A Plague on All Ages and Races... Game ID: 298292 Posted By: CandlestickJay on Friday June 12, 2009 11:10 AM
CandlestickJay
Membrum RK: 2 MP: 346
Member Since:
April 2007
Friday June 12, 2009 11:10 AM
A Plague on All Ages and Races...
The sun rose early on the derelict town of Bruges, casting slender slants of light through the morning fog that shrouded every building and blocked every window. As the light crept and chased away the shadow, weary townspeople crawled from their beds and into work. Dawn was not the glory of a brand new start for these people - merely the arrival of another taxing day that would steal their wages and joy from them. Housewives pushed open their shutters and grimaced, spotting the shadows of others pushing carts through the fog. Husbands slipped out the back door and into the streets, bravely facing mundane work with the stoic facade of soldiers. Children sat quietly and played, with every eager shout or timid cry quickly hushed.
At the center of town the remains of a great acropolis rose into the air, the paled blue and white flag of the scholar dangling from its peak. Only a few, broke-backed men pushed through these doors now, though it was obvious that once it was a busy center of science and learning with well-worn paths across stone and dusty gardens. Now, the library door is closed with a strong plank of wood across its front to protect from the marauders, and the massive spaces once used for the speeches of learned men now shelter the dead and dying. The church's white flag splashed with red decorates the coffins of those dead of the plague.
Depending on who one speaks to, it spreads along the wind, through the water, or the insects that live off the blood of the weak. Still others say it was the doing of the elves, or the travesties of the wandering goblins that brought the plague to this once thriving town. The bitterness of those left behind is a knife in the heart of fellowship between the races and where once was celebration and trade is fear and mistrust. From the centered school lines battle lines have been drawn in the dust. Church-going humans belong in most areas, elves in others, dwarves in the small percentage of what is left. The goblins are left nothing but the outskirts of town. Any creature that sought out the school for learning free of religious hypocrisy (either of the elves or human interference) have safe haven in one small block of land, should they seek to claim it. On this land lies the Scholar's Hand, a restaurant, pub and inn well known for its excellent whiskey, fine lodgings, and acceptable entertainment for a modest price. The other buildings to its right and left appear to be vacant, though on occasion a traveler may take up temporary residence there. The Scholar's Hand is one of the few places in Bruges that welcomes travelers and those from other lands, yet it was also one of the first to taste the bitterness of the plague.
This plague has tormented the town of Bruges for nearing three seasons, riding the northern wind and blooming in spring time, killing dozens when there should be life. Now the autumn dies and winter threatens, locking many into their homes when they should be finishing their harvest celebrations. In the spring time all the travelers fled for the safety of smaller villages untouched by the plague, or the masses of cities where their presence might go unnoticed by a monster that only seemed to touch certain families. They took the trade with them, spreading rumors in their wake. And so Bruges has become a ghost town, with only those who can't afford or bear to leave.
Between this everyman's land and the school, down an out of the way street is a small home with a minuscule but earnestly tended garden. On the month anniversary of a death that rocked the household, a black mourning cloth is hung from the door and visitors barred from the premises. In the window seat, for every hour of that day, a woman sits and stares. No tears roll down her cheeks and a grim line remains where a constant smile once sat. Yet on the next day, the door to the only tailor and seamstress in town is open for business to those of all ages and races. In her husband's memory, she serves all those he once studied and loved. She survives the plague in the only way she knows, like so many others.
Hers is not a unique tale, merely one of many tragedies that have befallen the town of Bruges and that threatens to collapse every corner of the known world unless someone or something can stand up and stop it.
And so our tale begins on this early, deary dawn in the month before the winter chill begins to settle...
[Feel free to begin each of your character's in their own place. Most travelers, unless they have family in town, will reside at the Scholar's Hand.]
[Edited by CandlestickJay on Sunday, June 21, 2009 8:34 PM]
AnimusAniKorSaxcian
Ordo Aqua: Novice RK: 3 MP: 488
Member Since:
August 2006
Monday June 22, 2009 1:59 PM
RE: A Plague on All Ages and Races...
It was damp. Puddles riddled the soft ground, reminding the world of the past nights storm. Covering these moist sprawling hills were flocks of whispering clouds grazing upon the green Earth, leaving their refuse in the form of morning dew. Though the sun had begun to rise, the Fog reached upward becoming one with the sky, blotting out its warm embrace. For kilometers there was no sound, no interruption, only the virgin landscape passionately pressed against the descended sky.
Out of the entrancing mist three forms trudged between the thick patches of morning fog. They were elves, tall and slender, adorned in chain mail and small fragments of misshapen Iron. While they all were armed with swords, the faces peering out from behind their helms and the encroaching fog, did not say soldier. The hardships that scarred their eyes were of being fathers, farmers, lovers, and laborers, not of being killers or being killed. Still they stood tall, braving into the harlot fogs embrace.
"Hold." The leader of the trio ordered as he moved ahead struggling to see through the billowing clouds. "Is there somebody there?" The two guardsmen behind the leader removed their swords from their hilts and started following their captain. "Do either of you see that shadow over there?"
The youngest of the trio moved beside his superior and squinted. Ten meters ahead a dense shadowy figure covered the damp ground. "I see something sir, probably just another puddle though."
"No…I don't think so. I don't see any reflection. Let's move ahead."
The trio inched forward, slogging through the muck, haphazardly readying themselves for an attack. But as the distance closed between them and the mysterious form, the adroit attitude rapidly dwindled. The shadow was a man. Face first into the mire, a robed being lay unconscious. The youngest of the party ran ahead and knelt before the afflicted stranger. Rolling him onto his back, the elf looked into the aging face of a human.
"Filthy Human," the third member of the party snickered as he approached his two compatriots. "Les' jus' leave em' ere' eh?"
"No! Sir, he may be human but he is a living being. It is our duty to help him!" The youngest fretted as he pressed on the man's chest hoping to bring his breath back.
"What's dis' ere'." Running his fingers along the title of the small black book, the elf read, "The Holy Bible. What kind of trash is dis'. Not only he a stinkin' human, but he's a bastard of Rome!"
"Enough you two." The eldest of the group looked closely at the wrinkled face of the clergy man. "We will bring him to Bruges. His honor Alexandre will delineate what is to be done. I don't trust humans anymore than the rest, but I understand the importance of keeping peace. Kyp, keep trying to resuscitate him; Saxcian, you go fetch the horses."
"Yes sir…" Kyp answered as he continued to press on the lifeless chest of the old man.
"Aye, If I ave' to cap'n." Saxcian plodded off complaining the whole way.
Minutes later, the trio rode hard through the dissipating fog, the injured man slung across the back of one of the horses. Every second counted away his chance of survival.
[Edited by AnimusAniKorSaxcian on Thursday, June 25, 2009 9:15 PM]
nanuk
Ordo Terra: Savant RK: 8 MP: 2,375
Member Since:
February 2007
Wednesday June 24, 2009 8:50 AM
RE: A Plague on All Ages and Races...
"Il ne'est joie ne joir, N'autre bien qu'on puist sentir, N'imaginer,.. Qui ne me samble languir, Quant vo douceur adoucir vuet mon amer: Dont loer et aourer,.. Et vous cremier, tout souffrir, Tout conjoir, Tout endurer, Vueil plus que je ne desir Guerredonner... Foy porter..."
The singing trailed off to a trilling hum as the scraping of the lathe ceased. The elf bent to examine her work, a spill of hair falling across her shoulders and hiding from view a face in which the cheekbones stood out sharply, as she ran her hands carefully over the length of ash wood she had been turning.
Vaeril's slender fingers worked quickly, flying over the planed surface like scuttling spiders in a search for burgeoning splits or subtle flaws. The work proved sound, as she knew it would: the wood was excellent, and easy to work, perfectly aged and with all the strength and flex to be expected of fine ash. She had a large piece from the same tree set aside for when she had time to commission a piece from a bowyer in Toulouse she was acquainted with. The piece she was working on was for a less ambitious project, nothing more than a handle for a scythe, but it was still a satisfying way to occupy a few hours, made all the more enjoyable for the quality of the wood.
