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Xana · Posted: Tue Apr 27, 2010 8:19 am Post subject: Dreams Of Elders

Still in the silent repose of suspended animation, Xana lay between the living and the dead. The healers and medicine-makers came and went, soothsayers stopped to offer their kind and generous words, the litany to her bedside was nearly non-stop. But her floating world was pleasant and dream filled. On some level she heard those who came and begged her to be alright, to come back, yet the words meant nothing compared to the blissful world in which she rested.

The weeks marched by, with the joyous place that was Xana's, left untouched by all others considered the light of reality.

One night as the timepieces of the world marched toward the witching hour, the illusory world was broken into a horror of sufferance and pain. The repeated dream of the snowing cemetery hugging the river bluff melted away, reassembling into the imagery of an ancient, wizened old woman. The eye of Xana's mind focused and on some level she realized, it was Maman Sabine she beheld.

How cruel the etch of time left its mark on the woman. It had been an open secret for several years that she had the wasting disease, yet nobody had ever accepted it. Surely, death could never claim the most beloved and simultaneously hated--by some--woman whose steady hand did its best to keep the unsteady population of the clan together and well.

What Xana saw was a terror of unrelieved agony and heartache. Sabine lay dying and occasionally crying and screaming out in her hurt. Her own soul filling with agony, Xana too cried and called out.

She sat upright in the bed, a scream on her lips, and did not understand when one of the younger girls who had been assigned to watch over her fainted dead away.
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An artist is a creature driven by demons ~Faulkner

Paytience · Adventurer Joined: 13 Apr 2010 Posts: 65

Searing pain! It was as if a limb were being severed off. She had no clue from where it came from. She had been swinging her kryss at Earth Elementals for days now and had no wounds capable of that kind of pain anywhere on her body. Unable to withstand it, Paytience dropped to her knees and curled up in a fetal position. Gone, whatever it was that she felt she should subconciously recognize, was gone. And in it's place was a soul wringing absence.

Realizing a little too late that she was in the middle of the Shame Dungeon Pathway, Paytience looked up in time to see one gigantic tan arm crashing down on her. She ducked and rolled sending the dust flying. Unable to see and unable to feel anything but pain, she ran as far and as fast as she could out of the dungeon. Daylight hit her eyes and she crumpled once more to the ground in safety. It had been a long while since she cried over anything. But she was crying now and had no clue as to why.

Amdiriel a'Dae · Visitor Joined: 18 Apr 2010 Posts: 5

“Wait…wait, Miss. No need to cry. I can clean this up. I can replace it!” Amdiriel knelt quickly, convincingly, and began to pick up the pieces of the broken potion bottle from the orange puddle on the dirt floor of the mess tent. She looked up to make eye contact with the dark-haired girl who had dropped the potion, in an attempt to put her at ease.

But the girl didn’t make eye contact. Her eyes darted, almost fearfully, to the left and the right, as if whatever angst she felt had no discernible source. Amdiriel frowned and, still kneeling, took the gypsy girl’s hand. The girl knelt too, then, and hugged her knees. Amdiriel began to realize that she wasn’t upset for having broken the potion she was about to buy. It was this wave of…what? Pain? Fear? That had caused her to drop it in the first place. The two knelt, side by side, Amdiriel holding the girl’s hand as she rocked herself inconsolably, wordlessly. Amdiriel wrapped an arm around the young gypsy in an attempt to comfort her and perhaps understand what was so very wrong. She could feel fitful sobs rising in the girl’s chest, but her dark eyes were incapable even of tears.

Amdiriel hugged the girl close as she rocked, and whispered – more to herself than anyone. “Nin mell Sellath, mani lhaew naa sen?” The girl did not respond, indeed did not acknowledge Amdiriel at all.

The one answer the girl gave was in response to some unspoken question from within herself. Her eyes widened with realization as her lips formed the word and her throat gave it voice in a hollow tone. “Gone."

