| |
|
|
|
|
|
|
Display using:
|
|
The way Home
Posted: 14 Feb 2006 02:39 AM |
“But –why- is there only one true light?”
Veldin was the precocious one, and so Rosen loved him the most. She tried to distribute her love evenly between each child in the hastily erected Learning Hut, but there was inevitably a chosen. Just as individuals in the ranks of Midoran inevitably rose above their brothers and sisters, so did the child ask another pertinent question. She smiled in response, running her hands down the length of her woolen robe. It was bare, save for the stitched symbol near her breast. Her smile evidently irked him, and his tiny hands balled up against his hips. The rest, to whom he was a leader, grew wide-eyed at the challenge.
“That is a very good question, my dear. Very good.”
Rosen spoke slowly, giving her time to think. In fifteen years, Veldin would likely be edifying her, if she had her way, but the time to shape him was now. Each question posed was a test. Not of faith, of course, but of a trait nearly as important in day-to-day life.
It –was- a good question. Many had asked it, and few answers were satisfactory to unbelievers. There were many in the church who simply felt that it ought to be as intuitive to one raised in the wilds as to a native of Midor, and left it at that. Rosen made more pragmatic allowances in her faith.
“How come?” he asked, throwing both arms from his sides.
“I want to show you something, my wise young friend. In fact,” she said to the rest, grinning suddenly, “I believe we should all go outside. Light would not have us bask in shadow on such a beautiful day.”
The sentiment was soundly approved by the children, and she followed rather than led them onto the impossibly white sands of the beach. Hands in her robe, she felt the pang of envy welling in her breast as she watched them frolic, carelessly ignoring religious instruction in favor of testing the shore-breaking waves. Rosen Vimes had not had the luxury of childhood. She hid her frown, but there was a creasing of her brow that Veldin picked up on in a passing glance. He eyed the young paladin suspiciously before chasing after a girl who had teased him.
For a brief moment, her mind wandered, soul in tow. She remembered the rage and tears of the orphanage, caught together with so many others, the lack of understanding, the hopelessness… the indifference.
-=A clear mind and heart, doubt and faithlessness purged by the True Light.=-
She shook her head quickly, sandy, shoulder-length hair cascading around her. She cleared her throat to the children. They ignored her, so she placed a pair of fingers between her lips and let out an ear-splitting whistle. They filed up soon thereafter.
“Come. We’re here on Midoran’s time, my loves.”
Ignoring the groans and sulks with a knowing chuckle, she led them to the tide pools.
“Each one of you, find a seashell, or a mussel and break open the shell so that the inside glitters. Find the biggest, prettiest ones you can! I want it to –glow-!”
The children scattered on their quest, returning in twos and threes twenty minutes later. They brought a zoo of sea life. One had even brought a dead jellyfish. She surveyed each of them, congratulating each child at their success, and one by one, they swelled in pride. They were content, they were open; even Veldin, with his enormous conch, seemed grudgingly happy. It was time for the lesson.
“Which of you, children, has the brightest one?”
There were debates, there were arguments, even attempted thefts as they squabbled for the right to hold the perceived power. She nodded with a hidden sort of wryness, noting the microcosm of political and social struggle in the midst of innocence. Eventually, Veldin prevailed, his wit convincing the others that his shell was, in fact, the brightest of all. He held it aloft proudly.
“This one,” he said.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Yes!”
“Very bright, is it?”
“Yes!”
She raised a finger, tan from the months spent with the islanders, and pointed to the sun above. His eyes followed, frowning.
“Does your shell still look bright?”
There was an ominous pause as Veldin stared skyward in indignation. Rosen did not dare move or speak further. Having pushed him to the precipice of faith, it was for him to choose. Any force on her part would sully the lesson, and leave him suspicious as usual. The seconds dragged on until he abruptly barked out a laugh.
“No,” he managed, giggling.
She grinned, tousling his hair. “Do you begin to see?”
He accepted the gesture with a nod. “I believe I am beginning to.”
She silently thanked Midoran for her success: that one soul, the strongest mind of the young, had accepted what little she was able to offer. Her hand slipped back into her robe, touching a letter that had been opened that morning. It had been several months and an age since she had been sent to convert the faithless, and the simple, official note had been her first true contact with the mainland since. She closed her eyes, savoring the image of the child’s smile, and willed the memorized words to repeat once more.
"Rosenellia Vimes,
May Midoran guide this letter to your hand. May it find you in good health. There is much work to be done on our fair city, even for an acolyte such as myself, and therefore I hope you will accept this letter’s brevity with all the understanding befitting of your station.
Knight-Captain Barradon, on behalf of the white bishop, has ordered your immediate return to Midor. He has also authorized your promotion to 1st lieutenant upon your arrival.
In service,
Turm Illton, Acolyte"
When she opened them, they were wet with gratitude and sorrow. She would forever be leaving the people she had come to love and was being swept into the service of the god for whom all other loves were but a reflection. |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
|
  |
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 15 Feb 2006 10:27 PM |
(( Rosen flees from Vidus's New Groove in a half-mad state, having only just returned to Vives. If this is disjointed, my bad. The idea is to convey her past over a series of flashbacks. ))
Her steps were loud over Syn, the treacherous cliffs made moreso by the steady pounding of the rain. The robe had soaked through, past the plating and the skin beneath, to the bone, and Rosen shivered as she ran. The journey was dreamlike. A simple impetus (should leave the not-Midor, monster place) and a logical solution (the nearby rangers) cajoling her into into the most direct route. Steel boots made for poor traction and she slipped often on her path. The tears had long since indistinguishably intermingled with the rain. Obscenely, music wafted through the air. More madness. And the lyrics, though indecipherable, were somehow alluring.
She gripped a precipice with both hands, heaving herself over a corner where the footing had worn away and slid down the cliffs, the greatsword on her back clanging tremorously against her. For once, she landed on her feet. The singing stopped. Had it been real in the first place?
Abruptly, she stopped, a dawning awareness sweeping over everything Rosen. It felt like a blow to the intestines.
This was no dream.
It -had- been Midor.
That -was- the bishop.
Evil of the purest sort was at the center of the most sacred of hearts.
The thoughts rang through her all at once and some seconds later she realized she was screaming. Instinctively, she called for the comfort of Light, the quiet fearlessness that embraced his faithful. None came. Instead, a shadow, cast under heavy clouds but visible nonetheless, darkened her body. Something struck her, casting her to the ground.
The singing began again as she looked up, wide-eyed with the juxtaposition of immediate threat, the passing of shock, and divine abandonment. A female form stood above her, all claws and wings, uttering a melody. For an instant, she felt herself being lulled...
...It was peaceful... and tempting...
Harpy! Remember your training!
She rolled to her feet, drawing her sword, and lashed out, scoring a lucky blow against the honeyed tongue. The creature drew back, hissing, and she struck again against its collarbone, bringing it down. The paladin breathed raggedly, eyes wildly casting about for succor in the midst of a wasteland. There was none to be had. Soon, a low chorus rose up from the nooks of the cliffs. More of them, perhaps two or three; likely more than she could handle. She took a step back, sword ready, mind moving from matters of philosophy to immediate survival.
But her foot found no purchase. There was a slide, then a fall, then a thunderclap.
***
"Rosen!"
"Yes, ma'am?"
A dark-eyed girl looked tremulously at the orphanage's matron, holding the broken dish's halves in either hand.
"Clumsy fool!"
She lowered her head. It had been an accident. She would have been playing closer attention, but she liked to listen to the temple bells ringing at noontime, and she had lapsed into Midoran's song while doing one of her innumerable chores.
"Sorry, ma'am."
"Clumsy, stupid little thing," she seethed, then paused with a grudging thoughtfulness. "You -would- clean up that mess with your tongue, but our local, meddling clegyman has other plans. Why he wastes his time on your likes, I have no idea."
The girl did not understand completely, though she did feel a fearful hope welling. More than anything, she knew enough to know when to nod dumbly, so she did.
"You have fifteen minutes. Every minute beyond that will be a stitch against that fat backside after prayers. Do you understand?"
This time she did. She nodded again with anoter muted utterance. The heavyset matron nodded once in return, eyes baleful.
"Then go to our chapel."
Tiny feet padded against splintered floorboards to the converted barn that served as the orphange's place of worship. Inside, she broke into a rare smile, seeing that the world waited for her. The man who refused honorific terms of any sort. Simon. The man who eased her soul.
"Greetings, Rosen!" He turned to her, opening his arms for the requisite hug.
She seized upon him without reservation, burying herself in his robes. He held her, petting her head once, and she nuzzled against the gesture. So rare. So precious, this thing. And like all rare, precious things, this one would die. But it wasn't Simon's fault; Simon was Important. Simon had to go Help Other People. Of all the things in the world, this was the most wonderful, and so it was only fitting that the Greatest Person Ever would perform these tasks.
He pulled away, tapping her nose once with his index finger. "Little one, I have interesting news."
This was rare. Simon rarely talked news. Mostly, Simon talked about Midoran, or Rosen, or why Midoran loved Rosen and why Rosen should love Midoran. These concepts were easy, almost natural. Midoran Helped People, just like Simon. She faltered, unsure.