Loosening the clamp that held the ash in place she rotated it a quarter turn, cradling it carefully in position before tightening once more the screws and setting to.
The sun, obscured by haze and cloud, approached its zenith when next she stopped. She pulled a stool to the awning in front of the small workshop, in truth little more than a stall, unwrapping the square of linen that covered the bread and cheese she had sat aside for lunch. She seated herself so as to have a clear view of the town, her large eyes, the subdued green of a fir's needle, finding the streets emptier than they should have been.
This plague brings more than the death of the flesh. Slowly it strangles the spirit; all hope and all dreams
She hadn't the stomach, today, to face the inside of the Scholar's Hand. Although it was not home to the strife that plagued much of the town, the suspicion and poisoned glances, it was not what it once was. Too many faces were missing, those that remained gaunt and shadowed and too full of pain. She kept rooms there: spending as much time away from the town as in it she had seen no wisdom in keeping a home there. With the decrease in trade and travel she found herself spending more time in Bruges, and had eventually rented the small work space attached to the inn's stables, as much to keep herself occupied as to ensure an income.
A punishment from the gods? I could almost believe it- if it was not such a foolish idea. We are not misbehaving children to be cowed into obedience by the threat of terrible discipline. As if the gods were so petulant.
Sighing, she was just about to push herself to her feet when a small, painfully thin, tortoiseshell cat crept from the shadows cast by the workshop's walls. It sat in front of her, seeming to take great care neatly arranging its paws, broken tail curling awkwardly around them. It yowled: once, loudly, insistently, but- she fancied- with a strange and certain hopelessness.
"I hear you, petit, how could I not? But unless you wish to adopt the diet of your prey I have little enough for you".
She leaned over and held, flat on the palm of her hand, the small piece of cheese that remained out to the cat. It sniffed at it as imperiously as is a cat's wont, and as if it itself was not little more than skin on bones. Grasping it delicately in its jaws, needle sharp teeth flashing in the light, it dropped the cheese on the ground before its paws, hunched over and sniffed once more, tail flicking, and then wolfed the morsel as if it expected it to disappear. Righting itself primly and with a quick dart of pale pink tongue along its jaws it looked at the elf expectantly.
"Alors, so this is how it is? Alas mon squelette, you must make do with my scraps for now, and if they will not suffice you are welcome to dine elsewhere".
Tossing the cat the last scrap of bread she shook the linen so that it was joined by the last crumbs of her meal, and went back to her lathe.
[*OOC: if anyone wants the translation of the song... - There is no joy or pleasure, or any other good that one could feel, or imagine which does not seem to me worthless, whenever your sweetness wants to sweeten my bitterness. Therefore I want to praise and adore and fear you, suffer everything, experience everything, endure everything, more than I desire any reward. I want to stay faithful . . .]
[Edited by nanuk on Wednesday, June 24, 2009 8:52 AM]
StoicFervor
Ordo Aqua: Scholar RK: 4 MP: 614
Member Since:
June 2007
Tuesday June 30, 2009 4:50 PM
RE: A Plague on All Ages and Races...
Edan sat on the bed in his rented room counting out what remained of his money, a handful of open leather pouches lined up to one side. He carefully divided the money into several small piles, each pile going into a different pouch. One pouch he put in the dresser, hidden under the few spare clothes he possessed. Another went into the bottom of his empty pack and was soon coveredy by a tunic of chainmail as well as the finest tunic he owned, one whose shade matched evergreens. Standing, he attached another of the pouches to the top of his breeches. Ensuring it was safely fastened, he pulled a tunic over his head, this one slightly shabbier and colored brown. Fastening his leather belt around his waist, he secured his last remaining pouch onto the belt, checking that it wasn't in the way of his sword. Strapping his buckler to his left forearm, he mentally recalculated how much money he had left.
Fifteen, plus ten, plus the four five here, and add in the three five seven...and that gives me just over thirty-three gold. Not bad, but still need to be careful with it until I find another employer. Just hope that woman can help with that.
Pulling his cloak on, he flipped the hood up before shouldering his pack on and leaving his room. Walking down the stairs, the smells of food drifted in from the main room of the inn. There was, however, none of the revelry that he usually associated with inns.
Whatever this madness is, it's draining the people here dry of life. Something tells me that this isn't the only place that's being effected, either.
The sparse crowd seemed to back his point, the only smile to be seen was on the face of the servant girl, and even hers was forced. Shaking his head in response to the proprietor's inquisitive look, he shouldered the door open, closing it behind him before setting out for his destination. Passing the stables, he only briefly noted the female elf working at her woodwork and the cat that, startled by his appearance he guessed, arched its back briefly before seeking safety around the corner of the stall. He idly wondered how she'd react if she knew of his mixed blood, whether she'd label him a "god-cursed anomaly" or merely shun him with silence. He continued towards where the former school buildings stood. Finding the shop he wanted, he made his way inside. Setting his pack down on a table, he pulled his hood back off his head so as to not create the wrong first impression. Opening his pack as he spoke, he kept his face and eyes lifted to the seamstress.
"Good day to you, madame. I was wondering if you could help me out. From what I've been told, it's the latest fashion for men to wear shorter tunics, I believe they call them 'skirts'. Whatever they're called, this-" he produced the evergreen tunic from his pack "-is the finest I have. I was thinking that perhaps if it was shortened, a noble might consider as more than a peasant with a sword for hire."
CandlestickJay
Membrum RK: 2 MP: 346
Member Since:
April 2007
Wednesday July 1, 2009 8:28 PM
RE: A Plague on All Ages and Races...
The slender woman sat crouched over her needlework, keen green eyes focused on the coarse fabric that threaded between her fingertips. She hummed lightly to herself, occasionally tucking back a wild lock of dark chesnut hair that had escaped from the bun coiled at the nape of her neck. A lamp brightened the small back room where she worked, casting extra light to her project and shadows across the bolts of fabric that leaned against the wall. It was clean and without dust, but the stacks still seemed empty. The shadows in the room blended with the black of her gown until it seemed that she herself was simply another figure in the dim light. However she'd woken early that morning, the bemused smile lingering across her full mouth remnants of a happy dream in which she and her husband lived alone with their child, a dark headed boy with laughter in his eyes. But the smile had been lost in the fog that shrouded the world outside her window and tugged her back towards her work. Annalise dragged the thread across the rip in the fabric and began working.
It was a simple repair job, a long tear in the local blacksmith's sleeve. He'd brought it to her the day before for a quick fix. Her fingers moved deftly with needle and thread, stitching the cloth back together. It would have been in his best interest to get a new shirt altogether, as the flaxen thread she was forced to use would only hold out for so long; however, like many in Bruges, he could not afford it. And while part of her wished she could drop the price to keep the single father of three safe - her own coffers were dangerously low. When times were hard, it was much easier to find a woman in the family who could take care of it for you instead of another. After several more minutes of stitching, the shirt was whole and she could set it aside. She would take it to him later that evening, as well as a small quilted doll made from scraps for his youngest girl. The poor thing had been motherless from birth, and while the father did all he could - sometimes it just wasn't enough.
As her musings occupied her mind, Annalise set things to rights in the front room of her home, a living area designed both to showcase her work and for entertaining. Her pride and joy, a delicately carved mannequin head and shoulders with the beginnings of a gown draped over it. It had been her wedding gift from her husband, and every moment her eyes lit upon it she imagined she could feel his smile and the touch of his hand. But grief, cold and crippling, always followed after. The rest of the room was sparsely but fashionably furnished, laced with the delicate touch of a woman living alone. Flowers on the window sill that only drooped slightly without the sun, the soft fragrance of a powder she rarely used but could never get away from...The room itself was pure fluff, as her husband would have said, and didn't match his Lissy at all. He was right, she thought sadly, surveying herself in the small hand mirror on the table, one of the few items she had taken with her upon leaving home. With her dark hair, creamy porcelain skin and black muslin gown (vaguely fashionable, but the garb of the grieving nonetheless), she was a dark storm in a whirl of springtime. In another life, she may have fit the happy room better. But she left it the way it was, perhaps to make her customers feel at ease.
