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  #1  
Unread 9th of August, 2008, 17:49
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Chapter one : Narjul's Fury

The prow of the long ship cuts through the sunset bloodied waters of the Cyleni Bay like a lazy knife. Her normally boisterous Derbolg crew sit at their rowing benches barely breathing, their knuckle whitening on oar and sword hilt as they stare blindly into the thick sanguineous haze choking in on them. They are sea dogs, marauders and slayers to the man. They had laughed a hundred times in the face of death, and threw themselves wantonly at the spears and axes of their enemies, but now they sit in taunt silence in the face of some doom they cannot understand.

But Piletre understood. She had heard the dissonance in the flows of magic since they had left Tveirfljót the day before. Even now, in the eerie silence of the mist-shrouded bay, the magical song of the Æssence roars in her ears. Humans were deaf to the music of the Æssence, the primal energy that snaked across the face of Ærdûn in great rivers of magic. It is her elven blood that attunes her to its rhythms, but even at its strongest it never sounded anything like this. It is like the birth cry of a thousand babes, and the frothing scream of a thousand berserkers all in one. It is the herald of something monumental, and its dire import resonates in her guts with the same nerve-stealing anxiety that breaks before shields clash and broadswords ring.

The sweet, minty scent of spearmint pierces the acrid stench of the mist around her. Turning she watches as the great pale orc they picked up in Stortädstad pops another sprig of the herb into his mouth and begins to chew. Hvitrhamr is the name the crew gave him. White skin. The scent of spearmint clung cloyingly to him, even after he has finished chewing. He didn’t speak Derbolg, but he did speak a bastardized form of elven that was close enough to Vadric that she is able to understand him.

“Thrice cursed mist,” Hrafnir muttered under his graying beard, his rough voice sounds muted through the cacophony around her. The captain had been her father’s shield man and best friend for as long as she can remember. And like her father, she has watched him wither and grow old before her eyes. Soon she will be lighting his pyre, and singing of his deeds before their clan, as she did for her father.

As she will do for them all…

“What’s our depth Gorm?” the grizzled man calls from the styri. There is a splash as a wheel shaped rock tied to a rope is dropped off the prow.

“Five and a half fathom,” Gorm answers as he reels in the stone. He too is a recent acquisition, joining the day after they had arrived in Manndrap. Rumor amongst the crew had him as an exiled noble, fleeing from the icy isles of Valden, for reasons alternating from bedding the king’s daughter to killing a man and then refusing to pay his wereguild and everything in between. Regardless, Piletre doesn’t care; the boy knew what part of a sword had a point and he was easy on the eye. Life is too short to worry about anything else.

Hrafnir curses softly as he strains against the styri. Blinded by the thick mist they are moving too close to shore. Too close to the treacherous shoals of the northern bay, and, even more importantly, too close to the lands of the murderous Black River Tribe.

“Heave to the oars lads,” Hrafnir bellows. “We’re not for land ye…” A strange sensation washes over the boat, smothering the captain’s words. It is like a sound, but one so deep that it cannot be heard, only felt. For several heartbeats their teeth hum, and the links on their hauberks whine, then, as suddenly as the vibration started, it stops, and is replaced by the sound of rushing water. Under the boat the normally calm ocean churns like a swift mountain stream, and suddenly the long, clinker-built vessel begins to spin and lurch. Bedlam erupts as the rowers are tossed from their seats by their bucking oars. The air fills with the splintering of wood and the screams of men as the ship rolls on her side and grinds to a stop against the naked seabed.

Men, cargo and bits of wood and tack lay strewn across the seaweed caked ground. Rising shakily to her feat Piletre looks about at the surreal sight. Slicked stones laced with mollusks rise like jagged teeth from the sandy seabed, and all about them are stranded fish thrashing in the throes of suffocation. She begins to stagger towards the sound of groaning men, and a few drunken steps later she passes the broken mast and the crushed bodies of Svein and Geir. Unn lay writhing in the sand close by, a six-foot splinter of oar running through his gut, and a bit past him she can make out Njal; his long flaxen hair now red and matted with blood.

