12-25-2010, 07:23 PM
The shadow of a man stood at the doorway, staring inward. The innards of what was once a home were torn, thrown and riddled with the signs of a struggle. He furrowed his brow for a moment, feigning concern. He took a step in, the floorboards creaking underneath the new weight brought down on it by the armor, flesh and bone. With each step, another creak filled the silence. The man's back straightened out as he looked around, now in the center of the room. The past flashing through his mind - all memories of what once was - he took a moment to let it sink in.
I told them to leave. I remember it, now. To get out as quickly as they could, and to leave my things. That I would be right behind them as soon as I had the chance.
Another step followed by an unfamiliar crack, and then, a crunch. Under his foot was something... A porcelain doll's head. He looked down at it, squinting. He shook his head and continued his slow march through the living quarters. A broken fireplace, wood left in it, and an old, dessicated armchair are all that remain of what was once a lively little home. He continued his trek, upstairs, over broken steps and decaying old wood.
The scene was rather similar than the living area, though a bookcase adorned this vacant area. He stepped toward it and looked over a number of the books, but not a one kept his attention. It did, however, seem that a number of the books that once were there no longer were, for some reason or another.
This was once a home. This was once MY home. So many years ago, this was all mine. The years have been cruel, it seems.
He stood there, staring at a copy of a history book detailing the first war. As he stared, his mind continued to run. It flashed to every little, happy memory he could muster of this place. He could almost feel the warmth of the hearth on his skin - almost see the bright hues of the decorated building, of which there were no decorations left to speak. He replaced the book on the shelf and continued toward the bedrooms. He opened the door to the first and ventured in.
Two children's beds, one in each corner, and a room nearly bare of anything else. He could hardly stand to see it this way, so he quickly turned on his heels and left the room. Running his gauntlet-covered hand along the wood of the wall as he moved closer to the next room. He pushed the door open carefully, peeking into the room as he did so, as if something would jump out and attack him at any moment.
As he stepped in, a cabinet caught his eye. He approached it carefully, noting that it was slightly open.
This was where I kept my possessions. But it's open - I wonder why?
He put one hand on the door of the cabinet, with the other on the hilt of his blade. Prepared to draw his weapon and defend himself, he opened the door, to no threat at all. He peeked inside, noting a sword and shield hanging upon the back area of the cabinet. The shield was one bearing the crest of Lordaeron on its face in purple-ish pink colouring, and the blade had the same crest on the guard, just above the hilt. Underneath was a number of drawers, each bearing small objects in them. Each object bore a significance, and thus he grabbed each and put it into his bag gingerly.
He drew his blade and laid it gently on the bed, alongside his shield. He turned about and instead bore the blade and shield from the cabinet. He stood there for a moment, staring at the wall and thinking.
I am nothing but a shadow of my past, it seems. Where do I go from here?
He turned back to the cabinet and began to look through it a bit more, before coming across an old, leatherbound journal with a note atop it, reading:
"My love,
When you pack your things, don't
forget to bring this with you.
I know how much it means to you.
We'll be waiting for you in Stormwind.
Love always,
Mari"
The man stared at the note before removing his gauntlets, setting them to the side. He picked the note up, turning it over in his pale hand and "feeling" it with his thumb, forefinger and middle finger. He blinked a number of times and furrowed his brow before folding it up and tucking it away in his pack. He picks the journal up, flipping to the first of a number of page markers. The marker was an inked drawing of a woman, and rather well done, at that. He pulled the marker to the side and read the page:
The man closed the book, replacing the marker as he did so. He stood in silence for a good fifteen minutes, a thousand thoughts rushing through his mind. He put the book in his bag and closed it, slinging it on his hip and stepping out of the room. He stared at the floor of the hallway for a few moments, collecting his thoughts.
Caleb Hadwin Brightfellow. I dare not speak that name in reference to myself, these days. No, Ichabod fits all the better. A dead man's name for a dead man, walking.
I am nothing but a shadow - a shadow of my former self... But where do I go from here? What do I do?
His face, stern all the while, softened for a moment as he remembered the note.
Could they still be waiting?
But would they care to see me in my current... State?
