Old Ghosts & Other Things

[Drathe]

Accompanying background music - youtube link

A light rain pattered over the canopy of zesty green and yellow leaves above. The aeromatised smell of the wholesome forest filled the damp air, as drips fell from the branches above, lazy in their flight to the earthy rich brown soil below. Strewn about haphazardly at the base of a large and old mevrannon tree, a dark coat with white linen shirt - soaked through from the rain and an old patinaed, dented half cuirass. A man stood between them all with the tree before him. The skin of his naked upper body wet and goosebumped. His dark, short cropped hair matted with rain that dripped from pointed tips to run down his face, chasing tears over stubbled cheeks. Dark eyes, pink rimmed from fatigue and the emotions pouring through them.

He sobbed, shoulders bobbing with each spasm of despair, such deep all encompassing despair. The rogue’s head flopped forward for chin to press against his chest as the fingers hanging at his thigh, curled open and let go of their burden. A dark glass bottle now lay on the forest floor. It’s contents wasting away with each glug onto the wet earthy ground. The spiced rum within rolling back and fourth from neck to base in a rebounding wave caught in the confines of the glass.

So much had happened since Kaelyn had gone, so much. Still no word or sighting of her had reached him. Not that he would have admited it, but, each week he would trade a coin or two with merchants and sailors to keep an eye out for her description. But nothing, nothing was becoming everything in his life.

Everything he had tried to orchestrate had come to nothing. Like a conductor watching the musicians before him, the players in the capriccio he was composing. His tuned ear listening out and flicking a hand at specific times to try and direct the instruments starting to fall out of key. But as skilled as he was, as hard as he tried, the rhythm faltered, musicians playing out of tune and the song became a rondo before falling on deaf ears. The show was over.

Frustration had broiled away any drive for a new composition, any energy to continue his role in society. What he had not expected on leaving the council, was the love and encouragement the towns folk had shared with him. Truly he was touched, genuinely and honestly touched, it mixed like oil in water with the guilt also sired in him of his all be it failed but truer purpose.

Once again the pendulum of life had swung down before it had even reached its zenith. He couldn’t describe how he felt any more. Couldn’t put into words the twisting, knotted mix of emotions that drained him with their demand for attention. He was filled as to be too full to eat but hollow and empty at the same time. Fatigue and a haze of alcohol obscured the shape of logical reasoning for it to be unrecognisable in outline any more. To all and everyone else, he was still Drathe, still spoke like Drathe, walked like Drathe, even smiled like Drathe, only a little more subdued and of course drunk. The only appearance he had made without a drink in his hand for the past four days was when it fell out of his hands as he slept passed out and the 5 or so minutes he was knocked out having started a brawl at the tavern. But who was Drathe? He hadn’t the capacity of thought to discover that at present. What he had managed to conclude was that there was no place in the world for him any more. No space that his shape fit in either loose or snugly.

If only she was around. Kae would have took his chin between fingers and thumb, looked into his face and told him what was what. Oh by the gods, how he always descended into madness when she left, only this time felt different, he had truly let her in and she had just disappeared, gone one night. Seemingly just as she had before and against everything she had said, had prommised. Much as he himself used to do back in the day with a pocket full of rich bitches jewellery and another chalked up broken heart for the tally.

The rain continued over the forest canopy above, life giving and nurturing to all it touched, save for one. ‘Always the same, you, life!’ He cried up, voice broken and strained before his head fell forward drunkly. ‘Leading me to things I can never make my own, never keep for long.’ He swayed drunkly. ‘I'm done!’ He admitted in a whisper. The sound of such a defeatist statement stoking a flare of defiant temper that pushed through to thump a tightly clenched fist against the tree. But, like an old and faithful friend, ready to go but given the shake of head to stand down from a fight, the emotion ebbed as directed. The fist fell to press against his sternum. ‘We’re not fighting any more. I’m done.’ His shoulders sagged as the weight, the burden of loss fully settled its self over them.

For all of his life, all his struggles, lost fights, close calls, moments of regret, nothing had broken him. Nothing had snuffed out his fighting spirit or emptied his full heart. Until these times. He had dared to love, dare to be stupid and share his heart, dared to even believe he might be able to change the world. Now the rogue suffered like he never knew a man could. Despair, like a curse given from un-believed in gods, afflicted him. Without the focus of his vengeful plans, without a purpose to direct all that pain, he drowned in it. A heartless always smiling, care free rogue, oh the irony in what he had become.

From the back of the old and worn sword belt hanging lopsided about his hips, a thin well made dagger was drawn. The hilt of it was touched to the trunk of the tree and held by two trembling hands. Around the wrist of one hung a stained and scruffy red ribbon of silk, upon a finger of the other a blue saphire ring. His whole body shivered, skin and muscles tight and wet from the cold of the rain. Drathe took a half step in and leaned his chest to the protruding tip of the blade. It dimpled into a spot that would have its path between ribs and into heart.

The rogues blood pumped strong, breathing shallow and sharp. He grimaced, eyes tightly closed… then he tensed and made to press forward into the dagger.



The two young children hurried home along the well trodden foot path that skirted the forest and followed on up the small hill. They always came this way as it was quicker, more direct than weaving their way through the woods. ‘Mam’s going to be wondering where we are.’ Finley said to his younger brother as they strode along briskly. Both of them carrying a small basket each in hand with a cloth covering. The rain was light but they were both wet through and eager to be home when suddenly they stopped dead in their tracks. Heads turning and ears pricking up like wild hares sensing something. A sound had gripped them, right before the squawking of rooks filled the air as they took flight from the trees, alarmed. ‘Did you hear tha?’ Finley asked his wide eyed and silent brother, who simply nodded before turning to run as fast as he could in the direction of home. Finley was right behind him.

[Shiba]

Shiba wanders around Runewick. Her steps are slow and heavy. "Always the same dull faces" as she walks across the line of merchants and craftsmen. It's not longer than a year and precisely this place was full of life and determination. The harbor was jammed with trading ships from far away. It was not without efforts though. Shiba herself worked very hard coordinating the people in her business, but whenever she was asked or praised, she refused humbly and kept answering "It's all thanks to Drathe motivating everyone to give and work for the city!"

But yes, "Drathe", as she sighed resigning, "what would he do now?" Her thoughts are bewildered. How can a single person change the world? What trait do you have to possess to be able to encourage others to keep moving on no matter how dark the times? What can you do to bring life into the world? "Life, life" as she kept mumbling "life...death?"

What if the good times are over and none of that will ever be as it was before? Time is like an avalanche moving downhill, entraining everything along its path. Such a strong power and yet it can't roll back up on the mountain. For some this mountain is quite flat, like for elves. But human? It must be crazy steep. Shiba remembers how she was baffled to see Drathe drink so so much alcohol. Like doesn't he know that life is short for *him*? Of course he lacks the wisdom of a thousand year old elf, but that's something that Shiba failed to learn within all her lifespan: Accepting changes. Accepting people to leave her, to go for war never returning, to go for a boat trip just to be caught by a storm. These people are gone for good. There is no way to revive them.

"Or is there?" - but Shiba cancels that thought immediately as she knows what's at the end of the road if she would permit that thought. A lot of elves have it in common to not deepening their relational bonds too much as that will exhaust you or even drive you crazy.

"But where the hell did your rat-arsed melon lead you, Drathe?" Shiba didn't have it easy to forgive him leaving the council. That's precisely the type of change that she despised. "But leaving the city? He promised not to!" she shouts as the dull merchant faces looked at her mindlessly. It's clear that these braindead guys are not able to give her the answers that she is looking for. Maybe she can persuade her new found friends helping her to find him?