Just a Book
From Atlantic Roleplay Wiki
Just a Book Roop Dirump, Bard
The sheep bray, wind soft across they and the old man. He chewed on a bit o'grass, content he was to lean back on one frail arm, long legs like branches now of the damp log he sat upon. His eyes twinkled once in a while, the wind wagging a tuft of his grey hair to and fro' cross his brow. He stared out at the sea, had been staring for hours nay a movement, save that of his eyes.
Squatting here for days he had, and would be for many more, eventually noticing his hunger and choosing to chew some bread rather than some dying grass stalk, as always.
The old man didth not jump when he heard the voice, but his eyes darted.
«Uncle Gremio !»
'Twas the voice of Fernwig, long dead sister's son. «O ye be here, I knew you would ! Thank the Great Serpents !» «Aye,» he croaked, then swallowed. Gremio pulled out a flask of ale and uncorked it.
«I knew ye would be here ! Always watching the wool grow !»
Gremio leaned forward and sipped. «I hath not noticed... Be it time for...» He squinted. «Nay, boy, not time to be shorne.» He hiccuped softly. «But look ! Hath thou not noticed ?» The young man thumped his chest wildly.
Gremio turned his head slowly and looked the boy over. He was wearing the distinctive grey robe of the dead. Old Gremio then closed hies eyes and let his chin drop to his chest. «Ye have the aura of a thing gone bad, boy. What hast thou done now ?»
Fernwig, Gremio remembered, long long ago, back in the times when children still existed, been always the same. Gremio remembered the boy all red in the face, glowing with pride and o'r'evil, the blood of a neighbour's chicken soiling his hands and very soul itself. Gremio recalled those times well, though so many a year blended into another. Gremio's father died of old age ! And children been born and grew. Strange times come now, and old Gremio be uncertain how many a year it hath been.
Now no one be borne, no children, and no one really dies. Gremio thought at first this wouldst be fine, back when Nystul didth initially explain it, but he still doth not understand it, and doth not like what it hath caused... to people like his young nephew. «...guild ain't a chance ! But we doth returned with more ! And they paid, uncle ! They doth pay the price !»
Gremio held up a hand. So many times he been storied such as this, he doth not wish to hear it yet again. «Let me askest thee something, my boy.»
Fernwig didth stop, mouth still open, ans chest heaving with the excitement of his own tale.
«How many a time hath thou died ? How many boy ? Likely be many as our ancestors --»
«Haven't thine ears been on ye head, uncle ?» Fernwig cried, rolling his eys. «They come ! I needest thee to open a gate to town ! And I needest gold to get myself reequiped !»
«Come ? Who doth come ?» Gremio asked, sitting up. Suddenly the old shepherd instinct madeth his blood rise.
«,The guild !» «Boy, thou art indeed a fool !» Gremio said. His legs creaked as if they be as wooden as the log they been so much a part of, after so many a day. «Ye may call it all a game, but this be me flock ! And I shant ye playing ye fool -- disrespectful of life -- Fool games here !»
Fernwig stuttered a moment. «I-I sorry Uncle Gremio -- but I came, but er, I hath but nowhere to go.»
«Damn thee ! Ye hath no fear of death ! Ye should have walked as one of the dead to yonder towne !» Gremio counted his sheep, then leaned his crook on the log. The old man raised his arms, then made intricate yet invisible patterns in the air before him. «Vas Rel Por», he whispered, and at once there be a flash and a blue shimmering portal rose from the earth. He hastily grabbed his crook and began herding his flock through the portal. «Ye best go yerself,» Gremio hissed.
«I stay and help !» Fernwig said. «You fightest them with magic !»
«Fight ? With magic ? Bah !» Gremio snorted, wielding his crook like a scyth. As if on some daemonic cue, three figures upon horseback rose the crest of the hill. Gremio gazed at them, frozen a moment. He had not seen such auras in a very long time, for these were dread lords, vile murderers, faces hidden beneath polished plate helms.
«Damn !» Gremio said, feeling his body tremble from the force of magic. His reflective spell took the brunt of it, and collapsed.
Insanely, Gremio wondered how very long it had been when he had placed that spell on himself. He gripped his crook, unsure wether to drop it and cast another reflective spell or save the last of his flock. He brought the crook down on the rump of a sheep with such force it may have snapped. The beast brayed in fear and ran for the portal, just as it snapped shut.
Fernwig rolled his head back and screeched, his voice cracking. Fingers outstretched like a lich's, he reared back once and charged the three men, who said not a word, save those of magic. «Damn thee !» Fernwig screamed. «Damn thee to the void, scoundrels !» One man's helm tilted downward at Fernwig. Saying not a word, the man did pull a halberd from his back. He swung it once in a wide arc, smasking Fernwig's skull.
The death-blow never brings the pain, say, of a simple wound. Nay, the dead-blow is, in fact, quite painless.
Fernwig was lying on the grass, and the grass was in him.
He slowly rose upwards, and glanced down at his corpse. Hideous, he could not even recognize his own face. The three horsemen, heard Fernwig, traveling away and down the hill whence they came. «They leave !» Fernwig howled. He turned, and saw the body of his uncle Gremio, small rivlets of smoke rising from it. «The sheep be saved !» Fernwig wailed. «Uncle ? Where be ye ? Through the portal, aye !»
But Fernwig never found his uncle, in spirit nor flesh. And as the years didth pass, and he sat on that log on the hill, he oft wondered if the Great Serpents had heard his uncle's gruff complaints that death held no meaning, that death be nay really death at all anymore, and if... Perhaps they had granted that which Gremio had really wanted afterall, a real death -- perhaps somewhere with children. Fernwig doth count the sheep now, and wonders if he mightest find it one day, too.