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Topic: Lantan
Subject: Ministrations
Haze.
Thoughts flickered feebly though his mind, he was not aware of them. As if through a smokescreen he watched Shaben raise his musket towards the darkening indigo sky, heard the weak scream of the wounded man, the splash of his body into the frothing, hungry waters. He shut his eyes against the dark, breathing lightly, terrified of what he would have seen had he opened his eyes. Evani’s voice murmured, soft as a lotus blossom upon the wind, so weak. The heavy footsteps of the mercenary as he took the lifesaving medicine from her and crossed the deck, the overwhelming relief that followed, and pitiful gratitude. He bowed his dark snarled head and suddenly lapsed into something he had refused to partake in for at least twenty years.
He prayed.
A sharp, heartbreaking keening sound broke through the placidity of his prayer and it was like acid upon his ear. His eyes snapped open, shot with gray in the gathering clouds, searching for the source of distress. His breath caught in his throat, his eyes locked upon her. Horror swept every iota of rational thought from his mind. He reeled at the sight, and hung back, trembling, unsure of how to help, afraid his clumsy hands would injure her further. Forcing himself to remain calm he gently turned himself onto his belly, a bolt of excruciating agony firing up his leg as his body professed its indignation. He crawled towards her, and upon reaching her, slapped her hands away from the bolt. “Stop”, he hissed, fear causing his tone to become much harsher than he intended.
”Stop it, you’re killing yourself”.
He instantly realised the fierceness of his tone and drew back, eyes dark with apology. Gently, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close to the comforting warmth of his body. “Shhhh”, he intoned, kissing the tears from her eyes, tenderly stroking her hair. “Shh”. He attempted to comfort her, the gods knew he attempted to. He glanced down to the crossbow bolt, to the actively bleeding wound.
Finally, he drew away slightly, locking eyes with her.
“Hold on to me”, he murmured, keeping his voice low and soothing. “I need to remove the bolt, or else it will get infected. Do you understand me?” He unwrapped his arms from around her and gently began to tear a small hole in the fabric of her shirt around the wound, careful not to touch it. “It will hurt terribly, but it needs to be done to save you. “
He waited a moment for her consent and when it was given, he critically surveyed the wound. A hundred macabre memories flashed into his mind unbidden, bringing with them tools for healing. He remembered. Carefully gripping the bolt with both hands he paused, forcing himself to tear his eyes away from her tear-streaked face, and pulled. His stomach clenched, knowing how agonising the pain would have to be as he eased the bolt from her tattered flesh. The barbs caught once, and hot blood poured over his hands, but otherwise it slid cleanly from her body as he pulled and tugged with all his strength, attempting not to hurt her, knowing that he must.
Finally, the bolt clattered to the blood-stained deck beside them. Emotions flared up inside him but he pushed them away for now, cautiously peering at the wound. It was grave, that was certain, but would not be fatal. He was relived to see that it had bypassed organs, and it had been buried harmlessly into muscle.
The exertion had opened up his own wound, and he panted, pushing back the creeping abyss. There was no time to comfort her; her bleeding had to be stopped. He grabbed his cloak and pulled out a second packet of herbs, anserke, and then began to tear the cloak itself into ragged strips. When he had a pile of them coiled on deck, he poured a small amount of the precious medicine into his hand. Gently as he knew how he pressed the herb against the bolt-wound. Almost immediately the alarming flow of blood slowed to a trickle. He placed more of the medicine on the wound until it slowed further, nearly stopping. He sighed, instinctively knowing that the most crucial part was over and done.
He then hesitated, a dark red blush creeping over his cheekbones. Carefully, as to preserve her modesty he lifted up the edge of her shirt just enough so he could bandage the wound. He wrapped the makeshift bandages about her and then tied it securely. She was safe.
Exhaustion crept over him and he groaned as he looked down at his thigh with its reddened bandages. He had aggravated it. Clenching his teeth against the pain that was to come he untied the tourniquet, and as blood rushed back to his leg, the wound bled more heavily. He cursed and grabbed for the anserke, rubbing it into the wound. When the bleeding slowed to his satisfaction, he took the bandages and tied the first one over the bleeding gash. He snarled savagely at the exquisite pain that resulted from his actions but continued wrapping it, feeling the coarse fabric draw into the wound. Finally bound, he collapsed against the deck, breathing heavily.
He rested for a moment and then reminded himself that there were more important things to attend to. He lay there, not expecting any thanks, eyes hooded, listening to Evani’s quiet noises of pain. He closed his eyes and when he spoke, his voice was weak.
“When his wound is attended to, Shaben should be able to help you to a cabin where you can rest…I cannot”.
Posted on 2008-04-21 at 21:25:02.
Edited on 2008-04-21 at 21:30:55 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Applauds?
Subject: Posts...
Takes me a least an hour per post to get it absolutely right, writing, formatting, everything.
I swear I have obsessive-compulsive disorder, but at least they turn out well.
Posted on 2008-04-20 at 21:06:54.
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Topic: Lantan Q&A
Subject: Hmm...
Nice of him! 
Posted on 2008-04-20 at 20:34:04.
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Topic: Lantan Q&A
Subject: Good Question...
Not sure...
Anyway, posted.
Question Hammer, who exactly is your character?
Posted on 2008-04-20 at 19:06:58.
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Topic: Lantan
Subject: Forgotten Banners
The abyss was his only reality.
He felt himself being pulled deeper into the clinging mists, sensing rather than seeing sacred, forgotten colours. His life drifted before his blind eyes, pitifully short and in the darkness he attempted to grasp at its fleeting beauty.
She carried him in her arms, summoning a heroic desperate strength that only quailed when they had reached safety. She buckled to her knees and distantly he felt an inexorably terrible sensation as his body collided with the hard wood of the deck. Torturous pain rose with a vengeance, slicing through the dark, tangled layers of his psyche. He groaned. The sun beat down upon his fallen, broken body, preparing him as a sacrifice. He lay as one dead, thin chest rising shallowly, dark hair clinging to his pallid brow, eyes shut against the light. His cloak stretched out beneath him, soaked with sweat and blood.
Through the spiraling pain he suddenly realised someone was near. He felt the presence looming there, the moment stretching out to eternity - or was it only a few seconds? Then slow, soft steps toward him, coming closer, too close, bringing the smell of burnt hair, blood and powder. He struggled against the bonds of his weakness, fighting for each painful breath. Her soft voice echoed, illuminated and he turned his head towards the sound of that voice, sightless and wordless. His eyes remained tightly closed, other senses heightened, and he could tell that something was wrong with her.
“You’re hurt”, he whispered faintly, his voice hardly auditable. Desperately, he waited for a reply, frightened in the silence. He tried to gauge her reaction, but he could only hear distant gunfire and discordant ringing from afar; she was all silence, black and numb. A force of stillness, making time stretch - stretch - and then finally he heard her take a deeper breath. He felt relief, she was there, she had not left him, and then the tension eased as his groan of pain and relief shifted into a low helpless sob.
He was in hell.
A heavier sound reached his ear, a man’s footsteps and he curled himself away from that hateful noise in spite of his weakness. The deep wound on his thigh that had slowed to a trickle on account of the tourniquet opened again. He gasped. Panic turned his bones to fragile ice and joined the spiral of spinning pain. Something tearing, he couldn't make out what the noise was. Closer. The man came closer. Next to him. Close again, but everything was still spinning, spinning faster. Too much, it was too much, a circle, a vortex of pain, pressing into his leg - searing - electrifying –
A murmur. A prayer. He flinched as the man touched him gently, and then drew away. Even that soft a touch sent a bolt of pain through his head. For a moment he waited helplessly for the man to kill him, feeling a burning anger, a burning fear, while all he could do was cling to his awareness, and struggle to keep the black infinity at bay.
Nothing.
Surprised, he opened his eyes, sight registering as blank white nothingness as his eyes adjusted to the light. They shifted to his unlikely friend, glassy. The pain lessened slightly and the bleeding slowed, nearly stopping.
Gratitude.
He looked to Evani, finally seeing the cause. He winced at the sight of the bolt, worried now as the pain drifted at low tide. He was able to think of others. “Love”, he murmured softly, feeling tears begin to congeal into a lump at his throat. Fear that he would lose her stole all eloquence. He longed to reach her, to comfort her, but his body refused to obey.
A thought occurred to him.
“In my cloak…I have…something….that might help….a packet of herbs…anserke…bloodkeep….to stop the bleeding…use it on yourself…and use it on Shaben…there should be…enough”, he whispered quietly. A swelling of emotion overcame his resolve and he reached for her hand, holding it tightly in his.
“You… saved my life…”.
