOOD he did today, he wanted to get to safety with Cat even more. Adrenaline was wearing off and he knew how close the child had been to death, how close he, himself, might had been. "Come on," he whispered once again to his charge, taking three broad steps away from all of them, offering a lewd and defiant single fingered salute to the Governor and his Lady, and then running with Cat, once again, as if their lives depended on it.

Burnie and his entourage continued on the other way. There was, perhaps a light shake of his head at the begowned woman. "Too soft, this once. No matter, though. Come along. Let's see to our people." They moved forward steadily allowing the Constables forward towards the cave.
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Re: The Fiddler

Postby Suede » Sun Jun 02, 2013 1:08 pm

Not the fanfare he'd have hoped for as the savior of all these kids, but then the truly great never got any respect. It must be his fate to not be the hero Myrken wants, but the hero it needs. With a melodramatic sigh to break over even Elliot and Waldemar's verbal sparring he ran a hand through his muck-filled hair and flicked what he drew from the strands onto the dirt.

There was a patronizing look for the miller and then he'd be turning off towards the woods, vanishing before his first step hit the ground, and well before any of the Governor's posse was likely to have seen him there.
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Re: The Fiddler

Postby Waldemar » Sun Jun 02, 2013 1:57 pm

Compared to the ghastly chaos that had gone before, the scene that greets the Governor's party is practically tranquil; a cave mouth, the ground around it tracked by the dancing feet and darkened by splashes of dark crimson and, further in, more substantial remains. A couple of dozen yards away, a rowan tree in flower with a bedraggled little mob of children - pale-featured, wide-eyed, streaked with dirt and worse - holding hands in a ragged ring about the trunk.

To one side, sitting on the bole of a fallen tree, a gentleman of middle years, clad in black clothes of an austere cut. He apparently notes the approaching group at around the time that they sight him, and rises with the aid of a walking stick; a few steps towards the children, some quiet words and brief wave of his hand - perhaps reassuring them, perhaps explaining that help has arrived and all is now well - and he turns back towards what he presumes from the preponderance of grey tunics and brass badges to be the rescue party, absently straightening his coat as he waits for them to draw near enough to hail.

"Gentlemen, sera." A nod for the man he recognises as the Governor, a flick of dark eyes for that bared blade; a deeper bow of his head for the lady, a slightly lingering gaze for her features. Propriety observed, to an extent, but the man is clearly ready to be done with this whole business. His speech is terse, his tone clipped and for the most part level as he addresses the Governor.

"The creature is dead, I believe - you'll have to confirm for yourselves." His cane lifts briefly to indicate the cave mouth. "I regret that not all of the children could be saved." A pause, gaze turned aside for a moment before he can be sure of his composure.

"May I entrust those that remain to your care?"
Nothing so bold as a miller's shirt, that every morning collars a thief.
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Re: The Fiddler

Postby Rance » Sun Jun 02, 2013 3:18 pm

May I entrust those that remain to your care?

Cat broke his grip. The talons sprawled to the earth and dug, dug, down into the soil.

"You will d-...die in the world, boil in the stew of its s-...stomach!" He let out a peal of burgeoning laughter that forgot its pain almost entirely; pain was what made the memories spill out of him. He fought back against that agony with giggles, even a squeal, his mouth crushed against the wet leaves that previous years had left underneath the branches of the tree.

"Caeverlisk. D-...drop the vial and l-...leave behind the dead. I am the Wormgirl!"

Bloodied and bedraggled children. A circle of hands. Waldemar's song still hung off the leaves like droplets of dew. He lay among them, the volume in his voice fading, curled so tightly around himself that the bones of his spine were the teeth of a blunted saw.

"I am a s-...staple," he said, with the pride one might have while saying corn is our main crop. He heard a voice, the Rapierman, the governor. It was wind through the reeds, piercing and whistling and familiar--

"Do you dance," he bellowed out to the constables and their ilk, gowns and governors and gray. "D-...do you come for a dance? We t-...twirl and we twirl and t-...too roo lee!"

And that is all he would say from then on: that together, all as one, still alive and still dead, they all twirled--

and twirled and twirled and twirled and twirled and twirled and twirled...
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Re: The Fiddler

Postby Jirai » Mon Jun 03, 2013 1:30 am

For the Governor there was simply a smile from the gowned woman as he allowed Elliot and the dirty little child to leave. They had more important things to do at the moment, and so the small group continued towards the grisly scene. Once the group of children and their black-clad protector came into view, Rhaena went so far as to pick up her skirts to aid hurried steps as she rushed towards the children. Most of those were hers, after all, seen day after day at the school house or around town.

Phlynn, however, was not one of hers. As the lady's bronze eyes settled on the boy-thing, it was with a look of horror and disgust. That was... Well, she had no idea what that was, other than horrifically ugly. It was certainly not a child, and it was not hers. Rhaena kept her distance from that one.

She knelt amongst the rest of the children for a moment, a gentle touch for most, quiet, kind words. As for the cave and what was in it, she would leave that for the constables and the Governor to assess.

"Marek Waldemar." She knew his name. Of course she knew his name. "You have our deepest thanks for caring for the children. Myrken owes you a great debt." She straightened, the smallest child held in her arms, small hands twined about her shoulders, while others pressed nearer, grubby hands clinging to the gowned woman's skirts. "We will wish to speak to you of this, but later. You may leave them to us, with our thanks."

And so the constables would take over, the remnants in the cave to be dealt with, the surviving children to be shepherded home to loved ones, and the families of those who did not survive comforted.
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Re: The Fiddler

Postby Cherny » Mon Jun 03, 2013 10:08 am

At the edge of the woods, somewhere between cave and carnival, lies an open space marred by recent struggle; a patch of crushed grass and weeds, pressed flat by a great weight recently removed; pools and splashes of crimson grow dry stickily in the spring air, or soak into the thirsty earth; scattered here and there, strewn carelessly by the handful and fistful, ragged clots and clumps of blood-marbled fat sag slowly into the long grass.

At the edge of the woods, against the roots of a gnarled alder tree, crouches a small figure part-hidden among bracken and bramble; still and silent while the madman carved at the fat man, while the un-horse sported and soared with its steel rider, while the ruin of empires sang envy and rage, while the devourer of innocents shrieked her last.

Still and silent yet, as black-feathered watchers gather in the branches above and descend by ones and twos to the ground below; their voices are hoarse and raucous, alternately warning and gloating as they bicker over the juicy scraps, pecking and tearing bloody beakfuls to carry back to their hungry broods. Some cast a glance for the patch-coated shape nearby and duck their heads as if in thanks for this generous feast, and he nods slowly in return.

By the time the last of them departs the wood's edge is picked clean of remains, only trampled grass and scarlet smears left behind. The boy cannot tell how long he waits after the silence returns - staring, breathing - but eventually he shudders violently and, a moment after, climbs stiffly to his feet. He blinks slowly, dazed, as turns his head to one side and then the other; sways, and puts a foot forward to catch himself; after that it seems better to walk than to remain still, no thought paid to where those stumbling footsteps might take him.

Anywhere but here.
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