SUMMER

Angkar: Wet season. Precipitation is common during the late afternoon and evening hours. Vegetation grows significantly during the summer, but flooding is a danger due to the monsoons that ravage the country. The rainforest sees evenly distributed rainfall throughout the season.

Ashoka: Desert: Extremely hot and dry. Violent, heavy downpours following long dryspells. Jungle: Hot and humid with frequent, violent rainstorms.

Morrim: Relatively hot and dry, but with a chance of thunderstorms from time to time. The heat may cause forest fires.

Soto: Hot and humid, tree cover is dense while ground growth is restricted. Thunderstorms see the most amount of rainfall during the season, and it can be very windy. On occasion, there are flash floods that can destroy homes and farms built on flood plains.

ANNOUNCEMENTS

March 30th, 2018 As you might have noticed, Elenlond has changed hands and is now under new management! If you have any questions, please direct them to DaringRaven! As for the rest of the announcements, including a season change, you can find them over here at the following link!

January 16, 2018 As you might have noticed, Elenlond has a new skin, all thanks to Mel! Don't forget to check out the new OTMs as well!

December 2, 2017 Winter has settled on Elenlond, bringing sleep for some and new life for others.

September 26, 2017 With the belated arrival of autumn come some interesting developments: new OTMs, a Town Crier and the release of the Elly Awards winners!

July 14, 2017 After a bit of forum clean-up, Elly Awards season has arrived! Head on over to make your nominations!

May 31, 2017 Summer has arrived and so has activity check! That's not all though – we also have some new OTMs for you and some staff changes!


WHAT IS ELENLOND?

Elenlond is an original free-form medieval fantasy RPG set on the continent of Soare and the Scattered Isles, which are located to the south in the Sea of Diverging Waters. The four chief nations of the western side of the world—Ashoka in northern Soare, Soto in western Soare, Morrim in eastern Soare, and Angkar, the largest of the Scattered Isles—continue to experience growth and prosperity since the fall of the Mianorite gods, although power struggles within the countries—or outside of them—continue to ensue.


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  • CURRENT EVENTS

    Angkar: To honour the reinvigoration of the ancient city of Mondrágon, the majestic Queen Eulalia has permitted the opening of a Coliseum where people from around the world and all walks of life can test their combat skills against one another. Many have already done battle in search of honour, glory, prizes and money.

    Ashoka: In an otherwise peaceful times, Ashokans are beset with the relatively minor inconveniences of wandering undead and occasionally-aggressive giant rock worms. There has also been some controversy over the recent re-legalisation of human sacrifice.

    Morrim: Rumour has it that Emperor Leofric de Hollemark is mustering forces for a war. Though the threat from Soto’s forests has passed, the forces previously employed in watching the forest now linger at the border. Rumours also circulate of a small group that has been dispatched to make contact with the tribes of the Do’suul Mountains.

    Soto: The Sotoans have defeated the fey and liberated themselves from Méadaigh’s oppression! Preliminary efforts have been made at rebuilding the city of Madrid, which had been captured at the beginning of the war. However, the Sotoans are hindered from recovery famine. Méadaigh’s magic caused summer to persist in the Erth’netora Forest through the winter. Her power has been withdrawn and the plants die as if preparing for winter – even though it is now summer. The Sotoans must sustain off what food they can get, what creatures they can kill and what can be imported into the city from Morrim and Angkar.

    For a fuller description of our most recent events, check out our most recent edition of The Town Crier!

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    Welcome to our home, a world in which anything can happen. From sprawling deserts and vast forests to massive volcanoes and luscious hot springs, Soare and the Scattered Isles are beautiful places just waiting to be explored. For the brave and the bold or the cautious and the wary, creatures of all kinds roam the earth, looking for adventure or for a place to call their own. Species of all kinds - the well-known and the unknown - thrive here, though not always in harmony.

    Elenlond is an original medieval fantasy RPG with a world that's as broad as it is unique. Calling on characters of all kinds, the sky's the limit in a world where boundaries are blurred and the imagination runs rampant. Restrictions are limited and members are encouraged to embrace their creativity, to see where they can go and what they can do. It's no longer just text on a page - it becomes real.

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    The Farmboy & the Metal Monster; for silas!
    Topic Started: Jun 18 2014, 08:58 PM (795 Views)
    Glede
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    And with his sword my breast he cleft, / My quaking heart thereout he reft, / And in the yawning of my breast / A coal of living fire he pressed.

    SPRING, 8 AR.

    The sky, a web of silver--

    He caught sight of himself in the glass of a nearby building just before he darted into the alleyway, alerted of footsteps behind him—a brief glimpse of a sad man in threadbare clothing. The impact jarred him, sent electric pain humming through his skull and down his bones and into his fingers, violent as blinding sunlight--

    A long-fingered, well-tanned hand scrabbled at the cobbles, smearing blood on the stone. A thick, insistent grip wound its way underneath his armpits and hefted him up, hacking spittle into the dirt; he flung an elbow and felt cartilage and bone crunch underneath it, but time and sight slipped from him. He clung to his senses with a madman’s desperation.

    And then--


    ~

    As a general rule, Glede liked the swamp. He often came out to the southeastern edge to sit on a stump and think, for lack of anything else to do—or when, like today, something haunted him and made him question his existence.

    The carnivorous plants and wretched living conditions that kept most men away could not hinder a thing like him. When he’d first arrived, some half-buried human instinct had screamed to stay away from the water, but the only thing that posed any threat to the lanky metal abomination was getting stuck in the muck and rusting as the water rose. He paid careful attention to the swell and recession of the waters, the regular floods, the hidden paths through the murk; granted, he never delved too far into the Loniar, and certainly never the boggy western end, but it seemed the mild vines and curious trees and slushy, slurping trails of the southeastern border always welcomed him in his flights from mankind’s rejection.

    He liked it for other reasons, too. Oracles lived in the swamp, according to local superstition. He possessed neither the courage to seek them out nor knowledge of their whereabouts, but the thought of some window to his past waiting for him yea close, perhaps just around the next bend or behind the next tree, excited him. He had long promised to himself that he would find a way through the bog, expressly to speak to one of these clairvoyants.

