Rishald, the Brave.

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Rishald, the Brave.

Postby Marren on Fri Nov 03, 2017 8:33 pm

"Another year had passed, for the sylvan of the world, like their brethren in the High Elven cities, and those below in the Nethergloom... time really holds little meaning when measured in such small units as months, years... decades. Days and weeks pass as seconds and minutes in the grand scheme. This year had been harder than most in recent history, a cold, harsh spring had delayed planting. A dry, arid summer had tested the sylvans resolve, withered crops and dried smaller rivers to nothing more than dirt and stone paths through the endless sea of trees. Autumn had brought relief in long over due rains, relief that turned to worry, and soon enough fear of ruin. The rains came, and farmers rejoiced... but the rain didn't stop. A week. Two. By the third week, those dried rivers and estuaries had not only been revived, they had been enraged. Swole with rain water, small streams became impossibly swift rivers, while the rivers themselves were broadened, some as much as three times their natural width. And their currents... in later years, those that witnessed such things, when asked to recount them would find that words were not adequate to describe such terrible, and yet frighteningly beautiful natural destruction.
"Entire swaths of the forest had been washed away, acre upon acre wiped clean of trees, brush and every living thing brave, or fool enough not to evacuate when the call had risen to do so. Such was the devastation, the pure destruction wrought by the rain that none who laid eyes upon the aftermath believed it possible to recover. But after long years, and hard trials.. recovery was acheived."

The man who speaks, a sylvan of nearly seventeen centuries under the Sun and Moons, sits comfortably on a bench fashioned from wood of the elder tree, twisted and woven together by the magic of his people. He looks young, as all elves do, but in those deep brown eyes, past the sunkissed flesh marred by centuries of carving a path through time itself, rests a wisdom deeper, more profound than most can ever hope to achieve, or even be witness to in their lives, no matter the length of that life. He is not a warrior, not large nor powerfully built. Nor is he a mage, little of the arcane energies flow in his veins. To any who meet him, he seems quite ordinary, and in truth, he is. A simple layman, a maker of canoes by trade. But his long life had given him something many value above mehrials, land, or even power. He had lived... and he had seen. And he remembers everything. A canoe maker he was, and is, but his true gift lies in the spinning of tales, stories.
For long before any of us can remember, stories have been the means by which history is passed from elder, to children, recorded in the minds of youth to be retold centuries from now. Some knowledge lasts eternal, and yet some is lost, washed away in the river of time... forgotten.
Tonight, our storyteller does as he has for three centuries. After dining with the village, when the sun nears it's journeys end in the sky and the moons wake from their slumber, he takes his place on that bench with nothing but a goblet of wine in hand, and a light as old as his people behind those eyes. Tonight, he teaches of bravery, and honor. His voice carries enough to reach the thirty or so students, ranging in age from as early as five... up to older adults in their hundreds... for they've heard this tale before, and would not miss its retelling. It has shaped many of their lives. No need to call the young to silence... they're enraptured by his words already, thirty or so voices silenced by one.

"We've all heard of great warriors, winning glory and honor for land and Lord in battle. We've heard fairytales and bedtime stories of princesses fair, rescued by a brave knight. But what is bravery? Is it.. rushing headlong at your foes? Is it facing down a charging horde of goblins with your comrades at your side? It is. But there are many kinds of bravery, children. Let me tell you of the rarest kind. The truest bravery. Let me tell you tonight, of Rishald."

Just the name alone sharpens the attention of each, and every pair of eyes focused on the elder, a surge of excitement course through those gathered, sitting cross legged on the ground around the bench in a semicircle. Even older, busier folk of the village stop in their passing, leaning here and there to listen, recalling when they too sat here, and heard him speak.

"Rishald was a farmer, hard working, honest, and a loving father to his two daughters. A loving, devoted husband. His farm was neither the biggest, nor the best.. he did not seek to be known for such things, or even to be known at all. In his youth, Rishald had been a soldier, yes, as many, many had been. He laid down his sword, and shield when he married, and never again did He lift them for war."

Pausing to wet his tongue and lips with wine, the elder shifts on his seat, goblet settled right next to him. While he speaks, hands calloused by hard work and a long life are used, helping him to tell the tale, save for one action. Right hand extends off to the side, fingers waved toward a lone woman who nods, turns... and walks away. She will be back.

"Where was I? Ah, right, right... So. Rishald. Never again did He fight, not for land or lord, for he knew no lord. None ruled his home but the Gods, and he ever sought to honor them with hard work, love, and honesty, as we all should. It was the year of the great rain when Rishalds wife became pregnant with their third child, a blessing from Gaea, reward perhaps for his prayers and unflinching devotion. But his reward was not easily won. Long the rains fell. Rishald and his family had stayed, trying to save their home... it was all they had after all. The river near his home had dried up during that summer, such was the heat.. crops withered and died and even his livestock began to die off without water to sustain them, forcing him to sell those animals that had not perished."

Another sip taken from that goblet, memories of times long gone, forgotten by all swirling behind those aged, brown eyes. Forgotten by all, save for him. From a pile of wood by the bench, a log is selected, the story teller leaning to nestle it into the pile of embers before him, the very flames seeming to bend away from his hand.

