Irihi
Evildoer
[The See of Chaeron - The Silk Road, Part 1]
Goals: Help The Weaver Witch’s Daughter deliver her wares to a port town on the edge of the Continental Lake
Duration: 1-2 Weeks IC, 1-2 Months IRL
Posting Rate: 1-3 Times Per Week
Location: Through the forests, meadows, and along the roads of Western Ryke and the Fae See near the Continental Lake.
Setting: Early Winter in the Mediterranean climate near the Continental Lake - Chilly nights with temperate sunny days or cold rainy ones.
Town: Hunt’s End The bucolic forest town of Hunt’s End lay under the wan sunlight of early winter in the forest. The surrounding trees of the forest seemed dimmer and a little more menacing this time of year, with the slanted daylight casting less illumination than in midsummer. Still, though there was a constant sense that the little hamlet might be swallowed by the forest tonight, the inhabitants went about their business as usual. The sawmill buzzed and chugged, the baker’s smoked and steamed, and the blows of the smithy’s hammer on anvil rang across the clearings of town and died away amongst the columns of the trunks of the climax forest from which the little Human settlement had been carved.
The lumber wagon was being loaded for its weekly trip to Ashoc and a few children--either wildlings, or young laborers released from--or shirking--their duties at the mill--played and fought in the long brittle grasses amidst the stumps of the clearings.
Into this bucolic scene strode a pair of figures, emerging from the dark woods into the winter sunlight. One of the pair was a tall figure dressed in a faded and worn carmine redingote, tricorn hat, gloves and pants such that not a bit of their person was exposed to sunlight. The shorter of the two was fae; a svelte Elfmaid of long platinum hair--currently tied back in a long braid--and fair skin. She wore a green travelling cloak and long slitted skirt with a kickpleat that swung before her with every step. The elfmaid held the lead of a donkey that--though looking long of tooth and hair--had a sleek and shiny coat which attested to the care with which the animal’s owners kept it. The donkey was loaded down with a rather large trunk.
The village children, first to espy the newcomers, shrieked with delighted terror. ”THE WITCH!! THE WEAVER WITCH!! Enmasse, they gathered up rocks and sticks and swarmed toward the travellers. The dirtiest, and bravest of the children--A girl by the name of Ella--led the charge, leaping upon the stump of a long-felled tree and taking aim at the Elfmaid and her escort. She fingered the stone in her hand and judged whether stinging the witch’s ass, or the witch herself, with the pebble was more likely to grant more delightful chaos in the little caravan and less toad-ification of her own person.
“No, Robespierre.” The Elfmaid reached a hand out to still the arm of her escort, where they had placed gloved hand upon the pommel of their rapier. “They are only children; no real threat to us.” She said in a cool clear voice.
Ella, where she had shrank back at spying hand upon sword, now decided to take umbrage at the Elfmaid’s dismissal. She was about to show this witch the error of her ways, when the Elfmaid unwound a colorful rough-knit scarf from about her neck, and tossed it in the girl’s general direction. “YEEEK!!” The child shrieked and covered her head, sure she was about to be transformed into a slug. When all that transpired was the falling of the colorful scarf to the ground near her stump, she cracked one eye and looked, first, to the other children--who had scattered in the high grass--and, then, to the scrap of homespun fabric.
“IT’S MINE!!! She screamed, prompting a mad rush by the other wildlings to contest her claim. Rocks and sticks, feet, fists, and teeth were turned upon the former allies as the swarm of children dissolved into a mad scrum over the scarf the Elfmaid had tossed them.
Thus did the two strangers and their pack animal enter the village of Hunt’s End unmolested by the most feral and viscous of its defenders.
Hunt’s End Guard ”Eh now! Who goes there? State ‘cher bizness ‘ere, strangers!” As the pair neared the outbildings of the hamlet, a old guardsman, stiff-limbed with age, rousted himself from the shack that served as erstwhile fortification along with the split-plank fence which stood in for a palisade. The aged guard was as creaky as his rusted and piecemeal armor, and--despite the short sword he carried at his side--was likely less of a threat than a child armed with a pebble. Still, the arrival of armed strangers necessitated a response, and he hobbled to the middle of the path that led through the fence gate and into town, blocking their way.
