1st Spring 522 AV – Evening – The Slag Heap Fire
The day had started out a far more complicated one than he had anticipated – or wanted if he were honest. The beginning of Spring was usually a joyous and celebratory occasion in Sunberth but in many ways his thoughts were clouded and his mood one of pensive concern that seemed to radiate out from him enough that most had simply left him be. He could still feel the pulling of the stitches upon he shoulders and forearms, having had them put back together at the Redynn earlier, before returning to Sunberth for what was left of the revelries. As for the cuts upon his palms, well they have put some kind of salve over then and then bandaged them up thinly enough that he could wear his gloves over them, preventing unwanted questions.
The pain of their pulling and cracking had been numbed by their medicine, but banished completely by the several rounds of drinks he had had at the first tavern he had come across after stepping back through the dovecote. He had read the letters and his journal so many times that he had grown tired of them. He had questioned, researched for errors, everything…but thy had been proven solidly true. So, he had decided that he had had enough of curses, magic and whatever the petch else the gods wanted to throw at him. Instead he had yearned for simpler things…which had led him to the Slag Heap for what would be the ending of the first day’s festivities, at least in a few bells it would be.
“Another year…another series of problems,” he said between swigs of a bottle of something or other, it was strong and that was all that mattered, “one day I’d like just a little measure of peace…quiet…just for a little while. Not too much to ask is it, Eyris? Or would you say instead that only through struggles can we grow…or something…sounds about right” he sighed as he looked at his Lykata mark as if he could see through the glove and bandages.
It was a strange thing, at times he could swear that he could almost feel her presence again. Closer at times, further or gone at others…but always there if he just concentrated. He wondered if, somewhere, she could sense him too…and no doubt find disappointment of some measure that he didn’t equal their other family members. He snorted as he watched the crowds below him begin to congregate – they’d filter in bit by bit as the evening drew on, lingering light turning to shadows…then pure darkness but for the torches, and the burning man. He took another swig and looked up as the sky, its changing colours marking the passage of time.
He had four of his own smaller torches driven into the ground, marking out the four corners of his space for the evening, blankets spread out across it to further define the boundaries. He doubted anyone would wish to join him but if they seemed a decent sort, he might offer them a drink and some conversation, perhaps. If not, well he had all of his weaponry about him to see off all but the most hardened and stubborn of thugs – not that they’d likely be sober enough to fight properly anyway. Mostly, though, he simply wished to spend the night in a simple Sunberthian tradition, a reminder that no matter how dark things may get, he was still a free man.
Idly, he wondered where those who were connected to him were, what they were doing and whether – as with Eyris – there was those silent, silvery threads tying them together. Whether, somewhere, there was someone with a plan, or whether everything was simply blind luck and a veneer of faith put there for the comfort of others.
The day had started out a far more complicated one than he had anticipated – or wanted if he were honest. The beginning of Spring was usually a joyous and celebratory occasion in Sunberth but in many ways his thoughts were clouded and his mood one of pensive concern that seemed to radiate out from him enough that most had simply left him be. He could still feel the pulling of the stitches upon he shoulders and forearms, having had them put back together at the Redynn earlier, before returning to Sunberth for what was left of the revelries. As for the cuts upon his palms, well they have put some kind of salve over then and then bandaged them up thinly enough that he could wear his gloves over them, preventing unwanted questions.
The pain of their pulling and cracking had been numbed by their medicine, but banished completely by the several rounds of drinks he had had at the first tavern he had come across after stepping back through the dovecote. He had read the letters and his journal so many times that he had grown tired of them. He had questioned, researched for errors, everything…but thy had been proven solidly true. So, he had decided that he had had enough of curses, magic and whatever the petch else the gods wanted to throw at him. Instead he had yearned for simpler things…which had led him to the Slag Heap for what would be the ending of the first day’s festivities, at least in a few bells it would be.
“Another year…another series of problems,” he said between swigs of a bottle of something or other, it was strong and that was all that mattered, “one day I’d like just a little measure of peace…quiet…just for a little while. Not too much to ask is it, Eyris? Or would you say instead that only through struggles can we grow…or something…sounds about right” he sighed as he looked at his Lykata mark as if he could see through the glove and bandages.
It was a strange thing, at times he could swear that he could almost feel her presence again. Closer at times, further or gone at others…but always there if he just concentrated. He wondered if, somewhere, she could sense him too…and no doubt find disappointment of some measure that he didn’t equal their other family members. He snorted as he watched the crowds below him begin to congregate – they’d filter in bit by bit as the evening drew on, lingering light turning to shadows…then pure darkness but for the torches, and the burning man. He took another swig and looked up as the sky, its changing colours marking the passage of time.
He had four of his own smaller torches driven into the ground, marking out the four corners of his space for the evening, blankets spread out across it to further define the boundaries. He doubted anyone would wish to join him but if they seemed a decent sort, he might offer them a drink and some conversation, perhaps. If not, well he had all of his weaponry about him to see off all but the most hardened and stubborn of thugs – not that they’d likely be sober enough to fight properly anyway. Mostly, though, he simply wished to spend the night in a simple Sunberthian tradition, a reminder that no matter how dark things may get, he was still a free man.
Idly, he wondered where those who were connected to him were, what they were doing and whether – as with Eyris – there was those silent, silvery threads tying them together. Whether, somewhere, there was someone with a plan, or whether everything was simply blind luck and a veneer of faith put there for the comfort of others.
