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~*The Depths Of Chaos*~ IC

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6/18/2015 8:53:30   
Afina
Weaver of Epic Yarns
~*The Depths Of Chaos*~


Somewhere In The Spans Of Time

Whispers from the abyss wove tendrils of song filled fate through the realms at all times, just as the rays of sun kissed the morning dew or the force of life cried out with each new born child. Like a dream from the past it called to all that had known a darkness that most that traversed around them knew nothing about, forever a debt to paid by you and I. On those wisps it sung words of innocence and broken pride, sending signs that all conclusions of life had failed, crumbling in the palms of those it caused, like sands through an hourglass. It knew, that each day those it called to were dying everyday in their own personal hell. It whispered promises to heal the broken melody of their souls.

Like a night without awakening, a truth lost perhaps never to be found. Carvings on the walls of their minds, a pantomime wrapping through their dreams. Voices echoing in the distorted minds it drew to it, were they going mad? I'm afraid not my dear. Not knowing if it was real or just a dream, it would pull them to the lands only known as The Epsyon. Would there be someone there to believe in them? Someone or something that could ease the torment of their longing souls for redemption. The past was only the past to many but to these select few the past and present were one and there was not future to see before them. Locked in a cycle of torment for their failures, the failures of those around them, the failures that life had dealt them. Would Death smile on them or would it just leave them there to wallow in the forsaken shadows. Left to perish, ever without the sweet quench death. Truth fading like a distant memory.

They wished for release, to calm the chaos that ravaged the nebula of their thoughts. Would it say what they were supposed to know? Would it appear to them, the truth to appear? None knew, they could only answer the call. That it would all become clear to them, forgiving their sacrimony. That the wrong could become right in a celestial light. A testimony of forgiveness and freedom. That is what all that came to Epsyon wished for, dreamed of, longed for. To few it was granted. Would you find your release? That is up to you.


~*Epsyon*~

The road was long and harsh to the settlement along the edge of Epsyon. It had another name at one point, before the darkness came. Before life and struggles of the past had tainted the land. There were non left of that forgotten time when angles and demons walked hand in hand and peace was known. For what is peace but only the silence in our own souls. Winds whipped through the trees to the west and kicked up dust along the trail that lead into the town. Nothing but a worn and battered path that was daily scared by the new footsteps of travelers it called.

If were one to stop and gaze at it from the edge of the shadows it would look like to many places that dotted the realm. Nothing special, buildings rising up on each side of the path, lining it with taverns and shops. Though once the shadows fell the place fell into decay, only the strands of torment held it together, like a sickening web woven through it or the strings on a puppet to hold it aloft. Candles flickering in the windows of each building, the sounds... There were none but what the wind created through the splintered wood. Eerie whispers that harmonized with the call that had brought them there.

Only building in the center of the line of them on the east side of the street stood out more than the rest. It rose several stories high and the faint whisper of glasses clanging on bar tops could be sensed. All new arrivals would feel the pull strongest there before what better and more comforting location than one that so many knew as a place of gathering and information. Within, dust webs gathered along the rafters and under the tables. The floors creaked with each step that was placed apon them. Tables dotted the floor and booths lined the walls. No need to look for a shadowed place of refuge, each seat held its own darkness, shielding the patrons from the peering eyes of those around them.

At the long rustic bar stood a single figure, the only one that seemed not to be draped in shadows like the rest that lingered there in silence. Light was able to break through the darkness to fall on its frame. A slender woman stood there, soft features with short raven locks that seemed to have hacked by a sword as opposed to being cut by sheers. Soft and welcoming eyes of deepest oak looked at any new comer with the same gaze, rich lips of maroon would part, with a slight curl of interest on them. Clothed in nothing but a worn and weathered woven sweater that flowed down her slender form to her thighs, black knit leggings hugged her lower extremities until they met with low rise boots that had seen better days, stained with the liquors of the tavern that had been poured in an attempt to quench the thirst that plagued so many.

"Welcome to Epsyon," she whispered in a voice that they would know. The same voice that called to them in their dreams and haunted their awakening hours. "I am Zephyrus, is there anything I can get for you new comer?"

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


Along the northern outskirts of Epsyon one could hear the gentle clang of metal on metal. The telltale song of the blacksmith rung out clearly in the early evening air. Whisps of smoke and flickers of embers could be seen escaping the smoke stack situated on the rooftop of the small building. Through the musty windows one could see a single shadowed figure, thin and yet strong, curled back over the anvil as one hand held a blade steady and the other drawn high above her head before it came crashing down on the heated edge. Sweat dripping from her brow as tendrils of hair the shade of the very flames that cried out from the hearth clung to her brow. Heaved and ragged breaths escaped parted lips with each strike of the hammer.

Lifting up the blade from its resting place, she turned into the light. Her clothing drenched in the sweat of a hard days work, worn and singed as one would expect for someone of her trade. Her form was odd and her features even more so. One could tell by a quick glance that she was not elf or dwarf but a mix of both and yet that was not what was strange. As she turned even more, examining the blade, it became more clear. The scars that ran up exposed flesh made parts of her skin look like pale clay that had been worked far too long before firing.

Thrusting the blade into the barrel of water next to the anvil, steam rose quickly and the metal screamed out in protest to the sudden temperature drop. As the water drowned the cries the pulled the blade from its watery grave and examined it before shrugging to herself and tossing it into a pile of similar blades. Each of them skillfully crafted and exquisite, ones many a smithy would be proud to hang in a place of honor in their shop but to her they were nothing more than just another blade. Picking up tongs and drawing another hot blade from the fires of the heath she began anew. Another blade, another hour, another day. It mattered not to her. This was how she spent her time. Drawn to the promising songs of Epsyon so long ago and not once looking for freedom. She clung to the darkened shadows of the land as much as they clung to her. Death forever overlooking the smithy along the edge of town, it dared not waste its time on one that did not wish to die and was content in mere survival in its most basic form. Amara was content in her sorrow.
Post #: 1
6/19/2015 13:02:28   
Bastet
Member

The shadows had already welcomed Nisha to an alcove of the inn, as they always did when she took a place inside the building. She refused even the light of a worn candle, rather quietly sipping the tea she had been brought and observing her surroundings carefully. The call of Epsyon had ensnared her long before those who had just walked the road that could lead to their deaths, yet she could not leave. With every wayward soul that made its appearance, the bond that constricted her to the cursed land she walked only became stronger. Her key to survival lied in exploiting them at the best of her abilities.

Nysha sighed, whispering the only magic enchantment she knew. It wasn’t anything special or especially powerful, yet its effect was useful enough to her that without it she would be almost entirely helpless.

Kena loome ve kala

Her only functioning eye answered to the magic it had been touched by many times, softly glowing as the same colour of its iris. Nysha’s sharp ears listened to the few conversations going on in the tavern, hoping to find suitable targets among the patrons. Dissimulating her malicious interest, she began counting the blood-stained coins she had earned in her last adventure. It had ended up messier than she would have wanted it to, and the waning count of arrows that populated her quiver was proof of it.

The acquired money would have been enough to ensure she received a decent meal and a room in the inn, but Nysha usually refrained from staying in the center of Epsyon. Even though nobody seemed to pay attention to her, she knew than more than a few people would’ve gladly seen her join the numberless beings who had found their death in cursed Epsyon. Meditating on her choices, Nysha bid her time.
Post #: 2
6/20/2015 13:51:49   
Kellehendros
Eternal Wanderer


 As she walked north, ever north, Regina pondered the nature of sanity.

It was not the first time that she had done this. The road had been long, longer than even she had reckoned after the storm. North, ever north. She knew, now, that her reckoning had been nothing; it had been only the merest taste of the crippling agony and weariness to come. How many miles has she trod north, ever north, searching for a path, searching for a way? And when she had lost her way, how could her mind have done aught else but follow?

These thoughts had chased themselves through her mind as she walked north, ever north. Day by day, week by week, month after month. Years? Surely it had been years by now, crawling across the surface of the world like an ant blindly seeking an end. North, ever north. An end, any end, was preferable to this. Circling, the thoughts were ever circling, like a pack of lean and hungry dogs ready to fight, to rip and tear, and still she walked north, ever north.

The loneliness was the worst of it, Regina thought. She wasn’t always certain of that though. In part, that was what disturbed her. A sane mind, a whole mind, was certain. Was that not so? She couldn’t even convince herself of that anymore. Sometimes the loneliness seemed light, a gift of the gods to speed her upon her way, unhindered by the company of others. Othertimes the loneliness ached, a stinging pain that permeated her being until she took to talking to herself. Surely she was mad at those times, babbling inanities in a stream dialogue that ran from contemplations of her circumstances to entire arguments of tired logic, circular rhetorics that dragged like chains behind her. Justifications, explanations, negotiations, each had fallen by the wayside, left behind as mile after plodding mile faded into the dust behind her and her feet pointed north, ever north.

There had been plans, to be certain. A dozen, a hundred, a thousand schemes to make her way. East, west, home, away, any direction that was not this. Each and all had failed. North, ever north, beyond the lands she knew, until every face was strange to her, and every hand was set against her. Was it though, or was the impression of enmity nothing but a fabrication of her flailing mind?

Either way she trod the paths north, ever north. This was what it meant to lose one’s mind. It was the only conclusion she could find. If Regina had been more devout she might have seen the hand of a god in it, some overarching fate that had taken control of her life. For her part, she was only tired. She was tired of the endless northward journey; she was tired of spectres that came to her in the night, bloody and worn; she was tired of the headaches that gave no respite.

