The Wind Road [Closed]

Tviyr was the first boundary to be created when Fellsgard was freed from Bhelest. There is a diverse magnitude of adventurers that trek through this countryside. Decorated with grassland, coastline, forest, and jungle, it's quite the vision. Read more...
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Druilin
Character
The Lost
Level
01
24 / 24 HP
20 / 20 MP
0p / 0g / 0s / 50c
Race: Ghost
Class: Cleric
Posts: 6
Joined: October 1st, 2019, 12:59 pm
Has thanked: 8 times
Been thanked: 5 times

The Wind Road [Closed]

Post by Druilin »

The wind howled empty on the tilled land, the rolling landscape catching and echoing the sound into a soft drone; ever present but calming in it's way. The farm land was freshly worked, the cold weather seed replacing the recently harvested grain; this gave the landscape a barren visage, free of any greenery and wide open.

It was not the best place to hide for an apparition, but the night was deep and the small hamlet which extended beyond the borders of the farmland was sparsely populated, little more then a dozen lives struggled to eek out a living on these farms and none were likely to notice the ethereal Druilin wandering their farm land in the absolute darkness.

A soft green shimmer, indistinct and incorporeal was all that Druilin presented, his shape fraying at it's edges and giving him a maddening quality which made him unpleasant to directly look at; like a heat mirage on the horizon. Slowly, with each 'step' closer to the tightly nestled shacks and shanties Druilin allowed himself to become more solid, his edges growing more distinct and his form more clear.

At a glance he was a dark cloaked man, a hood hiding his face and long sleeves hiding his hands - his feet were wrapped with cloth, the green shimmer of his shape glowing from the crude footwear. In his right hand was a torch sized staff, the top like a bird cage with green light dancing at it's center, illuminating the way ahead. The 'hand' which held the glowing staff was terrifyingly indistinct, more a tendril of energy then a definite human shape.

Silent was each of his steps, his weight nothing at all and his elaborate dark garb making not a rustle as he moved. In truth Druilin wore nothing at all, the long cloak and overcoat, the pendant and jewelry a representation of his spirit, as much 'flesh' as the shimmering energy which was his 'skin'. His deliberate steps brought him to the shuttered window of a particularly poorly kept shanty, the roof porous and the rot of decay causing the whole structure to slump on it's thin wood frame.

Without hesitation Druilin stepped forward, through the wall and into the single room which made up the entirety of the shanty. At his feet lay a single man, shivering against the bite of the cold - the fire pit in the center of the room had long since sputtered to coals, producing little heat. It likely mattered little if it was a roaring blaze, for the man was skin and bone; his skin a pale pallor which spoke of a biting sickness.

His shivers ceased as Druilin knelt, placing his indistinct left hand on the man's forehead. The shimmer of his form spread out from his hand, coating the man's in head wisps of pale green energy. Like dozens of tendrils they wrapped around the man's head, lifting it up. Dropping to a seated position Druilin set the men's head on his lap, his 'hand' coiling back into itself as it 'released' the man's head.

Soft, gentle strokes passed through the greasy, thin and lice infested hair of the man - his age was hard to quantify, his physical condition deteriorating his appearance to such an extent he could easily have been elderly or a young adult. The soft touch seemed to calm the man, his ragged breathing slowing as if the pain he suffered from even in sleep had begun to subside.

"I am sorry." Druilin whispered, his voice eerie and indistinct - projecting not from his 'mouth' as would a living creature, but from every part of him and in all directions; giving his voice a hollow, distant quality. One thing was undeniable, his voice was deeply melancholy, filled with a sadness so profound it seemed to cause to the wind to howl in suffering.

It was not a sadness for what he was, an apparition, a ghost. No, it was a sadness deeper - a suffering sorrow for the dying man in his lap which he could not save.

Hours passed, indistinct and silent - Druilin's soft touch and soothing presence with the man as the sun touched the horizon, it's light fighting through the gaps in the shutters and bathing the interior of the shanty in a pale, warm glow. As if finally comforted by the rising sun the man exhaled, and never again drew breath.

The farmers that day swore to any who would listen they heard sobbing on the wind, a sad cry so profound and loving they could not contain their own tears.

When they found Myter that morning his expression spoke of a peaceful death.

[OOC: This is a solo thread about my character to warm up my rusty writing skills]
Word count: 783
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