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 Posted: Tue Sep 13, 2011 12:07 pm
A R CxxO N E I. P U T E S C O
1 Navigation
xxxxthe contents of arc one
2 The Doomed Ship Rosa
xxxxcuthbert's return from the doomed ship rosa [Solo]
3 His Will Be Done
xxxxa seed of doubt [Solo]
4 Curious Bindings
xxxxa first attempt at clarity [Solo]
5 Cuthbert Thoreau and the strange sailors...
xxxxcuthbert meets a few stunteds [RP]
6 Here Comes the Sun
xxxxspring flowers and ivory towers [Solo]
7 Equus Portentus
xxxxcuthbert meets sunny [RP]
8 The Name of God
xxxxcuthbert finds himself out of place [Solo]
9 Fellowship Mission
xxxxI of IV: cuthbert makes a good impression [Solo]
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Posted: Tue Sep 13, 2011 12:09 pm
S O L OxxO N E T H ExxD O O M E DxxS H I PxxR O S A
Cuthbert may have began his journey upon the Emperor's Rosa a young man but he returned from the seas little more than a ghost. This slight shadow, whose only proof of name was the memory of his youth, abandoned the corpses of his company with a placid expression. He saw nothing - men stirred here no longer and he hadn't the spirit to mourn them.
Death had sorted them, good and poor alike, like dominoes... and the wraith had played this one a double blank tile. He was simply the means to an end. He couldn't comprehend it yet but fate had played a cruel trick on Cuthbert Thoreau; he was one of three, but why? Absent of all graces, Cuthbert had yet to torture himself with questions -- why had he been spared and not the academic? And what of the hard-working fathers? The lovers?
Why did the smell of decay linger still upon his clothes if he was still among the living?
These riddles would come to him with the return of his sensitive mind, but not a moment sooner. For now the steady give of hearth beneath his feet was an all-consuming comfort. He wanted for food and water and sleep, of course, but his heart wouldn't allow for such trivial matters. Not now. Cuthbert walked on in a dream, clutching at garments weakened by the anxious tearing of his own fingers upon their skins. One foot in front of the other, eyes dreading the light of a stranger he once called the sun, Cuthbert made his way - ethereal and absent minded - through stifling crowds, day merchants and roaming dogs, all the while seeking refuge in the familiarity of this place but not yet fully aware that this wasn't just another fevered dream. The darkness beneath his eyes and the worry in his way earned the boy many sideways glances but not a soul would stop for him as he stumbled blindly through the mire.
It was better that way.
He would see no one but his mother, and to place his swollen hands upon the flimsy wood of her cottage door... he'd never felt such a desperate longing. He called out to her once but an unexplained terror stoppered his throat. The plea took to the air as a smoldering breath, and then there was only darkness. ☸ "Oh, little Bert... my little love."
The touch of a cold hand and a lilting voice - a sound like a bird song - awoke Bert from a dreamless slumber. His left side was burning hot and his right was frigid, the whole of him covered in a thin sheet of sweat. His head throbbed like a knife wound and even the weight of a life-worn quilt was suffocating upon his bruised and brittle frame. The tiny hand abandoned him with a shiver as Cuthbert found the strength to open his eyes. A dim candle on the far end of the room - his room - cast an eerie glow across his mother's face, obscuring her eyes, swollen from crying. Still a smile lifted her cheeks as she leaned closer to him, revealing a face far skinnier than he had known.
"Mother..." Cuthbert sighed, his voice the echo in a distant well. It pained him to speak. His tongue seemed impossibly dry and, in a purely maternal gesture, the aging woman stilled her child's lips with a cool porcelain bowl. He managed a slow sip, teeth rattling in his mouth as he forced down the mouthful of water. Even the thing he longed for most burned him. Tears welled, spilling over his delicate brown lashes like hot rain. The discomfort of being, coupled with the shadowed face of his mother, was too much to bare.
"This is no dream." The young man rasped, pressing his hands against his chest and cheeks... he was solid. He was home. Thank 'God', he was home. "Every day I thought of you!" He sobbed, throwing his frail arms around his equally wasting mother. Cadence Thoreau released a sobbing breath, holding his head in her hands, mouth wide in a thankful grin but eyes so terribly confused.
"You're alive... how is it that you didn't..." The gray woman couldn't bring herself to utter that last word. 'Perish'. Even with her child alive and safe in her care the very idea that he could have been a body in a cart... she held fast her tongue, pulling Cuthbert to her chest, shivering. A cough managed to escape her between faraway sobs and she clenched desperately to a hanky, dabbing her cheeks and mouth as the boy ruined her frock with his tears.
