Event Déjà vu Part IV

[Mittle]

On the sixth bell, Mitt blew upwards at something tickling his face and he brushed off a pile of feathers with his right hand.
'Mhm. Handy alarm clock.' he thought sleepily.

Mitt rolled over on his side and grabbed the cup of coffee to start his day. Again. Sitting up slowly, he pulled on his shorts and grunted at the bird on the altar. The crimson Macaw flew off as the young man approached, dropping a mound of feathers to scatter over the small area.

With a patient sigh, he moved aside the feathers that now sat in a large collective stack.

" 'Ay and 'om!"
The bird said something peculiar as it was leaving but it was unclear as to exactly what it was. Mitt shrugged. If it was important, he'd find out soon enough. It still made him a little uneasy. It felt like another veiled warning like yesterday's 'he's here' comment.

The tawny haired young man clacked the two stones together, setting them to the side and knelt with his head bowed and both hands on his legs. He tried to gather his sleepy thoughts for a new day.

'I think I need to be on the straight and narrow path now. If I'm good here, and work hard then maybe I'll never have to see Sunberth again. I took the easy way out there, selling my soul to get protection for my dad. Finding a better way to do that would've been best, but I can't change that. What I did to Rat was wrong but I got so mad at him and Ray I just...' Mitt paused in his thoughts, chasing them around like trying to herd cats.

'It's no excuse for taking more lives, I know. I just thought that with a clean start here, I can and will do better. Put the ugly past behind me and do it right ya know? Whatever life gives me, I know I always have your strength and patience to guide me back. Thank you.'

He set the stones back to one on each side of the Izurdin figurine and rose clumsily to his feet. Mitt went to the Commons for more coffee and some breakfast this time. It was pretty crowded at this hour when everyone was waking up and now he remembered why he hadn't gone in the mornings. Talking. Meh. At least he was wearing his pants this time.

Mitt started some more coffee and looked at the plethora of fresh food just there for the taking. Fresh fruits and meats lent their scents to the fresh morning air and he reminded himself that he really needed to learn to cook. He'd at least gotten the basics for clamming. That reminded him he needed to get a basket, a rake and a clam gun at the Mercantile.

Drinking his coffee in silence he still liked that there were people around. It was downright creepy to be alone all the time and definitely not something he preferred. Maybe it was a safety in numbers thing? Was it from growing up in Sunberth? Or being honest, was it the sudden loss of both mom and dad?

The tawny haired man looked down at the empty plate and hadn't remembered a single thing he'd eaten. He'd obviously drank the coffee because there was no more. Apparently he was merely lost in thought.

'Time to clean up and get cleaned up.' he thought to himself. Mitt washed his dishes along with a few of the others that were left behind. That chore finished, it was time for a shower to wake him up and get to work.


WC 608

[Mittle]

Clean and ready to work, Mitt headed to the Foundry with purpose. He was determined and ready to do the right thing. As many times, or days as it was going to take. Mitt decided he was going to get the rest of those screws and nails made toda--

The young smith's boot hit something solid and he nearly tripped over it. Picking up the heavy metal object, he stared at the thing with a mixture of fascination and fear. It looked like a metal hand defensively holding sharp feathers like you would hold a knife.... or a dagger. Mitt backed up till he hit the door frame and the macabre sculpture dropped to the floor with a loud thud.

"Daggerhand!" he breathed and stared at the thing. Mitt skirted around it like a skittish horse and started stoking the forge as quickly as he could.

He'd destroy that thing! Burn it to ashes!

Mitt kept one icy blue eye on the forge and the other on the sculpture. There's no way it was a coincidence or accident.

Wait, hadn't Ray joined them? He shook his head firmly against even that wild flight of fancy. Syka was safe. They didn't have gangs and thieves here. It was perfectly safe....

He glanced down at the dagger shaped feathers.