It was done. They had made it. Images of freedom overwhelmed him; he almost smiled at the familiar shifting of the vessel, like the steady breathing of a magnificent animal. They were safe. He gazed up to the cerulean, cloud-less sky, a sense of peace washing over him in spite of his wounds.
He felt, deep in his heart, that he would live.
Posted on 2008-04-20 at 18:21:16.
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Topic: Poetry by the Pilgrim
Subject: Poetry by the Pilgrim
I added new poems that I have written to my site for any that are curious...
www.freewebs.com/mydisasterarea/
Posted on 2008-04-20 at 03:20:08.
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Topic: NEW
Subject: Welcome....
...To the Inn!
Here you`ll find great stories and great friends, and you will not be sorry you joined, I promise.
Wonderful to see a new poster around here.
Hope to see you on the boards....
Yours,
Captain Septimus Sandalwood
Posted on 2008-04-20 at 02:40:48.
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Topic: Lantan
Subject: Running Dogs
They rushed him.
Together, as if communicating by a silent signal the soldiers charged forward, all fierce battle cries and empty promises of destruction. He held his ground, admiring their intelligence and courage, their swiftness and their strength. He stood a bit straighter and tilted his head in acknowledgment, eyes fervently probing their ranks for the wounded, the stragglers. They hesitated in reply, confused, the scent of his blood stinging their nostrils. Weakness.
Recklessly, one broke from his fellows, sword raised a gleaming slice against the sun. Septimus feinted, his body moving in perfect coordination, long graceful movements as if in a ball-room dance. The young soldier swung desperately at his enemy’s tall limber frame, discouraged. Septimus batted at him, almost playfully. The man struck wildly, Septimus calmly stepped from range. They shifted closer, their private battle intensifying, intimate. Close enough to hear his whistling breathing, to see the sheen of sweat on his skin, to smell the sweet carrion smell of the blood smeared on his robes. The wolf’s eyes of his enemy flickered up to him, eyes flecked with gold in a vast sea of slumbering green.
Hypnotising.
Their bodies tangled and the young man lost his balance. Instantly Septimus reacted, this was what he had been waiting for. What the law of nature dictated. The strong eat and the weak become the meat. The dark man lunged for him, knocking the novice’s weapon from his hand with one practised sweep of his cutlass. He paused, staring down at him, guilt making lead of his heart.
He was so young…
And then the novice shifted without warning, and instinct quickly overwhelmed his good nature. Septimus angled his weapon and brought it down on the young man with vicious speed, intending to cleave him in two. It jolted against steel. Astonished, he gazed down at his determined young enemy. As if by a miracle he had managed to regain his sword. Septimus stumbled back at the defiance in his eyes.
He bared his teeth at him, cheated.
A low cry echoed through the battle-field, coasting over the moans of the dying.
Septimus whipped his head around to find the source of the sound. His heart stopped. She was blocked from his sight, but he knew without seeing that it could only be her. Careless towards himself he felt a deep primal fury build up, obliterating all other emotions. He turned to run to her, in his haste forgetting the novice who had long since rolled to his feet, who stood before him now. His feral eyes blazed and he leapt on him like a panther, towards his throat, longing to sink his teeth into the youngster’s vulnerable white flesh.
He felt the impact as their bodies collided with the earth, his weapon of no use to him now. Through the haze of anger he felt a terribly biting warmth as the terrified soldier swung at his back, opening a gaping wound. He bled. Agony was quickly eclipsed by dire loathing. He grabbed for his sword and sliced at the young soldier mercilessly, watching deep wounds appear with glee, soaking his periwinkle cloak crimson.
He observed the horror emerging in his deer-like soft eyes and raised his blade for a final, crushing blow.
Death.
Torturous pain, not to be borne.
He cried out in agony, and twisted his head to look down at himself, puzzled. A blade was buried deeply in his right thigh like a strange growth. He stared at it, uncomprehending, eyes slowly travelling up to a hard, determined face that looked vaguely familiar.
A jerk as the blade raggedly slid from his flesh.
He shuddered violently, watching bright red arterial blood spurt from the wound. A low moan escaped his throat and he felt himself being pushed off the young soldier. He buckled to his knees, entire body vibrating in shock from the blood loss. He felt strong hands roll him onto his back, on his already existing wound, and he groaned. The blood continued to flow in copious amounts. Frightening amounts.
The hard-faced soldier approached him and in spite of his injuries Septimus attempted to curl himself away from him, to make himself as small a target as possible. The soldier knelt next to him and brushed Septimus’ dark hair from his eyes. His eyes held no malice. “I had to stop you. Don’t worry, it won’t be fatal…I just need to…”, he murmured regretfully.
Suddenly Septimus recognised him. “Lucas”, he whispered, and coughed.
The soldier smiled faintly. “Ben”.
Septimus shook his head. “Septimus”, he replied softly. He closed his eyes.“Septimus”.
Listlessly he heard his former first mate draw his blade and felt a sudden jolt of fear as it brushed his skin. It dived, cutting not flesh but fabric. Lucas started to remove his old friend’s shirt but paused as Septimus caught his wrist. “What are you doing”, he demanded. Lucas pushed him back and removed the worthless fabric. He took his blade and cut it neatly into wide strips. “I’m making a tourniquet”, he replied calmly.
A ghost of a smile touched the pirate lord’s lips. “I see…that you work… for the government”, he whispered, with a touch of wry humour. “And I see that you don’t”, Lucas pointed out. Septimus opened his eyes, glazed as they were from the pain. “Not…anymore…”. He shivered, acutely aware of his vulnerability. Having cut the strips he wrapped them and tied them tightly around Septimus’ thigh, cutting off blood supply to the wound. The pirate was eerily silent through his ministrations, deep in thought.
“Get…out…of…here”, Septimus muttered. He gritted his teeth and Lucas stubbornly ignored him. “I’m not leaving”.
The pirate smiled humourlessly. “Meaningless…heroics…”. A shot sounded near him and Lucas hesitated, eyes wide. Septimus motioned to him and said something, his voice too faint to hear. He moved closer to his former captain and Septimus whispered in his ear.
“I…don’t…hear you running…”
As his friend left his side, deserting his fellows, Septimus staggered to his feet, blinking salt-tasting blood from his eyes. Another soldier watched him, musket in hand, waiting with shining eyes. The pirate had seen Evani injured and would not rest until he had come to her aid, even at the expense of his own life.
He dragged himself along, falling multiple times. The soldier would lift his weapon every time Septimus collapsed, knowing with the innate sense of weakness that the pirate lord would not go down easy. Every time he fell, the soldier was certain he would never rise again. But no matter how finite his fall, he always managed to roll to his feet. A long silent struggle, broken only occasionally by a soft cry. Blood ran down his pale, broad back, his eyes stared dully ahead. He almost reached her and in a final lurch he made it to her side and collapsed at her feet, slipping blissfully into unconsciousness.
Posted on 2008-04-18 at 21:58:00.
Edited on 2008-04-19 at 00:12:07 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Lantan
Subject: Legend Reborn
Strange, new emotion…
Uncertainty. He tilted his head, listening, no readable emotion in his mannerisms. His eyes, chilling and cold softened momentarily, almost reluctantly.
He paused, frozen by his own assumptions, of a fear half-imagined, entirely unlikely, an enemy in the dark.
He allowed the musical tones of Evani’s voice to wash over him, to calm him. The rigidity of his shoulders lightened and he nodded, once, curtly. All formality now, he smiled tersely at Shaben, knowing,the memories of a thousand betrayals flickering through his mind like points of shaded glass. Not by him, no, never him, but others…mutinies, blood for shine, all in the name of that dubious slavery, friendship.
The calm, unmoved expression on the face of his old friend, shifted, changed.
A soft noise, of cloth against earth, shocked him instantly out of morbid wanderings.
Reacting entirely on instinct, he stiffened and sprang to the side, twisting towards the direction of the sound. His pistol was brought up, aimed directly towards the phantom attacker, only to have his prey stolen from him. Another bullet careened through the air, burying itself deeply in the man’s skull. He blinked, cheated. Whirling on his heel, he watched in astonishment as Shaben serenely lowered his weapon.
Guilt flooded through him, tempering his utter surprise. He dipped his head in acknowledgement, humbled. Tears stood in his eyes as he turned to faced Evani, who had narrowly escaped death, knowing that his reaction would not have been quick enough, that he had been hampered by suspicion. He longed to draw her to him, to apologise, to show his regret, his disgust at his own blindness. Wounded eyes glanced quickly to her and then away. He was not worthy to speak to her.
Enemies.
Forsaking his distractions, he turned to face the next wave of opponents, a wave of pearl grey and blue, the same uniforms he himself had despised…and worn. They rushed them. Alarmed by the threat of no escape, he felt Evani push him from her path and grabbed her hand, gently pulling her away from them, as far out of harms way as possible.
