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The Blade of Phoee (Updated 12/08/08)
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<blockquote data-quote="Funeris" data-source="post: 2813408" data-attributes="member: 22792"><p><strong>Chapter 6: Fata Viam Invenient Continued</strong></p><p></p><p>Aramil’s eyes flickered open. Dim light filled his vision. Laughter drowned his ears. Where the hell was he? Was the light too dim to see or were his eyes just not opening? </p><p></p><p>He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. He had been in a library—something about a deck of cards. Yes. But the library had not been dim. It had been well lit or at least bright enough for him to notice the opening for a room; a room behind a wall.</p><p></p><p>The deck—it was all because of that damnable deck! There had been a woman that had become a sword, a corpse that had tried to devour him and a…his mind trailed off…</p><p></p><p>The light surrounding the rogue increased just enough to note the details. Aramil was slumped against a wall, sitting on a rickety, wooden chair. Around him, dozens of people—Humans!—sat, apparently unaware of the rogue or at least not paying him any mind. </p><p></p><p>The rogue’s eyes searched for an exit. His eyes followed the walls but there were no doors and there were no windows. Trapped.</p><p></p><p>Aramil inched up slowly. He needed to move slowly, quietly—to keep them unaware. </p><p></p><p>The djinn! And a wish. What was it he had wished for? The memory was incomplete. </p><p></p><p>A shattering snatched Aramil’s attention to a small table. Two brutes, giant men, smashed their mugs of ale together. Their mugs split into dozens of pieces. Each eyed the other angrily—and then both were on the floor: punching, kicking and tearing. A table toppled; patrons watched and laughed.</p><p></p><p>A tavern. He had somehow made it to a tavern. But where? And why couldn’t he remember how? Something isn’t right here.</p><p></p><p>Godhood. He had wished for the power of a god. Was this tavern somehow related to that wish? All Aramil had truly desired was the ability to stop death—Gabrielle’s, Ana’s, his own and maybe Cassock’s; if the priest would stop blathering about his god. Cael had let Gabrielle die—if what the priest said was true. Cael could never be forgiven.</p><p></p><p>A hand snagged the rogue’s shoulder. Automatically, Aramil’s hand reached for the dagger he kept hidden. It wasn’t there. His hand just grasped at cloth. Even his armor had vanished with the journey.</p><p></p><p><em>There’s no need for weapons here,</em> a soft voice whispered. <em>As you can see</em>, an arm and hand hidden by gray cloth pointed toward the brawl, <em>there are other, less permanent methods for dealing with disagreements here.</em></p><p></p><p><em>Come sit with me, have a drink, and maybe play a game or two.</em> The rogue could hear the smile upon the voice. Standing, against his better judgment, he followed the cloaked traveler to a small, empty table in the center of the room. </p><p></p><p>They both sat, quietly peering at each other. The traveler was practically invisible within the folds of his cloak. Deep shadows covered his face, hiding all but a cocky grin. Aramil drummed his fingers against the table. He was uncomfortable with the man’s obvious staring.</p><p></p><p><em>You’ll forgive my manners</em>, the traveler said. One of his hands slipped into the folds of his robe. The rogue tensed. The hand came out, carrying two silver goblets and a small flask. Despite its obviously small size, the flask easily filled both of the goblets. The traveler pushed one over to Aramil.</p><p></p><p>“Where am I?” </p><p></p><p><em>A good question</em>. The traveler reached back into his robes—pulling out a velvet sack. Inside, solid objects clacked against each other as it was moved. <em>A better question, though, would be ‘Why’?</em></p><p></p><p>“Why am I?” What kind of crazy question is that? No, there is something definitely not right here. Aramil glanced at the traveler’s hands, which grasped the bag. Each hand was a delicate, pure blue in hue. A thick, strange design danced up the sides of the flesh, entwining the fingers with archaic symbols. Definitely not right.</p><p></p><p>The traveler chuckled. <em>No, not why am I? That question holds many answers—and none that are truly correct. The better question is ‘Why am I here’.</em></p><p></p><p>“Fine.” If the strange man wanted to play games—Aramil would go along with it. As long as an exit, preferably a safe and easy exit presented itself soon enough. He glanced around the tavern again. “Why am I here?”</p><p></p><p><em>I have the answer to that question. You are here—</em> he paused, as if to give the words more weight, <em>—to play a game</em>. The rogue’s face screwed up into a look of confusion, drawing another chuckle. </p><p></p><p>The velvet bag spilled open, bones scattered across the table. Each polished white bone had a number etched on each face. <em>You are a gambling man, are you not?