Post by Archivist~Alabaster on Apr 21, 2006 11:11:44 GMT -5
A Matter of Time
~written by Arisla ~
“Forgive me.” The warrior’s voice was low, nearly overtaken by the horrific sounds of the scene in front of them. A warrior clad in plate, standing on a ruined stone bridge, a girl of perhaps twenty beside him. The girl sank to her knees, face pale and confused. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t right at all. This was supposed to be her return, this was supposed to be a triumphant moment where all that she had done was at last somehow...justified. Where her master would tell her that she, his pupil, had done well. Where he would tell her what next to accomplish, what she should do, where she should go.
“This is why I told you to stay away.” The warrior glanced down at her, a look of concern visible under the battle-ready expression.
“...this...this isn’t...I have to go find him.” The girl rose, her expression unreadable, and began to walk down the street. What was left of the street. Her home. Andorhal.
“Be very careful.” The warrior followed her, ever at the ready for an attack.
~<>~
Arisla was a strange girl, this could not be denied. Her trainers were never quite certain how to deal with her, a bright girl that was certain but the sheer number of ideas in her head, questions...to the warlocks of Northshire Abbey, she was a puzzle and a curiosity. For lack of better things to do, they gave her books to read and taught her a spell at a time - the thirteen year old seemed more than content with this and absorbed everything they set in front of her with a one-minded obsession and sense of concentration and duty. It had been a very long time since they had seen a child with such conviction. Almost too quiet, at the very least she didn’t seem unhappy or discontent - as if she were waiting.
The day came when she reached her twentieth year. The warlocks of the Abbey conferred and brought her before them, informed her that they had given her nearly all they could.
“You have been...an exacting pupil with a high sense of duty and morality, child. The former is appreciated and encouraged, the latter is...interesting for one such as yourself. Please report to Marshal McBride, he will set you on your way. Good luck to you.”
“I...thank you!” Waving cheerily over her shoulder at them she left. A new beginning, new things to see, new things to learn, new places to explore and she couldn’t be happier.
~<>~
“I...have...your...book,” With a breathless smile, Arisla handed the book to the woman assigned to train her. “It was...a little hard to get to. Here.”
Drusilla La Salle was not an extraordinary woman, but she knew talent when she saw it. Her eyes bore into the girl standing before her. Small, red hair somewhat mussed, a tomboy - no, not a tomboy, just entirely too unaware of her feminine wiles. Drusilla smiled to herself. That won’t take long for her to discover, not out here. Nodding, she thanked the girl - Arisla, that was it, for the tome, then patted the stump beside her. “Sit.”
Arisla obediently sat, staring at the woman with an intensity that unnerved her. Either she’s eager for knowledge or she’s about to bite my head off. With a curt nod, Drusilla flipped through the dusty tome. “Ah...this is exactly what I was looking for, thank you. And now I return the favor. It is with pleasure that I teach you this, my dear. A warlock is nothing without her servants.” A small frown, barely imperceptible crossed the young girl’s face, and it did not escape the trainer’s notice, but she continued regardless. “This is how we summon an imp from the nether. Pay attention.”
It was with a disturbing amount of ease that the girl picked up the correct incantation, her pronunciation near-flawless, and before long with a cackle of dark magics the imp appeared before her. The girl stared at the imp with the same intensity that she had stared at Drusilla before, the imp levelly returning her stare. Drusilla cleared her throat, but neither being stirred, their gazes locked.
~<>~
“...is he to make breakfast?” A high, piping voice of six years questioned the presence of the little demon. She wasn’t frightened, she was never really frightened because she did not know there was anything to be feared.
A grey-haired man sat in a chair next to the fireplace, looking up from his reading to observe the child, who was on her hands and knees peering curiously at the imp he had summoned. This was the first she had thought to question it being there, indeed the first time she had said anything about it at all.
He was a very old man, features wrinkled with the worn edges of time. Most ignored him, as he preferred. The others spoke of him in hushed, wary tones, not knowing what to make of the stranger that kept himself to himself in a little house on the edge of town. Had they perchance observed the scene playing out at the moment, they would have been horrified. Wizened man in a chair, a great dusty tome on his lap. An imp, demon from the nether, merrily exploring the cracks in the wooden floor and crackling with a fire that echoed the one in the fireplace. A girl of six years of age, small, red haired, her round amber eyes reflecting a blatant and eager thirst for knowledge.
