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  1. Cluching his head John stumbled thoug the brush of a small stand of trees, it was night time though it seemed like noon to him with the moon's light shining on this almost cloudless night. The voices were getting stronger, they had layed almost dorment in the back of his mind for about a month, always there but slowly getting quieter...that was untill today. Tripping on the brance of one of the stunted trees that grew in the boarderlands he almost landed on his face, instead catching himself on anohter of the tree's brnaches, for that brife secound he let his concitration slip. Imageise flooded his head, the smell of a freashly killed deer almost whiped out all other smells, voices, or words put to the pictures, started to talk to him, to find out who he was. "No, go away!" John shouted at the ground, he tried despratly to fight the voices back into submision, to almost no avail. Looking to up at the moon, his amber eyes shining in the near darkness, he cursed who ever had given him this condition. The day had gone from bad to worse for him, it had started like any other, meaning that he woke up in a servents room were he had been hidden when he had first manifested the symptoms of his "Condition", he had gone downstairs to find that the house was empty, looking out the window to see the town guard comming had only told him that his parents had finnaly decided he was no longer in the creator's grace. He had run untill darkness had enveloped the world in its dark grasp, and now found himself on the ground cursing everyone he ever knew. All these thoughts took about a few secounds to flash though his mind, and when they stopped the voices had quieted down some what. "Good" he thought, for some reasion thinking on what this condition did to him always quieted the voices, as if they were takeing pitty on him. "I dont need your pitty," he said to a tree brance, "It is bad enough that you have cost me my home, now you think to make it right by giving me your pitty?" The sound of footsteps woke him out of his ranting at the tree brance. Looking around he could not stop the persion, but he could hear him. Winterwinds-Only slightly used sanity
  2. ooc this start in the andoran forests but end in the steading so figured this was a happy medium placewise also continues from here http://forums.dragonmount.com/index.php/topic,26245.msg713575.html#msg713575 IC: Branches and twigs where flying above her, others where scraping against her as she charged through the dark forest on horseback. All care for her stallions feet had been left behind as she panic striken had set out on this wild trip to escape whichever monsters the forest hid. Her companion gone to who knew where, maybe the animals had taken her. Images of horror realed through her mind as she thougth up all types of nigthmares of what had happened to Dilora, she also thougth she could hear something chasing them. Mayhaps it was only the wind in the leaves, but she was sure she could hear something breathing, maybe it was just her heart, but she thougth she could hear soft thumps against the leafy floor of the forestground. She shivered imagining sharp tooths sinking into her legs and drag her off her horse, trying to look back under her arm, her heart racing quicker and quicker. She had no clue where she was when dawn emerged and she thumbled out on a plain in the midle of the forest, her horse was shivering and froting under her as he stoped in the center. Causiously she sliped down, she hugged him and poured water into her cup, nothing in sight, it was all quiet before one by one forest birds took up singing. As the horse slowly calmed she checked his legs and then sunk down in a bundle on the ground, shivering and silently tears started runing down her cheecks. If she had had a mirror she wouldnt have recognised herself, large red pouty eyes, her hair a big knot full of leaf and twigs, her clothes covered in dirt kicked up by the horse, and her clothes riped as well as her skin from the twigs whiping against her. Her stumock growled but she had no food, and she was so tired, but all she could do was let her eyes panic stricken search around for monsters even in high daylight.
