The Witch IC

Discussion in 'THREAD ARCHIVES' started by Lady B, Apr 27, 2014.

Thread Status:
Not open for further replies.
  1. The old man's hands shook as he grabbed his mug. He blew at the surface of the hot tea, which was mostly boiled water, roasted grass and a few, wilted tea leaves. His morning cup of tea was the only thing that would keep him warm as he guarded the northern exit of the castle city of Greistburg. The exit was only a narrow road, trailing up the icy, unforgiving mountains. The winds blowing from their peaks was what chilled the man to his core, but he didn't waver from his position as guard. He was part of the older generation of soldiers, one that wasn't corrupted by the strange evil which had seeped through the entire army. In truth, the old man was no longer part of the army, but he had been positioned here by the king when he was still senseable, to protect the city from any eventual intruders, and wouldn't move an inch. At first, the general in charge of his division tried to convince the old man to leave, but eventually, he and everyone else forgot about him. But the old man didn't mind. He saw this as his purpose in life, and as such, he didn't care if he were to slowly pass away in the cold. For a very long time, noone tried to cross the border from either side, but eventually, people began walking up the mountains. Not a single one of them returned, however, He sipped from his mug of tea, and wondered what faces he would see today. He always made a mental note of them, because in a sense, he would be the last person to ever see them alive.
    #1 Lady B, Apr 27, 2014
    Last edited by a moderator: Apr 28, 2014
  2. [​IMG]
    How Eidr Began His Journey
    Here we begin by telling of what happened to the son of Ádis. A white rider rode out from the gates of Greistburg. He carried himself in the manner of a knight, riding straight and tall on the back of a fine white charger. However, there were no pennants that hinted to his allegiance, no coat of arms that could have given insight into whether he was friend or foe. The elaborate faulds in his horse's armor were the only indicators that he had any sort of allegiance or loyalty at all; they had been crafted in the style of a bird's wings. Although it was impossible to guess his house and family from such a little detail, certain things could be assumed about this white rider and his gallant white horse. The feather motif suggested that he was a backwoods, superstitious fool ; white wings were a symbol of safe travel and of the hope that the traveler had that they would return safely to their own home and bed. Unless, of course, this white rider was one of the feared einheriar - the undying warriors of the Old Faith who had waged war against the rest of the world centuries ago, and as they died on the battlefield, their souls were plucked from their corpses by the Norns - the female spirits who decided the fates of all mortal men. These einheriar were thrown against the sky in the manner of stars - white and shining, riding through the black battlefield of sky on white wings. When their dread master, heralded by the opening of his single golden eye, awoke, the einheriar ceased their fighting and slipped inside their halls to drink with one another and understand the enemy they hated so - only to test their strength against one another the very next day.

    The white rider was not literally an einheriar, and he was no fool either. Thus, the observer had to take into account the way that he rode, the noble bearing that he carried himself with, the way that the eye of the Od Faith's dread patron reflected off of the paleness of his horse and hair. The white horse had been stained by the fith of a dozen city puddles, but this did not diminish the silvery sheen of its coat, nor tarnish the paleness that was evident in both horse and rider. Here the skald must warn the listener that he is hesitant to call the white rider a hero, but in lieu of another word, refers to him as such. The hero, for the observer who was blessed by wisdom, wore his loyalty in his colours afterall. For it was no accident that the rider was so pale, that his horse was the colour of snow; these were small declarations of an unspoken loyalty. Although no observer could know this, a skald can write it down; this rider was no einheriar or fool, but a man who had been pulled from his mother like so many other men. However, the rider was unique in that he had been born drained of blood, pale and silent like a corpse on a slab. Although a skald would hesitate to call him a hero, it is important for the sake of the saga to note that this hero was born pale, and rode through the world on a white-wave. Now we introduce our hero, born of a colourless line, Eidr of the Grettis, descended from a family that praised paleness above all else in the world.