The time had come to begin.
“...no. He is not to make breakfast. He is not a...servant, or a plaything, child. He is a creature to be reckoned with of his own right.” The man leaned forward, whispering something to the imp who cackled and merrily threw a fireball into the fireplace, startling the girl into scurrying under the table. She didn’t cry, she never cried - this concerned the old man more than a little. Even when he took her in, when he took her to see her parents in Sorrow Hill, when they left flowers on the gravestones and he told her to tell them she loved them, she never cried, just solemnly nodded and did as she was told, awkwardly patting the gravestones with a tiny hand.
He had taken her under much protest from the town council, but there was nothing else to be done with her, really. Her father had died to a group of vagabonds that had been stealing supplies from the town for months - luckily they had been caught, unluckily the man had died in the process. Her mother soon fell ill, and while there were those that said it was shock and sorrow that led to the weakness of her constitution, there were more that whispered quiet and sad at her funeral that it had been love, nothing less nothing more, that had led to her end - that she followed her husband wherever he went, be it the town of Andorhal, or the grave where she rested at last. With no other living relatives, the girl had been taken in by the mayor and his wife, but they had no time for child-rearing, and a meeting was held in the city hall, the council desperately trying to decide what to do with her.
“The baker and his wife, surely they could take her in.”
“No, they’ve little enough to live on as-is, they couldn’t care for a child as well-“
“-we could give them a pittance to raise her on-“
“-we’re poor enough as-is man, it’s going to take a year of harvest to replace the supplies they took and in the meantime we’ll have to have things shipped in from Stratholme! We’ve no extra money to give, they won’t do at all, end of discussion.”
A reedy voice from the back of the room hesitantly interrupted. “...we could ship her to Stormwind, the orphanage there. They’d take her in...”
A round of agreement.
“I will take her.”
All eyes turned to the doorway where the old man stood. A hermit, none of them knew much of him other than he kept himself to himself and rarely showed his face at town events. A low murmur of protests began, but none spoke aloud.
“I can provide for her sufficiently. Her well-being will be taken care of. It has been long since I’ve had a student.”
The mayor, longing to bring a quick end to the already hours-long meeting, spoke up. “Then she’s yours to raise. You...understand we will be checking in on you from time to time, just to make sure she’s being provided for.” The council as one turned to stare at the old man, waiting for a response. He smiled dryly. “Of course. Your concern for the girl is to be commended.”
He picked her up the next day and brought her home. Two years ago, had it been that long already?
Shaking his head to clear it, the old man peered at the girl under the table, who was giving the imp a startled and accusing look. He chuckled. “He is not a servant. He is...an assistant of sorts, and he helps me with my spells.”
Crawling cautiously out from under the table, the girl crept toward the old man, leaning on the arm of the chair to catch a glimpse of the book he was reading. “...spells? Do I get to learn those, too? ‘m already good with reading an’ writing.”
He pulled her into his lap, and she settled there comfortably, still reading the book. “I...think it’s time you began, yes. You’ve demonstrated an aptitude for knowledge.”
She looked up at him, blatantly confused, and he chuckled again, patting her head. “...you’re very smart, child.”
“Oh. Does that mean I get an assistant?”
“Someday. For now, let us begin by defining what exactly a warlock is...”
~<>~
Arisla blinked, breaking eye contact with the imp. Gobloz. Her new...not assistant, she knew that now, he was more than that. He still stared at her, measuring her.
“Thank you, miss La Salle. Was there anything else you needed?”
Drusilla shook her head, waving the girl off. “No...now get going. The Marshal’s asked for you while you were away, I believe he wants to send you to Goldshire.” The girl’s eyes lit up at this, and she thanked Drusilla again, running off with her imp following close behind.
She watched the pair of them go. “...and good luck to you, child. I think you’ll need it.” Muttering an incantation, the book in her hands disappeared into the ether, reappearing where the girl had plucked it from hours before to wait until another warlock-in-training was sent her way.