"I didn't even know until I put you to bed... the men. They found them all. The plague." She continued, releasing a mournful cry into her handkerchief. "I was so frightened that I checked your skin... but you... it's like God himself protected you."
Cuthbert shook beneath his mother's embrace, still grasping desperately at his hands, his neck, his hair... he was awake. This was no dream. He repeated the mantra to himself, overcome by joy yet somehow silenced by grief. The woman prattled on but he was deaf to her intentions. All he heard was a soft and familiar lullaby, and all he felt was her touch upon his hair and face... a fragment caught his attention, but only long enough for the young man to turn his head and rest his eyes upon the bedside table.
"A map?" He whispered, reaching hopelessly for clarity.
"What map?"
Word Count: 927
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Posted: Tue Sep 27, 2011 10:45 am
S O L OxxT W O H I SxxW I L LxxB ExxD O N E
The sea may have taken it's toll on Cuthbert's memory, but he was settling in to a familiar way with little trouble.
He hadn't moved from his comfortable spot in bed since he'd awoken, with exceptions made for washing and sunning, and even then he strayed little further than the windowsill. Despite all the luxuries of his modest homestead, it seemed different now that he'd seen a vaster world. The waves which rivaled church steeples still tumbled valiantly behind his eyes at night, and the sunsets more glorious than a sphere of gold and rose quartz hollowed his heart by memory alone. If only he could return to that miraculous time. The time before things became hazy... he knew the horrors between flocks of pearl-crested seagulls and jumping fish, but he couldn't bring himself to understand the severity of it all. The details...
The hovel was small. Smaller than he'd remembered it, even, and his journey had lasted only a month. He shifted in bed, surreptitiously abandoning his blanket to view his hands. So pale. Paler than before. He'd spent so much time locked away.
"Cuthbert Thoreau, what have I told you about staying 'neath that blanket? You'll catch your death with a constitution like that." Cadence trilled, quickening her step to set a steaming bowl of broth upon Bert's bedside table and swaddling her son tight as a newborn beneath his bedding. Cuthbert complied, rubbing his anxious hands together.
She went on, resting on the corner of the straw-stuffed mattress with bowl and spoon in hand. "Now eat. You've got a fort night of dinners to catch up on."
Cuthbert took the wooden serving bowl, warming his hands on it's face. He was quite enjoying all of this attention. It was almost like being a young boy again, waiting patiently beneath his quilt while Mother lovingly tended stews and puddings with no tongue to waste upon but his own. It was trying, though, the way she seemed to rush in just as his thoughts began to stray to more important matters.
Where had the time gone?
His brows furrowed, deceiving his gentle expression.
"Don't think so hard, dear, it's no good in this condition." Mother chastised. Cuthbert forced another spoonful of lukewarm soup past his lips, suddenly feeling ill.
"But I must..." He began. His voice had grown willowy from want, barely breaking a whisper. "I'd like to know what happened out there. What I saw. Why shouldn't I?"
He'd babbled on and on before, back when the fever still had him. Before he had food in his belly. He could have easily blamed his worried thoughts on hunger and confusion, but now it was evident his concern was genuine. Cadence did not approve. She'd been stifling his search for answers since he'd regained his senses. 'It's His will that you came home, and His will be done.' She'd claim, crossing her chest, doe-eyed.
But it couldn't be that simple, could it?
"I had another dream last night." Cuthbert continued, despite his Mother's sagging expression. "All patterns and lines. A secret map to a secret place. It was... indescribable." Since his return, Bert's dreams had been Plagued with visions of swirling, intricate lines... and a light so bright he thought he'd been blinded. Terrifying and beautiful, all the same.
Cadence took the cooling bowl from her son's hands, ignoring his silent protests. "It's the fever. It will pass with time." She replied, touching the back of her palm to Cuthbert's cheek, then to his forehead, sighing as she did so.
He glanced at the ancient map, peeking just slightly over the open drawer.
"Won't you let me throw it out?" Cadence begged. She, too, watched the map, and with a horrible grimace. It smelled terrible. She hadn't even let him touch the thing since the first time she'd pried it from his shaking hands. 'It will only make you weaker' She'd say, claiming the thing reeked of death. Cuthbert had grown used to the smell.
"I want to look at it first."
