G
Guest
Guest
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las, once more this past week, the good, yet sightless, reporter and manager of things newsish, lay stricken by a vile curse, and could not walk the lands over much. And so, while it probably causes anguish to one or two in this world with nowt better to do than complain, ye are stuck with me again.
And so, having successfully picked the locks of Blind Otto's tale-crafting office, I, Beatrice Quill, once more present you with this week's tales from the shire. Strange indeed, that while good Otto lay stricken by a curse of sleep, cast by the vile cult of Nar'Co'L-psi, the first tale of the night began to speak of a dreamer...
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</p><font color="#ffd600">The Winner!</font></td> <td align="middle" width="143"> <font color="#ffff00" size="6"> The Ragged Man</font>
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he ragged man dreamed. He knew he was dreaming.
There his children laughed and played in the rose garden.
Here his wife smiled at him, the love in her eyes like the touch of the Sun.</p>
Gone were the blood and the screams. Gone was the rage,
pain and fear as they staked him down and forced him to watch
the savage torments they inflicted
on those he loved more than life itself</p>
While he dreamed like this he was sane again and happy for a while.
Sometimes the dreams were darker
and he was forced to watch the ruination of his life and love again.
Sleep was an enemy then.
A betrayer unimpressed with the screams of his children haunting his every waking hour,
allowing the agony to intrude into his fortress of dreams. </p>
Rarer still were those times when he watched the tragedy unfold dispassionately,
a mere observer watching with a curious detachment.
In these dreams he could see the point when the screams snapped his mind
and his old self fled deeper and deeper into the false sanctuary of madness.
There almost seemed to be another watcher in those dreams.
railing impotently at him, at what hed become.
This others voice was always quiet as though shouting from a distance.
The ragged man ignored it.
One thing was constant. Whenever the ragged man awoke he wished he hadnt.
His first waking act of every day for the past few months,
had been to sob like a child,</p>
curled wherever he had lain the night before.
The villagers were kind enough and gave him food in exchange for odd jobs.
Mad he may have been but the ragged man was strong as an ox.</p>
There was always some work simple enough for him to do,
usually work that would have taken two or three of the stout village men to accomplish.
Marak knew none of this as he paused in the act of opening the small tavern door.
He looked at the huge,
rag-clothed man sobbing at the side of the street,
and a sense of almost recognition touched him.
He let the door fall shut and turned towards the ragged man for a better look.
As soon as he moved the ragged man looked up,
eyes wild with fear and fled down the single street</p>
"He never takes to strangers that one" came a voice.
Marak turned to regard the speaker and saw a slim young man standing
in the now open door of the tavern.
Wisps of blonde hair had struggled free of the dark blue kerchief that covered his head.</p>
His green eyes, rare this far north,
regarded the short gray haired bowman before him intently.
It was a small enough village that strangers were always a source of interest,
and often of suspicion.</p>
Marak inclined his head. "Strange to see so large a man so frightened"
he said his eastern origin making the northern tongue suddenly musical.
"The ragged man isnt quite right in the head" replied the youth.</p>
He stepped back into the doorway,
making room for Marak to enter the inn. "Im Arvin," he continued.
"Please come in and we can talk inside.
Ill wager the dust of the trail is still coating your mouth".
Marak bowed deeper this time, moving his arms clear of his body,</p>
palms facing the young innkeep.
"I am Marak of Briarwood and I thank you for your invitation and your trust".
He stepped smoothly past Arvin who was impressed despite himself at the strangers courtesy.
The inn was a small but well kept place with large windows that
let in the pale northern sun.
A large oak table ran along the western wall
with a single long bench on either side for the patrons to seat themselves.
Smaller tables dotted the rest of the floor and a sturdy looking bar
ran along the southern wall,
pitted and scored from years of use but still polished and clean.
A small doorway led from behind the bar,
probably to the kitchens guessed Marak.
Indeed a plump young woman was peeping round the frame at the sound of voices.
Marak looked at her pretty round face with approval.
He rarely admitted it, even to himself,
but one of the reasons for traveling so far from Fort Briarwood,
was that the women there were too delicate for his taste.
Arvin noticed her to and a smile broke out on his face.</p>
"Lena my dove this is Marak, come from Briarwood of all places".
Marak bowed again as Lena smiled warmly at him.
"Welcome to you Marak" she said, smiling at the sound of his name.
"Would you like some tea?
You strike me as a man who has the decency to let the sun awaken properly
before his thirst for ale does."
She looked pointedly at Arvin as she spoke and he rolled his eyes,</p>
Obviously this was a conversation often heard in this household.
The small bowman found himself warming to the young couple.</p>
"A glass of water would see me in your debt good lady" he replied.
"I do not drink." He smiled apologetically at Arvin,
knowing his wife would probably add this to her store of arguments against his drinking.
Lena grinned at Marak as if she shared the same thought
and moved back through the small door.
Arvin motioned Marak to a chair and they both sat at one of the small tables.
"So our ragged man interests you does he?" asked Arvin, eyebrows raised.
"I would have thought that a man as traveled as yourself
would have seen many things more interesting than that poor soul."
Marak divested himself of his unstrung bow and placed the weapon and quiver
onto an adjoining table,
"He seemed familiar to me," replied the easterner.</p>
"Would you have time to tell me how he came to be here?"
Lena arrived back in the taproom and handed Marak a large clay cup full of cool water.
Marak raised the cup to her in thanks and turned his attention back to Arvin.
The innkeep shrugged. "Little enough to tell my friend" he said.]
"He arrived here one night some months back, red eyed and wailing like a child.
Arvins eyes took on a far away look as he thought back.
"Naked he was and covered in wounds,
the skin around his ankles and wrists were black with blood".
He stood and moved behind the bar,
casting a guilty glance towards the kitchens as he poured himself</p>
a small measure of ale.
"I can hear you well enough Arvin" came Lenas voice from the doorway.
"Make sure thats your one and only before tonight, theres work to be done".
Her voice carried an undertone of amusement and Marak guessed Arvins
Beatrice Quill: *smiles*
drinking was no real problem,
merely a vehicle for some good-natured wrangling between husband and wife.
