As posted on the boards in Shadgard Commons (Yes, I know I forgot IMPORTANT details on the Shadgard one, it will be remedied shortly) and Mistral Lake's Town Square:
Please join me for a night of Stories, spooky, scary, local or exotic, on the 21st of Octum, 8 bells past at the central area of the festival grounds upon Barrow Hill. The top three spots will be chosen, by Judges, and placement by community accord, to claim the spot of first, second and third (Dependant on participation). Prizes will be awarded to these individuals. If interested to be a judge (three will be chosen), write or otherwise contact Chimaera Deranai, Dogwood-Rose, #6857. I will be hiring guards from each territory to safely bring groups to the event. If interested in this position, contact the same.
[Staff - I know you're busy, but if possible, I'd like to entertain the thought of a table and foods being provided. With the changes to room caps, I don't know if I can drop a table with food and drink there.]
Hope I'm all right to make a request that folk have their stories written up ahead of time, ready to copy and paste their paragraphs into the game in a timely fashion so things can move along without too much waiting around for each storyteller to manually type each one up between segments.
A black entity asks, "What goal is that?"
A sunset-orange entity says, "Gettin you to take a bath."
A black entity says, "I look forward to one of these boxes blowing up in your face."
Squeak wrote: ↑Sat Oct 14, 2023 10:15 pm
[Staff - I know you're busy, but if possible, I'd like to entertain the thought of a table and foods being provided. With the changes to room caps, I don't know if I can drop a table with food and drink there.]
The room caps only apply to farms, inn rooms, vaults, and a few other specific rooms at this point, so you should be able cart a table and food out there no problem!
*** None of my headings have anything to do with the stories, at all. I was just feeling illiterative.
Bryce's Beautiful Babbling:
Bryce begins, "I'm not much for storytellin. Don't do well at settin a stage or a mood or doin voices and gesticulations and all that. Usually I lean on music to try and put some emotion and feelin behind my words, but that's all right. I figured I'd just talk at you all a bit tonight and share a little Shadgardian folk tale. I can't say how much of this is true and how much ain't, and there're holes and conjectures. But that's the way of stories, right?"
Bryce says, "There once was a brother and sister who were lucky enough to be the kind you hear about in fairy-stories. The good ones, I mean. They'd compete and tease each other but only in a good nature. They got along and helped each other out. They built each other up. Anything one was doing, the other'd want to get involved or at least show their support. If one of em got into a scrape, the other'd be there for em."
Bryce says, "So when there came a day that the sister got kidnapped, she wasn't as worried as she might be. Now I don't recall who it was that kidnapped her or why; I don't remember clearly from when the story was told to me and I'm pretty sure the details were vague even then. Think it might've had somethin to do with her knack for sorcery. But the kidnappers were a nasty bunch, and the sister was in real danger."
Bryce goes on, "Sure enough, before long brother had tracked her down and showed up to help her escape. It was a nasty affair, and as the brother and sister were gettin gone through the woods poor brother got some real nasty wounds from their pursuers and fell to the ground. This was when sister started to feel real fear; put her in danger and she'd be all right with it, but seein her brother hurt brought somethin out in her. She did what sorcerers do," he waggles his fingers vaguely, "and before long her pursuers were second-guessin the wisdom of their venture."
Bryce says, "Her brother's wounds were worse than she'd realized, though. In a short free moment she met his eyes just in time to see the life go out of em, and this sent her into a fit of dismay. In desperation, she used her sorcery to tug away what she could of the remains of his soul from his freely-flowing blood and stored it away in a talisman. Her captors had begun to rally by this point after her sorcerous outburst, and now they were set on killin over capture. She had no choice but to run."
Bryce says, "I reckon around this time is when she got involved with Rook Parlour. You know how it goes: A sorcerer has a soul of a departed loved one, and they want em to come back. Well, her sorcerous knack meant they took her in right quick and taught her a means of puttin a soul back into a body, after a fashion. The trick to the ritual was havin the soul's own body, though. Otherwise they'd not... come back right."
Bryce says, "So the girl went back to find her kidnappers, hopin to learn what'd happened to her brother's body. She tore through a lot of those poor bastards with her sorcery until one of em told her they'd dumped the body in a nearby bog. In a reversal of roles that some might call poetic, she bound the man's hands and forced him to lead her to where the body was."
