Post by Crow • ᚴᚱᚬᚴᛦ on Aug 5, 2023 14:14:05 GMT
(Following the events of In Bloody Creek and Requiem of the Seasons.)
Under the overhanging roof of a house, the boy waits. He watches guests come in and out the white-painted doors of the Gossamer Threads Tea Rooms across the street — some taking shelter from the unexpected drizzle, some racing away with a bag over their head. He listens to the pitter-patter of raindrops and of people; most fail to notice him crouched in the shadow of the roof, but many remark on the unusually high number of crows they saw in the city today.
He pulls his damp cloak tighter around his thin shoulders. Mist from the rain wets his brow, condensing into droplets that slide down his nose and cheeks. And he waits.
The lord in black finally arrives at the end of the hour. He’s wearing a top hat and he strides through the rain in polished leather boots unbothered. He stops to stand beneath the overhanging roof.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come in?” he asks, glancing at the teahouse, water dripping from the brim of his hat.
The boy shakes his head.
“Very well then. Now, er… I do not believe I know your name.”
“Folk ‘round ‘ere call me Crow.”
“I am aware of that. Do you like that name?”
“No.”
“I see.”
Lord Jaezred plants his tapered black cane on the pavement and rests his gloved hands upon it, staring at the boy expectantly. The boy rises to his feet, opens his cloak, and holds out a roll of parchment paper, bound with a length of twine, in one hand. It has been carefully kept safe from the rain.
“The Temple of All Seasons. The temple in the Feywild. I remember you mentionin’ it. Everythin’ I know abou’ it ‘s in ‘ere. Milord.”
The svartálfur raises an eyebrow. The curious gaze in his red eyes seems to intensify with each word that comes out of the boy’s mouth, to the point that the boy feels compelled to look down at his feet the moment he finishes speaking.
“And I’m guessing you want something in exchange for this?” Before an answer could be given, Lord Jaezred smiles and says, “Alright, son, what can I do for you?”
He hadn’t expected her to be in New Hillborrow. He thought he might learn of an address in Daring Heights or Port Ffirst, where all the other rich folk are. But thinking about it now, New Hillborrow makes a lot more sense — if she had ever preferred to spend her time with the fellows of her class, then she would not have chosen to live in lonely Bloody Creek.
Lord Jaezred had kindly offered to speak to her first. The boy declined. He knows this is something he must do on his own. But he has not found the courage to do it.
He has no idea what she would say to him, and some part of him is afraid to find out.
He can’t. Not yet.
So he waits and watches from afar. In the afternoons, her kids come out to play in the farmlands or the camp and she sits in a comfortable chair in front of the Hearth and Road Inn, cradling her toddler in her arms and quietly enjoying the summer sun. When it gets dark, the four of them head back towards their cottage at the edge of the village, hand-in-hand, and the boy goes home to Bloody Creek.
A few days pass. Then a week. The boy begins feeling more and more ashamed for lurking in the shadows like some predator. He ought to make himself known to Lady Agnes. He has to stop waiting for nothing.
The halfling farmers of New Hillborrow have noticed the increased number of crows flying near their fields of late. They prop up more scarecrows, but it does nothing to deter the black birds.
The snow has grown tall, almost reaching up to the ankles of a grown-up. The ground is frozen solid. The town has decided that the man’s body will be stored in the local chapel to Kelemvor until spring comes to soften and ripen the earth.
The boy pushes the heavy door to the chapel open with chubby, little hands. It creaks loudly as it goes. Before the oblong altar stone, a raven-haired figure dressed in sombre robes is bent over an open coffin. He can hear the noise of something scratching on wood.
“What are you doin’?” he asks.
The figure straightens up and turns around. He can’t make out a face — their features appear indistinct like ripples on water — but he knows it’s a woman. He knows she feels warm and familiar and cosy, like a spoonful of chicken soup. He knows she smells heavily of roses, which she uses to mask the odour of embalming fluids that clings stubbornly to her clothes.
The woman picks something up from the coffin and shows it to him: a broken-off beech plank with Giant-tongue runes carved upon it.
“I’m writing a spell of protection. For the body,” she says.
“But why?”
“To keep evil spirits away and to keep him from becoming an evil spirit himself, my love. You would not want a draugur haunting this place, would you?” The ripples where her face contorts into something he imagines must be a scary expression. “Because a draugur’s favourite meal…is a child who’s been naughty!” she growls.
The boy lets out a playful shriek and waddles away from the tent as quickly as his short legs can manage in the thick snow. Behind him, he hears hearty laughter and stomping footsteps as she chases after him.