</em></p><p></p><p>“Well—not really…”</p><p></p><p><em>If you weren’t a gambler, you wouldn’t be here. Did you bring your own bones?</em></p><p></p><p>“I don’t have,” he started. What was he doing there!? “No. And I don’t have any money or anything to gamble with.” A chuckle was the only response. Aramil felt anger flare within his chest.</p><p></p><p><em>I was thinking of gambling for something—a little less materialistic, actually.</em></p><p></p><p>“Oh, and what did you have in mind?” Sarcasm and anger laced the words.</p><p></p><p><em>Your fate. It’s the only thing worth gambling for. And from the stories I’ve heard, it is what you like to gamble with as well. So, we’ll play for fate.</em></p><p></p><p>Now he was astounded. How exactly does one ‘play for fate’? No, Aramil had always firmly believed his fate was his own to create. And now this traveler wanted to meddle with his fate. Something was not right.</p><p></p><p>“What do you mean? If my fate is on the line, what do I get if I win?” The traveler chuckled again. Aramil was quickly growing tired of it all. </p><p></p><p><em>If you win, I will help you out. If you lose, I will ruin you.</em> He lifted his hood, allowing it to fall to his shoulders. The traveler was delicate looking, almost fragile with his thin aquiline nose and large eyes. His orbs were solid silver and framed by the same delicate blue flesh, which also covered his hands. Silver wisps of hair fell to his shoulder, nearly covering the black etchings that drifted up either side of his face. Just above his nearly nonexistent eyebrows, a single symbol was tattooed into the flesh.</p><p></p><p>Aramil had never seen anything like that traveler before. He immediately felt inconsequential.</p><p></p><p><em>What is more, whether you win or lose I will show you how to return home. But you’re probably curious as to what you would lose. That is why I chose this meeting place.</em> The traveler shifted back in his chair. The full sounds of the bar came storming back in—Aramil hadn’t even realized reality had softened.</p><p></p><p><em>You see that man over there,</em> he gestured toward one of the two still rolling about the floor, <em>his name is Danbury. He is the great, great, great, great, great-grandson of one of the most respected captains in the entire world. Or at least, at one time his relative was. But you see, that captain saw something—something he could not or should not have. As a result, he was forever after thought a fool and a drunk.</em></p><p></p><p><em>They share the same name. Only, this Danbury wanted to dig himself out of the drunken shadow cast by his forefather. So, he made a deal with me. The problem was he did not win—at least not completely. He played the game; he won some, he lost some. He has since managed to distinguish himself—and end the disgrace that was brought upon his family.</em></p><p></p><p><em>Today, he pays up on his end of the bargain. </em>The traveler turned to watch the brawl. Aramil was compelled to watch as well. </p><p></p><p>Danbury swung, landing a solid blow against his opponent. The other man stumbled back and away, a dazed, hollow look in his eyes. Danbury stepped in to finish the other man off.</p><p></p><p>A sound—a repetitive whirring—drew Aramil’s attention momentarily away from the brawl. A handless mug tumbled across the floor, rolling quickly toward the two opponents. The rogue’s eyes lifted, watching in slow motion as Danburry stepped forward for his final swing. </p><p></p><p>It was then that the sailor, the captain, set his foot upon the moving mug. His eyes opened in shock as his weight shifted backward, his final blow missed by inches. He was carried backward, both legs shooting into the air. Gravity slammed the hearty man headfirst into a tipped-over table and then just as mercilessly into the floor. </p><p></p><p>The crowd was silenced. The other brawler was beginning to come to—surprised at the silence. Danbury was crumpled upon the floor, lying in a pool of his own blood.</p><p></p><p>“And…how many times did he lose against you,” Aramil whispered. He was released from watching the brawl and turned back to his silver-eyed opponent. </p><p></p><p><em>Just once. Are you ready?</em></p><p></p><p>The rogue looked at his side of the table. Six bones had been spaced evenly on each side of the table during the fight. He swallowed hard. </p><p></p><p>“I can go home, after this?”</p><p></p><p><em>Yes.</em></p><p></p><p>“Okay…”</p><p></p><p>Each picked up their bones and tossed them into the air. Time slowed while they fell toward the table, toward an uncertain fate. Aramil closed his eyes and prayed.</p><p></p><p><em>Three.</em></p><p></p><p>“What?” Aramil’s eyes opened. He glared at the bones. </p><p></p><p><em>You won three times. Which means I won three times.</em> The traveler grinned. <em>Three times in your life I will help you. And then there will be three times when you will fail.