Tradesfolk
IS OFFLINE
7
Renown
Female
Moonglade
The Earth remembers everyone that enters its breadth. It is our job to keep that memory safe.
209 POSTS & 0 LIKES
|
Post by Elvira, Wandering Cleric on Jan 19, 2024 10:13:43 GMT -5
Deep in Stargazer's Field, the cloaked priestess was burning a tall teepee style fire. Off to the side, she used the larger fire to light incense and placed them in a circle around herself. The night was cool, almost chilly. The gentle breeze whispered into the ears of all travelers caught within, as if it were trying to tell secrets in its own long-lost language. Being in Stargazer's Field, the stars and the nebulae lined the sky with their brilliant colors. Each twinkle seemed to send energy to those who bared witness, as if the stars were made from arcane magics themselves. Kneeling in the grass, Elvira began to sing. It was a bit of a faster song, though it felt slow in practice due to the long notes taking most of the song. The majority of her voice was in the alto range, though occasionally straying into the soprano range. Her voice echoes across the field while the smoke gracefully dances upwards towards to the cool glow of the bright moon overhead. Though half of her song was in an old Elvish language lost to time, now known only by scholars and those from the Temple, the common words spoke of a lost and conflicted lover who dreamed of being with her true lover. In truth, she felt as if she were the conflicted lover. Recent events have made her question everything about herself. In fact, that was the purpose of her rituals. She was asking Lunala for answers, especially those regarding love. Internally, she felt conflicted, unworthy, perhaps even evil. She felt tensions not yet addressed. But worst of all, she felt as if she were betraying the one she had sought after. Reaching a pause in the song, she took longer than usual. A few deep, shaky breaths later, she looked down and shook her head before continuing, much softer this time.
|
|
CCS Courier
IS OFFLINE
27
Renown
Ash Lands
Despite everything, it's still you
1,324 POSTS & 0 LIKES
|
Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Jan 19, 2024 13:41:05 GMT -5
The once-assassin traipsed through the grass on the silence of dusk-shadows and the remnants of stardust. He could not recall, properly, the last time he’d wandered these wilds; his old life had been a cacophony of stolen moments of freedom glimpsed between infinite stretches of monotony. It was difficult to parse through a sea of memories and find a pearl.
But the shadows remembered. Where thought and dream and consciousness went to die, they collected it all, and they, alone, archived what had been forgotten him. And as he stepped across the silent night, they greeted him as an old friend.
In times of turmoil Cyran often found solace in the stars. There was a comfort in knowing, even in an ever-changing world, in the entropy of shifting magics and the resurrections of ancient gods, there was one thing that remained vast and unchanging. Of course, that fact no longer held true, either. With the revelations of the fall of the pantheon, and Ziev’s… fall from grace, even the sky itself was not the immutable bastion it had once been. Still. He found comfort in their soft, luminous glow, in the stories they told - tales he once read to his daughter, on dark cold nights such as this.
Ten years was such a short span of time. But to him, it felt like another life. And Cyran remembered every agonizing second of that loss.
It was not his name or his inheritance or his house that Cyran had missed in the wake of his exile; but his Marlow, his Songbird… not a day went by he didn’t think about the daughter he’d been parted from. It had been on his mind as of late. Perhaps because his return to Moonglade had been accompanied by an abrupt adjustment to his status, a political game in which he’d been nothing more than a pawn. Cyran had found himself scion to house Fenastra once more, and he’d still been forbidden to see his daughter. It had all happened so fast. His retirement of the Specter mantle. His and Del’s retreat from Darkveil. The restatement of his name and status. His father’s assassination attempt on the life of his fiancé and himself to ensure Cyran would never be allowed to hold any manner of influence again. His daughter, shipped away to another part of the world so Cyran couldn’t find her. All of the games, all of the bullshit… Cyran was just. So. Done.
It was those heavy thoughts that smothered him as he walked, unsure of what he was searching for. Answers, perhaps; but even before he knew the gods had perished he’d never been a devout man. Neglectful deities in their thrones watched the struggle of ants; offered either their crumbs or their boots… either way the end result was the same. Either way mortals were crushed under its weight. He’d not find the answer in divine intervention.
