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Author Topic: Muse of Fire: A Memorial and Celebration of Gel'larian Windsbreath  (Read 799 times)

RollinsCat

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Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll be remembered, with advantages
What feats he did!
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Satari, Mar 7, 1499, join us in remembering a man of passion, a man of faith, a man of dedication and art.

Bring your stories and your memories to the Stormcrest Crossroads, or simply come to pay respects.



[SIZE=10]//Time changed to 8:30 - 10:30[/SIZE]
 
The following users thanked this post: Serissa, Anamnesis, gilshem ironstone, Hellblazer, Lance Stargazer

RollinsCat

Re: Muse of Fire: A Memorial and Celebration of Gel'larian Winds
« Reply #1 on: May 31, 2012, 06:53:06 pm »
Due to scheduling conflicts, this memorial is moved forward to Wedlar, Mai 11, 1499.







//Monday, June 11th; rl has intervened for the 7th.
 

RollinsCat

Re: Muse of Fire: A Memorial and Celebration of Gel'larian Winds
« Reply #2 on: June 12, 2012, 10:17:24 am »
Grief is fickle.  One moment it's tears, the next laughter; love and anger intermix giving rise to emotional cymbal clashes between the grievers, and often inside their hearts as well.  

"He would be so passionate about something that you'd get caught up in it and you couldn't help yourself..."

Promises that will never be kept.  Hopes and dreams that stop short at the edge of death's precipice, arms waving wildly so they don't fall...tender moments carved deeply enough that no amount of time will erase them until the vessel that carries them is itself forgotten.  Some speak of grief as a rising tide, or some other force of nature, and it can be that - but in this fire's light it is much more like combat, tones and voices and memories firing all over and the clashing, always the clashing.  No one remembers the same person.  No one truly understands.

"I don't think he ever took to me."

It's odd though, how a man - a man of flesh and blood with as many foibles as the next - becomes something else when there are no more moments to remind us.  They who remain sit and select what memories build the monument that each carries and it shifts as recollections surface and others add their piece.  A ever-morphing montage.  Who was he, really?

"After that talk, he would never hear a cross word about you."

A hero?  Yes.  A man driven to follow his heart wherever it led?  Yes.  A lover and a fighter and an archer of supreme skill, all that they know.  Tidbits come out, little by little, gobs of mental clay.

"I think he was older than any of us thought - Mother remembers him back when she was peddling goods, walking her ox town to town."

"He hated me when we first met.  Hated. Me."

"He came to my house looking to purchase a cloak.  Years later he moved in..."

It aches even as it feels good to remember.  Life is for the living, the wise one says, and so they live and try to make picture and sound flashes merge and find some cohesion through the clashing.  

"He was tireless when he was interested in something."

"He taught me to make arrows.  He made me make every step, collecting the wood and the smelting the arrowheads.  When I made a mistake he'd smack me on the head."

"I didn't think such a wiry elf could push me into a lake so easily..."

"I remember him during the war, he fought with us..."

"...Sedera."

"Last Hope, that voice kept our spirits up and fighting."

Unspoken is the emotion that they all fear will sully this slowly forming statue - one voice breaks through the gentle illusion.

"HE SAID HE'D NEVER LEAVE ME!"

And there it is.  He's left them.  Minds, some decades old, some centuries old; even hers though it struggles against an undertow of loss; grasp the higher meaning of living according to one's principles and being who one is, and all that tripe set out in the hopes it will be easier to bear.  But in the end it does come down to this.  He's left them.  He will never return.

Was it worth it, my friend?  I know the answer to that question.  You were to be a vampire hunter.  You were building armor around your soul so you could live, not so we could mourn you.  You wanted to spend the rest of your life with her, stand with her while she birthed your children.  No one is to blame.  No one murdered you.  But you're still gone and yes, I'm bloody well angry.  You owe me a duet, elf, when I finally land at Ilsare's feet.  Remember that.  You owe me a song.
 

