From riches to rags

This is for General Roleplay stories and personal Letters. Please note this forum is not for General Roleplay posts, ONLY stories, diaries, letters etc. All off topic posts will be deleted without further warning. Replying to a topic without the authorization from the original poster is illegal.

Moderator: RP Moderators

Post Reply
User avatar
Charha
Posts: 261
Joined: Sat Feb 02, 2013 1:16 pm
Contact:

From riches to rags

Post by Charha »

A ragged figure lurches down the dusty road. The pale creature resembles a bag of bones strapped together with strips of cloth that probably used to be black. It's still several miles to Britain. The thin little man walks painfully slow, wheezing on each step. He looks at the horizon with a mismatched pair of eyes. He can hardly believe that the road would actually, at some point, lead him back to Britain.

At least he is still looking a tad healthier than the ghost trailing behind him. "OoOo oo, OOo. Ooo ooo OOOO ooo", the apparition wails as it wafts briskly past its master, encouraging him to keep walking with winks, nods and happy gesturs.

"What... do you mean it's not 'that bad'?"

"OooO oo Oo Oo OOOOO ooo oOOoO oo"-

The sad excuse for a living person (his name is Darrol Argeledougal) halts and looks at his companion in disgust. "No, stop! If you mention the 'chains of materialism' one more time, I'm going to do something I probably won't even regret. This exodus has taught me nothing and the fact that I've lost everything doesn't make me a better man! Don't you try to convince me otherwise."

A gust of wind blows dust on his face and makes him cough pitifully. He sits down. Right there, in the middle of the road. He looks down at his hands. They are raw and dry, and his fingernails are dirty with the muck of ages. "Oh, crud. Look at me now. I remember I had a house in Nujel'm, one of the best ones. I had a library, a laboratory, a different steed for each day of the week, a Codex Damnorum filled with chants that could make the undead wail in awe, I had magical clothes worth millions..."

The ghost looks down at his pal, scratches himself thoughtfully and sits down. He looks up and down the road. A haycart might go by and they could hitch a ride. Aaaaany minute now. Not that they've seen a single cart in days, but hey, one of them is sure to come their way before the next change of seasons.

"To think that because of a simple mistake, just one spell misfired, I've been spending eons in a bottomless dungeon lost between two worlds", the bewildered necromancer mumbles, blinking in sunlight. "It was alright for YOU, you non-corporeal nimrod... But I was forced to eat pebbles and cockroaches up to the point where I was TRAINING small cockroaches to hunt in packs for bigger cockroaches. It's funny how you even start to miss that awful taste of mandrake in food you used to conjure up by magic."

A solitary fly buzzes by the two slouching figures. At this pace, the insect would reach the gates of Britain faster than these two.

"You know Sam, I think my mind is gone. I wish you could pinch me. I'm afraid I'm still down there in that terrible abyss. Maybe this is just another mad dream", Darrol says gesturing feebly at the lazy golden fields on both sides of the road.

"Ooo OOoO? Oo OOOOo ooo oooo O OOOOo oo Oo."

"No, you're probably right. If I was dreaming, there would be a cart to pick us up by now. Either that, or my face would be full of bees. Oh well, best keep heading on. My mouth is getting dry."

With a great effort the stick man unfolds himself, sways unsteadily for a moment and then takes one more step. And another. As soon as he'd reach Britain, there would be someone to help him, surely. Hopefully not Morgain, that arrogant goody-two-shoes warrior who probably couldn't even spell his own name. Or Elu, that self-absorbed bastard of a druid... So yeah, hopefully not anyone too familiar. Who knows how much time has passed since the horrible accident. It might be that Britain would be no more! It could be that during his long abscence the whole guild-based economy would have fallen along with those stuffy old monarchial structures Darrol used to hate. They might all be torn asunder and replaced by great dark citadels wherefrom esteemed scholastic wielders of so-called "dark arts" would spread enlightment and justice to merchants, crafters and peons alike, bringing forth a new glorious age where old superstitions fade and labors of life are replaced by the many uses of state-of-the-art necromancy.

Oh, maybe any moment now they could see the animated remains of the dead peacefully plowing the fields, little children running to school in their dark robes... And the NEW gates of Britain, black obsidian glistening in the sun, and on those massive blocks of dark stone there would be images of triumphant lich kings, all chiseled to perfection.

"Oi, yeh need a lift?"

"Huh, wha-?" Darrol snaps out of his feverish dreams. There's a cart pulled by two mules right next to him. "Oh, you wouldn't mind? That would be... Terribly nice... of you", he murbles and straightens his back. There dry bones on his back make a nasty sound as they settle on their places.

The old man pushes back his straw hat and looks up and down at the lonely figure standing on the road, unable to quite put his finger around the queer sight in front of him. The sorry little man is dressed like a beggar. He looks young, sort of, but there is something wrong with his eye, and clearly he is in bad shape. The marks of age look unnatural upon him. Thankfully the farmer can't see the ghost that has slipped behind Darrol's back, now safely hidden from the eyes of mortal men. The old man lifts Darrol up by the wrist like a wooden doll, seats him down on the bench beside him, and then snaps the reins. The cartwheels creak as the cart starts down the road.

"Phew, yeh look like yeh been through a lot, lad. How didya get in that shape? What sor'offa man are yeh, anyway?", the owner of the cart asks.

"Me? I used to be... No, I mean... I am a necromancer!", Darrol proclaims absent-mindedly, obviously still dreaming of the dark towers that would no doubt soon rise before their eyes. He flashes the farmer a weary smile. "You can drop me at the nearest citadel. I'm sure the current Arch Necromancer will give you a handsome reward for rescuing such an enlightened soul such as myself."

From the distance, a sad little puff of dust can be seen on the spot where Darrol lands on his face after being soundly kicked off the cart. Alas, it seems that times haven't changed that much after all.

Image
Post Reply