A Storyteller's Travels

[TeaLulu 1783]

A wandering we will go

and where we wander,

nobody knows.

 

[[i've a few short-stories in mind and trying to flex muh writing muscle. This Vagabond will wander around the Fringe, telling different stories at different places; Usually based on the race or location. Some of the stories are pre-written, some aren't, some are things I never really used from a long time ago.  If you have something you'd like to hear about go ahead and throw it out in-character.]]

 

By the still waters of the Temple sits a vagabond, robed in what could easily be either black, or a thick layer of dust and grime. They seem to have misplaced their shoes, instead opting to dig their dirty, calloused bare feet into the grass and dirt that sits by the fine crystalline steps which hold back the Temple's reservoir. In between the index and middle fingers of their right hand they balance a long, thin pipe, which on occasion finds it's way to the lips of the face under the hood of the dirty robe.  They would draw upon the pipe, exhaling smoke to the left or right, whichever way would carry it away from the small grouping of strangers in front of them. A variety of ages and races sits in the grass, leans on the nearby trees, or simply stands and watches, varying levels of interest played across their faces as a story is recounted to them, from the vagabond by the waters.


"If this story is not to your liking, I ask you blame the story and not the teller, first of all. I know quite a few stories and if you ask nicely, perhaps I'd be so inclined to tell you a specific one, though you may have to find me a second time to hear it told. And do keep your curious little questions..." The figure eyed the children in the crowd, letting out a poorly stifled laugh full of smoke. "...Quite to yourself until I am finished, please. Now..."

They would clear their throat, setting the pipe on the stone next to them for the time being as they began to speak in a low tone.

 

 

"Imagine sleeping through the end of the world.

In the madness and confusion of it all, you fall between the cracks, forgotten and lost.

And when you regain your sense of self there is no time along with it and no knowledge of anything else but the dark.

This is the story of those dreamers."

They would pick up the pipe, taking a long, anxious draw upon it before exhaling as they continue.


"There are some who say that when the Undead finally gained victory against the mortal races, conquering Aegis in the name of Iblees, the land became rot, foul and fire, disease and damnation. In the name of their Fallen Lord, that Daemon who betrayed all the Creator had made, they remade the land into an eternal pit of suffering. Those stragglers who did not flee in time were made worse than dead, his playthings in slavery for eternity.

But some say, when Iblees took the lands it was a sight the Creator could not bear."

A slight laugh as they glance out at the audience, adding with haste. "This is, of course, a story. No one could say what the Creator can bear, feel, say or do." A bob of the head and hood, and continuation in a louder tone.

"He woke from his slumber and in pride and spite, slipped Aegis from reality and Iblees' grasp. And so it fell out from beneath the feet of those who failed to flee in time and so they fell."

 

And the voice lowered in tone, level by level in pairing with the story.

 

"And they fell.

And they fell.

Down, down they went, so far down they started going up again." A smile could be heard in the voice, as the volume rose back to normal, having lowered to a mere murmur.

"And up they went.

And up they went.

And finally they stopped, on solid ground, though asleep. And how long they slept they never knew, for they had lost all sense of that, of time and of sight."

The pipe found itself picked up once more and shortly after a puff of smoke floated up from beneath the hood.

"Stop for a moment and close your eyes for me.

Close your eyes and listen. They heard, the breeze in the air and the sound of water babbling through a brook, of a gentle rustling through the branches of nearby trees." The Vagabond would lower their hand behind their back, running it through the water.

"Close your eyes and smell. They could smell as well as you or I, the pine on the air and the scent of rain on the front of a storm." The figure bent their toes into the dirt, then turned their feet away from each other, then back together, running their soles along the blades of grass.

"When they stood, they felt grass beneath their feet, smooth and scratchy which made them wiggle their toes, though that only served to make it worse. As they walked they stumbled, over rocks and roots and into slippery streams, the babbling brooks they could hear and taste when they fell into them. But they could not see, not for want of eyes or sight, though they did not know this, but due purely to the deep dark they now dwelled in." They would lift their hand, wet from the Temple's water, and upturn the mouth of the pipe over it, tapping ash out into their palm.