    Now Eidr rode forward on the back of a white horse, one that he called Elliði - 'one who is alone'. He was the worst sort of hero, and was running away from his monsters instead of taking them to the sword. And in the manner of the worst kinds of hero, he had no skill with swords or axes at all; the honourable art of the blade was rootless in him. Eidr carried with him the coward's weapon, a bow and arrows and thought himself a force of justice in the world. For he rode to undo the evil that had been done by his mother, the völva, Ádis; but as the runes on his bow said, and as he himself knew - Evil begets evil. And the force that he rode towards was certifiably evil; a witch was said to live in the mountains, and it was in her magic that this supposed hero hoped to end the evils of his family line. Magic, however, was never to answer to any hero's prayers. Grettis was cursed himself, by a creature greater and paler than himself called Glamyr ; but in the manner of a proper hero he had chopped off that creature's head instead of run to the side of a völva. A völva had started the troubles, and now another völva was sought to undo the damage. The magic of women could not be trusted.

    But Eidr was a boy, not even old enough to shave, and he thought himself gallant on the back of his white horse with his grim heart. He was grim though, as was appropriate for a hero. Heroes should not be cheerful or make merry; it lightens their burden. They know that they are doomed to die, and Eidr was no exception. Thoughts of his death coursed through him like poison as he rode forward on the back of his white horse. In his hands clattered the whale-bone runes that the útlender-wif woman had given him, along with his bow and his horse. He had carved the runes, as was proper. He clutched at them nervously. They guided him about his course, and he asked them the directions every few minutes; to be certain that he would not be blown off of his path by a turbulent mountain wind. Our hero was afraid, and in his death-thoughts he played through every scenario that would lead to his death, all the while imagining what he would say to the witch that he sought. He knew, with the wisdom of heroes, that he had to be careful about what he asked for, as the magic of women and witches was not only fickle, but inclined to treachery. Runes were reliable, and so he flicked them over and over in his mail gloves, the clink of whale-bone against chain resulting in a strange din that surrounded him.

    Eidr now saw the old man waiting for him. It is the custom of heroes to be accosted by strange men on the road, and for those heroes to take their advice; for the betterment of themselves and their future gain. Elders carried with them the grace of the Old Faith's dread patron, the god Lögsögumaðr, who had taught the birds to speak and humans senselessly repeated their words. The old had heard more birdsong then the young, and for that they were wiser. Eidr, however, was so caught up in his bloody thoughts that he nearly trotted past this man. But after he saw himself die for the eleventh time in his mind's eye, he came up from this grim chain of thoughts, and looked at the man.

    Now our hero spoke, and his voice was quiet and low; an even tone that was neither readily raised to anger or joy. "Elder." He murmured, bowing his head. The movement of his head caused Eidr's hood to slip over his entire face, so the young man pulled it back, revealing his fair features to the elderly man. "This is the path to the mountains where the witch dwells?' His words were strangely stilted, as if he had not been taught to speak through proper conversation; the wise observer would see this. In truth, as a skald can note, Eidr was raised to only speak in borrowed phrases from the wrongly interpreted myths of his mother, and of a faith older than the man before him. As so, Eidr began his journey.

  3. [​IMG]


    Damn it Rave, you somehow always get yourself in this mess! The blonde haired boy swore in his head. He packed what was left of his essential belongings into a leather bag and tied the string around the top to secure it. He knew that his sister hated him right now; the fact the she was was refusing to talk to him was proof enough for him. His mother was even speechless at the idea that her only son was going to go search for a witch that may or may not actually be there. He believed that she was though. He had to do something about this curse that was his anger. His father didn't know yet; he was away on official farm business in the cities.

    They won't even know that I am gone. I couldn't hold a job anyway. His silent conversation still going on in his head. He grabbed the bag and threw on his black leather jacket before heading out of the dusty room. It was a small room, bigger now that everything was out of it. It didn't hold much memory to him since most of the time he was either outside or in the cities working, but it was still a place that he had gone to every night to get away from the drama of his family. He let out a sigh. He knew why his sister and mother was angry. They needed more money to come to this farm...they were almost out again. He clenched a fist, knowing well enough that he HAD to get his anger under control so that he could get another job to support his family. Life was tough enough for them; they didn't need his anger hanging over their heads as well. That was his own burden to carry.

    Turning away, he walked down the creaky, old staircase and into the kitchen which smelt of fresh apple pie, "Mother." Rave said, seeing his mother standing before the stove. She had her back turned to him, and didn't look back when he spoke.

