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Ghost Stories [Open]

Posted: Wed Sep 07, 2022 11:20 pm
by Imogen
Image
Ash 25, 122
The bonfire flickered in the firepit, long done gorging on hunks of driftwood and dead palm leaves, but not yet ready to subside to embers. The sun had faded to a dull orange blur painting the horizon, but the stars were not bright enough to truly shine. Too early to sleep, too late to wake- a liminal hour.

Into this hour, Imogen Ward interjected, huddling close to the fire so that its light stained her green skin with ruddy hues, and the sparse scales on her arms and neck glinted inconsistently. In the wan light, her face seemed to hollow, to grow more gaunt and strange. Flashes of some violet lightning glinted behind her eyes.

”On a night like this,” Imogen spoke over the fire, her voice quiet; just audible over the crackling light and the sound of distant waves, ”Years ago it was. Before Ailos fell, to be sure, and maybe even before Kythera. Back before the plague, when people learned to fear the waking of those who should sleep for good. You see…”


~~~


Once upon a time, when the sons of Aileor still ruled the golden plains south of the haunted forests, there was a huntsman named Kaspar, a forester by the grace of the reigning Duc. Though he had been a forester for many years, he was intemperate in his cups, and brashly offended the ladies of the town of Derswald, where he came to trade his traps. One night, when he grew particularly free with them, the people of the town paid a wizard to lay a curse on Kaspar. All unknowing, he took the wizard’s coin for trade, and thus accepted the affliction upon his soul.

Thereafter, Kaspar found himself unable to strike stag and swine alike. Arrow after arrow he loosed, and his quiver grew light; yet his sled grew none the fuller. At last, his bags were empty and his heart was full of despair. In a grave plight, Kaspar built himself a fire for the night in the hollow where crossed the old ways of Sellen and Synker. There he rested, casting about for hope in his cursed night.

But as the moon grew bright above, a traveler chanced upon Kaspar’s camp, a tall, thin man, attended by a mule and carrying weighty packs upon it.

“Ho there!” cried Kaspar, “Who goes out upon the High King’s road?”

“Naught but a simple tradesman,” the figure responded, “A peddler, Kelain by name.”

“A peddler! Come not this way, traveler. I have been cursed by evil folk, and I would not care to embroil you in my woe!”

“Cursed?” Kelain inquired, “Lay out the nature of the curse, then. It so happens that I have seen some small display of the art in my travels; perhaps I may assist you.”

“I fear it is folly, but even still. A wizard of Derswald has placed a curse upon me, that no shot of mine will fly true. As my line is decreed by the High King to be foresters, it is the death of me!”

“Ah!” Kelain cried, “Worthy forester, it is fate indeed that our paths should cross here. For I have with me a set of arrows, imbued with a charm such that they can never miss, whatever the curse upon you decree. Six such arrows, and a seventh.”

“But such wonders must cost a fortune! I have no such treasure to trade.”

At that Kelain smiled. “Fortune indeed, for I ask not even a single coin. You may have six silver arrows, each of which will strike true whatsoever it is you desire. As price, I ask only that you also take this seventh silver arrow.”

“And what does it strike?” Kaspar asked, suspicious.

“It strikes as I desire.”


~~~


Though none could but suspect such a convenient trade, Kaspar took Kelain’s bargain. Six shafts of silver which attended to his whim, and one to a desire yet unknown.

Yet Kelain’s bargain proved as good as it seemed, and better. The arrows were sturdy- even upon striking a deer in full glory, they seldom broke. As promised, they never missed. In a week, Kaspar returned to Derswald with a great bounty; and the next week, an even greater one. So livid were the townsfolk that they ran the wizard who had cursed Kaspar out of town, then tied him to a great rock and poured boiling tar upon him.

As the hunter’s fame and fortune grew, so too did his luck with the women of the town. Many a pretty young girl came to woo the man who had become known as the greatest hunter in all the lands south of the Astralars, and many a girl did he make merry with and then dispense with the next day.

Still, as months turned to years, his stock of charmed arrows diminished. One broke, at last, upon the skull of a stag with eighteen points for antlers. Another went into the side of a boar who, though slain, still managed to run itself off the top of a waterfall. Yet another was stolen by one of his girls as he lay in a drunken haze, he having been thoughtless enough to show it to her while boasting. In time, he came to have only one of his six arrows- one arrow, and the seventh, too.

