PhilistineEars
yep, definite Lurker
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- Sep 23, 2008
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Mardigan's Sorrow
“She’s suffering Paik! Give her something for the pain! By Avo if you do not quell her screaming I swear to you this will be the last thing you ever do!” Mardigan clenched his saber with equal conviction.
“Damnation! Go out side Mardigan! You’re in the way and we can’t help her with your obstructions, now go!” Crowed Paik.
Physician Paik was of small build and even smaller stature. No more than a fist’s height above McDoogle’s pub table Mardigan figured; an easily assailable opponent. With reluctant opposition, Mardigan vacated the room to wait outside. Perhaps the cool air will restrain the tempest raging within his mind, he thought. Mardigan was led out by a nursemaid who could see his face distorted, tortured, by what he’d bore witness to.
“Physician Paik is really a gentle man. He didn’t mean anything by that in there. He’s a good man, a decent man. All he cares about is the person needing his services and everything else is just background for him.” She said. Emma’s voice was softly endearing. If for no other reason then her voice, one could understand why she chose being a nursemaid as her vocation.
Mardigan stared ahead blankly through the course of her soothing tones, and as they approached the door he turned to look into her gentle sea green eyes. Mardigan’s intensity was absolute. Emma smiled in a vain attempt to deflect his piercing gaze; as if she could some how infiltrate his madness and cradle his soul. Mardigan then looked to the brass door handle clutching it with his right hand. He paused, as if somehow what needed to be said was written somewhere below. His jet black hair, usually kept back in a knotted tail, was unkempt; it fell around his face, veiling him from Emma’s expectant visage, as he looked down at his deer skin boots, which were stained and faded from the passage of time.
“Physician Pai…” Emma couldn’t finish before Mardigan spoke out of turn. His voice was softer than a Forest Nymph’s sigh. “Beg your pardon?” Emma graciously inquired.
“I killed her Emma. Because of me, Lyka is dead.” Before Emma could gather a response to his confession, the imposing ash wood door had closed behind him with a click of the latch as he exited the house.
Mardigan held tight his cloak as he stepped out into the early morning darkness. The snow crunched and compacted beneath his boots, remnants from the previous few days’ weather. The air was sharp, crisp with a slight but steady breeze out of the north. The oil lamp affixed to the doorway emanated a soft yellow hew, catching his figure to cast a shadow onto the snow-laden cobblestone walk. The wind caused his shadow to dance wildly among the fallen snow as it and the flame courted each other. It was a new moon and, with it, a heavy darkness enveloped everything, save for the few speckled lights of nearby homes. Mardigan peered into the darkness and tried to penetrate its thick, heaving secrecy. Standing, motionless against the cold exterior of the house, the only sign of life was the warm exhalations, pushed out from behind the darkened opening of a hooded cloak, contacting the frigid air only to dissolve into nothing…
Mardigan could hear the wind cut through the leafless, lifeless, trees as he stood waiting. Briarwood was known for its relentless solitude. He turned toward the lamp as a gust of wind pierced his cover, slashing his face. The lamp penetrated the darkened void of the cloak to reveal seasoned features and blazing eyes, which began to moisten, then water, from the winter’s touch.
“How could this have happened?” Mardigan demanded of himself. “How did it come so far?”
The lamp's trembling flame blurred behind his winter-struck gaze. Just a softened yellow hew without a discernible source. Mardigan’s mind began searching for an answer. His massive frame pitched against the traitorous dwelling where love once lived and heartache now took residence. A home full of memories from his birth, where he learned of his heritage and of his burden, Mardigan’s sense of betrayal ran deep.
“If only I returned sooner.” He lamented. “The Bandit Coast was only supposed to take two weeks at the very most.” He conjectured. “Where did they all come from?”
Bowerstone’s High Officials have been on edge for the past several months with reports of increased nefarious activities in and around the Bandit Coast. Mardigan, along with a few companions, took up the quest to eradicate the problem with promises of gold, silver and land rights. The quest was not as clear-cut as they'd been told.
