Passing Visitation of a Dream

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A cold wind blows. Thunder rolls in the far hills, echoing off the greying rocks as it works its way slowly from the source to the ears of those who wait, patiently watching, listening. There is always thunder at times like these, and so it plays its part ordained.

The moon burns, fiercely, not with brightness nor gentle luminescence but undoubtable presence. Like a fiery eye it burns, gazes upon the hills which alight in the flames of mis-spent lightning. Not a single star can be seen in the blackest of dark night skies.

The wind howls, it cries for forgiveness, it moans for blood to appease its thirst, penance for those who have so affronted it. It chills, chills to the bone, to the bone and through it, a chill which rests in the spirits of those long gone yet still seeking redemption to end their painful remorse.

WHACK!

A door slams, the wind is gone, its duty ceased, the debt paid in full. The whispers of its parting play in the firelight within the room upon whose hinges rests the wooden portal into the deepness of night. The moon still burns, the thunder still rolls.

Rain enters the rooms, more rain to speak the truth, for the unpolished floorboards are damp enough allready, not wet, but nor are they now. One could not be sure if its inhabitants have yet noticed. The wind cannot enter unbidden to the light and warmth within their homes, the moons presence may even be a thankful one; its watchful gaze one of sancturary and sentinel. And the hills, it seems, to the patrons of this town, are far, far away- the edges of the earth, or so it feels from the deep valley bowl upon the roof of the world.

The wanderer stands in the doorway. He is sillouetted by the lightning behind, and the flames of the fire do not seem able to penetrate the shadows dancing underneath his hooded cowl.

The cowl is thrown back, thick white hair is damp underneath. Long, resting past the broad yet hunched and rounded shoulders. A bulbous hooked nose seems to deny the small ears, the simple chin and fine cheek-bones protest the presence of a strong chiselled jaw, as much as they are hidden by rank uneven stubble. It could be a trick of the firelight dancing between the shadows, the face, for the greater part, still remains unseen.

A step is taken forward, another, and then the wanderer halts, pauses, cocking his head to one side, tilting his inadequate ears towards the door which has just been left behind himself. It creaks slowly, resting on its hinges, but makes no move to change where it lies.

He is closer to the fire now. The deep scars can clearly be seen upon the face where eyes should be, more prominent than the thin band of cloth tied about the old mans head -seemingly to hide such scars, but to no avail- they are there, and there they shall remain. No amount of cloth could cover such rends of flesh and leave the face unbound to breath.

The Old Blind Man turns his ghastly visage toward the crowd within the room, who seem to look onwards with disinterest, those who have even lifted their heads from their meals of stew and flagons of spiced mead.

The Old Blind Man cracks a stout walking staff, his staff, against the flagstone porch, the same stones it seems as those which comprise the walls of the place, a much darker hue than the timber of the floors and rafters, as dark as they are for rough-treated wood.

Lightning arcs through the sky, and as the stave meets the stone, the fir tree seen through the large window the other side of the inn erupts in flame, the strike splitting branches clear away from the mighty trunk. The fires are soon doused in the torrent of rain, and the tree has other limbs. It will live.

"Obscurum per obscurius. It has been some little time, though shorter no doubt to others, from when last I paid hedence to your hall.

"No matter, it was time well spent.

"I had not expected to be carried this way in such short surceit from when last my feet rested here. But rest here again they shall not. The time is not right, and it is not now, I know not if it ever shall come again."

A weight seems to lift from the hunched shoulders of the wanderer, the shadows do not seem so dark, the scars not so deep. A smile breaks upon his face, one brimming with a laughter and joy so complete, it suffuses his being with its essence; one that seems to complement the man only in that it, like all else about him, seems to contradict every other mote of his being that is worn on his skin.

"Manus sends his welcome, and wishes you all to be well."

The wretched traveller turns and leaves.

 

Wrong forum

 

I don't think so. Remember, this is a post by Manus.

Manus, it might have been easier just to say "I'm baaack"

Oh, and welcome back. Now I can get back to not knowing WTF you're talking about most of the time.

 

No, Sarevok...this was just a Manus "hello" (and I think a "goodbye" and a "see you later") in the characteristic Manus way.

Good to see you alive and kicking, old buddy. Come and baffle us a little more frequently, eh?

 

Ooooo I thought it was one of those creative surge things