He put away his pistol, sensing that it would be little use in close combat and drew his cutlass, He stepped forward, watching them closely, gaze trained on the captain. He flinched at Shaben`s denial, his misguided loyalty. “You fool”, he murmured softly, almost to himself, sadness overtaking the fierceness in his eyes.
“You poor, sanctimonious fool”.
He would later recall nothing of the battle, a hurricane of soft blue and gaudy crimson...
A soldier buckled to his knees by Shaben`s capable shot, and Septimus launched himself forward in a whirlwind of ferocity. Shots exploded around him, they threatened, he snarled. A soldier brandished his weapon at the raging pirate lord, and met with him with drawn sword. Blades clashed, faded blue met baleful emerald. They danced together, locked in combat. The larger man pushed Septimus from him, and he fell. Angling the sword to impale him, he thrust, and Septimus rolled nimbly out of the way. He almost impossibly regained his feet, the soldier’s blade scathing along his ribs.
Pain caused blindness, and he hissed. His eyes blazed murder and the soldier hesitated a moment too long, drawn by the hypnotising hate in those eyes. The dark man, the legend, was upon him like death itself. A single step, an angled sword, and the soldier was impaled beneath the softness of his chin, the blade shearing through thick skull into open air.
Septimus lifted his head and howled in triumph, a chilling, primal sound of the time before civilisation, a sound far from human, close to madness. He hovered over the freshly slaughtered enemy, a savage war-king poised over his kill. Blood trickled down his side, his sable hair matted with it, his robes drenched with it, that of his enemy and his own. Shots were fired at him and he pulled away from the dead soldier, rejoicing. His wounded side was agony, and burned with each gasping breath, but it was superficial, unimportant.
He faced the remainder of the stragglers, head bowed, weapon raised, waiting patiently, expectantly.
Let them come.
Posted on 2008-04-16 at 21:43:58.
Edited on 2008-04-17 at 14:43:38 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Lantan
Subject: Swing
To misjudge was death.
He burst forward in a release of tightly coiled energy. His scuffed boots ghosted over the uneven surface of the deck, charging with eerie silence. He had thought he had seen strange movements on the ship and feared that there were others threatening Shaben`s safety. A glance towards the ship revealed a flash of silver and the sheen of polished wood. As a dealer of weapons, he recognised it instantly. A musket, angled directly towards his chest. He froze in mid-step and felt his breath catch in his throat. Vainly he searched in the dawn’s faint light for the face of his attacker. The shadowy man stood, intently listening, waiting.
**********
Flashback.
Rain.
The clouds yielded dark promises, chill oaths. Grayscale light sharpened everything into focus, devoid of any colour but the slick of the rain and the sea. Crimson threaded through the clear, dead man on deck. A tall limber youth stalked forth, dreamer’s green eyes grey as dawn, hard as chips of flint. Wiry young muscles tightened as his rough hands welded tight to the rope, his slight body balanced precariously on the rail. He bared his teeth in a snarl, not a single sound escaping his lips as he faced his enemies across the raging water. The water poured and fought, brackish, black as oil in the dusk. Wisps of sable hair, matted with blood and sea-water stuck to his visage, obscured his vision. He cursed them without as much as a whisper, communicating solely in his native tongue.
Silence.
For in the end, we all swing.
He tensed his body and swung out into the void, ignoring the vastness below him, attention solely focused on the black eyes in that white face, bat’s eyes, and sharp and fervid, with terrible ancient cunning. The youth cruised in blind darkness. This was life. Life as a blind man, setting them up, watching them fall, rigging the game. Dreamily he watched the white unlined hand of his enemy dip towards his pistol and felt a brief flash of alarm as the barrel came into view, pointed squarely at his vulnerable chest...
A flare of agony sheeted up through his body. Slowly, almost unconcerned, he looked down at himself, the small, unassuming hole beneath his lower rib. He almost laughed at the superficial nature of the thing. And then the blood came and he sighed. His momentum lost, his body swung back towards the Falcon, head down, breathing shallow. Slowly his hands lost their death-grip on the rope, and in the instant before the ocean claimed him, he looked into those black eyes and saw the Red Man smile.
Then…peace.
And darkness.
************
He shook the ill omen from his mind and took out his pistol, blindly aiming it into the darkness. The unseen enemy stepped into the light and a deep welling of confusion swept through him. Their eyes met, and a question of betrayal burned through his mind. Was it simply that Shaben had mistaken him for someone else? He lowered his pistol slowly, reluctantly. “You should be grateful for my time out of practise”, he shouted to Shaben, attempting to inject a bit of humour into the deathly awkward situation.
“I am not in the habit of missing”.
He impulsively sensed another approaching, and glanced back behind him in a rare moment of trust. Evani, by chance, was coming up the path, and he beckoned to her. Relief flooded through him at finding her again, and as she joined him, he felt a swell of pride at her ownership of his dagger. Deep past memories stored with someone he, perhaps mistakenly, had trusted. Memories of the time that they had shared brought a certain sweetness into his eyes and soft darkness to his cheekbones, canceling out the suspicion directed towards his ally.
He stood beside her, almost protectively.
When his gaze turned to Shaben they were cold and wild, eyes of a man that one knew instantly, was capable of killing. Who, exactly, was he searching so adamantly for?
“It seems that you know more than I ever gave you credit for”, he called out to his old friend, his voice dangerous and almost hypnotic in its chilling, unforgiving suspicion.
“Pray...do elaborate”.
Posted on 2008-04-15 at 21:43:33.
Edited on 2008-04-15 at 22:00:56 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Lantan
Subject: Suspicions
He felt her react before he heard it.
Dark passions had bloomed within his heart, overtaking all reason, all logic. He felt her hand brush gently against his face, and smiled into the shadows. Dusky, drifting light spread across his faded olive complexion, blossoming like macabre roses over his skin, a part of him. His eyes met hers, shocking in their tainted purity, almost black, almost pupil-less in their little whitewashed room, loving without question. He tilted his head, hesitantly, mouth slightly parted and then her mouth was there, full, warm, and welcoming.
He drifted, unaware of time, unaware of thought.
Suddenly, she stiffened in her arms, and he backpedaled, confused. Perhaps he had hurt her. Questioning and apologetic eyes jumped to hers. His breathing slowed. All attention was on her, intent to find the cause of discomfort.
A soft noise, like footsteps on the stair echoed in the graveyard-still inn. A tread, like that of a man accustomed to secrecy, could be heard beyond their door. He cocked his head, listening. The noise repeated itself, sliding and chilled.
With uncanny precision, Septimus rose, his scuffed boots making hardly a sound against the wood. Trained hands ever so slowly shifted to the hilt of his cutlass. A whisper of steel as it was drawn. His coolly burning gaze focused on the crack beneath the door, tingling with anticipation. He was the hunter. Every iota of energy he possessed was directed towards his prey. The lines of his slender body were rigid, his hand hard against the weapon’s hilt.
He waited.
“Shaben”, he inquired, quietly, hopefully.
His voice echoed off the peeling, white painted wall.
He stood with legs apart, hands wrapped around the hilt of his cutlass, Evani forgotten. His pose was defiant; but a more observed eye would note the slight tremble in his hands, the bent right knee and the cast down head with pricked ears, listening for any whisper of sound. For the past unaccountable minutes, he had been staring, barely breathing, intent on hearing the previous noise again.
Still not a sound was heard in his swallowing abyss of black.
Hesitantly he forced his left foot forward; a slow glitch, a little shuffle, then a step. He turned sharply to his left, where he knew the curtains were. Had a movement, a noise, just occurred during his slow move? Had he heard the curtain rustle? Did the floor creak like it always did under the right pressure, did he hear the sound of skin against fabric, or was he paranoid now?
He would not admit it was the latter.
He slunk dangerously forward, raised his weapon and thrust open the door. The corridor beyond him was devastatingly empty. But what then? His keen ears picked up another whisper of a tread. He stepped forward, and then glanced back up to Evani with shining predatory eyes. He looked towards the dagger on the chair and jerked his head once, motioning for her to take it up and follow him. Another step and the sandy head of his friend was visible, just passing out of sight on the stair. Curious, he padded down the corridor, following him.
Shaben moved quickly, purposely, through the inn, so quickly in fact that Septimus was nearly jogging to keep up with him. He followed him out into the cool air of dawn, and took advantage of the still-dark, his black, patched robes blending effortlessly into the grayscale of the city. He followed him, surprisingly, to the docks, where Shaben boarded one of the two frigates at port. Suspiciously, he crept forward, making a small noise as his cloak brushed wood. His friend turned, searching intently for the source of the noise.
Septimus swore enthusiastically and retreated to the shadows, ducking behind an unloaded rowboat landed on the docks. Shaben, on the ship, was out of his sight. He hissed out his frustrations and darted forward onto the path of the docks, hoping to board the ship without interference, praying that his fears were not about to be realised.