“Bandits sure, but Balvarines, Hobbes and Banshees? Who the hell was the informant that put the quest in to the High Officials? It was a damn ambush!” Mardigan’s fist thundered against the wooden façade, the house shuddered under his protest. As careful and calculating a man can be, he bore the burden of The Bandit Coast Massacre, as the town criers fancied its name. Mardigan never acted on impulse, every scenario carefully, painstakingly, played out to see which afforded the best opportunities for cover, defense, surprise, and survival. It was because of him that only three of ten men returned-bruised, bloodied and broken.
Hours had passed since Mardigan took his leave from the room where Physician Paik was feverishly working to save Lyka. The sky began to lighten; the first sounds of the morning began to permeate the landscape. The cawing of crows as farmers threw feed to their live stock. The hemming and hawing of sheep, goats and horses as their master entered the barn. Like early morning’s symphony of sounds, Timlin’s Bakery produced a symphonic discourse of aromatic wonder. Her warm berry crumble cakes must have just been put on the cooling racks as the fragrant aroma of rappleberry pervaded Mardigan’s senses. Thick and sweetly pungent, the rappleberry was Briarwood’s top export during the growing season. Its preserves are sold by the cartload during the colder months to eager families, throughout Albion, eagerly awaiting their rappleberry cakes, rappleberry strudels, muffins, tea, jam and a whole assortment of other delights.
“Mardigan?” Emma stood in the doorway as patiently as the frigid winter air would allow. “Mardigan!” She pleaded, shivering. Mardigan jerked back, hand at the ready to unsheathe his saber.
“Oh, you startled me.” He absently apologized. Still staring in the direction of Ms. Timlin’s delicious symphony. “Mardigan, you need to come in now. You… please, come in.” Emma’s voice quivered, Mardigan focused himself and could see her wintry discomfort. His face was ashen, ice to the touch. His lips were tinged blue and cracked, but the blood had froze too quickly to warrant attention.
“For Avo’s sake Mardigan, you’re frozen to the core!” Emma touched his face and reeled back from his frigidity. “It’s like touching an ice statue, this will not do.” Emma disappeared behind the kitchen door. Mardigan stood there, frozen, staring into the warm glow of the fireplace. Once inside, the house was warm and inviting. The common room was the best feature Mardigan thought. His trophies of past quests hung, lovingly, around the room-a testament to his strength and status as a leader among men. The stone hearth was the focal point of the room, with a large antique mirror resting at the center of the mantle. The mirror, tall enough to capture his upper body and wide enough to frame his shoulders, was a gift from an old family friend Mardigan barely remembered. It was set within an ornate sterling silver frame that weaved like moonling vines and converged at the top to form his family crest. The rhythmic ripple of the firelight caught the reflective properties of the frame encasing Mardigan's mirrored self in fire.
“Here Mardigan.” Emma returned from the kitchen with warm towels and hot rappleberry tea left over from Physician Paik’s services. “You need to warm yourself.” She said.
“Thank you.” Mardigan took off his cloak and wrapped himself in the warming blanket, sat down in the Master’s Chair holding the tea. “You must thank Paik for me.” Mardigan said, as he noticed the lack of commotion from the back room.
“What did he give her for the pain?” Mardigan wondered what herbal magic Paik had concocted for Lyka. Paik's herbal bags have come in handy on many of Mardigan's quests.
He looked to Emma whose gaze was locked into the fire. “Emma, what did he use?” Mardigan’s gaze, now relaxed, hardened. Emma’s tranquil eyes began to mist and blur with the firelight. Mardigan lept from his chair, the carefully prepared rappleberry tea cascading onto the oak floor boards along with fragments of the saucer and tea cup. Mardigan ran down the dimly lit passageway to the back room. The door was closed, light shown through the bottom of the door. Mardigan could feel his heart throbbing within his chest; he wanted to reach the door, but couldn’t move faster. He was being weighed down, but by what? His body was molten iron, thick, heavy, unwilling to flow.
“Lyka!” Whose voice was that? Mardigan could here someone calling for her. Distorted, echoing in his mind. “Lyka!” He looked behind him to Emma, still staring into the fire, blind, burning.
Mardigan crashed against the door, nearly unhinging it. “Locked! How can it be locked!” Mardigan’s mind tore itself apart with madness and remorse. “Paik! Open the door, Paik!” Mardigan bellowed.
