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| [IC] Death At Our Door, And In Our Beds | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: June 24, 2013, 11:37 am (200 Views) | |
| Deleted User | June 24, 2013, 11:37 am Post #1 |
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Deleted User
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It's been several days, I know. I've been unable to write recently, due to events I'll soon describe. For now, I'll simply say it is good to be alive, though, I'm unsure how long I will remain in this state. Many things have happened since I last wrote. Several nights ago, a group of men- no, an army attacked our village. Few made it to the castle, and inside its wall we find safety. Though our safety could very well be short lived. Should our enemy persist, we will be forced to suffer the agony of a slow and painful death. While I can't say I believe in the teachings of our maker, the idea of a presence higher than our own, does seem to comfort many; though, admittedly, I am not one to be calmed by someone that cannot be seen. I try to, and will continue throughout this ordeal, to look at things presented in life, as factually as possible. This is a method that has thus far in life, done me well. As I write these words, I realize that with the raising sun, our enemy will be rising as well. Soon the bestial chanting and shouting will creep above the castle walls, mocking us, the people trapped behind the gray stone. It would be enough to drive some mad, I'm not certain it hasn't already. I've noticed changes in us all, even myself. I can only imagine, and fear, the days to come and what they will do to us... The sun slowly crept higher in the morning sky, and the first slivers of morning's light broke the horizon of the castle's stone parapets. Rorick Telgrin III, a slender man just reaching his mid twenties, returned a black leather-bound book to the inside of his robes and walked out into the lower bailey. He approached the cylindrical stone well in the center of the courtyard. His soft, pale hands felt foreign against the coarse rope he lowered into the darkness. Once the wooden bucket attached to the rope met water, he began the arduous task of hauling the bucket to the surface. Sweat forming on his brow, he needed the drink even more when the water arrived. The bucket sat on the ledge of the well, full to the brim with crisp, cool, clear water. Rorick filled a small clay cup with water and silently quenched his thirst. He wiped the remnants of water from his lips using one of the sleeves of his gray, woolen robe. With winter approaching, the evenings and mornings were growing cooler and cooler. Each day only made it more clear that it was indeed time for one's warmer clothes. Rorick was sure he was one of the first few to make the change. He wasn't one to deal with changes in temperature very well. He was under no illusions about this, and, even though he was laughed at, had made the change to his winter robes a full two weeks before anyone else had begun considering it. He was a frail man. Tall and lanky, with features just as gaunt. His hair was thin and blond, and his eyes a pale blue color. When reading or writing, his blue eyes were made to seem many times larger by the thick spectacles he wore. Even in times of prosper, he still seemed a bit sickly. One could surmise that, given his lack of nutrition, lack of sunlight, and general lack of physical activity, he was an invalid. That wasn't the case however. He was simply more of an intellectual being, choosing to observe certain aspects of life from afar. Perhaps a combination of his qualities, it had led the man to be alone almost his entire life. He'd been raised by his father, also a man of knowledge. Rorick had lost him when he was only seventeen, and he inherited his father's place at the castle as bookkeeper. He had his own small room just off the castle's impressive library, and it was his father's duty, now his, to take care of and organize all the books in the castle as well as make record of their use and general contents. Admittedly, there wouldn't be much need for him anymore. He knew full well that he would die within these castle walls. Everyone would. It was the logical conclusion. When facing and enemy you cannot best, defeat is the only outcome. When bricked in at all sides, and foes like hunger, thirst and insanity, there could be no outcome but defeat. It didn't stop some of individuals inside the castle from hoping, and as intellectual as Rorick was, he was not as heartless as his father had been to him. While understanding that being prepared for and expecting the worst allow little room for disappointment, there was nothing to gain from quashing the hopes of others. Rorick kept his inward, more negative thoughts, inside the pages of his black, leather-bound journal he kept on his being at all times tucked away inside his robes. Taking yet another sip from the cup of water then lowered the bucket back into the well. He turned from the center of the courtyard and made his way slowly across the grounds towards the main building of the castle. Most of the survivors had taken to that building, as it was lavishly furnished and quite comfortable. Within it's stone walls and plush interior, the sounds of the war camps outside the walls, were drown out rather effectively. If the enemy did manage to breech the outer walls however, the keep, a far less lavish building would be the last defensive position they could flee to. With the sun now above the walls, Rorick found himself inside the main building of the castle, just inside one of the doors leading to the main bailey. This time, a book in hand, sitting at a small table near a window, he used the morning light to read as others began to stir from their fitful nights of sleep. Soon they would begin their routine tasks of going about their lives, trying to maintain some since of normality. I wonder how long it will take them all to realize? Rorick looked up from the pages of his book from time to time, offering a kind smile to anyone who would pass by. He was strange that way. He could think of the most troubling issues, and never burden another soul with them, or even let on that he'd thought such things in the first place. |
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| Juicesir | June 24, 2013, 7:44 pm Post #2 |
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Sexy Shoeless God of Something
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There are few things more comforting than soup. Soup doesn't judge you based on your appearance, your station in life, your past errors and misdeeds. Soup cares not whether you are a man, a woman, a slave, a lord, or anything in the great world between. It cares not for your name or your place or anything at all about you. Soup, like a watchful mother, cares only for you to be warm, well-fed, and loved. The moistness of lips, the internal fire, the satiation of lips; these are the domains of soup. They are the gentle reminders that, perhaps, all creatures need care. Armand Joubert was little more than rags and bones at this stage in his life. His skin sat as an old dogs loose upon his face. There is no color brown and worn enough that would have described his robes, or the state of the underside of his feet. Each step he took was a prayer with the earth. Each item his wired hands lifted was a commune with the ingenuity of humans. Each slow movement of the eyes was a recognition of a thousand things which he had always seen before. Mornings were a reminder that miracles still happen, sunsets a reminder that all things must end. And there, in the main hall, sat Armand essentially drinking his soup. This particular morning seemed grim. It was the hallowed determination of a forced march. While the inside was warmed by hearth and the trimmings of home, the outside was a wail of death. Skins and irons, shafts and edges, all clanging together for blood they could never drink and only spill. Thirsty beggars for a soup they could never sip. Armand sighed. It was merely air escaping, no other meaning to it. As lackluster in its judgement as the soup. A man came in, book in hand and sickness defiling his otherwise handsome features. Armand knew the names of many illnesses, but he believed this man's own torment to simply be named "life." It was an affliction which struck newborn babes as a curse; a certain world-weariness which seeped down into the bones like the weeds. Weeds which could never be pulled. Having just been a recent addition to the keep, Armand decided to maintain a certain distance from this new face, though it intrigued him. He was not a forward man. Armand was reminded of one of his favorite parables: a foolish statement is in the ear of the beholder. He was a man of few words, because so many had already been said. And besides, he was not yet finished with his soup. |
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| That Butler | November 10, 2013, 9:33 pm Post #3 |
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Bad Jew
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This roleplay is closed due to inactivity or by request of the Game Master. Please contact one of the Roleplaying Moderators to have it reinstated.
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5:36 PM Jul 13