Date: 10/27/1999 11:09 AM Central Daylight Time
From: JadedDeath
In Pace Requiescat ~ May He Rest In Peace
Tenthmonth 1999
"No family to claim this poor bastard either, Blak. I'm dumping him here!" Rhydin's graveyard diggers were working well past midnight, trying to catch up on a tenday's worth of 'stiffs'. They were behind schedule because Snell (their co-digger) was home with a fever. With one shovel short, it was hard to get all the bodies done, Gib complained. This particular night had crawled by, slowly, and
the mens' arms and backs ached by the time they had reached this, the last body, that of a dead mage.
"Awright. Awright. Put him there, Gib." Blak wheezed. He had been told that this was a murder, but the killer was unknown. It was something gruesome, too, for the body only had one hand. But, it was Blak's understanding that the wizard hadn't died from that, rather, he had suffered a dagger to the throat.
"He's the one missing a hand, right Blak?" Gib snickered. Blak nodded over his shovel. The two exchanged looks. "He must've had some time of it like that as a wizard, eh!"
The earth turned, the dirt loosened, the grave dug, and the two men rolled the course sack containing the wizard down into the pit. A cold rain started to fall as Blak and Gib filled in the hole. No marker would be set: this was a pauper's burial. Once covered, Blak and Gib issued sighs of relief. The two made the sign against evil, then they quickly left to go home, eager to get inside from out of the chill, their night's duties fulfilled.
In the absence of family or friends calling for justice, and with so many other unsolved crimes, the Rhydin watch did not pursue the mage's homicide. The one-handed wizard would no doubt be forgotten.
The Revenge Of Valtorna Melak: In Pace Requiescat!
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Disturbing the Peace (Part 1)
Date: 11/18/1999 1:41 AM Central Daylight Time
From: TreeFellr
In less than two years, Layne had gone through nine secretaries. Nine he could remember, anyhow. Eight months was the longest one had lasted, and only that long because her husband was one of Layne's men. At least, he had been before he'd crashed his truck and a full load of logs into a ditch because he was driving a tad too quickly for the rain-slicked road. Right now, Layne was secretary-less once again despite
Mr. Dawson's assurances a replacement was on the way. His office, a temporary one, looked more like the aftermath of a tornado strike than a room with things people might actually make sense of or use. The phone, for example. That piece of machinery lay in pieces on the floor (which seemed to be the norm if Layne and Mr. Dawson spoke for more than ten minutes). PO's and other records, normally stored on the laptop computer, pieces of which were
strewn about the floor (it too had become a victim of Layne's tirades) sat in a stack, in no particular order, nearly four feet high. Layne's only comfort? The place was in better shape now than three weeks ago.
Quashing yet another cigar-butt under the heel of his boot, grinding it as hard as he would Dawson's head (should he ever get the opportunity), Layne let loose with a string of cursing and screaming that literally made the walls of the not so sturdy building shake. Outside, everyone in proximity to this all too familiar sight quickly made themselves both scarce and busy, for an unproductive worker usually received an earful from Layne which
typically included a dock in pay. When the door to the building swung open with that loud cracking of wood upon wood, everyone knew better than to look in the direction of the noise. Even the birds were smart enough to scatter away and into the wind. Teeth grinding, Layne stalked past the half-loaded trucks and over to the nearest clump of trees, yanking a fallen axe from the ground and hefting it over his left shoulder. Allowing him plenty of
space, most of the men decided this was a prime opportunity to take their lunch breaks or perhaps start filling up the backs of the trucks. Nobody in their right mind would dare speak to Layne in this mood, and nobody would dare to offer him help in chopping down whatever tree he'd choose to strike with the axe. At least he had plenty of targets to choose from.
Five hours and two trees later, Layne had yet to completely vent his frustrations. The men still steered clear, especially after Layne hurled his axe at and into the front fender of the nearest truck. Better the metal than their skulls. They wanted no part of whatever was eating at their foreman and a collective sigh of relief was let loose when Layne kicked at the ground with his boots and stalked off into the forest. Maybe he'd find some
animal to kill and come back a happier man. They could hope, anyway.
From: TreeFellr
In less than two years, Layne had gone through nine secretaries. Nine he could remember, anyhow. Eight months was the longest one had lasted, and only that long because her husband was one of Layne's men. At least, he had been before he'd crashed his truck and a full load of logs into a ditch because he was driving a tad too quickly for the rain-slicked road. Right now, Layne was secretary-less once again despite
Mr. Dawson's assurances a replacement was on the way. His office, a temporary one, looked more like the aftermath of a tornado strike than a room with things people might actually make sense of or use. The phone, for example. That piece of machinery lay in pieces on the floor (which seemed to be the norm if Layne and Mr. Dawson spoke for more than ten minutes). PO's and other records, normally stored on the laptop computer, pieces of which were
strewn about the floor (it too had become a victim of Layne's tirades) sat in a stack, in no particular order, nearly four feet high. Layne's only comfort? The place was in better shape now than three weeks ago.
