Weather
The first great snowfall of a few days prior has coated the lands in a shining white that many would say is beauty embodied. The trees glimmer and chime with ice on their branches, and the evergreens are more vibrant and lively looking than at any other time in the year. The skies are cloudless, and with nothing to insulate the earth, temperatures drop low enough to be dangerous for long amounts of exposure at night.
Announcements
The Battle in Belfhaste Harbor is about to commence; all interested parties should report post-haste
The ice that has taken over the water has finally begun to thin; once it has melted entirely, normal naval activity can resume, as most ships are incapable of traversing such dangerous obstacles as enormous hull-piercing shards of ice. Most ships...
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If you get caught looking, just remember he was looking back
Posts:
239
Group:
Caledonian
Member
#88
Joined:
April 10, 2008
Class
Outlaw
Level
00
The Wanderer
The day he blew in, like a dust storm at dawn, everything was quiet, the town empty, except for one place- the shrine. The entire tribe would gather there, every fortnight, just like clockwork. No one really knew, thought- or dared- to ask why they devoted themselves to a god that had shown them little enough kindness. The light brown houses were perfectly circular, all of them, with blood red triangle painted boldly in a ring all about their domed tops, reflecting the brutal sun away from the dry seabed. At the shrine, each person took a piece of Black Glass and journeyed out of the village to carve a line in the particular pattern intended to ward away chaos, as always, retracing the age-old lines. Men, women, children, all of them went with their little bit to scratch at the thick hide of the earth to appease the gods above. To the west, in the wan morning light, a young native girl finished her line and straightened up, catching a small sound in a lull between gusting winds that threw dust hither and thither like a child in mud. The wind blew again, constantly picking at her dark hair and plainsman’s clothes and flinging bits of grit into her brown skin. It was a sort of... crunch, she thought, like heavy footfalls, or pounding a stone staff into the earth looking for water. She soon saw the source, a man in perhaps his mid-thirties, striding across the earth, lurching when he put weight on his left side. She did not make a sound, for he was likely to be a trader, well supplied with the things they would need to live in that great pack of his. She wondered at his skin, however. Such pale skin, even in this harsh light. He was so strange, merely tan, instead of the nut-brown or rich chocolate of all the other traders. He slowed, seeming to notice her watching him innocently, and he turned, angling his feet towards her. Then she saw his scars. Like three great bolts, they cut down the side of his face, ravaging it. They were old, yes, that much was clear, but she winced, hating to think of the sort of great beast that had done such a terrible thing. Reflexively, she made the sign of the protector on her chest, touching her shoulders and stomach in a triangle. The man drew near her now, and ,with a grunt, planted the base of a sturdy oaken staff into the dirt. Leaning on it to favor his left side, he spoke, both of them heedless of his worn clothing as a common sight. “Hello there, little miss. Could you perhaps enlighten me as to who keeps residence here?” Surprised at his clear, unaccented voice and strange speech, she faltered for a second before answering him. “This is Nayfed. I’m Jasset.” “Is that who you are or what you are called?” Puzzled, she fell silent, then, as children do, asked him defensively, “Who are you?” Lorre raised his storm-cloud-grey- eyes and looked at her. Who was he. He had been asked that many times, and not once would he answer truly. Not to them. He knew them not, and yet every one asked after who he was. She looked at him inquiringly. “Wanderer. I am The Wanderer.” That was as close as he would come, all he would have people know. His purpose- it wasn’t so far off from what they were asking, really, but few were able to consider it. He told no one his name, for a name holds a unique power. Apparently it wasn’t good enough for the girl, for she scrunched up her nose and objected, “That’s not a name! Who are you?” He caught her gaze, and peered at her electric-blue-eyes, raising one eyebrow. “And why should I tell you all about myself? We’ve only just met.” She didn’t answer, just looking at him blankly, which made him laugh as he tousled her black hair, irritating her enough to push the Wanderer away. “You stop it, mister. I’ve just combed it! Tell me your name. Wanderer isn’t a name- it’s just what you’re doing.” He laughed again, the sound rich and full, “You may call me Wanderer, for that is who I cam. In any case, I am seeking a group of outland men known by Bones as their second addressment.” “You talk funny! What do you want with them for? They’re just a bunch of old explorers that gave it all up ages ago.” Lorre’s face darkened. He had to have them. No one else would do. This just meant more work for him. He tapped his staff against his boot pensively, recalling the meter, rhyme, and rhythm of the ancient words.