"In time those lost learned to live in this place they had fallen up into. They ate the grass and the plants, raw and rough, for to their dismay they could make no fire. The branches of the trees bent and bent but never broke and there was no dead wood upon the dirty ground to be found."

 

They set the pipe aside once more, placing the palms of their hands atop their knees as they leaned forwards towards any little ones in the audience, speaking sagely.

"Those wise stayed together in a group, finding each other by the sound of their voices. Those arrogant left, believing themselves wiser to go in search of a place with light. Those too frightened to live would simply lie down and vanish in the dark. They had lost sense of time, no minutes or hours to count but only the gentle rhythm of the breeze and rustle of the leaves.

But time did pass no matter their regard for it."

 

The storyteller gestured out to them, then to themself, with a wave of their palm.

"To you or I it may have seemed years, decades, centuries pass. To them it was an eternity. And in time they adapted to the dark and grew accustomed, ceasing to search for the light they were certain was not there."

The figure shook their head in a pitiful notion, their voice taking on a tone of sadness.

"They travelled further and further into the darkened lands, exploring with their hands and feet, ears and tongue. They lived happily and well, twisted from what they were as they had become. In time they came to the base of a large tree, it’s girth such that though they could walk around it, it took such strength they felt exhausted by the end of it’s circle.  They could feel it’s branches overhang, the willowy strands of leaf brushing gently against their faces, reaching down and caressing their arms. So exhausted from their travel ‘round it’s base they lowered themselves to the grassy ground it reached up from, closing their eyes to rest.

The branches reached down, draping their leaves across the lost sleeping creatures." The pipe was lifted again, placed in the vagabond's lap. They packed it with something as they spoke, an odd anxiety in their voice.

"When those lost creatures awoke, opening their eyes despite having no use for them they opened them wide in astonishment, for the land about them was bright and vivid, greens and oranges and yellows and blues and hues of all sorts, contrast and color. It was then they realized their eyes had never been the problem.

They looked to the tree that had been their haven for the night, for there it was brightest, and they saw the source of the light. Small things, like fruits of luminescence, grew upon the tree. They bulged from the knots in the fine, dark wood. They hung from the branches, fully-formed and hardly so, peeking out of the centers of orange flowers. They stood slowly, regarding the tree of light and all the land it illuminated, the whole of the world they had fallen into from wherever they had come from before."

The pipe was lit once more and a long drag taken from it, a cloud of smoke encircling the hooded figure's head.

 

"But they did not rejoice.

Instead they looked upon each other and all they could see was rage and hate. They had lived happily and peacefully, despite the blackened darkness they found themselves in. Now they had sight and they looked upon their twisted visages with disdain. A flood of knowledge from their sight washed away their ignorance, and with it, their bliss. Now they looked upon one another with empty, blackened hearts and their rage took them, at the base of the tree of light.

With this knowledge of their disfigured selves, and the light gone from their hearts, they lashed out at one another, ripping into flesh with their overgrown nails turned claws, spilling blood upon the roots of the tree which had wronged them."

The vagabond's head leaned forwards, staring down at their lap as they spoke, their voice clear despite the tilt of their head.
 

"For nothing can make something out of nothing and the tree was no exception. It had not created the light on it’s own accord, but taken it from the hearts and souls of the Lost Ones.  That is the fate of those left behind, in the shift between worlds.

The tree, they say, is immortal and infinite; It reflects itself upon all lands, and though once it was simply a tree, now it carries with it a light, born in it’s fruit and seeds, born of the light of those Lost. And there are those who have found the tree and seen it’s blossoms illuminate the shadows. But for a blink of the eyes or a turn of the head, and the tree is gone again, darkness where light once was."

A slight flick of the wrist and the light of the burning plant in the pipe has gone out, silence settling in upon the Storyteller.

[TeaLulu 1783]

Idle hands

are ill-advised.

Idle hands

are toys for things.

