Darkside of the Moon [Wrenmae]

[Weylin Quickshot]

92nd Winter 512,
East of Zeltiva, "Where the water meets the shore"- An ungodly hour- 3rd Bell

Weylin had walked for an age now, covered in blood, not only her blood but the blood of another. Her mind was vacant, unthinking, unmoving. Her eyes stared on ahead, void and vacant, no signs of warmth or light existing within them. She knew not where she walked; she knew not how she looked, bathed in the blood of her and her lover. Tears ran down her face, her lips trembling but no words emerging. Thoughts flashed before her eyes, memories of light hearted times. Times that had been now ripped from her, that slipped through her fingers as her mind wandered from the path.

She could no longer walk forward, her mind ceased to work, no care, no emotion. The Drykas wanted to simply disappear, to be dragged down to the floor, as despair took a tight hold on her. She felt the hold on her emotions break, the grief rushing out. No longer was she in control, no longer was she able to grasp onto reality. She had broken down into pieces, her heart having grown hollow. But this hollow looking woman kept walking, everything now was locked away. Whatever form of sanity was left in the mind of Weylin Quickshot, nothing now made sense- for the door on her heart had now been locked shut. An attempt to seal away the pain. If she screamed or shouted, no one seemed to hear, whatever words were spoken were now alien and unable for her to understand.

All that she felt, all that she saw it had been ripped away, a dark expanse before her. All that she loved, she could not be saved and in her greatest hour of need her prayers remained unanswered. Her words had fallen upon hollow ears. All that she tried to create had now been cast aside in the wind, destroyed, a curse that she would have to carry. Whatever she touched, whatever she grown close to would soon be lost, to lie dead in her hands with her again carrying the guilt of being a survivor. For the light of Weylin Quickshot, Son of the Wolf had finally been eclipsed by the darkness of the moon.

A shard of her mind came forth. She remembered his hollow words so clearly, a challenge to her, to rip herself away from the dead, unless she fancied another life to be taken. It struck to her very core, those words that made her tremble, her mind spin, the fire of rage build up from the deep. Those deep drowning words, made her blood boil. She would not let this murderer take another. It was her only focus, it was her only thought, to stop the bloodshed, to stop the pain, to stop him. Her footsteps lurched forward, her breathing becoming quick, the adrenal pumping she had to move, she had to move now. The Drykas ran, a fury and passion so deep that it was the only thing to animate her.

This mad wolf ran; she made herself run. She forced her open wounds; her pained bruises run on, ignoring the screams in her head. Her focus was clear, she would meet this man. She cared not any more for her life, she cared not what torture he would commit upon her, what spite or pains would come, if it stopped the taking of another life then she would be at peace. For enough was now enough, and Weylin could not bring herself to live another moment like this. She knew not where she was going, but instinct drew her forth. She dragged her aching body on, gasping at the air. Her mind however remained a blur; the memory of how she got to her destination was shattered and broken. At some point she had obviously returned to her tent, to gather her cloak, to gather her bow, and to gather Averti.

Here the Drykas found where the water meet the shore, the looming cliffs wrapped in the moonlight.The quiet rumble from the ocean echoed out, the sound of the waves breaking on the rocks, with the quiet crunch of the sand beneath hooves. The Strider snorted, his hoof pawing against the sand, knowing it to be a familiar location, but this time, even the stallion knew it was not for simple ridding and freedom- it was a darker reason.

And so the Drykas sat, upon her stallion, her torn body covered by her cloak, the hood covering her face. Beneath it the eyes of a monster glinted out, a look that was beyond that of human. Her bow and notched, the arrow head peeking out from beneath the folds. The wolf was hunting, and none would escape her now.

[Wrenmae]

What are you becoming?

Plague, Zan. I have become the very instrument of Vayt himself.

Do we remember not liking Vayt? It wasn't too long ago...

Things change, Zan, I've come into my own.

You've gone mad.

Madness? I was mad once, only once. I am reborn in belief now.

I'm worried for you.

Worry not. Mine is the path that will take me to the heights of purpose. All of Mizahar will be reborn!

But who will reforge you?

I need no reforging.

You're wrong. You're sick, you don't even realize it but you're sick. Damnit Wren, do you plan to kill her?

Test her.

She's not much older than YOU are! You JUST killed that...artist...paint...person...V...something, I swear it's coming to me.

Valo

Valo, right...that guy. Why'd you have to kill him?

He disobeyed.

So if I go left when you say right it's skewer time for Zan?

Don't test me.

Or you'll what, yell at me some more? Shut me in a box? Lecture me? Put me in time-out? Face it boyo, you're stuck with me.

Something you're always so fit to remind me.

Wren. Please, listen. It's enough...you've done enough. You're acting like Shroud, you're acting like a monster...don't lose that bit of you that's so important. Don't lose your humanity.

Lectured on humanity from a puddle, how amusing.

What's amusing, I think, is that a 'puddle' values human life more than you.