He made his way for the front door, down the stairs and through the living area. As he opened the door, the dark setting of Tirisfal poured in. He stared out to the horizon, his face growing hard once more.
I have nothing else.
I told them to leave. I remember it, now. To get out as quickly as they could, and to leave my things. That I would be right behind them as soon as I had the chance.
Another step followed by an unfamiliar crack, and then, a crunch. Under his foot was something... A porcelain doll's head. He looked down at it, squinting. He shook his head and continued his slow march through the living quarters. A broken fireplace, wood left in it, and an old, dessicated armchair are all that remain of what was once a lively little home. He continued his trek, upstairs, over broken steps and decaying old wood.
The scene was rather similar than the living area, though a bookcase adorned this vacant area. He stepped toward it and looked over a number of the books, but not a one kept his attention. It did, however, seem that a number of the books that once were there no longer were, for some reason or another.
This was once a home. This was once MY home. So many years ago, this was all mine. The years have been cruel, it seems.
He stood there, staring at a copy of a history book detailing the first war. As he stared, his mind continued to run. It flashed to every little, happy memory he could muster of this place. He could almost feel the warmth of the hearth on his skin - almost see the bright hues of the decorated building, of which there were no decorations left to speak. He replaced the book on the shelf and continued toward the bedrooms. He opened the door to the first and ventured in.
Two children's beds, one in each corner, and a room nearly bare of anything else. He could hardly stand to see it this way, so he quickly turned on his heels and left the room. Running his gauntlet-covered hand along the wood of the wall as he moved closer to the next room. He pushed the door open carefully, peeking into the room as he did so, as if something would jump out and attack him at any moment.
As he stepped in, a cabinet caught his eye. He approached it carefully, noting that it was slightly open.
This was where I kept my possessions. But it's open - I wonder why?
He put one hand on the door of the cabinet, with the other on the hilt of his blade. Prepared to draw his weapon and defend himself, he opened the door, to no threat at all. He peeked inside, noting a sword and shield hanging upon the back area of the cabinet. The shield was one bearing the crest of Lordaeron on its face in purple-ish pink colouring, and the blade had the same crest on the guard, just above the hilt. Underneath was a number of drawers, each bearing small objects in them. Each object bore a significance, and thus he grabbed each and put it into his bag gingerly.
He drew his blade and laid it gently on the bed, alongside his shield. He turned about and instead bore the blade and shield from the cabinet. He stood there for a moment, staring at the wall and thinking.
I am nothing but a shadow of my past, it seems. Where do I go from here?
He turned back to the cabinet and began to look through it a bit more, before coming across an old, leatherbound journal with a note atop it, reading:
"My love,
When you pack your things, don't
forget to bring this with you.
I know how much it means to you.
We'll be waiting for you in Stormwind.
Love always,
Mari"
The man stared at the note before removing his gauntlets, setting them to the side. He picked the note up, turning it over in his pale hand and "feeling" it with his thumb, forefinger and middle finger. He blinked a number of times and furrowed his brow before folding it up and tucking it away in his pack. He picks the journal up, flipping to the first of a number of page markers. The marker was an inked drawing of a woman, and rather well done, at that. He pulled the marker to the side and read the page:
Spoiler:
The man closed the book, replacing the marker as he did so. He stood in silence for a good fifteen minutes, a thousand thoughts rushing through his mind. He put the book in his bag and closed it, slinging it on his hip and stepping out of the room. He stared at the floor of the hallway for a few moments, collecting his thoughts.
Caleb Hadwin Brightfellow. I dare not speak that name in reference to myself, these days. No, Ichabod fits all the better. A dead man's name for a dead man, walking.
I am nothing but a shadow - a shadow of my former self... But where do I go from here? What do I do?
His face, stern all the while, softened for a moment as he remembered the note.
Could they still be waiting?
But would they care to see me in my current... State?
He made his way for the front door, down the stairs and through the living area. As he opened the door, the dark setting of Tirisfal poured in. He stared out to the horizon, his face growing hard once more.
I have nothing else.
10,000 days in the fire is long enough,
You're going home...
You're going home...