Grayell's house is not within the town limits. It sits on the hillside behind Wistvale. His home is rustic to say the least, built with no true construction skill but a lot of rope and hard years making meager shelters in the wilds.
It is elevated to persuade surprise guests. You either climb and climb well, or ask for the ladder to be lowered.
Last Edit: Sept 22, 2012 7:51:29 GMT -5 by Grayell
Grayell's anger after the conversation at Zane's fueled him and he stormed through Wistvale and beyond, into the woods. Dawn was not yet upon him and for once, Grayell cast his caution aside and simply made his way through the wilderness, off the beaten trail and onto the hill that overlooked Wistvale. It was near where he had been training Serenity, the lake was not too far, but in his exploration of the area he had found and old, rundown remnant of a shelter in a thick stand of trees.
He needed his solitude. He questioned his getting so involved in the affairs of Wistvale for a moment and cast it aside, but it did nothing to quell the resentment and frustration that was building inside of him. It was a muddled mess of things, women, the council, the guard, the new laws, the people.... so many people.... he could not handle it. He preferred to be alone in the wilds, he relished it - and living in Wistvale was no longer an option.
His concerns were entirely upon the danger he presented to the town, he was still a hunted man - but it brought the stress and frustration to the forefront of his mind. He cursed and snapped at every branch that blocked his path, every rotting log that they lay across but somehow, in his rage; he found the spot he had memorized.
He looked about in the dark, eyes keen and moon bright; and gathered both kindling and tinder. He arranged a small group of logs hurriedly and took out his flint, striking it with his knife. Something smiled upon him, the ember caught immediately and with a few short breaths, Grayell had fire. He removed his cloak and though it was still dark, he got to work.
It was mid morning by the time Grayell had salvaged what was left of the frame of the prior shelter here and rigged it to the basics of a raised platform. He'd made a trip back to his store and gathered some goods and used a great deal of rope to lash cross beams between the trees. He'd used more wood to support what would ultimately be the floor and tied them all in place.
Grayell was no longer seething but his frustration had turned into a blank state of mind that only focused on the work. He'd run out of hate and anger and was now simply resigned to being miffed. Sitting on one of the cross beams, his legs dangled and he leaned back against a tree he'd tied to. He looked about at his work, satisfied with his knots. It was no palace and certainly no brick home, but it would hold so long as he maintained it.
He grabbed a rope that hung before him and heaved, pulling a stack of lumber from the ground. It was a good 30 feet below him and whilst his hands were worn and blistered from tying and lashing countless amounts of rope, he ignored the ache and heaved again, rocking back to at last drag the pile onto the frame. He untied the rope that held them together.
Grayell balanced on the rolling beams, hands open and floating at his sides. Falling likely wouldn't be too much fun. He shifted each one to precisely where he needed them and looked about - a solid base for the floor. Finally smiling with his progress, he bounced back to his rope and hefted the roll onto his shoulder and got to tying each and everyone in place.
It was mid afternoon by the time Grayell was was happy with his work on the floor. It was rough, bounced a little in certain places, but he was in no danger of falling through. It was solid and finally, he had a proper platform. He thought about simply stringing a canvas over it and sleeping in the open, but that would be a temporary solution at best and he was still enthused about working out his stress. This project kept his mind busy, preoccupied and for once in quite some time, he gave little thought to the woes of life in town and women. Two women of course.... but he had found that Captain Margrett was still preoccupying his thoughts. He liked her enough, she was a good sort... but it confounded him as to why she insisted on being such a cold bitch at times. Smiling, compliant one moment and a steel trap the next. Bloody women.
He'd dragged the lumber onto his floor that he needed for the roof frame. His shoulders were aching and the work was taking it's toll, so he planned on taking a nap when he was done with this leg of the project. He was quite comfortable climbing and whilst it took some monkey business, he managed to lash one end of a support strut to a tree before climbing again at the other end and repeating the process. He was burning rope but it was little cost considering the benefit.
He didn't settle for a flat roof, it would do poorly in the rain. He'd even given some thought to the look of his new home and so the roof was high in the middle, slanting over what would be the main room - virtually the only room - and then cascades down on each end for smaller areas. It was going to take a lot more work to make the roof worthy, it needed to endure the weather but at last, with the framework in place.... it was time for rest.
Grayell sighed as he slowly crouched to the floor and then planted his rear. The wood was no comfortable bed but as he laid back and folded his hands behind his head, he smiled. He was staring straight up and into the tree tops, the sun dancing through the leaves. The sound of the wind was entrancing, bird calls all around him. For once, once in a very long time; Grayell found sleep easily.
Grayell awoke to the night sky. He blinked but then smiled, the moon was out and the stars shone brighter here away from the little smog and glare that Wistvale trickled into the valley below. The birds were quiet now and only the wind and occasional sound of the nocturnal creatures caught his attention. He stretched, a fulfilling stretch after some sound sleep and promptly swung from what was the honest beginning of his house. He clambered, jumped and swung down a rope to the ground and once there, headed for Wistvale.
His home there had been a wreck, a small shack of no mention that served it's purpose. But he had invested his time in it and his store and would like to grab some more supplies and salvage some items that would help him greatly. A cart would be handy, but getting it to his new home would be troublesome. This could take a couple of trips.
His eyes bright in the night, nostrils flaring as he breathed in the moist night air, he whistled as he strolled back to Wistvale, it's lights leading the way back to the valley below.