The light-hearted jingle of the bell made her lift her eyes from her mirror and shift them to the door. A man filled the doorway, and immediately sat his things inside. Though he was only a few inches taller than she, his presence filled the room. He seemed just out of place in the room as she. She didn't recognize him particularly as a local, and assumed he must have gotten a reference to her from the master of the Scholar's Hand. Her best business.
She crossed the room to him with a fluid grace, her gaze no longer on his face but on the garment he held in his hand. Nodding, she took it from him and held it aloft before her face, scanning it quickly. "I see. The garment you are referring to, when made properly, is called a doublet in higher society. But that would cost you a fortune." She wasn't being snide, or harsh, merely practical. "However I believe I can alter this enough where aside from close inspection, one might consider you in greater fashion than you actually are."
Folding the tunic over her forearm, she let her gaze scan quickly from his boots to the trimmed goatee on his face. "I'll need to see it on, to know where the length should properly fall. Then we can discuss pricing, and any other detailing you would need." From her quick surmise of his clothing and worn but well-kept appearance, she pondered the idea of talking him into a hint of embroidery. She needed the extra copper or two. Her manner was quick and efficient as she turned from him and gestured to her workroom. Annalise pursued her lips slightly as she handed him the tunic and pushed open the door to allow him entrance. "You may change in there, and come out when you are finished."
Alexandre restlessly tossed the maps back onto his desk. Frustration ate at him, blurred the edges of his vision as he collapsed back into the chair next to him. His office was a small extension of a home he hated in a place he loved. He'd been living in Bruges for the last two decades or so, a small percentage of his life overall. But it had been the job he was assigned to, Elven diplomatic leader for this coastal town near the border between elven and human lands. Early on, it had been relatively easy. The people were accepting, friendly, and if the merchants were a tad greedy, it came with the trade. And if the scholars were a bit distant, that also came with the territory. But lately there had been more dissension among his people and the others. More arguments, even small skirmishes. No one had yet to kill another, thank the gods, but if things continued... The mayor wasn't helping him either. He didn't seem interested in race relations, and relied more and more on promises of help from the human church. So the responsibility fell to him to keep the peace as much as possible.
He ran slender, uncalloused fingers through his glossy chestnut hair that draped carelessly down his neck and pulled out the tie that kept it back. Sooner or later things were going to come crashing down around their ears and he and the others would head straight back to Paris as Bruges burned. He could feel it. The healthy people with dead relatives were beginning to look to anyone to blame. They would begin with the gypsied goblins, then to the dwarves and the elves. It wouldn't matter to them. He'd seen it before, a few hundred years earlier. It would happen over and over again. With another sigh he slid the map towards him, red marks marking the homes that had been affected by the plague. It still seemed random to him. People of almost every race, religion and creed had been affected. There was no tracking it. His lips pursed in thought, he stood and walked to the door, intent on finding himself a drink. However sounds from the outside made him open the door to the outside instead, the vision presented to him made his eyes widen.
"Ye Gods! Come inside, hurry." He beckoned the elves and the terribly wounded inside, his own feelings about the conflicts left way behind him.
[Edited by CandlestickJay on Sunday, July 5, 2009 9:09 AM]
SisqAlpha
Ordo Aqua: Scholar RK: 4 MP: 780
Member Since:
April 2007
Sunday July 5, 2009 6:15 PM
RE: A Plague on All Ages and Races...
The little goblin huddled in the damp hollow where he had made a cold camp for the past three days. His glittering black eyes darted back and forth, probing the early morning fog for any signs of pursuit and straining his ears to catch the faintest hint of anything that might be creeping toward his hiding place.
He waited for what seemed to him an eternity, hearing nothing, seeing even less, while the cold damp fog brushed against his exposed flesh like the fingers of an intimate lover touched by the chill of the grave. He shuddered slightly, partly from the cold and partly from the fear of almost being caught. Robbing the aging human priest had been a risky endeavor born of sheer desperation on the goblin's part. He was tired of being cold, tired of being damp, tired of being pursued by the sheepherder whom he had liberated a scrawny lamb from three days ago. It had been four days since he had last eaten when he decided to attempt THAT particular bit of larceny.
The sheepherder had been quite persistent about retrieving the little lamb for some reason and he almost had the little goblin at one point. The little goblin had wheeled around with a formidable scowl on his face and started muttering oaths in his native tongue. He kept repeating the oaths and started punctuating his speech with erratic hand gestures as the sheepherder reached out to grasp him. Having had enough of the sheepherder's harassment, he had snarled at him and shouted that he was going to infect him with the plague. The herder continued to advance. Taken aback, the goblin had switched tactics quickly, lying to the herder about the rest of his caravan descending upon the herder's flocks and carting away all they could carry. The ignorant oaf had actually believed it and took off for his farm at a dead run.
The little goblin began to chuckle until his stomach was wracked with an agonizing cramp. Straining against the pain, perspiration began to bead on his forehead despite the early morning chill and it continued to escalate until finally, the foulest eruption of gas expelled itself from his backside, painting a rock behind him with excrement.
The little goblin heaved a sigh of relief and muttered to himself.
"That is the last time I takes mutton. I swear by the Dark Lady, no more sheep for Kael. None at all, no way, I don't care if they falls from the night sky. I won't eat them!"
With the passing of the last remnants of the little lamb, Kael remembered just how hungry he was. There had only been a few silver coins in the purse the priest had carried, and while it wasn't much, it would at least get him some food. Luckily, the town of Bruges was not too far in the distance. The little goblin turned to an eddy in the fog.
"We'll enter the town tonight you miserable specter, let me try to at least get some bloody food before you try to throw me into the nearest midden heap!" Tonight. Always at night. It is safer for my kind to try to enter towns in darkness. No stones being thrown, no pelting with rotten vegetables. We'll enter the town tonight and let the filthy elves get themselves settled wherever it was they were going to go.
[Edited by SisqAlpha on Saturday, July 11, 2009 12:01 PM]
StoicFervor
Ordo Aqua: Scholar RK: 4 MP: 614
Member Since:
June 2007
Sunday July 5, 2009 8:43 PM
RE: A Plague on All Ages and Races...
Edan nodded his compliance and stepped into the small room beyond. Closing the door, he looked around to find himself in what was little more than a closet, a bench and small table holding a lamp the only furnishings. Setting his pack on the table, he removed his belt, laying it and the weapons it held across the bench, reasoning that he'd have no need for his sword while here.
And if the need does arise, I have my dagger in my boot top.
He stripped off the tunic he was wearing, laying it over his sheathed sword. Removing the pouch from where it hung at the waist of his breeches and stuffed it into his pack. Pulling his finer tunic out, he held it in his hands and looked at it with a forlorn look on his face. The shade of green was too close to his deceased wife's eye color for comfort. Sighing, he shrugged into it, hands wandering down the smooth material as he tried to smooth it up best he could from it being packed away.
She always did like me in this tunic, especially for spring festival. Now she's gone, and this is going to be butchered, all in the name of fashion and seeking employment.
Another small sigh escaped his lips, this one as he contemplated the visit to the blacksmith's shop he'd eventually have to make to get his chainmail shortened to match the new length of his doublet, as it'd be called.
That, or pay the gold it'd cost to have a new, short tunic of mail made to match. I better get some sort of job out of this.
Walking back out into the shop, he braced himself for a time of standing still and making the slightest movements as the seamstress measured out the adjustments and marked them. In spite of his tempered mood, a slight chuckle escaped him, although no mark of the humor appeared on his face.
This reminds me of my wife's attempts to get me new clothes before she died. I miss her for other, more important reasons as well, but it's a shame I couldn't just give her my sizes and let her run them to the tailor's.
CandlestickJay
Membrum RK: 2 MP: 346
Member Since:
April 2007
Monday July 6, 2009 8:22 PM
RE: A Plague on All Ages and Races...
