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The Disapearing Paladin
Posted: 22 Mar 2004 03:25 PM |
Mykal looked in the mirror, but the face staring back at him was unfamiliar. ‘Amazing what a few days beard growth can do,’ he thought as he itched his chin. He hated how it itched and how it looked, but it helped change his appearance some. He hoped it was enough.
Turning away from the mirror, Mykal picked his quill and dipped it in the ink well. The letter was already too long, but he needed to make sure Kriayna understood what he was asking. Kriayna was the only person in Port Royale that Mykal trusted, making her his only option. The only question was, would she do as he asked.
Mykal smiled as he remembered the first time he met Kriayna. He had only recently left fled from Port Royale after the events on board the Archon’s Gambit (See History of Mykal Vecar.) He was resolute in his intentions then, to become a paladin of Midoran or die trying. Little else crossed his mind those days, and then he met her.
Looking back, Mykal admitted that it was childlish. Kriayna was beautiful, true, and perhaps that is what caused his momentary lapse in judgment. That night, he was leaving the Four Winds Inn with no real idea of where he was going. He spotted a odd looking halfling accompanied by a beautiful elvish woman. To this day, how he got into conversation with the two eluded him. What he did remember, however, was the comment from Kayel, the halfling, regarding a missing girl.
Mykal offered to help find the girl, but of course had no idea where to start. Kriayna suggested that she enter the Inn to ask around. Kayel and Mykal waited outside. ‘Silliness,’ thought Mykal as he laid down his pen again, ‘that I was taken with her the first time we met. My comments must have seemed odd to Kayel.’ He closed his eyes and remembered,
“What a woman,” said a younger and much less experienced Mykal.
Kayel looked up at the young man, “That she is,” he said.
Mykal continued to make small talk with Kayel, attempting to learn more about Kriayna. It was at the most inopportune time that she emerged from the inn and overheard Mykal commenting about finding “someone like that.”
“Who are you talking about,” inquired Kriayna
“My cousin,” said Kayel promptly, giving Mykal a conspiratorial grin. Mykal nodded his assent, his mind not working quite as fast as the sly halflings.
“Oh,” said Kriayna, who accepted the explanation with no further comment.
They never did find who killed the young girl, not that night, at least. And in the days and weeks that followed, Mykal’s amorous intentions slowly changed into a feeling of respect and trust towards Kriayna and Kayel.
A trust that was about to be put to the test. Almost a week ago, Kriayna approached Mykal asking to speak with him. Alone. He met with her in the most private place he could think off, the common room of an inn. Few would pay attention to a man dressed in commoner clothes and a woman, he thought. Kriayna looked apprehensive, moreso then he had ever seen her before. It occurred to Mykal that he really did could not tell if she was usually this apprehensive or not, having not spent much time with her in the past year.
What she had to tell Mykal was important, all right. It was also potentially dangerous. Kriayna said that Pickston Rickticks, a Port Royale entrepreneur, had asked her to give Mykal a message. Mykal knew little of Pickston except that he was a thief at best and a gangster at worst. If he had information for Mykal, there would be a price. Mykal only needed to decide if he was willing to pay it.
“He says he has information about your family,” said Kriayna finally.
“My family…” said Mykal, his mind reeling. How many years had it been since they died? (See History of Mykal Vecar, Part I) Two? Three? The memory of that night still haunted him, every night he would wake up in a cold sweat, the acrid smell of death and decay still strong in his nose. He had smelled that smell only one other time, when Fri’el and Phizzboro attempted to march on Midor. The smell of hundreds of undead gathered in one place is distinctive, as Mykal now knew. And that was what he smelled the night his family was slaughtered.
What if Pickston knew who was responsible? If anyone could get that information, reasoned Mykal, it would be him. “What is his cost,” he asked.
“I do not know,” said Kriayna. “He only asked me to tell you.”
But Mykal was no longer listening. Standing, he walked to the back room, where he had stored his armor. He donned his armor in silence and, when he was ready, said his goodbyes and thanks to Kriayna. He needed to get to Midor and prepare.
Which lead him to writing this letter to Kriayna. He could not shake the suspicion that Pickston was setting some sort of trap for Mykal. But even if he knew he was walking into a dangerous situation, he had to go. What choice did he have? The opportunity to find out what happened to his family was too great.
He picked up the quill, dipped it in the well, and signed his name, completing the letter.
“Kree,
I come to you because you are one of the few in Port Royale trust. You will find an envelope left with the bartender of the Broken Mask. He has been paid well to make sure that you receive this message. This is a matter of vital importance to me, so read carefully.
I will be contacting you every two days, usually by mail or messenger ,at your home at the Broken Mask. If you do not hear a message from me after two days, open the envelope. Further instructions, and an explanation, can be found there.
Know this, I am placing my highest confidence in your discretion. You know why I am in the Port. Perhaps I am overestimating the danger involved, but I prefer to be prepared, just in case. You know I do not trust the parties involved, and I fully expect I am walking into a trap, though why a trap would be set for me, I do not know.
Thank you, my friend.
*signed in an almost illegible script*
Mykal Vecar
Mykal read the letter again before placing it in an envelope. He held a piece of sealing wax over the candle at the desk and dripped the melted wax on the envelope flap. Taking his signet ring, he pressed down on the wax, imprinting the symbol of a mailed glove with a stylized ‘V’ in the foreground.
Nodding to himself, he blew out the candle and made his way to his bed. “Tomorrow, I will make the final preparations. Then I will depart.’ Set on his course, he knelt beside his bed, which was no more then a bedroll in a side room of the chapel, and prayed. His left hand ached as the desire for penance grew. This was selfish of him, he knew, leaving Midor and all he cared about on a dubious lead from a unseemly character. Despite that, he was going, even though it violated his own personal Code. Penance was demanded, but not yet. Later, in Port Royale, he would try and atone for the deeds he was about to perform.
