Charlemagne was not normally the type to enter mazes alone.
That did not mean he didn’t want to be that type; he did, very badly, but opportunity had so far failed him and if he was being honest, courage was just as likely to do so. But then he’d felt the tug - surely the one that Camdis Lohir had been speaking of - and there was nothing to do but follow it, for how could he not be brave, being here? Hadn’t he run away to become somebody else, someone bold and wise?
If he was honest with himself, Florentine’s words played a part, too, burning like a coal in his heart. So it was that he stood before the entrance to the maze, head low and cautious as a deer, green eyes tracing the contours of the new-grown hedges with equal measures wariness and curiosity. There were no monsters within, surely; from what he’d heard, there was a somebody called a Shaman, and oh! Charlemagne was eager enough for answers.
Perhaps he waited longer than he should have, hoping to see Camdis’s comforting presence, or anybody else who might also be searching. But the shadows of the maze seemed to beckon, and the wind rustled the branches, and Charlemagne got the feeling that he should wait no longer.
A cool breeze brushed past him, twining fingers through his flaxen mane, carrying the thickly verdant scent of the hedge and the lighter, more floral smells of spring. Drawing a deep breath of it, the unicorn tossed his head, the golden horn cutting through the bright day, and stepped into the first yawning hallway of the maze.
As you enter the maze, the world around you seem to dampen and grow darker, the tall hedges casting shadows from every direction as they seem to lean in towards you. The air cools the further you venture in, crystals of ice covering a few delicate leaves on the hedges, the ground hardened under hoof. Each breath of air you take is cold, and small puffs of frost are emitted with every exhale. From somewhere up ahead comes a high pitched cackle, disembodied in the mist.
Rounding the next corner will show a lone figure standing there, his skin as pale and thin as stone, tangled locks obscuring a good portion of his face. Across his body is draped the skin of some animal you don’t recognize, covering frail shoulders.
”Is it the relic of almighty Tempus you seek, Charlemagne?” he asks, his voice youthful despite his aged appearance, carrying a lilt you cannot place into any of the Courts. You do not know how he knows your name, for he is a figure you have never seen before, and you can only wonder what more he knows about you. ”You will have to follow me to find it.” And with that, he turns and takes off further into the maze, ever leading you northwards. His speed belies his age, for he is constantly just ahead of you, sometimes disappearing into the dim but never venturing far. As he disappears around the next corner, you become aware of another creature lurking somewhere behind you, one of the many beasts to have make the maze its home.
@Charlemagne you’ve found the Shaman! However he is not one to stay and chat, and has already taken off into the brambles. It is up to you to hunt him down or not, but be warned: the maze contains many hidden dangers and beasts lurking within it that you might just get caught up in!
Feel free to write in your own obstacles or beasts, or tag the Random Events account if you would like one given to you! You have until Wednesday, July 19th to get your next reply in, at which point the Shaman will again respond.
Happy writing!
To tag this account: @*'Random Events' without the asterisk.
Please be advised, tagging the Random Event account does not guarantee a response!
07-09-2017, 02:17 PM - This post was last modified: 07-09-2017, 02:22 PM by Random Events
He had expected this, even if he’d hoped against it.
As soon as he passed into the first dark hallway of the maze, the air seemed to grow close and still, the sound of the breeze cut to a distant memory. Shadows pressed up around him and the sky itself seemed to darken. Charlemagne shivered, and at first did not realize that the temperature had dropped; it is only when one (slightly frantic, trembling) breath fogged the air that he realized it was cold, here. Every breath after came with a puff of steam, a trail that faded as it led away.
Still he continued, thinking of those he had met so far, thinking of his parents, who only wanted him to be their kind of brave. Thinking, too, of magic, and of fate, and of the kinds of stories he had only been told as a boy.
Stories that the figure that met him when he rounded the next blind curve would fit in perfectly.