    That day was never “today”--he never had the wherewithal, he’d tell himself, or he was too frightened, or it had begun to grow dark. He was frightened to travel the swamps in the dark, frightened of what the endless sky and the endless stars would look like over the bog. It made him feel tiny, like the sands of Ashoka, but lacked the familiarity of his precious home and thus held nothing but blind terror.

    Home. He had come to think of Ashoka as home. And if the man he was in his “dreams”, the dark-skinned, ragged man, was indeed himself—but he could not think of that, because he could not be sure. All of it was variable. They could not even, he reflected, be called “dreams”, as he did not sleep: Of a sudden he would simply freeze and be seized entirely by some terrible vision, only to wake alone, a freak.

    So. Am I to find out now? Was this my call to enter the swamp and find the oracles?

    He continued sitting, hands folded in his lap—amusingly demure for what he was, what he would appear to be to anyone else in Soare—until he caught a noise and his head jerked up.

    “Hello?”
    Edited by Glede, Aug 7 2014, 10:50 PM.
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    Silas
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    Silas sighed. He moved with purpose, rowing his tiny raft through the swamp. He liked to come here, and reminice about his childhood. Way back when, he and his siblings would venture into the murky water, splashing and playing like children do. His good times seemed like ages ago, even though it couldn't have been anymore than a year ago. But his memories knawed at his head, constantly reminding him of his past. The past he ran away from, hoping.to chase a dream that everyone else deemed foolish.

    He looked at his surroundings. The swamp was so peaceful to him, all the sounds of nature echoing across the murky water. He smiled. It would've been so easy to go back home right now. As he slowly rowed along, headed who knows where, he thought he could see something in the distance.

    He peered curiously at the shape. Was it a... man? No, couldn't be. These swamps were empty. But as he neared his subject, there was no doubt. A man. He was nervous at the thought of meeting strangers in the swamp, so he went to grab for his spear. As he leaned over to grab it, however, he threw the boat of balance. With a yelp, he flew over the edge, plunging into the mucky water.
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    Glede
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    And with his sword my breast he cleft, / My quaking heart thereout he reft, / And in the yawning of my breast / A coal of living fire he pressed.

    Glede heard the great clamor and rose, turning to where the waters deepened. In the murk, with the mists sliding between the trees and the bog belching up mossy green, he could make out the craft still swaying in the shallows; a rippling surged through the water every few moments. A moment passed before he could force himself to respond.

    The Construct's advance echoed shrill and sent strange swamp birds careening out of the gnarled canopy. The tranquil quiet both of them had enjoyed separately a few moments ago had shattered quite completely, leaving the yelping, drowning noises of the boy in the water and the creak-splash-squelch of Glede's gangly gait; he dare not shout for fear of frightening the unfortunate soul further into the jaws of a watery doom. If his eldritch appearance hadn't already frightened him-- and it was a him, by the sound of the voice and the vague shape he'd seen drop into the water just as he'd turned to look-- then the sound of his voice might ruin any chance he had to rescue him.

    The water grew deeper the further one went; Glede felt uncomfortable now with it surging up round his waist. Nevertheless, he felt he was close enough now to make some attempt at giving the floundering thing something to hold onto. He thrust his arm into the water, cursing the wicked claws the child would no doubt see reaching for him in the gloom-- but they were his hands, and he had no others, and he had nothing else with which he could provide any aid.

    "Please, I will not hurt you," he essayed, voice grating and hideous but not unkind; "take hold of my hand and I will try my best to pull you out of the water."
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    Silas
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    Silas struggled in the water, trying desperately to stay above the surface. He'd never had to do this before; way back when, they'd stayed in the shallows. Worse yet, he was now alone, whereas then there were people about. His equipment weighed him down, impeding his movement.
    k
    He was desperately waving his arms about when a threatening-looking hand shot into the water. He heard somebody say something- but due to the chaos of the situation, he had no way of discerning what'd been said. The tone of the voice was, however, and even as he inched away from the hand, which to him was pretty scary, he realized something. He's trying to help me.

    Normally, strange hands from scary sounding strangers were something for Silas to avoid. Seeing as that the alternative was drowning, though, he decided to reach out and latch on to the hand, his grip tight.
    Edited by Silas, Jun 22 2014, 09:58 AM.
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    Glede
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    And with his sword my breast he cleft, / My quaking heart thereout he reft, / And in the yawning of my breast / A coal of living fire he pressed.

    He drew the young man from the water, slow, at first paralyzed with fear. He could not push down the wretched fear of the murk all around them, of rust and being swallowed whole, like in the jaws of Kahlid; he held on tight, and for once thanked the gods that he hadn’t a mortal man’s weakness of flinching and shoving while in the strangle-hold of absolute terror. Be brave. If you aspire to be a healer, you must be brave. This thought grounded him, kept his feet firm in the shallow water.

    And then--blessed reprieve! Thank the gods!

    The Construct wrestled him back onto the raft, careful to keep the thing afloat with its new weight. A moment later and he’d drawn away and slunk back, the faint metallic rattle of his trembling hands like to screaming his trepidation from the rooftops. All he’d been able to picture was going down with the floundering boy, sinking into the water, a rusty feast for the weeds.

    “Are you--are--are you all--right?” He scrambled to master his voice--how silly it must’ve sounded, that otherworldly rasp stammering so! “You were--drowning. Thank you for trusting me. Are you hurt? I am a--healer... though... it may be hard to believe.”
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    Silas
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    Silas spat out some water, and realized he was back in his boat. Relief swept over him like a wave. That is, until he got a glimpse of his rescuer. He gave the suited man a blank look, like somebody might give an animal at the zoo. He had never seen armor like that, or heard a voice like that. So Silas came to the genius conclusion that something was rather off about this individual. But his train of thought ended up stuck at that particular station, and he really didn't think much more on the subject.

    Instead, he smiled. "I'm okay, thanks to you." He shook out his hair, and began takig stock of his belongings. "I believed myself to be dead." He grabbed his spear, thankfully still in his small craft, and attemptes to stand at attention. After barely.managing to keep the boat upright, he decided to abandon the gesture and simply sit still, rather than risk falling out yet again. "My name is Silas. And in return for saving my life, I owe you a debt of gratitude and loyalty!" It was somethig he figured he had ti say.

