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Author Topic: Excerpts from the Segem Story Arc  (Read 1484 times)

Carillon

Excerpts from the Segem Story Arc
« on: October 27, 2008, 10:42:34 am »
For your reading pleasure ... excerpts from the journals of Jaelle Thornwood and other assorted writing relating to this series!
 
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Carillon

Re: Excerpts from the Segem Story Arc
« Reply #1 on: October 27, 2008, 10:43:23 am »
... On the subject of enchantment spells and bending minds, I shall have to speak to Aryell about something the next time I can catch her for a lesson. I have been meaning to ask her whether there is any way to tell whether someone's mind is truly bent to your will, or whether they are merely acting the part. I helped deal with a bandit problem very recently in Vehl, and one of the bandits proved blastedly strong-minded. Incredibly so, actually. And a cursedly good actor to boot. Not only did my enchantment spells not take, but he was able to pretend they did and it was very difficult for me to be certain. That just will not do. When I enspell someone to get information from them, I need to know that information is correct. Luckily I caught most of his lies before we left him hidden and bound, drugged by one of my sleeping draughts, but it made our task much more difficult and was embarrassing.

I do not like to be embarrassed. He paid later, for that and for other things. His superior had captured four children, two boys and two girls, and was holding them hostage. He proposed a trade: us for them. Unfortunately, there were too many arrogant fools in our company who don't understand the principles of negotiation and bargaining. There is a time and a place for bargaining, but there are some people who are too mad, too powerful, too arrogant or too desperate to bargain. When dealing with them, persistent attempts to take control of the situation will only escalate tensions. Tensions escalated, alright. Due to the bumbling efforts of several of our would-be negotiators, including the Ilsaran cleric Alleina and Brian's father Rain, all four children were killed. One of the girls had her throat cut first, and then the other three were slaughtered during the ensuing struggle.

The first child's life being lost was a tragedy, but perhaps can be excused by my companions not realizing how serious the situation was. They thought they could outsmart our foe. It's a flimsy excuse, but it is an excuse. The other three are inexcusable. Their selfishness and stubbornness cost those children their lives. Throats slit and necks broken, they were cut down because we were too proud to bow our heads. Even I would have done it, I think. Traded myself for ransom, I mean. I am sure there is a price you can set on a child's life. Everything has a price. I reckon the price as considerably higher than my own pride, though. All the bandits were killed, but it is little consolation. I heard the children were taken to the temple in Vehl and raised, and are being kept there until they are claimed or someone decides what to do with them. I plan to go and visit on the morrow.

The bandit I had drugged paid some of the price. I admit, I was angry, and the others had forgotten him. I hadn't. I went back, and waited until he awoke. I am quite certain my face was not a welcome sight, pretty as it usually is. I had no looking glass with me, nor would I have stopped to check if I had, but I believe I looked quite frightening. My blood boiled with rage and I could feel the magic crackling all around me. Lightning magic has been my focus lately, and I could feel the hairs on my head lifting a little into a wild black mane as I sought the power within me. That would have been too easy, though. I didn't want it to be easy. And I wanted information. We took it slow. Very slow.

I expected to feel something afterwards, but I didn't. Not what I was expecting, at least. I just felt rather calm. His soul was black, as was his heart, and his mind was twisted. I have no doubts about that, so I do not feel bad about killing him. It made me think about Steel and his Dread Blade axioms though. I am not sure he would approve. Maybe he would think it was unfair to keep the thug restrained with a spell while I hurt him. No matter--I didn't feel like giving him a sporting chance.

He talked, in the end. Nearly everyone will, unless they are so crazy their minds have already broken. Senseless tragedy. The children's father crossed his boss, and he killed the man and took his offspring. There were other details too, all worth knowing though none important enough to mention here. I did not enjoy his pain, though I expect he enjoyed it less. By the time he was done talking he was already broken. I just killed him. A light touch, almost a lover's caress, and he burned from the inside out. Perhaps Steel would approve of the fact I met his eyes as he died, at least, cupping his face gently with both hands to fuel the fire, feeling the Al'Noth pour through me ... Fire magic is so easy when you are angry. My own protections and resistances protected me from most of the heat so I held my hands there and watched the flesh burn from his face, layer by layer, until there were no more screams and even the bones were nothing but dust.

I scattered the ashes so no one would look askance if people remembered him and came looking for him. No one even asked, though.
 

Carillon

Re: Excerpts from the Segem Story Arc
« Reply #2 on: October 27, 2008, 10:44:17 am »
Jaelle hesitates outside the temple, pacing back and forth restlessly. She hadn't gone herself. Not at first. She hadn't come until she had heard from one of the others that the children were still withdrawn and traumatized.

Why she had chosen to come even now, it was difficult for her to say. She suspected it had something to do with the memories that came flooding back when she pictured the terrified eyes of the boy and girl she had seen alive, and the wave of sick, crushing guilt and pain and anger she had experienced when she saw them laid out with their brother and sister, all four bodies bloodied and broken. There were older memories mixed in too, of a little dark haired girl in a lonely swamp missing her father. Of the same child, barely recognizable as a younger, innocent version of herself, clutching her mother's dead body and weeping. Of blood seeping into the black mud of the swamp ground, and her mother's dead eyes staring back at her. She knew what it was like to be afraid as a child. She knew what it was like to have seen terrible things, and to have had terrible things happen to you.

She glances up at the gold dragon outside the temple, wishing for the umpteenth time they had taken them anywhere else. She has no love for the Rofireinites, but this was more important. Finally, she picks up her packages and enters the temple.
 

Carillon

Re: Excerpts from the Segem Story Arc
« Reply #3 on: October 27, 2008, 10:51:01 am »
I've been visiting the children in the temple. It took me a while to get there, in more ways than one. For one thing, I've never liked the Rofireinite temple. I avoid it whenever I can. I always feel like the dragon's eye is on me, boring into my soul. For another, I do not have fond memories of this place. I remember coming here with Muireann to answer Jennara's questions after the fiasco with Kali's little thug. We may not have lied, but nor did we tell the whole truth, and I can't help but wonder if that will come back to haunt me one day.

I suppose if I am being honest, it is also because I knew it would hurt, to see them. My preliminary inquiries revealed they were traumatized by their ordeal. It is no little thing, to die and be brought to life again, and it takes a heavy toll on the spirit. Some spirits or souls seem to endure it better than others, but if children are resilient they are also fragile, and the scars they acquire in youth will not be easily shed later in life.

I speak from experience. I know that now.

I spent a long time, thinking about how I would do it, and what I might do once I was there. Praise the stars and sky that the temple is by the ocean. Listening to the waves go in and out, I was able to think clearly. Still, it hurt. It hurt to remember.

Is it in our nature to impose our own stories on others, as if they were so many blank pages to be written on? These four are not me. They are a story unto themselves. And yet I can see the dark thread of my own childhood caught up in the pattern too, and the memories flood me. I hear my father's voice in the waves, and I see my mother's eyes and that beautiful face, so like to my own, twisted in death.