Soon…but not yet.
His beard itched terribly, distracting him from his prayers. Would it be enough to disguise himself in Port Royale? Probably not, he admitted to himself, especially from him. But it was worth a try. "He'll know," he whispered aloud. "But it's worth a try."
He would be a fish out of water, and he knew it. And the ocean was a dangerous place, especially with sharks like Pickston in the hunt...
*to be continued* |
Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.
-Henry David Thoreau
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Re: The Disapearing Paladin
Posted: 22 Mar 2004 10:51 PM |
“Port Royale. I hate this place.”
Mykal talked under his breath as he disembarked from the barge. The trip itself was not stressful, his sea legs had not left him after all these years away from sailing. But what he did miss was his armor. He had no realized how comforting the weight on Midoran’s Grace was on his shoulders. The armor was more to him, he realized, then merely protection. It was also a symbol of his faith that he had come to rely greatly on. But he would have to do without for a time. His armor was safely stored away, ready if he needed it.
Hopefully, he would not. And so, dressed in unfamiliar and uncomfortable clothing, a bearded and dirty Mykal Vecar walked off the docks and into Port Royale. Known as “the Port,” by many, Port Royale was a well known hotbed for all sorts of unseemly activity. Gambling, extortion, prostitution, and probably worse occurred both in and out of doors at all hours of the day. It was a place that could sorely use the Just Hand of Midoran, or so Mykal thought. His past in the Port was not all pleasant, and he was eager to help cleans the stain of sin from the city.
But he had not come to cleanse anything. He had not even come clothed in the armor that usually proclaimed him a paladin of Midoran. The mission he was on was personal, and Mykal knew he could not involve the church’s name. He swung his pack over his shoulder, careful to avoid hitting the hilt of the sword he had slung over his back. His sword was the only artifact of paladinhood he had allowed himself to bring. It was not uncommon to see people in Port Royale with swords, so long as they were not drawn. Since his sword looked no different then most, he doubted it would give him away.
He walked with slow, purposeful steps in an effort not to draw attention. To Broken Mask was his first destination. There, he handed the barkeep fifty gold pieces and a sealed envelope in exchange for the promise the envelope would be delivered to Kryania Wildberry as soon as she returned. The bartender was initially reluctant, but the promise of gold proved to be too much for her in the end. It was late, and the smell of spilled ale mixed with tobacco and other, more exotic smokes. The effect gave Mykal a light head.
Sitting down, he ordered three whiskey’s, two in large shot glasses and one in a small shot glass. This was his new ritual and a way to control his drinking, which had been excessive in the past. To Mykal, the shots represented the Virtues of Midoran. One large shot for Justice, and another large shot for Courage, the two Virtues paladins held dear. The third, smaller shot was in honor of Temperance, a virtue of Midoran practiced more by the clergy then paladins. Mykal, more then anyone, appreciated the irony that he was practicing temperance through this ritual. But it was better then getting drunk, especially here.
He downed the first large shot of whiskey in one gulp. The bartender approached, but Mykal waved her off. He did not want to be disturbed. He needed time to think. This was a familiar yet alien world to Mykal. In the months following his family’s slaughter, he had spent many nights inside the Broken Mask trying to drown his grief. The place had changed since he had been in there last, with signs of construction being the most evident.
By the time he felt the presence behind him, it was too late to turn around. ‘dang, I am not good at this,’ he cursed silently. Hopefully it was no one he recognized. “Hello, there,” came a low, sultry, and very feminine voice. “Are you alone?”
Mykal groaned. The last thing he wanted to deal with now is some girl trying to work. “I’m fine,” he said shortly, picking up the smaller remaining shot glass. He did not turn around to look at who was talking. Most would consider this a sign of interest.
“I don’t think so,” the voice persisted, “You look lonely. Come here, and I can give you company.”
Mykal was becoming annoyed, “Listen, I told you I’m not interested. Try another mark.” He knew the woman was not going to go away that easily. It was getting very late, and her opportunities for business were dwindling rapidly. “Just leave me alone,” he said with what he hoped was a sense of finality.
“Come now, you know you want company. I can see it in your eyes.” The woman was persistent, he gave her that. He downed the small shot of whiskey and turned around.
“Listen, I…”
His voice trailed off when he saw the woman before him. She was tall and slender, with skin the color of dark coffee. ‘This one was obviously not originally from Port Royale,’ was all he could think. . She flashed him a brilliant smile, “See,” her eyes danced as she spoke, “I knew you wanted company.”
Mykal tried to shake his head, but found he could hardly move. “N…No,” he sputtered. At that moment, he had a stroke of inspiration. He leaned back and grinned, “You must do well for yourself,” he said casually.
She crinkled her eyebrows together, giving him an amused look, “I do alright,” she look him up and down, “Especially when I find men like you.”
“I bet you do,” chided Mykal, “But what I’m really looking for is information. And I’m betting that a woman like you can tell a man like me were to get information.”
The woman had apparently having played this game before. “I could help you,” she smiled and stretched seductively, “But it’s gonna cost you.” Mykal reached into his pouch and pulled out five gold coins. She looked at the coins, then back at him, grinning, “Is that all you have? You must think I am a cheap date.”
Mykal sighed and pulled out another five gold coins. “That’s better,” she said through her brilliant smile. “Now, tell Vivallia what she can do for you?”
“I want to some information about Pickston Rickticks.” He immediately knew he had spoken too loudly as men at several tables glanced over at him. ‘I am really not good at this,’ he thought.
“Pickston, you say,” Vivilla smiled, “He’s an okay sort, but not a regular customer of mine. And you’re not going to get anything out of that orc he travels with. Jessup isn’t much for words, and he’s loyal to a fault towards his friend.” Vivallia cocked her head, “Why are you looking for Pickston anyway?”
