Lost Keep Post

[Stix]

My mistake; this is stuff I forgot to clarify.

When you'd mentioned picking up in the Wayfarer, I'd thought you meant the same night. Since Hadrian's daily futility roll was a failure, he probably lacks the presence of mind to come back in the morning... which would actually be particularly enigmatic and Odin-like of him. : )

One last thing real quick before I'm out the door -- in cases like this, where a character's coming back hours after he left, please start a new thread with an according timestamp. It's a somewhat silly and at least slightly OCD sort of thing, but I only do it for the sake of easy recordkeeping.

Sorry 'bout the confusion.




(OOC: Continuing from the as yet unfinished thread in the Wayfarer)

The common room of the Lost Keep was a comforting sight to a weary sod, abandoned though it may be. In fact Hadrian couldn’t think of a better place to call kip on this lonely occasion. The logs on the hearth had been allowed to burn down to a slow smolder in the dark hours of the early morning, for no patron was present to bother stoking them.

With as silent step as ever he could manage, the aasimar made his away around the scattered tables and long unoccupied stools to find the door to Wraith’s meager chambers. Meager was a relative term he conceded. It was leagues above the austere cell Hadrian maintained back at the Gatehouse. Of course at the Gatehouse he always had that waif of a black cat, Kopek, for company. Hopefully the poor thing had stolen into the larder tonight; she couldn’t stand to lose much more from her already skeletal frame.

Pushing open the door on thankfully well oiled hinges he peered in to the interior uncertainly. Inside both occupants had long since passed into deepest slumber on their respective cots, and though Hadrian tread lightly to avoid rousing them it was hardly necessary. Leaning his spear against the mantle piece, he set his remaining belongings on the ground beside the rocking chair. Casting the wide-brimmed hat from his head, Hadrian seated himself on the ancient rocker and fished out a battered tome buried deep within his pack.

The exterior of the book was unremarkable, bound in rich dark leathers bearing no stamp or filigree and tied simply with a tasseled cord of silver hue. Between the well worn covers however ran page after page of brilliant vellum marked on every inch with runes in a tongue scarce heard across the planes. And interspersed amidst the words, illuminated in a most magestic hand, sprung arcane symbols and occult diagrams concerned with all manner of mysteries.

Hadrian spent the night thus, one ear leant towards Wraith’s patient should he stir, his mind however lost in other realms of possibility. From time to time he roused enough to thrust the fire poker at the logs as they sputtered or to find another if the cairn burned low. As the waking hours approached however, sad imaginings began to intrude upon his thoughts. He never could predict when those days might come where all he could see was blackness, until it was nearly upon him.

Today would be one.

With a heavy heart, but quiet step, Hadrian made ready to leave for his morning duties trying hard not to wake the others.

[exile]

Actually I think the confusion is more of my own making. I didn’t intend for this post to take place more than an hour after the last one by Wraith in the Lost Keep thread; a quick jaunt to the Wayfarer to retrieve my spear (and eventually speak with Nilou) and then back again. I know the language suggests early morning, but I only say as much because I assumed we were quite close to anti-peak or whatever constitutes midnight before and so technically we had passed into a new day (and a new morning).

My confusion stems from when the Bleaker’s madness takes effect however. I assumed, perhaps incorrectly, that it wouldn’t overcome Hadrian until he had “rested” as I tried to demonstrate towards the end of the post where I suggest that his day would be a hard one. Furthermore I rationalized that it would plague him until he bedded down for the night once more. Is it rather a fixed thing of 24 hours beginning simply and sharply at the outset of one day and ending at the start of the next without any relation to sleep and wake cycles?

If this miscommunication can be resolved and the post can somehow be salvaged I don’t mind using a new time stamp.

Exile

[Stix]

Ah! I gotcha. The Ubiquitous Wayfarer scene starts in the 9 AP hour -- the trips to/from the Lost Keep plus seeing to health takes up a little more than an hour, so coming back you've still got two hours before antipeak.

As for the Bleaker drawback, I'm afraid it doesn't really say anywhere. Given that it generally expresses itself in depressive and catatonic bouts, I'd say it's probably more of a random-onset thing. He might be fine one moment, and over a few minutes slip into a depressive lapse. He might end up sleeping for the next twelve hours, then waking up and just lying still or doing something familiar until the feeling goes away.

So, roughly 24 hours, not necessarily sleep-related.

For timestamp purposes, you might want to split this up into a short narrative of his return and a new thread the following morning. I'm trying to limit threads to activity that takes place over the course of one hour.

[exile]

(I rewrote this post and split it into three parts. I wanted to get your input before I posted though, to make sure it works for you.)