Arvin grinned like a naughty child as he sat back at the table.
"Caused quite a stir he did,
" he continued. "No-one knew what to make of him at first".</p>
Arvin took a small sip of ale,
licking the froth from his lips with obvious relish.
"Some wanted him driven away in case whatever had wounded him so followed him here".
Arvin smiled and looked again to the kitchens as he spoke. "Others, my Lena among them,</p>
would hear nothing of such an action.
They bathed him and treated his wounds as best they could.
" The inkeeps smile fell. "Sobbed the whole time he did, rocking back and forth.
Nothing we could say seemed to get through to him. Wherever he was that
night his spirit is there still".</p>
He locked eyes with Marak's.
"You dont need to be a priest or a thaumist to know wherever he is its somewhere bad".
The eastern bowman looked somber as he heard the tale and shook his head,
wondering anew at the cruelty that the world allowed to crawl across her skin.
Arvin moved his cup and leant his elbows on the table.</p>
"Now he does the odd job around the village for food and shelter in barns and the like.
He was no beggar before he came here thats for certain".
Marak also leant forward, his interest piqued. "How so?" he asked.
"Youve seen the size of the man," he said. "Its not simple bulk.
Hes muscled like Ive rarely seen.
My own father was a bear of a man and the ragged man would have dwarfed him".</p>
Arvin shook his head wonderingly.</p>
"Sometimes his eyes almost seem to clear and he stands tall and proud.
Most of the time hes almost crouched as though he doesnt want to be noticed.
" He sighed. "I suppose the weight of such terrible memories,
whatever they may be, can bow the strongest back".
The small easterner nodded slowly,
mind searching across the brief glimpse of the ragged mans face
and trying to fit it to his memories.</p>
Try as he might he couldnt shake the feeling that he had seen this man before.
Marak shook the thoughts from his head; he had more corporeal matters to attend to.
"Would I be able to lodge here Arvin?" he asked.
"A night in a real bed after so long on the road would be most welcome".</p>
Arvin stood, picking up Maraks small pack as he did so. "Of course my friend"
he replied.
"The rooms are both small but Lena keeps them well cleaned.
Itll be two copper pieces for a night and that will include your meal this evening."</p>
He led Marak through the door behind the bar and through another door
on the immediate right.
This led to a cramped staircase that led a short way up to the guest rooms.
The innkeep chose the furthest door and motioned Marak into the room.</p>
As Arvin had said it was small but clean and the large window
looked out onto the village street.
A table stood beneath the window, bearing a jar full of fresh mountain daisies.
Marak felt at home almost immediately.
He counted out two copper coins and handed them to Arvin, smiling his thanks.
Arvin nodded in return.</p>
"If you go into the village you can expect a lot of questions my friend.
The last bit of excitement we had here was the ragged man
and youll cause almost as big a stir as he did,
seeing as how most of us here have never seen an easterner before".
Marak bowed slightly, grateful for the warning.
The bowmans voice stopped Arvin as he turned to leave.</p>
"And do you have no questions of your own Arvin?"
he asked, eyebrows raised. Arvin pulled the blue kerchief from his head as he spoke.
"A few if Im honest" he admitted. "Firstly though Im an innkeeper.
Im here to make sure youre comfortable and happy here if you stay,
not to badger guests with questions".
He laughed as he left the room.
"And of course Im here to charge you for the privilege.
Dinner will be served an hour after sundown Marak, Ill see you then if not before."</p>
The door closed leaving Marak alone with his thoughts. He moved to the window,
throwing it open to hear the sounds of the village children and the
hammering of the smithy.
Such sounds comforted the easterner, accustomed as he was to the sounds
of the bugle and horn,
the screams and shouts of too many battlefields.
Should the townsfolk ask him questions Marak thought they would be disappointed
with the simple answers he had to give them.
There was no mystery as to why he was here.
The northern highlands were simply one place he had never seen and so here he was.</p>
His skill with a bow, far above the ordinary if truth were told,
had allowed him to wander as he wished,
mostly as part of some mercenary force but sometimes his money was won in tourneys.
On the whole Marak preferred to fire his arrows at straw rather than living targets.
Living targets simply paid better.
Marak moved the bed closer to the wall and sat cross-legged upon the floor,
allowing the everyday sounds of simple life to lull him into the dream state.
Perhaps here would come the elusive answer to the puzzle of the ragged man.
At sundown the easterner was still deep in the dream state.</p>
Arvin had neglected to mention that today was the birthday of Kalliy Forswelds
three young daughters.
The triplets had been born eight winters ago, nearly coming into the world as orphans,
as the long labour exacted a terrible toll on poor Kalliy.
She had lived though and the villagers saw her three golden haired daughters
as a special gift from the All-Father.
As such their birthdays were a time of togetherness in the small village,
and the people gathered in the small square outside the inn to thank the Father
and make a fuss of the girls.
The noise of the gathering did not intrude into Maraks trance,
even when Arvin and Lena began distributing rounds of free ale,
as was their wont on this occasion.</p>
Neither did the sound of hoof beats rouse him,
or the startled shouts of the villagers as the score of horsemen
enclosed them in a rough semi-circle.
They were all well armed but less well armoured.
The riders all had a hard look about them and a coldness in the eyes.
Their clothes, once well made, were now travel-worn and moth-eaten.
One of them, a broad shouldered man with an axe slung across his back
leapt from his horse as two others knocked arrows to their bows.
The leader of the men smiled nastily as he looked at the frightened
villagers before him.</p>
These small hamlets were always the same he mused.
Never enough money or women in them to make it worthwhile really.
He smiled again. They were just so easy.
He unslung his axe and raised his voice so the assembled villagers could hear.
"Who we are doesnt matter,"
he said in a voice made harsh by strong drink and a meanness of soul.
"You know why we are here." He glanced around the frightened group,
satisfied that none would meet his eyes.</p>
"What little money you have and maybe a woman or two and well be gone".
Behind him his men laughed quietly to each other, confident of another easy raid.