Posted on 2008-04-14 at 21:02:42.
Edited on 2008-04-14 at 21:11:38 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Lantan
Subject: Rebirth of a Savage
A noble half-banana moon slopes over the tattered night sky. Soft stars glisten, heartlessly omniscient, lifeless, like the eyes of a dead man. The road is dry and barren in front of him, the moon resplendent, glorified. The dust kicks under his boots, creating a cloud of almond smoke, his spurs whistling a melancholy jingle-jangle with each heel scuffed step.
His eyes squint slightly, strands of sun-bleached hair blowing across his face, bloodied robes scrunching with the slump of his shoulders. He gazes blindly out to the abyss, the taste of expensive rum, with just the right hint of lime, fresh in his throat. It is a ritual night tonight, a slaughtering night. The pleasing scent of their sacrifice hovers vaguely in the air like shorn copper and everything is so beautiful.
He turns, his body slick with the sea, and lights his pipe, his mind thousands of miles awake. He watches the tendrils of smoke float up to the blue-gray waves, and smiles. He likes that, is almost childishly pleased by it. It reminds him that nothing is permanent. He had celebrated the victory of the Acheron over her foes with a coveted bottle, had savoured the love that the hard men held for their Captain. Their Leader. Their Victor. He tapped the ash on the side-rail reflectively. Bitterly ironic.
Throw the shroud, young man.
The ghostly procession, corpses in hammocks to the rail. Over. Gone. Over and gone to the depths of the sea. The unsatisfied, the insatiable sea. Catch the ride. A place where they could see blood red, lush green and swallowing black. Where he could witness the utter fear his victims’ faces had held before. Where he could set them up and watch them fall with glee, throw shapes with precision.
Listen.
Can you dig it?
**************
Damaged. Irreversibly damaged by what he had seen.
But, no not insane.
“Let him rest”, he whispered. “He is lost…exhausted”.
He gazed into the shadows that gathered at the corners, illuminated by their own right. Hatred for himself was immediately overwhelmed by powerful memories of what he had been, of the dignity in the darkness. The recollection fanned the flames within him, and he glanced to her, a savage beauty in him, remembered. His head raised, his eyes barren as the desert sun. The tears dried in sprawling tracks across the landscape of his visage and he straddled the line between familiarity and uncertainty, legend, and man.
Finally, he spoke.
“If we are to have any chance to survive”, he mused, “we must play on the recollections of my past”. He smiled. “I understand this now”. Pencil shadings of repulsion and desire flickered over his features and he ran a hand through his unkempt dark hair. “I must be the man who killed their sons. I must be that monster that I forsake so long ago. “He chuckled. “And I must enjoy it”.
“Everything in proportion”, he murmured. “Life and death, dark and light.” His eyes jumped to hers, feral and sweet. He took her hand lightly in his.
“You and me…”.
Shyness overtook him and he averted his gaze, but in spite of himself he curved his rough hand around hers, gently. “We might die tomorrow”, he whispered. “Every day might be our last. You have now the chance to leave me, to wander. There are men waiting for me, love, and they will have me. It is only a matter of time. I am dead already, a specter that breaths and dreams. You are alive…”. He paused. “I may die tomorrow, but you may live if you leave me”.
A ghost of a smile flitted across his lips.
“And thus, if I must die, let it not be said that I have never kissed you”.
Posted on 2008-04-13 at 02:03:14.
Edited on 2008-04-13 at 02:19:09 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: Regression
An intruder.
He turned over in his sleep, grumbling something intelligible. He forced himself to sit up in bed, unhappily attempting to rouse himself. His eyes opened, bleary from sleep, and drifted to Dae, unhappily. Recognising her instantly, he flopped back into bed and stubbornly covered his head with a pillow.
“Go away”, he muttered, his voice muffled from beneath the covers. “In the case that you are too thick to realize it, I don’t give a damn”. She sighed, unconcerned and shook the covers, disturbing him. With an exaggerated show of patience he removed his head from beneath the pillow and fixed her with a glance designed to wilt her. Sensing no reaction, he reached forward and took the tray from her hands. “No need to stand there. “, he murmured sarcastically.
“I’m not an infant, I can feed myself”.
He ate slowly, unsettled by her presence.
Half-way through the soup he paused, clanging his spoon back down on the tray. “I am also not an invalid”, he spat. He tilted his head slightly. “Nor am I weak. What incentive have you to treat me like this”, he inquired bitterly. “We were friends…equals…but apparently you are stronger then I”.
He placed the tray down by the side of his bed.
“Forgive my pride, but I cannot live by this rigid, degrading schedule. “
Posted on 2008-04-12 at 22:46:53.
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Topic: Lantan
Subject: Ragtime Lullaby
He flinched, drawing his body away from her at first, cowering into the corner. Fear flashed from his agonised gaze, his complexion blanched. Instead of fighting as expected, he backed himself away from her as far as he could, and when it was apparent he could go no further, he ducked his head and closed his eyes, waiting for whatever punishment was to be.
Won't you play the music so the cradle can rock,
to a lullaby in ragtime.
Sleepy hands are creeping to the end of the clock,
play a lullaby in ragtime.
You can tell the sandman is on his way,
by the way that they play,
As still as the trill of a thrush in a twilight high.
She moved forward, and he heard the faint sound of her knees against the wood as she knelt beside him. She wrapped her arms around his thin, shaking shoulders and he stiffened underneath her touch, as if expecting a physical blow. Warm comfort was offered to him in the place of due punishment and in spite of himself he leaned into those arms, desperately, hopelessly.
He wept, soft, lost sobs issuing from him as if his very soul was being rendered in two, and allowed the quiet notes of the song to fill his treacherous mind, banishing the dusty cobwebs of hate and regret.
He imagined that this was what having a mother would be like.
So you can hear the rhythm of the ripples on the side of the boat,
as you sail away to dreamland.
High above the moon you hear a silvery note,
as the sandman takes your hand.
Someone was holding his scarred body to them, someone was with him, head against his, intimate, close. He instantly regressed to his childhood, attempting to remember a woman he had never seen, who had borne him, but he had never knew. He trembled underneath his thin linen clothing, his slender, deceptively fragile body vulnerable to a stranger, who could aid him or destroy him on whim. It was agony having her so near to him; even in his state he was distinctly aware of her heartbeat, the delicate pulse of her throat, her voice, her breathing. Woman, woman, woman. Woman all at once and everywhere, like being enveloped in the sea.
And then suddenly, her breathing evened and she leaned against him, eyes closed, body softly pressed against his. He smiled through his tears, reached up and gently loosed her arms from him. He sighed. With a tenderness unimagined, he lifted her into his arms and carried her carefully to the single cot. He placed her sleeping form there, and pulled the downy covers over her prone body, his hands moving with the same gentle love as if he was tucking a child in to sleep. Warmth spread though his entire body as if he was lit by an inner candle, the warmth of caring, and being cared for in return.
So rock-a-by my baby, don't you cry my baby,
sleepy-time is nigh.
Won't you rock me to a ragtime lullaby?
His timid nature called for him to leave her side, but he lingered, captivated by the lax beauty of her visage, peaceful in an unexamined dream. He wondered then of what she dreamt, and then mused on if perhaps he featured in it. The warm sensation evaporated abruptly as it came, and he looked down at himself in disgust. Hatred for himself welled in his heart and he clenched his hands into fists, feeling his nails bite perfect half-moons into the flesh of his palms. He wanted to flee from her, wanted to murder the horrid life inside him that admired her unbearable beauty, which sparked life in his dark eyes.
All of his life he had searched for beauty, coaxed it from his awkward hands, tended it, hunted it, maintained it. Forever, he would consider himself subhuman, a creature without a soul, gifted accidentally with the power of speech. But beauty, his shy appreciation of it in all forms convinced him that he had at least one thing in common with mankind. Filling his eyes with beauty, whether it be in the poetry of words or the soft face of a woman, he was reminded that there was still goodness, still discoveries, still hidden saving graces.
His scarred body would never be beautiful, he thought bitterly. Too many women had traced the intricate lines of his life, marking the hideous reminders of his past badges of bravery. They had called him handsome. He shut his eyes against the thought. They had admired his fine, tall frame and his elegant, clean features, overlooking imperfections that he found to be devastatingly obvious.
Scars.
A reminder of what he truly was. A reminder that his body, with its marks, was as inhuman as his soul. Nor was he an animal. He was below animal, a perversion. A freak. Tears fell freely from his unfathomable eyes, trickled down his cheeks. He watched them fall without emotion, dotting the bedspread. He forced himself to look at Evani as she slumbered. He tenderly brushed a wayward strand of auburn hair from her eyes, wondering if she could ever grow to care for a creature like him. He had known women who had nursed animals back to health; perhaps she would take pity on him. Perhaps in time, she could grow to love him as a woman loves a dog, for that was the only love he considered himself fit for.
