Description
Three caterpillars have taken up residence on the young man's face. Two,
woolly and black, perch over his eyes, inching toward each other slowly,
their advance disrupted each time he laughs. The third caterpillar, its fur
lighter and wispier, stretches its body far, tracking the path of the man's
upper lip, twisting and curling its body whenever a smile appears.
He carries all the hallmarks of the image of the pure-hearted village boy
city-dwellers love to conjure up. Not just the wry grin, but the rakish mop
of dark brown hair, too. The apricot skin, the bronzed and rope-worn but
clean hands. Homemade clothes, simple in design but vibrant in color, a few
pieces obvious hand-me-downs, a bit too large or too small in size. The kind
of bright-star pupil who might make something of himself someday, whatever
that means; the soft and quick boy whose cheer and and smarts can warm the
hearts of those passing through town, visiting merchants and foreign
conquerors alike. Is there truly some hint of radiance in this boy? Or is
that just what they want to see, all those seeking the promise and purity of
rural folk, forgetting the days of labor and boredom?
Role
Letter from a mother, part 1
Added Tue Mar 1 20:47:41 2022 at level 23:
I can't know whether you've found this note pinned on the clothes of a
living, breathing boy or instead nestled under a pile of small bones. I'm
not sure myself which I'd rather you find. But in either case I feel I owe
someone an explanation.
You'll come to your own conclusions anyway, of course, but I don't want you
to think I'm some young girl in over her head, grown tired of sleepless
nights and incessant wailing. It's not like that. First of all, this boy
here slept (or maybe, if the gods are merciful, still sleeps?) like a dream,
and laughed more often than he cried. And this wasn't my first time around
the barn either. I have almost as much gray in my hair as brown these days,
and I've got six other children that I can point to who helped put the gray
there in the first place. All this to say: I didn't leave my child here
because I didn't know how to be a mother.
Letter from a mother, part 2
Added Tue Mar 1 20:58:46 2022 at level 23:
I already knew every child was strange in its own way. Everyone here says
they just each get a little stranger the more you have, too. This one - he
just seemed so calm all the time. Never fearful of the fall rainstorms or
the neighbor's woolly dog like his siblings. Never fussy on my back in
planting or harvest. He'd fall asleep in the arms of anyone. Strange, yes.
But I felt lucky, almost blessed.
Others were more skeptical. "He's got potatoes for brains", the old men
said. "Only idiots smile so often." I didn't want to hear it. After all, he
seemed alert, and crawled around just the same as the other children. But as
he grew older I grew doubtful. The sounds my boy made - well, I can't really
describe them. Whole dialogues it seemed to me, at once his voice and yet
not. Eerie, foreign voices. But just as those old men were about to taste
the satisfaction of being right, Azhim, the town seer, snatched it away from
them.
"This boy's no simpleton," Azhim rebuked us. "Not dumb - cunning. One of the
mist spirits come here to trick us," she continued, drawing our attention to
my son's eyes and skin with her work-bent hand. So we abandoned him in the
woods under the tallest elm. But no fae creatures came to claim him, and no
wolves or owlbears dared enter the circle of soft light on the forest floor.
Months later, a visiting priest set up shop among our huts, the latest in a
string of believers who tried to supplant our gods with theirs or tell us
who and how to marry, always leaving after a season or two thinking they'd
done some good. This one even brought a whole library of books with him,
heavy ones with gold covers, but never tried to teach anyone to read them.
Anyway, when he got to town Azhim ceded her authority, but not until after
whispering in his ear. Not mist spirits but demons, the priest assured me -
it was demons that had a hold of my child, and he was to cast them out. But
when the priest poured the river water over my son, my boy just laughed in
delight. And when his small hands grasped the priest's finger, the cleric
knew at once no darkness lurked within, and felt a deep shame at his own
unbelief.