The dreams continued.
Word Count: 677
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Posted: Wed Sep 28, 2011 12:30 am
S O L OxxT H R E E C U R I O U SxxB I N D I N G S
"I saw something out there, Ma. I'm certain of it now." Cuthbert whispered, testing the weight of his tongue against his teeth in concentration.
"...curious bindings."
"What do you mean?" The old woman replied, hiding a spasm of coughs before patting either corner of her mouth with a square of linen. In respect of his mother's constitution, Cuthbert allowed her to shake and sigh as she lowered herself into the wooden chair opposite his own. He splayed his hands upon the table, scrutinizing the stained parchment. He had been content to leave the thing be for a time... but the urge to undo those bindings was overwhelming at times.
He'd had a dream the night before... he had returned to his cabin on the ship Rosa, but there were no doomed men. Only a curious map and a bright, all-encompassing light. How he longed to return to that light.
"I told you, I could open it before." He continued, tugging at it's surprisingly sturdy threads a second time. And "I saw lines upon it's face. Nothing that made any sense, really... just swirls. Swirling black lines. It was not simply a dream, the image is still clear as day in the front of my eyes."
Cadence smiled at the boy, tucking a loose strand of graying hair behind her ear. Though she seemed content to nurse his memories of the excursion, all week her brows had furrowed in a way suggesting discomfort. Hearing him babble on this way, and all for an old piece of scratch paper that had never broken it's bindings. But the boy was certain, although he had no memory of procuring the map, his Master was dead and this scroll was an effort of their struggle homeward. He simply had to understand it... to see it once more. Cadence swayed the boy's temper with an innocent laugh, drawing his eyes from the parchment to her smiling face.
"I've told you time and time again, I'm almost certain it was a dream, darling. You'd gone without for such a long time..." She held her tongue then as tears threatened, patting his hand instead. "You were seeing things, dear, that's all. It was His way of protecting you -- just think, if you hadn't dreamed such wondrous things, perhaps you'd have gone mad or worse."
Cuthbert flinched at the touch of her hand, shaking his head quietly beneath her gentle gaze.
"I did not feel Him there, mother." He spat, so lost in his frustration he hardly noticed the goodly woman recoil and cross her heart dutifully. If only he could recall everything... if only his mind hadn't seen fit to protect him from those horrors. He sat, still puzzled, again prying at the tightly knotted string with his shaking fingers.
His mother was not so curious.
"Please, Cuthbert, just put it away. You took it in a delirium. It has nothing to show you. I'm sure it's a map you've seen a hundred times before in your studies." Cadence said over her own retreating footsteps, fetching a kettle from her single cupboard and rubbing a smudge of soot from it's lid. "We could both use a little tea." She mumbled, setting the empty kettle upon the wood burning stove and fumbling about various closed containers for the loose leaf she saved for such stressful occasions.
Cuthbert had lost his appetite.
"If you don't care to listen, I can easily take myself elsewhere to figure out this... damned thing." Cuthbert huffed, leaning back in his seat with crossed arms.
"Child!" Cadence called, chastising his curse in her weakened voice. Her hands quaked as she dug through small, latched boxes only to set each one down with a heavy hand. Apparently she'd heard enough. "Just fetch me some water for the kettle - please!" She added, exasperated by the struggle, meager as it may have been. Cuthbert scraped the legs of his chair across the floor, snatching up the map as he did so and tucking it carefully into his breast pocket.
"Yes, yes..." The boy replied, stroking his bare chin in a feeble and utterly masculine attempt to hide his hurt feelings.
"Bert..." The graying woman called, clutching her kerchief tight to her chest. Despite her disheveled hair and stained frock, she looked upon him with such pity. Such unfounded understanding. His chest ached as he returned her gaze, patting the map for comfort's sake. "I worry about you... so much talk over a silly map, but not a single word for the dead?"
He moved towards the door.
Word Count: 761
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Posted: Sun Oct 02, 2011 11:49 am
R O L E P L A YxxO N E T H ExxS T R A N G ExxS A I L O R S Cuthbert Thoreau and the strange sailors...[color=white]
An RP featuring Owlied's Cuthbert Thoreau and his cursed map, and kotaline's white chess stunteds, led by their king, Crispian, and their queen, Cliodhna. The place is the docks of Clearbarrow, and the time is midmorning. The weather is clement, but there are signs of a storm blowing in later that day.
