The #Broken_Dagger Forum

[Please read the information thread before posting.]

You sleep.

You dream.

You are in the Broken Dagger. You know this for a fact.

You roam hallways and corridors of whitewashed plaster and carven stone. You climb stairs to floors unknown in the waking world; you glimpse the gilded domes and marble columns of Myrken through panes of warped glass.

You descend into vaulted cellars devoted to casks and bottles beyond counting; bins piled with vegetables, rafters crowded with sides of cured meat; victuals enough for an army, a kingdom. You wander through bunk-rooms and parlours, kitchens and taprooms, but have not yet found what you seek.

You pass chambermaids and scullions, patrons and guests, nameless and yet faintly familiar; some smile in greeting, some nod or offer a few indistinct words. You hurry through sitting-rooms with well-padded armchairs and merry hearths around which visitors laugh and joke; the company is jovial, the atmosphere enticing, but you must move on.

You find yourself struck by an abrupt pang of familiarity, a rush of recognition almost like coming home. Another flight of stairs awaits you, age-bowed steps that creak under your tread, the railing worn smooth with the touch of countless hands. At the top of the stairs a gallery overlooks a modest taproom - silent, forgotten, the fireplace holding only cold ash, the chairs stacked atop the tables - before leading onto a short corridor lined with closed doors.

You slow as you venture along the hallway, and a thick layer of dust softens footsteps that falter even as your heart quickens with anticipation. You reach for the door at the end of the hall and your hand trembles - hesitant, uncertain now that you are so close.

Here, at the heart, you have found that for which you've sought, striven, suffered. A barrier of simple pine boards and iron nails is all that keeps it from you, and even this last obstacle yields to your touch, swinging slowly open. Perhaps you savour this last moment, the better to delight in what follows; perhaps you doubt, fearing a final disappointment too bitter to endure.

You've hoped for so long.

I open the door; this has always been my door.

The scalding sand chews scalding holes in the bottom of my feet and the Glass Sun beats with a kind of heat no Myrkener has ever experienced: stand too long in it and its rays burn the hairs on your arms to black ash; stand too long, the moisture in your eyes evaporates and your tongue turns to swollen, clumsy leather. This is where they stake the men and women that commit sins, violations, transgressions. They tie them by arms and wrists to stone poles long-ago driven by hammer into the dunes. They die there; the Sun cooks them from the inside, stirs up the gasses and the chum in their guts until the fluids boil like a stew and they burst and they burst and they scream and they--

But I don't scream. I'm not here to be punished.

I'm not a criminal, a blasphemer, a maggot. I'm not.

Buried in the Glass Sands is a capsule of wood and iron. Did you know I was its carpenter? The shaper of its iron, the builder of its frame. I fabricated it with all the bad and stupid pieces of my mind; I put those broken shards to good use.

And I forged this vessel from within.

I open it with a black-iron key. The hinges creak. Sunlight falls across the object inside--

A girl.

She looks up at me through wiry strands of black hair. Her left nostril whistles and clicks with every gasp, its breadth battered and misshapen from old fights and childish conflicts. Dark as tanned hide, her skin is copper and dry; I smell her rank sweat beyond even the diluted blood and cloudy piss she kneels in, all the putrid ichor of her bad mistakes, all the offal of her impulse. A stump of pinkened, once-burnt skin thrusts up to me to ask for help in finding her feet. Tangles of broken string mummify her fat, bungling body: gold string, violet strands, some worked in elaborate seams and arabesques in her skin, others hanging free but never having either end or source--

She begs me, "Close it. Please," through tears.

I do as she says.

I leave her there to brine in the caustic acids of her idiocy, of her fright, of her childishness and simplicity.

I turn; I walk back through the door. One last time, I leave her behind.

Downstairs, in the Broken Dagger, all my friends smile with pride when they see me, because I've not been me for a very long time.

She roamed, arms outstretched and fingertips ghosting along hallways. Her feet, bare of boots, were soft upon the stairs and she smiled to see the distant Myrken. The cellar smelled of old earth, a comforting scent. She filched one of the apples from a bin filled to the brim with them. Her teeth cut into its shiny crimson flesh with relish as she wandered.

