Post by Shatan on Jul 31, 2007 16:29:53 GMT -5
>J’Baku<
]Never know what I’ve become[
>The king of all that’s said and done<
]The forgotten son[
]Never know what I’ve become[
>The king of all that’s said and done<
]The forgotten son[
Fate was toying with him again.
Sure, many might think it superstitious, or even insane, to believe that Fate as a power even existed at all, let alone to believe that Fate would single an individual out at any time and torture them for no reason. But he knew the truth of it, had learned it long ago when Fate had taken his ear and knew it still today as she reminded him of her presence. Ah yes, the great scorned woman must be angry, for she sought him to unleash her frustration upon, and oh what a horror her frustration could be.
Not even Khenarthi could help him today, for Fate had forbidden the help of the Khajiiti Goddess of Winds; oh yes, she must be very angry indeed to forbid him even the warnings which Khenarthi often brought him. He didn’t know what had happened to make her so mad, but if he was feeling her wrath this badly, then whoever was the source of her frustration must be in quite serious trouble indeed.
But whoever that was, quite frankly, was not of his concern; whoever dared to tick off Fate was a fool and deserved to be punished, and he would punish them himself if he ever got half the chance to do so, for it was their stupidity which had brought upon him this cursed amount of bad luck today. It was simply another one of those days in which everything that could possibly go wrong would invariably do so.
A sudden jerk awakened him to the presence: the old pony upon whose back he rode had tripped over some miniscule object or another, as often he did, and it was that moment of unsteadiness which had alerted the rider. However, the pony tripped often, and the rider relaxed quickly, resettling himself upon the bare back of his mount as the pony continued to walk undisturbed. The rhythmic movements of the pony’s shoulders was soothing, a relaxing and constant thing which meant that no danger was near; the little pony only changed gait and the rhythm of his movements when asked to, or when made anxious by something, and the latter could possibly mean danger.
Pah, danger, fat chance of that. Fate’s toying with me, not trying to kill me. Her faith in my abilities are too low for her to send danger my way; she’ll settle for every annoyance possible, he snorted at the thought, hissing slightly in his anger; it was dull and soundless, an action lacking meaning to him, though he knew that Fate would hear and would be alerted to his disdain for her.
One of said annoyances returned at that very moment: the clouded sky, which had been calm for the past few moments, began to, once again, drop rain upon his already dank form. Ah, yes, she had heard, alright, and this was simply her way of letting him know how little she cared that he hated her. He snorted again, feeling the heave of the pony’s body as he echoed his rider’s sentiments. He glanced down and grinned grimly at the ears of the pony, laid flat against his head, just as his own ear was.
Ah yes, the singular form of that was intended, for the rider of this strange little horse was lacking his right ear, taken from him in battle with the flame chucking mage which Fate had sent him. Fate had taken his ear as a trophy to mark that she had taken the rest of his hearing, leaving him with a charred tatter of skin and fur where an ear should be. And oh how painful it was! Pain throbbed through the wounded ear with every drop of water which splashed upon the raw area, drawing from the rider a cringe each time.
The fur along the top of his mouth crinkled again as he drew his lips up, bearing fangs in another cringe as water hammered down upon his ear. The black spots upon his maw ran together in the action, mixing with the brown color of his pelt and the gray furs which had started to spring up around his face, offering proof of his age. His remaining ear twitched slightly in agitation, but then remained still. Oh how many Khajiit would have their ears in constant motion, catching every sound? But alas, he was not such a one, for there were no sounds for him to catch, for none could combat the opponent that was deafness.
Ah yes, to be deaf; he knew the condition well, for he had been half deaf since birth, and fully so since that day when Fate had returned to take the rest of his hearing. The world was a silent place for him, if for no one else, and he was left by fate to never again hear the voice of any other, never again to hear the sound of the wind over the desert or the water in the rivers, or the stories which he had enjoyed so much as a cub. Such things were lost to him, but such things were hardly of any significance once one lost them.
Hearing was such a thing as one borrowed from Fate, such a thing as could be taken back at her whim. And Fate had never fully given that gift to him, nor had she allowed to keep it. Nor had she fully given to him the gift of sight, for he had been half blind since his birth. His right eye narrowed to a mere slit of amber, his left mirroring the action, though the slit which showed though it was of a much lighter color; the eye had always been as though coated in a sheet of glass, never to see. The world for him was dark as well as silent, and, as far as he was concerned, so, too, was his life upon it.
