Fantasy RPG Forum - Standing Trials

Cylus 1st Arc 721

Neither the earth nor the wind wanted to help out with the clean-up, and the fire –who’d created this mess in the first place—simply sat on its bed of ashes and twigs amidst a circle of stones, belching burps of smoke. Rokas coughed and pinched his nose with one hand, waving away the stench of burned hair and skin and flesh and clothes. It didn’t quite work. Despite his efforts, and despite the fact he wasn’t breathing through his nose, Rokas could still smell the remnants of fire’s meal.

He could still see them too. Seven charred silhouettes frozen in the midst of throes of anguish and despair, one foot locked within a petrified heap of earth. Most had lost their features during fire’s feeding, becoming lumps of coal with a vaguely humanoid shape. A few managed to preserve their expressions though, empty sockets and screaming mouth wide open. Rokas still heard their cries echo through his campsite, stubbornly refusing to fade out and die like echoes should. He wasn’t quite sure if it was the wind mimicking voices, or if it was all in his head. In the end, it didn’t bother him enough to continue dwelling on.

The stink did though. The combination of charred wood with smoke and burnt flesh and hair proved too strong to shut out, and too pungent to get used to. More importantly, it would creep into his clothes, clinging to it for days and days. Until either the wind plucked the smells out of the fibers, or until water washed them away. One rejected Rokas’s requests for help –preferring to play with the ashes instead, tossing them into the air and catching them, or simply scattering them all over the campsite—and the other wasn’t around. Its voice reached from afar, weak and thin, more of a puddle than an ocean, a placid stream rather than a rushing river.

Lastly, the earth was a little different. Like its siblings, it did not help out, despite the fact that burying the smoldering corpses definitely would get rid of the smell. Or at least stop more of it from being generated. However, it denied Rokas’s requests to alter its shape, unwilling to change. Not out of spite or because it found Rokas had already asked enough of it. Not at all. If anything, the earth would gladly roll over and part, swallowing all seven corpses into its cavernous belly. However, it enjoyed the new form Rokas had given it, indulging in the new shape. For a little while longer, the earth would delight in it before once more shifting to accommodate Rokas’s wishes. And as such, it was as much a lost cause as the other elements.

A ‘little while’ for the ancient crust of stone and rock and gravel and soil –ever constant, ever present, barely affected by the flow of time-- just so happened to be an eternity for a transient being such as Rokas himself. For all intends and purposes, if in a hundred years the earth did bury the corpses, it’d be rushing itself.

So he broke up camp, packing up the large canvas tent, rolling it around the poles and pegs, tying it together with leather belts and the cords used for pitching. Gathering the single large pan for boiling water, as well as the survival knives, trowel, hammer and other gear, fitting them all back into his pack on top of his folded-up blanket. Then he pulled on his boots, kicked a several handfuls of sand into fire’s face, telling it to go to sleep for a little while. It sputtered and hissed, then dimmed and shrunk and disappeared.

As Rokas headed off, he still heard its whines coming from between the embers.

Cylus held Idalos in its icy death-grip, steeping it in a perpetual darkness. Supposedly a result of Treid’s feud with Faldrun, their squabbling had shaped the seasonal cycles and the celestial bodies orbiting the world. However, with the Immortals’ need to get even with and outdo each other, came consequences. Collateral damage wreaking havoc on the realm of mortals as a result of their petty dick measuring. Saun, where Faldrun’s balls blasted the face of the planet with immense heat, and Cylus, where Treid decided fucking over all mortal life was acceptable if it let him get one up on his cousin.

Frigid cold that froze plant life to death, killing off the food source of the prey animals who, of course, starved if they didn’t hibernate –or freeze first. In turn, the predators that relied on herbivores being alive so they could hunt and eat them didn’t fare much better. Scavengers had more luck finding food during Cylus, but broke their teeth on deep-frozen meals.

If all that wasn’t enough, the constant darkness prevented plants from growing too, just in case the ice somehow failed to exterminate them. Nocturnal animals were up and about, as were diurnal beasts. Creatures that usually didn’t interact now suddenly found themselves face to face, the whole food chain re-arranging itself.

For humans –but animals too-- the night-day rhythm of the body was thrown in disarray, brain confused as to whether it should be tired or not. When you woke up, it was dark. When you had lunch, it was dark. When you went to sleep, it was dark. Dark, dark, dark. No sun, no warmth, no light. Only forty days of confusion and misery and wishing you were capable of hibernation.

And worst of all, it was damned difficult to tell the time when there was no sun traversing the sky over the course of the day. All in all, that bastard Treid pretty much deserved having his heart cut out.

Stumbling near-blind through the continuous dark, Rokas --tall as a mountain and just as snowcapped-- arrived at the backside of a loggers' camp, cold to the bones and without any semblance of a clue to what time it was. The site itself couldn't be called very large --a couple shacks and a firepit—but it was convenient and, more importantly, abandoned. A fortunate thing indeed, otherwise Rokas would have had to clear it out.

Milaq had specifically chosen this spot as one of the few meet-up locations Rokas would rotate through, waiting for the right moment to return to Etzos. The Shanker knew for a fact that no lumberjacks would be present in the camp, providing a private space for Rokas to live in for some time, eliminating the chance of rumors about his survival nestling in Daggett’s ears. Because if they did, Daggett would run, and Rokas’s target would shift to Milaq instead.

Fire yawned sleepy mutters, voice soft and small, yet near rather than far. There was smoke in the air, curling and twisting, almost invisible against the darkness, drawing Rokas closer. Past the largest cabin, into the central area around which all buildings were strewn. Something glowed there, a steady orange that dimmed and brightened ever so slightly, pulsing like a heart. Embers. Ashes. A drowsy fire on the verge of fading out resting in a stone dent in the ground. Above it, a simple tripod suspended a kettle that steamed white puffs.

The luminance was blocked by the hunched form of a man, shadow stretching out behind him, touching Rokas's toes. The figure moved, emitting slurping noises followed by the smacking of lips and a contented, albeit troubled sigh. He bent forward then, grabbing a gnarled tree branch to poke the ashes, prodding the flames awake. They flared and sparked, protesting, biting at the stick and sinking back into the bed of white.

“Shush, now, no need to be cranky,” the figure spoke, voice eroded by time. Less speaking, more croaking, as if something’d gotten stuck in the throat and couldn’t be dislodged. Vocal cords like weathered ropes. Old and fraying, barely holding together, and so very weary.

The fire sputtered.

You’re talking to him?

The glow faded for a moment, lengthening shadows and emboldening the dark, though it grew back to strength not a split second later.

Rokas stepped closer, breaking out of the small mound of earth growing over his feet, dead twigs cracking underfoot. The old man craned his head, shifting on the stump he used as a chair, squinting to see in the dark, eyes too used to the glow of the embers. Lines carved in his face by age, hair thin and grey, hanging limp against his scalp, no strength left to spike up as it once had. Frail body cloaked in thick furs to keep the cold out, a cup of steaming water in one hand, big stick in the other. Skin wrinkled and sagging, not enough flesh underneath to stretch it comfortably over his bones. He grinned a skeleton smile, the lines around his eyes crinkling. But the man behind that face was hollow.

“Oh, a guest? Welcome, welcome. Please, join me at the fire, won’t you? It’s mighty cold out tonight, it is, and my fire’s big enough for two. I can pour you a cup o’ tea if you’d like, warm you right up!”

Rokas approached. Rubbing his fists, one after the other.