# Skycleft: Tales from the Mad Bard [updated 11/04/04]



## threshel (Oct 12, 2004)

Introduction Part One​
	The fact that it was a unanimous decision comforted none of them.  Winter was coming early; they could all feel its snap in the air and see its herald’s colors coming rapidly to the trees.  To make the colony site in time to build their homes, it would be hard days through this as-yet-unnamed wood rather than the relative ease of weeks going around.  If the trail held they could make good time.  Brenjar, their guide, had done well thus far.  His path through the tall trees had been wide enough for their wagons and his fords had been well chosen.  With little to delay them aside from the occasional broken wagon wheel, the settler’s caravan had made good time.  Today would see them pass the halfway point by Brenjar’s reckoning.

_Halfway in is halfway out_, Hurgen thought as he guided Bula, his ox, at the rear of the line of carts and wagons.  The wood unnerved him, although he saw beauty in it.  The day was clear, and bright sunlight shafted through the canopy - columns of light between the tall, straight trunks of the trees.  The light had a name, Brenjar had said, the _Greengold_.  It wasn’t to be trusted, as it drew the eye and made the dark places darker.

	“Mind the light, Arik, lest it trick your eyes.” He told his youngest boy, sparing a glance back to ensure his boy was perched in his place on the wagon, his back frontward, keeping watch at the rear of the line.

	“I will, Papa.”  The boy called without looking front.  His voice held no irritation, even if it was the _hundredth_ time his father had given that advice today.  Hurgen turned his eyes back to the trail in front of him, trying not to let the pang he felt at seeing his youngest child’s slight frame creep into a worried line on his brow.  He failed, but there was no one to see it.  All of Hurgen’s boys (four of them, bless his late wife) had grown as large framed as he was, and thick muscles had quickly formed on their limbs.  All had followed Hurgen into careers as artisans, choosing crafts that benefited from strong backs and limbs.  Hurgen was himself a carpenter by trade, his eldest, Tojon, a blacksmith (“Someone has to make the nails, Papa”), second was Carild, a stonemason, and Hurgen’s third boy, Ilan, had followed him into carpentry.  They all chose trades that would let them return to their home, and return they did, although home had changed.

	Arik was no different from his brothers until the age of eleven winters.  He had been a stout boy, and was likely to fill his tall frame with muscles, but fell prey to the Wasting instead.  The disease struck without warning: Hurgen and his wife had watched their baby boy wither to skin and bones, nearly too weak to breathe.  He hung on like that through a winter and spring, but he survived, although not before the stress of his care had worn Hurgen’s wife to nothing.  The next winter took her.

	Arik recovered slowly and regained strength of a sort.  He remained painfully (to his father’s eyes) thin, and the hard labor of his family wore him before the highsun meal.  He had fallen ill at the age of apprenticeship and was not able to secure a master in trade.  None of Hurgen’s boys were dunces, however, and Arik seemed the brightest of them all.  Maybe it was necessity owing to his weak frame, but the result was a will to succeed, to not disappoint the memory of his mother, coupled with the same calculative nature that led his older brothers to choose their trades.  Whatever the reasons, Arik found his trade.  Wherever he found those with the skills, he begged, bargained, and bartered for lessons.  Arik was a bowyer and fletcher, and although he never had a proper master in trade, he also never learned a mere one man’s way.  He took his lessons from a variety of instructors, including a few elves his town had seen pass through.  While not a journeyman yet, more than one hunter had praised the straightness of his arrows and the strength of his strings.

	Tojon, and then Carild a year later, returned from apprenticeship to a changed house.  The empty places their mother had occupied seemed deep, and although Hurgen provided a good home and business thrived, the emptiness was pervasive.  Ilan of the three had not left home, being apprenticed to his father, and when he became journeyman he longed for time away.  It was he that found the colonists, and he was quickly offered a place among them.  When they asked if he knew any other artisans, it was Arik who said it first:  “Why don’t we all go?”  And so they had.  And so it was that nearly four winters past Arik’s wasting Hurgen found himself staring at an unfamiliar trail in an unfamiliar wood, taking his turn at the back, his eldest three sons’ carts somewhere ahead of him in the long line.

	Which had stopped.  Hurgen grunted with effort, reigning Bula to a quick halt.  He looked back to his son, who looked front to him, creases of puzzlement mirrored on their brows.  That’s when they heard it.  It came sinuously and many-headed through the trees, dancing in the places between the greengold columns of light.  The rhythm first, then a sad melody that settled over everything.  Hurgen felt all the pain of his lost wife fall on him at once and his throat tightened.  He dropped Bula’s reigns and sank to his knees as his face sank into his calloused hands.  His breath came in ragged sobs as the music bathed him in grief.  He didn’t know how long he was lost to it, but he was roughly pulled back to himself as he felt the odd sensation of cloth being stuffed in his ears.  Strong hands (the hands of an artisan) pulled him to his feet and brushed his blond-gray hair from where it had fallen in his face.  He found himself looking into Arik’s tear streaked face, bits of cloth sticking out of his ears beneath his shock blond hair.  He grabbed his youngest son in a bear hug and pressed his mouth to his ear.

	“It wasn’t your fault, boy,” Hurgen said, his breath still hitching between his words, “It wasn’t your fault.”

	“I know, Papa, I know.”  Arik’s own breath was only slightly calmer, their words muffled by the wads of cloth in their ears.  Arik pulled himself away and looked at his father.  “We need to help the others.” 

Hurgen slumped against their wagon, still shaking, but gaining more control by the second.  He nodded and turned to the wagon, pulling out some rags and after a moment of wrangling, his maul.  He turned to see his son had strung his longbow.

	“Arik, stay here and watch the back.  Help Gunild and Tairia if you can,” He said, a bit loudly, indicating the next two carts up, “Pull the carts as even as you can get them.  Mind the light.  I’m going to fetch your brothers.”  Arik just nodded, still tearing up but under control.  Hurgen became suddenly aware that the woods had become a cacophony of sadness accompanied by that strange panging music.  Were all his boys kneeling in the loam, lost to undeserved pain?  He swallowed his rising anger and shouldered his big maul.  His face set in grim lines; Hurgen went forward to collect his sons.


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## ledded (Oct 12, 2004)

Only one post in and I'm diggin' your style here already, Threshel.  I will definitely stay tuned for more.


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## threshel (Oct 13, 2004)

Thanks, 
That's high praise coming from you.
I hope to update every couple of days (yeah, how long does that last?), so stay tuned.

J
PS Consider yourself copied, pasted, and quoted for the publicity machine that is my sig.


