Closed From Childhood's Hour (Marina Agamand)

The clock is rewound as an unlikely reunion occurs.

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Center of scholarly knowledge and shipwrighting, Zeltiva is a port city unlike any other in Mizahar. [Lore]

From Childhood's Hour (Marina Agamand)

Postby Kellerman on April 26th, 2014, 12:05 am

Kellerman


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86 Spring, 514 A.V.

The brand new moon left the Syliran night pitch black. Whatever little light there could have been was showered out by the heavy rain. Visibility was practically zero, but that didn't matter, because Kellerman needed only to follow the shoreline, which he could hear. The crashing waves were especially loud with today's shrilling winds and the relentless downpour. Zeltiva, his hometown and destination, was nigh, and the flashing memories of his childhood would have filled him with shudders if he were alive.
Completely unmaterialized, Kellerman flew through the air, the drops of water still spherical as they shot to the ground from their anvil clouds. He stopped blinking as soon as he recognized the landscape, which was barely visible; he began flying close to the ground to get the most out of his visit home. Whenever he spotted poor wet travelers, he increased altitude so as to attract as little attention as possible. Kellerman only wanted to be seen materialized. The only people that have seen him unmaterialized are some of his victims, which are already dead.
Kellerman's sentimental visit to Zeltiva would last anywhere from a night to the rest of his "life"; he hadn't decided yet. Traveling on ground level reminded him of his time as a human, although his last couple of years were very hazy and he didn't remember several key details about his life. Most notably, and shamefully, he had forgotten his given name, accepting his prison nickname "Kellerman."
Kellerman longed to be a living human again, but how else could he do his job forever?