He could be gentle, and kind, faithful and loyal if only she would smile at him, hold him, love him.
He bent slightly and kissed her on the forehead as she slept, his heart full with intense emotions even his poetry could not explain.
“Love me”, he murmured, hardly audible. “Love me”.
She awoke suddenly and instinctively, Septimus drew back, as if ashamed to be caught looking at her. “Nothing happened”, he whispered nervously. A dark blush crept over his high cheek-bones. “You fell asleep”, he explained simply. Tears still ran down his visage, and embarrassed, his knuckled them away.
“I could not leave you there, so I moved you”.
He stared resolutely at his scuffed boots.
So rock-a-by my baby,
don't you cry my baby,
sleepy-time is nigh.
Won't you rock me to a ragtime lullaby?
Posted on 2008-04-11 at 23:56:42.
Edited on 2008-04-12 at 00:02:23 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Lantan
Subject: Do You Love?
He drowsily opened his eyes, uncomplaining even as his body complained from the numerous uncomfortable situations he had placed it in. Eyes as emerald as an inlet sea gazed at her shyly, apologetically through a curtain of dark hair. He rose, unspeaking, a look of weary gratitude etched across his visage. “Are you not tired”, he inquired hesitantly, carefully avoiding eye contact, sensing her words as either a revelation of mistrust or an act of kindness.
Even as he spoke, he was edging towards the cot, and silently slid between the thick covers, his aching body welcoming the warmth. He sighed contentedly, feeling the edges of his world begin to blur and dim.
“I can watch, you know”, he murmured, his eyes slipping closed.
“If…if you want me to”.
He was almost asleep, lulled by the soft footsteps of her constant pacing, when her voice whispered through the gentle noise of her movements. The potent emotion behind them struck his heart, and he listened, held. His eyes remained closed, for he was sure that his heart would be filled with such self-loathing if he gazed upon her, if he beheld her sadness, his betrayal written in those eyes. So he spoke in his dusky voice as a blind man, calling from some realm of dreams.
“Because I knew you”, he whispered, and felt a curious warmth behind his eyes that he distinctly realised as the forming of tears.
“And you had lost someone, like me”, he added, a sad smile curving upon his lips like charred paper.
“Someone you loved”.
He shifted. “Something in your eyes. You were like me. Like family.”
His words lingered, hanging like a blade, long after his morose voice faded from the air.
He slept, comforted by her mere presence, the mere knowledge that he was not alone. He dreamt, an indistinguishable lump beneath the covers.
At rest, the pirate king was strangely vulnerable. His eyes were closed tightly, long, almost feminine lashes curling upon the pallor of his cheek. His dark hair formed a halo about that melancholy, gaunt face, a Victorian face; dramatically pale, lined with slight etches of care. He had turned onto his side in his night, edging up the hem of his shirt and revealing a broad back laced with whip-scars from his days in prison. The malevolent criminal, was just a man, hardly out of his boyhood, a man shy, soft-spoken still after all those years, a man who could hardly approach a lady.
He tossed ever so often in his sleep, his face hard as if dreaming of worse times. Images flickered through his mind of the boy by the sea, the one who had had so many secrets. He dreamt of the time he had found a coral serpent in the long grass by the beach when his brothers had been on summer holiday, how he had picked the serpent up and found her beautiful. Alone, he held her, drunk with colour and shape, to his breast, watching and learning her movements, her moods. One bite from the creature would have proven deadly to the little boy, but she had never bit him, only wrapped lazily about his thin arms and gazed at him from emotionless eyes.
He held her for over an hour, found that way by his brother Sextus, motionless in the tall grass. The sandy-haired boy had smiled at him, admired the serpent, and asked his little brother questions, only to be regarded by sad and somehow solemn eyes. “Ay, she’s a pretty one”, Sextus had quipped kindly. “We’ll name her Daisy, eh Sep? That suits her, right?” The little boy looked at the snake and then back to the smiling face of his brother. Never uttering a sound, he hugged him fiercely, despite thinking that Daisy was much too common a name. His heart swelled with love for his brother, who understood.
He remembered drawing away from him as his other brothers came tramping up the shore, slick from the ocean. They hollered when they saw the serpent, fear lighting in their eyes. Quickly, Primus, the eldest, darted forward and grabbed the snake off Septimus’ arm, clamping it behind the head to avoid being bitten. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, you little freak”, he hissed, grey eyes flashing. “That ruddy thing is poisonous”.
He threw the serpent down and crushed it beneath his heel. The little dark-haired boy watched the dying throes of his beautiful friend without a word. When Primus drew away, chest heaving, he knelt to pick up the limp, brightly banded body, tears standing in his silent, somber eyes. “Go ahead and cry then”, his eldest brother spat. “Won’t do you any good. “ He watched his little brother critically for a moment, his wordless, soundless grief. “Why don’t you ever talk, then, beast”, he snarled, jabbing him.
“Why don’t you ever talk?”
They had all received a sound beating that night, he remembered grimly.
His life with his family had destroyed any chance of happiness for him. Images of his brother’s bloody face penetrated his mind, strong after all those years. He never forgot how satisfying it had been to bury the dagger in soft, pampered flesh, even as the tears streamed down his face. Images of Lily burned through gruesome dreams, the recollection of his first night with her, of burying his hands into her sloe-black hair. Of gentle love. Of ecstasy. They had raised a daughter together, a daughter as pure as the snow and as bright as the sun. A daughter who sang for her battered father. Who hugged him with the unembarrassed strength of youth, her soft golden head, next to his dark snarled one.
“Do you love”, he had asked.
“Do you love?”
In his sleep Septimus tossed violently, tormented by the images that battered his mind, invaded him with their sweetness and irony. The little broken bodies of his children, lying lifeless in his arms, cold little bodies, the memories of which would haunt him forever.
Giving soul and body to his love, to Lily, soft warm lips whispering vows in his ear. She was cold now. Dead now. His sleeping features were lined with grieving. He cried out as he dreamed the names of those that left before.
“Primus”, he murmured in the mires of sleep, recollecting his brother’s wise, aristocratic face, white on the pillow, red. “Forgive me”.
Lily dancing on their wedding night locked in his arms. Laughing red lips. Smiling black eyes. “Lily, my love”.
A golden daughter, an infant son. “Rose”, he whispered reverently, as if that word contained his entire future, his broken past.
“Do I love”, he asked himself aloud. “I love you, Rose. My beautiful girl, I’m sorry”.
“I’m so sorry”.
He shifted again in his agony and fell out onto the hard wooden floor, waking up instantly as pain flared through his entire body. He shook his head once, twice, his eyes flying open as he chased away the threading shadows. He threw his arms around his knees, shivering. As if instinctively knowing that he had spoken in his sleep, he drew himself into the corner, as far away from Evani as possible, a terrible inescapable question echoing mercilessly in his mind, a caress from a nightmare.
Do you love?
Do you love?
Do you love?
Posted on 2008-04-11 at 21:53:11.
Edited on 2008-04-11 at 22:42:49 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Writer's Blood (Poem)
Subject: Nice...
Hot.
I like how I am in it, and the mention of Pepsi.
Posted on 2008-04-11 at 00:57:53.
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Topic: GASP! Is that Eol?
Subject: Hello!
Welcome back there, Eol.
You should really check to see what we did with the game you originally started, Lantan. ^^
Great to see you anyway, mate. Missed you.
Posted on 2008-04-10 at 22:30:48.
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Topic: Lantan
Subject: An Uncommonly Gentle Man
Self loathing washed over him in ever-increasing waves. Unpleasant and familiar as an age-old dream, it lingered, leaving a dark bitterness reverberating in the emptiness inside him. Her laugh was spun silver, her eyes were daggers. He gazed at her, eyes hollow, seeming to have shrunk in size as her cruel laugher bit into him. He slunk further away from her, head hanging, dark hair in disarray, enormous eyes wary and wounded, but with no malice. He seemed rather as a dog that had been struck without knowing why. He watched Shaben tramp off to bed, exhausted exasperation fixed clearly on his countenance. Morosely bearing the weight of Evani’s judgmental glance, he waited patiently for the next verbal blow.
The man, who was purported to have once slaughtered thousands, was absolutely terrified of her reaction towards him.
Wearily, he looked past her to the blank bleakness of the wall, listening to the musical tones of her voice, hardly understanding her words. She had to have hated him. But she was offering a solution that would keep them both safe… and allow him to explain the motives behind his disguise.