No mist spirit. No demon. But still he does not belong here, I was told, and
I knew it was the truth. The small minds of our small village would always
be suspicious. And who knows if he will ever speak intelligbly? Again: I
didn't leave my child here because I didn't know how to be a mother. I just
don't know how to be a mother to this one.
So I will walk across the plains and turn north, and I'll climb until the
air feels thin and my fingers grow numb. And, if the stories are true, up
there I'll see tall and fierce creatures with wings - angels, only angels
live this high up, the priest says. And I will lay this boy down in the
meadow, and wrap him tight, and pin this note to him, and return the way I
came. There is so much more...but this Dagdan scribe charges for every word.
A child's story
Added Wed Mar 2 17:30:41 2022 at level 23:
Oareayatin knew little of his own parents. They must have been human, of
course, like he was, and certainly his thick dark hair, gold-brown skin, and
square-but-slim frame must have come from them. They didn't come from
Dagdan, but some small settlement near it, perhaps in the wooded hills and
valleys between Dranettie and the Halfling lands where few roads passed
through. They were unlettered, and, he guessed, not wise to much of the
world, having mistaken the winged creatures catching downdrafts around
Ayr'Trinil for angels.
A fortuitous mistake, it turned out. Oareayatin had been left sleeping in
the swaying alpine grasses for only an hour or so before the soft nuzzle and
scratchy tongue of a sheep woke him, giggling, and only a few minutes more
before the dark eyes and shiny beak of the shepherd entered his view.
The shepherd was a widower now, and his daughter nearly grown, already
looking for another trade that wouldn't leave her smelling like wool-fat and
dung. The shepherd had little wealth to speak of, though his nest was warm,
the roof kept out the rain, and they were never short of milk or meat or
tasks to keep them busy. Herding can be lonely, quiet work, so the old man
was happy for company and taught Oareayatin simple songs to pass the time
although the music of birdsong was a challenge to acquire at first.
There was time for schooling, too, and though it was not exactly the same
rigorous education one might find in the cities the boy did well enough and
was hungry to learn what he could of the world outside. His classmates
chided him at first, asking if he'd lost his wings...which was true in one
sense, I suppose, but not in a way he could understand or explain.
"I have been quite lucky," Oareayatin thought. Not all foundlings feel this
way, especially those cast out for being unnatural, or those who would
always be a stranger in their adopted homes. But there was a trust, some
sort of peace - it felt like a blanket to him, something he could always
return to and find comfort. When he finished school at sixteen, and his
foster father, whose bones felt more and more hollow every day, sold the
flock and was content to spend his remaining days sleeping in the sun,
Oareayatin could have been afraid or restless. But instead he spent his days
making music in the fields, watching other's flocks now for a bit of money,
and waited for something to come to him. He knew it'd come eventually.
Visitors
Added Wed Mar 2 17:31:46 2022 at level 23:
And something came his way soon enough: visitors of one kind and another.
Unexpected gifts arrived alongside a wandering elven paladin, who, it seems,
spent most of his non-wandering time covered in flour. Oareayatin found
himself in possession of bejewelled leather armor and heavier pockets before
he could even find the words to refuse. Charity, the paladin had offered by
way of explanation, and the vague statement that one day Oareayatin might
find some use for these gifts.
Oareayatin thought it a bit silly to wear all this finery just to tend a few
sheep, but another visitor didn't see it as folly. This one was hunted -
hunted by an empire as the sun raced across the sky, hunted by his own
regrets when the moon rose. Dichael was his name, an odd name, almost but
not quite familiar. This half-elf had lashed out in vengeance when young -
at an age when many men are quick to make mistakes - and now, seeking
atonement, shares what he can with those he passes on the road. Oareayatin's
simpler, childlike trust may have lightened Dichael's heart for a moment,
but in exchange the boy now came to see what darker torments existed outside
his mountain valley.
