Savion Inn

[Lakin_of_DpN]

The smell of cigar lingered in the stuffy atmosphere of the well appointed room. Lakin made her way inside, pausing at the entrance of the large oak paneled area to survey the inner sanctum like a queen approaching her court. Daylight shone in through the giant windows, illuminating the pastel walls; sending the shadows retreating to the back of the room. Many preferred the darkened manifold, and molded perfectly into its murky backdrop as blurred indefinable silhouettes. She noticed another curl of smoke drift across the room, contributing to its age-old affect and observed the waft sink obediently into the haze.

Citizens huddled together in odd spots across the room, or were sluggishly strolling with no obvious intention. Snatches of conversation about war and battle drifted to her, the voices sounding as defeated as the narrators looked. It was as if conversing took more effort than they could rally.

She wondered what would happen if she screamed out suddenly. At a glance very little she surmised, and thought better of the uncharacteristic desire; she didn’t welcome the attention and so the thought passed as quickly as it appeared. A gaggle of woman entered behind her, and drew the interest of the room’s curious onlookers. Lakin used the distraction to slip into the space unnoticed and threw herself into an empty seat, relieved to be out of the doorway and partially hidden by a conveniently placed pot. She removed her cloak in one flowing sweep so the material cascade over her chair and to the floor in a pool of gray shimmer.

Dark eyes were distinctly cool as she regarded the room, when she was certain of being completely alone and away from prying eyes; Lakin liberated the book she had been clinging to. Mounted excitement sent butterflies to the pit of her stomach as she began to read the barely legible letters Kri tin e etched into the worn pelt of the cover. It had been torturous hours since she immersed herself in the romantic saga she started days ago. Ever so gently, she examined the leather binding; inquisitive fingers ran lightly over the surface, trying to piece together the letters and make sense of the name.

The diary had been entrusted to her for safekeeping and the story itself had become an all-consuming mystery; one in which the characters were even more elusive than the plot. Not knowing enticed her even more and she was finding it extremely difficult to put the book down. Lakin quickly found the last page she had visited:


16 June
He came again today and each time I looked in his direction I thought I caught him looking back. I must be imagining it? I just don’t know.

I’ve decided that I am positively, absolutely, IN LOVE. I knew from the very first moment I saw him.

18 June
I can hardly believe it; he openly regarded me today. He had such a playful expression and greeted me with such obvious devotion I could scarcely contain myself. How devilishly handsome he is. I think he knows it though.

22 June
Like a hammer his words fell. His introduction secured my instant death... he’s a Prince and not just any Prince either… He is destined to be a King. I felt my entire body tremble, I didn’t think I would recover from the news and my heart beat with a wild rhythm that I haven’t experienced. My entire world came to a crashing halt, void of joy or happiness, a black hole of emptiness. A Prince could never love a lowly peasant girl.

23 June
He was here again, two days in a row, how strange. He must be lodging close by. He said he needed to see me and hoped this time I would honor him with my name. I feel so confused by the way he pays particular attention to me, as if he cared for me. I know he is playing some cruel game… I have to be strong; I can’t be foolish enough to think there is anything more between us than… I am not a child… I can imagine exactly what he wants. I wish he would never come back. Never speak to me again, or look at me with such desire.

29 June
R…. no I can’t write his name, what if someone should find my diary. R.L yes, that will do perfectly.

Lakin fell back in her seat, inwardly challenging what she had read. “A prince… and a peasant maiden?” she shook her head in disbelief, this was fast becoming a young woman’s fantasy. She closed the precious cover and nestled the book safely inside her cloak, a ruckus had broken out between two inebriated patrons, and continuing had become impossible.

The Savion Inn came alive with insult and mayhem. “I took the bastard down not you” one man snarled. “Not on your life… and you know it” his opponent growled back.

[Woshington]

Woshington was locked inside a cuboid with a humming stench invading all orifices. One palm was pressed open and flat against the sticky wall—relieving the light burden of his moderate weight. Meanwhile, his remaining hand held the black snake, guiding a steady flow of urine into a shit stained ceramic bowl. The black star wasn’t concerned by the dark, dry blood encrusted on the rim. He was used to it. He was inside the Savion’s only restroom.

He was also used to being involved in this kind of deal. But not in this universe. His second life as a ghetto drug lord was seeming more and more distant, and maybe that feeling of disconnection with his comfort zone was what was forcing him to seek out his old industry again. This was his first time dealing with the underbelly of Althanian society. A deep breath of foul air confirmed his anxiety. He was, after all, going to have to start as a lowly runner again. Woshington put it back in his pants and rubbed his broad nose with the back of his hand before fingering at his fleshy septum, sniffling at the remnants of something. Something he’d been offered by his new associates, and something he was too polite to refuse. It was a nice booster to take him over the edge. There were no facilities, even if he had wanted to wash his hands.