The shock of hearing his own name from those lips was lost in other, more immediate surprises: to find himself addressed at all, to meet such a strange figure thin as a winter apple, skin sucked tight to bones. There was no question in the unicorn colt’s mind that this was the Shaman he sought; he froze, trembling to the tip of his horn, and had only just processed the order before the figure turned and melted away into the mist.
“Wait!” Charlemagne cried, and took off after him, already chastising himself for crying such an order to such a mystical figure. At first he thought he’d catch him easily; there was the echo of hooves on cold, hard-packed earth, the flap of a fabric from a creature he didn’t know, whispering around the next corner -
When he couldn’t catch up, Charlemagne at first consoled himself with the thought that perhaps he did not want to. It was all so strange, and he’d never been in a fairy tale before. They didn’t all end well.
But he could still hear his name fall from those lips like a charge, and he could almost picture the relic (in his mind, something old and dull gold, subject of a thousand stories he wish he knew), and so he walked on, steps light and blood warm.
At first, he thought the sound behind him was the Shaman, crossing back through some unknown pathway. But the unicorn froze halfway through his turn, one ear flicking back, his head bowing to his chest and nostrils flaring. It was a very big sound he heard, a rustling of shoulders forcing themselves through narrow hedges, a scraping of clawed feet on frozen ground, a huff-and-hiss of breath.
Should he run? Or call for help?
Surely the Shaman would not let him die. You called the name of heroes, not of food for whatever it was, emerging from the shadows just over his shoulder.
Charlemagne was seized with regret that he had spent all his time in the library, hiding from his sparring lessons. If only he knew how to use his horn like the weapon it was. What good was his knowledge now?
The warmth of its breath seemed to stir the fine hairs of his tail; he could smell rotting meat, and the acrid scent of his own sweat and fear. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see it now: huge, squared shoulders, long sinuous neck, the whisper of its tail on the ground behind it. And wings, where it ought to have had front legs. It was nearly as tall as the hedges, and it looked like something out of a myth.
If unicorns existed, why not wyverns?
Immediately he knew this was nothing he could fight. It was so very big, and he so very small —
and maybe his size could aid him, where it had always been a subject of mockery. Just as the beast drew in its reptilian head, forked tongue flicking over slitted nostrils as it prepared to lunge, Charlemagne bolted.
For he was good at running, and good at hiding, and he prayed that once again he could avoid what he believed he couldn’t face.
The maze seems to close in around you, the aisle you run through gradually becoming narrower and narrower until it proves a struggle to shove your way through the brambles. The wyvern roars, its scratchy voice filling the air as it attempts to maneuver its heavy self after you. As you dart off into the maze the beast tears at either side, wrenching the shrubs by the roots as it seeks to get at you. Wings stretch out in your direction, clawed ends hoping to snag you and pull you back but he’d be lucky to leave a mark.
Until it suddenly falls still, breathing heavy and labored as it watches you go, remaining itself stuck in place. It would seem you are free, or at least out of reach.
But a glance back would show the wyvern drawing its breath, lifting its reptilian head high as it steels itself. And then its maw opens, and from within pours a stream of smoking fire lighting the ground ablaze. The conflagration climbs upon the hedges, inching its way nearer to where you are.
@Charlemagne
You can decide if the wyvern harms you or if you escape completely unscathed! You now have until Wednesday, July 26th at 11:59pm PST to get one last reply in before the Shaman reappears, so please reply accordingly!
Happy writing!
To tag this account: @*'Random Events' without the asterisk.
Please be advised, tagging the Random Event account does not guarantee a response!
At first Charlemagne thought he was imagining the way the hedges seemed to lean in, the way the branches snagged and brushed against his skin, the way the sliver of light before him grew thinner and thinner. The colt was no stranger to panic; he knew how it could alter your perceptions, could make you feel half-mad.
But he was not imagining it. It was hard to hear over the sound of his own ragged, gasping breaths, and yet there was the rustling, groaning sound of the hedges reaching for him. They were trying to cut him off. He was no longer galloping; he had been forced to a walk, shoving through with his shoulders, and scratches bloomed there alongside the faint dapples. His hair caught and snagged and tugged. The idea to use his horn came to him just as the wyvern loosed a roar that shook the ground below his feet.
