#the wayfarers inn | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lesmisletters-daily · 9 days ago

Text

The Evening Of A Day Of Walking

Les Mis Letters reading club explores one chapter of Les Misérables every day. Join us on Discord, Substack - or share your thoughts right here on tumblr - today's tag is #lm 1.2.1

Early in the month of October, 1815, about an hour before sunset, a man who was travelling on foot entered the little town of D—— The few inhabitants who were at their windows or on their thresholds at the moment stared at this traveller with a sort of uneasiness. It was difficult to encounter a wayfarer of more wretched appearance. He was a man of medium stature, thickset and robust, in the prime of life. He might have been forty-six or forty-eight years old. A cap with a drooping leather visor partly concealed his face, burned and tanned by sun and wind, and dripping with perspiration. His shirt of coarse yellow linen, fastened at the neck by a small silver anchor, permitted a view of his hairy breast: he had a cravat twisted into a string; trousers of blue drilling, worn and threadbare, white on one knee and torn on the other; an old gray, tattered blouse, patched on one of the elbows with a bit of green cloth sewed on with twine; a tightly packed soldier knapsack, well buckled and perfectly new, on his back; an enormous, knotty stick in his hand; iron-shod shoes on his stockingless feet; a shaved head and a long beard.

The sweat, the heat, the journey on foot, the dust, added I know not what sordid quality to this dilapidated whole. His hair was closely cut, yet bristling, for it had begun to grow a little, and did not seem to have been cut for some time.

No one knew him. He was evidently only a chance passer-by. Whence came he? From the south; from the seashore, perhaps, for he made his entrance into D—— by the same street which, seven months previously, had witnessed the passage of the Emperor Napoleon on his way from Cannes to Paris. This man must have been walking all day. He seemed very much fatigued. Some women of the ancient market town which is situated below the city had seen him pause beneath the trees of the boulevard Gassendi, and drink at the fountain which stands at the end of the promenade. He must have been very thirsty: for the children who followed him saw him stop again for a drink, two hundred paces further on, at the fountain in the market-place.

On arriving at the corner of the Rue Poichevert, he turned to the left, and directed his steps toward the town-hall. He entered, then came out a quarter of an hour later. A gendarme was seated near the door, on the stone bench which General Drouot had mounted on the 4th of March to read to the frightened throng of the inhabitants of D—— the proclamation of the Gulf Juan. The man pulled off his cap and humbly saluted the gendarme.

The gendarme, without replying to his salute, stared attentively at him, followed him for a while with his eyes, and then entered the town-hall.

There then existed at D—— a fine inn at the sign of the Cross of Colbas. This inn had for a landlord a certain Jacquin Labarre, a man of consideration in the town on account of his relationship to another Labarre, who kept the inn of the Three Dauphins in Grenoble, and had served in the Guides. At the time of the Emperor’s landing, many rumors had circulated throughout the country with regard to this inn of the Three Dauphins. It was said that General Bertrand, disguised as a carter, had made frequent trips thither in the month of January, and that he had distributed crosses of honor to the soldiers and handfuls of gold to the citizens. The truth is, that when the Emperor entered Grenoble he had refused to install himself at the hotel of the prefecture; he had thanked the mayor, saying, “I am going to the house of a brave man of my acquaintance”; and he had betaken himself to the Three Dauphins. This glory of the Labarre of the Three Dauphins was reflected upon the Labarre of the Cross of Colbas, at a distance of five and twenty leagues. It was said of him in the town, “That is the cousin of the man of Grenoble.”

The man bent his steps towards this inn, which was the best in the country-side. He entered the kitchen, which opened on a level with the street. All the stoves were lighted; a huge fire blazed gayly in the fireplace. The host, who was also the chief cook, was going from one stew-pan to another, very busily superintending an excellent dinner designed for the wagoners, whose loud talking, conversation, and laughter were audible from an adjoining apartment. Any one who has travelled knows that there is no one who indulges in better cheer than wagoners. A fat marmot, flanked by white partridges and heather-cocks, was turning on a long spit before the fire; on the stove, two huge carps from Lake Lauzet and a trout from Lake Alloz were cooking.

The host, hearing the door open and seeing a newcomer enter, said, without raising his eyes from his stoves:—

“What do you wish, sir?”

“Food and lodging,” said the man.

“Nothing easier,” replied the host. At that moment he turned his head, took in the traveller’s appearance with a single glance, and added, “By paying for it.”

The man drew a large leather purse from the pocket of his blouse, and answered, “I have money.”

“In that case, we are at your service,” said the host.

The man put his purse back in his pocket, removed his knapsack from his back, put it on the ground near the door, retained his stick in his hand, and seated himself on a low stool close to the fire. D—— is in the mountains. The evenings are cold there in October.

But as the host went back and forth, he scrutinized the traveller.

“Will dinner be ready soon?” said the man.

“Immediately,” replied the landlord.

While the newcomer was warming himself before the fire, with his back turned, the worthy host, Jacquin Labarre, drew a pencil from his pocket, then tore off the corner of an old newspaper which was lying on a small table near the window. On the white margin he wrote a line or two, folded it without sealing, and then intrusted this scrap of paper to a child who seemed to serve him in the capacity both of scullion and lackey. The landlord whispered a word in the scullion’s ear, and the child set off on a run in the direction of the town-hall.

The traveller saw nothing of all this.

Once more he inquired, “Will dinner be ready soon?”

“Immediately,” responded the host.

