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Topic: Where are you from?
Subject: Where I am from........
Alabama: t_catt11 (Birmingham)
California Dragon Mistress, Brianna (mile from Disneyland) / Driztts San Diego (just miles away from Sea World)
Florida - Admiral (Tampa)
Michigan: Drakar(St. Joesph)
Nevada Reno; Greygrey
New York: Jozan1 ( Fort Plain )
North Carolina. Lyskhala (Originally); Fantasy (Originally. Cherokee County)
Ohio: Eol Fefalas (New Carlisle), Lyskhala (currently Dayton)
Texas: Tann'Talas (San Antonio, Home of the Alamo)
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Canada
Alberta - Sibelius Eos Owm (Calgary), SilentOne (Wetaskiwin)
Manitoba - Vilyamar (Winnipeg)
Ontario - Alacrity & Vanadia (Toronto), Tempest (Brooklin)
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Overseas
United Kingdom - Ginafae (Edinburgh), Septimus Sandalwood (born in Boston M.A, but grew up and is now living in London)
Iceland - Skari-dono
The Netherlands - Fantasy & Almerin ('s-Hertogenbosch)
Sweden - Scarab (Jönköping)
Finland - Raven (Oulu)
Australia - Guenhwyvar
Posted on 2007-11-06 at 17:28:42.
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: Cloak and Dagger
His gaze flickered over to Zara as she purposely dropped her fork, instinctively noting the tiny movement. It took all his will power not to roll his eyes. The girl was well-meaning, but naive, and naivety could only cause destruction. He had learned as an infant that innocence led only to death.
He glanced around his companions, gauging their weaknesses under the guise of cold indifference. Jason, although smaller then he, was wiry and keen of intellect, Dae, although an attractive female, (a dangerous mixture if there ever was one), could certainly hold her own. He smiled grimly at the memory of her elven comrades, who appeared like smoke, and were gone like apparitions. He had seen the barbed arrows, and knew what damage they could do to flesh. The priest was unnerving, but his moral implications would hinder him, while the hulking Felani was enough to discourage even the most determined and slow-witted creature from attacking their party.
He instinctively did not trust him, although the newest addition to their party seemed good-natured enough. The distrust of the strong had been bred into him for centuries, from his merchant ancestors, the cutthroats of old and the murderous blood that rushed wildly in his veins. Septimus was physically average, and if this creature desired to harm him, he would be at a terrible disadvantage. Thus, he kept his weaponry close, and his wits closer, trusting no one, and caring for nothing. It was only because of his feral hatred for humanity that he was alive. Hate demanded life, it was a balm to cool his fiery spirit, and it forced him to survive, even against his will.
The rays of daylight creeping across the wooden boards thickened and shone with a greater intensity. Daylight was breaking at an alarming rate, and it would not do to be seen in such a public place. He rose quickly, and even though his dark soul protested horribly, he nodded once, faintly towards the Felani. His eyes were dead, registering no emotion, while his analytical brain was churning at full capacity.
His ebony steed had been brought out on his request, handled by a young stable-boy that looked somewhat nervous about the raging creature. He patted the animal’s glossy neck affectionately, his eyes taking in the handsomeness of the lavish tack and saddle, not a few stolen. This had been an expensive animal, but he had instantly felt a kinship with the creature, a wild and unpredictable trait shared. From the kings’ stable to his own. With deceptive liquidity he leapt up into the saddle. He needed not to say a word.
A whisper of horses’ hooves and full-grain leather upon wood.
He was gone.
Posted on 2007-11-05 at 17:18:32.
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: Shadows in Daylight
His good humour was evident as he strode over to the table, a wry half-smile gracing his lips in what would be the most expressive smile for Septimus in over a decade.
After all, he had escaped death.
He nodded to his companions coolly, taking in the impressively large Felani, scanning him mercilessly with his searching eyes that were so much like tainted jade. He regarded him informally, his body posture indicating awareness and an animal alertness of his surroundings. His hand never strayed far from his weaponry. Noting the ring, he relaxed slightly, his expression wary but with a hint of approval. He sat at the table, aloof but comfortable. He was not about to foolishly give his name to him, as he refused to possibly be his own undoing, but he was friendlier to this stranger then he had been to most of his former crew.
Perhaps he respected him, because of his great size and strength. Septimus was crafty yes, but powerful he was not, and he knew that. Those strange emerald eyes did not miss a beat. They burned with an icy fire.
He had not realized how hungry he had been since the food was presented. His last meal had been the day prior, and he watched the plates laden with food with a calm eagerness. Delicacies that were unheard of at sea. There was bread! Not hard-tack, but real bread, still warm! Fresh eggs there were, and dried fruit, and meat, which was a rarity in his life. As soon as the food was placed on the table, he took a few utensils and set to work. He helped himself to a piece of the bread and a few small pieces of the ham steak. With good food inside his poor stomach, which was used only to what he could salvage at sea, he was indeed in a much better mood then they had ever seen him.
Posted on 2007-11-02 at 18:14:11.
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: A New Man
His eyes had darted nervously to the others, as if expecting judgement,forbidding and curious, he gazed upon the new party member, expressing a silent but nearly tangible feeling of distrust.
He watched silently as Jason picked up the dagger, reading a sense of unease about the object and avoided his gaze. He knew why. Poison was insidious, it was sneaky, it was dark. And it was certainly not heroic. Septimus was not an evil man, but he was a rogue, and avoided a fair fight whenever possible. His nature was revealed suddenly and unrepentantly, and he disliked the idea that others might be judging him for using something so crafty and unethical.
“I know what you all are thinking”, he whispered. “That the fight was not fair, but I assure you his death was quick”. His head was half-tilted, a figure in shadow. “He was not murdered, only euthanized”. His expression was grim.
“Like a dog”.
His gaze shifted away from the corpse on the floor.
He did not reply, but it was clear to all that the ragged sailor was not the man that kept him alert. His harsh expression softened only slightly at the mention of their protection. He nodded to them, once curtly, and left the room, his dark robes flying behind him. He entered the room that he shared with the two elven girls, and with a final and tedious check of the security, he retired.
Without a word he slipped into bed and slept gratefully and deeply.
****************************************
A soft voice, commanding, though not unkind roused him from sleep. He muttered something intelligible and woke slowly. He did not seem as intimidating as usual, his hair was mussed into dark curls from sleep, his eyes were blearily and unfocused. Drowsy, he slung his legs over the side of the bed and sat upright, waiting for the two females to leave, unmoving at the mention of breakfast. His hand moved to his throat, making sure the necklace was still there.
When Dae and Zara headed downstairs and he was ensured his privacy, he changed quickly out of his traditional wear and into something that was slightly more comfortable. He slid on a simple ebony peasant shirt and dark trousers, laced an emerald-dyed leather vest over his shirt, put on his high leather boots and tied a dark crimson strip of cloth about his head to keep his dark hair from obscuring his vision. Replacing his jewelry and weaponry, he cleaned the deadly dagger with antidote, and slipped it into its sheath, being careful only to hold it by the hilt and not to brush the lethal metal.
Rolling up his cloak and the rest of his clothing, he replaced it into his ornate traveling sack, and headed downstairs. He was just adjusting his baldric, when he entered into the mostly desolate room. Gone was the frightfulness of his appearance, he was slender and handsome in his outfit, and his emerald eyes seemed to glow with a new fire and determination.
“Good morning”.
Posted on 2007-11-01 at 20:21:57.
Edited on 2007-11-02 at 18:07:17 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: Emerald Eyes in the Dark
Septimus hesitated and when the creature was introduced, he shot him a glowering look and then sheathed his weapon. He was clearly miffed, but kept his biting tongue to himself. His emerald eyes glinted and he shifted his feet nervously. “Well, how was I supposed to know he was an ally”, he snarled. “Dark creatures skulking about at midnight are not entirely reassuring”.