A faint breeze washes over the wreckage, and in the thinning mist she is able to make out the low profile of their overturned boat, and the prone figure of her captain near by.

Last edited by -J-; 25th of January, 2010 at 11:10.
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Unread 24th of August, 2008, 06:44
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Piletre starts toward the captain, but stops when she sees him start to start to push himself to his knees, it has to hurt with his left one twisted that way, but at least he's alive. One thing at a time Piletre thinks. "All right you dogs! Roll Call! Who's conscious?" Switching to Vadric, "Hvitrhamr you still with us?" Holding her breath, she starts to check on the fallen within view, and prays for a response.

The mist seems to cling to Ghostface; its tendrils blend against his limbs. Where do I begin? Briefly he wonders if he is dead, his senses muted and distorted. Sight almost gone completely white. Hearing distorted with echoes and tricks. Even his keen nose can tell almost nothing for the bitter unnatural scent. He finds his great club a few feet away, and with his stiffness knows he is still breathing.

In his broken Mirriandor, he replies to the warrior maiden's call, "Here! Hvitrhamr breathes. I come toward you." Cautiously he attempts to locate anyone or any sign of the ship from which he must have been thrown.

Piletre almost starts to cry with relief upon hearing the pale shaman, largely because she's fairly certain that he is the only one who might be able to do something for Unn. Also she has come to like the terse Orc; she has a feeling they would have much to discuss if they could only understand each other better. But there was no time for tears, nor time for relief, Svein, Geir, and Njal are very near dead and she still had no idea about the remaining eighteen members of her crew. She swore, if they were alive and making her worry for no reason, she'd kill them herself.

"I'm OK!" Gorm calls back in Vadric as he picks his way through the wreckage toward the sound of Piletre's voice. "It's Gorm. I'm coming to you."

A distant rumble quickly builds until the earth all around them seems to be groaning. The ground pitches and shudders beneath them sending the boat's survivors sprawling. The shaking continues for several heartbeats before it quiets.

Screw roll call Piletre thought, once again lying on the ground. "Everyone to me now!" she screamed. "We need help for the injured and then we need to get out of here double time." With fear in her vivid indigo eyes, she turns to Hrafnir, "Captain, weigh in!"

"The boat," he mutters as he uses part of an oar to pull himself to his feet. A spasm of pain washes over his face as he steadies himself on the makeshift crutch. "Get the boat righted." There is more than just pain blanching his features. For the first time Piletre sees what can only be fear in his eyes.

Forms appear from the mist slowly converging on Piletre's voice. Ghostface carries a sailor with a broken thighbone. A couple other sailors trail in his path. "We should make for shore," the large orc says in Mirriandor, "the sea may return."

"All things return to the sea," the captain says distantly. A spasm of pain brings him back to the task at hand. "Something has given great offense to the Lady of the Rolling Grey, see how she gathers up her fist to strike," he gestures to the barren seabed around them. "You could run for a league and still not escape Her grasp."

"Yes, but we must try..." Ghostface's voice trails off as he sees what the men are doing and it dawns on him what must happen. He nods to the captain's wisdom.

The sound of scraping gives way to a deep wooden thump as the flat bottomed boat lurches upright. The grunting sailors give up a rough cheer as the vessel wobbles, but their bravado quickly fade. A blast of wind howls around the boat, clearing the last traces of fog. In the distance the tall pines and maples of the Cylenis sway, a green backdrop to the rocky seabed that stretched like a great sandy crescent around them. The sailors' eyes widen with atavistic fear. Another blast of wind curls around the beached boat and her crew - wind nascent with the stinging smell of brine.

Hrafnir's hand latches onto Ghostface's pale, knotted forearm and their eyes meet. Gone now is the pall of fear, and in its place is a deep peace.

"Keep the girl safe," he says in a low voice, and gives the burly orc's arm a parting squeeze. In the distance a low pitched roar begins to grow.

The sea was returning.