"It was a hopeless effort, trying to save the dark he had built with his own hands. It would all be lost in the end, his land washed clean, baren, his house swept away. But Rishald knew then that those things are nothing. They can be replaced, rebuilt. His family could not be rebuilt, replaced. So, Rishald abandoned his farm, and all attempts to stave off the water that cleansed the land. Had he done so earlier, he might have been here to tell this tale, instead of me..."

The memories sometimes jumble together, become incoherent knots of thought... for a moment the elder stares into the flames of that fire, some of the young whispering amongst themselves. It's a touch from the elders slave, her hand resting on his shoulder that brings him back, an apologetic look given to her. He remembers.. because he was there. He had begged Rishald to flee his home.. but he'll get to that soon enough.

"Where was...? Right. Rishalds wife was pregnant, and when the rain began was already nearing the day her child would come. Knowing his farm was lost, Rishald had begun trying to save his family. His daughters were, thankfully, carried away in a small canoe by a family friend just the day before. With no children of his own, nor wife, the friend had ample room to take them to safety... but not all of them could fit. Without hesitation Rishald demanded his daughters and wife be taken, willing to stay, alone as long as they were saved. That was not to be."

He had begged Rishald to take his canoe, save his family and leave him behind.. it could have worked if Rishald held onto the crafts side as it carried his wife and children... only the canoe maker would be lost... Rishald would not hear of it, not for a second. The elders hand rises, a small 'x' shaped scar on his left cheekbone touched gingerly, felt as if it had just been lain in his flesh. Three people alive know the truth of that scar. A truth he carries every day. Taking a deep breath, the elder continues his tale.

"No... Rishald sent his daughters to safety with his friend, and never saw them again in this life, waits for them now with his ancestors. So, his daughters saved, wife ready any moment to go into labor, Rishald set about trying to find a way to save her and the child. The water had already begun creeping into his house under the doors, through the cracks and crevices. Just an inch at first, then more and more. He knew he needed a boat, or something to carry her away but had none. He was a farmer, not a fisherman, after all. But, he was blessed with intelligence, and ingenuity. A mind to make something work, even when everything seemed to make it impossible."

The woman he had sent away soon returns, another woman at her side, a rather large, round shield carried by the second who looks quite similar to the first. Sisters. Through the assembled youths those women seem to glide, the shield lifted over heads and hands that reach, seeking to touch, feel the object. It was nothing special, leather and wood fashioned to protect the soldier that bore it, wood bent to lend It a bowl like shape, to easier deflect arrows and blades. Right over to the bench the shield is carried and set down, leaned against the seat that those gatheredwould have ample opportunity to gaze on, study its surface, marred by battles untold.

"A soldier he had been, remember? When he picked up the hoe, he laid down sword and shield and never lifted them again for war, remember?"

Scattered nods are seen from his pupils, the elder smiling. They're all good kids, ever reminding him of the sacrifices of the few. It was for them that so many gave all they had... and it's for them that he tells their stories, that they are remembered, even in death guiding their kin on the right path.

"Rishald tried everything he could think of. He fashioned a raft from their dinner table, but it proved unworthy, unsafe... it would not carry his wife, let alone with him. The table sank when he set half of his wife's weight on it, sacks of grain used to test it's buoyancy. To make matters worse, just as the water at his feet reached a foot in depth, his wife's water broke."

Those two women linger on either side of the elders bench, one settled on the seats arm with her hand resting on his shoulder, soothing him against the emotions that come, unbidden with the memories. The other remains beside the shield, her hand on its rounded, dinged and dented rim, fingers clinging to the shield with love and adoration, a stern look shot at any who sought more than a passing touch, sending the child back to the group, scolded silently. Soon, a third woman comes from the shadows, remarkably similar in appearance to the other two, though the hood of her cloak hides those features, a cloak finer than most, a longbow and quiver resting on her back. Between the shield and elder she moves, sinking to sit while whispering to him, a nod drawn from the story teller before he continues, brown eyes misted. But he doesn't dash those tears, or stop them from falling... to do so would be to disgrace the memories he speaks aloud.

"His child was coming, ready or not, as was the water. He didn't know what to do. How would he save them all? It was just as his wife gave birth the answer presented itself. The cries of his newborn daughter tore through the roaring of the river and rain, like a thunderclap in his heart, just as those waters tore the very wall from his house. Wood and plaster washed away, his sword and shield had been on that wall, I remember..."

The memory of begging Rishald to get in his canoe comes back, so powerful the elder is stopped in his words, staring into the fire and reaching up to touch his cheek again.
He had lept from the canoe, waist deep in the water with Rishald. Rain drops the size of pebbles fell unrelentingly for miles in every direction, the roar of it forcing them to yell just to be heard. "Take the boat Rishald! Get your wife, and get in the damn boat! I'll find another way!" He had begged, cursed, screamed... but his friend had been steady, firm in his resolve. "No! I will not leave you, or anyone else! Take the girls, No! Take the girls, and go! We'll be right behind you!" Unwilling to leave Rishald, and his wife behind the canoe maker had done... the only thing he could think to do. He had struck out at his friend. No fighter at all, his blow had easily been dodged by the ex-soldier. He remembers Rishald throwing a punch of his own, a blinding pain in his cheek... and then darkness. When he woke, he was in the canoe with Rishalds daughters, floating downstream, already in unfamiliar territory. The girls were crying. A day and a half they floated, finally hooked by, and brought to land by a fishing vessel. When his brown eyes lift from the fire, the youths whispering with concern, the third woman's hand on his cheek, the elder smiles wearily, assuring her before he continues.