Cyran was not a man who believed in hope or prayer.
Yet, he found himself seeking out the sky for help nonetheless.
What he found instead was a whisper on the wind; old instincts flared up, a hand reached for Wraithsbane on his belt, as if he expected to be attacked. Cyran sighed and closed his eyes, shoulders slumping in shame at the reaction. You no longer walk that path, fool.
Deep breaths; in, out. Cyran forced the tension out of his body, the wariness ebbing and flowing like the moon-touched tide.[1] He was supposed to have left behind the subterfuge, the contract killings, the wariness. Yet the second he heard a strange noise, he was pulled back in, as if even just existing were a clandestine secret that ought to be protected. Forcing his fingers to curl into a delicate fist, Cyran rested his arm by his side and continued towards the sound, curious. What was someone doing out here in the open this late at night?
He made no effort to conceal his presence, tugging his cloak tighter around his shoulders to ward off winter’s chill. The closer he drew, the more apparent it was that the melody wasn’t in common, or any language he could understand - but rather, ancient elvish, a tongue his very core seemed instinctually drawn to… yet his rational mind rejected. A plume of smoke drifted lazily through the air, heat from the smoke clashing with the bitter cold. He squinted, spotting the spot of light amongst the tall grass, scented jasmine and lavender and sage in the air. The sensation tugged at old memories folded neatly into his subconscious, of a youth spent making offerings to a goddess he’d never put faith in. A ritual?
He made his way to the campsite proper, silent as the grave. As he got closer, he could make out a lone figure, her voice carried in the quiet air… soft and melancholic, and he was struck with the feeling that he’d intruded on an incredibly private moment. The elven man began his retreat, taking a step back to leave the woman to her moment -
SNAP!
- Only for his boot to land directly on a branch, the sound breaking the silence like the snap of a whip. Cyran stilled, glancing back towards the makeshift camp. There was no way the young woman hadn’t heard the sound. 1. Meditate
Bringing Pets Ivrae (Book Wyrm - doesn’t count against pet cap) The Nobiagari Shadowlings (Bottle of Snowlings - doesn’t count against pet NPC cap)
|
|
Tradesfolk
IS OFFLINE
7
Renown
Female
Moonglade
The Earth remembers everyone that enters its breadth. It is our job to keep that memory safe.
209 POSTS & 0 LIKES
|
Post by Elvira, Wandering Cleric on Jan 20, 2024 7:15:09 GMT -5
No sooner than Cyran had snapped the branch did a blinding, holy light flash from the fire and envelop the area around the woman. This light seemed to dance around her as she looked over her shoulder to where Cyran stood. Instead of calling out to him, however, she smirked and turned back to the fire. The light seemed to take the shape of some sort of being, a massive being at that, which stood in front of her and stared down at her. The cleric took down her hood, revealing the long, flowing dark gray hair underneath. About a minute passes as the two have a wordless conversation, all the while her eyes fill with tears. Soon, the being would hold out a hand, which she takes. One more massive flash of blinding light, and the field fell back into darkness. The fire was out, merely smoldering and releasing wisps of smoke just as the incense did.
Nearby, the cleric was kneeled. Her hair now white with streaks of its natural darkened gray. Both of her pale hands now had swirls of purple tracing up towards her shoulders.
Slowly, she stood up and looked at the changes her body had received. She looked neither satisfied nor dissatisfied. Instead, she was rather content. Without turning to Cyran, she spoke with a thick accent. "You've still got your sight heldo?1 If I knew you were watching, I would have warned you. May this be a lesson in spying. Curiosity killed the cat and all. Regardless, I do hope you are quite alright." Finally, she turns with a warm smile that seems to warm the chilly night. The purple swirled around her neck from the right shoulder to just under her chin. "Ah! A fellow Isil Quendë!2 What a welcome sight in trying times. Forgive me, I am Elvira! I hail from the Temple of the Moon as a wandering cleric. I serve as a healer, guider of spirits, and a scholar. Might I ask your name and purpose in approaching me, traveler?"
|
|
CCS Courier
IS OFFLINE
27
Renown
Ash Lands
Despite everything, it's still you
1,324 POSTS & 0 LIKES
|
Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Jan 21, 2024 12:52:13 GMT -5
Cyran did not mean to intrude, truly. Yet there was a split second, as the flames shifted and morphed into a tangible being - one larger and more ancient than he could comprehend - before embracing the young woman with a handshake and a burst of brilliant, blinding light that made the shadows retreat in fear. Perhaps Cyran himself would have been blinded if not for his arcane eye, the one that had been lost to an old tomb, a sacrifice claimed by the void.[1] Still, that didn’t mean the rest of the light was entirely pleasant - the ex-assassin found himself staggering and reeling, gathering his bearings as the harsh radiant light settled back into the cool nighttime.