Quashing yet another cigar-butt under the heel of his boot, grinding it as hard as he would Dawson's head (should he ever get the opportunity), Layne let loose with a string of cursing and screaming that literally made the walls of the not so sturdy building shake. Outside, everyone in proximity to this all too familiar sight quickly made themselves both scarce and busy, for an unproductive worker usually received an earful from Layne which
typically included a dock in pay. When the door to the building swung open with that loud cracking of wood upon wood, everyone knew better than to look in the direction of the noise. Even the birds were smart enough to scatter away and into the wind. Teeth grinding, Layne stalked past the half-loaded trucks and over to the nearest clump of trees, yanking a fallen axe from the ground and hefting it over his left shoulder. Allowing him plenty of
space, most of the men decided this was a prime opportunity to take their lunch breaks or perhaps start filling up the backs of the trucks. Nobody in their right mind would dare speak to Layne in this mood, and nobody would dare to offer him help in chopping down whatever tree he'd choose to strike with the axe. At least he had plenty of targets to choose from.
Five hours and two trees later, Layne had yet to completely vent his frustrations. The men still steered clear, especially after Layne hurled his axe at and into the front fender of the nearest truck. Better the metal than their skulls. They wanted no part of whatever was eating at their foreman and a collective sigh of relief was let loose when Layne kicked at the ground with his boots and stalked off into the forest. Maybe he'd find some
animal to kill and come back a happier man. They could hope, anyway.
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Disturbing the Peace (Part 2)
Date: 11/18/1999 2:04 AM Central Daylight Time
From: TreeFellr
A cigar. He could use a cigar right now. Bite off the tip, puff away until the tobacco caught fire and smoke drove through his lungs taking yet another few hours off his life. He needed to get the hell out of this Rhydin place, this forest that, for nearly three years now, had become his life. The odd thing was that no matter how many trees he cut down, there always seemed to be more. The forest was endless and
it was driving Layne insane as the Graf Corporation now had encampments strewn about all over. In charge of overseeing all production (a promotion they'd called it, Layne would have gladly sacrificed the extra pay for the opportunity not to do any more dammed paperwork), he was trapped inside an office more often than not these days. And Layne wasn't the type of man that thrived in an office. If Dawson had half a brain in that pea-sized head of
his, he'd realize that. And now, once more, Dawson demanded increased yield. As if his crews weren't working hard enough already. Layne knew his men were nearly at their breaking point, and the easiest target wasn't Mr. Dawson (damn that man anyway) but Layne himself. And Layne liked being alive and in one piece, thank you very much. If he was going to die, it would be because of too much tobacco, too much liquor, and too many women. He could
accept slow suicide, but not death at the hands of another man, or a group of them.
Paying very little attention as to his direction or his surroundings (imagining driving hot pokers through Dawson's eyes had become the primary focus of his brain), Layne suddenly found himself sliding down a rather steep embankment right after the ground gave way beneath his feet. The descent not far but the landing hard, Layne groaned and mashed a fist into the muddy forest floor, spattering even more mud on his clothing. The latest series of
storms must have weakened some of the ground, he thought. He'd have to tell his men to tread carefully around these parts; he couldn't afford to lose even one to injury, not now. Getting to his feet and cursing the mud that now caked his denim jeans and boots, Layne craned his neck to the sky and wondered, "Why me?" Looking back up to the point he'd fallen from, Layne let out a low whistle; ground had given way all right, lots of it. Clods of
dirt still fell every now and again, making plopping sounds as they impacted the wet ground below.
Wondering just how he was going to get back up there and back to camp, Layne turned to his left and began to walk. Plop, plop, plop, went his boots in the water-puddles. Plop, plop, plop, went the droplets spilling off the pine needles onto the ground below. Plopplop, plopplop, plopplop, went the quick-paced footsteps of an unidentified rodent scurrying away from the watchful eye of an eagle high above the trees. Plop, plop, plop, continued
Layne's boots. Plop, plop, crack. Layne paused as the sickening crunching sound reached his ears, like he'd just stepped on a pile of old bones. Looking down, his eyes registered the image at about the same time he jumped back and cursed. He'd stepped onto a burlap-looking sack, (at least, that's what the parts not covered in muck looked like). A frown plastered across his face, Layne's eyes scoured over the sack and surrounding ground.