I did not expect it to hurt so much still, after so much time. I thought I had become numb to it by now. Perhaps it is because their loss is so fresh, so raw still, the wound still weeping freely. Perhaps that is why their pain tugs at me so, and why I see so much of my child-self in them. Little lost children, all alone now, their world as shattered as their broken hearts. Oh, they have had company. They have had no end of company and visitors, all of whom come with loud voices and cheerful smiles and toys and messages of hope and joy and comfort. Or so I have heard. I wonder how many of them realize how quickly children learn to wear brave smiles as masks. I did it once, when father did not come back, to protect my mother from my grief while she dealt with her own. Our silence protected us from each other's pain for the most part.

It shows most when they are alone, or when they do not know anyone is watching them. The older three forget to be brave then, and the masks slip a little. You can see it happen, if you watch closely. I may not be good with children, but I know how to watch. They curl up within themselves again, pulling away from the world. I think I know where they go. There is a place somewhere deep in the mind, made of numbness and soft grey hues. I remember that place. It is the place you go when it hurts too much and you think you will die from the pain and the sadness and the fear. I think the little one, Liam, went to that far away place and never came back. A whispering voice inside my head worries he may have gone too far, far enough no one will be able to bring him back.

There is a difference between grief and this kind of wound. Grief is present in our everyday lives. We are saddened by the deaths of friends, and by bad news. It is a pain born of loss, and one that will heal in time. It does not change who we are. This other pain is a wound that can fester all too easily, though. It is a pain that goes beyond loss, and into the realm of terror and irrationality. This wounding pain is worse than grief, because it reminds you that you are helpless. I know no other way to describe it but as trauma, pure and simple.

When I finally went I went quietly, aiming to be unobtrusive. The first day, I brought herbs with me, and a mortar and pestle. I remember pacing outside the temple, back and forth, under the dragon's eye. When I asked for the children and told him I had been there when they died, the priest did not seem surprised. Other visitors had come before me. He led me to their room, and left me there with them.

I remember hovering on the threshold for a moment before entering, watching them. There they were, all four, just as I remembered. Except I hadn't seen all of them in life. The oldest, who I guessed to be around eleven or twelve, looked sullen and defiant. His brown hair looked shaggy, like it needed trimming. He looked like he wasn't paying attention to anything, but I could see the tension in the lines of his body, in the way he held himself. Poised for flight.

His sisters were beside him, their faces like the dark and light sides of a single coin. Two girls cut from the same cloth, but very different. The older one had sharper features and dark hair. Her eyes were dark too, and full of anger. She reminded me of nothing more than a black cat, claws extended and ready to hiss at anyone who got close. The littler one was fairer, in both senses of the word. Pale hair and blue eyes. A pretty child, and softer than her older sister. Quieter, too. She lacked the older one's restlessness. Her grief was pretty too. She made you want to reach out and cuddle her, to comfort her. I remember thinking men would want to comfort her when she was older, if she couldn't heal and leave some of her wounds behind. They would be drawn to her like moths to a flame. I knew that one from experience too. There is a powerful allure to a wounded woman. Men always want to save her.

It took me a moment to see the youngest one. He was curled up in the corner, a little ways away from his siblings, his jaw slack and his expression distant. For a moment I thought he was staring at something. Then I realized there was simply no one home. His eyes were almost as empty of life as if he had still been dead.

I didn't need to make much noise to alert them to my presence. They were already watchful, more alert than other children would have been. Jumping at shadows. I remembered that too. I forced myself to smile and say hello softly, and then I did something much harder: I forced myself to ignore them. I found a little corner in the room to sit in, and unpacked my herbs and mortar and pestle and went to work. It was difficult not to look up, not to watch them. I could feel three pairs of eyes boring into me, but that was alright. I was an intruder in their little sanctuary, and I suspected it would take a while for them to become accustomed to my presence. In all honesty, it was the absence of the fourth set of eyes that bothered me more.

The first afternoon was the hardest. They were uneasy with my unfamiliar presence, and I didn't blame them. I let them watch me, and tried to relax into my work. My pestle scraped against the mortar again and again, pounding the little dried leaves into fine dust. Every so often I would tip the contents into a little folded envelope or funnel them into a vial and put a few more dried leaves in the bowl. The fair-haired girl--Lissa, as I later learned she was called--showed interest first, but her older brother and sister held her back from investigating, I think. They were suspicious of my presence, and protective of their little sister. I didn't blame them.

Things had settled a little by the time I left. I got a lot done, in those few hours. That first afternoon they relaxed just enough to whisper amongst themselves, but they kept their distance. I didn't mind. I have spent a lot of my life in the solitude of the swamps with only my own thoughts for company. An afternoon of quiet is no great trial to me, and I can be patient when I want to.

The second day was easier. I brought the herbs again, and also some sheets of parchment and inks and quills. There are a few runes I have been having trouble with when scribing, and practicing their forms in mundane ink would do me no harm. They noticed me right away when I came into the room. Well, three of them did. Again, I greeted them quietly, pleasantly, and then got right to work. I could tell they were already more accustomed to me by the way they spoke more freely with each other. I watched them out of the corner of my eye. All three older children were curious today. I tried to hide my smile and waited. It didn't take very long.

What are you doing? I looked up to identify the source of the soft voice. It was the younger girl, Lislea. Lissa, as her siblings called her. I wasn't surprised she was the first to speak to me. Lissa, don't talk to her! the other girl hissed. Rhiannon. Rhia. I am drawing pictures, I told Lissa, ignoring Rhiannon's whispered warning. Do you want to see?

She did.

Every day since has been a little better. I try to go each afternoon, choosing the quietest time of the day. I bring herbs with me, and parchment and inks, and objects I have picked up in my travels. They are responding, slowly. They are no longer wary in my presence, at least, or as guarded. And I can watch them now.

Lissa likes to draw pictures on my parchments in all different colours of ink. They are just a child's drawings, just pictures, but you can read the meaning in them like the symbols on a scroll or a message written in code. Her bright, cheerful butterflies have sharp teeth, and she draws the sun in dark colours. They are troubled pictures. When she draws herself or her brothers and sister, the figures are shaky, as if she is no longer quite sure how to represent them, or herself.

Rhiannon likes to help me with my herbs. I talk to her about them, explaining what each one does and how to use them. I am not sure it matters to her. I think she just likes being able to pound them into dust. She is full of anger, full of more rage than a ten year old child should have to know. Her rage overwhelms her fear, hiding it, but I think it is still there underneath. She is as fierce as a tigress, always talking about revenge.

Finn, the eleven year old, still doesn't quite trust me. He keeps his suspicions largely to himself, but they are there, under the surface. When his parents were killed, he tried to protect his siblings. When they were all killed as well, I think perhaps his faith in humanity was severed for good. He tolerates me ... even seems fond of me. He likes my little illusions, and all the sleight of hand tricks Elmater taught me during our sessions. We have had a little fun together, even. But he is always waiting for the knife in the back, watching for the betrayal.

