Posted: Mon Nov 07, 2011 2:42 pm
Day 4 | Votecount 5
Fate
(1) - PeregrineV [L-3]
Hinduragi
(0)kiwieagle
(0) Oversoul
(0)PeregrineV
(4) - Staeg, Fate, Shadow Dancer, Hinduragi [Lynch]
Shadow Dancer
(1) - kiwieagle [L-3]
Staeg
(1) - Oversoul [L-3]
Not Voting (0)
PeregrineV has been Lynched!
---
Things were becoming tense in Llaranastra.
As the body count grew, the Malurians camped within the city walls began to leave the safety of their taverns less frequently. They shied away behind heavy oak doors, keeping to the shadows of isolation; or stayed only in well-lit public places which they perceived as a sanctuary from the plague of violence that had swept the city. But even here, the streets stank of putrid blood and decaying flesh. The gravediggers had long ago given up trying to stem the tide, and now, bodies were left to decompose in the streets. The bustle of the market was replaced by the chittering of rats and ravens, feasting on the day's dead and dying.
One person in particular felt ill at ease in the metropolis. Dressed in a tattered and ragged cloak, a deep shade of midnight and decorated with glittering runes, the hunched figure walked trance-like between the trees, as though searching for some invisible prayer to guide his way. Beneath a peaked cowl, his hair fell in long braids, thick twists of grey flecked with white, knotted with a delicate grass ribbon at the bottom. They rustled as he walked, and swayed silently as he paused at each tree, laying a hand upon the bark and muttering under his breath.
But there were few trees here, in a city made from stone and fire, a far cry from the soil and grass of his homeland.
As he began the cycle again, people began to murmur under their breath. They wondered why he spent his days moving between the same trees, why he was touching the bark, who he was trying to commune with; there was talk of dark and forbidden magical arts, and the suspicion grew rapidly. There were those who claimed that the hunched man was preparing some kind of ritual, walking a precise summoning circle between the trees in order to contain the demon he hoped to draw from the Pale Void. Others claimed his ravaged appearance was just one of many that he could utilise; should he wish to blend in slaughter innocent civilians, he could do so and never be identified.
Perhaps accounting for their popularity, these rumours were largely true; he was preparing for a ritual, and he could take on different forms should he so choose. But the ritual was not to summon a demon, nor was his hunched stature an illusion of form. He rarely hid his disabilities in the Plainstribe, where his ability to overcome the shackles of his physique brought him higher esteem than any of the able-bodied barbarians. More to the point, the ritual was purely cognitive: the old man knew that he was dying and that if he did not watch out, his time was drawing increasingly closer. The old man sighed: a year ago, he had been ready for the changes that would inevitably come as he continued to defend younger men - or, as was more frequent, as they defended you. Now, though, he believed that he had a purpose in this city, and was determined to outlive his time in order to see his purpose fulfilled.
He thought that by looking to the future, he could outmanoeuvre the threads of Fate.
He was very, very wrong.
As the ritual drew to an end, he saw only blood. He did not know what his purpose was in this city where nature was his only ally, but he did know that his time was upon him. The embers of the great oak tree that had stood guardian of the Llaranastrian crypts fluttered on the wind, blown by the same wind that had sighed for the Mystic's coming death. As they frenziedly caved his skull in, they did not even notice that he came to them willingly, believing that the will of nature finds a way in all ways, and that it must have been his purpose to die on this day...
As the body count grew, the Malurians camped within the city walls began to leave the safety of their taverns less frequently. They shied away behind heavy oak doors, keeping to the shadows of isolation; or stayed only in well-lit public places which they perceived as a sanctuary from the plague of violence that had swept the city. But even here, the streets stank of putrid blood and decaying flesh. The gravediggers had long ago given up trying to stem the tide, and now, bodies were left to decompose in the streets. The bustle of the market was replaced by the chittering of rats and ravens, feasting on the day's dead and dying.
One person in particular felt ill at ease in the metropolis. Dressed in a tattered and ragged cloak, a deep shade of midnight and decorated with glittering runes, the hunched figure walked trance-like between the trees, as though searching for some invisible prayer to guide his way. Beneath a peaked cowl, his hair fell in long braids, thick twists of grey flecked with white, knotted with a delicate grass ribbon at the bottom. They rustled as he walked, and swayed silently as he paused at each tree, laying a hand upon the bark and muttering under his breath.
But there were few trees here, in a city made from stone and fire, a far cry from the soil and grass of his homeland.
As he began the cycle again, people began to murmur under their breath. They wondered why he spent his days moving between the same trees, why he was touching the bark, who he was trying to commune with; there was talk of dark and forbidden magical arts, and the suspicion grew rapidly. There were those who claimed that the hunched man was preparing some kind of ritual, walking a precise summoning circle between the trees in order to contain the demon he hoped to draw from the Pale Void. Others claimed his ravaged appearance was just one of many that he could utilise; should he wish to blend in slaughter innocent civilians, he could do so and never be identified.
Perhaps accounting for their popularity, these rumours were largely true; he was preparing for a ritual, and he could take on different forms should he so choose. But the ritual was not to summon a demon, nor was his hunched stature an illusion of form. He rarely hid his disabilities in the Plainstribe, where his ability to overcome the shackles of his physique brought him higher esteem than any of the able-bodied barbarians. More to the point, the ritual was purely cognitive: the old man knew that he was dying and that if he did not watch out, his time was drawing increasingly closer. The old man sighed: a year ago, he had been ready for the changes that would inevitably come as he continued to defend younger men - or, as was more frequent, as they defended you. Now, though, he believed that he had a purpose in this city, and was determined to outlive his time in order to see his purpose fulfilled.
He thought that by looking to the future, he could outmanoeuvre the threads of Fate.
He was very, very wrong.
As the ritual drew to an end, he saw only blood. He did not know what his purpose was in this city where nature was his only ally, but he did know that his time was upon him. The embers of the great oak tree that had stood guardian of the Llaranastrian crypts fluttered on the wind, blown by the same wind that had sighed for the Mystic's coming death. As they frenziedly caved his skull in, they did not even notice that he came to them willingly, believing that the will of nature finds a way in all ways, and that it must have been his purpose to die on this day...
PeregrineV, Plainstribe Barbarian Mystic, Traitor to King and Country, Lynched D4
It is now Night 4. Deadline for actions is Thursday 10th November, 2:30am GMT. That's in (expired on 2011-11-09 22:30:00)
