The Scinterlands: Sibling Rivalry
Angcuru
First Post
Another subscribe-or-die-goddammit storyhour rears its head! Rejoice! 
I like that, the anthropomorphic touch. Makes me wonder what else is in store. I have a mental image of Redwall Abbey burning to the ground with lich standing atop the walls screaming manically.![:]](http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/devious.png "Devious :]")
I like that, the anthropomorphic touch. Makes me wonder what else is in store. I have a mental image of Redwall Abbey burning to the ground with lich standing atop the walls screaming manically.
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Roquesdoodle
First Post
The Pet
THE PET
Once the Lady Darleanna started to sink into the horizon like a diseased and flailing sunset, they began to bark.
Valiant had been right. She could hear it now. Their soft, polite whispers, the quiet mutterings, the muted and reverential pleasantries. It all sounded like the obedient yipping of dogs. The words seemed to fall from the mourners’ mouths like heavy and cumbersome rocks as they growled at each other with their ugly sounds. Fortunately, she would not have to endure the cacophony of Common speech for much longer.
She waited until the Lady Darleanna was no more than a dark and ruined memory in the distance before she approached the Queen. When she was close, one of the Queen’s guards stepped forward and raised his hand.
“Stop there,” he said. “What…” The soldier paused and gave her a strange look, starting at her feet then slowly up to her face. He gave a shake of his helmeted head. “What can I help you with?” His leather creaked like the planks of a rolling ship as he moved from one foot to the other.
“I bring a gift of condolence for the King and Queen.” It was like spitting gravel through her teeth.
“You can leave your offering with the others at the North Gate. The King and Queen are very grateful for y—“
“I am a representative from Wraithenul. I have come bearing this gift on behalf of Lord Valiant.”
The guard’s face lost a bit of its color. He stared at her for a moment, his thick brows folding over his nose. Then he gave her a nod and turned to the Queen. “This is…Lord Valiant’s representative. She has come to offer condolences.”
She stepped forward and gave the Queen a small but respectful bow. The young matriarch had dark, swollen rings under her red rimmed eyes. Her black dress, loose and high collared, waved lightly in the breeze.
“Your dress is very pretty,” Valiant’s representative said.
Queen Darleanna blinked, then gave her the same gaze the soldier gave her, taking her in from foot to face in a slow, awkward motion. Darleanna looked as if she had just smelled sour milk. “Thank you,” said the Queen. “Yours is…becoming as well.” The Queen’s voice sounded as if it had been broken and then pieced together with a patchwork of wet chirps and squeals all unkind to speech. “And what is your name?”
“Sheadur A Buchedau Aught Mfympway A Achos Mm Blessar.” Her name felt like honey on her tongue. Draconic was the most musical of languages: its cadence, the marriage of abrasive fricatives with the lilting flow of rich vowels, the rich tapestry of meaning in every syllable. When spoken, the air danced with its melody.
Queen Darleanna tried to smile, but her swollen cheeks stopped the corners of her mouth from curling up into anything more than a sneer. “It’s beautiful,” the Queen said. “What does it mean?”
For a moment, she toyed with the idea of explaining its meaning, the subtle nuance of pronunciation that made the term such an endearment, even the captivating tales behind the words’ etymologies. But she was bored.
“In Common, it means ‘Pet.’”
“Pet?”
“Pet.”
The Queen gave another sneer and said, “Thank you…Pet, for coming on behalf of Lord Valiant.”
Pet gave another small bow to the Queen then turned to face the monument that sat at the river’s edge. It was a monolith of the finest Gnuland marble carved into the likeness of the young Prince; regal and contemplative, sitting on a child throne as its polished eyes stared out to the vast blue of the sea.. The alabaster features were flawless, almost as if the young boy had been watching the deft and dexterous maneuvers of his father’s armada when suddenly happened upon by a wayward medusa.
She approached the base of the monument, the carving of the boy much larger in death than the Prince was in life (she put that small morsel of insight away to share with Valiant upon her return—humans were indeed odd animals). The wind coming off the sea smelled of salt and ash. It gently pulled at her dress as she knelt before Korskadain’s image.
She felt the spell that Valiant had given her guide her fingers, pulling invisible strands of magic out of the air. Her fingertips touched, then entwined into an elaborate and deliberate shape that resembled the flower that was the pride of Valiant’s private garden. The Dun Leoð, the Song of the Mountain. It grew only in the highest crags of Mt. Gyldvynne, far removed from any human eyes.
Pet whispered the flower’s name then blew through a small opening between her hands. A single leaf appeared at the tip of her fingers then floated to the base of the marble statue. Pet stood and spread her hands, feeling the magic that connected her to the tiny leaf pull at her fingertips. The leaf trembled, then sprouted a vine that lengthened along the base, branching out and spreading over the lower half of the monument like a thick, viscous liquid that had no respect for the laws of gravity.
A single flower bloomed, its rich, cardinal petals veined with gold. Another sprang forth, followed by a host of red blooms all along the sprawling vine. Soon Prince Korskadain’s effigy was blanketed in a red swath of rare beauty, the flow of flowers draped over the statue’s shoulder like a royal shawl.