The child returned. He brought back the paper. The host unfolded it eagerly, like a person who is expecting a reply. He seemed to read it attentively, then tossed his head, and remained thoughtful for a moment. Then he took a step in the direction of the traveller, who appeared to be immersed in reflections which were not very serene.

“I cannot receive you, sir,” said he.

The man half rose.

“What! Are you afraid that I will not pay you? Do you want me to pay you in advance? I have money, I tell you.”

“It is not that.”

“What then?”

“You have money—”

“Yes,” said the man.

“And I,” said the host, “have no room.”

The man resumed tranquilly, “Put me in the stable.”

“I cannot.”

“Why?”

“The horses take up all the space.”

“Very well!” retorted the man; “a corner of the loft then, a truss of straw. We will see about that after dinner.”

“I cannot give you any dinner.”

This declaration, made in a measured but firm tone, struck the stranger as grave. He rose.

“Ah! bah! But I am dying of hunger. I have been walking since sunrise. I have travelled twelve leagues. I pay. I wish to eat.”

“I have nothing,” said the landlord.

The man burst out laughing, and turned towards the fireplace and the stoves: “Nothing! and all that?”

“All that is engaged.”

“By whom?”

“By messieurs the wagoners.”

“How many are there of them?”

“Twelve.”

“There is enough food there for twenty.”

“They have engaged the whole of it and paid for it in advance.”

The man seated himself again, and said, without raising his voice, “I am at an inn; I am hungry, and I shall remain.”

Then the host bent down to his ear, and said in a tone which made him start, “Go away!”

At that moment the traveller was bending forward and thrusting some brands into the fire with the iron-shod tip of his staff; he turned quickly round, and as he opened his mouth to reply, the host gazed steadily at him and added, still in a low voice: “Stop! there’s enough of that sort of talk. Do you want me to tell you your name? Your name is Jean Valjean. Now do you want me to tell you who you are? When I saw you come in I suspected something; I sent to the town-hall, and this was the reply that was sent to me. Can you read?”

So saying, he held out to the stranger, fully unfolded, the paper which had just travelled from the inn to the town-hall, and from the town-hall to the inn. The man cast a glance upon it. The landlord resumed after a pause.

“I am in the habit of being polite to every one. Go away!”

The man dropped his head, picked up the knapsack which he had deposited on the ground, and took his departure.

He chose the principal street. He walked straight on at a venture, keeping close to the houses like a sad and humiliated man. He did not turn round a single time. Had he done so, he would have seen the host of the Cross of Colbas standing on his threshold, surrounded by all the guests of his inn, and all the passers-by in the street, talking vivaciously, and pointing him out with his finger; and, from the glances of terror and distrust cast by the group, he might have divined that his arrival would speedily become an event for the whole town.

He saw nothing of all this. People who are crushed do not look behind them. They know but too well the evil fate which follows them.

Thus he proceeded for some time, walking on without ceasing, traversing at random streets of which he knew nothing, forgetful of his fatigue, as is often the case when a man is sad. All at once he felt the pangs of hunger sharply. Night was drawing near. He glanced about him, to see whether he could not discover some shelter.

The fine hostelry was closed to him; he was seeking some very humble public house, some hovel, however lowly.

Just then a light flashed up at the end of the streets; a pine branch suspended from a cross-beam of iron was outlined against the white sky of the twilight. He proceeded thither.

It proved to be, in fact, a public house. The public house which is in the Rue de Chaffaut.

The wayfarer halted for a moment, and peeped through the window into the interior of the low-studded room of the public house, illuminated by a small lamp on a table and by a large fire on the hearth. Some men were engaged in drinking there. The landlord was warming himself. An iron pot, suspended from a crane, bubbled over the flame.

The entrance to this public house, which is also a sort of an inn, is by two doors. One opens on the street, the other upon a small yard filled with manure. The traveller dare not enter by the street door. He slipped into the yard, halted again, then raised the latch timidly and opened the door.

“Who goes there?” said the master.

“Some one who wants supper and bed.”

“Good. We furnish supper and bed here.”

He entered. All the men who were drinking turned round. The lamp illuminated him on one side, the firelight on the other. They examined him for some time while he was taking off his knapsack.

The host said to him, “There is the fire. The supper is cooking in the pot. Come and warm yourself, comrade.”

He approached and seated himself near the hearth. He stretched out his feet, which were exhausted with fatigue, to the fire; a fine odor was emitted by the pot. All that could be distinguished of his face, beneath his cap, which was well pulled down, assumed a vague appearance of comfort, mingled with that other poignant aspect which habitual suffering bestows.

It was, moreover, a firm, energetic, and melancholy profile. This physiognomy was strangely composed; it began by seeming humble, and ended by seeming severe. The eye shone beneath its lashes like a fire beneath brushwood.

One of the men seated at the table, however, was a fishmonger who, before entering the public house of the Rue de Chaffaut, had been to stable his horse at Labarre’s. It chanced that he had that very morning encountered this unprepossessing stranger on the road between Bras d’Asse and—I have forgotten the name. I think it was Escoublon. Now, when he met him, the man, who then seemed already extremely weary, had requested him to take him on his crupper; to which the fishmonger had made no reply except by redoubling his gait. This fishmonger had been a member half an hour previously of the group which surrounded Jacquin Labarre, and had himself related his disagreeable encounter of the morning to the people at the Cross of Colbas. From where he sat he made an imperceptible sign to the tavern-keeper. The tavern-keeper went to him. They exchanged a few words in a low tone. The man had again become absorbed in his reflections.