But he head resigned himself to this, for there was no challenge which he could present towards Fate; he would not provoke her anger lest she take back from him the partial gift of sight she had granted him. He knew the truth of the world: the power known as Fate did indeed exists, and she was a cruel master not to be trifled with, for no one had the power to oppose her, especially not him. He would simply do as she pleased for now; there was nothing else he could do.
And for now, it seemed that she wished for him to suffer in the more than dank atmosphere of the Green Road. He was, perhaps, half way between the cities of Bravil and Leyawiin, with the marshy trees upon his left and the Lower Niben upon his right as he headed towards the dank little squat that was Bravil, his least favorite city. But it was his duty, for he had been ordered to travel to Leyawiin and Bravil and, for a change of scenery, he had taken first the Yellow Road to Leyawiin and now had turned toward Bravil. He was regretting the decision enormously, for his delay had caused him to get caught in one of many storms which plagued this area.
His cat-like legs stuck unpleasantly to the sides of his shaggy little pony, the dank fur which covered both his legs and the pony sticking together. His armor, too, stuck to him in a most annoying way; leather and water certainly did not mix. He flicked his spotted tail, wrenching it free from where it rested, stuck, to one side of his pony and sending it flopping to the other side, where is stuck again immediately. He sighed in resignation; it was hardly any use.
The pony lurched again, tripping once again, though this time was different: the old horse stopped, and its rider could tell by the way it’s weight listed to one side that it was favoring one of its legs. He grunted as he wrenched his legs free of the pony’s dank sides and deftly dismounted, his paws hitting the ground with a quiet thud; he had never possessed the grace or ease of movement of other Khajiit. He patted the thickly muscled neck of the pony as he stepped forward to stand beside its low hanging head, pulling the reigns over its flattened ears and letting them hang under its mouth, gripping them in his right hand as he led the pony forward on foot.
The extra trip around the Yellow Road had taken its toll upon the pony, and he recognized that anytime the stubborn creature decided it was in pain, then there was nothing he could do to convince it to keep working; this was certainly not the first time he had been forced to lead the pony on foot. And oh what a sight they made: an undersized Cathay-raht, lurching forward in the strange manner of walking which his kind had, leading an undersized pony limping on a crooked, formerly broken, fore leg.
He smiled grimly at the thought of how amusing a sight they must make; at least they were good for something. The Cathay-raht glanced back at the pony, turning his head only enough to allow his right eye to catch sight of him; it was pointless to go any further. The pony’s thick mane, normally a light yellow—almost white, even—was dark tan and stuck to either side of his neck with the rain. The tan of his coat was closer to brown, and the white blaze upon his face was slightly darker. His tail was a dank, tangled mess which the pony allowed to hang limply behind him. He was a pathetic sight to be sure, and hardly one of the prized horses sold at the Black Waterside Stables, but the stout little pony had more muscles packed in his short form than one would believe, and he did his work well enough whenever his leg did not pain him.
“Good boy, Ver,” he hissed quietly, patting his neck again; the pony flicked his ears slightly, and the Khajiit recognized the motion of a quiet whicker of response. The pony, Verheerend as he was called, didn’t seem to mind his master’s quiet voice or lack of hearing or sight; he was content to do his work so long as he was well cared for. And his master always insured his companion was well cared for, despite the strange looks he gained from people; after all, he could only see half of them anyways.
Satisfied that the pony was only in so much pain as to keep him from carrying a rider, but not so much that he wouldn’t be able to make it to Bravil, the Khajiit turned back around, scanning the road ahead of him as he checked for any other travelers. He saw none, but the haze of rain was hardly helping his ability to see; he doubted he was the best judge of anything sight related, and he certainly couldn’t hear whether or not there were others near by. Ah well, what difference did it make? If Fate wished him to meet someone, there was naught which he could do to stop that; besides, Fate wouldn’t bring anything which could kill him, for he was far too much fun a toy to throw away now.
>A walking disaster<
]At the dead-end I begin[
>To burn a bridge of innocence<
]Satisfaction guaranteed[
>A pillow-weight catastrophe<