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 These Unspoken Memories

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PostSubject: These Unspoken Memories   Thu Jan 07, 2010 10:45 pm

Chapter 1

Dust-covered books and spider-webbed hallways are my fortress, they alone remind me that this grim fate is merely a transition of sorts. As I pen this, I ponder on what that word means - transition. It is a specific time when something ceases to be that which it was, instead becoming, of course, something different - but not necessarily does that mean entirely different. Distorted is a word I would use for my current predicament. Yes, distorted sums it up quite neatly. Previously, I had believed that this ailment - for want of a better word - was solely my damnation; that my continued, cursed existence was naught but a blight on this land. My opinion has not changed so very much, as my words begin to suggest, but there are things now that I am slowly becoming aware of. I do not know if there will ever be found a cure for this undeath - I sincerely doubt it - but certainly there will be a time when we, the walking dead, must return to our graves for the final time. That is my firm belief, indeed it is my hope. But there will be things I observe through these spirit eyes that may benefit the living, when peace finally is restored. Perhaps it may even prevent such an atrocity as this from being allowed to happen again. After all, one may have dreams of grandeur. Even after death, it seems.

With that said, I will begin with my introduction. My name is Azentyr Essellen, formerly a regular human, born long ago in the small, homely town of Pyrewood. I was born to a rich family who preferred keeping a low profile - hence my birthplace and subsequent home. I was, in my days as a child, somewhat of a delinquent, much to my family's dismay. I was a clever child, I dare to say, and the simplicity of the rural life bored me witless, as did the locals. Such is the way of that type of child, to get into mischief as a means of staving away such droning normality. At the age of sixteen years, I was sent to Lordaeron to study literature and philosophy under the watchful gaze of a strict scholar by the name of Daegardt. A good man. Alas that I did not see that immediately, instead favoring the difficult path - as most youths do, for whatever reason. I shan't bore you with the details, needless to say that over the years I spent with him I became a well-educated scholar in my own right, and he became my closest friend and father-figure.

I will not recount my life further, for fear of deviation. That is all one must know of me in advance, I think, for the rest will be discovered in the tale. 'Twas in my thirty-fourth year alive that my story begins, when Daegardt approached me with no less than catastrophic news.
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PostSubject: Re: These Unspoken Memories   Sat Jan 09, 2010 2:56 am

"I fear I've burned the toast again," Daegardt admitted grimly, walking into the study to stand - nay, to loom - idly beside the exquisitely crafted oak table I sat by, staring into my eyes with all the seriousness of one who was confessing to a murder. He was a tall, broad, hulk of a man, looking not at all as one would expect a scholar to look. But, as one might deduce from his name, he once belonged to a barbarian tribe that roamed the Arathi mountains - until his tribe foolishly attacked Southshore when he was but a boy, a raid which inevitably proved to be their doom. Daegardt had been left behind in that attack, with some of the women of the tribe, and had been the victim of a retaliating hunt of the more vengeful denizens of Southshore. Fortunately for Daegardt, he was one of the few remaining members of his tribe that could speak the common tongue of man, lest he had been slaughtered along with the others. More fortunate yet, there were some amongst the hunter-killers that were of a sentimental soul. Daegardt was spared, taken under the wing of a man who could only be described as a ranger. The ranger was of advancing years, however, and dwelled mostly at his residence in Southshore - or at the local tavern. But keen of mind was the man, and soon he discovered that his own thirst for knowledge was mirrored by the barbarian child. Alas, I know little more of his tale than that, but it silhouettes the story of a great man, rich in life. A great man indeed.

I chuckled at his words, shaking my head, "Truly, old boy, you are hopeless," said I, "If only your prowess in cooking were as formidable as your knowledge of archaic philosophy, I dare say you would be preparing banquets for the King at this very moment." I turned my gaze back to the book I was studying, strange that I forget now what it was.

"A finer man might turn his hand to many things," the wizened scholar grumbled in his deep baritones, "if he had the interest! Alas for you, boy, and you alone, that my only passion has been and will ever be great words uttered by great men."

"Ah, 'He who so desires shall move a mountain, but the man with passion will move worlds.' Tericus, I believe?" I quoted, guessing the reason behind Daegardt's specific use of words.

"So, not all of my lessons went through one of your ears and out of the other!" Daegardt blustered, but was unable to hide his grin, "You do me proud."

