EACH DAY WAS THE SAME

[Goon 1614]

[The events described in this post are not meant to be metagamed nor are they public knowledge in any way; only to be discovered through proper roleplay.]

Spoiler

 

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EACH DAY WAS THE SAME

NOCTURNE BY TOM THOMSON

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“Venti­quattro.”

 

The early birds arose each day before he ever might have, singing their untimely songs.

 

God, how irksome.

For why do they sing so often?

Are their lives so free from care that they can spend a day’s entirety serenading one another?

They’ve nothing more than to eat insects from the earth and make their desperate mating calls- ha.

As if they were Imperial braggarts. 

 

All the same, it is maddening to be awoken each day.

Each day... To their incessant shrills.

 

A hefty sigh was made as the man lay sungazing- adjusting eyes met against radiant beams that shone through the canvas stretched overhead.

 

I suppose there are worse things to be awoken to. But this is unsustainable. This bedroll is torn and this tent has withstood its final storm.

And I thought I’d gotten them all, but there always seems to be yet another jagged stone to take a stab in the night. 

 

Before the sun settles, I will search again- they are not a creation of my mental’s making. There are stones unearthing themselves to stab me.

 

Once more a hefty sigh, sitting himself up as he allowed that bedroll’s excess to fall against his lap, bare hand rubbing abrassively against his visage.

 

Eugh, where is she? I thought I’d have found her by now...
 
Fottuta cagna sfuggente.

 

Each day was the same. The man emerged from his tent in the same clothes as the day before, stained of sweat and tree bark- a dissatisfied hand raising to block those piercing rays of light whilst he cast an uninterested gaze upon the forestial landscapes. 

 

And each day typically began with a cigarette he’d light from the coals of the prior night’s flame- only today, there was not a cigarette left in that pack.

 

“Certamente.”

 

A blatant disregard for the lands he inhabited, the man spitefully tossed aside the empty pack, leaving it to be trampled by he or the foxes of the wild- begrudgingly pacing himself toward the riverside. 

 

A trip into town. A carton of Beckham’s. A change of clothes, a bath. A meal- un pasto caldo.. 
No, si figuri. This is of my own doing.

 

At the river’s side now, the man lowered himself to a kneel. Rippling in the water was but a muddled reflection of himself, and he looked disheveled. Not like the man he once was, but that shift was not so apparent to him. He took his hands to cup against one another, submerging below the surface of the waters- minnows darting far and fast upon their entry. And the man took an obnoxious slurp- moisture beginning to wet his parched lips.

 

This is.. Unsustainable. If I do not find her at the day’s end..

 

Another prolonged sip, taking his palm to wipe against the dribble around his mouth- quenched, least for a few hours.

 

【   | | |   】

 

“Un anno.”

 

Oh.

It has been so long. Long enough. Surely, they’ve forgotten me by now. 
Easily forgettable, you are.
Perhaps I should remind them.

 

The chirping of birds was no longer a sound he could hear, merely interpolated into the music of thought that so endlessly played in his solitude. No longer did he grit his teeth for the taste of tobacco rolls, and no longer did he worry for his next meal. He grew used to the arduousness of forestial vagrancy.

 

They do not need me and I do not need them. 
I do not need her- I do not need him. I do not need his approval- he is a child. I am the reason he is even. 
I should have killed him.

 

Clasped between both of his gloved hands, a hatchet rose high above his head, brought down against a helpless chunk of wood to meet with a splitting CHOP.

 

Perhaps he did make that trip into town after all- his tent was newly woven, bedroll no longer torn, and he’d an array of tools he certainly did not come with. Cigarette butts littered his grounds, perhaps that is why he did not crave them; he had plenty more within his reach. 

 

Clothes fit for a man of the woods, he took the sleeve of his shirt, wiping a bead that dripped from the wrinkles formed in his face.

 

No, no. Famiglia non combatte famiglia, si? Ah! 

 

My father said; “La famiglia non combatte la famiglia.” 
He is dead. La famiglia combattuta la famiglia, and he is dead.

 

CHOP. Shrapnels of wood soared outward against a splintering cleave.

 

Life. In exchange for fleeting blessings. 

 

Per amor del Cielo Sette.

 

And though he craved not the nicotine, he had his cravings still. And though he had angled enough to feed himself for the next few days- an insatiable hunger brew still. 

 

Perhaps it was time for yet another trip into town.
If not to satisfy, to surround himself with the forgotten sound of another.

 

 “This solitude is unsustainable.”

 

【   | | |   】
 

“Cinque­cento­quattro.”

 

Each day was the same. Each day had proven that it was sustainable, despite his devout nihilism. He had no reason to live, yet he continued to do so.

 

At least I have not forgotten my mother’s tongue. Or my mother- my sweet, sweet mother.
I see, now, why she did what she did to herself.