Feeling reinvigorated as that special something overcame him, Woshington’s emaciated digits gripped the bolt and slid the lock open. In a second he examined the trite graffiti about backstreet affairs scrawled all over said door; as an advocate of the art form, Woshington judged it all to be worthless. If he wasn’t eager to get down to business he would have taken a moment to spray the door with his own colourful stylings.

It was a drug deal gone bad. And Woshington could see it, hear it and smell it the second he stepped out into the main hall of the Savion Inn. For once all eyes weren’t consuming his outlandish clothes and shining black skin, instead they were watching a dispute.

“I took the bastard down not you.” it was Bony Skids making a snivelling declaration. The crystal form of d-methamphetamine had ripped the youth from his body and left him perpetually cowering with a ratty nest of hair and pock marks across his gaunt face.

“Not on your life… and you know it!” Woshington’s bright eyes switched to the other participant, it was a much healthier, and weightier, man. It was the man who’d brought Woshington in on this: Mannfredd Potts.

For the time being Woshington didn’t notice Lakin.

[Lakin_of_DpN]

The Inn Keeper charged into the tap room brandishing an axe in his right hand and a cleaver, smeared with blood in his left. “Enough!” he demanded roughly. His eyes narrowed ominously and his hands clenched the wooden handle of each utensil. His entire body went rigid and a cold grin spread over his face, causing a stir. A low murmur of barely contained excitement rose from the throats of the spectators watching the commotion. They knew the fun was about to begin. Bravery was not just an ideal for this old solider; it was a way of life, of acting, of doing. Men like him were born fearless and were encouraged to risk death to protect. Unflinchingly he stood against the trespassers, knowing they were half his age and aware that he was out-numbered two to one. Still he faced them, and stood as a magnificent reminder of Savion righteousness. Lakin admired his fortitude, along with the crowd.

Mannfredd glared at the Inn Keeper with dark eyes of fury and fought down the urge to lash out at him. The old war horse had an undeniable bond forged with the patrons who used the Inn, and it was a bond not to be trifled with. As well, several portraits of a King astride a massive steed dressed in elaborate armor looked down from the walls, reflecting the old man’s strong connections to a noble lineage and from his own bold indignation the gray haired veteran remained a loyal subject.

“Stay out of this old man; it has nothing to do with you” Mannfredd barked, still full of rage.

It was then Lakin pushed the diary away, tucking it deeper under the veil of her cloak and then rose to her feet. She pressed her hand to the hilt of her sword while her gaze climbed to meet the Inn Keeper's stone cold expression. Lakin was stunned and found it incredibly hard to believe that this was the same tender old man who had treated her with such unfailing kindness. Never had he looked so wild or demanded such fear. From her vantage point behind the three men Lakin watched and listened closely, ready to get involved and somehow distinguishing all three men, Woshington included, as the enemy.

From the corner of his eye Mannfredd spotted the fluro clad Blackman and for a moment the two men regarded each other. He cursed his inebriated state and concentrated hard, he needed to clear his head quickly to face the notorious Woshington. It dawned on Lakin that the two white men were afraid of Woshington; they sensed the power lying beneath his passive facade.

“You impudent bastard” Mannfredd spat, his gaze never leaving Woshington's.

“Bony, Will you look who it is” the two rivals instantly became friends against a common enemy.

“Let’s get him” Bony shouted, drawing his rifle from its sheath and easing back the hammer. His finger was steady on the trigger; the slightest movement would send a bullet into Woshington’s gut.

“Don’t kill him” Mannfredd admonished with regret, “The boss wants him alive”. Instead he uncoiled a whip nicknamed the Punisher from a sack on his back, intending to discipline Woshington with steady precision. The raw hide lash, sinister and brutal raised and fell in a neat arc to land with cruel force upon the lone man’s dark flesh.

Bony Skids nod his head, then rest his hungry eyes on the chord dancing in the air.

8 December
I remember opening my eyes, and looking around. But all of my belongings had been looted and strewn about the road. There was no sign of anyone and then strangely, a man came around the back of our overturned carriage seemingly from nowhere. He saw me and rushed forward asking after my health. His voice was low and gentle, soothing, but he used a subtle intimacy that made me feel uncomfortable. Oh it was nothing that I could call him on, just the brush of his fingers along my skin, but it was there. I must have been imagining things and now after resting somewhat, I am certain, well as certain as anyone can be in my circumstances. He has been nothing but a perfect gentleman since.