 

Near the pond which sits between Vekaro and the land of the Enclave sits a familiar vagabond, once more draped in their dirty, worn cloak and hood, pipe in hand. They once more tell a tale, though they start off with a warning.
 

"If you've a qualm with the name of the man I am near to telling you about, I do ask you keep it to yourself. I realize 'tis a common name, but blame the mother and father for his naming, not I. Now,  this tale is about a particular human lad named Sergio."

They take the pipe to their mouth, drawing on it and exhaling smoke as they begin.

 

"Sergio had been born to peasantry, as many often are. His mother a milkmaid and his father a lumberjack, when he was young he would spend much of his time outside with them and their work. Though born into labor, Sergio was lazy and more often than not would refuse to do anything.

“Sergio, fetch me a milk pail. “ His mother would plea, sat upon a stool trying to keep their cow calm. Sergio would sit with idle hands until his father delivered a quick smack to the back of his head, which would cause him to groan and rise, slowly delivering upon the requested item."

They would smack the base of their pipe, the stem held in their right hand, into the palm of their left, to mimic the father's punishment.

" “Bring wood in for the fire, son.” His father would ask, relaxing inside after a long day’s work. But Sergio had idle hands and would instead sit inside, up until his mother delivered a quick pinch to his arm, which would cause him to groan and rise, stepping outside to fetch the wood."

The vagabond would pat the toes of their bare feet gently against the ground, letting out a sigh for poor Sergio.

"Eventually, Sergio’s parents grew sick of his sloth and sent him away to serve in the army of the Lord of the land. Though they did not see fit to warn them of their son’s idle hands.

Sergio was, as is to be expected, fairly useless to the men at arms. They sat him into the gatehouse, to raise and lower it for visitors, though even that he only did after a long while, grasping the lever with his idle hands and turning it slowly and with a groan and a roll of his eyes. "

The storyteller stops to shake their head, drawing once more on their pipe as they continue.

"There came a time that the Lord of the land called all of his men at arms. There had been disappearances along the road; Whole caravans found toppled and torn through, but nothing stolen from them. The only thing found missing were the men who had manned them.

Sergio was sent on patrol with other men from the town, travelling north along the road into the colder lands, in search of a caravan that had not returned on schedule. They stumbled upon the remains of the caravan, half-buried in the snow, but there was no man in sight. There was a trail of broken branches, snapped twigs and a rushing sort of divet in the snow, leading into the forest. Hesitantly the men followed the newly-made path."

Their voice was lowered as the continue, turning their head slowly to survey those listening.

"A fog rolled into the woods, seeping through the spaces between the trees, thick and grey. It seemed to surround the men, ushering them forwards, further into the thick of the woods. "

A deep draw of the pipe and a mockery of the fog in smoke was made, blown out into the sky in rings.

"The Captain of the guard caught sight of it first, looming as they entered a clearing. The fog was thickest there and he realized it was a fog not of mist, but of ash, for in the center of the clearing loomed a wraith, three times the size of the average man."

 

A grin formed under the hood and it seemed the mockery of the fog was a better one than thought. The voice rose somewhat and continued to do so slowly as the storyteller recounted the tale.

 

"As it laid it’s eyes of fire onto the men a hissing sound rose, which quickly escalated in pitch and tone to a screech, unlike anything the men had heard before. The Captain rushed forth in effort to dispatch the beast quickly, only to have wisps of ash wrap about his limbs and pull him forth, into the wraith’s maw."

The voice, which had gone quiet loud, suddenly dropped to an utter silence as the storyteller sat still for a moment. In time they spoke again, quieter.

"And then he was gone."

A draw on the pipe and exhaling of smoke before they continued.

"There was only a short pause before the other man rallied, charging at the beast in either rage or fright. All the men save Sergio, whose idle hands had not even reached for his blade."

Once more the storyteller would shake their head at the foolishness of their own character, letting out a barely-audible sigh before continuing in a voice which only increased in dread as the story neared it's end.