Yet one day, his fame became so great that a foreign princess, a northerner, came to the town to see him shoot. Kaspar was overcome by her beauty at once- in an instant, his wine-sopped adventures with the women of the town in the taverns seemed ashen and joyless. He knew at once, in his heart, that nothing would matter to him ever again, save that he know the princess’ love.

“You are Kaspar, the great hunter? The minstrels in my father’s hall sing of nothing but your exploits.” the princess said.

“It is true, and more.” he boasted, wishing only to impress her, “I have slain boar and stag, wolf and bear. Falcons on the gyre, I have shot down. There is no creature of land, air, or sea which I cannot slay.”

“Save the dragons themselves.” the princess corrected him.

This pious retraction, which any man might have accepted, stuck in his craw. “Nay; even a wyrm of the sky, my bow could strike it down.”

Such a boast, once made, could not be retracted. The princess would think him hollow and boastful; to swallow his pride and admit himself unworthy to face a great wyrm would show him to be a small, weak man. Thus, Kaspar insisted upon setting off into the forest with the northern princess, thereupon to find a dragon’s lair and display his powers.

For three days and three nights, they traveled the lands, until at last they came to the lair of a great black wyrm, an old and jealous lizard who accepted no company. There, Kaspar unhooked and strung his bow, and nocked the sixth arrow, then waited for the wyrm to emerge.

When at last the dragon came to leave his cavern, Kaspar loosed his flight, sending the silver arrow fair and true into the dragon’s eye. But though the wyrm howled and wept tears of blood, he did not die, and it quickly became clear that the dragon would soon recover, and slay his erstwhile slayer in turn. Overcome with desperation, Kaspar nocked the seventh arrow, and shot it. The bolt flew true-

-into the princess, watching from the road behind him.


~~~


Kaspar was able to escape the wounded dragon, but the princess was dead by his hand, and his heart filled with rage and longing. It was clear to him immediately who bore the blame; the fault lay with Kelain, the deceiving peddler.

The huntsman knew not from whence Kelain hailed, so he took a chance and returned to the crossing at Sellen and Synker. There he waited for six days and six nights, which were all his alone. And then, on the seventh night-

“Hail, worthy forester!” a voice called, and Kaspar sprung to his feet.

“Well met, Kelain. Come, step closer, that I might greet thee.”

Kelain stepped forward into the center of the crossing, and Kaspar lunged forward to paint a line- closing the circle he had drawn in the middle of the clearing.

“Halt and despair, Kelain! I have drawn a binding circle about you in the blood wept by the black wyrm, which all men know is proof against demons such as you!”

“It is true,” Kelain admitted, “You have cleverly trapped me, as a hunter is wont. Permit me to beg for my life, then.”

“Beg, though you will find no quarter. Your pleas will fall sweet upon deaf ears.”

“Then know, great forester, that your princess is dead, but not yet gone. I have hooked her with my magic, to drag her to my realm. Yet, she is tied still by your devotion. Stay true to her for a single year and my spell is broken, and I must return her to life.”

“Swear this is true, Kelain, by all the gods!”

“In the knowing of Akrivar I swear it, and by the Spider, and atop the hallowed earth of Aedrin, I give you my bond. Abide by these strictures for just one year, and she is yours once more.”

“Done!” cried Kaspar. “And by the fact of true love, I shall never fail her!”


~~~


The love of men burns bright and hot, and as beautiful as a star; but like those stars of night, it fades. For six months, Kaspar kept his promise, bolstered by the memory of the princess’ fair skin, and bright eyes. In the seventh month, however, he met a young woman with freckles on her face and raven locks, who could sing a note so high and sweet that the stones wept. And so in the seventh month, he was untrue. And in the eighth. And the ninth. In the tenth, he was abed with rashes of the loins, but in the eleventh too, he dallied.

Then in the twelfth month, one year precisely from the day he shot the princess, he was hunting for boar in the dark forest, when he heard dancing and singing. Intrigued, he approached a lone clearing, where a fire had been set.

There, in the clearing, was Kelain, smiling. And there, dancing a stately dance about the flame, was the princess. At the sight of her, Kaspar’s heart burned with love anew, and he rushed to her side, sobbing: “Darling, my darling, I am so sorry. I will be true to you, now and forever!”

