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Harlequin · Journeyman Joined: 07 Feb 2010 Posts: 140

"Ye 'ave enough to eat, Miss Quinn?" The gypsy girl held up the skillet. "There's plenty more."

"No, thank you Charlotte. I've had quite enough." Quinn scraped together the last bite of her skillet potatoes from her bowl and shoveled them into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully as she watched the gypsy, who could not have been more than fourteen. The girl covered the skillet and set it on a wrought iron rack above the fire to keep the food warm. But frequently the child's gaze drifted toward the tent where her clan slept.

"Am I boring you?" Quinn half-smiled, but the smile was muted by the emotionless expression meticulously painted on her face in black and white.

Charlotte tidied her auburn curls, which were tied up in brightly-coloured scarves on her head. "Wha-? Oh! No, Ma'am. I worry about my friend Briana. She's taken ill, and the rootworker doesn't know how to fix her."

Quinn's gaze followed that of Charlotte's then, toward the sleeping quarters where she heard hushed voices. It sounded like a quiet argument, but she couldn't make out the words. The voices were soft, but rife with anger and desperation. She looked back at Charlotte and tilted her head. "What's wrong with her?"

The gypsy girl sat down on a log by the fire and smoothed her patchwork skirt. It was a subconscious act, borne of anxiety and apprehension. "Don't really know, Miss Quinn. They say she found somethin' she wasn't s'posed to be messin' with. Picked a lock on a crate in the lookout tower. Somethin' to do with a crystal..." Her voice trailed off with a heavy sigh.

Instantly, Quinn prickled. A wave of cold horror washed over her, but her painted expression did not betray the dread she felt as she watched the tent. "A crystal." She nodded once, regaining her composure. "Will she be all right?"

Charlotte shook her head, still watching the tent as silhouettes cast upon the walls grew and twisted strangely in the dying twilight. "Don't know, Miss Quinn. Mebbe if they find a way to treat it. All we can do is hope, aye?" She cast a hopeful gaze toward Harlequin, silently pleading for reassurance. Reassurance that was not Quinn's to give.

It was more than Harlequin could handle, and she rose with a slight nod, and went to the pump to wash her bowl in silence. She felt, more than saw, the gypsy girl's sad eyes watching her every move. She wondered if they blamed her for bringing the crystal. She wondered if, perhaps, it -was- somehow her fault.

But more than that, she wanted to go. To run, and put those sorrowful eyes out of her thoughts. Without turning to face the child, she set her bowl aside and spoke softly. "Thank you for the food. I'll be off, now."

Without another word, she picked up her quiver and bow, hastily leaving the camp and those searching, pleading eyes behind her.
_________________
Why should the world be over-wise,
In counting all our tears and sighs?
Nay, let them only see us, while
We wear the mask.
~Paul Laurence Dunbar

Ayana Willowsong · Adventurer Joined: 19 Jun 2011 Posts: 23

Her eyes burned with sleepless exhaustion. Four days since the child had picked the lock and found the crystal. Four days since the fever took hold. And four days since Ayana had any real rest to speak of. She haunted the gypsy camp, pacing between the kitchen and the slumber tent with heavy-hearted sighs. Inside, huddled in bedding, lay a gypsy child, her twelve-year-old body wracked with fever. And for every fever that broke, another lurked just hours down the road, waiting to ravage her again.

A soft moan from the tent signaled the breaking of yet another. Ayana pumped a bucket of cool water and took a cloth from the clothesline hanging near the fire. She soaked the cloth as she hastened into the tent to wash the girl's face and cool her as the fever broke.

"Briana. You have t' try to eat. You haven't since yesterday." Ayana blotted the cool damp cloth on the girl's forehead as she tried to plead with her. Sweat-soaked dark curls made the gypsy child's gaunt face seem ever-more pale.

The girl shook her head weakly and spoke, shaking and gasping for air between words. "Not hungry Miss Ayana. I want to see Charlotte again."

"If I let Charlotte come in, she's bringin' broth. And I'll need ye t' drink ever' drop."

The child looked crestfallen, but nodded in agreement of the rootworker's terms. Ayana turned and ducked through the tent flap out to the campfire where Charlotte was hanging freshly washed bedding and washcloths to dry.

"Charlotte, Briana's asked fer ye again. I need ye t' take a bowl of broth an' encourage 'er to drink it."

The auburn-haired gypsy girl turned as she hung the last cloth and nodded. "As ye wish Miss Ayana." She ladled broth into a bowl as Ayana watched her closely. The girl's face was sallow and pale. Sweat shone on her brow, and her movements were sluggish.

"Charlotte, are ye quite well?" Ayana hurried to her side and felt her forehead.

