Evenings on the Transdarian: Wrath of the Father

Outside the city of Drache lies a number of cities, towns and provinces of varying size and populace. Most of the people living outside Drache are natives who speak Arangothian and observe the native customs and rituals. Click here for a list Arangoth's locales, and here to view a map.
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Pigasus
Baronet
Posts: 65
Joined: Wed Aug 29, 2012 5:59 pm
Preferred Title: Setting Whisperer

Evenings on the Transdarian: Wrath of the Father

Post by Pigasus »

In which wrath itself is slain

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Gordy was in trouble. He had been caught trampling through a neighbor’s field and breaking windows from a sling. Though Ness, the neighbor’s girl, initially goaded him into doing it, the male and prime actor got the blame: Aunt Meli yelled at him and warned him of his father’s wrath when she would tell him about it during his visit, a few days from now.

“His wrath will be terrible!” she said.

Gordy, who didn’t know what “wrath” meant, quickly grew unnerved and despondent. The shapeless concept took many fearful colors in his imagination. To ask the grownups about it, however, was to admit defeat. He slinked off and went around the yard where Bralk the guard hound slept on his chain.

“Here boy,” said Gordy, tossing the dog some blood sausage he stole from the smoke house. “You’ll protect me from the wrath, won’t you?”

Bralk gobbled up the sausage with an enormous chomp, and began licking the boy’s hands. Gordy unhooked his chain. The hound jumped on Gordy, knocking him over and licked his face before springing away with mad leaps of freedom. Gordy laughed and ran after him.

The following morning, the owner of several missing chickens turned up on the Quaspires’ door. It didn’t take much imagination where they went: their feathers were all over the yard.

After compensating the farmer, Uncle Brexil took down the boy’s pants and gave him a few smarting blows with a switch before he sent him running.

“Beware your father’s wrath, broppi!” He yelled into his back.

Absorbed in calculations and being offended, Gordy wandered nearby the neighbor’s property and saw Ness. He wanted to share his troubles and ran to her. But she was forbidden from playing with him, so she turned and ran off. He went through some stinging nettle, failed to catch up and emerged, frustrated. He saw Afrith digging under a wagon.

“Afrith,” he said. “What’s a wrath?”

“A what?” Afrith looked out and squinted at the contrast. “A wrath? Is that how they’re pronouncing wraith now?”

Gordy only shrugged.

“Oh, they are nasty. They are about this big, pale white with hollow eyes and teeth like so, with big claws that reach out with their coldness and drain your life away,” Afrith said. “You best stay away from those, my boy.”

Things were looking grim. Gordy finished biting the last of his nails as he tried to think his way out of this predicament. Would his father really allow this creature to get him? He remembered little of his father save his large, warm hands, broad frame and dark hair. And the voice, deep and reassuring.

Thinking he’d scout out ways to get in and out of the house and its many hiding places, Gordy climbed into the cellar. There, he discovered, among other things, a cask of fine Arrant brandy, which he poured into a ceramic mug he found and approached the partly decayed portrait of Captain Hieronymo Greyes.

“I raise this toast to you, my captain,” he recited. “And all those who bravely go into the storm.”

Meli, who was coming down to the cellar for some potatoes caught him mid-sip. There was additional punishment. He was now confined to the house.

Alone and afraid, Gordy sat by the window, wondering what he will do when the wrath arrives. The helplessness was worse than death itself. Every minute was agony. If only he could avail himself of a weapon. But there were none to be found anywhere that he knew.

Morning turned to noon, which began fading and failing over time. It was under a brilliant russet sky, that two coaches stopped in front of the Quaspire farm and Gordy, nose pressed to the glass, saw his father, the tomb-raider, emerge. His salt and pepper hair looked well-earned and he reached his big hand inside, linking it with a delicate, smaller one in a pale dress. Here it was: was this the wrath? Gordy stared: could this sweet, blue-eyed creature, who laughed and leaned flirtatiously on his father’s chest be the monster?

No, it couldn’t be. He already ran out of the house and sprinted over and Thomas Donnovath embraced his son.

“I’d like you to meet someone, pup,” he said. “Sarla, will you be a mother to this little fool?”

“I can tell you like hiding places,” the woman smiled as she took Gordy’s hand. “I bet you can show me some really good ones around this farm.”

“He can’t be out here!” Aunt Meli said. “He’s grounded!”

“Today, he has amnesty,” Thomas replied.

They went into the house and put on dinner. Gordy would have stayed to listen to all his father’s tales of foreign adventure but he had priorities to keep. Before he heard his uncle and aunt give his father a rundown of his crimes, he stole into the room where all the unpacked goods from abroad were stacked.

The first thing he found was his father’s small hand-crossbow, well-used and rugged with a solid grip, pre-loaded with a clay-head bolt. Gordy has heard of these things before and knew where to press to make it work. He explored around the room some more, looking for other tools to even out the odds against the wrath.

A sudden noise in the other room made him turn. Now that his eyes had a chance to adjust, he saw it. Several feet away, a white, hollow-eyed monstrosity with jagged teeth extended its clawed hands towards the boy.
Gordy aimed and pressed what needed to be pressed. The bolt hurled out of the adventurer’s trusty weapon and burst into a concussive flare of alchemical fire. Shards of white porcelain rained around the room.

Frightened adults burst into the room with lanterns and Gordy, tears already flowing, displayed the crossbow.

“I killed it!” he sobbed. “It will never be able to hurt anyone else again! I let Bralk off the leash and I drank brandy with Captain Greyes but I didn’t want the wrath.”

“That’s all right, that’s all right, pup,” Thomas Donnovath sighed. “Poor little Gordy. There’s always other priceless idols of the gods of fury out there, I guess.”
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