And the princess smiled at him, and beckoned him into her arms. And there they embraced, and her embrace was cold. He felt her papery skin upon his, white as leprosy, and smelled her rotting breath, and they danced one final time.


~~~


The next day, the people of Derswald found the body of Kaspar near the gates to town. There was no sign of what had killed him, save for a frostbitten patch of skin on his cheek, like the imprint of a dainty hand. The people mourned the loss of the great hunter, and brought him into the lodge to prepare for his eternal sleep.

For six days, Kaspar lay in state, sleeping the sleep of death. On the seventh, his eyes opened, and he rose.

And that was the end of the town of Derswald.

Imogen pulled back from the fire as she finished her tale, letting the silence reign for a time. Then she spoke:

”And that's the story of the Forester and the Seven Arrows, as I heard it told in Zaichaer as a girl. Who will go next?”



Re: Ghost Stories [Open]

Posted: Tue Sep 13, 2022 9:42 pm
by Kaiko Marina

As Imogen finished her story Kaiko listened. Then the lady asked who was next. Kaiko volunteered standing up, deciding on the story to tell. Sailors were a funny bunch, and she was no exception. She knew most sea tales by heart but she could use this as an opportunity to start a rumor to help her in the future.

"There's a rumor on the water that a siren will kill a sailor by singing them into the rocks. That is false. A siren will curse a ship and her crew. I have seen it first hand. The sun was beginning to set as a full moon became visible in the sky. The crew was pulling in the netting from the sea. The crew was late pulling in the line but they were good at their job and quickly pulled in the net and separated the fish.

All stopped as a scream for help came from the net. Quickly the captain and crew would run over to the side and quickly pull in the net. All stepped back at the sight of a female with a fish tail.

'Let me go or be cursed forever.' She said in an incident sing-song voice. The captain laughed 'no, my dear, I'm going to kill you and take your tears to heal my crew and use your blood to curse my enemies.' He would say before stabbing her through. As a captain is supposed to eliminate any threat to his crew. Little did he know but as he killed the siren a curse came over him and his crew. He would grow hungry for flesh and kill his crew in a mindless rampage. When he came to, he would look for peace at the bottom of a barrel. But the alcohol would not numb his sorrows. Eventually the captain would lose his legs in exchange for a tail and replace the siren he had killed.

Hear me now if you hear the sweet hum of a person not there or a cry for help from a fish be careful as to not kill it for if ya do you will see the world from their side."

Kaiko would say and then take her seat. She could have told of a ghost ship but instead she told this in hopes that next time she was trapped in a net she would be set free instead of killed.

Re: Ghost Stories [Open]

Posted: Wed Sep 14, 2022 5:57 pm
by Avamande
Ghost stories and tales of horror would not be expected to be their forte but, Avamande actually did have one in mind. Listening to those who came before politely, they slowly stood when it was their turn. Interposing themselves between the setting sun and the rest of the party, hey began in a sonorous chant, the mage cheating perhaps just a smidge to have the sand shake underneath all attending.

"I'll tell you a story, I swear that it's true, it's older than me, and it's older than you..."


~~~

A long time ago, when the gods still walked the world without guise or glamor, once stood a kingdom far away. And there, across the raging sea and above mountains cold, lived a lady fair. So brilliant did she shine that it was as if the stars themselves were in her braids, and just as fair was she free, flitting about like a leaf upon the breeze. Well indeed did she live free, refusing the hand of the mightiest of lords and wisest of mages, preferring instead the forest alone.

Many came to win her hand, and many left alone, but time and time again one persisted, outlasting all the rest. A king he was, indeed her liege, but before her he bore no crown upon his brow. Beneath the boughs of trees, hidden even from the sight of the stars and moon, he came to her. Underneath the open sky, upon the broadest of plains, he came to her. In the shelter of a cave, behind a roaring fall, he came to her.

Yet he too, she refused to wed.

Every time he asked her why, and she simply smiled and said that not even a king could meet her marriage price. Neither jewels nor arms nor lands nor lore could sway her, but in his sincerity her heart was moved. And then, one day, she told him what he must give in exchange for her hand.

It must be said that even in this age, as occurs in every age, the forces of the shadow had amassed in power and might. So too answered the armies of the light, and the king no less eager a captain in those wars. Many foemen did he smite, and many cruel castles he cast down, and great glory he covered himself in.

