The man stands behind the window and through the blurry glass he watches the two young ones depart, each of them possibly into a new life full of adventure and opportunity. He has seen them leave before, of course, many times, but every time they visited and left again it felt like the day he had to let them go initially. "Give young birds a nest and wings as well.", they say.
The two turn and wave their hands with bright smiles and laughter, he raises his old but strong prank as well, waving, smiling. And when the two depart around the corner of the wall that surrounds the house once more, his corners of the mouth fall into their regular position again. He moves his hand to his chest, right over where the heart beats against it from the inside. It does not hurt, he doesn't think his heart has become weak yet. It is this strange feeling of emptiness which haunts all people from time to time, a feeling which has haunted him for the past half year now.
The following day is a bright one. It is late Findos, and the grapes and olives are already gathered outside. He gets dressed in wide, comfortable, but simple clothes and gets outside. Upon opening the door, a warm light falls upon him, giving his once dark brown, now graying hair a copper shine. A warm wind filled with the aroma of fertile soil and grapes blows from the dale over the hills towards his house and he takes a deep breath in. He has never grown accustomed to that smell, it is new and pleasant to him every day he leaves the house during summer.
He walks a few steps towards the edge of the hill, now realizing it must be later than he expected. A few people are already working on the hill, harvesting the grapes which will later be made to wine.
"Overslept?" The voice of a young man approaches him from behind. The boy gently places his hand on the old mans shoulder. The old man turns his head and gives the boy a rather perplexed look, which would seem to the boy as a grim expression, which is mainly the only expressions which has ever crossed this man's face.
The boy removes his hand from the shoulder, but then, the old man smiles. "It appears so, Caleb!" And the man laughs, with a short cough in between, but he laughs. "Unaccepable. Now do tell me, how is the work going?"
"Very good. We will be finished with this hill by nightfall."
"Good, good. Everyone is well? How is your wife?"
"She is fine sir, working with the others on the hill."
The eyes of the old man widen.
"Caleb, I told you she didn't have to. She should rest."
The young man waves his hand dismissively.
"She insisted. And told me, men, you don't know how it feels to be pregnant, alright? Some movement will do her good, she said. And well you know, her mood changes quite harshly so I didn't want to object."
The old man grins and nods.
"Experienced that twice. Just see to it that she doesn't exhaust herself, but you are both clever lads, you will handle it."
They part. The boy moves down the hill and joins the others collecting grapes. The old man walks towards a vine and picks a grape, squashes it in his hand and smells it. "Good, good."
He looks up and lets his gaze wander down the hill, the small village also splashed into golden light by the warm light of the sun. Behind it, more hills, more viles. A good land.
And then he feels it again. This emptiness, and places his hand on his chest once more.
Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow
Moderator: Gamemasters
Re: Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow
The harvesting had went well. The grapes were good, and already processed, the liquid waiting in big barrels for completion. It was Adras by now, the Month of Intoxication, and it was tradition to have a big feast at the cottage.
Luckily, it was a mild night of the early winter and it was comfortable to sit outside with everyone. The long table was filled with various sorts of bread, cheese, sausage and fruit. Olives were there as well, of course, and wine, white and red.
Along the table sat 20 people, all talking joyfully, awaiting for the old man to come and join them, to start the feast.
The old man is still inside the house, sitting in a huge armchair before the chimney which slowly burns down to smoldering ashes. His gaze moves further up and stops at an urn above the chimney. He smiles, but his eyes are sad. "You are right, Darling. We should not keep our guests waiting."
He gets up from the chair with a groan he only allows himself when being alone, then moves to the door. On the way outside, he grabs a carefully braided wreath of flowers and takes it outside with him.
When the old man reaches the table, the people go silent and look up at him. There sits Caleb and his young pregnant wife, and two other families who help out on the cottage every day. Gathered with them are some relatives, and also the mayor of the small village down in the dale with his family. They eat the fruit they have grown during summer, drink the wine and mead they have fabricated. They enjoy the company of their loved ones and also the stunning beauty of the land every day. Life is good.