His face is so heavily scarred face, I can’t help but wonder what this Nobleman has endured, war no doubt. I am starting to feel so very unsettled and afraid. I am grateful to be well, of course I am, but... there is something uneasy about this place. I have sent word to my fiancé, he will find me soon and these feelings of dread and doom will be gone, as if they never existed.

I await my beloved.

Lakin revised what she had read and suddenly realized she too shared that deep sinking feeling of dread. Not for her, rather for the odd man singled out. Woshington.

[The Omniversal Physicist]

Being profusely supplied with wisdom didn’t thwart the blossoming of this old man’s humanity. Dr. Kenwright Hartley had a variety of vices. One of which filled the pint glass occupying his increasingly arthritic grip. Slurping, he took a gulp. The froth from the ale layered the bushy moustache beneath his bulbous nose. The nose in turn formed a rest for thick glasses. The glasses in turn formed a bridge for the growth of an unkempt unibrow. The brow in turn opened up the expanse of his egg in a nest bald head. This man was a walking stereotype: his face was a composite of the generations of venerable thinkers that came before him.

He cleared his throat, as if to say, “How preposterous!” when the dispute broke out. His old grey eyes, set deep in his face, casually examined the entirety of the room, he wasn’t concerned. In 72 years he’d seen it all. One thing did catch his attention, however. Sitting just across from Lakin, he could see her hand move to her sword. The old man smiled happily with the deep lines in his face amplifying the emotion’s significance.

Young men underestimating the females of the species again.

As for Woshington, Hartley was probably one of the few in the room to have seen the people from the tropical continents of the world. Or the worlds of the omniverse to be more precise. A long lost and youthful “Kenny” Hartley had many encounters with tropical peoples in his travels around the different universes comprising the omniverse. He couldn’t help but hold the borderline racist notion that such people from hot places inevitably took on a more passionate disposition. He loved their zeal and was glad to finally see one existing in the spaces of the Althanian universe.

[Woshington]

It was an elaborate plot designed to finish off the debt-ridden Bony Skids. Mannfredd Potts had Woshington on the payroll for this one. Woshington’s black face opened into a wide smile as his lithe form moved like liquid to avoid the faux attack from his partner in crime. The ghetto superstar’s footwork took him to the left whilst his dexterity had allowed him to slip out the imported pistol that was tucked in the waistband of his outlandish shorts—for this deal to go down Potts had agreed to provide the expensive equipment.

Before the drug ravished Skids could react he had a bullet lodged between his eyes. And one buried in his gut. And one torn into his right quadricep. Woshington had continued to squeeze on the trigger again and again with ruthless violence. It felt good to fire a gun and unleash a shower of bullets again.

The ansani-man moved to stand over his victim as the majority of the establishment’s patrons knew to look away, even the inn keeper with his bloody axe had made a hasty retreat at the sign of foreign firearms. “Fuck you, you piece of shit…” he leered down to the bleeding dead body of Skids and spat onto his face. His voice was powerful and as some sneaked out the door of the establishment they cringed with each boomingly emphasised syllable. “Nobody points a gun at me, brudda.” his accent was as darkly exotic as his skin.

Before he knew it Woshington had the weapon in his possession tugged from his spidery fingers, “Do you know how much that ammunition costs?!” Mannfredd admonished him, “he was dead from the first shot.”

Woshington glared back at Potts with a grimacing snarl before retorting with his own critical evaluation, “Skids nearly shot the fuck out of me, sucka.”

“No way, I didn’t let that happen, did I? Anyway, we need to get out of here.”

Woshington was the subject of Lakin’s and Hartley’s attention, the converse was not true. Yet, anyway.

[Lakin_of_DpN]

“Fight! Fight!” The cry sounded as she whirled about to find patrons and barmaids alike scattering as if leaves caught in a soaring wind. “He’s got a gun” the warning came again. Grown men pushed and shoved to get to the front of the pack while stragglers snatched up their belongings and bolted for the swinging door, behind them. Intoxicated men miraculously sobered, they scrambled under tables and hid behind upturned chairs, blocking themselves in, safe from errant bullets and hurling objects.