Then again, Simon was good. Simon wanted the best for everyone. Especially for Rosen.
She smiled, gap-toothed. "What is it?"
He unfolded a small note, presenting it to her. Small hands unfolded it, eyes intent on the mysteries within. Words were difficult to decipher; the docks-district orphanage was lucky enough to put a meager scrap on the table now and then. Formal education was an extravagance that could not be afforded to those who would most likely grow up to be thieves or whores.
Rosen did not know this. She -did- know that the letter contained almost all of the letters in the alphabet and that her name was written several times. Near the bottom, a sentence was clear enough: "Rosen Vimes may be brought to the temple at your leisure."
She looked up at him, confused, but accepting. Maybe this was a test. Sometimes, Simon would ask her what she would do in certain situations, and she would have to try and reason them out. Sometimes it was hard and he never much guided her, except to clarify, but they had become easier and easier the more she did it. She asked him as much.
"Oh yes, Rosen Vimes, it -is- a test. The greatest one of all, and one I'm sure you'll pass."
She swallowed hard. He smiled slightly.
"Come now, little one, let's get your things. Time enough for chores. We're going to go for a walk."
A nervous smile creeped over her face. It reminded her of her fifth birthday. Before. When there had been a pie, made by... made by...
***
The woman blinked one eye open, struggling with the other. Her clammy hand wandered to her face, coming away caked with dried blood. She ached with the severity of an iron-hinged door left to rust indefinitely.
"Awake, are you? Good. Thought those beasts would be the end of you."
She tried to speak to the nearby voice, but only croaked. She -could-, however, move her head to the side. Rosen was lying on a bed, common but comfortable, and felt the fiber dig into her torn cheek as she regarded the speaker. A woman, garbed in nature's colors. Behind her were the walls of the cabin. Of Midoran, there was no sign. Her soul was empty, her holy garb torn to shreds. Somehow, she found the strength to nod in gratitude. Apparently, she had found the rangers after all. |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 18 Feb 2006 01:47 PM |
(( A good deal of IG time has passed. Rosen has found the safety of non-fascist cities, confronted the reality of her situation, and now settles about the business of reconciling herself to the road ahead. ))
The wooden spoon turned in a slow spiral along the surface of her broth. The wayward servant of Midoran ignored the whispered promises of lovers at the nearby table, dark eyes tracing the contours of the Café. Of all Port Royale’s dining establishments, this one seemed to reek the least of liquor and illicit dealings, so despite the lascivious edge, she idled, hoping. It had been weeks, now, since the pang of Midoran’s absence had settled into a dull ache, the frenetic worries of god and country settling into a distantly unnerving nimbus around her mind.
Rosen’s chance meeting with the supposedly altruistic couple and the morally challenged Sword had lifted her spirits from several thousand feet beneath the surface of Vives, but without further successes to speak of, even the feather-light heart would waft downwards again, and hers was weighted with innumerable duties; she was lax in them, to say the least. At any moment, one such as herself, some confused, miraculously alive paladin, might bring his pain and her optimism through the aged, wooden door of the Del Mar. The same could have been said of any other number of moments. She sipped her soup.
The difficulty was in trust, she noted. The mage and his likely lover seemed of a basically decent heart, and hardly naïve, but they were both faithless and quick to dismiss the sheer depth of incongruity that the recent horrors of Midor presented. The Sword Captain… for him, there was empathy, and even pity. She had compromised her faith in fleeing the city, in abandoning those in need, though Midoran knew that any bravado masquerading as heroism on that day would have likely resulted in just one more burned body. Her punishment was evidenced in her circumstances: alone, without prospects, without the guidance of Midoran. The Captain, however, had sullied himself in order to find the graces of Light, standing muddied in Light’s presence.
The broth was tasteless. Her time here was wasted. Peace and temperance had been old friends who traveled by her side. Evidently, they chose to stay in Midor. Impatience simmered within her, an unusual sensation. She found herself shifting in her seat. The gesture and circumstances brought a potent memory.
***
Gheal darted ahead of her, through the gates to the docks district, and his acolyte’s robes wavered in the wind as he beckoned for Rosen to follow. She did so reluctantly. This was not a wise game to be playing, even during their rare allowances of leisure time. Under normal circumstances, she would have flatly refused… but she did not wish to refuse Gheal, brilliant, kind Gheal, his desires. It was with a blush in the cold that she met him and his shining smile on the other side of the gates. The guards noticed their presence but did not speak.
She objected at first when he ordered wine with their meal, their embarrassing play at adulthood in the midst of early years already wracking her newly found curves into a hunch. He persisted; she resisted. He told a quip and winked; she relented. The bottle went surprisingly fast. Things became easy, then. They told each other their unrealistic dreams, their secret reservations, the latest gossip about their favorite priests and most reviled taskmasters. Gheal was in top form, as usual, making light of everything while still maintaining his irreverent reverence for the world. A bardess in the corner was skimming the strings of her harp, and by the meal’s luxurious close, Rosen could –feel- each note strumming her body.
Gheal was looking at her, the last bite of dessert hovering near his lips. He looked concerned, possibly frightened. Dreamily, she wondered why.
“Rosie?” he asked.
Without thinking about it in the least, she ignored every tenet she had learned, both practical wisdom for young women and the higher virtues of her Midoran training, and craned over the table. While she had often been known for her clumsiness, fate had evidently smiled, for her lips found his before he’d had the chance to reel away, and locked. She worked her hand towards his and he took it. The kiss lingered.
***
The broth was now cold, Rosen’s spirits low. It was an interesting fact of life that past failures tended to haunt one during troubling times, as though some cellar door to the soul was pushed ajar by tribulation. This much was clear: the New Midor Rebellion was not going to stride into the bar anytime soon and she was in no state to be joining it. She required sleep and prayer, and if Light began to accept, to forgive, then so much the better.
She lay a few coins on the table with a tight smile to the passing waitress, and stood. The woolen robe did little to obscure the sound of her armor underneath, so she walked quietly to the door, averting her eyes from the burgeoning orgy around her. She watched her own two feet until she turned her eyes to the knob, placing a gauntleted hand upon it, and turning. The door squeaked quietly. Not enough to mask the equally quiet word from one of the booths.
“Yesss…” soft and urging, furtive movement with it. Rosen hurried out.
***
Half-naked, a rented room, second thoughts BURNING. Are you a whore? Will you leave Light for an evening’s pleasure? Running out of time! End it now! Hurry! Now!
“Stop it, Gheal,” a weak voice pleaded.
Gheal had little blood left in his brain by now and stared at her, aghast. He blinked in confusion, smiled the Gheal smile, and ran a finger along a tender spot.
“I thought we went through this before we got undressed. I love you, you love me, let’s get married?”
The finger moved again and she bit her lip. It gave him all the more incentive to lean in closer.
“Stop it. Please.”
She rose into a sitting position, and he was gentleman enough to allow her. Her robe, cast away, was gathered into a pool at her lap, and she frowned at it. Her cheeks burned with shame, her mind breaking the surface of the wine for the first time in hours. A stern voice, one that had been growing in volume as the night went by, finally blew past passion and into her brain.
You kissed –him-.
You ordered the second bottle.
You asked him to dance and pressed yourself against him.
You brought him here.
You –paid- for the room with money that –could- have been tithed.
And now you deny him, he that loves you.
Don’t you dare cry.
Gheal’s hurt, reassuring smile, his kind words (“It’s all right, Rosie”) stung and she could barely meet his eyes. She wanted to consummate her love for this fine man, but didn’t. Failing that, she wanted to weep, but allowed herself not the luxury. Instead, she silently dressed and returned to the chapel without speaking.
She had come very close, very close indeed to losing something very precious, and it was only though the most terrible of sacrifices that she had come back into light. She spent much of her free time thereafter praying for guidance, coming to rely more and more upon the central tenets of Midoran as a method for moving though day-to-day life. Humility. Chastity. Honor. Virtue. She began to perform considerably better in her instructions and became considerably less popular with her fellow students.
After that, Gheal rarely sought her out, and when they did meet, he always wore a smile that masked a soft burning in his eyes. The pain of looking into them was unbearable, and so she made a point of avoiding him. |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 18 Feb 2006 06:04 PM |
| ((bravo!)) |
Purpose in life: finding better ways of allowing players to kill themselves. Repeatedly.
--
"...Cause he mixes it with love
And makes the world taste good."
--
<@James42> Lawful good isn't in your vocabulary, it's on your menu.
|
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 21 Feb 2006 03:29 AM |
| (( You know what I wrote for my writing class this week? Nothing! Guess what I'm turning in instead? )) |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 21 Feb 2006 10:00 AM |
| ((but will they understand the context?)) |
Purpose in life: finding better ways of allowing players to kill themselves. Repeatedly.
--
"...Cause he mixes it with love
And makes the world taste good."
--
<@James42> Lawful good isn't in your vocabulary, it's on your menu.
|
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 22 Feb 2006 12:36 AM |
Though Rosen had counted herself blessed, once, among Midoran’s chosen, she always held the regular army in the highest esteem. The highest of their ranks answered to the lowest of hers and she considered it one of life’s many lamentable (but forgivable) ironies that the scarfaced veteran at the outer gates would utter a respectful title of some sort as she passed.