It was then that the sonorous voice which had been locked in hymn earlier called out to him. Cyran blinked away the tears in his blinded eye, a hand covering the left side of his face - only the darkened, monstrous visage of what remained of his right eye visible through cracked fingers to stare at the approaching woman. What a sight he must have been.
Cyran grimaced, shoving away the impending headache at such a display, and composed himself. “Ah… less spying, and more finding myself in the wrong place at the wrong time. I saw the plume of smoke and wanted to make sure everything was alright. It hasn’t been too long since the Clasp disbanded - this pass is rife with bandits.” He murmured, the spots dancing in his left eye finally ebbing. He finally removed his hand, blinking away the rest of the disorientation. A young moon elf stood before him, hues of violet painted across the pale of her complexion. Her hair, the moon-touched silver of elves that frequented eclipse City. Had she looked like that moments ago? It was difficult for Cyran to ascertain; given the hood she’d been wearing and the brief glimpse he’d gotten of her before the light. But he was no stranger to being touched by elder beings - their sheer power leaving a mark on the mortals they didn’t care for, as if they were clay that had been smudged by fingerprints as they were molded.
Her accent was a familiar one - spoken by moon elves, merchants, and dockhands among Eclipse City. His own accent was a far cry from it, one that perhaps would identify a local as someone coming from more affluent roots.
He offered her a small smile in return, weary - like all elves, he did not carry his centuries in his face but in his eyes, metallic silver dulled by ages of melancholy and ink-black hair streaked with silver and gray. “Cyran… soon to be Fenestra-Asiliari, once we’re able to be wed.” He stumbled a bit on the last name, but there was no small amount of fondness in the way he spoke of his intended. “I own an orphanage in Darkveil, but I’m currently visiting… family, in Moonglade.”
He was not surprised to hear she hailed from the Temple of the Moon - though he was not religious himself, he’d attended more than enough ceremonies dedicated to Lunala in his day. “A local, then?” He asked, offering his hand for her to shake in greeting, delicately electing to skirt around the current state of the gods. If she wasn’t aware, Cyran didn’t want to be the one to shake her faith - not right away at least. “It’s been some time since I’ve been there myself; but it’s always nice to meet someone familiar.”
Elvira… the name niggled in the back of his subconscious, bouncing around like a marble. He dismissed the thought, for now - Cyran was not familiar with most people of the cloth, and it had been a decade since he last haunted Eclipse City. A decade since his exile.
“As I said before, it was concern that brought me to your campsite - I hope I did not intrude on any ritual. But before that, I was here to stargaze. I’m far from a scholar, but it’s always been a hobby of mine. My apologies if I startled you - I meant no harm in it.” 1. All Eye
|
|
Tradesfolk
IS OFFLINE
7
Renown
Female
Moonglade
The Earth remembers everyone that enters its breadth. It is our job to keep that memory safe.
209 POSTS & 0 LIKES
|
Post by Elvira, Wandering Cleric on Jan 22, 2024 15:38:37 GMT -5
"I appreciate your concern, Cyran, it shows the will to do good. That's something I appreciate in a person. And, of course, congratulations on the engagement. It has been some time since I've visited my home city, as there have been... troubles. You seem the sort to understand. That does, in fact, bring me to something that has seemed to have caught my attention. Cyran, there's some sort of aura you give off. Something about you seems..." - she cocks her head - "...tired. Tired in the way that you have seen too much, been through more than most could handle. Yes, you seem to know loss, know death and destruction, like no other."