The day will come near When all live without fear And living without their own thoughts. Like cattle they follow Where they are led The Bones and the girl The keys that are desperately needed. To white peaks they go No time to be slow Travelers bear the inevitable loss A part of ten in beginning, not end No, only two shall return from their lots.
That was where he stopped the tapping. For now, that’s all he would concern himself with. The Bones and the girl- Jasset? It was possible, of course, anything was, but she was terribly young. “Can you take me to them, Jasset?” She nodded, “Follow me, but don’t touch the rock or the demons will get you!” “What are daemons, Jasset?” She started to answer him, then stopped. She wasn’t sure, but it seemed he had gotten her thinking. Good. Perhaps this could lead somewhere after all. It was unusual to see anyone these days who was free enough to think on their own. “Something bad. Monsters.” “How do they ‘get’ me?” “They... they live in the rocks, I think... we trap them there, that’s why we have to clean them every so often. Like this.” “How does this clean them? If they are clean, how do the daemons get me?” She frowned at him and made a little noise of distress. How was she supposed to know? It was just what they told her! How could she be sure? Annoyed, she challenged him, “Why don’t you touch it and find out?” She stuck out her chin, half-hoping he would, just so she could find out what happened. Lorre searched her face, seeing the doubt-lines in it, and slapped his staff. “Do you know what, Jasset? I will.” Without another word he swooped down, one hand still on his staff, and scooped up the black glass, straightening. Nothing happened. The girl gasped- in awe or terror, he couldn’t be sure. Children always confused him. All the same, he raised on eyebrow, returning the challenge to her, placing a little spark of his fire magic into the stone, which absorbed the energy greedily. He held it out to her, “Your turn.” Scared, she slowly reached out and wrapped her little hand around it- and jumped back as the fire magic flared up at the Wanderer’s hissed coaxings, scalding her hand. She whimpered and cradled the now pink hand, not burned, but stringing none the less, and accused him, “YOU’RE a demon! That’s why it didn’t hurt you!” He noticed she said ‘it’ and not ‘them.’ Good. “Are you sure? Try again.” Strangely, she wasn’t as afraid as she could have, SHOULD have been as the prospect of demons and magic. This time, Lorre instructed the flame to burn down into embers at the obsidian’s heart, leaving the surface cool. She snatched it from him wit ha glare, and nearly dropped it at its return to a cooler temperature. “Why...?” The Wanderer winked. “Wanderer, how come?” “Magic. You feel for it- it’s still inside there where I left it.” She blinked in surprise, and started figuring out how exactly to feel for magic. Finally, she squeezed her eyes shut tight like in the fairy stories they told in the evenings, and tried thinking into it- pouring herself into it. She felt the little spark, almost saw it. She snatched for it, and it fizzled out, hissing like an upset snake in its death throes. The stone grew cold and damp in an instant. Panicked, she threw it into the air and watched it plummet to the sand with a plop, and then saw frost lance out from it in all directions. Lorre crackled at it, pointing. A shower of sparks drifted down, counteracting the runaway magic, and ate it up, before they too dissipated, leaving only a little sooty deposit on the sand. “What happened?” She was almost certainly the one he was looking for. “It would seem that you have ice and water magic. You doused my spark, but it got a bit out of control. It’s all gone now, though, the sparks I sent down ate it all up.” She stared at him again, starting the question ‘Who are you?’ before she realized with a sort of acquired horror what she had done. Magic. Powers that only demons had. “You’re a demon! I’m going to get the minister! He’ll send you away, and, and-“ Lorre held up a hand to quiet the girl, and, as it failed to do so, he made fire flare in his palm. It hissed and crackled and scolded like an angry snake. That got her attention. Wide eyed, she fell silent. The wind rose up as if on cue, whistling and howling and flinging the rough grains of grit into the flames, enraging them. They hissed and crackled more loudly and threatened to tear away from him; he could feel their wish to rush away with the wind, to rise on its back and dance over new fuel- and devour it. His brow creased as he spoke to the eager fire and forced it to stay, then put it out. IT was much too dangerous to light even a tame little blaze in this wind. “Easy. I’m no daemon, though I have met a