Pet doubted that the King and Queen knew how rare such a gift was. As far as Pet knew, she was the only human alive to have ever seen one. That Valiant would think to gift the mourning family with such a unique specimen spoke volumes of the respect her lord had for the King.
Queen Darleanna stepped forward as she brushed a delicate hand across her face. “Pet, it’s lovely. Are they…are they Mountain Song?”
Pet smiled to herself. Perhaps humans weren’t as hopeless as she at first thought. “Yes, my Lady. They are.”
“Please thank your dragon lord for this wonderful gift.”
Pet nodded. “He’ll be pleased to know that you and the King are…I’m sorry, my Lady, but where is your husband? Where is the King?”
Something flashed over the Queen’s face, a hidden pain like some dark shadow moving behind a mask of flesh. “King Scinterod is at Council in Uilleand. He has been informed of recent events and, though deeply wounded by the loss of his only heir, has seen fit to remain at Council so as to help protect the peoples of the Scinterlands in these trying times.”
Pet knew next to nothing about human behavior (much of the reason Lord Valiant insisted she attend the funeral) but even to her, in the ugly Common language, the Queen’s words sounded rehearsed.
“I understand. We are blessed to have such a man on the throne.” Pet and the Queen stared at each other. Pet studied the young woman’s face, trying to read any underlying emotion hidden there, but there was nothing. What had flashed across her face before was now safely buried away. Pet gave a noncommittal shrug of her shoulders, turned on her heel and walked away.
Pet made her way through the crowds. She had seen enough. Though there were rare moments of interest, they were so few and far between that she did not feel like wasting any more time observing their habits. She would just tell Valiant that she felt humans were too boring to warrant any further study. Their only interesting characteristic was their simple inability to stop staring at her!
Now that the hypnotic draw of the ceremony was over, she could feel their eyes on her. Obviously, it didn’t seem to take much to fascinate them. All she did was perform a tiny and–to put it plainly–simple spell. That it garnered such attention left Pet with the impression that most humans did not get out in the world. Or if they did, they certainly did not react well to it.
She couldn’t understand it. She was a human, just like them.
Wait.
She amended that thought. She was human, yes, but nothing like them. Being the pet of a fifteen-hundred-years-old crystal dragon lends a bit of individuality to a person. Even so. She thought that there would at least be something familiar in the people around her. The same level of inquisitiveness, a similar need for understanding the world around them. But there was nothing. Pet felt no connection. The people around her were just talking animals, dogs that barked in coherent patterns. That she shared a lineage with the creatures around her made her feel almost…embarrassed.
“Excuse me, miss?”
She turned to see a Scinter Knight, his armor glinting in the sunlight, standing over her with his eyes running the length of her body. When his gaze came up to her face, he suddenly straightened his back and gazed at the top of her head.
“Miss, are you Shay a dooro…um, Shaya...Shaya doruh boob—I mean Booshey…um, uh…” The large man turned bright red inside his fancy armor. She was curious how long he would stand there fumbling her name before he either got it right or just gave up. She was curious to find out so she crossed her arms over her chest and waited.
It took the better part of the morning.
Pet didn’t say a word, but just watched the man sweat in the morning sun (which was quickly approaching noonday). Occasionally she would yawn hoping that it would spur the knight into acquiescence but his sense of valor kept him stammering incoherently. It was as if the man was trying to build a corsair with nothing but his teeth.
When the sun was nearly overhead, the Scinter Knight voiced a long string of sounds then puffed his chest in linguistic victory. Pet tilted her head slightly to the side and said, “No. I’m not. I don’t know who that is. But my name is Sheadur A Buchedau Aught Mfympway A Achos Mm Blessar. ”
The knight opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Again, his eyes roamed over her for a moment before coming back to her face.
“Now why do you do that?” she asked. “Everyone has been staring at me today. Is there something wrong with my dress?”
“What? No. No, not at all. It’s just that, well, just that…”
“Just what? Is it the color?”
“Color? The color’s fine. It’s nice, really. What kind of material is that?”
Pet smoothed her dress, feeling the fabric glide under her hands and said, “Dragon scales. Though, not the kind you’d wear for protective purposes. My Lord Valiant sheds these lighter ones from time to time and I thought it would be nice if I wore something regal to the funeral. Something regal yet still representative of his Lordship. I made it myself.” She held her arms wide and looked down her front. “Is it stitched poorly?”
“No, it’s just…well, I never knew dragon scales were so…so…”
“So what?”
The Scinter Knight looked down at his feet. “So transparent.”
Pet looked down her front again. “What’s your point?”
The knight pulled his shoulders back, his chin set. “Miss, you are Valiant’s representative sent from Wraithenul, are you not?”
“I am. You should’ve asked me that at the beginning.” The man’s jaw flexed and the red in his face changed into a deeper hue. “Why do you want to know?”
This time, the Scinter Knight smirked in a way that reminded Pet of Valiant’s vast smile just before he fed.
“Because,” the knight said, “Sir Feon Rey wants a word with you.”
