| T O P I C R E V I E W |
| Vanion |
Posted - 20 Oct 2005 : 01:07:34
I decided to throw this up for some viewing and see what thoughts, critiques and such it draws. Hardly standard FR stuff, and not a record of actual game events (he's being used for an online game anyway) so much as a series of internal monologues from a character I've written before his introduction to a campaign's storyline. Meh.
A few notes as one might see on a character sheet before the narrative proper:
Basic Description of Krychton Athacia
Race: Human
Height: 6'3
Weight: 240 lbs (110 kgs)
Age: 43
Eyes: Blue
Hair: Iron grey (formerly jet), worn in a sharp warrior's queue (i.e a less wussy name for ponytail).
Skin: Mild tan (lineage from Cormyr and Amn).
Distinguising features: Nose looks like it's been broken at least once in the past. His features are hawkish, with a prominent nose and forehead over craggy cheekbones and a lean jaw. Several scars decorate his torso and arms, the vast majority old and faded, a few fresh. On his legs, he only has one scar, a jagged, horrid looking white tear on the outside of his left knee. Occasionally will limp in cold weather, or have his leg lock up. Usually at very inconvenient times.
Basically, he ain't pretty, but looking at him won't hurt you.
Physical notes: His manual dexterity is damn good, but as his eyes have started to lose their sharpness his hand eye coordination is beginning to deteriorate with age. He moves with some grace, but not with any great degree of pace, having to favour his left knee. Muscular, seems in good health.
Map:
http://www.wizards.com/dnd/images/SilverMarches.jpg
Assume that Krychton’s home is somewhere within the Northern part the small patch of woods smack bang in the middle of Silverymoon, Everlund and the Evermoors. The mini, nameless wood just off the NW tip of the High Forest if that was too vague.
Bear in mind, this really isn't intended as stock in trade "High Fantasy". If you're after the usual sort of character with a perilous quest, incredibly over the top backstory, sword double the size of his body to overcompensate for the contents of his codpiece, silver hair and beautiful androgynous features, you will be very disappointed. |
| 6 L A T E S T R E P L I E S (Newest First) |
| Vanion |
Posted - 20 Oct 2005 : 01:33:52
Chapter Five
"Grief is the agony of an instant, the indulgence of grief the blunder of a life."
~Benjamin Disraeli
Looking back, it's easy to see where I went wrong. Points where I gave up too easily, others where I attempted the impossible. More of the former than the latter, if I'm honest with myself.
Vesicia's passing crippled me because I let it. To admit this isn't to cheapen her meaning to my life, or try and mentally diminish how vast her presence was in my world. In every respect, the way I behaved achieved those very things, ironic and nonsensical as it might seem to one dealing with the full burden of their loss. She was someone whose own existence was based on the ideal of learning from the past and living in the moment, expressing love to those she held precious before all else, and in choosing the path I did I had forsaken everything I'd loved about her, everything that had made me a better man.
Destroying my relationship with our children and becoming the waste of flesh and liquid I had was something that I could only attribute to my own faults. The realisation of that simple, monumental blunder filled me with both immense hope and immense anger - hope for a future I still might have, moments to be cherished...and anger for years wasted.
It's amazing what goes through your mind when you're being cut and stabbed. Battle madness really is like nothing else in this world. You dip between extremes of emotion, the utter absence of thought, clarity of thought, too many thoughts at one and every point between in a matter of instants. That's not getting even close to thte physical symptoms, the clenching of bowels, the shrinking of the stomach, the way your bladder goes from conversely being heavy and full when taking a piss is a distinctly innopportune idea, to somehow utterly dry devoid of moisture when you do gain a spare moment; the way that you couldn't stand to see another bit of blood or meat for the nausea but gorge yourself on anything available anyway.
Over the next two days, I cut a swath through the orcs between myself and the road North, taking yards with a snarl etched on my face and a bloody axe stuck in my hands. I probably should have used a sword, made up for my natural lack of speed and relatively light armour with a little more in the way of defensive presence and parrying options.
But that's never been my style.
The axe is considered one of the more "barbarous" weapons commonly used by warriors. That is quite simply a fallacy indulged by fools who are somehow convinced that wielding a prettier blade draws a distinction between them and the rest of the world, or puts them on the "cutting edge" of warfare. When you get down to it, there is no difference between any kind of weapon bar basic mechanical principles - their purpose is singular and universal. Whether you get it done by speed, wit or main force, dead is dead.