"The wraith made short work of the men, all of them vanishing into the thick of the ash and smog that permeated the forest clearing. Then it shifted it’s form, looming over the last, Sergio. It seemed to tilt it’s head, the glow of it’s eyes angling to one side. Sergio had not bothered to place his hand on his blade, nor make any other move, though we was not frozen from fear. The wraith and the man of idle hands faced one another in silence. And there was a crackling from the wraith’s maw, as it had found what it had been searching for."

 

One last draw on the pipe before the final words were released, along with a cloud of smoke from beneath the storyteller's hood.

"And Sergio’s hand were idle no more. "

 
 

[TeaLulu 1783]

 

We were promised peace

and it was found.

But not the peace we sought

sleeping deep in the ground.

 

 

Outside the walls of Lin'ame, under the canopy of a nearby tree, but near enough the city gates to be heard from the safety within, a ragged vagabond sits, once more smoking on her pipe and telling another tale to those willing to listen.

 

 

"I’d like to tell you of a place, far in time and distance away. Let me tell you of Old Laurelin, a place only ever read about in books."

 

 

"Laurelin was home to nigh all Mali in the land of old; There were other settlements, such as Ravenhold, but most Mali choose to reside in Laurelin for many reasons. The city had everything a Mali could want or need; Nestled in the woods south of the King’s Road, there was not a place there untouched by nature’s hand. The Elves had walls, though they rarely needed them, and homes not only on the forest floor, covered by crisp fallen leaves in autumn and flowers in the spring, but also up above, incorporated into the trees themselves, though unobtrusively. There were creeks and waterfalls as well, that babbled and bubbled their way, winding through the trees. 

 

But what the Mali of Laurelin most benefitted from was not her tall trees, her wide canopies or her babbling brooks. It was her people.  In those times, Malinor was guided by a council, and one not unfit for it’s job. The High Prince, Native, and Archdruid Swifty took care of the trees and land that Laurelin sat upon, nurturing the trees and flora. The lower Princes and Princesses took care of Laurelin’s citizens; Prince Toren made sure the nation’s food supplies never ran low, and Princess Danie addressed the concerns of citizens. Relations with the other nations were peaceful and well-taken care of, on behalf of High Diplomat Lafthi and the diplomats who worked under him. 

 

But this story isn’t about the peaceful, serene days of Laurelin. It is about the times when monsters crept from the woods, when blood was spilled and lives lost. When darker times came, the Elves looked to two groups for their protection: The Pathfinders, lead in name by Lord Blackthorn, though in reality by another, and the Sentinels, lead by High Guardian Mayctor.

 

Now, High Guardian Mayctor was not your typical Mali, as he was not given to flights of fancy nor to careless deeds in the least. All he did he thought carefully over first, for each act to him would affect the future of Malinor and of Laurelin. He insisted on the walls of Laurelin and upon the gates; He insisted upon the river that flowed around the walls acting as a moat, and upon the drawbridges that allowed access over it. 

 

The Elves were immortal, this much was known; But Mayctor worried if they were truly eternal. Though long-lived, their population was a mere fraction of that of the neighboring nations, of Kal’Urguan or Krugmar or Oren. If the other nations turned against Malinor, Lafthi’s political maneuverings would not save them. Only sword and shield, bow and arrow, power and prowess. 

 

He urged the High Prince to shut them off from the other nations, worried that their brutality and filth would infest the Elven people. But the Prince was kind, and refused to shut off those of other races from his land. He demanded the High Diplomat send spies to the other nations, to watch and assess for threats, but the High Diplomat refused, unwilling to jeopardize foreign relations.

 

Mayctor seethed for some time, unable to think of a solution to his dilemma. He could not bear the thought of his people suffering a foul fate, but he could not think of a manner in which to guarantee their eternal Princedom.  

 

Oh Mayctor thought and he thought, he pondered and pondered, he read and he read, but it seemed it was to no avail. It seemed the Princedom of Malinor was doomed to fall to the lesser, savage races, and there was nothing in his power he could do about it. That is, until he found a single book, hidden in the library of Malinor. Old and dusty, the thing had not been touched in many a decade. Mayctor took it in his hands and within it found the answer to his dilemma, and much, much more. 

