The Chatelaine - Part 3

“In the beginning, there was nothing but an inhabited piece of land created by the whim of Lyra - the Goddess of Evermore. This was further enhanced with the addition of two different entities called the Humans and the Forest Dwellers to the equation. Whilst intrigued by her new toy, Lyra was also indifferent to it and was convinced that the land called Filra should be left to fend off on its own.

For thousands of years, both races co-existed and everyone was happy with the concord they saw. Until that very day, when fear clawed their hearts and soul ensnared by envy. Afraid of the Forest Dweller's superior ability, the Human race chose to massacre every single one of them...”

Some thought that the extermination of the Forest Dwellers was unjustified but Minerva knew and understood it all. No doubt, the Forest Dwellers are gentle by nature and a friendly bunch. But when tempted by the whispering evil forces of the land; they become an unmitigated terror.

Lured into the dark night, Minerva stood concealed in the hide of the gorse bushes. She had been stalking the two men, or as she puts it trailing them since they left the protective barrier of Lycon village. According to her parchments, Lycon is said to be one of the most well-received countries in all the land. Rich, in resources; and vestiges of the past, it had caught the attentions of intrepid travelers and ardent merchants alike.

The sun had long ago descended below the horizon and the two men she observed were fast asleep by the warmth of the fire. Minerva was wondering why had she tried so hard to hide. For what purpose? She followed them, only because she had wanted to talk to them. But after a few hours of relentless pursuit and almost completely losing sight of them a couple of times, she realized that she did not know how to approach them. So the battle of hiding ensued – with her on the losing side.

“A definite idiot, I tell you,” Shane said, emphasizing on the idiot.
Christian and Shane were both cognizant of the fact that they were being followed by a not-so-skilled stalker or whatever you call it; since the start of their tedious journey. Recognizing that there was no ill intent from her, they just let her be. And here they are; sleeping under the blanket of irradiating stars, with a stalker at their backs.

“Well, from the looks of it, she can't be more than 16,” Christian said, just loud enough for Shane to hear, for his bedroll was laid a couple of meters away from his.
“What's that got to do with her age?”
“Everything.”
Speechless, Shane just threw Christian a disdainful look.
“What?” Christian replied.
“Has anyone ever told you that you're gross?”
“Not since my little meeting with the old man yesterday,” Christian grinned.

Heartache

It hurts.

These feelings,
I do not want them,
I do not need them,
I've never asked for any of this,
So how did it happen?

The monotonous days continues,
The perpetual pain ensues,
This neverending cycle
remains the same.

Was the sky this bleak,
Was the thunderous sounds ever this loud,
Was my heart this fragile,
Like a dew in the night,
I sparkle only
when the fleeting light shines my way.

I shut my mind to such thoughts,
I shield my heart from the pain,
I turned my back on the memories,
These useless emotions,
I should have tossed them aside
ages ago.

The Chatelaine - Part 2

Christian was crossed throughout the journey. He wondered why the old man would delegate such a trifling mission to him.

“Remember, Christian. This is not an individual mission. Dammit. I want you in a group,” said the guild master or better known as the old man.
Christian looked about the bare room. It consisted of nothing but a huge oak table and matching chairs of eight that surrounded it. Meetings were usually held in here, seats customarily given to the elders and higher ranked. Distracted, he had not heard single word.
“Are you listening to me, Christian?” The old man slammed his fist on the table in a fit of exasperation. “I'm not joking. This is an important assignment.”
“Important? What is? All we have to do is to retrieve some unknown girl from some god forsaken mansion, right?” Christian raised an eyebrow. “Who's the chit anyway?”
“Get the girl and then I'll tell you, you lazy ass.”
“Why do I have the oddest feeling that I'm being cheated?” Christian said and left the room.
Now who to pick?
Christian was sitting before a roaring fire in the lounge, sipping a mug of ale. The huge notice board beside the door was almost empty now; save for his newly posted recruitment and some remaining ones. Christian had joined the guild years ago, and was placed under the tutelage of the old man. They were a mercenary guild called the “Graveyard” - a highly repellant name and hired to do miscellaneous work – regardless of how dirty it was. From assassination to soldiering to a bodyguard of a blasted noble. They weren't given the appellation 'greedy mercenaries' for nothing. Anything, as long as the gold was good.
“Hey you.”
Christian looked up from the hearth to the man standing beside him. “Can I help you?”
“You looking for a comrade?”
Christian eyed the young man carefully. He looked like he was in his late teens. Brown sandy hair, defiant blue eyes and a slim frame. What surprised Christian most was the hammer he was nonchalantly carrying. As if it weighed nothing but a piece of turkey leg to him. Amazing.
“Yes, I think you'd do,” he extended a hand. “The name's Christian by the way.”
The young man took his hand graciously into a shake. “Shane.”