THE PET
Once the Lady Darleanna started to sink into the horizon like a diseased and flailing sunset, they began to bark.
Valiant had been right. She could hear it now. Their soft, polite whispers, the quiet mutterings, the muted and reverential pleasantries. It all sounded like the obedient yipping of dogs. The words seemed to fall from the mourners’ mouths like heavy and cumbersome rocks as they growled at each other with their ugly sounds. Fortunately, she would not have to endure the cacophony of Common speech for much longer.
She waited until the Lady Darleanna was no more than a dark and ruined memory in the distance before she approached the Queen. When she was close, one of the Queen’s guards stepped forward and raised his hand.
“Stop there,” he said. “What…” The soldier paused and gave her a strange look, starting at her feet then slowly up to her face. He gave a shake of his helmeted head. “What can I help you with?” His leather creaked like the planks of a rolling ship as he moved from one foot to the other.
“I bring a gift of condolence for the King and Queen.” It was like spitting gravel through her teeth.
“You can leave your offering with the others at the North Gate. The King and Queen are very grateful for y—“
“I am a representative from Wraithenul. I have come bearing this gift on behalf of Lord Valiant.”
The guard’s face lost a bit of its color. He stared at her for a moment, his thick brows folding over his nose. Then he gave her a nod and turned to the Queen. “This is…Lord Valiant’s representative. She has come to offer condolences.”
She stepped forward and gave the Queen a small but respectful bow. The young matriarch had dark, swollen rings under her red rimmed eyes. Her black dress, loose and high collared, waved lightly in the breeze.
“Your dress is very pretty,” Valiant’s representative said.
Queen Darleanna blinked, then gave her the same gaze the soldier gave her, taking her in from foot to face in a slow, awkward motion. Darleanna looked as if she had just smelled sour milk. “Thank you,” said the Queen. “Yours is…becoming as well.” The Queen’s voice sounded as if it had been broken and then pieced together with a patchwork of wet chirps and squeals all unkind to speech. “And what is your name?”
“Sheadur A Buchedau Aught Mfympway A Achos Mm Blessar.” Her name felt like honey on her tongue. Draconic was the most musical of languages: its cadence, the marriage of abrasive fricatives with the lilting flow of rich vowels, the rich tapestry of meaning in every syllable. When spoken, the air danced with its melody.
Queen Darleanna tried to smile, but her swollen cheeks stopped the corners of her mouth from curling up into anything more than a sneer. “It’s beautiful,” the Queen said. “What does it mean?”
For a moment, she toyed with the idea of explaining its meaning, the subtle nuance of pronunciation that made the term such an endearment, even the captivating tales behind the words’ etymologies. But she was bored.
“In Common, it means ‘Pet.’”
“Pet?”
“Pet.”
The Queen gave another sneer and said, “Thank you…Pet, for coming on behalf of Lord Valiant.”
Pet gave another small bow to the Queen then turned to face the monument that sat at the river’s edge. It was a monolith of the finest Gnuland marble carved into the likeness of the young Prince; regal and contemplative, sitting on a child throne as its polished eyes stared out to the vast blue of the sea.. The alabaster features were flawless, almost as if the young boy had been watching the deft and dexterous maneuvers of his father’s armada when suddenly happened upon by a wayward medusa.
She approached the base of the monument, the carving of the boy much larger in death than the Prince was in life (she put that small morsel of insight away to share with Valiant upon her return—humans were indeed odd animals). The wind coming off the sea smelled of salt and ash. It gently pulled at her dress as she knelt before Korskadain’s image.
She felt the spell that Valiant had given her guide her fingers, pulling invisible strands of magic out of the air. Her fingertips touched, then entwined into an elaborate and deliberate shape that resembled the flower that was the pride of Valiant’s private garden. The Dun Leoð, the Song of the Mountain. It grew only in the highest crags of Mt. Gyldvynne, far removed from any human eyes.
Pet whispered the flower’s name then blew through a small opening between her hands. A single leaf appeared at the tip of her fingers then floated to the base of the marble statue. Pet stood and spread her hands, feeling the magic that connected her to the tiny leaf pull at her fingertips. The leaf trembled, then sprouted a vine that lengthened along the base, branching out and spreading over the lower half of the monument like a thick, viscous liquid that had no respect for the laws of gravity.
A single flower bloomed, its rich, cardinal petals veined with gold. Another sprang forth, followed by a host of red blooms all along the sprawling vine. Soon Prince Korskadain’s effigy was blanketed in a red swath of rare beauty, the flow of flowers draped over the statue’s shoulder like a royal shawl.
Pet doubted that the King and Queen knew how rare such a gift was. As far as Pet knew, she was the only human alive to have ever seen one. That Valiant would think to gift the mourning family with such a unique specimen spoke volumes of the respect her lord had for the King.
Queen Darleanna stepped forward as she brushed a delicate hand across her face. “Pet, it’s lovely. Are they…are they Mountain Song?”
Pet smiled to herself. Perhaps humans weren’t as hopeless as she at first thought. “Yes, my Lady. They are.”
“Please thank your dragon lord for this wonderful gift.”