Bryce says, "Of course, there was little real hope of findin the exact spot in a nasty ol bog, let alone actually findin the body. The girl splashed and searched through the muck for who knows how long - hours? Days? Weeks? And the whole while a frustration and a fear and a rage was buildin in her. She never did find her brother's body, but she did find she had another to work with: The man she'd captured and forced to bring her to the bog. Some say she killed im with a ritual dagger, others that she drained his lifeforce with her sorcery, or that she had just let im die out of neglect while she searched the bog. Whatever the details, the wrong body was better'n no body, right? At least it was fresh and relative undamaged."
Bryce says, "So she took the talisman that had the remains of her brother's soul, and she performed the ritual to stuff those soul remains into that body at her feet. Through the whole thing she felt that frustration and bitter rage and fear that'd been buildin in her the whole time, and as her ritual was rippin up those metaphysical boundaries what aren't supposed to be broken, somethin else was able to get through and latch onto the soul in transfer. Somethin that was drawn to her intense, primal emotions she'd been subconsiously channelin into the ritual."
Bryce says, "The body began to stir. It twitched and shuddered, tried to get up, then began to writhe and spasm somethin fierce with moans of agony. Somethin was happenin to it: hair was growin all over it, limbs were contortin with a disgusting crackin sound, and as the abomination let out a deranged, inhuman howl, the girl could see its teeth were sharp and jagged like a wild beast's. She stepped back in fear but couldn't make herself turn away as she watched long-limbed creature thrash about, tearing furrows in the ground with the claws that had grown from its hands and feet."
Bryce says, "Eventually the misshapen creature went still again save for the movement of short, rapid, labored breathing. It was alive. Truly alive, breathing air with its lungs. The girl took a cautious step forward and began to reach out when the beast lifted its head and turned to look at her. And in that look, the girl sensed the vestige of a familiar presence. It was faint and flickering and twisted, but it was in there somewhere."
Bryce pauses and adds, "Or so she'd convinced herself, at least."
Bryce says, "The girl and her... brother... went on to have an impact on our own little neighborhood here in these parts, and took a stand against some of Shadgard's greatest villains and enemies, but those're stories for another time. She was a resident of town, believe it or not. I reckon it had a lot to do with the fact that she didn't act like most sorcerers do about Shadgard's ways. Didn't have a chip on her shoulder, no bellyachin about bein a victim, made an effort to show her trustworthiness and usefulness to the town, tried not to do anythin stupid within the walls. She used her sorcery in defense of Shadgard. She was a sorcerer, but she was -our- sorcerer."
Bryce concludes, "Every now an then you'll hear some rumors about a werewolf in Shadgard. Not the old canim trash collector, but a full-on werewolf. Now you know where it came from. Not sure where those two have got to these days, but there's evidence they're still around: on some nights, at just the right time, in just the right spot in Bindlestick Alley, they say you can hear the werewolf's howls."
Bryce takes a long pause and then makes a half-hearted "WooOOooOOooo!" He sits back with a self-conscious chuckle, finished with his story.
Mack's Meandering Machination:
"I'm Mack," Mack (Boysenberry) introduces herself again as she pushes up to her feet, finishing off the last of her kebab. "And I shall be tellin' ye a true story that me Gran used to tell, back home."
Mack (Boysenberry) begins, "My Gran were the one who folks went to stories back home, even though she didn't oft tell stories like a normal does. There ain't always a moral, or a good beginning, fer she would simply tell us about the time she spent in the strange woods on the border of Karnath, the Fey Forest. We lived not too far from there, and me Gran were a Briarwood, and would once in a while disappear into that strange stretch of forest. And Gran would sometimes tell us of the strange things she would see - some of the times, though once in a while she'd have to stop herself, and tell the kids the story were done, and then tell the adults the rest of it after we'd gone to bed, or been rushed outside."