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Adrian Bishop · Adventurer Joined: 08 Oct 2009 Posts: 95

Days were always so much better when he spent them with Soren. They passed more slowly, more smoothly. She was his constant, his own personal star. He was her comet – no matter how far his travels took him from her, the pull never left him until she drew him near again. And like the comet, he shined more brightly for having her near. With her, it was enough just to allow time to pass. And so it did, as he held her hand in his and perused the bazaar in the Nujel’m marketplace. He picked up a gypsy circlet woven tightly with dried eucalyptus and patchwork cloth. He squinted at the detail work as Soren assured him his own work was much better. He smirked to himself, knowing she’d have said it, whether it was true or not.

Adrian kissed Soren’s hand and pressed it again into his own. They moved along the colourful banners, tents, and tables strewn with scarves and jewels and silver that glinted in the midday sun. The colours and sparkles began to meld together in a kaleidoscopic dance that turned inward on itself, and Adrian felt as if the bottom had fallen out of his world. He was powerless to stop himself from leaning as he lost his hold on Soren’s hand and took a few stumbling steps to the side.

He could hear the panic in Soren’s voice, but the words were filtered out, muted as they bounced through the kaleidoscope. A feeling of grief overwhelmed him for the moment, then dissipated. In its place was only the aching hollow relief of a sorrow that has passed and left behind it the memory of loss. Slowly, the world began to come again into focus. When he could find his voice, he looked for Soren and spoke calmly, matter-of-factly, so as not to alarm her. “Sparrow, it’s time we packed for Ilshenar.”

gypsy_merrique · Journeyman Joined: 30 Sep 2007 Posts: 213 Location: Umbra

The water was warm and soothing, heated by some mystical means to the point of being nearly uncomfortable but not quite achieving that status. It was highly scented, with long and lazy tendrils of steam delivering the delicate aroma of sandalwood to the cooler air above. Merrique floated in the bath, untethered by gravity, and barely awake as she was held afloat in the water. Her hair fanned out around her head, absorbing the rich minerals and the richer fragrance infused into the water.

She was but a few breaths and moments of relaxation away from sleep, when the pain came. Her left hand felt as if it were afire, and she flailed about in the water as she tried to get to her knees. So great was the hurt that she feared actually drowning there if she were not able to get away from the water that had so recently covered her entire body except her face, which had remained just above the waterline. Clinging to the edge of the bath, another stab of pain bolted up her arm like a nightmarish infliction.

Perhaps it was fear mingled with imagination, but it seemed to Merrique as if she could actually see the white-hot pain pulsing upon the wicked scar that displayed itself just on the outside edge of her hand. The agony was a constant, punctuated every few moments by an electric fire.

Unsure if the voice existed only in her mind, or if it were permeated into the air around her, it came softly and without warning.

"Merrique, my child. Be free now that I am gone from this world and look forward to the next. Life is no theater, girl. It is not a dress rehearsal for which you get to make up for your errors. Learn the art of joy once again."

As quickly as it had come, it was gone, and Merrique realized with its departure, so too was the pain in her hand.

With a sob, she realized exactly what it meant, and she wept as she repeatedly asked the same question in a shaky and whispered voice.

"Joy?"

Merrique was vaguely aware of a gull's cry somewhere in the distance as it wheeled and circled in the sky. Mindlessly, the water bubbled around her, and in those moments, Merrique felt more alone than she ever realized possible.
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. . . But the dark is very trustworthy.
It's always as dark as you thought it was.
And you don't have to work at staying there.
All you have to do is survive it.
And I've been doing that forever.
from the novel "Dark Debts" by Karen Hall

Gustav · Posted: Thu Apr 29, 2010 11:27 am Post subject:

Pre-dawn cast a dimmed light on the thicket of woods. Gustav took a deep breath of the night-chilled air, laden with the same moisture that dampened the foliage and trees they hid among. This was his favorite time of day, the last moments of the night before would soon lose their battle against the rising sun. He leaned against a birch tree, pressing his stubbled cheek to its dew-sodden bark. A small rustle from somewhere high above them gave the signal he had been waiting for.

