The Highwayman and a voice from the deep.
The sun was at his back in the early morning, a thick fog having settled over the forest which grew in all directions around him. Even had he a map or compass, he would have been lost; and as one pine seemed just as any other, it was all the tired man could do to keep moving. He became more aware of his injuries with every step, and carried himself with a limp aimlessly searching for either some sign of life beyond the forest or a place he could safely rest. Blood and sweat clung to his brow and to his beard, the salty metallic taste of it urging him to stop and rest.
There was sparse signs of life in those woods beyond the flapping of wings above the trees and the uncaring routine of small creatures, but even had there been the man would have difficulty noticing it for the ringing in his ears and the blur of his eyes. Added to the fog, he may as well have been blinded.
And so it was that he stumbled through the woods, pushing his way through the brush to find some respite. Here and there the forest would grow thick, and in his daze the gnarled, black trees seemed to come alive, the hollow parts in them stretching and yawning, mouthing a litany of accusations which he turned his beaten head from.
It was not until the sun was beginning to set that he came across an old well near a clearing with some vague outline of a cabin behind it. What caution he had was silenced by the hunger in his belly and the thirst of his lips, and he nearly collapsed on the smooth stone well which promised blessed water. Summoning what was left of his strength, he scrambled to raise the bucket from the bottom, and it yielded a great reward for his efforts. He closed his eyes as the first touch of cold water splashed across his face and into his waiting mouth, eagerly drinking until he saw nothing but the dark bottom of the bucket before him, and took pause for his senses to return.
Feeling somewhat restored, he gathered enough presence of mind to become aware of just how dire a setting he found himself in. He was able to speak, but could think of nothing to say; his reason for being there, how he had arrived, the beach, the bodies, the ship, even his own name were as ghosts drifting away in the misty recesses of his mind. All he could feel is that something terrible had happened, a looming dread that whatever his reasons for being there had been by his own doing, his own grievous error.
Wiping the grime from his face, he took account of his person. Caked in mud and sand from head to toe, he found himself with no weapons, no means of defense, and nothing personal save for a string of cracked crimson beads that had somehow managed to stay wrapped around his wrist. His clothes were simple, and around his torso he had the remains of a standard which he felt both dread and comfort in seeing, a worn rag which seemed to have seen its own share of horror.
He couldn't think but he was still thirsty. As he rose to his feet, he was greeted with a metal tube attached to a wooden stock and a solemn figure on the end of it, whose puzzled expression was mirrored at the one who he pointed the gun at.
"Who the hell are you?" It was the accent of the man speaking which he took note of before hearing the metal hammer drop and the resounding crack of a bullet ejecting speedily from it's barrel at him.
It was an older weapon, one used during the wars. A man squeezed the trigger and out came it's noisy cargo. And then there would be smoke--on the older weapons, of course--which could make the battlefield a chaotic place indeed. A commander who used such crude but effective instruments required patience, several sound strategies to allow a variety of outcomes, and thorough use of messengers and methods of communication. It was something the man had learned a long time ago.
Far away from the gun shot, deep beneath the waves in the wreckage of a great airship, it's proud scarlet hull smashed to pieces, gilded chocks and bitts drifting about the still intact forecastle, there was a messenger of sorts. A box, whose Spartan exterior belied its importance, carried the message through the waves towards anything capable of receiving it. A blind messenger but a relentless one.
"This is Chaplain Olaff Isenkopf of the LS Serapis! Our hull has **** breached and we are descend--******* the sea over Giln**! The Twilight's Hammer is responsible for this, they ***** the engine room and detonated *** *** ******! To anyone receiving this, do not seek the crew, it's captain, or the remains of the ship if you value **** *****. [pause] Let this serve as a warning to the ****, that the machine can never------"
Message repeats.
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((Olaff! :o Hopefully the
((Olaff! :o Hopefully the Chaplain will be all right. As for the remains of the Serapis...very mysterious, and reminds me of old conversations between Chaplain and Priestess. Looking forward to seeing where this goes!))
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Alt chars: Daevra, Alynore, Lormar, Aerella
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Avatar by Luneaus
Yshri Vinguld recieved the
Yshri Vinguld recieved the missive from her stern-faced, solemn messenger with a warm smile.
The missive dropped from nerveless fingers before she finished reading it in its entirety. A moment later, Yshri herself dropped into a limp heap.
(( Ouu la la! If you get'im killed, I'll kick yer bum, Olaff, I sware I will! ))
(( Great job depicting the
((
Great job depicting the single-minded desperation of something as 'simple' as thirst. Gilneas, eh? That might fix Olaff's baldness issue. Nice to see ol' grumpy bastard back, though! :)
So the Twilight's Hammer put a Frenchman in the engine room and he detonated a lantern in a barrel of brandy? Cursed cultists and their nefarious plans! ;)
))
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"(I) know what art is! It's paintings of horses!"
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((Oooooo....
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Sir Thomas More: I think that when statesmen forsake their own private conscience for the sake of their public duties, they lead their country by a short route to chaos.
When a man takes an oath, he's holding his own self in his own hands like water, and if he opens his fingers then, he needn't hope to find himself again.
(( <Awaits nervously the
(( <Awaits nervously the rest.> Also, good to see a familiar face! ))
((Poor Olaff. No rest for
((Poor Olaff. No rest for the weary...only bullets?))
"Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you've got about a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of, babies—God damn it, you've got to be kind."
-Kurt Vonnegut
Couldn't have happened to a
Couldn't have happened to a nicer bunch.
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Good to see you back.
))
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And for anie displeasure, that they apprehend to be done unto them by their neighbours, they tak up a plaine feid against him, and (without respect to God, King or commonweale) bang it out bravely, hee and all his kinne, against him and all his.
- Basilikon Doron, James VI
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Man will never be free until the last king is strangled with the entrails of the last priest.
-Diderot