20th day of Collecting
As I am perched against the trunk of a tree, staff propped beside me, I stare off into the sky—what used to be a mind and conscious clearing habit of mine. The stars twinkled merrily and the moon's radiant glow embraced the plains before me. A panorama it was, fabricating an illusion of a world full of peace, a world free of jealousy, of grudges and of malice. If only it were so.
Since the incident at Rad'emant Tineela, my heart and mind have been in an unending quarrel—when in fact, both should be at ease. Why not, after all? My friends and I defeated a powerful wizard, saved the people of Meridell, and were acclaimed and rewarded handsomely by the king of Meridell (all in that successive order). Yet when my pragmatic mind tells me that I have naught to worry, my intuitive heart tells me that I have a long road ahead.
Many months have passed. We have fought numerous foes (mostly bandits and would-be villains), none measuring up to Galcron. But, nonetheless, we continue to serve Meridell not expecting any sizeable monetary gain in return, and certainly not to indulge any feelings of superiority like most warriors would harbor. We are young, and in many ways still very green. Although we try our best to be as wise as our life experiences teaches us.
This dilemma keeps plucking at me, and I as a neopet hold no control over my emotions, and I certainly cannot stifle them. Nevertheless, I will not allow these conflicting feelings to hinder what my friends and I have set out to do. I will fight for those who cannot protect themselves and wield my staff for the bettering of the world.
Thomas the Lupe stored a still-wet quill into his weathered leather pouch. He licked his thumb and index finger and promptly pinched the dying flame of a candle, beset on a plate next to him. A scowl was etched on his face, an expression that had become too frequent a thing for the troubled Lupe.
Grassy plains, shining like a sea of pale brandishing swords under the light of the moon and the twinkling of the stars, swayed amidst the chilly, prickly breeze. The branches of the tree that Thomas sat under stretched far out like bony fingers, groping for the moon. Its leaves were oval-shaped, and at the center, a dull gold with vibrant silver fringes. At night, the moon and stars would make those leaves a wonder for all to behold. The gold would blend into the dark and the borders became glistening silver. And as the breeze would set the branches into a melodious dance—emitting the sound of the ocean, gently beating its waves against the shore—the leaves would shiver and shimmer, as if the trickling of rain had been suspended in the air. Silver dews painted in the emptiness; a masterpiece for all to behold.
Under the tree though, darkness reigned, the light extinguished. Beneath, the emanating light of the moon and stars was devoured, extinguishing it, like water on the flame of a candle. Not a wisp of the heavenly lights crept through. Thomas relished the darkness below the branches. He sat, engulfed by the blanket of pitch-black, gazing out into the plains. The stars offered him no longer the comfort they once did.
They taunt me with their light, and they giggle and call me out. Their mother, the moon, embraces me in her commanding glow. Never-ending love they offer me, yet they won't give me. Tantalizing promises of happiness are held above me. My spirit beckons for them to come, yet they won't. I cannot reach them, so how could they ever help me?
My only comfort now is the darkness of this tree, which devours your false gifts. I may lie in its black pool without fear of drowning, or being treacherously swallowed. This tree I can embrace. It does not turn away from my troubles. I will drink its darkness until I am bloated, and then I shall heave it at the sky with hopes to destroy the lying lights. None more will be led astray, then.
Shrilly, a gust of wind briefly passed through, sending the leaves into a gleaming storm of silver, and the rippling waves of pale grass into a hissing chant. Thomas pulled his cloak tighter around him, when a curious neopet made its way toward him.
A rum-plastered rainbow Zafara staggered through the plains, muttering drivel. A stench of ale profusely fumed from its repulsively scarred mouth.
"Yes. . . Even inebriated fools like him," Thomas remarked, recalling the last sentence he penned in his diary. If only they would bother fighting for themselves, the world would need no hero, for it would have many.
The Lupe bowed his head to brood on the matter. What was meant as a moment's reflection, dragged on for a bit long—as it often did. Sluggishly, clumsy footsteps made their way near the pensive electric Lupe. Fools they are . . . All of them, thought Thomas, oblivious to what was nearing him. Leaves crackled loudly, as footsteps plodded close. A labored wheeze exhaled monotonously, ending with a gurgle, as of a flux. Despite all the noise, Thomas was still in his mental submersion. Out of nowhere, something thwacked him upside the head, as a loud thud sounded off, as if something, or someone, had just flumped to the ground.