The old man too enjoys all these things, but yet again in this moment, standing in front of the long table, he grabs for his chest with his free hand and feels the emptiness inside. Caleb stands and rushes to him, some people at the table mumble.
"Are you not feeling well?"
The old man looks at him and smiles. "You are a good man, Caleb."
A moment in which the time seems to move slowly, the two men looking at each other, the people at the table, silent. Then, the old man laughs and pats Caleb's shoulder with the energy and the eager of a young man. "Come on, sit down already, we're keeping all these people from the great food!" They all laugh, and Caleb sits back down. The old man places the wreath on one chair at the beginning of the table and sits down at the chair next to it. He fills his mug with wine and raises it to all the people.
"On another good year. I could not imagine anyone having better friends, and more hardworking hands. Come one, eat, eat, drink, let us please Adron tonight!"
The fest goes on until deep at night. Music is played, people talk, children play and listen to the stories of the old man, eyes wide open. Now and then, the old man gazes to the wreath of flowers and smiles as if a person was sitting there, and then, maybe in his mind there was.
The children had been brought to bed for some time now and also the old man feels his age, getting tired when he would have wanted to celebrate all night through with his friends and farm laborers. He is pleased with himself, not having disturbed the frolic mood of the people at the feast with his mood of emptiness. He is pleased, because during the fest, he even forgot about it from time to time, but now it creeps back to him slowly. He walks back to his chair and looks at the wreath with a smile.
"Let us go to bed now, shall we?"
He grabs his goblet and a metal fork and knocks them both together, getting the immediate attention of the people gathered.
"We..." he begins, noticing the sad and understanding gazes of the people around. They all know, it hasn't been long and he still doesn't fully recognize it. He starts over.
"I wish to thank you all for coming and I hope you will continue until the sun sets, but I am old and tired and will go to rest now."
The old man then grabs the wreath of flowers and stares at it for a while, the people remaining in silence. He then looks up at the people again and begins talking with a smile.
"When I was a young man, I had liberty, but I did not see it. I had time, but I did not know it. And I had love, but I did not feel it."
Upon speaking these words, his heart relaxes, the emptiness filled for a moment.
"Many decades would pass before I understood the meaning of all three. And now, at the twilight of my life, this understanding has passed into contentment."
His face becomes more grim and he looks at the people gathered like a tutor, giving them advices how to live their lives.
"Love, liberty, and time: once so disposable, are the fuels that drive me forward. The fuels that should drive all of us forward all the time. And love especially. Love for our children, our brothers and sisters. And for the vast and wonderful world that gave us life, and keeps us guessing."
He nods to himself and gives the people a final smile before turning and walking towards the house. But he does not go to sleep, because in the moment he left the table he realized how he had to fill the emptiness in his heart and it was gone. Inside the house he gets paper, ink and a feather to write.
Luckily, it was a mild night of the early winter and it was comfortable to sit outside with everyone. The long table was filled with various sorts of bread, cheese, sausage and fruit. Olives were there as well, of course, and wine, white and red.
Along the table sat 20 people, all talking joyfully, awaiting for the old man to come and join them, to start the feast.
The old man is still inside the house, sitting in a huge armchair before the chimney which slowly burns down to smoldering ashes. His gaze moves further up and stops at an urn above the chimney. He smiles, but his eyes are sad. "You are right, Darling. We should not keep our guests waiting."
He gets up from the chair with a groan he only allows himself when being alone, then moves to the door. On the way outside, he grabs a carefully braided wreath of flowers and takes it outside with him.
When the old man reaches the table, the people go silent and look up at him. There sits Caleb and his young pregnant wife, and two other families who help out on the cottage every day. Gathered with them are some relatives, and also the mayor of the small village down in the dale with his family. They eat the fruit they have grown during summer, drink the wine and mead they have fabricated. They enjoy the company of their loved ones and also the stunning beauty of the land every day. Life is good.
The old man too enjoys all these things, but yet again in this moment, standing in front of the long table, he grabs for his chest with his free hand and feels the emptiness inside. Caleb stands and rushes to him, some people at the table mumble.
"Are you not feeling well?"
The old man looks at him and smiles. "You are a good man, Caleb."
