Post by Edward Threnody on Aug 1, 2010 8:37:24 GMT -5
The silence was deafening. No whispers, no voices. An eerie absence of sound that felt soothing, felt right. A cleansing silence that allowed the mind to regather. The world was nothing but a blinding white light that surrounded him, cradled him like a new born. Slowly, ever so slowly, he became aware. Of the soft surface underneath his back. Of the distant numbness that ran through his body. The white began to bleed from the world, his sight coming into focus, revealing a dark room. A window stared down from above his head, the moon bathing him in its gentle glow.
From the far side of the room, a melody cut through the silence. A painfully sombre, tortured tune, hummed in an low alto range. Disjointed rhythms jarred and pulsed like an irregular heartbeat. The voice slid over notes like water cascading across a jagged riverbed, never quite lingering in tune. Nuanced micro-tones wailed and cried out in blissful dissonance. Glissandos slid through the vocal ranges like the howling winds. Beautiful chaos. Tragic bliss.
“Hrrgnn.” He tried to speak but his voice failed him, coming out as nothing more than a guttural moan. From across the room he heard the sharp rattle of glass and ceramic.
“Ah, you're awake.” The voice was almost a whisper, all the boldness of the music forgotten. A woman's voice, soft and husky. A silhouetted head swam into view, face shrouded with an indigo wrap of silk. Small hands slid behind his head and lifted it. “Drink this, it will help.”
A vial was pressed to his lips and he let the liquid slide down his throat. An icy cold seeped from the potion into his veins, his body absorbing the chill. Slowly, the world became sharper, clearer. Strength filled his muscles and his senses began to come back to life. He took a deep breath through his nose. The air that filled his body seemed to carry no scent, yet he could sense a gentle fragrance around him. As though by intuition rather than actual smell. Gingerly, he tested his limbs. Joints creaked into life, slowly but on his command. Carefully, ever so carefully, he sat up and glanced around. He seemed to be in a small, single room cabin. Various pots and trays lined numerous tables and shelves. In each, flowers of every colour bloomed. A wooden table sat at the far end of the room, cluttered with jars and vials, pestles and mortars, flasks and beakers. A flickering lantern struggled to illuminate the room.
“I hope that you slept well. It will probably be the last time you do.” The woman was a tiny thing, wrapped from head to toe in dark silk. Only two glowing beads of golden light set in her face could be seen, staring at him with curiosity.
“I...” Words began to form in the back of his mind. Words of his own choosing, in his mind's own voice. Words that belonged to him alone, and commanded nothing. “Wh-where..?” Vocal cords began to unravel, their forgotten functions returning. “Where am I?”
The willowy woman tilted her head to one side, glowing eyes darting around the room. “My home. It's not much, but it's safe and it's hidden.”
He glanced down at his hands. The skin was a deathly blue, the fingers barely more than bony claws. Instinctively, he could guess the cause. “Undead?”
“Yes.”
The ghostly voice that had branded itself inside his mind remained absent, yet he could recall every aspect of it in perfect detail. Its timbre; its inflections. The undeniable instructions and the overriding will to obey. Fear flooded his body, as though his knowing of the voice's absence would be enough for it to break his newly regained awareness. “I don't hear Him.”
The woman slowly sat on the edge of his bed, taking one of his hands in hers. The soft touch of her silk gloved hands felt distant. She shook her head, a slow and reassuring gesture. “He doesn't command us any more. We're free.”
A hush fell as the woman's words sunk in. He was no longer a slave. Instead, he had freedom. Freedom as a twisted mockery of life.
“Do you remember your name?” the woman asked, breaking the silence.
“Huh?”
“Your name. Can you remember it?”
Nothing. He sifted through his fragile mind, combing for any stray memories of his identity, but found nothing. Panic began to spread through his body.
“Don't worry if you can't. Many of us awaken with no memories of who we were. Those of us that can't take up new names.” The woman brushed a stray lock of hair from his face with a delicate finger. “Can you remember anything at all?”
“That melody,” he answered without hesitation. The knowledge was lodged somewhere deep within his memory. His only memory. “I remember that song. 'A Threnody for the Fall of Stormwind'. It was composed by Edward Redman. H-he was a survivor from the First War, one of the refugees from Azeroth that fled to Lordaeron.”
The woman looked long and hard at him, golden eyes narrowing as she gauged his answer. “Threnody? Edward?” she asked, incredulously. Finally, she let out a bark of laughter. “Well then, at least you remember something. That's better than nothing. Although, it is a curious memory to keep. Perhaps you were once a musician? Or a music scholar?”
He could only reply with a shrug.
“Listen, I know that this may all be too much to bear. But I will do anything and everything I can to help you. You can live here with me for as long as you need.” She raised her hands to her face and slowly unraveled the silk wrappings. The beautiful face of a young woman, barely in her twenties, stared back, wearing a sad smile. Her delicate features were unmarred by decay or rot. Only the ghostly pallor of her flesh and the eerie glow of her eyes gave her away as undead. Stringy charcoal-coloured hair fell loose around her shoulders.