Pet nodded. “He’ll be pleased to know that you and the King are…I’m sorry, my Lady, but where is your husband? Where is the King?”
Something flashed over the Queen’s face, a hidden pain like some dark shadow moving behind a mask of flesh. “King Scinterod is at Council in Uilleand. He has been informed of recent events and, though deeply wounded by the loss of his only heir, has seen fit to remain at Council so as to help protect the peoples of the Scinterlands in these trying times.”
Pet knew next to nothing about human behavior (much of the reason Lord Valiant insisted she attend the funeral) but even to her, in the ugly Common language, the Queen’s words sounded rehearsed.
“I understand. We are blessed to have such a man on the throne.” Pet and the Queen stared at each other. Pet studied the young woman’s face, trying to read any underlying emotion hidden there, but there was nothing. What had flashed across her face before was now safely buried away. Pet gave a noncommittal shrug of her shoulders, turned on her heel and walked away.
Pet made her way through the crowds. She had seen enough. Though there were rare moments of interest, they were so few and far between that she did not feel like wasting any more time observing their habits. She would just tell Valiant that she felt humans were too boring to warrant any further study. Their only interesting characteristic was their simple inability to stop staring at her!
Now that the hypnotic draw of the ceremony was over, she could feel their eyes on her. Obviously, it didn’t seem to take much to fascinate them. All she did was perform a tiny and–to put it plainly–simple spell. That it garnered such attention left Pet with the impression that most humans did not get out in the world. Or if they did, they certainly did not react well to it.
She couldn’t understand it. She was a human, just like them.
Wait.
She amended that thought. She was human, yes, but nothing like them. Being the pet of a fifteen-hundred-years-old crystal dragon lends a bit of individuality to a person. Even so. She thought that there would at least be something familiar in the people around her. The same level of inquisitiveness, a similar need for understanding the world around them. But there was nothing. Pet felt no connection. The people around her were just talking animals, dogs that barked in coherent patterns. That she shared a lineage with the creatures around her made her feel almost…embarrassed.
“Excuse me, miss?”
She turned to see a Scinter Knight, his armor glinting in the sunlight, standing over her with his eyes running the length of her body. When his gaze came up to her face, he suddenly straightened his back and gazed at the top of her head.
“Miss, are you Shay a dooro…um, Shaya...Shaya doruh boob—I mean Booshey…um, uh…” The large man turned bright red inside his fancy armor. She was curious how long he would stand there fumbling her name before he either got it right or just gave up. She was curious to find out so she crossed her arms over her chest and waited.
It took the better part of the morning.
Pet didn’t say a word, but just watched the man sweat in the morning sun (which was quickly approaching noonday). Occasionally she would yawn hoping that it would spur the knight into acquiescence but his sense of valor kept him stammering incoherently. It was as if the man was trying to build a corsair with nothing but his teeth.
When the sun was nearly overhead, the Scinter Knight voiced a long string of sounds then puffed his chest in linguistic victory. Pet tilted her head slightly to the side and said, “No. I’m not. I don’t know who that is. But my name is Sheadur A Buchedau Aught Mfympway A Achos Mm Blessar. ”
The knight opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Again, his eyes roamed over her for a moment before coming back to her face.
“Now why do you do that?” she asked. “Everyone has been staring at me today. Is there something wrong with my dress?”
“What? No. No, not at all. It’s just that, well, just that…”
“Just what? Is it the color?”
“Color? The color’s fine. It’s nice, really. What kind of material is that?”
Pet smoothed her dress, feeling the fabric glide under her hands and said, “Dragon scales. Though, not the kind you’d wear for protective purposes. My Lord Valiant sheds these lighter ones from time to time and I thought it would be nice if I wore something regal to the funeral. Something regal yet still representative of his Lordship. I made it myself.” She held her arms wide and looked down her front. “Is it stitched poorly?”
“No, it’s just…well, I never knew dragon scales were so…so…”
“So what?”
The Scinter Knight looked down at his feet. “So transparent.”
Pet looked down her front again. “What’s your point?”
The knight pulled his shoulders back, his chin set. “Miss, you are Valiant’s representative sent from Wraithenul, are you not?”
“I am. You should’ve asked me that at the beginning.” The man’s jaw flexed and the red in his face changed into a deeper hue. “Why do you want to know?”
This time, the Scinter Knight smirked in a way that reminded Pet of Valiant’s vast smile just before he fed.
“Because,” the knight said, “Sir Feon Rey wants a word with you.”
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Herremann the Wise
First Post
Keep it coming please!
The tapestry you weave is wonderful to behold. The careful and delicate twining of thread upon thread raises it above the standard fair. Weave more of your magic and I might even start comparing it to the greats on this site.
Best Regards
Herremann the Wise
The tapestry you weave is wonderful to behold. The careful and delicate twining of thread upon thread raises it above the standard fair. Weave more of your magic and I might even start comparing it to the greats on this site.
Best Regards
Herremann the Wise
Angcuru said:Hmm.. I guess spending a thousand years or so out of human society tends to make one somewhat....forgetful of the purpose of clothing.
