Upon finding what little remained of the Goblin, Cewri returned to Martox’s side, and fell to his knees with a great thud. His mouth was dry. The Half-Giant didn’t know when he started weeping. When Martox breathed his last, he tried to speak, but the words died in his throat. Do we have time for a proper ceremony? The thought hung in his mind for a moment. Not a grand one. Not like he deserves. But we must do something.
He cradled Martox’s head in his hand, and when Desalith spoke, something clicked in his head. “They’re connected” He said, “the Goblins an-and what happened to Celeste. There’s the same person behind them, o-or one knew about the other.” And if that’s the case, the one who decided to play marionette with Celeste seems infinitely more competent. We bury him. We mark his grave on our maps—we remember, like we always have done. We heal Celeste. And we track down the bastard that did this.” He looked towards the old mage. “You’re right to say we need help, but getting it will be tricky. Especially if we ” Reverently, he rested Martox’s head back on the ground.
He moved to stand, but saw Celeste, still gagged. Brainwashed or not, if there isn’t a risk of her biting, she deserved to have her mouth free. Now entering a crouching position next to her, he untied the gag, his hands shaking. He stood. “I-I’m going to start digging.” All this time, his tears had not stopped flowing.
I didn't see the pre-edit version, but it looks good to me. One, admittedly minor, gripe though:
He can play a guitar.
There are guitars? I mean, the word was around in the 12th century, but it didn't refer to any one specific instrument, but to a variety of chordophones (instruments that generate sound using vibrating strings). That, and it seems a bit off-aesthetic. I would say a lute or mandolin would be better. (When I said the gripe was minor, I meant it.)
Perhaps. It woild be odd, however, since I don't want tosee it die (end-of-the-year stuff has been making fibding time to post for anything difficult, abd I forgot to say somrthing. Sorry.) @ArenaSnow clearly doesn't want to see it die,@Thrashy clearly doesn't want to see it die, and @SuperTacticalDerp was the last to post, do he can't very well go again before someone else. Honestly, it would be twice as sad to see this one die, because the four of us clearly are still interested in its continuations-though I admit I haven't exactly been holding up my end of that as well as I would like.
I know that I'll be able to get one up no later than saturday, so long it isn't officially closing up shop. (Like I said its the end of the year, so studying and final projects are devouring my time) What about everyone else?
Now beyond the blizzard, Goreu cleared his hair, now alike to ice in both color and temperature, from his face, and beheld another Face. Its eyes the grey of lightning, the terrible visage shocked Coreu into silence, and he let his arms fall to his sides. He knew. His strength had been tested, and he had prevailed. The Blessing of Llyr rocked beneath Goreu’s feet. The waves were calm this day, and the wind was strong. The deep bluish-green of the sea stretched to the horizon as he leaned over the Blessing’s prow. He will make time, he thought he promised to make time.
“Goreu!” a familiar voice called from behind. The young Cewri turned to see a familiar man.
“Father!” The Misty Mountain’s peak was solid beneath his feet. His eyes broke away from the Face for a moment. The Blizzard raged around him. The fury of a god. And I conquered it. The older Cewri ‘s laughter echoed across the deck, and Goreu’s could just barely be heard beneath. Goreu was glad that his father had kept his promise. Leading their landless people was not an easy task, and it left little time for them him to spend with his son, and so days like this were treasured by both of them. His thoughts turning to how little time they were able to spend together, Goreu sighed.
“What’s the matter, Goreu?” his father asked. And Goreu told him.
“I wish we could too, but leading our people, on these disparate ships… “ Goreu’s father paused.
Goreu cut in “It’s not as hard when we find an island.”
“When the wind leads us to an island, Goreu. But you’re right.” His father sighed.
Goreu perked up, “Then why don’t we make landfall. Permanently I mean.”
His father took a seat on the deck, and invited Goreu to join him. “If only. But none of the islands are big enough.”