He brightened up considerably however, when he received his ring. This quest, so far, had been much his body of work, danger and adventure in exchange for a little shine. His ring was a silver serpent that made a circlet of its body by biting its own tail. Its eyes were gleaming emeralds that did not quite match the feral green firelights that were Septimus`s eyes. But it was beautiful. He adjusted it and slipped it onto the index finger of his left hand.
Rain became to fall, plastering his dark hair to his forehead. He grabbed hold of the rope and began to climb. This was accomplished effortlessly, for as you must know, sailors are experts in the rigging and this man was no exception. He climbed up the robe and landed noiselessly in his room, and skirted the body. He lingered in the shadows, waiting for the others,
Posted on 2007-10-26 at 21:23:06.
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: Friends...of sorts...
A voice shocked him out of his thoughts.
Feeling surprisingly lucid, he glanced up to the window of his room, noting a thick bodied dwarf. He tilted his head slightly, analyzing him. Septimus, as a reputable lover of the shine, respected the dwarves who, more often then not, made the treasure his life depended on. So he faced Riverwalker with a mild form of curiousity, the sort of look one would associate with a man observing a particularly odd species of houseplant. But that faint curiousity was soon replaced by dead-pan seriousness. Was he alright? How he despised the foolishness of that comment. Was it not obvious? “Fine”, he muttered, forcing a rather strained smile upon his visage to prove just have fine he was.
“Absolutely fine”.
As the dwarf lumbered away from his view, Septimus took a deep breath, relief spreading through him as the cool night air caressed his lungs. He held his head in his hands for a moment. Adrenaline still pumped through his body, his heart was racing, and his hands were shaking. He heard Zara slip quietly out of the window and raised his head, stiffening instinctively. She did not approach him. Good. She had learned well.
He kept his back to her, ignoring the innocent comment and question. He refused to answer. “I’m a danger to you all, aren’t I”, he whispered solemnly. “And for that, I apologise”. He turned to her swiftly and a sad, wretched anger glittered in his eyes.
“It was not a choice of mine to be the way I am”.
He nodded faintly, and turned away.
It was safer with the two Elven girls, as much at it injured his masculine pride to admit that. But they were comrades now. Friends, of sorts. He looked at her, and took in the carefully measured distance between them. He smiled grimly. As close as he had ever gotten to friendship.
“My dagger”, he murmured. “I left it near the body…not the wisest action, I admit, but I was panicked. It is small, and is engraved with a serpent. If you bring it to me, take care to hold it by the hilt, slip it into its sheath, and do not drop it, for pity’s sake.” A faint hint of pride crept into his tone. “The vial is broken and the dagger holds sea snake poison, which is fast-acting, but extremely painful when entered into the bloodstream, particularly if the person is not weak to begin with. Hold it carefully. If you are scratched with any part of the blade, you will be dead before you realised you had an accident”.
“Also”, he took care to note, “you will NOT be informing the constable.” He nodded. “That poor wretch won’t be coming back, I assure you.”
His head jerked around at the slightest noise and Zara`s announcement came slightly late. An ominous figure stood a few metres away, as if born from the earth itself. It was not his brother, nor one of his henchmen, but the feeling of it`s waiting, of its cold indifference, troubled him. He drew his cutlass and held it away from his body in a silver curve. His mouth was set in a grim line, his dark eyes glowed. “Stand behind me”, he hissed to Zara furiously.
“I will not have you injured or slain by one who might seek only me. So I suggest that you stand behind me, where I can defend you as long as I am able or…” he snarled, “I will kill you myself”.
But his tone was surprisingly gentle, and edged with terror. He was not, of course, going to kill her if she disobeyed him. He was simply trying to protect her, to give her an incentive to listen to him, even against all odds. For Septimus did, in his own way and despite his reputation and black heart, care for the girl, and did not want her to come to harm. He was perfectly willing to sacrifice his life, if only Zara lived. She was too much like his daughter. Like his Rose.
He turned and faced the figure.
Let it come.
Posted on 2007-10-24 at 20:24:50.
Edited on 2007-10-24 at 22:37:40 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: Creature Comfort
He watched stolidly as the man scurried away, the faintist hint of a smile touching his lips as two spells struck him, elicting high yelps of pain. He sheathed his weapon, and with a superb and uncanny balance, he swung over the windowpane. His boots collided almost noiselessly with the rich earth. His dark cloak rustled about him as he stood there, waiting for the man to stagger out of his sight like a hellish bird of prey.
When he was gone from his view, he glanced up and noted Zara, and attempted a jolly expression, but there was sickness in his heart. A dead man lay within his room and it unsettled him deeply. He had killed dozens of men, no indeed, dozens of dozens, but the closeness of death, the danger of death near, unsettled him.
"I can safety say", he called up to her quietly, " that an 'I told you so', will not entirely suffice?"
Posted on 2007-10-23 at 22:06:42.
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: The Kiss
His room was silent.
Shadows flickered serpentine over the rough-hewn boards, the single cot that had been pushed away from the window as far as possible by its occupant, as if the person who lay there feared the faint light that whispered in like ghosts, strung there by a staring moon. He was stretched out, still clothed in his bloodstained robes, his dark hair obscuring his pale face. It was a dreaming face, a tortured face, which looked too much like the skull that lurked just beneath the skin. He was silent. Peaceful even. But even the most hopeless dullard knows that when a serpent is at a disadvantage, it is the most lethal of all.
He slept with his dagger beneath his hand.
He had expected that his brother would be hiring for his death, as he expected the authorities were searching for him, but he would have never contemplated that the two sorry thieves that now crept through his window would be in on the job. Men were frightened of him, and even if there was good money in it, only the desperate would attempt to murder him. These men were not the ones that were searching for him, the ones that frightened him, but they were a sufficient threat as it were.
He was a legend.
A cool draft rustled his cloak and the moth-eaten blanket, it stirred his hair. His hand rested on the hilt of his infamous dagger as it rested beside him, dependant on it, watchful of it, like a pet dog that had gone to sleep. The draft caused him to stir slightly as the man padded softly to the edge of his bed, looking down at him, doubtlessly recognizing him.
His eyes, those strange animal eyes opened as he regulated his breathing, feigning sleep, listening to the rustling of the man. He heard the liquid trill of a blade being drawn and visualized it hovering above his throat. As it swung and he felt the screaming of the air, he twisted, terribly, terribly awake and blocked the blow with the long blade of the dagger.
Curly was faced with what he had to have thought of as the Devil himself.
Their eyes met for a moment, one pair confused and surprised the other seething with mad, furious rage. And then through the opening that the moment gave him, their intended victim swung the legendary dagger as its poison compartment shattered, and the cool steel slipped and scratched the seaman’s vulnerable throat.
Septimus` Kiss.
That was it. Just a nick really. It was nothing dramatic, nothing to write home to Mother about. There were no gaudy streams of arterial blood, no scream. A soft choking noise was all, a drop of blood. Septimus watched motionlessly, as the seaman’s eyes rolled up in his head, and he collapsed. The hands clawed desperately at his throat for a second and then there was a sigh. He was still. Sea snake poison, the most potent toxin in existence. Not even artificial poisons matched it in its sheer power. Septimus was merciful to his would-be killer. It had been quick, with little pain.
You just went to sleep.
His rose noiselessly and faced the Rat, who still lingered outside his window. His eyes were flat and cold, but not dead. No, not dead, there was a horrible vital hatred that twinkled beneath the cool reptilian indifference. “You mean to kill me in my sleep”, he whispered quietly, deadly malice hidden within his tone. “And you were naive enough to think I was not aware?” He dropped the dagger and heard it clink against the floorboards. It landed next to the still dark form upon the floor. He drew his cutlass and in the moonlight it was a half-moon smile, like the proverbial Cheshire Cat without a form.
He smiled in the dead of night and it was a mad smile.
Posted on 2007-10-22 at 21:11:11.
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: Dear Brother Wolf
Septimus seemed an island to himself.
Although always slightly dangerous-looking, for some reason his on-edge emotions made him seem even more so. He seemed restless in his skin, and his emerald eyes were shining with a vital, indefinable expression. Surely it was not fear? When Jason looked at him questionably, he turned his head sullenly away.
