Vianschied lay cold and bare upon the wild heath. The Keep's walls skirted by unchecked heather, faded purple and hard with age. The moorlands were peaceful this time of year. They'd returned to their natural state. With the ceasing of Brûlantfest, the undergrowth was left rowdy and unchecked. Yet somehow that fragile balance had been tipped: the burning of Brûlantfest had stopped, and yet by this, no new heather sprouted from the ashes. The sheep, finding the old and thriving growth of plant life tough and unappealing, moved on to the managed hills of local farmers. Vianschied was alone. No grazing sheep. No wandering grouse. Nothing but a cobbled stone island, surrounded by a sea of purple growth.
Inside the walls of this stone keep was a situation much the same. The hallways lay dim, and unlit. Any servants who had decided to stay here, out of loyalty? Or simply due to their aged bones lacking the strength to carry them away? Walked with grumbles and groans through the cold halls, carrying dusters and pans. At the end of the largest hallway (the artery of this enlarged stone beast) shon a dim light. A flickering of fire burst its rays into the grey of the long walk, peaking out of an old wooden doorway. Inside lay a sickly man, paleness overcame him, though his hair stood steadfast to the fading colours of the room, a bright firebrand ginger. Once the Lord of Hinterlandia. Then the Duke of Ettrenach. Now the Baron of stones and dirt, sheep and moorland. Servants cast looks of pity upon him while serving his soup. Pity or disgust, all dependent on how he'd treated them in his youth. Though he was too far gone for such looks to cause offence. When his eyes were open, they were shut. When he spoke, he spoke not words, but groans, grumbles, moans. The sounds he'd often made out of habit in his prime, he now made out of necessity. To ease a throat so unused to conversation, that it ached even with the smallest of uses.
From time to time, the man's head would spark into life once more. He'd speak, look, move if he found the strength to. Today was such a day. As the worn Dressolini footman made his leave, the man clutched onto the bed rail, pulling himself up and knocking over the cabbage stew from his lap, and down the side of his sheets. "Bah! Ti's fops play! Fops! The lot!" he began to yell with a guttural cough, stopping his monologue short at the thought of that prune of a servant returning to his chambers. "Fop" he'd repeat in a gentler tone. The dishonored Baron would make short shuffles in his bed robes towards the hallway, treading lightly all the way, as if he'd been commissioned by the Black Order to canvass the area. Skulking through empty corridor, across tattered carpet, over the bitter cold of desolate courtyards. He'd make his meager movements with sighs of pain, until at last he reached the gatehouse. At last, with an open gate, the man would stumble out into the moorland. No watchman or gate guard to prevent his mad endeavors.
Bare feet sank into the moorland mud. Dragging heels against the temperate plant life. The sky was alight with stars and celestial bodies, shining a gleam over the man, to his now childish delight. "Argh…" he'd ponder "Let me choose one of you to guide my way. Let that which enlightens the skies enlighten me too." the Baron rambled, pointing a withered finger towards the night sky, before landing his finger upon the brightest, most outstanding of the bodies, just left of Oxoron "Aye, you look wise. You'll do." The man stumbled out into the sprawling heath, his legs outstretched and fumbling like a newborn, dragging two defined lines through the foliage. The stonewall keep burst into life as the wandering philosopher made his tracks further and further from his home. The sound of panic could be heard, the rushing of shadows against illuminated walkways. His disappearance was noticed, and aptly, he cared little for this.
Further and further he went, until upon a shallow incline of slush and mud, the man's legs gave way and allowed him to tumble down into a puddle of moorland filth. Lifting his head with creaking joints, the Baron was greeted by a familiar face. A face identical to that of his own, though subtly different at the same time. The apparition puffed on a small crafted pipe, allowing a mouthful of ashen smoke to fly into the former Lord of the Hinterland's face, as he lay on the ground. A celestial glow covered the mirrored man, as to affirm to the fallen madman that this image was not real. "I recall the days I squirmed down there, Brother." the man would utter, his voice raspy from years of smoking. "Wasn't pretty... Bah! Shouldn't be reminding you really. You were the cause of it all." the strange figure continued. The Baron attempted to stand from the slippery mud, only falling further on his chest "N.. Nai! No. We were children. Could you blame a boy for hitting his brother?" the Baron coughed from his corrupted lungs. "I could blame a boy for hitting his twin." the figure went on, letting a small snarl encroach his lips, as he pressed a boot down on the Baron's back. "You…! You stole it from me!" the Baron would snarl, his face pressing down against the mud. "Your own Brother! Your own kith and kin! Argh..!" he'd ramble "Is thi… This some sort of game? Do you punish me for how the child I was treat his brother?" the downtrodden nobleman would go on. The apparition's boot lifted itself from the man's back, now turning to walk from the lonesome creature, alone in the mud. "No.. NO! Don't you turn heels and flee! Face me, you creature of the void! You maternal slayer! You mistake!" the Baron would scream, crawling after the flighting shadow. "It was mine! Mine! You stole it! I waited so long!" his lips would bellow as he dug his nails into the soil, to propel himself forwards.