Hmm. Unless I'm forgetting something, Pet herself hasn't spent a thousand years away from Humans -- she's a normally aged Human teen who's just spent her entire life with Valiant. Stranger-in-a-strange-land style.
Roquesdoodle
First Post
John's correct in that Pet is normally aged. We'll get to see more of her backstory--along with those of all the other charcters--later on. Hopefully, we'll also get a better understanding of why Pet views the world the way she does and why she has absolutely no concept of modesty.Angcuru said:Hmm.. I guess spending a thousand years or so out of human society tends to make one somewhat....forgetful of the purpose of clothing.
It's very difficult to get the full flavor of the characters on the screen. The players (they're all professional--or soon to be professional--writers, not to mention they all have IQs that sit at the FAAAAAR end of the Bell Curve) came to the campaign with such incredibly rich, diverse, and unbelievably INTERESTING characters. And the way they play them is...well, to put it bluntly, it's pretty frikkin' SCARY. It is really something to behold when this group gets together.
I look at our gaming sessions like I'm a carpenter at an improv theater production. I'll build some sets, set the stage, throw in some props here and there and then just let them go. Every once in a while I'll change the scenery behind them, but then just get out of their way.
Roquesdoodle
First Post
The Farmer
The Farmer
Two are coming…
The words rang in his head like church bells, the soft voice of his god now no longer content to quietly watch from the heavens. A formless sound that etched words into his mind’s eye as if they were falling stars that moved through a night sky along deliberate paths, scarring the dark void above.
Two are coming…
He stilled his mind in prayer, pushing the prophecy to the back of his mind for a moment. This moment was for Korskadain. The fate of the world could wait for just a little longer.
Sean’s prayer for the fallen Prince was interrupted by a gentle tapping to his shoulder. He opened his eyes, squinting a little in the noon-day sun, and turned to see a young Scinter Knight standing over him.
“Pardon, but are you Sean of Torborough?” The knight was sweating inside his mail coif. He was broad and young, most likely having just earned the red mantle of his station. That the man had become a Scinter Knight at such an early age spoke volumes of his ability.
Sean put a hand to his knee and started to rise. The Scinter Knight reached down to offer assistance, but Sean politely waved him off. “Thank you, but I’m not quite as old as I look.” It was the truth, but only slightly so.
Nearly five decades tilling the earth had worn Sean’s features into something a bit older, more ancient than he actually was. He could feel a tightness in his knees and a stiffness in his back that wasn’t there just a year ago. Though he would never question the reasoning of his god, Sean often wondered why Il Mater had called him into service so late in life.
When Sean was standing upright, he was surprised to see that he only came up to the knight’s chin. Where the King found men this large he simply did not know. “But to answer your question, yes. I’m Sean. How can I help you, son?”
“The Hand would like a word with you. Follow me, please.” Though the young warrior was courteous, Sean had no trouble understanding the underlying tone in the knight’s voice. Sean didn’t have a choice.
He bent to retrieve his belongings when the knight stopped him.
“Are you having trouble? Should I send a woodsmith for your wagon?”
“Wagon? No, I have no wagon.” Sean positioned the wagon wheel over his back, slid his hand-pick into his belt and said, “Lead the way.” The knight gave him a pained expression, then turned and headed toward the castle.
Even though the Lady Darleanna had completed her final voyage nearly an hour ago, people still milled about the open grounds with somber and heavy movements. It did not surprise Sean that the people of the Scinterlands were so saddened by the death of Prince Korskadain.
King Scinterod’s rise to power had been swift, bloody, and decisive. But once in power, he ruled the island states with an admirable nobility that was scarcely found elsewhere in the world. That his only son and heir should die so suddenly made even the hardest of hearts soften at the loss, of not only a sweet and charming little boy, but of the hopeful and promising future he represented. It was a disturbing omen for the Scinterlands.
And it was not the only one.
He rolled the prophecy over in his mind as he followed the Scinter Knight under the iron portcullis and through the stone walls of the castle. Here in the vast courtyard, nobles and knights talked in quiet circles among the marble fountains and magically groomed hedges, all shaped into fantastic and majestic beasts that seem to leap from out of the ground.
The nobles gave him furtive glances with the occasional lord or lady twisting their nose at him in disgust. Priests of Il Mater were not uncommon in the Crown City, but one burdened with a wagon wheel was certainly cause for a second look. But the stares did not matter to him. Sean was not a man of possessions or status or power. He was a man of faith.
The knight led him through the courtyard and into a small grotto outside of the castle proper. Two large oak doors, flanked on either side by two Scinter Knights dressed in dull, battle-worn accoutrements, rested deep in the gray walls of the castle, out away from the open view of the courtyard.
Flowered ivy climbed along the walls and over a cobbled archway that hovered over the two doors. There was a small bench next to a tiny flower garden and a sundial that sat in the small open stretch of green grass between the castle wall and the opening to the rest of the courtyard.
Next to the bench stood a Materite, a heavy shield of formed Heofenvyld oak slung over his powerful shoulders. Blond hair framed his handsome features in lazy curls as he peered out from under two crags of brow with eyes of sapphire blue. The holy warrior stood in a way that implied a casualness and comfort, but Sean could see that he balanced himself in a way that allowed him to spring instantly into any direction should such action be necessary.
