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A Birthday Missed
Topic Started: Fri Oct 18, 2013 6:27 pm (350 Views)
Gilworth Petroglitch
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Winter had yet to come to the lower elevations of Imythess, yet it would arrive very shortly now that the full Harvest Moon had passed. The harvests throughout the Debon Plains were in full swing, and they would likely be finished by the end of October. By mid-November, the first heavy snows would make harvesting anything impossible. Already, the air was chilly with the veritable writing on the wall that was the autumnal drowsiness of nature in spite of its harried state; animals were finishing up their winter storage of food; Jackie’s was rolling across Imythess, its wares sold to everyone that could spare the gold; the frigid breeze that made the tall grasses and the treetops of the Plains sway made warming up nigh impossible without a good fire and a hot brew.

Gilworth had neither. At least he had boots now but the nice cloak that he had bought had been stolen. Spearhorn, at least, had fur. Gilworth had thick skin but he could only take so much. When winter came at last, he would once again be freezing and nigh-starved. There wasn’t much work for a digger in the winter. But Spearhorn was by his side, and he had since acquired a couple of other friends as well. His furfur was soundly asleep, nestled in a pocket of his shirt and wrapped in a soft cloth to keep him warm. Sakkir was out stalking a late lunch somewhere in thePlains; he would find Gilworth quickly and easily enough once he was done.

A couple small pieces of cheese and a piece of bread were all he had, although he could wash them down with his waterskin. It was infused with mana, that waterskin, so that each drink he took would refill it. As he sat and ate, he pondered the events of the past year. He had killed someone (again); this time, it had been in self-defense. Surely that made it right? He wasn’t certain. He did not like battle. He did not like having to do things like that. He did not like it at all. Even now, it wasn’t the cold that made him shudder. Spearhorn sensed his distress and nuzzled him, and Gilworth patted and petted the stag’s thick neck in return. Gilworth had also acquired a few things, gotten some good work, and ended up with a few friends.

But something else that had happened weighed heavily upon his mind. It probably should not have, for it was not really anything special. Usually, he would just receive some small gift for it from his father and a warm smile and hug from his mother; that was a small, mostly insignificant ceremony. Thinking back upon it now, however, Gilworth began slowly to realize just how much that small, seemingly insignificant ceremony had meant to him. He had been born on the eleventh day of the month of October. His birthday had come and gone, and he had no one to share it with. Oh, he had his animal companions, sure enough; but that was different.

Gilworth was another year older. He was perhaps a little wiser to the ways of the surface world, yet he was no wiser as a whole. He still had no steady work, and it would be too cold for that soon. He still had no place to live that did not cost him. While other people were celebrating this month, he was busy trying to figure out he was going to survive. He had a feeling, too, that this was going to become a pattern.

Were things really going to be like this every year for the rest of his life? Was he really never going to celebrate another birthday? Was he really going to be alone (except for his animal companions) for the rest of his days? How long would it be, how many years would it take, before he was found frozen solid in some snow bank with naught but the clothes upon his back and his animal companions unable to do anything for him?

These questions and many, many more swirled around in the gnome’s mind like a whirlpool. They kept sucking him in before he could escape, forcing him to dwell upon them. It was all very well for a bear to hibernate or a squirrel to store nuts but that would not do for a sentient being such as Gilworth. Gilworth was not a bear; he was not a squirrel; he was a deep gnome. If he did not find work soon, steady work that would carry him through the winter…

Gilworth did not know what he was going to do. He did know, however, that his meal had suddenly come to an end. He stared at his hands for a moment as though he wasn’t aware of what had happened. Then, slowly but surely, his mind focused. He had finished his food. He took some water, and then he slowly rose. As a gust ruffled his shirt and vest, he shivered from the cold. It wasn’t winter yet but it felt as though it was. The nearest village was almost ten miles to the north; he’d better get a move on if he wanted to reach it before nightfall, the way the river wound through this part of the Plains.

He didn’t have much to pack up, fortunately. Actually, in his mind, it was not fortune that limited what he carried. Rather, it was misfortune. He had survived since he was a child but only barely. He was tired of living like this but what choice did he have? He had no home to go back to. Gilworth’s Folly was well-known, and a sad statue had been erected in Artonin Square to remind people of what he had done. His entire society had cast him out because of one mistake made by a child. He was as alone as his skin was grey.