Mack (Boysenberry) says, "Some years ago, afore I even had a hint that I'd be so far from home, probably afore I were even born, Gran were stalking through the Fey Forest. She'd gone deeper this time than she ever had afore, four bells of careful hikin'. And lucky hikin' too, fer she did not encounter any bogens that day. No clawed beasts, nor poisonous serpents, nor bears that weren't quite right when you looked at 'em, nor great cats that would whisper yer name from the trees above. But she got further than she ever did afore, past a brook that sang a curious song about all the folks that tread through it, generations afore."
Mack (Boysenberry) says, "And it were about that time that Gran thought she ought to turn back around, fer if she'd gone so far that she'd found the strange waters that the people of Karnath tread through, she might be too far to get herself back home. Only, when she went to follow back her trail, fer Gran were a cunningwoman and woodscrafty, and knew best how to mark her way through the woods, she found that her marks led her in circles. She began to see strange lights along her way. Wisps that tried to lead her off the path. And she began to hear strange noises, the voices of her sister and her mother, tryin' to lead her astray. And round she went, passing over that same strange, singing brook, through the same clearing, followin' her own markin's in an endless circle, fer bells."
Mack (Boysenberry) continues, "But she began to run, and the lights would get closer to the game trails she were runnin' through, and the voices was gettin' louder, and the trees were beginnin' to creak and shake, and groan with a fell voice that mortal-kind weren't meant to hear. And Gran stumbled her way one last time into the clearin' that were home to that curious stream and fell, and suddenly the trees were closin' in! She saw great, terrible hands made from branches reaching up above, weavin' together to block out the moonlight!"
Mack (Boysenberry) says, "And Gran got to her feet and stood up tall, fer she would not die on her feet if she could not escape this place. And she noticed that each of the trees that were closin' in on her was a tree she'd marked with her knife. So she had an idea, and she pressed the blade to her palm to draw blood, and she took in a deep breath, and said..."
Mack (Boysenberry) solemnly intones, "I am Eithne Briarwood, a daughter of the folks who walked these woods so long ago, and I have done ill by ye what treated us well, cuttin' from yer bark without askin' first, as a guest in these here woods. And if to make things right by ye I must die, than I ask that ye take me flesh and ye take me blood and ye take me bones, as penance for me misdeeds."
Mack (Boysenberry) says, "And the trees all of a sudden stopped movin', standin' stock still, until they one by one began to reach out fer Gran's hand. And one by one, she pressed her palm against a branch, and one by one them walkin' trees began to go back in the exact way they'd come from, leadin' me Gran back to the edge of the woods, so she could go home again."
Mack (Boysenberry) concludes, "I don't know if any of that all happened, fer I've never gone into them woods meself. But I know that other Briarwoods said they would sometimes find a curious tree, with a single blood-red branch, and a little markin' carved in the trunk but never in the same place twic. And I know that all me life, me Gran never took once from a tree without introducin' herself, and askin' permission."
"And," Mack (Boysenberry) adds with a little grin, raising her clay mug etched with a beetle of some pale mushroom wine "That story's the only time I were ever allowed to speak me Gran's name out loud, without gettin' a thrashin'."
Roenwalon's Ruinous Recitation:
Roenwalon dusts himself off, taking center stage. "Please temper your expectations. I doubt it."
// In response to 'shall we let Roen try and beat that one?'
Roenwalon clears his throat, trying to work emotion into his voice. "My story is not spooky. I have said so already. Nor is it a true story. It is spoken poetry of my own devising." He pauses, looking through the crowd. He puts on a small smile. "Perhaps it may be viewed as a story about myself, should you wish to see it thus. And my works take heavy inspiration from the old examples I have read."
Roenwalon takes a breath, making himself speak without a reference sheet.
Roenwalon recites:
If I were king of this fine land,
And my gold was elbow deep within my chests,
And my castles in droves everywhere stand,
Their towers as high as the eagles' nests;
With harpers sweet, and swordsmen stout and vaunting,
My history sang, my stainless heart worn,
Was not my fortune poor with one thing wanting -
The rose and its thorn?
Roenwalon recites:
My ships would sail every ocean,
Taking all earth, sacking hold and keep;
My cavalieres go prancing at my motion,
To bring each cattle, horse and sheep;
But to mist's arms around my neck, the young heart goes,
And our love all the night might fill,
The woe! If only I knew not the rose,
Yonder over the hill!