“Well then, Mister Threnody,” she continued, taking his hand in hers once more, “it seems that introductions are in order. My name is Adeline...”
From the far side of the room, a melody cut through the silence. A painfully sombre, tortured tune, hummed in an low alto range. Disjointed rhythms jarred and pulsed like an irregular heartbeat. The voice slid over notes like water cascading across a jagged riverbed, never quite lingering in tune. Nuanced micro-tones wailed and cried out in blissful dissonance. Glissandos slid through the vocal ranges like the howling winds. Beautiful chaos. Tragic bliss.
“Hrrgnn.” He tried to speak but his voice failed him, coming out as nothing more than a guttural moan. From across the room he heard the sharp rattle of glass and ceramic.
“Ah, you're awake.” The voice was almost a whisper, all the boldness of the music forgotten. A woman's voice, soft and husky. A silhouetted head swam into view, face shrouded with an indigo wrap of silk. Small hands slid behind his head and lifted it. “Drink this, it will help.”
A vial was pressed to his lips and he let the liquid slide down his throat. An icy cold seeped from the potion into his veins, his body absorbing the chill. Slowly, the world became sharper, clearer. Strength filled his muscles and his senses began to come back to life. He took a deep breath through his nose. The air that filled his body seemed to carry no scent, yet he could sense a gentle fragrance around him. As though by intuition rather than actual smell. Gingerly, he tested his limbs. Joints creaked into life, slowly but on his command. Carefully, ever so carefully, he sat up and glanced around. He seemed to be in a small, single room cabin. Various pots and trays lined numerous tables and shelves. In each, flowers of every colour bloomed. A wooden table sat at the far end of the room, cluttered with jars and vials, pestles and mortars, flasks and beakers. A flickering lantern struggled to illuminate the room.
“I hope that you slept well. It will probably be the last time you do.” The woman was a tiny thing, wrapped from head to toe in dark silk. Only two glowing beads of golden light set in her face could be seen, staring at him with curiosity.
“I...” Words began to form in the back of his mind. Words of his own choosing, in his mind's own voice. Words that belonged to him alone, and commanded nothing. “Wh-where..?” Vocal cords began to unravel, their forgotten functions returning. “Where am I?”
The willowy woman tilted her head to one side, glowing eyes darting around the room. “My home. It's not much, but it's safe and it's hidden.”
He glanced down at his hands. The skin was a deathly blue, the fingers barely more than bony claws. Instinctively, he could guess the cause. “Undead?”
“Yes.”
The ghostly voice that had branded itself inside his mind remained absent, yet he could recall every aspect of it in perfect detail. Its timbre; its inflections. The undeniable instructions and the overriding will to obey. Fear flooded his body, as though his knowing of the voice's absence would be enough for it to break his newly regained awareness. “I don't hear Him.”
The woman slowly sat on the edge of his bed, taking one of his hands in hers. The soft touch of her silk gloved hands felt distant. She shook her head, a slow and reassuring gesture. “He doesn't command us any more. We're free.”
A hush fell as the woman's words sunk in. He was no longer a slave. Instead, he had freedom. Freedom as a twisted mockery of life.
“Do you remember your name?” the woman asked, breaking the silence.
“Huh?”
“Your name. Can you remember it?”
Nothing. He sifted through his fragile mind, combing for any stray memories of his identity, but found nothing. Panic began to spread through his body.
“Don't worry if you can't. Many of us awaken with no memories of who we were. Those of us that can't take up new names.” The woman brushed a stray lock of hair from his face with a delicate finger. “Can you remember anything at all?”
“That melody,” he answered without hesitation. The knowledge was lodged somewhere deep within his memory. His only memory. “I remember that song. 'A Threnody for the Fall of Stormwind'. It was composed by Edward Redman. H-he was a survivor from the First War, one of the refugees from Azeroth that fled to Lordaeron.”
The woman looked long and hard at him, golden eyes narrowing as she gauged his answer. “Threnody? Edward?” she asked, incredulously. Finally, she let out a bark of laughter. “Well then, at least you remember something. That's better than nothing. Although, it is a curious memory to keep. Perhaps you were once a musician? Or a music scholar?”
He could only reply with a shrug.
“Listen, I know that this may all be too much to bear. But I will do anything and everything I can to help you. You can live here with me for as long as you need.” She raised her hands to her face and slowly unraveled the silk wrappings. The beautiful face of a young woman, barely in her twenties, stared back, wearing a sad smile. Her delicate features were unmarred by decay or rot. Only the ghostly pallor of her flesh and the eerie glow of her eyes gave her away as undead. Stringy charcoal-coloured hair fell loose around her shoulders.
“Well then, Mister Threnody,” she continued, taking his hand in hers once more, “it seems that introductions are in order. My name is Adeline...”
Founded April 26, 2005