Gazing upward, Gustav could make out the blackened silhouette of their quarry against the wash-water colored sky. Barely above the treetops the eagle circled, its keen eyes scanning for its breakfast in the forest below. He tapped two fingers on the shoulder of the young boy at his side, placing the finger of his other hand over his lips to signal quiet. A small nod from the nine year old and they both turned their full attention to the bird of prey. It glided regally, an airborne monarch, for several moments before swooping down in pursuit of whatever small animal had been unfortunate enough to venture out. Down, down, down, it dove, to pluck its prey from the forest floor with lightning reflexes. Gustav could make out the small victim held tight in its talons as it rose back toward its nest, a very unlucky field mouse.

Young Nicholas at his side cheered, silence no longer necessary as their subject flew safely away with its meal. Gustav smiled and placed a calloused palm on the boy's head, ruffling his sand colored hair.

"Let's get our own breakfast, Nicko. Your mother will hunt us like that if we miss it."

Nicholas' face screwed up tightly, his lips puckering to the left as he imagined it.

"I hope it's not porridge. I want hot cakes!" he declared as they began the hike back to the cabin.

"You can't hide here forever, Gus," Danica said as she pushed the last few pieces of bacon onto his plate.

"I'm not hiding.. " came his protest as he lifted a piece to his mouth. The hot oil scalded his fingers, eliciting a hiss of pain, but he stubbornly refused to let it cool before trying to eat it.

"You're hiding, " she glanced away to make sure that Nicholas was not within hearing range. "You always are when you come out here to visit."

"Don't be silly, I come out here to make sure you and Nicko are okay."

"That's nonsense, and you know it. Alex made sure we'd be okay if something were to ever happen to him. We do enjoy your visits, though. Nicholas especially loves the exploring and time you spend with him, teaching him things. But, you and I both know that you're hiding from something," she rose from her seat, taking the empty coffeepot with her back to the stove.

He chewed the bacon as he chewed her words in his mind. Dammit, she was right. They didn't need him checking on them, there were always random gypsies dropping by. Damn her perceptiveness. Alex had known what he was doing when he chose her.

He had originally sought to distance himself from the Britannian lands, he had needed the time away to gather his thoughts. Time enough to consider his relationship with Cezanne. Before he had known it, that time had turned from days into weeks into months, and he had remained unable to make the decision to return. He knew that if she hadn't thought him a waste of time before, she surely did now. He couldn't blame her, he hadn't even left a note when he'd vanished.

He had put on hold his "clients" and personal hobbies and come back to the wild lands. He had been wandering his native Ilshenar in true gypsy fashion, performing his rounds among the camps in a more hurried state than he usually did. In truth, he had only been staying with Danica and Nicko for a week, but she had still been able to point out the obvious, though he denied it. He couldn't believe the spell of uncharacteristic indecisiveness that had taken him over for the past few months. What the hell was he waiting for, some "sign" to tell him when it was time to return?

He shook his head at himself, those signs were no joke. Any outsider could call it superstition, but to gypsies, such things were not taken lightly. Oftentimes, these hints and clues were eerily dead on. As he stood to bring his plate to the sink, he firmly decided that yes, he was waiting for a sign. He would go back as soon as he received one. The decision made, (though in truth it wasn't a decision so much as an excuse to wait even longer before returning) he relaxed a bit.

Walking outside, he took up his adopted chair on the porch and leaned back, arms folded up behind his head as he settled down for a nap. Nodding off, he mumbled sleepily to himself.

"The first sign that comes.. and I'll go back..." and he fell into a light doze as the whispered vow left his lips.

