Author Topic: Wyatt's Letters  (Read 1992 times)

FellowMan

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Wyatt's Letters
« on: March 07, 2019, 02:06:28 AM »
[Zherisian letters decorate a page.]

Alma,

You'll never believe where I ended up. Barovia. I wish I had paid more attention to Ms. Merriam's Balok lessons.

It hasn't been two days since I ran got here, but I've met some decent people already, and they're all outlanders. Barovia is full of them. Near Vallaki, they outnumber the locals sometimes. All kinds of people, a lot of them demihumans. I'm worried about being around so many elfs and dwarfs, but I know it's good for them to be around men, and I haven't met any yet who weren't good people.

There was Damien, who wants to hunt monsters but hadn't heard of Van Richten. He's really good at killing them, anyway, though. Emilie was so good with a bow I almost forgot how funny it is that people still use bows. Bernard's a priest. The type who wear clanking armor and wreck vampires. Serena's real nice, she works at a bar in Krofburg--that's south of Vallaki. I feel like she's got my back, but I don't really know why I think that. We went to that bar for drinks. I broke my decided to have some, since the water was black there.

Also met Staszia, who's as friendly as she is shady, and she's plenty of both. It's weird, but I like it.

There were plenty of others, too. Morninglord worshippers--a lot of those. None of them seemed friendly except Elenuta, though I know I'm not being fair. They house a little riot of freaks and mercenaries in their temple every night, and dole out healing for free, too. They get to be rude if they want to be, I think.

A lot of stuff happened but I'm tired right now. Wanted to write you, anyway. I just want I need you to maybe

I'm sorry
I love you,
Wyatt


FellowMan

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Re: Wyatt's Letters
« Reply #1 on: March 12, 2019, 03:32:23 PM »
Alma,

Sorry I haven't been writing every day. It's been wild out here. You have permission to use my favorite chair since this will be a long one, but only just this once.

  The list of folks grows every day. I think the mists offload outlanders here in Vallaki, and it seems like most of them stay here:

  Met a Darkonese woman all in grey leathers named "Kat". She's a hiker, woodsman type, and you can just feel it by seeing her. Walked all around mount Ghakis with her while she showed me the lay of the land. I wish I knew how to draw, to give you a better idea, but she's like a piece of the rocks that chipped out and strolled off, and she's great company, too. You'd love her.

  Short one named Tess sets up shop by the Svalich most days, and it's like someone tried to bring the whole Riverside Market out with only ten feet of turf to put it on. I don't think I'll ever have the pounds "wolf fang" (Barovian marigolds)  for most of the weird stuff, but I'm always giddy just to see what she's got now.

  Foppish Richemuloise gentleman named Alphonse crops up all over the place, out here. He dresses exactly the way you'd expect, but all dyed black, and the feather's white. I want to ask him more about himself some time, but I've got this nightmare that if I interrupt his womanizing he'll look at me and just keep carrying on like a wheel rolling off its axle. He's nice enough, though, and it took me a bit to catch on to his sense of humor but it's actually pretty great.

  Miss Jusztina's like a little Gundar nymph but I guess you'd clock me for t

 Miss Alix Mademoiselle Martineau and sir Leomont are two more folk I wish I could bring home for draw. Imagine a Dementlieuse duchess out for a stroll kitted up like a soldier next to a great huge Barovian folktale hero all dressed in steel and fur. Then imagine they're nice to have a drink with, and they're real into Ezra. I don't think drawing would help, actually. Took a gypsy wagon to Dementlieu with Mademoiselle Martineau told me the other day I should pick a surname so I can fit into the Dement politicking better, but I gave her the runaround.

  Miss Ruby's a tiny mote of sunlight out here. Short one dressed all in yellow, fancies a matching parasol umbrella. She has this crazy red hair that looks like it weighs more than the rest of her combined. Says she's from "Sigil," and the more I hear about it the more I think she's actually just taking the piss a real wily storyteller. Accent's definitely from somewhere weird, but not as weird as where she says she grew up.

  Met a Falkovnian caliban, that was a shock. Calls itself himself "Durst," and is about how you'd expect, but it's still bizarre to see him around. He didn't try to bite me, so I count him in the "good" book.

  Karis is like a Blackchapel alleycat, and somehow her accent's even worse. She's good people, though, and helped me out when I was down she's similar enough to you that I think you'd hate her.

  I've also met a lot of Ezrites other than Leomont and Mademoiselle Martineau. I know we used to joke about those sorts, but I've found not a one to be anything less than decent. Got a copy of each of their books, too. I promise I'm not going green on you, but I thought they were just beautiful. Crazy and backwards maybe, but the story's pretty. If that hawker by the river is still around, you should read them for yourself.

