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Waking Moments - The Players Perspective
Posted: 17 Jul 2008 08:13 AM |
One by one the stars wink out.
She slows to a stop, listening alertly to the rustle of the leaves as the wind breathes upon them. The ancient trees dance and sway and twist, contorting into gnarled shapes—like the werewolves of Mirghul, shedding their outer guises.
Darkness crawls across the sky and over the Mirghul forest. The light dies.
She sees the thing—whatever it is—drop out of a tree like a rotten fruit. Not through her eyes; they cannot see in this lightless dark. She sees it through the eyes of the shadow trapped in an oubliette in the bottom of her soul. That thing jailed inside her, starved and chained like a Midoran prisoner. The shadow within her stirs and presses against the bars of her mental cage. She slams a wall into place and commands it to be still.
The amorphous, shadowy shape slides towards her. She is vaguely aware that she is surrounded, but she does not move. She has not moved from her defensive stance, the flaming blade raised before her, tracing a line in the darkness. As if daring it to cross the line.
It dares.
The other shadows press in all around her, whispering in a harsh and alien language. The first one lunges, forming fingers out of shadow-stuff, passing straight through the length of the blade before she has a chance to react. Once, years ago, she saw a snake swallow a badger whole. The shadow thing engulfs her hand, her arm, her entire body in the handful of heartbeats that it takes for her to snatch back her hand and back away.
An eternity passes in a frozen, timeless void, made all the more unnerving by its familiarity. This is not the first time…
Someone else's fingers are clamped around her throat, colder than ice: as cold as the complete absence of all warmth. The breath freezes in her lungs. Someone stalks the corridors of her mind, gliding soundlessly down winding stairs, down and down and down.
Somewhere within, a lock clicks, a key turns, a prisoner escapes.
The chrysalis of darkness falls away. She wavers unsteadily on her feet. Her ragged, bat-shaped cloak flutters in the dark like the tattered wings of a nightmare butterfly.
The dawning sunlight crawls excruciatingly slowly over Mirghul, an eternity too late. The colour of the world has changed. The warmth of the sun no longer touches her. Lyn teeters on a knife edge, reborn halfway between two worlds. Seeing the eyes the shadows hide. Hearing the secrets the shadows whisper in a language the she now understands all too well:
You are one of us… |
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Re: Waking Moments - The Players Perspective
Posted: 23 Jul 2008 08:43 AM |
((
Related posts:
* Fragments from Salt Sower: the massacre of the Righteous Swords.
)) |
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Re: Waking Moments - The Players Perspective
Posted: 24 Jul 2008 06:43 PM |
((
Born of Chaos: To Castle Valinor
In which the apparent answer to preventing reality from becoming a nightmare is to seek the greatest nightmare of all.
)) |
The subculture of my dreams
Is waiting for me to fall asleep.
I know you're scared—you should be.
I know you're scared. |
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Re: Waking Moments - The Players Perspective
Posted: 24 Jul 2008 08:48 PM |
The noise, it’s not real. He knows the truth now, but it still fills him with dread. Shouts and the noise of celebrations force him to rise. Force him to ready himself. Knowing can not keep him from moving to the door. Each step panic rises inside, his hands sweat with a white knuckled grip on his sword hilt. The perfectly round door swings open with a rusty creak that sounds the years that have past since the inn was used. His eye close involuntarily against the light, but his mind replaces the image his eyes can not see. A small guard passing unhurriedly as he guides people along the path, the tattered remains of his hauberk hang as loosely as the dead skin on his body. Dozens of hin stream down the path towards the gates, all bearing the signs of time and death the rotted cloth and protruding bones showing what they've become.
One of the hin stops, and turns its empty eyes towards the newcomer.
“You’d best hurry fella, He is coming and he’s bringing the Avatar. They’re stopping here!” The words rattle in his head as his eye open, squinting in pain against the light. “Come on fella, he’ll be here in moment. You don’t want to miss it.”
His sword adds a faint crackle to the air as it’s drawn, the cries of celebration drowning out its crackling noise. His feet carry him forward against his will, his sword tip nearly dragging the dirt of the path. As he staggers to a stop in front of the north gate, cheers erupt from the assembled crowd. The gates are thrown wide and a glowing skull hovers into view. The cheers redouble in volume as a second figure follows from the forest.
