- Messages
- 398
- Character Biography
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"Sparhawk..."
"Master Sparhawk..."
"WAKE UP YA' DAFT BASTARD!"
As Maho opened his eyes, the warmth of the Tavern was immediate. The darkness shed by his eye-lids was folded back, revealing the warm light of the candles and lamps. Pleasant enough that it didn't intimidate the eyes, but bright enough that you could see the sour faces turn cheerful, as they took another sip of wine, or perhaps a swig of ale. He felt his fingertips trace the cracks in the oaken table, sturdy, but slightly soft, from years of absorbing the various fluids dropped on it from cups or - indeed - patrons. He could smell that fantastic aroma of meat and smoke, drifting in from the kitchen, fires lit from ports being thrown in pans, and steaks sizzling as they sat in their own juices, searing on the red-hot skillets. The sound of lutes and violins lifted the whole place, the sweet song wafting over the drunkards like a candied plague.
"Come on Sparhawk, do it again! It's hilarious!"
"S-Sorry? Wha-"
"Come on! Yo-You just did it! You know, the trick you d-" He hiccuped.
As Maho's eyes adjusted to the place, he noticed he was looking at Myles from across the table.
"Am I dreaming?"
"YOU WERE 'MINUTE AGO!" To Myles' left was one of Sparhawk's oldest friends, Borolf, a Dwarf from a village near Belgrath. An old, old friend, who he'd had many a drink with on his journey's to and from the College. Borolf had let out a guffaw after his joke, followed by much of the tavern laughing in tow.
"This... This isn't right? This can't-"
"Oh Maho, stop bein' a dry shite and DO THE RUDDY TRICK!"
Oh. That one.
He stared down at the mug of ale on the table. It was half empty, which made him notice the excess drink that was dripping from his cheek, which he consequently wiped with his sleeve. He'd done this trick for years, ever since his first year at the College had been finished, and when he'd picked up a few tricks. He put his palm over the mug, and whispered the word 'Shtou', which meant 'fill' in the old tongue he'd specialised in, deriving from Oskavosh. The mug began to shake violently in place, and - suddenly - as a blue light shone from his hand, the mug began to explore with golden ale, spouting from the glass like a fountain, drenching the table in it's bitter-sweet deliciousness. They all let out a laugh, the bartender joining in. A good man, who always referred to him as 'The Hawk', despite telling him his first name.
Maho also laughed a little, but it was still off.
This can't be real. Everything that's happened... I...
"Myles... I don't know what's going on. Wher- I mean... When- Borolf!" He suddenly shouted.
"Yes lad?" He'd forgotten he'd called him that.
"How's Belgrath? Is it ok?!" He said with urgency.
"O' Course, ain't been there in... what, 12 years? Yur, it's likely' fine!" He let out another loud, bordering on obnoxious laugh, as if everyone in the entire Tavern had to know exactly how happy he was.
Maho didn't know how to feel. All the anger. The fury. All the emotions that battled within him with no release seemed to be gone. He paused, and raised his hands in front of his face. They were flesh. He felt his face. Apart from the scar on his right side, which he'd carried for years now, all he felt was his beard, and the smooth-roughness of his skin. He began to shake in place. He turned to face Myles again, who was still sitting there, happily enjoying his drink of choice. Always cider. But he was there. He was actually there.
Maho reached out with his left hand, and very slowly began to place it on Myles' shoulder.
"Are you alright Master Sparhawk?"
Master Sparhawk.
Without thinking, he seemed to almost launch his torso over the table, and wrapped his arms around Myles so tightly, he could have suffocated them both. He felt his tears wash into Widogast's robes, his shoulder becoming damp with his joy.
"I think you've had too many Sparhawk..." He giggled lightly.
"I'm sorry... I'm so, so sorry..." He closed his eyes, as he let his head fall onto Myles. In his mind, that moment could have lasted forever. He would happily have given up anything, if it meant that small period of time in his life, could be there forever.
But as he opened his eyes to gaze on Myles again, everything was different.
It was dark. No harsh lights, no dim lamps, just darkness. Jerik stared through his mask at the city of Annuakat. He felt his harsh breath reverberate off of the surface of his golden prison that stuck to his face. He felt no sensation, as he tracked the hard step he sat on outside the palace, only hearing the gravelled scrape of his fingers tracking the stone. He smelled sand. He heard silence. In that short moment, he thought to himself;
I felt. Once.
He stood up, brushed himself off, and made his way back into the palace. As he did, he hummed the melody that once played in that happy Tavern, in that happy time. But now, unlike then, he sang alone.