Long, drawn out pleas erupted from Mardigan as he terrorized the door with blind desperation. “I’m coming in you bastard!” Mardigan yowled.
His fist stopped an acorn’s width away from Paik's rather unassuming nose. His appearance stopped him Mardigan dead. In the instant the good physician opened the door, Mardigan saw his slain comrades from Bandit Coast. Bloodied, broken, each one of their faces, Mardigan saw in Paik. “What, what is this?” Mardigan stammered. He looked at Paik’s stained and bloodied physicians wear. Sweat rings were visible around Paik's neck and under his arms. His little glasses were speckled with blood and greasy from hours of toil.
Mardigan scanned the room. The other nursemaids huddled around something in the corner. The room had the all too familiar stink of sweaty blood. The candles, nearly burned to the holder, cast light onto the bed where Mardigan could not understand what he was seeing. Lyka, covered by a sheet, the bottom center of the bed soaked with blood. Paik stepped aside as Mardigan’s mass, slowly, softly, moved forward, giving him no other recourse but to push himself into the wall. He stood over the bed looking at the silhouette of his dead wife. Ever so slowly, he fell to his knees, numbed by the reality of things, and held Lyka’s slender feet through the thin, white sheet.
“I’m sorry.” Mardigan whispered. “Oh Lyka, I’m so sorry.” He rested his forehead against her feet, still gripping them in his battle-hardened hands. His shoulders began to heave and quake as Mardigan, exhausted, could no longer hold back the torrent of emotion he’d fended off since his return.
“I should have been here Lyka, I should have been here.” Mardigan said, as if his omissions could somehow bring her back to him.
Paik moved across the room and disappeared into the huddled mass of preoccupied nursemaids. He reappeared holding a small, neatly wrapped, bundle in his stout arms. Mardigan observed him out of the corner of his eye moving toward him cautiously...He did not engage.
“Mardigan… Meet your son.” Paik said with a voice that was out of place for such an occasion.
Mardigan’s heavy frame sank down even more. Tears flooded his eyes before the darkness over took him. As Mardigan slipped into madness, all he could taste was blood. It was in his mouth, the anguish, the rage, the blood. His lips had warmed and come to life allowing the sanguine salts to seep into his mouth.
PART I
“She’s suffering Paik! Give her something for the pain! By Avo if you do not quell her screaming I swear to you this will be the last thing you ever do!” Mardigan clenched his saber with equal conviction.
“Damnation! Go out side Mardigan! You’re in the way and we can’t help her with your obstructions, now go!” Crowed Paik.
Physician Paik was of small build and even smaller stature. No more than a fist’s height above McDoogle’s pub table Mardigan figured; an easily assailable opponent. With reluctant opposition, Mardigan vacated the room to wait outside. Perhaps the cool air will restrain the tempest raging within his mind, he thought. Mardigan was led out by a nursemaid who could see his face distorted, tortured, by what he’d bore witness to.
“Physician Paik is really a gentle man. He didn’t mean anything by that in there. He’s a good man, a decent man. All he cares about is the person needing his services and everything else is just background for him.” She said. Emma’s voice was softly endearing. If for no other reason then her voice, one could understand why she chose being a nursemaid as her vocation.
Mardigan stared ahead blankly through the course of her soothing tones, and as they approached the door he turned to look into her gentle sea green eyes. Mardigan’s intensity was absolute. Emma smiled in a vain attempt to deflect his piercing gaze; as if she could some how infiltrate his madness and cradle his soul. Mardigan then looked to the brass door handle clutching it with his right hand. He paused, as if somehow what needed to be said was written somewhere below. His jet black hair, usually kept back in a knotted tail, was unkempt; it fell around his face, veiling him from Emma’s expectant visage, as he looked down at his deer skin boots, which were stained and faded from the passage of time.
“Physician Pai…” Emma couldn’t finish before Mardigan spoke out of turn. His voice was softer than a Forest Nymph’s sigh. “Beg your pardon?” Emma graciously inquired.
“I killed her Emma. Because of me, Lyka is dead.” Before Emma could gather a response to his confession, the imposing ash wood door had closed behind him with a click of the latch as he exited the house.
