Part 6>>>The Shadow of Love (an LoF adventure)

[Salinye]

Senora 60/60

Senora released the grip she held upon her sword in an act of attempted trust more than anything. He referred to himself as “formerly a paladin”. She didn’t know many paladins that left their orders without some great meaningful reason-often shameful ones at that. However, that mattered not at the moment. Even if he had mispronounced the goddess’ name, he at least had recognized the talisman that hung from her neck as a symbol of Kaelin’Dar, Goddess of love and light. She would reserve her opinion of him for a later date.

“No rudeness taken, I assure you.” She bowed her head slightly in place of a more customary curtsey, the motion demure all the same. “I am Senora and your assessment is correct, as I am a priestess of Kaelin’Dar. I would be happy to learn of the Helm and tell you of Kaelin’Dar, but first I want nothing more than to leave this forest before night falls. I also very much wish to meet your companions. Whether or not I will stay in your company past that will remain to be seen.” Her words were spoken in kindness, her wariness evident. “Please, lead the way.”

[mistral4543]

Let me out, I tell you!

It was a wretched cry that echoed in her ears but which she was not sure the gods - or whoever was her captor - could hear.

What have I done? Why are you doing this to me?

How long had it been since she were trapped in this world of uncertainty? It felt like two to three human years, at the very least. Suspended between the heavens where her dearest parents strode in blissful company and the earth upon which her loving husband (or ex-husband, as it appeared now) trod, she was lost. Lost to the news that happened in both worlds. She had borne it for two to three years... just how much more of it could she take?

Why do you keep me here?!

But the silence continued to smirk and fold its arms, enveloping her in an ominous embrace...

[ 04-08-2005, 10:33 PM: Message edited by: mistral4543 ]

[Cyril Darkcloud]

ooc: Posting on TAO’s behalf ......

KayLisa Greywolf

She stiffens. The calling of the banewolves has fallen silent. Her wolves shift their bodies restlessly, too frightened to do anything more than rise briefly to their feet before lying down once more beneath the comforting forms of the great stones. She, on the other hand, grows very still, each sense alert for the slightest hint of movement or sound, and the expression on her face hardens. There must be an ending, an ending to the blasphemy that follows in the footsteps of these creatures, an ending to the threat they pose to all who live, an ending to this most terrible of hunts where she is pursued by that which exists but to destroy her and all that she holds sacred. A prayer to the gods in whose name she has been cursed and whose cause she yet serves forms within her throat. Without thinking she raises her fingers to the silver band around her neck, and, at the touching of her fingers to the cold certitude of the unyielding metal, she speaks, a note of iron in her quiet words, “Stand with me this night, You whose power is the strength of this holy place. Stand with me, for there must be an ending.” The directness of her words surprises her, but there is no time for considering such things as the flat monotone of an angry growl sounds once more. Somewhere, not very far away, within the darkness the banewolves have gathered.

[Larry_OHF]

For Silt: You find yourself trapped in a cage of glowing green steel.

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The DM recognizes the return of Mistral...and her ability to use the word "smirk" in a sentence, just like the old days.

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Tao: It has been great knowing you.

[ 04-08-2005, 10:51 PM: Message edited by: Larry_OHF ]

[mistral4543]

Rong Er

As she dragged her sobbing feet along the gravel path, she blinked against the beating sun and her shoulders sagged. It had gone all wrong, terribly wrong. The sting that she had felt upon her cheek, that smack that had sent her charging out of her beloved homeland, out into this foreign world, had long existed to smart.

What had she learnt so far, that was worth learning?

New places, true... new things - and pretty ones at that - also. But along this journey, she had taken a few knocks, knocks that were perhaps well-deserved and would prove invaluable lessons in future, but she had gained something else.

The experience of true loneliness.

For while she had felt deprived of companionship back in Peach Blossom Island, surely her dearest Papa - who dotted upon her - could be counted upon to spend comforting hours bantering with.

It was his slap that had caused it all... but was it a slap she had earned, just like the bruises she had collected since then?

She bit her lower lip, tasting salt as a single tear rolled down her pinkish eyes.

[mistral4543]

Huang Yao Shi

He continued to stride forward, his back rigid and his steps unforgiving as his eyes raked across the horizon with the practised skill of a hunter - and the hunted.

Where are you, Rong Er? The force of anguish erupted from his gut, but in the true fashion of stubbornness, died along his windpipe.

The memory of that fateful day had never ceased to haunt him, and momentarily, he looked down at his right palm with revulsion, wondering if he should just chop it off. With this hand, he had slapped Rong Er. Rong Er, whatever was left of his beloved wife and his last link to her.

Wife... he paused in his search, his mind drifting to the circumstances of her departure, circumstances that would torment him for the rest of his life…

It was a sunny morning, and he was educating his disciples when the moronic priest, Zhou Bo Tong, arrived with the cursed manuals. Moronic he was, for he would not stop prancing about in that ridiculous way and was quite incapable of being more sensible – that much he could see. But those were not ordinary manuals… no, they were treasures coveted by the pugilistic world, and there were hundreds who would not hesitate to kill in order to attain them and learn their secrets to reach invincibility. The opportunity was there for the taking, and Huang Yao Shi’s wife – eight months’ pregnant – saw and took it.

