Fantasy An ill-thought journey

[Syncopy]

_The All-To Present

It's the god's honest truth, that I really don't have a damn clue where I am. I've been sitting here for about ... eh, maybe three or four hours now and nothing has come to. I don't even know who I am, but apparently I can write. I don't know how I know how, but it's something that seems natural and frequent, but I have nothing else to show for...




I can't seem to find anything on my person that might dictate who I was or what I was doing out in this ... this ... stunning land, but alas... I digress, I suppose I shall wander and see where my feet take me. Perhaps then and only then will I discover who I am or what I was doing.

__Four hours prior

The rolling landscape was more than vast, but rife with life abundant and absolutely stunning. The lush hills of sage crested a tall crop of wheat which pressed against the nape of a soft mountain range a few miles off, leaving the valley to glimmer of dew and an exhale of fog. The sun had stretched and yawned only to lazily peer over the white capped mountains and gaze into the lush spread of land and blink upon a young man wandering slowly up a hill, walking into his own shadow.


Inked fingers curled around a gnarled staff, white-knuckling the quarterstaff with some effort as each dig and push forced his trudge up such a steep hill toward the peak. There wasn't a thing for miles, save for the calling of fowl and roaming herds, nipping at the fresh spring foliage beneath fallen leaves. The brisk autumn season had left a bit of dismay and hunter-travelers lodged a complaint. This was the reason he hoofed the hillside; this was his mission.


At the top of the hill rested an elder tree of epic proportions. Stories had been engraved to stone of this tree's legacy and with it came the protection of its people and the a noted pride of the land. Her girth was thrice a man and yet as he approached, she stank of something rotten—beyond any sort of diseased fruit, but a demonic stain or curse upon the thick-bodied roots that rose and fell like a serpent within the land.


"My dear, my dear... what have you gotten into?" The young man's voice called.


Hair of ivory and the fairest of skin, Quinton was often thought of as elvish, but what he was seemed to be far more complicated. Upon his hands were scrawls of ink, or so they looked to be, and they wound around his fingers, his hands, and his along his forearms and beyond that, they disappeared beneath the folds of his periwinkle robes. A satchel at his side held a bit of rations and some trinkets, however offered little in the way of protection or monetary value, as he hadn't the need for such things.


Another groan and he found himself atop the hill and knelt before the root cluster which proved to be as large as he and looked up the intensity that lay before him. She was barren. Without fruit or leaves, the behemoth of a tree looked dead and ... dark—evil.


He placed a hand upon the tree and the roots seized and the ground shook violently. It didn't seem to phase Quinton in the least; on the contrary, it was as if he was ready. Quin's whispers ebbed from his lips and the coiling inkwork illuminated in ivory before separating from his arm and began to slither from his body and around the darkness that splotched the trunk of the tree.


And that's when it happened—


Uprooted and swung like a bullwhip, the tree struck Quinton's blindside without warning or restraint. It pulled his tethered ink back to him and sent him sprawling down the other side of the hill from which he arose. Down and down the shadowed darkness of the mountain he rolled, throwing articles and objects from his person until he lay at the base of the hill, very—very far from where he'd started with nothing.


Not even a memory.

 

[Margaret Rose]

Skylark was a very mischievous and curious girl, always getting into to trouble. She was busy making a trade as she spotted the purple creature tumble down the step side of the hill. "Excuse me." She said to the alarmed wood elf in front of her. Skylark was a very nimble creature, she quickly scurried off with her bag beating her back behind her. She finally caught up to the creature. His arms were covered in white markings that were turning back to black as she arrived. "Who the hell is this.." The Rouge whispered as she prodded the man with the toe of her leather boots.

 

[Atom]

The high sun beat brutally down on the grizzled man coming down the lane, his skin tanned deeply showing that this was not foreign to him. That alongside the cart rolling along next to him pulled by an ass would confirm the man to be most likely of humble origins. A simple farmer at the most, his cart leaden down with what little harvest he had collected so far. The cart was practically laden with the future of his life, as whatever he managed to get for this would certainly be needed to ensure his survival in the winter to come if something were to happen to his crops that had yet to be harvested.


