Post by gathera on Feb 11, 2007 12:14:13 GMT -5
It was a long walk back from Waymoot but the sun filled sky has made it a pleasant one. Both miles and time quickly vanished into the warm fall day as the rhythm of my steps ate up the leagues. The midday sun basked me in its pleasant glow as I started up the pathway to the vale. I was still a brisk walk away from my home when something of the day did not seem, as it should be.
“Strange” I mutter, shivering slightly. I quickened my pace along the winding path down to my familiar glen. I am not sure what it was that I first sensed. The stillness of the air or the acrid sent of smoke.
“That man does love his tea, curse him if he stoked the stove full again” I laughed feebly trying to break with the ominous feeling of dread that had suddenly befallen me. Something is wrong; something is out of place here. The raucous chatter of the little songbirds that greet me each and every day when I enter the glade is missing. Only the silence of my steps fills my ears. Small doubts now begin to worm their way into my thoughts.
From here I should be able to see the bridge by now but it is lost in a thick gray haze. The hair on the back of my neck rise, a faint whiff of smoke assaults my nostrils. Its harsh scent builds as I enter the now still glade. The smoke is a thick hazy film, hanging fetid and bloated clinging to the ground. Still the silence remains. Phantom shapes swirl in the smoky mist winking out then vanishing back to the gloom. My hand flashes to my side grasping only air, “Old habits die-hard”, I mutter. Still a blade might be needed, as my hand circles to touch the reassuring hilt of a small knife tucked in my belt.
Halting, my eyes scan the glen as I grip the daggers’ hilt hard. A cold swirling wind has picked up, parting the smoky veil. Shattered splintered fragments of a hen house peek out from between smoky tendrils. Thin wooden fragments decorate the landscape as a mosaic of ruin. Few wild things near here would have the power to split the wood as fine. A bear might. Maybe. Softly and slowly I step forward taking the measure of the land with each small step. Ahead strewn madly about lay the carcasses of several hens. No bear this, orc, ogre or worse. Only an axe or heavy sword might have the power to split the wood so and only something of that ilk would leave meat to rot.
My dagger out held steady in front of me I advanced up the pathway. Still the eerie silence remained. A miasma of fresh blood and smoke fills the air with a palatable thick presence. My heart hammered away in my chest as my lungs choke on the thick ash and smog.
I barely stammer out “Its.its gone”. My mind numbs as the sudden realization strikes me. Nothing was left, only a black and gray smoldering landscape where once a cheery home had stood. It was gone, completely gone. My every thing reduced now to this residue of ash and smoke. I scream out “Aelrik” until I thought my lungs would burst scattering clouds of cinders and dust about in a mad panic to find him. The latent heat of the ground scorched the soles of my boots blistering my feet but still I ran headlong into heart of smoldering ruins. Then through the fumes and swirling haze it appeared. Standing as a silent sentential over the destruction, an ivory tower of artic chill. At the foot of the alabaster obelisk a few scraps of clothing had incredibly survived the fiery inferno. Shielded by the pre-natural chill, smoldering fragments of a purple cloak fasten diligently to fire-blacken mail half buried in the debris. My hands blister painfully as I wrenched the scorched remains free from the wreckage of the house.
“No” I shriek, my voice cracking. Tears well up staining the purple scraps. “No not him too, not Aelrik, gone” I shudder sinking to my knees my body wracked by sobs clutching the fragments desperately to me. Over and over call I call his name as if my grief could summon Aelrik back from the flames.
I don’t remember how long I remained so. It was night now and moonlight had coloured the landscape gray. Small glisten patches of frost had decorated the landscape sparkling as jewels in the moonlight.
I stared out over the ashes, little remained of the dwelling only a few smoldering embers. My happiness; my joy has been stolen, taken from me forever. The bitter taste of ash fills my mouth. Fire consumes all it touches and now only the ice remains. One small cinder catches my eye and I scooped up the fragment placing it gently with in my pack. It is all that’s left to me now, my memories and this.
A cold northern wind has picked up now. The faint moan of the wind whispers to my ear drawing me across the clearing to my shrine. Whispering words gleefully drawing me onward. As I walk by each shimmering fleck of frost winks at me mocking my failure.
“No” is all the words my ash caked throat can utter. Stiff and ice-rimed my golden haired faithful friend lay dead. I knelt quietly taking the braves dogs’ head into my lap. I croak out a small prayer for his passing but it sounds hollow to my ears. The cracking of fire-brittle branches snaps me back from my reverie.