And Liam, little Liam. He was the first one I saw, the one the half-orc held over the cliff, the one whose neck was snapped with as little remorse as one might slaughter a fowl for supper. The trauma was too much for him. It broke him. Not once, in all my visits, has he said a word or shown any interest in what is happening around him. Most of the time, he is like a silent, living doll, a constant reminder of what the children have endured. I have taken to sitting next to him so he can at least feel my presence, and to signing to him as well as speaking to him. If he ever chooses to communicate again, I am not sure he will use his voice. At least this will give him another option. Right now, the hurdle is not communication of any sort, though. It is sitting up on his own, and chewing his food rather than letting it run down his chin. If there is truly hope for Liam, recovery is a long way away.

And so it goes. I visit nearly every afternoon, not knowing what the day will bring, or if today will be the day they choose to talk about what happened, or their parents. For now, I hope my quiet presence brings them some comfort. At the very least, I will settle for doing these children no more harm.
 

Carillon

Re: Excerpts from the Segem Story Arc
« Reply #4 on: October 27, 2008, 10:52:57 am »
... Seeing the children again was a strange joy. I found myself thinking of them often when I was in Spellgard, and I think they were part of the reason I made such haste to return. I find myself growing rather attached to them in a strange sort of way, and I think they have grown attached to me too. The older ones seem to look forward to my visits now, and one of the priests said they asked after me when I was away. I did tell them I was going, to be fair. I thought it best to warn them, as they have had enough cruel surprises in their short lives.

I think they are mending, slowly. It is so hard to tell, because it is such a gradual process and there is so much healing to be done. They still don't like to talk about it much, but every so often there's a little hint at how much they keep to themselves. The priests tell me they have nightmares from time to time and still have trouble falling asleep, but I haven't pushed them to talk about it. Finn and Rhiannon are especially reticent, in some ways. I suspect it's harder for them, being older. They don't want Lislea to see their fear or their weakness so it's never discussed. Their unspoken fears coalesce into a big dark demon that lurks in the shadowed corners of every room, watching silently over everything they do. Actually, that's almost how Lissa drew it, the one time she did: a great dark shape surrounded by smaller shapes. It wasn't until I asked her about it and she told me that they were the “bad men who killed mummy and daddy” that I noticed the little figures in the corner of the parchment. Even the smallest of the dark shapes was much bigger than the huddle of little stick people trying to scramble off the page.

I worry for them all, but I worry for Liam the most. Not that the other three don't have their own issues still. Lissa wants to be touched all the time, as if she is afraid of being alone. She seeks comfort wherever she can find it, even from near strangers. And Rhiannon has grown no less angry with the world, and Finn no more trusting of strangers. Liam is without doubt the most wounded, though. He still has not spoken, nor responded to anyone's attempts to communicate. What progress he makes is painfully slow and to strange eyes it must look like he hasn't changed at all, but he has. He does more than lie on his side now. He sits on his own. If you spoon food into his mouth, he will actually chew and swallow without prompting. Small measures of healing, but after fearing there was no hope at all they are like giant leaps and strides ...
 

Carillon

Re: Excerpts from the Segem Story Arc
« Reply #5 on: October 27, 2008, 07:40:09 pm »
The sun was shining as Jaelle shifted the leather bag on her shoulder. The gold dragon statue watched her do so, and she fought back the urge to stick her tongue out at it, or make some rude gesture. After so many weeks of daily visits, she had finally grown more comfortable with the Rofireinite priests and they seemed to accept her presence in the children's rooms, but still she never lingered there after her time with the children was done. Their temple would never be a place in which she would feel at home.

She thought about the last few weeks as she mounted the steps to the temple, and how much the children had changed. They seemed better now, and those odd strained moments were becoming less frequent. One of the priests had also told her that the nightmares were coming less frequently now. Liam still hadn't spoken or showed interest in anything around him, but there was change in him as well; it was merely that the change came more slowly. Observing it was like trying to watch a tree grow or a flower blossom: one only noticed the difference when one compared it to what it had been a week or a month or a year ago.

She was looking forward to her visit today, even more than usual. She had perfected her latest illusion last night, and was planning to coax a smile out of Finn with it. She had also brought a little wooden carving with her that Oriana had sent from Corsain, along with her latest gown. It depicted one of the Corsainese cities before the fall—though Jaelle did not know which one—and she thought the children would like to see the slanted roofs of all the buildings.

These were Jaelle's thoughts as she crossed the temple threshold. So absorbed was she that she didn't hear the priest call her name. He had to hurry over and touch her arm as she walked toward the corridor leading to the children's room, and at first she couldn't make out what he was trying to say. An uncle? Impossible ... they had no family in the city. (She had inquired, of course.) That Liam had shown the first spark of interest last night ... her heart quickened a little at that, and she forgot the other thing for a moment, distracted by the happy news. That he was sorry that she had not had a chance to say goodbye ... and then she realized what he was telling her, and her eyes widened in surprise: the children had been claimed.

The first suspicion was like an icy blade through her gut. Later, she would not be able to recall exactly what the priest had said, but she would remember the strange feeling of dread and certainty. The uncomfortable sensation that made her suspect the bottom had fallen out of her stomach only deepened when he handed her the letter. Some distant part of her mind registered his words as she unfolded it. He was saying that the uncle had specifically left it for her when he had heard how much time she had spent at the temple with the children. He had told the priests he wanted his gratitude to be known.

And then she heard nothing more from the priest, and knew only the words on the scroll that shook in her hands as she read:


Rarely have so few caused me such bother.

As such, though I usually take no pleasure in the pain of innocents,
I shall spare these four children no hurt, no pain ... no suffering will
remain unknown to them.

Know this: that my words are truth—not threats, just promises. And
this burden shall be yours to carry evermore.



As the Rofireinite priest watched her reaction with growing concern, Jaelle uttered a heartfelt curse and stared at the letter in disbelief.
 

Carillon

Re: Excerpts from the Segem Story Arc
« Reply #6 on: October 27, 2008, 08:47:24 pm »
Lady of Storms bring a curse upon that villainous, treacherous, deranged, truculent half-orc bastard! And the entire Rofireinite church with him! How? How could this have happened? How could even the sniveling, rules-bound Rofireinites have been this utterly foolish and careless? Of all the times for senseless bureaucratic restrictions and useless regulations and endless paperwork to have had a cause, this would have been it! Could they not have at least checked that the half-orc was who he said he was before handing over the children to him?!

I still cannot believe it is true that they are gone ... slipped through our fingers somehow. I sensed some form of enchantment or charm on the priest, though my mind was too clouded by anger to fully puzzle out the details of how he had done it. That he was intelligent, we knew. That he was this cunning and damnably hard to kill, I had no idea. He was dead. I saw his body on the hill, bloody and lifeless, and was glad of the sight.