He winced slightly. “I am sorry”, he whispered brokenly, “but I could not take the chance of revealing my identity, not here, not now. And not so much for myself”. He grimaced. “I care little for my own life, as I have little to live for”. He smiled a ghost of a smile and nodded towards the door. “Only him. I will see myself hung, but I would kill them if they touch him. He risks his very soul to stand by me, and I will do nothing to cause him to regret that decision”.
“Nothing”.
He paused. “I am a monster”, he murmured. “I know this, and I do not deserve to be sheltered from those who seek me. But I would like to stay with you this night, if only to mend my mistake”. Septimus closed his eyes. Although he had always appeared in storybooks as proud, even arrogant, the truth of the matter was that he loathed himself with a hatred once intense enough to make him want to take his own life.
As he walked down the corridor with her, images of the boy he once had been flickered through his mind like dying candlelight. His lonely, insecure childhood, the contempt of his brothers, the disappointment of his father. He had killed his mother in his coming, and from her death they had not gained much. A small, skinny slip of a boy, with perpetually uncombed dark hair. A boy so shy, visitors to the house would terrify him, and so silent, it was easy to overlook him over the chaos caused by his six brothers. He was nothing. His brothers were strong, his brothers were aggressive, and his brothers were clever. Septimus did not cry as an infant. He did not even speak a word until his fifth year, and even then, communication was difficult for him. He had been a sad, strange little boy, who wrote poetry in the darkness of his room, and cried himself to sleep.
A freak.
This was the boy who had become the man feared by men and sought by women. The man who had brought kingdoms to their knees. The man who had once ruled the seas. True, the image was splendid, but within his soul he was still that uncommonly gentle, sensitive little boy who had once planted a garden in the yard, before it was found and trampled by his eldest brother, a boy who spent hours staring at the sea, as if by gazing at it long enough, he could become a part of it, and flee from his unhappy life forever. But alas, that part of the story was never told.
It was common knowledge that he had killed his eldest brother at the age of ten. Everybody knew that. But no one knew how tormented he had been, how he had still, at that age believed death to be a temporary state, that he believed in his child’s heart that after his anger passed, his brother would rise again as always. They did not know how he had slept in the alleys of a foreign city, warmed by the bodies of other outcast children that he befriended to survive.
They knew nothing.
He asked for the key to her room, and taking it opened the door. Padding silently into the room, he hesitated, noting that there was only one bed. After an awkward silence he sighed wearily and made his way to the corner. He curled up on the hardwood floor and rested his head upon his arm looking more like a faithful dog than ever. Sadness weighed heavy on his eyelids, but he remained awake, watching her shyly. Finally, he closed his eyes. “Do you know I had a daughter once”, he murmured sleepily. He smiled. “Of course you do, you’ve heard all my stories”.
He paused.
“She was beautiful”, he whispered,” as the dawn, but somewhere along the way I lost her. My wife, my son, my daughter, all gone”. He sighed. “But they were beautiful, and I loved them. I know I can love, I must have been able to.” He ceased the endearing child-like rambling for a moment and his breathing evened.
“I miss them”, he said sadly.
“I miss them, even after all these years, because, I am human”. The last word of that sentence held a sad sort of declaration, told a story of neglect, of being less than. “I miss them because I can love”.
He smiled wanly into the darkness.
“Even I can love”.
Posted on 2008-04-10 at 21:11:56.
Edited on 2008-04-10 at 21:12:29 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Lantan
Subject: Lord of the Red Dawn
Wild surmises flitted through his mind like a series of hallucinations, each more believable than the last. He sucked in air sharply through his teeth, awaiting a reaction, a sign. Fear. He dared to meet her shocked gaze, his skin blanched to an almost translucent shade of white. In this half-light he was not so much a man, but an illustration, his sloe-black hair the etching of kohl chalk against fine, fragile paper.
The master of a red dawn.
Ay, vulnerable now, but once he had been adamant. He had studied the marvellous inhumanity of man with an fascination that bordered barely on obsession. He had watched the most cultured and magnificent of animals show themselves things of mindless bestiality. And the blood that resulted from the con of man…
Blood, black blood, insectile in the moonlight, dried like sinister currents in the autumn sunshine. And he had partaken in the slaughter, fierce crimson spread over sharp cheekbones, as he reveled in the kill the marvellous coordination of muscle and sinew, the shocking warmth of fresh flowing blood.
She would not understand what it was to rejoice in the ugliness of man, what it was to see your enemy before you, eyes black with widened pupils, skin wet from the spray of the sea. Everything about him,sacrificial. An ugliness that bordered on beauty. He had bathed in the blood of his foes, soaked himself with their life-force in ecstasy.
Beautiful savagery.
He looked into Evani’s eyes and saw a monster.
He flinched at her sharp, icy words, and seemed to become much smaller in size as his head drooped forward and he settled into a resigned position of fatigued defeat. “Ah, so I gathered“, he replied softly, carefully avoiding eye contact. “ You plan to join me, do you?” He smiled faintly. “You are no fool. You know the dangers of joining me. You are planning to risk your life for a criminal? After all, I am no angel. Some people would go so far as to consider me a demon. These people, of course, know nothing of what even the blackest scoundrels had to suffer to make them the monsters they are. “ Sadness shimmered in his eyes, startlingly black in the faint light.
“I was never anything else but, Evani. This is who I was meant to be, this is who I am. “
These words clearly injured him beyond repair as the sensitive, intelligent man admitted as to understand the names he had been called. The flashes of hatred in the eyes of men, fear, the cries of little babes. He was a specter drifting, known and yet unloved. Women feared him, there was no room for love in their hearts for the dark one, who existed only now as one dead. “You showed admiration for a man who you thought had been slaughtered three years ago, and yet, when he stands before you, you show fear. Do not dwell on the irrational fear generated by myth. Fight for me, and I will defend you in return.”
He moved away from her then, swiftly slipping the shirt over his head, effectively covering his scarred upper body. The linen peasant shirt, once a moonless onyx was now lined and faded, hung about his emaciated form like thinning, ancient parchment. He did not look up as Shaben`s tired voice ran clearly through the silence. “And every hero is misguided”, he replied quietly, turning to face his exhausted friend.“Yes, I am aware of this saying”.
“If I stay here tonight, my friend, I risk my very life, but if I do not heed your advice I risk something of even greater meaning”.
He attempted a small smile.
“Your friendship”.
Posted on 2008-04-08 at 21:18:03.
Edited on 2008-04-08 at 21:25:57 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Lantan
Subject: The Pilgrim
Fear.
Shadows danced over her deep-set eyes, nestling in the hollows of her cheeks. He moved forward slightly, intrigued by the ethereal beauty that was hidden in her fear, but withdrew. He backpedaled slightly, shyly, sensing the lack of trust that radiated off her. She was terrified, yes, but not of him, no, never him. He instinctively knew that even if she truly understood her fear would be tainted by fascination, ay, even a misguided one. Some secrets had their own impossible lure, apart from those who perpetrated them.
He withdrew almost submissively, eyes lowering, understanding suddenly and unbearably what he would be to her if only she knew, if only she knew. A monster. Subhuman. Hated. Spurned. Feared. And yet the stories told were not of him. Throughout the entire ordeal he had developed a curious sort of dual personality. Septimus Sandalwood, his original identity, was exactly as the legends suggested he’d be, rash, dashing, bold, malevolent, and when that identity had perished, he had created a strange elder brother for himself, the wise, cautious Ben, who, although not without charm, was a great deal more reserved then was befitting a pirate lord.
“I protect myself”.
Ben’s cool gaze tracked her movements, a flicker of emotion in them that was not entirely unlike suspicion.
He stood apart from himself, the grayscale quality of his alabaster skin and onyx hair contrasting, inviting shades to play over his sharp, nearly gaunt features, reflecting his soul, reflecting his heart. The analytical workings of his mind were written clearly in the calculating almost reptilian gaze, a soft golden-emerald, rich and deep like light earth, flecked with mica. And then a flash of fear like crimson burned through the stillness, and he winced, almost cringing at the suddenness of her movements. He shied from her, taking a quick, stumbling step backwards and feeling his broad back hit the wall. Unwillingly, his eyes met her, and they were a woodland creature’s eyes, dark and wild, filled with a feral wariness…and something else.
“That sounds like an order”, he replied quietly, his voice trembling, eyes wide in his pale face. He grimaced slightly and hung his head, nervously running a hand through his dark hair. “I lied to you”, he stated softly, “but only because you were being foolish. I am the pilgrim . Believe not what others tell you, you know who I am”. He smiled faintly. “I am king of outcasts, the wanderer in the shadows”. Suddenly without warning, he removed his cloak and folded it neatly on the chair. He slipped the ebony peasant shirt over his head and laid it carefully next to his cloak. On his pale, hairless chest there shimmered two bullet wounds, once skating low over ivory skin scarred by countless battles, brushing stacked ribs, the other just barely missing his heart. The legendary battle had been proven. His dusky eyes smiled in the shadows.