 

What of the mother of my children? What of my children?
If I cared, as I say I do, I would not hide from them. 

 

They resent you now. I know they do.

Did my mother believe that we resented her? Is that why?
We did not. I did not, I cannot speak for my sisters.

 

Lauretta- oh, I would love to see Lauretta- sweet, sweet sorella. She would understand.
She would understand it all.

 

Klara would understand. 
Here I am, in Esbec, Klara of Esbec- and where are you?
Elusive as always. 
But understanding, if you heard my tale, I’m sure.

 

Dante, he did not understand. 
Carmine- he could never understand.

 

Gracia.
Natalia...

 

Margosha, Dima-
Did I forget Dima? 
How could I forget Dima? 
I am not the father I promised to be. But he is hardly any son of mine.

 

He does not even hold my name.

 

His wicked mother whispers, ‘what a terrible man’ I am, I don’t need them.

 

No, only Gracia is mine. Uncorrupted- God, I hope she has not yet been soiled.
What a terrible man I am, to leave my daughter without a father’s guidance.

 

But I’ve given the same to Ludovica- and she has become who she has.
I did what I had to, always. 
I did all I could. 
I did all I could and she became who she became, I cannot fault myself. Or that boy. 
Only the world, I can only blame the world.

 

And I can only hope that Gracia does not befall the same temptation of indulgence.
And if she does, I can only blame the world. Not myself.

 

Dio, guide my daughter. For in my absence, she will need it.
And in my presence, Dio, she would need your guidance still.

 

I know you have changed your opinions of me.
I know you no longer see me suited for your blessings, but I ask on behalf of my youngest.

 

The Deceiver has laid many pitfalls, in the shape of men and magic.
Please, Dio. Guide my daughter in my absence, for even in my presence, she will need your guidance.

 

Amen.
Amen.

 

【   | | |   】

 

“Sette­cento­venti­tré.”

 

Each day was the same. Each day had proven that it was sustainable, despite his devout nihilism. He had no reason to live, yet he continued to do so. 

 

Only today, he would not spend alone.

 

A rustling in the grass, a rumbling in his belly- the man skittishly grabbed at a dagger dug into the earth beneath his feet and flicked his head toward its source.

 

Beasts..

 

Only it wasn’t.

 

It was an aged woman, slowly trudging through the field with a basket clung on her arm. She kept balance as she stepped over mounds of dirt, holding up the excess fabrics of her gown’s tail with each of her careful steps through tallened blades of grass. 

 

Has she been here all this time?
This is not her..

 

And he sprung himself to his feet then, head weaving aslant as he held a narrowing gaze upon the woman. Much like a predator to prey, the man lowered his form and followed behind the unhurried woman, quieting his steps and clinging to trees with that dagger in hand.

 

Have they finally come to find me?
No, they’ve forgotten me.

 

Perhaps God has not forgotten.

 

The woman was no wiser to his lurking, lurched over a bush that she plucked petite crimson berries from- and she hummed a simple melody, rasping gently as the years had worn away at her vocal chords.

 

“Have you come for me?” The man demanded answer, stepping from behind his cover- that dagger held visibly in hand as he stared down the woman.

 

A hand of hers moved to press against her chest as if to feel for a heart’s beat- startled, the woman stammered. “N-no, I don’t believe so.”

 

“Then why have you come?” Unsatisfied with her answer prior, the man stamped forth slow- hand clenching tight against the small blade.

 

“For the trees. For the berries, of course.” An anguished smile made for the man, splaying a hand toward the bush before shuffling away nervously from the herbage.

 

And he pressed forth still- halting at about an arm’s reach from the woman. He spoke no words, and neither did she- the two locked eyes upon one another’s. A conceding huff through his nostrils, the man confessed then, “You startled me.”

 

“And you, me.” The woman held fast to the disarming smile she offered. Her hand moving to fish through that basket she carried- holding out a handful of berries for the man to pick at if he chose. “My apologies, sir. It was not my intention.”

 

A glance made to her peace offering, making no further acknowledgement of such as he returned his eyes upon her features, “There are not typically people this deep into the forests.. Why have you come if not for me?”

 

“You speak as if you own these lands, young man.” Chortling then, the woman sounded pleased with her own retort- returning those berries she offered to their basket. “Do you? Own these lands?”

 

“No.” Through a tipping head, the man held a reticent deadpan against the woman’s return, offering only a blink of his eyes for a lingering moment. “But I find refuge here. It has become my home.”

 

“And I am intruding, hm? I see.” A chortle made from the old woman, her persistent smile cracking through the creases in her face. 

 

“You startled me- is all.”

 

The woman’s smile faded, unresolved to persist against his reticence. “Why are you here, young man?”