The room turned mean and nasty suddenly, and the Inn Keeper was powerless to prevent it. Chaos overwhelmed his establishment and the groaning sound of the stampede penetrated the area surrounding him, carrying him back in time. Pain lanced through him and in his mind, he thought he was a young man again. Enduring the agony and the ecstasy of Savion battle. Once again, he was standing before his enemy slashing and cutting relentlessly, each deadly stroke coming down savagely, revealing rhythmic muscles in his arms back and shoulders. He tore down one man after another with alarming speed.

The Inn Keeper shuddered, and his breath labored in his chest, reliving this heinous time in his past took every ounce of his strength. He shook his head hard and blinked furiously to end the slide show. Wars were fraught with casualty he reminded himself and so his hellish nightmares would subside once more.

Lakin recognized the old man’s struggle and intuitively burst in, lifting her sword and striking hard. Attempting to shift the metal gun Mannfredd took possession of. It would meet the razor- edged blade of her sword and fall with a thud to the foot-worn floor. The Inn Keeper moved instinctively; he must have read the thoughts behind her blazing eyes because in a flash his sizable form loomed over Mannfredd’s frail in comparison, figure. The Inn Keeper revealed a burly strength, to rival the youthful resolve of these men.

“Get out the both of you” he ordered, turning the cleaver slowly in one large calloused hand while twirling the handle of his ax in the palm of the other.

He resisted the urge to kill; instead he held the blunt handled ax at the side of Mannfredd’s head. A sinister calm reflected in the fathomless depths of his eyes, warning him to be still. The Inn Keepers deeds in battle were legendary and in his youth there was only one man alive who could match him in swordplay or hand to hand combat. Indeed, challenging this honor less scoundrel came natural to the aging Savion Knight.

“You can take your dead friend with you” He finished, in Mannfredd’s ear. Sheer terror gripped the trembling Mannfredd. Visions of his own painful death flashed gruesomely through his brain, prompting him to respond meekly. He dropped the broken whip and backed away slowly, keeping his hate loaded gaze fixed on the Inn Keeper and Lakin. In his plight for an exit he knocked the spasmodic haired gentlemen. “Damnable old men” he cursed loudly, and flashed yellow gritted teeth in an effort to scare the lone customer.

“This is not over old Man” Mannfredd warned the Inn Keeper, almost to the door. It was a statement that stirred no obvious emotion from Lakin. For the moment she just stood there, breathing deeply, her arms hanging at her sides with the point of her blade aimed safely toward the floor. Almond shaped eyes, wide and brooding observed the room; this madness seemed to go on and on, and what she truly craved was the peaceful escape of her book.

[Woshington]

Woshington swerved backwards from the ensuing axe rage; his lithe form lived up to every inch of his anansi-man moniker as he moved as a bandy shadow across the room. His aim was to use his innate agility to negotiate the flowing crowd deftly, to disappear in the night indefinitely. As he pushed away from the inn keeper’s attack on Mannfredd Potts, he took a second to turn back, just once, wanting to see for certain that this deal was undeniably dead on its feet. As he stared, emotionless, his face was set tightly to a blank expression. However, when looking back, he caught his first glimpse of Lakin as she intervened. The blandness of his frace broke under the stress of a sleazy smirk--it was the sight of a shapely female. Woshington remonstrated with himself internally; he knew under different circumstances he might have offensively invaded her privacy.

Nevertheless, he exited. He had ducked under the low beams of the hallway and turned left at the door of the boxed toilet where this night’s excitement had begun for him. From there he shoved into the kitchen. His thrusting flight through the narrow room forced the poor cook up and onto the stove, her backside burning in the flames and her lungs screeching out a chorus of agony. As she kicked out in pain she knocked a series of pots and pans to the floor with resounding metallic applause. A grunt of frustration steamed through Woshington’s broad nose, he was upset at his inability to exit covertly. He hoped the noise of his exit would be drowned out by the hollers and shrieks of the main room.

[The Omniversal Physicist]

Doc Hartley observed with the quiet studiousness of a scholar. But he was an old pro, he did make reams of mental notes without breaking his relaxation; his elbows were comfortably rested on the table in front of him, his hands were massaging the loose flesh of his cheeks and his brow was furrowed quizzically. From behind the thick glass of his spectacles he observed Lakin intervene. For a moment he dwelled on his youth spent in books rather than in boobs, wondering but not regretting.

“Huh?”

Kenwright’s eyes were focused on the black man one minute, and weren’t the next. His interest in the black man ran deep, he had to know which universe he came from and how he got here. And then suddenly, where exactly he had gone. Was it out the back door and into the night? Or was it out the back door and into that universe where elephants had evolved into the highest form of life, a place where trunk sleeves were a serious industry. Of course, Kenwright thought, the black man could be a native from Istraloth. But anyway, Woshington had gone and in a heartbeat this old man overcame his years and rose to his feet.