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Posted: Fri Mar 09, 2012 2:10 pm
S O L OxxF O U R H E R ExxC O M E SxxT H ExxS U N
Winter at Clearbarrow had been a predictable one. Cold, quick and terribly still. House Thoreau was equally placid, but knock on that triple-thatched door any time of the year and you'd find it eerily silent and smelling of dried flowers or stew. Cadence Thoreau kept a clean, feminine homestead and her son liked it that way. A faltering winter meant the death of hearty meals, spiced perfumes and thick woolen blankets, and though Cuthbert would mourn his lost comforts 'til the year's end, spring meant busy pens and healthy constitutions.
He'd returned to his lessons empty-headed and with an eager quill. Not that he had failed to retain the qualities of map making, he'd been kept sharp all season long with various odd commissions. Months locked away from the cold with only an oil lamp as his guide had, if anything, strengthened Cuthbert's craft. The vacancy in his head merely suggested he'd nearly forgotten the horrors of last fall. The ancient map had received little attention since his meeting with the "Queen's" court. Call it denial if you will, but Cuthbert had once again fallen into his simple routine. Breakfast at dawn, maps in the morning, several lunches before dinner and plenty of seaside walks and light talks with mum to keep his head clear. Though he longed to thrill her with tails of beautifully illustrated letterheads and newly discovered capes, the topic of today's conversation remained service.
"Cuthbert, dear, I really think you should accompany me to Church day of rest next."
There wasn't any need to reply. Even if Cuthbert meant to accept her suggestion he wouldn't dare hold an opinion about Church. He hadn't the spine nor the heart to say so, and arguing his lack of conviction was so trying at times that he'd rather not have the mind to disagree. Being a proper lamb, gentle and all, he was expected in the pews every Sunday. Besides, any conversation that began with 'Cuthbert, dear...' was written in ink and sealed at the lip. Cadence Thoreau was not one to be denied, not even by the man of the house. She placed her tiny hand on Cuthbert's curls, pursing her lips into a pink smile. He couldn't help but return the expression.
"You know I'd love to, Mother." What a pathetic reply, so deflated and tired. If Cadence ever listened she may have picked up on her son's disinterest, but he was only a child and children never had anything important to say. They were to be guided and shaped. One day he'd have a proper thought, but he was still too young. "But I am so busy at the docks..."
Far too young, indeed.
Cadence didn't seem interested in his daily doings. No man should skip Church, especially one who had been given a second chance. She had let the boy off easy all winter long with the weather so unforgiving and his lack of sleep and, of course, their wilting finances. Attending church without a sizable donation begged retribution. Cartography had given the pair a healthy income and Cuthbert spent weeks regaining a respected name in the community. Step one was to stop carrying that filthy map with him from place to place. It reeked of mold. People had started to question the state of his mind. If Cadence knew he'd been keeping the thing on his nightstand... worse yet, if she'd seen his repeat attempts to flay it's cursed bindings! Were Cuthbert really too young the curious relic would have been burned and buried months ago.
"You'll take a Sunday for religious right, dear. No man is too busy to give thanks." Such a simple woman. Had she known Cuthbert's last thoughts were not of Him but of want - every want a man can imagine - well, she'd refuse to believe him.
Cuthbert shook his head in silence, folding his pale hands over one another. He could feel the sun shining through the open window, hear the Morning Dove's coo and women laughing at the square. He leaned into the light. Why did she have to sour a perfect day with her bland sensibilities. A sudden sharpness gripped his cheeks and with a gentle force of the hand, Cuthbert's eyes returned.
"Mind me." Cadence said in a stern, seldom-used tone. One which refused respite. Cuthbert bent, ready to accept a tedious scolding. "Why do you wish to hurt me? All I ask is you give gratitude for your life. He has given us so much. You were quite literally plucked from the ocean at His command, yet you scorn Him at every turn. Do you think the devout don't look down on me for my straying sons? You make me look like a fool!"
The young man kept his eyes firmly locked on his mother's. They shared the same gooey shade of hazel, though hers were a bit warmer. They were absolutely aflame.
"B-but Ma'am..." Oh, what an awful, sour way to address ones mother. It made it all the more obvious how much she must have detested him at this very moment.
"Not today, Cuthbert Thoreau. Not another excuse from you. You will attend services with me this Sunday and you are not to raise another word about it."
