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Anka Seth - The Rise of the Hydra (New Update April 19, 2007)
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<blockquote data-quote="Fiasco" data-source="post: 2779257" data-attributes="member: 15187"><p>The tenth day of Low Summer began inauspiciously with the fevered dreams of Moxadder interrupting the travellers’ sleep. His precious cache of Devil Weed had been exhausted for two days and both his body and psyche were painfully feeling its lack. Argonne had noted the Irudeshians deterioration with concern but there was nothing that anyone could do. </p><p></p><p>The companions broke camp and marched hard through the cool of days dawning. A thick mist held stubbornly to the grassland they traversed and in the distance, they could hear the deep inrush and outrush of the ocean’s breaths as its waves sawed back and forth over rocky shores. </p><p></p><p>Gerard shivered in his light traveler’s clothing, the damp chill of the mists robbing him of the warmth of his exertions. Morgan, marching beside the young nobleman was uncomfortable for a different reason. The fog that covered them in its pearly white folds reminded him of grim nights in Avinal when the dead, cloaked in deathly quiet and white vaporous robes, marched against the fortress walls. Every instinct told him to be alert for imminent attack, though reason told him it was unlikely in this distant backwater.</p><p></p><p>The party crested a steep hill as the fog finally began to disperse. The view was remarkable. They looked down upon a natural harbour with a small village nestled close to shore. The roofs of fishermen’s huts emerged from the mist to greet the sun as though from beneath a white blanket. Dew dazzled brilliantly from the thatched roofs as they caught and refracted the morning light into a thousand scintillas. To either side of the village, proud cliffs thrust up from the ocean, glorious bookends to the peaceful domesticity of the small fishing community. </p><p></p><p>The Eastern side of the village backed onto the beginnings of a forest, fog still clinging to the trunks of its ancient trees, while to the West, a stone abbey surmounted a small hill. Even from a distance the graceful lines of the architecture gave cheerful life to what would otherwise be dull grey stone. Seemingly directly behind the structure, though in actuality a distance away, there glittered the whitewashed walls of a lighthouse anchored to the top of a cliff on the South-Western most tip of the bay. </p><p></p><p>As the companions gazed upon this idyllic scene, their appreciation of it was marred by the smouldering remains of two huts standing out like blackened teeth in an otherwise radiantly white smile. Disturbingly, no-one was attempting to quell the flames, nor were there villagers on the commons or fishermen on their boats. Indeed, on closer inspection, the three boats that were tied at the pier appeared to have been scuttled, their bows wallowing just below the surface of the crystal clear waters. </p><p></p><p>The companions looked at each other in dismay. Had another village been struck down by plague? Unconsciously they clustering closer together as they descended the hill and approached the deserted community. Ravenswood was part of Baron Yorath’s fief and Bastien was determined to find the cause of its distress. </p><p></p><p>As they made their approach they heard no sound save the gentle crackle of the fires that consumed the last remnants of the burning huts. A sense of mystery and unease rooted itself in the young aspirants as the discordant portents of the ruined cottages and peaceful surrounds assailed their senses. Gerard hailed a greeting as they entered the village proper but received no reply. Fanning out, they looked in various huts as they made their way into the centre of the village. Each told a similar story of a hasty ransacking; pots and utensils up-ended, bedding strewn about and implements ripped off the walls. </p><p></p><p>“This doesn’t look like plague”, said Morgan when they had gathered together some minutes later. By now their investigation had taken them to the docks and they looked down on the stove in hulls of the boats.</p><p></p><p>“Pirates done this”, said Moxadder with grim certainty as he exhaled a thin plume of smoke from between broken and discoloured teeth. He was shivering violently and the tendons in his neck stood out as he tried to ride out the wild emotions that coursed through him. His left hand clenched the smoking remains of a stick of devil weed, part of a small cache Argonne had found for him in one of the huts. “They sail in, loot what they can, take people for slaves and then wreck the boats so’s they can’t be chased. I thi…”. A fit of coughing interrupted his theorising, the hacking spasms reverberating harshly amongst the abandoned dwellings. </p><p></p><p>The stricken fishing vessels lay bogged in their watery mire, unmoving witnesses to the Fastendian’s words. Mortec gazed at the wrecks and felt his anger slowly build. Their craftsmanship could clearly be perceived even through the refracting surface of the water. So much time and skill had been poured into these wooden contrivances, the livelihood of the entire village had rested on them and they had been crudely undone with a few strokes of a hatchet. What other travesties had these invaders wrought? His eyes strayed in the direction of the abbey they had seen. Even from this distance it exuded the same lack of animus as their overturned hamlet. He shook his head sadly, it appeared that humans had precious little regard for each other.