The tavern-keeper returned to the fireplace, laid his hand abruptly on the shoulder of the man, and said to him:—

“You are going to get out of here.”

The stranger turned round and replied gently, “Ah! You know?—”

“Yes.”

“I was sent away from the other inn.”

“And you are to be turned out of this one.”

“Where would you have me go?”

“Elsewhere.”

The man took his stick and his knapsack and departed.

As he went out, some children who had followed him from the Cross of Colbas, and who seemed to be lying in wait for him, threw stones at him. He retraced his steps in anger, and threatened them with his stick: the children dispersed like a flock of birds.

He passed before the prison. At the door hung an iron chain attached to a bell. He rang.

The wicket opened.

“Turnkey,” said he, removing his cap politely, “will you have the kindness to admit me, and give me a lodging for the night?”

A voice replied:—

“The prison is not an inn. Get yourself arrested, and you will be admitted.”

The wicket closed again.

He entered a little street in which there were many gardens. Some of them are enclosed only by hedges, which lends a cheerful aspect to the street. In the midst of these gardens and hedges he caught sight of a small house of a single story, the window of which was lighted up. He peered through the pane as he had done at the public house. Within was a large whitewashed room, with a bed draped in printed cotton stuff, and a cradle in one corner, a few wooden chairs, and a double-barrelled gun hanging on the wall. A table was spread in the centre of the room. A copper lamp illuminated the tablecloth of coarse white linen, the pewter jug shining like silver, and filled with wine, and the brown, smoking soup-tureen. At this table sat a man of about forty, with a merry and open countenance, who was dandling a little child on his knees. Close by a very young woman was nursing another child. The father was laughing, the child was laughing, the mother was smiling.

The stranger paused a moment in reverie before this tender and calming spectacle. What was taking place within him? He alone could have told. It is probable that he thought that this joyous house would be hospitable, and that, in a place where he beheld so much happiness, he would find perhaps a little pity.

He tapped on the pane with a very small and feeble knock.

They did not hear him.

He tapped again.

He heard the woman say, “It seems to me, husband, that some one is knocking.”

“No,” replied the husband.

He tapped a third time.

The husband rose, took the lamp, and went to the door, which he opened.

He was a man of lofty stature, half peasant, half artisan. He wore a huge leather apron, which reached to his left shoulder, and which a hammer, a red handkerchief, a powder-horn, and all sorts of objects which were upheld by the girdle, as in a pocket, caused to bulge out. He carried his head thrown backwards; his shirt, widely opened and turned back, displayed his bull neck, white and bare. He had thick eyelashes, enormous black whiskers, prominent eyes, the lower part of his face like a snout; and besides all this, that air of being on his own ground, which is indescribable.

“Pardon me, sir,” said the wayfarer, “Could you, in consideration of payment, give me a plate of soup and a corner of that shed yonder in the garden, in which to sleep? Tell me; can you? For money?”

“Who are you?” demanded the master of the house.

The man replied: “I have just come from Puy-Moisson. I have walked all day long. I have travelled twelve leagues. Can you?—if I pay?”

“I would not refuse,” said the peasant, “to lodge any respectable man who would pay me. But why do you not go to the inn?”

“There is no room.”

“Bah! Impossible. This is neither a fair nor a market day. Have you been to Labarre?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

The traveller replied with embarrassment: “I do not know. He did not receive me.”

“Have you been to What’s-his-name’s, in the Rue Chaffaut?”

The stranger’s embarrassment increased; he stammered, “He did not receive me either.”

The peasant’s countenance assumed an expression of distrust; he surveyed the newcomer from head to feet, and suddenly exclaimed, with a sort of shudder:—

“Are you the man?—”

He cast a fresh glance upon the stranger, took three steps backwards, placed the lamp on the table, and took his gun down from the wall.

Meanwhile, at the words, Are you the man? the woman had risen, had clasped her two children in her arms, and had taken refuge precipitately behind her husband, staring in terror at the stranger, with her bosom uncovered, and with frightened eyes, as she murmured in a low tone, “Tso-maraude.”

All this took place in less time than it requires to picture it to one’s self. After having scrutinized the man for several moments, as one scrutinizes a viper, the master of the house returned to the door and said:—

“Clear out!”

“For pity’s sake, a glass of water,” said the man.

“A shot from my gun!” said the peasant.

Then he closed the door violently, and the man heard him shoot two large bolts. A moment later, the window-shutter was closed, and the sound of a bar of iron which was placed against it was audible outside.

Night continued to fall. A cold wind from the Alps was blowing. By the light of the expiring day the stranger perceived, in one of the gardens which bordered the street, a sort of hut, which seemed to him to be built of sods. He climbed over the wooden fence resolutely, and found himself in the garden. He approached the hut; its door consisted of a very low and narrow aperture, and it resembled those buildings which road-laborers construct for themselves along the roads. He thought without doubt, that it was, in fact, the dwelling of a road-laborer; he was suffering from cold and hunger, but this was, at least, a shelter from the cold. This sort of dwelling is not usually occupied at night. He threw himself flat on his face, and crawled into the hut. It was warm there, and he found a tolerably good bed of straw. He lay, for a moment, stretched out on this bed, without the power to make a movement, so fatigued was he. Then, as the knapsack on his back was in his way, and as it furnished, moreover, a pillow ready to his hand, he set about unbuckling one of the straps. At that moment, a ferocious growl became audible. He raised his eyes. The head of an enormous dog was outlined in the darkness at the entrance of the hut.