Fools.
It took all his self-control to bite back the bitter laugh that threatened to erupt from him. A good night’s sleep. He raised an eyebrow. It was ludicrous. “This is no camping trip”, he remarked darkly. “You propose that we spend the night resting, when we could be covering ground? Missions are best accomplished under cover of darkness. Besides”, he shrugged, “we won’t get far once that blazing sun gets overhead”. He brushed back his dark hair from his forehead nervously. His tongue flitted out and wet his suddenly dry lips. His eyes were feverish and wild. If one thought about it he looked not like a man who had been chosen for a mission. He looked like a man who had been told that he was going to be hung in the morning.
He knew better then anyone.
He knew he was being hunted.
Obviously he was not going to change their minds. With a final nod to them, he took his leave. Entering the raucous bustle of the tavern, he approached the innkeeper. “Name”, the slightly pudgy man questioned, studying the dark man curiously above his half-moon spectacles. “S.S.”, he hissed under his breath, giving his initials. “Who”, the innkeeper inquired, searching his parchment. Septimus shifted angrily. “I’m a guest of the Prince”, he snarled. The innkeeper, regarding him as one might regard a very irate tiger, instantly produced a key. Grabbing it from him, Septimus retired to his room in comfortable solitude.
He lay down upon the tiny cot in the corner and closed his eyes. In five minutes he was asleep, and dreaming, crying out and speaking incoherent sentences even through the misty veil of sleep. But one thing was perfectly clear.
He was obviously terrified.
********************************************
Two steeds rushed by in spangled moonlight. Blood dripped from the spurs of the riders, matting the animals` fine ivory coats. The animal’s breath whistled harshly, their skeletal bodies leapt forward in a constant bid for freedom. Their riders were silent creatures, two males clad in ebony in the style of the coast, their features hidden, and their commands silent.
As if they were one entity, the creatures pulled back on the reigns, cutting the bits into their equine’s mouths. The animals stopped abruptly, skidding violently and pranced in place, tossing their heads as if nodding to the rhythm of their own misery. One of the creatures leapt out of the saddle, and crouched, studying the road before it. The other attempted to control the animals. “Quiet”, it growled. The tone was soft and menacing with a faintly exotic accent. The creature on the ground stood. “A light steed made these marks”, it whispered, its tone calm and clipped. “One of good stock, and of the coast as well”.
It gestured fluidly towards the second set of marks on the ground. “See here”, it stated. The other creature leapt nimbly off its steed. It stood beside the other one, noticeably shorter then its companion. “Footprints”, it purred, restless. “Buccaneer boots with light indentation”. It pointed. “It states the maker clearly, it is a Penn. Only a Corelani would know where to purchase these. They are very rare”. It hesitated. “But…how…do you know it is him? You can’t—“
“Oh no, my dear man, you most certainly cannot, not by prints alone”, the other replied coolly. “But prints…are not all I have to go by”. It reached into its cloak and brought out a thin gold coin. It glistened in the moonlight. “I found this near the prints. It is a merchant doubloon, of a certain make. You see this here”, it inquired, indicating twin marks that distinguished the centre of the coin. “Surprisingly, pirates live in a democratic society. When a captain takes a ship, he divides plunder.” The other shrugged noncommittally. “Wait, I’m getting somewhere. Before he can divide plunder, most pirates mark each coin in a certain way, a process that is called the ‘rogue’s bookkeeping’. This allows rival crews to know if a plunder has been claimed and by who”.
The shorter creature nodded. “So do you recognise the mark?” The other nodded. “I’d recognise it anywhere. Two vertical slashes is the mark of the Golden Falcon, or at least it was before it capsized. And I believe that we both know the sole survivor.” They looked at each other. “Never could hold on to his money”, the shorter one whispered in awe.
The taller one gave a hidden smile. “You know what is to be done. I want him found, I want him dead, and I want proof that it is taken care of. Bring me his necklace, the one that was made by his girl child. He will never part with it while he is living. Take the most efficient men, scour the gutters and prisons of our world, and tell them all that the man who brings me proof of the death of Septimus Sandalwood will be paid 1,000,000 guineas to the coin, and the one who fails me will have his head hung on my bedroom wall by the harvest moon.” With this, it dropped a heavy sack of money into its companion’s hands. The creature staggered under its weight. “100 guineas as promised. That and more if you do not fail me”. The taller creature leapt into its steed’s saddle and was gone.
The smaller creature held the cold money in its hands and stared apprehensively into the darkness.
It had work to do.
Posted on 2007-10-18 at 21:22:28.
Edited on 2007-10-18 at 21:38:01 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: A Reluctant Warrior
So these were his allies.
Septimus glanced over to his newfound companions with a hint of sadness in his eyes. These were the people that he had sworn his life to. A sense of terror overshadowed the pride his own words had brought him and he remained silent, his expression grim, changing not at all as the young man Jason offered his reassurance. His gaze shifted to him momentarily and the sadness was gone as rapidly as it came. His eyes were glacial again, his manner bitter.
He had shut them out.
He felt his soul question at the great aerial ship that was presented to them, his ancestors would have known vessels such as these, they would had manned them and loved them, they would have been nimble on their decks and deft in the rigging. But to Septimus the warship held no greater meaning; it was foreign to him, a child of the sea. All of his greatest joys had taken place upon the ocean, friendship, adventure, danger, battle, tranquility and he associated land with misfortune, the times he had starved in prison, the death of his family, the price on his head.
His life story flickered through his mind, like flashes in the dark.
They did not know. They could not know. Even the Prince, who had offered him some protection in exchange for his cooperation, did not fully understand what he had done. They could not understand his desperation to repay the world for what he had done. Even death seemed welcome for one so wracked with guilt. But his allies…would be curious. He smiled faintly, almost imperceptibly. Yes, they would be curious. One cannot listen to part of a story without wondering about the whole.
It should not exist at all, he thought fiercely.
His musing was cut short as Dalyndra`s hand went to her sword. He read her body language instantly and drew his cutlass as well rapidly. He watched the curtain, tensed to spring. A voice rang out in a lilting tongue he did not understand, though he understood it to be Elven. As the Elven prince and his men stepped gracefully into the open. He had seen Elves before, and understood Wood Elven fluently, but knew only the poor hardened chaps that made him his crew and those of his enemies. The pure elves among his men had been torn from their homeland as children, and they were lean, efficient sailors albeit reluctant killers favoured as minions for their agility and skill in battle.
Septimus hazarded a glance at Dalyndra. She seemed respectful. He lowered his weapon suspiciously, and sheathed it, but the lines of his body remained tense. His eyes tracked the Prince’s movements, immediately understanding him to be the leader without any introduction, his body language and dress spoke for him. He shifted uncomfortably as the Prince moved forward to Zara. She seemed unalarmed. Slowly, he allowed himself to relax and averted his eyes as the others were given their gifts.
He expected nothing and did not look up until the Prince moved to stand before him. He glanced at him, vaguely surprised. He had forgotten what it was like to be regarded without fear. His expression softened slightly at the Prince’s words, and his wariness faded away. He nodded once, retaining eye contact. As the mithril chain mail shirt was brought out, he studied it wordlessly with his treasure hunter’s eyes. He knew its value and its degree of protection, and he bowed his head, silent and accepted it. When the elves departed, he slipped it over his head and it shone against his chest and black attire like a sea of shimmering stars.
Curt as always, even after that miraculous appearance he looked to his companions.
“When do we leave”, he inquired reluctantly.
Posted on 2007-10-17 at 17:05:37.
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: The Noble Savage
“On loan from the Elves”, Septimus murmured. “That must have cost you a pretty penny. It is no coincidence that most men of the sea have Elven blood in them.” He smiled faintly and inclined his head towards the druid. “Including me”. He glanced again to the globe.
“They are infamous for their craftiness.”
