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Soanso's Fireside Chat: Rise of the Runelords (AE)
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<blockquote data-quote="soanso" data-source="post: 6310641" data-attributes="member: 6684655"><p><strong>Interlude 2: Notes From the Grave</strong></p><p></p><p>There are no words, no phrases nor linguistic tricks that can take away the terror of death. Death lurks behind every smile, every menace, every corner, under blue skies and black, with or without provenance in deeds or thoughts or circumstance. Death is a terror to the living, a sweeping, inevitable finality that we all dance around and spend most of our waking hours avoiding as a matter of fact. To those skilled enough or rich enough, death can be a mere inconvenience, waved away by powerful magic or an unheralded reservoir of determination and divine favor. For the rest of us, death will find us. Death has been a part of my life, always, and this fact does not set me apart from the rest. While I can accept that death is the inevitable terror of mortality; it is undeath that I cannot begin to comprehend. It is the terror of death manifest, it is the physical embodiment of the horror of loss, the foul corruption of life. Where life gives promise, undeath is a negligent and unrepentant hunger- and that hunger is unholy, unreal, and… </p><p> </p><p>I beg your forgiveness, fellow travelers and tale-weavers, for my absence. My time spent trapped twixt life and undeath required rumination, acceptance, and reconciliation. </p><p> </p><p>After battling Aldern Foxglove, his ghoulish visage corrupted by fate and hidden behind his terrible mask, I fell into a fitful, cold sleep. Wet cobwebs of nightmares cloyed at my soul, an unholy hunger rose like a fire in my belly; my soul was paralyzed, held in check as the dark, needling bits of memory and hatred flitted about the corners of my mind, trying to consummate the utter destruction of my soul. My psyche broke down, and a recurring nightmare from years ago, years I’d buried mile after mile on the road, resurfaced. Myself, holding my mother’s wedding scarf, bathed in blood. The caravan burned as I sobbed holding the tattered thing. Every nightmare ended the same- me, crawling from beneath the wagon, the smell of charred flesh so thick I wretched…</p><p> </p><p>I woke to the songs of magpies drifting through the cobwebs that clouded my mind, songs lifted to my ear by the soft rays of morning’s first lights. I turned my head towards the sound and thanked Desna for renewing our journey. I opened my eyes, but found them crusted over and I reached my hand to wipe away the deterrent of my morning.</p><p> </p><p>I was startled to find my hands and feet bound with crude rope, my hips lashed to the plush mattress. I tried to cry out for help, but my throat was filled with sand, my lips were a cracked, scorched surface no song or tale would survive. I struggled against my bonds, but found myself too weak, too clumsy to shake them. I shivered despite the warm sun languishing on my sightless eyes, and like a drunkard whose mind is suddenly flooded by the events of a night lost to the bottom of the glass, I remembered Aldern. I remembered the Misgivings, I remembered the crows, the stench of rotting meat, I remembered a hunger I could not sate, I remembered his mask, a foul thing stitched together from the hides of a half-dozen creatures, hideous and magical and then, again, the hunger, and the cold whisper of the grave.</p><p> </p><p>A hand covered my mouth and warm water splashed over my eyes and cheeks, and it felt like a weight was lifted from me, a warm cloth wiped away the detritus that sealed my eyelids shut. I blinked as harsh sunlight filled my eyes and blinded me momentarily. Again I tried to speak, but words were lost in the sandstorm that was my mouth. I turned my head to the magpies, and saw the dwarf holy warrior, Noria, at my bedside. She held a cloth, and her eyes bore no malice. As our eyes met, she signaled to another across the bed, and I pivoted to see Caramour alongside, a pitcher and goblet in hand. He poured the water into the goblet, and held my head as my cracked lips touched the rim of the vessel and I drank deep. The cold water was an avalanche of relief into my body; I drank thrice before the sand and gravel left my throat and my soul rose from some unprepared grave to bring me again to the day.