Ironworks Gaming Forum - View Single Post - Tavern by the Creek V -- New Directions

Cyril Darkcloud · 12-08-2004, 11:48 PM

Deep it has fallen, tumbling far below other threads in its dormancy. The relentless forward movement of the post count and the starting and ceasing of younger games have carried it far beyond the light of the upper page of the RP Forum. So far had it fallen that even he who had so long been a part of the shape and movement of its plot did not find it easily, this last thread of the game wherein so much of his own story has been told. Still, he has found it, for a promise has been made, a promise he is bound to keep.

All is quiet here and he remains silent himself. The silence of so well-written a tale as this saddens him for it is the silence of that which has languished unfinished and unresolved. Indeed, much of what has been written here shall remain ever unfinished and unresolved for that is the price that has been paid in his sacrifice of his own story, a story so much a part of this game, that other characters in another game might be free to tell their stories without being destroyed by the Devouring Wind. Much of what was begun here shall not be concluded for the plot of his tale has been wrenched from this thread and so the possibilities for his life originally held out in this tale are his no longer. Gone now are the possibilities of love and a new family and the great struggle against the ancient enemy has been resolved without its details having been written. He is no longer the same character as that one those nearly 3 years ago who made his first appearance at IronWorks in this game. Still, however, he remains the man of stormy quiet who makes his home in the storm, and while much of what had been written here shall ever be nothing more than unrealized possibility, there is much that must still be finished.

His fingers tighten upon the handle of the Stormreaver and the still air around him bursts into gusting movement. “Thread Necromancy,” that curious term for reviving a long fallen thread is frowned upon by some in these forums. He smiles and fixes his gaze toward that distant land beyond the mountains where the seat of Modding Power makes its home in newly vigorous shadow. “So be it,” he says with a quiet grimness. Burns appear upon his fingers as life moves out from them through the axe to mingle with the wind. “Let him see that he is not the only one that might restore what had been fallen.” Extending his arms, he holds the axes outward from his body and his face takes on an ecstatic cast as he intones the song of the storm. A great clap of thunder sounds in the massing stormclouds, its concussive force adding even more violence to the gales moving outward from the windbringer. There is a violent wrenching within the thread itself as wind and lightning rout its dormancy and the fallen, slumbering words of the tale awaken and begin to move once more. Upward through the roll of posts and threads it rises until once more it finds a place on the uppermost page of the Forum.

Wind and thunder fall still as the thread settles into place yet life still pours from the windbringer and the burns climb up his forearms. The air around the head of the stormreaver seethes with the silver color of lightning. Plotlines no longer possible to finish still shackle this tale like mighty chains of words. Breaking these chains will destroy forever what might well be the best of all outcomes for his own story. Not to break them, however, is to consign others to remain trapped in a tale that cannot move forward. “To live is to move,” he whispers, repeating the great belief of his people, “and a tale that cannot move is a tale that is dead, however beautiful its words might be.” With a sudden movement he brings the stormreaver down upon the chains of words, snapping them. The violence of the blow rushes outward through the thread as plotlines are severed and reordered. The winds resume their gusting, carrying those characters lost within the tangled details of the story upward until they as well stand where they might be free to resume their own stories within this thread or to leave and seek their futures elsewhere.

A promise has been made and this promise has not, nor will it be, lost. “Sofya,” he says quietly once the storms have grown quiet once more, “Sof’ya ush’a ha’shama’im...... It is time, time to wrest your freedom from the grasp of your curse.”

12-08-2004, 11:48 PM	#90
Cyril Darkcloud Lord Soth Join Date: February 7, 2002 Location: New York Posts: 1,980	Deep it has fallen, tumbling far below other threads in its dormancy. The relentless forward movement of the post count and the starting and ceasing of younger games have carried it far beyond the light of the upper page of the RP Forum. So far had it fallen that even he who had so long been a part of the shape and movement of its plot did not find it easily, this last thread of the game wherein so much of his own story has been told. Still, he has found it, for a promise has been made, a promise he is bound to keep. All is quiet here and he remains silent himself. The silence of so well-written a tale as this saddens him for it is the silence of that which has languished unfinished and unresolved. Indeed, much of what has been written here shall remain ever unfinished and unresolved for that is the price that has been paid in his sacrifice of his own story, a story so much a part of this game, that other characters in another game might be free to tell their stories without being destroyed by the Devouring Wind. Much of what was begun here shall not be concluded for the plot of his tale has been wrenched from this thread and so the possibilities for his life originally held out in this tale are his no longer. Gone now are the possibilities of love and a new family and the great struggle against the ancient enemy has been resolved without its details having been written. He is no longer the same character as that one those nearly 3 years ago who made his first appearance at IronWorks in this game. Still, however, he remains the man of stormy quiet who makes his home in the storm, and while much of what had been written here shall ever be nothing more than unrealized possibility, there is much that must still be finished. His fingers tighten upon the handle of the Stormreaver and the still air around him bursts into gusting movement. “Thread Necromancy,” that curious term for reviving a long fallen thread is frowned upon by some in these forums. He smiles and fixes his gaze toward that distant land beyond the mountains where the seat of Modding Power makes its home in newly vigorous shadow. “So be it,” he says with a quiet grimness. Burns appear upon his fingers as life moves out from them through the axe to mingle with the wind. “Let him see that he is not the only one that might restore what had been fallen.” Extending his arms, he holds the axes outward from his body and his face takes on an ecstatic cast as he intones the song of the storm. A great clap of thunder sounds in the massing stormclouds, its concussive force adding even more violence to the gales moving outward from the windbringer. There is a violent wrenching within the thread itself as wind and lightning rout its dormancy and the fallen, slumbering words of the tale awaken and begin to move once more. Upward through the roll of posts and threads it rises until once more it finds a place on the uppermost page of the Forum. Wind and thunder fall still as the thread settles into place yet life still pours from the windbringer and the burns climb up his forearms. The air around the head of the stormreaver seethes with the silver color of lightning. Plotlines no longer possible to finish still shackle this tale like mighty chains of words. Breaking these chains will destroy forever what might well be the best of all outcomes for his own story. Not to break them, however, is to consign others to remain trapped in a tale that cannot move forward. “To live is to move,” he whispers, repeating the great belief of his people, “and a tale that cannot move is a tale that is dead, however beautiful its words might be.” With a sudden movement he brings the stormreaver down upon the chains of words, snapping them. The violence of the blow rushes outward through the thread as plotlines are severed and reordered. The winds resume their gusting, carrying those characters lost within the tangled details of the story upward until they as well stand where they might be free to resume their own stories within this thread or to leave and seek their futures elsewhere. A promise has been made and this promise has not, nor will it be, lost. “Sofya,” he says quietly once the storms have grown quiet once more, “Sof’ya ush’a ha’shama’im...... It is time, time to wrest your freedom from the grasp of your curse.”