"Jus' tired, Miss. So tired." Charlotte forced a smile, but her eyes were listless and empty.

"You're burning up, Child. Ye should be restin' with Briana...." The horror of her words seemed to strike them both at the same time, and Ayana turned quickly to look at the chest where the crystal was still locked safely inside.

Tears began to fill Charlotte's eyes. "Am I goin' to die too?"

"No one is goin' to die." Ayana turned back to Charlotte, her fists clenched. "There may be a plague 'pon our house, but by the gods it won't take my clan."

Rosar Ashande · Posted: Wed Aug 10, 2011 12:50 pm Post subject:

It was far past midnight, or the closest to that hour as could be reckoned within the ever-present haze of Malas. For more than a week, now, a pall had hung over the whole of Ashencrosse, but no where was it darker than within the tents of its local gypsy camp. Briana—a gypsy child barely in her twelfth year—has lain stricken with an illness of certain cause but of far from certain design for several days, and now another child had begun developing similar symptoms. Rosar sat at his desk within his bedroom at the Bramble Rose Theatre, his heart heavy with anxiety. An outsider and a magic user, he had not been permitted to examine the child, but Ayana's description of her symptoms left little hope that the child would ultimately survive the ordeal. Although Ayana had more than earned his respect as a healer and he trusted in her abilities, the physician within him screamed for the opportunity to see the child for himself, and he would not be at ease until he did. Ayana knew this, and she promised to speak to the child's parents on his behalf. Until today, no one within the camp would even have suggested the idea, but, with hope for Briana's recovery rapidly fading, perhaps she could convince them that Rosar's foreign methods could do no more harm than the plague had already inflicted.

Rosar had dealt with similar sicknesses in the past. The conventional treatment was to alleviate the worst of the symptoms, keep the patient fed and strong, isolate him from others and hope that he will be able to outlast the illness. However, this illness was not diminishing in any way. In fact, according to Ayana, it seemed to grow worse each day. What most concerned him was that the patient was a child. Children, though quick to heal from physical injury, were more susceptible to disease, and, along with the very old, would all too often succumb to their affliction before it can pass. Complicating matters was the child's inability to keep down food and water. If this continued for too long, she would die for lack of nourishment, regardless of other hurts the disease was wracking within her body. The soothing draught he had given Ayana to administer to the child, he had hoped, would at least allow her to be adequately fed. If this failed, Rosar knew the last resort would be the spell of transference—a hybrid of traditional gargish and paladin magic which would allow Rosar to forge, for a moment, a temporary connection with another individual, transfering his health to hers and accepting physical and spiritual hurts into himself. It was always an exhausting and damaging ordeal to the caster, but with this strange disease, there was also the risk of contracting it. In his own weakened state following the casting, he may not survive himself. Ayana disapproved of the idea, but whether out of personal concern for Rosar's own health or for simple reasons of practicality, he could not say. Even he would not risk the attempt until all other options had been exhausted.

Mulling over the situation, trying to make some connection between the plague to the research he had done in the past week, Rosar found his thoughts turning, unbidden, to Ayana. This disease—this plague—was far closer to her heart than it would ever be to him. Emotional distance, Rosar believed, was a luxury to a healer, for although all patients ought to be treated with compassion, treatment is generally unpleasant and, often, fraught with risks. A healer with a cool head examines his options and determines what is most likely to produce the desired outcome, even if they are difficult, painful, or risky. Those with a significant emotional investment, however, may overlook these options—be too cautious, or, conversely, too zealous, and opt for the radical before the reasonable; they may be too optimistic, or paralyzed with uncertainty. Nothing could be worse than a healer who cannot keep his head clear of distractions. Ayana, though obviously full of feeling, did not seem to fall into these traps. She was a talented healer, used to treating those she has known for most of her life, and he admired this. Yet, the emotional strain had been evident this evening. She had clearly not slept, and she was angry—with Stonegate for delivering the crystal and with herself for what must seem like her failure to perform her duty. How much more could she take? And, even if she did not contract the illness herself, would she ultimately become its victim all the same through her love for those it has laid low?

With his concern for both the health of the children and for Ayana's emotional well-being drowning out the logical voice of the physician, Rosar realized there was nothing more to be done this evening. Tomorrow, there would be more dread, more sickness, but also, perhaps, another chance to solve this mystery. So long as the child still drew breath, there was hope for her recovery. This was not the hollow self-assurance of an anxious friend or parent—it was one of the core tenants of his profession, and he had seen it proven true time and again. Whatever else may happen, Rosar and Ayana would fight for the lives of the children to the end. They could do no other.
_________________
a.k.a., Killian Ond, Oliver Dunham, Iorwerth (ap Gruffydd), Husam (ibn) Sadid, Ortinlem

Merci d'Rue · Babbling Loony Joined: 18 Jan 2006 Posts: 2810

The Sphinx stared at Merci its eyes going vacant for a moment. They had tracked across the desert. Stonegate new the crystals had caused a illness in Ashencrosse, and secretly she hoped that the Sphinyx's words would provoke some understanding in her of what was going on.