</p><p> </p><p>I raised my voice to speak, but instead fell into a fit of coughing and wheezing. I pointed my left hand inwards towards the bonds that held the wrist in question.</p><p> </p><p>Noria and C shared a glance; they knew I was safe, but they waited. I recognized the valances and the pitcher and goblet as those of the Rusty Dragon.</p><p> </p><p>“You fought bravely at the Misgivings,” Caramour said as he loosed the bonds on my wrist. “Yet what was once Aldern infected you with a disease I could not cure.”</p><p> </p><p>Noria also worked to loose the restraints around my hips. “It was ghoul fever, Sivoulette, and we needed to take precautions after you tried to attack your sister,” the dwarf said. “Do you remember anything since the attack?”</p><p> “Hunger,” I said. “Nightmares. My mother, killed by Aldern. Massacre of people I didn’t know. Flames, cold, dark shadows. Is Shaiira…” my voice fell into a fit of coughing.</p><p> “She is fine,” C said. “We were able to… subdue you and the good preacher Zantus was kind enough to aid in your recovery.”</p><p> </p><p>By now the coarse rope was away from my body and I felt as if I were truly rising out of a nightmare and into a dream. </p><p> “I… words cannot… I regret,” I said. “Thank you, for not…”</p><p> </p><p>Noria rose and helped me from my bed. We went to the common room, surprisingly devoid of customers. At the great table sat Vohoi, Shaiira and Mundin. They each rose as I entered on Noria’s arm, still feeling weak from days lost to ghoul fever.</p><p> </p><p>I smiled.</p><p> </p><p>For the first time in my life, I had nothing to say.</p><p> </p><p>“Well, then, mystics,” Mundin said, hefting his axe, “Is she an abomination or not?”</p><p> “Sorry to say she’s alive, Dwarf,” C said, chuckling. Mundin’s cheeks grew red as tomatoes.</p><p> “Ha! You owe me! I told ‘im you’d rise from the grave! That’s ten crowns, my good man,” Shaiira said, holding out her hand to Mundin. To his chagrin, the dwarf clinked the gold coins into my sister’s hand, and after a pause approached me. “Glad you’re here, lass, we’ll be needin’ ya soon enough.” He gave naught but a look and a slight nod to me; a gesture as good as gold from his kith. I knew Mundin had a story, too.</p><p> </p><p>After a spell, patrons began to float in and the Rusty Dragon assumed its typical mid-evening pace of food, drink, and tales. For the first time, I did not feel compelled to join the storytellers at the hearth, or mingle with the wenches and barkeeps, or even slip into the scullery to pare potatoes or chop onions or prepare chickens for roasting. I felt connected yet aloof, involved but alone. </p><p> </p><p>I never actually held my mother’s scarf after she left. After the massacre, it was she that brought me to Sandpoint and to Shaiira, what seems like a lifetime ago now. As far as I knew, when I arrived in Sandpoint, Mum was dead and buried in the boneyard, her stone bought by an artist of local repute. As I approached her simple stone in the cathedral’s sideyard, I passed the half-elf, and her scarf was unique: it was Mum’s. And so death brought life to me, and my people. This might be my last night in Sandpoint; I found my mother and can again join the Open Road. Yet something else keeps me from calling my horse and departing to Magnimar, or Riddleport, or beyond; there is something here, an energy that is like a vortex disallowing me to leave. So death again gambles on my fate; Desna keep me close.</p><p> </p><p>I nursed a mug of mulled wine, simply happy to be free of the cold touch of the grave. I harbor no compunction regarding my recent plight; ghoul fever is serious and I counted myself blessed to have escaped its terrible fate. My companions lilted, laughed, and caroused with exuberant life. I had never forgotten the joy of existence, but now I appreciated the gift much more than ever before. I smiled to myself as I watched Mundin, half-tipped, instruct a few of the locals on the finer points of axemanship. C was withdrawn to his customary nook, engaged with Vohoi in an intense discussion, both puffing contentedly on their long-stemmed pipes. Noria, always uncomfortable in gatherings, had a mug of ale in one hand, listening to the troubadours strum a solemn song of Aroden’s glory. Shaiira skulked in the shadows, and I beckoned her. She lit across the floor and joined my side, sliding into the booth to sit next to me. We watched the crowd, silent. A new halfling server brought Sha a small glass of whiskey. She shot it back and nodded to the lad.