Roenwalon recites:
My ships would sail every ocean,
Taking all earth, sacking hold and keep;
My cavalieres go prancing at my motion,
To bring each cattle, horse and sheep;
But to mist's arms around my neck, the young heart goes,
And our love all the night might fill,
The woe! If only I knew not the rose,
Yonder over the hill!
Roenwalon recites:
A hunter's fate is all I would be craving,
A shepherds plaiding and a beggars pay,
If I might earn them where the rose, waving, Gives meaning to the days.
The stars might see me, guttered and weary,
With no roof to fend me from dew,
And still content, I would find my bed cheery
Wherever my rose grew.
Roenwalon draws to a close, bowing in silence.
Ona-anu's Outrageously Action-Oriented Address:
Ona-anu chuckles, "Do please pardon my not standing up, as at my age once one is down, the journey up is a long one."
Ona-Anu says, "And also, do pardon my attempts at theatre, such as they are."
Ona-Anu says, "I have two stories, the first is more of a fable of sorts and the second is unfinished, as a proper ghost story should be."
Speaking to Ona-Anu, Chimaera Deranai asks, "Which do y' prefer t' be judged on?"
Speaking to Chimaera Deranai, Ona-Anu says, "It would be a bit of a cheat to request I be judged on whichever is better, so I think the second."
Ona-Anu begins "The first story is 'The First Golem and the Last Will' and it's not my story." With an amused chuckle he adds, "It is a tale older than me, if you can believe that."
Ona-Anu says, "Long ago, a sorcerer, when he was young and eager, began to try to make a golem. It had not ever been done before, you understand, he was trying to do something new, revolutionary in his time. He shaped a body of clay and poured all his joy into it as he worked, and when he finally figured out how to animate it with nether, the golem was full of that joy. Because it was already happy it had no reason to obey him, and left to see the world."
Ona-Anu pours clear water from a broad clay jug to a small clay jar.
Ona-Anu pours clear water from a broad clay jug to a small clay jar.
Ona-Anu drops a small clay jar of clear water.
Ona-Anu says, "The man found he had no joy left. He returned to his family, but without joy his life was hollow. He was miserable, and miserable to be around. Eventually his family left him, and he was overwhelmed with sorrow. He threw himself back into his work, pouring his sorrow into a new golem. He tried animating it like the first, and was certain it should have worked, but while the golem's eyes glowed with blue light, it never moved. But the man found he was free of his sorrow, so he returned to his empty home and lived peaceably for a time, still without joy, but now content without sorrow."
Ona-Anu pours clear water from a broad clay jug to a small clay jar.
Ona-Anu drops a small clay jar of clear water.
Ona-Anu says, "But peace was fleeting then as it is now, and as often happened in those days, raiders crossed the border and burned the man's village. He survived and sought to create a golem once more, and this time he poured into it all his anger. When the golem arose, it was so full of fury that it destroyed the man's laboratory and then left to cause other horrors. If ever the golem brought him the vengeance he created it for, it would be long in coming and received dispassionately for he no longer had any anger left."
Ona-Anu pours clear water from a broad clay jug to a small clay jar.
Ona-Anu drops a small clay jar of clear water.
Ona-Anu says, "Again, the man was left alone but now he had no joy and no sorrow and no anger. With no village, no home, no laboratory, and no family, he decided to wander for a time. It was not proper exploring or travelling, he merely wandered without destination or wonder. With advanced age and without purpose, the man's health began to fail him. He decided he must create one last golem and into it he would pour his desire to live, the last of his health, and his whole soul. But the man no longer had a whole soul, it had been diminished by his workings."
Ona-Anu says, "If he had chosen instead to die a natural death, it might be that he would have found the rest of his soul in Undm's keeping, he would have been restored and judged. It might be the last that he had hoped to avoid. When the golem was finished, the man had poured everything he had left into it, and he was now only a frail body, a feeble spirit, and a sliver of a soul. The last he bound to the golem in animating it, and some say he - or it - wanders still, seeking what it has lost though it cannot remember what that was. Other say it wanders, but does so without purpose or will."
Ona-Anu pours clear water from a broad clay jug to a small clay jar.
