Something Swift this way comes…

-3-

The sun shines brightly on the face of the boy, his eyes closed, the sounds his only companion. A lark singing nearby, the babble of the small brook behind the house. He feels the warmth of the spring sun, the smell of freshly turned earth, the sounds around him, the feel of sweat rolling down his face. He smiles a bit as he opens his eyes, his Da� standing right there in front of him.

�Alright Phillip, again, but this time, try and get through my defense.�

�Yes Da�.�

The boy takes a moment to square himself, then launches an attack, the willow �sword� he wields whistling through the air with an eerie gracefulness. Already at ten the boy has more finesse and wit about him than any of his father�s comrades, warriors all tried and true. First a feint, then a straight on attack, following through the attack, blocking the return blow that the boy knows will come from his father, as if he�d already seen this scene played out. Their dance uncanny in the sunshine, enough to startle the lark into silence as the willow swords strike each other with frightening ferocity.

After minutes of the back and forth, the boy finally slips through his father�s defenses and places his sword soundly against the man�s ribs. His face breaks out into an unaffected grin, saying, �I got through your defenses �Da! I did it!�

�That you did, Philip,� his father replies, �However, look at where my blade rests.�

Looking down the boy realizes that his fathers sword is placed just as firmly against his inner thigh. His face falls a bit as his father says, �Remember Phillip, no matter how bad you want to win through and defeat your enemy, you must at all times know what is occurring around you, especially what your foe does with his weapon. You must see without looking. Your cut would hurt, mine would kill.� Observing the crestfallen look on the boy�s face his father grins and ruffles his hair saying, �But that was an exceedingly well placed strike. That is enough for today, let�s go to the stream and see if we can catch our supper.�

The pair stride around the small hut that serves them as their home. There is, perhaps conspicuously, no woman standing in the doorway throwing a disapproving look at the father for teaching the boy swordplay. No sounds of pots being rattled around inside as the meal is prepared. No. Perhaps most conspicuous of all is the shadow that seems to inhabit the faces of the boy and the man. Their features carry the stamp of great sorrow, great loss, only slightly mended with time and ready to burst open at the mere memory of the woman they both loved.

-4-

Phillip creeps down the stairs, moving from darkness to darkness, moving with an eerie silence. His entire posture alert, atuned to everything around him. As he reaches the ground floor, he stops, listening to the noise of the scuffle in the darkness. From the sounds being made, both bodies are large, moving in close proximity of one another, wrestling with one another, trying to gain the advantage of leverage perhaps. He can hear the muffled thump of a fist on ribs and a curse in Orcish that identifies at least one of the combatants. As he edges towards the scuffle, his senses on cat�s whiskers now cause him to duck down just as a mug, half filled with ale whistles over his head to shatter against the stairs behind him.

As he reaches the area of floor where the two combatants are struggling it out, he finally takes a moment to strike a light, having ascertained that no others are in the common area of the tavern. At the flare of the light, both combatants stop struggling immediately and look at the newcomer. One is the half-orc bartender, the other a huge human with a reddish beard, shot through with grey. As they come to a halt, and spot Phillip standing there with his sword, he says, �I suggest that you,� he points the tip of his sword at the red bearded human, �Step away from our illustrious barkeep and stand there with your hands where I can see them.�

The human glares at Phillip for a moment, then complies with his command, stepping well away from the half-orc, and stands hunched over with blood pouring out of his nose and his hands curled into loose fists. The half-orc on the other hand looks to Phillip and then the human and says, �We were just having a bit of a disagreement here. Beren thinks that I owe him a gold sovereign for some services he rendered for me a month ago. He�s apparently gotten drunk and forgot that I paid him two weeks ago.� The half-orc pants, out of breath, but grinning sheepishly at Phillip as Beren takes a menacing step towards the half-orc saying, �Ye did not, ye great git. I tell ye that ye still owe me that money, and I�m not happy about it either.�

�I already paid that back to ye, Beren. What do you think you�ve been drinking on these last two weeks? Good looks?� the half-orc snorts and says, �Not likely. I gave it to you just after that traveler with the hurt nag came in and paid me for rooming him for a week and calling up the old mage to take a look at his mount. You�re not telling me you don�t remember that?�

Beren scowls a bit then says, �Oh yeah, tha� man was the frilliest fop I�ve ever seen. Thought his nag was gonna have ter be put down. Arse.�

As this exchange happens, Phillip lowers his sword, then sheathes it, realizing he�s only walked in on a friendly disagreement instead of a life or death struggle. He kicks himself only a bit for jumping to the wrong conclusion and turns to head back up the stairs, when the half-orc calls out to him, �Stay, stranger and have a mug with us, on me. I owe you that much at least for looking out for the safety of a poor barkeep,� at that both Beren and the half-orc snicker a bit and step to the bar where a small cask of ale sits, airing a bit.

Phillip turns back, deciding at that moment that he�ll get no more sleep this night and walks to the bar to join the half-orc and the human in a mug of ale.

More later,

S

Hey, just taking a second to show my sister how this whole blogging thing works. It’s a snap, and hopefully she’ll get into it

More later,

S

Hey guys,

sorry about the silence filling the hall for so long. Long story made short, I haven’t had 30 minutes at a computer for personal time all week long. I won’t go into the detail right now, but I went out of town monday and just got back tonight. It’s been a /long/ week. But that’s okay. And yes, the three of you who are waiting to find out what happens in The Traveler will find out. There’s more coming. Not tonight, but there is more coming. As for now, I’m nearly braindead with the trip and the driving, so I’ll shell out later.

Take care of yourselves and come back.

More later,

S

As the traveler finishes his ale, a few more patrons make their way into the inn, beginning to fill the place up with the coming of evening. The half-orc behind the bar has become busy with the commerce. Fading light from the dying day pushes in on the greasy windows of the inn, emphasizing the cold whistle of the winter wind whipping around the eaves of the building. As the traveler stands and glances about himself, the bartender approaches him.

�Not traveling further this night, are ye?�

�Aye, I will, until I can find a place to bed down.�

�Well, I�ve a free room to spare upstairs, small, with a bed, if you would have it. I don�t see many travelers through this place, and my normal custom doesn�t often sleep over. If ye like, I can turn down the bed and have a bit o� stew brought up to ye.�

His eye to the dying day outside, the traveler nods and slides another coin across the bartop to the half-orc. The other patrons watch the stranger turn his tread to the stairs and the rooms beyond.

The half-orc didn�t lie. The room is tiny, just large enough to hold a single small bed and a simple chest with a broken hasp. The traveler sits on the edge of the bed and tugs his boots off, rising only when the rap on the door comes. He eats his stew in silence and then lays down on top of the covers to sleep, his pack on the floor near him.

-2-

The silver figure on the horizon tantalizes him, urges him to come closer. The gossamer web of its garment billowing in the bloom of hot wind blowing from all directions. He travels on in this lightless, soundless purgatory. The silver figure dwindles as he approaches. He knows who that silver figure is. He dreads seeing her face again, the lifeless, staring eyes. The desiccated lips, parted in the last crying exhalation of death. He knows the figure nailed to the tree, her features worn and torn by the elements and the creatures of this purgatory. He does not want to see her this way again. Her body torn and wasted away, yet he is driven onward, ever trying to reach her, to gain the absolution of taking her down, kissing her once creamy brow, and laying her to rest, may she lie still. He knows this dream, he dreams it most every night. In the day he walks from one hell towards an unknown other. At night he walks this hell, always trying to reach her, never quite succeeding.

He is brought up out of this torturous dream by the sound of movement. He is instantly awake, eyes wide in the darkness, listening for the sound of the movement again. His knowledge of where he is, gone for the moment, washed away by the terrible power the dream has over him. It is always this way. He listens for the movement to happen again even as his brain frantically reaches for who he is, where he is, and what he is doing in this place. It comes to him before the sound of movement does. His name is Phillip, he is in the Dancing Bear Inn, bedded down for the night. The dream has not wiped his memory, left him unaware in an alien place. He is a patron in the inn, and by his reckoning it is sometime after the third watch of the morning, still dark outside. As the memories come flooding back into him, he rises from the bed. His movements as silent as a hawk�s shadow on the stone face of the mountain. One movement brings his sword to his hand, and another takes him to the door of the small room. He does not falter or fumble in the darkness, for it is his element, as comforting to him as the caressing hand of a lover.