Your flesh will weather many storms...

Your lack of Focus in battle will be your downfall...

Shivers, for the first time in many years ran down her spine, and she wondered if this prediction might not be the truest of all. How to make ones flesh weather many storms?

They fought their way from the pyramid to the abandoned brigand camp and bedded down for the night.

However, the Oracle did not sleep she stared vacantly for hours into the fire, until the last embers died away...

In the morning, all the packhorses carrying Stonegates supplies and provisions, lay dying upon the ground. The King gave orders to keep a sample contained but burn the rest if the bodies.
_________________
May destiny guide you...

Ayana Willowsong · Adventurer Joined: 19 Jun 2011 Posts: 23

Is there any loss greater than the death of a child? Ayana pushed the thought from her mind and focused upon the task at hand. Two children, ravaged with fever, still needed her back at camp, and the sooner she finished here, the sooner she could return. She piled thin logs, layer upon layer until they created a platform almost waist-high. Bark and pinesap roughed her hands and forearms until they chafed and bled, but it seemed such an insignificant irritation that she hardly noticed.

There are certain tasks in life that are done with flesh and blood alone. Anything less wouldn’t be right. And so she did, log upon log, her mind sluggish and numbed by the repetitive chore, until she had reached the pinnacle of the task. The moment that had lingered and loomed just out of reach, weighing heavily, threatened now to break her.

Ayana carefully lifted a bundle wrapped in white linen, cradling it to her chest as the tears she had held at bay for so long spilled unabashedly over her flushed cheeks. The burden she carried was so much heavier than the weight of the child, wrapped and lifeless, at her bosom. Her purpose was to heal. And here she had failed. The proof lay still in her arms.

She laid the bundle gently upon the stack of wood and anointed the cloth over the child’s face with precious oil. Every synapse in her body protested as she poured half a bucket of coal oil over the child and the wood. She set the other half aside and took a breath, soul-deep, to steady herself.

Is there any loss greater than the death of a child? She closed her eyes and spoke a silent blessing over the body of Briana, then turned to finish her task. She lifted the second bundle and gently laid Charlotte beside her friend. With a vial of oil, she anointed the child and then poured out the last of the coal oil, soaking the linen and wood. With a final moment of silent blessing and every last ounce of her will, she took up her torch and employed fire to its purpose.

Yes. Indeed, there is.

Aurelia Bretane · Posted: Sun Aug 14, 2011 12:46 pm Post subject:

“Two children dead. Two more ill.” Aurelia pushed open the stained glass window of the theatre and looked down over the gypsy camp from the third floor. “Ayana can’t do anything to stop this?”

“Si, Contesse.” Agostino rose from his seat and approached Aurelia’s position at the window. “She has ordered everyone else to the camp in Compassion to quarantine the afflicted.”

“Really?” Aurelia turned to look at him. “Yet here you stand. And I see at least seven people still in the camp. All in addition to the afflicted.”

Agostino stood behind her now, looking down over her shoulder. “Signore Rosar.” He pointed. “And these here? The parents of those lost, and those we are still in the process of losing. You try to tell the mother of a dying child that she must go and leave that child behind.”

Aurelia sighed resignedly. “And you?”

The gypsy backed up a step as the countess turned to face him. “This is my place. I will protect my clan come what may, Contesse.”

Aurelia saw the dedication in his dark eyes, and nodded. “Very well. I would visit the camp today, and see it for myself.”

“Contesse…” Agostino instinctively raised his hands in protest.

“Your clan is a part of Ashencrosse. And as such, it is my clan as well. I will visit the camp.” Aurelia spoke with a renewed sense of authority. “Besides, you told me yourself that only children thus far have been afflicted.”

“Thus far, Contesse, si.” Agostino frowned. “I will accompany you into the camp, but I must urge caution nonetheless.”

Aurelia’s expression grew somewhat darker. “The time for caution has well-passed, gypsy. This plague ends now, or I will end it myself.”

Ayana Willowsong · Adventurer Joined: 19 Jun 2011 Posts: 23

Later, she would remember that when she first saw Rosar tonight, he looked more resolute and peaceful than she had ever seen him. But right now, all Ayana could see was uncertainty – her own. That of the children, who had thought the idea was funny when she took it to them. And fear enough for all of them.

