He notices Benn's mood towards Munchen and leaves it be for now. His companion could be strange and difficult with other people.
He offers a hand to Benn to help him out. "Going to see Dorgio sounds good to me."
Mists of Winter: Chapter One
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Brock Marsh Runoff
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 2303
- Joined: Sat Jun 28, 2008 5:49 pm
- Location: New Haven, CT
Re: Mists of Winter: Chapter One
STEFAN'S
It is only respect for his mentor that prevents Dorgio from shrugging heedlessly at the tale of the Morninglord's founding priest. Yes, perhaps fortune had chosen some hapless soul in Barovia to re-discover the god's roots, but Dorgio firmly believed that the Morninglord's true origins must have been Gundarakite. But that was an old debate, and not one he wanted to bring up again in the company of a Barov.
"Yes, perhaps we are tracking the same frog-demons you have heard legends of. I only wish I knew how to track it before it kills again. Perhaps I have a long night of patrolling the docks ahead of me."
"But first, I promised Lorna I would stop by the market for tonight's supper. You are both welcome to join us, and celebrate another holy evening before we take to the hunt once more."
It is only respect for his mentor that prevents Dorgio from shrugging heedlessly at the tale of the Morninglord's founding priest. Yes, perhaps fortune had chosen some hapless soul in Barovia to re-discover the god's roots, but Dorgio firmly believed that the Morninglord's true origins must have been Gundarakite. But that was an old debate, and not one he wanted to bring up again in the company of a Barov.
"Yes, perhaps we are tracking the same frog-demons you have heard legends of. I only wish I knew how to track it before it kills again. Perhaps I have a long night of patrolling the docks ahead of me."
"But first, I promised Lorna I would stop by the market for tonight's supper. You are both welcome to join us, and celebrate another holy evening before we take to the hunt once more."
"You said I killed you--haunt me, then!...Be with me always--take any form--drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!” -Wuthering Heights
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ewancummins
- Evil Genius
- Posts: 28523
- Joined: Tue Oct 25, 2005 1:35 pm
Re: Mists of Winter: Chapter One
PONT-A-MUSEAU
LATE NIGHT
Icy rain hammers the rooftops and the cobbled streets, carried into the city by a storm blown down from the Falkovnian hinterlands of the north. The wind tugs at house-shutters and the gratings of closed shops like a burglar’s roving ghost.
Down at the river’s margin, the storm drains spill debris, trash, sewage, dead rats into the high, swift waters of the Musarde.
A hunched figure wrapped in a tattered oilskin coat trudges along sandy embankment under the drains, carrying a guttering lantern in one hand and a pointed stick in the other. The man hops over one of the filthy channels of runoff, and continues on his way. He prods the sodden ground with his stick, looking down. Now and again he pauses to pick up a bit of glass, a tarnished piece of metal, a scrap of damp cloth, pocketing some items and discarding others.
The scavenger stops near a drain. He squints into the hole; an opening just wide enough for a little child to crawl inside. He shines his lantern into the opening.
“What’s this?”
He reaches into the drain…
END OF CHAPTER
LATE NIGHT
Icy rain hammers the rooftops and the cobbled streets, carried into the city by a storm blown down from the Falkovnian hinterlands of the north. The wind tugs at house-shutters and the gratings of closed shops like a burglar’s roving ghost.
Down at the river’s margin, the storm drains spill debris, trash, sewage, dead rats into the high, swift waters of the Musarde.
A hunched figure wrapped in a tattered oilskin coat trudges along sandy embankment under the drains, carrying a guttering lantern in one hand and a pointed stick in the other. The man hops over one of the filthy channels of runoff, and continues on his way. He prods the sodden ground with his stick, looking down. Now and again he pauses to pick up a bit of glass, a tarnished piece of metal, a scrap of damp cloth, pocketing some items and discarding others.
The scavenger stops near a drain. He squints into the hole; an opening just wide enough for a little child to crawl inside. He shines his lantern into the opening.
“What’s this?”
He reaches into the drain…
END OF CHAPTER
Delight is to him- a far, far upward, and inward delight- who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self.
-from Moby Dick (Hermann Melville)
-from Moby Dick (Hermann Melville)