Goreu huffed and growled, “Then why doesn’t the wind take us to somewhere we can live!” Goreu’s eyes returned to the Face’s. He would swear that he saw a flash of light, somewhere deep within. Goreu’s voice was slow and deliberate, “Amaethon.” His father was at first shocked, then visibly angry. But then he took a deep breath, and looked deeply into Goreu’s eyes. “Son, do you know what we were to the Sky-Lord before the Great Hubris?” Goreu silently shook his head. “Generations.” Goreu’s eyes never left the Sky-Lord’s. “Generations ago, we were your Chosen people. Your favorite children. By your rain, we grew our food, and so we thrived. Until it was all washed away in an unending torrent.” “But then why did he cast us off?” The younger Cewri’s voice was filled with anger.
“As I said, we were his Chosen. He gave us all that we needed. Where the smaller races struggled, we prospered. Where they prospered, we thrived.” His father’s eyes grew dark, “Do you know why he took that away?” “We called the rain without your sanction.”
“But more than that, son…” “We tried to take the clouds for ourselves. To control the sky.” “We were given everything we could have dreamed of, and we paid the Sky-Lord back with treachery. We turned our back on Him, and betrayed Him.” Goreu was visible shocked. “Has no one told you this before?” Goreu shook his head no. His father muttered something under his breath. “Listen, Goreu. One day, perhaps tomorrow, perhaps in a hundred years, one of our line will be called before the Sky-Lord. We cannot afford to throw that away. It may be me, it may be you.” His eyes filled with dread. “It may be a descendant neither of us weill know, long after our names are forgotten.”
“How will we know, father?” Goreu’s voice was shakey.
“My father told me: ‘Should you see his Face, you shall know.’ So I say to you.” “Sky-Lord,” Goreu said, “Storm-Father. Rain-Master, Flood-Bringer. I have conquered your Mountain. My strength is plain to see.” After another second, he did willingly what the storm could not force him to do: he knelt. “Father, if it is me, what do I say?”
His father chuckled, “I asked my own father the same question. He had a lot to share, but the important part is what we learned from our Great Hubris: We may be as mountains…” “But even the highest peak rests beneath the sky.” His words complete, Goreu bowed his head. He could feel Amaethon’s grin, even though he could not see it, and the Sky-Lord’s laughter rocked his ears with the sound of thunder. Just as he had passed the test of strength, he had passed the test of humility.
Aderyn had not expected them to find much. Plants, rocks, game a little larger then on the island. Maybe a river or two. He had not put much stock into the child’s report of smoke. Or at least, he did not think it would amount to much. After all, if there was a settlement, then they would see more than smoke. At the very least, they would have spotted someone from the shore.
Evidently, they were scouts, or wood-gatherers, or some other such things. They were armed with what looked like wood-axes. They formed into a line with a shout, and seemed prepared to fight. Aderyn’s hand wandered down to his own axe, a head made from sharpened stone and larger then these wood-gatherers’ heads, a shaft longer than any of the little-folk’s arms. His grandfather had made it on one of the islands. Medraud knew a fair amount of magic. But they hadn’t come expecting a fight. He could feel the tension of his comrades behind him, their breathing quickened, and they shifted on their feet.
But then one of the little-folk, presumably the leader, called for them to lower their weapons. They were still out, but not up. So they don’t plan on fighting either. Good Aderyn was able to dredge up, from the back of his mind, the Trade-Language that had been used with the little-folk from the old country, back before the flood. “Greetings. We are Cewri.” They’d had little need for the Trade-Language since the Great Hubris, but all younglings were taught it, just in case of something like this. “We have come far. Over water. From water. From too much pride. Generations. We look not fight, but look life. Peace?”
X) Goreu speaks to Amaethon atp the Misty Mountain. I)The Cewri scouting party speaks of peace with the Njord party, making diplomatic overtures.
I'm afraid I may be already booked with RPs at the moment, otherwise I'd be all over this. If I may make a suggestion, you should set in in Stratford-on-Avon, where Shakespeare actually lived. It would be pretty neat.
If it turns out I can get in on this, I call dibs on Oberon. Been wanting to play an ols-timey fairy for a while.