We walk this path together.

But we also walk alone. Listen to me. Please. Just-

I'm through talking, Zan. She's coming.

How can you tell?

Horses do not make silent approaches.

Don't do it.

Don't interfere.


Stepping out of cliff overhang, Wrenmae cut a black figure atop the sands. The steelcloth cloak was wrapped around him, the hood over his head. He approached the horse, stopping yards away and held out a hand. She couldn't see it, but pale green res collected in his palm, preparing. He stared down the bow without moving.

And only the waves seemed to speak. Lulls and crashes, the language of heartbeats and rage.

The language of loss.

"I'm glad you've come," he called out to her, "No one in Zeltiva will die by my hand tonight."

He paused, considering his words, "Inside the city proper, that is." His gaze was cold as he looked across the distance between them. At the sound of an arrow he'd immediately buffer with a blast of wind. On her horse she wouldn't defeat him, not like this.

Or at least, he was confident she wouldn't.

"Of Wolf, you called yourself," he called to her, remembering the words spoken not bells before, "Does that make you a hunter? Poor wolf, that which lives without a pack."

A hand dropped inside his cloak, tapping a beat on the pommel of his long dagger.

"What do you say, Weylin, Daughter of Wolf? Will you dismount and face me, or will you bring your steed into the same danger you've walked into willingly?"

[Weylin Quickshot]

Words for the most part meant little to the Drykas now. All stimuli to respond, to shed a single emotion was out of her control. Or more over, was wiped from her. What ever did animate her was no doubt the last desperate clings of her very ego before it too was swallowed by the void. Nothing after all really mattered any more. As long as the suffering was stopped in one form or another, nothing mattered, for indeed the lone wolf indeed, without a pack wolves crumbled, they became savage beasts. But the words simply ran over her, much like the waves ran across the shore. Being alone after all, seemed to become a fitting place for Weylin. To keep a distance from others may of first seemed painful, but after a while it was for the better, it prevented repeats of similar tortures.

To the Drykas, their horses were precious beings, to bond with and to exist with. They were blood, and to cause harm would no doubt hurt the Drykas more in the long run. She remained silent, unmoving, her arrow remaining notched in place. Instead it was Averti who answered for her. In the greatest hour of need, where there is no Gods to call upon, there is no Kings to shout out at, there was only men. So it was up to the strong will of the stallion brought forth the call. He ripped out a cry, rearing up, nostrils flaring the call of battle resting within his stride. He would act for her, he would think for her, for his dear rider could not.

Averti wheeled round, his hooves striking against the floor, the sand ripping up. If it was battle the man wanted, then it was battle he would get. At first his hooves moved in a slow simple rhythm, circling round the man, keeping a distance, low snorts erupting from within. The pace quickened, the old rhythm broke to be replaced with a new one. But the wolf did no utter out a cry. There was no will for fighting, there was no will to try, yet the wolf once more raised her bow cleanly from her folds. The hunt had begun after all.

She could not think, she could barely grip onto her bow with her hands. Her arms trembled, struggling to obey even the simplest of movement. Yet what was it that called out to her in the depths of her mind, the simple ringing of words, the last of her broken sanity reaching out? It mattered not any more. It would all be over soon, and the wolf would embrace it. Averti's pace became faster too, a blur of movement that circle round the man, the murderer. She could feel his passion building up, not for war, not for fighting but that deep confirmation that she would not be alone, and that he stood with her.

And then, the stallion turned sharply and charged. The roar of thundering hooves sounded out, masking the sounds of the ocean, as the Drykas' back straighten as all reality vanished. Live as one. Die as one. Those were the words that escaped, before she did indeed finally disappear. She had so many opportunities to fire, to release hell upon him. There was no sound of an arrow flying, even if it did or did not fly, it was easily masked by the sound of hooves. Averti wheeled round again, his threat had been made, but his rider remained in the saddle, her head sunk, her grip weak.

She slipped off Averti's back, no words being spoken as she pulled away, his cries of anger and distress to her being deaf to her ears. She isolated herself, cutting off the last of her ties. It was time to face him, and face him alone. It was inevitable fact that at one point the road of life must be taken, for it mattered not how one travelled across it, for the road of life always called forth. Even through all the smiles and pains, one must start, because it was her beginning, and her final march.

[Wrenmae]

mod note :

I was given permission to mod Weylin into the grave

The shriek of the horse pulled Wrenmae from his interior dialogue with Zan. She slid from the back of the horse quietly, so small and thin against the harsher night around her. There was a kind of wild beauty in her sorrow, clutching at her tear stricken face, the bone-pale of death already descended on her features. Here was the face of someone who had lost too much too quickly, the dagger of short life wielded above the eyes of a youth who could not understand…but must be understood.

She languidly pulled the bow up, tensing the arrow.