Her peers pitied the regular army, they who, though commuted sentence or lack of opportunity, defended Midor’s walls without Midoran’s aid. At the time, she pretended to agree, sadly observing the crossbowmen on the parapets on her way between church and daily duty. In truth, she considered them to exist forever on the brink of martyrdom.
Things were different now. Now there was admiration.
Rosen looked at herself in the mirror, shaking her head with a soft chuckle. The weeks had worn on her heavily, scrubbing away years of polish and gloss. The woman who chuckled back wore dark, fading circles under her eyes, the once golden hair of the islands fading into a murky, tangled brown-green. Her full face had eroded away from cherubic certainty into... something more approaching the face of the wall guardsmen. The chuckle faded and she eyed herself more critically, combing out tangles as the raucous noise of drunken patrons hammered throughout the inn’s walls.
Impossibly, an achingly absent sensation fluttered through her breast.
Pride?
It had been an eternity without Midoran’s protection and guidance- an indefinite campaign of ambush and treachery waged on foreign soil. And just as with the regular army, she was somehow, incredibly, clinging to something. An idea, perhaps, that it was all for the best, that despite all evidence to the contrary, Midoran’s will would be done, his Divine Light blanket the land as promised, that all might go home one day. Home. Was –this- true faith? Was –this- True Light? Was this some divine rendition of Simon’s old games?
She shifted her gaze slightly, her own image blurring as she focused on a distant object in the mirror. Her armor lay stacked up in a neat pile. She turned smartly on her heel, a ghost of military decorum, and approached it. Piece by piece, she skimmed away dirt, scrubbed away surface rust, and polished each interlinking plate.
This was… somehow… the rebirth of faith. Despite every rational thought, and there were many, it prevailed. She was a soldier of Light, nothing more, nothing less. Humility. Rosen began assembling the suit, stepping into it like one might childhood’s tree house. The sword would come next. She retrieved her sharpening stone.
The soldier was long overdue for some combat experience. |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 14 Apr 2006 01:32 AM |
| (( She'll be back... )) |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 18 Apr 2006 01:38 AM |
In a place where no names were spoken, no faces revealed, a woman prayed, though she knew not to whom. She did not know who had lit the candles by the wall, where she stood in the eyes of Light, or what, for that matter, Light was. All she knew was that this place, this bending of the knee in the makeshift place of worship, was a pinprick of something less dark. The words shared outside, the philosophical rhetoric, the arguing, the disbelief, the lingering questions, they meant nothing. Words cannot describe the sheer truth of an awakening, and so silence, punctuated by careful footsteps around the cavern, merely alluded to it.
To have one's world shattered; to be given the chance to be a part of something in its place. Not a rebuilding of the old, but of something new, built on the highest precepts of the old and lacking age's blindness.
Was such a thing possible?
Rosen murmured soft, urgent words into her clasped hands. Her now tattered robe clung in grimy strips to her wrists, a once cherubic face was weathered into something implacably harder. Something in the eyes was brighter, though, and her words breathed fire back into her body.
They were questions, they were candorous, spoken to the altar. Illusions had been stripped away and decorum was not required for a talk with what was now only a prospective god. This image of ... Light's LIGHT, if one could grasp the term, did not respond. But there was, however, the peace of silence. A silence not felt in a very long time; one welcomed and embraced with all the fervor of her initial indoctrination. The words drained out of her.
"There are a basic series of tenets that each one of us who has felt horror must know. That it is wrong to kill without need. That generosity can be more powerful than force. That truth burns away falsehood. That mercy trumps ruthlessness. That each one of us matters. That darkness flees before light. That if we be kind to one another, then all will be well. That sometimes it is necessary to violate these tenets."
She took in a sacred breath.
"But never for one's own, personal gain. You failed me that day. And now..."
Parched lips met, words again failing. Instead, she stared into the grave marker near the center of the candle arrangement. This was as much a place of mourning as it was of prayer. Their god had turned against them. Light had become twisted, as though by a child's tantrum, into something monstrous, and so they clung to one another in the dark, plotting a new paradigm.
She rose with the metallic scrape of steel upon steel, metal joints under the robe clanging against one another. With a slight nod at the altar, she turned quietly and stepped out, out of the cavern, out of the clearing, through the dense trees and into a sunny day. It was perfect, this new state, this fearful and uncertain hope, this newfound wisdom in the face of loss. Terrible and beautiful, this mindset, this utter frailty of the divine. It made tears form in her smiling eyes, misting away vision. Rosen blinked the water away, only to find that she had been staring into the sun itself. A false idol. She chuckled huskily, hands trailing to her hips, and rode the laughter to its natural conclusion.
"Now it is time for me to practice what I preach." |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 06 May 2006 07:37 PM |
It was a miracle, and yet not. Miracles tended to have more flash – whoever had gone to the trouble of performing a miracle usually wanted everyone to know that a miracle was being performed. A gossamer wisp of magic, billowing out from the epicenter of the act, or the swirling of storm clouds overhead tended to act as a sign-post for these sorts of things. When auras and sounds accompanied the unexplainable, the awe receded into a vague understanding. If it fell into a pattern, it could be quantified.
The door could not be quantified, less so the riddle it posed.
Rosen’s arms were on fire, sweat dripping from every pore. Her hands were not unused to labor, but such a sustained, specific labor had blistered her palms and turned her breathing into a ragged, painful process. She persevered. The copper vein was nearly dry. It was good to know a trade, to have a practical application for oneself in times of financial difficulty or philosophical quandary. Each jolting of the pickaxe against stone jostled brain cells into order, the greater picture coming into focus even as exertion misted away vision.
A door without. The door within. Material to the divine and vice versa.
“Obviously,” she managed between a blow, “paradoxical.”
It was not spoken dismissively. If anything, her tone were conciliatory, almost familiar.
”Rosen.”
“Yes, Simon.”
All attention, brought out of a child’s self-examination. The sunrise cast a golden glow over the white walls of Midoran’s halls, her voice chirping over the ushered whispers of the acolytes who cleaned and prepared for morning prayers. Simon hid his smile, putting a finger to his lips.
“Are you ready for today’s question?”
She nodded eagerly. Life under the sun, sweeping, weeding, carrying, and life under a candle, studying, praying, and writing was far more endurable when given a toy to play with in the back of her mind. Simon steepled his fingers in front of his nose, pointing at his thinning widow’s peak. His voice was a paternal purr.
“If you were blind, could you tell the difference between white and black?”
Rosen balled up her hands, thrusting them against her hips. This one was going to be especially difficult. Simon’s questions were getting more and more so, approaching sheer impossibility as time went by. However, she was beginning to suspect that the purpose in the questions was not the answers themselves, but more the prospect of becoming comfortable with questions that could not always be answered. She frowned slightly.
“By sunset, you must have the answer.” He pulled away with a tousle of her hair, joining a passing priest in the business of adult conversation.
How would one know? How could one know anything? Simon had shown her the power of paradoxes. They were a focus of sorts, fostering wisdom around their abyssal depths. It came down to the admittance that logic failed at some point, trumped by something greater.
Rosen braced herself against the bags of raw copper on the bumpy wagon ride to Ladriel. The sweat had dried upon her face, leaving a salty sheen across her tired flush, and her murky hair clung in rude curls around her brow and neck. The sun was setting; it was unlikely that she would make it to the ship in time. She would be given ample opportunity to mull it all over.
A door which hung in space, promising everything for only ‘that last little blaze of magic,’ the smallest display of the most mundane, the most profound aspect of humanity: belief. The instinctive reaching of the child for mother, of faithful for Light. It promised to come into her once again, superceding all the nonsense and triviality, and bringing once again that most pivotal aspect of a life well-lived. It was not simply a matter of steeling oneself and leaping forth. Such an act would require courage of a less graspable sort.
It required a fundamental optimism.
Her heart sank at that understanding. The woman settled against the lumps of metal, visualizing the forge. It would provide distraction and clarity. Subjects like these were best approached from the circumference.
“So you tell yourself,” she said, and closed her eyes. |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 21 May 2006 01:19 AM |
A full day of forge work left her flesh salty and sensitive. Though the evening rain had tapered into a blessedly cool mist, her tunic still hung in abrasive clumps around the sorest parts of her body. Rosen’s mind was not sore. Rosen’s mind moved endlessly, logically, a churning pool of questions and concerns that slogged as sluggishly as her legs in the thick mud which passed for road.
The Alliance office glared out through the forest, golden light shed from its walls. Rationally speaking, there was no doubt that their loud choice of colors was a public relations move, but rationality could cull belief only so far. When the armored building, tiny and formidable, rounded from the woods and into view, she found herself moved despite her emotional preparation: her heavy load lightened, her steps quickened, and her heart rose a few, meaningful inches.