He sulked. Not because Church was always terribly boring. Not even for the venom in her tone. When you've never felt the pity of God... well, you simply don't see the point in entertaining an idea for the sake of others. His thoughts once again turned to the lovely scents of spring. The solid white hems. Distant thunderstorms over raging surf. He nearly dared to knock aside his own chair, pull down the curtains, point a finger into the face of his own mother and scream -- !
"Yes, Mother."
The lingering scent of the map begged he reconsider.
Word Count: 976
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Posted: Mon Nov 19, 2012 9:57 pm
R O L E P L A YxxT W O E Q U U SxxP O R T E N T U S Equus Portentus[color=white]
Wherein Owlied's Cuthbert delivers a commissioned map to the Mishkan countryside and unexpectedly meets Ac.Wings' Sunny near the stables of her Lord's manor. It's half past noon and the sun is high yet there is a distinguishable chill in the air.
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Posted: Wed Jul 03, 2013 5:11 pm
S O L OxxF I V E T H ExxN A M ExxO FxxG O D
Having come from a family of uninspired water-folk, Magic was intriguing to Cuthbert Thoreau. In all fairness, everything not having to do with Sunday service or braided ropes was intriguing to Cuthbert Thoreau. So no one could blame the boy for hanging on to every syllable spilled between strangers outside some nameless tavern in Clearbarrow. They didn't seem quite as drunk as other men he had noticed in passing. That was his excuse for the first flagon of red ale but the next three were purely situational. He needed the extra liter of guts to sit alone in some strange tavern. Taverns were for a different sort of man. The rugged sort. Unfortunately the barkeep didn't have enough liquor on hand to make Cuthbert appear rugged. The sensitive creature found his courage around five pints. Or maybe he was looking for an excuse against church on a leisurely Saturday evening.
In his quick onset of delirium, Cuthbert managed to grasp only a handful of magical concerns as they fluttered their way across the bar. It wasn't all waving wands and wizards like fantastical stories would have one believe. There was a practice called Alchemy that, in Cuthbert's drunken state, threatened to topple reality. Had he any wits about him at the time he would have called horse dung on the idea and gone home like a sensible boy but wits were out of the question on pint two. Then there was the sudden spin around to simple ideas. The power of will and the magic contained within. How silly that an idea as simple as 'I can do it' would resonate so strongly in someone so meek.
Thankfully it did.
Cuthbert unearthed the courage to stand up, wave his ale around clumsily and almost appear as if he belonged. His legs were growing attached at the knees as he carried himself helplessly across the dirt floor. The surprisingly poised men offered the eager boy an empty stool as if they'd known he would come. With a fumbling tongue and a pocket only half fat with coins, Cuthbert ordered a round for the 'wizards' and was swiftly welcomed into their world.
What faction wasn't eager to recruit these days?☸ Unfortunately, a barley headache had failed to keep Cadence Thoreau at bay.
Cuthbert had sat silently for the past two hours, nose tucked into his neatly folded hands, knuckles a stark white against the muddy wooden pews. At his side and nearly as faithful a sight as the map in his coat pocket sat a familiar Sunday sight - Sister Cadence. Unlike Cadence Thoreau, Sister Cadence was a popular woman. Cast as a proud widow and strong mother to three wayward sons, she was your traditional pious Matriarch. A torch in the darkness for a family of lost men. A white cross upon infertile land. That were a backwards compliment if Cuthbert had ever heard one. So, if Sister Cadence was a saint in sheep's clothing, what of the one boy she managed to save? He was simply an anchor. A fastener at best. Well, If his father was a ship, Cadence was surely a broach. Cuthbert was a fastener. The metaphors at hand seemed endless.
Crawling away from that silly, mocking place, Cuthbert returned his attention to the woe at hand. He was here at his mother's request - see demand - and had been for the past three months. No excuses. Not even a headache made worse by echoed hymns. His expression spit volumes. The Panymese Church was a dull sort of place but what it lacked in charm it made up for in warm, uncomfortable silences. There was nowhere to hide his discomfort. While others filled their palms with whispered prayers, Cuthbert had spent the last several minutes fighting the urge to vomit. The only thing worse than being caught rolling his eyes at the scripture was abandoning the last integral moments of prayer with a full sprint to the alley. Not that the lack of his voice would be noticed.
Cuthbert Thoreau hadn't uttered a prayer in two years.
Not even a false one.