</em></p><p></p><p>“How…how do I collect my earnings?”</p><p></p><p><em>Pray hard enough. I might hear you.</em> The traveler grinned and extended one hand toward the rogue’s face. <em>Now it’s time for you to go home.</em> His hand flashed in front of Aramil’s eyes. Aramil’s lids drooped.</p><p></p><p>Before he lost consciousness completely, Aramil thought he heard, <em>Welcome to the extended family.</em></p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Funeris, post: 2813408, member: 22792"] [b]Chapter 6: Fata Viam Invenient Continued[/b] Aramil’s eyes flickered open. Dim light filled his vision. Laughter drowned his ears. Where the hell was he? Was the light too dim to see or were his eyes just not opening? He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. He had been in a library—something about a deck of cards. Yes. But the library had not been dim. It had been well lit or at least bright enough for him to notice the opening for a room; a room behind a wall. The deck—it was all because of that damnable deck! There had been a woman that had become a sword, a corpse that had tried to devour him and a…his mind trailed off… The light surrounding the rogue increased just enough to note the details. Aramil was slumped against a wall, sitting on a rickety, wooden chair. Around him, dozens of people—Humans!—sat, apparently unaware of the rogue or at least not paying him any mind. The rogue’s eyes searched for an exit. His eyes followed the walls but there were no doors and there were no windows. Trapped. Aramil inched up slowly. He needed to move slowly, quietly—to keep them unaware. The djinn! And a wish. What was it he had wished for? The memory was incomplete. A shattering snatched Aramil’s attention to a small table. Two brutes, giant men, smashed their mugs of ale together. Their mugs split into dozens of pieces. Each eyed the other angrily—and then both were on the floor: punching, kicking and tearing. A table toppled; patrons watched and laughed. A tavern. He had somehow made it to a tavern. But where? And why couldn’t he remember how? Something isn’t right here. Godhood. He had wished for the power of a god. Was this tavern somehow related to that wish? All Aramil had truly desired was the ability to stop death—Gabrielle’s, Ana’s, his own and maybe Cassock’s; if the priest would stop blathering about his god. Cael had let Gabrielle die—if what the priest said was true. Cael could never be forgiven. A hand snagged the rogue’s shoulder. Automatically, Aramil’s hand reached for the dagger he kept hidden. It wasn’t there. His hand just grasped at cloth. Even his armor had vanished with the journey. [i]There’s no need for weapons here,[/i] a soft voice whispered. [i]As you can see[/i], an arm and hand hidden by gray cloth pointed toward the brawl, [i]there are other, less permanent methods for dealing with disagreements here.[/i] [i]Come sit with me, have a drink, and maybe play a game or two.[/i] The rogue could hear the smile upon the voice. Standing, against his better judgment, he followed the cloaked traveler to a small, empty table in the center of the room. They both sat, quietly peering at each other. The traveler was practically invisible within the folds of his cloak. Deep shadows covered his face, hiding all but a cocky grin. Aramil drummed his fingers against the table. He was uncomfortable with the man’s obvious staring. [i]You’ll forgive my manners[/i], the traveler said. One of his hands slipped into the folds of his robe. The rogue tensed. The hand came out, carrying two silver goblets and a small flask. Despite its obviously small size, the flask easily filled both of the goblets. The traveler pushed one over to Aramil. “Where am I?” [i]A good question[/i]. The traveler reached back into his robes—pulling out a velvet sack. Inside, solid objects clacked against each other as it was moved. [i]A better question, though, would be ‘Why’?[/i] “Why am I?” What kind of crazy question is that? No, there is something definitely not right here. Aramil glanced at the traveler’s hands, which grasped the bag. Each hand was a delicate, pure blue in hue. A thick, strange design danced up the sides of the flesh, entwining the fingers with archaic symbols. Definitely not right. The traveler chuckled. [i]No, not why am I? That question holds many answers—and none that are truly correct. The better question is ‘Why am I here’.[/i] “Fine.” If the strange man wanted to play games—Aramil would go along with it. As long as an exit, preferably a safe and easy exit presented itself soon enough. He glanced around the tavern again. “Why am I here?” [i]I have the answer to that question. You are here—[/i] he paused, as if to give the words more weight, [i]—to play a game[/i]. The rogue’s face screwed up into a look of confusion, drawing another chuckle. The velvet bag spilled open, bones scattered across the table. Each polished white bone had a number etched on each face. [i]You are a gambling man, are you not?