Leaving his pint behind, he made a beeline for the female in the fracas. The short and fuzzy form of a stereotypical scientist brushed by Lakin and spoke up to her, “There are two exits, he could only have gone through one of them and not the main one…” he realised he hadn’t explained himself very well. “I mean, that man, that man… the black man, with this idiot” Kenwright was speaking of and pointing at the suddenly cowering Potts, whose importance was fading into the background as he was adeptly seen to by the inn keeper.

“I propose, my dear,” his old face smiled at her communicating his absolute harmlessness, “we, together, sneak out the back door to apprehend this ruffian?” his words snuffled through his bushy moustache.

[Lakin_of_DpN]

She felt a pair of eyes lingering on her down-turned face and glanced up. Lakin was surprised to meet Washington’s seedy smile and for a single wary moment, right before he escaped through a narrow gap in the crowd, she could read raw masculine approval in the pitch-black of his gaze. The fleeting look shattered her normally cool composure, so a hot tide of color rose to stain her cheeks. That earned Woshington a disgruntled glare, before she turned away breaking contact.

A short time later a gut wrenching scream pierced the air and echoed through the room. Lakin grimaced; the pain-driven sound brought her quick awareness and her eyes darted about. “Isobel” The Inn Keeper cried out. Sheer panic settled like poison in his heart, and he set off at a dead sprint for the kitchen, praying for the safety of his wife as he approached. Stark terror struck his soul; he knew better than most the dangers that lurked in his establishment. With quick angry strides, he entered the back, scanning desperately for some sign of his beloved.

Lakin regarded Hartley curiously. He just did not fit in, with his outlandishly fashioned hair and thick-rimmed glasses. He was definitely not a part of the Savion Guard, they bear armor, and as a concerned citizen, he looked more suited for court, rather than the physical apprehension of criminals. “I am not in the least bit interested in that man. Infact it will be good to see the back of him,” she said, her voice as hostile as her eyes. Lakin realized she might have sounded far too harsh, her expression softened and she nod politely. The last thing she wanted was to offend him; Hartley's proposal did have its merits. "If you will excuse me Sir, the Inn Keeper may need my assistance" her voice was soft and more compliant. Lakin left Hartley, she wade urgently through the slow-thinning crowd, in search of the Inn Keeper. Suddenly she was there, in the doorway and standing in his shadow.

A myriad of thoughts raced through the Inn Keepers mind. His first notion was of Savion scum tearing through the back rooms in search of loot; terrorizing the silver haired cook, his precious Isobel. Sensing Lakin beside him, he turned pleading eyes on her. She gave the grief stricken old man a nod in silent reply, then fought through the carnage on his behalf. The artless disarray of pots and pans were effortlessly moved and her persistent gaze was soon rewarded by the figure of a small crumpled woman. A split second later Woshingtons escaping outline was seen. He vanished through a rear entrance and into the encroaching darkness.

“Isobel is here” Lakin called, met instantly by the concerned expression of a tired, worry-spent old man. He rushed over and his eyes averted downward. “I am Marcus and this is my wife,” he whispered. His thickset thighs still strong and agile folded gently as he kneeled close to his wife’s motionless form. Carefully he lifted Isobel’s head to rest in his lap, blood oozed from the spot where she hit her head and he pressed his hand hard to the wound, to cap its flow. Trembled fingers lightly wiped a wisp of her hair from the petal-soft skin of her delicate face, still agelessly beautiful.


Only half civilized now, his stance was broken, his eyes blurred with emotion and his mouth grimly set. Lakin witnessed his distraught efforts to cure his wife and she sensed his need to console her, but he hesitated. “I will leave you alone,” She piped up, realizing her presence wasn’t needed. She stood slowly and touched her hand to his sagging shoulder. He understood the meaning of her gesture and nod his head in approval.

Lakin left quietly, returning to an almost desolate taproom. She headed directly toward her seat, thankful to find it still occupied by the long length of her abandoned cloak. Relief flooded through her veins, the material was untouched; and when she explored further the content was still inside. Lakin reverently touched the diary she hid away earlier. She noticed Hartley still in the same place she left him, and briskly spoke. “Everything has changed. I am gathering as many people as possible to hunt down the man you spoke of earlier” “He has attacked the Inn Keepers wife, left her badly burned and barely clinging to life” Her announcement was stopped abruptly by the booming sound of a rage-provoked voice.