I approached the gates of Everlund covered in bandages in blood, both my body and armour battered beyond recognition. My knee was only a quarter inch away from being locked up, my eyes were gritty and sensitive from a lack of sleep, and I felt about ready to pass out from exhaustion. Strangely, though, I felt better than I had in years, as though things suddenly couldn't go wrong. Forget about counsel with a priest or enlightenment through meditation - senseless acts of slaughter are the greatest source of cathartic reverie available to man.
The guardsmen nodded me in without a word, but an appraising look for my wounds and my pack. I might have even seen respect on a couple of faces, though it's hard to say - four days with twelve hours of sleep tends to make your recollections a little hazy.
Looking back, it was about at this time that I realised the only two times I can honestly say I really feel alive are when making a life or taking a life; fighting and ****ing if you want to be blunt. It makes its own perverse sense, when you think about it, though I doubt any civil authorities would be likely to condone the proliferation of such a philosophy. Interestingly enough, more than one church probably would.
I told you that killing gives a man rare insights, didn't I? |
| Vanion |
Posted - 20 Oct 2005 : 01:24:40
Chapter Four
"In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect."
William Shakespeare, "Henry V", Act 3, Scene 1
The sword was off my hip and in my hand before I knew it, and my muscles flowed into a guard position of their own volition. It felt like it had been but moments since I'd last assumed a Plow Leger, hands at my hip, tip aimed at the chest, knees flexed, weight centred on the front foot, back foot perpendicular. I could see white flecks of spittle fly off their porcine tusks as the three orcs closed to twenty paces, the red light of approaching dusk glinting off their blades.
Swordsman to my right, spearman in the centre, axeman to my left.
I began sidestepping to the left, down the gentle slope, my sense of the brush and terrain giving me a perfect idea of my footing while my eyes tracked my targets, keeping my shoulders squared to them perfectly while I circled. Predictably, the axeman charged ahead of the other two, obscuring their line of attack. What was an accidental concave trap had now become a staggered line. With a smirk, I lowered my blade to the Fool Leger, stance identical, hands extended and sword's tip barely off the ground…leaving my torso apparently wide open. The slash came at my chest from the left, a full blooded, murderous swing that whistled towards me.
I put my weight on to my back foot and swept the blade up quickly in a hard parry, the jolt that ran up my arms nearly forcing the sword from my grip. It seems that there were some aspects of combat that I'd forgotten. Still, the timing was good enough and I had enough presence to keep both my blade and my balance. The foible of the blade made clean contact with the haft of the orc's axe, sending the blow astray and his arms high. It was all the opening I needed, and I took one step forward with my left foot to deliver a lancing, two handed thrust to his throat, removing the blade with a twist and wrench before back pedalling.
Orcs might not be the best planners, but they're far from foolish. The axeman's comrades had expected him to act has he did, and used his recklessness to their advantage. The spearman and swordsman came at me from well to my left and right respectively, with quick thrusts and slashes at my torso and face, using their reach to good effect and timing their tandem attacks well. While my blade moved through a series of feverish parries and blocks, I tried to guide myself to back and to my right, up the hill, in order to gain some kind of advantage. The orcs grunted and snarled at each other, and the swordsman came in with a harder slash to herd me back to the centre of their position. I was struck with an idea that was desperate, but had real potential.
I feigned a hard, long stride to the right in order to draw the swordsman into an attack. He reacted out of instinct, stepping forward to make up for the step he expected me to take backwards, and swung at where my head should have been. Instead, I had stepped towards him, lunging under his wild swing into a full genuflection and delivering a one handed thrust of my own to his midsection. A man in steel armour might have survived. The orc was wearing crude leather. His own blade dropped from nerveless fingers and he began the peculiar coughing gurgle that creatures with pierced stomachs make.
While my right hand had lanced out for a killing blow, my left had gone straight for the sod, fingers extended and driving into the muck. The spearman hadn't expected my bold move, but only took a moment to realign his weapon's tip for a strike at my neck, thinking me off guard and easy meat, my weapon trapped in his comrade. The mud from my left hand hit his face before he could drive the shaft down in a fatal arc, and he yelped in shock. Most of it hadn't gone into his eyes, but had spattered about his sensitive nostrils and made him flinch for a moment. That was all the opening I needed. I didn't bother to try and remove my sword from the swordsman, instead ripping the kukri from its sheath on my belt, coming back to my feet with a half spin.