She thought it cruel, then, to tell him the truth. That she would only bind herself to one who could bring her to a place of peace, for she had grown tired of war. So great was his ardor for her though that he at once threw down his sword, shattering it upon the stones, and cast his helm into the falls. He swore that he would bring her to a place of peace and rest, where war would be only a memory.

For upon a distant shore, where masters of the sea doth dwelt, were ships of every kind. To these they would fly, and sail to a land where they would know not death. Yet despite his vows, war would not be quit of him so soon. All the lords of the league had been called, and he was torn between his oaths. He promised to his beloved that this would be his final battle, and that she should hurry to the ship to await his return.

Off he marched for the last time to war, bearing neither helm nor sword. Yet so brilliant was the light in his heart that he suffered no blow, and struck down many foes, and returned in triumph from the murdermake. Alas, there are more woes in war than those faced upon the field.

Great mages roused the ire of the world in battles so vast, and even a victory for the light was won at bitter price. A horrid storm arose upon the closing of the day, and away in the harbor the great ships did shudder and sway. The king on valiant steed rode as hard and fast as he could, throwing off gauntlet and haubergeon as he raced for the sea.

Cruel fortune refused him however, and when he reached that far shore the vessel of his beloved had been blown upon the waves. At once he sprung, like arrow loosed from string, and swift did he ride upon the waves in search of his beloved.

Doom fell upon them then, as from afar the foam about him shone, and she watched as wind and wave struck him down. At once she sprung, like arrow loosed from string, and swift did she ride upon the waves in search of her beloved.

Together they clung within the sea, battered all about, and there it is said they met their end, vanishing beneath the waves without a single shout.

Yet, love so pure and fondness so fair is worthy of its own reward. Stirred by their fates, the gods brought them back to earth, as king and queen of both sky and sea. There still they dwell, with their kin, and these you have surely seen. Remember them when you look up and see white feathers fall at dawn, for from such grace and love did so spring the swan.

Re: Ghost Stories [Open]

Posted: Tue Sep 20, 2022 2:17 pm
by Norani

Norani was sitting on the edge of the group by the fire, resting on a roughly woven mat of palm fronds. She found herself struggling to relax like some of the people here were doing. She had quickly realized that the Captain had told many different tales to different people. None of them made sense. Some were under the impression that this was some sort of training period before a bigger adventure, but her and Yeva knew that this was an unknown method of its own for breaking the curse laid upon the Duck.

Norani didn't trust the mission, didn't trust the captain, and didn't know any of these people well enough to trust them either. And she still didn't trust herself. Why did she want to come here? To run away? She upended her entire life because of something she thought she'd heard. A stolen friend's voice speaking secrets. That was not proof. There was no logical reason for it to be true, the Unknown existed for thousands of years with many greater minds than her own pursuing it. And yet, it still remained untouched. Not even the slightest of hints.

So why would she have received anything different?

The thought of it being a demon that somehow tricked her seemed all the more likely.

Curling up, her knees beneath her, she opened her journal, pulling out her pencil. Casting a glance at the fire, she fed it a tendril of her aether, just a taste, for fire was forever ravenous. And she pulled a bit of flames along the line toward her, an incandescent rope sidling toward her. She touched it to the tip of her pencil, watching it as it ignited the wood. And as it did, she urged the flame to go deeper in the wood, to not rest upon the surface. As it did, she called to the winds, pulling a single laughing one toward her. As the flames burrowed, the winds were guided to swirl around the end of the pencil, pulling away the air, to allow the flames to use purely the wood as fuel. It didn't take long for her to convert the length of wood into a full charcoal pencil. And when the task was done, she lured the fire out once more with the offering of aether, and returned it to the campfire from which it came, and set the winds back out to play.

As the one called Imogen began to tell a story, Norani began to write it down, starting the page with 'Imogen, Ash 25, 122' at the top. Norani watched Imogen closely as she spoke, listened well. She left little margins to the side, where she posted her own questions and thoughts on the story, a habit taught by one of her fathers. She wrote the story in Ecitharese script, way of writing the spoken or sung word. It was a deeply flowing script, following the phonetic, rising and falling with the cadence, emboldened and thinned for the variance of notes in Imogen's voice. The story itself she found interesting, for it seemed to be a tail of the unknown villain. A warning against selfishness, both as an individual and a society.