“You’ll need it.”
~written by Arisla ~
“Forgive me.” The warrior’s voice was low, nearly overtaken by the horrific sounds of the scene in front of them. A warrior clad in plate, standing on a ruined stone bridge, a girl of perhaps twenty beside him. The girl sank to her knees, face pale and confused. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t right at all. This was supposed to be her return, this was supposed to be a triumphant moment where all that she had done was at last somehow...justified. Where her master would tell her that she, his pupil, had done well. Where he would tell her what next to accomplish, what she should do, where she should go.
“This is why I told you to stay away.” The warrior glanced down at her, a look of concern visible under the battle-ready expression.
“...this...this isn’t...I have to go find him.” The girl rose, her expression unreadable, and began to walk down the street. What was left of the street. Her home. Andorhal.
“Be very careful.” The warrior followed her, ever at the ready for an attack.
~<>~
Arisla was a strange girl, this could not be denied. Her trainers were never quite certain how to deal with her, a bright girl that was certain but the sheer number of ideas in her head, questions...to the warlocks of Northshire Abbey, she was a puzzle and a curiosity. For lack of better things to do, they gave her books to read and taught her a spell at a time - the thirteen year old seemed more than content with this and absorbed everything they set in front of her with a one-minded obsession and sense of concentration and duty. It had been a very long time since they had seen a child with such conviction. Almost too quiet, at the very least she didn’t seem unhappy or discontent - as if she were waiting.
The day came when she reached her twentieth year. The warlocks of the Abbey conferred and brought her before them, informed her that they had given her nearly all they could.
“You have been...an exacting pupil with a high sense of duty and morality, child. The former is appreciated and encouraged, the latter is...interesting for one such as yourself. Please report to Marshal McBride, he will set you on your way. Good luck to you.”
“I...thank you!” Waving cheerily over her shoulder at them she left. A new beginning, new things to see, new things to learn, new places to explore and she couldn’t be happier.
~<>~
“I...have...your...book,” With a breathless smile, Arisla handed the book to the woman assigned to train her. “It was...a little hard to get to. Here.”
Drusilla La Salle was not an extraordinary woman, but she knew talent when she saw it. Her eyes bore into the girl standing before her. Small, red hair somewhat mussed, a tomboy - no, not a tomboy, just entirely too unaware of her feminine wiles. Drusilla smiled to herself. That won’t take long for her to discover, not out here. Nodding, she thanked the girl - Arisla, that was it, for the tome, then patted the stump beside her. “Sit.”
Arisla obediently sat, staring at the woman with an intensity that unnerved her. Either she’s eager for knowledge or she’s about to bite my head off. With a curt nod, Drusilla flipped through the dusty tome. “Ah...this is exactly what I was looking for, thank you. And now I return the favor. It is with pleasure that I teach you this, my dear. A warlock is nothing without her servants.” A small frown, barely imperceptible crossed the young girl’s face, and it did not escape the trainer’s notice, but she continued regardless. “This is how we summon an imp from the nether. Pay attention.”
It was with a disturbing amount of ease that the girl picked up the correct incantation, her pronunciation near-flawless, and before long with a cackle of dark magics the imp appeared before her. The girl stared at the imp with the same intensity that she had stared at Drusilla before, the imp levelly returning her stare. Drusilla cleared her throat, but neither being stirred, their gazes locked.
~<>~
“...is he to make breakfast?” A high, piping voice of six years questioned the presence of the little demon. She wasn’t frightened, she was never really frightened because she did not know there was anything to be feared.
A grey-haired man sat in a chair next to the fireplace, looking up from his reading to observe the child, who was on her hands and knees peering curiously at the imp he had summoned. This was the first she had thought to question it being there, indeed the first time she had said anything about it at all.
He was a very old man, features wrinkled with the worn edges of time. Most ignored him, as he preferred. The others spoke of him in hushed, wary tones, not knowing what to make of the stranger that kept himself to himself in a little house on the edge of town. Had they perchance observed the scene playing out at the moment, they would have been horrified. Wizened man in a chair, a great dusty tome on his lap. An imp, demon from the nether, merrily exploring the cracks in the wooden floor and crackling with a fire that echoed the one in the fireplace. A girl of six years of age, small, red haired, her round amber eyes reflecting a blatant and eager thirst for knowledge.