A moment in which the time seems to move slowly, the two men looking at each other, the people at the table, silent. Then, the old man laughs and pats Caleb's shoulder with the energy and the eager of a young man. "Come on, sit down already, we're keeping all these people from the great food!" They all laugh, and Caleb sits back down. The old man places the wreath on one chair at the beginning of the table and sits down at the chair next to it. He fills his mug with wine and raises it to all the people.
"On another good year. I could not imagine anyone having better friends, and more hardworking hands. Come one, eat, eat, drink, let us please Adron tonight!"
The fest goes on until deep at night. Music is played, people talk, children play and listen to the stories of the old man, eyes wide open. Now and then, the old man gazes to the wreath of flowers and smiles as if a person was sitting there, and then, maybe in his mind there was.
The children had been brought to bed for some time now and also the old man feels his age, getting tired when he would have wanted to celebrate all night through with his friends and farm laborers. He is pleased with himself, not having disturbed the frolic mood of the people at the feast with his mood of emptiness. He is pleased, because during the fest, he even forgot about it from time to time, but now it creeps back to him slowly. He walks back to his chair and looks at the wreath with a smile.
"Let us go to bed now, shall we?"
He grabs his goblet and a metal fork and knocks them both together, getting the immediate attention of the people gathered.
"We..." he begins, noticing the sad and understanding gazes of the people around. They all know, it hasn't been long and he still doesn't fully recognize it. He starts over.
"I wish to thank you all for coming and I hope you will continue until the sun sets, but I am old and tired and will go to rest now."
The old man then grabs the wreath of flowers and stares at it for a while, the people remaining in silence. He then looks up at the people again and begins talking with a smile.
"When I was a young man, I had liberty, but I did not see it. I had time, but I did not know it. And I had love, but I did not feel it."
Upon speaking these words, his heart relaxes, the emptiness filled for a moment.
"Many decades would pass before I understood the meaning of all three. And now, at the twilight of my life, this understanding has passed into contentment."
His face becomes more grim and he looks at the people gathered like a tutor, giving them advices how to live their lives.
"Love, liberty, and time: once so disposable, are the fuels that drive me forward. The fuels that should drive all of us forward all the time. And love especially. Love for our children, our brothers and sisters. And for the vast and wonderful world that gave us life, and keeps us guessing."
He nods to himself and gives the people a final smile before turning and walking towards the house. But he does not go to sleep, because in the moment he left the table he realized how he had to fill the emptiness in his heart and it was gone. Inside the house he gets paper, ink and a feather to write.
Re: Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow
Winter takes the color out of the land like a fever can sometimes take the color out of a person. The similarity becomes evident to the old man. When the snow falls and the clanking cold freezes all water to crystal, the colors of the world fade into shades of white, back and gray. During snowfall everything becomes silent, every noise seems to be absorbed by the snowflakes.
When a human being dies, the colors fades as well and the formerly rosy and lively skin becomes gray. When a human being dies, silence manifests itself in many ways.
A tear drops down the old man's cheek and will quickly join the vast amount of frozen water which is covering the ground of the forest he is walking through. It is Chos, the month of commemoration. That month of the year all those who are still alive remember the fallen ones and pray to the Grey Mother for their peace in the afterlife.
Only dressed in simple, but warm black clothes, with a large bag over his shoulder and a snaggy walking staff the old man is fighting his way through the deep snow in the forest. Years ago he would have been faster, much faster, but today every step on impassable ground is a challenge. He doesn't blame himself though, he knows why he has become this.
When a cold wind blows into the coat of the old man, he feels the frosty bite of the cold air mostly at his right shoulder. He remembers the ice bolt which was fired into it many decades ago, a vicious mages spell that had been. He remembers how the bolt was easily pulled out, but how the wound had to be healed by another mage to fully recover.
It did not fully recover though. Remembrances of other wounds come back into his mind. He remembers an ogre hitting him into the back, nearly crashing his skull. The armor took the blow, but he was smashed down by the sheer force of the blow. The back pain he has today must come from this occasion, amongst others which have been similar.
