Thread Closed
Location: A tired old house in Gridania
The old man stood, hunched over and leaning on his cane with both hands. His weight pressed down, as he gripped the top with white knuckles; the thin point of the cane left a small dent in the soft wood floor, a dent that had slowly grown over the past few cycles. The chest was a fine oak, polished to a shine, bound with steel and latched shut with an iron lock.
The old man knelt, groaning as he sank to his knees. He pulled the key from a small pocket, and fitted it into the lock. Rust flaked off as the key turned and the lock came unlatched, the lid of the chest popping up just slightly. The hinges creaked, the old man slipped his fingers under the lid and lifted, revealing folders and papers all gathered in a barely organized pile. A shaky old hand picked up the top folder, the papers rustling. He placed it in his lap, and began to read.
The sun slowly crept along the sky, and the papers slowly piled up on the floor around the old man. Eventually, he reached the bottom of the chest. Eventually, he reached the first thing he had placed in the chest. Wrapped in soft cloth, a small wooden mask.
Timeworn fingers unwrapped timeworn wood. It was a simple thing, smooth carved ash blessed by the seedseers with prayers of protection. There was a time, long ago, that he had felt naked without it. When his son took up the mantle was the proudest day of his life.
And now his son was dead, and it was his fault.
Arden closed his eyes, fighting back the tears, and gripped the edges of the mask. To excise a greater evil, small evils sometimes had to be done. Through this mask he had seen a great many evils in his life, and performed many of his own. Poachers, bleeding out in the wilderness. Hungry children, begging for refuge that the Fane had denied them. A terrified woman, arrested for crimes she did not commit and sentenced to life in Toto-rak.
Jainelette.
An herbalist and conjurer. A healer, a midwife. She was accused of causing the death of over twenty children with her alchemical research. It was never clear what her research was, but blinded by rage at the sight of those children Arden hadn’t cared. She had fled into the Shroud, and he had led his unit into the depths to find her
Eight men, armed to the teeth.
One woman, weeping and helpless.
That was the moment he started to question. She didn’t fight when the Wailers came for her. For a woman accused of such heinous crimes Arden had expected to watch several of his comrades die in the effort to restrain her. It had happened so many times before when dealing with unnatural magics, but she had simply given up in tears. That was the moment he started to question the evidence, and to look for his own.
He spent years investigating in his spare time. Her medicine had been tainted. The children had been infected with a disease, and her efforts to cure them had been purposefully sabotaged. By the time he had discovered this, the incident at Toto-rak had occurred, and she was presumed dead. All of his work was for nothing, and he pushed it aside. It wasn’t his fault. He had only done his job, apprehending a criminal for Gridania. The courts had failed her.
That’s what he’d told himself, anyway.
If what those adventurers had said was true, though, it meant she was still alive. Twisted by decades trapped in the void, but alive. The thought made his stomach turn and strained credibility. The void was anathema to life, it could not sustain a living being, but recent events suggested otherwise. If what those adventurers had said was true, Jainelette was the one that killed his son, to avenge her wrongful imprisonment.
Arden was left with two options. He could stay at home and mourn his son, and wither away slowly, or he could stand up tall and strive for justice. He was an old man, but his armor still fit and his spear made an excellent replacement for the tired old cane.
The old man stood, hunched over and leaning on his cane with both hands. His weight pressed down, as he gripped the top with white knuckles; the thin point of the cane left a small dent in the soft wood floor, a dent that had slowly grown over the past few cycles. The chest was a fine oak, polished to a shine, bound with steel and latched shut with an iron lock.
The old man knelt, groaning as he sank to his knees. He pulled the key from a small pocket, and fitted it into the lock. Rust flaked off as the key turned and the lock came unlatched, the lid of the chest popping up just slightly. The hinges creaked, the old man slipped his fingers under the lid and lifted, revealing folders and papers all gathered in a barely organized pile. A shaky old hand picked up the top folder, the papers rustling. He placed it in his lap, and began to read.
The sun slowly crept along the sky, and the papers slowly piled up on the floor around the old man. Eventually, he reached the bottom of the chest. Eventually, he reached the first thing he had placed in the chest. Wrapped in soft cloth, a small wooden mask.
Timeworn fingers unwrapped timeworn wood. It was a simple thing, smooth carved ash blessed by the seedseers with prayers of protection. There was a time, long ago, that he had felt naked without it. When his son took up the mantle was the proudest day of his life.
And now his son was dead, and it was his fault.
Arden closed his eyes, fighting back the tears, and gripped the edges of the mask. To excise a greater evil, small evils sometimes had to be done. Through this mask he had seen a great many evils in his life, and performed many of his own. Poachers, bleeding out in the wilderness. Hungry children, begging for refuge that the Fane had denied them. A terrified woman, arrested for crimes she did not commit and sentenced to life in Toto-rak.
Jainelette.
An herbalist and conjurer. A healer, a midwife. She was accused of causing the death of over twenty children with her alchemical research. It was never clear what her research was, but blinded by rage at the sight of those children Arden hadn’t cared. She had fled into the Shroud, and he had led his unit into the depths to find her
Eight men, armed to the teeth.
One woman, weeping and helpless.
That was the moment he started to question. She didn’t fight when the Wailers came for her. For a woman accused of such heinous crimes Arden had expected to watch several of his comrades die in the effort to restrain her. It had happened so many times before when dealing with unnatural magics, but she had simply given up in tears. That was the moment he started to question the evidence, and to look for his own.
He spent years investigating in his spare time. Her medicine had been tainted. The children had been infected with a disease, and her efforts to cure them had been purposefully sabotaged. By the time he had discovered this, the incident at Toto-rak had occurred, and she was presumed dead. All of his work was for nothing, and he pushed it aside. It wasn’t his fault. He had only done his job, apprehending a criminal for Gridania. The courts had failed her.
That’s what he’d told himself, anyway.
If what those adventurers had said was true, though, it meant she was still alive. Twisted by decades trapped in the void, but alive. The thought made his stomach turn and strained credibility. The void was anathema to life, it could not sustain a living being, but recent events suggested otherwise. If what those adventurers had said was true, Jainelette was the one that killed his son, to avenge her wrongful imprisonment.
Arden was left with two options. He could stay at home and mourn his son, and wither away slowly, or he could stand up tall and strive for justice. He was an old man, but his armor still fit and his spear made an excellent replacement for the tired old cane.