Danae Gren - To Be Haunted

[Witchinghour]

Danae Gren

Aliases:
Race: Half Elf (Moon elf descendant)
Gender: Female
Age: Appears to be fairly young, but half elves are deceiving.
Hair: Pale ash blonde with massive and fluffy curls. 2c-3a texture.
Skin: Pale Caucasian with a smattering of moles
Eyes: Upturned, denoting elven lineage, but are engulfed by dark circles. A bright turnsole purple in color.
Body: Standing about 5'1, Danae has a buxom but pudgy figure. It is evident she was not an active person
Profession: Spirit Medium, Priestess of Kelemvor, Mortuary Assistant
Voice: Accent sounded similar to Damaran, but those knowledgeable could pick up the Impilturan quirks. Her voice was smooth, but neither particularly high or deep for a woman.

​

Quite a morose looking young woman if not for the smiles she wears, both equally wicked and genuine. Though she is just as prone to uncomfortable stares, fixed to far off points

Nonetheless, the somber colors seemed to engulf her, purposely meant to keep her hidden and unnoticed. Yet the garb never fit anyone so well. Notably, a set of prayer beads sits around her neck. Made of jet and well-aged vertebrae of a small creature. The black cord was sun bleached with age, except for an addition; a pendant, bearing an unfamiliar symbol. A skeletal hand, holding aloft a pair of scales.

Undoubtedly though, she was a foreigner, there was just something else to it.. Fair skinned, heavier in weight, with curly blonde hair and bright turnsole eye. One could have placed her anywhere still, but her words carried a Damaran accent. But those familiar hear the southern qualities

Old Description:
This pale woman seems to look about her surroundings, occasionally focusing on some invisible point to stare at for uncomfortably long periods of time. If it weren't for that, or the large hair made of soft blonde curls, she'd blend perfectly in with her grey toned clothes and short height. Though notably on her person were a pair of black gloves, which she always wore, and a peculiar necklace. Upon closer look, that necklace seemed to be prayer beads, made of black stones and small vertebrae. Hanging from the necklace was a silver locket, with the engraving of a skeletal arm holding aloft scales. It seems that this locket-symbol is a new addition to the beaded cord.

​

It pointed. Night after night, It pointed. A thin and gangly figure, now eaten away by the earth. She had known its face, once. Once. It stood by a lone tree, one that was separated from its brethren in the forest. Still, the grey overcast sky outlined the figure and the tree. And still, It pointed.

Danae awoke. Opening her eyes, exchanging the darkness of sleep for the darkness of a stone room. One window rested above the head of the bed, though there was no light trickling in on this new moon. Laying on her back, she took a deep breath in, and then out. She did not have to wonder what time it was. She knew. If she knew then why was she afraid to look out the window? She knows what will be out there, past the graveyard. Yet it called to her, it beckoned. Felt it in her chest, she felt the whisper in her ear, but no words were ever heard. Sitting up, her head just barely passed the windowsill. Shifting to kneel on her pillow before the window, she gripped the windowsill with both hands. Resting her chin on her hands then, she looked out into the night. She looked to the lone tree, just beyond the graveyard.

It was there. The stringy figure stood there, mirroring the dream. As it always does. It pointed.

"Show me what you want." She whispered, knowing It would hear.

It pointed south, to the sea.
​

 

[Witchinghour]

Twisting and creaking, the cart abided by the curves of the well-worn road. Bouncing to each bump in the ground it passed over. Danae sat on the back end, legs dangling over the edge as she stared at the road back home. Her feet brushed the tips of the grass growing in between the ruts of the many wagons that rolled over them. She did not see though the trees that slowly passed them by, basking in the moisture of the recently fallen rain.