    Silas had a code of honor and chivalry based off of the many tales of heroism and bravery he'd heard so many times. To him, when one gives you something, it was only right to give them something od equal value. And saving his life was one of the biggest things somebody could do for him. His eyes were alight as he spoke again, with an aquired tone of knightly bravado and gentlemanliness. "And what, may I ask, is the name of my savior?"
    Edited by Silas, Jun 24 2014, 08:34 AM.
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    Glede
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    And with his sword my breast he cleft, / My quaking heart thereout he reft, / And in the yawning of my breast / A coal of living fire he pressed.

    “A debt of gratitude and loyalty?”

    He wasn't stupid, of course--he'd noticed (immediately, as a matter of fact) the blank look on Silas' face as he'd "come to". But the smile that came galloping after it filled Glede with a sense of fulfillment that might have rose nearly to belonging, had it not washed away a moment later into the void of alienation. He wrung his hands with a series of scraping noises, torn. Contentment and pride, it seemed, warred with fear. He was accustomed to being shunned and abused for his help, especially from one so young, barely on the cusp of manhood; the nomad children would throw rocks and jeer, and the young of Morrim were often no better, especially in rural parts where they could run back to their families’ farms and return with a mob.

    “It is... good to know I saved your life, Silas.” Not quite a pleasure to meet him. He could never be sure whether an encounter was to be a pleasure: They often turned sour. He shifted in the murky water, suddenly aware of it sloshing about his waist, half his body awkwardly submerged. Such muck would take ages to scrub off and stink for gods knew how long. “Loyalty is unnecessary; gratitude appreciated and welcome, but certainly unexpected. I am a healer by vocation—these are the actions a healer must take in order to call himself a healer.

    “My name is... Glede.”


    He shifted from foot to foot again, wincing at the sound of metal creaking that resulted. “If you would lead the way back to the shallows,” he said, with something almost like a wheezing laugh, “I would be grateful. But tell me, while you do. What brings you out here? Where is your family? Are you lost?”
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    Silas
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    Silas sat, near hypnotized. To him, this mysterious man was very intriguing. A short ripple of movement after Glede spoke and he was slowly rowing through the murk. "Surely, Glede. It's the leasy I could do. As for your questions;" He took a breath. "I'm headed north to look for work. I'm a mercenary by trade, but a local farmer by birth, and I assumed that taking a route through the swamp would be safer than taking the roads. Bandits and scoundrels... I'm fair game to them. Besides, I know the way." He smiled a.little, but his face seemed strained for a second as he thought. "So no, I'm not lost. In fact, my family's farm is not far from these swamps. But I... I can't allow myself to return there. Not until I've fulfilled my goal. My dream." He stopped rowing for a second, and shakily stood up to strike as noble a pose as possible. "To become a legendary hero! A man of high standing, a warrior known throughout the land!" He exclaimed, before quietly sitting down again. "In short, a hero or a knight or something." He then looked at Glede, a little embarassed. "Of course, nowadays that seems kind of childish. At least everyone else seems to think so... But what about you? Do you think it's a silly dream?"
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    Glede
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    And with his sword my breast he cleft, / My quaking heart thereout he reft, / And in the yawning of my breast / A coal of living fire he pressed.

    Glede nearly sighed in relief as the boy began to row the boat away; he followed, slogging through the murk. He could not suppress a laugh as he felt the water level begin to sink, now round his knees, now round his shins. With each step, the muddy water that had pooled in nooks and crannies of his metal frame splashed out here and there. He cursed it, embarrassed, but found he could do nothing to stop it. Instead, he turned his attention toward listening to the boy.

    A mercenary? He thought a moment, careful to keep the wryness he felt out of his voice. “You are... rather young to be a mercenary.” A pause. “And a mercenary headed north—it seems to me that you would find that business more lucrative, and perhaps a bit more safe, here in Morrim. Ashoka is unforgiving to those unfamiliar with its geography. The desert will melt a man during the day, and then leave him dead for the chill nightly winds to strip the meat from his bones. It is... no place for an inexperienced young mercenary, forgive my saying so. I would know; I am from Ashoka.”

    When the boy stood in his boat, Glede gasped and nearly ordered him to sit; for a moment he had a vision of the “mercenary” falling in the water and floundering again. Relief filled him as Silas sat, and he did not miss the look of embarrassment on the young man’s face.

    “No,” he said after a moment. “I do not think it a foolish dream. I myself am in a similar situation, though I will... spare you details of it; I am sure it would bore you. Suffice to say I believe the gods have given me a second chance for a life ill-spent, and it is my ambition to help a great many people through my healing skills. But.” He waved a hand brusquely, tilting his head to regard Silas sidelong. “I think your dream is... wanting of some thought. Does your family know you are doing this? Surely they worry about you! Heroism is worth nothing if you hurt someone dear to you in the process.”
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    Silas
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    Silas stopped rowing the boat as he made landing on a grassy knoll. "Uh..." He stuttered, afraid that this friendly stranger would give him yet another lecture on the subject. "... Thay do not. I ran away in the night. I do believe I left a note..." He wrung out his bag, which got soaked when he fell in. "Thry wouldn't have let me. But what was I supposed to do? Otherwise I was just dead weight anyways. Taking up space and food. Everyone else pulled their weight on the farm." He sighed, a look of longing as he looked across fields close by. "I miss my family. So I will do what I know I can to help them." He turned to Glede, weary but smiling. "And yeah, Ashoka was awful. I almosy died in the sunlight. Good to be back in familiar territory." He grabbed his spear and bag. "Well, Glede, it's wonderful meeting you, but I must go find a job. Good luck with your dream."

    And with that, he began walking forward. After taking about 5 steps, he tripped on a rock.and faceplanted. "Ow ow ow." He said, scrambling up. He turned back to Glede, smiled, and gave him a thumbs up. "I'm okay!" He said, before turning around to begin walking again, but instead of moving forward, he suddenly darted back to Glede, still awkwardly smiling. "Uh... do you mind joining me? I, uh, happen to remember that there are wolves around here. And, I uh, I would feel safer if you were around..."
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    Glede
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    And with his sword my breast he cleft, / My quaking heart thereout he reft, / And in the yawning of my breast / A coal of living fire he pressed.