Ona-Anu drops a small clay jar of clear water.
Ona-Anu concludes, "But what think you?" as he moves to slosh around the jug, revealing it is now empty.
Ona-Anu says, "The second story is 'The Cold Fire' and it is also not mine. I heard it as a youth and it has haunted me ever since."
Ona-Anu says, "A hunter, amidst a long and desperate winter, went into the mountains to hunt when he could find no prey hunting the barren plains below. He tarried long because his need was dire, and so found himself too high to make it back down to his people before the sun set. So, he began to make his way down the mountain, collecting wood as he went. When the sun finally began to set he stopped to build a campfire, for he knew it was too dangerous to climb down the mountain in the dark moonless night and in the heart of winter it would be perilous to sleep without a fire's warmth. He had gathered enough wood that a fire would keep him warm through the night, even if it were just glowing embers for the last few bells."
Ona-Anu says, "With a campfire made, he began dressing the two white-furred foxes, the only prey he found hunting all day. As he sat by the fire working, he felt the telltale prickling in his mind of being watched, and when he looked up he saw two blue lights emerge from the winter-naked brush."
Ona-Anu says, "The man leapt to his feet and in alarm saw the creature illuminated by the edges of his firelight. It had a furry gray hunched body with a skeletal head and two short horns. It was a wechuge, a feral creature of hatred and despair, but had the two burning blue eyes that marked it nethrim. It did not howl, or snarl, or growl. Instead it impassively met his gaze, standing on the edge of the firelight, waiting."
Ona-Anu says, "He quickly removed his bow and fired, but the creature avoided the arrow with unnatural speed. The man nocked a second, but when he saw the creature had come no closer he hesitated. His arrows could not harm it, and he then understood it was only the light and heat of his fire that kept him safe. He stood ready to fight for a bell, but the creature never moved closer. Then he knelt to rest, and still the creature only stared at him across the shrinking flames, waiting with the patience of a creature that knows neither time nor age."
Ona-Anu says, "He slowly added his gathered wood, preserving the fire, prolonging it's life and his own. He grew tired without sleep and exhausted from the impatient fear of his body, drawn out through the long night. And the creature waited."
Ona-Anu says, "Deep into the night, who knows how long in the darkness, he finally ran out of wood to add. As the flames again grew low, in desperation he added the pair of foxes he would have eaten. The burning fur made a terrible stench. Mixed with the too sparse fat cooking in the fire, it made an unsettling smell, and still the creature watched."
Ona-Anu says, "He began searching his bag for anything that would burn, a knife with a small wooden handle, a cudgel that would serve him none were his campfire to fail, and the bag that held them. Even his bow and arrows, he could make more if he could live long enough for the sun to rise. As the fire dimmed, he added the tools of his survival, preserving him one last time, a few moments more."
Ona-Anu says, "And then he had nothing left, save his clothes, and those he would need to survive climbing down the mountain, and the cold of winter. So he sat and watched the fire, and the creature - the wechuge filled with hate and despair and nether and patience - watched him, and waited."
Ona-Anu theatrically extinguishes the candle and makes a small bow from his seated position.
Melina's Melodious Myth:
Melina walks to the clearing with a slight smile on her face. "Sorry, no skeletons in my story, it's quite." She grins. "Bare bones."
With her hands in her pockets, Melina starts. "This story, I heard when listening around in the taverns of Shadgard. The one telling it swears it's true. So, I'm going to repeat it here."
Melina closes her eyes to compose herself. "There was once a beautiful couple who married. Both of them are fair of hair and pale of eyes. So after when, they had a child." She looks around. "The child was born he was dark of hair and dark of eyes, and the wife swears under all the immortals that she was never unfaithful to her husband."
Melina quietly says, "After a few years, the child grew. and To her mother's and parent's dismay, he didn't look like them. Because of this, the husband still thinks that the wife was unfaithful."."
Melina pans her gaze to the crowd. "So when the child was 4 summers old, his mother and he went to walk to the forest. They walked and walked, and finally, the child told his mom. 'Mommy, I need to take a wee' They looked around and finally, the mother found a cliff of sorts. "There, son, you can do your business there."