The two who suffered now were a brother and sister. Their parents had begun to accept that their world would soon be lost to the senselessness of a faceless enemy. Brendan was a quiet boy, ten years old. He was strong for his age – cut wood, pumped water, repaired the palisades. Sarah was a blythe spirit who danced about the camp in colourful scarves. She was only six years old – “nearly seven!” she would remind anyone who called her a child. She filled the air of the gypsy camp with songs sung sweetly, and even now sang to her brother, when the two were not shuddering in fever’s deathgrip.

“Rosar will touch you as he speaks his spell. He will give you his health, and make you well again.” Ayana forced a smile, and believed her own words because she had to, or lose all hope completely.

“Will it tickle?” Sarah smiled. “Will I grow a beard like Mister Rosar’s?”

Ayana laughed and cradled the girl who hugged tightly around her waist. “You won’t grow a beard. But it might tickle. His spirit will make you better. But it won’t make you Rosar.”

Brendan watched Ayana quietly a moment before speaking. “Will it hurt him?”

Ayana paused, her smile vanishing in an instant.

“It will huh?” The boy lowered his head.

“If it works the way it’s supposed to, he will hurt only for a little while, but it will save your life. Rosar can get better again.” Ayana spoke her hopes, and hid her fears.

Sarah began to fade, her blue eyes growing distant as the fever took hold of her again. Brendan watched her, and held her close to him as she shuddered and cried, until at last the fever reclaimed him as well.

It was then that she heard Rosar’s step approaching the tent.

Ayana Willowsong · Adventurer Joined: 19 Jun 2011 Posts: 23

“Have you told them that only one can be saved?”

Ayana shook her head, casting her gaze downward. “I couldn’t.”

Rosar nodded resolutely and placed a hand under chin to lift it up again. “This is going to work.”

The rootworker nodded, swallowing and taking a deep breath to fight back tears. “She won’t suffer further?”

“No. It will be nearly instant. He is stronger, Ayana. Chances of saving him are far better. If I try to save them both, it will kill us all.”

Ayana’s chin quivered as she took another gulp of air and spoke, “It’s so much to risk…”

Rosar smiled reassuringly. “That’s why it’s called sacrifice.” He sighed heavily. “Let’s get on with it.”

Ayana watched him for a moment. “You’ve eaten? Rested?”

Rosar nodded. “I have.”

She sighed too, now, and led him into the tent.

Sarah brightened instantly and reached out to Rosar, taking his hand. “I like yer hat Mister Rosar.”

The healer smiled warmly and spoke with Sarah affectionately. He placed his hat on her head. “For luck!” He smiled and turned to Brendan, who sat sullen, his dark waves damp with sweat, and his cheeks ruddy with fever. “And you’ve been very brave. I’m proud of you.”

All too quickly, pleasantries faded. Ayana stood back and watched as Rosar knelt before the children. His eyes closed as he began to speak a mixture of arcane words – gargish phrases, and ancient languages that even she did not recognize. He placed his hand upon the boy as he spoke and light pulsed and radiated, illuminating an aura around the boy. Sarah watched breathlessly as her brother radiated light, and the aura around Rosar faded to the point where it was barely visible.

Brendan looked from Rosar to Sarah, a look of panicked realization beginning to settle into his expression. Without hesitation, he reached out and placed his hand upon Sarah’s shoulder. Instantly, the light flowed from Brendan to his sister, leaving his aura as pale and dark as Rosar’s.

Ayana covered her mouth, horror-stricken as a pained expression crossed Rosar’s features. He waited for the right moment, and pulled the boy from contact with Sarah, as he released his hold on the boy as well. Contact broken, Rosar and Brendan simultaneously emanated the most pained, gutteral, and primal screams she had ever heard uttered by another human. Only then did Sarah turn to realize what had happened.

As the light faded from Brendan, so did his spirit. He collapsed, his skin and hair aging white as he sank lifelessly into the pillows. Death had claimed its trophy with silent wings.

The colour flooded back into Sarah’s cheeks as she looked confusedly from Ayana to Rosar, who now tried to crawl forward. His cloudy blue eyes unfocused, he paled and staggered to one side. Ayana on one side, and a renewed Sarah on the other, they helped him down onto the bed beside the body of Brendan, to begin the fight for their half of death’s prize.

Sarah · Visitor Joined: 18 Aug 2011 Posts: 6 Location: Ashencrosse

Sarah giggled as Rosar plopped his big red floppy hat down over her head. It was warm, and smelled like sunshine. Just like Rosar. He adjusted a rainbow-dyed silk scarf she wore around her neck and stood back admiringly. In this moment, he seemed genuinely happy. Happier than she’d ever seen him, for sure.