  3. The small boat glided softly over the coarse river soil. With a quick jerk it came to rest and its occupants shared a hesitant look. The sun had long set; twilight cast its pulses of pink and purple through the sparse trees and over the subtle hills. A town perhaps a mile down stream glowed with evening life. But the two meant to keep quiet and unnoticed. “How long will you be?” The old man croaked, his coarse hand laying the oar in his lap so he might scratch his wiry beard. “No more than two days. Lynx won’t enjoy being cooped up for much longer than that, nor will I like too much longer in Murandy.” “Don’t want your head on a pike in Lugard, eh? Well you have another day’s trek before you’re even out of Altara anyway boy. And Jaeb can look after your horse plenty fine ‘til you find what you’re looking for.” Erik turned to look back at the old man. Erik knew except for his golden eyes and the hazy outline of his head and shoulders, the old man would not be able to distinguish a facial feature in this waning light. He could tell where the fleas had bitten on the old man’s bald head and see the beginning of eye-mist in his dull cow eyes. Erik knew no herbal cures for it, but he did want to repay the family for their help over the years. A rest station for any brother or sister out of the Stedding was a welcome and rare thing, and Erik had known of the Standish stop since he first became a Tracker. He never asked why they helped, and they never said why. Good enough reason for him to let the question sleep. “I’ll make good time so long as Jaeb is keeping a watch along the river for us and not you, old man.” A laugh croaked out him, his hand slapping the paddle side of the oar, “Aye, he will. Tomorrow night he’ll come across and spend the night and day here. Don’t know how much help the fool boy will be around the rest of place since he lost his thumb.” “Accident?” “Altaran combat training,” he said with gravel and weight in his throat. The awkwardness of the silence pushed Erik from the boat. With a final nod he pushed the small craft back into the waters and it slipped from the shore almost silent. Night was pressing in as the stars burned through the cloud cast. With a quick check of his surrounding Erik dropped the small satchel behind a log, the bits of twigs and cloth dangling out, and he pushed a sweep of sand over top. Just in case they were early… Or very very late. “Let’s go with being early… for once…” Erik shrugged his pack over one shoulder and his baldric over the other. He was making good time, despite the fact the signal was at first hazy a few days past and grown in intensity that day. He’d been along Garen’s Wall, setting up an outpost in the small Stedding he’d found there the last winter, when he felt it. It was a female, he was certain of it, with eyes that shift and shiver and she moves like quicksilver. He hoped he would be able to get through Murandy and its many river divisions to the Wanderer in time. Erik settled into a steady pace as he climbed the small hills. He ached for the cover of trees, safe and sheltered away from eyes, but all he could see were small growths in couple pace wide bunches. The beacon pulled him onward to Midea. The Kin had no eyes and ears in there, a town famous for its people’s tempers and their pride for being short-tempered. Not a bramble patch I’d like to stumble into if I can avoid it. He opened himself to the wolves, felt their hearts and thoughts beat inside him and flood their names and locations through him. Hold on Sister. Erik
  4. If there were a place for new beginnings, Erik knew its location. If there was an exact destination to discard the tatters and ruins of what once was and emerge anew, a different man, Erik had known it many time over. It was a thing of regularity, as cyclical as the Wheel of Time itself, the turnings of the day and the moon and a bowl of cherry wood. Every time he came to the spot he would kid himself that he would remain, get old and have cubs, smoke fine leaf and play Stones until his joints would seize and his mane bristled grey and silver. How many lives had he discarded coming here? How many times had he emerged, reforged from grief or loss or loneliness or pain, remade and different? The past remained a haunting howl on the wind, a cause to raise hair and bristle hackles with the sear of the tooth and claw long gone. Long past. Echoes remain; echoes that followed him, some resonating within his very flesh as scars and markings, all the way to where he stood. The Lodge. The cabin out in the woods, between the two massive Douglas Firs that stabbed the sky, beside the field of wild flowers marred only by the stone epitaph in the center, squatting near the crystal water pond, abandoned. The shingling held a dense collection of moss, but he would bet his life the shake was still in good shape. The thatching had been hard and laborious—so had everything been with building his once home. Perhaps that was one medicinal aspect of this place, the hardship its creation had been could commune within him