couple, far, far away,” he teased, “Magic isn’t bad.” He caught her hand, and heated up his own. She jerked as her own, darker, hand chilled in answer, but he would not let her go. She glared at him, wondering again why she wasn’t as scared as she should have been at demon powers. As Lorre raised his eyebrows, she recognized the entreaty to try the magic. Lorre himself was more concerned that this was a fluke, however. If she had more than the usual spark, she was the one he was looking for. If not... well then he had just succeeded in terrorizing a little girl. The silence stretched and the clouds hovered on the mountains, ever on the horizon and just out of reach, like the image in a looking glass. Finally, he said almost inaudibly, “Try it,” he spoke a little louder, “That is, try it if you’d like to reclaim your hand. If not, I’m sure I could arrange something, of course.” She winced at the touch of dark humour. What if he wasn’t joking? Try it, he said. Try it. What exactly was ‘it?’ The magic, she supposed. How was she to try? Maybe... Maybe... The memory came unbidden to her, and she heard her mother’s voice telling the old fable, ‘...and she dreamed back with the demon’s help, the demon who had stopped her from being afraid, from thinking, for as it had said, ‘It ends when you try to make it understood.’ So simple, but so difficult. Slowly, ever so slowly, she subdued her active thoughts and emotions, attempting to put her faith fully into the certainly that it would work. Water magic, he had said. She thought of the stuff, soothing, cooling, rushing, healing, then of its source deep beneath the earth where no plant could reach, an unstoppable force, ever-changing... And then something broke. Suddenly she WAS the water, in all its glory, and her hand, slippery as eel skin and twice as wet, slid from the Wanderer’s own hot, rough hand, sooty from a thousand countless flames. She spoke water words aloud without intent, and below them, the water that so long ago was a sea growled and roared in answer, trapped beneath the hardened earth. She called back to it, loud as she dared, and the ground under her darkened, saturated. Then the water’s force slammed it, desperate to both answer the call and to again surge in full light. The pressure built as all of the Old Sea leapt to meet her. She panicked, returning to herself from behind the shattered barrier. She couldn’t control it- it was coming, and she couldn’t stop it. A dreadful roaring in her ears, Jasset looked to the Wanderer and cried out for help, the noise drowned out to her own ears. Lorre’s eyebrows had flown up into his sandy brown flyaway hair at the rumble. That was not spark, but a wildfire. He spread his warms and laughed aloud at her hand slipping out of his own, then froze at her realization. What had she called!? Wind forgotten, he summoned the flames, a ravenous beast of a blaze, and sent it drilling into the earth beneath the girl. Water evaporated in a massive cloud of steam. The struggle between the elements had begun. He had to make her stop it somehow before his energies ran out. Just as water had to some from somewhere, so too did fire have to be fed- it was pure energy, after all. Without ready fuel, his own body lent it strength. He took her shoulders and sent sparks to her blood, following with them along her chilled blood and to her icy heart, still channeling the magic- and squeezed, warming it. The broken barrier mended itself and she sagged against him in shock, the Old Sea and all its creatures falling back to where it had lain for uncounted centuries. “Ssssh, Jass, it’s gone...” Terrified at what was behind that barrier, she hid her face in his rough cloak, the sand caught in its fibers scratchy against her skin- not that she noticed it any more than the eternal sunlight of the seabed. But she also felt something else- a feeling, kith to longing and kin to wild joy. She could not put a name to it, but... she really wanted to try the magic again. It wanted her to try- she felt it, behind it’s barrier, swirling, bubbling, flowing. Waiting. The Wanderer nodded to himself as he gingerly patted the child’s back. Well that was that, then. Now he just needed the Bones to go- and she had said that she knew where they made their home. Two birds with one stone and a touch of faerie spit, it seemed. After the girl had steadied herself sufficiently, Lorre reminded her of her promise to take him to the Bones, and followed her through the village. Not a word passed between them as they made their way, and most people were still out for the ritual cleansing, leaving the settlement as silent as a midnight playground. After a time, the Wanderer asked her, “If everyone is out there cleaning the Blackglass, how comes it to be