by Glenn » Tue Jul 09, 2013 3:15 pm
The First Life
Jonathan Plantar was a cruel man. Everyone knew it. He'd moved from Heath nine years ago ago with his wife and young daughter. He was a drunk even when things had been good which was how they stopped being good. A cooper by trade, he'd lost the full use of his left leg in an accident when he'd tried to ply his livelihood after having one too many ales. His work had demanded a strength he no longer possessed. Things had been bad when they had been good and they only got worse once they became bad. It became commonplace to hear the sounds of violence from his home. He still possessed strength enough for that.
Myrken was a community full of whispers and recrimination, but only the sort that did no one any good. People looked the other way, tsking in private about the put-upon, oft-battered wife and her poor, poor daughter. There is a shame that is debilitating to adults but that children, full of a sense of justice that the the world has yet to smash, are untouched by. It crippled little Lucy Plantar's mother, but could not pin down the ten-year old girl. She walked right past the whispers and the sighs. She walked to the front door of the Foundation. She walked to the front desk and she told the scribe there of her life. She made her wish.
Now, three months later, Jonathan Plantar sat by the hearth of the Stinky Sheep. He smiled, missing his family but knowing he could get his work done better here. He was too overcome by joy in their presence to focus on even a job he loved, not that he'd ever complain about that. Life had gotten so much better since he stopped drinking, since he started coming here each and every night to work hard so he would have more time with his wife and daughter, so that they could have more of what they deserved. His new job was to sew buttons on the finest of fabrics; knowing that he was making Myrken a better, more beautiful place for his family and his community was one of his true joys.
He was the first to spot the encroaching flame.
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It was the smell. The Man in White had been remade anew by a story: new flesh, new hair, new bones and sinew. A new nose. Why then, when he awakened each and every day, was he still overcome with the stink of burning flesh? Why was it that now, even as he jerked up out of a troubled sleep, that was he overcome with the memories of the flames overtaking his body, of consciousness leaving him far, far too slowly. Why hadn't he died that night, so that his suffering could have ended?
Why had Ariane Emory forced him to live! Well, she suffered enough for that now, whether she knew it or not. His loyalties had been purchased. His life was leashed to Rhaena Olwak's desires, but his mind was still his own, for all that was worth. There were other things with worth. He was younger now, stronger, the endless cycle of inspiration and reciprocation within him forcing, whether he wanted it or not, never-ending vitality. It led to restless sleep, even without the dreams of fire and failure, even without the stench...
the stench that should have faded by now. Why hadn't it faded? Giuseppe's head darted this way and that. Could fire kill him still? Could anything? Why should he fear it now? Why should he fear anything? He didn't. The smell was a memory. The smell would fade, yes? This was a dream, lingering. Reality had gotten away from him again. He would drag it back, if only this phantom smell would fade, if only the screaming would stop.
...the screaming?
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The Second Life
Eliza Jacobson was the daughter of a merchant and a young lady about town. She was sixteen years old and one of the most beautiful girls for miles. She should know. Everyone told her. Her father was a self-made man. Some people said that he capitalized on the suffering of others, but they were fools. When times were tough, things became more sparse and cost more. It was just the way of the world. He was doing what he could to make sure his family had what they needed. Any merchant who said otherwise was a silly fool, and the silliest of all was that lanky girl in the veils with her weird disfigurement. Eliza made sure to tell her so on the street one day too. She and her friends laughed and laughed.
Years passed. She married the son of another merchant and that they could not produce a child saddened her, but they had their father's business to work in and eventually run and there was much in life to enjoy. Still, it matured her, as did time, and she grew to become a well-liked member of the community.
It was only a month ago when, without any warning, she stopped working for her father. She was now in her twenties and still beautiful but almost overnight she had decided that there was someone even more beautiful, someone that she had to emulate. She crafted the gilded scales herself at no small cost and used whatever adhesive she could to stick them on her face. They made her even more beautiful and she loved them. Working for her father had been nice but she found much more joy and fulfillment in serving others as a barmaid at the Stinky Sheep. She'd never been happier.
The fire leaped out at her, searing the golden material to her face. It was her scream that Giuseppe heard.
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The smell, the sound. He was gripped, suddenly, terribly. Fear. It was irrational. He could not be harmed by this. He simply couldn't, not in any way that mattered. He understood how the magic worked. The storyteller was sealed up in Golben and her fate was tied to his, yes, but so long as her fate was imprisonment, so long as Rhaena Olwak's hand hoisted up his rotting soul, then there was little that could end him.