Bound. He was bound to the stones—it's the only answer that makes any sense at all. Why we didn't take precautions against such a possibility, I don't know. But it is too late now. He has them, and he taunts me with the knowledge. He even had the audacity to leave a letter for me with the priest, bragging of his triumph and the cruel fate he had in store for them: "no suffering will remain unknown to them." I shudder to imagine the horrors they will endure for our foolishness, and our carelessness. That it is our fault, he left no doubt. He said as much in the letter, which I read as the priest stared at me in shock.

I have done everything in my power to rectify this grievous error on our part. I thought to scry the children's location, but I was not certain our bond was strong enough. Instead, I went to their room in the temple, looking for some belonging that might serve as a focus. Too late—that room he had utterly wiped of their presence, as if they had never existed. Indeed, I might have doubted I had the right room, so empty was it of evidence of their presence, save the scrap of paper I found in the corner: "I've made the one mistake you'll ever see. You'll find no more here."

Curse his blackened soul, and may it rot forever in the Pits. I'll not give up so easily. A few hours on the docks and a lot of coin later, I found my first solid lead. A dockhand saw a half-orc escorting four children onto a small craft, bound east. I could feel the surge in my blood at the news. If he wants a fight, then I will bring one to him. This will not go unchallenged. I will call upon the aid of others and make certain the children are brought back safely, and then I will find a way to destroy him. I will end him, if it means dragging his twisted essence down into the Pits of Strife myself, and binding it there.

Since that first lead and the accompanying surge of hope, I've managed to track the boat's passage to a wreck east of Vehl, near the border between Co'rys and Ulgrid. The wreckage was spotted by locals and reported, and my inquiries confirmed that the description was close enough to match. They found it still smoldering, and the bodies of the crew discarded on the beach, throats slit or otherwise murdered. I did not linger over the details, but I can imagine the scene. The charred hull of the boat would protrude up into the air, like some strange corpse washed ashore. It still bothers me that boats have the names of body parts: ribs, knees ... in this case it bothers me because I can imagine the ruined remains of the fishing boat and picture instead a small child's body.

I have sent the Rofireinites, frantic to make amends for their mistake, to secure the scene, and have sent for a tracker. We fight the hourglass though; the rain and the elements will soon wash away their tracks and leave no hint of their passing. I refuse to let them disappear entirely, and have written to those responsible for their initial death, as well as those I trust most, beseeching aid. Connor and Anna came to the temple during their stay and spoke with the priest, so I have sent for them as well. I pray they come swiftly. I fear we do not have much time. I do not think he will kill them right away—no, he will make their suffering as prolonged as it is unbearable. Still ... how long will their young spirits endure the tortures of the flesh? And what will happen if we cannot find them in time?
 

Carillon

Re: Excerpts from the Segem Story Arc
« Reply #7 on: October 28, 2008, 01:25:09 am »
She lay in the bed by the little window and listened to the anxious tap-tap-tap of rain against the glass. Or almost. Her body lay in the bed, but her mind was wandering elsewhere, far away. In her mind's eye, she was on a beach. The sea was behind her, and allies around her, and the snow-capped mountains before her. The tracker was at her side too, pointing out the sign of the children's passage. Child-sized footprints in the ground, crushed over by much larger prints, or perhaps snapped twigs or a brightly-coloured thread snagged on a gorse bush—these were the ways in which they would find them.

She reminded herself that it was not her fault. It was not her fault that her current condition prevented her from travel. It was not her fault that she was confined not only to this house and this room but also to this bed while Finn, Rhiannon, Lislea and Liam were out there, dying by inches every day. She had done all she could. She could not go herself. The clerics had said it was too dangerous at this point in the pregnancy. She had been set to defy them and go anyway, but then there had been a scare and a lot of blood, and she had finally accepted that it was as they said: if she went, she would lose the child. They could heal her, but she would have to stay in bed for at least a week while her body gathered its strength again and fought to keep this tiny babe, so bent on survival, alive.

The raindrops beaded down the window, and she watched them fall like tears. She shed no tears herself, though. Her tears would do no one any good, would make no difference at this point. Over and over like a mantra, she told herself it was not her fault. That she had done all she could. When the words lost their meaning and guilt threatened to claim her anyway, she began to pray.
 

Carillon

Re: Excerpts from the Segem Story Arc
« Reply #8 on: October 28, 2008, 01:34:07 am »
I do not know how to write this. It has all gone wrong, worse than ever before perhaps. I still remember the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when I learned that the half-orc had come for them, and then the quick-blossoming hope at tracking them to that boat wreck on the border of the Ulgrid Kingdom. But now ... what is there to hope for now? I did what I could but it was nowhere near enough. I sent the rangers after them and wrote letters to all who I knew would aid us, but my delicate condition prevented me from following in person, though my heart ached to do so.

And they bogged it up.

I want to think I would have been smarter, that I could have navigated the twisting path through the half-orc’s mind and won his game. That I could have controlled Alleina’s foolish, impetuous and costly temper tantrum ... but likely I could no more have saved them this time than the first time, when he held Liam over the cliff and snapped his neck because I could not rein in my compatriots. I now doubt my presence would have made a difference.

Connor and Anna sent for me as soon as they arrived back and I was well enough to travel. Seeing Finn sleeping safely in their bed my heart began to race, and I looked around for Rhiannon and Lissa and Liam. They were not there, and I tasted bitter fear.

They told me what had happened, more or less. It is difficult to remember the precise words. I remember them asking me things, and not hearing. I remember going outside and blasting fire into the sea until I shook with the power flowing through me, but it was not enough. My rage was like a living thing, fueled by fear and, I now realize, guilt as well. Guilt for not being there. Guilt for not being able to save them.

I tried to harden myself when they told me. I used to have such a thick shell for these things. I should have been able to hear it without reacting, but I could not. Not for these children, these four, these ... I love these children. I do.

I emptied the contents of my stomach into the sea when Connor told me how the half-orc had voewed to have one of the girls abused and defiled and then drawn and quartered for Alleina’s actions. I do not remember the path that took me from the couch to the edge of the sea outside the front door. It was instinctive flight, pure and simple. I needed to run from that knowledge, for I know this creature and he keeps his word.

Connor shamed me out of that grief, out of that expression of rage and fear and guilt and pain. He apologized for it later as we stood by the scrying pool, the touch between us somehow awkward. He spoke of his son, and I understood his fear. He trusted Alleina. He should have trusted me. He should not have shamed me out of voicing my grief in whatever form it took, but in doing so he gave me a way back to my older self, the one who screams in silence. I heard the rest of it, and fed Finn soup later. I let myself be angry with Connor but other than that I pushed all emotion so deep it could not show.

Anna and Connor took some air then, while I watched the child. The [very foul expletive] poisoned him, and though they gave him the antidote he is still weak. Worse, he wakes in terror in the night, screaming and lashing out. At least he wakes, though. One of his sisters will soon not draw breath, if she has not already met the worst end that [another impressive expletive] could conceive of in his twisted mind.

