Zyn went home from the bar, a humble little place consisting of a bed, a chair, and a desk with some paper and pens on it. He took off his enchanted armor, and several knives, but kept everything else on.
He laid down in bed and prepared for his several hour long rest, where he would then wake up and go out in the early morning, earlier than most people. He drifted off to sleep, then woke up exactly on schedule. He put everything back on, in order, and headed outside
The Meaning of Life, the Universe, and Everything.
Join Date:
12/20/2010
Posts:
103
Minecraft:
IAmKnight
Member Details
6:48 am
The populous was in a state of panic. At first, the earthquake raised eyebrows. But certain people decided it would be a good idea to incite panic within the college. Whispers of "Phesephus" and "Gods are angry" riled up throughout the night, until it grew to a scale that had alerted the High Council. Now that a large amount of the population were running around, the Watchmen increased their patrols, and were seen in almost every street. Without a proper gathering, people started to gravitate towards the large square beneath the High Council's overseeing building, expecting some kind of compromise, or an explanation of some sort.
The guild of Valicus was also in a small state of panic. Earthquakes hadn't been seen in centuries, and the only explanation was that what the rumours said were true. Perhaps it was Phesephus. Presfiel hunched over the window sill as she stared at the crowds on the streets. She sighed, and left her chambers. As she entered the main hall, she encountered several acolytes requesting a conversation, but her eye caught on the new acolyte, who kneeled with patience. She raised her eyebrow and walked up to the woman. "I see you've already become accustomed to this guild. What is it you need?"
It had been several minutes, and at last the attention of the Lizardfolk elder had subsided; he had sufficed his urge to fix this broken youth whom he had stumbled upon in his final years, at least, for now. Now, Wyth'ram sat at a simple table. The table was bruised and scraped from age, but it sparkled with a lack of grime, and it told Wyth'ram just how attentive this elder was. Wyth'ram did not truly care, though - he was still recovering from his drunken stupor, and he had yet to find his head cleared enough to strike up a prolonged conversation. He responded in nods and shakes, gestures and actions, supplemented, occasionally, with a hoarse croak of a word. His body had not felt so well in years, but his mind shook with regrets and failures.
For years he had been nothing but a broken cog on that ancient, tormented wheel of Lizardfolk civilization. He had allowed himself to be broken, and to be used for those sadistic purposes of the humans and elves and their kin. Their terrifying need to assert humiliating control over all with which they coexisted sent shivers down Wyth'ram's spine. He may have been a fool, but now, as he first came to see lights, he saw this truth in front of all others, its star a blinding blaze of terrible presence. That light burned eyes and turned them to the dark so they did not see its tyranny and its crime. Yes, there is much more to learn, Wyth'ram agreed, and knew it to be true, for there was so little that he knew thus far, and so many glimmers of light to be unsheathed yet.
The elder returned to the room with a cough and a smile, his first in some hours. Perhaps he was no longer concerned like a parent - perhaps he now saw the obvious truth, which he had been careful to accept: Wyth’ram would survive. Yes, his care had been well-earned, for he was old and had seen many atrocities to wary his heart so weak that it could not dare to handle another loss so dear as that of Wyth’ram, a poor broken wick.
“Do you want some food?” The elder walked past Wyth’ram into another room of this small apartment. There were perhaps four rooms in total. Wyth’ram sat in the dining room, but it was also the front foyer, and the office was no different. A bedroom and lavatory, a kitchen, and a tiny cubicle were all that remained. Wyth’ram sat and bemoaned, silently, that he would now force himself to find such a place. The streets had much space to live, and there, he had few possessions to store. Civility was a burden unwelcome except for its social benefits, those benefits which he knew now that he would yearn, if only to keep his obligation to the reputation of his people.
“Please,” Wyth’ram croaked, nodding as his host stalked by with a crouched gait. He had none of the agility that even Wyth’ram still possessed, despite a lack of practice and a lack of will to live which had ailed him for so long. How long did he drag me back here? How far?