Not far from the Materite was one of the strangest sights Sean had ever seen. A stunning young woman, clad in a transparent dress that faded from shades of violet to pink to iridescent blue, was conversing with…a rabbit?
The rabbit stood upright and was as tall as the woman, though only due to the height of its impressive ears. The top of the harefellow’s head only reached as high as the young woman’s chin. It wore traveling leathers and rested its paws—upon closer inspection Sean discovered they were indeed hands of some sort—on a thick black belt that held a number of round objects like small coconuts and two small, very unusual looking clubs—more akin to blackjacks—stuffed behind the front of the belt.
The Scinter Knight turned to him and said, “Wait with the others. Sir Rey will find you shortly.”
Sean nodded as he watched the Rabbit and the young woman talk for a moment. The woman, thankfully, stood with her arms crossed, hiding certain parts of her nubile form that, were Sean thirty years younger, would have made his choice of loose fitting robes an embarrassing mistake.
But as the young woman seemed to be doing most of the listening, the Rabbit seemed to be doing most of the talking. His furry hands would motion or gesture in a way that would cause the woman to arch her eyebrows or nod her head. The Rabbit’s ears would sometimes droop then stiffen when his gestures became more exaggerated.
Two are coming…
Again, the words clawed at him. He approached the Materite. “Blessings of Il Mater upon you, brother,” he said.
The Materite stared at him, taking in the wagon wheel, then gave him a warm smile. “And to you as well…Father.”
Sean returned the smile in kind. “You’re the first person to call me that. I suppose it will take a little getting used to. I’m new to the cloth.”
The Materite tilted his head toward Sean’s wagon wheel and asked, “Is that something new to the priesthood as well? Most priests I know have difficulty carrying their own thoughts, much less a burden such as yours.”
Sean shifted the weight of the wagon wheel to his other shoulder. “I can assure you, I have trouble carrying my own thoughts as well. I rarely keep them to myself for very long.”
“Few people do. So why the wagon wheel?”
Sean looked around at the lush and well manicured grotto, the flora spreading around them like living works of art. “The first time Il Mater spoke to me, was when I was in my field mending my wagon. It was more a feeling, I guess. An intention. A purpose being conveyed to me more so than actual words. But I remember the meaning of it being so clear it was as if Il Mater was standing next to me, whispering in my ear. He wanted me to take only what I had…and walk.” Sean pulled the hand-pick from his belt and tapped the iron binding of the wheel with its tip. “And all I had was a hand-pick in one hand and a wagon wheel in the other.”
“But walk? Walk where?”
“Wherever he guided me.”
The Materite creased his brow. “So you just…left?”
“As far as I know, my three-wheeled wagon is still stranded in that rocky field.”
The holy warrior shrugged his shoulders with a grunt of approval. Together, they watched the clouds float across the pale blue sky. “Are you here to see the Hand?” Sean asked.
The Materite nodded as a flock of gulls flew through their field of vision.
Sean gestured toward the woman and the Rabbit. “Them too?”
The Materite scratched his heavy jaw as he watched the two on the other side of the grotto. “I assume so, but I can’t say for sure. The girl hasn’t said much. The Rabbit, however, has done nothing but struggle with her name.”
“Her name? Is it difficult for his kind to pronounce?”
“It’s difficult for ANYONE’s kind to pronounce, but no. The Rabbit spoke it flawlessly. He’s just been spending most of the afternoon trying to use it in some very vulgar, and I must admit, some very clever limericks.”
Sean’s hearing wasn’t what it once was, but obviously the young Materite could hear what the Rabbit was saying. Every now and again the Materite’s handsome face would blush while the Rabbit motioned with his hands, his ears, and—occasionally—his pelvis. But when Sean looked over to the woman, she never showed any sign of embarrassment. She seemed fascinated by the creature.
The Materite spoke, still watching them talk. “You said ‘the first time.’”
Sean turned to him. “I’m sorry?”
“You said it was the first time you spoke with Il Mater.”
Sean pulled his gaze from the gyrating Rabbit. “Yes, yes it was.”
The Materite continued to watch the Rabbit poke his nose through his folded over ears in a way that made the holy warrior turn as red as a Scinter Knight’s mantle. He took a breath, then turned his powerful gaze on Sean. “So he’s spoken to you since then.”
“Of course.” Sean could feel himself turning red under the Materite’s steady stare. “Il Mater always speaks with me. Oh, not in words, but in other ways. I always feel his presence guiding me, helping me.”
The Materite’s eyes were locked on Sean’s, unblinking and searching. Then, with a soft snort of acceptance, the holy warrior turned back to watch the Rabbit and its vain attempts to embarrass the young woman.
Il Mater had only spoken to Sean once since the day of his conversion. And it was not with a feeling of purpose or divine intention. It was with words. Words as dark and ominous as a summer storm.
And they echoed inside his head like thunder.