“Why?” she asked him, but her voice was devoid of curiosity, It was a dead thing washed up on shores of tears from a hollow sea. It was a question and yet she did not care if he answered. His death would mean nothing for her ailing heart…brief justice, brief peace, but in the face of that sort of shadow, that sort of loss…there was nothing to live for beyond it.

She had not come to save a life. She had come to die.

“He did not listen,” Wrenmae spoke, removing the hood from around his face, “And so he did not live.”
For a moment there was a brief flicker of recognition, the horrifying revelation he had not remorphed Hound’s face before confronting her. She might have said something, recognizing the Waveguard, but instead a cold finality settled around her eyes, and stone crawled into her jutting chin.

She let loose the arrow at his chest.

At that range, the blow knocked the wizard from his feet. The steelcloth cloak prevented the attack from penetrating, but the blow hurled him to the sand. Weylin did not bother to load another arrow, her fingers curled, her face took on the rigid hatred of a monster and she descended on the mage in a flurry of screams and snarls. She was Weylin no longer, not the girl who had befriended Valo, not the woman who had bedded him. She was of Wolf, she was one with the wild open plains of Cyphrus, running beside her Strider. She could feel the life-beat of the ground beneath her, the thrum-thrum surge of the waves. The sky tasted salty, sea and blood, and she followed those scents, that feeling rising in her breast.

Her fingers met resistance in the cloth, resistance she did not expect. But Daughter of Wolf was resourceful, she sought the flesh beneath the clothes, the blood beneath the skin. Wrenmae almost let her, almost consigned himself to her wrath. The murder of Valo had been a snap decision, not one he held in the forefront of his mind. He did not know the painter well, but he had no reason to doubt his character. The man had died, there, in the alley and somehow out of all the murders the mage had committed, Valo’s floated in his consciousness.

And so when her fingers found his face, sought his eyes, there was a moment of pressure before he moved, hands swift to his side and drawing out both long daggers, slamming their pommels against her body, shaking her ribs and launching the creature off of him. She roiled, snarled, and Wrenmae cast out at her with the silver-bright of a dagger. The mark on his neck tingled, noting the charge of betrayal in the air. Here was a student he had taught to fight, she had trusted him…to the extent she trusted anyone, on that night with the others.

In return, he had taken her life.

She came back at him, screeching, and Wrenmae stepped back and around her, bringing the pommel of his blade against her temple, disorienting her and sweeping her feet out from under her. Her knees kissed the sand and her hands followed to steady herself. She was outclassed, she knew it. Somewhere, her horse screamed her name…their name.

She remembered the wide, wide Cyphrus plains, the feel of the wind through her hair as she rode atop her strider.

She remembered Valo’s hair, his eyes, those clashing colors of emerald and red in the secret dark places they had been entwined together.

Wrenmae did not give her a chance to rise. She had seen his face, she wanted him dead, and she would only ruin him now. His blades splayed out to either side of her head. The Drykas girl did not move, lost in memories as rage subsided into sorrow, into acceptance, into the heart yearning ache for the arms of the man who had understood her, found her in this faraway place.

“Valo,” She whispered, “I’m coming.”

[color=#00FFFF]NO! Zan snarled, rippling out of the hypnotist, but he was too late, and the blades cut across her throat, opening up her red hot rage, her sorrow to the sands and sea below.

Zan was human in an instant, and slammed his fist into Wrenmae’s face, sending the hypnotist sprawling. But the familiar was not finished. He turned Wren onto his back, staring down into those dead, cold brown eyes. He punched him. Again. Again. His own body rocking with the shares pain.

Wrenmae did not fight him, only closed his eyes…did not move until the familiar reeled from his own pain, brought his fist down again…and Wrenmae caught it.

“Why?” Zan asked, rage and sorrow like clouds of conflicting weathers on his face, “Why couldn’t she live? You promised!”

“I promised none would die within the city,” Wrenmae said flatly, pushing the fist away from him, standing over Zan, “Her horse may live, if that makes you feel any better.”

Zan did not move as Wrenmae pulled the items from the body, leaving her ruined clothes and taking the rest. He moved with a methodical numbness, as if the weight of his sins had not yet settled on his thing shoulders. When he had finished, Zan had still not risen. Wrenmae walked past him toward the cliffs and the city beyond.

He paused only to look back at Zan…and only for a moment.

“You are too soft.” He said, and the finality of that statement hit the familiar like an anchor. “Dispose of the body.”

And he left Zan with the dead Weylin…alone amid the sea and the wind.

[/color]

[Paragon]

Wrenmae

Experience

Skill	XP Earned
Familiary	1
Intimidation	1
Daggers	1

Lores

•	Lore Earned
•	Bringer of Death
•	Murdering Weylin
•	Against Zan's Conscience

Other: Take the items as you wish, Weylin barely had any money so we'll leave the ledger be.


Legend Becomes Reality

Wow... goodbye Weylin I guess - Wrenmae's on a real dark path right now, but great thread! If you have any questions or concerns regarding your grade, please send me a PM and we can work from there.