At that, I noted that Daegardt turned away suddenly, and so I looked up inquisitively. "I hear the crier approaching. Hold a moment, boy, I shall be back swiftly," he promised to me, holding up a finger before striding off hastily back out of the study. I heard his rapid footsteps drumming over the wooden stairs, and then the faint sound of a door swinging open. I remember feeling uneasy even then. Something, somehow, was telling me that something was not well in the world. I stared at the pages of the book that lie in front of me, but the words did not appear to make any sense, so focused was I on this mounting anxiety. Daegardt seemed to be gone so long, so very long, that I almost pushed myself up and went down the stairs to uncover the source of his delay. But that disquieted feeling, the disorientation in the eerie silence held me fast to my chair as well as would iron clamps. Just as I had about mustered the courage to push myself to my feet, the old man returned with a look that confirmed my fears.

Something was very wrong.

"Are you alright, Daegardt? You look most unsettled," I said slowly, carefully, watching him with concern, trying to fight back my fears. He looked at me and my heart skipped a beat - it was the most haunted look I had ever before perceived in a man. He held my gaze, slowly shuffling zombie-like towards the table, where he gently, and slowly to the point of exaggeration, settled himself into a chair. And he stared. Stared at me silently for some moments. When he opened his mouth to speak, he spoke very deliberately and gently, "F-fetch a bottle of wine and a glass. . . will you, lad?" he stammered, finally breaking his ice blue gaze from mine to look very intently at the table, where his gnarled hands lay steady.

Supressing my desire to demand an answer, I forced my legs to take me out of the study, down the stairs, and to the cabinet where we kept the wine and glasses. As I fetched the bottle, I felt a twinge of annoyance that the man hadn't got the wine himself before returning to the study, but it was brief. Upon my own return, I found Daegardt had somewhat composed himself a little better. Setting the bottle and glass down on the table, my brows furrowed deeply and my mouth curled up at the edges in a mirthless smile, "Damn!" I hissed to him, "I forgot the corkscrew."

Daegardt said nothing, merely taking the bottle by the neck in one shovel-like hand and with the other, he grasped onto the cork with index finger and thumb. I quirked a brow as he prised it out of the bottle, going red in the face with the strain. Snorting, I sat back down as he poured the red liquid into the glasses slowly, then carefully set the bottle down, drawing in a deep breath as he stared at it wistfully. "The entire population of Stratholme has been decimated, Azentyr," he said without warning, finally looking me dead in the eye. "I can't break it to you any easier, son, though I've been hoping that I could."

I can't exactly describe how I felt as the news hit me. Many would explain it as feeling empty, but that, I fear, does not do what I went through any justice at all. I wasn't angry at that point, I wasn't in tears. The shock was visible on my dumbfounded face, I am most sure of that, for I could see how it pained Daegardt to witness me so. I opened my mouth many times, but alas there were no words to escape it just then. I simply shook my head, to at least give him some reply. "Prince Menethil called it a culling," continued Daegardt, downing the wine in his glass in one swallow, shuddering, and then refilling the glass from the bottle. The gentle trickling, swishing noise of the glass being filled up by the wine was strangely loud in the study, I remember. "Apparently this news about a cult is true. It was something to do with them, but the crier didn't know more. I didn't like the sound of it none, though, lad. He said the Silver Hand up and left the prince to do the dirty work himself - I've heard not a bad word said about those lads, and Uther is a damned legend."

I didn't really care for Daegardt's rambling. I heard it, but I didn't care. The entire population of Stratholme, dead, was news enough alone. But - and this, I admit, is a selfish thing to say - that mattered not at all to me at that time. I could think of only one thing then: Marabel. She was the love of my life. She was my. . . she was everything to me. She had lived in Stratholme all of her live, had been born there. She wasn't of noble birth, wasn't from a rich family, thus she was still living there until I could earn enough money to wed her and purchase a house, as my parents wouldn't endorse a marriage to a commoner - as they viewed it - and so they would not give me the finances necessary themselves. But none of that mattered any longer, of course. She was dead. Killed by the 'next king' of Lordaeron. It made me sick. I rose from my seat wordlessly and stalked away from that place. I wandered Lordaeron, musing, raging, mulling things over in every possible way, even giving myself false hope. I sent letters to Stratholme, hoping that the news was false, but after a month passed with no word, and more news arrived, those hopes were eviscerated.

I was lost.
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PostSubject: Re: These Unspoken Memories   Mon Jan 25, 2010 4:22 pm

[[Sorry to burst into this very calm thread... But... I LOVE IT! =D *huggles-and-runs*]]
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