I know Anna is grieving too, as is Connor. She tried to make excuses for him as I sat with Finn. Later, while they walked and Finn slept once more, I found myself wandering their house. I could find no purpose for my motion, so I let myself drift from one object to another. I touched the keys on the piano, washed a few dishes, read the titles on the spines of the books on the shelves. I ended up at the scrying pool, beneath the statue of Lucinda, Lady of Magic. I thought of how many times Connor had stood with me at that pool, directing and guiding my magic. I wondered what I would see if I tried to scry on the others.

What happens when you try to scry on the dead? Would I know from my attempt which of them he had killed? Or would I become an accidental witness to either Rhiannon’s or Lissa’s last moments on this plane, and find myself confronted with an image of a broken body as it struggled for air, struggled for escape, struggled for life? Would Lissa struggle? I do not know. She might go gently, cowed into submission by pain and horrors she should never have had to experience. Rhiannon would fight to her last instant, I want to believe. She has a strong spirit that would be hard to break. I like to think she would take her anger and outrage at what was done to her and press it into a hard little stone or a hot ember to keep at her core, hidden. I hope she would hold this secret defiance until the last beat of her young heart, and that they would have nothing from her that they did not take.

It is foolish to believe that one cannot be broken. Anyone can be broken. I broke the half-orc’s man when we first claimed the children, when I went back and tortured every last shred of information from him. There are things that a living body and a living spirit cannot endure. It is only a matter of pressing hard enough upon these points, and waiting. They would have broken her, before the end.

Even these last futile hopes quickly perish, and leave only the gaping hole inside me where the monster lives. I want to hurt them for hurting these children, and far worse than whatever torments they have inflicted on others. I want to challenge the limits of my creativity and take them to the brink of madness and death, over and over. I scare myself with the depth of my bridled rage. I do not know how to be good in a world that contains so much evil.
 

Carillon

Re: Excerpts from the Segem Story Arc
« Reply #9 on: October 28, 2008, 05:04:21 am »
Jaelle sat bolt-upright in the bed, startled out of reverie and back into consciousness. She remained frozen, listening, trying to determine what might have woken her. For a moment, her eyes struggled to make sense of the geometry of the dim room, lit only by the moonlight that filtered through the small window. Then she remembered where she was, and sighed. Pushing the quilted cover off the bed, she stood as quietly as possible, taking care not to let the floorboards creak under her shifting weight. She reached for a shawl from the back of a chair and wrapped it around herself. The fire had died down in the other room, and the night air was chill against her skin.

Pushing the door of the little guest room open, she tiptoed into the main room of the Krandor house. She paused at the hearth, deliberating whether to add wood to the fire which had been banked for the night. It was cold in the house, but not cold enough to really bother her. The notion that years of easier living had begun to make her soft passed through Jaelle's mind and she almost smiled. She had endured far colder nights alone in the swamp.

Passing the fire by, she tiptoed into Connor and Anna's kitchen. The hinges of the well-oiled wooden door barely groaned in protest as it swung open to accommodate her. A pot of cold tea stood on one of the surfaces. It had not been there when Jaelle had retired for the evening, which meant that someone—probably Anna, Jaelle thought to herself—had made it at some point during the night. Jaelle swirled the dark liquid in the pot, trying to assess its age, and then decided that she simply didn't care. She found a clean mug in one of the cupboards and poured the cold tea into it, then cupped the mug in her hands.

She wondered, briefly, whether her small use of magic would wake Connor in the next room. Probably not, she decided. The three of them had been taking turns with Finn during the night, and all three were beginning to show signs of exhaustion from lack of sleep. Closing her eyes, she poured heat energy into the mug of tea until it was a more palatable temperature, and took a cautious sip. Not bad. She paused again to assess the sounds of the house, judging the timbre of the silence to determine whether Connor  had woken. No sound came from the bedroom to suggest that he had and she relaxed.

Cradling the mug of tea in both hands, she wandered out of the kitchen. To a human, it would have been very black. To her elven eyes, the dark room was more of a grey, twilit hue, easily navigable. The bookcases stood in silent vigil, observing all that took place. Lucinda bowed her head slightly in Connor's shrine, and Jaelle's eyes softened a little as she imagined the goddess gazing down into the scrying pool, watching over her faithful. Outside, the wind crooned and whispered like a restless lover, caressing the sleeping city. Jaelle closed her eyes as she sipped the tea, opening her senses to the night.

The sound of the scream was so jarring that she nearly dropped her mug. For a moment it didn't sound human, so deep was the panic woven into it. Then it resolved itself into the frightened sobbing of a young boy, and Jaelle was rushing toward Finn's bedroom, the mug forgotten on a table. She could hear someone groan softly and start to get up in the other room, but her thoughts were already elsewhere, directed on the huddled figure in the mess of quilts, the one that she was now enveloping in a tight embrace. Rocking the child gently and stroking his hair, she heard herself murmuring that everything was alright, that he was safe, that everything was fine ...

A shadowy figure, silhouetted in the doorway, noted her presence in Finn's room, and exchanged a nod with Jaelle before padding off back to bed. Jaelle watched the figure disappear as she continued to whisper comforts to the frightened boy. A small part of her mind detached and marveled that she could do this at all. Finn's form was growing heavier in her arms, lulled back into the seductive embrace of sleep by her soothing and her enchantments.

If only it were so easy for her, she thought to herself. If only someone would tell her that it was all going to be alright. If only she were still ignorant and innocent enough to believe such loving lies.
 

Carillon

Re: Excerpts from the Segem Story Arc
« Reply #10 on: October 28, 2008, 10:32:19 am »
It was a hand. Only a child's hand that they found, hacked off crudely at the wrist and nailed to the Rofireinite temple door. Surely a hand does not mean that one of them is dead. Surely he values them more alive ...

*the entry trails off abruptly, like the author could not summon the will to finish it*
 

Carillon

Re: Excerpts from the Segem Story Arc
« Reply #11 on: October 28, 2008, 10:47:09 am »
The woman's green eyes flashed with rage, all of it directed at the increasingly distressed young corporal. Very quietly, her voice deceptively soft, she asked.

“What do you mean, disposed of?”

Her dark cloak hung around her and at the moment she seemed much taller than her petite elven stature allowed for. The corporal stuttered slightly as he explained himself again. It might have given Jaelle some small amount of pleasure to see him so discomfited on any other day, but not this day. She had come to claim a body, or at least parts of it, and his answer had not made her happy.

She did not even consider feeling guilty for venting at him for the better part of half an hour. Shock, grief and rage combined to make her feel a little unbalanced, like the edges of her body were blurring. She badly wanted to hit the man, or set something on fire, or better yet kill something. Finally, sensing her self control was wavering and her tantrum, satisfying as it was, would have no real value, she stalked out of the Leringard building towards the docks.