“That’s my concern,” said Mykal, careful to be quieter this time, “And here’s another five gold coins to make sure that is stays your concern as well.”
Vivallia smiled, “I’ve never betrayed a clients trust before, and I won’t now, especially when I’m paid extra for it.” She scooped up the gold coins and placed them in a hidden pouch inside the hem of her dress. Mykal tried to fight off blushing, but the grin on Vivallia’s face told him he failed.
“If you’re serious about finding information,” she looked serious, “You should try Bark. He’s an old timer, but I hear he keeps his head close to the ground about things going on in the Port.” She gave Mykal an enigmatic smile.
It did not take long for Mykal to figure out what she wanted, “Where can I find him,” he inquired as he handed her another two gold pieces.
She looked at the gold with distain, sighed, and continued, “You can find him at the Cross Cutlass most nights, or down by the docks. He runs the rooster fights and dice games around there. Makes a decent living of the gullible sailors that come in every day. Or so I hear.”
Mykal nodded and drained his final glass of whiskey. “Thank you, Vivilla,” he said as he stood. “I will go now.”
“If you say so,” she said, “but are you sure you don’t want company tonight?” She moved close to him, her breasts pressed firmly into his chest. The perfume in her hair invaded his senses.
“Um…ah,” stammered Mykal as he tried to pull away. “No,” he said weakly, then with more conviction. “No, thank you, Miss…Vivallia?” She smiled to let him know that she was not offended and walked away. Mykal could hear her propositioning another man before he was out of earshot.
‘I hate this place,’ he thought again as he left the Broken Mask. His first job was to find a place to sleep. Tomorrow night he would search for the one called Bark. Maybe he would know why Pickston wanted to speak to Mykal, or if this was a trap or not. It was a long shot, of course, but Mykal wanted to be prepared for when he finally found Pickston Rickticks.
What Mykal did not realize, and what most who spent any amount of time in Port Royale would have already known, is that Pickston was well aware of Mykal’s presence in town. He knew before Mykal had left the Broken Mask that a prostitute named Vivilla had peen paid by a man asking questions about Pickston. And what Mykal did not know, though others who saw him already did, was that he was being watched as he left the Broken Mask.
The meeting Mykal had so trying so hard to avoid may happen sooner then expected.
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Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.
-Henry David Thoreau
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Re: The Disapearing Paladin
Posted: 23 Mar 2004 12:22 PM |
The whiskey was bad. Very bad. But that was normal for the Cross Cutlass. The owner was unwilling to spend the coin necessary to buy high quality liquor, which was a good business move on his part. Regular customers did not come to the Cutlass for it’s fine alcohol selection. Mykal watched as another man walked upstairs with purchased company. He wondered idly if Vivilla was upstairs and pushed the thought away just as quickly. If she was upstairs, he knew what she was doing, and that was not a thought on which the paladin wished to dwell.
He took another swallow from his second shot glass of whiskey. Some proper Buckshire whiskey would have been better, the stuff he was drinking was too bitter and did not burn quite the right way when he swallowed. It would also give him a terrible headache if he drank too much. Mykal knew this from experience.
He turned from the staircase and looked at a table in the corner. Three men were throwing dice at the table tonight, and even Mykal could tell that one of them was cheating. “There’s going to be a fight soon,” he said aloud.
“Wha’s that,” came a voice to his left.
“A fight.” Mykal pointed at the table, “That one, with the headband, is using loaded dice. Even I can see that, and I’m no gambler.”
“Ah, wells, wha’ yeh gotsta know ‘bout that is that he’s trin’ ta be caught cheatin’.” Mykal turned and looked at the one speaking. The man next to him barely came up to Mykal’s chest. He may have had halfling blood for all Mykal knew, but at the moment he didn’t care.
“Why would he do that,” asked Mykal irritably. He was in no mood to be interrupted tonight. He had spend the last several days recovering from the beating he endured, and Mykal still had a black eye, several cuts, and what he suspected was a few broken ribs to prove it.
Three days earlier, Mykal had set out for the docks in search of Bark. Vivilla’s information was accurate. He had found Bark by several tents and lean-tos near the docks. It had been several years since Mykal had bee in a place like that, and even then, he did not enjoy the atmosphere. It was just that attitude that had earned Mykal a reputation, and a few beatings, for not participating in what was rouge’s sport of choice. Gambling was rampant in this temporary community. The clientele ranged from the gritty sailors recently in port to desperate scoundrels and even a few professionals.
Mykal walked between games of dice and cards, his gaze focused on Bark. In retrospect, he realized that he should have been more discreet. His intense gaze and purposeful stride shouted “paladin,” or at least “the law” as loudly as if he were wearing Midoran’s Grace. The old gambler whispered to his companions, who scattered as Mykal approached.
“Bark,” asked Mykal.
“Who’s askin’,” Bark growled.
“I’ve heard you can tell me some information about Pickston Rickticks.” Thinking back to his success with Vivalla, Mykal produced a gold coin.
Bark looked nervous, “An’ why sho’d Ah help yeh,” he snapped. “Yeh have th’ look uf’the law.”
Mykal feigned an easy grin, “I represent no law in Port Royale,” he said, which was the truth. He had no true authority in the Port, even though Midoran’s justice extended to all corners of Vives.
“Go ‘way,” Bark said curtly. “ah doan want yeh trouble.”
Mykal pulled out ten more gold coins, “Are you certain you can ‘t help me?”
“Ah ain’t gonna go ‘gainst Rickticks, no sir. An’ Ah ain’t gonna help th’ law git to ‘im neither.” He nodded, as if that alone would end the debate.
Mykal frowned. Why wasn’t this going as smoothly as before? “I will return later,” he said, and promptly left the tent.