    "I see that you're ready to go now?" She asked, her voice cold as ice. Rave flinched. She was angry, and he was starting to wonder if he should stay. No...they'll run out of money then.

    "Yes. I-I am ready to go. Where is Aloni?" Aloni was his little sister. She was probably out with the horses again, like she usually was. His mother just grunted and started to do the dishes again. That was it then. That was her goodbye. Rave sighed and opened the front door before looking back at his mother. He studied her before walking out the door. This could very well be the last time that he saw her. He sighed and walked out, letting the door slam behind him, "Aloni!" He yelled, looking for her.

    A girl walked out of the barn. Her black hair--completely different than his own hair--was pulled back into a pony tail. She was getting ready to ride. She looked at him and sighed, "You're leaving, aren't you?" Rave just nodded, hoping that she wouldn't give him the cold shoulder either. Instead, she sighed and turned away, "I don't understand why." He never told them; that's why. He didn't think that that mattered, but he guessed wrong. They were angry because he was leaving with no apparent cause.

    "I have too. I already told you that. Please, come give me a hug goodbye." He asked, holding out his arms. She turned around, tears down her face. Running up to him, she threw herself into his embrace. This might just be the last time that he saw her again. When they pulled away from each other, he turned and started to walk away. Aloni didn't bother stopping him...he was going to do this no matter what.

    Rave walked past his home, and left the memories behind. Looking at the path ahead, he kept his head held high and spirits up. He walked down the path and out of sight. A few hours had passed when finally he came upon a gate. An old man sat there, sipping out of a tea cup. Rave tilted his head, "Hello?" He asked, confused.​
  4. The old man tilted his head up to observe the one who had spoken to him. He was surprised to hear such a noble, but old-fashioned way of speach. The man on the horse in front of him shone white like the snow on the mountains, as did his steed. Such purity in colour could only be the sign of a long forgotten nobility, one that used to be among the most influential, but had been reduced to mere crumbles. No doubt, the youngling was going to see the witch, just like all the others that left the city. He had even said so himself. But the old man couldn't help but ponder upon the reason for which he sought her aid.

    "Yes, this is the way to the witch. But if you believe you will find her on top of the mountains, you are wrong. You must continue down the other side, and travel through the Forest of North. Even then, there is no guarantee that you will find her. She has hidden her existance from mankind, and only a select few may ever even know of her presence. As such, if she decides that you are not worthy of her counceling, you will be left to wander alone in the woods for the rest of your life, unable to find your way back."

    He continued sipping on his tea, and after deciding it had cooled down just enough, he allowed it to pour continuously down his throat.

    "Tell me, young man, are you prepared to die before even getting the chance to speak with her?"
  5. "Ailidh, please--" His father said quietly. He was standing at the entrance to Ailidh's room where the young man was preparing for his trip. Ailidh's back was to his father so the older man couldn't see how much Ailidh really didn't want to go. But he had to. In a way, he was the strongest of his family. Not physically, but mentally and emotionally. If his brothers or father went to the witch they would most certainly ask for her to return their mother, and his father's wife. And Ailidh wished to do the same. All he really wanted was to see his mother again and live happily with her and the rest of his family. But he knew that even if he did wish her back, she would be taken again because of the filthy sin that had taken control of the hearts of the soldiers. He knew he had to ask for the witch to restore the kingdom to how it originally was. So he couldn't stay and continue to dote on his father and brothers. He couldn't cower behind them when the soldiers passed by. He needed to do this. For all of them. For his mother. For the kingdom.

    "Father, I'm leaving now." He said, taking a moment before turning to face the older man. His father looked so tired and sad. It broke Ailidh's heart to see him like this. But the sooner he met the wish, the sooner his father would be able to smile once more.

    His father didn't try to stop him as he walked past already accepting what his youngest was about to do. His brothers watched him from where they sat at the kitchen table. When he reached the door, he heard the screeching sound of a chair scraping against stone and suddenly his middle brother's arms were around him. "Brother...Please, be careful. Come back to u-us," His voice cracked then and Ailidh's heart almost stopped. His brother had never let weakness show, not even when the kingdom fell into ruin. "Come back safe." His eldest brother finished, as his middle brother was unable to keep talking.