Erik, J, Nikki & Paco
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Unread 31st of August, 2008, 09:08
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'Right' Piletre thinks, her stomach tightly knotted by fear. She turns to see the tattered remnants of her crew frozen in place looking towards the roar of the returning sea. For a moment she is stunned. Less than a mile behind them a wall of water churned towards them. "Get on the boat you knaves! Move!" She starts to follow her own advice and then runs to help Hvitrhamr with the captain.

With one hand on the side of the boat and the other couching the splintered oar, the captain placidly stares at the rapidly approaching wave. Behind him the great pale orc is hoisting men into the boat like bales of hay. Piletre rushes past and takes the old man by the arm.

"Captain! Let's go!"

"Get in the boat girl," he says flatly, pulling his arm free.

Normally Piletre would obey that tone implicitly, but not this time. "Uncle, there is no need for you to die here", her voice is also flat, her face mulish, "Now help me get you in, because I'm not getting in the boat without you."

“This!?!” Gorm interrupts, shouting from the deck railing at the fleeing men as his words grow loud and angry. “This is what has become of the get of Igvar the Black?”

He turns his head to the left and spits.

“The skein of your lives was woven long ago. Go," he motions with his hand as if shooing the men away, "be frightened bunnies and scurry away. You won’t live a moment longer than you’re supposed to." The anger in his voice turns to resolute fire, "Or stay with us and face the sea as men. Live. Die. That’s not our choice. How the songs will remember us is our choice."

Gorm kneels down and extends a hand to the captain.

“Captain, give me your hand.” The calm returns to his voice even as the wave looms larger, growing in the distance behind him. “I’ll help pull you up.”

The captain laughs deeply. "The Lady of Storms herself is coming," he says with a broad grin. "And I mean to see Her."

Gorm studies the captain for a moment. "I understand." His gaze moves from the old sailor out into the distance to the men who broke and ran. Two deserters, roused by his brief speech, who have stopped their flight as the rest continue on in their frenzied attempt to outrun the sea. The two stare back at him, eyes wide with hope that there is something he can do to save them. As he hears the rolling thunder of the returning sea behind him, he knows it is too late. They will never make it back to the ship in time. He closes his eyes, and says a quiet prayer, aware of the nervous shifting of other crewmembers as they settle into place--crewmembers who were a moment away from breaking and running until Gorm's words brought them strength. They, too look out at the stranded pair, thankful that they will not share the same fate.

Piletre shakes her head, knowing she has no choice but to accept Hrafnir's decision. Quickly so he won't see the tears in her eyes she kisses his cheek and climbs into the boat, Ghostface following right behind her.

Dragging the shattered remains of his leg the captain hobbles out away from the boat. Finding a solid patch of sand to dig his good foot into, he casts off splintered remnant of oar and slowly draws himself upright. The pain is horrific as the jagged spurs of bone twist and grind together but he doesn't care. Cold briney air swirls around him as the cresting wave looms before him, blotting out the sky. His nostrils flare wide as he drinks in the sweet scent of his lady and smiles.

Today is a good day.

Erik, J, Nikki, Paco

Last edited by -J-; 10th of September, 2008 at 10:18.
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Unread 21st of September, 2008, 10:54
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Just as the great white orc finishes hunkering down between the wood ribs of the keel the wave hits, lifting the sixty foot long boat off the ocean floor as easily as a man palming a small stone. The bitter tang of saltwater closes in blackly around the huddled crew as the sea’s cold fingers tear at them. In moments the thick spruce keel shatters spilling its contents into the swirling void of the deep.
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Unread 3rd of October, 2008, 07:45
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His skin suffused in the sea's pungent scent, Ghostface rises carefully disoriented to find himself on land. The ocean's anger lingers. The grasses covered in silt, shrubs laid flat, trees off kilter from the force of the wave.

Shaking his head wondering how he’s survived, his tongue finds something in his mouth. He takes out what appear to be fish scales shining in the sun. Strange. How did I reach shore? When he moves to pocket the scales, he feels the salt and sand drying against his pale skin but nothing else. Staring intently at the scales, he wonders again at his survival in such calamity.

Suddenly he lifts back his head and fills his chest before calling out, “Thank you, Spirts Unknown. Tell me your name that I may repay this debt.”