Under the tree's branches, Thomas could barely make out anything. What was that? Something muffled a grunt, and then the sound of foot shuffling was heard. Someone was scrambling to their feet.Wasting no time, the honed warrior plucked his staff. How fortunate it's right next to me, else I wouldn't know where to find it, Thomas mused. He donned his staff in a fighting stance as he would a coat of mail; an extension of his body, ready to smite those who oppose him. One warning was given to his unknown adversary, "Whoever is there, show yourself . . . else you'll be well acquainted with my staff!"
Everything was still, for a moment. In that instant, everything quieted. The wind died down. The tree danced no more as its music stopped blowing. The pale sea of swords stood sentry, their army awaiting the blare of the wind to herald their march once more.
So am I, thought Thomas. Whatever was to spring at him, hoping to catch him unawares surely was pretentious.
Cautious sidles Thomas took, inching his way into the plains, and under the dreaded moonlight. No logical reason to engage anyone in the dark. Wind blew once more after a short reprieve. Thomas stood; legs firmly shoulder width apart, the staff ready for a quick thrust. "Durned rock," complained a guttural voice from the blackness beneath the tree. Wheezy coughs racked whoever was there, as a gobble of phlegm could be heard oozing from its throat, followed by a spitting sound. The drunkard, Thomas figured. He eased from his battle stance, and then propped the staff with a firm thrust on the ground. If it's some sneaky rogue, then it's one too sick to be a threat. "Come forth, whoever you are. Come forth and you shall not be harmed," Thomas finished, removing his hood so that whoever was there could see his amiable smile.
Sheen pale white moonlight blanketed a robust rainbow Zafara as it distrustfully inched away from under the tree, making its way over to Thomas, nearly tripping over itself. The garish scar that started from the left to right of his upper lip was painful to see. Much more painful to have been cut there, Thomas thought, now struggling to not let his smile shift into a horrified face. The Zafara smiled a nervous, toothy smile—rather toothless smile. This is one uncomely fellow. Smells of ale and dung clung to the neopet, as if he had been utterly saturated by a dung infested tavern. He doffed his hat, and then swept it as he dipped into a bow, once again nearly tumbling over. "Pleashed ter meet yer acquaint'nce, Sir," greeted the Zafara, flashing another undesired toothless grin. "Seems I might've tripped over there rock under that tree yonder." The Zafara shrugged. About as bright as he is good-looking, Thomas mused.
Thomas flashed him an innocent smile. "I believe that might have been me you tripped over." He chuckledand added, "No harm, no foul. You couldn't possibly have seen me under that tree." Thomas gave the Zafara a few friendly pats on the shoulder, though he wished he hadn't, as a brown dust puffed in the air, nearly sending him into a fit of coughs. "Where do you come from, good sir?" In truth, he didn't really care, but it was only courteous to ask.
"Ray's the name, Sir." The Zafara gave another bow, though more reserved this time. "I hail from right here in good 'ole Blithe." He put his fist to his lips to try and stifle another fit of coughs that racked him. When he finished, a smear of phlegm, and what seemed to be a splotch of blood, oozed between his thumb and index finger. He pulled a copper flask from the pockets of his thread-bare olive-green breeches and said, "Got to drown the cold, afore it drowns you. Bottoms up!" A look of blissful ecstasy crept on Ray, as he took a long swig of his flask. With each satisfactory gulp, his legs seemed to lose their balance, and staggered sideways as the last drops of his drink splattered anywhere but in his mouth.
Disgusting, Thomas thought. The Lupe had no choice but to look anywhere else but at that wretched drunk. Even now that Ray had finished with his drink Thomas had trouble looking at him. Smears of spittle were still on his fingers, creeping their way to the edge of his thumb; glistening little green and red thrums.