She moved to the donation box, fumbling with the clasps on her pack. The bruised and blood-blistered fingers that grasped the suits of chain testified to their hard-won value. For each of the three that were methodically put into the box, three more lay in abandoned piles, mangled beyond recognition. No, there had been no divine intervention in her work, no godly hand guiding her clumsy hammer. This had been nothing more or less than mundane, grueling, painful, frustrating work. It was proving to be immensely satisfying in its familiarity.
Rosen sealed away her work, the box snapping shut with a fatalistic click. As she straightened, her back gave a telltale creak of strain. There was a moment of afterglow. Then it all came flooding back.
Light appeared content to offer vague hopes and promises in the face of allegedly certain doom. A guide had come to the faithful, certainly, but it did not stay to truly guide. Not in the practical sense. For all intents and purposes, her fellows and she were as in the dark as ever.
“No matter,” she murmured, taking the weightless steps that follow a lightened burden.
It was true. It did not matter. Ideals and ability, she was learning, did not hinge on otherworldly support. Perhaps that was part of the point, or perhaps her trip to the monastery had shaken her faith in conventional wisdom. The serene-seeming place had an underbelly of amorality. All in all, it was a factory that produced free-willed, unguided, living weapons.
“Or it could be that I’m dancing around recent proof of my own failings.”
It took several seconds for the young woman to realize that she had been the one speaking. Dante’s face flashed before her eyes. She lowered her head, heat creeping up her neck. It was hard to mentor a man who saved you from your own overconfidence.
Granted, he might as well have made the same mistake as she, but he was not a knight. He had not been the one flagrantly disregarding all discretion in favor of something shiny. That indiscretion on her part had likely cost her a good deal of ground with a man whose soul was in a very precarious place. At the very least, the recent debacle was going to make for an interesting power dynamic.
Light willing, he would settle for dinner and a gracious thank you.
Rosen’s face twisted up in thought as she walked back to Port. She needed to speak with Jerec on matters far more immediate and relevant than her own mistakes and confusion. Something was happening to (the insufferable lunatic)
to Dana, something important. Something in relation to the widespread, reptilian madness, the ancient race of Sslissayath mages. Something to do with the Grey. Whatever it was, it was pressing and dangerous enough for Lucius to humble himself in front of a pair of Midorans. That smacked of emergency.
She halted as that sunk in, then redoubled her pace. She’d make for the Villa. |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 02 Jun 2006 09:58 PM |
You’re there, just out of evening prayers, so young and still soft skin rubbing against the unknown metal of your practice armor, and the sun is setting, incredibly beautiful, the White City golden, and all the bad times mean nothing, the glimpse of what is meaningful true in the face, with all these big ideas of how things should be, how they will be, how you can help, how you can change things for the better, and there they are from around the corner of the little chapel: Simon and Gheal in their humble robes in so much opulence, and Gheal is smiling as bright as anything with Simon giving that clever smirk (Gheal, Simon, I loved your words today!) turning to look at you, unimportant you, and there is the grateful familiarity cutting even lines through the barriers you have put into place, the Truth revealed, All is Well, and then just from outside vision, some dark, obscured place that does not exist, He comes, some thug-but-well-dressed with a dagger that does not catch the glow, and he is upon them in an instant with words, blindsiding Simon, age showing in his crumple, and Gheal next, hands out defenselessly (I don’t have any money) no hesitation from you, all your training, all the theory cascades past your hips and into your feet, speeding at the opportunist-of-misery without so much as a blink, This Is What You Are For.
--==(O)==--
Arms toned from the too-heavy sword you carry catch coward-hurter by the throat, sure as iron, a body of fat and sinew quivering in your grip, no thoughts in your mind – purpose - vision utterly directed - focus – how to protect those dear, he is falling under your committed tackle and gasping and your grip is unyielding, eyes letting the world back in, this rush of Something gone as quickly as it came and in its place two pairs of eyes looking at you with childlike openness, Simon holding his ribs and Gheal’s face awe-stricken, these two men who you so admire and so adore and look to in every sense for direction and wisdom, and now they are looking at you for direction, age on the one hand and pacifist pursuits on the other, what will you do - (The Guard, get the Guard, I can’t hold him forever!) Gheal dashing with his robes trailing toward the distant pinprick of order, bringing some conception of something greater back with him, but it is not needed and Simon knows this with his hand on your shoulder, not a tousle of hair or tap on the nose, but a hand on the shoulder, and you are carrying the burden now, you are holding Evil at bay, and This Is What You Are For, this is Why We Have Sacrificed.
Rosen emerged from the pool.
Thank you. |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 09 Jun 2006 08:59 PM |
Passing fantasies in the wind.
The numerous stings over her body, left by the touch of Syn, had begun to fade. Their lessons did not. Rosen found herself questioning again. Whether she knew her own will, let alone could discern the will or machinations of The Name, it all rose to the surface in light of her own dubious mark on the world. The Aegea rocked gently. It no longer nauseated her to be at sea. Perhaps improvement was not entirely a pipe dream.
The idea that Syn was strengthened by every act of destruction seemed, at first intellectual glance, ridiculous. When weighed upon heavily, over the end of the ship’s rail, it proved impossible, either to be the case or to deal with if it was, indeed, the case. She could not compassion away the ghouls that roamed Maldovia, even if love were a bargaining chip, which it wasn’t. No, love was something tenuous and fragile in mortal souls. Hardly a match for invincible tentacles, and those oily things had proven more than a match for her.
It was as though the world expected divine acts out of habit. She knew not when her prayers found God and when they were answered by the divine middlemen, when sacrifices were worthwhile, or the line that straddled stubbornness and resolution. For as long as she could remember, it seemed, she had been in the dark, following her hungry belly, then an uncompromising dogma, then an occult road to salvation. Was it hypocrisy to serve in this way? At the end of a given day, Rosen’s tired body would fall, but her mind would struggle even in sleep. What right had she to an opinion beyond the simple judgments of common sense and decency?
Probably none. Perhaps it was time to shut up and let someone smarter do the talking. Cedrych, that was one thing he was good for, one thing amidst many. He was better at adapting. He was relatively savvy in the ways of social maneuvering. He would, therefore, need to know about Kalannar’s wound and her questions. He would offer insight. He would make the path clearer.
No he wouldn’t. Cedrych had his own problems and she had no business disturbing him. There was something small and flickering below her ribs at his words, the last time they had spoken, and it gave the impression of being a very snuffable sort of flame. No. Cedrych was not there to assuage her personal worries and solve riddles that she ought to be able to solve. Cedrych was not to be sullied.
Had she not been ordained by the very Ultimate Light? Could she not walk on her own two bloody feet?
And still, there were only so many absurd misfortunes to be suffered before one began to question. And there were only so many quiet prayers could be answered before one began to question whether one was worthy of their answering. For the Power was given, but virtue went only so far as the sensations of her smile. The smiles on her face were quick, calligraphic slashes of politeness, rarely felt, and when they were felt, they sometimes felt alien-familiar, as with the stories told by they who have lost limbs.
The truth was that she wasn’t quite sure she was ready to start smiling. She wasn’t sure she’d earned it.
You’re there, just out of evening prayers, so young and still soft skin rubbing against the unknown metal of your practice armor, and the sun is setting, incredibly beautiful, the White City golden, and all the bad times mean nothing, the glimpse of what is meaningful true in the face, with all these big ideas of how things should be, how they will be, how you can help, how you can change things for the better, and there they are from around the corner of the little chapel: Simon and Gheal in their humble robes in so much opulence, and Gheal is smiling as bright as anything with Simon giving that clever smirk (Gheal, Simon, I loved your words today!) turning to look at you, unimportant you, and there is the grateful familiarity cutting even lines through the barriers you have put into place, the Truth revealed, All is Well, and then just from outside vision, some dark, obscured place that does not exist, He comes, some thug-but-well-dressed with a dagger that does not catch the glow, and he is upon them in an instant with words, blindsiding Simon, age showing in his crumple, and Gheal next, hands out defenselessly (I don’t have any money) no hesitation from you, all your training, all the theory cascades past your hips and into your feet, speeding at the opportunist-of-misery without so much as a blink, This Is What You Are For-
-One Second, One Step, the thief-taker jerks his wrist like the stabbing of a serpent and Gheal with the dagger in his breast and Simon, so old! So breaking on the cobblestones with leaking life into the cracks and footsteps running away So Fast, glassy eyes torn away from dying friend to a retreating figure who juts into the horizon ever-distantly, the curvature of the world visible on clear sunset sky and cobblestone road and blood spreading from your circumference, and you are alone, taking a dying hand in either of yours.
No.
Ulalume was to be her friend, and she would be a good friend to Ulalume. Ulalume had the Light within her soul as easily and naturally as a child’s grip on a cookie, with all the easy understanding of a born leader. The woman was not to be bothered with the worries of the black sheep of the Coruscanti. Cedrych was her friend, the words unspoken between them but felt to her core, and there was the undeserved honor of his words to her in private. With the knowledge came a tender ache, centered.
The lost songstress, the redeemable necromancer, the wayward barbarian, the addled scholar, the fearful mage... they would see what she showed them.
There would be no breakdown or uncertainty. She would be a rock of reliability. Rosen would literally fracture at the seams before they found her to be anything less than presentable as a knight, before any who saw her as a symbol saw anything lesser beneath, that their own steps might falter at the sight.