Nothing stirs in the exhausted flows around him. No presence watches him – them. For the maiden has risen and surveys their surrounding. She seems shaken but unbent though the sadness she carried has drawn closer about her, heavier.

He nods as their eyes meet. “We are alive. We remember the dead that they may remember us.” They stand quietly alone in their thoughts.

His eyes cast about for a suitable branch. He knows scavengers will return soon enough to the shore. Before he finds such a piece, he spies the young noble up a tree.

“Ho! We are not the lone survivors, Piletre. Here in this tree. And the great pale orc scrambles naked up the tree to unhook Gorm.
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Unread 4th of October, 2008, 10:07
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Piletre had been relishing the silence before the banging started. It is a harsh unmelodic sound, like a black smith hammering out a sword, only somehow more garish and without any rhythm. "Perhaps I’m in some perverse hell for musicians," Piletre thinks as the banging gets louder and starts to hurt her head. Still even this is better than surviving again if no one else has. The clanging now seems to be coming from directly behind her eyeballs. Yet, even as the banging becomes so loud that she can feel her ear drums thrum with every crass strike, it still seems better than having to live with the knowledge that your entire family has been killed - again.

Piletre feels a cool breeze move across her skin, and knows that she still lives. The banging was not part of some horrible afterlife; the banging was just her body telling her that she had a headache.

A headache. Yes, please, alert me to that. I’m sure it’s the least of my problems. The exhaustion of the flows seems to fill Piletre as she lies still and listens with her eyes still closed, hoping against hope to hear anyone other than herself move, groan, scream, anything.

It takes her quite by surprise when she actually does.

She opens her eyes as Hvitrhamir makes his joyful call to unknown spirits and wonders if he realizes that he is naked. Then she wonders if there is anything they can do about it if he does. “One thing at a time,” she thinks as she gets up and starts to look around to see if there is even a scrap of sail that they can use to clothe the Shaman or a bow or any type of weapon with which to hunt for food and clothing.

She manages to hold her ground as she is suddenly faced with the image of Sigrid and Aud, Svein’s twin 3 year old daughter’s, running down the dock to greet their father, who would scoop them up and lavish them with kisses and scratch their fair skin with his beard. They would never be so greeted again. She forces herself to continue to look around and meets the shaman’s eyes.

“We are alive,” he says. “We remember the dead that they may remember us.”

Piletre can find no answer for that statement. She continues to search the area as she fingers the pendant that is still miraculously attached to her wrist, and tries to deal with visions of the dead and those that survive them. Spotting her knife, she goes to pick it up, but she is suddenly looking into the serious blue eyes of Nannod, the Captain’s son. Thank the Gods that he had stayed behind this time to help his mother plow the fields. But what would he do now? What would he do when month after month his father did not return, without any news as to what may have happened to him? Could she –

“Ho! We are not the lone survivors, Piletre,” Hvitrhamir calls. “Here in this tree.”

Piletre looks up to see Gorm practically speared by a very large branch of a tall and slightly inhospitable looking tree. Still she can hold no grudge if the tree has managed to save another of her companions and she finds herself hoping that the orc does not inadvertently damage it in his mad dash to rescue their fellow survivor. Then she realizes that Hvitrhamir has no way to cut Gorm loose and dashes off to pick up the bronze knife she had spotted earlier.

Last edited by Tashiba; 4th of October, 2008 at 11:04.
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Unread 5th of October, 2008, 05:53
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From his forced perch, Gorm notices they are some distance inland. The evidence of the destructive force of the great wave can be found all about them throughout the broken landscape. Many questions remained unanswered. How had he managed to be thrown twenty feet into the air? How had this branch managed to slip between his legs, under his hauberk, across his back, and out through the neck hole without so much as a scratch? Had he fallen inches in any other direction, he would have been skewered. Fortuitous indeed, as is the approach of the great white orc, moving his way quickly up the tree to render assistance.

“Ghostface! I’m glad to see you still draw breath. Help me down from here and we can search together for survivors… and maybe some pants.” He adds the last part with a soft, involuntary chuckle and a smile. In the wake of such destruction, it feels good to still be alive.
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Unread 26th of October, 2008, 05:31
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Ghostface chuckles along with Gorm and replies, "The sea kept a reminder of Ghostface. You she hung to dry."