Annalise spent a precious few moments staring at the bag that he had so rudely tossed onto one of her stands. If he hadn't been a customer, she would have given him a piece of her mind, rude man that he was... Quickly she hushed that inner voice that clamored his inadequacies, and turned back to a small dresser on the far side of the room. Pulling open the drawer, she rifled through her patterns until she found one that would be suitable. It took her moments to refresh herself on what was needed, and then she replaced it in the drawer. In that small amount of time, the man had returned, dressed in a tunic that fit him excellently - and in a color that could not have suited him better had she picked it out herself. It was a woman's touch, for no man would have chosen that particular shade of green on his own. With a small, hidden smile she remembered her many conversations about color with Dedric. What a stubborn man he had been, always in dull browns and grays, convinced that if he were a scholar, he must also dress like one.
The small sound of humor that escaped from the stoic warrior brought her rapidly from her reverie, and she switched her gaze to his face. Clearly, this was not a man used to expressing his feelings. "If you'll excuse me." She said quietly, her black gown pooling around her feet as she knelt at his feet, her head down and focus completely on her work with the tunic. With a speed that surpassed most seamstresses, she expertly tugged and marked, then pinned and pulled the fabric into its new position. Annalise considered herself rather well-traveled and experienced in the ways of fabric and their merchants, however this particular shade of dye was unfamiliar. "If you don't mind me prying," she paused, pondering how to phrase her question. "I'd like to know where your wife found this shade of fabric. It is exquisite, and I wouldn't mind gaining a bolt for special designs." Carefully she swiveled around him to his other side, repeating the process with the same precision and speed. Every moment was important, and she wasted none.
Perhaps it was a bit too bold to assume he was married - but truly, no single man chose fabric as keenly as the one this man now wore. Sticking a pin in between her slightly bowed lips so she would ask no further questions, she continued to work, pausing every so often to glance up at him.
StoicFervor
Ordo Aqua: Scholar RK: 4 MP: 614
Member Since:
June 2007
Monday July 6, 2009 10:07 PM
RE: A Plague on All Ages and Races...
Standing there, Edan felt a slight twinge of surprise at the woman's speed and efficiency. Obviously, the proprietor had been right to send him here. She knew what she was doing, and she didn't waste time doing it. A discplined man, he'd often found it hard to stand still for fittings, preferring to send his exact measurements in advance. Letting his eyes roam the front room, he took note of the samples of work and craftsmanship on display.
She appears to do good work, and quick. Depending on what price she asks, perhaps a new set of breeches. These are getting slightly worn, and that black material looks sturdy enough.
Or not.
Rigidness raced through Edan's body, and it was only with a vague recognition that he rotated at her touch, his eyes set straight forward, his breathing becoming long, slow breaths as his jaw clamped shut lest he say anything regrettable. Sensing that her work was done, he slid the tunic over his head, careful not to shake the pins loose as he handed it to her. Not caring that he was now stripped to the waist, he turned on his heel and walked into the room where his possessions lay, modesty damned as he went straight to the bench without closing the door. He quickly pulled the other tunic over his head, hands instinctively straightening it before he reached for his belt. It wasn't until he was tightening his belt that he considered that the seamstress didn't know his position.
Maybe it was just a professional curiousity. Not like I walk around with a sign on proclaiming "I'm a widower, mention my wife, I'll smite thee".
Sighing, he picked up his pack and cloak, the former slung over his shoulder as he walked back into the main room. He wasn't surprised to see his tunic laid on a table, some sort of pattern laid on it as the seamstress deftly traced its lines. Not comfortable with apologies, Edan coughed softly into his throat.
"Lille," he said softly, in a voice that he wondered if she'd even hear. "There's a weaver who brought it to market, and my wife, Danielle, decided that it'd be a good idea that we have matching clothes. That was two summers before she passed."
His eyes found the worn floorboards appealing as he continued. "You didn't know, and I had no right to carry on as I did. You have my apologies." His head had lifted as he said the last sentence, only to find that she still had his back to him. Shifting the pack on his back, he made a vague motion with his hand towards her stock.
"Before all that, I was wondering, perchance, what the cost of a set of breeches would run as well? These are starting to wear, and I figure it'd be better to have a full set."
Tamachi
Membrum RK: 2 MP: 156
Member Since:
May 2005
Tuesday July 7, 2009 12:37 AM
RE: A Plague on All Ages and Races...
Bruges... The once active town had now deteriorated from crowded streets full of travelers to the occasional wanderer either too tired or too wary to travel through the night to the next town. Air once filled with the shouts of merchants, competing as much in volume as in price, now harbored only faint echoes carried on the lifeless wings of whispers foreboding a towns demise. Only the Scholar's Hand held with it any trace of its past glory, but even that was but a single candle to what was once a flaming beacon to all beings of free thought, and in these trying times even the winds of fate seem ever intent to extinguish that as well.
"And all thanks to this plague. Oh Bruges my dear, what a sight you once were..."
Luek whispered to himself under his breath, his words trailing off as the pint of ale touched his lips, allowing the warm liquid within to slog down his throat. There was a time when the brew from this establishment was the best around, but that was ages ago. In fact, that was when the inn was a tavern and nothing more, when Bartholomew still owned it. Sure, the Long Roads Tavern, now Inn & Tavern, was still in Bartholomew's family, but somewhere along the way they had lost their family recipe for ale. For a moment he allowed himself to reminisce on times passed and memories made, and lost, here, until the foamy froth filling the mug in front of him found its way back up in a pungent belch. He had resolved to make a toast to Bartholomew before taking his leave before something caught his eye.
"To you, Bartholo... Well well, what do we have here?"
He stopped the pint just short of his lips this time, his voice trailing into a whisper as he carefully watched the man who had begun to walk down the set of stairs leading from the inn's rooms before leaving out the front door. From his build and the way he moved, as if his accompaniments didn't allude to it, Luek could tell he was a fighter of some sort, and he had heard about this one in particular. He knew if the man had any wits about him then a hooded man in a near empty room would stand out, and if he had been here for anything more than mere curiosity then he wouldn't have allowed himself to be seen.
Yet another reason to bemoan this plague I suppose.
He thought to himself as he took another look around the room, knowing it best to wait so as not to allow his curiosity to be mistaken for ill intent when he left the inn. He allowed himself the pleasure of surmising about the other occupants, there they didn't leave much to the imagination. The barkeep had been satisfied to clean the same mug for the last five minutes, though from the way the servant girl moved he was considerably less satisfied with her. The few loners were more than likely travelers considering they had but one pint on their tables, and from their quiet nature the largest table nearest the bar sat several patrons. The ones to worry about were the drunkards. Well, at least the drunkards that couldn't hold their drink.
Take for instance the table between Luek and the bar, and, next to it, the front door. The table of three had been seated, most likely, long before Luek arrived, and had drank enough pints to settle the inns losses in one day, if they'd paid, that is. Between that and giving the servant girl the third degree on things that would make the elderly cringe, the only thing they done right was leave the patrons to themselves.
At least they have some sense to them.
Content to let the barkeep and patrons sort out their own problems, Luek threw back the last of his ale and took one last look at the three empty mugs in front of him before strolling towards the bar, making no effort to avoid the drunkards as he strolled right past the table they had made their own. Their conversation slowed and lowered as he walked by, the only thing able to be seen his tattered black cloak and hood. They'd obviously taken note of him, probably even sized him up as best they could, but Luek didn't mind. He merely continued towards the bar, laying a silver coin on the counter as he nodded to the barkeep before making his way to the door, only to hear the drunkards at his back side.
"'Ey there! Will ye be paying for ours as well?"
He'd counted on some snide remark, but was surprised at the sheer stupidity of what they'd came up with, and instead of rewarding it with any sort of response had paused only briefly to shake his head before continuing to head to the door, his back to them the entire time. He'd have won a bet on what happened next.
Hey! I'm talking to you, boy!