    Ailidh's said nothing. He wouldn't make promises when he had no control of the outcome. Instead he nodded and walked out.

    His eldest brother had a young steed named, Lorcan, a large beast with pitch black fur, the only non black part of his body was a white splotch on his ear. His brother had given him to Ailidh as a gift for his journey. "He'll never abandon you. He'll stand by your side till the end. He is a true war horse." His brother had said and Ailidh believed it. Even when the soldiers had begun taking from others, Lorcan had escaped from his captors and returned everyday until they decided it wasn't the trouble and let him be.

    He sat astride the horse now, and started out at a slow trot towards the northern exit. When he reached the location, he did not dismount but instead called to the elderly man who guarded the door. "Please allow me to pass." He murmured.
    #5 Cosmic Penguin, Apr 28, 2014
    Last edited: Apr 28, 2014
  6. It was weird.
    How exactly weird, Jack didn't know. Yet, when a family bid goodbye and farewell to whoever leaving the family, tons of tears and final words were often used. When it came to Jack, it was different. No touching moments were shared between him and his concert. Rather, cruel words were used, even violence.
    "You think I care?" He remembered himself saying as he held the dagger tight in his hands, watching his own father bled because of the very wound his son created on his cheek. Jack himself had wounds on his face, probably out of punches and slaps from this argument that had grown into a fight. For once, he didn't have a smile on his face.
    "Don't even think you'll be able to survive searching for that weird witch. You'll be cursed by this concert and die like a poor wretched cat, and while we here are getting all the money and richness and praises and becoming more famous and popular, you'll just going to be spit on," his father had said, angrily, his fist tightened and his expression a twist of hatred and insult, probably of his own son's betrayal. He spat out saliva before continuing, "You'll have no future out there. We are rich and lovely just the way we are. We don't need you saying these types of concerts shall be destroyed. Who cares about who are suffering while we're doing so well? Wake up, son. I thought you're smarter and more intelligent. Don't act like an angel thinking you're saving everybody, how childish! Besides, you BELONG here."
    Jack had been so deeply disgusted upon hearing that. He had walked right up to his father and grabbed him by the front collar, before pulling him up close, his other hand, which was holding the dagger, used it and pointed it toward his father's throat. With his eyes as cold as ices, he slowly growled out the words."You raised me as both a sufferer of a devil and a devil himself...And you still think I'm trying to be an angel?." He remembered himself smirking as he said those words. With a jeer he continued, "How pathetic. I'm just leaving you for this concert and you along to suffer." With a final slam his father crashed into his chair while Jack himself turned around, walking toward the door. His final word escaped his mouth as he opened it and closed it behind him. "Goodbye."


    "Boom! Three gigantic lollipops exploded from these 3 balloons! Heh, magical aren't they? Now now, these are for you kids. Now as for you parents, 3 dollars for each lollipop."
    Anyway, what happened when he left the concert was in the past now. Jack, who was now searching for the witch, walked slowly toward the exit gates, all the way earning little amount of money from different people. He acted extra friendly to people now, for merchants usually acted super nice when they tried to get more money, right? Fake or not? Same thing when it came to concerts, but Jack didn't want to think about those.
    Why getting money? It wasn't for any particular reasons, except for those "just-in-cases." He was not sure if the old man at the gates wanted money or not. He was not sure what kind of people he might met beyond the gates as well. Either way, having some money with him was always for the best.

    He didn't bring much stuffs with him, and he only traveled halfway with his horse. It turned out that he didn't like horses, riding it made him uncomfortable. Because of that Jack had decided to travel the rest by feet. He was used to walking anyway.

    The huge, friendly happy smile of a clown slowly vanished from his face as he watched the parents and children, the family he had sold 3 lollipops to, happily disappeared from his sight. His expression was left with his usual plain, not-exactly-smiling-but-not-emotionless-either face. It was a face that often confused people to think if he was actually smiling or not.