Hefting his pack upon his back, he checked his gear one last time. There was nothing else for him to do here. He did not like going into the villages because he was an outsider; they always made him feel like an outsider. At least in the cities, there were enough people that it did not matter. He could easily blend in with the crowds. But out here on the Plains, where there were only small groups of people gathered in villages that liked to know everything that went on around them…

It was not a pleasant thought.

The sound of movement nearby broke his tragic reverie. It was not the sound of the wind moving the grass or the trees, nor of an animal parting the former. It was the sound of a person, one garbed and moving relatively quickly. He turned to see this person, for he did not need a highwayman to attack him when he had so little already. That would have been just his luck, though.
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Flamos_22
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Flamos was home. He had spent a better part of a year away from his home in the Debon Plains, a year from the little village of Mallock. He had returned home in the early fall, to work for some farmers and get some gold. He had spent a long time here, almost a month, but it wasn't enough. This, the unending plains, the empty space, the fields, the people, the animals, this was his home. When Flamos was young, when he believed himself just a mortal elf, he had raised a family in the Debon. After the death of his wife and his son, he had left the plains for close to a hundred years. When he returned, all of the people in his old village had forgotten about him, except for a tale of a poor farmer who lost everything to a demon. He had become a story to tell to children. Since then, Flamos hadn't been able to stay in the Debon or at Mallock for more than a few months without feeling his age or remembering those lovely days with a deep depression. Then, and only then, did he return to his wanderings. When he had left, there were many moon elves, but now, there was only him, and yet the people there accept him. These farmers, who have lived with only humans for their whole life, accepted him with no questions. And that's why Flamos loved his home, because the people accepted almost everyone. These were good people.

Flamos was even considering settling down and buying a house in the Debon. He'd save his money, and buy a nice house just outside of town. Of course he'd still wander, that's who he was, and who he'd always be. But to finally have a home, a place to rest for a good portion of the year, that's what Flamos wanted. Today, though, he had gathered a few gold coins and was planning to buy himself some mead, and have a good sleep. He was walking quickly to town, so that he could begin his night. As he closed in on town, he ran across a little gray man. Flamos knew from his travels that this was a Deep Gnome, something that was seldom seen in the Debon. Really any race besides Human was not seldom seen in this part of the Debon. Flamos was shocked for just a moment before he realized that the Gnome was barely covered and was surely cold. Flamos walked up to the little creature with a smile. "Hello" he said warmly, hoping to show that he was trustworthy, "Are you walking to town? May I walk with you?"
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Gilworth Petroglitch
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The person was an elf. That much was clear. What sort of elf he was, however…that Gilworth did not know. The man was relatively tall (most people were tall to a deep gnome) and slender, and he carried himself quickly as though heading to town for an urgent purpose. Perhaps he had business there, or perhaps he was rushing home to his loved ones. At least he was an elf, however. The elves were usually the good guys, so to speak. They weren’t always beneficent but they usually were. This one seemed friendly enough, if a bit outgoing, the way he walked right up to Gilworth and asked if he was heading into town.

Gilworth eyed the elf for a moment. His skin tone was rather odd. It was a kind of elf that he had not encountered before. Nonetheless, his ears gave the man away. He was an elf, and he wasn’t attacking Gilworth or looking down at him (well, physically he was; but that was all) for not being an elf or appearing to be wealthy. Then again, the elves were well-known for their deep, nigh unbreakable connection to nature. It was said that to break an elf’s connection was to break an elf, and that was said to be the greatest of elven tragedies. That was why the elves had been so impressed when Gilworth had befriended Spearhorn. Finally, the gnome spoke.

“I’m riding into town,” he replied to the elf in the Common Tongue.