“The Avatar of Eternity!” The God Lich calls out to the crowd. Talion’s sword falls from his grip as he watches himself stride into the village. There is no escape from what’s to come, he stands rooted to the spot. The Lich’s speech passes unheard as his eyes remain fixed on the figure, his figure, his sword, his death. Moments pass and suddenly all eyes turn on him, the spark of life in a dead world. His attention is fixed to his sword, his swords in the hands of himself and yet not himself. The Avatar of Eternity strides down the path, Pandemonium in hand. The energy of the blade burns with an intensity it never knew in the hands of the living. He tries to close his eyes, tries to defend himself, but there is nothing to be done. The sword, his sword raises in the air and with a single slash the last spark of life seeps slowly into the dead land.
He wakes in a freezing bed, his mattress in the Four Winds soaked through with sweat. |
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Re: Waking Moments - The Players Perspective
Posted: 24 Jul 2008 11:10 PM |
There is very little I can offer you. Nightmares are a twisted thing, certainly so when they are made real... and in a way, they are always real.
But, from your story, it does seem that you are being left a scattered trail. The thing did not grow overnight. You yourselves have watched it gain presence and strength.
At least one of you has faced the Sleeper, it seems. Let that be your lesson.
~Lex Maloros
* * * * *
Salt sifts through his personal papers, which are contained in a series of flat folders made from wood, leather and cloth. Each folder holds scraps and fragments of different stocks and sizes. Salt turns them over examining each in turn, searching through his archive.
The sheets have been collated and sorted, piled and counted so that there is very little left of their original, historical order. The papers seem to reflect disorder, but this is not entirely so. Before long Salt strikes upon what he is looking for. Fragments numbered 23 through 26, with one more that is unnumbered. His notes on the Sleeper. Salt duplicates them on fresh paper, one fragment to a sheet. He posts one set to Talion Deraith in Icy Vale, and hopes that it reaches him. A second set he walks south and then west into the Skarfell region, leaving it in the lodge where Amon might find it. A third set...
A third set for the woman named Saana. This is given to Natalie Thorn, with a description of Saana that Natalie recognizes
Let that be your lesson. Will it be any help? |
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about dying."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means lying in the ground with dirt on your face and holding your breath forever."
-Burt Reynolds, "The End" |
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Re: Waking Moments - The Players Perspective
Posted: 26 Jul 2008 04:20 AM |
It had been a long night and it was about to get longer.
The hag’s nightmarish illusions had begun to fade, signalling the approach of dawn here in the Midor Crypts. Thin strands of darkness untangled themselves from the western gate, losing cohesion as night inevitably gave way to day somewhere above on the surface world. The way out stood clear at last; and it was with a sense of relief that Lyn and the as-yet-unnamed Dwarven warrior woman stepped towards the gate, glad that the end was in sight.
It was not to be.
On the far side of the gate stood the hideous, misshapen hag who had been their stalker and tormentor these past two days. Upon her face was a twisted smile that promised that the night was all but over.
----
It was too dark down here to distinguish night from day. Nevertheless, they’d stayed too long, preoccupied by the zombie hordes long enough for night to fall. A foul miasma, red and obnoxious, clouded the crypt’s usual stark shadows. A faint whisper filled the air: a ghastly female voice, warped by the passage of innumerable time and immeasurable malice.
“Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly.”
There was nowhere else to go. The exits had slid shut, held locked by the grip of tendrils of darkness. Running was no longer an option. They would have to stand their ground until the dawn came.
Lyn turned away from the shadow-barred door, cupping a hand over her mouth. “I have a better idea,” she called out. “Come out and face us, if you aren’t afraid to!”
The Dwarven warrior threw her a look that might have been incredulous.
Laughter, shrill and maniacal, filled the air. Droplets of blood formed on the slimy tiles of the crypt floor, tracing the shape of an arrow pointing inwards. Deeper into the crypt.
“Bleedin’ stones,” noted the Dwarven woman, moving forward in the direction indicated. “Wide eyed stupid… stay close.”
Lyn had no choice but to follow. Behind them, a wall of blades sprang up in the corridor they’d just vacated, cutting off their escape route.
----
From the other side of the gate, the hag hissed and declared,
“You do not see what I see.”
And without fanfare, without a blinding flash of light, something snapped into place. Some last piece of a puzzle that Lyn hadn’t been aware she’d been struggling to solve.
----
She led the Dwarf to the faded mosaic of a sun, still traced into the crypt floor, covered by the dust and filth of decades of neglect. Unstoppering a vial of holy water, Lyn traced a circle on the floor around the outline of the sun.
“How about you step into my abode?” she shouted defiantly into the dark.
“As you wish…” hissed the voice.
----
But it was not enough to stand one’s ground and wait for the metaphorical cavalry to arrive. To be on the defensive was to eventually be pushed back and lose, until there was no ground left to defend.
It was no longer enough to sit tight and wait for the miraculous dawn. When pushed, you had to push back.