"Might that ye could spare me a few good neopoints, Shir?" the Zafara brazenly pleaded, stretching out a quivering open hand. Its fingernails were moldy and yellow. "It's for me wife . . . M-My little ones, they starve! Oh, my dear Loreina," Ray exaggeratedly blinked, as if to ignite sympathy in the Lupe by donning the role of the victim. Its droopy dark blue eyes stared nervously at Thomas, as he went on, "If I were to come this cold night, empty-handed and empty-pocketed, she'd throttle me in my sleep." Ray promptly kneeled, dipping his head into a dismal bow.
Thomas took a good judicious look at that pathetic, smelly wretch of a neopet. Perhaps it's true . . . I'd hate for his family to suffer on account of his vice. As he motioned for a satchel of neopoints inside his cloak, he couldn't help but notice the Zafara with a sheepish, conniving smile, deviously stretching from ear to ear, and then quickly put on his victim's garb. He lies, the little wretch! Try to be the slightest bit generous, and people want to take you for a fool! The glaring, fiery look Thomas gave the vagabond consumed him, his smoldering crystal-blue eyes speaking more volumes than his voice ever could. Ray rocked back on his heels and fell on his rump, scurrying backwards on his palms like a frightened rat.
"You would lie to me? Make up a family just to indulge your need for this?" Thomas grabbed the flask of ale, which had fallen out of the many torn pockets on Ray's breeches. He waved it inches from the Zafara's face, and spoke contemptuous words with that same grim, angry tone he would use on his adversaries, "you are but a one of the very same nest of drunkards that fester on the fringes of society, who are enthralled by this garbage!" Another angered wave of the flask. "This is a disease that spreads a moral flux to all it touches, and it consumes them until they are naught but ashes, strewn into the wind."
Ray squealed like a pig. His hands stretched far in front of his face, not wanting to prod the embers that were Thomas' eyes afire. "Sir I mean not to bring you any quarrel . . . It was not my intention to cause you to be so wroth." The Zafara dared to take a glance at the copper flask. "After all, what did a swig or two of the magic juice do to anyone?"
A lost cause, just like the rest of them . . . Forget him! If the Zafara's intentions weren't to kindle those embers, he just lit a bonfire. A crazed, angered, sad flame gleamed in those eyes. Thomas reached for the inside of his cloak, and hurled a crimson bag over the yonder.
Thomas fumed. His index finger stretched out, pointing at the satchel lying on the knee-high grassy plains before him. "Fetch for it like the mutt that you are," he howled infuriately. "Before I tear the life from your disgusting throat, go! Drink to your death like the lot of you masochistic, spineless hoodwinks!"
"Thank ye, kind Sir!" The Zafara scrambled for the satchel, speeding off to the town centre of Jasmine Blithe—to a watering hole, no doubt— for its next fix. A crazed look gleamed in its droopy eyes, as it hopped and skipped about, or rather hopped and stumbled about.
The troubles of the world truly do rest on the shoulders of the few who are willing to bear them. Thomas' face assuming a scowl once more as the discouraging thought crossed his mind. A wet thread trickled its way down his high cheeks, making a soft splotchy sound when it hit the ground. A tear. Despite his efforts, he couldn't choke back another one, as the second tear tumbled down his handsome face. In a moment's instant, the trickle now flowed freely into a stream of tears, gushing. You maddened fool, Thomas thought, wiping away his tears with the back of his fist.
Night slowly drifted on. Still misty-eyed, the flustered Lupe plucked his staff, and then made his way toward the tree, his only blanket of comfort. He assumed a sitting position once more, and then peered off into the sky. The treacherous moon faded into the clouds, her lying children's gleam dying out.
Birds sung merrily. The trees swayed in the gentle breeze. Their leaves shimmered brilliantly as the sun arose from its slumber, gradually ascending behind the distant mountains. Its aureate rays engulfing everything in its warmth. Morning had arrived.
The leaves of the tree that Thomas sat under now burned like a large wildfire.
The Lupe's legs were folded beneath him, arms resting on his knees. To most by-passers, the view from afar would've suggested that he was in a reverie. From up-close though, the light snoring couldn't be mistaken. Sleep was something Thomas could barely get the previous night. The tree could not abate, and certainly not placate the daunting thoughts and feelings that festered in him. So he had meditated, blending with the silence of the night, searching deep within his soul, reflecting on everything he had done up to this point.