“Beautiful, Madamoiselle.” Rosar bowed with a flourish, leaning heavily on his staff. He winced only slightly as he straightened up again, and he winked at Ayana, who by contrast seemed sad. Her eyes were red, her arms crossed, like she was hugging herself. She smiled when Rosar looked at her, but it wasn't from her soul. The smile was only for him.

Rosar turned to Brendan. “And you’ve been very brave. I’m proud of you.” Brendan still didn’t trust him. She’d tried to tell him Rosar was a good man, but Brendan was old enough that he tried to be just like the grown-ups. They didn’t trust the healer either. Brendan remained silent. Sarah frowned.

Rosar handed off his staff to Ayana and knelt down in front of them. He took a deep breath, then started saying words that Sarah did not understand. Rosar started glowing. She’d always known there had to be a reason he smelled like sunshine. Sarah smiled and watched as the glow moved along Rosar’s arm, and Brendan started glowing just like Rosar. It felt like her heart puffed up with happiness. Rosar was saving Brendan, just like Ayana had said. She watched breathlessly, and waited her turn to be saved, too.

Then Brendan looked into her eyes. The light that shone from them was so beautiful it hurt to look at it. But she couldn’t take her eyes away. Sarah saw pictures in her mind that she’d never seen before. Skipping rocks on a creek. Brendan’s dog, Oscar catching a stick. A sunset over the mountains. A first kiss by campfire light…then scary images, too. Screams. Darkness – drowning in blood. They were vivid and hazy at the same time, and felt altogether alien. It was then that she realized that the screams were no longer part of the dream.

The light went out, and it took some time for her eyes to adjust. Brendan sank back into the pillows asleep. But Rosar was hurt. He could barely move. She tried to help Ayana move him onto the bed, somehow finding that she was stronger than she had ever felt.

Ayana tended Rosar, but he fell asleep beside Brendan. Sarah watched Ayana’s face. Something had gone wrong, she was utterly sure of it. It was the first time she’d ever seen Ayana unsure what to do when someone was hurt or sick. Well…the second time. The first was Briana.

“They’ll sleep and feel better, Miss Ayana.” Sarah offered.

Ayana hugged Sarah to her and leaned in to whisper to Rosar. “If you can hear me, I’m here. Rest awhile…and then come back.” A tear slipped down her cheek as she covered up Brendan and then cradled Sarah close to her. Peacefully, the night slipped by. Sarah slept, on and off, but Ayana never did. She wondered how Ayana stayed awake so long. Well, she supposed, I guess that’s just what a healer does.
_________________
To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a heaven in a wild flower,
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
And eternity in an hour.
~William Blake

Rosar Ashande · Posted: Thu Aug 18, 2011 9:36 pm Post subject:

Time is meaningless to the unconscious mind. Without the sun, without the moons, without the changing days and seasons, how can the mind fully comprehend time—understand what it means for a thing to exist in the present, and what it means to for it to live in the past alone? The mind makes of the present a distant memory, while the past, free from the shackles of time and perspective, appears to it vivid and clear—and to a mind out of time, what is the difference?

Rosar now lived out of time. He could not say for how long, but whether it was an eternity, or a day, or a minute, he had known only darkness. Now, however—whenever 'now' was—a light promised to banish the shadows from his dreams, but there was no telling what lay beneath. Shadows may obscure a truth that is far darker than any would care to imagine. Rosar knew well the power of denial, but now, he had no such defense. Whatever secrets his mind wished to reveal, it would—in all their luster; their repugnance; their banality.

The light grew brighter. Rosar could see that he stood alone in a small room, barely larger than him. Grey walls, grey ceiling, grey floors. Here, too, he remained for another eternity, in utter silence, until a thunderous voice broke the silence.

Is this death?

The question echoed in the tiny space as if shouted across a great chasm, in a million different voices and intonations—young and old, male and female—and he could not be sure if he himself had just spoken those words. He covered his ears, an instinctual response, but futile—the mind needs no ears to hear its own thoughts. He understood at that moment just how powerless he was in this place. One by one, the voices grew silent, and he was truly alone once more. Whatever the source of the question, no answer came, and he knew that none ever would.

Rosar looked about, but he did not feel this action was of his own will. The room was gone. He stood, now, upon a vast, snow-covered plain. The fierce light of the sun above reflected off the drifts and banks, but his vision remained flawless. In the distance, a single tree, its branches heavy with fresh snowfall. He felt himself moving toward it, unsure whether he was walking or floating. The tree grew closer and closer, until all at once, the scene froze, and, for a fleeting moment, time once again had meaning.