This was the nature of sanity, she thought, walking north, ever north. Weariness, a bone-deep tiredness that defined reality. The insanity, the brokenness, was feeling whole, feeling right. It shouldn’t have been that way, but it was. Or perhaps sanity was along that line, the blade-edge line, that lay between the fog of pain and the clarity. Those were the times when she was most frightened, when the pain that had woven itself into her very being cleared and the world came into crystalline focus. Those were the times when it seemed, if only for a moment, that she might have a choice. She might be able to turn aside and find a fate of her own choosing. Perhaps she was sane at those times, and the fault was hers for being unable to find the will to turn aside from this journey north, ever north.

Whatever the reason, she could not turn aside. A deadfall, bandits, a gorge unscalable without the aid of tools, a trackless fen, these things chained her upon the path as surely as her faltering will. North, ever north, as though she knew on some subconscious level that something waited there, that a way would be open could she only endure.

And then came the dream. Foggy and incoherent, the dream had been but a word: Epsyon.

Ah, but what a word! It had meant nothing to her, and yet in the morning she had woken with it on her lips, and the very air seemed to breathe with promise.

That was when she knew that she was mad. Yet, the certainty had faded, though the word, the Name had echoed, beating in her ears like the fluttering of a panicked heart. She knew, plodding north, ever north, that it was a Name, though sheh knew not what it was that the Name signified. Was it a person, a place, a god unknown in those lands, green and sane, so far away in the road behind her?

All of those, perhaps, and more. But the dream returned each night, like an insistent child tugging at her mother’s skirts, and she was helpless but to follow. North, ever north, and now it seemed that her endless trek was not so mad, but had a goal, a destination. And did that not make her all the more assuredly unhinged? The thought that her travel had a goal was frightening, for even if this Epsyon was a place, she had never heard of it. How was it that within her heart could burn this certainty, this knowledge that could she only travel north, ever north, beyond the rim of the world itself, she would find Epsyon waiting for her? That must be insanity, surely.

And yet, her dreams grew clearer, slowly, as she traveled north, ever north. It began with the eyes, a set of dimly seen orbs green as verdant fields. Then a fringe of midnight hair, then vivid lips. A face, slowly assembling itself night by night, mile by mile. And those lips shaped the word, that portentous word: Epsyon. Nothing more, for the word would fall from the woman’s lips, and Regina would snap awake, soaked in sweat, heart thundering as though she had run a thousand miles.

Perhaps she had. There were times when the aching of her head, the persistent pounding in her skull, was enough to kill consciousness. Regina would open her eyes in a camp she had never seen before, a place utterly alien to her eyes. That had frightened her no end in the beginning, and more than one plan to set out upon another path had been broken by the pain and the realization upon the return of conscious observation that she was far from where she had been and farther from where she had wanted to be.

North, ever north, and for the first time in a long time she began to dare the villages again. Loose strings of houses or tight clusters settled behind wooden walls, places she had avoided before. She entered in now, and asked her questions with all the careful skill of a mind strained perhaps beyond its breaking. What was Epsyon? Where could it be found?

In some places she received no answer, only shrugs and shaken heads. In others, rumors of a land above the snows of the world were offered up. In one tavern she had been thrown out for speaking the Name, told never to return. Most common though, most common was the pause.

She would ask, and the listeners would hesitate, looking from one to another as though trying to fit something into words that could not be said, or addressing a fear of which it was better never to speak. Then one would dare and tell her north, ever north, and Regina would set out upon her way, ignoring the looks cast at her back, the gestures made to avert the attention of an evil fate.

Still she walked north, ever north, until she had left the all the settlements behind her, and it was the dreams that sustained her on that road. A woman’s face in the mists of Regina’s wandering mind that grew a little clearer, a little sharper every day, until Regina could make out the fine hairs of her head individually with a sight that was more than sight. Thus Regina walked north, ever north, and about her the landed faded, blighted by the hand of some god perhaps, or the sad and silent death of hope itself.

Regina pondered these things as she came into sight of the village, and then stopped, staring. The sight of buildings was almost foreign to her eyes; shapes of regular geometry carved of wood and stone, raised in defiance of the natural chaos of the world. How long had it been since the last settlement? A month, six months, a year? Pacing north, ever north, time had lost all meaning, and she had felt as though she must have walked the surface of the world entire. Surely the world could not be so large as to go on forever. The world was bounded, it was known.

Or was it? Perhaps they merely thought the world had an end, but in reality it unfurled itself like an endless spiral, new sights and new mysteries springing into being from the ether as the traveler sought the end in vain. Perhaps one was unable to reach the uttermost edge and know that there was one absolute in all the world, a place of which one could say, “Here, this place, is the end of all things. To take another step is to fall off the face of the world entire, and plunge ever into the abyss.”

Her head ached, and her right hand lifted almost of its own accord, rising to stroke gingerly across the scar along her hairline, where the blow had fallen. Regina struggled with her thoughts, biting the inside of her cheek until her mouth filled with the salt tang of blood and the urge to laugh, to throw back her head and cackle until she wept, faded away. The world had an end. These other thoughts were phantasms, more mad ghosts such as plagued her as she journeyed north, ever north.

She moved north, ever north, even now, as in a dream. Drifting up the seemingly deserted street, past the shells of buildings whose empty windows stared like the glazed eyes of death. Each step stirred the dust of the road, bringing echoes to her from the wooden canyon of store facades and empty homes. Epsyon, Epsyon, Epsyon. Each step breathed the name of this place, and a chill slid down Regina’s spine as the wind whispered through the broken village, carrying the faintest hint of the metal-on-metal clangor of a blacksmith or a battle. These things washed over her, but she could not care. Her heart was fixed upon a single destination. North, ever north, and nothing could sway that course.

And then she stopped, stunned into immobility. For the lodestone of her heart, the inexorable, terrible urge that had drawn her unknowing, mad and longing, north, ever north, had turned. Regina turned with it, east, and she stumbled as she took her first step towards the door of the tavern, for her feet seemed to know no other way, and her very being seemed to cry out in protest. Surely she must continue north, ever north? But no, she was going east now, and the sheer release of the change in direction was enough to bring tears to her hazel eyes.

But after the first trembling step came another, and then another, and then Regina was at the door, every fiber of her being wound tight with the unbearable expectation of events foreordained. The portal yielded to her hand slowly, revealing a dark and dim tavern, and there, there at the bar was the woman, the face from Regina’s dreams.

Shuddering, Regina moved into the tavern, eyes riveted on the figure behind the bar, knowing before she even began to speak that the words falling from her lips would be framed in the voice of Regina’s dreams.

Regina fell to her knees, her battered stave, companion of so many mad and distant miles, clattering to the floor next to her. She fought to breathe, to drag air into her lungs as the world spun and swirled around her, fate and chance and destiny binding inexorably about her as Zephyrus spoke and the air itself seemed to ring with the portent of her words.

Epsyon, Epsyon at last. Her mind was fragmenting, a wall of pain rising up to obliterate conscious thought.

“Respite,” Regina gasped through teeth clenched tight on the pain, her voice a whimper. “Please, I beg of you, respite…”
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 3
6/20/2015 17:58:06   
TormentedDragon
Member

Gorram dusty piking road slog. Dry throat, long walk, hot sun, itching back, sweat in the eyes and not a sign of life in any direction for the last four blasted leagues. Or it felt that way. Piking road. Piking commission. Piking idiot quim of a stuck-up officer. Should have caved his head in. Too many to fight, though. She shook her head, blinking away at the dust in her eyes, and reached to her belt to grab her waterskin. Depressingly low. She'd need a watering hole before long. For now, a small swallow coated her throat, and kept her going.

Had to keep going. She'd toyed with turning back, but by now, too late for that. Other roads were farther to walk than whatever was ahead, and didn't offer much at the end of 'em. 'Sides. Wouldn't want to not find this Epsyon place. Kept hearing whispers of it, bits in the other slogger's talks and rot. Now even in dreams, even the good ones. Good a place as any to head for, right? Right.

Right.

Gorram dusty piking road, though.


Buildings in sight, finally. Sun was lower now, probably. Hard to tell, too much piking scum in the air. Just meant the watering hole would be busier. Not a problem. She shifted her pack, and switched from the march to the trot, the tart thirst in her throat egging her on. Town didn't look like much, but that was nothing new. Everywhere looked like hell, or if it didn't, was just lying. Not hard to find the bar, either - old familiar smell and sounds drew her in.

She hopped once, outside the door, a token shaking of dust, then stomped in - and stopped just short of stumbling over a damn fool woman whimpering something on the floor. "What in the gor-"

The voice cut her off, and she looked up, at the bar and the tart in the tight sweater behind it. That voice? THAT voice? Piking nonsense. Must have misheard. She took a step to the right, past the floor-scraper, and stomped up to the bar. "Yeah. Water first, then something with kick. We'll go from there."
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 4
6/21/2015 0:31:23   
Krey
Member

“Hard is the road away from the past,
Cold the feeling when finally you breathe your last.
But the end comes only when the road runs dry.”

Except the road had been dry for miles. And miles. And miles. And here he was, trudging along it with all the abandon of a man with nothing left to lose, and all the misery of a man wearing a heavy cloak caked with dirt from the road. The cloak was his burden, the weight of the past clinging forever. Or was it his shelter from storms and winds? Sometimes it was so hard to tell. Further still, sometimes it was hard to care.

“She calls to me in dreams, promises something.
I answer with screams, for I want nothing.
She torments my sleeping nights,
While I torment my days.”

