One for the Road: The Continuing Tales of a Parren Privateer

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Prism
Posts: 105
Joined: Sat Jul 06, 2019 4:44 pm
Location: SHADGARD, BABEH

One for the Road: The Continuing Tales of a Parren Privateer

Post by Prism »

[AUTHOR'S NOTE]

Hi everyone! So, I'm a writer at heart. And I love Cogg. and I love my characters. And I love talking about the isles-- so, I figured.. Why not, right?

Consider this thread, and my posts within it, an ongoing account of one islander's adventurers in the world of wild and roaring seas beyond the grasp of the Lost Lands. Because this time around, not all of our friends ended up in the quarantine. Some of them had other scores to settle. And it's a big world outside of our little slice.

As this is just a brief introductory chapter into this story, it's not so lengthy as the others will be. But just as the others will be, it holds the same title as the song that inspired it. And this introduction is called, "Beyond the Sea".

I hope you enjoy.

[END OF AUTHOR'S NOTE]



Bait, cast, drink reel.

That was his ritual. From the first moments of the morn, when the bruised, misty skies were painted with the light of dawn, it began. Day in, day out, chime by chime, bell by bell for near eighteen months, that was where he would linger. Not for the love of the sport, though he did love it. Not for need of coin, though it was a ritual not without profit. He adhered to his faith purely to focus his time. In newfound tranquility, he observed that days spent without purpose grew indistinguishable; they bled together as ink on snowy canvas.


So the hissing steel of time was tempered with bait and tackle. The razor edge of monotony dulled with whiskey and rum. As dozens of dawns became dozens of dusks, he immersed himself in hook, and scale, and spinning line. Not for hope that it would end, not for hope that it would bring him peace. But for hope that it would change.


It mattered little whether it was dawn, or dusk, or the apex of the zenith; He continued as he was, interrupted only by an empty canteen, a growling core, or a bladder full to bursting.


Bait, cast, drink, reel.


So it was that he found himself there as the sun lay flat upon the horizon. The sea before him was a sheet of rippling glass; the sky above a cloudlass radiance painted with the blood of the dying day. All at once, the winds came to a halt, and what waves broke against the pilings silenced themselves. His rod bent-- it's reel screamed-- the braided linen line whirled in a frenzy, and his pupils dilated as his bait dove into the depths. He felt the beat of his heart against his ribs-- his sudden heaving breaths shook him like a sergeant's growling baritone, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood at rigid attention. This wasn't just a fish. Oh no-- this was the fish he'd been waiting for.


His free hand found the reel as he rose to his feet, and as his weight left the bench, his stomach rose up with him. It curled up and into his throat as he flipped the bar on his reel, and flipped in place as he set his feet firmly on the salt-stained pier. All he need do is set the hook-- and the battle would begin in earnest. With a determined grimace etched upon his scraggley beareded face, He heaved his rod heavenward with all of his strength. The treated bamboo of it's handle shook between his fingers-- braided linen tightened as the line grew taught-- and the beast breached the surface.


The angler swore he heard the lilting, haunting wail of Nereia's song as his eyes fell upon it. Three, perhaps four feet in length, it's broad silvery body was curled in visible effort as it fought against the line. Bands of blackened scales adorned each of it's shining flanks, and a visible stream of crimson starkly stood out upon it's face-- the iron hook having firmly lodged itself in the drum's left eye. Or, at least, what remained of it's left eye. All at once, it lept skyward, flicked it's tail once, and dove back toward the sea-- and all at once, as it's body knifed into the depths, though he didn't yet know it, eighteen months of the angler's ritualistic effort came crashing down, like a wave against the pier.


'SNAP!'


The fisherman's expression stilled as he gazed, dumbstruck at his slackening line. His rod, still angled up and over his head, was frozen, mid-setting as the winds picked back up in earnest. The loose, freely swaying strands of formerly braided line danced in the wind's embrace as his eyes bore holes in the surf, now vacant but for the occasional splash of foam as waves prematurely met their end. Slowly, carefully, he lowered his rod, pressed his lids together, and removed his hand from the reel. It found his canteen, which was brought to his lips and upended so hastily that nought so much as a swish of the spirits within could be heard.


Or felt. Or tasted. For unfortunately-- it seemed his canteen had run dry.


The fisherman paused. His expression flattened into placidity, and his fingers loosened their grasp on the canteen. It fell to the planks below with an audible clacking as it danced across the sea-drenched wood, and his eyes opened as rapidly as the vessel had been lifted to his lips. The serenity etched into his expression evaporated; In it's place was an inferno of hatred and loathing so potent, so all-consuming that he nearly ground off the tips of his teeth. His determined grimace became a stunned frown-- then a bitter snarl as he lifted his rod further heavenward. Then, laying it's handle flat against his palm, he took up it's tip with his free hand, brought it down upon his knee, and snapped it's shaft in a single decisive flick of his wrists.


"Frack--Pissing, Fracking son of a wh--!!"


Somehow, the halves of rod found themselves plunged into the churning depths alongside his offered prayer. His bucket of shrimp followed soon afterward, it's handle spinning frantically, defeatedly, even, as it descended into Verungnr's embrace. a nearby family, fishing the evening away, witnessed the act of impassioned, religious fervor, and their children, clutching crabbing lines, gazed stupefied-- jaws agape in enraptured awe before the might of his diction. It was that, and only that, that brought the fisherman back to some semblance of himself. As the children gazed, and their parents glared, he stared down at his now emptied hands, having realized his investment of near twenty-five hundred riln would remain at the bottom of the port's shallows. After a quiet moment passed, he met their eyes with his own.


"The frack you tossers gawkin' at?"


They all seemed to blink in unison, but none parted their lips to retort.


"Good."


With that said, the angler turned on his heels, pulled the hood of his weathered green and blue poncho over a mop of dishevveled brown lockes, and staggered over to the nearby family to retrieve his canteen. One of the children, seemingly without scruple, reached to grasp the vessel and offer it himself-- but the fisherman was quick to snatch it out of the lad's darting grasp before so much as a fingernail could scrape it's dented surface.