In no time, the docks were in view. Matthews was in high tide, the sound of its spray working in rhythm against the slippery docks. The ghost slowed down as he entered Zeltiva, moving slowly and swinging his legs like a person. He didn't materialize, since he wasn't around any people yet, and he didn't want to waste his energy. He hugged the walls and took the alleyways, avoiding the main streets.
Long ago, Kellerman was ashamed of escaping the city's prison, and this feeling fueled his terrible more-than-weekly habit. The ghost kept to the dark streets now not because he was afraid of being seen, but because he knew that "miscreants" lurked there... and he was after them. After half a bell of winding around the city in the longest route, Kellerman found his prey.
An old, pale human-looking creature with tattered clothes was sitting on the ground with purses and sacks of gold. He must have been out of his mind to be outside in this weather. Perhaps he had nowhere else to go.
The hoodlum was dumping the mizas and trashing the purses; at least a dozen purses lay next to him. He had most likely picked them all in just one day, making him an experienced thief.
That man had now received a death sentence from Judge Kellerman. Kellerman looked left and right and listened for footsteps. Guards were never good news in times likes these. Hearing nothing, he proceeded.
Stealthily, the unmaterialized ghost floated up and slid down behind the pickpocket, whose back was tight against the wall of one of the buildings in the alley.
Kellerman stood there for a moment, his whole body in the building save for his face. The rain pittered and pattered on the top of the thief's head, which was only inches away from Kellerman's own face. The ghost could see the vagrant's wide grin from behind, as his cheeks were sticking back, and the corners of his eyes creased.
Kellerman slowly stuck his hands out and brought them around the thief's neck, only a hair away from his skin. Focusing his soulmist projection, Kellerman tightly clasped his frigid hands, choking the life out of the man while simultaneously freezing his neck. The combined effect was lethal in seconds. He fell limp, the blood in his neck frozen, his nerves dead, his trachea torn, and his spine fractured. The man's brain was dead.
Kellerman floated out from the wall and turned around, admiring his fresh kill. Across his nearly one hundred years, he had murdered at least six thousand men, almost no women, and maybe a child or two; at least one a week.
But there were always more to extinguish from Mizahar, and even if he killed every criminal, no matter how small their action, more would take their place in a minute. But his efforts certainly did help.
Kellerman usually only killed his victims when they were alone. He rarely haunted them beforehand because it made them much harder to kill. It was all about surprise. The fun effect was watching their brain try to receive adrenaline from their adrenal glands while the neck was frozen through. Their necks would bulge below the point of depression with muscle, blood, and every possible fluid and contraction. Then they turned blue and relaxed. It was as if they were finally apologizing for their evil ways and coming to terms with their deaths. They were mad.
Kellerman occasionally set his eyes on a major criminal. On them, he sometimes was more creative, sticking his fingers in their eyes and that sort of cruel murder. But that was only for those that deserved it: killers, torturers, rapists. Mass murderers were rare; most of the homicidal criminals that Kellerman killed, although there were not many, had only one count, and were not repeat offenders.
The ghost continued on his way now, satisfied that he had rid the city of this thief. Surely, the citizens will be thankful as soon as they find his body. After all, a speedy execution is justified for any and every crime, whether the beliéved suspect is convicted or not. He walked out into the streets and began looking about at the actual city, moving away from the alleyways. He materialized at the first sight of a person and moved his legs. The ghost's competent skill in the near pitch darkness left him safe. But the passerby was still noticeably uneasy, perhaps from the bleached white clothes worn by Kellerman, which stood out. He doubted that the stranger knew about psych ward, because by now it was historical. But Kellerman felt that he didn't belong in the psych ward when he was alive. I am innocent. Why would they say that I am mad, if I did no thing wrong? Kellerman was convinced that he was the victim. [/i]Now, in any case, I am a saint[/i]. He faded away again when he passed the stranger. Kellerman was becoming increasingly more convincing with his materialization and feeling less fatigued from each time.
Few people were out during a midnight rainstorm. Kellerman smiled, feeling relaxed in his hometown, even though right now it was dark, wet, and empty. He was given family and born in this city, and he lost his family and died in this city, as well. He felt neither contempt nor love for Zeltiva. But he loved its culture; its high class and its devotion to education. On top of that, the shipyards and docks were beautiful. The whole city smelled of the sea, and the chilly winds created a serene atmosphere. Unfortunately, the ghost couldn't smell or feel any of these things.
A century ago, Kellerman knew everything about Zeltiva. Now, his knowledge was almost useless when it came to navigation and the new fads, styles of speech, and all quickly changing things. The significant landmarks still stood where he remembered them and the landscape was unchanged, obviously. Many familiar buildings were still standing, either because they were durable or they were restored.
Kellerman searched desperately for the prison. He wanted to face his old fear. The wretched place no longer gave him the shivers, but that was probably because he was a ghost now... and mostly insane. He finally came upon it after two bells of searching the city and his own memory. The prison itself was hidden in Zeltiva, and back in the day, few people knew about it or mentioned it except the prisoners themselves and some law officials. By now, its count of people that acknowledged it as a location must be close to none.
The prison had not been restored since his time, so it lost its shine and blended into the rest of the city. It looked run down, cracked up, and dirty. He floated through the entrance and explored the inside, peering at the dark, stone walls and the barred doors all around. This place, he knew by heart.
Kellerman immediately headed for the psychiatric ward. He passed by the halls and rooms of cracked stone, careful not to awake any sleeping prisoners or guards. But when he approached the entrance of the psychiatric care wing, he found a wall of stone blocks. At first, Kellerman thought he had taken a wrong turn. Upon closer examination, he saw that the stone was newer, almost a century old, while the prison was much older. He went through the wall and startled himself. The entire psych ward was torn out of the building. Kellerman was midair. Below him were some small residential establishments. The wing must have been demolished soon after he died. Perhaps his suicide contributed to the closing of the place.
Kellerman left the prison not knowing how to feel about his discovery: happy that the mentally impaired were no longer subject to the tortures of the prison's "treatment," or horrified to imagine what happens to them now; whether they are killed, or brought to the prison's general population to share cells with the "normal."
He continued touring the city until he came upon a spot that was void of light and people. The sudden darkness reminded the ghost of death. He thought about the noble girl that lived next door to him. Kellerman, at the bottom of Zeltivan society, never dared to speak to her. Now, as an old man of sort, he looked back and realized he should have given her a shot before she died. She could have been elsewhere at that exact time if he had talked to her earlier, perhaps affecting her schedule in the future. He sat down on the ground, submerged in complete darkness. He didn't bother going back to his home, because the shanty hut was obviously no longer there.
Kellerman didn't know where he was exactly, but he was wedged in between two buildings, with barely ten feet of space. The only sound was the roaring rain and the only sight was darkness. It was odd that in such a city there could be so much quiet in some spots, even if it was late and it was raining.
He sat and stared into the blackness. He couldn't tell whether his eyes were open or closed, or looking left or right, or up or down. The ghost didn't feel frustrated at this; on the contrary, he felt relaxed, having no reason or ability to look at anything in particular or anything at all.
Last edited by Kellerman on April 28th, 2014, 8:10 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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From Childhood's Hour (Marina Agamand)

Postby Marina Agamand on April 28th, 2014, 7:09 pm

The port of Zeltiva was an unpleasant place to visit during a stormy night. The waves smashed against the docks, sending torrents of water far onto the shore. The black, towering silhouettes of the ships swayed and creaked threateningly, as if poised to leap out of the water and crush any fool who dared visit the docks at this hour.

At the fringe of the docks, on a single empty pier, was a lone ghost. The faded and flickering image of an elaborately dressed little girl would be difficult to discern in the rain, even if someone came to look. It hovered, unmoving, just about the woodwork, staring out into the darkness of the ocean blankly. What was there to see? The light of the dim lanterns at the docks reached a few meters out, but beyond that, it was pitch black. The ray of the distant lighthouse didn't reveal anything meaningful as it swept across the waves a fair distance out. But despite all that, the spectre stood still and watched. The threatening atmosphere of the storm-whipped shore didn't phase her. It was very familiar, after all. The stonework would not give way before the torrents of water. The ships would not go anywhere, as they were firmly moored to said stonework. It was obvious. It made one feel safe. It felt redundant, too; the spirit would not need to be concerned for her "safety" even if the earth and sky decided to switch places.

Marina seldom visited the docks in life. But later, this place would become her designated "home". The Zeltivan dockland was unlike any other place on Mizahar, housing ships of unrivaled size and majesty. In her eyes, it was the symbol of her city and a beacon of her pride. A pathetic attachment, perhaps, but she needed it. Distrusting her memory, she would put all other business on pause and come here regularly to refresh the picture of this city. No matter how far away her travels took her, this was one place where she would always return.

The girl stretched her hand out into the darkness. Her blurry digits dug into the air, as if attempting to grab the black veil that shrouded the ocean and rip it away. Failing to do that, the hand turned its palm upwards and formed a cup, filling with color as it materialised. It would almost seem that the solid-looking, cupped hand would begin to fill with rainwater immediately, but of course, it didn't. The raindrops failed to acknowledge its existence, speeding on towards the uneven surface of the pier. That made the hand sad. It didn't like to be ignored. Concentrating a modest amount of soulmist in itself, the hand formed a soulmist vessel to resemble the shape of the cupped hand. The raindrops could no longer pass. No doubt outraged by their premature demise, the drops gathered inside the soulmist-reinforced hand, making a tiny pool.

But the hand still felt sad. Even now, it couldn't feel the raindrops. After all, they were suspended in the air by a force other than the hand. The soulmist relaxed, letting the small blob of water fall through the hand and onto the pier; a dull splash and it vanished completely. There were no trace left of the hand's interference in the natural order of things.

Even after completing the theatrical internal monologue with her hand as the main character. Still as a statue, Marina still stared at her materialised hand, ruminating on all the things she sacrificed by choosing to become a ghost. Was it worth it? Even if she were to accomplish something great in this state, would it be worth it? How many more centuries will she have to invest? These questions, which had no answer, always came floating into her mind when she visited home. Has she made any progress since the last time she was here? Usually, the answer would be no, and she would get depressed for a short time before resuming her rounds of Mizahar in pursuit of her objective.

But this time wasn't so. She was finally taking roots and gaining connections in one of the cities, something she hadn't succeeded with previously. So there were definitely reasons to be optimistic. Marina de-materialised, watching as the color drained from her outstretched hand; and it slowly became more blurry and transparent, until only a weakly shimmering outline was left. In the heavy rain, the spectre was quite invisible. Over the years, she came up with the idea of "reverse materialising", which meant that instead of becoming more solid in appearance, she would manipulate her soulmist to become even more faded and transparent than normal. It wasn't that hard to do, and made her feel like an actual ghost as she passed right by people's noses unnoticed. Being a shadow was somehow appealing.

Sadly, at this time and in this weather, there was nobody around. The docks were utterly empty. Not even watchmen were patrolling. The rest of the city wouldn't be much busier, either; Marina knew this. Zeltivan climate was prone to short but violent storms, during which no sensible person left their abode. The homeless were really drawing the short straw here, but the girl didn't really acknowledge their plight, or even their existence. After all, she seldom went to places where they could be found, and even if she saw one, they were more of roadside props than people.

Having had her fill of the docks for tonight, the ghost could, with a calm conscience, check off "visit home" on her vague schedule. One last thing to do before departing would be to visit her house and the University. Just like the docks, they were merely symbolical locations, representing Zeltiva in her mind. She no longer had any deeper emotional attachment to them. Maybe she never did. Finding a path between two warehouses, the ghost slipped out of the dockland and began to mentally chart her way toward the Agamand estate. It wasn't easy. Orientation in space was one of Marina's biggest weaknesses. Even in life, she would occasionally get lost in her own garden. But getting lost for an hour or three wasn't a problem ; after all, no one was in a hurry.

Gliding effortlessly across the empty streets, Marina barely registered the muddled streams of orange light coming out of the tiny windows around her. The wooden houses of the lower-class district huddled together, as if seeking warmth from each other, as the merciless rain pounded on them, seeking their submission to the forces of nature. It was quite a pathetic sight, really. But the houses were still there, even after decades of misuse and abuse, even in their miserable state, they were still not ready to go. Just like Marina.

After an uncertain time of navigating the crooked dirt roads, the scenery around the spectre didn't change. All the same wooden shacks all around. Still haven't met a soul. It was painfully obvious that she was going in circles. Following the roads seemed like a poor choice, then. Blinking some two meters upwards, Marina found herself suspended in the air somewhere around second floor level. This gave her an excellent strategic view of the area, since not a single building in this part of town was tall enough to obscure her sight. Rotating her entire body clockwise, the ghost scanned the area, trying to assess a direction to go in. The black masts of the ships were still visible against the night sky in one direction, and were quite close, confirming that her aimless wandering didn't take her far from her starting point. The darkness and the rain made it impossible to discern any other landmarks.

In this situation, the only logical direction to move in would be the opposite of the docks. It was an easy decision to make. Turning her back to the sea, the ghost blinked back to ground level and went on her way. Clipping through the houses would be a bad idea, since the spectre didn't feel the desire to deal with people right now. She zig-zagged between the shacks, which weren't organised in any logical or even remotely geometrical fashion, making the experience similar to navigating among baobabs in a jungle. Just as the spirit was becoming certain that she has gotten lost again, her thoughts immediately switched to the fact that one of the passages wasn't empty. Right after turning a corner, she almost collided with a white-clothed boy.

He was right in front of her. Recalling her experiences with obsessive ambush-setting spiritists, The ghost barely resisted the knee-jerk urge to blink away in a random direction. But a split-second analysis was enough to determine that he wasn't waiting for her, and probably not for anyone in particular. He faced sideways from her, with a brooding, absent expression on his face. His completely white outfit made him somewhat distinguishable in the murky shadow of the space between buildings that wasn't even wide enough to be called an alley. The spectre couldn't make out any details in his features, and she didn't really feel the need to. Did he run away from home or something? In this weather? People do get more stupid with each generation. Not willing to examine the strange boy further, Marina started looking for ways to get past him. She disliked traveling at high altitude, but sometimes it couldn't be helped. There seemed to be other options here, though.

Maybe she could just squeeze past him? There wasn't enough space for two people. But that wasn't needed, either, because "squeeze past" could as well mean "squeeze through". After all, a human body was hardly an obstacle for a ghost. Eager to be on her way, Marina went forward. She was still almost completely faded, with only a thin silhouette outlining her frame. He would notice nothing.

But then, something completely unexpected happened. Instead of phasing right through the white-wearing male, the spectre felt something completely solid blocking her way. It was the same feeling as being touched by a heavily prepared spiritist: same as bumping into a wall. There was no pain, of course, and she made no sound, but the sudden collision with what must have been a personal barrier left Marina stunned for a second, unable to decide how to react. Then, the panic set in. This was definitely bad news. Whether it was spiritism or shielding, it wasn't something Marina was prepared to deal with, and there was no doubt he was aware of her presence now, even if he didn't see her. Blinking backwards and out of the claustrophobic strip of space, the spectre slithered between buildings in a blind rush to escape from the potential danger.
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Marina Agamand
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From Childhood's Hour (Marina Agamand)

Postby Kellerman on April 29th, 2014, 1:05 am

Kellerman


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Kellerman began to see more clearly, his eyes adjusting slightly to the darkness. He fully materialized, looking at his hand in front of him. The rain drops fell through the flesh, not bothering to acknowledge the presence of the ghost's ethereal hand. What a pathetic sight.
Kellerman retracted his hand, letting it fall limp to his side. By now he could see clearly, and the bothersome task of spacial and visual awareness had returned. The ghost decided he would sit longer in the tight alley. After all, he had nothing better to do, and the roaring rain was a very serene sound. He imagined the body of the vagrant on the ground, the rain filling up his open mouth and hitting his wide open eyes. He pictured the relentless drops of rain hitting his victim's cold, blue fingers.
Just when Kellerman closed his eyes, he felt an extremely minute disturbance in the air, but before he opened them again to observe, he felt something collide with him.
It was a very strange feeling, as if someone had blown a cannon of air at his side, but the air failed to push him. Flashing open his eyes, he saw that nobody was there. No solid object had pushed him. Puzzled, he strained his eyes to see if he had been deceived.
And he was, in fact, deceived. A near invisible figure whizzed past him, fleeing in the other direction of the alley. What had just happened?
Kellerman stood up and broke into a run after the figure, choosing to act first and think later. Whatever had just collided with him was not human.
Kellerman's brain, ethereal or not, didn't have adequate time to analyze the situation and go through all possibilities of identifications for this mysterious force.
The thin, winding path was dark and full of litter and obstacles. Soundlessly, he chased after it, winding around the dark buildings.
Tailing his target, Kellerman realized that he was chasing after an image of himself. This force, this thing, was no different than him; it was a ghost.
Now he was really anxious to catch up to his target. Kellerman, still materialized and running out of juice, but too engulfed in the fray to pay any mind to his draining energy, flew as fast as he could, hovering directly on the ground. He extended his hands, soulmist tendrils from his fingers reaching out, desperate to touch his escaping prey. The massive use of energy on Kellerman in his chase, his materialization, and his soulmist projection had him running on fumes.
At last, the tips of his fingers grazed the ghost. He gained ever so slightly more and finally grasped it. Judging by his touch, he was grabbing a shoulder. Gripping its shoulder tightly, he spun the ghost around, pushing it against one of the immediate walls. Finally seeing its face for the first time, albeit a very faint image, he saw that the ghost was a young adolescent girl.
Kellerman was frozen in place, his hand glued to her chest, pushing her against the wall. He was panting on her, his lips parted.
She looked slightly familiar.
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From Childhood's Hour (Marina Agamand)