The rough bark helps him find a purchase along the bole and he thinks how much he owes the Mirriandor. He had never climbed a tree among the Heshenai and his feet still feel better against the earth. And without their words he would have had to sign both with this young Cyleni and the Derbolg.

His thick left arm solidly holds fast the trunk his whiteness stark against the dark gray tree and salty green needles. He tests the branch where Gorm is hung finding it springy and resiliant despite its thickness. Moving cautiously to another branch Ghostface puts his full weight on it and slowly pushes it down and away from the trunk. Satisfied both Gorm and the tree will survive the maneuver he sidles into position on Gorm's branch. "You'll fall but it should not be far."

Ghostface pushes steadily against the branch his thighs gleam taut in the sunlight his arms bulge at the effort. The angle is reached, and with a rustle against the needles Gorm slides off the branch deftly slipping into an easy three point landing. Piletre steadies the lithe Cyleni as he rights himself. The great pale orc clambors down slowly out of the tree and grunts in satisfaction when he returns to the sea-soaked soil.

"We three are lucky. Why did the sea let us live?" He shakes his head in wonderment. "Come! Let us see if any others fared as well."
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Unread 14th of November, 2008, 12:10
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Piletre was dumbfounded. They were both right - they had all three survived and this was a good thing. Her pending sense of doom was probably just due to the almost complete lack of flow and her memories of losing her family.

Finally Piletre offers up her first real smile since she had woken. "Yes, let us find the others. Let us gather up what we can here and get going."

With that she goes back and picks up her knife and the rope she had found before she realized what Ghostface was going to do.
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Last edited by Tashiba; 14th of November, 2008 at 12:13.
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Unread 24th of November, 2008, 08:43
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A quick search of the surrounding area turns up a few more useful things. The splintered trunk of a maple yields a serviceable club for Ghostface, and Piletre finds several yards of sail wrapped around a tree. But again it is Gorm’s wyrd that grants the greatest boon – a large skin of water miraculously whole, and a five-pound wheel of hvarti, its wax coating still unbroken.

After fashioning some simple sling packs from the sailcloth, the group builds a small fire from the ample forest detritus to dry their clothes.
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Unread 25th of December, 2008, 08:29
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Sitting on a rock near the campfire, Gorm claps his hands together and rubs them briskly as he holds them close to the fire for warmth. He rubs his shoulders and arms vigorously to keep out the cold. Across from him, Piletre inspects the drying clothes.

“Everything dry?” He makes it a question.

“Just about,” she says.

“Good.” Gorm addresses his companions. “I’ve been thinking. We follow the coast, and we’re bound to find some civilization eventually. In the meantime, I figure the three of us combined have enough combined experience to find food and shelter along the way.

Gorm looks toward the horizon. The sun wasn’t yet touching the sea, but it soon would.

“It’s going to be dark soon. If the sky is clear, Piletre may be able to get us a bearing and give us a rough guess as to where we are. We should probably stay here for the night and then head out in the morning. Does that sound good to you two?”
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Unread 30th of December, 2008, 11:57
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Piletre nods as she checks the clothes and the pale orc grunts in agreement. A heavy silence settles on the small camp, a silence born of absence. Gone are the sounds of their family: the twins and their bickering, the captain and his tall tales, and the Hvardssons and their incessant gambling. Now there is only the faint hiss and pop of wet pine as the fire flickers smokily.

Ghostface is the first the hear it - a distant crack, like that of a breaking twig. Nose upturned, the orc sniffs the air.

Sulfur.

Blood.

Man.

Someone is coming.
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Unread 5th of January, 2009, 02:49
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Piletre turns toward the sound, grabbing for her knife, even as the hope that someone in her family has found them blossoms. Still better safe than sorry.

"Who approaches?" she demands, with as much authority as possible, when holding on to her dinner knife as her only weapon.
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Unread 5th of January, 2009, 06:06
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Gorm silently picks up his hand axe and turns so that the light of the setting sun would not interfere with his ability to scan the woods.

