Brackish Memories
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Splssh!
The yellow green water of the bayou burst open, and from it a horror all too common amongst the saltmarsh cordgrass of the Bayou. A skeletal visage peered out from under the decayed remnants of underwater weeds, it's body language showing clear signs of bewildered confusion. It's head shook, as if trying to shake off the sickening feeling of no feeling at all - it's jaw creaked open, as if trying to deeply inhale but it could not. Brackish raised a gauntleted hand to his face, feeling across it for some sense of what had happened - and felt nothing at all, his fingers had no sensation; his face had no sensation. The attempt to inhale had resulted in nothing, not panic for air, not the familiar feeling of lungs filling or even the jarring memory of blood choking down his breath.
Nothing at all.
That was worse than anything else, even the fleeting memories of a punctured chest - of the wet sucking breaths of final moments which drifted through his memories like ghosts. Nothing at all. Brackish turned his gauntled hands palm up, peering at them with bewilderment as he moved each finger individually as if to confirm they were all there. Brackish tried to ignore the torn padding which could be seen between the joints, and what lay beyond that torn padding - skeletal fingers, darkened from flesh rotting to nothing trapped inside the gauntlets.
The murky water below settled into itself as he stood mostly motionless, finally giving him a messy reflection - and Brackish stumbled, falling back into the murky depths and sitting head down as the water flowed around him. His eyes were open, but he felt no sting or pressure at all. He roared, cried out - a sound which was supposed to be muffled by the water burst out from every direction as if it did not come from his body but rather simply existed around him.
It was a hollow scream, like air blown through a bone - a chilling, dreadful sound more akin to the wail of a horror than the desperate cries of a man. Brackish wanted to wallow in the water, but the very fact that he could simply exist under its murky depths indefinitely was all too much of a burden to maintain. Groping his right hand at the marsh floor Brackish gripped the hilt of a blade he somehow knew was there, and rose to his feet once more. The weapon was very rusty, once a double edged arming sword it had been shattered at the last 3/4ths of the blade and was little more then a bludgeoning club at this point.
But holding it made him feel better, even if he couldn't actually feel it in his grip. He knew it was there, could even judge it's edge alignment - but this was a supernatural sense, a sort of knowing he could not fathom. It lacked the the familiarity of touch, of weight, of the senses he had in life - for Brackish struggled to admit, he was no longer alive. What the reflection had shown him was a yellow brown skull, a horrific visage of a sentient skeleton.
Slowly Brackish waded through the waist high water, reaching a wetland embankment that was more mud than solid group, but as if he weighed little more then a child his feet glided across its surface with minimal sinking. "I'm light." Brackish muttered to himself, his jaw not even moving as sound burst out from his center, as if was contained in his chest cavity and escaping in all directions. It resonated off his rusted armor, giving it a metallic tinge - but even without the metallic reverb it was an unnatural sound, lacking any timbre like that of a voice produced by flesh. It was hollow, having an artificial pitch and tone almost indescribable without firsthand experiencing it - a sound as if played by an instrument of bone, not a voice at all.
It was all so absurd Brackish laughed, and regretted it almost immediately. It was higher pitched then his 'voice', and had a menacing cackle to it which seemed crazed - the reverb off his armor made it carry, shaking his bones to resonate it further. Brackish almost retreated back to the water at hearing it, his very existence had become something he struggled to accept and he oozed a menace and evil which he couldn't understand.
Was he evil in life? Did he serve some great Lich? Brackish pondered into himself, he felt a strong pull to serve something, to fight for something greater than himself; but what? He did not know, and as he grew lost in thought he wandered, wading through marshland and into water, ignoring the terrain almost as if it didn't exist. He felt no discomfort, never tired and thus simply drudged through the inhospitable landscape like it was little more than a flat field.
Bartold Hibar was a merchant, or at least he fancied himself one - he had rented a small ship to move his goods and even found a captain bold enough to cut through the pirate infested north edge of Bayou Garramarisma before entering Alliria. Pirates had not shown, but his brave ship captain had sailed the damn boat straight into a shallow and grounded the ship near the West edge of the Bayou. It was inhospitable land, with rumors of undead pirates and vicious beasts filling the tales of travelers from all edges of the world. Luckily he had hired a few adventurers to guard the cargo, just in case pirates did show, but now they were guards to a grounded ship - just as uselessly stranded as him.
They would be little protection from some encroaching horror, but they were armed and that was something. As the boat was freelance it even had some would be travelers on it, taking the risky ride due to its cheap fare even if it had little to no accommodations for travelers. Bartold milled about, nervously pacing the wet embankment they had made camp on. His expensive silk lined boots squelched against the wet land, the sound causing Bart to cringe but his nervous energy preventing him from stopping the endless pacing.
They had sent a smaller sailed lifeboat to the far shores of the outskirts of Alliria, a seven day trip with such a small boat. It had been six hours they went aground, SIX HOURS, and they had seven more days of this hell to endure. Supplies were plentiful, so there was little risk of starving or dying of thirst - but his goods were perishable, rare food stuffs preserved through rudimentary magic which had a shelf life of a few months - and those months were running out since leaving Annualat. Every day spent here was less time he had to sell his goods, and the trip was already a time risky endeavor few had been foolish enough to try due to the difficulty of timing the trip and harvest effectively.
Bart pulled at his thinning hair, before letting out a frustrated shout - as he did about every ten minutes. What else could possibly go wrong?!
