Threads of Shadow

[winterblood 11181]

Spoiler

 

 

 

The following is considered to be private to RP.
 

In the far reaches of the shadow's domain, in a place where all autumn leaves are destined to find in wailing gales; where the radiance of sunlight and whispering stars were naught but myths of the delusional, there was a fellow named Gremel.

 

Gremel looked like a simple elf.  One of pale grey shades known to Drow.  He was dressed in meagre clothing, and wore an equally meagre idol around his throat; that of a spider.

 

He wore this not out of any occult fascination of any greater powers, nor to profess his ties to any sort of guildhall nor clan; or for any other obscure and enigmatic purpose.  To him, such a medallion made his trade quite clear as a Weaver.

 

No woollen tapestries were ever wrought of his supple hands and no twine of any sort would ever come to twist and curl around his slender fingers, nor would any needle be pinched between them.

 

Gremel wove different threads.  His art of braiding and entwining was formed in the loss of precious things and their timely returns, if ever a moment was destined to pass.  Some tales ended far, far away from whence they began.

 

There came the opportunity for him to lace together another web, when two pale-faced outlanders waded through the thick shadows of the Drywood.  One was  broad and adorned in reflective armor in far too many weapons; a righteous flame was birthed from his very palm.  The other was more slim and dour, she was dressed in scholarly robes with a trail of freckled and soft-winking lights that followed her.

 

It was a cursed tale.  One which Gremel the Weaver dearly wished to be unraveled and forgotten as the dark forests embracing his hamlet quickly transformed into a bitter nightmare of dread and adrenaline.  Outlanders were prime targets for Weaving, their spirits were so malleable within foreign countries as mystery and threats of the unknown, stalking fiends of the wood dulled their minds.  The sight of a kind face was to disarm, and the veil of honor which followed was to claim the thread.  It was a common web, it was supposed to be so; for every facet screamed that it would be as plain.

 

Two strangers, stumbling in shadow; clinging to light.  They were no masters of this darkness, and their hands were surely clumsy.  Yet it was such a hand which had sent the delicate threads of Gremel sprawling–and him scrambling for his life.

 

The final weaving of this thief was a tale of crimson, one to nurture the faceless shapes of the Drywood when the foreign lights of those Outlanders parted from the sorry remains.