The portcullis fell forward behind her eyes, a refugee tear or several squeezing past the barricades. Then nothing but duty and lingering questions, cloistered. |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 16 Jun 2006 09:41 PM |
The first time she had been to a museum, Rosen had seen the most beautiful thing in the world. A man on horseback, chiseled out of marble, calling forth a noble charge. Her first instinct had been to try and reach beyond the partition and run a finger over the surface, to bring that perfection just slightly closer to the senses. The matron had firmly struck her knuckles with a switch.
Lesson learned: you didn’t try and touch perfection.
Certain things were the domain of the Rosens of the world, and others existed in a plane above – and these things existed to be adored, to serve as Muses for the Rosens as they aspired to accomplish; they existed for the mere purpose of their existence. They were already perfect.
By the thin light of the Villa’s namesake, Rosen hunched over a desk, quill in a constantly moving hand. Her lips twitched between the occasional frown and severe reluctance, eyes focused into pinpoints.
Cedrych,
How the quill lingered on his name. Just as suddenly, it was slashed in two, the paper crumpled and tossed into a wastebasket.
Sir Cedrych von Maistlin,
Just as bad, if not worse. It looked sanctimonious. The second draft landed atop the first, a third sheet laid primly at the center of the table’s surface. She took a steadying breath and began again.
My Dear Cedrych,
There. That was passable. It looked reserved without being frigid. Frigidity in any sense would be grossly disingenuous at this point, and it was vital that she not skirt the line between rationalized dishonesty and well-intentioned tact too loosely. Of course, had she her druthers, it would have been something along the lines of-
Dear Love,
To My Not So Secret Admirer, Thanks to the Tribune,
Hello Handsome,
-or, her secret favorite, though she would take this to her grave-
My Knight.
However, the Rosens of the world no more had their druthers than they were allowed to touch the things they adored. Their place was of service to the greater good, service to those few people or movements that had an intuitive rightness about them. The facts, as they were later explained to her three-foot self by the matron, were that dirty hands dirtied purity. Rosen did not want to do that, then or now.
Only somehow, amazingly, impossibly, today’s statue seemed to love her as well. It had been hard to grasp at the café, that his words of affection (so uncharacteristically diverted and stammered) had been directed toward her. By default, his profession of love was directed toward some third party.
She knew people who had trouble telling the difference between one color and another. Now she and they had something to talk about. At the café, As the truth of things sank into place, his face earnestly and fearfully upon her eyes, a tacit undercurrent of human interaction began to well up and around from everywhere, into her body.
Me? For me? Too much. Confused. Too much to deal with at once. Lots of responsibilities. Coruscanti. Public appearances. Timing. Dangerous lives, the both of us – more hurt? Love = virtue; lover = weakness to be exploited. Oh God, Cedrych, me? Why me? Why did it have to be me? I am not strong enough to say no to this.
And so, she had instead told the truth. In the midst of brewing wars, a “Magistry” that sprung from nowhere and was suddenly at the world’s forefront, sick friends, shifting factions, she told it to him straight. It was the very least she could do for him.
The truth was that she was fairly certain she would never have Cedrych in either the spiritual or casual sense. She didn’t have his depth of vision. She didn’t have the disarming smile or sheer breadth of common sense. Cedrych’s way was one of implicit trust with the universe, one endlessly rekindled after endless betrayals by the hand of fate. His face, spreading into optimism, was like the rising of the sun. It warmed everyone.
Not just her.
Adoration results from admiration eclipsing worthiness. And so it was:
My Dear Cedrych,
I do not know what I can write here that can come close to the honor that I have been paid by your words, so I will keep my inept hand as quick as I can.
Let us remain the best of friends through these trying times. Allow me to serve as an ear when you are troubled, a sword when one is needed, and a smile in darkened days. I do not know what else I can possibly offer you at this time. Do you?
Yours,
Rosie |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 13 Jul 2006 12:53 AM |
The sense of an unexpected gift, given without expectation of repayment, the shy smile offered to a stranger across the hall, before looks designed to kill are learned, the long night’s first hint of dawn. It took her as she enveloped it. There they stayed, weightless, soundless, and very nearly sightless.
There was darkness, of course, and to say that it was darkness of the blackest sort would be a mild understatement. There is only so black you can go before you find oblivion, and a psyche that called itself Rosie (still saw itself wearing clothes three sizes too big, mother’s wide-brimmed hat obscuring visions of the dinner table) was teetering between ebon shades of here and forever. Gone were human concerns, gone was the pride that so valiantly warded guilt. The parts of Rosie that still existed were naked and without worry. There were conflicting senses, foremost among them an unparalleled relief and approaching peace. At the corners, though, were the gentle tugs of childlike hands; she had forgotten something behind. In the distance, deeper and ever-spanning shades of what lay beyond, beckoning as knowingly as the quilts of a familiar bed, and another fading step was taken There.
Far above and invisible in all respects save the peripheral, an uncertain light cast a hundred shattered shadows over her movements. Rosie’s gaze traveled over them. In many, she was fighting, a great extension of something in her hands cutting through other images of herself. She was also talking. An idle realization passed across the universe: her fighting stance was virtually identical to her talking stance – simply inverted. How sad. What a waste. One more step, light fading.
More shadows, some penitent, some resolute, others reverent, a few ones at the corners spiteful or enraged, playing Ring Around the Rosie, arms interlinked or striking one another or oblivious or afraid or orgastic. One more step, an unheard whisper at her cheek. God, she was almost there. It was almost all gone, and the shadows were almost indistinguishable from the nothing. Then another whisper came, ushered on a snapped tendril of Bright.
“-have to believe that there… eh… is still something-“
Resonant. That was the word for that voice. The tone was urgent and hard to resist, the midway pause a modest nod, and then cut off. She darted about for it and came, startlingly, close to a glimpse of the light that continued to persist, but it hovered out of vision, only hinting. His voice came again, arching from a strained reserve into a high note of pathos.
“-what I learned, what you learned, what we all - God, Rosen, please.”
Pain!
Pain, suddenly remembered, in her intestines / where there were intestines. Sweet Light of day but so many images came all at once, memories recovered like splashes of water in a scrubland. Bursts of what was shrouded appeared, flaring up, and vanished in the next moment. Peering up from under mother’s sun hat, gravity promised itself in the distance, the evasive illumination slowed its flight, and the voice got louder.
“Please. Please.” The voice was now aimless, directed at any who would hear. How sad. What a waste. She swam up from the shades of black with effort, searching for him. A pat on the shoulder and all would be well. That was all anyone tended to need, anyhow - a sign that someone cared, that sense of camaraderie. The hand that offers aid, like a gift given without expectations-
There it was, in front of Rosie, where it had been all her life: that twinkling of hidden light, brighter than the sun. And it opened, opened, breathing in the frigid air of Icy Vale, and blurry vision revealing a bearded face cupped in a defeated gauntlet, soft words in an endless litany. As the world (cabin? Snow between the beams) blearily arrived around him, she extended a bandaged hand to his, lightly grasping, with a wince of pain, the crevice between his index and middle fingers.
Red-rimmed eyes of blue dashed at her, twin orbs of joy and disbelief. The face was very familiar. Important to her. As one, the memories funneled back into her head. A broken jaw struggled to speak.
“Sssh,” she croaked, “It’s all right. It’s all right.” |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 21 Jul 2006 07:11 PM |
The sound of bone aligning itself against bone was akin to fingernails against a chalkboard - save that the noise came from inside her face. There was no pain. There was never pain when the prayers were answered. The flat, steel mirror showed a nose sliding back into straghtness, molding itself into the natural semicolon on a no nonsense, librarian countenance. The bruises around her face faded, leaving a cherubic glow in their passing. The familiar cramps in her splinted leg segued into the discomfort of health against artificial restraint. A smile that did not touch her eyes revealed the same set of perfect teeth that has always, albeit improbably, served as conversation's dagger. Healed.
With a muttered noise of thanks, she rose from the makeshift temple floors and darted out. The too-wild sounds of Buckshire's woodlands sailed about her close-cropped hair, pressing her woolen robe against a frame that had fallen away. Too much to do. Too long spent unconscious.
Have to talk to Ulalume about casually throwing about incredibly secret nomenclature. Have to talk to Xaranthir about the elemental. Have to talk to Fennigan about... whatever that dubious little hin wishes to talk about. Have to check in on Dante's downward spiral; have to determine whether he rests in the balance or has become a threat. Have to get a hold of Cedrych.
God, Cedrych. For all our infamy, I can't remember the last time we actually spent a moment together in a semblance of privacy.
Right. Moving on. Have to contact the other Coruscanti in a semi-official fashion. Have to get that idea off the ground. Numerous exiled Midorans = potential force to be reckoned with. Time is an issue, here. Have to get to them before they forget what it was like to be in the right.