Lance Stargazer

Re: Muse of Fire: A Memorial and Celebration of Gel'larian Winds
« Reply #3 on: June 12, 2012, 11:34:56 am »
*The lonely figure pass thru the inn, not speaking with anyone, his long blonde hair hidden well in the hood under the blue cloak, anyone who might know better, would be seen the small anhk made of silver that hangs on his neck, he spends some time in silent meditation, left to his own thoughts, the man raises his vibrant blue eyes and look upon the decorations and the people attending, he absently rubs his chin as if trying to remove the pain of a hit on the face that were not present , at least this time, upon watching the "widow".

As this happens the man shakes his head and moves away in the night outside towards the docks where the ship is awaiting*

- That is the conection of an elf with his axe - *the man smiled a bit as he walks in the darkness - Such idiocy and at the same time he seemed to believe it, Blasted be you ilsare, you and your thorns on my heart, templed by the truth that my lord had shown me and yet, the man had passion towards good things at least, I do remember his interests in undead hunting, and the strong conviction he showed on the war, I envy you somehow, and not at the same time. I probably have the life you ever wanted, Father of five i am, that i won't change for any glory on the world , and yet, you dedicated to your passions and out of the world, the very same way you lived its the very same way you left, Despite your flamboyant and at times empty thoughts, you earned my respect and could even say , friendship.

You'll be missed Gel'harian. You surely will be.

Hunt well on the grounds beyond the realm of the living, you could be happy finally.

*The man walks over the docks and covers himself with the cloak and boarding the next ship towards Leringard *
 

Nehetsrev

Re: Muse of Fire: A Memorial and Celebration of Gel'larian Winds
« Reply #4 on: June 12, 2012, 09:48:47 pm »
*Meanwhile.... while Andrew is away from the Silverbuckle attending the memorial, Jetta lures a young white cat known as Griff into a quiet part of the inn with a morsel of roast bear meat.  It was his favorite, aside from fish.
 
  She knew the way to the hearts of beasts most often lay through filling their bellies with food as a first step to securing their trust.  The young cat had taken a liking to her since the beginning anyway, so the morsel may not have even been nescesary, but she would take no chance.  Now, while the inn was quiet and the residents all slept soundly, the time for her to act drew nigh.
 
  Sitting down, inviting the ball of fluff to occupy her lap, she stroked his fur until he fell soundly asleep.  Then she snapped his neck quickly and cleanly between her own two hands.  She already had a plan for it's disposal.  With the famine making food more and more scarce, the dogs in the alleys would do the rest for her.  All she need do next was toss the remains out the window to the shadowed cobblestones below.
 
  Yet she stroked his soft fur a while longer, a part of her perhaps saddened by her deed.  He hadn't been a terrible cat, after all.  He simply had begun to be too costly, destroying her things, especially her silks.  They were playthings to him.  He didn't understand their value.  She sighed.  That was the touble.  She'd mourn the cat, he had had a loveable personality.  He had adorred her.  She didn't understand why.
 
  She'd keep quiet.  Wait for someone else to bring up the absence of the cat.  Then she'd look about for him with concern, but not so much as to make herself suspicious.  When he returned, Andrew would have another life to mourn, but he would get over it in time.  It was just a cat, after all, and it was the natural order for hungry alley dogs to chase cats.
 
  Smoothly, after some time stroking the dead cat in her lap, Jetta stood at last.  She held the limp body out through the open window and gently let go.*
 
  "Goodbye Griff."
 
 *Almost immediately she heard the growls of dogs competing for their share begin.  She closed the window, climbed into bed and slept.  Or, at least she tried to.*
 

RollinsCat

Re: Muse of Fire: A Memorial and Celebration of Gel'larian Winds
« Reply #5 on: August 08, 2012, 01:54:36 pm »
The memorial past, life went on as it always did.  Among the lost and mourned was a little white cat.

No one knew what happened to Griff.  He vanished one day never to be seen again - presumably sneaking out during a time the door was propped open and finding something tougher than himself on the harsh docks of Mariner's Hold.  The bard missed his cat.  Remembering Griff made him remember Tiger, he and Elly's dog, long gone - poisoned by persons unknown, evil doing what evil does.  Tiger had laid down and died.  He hoped Griff had gone down fighting or had perhaps simply moved on to greener pastures and was holding down the vermin population in someone else's home or barn.  