Not wanting to be rude, Gilworth did not immediately mount his friend. The stag sniffed the air suspiciously, as though trying to get a feel for the elf. He seemed to regard the elf warily but with a certain amount of neutrality despite the elf being unfamiliar. There was a well-traveled air about the elf, as though he had been to many places and seen many things; it was something that only an animal (or a gnome - such as Gilworth, for example) would have picked up on. It wasn’t anything specific, like the way he held himself or walked or the tone and pitch of his voice. It was just a feeling, a sort of…what was it humans called? A gut reaction…yeah, that was it. It was an instinctual feeling. The elf may or may not have been from the Plains but he certainly had not restrained himself to them.

Gilworth nodded despite his desire to ride instead of walk.

“But you may walk with me, certainly. I fear I am not the best company, however.”

Indeed, that was almost certainly true. While Gilworth wasn’t snarky or rude, neither was he the most cheerful sort. Then again, what did he have to be cheerful about? He was banished forever from his home for an unintentional crime, he was cold, he had no work, he had no true home, he had no friends or family upon which to rely…but if nothing else, he had his animal companions. That, at least, kept him somewhat sane.
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Flamos_22
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Both the Gnome and the Stag seemed upset by Flamos. More than likely it was because of his Demonic nature. Most people can pick up on it, but normally just ignore it as just a strange gut feeling. Only animals ever seem to hold on the notion, which is why the only animals that Flamos could own were shadow creatures, or dragons. Strange, then, that the Gnome had held on to the notion. More than likely, he was almost as wild as the Stag. Flamos would keep an eye on him, just to be sure. Still, Flamos wouldn't be rude or unfriendly. This was a day when Flamos felt content. Today was a great day for the Half-demon. Today seemed to be the first day of the rest of his life, and nothing would change that. Today, Flamos was the most optimistic person in Imythess.

"I'm sure better company then some I've had." Flamos said with a laugh, and begin to walk. "Many months ago, I was wandering through the cold plains in the north, being chased by a yeti..." Flamos began a story, one of his favorites. He began to walk at a pace that would be fairly easy for the Gnome. If the Gnome was in a bad temper, then Flamos would cheer him up with some of his tales, and he had plenty. As he walked, the sun began to set, and the little Musfa crawled out of Flamos' pocket, climbing up to Flamos' shoulder. "This is my pet, Nightwind" Flamos said, scratching the top of his small pet's head. Nightwind stared at the Gnome with a content smile, happy to have a new friend. "You would never believe how I found him..." Flamos said, beginning another story. Suddenly, Flamos stopped talking, as they began to come up to a charred house. The Gnome didn't know it, but that house was where Flamos had lived, almost 150 years ago. The demonic fire had kept it standing, and it was the only thing that could have put a damper on Flamos' day.
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Gilworth Petroglitch
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Gilworth mounted the stag with the practiced ease of one that had been born by such a creature before. Indeed, Gilworth had been the stag’s burden for some time now. Spearhorn did not seem to mind, however. In fact, Spearhorn seemed to rather enjoy the companionship. For Gilworth’s part, the companionship was all there was. Then the stag rose to its full height. It was an impressive sight, to say the very least. The tall, proud, and powerful stag stood strong and firm against the chilly wind. Spearhorn walked at an easy pace, though not necessarily a particularly slow one, as the elf began to talk.

The elf introduced himself as Flamos, to which Gilworth replied with his own first name. There was no need to mention his surname; that would only bring about unwanted questions. Granted, Flamos could probably figure out from his first name and the fact that he was a deep gnome dwelling on the Debon Plains that he was the source of Gilworth’s Folly but that was assuming he knew anything about it. Most people did not, and that was the way Gilworth liked to keep things for the most part. That way, nobody could judge him for an accident that occurred when he was but a lad.

Flamos also began to tell a story about being chased by a yeti. Apparently, he ended up watching as a bugbear killed it and then took him to her home. By the way he told it, Gilworth guessed that the bugbear wanted much more than just a companion. It was a very strange story, although he supposed it was a bit amusing. He smiled politely but said nothing. Flamos was just starting on another story about a small animal companion of his own when the pair came upon a rather sinister sight. Gilworth didn’t need to halt his mount; Spearhorn did that on his own. The stench was fresh, and there were a couple of places that were still smoldering but only barely. At first, Gilworth didn’t even notice; the stench seemed to exist only as a faint trace of some event long ago, and the tiny spires of smoke were mostly confined to small holes in the side of the house that only allowed it to escape whenever the wind rattled it particularly hard.