They hadnt even had to kill anyone for weeks.
They still did it of course and found it to be a much more pleasurable experience
when the victim wasnt trying to kill you in return.
To these men murder was a far better proposition than actual fighting.
The leader turned as Arvin walked towards him,
ignoring Lena's clutching arm and frightened look.</p>
"What little we have we work hard for" he said,
surprised at the steadiness of his own voice.
"You will take nothing from us without a fight".
It looked as though Arvin was about to say more but the bandit leader
simply backhanded him across the face,
lifting the young man from his feet and pitching him into the dirt.
His expression never changed as he watched Arvin roll onto his back,
clutching at his shattered jaw.</p>
The horsemen laughed again, louder this time.
The leader glanced toward the three pretty blonde girls
clutching at their mothers skirts and gazing with wide, fearful eyes.
"Choka, Tom, cover those girls".
The bowmen swung round to point their arrows at the triplets.
"If anyone else tries anything the young ones there will be the first to die."
The girls began to wail as Kalliy pulled them closer. "Not my babies!
" she screamed.
"Dont kill my little ones!" The bandit leader began to
walk towards the children,
pulling a knife from a scabbard with his free hand,
determined to show these idiot villagers he wouldnt balk
from the slaying of babes.</p>
Everybody turned as one at the bloodcurdling scream that
sounded from behind the inn,
and in his room Maraks eyes flicked open, a name burning across his mind.
"The Ghosthammer,"
he whispered, just as all hell broke loose in the village square.
The ragged man had hidden as soon as the riders had appeared.
Dimly he remembered men such as these.
Cold men. Killers.
He cowered behind the inn almost gibbering in his unreasoning terror,
tears streaming down his face.
Then he heard once more the screams of children,
and the voice "Dont kill my little ones!"
The screams tore into his mind like a hurricane and he fell to the earth,
hands over his ears, trying to block out the terrible sounds.
He could not escape them.
With the voices outside shut out he fell prey to the screams inside his head.
The screams of his own little ones as their lives were taken from them.
The ragged man screamed himself a shocking sound of pain and loss
and again something in his mind snapped.</p>
This time it was the prison in which his old self had languished for so long,
driven there by his madness and grief.
His scream changed to one of rage, a fury denied for too long,
a fury that could cow the dark lady herself. The ragged man rose,
his tears stopping as his eyes cleared and he charged from behind the inn.
The bandit leader was hurled from his feet as the huge warrior,
no longer the ragged man but the Ghosthammer once more cannoned a
fist into his face.
The crunch of bone was clearly audible as his neck snapped under
the force of the assault.
As he fell the Ghosthammer plucked his axe from the air without slowing
and tore into the shocked horsemen like a black wind.
Two arrows slashed into the throats of the bowmen,
following so fast upon each other
that the villagers believed there were two bowmen in the inns front bedroom.
The Ghosthammer was moving with a speed that belied his great size.</p>
In the midst of so many riders he should have been dead in the first charge.
His axe was a blur as it hacked and slashed into the now terrified bandits.
Arrows continued to rain down,
each one perfectly targeted, each one finding its mark in unprotected flesh.
The Ghosthammer slammed a backhand blow with his fist
into the face of a horse pressing in behind him.
The beast fell as if pole-axed, crushing its rider beneath it as it went down.
He dodged two slashes from a cavalry sabre,
disemboweling the wielder even as he plucked another rider from his
saddle with the other hand,
throwing him to the ground with crushing force.
Between the unceasing hail of death coming from the inn and the
savage attack of the huge warrior
what little nerve the bandits had broke
and those few that survived wheeled their mounts to escape.
Again showing uncanny speed for a man so large the Ghosthammer gave chase.</p>
Marak felled another three,
one of his arrows punching through the back of a riders
skull and somersaulting him from his saddle.
The huge warrior hurled his shoulder into one horse,
pitching it from its feet.
The last rider had made too much ground to catch on foot.
The hurled axe cannoned into his back,
smashing his spine and tearing from his chest such was the
force with which it was thrown.
Now Ghosthammer towered over the last bandit
whose wide-eyed terror was like a soothing balm over his tortured soul.
"And now you die killer of children" he said, his voice low and chilling.
The Ghosthammer raised a huge foot and slammed it into the bandits skull,
crushing the life form him instantly.</p>
He turned back to the village square to see the villagers looking at him in amazement.
Moments ago there had stood the ragged man. The weeping giant who was to be pitied.
Now there stood the man who had broken the ranks of the black priests
elite guard at the battle of Darkisle.
There stood the man who had stood over the fallen princess of Taramir,
killing the dozen men who had sought the young princess's life.
Here stood the unkillable. Here stood a legend. Here stood the Ghosthammer.</p>
The ragged man dreamed. He knew he was dreaming.
</p> </td> </tr> </table>
How to follow that winning tale? That is certainly not a problem - for Angharad brought us this fine ode:
<table border="1" width="40%" bgcolor="#ffffff"> <tr> <td align="middle"> <p align="left"><font size="6">Ode to Sword</font>
</p> <p align="left"> </p> </td> </tr> </table>
<table border="1" width="100%" bgcolor="#ffc68c"> <tr> <td>
omen save things; men are spillers,
Renders, breakers, cleavers, killers.
The Sword knew that.
I was glad; my hand was ready,
For the call was stirring, heady
When the Sword spoke.
'Have done now with loving, laughing,
Hunting, sleeping, singing, quaffing,
The Sword said "Seek!"
'What?' I asked, 'should I be finding -
Land or cattle for my minding?"
The Sword said, "No!"
'Would you have a man my questing,
Met in pride but left unjesting?'
The Sword said, "Yes!"
Carved, left bloodless, headless, shattered?'
The Sword said, "Right!"
'Any man could suit your needing
For a life let out by bleeding?'
The Sword said, "Wrong!"
'There's a man for whom my hating
Might be ending, him know sating,
The Sword said, "Good!"
He was tall, a strong one, daring,
Facing us unawed, uncaring,
The Sword said, "Strike!"