Early morning. Grayell was sitting cross legged by a smoldering fire, the smoke lingering on the ground before rolling into the valley below and joining the fog that surrounded Wistvale this dawn. He was quiet, his hands working on his thigh. He had cut a number of broad leafed palms and was working on weaving it into another wall. Perhaps flooring, perhaps some of the roof, it had multiple uses.
This work was easier to endure, though his fingers had suffered a number of cuts on the sharp edged leaves. But his body was at rest, kept warm by the fire and recuperating and hauling a number of awkward loads up the hill and through the woods. His eyes followed his fingers, over, under and over again and his mind had settled into the work. He was not overrun by thoughts and memories but instead found some quiet comfort in what was a repetitive task.
He'd already done some of the work on the walls and the roof was off to a good start. He needed about at least another foot of litter on it though if it were to keep the rain off and trap heat, but the broad leafed vegetation he gathered by the river cut back on that considerably. It would be enough for now, but hoping the weather would remain fair was a folly and he knew that too well. He smiled as he worked, looked down the hill at the town of Wistvale.
He hummed for a moment. It was an old tune, something he doubted even Serenity would know. It relaxed him, sent a rush of warm comfort over his neck that washed down his spine and started to mumble the words. His voice was raw though, grizzly and entirely untrained. He could carry a tune but had no talent for singing whatsoever... so he settled on humming as he set the large mat aside and started on another.
He'd like to be able to sing. Just something. When Serenity sang to him his throat would often tighten, he'd feel the need to join her or something, but hadn't the means. More often than not though he just wanted to howl, the long, lonesome echo of the wolf. He wouldn't, she'd find that entirely strange. He laughed just a little and continued his work, the tune in his head grand enough.
Last Edit: Sept 8, 2011 13:44:18 GMT -5 by Grayell
It had been a long day. He was sore, bruised and cut and tired. But he stepped back to look at the front of his new residence with a smile. It was rough, crude but would last. Last long enough for him to maintain anyways.
Grayell could have contracted someone to build a more permanent shelter, but that would be odd. Why mar the landscape? This shelter was something he had built with his own hands, a place he could call home. He'd dragged modest items from his old house in Wistvale, simple things. A chair, a table (that he hadn't smashed). He'd dragged an old iron stove from his store, he'd been using it to brew his teas but it would work well here, above the ground. It was heavy as a bear of course, it had cost him the last of the day to get it here and into the trees that were his home. He walked around it on last time, nodded in appreciation of his labor and made some mental notes of what he would patch up tomorrow. It wasn't perfect, wasn't complete, but it was enough.
He scrambled up the rope ladder he'd put together and then pulled it up behind him. His stove was warm, bathing the small house in an orange light and causing the trees to shadow dance as night settled in. He sat in his one chair, by his bed and relaxed a moment, looking about.
He smiled but his thoughts weren't of this home. His thoughts were of his true home. He'd had his song in his head the entire day, the words being a steady rhythm to work to, every task whittling away the hours whilst his mother's voice soothed his mind. It could play without end and he would not care, he had entertained that when he one day died, he would become part of the song and simply float with it, be an actor in the imagery it induced in his own mind. He didn't know if it would ever be heard again, he had only known it through his mother and then, through his wife. His children had learned it to and sung it as they played.
Grayell knew the song well, but had never sung it. Their small community would gather each year on the solstice, thankful for another year of blessings. Those were good times, food and cheer a plenty, people enjoying one another, even complete strangers treated as family. People had come and gone, new babies were born and introduced each year, condolences for those who had passed in the season exchanged. His people lived with the ebb and flow of nature, unseen and untouched by the greater world. It was a simple life and one he missed, but he had not attended the festival since the passing of his family. The other clans likely thought him dead as well.
It so happened that the festival was about this time each year. A new moon, flowers in the fields, nature awakening and blooming. He had spent many such festivals alone, refusing to give thanks for what he'd only felt was robbed from him. There was no gratitude within him, only memories.
But as the night cooled, Grayell found himself braiding his hair. He hadn't given it any thought. He'd been lost in his memories, festival nights spent about the fireside, song and dance around him. His wife would tease him for not singing, for not dancing with the others; but he simply didn't have the talent for it. And so, for many years she would sit behind him whilst the others reveled and braid his hair. When she was done she would again join the dance, but as the participants grew drunk and tired, they would all sit around their fire and their songs would take on meaning. Tradition. The telling of his people. It was their history and their identity, and it was this that Grayell had always admired most. The sense of belonging to one another, to nature.
Everyone knew the song, and everyone sang it but him. But tonight, as he sat alone by his small fire, his voice finally broke from his throat. It was ragged, torn and without the eloquence of a trained singer. It was shaky, bare and stumbled over pitch and tone, unsure of it's purpose. But the words were known, the tune in his head flawless, soothing his soul and heart.
The little light from Grayell's house could be seen in Wistvale. Though his voice was nothing to admire, if only one person could hear the song in his heart.
Grayell returned home, staggering. He'd bought some cheap booze on the way and drunk most of it. It smelled like fermented ass and made his head swim, but it took the edge off. Cursing, swaying side to side and occasionally picking a fight with a branch or something else pointless, he stumbled into his camp. He leaned on a tree, looked at the rope ladder... and laughed.
Oh mate. Flarb that? Who's shtoopid idea was that? He slumped, slid down the tree and crashed onto his ass. His head rested on his chest, arms splayed at his sides.
This... thish is ridica... riciud... this ish stupid.