[/i] “Well—not really…” [i]If you weren’t a gambler, you wouldn’t be here. Did you bring your own bones?[/i] “I don’t have,” he started. What was he doing there!? “No. And I don’t have any money or anything to gamble with.” A chuckle was the only response. Aramil felt anger flare within his chest. [i]I was thinking of gambling for something—a little less materialistic, actually.[/i] “Oh, and what did you have in mind?” Sarcasm and anger laced the words. [i]Your fate. It’s the only thing worth gambling for. And from the stories I’ve heard, it is what you like to gamble with as well. So, we’ll play for fate.[/i] Now he was astounded. How exactly does one ‘play for fate’? No, Aramil had always firmly believed his fate was his own to create. And now this traveler wanted to meddle with his fate. Something was not right. “What do you mean? If my fate is on the line, what do I get if I win?” The traveler chuckled again. Aramil was quickly growing tired of it all. [i]If you win, I will help you out. If you lose, I will ruin you.[/i] He lifted his hood, allowing it to fall to his shoulders. The traveler was delicate looking, almost fragile with his thin aquiline nose and large eyes. His orbs were solid silver and framed by the same delicate blue flesh, which also covered his hands. Silver wisps of hair fell to his shoulder, nearly covering the black etchings that drifted up either side of his face. Just above his nearly nonexistent eyebrows, a single symbol was tattooed into the flesh. Aramil had never seen anything like that traveler before. He immediately felt inconsequential. [i]What is more, whether you win or lose I will show you how to return home. But you’re probably curious as to what you would lose. That is why I chose this meeting place.[/i] The traveler shifted back in his chair. The full sounds of the bar came storming back in—Aramil hadn’t even realized reality had softened. [i]You see that man over there,[/i] he gestured toward one of the two still rolling about the floor, [i]his name is Danbury. He is the great, great, great, great, great-grandson of one of the most respected captains in the entire world. Or at least, at one time his relative was. But you see, that captain saw something—something he could not or should not have. As a result, he was forever after thought a fool and a drunk.[/i] [i]They share the same name. Only, this Danbury wanted to dig himself out of the drunken shadow cast by his forefather. So, he made a deal with me. The problem was he did not win—at least not completely. He played the game; he won some, he lost some. He has since managed to distinguish himself—and end the disgrace that was brought upon his family.[/i] [i]Today, he pays up on his end of the bargain. [/i]The traveler turned to watch the brawl. Aramil was compelled to watch as well. Danbury swung, landing a solid blow against his opponent. The other man stumbled back and away, a dazed, hollow look in his eyes. Danbury stepped in to finish the other man off. A sound—a repetitive whirring—drew Aramil’s attention momentarily away from the brawl. A handless mug tumbled across the floor, rolling quickly toward the two opponents. The rogue’s eyes lifted, watching in slow motion as Danburry stepped forward for his final swing. It was then that the sailor, the captain, set his foot upon the moving mug. His eyes opened in shock as his weight shifted backward, his final blow missed by inches. He was carried backward, both legs shooting into the air. Gravity slammed the hearty man headfirst into a tipped-over table and then just as mercilessly into the floor. The crowd was silenced. The other brawler was beginning to come to—surprised at the silence. Danbury was crumpled upon the floor, lying in a pool of his own blood. “And…how many times did he lose against you,” Aramil whispered. He was released from watching the brawl and turned back to his silver-eyed opponent. [i]Just once. Are you ready?[/i] The rogue looked at his side of the table. Six bones had been spaced evenly on each side of the table during the fight. He swallowed hard. “I can go home, after this?” [i]Yes.[/i] “Okay…” Each picked up their bones and tossed them into the air. Time slowed while they fell toward the table, toward an uncertain fate. Aramil closed his eyes and prayed. [i]Three.[/i] “What?” Aramil’s eyes opened. He glared at the bones. [i]You won three times. Which means I won three times.[/i] The traveler grinned. [i]Three times in your life I will help you. And then there will be three times when you will fail.[/i] “How…how do I collect my earnings?” [i]Pray hard enough. I might hear you.[/i] The traveler grinned and extended one hand toward the rogue’s face. [i]Now it’s time for you to go home.[/i] His hand flashed in front of Aramil’s eyes. Aramil’s lids drooped. Before he lost consciousness completely, Aramil thought he heard, [i]Welcome to the extended family.[/i] [/QUOTE]
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