Mardigan held tight his cloak as he stepped out into the early morning darkness. The snow crunched and compacted beneath his boots, remnants from the previous few days’ weather. The air was sharp, crisp with a slight but steady breeze out of the north. The oil lamp affixed to the doorway emanated a soft yellow hew, catching his figure to cast a shadow onto the snow-laden cobblestone walk. The wind caused his shadow to dance wildly among the fallen snow as it and the flame courted each other. It was a new moon and, with it, a heavy darkness enveloped everything, save for the few speckled lights of nearby homes. Mardigan peered into the darkness and tried to penetrate its thick, heaving secrecy. Standing, motionless against the cold exterior of the house, the only sign of life was the warm exhalations, pushed out from behind the darkened opening of a hooded cloak, contacting the frigid air only to dissolve into nothing…
Mardigan could hear the wind cut through the leafless, lifeless, trees as he stood waiting. Briarwood was known for its relentless solitude. He turned toward the lamp as a gust of wind pierced his cover, slashing his face. The lamp penetrated the darkened void of the cloak to reveal seasoned features and blazing eyes, which began to moisten, then water, from the winter’s touch.
“How could this have happened?” Mardigan demanded of himself. “How did it come so far?”
The lamp's trembling flame blurred behind his winter-struck gaze. Just a softened yellow hew without a discernible source. Mardigan’s mind began searching for an answer. His massive frame pitched against the traitorous dwelling where love once lived and heartache now took residence. A home full of memories from his birth, where he learned of his heritage and of his burden, Mardigan’s sense of betrayal ran deep.
“If only I returned sooner.” He lamented. “The Bandit Coast was only supposed to take two weeks at the very most.” He conjectured. “Where did they all come from?”
Bowerstone’s High Officials have been on edge for the past several months with reports of increased nefarious activities in and around the Bandit Coast. Mardigan, along with a few companions, took up the quest to eradicate the problem with promises of gold, silver and land rights. The quest was not as clear-cut as they'd been told.
“Bandits sure, but Balvarines, Hobbes and Banshees? Who the hell was the informant that put the quest in to the High Officials? It was a damn ambush!” Mardigan’s fist thundered against the wooden façade, the house shuddered under his protest. As careful and calculating a man can be, he bore the burden of The Bandit Coast Massacre, as the town criers fancied its name. Mardigan never acted on impulse, every scenario carefully, painstakingly, played out to see which afforded the best opportunities for cover, defense, surprise, and survival. It was because of him that only three of ten men returned-bruised, bloodied and broken.
Hours had passed since Mardigan took his leave from the room where Physician Paik was feverishly working to save Lyka. The sky began to lighten; the first sounds of the morning began to permeate the landscape. The cawing of crows as farmers threw feed to their live stock. The hemming and hawing of sheep, goats and horses as their master entered the barn. Like early morning’s symphony of sounds, Timlin’s Bakery produced a symphonic discourse of aromatic wonder. Her warm berry crumble cakes must have just been put on the cooling racks as the fragrant aroma of rappleberry pervaded Mardigan’s senses. Thick and sweetly pungent, the rappleberry was Briarwood’s top export during the growing season. Its preserves are sold by the cartload during the colder months to eager families, throughout Albion, eagerly awaiting their rappleberry cakes, rappleberry strudels, muffins, tea, jam and a whole assortment of other delights.
“Mardigan?” Emma stood in the doorway as patiently as the frigid winter air would allow. “Mardigan!” She pleaded, shivering. Mardigan jerked back, hand at the ready to unsheathe his saber.
“Oh, you startled me.” He absently apologized. Still staring in the direction of Ms. Timlin’s delicious symphony. “Mardigan, you need to come in now. You… please, come in.” Emma’s voice quivered, Mardigan focused himself and could see her wintry discomfort. His face was ashen, ice to the touch. His lips were tinged blue and cracked, but the blood had froze too quickly to warrant attention.
“For Avo’s sake Mardigan, you’re frozen to the core!” Emma touched his face and reeled back from his frigidity. “It’s like touching an ice statue, this will not do.” Emma disappeared behind the kitchen door. Mardigan stood there, frozen, staring into the warm glow of the fireplace. Once inside, the house was warm and inviting. The common room was the best feature Mardigan thought. His trophies of past quests hung, lovingly, around the room-a testament to his strength and status as a leader among men. The stone hearth was the focal point of the room, with a large antique mirror resting at the center of the mantle. The mirror, tall enough to capture his upper body and wide enough to frame his shoulders, was a gift from an old family friend Mardigan barely remembered. It was set within an ornate sterling silver frame that weaved like moonling vines and converged at the top to form his family crest. The rhythmic ripple of the firelight caught the reflective properties of the frame encasing Mardigan's mirrored self in fire.