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## threshel (Oct 13, 2004)

Introduction Part Two​
Hurgen the carpenter slowly made his way up the line of stalled carts and wagons.  His maul lay over his shoulder in a white-knuckled grip.  His eyes were still glossy with recent tears as they searched the line ahead for the bright blond and broad backs of his boys.  Through the cloth stuffed in his ears, he could hear the cries and wails of the entire party suffused with strains of song that still tugged at his mind.  Gunild, the farmer with the two carts in front of his own, was still sitting in the driver’s seat of his farm cart, reigns dropped from his hands.  The mule in the harness stood with ignorant patience, as did the cow tethered to the rear of the cart.  Gunild’s mouth hung open in his lean face and his eyes looked far off while tears traced shiny lines on his cheeks.  He listed slightly to one side, and looked in danger of falling off the wagon entirely.  Hurgen forced himself to turn away, knowing that Arik was bringing their cart up and would help the man.  Likewise for the next, Gunild’s wife Tairia; although it was harder to leave the woman curled up in the back of their home wagon, clutching her belly and cooing as if to a child.

Hurgen’s empty hand steadied him against the trunks of the tall trees as he negotiated the trail.  The carts were prudently spaced to guard against accidents entangling multiple wagons.  In the thickness of the wood, Hurgen couldn’t see more than the next couple of carts ahead at a time.  The greengold split the forest into bands of light and dark, giving only frustrating glimpses of the settler’s line as it stretched through the wood.  The next wagon belonged to a family, the Schadts.  They were splayed about it like carelessly dropped cordwood, each mewling in their own torment.  They didn’t seem aware of each other, and the children wailed in the dirt mere feet from their parents.  Hurgen paused here long enough to lift the youngest child off the ground and place her in the arms of her mother, who curled reflexively around her.  Hurgen’s grim lines became crevasses as he witnessed the Schadts publicly tour their own very private grief.  The hydra-headed intrusion of song in his mind broke.  It shattered against the wall of his anger and embarrassment.  It stole away to its coiling through the leaves, and Hurgen dropped his maul to his right hand and began to run.

His breath shortened quickly, his knees popped; he stumbled and tripped over the uneven forest floor.  His left hand was torn and bleeding from catching himself on rough bark and stone.  Hurgen was a big strong man to be sure, but bulk and age are not a combination for agility.  He passed carts and wagons, men and women, wailing children and oblivious animals.  The scenes with Gunild and Tairia, with the Schadts, were duplicated again and again.  He paused only to move babes into older arms, to guide those in danger of falling softly to the ground, and to ensure that no one was looking to end their pain in the most tragic fashion.  Hurgen had known men who had taken their lives out of grief, and saw the same desperate look in the faces of many he passed.  Fortunately, the song induced sadness seemed so incapacitating that those who would end it all lacked the presence of mind to do so.

Lungs burning, Hurgen counted himself lucky that they were in the wood.  On the plains the settler’s caravan would stretch nearly a mile long.  After a quarter of that, he guessed he was about halfway through the line.  He was dimly aware that the music had gotten louder, but it held no entrancement for him now.  The sound of it was strange, like no lute or guitar he’d ever heard.  Something with strings, that was certain, but strings that were coaxed to cry and wail.  Tremulous and tumbling, it built continuously upon itself.  It leapt through leaves, twined around trunks, and danced in the dark bands between the greengold.

Hurgen skidded to a halt.  Ahead, a well-built wagon lay on its side, new carpentry tools and provisions for trail lay scattered among clothes, pots, and barrels.  The ox in the harness was laying down in effort to ease the discomfort of a twisted yoke.  It’s irritated bleats mixed with the cries of the colonists and a new sound that caused the hair on Hurgen’s neck to stiffen in a cold rush.  Slowly grinding a hatchet across his whetstone, Ilan Hurgensen sat facing his father, but his eyes were focused beyond him.  The young man was red-faced and blubbering, his smooth skin twisted in grief and rage.

Ilan was the only other of Hurgen’s boys who lived in the home during Arik’s wasting and their mother’s subsequent decline and death.  It tore at him that he could neither help his brother, and later his mother, nor could he make any decisions about his own life apprenticed as he was.  It was a time of great pain mixed with the least control over any event in his life.  Once his mother passed, some of that pain passed to Arik in the form of blame.  Hurgen had seen it, they had dealt with it then, and the brothers had once again become as close as they were prior.  Hurgen could see now the music had opened old wounds, and the same stubborn strength that had allowed Arik to act to save his father was now allowing Ilan to act.  The music was louder here, though.  Ilan couldn’t shake its influence.  All he could do was sharpen and look towards the rear of the line.  Hurgen knew it wouldn’t last.  Ilan was working himself to a crescendo; the cadence of his incoherent speech and twitching of his right shoulder said that he was already seeing the act take place.  His body would soon follow.  Hurgen’s boys were about to be set at one another in murderous rage.


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## Xath (Oct 14, 2004)

Oooh.  I like it.


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## ledded (Oct 14, 2004)

Sorry to clutter your thread, but I just had to stop by real quick and say...

Wow.

What an update.  I felt nearly as enthralled as those poor folks in the story.  Nice buildup, and the only disappointment in it is that it ended, breaking the nice little spell you had on me there.


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## threshel (Oct 14, 2004)

Clutter away.  
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Introduction Part Three​
Hurgen was worried.  Usually he had nothing to fear from his sons.  A fatherly hand upside the head had calmed more than one raging son, but this wasn’t the flaring temper of a jealous teenager or the heated dispute of sibling rivalry.  Ilan was induced to this rage by grief unnatural.  It was likely he would turn on his father, who was still out of breath from running.  So Hurgen did the only thing he was sure about: he tossed his maul away.  As it landed with a thick thud on the loamy earth, he knew that his best hope for stopping Ilan had been to keep it.  Hurgen shook his head to clear the thought.  He couldn’t bring himself to lift a weapon to his boy.  He was still worried, but struggled to think.  It was hard to do while looking into the rage ruddy face of his incoherent son.  He had to be smart.  His instincts were screaming at him to put a stop to it, to put his foot down, to nip it in the bud.  He fought to stifle them.  The deference would not be there.  This was going to get physical, and Ilan was younger, just as strong if not stronger, and fueled by mindless rage.  All of Hurgen’s life he had been a direct man, sure of his physical ability and his son’s respect for him.  His way was the direct way: to stop something, you stood in its path until it stopped.  For the first time in his life, the big man looked at that something, and _knew_ it would mow him down.  Something flickered in his mind’s eye: his boys wrestling in the yard back home.  The big three boys trying to out-muscle each other while Arik…

Ilan erupted into motion, blood and spittle flying as his rage burst from him in a tearing scream.  He charged down the trail, towards the rear of the line, towards Arik.  The only thing in his way was Hurgen, and just as the big boy was about to collide with his father, Hurgen stepped aside.