"With a newborn babe crying, Rishald waded through his home searching for anything that could float. And it was just outside he found salvation." His hand reaches, trembling to rest on the shield. "Wedged between the crumbled wall and a fence post was his shield, and when be pulled it free, Rishald discovered... it would float. So, he tested it as he did the table, with sacks of grain... and still it floated. His wife pointed out of course, they couldn't all three fit but he would not stop. He knew in his heart, I think, that only two would survive that day. He worked in silence, despite his wife's protests. Two days of food in a sack were put in the shield, his old sword as well, and finally his wife and daughter, almost too much to fit. Without a word Rishald pushed the shield out of the house and into the water that flowed so quickly. For a long time he held onto the edge, kicking in the water, guiding the raft the best he could. He knew he wouldn't be able to hold on forever though, he had to have. And if he tried to climb in, or put more weight on the shield it would tip, and they would all be lost. So.. He let go. To save what was most precious to him, Rishald let go. Exhausted, he was claimed by the river, and lost to us. But his wife, and children lived... the shield miraculously carried widow and child right to the same village that their daughters had come to, and family greeted family, then mourned their loss."

Rising from his seat, the elders hand on the third woman's shoulder as she too rises, her hood being pulled back. The circlet she wears marks her as an officer, and the excited whispers among the youth assembled suggest that all of them recognize her. The tale draws to an end soon, the elder speaking a last piece.

"Rishald teaches us, children, that bravery isn't always found in war. Sometimes, it's right here at home. In the fields, on the water, in the forest.. Rishald shows us that bravery is doing what's right, doing what has to be done... even if that means we don't live to see the result. We should all aspire to be as brave as Rishald."

It's then a small, young voice from the gathered rises up to ask, "how do We know that story is true, sir?" Twenty nine heads swivel toward the offender, a young girl in pigtails who suddenly looks like a mouse cornered by cats. But it's the reply that saves the child.
"How do you know... good question, Liz. I MAY be... telling fibs, or I may not be. But if you don't think my tale is true... look at that shield," for around it's rim, burned into wood and leather are pictographs telling the same tale. "Or... ask Rishalds daughters." The elders hand gesturing to the officer they all knew and respected, and the other two women. "Rishald was real. And he was the bravest man I've ever known. His sacrifice blessed us all with these women... you all know the captain. She's defended your lives every day, for longer than she cares to admit... and her sisters? Between them they've taught every healer that's come out of our little piece of the world, and saved more lives than any can count. Go on, Liz... ask them. Ask them if their father was really that brave."
But she didn't ask. She didn't have to. Deep in her heart the little girl knew, just looking at those women three that every word had been true, and the smile from the elder himself, warm and comforting let the child know, it's alright to question what your told. As long as you recognize the truth when it's brave enough to look you in the eye. "Now, off to bed with you lot. Tomorrow I'll tell you about Griswald the goblin!"


--- a tale from the mind of the player of Eolande Keita.
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Re: Rishald, the Brave.

Postby Sha`Ruse on Fri Nov 03, 2017 8:43 pm

I thought that story was wonderful! :D Keep it up! :D Would love to read more!
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Re: Rishald, the Brave.

Postby VanMasterson on Fri Nov 03, 2017 9:18 pm

Holy smokes....this was a great story Eol!! Wow and a tear jerker as well. You know how to pull at the heart strings hon and i approve!
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Re: Rishald, the Brave.

Postby Rebecca of Valaris on Fri Nov 03, 2017 9:26 pm

Bloody hell...

Superb!

(Yeah, I know. I'm not here. But..bloody hell!)
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Re: Rishald, the Brave.

Postby L`aquera on Sat Nov 04, 2017 12:30 am

Do you need me to reiterate what I said a few days ago? ;)
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Re: Rishald, the Brave.

Postby Marren on Sat Nov 04, 2017 12:38 am

L`aquera wrote:Do you need me to reiterate what I said a few days ago? ;)


No, Ma'am... I've already started on that. This one was just rattling around in my head when I woke up and I thought I'd share with the class this time.
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Re: Rishald, the Brave.

Postby Tehya on Sat Nov 04, 2017 5:09 pm

Very nice!
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Re: Rishald, the Brave.

Postby Ehlanna on Thu Nov 16, 2017 10:41 pm

Asked for an honest opinion ... ok, here goes:
There are a few stumbles and glitches, grammar faults, punctuation errors. Those are the 'physical' aspects. For the rest, the real part, the story itself, and so on, just let me say I am leaning back so as not have tears spill onto my keyboard.
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