“You're from Illnois, huh?” said Christian, as they walked through the town. The place was teeming with merchants, vendors, dancers and raconteurs.
“Yes.”
Yes? That's all you have to say? Assuming that he does not want to talk about his past, Christian quickly flitted to another topic. “So, what made you join a guild?”
Shane stared at Christian as if he was the dumbest being on earth. What else? “Food, money, a bunk to rest. Just like the lot of you.”
“I see.”
“How about you then?” Shane looked at him inquiringly.
“I was taken in by the master years ago, being homeless and all. And here I am. A veteran mercenary with a stomach for ale and an irritating disposition that could send even the master to an early grave.”
Having recognized his favourite fruit vendor, Christian stopped and bought two apples for two copper pieces. One of it, he stuffed into his mouth and the other he tossed to Shane. For some very odd reason, Christian found Shane's expression to be unnerving – a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.
“Listen, you better not be jumping to conclusions. I'm only 23 and clearly, not old enough to be your dad.”
“What? How did you know what I was thinking of?” Shane replied, as if his mind violated.
“Because everything's written blatantly on your face.”
They bought dried meats, crackers and a bag of potatoes for the journey and their canteens were re-filled with fresh water from a rivulet just right out the village's boundary. The old man wanted a party and he had gotten one but Christian was pretty sure that the old man's idea of a group comprises of more than two person. But what can he do about it? No one else had signed up for this excursion, besides Shane.
“Who's this girl we're about to break out?” Shane asked.
They were travelling northward from the village, the only path to the abandoned mansion and the much said enchanted forest. It has been foretold long ago that forests dwellers have no kindness for human beings and once a mortal enters the forest, they will never see the light of the day again.
“Heck, I too wish I knew the answer to that. That geezer refused to disclose anything about her.”
“Not even her age?”
“Nope. Not even that.”
Dusk was settling below the horizon, leaving streaks of orange across the firmament. There was nothing but tufts of grass, acacia and bushes on either side of the road. Still no sign of any sheer wood forest.
“Guess we'll camp out here for the night. I'm sure you're pooped after walking several hours without a break.” said Christian as he dumped his knapsack to the ground.
“Yeah. I guess you're right.”
“And besides, we're much safer sleeping rather than walking in this pitch blackness,” Christian picked some dried bough and set about the fire.
“Why is that?”
“I guess you didn't know? This place isn't entirely deserted and you can thank the bandits for that.”

Soar

Fly,
through the vasts firmament,
Into the bright morning star.

Spread your wings,
And let the breeze envelop your being.

Forget yourself.
Think of nothing,
Rid yourself of the burden,
To the fetching calmness
of your surrounding.

Enchantment

Moonlight in my eyes,
Distant stars swimming in perpetual darkness,
Night's dew continues to shimmer,
Incandescent glow touches my skin.

Owls' hooting unfailingly echoes throughout the forest,
The frolicking of perennial being captures me.

I whirled like a dervish,
Dancing against the backdrop of eternal bliss.

Gone

From the rolling hill,
She saw you,
Sitting on the grass,
Staring back at her.

The distance between you and her,
Was unbridgeable,
The stark opened gap,
Was a sign.

She turned her back,
And you looked through her,
But what would you do,
If you heard her silent cries.

You left your comfort zone,
And ran after her,
You climbed the rolling hill,
But she was already gone.

Now when you look down,
You see her there.
She's so near,
Yet why can't you touch her?

Caged

I sniffed the pungent essence of life,
Regarding it with distaste and curiosity.
Random thoughts circle my overused brains,
Driving me nuts with doubled intensity,

Looking back was never hard,
For the numbness of the past had long subsided.

So why?
Do I still feel,
Its poision clutches extending,
Inflicting pain,
On my already scarred heart.

In my mind's eye,
I have created an unreachable place,
Barred with wrought-iron,
Encircled by an invisible barrier,
In hopes to prevent intruders,

And myself from leaving its premises.

Through the limbo

You're swept off your feet,
Like a pollen in the breeze,
Your journey takes you somewhere,
But you do not know where.

Painful memories,
Blissful times,
Excruciating experiences.

Life is hard,
It's painful,
Full of sorrows.

Fleeting it may be,
It'll soon come to a pass,
A checkpoint,
To an untouched beginning.

Hope

Here's a little something I've written long ago but would like to share it here on blogspot. It's nothing great but I guess it'll do. ;]

I'm waiting,
For hope,
For a miracle,
That would never be fulfilled.

Even if it is hopeless,
I'm certain,
As long as I have faith,
Patience,
The impossible would happen.