Answers were hard to come by. Even in his state of contemplation he only felt more morally daunted, stranded and forsaken, like a child who let go of their parent's hands and is now lost without hope of finding the right path. He didn't know who he had become.
The trance went on until his body gave in to weariness, and ultimately, fell to sleep in that same pensive pose.
An eye lid cracked open and then promptly shut again, when a stinging brilliant thread of light rushed in. Morning already, thought Thomas dreadfully. The glare of the plains resonated like a great flaming army, marching impetuously in the dry wind. A good night's sleep was all the drowsy Lupe wanted. Much late for that. He pried his eyes open, cautiously letting them adjust to the light. A smirk found itself on his face when he noticed his peculiar sleeping position, almost becoming a fit of laughter, but was stifled to a chuckle when he realized his body was too sore. Laboriously the Lupe struggled to stand, but the aches amplified in his joints whenever his knees tried to spring up.
Another tact, perhaps. He reached for his staff, and once he got a firm grip around it, he lanced it onto the ground, as he pulled himself up. It's time to go. Even if it costs me my legs, I must get to Naq'mehal. I must meet with them.
One day ago, Thomas received tidings from Rosie. She and Bill were to be sent off by the lord of Aleador on an urgent errand to Naq'mehal, a mining settlement with superfluous veins of iron and copper. There had been reports of disappearing workers. Some even claimed to hear dreadful wailing echoing in the lowest shafts of the mine.
He now meant to meet up with Rosie and Bill, despite if he was welcome or not. I'm sure they've all forgotten about that. The last time he had seen his friends was right in Jasmine Blithe; and it wasn't a pleasant meeting.
Thomas shrugged, and then painfully grabbed his travel pack and slung it over his back. He hooked the golden clasps of his leather pouch around his waist. Time to go. Uneasily, he walked through the Malay Plains, the pots and pans hooked on his pack clattering loudly. The Lupe came to a halt, and then took one last longing look at his beloved tree, his Telsh Romente. Blazing Shadows. And again he was off, legs trudging him limply out of Jasmine Blithe. With the large pack on his back, and his black garb, he seemed almost a hunched specter, gliding through a river of licking fire.
In a clearing amidst a ring of pines—which stood sentry against harsh winds that could only seep through as a crisp breeze—were huddled Bill and Rosie next to a small campfire. Bill and Rosie were both clad in leather pants, scalloped jerkins, and beneath, layer upon layer of woolen sets. Despite their apparently warm garment, they were huddled inches from the campfire, clinging to the warmth of the embers. Each frantically rubbed their arms. Unbearable, Rosie thought. Her wits seemed to be equally chilled, and clattered, just like her teeth whenever a thought staggered through.
If th-this were a g-gust of wind coming through, rather than a mild breeze . . . we b-both would suffer a belated curse from Galcron. Rosie let out a stiff chuckle, a wisp of cold breath, steaming out of her mouth.
"S-something funny?" Bill, through clattering teeth, asked.
Bill was a bulky, witty red Techo. He was Thomas' close friend, and back then, attended him in his field hand stints. He had a jolly, yet comely face; striking grey eyes, and a mesmerizing smile. On the fringes of his chin, Rosie noticed a crop of short hair, darker in hue than his red face. A crimson red. Didn't k-know Techos c-could grow facial hair. Rosie took another glance at his aspiring beard, before the notion of conversation came to her. It's s-so cold . . . but it'll h-help stave it off.
"So how fares Thomas?" Bill asked, as if the very idea of conversation had crossed his mind simultaneously with Rosie's. The Techo continued to rub his arms, though less urgently now. His hands pumped up and down on his muscular arms. His biceps were pressed tight inside the sleeves of his jerkin, as if to tear at any moment.