"Piss off, ya' bleedin' little--" The angler began, turning to face the rapidly retreating boy. But before he could finish, the lad's father interrupted.


"Oi, you can't speak to my son li--"


The father, having not expected an interruption, was wholely unprepared as the angler turned on his heel and firmly planted a shoulder into the unfortunate father's chest. The straw-yellow mug of stringy hair quickly turned seaward, his weatherstained traveller's boots angled skyward, and before his rapidly paling wife could so much as squeal, her husband, and their bucket of bait, tumbled into the foamy green depths alongside a cacophony of squelching splashes and bubbling curses.


The man who had formerly been a fisherman didn't so much as offer a glance or a word over his shoulder as he staggered back up the length of the pier, dented canteen in hand, toward a refill.
"The sky, above the clouds; A rainbow that fate has devoured
I gave up Hope
But I'm not going to be lost tomorrow; Even if it is hell
I'm gonna' crawl. "
Prism
Posts: 105
Joined: Sat Jul 06, 2019 4:44 pm
Location: SHADGARD, BABEH

Re: One for the Road: The Continuing Tales of a Parren Privateer

Post by Prism »

[AUTHOR'S NOTE]

Here's another for ya'. Titled, "As it was."

I hope you all enjoy, and feedback is greatly appreciated!

[END OF AUTHOR'S NOTE]

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the blood dripped from the sky. In it's place stood a cold, smeary canvas of indigo twilight. It was yet early for the stars to peek through the fading haze of day, and the moon was nye but a still-sharpening crescent, glowing brighter and brighter as it found it's place in the sky. Though the day was fading, there were those who's work had yet to conclude; For one, at least, it was more a question as to when, or how, it would begin anew. For with every end comes beginning.

As the man, once a fisherman, staggered his way up and along the darkening cobblestone street, the last rays of day spit in his eye. No matter how he seemed to turn his head, tilt his hood, or squint his lids, the sunset was blinding. It made an already haphazard gate all the more unstable as he kicked uneven stones, skidded his heels on loose refuse, and stumbled over a tipped trash barrel on his path toward refreshment. He was certainly no stranger to the path he walked, either-- many a night had found him making this exact pattern of staggering steps, sometimes less, sometimes more, drunk than he found himself presently. But just now, the world was uncomfortably still, and his shoulders were irritatingly light of fish.

All the same, he found that his boots, as they always seemed to, carried him most of the way there. Though whether it was out of a desire to sit, or a desire to set the world back to swaying, he couldn't say for certain. He stumbled past a tapestry of bedraggled storefronts and half-rotten homes. He swayed through a maze of narrow, piss-stained alleyways. He staggered his way through a smattering of garbage, refuse, and junk piled high enough to make any landowner hiss with fury. As he wheezed his way up a last cobbled stretch, he half-collapsed, half-slid into a battered, dented brass lampost, and melted into it's weathered frame as he swallowed a lungful of blessed, blessed air.

Before him stood the one consistent comfort he could find within the ragged port of Solstice. It wasn't much of a building, really. It had no flashy architecture, no charming messages scrawled upon it's front. But it had a place by the sea, and the ships were no stranger to the docks which stretched off of it's rearmost section. The establishment itself stood three odd stories in height, and it's second story was encircled by a carefully constructed platform of pilings and planks that provided it's second floor an exterior deck, and it's base floor shade. It's most striking feature, however, was the mural of the roaring ocean spray painted across it's front-- each of it's windows flanked by the image of a smirking dolphin lazing on a sandy shore. Above the front door, a sign swung with prominence off of a pair of rusty chains dangling from the deck above-- and when the man who had once been a fisherman gazed upon it, it's name brought a small, but no less bright, bright smile to his bedraggled features.

"CALM SEAS"

After he'd given the weather-worn sign a thorough examination, he pushed off of the lamppost's battered surface, lowered his gaze to focus on his boots, and casually swaggered his way over to the double doors barring entrance to the establishment. Unusually enough, a pair of tall, broad-shouldered youths stood on each flank, arms crossed and eyes sharpened into a glare focused pointedly on the man as he approached. He lifted his gaze from his boots to meet their glares, , and gave each of them a thorough glare in retort. The first had a blocky, bulging chin that begged to be punched, and stood near a head and a half taller than the former angler. His companion stood a head shorter, but a span wider, and his arms appeared to be composed of enough muscle to prevent him from fully resting them at his sides. Though the man they glared at stood shorter, thinner, and certainly less steady, he met their glares without a fraction of hesitation coloring his guarded expression.

"Fair winds, gents."

The pair simply glared in retort. The man, formerly an angler, paused only for a moment, then continued on.

"Right-o. You too."

That said, he swaggered his way forward, and shouldered his way through the doors as the men's sharp gazes trailed in his wake. As he breached the threshold, he was met with a torrent of sound; Not only the common clinking of tankards and tinkling of cutlery, but the telltale ring of a lute's strings accompanied by a light, husky chorus. The wall of sound was trailed by the hazy aura of pipesmoke and stale liquor, and as the man pushed through the doors and took it all in, he couldn't help the contented sigh that escaped his parted lips. Taverns like these were the ones you died looking for. Big, but small. Crowded, but empty-- with good booze that isn't great, but doesn't cost you an arm and a leg. Clean, but not so clean and presentable that it pulls all the merchant crowds away from their cafes and boutiques. The Calm Seas was the personification of classless class, and it's lightly-stained combination of driftwood tables and reupholstered booths was a sign of it's niche. The real draw as late, however, was the feathery-haired blonde bard strumming her lute to death from her perch on the corner of the cigar-burnt bar.

"Fair winds, Calm Seas." The former angler drawled.

One curly-haired man at the bar's corner simply groaned. The barkeep, a tall, tan blonde with icy eyes, stopped polishing a rusted tankard and buried his face in a palm. A thick crowd of a dozen, maybe a dozen and a half odd sailors gathered around the bard groaned, hissed, and muttered curses. The bard herself-- still strumming her lute to death-- beamed happily, and her luminous smile lit the room. Another man, his head a thick, oily mass of slicked back dark locks arched a brow, then squinted-- as if appraising the angler's words for some hidden meaning. All the while, the man in question strode from the doors to his usual place left of bar center, took up a stool, and slapped his battered canteen onto it's darkly varnished wood.