Of course, it was a long accepted fact that appearances were deceiving. The man, Rylo by name, was indeed a simple farmer. But beneath his clothing the scars across his body spoke other tales, tales of war and strife. Tales of life by the blade. For Rylo had not always been a simple farmer, the scars and corded muscle beneath his skin alluded to greater accomplishments, those of a soldier. Rylo was a veteran of many a battle, and quite technically a deserter. Years had passed since he’d deserted the army and it was highly unlikely that now, in times of peace, that he was still wanted. And Rylo was content with these facts, toiling his fields by day, meager as they were, and relaxing at the nights.


But all was not as well as it would seem. Life as a soldier was never an easy one, and no one ever escaped uninjured. Rylo’s injury though was not physical but mental. Night after night was he terrorized by the stricken faces of those who had since fallen beneath his blade, their soulless eyes boring into him, faces frozen in their last moments as his blade fell, their faces showing their knowledge of their fate before the blade met flesh. Rylo had been an exceptional soldier, and many had fallen beneath his blade. And it was the many who terrorized the one with each passing night. Their screams, their terror, and their anger was all imprinted on Rylo, and never would he forget their faces.


But none of this was evident with the way Rylo moved, a slow casual gait, a merry tune whistling from his lips as he guided the ass down the lane. His tune came to an eventual end as his eyes alighted upon the man up ahead, sitting on a gnarled stump writing something. An odd sight by far to Rylo, but times of peace brought out the odd peaceful nature of things, a fact Rylo had long since determined and enjoyed.


“Ho! Traveler!” Rylo called out with a friendly smile as he made his approach.

 

[Syncopy]

_Thirty minutes prior

Quinton stirred. The world meshes of throbbing pains and blurry green shades and the sound of a soft breeze, whispering nonsensical rants across his ear drums. He swatted as though he were in bed as a child, waving off his mother's wake for studies and curled up with his spring pillow with a grunt only to have reality seep in slowly. The warmth of the green was more prickly than flannel and the stirring was a woman shoeing him in the shoulder.


His eyes lazily lolled about, taking on the color of the sky for a moment before fading into a rich plum shade. A few blinks cleared the sleep from his eyes and he gazed at the female before him with a soft crease in his brow. He'd never before seen her and the reality of the matter was that he wasn't even in a house, an inn, or even a shed—for that matter... but in a field, at the base of a large, large hill that looked ominously dark at its peak, as he gazed into the sun.


"Uh ... 'lo there." And then it hit him, he didn't know his name or where he was, so an introduction would have been fruitless! He grew nervous and agitated, alarmed by the situation and threw himself to his feet with a vault off his forearms, however the bang against his head, the viciously rolling down the hill, and the repetitive beating against the ground, now-coupled with the irregular blood flow sent him flailing like a lunatic across the grass with his arms out like a whirlwind. Quinton had grown a bit manic.


"Ah ... uh ... woooo! W-where is this? Where are we? Who are you? No. Who am I!? What ... oh, bother..." He stumbled and fell to his knees in front of an open leather satchel with a book inside, a pencil, and nothing more...

_Present

Quinton took a moment to sit upon a stout stump and scribble down some thoughts, just to see if he could before looking back to the woman with the faint shake of his head, as though she'd asked him to try it; just to see if it would jog anything from his memory, Quin did without hesitation and found it too to be useless. He groaned, folding the pencil up inside the leather-bound book and tossed it back into the bag without care.


"It's no use... I haven't a clue." He sat quietly for a moment, rubbing at the arcane ink-work upon his limbs with some eerie calling. A deep sigh took in a lithe chest and exhaled through flared nostrils, trying to force the frustration, panic, and sorrow from his body. Much like the white-capped mountains that lingered all around them, Quinton's ivory crown hung loosely about his face as he stared at his fingers and arms, lost in thought.


It wasn't until a voice snapped him out of it that he turned a face skyward, narrowing dark amethyst eyes to see a weather-worn man approaching and raised a faint hand, "Hello." He said rather shyly.