Two are coming… Each bear the mark of a father’s love, but one will seek to lose it, the other will seek to find it. One shall seek a father’s justice, one shall seek a father’s revenge. And when the bastard holds forth a broken heirloom, the golden city will soar on vacant wings as Cerebus casts his father’s shadow anew, until it is swallowed by the greater darkness of a broken child’s whisper.
.
The Farmer
Two are coming…
The words rang in his head like church bells, the soft voice of his god now no longer content to quietly watch from the heavens. A formless sound that etched words into his mind’s eye as if they were falling stars that moved through a night sky along deliberate paths, scarring the dark void above.
Two are coming…
He stilled his mind in prayer, pushing the prophecy to the back of his mind for a moment. This moment was for Korskadain. The fate of the world could wait for just a little longer.
Sean’s prayer for the fallen Prince was interrupted by a gentle tapping to his shoulder. He opened his eyes, squinting a little in the noon-day sun, and turned to see a young Scinter Knight standing over him.
“Pardon, but are you Sean of Torborough?” The knight was sweating inside his mail coif. He was broad and young, most likely having just earned the red mantle of his station. That the man had become a Scinter Knight at such an early age spoke volumes of his ability.
Sean put a hand to his knee and started to rise. The Scinter Knight reached down to offer assistance, but Sean politely waved him off. “Thank you, but I’m not quite as old as I look.” It was the truth, but only slightly so.
Nearly five decades tilling the earth had worn Sean’s features into something a bit older, more ancient than he actually was. He could feel a tightness in his knees and a stiffness in his back that wasn’t there just a year ago. Though he would never question the reasoning of his god, Sean often wondered why Il Mater had called him into service so late in life.
When Sean was standing upright, he was surprised to see that he only came up to the knight’s chin. Where the King found men this large he simply did not know. “But to answer your question, yes. I’m Sean. How can I help you, son?”
“The Hand would like a word with you. Follow me, please.” Though the young warrior was courteous, Sean had no trouble understanding the underlying tone in the knight’s voice. Sean didn’t have a choice.
He bent to retrieve his belongings when the knight stopped him.
“Are you having trouble? Should I send a woodsmith for your wagon?”
“Wagon? No, I have no wagon.” Sean positioned the wagon wheel over his back, slid his hand-pick into his belt and said, “Lead the way.” The knight gave him a pained expression, then turned and headed toward the castle.
Even though the Lady Darleanna had completed her final voyage nearly an hour ago, people still milled about the open grounds with somber and heavy movements. It did not surprise Sean that the people of the Scinterlands were so saddened by the death of Prince Korskadain.
King Scinterod’s rise to power had been swift, bloody, and decisive. But once in power, he ruled the island states with an admirable nobility that was scarcely found elsewhere in the world. That his only son and heir should die so suddenly made even the hardest of hearts soften at the loss, of not only a sweet and charming little boy, but of the hopeful and promising future he represented. It was a disturbing omen for the Scinterlands.
And it was not the only one.
He rolled the prophecy over in his mind as he followed the Scinter Knight under the iron portcullis and through the stone walls of the castle. Here in the vast courtyard, nobles and knights talked in quiet circles among the marble fountains and magically groomed hedges, all shaped into fantastic and majestic beasts that seem to leap from out of the ground.
The nobles gave him furtive glances with the occasional lord or lady twisting their nose at him in disgust. Priests of Il Mater were not uncommon in the Crown City, but one burdened with a wagon wheel was certainly cause for a second look. But the stares did not matter to him. Sean was not a man of possessions or status or power. He was a man of faith.
The knight led him through the courtyard and into a small grotto outside of the castle proper. Two large oak doors, flanked on either side by two Scinter Knights dressed in dull, battle-worn accoutrements, rested deep in the gray walls of the castle, out away from the open view of the courtyard.
Flowered ivy climbed along the walls and over a cobbled archway that hovered over the two doors. There was a small bench next to a tiny flower garden and a sundial that sat in the small open stretch of green grass between the castle wall and the opening to the rest of the courtyard.
Next to the bench stood a Materite, a heavy shield of formed Heofenvyld oak slung over his powerful shoulders. Blond hair framed his handsome features in lazy curls as he peered out from under two crags of brow with eyes of sapphire blue. The holy warrior stood in a way that implied a casualness and comfort, but Sean could see that he balanced himself in a way that allowed him to spring instantly into any direction should such action be necessary.
Not far from the Materite was one of the strangest sights Sean had ever seen. A stunning young woman, clad in a transparent dress that faded from shades of violet to pink to iridescent blue, was conversing with…a rabbit?
The rabbit stood upright and was as tall as the woman, though only due to the height of its impressive ears. The top of the harefellow’s head only reached as high as the young woman’s chin. It wore traveling leathers and rested its paws—upon closer inspection Sean discovered they were indeed hands of some sort—on a thick black belt that held a number of round objects like small coconuts and two small, very unusual looking clubs—more akin to blackjacks—stuffed behind the front of the belt.
The Scinter Knight turned to him and said, “Wait with the others. Sir Rey will find you shortly.”