And stuck out his foot.

To be honest, had Ilan been aware of his father’s presence, the tactic would’ve failed.  But he wasn’t, and he went sprawling in the dark dirt, breath rushing from his barrel chest in a great whoosh.  The hatchet flew from his hand, and Hurgen leapt upon his back.  Ilan bucked and raged under him, but Hurgen knew leverage and how to apply it.  Pinning his boy, he grabbed the rags from his belt, and stuffed one in each of the big lad’s ears.  Ilan managed to push himself up on his hands, and flipped over to vent his rage on his attacker.  Hurgen promptly laid a fatherly hand upside his son’s head with a muffled thwack.

“Ilan!”  He shouted, as sharply as he had ever said it, with all the gravitas he could muster.  Ilan’s eyes focused in recognition, then widened in shock.  Hurgen hoped he wouldn’t remember, but knew he would.

“Papa?” The realization dawned.  His words caught in his throat.  Hurgen helped him to his feet and Ilan found his voice again, rough though it was.  “No… _no_.”  He looked around wildly.  “Arik!” He called desperately.  “Arik!”

“Calm yourself, boy!”  Hurgen gripped Ilan by the shoulders, holding his attention.  “You never made it, we’re still near your wagon.  I doubt he could hear you, besides.”  Hurgen pointed to the scraps of rags hanging from his own ears.  Ilan’s hands came up to touch the longer rags hanging from the side of his head.  He stood like that for a moment, and Hurgen could see the tightness ease from his shoulders.  The flush of rage and grief left his face; replaced by a stony look his father knew hid embarrassment and guilt.  Hurgen didn’t let him dwell on it long.  “Fetch your hatchet, “ he said as he pointed to where it had flown, “and right your wagon.  I don’t think Hersh likes the position he’s in.”  Ilan snatched the hatchet, and quickly walked to the sideways wagon.  Raising one arm, Ilan yanked it right without breaking stride.  The wagon fell on its wheels with a solid bang, and Hersh bellowed in irritation as his yoke jerked with it.

“Quit whinin’, Hersh.” Ilan freed the ox from the harness and coaxed it to its feet.  Ilan checked the big bull over to make sure it wasn’t injured, and hung the yoke back over Hersh’s shoulders.

“We don’t have time, boy,” said Hurgen as he walked up, the maul again gripped in his hand.

“I have to yoke him at least, or he’ll go lookin’.” Ilan said as he finished up.  “Maybe for Bula.”  He gave his father a sideways look.

“You should’ve tied him off like I said.” Hurgen said gruffly as they turned to continue up the trail.

“A great beast like him?  There’s those that’ll pay for his stud.  I’ve had offers.”  Ever the optimist, his Ilan was.

“I didn’t know you were husbander as well as carpenter.  How do you expect to keep him in harness?”  By the Sword, it felt good to banter with one of his boys again.

“Hersh and I have an understanding, Papa.”

“An understanding.  Is this why all I see is tracks into the woods?  How far had the two of you fallen behind?”  Hurgen’s irritation was real.  He wasn’t as close to the front as he had thought, and as prudent as spacing the carts could be, too much of a gap split the line and made it more vulnerable.  He broke into a trot, giving Ilan a look that said he expected an answer to his question.

“I could still see Carild, Papa.”  Ilan was trotting beside him, their feet thumping in time.  Hurgen raised an eyebrow.  “Well, sometimes I mean.”

They crested a low rise that dropped sharply on the other side.  The trail straightened here, and descended into a bowl depression.  There was a sharp ascent on the other side, but Hurgen could see why Brenjar had chosen this way.  It was the only way through the trees wide enough for the wagons.  A tangled mess of provisions, oxen, and the last two carts of Hurgen’s family were strewn in the bottom of the bowl.  A bright blond and broad backed figure lay face down in the loam, unmoving.

“Carild!”  Hurgen cried as he gingerly made his way down the slope.  Ilan shot past him, his young joints able to soak up the impact, and slid to his knees beside his fallen brother.

“He’s still breathin’, Papa, but he’s hurt!”  Ilan cried, already tearing his own shirt into strips.  Carild was bleeding.  He stuffed the first two strips of cloth into his brother’s ears and searched him for wounds.  He found a gash where Carild had struck his head when he fell.  Ilan bound it best he could, and looked up to his see his father had reached the bottom of the bowl.

“You think he’ll live?”  Hurgen asked, looking at the collided carts and the tracks they made.  Ilan’s reply was too quiet to hear through the rags.  The older man turned towards his son.  “Speak up, boy!”  Ilan’s eyes were glossy, and he worked his throat as he searched for the strength to give his reply again.

“I don’t _know_, Papa.  There’s a lot of blood.”  Hurgen knelt beside his son, his big hands gentle as he checked Carild.

“Good job with the wrap.  His bleeding has slowed.”  He turned Carild gingerly to get a better look at his face, and then checked his hands.  “His color’s still good."  Ilan breathed a sigh of relief, and they stood to survey the wreckage.

It was plain what happened to the two oldest sons of Hurgen.  Carild was descending, the tracks kicked sideways in the loam where he worked the brake on his cart.  Tojon had been ascending the far side.  Deep hoof prints marked where his oxen had strained to lug his big box wagon up the hill.  When the song hit, they had fallen to it.  Carild’s hand would have slipped off the brake as Tojon’s whip and reigns slipped from his own hands.  The heavily laden carts of a blacksmith and stonemason overpowered the oxen pulling them, and the deep grooves in the hillsides showed where the wagons had slid out of control, careening into each other.  Carild’s had flipped over, flinging him to where he lay, and his oxen were caught between the two carts.  It was likely they were dead, or would need to be put down.  They were visible in the wreckage, but motionless and silent.

“Where’s Tojon and Hili?” Ilan asked, running to the front of his eldest brother’s box wagon.  Hili was Tojon’s new wife, brought home with him after his apprenticeship, and the box wagon was as much for her comfort as it was to guard the valuable tools of his trade, along with the raw iron he was bringing along.  It all made for a heavy and dangerous place to be in a collision.  The rear axle was broken where the box wagon had slammed into Carild’s oxen, and the whole affair was canted at a strange angle, the bodies of the oxen lifting the cart off the ground on one side.  Tojon’s own oxen had dragged the broken harness with them and found young leaf to graze in a large patch of sunlight.  They were lowing to each other in frustration.  The harness kept them together and they each had different ideas of where the best leaf was.  Ilan didn’t see any injuries or limps, so he let them be for the moment and climbed into the front of Tojon’s wagon.  He figured that anyone on the driver’s board would have been flung into the back of the wagon.  Poking his head past the curtains separating the driver’s seat from the enclosed back of the wagon he saw them.  Hili was curled on the bunk and facing the wall, crying softly.  Tojon knelt beside it sobbing apologies into her skirts.  Ilan gathered there was some indiscretion in their past, but didn’t want to hear more.  He tore two strips off his shirt and went to stuff his brother’s ears.  He stopped as a thought struck him, then grinned and stuffed the strips into his mouth, chewing them into wads of spit and cloth.  These he then stuffed in his brother’s ears.