Smiling first, he soon was shrinking;
And as it bit deeply, drinking,
The Sword said, "Ah!"
We were savage at his worsting,
And, though slaking, still athirsting,
The Sword said, "More!"
Finding men, we left them cuttings
Fit for kites at twilight gluttings.
The Sword said, "Done!"
</td> </tr> </table>
The room fell strangely silent, while tellers of tales franticly scribbled away at their art. The silence became uncomfortable, so I dared to brave the stage, with this humble piece. Thankfully, the only things thrown at me were snowballs, although I suspect one of Robert Franko's hit the wall with a far heavier 'thud' than most. I had hoped Robert would take to the stage, but he seemed more interested in his sparkly llama for some reason.
Robert, your fans will only wait SO long before they seek fresh pastures! Hurry up with the next installment!
Well, Robert WAS silent. More or less. So, here, instead, is my little ode.
<table border="1" width="30%" bgcolor="#ffffff"> <tr> <td align="middle" width="50"><font size="6">Ode to Siege </font>
</td> </tr> </table>
<table border="1" width="100%" bgcolor="#ffc6ff"> <tr> <td>
his green and pleasant land,
filled with strife and war,
This land of myth and wonder,
where eagles and dragons soar,
This land filled with creatures,
kindly beasts and beastly men,
this land of treasure and perils vast,
Bloodied from field to fen.
This land is my home indeed,
Tho most perilousy besieged,
for the people have won my heart,
and I will ever support my liege.
This land brings woe and victory,
tis filled with fool and sage,
those who seek peaceful lives amidst
those who seek naught but war and rage.
I have friends who would slay me,
I have foes who would aid my needs,
I have to laugh, for daily,
I know not where my homeland leads.
Cries of 'balance' of 'nerf' and such
other strange words oft abound,
and yet, for all it's flaws,
this land is where I'll be found.
Aye this Siege, most perilous at times,
Is home, though once feared,
for in this land, live my friends,
and a good blind man, with a beard.
</td> </tr> </table>
After this, it was Morning. Morning with a fine poem, beautifully writ, and well presented!
<table width="50%" bgcolor="#ffffff" border="1"> <tr> <td align="middle"><font size="6"> When flights of doves are mourning
</font>
</td></tr></table>
<table width="100%" bgcolor="#ffffff" border="1"> <tr> <td>
hen flights of doves are mourning
when darkness lifts itself high and high, looks slowly to the side
and leans itself back down
springs explode with anger
and children sneak in a back room, "what's the commotion?"
hearts don't hear their beating
fools are left at play
and
myths are laughed at openly
and the gods are heavy-lidded
and the gods are at the helm
and the gods are sleeping heavy,
and their orders of, merriment! fall short
of ruling the day
"cover these indiscretions, will you?
and give some sound and rhythm and a beat
to the shuffling of my feet
the gods are falling to pieces
and they already forgot who they are
I am sleepy
and hoping to get that spot by the dairy, with the cows
I'll lay down there
with the gods
join me
in this town of fools
town of myths
where we are gods and our trumpets are blown after the battles
where we have fallen
and the orders of, merriment! fall short
of ruling the day"
and flocks of doves go mourning
covers of night reaching higher and higher
until the toes of the gods are tickled
and myths are laughed at
openly </td></tr></table>
Apparently somewhat upset by the barkeep's confusion between vials of blood and greater refreshment potions, Spyderbite took time away from arguing with Stardust regarding who got to sit in Katharine's lap, and presented this scary number:
<table bordercolor="#ff0000" width="50%" bgcolor="#000000" border="1"> <tr> <td align="middle" width="99"> <p align="center"><font color="#ff0000" size="6">Call
<font size="3">of the</font>
Kindred
</font></p></td></tr></table>
<table width="100%" bgcolor="#e0c1ff" border="1"> <tr> <td>
ome to me, little mortal
I can bring you to heaven's portal
There'll be no sorrow, there'll be no pain
Feelings of joy will fill your brain
Come to me, sweet human thing
Give me your heart and I'll make it sing
Forget your fears, leave them behind
Forget the troubles of your kind
Come to me... yes, that's right
Now hold still, it's no good to fight
I'll take your blood, and leave you dying
Didn't you realise I could be lying?
</td></tr></table>
I love a sense of balance, but it's so hard to find on Siege. Still, last night, I found it - for the evening began with a work by Rumil, and ended the same way!
<table bordercolor="#0080ff" width="30%" bgcolor="#000000" border="1"> <tr> <td align="middle" width="16"><font color="#0080ff" size="6"> Urbanizing the fantasy</font>
</td></tr></table>
<table bordercolor="#0080ff" width="100%" bgcolor="#aaffaa" border="1"> <tr> <td>
he old gnome walked down the road,
singing hippie anthems,
just a-humming "white rabbit"
as he passed Alice on the corner,
to the out of work fairy
with her battered sign
"will quest for food"
cuz heroes are hard to find
and her bowl of silver fairy dust
the finest west of Lorien
gleaming in the neon lights
that declared the Lady Sidhe
was dancing that night.
The little fairy, with tears in her eyes
bartered her dust and mortgaged her wings
knowing the sylph needed money
to keep the meds talking
or so he told the Elf who sat
outside the pub,
his coin gone to pixies
eager to hit the clubs.
Heard Oberon wrecked his Harley
saw Titania at the clinic
"the end is coming,"
rants the banshee
and everyone is ready
because the Elves forgot the forests
for jack Daniel's and a fling
and tho the sphinx's still telling riddles
the muses forgot how to sing.
</td></tr></table>
As the night drew to a close, I was most relieved to hear that Otto began to stir from his many-day long sleep! Another day, and the healers would have needed to take him to their great tent of healing, which would have scared me no end! But, while certainly not fully alert (I fear I cannot relate some of the dazed comments he has made to me this morning, for fear of Kelmo or Dor's blessed sticks of banning!) he should be wandering around about the land again shortly!
In the meantime, I hope I have done an adequate task, filling in for him, and that ye enjoyed these tales!