He hadn't been asleep for more than a few minutes when the mournful agony struck him. He flinched into wakefulness so quickly that he nearly fell from the chair. A hushed gasp held tight between clenched teeth escaped in a hiss as he fought to comprehend the intense sorrow and pain that was flooding through him. He remained locked in that position, half in and out of the chair and clutching the banister for balance, as the brunt of the force left him. Its wake, one still of soft sorrow, but now also of warm familiarity took a good deal longer to fade from him. When it had, he knew that a powerful and influential woman had finally let go her tenacious grip on life.

Mama Sabine is gone

He needed no further sign. Chastising himself for the many months of indecision, he quickly moved to gather his things. He needed leave no letter for Danica, she was used to his disappearing act after so many years. He was not needed here, but he might be of use in the old mother's camp. Once he learned whether or not his help was truly needed, he would set out immediately for Britannia.
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It wasn't nailed down, was it? They must not have wanted it.

Soren · Journeyman Joined: 03 Sep 2009 Posts: 102

Shirts, skirts, dresses, and gloves of every color were strategically placed on brightly decorated tables. They had been touring the Nujel'm Marketplace for over an hour. Soren giggled to herself silently. Her Adrian had the patience of a Paladin. He never said a word as she stopped to look at the antique blacksmithing hammers, or the freshly heated forges. He didn't stop her when she leaned to apothecary tent to inhale the sweetest smell of heather and jasmine, all the while pulling as his hand was tightly clasped with hers. And when she tripped over the runaway dog racing through the street he picked her up with laughter in his eyes.

Adrian was the ebb and tide of the oceans of her heart. He gave her a reason for forward movement and a reason to be still. There wasn't a moment of her life she could imagine him missing from now. So when he quickly released her hand he had such a constant grip on throughout the day and stumbled to the side, her heart and mind began to race in unison. "Adrian? Adrian? Husband, what's wrong?" His beautiful eyes that danced with love whenever he looked at her were rolling and distant as if he wasn't hearing a word of what she said. "Adrian!" She was almost screaming and her hands groped his arms searching for a way to help and not knowing how.

The moments seemed like hours until he finally retook hold of her hand and straightened himself. Scared and unsure she listened as he tried to inflect strength in his words. "Sparrow, it's time we pack for Ilshenar." She heard the words but they didn't sink in. Soren had only been to Ilshenar once, for the Gypsy night of Trivia. It wasn't like Adrian to take her someplace so dangerous. She would go with him, where he wished, when he wished. "Yes, My Adrian." His expression was grim but calm as they turned and made a brisk pace back to camp.

Sylvan Sherwood · Journeyman Joined: 14 Nov 2008 Posts: 107

She awoke to Arahim shaking her, urging her to get up. Arahim and their son were there, dressed and ready to go . . . where?

There was a sense of urgency about Arahim, yet Christopher seemed at ease. These things confused her sleepy mind.

But she didn't want to get up or go out. It was dark, and late. The sleep felt so good, and it had been so limited up until her return to her family.

Despite wanting to stay where she was, she rose and dressed. Sleepily, she followed along and soon the small family was stepping through a moongate, and walking through the darkness along a mountain's base that seemed familiar. Compassion. Sylvan was pretty sure that was the name of the area they were in.

Arahim was tense and quiet. She simply followed along until they arrived at a vardo. Arahim gestured for her to stay outside, and he disappeared with Christopher.

In silence, and sleepiness, she yawned and looked around curiously.

Why were there so many people milling around in the middle of the night?

Cezanne Abella · Seasoned Veteran Joined: 24 Apr 2009 Posts: 475

Cezanne sighed and looked around at her now empty tent. Every last bauble that could remember her to any who sifted through the stark tent had been packed away and loaded onto the packhorse outside, bound for Blackmarsh.

With one final glance, Cezanne took a deep breath and cupped her hand over the top of the lantern to blow out the flame. But the breath caught in her chest. The pain of it was excruciating, as if she had swallowed it rather than just inhaled. The lantern went clattering to the dirt floor, spilling oil that quickly caught fire and spread.

