turnsheet_bureau:4:freedom

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turnsheet_bureau:4:freedom [2025/06/03 13:04] – created gm_roseturnsheet_bureau:4:freedom [2025/06/03 13:05] (current) – [Writeup] gm_rose
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 =====Writeup===== =====Writeup=====
  
-{[gwawrddur]} +-
-The tune takes you high into the sky, harp-strung threads of meditation drawing you up to the aviary. The mead is sweet on your tongue as you sing. +
- +
-There must have been more birds here, at one point or another. Now the window is open to the breeze and the cages are open and empty, creaking as whispers of sky make their way in and out of the room. Broken locks litter the floor, though one locked cage remains.  +
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-A dove coos mournfully. You do not have the heart to free the creature from its fate. +
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-You search, but there are no letters waiting to be sent. All have made their journeys. +
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----- +
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-You sit strumming in the aviary for some time, face against the wind and eyes before the sky. The dove cries. The breeze calls. +
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-Slowly, in the sighing song of others, comes awen. Your parchment fills like a pail of rainwater. Your words are waking from their wandering, beginning now their strides, swift and sure.  +
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-You sing the world back to itself in a new voice. Can there be any greater purpose than this? +
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-Your mead will soon run dry. No matter what you do, you cannot free the dove. You cannot save the parchment from being blotched with your own ever-running blood. +
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-But you have written a beautiful song, have you not? +
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-The Gardener seems to think so. When you sing her song to her, she listens in a way few know how to. +
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-Freedom is a fleeting thing. Freedom is a river pouring from your lips and hands. +
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----- +
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-//The blood runs over your skin like a waterfall over a cliffside. You cannot keep count of the wounds, or measure the pain.// +
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-//Gwawrddur ap Glyndŵr. You choose to bear the name of liberation. You must be both warrior and bard, for both is what you have already always been.// +
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-----  +
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-//When you next try to sleep, you can’t – in the most literal sense. The bed lurches from beneath you, snatched away by a greater power. You lunge for it again and again, but brambles lash your ankles, rug pull themselves away to trip you, and the bed flits defiantly between floor, wall and ceiling, until at last it is gone altogether.// +
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-//When at last you’re felled, there’s still no peace. The sound as you hit floorboards is like hammers falling on stone. If you try to lie there, the floorboards lurch and you are flung from rest.// +
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-//All night, all of the nights. Over and over and over.//  +
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-//No rest for the wicked.// +
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-{[]}{{tag>writeup4 gm_ameal complete}}+
  
  • turnsheet_bureau/4/freedom.1748955863.txt.gz
  • Last modified: 2025/06/03 13:04
  • by gm_rose