"That's never gonna' start bein' funny, y'realize." The barkeep said as he approached.

"Ain't the point, Carston. Usual?" The former angler asked.

"You're a sick frack."

"Mmhm."

That said, Carston the barkeep took up the canteen, turned back to the shelves of bottles and casks at his back, and took up a particularly elegant looking bottle-- upending it's contents slowly into the canteen as the angler watched.

"Busy evenin', eh?" He queried further.

"Could say that." Carston began as he turned back to offer up the canteen. As it was taken, he neatly plucked a pouch of coins from the former angler's grasping fingers with an ease that was decidedly practiced.

"That's mostly Dulci's doin', though." As he finished, the barkeep deposited a large, brilliantly green lime in the pouch's place.

"That's more frackin' like it." The man, formerly an angler, muttered. Then, seemingly without thought, he brandished the dagger sheathed on his left thigh, sliced the lime cleanly in twain, and speared half on the blade's tip. The other, of course, he chomped into so quickly, so lustily-- that it drew the attention of the oily-haired gentleman at the other end of the bar. As the man in question turned and whispered to a red-haired companion, Carston fixed the former angler with a prominant stare.

"You're a sick frack." He repeated, shaking his head. As if in pointed retort, the former angler sunk his teeth into the lime speared on his dagger, not so much as sparing a moment to wipe the juices from his beard. Carston simply sighed.

"Oh, right. By the way-- What's with the stiffs by the door? Ain't that Marl's job?"

"Aye--" the curly-haired man a bit further down the bar began.

"Was I askin' you, Marl?" The former angler interrupted. Pausing, exasperated, Marl gazed toward him with incredulity etched onto his features.

"Was I askin' if you were askin'?"

"Well I'll be damned, it is you."

Carston, Marl, and the former angler all turned their gazes toward the interjection's source as he joined them at the bar, his fingers tracing a neat line through his slicked back dark locks. He was joined a moment later by his red-haired companion, who's nose was bent and crooked in so many different directions that the man-- once an angler-- wondered how red-hair managed to breathe without snorting.

"Pardon?" Carston asked. Marl's brow wiggled, curiosity burning in his eyes. The former angler simply glared with enough venom that it seemed as though it could start dripping from his pupils at any passing moment.

"It's Little H himself. Been a long time, pal. What brings you to a pissing hole like this?"

Carston and Marl turned curiously toward the man-- formerly an angler-- Little H, apparently-- who's words were suddenly, uncharacteristically icy with contempt as he snarled out his retort.

"My -name- is Zeldryn. Yer' thoroughly aware o' that, Sam."

At that, Carston and Marl's eyes narrowed, and their jaws tightened. Zeldryn-- formerly just a man who used to be an angler-- froze and flattened his tongue against the back of his teeth. There went a year and a half of lying low, but. Well, the cat was out of the bag, now. He turned his wary visage to face the man with slicked back hair-- Sam-- directly, and glared as the man in question met his cutting eyes with a smirk.

"That's a stupid name--" Marl began.

"The half-hanged. Half-drowned too, apparently, eh?" Sam continued. As he spoke, Zeldryn took another prominent bite out of his lime, then tipped his canteen upward and drank deeply. Fire tore through his gullet, coated his lungs, and screamed through his empty stomach-- fighting the lime for control as the liquor shook him to the foundations of his soul. As he finished, he exhaled forcefully, slammed the vessel down onto the bar, spun on his stool, finished his lime, sheathed his dagger, and propped his elbows on his knees.

"Can I help you?"

"S'like I said, Little H. Just wonderin' what brings a bloke like you to a hole in the ground like this." Sam said.

"Fishin'. Drinkin'. Tough times, mate. Keepin' things simple." Zeldryn drawled. Sam's red-haired companion looked far from convinced.

"Yeah, I'd sure say so, considerin'." Sam said with a bob of his head.

"Aye, considerin'." Zeldryn echoed, every word dripping with bitter, mocking sarcasm.

"How 'bout yourself? Finally decided to bring in ol' ugly over there for some dry dock work?" Zeldryn queried. Though his words were for Sam-- his glare remained on his companion's crooked nose.

"It's work, but it ain't dry." Red-hair growled in retort. Zeldryn, eyes shining, offered red-hair a practiced, radiant smile, then took another deep draw from his canteen.

"Aye, aye, I'm sure polishin' masts is hard work--"

"I don't want any trouble." Carston interrupted flatly. He leaned forward across the bar, propped his palms against it's burned and pitted surface, and arched a pale brow first toward Zeldryn, then toward Sam and his red-haired companion. As Zeldryn moved to tip his canteen once further, one edge of the barkeep's moustache twitched, and a vein bulged noticeably on the side of his throat. At the sight of it, Zeldryn lowered his canteen, flipped it's lid, and hoisted it back over his shoulder. Before the others could offer up their own replies, he pushed himself to his feet.

"Aye, aye. I'm here for a year, no prob'. These tossers show up for half a bell, throw names around, i'm the issue. No prob'. I know where the door is. I know this song and dance."

Carston's expression fell as he listened, and he shifted his shoulders as he glanced toward Marl.

"That ain't what I'm sayin, Z--" Carston began.

"But it's what he means." Sam finished, smirk ever present. Marl's brows wiggled once again, and he worked his jaw in attempt to find words.

"That ain't what I--" Carston began.

But before he could finish, Zeldryn pivoted his body rightward, pitched back his left arm, and popped his knuckles into the arch of Sam's jaw with all of the force he could muster. His hair was so thickly oiled in place that it didn't so much as twitch as it's owner toppled off of his stool in a cloud of shouting surprise and snarled Khaldean curses. Sam clawed at the bar for purchase, and tried fruitlessly to stumble back to his feet. As he did, Zeldryn fixed red-hair with another of his most practiced, most radiant smiles.

"Y'like dancin', sweetheart?"