that the Bones remain here?” “Oh, that’s easy. Outsiders aren’t allowed- they might taint it.” She had asked the same question not so very long ago. Lorre nodded his acceptance- no extra questions this time. It took a while, but finally they readhed the run-down house where, according to Jasset, the Bones clan had taken up residence. Lorre frowned at the faded paint and the boarded up windows, so very out of place amongst the other tidy homes. Jasset knocked for him. For such a small house, it took a very long time for them to answer the door, but it finally swung open to reveal a very unkempt man, behind whom stood seven others, all gawking at the people who had bothered to visit them. On the far wall, all their gear lay thrown into careless stacks, exactly where they had left it so long ago. It would seem that they couldn’t quite part with it. Good. They hadn’t forgotten everything. The heavy set man spoke first, scratching at his salt-and-pepper beard. Jasset tried very hard not to flinch at the horrid noise, and almost-but-not-quite-succeeded. “Who’re you?” That again. How tiresome. “I am the Wanderer. Are you the ones known as Bones?” He grunted indelicately. Lorre took that as a yes. “I and this child called Jasset are about to leave on a journey to the Ivo Range to the west. You are to accompany us.” “Ooooh no. No sir. Don’t we get a say in this!? We gave all that up years ago.” “No.” So simple, just one word. Jasset looked at him, surprised at his directness and pleased to be included. Her Nan wouldn’t mind, she was more than certain. The men just gaped at him furiously. Lorre lit a line of flame a bit tiredly along his arms and shoulders, warning it off of eating his clothing with the usual bright crackle. They paused in their objections. One whispered, “You’re... HIM, ain’t ye?” “I might be.” He snuffed out the fire with a snap of his fingers and blew the soot from his palms into their faces. The door slammed in his face. He didn’t move, listenign to the quarrels going on inside for a while. Then he knocked. They opened it and he cleared his throat, tapping his staff expectantly. “Well- get your things, go on.” Dumbly, they nodded and brushed the dust from their packs.
An hour later, they were trekking across the dried-up seabed, loaded up with enough dried food to last a fortnight at least, with minimal complaints. Jasset had warmed to him by that evening, and kept up a steady stream of conversation, which Lorre ever patiently responded to. Soon after the sun set, they had made camp, giving out strips of dried meat and fruit. For a little while, Lorre had the fire dance for them to both ward away any wild animals and to entertain some of the weariness from the others, tired as he was. Lorre and Jasset bedded down a distance away from the Bones clan- neither of them really trusted the wild men, and besides, they smelled horrible. While they lay there, Jasset asked the Wanderer about himself. He told her some things, but would not always answer to the questions, and Jasset would ask another, undeterred. It was a long while before they slept, and Jasset snuggled close to the man for the warmth that his fire element added to, keeping the chill desert night away.
Cold, she woke in the middle of the night to find Lorre cone, and the landscape awash in the glow of silver moonlight. For a moment, she looked about fearfully, but he was there, leaning back against a flat rock, arms folded behind his head. Jasset moved over and sat next to him. “What are you doing?” “I am watching, listening.” “To what?” “Everything, Jasset.” “That doesn’t make sense- it’s impossible!” He didn’t look at her or move from where he lay, “Let things be, Jass. The world isn’t all order and clarity. It isn’t how things work. It won’t make sense until you accept that it doesn’t.” She didn’t understand, not really, but by now she was learning when not to ask a question. The answers would come later. “How?” He made a humming sound in his throat before answering. “A touch of wonder, Jasset. That’s all it takes, all it needs. Forget impossible- for nothing is in the end. Impossible doesn’t exist. It’s a sort of magic in itself, really, just being able to open to it all. It washes through you, teaches you mind and your soul things you could never imagine.” She laid down beside him and looked up at the stars, sleepily seeking out the constellations and planets she knew. He warmed his body up with a little magic for her, and she was soon asleep once more. Lorre laid alone, watching and listening late into the night. And for those such as he, the world spilled its secrets endlessly into the few able ears. Not another soul could hear, save for Death, who knew all and was all, beginning and end, and all that lay between.