For a moment, he thought it was working. With wild scythes of his rapier-like horn, he cut swaths of the maze, and his passage became easier. He no longer felt like he was forcing his way upstream, and then - and then! - there comes a pause in the mad sounds behind him. Something has stopped the wyvern, and Charlemagne wanted to weep with relief. Don’t look back, he thinks, bleeding from a thousand small wounds, and for a few more steps he listens to his own advice. Surely he will soon break into another open hallway, and there will be the Shaman, waiting with a smile and Charlemagne’s name on his lips. But he is just a boy, and his insatiable curiosity makes him foolish, even here —
The unicorn looked back, and it was just in time to see the wyvern, made small by distance, open its cavernous mouth.
And breathe fire.
Charlemagne’s scream is eaten up by the roar of the beast, much as the dry hedge is devoured by the flames. There is no breeze in the maze, but above the shrubs the breeze blows against him, a blessing he’s too distracted to recognize. But that means nothing for the lower flames, the ones that crawl toward him and eat and eat the maze, crackling and rolling with smoke. Through the haze, he can make out the wyvern, advancing again in the now-open corridor.
When he turns back to fight his way through the hedge, it is with desperation. All thoughts of adventure have fled, and he only wants to live.
He doesn’t realize that he had been right - there is an open corridor ahead of him. The hedge is nearly impenetrable before him, and his eyes burn and run with tears from smoke, but Charlemagne keeps slashing with his horn, and thrusting with his hooves, and he is so very close when the first of the flames catch him.
Sparks find his tail, and flames lick his hocks, and each breath seems to burn his very lungs. And then the branches and leaves around him are alight and burning burning burning - they are made weak, made into ashes - he has the strength for one final push -
he stumbles to his knees, once more in open air. The breeze feels like a cool hand against his cheek, like he is a feverish child, and where there was a cacophony of sound now there is nothing.
The unicorn struggles to his feet and finds the flames have vanished, though his tail is singed and his coat is burned sooty in places. When he turns his head, afraid to look save for over his shoulder, he sees that the maze has once more closed behind him. There is no sign of smoke, none of ash, none of the wyvern.
He is alone, and he is alive, and he is about to fall into hysterical laughing and weeping when there comes a sound before him. When he looks up, relief and resignation are warring in his gaze.
“So, you’ve made it to the center of the maze,” the Shaman says in his lilting voice, his stance proud and tall before you. “And past my pets and their tricks. That is something I would call honorable. Now all you have left is to answer my riddle, easy enough. Get it right, and what once was lost may again be found—get it wrong, and I will leave you here to face the Maze once again, without my guidance.
Answer me this:
“This thing repeats, no man ever yet did see,
it never was but is always to be.
From Orien’s first breath to Caligo’s great dark,
Birthed from nothing and returning thenceforth.
It leaves behind a single sign:
the passing of the sun across the sky.”
@Charlemagne
You may write your character interacting with the Shaman, but please pm your response to the Random Events account! Title the pm as “RIDDLE—Character Name.” You have until Sunday, August 6th to get your answer pm sent! Your IC may be made during that time or after the winner is selected. If multiple correct answers are received, a dice roll may be used to decide who the winner is.
Happy writing!
To tag this account: @*'Random Events' without the asterisk.
Please be advised, tagging the Random Event account does not guarantee a response!
The Shaman's sneer deepens, a jagged line across his face as he arches his serpentine neck back to peer down at you. A long pause stretches between the two of you, your answer hanging heavy on the air.
"Wrong."
With that the mist returns, crawling up his legs and over his spine, thickening until his entire body is obscured. When it again clears the Shaman is gone, in his wake a strange darkness falling across the maze.
Leaving you alone.
To tag this account: @*'Random Events' without the asterisk.
Please be advised, tagging the Random Event account does not guarantee a response!