Safe here..? He stomped the bellows, attempting to force the forge to build faster. How could twenty chimes take so long?! Smoke started billowing and Mitt realized he hadn't checked the valve first! Quickly he grabbed the tongs and opened the valve, allowing the forge to breath. Nine smoldering feathers came out of it, charring and stinking.

Mitt staggered outside, gasping and choking with his eyes streaming. Bent double he leaned on his knees struggling against the smoke in his lungs.

Stupid! Stupid mindless idiotic fear because he didn't keep his mind on his work! Wiping his tearing eyes on his sleeve, Mitt watched from outside as the smoke drifted away on the constant ocean breeze. Once the air was cleared, he walked back in and looked at the charred ash that was once feathers. With swift motions, he swept up the mess and cleared the area completely.

Now that the forge was stoked, he glanced at the sculpture with dark blue eyes and terrified pinpoint pupils. Using the tongs, he picked it up and tossed it into the forge, stepping back quickly. Dropping his arms, he peaked at the forge and saw the petching thing just sitting there. It sat on the coals, the flames all around, not touching a thing!

"How? What?!" he couldn't speak without his voice cracking. How was it untouched? Every single feather remained untouched, in a perfect gleaming razor edged crimson.

With both hands, he used the heavy weight tongs to lift and swing that thing out and swing it to the quenching barrel. How was it so heavy? What was it made of?! It took him a full chime to realize that there was no hissing steam or smell from the quenching barrel! His large calloused hands shook as he lifted the sculpture and stared at it. Bone dry, room temperature, unscathed. Gravity and terror shook his hands too much to hold it and it clanged heavily to the floor, barely missing his foot.

Mitt leaped backwards, stumbling in his fear and fell back onto the anvil mount. Izzy and the stump banged to the floor and he scrambled to stand up.

"No no no NO!" He ran out of the foundry at full tilt, his arms and legs pumping as fast as he could push himself.


WC 601 Total WC 1,209

[Mittle]

The afternoon rains fell in torrents and the tawny haired man slowed his pace to an exhausted walk. His breathing was labored and sweat mingled with the water from the sky as he walked back to his tent. The sound of rain pattering on the trees leaves was soothing as if trying to relax him a little. The downpour of rain hissed through the air with a white noise that erased all distractions, and it consoled as warmly as a weighted blanket. Mitt's feet sank further into the wet sand with each step becoming heavier and slower. The rain felt warm and soft, like a kind hand in his hour of solitary need.

As last reaching his destination, he pulled down the tent flaps waving wildly in the wind and tied the ends neatly to the stakes. It worked a little to keep out all but the driving rain that blew in from the tent bottom. It was a bare modicum of privacy though it was more symbolic than anything else; any light easily filtered through to show the shadows of everything that dwelled within. It highlighted far more than it covered up. The hot humid climate didn't afford much in visual privacy, but the amount of loners there gave him far more solitude than he'd ever had behind solid Sunberth walls. The young blacksmith was still internally debating both sides of that particular dilemma.

Tired and frazzled, soaking wet and dripping with rain, he sat on his increasingly damp bed roll and attempted to rein in his thoughts to something resembling a little more rational conclusion. Mitt looked down idly at his hands as if searching for some hidden answer or clue there that he might have overlooked.

Reticent thoughts and doubts crept in like devious vermin at the corners of his mind, chewing and worrying the frayed ends even further. He had run from one extreme to another, there was no denying that fact now. He had wanted desperately to remove himself from danger derived from too many people on all sides. There were so many people and dangers in Sunberth that the only thing Mitt felt he could do to cope was to posture while he was there. It was a defense mechanism in order to survive. Survival hah! He definitely couldn't use the same method here.

As far as Mitt could observe, people were remote and unless you were a child, and regular teachers were few and far between for learning new and important skills. Most of the people here had savage fighting skills to deal with the deadly jungle so close by and the killer denizens that lurked there. There were also God given guardians, many special species' skills and they each had uniquely powerful magical items aplenty to aid them. Mitt was just an average human guy trying to get by. But the majority of them simply weren't qualified to be teachers. Did he just pop up in some strangers' face and demand to be taught? He didn't think so. Mitt looked but had found that only the new children weren't masters and experts of Wilderness Survival. Each one he'd encountered were highly skilled loners that didn't have the ability to teach. He closed his hands and set them down with a long sigh.