The voice had begun months ago, calling, incessantly calling. It was incredibly vague at first; a hint of a place, a name with no meaning. It had worked its way into his dreams, and into his subconscious, and slowly, ever slowly, had expanded his understanding of what he was seeking though, in truth, he wasn’t sure if he was seeking this place, Epsyon, or if it sought him. Still he had pressed on in search of the place, hearing its name in whispers and collecting subtle hints from everywhere to figure out which way to go. The information was slow in the gathering, and it was only in the past month that he had finally begun his trek with enough knowledge to find the path. Now the path had left its dust and dirt caked on his cloak.

“A bitter wind blows from the west,
Fabric and fringe tousled by the blast.”

Tousled, really? With lyrics like that you’ll never work again, he told himself, shaking his head as he stopped at the edge of town, the hem of his cloak lifted and flowing in the wind. He reached up to flip his hood forward, hiding his hair and features, then shifted the lute at his back and the bag under his arm to be sure they were still secure.

“Determined, he presses forth,
Deterred not by fire nor sword.”

That’s a little better.

Feeling that he had nearly arrived at his destination, he pressed onward into the town, the distant clang of metal on metal reaching his ears as he walked along the path. The call led him south along the road, and soon he found his attention shifting elsewhere, towards a tall building on the east sound. A tavern by the look and sounds of things and, even more noteworthy, the place that was calling his name.

“The door calls out, ever-waiting, and he answers,
Not as a fool invokes a talking door to anger.”

Sometimes you should just not speak, he told himself, and entered the tavern. And as he did, there she was, the woman whose voice had been calling him for so many months now. She was shorter than he’d expected. Shrugging, he crossed the room to the bar, gold-flecked green eyes quickly fluttering throughout the room as he went. Smoothly, melodically, he spoke as his eyes settled on the barkeep.

“A stout to make the mind wander,
And water lest the body falter.”

He’d sung worse.
AQ  Post #: 5
6/21/2015 21:58:12   
Eukara Vox
Legendary AdventureGuide!


 The world was a mask. That she was sure of. An attractive facade for a decaying state of affairs. What other explanation was there?

You were born with a challenge, Semya. Nothing more, nothing less. If you dwell on it, you will succumb to hopelessness. Your circumstances are not hopeless and never let anyone tell you otherwise.

But, father, it is so hard. I miss so many things.

My love, that is why you know more about the world than anyone else. You have to rely on everything else to know, really know, what is going on. You will always one-up everyone else.

She shook her head without losing sight of the road or her surroundings. For an elf, her father had been such a dreamer. Until she lost him, he made her feel as if she was perfect.

But she wasn’t. Not by a longshot. If anything, she was deeply flawed. It was nigh impossible to find employment in her strength. No, no one wanted her services. Even if she had proved over and over that she was just as good, if not better than some simple, hired roadwarrior, there was something that held an employer back. It was either artistry, or starvation.

Not that her bow had been all that consistent. Correction… not that she had been all that consistent. You would think after five years she would have been able to move on.

No.

Her dreams were still very real. Reliving every moment of her failures still made her hand shake when she drew an arrow. Her sight was perfect. Her alignment, flawless. Her hand… unsteady and untrustworthy. As it was, she barely could hunt enough to sustain the energy that she needed to go to wherever the hell she was supposed to be going.

Where the hell was she going? In the her nightmare-filled sleep, glimpses of a face and a place flashed for a fraction of a second while her history played out to torture her. The deery that reared up and pawed at her father. Raven locks, unevenly hacked. The thrust of the hoof through his heart. Dark lips that moved but made no sound. The mercenaries that invaded their privacy. A building, taller than its neighbours. The torture of her mother as she begged to die in a blood gurgling cry. Dusty cobwebs in the rafters. The same men descending on her. Shadowed tables in a bar.

She coughed, then looked around her. She used the opportunity to cover her mouth to also wipe the tear streak down her face. Cannot show weakness. Not on the road, not with people watching from the shadows of the tree-lined road. Heh, if they only knew she had picked them out a half an hour ago. They may think they are special and stealthy, but they weren’t. Not to her. But then again, not everyone could see the world as she did. So, she did the only thing that would make her smile. She stooped, picked up three smooth stones and stood. She took a deep breath, then, with her left hand, opposite their hiding place, she slung each stone at their heads, missing by a breath.

They ran.

A smile graced her lips, and for a moment, one would actually admit that she was pretty. But, the smile faded. The throws reminded her of the early hunting days with her father when he was teaching her how to aim at her quarry. Her father, who was dead because she was too weak and young to prevent it.

The road had seemed to go on forever when she first started this journey. But, she had seen the buildings a while ago. When she first glimpsed them, they were like any other town. But now, she could see one building greater than those around it.

The building from her dreams.

Her pace quickened. She needed answers. She needed to know why this place, that person, added fuel to her nightmares, added more confusion to her already troubled soul. The answer was there. Even if the feeling was more of foreboding than relief.

Her long legs covered the distance quickly. She entered the dilapidated town, heading straight for the tall building. Then she paused. For the first time in her life, she had rushed into a place without sufficiently evaluating it. Her heart quickened for a moment and she crouched, searching the streets, the windows, the shadows. When she was sure there was no threat, she stood and dusted off her wrap and boots. And now, I enter a touchable nightmare.

Semya entered the building, immediately recognising it for a bar. The familiar shadowed booths, where she was sure people sat. The bar with glasses close together, ready to be used. An old, old floor that probably needed to be repaired. She even looked up into the rafters to see if the cobwebs were there. She smirked softly. Yep, there they were.

Searching for the last puzzle piece, her eyes raked across the room. There. By the bar. Dark hair, dark lips. The face that never materialised in her dreams seemed to welcome her. The woman’s lips moved and for the first time, Semya could read them.

Her name was Zephyrus. Semya was welcomed and did she need anything.

Gods, Zephyrus… if you only knew. Semya stood transfixed, her left hand slowly moving in a pattern. But, it wasn’t as if anyone there actually would understand what she was doing.
AQ DF MQ AQW Epic  Post #: 6
6/21/2015 23:37:09   
Sigil
Member

The large man found himself, quite to his surprise, standing on a long, dusty road in a very unfamiliar place – dark, with a different smell to the air than his own kitchen at home. This was a memory lapse again, a black spot in his history, it had to be. But this seems different somehow. In the distance, grouped buildings hinted at civilization, but he stood there, blankly, hoping this was some kind of hallucination and that it would pass. Shocked and in denial, he did not notice other travelers coming up behind him, curious as to this strange man in the middle of the road. He glanced down to note with growing alarm that he was still outfitted as before, still holding a cast-iron pan, heavy with roasted pork.

“Sir, are you well?” came the cautious voice of a traveler. “Sir, what is your name?”

At this question, he began to come out of his fugue. The last solid memory, the only one he had, was reading aloud the last bit of a recipe; the dish he was preparing the moment everything stopped making sense. Obstinately, he forced himself to complete his sentence before it went away, as well. His mind struggled to grab the slippery, departing thought:

Prior to service, remember to cut off and reserve the…

“…fatty endpiece.”

“Fatty Endpiece, sir?”, questioned the puzzled man

His own actual memory seemingly obliterated, he said in an unsteady tone, “Yeah. It was definitely ‘fatty endpiece.’”

Suddenly, he felt as if there was someplace he needed to be.

Drawn ever forward up the thoroughfare, passing the dim lights to a tall, centrally placed building, his impulse to proceed grew ever stronger. This, for whatever reason, is where he needed to be. He plastered on his best "business face" and stepped inside.

He stood tall in the comparatively brighter light of the tavern, and let his grey-blue eyes adjust, and letting any patrons get a good look at him. He was broad and strong, a young man with short, dark hair and dire need of a shave. A black wool coat hung over his shoulders, partially covering the tough and functional garb of a laborer, with heavy black boots. A canvas and leather apron was tied about his waist, various small kitchen implements showing here and there, tucked into various places. The strangest thing about this man by far was what he carried; it was a large covered cast-iron pan, the inviting smell of roasted pork wafting from therein.

Everything about this man looked out of place, as if he were juxtaposed instantly with the person who really belonged at this location at this time. Uncertainty mixed with determination played across his face for just a second, replaced with his prior intimidating jawset. Scanning the room, the man assessed the patrons already present, made internal judgements, but said nothing. He looked over to the bar, and the inviting lady behind it, and walked solidly over. He set the cast-iron pan down on the bar, and removed his apron. carefully he rolled it up into a bundle and set it down beside the warm pan.

"If you would be as kind, ma'am," he intoned with a deep, cockney bass voice, "I have a few que.."

The sentence was cut off by the sound of an empty glass near him flying from the bar, seemingly by itself, and shattering on the wall nearby. "SOD OFF!" the man exclaimed, "I ALREADY HIT SOMEONE TODAY! ..that was today? When is today.. aw, bloody 'ell.."

Then turning his attention back to the barkeep, "Apologies, love. Have some questions. First one," he raises his voice so that others around can hear, "Does anybody want some sodding pork? I'm eager to be rid of it." and more quietly, "...and I think it's a good time for me to have a drink, and us a talk, hmm?"

"Well, come on," he called over his shoulder, "this pig ain't gonna eat itself, then is it?"