</p><p> </p><p>I took a sip of mulled wine. “Tell me about Mum,” I said.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="soanso, post: 6310641, member: 6684655"] [b]Interlude 2: Notes From the Grave[/b] There are no words, no phrases nor linguistic tricks that can take away the terror of death. Death lurks behind every smile, every menace, every corner, under blue skies and black, with or without provenance in deeds or thoughts or circumstance. Death is a terror to the living, a sweeping, inevitable finality that we all dance around and spend most of our waking hours avoiding as a matter of fact. To those skilled enough or rich enough, death can be a mere inconvenience, waved away by powerful magic or an unheralded reservoir of determination and divine favor. For the rest of us, death will find us. Death has been a part of my life, always, and this fact does not set me apart from the rest. While I can accept that death is the inevitable terror of mortality; it is undeath that I cannot begin to comprehend. It is the terror of death manifest, it is the physical embodiment of the horror of loss, the foul corruption of life. Where life gives promise, undeath is a negligent and unrepentant hunger- and that hunger is unholy, unreal, and… I beg your forgiveness, fellow travelers and tale-weavers, for my absence. My time spent trapped twixt life and undeath required rumination, acceptance, and reconciliation. After battling Aldern Foxglove, his ghoulish visage corrupted by fate and hidden behind his terrible mask, I fell into a fitful, cold sleep. Wet cobwebs of nightmares cloyed at my soul, an unholy hunger rose like a fire in my belly; my soul was paralyzed, held in check as the dark, needling bits of memory and hatred flitted about the corners of my mind, trying to consummate the utter destruction of my soul. My psyche broke down, and a recurring nightmare from years ago, years I’d buried mile after mile on the road, resurfaced. Myself, holding my mother’s wedding scarf, bathed in blood. The caravan burned as I sobbed holding the tattered thing. Every nightmare ended the same- me, crawling from beneath the wagon, the smell of charred flesh so thick I wretched… I woke to the songs of magpies drifting through the cobwebs that clouded my mind, songs lifted to my ear by the soft rays of morning’s first lights. I turned my head towards the sound and thanked Desna for renewing our journey. I opened my eyes, but found them crusted over and I reached my hand to wipe away the deterrent of my morning. I was startled to find my hands and feet bound with crude rope, my hips lashed to the plush mattress. I tried to cry out for help, but my throat was filled with sand, my lips were a cracked, scorched surface no song or tale would survive. I struggled against my bonds, but found myself too weak, too clumsy to shake them. I shivered despite the warm sun languishing on my sightless eyes, and like a drunkard whose mind is suddenly flooded by the events of a night lost to the bottom of the glass, I remembered Aldern. I remembered the Misgivings, I remembered the crows, the stench of rotting meat, I remembered a hunger I could not sate, I remembered his mask, a foul thing stitched together from the hides of a half-dozen creatures, hideous and magical and then, again, the hunger, and the cold whisper of the grave. A hand covered my mouth and warm water splashed over my eyes and cheeks, and it felt like a weight was lifted from me, a warm cloth wiped away the detritus that sealed my eyelids shut. I blinked as harsh sunlight filled my eyes and blinded me momentarily. Again I tried to speak, but words were lost in the sandstorm that was my mouth. I turned my head to the magpies, and saw the dwarf holy warrior, Noria, at my bedside. She held a cloth, and her eyes bore no malice. As our eyes met, she signaled to another across the bed, and I pivoted to see Caramour alongside, a pitcher and goblet in hand. He poured the water into the goblet, and held my head as my cracked lips touched the rim of the vessel and I drank deep. The cold water was an avalanche of relief into my body; I drank thrice before the sand and gravel left my throat and my soul rose from some unprepared grave to bring me again to the day. I raised my voice to speak, but instead