Sidoran's blog

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*laughter*

PWS: You’ve got balls, old man. Disgustingly wrinkled ones, but still.

SS: Says the girl with the rotting mosquito tits. By the way, that information you gave me? Little misleading.

PWS: Hey, I told you what I heard and what I saw. No more, no less. You’re the one who jumped to conclusions.

Day 1
Sid woke to find himself dangling twenty feet above the ground.

He looked up. His parachute cloak was tangled in a pear tree.

He looked down. His flying machine was a total loss—fragments of it were imbedded in his legs, his arms, and his side.

“Souvenirs,” he muttered.

He laughed and passed out again.

Sometimes it felt like the world had gone mad. Felsworn, pretenders to any number of thrones, cyborgs, mad bombers, killer constructs… Sid knew he was forgetting a lot of entries in the growing list of woes, but he was too tired to think much on anything. Not wanting to risk falling asleep in the saddle again, he left his charger stabled in Tranquilien and trudged home on foot. He found no opposition on the road, Scourge or otherwise, and it was just as well. He wasn’t in the mood for any more bullshit. He felt a delirious sense of relief as he approached the estate, that was until he noticed the letter attached to the gate. It was held to one rusting metal bar by what looked like a small magnet.

((The following is a response to this post, as well as an allusion to something else entirely.))

Sidoran sat in his office and chewed on the tip of a fresh quill pen. He hated formal letters, they required him to dust off long disused knowledge and put it back to work. At least military communiqué allowed him to stick to the damn point without all the florid wording. He took a pull from his flask for inspiration, then dipped the pen in the inkwell. His sense of propriety came back to him more readily than he would ever admit, but he got around that by throwing certain rules out the window. Address etiquette? Fuck it.

Miss Irihapeti,

In the wake of the recent changes in the government, copies of the following poster appear around the Silvermoon City…
((image and further explanation below the cut))

1.
Long ago, in a darkened bedroom, his father was dying.

He weakly beckoned. Sidoran reluctantly obeyed.

Trembling arms pulled him uncomfortably close.

The house was very quiet at night. Sid dismissed the servants after finding the note. It didn’t seem like there was any real need to keep them around. Left alone with his thoughts in the bedroom, he still wasn’t sure how he felt about it all. No, that wasn’t exactly true. What he felt was a strange sort of relief, he just wasn’t sure what he thought about it all. It was probably for the best. If he didn’t die from old age, she was going to die from her condition. And, mortality aside, it wasn’t as if he could stop her from… being herself. That didn’t mean he was going to admit that Patience was right. Not to her face, anyway. He took the ring from the bedside table and turned it over in his hands. He didn’t need to say anything to her, returning the rings said everything. What he really needed was to stop keeping company with Forsaken, they took far too much pleasure out of the misfortune of others. Then again, maybe they were entitled, the rotten bastards.

One last stone, and then it was done. Sid turned it over in his hand, examining the faintly glowing rune that was etched on one side. He still wasn’t sure how it all worked, or why the new runes had to be buried at various places within the grounds instead of around the fence. Supposedly it meant for better, more discriminating protection than the slapdash and potentially fatal ward his family had left. Sid still had his doubts, mostly because he had a feeling most of the enchanters in town were dipping heavily into their own supplies of magic dust. The blighted tree standing at the garden’s edge was the last designated position of power. Sid knelt down and buried the stone near one of its gnarled roots, then read the eighth phrase scribbled on the scrap of parchment. A faint glow radiated from the soil in response, and for just a moment he thought he could see threads of blue light stretching away from it. The light faded before he could make out exactly what the pattern was.

OFFICER’S REPORT (FILE COPY)
Case #: 481516
Reporting: Sir Sidoran Sunlash, Chief Security Officer of the Legion

(p.1) Regarding the Sexual Assault and Aggravated Harassment of Rhosyn (hereafter referred to as “the Victim”),

I interviewed the Victim early on the morning of 26/4. The statement she gave, paraphrased here due to technical difficulties with the recording equipment, was initially very similar to the statement given to Convocate Sebastien Kerwin (File Missing) and coincides with the report from Doctor Jakobus Nachtengaal ([url=http://www.rp-haven.com/blog/jakobus/report_regarding_rhosyn_delivered_lady_aramalia_solisbane]File Attached[/url]). New developments are detailed from Paragraph 3 onward, with notes included for the benefit of fellow investigators.

A lot could change in the course of a week. It was difficult for Sid, who was used to letting entire decades slip by unnoticed, to take it all in without getting a headache. Then again, the headache likely had more to do with the punch than anything. Suicide punch was something he invented back during the darkest days of the war. He couldn’t remember which war exactly, but he vividly remembered the desperation that inspired it. Thus was born a creative distillation process involving dirty socks, rotten fruit, and a shaky grasp of responsible fermentation. The first fabled batch rendered at least one soldier temporarily blind. Even now, after trading socks for a proper still, the concoction could easily double as an accelerant. Sid would drink nothing else.

The House Vaults within Silvermoon City’s bank looked more like crypts to Sid. Maybe it had something to do with the rows of doors bearing nothing but a family crest. It took a bit of searching to find his—a curving line branching into nine flames. He was vaguely surprised the crest still responded to his touch, but the real shock came when the door opened.

The chamber was standard for a noble house, big enough to hold all its fortunes, plus any heirlooms meant for future generations. The Sunlash vault contained all of four things—a signet ring, a worthless deed, a small sack of coins, and a lacquered wooden box. The pitiful inheritance wasn’t what distressed him, he always knew the family would piss everything away. The problem was the box. The sight of it alone was enough to make his back ache. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the memory, but he could already smell the dusk blossoms…