AQW  Post #: 7
6/22/2015 11:24:50   
Afina
Weaver of Epic Yarns
The Tavern Of Epsyon


It could be heard from with the calm winds that made their way through each corner of Epsyon, like a sickness that refused to release the soul. A chill in the air, felt in the depths of the mind rather than the bones beneath the flesh. The song of Epsyon weaved a web of entrapment, guised as an enchantment, locking into the psyche of those it had chosen to come. Once they had answered the call and stepped into the shadows of this far off place there was no escape, save redemption or death. Death was the easier of the two and hardly ever achieved. Redemption was a far worse, for even though they could be forgiven by those around them, finding forgiveness of ones self was a much more tumultuous journey complete. Even when finding it at the end of the long night, seeing a light you had so long denied existed, could send you fleeing from the very thing you had once known so well. In the soul the call beckoned you, in the soul you responded.

Please take away the memory
I don’t want to hear it ringing in my ears
I don’t want to see it before me
I don’t want to think about the falsehood that follows me


Zephyrus stood there, behind the long bar that lay at the far end of the tavern. She watched each person end the domain of Epsyon. There for each of their births into the shadows, there for each of their release, there for each of their death. The only light that shown freely, she was the beacon that brought them there; their caller and keeper but only they could decide if they were to be pardoned. The came quickly in her mind, though they have taken a life time to reach her. The smile dancing on her lips never faltering as her eyes fell on them. Speaking not a word to any that entered once she introduced herself initially; letting them place their orders and requests, posing their questions to her and not paying mind to the glass that flew from the bar. It seemed to rattle her not. Walking slowly as her fingers danced along the rough surface of the bar top before emerging from behind the barrier it created for her from them, she walked over to the one who knelt on the worn boards that made up the floor.

“Granted sweet Regina,” she whispered as she lowered herself to the young ones side, they all were young to her; mere babes in the world even if their lives had spanned the ages. A soft hand pushed the droplets of water off Reginas face as Zephyrus’ smile grew softer, the hand running along the length of her face before it trailed to her side and wrapped around her waist. Zephyrus’ free hand taking Reginas and slowly helping her to her feet, leading her slowly over to a long bench that rested against the inner wall.

“You’re home,” she said softly against her ear. “I have you,” she continued, like a mother comforting a child.

Helping Regina to lay down on the bench Zephyrus began to speak to those who she had been ignoring. An empty feeling would have tugged at them, a punishment from mother to child for passing over one in need. Never looking at them she spoke, a soft voice but that rang in disappointment. “All life is tied together. It yearns for connection, a connection that leads to freedom. To pass over one, with blinders on, for ones self will only lead to greater disappointment.”

As she finished tending to the wee one, she rose and dusted off her hands, turning to face them in turn before making her way back behind the bar, once again separating her from them. Without a word she began to pour drinks, setting them gently on the bar top.
She took her time for she was in no rush, time passed and it did not here in Epyson. Looking over at the man holding the piece of meat in the air and nodding, plates being laid next to the glasses, “yes, serve them,” she said as she finished and leaned against the back of the bar wall. A mirrored wall that did not seem as it had been there before, one which if they were to look upon it would see nothing but Zephyrus and themselves.

The Blacksmith Shop


On the far north of town she toiled away as she did each day and into the night, another blade being tossed into the pile before she decided to call it a night and seek refuge from the darkness at the Tavern. Amara reached over to the iron hook that jutted from the wall and removed her trench coat, pulling it on and fastening each clasp as she went out the door, closing it heavily behind her. With a quick turn of a key, hearing the tumblers turn, she continued on her way. Pulling the hood up to shield herself from the rain she trudged through the town.

Her face was solemn as she pushed open the doors of the tavern and perked a brow at the gathering of new comers that were before her. It had been a long time since she had seen a new face, or had it? She couldn’t remember and she didn’t care to dwell on such trivialities. Pulling her hood back, her fiery locks framed her ragged features.

“Evening Zephyrus, I see you have a new crop,” she said in a raspy voice, her head lowering slightly as she spoke. Letting her hair hide her features slightly she made her way over to the bar and behind it, grabbing a glass and clear bottle that held a dark substance. Pouring herself one and then another she moved back from behind the bar and set the spare one next to the one known as Regina before moving to a table near the window and sitting down, removing her coat before she did and tossing it over the back of a free chair.
Post #: 8
6/22/2015 22:35:34   
Kellehendros
Eternal Wanderer


 Pain was a thing of a thousand forms.

There was pain, sharp and knifing, driving into the skull like heated irons. There was pain, dull and pervasive, throbbing like a coating of bruises. There was pain, sudden and sharp, obliterating reality itself. There was pain, patient and building, vying insistently for attention.

Regina knew pain as intimately her own skin. It had woven itself through the fabric of her life, an invading army besieging the provinces of her mind, driving her inch by inch over the edge and into the yawning abyss. And in that darkness, still she fell through pain, losing bits and pieces of herself to the conquering force. Sometimes she thought herself inured to it, only for it to rise up again and swamp her. The pain seemed almost alive, vindictive, reveling in laying her low.

She fell through pain and darkness.

Her head ached, and her knees cried bruised objections as her body folded to the floor. The words ripped themselves from her lips, searing her throat as she held them up, broken offerings, the desperate plea of a mind teetering on the edge.

And at the bottom of the abyss, Epsyon.

Or so she prayed, with a fervor that she was not certain she still possessed. Let this be it, the uttermost end, the bottom point from which she could only rise. At least, let it be an end, one way or another.

Zephyrus was there, a slender, dark presence at her side. A hand touched her face tenderly, and Regina groaned, leaning against Zephyrus. The pain was there still, and yet, the woman’s assent alone to Regina’s plea was almost enough to be called blessed relief, even if there was no cessation of pain. She rose unsteadily, aided by Zephyrus, her own arm slipping about the other woman’s waist. Leaning on the tavernkeeper, head buried against her neck and shoulder, Regina let herself be led aside to a bench, laying her head gingerly on the wooden surface.

Others were there, a distant part of Regina realized, other travelers, other pilgrims. Her ears had taken in their voices, but they were background noise, and she focused only on Zephyrus, on that voice from her dreams made real. Hazel eyes closed slowly, and Regina was conscious of tears coursing down her cheeks, a hard knot in her chest easing ever so slightly… Home…

There was silence. She felt as if she was rising, coming up through a pool of still water. And then there were voices, distant voices. She ignored them. Her head was surprisingly clear. There was pain, yes, but pain had been a constant companion to her for so long that she knew its moods. The pain was waiting now, biding its time. This was.... interesting.

The clink of glass against wood drew her eyes open slowly, and she blinked against an unaccustomed blurry wetness. A hand rose, wiping at her eyes and cheeks. Had the pain been so bad that she had been weeping? It was not so now. She let her head turn slowly, cautiously, testing the pain, its temper. It was bearable. Her eyes focused slowly, resolving the image before her: a glass filled with a dark liquid, resting on the bench not too far from her head.

Moving carefully, lest she incur pain’s wrath by starting out too quickly, she sat up. Rubbing gingerly at her forehead for a moment, she reached down with her free hand, taking up the glass before letting her gaze run slowly over the others. She paused, hazel eyes resting on Zephyrus behind her bar, noting with faint surprise the absence of other reflections.

She turned, glancing towards the other woman who had spoken, eyeing the flaming locks that framed the woman’s face. Hazel eyes shifted, peering into her glass for a moment before moving over the others again as she lifted her glass. “To the new crop then.”

And without pausing to consider the wisdom of the action, or even what it was that was in the glass she had so conveniently found beside her, she tilted the glass back and drank.
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 9
6/22/2015 23:46:38   
Sigil
Member

"Well," started the brutish man with the cast-iron, "I'm completely arseholed on this one, if you'll take my meaning." He produced a utilitarian knife from his rolled apron and expertly cut off a large hunk of larded pork, still steaming lightly from its slow braise. With his free hand, he very un-expertly picked up said hunk of larded pork and deposited it unceremoniously on the nearest plate with an audible, liquidy slap. Fingers still glistening with fat, he carried the plate over to the distressed woman and set it down next to her glass. "My sincerest, love. Rather ungentlemanly. I'll leave the pan over here in case you want any of the fixins."

He then returned to the plates, scanning the room for a head count. "Well, here's one for you <slap>, and you, <slap>, you, you, you, <slap slap slap> and you <slap>. Hmm... Zephy, fancy a slice yourself? <slap>"

He picked up a plate for himself, loaded it with root vegetables and gravy from around the roast, and muttered lamentations about not having the proper breadstuffs to complete the meal proper. He picked up the knife again and began eating with it, using it as both a cutting implement and a fork. Around a mouthful of repast, he grunted, motioning to the others with his knife and then waving it at the plates. A quick swallow later, he intoned in his accented baritone, "This don't keep long. Eat up."

Then, almost as an afterthought, "So, does everyone else know bugger all about why we're here? Or is it just me?"
AQW  Post #: 10
6/24/2015 15:50:43   
Tdub
Member

Don’t look up, don’t open your eyes, don’t think at all.

This thought echoed in the strange man’s mind as he moved swiftly and carefully along the path. That is, as swiftly as is possible when one jumps at every sound while attempting to traverse a path wholly unfamiliar while observing the smallest amount of surroundings possible. With every step, Tormod could hear his boot scuffling with the dirt, and the very sound made him want to vomit, an urge only held back due to the prospect of vomit being the exact opposite of the goal he was trying to achieve.

Calm down, boy. You’re almost there.

That was a lie. In fact, Tormod had no idea how near or far he was to his destination. In order to know that, he would first have to know what exactly his destination was. Or where he was. Or practically anything about his current situation that he should probably already know. His journey, he knew, was completely stupid, and every sense in his body insisted that he turn around and return to what he knew.

Every sense, that is, except for the one that maintained the overwhelming sensation that he was going the right way.