Somewhere, a woman sang. The lyrics were in Common, but they seemed an ancient, forgotten tongue to Rosar's ears. Emotion clung to her every word—a deep sadness for things as they are, but a sadness far eclipsed by an ardent hope for what they may be. He listened for as long as he could—seconds, only—and wished with all in him to stay—wherever he was—with the song. Such things, however, are never to last, lest their significance be lost. He knew this well, but still he fought to keep the song, even as the timeless world of the dream once again took command of his senses.
_________________
a.k.a., Killian Ond, Oliver Dunham, Iorwerth (ap Gruffydd), Husam (ibn) Sadid, Ortinlem

Ayana Willowsong · Adventurer Joined: 19 Jun 2011 Posts: 23

Here and there in the rush of time and tide, a soul finds a means by which to anchor itself, safely harboured from the storm.

Ayana sat quietly at the foot of Rosar’s bedroll, as she had for two days. Rest was an elusive shadow that crossed her visage only rarely, and even then, for scarcely more than a few moments. Sarah entered the tent silently with a bucket of fresh, cool water and set it at Ayana’s feet. Her expression was one of a child enlightened. She’d endured more in the past two days than most anyone could take in a year. Still, her eyes were wide and bright as she watched Rosar for any sign of movement.

“Thank you Sarah. You’ve been such a good help.” The rootworker took up a clean cloth and soaked it in the bucket, then wrung it out and leaned in to wipe the sweat from Rosar’s brow. She prayed that each fever broken would be the last, and that he would awaken and shake off this nightmare. And she prayed that she might shake it off as well.

“He can’t die too, Miss Ayana.” Sarah spoke evenly, matter-of-factly. There was no hint of pleading in her voice. Within the child lay a steadfast faith. She wondered what the child had seen that she herself had not.

“Death comes to us all, Sarah. You mustn’t be afraid, no matter what happens. You will be brave?” Ayana’s pale blue eyes sought answers in the child’s gaze.

“Come what may.” Sara placed her petite hand gently against Rosar’s cheek, turning to whisper softly to him. “I know why you fight. You’ll come back, Mister Rosar. Don’t be afraid.”

For the second time today, Rosar seemed to respond. But it was not a response to the child’s touch or her soft words. He grimaced, and turned his face toward the light of the lantern. Ever-so-much paler than he was the day before. Ever-so-much more fragile. Ayana wondered if death would not be a welcome relief to him now. And she wondered how selfish she was to hope that relief was not offered him.

Sarah removed her hand from his cheek and looked at Ayana. “You should sing to him again. It takes away the hurt. He needs to find his way.”

Ayana looked from Sarah to the expression of suffering that darkened Rosar’s features. She refreshed the cloth, wrung it out, and resumed her task of cooling his face as the fever continued to break.

Song had never been her strength. She didn’t have the voice of an angel. What she had was the hope and light she shared through her craft. She had the desire to help, however she may. Because the hardest thing a healer will ever have to accept is that, no matter how securely she is anchored in the harbour, someone else still weathers the storm. Softly, she lifted her voice in hopes of calling him home.

Sweet Rivers of redeeming love
lie just before mine eyes.
Had I the pinions of a dove,
I'd to those rivers rise.
I'd rise superior to my pain,
with joy, outstrip the wind,
and cross death's cold and stormy main,
and leave this world behind.

~*~

Sung Softly

Rosar Ashande · Posted: Fri Aug 19, 2011 10:37 pm Post subject:

As the song faded at last, Rosar found that the tree in the distance now stood but feet before him. The endless plain had been replaced by a snow-covered forest, though all but the tree in front of him appeared oddly hazy, as if out of focus. Despite this, he knew that this place was the forest along the road between Britain and Trinsic. He knew this spot well.

It was here that, ten years ago, he cast away his first chance for redemption.

A body, a man, lay motionless in the snow; blood had pooled beneath it, staining the beautiful white drifts bright red. As his eyes fell upon the gaping wound in the corpse's chest, the sky dimmed, the sun disappearing behind grey, angry clouds. Snow began to fall in sheets, obscuring all but the tree and the corpse. Rosar shivered and instinctively reached to pull his cloak about his body. It was then that he noticed that not a single flake was sticking to the corpse. Indeed, it seemed not to be snowing over the body at all. He again found himself moving against his will, floating toward the fallen man. He could see the details of his features. He was young, perhaps in his early twenties, at the most. His scalp had been split, exposing the skull beneath. Rosar felt a sharp pain that seemed to emanate from bottom of his skull as he was overcome by another vision.