What once had been my refuge, my sanctuary lay also in desolate ruin. The flames had touched even here as the once riotous wild flowers lay as a mat of twisted black threads. Fragments of broken pottery were strewn about everywhere, a carpet of sharp shards cast before me to greet my entrance. At the end still standing over the small glen, my lady, an old elm tree ancient and strong. In the patterns of its bark once tales of my faith could be seen. Now just a single story remained in the twisted fire split wood. I have failed the Watcher and she has failed me.
My tears are all gone now. None remain. Who, what could have done this. The wind whips up the ash scourging my skin. I know it is still here, calling me. I bend down to scrape through the soft warm loam. Softly, tentatively, reluctantly at first barely moving the soft earth with my fingertips. The warm soil parts easily at my touch as a lover might respond to my caresses. I can smell the warm heavy musk of the loam as my hands scoop it way. The earth it longs to give up what lies buried beneath. Each touch of my hand brings me closer. Sweat drips from by brow as my hands rapidly scour the soil. Deeper I dig into the moist earth, faster until all at once my hand freezes against cold dark metal. Trickling beads of sweat slowly meander down my face and I stare my hands trembling outstretched above the blacken metal. Only the harsh noise of my panting breath breaks the silence. It lays there still half covered by the dark musty loam. Tenderly I brush away the few remaining clumps of earth.
You cannot bury the past forever. The holly leaves that had once tightly wrapped the package are brittle and brown with decayed. Even the heavy leather once white is now damp and black, the scraps of cloth now moldering away. The harsh glint of metal winks out from between black dirt, beckoning me. Carefully I cradle the black leather wrapped bundle as I draw it up out of the dirt drawing the cold steel to my chest. Kneeling crooning I begin to delicately unwrap the blade. Jet-black steel glistens warmly back at me.
“Yes, yes I it was wrong of me to hide from you.” As I lean down to softly kiss the cold steel “ I will never put you aside again.”
“I have need of you” as I spin the blade lazily in my hand. A quick flick of my wrist and the blade whistles its response slicing the air as it arcs in a familiar pattern
“There will be none others before you now” smiling grimly. “None”.
The morning’s light brought only the hard task of burying all that had fallen. There is no place for me here now and only one task left to perform. All that remains is cold steel and a colder heart.
“Strange” I mutter, shivering slightly. I quickened my pace along the winding path down to my familiar glen. I am not sure what it was that I first sensed. The stillness of the air or the acrid sent of smoke.
“That man does love his tea, curse him if he stoked the stove full again” I laughed feebly trying to break with the ominous feeling of dread that had suddenly befallen me. Something is wrong; something is out of place here. The raucous chatter of the little songbirds that greet me each and every day when I enter the glade is missing. Only the silence of my steps fills my ears. Small doubts now begin to worm their way into my thoughts.
From here I should be able to see the bridge by now but it is lost in a thick gray haze. The hair on the back of my neck rise, a faint whiff of smoke assaults my nostrils. Its harsh scent builds as I enter the now still glade. The smoke is a thick hazy film, hanging fetid and bloated clinging to the ground. Still the silence remains. Phantom shapes swirl in the smoky mist winking out then vanishing back to the gloom. My hand flashes to my side grasping only air, “Old habits die-hard”, I mutter. Still a blade might be needed, as my hand circles to touch the reassuring hilt of a small knife tucked in my belt.
Halting, my eyes scan the glen as I grip the daggers’ hilt hard. A cold swirling wind has picked up, parting the smoky veil. Shattered splintered fragments of a hen house peek out from between smoky tendrils. Thin wooden fragments decorate the landscape as a mosaic of ruin. Few wild things near here would have the power to split the wood as fine. A bear might. Maybe. Softly and slowly I step forward taking the measure of the land with each small step. Ahead strewn madly about lay the carcasses of several hens. No bear this, orc, ogre or worse. Only an axe or heavy sword might have the power to split the wood so and only something of that ilk would leave meat to rot.
My dagger out held steady in front of me I advanced up the pathway. Still the eerie silence remained. A miasma of fresh blood and smoke fills the air with a palatable thick presence. My heart hammered away in my chest as my lungs choke on the thick ash and smog.