Yes, that was the one. Without any hesitation, Tormod slipped into that peaceful, driving force in his mind that steered him north. Yes, he was certain he was going north. He had left going north. He had never strayed, longing for the peace that the urging in his head promised, Even as he trudged through filth and grime and muck and mire and sludge and….

Squish

That sound. That terrible, disgusting sound capable of driving Tormod out of his peaceful state of mind. The sound that heralded the arrival of evil itself, in the form of a small hole of mud that Tormod’s right boot had found its way into.

Time slowed down. Breathing heavily, Tormod bent over, carefully removing his foot from the mud. Slowly, he reached a gloved hand to wipe the mud from his boot, but recoiled with sudden fear before he ever touched it. Rising from the ground, he attempted with every fiber of his being to pull his mind into some manner of a calmed state.

These boots are sealed. Waterproof. There is no way any of this mud could possibly ever get inside.

As he walked, muttering to himself, Tormod kept a careful eye on the path before him, tuning everything out but the next step. Then the next. And the next…


Hours had passed. Or had it been minutes? Days? Whatever the case, he had arrived. Somewhere. Anywhere. Nothing had been solved. Filthy streets and filthy people. But the urge in his head grew stronger, almost as though it was giving off heat in his mind. Onward, it called, and suddenly, Tormod could see where he was meant to go. A building, taller than the others, standing ahead of him. His body cried out, opposed to any notion of approaching the building. Still, his feet moved of their own accord, and he soon found himself inside.

The rustic bar was far more than enough shut down his mind. More than the mud on his boot, the wind in his face, or the dirt on his clothes, the scene would have been enough to make him vomit, had his previous experiences with such things not discouraged that. Dust and cobwebs, spilled drinks, loud patrons, all of this made Tormod wish to huddle in a corner, away from the dangers that faced him. And yet he still walked, up to the bar, where a bar maid was waiting. He did not look her in the face, water brimming in his trembling eyes. Overwhelmed as he was at the sensations of the room, he struggled to let words escape his lips.

“P….p….please,” he whispered in a raspy, quiet voice. Who was he speaking to? He did not aim his voice at the bar maid, nor at any of the patrons. Perhaps the feeling in his head, that continued to drive him onward? In truth, Tormod did not know.

“P...p….peace. Quiet. S...solitude.”

“C…...clean.”
Post #: 11
6/24/2015 23:10:25   
Krey
Member

Somehow, he’d managed to skirt by a girl, on the floor, crying, and had failed to realize it. Forget that this should have been impossible for him, if not for his single-minded pursuit of the voice which had been calling; now he was simply all-too-aware of her mental state, and in addition as Zephyrus moved past, ignoring everyone else in order to go to Regina’s aid, he found himself gnawed at by an inexplicable feeling of emptiness.

He took a breath, eyes moistening as the overwhelming pain emanating from Regina washed over his own mind and soul. His breaths came heavier as he tried to fight off the feelings, knowing they would lead nowhere good, but he found himself unable to overcome them. Stupid, he told himself. You’re never there when you’re needed. Failure. He turned away, fist clenching on the bar as he fought with all he had to keep his own emotions in check, spurred on by those flowing throughout the room and heightened by Regina’s pain. While by now the girl was calmer, Roulade was already spiraling into chaos.

The slab of meat slapped down on the bar in front of him went nearly unnoticed as he struggled with himself, his body shuddering slightly in shared agony, responding to both the pain and the emptiness as his mind began to draw back into itself, recalling his own history.

“A heart cries out for aid,
Still unanswered its pain.”

He pounded his clenched fist on the table, and then released the tension in his hand, whirling around on the stool to look throughout the room. Gold-flecked green eyes narrowed as calm washed over his demeanor, and the corner of his lips curled up into a little smirk as he took an easy breath. Another patron arrived at the tavern at this point, but Rain showed no acknowledgement. He shifted his lute around his body so that it hung from its strap in front of him, and crossed his ankle over his knee, resting the instrument against his lower thigh and plucking a few strings as he sang a short, minor verse in a smooth baritone.

“But what trouble we find,
In what we can’t leave behind!
Why live in the past,
When this day, could be, your last?”
AQ  Post #: 12
6/25/2015 20:30:50   
Ryu Viranesh
Member

With each step that he took, a little bit more of Casimir’s resolve melted away in the blazing sun, sweat pouring down his face and each breath a shallow gasp for air. Yet he still walked on, putting one foot in front of the other, thoughts of turning back already long gone from his brain. At this point, walking might well be all that he knew; no, there was still his magic - that wasn’t going anywhere. But the rest? All of it might be irretrievable by this point. An involuntary shiver wracked the man’s frame, his body nearly doubling over as he halted to catch his breath, tired eyes tilting up toward the horizon. The day was fading, but the path still continued on; the siren’s song still echoed in his ears, so he still pushed onward, silently wishing that he’d never heard whispers of this mirage, of this Epsyon.

Everything started on an evening much like this one, the clouds white speckled curls painted on the tableau of the sky above, splashes of vibrant color left behind by the rays of the setting sun. Casimir had drawn a sizable crowd earlier that day, citizens both young and old enamored by the man’s creative routine. Transforming a single handkerchief into a many-colored cape, pulling a chosen card effortlessly from the clutches of his deck, even balancing a tower of needles atop the slick surface of a marble; to most the magician’s tricks were mythical marvels, actions that defied any possible explanation. They were the least of Casimir’s concerns. There had been four, four onlookers who had failed to be dazzled by his handiwork, four whom had left unsatisfied before his performance could conclude, four whose eyes had come to focus on him for too bloody long. Casimir knew that he had to get out of the city before they came for him, so he’d packed his things and left the small inn he’d made his home behind, able to put hours at his back before night finally fell.

That was when the whispers started.

They were wispy, inconsequential things at first, low mutterings that the man couldn’t comprehend or respond to; they haunted his every step, his hazel eyes drawn to each darkened corner as though it held some terrible secret. He thought that they’d followed him, had caught onto his plan and now lay waiting in the shadows. Waiting for him to falter as they slowly drove him mad. Sleep did not come easily that night, but it came regardless, the whispers blessedly fading away with his consciousness.

Over time, Casimir came to accept the murmurings as another part of his problems, the faint noises gradually crystallizing into words that did naught but add to his torment. They, or rather she told him sweet nothings, insisting that there was a place where even a person as broken as he might manage to find peace. Epsyon, hah. It was insulting, a farce, but… he couldn’t help but wonder...

What if it wasn’t? And so his steps took him north, gradually drawing the man further and further off of his intended path. He refused to acknowledge what he was doing and at times found it maddening; why trust this woman when he couldn’t even see her face? When he couldn’t decide if she was one of them? This was stupidity, and yet Casimir couldn’t stop; he had nothing else to go back to.

As he topped the next rise the man brought the back of his right hand to his forehead, wiping the greasy sheen from his skin and casting a glance ahead. One more, he’d crest one more hill for the day before he retired, all to satisfy the words of a woman he barely remembered anymore. This slope was higher than the last, sweat once again covering the man’s rugose brow by the time he reached its zenith; he moved to repeat his previous gesture and clear it away, but instead found the arm falling limp to his side. His fingers twitched, but that was all of the motion that Casimir could muster, his gaze locked on what lay below. Before he knew it he was on his knees, tears leaving transient trails down the sides of his face as his whole body shook. It was real. Everything he’d dreamed about was real.

Casimir’s remaining travels were a blur, a mad dash defined only by his heavy breaths and the final few gasps of metal-on-metal before silence reigned. He fashioned that he could hear the voice calling out to him in the twilight, guiding him to the destination he’d been seeking for months, if not years. Everything appeared just as it had in the dreams: the well-trodden trail, the rows of buildings, even the color of the place as the last remnants of the sun started to fade away into shadow. Casimir saw the faint light that lay behind the doorway to the tavern, his body practically crashing through the portal as he hurried to find the source.

Her words hit him like a ton of bricks, bringing the exhausted old man to a sudden stop, his body all but blocking the entrance. Slowly, carefully he took a few halting steps inside, regarding only Zephyrus and ignoring all others who occupied the space; she was the one who had brought him here, who had led him on what might well have been a fool’s errand. Yet it wasn’t. Casimir forced a smile to his lips as he straightened himself up, a faint twinkle returning to his eyes.

“... Answers, Miss. I would like answers.”
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 13
6/25/2015 23:29:45   
Eukara Vox
Legendary AdventureGuide!


 Semya broke her stare. Zephyrus had turned away from them to assist one who was on the floor. She felt an emptiness, suddenly, a feeling from outside of her and looked at the one Zephyrus laid down. Twice, in the same day, she had failed her training and ran into a situation without taking precaution and inventory of her surroundings. By doing so, she had overlooked one who had fallen, forcing Zephyrus to attend to the woman.

Another mark of failure added itself to the treasure trove of jewels that haunted her.

When Zephyrus stood, though, Semya felt as if she had missed something. There had been a change in the woman’s demeanor, as well with others who were already there. In all likelihood, the woman had spoken to everyone while turned away from them. Which… was unfortunate if true. It meant that Semya had truly missed something.

If the woman on the bench was hurt or needed calming, restorative rest, she could provide it with what was in her pouch. If she could communicate all this. If not, would they let her approach the woman lying on the bench?

She looked at the others who were there. They were a motley group of individuals, but she felt no draw to any of them. Semya watched one man slap meat on platters and she shivered just slightly. She could see the fat dripping and running and deduced it wasn’t venison or fish from this distance. Even if it offended, she wouldn’t partake. That’s not something she could stomach. He seemed to enjoy offering, but no, not that stuff.