 

Malin was absent from the lands, as were the other Brothers, as was the Creator and all other divine presence. Devoid of anything else to turn to, Mayctor made a sacrifice for his people, one with a higher cost than any other. 

 

For his people, Mayctor sold his very self to the Fallen One; Mind, soul, and in time, body too. He toiled for many years in secret service to Iblees, unwilling to make his work known to the Council for shame of what lows he had stooped to for the betterment of Elven kind.

 

Mayctor had entered a pact with the best interests of the Elves of Malinor forefront in his mind. But that mind was eaten away by corruption and taint, feeding upon it like the maggots that would later have at his rotten corpse of a body. Soon he cared naught for the Elves, believing they had betrayed him, rather than the other way around. 

 

In time Mayctor’s desires were twisted, blackened as was his heart. 

 

And what Iblees promised, the opposite he granted, as he had done in ages past to the Four Brothers."

 

 

"And Laurelin burned, as did Aegis, and fell into nothingness, despite the Mali's machinations."

[Kickstarted and Running 965]

Konrad reads a copy of some of the works to his nephew, Ryemuel Elendil, who wears a metal hat, smiling as he becomes entranced in the works of literature seen so rarely in all the races; writing. He only wished that one day a ballad of the Lucienist Knights would be told

((Good reads! I look forward to moar!))

[TeaLulu 1783]

There is no strength

in mutilation.

True strength lies

in manipulation.
 

 

An Elven day later, the Storyteller again resurfaces, this time outside the steps of Tahn'siol. The figure seems adverse to stepping inside any walled city, but they seat themselves close enough to the gate so that those too shy to exit might hear from the walls and upon lighting their pipe they begin yet another tale.
 

"Years ago, in the Silver City of Haelun’or, the Mali’aheral lived in peace and prosperity, having secluded themselves from the rest of Malinor and the Mali of Elandriel. Of the Mali’aheral in the cihi, the most pure of them was long considered to be Ilumra, a Mali maiden with purest silver hair and eyes that shined like blue fire. 

 

Ilumra was gentle and soft spoken, calm and collected, as a true Mali’aheral should be. Though she rightly could have, she took no arrogance in her pristine appearance, dressing modestly in simple clothes, wearing gowns of gossamer and jewels only when they were appropriate for the occasion or given to her as gifts, so as not to insult the gift-giver. There were many Mali who would seek out Ilumra’s hand, not all of them Mali’aheral. 

 

But all she would deny, politely of course, until in time she fell in love with another Mali’aheral by the name of Uhieril. Uhieril had hair of a pale gold, to pair with Ilumra’s silver, and eyes like ice. He helped guard the city, with blade of iron and a heart stronger than his shield, Uhieril was a Mali’aheral who would gladly die to maintain the purity and safety of Haelun’or. 

 

Ilumra and Uhieril pledged themselves to one another, to marry when the spring came, for as Mali they were rushed not by time. 

 

But from the dark, envy festered in the heart of a Mali’aheral. Athrin had long watched Uhieril at his duties, as he guarded the gates, patrolled the walls, and kept Haelun’or well. She would walk through the streets of the city in her finest gown, umbrella rested against her shoulder to keep the sun’s harsh rays from her fine, pale skin. She took more than pride in being Mali’aheral of Haelun’or and scorned the other races who came to the fine city’s gate, belittling them as Uhieril would turn them away, or scorning them were they deemed fit to enter. 

 

When Ilumra and Uhieril were pledged to one another, Athrin flew into a rage. She had known him longer, but his eyes had never fallen upon her in the way they fell upon Ilumra. Athrin scorned her, for how is it she had attracted her eye, when she seemed to take no pride in being a Mali’aheral, walking the streets in clothing fit for a servant? She wore her finest outfits and approached him, but Uhieril showed no interest; He only had eyes for Ilumra now, such was his devotion."