The next few days passed in much the same manner, save for that Jasset spoke with Lorre almost constantly now, asking all manner of questions- most of which now went unanswered, but Jasset didn’t mind. She was slowly coming to understand the Wanderer’s enigmatic teachings. One subject was always avoided, however, whether on purpose or accidentally, it was uncertain. Magic. Lorre could only teach an opposite element so much in any case. Jass would have to find out on her own what exactly she could do.
On the fifth day, the mountains emerged from the mirages as though they have but stepped from the wings for their performance. Jasset gasped when she saw them waiting there, and Lorre told her about the effects of the sand, light, and heat masking them until they were close or very far away. What he didn’t tell her was that they were hidden by the Oblivion Glass as well, in the heart of Mount Shrak, which in turn guarded the Sump, which both he and the explorers knew was their ultimate goal. When they broke for their midday meal, Lorre asked Jasset the unthinkable. “Jass, do ou dream when you sleep?” She froze, a bit of food halfway to her mouth. The explorers exchanged glances. No one, but no one, spoke of ‘dreams’ in this land. That was worse than even demons! Slowly, she shook her head no, lying even to herself, as she had long ago learned that the fact that she dreamed was not only impossible, but also blasphemous. She insisted to herself that the very idea of dreams whilst she slept was ridiculous. The Wanderer’s words wormed their way into her mind, however, hissing like his flames or the snake’s tongue, ‘Impossible doesn’t exist...’ Lorre merely nodded, and the incident passed. That evening, they had passed into the foothills of the peak known as Shrak. Although Jasset peppered him with questions about the great grey behemoth, the Wanderer was as stonily silent as the mountain itself. Like alien skyscrapers entombed in the earth, they towered, bleak and forbidding, but even here, life could be found. Lorre made the fire dance for them, but they weren’t the only audience to be found that day. A drab grey-brown moth glided shakily down to land on the back of Jasset’s hand, one wing shredded by some bird or beast. Jasset crooned at it immediately, and at its ruined wing, the poor thing. The Wanderer did not stop her until she proclaimed ownership, cupping a hand over it. At that, he roused himself to speak for the first time that evening, surfacing from his reverie like a swimmer from the water. “Jass, let it go. No one can truly own another living thing.” “But it’ll die!” “No, Jasset. The best way to protect something is to set it free.” Sadly, she looked down at the moth, and nodded. She lifted her hand from the insect and held it up in the air. It quivered for a moment before it flew away. Somberly, she said, “I’ll never see it again, though.” “Yes you will, so long as you remember it. Dream of it.” He ignored the collective wince at the reference to dreams carefully, “Come now, it grows late and we need rest.” She cheered at his words, secretly, and nodded with a yawn. She did indeed dream that night, of a scarred face and dull grey-brown wings, and of water beneath the world.
The next daym they entered the cave at the base of Mount Shrak, and Jasset clearly scented soot, and something else she could not name- though it was the old magic of a disarmed spell trap. The inky darkness of the caves made Jasset want to scream, the light the Wanderer held only made it more so as it illuminated the low ceiling and close walls of the tunnel. So alien were they to the young girl that she begged Lorre to put out the flames if he knew the way, and so they traveled in darkness. Lorre had come this way many times before, disarming trap after trap, so the path was safe. In the last chamber, however, lay a great table. He nodded to the explorers in the light of a tiny fire, wordlessly taking their packs. They knelt upon the low stone table, and the Wanderer put out the fire and covered Jasset’s ears grimly. She couldn’t understand what was about to happen, but she know once it began not to cry out as the heart rending sheiks penetrated his protective hands, tearing holes in her very heart. A sacrifice of eight men of outland blood. It went on for a very long time, and just when Jasset was certain she was going mad, it stopped. There was a grinding and a rumbling, followed by three sharp clicks, then all was silent. Lorre lit the large room again. There was not a trace of the men, but a black looking glass stood upon a pedestal, with its frame holding what seemed to be a void. He pulled her forward and said solemnly, “You must reach in and take the crystal- with your magic. I can only guide you.” For once, she thought she could manage alone, and pushed his help away. The ordeal she had just gone through had made her grow up more than she should have after