Stepping slowly, carefully, around the bag and whatever rested inside, Layne realized that the rope once tied around the sack, too old and frayed to function any longer, lay a few feet away, probably having come undone in the spill. Glancing back to where he'd been walking those minutes ago, he guessed that he'd run across a buried treasure of sorts. Or maybe he'd found the contents of a shallow grave. Had the earth not crumbled, chances are
nobody would ever have run across the sack without knowing exactly where it resided. Perhaps this was his lucky day; who knew what was inside…money, documents, perhaps even well aged liquor (he doubted his luck was that good). Whatever was in there, he was going to find out. And what better time than now?
From: TreeFellr
A cigar. He could use a cigar right now. Bite off the tip, puff away until the tobacco caught fire and smoke drove through his lungs taking yet another few hours off his life. He needed to get the hell out of this Rhydin place, this forest that, for nearly three years now, had become his life. The odd thing was that no matter how many trees he cut down, there always seemed to be more. The forest was endless and
it was driving Layne insane as the Graf Corporation now had encampments strewn about all over. In charge of overseeing all production (a promotion they'd called it, Layne would have gladly sacrificed the extra pay for the opportunity not to do any more dammed paperwork), he was trapped inside an office more often than not these days. And Layne wasn't the type of man that thrived in an office. If Dawson had half a brain in that pea-sized head of
his, he'd realize that. And now, once more, Dawson demanded increased yield. As if his crews weren't working hard enough already. Layne knew his men were nearly at their breaking point, and the easiest target wasn't Mr. Dawson (damn that man anyway) but Layne himself. And Layne liked being alive and in one piece, thank you very much. If he was going to die, it would be because of too much tobacco, too much liquor, and too many women. He could
accept slow suicide, but not death at the hands of another man, or a group of them.
Paying very little attention as to his direction or his surroundings (imagining driving hot pokers through Dawson's eyes had become the primary focus of his brain), Layne suddenly found himself sliding down a rather steep embankment right after the ground gave way beneath his feet. The descent not far but the landing hard, Layne groaned and mashed a fist into the muddy forest floor, spattering even more mud on his clothing. The latest series of
storms must have weakened some of the ground, he thought. He'd have to tell his men to tread carefully around these parts; he couldn't afford to lose even one to injury, not now. Getting to his feet and cursing the mud that now caked his denim jeans and boots, Layne craned his neck to the sky and wondered, "Why me?" Looking back up to the point he'd fallen from, Layne let out a low whistle; ground had given way all right, lots of it. Clods of
dirt still fell every now and again, making plopping sounds as they impacted the wet ground below.
Wondering just how he was going to get back up there and back to camp, Layne turned to his left and began to walk. Plop, plop, plop, went his boots in the water-puddles. Plop, plop, plop, went the droplets spilling off the pine needles onto the ground below. Plopplop, plopplop, plopplop, went the quick-paced footsteps of an unidentified rodent scurrying away from the watchful eye of an eagle high above the trees. Plop, plop, plop, continued
Layne's boots. Plop, plop, crack. Layne paused as the sickening crunching sound reached his ears, like he'd just stepped on a pile of old bones. Looking down, his eyes registered the image at about the same time he jumped back and cursed. He'd stepped onto a burlap-looking sack, (at least, that's what the parts not covered in muck looked like). A frown plastered across his face, Layne's eyes scoured over the sack and surrounding ground.
Stepping slowly, carefully, around the bag and whatever rested inside, Layne realized that the rope once tied around the sack, too old and frayed to function any longer, lay a few feet away, probably having come undone in the spill. Glancing back to where he'd been walking those minutes ago, he guessed that he'd run across a buried treasure of sorts. Or maybe he'd found the contents of a shallow grave. Had the earth not crumbled, chances are
nobody would ever have run across the sack without knowing exactly where it resided. Perhaps this was his lucky day; who knew what was inside…money, documents, perhaps even well aged liquor (he doubted his luck was that good). Whatever was in there, he was going to find out. And what better time than now?
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Disturbing the Peace (Part 3)
Date: 2/1/2000 12:02 AM Central Daylight Time
From: TreeFellr
Leaning down, droplets splattering into his already too wet hair, Layne reached for the mystery sack. Snatching it from the ground much like a greedy child who'd discovered a horde of candy, he wrapped his fingers around the end and started to pull.
A moment later, however, he was interrupted by the sound of a rumbling engine and the shouts of men. Looking up at the edge of the newly made embankment, he saw faces appear, their eyes trained on him.