The fresh night air was a relief after the heavy smoke inside the tent. Mykal walked back to the Broken Mask, intending to leave Kree another message to be received in the morning. The Mask, of course, was never in the best part of Port Royale, but the ruffians that usually sulked around the area had never accosted Mykal. But Midoran's Grace not only stopped phycial attacks. It also sent a message to the average hoodlium that the wearer was a paladin and therefore not someone to trifle with. Without his armor, Mykal was just another target.
Mykal turned and walked down one of the alleys; a short cut to the Mask. Suddenly, a burly man stood in his path. “Excuse me,” said Mykal, “I need to get by.”
“You ain’t goin’ no where, boy,” barked the man. He raised one arm above his head, a motion that expanded his outragiously broad shoulders even more. At that signal, six men surrounded Mykal. Before he would reach his sword, one of the men swung a heavy chain, hitting Mykal squarely in the stomach.
Mykal doubled over, the wind knocked out of him. Another man swung an iron pipe, hitting him in the face. Mykal fell to his back, blood spurting from a cut above his eye. He lay on his back, unable to move, as the group continued to pummel him with chains and pipes, and later with kicks and punches.
Mykal had no idea how long the beating lasted, but he did knew when it was finally over. The large man, who he had originally seen, looked down at Mykal’s broken form. “Awl, right. Awl right. This ‘un’s finished. Bark didn’ whan us ta kill ‘em, jus’ rough ‘em up a bit.” With a final kick to the gut, the gang left Mykal alone and bleeding in an alleyway of the Port.
Memories of that night were as fresh in Mykal’s mind as the pain in his ribs. He was forutnate that one of the cooks at the Mask found him later that night. He was given a bed in which to recover, but only for a few nights. He was still not totally healed yet, but he was thankful that he suffered no perminant injury.
But he did learn how to be careful that night. He looked at the squat little man next to him. “Why would he do that,” he asked again.
“Ah, he’s ‘oping ta start a fight, yeh see?” The squatl man’s ruddy cheeks shone in the candlelight of the tavern. Maybe he had dwarf blood in him. “’e starts a fight, an’ his par’ner picks the pockets uf’the distracted revelers.” He pointed to a dark haired man glowering in the corner. “Too bad it won’ work.”
Mykal was curious despite himself, “Why won’t it work?”
“Cause 'es playin' against Night Masks,” he whispered. “An’ Night Masks don’ take well to losin’, even if there be no cheatin’ gon’ on.”
Mykal had heard of the Night Masks, of course, but had been fortunate enough to avoid them in the past. He shifted in his stool uncomfortable, “Then I will not get involved.”
“Aye, a good choice. An’ Ah got the place fer you to go tah stay uninvolved.” The small man grinned, exposing a row of yellow teeth. “Mista Pickston’s is waitin’ fer yeh.”
'I should have known,’ Mykal thought. He groaned internally. Mykal knew he had not been as subtle as he should have been. Of course Pickston would have known he was asking questions about him. Mykal was convinced that nothing happened in Port Royale without the halfling’s knowledge.
There was nothing he could do. If Pickston wanted to see him now, then Mykal knew he had to go. It was either that or run the risk of being “escorted” to the halfling by the same sort of thugs that had given Mykal a beating the other night. “Okay, let’s go.”
The walk to Pickston and Jessup’s Wild Adventure Tour’s was brief, and the short man walked with him the entire way. Mykal looked up at the sign and took a deep breath before entering. “Here goes nothing,” he whispered under his breath.
Inside the building was rather warm, it always was. Pickston sat at a long table at the far side of the main common room. Mykal approached slowly, unable to make out Pickston's face in the dim room.
“’ello,” said Pickston. Mykal sat down, feeling naked and defenseless despite the sword that was still on his back. |
Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.
-Henry David Thoreau
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Re: The Disapearing Paladin
Posted: 23 Mar 2004 04:32 PM |
The wind blows…
Softly by the white temple, stirring up leaves in the crisp autumn air
It continues on, over the gates of the city,
Out across the plains,
The wind blows…
Stronger, as if feeding from the earth,
Over the blighted forest,
Through the village where the halfling children fly kites and play in leaves
And do all the things happy children of all races do.
The wind blows..
Strongly through the red wood, wrapping coils of air
Around giant legs.
Through the Canyon,
Picking up the stench of rotting flesh
Of those who fell in that treacherous pit.
The wind blows…
Across the desert
Where sand and dust
Are nothing more then clay
Used to make new sculptures
Made treacherous by impermanence
Of the ever-changing desert
The wind blows…
Fiercer now,
Through the ruins of a timeless forest
Caressing the ancient bones
Touching the silent trees
Speaking languages lost to all
Save but a few, lonely people
That may speak to the land and the sea
The wind blows…
Through the small town
Where no one cares much
If a little wind blows
For there is work to be done
Before autumn passes
A harvest to bring in
And fields to make ready
For the long winter fallow
The wind blows…
Mightily over the highway
And the dust and the dirt and the
Sheer force brings pause
To caravans and travelers alike
Fasten their belongings tightly
And consider taking shelter
Against the mighty force
That threatens to knock them down
If they continue on.
The wind blows…
Over the home of the Sisters,
A gale blows in
From the back
And the old sailors say
“What wind is this,
That comes against the sea,
And not from it?”
And the Port settles in
To wait out the storm
Of autumn.
The wind blows….and hears no sign of the paladin. His voice is absent; his sword laid down.
The wind blows…singing dirges to all and none
The wind blows….finding no solace as the night approaches
The wind fades…with no further sound to be made
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Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.
-Henry David Thoreau
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Re: The Disapearing Paladin
Posted: 23 Mar 2004 04:59 PM |
minor bump due to changes in the final prose post due to poor proofreading and having a nature that demands constant tinkering with my own writings.
apologies to all who read this.
mykal |
Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.