Standing at the door, listening for the movement, his eyes narrow down as he sends his senses outward, feeling for a presence in the narrow hallway outside. Hearing nothing, feeling nothing, he opens the door enough to peek out into the hallway, the soft glow of a lamp enough to show him that the hall is indeed empty. Opening the door further he leans out quickly and glances to the left, seeing only the dead end at that end of the corridor. He looks at the other doors in the hallway, but they are all shut, the rooms silent behind him. As he moves to the head of the stairs, he hears the sound of movement again, this time allowing him to pinpoint its location. Downstairs, near the bar. Beneath and behind him then. Taking a moment to grab his satchel out of his room, he douses the lamp here in the hallway and makes his way down the stairs, moving from darkness to darkness, sword at the ready and senses prickling with whatever danger has awoken him.

More later,

S

Just sat down and wanted to write something to share with you guys. So here it is. Love it or hate it, it�s part of what goes on in my head.

After many a long and arduous mile, the traveler looks up, his eyes weary and wind-reddened. His gaze lingers upon the worn and weathered sign of the inn. The sigil carved upon the old wood that of a dancing bear. Our traveler looks down at his feet, wondering if this is to be the end of his journey, or just another step on the road to whatever hell lay in front of him. His heart is weary, laden with sorrow, weighted with fear. The traveler�s cragged face relaxes into a seamed profusion of weariness. Finally he starts towards the inn.

Stepping into the building, out of the wind blasted mountainside, the first thing noticeable is the darkness of the room. Even in early evening, it is poorly lit, the waxy glow of poor quality tallow candles pushing back the encroaching darkness weakly from several of the tables. At the bar, its surface scarred and gouged by various patrons in the past, a huge hulking humanoid figure slowly polishes and repolishes the drinking steins with a dirty cloth. The hulking barkeep, upon closer examination is a half-breed. Orcish and human parentage, the green tint of his skin evident even in the dimly lit tavern. His surly expression could curdle milk. His slow nod to the traveler the only enticement to come, spend coin, and make himself comfortable.

Bellying up to the bar, the traveler pushes a small coin across the bartop, his voice quiet in the room, the traveler says, �Might I have a cider, sair?�

�Don�t have any cider.� The surly reply comes, �Ran out six months ago.�

�Then an ale will do fine.�

�Aye, that�ll do ya. This coin is not of a strike I recognize.� The half-orc�s brow furrows momentarily.

�Yes, but the metal is true, I wot.�

The half-orc picks up the coin, examining it carefully, then places it between his teeth, testing the coin. He nods once, before turning to fill a stein for the traveler. After placing the stein in front of his solitary patron, the half-orc moves to the end of the bar, content to leave the traveler to his own diversion.

As the half-orc moves away, our traveler digs down into his satchel, a battered and worn thing as seamed with lines as the traveler�s face, its age indeterminate. Digging for a moment, the traveler comes out with a brooch. A bauble of exquisite beauty, ruby stone, trapped in gold filigree so slender as to be almost invisible. The chain that the brooch is on is broken. As the traveler regards the brooch, a slow, solitary tear rolls down his weathered face. Putting the brooch away, he looks up in time to see the half-orc turning away from him, face set in obdurate dedication to staying out of the traveler�s business..

More later, if there�s a good reaction to it (Comments still work guys!)

S

Ah, at last I get a moment to set pen to page…or keyboard to pixel as the case may be. I’m sure those few of you who still make the effort to check this page have been wondering where I’d dragged myself off to to die. Well, it didn’t happen, I just got so busy with the mundane day to day that I couldn’t bring myself to relive it all when I came home after work. Sure, you can blame me, but since I don’t care one way or the other if you do, it’s okay. Finally truth in advertisment, eh?