I used to think we were two sides of a coin,
Were meant to be,
And could conquer almost anything together,
But you left before we could even get started,
Why?
I ask, why?

Before meeting you,
I thought I was strong,
But after meeting you,
You proved me wrong.

How I wish I could go back to the past,
And this time,
I could at least count the days,
Before you leave.

The Chatelaine - Part 1

Vines crept around her castellated mansion - contributing to its already ancient age. Birds warbled in soporific lassitude brought by the sweep of the wind. There were no ramparts or corrugated gates as protection, only rose bushes that circled the entire building. And that was all she needed. A bastion of abandonment.

She need not be afraid of anything. Surrounded by nothing but an enchanted forest to her right, sickled like beach across the balcony of her room, a cul-de-sac on her left and a winding road that leads to the city from her backyard. There was only her-the chatelaine and her mansion. No maidservant to wait on her, no cook to conjure up scrumptious food. Not even the presence of a spirit. And she was contented just as it is.

How long has it been since she was last basked in the company of others? She couldn't remember. Her name, her past or whether she was still alive, for that matter. The chatelaine lay ensconced in her high-backed chair with a cup of tea in her right hand and a paperback novel in the other. She was seated by the window, where the purveyor of light shined at its brightest. The book was titled "Jane Eyre" by Curer Bell and was taken from her vasts collection of books from the library.

Seemingly detached from the world at present, she did not hear the mild crash that came from the vestibule. Her house was decorated with a smorgasbord of paintings and sculptures. Mostly white sculptures of little cupid and his bow, and elegant Grecian ladies. Smacked in the middle of the room was a red velvet three-settee that was joined by its carbon copy at a ninety degree angle on its right and a piece of intricately carved wooden table between them. Each floor was tessellated in black and white tiles. To others this might seemed like a clash of tastes but to her, it perfectly reflect her inner turmoil.

A second crash echoed and this time, it was much louder than before. She looked up from her novel- all five senses heightened; marked the book with a pin and placed it on the coffee table. Lying beside her four-poster bed was a sheathed sword. She took it and followed the origin of the sound.

Never had she felt so excited. Blood was pumping from all sides of her heart's chamber. One might think that she was insane to think so but not her. She welcomed anything that would break her monotonous days. From her vantage point, she could see the outlines of two men and a lady but not their countenance. Of the two, one was equipped with a long sword. The other, a much slighter build, was holding his hammer single-handedly.
“That looks terribly heavy,” she thought.
The lady was paired with a bow and a collection of arrows in her leather compartment strapped to her back. Curious, she wondered who these people were?

Entry 2

Dear diary,

It's not everyday we get to dream of something so meaningless, so lacking in substance. However, ideas do come every so often in a nebulous form of a dream and most of my stories, to be honest, are usually inspired by the little plays that I conjure up in la-la land. Here's one for instance:

I call this a "Pot of Stew."

Uncle James wiped the pot of stew with a cloth,
It was overflowing with its content,
While the rest of his kin stared in wonderment,
And hunger.

His sister snatched the pot he was cleaning,
A greedy glint in her eyes,
Daring him to look her way,
"Hey, what was that for?" he asked,
"For not listening to my story," she said.

Off she goes weaving her tale,
Of how she wanted to see a play,
But none would,
But one,
Her cousin sister said, "O' but I do."

The rest of the folk said naught,
But shook their heads instead,
In unison they said, "You're just being nice."

Before they could start again,
About something so pointless,
I scooped a little stew
with my wooden spoon,
And into Dear Cousin's mouth it went,
"Hush now," I looked at her, "you're too long-winded."

Now everyone's attention was on me,
And how I love to be basked in it,
I finally said, "So..."
And looked at papa, "When will we be going to Wisteria Forest then?"

To conclude,
That's how a Nimblehead passes his time,
By laying out meaningless questions,
And answers with matching asperity,
...in a nonsensical conundrum.

The end

Till next time,
Abigail.

Entry 1

Dear diary,

There's a kind of warmth which envelops my being, clutches my heart and does not let go. And I know exactly why.

I sat by the window, looking at the pale, round moon. Dusk seemed to have seeped below the horizon, leaving a sliver of orange light. If only I have my camera with me, I thought.

Looking about my cluttered room, I noticed something peeking out under a hodgepodge of bags and accessories. My camera! "Well, what do we have here?" I said with a smile plastered across my face.

Instead of scooping up my camera, I just left it there and continued to stare at the haunting, yet ethereal view. It was as if I wanted to drill the whole image in my head and yes, the idea really crossed my mind. Hence, the abandonment of the camera.

It was a sight, I believe that I would not forget so soon.

Until then,
Abigail.