The woman on the bench worried her. Another worried her for different reasons. She approached the bar with authority. Semya felt the floor vibrate with each step. That one…May be smart to steer clear of her. There was a man with an instrument. Perhaps an entertainer?

Feeling for her pouch, Semya approached the woman on the bench. By now, she had sat up, but the evidence of pain was still written on her face. Surely, she could help. She had kept her stock of base herbs and liquids completely full up for days like this. Semya knelt slowly, so as to not startle the young woman. She untied the leather thong that held her pouch to her belt and looked at the woman.

Her voice is soft, her words… not crisp, not enunciated completely as anyone else in the room would. “I can help your pain. Do you want me to help?”

The man with the instrument had begun to play. She could feel the air change, moving around her as it pulsed through the room. It seemed soothing, perhaps done for the girl? Two others had arrived, but her eyes were for the young woman on the bench, watching her lips for any response.
AQ DF MQ AQW Epic  Post #: 14
7/1/2015 21:59:27   
Kellehendros
Eternal Wanderer


 The dark liquid went down fierce, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth like shaved iron. She couldn’t help but cough a few times afterwards, causing spikes of pain to flash through her skull. Perhaps unwisely, she had taken the entire contents of the glass in one go. Then again, given the taste, perhaps it was best that she had put an end to the drink swiftly. She was not entirely certain that she could have stood up to a second sip, or a third. Whatever it was, it was strong. She must have ordered it at some point, though she couldn’t pinpoint when that had been, or what she had asked for. Something to take the edge off, apparently.

Perhaps it would do so, she mused as her mind drifted away from that thought. There was something odd about this place, besides the lack of reflections in the mirror. It seemed ordinary enough, a tavern, its patrons. But then… What was this talk of crops? She couldn’t remember seeing any fields on her way in, but then, she couldn’t remember coming in, to be honest.

A wet, liquid slap distracted her from her consideration, and a man roughly the size and shape of an ogre, at least in comparison to herself, dropped a plate with some sort of food next to her, along with an apology. Having no earthly idea what the man was apologizing for, she simply inclined her head politely in thanks and acceptance, and returned to her observation of the patrons. A hand rose to touch the scar along her scalp, dropping back to her lap as she winced slightly.

The door opened and another entered, a man, or perhaps an older child or teenager. It was hard to tell; he was swaddled almost entirely in obscuring clothing. His gait was unsteady as he approached the bar and Zephyrus, and some words must have been said, but her attention was pulled away by the strumming of strings and a man’s voice rising in song.

She shifted slightly on the bench, somewhat surprised at the pain in her head. Not that the pain was there, mind, but that it was less than she had expected, less ferocious, less acute. Sometimes it seemed that her headaches were at their worst when she first awoke, as though her companion, pain, begrudged her waking state and sought to drag her back into unconscious oblivion.

Another entered, and she reflected that the tavern was either extremely popular, or very busy today. She had no time to inspect this entrant, however, for she was being approached by another woman. Her eyes slid over the woman, picking out details: the well used boots, the bow oddly paired with a crossbow, the braids keeping back the hair and allowing sight of both scars and pointed elven ears.

She watched as the woman approached and knelt, undoing the ties of a pouch. For a brief second hazel eyes met the elf’s jade gaze, and then flicked down to the pouch, considering. The elf spoke, and that dragged the human’s eyes up, a faint narrowing of the gaze disclosing either vague suspicion or pain. The elf’s voice was… strange. There was something about it that she couldn’t place, an unusual manner of enunciation, as though the speaker was unfamiliar with the sounds, or knew them in only a cursory or scholarly fashion.

After a moment she smiled, looking down at the kneeling elf as she spoke. “Sometimes it feels like pain is half of what I am. If you think you can help… Please.”
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 15
7/2/2015 9:20:58   
Afina
Weaver of Epic Yarns
The Tavern Of Epsyon

Many had come to Epsyon that night as the rain poured down from the heavens above; it had been some time since so many had dared enter the lands. Though it was not surprising to Zephyrus, she knew why they were there, what had called them and why. They had questions and yet those questions had to be answered in their own time and could not be given right out. They had to earn such luxuries. A smirk came to the keepers lips as she stood there, arms crossing over her chest as Amara took the bottle and poured a drink for herself. Zephyrus was used to Amaras ways by now, she was different than the rest of those there. Most seek release, Amara did not. She oddly found comfort in such a place and yet Zephyrus could not blame her after the life she had lived. She too had found Epsyon and eventually became its voice. She wondered if Amara would become the next voice when her time was done.

Perking a brow at one of the visitors she sighed. She had overlooked something so very important. Walking over to Seyma and tapped her on the shoulder before moving in front of her. Her hands began moving quickly, forming words for the one that could not hear. Explaining what she had said earlier and apologizing for not do so sooner in a manner that she could understand. Zephyrus reached out once she was finished and placed her hand on Seymas forehead, a soft warm sensation would fill the one without the sense of hearing. As she pulled her hand away she spoke. “Now, that is better,” she said. Seyma would not be able to hear her but in her mind the words would form as hand gestures she could picture there and understand. “Isn’t it,” she stated instead of posing it as a question. Now when Zephyrus spoke, even if she was not looking at Semya or using her hands the words would form for her so her song could reach her.

Rising she turned to face the group. “I know you have many questions. I have the answers but I will not give them to you,” she stated flatly as she walked back to the bar and around to the back of the counter. “You were called here but you could not be called if your life had not deemed it so. In a way you chose to let this be your home, for now. Will you leave? Perhaps one day, or perhaps you will fade away into sea foam before the night is through. It will be up to you. Only the strong of heart and soul can survive Epsyon and none may leave until Epsyon deems it so,” she said as she relaxed somewhat.

“You and your games,” Amara hissed under her breath as she looked out the window. Turning to look at the group, eyeing Seyma so she could see her lips, she shook her head. “In other words, you’re a prisoner here until you can get over whatever hang up you have in your demented minds. Try to leave and Epsyon will barricade you in. Might as well get comfortable,” she said quickly before looking away. “I’ve been here a decade.”

“That is because you have not tried to leave,” Zephyrus followed up before shrugging. “Rooms are upstairs, each will have your name on the door and be outfitted for your own personal needs. Then it is up to you to determine your fate,” she said as behind her in the mirror a young woman appeared, hair a fiery crimson, tied in webs, a look of distance in her features before fading away as quickly as she appeared.

Amara downed her drink and rose. “I’m the blacksmith, edge of town, if weapons are needed or are in need of repair,” she said quickly before pulling the mantle of her hood up and making her way to the door, placing her hand on it and pushing it open. Walking out into the rain, the door closed heavily behind her. Amara knew what Zephyrus was up to, she didn’t like it. This was a cat and mouse game to her after all these years. She had seen many come to Epsyon, few died, fewer left. Most just remained, like Amara, having given up playing the game and resigned to just existing in Epyson. Wandering through the town Amara thought back to what she had seen in her years.

This was the largest group to ever arrive at once; perhaps Zephyrus had something new up her sleeve. And what of the woman in the mirror? That was something new that Amara had never seen. It did not sit right with her but yet there was something very familiar about the figure. “No, it couldn’t be,” she muttered as she rain poured down around her. “Could it?”


< Message edited by Afina -- 7/2/2015 18:49:16 >
Post #: 16
7/2/2015 23:51:47   
Eukara Vox
Legendary AdventureGuide!


 Semya saw the woman’s response and was relieved that she could at least try to help. As she pulled open her pouch and searched out the right ingredients, someone tapped her on the shoulder then moved in front. She blinked, surprised to see Zephyrus. She was even more surprised when Zephyrus began to speak in hand signs for her. Her explanation was rapid, leaving Semya very impressed. She would have to ask the woman later how she came to learn the signs she used. For now, it was a relief that someone knew.

Semya tried not to flinch as Zephyrus moved to touch her. Usually, only she initiated contact with another if she wanted to be touched, but for some reason, Semya didn’t move to brush her away. The contact was strange, especially at first. Unlike any contact she had had before. A warmth spread from the spot where Zephyrus’ hand touched her forehead. It was almost comforting, in an odd, foreign way. And then, the strangest thing happened. As Zephyrus spoke, Semya saw… saw the words formed in her head through sign. She smiled. Whenever Zephyrus spoke, Semya would now be able to know what she was saying or instructing.

Relief. Understanding.

Now that is better, isn’t it? The first real sentence Semya had had communicated to her in so very long. It was better. She smiled softly and nodded to Zephyrus as the woman addressed the group. She looked briefly at the young woman she wanted to help and held her hand up, signalling for her to wait.

She watched Zephyrus and watched the hand signs that seemed to play in the background, in case she missed her lip reading. So, they were there to learn. Her life brought her here. Her life… not that there was much to it. She had lost what life there was to live years ago. She wasn’t sure what answers she would get here. Maybe that was the point.

Yes, a hundred questions. Questions for now, questions from the past and questions for later. The other, though… Semya wasn’t sure about her. Her body language and choice of words showed bitterness. She turned away and said something.

When Zephyrus answered, Semya understood. It was some comment on the length of time she had been there. She hadn’t tried to leave. That meant there was effort to be made. I have all the time in the world to give effort, if it means that something will help.

A room. With her name.

Heh, do they also cater? There is no way I can eat what was served today every day, every meal. I wonder if they allow free hunting?

