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PostPosted: Wed Jun 11, 2014 5:30 pm  

(ooc: I dabble a bit in short fiction writing, and figured this would be an interesting experiment for me. To bring a character to life from a game is something I have never tried. As I progress, I will just keep posting in this thread as though it is Erasmus's personal journal where he can sort out his thoughts. Comments are, of course, welcome)

"Good and Evil are constructs of perception, rarely agreed upon. It is only guilt and innocence that concerns me." - Erasmus the Blade Walker

Oh, Tygona, what have I done?

It seems that the path of Balance is wrought by the follies of simply existing as a creature of emotion. When the day comes where those of magickal persuasion can concoct a tincture to eliminate the irrational demons we call "feelings," only then shall the path of Balance be as straight as the cutting edge of Tygona's blade, upon which I must tread carefully.

Even I, Erasmus, sworn to obey Tygona's Scales, the beacon of Balance, find it difficult to stay within their narrow gaze. They watched, tipping slightly, as a message to creatures of the Centaur Wood turned into a personal vendetta. To the void with emotions and the follies they bring!

The farmers south of Keltrath lay claim to the lands, providing food for the people with the means to procure it. The cycles of any settlement demand that it's inhabitants do their share toward sustainability, be it farming, working shops, providing entertainment...the list of roles one could play in any city goes on, and they are all equally important.

I received words on the wind of a disruption in this Balance, largely blaming the nearby settlement of centaurs. Only in retrospect am I able to shed the veil of naivety to see with clear eyes that this conflict, though seemingly minor, has gone on long before my presence in this realm and is thus part of a larger Balance. Perhaps we will save that discussion for another day, when I am not so limited by my travels and experience.

Foolishly, I allowed my ambition to get the best of me. Having grown tired with Arena beneath Keltrath, with a longing to serve Tygona, I was awash with a sense of purpose for the first time since my arrival, and strode out to meet these centaurs with the intention of resolving the conflict. By the book or by the blade, it mattered not, to me. I've found they are often one and the same.

As it turns out, the blade was the chosen method of communication, and before you could quaff a tincture, heavy-handed spears had sent me into that terribly frustrating world between worlds more than once. My blood roiled in my veins, deepening in the stench of hatred with each new resurrection as the conflict resolution took on the air of personal affront. My spirit lashed out in it's mortal cage, demanding vengeance. My anger, the most foolish of all emotional pitfalls, became a blindfold wrapped tightly about my eyes while it's slithering tendrils crept down my sword arm and assumed control.

Before long, the centaurs were no more, and those that survived had scattered, revealing the guarded grave they had so feverishly defended, yet reverently cared for. I looked up on it, my heart slowing to a crawl laden with sadness as I realized what I'd just done. Reaching down to move a stone, I held my breath. A great centaur, still imposing even in death, lay beneath in final rest as I committed an act of desecration.

With more care than I muster handling my blade, I replaced the stone. The silence was a shroud, wrapping me in my deeds. Afraid to break it, I asked Tygona for guidance with my inner voice. I received a gentle touch upon my forehead, but nothing more. No words of guidance that I had been desperately hoping for in those cooling moments after my crusade through the Wood.

Perhaps I will understand all this as I continue walking in Tygona's footsteps. Perhaps it is not for me to understand. I will not pretend to play at comprehension of the ways of gods, but I feel I would be doing Tygona a disservice if I did not try to comprehend myself.

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PostPosted: Wed Jun 11, 2014 11:55 pm  

Nice read, and put together well.

Tales of Adventure are probably my favorite aspect of Dreamscapes, glad to see the tradition being carried on.

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PostPosted: Wed Jun 18, 2014 5:23 pm  

"The screech of a harpy is the very sound of pain and confusion. A mere echo, compared to that within the hearts of godless men." - Erasmus the Blade Walker

The good priest Borak has many errands that need a strong pair of legs, accompanied by a steady sword arm. As Tyr is, for now, the place I call home, I feel it is my duty as a neighbour to aid the completion of those tasks, and gather the returned rewards. Fair pay for fair work is in keeping with the Balance, I suspect.

His request was a simple one; locate a decidedly "evil" fountain. I choose to avoid appending such designations to anything, particularly mere objects! However, I am not so distanced from my humanity that I lack the understanding to see and accept that many people do. Rather than argue the point, I accepted and shopped for my usual venison rations, a handful of tinctures to deal with potential wounds, and set out through the Wild Gate.

The Wilds South of Tyr seems to be made up largely of trees and crows, their lifeless black eyes ever watching. The sight of a longsword seems to sway them from their perch, but they are otherwise motionless watchers of the wood. Strange birds.

I'd heard of the ruins of a tower that once stood against invaders to the South-West. As good a place as any to start my search, since any good tower must have a well, and thus possibly a fountain, if it's inhabitants hope to withstand a siege. Arriving without incident, I was pleased to found not only a well, but a fountain of sorts with a gargoyle head and missing stone.