“Hello, Ivan.” The elfmaid quietly greeted the old soldier. “It’s me, Faan. Do you remember me?”
The old man’s hand left his sword hilt and struck the rim of his helm in disbelief. ”By all the saints and sinners! Faan!! Lass, is it truly you?!!” He squinted as he leaned forward and peered at the elfmaid, who simply smiled in answer. ”But sure yew must be ‘er granddaughter! Why, yew haven’t aged a day or I’m a weel kint liar!” His shocked expression was replaced with a rather snaggle-toothed smile. “Ach! Lassie, I do remember ye, but it’s been forever and a day--yer more like a beautiful dream than a memory.”
“Maybe it has.” Faan conceded, looking demurely away from the old man’s watery gaze. “But I see you’ve lost none of your charm, you scoundrel.”
“HA! Haven’t been called that in a dog’s age, lass!” The guardsman laughed and slapped his knee. Chuckling to himself, he ushered Faan and her escort into town. ”Lass, I’ve a lifetime of yarns, and I’d be much obliged if’n I could join ye at the Inn later ta buy ye a pint and spin yeh one or two, if’n yer stayin’ the night, Weaver Witch’s Daughter.”
Faan placed a delicate-fingered hand on the tarnished shoulder guard of the old soldier, feeling how it quivered with palsy. “I’d like that, very much, Ivan,” she said, before pressing on into the village.
The elfmaid nodded and offered up a wave to the guardsman’s “Later, then!” as she walked on. With the crook of her finger, she brushed at the corner of her eye. It was nice to be greeted by a friendly face.
And melancholy.
Almost. She had almost accepted the last offer Ivan had made her; to take her away with him on the grand adventures he had planned in the wide worlde beyond Hunt’s End and the forest. Seeing what such an ever-so-slight passing of time had done to the dashing young man he’d once been pained--No, it’s not pain. Faan thought. He’s a reminder, inspiration to cherish these ephemeral connections to the world of men. For they would not--could not--last.
Later, with her donkey stabled, a room hired, her wares stowed in it, and her escort tucked safely away somewhere, Faan was glad of Ivan and his memories. The old soldier spun her the promised tales, and they seemed like those of a life well-lived. Faan found herself regretting only that she had not lived them with the man.
“Oh-ho! Cherry’d be spinnin’ in ‘er grave ta hear ye say that, Lass!” Ivan chuckled. “Such a sharp and jealous thing my pretty girl was, God rest ‘er soul.”
“I’m sorry I never met her,” faan said.
“I’m not! God’s be praised ye didn’t!” Ivan wiped his brow. “Oi never told ‘er about yeh, Faan--never told anyone about yeh.” the old soldier grew serious for a moment. “Jus like yeh asked--and I’ll take yer secret with me when I goes ta join her, and Billy, and me lil’ Jeanie…”
The elfmaid gently patted the liver-spotted hand as Ivan quieted and stared into his empty glass. “Thank you, Ivan.”
“Well, tha’s enuff uv me troublin’ ye! This alt man’s up past ‘is bedtime.” Ivan gingerly left his perch on the barstool. “Yew’ll be carryin’ yer wares off ta market--like yer mother did, I’m guessin’.” The old man postulated and the elfmaid nodded. ”Well, if the Good Lord don’ take me afore yeh leave, I’d ‘preciate another goodbye when ya go. I’d offer ta escort yeh m’self, but yew don’ need these rusty old bones slowin’ ya down.” He scratched his head a moment, recalling a more recent memory. ”I did hear tell there’s a band of adventurers hangin’ about, and they sound like good, trustworthy folk. If I see ‘em, an’ they are, I’ll steer ‘em yer way, lass.” Ivan said.
“Thank you, Ivan.” Faan leaned over and gave the old man a peck on the cheek. “Goodnight.”
After the aged guardsman left, the elfmaid would remain at the Inn’s little bar for a while, nursing her pint and reflecting on the journey ahead. She’d made some of her preparations, but--Ivan was correct--she had not yet found an escort for herself and her goods. It was getting late, and the sawmill would be closed down. Tomorrow maybe she would inquire, there, about joining the lumber wagon on its weekly run out of the forest to the great highway.