  I want you to forget whatever I wrote last time about the Morninglord worshipers. After talking to more of them for longer, I don't respect many people more than I do each of those orange-robed saints. Without them, I don't know what would be left of this place.


I'm running out of parchment so you're probably running out of patience by now. Every time I set the quill down I think of a dozen more things I want to tell you about. I'll write you again soon, and you've got to get out of my chair now because your permission's expired.

Love you,
Wyatt

FellowMan

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Re: Wyatt's Letters
« Reply #2 on: April 01, 2019, 01:57:01 PM »
[A series of discarded, half-started letters clutter a briefcase, waiting to be burned.]

Alma,
 I'm sorry. You must have been waiting, worrying, while I've been on the Continent piddling about.


[The letter begins anew.]

Alma,
  You know I love you. The letters I've written you so far have been dodging the truth. I'm not doing as well as I said, and I know you have to b

[The letter begins anew.]

Alma,
 I'm sorry I haven't written more often. There are things you need to know and I haven't been telling you them. I think I know what happened

[The letter begins anew, and this time remains mostly blank.]

Alma,

FellowMan

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A beautiful day.
« Reply #3 on: April 13, 2019, 03:10:00 AM »
   Wyatt slumped against the shady stones and took a deep breath, savoring a sweet summer breeze that carried a cooling mist into the cavemouth from the waterfall just beyond.
His helmet lay on the stone beside him, the roar of the falls echoing around him sounding like a lullaby to his weary ears.

   A jolt ran through him, his green-tinted skin crawled, hairs stood on end. He scratched at himself as he went cold, hot, then back again. His teeth chattered as if from some terrible fever, and then just as quickly he was serene again. He looked out into the woods and was struck by numbing contentment.

   Ever since that rite, that encounter with the fiends and the dragon, the signing of that wordless contract, he'd had such episodes of random sensation. He didn't mind. It made perfect sense to him that he should feel oddly like that; it was nothing next to the ritual's deeper marks. To the ceaseless, roiling thrum Wyatt couldn't find the words for if he tried. To the echo of that great beast's voice in his ears:

   "WHY DO YOU DENY YOUR SELF?"

   And what had he said in reply, back then? Stammered something, cowered a bit. He smiled at the memory, now.

   Suddenly the sun was low on the horizon. The water in the falls had turned orange as it caught the waning light. His helmet dragged against the stone as he gathered it up started toward the entrance. His sword's sheathe clattered against his mail as he strode out into the woods, letting the spray of the falls rain over him. He looked over his shoulder to check his shadow. Faint it was, but it was there. Well-earned. He smiled and continued on his way.

   The wolves would be out, soon, and would be the perfect exercise to end the day with.

   "I'm not denying a thing."

   And it was such a beautiful day.

FellowMan

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Re: Wyatt's Letters
« Reply #4 on: August 30, 2019, 09:56:24 PM »
Wyatt sat in the usual room, on the usual chair. No light polluted the room, which suited him. The smell of the sewer outside blended with the smog of tobacco and opium, and all were overpowered by the green vapor that trailed from his lips, twining up to lick lines of rust across the pipes overhead. His breath was ragged, rasping, from injury and passion. Only the constant creaking and scraping was heard over the din filtering under the far metal door.

His fine silk suit lay trampled in a heap on the filthy stone floor, he wore only the breeches. A pile of bloodsoaked bandages decorated the floor under him, though owing to the empty potion bottle underfoot he wore no evidence of injury.

 He tapped the table in his usual way, but this time there was no patience or aloofness in it; black talons ripped through the planks like questing knives, his palm grasping and crushing chunks of wood as a child might tear up handfuls of grass.

Orsolya's words came unbidden;

"They beat me... they beat me and they tortured me, and they all gathered around.. laughing at my suffering! Belittled me for what I -am-. They're lucky I didn't put them in the GROUND."

 He'd nearly mocked her for her own reaction to such disgrace. The parallel struck him, and he hissed another seething, toxic breath. He stood, swiping the table with the back of a green-scaled fist. The tortured wood caved in, collapsing. Not for the first or final time.

He paced, then, taloned feet gouging the stone itself, in his head flashed images of insolent, jeering faces, of dead-eyed insects, and of mewling children. He raved inwardly about false gifts and snatching hands, about thin glory and worthless tokens. About friends, foes, and family.

Some time later he'd sit again, in the middle of the debris, and school himself to quietude.

"Pragmatic." He remembered himself saying. "Pragmatic.."

And he swallowed that bitter pill, forcing pragmatism on himself.
« Last Edit: August 30, 2019, 10:24:41 PM by FellowMan »