Red-hair fired off of the bar's side like a bolt from a ballista, hands extended-- but the bedraggled Zeldryn, formerly an angler, elegantly hopped backward with a press of one heel, flicked his poncho upward with a casual roll of the shoulders, and allowed the advancing brute to tangle his hands up in it's sea-stained wool. Zeldryn backpedaled and pulled the garment up and over his head in a single motion, then, with a decisive twist of the wrist, he pulled red-hair into a snug embrace, spun the poncho up and over his opponent's head, propped a foot behind red's ankle, and without pause, shoved off of his chest with both palms. As the brute tumbled backward, face and hands wrapped in Zeldryn's poncho, he crashed into the bar, shattered Zeldryn's stool under his bulk, and sent the tankards along the bar's length to shaking as he tried to rise, and fell instead.

"No trouble." Zeldryn echoed, open palms raised as he continued his retreat. Dulci's lute had certainly silenced itself. The crowd surrounding her glared holes into Zeldryn's chest as he slowly strode backward. Carston's icy gaze smoldered, and Marl's brow was furrowed in pointed interest as his soft green eyes focused on Sam, now muttering in Faewyr as he helped his red-haired associate back to his feet.

The man, formerly an angler, apparently named Zeldryn, also called Little H, continued his retreat until he was pushing his back through the double doors, past the sharp-- sharper now, really-- gazes of the youthful thugs, and on the opposite side of the cobbled street. Then, eyes still fixed on the Calm Seas, he began to stroll slowly onward, one hand tucked in the pocket of his sailcloth trousers, the other on his liquor.
"The sky, above the clouds; A rainbow that fate has devoured
I gave up Hope
But I'm not going to be lost tomorrow; Even if it is hell
I'm gonna' crawl. "
Prism
Posts: 105
Joined: Sat Jul 06, 2019 4:44 pm
Location: SHADGARD, BABEH

Calliope

Post by Prism »

[Author's Note]
So uh, wow. It's been a while since I've updated this.

Therefore, in the spirit of me trying to motivate myself to pick up where I left off-- and in the spirit of the new changes with Clok/Cogg merging timelines, why don't we see what ol' Zel's been up too, eh?

As usual, this little piece carries the same title as the song which inspired it. This time it's. Uh. Weird. I'll insert the link to the song where the scene began in my brain, and forced me to write this.

Also, as usual, I uh. Didn't spell-check this with a spell-checker. Sue me.

[End of Author's Note]




Of life's truths, there are few which stand the test of time as wholely, truly inescapable. We're born, we grow, we die. We know this; some loathe it. But despite our opinions regarding life's inevitabilities, they remain a fact for all whom call themselves mortal.

From a certain point of view, one could say that the difference between us is the journey. More specifically, it's the way we come to see the world around us after we've spent enough time planted firmly in our boots. Some would argue it's the nature of our environment, others the blood flowing through our veins. Perhaps, it's some divine weaving of fate, tangling us up and pulling us along toward some inescapable destination. We all have our opinions. But they're a product of our mentality.

That mentality is forged through our experiences. They're the lens we use to perceive the foundation of our opinions, and that lens is ours, and ours alone. Some might be shaped similarly. Others might be accustomed to complementary angles of focus. But there are none wholely congruent. Even if there were, we don't get to choose what we see. We don't get to choose what dirties the lens.

We don't get to choose what makes us feel clean.



Lightsday, 30th of Julium, 1220
Somewhere east of Central Aetgard, commonly referred to as, "The Lost Lands"
Between 9 and 10 bells post-zenith



There was a hole in his soul.

No matter how many years he lived, no matter how many leagues he walked, rode, or sailed. No matter how many jewels were held, ladies charmed, or silvers stacked in ever-growing piles, there was, as ever, only one thing which could fill it. It was love. It was frustration. It was the nectar of the gods themselves-- It was Nereia's siren song and Vodr's screamin' booms. It was Naia's bitter tears, and it was the deep, rumblin' hunger of the depths.

Bait. Cast. Drink.

That was his medicine. That was the strong, Shadgardian whiskey that set his heart to pumpin'. But like all medicine, like all whiskey, it had it's bite. Take too much, drink too hard, and you'll feel it. Oh, you'll feel it alright. harder than the Father's hammer, faster than The huntsman's arrow. in his worst moments, it could bring a smile to his tear-stained cheeks. In his best moments, it could wake in him a wrath that Kurn herself would blush at. Now? Well, now, it had him doing just fine.

Owls hooted, crickets chirped, and mosquitos buzzed. The weather-worn ash of his rod sat wedged between a jumble of river stones, and it's thrice-braided line traced a thin path over and across the burbling stream. Either by expert marksmanship, or, more likely, by miraculous circumstance, his bait and bobber came to rest in a position skirting the edge of an overgrown bed of mossy weeds. An inch further, and he'd be tangled like a Khaldean in a worm hole. An inch shy, and the strength of the current would carry his bait downstream. It was only a matter of time before the kitty-fish lying around in the weeds would poke her head out to take a gander at the little treat waitin' on her outside the house. You couldn't find a spot more perfect if you dug it, filled it, and planted the weeds yourself.

His cast complete, he'd planted his rod in the stones, fetched his canteen, and stoked the fire beneath a half-roasted hare, still cooking on the spit. But before he could so much as flatten his cheeks against the ass-sized willow stump flanking his fire, his rod twitched, and his line began to sway. The canteen fell, forgotten, from his hand, his attention jumped to his bait lightning-quick, and he squinted with all of his might in an attempt to scry his quarry beneath the glare of the full moon on the water's surface.

