Prologue

[Grayle]

I try to put the pieces together, but memory fails. Without the sun and moon to tick off the bells, the whens and hows become hazy. Time is peculiar in that manner. Without the benefit of record -things to look forward to- you live your life from one now to the next. The old man had already marred each stone with obscure hashes, overlapping into a confused jangle of scratched years. I know it had been years for me, decades for him. He should have withered. I should have been called for. It was an astonishment that niether of us were dead long ago.

The thing that kills you in here isn't the cold or the damp or the sores, the acrid water or the weevils in the loaf. It isn't the dysentary or slow rot. For the two of us in our pen, it isn't even the madman cuthroats who would kill you for your crust or out of boredom. What kills you is the answer inside your head when you ask yourself, over-and-over, "How did I end up here?" When moments go by unmeasured, you have plenty of time to consider fate and justice, life and longing. If the pining doesn't kill you, you get the chance to concentrate on surviving. At least, until your name is called. Until then, the guards never even saw your faces.

I feel my face and trace it's angles, the mats of tangled hair. When I came here, I didn't even know the differences between a man and a woman, save for the obvious. I didn't know how to read or write. Wind, I was wind...drifting from one daydream to the next, unaware of the countless ways man can be cruel to each other, kind to one another. My arms were for holding toys and buckets or brooms. Now they are made of stone. Push-ups and gifts of the old man's beef which didn't agree with him, yet was somehow provided as a courtesy. He was important to someone on the outside, beyond these gray sweating walls. Somebody did what they could to get a minor comfort to him here, probably all they could do. And he passed this treasure on to me, along with so much more.

And now he's dead.

I wondered if my own parents were alive, if my sister had her baby. I wondered if the smell of trees was the same as when I left them. The familiar bells of the citidel still rang dully into this oubliette, and the old man listened to them like a lover's voice, scratching his marks, waiting. The guards didn't care if your shackles became tools. Noone cared about anything down here, except the old man, and then, me. I must have been to him what he was to me...savior, the thing that keeps you alive. Just as he was the reason I came to manhood with some measure of wit, I was his focus, his clarifier: Surely he, or anyone, would have gone mad in this worst of cages, alone.

I give you my name...my name. Remember it, he said to me. He marked his last line with a red finger, his cough grown deep and bloody. The old man must have known that his emancipation was near, one way or another. This is how i learned of death, that It need not always be the reaper dramatic, the tragedy of the stage. He passed and I was alone. I had never been alone. It can be a terrible thing when you are used to the company of a caring voice. I never did and never will forgive the boy I used to be saying "I hate you" the way I did. He knew I didn't mean it, anyway. I had not yet learned to hate. Regardless, I wish those words had never come from me to him. More countless time. He stank and became bones before me. Terrible days and the unanswered question. Forgetfulness. Despair.

Then one day...the door was opened.

"Prisoner, state your name" he commanded. The apathetic voice was that of someone my own age. I didn't know there were other voices in the world. My body went wet with the fear of finally being called to the axe. I then told the most important lie I have ever uttered.

"Grayle, I'm called."

"By order of the throne, you are freed."

[Will]

Ah, simply incredible.

[Vahene]

Wonderful!

[Nuclear Diva]

such stories are the reason many of us roleplay. a wonderful beginning Grayle. it will be interesting to see how it ends. may peace come to him in time.

[Jehannum]

a worthy 1st tale indeed!

[StormRunner]

A master of many arts, are you? *Smile* Truly impressive writing.

[Starkwold]

Awesome tale, Matt.

[lankycheese]

That was awesome! A perfect adaptable tale that can go in any direction when the new campaign hits us.

It reminds me of the Count of Monte Cristo, with the prisoner befriending the old man.

[Artorius]

Intriguing.

[majawi]

very very nice. way to raise the bar for me there is no way i can ponder a tale like that for my druid.

[Artorius]

Do not cut yourself so short, majawi. We've had many who have said as you but they've shown astounding abilities in their writings.

[Will]

Yeah, I've written out all sorts of tales for my characters, and now I'm starting to think maybe not writing first thing off would be more beneficial. Haha...Then I remember how funny those stories are and the fact that they can only get better, or remain as crappy. So...just go for it. Either way, go with what you feel or go it slow, no way you can go wrong as long as you're sincere.

Damn, I can ramble about nothing for hours...and get about this much material down.

[Wyvern]

Majawi, a good way to ease into it, especially if you were never much of a writer in the past, is to use the journal-style form of storytelling. Just imagine your character sitting down each night, or once a week, or simply whenever something interesting happens in his life, and just "telling the journal" what happened that day. Exactly the same way you would write a journal for yourself. I think it will start flowing easier than you think, and especially once you start playing, you will have a lot of material at your disposal, thanks to the characters who will be around you.

[Mon-da-oth]

Wyvern, feel free to pull a section from what I had posted for Mon on the original board as an example if you want.

[Wyvern]

I can't export threads from one forum to another, but you can link them here - the old forums are still active.