    Glede had begun to incline his head the moment Silas had uttered his first uh; at the boy's they do not, he let out a snort. But his manner softened somewhat as he noted that Silas had probably been expecting a lecture--indeed, had no doubt gotten one many times before--and that whatever the Construct planned on telling him must have entered one ear and gone out the other gods knew how many times before. He decided to tackle the situation from a different direction. "What makes you think you were dead weight?" he asked, a quiet, sad curiosity entering his voice. "You look like a strong enough lad. I find it difficult to believe that you were of no help at all to your family's farm."

    By the time they ascended onto the 'shore', he'd wrung his joints of most of the muck and prepared himself for a long walk, with or without Silas. When the farmboy-turned-wanderer said his farewell, Glede drew back, disappointed: Some part of him had felt that his duty was to turn this boy back toward his home, and if not that, then to a less dangerous path; for him to walk away, likely into the wilderness, felt like sand slipping through his fingers. Seeing the boy tumble to the ground only accented this. He was clearly not ready to take on the world alone--it would either shred him or his idealism to bits, and the outcome of both would be wretched.

    So he laughed, relieved, at the ex-farmboy's plea. "Wolves are not the worst thing you will come across as a mercenary, alone." Clanging and creaking, he let his mechanical movements take him to Silas' side, a towering, twisted frame of black beside the boy. He regarded him, unreadable, from the shadows beneath his helm. "Nonetheless--I will accompany you. Where are you bound? You say you are headed north, but Ashoka lies directly northwest of these swamps. Do you plan to brave that climate once again? I could guide you a ways across the border, if you truly wish to go that way. Though I think a return and an apology to your family would serve you best in the long run."

    As much as he hated the thought of the boy running away, the thought of him lost and alone in the wilderness was worse.
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    Silas
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    Silas began walking, ignoring that last sentence. "Yeah, the climate is bad, but Ashoka also happened to be the place where I got the most work. Not sure why. But hey, as long as I can pay for my own living needs, and set aside some coin for my fanily." He sighed, then continued, his voice softer as he remembered his home. "At least I'll actually be doing something for them. Instead of just standing around, daydreaming. Ma and Da always said my head was in the clouds to often.

    He straightened up and looked to Glede. "So, you're Ashokan? You... don't really sound like it." He thought for a second. "In fact, you sound like you have some sort of throat sickness. No offence."
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    Glede
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    And with his sword my breast he cleft, / My quaking heart thereout he reft, / And in the yawning of my breast / A coal of living fire he pressed.

    Glede inclined his head. “That does not surprise me.” Of late, Ashoka was a textbook example of discontent if not outright discord. He had wandered away from there himself in favor of cooler political climates; he reviled nothing more than Ashokan politics, and the dictator that stood squarely at their center. He wondered how much Silas knew about the tangle, but decided that it was best not to press. “Nothing is wrong with daydreaming,” he mused, after a few moments of silence. “The Ashokan nomads hold the same opinion as you—they have sacrificed so much for survival. But is it not the daydreamers who find ways to serve their ancestors in much more creative ways than their stricter forebears? To each his own. Perhaps your path... is a commendable one after all.”

    Nevertheless, it hurt to see one like Silas lose what remained of his childhood: This was undeniable. Glede found himself wondering if there were some happy medium between taking care of one's beloveds and taking care of oneself, especially if one happened to be so young. In that moment, he also noted the ridiculousness of the whole business from a basic logical standpoint; for if the boy couldn't focus and hone his skills to be a farmhand, what made him think he could be a mercenary?

    Silas' next inquiry tore his mind away from such thoughts. He flinched.

    “I am Ashokan. I am fluent in common—it flatters to me that you find my accent unnoticeable, but many Southerners would recognize it immediately.” The construct followed after Silas, clinking become quieter and more regular. He had, he began to think, rid himself of nearly all the swamp-water. “It is less a throat-sickness and more a sickness of the soul, child.

    “There is nothing beneath my armor. My speech is odd because I speak through... very rudimentary methods.”
    He avoided the boy's glance, as if he'd just told him that the sky were blue, or grass grew green. A surreal matter-of-factness lay in his tone. “I am a man. I have the soul of a man, and once had the body of a man.” He recalled the necromancer's words, in the scrublands: That, at least, he could be certain of. “But I have no physical human body in which to reside now, so I do so in this.

    “You could say we both have our heads in the clouds, Silas. My idealism has caused me much grief.”
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    Silas
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    Silas walked, listening to Glede intently. He looked at the ground, trying to comprhend his words. He could hear the accent now. But the words spoken didn't let him dwell on it. He looked to his companion, this time closely. He could see it now. How the construct's body warped in places, how his face was obscured- er, nonexistant. But at the same time, he understood that there was a man in there. In spirit, if not body. In many ways, he found that they were very alike. Their spirits were noble, and kind, even if their bodies didn't reflect it.

    He smiled slightly, and raised his hand to rest on Glede's shoulder. "Glede, you are right. Dreaming can't be wrong. Dreams are what make heroes. And our paths are that of heroes friend." He grinned, before turning back to the road ahead. "As long as you believe in yourself, you can do anything." His fathers words, the ones he spoke whenever he or his brothers anytime they had doubts. Speaking them helped to affirm his own goals. "Even if you don't have a body. Which by the way is INCREDIBLE. I've never seen a living suit of armor. That's amazing!"

    He suddenly stopped and looked around for a minute, inquisitive. He then turned to Glede, sounding slightly irritated. "Gah, the sun is going down! What say we stop here and rest for the night, eh buddy?"
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    Glede
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    And with his sword my breast he cleft, / My quaking heart thereout he reft, / And in the yawning of my breast / A coal of living fire he pressed.

    He jolted at the touch, though he could not feel it in the metal. The boy’s reaction surprised him--it ought to have been a horrific revelation, he thought, a wrongness no friendly words or mortal soul could fix--and filled him with some indescribable warmth; he nearly reached up, unsure whether he meant to clasp the boy’s hand or brush it off in alarm, but his hand flinched and fell to his side. For a moment he wished he had a face, so that he might--do what? Smile? He might, he reflected, not have been able to summon a smile.

    “Th... Thank you, Silas.”