The sight that met him was a familiar one. A short, but shaggy mop of light-brown lockes crowned the fair flesh of his forehead, and beneath a pair of thick brows a lone hazel eye twinkled in the water's reflection. It's leftward twin was shadowed by a sapphire blue patch, the pale-gold threading of a stylistic "Z" visible, though hazy, in it's core. An astoundingly large sapphire dangled daintily on an intricate chain of electrum on his ear, and the sight of it warmed him to his core. The bridge of his nose was certainly looking a bit more crooked-- and his cheeks a bit more hollow. But there was still a sort of handsomeness to his features, he supposed. He kept a clean shave by habit, and he didn't seem to have that redness some folks got to their cheeks as they crept up in the years. Sure, he was only twenty five-- twenty six? summers through, but these days, it was feeling more like fourty. How long had he been walking? When was the last time he slept? When in the hells was the last place he'd actually spoken a fully worded conversation? As if in accompanyment to his thoughts, the crickets chirped their agreement, they, themselves, curious as to who in the hells found their way into their humble abode.

Despite the moment's weariness, an easygoing grin was quickly summoned to his lips, and a healthy enough set of pearly-ish teeth gleamed as his lips parted to reveal them. To his visible relief, he still couldn't see the gaps of any missing teeth, though the gaps were certainly there. He knew. He could feel them. He missed those molars. At the thought, his tongue pressed reflexively against his left cheek, and he shrugged a pale-golden greatcloak free of his shoulders.

His shoulders were the only wide thing about him-- blocky and broad, they led to a wirey set of arms crossed over an equally wirey core. A hawk screamed proudly on the gray bandana hanging around his throat,, and a trio of gawdy, thick-linked chains criss-crossed the short-sleeved sapphire tunic clinging to his chest, one gold, one silver, one electrum. A quartet of thick, bloodglass-speckled bands hung loosely on his wrists and forearms, and his hands were covered by a pair of fingerless gloves, the name, "Zeldryn" branded clearly in curvy electrum threading upon the knuckles for all to see. As his adornments caught the light of the moon, his grin grew all the wider, and he offered himself a wink. As he did so, an owl's shriek rang out in protest through the trees.

Was it a wink if you're wearing an eyepatch? Or is that a blink? The owl seemed to know. Maybe he'd ask.

The thought occurred, and passed, and his lids parted again, his expression twisting into what he surely assumed resembled thoughtful wisdom. As he glanced toward the water's surface to confirm his theory, what lingered upon the surface was not thoughtful wisdom. It was a cluster of eight glowing blue spheres. All acutely focused on him from an expressionless face that was formerly his own.

In an instant, his heart froze, clawed it's way up toward the lump in his throat, then burst into a lightning staccato. The lump in his throat fell like a stone into his gut, dissolved in the frothing bile of his turning stomach, and gave birth to first primal, sickened shock-- then a boiling shot of anxious fear. He doubled backward a step, two steps, and shook his head, dog-like, from side to side in an attempt to rid himself of the sight, and when his eyes came to rest on his reflection an instant later, all was as it had been. What was once a grin was now his jaw, agape-- what was once an almost amused, mischievous expression was now a hollow, uneasy shadow of itself.

You didn't Think I'd Forget, Did You?

He didn't dare blink, lest he open up again to reveal those hungry orbs burning wherever his gaze landed. Ten seconds drifted into thirty, then sixty. Against his will, the blink came, and when it did, his face remained. As his reflection persisted,a nervous snicker bubbled up from his heaving chest. He took a few careful steps forward, inspected the water's surface closely, then, satisfied at the lack of web bursting forth, tangling him up, and pulling him into the stream, he rose back to his full height, checked his line, and returned to his stump. Then, he realized.

The owls. The crickets. The mosquitos; They were gone. All was silent in the forest around him.

Suddenly, his campfire exploded outward in a cloud of ash, smoke, blazing embers, and fragments of burning tinder. Heart pounding in his ears, Zeldryn tumbled rightward off of his stump, pulled his cloak over his rolling body to shield himself from any burning debris, and halted his roll with one knee planted to face the sparking remains of his fire. Within it's depths, a thickly caripaced eggsac smoldered and flaked. Cold fingers of fear rolled down his spine, and the hairs upon his flesh stood at attention in their wake as the eggsac writhed and crackled in the flames.

This wasn't his first rodeo. His heart might've been uppercutting him in the teeth, and he might've worked up a bit of a sweat at the suddenness of it all. But his hands knew what to do. As if by long-honed instinct, his fingers curled around the grip of a pistol holstered on his belt. His elbow snapped back, his wrist pushed forward, and his left palm flittered rightward to meet his right hand's draw. Two fingers feathered the trigger, and his palm fanned the hammer. The barrel flashed and roared it's challenge, and five cracking shots screamed outward through the clearing. Through gunsmoke, flame, and darkness, Zeldryn watched his shots ring true, and the eggsac spun, bent, and fell.

Riddled with steaming holes and cracks along it's smoldering flesh, the remainder quickly flaked into waxy ash and revealed the young within. No eggs. No insects. No-- this eggsac's interior held nothing but the crudely carved willow visage of a bloated, eight-armed monstrosity who's surface seemed unaffected by the embrace of the surrounding flame. As their gazes met, his stomach growled, and his mouth flooded with saliva. the all-too familiar ache of deep, ravenous hunger suddenly, pointedly, shook him to the bone. and for the briefest instant, his lids slammed shut, and his teeth sunk desperately into the corner of his lip in some hopeless, untenable desire to deny the unreality of the circumstance.

Unbidden, memories flashed before his mind's eye. A similar carving left in a red stone home upon a mahogany table. A trio of thickly-wrapped cocoons, wide and terrified eyes peering lifelessly from within. The carving, burnt, broken, shot, shattered, and split before being scattered to the winds. A dark, humid cavern, where a robed figure waits in the candlelight. the carving held in dark fleshed hands, staring up at him astride the gaze of loving onyx eyes. All flashed simultaneously before him, in an instant, all at once, and at once, not at all. Not a memory, but a display. He could only shut his eye all the harder.

Now, that darkness which formerly existed behind his lids held only the visage of countless hungry sapphires.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to howl in fury, but as suddenly as his mind was clouded, a thought occurred. Where there is an eggsac, there are eggs. Where there are eggs--

With his brain pounding in his skull, Zeldryn sunk his teeth into his cheek, forced his eye back open, dropped his revolver in the dirt, and kicked himself forward into a desperate, fear-fueled roll away from his perch in the dust. He rose to his feet only for the clasp of his greatcloak to catch snugly around his throat, and a glance backward nearly froze him to the spot. Four long, pale legs held the hem of his cloak fast, tangling themselves in the dirt beneath the golden fleece with enough force to leave the creature's flesh visibly quivering with the recoil of it's landing. Twin clusters of soulless black eyes bored hollows in it's face, and at the sight of him, it's mandibles spread to expose gruesomely barbed fangs as it prepared another leap.