</p><p></p><p>“Ah can see caves in t’ cliffs yonder” </p><p></p><p>Bastien turned in the direction Argonne indicated and squinting, just made out some faint shadows against the rock face. The decision to search there for survivors was infinitely preferable to staying where they were. They left Ravenswood behind them and began the trek towards the caves. Periodically, one of the companions would look furtively back over their shoulders, as if to convince themselves that the village had really been as they found it. The only thing out of the ordinary was the sight of Kurul shambling along behind them, his head hanging low to the ground as though the effort to lift is was too great.</p><p></p><p>The caves were set low in the Southern headland a half mile away and a small trail snaked it’s way up from the village in that direction. As they ascended the bluff they came across a cozy looking cottage that stood to one side of the path. Its sturdy mud brick walls were almost completely hidden under a verdant tangle of grape vines, while the window sills were lined with narrow beds of colourful flowers. The grounds around the domicile were well kept with precisely ordered ranks of herbs and vegetables growing in long lines, seeming to luxuriate in their beds of rich loam. A bee hive droned soothingly in the background and Bastien’s charges found it hard to credit this glorious morning with the mysterious violence they had uncovered. </p><p></p><p>Gerard savoured the sweet scent that hung thick in the air as he rapped on the cottage door. There was no response to his summons but the door swung open under his clenched fist. Though the interior of the building was a good deal more cluttered than the order of the garden outside there was no signs of the violent pillage that had swept through Ravenswood. A quick glance satisfied the young nobleman that no-one was concealed. </p><p></p><p>The room was filled with the pleasant scent of lavender. Gerard took a sprig of the aromatic herb from where it lay on a work table and rejoined his companions. Travel was barbarous, and every opportunity had to be taken to achieve a little comfort. Kurul seemed much of the same mind, for he stretched out in the sunlight and began to snore. His participation in the investigation was clearly over.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Fiasco, post: 2779257, member: 15187"] The tenth day of Low Summer began inauspiciously with the fevered dreams of Moxadder interrupting the travellers’ sleep. His precious cache of Devil Weed had been exhausted for two days and both his body and psyche were painfully feeling its lack. Argonne had noted the Irudeshians deterioration with concern but there was nothing that anyone could do. The companions broke camp and marched hard through the cool of days dawning. A thick mist held stubbornly to the grassland they traversed and in the distance, they could hear the deep inrush and outrush of the ocean’s breaths as its waves sawed back and forth over rocky shores. Gerard shivered in his light traveler’s clothing, the damp chill of the mists robbing him of the warmth of his exertions. Morgan, marching beside the young nobleman was uncomfortable for a different reason. The fog that covered them in its pearly white folds reminded him of grim nights in Avinal when the dead, cloaked in deathly quiet and white vaporous robes, marched against the fortress walls. Every instinct told him to be alert for imminent attack, though reason told him it was unlikely in this distant backwater. The party crested a steep hill as the fog finally began to disperse. The view was remarkable. They looked down upon a natural harbour with a small village nestled close to shore. The roofs of fishermen’s huts emerged from the mist to greet the sun as though from beneath a white blanket. Dew dazzled brilliantly from the thatched roofs as they caught and refracted the morning light into a thousand scintillas. To either side of the village, proud cliffs thrust up from the ocean, glorious bookends to the peaceful domesticity of the small fishing community. The Eastern side of the village backed onto the beginnings of a forest, fog still clinging to the trunks of its ancient trees, while to the West, a stone abbey surmounted a small hill. Even from a distance the graceful lines of the architecture gave cheerful life to what would otherwise be dull grey stone. Seemingly directly behind the structure, though in actuality a distance away, there glittered the whitewashed walls of a lighthouse anchored to the top of a cliff on the South-Western most tip of the bay. As the companions gazed upon this idyllic scene, their appreciation of it was marred by the smouldering remains of two huts