that. The water came easily to hand as she withdrew the gem. The glass shattered, and she made to give it to Lorre. He handed it back. “Keep it. It will return the Dream to this land.” She nodded and tucked it away in the folds of her clothing. Her voice was very small as she asked, “Please, can we go home now?” He nodded and led her out silently. Then they returned to the village, it was late afternoon, and the explosive colors of the sunset painted her world in bright pigments. She had come to know Lorre’s wisdom, and his truths, young as she was. And she had the small blue gem. She dreamed constantly, now, in her sleep and in her waking hours as she chose. She dreamed in bright colors. In the outskirts of the village, she paused, looking for a long minute at the little chunk of Blackglass she had thrown there barely two weeks before. They stood at the heart of the Old Sea and the strange man who she had come to know so well looked down at her fondly. Curious, she tilted her head back. He smiled kindly, something she hadn’t yet seen his scarred face do, and handed her a little bone tube with a sort of lens at the end. She took it, puzzled. “Look through it, Jasset, try it.” She smiled faintly and put it to her eye, and gasped in surprise. Oh such things she could see! Where was it all? His voice intruded on the silent fantasy, calm and cool as water, as always, so strange when placed beside his passionately dancing flames. “What do you see, Jass?” She paused, hesitating as she replied. It all seemed to fade away as she tried to make it make sense, to bring it into focus. But why? His words came back to her, ‘Let things be, Jass. The world isn’t all order and clarity. It isn’t how things work. It doesn’t make sense until you accept that it doesn’t.’ She changed her way of looking, and it all came into focus, ‘A touch of wonder, Jass, that’s all it needs,’ he had said. She knew, now, that it was true, as she wondered at it all. “Mountains... I can see great mountains.” “And what else?” Bemused, she paused and her pretty little face, no longer quite so innocent, scrunched into a frown. “I don’t...” She did. Lorre saw it on her face. She did. There was indeed something more there. But... It couldn’t be! Could it? Was that her, out there? She took the spyglass away from her eye and looked up at the Wanderer with wide, child like eyes, heedless of the wind tugging at her dark hair, plainsman’s clothes, and at the ever-swirling dust that always made her eyes wander so. And she said, “Who are you, really?” He could only reply, “I am all things. I am the beginning, and I am the end. I am the Wanderer.” Jasset did not question it, now, seeking a name for a face, a past to the present. It really didn’t matter, in the World’s way. The Wanderer. Lorre was so much more, but to her, the wandering man was everything. She accepted that now, he saw. She had learned, and she was wise far beyond her seven years. She had seen and done and suffered more than she should have, by rights. He smiled again as he nodded. She rushed forward, arms outstretched, and caught him up in a bear hug for a moment, very much a young girl again, and he hugged her back, the roughness of his sandy clothes rubbing on her face as she buried it in the folds. But it had to end, and she knew, somehow, that he was leaving, forever. He would Wander on. She held his gaze for another minute, before letting him go; setting him free, just like the drab grey-brown moth with the tattered wing. And then he was gone, with a swirl of torn cloak and a crunch and a twirl of sturdy oaken staff, setting off, still favoring his left side. He left her standing there, on the cracked seabed where it had all begun right beside that little bit of obsidian and it’s carved line. Then she turned away from his last footprints, already being eroded by the wind, and walked back to her tribe in the warm darkness of dusk as it enveloped them all. And so he was lost, and so she was at peace, with a future all her own, for after all that had happened, she could never return to being a poor peasant’s girl. Not now- not after all that she had seen, done, been, what she was- What she was. She was the Dreamer.
Orvik Lickitung, male. level 2 Ability: Oblivious, Own Tempo Moves: Lick, Wrap, Attract, Bide, Body Slam, Captivate, Cut, Defense Curl, Double Team, Double Edge, Endure, Facade, Frustration, Giga Impact, Headbutt, Hidden Power, Hyper Beam, Mega Kick, Mega Punch, Mimic, Natural Gift, Protect, Psych Up, Rage, Return, Rock Climb, Secret Power, Skull Bash, Sleep Talk, Snore, Strength, Substitute, Swagger, Swords Dance, Take Down, Body Slam, Hammer Arm
>:~:>
Hopefuls in order; [the first two tie for the most wanted] Nincada, Abra OR wobbuffet/wynaut(or a ralts to trade someone for an abra) meowth, aron, misdreavus, chatot, castform, tangela, croagunk, absol/houndour
![]](http://209.85.117.197/static/1/pip_r.png)
11:01 PM Nov 28
