Those Aren't Tears (storyline)/Finit (vignette)
Those Aren't Tears - Finit
Originally posted on the official forums by GameMaster Quilic on 12/18/2018 at 8:57 AM
Penre skulked, and did it well. He was hiding in a comfortable shadow with a view of the pawnshop door, his heart in his throat. He'd watched the place for days, trying to get a sense of the situation. There had been no word from Nazhor, but that didn't mean much. At this point, Penre had to be honest with himself. The man had messed with his mind, and Penre didn't trust his own memories any longer. There had been the whole scene with the Drake commander... or at least he thought there had. The only things that he knew, for sure, revolved around this pawnshop. And so he skulked... and watched.
Duvainiel lay on the cold floor, listening to the creak of the cottage above her. Her mind was whirling, fractured images playing across the insides of her eyelids in a nauseating dance of chaos. And every image was painful. Her mother, smiling down at her... with her face split wide open. Her father, holding her close... then morphing slowly into a corpse. And Nazhor.
She'd loved him. Or thought she had. He'd promised her vengeance... and then delivered! She'd shared his bed, and dreamed wondrous dreams by his side. She'd found her place... a shelter from the cold, harsh realities of the world. The memories weren't solid things, but were instead as sand, drifting through her fingers. There was nothing there to hold, to grasp... just fleeting emotions. When she thought about Nazhor now, there was only one thing that was able to be held tight in her fist.
His laughter.
Duvainiel wept, but no tears came. Dry, wracking sobs tore from her throat as she spasmed in grief on the floor of her cell.
Mazorn sat in the corner of his warehouse, his face haggard and sporting a ragged growth of beard. A bottle of rum was clutched in one hand, and a framed portrait in the other. Bottles similar in shape and size to the one in hand littered the floor around him, and his eyes were bright with drunken tears.
The portrait was faded, and its frame was brittle with age. The image depicted an elderly man sporting a serious expression. In the background of the image was the same ship that Mazorn himself sailed to this day. The man himself bore a strong resemblance to Mazorn, though perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Mazorn resembled the man in the image.
"Ah faild, Da-" Mazorn hiccuped. Fresh tears spilled down his cheek as he confessed for the dozenth time. This time was no easier than the rest, and he suddenly flung the portrait away from himself, sending it skittering across the floor. Mazorn tilted his head back and drank deeply of the bottle in his hand, trying to drown the memories, both old and new.
Elspie stood, watching the waves as the sun executed its nightly dance, sliding gracefully beneath the horizon. The interplay of the light on the water had always fascinated her, and even as a young girl, this was her favorite evening ritual. She smiled to herself as she remembered seeing the inside of the cottage for the first time. Bran had known her so well. That massive picture window had been built solely so that she could watch the sunset in comfort, she knew, though he had blustered a protest when she accused him of it.
Bran. Her wonderful Bran. She still couldn't believe he was gone. She wanted so badly for it to be a bad dream that she would awaken from. She was barely past the point of awakening each morning and glancing to the empty mattress beside her, expecting to see his sleeping form. Memories of him dominated her thoughts, and she didn't fight them. There were so many wonderful memories, and she wanted to etch them forever into her mind.
If Elspie had been asked if she was happy with Brannogh, she would readily say that they were happier than any two people had ever been. But if pressed for details, she would have stumbled. It had just... worked. He'd completed her in ways she never knew she was incomplete. He adored her, actively and completely, and she had done her level best to love him just as fiercely. In every moment of every day, Elspie had known what it felt like to be loved like no other. And what it felt like to love someone with all that she was, or ever would be. The loss of that... exchange... was the hardest thing to bear.
She'd cried her tears, and this morning she'd declared that the tears must stop. Bran would not want her to mourn forever, she knew. He had always desired nothing more or less than her happiness, and she would do her best to find what happiness she could in a world without him in it.
Besides, there were preparations to make, she knew. She would travel, and she would prepare. For there would be a price paid for the loss of her Bran. He had told her that it was time to leave the violence in the past, and she had agreed. She had left that life behind, to start a new one based on their mutual adoration for each other. Now that life was shattered into pieces, and all because of Nazhor.
The time of mourning was coming to an end. The people who had rescued her had asked her to fight with them, when Nazhor returned. And fight she would.
The young man sighed. He never liked this duty, but unfortunately when dealing with the Drakes on the Demonwall, it'd become almost routine. Drehod's quarters were almost cleaned out. The only item remaining was a small, ornate box on the utilitarian endtable next to the bunk. The young man opened it, and inside found a small card covered in Drehod's cramped handwriting. He couldn't help but notice the first line, and, after a quick glance to confirm he was alone, he read the rest.
I love you.
I could never say it, and you could never hear it, but it's there all the same. I love you, Elspie. You are the highlight of my life, and just your presence has gotten me through the hell that is the service we shared. Your bravery inspires me, your power frightens me, and your spirit lifts mine to the heavens above.
Yet you are not mine, and never will be. I accept this, and keep this love locked in the prettiest box I could find. I will love you from afar, all the days of my life, and be grateful to have shared the smallest portion of your life for as long as I may.
The young man turned the card over in his hand, his face worried. He then glanced to the fire crackling in the hearth... and tossed both card and box in. He watched as they burned, the flames lighting the solitary tear on his cheek.
Ilsola sighed as she jammed her quill down into the inkpot and pushed her chair back from the desk. She eyed the stack of correspondence for a long moment, then slumped against the back of the chair, her head falling backwards until she was staring at the ceiling. She took a deep breath, then another, feeling the weight of her 'office' like never before.
It wasn't meant to be this way. Things like this didn't happen in Mist Harbor. Except that they had happened... and it was her job to handle it.
"I'm not cut out for this," she whispered to the ceiling. She closed her eyes against the hot tears that had crept into them and just breathed for a few minutes, listening to the quiet and letting her mind drift. It'd been so long since she'd gotten anything resembling a decent night's sleep.
Ilsola was scared. She was no fighter. She didn't have an army she could call upon. She had a smattering of guards, but Nazhor had proven his ability to affect their minds time and again. Ilsola couldn't entrust the lives of those who came to Mist Harbor to the guards, she knew. She clenched her jaw in frustration, remembering the impotent fury she'd felt as Nazhor played them all for fools. As he'd undermined the resources she'd been able to call on... from Drehod to her guards to Cendadric... there wasn't anyone she could rely on to help stand against the man.
Then her mind turned to the adventurers who'd come, and who'd helped. Their faces, their words, and most particularly their actions. A smile crept across her face. Perhaps there was an army, of sorts, after all.
Nazhor gazed into the night sky, his hood thrown back... not that anyone could see. His strange eyes were unfocused, and his pervasive grin was muted this night.
He whispered to the stars, "Those aren't tears, my friends. Those are but the briefest harbinger of the sorrows to come. Then we shall all see what tears truly are."
OOC Portion:
Thus ends this chapter of the story, but only this chapter. There's a great deal more to come, and this arc could rightly be called 'setting the stage'. We'll break for the holidays, and for me to get the next portion ready for you all.
I want to think all who came out and participated, first and foremost. Any who made time to come out and play along, thank you so much. You kept me on my toes (and forced massive rewrites a couple of times mid-stream), and I had a blast playing off of you. Thank you very, very much.
A special thank you to GameHost Thonnel, who played the role of Duvainiel, and did so brilliantly. I couldn't have told this story without her able assistance, and she took a blank canvas of a role and made it her own.
We will resume things after the holidays, and I hope to see you all then. We're going to need all the help we can get.
-GM Quilic