It was not the wind that made the gnome shudder as he realized what must have happened. Somebody burned this place to the ground, probably with people inside, yet it somehow still stood. It did not seem to be a fresh fire, yet there was something about it that was oddly resilient - as though it wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge that its time had come and gone long ago. Gilworth couldn’t help but stare at the scene, his mind wandering backward to another instance of death that weighed heavily upon his mind to this day. Spearhorn wouldn’t go anywhere near the place. Gilworth tried to get him to move on but he would not.

He sighed. He would have to take a longer road in order to avoid the place. He would not have minded were it not for the cold wind and the fact that the sun was setting. It was a mild temperature today but it would quickly turn frigid once the sun no longer warmed the grasses of the Plains. He had but a little coin left, and he had an inkling to use that for some soup and a room for the night. Perhaps he would find work in the town that was coming up. He could see the vague shadow of it in the distance now; from where he sat, Gilworth could not tell whether they had their lanterns lit or were in the process of lighting them. He was quite certain that they would be lighting them very soon, however.

Something - he was not entirely certain what - drew his eyes back to the house before him suddenly. He heard a low growl off to one side and looked over to see the vague outline of his feline guardian crouching low in the tall grasses; Sakirr was glaring harshly at the house, as though he could sense something sinister and particularly foul about the place. Gilworth looked at the house again. The way it moved - nay, the way the wind moved it - it was as though the house was somehow alive, and yet not quite. It was eerie at best, and it was not something that Gilworth wished to dwell on.

He comforted his steed as best he could before turning to Flamos.

“Pardon me,” he said, “but do you know this place?”

He had meant to ask if they might move on from there. He did not like the place and clearly, neither did his animal companions. But it hardly mattered. Flamos looked as though he wanted to stay anyway, if only for a bit. He might as well find out what he could. Perhaps there was work nearby related to this. He was only a digger but perhaps someone would be willing to pay him to remove this stark and twisted clot from this stretch of the Plains, allowing the land to heal once more. Perhaps not. It certainly didn’t hurt to ask about the place, though he wasn’t really sure he truly wished to know.

Most likely, he didn’t.
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Flamos_22
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"I do" Flamos began. "A century ago, a man moved here with his family. He had a wife, and a son. He began to farm the land around him, in hopes of settling down. But that man, he had a secret. Legend says that the man had been cursed by a demon as a child, and misery would always find him. One night, during the harvest moon, the demon came to the house while the man was out. The wife gave the demon food and drink, not realizing what it was. The demon ate, and the demon drank. When the man returned home, he found that after the demon had his fill, he killed the wife, and killed the son. According to the towns people, a neighbor found the house in the morning. The Neighbor went up to the still smoking house, and found the son and the wife dead, and the husband hanging from the ceiling. Many of the villagers didn't believe the story, but no one can deny that the house hasn't changed since that night. It still stinks of death and fire." Flamos had a hard time finishing the story. He held in a sob the entire time he recited the story, and it slipped out at the end. He looked at the forsaken house, and felt a deep regret. He had built that house, with his wife. All of his love went into that place. His restless and crazy life had finally gained some sense, when one of his uncles came and killed his wife and son. Flamos couldn't stand the sight of it, but felt drawn to stay. Finally, he composed himself. "We should probably continue moving, we're almost into town."
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Gilworth Petroglitch
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Gilworth had been absolutely correct. He hadn’t really wanted to know the story after all. It was a little too late for that, though. The house had a sad story and, by the reaction of his companion as he told it, that story belonged to this man somehow. He couldn’t see how; perhaps they had been his family, or perhaps his friends at the very least. All Gilworth knew is that his animal companions hated this place even more than he did. Hate?

Hate was a strong word. Where had it come from? Gilworth was not the type to hate anything. Well, he hated himself sometimes. His crimes, accidental though they were, had made him hate himself. Even that man he’d killed in Taras - a man killed in self-defense, really, though he would have been executed for it had it not been for the situation that had brought the man to his grave - even that was a black mark upon Gilworth’s soul. He knew this; he accepted it; but it did not mean that he had to like himself in spite of it. If anything, simply knowing that he had never meant to kill anyone only made things worse.