“Here Mardigan.” Emma returned from the kitchen with warm towels and hot rappleberry tea left over from Physician Paik’s services. “You need to warm yourself.” She said.
“Thank you.” Mardigan took off his cloak and wrapped himself in the warming blanket, sat down in the Master’s Chair holding the tea. “You must thank Paik for me.” Mardigan said, as he noticed the lack of commotion from the back room.
“What did he give her for the pain?” Mardigan wondered what herbal magic Paik had concocted for Lyka. Paik's herbal bags have come in handy on many of Mardigan's quests.
He looked to Emma whose gaze was locked into the fire. “Emma, what did he use?” Mardigan’s gaze, now relaxed, hardened. Emma’s tranquil eyes began to mist and blur with the firelight. Mardigan lept from his chair, the carefully prepared rappleberry tea cascading onto the oak floor boards along with fragments of the saucer and tea cup. Mardigan ran down the dimly lit passageway to the back room. The door was closed, light shown through the bottom of the door. Mardigan could feel his heart throbbing within his chest; he wanted to reach the door, but couldn’t move faster. He was being weighed down, but by what? His body was molten iron, thick, heavy, unwilling to flow.
“Lyka!” Whose voice was that? Mardigan could here someone calling for her. Distorted, echoing in his mind. “Lyka!” He looked behind him to Emma, still staring into the fire, blind, burning.
Mardigan crashed against the door, nearly unhinging it. “Locked! How can it be locked!” Mardigan’s mind tore itself apart with madness and remorse. “Paik! Open the door, Paik!” Mardigan bellowed.
Long, drawn out pleas erupted from Mardigan as he terrorized the door with blind desperation. “I’m coming in you bastard!” Mardigan yowled.
His fist stopped an acorn’s width away from Paik's rather unassuming nose. His appearance stopped him Mardigan dead. In the instant the good physician opened the door, Mardigan saw his slain comrades from Bandit Coast. Bloodied, broken, each one of their faces, Mardigan saw in Paik. “What, what is this?” Mardigan stammered. He looked at Paik’s stained and bloodied physicians wear. Sweat rings were visible around Paik's neck and under his arms. His little glasses were speckled with blood and greasy from hours of toil.
Mardigan scanned the room. The other nursemaids huddled around something in the corner. The room had the all too familiar stink of sweaty blood. The candles, nearly burned to the holder, cast light onto the bed where Mardigan could not understand what he was seeing. Lyka, covered by a sheet, the bottom center of the bed soaked with blood. Paik stepped aside as Mardigan’s mass, slowly, softly, moved forward, giving him no other recourse but to push himself into the wall. He stood over the bed looking at the silhouette of his dead wife. Ever so slowly, he fell to his knees, numbed by the reality of things, and held Lyka’s slender feet through the thin, white sheet.
“I’m sorry.” Mardigan whispered. “Oh Lyka, I’m so sorry.” He rested his forehead against her feet, still gripping them in his battle-hardened hands. His shoulders began to heave and quake as Mardigan, exhausted, could no longer hold back the torrent of emotion he’d fended off since his return.
“I should have been here Lyka, I should have been here.” Mardigan said, as if his omissions could somehow bring her back to him.
Paik moved across the room and disappeared into the huddled mass of preoccupied nursemaids. He reappeared holding a small, neatly wrapped, bundle in his stout arms. Mardigan observed him out of the corner of his eye moving toward him cautiously...He did not engage.
“Mardigan… Meet your son.” Paik said with a voice that was out of place for such an occasion.
Mardigan’s heavy frame sank down even more. Tears flooded his eyes before the darkness over took him. As Mardigan slipped into madness, all he could taste was blood. It was in his mouth, the anguish, the rage, the blood. His lips had warmed and come to life allowing the sanguine salts to seep into his mouth.