The night ruled the Cage almost as surely as the Lady Herself. All the canny folk with the sense to do so had long since found their beds or the bottom of a bottle to while away the hours before first light. Of course in some parts of the city a body could still walk the streets without fear, and it was a good bet that the party in the Civic Festhall was in no danger of abating.

Overhead the stars of Sigil’s impossible night sky danced and flickered like flawless Arcadian gemstones; here the constellation corresponding to the fires of the Great Gymnasium at its zenith, there the Hall of Speakers burned with disingenuous tranquility. All across the great Torus, life went on and left its improbable mark on the eye. It was a breathtaking sight to even the most seasoned of veteran planewalkers, but down amongst the acrid vapors and menacing shadows that plagued the Lower Ward Hadrian could only spare it a cursory glance.

He walked quickly through the darkness with an air of focus more keen than any earthly blade. The flame that had previously leapt from his faction’s insignia had been allowed to die, for the eyes of an aasimar did not want for such aids. Better not to draw attention to the fact that Hadrian was one man, alone. But neither was he a fool. The weave of arcane armor that ensorcelled him might be invisible to all eyes, even his own, but the protection it afforded was very real.

The comfortable weight of his spear back within his grasp, Hadrian ghosted through the shadows like a foreboding apparition. Every sinew taught, every muscle ready, he watched, and he listened and he walked inexorably on.

*****

With almost palpable relief, Hadrian stepped through the badly weathered wooden door of the Lost Keep Inn to find the common room once more abandoned. The thin tapers which had lit the room previously were now smothered in their holders, and the logs on the hearth had been allowed to burn down to a slow smolder in his absence for no patron was present to bother stoking them. Barren though it might be, the warm room was still a comforting sight to a weary sod. In fact Hadrian couldn’t think of a better place to call kip on this lonely occasion.

With as silent step as ever he could manage, the aasimar tread his away around the long unoccupied stools and scattered tables with their appearance of pitiful neglect to find the door to Wraith’s meager chambers. Meager was a relative term he conceded. It was leagues above the austere cell Hadrian maintained back at the Gatehouse. Of course the Gatehouse was his home, and he never lacked for company within. There were always the fitful screams of his troubled faction mates in their gloomy reveries, and when that grew tiresome there was still that waif of a black cat, Kopek. Hopefully the poor thing had stolen into the larder tonight; she couldn’t stand to lose much more from her already bone thin frame.

Pushing open the door on thankfully well oiled hinges he peered in to the interior uncertainly. It was difficult to say with any certainty who appeared the more wan, the gaunt and haggard Wraith who appeared profoundly sad even in sleep or her unfortunate patient. In either event it was obvious that both occupants had long since passed into deepest slumber on their respective cots, and though Hadrian stepped lightly to avoid rousing them it was hardly necessary. Leaning his spear against the mantle piece, Hadrian set his remaining belongings on the ground beside the rocking chair. With a look of quiet deliberation, he cast off the wide-brimmed hat to reveal a dark mane of tousled locks as black as the feathers which adorned his weapon.

Hadrian seated himself on the ancient rocker and carefully extracted a battered tome from deep within his pack. The exterior of the book was unremarkable, bound in rich dark leathers bearing no stamp or filigree and tied simply with a tasseled cord of silver hue. Between the well worn covers however ran page after page of brilliant vellum marked on almost every inch with runes of a half-forgotten tongue scarce heard across the planes. And interspersed amidst the runes, blooming like arcane flowers in fields of impossible diversity, erupted spidery symbols and occult diagrams wrought in a most majestic hand.

With a delicate thrust of the fire poker that sent a cascade of sparks dancing up through the flue on the rising currents, Hadrian settled into his musings, quickly lost to other realms of possibility.

*****

As the waking hours approached, sad imaginings began to intrude upon Hadrian’s thoughts. It was impossible to predict when those days might come where all light was somehow paler and all life devoid of meaning until it was nearly upon him.

Today would be one such day.

With a heavy heart Hadrian made ready to leave for his morning duties. At least in such mindless affairs he could lose himself for a time, not having to face the abyss which threatened to consume him. He tried hard not to wake the others in his preparations, less out of any sense of respect for the poor sod and his unlikely savior than out of a simple desire not to have to speak or explain himself while in such a state.

[Stix]

No arguments here; post away.

[exile]

I lost the bit about Kopek, it sounded forced. I'll write her in another time when the setting is more appropriate. Otherwise it’s all the same as above. Could you double check the time stamps to make sure it’s all correct? Thanks for clearing things up,

Exile