“I am Septimus”.
Posted on 2008-04-08 at 01:48:27.
Edited on 2008-04-08 at 01:48:53 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Lantan
Subject: Wood-Smoke
He drifted.
Strange, thoughtless nothingness enveloped him softly, like wispy blankets over his slumbering form. Music that never existed played unceasingly in the crawlspace of his mind. His body ached from the hardness of the wooden floors, and in the darkness he marveled about the weakness that a life on land could bring to a body, and so quickly! He had lived a gentle life these three years, occupying not a position of danger but rather a place as a pampered government asset. He was a man of power. No, not a King or a Governor, for he had observed throughout the years that the heads of Governors all too often ended hung up on pikes when their favour was lost. He was the whisperer in the shadows, the pilgrim, the wanderer.
He was safe.
A ghostly smile twisted its way over his visage. Deep in his heart there were the pictures of those that he had left behind, including himself. Faded, and well-worn, he had thumbed through this mental album hundreds of times, finding a soothing repetition as each memory was brought back into ferocious, colourful life, only to die and be replaced. One was never safe, not truly. The man who was once called magnificent hooked his arms beneath his head and gazed into the eaves. Grained wooden beams supported the roof, on which he could distantly hear a pattering of rain. The support beams stood stark like the ribs of a beautiful beast, and being in that bleakness was like being in the belly of the beast.
Beneath an overturned ship.
Dead.
Padded footsteps whispered on the stair. Ben shut his eyes tightly and turned onto his side, willing them away. A cold chill of anticipation brushed over him as the tread of the stranger grew louder and closer. Gently, with a master’s understanding he gripped the hilt of his heavy hanger cutlass. His eyes shone forth as he rose, dusky diamonds in the dark. Cautiously , he slipped forward, the exposed metal of the blade gleaming in the shadows like an upturned smile. A deft twist of the wrist and the door creaked slowly open.
His body tensed to strike.
Silence. His eyes flickered once over the familiar features of the half-elf bard and his shoulders lowered.
“Evani”, he murmured.
The harsh line of his mouth softened and the weapon was lowered, although adrenaline was reflected in the icy fire of his emerald eyes. He scanned her expression, took in the pallor of her skin. “Well then, love”, he stated softly, and a faint smile curved about his lips like tendrils of wood-smoke.
“You look half scared to death”.
Posted on 2008-04-07 at 22:49:11.
Edited on 2008-04-07 at 22:52:09 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Lantan
Subject: Shadows Counsel
“He is sleeping”, came a murmuring voice from the darkness.
As if he had materialised out of the cheaply-painted corridor, Benjamin padded noiselessly down the carpeted length of the hallway. Although panic was in the air like bitter perfume, no sign of it was upon his features, he was utterly and disturbingly nonplussed. He smiled easily. “That is what he is doing, and what you should be doing as well. It is true, yes, we need to leave immediately, but the problem lies in the fact that no one will aid us until tomorrow. Unless you believe yourself to have enough skill to commandeer one of the government’s finest, our only option is to flee at dawn. Obnoxious, yes, but important”.
He paused, his expressions almost unreadable in the twisting shadows.
“Get some rest, love, you’ll need it”.
The effortlessly placed word ‘love’ coloured his otherwise mundane sentence, a fond nickname he applied to most attractive females his age, but uncharacteristically, the charismatic diplomat had hesitated. He ran a hand through his ebony hair, grown long since his escape from prison. His dark eyes, seductive and cool surveyed her for a moment and then shifted to gaze into the distance.
“I will be in the room 27. If anything occurs this night, there is no need to wake me, I have no intention of sleeping. “ With the same nonchalant air he unfastened the sheath of his dagger, and gave her the weapon, carefully placing the deerskin wrapped piece of metal with the handle angled towards her. “This is my most prized possession”, he whispered to her, “ and you would to well to take care with it. “ He ran his hand over the intricate metal sculptures of serpents that snarled and fought their way across the weapon’s hilt.
“It is stocked with sea-snake poison, for your enemies, and is extremely dangerous. If anyone or anything threatens you, it will kill them in screaming horrors, but remember, if you prick yourself with it, there is nothing that I nor anyone else can do to save you. Not a pleasant way to die”.
He smiled reassuringly.
“This will keep you safe…if only you trust me”.
He turned to go without another word, his strange loping shadow thrown against the wall. He carried himself like a rangy wolf, his thin shoulders loose and his step soft. A whisper on the stair, the creak of a door, and he was gone to his meager accommodations. Gone, not to sleep, but to forsake his cot, to wait by the door, and to measure his length against the hardwood floor. His head was on his arm, his hair tousled, his eyes closed, but his hand rested eternally on the hilt of his cutlass, dreaming but in passing. In world of shades, not quite asleep, not quite awake, he drifted, keeping a solitary and silent vigil.
The sentinel waited.
Posted on 2008-04-02 at 22:40:57.
Edited on 2008-04-02 at 22:43:21 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Lantan
Subject: It Begins
Death followed a winding trail that night, rising from the mist. The phantom hoof beats grew nearer. Was it death, gallant on a pale steed or his servants bidden to follow his crooked paths? The scent of old magic, mystic and wet crept through the sleeping streets as Luna gazed down with rapt approval on the staggering figure reflected beneath the dreamy, idyllic Tudor beams of the townhouses.
Staggering and unsupported, wandered one of the many unceremonious, habitually drunk homeless of Lantan, a product of a brutal and inefficient economy. Greasy strands of grey hair hung and swung listlessly in front of his lined face, his thin chest heaved. Intoxicated or mad, none knew or cared which.
Cruel goddess.
It was this man who unceremoniously broke into the tavern at approximately midnight, just when the regulars were quieting, and the raucous laughter of the unemployed having a fine time dulled to a faint, half-conscious murmur. He had stumbled and the barkeep had come to his aid, considerately holding up his frail, crumpling form, and giving him an earthenware mug of brandy. The man’s gnarled old hands curled around the cup and he drank deeply from it. A tired half-smile formed on his lips, fading instantly as deep, terrifying vibrations began to shake his body. His body, hot and dry as firewood, collapsed to the filthy floor. The cup shattered, and stirred the tavern into an uproar.
Only one man seemed to have no reaction.
Ben’s dark calculating eyes never changed expression as he calmly placed down his drink and rose to his feet. He moved towards the old man slowly, cautiously, his pale visage completely and unsettlingly emotionless. The old man writhed onto his side. He pointed his index finger at him, yellowed with tobacco, with all the conviction of an accuser at a witch-hunt and only spoke two words.
“ Septimus lives”.
The barkeep furrowed his brow in a vain attempt to understand the situation. “But that is impossible”, he muttered, confused. “He died three years ago”. Ben smiled, and pulled out a beautiful rosewood pistol. For a moment he traced the intricate silver accents of the weapon with his eyes, caressed it in his hands. He gazed into the terrified eyes of the old man.
“Exactly”, he murmured, and shot him.
The report was very loud. In the sudden silence the patrons of the tavern turned and gazed at him in fascination and horror, their eyes round as school-childrens' after a particularly nasty outburst. A small round hole appeared in the old man’s heaving chest. He looked down at himself in disbelief. Benjamin blew the smoke away from the muzzle of the pistol and grimaced.
“You would not believe the cost of ammunition in this bloody town”.
Without giving him enough time to truly realise what had happened to him, Benjamin turned and shot him again, and was moving towards him when he was tackled by the barkeep. He grappled with the bigger man, his weapon falling out of his reach. He snarled and tried to twist out from under him. The bigger man pushed him down against the floor-boards and punched him squarely in his stomach. Ben’s eyes filmed and he fell limp. The barkeep swung again and punched him viciously in the mouth and then got off his opponent. Ben turned on his side coughing, and spat bright scarlet. “Its not what you think”, he gasped.
“Then what is it then”, the barkeep snarled. He grabbed him by the collar of his robes. He dealt him a sharp punch to his chin and Ben gazed up at him, dazed and uncomprehending. “You murdered him”.
Barker shook his head. “Already dying”, he wheezed. “Poisoned”. He felt supreme blessed relief as the barkeep let go, and blessed air rushed into his lungs. He dragged himself over to the old man’s body and flipped it so it was face down. The barkeep grabbed for his shoulders, but he threw him off with surprising strength and searched beneath the old man’s lank hair. There. He smiled with relief as he showed the barkeep the single pinprick of the injection that had caused the shaking and would have caused eventual death. “I performed a mercy”, he whispered quietly. “And simultaneously kept him from revealing everything I have taken great pains to avoid revealing”.