 

Silence. No answer made for her query- but he did not depart just then.

 

She took that moment of quiet to glance more closely at his form- from head to toe, his attire was stained and torn. His hair was long and disheveled, littered with small twigs. “You look as if you could use a moment of respite. A proper bath, with due respect.” A brief chortle, once more amused with herself. “Would you care to accompany me? I’ve a cottage- not far. Surely, you’ve seen it.” She pointed westward beyond the volley of trees, turning once more to the unkempt man- a smile with genuine warmth.

 

Deny her offer.

She is a messenger of The Deceiver.

 

She is an old woman; it would be easy to overcome her if needed.

 

‘A moment of respite.’

 

A gloved hand splayed forth then after the long silence, quiet as he spoke, “Lead on, woman.”

 

【   | | |   】

 

OLD CABIN IN THE WOODS BY TATYANA FOGARTY

 

The cottage was small, buried beyond the trees, and surely the man had seen this place before during his own exploration of his surroundings. But to think the old woman had lived in that dilapidating cabin this whole time?

 

Does she live here alone?

 

I could kill her; take this for yourself.
It would be so easy.

 

Was she with them, all along?
Am I being led to my demise?

 

“You’ve a family, young man?” The old woman’s rasp cut through the tensity of their shared silence, puttering about the interior of the small domicile whilst the disheveled man kept himself seated in a crudely built chair.

 

Lie.
She does not care for your family. 
Lie.

Eyes darted elsewhere whilst those thoughts churned- nodding his head slow as he croaked forth, reluctantly, “... Si.”

 

His response turned a smile over her features, squatting herself to retrieve something from a pile of metallic kitchenwares. A polite lecture, “Family is everything, you know.” With an aged groan, she rose once more, the bones in her body creaking as she stood- holding now a blackened kettle. “If not for my family to watch over me from the Seven, my heart’d have no reason to beat still.” The creases in her face grew more pronounced as her placid smile tugged, a sagely finger waggling as she shuffled herself toward the stove’s top.

 

A mocking smile tilted his own expressions- littered with a misplaced spite against the woman’s genuine nature. “I’ve forgotten the meaning of family. Long ago.”

 

“And were you an actor in your past, hm? A playwright?” The old woman teased, chuckling faintly as she lowered a teapot into a basin of water. “So dramatic..”

 

Unamused, though he did not show it with his obligatory snort and smile. Evident in his eyes, though, a disdain for the perceived disrespect.

 

I could kill her. No one would know, and this would be mine.

 

“Tell me of them, you should not forget where you came from.”

 

“I’ve forgotten the meaning of family the moment I killed my father. Once more when I left my own to feed themselves. There is nothing to know beyond that.”

 

“Well.” The old woman halted momentarily, and unseen to the man, her expressions fluttered. The two sat in another tense silence, disrupted by the clearing of her throat, “Surely, you had your reasons.”

 

Surely, you had your reasons..

 

“Would you tell me of those?”

 

Why does she act as if she cares?
She only means to harvest information.

 

Perhaps she doesn’t.

 

But tell her nothing more.

 

And hauntingly, he returned, 
“Necessity.” 

 

Solemn were her expressions now, grasping desperately to retain her zeal. “Do they still live?”

 

“I wouldn’t know.”

 

“Go and see them then. If you wouldn’t, it would gnaw at you for the remainder of your short, short life.”

 

God, she is presumptuous.
She knows nothing.

 

She knows nothing about me, my family- 
Old hag.
An old woman who knows nothing, how sad.

 

Nothing is stopping me.

 

She is just an old hag.

 

The faintest snort sounded from the disheveled man, be it of amusement or annoyance- and his expressions would perhaps denote the latter.

 

Very well then.

 

“Tea?” She queried over her shoulder with a warmth in her smile, kettle splayed in a showcasing manner before she began a pour of her own.

 

“Sure..” 

 

She bobbed her head with that gentle smile returning- her back turned to him once more. The gurgling of the poured hot water roiled; the only sound to disrupt the long silence to come. 

 

 

Taking the back of a gloved hand to wipe the dribble from his lips- quenched, least for a long while.
For the first, the man held a genuine smirk against his lips.

 

And the bird’s began their ill-timed chirping- their last song of the day.

 

Can you hear the music? 
I know I sound demented, but can you hear it? 

 

It’s beautiful.

 

【   | | |   】

 

Spoiler

 

THE 'DISHEVELED' MAN (circa. 1833)

 

Special thanks to @Hephaestus for lobbing me the closing song.

Really brought it all together.

 

[Melpomenne 2032]

Spoiler

 

 

 

[Covey 466]

Spoiler

mfw goon forum post 
 

Spoiler

 

 

[NLThomas 1225]

Spoiler

Actual chad post, got me acting up.

 

[latte 2238]

ok