    Perhaps something perplexed, or blank. The boy’s idealism reminded him of his own, though he’d long since curbed it with practicality: This was the sort of idealism that got you killed, yes, but also the sort that made you compassionate and selfless. A hero, indeed, should be forgiving. But forgiving to the point of death? That the boy trusted him already chilled him to the bone.

    As it were, he inclined his head, chain rustling. Something like a laugh scraped from deep inside him. “Of course. Dreams and self-love are... important. Perhaps more important, even, than piety, little one.” His words felt scrambled. He heard the echo of a proverb in Silas’ next statement and some distrust rose within him: Who had told him that? The words were tired from being spat, over and over again, a reassurance that had begun to take on a foreign, empty quality--as flattered as he was that Silas found him so incredible. “Anything is, perhaps, a bit too broad, even for a living suit of--”

    A sharp pause; he glanced around with Silas, silent. Then nodded back.

    “...Yes. Resting the night sounds a... splendid idea.” In truth, he did not need to sleep, but he was willing to wager that the boy was weary. “You have supplies, yes?”

    ((Gah, I’m so sorry this is late! And terrible, whoops. If I need to add anything for you, please tell me.))
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    Silas
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    ((Now its my turn to apologize for a late post. Sorry))

    Silas grinned and pulled out some tinder and a bedroll. "Yep! Let's get to setting up, then!"

    *TIMESKIP*

    Silas and Glede ended up traveling together for about a week. Soon enough, they had traveled farther into the countryside.

    Silas sighed as he walked.He'd forgotten what it was like to have a friend around. All this time, he never stopped talking; he talked about his family, about his journey, about anything that came to mind. It was almost like he was on a conversation binge. But he stopped as a small farmhouse came over the horizon. It was simple, made of wood and stone, and next to it rose a stone windmill. He looked down, quiet and stone-faced.

    It was his family's home.

    He pulled a bag out of his rucksack, and it jingled with coin. "Hey, Glede... can I ask a favor?" He said, weighing the bag in his hand. "That house... you see it? It's my family's house. I was wondering... could you deliver this money to them for me? I just couldn't face them myself, but I really want to give them this money."

    He looked up, smiling, but his eyes were pleading.
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    Glede
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    And with his sword my breast he cleft, / My quaking heart thereout he reft, / And in the yawning of my breast / A coal of living fire he pressed.

    To his chagrin, he had to admit that the past few days had exhausted him.

    The hours stretched to the backdrop of a burbling, chipper voice. The cleric had felt his own input unneeded and for the most part undesired; he'd gotten in a yes here, a hm? there, but for the most part relinquished his half of their dialogue to amused, good-natured silence. It felt good to have another human being spilling his soul like so, and thus it was the sort of peaceful exhaustion—the sort of exhaustion that leads, in mortal men, to a satisfied sleep, a feeling of having accomplished something.

    What had Glede accomplished? Trust. Friendship.

    These were all he ever asked for.

    And so he let Silas talk, on and on. But the silence that seized the two of them when the farmhouse crept up over the hills felt startled and wrong, full of some buzzing foreboding; Glede knew not whether he was imagining the feeling, an anxiety thick like ichor, or the tension was physical particles in the air. It mattered not. Something about the sunset-tinged swaying of the wheat, the way the windmill turned in a sluggish grace, the way the leaves of it seemed to tear at the sky--

    I just couldn't face them myself.

    Ah—so it was Silas' family's home. He turned, startled. “Silas.” Glede had seldom felt such strength in his voice before; there was something solid in it, but, he hoped, sans that patronizing, melting air that he recalled hating when he was Silas' age. He glanced back at the farmhouse, down at Silas' upturned face, the bag, the jingling coin. His head spun.

    Gods. Gods, something is terribly wrong here.

    There was a certain—smell, he thought. Had Silas not picked up on this? Was he alone? Imagining things? Had the network that held his soul in place, held his mind fast, failed and let some madness in? But no. He was surer than he had ever been of this.

    The height of his armored vessel irked him. He did not want to loom over Silas.

    “Listen.” His voice was low. He took the bag, but stayed still. “I do not feel—comfortable... with you waiting here alone, in this field. And it is most cowardly for a brave hero such as yourself to send another man on your errand.” He extended the bag back toward Silas, huffing. “If you are truly brave, you will take this bag from me and deliver the money yourself.

    “Do not worry. I will be at your side. I... swear it.”

    And the boy's family? He did not wish to think about that, not now. But he had to take the boy with him, whatever dangers might be in the house, or—whatever he might see there. He could not bear the thought of the two of them splitting, of something happening to the boy, or to him when the boy most needed him.
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    Silas
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    Silas looked at Glede. The Autonmaton's voicewas gentle and unpatronizing, as always, but he couldn't help but huff at his words. Cowardly? He wasn't cowardly!

    He took the bag from his friend's hand. "If that's the case, I shall do it." He puffed out his chest a little and began to swagger towards the farmhouse with bravado. "They'll get to see their heroic son and brother as a hero, then. I can show em how strong I've gotten. How much I've grown."

    But not how tired he was. Or sad he was. Or alone he was. But I'm not alone. I have Glede. Yes, but for how long? Because soon he'll go his own way. He was happy that the construct was willing to go with him; he didn't want to cry in front of his brothers. They'd laugh at him.

    But what was that smell?A greivous odor. Like something died. The cattle, maybe? They'd had some bad luck with sickly cows before, maybe it was just an outbreak. But no, the smell wasn't it. It was the atmosphere that scared him. It was overcast. Gloomy. As though a shadow were being cast over this area. Crows were in the fields, eating the crop with impunity.

    Something was very wrong here.

    And so his walk turned to a jog, and that into a run as he frantically hurried. When he finally made it to the home, it was silent. No noise echoed from the small wooden shack.Silas stood there, just as silent, outside of the farmhouse. He was afraid to go inside, to see what was happening. He'd wait for Glede to get closer, before he chose to take action.
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    Glede
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    And with his sword my breast he cleft, / My quaking heart thereout he reft, / And in the yawning of my breast / A coal of living fire he pressed.

    Crows, crows. Everywhere.

    Glede had noticed them too, now—noticed the way that their silhouettes would, at times, fill the sky with black static; at others bleed from it, down to the fields, cawing at the generous feast. Where are the scarecrows? Their upkeep seemed lacking. To have lacked, rather, for some weeks, by the looks of it. In the labyrinth of withered crops--withered?--a single scarecrow stood, a lonely and twisted artefact from a bygone era.