Goals: Help The Weaver Witch’s Daughter deliver her wares to a port town on the edge of the Continental Lake
Duration: 1-2 Weeks IC, 1-2 Months IRL
Posting Rate: 1-3 Times Per Week
Location: Through the forests, meadows, and along the roads of Western Ryke and the Fae See near the Continental Lake.
Setting: Early Winter in the Mediterranean climate near the Continental Lake - Chilly nights with temperate sunny days or cold rainy ones.
Town: Hunt’s End The bucolic forest town of Hunt’s End lay under the wan sunlight of early winter in the forest. The surrounding trees of the forest seemed dimmer and a little more menacing this time of year, with the slanted daylight casting less illumination than in midsummer. Still, though there was a constant sense that the little hamlet might be swallowed by the forest tonight, the inhabitants went about their business as usual. The sawmill buzzed and chugged, the baker’s smoked and steamed, and the blows of the smithy’s hammer on anvil rang across the clearings of town and died away amongst the columns of the trunks of the climax forest from which the little Human settlement had been carved.
The lumber wagon was being loaded for its weekly trip to Ashoc and a few children--either wildlings, or young laborers released from--or shirking--their duties at the mill--played and fought in the long brittle grasses amidst the stumps of the clearings.
Into this bucolic scene strode a pair of figures, emerging from the dark woods into the winter sunlight. One of the pair was a tall figure dressed in a faded and worn carmine redingote, tricorn hat, gloves and pants such that not a bit of their person was exposed to sunlight. The shorter of the two was fae; a svelte Elfmaid of long platinum hair--currently tied back in a long braid--and fair skin. She wore a green travelling cloak and long slitted skirt with a kickpleat that swung before her with every step. The elfmaid held the lead of a donkey that--though looking long of tooth and hair--had a sleek and shiny coat which attested to the care with which the animal’s owners kept it. The donkey was loaded down with a rather large trunk.
The village children, first to espy the newcomers, shrieked with delighted terror. ”THE WITCH!! THE WEAVER WITCH!! Enmasse, they gathered up rocks and sticks and swarmed toward the travellers. The dirtiest, and bravest of the children--A girl by the name of Ella--led the charge, leaping upon the stump of a long-felled tree and taking aim at the Elfmaid and her escort. She fingered the stone in her hand and judged whether stinging the witch’s ass, or the witch herself, with the pebble was more likely to grant more delightful chaos in the little caravan and less toad-ification of her own person.
“No, Robespierre.” The Elfmaid reached a hand out to still the arm of her escort, where they had placed gloved hand upon the pommel of their rapier. “They are only children; no real threat to us.” She said in a cool clear voice.
Ella, where she had shrank back at spying hand upon sword, now decided to take umbrage at the Elfmaid’s dismissal. She was about to show this witch the error of her ways, when the Elfmaid unwound a colorful rough-knit scarf from about her neck, and tossed it in the girl’s general direction. “YEEEK!!” The child shrieked and covered her head, sure she was about to be transformed into a slug. When all that transpired was the falling of the colorful scarf to the ground near her stump, she cracked one eye and looked, first, to the other children--who had scattered in the high grass--and, then, to the scrap of homespun fabric.
“IT’S MINE!!! She screamed, prompting a mad rush by the other wildlings to contest her claim. Rocks and sticks, feet, fists, and teeth were turned upon the former allies as the swarm of children dissolved into a mad scrum over the scarf the Elfmaid had tossed them.
Thus did the two strangers and their pack animal enter the village of Hunt’s End unmolested by the most feral and viscous of its defenders.
Hunt’s End Guard ”Eh now! Who goes there? State ‘cher bizness ‘ere, strangers!” As the pair neared the outbildings of the hamlet, a old guardsman, stiff-limbed with age, rousted himself from the shack that served as erstwhile fortification along with the split-plank fence which stood in for a palisade. The aged guard was as creaky as his rusted and piecemeal armor, and--despite the short sword he carried at his side--was likely less of a threat than a child armed with a pebble. Still, the arrival of armed strangers necessitated a response, and he hobbled to the middle of the path that led through the fence gate and into town, blocking their way.