"VODR'S FRACKING--"

BOOM

As suddenly as the curse came bellowing from his lips, he collapsed under the hasty, forceful embrace of a quartet of chitinous appendages wrapped firmly around his left arm. He kissed the ground, and his vision strobed with a blinding, painful light that set his skull to throbbing. His mouth was full of blood. His eyes were full of stars. His flesh scraped raw in the dirt, and his chains were tangled around his throat. he was off of his feet, he was rolling, tumbling in the debris, a tangle of arms, legs, fabric and fangs. Chitinous legs lunged at arms, knees, and skull. They tumbled briefly, pulling at one another's limbs in some fruitless attempt at supremacy before one finally managed to pin his arm beneath it's mass. All he could hear was chittering screeches. All he could feel was desperation and fear. Numbly, he recognised the burning punch of fangs piercing his shoulder through the steam-piston pound of blood pumping in his skull. Gods, his head was killing him. How fracking hard did Rakar slug him? It was that thought, and that alone that made Zeldryn realize somewhere, deep in the jumbled, muddy haze that replaced his thoughts, that he was dying.

With strength born of the primal need for survival, he thrashed his legs outward, bucked the spider off of his arm, rolled onto his fang-free shoulder, and frantically pawed at his belt case. He ripped out the first thing that he found, and as his blurry gaze spotted the light reflecting off of the vial in his hand, he slammed it into the dirt with a careless snap of his wrist. With a 'WOOSH', a sudden, rapidly expanding haze of inky smoke burst forth and spread from the fragments of glass under his gloved palm, consuming all he could see in a rolling wall of black. The weight left his shoulders, and the smoke filled his lungs with a familiar throaty burn as he clawed and kicked his way into another sloppy forward roll. Where there's smoke, there's fire; Except this time, there isn't. But they didn't know that, and that gave him the moment's breath he needed to get the hells out of there. As the soles of his boots found steady purchase on the ground, he took off in a desperate sprint without so much as a glance backward. It'd be pointless anyway, with the smoke. He just had to assume that they'd be on his heels before long.

He hopped over a fallen log, tore through a pile of branches and bushes obstructing his path, and roughly diverted his path toward the stream. So long as he kept that at his side, that was one less place they could come at him from. But as he broke free of the treeline once further, he was met by the leaping advance of bastard number three. This time, he was ready. Half ready, at least. He dove forward in a considerably less sloppy roll, nimbly curling his limbs into a ball as he rolled beneath the spider, overshooting it's target by an arm's length as he bounced back to his feet and turned on a heel. His boots slid uneasily as he struggled for purchase in the mud, but without turning to face him, the monstrous arachnid simply lifted it's rear-most legs and fired a glob of webbing toward his chest.

Without thought, he dropped his feet out from under him and performed a full-on split, thigh muscles protesting the sudden exertion as he glanced upward toward the passing glob as it sailed over his head. He could've swore he felt the chill of the breeze trailing it as it flew over and into the stream at his back. His gaze fell back to the spider, still recovering from it's pounce and subsequent attempt at webbing, as he pushed himself up to a knee, drew his back-up pistol, and angled the barrel toward it's back. He thumbed the hammer with a click, and...

CR-CRACK!

The one-eyed shootist watched his shot plow through the bastard's neck, out of it's head, and carry a pile of brain, skull, and chitin alongside it to splash through the brush. For a moment, he almost felt relieved. Then, it occurred to him that there were any number still lingering. And if he was a gambler-- and he was, by at least one Dwaedn lass's reckoning-- he'd bet that this wasn't one of the pair who joined him by the fire. As if to punctuate his thoughts, a flash of white and a high-pitched, chittering screech snapped his attention away from the brush and further down the clear path of the stream's edge. At least, clear but for the pair of arachnids rapidly skittering toward him. These two didn't take much thought. Pivoting rightward to face the advance, he fanned the hammer with his right palm, and his left wrist turned as it reflexively took the recoil of the staggered pair of shots. His barrel flashed twice, and the roaring cracks echoed through the trees, the clearing, and up and down the length of the stream for all to hear. A glimmer of gold caught the moonlight as the shots tore into the glossy flesh of the left-most charger, and as it collapsed in a twitching, screeching heap, the ringing whine of volume overload filled his ears.

It occured to him that His mind was free of the fear that had so tightly clung to the frayed edges of his consciousness. That was his greatest weapon. The fear was what they wanted most. No, no. He knew better than that. it was what they -needed- most. It was love. It was life. it was the nectar of the gods. It was blood and sex and everything in between. To them, it was all that mattered in the world. But he wasn't them. He'd sang that song, danced that jig. Fear clouded his judgement. Invoking it Made him weak, turned his focus away from what really had substance. Was he going to give it to them so easily as that?

No, no. They'd have to work for it.

The remaining spider bounded skyward as it closed the gap, spreading it's front-most legs in a wide arc in it's best attempt at an opportunistic takedown. Without pause, Zeldryn responded with another nimble flicker of palm against hammer. With twin ignitions and twin blooms of flashing barrel, the impacts kissed the eight-legged horror and sent it spiraling off-course to land in a pile of tangled limbs a stride short and a step left of his feet. It's legs twitched and writhed as it attempted to struggle back upward, only to collapse back onto it's side as it's balance, coordination, or strength failed to overcome the shot wedged in it's core. He spared a moment to gaze upon his assailants, approached the closest's twitching mass with a swagger of his hips, and, without hesitation, proceeded to step up and over it's bleeding husk as if it proved of no more interest than the log he'd hopped on the way back to the creekside. As an afterthought, he paused, lifted a boot, then firmly planted his heel against the joint of one of it's rear-most legs, slammed it's broken length twitching in the dirt, and proceeded on his way toward it's still-squealing companion. Sure, he might've gotten a hold of himself, came to grip on things. But a bloke should still remind them what tree they're barking up.