He remembers the huge, rough sword of a demon coming down on him, and how he was able to raise a shield in front of his body in the last second. The shield broke, as well as his arm that day. It healed, and when he was still a young man he carried those battle scars like trophies, not realizing a history of violence, a history of the own body being broken, burnt, frozen, poisoned, cut in many ways and being thrown around by forces unknown would not go unnoticed upon becoming older.
And today, there he was, a relatively fresh and young mind trapped in a body which was beyond repair. Like an old sword, his body has been repaired too often and lost a lot of its quality during the process. That is why he did not take a weapon with him on the trip. He wouldn't have been able to swing it in any effective way anymore.
The old man breathes in deeply upon finally reaching his target. On a wide clearance, a gray and kind of hollow looking monastery stood. It was a monastery of monks of Cherga and the old man had taken this four day journey through the winterland to get to an altar only sanctified to Cherga, to pray for his departed loved one.
He walks to the gate of the monastery and knocks at it with his staff. A felt eternity later a small window in the gate opens. A deformed face under a gray coat looks at the old man from the inside of the monastery.
"What do you want, traveler?"
The old man forces a smile. He doesn't turn his gaze away from the monk who was apparently the victim of some pestilence once, but got cured. He, too, has wounds beyond repair.
"I am here to pay respect to your Goddess, and to ask her to be gracious with a soul walking on her path now."
The window closes, and shortly after, the gate opens. The monk gazes at the belt of the old man, probably checking him for weapons. Then, he asks him in.
"This monastery is very isolated. And normally, we don't let strangers in for such purposes. Why didn't you visit your local priest?"
The two men walk along the cloister of the monastery. The silence of the place is only broken by their voices and the constant noise of the old mans walking staff on the cold stone floor.
"I prefer a more direct link. I haven't come with empty hands as well. I have brought something for you and your brothers, something your Goddess will be pleased to see in your hands."
The monk stops and looks at him with some curiosity.
"But, it has been a long day and I am tired. All I ask you for is a bed for the night, as well as some bread and wine, and that you will allow me to pray at your altar tomorrow morning for a few minutes. After I am finished, you will receive what I have brought for you."
The old man's voice is clear and stern. The monk listens closely, then nods.
"I will ask the abbot about your request. I don't think he will have any objections though."
The old man is asked to wait for a while, soon another monk returns and shows him his room for the night. Shortly after the door closes and the old man has lain down on the stiff bed, a deep and dreamless sleep falls upon him.
When a human being dies, the colors fades as well and the formerly rosy and lively skin becomes gray. When a human being dies, silence manifests itself in many ways.
A tear drops down the old man's cheek and will quickly join the vast amount of frozen water which is covering the ground of the forest he is walking through. It is Chos, the month of commemoration. That month of the year all those who are still alive remember the fallen ones and pray to the Grey Mother for their peace in the afterlife.
Only dressed in simple, but warm black clothes, with a large bag over his shoulder and a snaggy walking staff the old man is fighting his way through the deep snow in the forest. Years ago he would have been faster, much faster, but today every step on impassable ground is a challenge. He doesn't blame himself though, he knows why he has become this.
When a cold wind blows into the coat of the old man, he feels the frosty bite of the cold air mostly at his right shoulder. He remembers the ice bolt which was fired into it many decades ago, a vicious mages spell that had been. He remembers how the bolt was easily pulled out, but how the wound had to be healed by another mage to fully recover.
It did not fully recover though. Remembrances of other wounds come back into his mind. He remembers an ogre hitting him into the back, nearly crashing his skull. The armor took the blow, but he was smashed down by the sheer force of the blow. The back pain he has today must come from this occasion, amongst others which have been similar.
He remembers the huge, rough sword of a demon coming down on him, and how he was able to raise a shield in front of his body in the last second. The shield broke, as well as his arm that day. It healed, and when he was still a young man he carried those battle scars like trophies, not realizing a history of violence, a history of the own body being broken, burnt, frozen, poisoned, cut in many ways and being thrown around by forces unknown would not go unnoticed upon becoming older.