Melina sighs and continues. "While the child was taking a leak. There was this moment where the mother, still distrought about her son, and the problems it brought. .." she pauses. "Pushed the child off the cliff. It might be an impulse or it might be planned, who knows. But one thing is clear, the child didn't survive the fall."
Melina says, "The wife came home sobbing, and well, with no one suspiscious, the couple grieved, but moved on. Not long after, the wife was pregnant once more. And They were blessed with a daughter. She is fair of hair and pale of eye like her parents. And the mother was overjoyed."
Melina takes a moment to give the audience time to process. "4 years came and the daughter grew up as beautiful as the parents. She asked her mother to go walk to the forest with her. So they did."
Melina quietly says, "So they walked and walked, and the girl was happily pointing this and that to her mother's delight until, they reached a cliff. The daughter walked to the edge of the cliff. The mother was nervous. "Honey, please don't go too close to the edge." The daughter turned around and looked her dead in the eye. "Mommy, you're not going to push me again like last time?" she whispers."
Melina smiles and walks back to her seat.
Zotikos' Zany Zenith:
?Zotikos? begins (muffled by a mask), "When I was a younger man, I held a respectable position within Northmoor University's College of Medical Research, a place of learning in Lodhanakh, the capital city of Tol Rhun. A case was brought to the medical ward of a young student of the university whose name we were not informed of. He suffered from a number of burns and weeping lesions throughout his lower extremities, along with possessing strong delusions that he could not be disabused of. I took upon myself the challenge of treating this individual, for none of my colleagues would dare approach him."
?Zotikos? continues (muffled by a mask), "As I said, I took the student into my care. Through his ranting and raving in unknown tongues, there were only three refrains whose meaning in Rhuidic I could glean: 'They are coming!' 'I am the pathway!' and 'You must warn everyone!' I tended to him day and night for ten days, until I myself was exhausted and near the end of my strength, but neither his injuries nor his psyche seemed to demonstrate improvement. Try as I might, I could not wring from him the cause of his injuries. The only information I could uncover from my prying was that his name was Itzakh, and that he was a student of the university, enrolled in the College of Arcane Studies."
?Zotikos? states (muffled by a mask), "Curious."
"Ten days I treated him." ?Zotikos? folds both of his hands over his cane. "It was at this point that I realized the student had not in all this time engaged in any of the ordinary bodily functions, though he showed, in his more lucid moments, a terrible thirst. I weighed him and confirmed my suspicions: the student had gained forty-three pounds since arriving to the medical ward."
?Zotikos? pauses. "The human body is mysterious and fascinating. The abdominal cavity can contain and hide far more than most imagine. I have removed livers thrice their ordinary sizes from the corpses of individuals who, when they were living, never once expressed pain or discomfort."
?Zotikos? soberly continues (muffled by a mask), "And when I at last removed the student's tunic and palpated his abdomen, I found that his torso expressed such a violent motion in response that his entire body was taken by a fit of agony, and he died soon thereafter, his face paralyzed. I am still able to recall his open-eyed, opened-mouthed expression of fear."
?Zotikos? states (muffled by a mask), "But I would not be deterred. Gathering my surgical instruments, I made an incision within his abdomen."
"Spilling out of him, overflowing onto the bed and floor, were writhing, viscous, eel-like creatures, each similar in diameter and length and darkness to this cane I bear," ?Zotikos? states, and here he pauses to raise his fine silver-capped ebonwood cane, showing it to those around him.
?Zotikos? intones (muffled by a mask), "But the most curious thing of all about these peculiar creatures, at least so far as the observation capable, was that each one ended in a singular, perfectly-formed, human eye."
?Zotikos? sighs, leaning heavily on his cane, and he shakes his head. "I must confess that I was weaker of will in my youth, for I fell unconscious immediately upon this startling sight."
?Zotikos? slightly raises his head to be eye-level with the group, gazing out at them from behind his black beaked leather plague-doctor's mask, his unexpression unknowable. "When I regained consciousness, the corpse of the student had vanished, along with my notations, and indeed any other evidence that I had been treating him for the past ten days. I inquired with my colleagues in the medical ward, who all anxiously refused to speak on the matter, and I surmised that the ward had been raided by the Talhmi-Likh's secret police."