The yellow green water of the bayou burst open, and from it a horror all too common amongst the saltmarsh cordgrass of the Bayou. A skeletal visage peered out from under the decayed remnants of underwater weeds, it's body language showing clear signs of bewildered confusion. It's head shook, as if trying to shake off the sickening feeling of no feeling at all - it's jaw creaked open, as if trying to deeply inhale but it could not. Brackish raised a gauntleted hand to his face, feeling across it for some sense of what had happened - and felt nothing at all, his fingers had no sensation; his face had no sensation. The attempt to inhale had resulted in nothing, not panic for air, not the familiar feeling of lungs filling or even the jarring memory of blood choking down his breath.
Nothing at all.
That was worse than anything else, even the fleeting memories of a punctured chest - of the wet sucking breaths of final moments which drifted through his memories like ghosts. Nothing at all. Brackish turned his gauntled hands palm up, peering at them with bewilderment as he moved each finger individually as if to confirm they were all there. Brackish tried to ignore the torn padding which could be seen between the joints, and what lay beyond that torn padding - skeletal fingers, darkened from flesh rotting to nothing trapped inside the gauntlets.
The murky water below settled into itself as he stood mostly motionless, finally giving him a messy reflection - and Brackish stumbled, falling back into the murky depths and sitting head down as the water flowed around him. His eyes were open, but he felt no sting or pressure at all. He roared, cried out - a sound which was supposed to be muffled by the water burst out from every direction as if it did not come from his body but rather simply existed around him.
It was a hollow scream, like air blown through a bone - a chilling, dreadful sound more akin to the wail of a horror than the desperate cries of a man. Brackish wanted to wallow in the water, but the very fact that he could simply exist under its murky depths indefinitely was all too much of a burden to maintain. Groping his right hand at the marsh floor Brackish gripped the hilt of a blade he somehow knew was there, and rose to his feet once more. The weapon was very rusty, once a double edged arming sword it had been shattered at the last 3/4ths of the blade and was little more then a bludgeoning club at this point.
But holding it made him feel better, even if he couldn't actually feel it in his grip. He knew it was there, could even judge it's edge alignment - but this was a supernatural sense, a sort of knowing he could not fathom. It lacked the the familiarity of touch, of weight, of the senses he had in life - for Brackish struggled to admit, he was no longer alive. What the reflection had shown him was a yellow brown skull, a horrific visage of a sentient skeleton.
Slowly Brackish waded through the waist high water, reaching a wetland embankment that was more mud than solid group, but as if he weighed little more then a child his feet glided across its surface with minimal sinking. "I'm light." Brackish muttered to himself, his jaw not even moving as sound burst out from his center, as if was contained in his chest cavity and escaping in all directions. It resonated off his rusted armor, giving it a metallic tinge - but even without the metallic reverb it was an unnatural sound, lacking any timbre like that of a voice produced by flesh. It was hollow, having an artificial pitch and tone almost indescribable without firsthand experiencing it - a sound as if played by an instrument of bone, not a voice at all.
It was all so absurd Brackish laughed, and regretted it almost immediately. It was higher pitched then his 'voice', and had a menacing cackle to it which seemed crazed - the reverb off his armor made it carry, shaking his bones to resonate it further. Brackish almost retreated back to the water at hearing it, his very existence had become something he struggled to accept and he oozed a menace and evil which he couldn't understand.
Was he evil in life? Did he serve some great Lich? Brackish pondered into himself, he felt a strong pull to serve something, to fight for something greater than himself; but what? He did not know, and as he grew lost in thought he wandered, wading through marshland and into water, ignoring the terrain almost as if it didn't exist. He felt no discomfort, never tired and thus simply drudged through the inhospitable landscape like it was little more than a flat field.
Bartold Hibar was a merchant, or at least he fancied himself one - he had rented a small ship to move his goods and even found a captain bold enough to cut through the pirate infested north edge of Bayou Garramarisma before entering Alliria. Pirates had not shown, but his brave ship captain had sailed the damn boat straight into a shallow and grounded the ship near the West edge of the Bayou. It was inhospitable land, with rumors of undead pirates and vicious beasts filling the tales of travelers from all edges of the world. Luckily he had hired a few adventurers to guard the cargo, just in case pirates did show, but now they were guards to a grounded ship - just as uselessly stranded as him.
They would be little protection from some encroaching horror, but they were armed and that was something. As the boat was freelance it even had some would be travelers on it, taking the risky ride due to its cheap fare even if it had little to no accommodations for travelers. Bartold milled about, nervously pacing the wet embankment they had made camp on. His expensive silk lined boots squelched against the wet land, the sound causing Bart to cringe but his nervous energy preventing him from stopping the endless pacing.
They had sent a smaller sailed lifeboat to the far shores of the outskirts of Alliria, a seven day trip with such a small boat. It had been six hours they went aground, SIX HOURS, and they had seven more days of this hell to endure. Supplies were plentiful, so there was little risk of starving or dying of thirst - but his goods were perishable, rare food stuffs preserved through rudimentary magic which had a shelf life of a few months - and those months were running out since leaving Annualat. Every day spent here was less time he had to sell his goods, and the trip was already a time risky endeavor few had been foolish enough to try due to the difficulty of timing the trip and harvest effectively.
Bart pulled at his thinning hair, before letting out a frustrated shout - as he did about every ten minutes. What else could possibly go wrong?!
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