An image flashed in the mirror. Young woman with red hair, then disappeared. A mystery. Semya loved them in spite of herself. If she ever got wrapped up in one, it always meant she had to interact with others. The very nature of solving a mystery required others. She wasn’t a fan of working with people. It was awkward, messy and frustrating for both parties involved.

Speaking of…

Turning to the young woman in pain, she smiled and spoke, looking into the lady’s eyes. “I have many things, but two mixed will help with your pain, darkmoon hips and spider venom. Do you trust me?”
AQ DF MQ AQW Epic  Post #: 17
7/4/2015 17:48:35   
Sigil
Member

“You have answers,” he began, polishing out his recently emptied pan, “but just won’t tell us? Voyage of discovery and whatnot, eh?” His decidedly underclass accent deepened with irritation as he continued, “I doubt you’ve the time to see to the questions I’ve got, little duck. First thing I ‘member clearly in my life is appearing on that sodding road ‘bout an hour ago, holding a pan of what I assume was my supper for the evening, reading off the last two words of a recipe when some frigging soul or another asks me my name. Don’t get me wrong, Fatty Endpiece is a mad dashing moniker to get yoked with, ‘specially round the ladyfolk, but it’s just one of several things I need to know that’s pretty basic. Well, in comparison to the whole ‘where am I’ and ‘how did I get here’ bit. Gravy’s sake, I don’t even know for certain where it is I’m supposed to get back to, if I do ever leave this place, or ‘ow to bloody start!”

“Ah yeah, long as I’m asking futile questions, and what’s with the firey bint in the mirror? I don’t recall exactly where I used to rest for the night, but I’m right certain that requires some conversation no matter where we are.”

He takes in a breath, aware his frustration was beginning to get the better of his judgement. Looking down, his hands were still polishing his cast-iron, which he carefully sets aside and re-lids. Slowly, a look of realization spreads across his features. Absently, he intones,

“There’s one bit of my fate I can determine right sodding now… names on the doors, eh?”

It can be described that Mr. Endpiece moves disproportionately quickly for a man of his size. It can also be said that he takes stairs two at a time when rushed. These two facts combined to allow one to witness a very large man bounding upstairs with the look, determination, and subtlety of a mission-bound silverback gorilla. Moments after he disappears from view, his frustration is signaled by a simple, one word exclamation:

“BUGGER!”

He returns with a defeated look and slumped shoulders, his boots thunking hollowly on the stairs as he returns to the common. Leaning an arm back to steady himself, he sits at the nearest available table and buries his face in him overly sized palm.

“I don’t know my name. I don’t know your names. I can’t pick them apart if I wanted to, so I don’t know which room is mine. Maybe we need to get to know each other a bit before we turn in. And I could really go for a pint.”
AQW  Post #: 18
7/5/2015 8:51:53   
Bastet
Member

Nysha watched from the shadows, as she was so used to. As she put away the coins she had just finished counting and drank the last drops of tea left in her cup, the complacency in her left room for a feeling of disappointment. No matter how much success she had in her activities, she always wanted more. Even spilling the blood of innocents was something she was willing to do, sometimes making her wonder if it wouldn’t have been better if her life ended where her kin also met their deaths. Epsyon transformed her into a shell of her former self, but that shell had gained a personality of its own. A bitter, sour and even cruel character.

Though the newcomers would’ve been more profitable to her if she happened to find them on the road, she wouldn’t dare harm anybody inside Epsyon or those who had paid for her services. Her reputation had to be maintained, else the only civilized settlement she knew would no longer be a hospitable place. She found the scene going down near the center of the bar a bit absurd, potential customers were to be found there. She raised the hood of her scavenged cloak to avoid direct exposure that surrounded her targets, and moved towards them with confident steps.

Mostly unnoticed until she drew close to the group and cleared her throat, Nysha announced her services to those who had found an answer to Epsyon’s call in that very inn:

“Greetings, travelers. Though I may not hold the answers you claim to be looking for, I have been living in this area and the surrounding wildernees for years. If you need a guide to take you to any destination in Epsyon, I represent your best hope. My services are open to all willing to discuss a fair payment, and as long as I stay in this inn. Name’s Nysha."

Grabbing a stool and sitting on the bar, Nysha waited to see if someone was already willing to hire her. Either way, it was a perfect opportunity to examine possible prey at a close distance.
Post #: 19
7/6/2015 20:25:02   
Kellehendros
Eternal Wanderer


 The elf’s response was forestalled, and the human leaned back slightly, as Zephyrus approached, not interposing herself between them, but calling the elf’s attention away. For her part, the human shifted slightly and watched as the tavernkeeper’s hands flickered through a series of odd motions and signs, as though she was evoking some sort of magic by the gestures of her hands.

Perhaps she was, for after she was done she smiled, touching the woman’s face and asking her if something was better before standing and moving back to address the bar as a whole.

Hazel eyes narrowed slightly, and she took in Zephyrus’ words, a frown making its way over her face. Answers, was that why she had come here? Perhaps it was. Sometimes she couldn’t be certain. Sometimes it seemed as though she was simply wandering aimlessly, and her feet had taken her here of their own volition. There were answers she could use though, of that she was certain. Of course, it was often the asking that mattered as much as the question. Zephyrus seemed to agree, judging by her refusal to provide answers. That, or the statement was entirely self-aggrandizing.

Her attention was drawn from Zephyrus by another woman’s words. She turned, glancing at Amara, frowning expression not changing. Games, answers, and a town that apparently could determine who would stay and who would go. These were things outside her ken, though Zephyrus followed up Amara’s statement with an assertion that they had control of their own fate. The frown was replaced with a slight smile, and she wondered if Zephyrus was conscious of the contradiction in terms she had spoken.

Setting that aside, she frowned once more, noting the appearance in the odd mirror behind the bar of another woman. She wondered what it was that the mirror showed. People who were there but weren’t, those where weren’t but were. Shaking her head to push the odd thought away, she winced as pain flashed through her head almost in revenge for the rash action, nearly causing her to miss the elf’s words as she was addressed.

The woman’s tone struck her as odd once again, but there was no cause she could place upon it as she turned to answer. “Spider venom? I’m sure it tastes lovely. Well, it would be the first time someone told me they were feeding me poison. I can respect that sort of honesty.”

Further words were forestalled by an explosive burst of noise as the large fellow returned to the common room dejected. Apparently she wasn’t the only one with a faulty memory. She looked back at the elf, and gave the big man at least one name to go off.

“Gerrica Weaver, pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 20
7/9/2015 20:18:35   
Sigil
Member

"Many thanks then, Nysha." started the large man in a low, gravelly voice. "Just as soon as I know where I am or where I'm going, if'n'when I need to get somewhere I'll be positively rushing to give you what little silver I've got to get there." He shot a quizzical look for a moment, shrugged, and absently muttered, "...yeah, makes sense..."

He went over the names he'd gleaned over the course of the evening's conversation, counting along on his fingers: "Gerrica, Nysha, Amara, Guy Who Sings Everything (probably not a given name), and Lady Who Moves Her Hands (this isn't helping)." Perhaps a different approach was in order.

"Our Lady Barkeep made hint that we're best looking to each other, 'less we're looking for further disappointment. As I understand, we've got sod all in common 'cepting something's wrong with the lot of us. Can't rightly speak for you all, but maybe we need something a bit more solid in common. Miss Mirror Damsel comes to mind. P'raps by helping someone else, we can help ourselves."

He straightened somewhat, seated though he was, and addressed the host, "Zephyrus! What do you know about this woman? And what can I do?"
AQW  Post #: 21
7/9/2015 23:10:42   
Eukara Vox
Legendary AdventureGuide!


 Semya was aware of movement. That much was true. The air currents changed with each movement, with each person’s interaction. She felt the floor boards vibrate slightly when the larger man, who had served the… food, seemed to have been upset. She saw him come back down from the corner of her eye, but that could wait. Dejected and a fit wasn’t as important as pain.

She knew there were others. Smell… smell permeated the place. A different smell, sometimes harsh, sometimes subtle, indicating more movement. Yet, this woman was all she had attention for.

Gerrica Weaver.

She paused, her eyes wide. She looked at Gerrica in sheer disbelief. She wasn’t an elf! Weaver was her father’s surname. This woman was not related to Semya’s father! Her eyes narrowed. “Weaver? You are no elf. How do you have my father’s name?”

Though she should wait, she doesn’t. The pain had to be attended to, then she had to take her things to her room. That passage would afford her a look at everyone else.

“I am Semya Weaver. And yes, I am sure it is nice to have someone poisoning you announce it before hand. I know how to mix it with your drink so that you will not be hurt. Mixing the venom and the darkmoon hips does wonderful things for the body depending on the measurements.”

Semya proceeds to measure out the venom into the drink. She gestures for Gerrica to swirl her drink while she pinched the darkmoon hips into her palm. As she stirs the dried herbs in her palm, Semya begins to separate out bits, but only she can explain why she chose that which was in a small pile nearest her middle finger. As Gerrica swirled the drink, Semya sprinkled the isolated herbs into the drink.

Nothing happened. But, that was the way it was supposed to be. If it did anything… Semya would have to knock it out of the woman’s hand.

“There. Drink and the pain will at least diminish, if not go away.” Semya placed the herbs not used back into her pouch and stands. “Tell me if you need anymore. For now, I need to go find my room.” She turns and looks the room over, making note of who was there. People who she would either have to work with, the thought making her slightly cringe, and those that she may have to be wary of.

