Sion Fereir - Journey in a New World

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Journal Entry Fifty Nine[/SIZE]"Time is Coming"

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*The journal nears it's final pages, and the miserable creature residing in Fort Llast's Temple of Toran flips the book left and right in his twitching hands. Candlelight refracts off of dull, red eyes staring at the leather binding, and a soft murmur escapes a twisted mouth, whether a chuckle or a grumble, it matters not. The shuffling of Marl, Kashi, the stern halfling, the noble knight, the pious priest, all heard through the crack of the door. No road-wary wanders enter tonight, and torches breath their last for the day as a squire extinguishes them one by one. finally only a faint, dim light bleeds through the doors crack, and the slight tinkle of chain-mail marks the lone guard that night. the breeze that drifts done the hall stops short of the elf's door. Another late visitor, one like him from long past? Or an assassin sent to finish the job these spineless cowards couldn't do? Or what if it was just that. A breeze, and nothing more? Another twisted chuckle falls from his lips, and he turns to the small desk where the solitary candle stood, ever vigilant in the dark room. He drops the journal on its spine upon the desk with a light 'THUD' and watches it fall open the recent drawings, the name 'RHYS' glaring at him from the dead pages of the journal. The draft picks up ever slightly, and the falling page stops, and reverses, revealing drawings of the temple interiors, all it's halls and room, nooks and crannies which he knew so well. Finally the last, blank page watches him after the ethereal assassin, the calm of the storm, dies away. It invited him to write one last story, to forget, for just a moment, all the worries and anger, the mundane activities and the insanity locked under key and chain. Glassy, red eyes remove their gaze from the empty page to the charcoal lying beside the candle. His hand, dark as the shadow he cast, carefully lifts the charcoal of similar hue, and with out hesitation, the lithe elf slid into the chair, and fell into the dark depths of his mind...*

Where to begin... Rather, I shall say end, for what reason would I write of the mundane tasks assigned and the insignificant years that mark but a fraction of a lifetime? I would much rather end in such a way, that I see the years past and regret past actions. in such a way that I see my errors in a final epiphany before the dark grip of the Soul Mother sweeps me away with the rest of the damned. Only that ultimate knowledge of knowing where every little insignificant thing went awry, bringing about the cataclysm of one's life, would bring a final satisfaction. For only in knowledge is there fact, and in fact, truth. That is how I would want to end, and not with a bang, but a whisper, fading away instead of abruptly halting.

It is the ungodly lure of freedom that draws me. I know for fact that I can sit in this temple, and pass the years as if it were nothing more than an inconveinence, but the urge pulls me to this decision. The urge to roam where I please amongst the lowly surfacers, an unseen god among lessers. The urge to free my self from shackles and start anew, bringing myself to a honed perfection, and watch the world from an unseen perspective. Sion is a dying man, a husk of his former self and a detriment to his own survival. He lies just on the brink upon a crumbling foundation, ready to fall and be lost forever. For him, the end is nigh.

I will plan, and eventually meet what ever may come my way in this reckless fool's quest for escape and solitude. eventually, we'll see who fortune favors...

~ ----------


*The name is not signed with a name, but a thick line, and the charcoal finally reached the end of it's use, merely a stub now after the short entry and a few more diagrams. The elf turns his head to the ethereal ghost whispering at his door one last time. He stands, pushing the thick, tangled mane of white hair aside just before extinguishing the melting candle that stood it's vigil for the last time. As the darkness swallows the room, a soft murmur escapes a twisted mouth. whether a chuckle or a grumble, it matters not.*

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Journal Entry Sixty[/SIZE]"plans and schemes"

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*The following is summarized in the small journal, left unsigned. The handwriting now slants differently before, as if written in a different hand.*

*Red eyes scan their surroundings, careful to not cause any suspicion. They watch priests leaving their rooms, paladins preparing for their travels. Daily duties sit in the back of the elf's mind. Several dishes in hand, he takes a route slightly different from the last, a well practiced habit by the elf. Another corridor is noted in his mind, and tomorrow's route is planned. Bland walls eventually lead to the more elaborate commons, where the elf is greeted by indifferent glances, albeit some visitors and sight-seers giv in to a more expected reaction. He makes sure to pass close enough for one or two to look him eye to eye, simply for rare amusement.