Yet it was definitely hatred that he felt now. He could not explain it. It was as though the hatred was coming from within him, yet it was separate from him. He decided at once that he needed to get away from this place. He felt as though he was being watched, and it was not a feeling that he liked. His animals seemed to feel the same, yet there was only Gilworth and Flamos in the area. There was no one here, yet the feeling remained.

Flamos was right. The only thing to do was to move on.

A sad silence descended upon the pair as they moved away from the house. Sakkir followed closely behind Gilworth - more closely than Spearhorn was comfortable with and more closely than Sakkir usually did - but Gilworth understood completely. Nobody wanted to go anywhere near that house. When Gilworth no longer felt the burning hatred that seemed ready to consume him, and when he no longer felt invisible eyes upon him, he finally remembered that Flamos had begun to tell him about the animal companion he carried with him.

“What was your pet’s name again?” he inquired politely. “You were going to tell me how you came to befriend him.”

It was a story that was likely much more cheerful than the one behind the pair. It had to be because if it was not…

Gilworth didn’t want to think about that.
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Flamos_22
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"His name is Nightwind" Flamos began solemnly, not as ecstatic as he had been previously. "I first came across him at the very edge of Gloomwood, after a rather exciting trip in the Debon. He was starving, the poor thing..." Flamos continued the story, and as they walked, Flamos heard his Magpies behind him. No doubt the Drake was around as well. Flamestrike was supposed to stay away from dwellings, in case he accidentally set the dwelling on fire. But the Dragon had never been very good at that, and had no doubt felt his master's discomfort. Flamos had decided to cut off his trip home early, maybe go to cascadia or the north. Certainly he couldn't stay there.

Flamos looked up at his companion as Nightwind moved back down to Flamos' pocket, and the magpies settled on his shoulders. "Sir," Flamos said, "The only thing I know about you is your name. Who are you?" Flamos no longer felt like speaking, and hoped that the Gnome on the Stag would have something to say. He felt the Gnome wasn't the best at conversations, and probably didn't have much in the way of friends, but he knew there was no act that brought people close together like the telling of tales. He hoped to make this Gnome his friend before his drake made it to the village to get him.
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Gilworth Petroglitch
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It was an interesting tale, to be sure. Clearly, Flamos had been far more enthusiastic prior to the seeing the burnt-out home. Gilworth himself quickly steered his own mind away from such thoughts, as death was one of many things that he did not like to dwell upon. If nothing else, the tale about his musfa was a fun one. It sounded as though this elf had lived a life of adventure, excitement, and humor. In a way, Gilworth wished he could say the same. He was not much one for battle, however. He preferred a day’s hard work, a hot meal and a warm bed at the end, and perhaps a bit of coin in his pocket with which to purchase the necessities. He could not very well afford anything more than that at the moment, and he certainly could not afford to dream about it. Dreams brought only want, and want brought only jealous and envy.

And then came the question that Gilworth would have dreaded had he expected it at the start. He had come to expect it eventually, of course, but the fact was that it was not a question with which he was comfortable. Still, he could not very well refuse to respond. After all, Flamos had told Gilworth much about himself already. It was only right to return the favor. The telling of tales was, after all, the eldest of hobbies. It kept the living interested in one another, and it kept people from getting so bored that they turned to evil acts. Gilworth wasn’t very good at stories and his own story wasn’t a very good one. Still, he couldn’t leave the elf out in the open with nothing to meet him. It would have been rude, to say the least.

Gilworth shifted his weight upon Spearhorn’s back a bit, clearly uncomfortable. He shrugged his shoulders to hug his shirt about him a little more. He avoided looking at Flamos, focusing instead upon the town that was up ahead about…two or three miles, perhaps. It would not be more than a half-hour before they reached the town, now. Finally, he sighed. There was nothing for it but to say something about himself. He didn’t necessarily have to say everything, of course, but he had to at least say something.