?Zotikos? explains (muffled by a mask), "Sorcery is strictly regulated in Tol Rhun, and agents of the Talhmi-Likh, the so-called disciples, ensure that only the politically-connected are allowed to practice it; the arcane is subjected to somewhat less scrutiny, and many ambitious young individuals who have been shut out of sorcerous study instead stake their reputations on discoveries made within the latter field, often engaging in dangerous experiments as a result."
?Zotikos? concludes (muffled by a mask), "Perhaps young Itzakh gained more knowledge than he wished. I shall never know the truth of the matter."
Rowel's Ramshackle Retelling:
Rowel coughs to clear his through, "Well, my names Rowel. This tale's from back before I came to the Lost Lands."
Rowel hums, "How to start it... well, growing up I knew of a young boy about my age. His father was a Gigante, a relatively rare sight from where I came from you see, though the lad's darker complexion betrayed him as a mutt. A fact of which caused him no end of bullying from the locals." he smiles then, "Still, we hit it off and end up playing together as boys did. Shoulda seen us, two bite sized terrors running amok."
Rowel stares wistfully, "Throughout our time together he always had a ... an unsatisfied air 'bout him. Contemplation took him from my company often, 'specially at this lake where we made our stomping grounds. Spent many summers there after we claimed it from the other kids. It was by the water's edge, durin' one of those quiet bouts of his, that he showed me of some Gigante custom."
Rowel says, "The lad sat me next to him by the water's edge and told me to look at myself, reflected by the lake. Told me to think 'bout my life, or anything at all. We did that a few times, each as boring as the last."
Rowel laughs, "Truthfully I never had the mind for something like that, 'specially with the short patience of lad of a few summers."
Rowel coughs, trying to retain a somber tone, "Anyways, I spent those times noticing how he did it. He'd stare at his reflection like it owed him riln. Oh how he'd humm and haw, was 'bout the loudest "reflecting" anyone's ever done."
Rowel says, "It was towards the end of our... friendship that we had our last meeting at the lakeside. Something must of gotten into him because he was in a real dour sort of mood. I walked behind him, wary of the storm brewin' in that head of his when we reached the lake. I like to think of myself as a pretty good friend but... I dunno. I didn't know what to say, I didn't know what happened that day that got him so riled up."
Rowel sighs, "He stared down at himself on the lake's surface for a good while before picking up a stone by the shoreline and just, dropped it. Dropped it into the lake and I stood there puzzled as his reflection became distorted by the ripples from the stone." the man shrugs then, "Said he didn't want to look at it no more. We spent the rest of the few chimes droping stones into the lake together. Until we weren't droping them into the water, we were piling them up one stone at at time and he couldn't see himself in the lake's surface. We didn't say much during or after. We split off as I went my way home."
Rowel tilts his head, frowning as he thinks on how to continue, "It was ... well it was a few days later when I found out he went missing. His father came over, his eyes haunted and red from cryin'. Now ya have to understand the lad's father was never an expressionate man. Never saw that scowl of his leave that face in all the time I knew 'im. He looked at me like I was his last hope an' asked if I had seen him. I didn't of course, but still this strange pit of guilt sat in my stomach."
Rowel continues, "That night I," he sighs, "I just couldn't sleep that night, stole off by myself and found myself heading to that lake I shared with the lad. I was approaching the lake when the sight of it struck me cold."
Rowel says, "In the pale moonlight the pile of rocks it... well it looked like a damned burial cairn. I stumbled over to the lakeside, the entire time thoughts running around my head that I helped bury my friend that day."
Rowel swallows, "I couldn't bear to look at it anymore, I just started dissassembling it, stone by stone when at the rivers edge."
Rowel continues, "It was when I clutched onto the twelth rock or so that I..." coughs, "Uh... I coulda sworn I saw his reflection in there, buried and obscured by the grave I helped built for him, reaching out to me like I was reachin' for a stone."
Rowel gives a grim laugh, "I flee'ed the lake, tears in my eyes it was a wonder I hadn't tripped and snapped a neck. I don't know what to think of that night, whether it was a trick of a moon's light or a boy's guilt ridden imagination. All I know is that I never saw that lad again."