It was a dog’s kennel.

He was himself vigorous and formidable; he armed himself with his staff, made a shield of his knapsack, and made his way out of the kennel in the best way he could, not without enlarging the rents in his rags.

He left the garden in the same manner, but backwards, being obliged, in order to keep the dog respectful, to have recourse to that manœuvre with his stick which masters in that sort of fencing designate as la rose couverte.

When he had, not without difficulty, repassed the fence, and found himself once more in the street, alone, without refuge, without shelter, without a roof over his head, chased even from that bed of straw and from that miserable kennel, he dropped rather than seated himself on a stone, and it appears that a passer-by heard him exclaim, “I am not even a dog!”

He soon rose again and resumed his march. He went out of the town, hoping to find some tree or haystack in the fields which would afford him shelter.

He walked thus for some time, with his head still drooping. When he felt himself far from every human habitation, he raised his eyes and gazed searchingly about him. He was in a field. Before him was one of those low hills covered with close-cut stubble, which, after the harvest, resemble shaved heads.

The horizon was perfectly black. This was not alone the obscurity of night; it was caused by very low-hanging clouds which seemed to rest upon the hill itself, and which were mounting and filling the whole sky. Meanwhile, as the moon was about to rise, and as there was still floating in the zenith a remnant of the brightness of twilight, these clouds formed at the summit of the sky a sort of whitish arch, whence a gleam of light fell upon the earth.

The earth was thus better lighted than the sky, which produces a particularly sinister effect, and the hill, whose contour was poor and mean, was outlined vague and wan against the gloomy horizon. The whole effect was hideous, petty, lugubrious, and narrow.

There was nothing in the field or on the hill except a deformed tree, which writhed and shivered a few paces distant from the wayfarer.

This man was evidently very far from having those delicate habits of intelligence and spirit which render one sensible to the mysterious aspects of things; nevertheless, there was something in that sky, in that hill, in that plain, in that tree, which was so profoundly desolate, that after a moment of immobility and reverie he turned back abruptly. There are instants when nature seems hostile.

He retraced his steps; the gates of D—— were closed. D——, which had sustained sieges during the wars of religion, was still surrounded in 1815 by ancient walls flanked by square towers which have been demolished since. He passed through a breach and entered the town again.

It might have been eight o’clock in the evening. As he was not acquainted with the streets, he recommenced his walk at random.

In this way he came to the prefecture, then to the seminary. As he passed through the Cathedral Square, he shook his fist at the church.

At the corner of this square there is a printing establishment. It is there that the proclamations of the Emperor and of the Imperial Guard to the army, brought from the Island of Elba and dictated by Napoleon himself, were printed for the first time.

Worn out with fatigue, and no longer entertaining any hope, he lay down on a stone bench which stands at the doorway of this printing office.

At that moment an old woman came out of the church. She saw the man stretched out in the shadow. “What are you doing there, my friend?” said she.

He answered harshly and angrily: “As you see, my good woman, I am sleeping.” The good woman, who was well worthy the name, in fact, was the Marquise de R——

“On this bench?” she went on.

“I have had a mattress of wood for nineteen years,” said the man; “to-day I have a mattress of stone.”

“You have been a soldier?”

“Yes, my good woman, a soldier.”

“Why do you not go to the inn?”

“Because I have no money.”

“Alas!” said Madame de R——, “I have only four sous in my purse.”

“Give it to me all the same.”

The man took the four sous. Madame de R—— continued: “You cannot obtain lodgings in an inn for so small a sum. But have you tried? It is impossible for you to pass the night thus. You are cold and hungry, no doubt. Some one might have given you a lodging out of charity.”

“I have knocked at all doors.”

“Well?”

“I have been driven away everywhere.”

The “good woman” touched the man’s arm, and pointed out to him on the other side of the street a small, low house, which stood beside the Bishop’s palace.

“You have knocked at all doors?”

“Yes.”

“Have you knocked at that one?”

“No.”

“Knock there.”

#lm 1.2.1

14 notes · View notes

exhaled-spirals · 2 months ago

Text

« Wayfarer in black wind; softly whispers the withered reed In the stillness of the moor. Against grey skies A flight of wild fowl passes; Cross-wise over dark waters.

Turmoil. In a decayed hut The spirit of putrescence flutters with black wings. Crippled birches sigh in the wind.

Evening in the deserted inn. The gentle melancholy Of grazing herds enshrouds the way home, Apparition of night: toads dive from silvery waters. »

— Georg Trakl, Surrender to Night: Collected poems

#quote #poetry #poem #georg trakl #english

11 notes · View notes

kelzthalasbandtherion · 2 months ago

Note

A Commander. The Commander. Bound by duty upon duty. Duty for the people, duty for your kin, duty for your family, perhaps if ever a time permits a duty for yourself. But ever bound.

One can't always have been bound by such things, tell us, share with us when she wasn't bound in armor. When Kelz'thalas could simply be herself, free from the bonds of duty.

Complicated are the matters of the mind. But there are some who spell weave at changing beliefs, altering perspectives, and ridding memories. A dark art fueled by living shadows to taint and embody malice and malevolence through the whispers of madness. It only took a bit of focus and concentration to guide a phantasmal hand over those unsuspecting or vulnerable. This hand grew from progressive and deviant intention. And as it sought to clutch at the frame of her mind, it moved like an eraser. Scratching and bleeding over memories like the etched trail of ink on parchment. What remained was barren and blank. The devouring plague that had feasted on hundreds of years of life gradually sank away.