Fire could burn him though. Fire could burn him, just as he'd been burnt before. Fire could burn him, burn off his flesh, skin melting off of muscle and bone. Fire was theirs to control. He remembered the smell of his own nonnina cooking with wine. Reduction, she called it. He remembered and for a moment, he tried to use a story to protect him, a story as a shield not from the flames but from the beating of his own heart.
It was futile. All he could remember, all he could hold on to, was that other tavern, was seeing Ariane Emory's eyes as they made a last, hopeless toast, a last toast at the end of everything that his life had been. Why hadn't he moved out of this damned tavern yet? The Olwak Princess wanted him to. This was below his station. He agreed. It just seemed pointless. Why hadn't he moved out when he could?
All this from just a smell and a scream, but he knew. He knew the primal kiss of the flames and he knew they were coming for him.
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The Third Life
Rollo Lombard was well-liked by his friends and associates. He was a tall man, a skilled man. He was a hunter, an excellent archer, a man more for the woods than for town and a man more for his solitude than anything else. He didn't serve in the militia though he had trained some of the local farmers how to shoot. When he did come to town to sell his kills, he told a fine tale and an even better joke and had a nice enough singing voice so long as he had some sort of accompaniment.
Only four days ago, he had been sitting at a table outside a restaurant in town. He was in a rush and had little time or need with manners. He ate with his hands and after a satisfying swallow of his ale, let out an even more satisfying belch. He had not even seen the disapproving woman walking by.
Now he had wandered in from the outside, eyes bleary, judging. There was so much to do. There was always so much to do. There was a need. It wasn't for food or drink, though. He did not need shelter. No, he saw plates upon tables, food having fallen to the ground. He saw a tablecloth stained. He saw a glass smudged. He saw it everywhere, the dirt, the grime, the untied messes, and he knew that it was all out of place. He knew that he had to help tidy it when he could. If only people would pick up after themselves. He would just have to do it for them.
When the fire burst forth, he was the first to move.
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He would have the story of it later, the Man in White, found upon the ground babbling to himself in his room, pale and shivering. Weeks ago there had been another fire, the Spier manor, already being rebuilt into some other building for some other purpose. The response to that fire had been good, yes, but the response to this had been something else entirely.
It was all due to the sudden leadership of three people. When the need arose, they had acted in unison, astoundingly so. People would later claim that they almost seemed to be finishing one another's sentences while following trained routines. That the woman, a barmaid at the tavern, had pushed past the pain of scalding facial injuries to throw in like she was born for it made the whole incident all the more shocking. They had not acted alone, of course. The room had been full of their friends and neighbors, good people and bad, but so many of them had been encouraged by the three and by others to attend the increasingly popular weekly meetings of Rhaena Burnie's Foundation.
What had started as a purely Governmental branch was now morphing into a civil organization, a voluntary fraternity of sorts that was sweeping through the township, drawing people in with increasing pressure. Civic leaders, popular people, and a number of oddly persistent others were ensuring that the meetings were better attended. There, ways to better Myrken were discussed, needs were raised, questions were answered, and Rhaena Olwak was praised.
There was only so much even well trained men and women could do against fire from inside the tavern. These brave folk did all of them and more. The internal stores of water was brought to use. Blankets were used to beat back the worst of it. People were gathered and corralled to the safest part of the tavern (including a momentarily broken Giuseppe). Windows were broken to provide means of egress, most especially for the few children inside. The three were uniformly firm on that.
Time was purchased, precious time, and on this day, perhaps that would be enough.
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He was a Catch, a Grand Catch, and now that his horn was returned to him, history demanded a certain outcome. He would be glorified. Opulence would reign in Myrken Wood and its people would drown upon the joy and riches that he would provide. He had a role, a proper role, a primal role, one of the most primal in all the world. It was a role that he had filled countless times before.
It was a role that he could not fill in the here and now, for Rhaena Olwak Burnie was there already. He had given her a hand. He had purified her in his light. He had helped to create a monster, had pushed together the tinder that the Storyteller would set alight. She was his creation, usurping his role, leading Myrken Wood to a golden age that he did not create.
He was a Grand Catch, but it was his creation's hand, the very hand that he gave her, that stilled his own on this day.