 

 

"Unable to win what she sought through guile and lust, Athrin instead turned to trickery and deceit. Far to the north-east of the woods was a swamp, and Athrin knew that in the swamp, in a simple hut, lived a Mali no longer pure by the name of Medin. Medin was a witch, and had been caught practicing magics forbidden as impure by the Mali’aheral. For this she was sentenced to death, but through her magic she had escaped and fled, lingering on the peninsula for it was far friendlier in the wilds than any other civilized land would be. Athrin journeyed to the swamp and paid the witch in blood and gold for a poison with which to kill Ilumra, and a potion with which to win Uhieril’s heart. 

 

But Medin longed for the white walls of Haelun’or, the sapphire-topped towers. She knew of Ilumra and knew she was well-loved; If the witch killed her, the Mali’aheral would hunt her to her death. So she accepted the deal, but tricked Athrin and did not give her what she sought. 

 

Athrin took her poisons and returned to the Silver City, knowing well that every night under the moon’s light, Ilumra and Uhieril would meet in the gardens, for Ilumra well-scorned the sun’s light and preferred that of the stars and moon. But Uhieril’s duty was to Haelun’or, for Ilumra’s sake, and Athrin tricked him with claims of Uruks at the gate; The trick not being whether the Uruks were there or not, but why they had come. For Athrin too had paid them in gold and promises of blood, making them promise the safety of her beloved, but not caring for the other guards, for her heart had turned black and wicked by coveting what was not hers. 

 

As the Uruk’s harrassed the guardsmen at the gate, Athrin made her way to the gardens where Ilumra awaited her beloved. Athrin had poisoned a silver blade with the poison, knowing full well she could not convince Ilumra to drink anything she gave her. She approached from behind, and though the rustling of the bushes caused Ilumra to turn, the poisoned blade was plunged into her heart, turning black as night and rot as Ilumra gasped, blood rising from the back of her throat. 

 

As Ilumra fell to the ground, Athrin relished in her victory, turning and heading back for the gates to witness the completion of her plot. And as she turned, though Ilumra’s eyes were closed, she breathed still, for the poison was not as the witch had claimed it to be. Knowing full well Athrin’s nature, Medin had given her a poultice instead, and though the knife strike near Ilumra’s heart, it did not pierce it, and yet she lived. 

 

But as Athrin was to find, Uhieril did not, for the Uruks she had paid in gold found more joy in Mali blood than coin. Uhieril had drawn blade to protect the walls of Haelun’or, as had many other Mali, and the Uruk’s broke their word, spilling Uhieril’s insides upon the steps of the Silver City. Horrified at the sight, Athrin too left the safety of the walls, running for the dessicated corpse of her beloved; screaming at the Uruks concerning their arrangement, and thus revealing her nature to all of Haelun’or.

 

If the Uruk’s axe had not reached her neck first, a Mali’aheral’s arrow surely would have, so enraged were they. 

 

And so Athrin fell to pieces besides that of her beloved, her plan having fallen to as many pieces as her corpse. From the accursed three, only Ilumra yet lived, found wounded in the garden shortly after the city was secured. Heartbroken, she took to secluding herself alone in her chambers, refusing to see any. Never again did she love as she had loved Uhieril, for she had pledged herself to him and him alone, the boundaries of death doing little to separate them. 

 

She would live to an age fit for a Mali’aheral, despite all her misery and sorrow, and die only when an infection set into the scar of the wound she had received to her heart. "

[Birdwhisperer 1174]

Elorna stands on the walls of Lin'ame and leans over the ramparts to listen to the tale. By its end she smiles, though misty-eyed, and calls out softly. "Would you not come inside, llir? You are welcome to share your stories in shelter and warmth."

 

((Very nice read!))

[TeaLulu 1783]

The vagabond looks up to the walls, taking a long, contemplative draw on the pipe before replying.

"As much as I enjoy telling tales, miss, you'll have to forgive my hesitance to accept your offer. You've an excess of walls and I'm none too fond of the idea of being stuck inside them."

The traveler holds the pipe between their teeth, brushing their dirt-covered hands on their already filthy robe.

[Masterfawkes 33]

*Sheds a single tear

[Birdwhisperer 1174]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.