Falling Sun

Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by ze_kraken, May 19, 2015.

  1. Villagemap.png
    The night was chill and the sky above rumbled with thunder, though hardly so much as a drop of water flew from the pitch-black clouds. Lanterns throughout the town crackled and swayed in a light gust and few enough dared the coming storm. Hardly a single house went without lit windows and closed shutters, all fearing the tempest they believed would come. Above all the sounds the village produced in the wind the sounds of hooves stamping across cobble streets could be heard along with the clink clink clink of metal upon metal.

    None stopped the lone, cloaked traveler as he led his supply-burdened mount into town. He wore an uncolored and rough spun woolen cloak over scraps of mail and boiled leather. A sheathed blade, only about a head shorter than its owner, bobbed across his back atop a red tower shield of leather-bound wood. As he walked, his nail-studded boots left sharp imprints in the film of filth and mud that had formed over the streets. His horse, a black beast that towered over its master, was laden with plates of armor and two massive burlap sacks. Yet despite this load, the animal hardly broke stride nor paused.

    At last a tavern came into sight and the man's attention shifted from aimless wandering to the refuge the inn offered. A flickering torch beneath the inn's swaying, creaking sign depicted a crude sketch of a green snake with three heads with a line of script running beneath the image, though doubtless few could read it. Guiding his horse to the inn's stables - no stable boy was in sight to take charge of the animal - the man gave one last look around the tight alleys of the street. Apparently satisfied, he tethered his horse and headed into the warm glow of the inn, the rain beginning to fall the second his mud-clotted boots struck the entrance mat.

    A low din of chatter filled the inn's common room and the scent of cooking meat flooded the entire floor. Few had spared the newcomer a second glance as he strode towards the bar, his harsh brown eyes meeting with the innkeeper's flat, unintelligent and drooping one.

    "Rate?" Came the man's voice, raspy and strained from lack of use.

    "Ten coppers 'n evenin', ser." The barkeep responded, beginning to take more interest in a smeared mug than the man opposite him. "Meal'll cost 'ya a'bit more'n that in the mornin' if 'ya so wish."

    Fluidly, the man reached for his side and produced the necessary payment from a leather pouch strung tight to his belt. Almost casually, the barkeep took the coin and prompted. "Why 'ya armed so?"

    "The roads this far east are hardly kind upon unwary travelers."

    "Ah, that I've 'eard, 'yer room's the one upstairs 'n to the right. 'An if I in'quire, what be 'yer name? I've yet to see someone come from so far west 'ere."

    "Ernard Lysell." The man responded and, before the barkeep could pester him further, he left to gather his belongings from his horse. Once alone, the door to his room locked, Ernard freed himself from his armor and cloak and sat upon the edge of the bed, letting the Else take him into its ethereal realm. The magi here had hid herself well, if perhaps her only mistake being that there were rumors of her at all. His physical self gone, an echo of the Else, Ernard set himself to searching for the pull of other magi. Dim sparks, those without the gift of the Else, flashed and glowed in his search, but those were only distractions to the real prize.

    There. There she was, close by, but then all was relatively nearby in the Else. Honing his attention in on the low-glow of ember light that embodied the flow of the Else, Ernard attempted to locate the girl. His instincts told him she was a ways away, towards the fringes of the town, living far from the other sparks. Quickly consolidating the path within his mind, he snapped back into reality, a film of sweat having formed across his brow and his heart pounding from strain. Ernard gave himself a moment to recover before he stood, grabbed his hunting knife from where it stood upon the floor and flung his cloak across his shoulders, and set out back into the night, cloak tugged tightly to his body to protect from the falling rain.

    Half an hour later, considerably more soaked than he had began, Ernard arrived at the place the Else had given in to mortals. A plain cottage, the lights extinguished but for a low glow of candles and walls in disrepair, stood before him. Drawing his knife and adopting a low crouch, he cautiously ambled his way towards the front door. Readjusting his stance once at the door - his footsteps having been concealed over the sound of pouring rain - Ernard slammed the flat of a clenched fist across the door, knife ready to strike in the other hand. There were other magi in hiding willing to take a strike at the Solaris, and if this one wished to die sooner rather than later, it would be no harm to himself...​
    #1 ze_kraken, May 19, 2015
    Last edited: May 20, 2015