He watched him silently and when the mithral object was passed around, he turned it over in his hand without a sound and passed it on, seemly without much interest. But when the tiny ship was passed around, it stayed in Septimus`s hand longer then any one’s. His baleful emerald eyes studied it scrupulously. The masts were angled differently, he recognized instantly, placed on the side and beneath the hull. It was not designed like his own beloved Acheron, for use on the ocean.
“An aerial ship”, he whispered in awe. “I heard of them only from myth…my father told me of them…when I was just a boy”. His voice was faint and low, never had he sounded so respectful.“These…no longer exist in contemporary society; this is an ancient object indeed”.
At the Prince’s question, Septimus stood and bowed his head before him, a completely unpredictable move for the arrogant rogue. The beast was apparently tamed. Like the ignorant Native, he had been cowed by the power of technology. If he had no motive behind it.
This was of course, highly unlikely.
“Milord”, he muttered quietly. Without speaking, he took off his left glove, revealing the red, raw brand of the seven upon his left hand. He showed it to his companions and smiled grimly. “I am Captain Septimus Sandalwood. I am a Wanted man, and I have 1,000,000 guineas on my head in every port. Danger has no meaning to me. If I die doing something noble, that act will be worth more then my entire life”.
“I stand with you”. He gestured around the room.
“With all of you”.
“To the death”.
Posted on 2007-10-16 at 22:16:07.
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: The Oppourtunist
Septimus leaned back in his chair, distancing himself from the scene.
Boredom kept him from looking particularly interested, but a look of sharp curiosity sublimely shifted his expression. He remembered seeing things of existent beauty before, but none quite like this. He leaned forward slightly, drunk with colour and shape, hypnotized by the rich greens, and blues, and browns, red tints, and yellow tints, pink worlds and white worlds. Despite its beauty, his stunned mind struggled to make an analytical comparison. As a seasoned treasure hunter, Septimus knew that that globe had a net worth value on the black market of 1,000,000 guineas, perhaps more. It surprised him that the prince had the audacity to travel with it. That amount of money could purchase a good deal of women and drink. Anyone would find reason to steal it.
Except that it was flawed.
As the stunned silence wore off, he noted instantly that a major body of water was missing. The Sea of Annihilation was no where to be found. He scoffed lightly. Obviously it was not entirely accurate. No matter how beautiful, few people would find interest in an inaccurate globe. It would sell well in market, but purely as a curiosity.
Nothing more.
As the globe was passed around, Septimus took it, handling it in a surprisingly gentle manner. The colors contrasted sharply against his black leather gloves. It was an artifact of the Before Times. The Time Before Time, the Life Before Life. It was a strange world, totally foreign to him.
He was the person holding it when the Prince spoke, and with a moment’s hesitation, he glanced towards the others. In a movement of unusual recklessness, he took off the glove on his left hand, revealing the red, viciously raw brand of a seven that was seared into his skin so many years ago.
He held the globe carefully and touched it lightly with his index finger. The ridges of mountains began apparent, and he felt the ages of stone, the ravines and gullies. The minute treetops elicited a faint smell of new grass, and moss, and dampness, and the strain of elvish blood in Septimus was reawakened. The chilly scent of snow, its coldness, the monotonous plains with their scent of fire, the dry, nearly lifeless heat of deserts.
As his finger brushed the ocean, the scent of the sea, heady and wild filled the room, and in spite of himself, Septimus smiled slightly. Recovering, he quickly replaced the glove on his left hand, again covering the brand and his true identity.
“You have a very expensive object there...and it is a curiosity”, Septimus remarked softly, without bothering to look at the Prince.
He was captivated by the object he held in his hands.
"But”, he shrugged.
“What is its use?”
Posted on 2007-10-15 at 00:24:00.
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Topic: Rylanor -- The Building of an Empire
Subject: The Feral Watchman
He cocked an eye towards Zara.
Edgy, he glanced first at the prince and then again at Zara. He owed her his life and he made him uncomfortable. He watched her silently, as if contemplating her movements. His motions were jerky, like a bird’s as he took the plate from her, staring uneasily at the bounty of food. He tensed momentarily as if fearful that it would be taken away and then, finally placated, he began to eat delicately.
He glanced up sharply as the new man entered, slightly disturbed. His golden-emerald eyes seared into him as he gauged his strengths and weaknesses. A tense smile was afforded to Zara, but his attention was quickly brought back to the new man.
“Captain Septimus Sandalwood”, he said curtly to him, refusing to mince words.
He rose swiftly to his feet, his movements causing his dark cloak to swirl about his lean form. His feral eyes were bright and curious, and he stretched out a wary hand for him to shake.
He studied him with attentive animal watchfulness.
“You might say I’m an entrepreneur of sorts”, he murmured with his usual dry humour. “Though I daresay most businessmen are not fond of me”. He smiled thinly. “I am rather notorious, you see, and it does put a damper on my place in society”. He was still clearly shaken, but he mastered himself well, showing no signs of his earlier breakdown.
Again he seated himself and laced his hands before him.
Posted on 2007-10-10 at 20:16:25.
Edited on 2007-10-10 at 20:19:18 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: The Darkened Path
Subject: The Drowning
He was a titan.
They always thought of the world as sliding off Septimus, like water off a duck’s back. Its cruelty never seemed to stick, never seem to ruffle his feathers, at least not for long. Sometimes – rarely – he would twitch at some particularly acerbic remark, hunching his shoulders, but the moment would pass.
At least until the next time humanity rained on his parade.
He came to think of it as being as inevitable as the weather; People would be always sunny, always bright and cheerful like the days that never change. And him? He was something else, like the weather across the ocean maybe. Idyllic upon the surface but truly all thunderstorms and moods, attempting to wash all away before him, failing miserably. The world was immutable, unchanging. At his darkest, most hateful days he thought of it solely as the desert.
Nothing but emptiness for miles.
It was unfair, he knew that. He had always known that. Even in the desert there are things below the surface. There were things below the surface in him too, but he had yet to dig for it. It was enough to know that even when he raged, even when his tongue lashed out and he spilled forth venom at the easiest target, the world would be there to take it. Words would have to sink into him like water into the desert and disappear beneath the surface without a trace. Like it was with himself.
He had forgotten, however, just how destructive storms could be. He had to deal with the victims of one once, and the ocean surrounded them, dwarfed them, tossed them in her loveless arms. She carried them for miles and left them broken like dolls upon some distant shore. He had forgotten the power of water. Given enough time even the smallest trickle could carve through rock, leaving gullies and crevasses that could run miles deep. The same thunderstorms that washed his first loves away could wash away topsoil, scouring the surface clear to expose what’s underneath. The cruelty that slid off his back a hundred times before could do the same.
On that enormous mass of blackness there was not a gleam to be seen, not a sound to be heard. It was gliding irresistibly towards them and yet seemed already within reach of the hand. His keen gaze searched the abysmal blackness for the darkness that he sensed still lurked. Lifting his head and arching his neck back he observed the Moon hanging in the sky, bright, like orb of marble in the night sky, darkness all around it, its light beating back the ebony cloak. The Moon's glow cast its light on his broken form, glowing with the brilliance of the Moon, his alabaster skin, smooth and unmarred in the light. Coral lips, deep and full, curved in a slight smile as he gazed upon Luna, sensing beauty even within deepest darkness. Night had fallen, wrapping all creatures in its deep folds, embracing the world with inky arms, banishing the strange forbidding.
The darkness dispersed.
Faint orbs of light guided him as his hand curved gently about the knob of the door. His heart beat fiercely in the gloom, pushing back the chill that hung like the touch of death. So deep was the chill that vapor was exhaled with each laboured breath. The bleeding had long ceased, but pain, dulled and insistent, tormented him. His ragged jerkin, blood-stained and pitiful was abruptly covered from sight as his fumbling hands closed the dark cloak about his shoulders. His thin countenance was shrouded in the hood, watchful and forbidding. His eyes closed as he listened to the joviality of the tavern.
He opened the door.