the hardship he was facing or had faced. His first task was to dig out the wax. All along the door frame his knife blade sunk in and pulled out bits and tangles of wax, the year old seal. He worked at it hungrily until enough was free for the door to budge a hair’s width back and forth. Sheathing his claw Erik dusted off his hands. He hesitated. The smell of the memories wafted out to him, between the cracks of door, into the crevices of his mind, painfully. There was the pine and alder smell, the crisp tinge of cedar still in the air, long extinguished moth balls and hint of lavender and soap. Why he had left her perfume in there, Erik’s understanding of his own actions could go only so far before he just had to accept what he does in grief or instinct or both as the best course. Facing the decisions of the past, erupting regrets, were a path to destruction not even this bastion could resurrect him from. Thick fingers enveloped the large wooden sliding latch, more fitting on a barn door but that mattered little to him, as he grunted and pushed. Functionality had always outweighed aesthetic beauty in Erik’s mind, of course with the exception of wooden ornaments and women. Well, maybe just ornaments. Erik had grown up on the Caralain Grass along the River Ivo where women were known to build houses, fall trees, reap crops, and run the farm on their own when their husbands were inscribed to war or were never returned from the battlefield. There’s a town in Haevin made up almost entirely of widows, a town’s civil war between Houses like an inferno that consumed brothers and fathers and uncles and grandfathers in its flames. Erik smiled. Even a blind traveller was enticing to some of the women, back in the days he avoided much of the woods before he could shield himself from Kin and wolves alike. “Jarret’s Passing, three days west of the Black Hills, where the fields sing with golden chimes and the river roars like a drowning beast. Jarret’s Passing…” Erik’s smile stiffened as he slammed the latch the rest of the way, “where the women watch a man like a starving wolf stalks his prey.” The door groaned like a dying moose, long and hard and aching. The woods seemed to shudder along with it until the ordeal was passed. “Oil… I’ll need oil in town.” The air was old and made his nose turn. He could feel the passages of time roll over him, that a mouse had made it’s way through a loose floorboard into the room some months before but was gone maybe a week past, his own smell in and around the room from the last night he had been there, panic, concern, anxiety, excitement, and there was always her. She lingers in the corners and near the bed stand as if she had been standing there only a few moments ago. The pull just strong enough to tug him there before it evaporates and once again he would doubt his sanity. “Welcome home, Night’s howl.” His own voice sounded like gravel, but Light it felt good to be home.
  5. There was a gust today. It was warm, its slender limbs drifting across his body, tender fire sinking into his bones as if the last sweltering bit of heat was fading away with this wind. Erik smiled. Summer was breaking into Autumn, the leaves transforming into a burnished gold, if they still remained on the trees. The oddity of the weather had perplexed him. He knew it was Heartbane’s work, no other force in this world save the Creator could touch the Seasons so, but then why have summer break? If the Father of Lies truly wished them dead, what better way than to ruin the crops and bake the land to dust as terrible and contorted as the Blight? Word of a Dragon passes as easily on the wind, many a time he had heard the tale, even in Tear where they claimed him ruler and as far as Haadon Mirk where even the thieves and bandits feared him, to save them and then break them all. Could he rival Heartbane for power? Such things that involved the Power unnerved him, even the idea of having an Aes Sedai as close as Manetheren made him uneasy. But today was a day for calm and clarity. Erik fed his emotions and concerns into the blue flame in his mind. Owen had tried to teach him The Spring, a way of utilizing all of your feelings and thoughts, emotions building to give you the strength and mental lucidity, but it was not for him. Erik hungered for The Abyss, The Void, the nothingness he now possessed. Every worry, every feeling was on the outside, sliding along the outer boundaries as if they were another man’s. Erik leaned back as he could hear the footfalls off in the distance. Resting his hands on his knees he worked his shoulder muscles loose. The woods around his cabin were deserted, few wolves and fewer Kin made the trek out simply for the scenery. It had been strange making the request. Half of him was certain that he would be denied, his absence too long from the Stedding for him to train any fresh Wanderer… But he could empathize with this one. We all run with our own demons, our own darkness. “And live to tell the tale after… Light willing.”
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