    He did not look away from that shape as Silas snatched away the coin, hand still hanging limp in the air. “How much you have... grown.” And what has it come to? he wanted to ask. How tired are you now? How stranded? Presently he broke his stare and looked after the boy; he'd broken into a run, stumbling over the overgrown path. No, Glede thought: He knew, too. He knew something was wrong. That something had collapsed and was decaying, somewhere.

    And now he was waffling, for all his bravado, strangely still and hesitant. As if he wanted but did not want to admit that he wanted Glede to follow.

    “...Here--”

    The great paladin shuffled to Silas' side, peering up at the porch, listening to the slow wooden creak of the mill. “Forward, then. I am sure... I am... certain... everything is in its place.” Surely Nailah would not allow such a terrible thing to happen to one so young. What would Nailah allow?--what was the extent of Her mercy? Her power, even?

    “It is well. It is all right. Knock on the door—someone will answer, no doubt. Have faith. I am sure they will be glad to see you.”

    And if the door is sealed?

    Glede prepared himself, in that moment, to break it down. He had never been surer of anything. They would not leave this place to stew in its strange gloom.
    Edited by Glede, Aug 25 2014, 10:11 PM.
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    Silas
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    Silas stood stock still. Gulping, he took a step, hoping that it was just a bad season. Hoping they were simply out of town. Hoping that he would leave the money and a note, like a phantom of good fortune, and that this story would have a happy ending.

    But he knew, deep down, that behind this door lied no happy ending.

    But he was the hero! The brave warrior! When faced with the worst, they go in and save the day, right? But as he knocked and was left without response, the stress began to get to him. He felt dizzy. Like this was all just a bad dream. But it wasn't a dream.

    He hestantly pulled the door open. It swung open slowly, hinges creaking. A gust of musty, stale air came from the house. He immediately shut it. "I can't... I c-c-can't..." Hr sputtered, holding back tears as he looked around the overgrowth and gloom that was once his home. He walked down the steps, starting to breath heavily.
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    Glede
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    And with his sword my breast he cleft, / My quaking heart thereout he reft, / And in the yawning of my breast / A coal of living fire he pressed.

    Stories rarely ever had happy endings. That was the way of things—that was, one supposed, what growing up was all about. Finding a way to push through the bad endings and do what good you could. In this world, Glede often thought, there was a dearth of good happenings; a man made them himself and hoped for the best.

    Nearly the moment the door had opened on that stagnant dimness, it had shut; and then Silas was back, back, nearly on the point of weeping. Where was that bravado now?

    But Glede could not blame him for having lost it.

    The construct was not sure what to say. “Silas?” It came out something of a croak, gentle but horribly misplaced. He wanted to offer some physical comfort—a fatherly hand on the shoulder? an outright hug? he couldn't be sure—but felt uncomfortable in himself, suddenly, detached from his own earthly vessel. He did not want to loom, he thought. He did not want to loom.

    But now the boy was breathing heavily, and he had to face it somehow. He was no stranger to the breaking down of great ambitions, of delusion. Of the construction of a hundred thousand careful, disciplined scruples, a moral structure that fell apart at the gust of adversity. He was no stranger to this, surely. But the gritty, stark human tragedy of a bright-eyed boy coming back to an empty, sick-stinking house was unbearable.

    “...I am sorry,” he rumbled, touching the door with a hollow wooden sound. It rattled against the jamb, the hinges squeaking. “I am sorry.” It felt as if this was all he could say. He tried to summon more words, rambling on: “Sit... sit down, if you wish. Please. There is no rush to action.”
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    Silas
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    Silas felt dizzy. Like everything was spinning. One of two possibilities existed: Either they were gone, or they had died. They condition of the fields and house made it very clear. But he refused to believe the latter. He refused to let himself think they were dead. His breathing increased, and he began to look frantically around, lokking for something, anything that might show where they had gone.

    But when Glede began to speak, he felt the need to slow down. This was all escalating so fast. But one thing was for certain: This was not his home, anymore.

    He looked up at the foreboding figure near him. But his friend's girth and fearsomeness belied the fact that he was actually very concerned. That much Silas knew. He stared at him for a moment. And then he gave him a hug, burying his head into the constructs chest, hoping for comfort and reassurance. They're alright, Silas. They've simply moved, Silas. Everything's going to be fine, Silas. But the more he thought about it, the more obvious it was that he wouldn't be hearing that. Glede was to good a friend to give him false hope.

    Everything he knew was now fracturing at his feet. All the securities, the memories, the lessons learned. All of them were shaken as if by a tremor. His life wasn't going to be the same. Nothing ever would be. And he knew that.

    And then he cried.
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    Glede
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    And with his sword my breast he cleft, / My quaking heart thereout he reft, / And in the yawning of my breast / A coal of living fire he pressed.

    He looked around himself, dumbly, as if he expected to see a corpse rise out of the fields, or some hint flutter down on the breeze. The frantic sound of Silas' breath matched his rushing mind, fast and scrambled but somehow sinking into hopelessness every moment. He recalled the dusty darkness of the doorway, the foul draft--

    The embrace startled Glede, caused him to jar and nearly stumble, let out a small sound of protest.

    He could scrounge up no immediate words of reassurance; in fact, he found his limbs frozen by shock, unaccustomed to such a warm, human gesture. He stood there, arms limp at his sides, as the wind stirred the rotten fields and the weather-beaten windmill turned. What are you doing? some voice in his head snapped, weary and aggravated: What are you waiting for? It took him a moment to pat Silas on the back, to return the hug with hesitant awkwardness, but genuineness was clear in the gesture. The next moment, the embrace had become steady and firm, alive with some remembered need to comfort and soothe.

    But what could he say? To reassure him that everything would 'be all right'--a preposterous concept in and of itself; who could define 'all right'?--would be to laugh in the face of his misery, to give him silly idealistic words he did not deserve. Where was Glede's well of hope now? Where was his trust that he knew what to, when the world fell apart around him? No words were appropriate for this. Something had changed, now, something fundamental in the fabric of creation, of Silas' entire universe. Something had broken.