”This isn’t the real version, Zhou Bo Tong.” ~ ”You’re lying! Of course it’s the real one, it’s the real one!” ~ ”Why would I lie to you? I only have your interests at heart… look here, there’s one word here all wrong… and the other, here on this page… why, it’s so very different from the original version I read!” ~ ”No, no, I don’t believe it, don’t believe it!” ~ And so, it was agreed that she would read through his manual and verify that indeed, it was a counterfeit…

It would have been perfectly harmless and useless in any other person’s hand… but his wife was exceptionally gifted with a brilliant memory and intelligence – that now Rong Er inherited, his Rong Er who was still missing – and she imprinted this into her mind. The next day, she recited the passages word by word but deliberately changing one or two. In a fit of pique, the gullible priest shred his manual into a thousand pieces and stormed off in a rage…

Over the next few weeks, Huang Yao Shi’s wife laboured day and night, tapping on her memory to reproduce the manual – now the only one in the world, for her beloved husband. But fatigue and pregnancy were drawing away her lifeline and her days were numbered… on the day she finished the last word, she went into labour, out popped adorable Rong Er… and his wife was gone…

Huang Yao Shi shook his head and cleared his throat, gripped by a fever of urgency, regret and heartache. He would make it up to Rong Er. He would spoil her – the way he had always done, to make amends to his wife – but first, he must reclaim her, get her out of harm’s way. He owed his wife that, at the very least.

Reaching for his flute, he brought it to his lips and a strange tune spun around him before drifting off, hunting for its young mistress…

[ 04-09-2005, 02:23 AM: Message edited by: mistral4543 ]

[mistral4543]

Rhianneth

Closing her eyes, she wrapped her thin arms around the tree trunk in a backward hug, listening to the calming whispers of the leaves.

Let go… let go…

And indeed, why should she not let go? What else was there to be fretting over, that was so important, that merited a lifetime of unceasing struggles?

Her father had killed himself because of guilt, guilt that his wife had aided in poisoning Mistral’s mother. Her own mother had died shortly after, leaving herself an orphan. So Mistral’s family had indirectly created an orphan out of herself. But who was to blame?

Everything was so clear now, that it frightened her how warped her mind had been earlier. A mind that had been bent on wrecking revenge upon Mistral.

Now that Larry had gone off to right whatever wrong he had done to Mistral, surely she was free? Larry was probably thousands of miles away from here anyway, and she – now degenerated to a fragile shell of a woman, stripped of her powers of sorcery – could be of no use. There was no point kidding herself on this count, and she could not deny that this was a wonderful excuse for backing out of this whole plot.

At the back of her head, she remembered a tune… what tune was that, that her mother had hummed to her so often? She smiled now and opened her eyes.

Yes, that was it. She would bring joy to others, in the humblest way possible. And above all, she would mind her own business from now on.

Picking up speed, she began skipping through the woods and headed towards civilization in a light-hearted dance…


Post-script: Little is known of what happened to Rhianneth Freelight, except that she gained some reputation as a minstrel and dancer shortly after. But what is known is that she never once stepped foot upon the Freelight Manor, ever again.

[Cyril Darkcloud]

For those with ears to hear......

Tongues are loosened this night. Tongues moldering and desiccated, tongues mute with the silence of the grave. Jaw bones fallen away from skulls twitch in a crude pantomime of speech and the very dust of the tomb stirs. Long have they been forgotten, these numberless and nameless dead – buried and lost beneath the inexorable turning of posts. Slain by hands mightier than their own, ground beneath boots that cared little for the blood over which they trod, tonight they stir. Bony fingers bend at the knuckle and disjointed ribs move as if allowing room for breath and a hoarse murmuring begins to rise where lips of flesh once covered tooth and bone. And so it rises, the murmured hymn of the numberless horde of the slain.

Indistinct at first, its syllables lurch insistently upward from neglected tombs and deep grave pits demanding a hearing and by slow increments coming to clarity. The free and living air embraces the song exhaled from dead throats and bears it outward to those places where the living struggle against the grave. The sounds which fill the night sky fall silent and even the droning anger of the banewolves pauses at the passing of so great a portent as this. “Fallen,” they sing, the voices of the dead, “fallen is the Nightmare. Fallen.” In tones that by turn carry bitterness and joyfulness and sadness and fear the song is lifted and borne upon a cold draft that betokens more of winter than summer in its touch. “Fallen. Fallen to rise no more. Fallen into nothing.”

Again and again the chorus is repeated. Insistently it presses against the ear. Outward it runs even into those places where Shadow stands ascendant once more. Having been heard, the song changes its key, taking on a grimmer cast and falling in volume to little more than a whisper of breath, a whisper pregnant with threat and heavy with the echoes of the past, a whispered snatch of song plucked from another thread which promised the falling of another .......