And when the boy wakes up, the first thing he feels is the ghost of a smile tugging at his cheeks.
Under the overhanging roof of a house, the boy waits. He watches guests come in and out the white-painted doors of the Gossamer Threads Tea Rooms across the street — some taking shelter from the unexpected drizzle, some racing away with a bag over their head. He listens to the pitter-patter of raindrops and of people; most fail to notice him crouched in the shadow of the roof, but many remark on the unusually high number of crows they saw in the city today.
He pulls his damp cloak tighter around his thin shoulders. Mist from the rain wets his brow, condensing into droplets that slide down his nose and cheeks. And he waits.
The lord in black finally arrives at the end of the hour. He’s wearing a top hat and he strides through the rain in polished leather boots unbothered. He stops to stand beneath the overhanging roof.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come in?” he asks, glancing at the teahouse, water dripping from the brim of his hat.
The boy shakes his head.
“Very well then. Now, er… I do not believe I know your name.”
“Folk ‘round ‘ere call me Crow.”
“I am aware of that. Do you like that name?”
“No.”
“I see.”
Lord Jaezred plants his tapered black cane on the pavement and rests his gloved hands upon it, staring at the boy expectantly. The boy rises to his feet, opens his cloak, and holds out a roll of parchment paper, bound with a length of twine, in one hand. It has been carefully kept safe from the rain.
“The Temple of All Seasons. The temple in the Feywild. I remember you mentionin’ it. Everythin’ I know abou’ it ‘s in ‘ere. Milord.”
The svartálfur raises an eyebrow. The curious gaze in his red eyes seems to intensify with each word that comes out of the boy’s mouth, to the point that the boy feels compelled to look down at his feet the moment he finishes speaking.
“And I’m guessing you want something in exchange for this?” Before an answer could be given, Lord Jaezred smiles and says, “Alright, son, what can I do for you?”
He hadn’t expected her to be in New Hillborrow. He thought he might learn of an address in Daring Heights or Port Ffirst, where all the other rich folk are. But thinking about it now, New Hillborrow makes a lot more sense — if she had ever preferred to spend her time with the fellows of her class, then she would not have chosen to live in lonely Bloody Creek.
Lord Jaezred had kindly offered to speak to her first. The boy declined. He knows this is something he must do on his own. But he has not found the courage to do it.
He has no idea what she would say to him, and some part of him is afraid to find out.
He can’t. Not yet.
So he waits and watches from afar. In the afternoons, her kids come out to play in the farmlands or the camp and she sits in a comfortable chair in front of the Hearth and Road Inn, cradling her toddler in her arms and quietly enjoying the summer sun. When it gets dark, the four of them head back towards their cottage at the edge of the village, hand-in-hand, and the boy goes home to Bloody Creek.
A few days pass. Then a week. The boy begins feeling more and more ashamed for lurking in the shadows like some predator. He ought to make himself known to Lady Agnes. He has to stop waiting for nothing.
The halfling farmers of New Hillborrow have noticed the increased number of crows flying near their fields of late. They prop up more scarecrows, but it does nothing to deter the black birds.
The snow has grown tall, almost reaching up to the ankles of a grown-up. The ground is frozen solid. The town has decided that the man’s body will be stored in the local chapel to Kelemvor until spring comes to soften and ripen the earth.
The boy pushes the heavy door to the chapel open with chubby, little hands. It creaks loudly as it goes. Before the oblong altar stone, a raven-haired figure dressed in sombre robes is bent over an open coffin. He can hear the noise of something scratching on wood.
“What are you doin’?” he asks.
The figure straightens up and turns around. He can’t make out a face — their features appear indistinct like ripples on water — but he knows it’s a woman. He knows she feels warm and familiar and cosy, like a spoonful of chicken soup. He knows she smells heavily of roses, which she uses to mask the odour of embalming fluids that clings stubbornly to her clothes.
The woman picks something up from the coffin and shows it to him: a broken-off beech plank with Giant-tongue runes carved upon it.
“I’m writing a spell of protection. For the body,” she says.
“But why?”
“To keep evil spirits away and to keep him from becoming an evil spirit himself, my love. You would not want a draugur haunting this place, would you?” The ripples where her face contorts into something he imagines must be a scary expression. “Because a draugur’s favourite meal…is a child who’s been naughty!” she growls.
The boy lets out a playful shriek and waddles away from the tent as quickly as his short legs can manage in the thick snow. Behind him, he hears hearty laughter and stomping footsteps as she chases after him.
And when the boy wakes up, the first thing he feels is the ghost of a smile tugging at his cheeks.