Dubhaine Family/Moira/Roleplays/2019/December
| Dubhaine Family | |
| Fame | 40 |
| Wealth | 19485 |
| Home Region | Ashforth |
| Home World | East Continent |
December 22nd
Evening -- Mhed
Nerta
It hurt. It always hurts when things go wrong. That's how you known that thing's have gone wrong
It started wrong admittedly. I found the old shack leaning against the curtain wall, a halfway house that contained my second ghost for the evening. She was old, older than anyone I'd ever seen before, well almost. All deep wrinkles, gnarled joints and smelled faintly of tanning. To cap it off as I stepped into the gloom she took one look at me and cackled.
“One of you?! I haven't seen one of you since I was a girl,” her voice grated like a washing board, “Finally decided to come crawling out of your forest? Or no wait, no. You're from the mountains aren't you? It doesn't really matter, you're here now and that's interesting."
I didn't like how she looked at me, her eyes shimmering with something far more dangerous than nightsight. I never liked how they looked at me, a mix of confusion, curiosity and revulsion. That she didn’t recoil would be an improvement, except I was waiting for her to pull out a knife to dissect me. I tried to carry a calm persona, to avoid curling my lips in a sneer but given her laughter I must have failed. It didn't seem to bother her though.
"Yes, yes I'm old and strange. And you are young and strange but here for a reason," She holds up her hand and continues to inspect me like a prized pig. "No Don't bother lying I don't care enough to ask. The room is yours if you have the silver, and if you don't I have work enough for you."
I didn't have the silver, not much use for coin where I'm from, but around here and every pleb seems to want it.
So I took the job, and here I am now, in pain.
The third old ghost of the evening haunts the deserted crafting yard, drifting amidst tools and timber used for making something. I hadn’t asked, maybe a cooper or a wheelwright. He’d lashed out when he spotted me, hurling hammers and a pepper of nails my way. I’d avoided those, but then one of his more ethereal mallets had slid through the timber pile I’d dove behind leaving an arm numb from the elbow down. Oh it would hurt later, I knew that well enough.
Old ghosts; I can't get away from them.
The plan had been simple: sneak past the thing, find his anchor and smash it. Simple straightforward, and a complete failure. I’d spent hours with this stupid wailing pleb moaning about some old hurt or who knows what. But the Gods are fickle, cruel and vindictive. So that meant plan B. I hate plan B. It just ends with me deeper.