It had the desired effect.  Tojon sat bolt up, face twisted in repulsed shock and grabbed at his ears.  Ilan clamped his hands over his brother’s.

“Don’t remove them!  They keep the music away!”  He shouted.  Tojon looked at him dumbly for a moment, then nodded.  Ilan took his hands away.  “Are you hurt?”

“N…no.”  Tojon cleared his throat.  Ilan waited patiently as Tojon regained himself, then handed him two strips of cloth and nodded towards Hili.  “Do…” Tojon looked at Hili.  “Do I have to soak them first?”  He looked around for water and saw that all of his had spilled through the floorboards.  Ilan grinned back at his brother as he clambered out of the wagon.

“Nope,” he said, then spat on the ground and let the curtains close.  Tojon understood at once and his anguished cry made Ilan’s grin wider as he rounded the corner.  Hurgen was still sitting next to Carild, comforting his son as he was coming around.  

"Easy, boy, easy.  You'll be hale soon, just a knock on your skull."  He looked up at Ilan, who was still grinning.  "I take it you found Tojon and his bride?”  

“Yes, Papa, they are well.”

Hurgen grinned back at his son.


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## mseds99 (Oct 15, 2004)

*Good times.*

Just another lowly reader waiting for the next installment...


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## SpaceBaby Industries (Oct 15, 2004)

> He tore two strips off his shirt and went to stuff his brother’s ears. He stopped as a thought struck him, then grinned and stuffed the strips into his mouth, chewing them into wads of spit and cloth. These he then stuffed in his brother’s ears.




No matter how dire the circumstances, there's always time to put the screws to your sibling, if you're the bratty one.

A nice little bit of detail.  Your story is an enjoyable read.


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## Droid101 (Oct 15, 2004)

<confused look>
...
<confused look>
...

Hm.  Still don't understand what's happening, but it's a pretty good read.


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## threshel (Oct 19, 2004)

Introduction Part Four​
The good humor they felt flittered away like a startled flock of birds; smiles dropped and eyes cast down.  The music still played, oddly echoing in the hollow.  Hurgen scowled.  How long was that song?  Did the damned thing have an end?  Beside him Carild’s eyes fluttered and opened, squinting at the light.  He moaned in pain and his hands went to cradle his aching head.  His movements were slow and clumsy, and he fumbled with the bandage on his head and the rags in his ears.  Hurgen grabbed his wrists and pulled his arms down.

“Don’t fool with it, boy.  Rest easy.”  Behind him, Tojon and Hili emerged from their wagon.  He heard Tojon speaking, too low to make out the words.  He didn’t turn, as Carild was still struggling to mess with his wrappings.  His eyes, although open, remained unfocused.  The boy was delirious.  Hurgen could see that his injured son would require constant tending.  “Ilan!  Get down here and help me.”  But the figure that dropped beside him wasn’t Ilan; it was Hili.  Her round face was still puffy around the eyes from her weeping, and she wore the same unhappy expression as the rest of them.  She dropped a satchel to the ground beside her.

“Hold his arms down, Papa.”  Her voice still quavered, but her hands worked steady as she pulled a roll of bandages from her satchel and wrapped Carild’s entire head, winding down over his ears.  This she tied off in a large knot on his forehead, one that was tight enough to foil his confused fumbling.  She turned to Hurgen, her eyes steady.  “You can let go now.”  Hurgen just looked at her.  Though she wasn’t as stout as his late wife, and beside Tojon looked positively fragile, Hurgen could see his beloved Elaana in that steady stare.  It captivated him for a moment, a moment that made his eyes wet and his throat bob.  Hili’s smooth forehead creased in concern, and her hands came up to check the scraps of cloth in Hurgen’s ears.  “Papa?  Have they worked loose?  Let me see…”  Hurgen dropped his son’s arms and caught her hands in his, never looking away from her eyes.

“They’re fine.”  He smiled a small smile.  “You just…”  The words caught, and he harrumphed to clear his throat.  “Take care of my Carild.  We’ll return as soon as we’re able.”  Hili blushed a pretty pink and looked away, but nodded.  Hurgen stood; wincing at the popping in his knees, and took up his maul.  He spared another look at Carild, still fumbling, and wondered if his boy’s mind would return to him.  His wrinkles ravines again, Hurgen turned away to continue up the trail.

Looking up the sharp rise out of the bowl, Hurgen saw why Ilan didn’t answer his call.  Tojon and Ilan had already climbed the hill and were looking up the trail.  Tojon was doing most of the talking from the look of it, and was pointing forward.  Ilan was nodding and adding points of his own.  Hurgen considered calling them for help up the steep ascent, but flipped his maul and gripped it by the head like a cane.  Planting its handle in the loamy hill, he began to steadily climb.  It was laborious work, and his breathing quickly drowned out what little he could hear.  He kept his eyes in front of him, wary for unstable surfaces.  A trembling in the edges of the leaves made him look up to see his boys thundering down the hill to intercept him.  Ilan grabbed at his arm to assist.  Hurgen batted his son’s hand away with a frown and resumed climbing.  Ilan opened his mouth to speak, but Hurgen waved him off.  A hand clamped around his other arm like steel.  Hurgen turned in indignation, but was met by the unwavering gaze of his eldest.  By the Sword, he was strong!

“We don’t have time for pride, Papa!”  Tojon shouted, and then practically lifted his father off of his feet and they fairly flew up the hill.  All the way up, Hurgen wavered between anger at being defied and pride in Tojon for standing up to him.  By the time they reached the top Hurgen had put aside his stubbornness, reminding himself that now was the time to be smart, to be aware.  Still, he yanked his arm out of Tojon’s grasp at the top, if only to rub it where his boy’s grip had ached him.  Hurgen’s breath was a rhythmic roar in his ears.  At least it gave him a break from that damned music.

“We need to find Brenjar.”  Hurgen said between great gulps of air.

“We know, Papa.”  Ilan replied.  “We have an idea of where he may be.”  He pointed up the trail.  “Look there!”