“Who are you”, the barkeep replied a tone of awe and carefully concealed fear. “And are you completely insane?” Ben chuckled and spat again-bright red.
“I’m not insane”, he murmured, staggering to his feet.
“Only drunk”.
The barkeep shook his head. “You’re him, aren’t you”, he asked softly. “You’re really him”.
The dark man shrugged. “Only one other man using the type of poison that killed your friend, and the man who could have in theory done it, is in theory dead. So you tell me”.
The barkeep furrowed his brow again.
“The government killed him?”
Ben grinned wolfishly. “You do recognise him, don’t you? After all that is no ordinary beggar. That’s Glenn Fenris, who was our hero in question’s old mentor. If the government are going after the old legends it means two things, both of which are exceptionally bad for me. One, is that they are hunting down anyone remotely connected to Septimus, in which case you should probably get out of town”.
He turned to go.
“And what is number two”, the barkeep inquired. Ben halted impatiently.
“What?”
“What else does it mean?”
Barker mused. “It means that I should be leaving town as well. After all you do remember what killed Septimus, don’t you?” He nodded towards the old man’s body. “He was hit by a bullet”.
He made his way over to Evani`s table and hesitated. “Get Shaben`s room key”, he whispered.
“We are leaving right now”.
Posted on 2008-03-27 at 04:36:26.
Edited on 2008-03-27 at 09:10:21 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Lantan
Subject: Epiphany
He took her hand in his and led her through the noisy and inane chatter of the tavern. Not once did he turn to look at her, his dark emerald eyes were focused and far-away. Not once did he stumble in spite of the great amount of alcohol he had consumed, his movements were swift and strong, with an untaught grace. His tall, shambling shadow was thrown over the filthy boards of the walls, flickering, wavering in the candlelight. He led her out into the dismal rain, and turned to her, wild flittering imaginings whispering through his mind, perhaps their history was shared.
She was the other, he could taste the woodlands on her blood before he got any nearer to her, but there was a sharpness of something strange that he had never met before, but it was somehow familiar. Moving closer he knew not only her scent, but her face. Something from a dream perhaps? He had always been alone in his travels since his love died, never knowing face or voice of any other, yet somehow inherently knowing. Just knowing.
What was this?
“Few can”, he replied resolutely. A smile tugged at his lips softening his pale features, dark hair like moonswept shadows fell around his shoulders blown back by a faint breeze that whispered of prophecy. Both young and old at the same time he was truly a demon, the darkness clung to him in familiarity, like a lingering perfume, like a dying lover. He sighed. “Certainly I cannot”.
His half-mad, lucid gaze sharpened slightly at her words, his head tilted in interest. ‘We all have our sob stories”, he whispered gently, and reaching out, he brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen in front of her eyes. He smiled his terrifyingly sad smile, ignoring the droplets of rain that spotted his expensive robes, that studded the pale flesh of his cheeks like diamonds, like tears.
“Now you have yours”.
“Benjamin Barker”, he inquired in a voice like rising smoke. He chuckled. “He is a man who has lost everything, my friend, and nothing more. He is much like your famed pirate, love, but at times different, very different”. He gazed off into the distance. “Wiser”, he murmured. “Older”. He smiled wistfully.
“I knew Septimus, aye, we were friends”, he whispered, “ and I am eternally grateful that he died on the seas. We cannot control our destiny but it is better if we die with meaning. But never with dignity, no, humans never die with dignity. We can live with dignity, but never die with it. “
He moved slightly closer to her, and shielded her from the rain. He smelt of musk, rose-petals, dances in the dark. His eyes were ancient, aware and heartbreakingly beautiful. He smiled mysteriously.
“There’s a riddle for you, love. You know the stories. Who do you think I am?”
He drew away from her and gazed off into the distance.
“A storm is coming”, he muttered.
A sudden revelation. “Come”, he whispered, and darted into the tavern. The dark man sped over to the table where Shaben was morosely trying to forget his troubles.
“We need to leave now”, he hissed softly.
Met with an uncomprehending glance, he took Shaben`s pewter mug and dashed it fiercely against the wall. It shattered and he turned to Shaben with wild eyes. “They are coming and if you want an opportunity to deal with your troubles, I suggest that we take a clipper as soon as possible. “
Posted on 2008-03-26 at 16:53:02.
Edited on 2008-04-13 at 02:40:00 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Lines in the Sand: The Prologue
Subject: Death of the Falcon
Silence and darkness came to create the effigy of nightmares in his mind. His blackened gaze swept over his saviour listlessly. They were animal’s eyes...not quite human....coloured with the sharp, fevered intelligence of a animal that would not speak if it could. His eyes wandered slowly, tracing her, watching the smooth untaught grace of her movements, her cool forest eyes, her ebony hair that draped in a glorious fall over her delicate shoulders. There was so much of Lily in her and yet so little.
The faint, dreamy light highlighted his dark hair, the agony and sadness across his features. Tears of pain streamed across his pallid features, his eyes, so innocent and ancient, so bright and so sad fixed upon her with a lucid clarity. The face of her, although so near, was blurry, wavering dangerously, like a candle within the shadows. He cast his despairing eyes around at the silent, rugged faces, and saw not one. His flesh jerked at her touch as she wiped the running bloodstains from his chest and as gently as he was able he caught her wrist. He stared forth, searching, longing, wanting, knowing.
“No one knows”, came a murmur within the dark. A heavy-set, broad-shouldered man stepped forward, his normally rubicund complexion an alarming shade of white, his gaze fixedly set on the dying youth. He sighed and ran a hand through his greasy locks. “We found ‘im clinging to wreckage in the midst of the ocean, no one knows how ‘e got there. “ He glanced up sharply at the mention of the youth’s name. “So that’s ‘im, eh? No wonder ‘es dying. “ He scratched his nose reflectively and grunted. “Some of the lads, they’ve been telling me all sorts o’ rubbish about the government being after ‘’im eh? They’ve got nothing to do but to sink a few ruddy pirate ships while the rest of us go starving…”.
“The Falcon don’t exist”, a lithe hard-faced man responded coldly. “Even you know that. It’s only children’s tales, mate, and I tell you this Septimus chap doesn’t exist neither. “. The other man snorted.“If it don’t exist and it wasn’t destroyed”, he retorted, “’ow’s come we ‘aven’t been seeing it?” The lithe man slapped his friend upside the head. “You idiot. We ‘aven’t been seeing it because it don’t exist”.
“Then what ‘appened to ‘im, eh?”, the heavyset man questioned. “E’s definitely been fighting”. He pointed a ruddy finger towards the pale, shivering youth. His dark hair lay tousled, nearly covering the dark, depth-less eyes that still focused intently on Victoria, eyes as maddeningly bright as a rabid fox’s, two endless poisoned wells. “Lily’s dead”, he murmured through his trembling, and his hand tightened on her wrist. He shivered violently and rolled over on his side, coughing. Blood ran from his mouth in thin streamers, his body shook unmercifully with tremors. “My girl is dead”.
He ached. Pain was the only thing that managed to convince him that he was still alive. He had cheated Death once again it seemed. These thoughts slowly crawled through his mind. A mind that has been slowed and dulled by lack of nutrients and any kind of substance for days now. Pain. Again the nagging, tugging, intense pain. What was pulling at him so? Was it Death himself, indeed, unwilling to let him go so easily, refusing to relinquish its’ hold as it saw him slowly rising to consciousness like a drowning swimmer in a lake, seeking to pull him back down?
“The Red Man is back”, he cried out feverishly, creating words of uneasy astonishment from the rough sailors. “ I knew you would understand! He murdered your sister. He slaughtered my children”. Beads of sweat stood out on his milk-white skin and fell, running in streamlets over his pitifully thin chest, the exposed rack of his ribs. “My children are dead”. A sharp barking laugh escaped his numbed lips, devoid of any sanity. “He sent his men to kill me, but I am still alive”.
His nails dug into her skin.
“I…am… still…alive...”.
And just as quickly as it began, the madness ended. The tremors ended and his body became perfectly still. His eyes slipped closed and his hand fell limply from her wrist. Short, uneven breathing racked his thin chest.
The two bloody bullet-wounds shone with a sickly beauty, like two rubies embedded deeply in his white flesh. “My daughter…”, he whispered, and the tears ran from beneath his closed eyelids. “My son…”.
He raised his head to look at her, his eyes opened slowly and they were terribly lucid, tragically sane. The horrors those eyes had seen shimmered within the darkness, and there was something far worse then anger, than regret in their expression.
They were pleading.
And then his head fell limply against her and all expression faded as the edges merged and blurred into unconsiousness.
Posted on 2008-03-26 at 02:43:07.
Edited on 2008-03-26 at 02:50:28 by Septimus Sandalwood
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