The time to mourn was over, however.  Mice wandered the kitchen, nonplussed by traps, and relations between the rodents and the aging, chubby Buttercup had reached detente.  She preferred windowsill and fireside naps to chasing small furry things and the amount of magic it was taking to secure the food was wearing on them all.  

It hadn't actually been on his mind when he'd passed the small shack; his mind was on the famine, and he'd been sharp-eyed to food prices and the state of the people he passed, not a few of whom he recognized from the soup kitchen.  The voice that broke through his thoughts could not have been more than six or seven.

"Hey Mister!  Kittens for sale!  Kittens!"

...for sale?  They were free all over.  Looking down, he saw a child in the shack's doorway, fairly clean although the girl's blonde hair stuck out - one of those mops with a mind of its own.  Her patched gingham dress was red faded to pink, and her feet in loose straw sandals.  

"See, I got five, only uh, five True!  Each!"  The basket she held with both hands was indeed full of kittens, past weaning by the size of them, each some variant on grey or white-grey.  They wriggled and mew'd and batted at each other.  One hung half off the side and appeared to be debating the distance to the ground.

"Five True, each?"  He went to one knee.  "Well, Milady, it so happens I need a cat, and I am interested.  Tell me then - are they good mousers?"

Her eyes widened.  "Yes Mister!  Their mama is the best rat-catcher on the block, maybe in the whole world!"  She pointed to the open window a few feet from the door - the place was that small - and on the sill curled a lean grey cat with yellow eyes and displayed claws.  The mother cat watched him and the child and most of all her litter although she didn't move to protect them.

Definitely past weaning then.  "Let me see..."  Rubbing his thumb over his upper lip briefly, he held up a forefinger to the child, stood, and had a walk around the area of the home.  The grass was cut or dug away from the foundation, a wise precaution against insects.  He saw no mouse droppings but he did see a mangled grasshopper and near the back a dead bird.  

There was a woman hanging laundry in the shack next.  "Milady, good afternoon."  Pointing to the bird.  "I hear the cat next door is a mouser, is that true?"

"Misty's no friend to vermin nor feathers, no sir."  The woman eyed his clothing and his jewelry. He wasn't in his ostentatious best, merely well-dressed, but the emeralds were hard to hide.  After her appraisal her tone was polite rather than friendly.  "Worth her weight in gold, sir.  She's out training her kits, the rats know better than to come around."

He nodded and bowed.  "Thank you Milady."  

Heading back to the child he made a show of examining the kittens.  They looked healthy and he was surprised to find few fleas.  He picked one off the grey female he was holding and squashed it.

"Oh, mama, she gives them some herb them fleas don't like, Mister.  Buy one she'll give you some...MAMA!"

He was examining the last kitten when a slender woman with a baby on her hip came to the door.  She looked older than her years but was neatly presented, hair combed and clothes clean, and the baby was chubby and contentedly gnawing on a bit of bread.  "Eleanor, what is it?  Oh, good day sir."

"Your daughter tells me these will be good mousers.  I'd like to buy one."  At the same time, the girl spoke, nearly breathless.

"He wants a kit mama!"

"Oh, Eleanor.  They're just kittens."  A head shake to her child; she looked at the red-coated man.  "I'm sorry sir, please, take one if you wish."

"I have no problems paying for the services of a mouser, Milady.  It's fair recompense for the raising and training the good lady provided."  He gestured to the mother cat, sitting up now and still watching, a grey statue.  He felt in his vest and found a pouch.  Fifty odd True.  He set it in the woman's hand and by the weight alone she started to protest; he spoke over her.  "Keep one or two of the kittens around and if this first does well, I'll be back for a brother or sister.  The Silver Buckle needs their talents."  He put on his most disarming smile.  The woman sucked in a breath but didn't protest again.  The money vanished under her apron.

Turning to the child.  "Now, Milady Eleanor, which kitten shall I take?  You know them, would you help me choose?"

"This one!"  She picked up the adventuresome grey female who'd been hanging off the edge of the basket.  The kitten was medium grey, storm cloud grey, with a white chin and belly and sharp little claws that were attacking the child's finger.

"That one it is.  Thank you, Milady Eleanor, I'm glad you were here today.  Does she have a name yet?"

The girl shook her head.