As he approached the second twitching arachnid, it still flailed feebly toward him, legs grasping, fangs flashing in and out of screeching mandibles. he halted his advance, lifted his barrel to rest between it's clusters of soulless eyes, and spit a mouthful of blood full in it's face, spattering it's pale white chitin with a spray of bright, bubbly crimson. Having spoken his peace, a fifth flash of thunder deafened it's cries.

With a careful glance backward, his attention focused back on the stomped, blood-spattered arachnid squirming toward him from the creekside.

Two down. Six to go.

[Author's Post-Script]

I spent all day writing this. Love it, hate it, consider it canon, non-canon, whatever. I enjoyed myself. Part 2 coming tomorrow, because it's too late to keep writing. See ya'll then!

EDITED THE NEXT MORNING: Wow, there were a few oopsies, there. Revolvers have six shots in them, not seven, for one. But they're fixed, now. Part two incoming!

[End of Post-Script]
"The sky, above the clouds; A rainbow that fate has devoured
I gave up Hope
But I'm not going to be lost tomorrow; Even if it is hell
I'm gonna' crawl. "
Prism
Posts: 105
Joined: Sat Jul 06, 2019 4:44 pm
Location: SHADGARD, BABEH

Plowed

Post by Prism »

[AUTHOR'S NOTE]

Trigger warning for detailed violence, language, and spiders. I probably should've put this on the last one.

[END OF AUTHOR'S NOTE]



Click Me for Ambience

Lightsday, 30th of Julium, 1220
Somewhere east of Central Aetgard, commonly referred to as, "The Lost Lands"
Between 9 and 10 bells post-zenith



Monolithic sycamores swayed to the rhythm of nature's melody, the evening gales heavy with the fragrance of burning powder and noxious smoke. To his left, the moonlight shimmered on the surface of the stream, still burblling in blissful ignorance of the troubles plagueing it's bank. To his right, four long, pale legs squirmed and kicked their last as their owner's vacant skull oozed brains into the darkened forest brush. With casual ease, Zeldryn carefully ground the sole of his boot in place, and a wildly spasming corona of legs flailed upward in response to the pressure on their owner's skull. He paused in momentary disgust, then, with a careful grasp upon the hilt on his right shoulder, he lowered a knee onto the monstrous spider's back, brandished his shortsword, and silenced it's writhing with a methodical twist of it's length through the plates adorning it's thorax.

His nose wrinkled as the blood's metallic, rotten perfume mingled with the aroma of burning forest, and his loathing only magnified as he felt the grinding, crunching resistance of the corpse's chitinous shell making it's best attempt at clinging to his blade. With a quick twist, a replanting of his foot, and a quick yank upon the hilt, the tempered steel ripped free in a shower of sticky gore. He removed himself from it's twitching husk, quickly dipped his blade in the stream, then wiped it clean, best he could, in the reeds flanking the water before his attention angled back toward his abandoned campfire. He didn't have all night, now. It was far past time to stop acting, and start thinking, lest he bury himself in another ambush.

He hadn't a damned idea how many he was dealing with. As many spiders as he'd shot, stabbed, and burned, he hadn't the first indication of how many of their eggs could fit inside of one of those sacs, let alone how long they took to hatch, or whether they were the venomous sorts. His shoulder throbbed angrily with the beat of his heart, and burned like any other stabbing might; but as far as he could tell, so far, he'd either been fortunate enough to avoid a deep stick, or he'd yanked himself free before it had it's chance to give him the business. Eight was the number he told himself, but it could've been as many as two dozen, or as few as the three lying in the dirt around him already. You never knew with these crazy bastards. But what he knew for sure is that there was at least one larger, bipedal tosser skulking in wait in the surrounding forest. Someone had to throw the fracking statue into the fire. Much as he'd like to, he couldn't chalk that one up to the corpses.

He liked to think of spider worshippers as no more than another of Aetgard's numerous plagues. There were the infested, there were the nethrim, there were canim, blood cultists, mad sorcerers, and there were beastly abominations aplenty. But Harbingers of Aranas were a human sort of plague. Mad sorcerers were mad, but Harbingers were a blight with a brain. Those were the worst sorts, in his experience. It was easy to put them down as zealots, or madmen, or bloodthirsty brutes. But the fact of the matter was that they pledged their allegiance to a creature referred to as the weaver of lies. A good lie takes thought. Thought takes a certain degree of cleverness, and these sorts were masters of their craft on their worst days, let alone their best. You certainly can't cut them all from the same cloth, but this one, at the least, had been thinking on this for a while.

Before he knew it, Zeldryn was moving in time with his thoughts. He darted silently from the moonlit bank to the shadow of the treeline, shoulders hunched low and blade held carefully beneath the folds of his greatcloak. The ringing was starting to fade from his ears, now, and was gradually replaced by the soft hiss of the wind fanning smoke through the sycamores. The stream burbled happily to his left as he skulked onward, retracing his former path of advance up the bank and toward his fire. . They were certainly looking for him, now-- when they jumped him, they had him running on raw instinct. Surprise, the pump of his heart, and whatever he could find in his pockets was all that brought him through with the skin of his teeth in tact. He was quick on his feet, but he was a scrapper first. He had to get on the attack, and quick, lest they take what little advantage he'd struggled for straight out of his hands.

They certainly weren't taking it easy on him, though. They jumped him from behind, and hells, over his head. They were in the damned trees. When he ran, another pair of eight-legged abominations were waiting for him in the clearest path of retreat. They might not've expected him to go darting off into the woods like a tosser, but he wasn't quite so mad as to run that gauntlet again. The moon was bright, but it was -dark-. He didn't know how many were lying in wait, and the last place he'd like to find them is exactly where they'd like him. That being blind, cornered by trees and brush with nowhere to move. He could either cut his losses, or take it back to them. And, well. He certainly hadn't made himself known for cowardice in the face of suicidal odds. With a reluctant exhalation through his teeth, he pinched the hem of his bandana, pulled it up and over his nose and mouth, and just like that, it was time to go to work.