fell into a fit of coughing and wheezing. I pointed my left hand inwards towards the bonds that held the wrist in question. Noria and C shared a glance; they knew I was safe, but they waited. I recognized the valances and the pitcher and goblet as those of the Rusty Dragon. “You fought bravely at the Misgivings,” Caramour said as he loosed the bonds on my wrist. “Yet what was once Aldern infected you with a disease I could not cure.” Noria also worked to loose the restraints around my hips. “It was ghoul fever, Sivoulette, and we needed to take precautions after you tried to attack your sister,” the dwarf said. “Do you remember anything since the attack?” “Hunger,” I said. “Nightmares. My mother, killed by Aldern. Massacre of people I didn’t know. Flames, cold, dark shadows. Is Shaiira…” my voice fell into a fit of coughing. “She is fine,” C said. “We were able to… subdue you and the good preacher Zantus was kind enough to aid in your recovery.” By now the coarse rope was away from my body and I felt as if I were truly rising out of a nightmare and into a dream. “I… words cannot… I regret,” I said. “Thank you, for not…” Noria rose and helped me from my bed. We went to the common room, surprisingly devoid of customers. At the great table sat Vohoi, Shaiira and Mundin. They each rose as I entered on Noria’s arm, still feeling weak from days lost to ghoul fever. I smiled. For the first time in my life, I had nothing to say. “Well, then, mystics,” Mundin said, hefting his axe, “Is she an abomination or not?” “Sorry to say she’s alive, Dwarf,” C said, chuckling. Mundin’s cheeks grew red as tomatoes. “Ha! You owe me! I told ‘im you’d rise from the grave! That’s ten crowns, my good man,” Shaiira said, holding out her hand to Mundin. To his chagrin, the dwarf clinked the gold coins into my sister’s hand, and after a pause approached me. “Glad you’re here, lass, we’ll be needin’ ya soon enough.” He gave naught but a look and a slight nod to me; a gesture as good as gold from his kith. I knew Mundin had a story, too. After a spell, patrons began to float in and the Rusty Dragon assumed its typical mid-evening pace of food, drink, and tales. For the first time, I did not feel compelled to join the storytellers at the hearth, or mingle with the wenches and barkeeps, or even slip into the scullery to pare potatoes or chop onions or prepare chickens for roasting. I felt connected yet aloof, involved but alone. I never actually held my mother’s scarf after she left. After the massacre, it was she that brought me to Sandpoint and to Shaiira, what seems like a lifetime ago now. As far as I knew, when I arrived in Sandpoint, Mum was dead and buried in the boneyard, her stone bought by an artist of local repute. As I approached her simple stone in the cathedral’s sideyard, I passed the half-elf, and her scarf was unique: it was Mum’s. And so death brought life to me, and my people. This might be my last night in Sandpoint; I found my mother and can again join the Open Road. Yet something else keeps me from calling my horse and departing to Magnimar, or Riddleport, or beyond; there is something here, an energy that is like a vortex disallowing me to leave. So death again gambles on my fate; Desna keep me close. I nursed a mug of mulled wine, simply happy to be free of the cold touch of the grave. I harbor no compunction regarding my recent plight; ghoul fever is serious and I counted myself blessed to have escaped its terrible fate. My companions lilted, laughed, and caroused with exuberant life. I had never forgotten the joy of existence, but now I appreciated the gift much more than ever before. I smiled to myself as I watched Mundin, half-tipped, instruct a few of the locals on the finer points of axemanship. C was withdrawn to his customary nook, engaged with Vohoi in an intense discussion, both puffing contentedly on their long-stemmed pipes. Noria, always uncomfortable in gatherings, had a mug of ale in one hand, listening to the troubadours strum a solemn song of Aroden’s glory. Shaiira skulked in the shadows, and I beckoned her. She lit across the floor and joined my side, sliding into the booth to sit next to me. We watched the crowd, silent. A new halfling server brought Sha a small glass of whiskey. She shot it back and nodded to the lad. I took a sip of mulled wine. “Tell me about Mum,” I said. [/QUOTE]
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