[Freight Docks]The Harrowed Traveler (Cian Noc)

[Matthial]

89th of Fall - 511AV Dark clouds sat above the docks. Rolling waves fell across one of the many open piers as the wooden structures reached out onto the famed Storm Bay. The body of water had certainly earned its name these last few days, with Denval weathering a particularly long rainstorm. The sun barely peaked through the dark 'ceiling' offered by the weather, the rays touching on open water. Two ships sat at the docks, only kept in place by the rope and anchors securing them to dry land. Then, amid the waves a shape could be seen. A ship. It was hard to discern from the docks, but it looked damaged. The vessel just managed to berth a particularly large wave as it slowly approached the docks. The brigantine listed to the right as the captain turned it into another violent wave, and then... it was clear. Almost as sudden as the storm had appeared a week ago, it was gone, leaving behind a soft, cold rain in its place as a sort of consolation. It was a half-hour before the ship was anchored, and her crew and cargo had been accepted by a barge from the docks. The barge captain could only stare in awe at the ragged group that made it's way down the boarding ramp. If a man had been beaten, starved, set aflame, tortured, and drowned, he still wouldn't look as bad as the sorry individuals who now took their seats. He counted maybe twenty men as he looked back to the ship. Nobody else seemed to be coming. Surely there where more? A brigantine needed at least- "We are it. Take us to the docks captain." The tallest among the battered group spoke, interrupting the captains' obvious thoughts. The captain, blinked and looked away, noting the silence of the men as he steered for the freight docks. Matthial could barely feel the seat under him. He couldn't feel his fingers, or his cheeks. He simply swayed with the boat, completely oblivious to everything as he clutched a bottle of rum with a shaking hand. The bottle soon found his lips as he pulled hungrily at the liquid inside. It seemed like years before the barge finally found itself in Denval. Matthial could barely stand as he managed to move away from the group. Everything was hazy as the man continued to drink in the rain. He had no idea where he was going, no idea what he was doing, he only knew of the pain, the regret, and his desire to drown them. He was sitting on a rock now, just staring at the settlement that stretched out before him. Yet he couldn't see it at all. Instead he saw the flash of a sword, the red of blood, the spark of a fire. The memories wrapped about him, tighter then his own cloak and more potent then the foul liquid surging down his throat. A hand shook as he let the bottle rest near his knee and stared about with his mouth slack-jawed. The hair was an unkempt mess, and it was a constant effort to keep it out of shadowed-eyes. The cloak was torn, and in some places, cut and slashed. Underneath white cloth could be seen, presumably bandages. No weapons could be seen, and the once steel-toed boots, now looked more like shredded cloth then actual functioning foot-wear. Gasping, Matthial leaned forward as he shook like a dog. Where had things gone wrong? Certainly after he had crossed the Suvan sea and agreed to join up with a ship in the Spires. Yet, even before this during his time with the Drykas, things had been... off. Something... something was wrong. Not just physically, and certainly not due to the recent hardships. Not that they hadn't been substantial. The mutiny, the pirate attack, those.. bird... things.... Matthial shuddered and continued to drink. He was near some sort of building now. He wasn't sure how he'd arrived here, or where the rock was, and he really didn't care. He leaned against the wall and continued to drink.

[Legion]

A withered leaf tumbled ahead of the wind, scratching and twirling over the streets of Denval that were paved in days still young with the ballast stones from Zeltivan merchant ships. A century previous would have found them hard packed dirt, straggly with weeds impossible to keep up with and pocked by the tribulations of sea storms. The leaf was bright, maple red against the grey day. It skipped across a rippling rain puddle to plaster itself to Matthial's weathered boot. There it quivered, stem shredded, while the wind wept colder and brought something new with it. It was a man with lean shoulders hunched against the sky, a scarf twisting in the chill and grass stained trousers swaying with a loose hipped stride. He did not look up, hands buried in coat pockets, seemingly entirely occupied by maintaining a sense of ethic in his unsheltered travels through the city. There were few figures about to speak of, what with the sky a sickly shade of green and the mountains looming like the spiked backs of snapped turtles in the distance. Wisps of fog snaked about the stranger's ankles as he kept coming, path unswerving, directly for the spot where Matthial slumped like a degenerate against the wall of a zoning warehouse for imports. Finally, when he was just within arms reach of Matthial, he stopped. A gloved hand rose, rubbing against a sniffling nose before tugging down his scarf. He looked up and what little of Syna's light was not yet diffused by drizzle and fog caught on the bright writhing marks of Rak'keli stamping Her unlikely priest's face. "There you are," Cian Noc greeted with a hoarse voice and a lopsided smile. "Waiting in the cold and wet. Go figure. Hey, I'm Cian," and without ceremony he shoved out an expectant hand.

