Isles of Myst Larmian village Two days ago The old fisherman walked a bit unevenly with a hobble and his pace was slower than ice melting but still he walked steadily over the ground for a man who'd spent the majority of his life on the coastal waters off the village of Larmian. He'd never had a reason to walk fast or have his bowed legs straightened. The hours would tick by regardless of his pace; he would not rush through anything. The fisherman had caught enough fish in his lifetime to convince himself that life merely took a bit of patience, cleverness, and luck to see things right. Unfortunately, all three attributes never really combined for the man outside of his daily catch. One element was always been missing to foil the other two.
In the gnarled right hand patterned with bait hook scars, Bazfron Denali gripped the parchment of his son's announcement as the old man picked his way along the stony road to the center of the village. An announcement that was never supposed to come, one that nearly sent the man sprawling on the floor of his little house a few moments before. ~... Well old man, seems you're going to be a grandfather after all ... ~ The words seemed seared into the paper the way flavour clung to a fresh-caught fish roasting for dinner. "Hey Fronnie, goin' down to the pub fer a bit o brew?" Someone called from across the road. Cloudy rheumy eyes that were once a sharp blue lifted from their careful inspection of the road to seek out who it was. The fisherman grunted, "Oh aye, so yous ken yarn away another day's wage...you young'uns all the same..." No indeed. Bazfron eventually turned down an alleyway and took his time on the two flights of stairs he had to climb, finally coming to stand before a door more than an hour after he'd begun the short journey from his front porch. On the door hung a simple plaque, "Future, Past, and Present: Problems Resolved." A young girl of no more than 9 winters answered the door, her eyes dark and curious. "Git your gran'ma'ma child..." Bazfron grumbled. And when the enormous presence of the gypsy woman arrived, she shielded all light from the inner room as she stood in the doorway. And one had the impression that even if she weren't so large in physique she still would have blocked out all light with her dark and crafty spirit. She eyed the man who was roughly her own age and asked with a cackle, "Bazfron Denali, what is it? Are the fish not leaping into your boat anymore?" "He's don'it Soffie, he's bloody don'it..." The fisherman waved the parchment in his hand, his face a tightened mess of frustration. "You -tol- me the curse would never break and he's don'it! I wanna know why --" Bazfron was yanked off his feet and pulled into the room, the door slamming shut before he could finish his little speech of indignation. ~~*~~ En route to Larmian This evening Rue boarded the cross-island ferry at the Brookshire port, setting his gear and himself away from those who had boarded at MystHaven and those few joining him from the Duke's land. He wore a large black cap pulled down low over his eyes and a thick leather cloak rode up high around his neck. He wasn't in disguise as much as he'd rather not invite comments about face. Bruised and swollen like a sparring competitor, the injuries remained unhealable through the local cleric. Two nights in a row he fought something in his sleep, fought something without a shape that left him bruised and bloodied and crumpled in a heap against a wall in his apartment which still carried an indent of his body's impression. He hadn't planned to face anyone, but Brin came to see him, came to yell at him yet again. Rue had done his best to make her leave, steeling himself away from her with more than a few harsh words. He'd felt it best to avoid yet another discussion on the curse which no one believed. But she'd still discovered his injuries, still heard his unbelievable reasoning. The one saving grace was that he'd been able to send her back to MystHaven with note for Lani, explaining his implausible sudden departure for a few days up north. He was heading to his childhood village to find out exactly what to do. With this phantom terror. With Brin and his baby. With the unhealable bruises. With his entire cursed existence. the_____________end A brief background on Rue Denali: http://www.dragonmyst.f2s.com/char/rue.html "It sounds cold, but it's not cold," he explains. "I mean, what the truth in life is, you need failures, you need tough times to get any kind of value on what's important to you and what's not. There's no way around it." (BP '92) -- To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: [EMAIL PROTECTED] Archives & Other DMI Lists: http://www.dragonmyst.f2s.com/lists.php3