-Henry David Thoreau
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Re: The Disapearing Paladin
Posted: 23 Mar 2004 06:31 PM |
*watches Mykal walking out of PAJWT*
*thinks* Looks a bit rough... guess anyone would afta gettin roughed up by da Maasks...
Seems a smaat sort so awm sure he'll get thaat writin examined... where did aw see thaat before?
*takes a deep drink of wine*
*turns to a small shadowy figure at his side*
Watch em and watch wus goin on round em.Make sure iffin the maasks go afta him agin yer close enough ta take care of them, jus be sure no one sees you do it. If they try an do more than jus rough em up thaat is... Anyone thaat does rough em up, go whea they go.
*sits thinking* |
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Re: The Disapearing Paladin
Posted: 23 Mar 2004 07:00 PM |
*********OOC*************
This is *really* good!
I feel like I'm watching film noir!
********OOC************** |
-Narenia
Main PC: Dina Islme |
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Re: The Disapearing Paladin
Posted: 23 Mar 2004 09:15 PM |
Kriayna sits by the fireplace tapping a letter against the arm of her chair, the room is quiet and dark behind her and the housemates are out for the evening.
She'd returned from Midor two days past, dropped her friends at the Mask, and headed off to the Cross Cutlass to find Mykal as Pickston was ready to see him. But Mykal hadn't been there, nor anywhere else Kree had looked.
Bemused at Pick's mistake and disappointed in herself, she'd stepped thru the door of PAJWT then stopped short. "Hello gentlemen...pardon my interruption", Kriayna said, squinting into the darkened room at the man next to Pickston. " 'lo there Kree", Pick called out as she stepped forward, eyes still on the stranger, looking over his dishevelled appearance and unshaven face, the way he slouched defeated in the.....her eyes widened, "Mykal!?", as he turned to face her. His eyes were sunken, weary...his face dark from bruises as well as beard, not the man she knew at all.
This wasn't the time to mention that though, so after a nod to Pickston and a few pleasantries...she offered Mykal what she hoped was a reassuring smile and took her leave from them.
Where had Mykal's search taken him to leave him looking like that? She knew it wasn't Pickston's doing...they'd arrived together not an hour before from Midor, and those bruises were older than that.....besides....Pickston had no reason to harm Mykal....
"Right, Kree?", she thought, pulling her gaze from the fire and back to the letter in her hand. Mykal's words, now burned in her memory from countless readings, sow doubt in her mind.............. If you are reading this, then I am most likely dead, either at the hands of Pickston or another.............What had caused Mykal such fear for his life?...and could he really be dead? Kree couldn't believe that Pick would have harmed him, she couldn't believe he'd have used her for that end.
But what if he had? She considers tossing the letter into the fireplace, reasoning that noone, aside from Pick and Mykal, knew she'd even seen or heard from Mykal since that day at the Unicorn..when he'd spoke of a trip to Port Royale. As far as she knew, Mykal had kept this to himself so there was nothing linking him to either of them. Except the parchment in her hand, the page with Mykal's last requests....his last words to her, his thanks for her friendship in both life and death.....Kriayna can't bring herself to destroy that.
So she walks to her room, tucks the letter safely away in her desk and heads toward PAJWT, hoping for answers. |
~ Kriayna Wildberry ~
-this post has in no way been paid for nor endorsed by PAJWT, The Broken Mask tavern, The Black Hand, or any other completely unrelated group- |
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Re: The Disapearing Paladin
Posted: 24 Mar 2004 01:10 PM |
‘So this is what being dead feels like.’
That was the first thought that entered his head when he awoke. A visceral, raw pain extended from his temples, circled his eyes, and extend down to his feet. Twice he blinked to help focus, and after both attempts he still couldn’t see well. His next thought was the obvious one, ‘Where am I?’
He was laying on a flat, hard surface. The images in front of him were blurry and indistinct, as if he had been staring into the sun for too long, despite the darkness. He tried to move, but found he couldn’t. ‘Of course,’ he thought bitterly, ‘the dead can’t move, can they?’ An effort to raise his right failed, and a horrible thought struck him. “Why has Midoran not taken me yet?”
Fear, an emotion alien to the paladin, began to creepy into his heart. He could remember leaving Pickston’s office that night. Pickston had not been what Mykal expected. Mykal had expected a street-wise, smart mouthed halfling that tended to enjoy violence. Pickston was nothing more then a thug in Mykal’s eyes. At least he was before that night.
Mykal was wrong about Pickston, at least on some degree. He still did not trust the halfling. There would be a price for the nights meeting, Mykal suspected, it was only a matter of time. But now the paladin was indebted to the halfling. Not an ideal situation, for a regular person, even moreso for a paladin of Midoran. Mykal’s Code demanded that he fufuill his obligation to Pickston, but would he be able to?
Then he remembered he was dead. ‘I suppose it makes little difference now,’ thought Mykal wryly. ‘The dead can’t be made to serve…’ That thought finally broke the barrier that had been keeping fear from his mind. At that moment, Mykal remembered; the dead can be made to serve.
‘Is that why I can think now?’ though Mykal desperately. ‘What has happened to me?’ He remembered collapsing into a sort of paralyzed sleep shortly after he left PJWAT’s. He indistinctly remembered being carried away, but by what or whom he did not know. Mykal even had a vague memory of a fight. Something gray and undefined, his vision had begun to fail then, seemed to be fighting the thing or things that was carrying Mykal away. The sound of bodies falling were vivid in his memory, whatever that thing was, it fought well. But he lost consciousness before he could find out what was going on.
He was sure, at the moment he lost consciousness, that he was dying. ‘The beating from the Night Masks was worse then I suspected,’ thought Mykal before he slipped away. Surely there was internal bleeding that he missed. Perhaps his heart had finally given out. He knew that he should have visited a healer, but his desire to keep a low profile stayed his hand.