A black-hilted longsword collides with another, smaller blade. The smaller sword is then pulled back. Rosar remembered this well. A foolish move by an inexperienced swordsman. A sense of triumph over his imminent victory washed over him, just as it did then. Yet this time, it did not last. Instead, a new feeling began to consume him.

Terror. Mortal fear. That which a man experiences upon realizing he has made a mistake, and that in moments, he will be dead.

A voice which was not his own called out in his mind.

Mother?! Where are you?! I'm sorry! Father, I forgive you! Please! Do not let me die!

His perspective had changed. No longer was he merely watching and feeling. He stood over his fallen opponent, blade in hand, poised to deliver the final, murderous blow. The man—this boy—never said those things. He was too frightened, too wounded to even beg for mercy from his victorious opponent. He did not have to say a word, however—his eyes pleaded for enslavement, for imprisonment, for another chance; anything but an end. Rosar opened his mouth to scream in anguish, in fury at his past self, but no words escaped his lips. Instead, another voice echoed within him.

He would never have listened—not even then.

Rosar lifted the blade in his hands, centering the tip over the boy's heart. Dread and regret filled his heart, but this time, his actions were not his own. He wanted to close his eyes, anything so that he would not see this again. Yet, eyes mean nothing in a dream.

The blade fell, far more slowly than he had remembered it. As it sank into the heart of his opponent, Rosar felt an intense pain, as if the blade had impaled him instead. He looked down at his own chest. Bright red blood gushed outward, creating a pattern as it fell and mixed with the snow. He bled for hours beneath the tree—for years, perhaps; there was blood enough to fill a river.

For every man he had made to bleed, so too did he bleed. For every death, he had died as well. A hundred, or a thousand—how many deaths had he suffered?

The pain subsided, and the snow before him melted into a lake, filled with blood and corpses, save for a pristine patch of glittering water. From there, a face stared back at him. It no longer looked like him, but he knew this was his reflection. What was left of his face was scarred and bruised, skin grey like that of a decaying corpse. His skull was exposed and cracked. Worms crawled from behind his empty eyesockets as maggots fed upon what remained of his brain.

In another time, he may have felt fear, or saw in this vision of his own death a promise of justice. Instead, he had only a question: is one death enough to make up for a thousand?

As if in answer, the lake and the bodies—everything around him—disintegrated into nothingness, and Rosar felt himself floating within a dark, dimensionless void. For the first time since arriving in the dream, he knew he was in control. His confusion over this development was only momentary. Somewhere, a woman sang. He began to move toward the voice, not knowing whether he was rising or falling; walking, flying or swimming. It was becoming louder, clearer, and this was all that mattered.

Sweet Rivers of redeeming love
lie just before mine eyes.
Had I the pinions of a dove,
I'd to those rivers rise.

He recognized the voice at last—it was Ayana! He called her name out into the void, all the while growing closer to the song.

I'd rise superior to my pain,
with joy, outstrip the wind,
and cross death's cold and stormy main,
and leave this world behind.

The dark void began to shatter, a brilliant light shining through the fractures in its formless walls. His heart soared with hope, giving swiftness to his movements.

The light engulfed him, blinding him. The song continued, yet his hope began to fade. How could he be stopped now?

He called Ayana's name in desperation and the song abruptly ceased. His heart sank. At the same time, however, he became aware of something that had been missing in his dream: the sound of his own breathing.

He was still alive.
_________________
a.k.a., Killian Ond, Oliver Dunham, Iorwerth (ap Gruffydd), Husam (ibn) Sadid, Ortinlem

Agostino · Adventurer Joined: 22 Feb 2011 Posts: 41

Tired. More tired than he had ever felt in his life. Agostino clung tightly to the woman he carried, but every inch of his body cried out for rest. He was mere feet from the tent when he paused, unsure whether he could take another step.

"Signorina Ayana...per favore!"

He had thought to scream, but the words came softly. With no other choice, he pushed forward on sheer willpower. Two steps inside the tent, he saw the rootworker look up from her lamplight vigil, horrified. But he could go no farther. The world around him was greying out. With one last monumental effort, he shakily lowered the fever-ravaged woman he carried to the ground, and collapsed sideways the dust.

Agostino · Adventurer Joined: 22 Feb 2011 Posts: 41

What is this fire which burns through my veins, but fails to consume? Madre della terra, spare me this pain and allow the fire to do that for which it was created. Consume. Destroy. Per favore, spare me this living hell, this inferno…

Agostino muttered, his eyes opening to mere slits in the lantern light as he rolled his head from one side to the other. Ayana hastened to his side, bucket still in hand, and washed his face with the cool water. It was the first time he had uttered a sound beyond the death rattle of breath which had been her constant companion for two days.