She almost went past the door initially. She halted and backed up to peer with head canted with interest. The door was approached, a faint feeling of mingled trepidation and anticipation catching somewhere in the length of her throat. It threatened to still her footfalls on the stairs and send her fleeing towards the stairs without further thought for the mysterious door or what it might contain. The feeling of belonging steadied her nerve and she reached out to wrap long digits around the handle, a gentle nudge granting her access.

Inside, a simple room in Rememdium with a small bed and several occupants, greeted her. Gloria Wynsee gritted her teeth as sharp pangs of natural birth wracked her sturdy frame. Two faceless, nameless women gave the seamstress helpful advice and soothing words alike. Jule coached from down, between Gloria’s legs, barking orders like the tyrant the wildling suspected him to be.

Noura stumbled into the room and fell to her knees beside her friend, an encouraging grin on her features. “Gloria, you are doing so well,” she insisted, joy written across the soft features despite her friend’s agony. Soon, the child would be among them. They would watch her grow into a little person. That was something Noura would give anything for.

Suddenly, her friend’s pained grin faltered; her eyes rolled back in her skull and she went limp. The healers pushed Noura to the periphery of the room as blood bubbled forth where a new baby should have been. Jule snapped at the nurses to assist him and Noura hovered with wringing hands, tears rolling down her cheeks. Someone, someone wailed. Was that her? Strong arms wrapped around her frame to keep her out of the healers' way. Strong arms, loving arms - Son’s arms. She collapsed back into them, grateful for his presence and his strength. It was with great relief that she finally felt the creature seep from her mind, however grudgingly, to race towards the dying seamstress.

All was quiet for a moment.

Gloria gasped and her eyes flew open as if startled. The deluge of blood ceased and her color began to abruptly return. The danger had passed. The creature had done her part, as was their agreement. Though, er eyes were her own. No darkness filled their depths, Noura noted with a tilted head and confused frown. Her fingers clutched Son's hand, white-knuckled.

Air filled tiny lungs as Jule pulled the healthy baby girl from between the living mother’s thighs. Its tiny face turned red as it screamed once before falling silent, cooing sweetly. Its eyes opened, black oil swimming in them as It smiled at Noura.

The child's soul had been easily consumed, given how young it was. Catch's powers were an echo in her mind, far more powerful than Noura's.

The creature watched with amusement as the wildling stared with wide, horrified eyes.

Myrken would burn.

Despite having only recently arrived to Myrken, the Broken Dagger was somehow familiar to her. It seemed, for a lack of better phrasing, like a place of beginnings. And wasn't that what she needed most?

Vixen, once Alcara, hesitated before the door. Its appearance belied nothing of what she felt from behind it. It was just another part of the tavern. Or so it would appear.

But she knew better. She knew, even, that she was dreaming. At some point, she had learned the important difference between the false freedom of fantasy and the ever-tight grip of reality. That lesson had apparently stuck with her, even through the loss of her memory, and remained with her even in her dreams.

She reached for the handle, pausing at a slight sound behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she recognized her friend, her Gloria, in the poor lighting. The dirty skirts and the mess of dark hair under the bonnet that sat atop her head. Those eyes that at a glance seemed unintelligent but upon closer inspection held a gentle light within them.

"You don't have to open it." the Jernoan said, simply. "You could come back upstairs."

She wanted to believe her. She wanted to back away from the door and take the girl by her hand and leave the dark room. But she knew that she wouldn't. She knew that she couldn't. She was a seeker of truth, however ugly that truth may be. She couldn't deny herself what she felt coming from behind the door.

"I'll only be a moment. I forgot something." She offered the girl a winning smile, the irony of the words bitter on her tongue. Turning back to the door, she pushed it open with the tips of her fingers, steeling herself.

......................................................................................................................................................................

"Different? Different how?"

The walls of the room are made entirely of worked stone, torches arranged to provide ample lighting. Two figures, a woman in red and a tall, broad shouldered man dressed in fine robes with a crown on his head, spoke in conversational tones near the door, glancing at her occasionally.

"It would appear that she isn't like the others." the woman explained, gesturing vaguely. "She can't be Bound."

The man stiffened, looking her way. His eyes had been full of loathing since the moment he had first seen her, but now they harbored something else in their depths. Whether it was curiosity, fear, both or neither, she didn't know. She knew nothing about the people around her.