With a sigh, she gives a soft, awkward smile. "Something about you and I seem to be not so different after all. I experienced loss at a young age and gave up all I had to learn to cope with loss by dedicating my life to helping others do so. Somehow, some way, I get the feeling that you are similar."
One more, a sigh. This time, though, she seems a bit disappointed in herself. "Forgive me, that was no way to meet a stranger. My curiosity was piqued by your presence. Of course this is right after I teased you for perceived curiosity on your part, how ironic. Are you hungry, Cyran? I have preserved meats, or we can hunt for wildlife nearby. Alternatively, we can trace some of those bandits you mention, perhaps return the favor on behalf of the travelers of Moonglade!"
She almost seemed excited for the thought of fighting bandits. Strange for a priestess, perhaps not as strange for one touched by a celestial. She was clearly still adjusting internally. It was quite the task for a mortal, especially one who had so much conflict internally. Not that Cyran would see that conflict... at least that's what she hoped.
|
|
CCS Courier
IS OFFLINE
27
Renown
Ash Lands
Despite everything, it's still you
1,324 POSTS & 0 LIKES
|
Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Jan 31, 2024 19:01:26 GMT -5
Cyran, as Elvira suspected, did understand the troubles of leaving behind a home to which one could never return. His exile had only recently been repealed from the noble machinations he’d been thrown into, but Cyran was an irrevocably different person than he’d been in decades past. Moonglade was as foreign to him as the deepest seas. He opened his mouth to share his sympathies when Elvira’s next words stunned him silent.
So rarely was he used to being seen in such a way.
You know the old adage. Misery loves company. He had learned, over the years of contract killings, disrupting the order of life and death, of looking in the eyes of grieving families and next of kin of the people who’s lives he’d taken - grief was held in the eyes. It… changed you, irrevocably, nestled in the back of what you remembered and lingered in what you saw in the present. Only those who carried it could recognize it so innately in others. Cyran saw it in Elvira, the haunting melody of the way the young woman moved her head, the troubles she spoke of. He supposed he just hadn’t been expecting her to recognize him back.
But, even retired from the business, Cyran could not seem to escape it. Death trailed behind him like a cloak and melancholy, an old bedfellow.
He pursed his lips and rested his hand on the hilt of Wraithsbane, the only dagger he still carried on his person. The only dagger he wielded born from love rather than hate.
And on top of it all, the young priestess was perceptive to boot.
“Yes, I suspect we’re alike… in more ways than one.” She shadows sang, the presence of dark magic. Similar, but not quite different. Not kin, but rather, ships passing in the night, whose rafters were haunted with creaking secrets and billowing whispers of all they’d left behind.
It was a humbling feeling, one that left him raw - by seeing him, Elvira had the all the power to destroy him. But by seeing her, he knew she wouldn’t.
“There is no need for apology.” Though a touch unnerved by her keen nature and the almost silent aura that seemed to surround her, his centuries meant that he was not a man easily ruffled by the words of others. Despite himself, he offered a small smile. “Another trait common of people so accustomed to loss is that they observe all they can in the present moment. To never forget.”
It was an olive branch - an understanding.
The sudden change in her demeanor was almost endearing. Cyran huffed out a quiet laugh, rolling with the switch in topic. Sheepishly, he realized he’d yet to eat dinner.
“I wouldn’t want to be a bother or take your resources. I’m a hunter as a side job… I could grab some small game, if you don’t mind sharing your campfire.” He scanned the grassy horizon at the mention of bandits. “I heard rumor that the Clasp is scattered to the wind when their leader was slain, but there are likely still pockets in the area.”
No - he wasn’t supposed to be doing this. He was retired, damnit.
Cyran rubbed at the back of his neck. “I… would not be opposed to helping if the opportunity arises, but I must warn you. I’ve recently taken a vow of pacifism. Or - well - I will not kill any criminals. Disarm and disable, but I refuse to murder.”
Not again.
|
|
Tradesfolk
IS OFFLINE
7
Renown
Female
Moonglade
The Earth remembers everyone that enters its breadth. It is our job to keep that memory safe.
