Randomly decided to check in after years and see talk of Doordie and Amel. Lots of fun memories! Arguably my first long time character, Narwyn, ended up closely aligned with Amel as his protege.
Doordie was one of the best RP's I ever played with. His stories, with his character Amel, were amazing. Rich, deep, complex. I hope Doordie is doing well! You have a really great Uncle!
Registered Member #279
Joined: 4:17:59 pm GMT 09/25/04
Posts: 5460
Coins had been exchanged for a key. The key opened a door, and beyond the door was a minor paradise. Sheets, smooth and clean. A lantern, glowing warmly. A chair, padded and sturdy. A nightstand, two sheets of parchment, and a goose's quill.
The lantern burned late, and as the hours wore on, the occupant's scrawling hand struggled to commit to ink what might be saved.
A few names; short, concise descriptions of faces. Words of arcane power, split precisely, inert inside the jagged scribbles. Observations of landmarks, counts of kobolds, ogres. Sequences of bridges, numbers of decking planks on each. Sounds heard, travelers passed. Goblins, bears, and ogres. Signposts, some unreadable. Scorch-marks. Races of man; the short, the medium, the tall. Dark leather, razor-honed knives, filed teeth, then glowing swords and steel plates. Discussions at the fire; struggling to connect the words to the ideas; assessing the motivations, both spoken and secret. Rain, always rain. One who fell into the stream; or perhaps was thrown, only to deny the rope. Spells overheard; power of the Weave, bidden by blood and sound. Rustle of paper; struggle to stay calm, not to damage the precious words.
At last, the night claims its victim. The woman surrenders herself to the bed, the lantern goes dim. To sleep, and to the dreams.
Lightning flashes; thunder peals. Running through the dark, and wet. Words call urgently to the Weave, but hollow echoes answer. Dead men rise; surrounding her. Faces of common-folk, tattered rags of slaves, twisted abominations of arcane science, a woman's voice speaking true lies. Faces of friends, bereft of names, cursing and calling in hatred. Red, everywhere red. Noble, determined, bloody, betraying. There is a burst of fire, an inferno raging across the scene; dark tendrils of dreams, of nightmares, torn away by the burning wind; leaving pale, grey, nothing.
Her eyes open. Morning has come. A short yawn, knuckles rubbing eyes. Where was she? Sitting up; morning's light enters through the small window above the door. She is in a bed, smooth and clean. A lantern rests on the nightstand, ready to be lit. The warm glow of the light reveals a chair; sturdy, but perhaps comfortable, with a robe folded over the back. Her eyes travel back to the nightstand; there a key rests on a folded piece of parchment; with a single word scrawled on it. A message, perhaps. In a severe hand, "READ!"
Registered Member #279
Joined: 4:17:59 pm GMT 09/25/04
Posts: 5460
The fire outside the small trading post was cold in the morn. The woman sat at the bench facing the sunrise after stirring the ash raised no flames, held her robe close until the sun would warm her.
She remembered. Not a great deal, no, but enough. The previous day was clear and separable from the day prior to it. Twice now, fear of sleep had proved groundless. Each night she had dreams, but only dreams. The nightmares she feared had not come. And what nightmares, in fact. It seemed so irrational; that she would fear the faceless darkness. On introspection, it was clear to her that she -had- feared, and feared greatly. Merely thinking on it raised her pulse as sensations of incipient panic began. It took will to suppress it, but fleeting images would remain. The darkness, the screaming, the endless murk and rain. Bloody red and red of fire.
And yet these two days had been quiet. Notes, in her own hand, left to her stuffed ramshackle in a sack. Almost a diary, if a diary could have so much disorganization and repetition; so much raw frustration, so much wild fear. But it was distant, as if it were the struggles of another person. That person had fought to remember, and written down minutiae as if they were critical secrets. That person had fought to know who she was in the most minimal sense from one day to the next ... and failed.
Who had she been before? When was before? Where was before? How many places had she wandered through, not knowing, not recognizing? How many turns of days had she awoken only to find the hastily scrawled notes of the stranger that was herself the very day before? To read them, only to feel bewilderment and loss; and to write them, only in frustration and fear of the night?
Twice now, she knew herself on waking. It was, at least, a beginning.
[ The Island of Thain ]
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