And today, there he was, a relatively fresh and young mind trapped in a body which was beyond repair. Like an old sword, his body has been repaired too often and lost a lot of its quality during the process. That is why he did not take a weapon with him on the trip. He wouldn't have been able to swing it in any effective way anymore.
The old man breathes in deeply upon finally reaching his target. On a wide clearance, a gray and kind of hollow looking monastery stood. It was a monastery of monks of Cherga and the old man had taken this four day journey through the winterland to get to an altar only sanctified to Cherga, to pray for his departed loved one.
He walks to the gate of the monastery and knocks at it with his staff. A felt eternity later a small window in the gate opens. A deformed face under a gray coat looks at the old man from the inside of the monastery.
"What do you want, traveler?"
The old man forces a smile. He doesn't turn his gaze away from the monk who was apparently the victim of some pestilence once, but got cured. He, too, has wounds beyond repair.
"I am here to pay respect to your Goddess, and to ask her to be gracious with a soul walking on her path now."
The window closes, and shortly after, the gate opens. The monk gazes at the belt of the old man, probably checking him for weapons. Then, he asks him in.
"This monastery is very isolated. And normally, we don't let strangers in for such purposes. Why didn't you visit your local priest?"
The two men walk along the cloister of the monastery. The silence of the place is only broken by their voices and the constant noise of the old mans walking staff on the cold stone floor.
"I prefer a more direct link. I haven't come with empty hands as well. I have brought something for you and your brothers, something your Goddess will be pleased to see in your hands."
The monk stops and looks at him with some curiosity.
"But, it has been a long day and I am tired. All I ask you for is a bed for the night, as well as some bread and wine, and that you will allow me to pray at your altar tomorrow morning for a few minutes. After I am finished, you will receive what I have brought for you."
The old man's voice is clear and stern. The monk listens closely, then nods.
"I will ask the abbot about your request. I don't think he will have any objections though."
The old man is asked to wait for a while, soon another monk returns and shows him his room for the night. Shortly after the door closes and the old man has lain down on the stiff bed, a deep and dreamless sleep falls upon him.
Re: Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow
He lights the candle on the altar and kneels down before it on a small carpet afterwards, folding his hands. His lips move as he speaks silent prayers. He doesn't have to think about them, doesn't have to read them from a book. He knows so many prayers by heart, has spoken them so many times on so many different occasions. He has always known himself close to the gods, and has always tried to please them by being their sword and shield in the mortal and material world.
"Gray Mother, please lead her soul through your endless realms to her destination, to the hero halls of Malachín, where she shall sit and tell her story, battle the armies of the Bonelord like she did in the mortal world."
He speaks other prayers as it is custom. Before he stands up again, he breaks tradition and adds a few more words.
"I have not brought her ashes today. I will not bury them in the graveyard of this place. I hope you forgive me this and understand my motivation. It was her will to be burnt, but I can hardly imagine she would be comfortable with being trapped in a cage, either a golden one in life, or a clay one now. I have found a better place for her to rest and I hope you'll grant me safe travels to reach this destination."
After these words, the old man stands, unlights the candle with two fingers and bows deeply before the altar. He then turns and walks away. On his way out of the altar room the old man remembers how he had nearly given up hope and the wish to stay alive. He remembers how he was outraged by the dead of her loved one, how he had cursed the gods for taking her away. He remembers how he thought about jumping down a cliff close to his cottage, to join her in the endlessness of the afterlife. But that day, standing at the cliff, looking down at the rough stones which would have crushed his body like a vintner crushes grapes, he remembered that all people are there for a reason, and are taken away for a reason. "If the gods wished to enjoy her inspiring and lovely company now, how could I blame them?" The old man grins under his hood. And if the gods wanted him to join them as well, they would merely have to ask.
He closes the gates to the altar room behind him and is approached by the disfigured monk who had welcomed him to the monastery the other day.
"Have you finished your prayers?"
The old man nods.
"Very good. The abbot hopes the room and food was to your liking, as well as the atmosphere of the monastery to help you with your devotions."
The old man nods again. "You have been very kind. Thank you."