    But that did not mean it could not reform.

    Another series of hesitant pats landed on Silas' back as he began to sob.

    “Shh,” came his ghostly whisper, and he tugged the boy closer against him. “You are brave, child. You are noble and brave. A hero. This will not break you.”

    Will it?
    Edited by Glede, Aug 26 2014, 07:38 PM.
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    Nevneni
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    Asperges me hysopo, et mundabor: lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor.

    (TW: Death and sickness)

    Southwards she went, the meditative rhythm of her steps rocking her forwards. In her ten years of wandering, she had rarely travelled with such hope, for she most often walked to carry herself away from her own thoughts. Now she went with a place and a person in mind, with tiny bags of spices burning a hole in her pack: presents for Juul. The sands gave way to rocky lands, which gave way to trees and then fields, and all along Nevneni kept a bright hope sequestered behind her ribs. Now she had something to ruminate on other than terrible incidents on nights long gone, now she thought of a warm, lucid evening spent sheltered from a storm.

    Into Morrim she plunged, her lungs filling up with the scent of a land that rioted with life. She slept almost every night and rose in the dewy morning to walk, lightness bringing up her every step. To a village she came, and her budding self-confidence led her to pay a few coins for a night in the tailor’s home. “What is it that brings you here?” asked the lady of the house.

    “I am a travelling healer,” Nevneni said.

    And the lady turned to her, brows furrowed into a peak over her nose, and she said, “Then maybe you can help.”

    She said that word had come of a sickness that had struck one of the nearby farming families. It hadn’t come to the town yet since they had fallen ill because the townspeople had been afraid to come near. They feared it had something to do with the plague in Soto and they knew to stay well away. The healing woman who travelled between the nearby villages had not yet come here on her circuit, so there had been nothing to do but wait for her to return.

    “How long ago did they fall ill?” asked Nevneni.

    “Four or five days ago,” said the tailor’s wife.

    “I have to go see them now.”

    The tailor’s wife directed her there by pointing out the family’s windmill, which still churned against the vivid sunset that bled onto the horizon. To the fields she went, spurring herself into a run that carried her right to the doorstep. There was no smoke coming from the chimney and so no fire in the hearth, but as she put her hand to the door, she heard a dreadful hacking cough that heralded signs of life within.

    She had come just in time to witness the family’s first death. The children were lined up in bed, and the mother, though she was the one coughing her blood up into a stained handkerchief, crouched over her daughter. This was the scene that greeted Nevneni, along with the vile smell of illness, of blood and nausea, diseased waste and despair. Nevneni didn’t notice until later that the father was there too, lying in his marital bed, his vacant eyes rolling about in their sockets, too weak to watch his daughter’s breath grow shallower and shallower.

    Nevneni pushed her way through the stench of plague and crouched by the mother. The woman did nothing to stop her, did not even look at her, but only clutched her daughter’s tiny hand, sobs ratcheting up from her thin chest. She had no questions left in her, no reason to fight or fear death, and so she let Nevneni put a hand to the girl’s head and press her magic into her. With this briefest gesture, the young girl’s pains were erased, leaving her tortured body numb and free. The girl’s tormented half-sleep, punctuated by moans, drifted into true sleep. Soon after, her breathing stopped altogether, and her soul drifted away.

    Nevneni had seen this before, and she braced herself for the wails and sobs that always followed the death of a child. But there were none. Instead the mother settled herself down by the low bed, her skeletal body sprawled across the floor, and rested her head on the child’s silent chest. Her hair was unbound, and it tangled darkly across the coarse sheets, across the girl’s night-dress, which, by its look, must have been bought for a bit of extra coin. A gift, perhaps.

    Nevneni left her there and set about bringing cleanliness to the house again. She cleaned out the waste buckets with water from the well, she pulled away what sheets she could and replaced them, washing the soiled ones out in the murmuring night. She closed the windows against the poisons of the night air, with the intent to open them for ventilation in the morning, and she set up a fire outside so as to avoid clouding the home with smoke. Over the fire she put a pot of water, and in the water she put yarrow leaves, peppermint, liquorice root and echinacea. As this brew worked its way up to a boil, she went back inside to find that no one had moved.

    Gently she crouched down and touched the woman’s shoulder. “I have to take her now,” Nevneni whispered. The woman sat up slowly and let Nevneni come closer to the body. As she slipped her arms under that tiny frame, Nevneni saw the other two children, or really, young men, had opened their eyes to watch her bear their sister away. They were absolutely silent but for the breath that crawled, shivering, from between their teeth.

    Nevneni should have had something to say, some promise of help, of life, but she was wordless. She stood, the limp assemblage of bones drooping in her arms. The girl was so light that she hardly seemed to be there. Silently, Nevneni bore her outside to the fields. She had no time or means to bury her, so she pulled up some long grass and covered her in it. Then she went to work.

    Days and nights trickled away in silence. Nevneni tended to these four survivors, gently filling them with tisanes and soups and water only to have these vomited back up again. The eldest brother slipped into the twilight of death before Nevneni could do anything about it and so she carried his body out to place next to his sister’s. The long grass she had thrown atop the body did nothing: the stench of decay made Nevneni’s eyes sting and the mound was thick with a layer of glistening flies. She choked back vomit, fearing any such emission from herself as if it would be the signal of that sickness rising in herself. She covered the brother, then went back to the farmhouse, determination stirring in her chest.

    She pressed the parents into an enchanted sleep, silencing the mother’s mumblings about someone named Silas, and turned to the remaining boy, who was the worst off of those remaining. With her knife, she cut her fingertip and slipped it into the man’s open mouth and sailed into a trance. A-wandering she went into the darkened paths of his veins, seeking out the monsters that dragged him to wards death. The sickness presented itself to her almost immediately, for it was everywhere, but when she sought to face it and fight it, it became an immense wave swarming with darkness. She cowered before it, and moments before the mass of the disease crashed upon her, she drew her finger out of the man’s mouth and broke the spell.

    There was no fighting this sickness, not when it had progressed this far. Nevneni was then consumed by despair and she nearly ran off then, leaving them to their fate. Instead she laid on the packed dirt floor of the farmhouse and listened to the deathwatch beetles tapping their way through the rafters. The last remaining son drifted away into the unconscious suffering before death, and Nevneni sat up to coat his mind with the balm of sleep. He died with the dawn, though of what day Nevneni no longer knew: she had lost track of time. She carried this third withered body to the spot where she’d left the others, her face screwed up against the stench, and she worked up her determination to save the dregs of this family.