“I…I am nobody, really,” he began. “I am just a digger. I carry my pick and my shovel, and my other supplies, and I look for work where I can. It has not been easy, however, especially during the winter months.”

He thought about the last couple of years before speaking again.

“Recently…there was work in Taras. I was removing rubble from an area near one of the gates. There were a lot of others there - dwarves, some elves, some humans - but I didn’t really pay much attention to them. We workers were provided a small breakfast in return for our efforts. We were also to be paid at the end of each day. One of the days, though, we did not get paid for - and it wasn’t even our fault.”

He furrowed his brow as he told the tale about the attack on Taras that day. He told Flamos how he had been one of the last to leave and how the pair of guards had finished off those that had brought with them a siege weapon. He conveniently neglected to mention the man that he had ended up killing with the shovel. That would probably not have gone over well, knowing that he was walking alongside a murderer. Self-defense or not, he had killed a man. That wasn’t something you told just anyone. Kind of like that incident when he was a lad…

He didn’t realize at first that he had removed a small medallion of bronze from his coat. When he did, his eyes refocused and he looked up at the town in the distance. Finally, he looked down at Flamos from his perch upon Spearhorn’s back and finished the last vestiges of his story. He didn’t seem particularly thrilled by any part of it but it was completely true nonetheless.

“In the end, the one called Blackwell sat and supped with me. So did the other one…Miriel, I think her name was. We didn’t get paid that day because most of us had fled. I got paid every other day but many of the workers did not return, and those that remained and those that came to work after those that had fled that day had to work even longer to clear out the rubble and garbage. I think the dwarves burned it or something; they were the only ones of the original group I worked with to stay. Oh, the ones who hired me gave me this.”

He showed Flamos the medallion. Then he looked at it one final time and put it away.

“It’s not much. I don’t think I really earned it. The coins I earned but that’s different. My employers seemed to think I earned it, though.”
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Flamos listened to the Gnomes story with great interest. Clearly the Gnome was uncomfortable telling the story, but politely told the story anyways. It was much more interesting than Flamos expected, and Flamos had been glad to hear it. It was now night, and the chill had grown. They were getting very close to town now, and could almost smell the bread baking and the soup cooking. Flamos' looked around the night sky, and found what appeared to be a meteor. Flamos knew what it was, Flamestrike, the Large Magmus dragon. Soon he would land, and Flamos' would say good bye to his new friend. "Our time is almost up, Gilworth. I'll be leaving in a moment." Flamos felt the heat as the Dragon landed. The Footprints would be marked on the Grass for many days, until winter came and killed it. The scorch marks may last even longer than that. Most people in the little village would see what would look like a fire, and some might come out to help, but by then Flamos' would be gone.

"I've enjoyed the time we've had together, and I hope you consider me a new friend. I consider you as one. I hope we meet again, and if you ever need help, don't hesitate to ask. Godspeed to you." Flamos said, looking at the Gnome. Flamos was sure the Gnome would be terrified, or uncomfortable, but he would at least wait for a response before beginning on his new journey. The dragon would never grow impatient, as the dragon had a long life to live, and few extra moments would never put him out of temper. He hoped that the man would feel a little happier, because that was something the Gnome clearly lacked. Happiness was clearly in short supply with this creature.
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Gilworth Petroglitch
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When the dragon landed, it made both Sakkir and Spearhorn almost bolt. Gilworth managed to get his stag under control relatively quickly, however, and Sakkir was made of stronger stuff than most big cats. Then again, Gilworth got the feeling that he wasn’t entirely from this plane. He wouldn’t have been a bit surprised to learn that he was from the Abyss or something, although he didn’t seem particularly evil. He would guess that Sakkir was from whatever plane of existence that Balefire had originated from, actually.

Sakkir had come to him when he passed through the Hills of Mist a few weeks prior. He had stalked him like prey, yet he never attacked him. Instead, when highwaymen on the road into the heart of the Debon Plains had attacked him and his steed, Sakkir had leapt from among the grasses to tear them apart. One had escaped but he had been badly wounded; the others had perished quickly. It was not the first time that others had come to his aid and ended the lives of others in the process; Blackwell and Miriel had done the same thing in Taras. That didn’t make Gilworth feel any better about it but at least Sakkir was more a friend than a foe. He would hate to have the cat as an enemy.