The opposite side of the hill was a shallow descent.  Just in front of them was a laden cart, it’s mule grazing, and its owner slumped over on the driver’s board.  Hurgen believed the man’s name was Bligdan and he could see the man’s shoulders heaving.  In front of him was a family wagon, covered in canvas.  Hurgen couldn’t see it’s owners, and it slowly rocked back and forth on its springs.  Beyond that, the trail and the carts on it were only visible as glimpses winding through the greengold.  There was something, though.  He saw many glimpses, and where Ilan pointed, smoke was just visible above the trees.

“A fire?”  Hurgen asked, alarmed at the thought of what a forest fire could do to the line of incapacitated settlers.  Tojon shook his head.

“We think it’s deliberate, Papa.  The line is stacked up, and they’re cutting and burning to clear a path.”  

Hurgen nodded.  “Ah.  Of course, and where there’s burning to be done…”

“…we’ll find Brenjar’s watchful eye.”  Finished Ilan, and turned to start directly for the smoke.  Hurgen caught him by the shoulder.  

“Listen to me, boys.  We’ll pass a lot of suffering, even on the straight route.  Stop only if necessary to save a life.  We need Brenjar.”  His eyes traveled from Ilan’s to Tojon’s, making sure they understood, making sure they would _think_.  “Keep eye on the fire ahead.  If it goes wild, we go back.  We go to the last ford and pray it’s enough to save us.”  He paused, considering the distances involved.  “And no slowing to help an old man.  You run and save our family.”  His sons’ eyes widened, and while Tojon nodded in mute understanding, Ilan shook his head savagely.

“No, Papa.  We won’t…”

“Leave me?  That’s exactly what you’ll do.”  Hurgen turned and started towards the front of the line before his son could issue further protest.  After a moment, a moment in which Ilan looked to his older brother for help and found none, the Hurgensens followed their father.  Ilan stared at his brother angrily as they quickly picked their way through the trackless wood; through the greengold columns of light.

“You could’ve…”  Ilan began, his ire needing a target.  Tojon cut him off.

“He’s right.”  Was all he said, and they continued in strained silence, the sinuous song plying about their ears.

It was difficult to leave those they passed.  They cut across the winding trail several times, and at each crossing, the wails of the tormented settlers nearly drowned the music out.  They saw the old and young laid about without dignity, hands clutching at dirt and fallen leaves seeking surcease that was not there.  At each, Ilan would hesitate, wanting to tear his shirt to rags.  Only Tojon’s hand on his arm or shoulder would spur him to follow his father’s unrelenting footsteps.  In his older brother’s face, Ilan could read the same reluctance to move on, but Tojon kept his eyes focused on their destination.  It didn’t take them long to reach it.

Passing the front most wagons, they saw a thick stand of trees.  In fact, the whole forest thickened here, and the trees were much thinner.  Here the greengold faded to merely diffused sunlight, save for the bright clearing made by the settlers axes.  Gray-brown patches of ash and dirt marked where axe and fire made short work of stumps left by the felled trees.  Several stumps still burned, sending columns of smoke into the windless blue.  They could see the tenders, their axes and shovels forgotten, lying in the sun.  Backs arched or curled in anguish, fingers grasping at imagined people or places, their childlike sobs followed the smoke into the uncaring sky.  Hurgen barely looked at them, giving them enough eye to see that each was not the guide he sought, but no more.  He led his sons, weaving between the columns of smoke, to where they finally saw Brenjar.  The guide knelt in supplication, prostrating himself before a tree, unremarkable save for the dark stain upon its bark.  His normally neat hair was shiny and wild, and looked as if whole clumps were missing.  As Hurgen and his boys crept closer, the woodsman’s chanting could be heard.

_“Spirit in wood-made-flesh accept
Of this, my unworthy blood.  Bereft
Of spirit I kneel before thee.
Drink of my life.
Drink of my life.
Drink of my life.”_

Brenjar lifted his left hand, covered in blood.  He turned it to face the tree then dragged the knife in his right across the already wounded palm.  His head kicked back in pain, but only a stifled groan escaped his clenched teeth.  Fresh blood poured down his arm and he laid it gently upon the tree, repeating:

_“Spirit in wood-made-flesh accept
Of this, my unworthy blood.  Bereft
Of spirit I kneel before thee.
Drink of my life.
Drink of my life.
Drink of my life.”_

He left his hand like that waiting expectantly as fresh rivulets worked their way down the rough bark.  He was whispering, but they couldn’t hear what it was he was saying.  After a moment, his whispers became shouts.

“Why, why?”  His hands came to his head and clutched at his hair, the knife tumbling to the ground.  His head bent to his knees and Brenjar began yanking at his hair in mad frustration.  “Stop!  Stop!  Why won’t you stop?”  He groaned in resignation and his right hand clutched at the knife on the ground, as he raised his head to begin anew.  Hurgen somehow found his voice.

“Brenjar!  What…” He began to shout, but the ranger whirled to face them and cut him off with hysterical words and unfocused eyes.

“No, NO! Youwillnotstoptheatonementforthefaultismineismine…” His words dissolved into a language Hurgen didn’t know as Brenjar thrust his left hand at them, fingers oddly splayed.  There was an odd silence; a pause in which Hurgen could clearly hear the spatters of blood hit the forest floor.

The trees around them exploded into motion.


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## threshel (Oct 19, 2004)

Droid101 said:
			
		

> <confused look>
> ...
> <confused look>
> ...
> ...




I'll take that as a compliment.  

Hopefully, things will become clearer as I post more.

J


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## The_Universe (Oct 21, 2004)

Lookin' good!  Lookin' good!


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## threshel (Oct 21, 2004)

The Universe said:
			
		

> Thanks for reading, Threshel. Every time somebody posts, it warms my little heart! *you* rock!




Ditto
Ditto
Ditto


J


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## Droid101 (Oct 21, 2004)

threshel said:
			
		

> I'll take that as a compliment.



As well you should.


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## mseds99 (Oct 26, 2004)

*Congrats!!*

Your very first bumpity-bump-bump-bump.


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## Herremann the Wise (Oct 26, 2004)

Hi Threshel,

I wish to add my comments as well.

I like the way how the reader can luxuriate in your words and thus feel the pain and see the world through your character's eyes. Your description is immediate and clear; excellently crafted.

I look forward to reading more of this world you are opening before our eyes.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## threshel (Oct 27, 2004)

My first bump.  I shall treasure it always.



			
				Herreman the Wise said:
			
		

> I like the way how the reader can luxuriate in your words and thus feel the pain and see the world through your character's eyes. Your description is immediate and clear; excellently crafted.




 
WOW.  When I started, I set some writing goals I wished to accomplish.  You've hit them square on, and I couldn't think of a better compliment.  When I started, I was hoping people would post saying they liked it (of course).  It's the reason I'm posting here.  I saw all the positive encouragement that authors get.  You, however, have confirmed that I'm meeting the goals I have set for myself, and that's _huge_.