"How is that possible? All the rest are Bound. Can't you do something?"

The woman sighed in exasperation, not at him, but because of the situation. "I've been trying for days. I can't find anything to latch onto. There's nothing to Bind. I've never seen anything like it."

The man waved at her angrily from across the room, frowning. "And yet, you suggest that we use her anyway? Are you mad? She would turn on us the first chance she got."

The woman responded with quiet laughter, her blue eyes lidded with amusement. "My lord, she is a child, not a beast. There are a number of ways to mold her as we see fit, ways that do not require the magic. You have my personal guarantee that she won't cause any trouble. I think she will be a valuable asset. The look she gives me..." Her eyes slid shut, a wicked smile crossing her lips. "It chills me to my core."

The man regarded the woman sternly for a moment. "Any mishaps will be on your head, Crucia. If she does anything to even suggest going against us, I want her disposed of. We can't afford to have a wild card in our service."

The woman toyed with her blonde braid. "My lord, you worry far too much. She is in perfectly capable hands. Have I failed you before?"

He grimaced with a sigh. "No. You have proven yourself time and again. Still..." His eyes flicked towards where she stood in the far corner, watching them calmly. "Someone who can't be Bound. What do you suppose it means?

The woman's expression sobered, her fingers releasing her hair. "Why, I should think that it's obvious, my lord: she doesn't have a heart."

The Dagger was her second home. Every inch of it was familiar to her, and it was far too often that Dulcie found herself in the tavern during her night time hours. She wasn't aware of the dream however, as it's far too difficult to tell the difference between dreaming and waking when it's such a familiar place.

She roamed the building, feeling a tugging in her soul. Something she wanted, wanted so desperately was so very close. Had she been conscious of it she might have been reminded of the Storyteller's trick. The time she went and bathed in the waters and had hoped her dreams would come true, and yet all she felt was the vague tingly of remembrance, as if she had somehow been here before.

Her feet let her to the door, her hand touching it carefully. Hope rose up in her chest, almost consumed her and while at the same time she felt an overwhelming sense of dread. What if there was nothing on the other side?

The door gave way beneath her touch and as she stepped into the room joy filled her soul. A Mul was there, his crimson gaze turned to her as his scarred face broke into a smile and he opened his arms for her as if he had been waiting there for her just to walk through the door. She rushed to him and leapt into his arms as he gave her a quick twirl around, her skirts swaying with the motion, as children began to crowd in around them, so many children, perhaps a dozen, of all different colors and races, adopted clearly. They called for their mother and father as they went to hug Dulcie and the man who had her in his arms.

This was where she had been meant to be all along.

The tavern was plaster and stone, rafters and glass. The tavern was meat and vegetables and the smell of fresh baked bread. The tavern was the clanging of pots and pans, the clink of glassware, the merry crackling of a fire in the hearth.

The tavern was Safe.

A flight of stairs under hurried feet - for who wouldn't hurry with this as their destination? - a door, the grain of wood unexpectedly harsh under the hand set against it. A pause, a breath taken, exhale following a moment later as the door opened.

Inside the room was music, warmth and laughter. Inside, there were casual waves, greetings called out, quick embraces offered. Inside, there was no need for distance and lies, suspicion and mistrust. Inside, one could simply be.

Inside, there were friends.

The door was there.

All Agnieszka had to do was push it.

So she did.

The door opened on two creaky hinges, and in the center of the bare room was a man in a tabard; he was kneeling, and in his hands was a golden circlet. She reached out to take it, and as her fingers touched, the circlet dissolved, and the feeling, the surge of sheer power ran up her arms into heart, her brain; no crowds cheered her name, but she was left with the breathless, beautiful certainty that she could touch things and they would change; that she could make whatever she wanted come into being; that she finally, after all these years, had power.

She was breathless with it.

Cherny pauses before the door, thin hand resting against the varnished wood; the lightest push and the door swings wide as if awaiting merely the intent to open it, and the squire steps across the threshold.

The common room is busy tonight, the air filled with amber lamplight and jovial chatter, the scents of food and ale and smoke and people. And why wouldn't it be? The autumn nights grow dark and cold, and the Broken Dagger is an island of welcoming warmth.