The bard cut off in song. The quiet and sluggish mumblings of drunkards tapered into silence. Suspicious eyes turned towards him as silence enveloped him and suffocated him. He cast his despairing eyes around at the silent, rugged faces, and saw not one. 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. Although it was another day of destruction, he almost needed longer beneath his listless dreams. For whilst others escaped into the realms of dream and imagination, he seized the opportunity to refocus his reality and redraft his life plan. It came to him so clearly, as obvious as a cliché. Deep down he only really craved one thing. The happiness so prematurely snatched from him.
They would all have to realize that they were no longer the children with their fingers in the dam, trying to hold back the flood. The dams had burst and everything had been washed away, but it was not them who were drowning.
Posted on 2007-09-27 at 19:07:37.
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Topic: The Darkened Path
Subject: The Fallen Angel
His losses were many.
He felt hollowness at the sullen solitude of those around him. His bright eyes swept over his surroundings nervously. He might have been insane, but he was no fool. Suspicion caused him watch Zara`s sister with chilling contemplation. There was little trust in his eyes, and no facial expressions broke his aura of complete and utter withdrawal.
He flinched slightly as Dalyndra offered her hand, almost as if he expected to be struck for his misdeeds. Such gestures meant only intended harm, he had never been offered kindness. Her words seemed empty to him and another half-interested glance was the only indication that he understood. Physically, he was still weak, but his wounds had been healed previously. He could rise, and battle if needed, but a dark cloud of self-doubt shrouded his fighting spirit and made him shrink from the sight of light.
“Talents”, he whispered almost mockingly, his voice carrying the edge of a snarl. He shook his dark hair from his eyes. “And what talents, do you think I possess?” For the fiftieth time he contemplated his place in this quest and felt his heart darken. His thoughts were flavoured with bitterness. He could lie, he could cheat, he could steal effortlessly, and he could kill.
He had done so many times.
“I am geared towards the darker side of the spectrum”, he explained coldly. “And I assure you that I am the last person you should trust”. A faint little smile touched his lips. “A warning…Miss Dalyndra”.
“Heed it”.
Anger and a terrible trapped energy coursed through his body, but his expression failed to change. He smiled up at her, but his smile held little humour. “I am not nor will I ever be afraid”, he murmured simply and grasped her hand. With her help he stood unsteadily for a moment and then regained his balance. “I will meet you at the tavern”, he muttered. A curt nod to her expressed his thanks. His eyes darted to her as he processed the words meant only for him. Something darkened in his gaze and he nodded again briefly.
Without another word he raised the hood on his battered cloak to shield himself from the rain, amplifying his mysterious aura. A quick snap of his fingers brought his ebony stallion reluctantly from the shelter of the barn. Grasping the coarse mane, he swung into the saddle in a single motion as his steed pranced restlessly beneath him. He glanced over his surroundings, from the snarling canid and his stolid mistress, to the young and naïve adolescent who aided him, to the strong and independent woman who had promised him her support. “A word of advice”, he addressed them softly, his voice carrying through the rain. “We may be on the same team”, he whispered, his attention shifting to Selene.
“But I am no one’s team-mate”.
And with that, he faded into the darkness.
Posted on 2007-09-22 at 03:48:12.
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Topic: The Darkened Path
Subject: The Inhumanity of Man
So this was it then. He had never thought of his own death. Life and death were equally far from him. The veils and threads of darkness enveloped him, caressed him, bringing him to realisation. Thereafter, in the end, the sturdy flesh of Men proves frail, fated for failure. His heart mourned only that forevermore would he be rejected by his People, so that when the shadows fall, and all that is left is dreaming, he would stand on the shore, watching the gulls laugh in the bright silvery splendour against a honey-coloured sky. The tapered prows would pass him as all that he knew would depart into thread and shadow, turning the world into silver glass as they tracked that swan-path of old even unto the shadows path.
The distant shore waited for him to come home.
This was his world, both alien and familiar, solitude and solidarity, terribly beautiful and agonizingly comforting.
By sickness or by sword, or blaze of flames or unyielding waves, age or battle, Men will die. Destiny kept him from the rushing sea, from the torrid waves, where his broken heart sang over the waters. He would remain to wander the forests, the ancient guardians, the empty, heartless woods where all was a grove of ash and silence breathed over the heart-song of the harp, where the oceans swelled. Darkness and shadows inducted him with their somber waves. His limp, motionless body shone with a faint silver light as the healing took place. The lacerations drew forth and became whole and when the light departed from his body, he lay before her, soaked, emaciated, and pitiful, but unwounded. As the warm teardrops trickled upon his visage, mingling with the cool raindrops, his beautiful golden-emerald eyes opened and met hers.
Sounds hesitating and vague floated in the air round him, shaped themselves slowly into words; and at last flowed on gently in a murmuring stream of soft and monotonous sentences. He was beyond hearing the faint sound of his ally’s voice but the sense of magick, heated and anticipating stirred him. His eyelids flickered, seeing only faint eddies of emerald and swaths of shadow. A shimmer, perhaps an unseen outline of a humanoid slowly reveled itself. This was benevolent magick that crackled and hissed about her, and though there was great power emanating from the tall slender form, he sensed no malice in the cool pale eyes, the tear streaked visage.
There, bloodied, exhausted he watched her without comprehending, his star-bright eyes weary and heartsick. His hand involuntarily slid up to his throat where he felt the smooth curve of the yarn necklace. He exhaled a breath of relief. That battered necklace was his only friend, a light in the darkness, and he stirred, moving his limbs sluggishly, savouring each beat of his own heart, each breath from his world-weary lungs. Ready for death and yet unsure. The one doomed for death, marked for slaughter stood upon the brink of the world. Never would he sought to hide in the fens, his spirit could depart while he still battled, while blood still flowed and his lungs still breathed, and his soul sang over the torrid waters.
May it be an evening star
Shines down upon you
His eyes…were an animal’s eyes...not quite human... not quite sane, almost vulpine in intelligence but beautiful in a tortured type of beauty. Those tears fell, those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin. It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate and provoke study, and when you follow the lame uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide - plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard of contradictions. He covered his face with his hands; and many a time afterwards, in the course of his life, shuddered at seeing how much inhumanity there is in man, how much savage coarseness is concealed beneath delicate, refined worldliness, and even, O God! In those men whom the world acknowledges as honourable and noble.
With an alacrity that was unknown of, the previously unconscious man leapt forward, teeth bared in fury, and grabbed her by the throat. His grip was restricting but not deadly. “Why did you do it?” he hissed viciously, his tone glacial. His hunted, feral eyes searched her visage. His heart pounded, his head swam.“Why did you save me?” Staring wordlessly into her eyes, the beating of his heart slowed, until it became like ice within his breast. He felt unwanted acceptance flood him as another wave of shadow sent him reeling. He released her as his own weakness caused him to recline back on his elbow, coughing violently.
His eyes were half-closed, his skin deathly pallid, his body shaking with rage and sickness.
“You should have left me”, he snarled hoarsely to her. His eyes were closed now; their lids stained the delicate purplish colour of vital exhaustion. He felt detached, unfeeling as the soft contours of unconsciousness blurred his sharp focus, erasing all that he knew. “Don’t you understand”, he whispered faintly. “You should have let me die…”.His thin hand tightened upon the hilt of his cutlass with a frantic affection, as if resting a hand upon the shoulder of an old friend. The weapon had become his sole compatriot, his only reliance, its use and its support bound to the rogue by each pound of the smith’s hammer, a friendship forged by flame and tempered in blood.
“I don’t want to live any more, damn it”, he hissed maliciously. “And in your act of mercy you have done more evil to me then anyone ever could”. His feral eyes welled with tears and with the same vicious speed; he kissed her sharply and passionately on the mouth. Drawing away just as rapidly, a faint smile touched his lips even as he suffered the onslaught of the rain that pelted them both. His eyes glittered with tears.
“And I will never forgive you”.
Posted on 2007-09-18 at 22:14:43.