Slow, methodical steps brought him closer and closer toward the remains of his fire, and the dispersing cloud of smoke, the murk of the treeline, and the dancing shadows cast by what flames still smoldered did their damndest to support him every step of the way. He squinted through the hazy surroundings, brow furrowed in concentration as he scanned for footless legs, but as the last of the smoke cleared, all that seemed to remain within the clearing was his. The rod, still perched in the stones, his carbine, hanging by it's strap off a vine-coated willow, and his longsword, sheathed in it's scabbard, strapped to the side of his rucksack. Despite that, the hair on the back of his neck stood ramrod-straight off of his flesh. Something wasn't right. They wouldn't scare off that easily, would they? He had to be forgetting something. As the gears started spinning in his mind, he snapped his head from left to right, squinting at rocks and peering through mossy curtains of willow foliage. It didn't quite register until he'd looked past it three, maybe four times.

The carving was gone.

Was it ever there? Was any of this real to begin with? Was he drunkenly snoozing on that stump?

His grip on his shortsword was sweaty, now, as he sunk a bit more deeply into his cloak of darkness. He couldn't afford the luxury of any more fear-addled bison shite. They had all the time in the world out here. Of course they grabbed their garbage while he was dancing with their abominations. But what was his angle, here? His pistol was empty, one was gods-knew where, his shot pouch was stuffed in his rucksack. His rifle was up a tossing tree, for crying out loud. His sodding longsword was across the other side of the fire, and for all he knew, a dozen odd spiders were about to drop out of the trees and up his arse while he sat in the shadows, spinning his thumbs. It was time to piss, or get off the pot. He pulled in a deep, silent lungfull of smoky Aetgardian air, held onto it until he felt his lungs would pop, then forced it out explosively as he launched himself from the shadows.

Nereia's Pearls, he needed a smoke.

The Parren stayed low as he sprinted toward the fire. As he pumped his arm, the familiar, whistling hiss of webbing seeking prey stripped pipesmoke from his mind and sent his heart to fluttering in his chest. His arm snagged in his cloak as he cranked his legs, and as he moved to tumble rightward, he barked out a yelp as he felt warm, slimey strands suction and merge with hair, flesh, and fleece.

"MOTHER FR--!"

As the strands solidified, he tucked his bound arm into his chest as the web flexed in protest, then collapsed more than tumbled along his chosen rightward path, rolled back to his feet, and let his gathered inertia carry him heavenward. His stomach curled into his lungs as he cranked his knees, tucked his chin into his chest, and briefly gazed upon the starlit sky as his stomach kept rolling and his momentum guided him into an elegant sideward flip. the fire's dying carcass flash briefly beneath him as the blood rushed to his brain, and he felt the familiar lurch of his perspective angling back into normality as gravity penned him a letter. He cranked his knees, kicked out his legs, and threw his right arm outward to stabilize himself as his boots kissed the ground. His legs buckled and shook under the recoil of his landing, and as he slid sideward toward the treeline, he had enough time to glimpse a shadowy, smoking mass spiral through the brush from the corner of his eye.

Stinging heat rippled outward through his chest as the mass impacted in a cloud of hot ash, embers crackling on it's surface as it bounced, landed, and rolled to a stop at his feet. As his eye caught the familiar, bloated visage of the carving grinning up at him from the dirt, he reared his foot back for a kick-- only for the telltale hiss of web whipping past his ear to give him a firm reminder of his priorities. He whirled in place, spotted a frenzy of legs bounding around the fire, and stepped into their advance, bent his knees, and patiently awaited the first glimpse of it's thorax through the flurry of grasping limbs. He planted his back foot as it pounced, eyed it's glossy caripace soaring briefly upward, then pushed off with his back foot, boosted himself with his front, and forcefully drove his shoulder into the bridge of thorax and abdomen through a flurry of grasping legs. His web-bound arm screamed in protest as thick chitin plates denied his advance, but he barked a satisfied laugh as it's path redirected violently into the remnant flames of his campfire.

A high octave screech warbled out from the depths of the fire, not desimilar to a burning log on the verge of splitting asunder, but he didn't have time for smores. With a flick of his wrist, his shortsword parted the drying strands of web pinning his arm to his chest, and he flexed his fingers once, silently assuring himself of their functionality. There were wispy remnants, to be sure, but his gaze was focused on the pale visage of chitinous spinnerets priming another volley of webbing to ruin his hair further. Before he could consider his options, The rapid, chittering stomp of legs forced him into an instinctual whirl on his heels, but he could only watch as parted mandibles sunk hungrily into the ivory threadwork adorning his shin. Fiery, agonized lightning rippled through his flesh as the bastard followed up with a lunge for his knee, but he managed to stop it short with the flat of his shortsword, the force of it's snapping mandibles rattling the blade in his hand as he desperately twisted the hilt. With a snarl, he put the weight of his stance on his injured leg, and roared in rage-fueld pain as he dropped his center of gravity and fan-kicked the arachnid's lower limbs out from under it's body. It buckled onto it's side with an almost exasperated hiss, and parted it's mandibles for another lunge-- only for the Parron to lower his stance and leap into a pounce of his own. He crashed blade-first into it's caripace, and with gravity-aided force, tempered steel punched cleanly through the beast's lower thorax. His arm shook and jerked against the resistance of it's armor as he tore a diagonal gash up and through what would have approximated it's chest,and with a final, decisive twist against impassable resistance, he yanked the shortsword free in a fountain of unidentifiable gore. As he rolled to his feet, he faced the shadows of the treeline with his left arm folded casually against his back...

As nearly seven feet of chiten-plated, fury-fuelled Harbinger came charging from the shade, spear and shield held high.

[Post-Script: Part 3 Soon, it would seem. Hope you enjoyed!]
"The sky, above the clouds; A rainbow that fate has devoured
I gave up Hope
But I'm not going to be lost tomorrow; Even if it is hell
I'm gonna' crawl. "
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