[Matthial]

At first Matthial assumed the figure before him was an apparition. He surely fit in with the rest surrounding the tired warrior. Over the long months he'd found alcohol made them go away. Yet, over time he had to drink more for them to disappear. Matthial leaned forward to get a better look at this man, trying to figure out what made him stand out from the rest. As he did, a red flash crossed his vision. He didn't see so much as feel the deck of the swaying ship underneath. He saw his blade sink into the mutineer's arm, and watched as the blood spurted around the cold iron, as if in slow motion. Watched as the man shrieked as the blade was cruelly ripped from the limb. Watched as the blade seemed to act on its own driving forward like a snake, aimed at the target's chest. A flash of red, and Matthial found himself looking at this new figure. It was then that he realized what made this person different from the rest. He'd never killed this man. A shaking hand brought the bottle up to his lips for one more drink before Matthial snorted and tried to stay standing. He wasn't plastered, but he certainly wasn't just 'buzzed' either. "I don't- Who are you?" He paused. Clearly that wasn't the right question. He'd given his name. Something-Noc. Noc. Matthial switched the bottle to his offhand as he remembered what little remained of his manners. He grasped the offered hand, and shook with a strength. "Matthial, Sigmund Matthial. What I meant to say, was... was...Oh! Why are you here?" It was getting tougher to form sentences. Reflexively, Matthial lurched once the handshake was complete, and turned to look down the street. Strangely, the ghosts had dissapeared. If they where even ghosts at all.

[Legion]

“Because you are here,” Cian answered the question posed to him with his smile unwavering. Hazel eyes considered Sigmund Matthial without judgment yet with painstaking attention to detail. The man, for whatever reason, had earned the full intensity of his healer’s regard. It was a look older than the rest of him, long stretched and wise. “Blasted weather’s a downer,” he confessed conversationally, stuffing his hands back into the pockets of his coat once they had shaken hands. Jiggling a bit on the balls of his feet in the age old manner of one trying to remain warm, he tilted his head down the street in invitation. “Let’s go along now, shall we? Before we’re soaked through, yeah?” Matthial’s haunts had indeed vanished with Cian’s arrival, melted into the rain as if warded off. The more superstitious of Denval’s citizens might have at thing or two to say about that, but all the city understood that their Rak’keli’s priest operated beneath a veil of mystery. There were a good dozen or more rumors of his origins circulating at any given hour, but he was much beloved all the same. “And I’m Cian,” he repeated easily, not in the least bit offended by Matthial’s inebriation. “I run the Opal Clinic here. It’s not so long a walk.” He raised his eyebrows hopefully, waiting for the stranger whom he was treating like an old friend to decide to join him.

[Matthial]

Matthial said nothing for a long moment. The darkness in his eyes seemed to grow with each passing second. As if time itself was wearing the man down, and in a way, maybe it was. Another drink, and then Matthial looked to the sky in thought. A single finger traced the goatee as the bottle came to a rest at his side. It always started like this. A smiling face, a hand. It always ended the same as well, the flash of steel, and the drawing of red. If he where to follow this stranger, it would spark a series of events. Such events would always end in violence and death. As these things where the only constants in a land forgotten by its own gods. A dark smirk, and then Matthial nodded his consent to Cian. "A'ight. Tell me, friend,-" He paused breathing in sharply to control the liquid storm that was starting to mirror the one surrounding them. "-those markings..are they... significant? I don't recognize them." Which didn't mean a whole lot, as Matthial knew little of the gods beyond what he'd been taught in school. Maybe they where tribal? It didn't really matter, but it got his mind off the trip, and his own self-pity.

[Legion]

The healer did not display concern for the shade stuck in Matthial's smile, his patience steady as the retreat and return of the tides on Denval's rock infested shore. It was life's patience, an echo of a wound that knew skin knitted, blood clotted and he could cause it do so even when it was at its worst. Yet as fall tripped toward winter's death, Denval required him even more. Blood was beginning to run too fast. A sturdy hand, that of a surgeon's, caught the drunk stranger's shoulder in a companionable grip. This was used to steer him toward the sea cliff road at the height of which weighed the historic barracks, remodeled in the last decade into Cian's clinic. "That is Rak'keli's favor," he noted and obligingly tilted his face for better observance. "I'm Her priest. Have you any gnosis marks, however, I'd warn you not to try using them while you're here," and it was he now who had a shadow shutter up his eyes. "We're under attack. "C'mon," and his tone lightened, shoulders rolling back beneath the splash of rain fall. He gave Matthial's bottle a slanted look, but deigned not to comment. "You must be bloody freezing."