Mykal spared a moment to be amused at his situation. He had worked so hard to be anonymous in Port Royale, yet Pickston knew where he was the entire time. ‘Probably laughed at me and my pathetic efforts,’ mused Mykal. ‘A paladin trying to play the rouge. How foolish of me!’
His foolishness had led him here, on a cold slab, awaiting the unknown. His heart ached for penance. Penance for all the mistakes he had made, for abandoning his duties and Code to pursue this mission. Absolution from his sins, so that he could be removed from this place and taken for eternity to Midoran’s side. But there would be no penance now, and no absolution would suffice for what he believed he was about to become.
Finally, his vision returned, and he looked at his surroundings. He could see a spindly man working over a counter about three meters away. The air was filled with indefinably vapors and strange smells. ‘A lab,’ wondered Mykal, ‘or worse?’
The spindly man turned and approached Mykal. The poor lighting concealed his face, and he spoke in a raspy voice. “Well, paladin, you are finally awake.” The figure held a long, thin instrument in one hand and a jar in the other. He placed the jar on Mykal’s slab. “That’s good, it means you are almost ready.”
That voice…Mykal had heard it before. But where? The man coughed, and his body spasmed violently. He wiped his nose with the sleeve of his coat and turned towards Mykal, “Soon you will be ready, yes. I have waited so long for this.”
Where had he heard that voice before? Mykal knew that the answer was important, perhaps the most important piece of knowledge he could have right now. And still the answer eluded him.
But not for long. The scrawny man bend over, his scraggily beard brushing Mykal’s eyes and face. “You remember me, don’t you, paladin? Because I remember you. Oh yes I do. Oh yes I do.” His eyes were set with a mad gleam.
‘I must be dead,’ thought Mykal in horror. The recognized the man now. ‘How else could the dead haunt me?’ The man standing over him was sharpening his instrument. That man, the same one that would whip Mykal daily on the Archon’s Gambit. That man, who had ruled Mykal’s live for months on end. The same man that was thrown overboard the day Mykal helped the slaves rebel and take the ship. A devil of Mykal’s past..
Mr. Loccard leered over Mykal. “You are mine now, paladin. Soon you will be ready. And then, you will die.”
Author’s Note: If you are curious to learn more about Mykal's relationship to Mr. Loccard, please refer to part V of the History of Mykal Vecar located in the Character Background forum.
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Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.
-Henry David Thoreau
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Re: The Disapearing Paladin
Posted: 24 Mar 2004 01:10 PM |
Answers! Ha! All she had now were more questions....and she still hadn't spoken with Pickston. Oh, she'd seen him of course, but that conversation was one to be had alone not in front of a tour group. So she'd begun the task of carrying out Mykal's wishes at the Four Winds Inn.
Taking Uwe aside she spoke quickly the name of Mykal Vecar and asked for his armor, staring in shock when Uwe said, "Well, it's already gone see, a smallish man...'e could use more feedin' I think....came with a letter, signed by Mister Vecar hisself." Uwe stepped into the back room, returning quickly with an envelope in his hand. " 'Ere you can have a look."
Kriayna studied the broken seal before drawing out the parchment, noting the mailed fist and stylized ‘V’ recognizable as Mykal's own. Scanning the letter quickly she noticed it differed in style and signature from the one in her desk at home, her brow creasing as her face goes pale she reads the letter again..........
Please deliver unto the bearer of this letter all effects, including armor, money, and rings, belonging to Mykal Vecar. The bearer of this letter will pay all expenses deemed appropriate in regard to the storage of said items.
Signed,
Mykal Vecar, Paladin of Midoran
Kriayna runs her fingers over the signature a final time then hands the letter back to Uwe giving her thanks, trying to keep the look of concern from her face...mask the broken hope in her voice. Someone had faked this letter, but used his signet ring....which meant.......well, it could only mean one or two things.
Kree would still talk to Pickston, and follow any leads she came up with, but she had to face the suspicion that gnawed at her stomach and pressed itself against her temples....and she had to tell Macha. Aside from taking Mykal's body (should it be found) to the Midor temple, this was what he'd asked of her.......she should hear it from a friend, he'd written.
She hoped Macha would still think her a friend after this, her involvement in Mykal's disappearence and most likely his death couldn't be ignored. "I should have stayed that night at PAJWT, or kept better contact with Mykal....I could have helped him, I would have helped him.", wiping away the tears from her cheek she strides purposefully toward Port Royale.
More questions.....no answers. |
~ Kriayna Wildberry ~
-this post has in no way been paid for nor endorsed by PAJWT, The Broken Mask tavern, The Black Hand, or any other completely unrelated group- |
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Re: The Disapearing Paladin
Posted: 24 Mar 2004 02:32 PM |
Macha returned from the Midor docks, and numbly sat on a couch in the corner of the Unicorn. Her eyes shone, from unshed tears, and from the workings of her mind. The conversation she had just had with Kree had been far from enlightening, but it had been something. Dear Kree..who was she protecting? Macha could tell, by the way Krianyas eyes had not met hers, by the stance of her body, even by the fierceness of her hug...Kree knew something more than she was saying.
She thought fiercely, prompting her brain to work harder, to disobey foolishness and come to the right conclusions. Mykal..without his armor, unshaven, unkept. She shook her head slightly...this is something she had never seen. Even in the midst of battle, or the aftermath. Drunk, as she had seen him before. Even fallen...she cut off that line of thought, refusing to consider it for a moment. What did she know..he had gone in search of information that he believed Pickston had...but she had seen hesitation, and perhaps the beginnings of fear in his eyes. Again, something she had not seen in him before. Information about his family, whose death he took blame for, to an extent. She did not trust Pickston at all...
