One Less in the Infirmary
Jan 7, 2014 0:58:18 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Jan 7, 2014 0:58:18 GMT -5
Black Tower Infirmary
With the help of Kaira and Nelle, and Montolio’s gate, Math, barely breathing a word, nor paying attention to just where he had been taken, arrived at the Black Tower infirmary. After several days of observation, it became quite clear that Mathelio’s injuries had been attended to. The rest of his flesh wounds had been knitted, the impact trauma diminished, and the blood supply increased to replace what had been lost. But his face remained pale, stretched thin over oddly fragile looking bone. New creases seemed to be evident, his cheeks sunken. Only the presence of his beard really masked what more might have been discerned upon his old visage. Granite, one could say, looked to have become weak sandstone. And he had barely moved in the infirmary bed. At least one was found for him quickly, unlike the stark slab Shan was placed on. It would be noted that occasionally his eyes might flicker open, or he would manage some water and a little food, but they remained deeply sad. Those dark hazel eyes of his had become misty and haunted by something recent, more than simply the old age which for sometime had been taking its toll on his sight. They seemed to see nothing in the room, really, as if looking to something else, toward a “film reel” going round and round without end.
What would such a “film” show? Perhaps it would evidence the pattern of an Andoran farmer travelling to Tar Valon and being so horrified by the carnage of Blood Snow, beneath the Shining Walls, that he had at first fled his post. That would explain why it had taken him so many years to become a Bannerman, and never reached any higher. Perhaps it would simply show too many years of training, and too many years of wielding a sword without a radical change in style. Or maybe it would show the tragedy of a blade arriving always too late, just out of time, a little out of place, a heron that didn’t quite know where to roost. And then, it could also be showing the loss of his wife and the increasing absence of family until only a void remained, as the relative isolation of Tar Valon and the rigors of the Defenders of the Flame fully embraced him.
As is well known, really old age is generally for the rich and powerful in the Westlands. Though a Blademaster, Math could not accurately be called either. Terribly stressed as well as somewhat drained from healing, the process had accelerated. Shan, Joase and Michelle had tried their best with him, of course, but none were healers proper, and he was old. But it was not so much the injuries that told on him, but the vitality which had fled and resigned. His eyes were the true key—those barren eyes—which showed no glimpse of futurity. No doubt this was related to an act of desperation.
He had spent his last breath. In those delicate hazy moments, still wounded, only partly healed, drained, tired, and barely able to stand, he had unfolded the fan one last time. His blade had whistled free of its sheathe, the precise length of steel parting the air. The walls of that insane room, and one could truly have gone mad in there, filled with so many powerful people, had wavered like a dream, the others disappearing. A variation on unfolding the fan, a reflexive blocking motion, he had adjusted his wrists and propelled the flat of the blade into the man before him. It didn’t work. Dulled strength in practiced hands ended with a pathetic shunt. On that, the spark vanished like the fleeting glimpse of a rare firefly, before it became lost again from view, beginning with the slump of his shoulders. Math’s core emptied as he witnessed the younger man about to die, from his point of view, uselessly. It was too much for the tired and injured man to bear. All of his hope had been pinned on that moment, on a final stroke that would have hit his mark and knocked the man to one side, so that Mathelio might return to the pattern in his place. He had lain injured, replaying those moments in his private ‘reel’. If only I had not been quite so tired. Or, perhaps, what if I had sought to cut the man’s foot, in hope of distraction. Maybe I should have cut off his hand, at least then he would be alive. Perhaps deception would have worked. What if I had shook his hand and then reached past? Or what if I could have been somehow more persuasive? What would have unlocked the other man’s desire to spend his years more wisely, doing good things? Maybe I should have head-butted him. Or given him a dirty knee, for the first time in my life. Or perhaps smashed his nose with the hilt of my blade. But what if it had gone wrong? Maybe a bear-hug would have worked. Sheathing the sword would have been no help either. Or, could I have shouted for an Aes Sedai or Asha’man to hold him in air quickly enough?…
It just was not to be. One might describe the body in the Black Tower infirmary bed with an appropriate Blademaster form. It was as if an image of ‘The Creeper Embraces the Oak’ had become the body or consumed it whole, voraciously, but with a deadly stillness and lack, such that it appeared devoid of anything but a reference to the strangling fingers of the creeper. On some day, a shaking hand would force its way through a few of the crusty vines, and reach down by the bed to painfully rest upon a small golden Heron mark seated on the guard of a fine blade. Math would rest limp fingers there, lined with age and use of flexing and movement, being unable to bear its weight to his body or chest. His eyes would follow in closing, displaying a last flicker of failure, resignation, and a life stretched out too long.
It was said, once, at a great siege, long ago, that where the Heron sang people found hope. One less voice participates in that fell chorus, if indeed that is what it was.
Perhaps an Asha'man or visitor would find him like this.
//Thanks to all present at the event, including Zachari, Michelle, Luke, Nelle, Shan, Montolio, Kaira and Joase (char names) for help making it great.
Thanks especially to Kaito for the formulation of an event that was so epically long. It takes a lot of energy, skill and concentration to put such together and deal with intricacies coming from a host of PCs in a swift and timely manner. It also featured deep NPC depth, which both Cap and I commented on. This resulted, for me, in a very organic moment of decision making, where my character felt compelled to act, and although surrounding circumstances led to the above (main text), a relatively 'peaceful' passing in such a manner seemed definitely the right way to go given Math's background, history (all on this server version) and other surrounding circumstances.