Sean nodded as he watched the Rabbit and the young woman talk for a moment. The woman, thankfully, stood with her arms crossed, hiding certain parts of her nubile form that, were Sean thirty years younger, would have made his choice of loose fitting robes an embarrassing mistake.
But as the young woman seemed to be doing most of the listening, the Rabbit seemed to be doing most of the talking. His furry hands would motion or gesture in a way that would cause the woman to arch her eyebrows or nod her head. The Rabbit’s ears would sometimes droop then stiffen when his gestures became more exaggerated.
Two are coming…
Again, the words clawed at him. He approached the Materite. “Blessings of Il Mater upon you, brother,” he said.
The Materite stared at him, taking in the wagon wheel, then gave him a warm smile. “And to you as well…Father.”
Sean returned the smile in kind. “You’re the first person to call me that. I suppose it will take a little getting used to. I’m new to the cloth.”
The Materite tilted his head toward Sean’s wagon wheel and asked, “Is that something new to the priesthood as well? Most priests I know have difficulty carrying their own thoughts, much less a burden such as yours.”
Sean shifted the weight of the wagon wheel to his other shoulder. “I can assure you, I have trouble carrying my own thoughts as well. I rarely keep them to myself for very long.”
“Few people do. So why the wagon wheel?”
Sean looked around at the lush and well manicured grotto, the flora spreading around them like living works of art. “The first time Il Mater spoke to me, was when I was in my field mending my wagon. It was more a feeling, I guess. An intention. A purpose being conveyed to me more so than actual words. But I remember the meaning of it being so clear it was as if Il Mater was standing next to me, whispering in my ear. He wanted me to take only what I had…and walk.” Sean pulled the hand-pick from his belt and tapped the iron binding of the wheel with its tip. “And all I had was a hand-pick in one hand and a wagon wheel in the other.”
“But walk? Walk where?”
“Wherever he guided me.”
The Materite creased his brow. “So you just…left?”
“As far as I know, my three-wheeled wagon is still stranded in that rocky field.”
The holy warrior shrugged his shoulders with a grunt of approval. Together, they watched the clouds float across the pale blue sky. “Are you here to see the Hand?” Sean asked.
The Materite nodded as a flock of gulls flew through their field of vision.
Sean gestured toward the woman and the Rabbit. “Them too?”
The Materite scratched his heavy jaw as he watched the two on the other side of the grotto. “I assume so, but I can’t say for sure. The girl hasn’t said much. The Rabbit, however, has done nothing but struggle with her name.”
“Her name? Is it difficult for his kind to pronounce?”
“It’s difficult for ANYONE’s kind to pronounce, but no. The Rabbit spoke it flawlessly. He’s just been spending most of the afternoon trying to use it in some very vulgar, and I must admit, some very clever limericks.”
Sean’s hearing wasn’t what it once was, but obviously the young Materite could hear what the Rabbit was saying. Every now and again the Materite’s handsome face would blush while the Rabbit motioned with his hands, his ears, and—occasionally—his pelvis. But when Sean looked over to the woman, she never showed any sign of embarrassment. She seemed fascinated by the creature.
The Materite spoke, still watching them talk. “You said ‘the first time.’”
Sean turned to him. “I’m sorry?”
“You said it was the first time you spoke with Il Mater.”
Sean pulled his gaze from the gyrating Rabbit. “Yes, yes it was.”
The Materite continued to watch the Rabbit poke his nose through his folded over ears in a way that made the holy warrior turn as red as a Scinter Knight’s mantle. He took a breath, then turned his powerful gaze on Sean. “So he’s spoken to you since then.”
“Of course.” Sean could feel himself turning red under the Materite’s steady stare. “Il Mater always speaks with me. Oh, not in words, but in other ways. I always feel his presence guiding me, helping me.”
The Materite’s eyes were locked on Sean’s, unblinking and searching. Then, with a soft snort of acceptance, the holy warrior turned back to watch the Rabbit and its vain attempts to embarrass the young woman.
Il Mater had only spoken to Sean once since the day of his conversion. And it was not with a feeling of purpose or divine intention. It was with words. Words as dark and ominous as a summer storm.
And they echoed inside his head like thunder.
Two are coming… Each bear the mark of a father’s love, but one will seek to lose it, the other will seek to find it. One shall seek a father’s justice, one shall seek a father’s revenge. And when the bastard holds forth a broken heirloom, the golden city will soar on vacant wings as Cerebus casts his father’s shadow anew, until it is swallowed by the greater darkness of a broken child’s whisper.
.
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Wait ... the Materite has little curls? No. I refuse to acknowledge this. Cap does not have curls. Maybe if he got a buzzcut and stopped focusing on styling product he could master some of the more complex combat maneuvers. Like throwing that shield. Or, say ... climbing ladders.
Don't worry folks, you'll see. It's a hoot.
Although knowing that prophecy now, and knowing what we do ... well, we're roundly screwed, aren't we?
I'll be back in the bar. Nothing to see here. Move along.
Don't worry folks, you'll see. It's a hoot.
Although knowing that prophecy now, and knowing what we do ... well, we're roundly screwed, aren't we?
I'll be back in the bar. Nothing to see here. Move along.