Macha frowned. Two days...three on the morrow. And no one had heard nor seen from him since. Something had happened..that much was clear. But what? She frowned more deeply. Tomorrow, she would begin searching. Tomorrow, she would seek out Krianya, and have the information that she was hiding. He would be found. She vowed it silently to herself, eyes hardening in determination. She would bring him back, wherever his quest had taken him. She would.
Kneeling silently in front of the couch, she sent up a small prayer to Elbereth.
"Lady, do not forsake me this day. One that I love is in great danger, and I do not know from what. I only know that I can feel it. Mother, lend me your guidance, and your nuturing soul. Lend me the strength of your conviction, and the fierceness of your protection. Lady, let your wisdom guide me to seek out what I need to find, and the strength to pay the price for it. Mother, let him be safe from harm, and let this be the foolish thoughts of my mind, and nothing more. Guide my path, Lady, and that of those I love."
She knelt a second more, tears flowing down her face freely. She let them fall, feeling them cleanse her of hopelessness and strengthening her resolve. This day would not be one of loss. She would see to that. She had to. |
Trishy
Macha Sparrowsong - Song is my life
Coretta Alandar - Cleric of Midoran
Dekla Debena - whatever
Not all people who wander are lost.
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Re: The Disapearing Paladin
Posted: 24 Mar 2004 08:23 PM |
| Null Post |
Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.
-Henry David Thoreau
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Re: The Disapearing Paladin
Posted: 25 Mar 2004 02:17 AM |
OOC
Great Posts All!!! Good story here!!! Keep it up! |
ONWARD AND UPWARD! |
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Re: The Disapearing Paladin
Posted: 25 Mar 2004 02:22 AM |
Aye indeed they are worth reading.
Makes me wish I had any talent at all for writing.
Keep it up. At least I can enjoy reading the results of your creativity.
- Paul |
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."
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<@James42> Lawful good isn't in your vocabulary, it's on your menu.
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Re: The Disapearing Paladin
Posted: 25 Mar 2004 09:38 AM |
Days passed. But Mykal could not know that. The passage of time was marked not by the rising and setting of the sun but by counting the drips of water in his damp prison.
One, two, three, four, five…
…eighty-one, eighty-two…
…On thousand, seven hundred and sixty three
…Ten thousand, four hundred and fifty-one…dang!
Without fail, Mykal would lose count somewhere in the mid ten thousand range. Various things distracted him. A spider crawling over his face and biting his neck. The sound of distant screams echoing. Gangs of rats hovering under his slab, waiting for Mr. Loccard to return with his instrument so they could feed on the scraps of flesh that fell from Mykal while he worked. And, of course, Mr. Loccard, who was the worst distraction yet.
Mr. Loccard would come at least once a day, assuming Mykal could still reckon time accurately. The long, thin instrument he carried with him turned out to be very versatile. Early on, Mr. Loccard would simply make small incisions into Mykal’s chest, arms and legs. Very little blood flowed and the wounds healed quickly. Most likely there would be no scar. Mykal endured this procedures stocily, not wanting to indulge Mr. Loccard in conversation. He doubted the old devil would have anything to say if he did.
As the days weared on, Mr. Loccard’s incisions grew deeper and more precise. He had taken to turning Mykal so his back faced the ceiling. With obvious glee, the thin man would begin carving into his back, etching what patterens and symbols on the canvas of Mykal’s flesh. And through all of this, Mykal tried not to scream. The pain was intense, but he refused to give the madman the satisfaction. A man’s fortitude, however, can only be stretched so far, and by the third day (or what is the fourth?), Mykal was reduced to uncontrollable sobbing as Mr. Loccard began to create his grisly art on Mykal’s chest.
Eventually, the pain became so great that Mykal stopped making noises all together. Only the occasional gurgle or deep sigh would emanate from the mass of bloody, crisscrossed wounds that was Mykal’s body. He was sure that death would come quickly, if he was not already dead. But in the depths of his soul he was scared. Mykal knew now what Mr. Loccard intended. And he also knew Mr. Loccard’s true nature. He was no longer the same man that would whip Mykal daily on board the Archon’s Gambit. Now he was something far more sinister. Mykal knew this the first time he saw Mr. Loccard pick up the jar he had placed on Mykal’s slab. The jar was now filled with a viscous red liquid. Were Mykal in better condition he would have retched.
Mr. Loccard grined wildly as he raised the jar to his lips. He drank deeply, and did not stop until the jar was drained. The jar contained blood that Mykal had spilled at the hands of this madman. No, not a madman, for he was a man no longer.
Mykal’s worst fear had been confirmed. He was at the mercy of a vampire of Syn. And all that was left for Mykal to do was wonder if that was his fate. And if it was too late to go back.
“Where are you,” gasped Mykal, “Macha….Sinjin….Kree….anybody.”
Unconsciousness claimed him again, yet even there he found no peace. He drempt of his family’s slaughter with renewed clarity. Clear too was the knowledge that soon, he would join in their fate.
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Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.
-Henry David Thoreau
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Re: The Disapearing Paladin
Posted: 25 Mar 2004 12:27 PM |
Mr. Loccard had stopped carving into Mykal’s body. Perhaps he realized just how close his prisoner was to death. Mykal hoped that was the case, but he knew it wasn't that simple. More likely that Mr. Loccard had done all he wished with his vile instrument and now planned something else. Mykal could not think about what that might be. He was too involved in the food and water he had been given.
It has been a surprise when, after several days of torture, Mr. Loccard failed to appear. In his place was a woman. She was covered in black clothing, the only part of her body exposed as her eyes. Even these were dark, and Mykal could make out no distinguishing features. She entered the chamber with carrying a tray. Her lithe grace made carring the tray while walking quickly seem easy. She placed the tray on the floor beside Mykal’s slab and, with a quick flick of her wrists, undid his restraints.