A quick turn into the kitchens hides him from sight and his lips twitch into a knowing smirk. Patience was well rewarded, and so was silence. Much could be learned simply from watching and listening. Habit is an unfortunate disease that festered in the temple. One the elf tried to avoid unless necessary. Most actions were predictable: Where the guards patrol, when sermons were preached (many which the elf attended), what time one of the squires extinguished the lights, even some natural habits occurred within a general time. The small talk heard in the kitchens and among travelers passing through were plenty insightful, despite some lack of confirmation. All of this was useful.

the kitchens were empty at this time, save the few who were cleaning out pots and pans at the time. The elf left the few wooden bowls in a small tub of water, and quickly left to his next duty. Voices quickly stop him, and he slowly turns, waiting for the them to sound more assured that they are alone. The elf looks for other life in the dimly-lit corridor, then carefully slinks back to the other side of the portal, pressing himself against the wall behind the door.

"An'way... Neville, 'ave ya 'eard 'bou' da Cult?"

"Cult? That one that's moving in on Mistone?"

"Yeah, dat's da un. Ah 'ear thur's gonna be war frum some folk, an' udder's say thur'll be not pro'lems."

*chuckle* "Dan, I'm sure we'll be fine. Some of the finest are stationed here in Llast. Just don't go around causing a panic. that's the last thing we need to do."

*harumph* "Ah 'ope it'll blow o'er soon... It's got me jumpy o' late..."

It was more talk about this "war". It's not too uncommon, but it only reinforces the elf's plan. Chaos and turmoil could erupt anytime soon. The perfect chance for a silent whisper to escape a clanging din.

A dark grin turns to into an alert scowl as footsteps, heavier than the usual stock that tread the halls brought a silence. The elf, careful to hold his stark-white hair, pressed his head to the wall right behind the door's hinge, peering through the small opening into the hall right after looking to the pantry door across from him. One of the nightwatchman approached, and as he neared, the elf's breath stopped. He paused by the door, looking left and right with a curious look on his face, as if he felt someone... something, was watching. He shruged, and entered. The elf gave a moment's pause as he waited behind that door, and glanced to the pantry across the hallway.


"Hey, Neville? too Late to get a meal? don' want to stand watch on an empty stomach..."

"Oh, hey Lowen. You missed chow time?"

"Yeah. I had a briefing, an' this'll be my last month of watch here."

"Oh? Where to then?"

"Dunno. not yet anyways."

"... Well, we'll need to play one last game of cards then before you take off..."

*a stomach growls, followed by a grunt* "well, whadda ya say? got anythin' left?... hope it ain't too much trouble."

*the other two laugh* "It ain' us tha'll git miffed. migh' wanna ask Dreg fo' any left-o'ers fo' he feeds da dogs."

*the newcomer's muttering follows* "Shoulda been quicker... meh... I'll be fine with some rations. See ya fella's later."

"See ya, Lo'en. Keep warm, ya 'ear?"



The nightwatchman hurries through the door with a bit of rations in hand. He pauses once more, looking at the open door. he blinks at the crack near the hinges, then curiously approaches, slowly reaching for the door. He swings it quickly, and blinks at an empty space with confusion. He scratches his head, swearing he heard breathing, but left the mystery unsolved, and quickly left for his patrol.

Red eyes watch from the cracked pantry door, silently waiting. watching. listening. Soon, the dark figure slips out and leaves only a feint whisper of footsteps to mark his passing.*

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Journal Entry Sixty One[/SIZE]"Ashes"

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*The hearth blazes, feeding it's warmth to an empty room. A silent figure steps through the archway, quite and care-free. Stopping before the angry flame, it opens up a  black, leather-bound journal to it's most recent entry*

Is the time right? Surely it will come in these next months. sure as the light that burns through the sky, the day will arrive. just a little more time, and I shall either be dead at the end of a blade... or free to roam this light-ridden world as I please. This will is the end of this journal's use. it is no longer necessary. With this, I shall cast of the shackles of memory, and slowly let the pasts trail fade from my mind...

Now only If I could locate an armory of sorts here...

~-------  *No signature again*


*The elf tears a few maps he had drawn in the journal, some old notes on humans and creatures alike, and even the drawings of a few edible wild plants. He pauses over the last drawing of that foreboding name. It reads "Rhys." He flips the book into the hungry flames, and it lands open on that same page, burning as the now-inverted name reads "Sion." The pages blacken and curl, and the glowing embers quickly creep through the journal, consuming it though unable to sate their hunger. Red eyes watch, the painful fire reflecting in those pools of blood. A twisted smirk twists the elf's face as the fire quickly reduces the journal to ash. He turns without looking back for a last good-bye, exiting the room through the same archway in which he entered. For the rest of that night, an eerie silence marked that room save the crackling of the fire, the whispers of a ghost.*