"Very well, I shall see to it she gets a good one.  Take care of the kittens, and I may be back!"  Bowing, he tucked the grey female into between his coat and vest and continued heading for his Inn.
 

Nehetsrev

Re: Muse of Fire: A Memorial and Celebration of Gel'larian Winds
« Reply #6 on: August 09, 2012, 07:36:02 am »
Andrew had returned to the Silverbuckle, and now stood chatting with her for a while.  Their small-talk started with a summary of the day's business at the inn, which had been uneventful.  A small bulge under Andrew's coat caught Jetta's eye.  When it began squirming, Jetta immediately deduced that her employer had brought home another kitten.  After she called him out on it Andrew confirmed her deductions, revealing a tiny grey kitten just large enough to fill the palm of his hand.  The kitten's eyes shown blue, and looked at her spread wide as only a kittens eyes could do, right before they settled on one of Andrews fingers and her mouth began chewing said fingertip while tiny clawed paws held the finger to keep it from getting away.  In a word, Jetta decided this kitten was cute.  But then, all kittens were.
 
For a moment her thoughts returned to the white kitten, Griff, whom she'd dispatched from the world not so long ago.  When her thoughts returned to her, she hoped nothing of them had shown on her face as she'd followed Andrew and the new kitten to the kitchen where it was to receive it's first meal at the Silverbuckle.  Andrew, perhaps too taken with the new kitten, hadn't seemed to notice anything.  As she searched below the butcher's block in a cupboard for a saucer, Jetta was taken a bit off guard when Andrew asked her to name the grey ball of fur now mewling at his feet and attacking his boot-laces.  The grey was close enough to the color of ash, and so that became her name as Jetta voiced it.
 
In her mind, Jetta breathed a sigh at this new responsibility as she realized that this kitten would need to be trained.  She couldn't keep killing the cats Andrew brought home if they ruined her things like she had done to Griff.  Her employer would become susipcious if such a trend of disappearing kittens continued.  While Andrew left the kitchen to go work on writing a new song, Jetta stood talking to Ash, laying down ground rules.
 
"Well, Ash, seems I'm stuck watching you for a bit.  Let's make the most of it, eh?"  She stooped down to pet the kitten who still lapped at the milk in the gentle concave of the saucer.  "Firstly, don't get on my bad side.  Shouldn't be hard to stay on my good side as long as you don't ruin any of my stuff."  Ash seemed to pay her no mind, But Jetta knew the kitten heard her voice.  "Don't get fat and lazy.  We already have a cat that fits that bill.  So you need to earn your keep catching mice, bugs, and rats if they show up in the inn."
 
While Ash went on lapping up milk, Jetta's mind began wandering to ideas for making cat toys that would teach her to attack rats and mice, and not the fine silks Jetta kept in her room.  She could easilly sew together a mock-rat using a rat skin or two, stuffing it with a mix of sawdust and catnip, and adding a 6 foot length of yarn by which to pull the toy across the floor.  She'd do that tomorrow.  For now, Ash appearing finished with her saucer of milk, it seemed it would be best to introduce her to one of Griff's old litter-boxes.  Best to get the kitten housebroken soonest as possible.
 
As Jetta reached down to pick Ash up, her gloved fingers became subject to fierce teething and strong claw-gripping.  Since neither teeth nor claws penetrated through the gloves, Jetta took little notice as she carried Ash with her upstairs.  Locating an empty litter box left-over from Griff, she picked it up with her other hand and brought it with into her own room, then went back for some sawdust to be used as litter.  Lastly she closed the door before setting Ash down and filling the litterbox.
 
"Alright Ash, you can stay with me til we get you trained."
 
Almost surprisingly, the little grey kitten imediately climbed into the litterbox to relieve herself.  Afterward she climbed out, pausing for a moment to shake sawdust of her hind paws, and then proceeding to explore Jetta's room.  Jetta sat on the corner of her bed watching the adventurous kitten for some time until her own lids began to weight heavy from all the days events.  She changed into a night-gown and blew out the lamp before climbing into bed, watched the whole while by those big blue kitten-eyes that seemed to take in every detail and every movement.  Soon after she lay down she felt the blanket distrubed by the commotion of hte kitten climbing it to get atop the bed.  Another moment later and a warm lump pressed against her calf through the material of the blanket.