Edited on 2007-09-19 at 19:56:08 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: The Darkened Path
Subject: Dreamland.
A single dark figure under a waning moon.
Though his eyes were blurred mercifully by tears, his hearing and reflexes were as honed as ever. Though they were soft, hardly auditable, the slight sounds of footsteps stood out harshly from the indifference of the night. A glimmer of light was seen out of the corner of his eye. He acted without thought. In the time it had taken the adolescent Zara to announce her presence he had leapt to his feet, and moving in a single, fluid motion drew his cutlass. The steel glimmered wickedly, outlined by darkness so that it glinted like a malicious smile. His own eyes, wild-looking and glacial bored into her with a hypnotising intensity.
They were not the eyes of a sane man.
Of course, it is a widely known point of etiquette that it is never a good idea to approach someone suddenly, and with Septimus that rule could not be stressed enough. He was not a wicked man, but his instincts were often stronger then thoughts in time of threat, and it was no more a good idea to approach him in his grief then it was to assault a sleeping leopard. The single thing that had saved the girl’s life had been her split second warning, and he glanced casually at it now, a perfect circle of light that hovered nonchalantly over her shoulder like a lethargic will o the wisp. His eyes fell to her hand and its contents and at her words, the madness in his eyes quelled and just as quickly, he sheathed his weapon.
She moved closer and he shied away from her, unused to the close proximity. His movements were slightly clumsier then they had been in the summer home and his body posture spoke of defeat. The Prince’s agreement, his life for his cooperation in the project, did not entirely keep him from harm. Beneath the loose flowing fencing shirt deep cuts and scratches marked his torso from the desperate escape he recently had had to execute to attend the meeting, some actively bleeding, crossing over healed bullet scars and sculpted sword-slashes, dancing over stacked pronounced ribs.
His wasted body told a story of desperation.
At her inquiry he watched her wordlessly through half-frightened eyes as the rain kept pouring mercilessly, plastering his tangled dark hair to his brow. She spoke hurriedly, but he listened and in an odd moment of courtesy took the handkerchief from her hand. More to put her mind at ease he scrubbed roughly at the drying maroon marks and when his face was free of the sinister markings, his eyes shot up to her, as if for approval, their expression softening only when she spoke again.
Silently he watched as the rain rushed down on the small square of cloth. He watched the pinkish water that resulted drip and swirl upon the cobblestones like geometric rose petals. Feeling eyes on him again he glanced up to her sharply, and in the faint light from the moon he was terribly thin, his facial bones standing against the skin like chips of granite. No creature should be able to look like that and remain alive. It was a face of a man who had suffered terrible hardships, a man that had lived in hard times and were certain they were not about to get any better.
His hand fell listlessly from the childishly woven necklace and tears formed again in his eyes, hidden mercifully from the relentless rain. Darkness and shadows caressed the edges of his mind. He looked into her eyes, and a deep sadness was there, obvious and agonised and his hand rose to clutch the necklace again.” Rose”, he whispered hoarsely, once, and like any creature under such intense physical and emotional torture, his eyes slipped closed and he collapsed, his body refusing to tolerate its weakness. His unconscious form hit the cobblestones with a merciless jolt and the yarn necklace broke as consciousness left him. It slipped out of his limp hand, and fell, a single line of crimson in the vapid blackness.
Posted on 2007-09-14 at 20:21:56.
Edited on 2007-09-14 at 20:38:07 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: The Darkened Path
Subject: The Leave Taking.
It had begun to rain.
Selene had elegantly taken her leave and once again, Septimus found himself in a void of perfect and total silence. The great roughly-hewn doors swung open just long enough by the light touch of her hand so that he could see the thin rivulets of silver that cascaded upon the primitive canvas of cobblestones, after being violently torn from their fellows and dashed mercilessly against the ground. A faint whinny wafted up through the deepening rain and the bark of some street mongrel sounded a haunting monotonous sound that only added to the desolate air of the scene.
He had paused in his restless pacing to stare wonderingly at the moon that hovered against a sea of black like some monstrous pearl or malignant growth. There was no beauty in the night for him when the stalking of shadows covered all that he knew and cast him into uncharted waters, desperately struggling to keep his head above the rising waters of uncertain phenomena, a phenomena that was not much helped by the persistent gnawing of a new emotion gnawing away at the surface of his brain.
Guilt.
He had a neurotic twitch at the thought. He had done nothing wrong. He had just…humiliated a perfectly respectable woman in front of her future comrades while in the process of disrespecting royalty and showing extreme disregard for their mission. His brow furrowed as he considered the implications of his actions. Finally he simply shrugged off the strange emotion that was the first symptom of interest, which sometimes led to something very unpleasant indeed. There was, he knew, a well-known but often misunderstood humiliation known as love that normal functioning members of a society enjoyed partaking in as early as possible. The goal of this humiliation was to find a reasonably nice female, create a family, and spend the rest of your life in contentment and bliss, with a pipe in your hand and a well-read book by your side. However, Septimus knew that it often never worked out that way. Love was often a messy and ultimately dangerous affair, and he considered it wiser to avoid it whenever possible.
He felt quite indifferent, he restated to himself firmly, and offered a horrible parody of a smile to show just how indifferent he was. Silently, and with a final baleful glare in the direction of the prince, he padded noiselessly to the ajar door like some great forbidding panther. He gazed over his shoulder for a moment, lingering as if uncertain. Then, without a second glance, he raised the deep hood over his head and was gone.
For a long time he stood, head bowed, listening to the rain.
The wordless melodies whispered.
It is said that when one surrenders one’s heart to the ocean, it cannot be reclaimed.
That those who dwell in darkness must shy from the sun.
Septimus felt curiously affected, he could not tell why. There was something in the night's delicate loveliness that seemed to him inexpressibly pathetic, and he thought of all the days that break in beauty, and that set in storm. Through the eyes of a stranger he gazed upon the skeletal buildings that rose unsteadily, seemly right from the earth like misshapen mushrooms, or the fallen and blasphemed frames of dismembered dragons. He gazed at the guideless horizon, his cartographer and lover, where the slightest tinge of grey was beginning to tease the edge of the firmament.
Bleakness.
He moved soundlessly towards shelter, feeling strangely vulnerable as he shook his head to dispel the rainwater once he had entered the safe confines of the barn. He approached the stallion that nonchalantly tossed his mane and beheld his master with an uninterested eye. Septimus`s hand found the sloping warmth of the animal’s shoulder. His coat was matted and riddled with burrs, and the thin composition and appearance of the animal eerily echoed the aura of his master. Gently, the rogue picked the rough plant-life from the stallion’s pelt and saddled him for the journey. Unexplained tears fell, dotting the smooth blackness.
The threat of death.
These warriors, too, with their rough, good-humoured voices, and their nonchalant ways, what a strange world they must have seen! Confident, all of them, fearless of what lay ahead. A world free from the sin of night and the smoke of day, a pallid, ghost-like planet, a desolate town of tombs! He wondered what they thought of it, and whether they knew anything of its splendour and its shame, of its fierce, fiery-coloured joys, and its horrible hunger, of all it makes and mars from morn to eve. He wondered if they recalled the sufferings, if they bore it as well, as he did, in his own darkened heart.
His entire body began trembling and he bit down on his own gloved hand to keep from crying out. The pain was excruciating but it fought back the tears that constantly threatened to flood their boundaries. He fled the warmth of the barn into the pouring rain where his sorrow could not be detected. He stumbled in his haste and fell to his knees. He could hear his own scabrous mind, his thoughts dark and instinctual and insane with grief. He thought only of blood and pain and cruising in blind darkness. He shuddered and covered his face with his hands, tears streaming down his visage. The thought of loneliness, the rugose, alien crawl of his dreams and nightmares was maddening, not to be borne.
He was alone.
Rain and tears mingled as they trickled down his cheeks as his hands groped blindly in the darkest for that one saving grace, the childishly woven necklace that was balm for his spirit, warm with insanity.
The world was nothing.