The name had come to him one evening in a dream; in that dream, the cat’s mind had spoken its name to Gilworth. Gilworth had come to believe, through dreams since, that it must be the manner in which the cat spoke to its companions. If Gilworth had interpreted his companion’s messages correctly (he probably hadn’t), he had led his last companion into a haunted city in the Hills of Mist. He had escaped; his companion had not. He would not speak of what happened therein, however. It, too, was likely something Gilworth did not want to hear.

Thankfully, Sakkir had spared him that sad tale.

Gilworth bowed his head a bit at the elf’s words and pondered them.

“Friend?” he murmured quietly, speaking to himself.

Then he looked up and, after a moment, nodded. He let a small, polite smile adorn his lips.

“Very well…friend. I…look forward to our next meeting, then. Flamos.”
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Flamos smiled for the first time since they passed the house. "No Doubt we'll meet again soon. Good-bye for now Gilworth." With that, Flamos walked up to his Drake and climbed on top. "May happiness always come to you Gilworth" With that, Flamos flew away, a smile on his face. He flew over the Plains, into the dark globe that surrounded Gloomwood. He flew away from his home, to see the new Republic of Taras, or to visit the Hills of mist. The world was his oyster, and he would crack it and get the Pearl.

As Flamos made camp that morning, he thought back to the Gnome who he had the pleasure of meeting. He knew, deep down, that it wasn't the last he'd see of Gilworth. And yet something kept digging at him. The Gnome had sensed Flamos' demonic energy, and yet had walked with him for several miles. The gnome had ignored the obvious connotations with the house that had been burning for the greater part of a century. When he saw the Flaming Drake, he had only a short look of awe. The Gnome had withstood mare than most people could, and yet he believed himself useless. Flamos knew that a great adventurer was within the sad little creature, just itching to get out. Flamos hoped that one day the Gnome would realize this, and learn to be happy. With this last thought, Flamos fell asleep.
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Gilworth Petroglitch
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When the drake left at last, it left with flair. Gilworth could not help but watch the retreating figure of his former companion as it drifted endlessly into the eternal night sky. Finally, when he could see naught but a distant shadow that might have been a moon passing between the stars, he urged Spearhorn forward once more. Again, he began his slow journey toward the village. He was a strange creature, that gnome, and people knew him. That was usually the problem. Nonetheless, most people left him alone. That was also a problem. It was a rare few who dared to speak to him as an equal, and he believed that he had just met one of those rare few.

There had also been Blackwell. Miriel had not dealt with him much but Blackwell had. Blackwell was a warrior, a fighting man that had done well against that catapult with his female companion - who had also been a warrior. This one…Flamos…he, too, had seemed bred for battle. Strangely enough, it appeared that the people who most often chose to associate with him more as an equal than as a laborer, a servant, or the help…were the very people that most villagers and townsfolk said were bad news that should be avoided at all costs. In Gilworth’s estimation, which likely wasn’t worth much to anyone but himself, it seemed that warriors were a lot friendlier than people made them out to be.

He supposed that he could see why people avoided them, however. Perhaps it was true that warriors brought war with them, whether they wanted to or not. A simple task in Taras had become a hostile territory in mere moments on one seemingly insignificant day of summer. Flamos had led him, or perhaps he had unintentionally led Flamos, to a house marked by violence. That house still made Gilworth shudder; he would just as soon forget it. Actually, he would just as soon have never encountered it at all. But he could not change the past. He was no wizard. He was just a digger, and that was probably all that he would ever be. One might perhaps call him humble but he would never seek such delusions of grandeur.

And so he moseyed on into the village. He got the usual strange looks as he rode atop his stag, and the stableman wasn’t sure quite what to do with such an animal. Gilworth had to instruct him as to how to care for Spearhorn; then he went to have a small meal. When he returned, he slept with Spearhorn. The stag was happy to let Gilworth use him as a pillow. In the end, Flamos would not be forgotten; nay, he remained at the forefront of the deep gnome’s mind even after he had begun silently to dream.
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