Never mind that, though. The stark man in black robes was addressing his audience in a way so practiced, so eerily mechanical, that Cuthbert could nearly spot the steam rising from his engine. A single swift motion rang the final bell and those in attendance let out a musical "Amen~!" With group prayer dismissed the boy could finally drop his shoulders and slump his back. Cadence was far too busy to notice his lack of posturing. Off that flat wooden seat with uncharacteristic vigor, she joined the other marionettes in a game of curtsy and bow as the only one who seemed out of place continued his out of place shuffling. How strange that he felt more at home in a drunken moment among strangers with purpose than he did in the house of God.
Oh, how he had grown to loathe these Sundays.
Another visit to the tavern would suit him just fine.
Word Count: 842
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Posted: Fri Jul 05, 2013 11:23 am
F E L L O W S H I PxxM I S S I O N T H ExxM A G E S'xxP L I G H T
PART I OF III
Clearbarrow, Mishkan is far from a bustling hub where the Fellowship is concerned. The farm and port country is mostly called home by Imperial Guardsmen, though the two cities which stand out against the rolling hills and encapsulating forests which bear the mage's mark are Knotwood and Ironvale. Both are decidedly far from Mishkan's edge and Clearbarrow by association. The entire Southern and Western portion of Mishkan is quite bare of formidable Fellowship structures and political influence, which in the current political climate is something the Fellowship of Mages simply cannot afford. In effort to gain more ground, Knotwood and Ironvale both have sent out parties to the populated areas of Mishkan which have yet to be defined by a single faction. As it stands, only the ports are fair game.
It was in fact one of these parties which met Cuthbert Thoreau in the pub that night, taking some time to rest and make merry amid their search. The young man, so eager to join them in drink with good tidings and offer his ear, made quite the impression on the 'wizards' and they returned to the same pub some days later to enjoy a serendipitous meeting once more. This time, after quite a bit of ale was imbibed by all present, a story was told. The group of mages settling in Clearbarrow were actually envoys from Ironvale with a mission twofold; their task was to survey Clearbarrow and see if any areas were large enough or otherwise politically well suited for the addition of another Fellowship structure to broaden its scope across Mishkan. The unfortunate part of their tale was that these mages themselves were unfamiliar with Clearbarrow and had absolutely nowhere to start. They'd hardly made any headway by the first time they nestled in the pub. The more intoxicated they became, the more willing they were to elaborate on their problems.
When it came right down to it, the problem was that the map they were issued was quite outdated and, even then, replacements they found were not detailed enough for what they were hoping to accomplish. Though they are thus far unaware of Cuthbert's skill and training, perhaps this is the perfect opportunity to test himself. If his assistance makes a good enough impression, it could easily open doors for him in the Fellowship and those of this party would be sure to put a good word in for him back in Ironvale. ☸ It had taken days but the pain in Cuthbert's gut had finally subsided. An overwhelming anxiousness had claimed the void and it was clear by the young man's trembling hands that he was fairing no better sans nausea. Perhaps it was the promise of black rot and fire fresh on his mind. Perhaps not. After all, the troubles at hand were far more gratifying than an uncertain fate spilled from a morbid old priest. Returning to the tavern when he should have been busying himself with commissions and unfulfilled daydreams was a bold move. If Cadence had any idea what Cuthbert was becoming she would fasten him to his bed and claim him inept. Cuthbert spared himself no importance in these never-to-be interpretations of their relationship. He was mother's prince. The only apple in her basket without a brown, spongy core. To lose her last and most precious boy... it would surely break her. That was the essence of his anxiousness. The weight of his void.
...but what Cadence didn't know couldn't possibly break her.
Several more deep, quaking breaths and he finally found the courage to carry past the slatted door and into the pale, red light. Cuthbert regret his clarity immediately. Old, childless women in sagging stockings and colored frocks heaved their mighty breasts in the faces of slurring men with fat purses. Sun-freckled sailors from ports unknown spat offense and roared with laughter in their unusual dialects. Every movement seemed surreal and frightening. It was only mid-afternoon! Those bold enough to drink in the light of day were certainly a different sort of man. They weren't the rugged, formidable traders and business keeps you'd find after a night of profitable trade. This forgotten lot was thick with cut-throats, marauders, brigands... thieves. It was no surprise that a heavy hand on Cuthbert's shoulder would strip his face of color and send him cowering like a mouse before a cat. Only when he was certain that the sharp point of a knife wouldn't be entering his belly did the young man open his eyes to peek through his pale, protective hands.