“Hello, Ivan.” The elfmaid quietly greeted the old soldier. “It’s me, Faan. Do you remember me?”
The old man’s hand left his sword hilt and struck the rim of his helm in disbelief. ”By all the saints and sinners! Faan!! Lass, is it truly you?!!” He squinted as he leaned forward and peered at the elfmaid, who simply smiled in answer. ”But sure yew must be ‘er granddaughter! Why, yew haven’t aged a day or I’m a weel kint liar!” His shocked expression was replaced with a rather snaggle-toothed smile. “Ach! Lassie, I do remember ye, but it’s been forever and a day--yer more like a beautiful dream than a memory.”
“Maybe it has.” Faan conceded, looking demurely away from the old man’s watery gaze. “But I see you’ve lost none of your charm, you scoundrel.”
“HA! Haven’t been called that in a dog’s age, lass!” The guardsman laughed and slapped his knee. Chuckling to himself, he ushered Faan and her escort into town. ”Lass, I’ve a lifetime of yarns, and I’d be much obliged if’n I could join ye at the Inn later ta buy ye a pint and spin yeh one or two, if’n yer stayin’ the night, Weaver Witch’s Daughter.”
Faan placed a delicate-fingered hand on the tarnished shoulder guard of the old soldier, feeling how it quivered with palsy. “I’d like that, very much, Ivan,” she said, before pressing on into the village.
The elfmaid nodded and offered up a wave to the guardsman’s “Later, then!” as she walked on. With the crook of her finger, she brushed at the corner of her eye. It was nice to be greeted by a friendly face.
And melancholy.
Almost. She had almost accepted the last offer Ivan had made her; to take her away with him on the grand adventures he had planned in the wide worlde beyond Hunt’s End and the forest. Seeing what such an ever-so-slight passing of time had done to the dashing young man he’d once been pained--No, it’s not pain. Faan thought. He’s a reminder, inspiration to cherish these ephemeral connections to the world of men. For they would not--could not--last.
Later, with her donkey stabled, a room hired, her wares stowed in it, and her escort tucked safely away somewhere, Faan was glad of Ivan and his memories. The old soldier spun her the promised tales, and they seemed like those of a life well-lived. Faan found herself regretting only that she had not lived them with the man.
“Oh-ho! Cherry’d be spinnin’ in ‘er grave ta hear ye say that, Lass!” Ivan chuckled. “Such a sharp and jealous thing my pretty girl was, God rest ‘er soul.”
“I’m sorry I never met her,” faan said.
“I’m not! God’s be praised ye didn’t!” Ivan wiped his brow. “Oi never told ‘er about yeh, Faan--never told anyone about yeh.” the old soldier grew serious for a moment. “Jus like yeh asked--and I’ll take yer secret with me when I goes ta join her, and Billy, and me lil’ Jeanie…”
The elfmaid gently patted the liver-spotted hand as Ivan quieted and stared into his empty glass. “Thank you, Ivan.”
“Well, tha’s enuff uv me troublin’ ye! This alt man’s up past ‘is bedtime.” Ivan gingerly left his perch on the barstool. “Yew’ll be carryin’ yer wares off ta market--like yer mother did, I’m guessin’.” The old man postulated and the elfmaid nodded. ”Well, if the Good Lord don’ take me afore yeh leave, I’d ‘preciate another goodbye when ya go. I’d offer ta escort yeh m’self, but yew don’ need these rusty old bones slowin’ ya down.” He scratched his head a moment, recalling a more recent memory. ”I did hear tell there’s a band of adventurers hangin’ about, and they sound like good, trustworthy folk. If I see ‘em, an’ they are, I’ll steer ‘em yer way, lass.” Ivan said.
“Thank you, Ivan.” Faan leaned over and gave the old man a peck on the cheek. “Goodnight.”
After the aged guardsman left, the elfmaid would remain at the Inn’s little bar for a while, nursing her pint and reflecting on the journey ahead. She’d made some of her preparations, but--Ivan was correct--she had not yet found an escort for herself and her goods. It was getting late, and the sawmill would be closed down. Tomorrow maybe she would inquire, there, about joining the lumber wagon on its weekly run out of the forest to the great highway.