To any who feel I have NOT done an adequate task, I have two simple questions for thee:
Where is your pen, and why not speak with Otto about a reporting role, once he is fully up and about again?
Good night to all, and blessings upon thee!
*quietly hides all signs of her break-in to Otto's office, and quickly forges his signature*
</td> </tr> </table>
And so, having successfully picked the locks of Blind Otto's tale-crafting office, I, Beatrice Quill, once more present you with this week's tales from the shire. Strange indeed, that while good Otto lay stricken by a curse of sleep, cast by the vile cult of Nar'Co'L-psi, the first tale of the night began to speak of a dreamer...
<table border="1" width="30%" bgcolor="#000000" bordercolor="#ffff00" height="182" cellspacing="0" cellpadding="0"> <tr> <td align="middle" width="150"> <p align="center">
<table border="1" width="100%" bgcolor="#ffffa6"> <tr> <td>
There his children laughed and played in the rose garden.
Here his wife smiled at him, the love in her eyes like the touch of the Sun.</p>
Gone were the blood and the screams. Gone was the rage,
pain and fear as they staked him down and forced him to watch
the savage torments they inflicted
on those he loved more than life itself</p>
While he dreamed like this he was sane again and happy for a while.
Sometimes the dreams were darker
and he was forced to watch the ruination of his life and love again.
Sleep was an enemy then.
A betrayer unimpressed with the screams of his children haunting his every waking hour,
allowing the agony to intrude into his fortress of dreams. </p>
Rarer still were those times when he watched the tragedy unfold dispassionately,
a mere observer watching with a curious detachment.
In these dreams he could see the point when the screams snapped his mind
and his old self fled deeper and deeper into the false sanctuary of madness.
There almost seemed to be another watcher in those dreams.
railing impotently at him, at what hed become.
This others voice was always quiet as though shouting from a distance.
The ragged man ignored it.
One thing was constant. Whenever the ragged man awoke he wished he hadnt.
His first waking act of every day for the past few months,
had been to sob like a child,</p>
curled wherever he had lain the night before.
The villagers were kind enough and gave him food in exchange for odd jobs.
Mad he may have been but the ragged man was strong as an ox.</p>
There was always some work simple enough for him to do,
usually work that would have taken two or three of the stout village men to accomplish.
Marak knew none of this as he paused in the act of opening the small tavern door.
He looked at the huge,
rag-clothed man sobbing at the side of the street,
and a sense of almost recognition touched him.
He let the door fall shut and turned towards the ragged man for a better look.
As soon as he moved the ragged man looked up,
eyes wild with fear and fled down the single street</p>
"He never takes to strangers that one" came a voice.
Marak turned to regard the speaker and saw a slim young man standing
in the now open door of the tavern.
Wisps of blonde hair had struggled free of the dark blue kerchief that covered his head.</p>
His green eyes, rare this far north,
regarded the short gray haired bowman before him intently.
It was a small enough village that strangers were always a source of interest,
and often of suspicion.</p>
Marak inclined his head. "Strange to see so large a man so frightened"
he said his eastern origin making the northern tongue suddenly musical.
"The ragged man isnt quite right in the head" replied the youth.</p>
He stepped back into the doorway,
making room for Marak to enter the inn. "Im Arvin," he continued.
"Please come in and we can talk inside.
Ill wager the dust of the trail is still coating your mouth".
Marak bowed deeper this time, moving his arms clear of his body,</p>
palms facing the young innkeep.
"I am Marak of Briarwood and I thank you for your invitation and your trust".
He stepped smoothly past Arvin who was impressed despite himself at the strangers courtesy.
The inn was a small but well kept place with large windows that
let in the pale northern sun.
A large oak table ran along the western wall
with a single long bench on either side for the patrons to seat themselves.
Smaller tables dotted the rest of the floor and a sturdy looking bar
ran along the southern wall,
pitted and scored from years of use but still polished and clean.
A small doorway led from behind the bar,
probably to the kitchens guessed Marak.
Indeed a plump young woman was peeping round the frame at the sound of voices.
Marak looked at her pretty round face with approval.
He rarely admitted it, even to himself,
but one of the reasons for traveling so far from Fort Briarwood,
was that the women there were too delicate for his taste.
Arvin noticed her to and a smile broke out on his face.</p>
"Lena my dove this is Marak, come from Briarwood of all places".
Marak bowed again as Lena smiled warmly at him.
"Welcome to you Marak" she said, smiling at the sound of his name.
"Would you like some tea?
You strike me as a man who has the decency to let the sun awaken properly
before his thirst for ale does."
She looked pointedly at Arvin as she spoke and he rolled his eyes,</p>
Obviously this was a conversation often heard in this household.
The small bowman found himself warming to the young couple.</p>
"A glass of water would see me in your debt good lady" he replied.
"I do not drink." He smiled apologetically at Arvin,
knowing his wife would probably add this to her store of arguments against his drinking.
Lena grinned at Marak as if she shared the same thought
and moved back through the small door.
Arvin motioned Marak to a chair and they both sat at one of the small tables.
"So our ragged man interests you does he?" asked Arvin, eyebrows raised.
"I would have thought that a man as traveled as yourself
would have seen many things more interesting than that poor soul."
Marak divested himself of his unstrung bow and placed the weapon and quiver
onto an adjoining table,
"He seemed familiar to me," replied the easterner.</p>
"Would you have time to tell me how he came to be here?"
Lena arrived back in the taproom and handed Marak a large clay cup full of cool water.
Marak raised the cup to her in thanks and turned his attention back to Arvin.
The innkeep shrugged. "Little enough to tell my friend" he said.]
"He arrived here one night some months back, red eyed and wailing like a child.
Arvins eyes took on a far away look as he thought back.
"Naked he was and covered in wounds,
the skin around his ankles and wrists were black with blood".
He stood and moved behind the bar,
casting a guilty glance towards the kitchens as he poured himself</p>
a small measure of ale.
"I can hear you well enough Arvin" came Lenas voice from the doorway.
"Make sure thats your one and only before tonight, theres work to be done".