Cezanne, crawled awkwardly, still clutching her chest with one hand as she scrambled out of the tent with the billowing smoke. The walls of the tent went up quickly, and the fire ate away at the wooden tent poles. The packhorse had skittered down the firelit path away from the blaze.

And so it was here that Cezanne came to rest, on the ground just outside the tent where her fingers clawed at the dust in relentless agony. It felt as though somoene were ripping her heart from its asylum in her chest. Then came a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. “It’s been too long, Child. Go and see your Mama. She’s been waitin’ all these years, and it’s time she seen what you become. Go and see your Mama…”

The voice faded with the last words, and it took the pain with it. What remained was a sadness that knew no comfort. A hole, raw and fresh. She remembered the voice from her childhood – it was unmistakable. Maman Sabine had passed. How much longer till her own mother would go, too?

Another voice spoke to her, this time girlish - soft and dreamy - from above where she writhed in the dirt. “Where ye goin’ ta, Miss?”

Cezanne looked up to see who stood over here – she hadn’t heard anyone approach. A bittersweet smile spread across her face as she pushed herself up and dusted herself off. She cast a sidelong glance toward the packhorse, awash in the glow from the burning tent.

“Compassion - Ilshenar.”

Ember Cawood · Adventurer Joined: 22 Dec 2008 Posts: 44

Darkness had long blanketed the mountains of Minoc. Still, Ember drifted in and out of the treeline, following behind a lone miner as he led his packhorse by lanternlight along the mountain’s base. She didn’t know the gypsy’s name, but she had some vague memory of what he may have looked like when he was young. She wondered if she’d known him in some past life. But if she’d asked him, he would not have heard. No one could hear her. None but the child.

Finally, the miner began to gather and organize. Soon he’d head for home, his tent among the countless deserted and empty abodes that littered the gypsy encampment to the north. Ember drifted away toward the camp, followed faithfully by the odd chestnut horse who shadowed her every move. She was scouting ahead, she told herself. As if she could warn the man if trouble DID lay ahead…

But tonight the camp didn’t lay in silent darkness. One tent was lit inside by a lantern. Ember wondered if Cezanne was really leaving as the others said. But before she could contemplate it further, something changed. A warmth washed over her, and a light descended from above her. She could feel the raw and torn threads and tendrils of ether which made up all that she was – pull together, knit, mend. All that was wrong in the world, in nights of silent screams and wordless pleas, was made right. Spoken words passed through her as a knife through fog. “Give voice to your song.”

She knew that Maman Sabine had joined her realm, if only for a moment, but that was all it took. Ember’s translucent eyes widened with the realization of things forgotten. Henry took a hesitant step toward Ember as she seemed to radiate a light of her own momentarily in the darkness. She reached out a hand toward the horse, who lowered his head and closed his wide, dark eyes as he allowed the trailing luminescence of her hand to pass down over his forehead to his nose, and finally to cup his chin. His girl was back.

In the distance, she heard a cry. A tent in the camp was ablaze, and Cezanne crawled out the door. Ember looked to Henry fondly, then raced toward the fire. She stopped, suspended above, and watched for a moment as tears streaked the smoke and dust on Cezanne’s cheeks, then she looked over toward the packhorse, heavy-ladened with Cezanne's belongings. She remembered Maman Sabine’s words and felt a rush of hope. She harnessed the hope and used the energy to push forth her thoughts. Her mouth moved only out of habit, as the voice came from somewhere inside her ethereal form. “Where ye goin’ ta, Miss?”

Xana · Posted: Sat May 01, 2010 1:22 am Post subject:

Exhausted, Xana fell back onto the pillows and wept. She seemed to be unaware of the people rushing in to tend the unconscious girl.

When attempts were made to approach Xana's bedside, they were met with resistance.

"Please," she begged. "Leave me be!"

She seemed to be unaware of their excitement at her return to the waking world.
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An artist is a creature driven by demons ~Faulkner