What was perceived as dark was now newfound light.

First came a ragged breath, followed by a twist of her frame and a loose survey of her surroundings. The firm foundation of wood rested beneath her, as she noted the plush shape of a red cushion followed by the singing of birds and eternal spring. Eversong greeted her without fault, much like the light shone from the eternal sun. What should have been a place of confusion was familiar, but a blissful touch of forgetfulness did hang like a heavy blanket over the forefront of her mind.

Her body shifted upright at first as her legs found the cobblestone path that led towards the Shepherd's gate. Two large tapestries of red fell from the top of the entryway while a lone statue of the blood prince stood idly at its center.

"Miss Sunwhisper."

The words prompted her head to turn towards her speaker. The man across from her rose as he strode forwards to offer her an outstretched hand. It was Vyrin Evensun.

As if a door had been unlocked, the fabricated knowledge bled into her mind as she offered a smile back. Reflexively, she rose without taking the noble gesture and looked back towards the Shepherd's Gate.

"I'm ready Vyrin. This is the day I'll become a Silvermoon Guard. The Magistry won't know what they were missing all these years!"

Vyrin chuckled lightly as if to mask his symptoms of distress, but his ears did not rise to attention but instead faltered much like his smile fell. He knew something that Kelz'thalas Sunwhisper didn't.

"Well come on Vyrin, we're burning the morning sunlight! I know Ileda is waiting in the Farstrider's Square. I still remember all the important stuff from the recruitment missive! You believe in me, don't you?"

Regardless of the pain it was to divulge the truth, he simply nodded. "Of course, I do Kelz'thalas. You're right though, let us be on our way."

As always, Vyrin couldn't be found without his ornamental armor. It hardened him from shoulder to toe as those plate pieces clanked softly with his advance. Kelz'thalas on the other hand, was in chainmail - something lighter to suit her, to keep her at a disadvantage when it came to defense, and unfamiliar as to keep her new experiences raw and distinct from what was forged in the sub conscience of her mind. Their relationship was bound by lies as they trailed into Silvermoon City on an artificial lifetime quest.

"This is more than I could have ever imagined Silvermoon City to look," she remarked as a hand outstretched towards the inn immediately to the left of them.

"The-"

Both of them paused as one had sought to answer while the other spoke the sign's name.

"Wayfarer's Rest!" Kelz would finish after a moment.

You have been here before. You really don't remember... You don't know who you are... You have forgotten and lost everything.

"Hey Vyrin. What if I get accepted as a guard on the first day?"

"Unlikely," he said with a cold knowingness to his tone. "...It's not something you would be able to do."

It wasn't to be condescending, but it was a fact that would prove to be true. The words were armed as he was instructed to speak to her in this manner. Like he was some sellsword that traveled for hire that just happened to be her friend. But he was much more than that. He was one of the Patriarch's best, an Elite B'andtherion Guard. But now he was conformed to a task as a mere watchdog. A silent protector and spy to the lively daughter who was for all intents and purposes a new commoner woman with specialties and no resources or social upbringing to charm and spoil her every endeavor. A slave to the suffering that brought every heart of Silvermoon down into the proverbial dump.

"You just said you believed in me," she retorted with clear disappointment lacing her words.

How desperately I want to profusely apologize for offending the Lady of House B'andtherion. But the Patriarch's words are my command to follow.

"I do, but just not with that." The first of many lies had paved the foundation of this character and his purpose. "You might have better luck with just getting a hit to make the mark."

"Wow, now that's just rude Vyrin. What kind of friend are you?"

"The type that won't refrain from what needs said."

Her expression soured yet again, making that twist of guilt in my gut knot further. It's suffocating to keep up this farce. But I am his most entrusted. And she is my charge, even if she does not know that to be the case. Why can't I ignore it and see this is what's best for her?

Her mopey steps carried her ahead as Vyrin fell some distance behind. His gaze was cast to the side as he looked to a pair leaning in towards the other in an exchange of passion. Their motions furthered that reminder of what daughter of Patriarch had lost.

Kal'ren. We all had saw the promise the two shared in building a life with one another. But after the Matriarch's sacrifice... Not even Kal'ren's words could lift her heavy heart. It was as if not only her mother had died that day, but so did her spirit. It was no wonder the Patriarch had saw it fit to end things. I can still see Kal'ren's face... The longing to save her and restore her spirits. No man can ignore the sensation of helplessness or weakness. It's like poison that saps at confidence and trust to oneself. It breaks us. And by the Eternal Sun... I ask that it strengthens him instead.

The Farstrider's Square gradually came into view after their pass through the Royal exchange. It was silent the whole time as the young woman elected to give him the brooding treatment. Still very much the same as she was daughter of the House B'andtherion.

Ileda stood in front of the practice square made available to the Farstrider's and Blood Knights. Nearby several targets and dummies had lined the edges as she noted their arrival. A few other trainees stood at attention, having arrived on time.

"You're late Sunwhisper."

Disbelief found its way over Kelz's expression as she sought to refute the error in her instructor's words. But the truth was, the letter was forged to suggest that was indeed the fact when it was not.

But somehow the young woman held her tongue despite the restraint it took. The intensity of her ambition on full display as nothing would challenge her resolve. A sign the failsafe of her mind's reconstruction had implanted to hold the spell intact; it wove lies into memories and facts, and made a false persona that held true to her nature in so many ways.