    Again she cut her finger, this time placing it in the mother’s mouth, and again she encountered the same insurmountable black wave. Again she cowered under its shadow, her heart threaded through with despair. Again she withdrew, and this time she threw herself on the ground, beating at it with her fists, strangled sobs ripping from her throat. There was nothing to be done to save these people; all her efforts were wasted and though she knew she had simply come along too late, she blamed herself. A better healer, one not so frightened by the idea of waves, would have bested the illness. If she did not have such a weakness in her mind, she would have found a way to conquer this and the family would be alive and almost whole. She could had saved all but the daughter, she could have, she should have…

    She ran herself through the mangle of her mind until she was dry of tears. As she laid gasping on the floor, listening to the laboured breathing of the parents and the sawing of insects filtering through the windows, a light hand touched her shoulder. Nevneni looked up to see the mother’s drawn face peering down at her, cracked lips parted. “It’s alright,” she said.

    Something in her reminded Nevneni of her own mother. It was not just because she knew this woman was a mother, but more because of the way she touched the shoulder of a weeping girl with one hand, her mouth curling up into a rueful smile. “Is it?” asked Nevneni.

    “Of course,” said the woman. She gave a few exhausted coughs, bringing her hand up to her mouth. “You couldn’t have known,” she rasped, finally. Her eyelids flickered and she wandered in her own mind, or elsewhere, for a few moments. Then her eyes opened again, and she stared at Nevneni once more. What she said next made less sense. “You had to go, I understand that. Your head was elsewhere, your heart…But we’re not angry, Silas.” Nevneni’s face twisted with renewed tears. She wanted to say that she was not Silas, but it felt wrong to break the illusion. Silas, whoever he was, needed to know. “Nothing…Nothing could have saved us, not even you. Go…follow those dreams.”

    Her eyes rolled back and fell beneath the curtains of her eyelids. She slipped away into silence and, a few hours later, died. Nevneni carried this body out into the night and sat vigil over the last survivor, the father, but mostly she watched over the house which his family had inhabited. At times she got up to open the cabinets, to run her hands over the wooden table and the pots hanging from the ceiling. She found the fine ceramic bowls and jugs that must have been the pride of the household and she held each one, her throat tight but her eyes tearless. She opened up the trunk at the end of the bed and found the family’s winter clothes and, at the bottom, an old, well-embroidered dress that may have been from the wedding that began the dreadful fate of this family.

    What she was doing did not strike her as nosy and she was not interested in looting the place. It was a way to pay memorial to a family that had, but for one mysterious member, been reaped from the earth. Though she did not know their names, Nevneni mourned them, mourned the lives she imagined they led before this curse fell upon them from the sky. There was no one to remember these last moments but her, and for her all life she would bear them, just as she had all those other curses from the past. She would carry the memory alond and this house would languish, forgotten and empty, until someone came and looted it, or until Silas came home.

    The father died the next day, and Nevneni hauled this one last corpse away, her feet beating out a dirge on the dry earth. She had no means to dig them a grave, but she sprinkled some dirt over the five bodies, sealing their collective fate. Out of life they went together, off to wherever it was the souls went, if anywhere. Nevneni dragged her slow self back to the house, too tired to cry. She had not truly slept the entire time, however long it had been, though she must have nodded off here and there. Her memory was a stewed mess, her heart a grave, and she thought no more of hope and happiness and the woman who could have been thinking of her at that very moment, many miles away.

    She left the stench of death behind and, as the wind picked up and brushed across her grimy face, she heard voices, she heard crying. For the first time in seeming centuries, her heart rushed in her chest, impelling her forwards. She ran through the fields and burst out of the ruined crops to see the shapes huddled before the door. First she noticed the great, dark something that stood monstrously before the door. Fear stung her flesh and she stopped, ready to turn tail and run. But then she noticed that there was a smaller shape, a human buried in the something’s chest. It was from this shape that she heard weeping.

    At once she knew. Silas. Her feet dragged her forwards, transporting her through the day that rippled with heat and exhaustion. Her feet stopped before she was close to these two, so she stood maybe two yards away, her voice cracking its way out of her dry throat. “I’m sorry,” she said, finding that her voice was painfully loud in her ears after so much silence. “It was plague. I came too late but…I tried.” Nevneni swayed on the spot, her lips open and drawing in the air. She took in the boy’s pale face, almost forgetting the monster with him. Her insides clenched with sorrow and, she realised, hunger, for she had barely eaten this entire time as well. Tears tracked down her face but they had nothing to do with anything, least of all crying, which seemed beyond her now, or else behind her

    "Your mother said...She said that she was not angry that you left. That you should follow those dreams. I...I thought you should know."
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    Silas
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    Silas turned on his heel, his face a mask of despair that didn't change. He'd become silent now, the tears still slowly running down his cheeks, his mouth agape. He stared at her with a sort of silent understanding, before stepping away with hooded eyes towards the run-down farmhouse.

    They were dead.

    But maybe he'd already known that. The numbness that now claimed his body still betrayed his own shock, but maybe deep down, he'd known. He just chose not to believe it. And so with a deep breath, he walks forward, and when he reached the steps, he turned around to face Nevneni and Glede. His voice was a shallow croak, like he had lost his voice.

    "I need a moment... to say goodbye."

    He blamed himself for this. He knew that it was dumb to believe that; he hadn't brought any plague to them. But he still blamed himself, still felt the weight of guilt on his shoulders. He found himself taking his spear in his hands. He felt the cold metal in his hands, the weight of it. At one time he thought of it as a symbol of heroism and glory.

    Now it just looked like a toy that a child used to play pretend.

    He wasn't a hero. He was a fool.

    And he hadn't even gotten to say goodbye.

    He growled and tossed the spear away from the house, where it fell harmlessly with an unceremonious thump on the ground. After a moment, he walked inside his old home with a deep, strained breath.

    What was left of it, anyways.

    ((I hope you enjoy this first post coming back from my hiatus. I hope it's a good one.))
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