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The nightingale's song ATT: Drea ^^


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The sapphire sky were cloudy and the sun shone down on the walls of wooden houses, in a village two figurines sat under a big oak tree. The older man with a brownish beard held his hands in cross on his belly, while the other one just glared at the table and a wooden box that's been placed there between the men. " This, my sister gave away! Do not know, but the box includes a branded knife" The younger one said with a soft but strong voice, as his left eye questionably blinked at it. The last thing he'd ever say, as the other man smirked as he drew out a short-bladed knife of steel and slashed it at the man's neck. Blood splashed a little around, as the young man clinched trying to hold the wound closed, but it was all in vein, as he were already dying quickly. The table were blooded and the wooden box on the ground as dusty and smelly as the man that were dying. It had all been over in hast, and the other man already gone with the wind.




3 years later.


" I love thee, can't you tell. I really do, really do love thee.

My heart beats all time, when you're near. My love, the sun shines less than you do.


Your dearest love, Aran"


The letter written at night. Aran didn't know why she had to leave so sudden, but none the less she did just that. The letter she took and never said a word of, with him speechless behind. Maybe she left him for something much better, and so more exciting journey. This he did not know, and probably wouldn't understand. But what he knew was, the loving woman, he had cared for, protected through all years had decided without him to go alone on a journey. This he mumbled about on and on through night and day, with  no real answer to it. Only thing she left behind were five words, he'd never forget, she had told him those many years ago, when they first met. "My Aran, Love thee so." Her softly glance still shaked him from time to time.


He placed him self at the wooden door with no handle, as it had wither down to nothingness. He stood there watching the sunrise, all alone for first time in a long time. He now knew how the young man's widow must felt as he had murdered her husband so so many years ago. Cold at heart, sad in soul, broken in mind...and lost in a void. Nothing he a killer, knew anythin' bout. He felt the shiver coming onto his very bones as he stood there. Aran fingered on a flute, that he still kept from his long lost brother in the pocket. But now, he thought he can play it. So, he took it up. A silver flute with patterns of tiny dragons circling it round. Beautifully sounded melody began to stir the very wind. A bird sang in-tune with it, and even made it sadder then before.


A stranger strutted with sword-belt round her hips and a bandage round her braided hair , on a lonely road a bit from the house. Suddenly she noticed a sad melody in the air, and looked at the direction it seem to come from. She saw the house and the man standing on the porch as the sunrise. The man she had never seen before, and didn't know what to think of his playing either. He may want to be alone, or may not want to be alone or even waiting on someone. All this she tucked away as she decided to keep walking...


OOC: Drea, hope this is okey written...wasn't sure what to write, so just winged it.

Post when-ever you can. ^-^                 

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Rosh hiccupped and stumbled down the dirt road to his home. It had been a long night at the tavern and Mistress Anagail had kicked him out of her bed early—or late, depending on who was doing the kicking and who was doing the sleeping. She at least had the grace to give him one more bottle before slamming the door in his face and mumbling something about her husband being out of town too much and young men too charming for their own good. Roth had merely shrugged, tipped his hat to the closed door and took a long swig of the red wine before stumbling off her front steps in the dark.


That was an hour ago, and Roth was now trying to remember where his house lay on this wretched earth compared to the Inn. His mother might be upset to see him home so late, and more so at the bottle in his hand and the stench on his breath, but his father would noticed the un-tucked shirt, messy blonde curly hair and smile with a clap on the back. 21 wasn’t too old to be living at home, nor too young to live on his own. There were plenty of boys in the stories, who were younger than Rosh and ruled kingdoms, and there were plenty more in his town that were older and still on leading strings—whether by wives or mothers depended on the man. One thing Rosh knew for sure was that he was content.


As the sun rose above the fields and through the tree branches, Rosh tracked on, regaining some sobriety. Perhaps the walk was good for him, gave him time to trick his mother into thinking he was with Wex and Cris all night—well, he was with them part of the night, so that wasn’t all that bad an idea. As the sun continued to rise and Rosh’s buzz turned to a headache, his ears were filled with a sorrowful melody. A small house to his left provided the source and Rosh stopped to listen.


Rosh knew that house. It was messy, nearly torn down, and people lived in it. No one in the village dared talk to them or invite them to festivals because… well… Rosh didn’t exactly know why, they just didn’t. Then again, the people who lived there weren’t exactly known for their social attempts. In fact, this was the first time in all his 21 years Rosh had seen someone actually outside the run down shack.


Perhaps it was the alcohol, perhaps it was the gloom of the song or the anxiety of returning to his mother but Rosh surprisingly found himself nearing the front porch, and the man sitting by the door.


“That’s a mighty sad song, Sir. Mind if I ask why?” He put one booted foot up on the step and leaned against a post. The sudden desire to be drunk again washed over him and he took a swig of his bottle. Damn, empty. Shaking it upside down for the last drop and getting nothing but small splatters, he set it down by his boot. The only thing he liked more than his wine was his women, and there didn’t seem to be any of those around here either.


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Aran looked up at the drunken young man standing half way on the porch. His breath told of a lot of alcohol through the night of drinking. " you ain't from here, are you lad! No-one ever come here, not even uninvited do they come here." Aran glanced down at the boys feet's, and saw  they were a little weary of too much walking. His first thought were He can't go home just yet, cause' of his parents Aran stood up and said with a deep husky voice "My song, were for my wife that left me here." He gestured for the boy to follow him into the wrecked house, and so he told him to sit down at a chair by the window which was broken. Aran started looking' for some food to give the lad, as he were probably hungry now, after all this walking at night. He finally found sliced beef a few days old, and some out of date bread. He dusted them of so they at least looked fine, then he came out with them on a plate, and placed it for the lad. " Here, better eat! Or you might starve to death!"


He just hoped the lad did not see it the wrong way, and would spit at him after wards. Since he just wanted some company for once. For him self he took out a cup and took out a special bottle of ale, he had made him self a few years ago. His father had taught how to make it. The lad stared at him as if wanted too. "Sorry, this my lad is not for just anyone to drink. It's my own recipe!" He poured the ale in the cup he had on the table  and a steam of air came up with the strong smell of honey and strawberry. "wow, it tastes even better now." Aran sipped from his cup and grinned as much, so you could  see his teeth's.     

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  • 1 month later...

Rosh pushed the plate away. The smell of the rotting food made his stomach churn. He had made a better meal while drunk and half asleep, and that was saying something. Wrinkling his nose and leaning back in the chair, Rosh folded his hands and watched the man drink his ale. Surprisingly, he didn’t have much of an appetite for food or drink, so the stranger hoarding the ale like a selfish twit meant nothing to him.


Though he seemed annoying at first; playing that sad song, talking all funny, and now keeping all the ale for him; Rosh seemed drawn to the man. His sorrow was intriguing, mysterious, almost addicting. The silence hung in the air between the two men, well, man and boy.


“Why don’t you just go find her then?” His words seem to hang there more so than the silence had. At least the man set down the bottle now, but his face had turned to stone. Was the concept of going after the woman he loved that foreign or that obsurd?




OOC: Sorry it's taken me a month to reply. Life happens. Hope you forgive me.

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