The third visitor brought neither gifts nor tales of woe; this visitor was
not a man at all, but a whisper. A fragment of some tune floated by one day
when the air was still. Oareayatin sought to catch it, stilling his own
breath to better hear it, just as one hunts a mosquito that has crept into
the bedroom at dusk. But the more he strained his ears the more faint the
sound grew until it vanished, though it returns now and then, uninvited. At
times, when idle, he can almost see its full, complex shape - but as soon as
he focuses his attention the notes unravel one by one.
Rhythm, Part 1
Added Tue Apr 26 15:03:08 2022 at level 34:
Oareayatin's shoes have grown dusty from the road as he continues his search
for the source of the hidden melodies. In his waking hours, he manages to
hold on to a few more fragments of the tune, but through all of his research
he has found no song or poem matching what he hears. He finds nothing
familiar in the Lyceum - neither in the dusty and brittle history books, nor
in seemingly endless volumes of jokes and poems.
In a letter to the Elder Prophet of the Light (written respectfully, he
hoped - but what is the correct way to address a prophet, anyway?), he asked
if the library in the Fortress had any hymns or prayers which might be
source of this tune. The response was swift and kind, but held no answers
for him.
He begins to doubt his own sanity, though the bartenders at the inn seem
happy to serve him regardless of his mental faculties, and more often than
not have a seat ready for him. There is talk there of a sacred archive where
a witch lurks, hungry for knowledge, and also of a deep pool in which a tree
gnaws on bones; perhaps, suggest the inn's patrons, the riddle of this
music can be unraveled in one of these two places?
Rhythm, Part 2
Added Tue Apr 26 15:04:39 2022 at level 34:
{ A voice enters: resonant and bright in tone, but languid, like afternoon
sunlight in the waning days of summer. Its yawn is like a stiff breeze
running through the fields, the long and fluffy heads of grasses bowing as
it passes, then righting themselves once more. }
...Why can't we have quiet for once? A nap is perhaps the most exquisite of
all the exquisite things a body has to offer and yet I am tortured by this
incessant rhythm, this clarion call. Even if we plug these ears of ours with
wax and cloth I cannot escape it.
Yes, I know, I know.
I know it is my own voice and the voice of a thousand others. I know it is a
song of praise, or a call to arms, or a prayer for mercy, depending on what
part of the eternal song cycle you've chosen to torment me with today. I
know the notes were both sung long ago and will be sung again and again
until the end of time.
I know these things, and because I know these things I have tried to tune it
out for a little longer. But *he* does not know these things, the silly
boy, and because he is a fool he has undertaken a fool's errand. So now it
seems we must run around Thera seven times and back to find the source of
this music, instead of napping, or eating cakes, or taking in a beautiful
sunset, or any number of the other blessings that come with this body and
the blood which flows through it.
Why would I have chosen such a gentle boy, a silly boy who sings for his
sheep, only to then be forced to bear arms again in this endless fight? I
have served in the army of the light for all the time that has come before
and will again for all the time yet to come. Why would I have chosen to
experience pain for the first time, as I twisted and stretched my being from
our plane into theirs, if not to enjoy what it means to be human?
Let Oareayatin stick to his own peasant songs for now. Let me indulge, let
me marvel at the world, let me sleep just a litttle longer. The sun and the
stars will not fall from the heavens simply because the choirs of the azure
fields sing with one fewer voice for a time.
PK Deaths
Feb 18, 2022|Lv 18|Hidden Forest|vs 1: [19] Rizi (100%, slash)
Mar 4, 2022 |Lv 23|The Shadow Grove|vs 1: [28] Guttaka (100%, slash)
Mar 16, 2022|Lv 26|Hamsah Mu'tazz|vs 1: [25] Rorrianint (100%, smash)
Mar 16, 2022|Lv 27|Voralian City|vs 1: [26] Rorrianint (100%, fatigue)
Mar 18, 2022|Lv 27|The Aryth Ocean|vs 1: [28] Rorrianint (100%, fatigue)
Apr 3, 2022 |Lv 33|Mausoleum|vs 1: [31] Escana (0%, claw)