"Mr. Jenkins! Hurry! We've found something!"
Knowing he should warn the fools to step back before they too fell down the muddy hill, Layne let out a sigh.
Shouting up to his men, he asked just what it was they'd found. Upon hearing their answer, he bolted as fast as he could for the truck, leaving the sack, and its contents, to rot away in a pile of muck.
------------------
Bodies. That's what his men had found. Lots of them. The bulldozer assigned to the southwest encampment had unearthed what he could only guess was a pauper's graveyard. This was bad, very bad. The last thing he needed was a bunch of poor wretched people filing suit against Dawson for disturbing the final resting places of their dearly departed. He'd already ordered the camp broken up; they'd have to clear out of here as quickly as possible.
He didn't relish this phone call to Dawson, not at all. The man, being a typical boss, would find some way to place the blame on him and that's something Layne wouldn't stand for. Someone would lose their job over this, and it damn sure wouldn't be him.
Had any of the men really had time to take a look, they might have laughed at the sight of their foreman who, still appearing quite serious and intimidating while barking orders and issuing directives, looked like a wild man from the mountains with mud covering the bulk of his clothes and arms and disheveled hair sticking up and out in all sorts of directions. But right now, they were more concerned with reburying the dead and cleaning up the
mess than tittering at their boss. Layne, not being the sort of man to stand idly by and let others get the credit for doing all the work, grabbed a shovel and helped heap dirt back over the bodies. With each mound of dirt, his resolve to make someone pay dearly for this mistake grew larger. One grave, then another, and then another was repaired hastily by his men. They were making progress, but Layne could already see there was no way to
completely hide what had happened. Signs of disturbance were everywhere and masking them all would take much more time than they had. Spewing out (under his breath) what he thought of Dawson, his lineage, and that fantastic idea of putting Layne in charge of this forest, Layne's eyes glanced over to the two remaining bodies. Well, one corpse really, and one skeleton. The body, that of a man, obviously hadn't been buried for very long; in fact,
decomposition had yet to set in. Spying something odd through the sweat in his eyes, Layne took a step closer to the dead man. One hand, the guy only had one hand. Probably a genetic defect…those seemed to run rampant in that Rhydin town. He watched as two of his men, Booth and Kinsella, picked up the body and heaved it into its new home. Was that a look of disdain in their eyes that they cast at him? Surely they didn't expect him to touch
the dead. He was the boss after all, and needed to supervise, making sure that the bodies were thrown into the graves properly.
"Work faster," he told them, moving closer to where they stood. Grumbling, the two grabbed shovels and began to heap dirt on top of dirt. Turning his head, eyes lowered, Layne, for the second time that day, spied something lying on the ground. Taking a few steps toward the object, he snorted to himself--another sack! This one, much smaller than the first and more like a pouch than a true sack, must have been inside one of the graves, an
object belonging to the dead. Leaning down, pretending to clean a clump of mud from his boot, Layne picked up the bag and stuffed it inside the left pocket of his jeans. He'd examine it later, when his main concern wasn't repairing burial grounds.
From: TreeFellr
Leaning down, droplets splattering into his already too wet hair, Layne reached for the mystery sack. Snatching it from the ground much like a greedy child who'd discovered a horde of candy, he wrapped his fingers around the end and started to pull.
A moment later, however, he was interrupted by the sound of a rumbling engine and the shouts of men. Looking up at the edge of the newly made embankment, he saw faces appear, their eyes trained on him.
"Mr. Jenkins! Hurry! We've found something!"
Knowing he should warn the fools to step back before they too fell down the muddy hill, Layne let out a sigh.
Shouting up to his men, he asked just what it was they'd found. Upon hearing their answer, he bolted as fast as he could for the truck, leaving the sack, and its contents, to rot away in a pile of muck.
------------------
Bodies. That's what his men had found. Lots of them. The bulldozer assigned to the southwest encampment had unearthed what he could only guess was a pauper's graveyard. This was bad, very bad. The last thing he needed was a bunch of poor wretched people filing suit against Dawson for disturbing the final resting places of their dearly departed. He'd already ordered the camp broken up; they'd have to clear out of here as quickly as possible.
He didn't relish this phone call to Dawson, not at all. The man, being a typical boss, would find some way to place the blame on him and that's something Layne wouldn't stand for. Someone would lose their job over this, and it damn sure wouldn't be him.
