Ariss

Like nature’s blanket lies the fog on the land, filling the space among the plants and trees, the huts and homes. Like ghosts its strands rise and dance at the faintest breeze before dissolving once again as do dreams at dawn. Like a carpet does it swallow sounds, making the world a silent, sullen place.

Few are those that leave their homes, forced by necessities or tasks. In Lakeshire the carts of the gypsies move out and onto the road for Mistas. Some of what they had arrived with remains behind and food fills the wagons and packs of horses now. The men call for haste, the women for caution; all fearing the dangers ahead in the narrow, winding valleys of the south. Riders scout ahead and set the way by means of marks and signs on the ground and the wagons follow, the families silent and watchful. Today, they shall make the road in safety. But tonight, they shall be greeted at the gates of Mistas by the sound of a single horn, blown from the highest tower. Deep, slow and moaning it will be, summoning up the memories of those that did not survive the patrols of the day. Woven cloth covers the bodies of the fallen, hiding the horrible patches of burnt flesh and molten iron, while the priests prepare their burial in the sacred valley beyond the town. Like a fog the sight settles in the mind and hearts of those who shall patrol in the morning, dousing their energy and bringing fear.

In the north, too, silence covers the land. Only some ravens race across the sky, bearing messages. Eventually the sun will dissolve the fog like a bad dream, leaving nothing but fading memories of things that have been. And while some will remember and weep, others shall wake and forget.


Terort Skitas - The Temple of Knowledge - needs a new player!! Please write a message and join in. Game meeting tonight at the Trinsic Rose.