Syka was on the opposite end of the spectrum from the city he'd left behind and working desperately to survive was the only shared trait in common. Three quarters of the current population of Syka were animals looking to kill you. Feathered, furred, scaled, two legged, four legged and no legged, all were a chance at a painful excruciating death--including the food that could and did kill you! His mind lingered on the red berries and he shuddered.

'Is it just because I'm too young?' he wondered.
No, it wasn't that. He had seen a few others close to his age that were highly experienced hunters, doctors, magic experts, and survival masters.

Right now, he could work at the Foundry, keep his head down and just work, eat, sleep and repeat. But that statue earlier looked like a precursor to inauspicious things to come. Soon.


WC 695 Total WC 1,904

[Mittle]

His grey eyes drifted downward to the Izurdin altar looking for familiarity and rested on it for a few chimes. In the opposite corner by the door, a blazing sunbeam burst through the gaps and shone down to highlight the creepy daggerhand sculpture, casting a long strange shadow as if it somehow moved toward him.

Great. Fantastic. It was as if some lingering Sunberth ugliness insisted on following him around like a faithful hellhound. Now that the afternoon showers were done, he jumped to his feet, untying and opening all the panels to the bright sunlight and air again. Feeling the breeze was a little cooler and decidedly fresher, the ocean scents of fish and seaweed with that salty tang were becoming more familiar by the day.

Then he stepped back and slid down his length to his feet to sit in the warm damp sand. A morose epiphany occurred and it stood strongly at the forefront of his mind. He'd been a Watcher in Sunberth. To lurk around people who either needed warning or protection in the form of a very large visual reminder. Exactly like the creepy statue. All the things he'd done to climb that slimy ladder of criminal success, using people as mere stepping stones to further his own ambitions. He wasn't a helpless victim of Sunberth's ways. He'd done the wrong things for the right reason which didn't make what he'd done, good by any standards.

Mitt looked down at his hands again, imagining the blood. The lives he'd taken with a selfish and single-minded purpose to get what he'd wanted. How long could he have honestly claimed innocence in his own actions, sincerely? Why hadn't he talked to his father about it? Had his father known? Neither he nor his parents had mentioned it in any way, but they weren't stupid either.

"Maybe if I'm just like... solid reliable good here in Skya, then that will make up for it?" he asked himself, but it sounded trite even to his ears.

It wouldn't undo or mitigate the past in any way, shape or form. It definitely wouldn't bring his mother and father back from the dead. Then what could or should he do? Turn himself in to Sunberth?! The young blacksmith stretched out both long legs in a kicking motion, as if physically shoving back in rebellion at the very notion. He shook his tawny head vehemently. Nope.

But he did need to talk with Randal about Artik.... and confess? The Founder wasn't a priest to take in his sins! But a sin of omission was still a lie. Yes he was fleeing Sunberth's crimes--his own. Who was he to demand anything of anyone for that matter? He was no God or ruler. Mitt was a young adult trying to find his way in the world and stumbling around badly.

He'd missed lunch and the lunch rush dishes as well, though it was firmly into supper time. Mitt might have had zero appetite, but he could at least help out doing the supper dishes to keep his hands busy. He'd yet again wasted another day in this endless cycle of non stop shyke. He hadn't learned any skills, gotten good at anything or made any friends.

Mitt had, however, at least gained enough insight to let go of his grief and self-pity that clung to him like the stink of failure. Dishes washed, dried and neatly returned, he turned firmly in the direction of Randal's place. He wasn't sure how he he'd word it or exactly what he'd say but the young blacksmith needed to lay out all his cards on the table and face the consequences, whatever they may be.


WC 617 Total WC 2,521