The question was innocent enough, but it had many answers. How does he fare in his travels? Or how does he fare? I know what he means. The last time Rosie and the gang met up with Thomas was in Jasmine Blithe. He was very withdrawn, almost frigid, a paradox to his usually fiery demeanor. Luthian Copperhead, Damian's father, mayor of Jasmine Blithe, had announced a great feast and festival in honor of the young heroes. The night of the festival Rosie, Bill, Davie and Damian rode their shaggy horses to Thomas' home. After a brief succession of boisterous knocks on the door by Davie, Thomas' father, Joseph Miller, answered the door. He was a tall, strapping ex-knight who had an intense grey green-eyed gaze. "He's under Telsh Romente," Joseph answered when asked about his son's whereabouts. Rosie and her coterie, after a few quick traded courtesies with Joseph, were off. They rode their grey shaggy mounts to the Malay Plains, only a short gallop from Thomas' home. The grass in the plains shone and danced like long, glossy, white threads—as it ever did during the night. Cheerfully, the mounts neighed when grazing their noses through the milky blades, nipping at them here and there.
The tree glistened with a sheen of silver, and beneath the branches, in the darkness that lingered there, a distant, dim orange light flickered. A candle. He's writing in his diary. They kicked their mounts into a trot and toward the under boughs. As she neared the Lupe that sat next to a dimmed candle, book in hand, she noted him different. His eyebrows bulged, and his eyes flamed in a deranged manner. This isn't my Thomas!
Acknowledgement of their presence was something Thomas did not show. But then, unexpectedly, he spoke, "What do you want?" His brows seemed to bulge as he brooded on some unknown matter, and then he promptly scribbled a last conclusive sentence in his cherished diary. He then promptly shut his diary and the question came again, "Well?" Thomas offered a courteous smile, but his eyes betrayed anger.
Davie the Yurble flashed an incredulous look. "What do we want?" Davie asked again, this time stomping his foot to accentuate the ridiculousness of the question.
"Did I stutter?" Thomas asked, almost offensive to his chubby friend.
"The festival, you furry buffoon!" Damian glared. "Are you going or not?"
"Sorry, I seem to now taste feasts and festivals with a bitter hint of sour." Thomas crossed his arms and tucked them behind his head, lying against the bark of the tree. It was a position of comfort, clearly telling them he means to go nowhere.
"I will not join in. I will not frolic about like the same fools we have sworn to protect. I will not let what meager decency I have, be tainted by letting it gutter and intermingle with the rabble of revelers, whose decisions are utterly predicated by the pungent influence of a pint of ale. No!" Thomas eased himself up, standing. He gave each of them a long discerning look, "Neither should any of you.", and sat down once more.
Worried looks were exchanged among the friends. After a dreadful, uneasy silence, they all hopped on their mounts.
"Then stay there. Rot away for all I care," Damian said, and then sped off, followed by the rest.
That was the last night they were all together. Damian was sent off by his father on dire, lucrative business. Davie roamed the many villages of Meridell, here and there, cleaning up the filth, and offering any other kind of assistance to those in need. And now here I am, freezing my tail off in these frigid woods. Bill and Rosie had gone off to Aleador. They both had received a summons from the Lord Esapilus Braemon, a blue Meerca who was so heavy he could only walk with the support of a staff, and even so, waddled every time he did. They were urged by this obese Meerca to investigate Naq'mehal and predicate credibility to certain rumors.
A day before they had set out, an envoy trotted through the city's gates. Rosie was still sleeping when a thunderous knock on the door had replaced the clanging of the morning bells as her wake up call. She opened the door, not knowing whether to scold the yellow Lenny messenger for his clamorous demeanor, or to listen to whatever message of dire pertinence cause him to act like so. "Yes?" she politely asked, trying to rub away the drowsiness in her eyes with her palms.
She couldn't help but grin when the messenger nearly toppled over himself as he tried a half-dip bow, and a sweeping of his plumed cone-hat. The envoy promptly pulled out a parchment from his red-leather sack, embroidered with 3 golden swords, emblem of Jasmine Blithe. Thomas, she knew immediately. "Message . . . from Thomas Millard," the Lenny finished with a gulp, still out of breath from the bustle.
Rosie placed twenty neopoints on the hand of the Lenny, which already was stretched out greedily. "Thank you, good messenger." The Lenny, still trying to catch his breath, gave his tip a look of utter disappointment. Rosie anxiously slammed the door with her foot, while her hands worked to tear off a crimson watermark on the message. Her face shifted from wistful to sage as she read Thomas' urgent message. That explains a lot, thought Rosie, who now began to understand more profoundly her troubled friend. The letter in truth was not an apology for his recent actions, but rather a detailed explanation to what was going on in that head of his. Much, she mused.