I don't want to stay. But no matter how hard the battles I fought were, this is by far the most difficult thing outside of killing I've been asked to do. I'm destroying her heritage, identity, and purpose in life. No different than the damned themselves, do I allow her soul to fade. Matriach forgive me.

Anon, thank you for the ask. I really appreciate this one as it gave me an opportunity to build and construct some of Kelz's backstory more clearly. I really hope you enjoyed the read and sorry it took so long for me to reply.

Tagging: @grumpyoldfker Here's some more to blast from the past >:D

@kalren-daelish - sorry :(

#TheMakingsofaSilvermoonGuard #KelzthalasSunwhisper #The Backstory of Kelz'thalas Sunwhisper #The Death of Lady Kelz'thalas B'andtherion #RP #WorldofWarcraft #Adonis B'andtherion #Dad's Way #TheEventsoftheThirdWar

10 notes · View notes

bronzeandsage · 2 months ago

Text

DWC 2024 - Day 1 - Haze/Sexy

There's fire everywhere.

Literally.

He knows it should be warm, it should be hotter than the hell he was expecting to end up in. Maybe not that hot, but close enough in his mind. But he's actually cold. From his tusks to his toes, it's achingly awful feeling to feel the cold numb throughout. It made sense to start at his ruined knee and made even more from the large stab wound to his abdomen. His hand would touch the spot on his stomach again, feeling the slick wet black goo that looked more and more like the oil he'd used to torch that ship during the zepplin job. It'd been a good day then. Jaetha. Beil. Him. And Zexx.

His red eyes closed as he laid it down on the Wayfarer's hold.

Why? Why son?

His eyes opened.

((Some sexual themes after break))

@daily-writing-challenge

Bits of dust and sunlight floated above him as a new day opened. Sevlaz watched silently as what appeared a bit of hair or dust floated gently above and about, lazily circling through the warming air as if dancing to a song of morning. A thick hand would gently lift up to try and touch it, his hazy gaze blinking away the sleep and uneasy dreams. The out of focus green of his skin seemed almost brighter in the early hour, as if turning back the foul taint of all those years ago. To call the blood awful would be understatement and something no one should or could forget. His focus left the beautiful wisp of nothing and returned to his green skin.

The hand was normal for him, least as normal as it was for the last forty some odd years. He felt he should laugh at thinking he'd been alive this long, but then again should he be? His hand twisted to reveal his palm: calloused, torn, scarred, missing a piece of his middle finger. Stupid fish. The hand would drop with a sigh as it flopped to land on his stomach, but instead landed on something softer with slap and a sleepy moan.

Sevlaz would lift his head from his prone position to spy the sprawled out elf laying across him. Alabaster skin to contrast his own dark green with hair a bright blonde that shone like the sun coming up outside his room. To the orcs they call her a toothpick or needing some meat for real fun, but for him he liked the softness and the touch of glass. Fragility in his hands was almost intoxicating.

Of course when the door closed and the lights went out, the ferocity of a hellcat came out and would make an ogre blush. A slight creak of his stretched lips would aid in the lengthening of his permanent grin.

Biggrin. 'Put a smile on tha face, welp.'

Sev would snort as he tried to push down more memories, he didn't need those in his life right now.

But he did need to get up.

The elf girl on top of him had hardly even blinked despite his heavy hand dealing a fresh print to her rear, granted it was a nice sight to add another to her, as he shifted her gently off him. There was a part of him that though it might be fun to wake her up proper as he reached to scratch himself, the familiar twinge roiling in him as he looked her over again. Maybe.

No.

Time to get up and get a move on. Coughing loosely, the orc rubbed at his face before standing and limping over to the piss pot in the corner, his heavy feet thumping heavily as he hobbled his way over. Relief was quick and rejoicing as he let out a very satisfied groan.

With a shake and shiver, Sevlaz would hobble again into the room to find his belongings still in tact despite the pile of gear. It had been a bit madcap when they finally came up to the room in the inn, but wining and more wining had a way of getting his bones moving. In more ways than one.

Scooping up his shirt, the old fabric would stretch appropriately for his broad chest before tugging it in place. Thick fingers brushing cloth as he noted a new hole in the side. Did he get shot? Stabbed? No. Just bad stitching. New task for the list today.

Brace followed as he sat on the fur lined bed, the goblin contraption of leather and metal meant everything and nothing to him. He was glad it worked to hold his leg correctly but how it did he couldn't begin to guess. Money well spent if it just did what he needed it to do as he pulled the last buckle tight. The familiar pain was welcome to the unending pain of his ruined joint.

Pants, boots, and belts were next, the motions the same as they ever were. Well except the click, hiss, and flash of a lighter behind him as he turned his head to see his night time companion was now fully awake and lighting herself a fine black cigarette.

"Morning handsome," she said in that same sultry voice she'd given last night as they sat by the fire pit. And then upstairs on the landing. And in the pond. And waterfall. Before arriving at their final destination. Ruby lips with glowing green eyes hiding among the bedhead of the furs of some animal or other. Modesty wasn't in her vocabulary either as she stretched her bare legs and followed with her back arching out all the right pieces. Sevlaz tilted his head a bit as he watched her.

"A very good morning from the looks of it."

She smiled a bit wider as she blew out the smoke, a sarcastic shrug following. "I guess it was an adequate night."

The orc snorted out a laugh as he tightened his belt and adjusted his shoulder straps feeling the tightness around his back and chest. "I guess I'll have to try harder next time."

"Next time?"

