Post by Gawain on Oct 1, 2022 19:03:20 GMT
Mont Saint-Michel The high windows looked out on the sea. The waves rocked, and Gawain of Gwyar paced back and forth within the small confines of the room. It was not his own - his was down among the cells of the monks, austere and hard. In this era, few realized it was comfort enough to have a roof over one's head and a dry spot to lie. They sought endless riches, and lost track of whatever it was that was truly important. What that was, sometimes he did not think he had ever known. It was not his to fight for some vague notion of change, of power, of future. The fight was enough, in and of itself. Change, power, the future... those were for one's descendants, not for oneself. There were far too many tales of those immortal kin coming to blows with their children over such things. Indeed, there had been times and places where he had been one of them. He had learned, though, and learned that it was best to seed the future and move on. Something might come of it, or not, but it would not be his to tend. He pondered the waves, and in the oblique rectangle of the window, his gaze was mirrored by one far smaller. Gawain's hand stretched along a small back, fingertips easily spanning shoulderblade to shoulderblade. Once, it had taken only his palm. Some things grew quickly, though. Children. Anger. Destruction. He turned from the window once more, pacing still, until a small head lolled on his shoulder and he placed his heir down within a rough-hewn wooden cradle. "And what shall you make of this place, I wonder?" He would not see it, whatever it was. There was a fight to attend to, and one way or another, he would be moving on from here. It was his hope that this final fight should prove worthy of his time. He had cultivated the players quite carefully, after all. Of course, people did have a way with their little surprises. Perhaps this time the surprises would be enough - or perhaps they would not, as always, and he would leave behind another smoking field of death and destruction, as he left behind all things. His hand moved, drawing a blanket up around infant shoulders, with one last lingering glance at what the future might be, before turning from it once again. "Farewell, Roland." |
Duskburg It had begun with an agreement, of course. These days, few people paid attention to the niceties of such things, but Gawain saw no need to let them slide. A year ago, he had sat down with one of those promising children of this time and spoken courteously, of fighting, of death. A date had been set, and some few weeks ago, he had confirmed it by letter. Mademoiselle Carmen Nevidmal, I hope this letter finds you well. I have been watching your exploits, as always. My apologies for being uninvolved of late; I have had other commitments. Your father would understand, of course. Perhaps you shall survive long enough that some day you shall as well. I should not count on it. I am sure I need not remind you of our prior engagement. November 30th, as it were. I should like to invite you to my home, but I fear it should not survive the encounter, and I am loath to destroy so much history. Let us meet at yours, then. The swamps of Duskburg, at daybreak. Bring whomsoever you please, with the singular caveat: We shall fight until there is a death. I remain quite sincerely yours, Gawain of Gwyar. The courtesies must be observed, of course, when one sought to destroy a person and all they held dear. It was quite likely that they would be there when he arrived, lying in wait, seeking ambush and first strike. It did not offend him - rather, he anticipated it greatly. He would flush them from their hiding spots like birds from the brush, and bring them down one by one. Or things would go differently, and perhaps all his long years of careful cultivation would pay off in a fight worth having. His entrance split the grim hazy air reeking above the swamps, and for a few instants there was a mirage in the shimmer of it - a glistening city, an extension of Millennium - what might have been, what was elsewhere, but was not here and never had been. Within the mirage, the city crumbled away into dust and nothingness, and he stepped forth from whatever dimension he had passed through, its power lining his skin in glowing orange lines. The brackish water made its hasty retreat from him in outward waves, a torrent of energy released that turned even those sludgy shallows into waves and mist. The waves bowed away from him before they settled and Gawain bowed in turn, generally, to those who might seek to render him lifeless. There must be a certain formality, after all, in these matters of life and death. |
OC -Limited, you know who you are. -This is a death match RP. Someone dies. Could be Gawain, could be someone else, could be multiple someones. I'd ask that everyone joining at least entertain the possibility of it being their character and be willing to take that risk, and also accordingly not send that character into other stuff while this is going on. If that's not for you, no worries, no one will hold it against you IC or OC if you opt out. |