There was still a small crowd gossiping near where the bag of bloody flesh had been found, nailed to one of the pilings. She gave them dark looks and moved around them. She stared at the dark stain on the weathered wood, then forced herself to look past it, out towards the sea and the temple island.

One of the gossiping Leringard housewives watched the little elven woman curiously. She noted that Jaelle's lips were moving as she pushed back her hood, letting the breeze catch her hair. Whatever was said at the edge of the sea was inaudible though; the winds quickly stole the words and carried them away.
 

Carillon

Re: Excerpts from the Segem Story Arc
« Reply #12 on: October 28, 2008, 10:50:46 am »
Author's Note: Jaelle's rudimentary understanding of Layonara metaphysics should not be construed as accurate in an OOC context. These are merely her desperate and disjointed thoughts.


My futile rage and despair have combined into a bitter concoction which I constantly struggle to swallow down these days. As predicted, the half-orc kept his word. One of the girls is dead.

First he nailed her hand to the door of the Rofireinite temple in Vehl. Next it was a bag of bloody bits, in Leringard on the docks. I did not see it, but many of those who claimed to would not speak of it in any detail. I do not know whether this was because their claims were exaggerated, or because the sight was so deeply disturbing they cannot put words to the memory. I suspect it is a little of each.

I went to claim the body, or what parts of it they’ve found, but there was nothing to be claimed. It took me a couple of hours to track down the constable who had handled the remains, and he told me that they had been “disposed” of, since there was nothing more that could be learned from them. Some pressure in the right spot yielded that “disposed of” meant dumped off the end of a pier to feed the fishes.

I chewed the constable out for some time over this, but if I am honest with myself I do not know why it bothers me. That magic three day window has almost certainly passed, and that little girl's soul will never inhabit her mortal body again. What does it matter if her flesh and blood feeds the fishes or the worms? After the connection is severed, what is our body but an empty shell?

I have been pondering the nature of shells lately, too. I find myself walking the shores of Krandor a lot these days, now that I am staying with Connor and Anna while Finn is under their care. Lindel and Merlin are both home too, which means the house is crowded. When the crush of people is too much for me or I need to be alone for a while, I seek solace in the ocean by walking her shorelines. It is on these solitary walks that I find myself picking up shells and considering the nature of the connection between our souls and bodies.

A shell is what? A hard white casing for a living thing? Far too often that living thing perishes when it is removed from this protective shelter, but is this always the case? The industrious hermit crabs are quick to exploit the vacated abodes of sea snails and whelks. Could this be the case with souls too? Or if not quite the same, could this at least explain why Connor’s son still lives, or why Muireann is dying? Is it possible to share our mortal shells with another soul, either for a short time or indefinitely?

I found myself asking about Merlin after I brought news of the find in Leringard to Connor and Anna. This was before Merlin and Lindel arrived, but after Anna threw a good deal of cast iron in the kitchen. Poor Anna. I know she is sensitive to these things. Connor and I have grown thicker skins, but everything she feels still shows. Merlin’s soul drifted for a year before Connor sheltered him, and Connor carried him for five more years. And Muireann’s strange bonded passenger puzzles me still, though I think he is a creature of a fundamentally different nature. Still, the possibility exists. Souls can perhaps persist beyond the moment of death, if something interrupts their passage to ... wherever it is we go when our threads to this place are severed. Of course this must be true. If it were not, where would ghosts and allips and bodaks come from? Muireann still sees her first lover in the mists on cliffs during storms. Perhaps there is some reason to hope yet.

I cannot explain my need to find the girl's soul and offer it shelter. It burns through me, a deep yearning desire that I cannot pin down. I have always been a solitary creature, and yet I am contemplating a sharing more intimate than any coupling I have ever experienced. I have not dared voice this weak hope to Connor, for fear he will consider it foolish or tell me why it cannot succeed. All I know is I would go to great lengths to offer any of these four children whatever meager comfort I can conjure for them. Three. Three living children, one gone forever.

Four. She is out there somewhere, in this place or another. We do not cease to be when our ties to life are severed. She is somewhere and she is alone, and hurting. Her parents were killed, and horrible things were done to her, but she struggles somewhere yet. She is but a child, nothing but a little girl who does not deserve her circumstances or the pain and horror she has experienced, but there must be hope for her. I need to believe this.

Lady of Storms ... am I still trying to save myself along with the child?
 

Carillon

Re: Excerpts from the Segem Story Arc
« Reply #13 on: October 29, 2008, 10:39:36 am »
She was in the kitchen when the message came, kneading bread. The little dark-haired baby with the golden eyes sat beside her in a basket. They had named her Aislin: vision. Why she was kneading bread, she couldn't quite say ... except that there was something soothing about the rhythmic motion of it, of the slap of the dough on the floured board and the way she had to throw her weight into each movement. One thing was for certain: it wasn't because she was hungry. She hadn't been hungry in a month.

A premonitory prickle went up her spine when the courier knocked. She could hear the muffled voices in the other room through the door, and someone paying for the letter or perhaps tipping the courier for his haste. Something about the tone of the voices made her set down the dough and pick up the basket. She tiptoed out of the kitchen to find one of the “boys”, as Connor and Anna referred to their sons. Boys indeed—they were both taller than she was, and looked her age or older. But then, elven ages are ever deceptive things, and human blood ran in both the boys' veins. She knew instinctively that she had at least a century on both of them.

As she scooped Aislin out of her basket and cradled the babe to her chest, she stole a glance at Connor. His head was bent down to the parchment as he read, and she misliked his expression. She hurried off to find Lindel and offer a hasty and half-hearted explanation.

By the time she returned, Anna was at Connor's side. She tried to assess Anna's expression as she accepted the letter Connor handed her. She read quickly, her eyes skimming the parchment. She felt cold as she read. Yes, she would come with them. Though no one had really had to ask. Somewhere in the haze of her suddenly numbed mind, she could hear Connor talking, telling them both that they would go the quick way. He beckoned, and she followed instinctively.
 

Carillon

Re: Excerpts from the Segem Story Arc
« Reply #14 on: October 30, 2008, 04:39:16 am »
As Jaelle watched, Tarkus lifted the handkerchief once again and pressed it to his brow. The small white square of cloth was already nearly soaked through even though the day was not overly warm. Frantically, he shuffled through a large pile of papers, mumbling to himself. “... quite certain it's here somewhere! Just indulge me a moment ... yes, one moment more only!”

Jaelle wasn't listening. Mostly she was thinking about the dark, staring eyes of the little girl's severed head. They had been allowed to view the “evidence” after stating their relationship to the deceased. Actually, that had been rather easily accomplished. Connor and Anna could be as persuasive as she could--if not more so--when they wanted something. They had both spent some time examining the note that had been stuffed in the girl's mouth, too, but Jaelle had spared that only a cursory glance. It had been the head that had captured her gaze, and the eyes ... those dead, unseeing eyes ...