The orc shrugged as flexed his hands feeling and hearing the knuckles pop, more relief etched over his face at the release. "Maybe."

The elf girl shrugged as she pulled her knees up to rest her chin on them as she watched him. "Guess that depends on the coin."

Again the deep laughed rumbled from Sevlaz as he walked over to his discarded pack, flipping it open and rummaging about the disorganization. "And here I thought you liked me."

"You are hardly a charitable cause," she mused as she took another drag, letting a stream of silver smoke to follow.

The jangle of coin and thump of a purse hitting the furs was enough to break her lazy gaze as she eyed it on the bed. Her lips easily took the end of the cigerette again as she leaned over to pick up the leather bag, feeling the weight with a nod. "Generous."

"Ambitious and flush," Sevlaz replied as he he finished smoothing out the tangle of his white braid and side whiskers. "Good?"

The woman shrugged. "For a thief."

A black bandana was tied about his head and adjusted for the day before rotating his neck with a crack. "Now?"

The elf stared for a few moments before setting the coins next to her. "I'd fuck you."

"Now that's a compliment," Sevlaz chuckled as he turned to the heavy flap that functioned a door. "You know the way out?"

"And in."

Another laugh followed as the survivor headed out into the city called Orgimmar.

#novemberdwc2024 #novemberday12024 #bronzeandsage #sevlaz #haze #sexy #world of warcraft #wyrmrest accord #moon guard #roleplay

8 notes · View notes

smaelstrom · 11 months ago

Text

Meet the tavern keeper.

The Wayfarer's Perch is an inn at the crossroad of all places, where travelers can get a beer and find some brief respite from the hardships of the road.

It's also my new discord server where you can chat about art, ttrpg and even, if you so desire, make your own traveler to come and visit the tavern.

#artists on tumblr #commission open #my art #dnd art #dnd 5e #dnd oc #discord server

5 notes · View notes

thewayfarersinn · 2 months ago

Text

The primordial storm is finally here 👀

#tavern talk #the wayfarers inn

22 notes · View notes

thevikingwoman · 2 years ago

Text

one more for @wayfarer-week, this time for prompt 6: flirt

Fandom: Wayfarer IF | Words: 669 | Read on Ao3

Illia Strand x Aeran Kellis (pre-relationship) | after Karth, pre game rating: T. Flirting, bad habits, hoping for the best

Flirt

“So, you’re new here?”

The voice is melodic and Illia turns towards the man next to her, even if she almost laughs at their obvious conversation starter. She’s done worse herself, and she does look like – is a mercenary, and doesn’t look like a local in any way.

“I’m just passing through.” She looks the man up and down, lifting an eyebrow at his shimmering silver wings and teal crest sparkling on his forehead like little raindrops. Altogether it’s quite stunning. “And you? You don’t look like you’re from around here either.”

He laughs, and his laugh is lovely too.

“I’ve settled here some years ago. It’s a nice place here and there’s enough to do for me.” He takes a drink from his glass. “Name’s Elen.”

“Nice to meet you Elen. I’m Illia. What do you do here?”

“I make and repair instruments, there’s enough musicians here. Requires a deft hand, you know.”

He winks and heat rises in Illia’s cheeks. It’s an easy enough thing to fall into, grinning and running and hand through her hair, flexing her arm. Once they seek her out, she found that most people like the tattoo, and she’s happy to oblige, even if she hasn’t done this lately. She looks at Elen’s hands, but her gaze is drawn to his wings. He notices, and they shiver and fan out a little.

“You look like you’ve traveled far, Illia, I don’t doubt you’ve met an Aeda before,” he goes on, “but if you’re curious perhaps you’d like to touch them?”

Her throat is suddenly dry, and she drinks again before she answers. She knows what next and it always matters, whether it’s one way or the other.

“You might prefer me not to,” she says, “I’m a magianis.”

That’s all she wants to say for now, though part of her bristles against it. Wayfarer, Wayfarer, but it’s better to leave it be. She should stop and leave regardless, but she waits instead.

Elen startles slightly, and looks her up and down, taking in her sword and armor and dusty travel clothes.

“I see. I’ve heard that is quite an experience, Illia,” he draws and leans closer. “Maybe we can find out in private?”

She can work with that, and perhaps pretend that this time the morning after will be different. He’s pretty enough that she might not care what happens, how much she’ll hate that he’ll be gone before she wakes.

“Illia, there you are!” a voice calls across the inn.

Aeran.

She turns to him and smiles automatically as he makes his way towards her. She remembers why she’s not doing this anymore.

“I have to go, Elen. It was nice meeting you – perhaps some other time.”

Elen reaches for her, and he doesn’t startle all – perhaps he’s more well-traveled than she expected.

“Are you alright,” he says in a low voice.

“He’s my friend, it’s fine. I hope you have a great evening.”

He sighs a little and leans away from her.

“You too, Illia. Safe travels.”

She gets up and meets Aeran, leaving Elen at the bar.

“What was that about, Lia?”

“Nothing. Just a guy.”

She shakes her head. She’s stopped doing this, after she met with Aeran on that fateful afternoon in Karth. She’s no need for the empty feeling when someone eventually shies away, once they’ve had their curiosity sated. She’s spent too much time hoping some quick romp will fill the emptiness inside.

“I’ve inquired about the giant rats,” Aeran says. “Apparently, they spit fire. He’s offering 25 crowns to get rid of them.”

“So, we’re doing it?”

Aeran grins, and nods.