Sinewy arms parted dense branches and a hooded figure emerged, fists clenched in an almost childlike concentration. Rosen made her way south, to Buckshire. Human energy, held back by human frailty, quickened her to nearly superhuman levels when unbridled. |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 14 Sep 2006 09:10 PM |
(( Recent and unprovoked mention of Rosen's girlybits is responsible for this post. This is what Rosen looks like, subject to change as time, hardship, and gravity work their horrors. If you’re uninterested, don’t read this – there is nothing of import here ))
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Straight / Murky
Height: 5'10"
Weight: 145
Build: Lean / Gangly
Age: Late teens / Early twenties?
Tone: Usually tanned
In another dimension, Rosen would have the build of a WNBA point guard. Things being as they are in Vives, she simply towers over the malnourished populace. She is comfortable with that, a kind of forced pride in every measured step. Unlike many who fall outside the physical bounds of normalcy, shrinking or sucking or twisting their way into the crowd, she stands rigidly at her full height, an uncompromising stare leveled at each object of inquiry from a pair of plainly potent brown eyes. This extroverted stoicism makes her appear even taller than she actually is. Cross her arms and she may appear as a statue from a distance.
Her hair is chopped at the chin and neatly parted at the top of her head, a small, perhaps vain homage to her overall seriousness. No amount of pomp or attention is paid to this dead fiber beyond what is necessary to maintain a clean and forward appearance, as such it could be called quietly sublime in its simplicity.
Rosen's shoulders, her distinctly unfeminine feature, are too wide and lined with a taut layer of hard-won muscle. Endless hours spent at the forge and practicing with the greatsword have worked her upper body into a functioning weapon. Her thighs could crush walnuts. Despite this, vestiges of what would have been an easier life’s hourglass figure continue to persist. Her calloused hands appear quick and delicate in motion, often illustrating her ideas with hummingbird gestures.
What most see when they first look at Rosen Vimes is not a person, but a presentation of physical devotion and emotional severity. The lewd, the jaded, and those who spend any significant amount of time with her will eventually notice that she is beautiful, but the perceptive will also see that this beauty, born of luck, hard work, and healthy living, is overshadowed by its application. Her face may be free of blemish, her step may hold a shadow of that inevitable allure, her blouse (if one manages to catch Rosen in a blouse) does stretch in pleasant places, and her smile, when given, may indeed fill the room, but Rosen Vimes is not one iota of the beauty she could be.
Beauty is, whereas Rosen does. |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 23 Sep 2006 05:40 AM |
(( Stuff actually happens here, if you care about Rosen's little world. It just takes some reading. ))
Rosen led the way, but only literally. Lady Madeline Sanner, clothed in the conspicuous simplicity of a peasant’s robe, made soundless swishes behind. Haven was all around them; countless, willful avalanches roared in the distance, the drumbeat by which the shouts of working, drilling soldiers kept their rhythm. Rosen stared straight ahead, avoiding direct eye-contact with the patrolling golems. She held no faith in the minions of a strange god and they seemed to pay more attention to her when she paid attention to them. The mouth of the Hush Tunnels grew like a maw.
Haven was a living thing, the Aristi a boisterous symbiote only by the mountain’s good graces. Rosen and Madeline were willingly swallowed, seeking the unnatural silence of the caverns. Rosen’s hard boot suddenly whispered against the floor, a far cry from the expected echo.
“This is much, much better,” came the distorted signal of Madeline’s voice.
“Come, we can be more secretive still,” Rosen met the woman’s eyes. She hoped that her own did not contain a fraction of the suspicion she felt. The humor came too quickly and unwarranted from her lips. She turned away.
More than their security, for which Rosen was only moderately concerned within the tunnels, the young paladin sought to show Madeline that she knew things, and so she showed her the Cohosh. Squeezing past cracks and fissures in the ever-rumbling, almost breathing stone, she gestured offhandedly to a hidden, blooming shrub. Madeline took no notice. In fact, she seemed to take little notice of her surroundings in general. Inwardly, Rosen balked. Certainly, brooding was a pastime to be treasured, but that was a poor excuse for ignoring one’s environment.
To ignore the battle in favor of the greater war can is to ignore the church in favor of the greater god. The thought came unbidden. What did it mean? Had it been Simon who said that? No matter. This, ultimately, would not be about rhetoric, much less spirituality; it would be about the way things were going to be handled in the Villa. On that much, Rosen was to stake a great deal.
At last, they emerged from the wallspace into an underground lake, where a stone edifice, half-submerged, stared into magma rock mists. At last, Rosen faced Madeline directly. The woman opposite her hovered on the brink of her thirties, a sharp chin quietly pronouncing her confidence. Madeline’s jaw worked before she spoke – a sign of a mind in a hundred urgent places, or simply of a scattered brain.
“Well then,” Madeline said. Even quieted, the words carried weight.
“Yes, do tell,” Rosen replied, gravely intoning.
At once, Madeline began speaking. She remained mostly still, her meager movements limited to the tightening of her rope around her waist. She answered all questions, some real, some perceived, and some unasked – some untouched by words at all, only sensed at the edge of things. Her meter rarely deviated from a clipped, rapid set of short phrases. The linguistic equivalent of a hand-crossbow.
“As to the question of security of this place. Ill be quite frank. No it is not safe. I was in the Port today. It seems this place is known to many. Too many. It is only a matter of time before it is infiltrated. If it has not already. Which brings me to Karli. She is your friend, no?”
So many pronouncements in so short a time and so many presumptions. How very like her brother, if paradigms apart! Rosen struggled with her blank, mildly receptive stare, a chortle escaping her lips and dying a half-inch into the silent place.
“Hm,” she said, “Let us say so, for the sake of argument.”
“Make no mistake,” Madeline quickly spoke, “I cast no judgment on her intentions. She does seem like a good soul. However, I am quite disturbed that Byron allowed her access to this place. As I understand it, she is to wed one of the knights here. All well and good. That is no cause for her to be here however. More reason not to, matter of factly.”
Madeline shook her head, expression showing a mind overburdened with purpose. Rosen’s memory picked up a distant refrain of the Bloody Biship. A smile cracked on her face, slipping gaily across a rising tide of anger. At least I am smiling, she thought. Rosen opened her mouth, speaking in a necessary shout.
“I would argue that she has earned her stripes, insofar as these things go.”
A flat look was sent Rosen’s way, the sort that she often gave to those she intended to silence with that very look and nothing more. It was an expression offered to the weak-minded, the blunt announcement of someone else’s faux pas.
“She does not belong here,” Madeline said, “Stripes or no stripes.”
Rosen considered this, pushing her irritation to the side. “Why?”
“There are many who have aided us. More so than her… they were not given permission to be here.”
“Hold, lady.” Rosen held out a forestalling palm, “When you speak of us, do you speak of the Aristi?”
“I speak of them and the chosen paladins. Ones such as yourself.”
“Milady, you will notice that the Illumine Alliance and the Aristi share an office on the Northern Highway. The movement is less exclusive than one might wish.”
“Of course. Then she should have been given a job there. Not here.”
Like fighters in a ring, the circling began. Without a flag raised or horn sounded, an understanding had been reached between the two, here in the bowels of the earth. This was a fight as real as any other, but it would be conducted honorably. So Rosen suspected; the latter, so she hoped.
“Again – why?”
“Are you aware of what she is up to?”
It was difficult to tell a feint before the momentum was lost in its avoidance. Rosen took the easy road of glib, empty words. She would not surrender ground this early.
“A good deal of it, but I would scarce bet that a prize racehorse could keep up with that brain.”
“Mhmm,” said Sanner, her first note of emotion so far (and one of anticipation), “Precisely my point. Good heart or not, she is a huge liability. I was here when she spoke with another… one by the name of Nat. This, of course, was after she was finished smoking her… pipe weed. Let me fill you in on what she plans to do.”
Rosen was already recoiling, certain that Madeline had overextended herself. Their nation was lost to zealous madness, a world cloaked in shadow; a mild habit, not uncommon among the populace, was cause for disdain? Frown lines appeared at the corners of her lips.
“That is no concern – soldiers prefer wine. Artists, stranger vices. The latter bit, that I am interested in.”
The response was cursory, but indifferent. “I beg to differ, lady Vimes. In any event, she wishes to purchase a manor. In the Port.”
Rosen’s mind worked to fit this piece into the ever-shifting puzzle without success. “To what end?”
“Apparently she has something to do with Jessup the Younger. His name was mentioned. She asked Nat for one million gold. To put toward its purchase.”
Rosen struggled to remain upright. Karli Goodfellow? Were there two Karlis? Since when did her ambitions strike out beyond fashion, music, art, sex, and the shortcomings of others? A manor – and Jessup? Karli’s hatred of the halfblood was overt, a foregone understanding.
“Hrm,” Rosen said, tapping her chin, “It was more likely animosity than a connection, for what it is worth. A million coins…”
Madeline leapt in at the ensuing silence, “She wishes to house all the paladins there,” she fervently spoke, the green of her eyes deepening into an overarching concern, “All of us… there.”
“All the paladins,” Rosen said into the space before her eyes, tonelessly. Bit by bit, it began to fall together. The plan.
“Yes. Let me also tell you this. You no doubt know of my brother.”
Rosen murmured her assent.