"Barnabas -- you're still here." He shook with relief, unable to piece together a smile from what remained of his broken pride. He must have looked proper foolish. Already this Barnabas character was flashing a wide grin and gesturing to a small table in the corner.
"Quite a fright I gave you, boy." He managed through healthy laughter. Barnabas was the sort of person with appeal. He had been gifted ruddy cheeks, intelligent eyes and a brilliant smile from birth. If any of it were practiced, his charming nature wouldn't tell. Silver memories weaved through the black of his curling hair, adding an inexplicable sense of character. This man had lived a long and prosperous life. As he had explained between pints, The Fellowship was a hopeful faction and men like him were abundant within it.
"Have a seat beside Angus, then, and tell us what brings you back to a crudding place like this." Barnabas slapped the table with a firm hand as they approached, stirring the auburn haired occupant from a lazy daze.
Angus was... different. He didn't speak as much as his counterpart. This practical trait robbed him of some charisma but like Barnabas his eyes were clear and bright. He seemed trustworthy, the way he kept his hands open on the table and had listened intently to Cuthbert's every word, no matter how drunk and unnecessary. It wasn't in his way to interrupt or make fun.
Cuthbert had been taken with them at once.
With his heart stilled and a seat to rest his chattering legs, the young man found his smile. A lithe, round-faced girl delivered a fresh round to the table. The ruckus around him had been forgotten. It was just the three of them now. Upon further inspection, it was the three of them and a table thick with single-line maps and exhausted quills. Thin books with gold-leaf names and unusual symbols had been dog eared and cast aside. Clearly they had been no help in whatever the pair were failing to illustrate. Shying away from the question at hand, Cuthbert laid a practiced hand upon the nearest parchment's surface. While the night had been filled with exhilarating tales and unusual practices, this day would be his. In all his drunken folly the boy had forgotten to mention his only point of pride.
"You're making a map?" His easy tone was surprising to the duo. In their short time together they had come to realize that Cuthbert was timid and strange. Watching him thumb through pristine and wholly inaccurate pages with a firm smirk on his face intrigued them.
"I'm afraid our current map is a worthless relic and we're fairing no better. Map making is awful work for boring old men, don't you think?" Replied Barnabas, his calloused hand reaching for a hard swig of ale. It was clear by his frustration that map-making wasn't his strong suite.
"Honestly." Replied Cuthbert. With that blunt and terribly unflattering opinion on the table, the youngest of the three did something no one in their circle would have expected. He took a long drink of his chilled ale, made a sour face and cleared his throat. For boasting, of course. "Have you ever wondered how an inch on a map could equate perfectly to 50 miles on foot?"
The Mages sat in quiet contemplation, mugs pressed firmly to their lips.
"I'm sure you've seen the world in your travels. Mountains, valleys, desserts and endless, tangled forests. You would think, with a solid memory and a blank sheet of paper, anyone could look back on their travels and pen a map. Do you know why you've failed in your recreations? Even with all of these books and guides at your disposal? You don't speak the language." Cuthbert paused a moment to survey the lack of interest painted across Barnabas' face. If it weren't for the persistent glitter in Angus' eyes the boy might have laughed himself off nervously and returned to his pint.
"Math." Cuthbert breathed.
"We're quite familiar with Math, young man. If it were as simple as Math I'd have a map to hell by now." Barnabas slouched in his seat, chuckling to himself.
"This isn't simply Math. It's Math as Literature. It's all tangled up in such a precise and perfect manner. Cartography is a language of itself." Cuthbert mused. This was less of a lesson in the nature of map-making and more of a song. Angus was outwardly pleased. He leaned in close now, proving himself the more musical of the two. Cuthbert played on his interest, his sense of pride swiftly returning. "The difference between a trader and a cartographer is the difference in the angle of the sun between the Church across town and the old forked road between Clearbarrow and Windcoast. It's a slight variant in direction from South to South-East on a sea without landmarks. I have both the library and the map collection to prove it."
The curious pair exchanged hopeful looks. Although they seemed pleased with Cuthbert's passion and experience, there was a lingering discomfort. A secrecy.
"You'd make a proper good salesman, boy." Angus crowed in his unusual accent, raising his hand as the bar maid passed. That would be three more ales for the table.
"The king thought so, too."
Now that caught Barnabas' interest.
Around the corner came the busty bar maid with their second round. Cuthbert watched with childish curiosity as the two men across from him returned to their silent exchange. He busied himself with another long drink, barely flinching as the golden hops soothed him.
The magic was working.