The echoes of the man's voice would project themselves throughout the valley, and soon echoes would accompany them in return. "My lord!" they'd say "Baron Ravenstad!". Soon a group of scarlet clad servants passed over the steep slope the Baron had stumbled down. Armed with torches, they rushed to the defeated man, lying motionless in the dirt. The spark was gone, and in front of them lay an empty shell once again. Slowly the Baron made his way back to his keep, carried further and further back towards the stone dot, upon a purple ocean. To sleep again. @Muffins_
Vianschied lay cold and bare upon the wild heath. The Keep's walls skirted by unchecked heather, faded purple and hard with age. The moorlands were peaceful this time of year. They'd returned to their natural state. With the ceasing of Brûlantfest, the undergrowth was left rowdy and unchecked. Yet somehow that fragile balance had been tipped: the burning of Brûlantfest had stopped, and yet by this, no new heather sprouted from the ashes. The sheep, finding the old and thriving growth of plant life tough and unappealing, moved on to the managed hills of local farmers. Vianschied was alone. No grazing sheep. No wandering grouse. Nothing but a cobbled stone island, surrounded by a sea of purple growth.
Inside the walls of this stone keep was a situation much the same. The hallways lay dim, and unlit. Any servants who had decided to stay here, out of loyalty? Or simply due to their aged bones lacking the strength to carry them away? Walked with grumbles and groans through the cold halls, carrying dusters and pans. At the end of the largest hallway (the artery of this enlarged stone beast) shon a dim light. A flickering of fire burst its rays into the grey of the long walk, peaking out of an old wooden doorway. Inside lay a sickly man, paleness overcame him, though his hair stood steadfast to the fading colours of the room, a bright firebrand ginger. Once the Lord of Hinterlandia. Then the Duke of Ettrenach. Now the Baron of stones and dirt, sheep and moorland. Servants cast looks of pity upon him while serving his soup. Pity or disgust, all dependent on how he'd treated them in his youth. Though he was too far gone for such looks to cause offence. When his eyes were open, they were shut. When he spoke, he spoke not words, but groans, grumbles, moans. The sounds he'd often made out of habit in his prime, he now made out of necessity. To ease a throat so unused to conversation, that it ached even with the smallest of uses.
From time to time, the man's head would spark into life once more. He'd speak, look, move if he found the strength to. Today was such a day. As the worn Dressolini footman made his leave, the man clutched onto the bed rail, pulling himself up and knocking over the cabbage stew from his lap, and down the side of his sheets. "Bah! Ti's fops play! Fops! The lot!" he began to yell with a guttural cough, stopping his monologue short at the thought of that prune of a servant returning to his chambers. "Fop" he'd repeat in a gentler tone. The dishonored Baron would make short shuffles in his bed robes towards the hallway, treading lightly all the way, as if he'd been commissioned by the Black Order to canvass the area. Skulking through empty corridor, across tattered carpet, over the bitter cold of desolate courtyards. He'd make his meager movements with sighs of pain, until at last he reached the gatehouse. At last, with an open gate, the man would stumble out into the moorland. No watchman or gate guard to prevent his mad endeavors.
Bare feet sank into the moorland mud. Dragging heels against the temperate plant life. The sky was alight with stars and celestial bodies, shining a gleam over the man, to his now childish delight. "Argh…" he'd ponder "Let me choose one of you to guide my way. Let that which enlightens the skies enlighten me too." the Baron rambled, pointing a withered finger towards the night sky, before landing his finger upon the brightest, most outstanding of the bodies, just left of Oxoron "Aye, you look wise. You'll do." The man stumbled out into the sprawling heath, his legs outstretched and fumbling like a newborn, dragging two defined lines through the foliage. The stonewall keep burst into life as the wandering philosopher made his tracks further and further from his home. The sound of panic could be heard, the rushing of shadows against illuminated walkways. His disappearance was noticed, and aptly, he cared little for this.
Further and further he went, until upon a shallow incline of slush and mud, the man's legs gave way and allowed him to tumble down into a puddle of moorland filth. Lifting his head with creaking joints, the Baron was greeted by a familiar face. A face identical to that of his own, though subtly different at the same time. The apparition puffed on a small crafted pipe, allowing a mouthful of ashen smoke to fly into the former Lord of the Hinterland's face, as he lay on the ground. A celestial glow covered the mirrored man, as to affirm to the fallen madman that this image was not real. "I recall the days I squirmed down there, Brother." the man would utter, his voice raspy from years of smoking. "Wasn't pretty... Bah! Shouldn't be reminding you really. You were the cause of it all." the strange figure continued. The Baron attempted to stand from the slippery mud, only falling further on his chest "N.. Nai! No. We were children. Could you blame a boy for hitting his brother?" the Baron coughed from his corrupted lungs. "I could blame a boy for hitting his twin." the figure went on, letting a small snarl encroach his lips, as he pressed a boot down on the Baron's back. "You…! You stole it from me!" the Baron would snarl, his face pressing down against the mud. "Your own Brother! Your own kith and kin! Argh..!" he'd ramble "Is thi… This some sort of game? Do you punish me for how the child I was treat his brother?" the downtrodden nobleman would go on. The apparition's boot lifted itself from the man's back, now turning to walk from the lonesome creature, alone in the mud. "No.. NO! Don't you turn heels and flee! Face me, you creature of the void! You maternal slayer! You mistake!" the Baron would scream, crawling after the flighting shadow. "It was mine! Mine! You stole it! I waited so long!" his lips would bellow as he dug his nails into the soil, to propel himself forwards.
The echoes of the man's voice would project themselves throughout the valley, and soon echoes would accompany them in return. "My lord!" they'd say "Baron Ravenstad!". Soon a group of scarlet clad servants passed over the steep slope the Baron had stumbled down. Armed with torches, they rushed to the defeated man, lying motionless in the dirt. The spark was gone, and in front of them lay an empty shell once again. Slowly the Baron made his way back to his keep, carried further and further back towards the stone dot, upon a purple ocean. To sleep again. @Muffins_
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