“Within the ranks of the R.S. he rose to heights very quickly, not ever seen before. He was the first convert. He also had the honor of being assigned the task of hunting and bringing to justice Jessup the Younger and Pickston Rickticks…
Rosen’s bland, brown gaze refocused on the new subject. The lesson to be given was one of dissuading and futility, or grave consequences. One did not need to put together common knowledge to know this. One only had to consider the results of a manor which housed paladins. Less paladins to go around.
“…He accomplished half that task. He was responsible for dispensing of Mr. Rickticks. Hence his numerous promotions. Now, during that time my dear little brother confided in me quite a bit. He learned much of what he was dealing with. To put it bluntly. This Karli is going to wake a sleeping dragon…
Rosen continued nodding, the impressionistic edges of Karli’s supposed scheme coming into view, and Madeline’s short, hurried, clipped tones snipping away at the fabric.
“…Jessup the Younger is no longer interested in us. Are you aware that Jerac met with him?”
Jerac? And: Are you aware that this same Jessup threatened to purchase the Villa? “Jerec?” she asked.
Madeline nodded, face bearing the serious expression of one imparting important news. In fact, it was no revelation. Jerec’s face, in life, looked haunted by a hundred demons. Surely Jessup could have accounted for at least one.
“With Lillian,” Madeline said.
“It is unsurprising,” said Rosen, “But no.”
“Quite odd to hear, I know. However, Jerac had good reason,” continued Madeline… and something, something about that, that casual ignoring of common courtesy, of the possibility that one’s every understanding and assumption might not be absolutely correct, that unearned sureness of one’s inherent rightness… in that moment, Madeline ceased to be Madeline and became Sanner. Rosen’s mind closed over any offerings of compromise with the woman. The near-constant frown on her face dug into the terrain and her eyes hardened. Sanner either did not recognize this subtle change in expression or chose to ignore it.
“He was most curious as to what this orc brought to the table,” Sanner continued, “Why he has been able to hold power there for so long. He came to the correct conclusion. We are outgunned there. That is why we would have nothing to do with getting their attention.”
Rosen felt her face smiling briefly at certain choice phrases. The self-possessed woman spoke further, voice slowly overcoming any inhibitions heft against it by the cave or Rosen’s countenance.
“Let’s say Karli does manage to purchase this manor. She convinces some of the paladins to move in there. How do you think that will look to the exiles and the poor of the Port? Not to mention her ties to us. She is doing the orc a favor! She doesn’t even realize it!”
Rosen’s face was blank as she spoke, tone even: “What if it also houses the poor?”
Sanner shook her head, her response curt: “No. Given the animosity that she has for Jessup… I assume he has no love for her… he will lift an eye to anything she does in Port. That will be her death sentence.”
“Let’s go back to ‘no’,” said Rosen.
For the first time since they began, Sanner truly paused. Not for more than an instant, but it did occur. “Very well,” she said.
“I require more than edicts. I require evidence and reasoning.”
“Very well, what do you think Jessup’s reaction to that happening will be? Will he just ignore it?”
“To the Ackswith manor having a section allocated to the needy?” Rosen spoke carefully, sensing a trap, but unable to sniff the lure from safe harbor.
Sanner nodded. “You don’t think he’ll just find that odd? Especially in that area of the Port?”
Rosen blinked rapidly, hurrying to stave away the ensuing monologue. “From what you describe, it does not sound as though any part of this ought be secret in the first place. An established presence – this is what she seeks.”
“Yes, in the middle of Port, where he can become more of a pain than ever.” And now her voice was actually rising, counting out tomfooleries on her fingers, “His influence is greater than ours. That is a fact. How else can he operate? With the queen right there?”
“Indifference,” Rosen said; some facts were more intuitive than others, by her reckoning.
“You think he doesn’t already know what she is up to? Small Stones was perfect. Not too much. Just what the Port needed. Not only does it keep the children off the streets, it protects them from his corruption.”
“Absurd,” Rosen growled, suddenly aflame. How dare one decide that less misery was ‘good enough’ for another? “Port needs a basic working sanitation system and a better standard of living.”
Sanner shook her head. “All good and well. Buying a manor is not the answer.”
“No, but the implications are,” and in that moment, an actual revelation. Rosen fancied this plan. Suicidally courageous and bullheaded as it was, it was the best she’d heard in ages.
“No, it is wrong,” the words were emphatically spoken with another shake of Sanner’s head.
“I like the idea. It is a far sight better than the secretive nothing we’ve been about for the last months of our lives.”
“Exactly! That is what I am doing here. To stop this stuff that you all think is a good thing!”
A line of thinking all too familiar, and worn through the soles. “So as not to tread on the greater design?”
Sanner paused. Their eyes met, each unflinching. Rosen’s hands deliberately trailed to her hips, where they lay flat. Sanner’s pupils closed to pinpricks in the dark, first evading, then launching a final charge.
“One million. What do you think one million would do for the Sisters? Or what would it have done for the Trading Post when it burned down? Where was that million then?”
A poor thrust. Rosen held no illusions about herself, she hoped. She would never be among the smartest, or strongest, or wisest. She did, however, know to tithe and she did it without complaint, despite its seeming futility. Nothing could squander funds like a bureaucracy.
“I do not know,” she said at last, “When I donated my hundred thousands, made from shields of which I forged each and every, I noticed no difference in the care of the Sisters.”
“Lady Vimes, it was not for a loss,” Sanner said, at last creeping toward the fissure between them, “However, there was no consistency in our actions. The movement becase easily distracted. The tasks put upon the paladins was lost.”
“Which movement?” Rosen jabbed, rankling at the generality.
“How many exiles were helped? How many refugees? Where are they now?”
Rosen abruptly subsided, bewildered. “You’ve lost me utterly,” she murmured, voice barely carrying.
“I know,” Sanner said.
Rosen then did something she did not often do. She gave a shrug of dismissal. It was one thing for the divine to play at riddles.That was the prerogative of the Uncertain Light. It was another thing entirely when the woman before her attempted to follow suit.
“Tell me,” Sanner said, “What were you asked to do?”
“To stay out of the way,” Rosen shot back, wriggling her fingers as though marionettes were in tow.
“Who’s way? Who?!”
“The likes of Lillian, and Jerec, rest his soul.” Rosen’s voice grew quieter still, the shame of it, the indignity of turning her creed into a show, burning from a brutally ignored spot in her belly. “And you, perhaps.”
A muffled crack reverberated off the wall before being engulfed in soundlessness. Sanner had slapped herself on the forehead, face a mask of incredulous exasperation. What a life you must have lived to expect obedience by default. When Sanner spoke, it was with certitude and disappointment intermingled.
“This is worse than I expected. Look, this is how it is going to be. I am assuming the role that Lillian had. I still remain in contact with her. I leave it up to you whether you wish to continue your work with us or move on.”
A dark chuckle escaped Rosen’s lips, hands moving back to the perch of her hips.
“Do you have the authorization to speak thusly?” she asked.
“I do. I will answer to Byron only.”
Again came the unearned certainty, but just as quickly an asynchronous bit of lunacy. The Coruscanti would be answering to the Aristi? This was not only a debacle of leadership, but of faith! Reckonings flashed across Rosen’s mind like light playing against water. How long had it been like this? This directionless, endless reorganization? These endless, abandoned schemes? Would she continue to live as a pawn, to be moved at whim by some unseen, untrusted hand?
No.
“Byron is not one of us, Sanner,” she sighed out the words, a defeated smile wavering on her lips, “But then, I suppose, neither am I.” |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 23 Sep 2006 10:54 AM |
| (*clap clap*) |
Purpose in life: finding better ways of allowing players to kill themselves. Repeatedly.
--
"...Cause he mixes it with love
And makes the world taste good."
--
<@James42> Lawful good isn't in your vocabulary, it's on your menu.
|
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 25 Sep 2006 11:43 AM |
| ((I adore your wordsmithing)) |
T'mok Gurzi
Resident Gnoll Warlord
patron for the noble yet drink addled
Timik Gorozai the Mistake |
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 29 Sep 2006 11:42 AM |
(( Hello all. I thought I would make a couple of quick announcements, one IC, the other OOC. If you have questions or comments about either, please PM me or stick them in another thread, so as not to clutter up this one.
First of all, Rosen Vimes, Cedrych von Maistlin, Ulalume A'Midori, or any other of the NM-flavored paladins do not cast spells conventionally. This is to say that despite the animations and special effects which are hard-coded into the game, your character sees a simple, mundane prayer. The only difference is that these prayers appear to be answered. This is to say that the powers are not obviously broadcasted. The thrust is that it is a divinity of a more mystical, unknowable sort.
Secondly, I've started making bluff checks when Rosen lies. This is not intended to force your character into a counter-check or a decision of any sort, really. You can use the roll as a guide for how your character might react or ignore this roll entirely. Completely up to you. Likewise, I am trusting everyone not to instantly know that I'm lying just because I've made a bluff check. The reasoning in my decision to start rolling on important lies is that it's nearly impossible to discern truth from deception when all you see is--
Rosen Vimes: I didn't take the money.