“Agostino? Agostino. Come back to me. We need you here, now.”

He heard the words, but their order made no sense. The fire was his only reality. Then, something cool touched his lips. Bliss, this heavenly sensation. He lifted his head instinctively, his parched lips seeking it again. Finding the cloth, he sucked water from the very threads.

“Water…WATER! Sarah!” The words were clearer now, and he knew the meaning of water. The fire inside that raged now was hope.

The child entered quickly and he saw the rootworker lift a dipper to his lips. Frantically, Agostino raised up, shaking, grasping at the dipper with one hand as he supported himself with the other. He cupped the dipper against his lips and drained it. He feared to let go, that the illusion might be lost. He took the dipper into his hand and filled it again.

“Slowly, Agostino. Slowly…”

But her words were of no use. The fire craved that which would destroy it. He emptied the dipper in seconds and filled it yet again, spilling it over his bedroll, himself, his hands, and those of Ayana. He paused after the third dipper and looked at Ayana gratefully.

Ayana watched him cautiously as he lowered the dipper again to the bucket, and took it gently from his hand. “Apologies, my friend. I need to get medicine in you before—“

But it was already too late. Agostino swayed violently to one side and vomited the water in the dust. He retched long beyond the point of emptying his gut, and Ayana wiped his face again with the cloth.

Agostino, his dark waves hanging in sweat-soaked ringlets, cast an apologetic gaze upon the healer as she washed away his sick. “Mi dispiace, Ayana. Mi dispiace tanto.”

“Don’t apologize Agostino.” She turned to the child still standing steadfast behind her. “Bring the yellow elixier. A small vial.” The child nodded obediently and ran to the kitchen tent to retrieve the medication as Agostino flopped listlessly back against his pillow. Ayana busied herself cleaning up the mess.

“Is this the end?” Agostino’s dark eyes sought hers and searched them for answers.

“Only the gods know, Agostino. It is their will now. I am only their hands.”

Ayana Willowsong · Adventurer Joined: 19 Jun 2011 Posts: 23

“Don’t ye worry none, Miss Ayana. I’m ready.” The woman’s eyes spoke the words that her lips did not. She was ready. But she was also afraid. In despair. Hopeless. And too weak to fight it anymore. She had once been strong, proud, and unshakable in her faith that a good woman can do anything she set her mind to. But her body had withered, and with it, her faith. “Please take care o’ Sarah. An’ by th’ Goddess, thank Mister Rosar for…” the woman cast a sidelong glance toward where Rosar, ravaged by fever, lay still and quiet, and a muffled sob caught in her throat.

“Please, no, Karina…” Ayana fell to her knees in the dust, leaning over the bedroll to scoop up and cradle the ailing woman against her. She wanted to plead with her to fight. She wanted to promise that if the gypsy woman could just hold on a little longer, Ayana would find a way to cure her. She wanted to promise her that no harm would ever come to the woman’s daughter, no matter what happened this day. But none of these words would come.

The only thing that Ayana could think as the light faded from the gypsy woman was “No.” And that was what she said. “No…no, no, no…please no…” She pleaded with the illness that stole Karina from her as much as she did with Karina herself.

“Please…no.”

She felt the life slip from the body of the gypsy woman, and Ayana held her tightly, sobbing. She couldn’t help thinking that somehow, if she held tightly enough, she could keep the spirit here, inside this body, until the danger passed. But reality spoke to her, and she knew her pleas – her attempts at holding on – were futile. Still she clung to what was left and rocked gently, tears streaming down her cheeks as she continued to whisper. “No, no, no…”

“Miss Ayana? Mama?” The quiet voice came from behind her, just inside the tent flap.

Ayana took a deep, shaky breath, and composed herself, laying the lifeless woman back down upon her pillow. She wiped the tears from her face with her apron, then turned and lifted a hand toward Sarah. “Come here, Child. You will be strong?”

Sarah hugged a pile of clean bedlinens to her chest and nodded, walking over to where her mother lay in front of Ayana. Words failed the healer as Sarah stood beside where she knelt. There were no words that could help now. At least none that Ayana could say.

Tears welled in the child’s eyes as she looked down at her mother, but she spoke, quietly and calm. “It’s just a shell, Miss Ayana. An’ sometimes you just can’t fix it. It’s not yer fault.”

She laid the linens down at the foot of the bedroll and wrapped her arms around Ayana’s shoulders. The rootworker buried her face in Sarah’s apron as the child hugged her close, and the two souls in communion wept – with one another, for one another.