She continued, writing Keiko's and Avamande's stories in turn as well. And she took a deep breath, deciding to try crafting one of her own, rather than passing on a story of old. She thought back to something one of her fathers once said, and despite it being tinged by the pain of their deception, it still rang true. Storycrafting is how one can share their pain without spreading it.

In a soft voice, uttered over the closed bindings of her journal, "This is the story of a maiden fair, one who had long since died of unknown causes. She was not a beloved princess, not the child of a noble house, and while she was not the source of importance as many stories are oft to give to such a character, she was special. In life, she was one who swam with the spirits and sang to the winds and was beloved equally by great beasts of sharp fang and talon as those of soft fur and chubby bellies.

And when she died, she became a spirit, one of water, living upon the very lake her people called home. She attended the festivals of her people, as though she were still alive. After all, she could still see, she could still feel, she could still dance, so perhaps death wasn't so terribly different from being alive.

But the people of the village felt quite different.

They knew she was there, they could see her dancing, see her gliding across the surface of the water, they could hear her laughter. But they chose to not see her, for that was their way. The dead were meant to be dead, to move on and become the water, the soil, the winds, the sunshine once more. They were not meant to be remained as an echo, a painful reminder of what the people lost.

And for a time, it went as it was. She danced, they looked away. But it was not long until she could feel their avoidance of her more than she could feel the winds' soft caress or the firmness of the lake beneath her feet. She tried to put herself in the way of their eyes, but it always seemed there was a more important thing to look at, a different direction to begin walking. And this made the maiden of the lake very sad.

The maiden chose to go out to the very center of the lake, a place only the most skilled and daring of fishermen might go, and she mourned her own death. Her people wanted to forget her and she would allow it. And years went by, and all those that knew her died and passed on.

Yet the maiden was still there, awash in her own grief.

Until one day, a young lass, two generations separated, made her way out to the center of the lake, to fish where few dared. The waters here were deepest, the fish and creature vast and spiteful. And the maiden watched her, fascinated. The lass harpooned angry serpents, wrestled with fish that could swallow her little dingy, and she swam the waters without fear.

And so, the maiden presented herself to the lass, who smiled at her. 'I was wondering when you might say hello.' The maiden was stunned, surprised that the lass had seen her here the entire time. In no time at all, the two became the closest of friends. The lass visited often, to fish and hunt, to swim and lounge, to speak and to listen.

One fateful day though, the maiden pressed a hand to the lass' cheek, 'I wish to hold your hand, to feel it as I might have if I were alive.' For while she could, it lacked the warmth, the nurture, the bond of when one is alive. The lass choked back tears, nodding, 'I cannot bring you back. No one can. I have sought the knowledge of the world and all roads lead to ruin.' The maiden nodded, for she knew the truth already.

And so, the lass continued to visit, to fish and hunt, to swim and lounge, to speak and listen. But the air was different. And with each passing visit, the maiden seemed to lose substance, seemed to be fading from reality and visibility. And the lass knew that if she couldn't bring the maiden back, she must do the next best thing. And so when a great crocodilian type beast followed the lass' bait, a tactic that she'd used many a time to great success, the waters bled red.

And soon, there were two water spirits laughing and dancing over the surface of the lake, smiling and happy together, and a village nearby that did everything they could to never notice them."


A soft sigh and Norani began writing that story down in her journal from memory too, penning her own name at the top.

Re: Ghost Stories [Open]

Posted: Tue Apr 18, 2023 6:24 am
by Aegis
REVIEW TIME




Imogen

Lores: 8 Skill Lores

Loot: N/A
Injuries: N/A

Points: 10, may not be used for magic

Comments:


Kaiko

Lores: 3 Skill Lores

Loot: N/A
Injuries: N/A

Points: 4, may not be used for magic

Comments: Awarded 1/3rd value for lores and skills, rounded up, as roughly 1/3rd word count was achieved (1500)


Avamande

Lores: 6 Skill Lores

Loot: N/A
Injuries: N/A

Points: 7, may not be used for magic

Comments: Awarded 2/3rd value for lores and skills, rounded up, as roughly 2/3rd word count was achieved (1500)


Norani

Lores: 8 Skill Lores

Loot: N/A
Injuries: N/A

Points: 10, may not be used for magic

Comments: