Solo Things We'd Rather Forget

[Roland Eir]

90th of Fall, 517 A low rumble from his stomach informed Roland that it was long past time to turn in for the night. He'd finished his own work bells ago, but had stayed out in the streets to enjoy the evening. Once you got used to Alvadas, it really was a wonderful city. Between the plentiful entertainment and the charming folk, you could look past the cities darker elements. Even the illusions, though strange, could be a joy on occasion. At the moment he'd been enjoying the serendipitous event of a busker being multiplied in three. The bard's surprise quickly turned to laughter as the two copies, winking at him, began plucking at their instruments in harmony. The man ended his night showered with extra mizas. Roland himself dropped a few copper into his hat before turning to head home. Out of nowhere the evening air smelled sweetly of lavender and honey. Roland breathed deeply, counting himself lucky to call this city home. At least for now, he was content. It hadn't been everything he'd hoped for, but after almost a full season he could honestly say he was glad he'd come. Bubbles drifted gently down from the rooftops of the street he walked on, and he allowed himself a playful moment to poke at them as he passed. As each one popped, it revealed a dusting of multi-colored glitter that sprinkled gently on the ground. Ionu sure is being tame tonight, Roland mused. Nothing with teeth, no images of monsters, no sudden pitfalls in the ground or deluges of rain. He scuffed a cobblestone with the tip of his boot, sending a shower of the glitter into the air. If only every day of his life had been so kind. If only every city he'd lived in had been so forgiving. Alvadas wasn't free of crime, but Roland felt comfortable walking home alone at dusk with his hands in his pockets and his mind in the clouds. How many years had he spent looking over his shoulder, waiting for a knife in the back? His mizas clinked softly in his bag as he walked, but he greeted passersby with a smile and a nod instead of a glare. The next street greeted him with a forest of pine trees, and he walked through without hesitation. As he pressed through the branches, he was delighted to find that each needle was soft as a feather. They tickled his ear and caressed his shoulder as he walked. The street after that was full of cats, though whether that was Ionu or the neighbors was anybody's guess. Roland payed the animals no mind, and they gave him the same courtesy. A little voice at the back of his head whispered, hey now, this is a little too cozy, isn't it? But he pushed the thought aside. Why bother with those anxieties on a night like this? There was a time to worry, and there was a time to enjoy a little bit of good fortune. Roland grinned as he realized the next street was home to the Cubacious Inn, where he had been staying. It was a shame, it was such a nice night he'd almost rather keep walking. But hunger beckoned him toward the soft glow of the windows. As his feet hit the cobblestones of that street he knew something was wrong. The glow of the windows disappeared. The buildings seemed to tower above him, dark and foreboding. The air was suddenly heavy with the smell of rot, and sick, and in the distance he could hear someone crying. His eyes widened with recognition just as a hand grabbed him roughly by the jacket and spun him around. "There you are boy! I've been waiting all night for you to get back!" Oh gods no… Marcus Eir stood a head taller than his son, and the sour look on his face told Roland he was in trouble. "Get inside!" Before Roland could react, the hand on his shoulder was shoving him roughly through a familiar doorway. He was home. Word Count: 676

[Roland Eir]

A myriad of voices greeted him. Some gruff, some sleazy, and all of them belonging to Marcus Eir's gang of malcontents. There was Rodeck, thin and gangly with a half dozen blades on his belt. There was Sten, sitting to the side and staring into the air, wind whistling between his missing teeth. There was Grint, and there was Cook, and there was Roland in the midst of them, looking up at men he had long left behind him. Roland reached up and felt at his face, finding it smooth. His hair was cropped up on his head, cut short the way his father had liked it. Speechless, he stared down at those hands. They were smaller than before, like those of a boy's just coming into manhood. Oh Ionu, what have you done now? "Black has done it again!" His father was calling, bringing the room to silence. "This is it boys. The big one. The one that will make us all rich enough to own this town." Marcus gave Roland a shove and he stumbled farther into the room. "Take your seats gentlemen, and I'll tell you how it will happen." A small table was dragged into the middle of the room, scraping over the oak boards of the floor. A few chairs were set in place with a series of loud thunks. Every man there sat at one, except for Sten who was allowed to sit further off on account of his stupidity. "Alright Eir, what has old Brius got for us this time?" Grint purred, his teeth flashing in the dim light. He was referring to Brius Black, a bookseller and information broker who Roland knew died over five years ago. It was a knife in the back, Roland reflected, looking at Rodeck's collection with fresh eyes. "You all know the old tower, over on the northeast side of the city? Now, it's long been abandoned, ever since the spellchuckers were killed." There was a chorus of disgusted grunts and nodding heads. "Well, not anymore. Someone's decided to take up residence. A Syliran Knight, apparently disgraced, fled his beautiful city and made the huge mistake of coming to ours. And he brought all his beautiful Syliran Mizas here with him. Not just any paltry sum, either. Thousands of them, I'm told. Ours for the taking!" Greed gleamed in the eyes of these men, though Rodeck had enough sense to ask questions. "Hang on, now why's ol' Brius giving it to us? How much did you give him for this?" Grint and Cook nodded heads in agreement. "Nothing! Nothing at all!" The men didn't seem to believe him. "All he wants are some musty old books! Since the tower's so old, and hasn't been touched in so long, he thinks there's some good reading there left over from them wizards. Old texts from the time before, he says. Well I say, he can have his books as long as we get our gold!" If Roland's eyes could have gotten wider, they would have. He knew this night. He knew what happened. No, he tried to speak, but his lips wouldn't open. He just stood quietly in the corner near Sten, like he had that night. The men were cheering, but Roland knew this night would end in ruin. It was Fall then, like today, though in Sunberth that meant more rain and muck than in Alvadas. It would be a cold night, but he wouldn't dress warm enough. And he wouldn't wear gloves. He'd need his hands free. Marcus began to outline the plan in a little more detail, while Roland focused on his own panic. He didn't want to see this again. He didn't want to live this again. Ionu, what were you doing? From behind him, there was a creaking on the stairs. Spinning, he caught sight of his sister a moment before his father did. "Gale!" he found himself reprimanding in a hushed tone, but it was too late. "What did I tell you about coming down here when the boys are about? Eh? Get back up there!" his father hissed. She stood there, trembling. "I said get!" her father roared, and she sprang up the stairs. Roland followed on her heels, his body moving… not on its own. He could feel himself willing it to happen, but it seemed he was doomed to repeat the events of that night. The room at the top of the stairs was spartanly furnished. A chest of drawers, a few crates of stock for the store downstairs, and a small straw-stuffed cot where his sister slept. His own bundle of blankets lay scattered next to it. His sister, sobbing lightly led him to a curtained off corner of the room where his parents' bed sat. "Oh my darling, come here." His sister passed through the curtain to his mother's waiting arms, her shining blond hair trailing behind her. Roland came to stop in the center of the room, overcome with sorrow. His mother lay behind that curtain. Alive. But he could not move to her. "Roland! Get back down here boy, I need you here!" After a moment's hesitation, his shoulders began to turn. No! Petch it, don't go back down there. He wanted to do nothing more than run back to that curtain and throw it open, but his feet refused to obey him. He trudged back down the stairs. "What is it?" he asked, his voice soft and wavering. The other men snickered. "It's your part of the plan, boy," his father began, stressing his title. Half a bell later it was settled. They were acting that very night. And Roland played the starring role. Word Count: 950

[Roland Eir]

The wind howled through the streets of Sunberth. Roland trailed behind his father, dreading what was coming. Whatever game Ionu was playing, it seemed he was to live out the full passing of that night. Rain beat down on the wool of his hood. It was already soaked through, like the rest of his clothes. His body, or at least his body as it had been at sixteen, shivered violently. The other men didn't seem to fair much better. It was a long walk to the other side of town, but it felt like ages inside Roland's mind. Am I really walking? he wondered vaguely. Do people see me walking through Alvadas's streets right now? Are any of these folk around me real people? Or have I just gone totally mad? The layout was identical to Sunberth's, every detail exactly how he remembered it. The weather was perfect. The sounds. The smell. If this was an illusion, Ionu had outdone itself. Eventually, they arrived at their destination. Roland's neck craned back to take in the full height of the tower. "Oh gods…" his lament was lost to the wind. His father took him by the shoulder, gave him a reassuring squeeze, and sent him on his way. While they served to distract the tenants, Roland had the real job. Crouching low, he ran around the edge of the square. The weather helped to mask his presence, not that anyone was really watching. Not that anyone would care, in this town. But he kept to the shadows of the overhanging roofs anyway, if only to get a brief respite from the rain. Men shouting just barely carried over the riotous rainfall as Roland snaked his way over to the base of the tower. A squat little building had been added to the narrow tower over the years, to serve as a home for anyone brave enough to lay claim to the monolith. It was at the door to that building that his father and his gang now gathered, shouting and beating on it, getting the attention of anyone inside. Roland rubbed his hands together and breathed on them. They were already numb with cold. Inwardly, the man Roland would become braced himself for what came next. Splaying his fingers on the stone, lifting his toes to an indent in the wall, he began to climb. Word Count: 394

[Roland Eir]

The tower was old. That was the only reason this could maybe be done. Roland was a decent climber, especially at that age, but this was near impossible. Wind tore his hood back off his face so that the rain could pelt at it. It ran in rivulets off his nose and over his chattering teeth. His fingers ached as they snuck along the moistened rock. Every time he pulled himself up another arm-length he'd swear there was nowhere else to go. But every time he'd find purchase. Whether it was skill or destiny, he'd find another handhold, another foothold, and inch his way up the tower's surface. It felt like bells were passing as he climbed. Soon his arms were aching and his heart was straining with fear and effort. He made the mistake of looking down only once, and even with the knowledge of hindsight Roland quailed with fear. He could not even see the ground past the rain and the darkness. His knuckles were white as he hugged the wall. His forehead pressed into the rough stone, his eyes closed, Roland prayed for the first time. There was no way he could go down now. He couldn't return to his father empty handed. Reaching up, his hand found another hole in the stone. It was pretty far up there, but he could reach. Just barely. But there was nowhere to put his feet. With his side pressed against the wall, he ragged his right foot up the stone until his knee was pressed into his chest. His toes barely fit where he'd had his hand before. With all his might, he pulled with his outstretched hand and pushed off his toes. Even with his muscles protesting, he would not let go. Finally he was standing up again. The toes of both his feet shared space on a little ledge of rock no wider than an inch. Climbing was supposed to be fun, he remembered thinking. But this was a torment. Still, less than a bell later he was busting the latch on the window and yanking his tired body inside. He lay there almost a full chime, breathing heavily and sucking on his raw fingers. Blood dripped from one hand, and he stuck it inside his jacket. His surroundings were even darker than the outside, if that were possible, and they smelled of mildew and old wood. Standing, he ignored the puddles inside his boots and started to move. The window he'd entered was on the landing of some stairs. If Brius's information was correct, what they wanted was at the top. How the odd man had known, Roland would never guess. All he could do was try to quiet his heartbeat as he stepped, one squelch at a time, up the stairs. He winced with every creak, and looked back often. But surely his father had occupied the owner of this place. Inside himself, Roland felt very, very tired. The stairs came to a head at the start of a short little hallway that was home to one boarded up window and one tall iron door. Young Roland swallowed at the sight of it. Old Roland's heart skipped a beat. This is where it all begins. Word Count: 540

[Roland Eir]

Reaching inside his jacket, Roland retrieved the set of lockpicks his father had lent him. He'd already tested the door, and it wouldn't budge. Frankly, the young man didn't mind the distraction this task would provide him. He used to relish the challenge these tools provided him, though this one was perhaps more than he was ready for. He fit the slender iron rod into the lock, gently prodding and feeling for the tumblers. They rattled and resisted his every movement, and the numbness of his fingers wasn't helping. He pulled back, blowing warmer air on his frozen digits, then tried again. He finally began to relax as he focused on the task, absentmindedly biting the inside of his cheek. But within, adult Roland felt heavy with anticipation. He knew what came next. He knew what came next. He knew. He knew, yet he couldn't do anything about it. If he'd had control over his own body he'd be shaking. Click. One of the tumblers fell into place and young Roland gave a low whistle of satisfaction. He wanted to tell himself to run away, but even as he thought that he wondered if it was true. Could he resist what was inside that door, even knowing the cost? Click. Another tumbler. Mouth slightly ajar, breath held, he delicately pressed the pick in one last time. There was a crash from down the stairs. Roland spun, the lockpick snapping in his hands. "Oh shyke, he breathed. He stared down into the darkness past the window, but no figure appeared. Desperately, his fingers fumbled with his tools. He rattled the doorknob gently and pried out the ruined piece. At least luck was on his side there. Selecting a new pick, he started over. The tumblers came a little more swiftly this time, though if that was skill or desperation only the gods knew. Click. Click. Step. Once more, a sound from the stairs below. Step. Step. His heart began to beat like a hammer on a forge. Sweat dripped from his face, and he brushed it away with one hand, careful not to lose his place. The pick plucked at the lock like a fiddler on his strings. Step. Step. The sounds grew closer, accompanied by the creak of the ancient stairway. With one last hesitant press, the final tumbler clicked. Shoving the thieves tools back into his jacket, Roland twisted the knob and pushed. The iron door swung in soundlessly. Word Count: 410

[Roland Eir]

It shut behind him with a heavy clunk. Too heavy. Too loud. Shyke. But then Roland, both Rolands, were distracted. Inside, the room was piled floor to ceiling with containers. Towering crates, musty old chests, lockboxes of every size, and bookshelves on every wall. To his eyes nothing looked particularly valuable, but he hadn't gotten inside anything yet. And he didn't have much time. Scrambling, he pulled the biggest crate he could find in front of the door. And then, he started opening things. Ignoring the bookcases he started by prying the lids off of crates. Old linens. Glass canisters. Some statues carved to look like ravens. Food, long, long spoiled. Even in the hurry he was in, he took the time to put the lid back on that one. Kicking open a chest he found woodworking supplies. Another held nothing. Time was running out, and this place was filled with junk! The lockboxes, he decided, must have held the real prize. The doorknob rattled, and there was a thump as someone tried to push their way inside. No time! Roland looked about the room frantically, finally picking out a small lockbox and weighing it in his hands. No, not that one you idiot, his older self berated. No indeed, something small rattled in the box, no way it was cash. Get it over with. You know which one you're opening. Panicked, young Roland grabbed the next one he could find. It was heavy. That would be good enough. But as he tried to pick it up, it was too heavy. There was no way he would make it down the tower with this. He gave the door a quick glance. It was jammed shut, but whoever was on the other side wasn't giving up. Ignoring the noise of the assailant at the door, he grabbed his lockpick once more. This was a much simpler lock, but under the circumstances any lock would be difficult. The pick fit easily inside. Young Roland went to work. Watching from inside, the real Roland could hardly breath. His young fingers fumbled with locks and tumblers, risking death from whatever was coming for him, but it was worth it. What was inside this box was worth the risk. What came next… well. Time would tell. With a click, the lock was open. There was a scraping sound behind him as the lid swung open. Inside, sitting on a velvet lining, was a book. He remembered the disappointment he had felt in this moment, and the curiosity. It was unlike any book Roland had ever seen. Massive and bound in molded leather, it looked ancient. His fingers brushed the cover, tracing letters from a language he'd never read before. The pages were yellowed with age, and the spine was cracked, but it had an air of importance. Lightning flashed outside, and an arm wrapped itself around Roland's neck. Kicking and screaming, Roland reared against his attacker. His head butted up into someone's chin. There was a grunt of pain, and the vice around his neck loosened. The other man tried desperately to get hold of one of Roland's flailing limbs to pin it, but he was too wild. They backpedaled together, crashing into one of the crates behind them. Roland was released. He swung around, lashing out with a desperate fist. It caught the man in the shoulder, barely earning a grunt of pain. The attacker dived into Roland, shoving him to the ground and driving his fist into the boy's side. Roland bit back a shout and spit in the man's eye. In a flurry of movement, they shoved back and forth, each trying to gain control. Roland's hand found the smaller lockbox from before, and he swung it with all his might. It caught the man in the chin, and he rolled off of Roland's smaller body. The boy sprang to his feet and made a run for the door. A hand caught at his foot. He fell, skinning a knee on the hardwood floor. Like that, the man was on him again, pinning him to the ground and shouting indecipherably. Roland called out pathetically, begging for mercy. The man shoved his knee into his back and pressed. Bucking, the boy managed to scramble free for a moment, his fingers catching at the edge of the open door. It swung open, and moonlight spilled in onto the landing between the boards on the window. The storm outside must of have stopped, but Roland didn't have time for the weather. He spun around, just in time to kick out and catch his attacker in the chest. The man growled in pain and launched himself forward. Roland rolled to the side, reaching down at last for the dagger hidden in his boot. He grabbed it just as the man came at him. Both of them scrambling on the floorboards, Roland slashed out wildly with the knife. He was awarded with a spray of blood and a shriek of pain from his enemy. The man fell away from him. Acting instinctively, adrenaline coursing through his veins, young Roland sprang on his retreating foe and raised the dagger high. No! Roland pleaded in vain from within. But the dagger fell, just as it had almost ten years ago. Roland gasped as his face was coated in red. There was a gurgling noise, and the taste of iron on his tongue. He fell back, heart pumping. The face was illuminated in a shaft of moonlight. Sightless blue eyes, much like his own, stared back from the eyes of a boy who couldn't have been more than a year older. Roland stared, etching those eyes into his mind. He knew he would never forget them. A moment later he was back in the room, retching on the side of a crate. Salt stung at his eyes, and he wiped the tears away with a bloody sleeve. Unthinking, he grabbed the only thing of value he had found and stuffed it in his bag. In its place he took a rope. He tied it off on the stair banister, and lowered it out the window he came in. The climb back down would be nearly uneventful. Without the wind and rain to harass him, he could have made it easily. If not for the heavy tome weighing down his bag. Last time he managed to catch himself as he fell, the thick rope burning into his gloveless hands. This time he had no such luck. Word Count: 1085

[Roland Eir]

He hit the ground in a heap, choking back tears. The sound of muffled laughter met his ears. Sitting up, he rubbed his aching sides. A couple of children were stifling their guffaws behind their hands. Looking up, a rope dangled from the window to his room at the Cubacious. The way he was feeling, he couldn't have fallen more than a couple meters. He stood swiftly. "Oh gods… Ionu, tell me I didn't hurt someone." Ignoring the kids, he sprinted for the door. The patrons of the inn, still settling in for the night, exclaimed loudly as he tore through the lounge space. A swatted one of the trademark floating cubes out of his way and stomped up the stairs to his room. One of his pillows lay in the doorway, torn nearly to shreds. Roland collapsed against the doorframe. Maybe it was relief, maybe it was just the pent up energy inside seeking release, but he began to chuckle. It built, slowly, into full blown laughter. He crossed his arms on his knees and buried his head in them. There was no telling how long he sat there, or when the laughter became tears, but the other guests at the inn gave his room a wide berth for the duration. Eventually, eyes red, he rocked up to his feet. Kicking the remains of the pillow inside, he pushed the door shut with a gentle click. His room was a mess. He ignored it. Walking with purpose, he went to the one thing he owned that was of interest: the heavy tome laying open on the bed. Standing over it, he looked down at the words that had changed his life. How much had changed since he'd first seen these pages? He extended a hand, as if to softly trace the words, but instead he flipped it shut. Gingerly, he lifted it from the bed and stowed it safely within his bag. With a heavy sigh, he lay down. Without eating, he went to sleep. Word Count: 336

[Madeira Dusk]

Grades Awarded!

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Roland Eir

Skills

• Observation: 4xp
• Scouting: 2xp
• Stealth: 1xp
• Climbing: 2xp
• Endurance: 1xp
• Larceny: 2xp
• Acrobatics: 1xp
• Logic: 1xp
• Brawling: 1xp

Lores

• Larceny: using a lockpick
• Burglary: checking if the coast is clear
• Lore of a first kill

Awards & Retribution


Notes
What an amazing read! You are definitly in the top tier of writers on this site. I loved seeing a bit of Roland's burdened past, especially with the clarity that future Roland gave the story.

If you have any questions or concerns give me a shout.