In the cold breeze, the red Techo stood long and hard for a brief moment, that seemed to have dragged on for ages. He then asked her once more, "Well? How is he?" The Techo had known of the Lupe's urgent message, but never knew of its content. He looked at her even more fiercely. That piercing gaze, those expressive eyes. It always sent shivers through her spine whenever he looked at her, particularly so wistfully. I shiver now, Rosie pondered, but f-from his gaze, or from the cold?
Must I truly t- tell him? The message was clearly meant for her, and for her alone. It raised a sense of curiosity in her how Thomas, Bill's best friend, wouldn't have sent him the letter, instead of her. A w-women's charms I guess. When the Techo seemed almost annoyed by her silence she figured to not trouble him with the truth. "He b-bodes well." She gave him a reassuring smile and added, "Much better than last we saw him."
Long it was the silence that crept among the two neopets. The wind no longer howled, and the breeze seeped through the trees no more. The air that remained now was crisp and cool, refreshing, rather than freezing. You've done your jobs well, thought Rosie, as she patted the bark of a sentinel pine tree.
Bill and Rosie bustled about, fetching blankets of wool from their travel packs. Time for some shut eye. She stretched her woolen bed flat on the floor and wished her friend a goodnight full of merry dreams. He in turn did the same. As she lay on her bed, she stared at the campfire. It had dwindled to no more than a few flames. They licked and lashed at the creeping dark like whips of flame. Crackling of the wood lulled the Zafara slowly to an inevitable sleep. Once or twice her eyes popped open, but just as quickly they would close shut, until they opened no more.
Shrieks and howls echoed throughout the night. They bounced off the distant mountains and amplified like a blare. A dread blare. Rosie sprung from her bed, staff in hand. The campfire was no more than faint glowing embers. They offered only enough light to dimly shine upon Bill's empty bed. Where could he be? Snarls and pants, as of a dog, made their way. Closer. . . Closer . . . until something sharp grazed her leg, drawing a thin strand of blood. Her legs in that instant turned to pudding. Her arms, to stone. Legs, don't fail me now. Arms, light as a feather. "Come out and meet your maker!" Rosie, despite herself, brazenly challenged. "Where are you, skulking coward?"
"Right here," a voice hissed, so close she could feel hot steaming breath in her ear. Her skin prickled, and then it turned to goose bumps. She thought her heart stopped beating for a brief instant. Quick as a Poogle. She swiftly turned her torso to the left, using the momentum to send her staff into a deadly thrust. Deft precision. But her target was a lot thinner than expected. Nothing, she thought. Where is he? Her body shuddered, and then went limp, nearly flumping on the floor, when the cold touch of steel pierced through her back. A hand held her, a strong one. Frighteningly strong. T-Thomas? Two pale blue eyes glared at her with the utmost intensity. Beautiful and terrible. The creature snarled, and then took a deep whiff of the Zafara, an odd oozing liquid lathering her face. And then it broke out into a cackle, an ominous cackle that shrilled and blared.
Many voices . . . Many laughs. Her eyelids fell shut, as the last of her life seeped out of her. The firm grip of the creature let go, and it was as if she was falling. For a long time she fell through endless pools of black, her body helplessly limp. Until. . . "Rosie!" Something poked her arm. "Rosie Buckler, must I pry you out of bed. For the love of all faeries, let's be off!" This time a kick to the leg. Her eyes blinked open. A look of relief was on her face. She felt the insides of her jerkin lathered in sweat, and the trickles of salty water profusely pouring from her face.
Bill looked at her with those lovely, caring eyes, and then reached a strong hang over to pull her up. "You all right?" he asked, offering her a handkerchief. Rosie nodded stiffly, and then grabbed the tissue, promptly patting dry her wet brow and hairline.
"You sure?" Bill patted her on the shoulder and pointed at the purplish aurora. He stared determinedly through the thicket of trees, and then offered a heartfelt, boisterous laugh. "Dawn, sweetie. We best be going!