• PM To Join • Nightmare

Atop a stony plateau overlooking the lands of central Idalos, and growing wealthy from the gem stones pulled from the rocky soil, Etzos is a bastion of independence; firm in its belief that man should rule Idalos, not be servants of the vain Immortals who nearly destroyed it. But can the many factions set aside their conflicting agendas and see this through?

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Sarafaynha
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Profession: Blacksmith
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Nightmare

Tue Nov 14, 2017 12:51 am

717th. Vhalar 71st trial.


It hurt. It wasn’t a first nor would it be a last but the pain never lessened or dulled with repetition. A wound that didn’t scar. Memories that struck like a hammer on an ingot forcing it into shape. He didn’t like thinking about it. It was why he worked so hard if he worked until he was exhausted each day then his mind wouldn’t get a chance to wander as it so liked doing. Perhaps the funniest part, was the fact that the pain came detached from the memories that had taught it. So detached and buried that only the raw emotion remained. It was enough however, to leave him crippled doubled over in pain as he remembered the reason he’d left home. Perhaps it would always follow him, the sense of betrayal, the one person who should have believed in him most casting him aside like a broken mold.
Laying in his room he looked to the moonlight filtering through the window. He hated that dream it always woke him without fail his hands clutching at his heart, his hurt, as sweat dripped from his brow. Kicking off his covers and sitting up in the darkness he pushed down the thoughts that tortured him, like haunting shadows that had been riveted to his soul by the hands of some sociopathic welder irremovable and bleeding. Lighting a candle to push back the wraiths of his past he looked at its dull glimmer happy for a brief moment to have with him his lifelong companion of flame. Before him it danced as it ate away the wick it didn’t ask for much to perform for him just something to burn. He wished he could be that simple, he didn’t want to need much just something simple that he could run on forever. He wished he could be like fire that danced merrily in hearths all about the world without ever asking for anything but fuel.
However he was more complex than that his heart beat with many emotions. Like a door he could hear it knocking, sometimes the creature within knocked so hard he could feel it in his throat. It wanted out, but he had welded bands about it, years of careful construction building heavier and heavier layers, a fortress to prevent emotions getting in, or maybe… letting them get out, however no amount of barriers could keep out the horrible knocking that came at times. But when he slept the little creature within, it exploited the cracks in his dreams, when he couldn’t fight it as well it seeped out and reminded him what was inside what he’d locked away. For a few bitter moment he debated writing home, but he doubted that any letter would ever be read by the eyes it was meant for. Deciding it didn’t matter he stood. Groping in the darkness for his jacket and boots. Lacing his boots tight fumbling as he regained control of hands he hadn’t realized were shaking. Throwing his coat across shoulders he briefly thanked the candle for its flame before blowing it out and leaving his home.

Into the night he walked, the outer walls of Etzos quiet and still in the moonlit evening. His breath turning to icy mist as it left his lungs, the chill nipping at his nose and ears but the heat of the turmoil he was trying to rest control of within him kept him well warm enough to ignore it. The stars above twinkled mirthlessly bearing mute witness to the night. With no real destination in mind he set out to find something to do with himself until it would be time for him to return to the forge.
Sarafaynha
Approved Character
Posts: 53
Joined: Thu Aug 24, 2017 3:51 pm
Race: Mixed Race
Profession: Blacksmith
Renown: 0
Character Sheet
Prophets' Notes

Nightmare

Tue Feb 20, 2018 9:21 am

That was when he stumbled upon it. In the dark their lay a solitary brick building, Illuminated only by starlight and a waning moon it was not entirely obvious the dilapidation that the building had suffered through the ages, but it’s vacancy at least was apparent.

Approaching the building he felt a momentary chill run it’s way down his spine. Pulling his color tighter he shook off the notions that the superstitious might entertain. It was just the cold he told himself before foolishly walking forward. Perhaps if he had been more willing to entertain rumors and the like he’d have heard the tales surrounding this place, such was the fate of those who were unwilling to entertain the unnatural, until it was forced upon them that was.

Pushing the dilapidated door at the entrance open he poked his head in, the darkness of the place obscuring any vision at all. Pushing the door all the way open so that moonlight could filter into the place he looked at the dust covered floor before him undisturbed for some untold time. That at least comforted him in that it was unlikely that he had to worry about anyone else being inside the place, though he still felt an uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. Debating the virtues of calling out into the darkness he chewed on his tongue for a moment before deciding that it was harmless to do so, even if he was sure that there was nothing within the age rotted building.

“Hello? Anyone home? I do hope I’m not invading?”

The last part actually brought a smirk to his face, he didn’t know why he’d bother apologizing to the vast emptiness within but his cautious nature got the best of him at the end. With that said he made the decision to step inside, at least the wind outside could no longer buffer him with it’s chilly claws.
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Nightmare

Fri Feb 23, 2018 6:39 pm

Image
Some would warn that when cold weather has had you shivering, and then begins to become less noticeable, it a sign of hypothermia. But others might counter that it was only natural for him to experience less of the cold, having once removed himself from the unimpeded wind outside the old brick building.

In either event, the dark interior was not exactly radiating a feeling of welcome, cold or otherwise. There was nothing lying about to soften the stone floor, unless the visitor wanted to scrape up enough old dust and dirt to form a mound. Opting to forego that option, Sarafaynha simply sat on the floor, leaning back against the wall.

It did not seem that much time passed, yet the bright of midtrial brought closed eyes to open slowly. Undoubtedly the surprise of such a quick passage of time would have normally brought eyes wide open in shock. But the brightness kept them at a squint for the first moment. It was a moment rife with additional surprises, piqued by other the other senses.

The sound of an unfamiliar market for one. It was nothing unusual for Etzos' open market to be bustling at midtrial, but there was an unusual timbre to the din. the acoustics were all wrong, the dynamics of wood goods clacking vs. metal goods clanking was off. Of course, this detail became of minimal importance beside the recall that the market was at the southern end of the Outer Perimeter, not to the Northwest, where this old building sat.

The common smells of Etzos were not in place either. It was a difficult thing to describe, the intangibles of how a region's commerce contributed to the smell. This had changed from dirt and farm to spice and sand. But perhaps the most recognizable change was the heat. The wonderful, wool-shedding heat.

Wonderful or not, as far as comfort went, Sarafaynha rose to feet now shivering from fear. This was all too recognizable, when it should have been foreign. Etzos was not home. And while this was nothing immediately proven to be Nashaki, the heat and the dress of the figures now seen strolling about the place were clearly of desert orientation.

Now the details inside The Brig were hard to make out, with the stark brightness blazing through from outside. But it only took moments to perceive woven baskets, piled high with goods resting just inside the door. Silk and knitted items, recognizable for their eastern fashion, hung on hooks and lines running back over his head behind him.

As Sarafaynha turned in mesmerized shock to follow the lines back into the darkness, a face met his; weathered and topped with the piled scarf of a Hotlands resident. Shock turned to apprehension though, as the face scowled, growling a phrase recognizable only as a question. The language, while familiar as hailing from Sarafaynha's homeland, was not one of the nomadic dialects he had ever learned.

An olive-skinned fist pounded a counter top that had not existed when the visitor had entered the building the night before, and the man repeated his question, louder this time.
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