With the help of Kaira and Nelle, and Montolio’s gate, Math, barely breathing a word, nor paying attention to just where he had been taken, arrived at the Black Tower infirmary. After several days of observation, it became quite clear that Mathelio’s injuries had been attended to. The rest of his flesh wounds had been knitted, the impact trauma diminished, and the blood supply increased to replace what had been lost. But his face remained pale, stretched thin over oddly fragile looking bone. New creases seemed to be evident, his cheeks sunken. Only the presence of his beard really masked what more might have been discerned upon his old visage. Granite, one could say, looked to have become weak sandstone. And he had barely moved in the infirmary bed. At least one was found for him quickly, unlike the stark slab Shan was placed on. It would be noted that occasionally his eyes might flicker open, or he would manage some water and a little food, but they remained deeply sad. Those dark hazel eyes of his had become misty and haunted by something recent, more than simply the old age which for sometime had been taking its toll on his sight. They seemed to see nothing in the room, really, as if looking to something else, toward a “film reel” going round and round without end.
What would such a “film” show? Perhaps it would evidence the pattern of an Andoran farmer travelling to Tar Valon and being so horrified by the carnage of Blood Snow, beneath the Shining Walls, that he had at first fled his post. That would explain why it had taken him so many years to become a Bannerman, and never reached any higher. Perhaps it would simply show too many years of training, and too many years of wielding a sword without a radical change in style. Or maybe it would show the tragedy of a blade arriving always too late, just out of time, a little out of place, a heron that didn’t quite know where to roost. And then, it could also be showing the loss of his wife and the increasing absence of family until only a void remained, as the relative isolation of Tar Valon and the rigors of the Defenders of the Flame fully embraced him.
As is well known, really old age is generally for the rich and powerful in the Westlands. Though a Blademaster, Math could not accurately be called either. Terribly stressed as well as somewhat drained from healing, the process had accelerated. Shan, Joase and Michelle had tried their best with him, of course, but none were healers proper, and he was old. But it was not so much the injuries that told on him, but the vitality which had fled and resigned. His eyes were the true key—those barren eyes—which showed no glimpse of futurity. No doubt this was related to an act of desperation.
He had spent his last breath. In those delicate hazy moments, still wounded, only partly healed, drained, tired, and barely able to stand, he had unfolded the fan one last time. His blade had whistled free of its sheathe, the precise length of steel parting the air. The walls of that insane room, and one could truly have gone mad in there, filled with so many powerful people, had wavered like a dream, the others disappearing. A variation on unfolding the fan, a reflexive blocking motion, he had adjusted his wrists and propelled the flat of the blade into the man before him. It didn’t work. Dulled strength in practiced hands ended with a pathetic shunt. On that, the spark vanished like the fleeting glimpse of a rare firefly, before it became lost again from view, beginning with the slump of his shoulders. Math’s core emptied as he witnessed the younger man about to die, from his point of view, uselessly. It was too much for the tired and injured man to bear. All of his hope had been pinned on that moment, on a final stroke that would have hit his mark and knocked the man to one side, so that Mathelio might return to the pattern in his place. He had lain injured, replaying those moments in his private ‘reel’. If only I had not been quite so tired. Or, perhaps, what if I had sought to cut the man’s foot, in hope of distraction. Maybe I should have cut off his hand, at least then he would be alive. Perhaps deception would have worked. What if I had shook his hand and then reached past? Or what if I could have been somehow more persuasive? What would have unlocked the other man’s desire to spend his years more wisely, doing good things? Maybe I should have head-butted him. Or given him a dirty knee, for the first time in my life. Or perhaps smashed his nose with the hilt of my blade. But what if it had gone wrong? Maybe a bear-hug would have worked. Sheathing the sword would have been no help either. Or, could I have shouted for an Aes Sedai or Asha’man to hold him in air quickly enough?…
It just was not to be. One might describe the body in the Black Tower infirmary bed with an appropriate Blademaster form. It was as if an image of ‘The Creeper Embraces the Oak’ had become the body or consumed it whole, voraciously, but with a deadly stillness and lack, such that it appeared devoid of anything but a reference to the strangling fingers of the creeper. On some day, a shaking hand would force its way through a few of the crusty vines, and reach down by the bed to painfully rest upon a small golden Heron mark seated on the guard of a fine blade. Math would rest limp fingers there, lined with age and use of flexing and movement, being unable to bear its weight to his body or chest. His eyes would follow in closing, displaying a last flicker of failure, resignation, and a life stretched out too long.
It was said, once, at a great siege, long ago, that where the Heron sang people found hope. One less voice participates in that fell chorus, if indeed that is what it was.
Perhaps an Asha'man or visitor would find him like this.
//Thanks to all present at the event, including Zachari, Michelle, Luke, Nelle, Shan, Montolio, Kaira and Joase (char names) for help making it great.
Thanks especially to Kaito for the formulation of an event that was so epically long. It takes a lot of energy, skill and concentration to put such together and deal with intricacies coming from a host of PCs in a swift and timely manner. It also featured deep NPC depth, which both Cap and I commented on. This resulted, for me, in a very organic moment of decision making, where my character felt compelled to act, and although surrounding circumstances led to the above (main text), a relatively 'peaceful' passing in such a manner seemed definitely the right way to go given Math's background, history (all on this server version) and other surrounding circumstances.