“No?” Lyn strode forward towards the gate. “Well, I bet you don’t see what I see either. Your kind never do.”
The Dwarven woman visibly steeled herself, squaring her shield for the inevitable retaliation. The hag merely smiled a hideous smile that seemed to split her face in two.
“It’s always doom, doom, doom. Dark, dark, dark. You know what?”
She leaned forward, glaring through the bars of the gate.
“The sun still rises.”
“Not… forever…” rasped the hag.
“Oh, well, all evidence to the contrary… I’m pretty sure you’ve been predicting doom since the beginning of time,” Lyn shot back sarcastically. “And the world shakes and darkness falls. And then life goes on and always wins. Funny, that.”
She slammed a hand against the gate. The sound reverberated through the crypt, a roll of righteous thunder loud enough to wake the dead.
“WRONG!” shrieked the hag in futile desperation. “Wrong. Wrong wrong wrongwrongwrongwrongwrongwrong!”
“And you know what else?” Lyn went on, mercilessly. “Entire towns and cities get wiped out. And people rebuild. And life…”
She aimed another blow at the gate, which clanged in thunderous protest.
“…goes…”
The last thin tendrils of darkness snapped and disintegrated. The gate shook.
“…ON!”
And with a screech of protest, the gate swung open, knocking the hag to her feet. She lay still and unmoving, strands of darkness crawling over her like a living, hungry cocoon.
By all rights, that should have been the end of it.
But the darkness had only begun its invasion and she was but a harbinger of what was to come. |
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Re: Waking Moments - The Players Perspective
Posted: 29 Jul 2008 02:26 PM |
((Excuse the embellishments and other use of artistic licence, Beriel and The Jester))
Realising that their cause was lost ‘Ari’ and Mani reluctantly returned to Brandibuck empty handed.
“No one survives the gray wolf.” the Guard said grimly when they had recounted their story to the Halflings waiting at the gates to swiftdale.
“What do you mean the ‘grey wolf’” Eltarial asked. “We killed the the grey wolf. Or at least “ she conceded “We killed A grey wolf.” The Guard shook his head.
“No one escapes the grey wolf.” He repeated “Look out behind you!”
And there it was. A six foot tall wolf running on its hind legs towards the gate. Eltarial loosed an arrow, only for the creature to vanash in a haze of shadows and aether before the shaft found it’s mark. The dwarf, more defensively minded, heaved the huge wooden gates shut.
“Shove those crates up against the gate,” she called. But before hin or elf could react, there came a knock from the wrong side of the baracade. “Who goes there.” Mani grunted, pushing harder.
“It’s an Aristi” Eltarial informed her, looking through a crack in the wood.
“let me in” the human ordered officiously.
“how do we know you’re really a herald?”
“I never said I was.”
“Then why should we let you in?”
The human gave up. “I’ll report you!” he threatened as he ran round to the other, unfortified gate.
‘Definitely an Aristi.’ the adventurers agreed as the herald rebuked their vigilante approach to town defence.
“What now?” the elf asked.
“I’m going for a drink.”
“in a town besieged by werewolves?”
“Aye, one thing you’ll learn girl,” the Dwarf replied “is that there’s always time for beer.” So drink they did, or at least; Mani drank, Eltarial had other things on her mind…
Inside ye hole in da ground, Winky was having a heated debate with a winter wolf.
“I did! I killed the Grey Wolf” the white wolf insisted. “not on my own actually, there was a group of us.”
“Nonsense.” the other replied, “The Grey Wolf was killed by paladins a hundred years ago.”
“Either of them get bit’n?” Mani asked, setting down the largest ale mug Winky owned and wiping froth from her mouth.
“No, Two paladins from Midor. Armoured from head to toe went to Mirgul and killed all the werewol…” He stopped, his mouth open. Gapeing at the Wolf that had crept unnoticed into his inn.
“Look out behind ye lass” the dwarf warned, stepping back.
Eltarial spun round, drawing her sword and swinging it at the monster. Although her reach was several feat short, the wolf disappeared, reappearing next to Mani. Her attack was better, but again the monster was unharmed. Claws scraped against armour, and flail wistled through incorporeal flesh as the two combatants fought each other without effect.
Eltarial gripped her sword hard preparing to charge, but then reconsidered. Sheathing her sword she instead drew a strange black dagger.
The Wolf howled as she drove the weapon into its back. Then it turned, and fled on all fours, its tail between its legs.
“It ran? But we never touched it.” the Mani complained.
“No,” Eltarial replied, hiding the dagger in the folds of her cloak. “I… It must have realised it was outmatched.” |
"Absolute precision buys the freedom to dream meaningfully." - Donal O' Shea: The Poincaré Conjecture. |
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