That would do it. He stopped as he listened to three chairs behind him be pushed back from their previous positions, the last two having a noticeable delay from the first, all of which was easily heard as the room grew completely silent. He pictured the scene in his head, the leader in front and his two 'fearless' cohorts at either side behind him slightly. The sound of a sword being unsheathed sent his right hand into motion as he spun on his heel, slinging two throwing knives that found their mark in the foreheads of the two cohorts. Luek counted on what happened next, and as the leader looked to either side to watch his comrades fall backwards he made his move, unsheathing the scimitar at his back with his right hand as he placed the tip beneath the chin of the man still standing. Luek had caught him mid-draw and very confused, and he slowly released his sword and raised his hand out to his side. The man hesitated as he turned back to face the cloaked man who held his life in his hands.
"Was... All that nec-nece... needed?"
The man managed to stammer out, though he still hadn't been able to comprehend exactly what had happened.
"As it happens, yes, and if I see you again much more than that will be, I believe the word you were looking for was necessary."
As he finished there was a rustling to the man's left, and he momentarily forgot about the cold metal at his neck as he looked to see his friend moving, amazingly without a knife protruding from his forehead. As he looked to see the same with the man to his right Luek spoke again.
"Now I strongly suggest you help that fool to his feet and be gone."
He said, his hood nodding to the man he still hadn't moved. In a sudden rush of sobriety the leader realized that the knives had hit the two men hilt first, knocking them back instead of killing them outright. As Luek moved the tip of the blade down a bit the man to his left managed to stagger to his feet, and together they shouldered the man between themselves and started to head to the door before Luek finished.
"Oh, and boy? I'll take my knives back."
Without thinking the man who lacked a mark on his forehead rushed back to grab the two knives, leaving his friend to drop to one knee as he awaited his return. It didn't take long for him to fumble the knives into Luek's left hand and return to his friends, and in no time they had managed to find their way out the front door, and also out of his mind. The others in the large room had yet to make any real movement, though some were reaching for their own weapons beneath tables. The barkeep was still cleaning the same cup as Luek approached him across the bar, sheathed his weapons well before he stopped.
Bartholomew was a good man, and it's because of him I advise you to hire some private muscle. Times will get worse before they get better.
He turned to take one more look at the other occupants, who had begun to settle back into their chairs as Luek's intentions became more clear. He tossed the barkeep a gold coin as he turned to walk out, no doubt leaving the man at a loss for words over both the coin and the mention of Bartholomew, his great grandfather who had started what was once only a tavern over a hundred years ago. By the time the answer clicked Luek was already well gone.
Once outside he turned down the road, heading off in a non-important direction. He wasn't worried about any recourse from the inn, knowing that even if the barkeep did have a problem with the way he solved problems the coins would buy his word. On his current path he would soon pass an elven lady at work at her lathe, though he knew not this. As he walked casually down the road he wondered offhandedly to himself.
Now I wonder where good Edan wandered off too...
[EDIT] - Grammatical changes.
[Edited by Tamachi on Wednesday, July 8, 2009 3:31 PM]
CandlestickJay
Membrum RK: 2 MP: 346
Member Since:
April 2007
Friday July 10, 2009 10:27 PM
RE: A Plague on All Ages and Races...
One of the perks of being a tailor or a seamstress was the clear and constant awareness of the human body - how it moved and flowed as the fabric worked its magic around hard muscle or soft flesh. It was this perk and her closeness to his body that alerted her to his reaction to her question...until he stalked away from her, not even bothering to give her a solid answer. Annalise shot his back a withering glance as she stood, a small dissatisfied purse to her lips. Fine then. If he couldn't be bothered to treat a simple seamstress to the answer to a simple question, then by the god above she wouldn't treat him to any polite niceties either. Once the transaction was over, he could march his happy little rear back out her door. And he could close the door too, next time he decided to take off his clothes. Really, even if he did obviously have the muscles and fine build of a working man, there was no need to be flamboyant. The purse to her lips became a glower that shrouded her whole face. Her thoughts continued their irritated ramblings as she shoved her materials to the small table, scribbling down measurements in a small scrawl to her notepad.
Quickly Annalise shifted from one task to the next, setting out the pattern she would need and mentally counting the length that would have to be removed and style that would have to be altered. Something to the sleeves, and to the front, she thought, desperate to let the simmering frustration seep out onto the paper and not out of her mouth. This kind of frantic desire to shout or become angry was new to her, and usually sent her reeling. Today was not so bad, and keeping her temper in check was only a little difficult. If only her senses had not been so heightened, aware of his every movement inside the rare and excellent fabric. Then again, had they not been strong, she may not have heard the small sound behind her. She froze when he spoke, shocked by the words that filtered to her ears.
For a man, he apologized with much finesse. Brief and to the point, just how she liked her apologies and her affairs.But her heart broke for him when she heard the sadness in a voice that matched one she could only find equally in her own soul. How had she died? His rigidity made sense now, and she briefly regretted having brought up the subject at all. Her head drooped, letting a few dark locks spring from her bun and fall into her face. "I'm terribly sorry to hear of your loss. I am also a widow, but of less time. Forgive my intrusion." she murmured quietly, still not trusting herself enough to turn and face him. She knew how weak those words were, weak and unhelpful. They did nothing for grief or pain, no bandage for the slow bleeding of a grieving heart. Annalise was not sure what provoked her into adding the excess of information about herself. Goodness, the man didn't even know her name! Perhaps she just wanted to make him feel better. Armed with this thought, Annalise turned back towards him, following his change of subject with apparent ease, though her mind was months in the past. She did not meet his gaze again when she spoke.
"I would not be able to make them a matching set entirely, as I have no access to this particular piece of divinity." She gestured, referring to the fabric over his shoulder. "But I could use some of the stock fabric I've got in the back to make a pair that will stand very nicely next to the other. It'll cost you about eight silver for a new pair of breeches, and four for the redesigned tunic. Relatively cheap, all things considered." She didn't like discussing price. It was a necessary evil of her work however, and the payment she was forced to take from others was all she had to feed herself. A vicious circle indeed, and most didn't even realize.
StoicFervor
Ordo Aqua: Scholar RK: 4 MP: 614
Member Since:
June 2007
Tuesday July 14, 2009 1:08 PM
RE: A Plague on All Ages and Races...
Judging by her change in posture and the murmured apology, Edan judged that she had meant no harm by her questioning.
It was probably meant for small talk, to make things more amiable for customers. So of course my answer reminds her of her own sorrows, so I just sent the poor woman from anger to guilt.
Damn, why couldn't I have just been taken with my wife and son?
He couldn't help but notice that the seamstress didn't look at his face when she finally did turn towards him.
More guilt, or emberassment?
"Understandable. Black material will be fine if you can't find a suitable match otherwise." He was pulling his pouch free as he spoke, fingers exploring its interior as he searched for the coins he wanted. Making a feeble attempt at soothing over the slight that he felt he'd created, he went on. "You've probably got a better eye for matching than I do. I was always one for simple clothing; green, black, or brown. Generally speaking, if it was any other color and was in my wardrobe, it was either part of my old uniform or something that my wife had picked out for me."
Finding the coins he wanted, he held them in his palm as he tied his money pouch closed. Stepping forward, he laid one gold and two silver coins down on the corner of her table. "That should make us even then. And this-" he continued as he set his pouch next to it, the soft brown contrasting slightly with the dark green of the tunic laying there, "-is if you can have it ready tomorrow."
He turned away to set his pack down then, opening it slightly to drop a gold coin into its open mouth before closing it. Sighing, he stood straight and turned back to face her, hands undoing his belt to hold it and his sheathed sword in one hand. He noticed that one of her eyebrows had arched over one of her green eyes, though he couldn't tell whether it was because of the money he'd offered or his apparent undressing. He lifted his face from hers, attempting to lose himself in the walls of her shop.
"Guessin' you'll be needing the measurements for the breeches then."
Doesn't help that her eyes are close to Danielle's...