I barely stammer out “Its.its gone”. My mind numbs as the sudden realization strikes me. Nothing was left, only a black and gray smoldering landscape where once a cheery home had stood. It was gone, completely gone. My every thing reduced now to this residue of ash and smoke. I scream out “Aelrik” until I thought my lungs would burst scattering clouds of cinders and dust about in a mad panic to find him. The latent heat of the ground scorched the soles of my boots blistering my feet but still I ran headlong into heart of smoldering ruins. Then through the fumes and swirling haze it appeared. Standing as a silent sentential over the destruction, an ivory tower of artic chill. At the foot of the alabaster obelisk a few scraps of clothing had incredibly survived the fiery inferno. Shielded by the pre-natural chill, smoldering fragments of a purple cloak fasten diligently to fire-blacken mail half buried in the debris. My hands blister painfully as I wrenched the scorched remains free from the wreckage of the house.
“No” I shriek, my voice cracking. Tears well up staining the purple scraps. “No not him too, not Aelrik, gone” I shudder sinking to my knees my body wracked by sobs clutching the fragments desperately to me. Over and over call I call his name as if my grief could summon Aelrik back from the flames.
I don’t remember how long I remained so. It was night now and moonlight had coloured the landscape gray. Small glisten patches of frost had decorated the landscape sparkling as jewels in the moonlight.
I stared out over the ashes, little remained of the dwelling only a few smoldering embers. My happiness; my joy has been stolen, taken from me forever. The bitter taste of ash fills my mouth. Fire consumes all it touches and now only the ice remains. One small cinder catches my eye and I scooped up the fragment placing it gently with in my pack. It is all that’s left to me now, my memories and this.
A cold northern wind has picked up now. The faint moan of the wind whispers to my ear drawing me across the clearing to my shrine. Whispering words gleefully drawing me onward. As I walk by each shimmering fleck of frost winks at me mocking my failure.
“No” is all the words my ash caked throat can utter. Stiff and ice-rimed my golden haired faithful friend lay dead. I knelt quietly taking the braves dogs’ head into my lap. I croak out a small prayer for his passing but it sounds hollow to my ears. The cracking of fire-brittle branches snaps me back from my reverie.
What once had been my refuge, my sanctuary lay also in desolate ruin. The flames had touched even here as the once riotous wild flowers lay as a mat of twisted black threads. Fragments of broken pottery were strewn about everywhere, a carpet of sharp shards cast before me to greet my entrance. At the end still standing over the small glen, my lady, an old elm tree ancient and strong. In the patterns of its bark once tales of my faith could be seen. Now just a single story remained in the twisted fire split wood. I have failed the Watcher and she has failed me.
My tears are all gone now. None remain. Who, what could have done this. The wind whips up the ash scourging my skin. I know it is still here, calling me. I bend down to scrape through the soft warm loam. Softly, tentatively, reluctantly at first barely moving the soft earth with my fingertips. The warm soil parts easily at my touch as a lover might respond to my caresses. I can smell the warm heavy musk of the loam as my hands scoop it way. The earth it longs to give up what lies buried beneath. Each touch of my hand brings me closer. Sweat drips from by brow as my hands rapidly scour the soil. Deeper I dig into the moist earth, faster until all at once my hand freezes against cold dark metal. Trickling beads of sweat slowly meander down my face and I stare my hands trembling outstretched above the blacken metal. Only the harsh noise of my panting breath breaks the silence. It lays there still half covered by the dark musty loam. Tenderly I brush away the few remaining clumps of earth.
You cannot bury the past forever. The holly leaves that had once tightly wrapped the package are brittle and brown with decayed. Even the heavy leather once white is now damp and black, the scraps of cloth now moldering away. The harsh glint of metal winks out from between black dirt, beckoning me. Carefully I cradle the black leather wrapped bundle as I draw it up out of the dirt drawing the cold steel to my chest. Kneeling crooning I begin to delicately unwrap the blade. Jet-black steel glistens warmly back at me.
“Yes, yes I it was wrong of me to hide from you.” As I lean down to softly kiss the cold steel “ I will never put you aside again.”
“I have need of you” as I spin the blade lazily in my hand. A quick flick of my wrist and the blade whistles its response slicing the air as it arcs in a familiar pattern
“There will be none others before you now” smiling grimly. “None”.
The morning’s light brought only the hard task of burying all that had fallen. There is no place for me here now and only one task left to perform. All that remains is cold steel and a colder heart.