What's my inflection? Am I flushing? Are my eyes steady? Am I sweating? While I try to emote honestly, I can never really paint an utterly accurate picture of what my character is doing. So, I augument it with skill checks on occasion. Thanks!! )) |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 03 Oct 2006 12:00 AM |
A cacophony of directions tore Rosen in each and every –
- someone was talking.
“…a necessary deception…”
Elves were everywhere, all around her, and Ulalume had been lost in the haze. Head pounding, words were hard to dissect from great mysteries, pain flaring in her temple. Willpower held her aloft, the last inch. The last inch. All the elves were nodding apologetically, oopsie. And yet there had been a betrayal in the first hour of this kidnapping by unfamiliar god-parents, whoopses and apologies and explanations aside. Same old nonsense. And just as ideas of old times faded (a great, glowing [ ] in an endless hallway of mist and doors) so it returned (it had been an archangel; no amount of magery or divinity had prepared her for the sight of an actual angel.)
Gone forever! A ruse!
And it WAS forever gone, and she was forever mired in lies, and a hundred different directions came for her at once. Midoran’s just hand bludgeoned at ideas with an uncompromising fist, Something Greater lurked out of sight (oh well), and this new, everything growing God thing was all around, somehow infused in her, and it made every logical fiber in her body scream for mercy, mercy, MERCY! An unasked injection, uncaring and unstoppable. Greater than her, and had taken her.
“Where is the bloody exit?!” she nearly screamed it at those around her, the floating faces and chairs momentarily forming into a hidden sanctuary of sorts, strange contraptions and magical texts lining every wall. It faded back into confusion a moment later. The lead elf face was making more soothing noises, but they stroked her mind like a cat’s coat backwards, agitating, irritating, everything falling into disarray, gibble gobble. She was experiencing nothing so painless as the worst headache of her life, for the throbbing pain of a devil’s migraine came with steady rhythm. This was chaotic torment, at times only baffling, at other times nauseating, and at times, horrendously, so pacifying and joyous that is sickened her to wish for its embrace; something green had implanted itself inside her. Something forever growing, giving birth, dying, giving birth to undead ideas born unloving. In her mind?
Rosen was adorned in the most exquisite metals of blue and silver, the old, rigidly constructed armors of the [ ] all gone now (where had they gone? What was the name? Think think think past the hurting.) Ah yes, the Novus Midorum. And the lead elf face was making more noises.
“…if you’ll just allow me to explain…”
Too many explanations. Backpedaling, swerving, a world of deceivers led by deceiver gods, each and every creature on this cursed continent a perfect replication of that which hid only to beguile. Rosen did not fit. Rosen was a stable particle in an ever-chaotic shifting of memes. And the waste! The terrible waste of effort! The blasphemy of it! Everything, obscene! And the elves were so SURE of their essential blamelessness, their essential rightness, and oh so like the Midorans, only WE are right, only WE can be trusted to lie to you. And they, too, betrayed with casual assumptions. It was worse than Syn, a promise of oblivion. No deception there! This was a perpetual state of mutation, puppeteered by petty minds, mortal and divine. Jagged knives slid in and out of her brain.
Elbereth was her god. This much was obvious. Elbereth was life; life was essentially good; essential was Elbereth. Elbereth was the god to reign and create all others and yet it was such obvious nonsense!
More knives, then peace, as thoughts retreated from bullying emotion. Gods did not know the limits of the human mind. They did not know the brink or the edge.
Eventually, she was allowed to leave the place of painful truth (lies?) and walk far from the alien-inside place of the not-her-mother, to a ship where the elf charged her money for the right to escape the pull of the endless cycle. Broken halves and thirds of thoughts and conceptions sank and rose with the sway of the sea, long-since forgotten tears streaking down her cheeks. Rosen could not tell whether she was laughing or crying, but out of the range of hearing, away the whipping sails of the ship, an animal cry from a creature deprived of sleep and soul flew from her and out into the horizon, free and maddened as any pixie.
She was never allowed to sleep by the pieces of her, jostling one another and reassuring her of this minute’s lie, one surety falling away from another’s will with each new second. Somehow, she made her way to Port and drank until chemical unconsciousness took her. What was stolen from her as she slept in corners of common rooms, whether the bruises on her face came from unforgiving gutters or the lucky blows of fellow drunkards, she was unaware and uncaring. The drink was a way to slow down the inevitable descent. Someone would be aware of better chemical means. Alchemical bubblings would offset some of the damage to her ruined mind, for a while.
Eventually, if she were lucky, she would find herself in the gardens of the Sisters, next to that poor woman whose body had been raped into muteness. The claws of the new god (always god?) would slice Rosen's mind into even portions and devour them, once by one, until Rosen would most likely find herself, in a rare moment of lucidity, babbling alongside that woman's forced silence.
But that divine ease, that last inch given, would come as late as Rosen would allow; she was nothing if not stubborn. It was her fatal flaw. Whether it was also her saving grace in the capricious, ostensible mercy of gods, only they knew.
She made a gesture for continued drink, the world forming into the shape of the Cross Cutlasses' interior. Another broken woman, the jilted waitress, smiled in distant empathy. |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 03 Oct 2006 12:45 AM |
| ((*cries!)) |
"I've got a sword and it's a good one, but all the bleedin' thing can do is keep someone alive, listen. A song can keep someone immortal!" - Cohen the Barbarian |
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 03 Oct 2006 03:58 AM |
((*cries!))
((ditto)) |
|
|
|
|
|
Re: The way Home
Posted: 05 Oct 2006 02:15 PM |
(( quickie by request, or somesuch. Not very good. ))
*Rosen awakes in a ditch outside Port Royale, sober and parched. She staggers along the road, barely able to keep her footing, until she finds herself wandering a familiar trail. The scent of flowers guides her through a dense patch of forest, to the place where she once began her faith anew. The world flies into uncommon focus and rage overtakes her. She nearly charges into a cavern beyond the abandoned camp, to a corner where candles surround a cross. At once, the anger leaves her. As powerless as a jilted lover, she stands before the symbol which has left her.*
Rosen Vimes: *slumps against the rock, staring at the symbol ahead with something that's not so much hatred as pained reproach*
Rosen Vimes: Liar.
Rosen Vimes: You are not expempt from judgment, no more than the just hand.
Rosen Vimes: *continues to glower*
Rosen Vimes: The souls of living creatures are -not- pawns in your games.
Rosen Vimes: I do not know if you deserve another chance. You have failed -so- many times. *murkily, bloodshot eyes misting*
Rosen Vimes: And now you show me a new face, the third in a year, arrange my heart to your liking.
Rosen Vimes: Yet you continue to lurk out of sight.
Rosen Vimes: What would you have of me now? Go and serve the elves - yes, act as their divine muscle.
Rosen Vimes: *tilts her head back with some force, banging against the rockface*
Rosen Vimes: Is this a bargain you made? There were rumors for some time... *tone becoming almost conversational* that Midoran held a tacit alliance with Naruth. *accusatory glance to the cross*
Rosen Vimes: Are you not above bargaining, God?
Rosen Vimes: *bitterly spitting the words* Perhaps you might have let me in on the negotiations. I hope that I have shown you some measure of maturity, enough to warrant trust. If I have not, then I have no business serving anyone.
Rosen Vimes: *tsks in disgust, on the edge of violence toward the display of sacred candles, but something residual restrains her*
Rosen Vimes: *in a glacial tone* I have zero confidence in you.
Rosen Vimes: You are as flighty as the three sisters in your affections, as inscrutable as Theus, and as indifferent as the blinding light.
Rosen Vimes: You masquerade as the penultimate. *rubs at her eyes, chin lowering* I knelt before your angel. I willingly took from the divine that I might serve.
Rosen Vimes: But not Elbereth. You are not Elbereth. *a tenacious weed growing through the garden of her mind* You are not.
Rosen Vimes: You are not, God, because I knew at the moment I knelt before your angel that it was the correct decision. It was a hard one, it was sacrifice, but it was right! It was something which superceded any sense of peace or serenity, given forth by a merciful goddess. It was a sense of infallible truth!
Rosen Vimes: And to be cast from that, without warning, into an alien land, an alien faith, all that -- and I can only assume it was with your blessing! A defilement of the pact we made!
Rosen Vimes: *a savage kind of dignity taking her face as she rises*
Rosen Vimes: I am not a whore to be passed from cause to cause.
Rosen Vimes: *stares at the cross for a good, long while, hands balled at her sides* So fledgling a faith and already fallen.
Rosen Vimes: *remains in place for several minutes, as though expecting a response from outside her own mind*
Rosen Vimes: *her lip curls mirthlessly*
*Another sacred place fallen silent, another prayer unanswered. It reminds her of the days following Midoran, when powerlessness was a fact of life. Within those hard days, a flower of pride found purchase. The understanding came that fireworks shows and flashes of power do not make the difference between right and wrong, and not always the difference between victory and defeat. It was a lesson, it seems, that God has forgotten. Rosen has not forgotten. Now more than ever, her path becomes clearer. She does not look back on her way out. This God is not worth begging. No God is.* |
True solace is finding none, which is to say, it is everywhere.
-Gretel Ehrlich |
|
|
|
|
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|