Foul Olde Spirit Inn, Common Room
"Tick, tick, tick, tick," the clock on the east wall monotonously marches on. "Tap, tap, tap, tap," can be heard from the table nearest to the door, almost in exact rhythm. Sitting there is a tall man with fiery red hair, his amber orbs shining with the reflected light of the room. His name is Animus; the weak blooded Aasimar Half-Dragon. The tapping is emitted by the finger tips of his gauntleted right, moving up and down as he drummed the table top.
Where is she? he wonders as he looks to the clock. Did Ixia forget to tell her? Or perhaps Ixia didn't see her again?
Animus had been sitting there since he had come back from Elysium. He had gone there to meditate, trying to clear his mind after participating in the arrest of his friend, Bergimon. Staring out at the endless horizon and stars, he lost himself in his thoughts as he went over the events of the day and the eve before in his mind, trying to make sense of all that was happening. His reverie was broken at the sound of a branch snapping. He sat up and turned around but saw no one. Perhaps it had been a bird. Regardless, he realizes he needed to get back to the inn common room. So he makes his way out Elysium and down the stairs to the first floor of the inn.
Now, here I am. Waiting to meet Aska, my wife that has now been dead for over six years... for twenty three hours now. He looks over to the clock to confirm the time he had been waiting.
The eve before Animus had asked Ixia if she had found an artist for the friend she mentioned earlier in the day. At first, he wasn't too surprised when she revealed her friend's name was Aska. He simply smiled and mentioned it was an odd coincidence her friend shared the same name as his wife. But then she started looking at him strange and asked him a question that blew his mind. She asked if he had once gone by the name "Bastard."
"Bastard..." he murmurs quietly to himself as his fingers continue to tap. That had been my name, not so long ago.
Animus' jaw dropped as Ixia began to rattle off details of his past, details that she had learned from the mouth of this Aska! He just couldn't believe it at first. It made no sense. But as Ixia went on and on, there could be no doubt. When she said she would arrange a meeting between the two of them, it took him several moments to name the inn as the meeting place because he had been so befuddled. When she asked when, he told her anytime tomorrow. He would be checking the common room constantly. He told her he was planning to retire for the eve, but he was too excited to sleep. So he simply took a seat at the nearest table and had been waiting there since.
"Tick, tap, tick, tap, tick, tap, tick, tap." Where is she?
Well, almost... after the night had passed, Animus had decided to go for a walk in the bazaar, planning to at most say hi to any familiar faces. He noticed his friend, Bergimon, at the bar. That was before the arrest. He greeted his friend and asked how he was doing. After shooting the breeze with him and the others there, a woman approached the bar that Animus recognized almost immediately, Vanya. He had been meaning to speak to her since the day before when he overheard her mention someone was going to kill her. Unfortunately, he was intercepted by a short drow that was in need of assistance and was unable to find her afterwards. Now that he had the chance, he asked her about what he had overheard and learned about the upcoming duel. He gave her his condolences and, even though she had already tried, asked if it would be all right if he tried to speak to Cratten. She expressed doubt at his success, which he felt as well, but did not refuse. After that, he was about to head back to the inn...
Then all hell broke loose. Bergimon was captured and arrested for attacking people in Sigil. I spoke to him later in the barracks after his arrest. He explained he and his companions had been attacked by a group in the Gray Wastes earlier. Unfortunately, because the attack had been outside of Sigil, Bergimon could not report them to the guards. He got drunk later and, in his frustrated stupor, attacked his assailants in Sigil. There was nothing I could do... I wished him good luck and promised to visit him if I was allowed. I walked back to the inn, entered Elysium, plopped down on the sand, and stared off into the stars.
At this moment, the clock chimes indicate the coming of midnight. Animus has gone full circle in both memory and time. Where is she? He looks around the room, finding no sign of Aska, his wife. He sighs and leans back in his chair. Perhaps Ixia forgot to tell her...
Duels And Roses
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*Animus
- Posts: 24
- Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am
As the chimes finish, Animus' left hand drops from his chin and touches the wrapped bundle laying before him on the table. I completely forgot about them. He opens the bundle revealing the bouquet of roses wrapped within. After so much time without water, the stems had sealed as the flowers attempted to stay alive. Though the petals had started to wilt, the roses maintained a surprisingly deep red color.
With a sigh, he pulls off his gloves, revealing ghastly scars lacerating his wrists and hands. A keen eye would notice the uncontrollable trembling of each hand, thus realizing the tapping from earlier had not been due to impatience but simply from damaged nerves. He rubs his hands together, re-feeling all the scars, a habit developed long ago.
Trying to maintain control, he ever so tenderly picks up one of the brittle roses. The flower trembles with his hand as he brings it close to his nose, the scent of the wilted flower surprisingly fresh. He smiles and reaches out with his free hand, wanting to tenderly feel the texture of the petals. For a brief moment, his quivering fingers feel the hardened, velvet petals. But suddenly his nerves tense and his hand encloses around the flower, crushing the dried petals into powder.