Her mind drifted instead to the farewells of her family, her clergy. The sun had been shining beautifully, that morning. Neither blinding nor blotted out. The temple stood, towering over the figures of her family as they waved, shouting their best wishes and love. While the skull motifs of the façade stared at her, the stone shimmering in the sunlight. Their eyeless sockets filled with moss, trailing down like tears. Were they weeping to see her go? Only as much as one does when they know their loved one is going off onto a better future. Though her family retreated into their sanctuary once Danae’s wagon was far enough, still one figure remained. Past the graveyard, and by the lone tree was that thing. It stood there, as often as it did. Though it did not point now. It never was not pointing. It stood there, watching her wagon get smaller and smaller, just as she saw it.

It was gone now, the figure. She hadn’t seen it for the couple weeks Lear and her have been traveling. But still its presence back there haunted her more fiercely than it had before. Her heart would ache and twist with an unknown melancholy, to remember the decaying thing just staring at her as she left. She was left for the south as it always pointed, but it felt the same as if she left behind her father’s ring.

“Their memories linger, don’t they?” The gravelly voice of Lear grounded her back into the present.

She paused, the song of an oriole filling the silence between them.

“They do. They stay for a while,” She responded a moment later.

“It takes some time getting used to it, but you’ve had quite a while for that, as I understand it,” Lear had been watching the road with the same intensity as his traveling companion. But it was with that comment did Danae turn to look at the man. She spied him smiling under his ashen hood, that drab brown hair still neatly in place just as it was when they left her temple. He couldn’t have been much far into his forties then, judging from the wrinkles and wear on the man’s face that could only be left by a life lived in the fields.

“Oh I've never quite gotten comfortable with leaving them but-" Danae had replied with a smile in kind, inclining her head towards the older priest before her eyes narrowed as she caught his meaning. "The Abbot told you then?”

“He told me just enough, how useful you are.”

“I’m only glad to be of service.”

“And I am glad that you had agreed to come,” Lear finally tore his eyes from the road to smile directly to Danae. It seemed excitable, and something she hadn’t seen from the older priest yet. He looked then to the canopy of trees as they broke apart to reveal sky. The forest relinquished its ground to open tall grass plains. “We should be arriving firmly within Cormyr's borders by Midday.”

 

[Witchinghour]

Bone Beads
(Ambience music link)

​

She crouched down, anchoring her elbows on her knees. Her hands hung down, letting the grass tickle her fingers tips as she inspected the dried skin of what once was a man.

He sat upright still, against the thick base of the pine tree with his skull listing to the left. Though his jawbone was now gone, the grass had grown between his bones and even perforated what little old skin that clung to him. The crisp and withered remnants of last season’s annual morning glory vines still weaved their way around him, too. Withered just as much as he was.

“You’ve lost your way a long time ago, haven’t you,” Danae spoke softly to the Once-man, her breath warming the chilly air with a slight puff. Her brows knitted upwards as she waited, half expecting a response. Though she didn’t desire one.

But she hefts down the pitiful bundle of firewood, more like twigs, she had and dropped to all fours. Taking a few crawling steps over, she sat then at the Once-man’s side. She gave him a big enough berth that she wouldn’t disturb the bones yet and leaned against the tree with him. She looked out at the clearing that the Once-man rested at the edge of, exhaling a heavy breath.

“You picked a beautiful spot though. – No, wait, I’m sorry. I’m not sure if you picked it. The trees in the mountains are always so enchanting, especially when the cold winds blow. Get up high enough and you can see it in the valleys,” she looked back at her momentary companion. “Probably haven’t heard a voice in some time and too much wind. I’m sorry this happened to you but I’ll- “

Something stirring from the farther innards of the trees had caught Danae’s attention from the corner of her eye as she spoke. It was oddly quiet, only the sound of the woodlands sang and yet she heard no footsteps or leaves rustling from across the clearing. Whatever it was, the shadowed form lumbered slowly, but clearly stayed on two legs and it was coming near. Her arm reached for her bundle of wood with small deliberate movements, staying silent but even her breath seemed to be a roar to her ears.