Avenging_Angel
Ordo Ignis: Novice RK: 12 MP: 5,929
Member Since:
July 2003
Tuesday July 14, 2009 9:57 PM
RE: A Plague on All Ages and Races...
Plague.
The word had spread across the continent like the epidemic itself. Rumors, wild stories, and hidden truths all scattered like dust in the wind upon the lips of traders and travelers.
"I heard it were the great plague, come again like it did hundreds of years ago. Going to kill us all if we ain't careful." The old man's rasping croak added a particularly sinister aspect to his words, though he remained studiously ignored by his listeners.
"It's a punishment from the gods." The farm matron's voice was oddly shrill, at odds with her large size.
"We've let too many of the heathen races walk among us with their false gods, and now the merciful Creator's seen fit to cleanse the wicked." One hand strayed up to the amulet around her neck, as if to remind the gods that she most certainly was not among that number. Her eyes were wide and earnest, but the fanatical gleam deep in them caused many who wrote her off as another madwoman to pause.
"No, no, it's a curse from the Adversary. Trying to strike fear into the hearts of the good Creator-fearing folk." The monk nodded firmly, wiping the nervous sweat from his brow.
"Have no fear, the goodly ones are watching over us all. The plague will not come here." The group of concerned village people filed away from the sanctuary, appeased. He died a week later, unmourned among the many others rolled into the hurried mass grave at the edge of town.
"They say the plague is coming here. It was in a town across the river last week, and all the elders are talking about it." The boy hunched down, digging his feet into the dirt, looking around at his small audience, most even younger than him. "It's come from the east, killing people everywhere back there." His voice cracked with the excitement of a child who cannot truly understand the approach of a threat, but his face was solemn with the responsibility of having to enlighten his younger peers.
"The other day Thaylan saw a grim in the middle of the lane while he was walking home."
"Did it chase him?!" One of the girls squeaked, eyes round. He shook his head.
"No. It just walked to the edge of the village and disappeared." He paused to let that sink in a moment before delivering his final blow. "And yesterday, while they were tearing stones out of the old mill, they found a rat king."
The children exchanged panicked looks. Two omens.
Death and plague.
They did not see the shadow that wandered silently through the village.
"Plague?"
A soft snort.
"Perhaps I can accommodate them."
A harsh laugh that no one heard, though all shivered imperceptibly for no reason they could put a name to. The shadows fled in a rustle of dark wings as a crow fluttered over the houses, circling the village hall for a moment before fleeing westwards.
The plague came the next day.
[Edited by Avenging_Angel on Tuesday, July 14, 2009 10:03 PM]
AnimusAniKorSaxcian
Ordo Aqua: Novice RK: 3 MP: 488
Member Since:
August 2006
Friday July 17, 2009 9:04 PM
RE: A Plague on All Ages and Races...
"Why waste what little we have to save some round ear!" Voices echoed through the wounded priest's head. "Calm yourself...this is no way to present yourself to his honorable Alexandre."
The voices faded into a ringing chatter, piercing through the wounded priests head. Struggling to open his eyes, the aging form erupted into an uncontrollable tempest of coughs, Unable to breath, the priest thrashed around on the bed he was sitting upon, yet two gentle hands firmly rested upon his shoulders. A harsh fragrance stung the old man's nose, freeing his airways. Finally relaxing the priest rested his head back and forced his eyes open.
"Welcome back." A soft voice spoke.
Trying to focus his eyes on the shadowy figure above him, the priest replied, "Where am I?"
"Me and two other patrol elves found you out near the shepherds fields. You were cold and near death so we brought you back to the Elven sector of Bruges. You are in Alexandre's home?"
"Bruges? Alexandre?" The priest finally could see the young elf above him.
His face was slender and pale, with boyish innocence beaming from his blue eyes. Not a scar or wrinkle blemished his childish skin. His smile was full of joy as his teeth, though crooked shined of pure white pearl. Yet still, behind the innocent facade, was a pained moan. The way his eyes hung low, and his voice cracked revealed a lonely child.
"Small coastal town near the elven human border. Alexandre seems to me to be a little bit of a cynic but he is a nice enough fellow. Besides he is the closest thing to a leader we got." His words were honest.
"Well I suppose a thanks is in order for you. If it wasn't for that poor goblin stealing my coin pouch I would have a few measly coins to give you but all I have for now is a name and my blessings." The priest bowed his head in humility.
"No problem sir. The names Kyp by the way." The elf smiled bringing warmth to the aging priests heart.
"Please, you may not be a member of the church but call me Father, Father Antonio Aurelius." Antonio paused as his ears finally were able to hear what was going on in the room next to his chamber.
The young elf understood that the old priest could now understand what was happening and frowned, "I apologize for ol' Saxcian out there. He is a little bitter bout human folk Father. He's lost his family and his farm to this plague. He is convinced it is your people's fault."
"No apology is necessary. These are dark times. I only hope my presence here doesn't elevate his anger."
Foot steps began to echo towards the room. The Father pushed himself up and began to lean against the bed head waiting for whoever was coming to meet him. The young elf stood and straightened his armor, making sure he appeared more presentable.
CandlestickJay
Membrum RK: 2 MP: 346
Member Since:
April 2007
Saturday July 18, 2009 7:44 AM
RE: A Plague on All Ages and Races...
"I won't have it, Saxican. Your treatment of the human is absolutely abhorrent. You know as well as I do that the way we present ourselves to our close neighbors is one of our highest priorities. You will learn to keep your personal feelings towards them in check. And if this wasn't important, why else would we have been sent here to live outside our own borders, in a place where it is difficult to practice our own religion, even use our native tongue?" The hand that gripped the back of the chair tightened until the knuckles were white. Alexandre's voice softened to a near whisper and he lay a gentle hand on the shoulder of the other elf.
"I know that losing your family has been difficult, old friend, but you must understand how important the relations between races are right now, more than ever. They already have been attempting to blame the goblins and dwarves for the plague itself, what makes you think they will not turn to us next? We must fight to keep our population safe, small as it may be. Our only chance of that is to simply keep our heads down, and act like we too are innocent of blame. The best offense is a good defense." Saxican's shoulders slumped in weary defeat, and Alexandre patted him lightly on the shoulder. "Now go, you've done more than what many might have, even if it was growling and snarling along the way. I've got a nice strawberry wine that you might find pleasant in the pantry."
Though the execution was polite, it was still a clear dismissal. Alexandre pursed his lips into a thin line as he watched the elf exit, then his features too crumpled into sadness. The families and friends that had been lost in the last year were tormenting them all, and each dealt with the grief in the only way he knew how. Turning away from the door, the limber elf pushed open the door to his guest room, where the sick elderly human lay motionless on the bed.
A tall figure in even large rooms, Alexandre's innate sense of command drew all attention to him. But he quickly went to the man's bedside, gracefully moving his body to ontop a stool. Seeing that the man was awake, he gave him a quick, searching gaze. He was not one of the townsfolk, for Alexandre prided himself on knowing all who made regular livings nearby. "Good day, human. My name is Alexandre." He introduced himself simply, and without title. From his scan, he could tell this was not a man of property, in fact, most likely much less. A scholar, perhaps, or a religious man. At the idea of the second, he was forced to hide the smirk that rose to his lips. "As Kyp here may have told you, a trio of my elves found you near death outside of your current location, Bruges. You may rest here until you are well."
-------------------------------------------------
[QUOTE]"Guessin' you'll be needing the measurements for the breeches then." [/QUOTE]
She nodded absently, her eyes on the coin he had laid on the table. Yes, she could get it done in time, most especially with the few extra spurring her on. "Aye. And I'll have it done as quickly as possible too. You're staying at the Scholar's Hand, I assume? I'll bring it by sometime after noon tomorrow." With a quick sweep of her hand she emptied the coins on the table into the small pouch. Within seconds it was in another drawer, away for when she would spend it on food for herself, or for new fabric. What an excellent bargain.