So let’s get on with this shall we? I’m not going to recap my week, because it’s more of the same. Work, playing chauffer for the wife, and sleep. Numbing sameness. But that’s okay, I will hit the highlights for those of you who are interested. Those of you who aren’t? Well, you didn’t read down this far anyway, so shove off.

I learned an important lesson last tuesday while working in the field, plowing out and fertilizing the watermellons that we have planted out there. I’ve felt on the edge of this discovery many times before in my life, but never as full force *DING* realization as now. I was sitting there in the tractor, smoking a cigarette and slowly plowing down one of the rows when I realized a great truth in life: It too often hurts you to get in a hurry. I look around myself at present when I’m at work, or waiting at a redlight, or waiting on my wife to finish in a store and return so we can go home and what do I see? I see a world that has forgotten what it means to stop. To rest and see what there is to see. The phrase stop and smell the roses is only part of it. Sometimes people don’t realize the harm that they do to themselves when they hurry through to get to the next thing. Reminiscent of someone or others words: “Each thing I do, I find myself rushing through….” I read those words originally and they meant nothing. Now I know, life is a great beast, chasing us down the path of existance, chasing us to devour us. Snap us up in one or two small bites, and slide our shells down its gullet to let our bodies lie, mouldering in its earthen body. When we rush through this existance and fail to slow down, take life easy and enjoy what there is to enjoy, then we hasten that cold embrace. Is it vital that I get to Walmart before 6pm just because I don’t want to deal with two extra people in line? No. In fact, I may see someone or something that will change my life, whether subtly or radically. This is a gem in my time here that is not worth passing up. Don’t waste your life and time by rushing around trying to do everything now now now. Lay back in the high grass, watch the lions of life pass you by, and smell the bittersweet aroma of a relaxed existance cradling you in arms that will eventually embrace you eternally.

On thursday I had the distinct pleasure of welcoming some old friends back into my home. We cooked out, we had a few beers, and we hashed over the old times and the new times with a relish that only nostalgia can season to such a perfect bouquet. Most of you don’t know me personally, so you have no true idea how hard it is for me to make friends in ‘Real Life’. You don’t know the tightening of the stomach, the clenching of the fists, the grinding of the teeth at the thought of having to endure an acquaintance on more than a mere nodding basis. So when someone breaks through those defenses, pulls me out of my hermitage, and clasps my heart in one hand and my loyalty in the other, it’s a great, if arduous thing. Too many times I find myself pushing people away, either with distance or time, simply because I, like so many others, see no value in my personage. I have self-worth, but I do not see what worth this life or personality would be to anyone else. So, for someone to be bullheaded enough to take hold and hold on, it makes me grateful. Darryl, Jeremey, Brian, Megan, Angela. All but one of the old crew were here to eat, drink, and be merry. We only had a few hours together, but those few hours brought the best years of my life, so far, closer to home and to the heart. They all thanked me profusely for the food, and the beer, but they don’t know that they have given me the best gift I could’ve ever gotten: My friends, together with me again, sharing our hearts together and bringing back so many wonderful memories. How can I ever thank them enough? It would take me a lifetime of
“thankyou’s” to tell them what a gift they’ve given me. Though we all have jobs now, or school, and most of us have families too, that keep us busy and sometimes make us forget to write and say ‘Hey! What are you up to?’ and remember one another with the fondness that grows at a gathering, they shall forever be my best friends. My comrades, my brothers, and sisters, you will always remain in my heart as the most special people I know.

More later,

S

It has been a while, and I’m just doing a quick update from work, so I can’t go into much detail. However I’ll update again tonight when I get home. Needless to say, I’ve been busy, and my readership has grown bored with my lack of stories. That’s okay, I’ll be regaling you soon with more stories both boring and mild, not to worry. I just wanted to let everyone know that yes, i’m still alive, and yes I do remember my commitment to you guys. So, look forward to another update tonight.

More later,

Jamie