The mill-boy's wooden-soled shoes clack against the floorboards as he heads for the hearthside where Gloria sits and stitches, Zinniah watching the needle's nimble back-and-forth with eyes that shine in the firelight; where Ser Catch fastidiously sets another armful of split wood into a neat stack against the wall, standing straight and tall as he steps back to admire the fruits of his hard work. The boy shrugs out of his old patch-coat, hanging it over a chair near the fire, and grins a greeting for those already gathered. A moment to brush smudges of flour and mill-dust from his clothes - still loose on his scrawny frame, for all that they're not as outsized as they were last summer - and then he heads for the bar, a small wave and mention of porridge has the addled man trailing along behind him, reminding him to ask for both h-h-honey and jam.

The counter is no less busy than the fireside; Noura picks morsels from Son's plate, the hunter's boy working his way through a brace of rabbits even as he brags about how he caught them; Niall and Elliot share quiet words, the scarred girl as stoic as ever, the rogue proud and swaggering in her presence; Miss Dulcie and Sera Olwak laugh and gossip across the counter; Sera Emory sits loosely on a stool nearby, a booted foot swinging back and forth as she listens, offering an occasional grin between bites of apple and sips of water.

The scene is convivial, relaxed, a room alight with warmth and comfort, populated with islands of friendship and camaraderie and affection.

As it should be.

As it might have been.

As it will never be again.

Stocking feet were silent upon the worn floorboards beneath them, traversing a path dictated by the certainty afforded a dreamer. Crimson hemlines, painstakingly embroidered with a series of golden hawks in flight, fluttered about ankles, while petticoats beneath whispered promises with every step. A hand pressed against the door, ring-finger adorned with the gold and ruby signet of the Lady of Thessilane. The argument of hinges groaning, a breath greedily gulped and held fast as a hopeful child rushed head-long across a threshold she'd known would bring her home, awaiting arms outstretched.

Vara Tassnehof had been born within the Broken Dagger after all. Within that very same room. A room that was empty now, a fact too soon realized with a sinking heart and a sickened stomach.

The bed was bare, the mattress lumpy and in need of re-stuffing. The window half-shuttered, its panes grimy and wanting for the attention of a cleaning rag. The wash table housed a cracked basin, devoid entirely of the matched pitcher, its mirror hanging slightly crooked. Moonlight shone through the window, beams fragmented by the filmy layer upon glass, offering up the room in a silvery, otherworldly glow.

Save for the looking-glass.

Curiosity was cause for her to creep closer. To reach fingers towards that mirror which reflected the girl and room beyond in caliginous shades, as if a dark veil had been draped over. Images were spoiled with a touch, like reflections broken by the ripples of a pond with a pebble dropped beneath its surface. And as Vara reached in, another hand was reaching out, clasping black fingers about a delicate wrist.

Stocking feet found the floor like quicksands, holding her fast. Screams died within her throat, never actually rising to the occasion. The voice that filled the room was not her own.

“For Lenore so loved the Darkness, that She gave Her only begotten daughter, that whosoever believeth in Audmathus should not perish, but have everlasting life in the Shadows."

The Broken Dagger. He didn't remember arriving, never remembered making the journey or stepping into the parlor as he had done so many times before. The room around him was gauzy with shadow, but these shadows were unfamiliar, they hung on the walls like ruined tapestries lingered after a fire. They held no affinity for him. The whole sense of it was foreign.

Varian wandered, lost in a way he was wholly unaccustomed and then, then it all came back. It crashed against him like a breaking, ocean wave, a strength enough to almost take him off of his feet. As he neared that door, he became aware of other things, things that made this so much more surreal. He was warm beneath his clothes, beneath armor he had not worn since years long passed.

Whatever it was, it was beyond that door and he questioned only his own hesitation.

Through the door, at a distance that made the very room itself impossible, the silhouette of another man. Tall and lean, so much like himself, but completely different. A broad-brimmed hat, a sweeping coat, a smile. Varian's steps quickened, too much space between them to be sure. He could have been running for hours and never reach him and, suddenly, he was there in front of him. He reached out to take hold..

The body gave way and the clothing collapsed to the floor, empty.

