Post by Skiprazor on Jul 26, 2004 18:58:40 GMT
[ModNote: Continued from a wandering moogle...]
[*Night has fallen outside Skiprazor's upstairs window at the Wolf's Howl. Through the iron-wrought frame and the misted glass, the realm looks distorted and alien. A breeze wafts up from the yard outside, bringing with it the aroma of hay and wild flowers, juxtaposed with the faint smell of ale from the tavern below. Out in the street, people still mingle and chatter, though their voices are slightly slurred from the mead and wine they have no doubt consumed throughout the evening.*]
[*Seated on the bed, Skiprazor exhales at length as he turns his attention from the window. He has unpacked his knapsack for the first time since he arrived in Wolfenden, and now surveys the contents, laid out neatly on the floor. In one pile are his few weapons, next to which are his provisions, and in a third pile a jumble of trinkets and artifacts he keeps about himself.*]
[*He picks up the shortsword, which reflects the light of the room's lanterns in diagonal flashes across the walls. It is a good sword - bound with strong leather, and worth a lot more than what he was able to acquire it for in the market earlier. Despite its strengths as a weapon, he still gives preference to his dagger. He takes it from the pile and spins it slowly in his hands. It is unlike most other weapons of its type - both blade and handle forged from a single piece of steel, tempered beyond measure and unadorned by any bindings or covering. There is a very good reason why he had requested it made this way, but it has only been on rare occasions he has had any cause to demonstrate why.*]
[*As he sorts through his other possessions, he munches on the bread and cheese he bought today, washed down with water and a tankard of ale from downstairs. His steel rod has still gone unused, but he still likes to have it tied to his arm at all times, for either deflection, defense or deterrence. There is also a talisman, which he liked the look of, but couldn't really work out why at the time. Now he realises that the four parts are laid out in zig-zag fashion, like four bolts of lightning emitting from the centre. He smiles. It reminds him of his origin.*]
[*His origin. For so long he has struggled to form the words and language he could use to describe it, but he is now so far estranged from it that it appears an impossible task. He closes his eyes and thinks about the best way to describe himself, and yet again is confronted by the fact that he doesn't even know how he can exist here. He knows where he belongs, and it is not amongst the living beings of this realm. He does not belong with the market-goers and warriors and serving-maids and traders and thieves and goblins and other creatures of the land. He has always thought that he would cease to exist in such a place. His world is one of zero intangibles. One of zero doubt. One where nothing is random, one where everything has structure and order, where everything remains syncronized to a single and all-encompassing pulse of existence. He had always feared that he would simply be nothing away from the pulse, that he would dissipate, fragment and cease to be. Yet here he was, and he is more lost now than ever.*]
[*His emotions well up inside him, what is left of his humanity temporarily subduing the polar chill of his being. He knows he has to survive, to keep his memories alive and to carry on existing. If he doesn't, all is nothing, all is zero and he will be lost forever. The only reason he has for living is to keep a fleeting, ever-fading memory intact - one that even he himself occasionally struggles to recall. The thought hollows him completely, and brings tears to his eyes.*]
[*He slowly places his posessions back in his knapsack. Once closed, the knapsack represents all he has. It further isolates him, making his constant vigil seem ever more desperate and futile. Yet as long as he still draws breath, as long as he is still able to function, it is a vigil he will forever maintain.*]
[*He lies back on the bed, and leaning towards the lantern, blows it out into darkness.*]
[*Night has fallen outside Skiprazor's upstairs window at the Wolf's Howl. Through the iron-wrought frame and the misted glass, the realm looks distorted and alien. A breeze wafts up from the yard outside, bringing with it the aroma of hay and wild flowers, juxtaposed with the faint smell of ale from the tavern below. Out in the street, people still mingle and chatter, though their voices are slightly slurred from the mead and wine they have no doubt consumed throughout the evening.*]
[*Seated on the bed, Skiprazor exhales at length as he turns his attention from the window. He has unpacked his knapsack for the first time since he arrived in Wolfenden, and now surveys the contents, laid out neatly on the floor. In one pile are his few weapons, next to which are his provisions, and in a third pile a jumble of trinkets and artifacts he keeps about himself.*]
[*He picks up the shortsword, which reflects the light of the room's lanterns in diagonal flashes across the walls. It is a good sword - bound with strong leather, and worth a lot more than what he was able to acquire it for in the market earlier. Despite its strengths as a weapon, he still gives preference to his dagger. He takes it from the pile and spins it slowly in his hands. It is unlike most other weapons of its type - both blade and handle forged from a single piece of steel, tempered beyond measure and unadorned by any bindings or covering. There is a very good reason why he had requested it made this way, but it has only been on rare occasions he has had any cause to demonstrate why.*]
[*As he sorts through his other possessions, he munches on the bread and cheese he bought today, washed down with water and a tankard of ale from downstairs. His steel rod has still gone unused, but he still likes to have it tied to his arm at all times, for either deflection, defense or deterrence. There is also a talisman, which he liked the look of, but couldn't really work out why at the time. Now he realises that the four parts are laid out in zig-zag fashion, like four bolts of lightning emitting from the centre. He smiles. It reminds him of his origin.*]
[*His origin. For so long he has struggled to form the words and language he could use to describe it, but he is now so far estranged from it that it appears an impossible task. He closes his eyes and thinks about the best way to describe himself, and yet again is confronted by the fact that he doesn't even know how he can exist here. He knows where he belongs, and it is not amongst the living beings of this realm. He does not belong with the market-goers and warriors and serving-maids and traders and thieves and goblins and other creatures of the land. He has always thought that he would cease to exist in such a place. His world is one of zero intangibles. One of zero doubt. One where nothing is random, one where everything has structure and order, where everything remains syncronized to a single and all-encompassing pulse of existence. He had always feared that he would simply be nothing away from the pulse, that he would dissipate, fragment and cease to be. Yet here he was, and he is more lost now than ever.*]
[*His emotions well up inside him, what is left of his humanity temporarily subduing the polar chill of his being. He knows he has to survive, to keep his memories alive and to carry on existing. If he doesn't, all is nothing, all is zero and he will be lost forever. The only reason he has for living is to keep a fleeting, ever-fading memory intact - one that even he himself occasionally struggles to recall. The thought hollows him completely, and brings tears to his eyes.*]
[*He slowly places his posessions back in his knapsack. Once closed, the knapsack represents all he has. It further isolates him, making his constant vigil seem ever more desperate and futile. Yet as long as he still draws breath, as long as he is still able to function, it is a vigil he will forever maintain.*]
[*He lies back on the bed, and leaning towards the lantern, blows it out into darkness.*]