quesoLOCO27 wrote:
On that note, I guess, to add even more flava....
Who's staying where?
What you said makes sense, Kajin... and it gives me an idea.
Uh-oh, indeed... :-)
Orla is staying at the inn. It's her home, and with Lanark and the girls dead, it's all she's got left.
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With fall of night, and the coming of Doom to Tilsit, it is time for the second part of the CHEWY Side Story. So, with no further ado...
===== Start of Part 2 =====
Horse and rider travelled back along the Seaward Road until they found the place where it forded a small creek. Following the creek westward, they found a small clearing that looked like it would make a nice campsite. They drank from the creek, then went back to the clearing. Jarek pulled the packs, saddle, and tackle off of his horse, then curried and brushed her. Leaving her with a feedbag of oats, he set out his bedroll. After that, he scrounged some deadwood, dug a shallow pit, and built a fire. By this time it was getting quite dark. The faint feeling of watchfulness in the forest grew stronger as the light faded. "I think I'm glad we're not riding to Tilsit," he commented. "Whatever is here is being disturbed for some reason. I think I'll set out the wards tonight." The horse looked at him and twitched an ear.
He pulled a leather bag out of his pack, and shook out four flat, rather dull-looking stones. They were rounded, about the size of a small apple. The stones had been carved with various glyphs, which were filled with blue, gold and red paint. Muttering beneath his breath at each of the stones, he set them at the edge of the campsite, north, south, east, and west. He walked to the center of camp, and scratched a symbol in the dirt with a stick. He spoke a final Word of Power and a haze of multi-colored light surrounded each of the stones. Moments later the light faded away, leaving the stones looking as innocent as before. The feeling of
presence that had bothered them faded.
"Well, I have to say I feel better," he said quietly. "I understand now why some of the folks around here said this forest was haunted. The wards ought to keep us from bothering it, and it from bothering us. Whatever
it is."
He pulled the now-empty feedbag off of the horse, and gave her an apple. "This would be much easier if you would just be yourself, you know," he said crossly. She crunched her apple and just looked at him. "I know, I know," he said with an exaggerated air of long-suffering, "you just want me to wait on you hand and foot. All right, have it your way. You always do." Somehow the horse managed to look very smug. Jarek's expression faded into worry. "Dee... Do you think we'll find him in time?" he asked. "I know the Voices said to come here now, but I don't know. I have this sick feeling in my gut that time's run out, that we're too late." The horse whickered and bumped him with her head. "I know," he said. "I know. The Voices wouldn't lie to us, or send us on a wild snape hunt." He sighed. "I just hope he's all right."
Moving to his pack, he pulled out some supplies and a small pot. He put the pot on the fire, and cut up some fresh meat that he'd bought in Tilsit. He browned the meat thoroughly, then poured some water into the pot. He cut up some fresh vegetables (also from Tilsit) and dumped them into the pot as well. Then he added some herbs, covered the pot, and let it cook.
Seating himself on his bedroll, he began meditating on the the things he had learned in the last couple of days, and the last week. He and his sisters had all awakened from the same dream. It was night, in a town that none of them had ever seen. Shadows moved through that town, shadows with eyes that glowed red as blood. Where those shadows moved, death followed. Nothing could be seen clearly, but that simply made the whole thing even more frightening. Death and more death; anger, fear, and horror. Then the fire, consuming everything.
Jarek consulted the Voices, and was told to go North, and quickly. The heir to the clan was there, they said, and if he was not brought home soon, the Empire would be caught up in the events of that place.
The Dark moves there, working out a purpose of its own. The seeds of this were planted long ago, and now death is the harvest. We must not interfere, for it is the working-out of a fate that is not ours. The next day, he and Dierdre were on their way north, travelling to the village of Herve.
They had made good time, but on the road leading into Herve, they found their way blocked. Guards belonging to the local Count had sealed off the entrance to Herve, though for what reason they would not say. They worked thier way around Herve, and travelled to Tilsit, the main town. There they learned that two villages had been sealed off by the Count, for reasons unknown. Jarek's dream remained clear in his mind, but he said nothing. It would have done no good. Now they were here, and he had the feeling that time was very short.
Trying to shake off the feeling of unease, he got up and stirred the soup. He tasted it and added some salt and black pepper. Then he pulled a slim book out of his pack, along with a pen and ink. It was his journal, that he'd began keeping when they started the journey. He wrote down the events of the day, such as they were, and his observations of the local area. That done, he returned book, pen, and ink to his pack.
Then he pulled out his sword and carefully checked it for damage. The job didn't take long for the blade was in excellent shape. Like most swords from the Empire, it was gently curved, with the outer edge sharpened. Along the top edge, only a hand-span or so at the tip was sharpened. A fuller was ground down the middle of the blade, along its length. The sword didn't really need to be checked, he knew; he hadn't had to use it since leaving home. Still, he felt better for checking. He took a soft cloth and a bottle of oil and rubbed a thin coat of oil onto the blade. When he had finished, he slid the weapon into its scabbard. The sheath was ebony, with silver knotwork at each end.
He left the sword on his bedroll and went to check his meal. The soup was simmering nicely, and the ingredients looked like they were cooked. He pulled the pot off of the fire, and proceeded to eat his soup out of the pot. The horse made a strange noise, and Jarek gave her an innocent look. "What, you want some?" he asked, holding up the pot. "It's actually pretty good this time -- the carrots are even cooked." The mare shook her head. "Oh, I get it, you think I should be using a bowl.
Pfeh. Why get three items dirty when I can get away with two? We're roughing it, here, Dee. That little town we were just in is supposed to be
the place to be in these territories. Nowhere near as big as Gardishol, or even Klavensport, it it? Though I will say that the people were very friendly, and the food and ale were quite nice. Now, if you want things done your way, why don't you just do them, hm?" The horse just looked offended. "No answer? I thought not."
When he was done, he cleaned his pot and spoon in the creek, then stowed them back in the pack. He banked the fire, and crawled into his bedroll. Pulling the sword close, he said, "I'm going to sleep. Good night Dee." A few minutes later he was fast asleep.
He stood in a village square, facing three other men. They were familiar, his friends, yet he didn't know any of them. He held his sword in his hand, slow lightning arcing around its blade. The full moon rose over the town, and one of the men changed,
becoming shadow. A Shadow with red, glowing eyes, and terrible sharp teeth and claws. He attacked, and the Shadow responded. Back and forth they fought, dealing blows that would have killed had they connected. The Shadow lashed out, and he felt his guts burning. The blow was fatal, he knew. Gathering the last of his strength, he struck the Shadow with his sword. The light of it nearly blinded him. The Shadow shrieked and vanished, leaving his friend standing there with a sad smile. Then he, too, was gone, and everything went black.
Jarek awoke with a start, his heart racing. He sat up and looked around, trying to get his bearings. The full moon was visible above the trees. The mare was looking at him. She seemed alarmed by his movement, or perhaps she, too, had dreamed. "Oh Gods, Dee," he said, "we're too late."
====== End of Part 2 =====
--tll
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