standing out like blackened teeth in an otherwise radiantly white smile. Disturbingly, no-one was attempting to quell the flames, nor were there villagers on the commons or fishermen on their boats. Indeed, on closer inspection, the three boats that were tied at the pier appeared to have been scuttled, their bows wallowing just below the surface of the crystal clear waters. The companions looked at each other in dismay. Had another village been struck down by plague? Unconsciously they clustering closer together as they descended the hill and approached the deserted community. Ravenswood was part of Baron Yorath’s fief and Bastien was determined to find the cause of its distress. As they made their approach they heard no sound save the gentle crackle of the fires that consumed the last remnants of the burning huts. A sense of mystery and unease rooted itself in the young aspirants as the discordant portents of the ruined cottages and peaceful surrounds assailed their senses. Gerard hailed a greeting as they entered the village proper but received no reply. Fanning out, they looked in various huts as they made their way into the centre of the village. Each told a similar story of a hasty ransacking; pots and utensils up-ended, bedding strewn about and implements ripped off the walls. “This doesn’t look like plague”, said Morgan when they had gathered together some minutes later. By now their investigation had taken them to the docks and they looked down on the stove in hulls of the boats. “Pirates done this”, said Moxadder with grim certainty as he exhaled a thin plume of smoke from between broken and discoloured teeth. He was shivering violently and the tendons in his neck stood out as he tried to ride out the wild emotions that coursed through him. His left hand clenched the smoking remains of a stick of devil weed, part of a small cache Argonne had found for him in one of the huts. “They sail in, loot what they can, take people for slaves and then wreck the boats so’s they can’t be chased. I thi…”. A fit of coughing interrupted his theorising, the hacking spasms reverberating harshly amongst the abandoned dwellings. The stricken fishing vessels lay bogged in their watery mire, unmoving witnesses to the Fastendian’s words. Mortec gazed at the wrecks and felt his anger slowly build. Their craftsmanship could clearly be perceived even through the refracting surface of the water. So much time and skill had been poured into these wooden contrivances, the livelihood of the entire village had rested on them and they had been crudely undone with a few strokes of a hatchet. What other travesties had these invaders wrought? His eyes strayed in the direction of the abbey they had seen. Even from this distance it exuded the same lack of animus as their overturned hamlet. He shook his head sadly, it appeared that humans had precious little regard for each other. “Ah can see caves in t’ cliffs yonder” Bastien turned in the direction Argonne indicated and squinting, just made out some faint shadows against the rock face. The decision to search there for survivors was infinitely preferable to staying where they were. They left Ravenswood behind them and began the trek towards the caves. Periodically, one of the companions would look furtively back over their shoulders, as if to convince themselves that the village had really been as they found it. The only thing out of the ordinary was the sight of Kurul shambling along behind them, his head hanging low to the ground as though the effort to lift is was too great. The caves were set low in the Southern headland a half mile away and a small trail snaked it’s way up from the village in that direction. As they ascended the bluff they came across a cozy looking cottage that stood to one side of the path. Its sturdy mud brick walls were almost completely hidden under a verdant tangle of grape vines, while the window sills were lined with narrow beds of colourful flowers. The grounds around the domicile were well kept with precisely ordered ranks of herbs and vegetables growing in long lines, seeming to luxuriate in their beds of rich loam. A bee hive droned soothingly in the background and Bastien’s charges found it hard to credit this glorious morning with the mysterious violence they had uncovered. Gerard savoured the sweet scent that hung thick in the air as he rapped on the cottage door. There was no response to his summons but the door swung open under his clenched fist. Though the interior of the building was a good deal more cluttered than the order of the garden outside there was no signs of the violent pillage that had swept through Ravenswood. A quick glance satisfied the young nobleman that no-one was concealed. The room was filled with the pleasant scent of lavender. Gerard took a sprig of the aromatic herb from where it lay on a work table and rejoined his companions. Travel was barbarous, and every opportunity had to be taken to achieve a little comfort. Kurul seemed much of the same mind, for he stretched out in the sunlight and began to snore. His participation in the investigation was clearly over. [/QUOTE]
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