Word Count: 1330
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Posted: Mon Aug 04, 2014 10:57 am
F E L L O W S H I PxxM I S S I O N T H ExxM A G E S'xxP L I G H T
PART II OF III
Cuthbert brought his shaking quill-hand down upon a sticky, soiled bit of parchment. Eyes half-shut, whether from ale or concentration, held their concentration desperately to that square sail. Business made his eyes sharper, clearer, less likely to snap shut despite the four empty goblets scattered about the impromptu desk. He was a wavering pillar of focus, or so the drunken image of himself would lead him to believe. If he'd been seated outside himself, snug between the Mages across the table, he would have seen nothing more than a quaking boy, nose so close to his paper it was turning up at the end. The subtlety of his craft was lost in his boisterous surroundings, yet the eyes of those men remained firmly upon him. Their scrutiny was palpable. He swallowed back his dry tongue and drew a long, straight hair upon the parchment's face, running West to East. He paused, parched tongue poking between his lily white lips.
Perfect.
Dabbing his quill once again in a well-used pot of coal colored ink, Cuthbert shook his wrists, sending a smattering of black ink across his guests. They shared a chuckle but were quick to hide their expressions behind cups. Angus rubbed a spot of ink into the fabric of his robe, sighing gently. His mouth had curved down to match his sagging brows. Barnabas, on the other hand, peered intensely through the fog, lips pursed into an anxious pout. He swirled the warm beer in his cup. If he hadn't been so sure of the boy, he'd have been several cups deeper by now. He clung to his clarity, hopeful.
Cuthbert etched a fine border for his example. His hand scratched fine, precise lines upon the paper, mere eyelashes at a time. To watch him work was magic in itself. His fingers moved as if possessed, quick and confident upon the page. In several minutes, the task was done. It was not ornate, nor was it particularly clear, but when the men at Cuthbert's side leaned in to view the map, something grew between the three of them. On that simple chicken-scratch map, a challenge had been met - and now...
"Your volley." Bert hicced, pressed his fingertips onto the paper before clumsily turning it toward his companions. Pushing it across that soggy tabletop took longer than it did to draw the damned thing. Angus peered lazily over the map's face, showing a little tooth as his eyes fell on a familiar point.
"The three trees..." He plopped a calloused finger upon three upright triangles toward the Northern edge of the map. "Just off the road into town... which means, if you've done your research -"
" - And I have." Chimed Bert, tucking a mass of supplies back into his satchel, pausing once he realized he hadn't corked the ink.
" - then this very tavern is - "
"Here." Barnabus ran his finger from the triplets down a quickly-scrawled set of lines - a road - hooked a sharp right. He hovered over the little square as if touching the paper might cave in the roof above them. "How many miles is that, boy?"
"T -- two. Give or take." Bert slurred, letting his chin fall onto a wet, black palm with a sick plop. He winced at the sensation but didn't correct his posture. Instead, he added his own hand to the probing exploration of the map, laying it lengthwise so the distance from the tip to the first joint fell between two very discreet cross-hatches on the road. "Those lines... those are quatter miles."
"Quarter miles." Hummed Angus, inching along the map, face like stone. He turned to Barnabus once again. He looked smug.
"Well, boy, give us a day or two to check your work." He coughed, folding the paper into a wrinkled tube and shoving it unceremoniously into his waistband. "We'll want a proper one... if it's worth a damn."
Cuthbert smiled up at the pair as they pushed themselves from the table, shaking out their robes. In his state, he mistook his blurring vision for some great aura. He offered the men a curt bow, nearly toppling forehead-first into the table. Barnabus was a good man. A few coppers pressed into the hand of the tavern keep ensured the boy a bed for the night. ☸ Barnabus stepped into the night, patting his arms gruffly for warmth. The streets were quiet, save for the clashing of mugs behind him and the gentle laughter of ladies in their red-lit windows. Angus followed, tucking his hands beneath his arms.
"It's a fine map." Angus wheezed, sucking his teeth against the cold. "Said he worked for the King. You don't think...?"
Barnabus pulled the dented paper from his hip, rolling it gently in his palms. Travelling men were no strangers to rumors, especially rumors of a more... sinister nature. That Clearbarrow boy sailed beneath the King. The sickly pale in his skin and the damage in his tongue. The smell - faint, but unmistakable. He held the map like a prayer candle, tip just beneath his quivering nose.
"No matter. We've got all we need."
Word Count: 852
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