The elder disappeared into the kitchen. Wyth’ram breathed heavily and closed his eyes, blocking out for a moment that light which illuminated more questions than it answered.
Zyn went home from the bar, a humble little place consisting of a bed, a chair, and a desk with some paper and pens on it. He took off his enchanted armor, and several knives, but kept everything else on.
He laid down in bed and prepared for his several hour long rest, where he would then wake up and go out in the early morning, earlier than most people. He drifted off to sleep, then woke up exactly on schedule. He put everything back on, in order, and headed outside
6:48 am
The populous was in a state of panic. At first, the earthquake raised eyebrows. But certain people decided it would be a good idea to incite panic within the college. Whispers of "Phesephus" and "Gods are angry" riled up throughout the night, until it grew to a scale that had alerted the High Council. Now that a large amount of the population were running around, the Watchmen increased their patrols, and were seen in almost every street. Without a proper gathering, people started to gravitate towards the large square beneath the High Council's overseeing building, expecting some kind of compromise, or an explanation of some sort.
The guild of Valicus was also in a small state of panic. Earthquakes hadn't been seen in centuries, and the only explanation was that what the rumours said were true. Perhaps it was Phesephus. Presfiel hunched over the window sill as she stared at the crowds on the streets. She sighed, and left her chambers. As she entered the main hall, she encountered several acolytes requesting a conversation, but her eye caught on the new acolyte, who kneeled with patience. She raised her eyebrow and walked up to the woman. "I see you've already become accustomed to this guild. What is it you need?"
It had been several minutes, and at last the attention of the Lizardfolk elder had subsided; he had sufficed his urge to fix this broken youth whom he had stumbled upon in his final years, at least, for now. Now, Wyth'ram sat at a simple table. The table was bruised and scraped from age, but it sparkled with a lack of grime, and it told Wyth'ram just how attentive this elder was. Wyth'ram did not truly care, though - he was still recovering from his drunken stupor, and he had yet to find his head cleared enough to strike up a prolonged conversation. He responded in nods and shakes, gestures and actions, supplemented, occasionally, with a hoarse croak of a word. His body had not felt so well in years, but his mind shook with regrets and failures.
For years he had been nothing but a broken cog on that ancient, tormented wheel of Lizardfolk civilization. He had allowed himself to be broken, and to be used for those sadistic purposes of the humans and elves and their kin. Their terrifying need to assert humiliating control over all with which they coexisted sent shivers down Wyth'ram's spine. He may have been a fool, but now, as he first came to see lights, he saw this truth in front of all others, its star a blinding blaze of terrible presence. That light burned eyes and turned them to the dark so they did not see its tyranny and its crime. Yes, there is much more to learn, Wyth'ram agreed, and knew it to be true, for there was so little that he knew thus far, and so many glimmers of light to be unsheathed yet.
The elder returned to the room with a cough and a smile, his first in some hours. Perhaps he was no longer concerned like a parent - perhaps he now saw the obvious truth, which he had been careful to accept: Wyth’ram would survive. Yes, his care had been well-earned, for he was old and had seen many atrocities to wary his heart so weak that it could not dare to handle another loss so dear as that of Wyth’ram, a poor broken wick.
“Do you want some food?” The elder walked past Wyth’ram into another room of this small apartment. There were perhaps four rooms in total. Wyth’ram sat in the dining room, but it was also the front foyer, and the office was no different. A bedroom and lavatory, a kitchen, and a tiny cubicle were all that remained. Wyth’ram sat and bemoaned, silently, that he would now force himself to find such a place. The streets had much space to live, and there, he had few possessions to store. Civility was a burden unwelcome except for its social benefits, those benefits which he knew now that he would yearn, if only to keep his obligation to the reputation of his people.
“Please,” Wyth’ram croaked, nodding as his host stalked by with a crouched gait. He had none of the agility that even Wyth’ram still possessed, despite a lack of practice and a lack of will to live which had ailed him for so long. How long did he drag me back here? How far?
The elder disappeared into the kitchen. Wyth’ram breathed heavily and closed his eyes, blocking out for a moment that light which illuminated more questions than it answered.