Her voice carried an undertone of amusement and Marak guessed Arvins
Beatrice Quill: *smiles*
drinking was no real problem,
merely a vehicle for some good-natured wrangling between husband and wife.
Arvin grinned like a naughty child as he sat back at the table.
"Caused quite a stir he did,
" he continued. "No-one knew what to make of him at first".</p>
Arvin took a small sip of ale,
licking the froth from his lips with obvious relish.
"Some wanted him driven away in case whatever had wounded him so followed him here".
Arvin smiled and looked again to the kitchens as he spoke. "Others, my Lena among them,</p>
would hear nothing of such an action.
They bathed him and treated his wounds as best they could.
" The inkeeps smile fell. "Sobbed the whole time he did, rocking back and forth.
Nothing we could say seemed to get through to him. Wherever he was that
night his spirit is there still".</p>
He locked eyes with Marak's.
"You dont need to be a priest or a thaumist to know wherever he is its somewhere bad".
The eastern bowman looked somber as he heard the tale and shook his head,
wondering anew at the cruelty that the world allowed to crawl across her skin.
Arvin moved his cup and leant his elbows on the table.</p>
"Now he does the odd job around the village for food and shelter in barns and the like.
He was no beggar before he came here thats for certain".
Marak also leant forward, his interest piqued. "How so?" he asked.
"Youve seen the size of the man," he said. "Its not simple bulk.
Hes muscled like Ive rarely seen.
My own father was a bear of a man and the ragged man would have dwarfed him".</p>
Arvin shook his head wonderingly.</p>
"Sometimes his eyes almost seem to clear and he stands tall and proud.
Most of the time hes almost crouched as though he doesnt want to be noticed.
" He sighed. "I suppose the weight of such terrible memories,
whatever they may be, can bow the strongest back".
The small easterner nodded slowly,
mind searching across the brief glimpse of the ragged mans face
and trying to fit it to his memories.</p>
Try as he might he couldnt shake the feeling that he had seen this man before.
Marak shook the thoughts from his head; he had more corporeal matters to attend to.
"Would I be able to lodge here Arvin?" he asked.
"A night in a real bed after so long on the road would be most welcome".</p>
Arvin stood, picking up Maraks small pack as he did so. "Of course my friend"
he replied.
"The rooms are both small but Lena keeps them well cleaned.
Itll be two copper pieces for a night and that will include your meal this evening."</p>
He led Marak through the door behind the bar and through another door
on the immediate right.
This led to a cramped staircase that led a short way up to the guest rooms.
The innkeep chose the furthest door and motioned Marak into the room.</p>
As Arvin had said it was small but clean and the large window
looked out onto the village street.
A table stood beneath the window, bearing a jar full of fresh mountain daisies.
Marak felt at home almost immediately.
He counted out two copper coins and handed them to Arvin, smiling his thanks.
Arvin nodded in return.</p>
"If you go into the village you can expect a lot of questions my friend.
The last bit of excitement we had here was the ragged man
and youll cause almost as big a stir as he did,
seeing as how most of us here have never seen an easterner before".
Marak bowed slightly, grateful for the warning.
The bowmans voice stopped Arvin as he turned to leave.</p>
"And do you have no questions of your own Arvin?"
he asked, eyebrows raised. Arvin pulled the blue kerchief from his head as he spoke.
"A few if Im honest" he admitted. "Firstly though Im an innkeeper.
Im here to make sure youre comfortable and happy here if you stay,
not to badger guests with questions".
He laughed as he left the room.
"And of course Im here to charge you for the privilege.
Dinner will be served an hour after sundown Marak, Ill see you then if not before."</p>
The door closed leaving Marak alone with his thoughts. He moved to the window,
throwing it open to hear the sounds of the village children and the
hammering of the smithy.
Such sounds comforted the easterner, accustomed as he was to the sounds
of the bugle and horn,
the screams and shouts of too many battlefields.
Should the townsfolk ask him questions Marak thought they would be disappointed
with the simple answers he had to give them.
There was no mystery as to why he was here.
The northern highlands were simply one place he had never seen and so here he was.</p>
His skill with a bow, far above the ordinary if truth were told,
had allowed him to wander as he wished,
mostly as part of some mercenary force but sometimes his money was won in tourneys.
On the whole Marak preferred to fire his arrows at straw rather than living targets.
Living targets simply paid better.
Marak moved the bed closer to the wall and sat cross-legged upon the floor,
allowing the everyday sounds of simple life to lull him into the dream state.
Perhaps here would come the elusive answer to the puzzle of the ragged man.
At sundown the easterner was still deep in the dream state.</p>
Arvin had neglected to mention that today was the birthday of Kalliy Forswelds
three young daughters.
The triplets had been born eight winters ago, nearly coming into the world as orphans,
as the long labour exacted a terrible toll on poor Kalliy.
She had lived though and the villagers saw her three golden haired daughters
as a special gift from the All-Father.
As such their birthdays were a time of togetherness in the small village,
and the people gathered in the small square outside the inn to thank the Father
and make a fuss of the girls.
The noise of the gathering did not intrude into Maraks trance,
even when Arvin and Lena began distributing rounds of free ale,
as was their wont on this occasion.</p>
Neither did the sound of hoof beats rouse him,
or the startled shouts of the villagers as the score of horsemen
enclosed them in a rough semi-circle.
They were all well armed but less well armoured.
The riders all had a hard look about them and a coldness in the eyes.
Their clothes, once well made, were now travel-worn and moth-eaten.
One of them, a broad shouldered man with an axe slung across his back
leapt from his horse as two others knocked arrows to their bows.
The leader of the men smiled nastily as he looked at the frightened
villagers before him.</p>
These small hamlets were always the same he mused.
Never enough money or women in them to make it worthwhile really.
He smiled again. They were just so easy.
He unslung his axe and raised his voice so the assembled villagers could hear.
"Who we are doesnt matter,"
he said in a voice made harsh by strong drink and a meanness of soul.
"You know why we are here." He glanced around the frightened group,
satisfied that none would meet his eyes.</p>
"What little money you have and maybe a woman or two and well be gone".
Behind him his men laughed quietly to each other, confident of another easy raid.
They hadnt even had to kill anyone for weeks.
They still did it of course and found it to be a much more pleasurable experience
when the victim wasnt trying to kill you in return.
To these men murder was a far better proposition than actual fighting.
The leader turned as Arvin walked towards him,
ignoring Lena's clutching arm and frightened look.</p>
"What little we have we work hard for" he said,
surprised at the steadiness of his own voice.
"You will take nothing from us without a fight".
It looked as though Arvin was about to say more but the bandit leader
simply backhanded him across the face,
lifting the young man from his feet and pitching him into the dirt.
His expression never changed as he watched Arvin roll onto his back,
clutching at his shattered jaw.</p>
The horsemen laughed again, louder this time.
The leader glanced toward the three pretty blonde girls
clutching at their mothers skirts and gazing with wide, fearful eyes.
"Choka, Tom, cover those girls".
The bowmen swung round to point their arrows at the triplets.
"If anyone else tries anything the young ones there will be the first to die."
The girls began to wail as Kalliy pulled them closer. "Not my babies!
" she screamed.
"Dont kill my little ones!" The bandit leader began to
walk towards the children,
pulling a knife from a scabbard with his free hand,
determined to show these idiot villagers he wouldnt balk
from the slaying of babes.</p>
Everybody turned as one at the bloodcurdling scream that
sounded from behind the inn,
and in his room Maraks eyes flicked open, a name burning across his mind.
"The Ghosthammer,"
he whispered, just as all hell broke loose in the village square.
The ragged man had hidden as soon as the riders had appeared.
Dimly he remembered men such as these.
Cold men. Killers.
He cowered behind the inn almost gibbering in his unreasoning terror,
tears streaming down his face.
Then he heard once more the screams of children,
and the voice "Dont kill my little ones!"
The screams tore into his mind like a hurricane and he fell to the earth,
hands over his ears, trying to block out the terrible sounds.
He could not escape them.
With the voices outside shut out he fell prey to the screams inside his head.
The screams of his own little ones as their lives were taken from them.
The ragged man screamed himself a shocking sound of pain and loss
and again something in his mind snapped.</p>
This time it was the prison in which his old self had languished for so long,
driven there by his madness and grief.
His scream changed to one of rage, a fury denied for too long,
a fury that could cow the dark lady herself. The ragged man rose,
his tears stopping as his eyes cleared and he charged from behind the inn.
The bandit leader was hurled from his feet as the huge warrior,
no longer the ragged man but the Ghosthammer once more cannoned a
fist into his face.
The crunch of bone was clearly audible as his neck snapped under
the force of the assault.
As he fell the Ghosthammer plucked his axe from the air without slowing
and tore into the shocked horsemen like a black wind.
Two arrows slashed into the throats of the bowmen,
following so fast upon each other
that the villagers believed there were two bowmen in the inns front bedroom.
The Ghosthammer was moving with a speed that belied his great size.</p>
In the midst of so many riders he should have been dead in the first charge.
His axe was a blur as it hacked and slashed into the now terrified bandits.
Arrows continued to rain down,
each one perfectly targeted, each one finding its mark in unprotected flesh.
The Ghosthammer slammed a backhand blow with his fist
into the face of a horse pressing in behind him.
The beast fell as if pole-axed, crushing its rider beneath it as it went down.
He dodged two slashes from a cavalry sabre,
disemboweling the wielder even as he plucked another rider from his
saddle with the other hand,
throwing him to the ground with crushing force.
Between the unceasing hail of death coming from the inn and the
savage attack of the huge warrior
what little nerve the bandits had broke
and those few that survived wheeled their mounts to escape.
Again showing uncanny speed for a man so large the Ghosthammer gave chase.</p>
Marak felled another three,
one of his arrows punching through the back of a riders
skull and somersaulting him from his saddle.
The huge warrior hurled his shoulder into one horse,
pitching it from its feet.
The last rider had made too much ground to catch on foot.
The hurled axe cannoned into his back,
smashing his spine and tearing from his chest such was the
force with which it was thrown.
Now Ghosthammer towered over the last bandit
whose wide-eyed terror was like a soothing balm over his tortured soul.
"And now you die killer of children" he said, his voice low and chilling.
The Ghosthammer raised a huge foot and slammed it into the bandits skull,
crushing the life form him instantly.</p>
He turned back to the village square to see the villagers looking at him in amazement.
Moments ago there had stood the ragged man. The weeping giant who was to be pitied.
Now there stood the man who had broken the ranks of the black priests
elite guard at the battle of Darkisle.
There stood the man who had stood over the fallen princess of Taramir,
killing the dozen men who had sought the young princess's life.
Here stood the unkillable. Here stood a legend. Here stood the Ghosthammer.</p>
The ragged man dreamed. He knew he was dreaming.
</p> </td> </tr> </table>
How to follow that winning tale? That is certainly not a problem - for Angharad brought us this fine ode:
<table border="1" width="40%" bgcolor="#ffffff"> <tr> <td align="middle"> <p align="left"><font size="6">Ode to Sword</font>
<table border="1" width="100%" bgcolor="#ffc68c"> <tr> <td>
Renders, breakers, cleavers, killers.
The Sword knew that.
I was glad; my hand was ready,
For the call was stirring, heady
When the Sword spoke.
'Have done now with loving, laughing,
Hunting, sleeping, singing, quaffing,
The Sword said "Seek!"
'What?' I asked, 'should I be finding -
Land or cattle for my minding?"
The Sword said, "No!"
'Would you have a man my questing,
Met in pride but left unjesting?'
The Sword said, "Yes!"
Carved, left bloodless, headless, shattered?'
The Sword said, "Right!"
'Any man could suit your needing
For a life let out by bleeding?'
The Sword said, "Wrong!"
'There's a man for whom my hating
Might be ending, him know sating,
The Sword said, "Good!"
He was tall, a strong one, daring,
Facing us unawed, uncaring,
The Sword said, "Strike!"
Smiling first, he soon was shrinking;
And as it bit deeply, drinking,
The Sword said, "Ah!"
We were savage at his worsting,
And, though slaking, still athirsting,
The Sword said, "More!"
Finding men, we left them cuttings
Fit for kites at twilight gluttings.
The Sword said, "Done!"
</td> </tr> </table>
The room fell strangely silent, while tellers of tales franticly scribbled away at their art. The silence became uncomfortable, so I dared to brave the stage, with this humble piece. Thankfully, the only things thrown at me were snowballs, although I suspect one of Robert Franko's hit the wall with a far heavier 'thud' than most. I had hoped Robert would take to the stage, but he seemed more interested in his sparkly llama for some reason.
Robert, your fans will only wait SO long before they seek fresh pastures! Hurry up with the next installment!
Well, Robert WAS silent. More or less. So, here, instead, is my little ode.
<table border="1" width="30%" bgcolor="#ffffff"> <tr> <td align="middle" width="50"><font size="6">Ode to Siege </font>
<table border="1" width="100%" bgcolor="#ffc6ff"> <tr> <td>
filled with strife and war,
This land of myth and wonder,
where eagles and dragons soar,
This land filled with creatures,
kindly beasts and beastly men,
this land of treasure and perils vast,
Bloodied from field to fen.
This land is my home indeed,
Tho most perilousy besieged,
for the people have won my heart,
and I will ever support my liege.
This land brings woe and victory,
tis filled with fool and sage,
those who seek peaceful lives amidst
those who seek naught but war and rage.
I have friends who would slay me,
I have foes who would aid my needs,
I have to laugh, for daily,
I know not where my homeland leads.
Cries of 'balance' of 'nerf' and such
other strange words oft abound,
and yet, for all it's flaws,
this land is where I'll be found.
Aye this Siege, most perilous at times,
Is home, though once feared,
for in this land, live my friends,
and a good blind man, with a beard.
</td> </tr> </table>
After this, it was Morning. Morning with a fine poem, beautifully writ, and well presented!
<table width="50%" bgcolor="#ffffff" border="1"> <tr> <td align="middle"><font size="6"> When flights of doves are mourning
</font>
<table width="100%" bgcolor="#ffffff" border="1"> <tr> <td>
when darkness lifts itself high and high, looks slowly to the side
and leans itself back down
springs explode with anger
and children sneak in a back room, "what's the commotion?"
hearts don't hear their beating
fools are left at play
and
myths are laughed at openly
and the gods are heavy-lidded
and the gods are at the helm
and the gods are sleeping heavy,
and their orders of, merriment! fall short
of ruling the day
"cover these indiscretions, will you?
and give some sound and rhythm and a beat
to the shuffling of my feet
the gods are falling to pieces
and they already forgot who they are
I am sleepy
and hoping to get that spot by the dairy, with the cows
I'll lay down there
with the gods
join me
in this town of fools
town of myths
where we are gods and our trumpets are blown after the battles
where we have fallen
and the orders of, merriment! fall short
of ruling the day"
and flocks of doves go mourning
covers of night reaching higher and higher
until the toes of the gods are tickled
and myths are laughed at
openly </td></tr></table>
Apparently somewhat upset by the barkeep's confusion between vials of blood and greater refreshment potions, Spyderbite took time away from arguing with Stardust regarding who got to sit in Katharine's lap, and presented this scary number:
<table bordercolor="#ff0000" width="50%" bgcolor="#000000" border="1"> <tr> <td align="middle" width="99"> <p align="center"><font color="#ff0000" size="6">Call
<font size="3">of the</font>
Kindred
<table width="100%" bgcolor="#e0c1ff" border="1"> <tr> <td>
I can bring you to heaven's portal
There'll be no sorrow, there'll be no pain
Feelings of joy will fill your brain
Come to me, sweet human thing
Give me your heart and I'll make it sing
Forget your fears, leave them behind
Forget the troubles of your kind
Come to me... yes, that's right
Now hold still, it's no good to fight
I'll take your blood, and leave you dying
Didn't you realise I could be lying?
</td></tr></table>
I love a sense of balance, but it's so hard to find on Siege. Still, last night, I found it - for the evening began with a work by Rumil, and ended the same way!
<table bordercolor="#0080ff" width="30%" bgcolor="#000000" border="1"> <tr> <td align="middle" width="16"><font color="#0080ff" size="6"> Urbanizing the fantasy</font>
<table bordercolor="#0080ff" width="100%" bgcolor="#aaffaa" border="1"> <tr> <td>
singing hippie anthems,
just a-humming "white rabbit"
as he passed Alice on the corner,
to the out of work fairy
with her battered sign
"will quest for food"
cuz heroes are hard to find
and her bowl of silver fairy dust
the finest west of Lorien
gleaming in the neon lights
that declared the Lady Sidhe
was dancing that night.
The little fairy, with tears in her eyes
bartered her dust and mortgaged her wings
knowing the sylph needed money
to keep the meds talking
or so he told the Elf who sat
outside the pub,
his coin gone to pixies
eager to hit the clubs.
Heard Oberon wrecked his Harley
saw Titania at the clinic
"the end is coming,"
rants the banshee
and everyone is ready
because the Elves forgot the forests
for jack Daniel's and a fling
and tho the sphinx's still telling riddles
the muses forgot how to sing.
</td></tr></table>
As the night drew to a close, I was most relieved to hear that Otto began to stir from his many-day long sleep! Another day, and the healers would have needed to take him to their great tent of healing, which would have scared me no end! But, while certainly not fully alert (I fear I cannot relate some of the dazed comments he has made to me this morning, for fear of Kelmo or Dor's blessed sticks of banning!) he should be wandering around about the land again shortly!
In the meantime, I hope I have done an adequate task, filling in for him, and that ye enjoyed these tales!
To any who feel I have NOT done an adequate task, I have two simple questions for thee:
Where is your pen, and why not speak with Otto about a reporting role, once he is fully up and about again?
Good night to all, and blessings upon thee!
*quietly hides all signs of her break-in to Otto's office, and quickly forges his signature*
</td> </tr> </table>