    Finally, he reached the old man by the gates. With his politeness and a tiny, unreal smile, he bowed a little bit before asking. "Hello, am I allowed to pass?"
    #6 SilverBlack, Apr 28, 2014
    Last edited: Apr 29, 2014
  7. Rave looked at the small group of people that was slowly gathering at the gate. He felt his stomach clench. This isn't good... if anyone pisses me off, who knows what's going to happen! He looked at the old man who still hadn't spoken to anyone but the man in white armor. He wasn't sure what he should be doing. He took the bag off his back and sat down. If they were to wait to pass, he might as well keep himself calm. Instead, he thought of life back at home. Sure his sister and mother were mad at him, but just think about when he can finally keep a job? They'll be thrilled! They won't lose the farm, and his father can quite working long shifts.

    He thought about his father then. His father was going to be furious with him...but he wouldn't understand why Rave has to go! It better for everyone. ​
  8. It is now that our hero considered his options. If he turned back, he would be returning to the mother who had tried to murder him, the woman who had murdered his twelve brothers and sisters, albeit by the hand of her brother. Ádis was the woman who had broken every vow she had ever made, and had allowed for the brutalization of her kin. And even if he turned his back and went to the city, Eidr would not confront her. What could he possibly say to her? He suspected that she felt no shame for her wickedness, and that no amount of words could persuade her to the side of the just. Righteousness and honor demanded her death- but such reparations were usually demanded by the brother or son of the victim. He may have been Gromr's brother - but to demand his mother's death made him as evil as she was, a kin killer at his roots. What is a son to do when a mother kills her child?

    It was impossible for him to turn back: if he had, this is where his saga would have ended. The skald's words would have said; "Now, Eidr is out of the Saga"- but that is not how the story goes. The story cannot end before it truly has a chance to begin. So now we must focus on what Eidr did in response to this old man. His mind was heavy with the burden of a hero; the knowledge that for his name to be immortalized and for glory to be restored to his family line, he must die. The weight of knowing such things was not a burden meant for mortal men- but it was one that had been thrust upon them. The Old Faith believed that in the beginning of the world when their dread patron had first taught the birds to speak, he had tried to keep the knowledge of their deaths from them. But when the master of the world slept, he murmured the words of death in his dreams; and they were overheard by his wife. Visindikona, wife of the dread patron, was plagued by the secret. She could not bear to keep it to herself, so whispered it into a ditch in the earth, and quickly covered it up so that the secret could not escape. But on the patch of earth grew a great black tree and when it's branches waved in the wind, they spoke the words of death. The birds heard the words on the wind and they, for the first time in the history of the world, felt fear. And that is how the knowledge of death, unbearable by mortals, came to be known by mortals.

    Eidr was no exception, and feared death just as any other man does. The man your skald hesitates to call a hero shifted on the back of his proud white charger. He adjusted his good about his face, masking his white hair, and the outline of his face. This could not disguise the knitting of his brow, or the slight lines that had appeared around the corners of his mouth. These were the classic indicators of a nervousness- a worry- that now held Eidr in its grips. This is why as a skald, the saga cannot in good conscious refer to Eidr as a hero. He was something far more human and more fallible than that. His fears consumed him, and for a moment, he was so lost in his own thoughts that he did not notice the group that was starting to form around him. However, their breathing and the shifting of bodies as their lungs inflated and deflated with the air they greedily sucked up finally pulled him from his bloody thoughts. His eyes shifted to them numbly, but he did not seem to truly see them. It was as if they were draugr to his eyes - ghosts that walked amongst the living world that he had only the barest perception of. Nonetheless, their presence offered him a strange sense of comfort. Heroes had to fight their monsters alone, but Eidr was not in the business of monster hunting. He was after a witch.

    Now Eidr's hands tightened on the reins of his horse's bridle. The metallic clink of runes against steel could be heard as he closed his hands around both leather and rock. The old man had asked him a question, and although he feared the idea of surrendering himself to the notion of dying, even before his quest was completed, the possibility of succeeding had too great of a value to be ignored. The son of Grettis replied to the old man, his lips quivering as he did - fear that he was not able to hide - "Better to die with honor than live with shame," He quoted, a verse from one of the Old Faith's long sagas, featuring a different hero, on a different quest; where witches did not dwell.
Thread Status:
Not open for further replies.