Had any of the men really had time to take a look, they might have laughed at the sight of their foreman who, still appearing quite serious and intimidating while barking orders and issuing directives, looked like a wild man from the mountains with mud covering the bulk of his clothes and arms and disheveled hair sticking up and out in all sorts of directions. But right now, they were more concerned with reburying the dead and cleaning up the
mess than tittering at their boss. Layne, not being the sort of man to stand idly by and let others get the credit for doing all the work, grabbed a shovel and helped heap dirt back over the bodies. With each mound of dirt, his resolve to make someone pay dearly for this mistake grew larger. One grave, then another, and then another was repaired hastily by his men. They were making progress, but Layne could already see there was no way to
completely hide what had happened. Signs of disturbance were everywhere and masking them all would take much more time than they had. Spewing out (under his breath) what he thought of Dawson, his lineage, and that fantastic idea of putting Layne in charge of this forest, Layne's eyes glanced over to the two remaining bodies. Well, one corpse really, and one skeleton. The body, that of a man, obviously hadn't been buried for very long; in fact,
decomposition had yet to set in. Spying something odd through the sweat in his eyes, Layne took a step closer to the dead man. One hand, the guy only had one hand. Probably a genetic defect…those seemed to run rampant in that Rhydin town. He watched as two of his men, Booth and Kinsella, picked up the body and heaved it into its new home. Was that a look of disdain in their eyes that they cast at him? Surely they didn't expect him to touch
the dead. He was the boss after all, and needed to supervise, making sure that the bodies were thrown into the graves properly.
"Work faster," he told them, moving closer to where they stood. Grumbling, the two grabbed shovels and began to heap dirt on top of dirt. Turning his head, eyes lowered, Layne, for the second time that day, spied something lying on the ground. Taking a few steps toward the object, he snorted to himself--another sack! This one, much smaller than the first and more like a pouch than a true sack, must have been inside one of the graves, an
object belonging to the dead. Leaning down, pretending to clean a clump of mud from his boot, Layne picked up the bag and stuffed it inside the left pocket of his jeans. He'd examine it later, when his main concern wasn't repairing burial grounds.
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The Start of the Haunt
Date: 3/31/2000 12:47 AM Central Daylight Time
From: JadedDeath
It was late, very late, Janella judged by the night sky as she and Diamond came down the road from the eastern mountains. A sharp, unforgiving wind blew at them. Janella was tired, hungry and chilled; Diamond was the same, no doubt. The horse's hooves fell monotonously against the hard ground; the sound was making Janella want to sleep in the saddle. She fought the desire as best she could, but she was worn from the road, exhausted from riding
all day, and so Janella reluctantly decided to pitch camp.
It wasn't her first choice, but the small area in-between a thicket of trees would have to suffice. The woods were cold, quiet and mostly dark. Moonlight, pale and faint, shining down through the leaves above, helped Janella to find enough branches to start a fire. She struggled with the damp wood, snorting in disgust at the smoke, then finally easing a sigh as a spark caught. She muttered and cursed, thinking, with a smirk, that every creature,
living or dead - within a five league radius - was probably on their way to her camp. Her small fire began to burn, but it didn't seem to warm her.
Shivering, Janella stole threatening looks into the woods around her. Keeping her weapons belt beside her bedroll, she fingered Vendetta's handle. The longsword's amber seemed to glow. That, Janella's weary mind told her, was simply the campfire's reflection in the resin. She watched the flames dance as her eyelids grew heavier and heavier. When sleep came upon her, it brought startling dreams with it.
From: JadedDeath
It was late, very late, Janella judged by the night sky as she and Diamond came down the road from the eastern mountains. A sharp, unforgiving wind blew at them. Janella was tired, hungry and chilled; Diamond was the same, no doubt. The horse's hooves fell monotonously against the hard ground; the sound was making Janella want to sleep in the saddle. She fought the desire as best she could, but she was worn from the road, exhausted from riding
all day, and so Janella reluctantly decided to pitch camp.
It wasn't her first choice, but the small area in-between a thicket of trees would have to suffice. The woods were cold, quiet and mostly dark. Moonlight, pale and faint, shining down through the leaves above, helped Janella to find enough branches to start a fire. She struggled with the damp wood, snorting in disgust at the smoke, then finally easing a sigh as a spark caught. She muttered and cursed, thinking, with a smirk, that every creature,
living or dead - within a five league radius - was probably on their way to her camp. Her small fire began to burn, but it didn't seem to warm her.
Shivering, Janella stole threatening looks into the woods around her. Keeping her weapons belt beside her bedroll, she fingered Vendetta's handle. The longsword's amber seemed to glow. That, Janella's weary mind told her, was simply the campfire's reflection in the resin. She watched the flames dance as her eyelids grew heavier and heavier. When sleep came upon her, it brought startling dreams with it.