Thank you both.

J
PS.  And now, as we agreed in the seedy tavern meeting so long ago, here is your reward...


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## threshel (Oct 27, 2004)

Introduction Part Five​
It was all of Hurgen’s unexpressed fears of the forest made real.  Striking like a thousand vipers, the branches of the trees quickly obscured his vision.  Rustling became a roar, creaking became a screech, and through it all, the saddening song beat like a pulse.  Crying out and flailing desperately, his old frame screaming nearly as loud as the wood, he found no escape.  Leaves like fingers grasped his clothing as the rough bark limbs twined their way around his arms and legs.  Within heartbeats, Hurgen was held fast - as fast as if he had stood in the wood for all of its tens of tenwinters, twisting new limbs around himself until they grew stout as he grew gray.  The old carpenter relaxed as age and the futility of his actions took their toll.  The wood seemed content to merely hold him, and quieted into resilient stillness as Hurgen calmed.

His sons were a different matter.  They didn’t have age to tire them or teach them futility, and now Hurgen could hear their struggles, and found that he could turn his head.  Left first, to where Ilan’s over-sharpened hatchet struck green wood again and again, punctuated by the boy’s sharp cries.  He was free for the moment, but Hurgen knew the axe would dull quickly.  The look on Ilan’s face said he knew it, too.  At every opportunity, he inched his way closer to his father.  To Hurgen’s right, Tojon grunted as hands that bent iron to his will splintered the boughs that sought to bind him.  His eyes focused on the prostrate and endlessly atoning Brenjar, the eldest of Hurgen’s boys forced his way inexorably forward.

“Papa.”  Ilan was next to him now, all hard breath and corded muscle.  He jerked as he moved, like a marionette fighting the puppeteer.  “I see more smoke.  I think the stumps have caught the tangle ablaze.”  Hurgen strained as he turned his head to see behind him.  There were fresh curls of smoke threading through the living net that held him.  Ilan was hacking at the branches set around his father, but for every one he let loose, one would wind around the young carpenter.  Hurgen sought his son’s eyes.

“Ilan, no.”  Hurgen knew Ilan couldn’t free them both.

“I won’t watch you die!  Cut wood, carpenter, or we both burn!”  Ilan was adamant.  His eyes told it: save each other, or they wouldn’t survive.  Hurgen cursed and found strength to aid his son.  They attacked the boughs in earnest.  In their cracking, splintering and sweating bid for freedom, they could hear another sound as well: the staccato pops of green wood burning.  Ilan’s axe bit shallow now, no more useful than a hammer.  For every branch broken, two took its place.  They could feel the heat building.  Soon, it would consume the tangle in a gluttonous feast of flame.

“No, no, no, no!”  Ilan’s cries were unending.  They hadn’t moved but a few paces, and had many to go.  Hurgen’s arms were made of lead, and his lungs felt hot enough to melt them.  The heat at his back told him he was right, he wouldn’t make it, and Ilan’s stubbornness tied their fates together as tightly as the binding wood.  Hurgen looked up, up to scream at Brenjar again, to break his voice against the ranger’s madness.  Instead his voice caught and stalled, issuing only as a strangled gasp.

Tojon had made it out.

He was looming over the guide, waiting.  Dripping with sweat, he stood with his left hand slightly raised.  His eyes didn’t look back, even though he could hear his brother’s loud denunciations.  He had been paying attention, and the ritual was always the same.  The chanting first, then the left hand comes up and turns to receive the blade…there!  He grasped Brenjar’s mangled left hand in his own, in the same manner as men shake hands, and squeezed with all the might of his iron-bending grip.  Brenjar shrieked in pain, the knife tumbling from his right hand.  It came up to futilely pry at Tojon’s fingers.  Tojon bent into his grip, and put his mouth next to the ranger’s ear.

“Free them!  Free them or I’ll ruin it!”  Writhing now, Brenjar was twisting in effort to ease his pain.

“No…thefaultismine…” He began, but ended in screams as bones popped under his mutilated flesh.  

“Free them!”  Tojon yelled into the ranger’s ear, then relaxed his grip only slightly.

Brenjar uttered a phrase in strange tongue through clenched teeth, and the branches fled like serpents through grass.  From magic come to magic gone, the fuel of the fire was as nothing.  So like it the fire returned to nothing, and once again they were left among thin woods and columns of stump-smoke.  Ilan and Hurgen stood wide-eyed, clutching each other, but nothing clutching them.  Ilan gulped visibly in relief as Hurgen nodded his thanks to his eldest.

“Tojon?”  Brenjar still spoke through clenched teeth as he stood.  He was clear-eyed, and his face no longer held manic lines.  He had also picked up his knife.    “Are you going to let go now, or do I have to cut off your hand?”

Tojon had seen Brenjar wield that knife before.  As long as a dagger and wide as a sword, its expertly maintained edge clove flesh and bone as easy as Tojon broke branches.  Still, he and Brenjar stood like that for a moment – nose to nose while blood ran between Tojon’s fingers and dripped to the ground in time to the saddening song.  Tojon was looking for something in the ranger’s eyes. Something that would tell him that this man, this guide upon whom their trust lay and venture hung, was not the cause of the fell music.  All Tojon could think of was Hili.  If this man had betrayed them…_her_, Tojon would see him lose more than his hand.

“If that knife moves, we both leave righted.”  Tojon replied, steeling himself for the lightning flash of the knife to his arm.  He tightened his grip only slightly, fully ready to close his left hand into a full fist.  Brenjar groaned faintly and his knees trembled, but the knife remained still.  Tojon continued.  “What were you doing?”

“A ritual of atonement.”  Brenjar’s eyes flicked briefly then returned to Tojon’s searching gaze.  “Let go.”

“Atonement for what?”

Flick.  “An old mistake.”

_Men will search for lies,_ Tojon heard his master’s voice, in a lesson on culling dishonest men from his business dealings, _but they only need a glimpse of memory._

Tojon glanced to his father, and Hurgen nodded his support.  Gingerly, Tojon released Brenjar’s mangled hand from his grip.  The guide sheathed his big knife, crossing its twin on the back of his belt.  Putting two fingers of his right into his mouth, he gave a piercing whistle and leaned into the strength of a nearby tree trunk.  A dapple-gray mare emerged from the woods and whickering softly, walked to the ranger.  

“Ynna.”  Brenjar spoke her name softly and gave her neck a stroke as he turned her to get to his bags.  Hurgen and his boys watched patiently as the ranger applied salve to his cut palm.  They winced to a man as the ranger set his broken bones with audible pops.  Throughout it all Brenjar fought to maintain a stoic expression, his face pale from pain and loss of blood.  Once he had applied a tight wrap, he took a pull from the skin hanging from the saddle horn, and looked to Hurgen.