My mood quickly changed, after much examination, searching every centimetre for indications of curse or foul magic. Nothing was found, aside from a deceptively loose flagstone and a statue within the well.

As I left and headed further South, I contemplated where else this fountain could sit. Towns? Larger cities? Tygona gave me no indication of direction, but that was to be expected. I am his hand, after all, not he mine.

Then it happened, too fast for me to realize what I was truly up against.

I'd stumbled on to a den of harpies, their wails threatening to rip the veil between this world and the next. Instinct took over as they slashed at me with their damnable talons, and my sword became a whirling wall between myself and their horribly twisted faces. As I let out my breath, I realized it was over and that I had panicked. One harpy poses no threat to me, and I likely would have walked away from it. Five, on the other hand, caused a massive surge in those old human instincts, and resulted in an unnecessary bloodshed.

But it was a moment later that the worst of it had hit me. I suddenly felt the warmth drain from my heart, and a chill wind seep into my bones. My body felt weak, as though tired, and my wounds stung as though the edges of them were lined with barbs. Poison?

No. No, it was something else entirely. Something beyond the material plane had happened.

When I had caught my breath, and realized that I could no longer see the faint red glow of the harpy blood on my blade, I knew what had happened.

I had strayed.

Tygona has turned his back on me, and left me in the godless cold of this realm.

I needed to get back to Tyr. I still cannot fathom why I made that decision at the time, but I limped back to the Wild Gate, suffering further exhaustion with each step while my wounds left a finely scented bread-crumb trail for any predator to track me with ease. My mind was so focused on return to Tygona's favor that I had forgotten to sheath my longsword, and the guards immediately confiscated it, while keeping the gates locked. Having one's weapon taken from them feels like being shamed as a child.

Not knowing what else to do, I sat. I did my best to calm my mind without Tygona's good grace, remembering that I still had my warhammer, and one of those strange tasting purple potions for expedited travel. I could still fight, and I could still return to the Temple in Kelrath.

So I did. Much to the dismay of the priest, who demanded I leave immediately. As though I did not already feel abandoned and unwanted, this priest's reaction dredged up old memories of not fitting in with the other children in my home village. I swore I'd never think about those years again.

Standing, I almost willed my rag doll body to the Park Fountain. Perhaps someone was there who would lend aid. I could not bear to slip yet another mortal skin, with all the disorientation and recovery that comes after, added to being abandoned by my god for my own foolish actions! Does godliness free one of these rash reactions of the flesh? I do not know, but my frustration with them grows.

As I arrived at the Fountain, I remembered my first days in this realm. The slimes! Surely there would be a few that I could restore my foot upon the path of Balance with! Still bleeding while trying to control my weak, rubbery limbs as best I could, I descended to the first floor of the Arena and drew my warhammer. I could barely swing it, as though it's weight had increased tenfold since the last time I used it, but all I needed were a few good landings of it's steel head.

The ordeal was over. Tygona returned to me after a few sacrifices, and I was invigorated with his presence once again.

My lesson is that the gods are unforgiving, and take no excuses for the actions of mortals. We are always in their service, whether we like it or not, and when we stray from a promise to them, they will make damned sure we will not like it. The memories of my godless moment leaves me wondering why anyone would choose such a path. Mortality without the touch of the divine is simply a crushing purgatory, reminding us that we are prisoners without our spiritual benefactors.

I must not forget that.

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PostPosted: Tue Oct 07, 2014 9:43 pm  

"Shadows are not so far from truth." - Erasmus the Returned

I've heard tell of too much time spent in darkness changing men at their very core. Perhaps they confuse darkness with the service of evil, for the darkness I know lack allegiance to any alignment, god, or realm. It exists as non-existence, and to experience it is to lose one's self in maddening debate that paralyzes the mind while the body dissolves.

Tygona had no sway in that place. I could not even call out to myself, let alone my god. Terror is too small a word for it, and I'm finding it futile to find one that is appropriate, even in the translated texts of other languages. It has occurred to me that I suffer from a complete lack of memory about the matter, and my mind plays a trick so as to fill in the gap. What a trick it is, like a voice that returns no echo.

When I returned from...well...wherever I was, I cannot tell you the joy I experienced to find the world as I had left it. I, of course, had withered and weakened, losing my connection with both my sword and my god, but even that was far more pleasant that existing as a being of nothingness.

My friend, the Postman of Keltrath, had forgotten me. The centaurs had cooled in their ire at seeing my very face. The children and shoppers of Chiros were once again crowding the streets with the welcome noise of life. The bees had rebuilt their hive from which I had fought through stings to steal so many honey combs.

The harpies, however, still abhor the site of me. I suppose I cannot please everyone.

It's good to be back among the living.

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