Who would it be? Another survivor, or perhaps a less friendly resident of the area?
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Unread 30th of January, 2009, 13:56
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His stare is transfixed upon the tree in front of him. It is a maple. The bark is rough and knobs jut out here and there. Upon its trunk ants scurry by the hundreds. They all move with their own intents that resemble chaos but preserve order. He scratches his shoulder, poking at it and looking surprised to find nothing there but flesh and muscle. He runs his thumb over the skin. It is smooth and unblemished. He is thin, with ribs that peek beneath his flesh. His jaw is angular. His fingers are long. His eyes smolder with an intensity uncalled for the observation of ants.

Standing there, bare as the day he was born, his skin is flushed. A fine sheen stands out on his brow despite the relative cool of the air. He is hairless, but he runs his hand along his skull all the same. Perhaps it is out of habit.

Looking back at the ants he continues to watch their progress. A dozen of them have fetched a leaf and are carrying it. Most are moving in the same direction yet several pull in the opposite. None of the majority mind this. They struggle onward as a group, fighting the resistance and moving toward their home in the ground. He squints at them, widens his eyes, and then squints again. They will not divulge their secrets.

Abruptly, he leaves the tree and strolls through the brush. The sound of waves and beach is near. He breaks through the last bit of ferns before the first dune comes into sight. He crests it, leaving craters in the sand, and finds several people standing on the beach. They are armed. He is naked. He does not appear to notice.

Fixing his gaze on each in turn, something unreadable crosses his face.

“Are you real?”
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Unread 4th of February, 2009, 12:43
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“What a curious question,” Gorm replies in a tone both playful and careful. He strokes the hair on his chin thoughtfully as he calculates his response. He looks to Ghost Face and Piletre for some indication of their intent. Perceiving none, he continues to represent them in their guest’s curious interrogation.

“Do you mean to question whether I am some apparition conjured up from the expanse of your imagination, or do mean to ask me if my words and actions reflect my actual intent?”
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Unread 6th of February, 2009, 04:53
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Piletre shakes her head; Gorm must have been as shocked by their guest's manner as she to choose to discuss word games with a naked man who is obviously half starved.

She breaks off a piece of cheese and after putting her knife away offers it up to the strange man with the unnerving stare.

"We are as real as the rest of the Gods' imaginings. What is your name friend?"
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Last edited by Tashiba; 6th of February, 2009 at 11:32.
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Unread 7th of February, 2009, 23:44
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The pale orc stands and adjusts his new canvas loincloth. He follows Piletre's lead, takes a swig from their jug of wine and offers it to the stranger with a tusky smile.
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Unread 13th of February, 2009, 13:04
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Brow furrowed, his head cocks to one side. Eyes burn with what must be fever and they flick between the three before turning past them and out to sea. The waves roll and crash on the strand, leaving frothy fingertips. Further down the shore gulls wheel and dive, a riot of feathers and plaintive cries. Their yellow and black eyes are crazed and alien.

His eyes look down at his feet, dirty and cut in places. When he speaks again, it is little more than a mutter. “If they are not apparitions to haunt me, is it my fate to torment them?”

A decision seems to pass through him, rippling deep within, and he looks back up, appraising each in turn. He approaches the tusked one. Taking the jug into his hands he does not stop walking. He strides past the trio, his legs showing a faint tremor of fatigue. Sand darkens and turns wet beneath his feet. The first bit of sea licks at his toes and then ankles and then calves. Onward he plunges, up to his thighs and then his waist. The jug is raised to his lips and he takes a long pull before stopping it and disappearing beneath the waves.

Moments pass. The sea does not care. He is nothing more than another bit of flotsam bobbing in her kingdom. Another passes, and then a dozen more. He holds himself under, feeling the frigid cold peel the heat off his body with a ravenous grasp. A minute passes. His eyes open, feeling the salt and brine sting them. He is real. He is alive. Feet plant on the sand and then thrust.

His head and shoulders breach the surface, arms held out to each side. The jug lolls in the water next to him, and he sprays wine out of his mouth—a gift to the sea. One long finger hooks the handle and drags it with him as he wades back out of the sea, water streaking off his body. He hands the jug back to the tusked one with a nod.

He stands there, dripping. Some of the frenzy has left his eyes.

“Rowan.”
  #20  
Unread 14th of February, 2009, 05:03
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With concern the broadshouldered orc watches the man smelling of sulphur and blood stride into the sea. He takes a couple steps forward in the sand, his wide splayed feet pushing into the sand ready to dive into the surf for. This human seems injured or lost of his senses. No, a ritual. Gratitude for being alive.

This the Heshenai understands more than words. After the man says his name, Ghostface shouts out from deep within his belly the dawn call of buck elk high on its ridge glad of the morning mist and drinks deeply of the wine now flavored of the sea. The orc's call reverberates across the shore, and the gulls frenzy grows agitated. He passes the wine to Gorm, nods solemnly to Rown, taps his chest and says in Mirrian, "Ghostface."
  #21  
Unread 14th of February, 2009, 05:35
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So the newcomer has decided not to drown himself after all. That is a good sign.

Gorm accepts the wine jug from Ghostface. He drinks deeply, then hands the jug to Piletre. He is unfamiliar with the language in which the newcomer first spoke, but the second attempt was in the language of his people. Such is Gorm's wyrd, as his knowledge of other tongues is limited.

“I am Gorm. Welcome to our camp.” He says the words slower than usual, more out of regard for Rowan’s current mental state than his command of the language. “Please, come sit and warm yourself by our fire. Would you like something to eat?”

Last edited by Paco; 14th of February, 2009 at 05:39.
  #22  
Unread 19th of February, 2009, 05:55
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Piletre accepted the jug of wine from Gorm, but she did not drink.

When Gorm asked the stranger - Rowan - if he wanted something to eat, she again offered him the cheese she had broken off for him earlier.

"I am Piletere." she said, gruffly in Derbolg. The stranger's flirtation with death had made her angry for some reason and she was having trouble being polite to him.

Switching to Vadric she states, "Ghostface, It looks like we're going to have to hunt tomorrow. The nights are cold and we may not always be able to risk a fire. You and Rowan are both going to need actual clothing to survive. I just hope you can figure out how, because I've never hunted without a bow before."
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Last edited by Tashiba; 22nd of February, 2009 at 16:50.
  #23  
Unread 19th of February, 2009, 13:12
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“Ghostface. Gorm. Piletere.”

Rowan intones each with gravity, as if trying to imprint the essence of their names into his mind. His chest rises and falls with deep breaths; his heart hammers against his flesh, struggling to escape. Eyes glittering with wild intelligence fix on each of them, studying who they are. For the first time he ponders who they are and how they came to be marooned on this cold beach. Strange, though, that he still feels nothing of the chill that sweeps through the beach. Perhaps he will feel it tonight. Perhaps he will never feel it again.

“Hunt,” he says. The words now feel thick in his mouth. His tongue struggles to work its way around them. He scowls and bends it to his will. “Yes. Spears. Are you shipwrecks or castaways? Have you any provisions?”
  #24  
Unread 20th of February, 2009, 15:48
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Piletre, taking her cue from Gorm, spoke slowly to the stranger. "We were shipwrecked," she stated. "And what you see is what we possess."

Looking more closely at the stranger she noticed that he really was exhausted. Knowing that he probably would not listen, she decided to make the suggestion any way. "Rowan, you should sleep. You're legs are starting to shake again. We can all get to know each other in the morning."
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Unread 24th of February, 2009, 04:19
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The orc raises an eyebrow and his smile falls when Piletre does not drink of the wine, but their ways are not his and he says nothing though she seems angry at their guest.

His visage grows dark when she suggests he can't handle the cold. Does she think me a child? But he softens after a moment, though he and his ittimaska had all gone a fortnight in winter snows growing up, he hadn't considered how vulnerable these humans might be. And so the pale orc nods and says simply in Mirrian, "Yes, we find food tomorrow. Tonight we huddle by the fire."

Rowan's voice sounds less feverish as the three talk. Ghostface contents himself staring into the fire.
 

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