Rowel rubs his neck, "Maybe it wasn't so much scary as it was er... sad. What I gots anyway."
Rei's Ridiculous Remarks:
?Rei? says (muffled by a mask), "Spose ye all have heard some amount o' stories in and around Octum. Take a look the sky."
?Rei? says (muffled by a mask), "Well, the clouds moved in to muffle that part, hm."
// Slow clap.
?Rei? quietly recites (muffled by a mask), "As darkness swamps skies, stars, and homes. ^ We hope the Wraith is thwarted. Pumpkin King and Headless Lord roam. ^ Lost souls abound, townspeople seek charms ^ Sacrifices ended, lessened alarm. ^ The Wraith takes and wants souls, all. ^ Never ending darkness, lost to become it's food and thralls."
?Rei? recites:
Pumpkin King, have you a head?
Pumpkin for a visage, gives the Wraith dread.
Then how abouts the Headless Lord?
Carrying a ice-blue pumpkin lantern one hand, the other a sword.
Lantern taking souls further in Octum, and sword parting noggins from spines.
The roads never safe of them, any season or times.
?Rei? takes a sip from her mug and retakes her seat on the ground.
Artus's Arbitrary Arbitrations:
Artus builds up the emotions by staying silent for seconds, letting night insects hum, finally he starts.
Artus recites:
Let us draw near the fire as I tell a tale. It is a joke of winter that never goes stail.
Artus (Deep-Mauve) emphasizes a cheer to the fire again, drawing the scene there.
Artus recites:
Once upon a period of silence, when Three wings of bug kings competed with violence.
Beings of nature, uncared for by mankind, yet right they claimed for royalty in their minds.
Artus flicks his cheer into cupped, then waves in a violent challenge motion.
Artus recites:
"My songs can soothe the hardest of souls.", said a cicada, announcing its goal.
"What is lost in the dark, I find with my light.", claimed the firefly, arguing for its right.
"I make the world healthy when you can never do.", said the dung beetle, claiming its right too.
Artus pauses just enough to let everyone hear the night insects again. In between recitals, he displays a challenging motion again.
Artus recites:
All through the frosty night, they competed for the throne. Such pride for the prize could never be claimed alone.
And the pride lead them to compete in flight, as the cicada claim wings were insects' might.
Artus hefts a shoulder and makes a series of arm flourish in simultaneous succession, waving at the fire.
Artus recites:
Through the dark to the light from a fire they could see, in a locksmith's house, where they battleground was to be.
Artus slows his arm motion down, falls silent again as if letting everyone soak in the cold that escapes the warmth of the fire.
Artus recites:
Wings up, wings down. Wings all over and around.
Wings high, wings low, for the throne they would go.
Artus changes the tone and rhythm of the recital for this part. His slowness speeds up again as he displays two hands fighting, flapping and flying in quick succession. Finally he slows, looking omenous.
Artus recites:
Click clack went the lock, to a glyph went the light. Bugs, all three, plunged down in the night.
Their wings went silent as they fell from their game. Wings of so called kings, with their throne in the flamed.
Artus makes one last swoop and plunges the sign down, toward the way that leads to the fire. He drops his body after.
From the bottom of my heart, THANK YOU ALL. It made for a marvelous night and I am thankful for each and every one of you who decided to swing by and share in the magic.
To our storytellers -- You all did fantastically well and every one of you deserved a prize. Keep up the phenomenal work.
To our judges -- I have no bloody idea how you three managed to narrow ANY of that down. Kudos to you for being able to manage it (with no blood letting, no less!).
To everyone else -- Every single one of you made this night magical for me. I cannot express just how much it meant for everyone to come together and share this evening. Your reactions were priceless, your comments absurdly humorous. THANK YOU.
This was a great time. Thanks to the host, judges, tellers, and auidience. Everyone was fantastic. My only regret is having to leave so quick after the conclusion. Had to see a man about a horse.
A black entity asks, "What goal is that?"
A sunset-orange entity says, "Gettin you to take a bath."
A black entity says, "I look forward to one of these boxes blowing up in your face."
That was overwhelmingly positive, everyone. Keep the creativity up!