She wants to reach for him, and she knows he won’t shy away. He’s right there, like a bit of sunshine in her life; some days, he’s the only happy thing in her life. A familiar comfort, tugging at her heart. She isn’t sure if he feels the same, but they’re here together and right now she doesn’t need anything or anyone else.

#wayfarer if #wayfarer #wayfarer fanfic #wayfarerweek #wayfarer week #ahh I wanted to show some of Illia's backgorund #she did flirt a lot #okay she mostly is just on the receiving end here #but consider I'm terrible at flirting and I did my best #this is sort of angsty #when you consider she never really gets together with aeran #thank you wayfarer week for a fun week!#I got to write about all three of my babies #illia strand #writing about illia #viking writes #published 6/2/2023

18 notes · View notes

unseenphil · 7 months ago

Text

Fabula Ultima IV

So I've been thinking about my current D&D 4E character, a werewolf theme brawler fighter. Since Fabula Ultima actually has a really good Warlord successor class (The Commander from the High Fantasy Atlas) I was wondering how other 4E characters might convert over, so let's go ahead and do this. The recently released Techno-fantasy atlas has the mutant class that has both shapeshifting and unarmed combat as its big gimmicks, I think I'm actually good to go to rebuild him.

Mark Luperville is a guy whose gimmick is that he was a PI hired by a mysterious dame who dropped him in a fantasy city being invaded by demons. Since we were borrowing "One Unique Things" from 13th age, his was "Wandered into the wrong sort of fantasy story"- an urban fantasy novel protagonist who ended up in a high stakes D&D fantasy world. This conveniently works really well with Fabula Ultima, as part of chargen is creating your 'identity', a short phrase that sums up your character, so we'll go with something like "Otherworldly Gumshoe" (Or for a dumb rhyming scheme, Isekai PI). You can invoke your theme by spending metacurrency (Fabula Points) to reroll one or both dice on a check.

The next step in Fabula Ultima chargen is a theme, a driving emotion. For this, we'll pick Doubt: Mark's got questions about why the hell he got dragged into this world, not least of which is "How do I get back home?"

Finally, we pick an origin, which for Mark is "Changetown", a neighborhood in as yet unnamed big US City in a version of Earth where magic works; he's explicitly -not- from our Earth, but from an urban fantasy setting with wizards and fae and werewolves. It's explicit that magic there and magic in hs new world are different enough that he gets regularly confused by having different expectations of how things should work.

Now we get to the meat of things, as the next step is to pick our starting classes: Characters in Fabula Ultima start at level 5, and get 2-3 classes, with no more than 3 levels in any.

For our main class, we'll take 3 levels of mutant. 1 level of Wayfarer, and one level of Fury, a tank class with a berserker theme.

Taking any levels in a class gives you a permanent benefit- For the three classes we took, we get +10 to our permanent HP from mutant and fury, and +2 inventory points from wayfarer.

Each level in a class lets us take ranks in any of the 5 class skills.

For mutant, we're taking a level of Akromorphosis, which makes our unarmed attacks do 8 extra damage and gives us +1 to accuracy checks with them, let us change the type of weapon they are- instead of punches our fists might count as swords, or even ranged weapons. (Probably won't use this for mark, or reskin it as 'picking up something heavy and throwing it.)

We'll also take two ranks of Theriomorphosis- we can spend a 3rd of our current HP to shapechange and gain up to therioforms- this makes the werewolf part of our concept complete. For our two therioforms (We get one per rank) we'll take Arpaktida and Dynamtheria- when we transform we're stronger and more perceptive, treating insight and might as one die type higher. More on stats in a bit.)

For our level of Wayfarer, we'll take Tavern Talk- whenever we rest at an inn or tavern, we can ask the GM one question and be sure of a truthful answer. (If we take more levels of Wayfarer later this'll go up by one each time we take this skill)

Finally for our Fury level, we'll take Provoke, letting us give someone the enraged status and force them to include us in their attacks if possible.

Finally, we take our attributes: These are Dexterity, Insight, Might, and Willpower. There are 3 arrays and we'll take the average one: A d10, 2 d8s, and d6. So D10 Might, D8 Insight and Dexterity, D6 Willpower.

Derived stat calculations reveal Mark has 65 HP, 30 MP, and 8 inventory points, which is used for pulling out incidental gear like tents for camping, food, healing potions, etc.

Each class comes with a set of 4 questions about your backstory to answer as well, but the game recommends that those can be figured out in play, and for now we'll take this advice.

Finally, it's time to gear up with 500 zenit to our name. We'll get a combat tunic, setting our defense to 9, our magic defense to 9, and no initiative changes. We don't need a weapons since our unarmed strike is better than any of the available brawling weapons anyway and also functions as a ranged weapon if we need it (We'll say that when we turn our unarmed strike into a gun Mark's just pulling out an old revolver). So we've got 350 zenit left over, to which we add a die roll of 2d6X10 to determine our initial savings, for a total of 720 zenit after an average roll of 7.

Finally, the optional rule of quirks might come into play; there's a quirk explicitly about being from another world, but it's explicitly not required for isekai but after review, I think we'll take empty hands instead, to match up with the brawler fighting style Mark has in D&D: This increases his unarmed attack damage by another 6, and adds 1 to his defense and MDEF as long as he's not using armor or shields.

So there you have it. A big bruiser werewolf PI ready to punch his way through a fantasy world that isn't his own.

#fabula ultima #converting charracters #If you ask if playing Mark is part of why I started working on Hollywood Underhills #Yes but also no.

3 notes · View notes