209 POSTS & 0 LIKES
|
Post by Elvira, Wandering Cleric on Feb 4, 2024 15:31:04 GMT -5
The extended olive branch hit Elvira a bit harder than she had expected. It was true, she constantly observed everything in the moment. It was part of how she became so fond of this place. The way the moon sits amongst the stars, the visible nebulae sitting in the sky like wisps of a horse's mane in the winds, it fascinated her. It gave her warmth. She smiled, however. Finally, someone who understood after all these years of hiding her pain.
The mention that he had taken an oath of pacifism was no surprise to her. In fact, it brought her back down to Earth. She cursed internally, knowing she had taken a similar oath to bring no harm to those unless they attempt to bring harm to others. Her smile softens as she addresses it. "I understand, Cyran. I wish not to ask you to do anything against your own morals. If you so wish to find small game for yourself, I understand as well. Just know my bag is always ready to spill needed supplies. I will tend to the campfire while you do so. It should be set up for cooking by the time you return."
Cyran was surprisingly quick to find the game, but so too was Elvira to have set up an entire campground to cook and relax in. By the edge of the woods she had high quality bedrolls spread for the both of them, a decently sized fire roaring with a spit ready, and pots and pans neatly strewn and stacked. Nearby was a hammock tied between two trees with blankets neatly folded and a tarp above to block any rain. A second hammock was still rolled up underneath, supposedly for Cyran should he choose to rest with her.
As she spots the single-eyed elf, she smiles softly. Somehow, in between all of this, she had changed out of her robes and into a white blouse, leggings, and tall studded leather boots. A scimitar, a bow, a quiver full of arrows, and her bag sat next to her. She seemed at home out here in the wilds.
On the fire, a pan sat with small amounts of oil bubbling, popping, and crackling. What seemed to be rabbit meat was on the pan. The younger elf looked at the pan, shuffled the contents around, and looked back up to Cyran. Her expression seemed... strange. It looked almost as if she had been fighting back tears for some time now. Cyran didn't have to wonder for long, however. As he approached, she revealed why.
"I used to go on trips with my father," she said with a shaky voice. "Aidynn Elendil was my father's name. Sometimes I forget that I have... well... had a last name. We drop it when we devote our lives to Lunala." She shakes her head slightly, staring down at the fire. A moment passes before she looks up. "I think you might have liked my father. He was a bit war-torn, kept me away from the military. He always said to me 'Onya,1 I served time enough for the both of us. Pursue your music, pursue your studies. Do not pursue violence.'"
She smiles, a tear finally tracing down her face. "I miss him. He and my mother, Genesta, were slain by a goblin tribe after wandering too close. I dropped my music studies in favor of clerical studies afterwards, I wanted to make sure they were safe in the afterlife. I... I wonder at times what would have happened should they have survived. It's a silly thought, trying to wonder about the future with a changed past, but it's a thought I cannot help at times."
1: "Onya" = My Child (Elvish)
|
|
CCS Courier
IS OFFLINE
27
Renown
Ash Lands
Despite everything, it's still you
1,324 POSTS & 0 LIKES
|
Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Feb 15, 2024 8:33:43 GMT -5
“That sounds like an agreeable plan.” Cyran replied. He offered her a small, almost sad smile; the smile of someone who knew the cost of said vow all too well, and hoped that a day may come that he would never have to break it. “And don’t fret about the bandits, should it come to that. I’m quite used to necessary evils.”
With that, he disappeared into the copse of trees to find something to eat. Cyran had spent years using the guise of a hunter for the dark nature of his work.
It was worth noting that he was, though his experience lay more with people than animals. Humanoids had higher levels of thinking, oh-so prone to hopeless irrationality. It was easy to track their thinking patterns and old haunts, to parse through nostalgia-touched sentiments and force them into a mistake. Animals and monsters were a little more tricky. Each one had a different pattern, a unique pathology.
At least prey animals were easy enough to read.
It took only a few minutes to set up a camouflaged tarp on the ground, which Cyran covered with leaves and a couple of berries. Spider silk wire was tied to each of the four corners, looped in a series of complicated knots, and each string tied to anchors.[1] All it would take was a simple yank on the anchor to pull the wires taut, turning the tarp into an effective trap. He just had to be fast enough. He just had to wait…
Motion in the underbrush got his attention. Moving fast, Cyran snapped at the anchor, the tarp lifting from the air and snapping game up in its fabric.