“Danae!” came from the woods. A… call? Oh yes, a call, she recognized Lear’s voice from the shout. She stood up instead from her resting spot besides the Once-man, taking a few steps out.

“Danae you’ve been gone longer than long song, where the hells are ya!?” Lear bellowed again before she answered.

“Just... Just over here! I found someone…” She shouted back, waving her hand high. Though the tail end of it surely waivered. She picked up the bundle of wood again.

“What do you fucking mean you found someone,” Lear spoke with that low and slow tone of trepidation in his voice as he hurried then to the clearing. “I sent you out for wood and you were gone so long I-“He stopped as he just edged out of the trees, staring at Danae and then the long dead man.

“I was just talking. Figured no one said goodbye so I was going to get you after,” Danae looked back at the crumpled corpse. “After I finished gathering…” She held up the bundle of twigs, wiggling it lightly.

“That’s fine… We were just worried after you, you know,” Lear wandered closer, flattening the grass as he stepped up to Danae. Putting a hand on her shoulder, his tone evened out again, even taking on a somber note, as the faithful are to do. “I’ll go get the shovel out of the cart. But here,” Lear nudged and turned Danae back towards the tree and the man as he reached into his pocket. “Why don’t you pray for him while I go do that.”

Danae again, set the bundle of wood back on the ground as she held out her other hand to Lear, her fingertips turning pink from the colder air. Lear pulled forth his prayer beads and set them in her hand. Her head tilted to the side as she brought the beads closer to her, pinching a strand between her thumb and finger to untangle the looped strand out.

There were beads truly on this set. Jet beads, or obsidian? Shiny black stones with knotted cord to keep them from sliding. But those only nestled around the more peculiar beads. Between each group of two to three black beads, was a single small vertebra. Vertebrae from what creature, she wasn’t sure. It was small enough to maybe be from a snake, or a rabbit. But it was bone, nonetheless. She rubbed the worn surface of one bone bead between the skin of her fingers. It wasn’t as rough as she expected. No, it was worn and old. It almost even reminded her of the weatheredness of Lear. The only new addition to them had been where the string joined to make a loop, a necklace. Hanging from it with a fresh string cut and tied to the rest of the beads, a shiny silver locket. Engraved on it was scales, held aloft by a skeletal arm.

“I’ve shown you how to use them,” Lear patted her shoulder before he left, walking across the clearing.

Shown you… His words echoed about in her head, bumping off the insides of her skull until it wasn’t echoing his voice, nor her own. It was a gruff, even crotchety old man’s. “I’ve shown you how to use them,” She heard while her senses dwindled away until hands came to her sight. A younger man’s hands, winding the string of beads around his fists. His fingers trembling as they did. He left a stretch of the stringed beads to span from one fist to the other. Only illuminated by a dying fire’s light, the hands moved forward almost timidly, or unwilling, but all she ever saw was the floorboards of which the hands hovered three or so feet over. They got closer to the source of the voice. She could feel her stomach turn into a pit. It felt as if looking over the edge into the unknown and only guilt and hesitance could fill the space with each step closer. “It won’t be long.”

“I won’t be long, Danae,” Lear’s voice rang back in her mind, the sound growing distant as Lear ventured back into the trees. Whatever she saw, was gone. Danae stared off at him over her shoulder and his diminishing form as he walked farther and farther. Her eyes snapped shut, trying to cast off the eternity she felt pass when Lear had only taken steps. The prayer beads slipped from her hand, the length hanging from the loop around her hand. Her hand clutched the string, and stare again did she. Searching Lear’s leaving form for something? Something she might connect to the ghost she glimpsed.

 

[Witchinghour]

Vision 22
4th in Murann​

I am in a bedroom, exotic and with windows open, crickets echoes in the night. Suddenly, from the shadows, comes out figures, humanoids, as if they were always there. Lips with tattoos whisper something, hands moves and... Total silence. The figures move towards the bed, under the sheets is a man.