Overwhelmed again by the image and her grief, Jaelle turned and snapped something at the constable. The beleaguered looking man mopped his glistening brow again and nearly dropped a stack of documents. She managed to make out the words “two days” and gave a curt reply before turning on her heel and leaving the Port Hempstead office. She pushed her way out of the building with such haste that she collided with a sailor coming up from the docks. She didn't pause to apologize.

Two days ... in two days they would at least have the remains, or some piece of them, to lay into a cold grave in the earth. She thought, quite clearly, that such a mercy would be small consolation indeed for what they had seen today.
 

Carillon

Re: Excerpts from the Segem Story Arc
« Reply #15 on: October 30, 2008, 04:42:49 am »
It was Rhiannon. They found her head, on the Hempstead docks, a bloody note stuffed into her mouth.

I was at Connor’s when the word came. He, Anna and I set out for Hempstead immediately. Thank the stars that Lindel and Merlin were there to watch over Finn and Aislin, for I do not think I could have withstood being left behind after the news came.

When we arrived, the docks and the city were still abuzz with talk of the gruesome sight. After ascertaining that the authorities held the head and the note that he had stuffed into her mouth, we went to them to try and claim the remains and find out anything else that might help us. They were reluctant to divulge anything at first, but Connor, Anna and I can all be quite persuasive in our own ways, and once we claimed to be warding the girl’s brother and the nearest thing she had to a guardian at present, they spoke more frankly.

We were shown the note, and after some persuasion the constable, a man by the name of Tarkus, agreed to oversee the release of the remains to us. I was prepared to bribe him to obtain them, but it seems it was not necessary. Still, bureaucracy demands a great deal of paperwork and wait time, it appears, and we have been told it will be two days before we can take Rhiannon’s severed head home with us.

Having seen the evidence of the violent means of her passing, I worry more and more for her spirit. How can the soul witness such trauma and still pass gently beyond this life? Rhiannon was so full of anger after her first death that I worry she will somehow transmute the anger she feels now into something ugly and evil. Connor told me how Merlin nearly became a revenant. It is from a fate like this that I wish to spare Rhiannon.

It has occurred to me that I may not be handling this situation well. Analytically, I can determine this, though I know not how to remedy the problem. I cannot reverie without waking to horrific scenes peopled by laughing half-orcs and crying children, and grisly piles of child-sized remains. I have seen what I believe must be every variation on how Rhiannon might have met her end, more clearly than any image through a scrying pool. I am haunted by the knowledge of her suffering. Surely this means her soul yet lingers, and I might do something to aid her?

I am losing weight. I have no appetite for food, though I ply it upon Finn and gently chastise him when he does not want to eat either. I am hypocritical in my grief. More worrying though, I have noticed a dwindling appetite for life. I feel set apart from things, as if there is a veil between me and the rest of the world. I push against it, but it is like trying to swim through quicksand. Even the simplest tasks seem to involve colossal amounts of effort now. More and more often I find myself leaving Aislin with Connor or Anna or Lindel or Merlin, or even Elgon. It is as if what has happened to these children is affecting my ability to care for my own child.

I know not what to do.
 

Carillon

Re: Excerpts from the Segem Story Arc
« Reply #16 on: October 30, 2008, 04:45:40 am »
Time seems to be moving very slowly right now. We claimed Rhiannon’s head. Connor and I preserved it, mostly through abjuration magic. It will keep until the rest of her remains can be recovered, or until the other children are found and can attend a burial. Connor seemed happy to give it over unto my keeping, so after we had worked the preservation magics to keep it from rotting or decaying, I wrapped it in cloth.

It was so surreal, to look into those dead eyes and touch the waxen skin. It was her, and yet it was not. The shell in death does not resemble what it was in life. I have seen so many dead bodies in my lifetime ... thousands at least. I looked into the unseeing eyes of my own mother as I burned her flesh on a pyre. And yet, somehow this one still touches me. Perhaps it is because she is a child. I have not yet seen thousands of dead children, I think. Or perhaps it was that I knew her, and cared for her.

After I wrapped the head in cloth I put it in a carved wooden box I bought in a market long ago. The box is very beautiful, and it will serve as a temporary resting place for this child. A magelock, coupled with more conventional means, secured it. I do not want Anna or Finn or one of the others to stumble upon it. I do not think they would be quite so cavalier about a severed head as Connor and I seem to be. The head and the box now rest beneath my bed, until a more permanent resting place can be found for Rhiannon.

I still have trouble making it through a day. I feel like I am sleepwalking, or what I imagine sleepwalking might feel like. My body goes through the motions of life but I am somehow absent from it. I sense this and wish to spare Aislin from this strange absence on her mother’s part. Ironically, my solution is to absent myself from her altogether some days, leaving her in the care of friends as I wander and try to deal with things as best I can. I practice the violin every day by the ocean. I have become very competent, technically speaking, but something is missing. Something is wrong with the music, just as something is wrong with the world. I just cannot put my finger on it.
 

Carillon

Re: Excerpts from the Segem Story Arc
« Reply #17 on: October 30, 2008, 05:01:41 am »
The vial made a clear chiming sound as it struck the edge of the desk. Jaelle would later think that was ironic, but in the moment she merely watched in shock and dismay as the glass struck the floor and shattered and the current of warm air carried colourful grains of sand to pool in front of her. They shifted and danced in the breeze until a vague but familiar image resolved itself.

Jaelle listened with growing consternation and amazement to the clear, sing-songy message, then watched the grains of sand wink out one by one like stars from the night sky. All that remained was the spreading puddle of the decoction she had just spent an hour preparing. She jumped to her feet, crying out in pain as she managed to slice the sole of one foot on a stray shard of glass.

“If this is her blood price ...” she muttered darkly as she carelessly poured a potion over the wound and shoved her feet into a pair of leather slippers. She winced as she put her weight down onto the foot and it throbbed obediently in response. “That is it! I am going to kill that bloody ...”

The rest of whatever she had been about to say was lost as she stalked out of the room, limping, to look for someone.
 

Carillon

Re: Excerpts from the Segem Story Arc
« Reply #18 on: October 30, 2008, 05:10:17 am »
Plenarius’s storytelling stretched over several days, and each time I went I met someone I needed to talk to. The first time I was there, I ran into Steel. I’d been meaning to consult with him. He has a level head on those blue shoulders of his, and he doesn’t let his emotions get in the way of his work most of the time. This case would be an exception, I knew, but that would work in my favor. Steel’s protectiveness when it comes to children could only help me in this. As I had expected, he had already heard of the murder and asked a few questions. Apparently when he heard I was looking into it or involved he left off nosing around and resolved to seek me out. Perhaps there is some merit to the truce between us that prevents us from sticking our noses too far into one another’s affairs without informing each other.

I think he will aid me. Actually, I am certain of it. I am merely worried he will act without realizing what kind of creature he is dealing with. I tried to impress the gravity of the situation on him, and enlighten him with regards to the nature of our foe. His immediate impulse was to scry upon him. I quickly informed him that this would be foolish, and would likely lead to bloodshed. He agreed to inform me if he found any leads, and I agreed to do likewise.