"Fool." His voice echoed in the endless space. In frustration, he closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. This, whatever it was, had trespassed. "I do not dream."

She climbed the stairs.

Up and up, away from the Broken Dagger and everything it was and it wasn't. Up and up, higher and higher, past one door, two, three, a dozen. Some were open and some closed.

Only once did she pause, outside a particular closed door. Bare hands pressed against the wood for an instant of hesitation as the sound of children laughing seeped through the wood. Then, with a smile, she continued.

Up and up, to the final door, and here she did not hesitate at all. The door swung open beneath her touch and the Derrywoman entered.

The room was almost empty, the walls bare and the floor devoid of any softness. In the middle of the room, though, was a chair, a canvas, an array of pots and brushes arranged just so on a tray.

Breath left her lungs in a soft sigh. Holly seated herself and began to paint.

Surrounded by books, a patchwork tapestry of spines in various states of disrepair line every wall of the rented Dagger room, they seem prop up the ceiling. There are only a few breaks among the tomes. Through the window, on the snow-covered ground below is the lumbering madman, his arms wrapped around a pile of wood; he returns to the Dagger. A misshapen reflection in the glass shows long red hair, a pale face, and a door opposite.

Through it is the hall, a ruckus of laughter and playful yells drifts up from below. This is the Dagger.

From the balcony at the top of the stairs a scene unfolds, Catch through the main door with the wood and Cherny in tow. A young Cinnabar and younger Glenn sitting at the bar pouring over a map held down with heavy mugs. Noura, Gloria and Tennant crowd around a table with red cheeks and unending laughter. There is Treadwell on his couch asleep and Dulcie behind the counter, even Ariane sits, visiting with Agnie and Rhaena. And there is Zilliah staring straight up with a knowing smile, perhaps he’s saying something, it’s hard to hear.

It is spring and summer, it is autumn, and yule. It was all the favorite smells and feelings and moments of every season. A warm fire in winter with the smell of spiced cider and hot chocolate, sugared apple pies set to cool during harvest, and the gentle breeze carrying the scent of flowers from the opened windows of a summer night. Everyone is here and everyone is safe. It is happiness, it is home.

But something tugs, something necessary, something wonderful and unfinished; the stairs await.

Bare feet leave prints in the dust of recognizable but long forgotten corridors. Confident steps hesitate as they near the door. A trembling hand upon the knob, time stills and is consumed by the doubt of what lies beyond. But it is not enough to deter.

The door is opened, the sunlight immediately streaming through the small cracks, warm sand just beyond the threshold. But this place is only half-formed.

And not more than a pace ahead lies another door.

This door too is opened, it is dim and dank, it smells of old books, the air is cool and damp. The library basement perhaps, but again this place is not fully realized, only the space from one door to the next is material.

Another door lies ahead and through that one another as well. Each a little different, but inevitably the same, through hundreds of doors, on and on.

But then a turn, a walk back through the last door finds the balcony and the same scene of friends unfolding below.

The door opens wide, the breathless and open-palmed pressing from the physician borne on an emotional high that tells her this is everything she'd hoped for. Her exertion admit the physician into nothing, her movement stopped short in this, the casement of another door. Undeterred, still plagued with hope, she reaches out and physically plies the next door. Her effort is rewarded by the appearance of yet another casement, an identical door. Panic and despair twin and rise within the young physician, but resolve demands she redouble her efforts—and each time they are met with the exact same result.

.

You see it before you. A door.

You know about doors. You know about locks. You know about dreams.

You know the Broken Dagger. You know Myrken Wood. You know dreams.

You have nothing but freedom. You sail on the wind. You are a pirate on an infinite sea.

Yet freedom means an absence of things to lose. You can open any door but can take nothing. You can travel anywhere but only have your memories to hold to.

This door, though. This door leads to something else. This door leads to everything else. This door leads back to the waking world. It leads to a freedom from freedom itself. It leads towards the barest minimum, a footing back among everyone and everything you had lost. You reach towards the handle. Your hand passes right through it.

A dream you cannot touch. A door you cannot open.

So it is that you, Elliot Brown, lost boy, thief of dreams, stare at the knob and wonder, trepidatious, what this will mean for tomorrow.