Dark skinned, in his twenties. They grab him, but no sounds come out, not from the hands keeping him still, not from him, screaming and shouting.

A hand, away from the bed, holds a stick. Whispers, again, where they can be heard, in the corner and a hand becomes engulfed in flames. The burning hands grab the tip of the stick and this become incandescent. This fiery tool is passed to one of the conspirators who grabs it and, slowly, but surely, moves it towards the left eye of the man trapped, but no sound can be heard.

I can't hear his screams of pain. Can't hear the sound of flesh being burnt.

The glowing tip of the stick is the only light source in the room, up until it gets extinguished in the eye socket. Darkness and silence reigns up until the first light of dawn shine a single beam of light, right in the face of one of the torturers, blinding him. It is enough for the victim to lash out and hit the one who took his eye, removing a dark scarf covering his face.

It's me.

The dawn shines on my face as the other conspirators quickly move back to the shadows. Leaving me alone with my deed and a profound sense of hopelessness:

This wasn't as fun as I expected.

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Notes:

I wonder if this was brought to the surface when I witnessed Edd's punishment. The smell of burnt flesh still crosses me, every once in a while. I smelt it in the inn just then too. I hope he's doing alright, both of the eyeless anyways. I need to find out who this other one was, the one I saw in the ether.

I never want to feel this again. My eye still aches. I am not sure even the hinweed can calm this from me.

 

[Witchinghour]

Vision 21
3rd in Murann
​

My hand grazes the stone work. Weathered, centuries old, yet it stands today, even as the hum disappeared. Colder still, and smoother beneath my feet.

I remember it still, that hum. The silvery glow in the night. I know I remember, yet I cannot dredge up the memory in my eye. A sight to behold, and yet is it lost to my mind.

It is my hand that leads me now, grazing and then grinding along the stone. In this sea of night I cannot pierce through, I feel the stone sharper than ever as I approach. My fingertips begin to wither, my feet begin to burn, and swell. Blood surges to my limbs and forgets the way back to my heart. The movements are set, and I cannot slow my momentum. I cannot look back as there is naught but me here, forward is the only way. I know forward has only ever been the only path, as so many before me scream, praying the youth hear before it's too late for them as well, to be stuck in the pits of the past. I can't help but to wonder. Will they think it beautiful - the desperate, bleeding brushstrokes of a life etched in stone?

It all stops. I feel my warmth still seep from my fingers and toes, like little tears trailing the moon I've looked on so lovingly before. The moon I cannot remember. But nothing graces my feet now, as I fall. Nothing is replaced by weight. No cold stone, nothing to leave a mark. Just falling in the night. They forgot, didn't they. The forgot the bridge. Who builds a bridge of nothing?

Desperately, I reach back - too late - for the bridge, to feel anything but my own life stolen by this heaviness hefted upon me. Air gives way to water, and my limbs give way to the weight. And with all the fear I thought I felt, it was never truly there to begin with. There was no great splash, but instead a blanket had been pulled up to tuck me in. Silence. Cold, finally. Comforting, securing, coldness. Bleeding into my robes, caressing my skin, and filling my nose, my mouth, and my eyes. I can see now.

Her face. Glowing silver in the night, her face. She is my bridge, the one who will remember me.

The weight never leaves, and neither does she.

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Notes:

Silver tarnishes. I've always loved the patina silver and copper get with age. That is what comes to me here. I can feel it covering my hands still as I write. The hard dust texture bothers me, and no amount of soap will clean me, not even the alcohols we keep for the dead. I may yet go mad, with the way my eye burns still as this other feeling overtakes it. Even as pain dims, I can feel the patina grow into my bones. Joints ache, and scratch. Spire Above, they itch, and I cannot burrow my fingers beneath the skin.

The Solstice is tomorrow. Perhaps Kyros is right, to always look to tomorrow.