Lightning smokes on the hillrise
Brought the man with the warning light
Shouting loud ;you had better fly;
While the darkness can help you hide
Trouble's comin' without control
No one's stayin' that's got a hope
Hurricane at the very least
In the words of the gypsy queen.....
- April Wine

The winds fall still at these words and the numberless voices of the dead grow silent. Silence such as this is not that of mere speechlessness, however, but the silence of thought. And the stillness is that which precedes movement rather than that which brings movement to an end. And within the silence and surrounded by stillness the mind has room to ponder the meaning of these things. The dead too pause, whether such pause is for reflection or not might well be debated, but the pause is real. So too is the note which rings throughout the forums with a grim finality, for a host without number murmurs in the husky voice of the grave a single note:

DOOM!

And then all is silent.

ooc: With a nod to Walt Simonson’s classic run in the Thor comic.

[ 04-09-2005, 09:00 AM: Message edited by: Cyril Darkcloud ]

[Cyril Darkcloud]

ooc: Clearing up some loose ends.......

For Lyulfe

They headed North to investigate a tragedy, but they have done little more than drift. The forests of this region are dense and forbidding and not easily navigated without being lost. The rocky hillsides are little better, allowing passage only reluctantly. Repeatedly they have lost their way and their days been reduced to pointless movement and growing frustration. Not long ago, Rong Er passed the breaking point. The argument between them was short and bitter, and now he travels alone. The way has grown easier these last two days, and the sting of the argument has lessened somewhat.

Sunfall has long faded to darkness and as he prepares to settle into sleep he sits upright with a start. The noises he hears in the distance off to his left have no natural place in these wooded and rocky hills. He rises and begins to move forward and stops cold in his tracks as a series of savage cries breaks out. Whatever manner of person it is who calls out in such a way, there is no mistaking the savage hostility of the voices. Other noises follow in quick succession, the sounds of blows being struck and the terrible sounds of voices screaming in pain. He moves forward quickly, the dim light of the moon affording him a bit of vision in the darkness. Reaching a rocky outcrop near the sounds, he pauses and cautiously looks down into a hollow where the scattered logs of a what had once been a campfire glow dimly from a dozen different directions.

The sight is chilling. Several large humanoids, their hair long and matted with sweat and filth, their skin gray and leathery, their hands clutching bladed weapons, move about with a savage excitement among the corpses of a slain group of travelers. One of the creatures turns its face upward in his direction and the moonlight reflecting of its vacant eyes proclaims the truth of its blindness. Grimlocks!

He is well concealed in this place and sighted eyes could not hope to perceive him. Grimlocks, however, do not rely upon sight. Rough hands reach out from behind him, siezing him even as he watches the grimlocks below. His own ears experience directly the savage notes of their anger. And then there is the swinging of blades. And then he hears no more.

ooc: Lyulfe has been killed.

[Larry_OHF]

The Mage of Shadow

At this moment, the Shade’s ability to be in more than one place at a time due to his demi-god status was rewarded with precious information.

Since one of his selves was stuck in the outer-forums that Cyril had taken him to, that conscience of himself would not have heard the call of the dead. In fact, that form of the Mage could do nothing but linger with Cyril until his nemesis could be persuaded to allow the Mage to return back to his own domain.

The other conscience of the Mage that sat in his Tower, brooding over the fact that his servant Andrion had not yet found Silverfall, indeed heard The Awakening. He was alert and waiting for something to happen. Hoping for something to happen. Desiring that news of some sort would reach his ears and tell him something useful.

He was not wasting time with the fools in the castle, now that Larry was not there. They were the dross. He could not look for Larry himself for fear of what capabilities the young fool possessed. If he were to get near, then who knew what might occur. Larry had already proven to have strange abilities, as had been reported earlier. Tao was busy with the banewolves, but they would have their work cut out for them with her. He did not need to waste time spying on that occurrence. She’d be dead soon enough. It was not worth his time. He glanced over at his newest prized possession…her shadow, and knew that one way or another, she would meet her demise.

But now something had indeed come to his attention that was worth looking into. A call to arms. A call of awakening. The sound of many that had slept, now being aroused into animation. What was this?

The Mage had to investigate this new phenomenon. He turned his attention toward the North. He saw the rise of power from that direction; a gathering of a large army in preparation for war. The energy and hatred produced by this stirring of evil was so intense…it had actually awakened the dead from their dusty rest. The Mage was most pleased at this event. Apparently, the Reaper was hoping to take land from the North, and using an army of evil to do so. In so doing, he had created a new weapon that the Mage could use for himself. It was just too funny, and he laughed aloud, his dark laughter echoing down the dark corridors for none to hear but one. And she was glad that he was in a better mood than before. She had already suffered greatly at the mercy of his anger, but to know that it was over for now settled her.

He watched the army of Grimlocks as they ascended from the ground and began to hunt. It was fascinating. He saw them kill, saw their strength, and knew that they had to belong to him. They needed a leader. He would not be able to lead them himself. So he just waited, and watched.