Later that night, I received a sand message from Acacea, back in Krandor. To say I was surprised would be a rather remarkable understatement. Not only did her message specifically reference the murders and my involvement in the matter and Steel’s involvement in the matter ... well, it was sand. Appearing rather suddenly and resolving itself into a face and talking to me. I’ll never get used to that. I was mad when I heard the message, and not just because she blew sand all over my books and papers and mortar and pestle and a half dozen medicinal teas I was preparing. I wanted to wring her little halfling neck for scrying on me without my permission. How else could she have known I had spoken to Steel? Connor confirmed, as much as he could, that the message was from Acacea. He seemed vaguely amused at my irritation, which only infuriated me more as I had been taking pains to conceal it from him. I left him to what he had been doing with alacrity.

The very next day, listening to more of Plenarius’s stories, who should I stumble across but a little halfling bard? After the stories were done, we found a quiet spot to talk and I told her what she wanted to know of the children and their murderer. I also learned that she had not scryed upon me, which gave me great relief, nor spied upon me. She had learned that both Steel and I were following up on the trail through good old fashioned bribery and asking the right questions. Somehow that makes me feel better.

Acacea is an odd little thing. I like her, very much, but I do not understand her. We talked for hours, and I found myself opening up to her. Perhaps it is that we technically live together, though we are both gone from the treehouse so frequently that we rarely see one another. I confessed my worry about the state of Rhiannon’s spirit, and she not only agreed with me, she fully supported me. Together we have forged the beginnings of a plan to see if the girl’s soul yet lingers in this world, and if so what we might do. She has warned me, however, that there are symptoms to carrying a spirit within you. This I knew. It cannot be worse than the sicknesses I endured while I was being poisoned with negative energy every day. I still thank Mist, Lucinda, and a cleric named Sam that Aislin was born free of that taint.

Acacea and I spoke of other things, too. She counseled me a little on the nature of my music, and guided me to that missing element: freedom of emotion and, for lack of more precise and accurate language, the magic and soul of the music. I play too technically. Just as my grief for Rhiannon wells up in me until I choke on it but I cannot let it out, so too do I choke my music. When Acacea sang that strange, keening music out over the water I saw what my own music lacked: a kind of courageous willingness to be imperfect but honest, perhaps. It is very difficult to describe. She guided me as I played The Curvaceous Lady and made the violin cry instead of sing for a change. I cannot explain what she does with sound ... it is so subtle, and yet profound. I felt at once better and worse after having played, for in a way it was a small release of my grief. I realized that I am afraid to mourn Rhiannon, as if my mourning will make this all real in a way it is not already. She is dead, but I am not ready to set her memory to rest and give up hope for her.

We spoke of many other things, Acacea and I. Mage-locks and rites of passage among her people. When they stand upon the precipice of adulthood, apparently one ritual among their people is to have an anonymous member of the tribe guide them through a first joining of flesh and the intricacies of physical intimacy. This usually precedes their spirit dream, which I understand to have great significance. I admit, I do not see the correlation between the two.

Perhaps the most important thing we discussed was where to go from here. Having obtained word from Vehl of a meeting time with the mysterious “S”, I know where I am bound. Acacea is going to consult with an ally about calling spirits who might be lost. I didn’t pretend to understand the details, just nodded. Call me a fool, but I trust her to get it done. I told Steel of the meeting too, by letter. I included a warning that if he spoke rashly or screwed it up, that we would have a problem. It probably wasn’t necessary with Steel, but having already lost these children twice and Rhiannon thrice, I will take no more chances. I will do all that is within my power to see the other two brought back safely.
 

Carillon

Re: Excerpts from the Segem Story Arc
« Reply #19 on: October 30, 2008, 05:12:06 am »
Lightning flickers over the water and Jaelle mentally counts the seconds, waiting for the accompanying boom she knows will follow. One, two ... the thunder sounds as her lips begin to form "three". Although she knew it was coming, the sound is still startling in its volume, and it takes a moment for the echo to fade from her ears.

She is standing on the edge of the cliffs on the island that houses Mist's temple, offshore from Leringard. It occurs to her that currents and sea creatures may have carried some piece of Rhiannon's remains this far from the docks they were so callously dumped off of, into the churning sea. She imagines a leg bone or a rib, or something more delicate like a piece of a hand, worked clean by crabs and other ocean scavengers. She pictures these bones, made ivory-pure again in death, rocked by the sea in some macabre imitation of a lullaby.

She reaches, outwards, blindly. She is searching for something, but doesn't know how to find her way. With her inner voice, she calls to the spirit of the dead girl, waiting to see if an answer comes. The only reply is another rumble of thunder, fainter and more distant this time.

After a few moments Jaelle sighs, focusing once again on the feeling of icy rain pricking her skin, of the way the wind turns her hair into a mass of seething snakes, coiling and recoiling around her as the fickle breeze shifts direction. She looks back towards the temple standing in the middle of the island and the priestesses and the odd priest moving through the brewing storm. One of the priestesses, standing a little apart from the others, she recognizes: an attractive human woman some thirty years of age, with hair like flame and cool blue eyes. It is a harsh, strange beauty, and a little jarring--fire and ice at war with one another for dominance. She tries to remember the woman's name, and for a moment draws a blank. Then it comes to her: Iona. On a whim, she turns and approaches the priestess.

Iona doesn't move as Jaelle approaches. Jaelle didn't expect her to. She does turn her head slightly so she can see Jaelle out of the corner of her eye though. This is promising. Iona waits expectantly.

Slowly, haltingly, Jaelle talks. The storm picks up around them. The words come slowly at first. She and this priestess are familiar with one another, have passed each other on this island for years now, but have rarely exchanged more than a few words. Still, it is the priestesses who understand necromantic magic, and who hold greatest sway over life and death. If any can answer Jaelle's questions, she thinks, it will be one of the chosen servants of a god or goddess. And this one is here, right now.

The priestess listens. Jaelle notices her blue eyes have a grey quality to them in the darkening light of the storm ... really almost silver. She marks the small white scar on the woman's collarbone as she explains her situation and asks her questions. She does not give all of the details, but she gives enough for the priestess to grasp the crux of the matter. Mostly, it is questions. How resurrection works. Where souls go. How to call a soul that has lost its way, and whether it is possible to shelter one. The practicalities of doing so. The origins of ghosts and undead. There are many questions, because they are all part of the same question. The whole thing is one big question for Jaelle, a dark void where knowledge should be so it will all become clear. So she will know what to do.

The sky above the priestess and the sorceress is dark and angry. Another flash illuminates the clouds and the two figures on the edge of the cliff. Red hair and black whip out behind them and tangle together as they speak, standing close to one another to hear each other over the rising wind. No one is counting seconds. After a moment, the thunder sounds anyway.
 

 

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