The time had come to begin.
“...no. He is not to make breakfast. He is not a...servant, or a plaything, child. He is a creature to be reckoned with of his own right.” The man leaned forward, whispering something to the imp who cackled and merrily threw a fireball into the fireplace, startling the girl into scurrying under the table. She didn’t cry, she never cried - this concerned the old man more than a little. Even when he took her in, when he took her to see her parents in Sorrow Hill, when they left flowers on the gravestones and he told her to tell them she loved them, she never cried, just solemnly nodded and did as she was told, awkwardly patting the gravestones with a tiny hand.
He had taken her under much protest from the town council, but there was nothing else to be done with her, really. Her father had died to a group of vagabonds that had been stealing supplies from the town for months - luckily they had been caught, unluckily the man had died in the process. Her mother soon fell ill, and while there were those that said it was shock and sorrow that led to the weakness of her constitution, there were more that whispered quiet and sad at her funeral that it had been love, nothing less nothing more, that had led to her end - that she followed her husband wherever he went, be it the town of Andorhal, or the grave where she rested at last. With no other living relatives, the girl had been taken in by the mayor and his wife, but they had no time for child-rearing, and a meeting was held in the city hall, the council desperately trying to decide what to do with her.
“The baker and his wife, surely they could take her in.”
“No, they’ve little enough to live on as-is, they couldn’t care for a child as well-“
“-we could give them a pittance to raise her on-“
“-we’re poor enough as-is man, it’s going to take a year of harvest to replace the supplies they took and in the meantime we’ll have to have things shipped in from Stratholme! We’ve no extra money to give, they won’t do at all, end of discussion.”
A reedy voice from the back of the room hesitantly interrupted. “...we could ship her to Stormwind, the orphanage there. They’d take her in...”
A round of agreement.
“I will take her.”
All eyes turned to the doorway where the old man stood. A hermit, none of them knew much of him other than he kept himself to himself and rarely showed his face at town events. A low murmur of protests began, but none spoke aloud.
“I can provide for her sufficiently. Her well-being will be taken care of. It has been long since I’ve had a student.”
The mayor, longing to bring a quick end to the already hours-long meeting, spoke up. “Then she’s yours to raise. You...understand we will be checking in on you from time to time, just to make sure she’s being provided for.” The council as one turned to stare at the old man, waiting for a response. He smiled dryly. “Of course. Your concern for the girl is to be commended.”
He picked her up the next day and brought her home. Two years ago, had it been that long already?
Shaking his head to clear it, the old man peered at the girl under the table, who was giving the imp a startled and accusing look. He chuckled. “He is not a servant. He is...an assistant of sorts, and he helps me with my spells.”
Crawling cautiously out from under the table, the girl crept toward the old man, leaning on the arm of the chair to catch a glimpse of the book he was reading. “...spells? Do I get to learn those, too? ‘m already good with reading an’ writing.”
He pulled her into his lap, and she settled there comfortably, still reading the book. “I...think it’s time you began, yes. You’ve demonstrated an aptitude for knowledge.”
She looked up at him, blatantly confused, and he chuckled again, patting her head. “...you’re very smart, child.”
“Oh. Does that mean I get an assistant?”
“Someday. For now, let us begin by defining what exactly a warlock is...”
~<>~
Arisla blinked, breaking eye contact with the imp. Gobloz. Her new...not assistant, she knew that now, he was more than that. He still stared at her, measuring her.
“Thank you, miss La Salle. Was there anything else you needed?”
Drusilla shook her head, waving the girl off. “No...now get going. The Marshal’s asked for you while you were away, I believe he wants to send you to Goldshire.” The girl’s eyes lit up at this, and she thanked Drusilla again, running off with her imp following close behind.
She watched the pair of them go. “...and good luck to you, child. I think you’ll need it.” Muttering an incantation, the book in her hands disappeared into the ether, reappearing where the girl had plucked it from hours before to wait until another warlock-in-training was sent her way.
“You’ll need it.”