… A rabbit. It would have to do. Elvira had already set up camp by the time Cyran returned.
Somewhere along the line, she’d donned more travel-ready gear, the smell of something delectable and familiar wafting through the air. Rabbit, if he had to hazard a guess. The smell was secondary to the sight… the dim light of fire reflecting the mistiness in Elvira’s eyes. The smile slowly slid off Cyran’s face, replaced with concern. He moved to sit down next to her, setting his bag down at his side and pulling his game out of the bag.
He went through the motions of skinning the rabbit while Elvira spoke. Sharing stories of her family… the father she thought so fondly of, who no doubt took her through these very fields in search of adventure. The anguish in her voice was an old friend - a memory -
Aidynn Elendil.
He stood in the annals of his father’s office, searching through the archives of letters and contracts and correspondence. Lormundel Fenestra was a busy man; busy enough to request his son’s assistance in a matter as simple as this before a meeting. Cyran was only looking for a ledger - yet he found the contract all the same, and the name that came with it. It was hardly the first time Cyran had stumbled across evidence of his father’s hires, dirty deeds done by others to keep his hands clean, but it was the first he’d ever learned of the price Lormundel was willing to put on a life.
It had to be a coincidence.
One wife, one daughter.
A… bad coincidence.
Cyran bit his lips to refrain from speaking while Elvira reminisced; he couldn’t take this moment from her, no matter what kind of beast of gnawing dread was building in his chest. It couldn’t be the same person.
Long had Cyran considered the possibility of encountering the family of one of his victims. What he might say, apologies he could offer that would mean nothing. Never had he considered he might first meet one of Lormundel’s instead.
“He sounds like a good person. One you hold a great fondness for.” Cyran’s voice was faint - faraway. “How… how long ago did your parents die?” 1. Improvisation Engineer (Hunter I)
|
|
Tradesfolk
IS OFFLINE
7
Renown
Female
Moonglade
The Earth remembers everyone that enters its breadth. It is our job to keep that memory safe.
209 POSTS & 0 LIKES
|
Post by Elvira, Wandering Cleric on Feb 28, 2024 16:27:18 GMT -5
Elvira had caught the look, the wistfulness of Cyran's gaze, the worry behind his expression. She didn't really know why, but she chalked it up to his own personal issues. Perhaps a rough relationship with his father?
The question caught her off guard, why would he ask something like that? No matter, she would bother him later with her own questions. "It was... 15 years ago now? Sometime around then. I know, I'm young. I'll get you a cane later, worry not." The quip made her smile, she hoped to break the tension around the campfire.
She turned away, focusing on the rabbit that had been cooked thoroughly now. It was then that she caught his next reaction, just out of the corner of her eye...
|
|
CCS Courier
IS OFFLINE
27
Renown
Ash Lands
Despite everything, it's still you
1,324 POSTS & 0 LIKES
|
Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Mar 3, 2024 14:37:33 GMT -5
Fifteen years ago.
Cyran’s heart stuttered in his chest. A dangerous revolt; a single skip that made him suddenly feel queasy and sick. His expression turned pale, dread draining the color from his face. He quickly attempted to compose himself, drawing upon the cold indifference he used to wear during his assassin days, but not before Elvira would have seen his reaction.
Fifteen years ago.
Aidynn Elendil.
A wife and a daughter.
But why here? Why now? After all these years, only for a chance meeting just after Cyran had reluctantly accepted the name foist back upon him, a grim homecoming to a place that had never welcomed him? Why now was it his turn once more to suffer the consequences of his family’s broken legacy?
Lady Fate was laughing at him, surely.
“I’m not quite that old yet…” His retort, halfhearted; his gaze distant and faraway. Odd, how he could feel so disconnected from his past when he was closer than ever to the origin of his exile.
Should he even tell her? What should he do with this information? Elvira had been kind enough to share her campfire with him thus far, but he didn’t know her, and it was not his place to meddle in her private affairs.
And yet.
If he were in the same situation, no matter how much it hurt, Cyran would want to know the truth.
He took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes.