He sighs as the stem falls from one hand and red flakes from the other. These hands once created portraits of heroes and scenes from dreams... but no longer. His eyes move to the stem where he had cut the flower earlier to make his bouquet. Though closed, the "wound" at the base of the flower resembled the scars on his hands, jagged and uneven. And can barely take care of flowers. And can barely write. A simple letter takes an hour even after I get my thoughts all sorted. I have to clench my right wrist with my left hand as I carefully guide each stroke of the quill.
Trembling hands drop to each side of the laid out bouquet as his mind drifts into history. One by one, every mistake and failure is drug forward in his mind and put on display, justifying the loss of his hands. Bastard, Lothario, Blackguard... All names and titles I-NO! His eyes snap open as his soul cries out in rebuttal. Once I wallowed in my own filth, but no more.
After replacing his gloves and standing, his trembling hands delicately re-wrap the bouquet. After returning to his tiny room at the inn, he retrieves a vase and fills it with a pitcher of water stored in his cupboard. (After his discussion with Deo, he made it a habit to always boil the potentially recycled water of Sigil.) He then reaches into the cupboard and removes a tiny sack. Undoing the string and opening the brim, he reaches in and pulls out a small portion of soil from the Beastlands. He rubs his fingers together over the vase and lets the mineral rich soil trickle into the water. He then opens the bouquet and tenderly re-cuts each stem a half inch higher than before, doing his best to get the proper forty five degree angle. Finally, the flowers go into the vase and he moves it to the stand next to his only window.
After replacing his tools and washing the soil off his hands, he walks over to his backpack of holding, still sitting in the corner where he left it. After opening the bag and removing his armor, he begins to re-assemble it on his person. In half an hour, he is covered from neck to toe in his well cared for golden armor. The adamantine plates shine and brilliantly reflect any source of light. After closing the pack up and hoisting it onto his back, he makes his way down to the first floor after locking the door to his room on the way out.
As he walks past the table he had been sitting at before, he goes to put his mask on then stops himself. I once said I only wore this only for the enchantment, but, now that I no longer need it, why do I keep it? He turns the mask over and looks at it with a frown. Have I unconsciously desired to hide myself? With that thought, he tosses the forsaken mask onto the table, leaving it for anyone that wanted it.
He then turns and leaves the inn. I will have a talk with Ixia later, but, for now, I have work to do.
With a sigh, he pulls off his gloves, revealing ghastly scars lacerating his wrists and hands. A keen eye would notice the uncontrollable trembling of each hand, thus realizing the tapping from earlier had not been due to impatience but simply from damaged nerves. He rubs his hands together, re-feeling all the scars, a habit developed long ago.
Trying to maintain control, he ever so tenderly picks up one of the brittle roses. The flower trembles with his hand as he brings it close to his nose, the scent of the wilted flower surprisingly fresh. He smiles and reaches out with his free hand, wanting to tenderly feel the texture of the petals. For a brief moment, his quivering fingers feel the hardened, velvet petals. But suddenly his nerves tense and his hand encloses around the flower, crushing the dried petals into powder.
He sighs as the stem falls from one hand and red flakes from the other. These hands once created portraits of heroes and scenes from dreams... but no longer. His eyes move to the stem where he had cut the flower earlier to make his bouquet. Though closed, the "wound" at the base of the flower resembled the scars on his hands, jagged and uneven. And can barely take care of flowers. And can barely write. A simple letter takes an hour even after I get my thoughts all sorted. I have to clench my right wrist with my left hand as I carefully guide each stroke of the quill.
Trembling hands drop to each side of the laid out bouquet as his mind drifts into history. One by one, every mistake and failure is drug forward in his mind and put on display, justifying the loss of his hands. Bastard, Lothario, Blackguard... All names and titles I-NO! His eyes snap open as his soul cries out in rebuttal. Once I wallowed in my own filth, but no more.
After replacing his gloves and standing, his trembling hands delicately re-wrap the bouquet. After returning to his tiny room at the inn, he retrieves a vase and fills it with a pitcher of water stored in his cupboard. (After his discussion with Deo, he made it a habit to always boil the potentially recycled water of Sigil.) He then reaches into the cupboard and removes a tiny sack. Undoing the string and opening the brim, he reaches in and pulls out a small portion of soil from the Beastlands. He rubs his fingers together over the vase and lets the mineral rich soil trickle into the water. He then opens the bouquet and tenderly re-cuts each stem a half inch higher than before, doing his best to get the proper forty five degree angle. Finally, the flowers go into the vase and he moves it to the stand next to his only window.
After replacing his tools and washing the soil off his hands, he walks over to his backpack of holding, still sitting in the corner where he left it. After opening the bag and removing his armor, he begins to re-assemble it on his person. In half an hour, he is covered from neck to toe in his well cared for golden armor. The adamantine plates shine and brilliantly reflect any source of light. After closing the pack up and hoisting it onto his back, he makes his way down to the first floor after locking the door to his room on the way out.
As he walks past the table he had been sitting at before, he goes to put his mask on then stops himself. I once said I only wore this only for the enchantment, but, now that I no longer need it, why do I keep it? He turns the mask over and looks at it with a frown. Have I unconsciously desired to hide myself? With that thought, he tosses the forsaken mask onto the table, leaving it for anyone that wanted it.
He then turns and leaves the inn. I will have a talk with Ixia later, but, for now, I have work to do.