To his credit, the spearman reacted rather well, trying to backpedal as he clawed the muck from his face with his left hand, keeping the point of his weapon extended with the right. Just as is left hand came away from his face, his right came away from his arm in a crimson spray. The kukri is a vicious weapon, with enough weight and edge to produce some truly fearsome cuts.
The orc stood stock still, maw gaping and whimpering pathetically in his shock, before the heavy blade completed a second cut, this one arcing through his throat in a similarly bloody cascade. His remaining hand went to try and stem the flow of blood that was pumping from his neck, and then he hit the ground, limbs thrashing for some seconds before he died. I used the knife I'd purchased back in town to make sure that both of his comrades had matching ear to ear grins. It always pays to be thorough – people can survive, and recover from, some rather spectacular wounds.
There were soon three corpses in my wake, stripped of their meagre purses and weaponry. The sword was a very decent find, of greater length and better quality than the one I was using. The axe and spear seemed of orcish make – solid, but unreliable.
**************************
It's hard to adequately describe what you feel in a battle. Overwhelming sensations of fear and anger, followed by a divorce both of those after a while. A gaping void within, if you will…still, I can't believe that any of those expressions really give you a sufficient idea of what runs through a person's head when they're fighting for their life. From what I've gathered, the basic mental and emotional process seems to be universal, though. Not from what I've heard or read, but what I've seen.
It might make more sense if I describe it this way. There are two times when you feel more alive than any other moment in your life - fighting and ****ing. Killing and creating. I suppose it makes a perverse sort of sense, that the ultimate moment in emotional and sensational experiences amount to the decisions that you make concerning someone elses future or past existence. If both were somewhat less addictive the world wouldn't have as many problems as it does. But I digress.
No one can genuinely describe or define love, yet it's understood that at some point, we all experience it. Not in an identical manner, but the traits (symptoms) are so similar that it can be recognised as an overarching, immutable concept. The proof of love isn't in the artful definitions of poets or physicians, but in the look you see in someone's eyes when they understand it, and then when they share it with you.
The same goes for those of us who kill and risk being killed. What we feel when we're on the cusp of life and death is the one great equaliser, no matter who we are or why we fight. You don't know this because you read it or hear of it - you know it because you've lived it. When you look into another soldier's eyes, whether they're a comrade or foe, you can't help but recognise and understand what you've felt yourself.
It is true that animals fight with their emotions, using fear and rage as best they can. The rabid state, however, is not a natural one, and no animal willingly seeks such an existence, for it consumes the subject in the process.
No animal except the two legged variety.
Even the purest of Paladins experience bloodlust, the desire to sink their blade into their foes' flesh and visit, not just death, but pain upon them. There is genuine satisfaction to be found in violence. Many would like to attribute such a desire to the Beastlord and his ilk alone, to define such a rage as animalistic and inhuman. The truth is that all of us feel the same rage that brutes like Malarites do. The difference is that they choose to indulge in it, to revel in it, and to revere it.
Aggression is the key to every battle – if entirely suppressed or, conversely, entirely unfettered, it will kill you. If correctly nurtured and disciplined, it will make you a god among men. It is something that none of us who choose the life of a warrior can ever avoid…not while we are still human, at least. |
| Vanion |
Posted - 20 Oct 2005 : 01:22:38
Chapter Three
"The only cure for grief is action."
~George Henry Lewes
As you might think at this point, all the work I had done to pull myself out of the hole I was in was for more than to simply enjoy the rather surprising sensations of being sober, clean and marginally healthy. They really are quite overrated, when you get down to it. I needed to mend myself, get on with things and be who I was meant to be - no longer a husband, but a father still.
Hal and Jocelyn were old enough to take care of themselves, now, and both were proficient enough in their trades that they could keep themselves fed and funded indefinitely. As had become painfully obvious over the past few years, they simply didn't need me anymore.
But I needed them.
I headed down to the store and smithy to pick up the essentials for my travel. Both of them were living in Everlund, which meant a good ten day walk through the woods, to the road edging the High Forest. Once I was there, the amount of traffic would create enough safety to continue along the road and cross to the Rauvin's North bank.
It's a well accepted convention in the Northlands that a list of "essential"¯ items should include a weapon a layer of clothing that will shield you from a lot more than the weather. My own weapon rack was too depressing a sight for me to consider, even if some of the pieces there were salvageable. After quick inspection, I purchased a well made long sword, a hand ax, a yew hunter's bow and a chain shirt. the fact that all of those items were available in a general supply store, and not a smith or an arms dealership, should speak volumes of the area I live in.
They weren't of good quality, but they were cheap. The bulk of my funds were, shall we say, momentarily inaccessible, and I didn't have the time to commission a suit of heavy armour anyway. Or anywhere near the legs to walk ten days in it. Still, I had enough gold to buy the children something once I got to Everlund.
The weather I set out in was probably the best kind for travel - a light cloud covering and no wind, no genuine heat, and little enough cold that you'd still be sweating after a few miles. The rations, if plain, were still hearty and filling, so for five days I followed the "road"¯ (if game trails and footpaths leading through the woods count) out of town and towards Everlund. As is usual for Autumnal weather, light clouds became heavy ones, and my cheery evening camps turned into soggy, sodden nights. In a great feat of intelligence, I had chosen a canvas backpack rather than an oilskin, so my supplies were soon as soaked as I was. I must say, drybread really isn't much improved by a wetting.
You'd think that I'd take some pride in the fact that I'd looked over the selection of bottles on offer in the store and not taken a "blood warmer"¯ along with me. You'd think that would have kept me absolutely stoic in my resolve to stay sober.
I wasn't thinking - I wanted a bloody drink. The irony of being thirsty in a rainstorm isn't lost on me, kind of like one of the gods was saying "See this stuff? The clear, tasteless liquid smacking into your head? This is all you get from now on."¯
Those were long nights.
****************************
The rain ended up making a ten day journey longer than expected. I say the rain, and not my fitness, because I was making surprisingly good mileage, from what I could recall of my last trips. The ground was slippery and a little spongey underfoot, but thankfully was a long way from being the pea soup that sudden storms have a knack of producing. The uphill stretches were will messy, though, and I was glad that I didn't bother to buy a new pair of boots for the trip.
On the eleventh day, things became strange. It had been years since I'd frequented those woods, but I knew something was wrong. The birdsong was too subdued, the air a fraction too still. You can normally feel the "hum"¯ of a forest, feel the little creatures that conceal themselves too well while they're in hiding, scampering and seeking nearby. "Out of sight, but not mind"¯, was a good enough adage. Without being conscious of it, you can have your finger on the earth's pulse.
Halfway through that afternoon, I could tell that it wasn't just a gut feeling - something was very wrong. This wasn't a case of a big predator being nearby. Birds and rodents know well enough that they're beneath the attention of such animals, so long as they stick to the trees, they'll have no trouble surviving. Large mammals cause little more than a hiccup in that hum I spoke of, never an utter cessation. My suspicion was reinforced by the fact that I had seen no spoor or signs anywhere near the rough track to indicate any animals larger than badgers making their home here. I knew that this section of forest edged on to the Evermoors, but thought nothing of it - the trolls rarely came this far east, preferring to pick off those on their way to Nesme.
I probably wouldn't have noticed anything tangible if I'd taken my own intuition seriously. Eerie, melodramatic silences be damned, I was tired, wet and hungry, and looking forward to finding somewhere dry enough to collapse and pass out. I began to do just that, blearily scanning the ground, when I saw something that definitely should not have been there.
The boot print wouldn't have been unusual in a lot of woodland regions. I might have passed it off for another traveller, a woodsman perhaps, if I were a little closer to a developed road. It seemed broad and deep, as though the person who'd made it was heavily built. I had three choices now, simple options that could have a very profound effect on how long I continued to breathe. The first choice really was no choice - stick to the path, keep bungling ahead and hope for the best. On to the serious options, then. On the one hand, I could leave the path and cut southwards (towards my right). This would take me both into the woods and further up the incline of the valley. On the other, go north (left), and head downhill, steadily towards the Rauvin. If I was canny enough, I'd find a stream with a rocky exit, mask my scent and my tracks, and be able to follow the river to the road. Or, I could stick to the path and hope I didn't run into anything vicious.
I ended up choosing to head north. South was the safer option, as taking the high ground for a vantage point and defensive position was much more tactically efficient. It would also slow me significantly, and reduce my options to fight alone if I encountered anyone. By going North, I'd have the advantage of taking the downhill slopes for speed, possible streams fed by the Rauvin to conceal my passage, and the promise of open ground within a day. My fitness was better than I'd thought, but I was still tired and sore after more than a week of hard trekking. My left knee had held up so far, but felt like it was starting to swell. If I wasn't careful, the cold weather and exertion would cause it to lock up. An uphill grade might mean the difference between having one good leg or two for a good amount of time.
*****************************
I hate it when someone says "I told you so" after the fact. Especially when they say it to me. Especially when I say it to me.
Not three miles from where I made the (apparently) astute decision to break North, I ran into three orcs. They weren't friendly. Better still, it was now approaching sundown on an overcast day, under a thick forest canopy. Conditions were approaching total darkness, which orcs have no trouble seeing in. Needless to say, I have more than a little trouble trying to fight without light.
The first battle I had for two decades and the most favourable condition I could mention was that they were even more soggy and pathetic looking than I felt. I suppose that's something. Emotion fled me and consumed me at the same time as the orcs barked a challenge in their guttural tongue, drew their weapons and charged. |
| Vanion |
Posted - 20 Oct 2005 : 01:21:22
Chapter Two
"Nothing is as certain as that the vices of leisure are gotten rid of by being busy."
~Seneca, Moral Letters to Lucilius, 64 A.D.
That next month was, in many ways, the hardest month of my life, but also the most fulfilling. The labour itself was tedious, but soothing. I suppose one can spend so long in oblivion and idolatry that the prospect of work and toil can actually be a welcome one – like getting the visit from an old friend who never knows when to leave. You're glad to have for some time…because despite his little vagaries and difficulties, he means nothing but the best for you, and you consider the downsides to be worth his presence. Eventually, he settles in like a rank odour, and it's all you can do not to spit on him as he gives you his "good bloody morning" smile.
Such is my relationship with domestic chores.
On the positive side, I now have a relatively respectable abode. The first thing I did was take my meagre supply of firewood, stack it in the hearth, douse it in apple brandy from the last bottles in the house and let the bu.gger rip. That is, after I spent a good hour or so fumbling about for my flint and tinder. In the dark.
From there, the interior came under a frenzy of sustained attack that hearkened back to my short stint in a regular military. Within a week, I had the inside of the house spick and span, after dealing with more cockroaches than I think I've seen in one location before or since. The garden was a little tougher to work through…
When I say "garden", you're probably thinking of a small patch of vegetables, a couple of flowerbeds and a lemon tree within spitting distance of the windows. The reality of my backyard is that it edged on to a small section of woods. Nothing spectacular enough to get an ominous name…thankfully it's not one of the (apparent hundreds) spattered throughout the Northlands that is filled with elves, barbarians, orcs, or orcish barbarians. Just animals and trees…disappointed, aren't you?
Still, what it lacks in homicidal bipeds, it makes up for in vegetation. Over the course of three years of neglect, my garden had become overrun with things I simply had no description for and, to top it off, all of my tools were rusted, some to the point of near uselessness. This situation was worsened by the fact that, as I mentioned, I'd burned off my store of firewood a few nights previous, and had since shivered myself to sleep as a nocturnal ritual. I suppose I could have gone into town to get a new axe and tools, but something in me wanted to prove that I could re-order my life on my own, without help.
One day of sharpening followed by nine of chopping and slicing. The net result – I found out that my raspberry bush, the root vegetables and most of the herbs had somehow survived on their own. What hadn't could be substituted by wild tubers and berries. That sorted having to make a trip to the shops. A little clean living, water, fibre and sugar I was looking almost like my old self again. More than that, I was feeling like my old self, and I started to go for runs through the woods. My endurance was horrid, as one might expect, but improving…I think. My left knee still got sore and tight well before its fellow, but I was far from being a cripple.
The next step seems logical enough now that I look back, though I don't think I expected myself to take it at the time. I went into the attic, looking for some old clothes I could wear, since most of mine were in a shocking state of disrepair that most rats wouldn't chew them, or mired in such filth that not even a wash in acid would help.
I don't know how I can have forgotten it was up there…maybe I blocked it out. Maybe I just didn't want to remember. My breath caught when my eyes alighted upon the far wall…I felt like I'd taken a hammer blow to the sternum. I'd made a habit of taking out my weapons and armour every few months, when Hal came for a visit. We'd spend the time oiling them over, keep them in decent nick, and I'd give him a few stories from my younger days…
The visits had stopped some time ago.
The suit of plate could once have been vaguely recognised as a cunningly crafted set of white harness…now it was rusted beyond belief or repair. A leak had sprung in the roof, probably last winter from the looks of it…and tipped right on to the breastplate and spauldings. The weapons might have been salvageable…in parts.
One would assume that my response in such a situation would be to turn into a mopey, self deprecating mess all over again and fall into a bottle. Well, that's what I would have guessed someone in that situation would have done. Instead, I focused on my anger, nurtured it, and took it out on an innocent tree.
What can I say? I was trying to go from gluttony to virtue and reached impotent rage instead. Ah well. |
| Vanion |
Posted - 20 Oct 2005 : 01:18:51
Chapter One
"Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it is very important that you do it."
~Mahatma Gandhi
It felt like twin needles of jagged ice had been slammed deep into my chest, pumping me full of gelid vitriol, and I jumped to my feet with a scream.
It took me a moment to realise that there was no pain...none at all. No cold pressing against my heart or ribs, no ache in my head, no persistent soreness in my body, or even a bad aftertaste. I still stank like I had been on the drink and in these clothes for some time, though. My skin quickly agreed with my nose, and I began to itch in some inconvenient places. I looked about the room; things were much as they'd been before, right down to the apple bobbing at the same level in the brandy bottle.
But there wasn't even a hint of a cobweb in the corner of the ceiling. I needed a walk to clear my head, and my feet automatically took for the back door - my conscious mind was racing in several directions without adhering to one in particular. I turned the handle dumbly and stepped out into the crisp autumn air.
The day was much as it had been in my vision (dream?), grey clouds above, pale blue-white light painting the world in cool, soft tones. Even the trees, decked out in their vivid autumn mackinaws and shawls, had a subdued air, somehow bled of colour while in their apparent brightness. I passed the sensation off as extreme hunger. I couldn't remember when I'd last had something solid.
I tottered wearily over to the rain barrel, scrubbing my gritty face off and rubbing the area about my eyes clean. After a moment of quick deliberation, I scrubbed my mouth, then my hands, wondering how long it had been since I'd put myself through such simple ablutions. Forget a few days in these clothes...I was filthy. This was going to take some more effort.
Two hours later, I stepped out of the copper bathtub in my room. It had been both rusty and dusty when I filled it (or oxidised green and cleanliness deficient, I'll let you decide). I didn't really want to think of how it should be described now, but better the filth stayed mired in the water than stuck to my skin. I stepped up towards the room's dilapidated full length mirror while drying off with a rough towel, then stopped to take a good look over my reflection. To say I'd taken my wife's death and the following years of self destruction badly would be an understatement.
My hair had gone from salt and pepper to a solid iron grey, and was now at a length reaching my shoulders. I quickly bound it back into a warrior's queue with a rag that was on a nearby dresser. A little too late, I hoped it was at least marginally clean. Calling my eyes bloodshot would have been a kindness - the red was almost solid. The veins on my nose and cheeks hadn't quite reached a purplish stage, but they were beginning to show if I looked closely. Maybe a beard might not have been such a bad idea after all.
I quickly dismissed that idea. My skin simply felt too gritty underneath the hair, and I was in the mood for the spring cleaning of a lifetime. Except it was autumn. Fate can really be a fickle bitch sometimes.
Without getting stuck on the particulars (because they're rather depressing), I learned that I had lost muscle, gained fat and looked like I was halfway into the grave. It's amazing how alcohol distorts your own reflection almost as much as other peoples' sometimes. Ah well, on the bright side, there certainly were worse looking middle aged men on the planet. Somewhere, I presume. I hope.
There was one particular detail that I do believe bears mentioning, however. I found new scars over the left side of my chest (what used to be my left pectoral muscle)...small, circular and precise, like a couple of fangs had bitten into me. The flesh was perfectly healed, as though they'd been there for months, perhaps years. I didn't quite know what to make of it, whether it had all been a venom and alcohol induced hallucination and I was simply too stupefied to realise it, but I knew that I wasn't going to even think about another drink. I pulled on the cleanest clothes I could find and set about the long and arduous task of making my house habitable for a self respecting pig. From there, we'd see how I did by human standards. |
| Vanion |
Posted - 20 Oct 2005 : 01:12:25
Prologue: A Rude Awakening
"To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing."
~William Shakespeare: "Macbeth", Act 5 scene 5
You know you're in a bad way when you loathe waking up. Life is meant to be about embracing conscious thought and action, seizing of the moment and savouring the joy that is to be found in every breath, word and thought. Thus, the moment of awakening should be that of most profound joy, the embodiment of hope for the coming hours. It should be, anyway.
Consciousness came upon me like a wave lapping the shore that day - gentle and caressing, slowly becoming a nagging and insistent tug on my senses, then a full, enveloping and inexorable force, closing into a fist on my mind. My head felt like it was stuffed with equal parts sand, straw and jagged glass, my throat gummy and cloyed with the sickly sweet ichor of apple brandy residue. This was not, I'm afraid, a sensation I could claim any lack of familiarity with. I'd known it yesterday, would know it tomorrow, had known it for the last three years, and would for who knows how long.
They say alcoholics can give it up - I say if they can give it up, they're not alcoholics. You can space out the spaces between drinks, but once you're a prisoner of the bottle, you're not getting out. A marriage as true as a union between souls, really. I have despaired, but not for being a sot - in the gradations of degradation it's really not so bad; after all, there are times when it's even pleasant to drown yourself quietly in small lakes.
I despaired because I couldn't do anything about it.
Musings aside, the coarse feel of sweat stained fabric was beginning to chafe my neck in a discomfiting manner. I tilted my head off the armchair, that small movement enough to dizzy me and make me groan, until my gorge rose. I wouldn't puke, unfortunately. That was usually the best way to clear off a hangover with expediency, before making yourself a greasy plate of fried animal chunks and ingesting them, but not today. I got the aftertaste and unpleasantness of vomit for my tongue without the relief of queasy burdens for my stomach. I hate mornings (afternoons?) that start like that with particular vehemence.
I painfully swallowed the mixture of bile and brandy before prising my eyelids open and looking about. The cabin was much as it had been for the past few years, a sad, battered reflection of its old self, bathed in the pastel luminescence of sunlight on an overcast day. Even that seemed to be painfully bright.
The roof's crossbeams were starting to sag. Perhaps imperceptibly to most people, but I'd placed them myself - they couldn't shift as much as a bee's prick's worth of distance without me noticing...when I was sober, anyway. The floor was strewn with clothes, belts, forks, knives, pots and other household items, the single table cluttered with old plates, wine cups and battered pitchers. And there in the corner, a spindly little spider started to weave its pretty cobweb. The onset of living decay had become official. I didn't even want to think about what the kitchen looked like. Yep, the usual alright.
I looked to my right - the hearth's fire was dying down to embers and the stool-cum-bedside table by the armrest still had an emerald hued bottle on top. Surprisingly (pleasantly?), it was still half filled with brandy, an apple bobbing cheerfully (dizzily) upon the liquid's surface. I never did figure out how they managed to get those into the neck.
Yes, I was considering it. No matter how wretched my body or my head felt, the thought of "just another sip"¯ never stopped nagging my mind, waking or asleep. It was so easy to rationalise away the dangers, expound on the temporary benefots..."It'll wash down your bile, numb your throat, and then numb your brain. Just hop back on the wagon, wolf down a big breakfast, and you'll be right as rain." I can't pretend pride or a sudden burst of willpower at realising I'd hit rock bottom - left to my own devices, I would have swigged. But apparently I wasn't as alone as I thought.
Laughter echoed through the room...soft, deep, warm and rich - distinctly feminine. So much like a voice I used to know, but not quite. It was still enough to pull me out of my fascination with the bottle's liquid dapple and ripple of light. Not that I really expected anyone was actually there. A person simply can't go to the levels of dissipation or self contamination that I'd reached without at least a couple of hallucinations. What drew me out of my inanimate reverie was what always quickens my heart a little upon hearing a woman's laughter; the thought that somewhere behind those carefully constructed artifices of conduct and condescension there's a little girl just bubbling over with the desire to dance and play.
My vision shifted to the painting above the mantle - the faces staring back at me made the cesspit that passed for my soul well with emotion I thought I'd long abandoned, and my hand strayed for the bottle without receiving any orders from my mind.
"You've had quite enough, Krychton."¯
Well, well. This was certainly new. I'd heard voices before, but they almost never addressed me and never in rich, velvety tones, to be sure. I passed it off as something bad being in the brandy. Maybe paint thinner. My arm began to extend again.
"Stop it!"¯
I turned my head to the spideress, who'd now stilled her work to turn and face me completely. I looked closer at the soft brown felt that covered her limbs and the structure and pattern of the thorax...called upon knowledge I thought I'd long forgotten. A little huntress, then, had decided to address me. Paint thinner is highly underrated.
I cleared my throat, wincing at the pain of the process, before asking my question in a voice that was far more gravely and hoarse than I remembered mine to be.
"Why?"¯
"Because for just a few moments I'd like to address you while you're lucid...or at least as close as I'll get to that."¯
It seems that even arachnid females have innate mastery over the voice of fond contempt. I've grown familiar with it. The spider's voice had an ageless quality to it, the kind of timbre that could belong to a naive young girl or to an older woman who was simply unbowed by life's vagaries. The confidence it possessed told me it was likely the latter.
"Well," I went on, clearing my throat again, "it seems that you have the advantage of me. What should I call, you, miss?"¯
"Charlotte will do."¯
I couldn't help but smirk at that. "I suppose that makes this the sty, and me the pig."
"Perhaps, Krychton,"¯ she continued with a vexed clicking, "but that doesn't have to be the case. You used to be a very different man."¯
"People change."¯
"True enough, but you haven't changed at heart...and you do have a heart underneath all those layers of self pity and self contempt. You've just done a half arsed job at trying to bury it."¯
"Interesting theory. Can I get you a drink?"¯
"Damn you!"¯
Charlotte began crawling down the wall in a manner that reminded me of challengingly swaying hips and high shoulders in a human woman. I never was that good at making invitations.
"What do you want, Krychton? Why do you do this to yourself? You've still got a life to live. Do you think Vesicia would approve of the choices you've made?"¯
"Don't you dare mention her!! I think I surprised myself with the sudden vehemence and volume of my voice. I didn't realise that I had any anger left in me.
"And why not"¯
If she were human, she would have looked down her nose at me and crossed her arms under her breasts. Damn, but that spider was starting to grate on my nerves. My other hallucinations were usually more entertaining, not to mention a little gentler on the ego.
"You've done little more that try to both indulge in and escape from memories of her for the past year, wallowing in your own grief, rotting from the inside to become nothing more than a twisted wreck of a man. Your children can't stand to see you, your neighbours pity and abhor you, your friends already consider you dead from the canker that will grow in your liver. For all intents and purposes, you are dead, Krychton, they just haven't closed the lid on the coffin. Why don't you just take your belt knife and end it now - two quick slashes and you can be done. Why indulge in this slow decay, waiting for death to creep up on you in a sodden, febrile haze?"
A cold sweat broke fresh upon my skin, my nostrils began to flare, taking in dust and expelling brandied fumes. Something in me stirred....it had been years since I'd been presented with the opportunity of death, openly and cleanly, and some echo of a warrior long dead stirred. I couldn't refute that anything Charlotte was telling me as false - maybe a death by blade would be quicker and cleaner than what I had inadvertently planned for myself. Still, something inside me kept me from taking that option, but it wasn't the love for live or sense of duty that I'd once had.
No, it was a lot more pathetic than that. I simply refused to do what made sense because I'd been told to do it. Like an adolescent attracted to the right to do something rebellious for no other reason than it was forbidden, I was attracted to drinking myself to death because nobody wanted me to. That, and I do quite love alcohol. I doubt there's an addict out there who doesn't have at least a passing fondness for their dependancy.¯
"No..." I responded after a moment, "I'd rather not."
"So"¯ she seemed far from amused amused, mostly contemptuous and disbelieving, "there might be a spark of life in you yet. It will do."
With a delicate flex of her legs, she hopped down to the floor, before stalking towards me, crawling up my boot, and then my leg, almost hissing her vituperation. I stayed very still, on the one hand not sure I wanted to harm her, on the other, not really wanting to move at all.
"Your time will come soon enough Krychton - but do you want to be remembered as a piece of human refuse, found within the wreckage of his own life, or do you want to be remembered as a man?:
She began to tread over my shirt with a pitter patter of minute steps, before settling her front legs over the open buttons, on to the skin of my chest, before intoning words in a voice that seemed almost reverent, but somehow numb... toneless, but not emotionless.
"The Moon hidden in deep shadows,
Her brother passes with russet streaks...
The great one hidden for ages long
Under the eclipses:
Iron will cool in the bloody wound."¯
"The hell?"¯ To say I was confused at this point would like saying that shit stinks.
"You will know when that comes to pass, Krychton," she continued in a voice that was quiet and solemn, "for that will be the moment you're truly alive again."
"You almost sound sad about that."
"I am...not for you finding something to live for. But for the fact that you will only enjoy it for short while, before you must die."
"Moon in deeps shadows...brother...I don't...an eclipse?"
"Perhaps...but we cannot speak of that now, my dear." Now she definitely sounded sad...and almost...familiar.
"Why not?"
"Because it's time for you to wake up."
And with that, her fangs sunk into my chest. |
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