The scarred lips of the monk form a smile. After a moment of silence, he asks for the offering to the monastery. The old man opens his bag and pulls a small bundle out. He removes the cloth, and reveals a small mirror. The frame is made of gold apparently and the mirror itself is dark as obsidian. He hands the mirror to the monk.
The monk is confused at first and takes the mirror in both of his hands, staring into the black void which is between the golden frame. The old man is unsure why the monk stares so firmly. Is he startled by his own devoured face, or does this thing still have some of its old powers left?
The old man throws the cloth over the mirror again, only now getting back the attention of the monk who looks at him in confusion. "It has lost its power a long time ago. It was one of many, most of them have already been destroyed. This might even be the last one. Do not underestimate it. I suggest you bring it to your abbot right away and destroy it in a holy ritual."
The monk nods and tightly wraps the cloth around the object in his hands.
"If the others were destroyed, why did you keep this one?" He asks.
The old man turns and grins. He does not speak, just stands there and grins at the monk under his hood.
"What... what did those things do when they were still... powerful?"
The grin vanishes from the old man's face and his expression becomes neutral again.
"He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you."
The old man nods with a smile and gives a quick goodbye, before he leaves the monastery. The monk stands in the hall for a while, thinking about which one of his two questions the old man had just answered.
"Gray Mother, please lead her soul through your endless realms to her destination, to the hero halls of Malachín, where she shall sit and tell her story, battle the armies of the Bonelord like she did in the mortal world."
He speaks other prayers as it is custom. Before he stands up again, he breaks tradition and adds a few more words.
"I have not brought her ashes today. I will not bury them in the graveyard of this place. I hope you forgive me this and understand my motivation. It was her will to be burnt, but I can hardly imagine she would be comfortable with being trapped in a cage, either a golden one in life, or a clay one now. I have found a better place for her to rest and I hope you'll grant me safe travels to reach this destination."
After these words, the old man stands, unlights the candle with two fingers and bows deeply before the altar. He then turns and walks away. On his way out of the altar room the old man remembers how he had nearly given up hope and the wish to stay alive. He remembers how he was outraged by the dead of her loved one, how he had cursed the gods for taking her away. He remembers how he thought about jumping down a cliff close to his cottage, to join her in the endlessness of the afterlife. But that day, standing at the cliff, looking down at the rough stones which would have crushed his body like a vintner crushes grapes, he remembered that all people are there for a reason, and are taken away for a reason. "If the gods wished to enjoy her inspiring and lovely company now, how could I blame them?" The old man grins under his hood. And if the gods wanted him to join them as well, they would merely have to ask.
He closes the gates to the altar room behind him and is approached by the disfigured monk who had welcomed him to the monastery the other day.
"Have you finished your prayers?"
The old man nods.
"Very good. The abbot hopes the room and food was to your liking, as well as the atmosphere of the monastery to help you with your devotions."
The old man nods again. "You have been very kind. Thank you."
The scarred lips of the monk form a smile. After a moment of silence, he asks for the offering to the monastery. The old man opens his bag and pulls a small bundle out. He removes the cloth, and reveals a small mirror. The frame is made of gold apparently and the mirror itself is dark as obsidian. He hands the mirror to the monk.
The monk is confused at first and takes the mirror in both of his hands, staring into the black void which is between the golden frame. The old man is unsure why the monk stares so firmly. Is he startled by his own devoured face, or does this thing still have some of its old powers left?
The old man throws the cloth over the mirror again, only now getting back the attention of the monk who looks at him in confusion. "It has lost its power a long time ago. It was one of many, most of them have already been destroyed. This might even be the last one. Do not underestimate it. I suggest you bring it to your abbot right away and destroy it in a holy ritual."
The monk nods and tightly wraps the cloth around the object in his hands.
"If the others were destroyed, why did you keep this one?" He asks.
The old man turns and grins. He does not speak, just stands there and grins at the monk under his hood.
"What... what did those things do when they were still... powerful?"
The grin vanishes from the old man's face and his expression becomes neutral again.
"He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you."
The old man nods with a smile and gives a quick goodbye, before he leaves the monastery. The monk stands in the hall for a while, thinking about which one of his two questions the old man had just answered.