The Death of Tristan Caine

[abcfantasy]

(( Closed, I guess ))

A pleasant merry time it was inside the tavern. It was always enjoyable for Tristan, being in company with many inside that place in which he was often at. Sometimes, it didn't even matter who the company was, for this time, he was still enjoying the amusing companionship despite a certain person that could have been considered as a rival of some sort. For once, he was even enjoying the taste of strong elven wine. To be honest, it wasn't all too good for him, but it somehow felt 'special' to be drinking this kind of strong wine once in a long while.

It wasn't long enough until he began to feel a burning sensation inside him. The feeling was faint at first, faint enough for him to ignore it and just carry on joining the cheer of the tavern. He kept a broad grin that hid the arising scorching feeling inside him. However, it was soon felt hot enough that, despite the cold weather in which he usually trembled with the chill, he decided to remove that new coat that his kind friend had given him.

He was now finding it hard to keep that fake grin on his face, he was at a point where he was unable to hide the strange and even painful sensation running through his veins. He looked around him and couldn't seem to focus on anything, everything and everyone was becoming blurry. He unwillingly swayed left and right, and his breath was heavier than normal. Faint beads of sweat made themselves visible on his forehead, and he could see the odd looks he was being given, yet he was almost at the point of not recognizing anyone. The familiar voices of the tavern now sounded so distant, so far, so unclear.

The usually-lively but now dull and sick Tristan made his way to the nearest door in a staggering and unsteady gait. He almost collapsed at one point, only being saved by a nearby chair. He couldn't breathe well anymore, he was gasping for air. His legs were shaking, barely able to support him any longer. It was a matter of a few seconds more before they gave in, eventually falling to his knees. His eyes were wide open in panic and tension, one hand clinging to his throat. Even if he was hardly conscious by now, the whispered words echoed horrifyingly in his ears:

Let go Tristan. Pain is your enemy. Death is not.

Those words added shocking and terrifying emotions to what he was already feeling. Death. He knew now, that death was what was waiting for him. He was never in such fear in his life, he was not ready to die, not yet. He couldn't leave this world already, he hadn't made anything useful of his life yet. He had waited and waited, as if someday, he would be magically gifted with motivation to actually do something in his life. He regretted to have thought this, and he would change it immediately if he had a chance. It was too late now, he was dying.

A few friends flashed in his mind in that moment of great desperation and fear. Colin Smalls, Khagmur Thistletorn, Lithiel Tremere, Kaelyn Ianale...those had some importance in his life. It seemed funny, but he would have wanted to be a better friend to Colin and Khagmur, whom he felt in debth with so much; to actually see Lithiel once more; and to enjoy a genuine laugh from Kaelyn. There were others as well, the sweet young lady Emily Xahep, the mysterious but interesting Maurie Reams, the lively Artimer Fault, the friendly Olive Feldarp. He couldn't bid farewell to any of them, a farewell...for ever.

Now lying completely on the floor, a cold tear trickled down his face. He lifted his frighteningly shaking hand towards the door of the tavern, for he was outside now in that chill air. But that same hand fell back to the icy ground, and with a severe gasping sound, the man dropped silent and motionless. Tristan Caine's life, on the 12th of Adras in the year 24, had been taken away, and the lifeless body lay there on the wintry streets of Troll's Bane, skin as pale as the snow, wide eyes that only show desperation and mouth flooded with saliva.

(( Big thanks all who have roleplayed with Tristan. Maybe a funeral will be held. ))

[abcfantasy]

In the west of the island of Gobaith, a faint unpleasant smell diffused through the cold air around the Three Finger Bay. The silence at the shore was broken as the waves - a bit rough during this season - clashed onto the shore. There were also occassional creaking sounds coming from a small made wooden raft, swaying on the shallow water.

It was that horribly pale corpse on the raft that spread that small stench in the air, but it soon became imperceptible at all due to what occurred next. The nearby figure, who had assembled the wooden vessel, reluctantly tossed a lit torch onto the raft and urged it forward with a foot.

The whole raft was ignited by the torch and was soon burning with frantic fires while it drifted slowly outwards towards the open sea. Light gray and white smoke risen high up in the air might have been noticeable from afar. It was the smoke emitted by the scorching flames that now hid the carcass on the raft, burning it to ashes...