“So.  Since you’re all the way up, I take it this…” His face twisted in distain.  “_fey_ music has affected the whole line?”

“So it has, Brenjar,” Hurgen was using the maul as a cane now, gripping the head in a callused, spotted hand.  His body was a lake of dull pain.  He and Ilan had remained holding on to each other, and now he lifted his arm to lay some of his weight on his third son’s broad shoulders.  “We must find its source.”

The ranger nodded, his thoughtful expression now at odds with his still wildly mangled hair.  “And it won’t be so near, I think.”  He led Ynna over to Hurgen.  “You should ride.”


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## ledded (Oct 27, 2004)

Man.

You are rocking. My. Socks. Off.

Keep it up, this is truly taking off. Like Herremann the Wise said, you establish an empathy with these characters, allowing them to exhibit strengths to identity with and flaws to humanize, and it virtually forces the reader to feel their plight. 

See boys and girls, here is an example of what sets some apart from the others. A lot of Story Hours are _written_ well. And a choice few are _crafted_.

Now I'm off to find those pesky socks.


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## threshel (Oct 28, 2004)

Thanks for the very kind words, ledded.  I've discovered that I respond very well to positive reinforcement.  

This is my "write every day" project, even if I do fall short of it from time-to-time.  I guess right now it's more of a "every other day" thing, but the goal is to make a habit of it.

So rest assured, there is constant work happening.


J

PS.


			
				ledded said:
			
		

> You are rocking. My. Socks. Off.



YOINK!


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## Herremann the Wise (Oct 28, 2004)

threshel said:
			
		

> PS.  And now, as we agreed in the seedy tavern meeting so long ago, here is your reward...




No reward necessary; I'm just looking forward to future installments as payment enough... although I could put forward a request that you stop by my Story Hour and offer an opinion  ... but such a thing would be churlish in the extreme.

Seriously though, keep the good writing up. I don't know exactly what your eventual goals are but I have a funny feeling you will reach and surpass them. Excellent Work.

Best Regards
Herremann the Wise


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## threshel (Nov 4, 2004)

Introduction Part Six​
Ilan cupped his hands into a stirrup while Tojon took his father’s left hand over his own upturned palm.  Stepping onto his son’s laced fingers, Hurgen grabbed the saddle’s horn and the two boys lifted him onto the gray mare as easily as if he were a child.  Ynna balked at the unfamiliar weight, dancing a semicircle in the loam, but Brenjar’s hand on her reigns and his soothing voice quickly calmed her.

“How is it,” Hurgen asked of the ranger as Ilan handed him the maul, “that you can resist the song without blocked ears?”

Brenjar’s dark eyes flicked at Tojon, but his face held no blame.  “Pain helps,” He handed the horse’s reigns to Hurgen. “And enchantments flounder once broken.  Likely, you don’t even need those rags anymore.”  He turned to lead them away, his lean face grim, his hair and hand mangled reminders.  “Though you may not enjoy it.”

Hurgen nodded as he urged Ynna into a walk.  She snorted and stamped a hoof, but followed Brenjar.  Ilan and Tojon walked on either side.  Ilan touched the rags in his ears.  Briefly looking as if he was going to remove them, he then grimaced.  He mouthed _no_ and shoved his fingers hard in his ears to seat the cloth deeper, drawing a short gasp of pain.  Tojon was looking, and turned to his father, concern on his face.  Hurgen cut off his question.

“We will talk of it lat…” Ynna lurched under him, choosing a different path around a tree than he had intended.  The old carpenter leaned and nearly fell, but Tojon had a quick hand out to steady him.  He then held an open hand out to his father.  Hurgen sighed and handed Tojon the maul, freeing his right hand to grip the horn.

The sounds of the wailing settlers faded as they traveled thourgh the greengold west.  Ynna kept up easily with Brenjar’s quick pace, but his boys were nearly running.  Soon, all they seemed to hear was the saddening song as it wound multi-headed through the canopy shadows.  Even their tromping feet and hooves couldn’t match its gentle persistence.  Hurgen found his mind returning to it again and again as he rode.  He needed distraction.

“Brenjar?”  Hurgen called.  “How is it you know where to go?”

“Do you know what a ‘shouting’ is?”  Came the reply.

Hurgen thought for a moment, forehead creasing.  “No.”

“It’s a place where loud gets louder.”  Brenjar’s eyes were on the trees around them.  He found a tall evergreen, the top of which reached beyond the canopy.  He signaled for a stop.  “_Walls like arms fling horn and call._” He looked up, examining the tree’s heights. “_Thranesmen heed and pass to all._”  Brenjar looked to the boys and held up his left hand swathed in bandages.  “We need a heading.  I can’t climb. Not safely.”

Tojon was quick to step up, and his mouth opened to volunteer, but Ilan cut him off.  “I’ll do it.  You’ll likely snap the tree at its roots.”

“You aren’t a gnome, yourself.”  Tojon’s tone was derisive.  It was plain that he felt this a matter of debt.  Besides, he was right.  While Tojon was the largest of the boys, it wasn’t by much.

“No, but I’m the safer by a tenpound or two.”  Ilan was also right.  The boys looked at each other defiantly.

“Enough.  Ilan, go up.”  Hurgen spoke, and it was settled.

“What am I looking for?”  Ilan asked as he began to climb.  He leveraged himself onto the lowest boughs, and then put his chest to the trunk.  The acrid smell of sap opened his nose, and he sneezed.  Tojon rubbed at his own nose in unconscious sympathy.  Ilan’s head craned back and he looked for the best route.

“There are highlands to the west,” Brenjar answered, “they may hold a rockface.  Look for that first.  If you don’t see any, sight us towards the roughest hills.”

Ilan nodded, and his path chosen, he made for the top.  Hurgen’s face creased with worry.  All boys were tree-climbers, but this was a boy in a man’s body, and this tree was twice the height of any he had climbed for play.  Should he underestimate his weight on a limb…

“Take care, boy.”  Hurgen called after him.  “Keep your feet in the joinings.”

“I will, Papa.”  Ilan was soon barely visible, then not at all.  “Brenjar’s chosen a good one.”

Hurgen waited, listening for the call of his voice, praying the creaking and rustling of the tree wouldn’t change to a cracking, splintering harbinger.  The tree swayed in greater arcs as the sounds of Ilan’s ascent receded up and out of Brenjar’s hearing.  All of their eyes followed.

“Brenjar?”  Hurgen’s voice was tight, but steady.