The world was dying, strangled by its ardor.
He wept for it.
Rain.
Insubstantial smoke.
Nothing more then that, rising from the ashes.
Posted on 2007-09-13 at 21:25:16.
Edited on 2007-09-13 at 21:28:14 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: The Darkened Path
Subject: The Blackened Path that You Tread
Baleful eyes flickered uneasily from face to face, his body held tense, with an air of aggression. The confrontation unsettled him deeply and a flush of high colour touched the normally alabaster canvas of his cheeks. It was when he transferred his energy from brooding to edgy and suspicious that he was considered most dangerous. Septimus was already well known to be notoriously moody, and many men had not had the opportunity to be surprised or awed at the deadly mood swings and even more lethal reflexes that had categorized him as one of the most unpredictable Sea Reavers ever to be seen on land or sea.
His gloved hand had transferred to the hilt of his weapon without thought, only to relax instantly.
It was because of this unpredictability that songs were sung of him by bards, who antagonized him against a favoured hero of old, and rumours of him were transferred from port city to city. It was because of this fearful unfathomness, viewed with the kind of fascination that is often given to disasters of nature that mothers told horror stories of him to their wide eyed youngsters, and when ill-tempered children fought with their siblings or argued with their parents, it was his name the adults evoked as a warning. He was emulated by children, feared by men, and desired by women. He was a legend of his own time.
He was absolutely miserable.
He seemed restless within his own skin, and uncomfortable with the fact that he was taking the time to speak with a person of the female persuasion. Females were not allowed on the ship Septimus commanded, and the few smuggled on board had been killed instantly. The goddess of the sea was fickle and jealous, and the competition of another female was not to be tolerated. Rather then tempt fate; the few females that had managed to avoid his watchful eye had been slaughtered quickly and efficiently by his crew. There was no room for disaster aboard the Acheron, and there was little to no tolerance for blasphemy. The only other experiences he had had with women had been the relatively impersonal sessions in taverns and inns, for Septimus had loved once, and vowed never to love another.
A less cautious woman could have conceivably been attracted to him, and this incident had happened on several occasions, when a bar maid or travelers became taken with his youth. His waifish figure, sad eyes, dark curls, and way with children endeared him to certain women. It was true; there were times when he appeared more the part of a poor little orphan boy then a wanted criminal, which had served him to advantage time and time again.
Like many criminals, he had a renowned place in the hierarchy of the underworld. But unlike most criminals, he was extremely intelligent, and this was probably the main reason he was still alive. Among his own crew he naturally assumed the position of leader, and ruled his men with an iron rod. Because of his particular talents, he often did most of the intellectual work, and while he did not have an entirely unearned reputation for doom and destruction, he carried out violence reluctantly. While atypical for a pirate, he had an unknown side that was oddly altruistic, and saving another person at the risk of his own safety was not an unknown occurrence, particularly if that person was a child. In battle he was reserved, killing when necessary with a mixture of deadly, complicated moves that put to use his considerable agility. It was noted that the destruction of the Golden Falcon, the previous flagship of one Glenn Fenris, marked the beginning of Septimus`s distain for violence.
Many legends had been told of that day, when the noble frigate was torn asunder by the flagship Sea Wolf. A hundred men strong had set out that day on a path for plunder. Eight men returned, Septimus among them. It was a cold day, a red day, a day when sharks swarmed and the seas turned crimson. When the rogue was checked into an inn in Corelan, carried upon the shoulders of an injured sailor, he was barely conscious. Eyewitnesses had reported that the youth had been shot twice, the bullets narrowly missing his heart.
Involuntarily Septimus felt his hand brush over the left side of his chest. Two half-healed scars marked the smooth skin below his flimsy fencing shirt. He closed his eyes for a moment and recalled.
Withdrawn, he had leaned against the doorframe of their tiny cottage, watching his daughter play with her mother while his infant son Luka slept peacefully in a makeshift crib. He marveled at the likeness between them. His daughter Rose had been slim like her mother, and beautiful, with pale skin, rosy cheeks and lips, and shining blonde hair. But her eyes had been Septimus`s own, exactly like his had been before the tragedy, a golden-emerald that was strangely feral, alive and laughing. He had called her to him and held her to his breast. A tear had fallen and marked her faded cobalt dress. The girl looked up at her father and smiled into his face, and watched with wonder his wild eyes. “Why are you crying, Daddy?” she asked in her child’s treble. He could only close his eyes as she lowered her soft golden head against his dark, snarled one.
“You must promise never to leave me”, he whispered hoarsely.
“I promise”, she whispered back, pressing the necklace into his palm.
He found her body on a cold Monday morning, just when the mists parted and the rooster crowed and he staggered home, distorted visions through a haze of tears plaguing him. Tormented by physical agony and worry he threw open the door of the cottage and stared into the darkness. His world was darkness. There could be no more light.
Mother and daughter and infant son.
He covered his face with his hands and wept.
That had been three years ago.
Three years since he had adopted the sea as his mistress, the murderous, bloodthirsty wench who sailors adore. She abused him for three years, offering him happiness, but snatching it away in her cruel, guileless hands. She tormented him with loneliness and drove him close to the brink of insanity. But like an innocent child returning to its abusive parent, Septimus always returned to her as she poisoned his mind slowly and deftly, he loved her and his corroded heart was hers. For he did love her. More then he loved life itself.
The words of Selene seemed insubstantial to him, and though he met her gaze, he did not see her. A bitter laugh threatened to burst free of its tentative boundaries. “You know me”, he whispered roughly to her. “You know me and yet you are not frightened?” His tone was more curious then challenging as he fixed her with an apprehensive eye. His voice was barely auditable as he continued. “I walk among them only because they do not know of me”, he murmured. His mouth twitched into a semblance of a smile.
“It shall be our little secret, yes?”
Raising his voice so that the others could hear, he hazarded a reply. “I am flattered”, he said finally. “You are a lovely woman and I am sure that many men so invited would jump at the chance”. His voice registered amusement, like silver threaded through velvet.
“However, I am cursed with a rather cynical and analytical mind”. He winked towards Zara as if to show support for her cause before devoting his attention once again to the royal Ivae. “I fail to see how the evaluation of a sole member of the group would prove to be beneficial”. His eyes never left Selene`s. “I accept, provided that the other, more involved members of our little, ahem, congregation, may join me”.
“Also, there is no need to speak so formally”, he added quietly. “I am not, nor will I ever be worthy of that title”.
Although his voice betrayed little emotion, his haunting and haunted eyes betrayed the reverberating sadness that would continue to torment him throughout his life.
“I am Septimus”, he said softly.
“Nothing more”.
Posted on 2007-09-10 at 22:24:44.
Edited on 2007-09-10 at 22:50:56 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: The Darkened Path
Subject: A Controversial Gentleman
A faint smirk touched his lips as he carelessly brushed back his tangled hair. He was youth personified, wild and reckless as a young stallion, and distinctly set apart from the other males in the congregation. He sauntered over to the nearest seat available, his limbs shifting with elegant, untaught grace and surveyed his surroundings with appreciation.
His were eyes that could read a bent twig or severed blade of grass, and tell a starling from a sparrow at a hundred paces off. Nothing escaped the emerald scanning as his compelling gaze swept rapidly over each visage. The gears of his mind were already beginning to shift and record vital information.
As the green- golden eyes of the renegade fell upon the fair features of the Ivae women, the hard and predatory glint softened ever so slightly and the set of his shoulders relaxed. The slight curve of his lip heightened into what could safely be called a smile, and he settled back into his chair with an appalling affectation of nonchalance, satisfied with the evaluation.
Each of the travelers seemed to be dressed in finery and the dark, bloodstained apparel of the rogue set him in deep contrast. Dried blood was smeared across his left cheek, as if he had just came from a particularly perilous situation, and the piteous thinness of the man could be evaluated.
He looked half-starved, in this better light, and the lines of his face were terribly defined, promoting his already naturally refined features.