His earlier compliments had not gone unnoticed, though at this precise moment she paid them no mind. When she was working, she didn't oft focus on much else. Daydreamers rarely got anything done, and that is why they stay as they are - dreamers. The obvious sincerity in his tone made her smile though, a soft curve of the mouth that flattered her already striking features. She didn't quite honestly believe that he had never been to the tailor's before, for when she looked up at him once again, green eyes searching out his, his belt and sword were already removed and out of her way. "Thank you." she murmured, slipping them quietly from his hands and replacing them on the table.
With a swift movement of her foot she pulled a small stool out from underneath the table, gesturing for him to stand on top of it. "Step up please." If she was only several inches shorter than he whenever they both stood, now he dwarfed her as he stood. With her measuring tape she pressed the zero mark against the bone of his hip (finding it with an ease that only a seamstress can) then let it drop to the floor, extending past his feet and to the ground. She had the light touch of a forest fey, fluttering fingers moving from one measurement to the next. The pad she had used earlier was gone, for all the numbers went flawlessly memorized into her head. She had more fear that the numbers would be written wrong than she did that she would remember them incorrectly. The tape then encircled his calf, then knee and thigh, hands deftly taking care of business. With a small push she pushed his knees apart, measuring his inseam with a surprising lack of shyness, though she did utter a small, "Beg your pardon."
StoicFervor
Ordo Aqua: Scholar RK: 4 MP: 614
Member Since:
June 2007
Tuesday July 21, 2009 7:12 PM
RE: A Plague on All Ages and Races...
Edan voiced confirmation to her assumption as she took his belt and sword from his hands. It surprised him when she did so, for the tailors in Lille never dared to touch his weapons whenever he'd been to their places of business.
Then again, there were few who wanted a direct confrontation with a soldier of the army, and fewer who dared upset a bodyguard of noble employ. Here, I'm just another body for hire, a nameless sword.
Stepping up when told to, he was surprised by her light, quick touch. Glancing down at her, he noted that her face was one of focus, although a slight smile was still evident on her lips as her eyes followed her hands as they moved the tape along and around his legs. A shaft of sunlight caught her face at that moment, lighting up her eyes and reminding Edan of his deceased wife. He closed his eyes, forcing a steadying breath in and out of his lungs to calm the stirring he felt begin in his lower region.
Calm yourself. She's a widow, and Danielle hasn't been gone a year yet. Nothing's going to happen, so control yo-
Her push surprised him, although it was her hand suddenly pressing the measuring tape to his inner thigh that gave him a start and caused a shade of crimson to climb his neck, given that the stirring started to become more insistent. As soon as she turned to her table to jot down the measurements he was stepping to the floor, hands reaching for his belt and sword. For a moment he swore he heard his wife's voice gently scolding him to behave and to quit acting childish.
It's a normal reaction for both humans and elves, nothing to be ashamed of. She reminds you of Danielle, and you miss her touch. It was part of her job, nothing personal, so don't make a big deal of it.
Pulling his belt around his waist, he started to thread it it through the ring as he watched her scrawl the measurements, a few dark locks hanging down to partially curtain off her face and eyes. He didn't know whether to be glad that it made the comparison harder to make or to be frustrated at the mysterious touch it created that aroused his curiousity, among other things. He was grateful that the material of his tunic covered that particular effect as he spoke.
"If there's nothing else, then I guess I'll be seeing you tomorrow then. If I'm not at the inn when you stop by, just leave them with the proprietor. The name's Edan Tremont, by the way."
He had hesitated slightly before revealing his name, ignorant to whether or not rumor or story of what he'd done while employed at Verdun had reached the ears of anyone here in Burges yet.
CandlestickJay
Membrum RK: 2 MP: 346
Member Since:
April 2007
Tuesday July 21, 2009 9:52 PM
RE: A Plague on All Ages and Races...
Annalise did her best not to take his quick movement after his belt and weapon as an insult of any kind. However, she was once again reminded that not all men were comfortable with a female seamstress doing a tailor's work. The differences in the field were ones not often spoke of, but still very definite. She must have unnerved him in someway, though she hoped it was not her lack of professionalism. That in itself she strove for. Her teeth closed around her lower lip and nibbled as the quill pen skittered across the page, recalling instantly the numbers from her memory. His closeness surely had not unnerved her. She was quite used to men, in all shapes and sizes. Her trade demanded she do so.
When she had finished, her glance flickered up at him, finding his eyes centered on her. Her breath caught painstakingly in her throat, held captive somewhere between her lungs and mouth by the complexities of his gaze. His eyes, for that brief moment, were unshuttered and while intently trained on her - seemed as if he were trying to decipher a puzzle. Again, she pulled her eyes from him and immediately begin folding the fabric as he spoke, trying to shoo away the engraving of his face on the backs of her eyes. Her heart still thrummed.
At the introduction she straightened, and dipped briefly into a dutiful curtsy, like any merchant's daughter would be taught to do. It was habit, and a quaint one that she didn't indulge in often. His name was unfamiliar to her. She was not a gossipmonger, and she associated with few women for more than a few minutes that were. "Mr. Tremont, a pleasure. Annalise Cage." Even when she stood, the black linen skirt remained balled in one hand, holding the fabric casually aloft and revealing slender ankles and bare feet - one of her few delights in having her own home and living alone. "I'll be sure to do that. Master Grayson is a dear friend - I'm sure he will take excellent care of your things, should you be out. Good day, sir."
With her brisk, businesslike goodbyes said, she turned from him. The fabric slipped from her hand as she quickly piled her new project into a small basket, scribbling something unreadable onto the handle, joining many other undecipherable scrawls. Her thoughts, racing along the inside of her mind, were busier than her nimble fingers had been. Miserably, her stomach still churned from the realization that it had taken several too many minutes for her heart to stop pounding - something she had thought she'd also buried with her late husband. Although he, Creator bless his soul, had been a passionate man when it came to his work, it rarely carried to encompass her also. And gradually she had discovered that with the love of her work and her husband through simplicity alone - she did not need the passion or adventure some craved. Perhaps she yearned for it as a child, but now, a grown widow and wizened old hag (as she often referred to herself as, though others often argued it was not true), she did not need it.
StoicFervor
Ordo Aqua: Scholar RK: 4 MP: 614
Member Since:
June 2007
Thursday July 23, 2009 5:21 PM
RE: A Plague on All Ages and Races...
"The pleasure is mine, Ms. Cage."
He leaned forward from the waist and bowed his head to her before shouldering his pack. Picking up on his cue to leave, he stepped outside, securing the door behind him. A glance up at the sky showed that gray clouds still covered the town, and it did nothing to reveal the time. Shrugging, Edan made it his best guess that a half-hour had passed since he'd stepped into Annalise's shop, maybe a little more.
And an interesting thirty minutes it's been, as well. Somehow I managed to reveal my ignorance, miff the seamstress, then recover from that only to make another fool of myself with my reactions over her touch.
At least I'm not being led out of town by the magistrate.
Sighing, he started to wander the streets looking for a blacksmith's, shaking his head the whole time to try and clear the image of the seamstress's ankles that seemed to offer the promise of tempting legs above.
AnimusAniKorSaxcian
Ordo Aqua: Novice RK: 3 MP: 488
Member Since:
August 2006
Saturday July 25, 2009 10:07 PM
RE: A Plague on All Ages and Races...
Antonio smiled at the selflessness of the commanding presence before him. His body ached, fatigue, age, and sickness sending tremors through his decrepit 49-year-old body. The man's offer was tempting, even pleasant, yet despite his sufferings Antonio had overheard the controversy unfurling on the other side of the door. Plagued by the slaughter that wrought the small village in Brittania, Antonio refused to allow his presence to cause pain, even if it meant sacrificing his health.
Barely able to feel his legs, the priest mustered all the strength he could and struggled to sit up in the warm cot. Kyp reached to aid him hoping to dissuade the elderly priest from moving too much. Wrestling with spasms and coughs, Antonio ignored the young ones gesture and slid his feet onto the cool wooden ground. Regaining his composure, Father Aurelius allowed a soft humble look to fall on Alexandre's stern eyes.