“My wife is dead”

[Ellanora]

She had arrived to perform the duties requested of her the sending of a soul and cleansing of the place in which it once dwelled. Helping others to heal at such a tragic time, though even she couldn’t perform miracles, the healing of a heart after the lose of a loved one still required time. The door to the Inn swung open but not in a dramatic way just quietly and slowly as she entered. It appeared to be that she floated upon the currents of air around the skirts of her dress, not touching the floor at all, she made no sounds, for she wasn’t one for flashy arrivals, just here to perform the task set out for her.

The flowing black robe that adorned her figure hid all there was to see, a hood hung loosely around her head shading her face from the view of others for now. In one hand rested the long oak staff adorned with the crystal, which helped her magic and abilities to flow forth as needed. As she stood still now her free hand reached up and pushed back the hood revealing her gentle features and long amber hair. Her eyes closed slowly as she absorbed the negative and positive energies around her, though at this time it was more negative and much sadness and shock that she felt. It was easy for her to sense that at one time it was a happy and loving place shared by two but a senseless tragedy and apparently a man who could not care less for the damage he had caused had severed this.

It may seem to many that she was untouched by all that she felt but how could this be true when she herself was still human in all ways, no one could feel what she felt constantly and not be affected at least a small amount of the time. Moving forward reaching out her senses to find the one she was searching for, Marcus the Inn Keeper, she nodded lightly. He was still with the body of his belated wife, Isobel. Marcus arose and looked at her, his face so drawn and looking devastated. No words needed to be spoken, as she knew exactly what he was feeling and what was to be done now. “Allow Me,” She said in a most calming and reassuring voice. Her eyes sparkled gently showing her kindness as he nodded and replied in a saddened whispered voice. “Thank you”.

Her head tilted back slightly and her eyes closed as she reached out with all her senses to find the soul that had left this vessel and was trapped unsure of where to go now. Once she had a position on where it was, she looked forward, eyes opened and her staff lifted up off the ground only to be brought down again against the floorboards, three times in all, summoning the channelling power required. The crystal orb now started to glow the wonderful ruby colour which showed the start of the souls final ritual.

Her voice steady but yet gentle as always called to the dead woman’s soul. “You are lost but come forth and I will help you find your way to the final resting grounds” A whisper of breeze seemed to move around her now, the crystal glowing brighter and brighter almost blinding. Suddenly a shot of ruby light raced upwards towards the ceiling creating a pathway for souls to travel along aiding them on their journey.

Her voice seemed more commanding now.” There is nothing left here for you, it is time for you to rest and move onwards with your journey, say your goodbyes but remember that you will always be loved in this world, though it is time for you to prepare a new home for yourself and your loved one when he comes to join you.” It was if the soul could understand every word but who was to say it didn’t. Suddenly Marcus could feel the most loving and endearing warmth inside him as his late wife’s spirit curled around him to say her final goodbye.

A smile adorned his face if only for a little while for he understood what was happening. Now the soul entered the bright ruby stream of light and started to travel upwards to peace and serenity. Once finished its journey the light vanished and the air was still around them. Ellanora now smiled and pointed downwards to where Isobel’s body had laid. It was no longer visible instead there was a gold star hanging from a gold chain with her name upon it. The date of her passing was engraved under the name and she picked it up and handed it to Marcus. “This is your’s to keep for always, a token of her memories, my work is now completed"

Marcus fell to his knees before Ellanora, tears filling his eyes.” I thank you so much for helping her to move on and to be at peace, I know in time I will heal.” He stood now clutching the necklace he had been given. Ellanora spoke in a soft whispered voice only for him to hear” Remember that vengeance is for the dark of heart, move on and live well, helping others as I have helped you.”

Marcus nodded and left the room to think alone for a while, before leaving Ellanora looked around to find the one called Lakin. She spoke directly to her now “I have a message of great importance to relay to you.” Lakin may have found it strange that this woman knew her name and such, but oracle powers were something she was well possessed with.

“You must travel to Scara Brae, there you will find powerful warriors, test your skills and have no fear for this is just part of your journey in life.” Now with the hood again covering her face she gently made her way out of the Inn, again no fanfare just quiet and simple and soon it seemed as if she had never even been within these walls.