“I can see him, Hurgen.”  The ranger answered from where he stood under the tree.  He didn’t seem bothered by the light shower of green needles and bits of bark Ilan was knocking loose.  “He’s fine, and nearly there.”  They waited in silence again.

The tree’s swaying became gentler, and Brenjar turned and nodded to Hurgen.  Ilan had reached the top.  His voice came down, thin through the cloth, and from so very high up.  Hurgen couldn’t make it out, but he saw Brenjar nod approvingly, and heard his shouted reply.

“Good!  Come down!”  The guide’s right hand beckoned Ilan in large arcs.  After a moment, the tall evergreen increased it’s swaying again.  Hurgen tried to tell himself that the hard part was over, that every step down was one less broken bone, one less bruise.  It didn’t help, and he didn’t breath easy until Ilan hit the ground on both feet, his grin quickly fading in the song-filled shadows.  

Brenjar didn’t waste any time.  “Tell me.”  

Ilan oriented himself, looking at nearby trunks.  It took him a minute, but he finally pointed.  “That way.”  He unconsciously imitated Brenjar’s clipped speech.  “A rockface, like you said.”

Brenjar studied the direction for a moment, his eyes focused on some distant landmark.  He clapped Ilan on the shoulder and without another word began walking.  Hurgen grunted as Ynna followed, grateful now that he had a hand on the horn.  The mare had found a compromise it seemed: Hurgen could ride her, but she was determined to take her cues from Brenjar, whether given or no.  Hurgen shrugged and let the reigns go slack, though he didn’t release them.  Ynna relaxed, given her head, and they continued through the forest with both of Hurgen’s hands on the horn.

The land tilted up as they moved, and soon the heavy breath of boys and mare competed with the sounds of heavy steps and hooves.  The weight of song increased, growing steadily louder as they climbed.  It swayed as they switched back and forth up steep slopes.  It followed them in furrows and haunted them in hollows.  Insanely, everything Hurgen saw reminded him of Elaana, or rather, his loss of her.  The shadows were as empty as his bed, the sunlight as tasteless as the food in a lonely breakfast.  The tall trunks of trees tilted to become the logs of the lodge they had shared.  How had he survived?  How had it not done him?  How?

A hand on his knee. “Papa?” Tojon’s panting voice cut through the veil.  Hurgen lifted his head to bright sunlight.  Blinking, he was surprised to find tears running down his face.  Ynna's reigns had slipped from his hands and Ilan now held them.  “Papa?  Are you all right?”  Between his words, Tojon’s breath entered his body in great rushes.  The song had a single head now, and it butted Hurgen between the ears.  He reeled, but didn’t fall, neither off the horse, nor into morbid memories.

Then Hurgen understood.  He clamped a gnarled hand over the one on his knee, hard enough to make even Tojon gasp.  “Papa!  What’s wrong with you?”

Hurgen hadn’t been alone at breakfast.

“Throw the maul.”

“What?”

“NOW.  Ilan, your hatchet, too.”  His boys instantly complied; though it was plain they thought their father might be mad.  The tools sailed away to thump in the grass.

“Help me down.”  They came over, and had him off the horse as easily as they’d had him on it.  He took one of their hands in each of his own.  “Where’s Brenjar?”

“He said he had to heed nature.  He’ll be back soon.”  Ilan’s voice was strained and his face wore worry.  They were standing at the bottom of a low hill, clear of trees, and close enough to the slope that they couldn’t see the top.  One thing was perfectly clear: whatever was making the song; it was at the hill’s top.

“I doubt he meant what you think.  Did he have his knife out?”

Ilan’s eyes widened.  “Yes, Papa.  I thought he needed it for cutting leaves or something…”  The ranger’s mad cries cut him off, and they all looked to the woodline, not far away.

“I don’t understand, Papa.”  Tojon said as Hurgen began walking them up the hill.

“It’s _this_,” Hurgen answered, shaking their hands, never taking his eyes off the top of the hill.

“But we weren’t…” Ilan began, but was nearly yanked off his feet in Hurgen’s hurry and frustration.

“_Think,_ boy.  It’s a song of loneliness.  This,” he shook their hands again, “reminds us that we are not alone.”

Holding each other’s hands like children, they crested the hill into the gale of song.


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## Mahtave (Nov 9, 2004)

Hey!  I think I found one of Ledded's socks over here....  Who knew by following him here I would stumble upon an excellent story!  Threshel, this is an excellent read you have created here.  I will mirror the replies made already - the amount of emotion you have put into these characters makes this very real to the reader.  The next to the last line - 

“Think, boy. It’s a song of loneliness. This,” he shook their hands again, “reminds us that we are not alone.” 


- really brought the whole conflict to an important point.  Everyone has a moment of despair, of loneliness.  Fortunately for Hurgen and his sons, he realized that he was never really alone.  

Keep this story up, I think I have found yet another good one to read.  Now if I could only find ledded's other sock for him...


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## ledded (Nov 9, 2004)

Mahtave said:
			
		

> Hey! I think I found one of Ledded's socks over here.... Who knew by following him here I would stumble upon an excellent story! Threshel, this is an excellent read you have created here. I will mirror the replies made already - the amount of emotion you have put into these characters makes this very real to the reader. The next to the last line -
> 
> “Think, boy. It’s a song of loneliness. This,” he shook their hands again, “reminds us that we are not alone.”
> 
> ...



I must admit, that bit of plot culmination, of character realization, almost, _almost_ gave me a little choke-age.  Sniff.  Ahem.

So sue me.  I'm a big girl.

Anybody got a problem with that?!?  <glares menacingly at everyone, managing something in between Krusty the Clown and a puppy with the sneezes>

Bah.  I'm gonna go punch myself in the arm and watch some football.  

In all seriousness, that part did strike a nice chord with me threshel.   Keep up the good work.  It's nice to see a damn fine Story Hour that isnt all explosions and hacking up stuff and what new spell/power did I get today (mine included in that lot).



			
				Mahtave said:
			
		

> Keep this story up, I think I have found yet another good one to read. Now if I could only find ledded's other sock for him...



Lemme know where you find it


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## threshel (Nov 10, 2004)

Thanks guys.  I'm overjoyed that you're liking the story so far.

And that ledded's a big girl.  Revelations come in the unlikeliest places.

Back to work,

J


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## ledded (Nov 10, 2004)

threshel said:
			
		

> And that ledded's a big girl. Revelations come in the unlikeliest places.



Um, you do realize that I'm actually not a girl, that was one o' dem, y'know, um 'metaphor' things.  Sort of.  Ahem.   

Not that there's anything wrong with, y'know, _girls_, I just ain't one of 'em.


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## threshel (Nov 11, 2004)

Si senor, I am (and was) aware of your actual physical gender.


J


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