Mykal rolled off the slab and fell heavily on the floor. His broken ribs screamed in protest, but Mykal did not care. Finally, he was free. He looked up at the woman and knew immediatly that escape was not an option. Even if he was in perfect physical form, Mykal doubted he could match this one in combat. Maybe Sinjin could, but Mykal would be dead before he even reached the door.
He turned his attention to the tray, and finding it was full of food, lurched to a sitting position. He was careful not to reopen the various wounds that lined his body. Mykal was so desperate with hunger and thirst that he did not notice that his wounds had been cleaned, and the more serious ones bandaged. He attacked the food on the tray voraciously.
It is amazing what one will consider edible when the body has been denied sustanance. Mykal devoured the veritable feast of slightly moldy bread, meat entering the early stages of rancidness, and cheese. A pitcher of surprisingly clear water was also polished off quckly. Mykal even found a small falgon of whiskey on the tray, though of this he only took a small swallow. ‘Better to save it,’ he reasoned, ‘in case my hosts lose their hospitality.’
His meal complete, Mykal leaned against the slab. His body ached, though the surprisingly strong whiskey helped numb the pain some. He took stock of his situation. He was a prisoner, but his captors apparently did not want him dead. Otherwise they would not take the time to feed him. He noticed his cleaned wounds, which further confirmed his suspicions. And Mr. Loccard was a vampire. Now that his mind was clear, he had to admit that it made sense.
How else could a man that was tossed overboard in the open ocean survive? He did not realize it at the time, but the Archon’s Gambit was fairly close to Moldovia’s shores that day. Perhaps he found his way there and… The idea made sense, but it did not comfort Mykal. His future still contained either death of vampirehood, two options that were completely unacceptable.
He thought again of his friends. Did Krianya carry out his wishes like he asked? Was his armor, Midoran’s Grace, safely in Midor temple? Did Blanche perform his funeral that was to speed his soul to Midoran? Thoughts of the temple, and of Blanche, comforted him. ‘She is a good and righteous person,’ he thought, and felt a tug of regret that he had placed such a heavy burden on her young shoulders.
His thoughts continued along that line until he fell sleep. For the first time since he left Midor, he slept a deep, dreamless sleep.
A rough kick woke him up. “Get up,” said a familiar voice, but it was not Loccard’s. Mykal groaned, the kicked had aggravated one of his broken ribs. “Get up,” the voice sounded annoyed.
Mykal grabbed the edge of the slab, using it as support as he struggled to his feet. The room was dimmer then before, with only a few candles providing megar light. He looked at the figure that had kicked him. The figure was tall and armored, with broad shoulders and strong looking arms. Mykal could not see it’s face, but deep down this thing felt familar. “Who are you,” croaked Mykal. It was the first time he had spoken since he arrived.
The shadowed figure did answer. Rather, it gripped Mykal’s shoulders and forced him back down on the slab. Mykal attempted to struggle, but the food and sleep had not returned his full strength. Mykal was bound with chains and leather straps more firmly then he was before. He was on his back again, staring into the darkness above him.
Mykal strained to see the person that forced him down. A glimmer of metal reflecting the candlelight caught his attention. He strained even more, the figure looked familiar, as did the armor. If only he could place it. The figure stepped forward, and Mykal was able to glimpse it’s face before it retreated once more into the shadows.
If he were stronger, he would have screamed in rage. If he were free, he would have attacked the shadowed being with his bare hands, even if it meant certain death. If he were whole, he could do something.
But he was not whole, and all Mykal could do was stare at the figure now standing in the shadows. But he could see the armor clearly now. Midoran’s Grace, the armor granted to Mykal by Midoran himself, was now in the possession of this strange being. Except that it was not so strange. Having seen its face, Mykal finally understood why it was so familiar to him.
"How did it get that armor?' thought Mykal desperate. 'Oh no...Kree..." Fear for his friend sapped his remaining strength. He slumped back into the slab.
Mykal felt bile rise in the back of his throat. He successful fought off vomiting, though his throat burned with the effort. He understood what would happen next, and his powerlessness to stop it infuriated him.
“Midoran protect them,” prayed Mykal. “Midoran protect us all.”
“Your god has no power here,” said the figure in an all too familar voice. “Only my lord. And he does not wish to kill you; not yet, at any rate. That is too easy a release for a paladin.” It turned and walked towards the door. The figure paused, and Mykal heard the muffled clang of armor as it turned to face him. “But to disgrace you is another matter entirely.”
It laughed, “Don’t worry, I will say hello to Macha for you.”
With that, the figure left. |
Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and go to the grave with the song still in them.
-Henry David Thoreau
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Re: The Disapearing Paladin
Posted: 25 Mar 2004 03:17 PM |
Three days without news, three days with good news. As long as she didn't have the armor of Mykal Vecar in front of her, there was still hope. She made breakfast for the priests and knights along with another cleric.
"Hum hum...Blanche...the mushrooms...Blanche...Blaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnnche!"
She jumped and look around. The last image of Mykal, running away from Midor was still in her mind. Blanche finally passed the mushrooms to the other cleric.
"Oh, sorry I ... "
The other cleric turned around and rolled her eyes as she smiled. "Stop being sorry silly... what is going on?"
Quickly, Blanche blink and tried to look as normal as she can be.... without any success "No...Nothing"
" Ok.... what is going on. "
" Nothing I could say. "
Nothing she could say. An oath made to someone of her own faith... No . Nothing she could say. Such a burden! It was so heavy for her that she didn't even eat. But at least, no news, great news...
**OOC**
I know it's short but I'll take my revenge later ;) |
Frodo : What are we holding on to, Sam?
Sam : That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it’s worth fighting for.
-The Two Towers |
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