[Lakin_of_DpN]

Wrought iron perched high on the walls curled tightly around thick white candles, and each huge pillar of wax cast a soft golden glow down the dark oak walls of the Inn then along the wood stained floor, as if a glistened shoreline. The floor had been polished with such determination it left a mirror finish under the yellow tide of color and a warm radiance filled every shadowy recess; the corners and alcoves. Conjuring a setting that was strangely comforting for such a somber occasion, making it more inviting, more bearable. So much so, Lakin thought, standing there staring through a thick mist of emotion, that the room could easily have been mistaken for a festive gathering. Further, inside were threads of verdant green vine climbing and coiling around the heavy wood frame of the bar, tiny blossoms of jasmine and honey suckle tangled in the creeper transforming the counters shabby well-used exterior. Giving the stern design a rustic appeal, which tied in perfectly with the soft fragrant perfume of petal and mint that drifted through the room. In unison, fifty or so crest-gilded chairs with dark red brocade seats were set in rows forming a semi-circle in front of Isobel’s white handcrafted coffin. She lay in the center of the room elevated on a pallet of logs. Both the casket and burial scaffold were made from a rare oak that could only be found in the most remote and treacherous areas of Savion, Marcus himself had harvested the wood many years ago. In the background, a lute played, mesmerizing anyone who listened; Lakin’s own mind reeled, and she found herself only vaguely aware of the steady flow of mourners moving past her. She looked lovely, now sitting on the edge of a seat, her delicately boned fingers twisted around one another. Her ebony hair had escaped, to tumble in wild ringlets over her shoulders and down her back. A trace of tears still glistened on the brim of her lashes and the sides of her face. Her mouth was soft,vulnerable and her eyes saddened with memories of Isobel’s murder and the sorrow her death incited.

Lakin heard a small noise, no more than a whisper of voice and rustle of fabric; she turned to find the Inn Keeper at the door, hunched slightly with his head lowered. How tired he looked; a stark difference to the sterling warrior honed and ready to fight, that she had come to know. Among those, arriving were people Marcus anticipated would be there, those who truly loved his wife, as well as those who wanted people to think they did. At Ellanora’s entrance, they all turned their heads and the Inn Keepers eyes jerked upward. Everyone regarded the malevolent woman with foreboding, which would have been common had it not been a funeral. An archetypal icon; her hair streamed down her back and her cloak was so black that it glinted blue in the calescent light, as uncommon a shade of black as Lakin’s own hair and in her grasp blazed a scarlet adorned staff. The heartbreaking sound of weeping children and the high-pitched wailing of women grieving faded in the wake of Ellanora’s presence. The High Priestess closed her eyes, the room went silent and the ritual began. Marcus marveled at Ellanora, and for one time-less moment he was painstakingly aware of his wife’s lone voyage, leaving his world for the next. He gazed at his beloved; openly adoring her, before he dragged his sharpened knife across his partly naked chest. He expected the pain the blade inflicted; it challenged the anger and hurt that raged in his heart. His wife was gone and his hatred for Woshington burned deeper and stronger than ever.

Ellanora’s figure illuminated by candle light, stood in the room as imposing as an approaching storm, yet divine and elegant in black attire. Her staff held an ominous stature, yet the simple beauty in the curves of the crystal were captivating. Lakin’s breath caught as she raised her face to the maelstrom of crimson light penetrating the room, and sensing the coming onslaught, she too closed her eyes, to protect herself. Each layer of Ellanora’s enchantment amplified, growing stronger, vivid and eventually reached its zenith. So that only a red haze remained, as a subtle reminder of what had passed. Isobel’s ascension. After a moment, Lakin’s eyes opened again, a blade flashed and her gaze darted to Marcus, seeing his chest oozing blood where he slashed his flesh to express his sorrow. Lakin understood the passion behind his final act, her heart swelled filling with a strong sense of admiration, galvanized by what she had seen. Marcus fell weakly to his knees; large hands feeble and trembling eagerly brought back the chain Ellanora held. He ran a long, drawn-out gaze over the inscription; his face pale and his cheeks tear splattered. The old man’s expression was anything but easy, however his eyes shone with glee and something more menacing. “Vengeance is my right, and by all that is in me, I will have it.” he stated, forsaking any thought of forgiveness.