She nods to everyone, knowing that there most likely had been conversation, but questions were for later. For now, she was in serious need of her room. Semya headed to the stairs, taking them two at a time and disappearing.
AQ DF MQ AQW Epic  Post #: 22
7/17/2015 12:03:02   
Afina
Weaver of Epic Yarns
The Tavern and Then Some


Zephyrus looked over her shoulder to the mirror behind her and then back at the group as she crossed her arms in front of her and slowly a few tendrils of hair moved from her face and behind her ear of their own accord before she decided if she should answer any questions or not. She knew they were confused. They always were when they arrived, so many questions and yet so few answers to be had. At least this newest group seemed to want answers where so many before them seemed fine with just loosing themselves in the world of Epsyon. A simple wave of the hand and the woman in the mirror became clearer, the bands and webbing holding her suspended into place as Zephyrus turned and looked at her.

“This is Alice,” she said calmly before looking back over to those still down in the main room before waving her hand once again and the woman faded away. “She is….complicated,” was all Zephyrus was willing to say at this point. Letting her hands fall from their place and to her side she stepped closer to the bar top and looked at each one of them in turn before glancing towards the stairs that went to the rooms for a brief spans of time. “For now, you all need to rest. Travels are long; travels to Epsyon are even longer. Food and drink and room are provided by the town. Money is not something you will spend here nor earn,” she said as she slowly ran a finger over the bar top as she walked out from behind it.

“A basic kitchen is provided through those doors,” she said as she pointed to the back right wall of the tavern proper. “It will provide you with what you need. Eat, drink, sleep,” she said as she continued to walk through the tavern slowly. “Tomorrow answers will begin for those that seek them but only if you ask the right questions. Those have yet to be asked. Questions will remain for those that do not,” was the last thing she said as she took a step into the shadows and faded from sight, leaving to their own devices for the evening.

Amara during this ever encryptic speech of Zephyrus’ made her way back to the smith shop where she worked and lived. The hour had grown late and she was tired of another long day. The days were like all others. People would arrive, ask questions and the hours would stretch on as if they did not want to end. Like an old man clinging to a life long fallen from his grasp. Taking a breath as she entered her home she pulled the hood of her mantle back and shook the ever down pour from her form before removing the cloak proper and hanging it back on the wall where it lived so many hours of the day. So many long hours.

Taking a seat in an old chair, it creaked slightly as she leaned back and stared blankly out the window. Why did Zephyrus do this to those that came. She knew why they had come. Perhaps Amara did not know the personal reasons but after so many years she knew the basics. She just never chose to do anything about it. There was nothing left for her out there before the world of Epyson, so she never looked past what was before her. Perhaps one day she would, if only to die peacefully where the sun shone. Or perhaps she would just fade away like so many before her. Little did she know that neither of these were an option to her like they were for the new arrivals. Not unless she changed her outlook but how one views the world is a tough task.




~Sleep my darlings sleep, for in sleep there is chance to dream~
Post #: 23
7/18/2015 10:07:22   
Kellehendros
Eternal Wanderer


 Gerrica arched a brow as the elf leaned back slightly. Apparently the woman took some exception to her surname. She had a vague moment of worry on that count. Perhaps the elf had an enemy by that name, and Gerrica had just put herself into opposition to the woman through what was really nothing more than a selection made upon a whim.

For her part, Gerrica had no idea what her own surname was. She had lived on the streets as a child, and had no memory of her parents. She had been Gerrica Weaver, Gerrica Tanner, Gerrica Smith, and a dozen others as well. The names were taken and discarded for convenience, for need, and later on for her work. She had been Gerrica Dove once, but she didn’t like to think about that. That had been a bad time for her.

Thankfully, it seemed that there was no cause for alarm, for the elf’s questions, though asked with a sharp intensity, revealed only that her surprise was the result of a shared surname. Gerrica smiled, both with a measure of relief and at the humor of the situation. So far as she knew, there was no elven blood in her heritage. Then again, what could an orphan ever know of her heritage, other than what was written in her features for others to see? Her ears were as round as anyone she had ever met though, so she very much doubted there was anything elven in her lineage.

Semya Weaver, so the elf had a name now, and though it was expected, the surname still provoked a small smile from Gerrica. She nodded, and then stood when her new friend mentioned a drink. If the ingredients the elf mentioned needed to be mixed with something, then Gerrica would need a drink. She had noted Amara’s departure, and also noted that the smith had left the bottle of dark liquor resting on the table she had been occupying. Gerrica had no idea if alcohol would diminish the effectiveness of Semya’s decoction, but the elf hadn’t said anything about needing a particular kind of drink, so Gerrica poured her glass full again and returned to her seat. The elf made no objection, so she just swirled the liquid in her glass gently as Semya tipped a measure of venom into the glass.

Gerrica watched Semya draw out a pouch of what she assumed were the darkmoon hips the elf was speaking of, sorting through the dried herbs and adding some to the glass. Semya stood, looking over the room and then heading towards the stairs to rest. “Thank you.” Gerrica called after the retreating elf, who made no response as she continued upwards.

She drank slowly, looking around the room. There was no taste from the mixture Semya had added to the drink. That was probably a good thing though. Gerrica’s limited experience with apothecaries and remedies had taught her that such things were almost always incredibly vile. Thankfully, that was not the case here, which was probably best, because if she had been gagging on some vile tonic she would have missed Zephyrus’ words.

Gerrica frowned, glancing from the tavernkeeper to the mirror behind her. Alice. She filed that away for later, along with Zephyrus’ words, watching the woman stalk along the bar… and vanish. Gerrica blinked at that, squinting at the space the woman had, until a moment ago, been walking. She glanced around the bar, shaking her head. This was a strange place, and Gerrica had no idea what sort of questions she was supposed to ask.

Those were questions for tomorrow though. Of that much at least, Gerrica was agreed with Zephyrus. Setting her glass down on the table, Gerrica stood and made her way to the stairs herself. Heading up, she found a hall of rooms, each bearing a name engraved on a placard affixed to its door. She passed each door, pausing for a moment to squint at the placards, her lips unconsciously forming the syllables as she read out each name. Gerrica had never had much in the way of formal education, and her ability to read was rudimentary at best. Still, she could sound her way through it given time, and she could recognize her own name.

Gerrica paused before one of the doors, blinking. The name engraved upon the placard seemed to writhe, swimming disorientingly before her eyes. Shaking her head, Gerrica rubbed at her eyes, pain flashing briefly through her forehead. When she looked again her name was there, upon the placard. She frowned at the door slightly, as though the moment of pain and her own confusion were somehow its fault, but there was really nothing for it at this point, so Gerrica opened up the door and moved inside. Questions for tomorrow…

The day must have been catching up with her, because she was hit by an almost overwhelming wave of exhaustion as she moved inside and shut the door behind her. Gerrica shuffled over to the bed, hardly seeing the room around her before collapsing into it and surrendering to sleep.
AQ DF MQ  Post #: 24
7/19/2015 23:45:58   
Sigil
Member

Fatty Endpiece nodded gravely at the words of the hostess, and sat quietly. He understood his situation, at least in part. More questions than answers, and every person in this forsaken place sat at the same table, so to speak. So for now, he sat, sipped from his beverage, and listened.

He listened for details, he listened for stories. Anything they the group may have in common. The things that made them unique. Whatever they had to share with the group, he took in. Mostly though, he listened for names. There was purpose in this.

First, he ruled out the names he already knew, mentally crossing them from the list of doors. Then, he eliminated all female names. Last he checked, he was graced (or cursed, depending) with externals rather than internals. Female names across the races was tricky business sometimes, but the last time he checked he was Human. Well, as far as he knew. Human, male, not mentioned on this night. The Unfamiliar Familiar name on the shiny inn door.

He stood, slowly, and walked up the stairs. His heart pounded in his ribcage like it may burst out, like he was running for his life. the acquisition of personal knowledge should not be a thing of concern like this. Why did he react so nervously? He trudged down the hallway, feet leaden with anticipation. Then he came to a stop, slowly turned his head, and mouthed the words on the door nearest him as he traced the letters with his finger.

"Johnathon Keystone."

His hand stilled. His mind went someplace far away. Body transfixed, something came sucking back into the vacuum of his memory.

"...Keystone... ...Keystone... ...Keystone..." his name chanted by throngs of people, a cacophony of murmurs and cheers, all directed at him by people he'd mostly never met. Every time his name reached his ears, it seemed he was hurting or killing someone else. His fist destroyed one man's jaw, followed by a choke hold, followed by him kicking a knee apart sideways. Another man's teeth sprayed bloody into the dim light, an elbow staved in another's nose. Arm wrenched from its socket. Fingers broken. Slamming a heel down on an opponent's foot and chopping his throat to cut off the scream. Punching yet another in the stomach so hard as to make him vomit blood. Driving knuckles into flesh and bone. Cracking. Breaking. Tearing. Wet popping sounds, gagging those nearby. His name continued unabated. "...Keystone... ...Keystone... ...Keystone..."

He snapped back to reality, or what passed for it. Staring at his name, his face hardened. He now knew a little more about himself, at least as much illumination as could come through a keyhole momentarily into the darkened room of his past. He twisted his head to either side, causing impressive audible popping sounds to issue from his vertebrae, and stared at his hands. Tough. Strong. Scarred. He has a name. Now he wasn't sure he wanted it. Aloud, to no one in particular, he stated:

"I don't think I'm a good person."

Johnathon stepped inside his room, lay down on the bed provided, and stared at the ceiling for a good, long while.

...

...

...sometime later in the night, to anyone still awake or sleeping lightly, a bellow sounded from his room, "STOP TELLING ME TO DO THINGS!"
AQW  Post #: 25
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