"Master Sparhawk..."
"WAKE UP YA' DAFT BASTARD!"
As Maho opened his eyes, the warmth of the Tavern was immediate. The darkness shed by his eye-lids was folded back, revealing the warm light of the candles and lamps. Pleasant enough that it didn't intimidate the eyes, but bright enough that you could see the sour faces turn cheerful, as they took another sip of wine, or perhaps a swig of ale. He felt his fingertips trace the cracks in the oaken table, sturdy, but slightly soft, from years of absorbing the various fluids dropped on it from cups or - indeed - patrons. He could smell that fantastic aroma of meat and smoke, drifting in from the kitchen, fires lit from ports being thrown in pans, and steaks sizzling as they sat in their own juices, searing on the red-hot skillets. The sound of lutes and violins lifted the whole place, the sweet song wafting over the drunkards like a candied plague.
"Come on Sparhawk, do it again! It's hilarious!"
"S-Sorry? Wha-"
"Come on! Yo-You just did it! You know, the trick you d-" He hiccuped.
As Maho's eyes adjusted to the place, he noticed he was looking at Myles from across the table.
"Am I dreaming?"
"YOU WERE 'MINUTE AGO!" To Myles' left was one of Sparhawk's oldest friends, Borolf, a Dwarf from a village near Belgrath. An old, old friend, who he'd had many a drink with on his journey's to and from the College. Borolf had let out a guffaw after his joke, followed by much of the tavern laughing in tow.
"This... This isn't right? This can't-"
"Oh Maho, stop bein' a dry shite and DO THE RUDDY TRICK!"
Oh. That one.
He stared down at the mug of ale on the table. It was half empty, which made him notice the excess drink that was dripping from his cheek, which he consequently wiped with his sleeve. He'd done this trick for years, ever since his first year at the College had been finished, and when he'd picked up a few tricks. He put his palm over the mug, and whispered the word 'Shtou', which meant 'fill' in the old tongue he'd specialised in, deriving from Oskavosh. The mug began to shake violently in place, and - suddenly - as a blue light shone from his hand, the mug began to explore with golden ale, spouting from the glass like a fountain, drenching the table in it's bitter-sweet deliciousness. They all let out a laugh, the bartender joining in. A good man, who always referred to him as 'The Hawk', despite telling him his first name.
Maho also laughed a little, but it was still off.
This can't be real. Everything that's happened... I...
"Myles... I don't know what's going on. Wher- I mean... When- Borolf!" He suddenly shouted.
"Yes lad?" He'd forgotten he'd called him that.
"How's Belgrath? Is it ok?!" He said with urgency.
"O' Course, ain't been there in... what, 12 years? Yur, it's likely' fine!" He let out another loud, bordering on obnoxious laugh, as if everyone in the entire Tavern had to know exactly how happy he was.
Maho didn't know how to feel. All the anger. The fury. All the emotions that battled within him with no release seemed to be gone. He paused, and raised his hands in front of his face. They were flesh. He felt his face. Apart from the scar on his right side, which he'd carried for years now, all he felt was his beard, and the smooth-roughness of his skin. He began to shake in place. He turned to face Myles again, who was still sitting there, happily enjoying his drink of choice. Always cider. But he was there. He was actually there.
Maho reached out with his left hand, and very slowly began to place it on Myles' shoulder.
"Are you alright Master Sparhawk?"
Master Sparhawk.
Without thinking, he seemed to almost launch his torso over the table, and wrapped his arms around Myles so tightly, he could have suffocated them both. He felt his tears wash into Widogast's robes, his shoulder becoming damp with his joy.
"I think you've had too many Sparhawk..." He giggled lightly.
"I'm sorry... I'm so, so sorry..." He closed his eyes, as he let his head fall onto Myles. In his mind, that moment could have lasted forever. He would happily have given up anything, if it meant that small period of time in his life, could be there forever.
But as he opened his eyes to gaze on Myles again, everything was different.
It was dark. No harsh lights, no dim lamps, just darkness. Jerik stared through his mask at the city of Annuakat. He felt his harsh breath reverberate off of the surface of his golden prison that stuck to his face. He felt no sensation, as he tracked the hard step he sat on outside the palace, only hearing the gravelled scrape of his fingers tracking the stone. He smelled sand. He heard silence. In that short moment, he thought to himself;
I felt. Once.
He stood up, brushed himself off, and made his way back into the palace. As he did, he hummed the melody that once played in that happy Tavern, in that happy time. But now, unlike then, he sang alone.