Ellanora floated through a sleek opening in the crowd, approaching Lakin. And almost immediately Lakin's expression changed, there was a watchfulness in her eyes and her mind screamed caution. “I am not surprised at you knowing who I am. A woman of your great wisdom would of course know many things. I am honored to meet you and I will go to Scara Brae and face my destiny” Lakin replied, feeling a chilly tingle of premonition creep down her spine. “Whatever that may be”

Shortly after; Ellanora left the Inn and Lakin followed. The same black carriage she arrived on rolled along the road accompanied by the same tattered driver. Who pulled his cap down further over his face to keep out the cold. He held a torch providing added light in the dark since the lamps beside his seat were so dim; a thick layer of mud had smudged the glass on each one. Lakin climbed aboard, and in a few moments, the carriage disappeared into the night as if the fog, like a hungry beast, engulfed them. Lakin pulled her cloak tightly around her shoulders, steeling against the cold and not surprisingly her own macabre thoughts, everything sounded so different in the countryside, peculiar and forlorn. She held a lantern, its shutter ajar, to allow a slender beam of light to illuminate the book on her lap as she flicked through the pages. Finally, after what had seemed like a eternity, she settled in to read once more.

I can barely breathe; the stench of death is everywhere. I said a prayer for all the souls, Savion souls, tormented or killed in this horrible place. I can’t remember how long I’ve been here, it seems like months, time drags on and my only company are the wretched screams from the cells beyond these walls. I have no idea who they are, or what crime they might have committed. The Dram are cruel merciless creatures with no honor, they know only hate and take pleasure in inflicting pain. I am not afraid to die, death comes to everyone, and I will meet it without regret, I have loved so deeply and been loved so completely in return. Many will never truly experience what I have, but to them I offer my last ounce of hope. It will not be wasted on this cold dank place; my last thoughts will be of my husband eternal. My heart will always belong to my dearest Ruben and my thoughts are his, and his alone. To you my love I dedicate everything that is good and pure. I devote my everlasting love in this world and the next.

Kristiniel

Lakin searched through the last few pages desperately trying to find another entry, her heart sinking deeper and deeper. “I will find him Kristiniel, your precious words will not be in vain, they will find their way home,” she promised, crying softly.

[Bloodrose]

Sorry for the long delay everyone. Comments, questions, and all that jazz can be directed towards me in the forms of PMs or IMs.

To the Judgment!

* STORY ~

Continuity (3) ~ This was a category severely lacking in this thread. Overall I had no real concept of what was going on, or whether or not the thread had a central plot or theme. It almost seemed like a few different solo's all cobbled together. Or like an open thread where a bunch of people jumped in and no one communicated about what was going to happen. To improve here, focus on communicating outside of the thread to make sure the thread has a central plot or theme that all the characters can adhere to and play off of.

Setting (6) ~ This wasn't bad, but it wasn't anything overly memorable. Typical tavern fare, but there were a couple glowing moments of detail. Woshington's description of the bathroom was one example of the setting being used nicely.

Pacing (4) ~ Since there didn't really seem to be a story here, it was difficult to gauge how said "story" progressed. Lakin, you seemed to have some idea that you were trying to play with, and Wosh seemed to have his own agenda as well. None of it really fit together or progressed in a clear and thought out fashion, so the score in this area suffered.

* CHARACTER ~

Dialogue (5) ~ Wasn’t a lot of dialogue here to really gauge, but what there was seemed pretty average. Nothing really good, but nothing really bad either.

Action (6) ~ What action there was seemed to be in line with how the characters might behave or handle themselves in given situations. The only thing dragging the action score down was the amount of action that didn't make sense.

Persona (5) ~ There wasn't really a lot of insight into who your characters were in this thread. Everyone was kind of doing their own thing, but not really in a way that said "this is who I am." Characters have to be real enough in their actions, their emotions, and the way they act to give the reader something associate with.

* WRITING STYLE ~

Mechanics (7) ~ This was one of the better areas of this thread. Everyone involved seems to have a good grasp of how to use the English language, and that in part was why it was so surprising to have the thread turn out so...strangely. You all have the nuts and bolts necessary to tell a great story, so now we just need to work on how to use the tools to build said story.

Technique (4) ~ There really weren't a lot of deeply technical writing skills used here. There was some nice writing, but it lacked the nuance of foreshadowing, exceptional metaphors, symbolism and the like.

Clarity (3) ~ To be completely honest, I finished reading this thread and had almost no idea what had just happened. Lakin seemed to have he own story going on, Woshington his own story, the Physicist was just kind of watching and Ellanora just kind of came out of nowhere. The writing itself was clear, and well written, but the thread as a whole lacked any sort of cohesiveness that a central story line all the characters were advancing could have brought to the table.

* Wild Card (5) ~ I think all of you have the potential, with a little refining, to do some great writing here on Althanas.

TOTAL: 48

Lakin_of_DpN receives 300 EXP and 200 GP

Woshington 3 receives 230 EXP and 175 GP

The Omniversal Physicist 2 receives 180 EXP and 150 GP

Ellanora 1 receives 125 EXP