He looked dangerous, and the glacial expression in those beautiful eyes momentarily covered up the destructive and aching sadness that dwelt below the surface, like a monster from the deep.
But most of all he looked terribly young, and terribly lost, and the seal of weariness could be seen in the light etchings of stress upon his brow and the clear mark of suffering within his eyes.
He listened to the words of the prince listlessly, without expressing any emotion about whether he considered the mission a valid idea or not. As the introductions of the others tapered off into babble he finally lifted his head, unhappy to be thrust into the spotlight. “Oh brilliant, I have to talk about myself now, don’t I?” he muttered to no one in particular. After glancing about uncomfortably for a few moments, at long last he forced himself to make eye contact and proceeded to speak.
“ I am Captain Septimus Sandalwood”, he informed them softly.“I am not classically trained in the art of offering myself up for the benefit of mankind, but I am sure that you can all find something useful for me to do”. He inclined his head faintly in the prince’s direction.
“You seem to have a talent in that particular field, do you not?”
A few of the omnipresent servants shifted uncomfortably.
Septimus`s gaze shifted.
They knew what he was.
The silence was broken by the melodious speech of one of the female elves, the one with the faintly royal aura. With a final malevolent glance in the direction of the prince, Septimus reluctantly turned his attention to her.
When Selene was finished speaking, he nodded curtly, the faintest smile touching his lips, invisible to the casual observer. It took all his self-control to keep from grinning like a fool. His main means of transportation was legendary, and even though he remained self-contained, his heart swelled with pride to think of the Acheron with her crimson sails blazing in the sun. “I do”, he replied indifferently then, and rapidly changed the subject.
“You are very kind”, he replied quietly, his eyes holding a light twinkle of amusement, “and I thank you for the thought of your help.”
He averted his gaze momentarily.
“However, it will not be entirely necessary…”
He shrugged his slender shoulders.
“I know what I am getting myself into”.
His eyes delved into hers.
“The question is, do you?”
Posted on 2007-09-09 at 01:05:08.
Edited on 2007-09-09 at 18:42:13 by Septimus Sandalwood
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Topic: The Darkened Path
Subject: An Enigmatic Criminal
Captain Septimus Sandalwood
Child of exile…
What words have been unspoken then, of mist and moorland. The outstretch of life that burdened and clothed all corners of this world, with limbs and leaves, silence and strangeness, the cloaking of a wordless land. What ancient and alien words have drifted beneath the rush of the waters, breathless, broken in mystery? The kingdoms of Men, leveled, high and vaulted, awaiting their retribution, for ancient tidings were brought by word of wind, over the dell, through paths untread by any Mortal man.
From the olden days, those that dwelt in darkness waited, lingering in a distant land of wolven slopes and windy headlands and unpredictable marshes, where a mountain stream chuckled and departed through dank mists between the crevasses of stone into the underdark flood and ancient trees hung through the ages, woods held by running water. Tidings of distress, long in torment, friends of shadow who listened as the world lay dreaming, dreams of gold, dreams of conquest. For the arrogance of Men will never falter.
Auth tôl.
War is coming.
Boe an edraith athi.
Save them.
In the land where the darkness permeates, someone was listening to the song of the harp.
The shadows flickered carelessly over the sallow visage of the moon, like serpentine fears; one by one they penetrated the vast canopy. Over the aged they danced, for winter had thrown a shining spear, the aspens were sheeted specters. An interminable world of rebellious, insurgent vegetation. A realm where the canopy rioted and the gnarled oaks were lords. Silence reigned.
From a grey country, the shadows dwelled in darkness, and all ways were drenched from the lack of light. A whisper sounded, hardly auditable. Whispers of a source unknown. Whispers of a nameless fear. Spangled silver cascaded over the broad ebonite shoulders of the stallion as he tossed his chiseled head, shod hooves beating a lively tattoo against the rich dark earth. Sardonic whinny erupted from the beast’s great throat, silken mane obscuring the sight from the searching onyx eyes. The wind cooed supposed wisdoms, caressing the tangled dark locks of the Black Rider as he held to the ornate saddle.
His thin sensitively-drawn face was etched with grief and loss, his body wasted and bloodied, but yet he was fair. His piercing and beautiful golden-emerald eyes were like a forest in sunrise, or tinted jade. But their beauty was tainted, he was tainted, for they were cunning and cold, feral, vulpine eyes that revealed nothing, and despised everything. Eyes that were intelligent and lovely, but agonised and their supposed intelligence meant nothing, as the look of an animal, so seemly attentive means nothing. His mouth was finely sculpted and silent, and a gaunt dangerous beauty coloured his visage, a beauty not so much as lovingly sculpted by the Gods, but rather carelessly scrawled by a Demon.
He was as a carved stone, and his features were sharp and prominent, with a smooth brow, a noble, narrow nose and high arrogant cheekbones. A hard man, immutable, unchanging. Unaccustomed to the saddle, he rode with a quiet dignity, his ebonite cloak whipping about him, features shrouded by the deep hood.
Through the shimmer of darkness the lights of civilisation glimmered like indolent dragon eyes, malignant spirits or daemons bent on leading adventures to peril. Grass and soil became unyielding stone, solitude became companionship. Skeletons of long forgotten establishments replaced the ashen specters of his travel. Sterling silver was cast from the heavens, light rain that flew over his pallid visage and stemmed blood flow.
The wind sighed. The waters laughed. The lithe body shook under the meager cloak, his eyes darkened and focused. Without thinking he clutched at the thin childishly woven necklace that sprawled across his slender throat. Startled, he lowered it and looked morbidly on the hands that had thrown dirt over three tiny coffins. Adventure became desperation. Terror became nothingness for the wanderer who held the moors, the fens and the fastness. The lights of the city were malevolent, preventing rest, preventing closure.
As the relentless hands relaxed from the weathered reins the stallion directed himself, pressing on towards the understated summer home through the pouring rain even though all movement had ceased. Weariness had overcome him and he slowed his frantic pace. Beautiful head dropped, sturdy legs shook with fatigue. A familiar voice, pained and commanding whispered through the darkness as a final jerk of the reins directed the wayward beast as they reached their lavish destination.
Twin boots touched the cobblestones in hushed tones, a slight merry twinkling sounding from the glittering spurs. A gloved hand blended into the onyx pelt of the animal. Feral eyes pierced suspiciously through the darkness as he stalked forward swiftly and silently, the only sound in his wake the whispering of his cloak against the cobblestones.
Quickly he adjusted his baldric, brushing quickly over the seven gleaming buttons that wryly revealed his identity, and clutched the glittering jewel-adorned hilt of the hanger cutlass that spoke so eloquently of the heady days of sea piracy. Lowering the deep, all encompassing hood, he shook free the dark locks that hung in his eyes and with a single sweeping motion, tossed open the simple door. The resulted sound echoed, disrupting and disturbing. A few heads turned in his direction, uncomforable.
He smiled wolfishly.
Effect.
It was what he was best at.
" Your cloak, sir", a servant inquired softly, unsettled by the brooding and rather soaked man in black. Relentless and glacial eyes shifted to regard him as the servant timidly stretched out a hand to touch the rough woven surface of his cloak. With almost unearthly reflexes, the man in black darted his hand forward and caught the servant`s before his fingers could brush the material. The servant glanced up to him in sudden shock.
"Leave it", he whispered quietly. It was not a suggestion.
The corner of his mouth had turned upward in cool amusement.
Serpent.
Silence followed as stunned eyes swerved to meet the emaciated figure wreathed in ebony. Rainwater silvered his dark, snarled hair and marked his thin countenance with the appearance of tears. Like a seeping mist he slid into the interior, cold eyes lighting up with a lean and hungry look as they swept over the congregation gathered. “I’m late, I presume”, he commented coldly, his voice supremely quiet despite his intimidating appearance, with an acrid and unmistakable note of sarcasm.
Posted on 2007-09-07 at 20:50:14.
Edited on 2007-09-08 at 00:27:20 by Septimus Sandalwood
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