The Mad Scribblings of a Nomad (Open)

The Mad Scribblings of a Nomad (Open)

Postby Glorybound87 » Sun Oct 04, 2015 7:13 pm

The more thought Jasen poured into recollecting his shattered memories, the harder it became to make any sense of them. Like the fog of a cool evening on the meadow at sunrise, his fragmented memories dispersed the more light he tried to shine on them. He shifted in his barstool and clenched his eyes shut, willing his mind to obey him and give up the secrets he'd been trying to unearth for decades, but it proved fruitless once again. When he opened his amber eyes, all that greeted him was the well-worn wood of the counter at the Broken Dagger, his small notepad and slightly larger vellum notebook, and his calloused hands, grasping at paper and pencil. He let out a quiet sigh and gathered his thoughts together, piecing shattered bits that didn't fit right into some semblance of reality.

"Before the desert. Before the bedouins."

He flipped a couple of pages back in his notepad to scribblings made in a precise hand. They were language, even if the characters were foreign even to himself, and he understood what they meant.

Listless eyes. Darkness. Fire gleaming from the gnarled root of an ash tree, like the sun exploding across the emptiness of the cosmos.
Emptiness greater than a Golthot night. I am darkness, spreading, growing, feeding. I am death. I am dying.

His fingers squeezed the pencil he held tighter, and he tried to harness the anger that was welling in him for some unknown, unspoken reason. He placed the tip to his notebook, but wrote nothing, unfocused amber eyes grasping at something as his lips opened in the faintest whisper of speech.

"Dece. De-ce. Deeeh-cheeeeh..." he mumbled, fingers writing the letters in perfect handwriting. It was a name, or the beginning of a name, and it meant something to him. If only he could surmise what! His fingers squeezed at the pencil in his hand until it nearly snapped, and he caught himself, letting out another sigh. He set it down and craned his neck back, stretching the twisted muscles before he finished his neglected tankard of rum. Reaching into his coinpurse, he retrieved two shillings and laid them on the bar counter. The coins had to be touching, of course, both face up, and aligned with the far edge of the countertop. He moved the line into the position toward the innkeep, making sure they were perfectly in line before releasing them and letting the coins be taken up in exchange for a refill.
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