“I’m not quite sure how to say this…” He started, voice heavy with grief for stranger’s he’d never met, distant constellations in the night sky. “But I have reason to believe that it was not the fault of a goblin tribe for the death of your parents. It’s only a hunch. But fifteen years ago - those names, that family.”
He turned to her, brows knit together.
“Elvira, have you ever heard exactly what the Fenastra family does? Or do you have any reason to believe your parents might have ended up on their bad side?”
|
|
Tradesfolk
IS OFFLINE
7
Renown
Female
Moonglade
The Earth remembers everyone that enters its breadth. It is our job to keep that memory safe.
209 POSTS & 0 LIKES
|
Post by Elvira, Wandering Cleric on Mar 4, 2024 17:12:50 GMT -5
Noting the reaction, she backs off her smile slightly. There was clearly something that Cyran was bothered about, she just couldn’t tell yet. He seemed to know something, particularly about her father. It was well known that he was a fierce guard in Eclipse City, but he was rather well-liked.
Then he mentioned the Fenestra family.
She remembered hearing that name many times in her childhood. Both her father and mother had mentioned the name, especially before long trips. “Oh yes! They were close family friends to my knowledge. I never met them, but father said he was going to meet up with Mr. Fenestra when he passed. ‘Onya,’ he had said, ‘I need you to stay here while amillë al atto1 go on a trip with the Mr. Fenestra. Stay here with the servant and guard.’ He told me he loved me, gave me the biggest hug I had ever received, and left in a hurry. Supposedly it was important business.”
Then, it clicked. Her hand discreetly shifts to her side as she stares at the fire, poorly hiding a shocked look.
…and that’s when she quickly launches towards him, drawing her blade and attempting to pin him down with a knee to the chest.
“What do you know, kuu’datto?!?”2
1: “Mommy and daddy” 2: “Bastard”
|
|
CCS Courier
IS OFFLINE
27
Renown
Ash Lands
Despite everything, it's still you
1,324 POSTS & 0 LIKES
|
Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Mar 14, 2024 9:58:22 GMT -5
There it was. That old, hungry friend known as guilt. He could feel it rearing its ugly head as it woke from its slumber, gnawing delicately at his insides. Its teeth gnashing at his soul were as gentle as a whisper; as painful as poison.
He averted his gaze as the smile melted off of Elvira’s face. A drop of suspicion rippling in the pond. Though he was the one to ask, Cyran dreaded what the answer might be; he had no idea what to expect, what painful truth might be unearthed. And yet, as she perked up, speaking of a fond family friend, a man whom the Elendils trusted enough to go on a family trip with.
A family whose light had been extinguished by a man as false as the moon’s phases - whose generosity and animosity waxed and waned all the same. A devil clad in white and false promises that made you believe wholly in its gentleness.
Yes, Cyran remembered his father well.
Lormundel did not have friends.
But what was his reasoning for getting close to Elvira’s parents? Perhaps they had something he wanted? Or, the grim possibility occurred to Cyran - one keeps their friends close and their enemies closer. Lormundel was monitoring the late Master Aidynn, or the other way around. An acquaintanceship that ended in blood, with Lormundel’s hands as clean as ever…
An ugly truth that occurred to Elvira in a single instant; the mood shattering like glass.
Steel flashed in the moonlight; the only warning Cyran had as to the blade being levied at him. Instinct kicked in, the shadows stirring protectively. He could welcome their embrace, he could dodge, he could sidestep, he could disarm her -
But he didn’t.
Cyran allowed himself to be knocked over, tears brimming in his eyes as the blade pointed at him. There was nothing else for him to say but what he knew. No beating around the bush.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He repeated, shaking his head. “Lormundel is - was - is - my father. By blood and name only. Up until almost eleven years ago now, I lived under his wing. He’s a merchant, a debtor - I don’t know why but I think I remember seeing that name amongst his notes, a ledger for a service my father hired, and…” He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
|
|
Tradesfolk
IS OFFLINE
7
Renown
Female
Moonglade
The Earth remembers everyone that enters its breadth. It is our job to keep that memory safe.