"Oh Bless your kind soul, your honor, but I fear my presence may be a little upsetting," Antonio looked passively out into the hallway. "Besides, the Lord didn't make me to lay around all afternoon. There are souls to be reached. If I could just get my robes and my Scripture, I would be more than welcome to remove myself from your dwelling."
Antonio's stomach growled fiercely. He had not eaten in three days, a short fast that inadvertently grew into a long one as he lost his way from the last village he visited. The young elf beside his bed heard the noise and turned to the priest,
"Father, how long has it been since your last meal?" Aurelius held a blank look on his face. "You are weak, and skinny as a sapling!" Turning to Alexandre, Kyp pleaded, "My family has not enough to feed him right now, couldn't he join you for your midday feast?"
"No sir," Antonio fought of the hunger pangs that caused his stomach to cramp, "I couldn't let myself be such a bother."
"Your honor, he is to weak to go anywhere anyway. He may not admit it but he needs the food and the rest."
[Edited by AnimusAniKorSaxcian on Thursday, January 7, 2010 6:38 PM]
CandlestickJay
Membrum RK: 2 MP: 346
Member Since:
April 2007
Sunday July 26, 2009 8:33 PM
RE: A Plague on All Ages and Races...
Alexander, with the grace of the politician he was, did not allow himself to give Kyp the look he desired to. The boy was a member of the guard, for crying out loud. Most in his position would have done their duty and disappear, not be at the old human's beck and call. Soft, he was, and too young. But then, he'd grew up in a primarily peaceful time between the races, and was not aware of the difficulties that often passed between them. But spared of the bloody history, he was unprejudiced. Any older elf wouldn't be pleading for the old man like he was a beloved father. Father. An internal smirk longed to cross his face. He would not call the old man Father, given their religious differences. Title or not, he thought it a presumptive doctrine, and one that he would not accept in practice. And yet, these were all opinions that the well practiced Alexander kept to himself.
"Nonsense." Alexander smoothed out his features into an agreeable, accepting countenance. He wasn't thrilled to be sharing his meal, but what must be done must be done. It was only proper, and the man was obvious weary and ill. Were he in the situation, he'd wish for similar help. Besides, surely such an act would generate good will amongst the other humans in the area. The leader of the elves in Bruges, taking an sickly old priest of which he does NOT share a religion into his home for care and shelter? It would fare very well when presented to the mayor as an example of the goodwill of the elves. "You will stay here, and I will have food prepared and brought to you shortly. I insist that you stay in bed, sir, until you are better rested and a human physician can be called for you."
He motioned Kyp towards the door. "Come, young one, and return to your captain. Saxican will want to discuss a few things with you before you head home for the evening. Goodnight." It was a clear dismissal. He would have words with the boy soon, or with Saxican, about learning to keep his emotional and sympathetic appeals outside his military work.
Alexander crossed the room after Kyp and closed the door quietly behind him. With a tete-a-tete approach, he sat in the chair next to the bed, his gaze stern and spine rigid. "I will be frank with you, sir." The emphasis on sir and not Father was unmistakable. Perhaps he wasn't being his kindest - but he believed in honesty at all times. "The times are difficult here in Bruges. The ties between human and elf are strained, both to the unfortunate plague and general economic stress. And while I am fully willing to help you regain your health and see that you are moved, once healthy, to the humans in Bruges, I have one condition. You will not attempt to sway or in any way convince my people that our religious beliefs are incorrect. While you remain a guest under my roof, you shall not preach to them. You may pray and practice all you like in your solitude, but not in front of my people. That is my only request. You are not a burden to us, and we would welcome any news you have from afar. I will go out and seek a physician for you immediately, and should return with him within the hour, as well as have food sent to you."
He hesitated, wondering for a moment if he had perhaps been too honest. Nevertheless, it wwas how things stood and he wouldn't see them any other way. If the old man chose to leave and seek other shelter, very well. He would find very few able to accomodate him, even should they wish to. But around Bruges, nowadays the true residents were skittish of some newcomers - especially those obviously ill. No one had forgotten the plague rampant through their population in the months prior. Alexander stood and then paused, almost as an afterthought. "I would like to mention that you have made wuite the impression on Kyp. I would suggest you not abuse that, or do him ill by leaving the safety that he has so beseechingly sought out for you."
Annalise watched Edan Tremont exit her shop, her green eyes bright and focused on his receding back. But when the door finally closed, her shoulders sagged and a soft breath exhaled quickly from her lungs. Her hands, which had been quite tightly holding on to her skirt, unclenched from her skirt. She winced, rubbing the tight soreness out of one hand with the other. Why on earth had she been so tense? Annalise caught a glance of herself in the handmirror as she swept the fabric off the table and rolled her eyes at her reflection - cheeks flushed and bright, sizzling green eyed gaze. But thankfully, he hadn't been aware of her lack of concentration - not that she let it bother her work. That was imperative, and one thing she had learned from her late husband. Anything that interferes with work must not be touched or thought about until the time is right. Which was exactly why it was now, as she headed back to her workroom, that she needed to put out of her mind questions of what she knew, and what she needed to know, about Edan Tremont.
Her fingers deftly unfolded and straightened the fabric as she began the project he had given her, the weight of his coin weighing heavily in her pocket. A few hours of work this morning, then lunch, and then she would finish another few jobs that were close to finishing. One, for the mayor of Bruges and the other, for her close friend Alexander. Her mouth lifted in a small, mischevious smile as she thought of him. Her late husband had hated that she and Xander (a nickname for him that she alone used) were so close - but it was merely out of jealousy. After all, Xander was tall and incredibly attractive in that Elfin sort of way, and her dear Dedric was...well, he was not quite handsome. He would not have held a candle to Mr. Tremont, either. she thought to herself, instantly feeling guilty for comparing the two.
A quick, sharp pain shot through her finger as the prick of the needle against her thumb began to bleed. Hurriedly she dropped the fabric so her blood did not stain it. "Honestly Lissa, you've got to be more careful!" she chided herself aloud. Usually she was much more careful, and rarely found herself with a hurt from completing her stitching. Along with her own voice, she heard Dedric's low murmur, berating her as he had early on in their relationship.
Never let your inner thoughts cloud your work, or distract you, Lissa! A job is only ever worth the effort you put into it...You can't honestly expect someone to want to buy a gown that looks as if a distracted child had made it! Focus!
She nodded, humming her acquiescence to him as if he were standing next to her. But she was sure he heard her, somewhere. And giving in to his commands, banished the thoughts of any and all men, human and elf, alive or dead, from her mind.
AnimusAniKorSaxcian
Ordo Aqua: Novice RK: 3 MP: 488
Member Since:
August 2006
Thursday January 7, 2010 7:30 PM
RE: A Plague on All Ages and Races...
"Thank you for your candor," Father Aurelius lowered his head in shame. "He is a good lad. Please, I can see it in your eyes. Don't be harsh with him. His generosity is something unseen in these dark days. If you crush that, than there is no chance for both our people to overcome this evil in the land."
The Father was aware his words were out of place and rude given the offer Alexander had just presented him. Food. Shelter. A Warm Bed. Still, Antonio was an honest man, and respected the frankness of his host. Because of this, Antonio felt he had to speak up; had to share his opinion regardless of the fact that he was speaking out of turn. The aging priest forced himself out of the bed and reached for his vestments draped over the night stand.
The room was silent, yet there was an uncomfortable charge in the air. Father Aurelius was well aware of the tension between the races and even more specifically the Church and the other religions of the land. He was haunted by the images of those lost; his perish; his family. He blamed himself for every drop of blood that day. He would sacrifice his life to stop the violence from spreading.
A sharp pain swiftly seized the old man's right side. Antonio was forced to his knees by the sickness that was growing within him. With his free hand he grasped the rosary and cross that hung from his neck. Between the coughs and wheezes he managed to pray, not asking for the pain to end but for the will to press on despite his suffering. He prayed to be given the chance to rectify his failure back in Britannia; to not allow the fire to spread.