Postby Marina Agamand on October 30th, 2014, 5:31 pm


Slithering between the tightly packed cottages, the ghost had only one thought in her head: getting as far away from here as possible. If there was anything she feared more than spiritists, it would be other ghosts. In the end, like any earthworm, wizards were subjects to physical limitations; they could only follow her where their bodies could fit. Even with their most advanced tools, they wouldn't reach her through a wall, or underground, or far in the air. Even the most powerful material beings couldn't hope to chase a spirit; the difference in mobility was simply too large. Since she was defenseless against anything that could harm her, Marina relied on the full arsenal of escape methods avilable to her ethereal form. They have never let her down when dealing with the living.

But they let her down now, as she felt the coarse soulmist fingers of her pursuer graze against her back. In a competition where both participants played by the same rules, the little magesmith was a trivial challenge - and she knew this. Marina deliberately never associated with other ghosts for this reason. She didn't want to be at someone's mercy. In the afterlife, there were no laws to safeguard her; no figure of authority to which she could turn for protection. In a world where one's continued existence depended only on your own strength and wit, Marina was drawing she shortest imaginable straw, as she possessed neither quality. The spectre persevered this far only because of luck, and now, a century later, her luck was finally about to run dry.

The silent race continued in the darkness of the sleeping neighborhood; periodically, Marina could sense his fingers barely reaching her back. After several unsuccessful attempts, his hand finally found a good grip on her shoulder and closed on it with enough force to stop the ghost in her tracks. Understanding that she wouldn't be able to run any further, the spectre followed the only remaining course of action. Spinning around to face the attacker, she channeled all the soulmist she could muster into her fingernails, and clawed at the boy's face with the vicious howl. However, his grip didn't loosen - quite the opposite. For someone who had never experienced violence in life, such rough treatment was a serious shock; this is before considering that she was a pampered little girl to boot. The phantom's battle morale was not enough for a second attack; she didn't put up any meaningful resistance when the boy shoved her against the wall. Only a hoarse whine left the flickering ghost as she struggled in his grasp like a wounded animal in the jaws of a hunting dog.

Now facing her assailant, she could finally get a decent look at him. His face, which looked slightly older than hers, had what she perceived as a exerted and hostile expression, probably from the soulmist expenditure. He was thin, wore a plain white garb and had unkempt hair. Clearly a commoner. A sudden wave of anger washed over the little girl. Had they both been alive, this fellow would have been beaten black and blue for as much as approaching her. Did he think that dying would put him above the natural order of things? Of course, the natural order of things was different now, but such practical matters seldom entered a ghost's mind. In fact, Marina still half-expected her father's guard to jump out from around the corner and use his favorite falchion to lop the boy's arms off. She was still immobile in his grasp, but, fueled by righteous indignation, the spectre forced out the words in a low, strained voice.

"Remove your paws, nameless knave... you have no permission to touch me!"

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From Childhood's Hour (Marina Agamand)

Postby Perplexity on November 9th, 2014, 7:02 pm

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CHECKMATE


Hello!

It looks like we've run into a bit of an "oopsie" situation. Marina, in no way is it at all possible for your character to be in Lhavit on the 21st of Spring and then in Zeltiva on the 86th. The travel lore does say that Ghosts can cut the travel times from city to city in half but the distance from Lhavit to Alvadas alone (which is the most straightforward route to get across the continent) is 85 days. That's cutting it down from 170 days. So, this thread hasn't happened. It can't happen. Because your character wouldn't have been in the city at this point in time.

Regards,
Perplexity
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