209 POSTS & 0 LIKES
|
Post by Elvira, Wandering Cleric on Mar 24, 2024 0:06:44 GMT -5
The moment she saw the look on his face and heard the tone in his voice, she knew she had made a mistake. This man knew grief, for he lived it through others just as she had many a time before. The holy steel found its way back into its sheath as she felt the sting of tears filling her eyes. She helped the man up, but there was little emotion behind it besides regret. The moment he was on his feet, she turned away and flipped the hood back up to conceal the shame in her face.
She had drawn a blade of Lunala- one of justice, protection, love, and care- on one who had not deserved to feel its cool embrace. To her, this might as well have been an act of terrorism or treason. There were few worse transgressions, at least in her view.
The recloaked cleric sat silently by the raging fire, her meal now having found itself serving as part of the fuel for the flames. A soft, stifled whimpering sound flooded the air, spilling out from below her hood. So much had flooded her brain at once that she simply broke, her mind temporarily shattered from an information overload that short circuited any subject besides bare survival basics for the woman.
After a few minutes, she finally regained her composure.
“I… I’m sorry. That was unfair, I will never forgive myself for striking out in such a way. I just… I suppose I convinced myself more than the clerics convinced me. I heard my father in late-night talks with my mother. I say talks but… you know. Regardless, he spoke of corruption in the system, those that should help the public becoming the secret enemy of the working men, women, et cetera. He was supposed to be retired from the guard but… I suppose he took the armor back and didn’t with for me to know. I just… he was a good man…”
“I’m so… so sorry, Cyran.”
|
|
CCS Courier
IS OFFLINE
27
Renown
Ash Lands
Despite everything, it's still you
1,324 POSTS & 0 LIKES
|
Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Mar 27, 2024 8:08:24 GMT -5
A grim silence settled over the camp. Broken only by the swaying of grass in the wind and the melancholic howl of distant wolves. And, after a few tense moments stretched over eternity, the song of silversteel.
Cyran had surrendered himself to Elvira’s judgment; and yet, as he opened his eyes, he found not her fury, her grief, her ire - but her regret. She had pulled her hood up, the fires of hatred smothered until all that remained were the ashes. Cyran pulled himself into a sitting position, tension uncurling from his shoulders. The angel of retribution that had possessed her was all but gone. In her place, a young woman. Alone. Vulnerable. Pierced with the harshest of truths, bereft of armor.
The retired assassin did not hesitate to pull himself to his feet and take a seat next to her at the campfire. Without a word, offering his shoulder for her to rest her head and cry. He knew he was probably the last person she wanted offering her comfort; but he was here, and he understood. At the very least, she shouldn’t have to cry alone, if Cyran could help it.
And so they sat. Elvira, allowing the raw, unfettered grief to wash over her. Cyran was not strong, not by any means of the word. His fiancée was the one between them with the strength to bear any burden. Still, Cyran wrapped an arm around Elvira’s shoulder. A reminder she did not have to suffer her loss alone.
When she was well enough to speak, Cyran shouldn’t have been surprised the first thing out of her mouth was an apology.
He shook his head. “No, no… please, no apologies. I am not upset. It is only natural to distrust me, given what I knew…”
His lips twisted into a sardonic smile at the mention of corruption.
“Something my father possesses in spades.” He murmured. In that instant, it was too much to look at Elvira - he turned his attention to the popping embers in the fire. If he closed his eyes he could still recall the oppressive silence of those bone-white halls, Lormundel’s shadow lurking around every corner… of all his experiences, that manor had been the best teacher for concealing the sound of his footsteps.
“It makes sense then, why your father must have earned Lormundel’s ire. Perhaps he learned something he should not have. There is much that my father has done to claw his way to the upper echelons of society. I wish I could tell you more, but…”
He shook his head.
“I was a different man then.”
One who let fear govern his actions and take root in his heart.
“I was afraid of the crimes my father had committed. It was by design that I kept my distance from him - and an accident I discovered the ledger about your father.”
His grip tightened on Elvira’s shoulder - not in a way that hurt, but a reminder that she was not alone.
“No, I am the one who ought to apologize. I have brought such terrible news to your doorstep. I cannot forgive myself for the harm it has caused and the price of my inaction… but at the very least, I hope there is comfort in knowing that he was a good man until the end. And I am so terribly sorry for your loss.”
|
|