[Acacea]

Character Name: Acacea Thistletongue

Original Submission: http://forums.layonara.com/character...tletongue.html

CDT: http://forums.layonara.com/developme...journal-2.html

CDT 2 (Angels Tear...only first session done): http://forums.layonara.com/developme...gels-tear.html

Current Level: 28

Updated/Expanded (by a disgusting amount of mediocrity...) biography:

It is perhaps a little ironic that among most halfling groups, and all of Mistone's tribes, black eyes are considered terribly unlucky and an ill omen. The Many-Faced came from their clans, and was known for her soulless black eyes, and gave a lot of weight to the superstition...but Acacea has become known for being extraordinarily lucky, beyond all reason, and her own dark eyes are almost always merry. It could be in part a knack for finding people or places that will be kind to her, or just pure dumb luck, but throw her naked and alone in a cell and she'll find the only rat there willing to spare some crumbs, or accidentally hit her head on a previously unseen trigger for a secret door.

This knack, or luck, created very early a strange blend of cynicism and naïveté. There are those who are kept completely cloistered and know nothing of hunger or danger, but with her mother dying young of illness at a harsh time in the City of Gold's recent history, neither were alien to Acacea. Her youngest years were grimy ones spent mostly in the gutters of Hempstead, her belly fed by the spare coins nimble fingers could steal or scraps given in exchange for carrying messages.

This environment often breeds the suspicious, starving wolf demeanor in street children, but this one seemed to have been born without the proper instincts to survive in poverty, even when clearly capable of seeing what one man was willing to do to another. Despite possessing a keen wit, she would likely be the one left alone in an alley when danger enters and the others fled on the hunch, looking around and wondering, “Where did everybody go?” before spying the threat and greeting it cheerfully, often giving the impression that she is, at the very least, a touch simple - 60 years of experience have grown her up in some ways, where in others she remains at times a mental 6 year old. She says to Derrick after he walks into the Arms and sees a demonesque creature with flaming wings and all and throws himself in between it and Acacea, "It's okay Derrick, he said he's not bad. You're not bad, right?"

Through all her life she has been familiar with darkness, evil, greed, corruption, sorrow, and hatred, yet... we live, don't we? Isn't that enough, sometimes? Something will somehow get her through, a belief she rarely doubts - whether skill, luck, or Lucinda herself. Something will come through. She's ended up with a mix of that cynical "it will get worse" sense, and the "but there is always light at the end" brightness that has carried a few people along with her.

It would be a lie to say she's never been burned by that trust in her own whims and the goodness in others, yet the amount of times it has carried her through or aided her where she would have failed far outnumber them. When she was young, at times her innocence (or foolishness) provided amusement in some way to something that would normally be a threat, or allowed her to be tolerated because she was easily manipulated and often unaware when she was being used... and in other, less depressing cases, friendships have been formed with figures that would normally be dangerous and untrustworthy, simply because of the novelty of someone who didn't flinch when leered at.

Her early delight in the vulgarity of thugs and sailors went beyond the normal profanity uttered by any urchin, and became a less than traditional art form. Several greasy, brawny types who might kick a halfling child aside for no reason at all have been taken aback by the tapestry of foul mouthed insults that could come from a pretty, cheerful face, and many are the rough hands that have slapped her back in laughing appreciation because of it.

Likewise a mostly sweet, chirping voice singing the raunchiest of tavern songs about the most available of Layonara’s women could hardly fail to make her some friends in low places. Most were sailors, some were pirates, and many were unsavory, but it was often hard not to take a liking to the annoying young thing, like having a very young daughter with a fiery spirit and ready smile, who will always listen in fascination to your stories--and the more far-fetched the better. Add to that the ability to leave her remorselessly behind for long periods of time to get away from the persistent questions of “why?” and “how?” and you have a recipe for success even among the oddest of people.

The fact that most of the friends she made would leave port again sooner or later quickly got her used to the fact that people come and go and sometimes never come again; as the adage goes, the only thing that stays the same is that everything changes. As a friend, lover, or even an enemy, she has been inconstant at best, like to wander off and back again when she pleases, if she pleases. Despite having had over her lifetime countless friendly acquaintances, she has had few friends that know anything at all about her, as like most halflings, she has always possessed the dubious gift of talking much and saying little without being specifically asked, and often unconsciously avoids true attachment, a trait Aleister remarked on as being 'aloof’ against all appearances. She has a great affection for several people, but her true love is life, and its faces are magic and flight.

Even though she enjoyed the outrageous stories and her own attempts to act them out, it was impossible to completely imagine away the gutters. The fanciful retellings of forbidden rooms in great castles combined with the warmth behind locked doors when she was cold helped develop a near obsession with keys. That was always what you needed in the stories, after all--just find the right key and any door would open. They locked away the food, the fire, the trinkets, the ancient artifacts which of course must be in every chest, but all one needed was a simple piece of metal or the proper phrase. If she had had a key, her child mind had reasoned, her mother would not have died in the street; the doors would not have been barred when she knocked, nor would she have been tossed for a night into a cell for trying to open them. Locks and cages grew to have a nightmarish quality to them - a monster under the bed, she would chat with and feed, but a locked door she could not befriend without a key.

While this fascination led to an understanding of how locks worked mechanically and acquiring the skills to open them, many defied picks. She enjoyed opening them with her own 'keys,' but the knowledge that there was a Certain Key for a Certain Lock made the right one have a more magical association in her young mind. Sure, she might be able to open the door herself... but what she really wanted was the key. It's an odd yearning that has survived in her for over half a century now, often manifesting itself without conscious realization as a picking up of ones tossed aside and the hoarding of them. Ever changed your locks and thrown the old away? It's likely in her pocket, with no care that it no longer opens a door, along with hundreds of others.

The huge rift between the rich and the poor at the time served both to keep her activities such as the picking of locks and pockets below notice, and to make it impossible to abandon them. There was far too big of a gap between the extremes of haves and have-nots for the scum to hope of climbing out of the gutters, and the Righteous Toranites and Dirty Corathites together on the same payroll of the Many-Faced was a joke many weren't laughing at. It seemed unlikely to ever change unless she could convince one of the sailors to take her with them or stowaway, which had both been tried somewhat unsuccessfully, the second getting her a taste of some wharf-water.

Port Hempstead was indeed due for a change, but she wouldn't be around to see it. It was her city, and in it were her people, but a whim would take her beyond its walls before new hands at the wheel really made a difference in her perception of it.

She first saw the man who would adopt her when hunting the sound of jingling purses, dirty feet padding along the shadows and out of sight. He caught her attention because he was brow-beating a silk merchant of all things, who sold soft and pretty fabrics but had a rough face that seemed constantly pinched in displeasure, along with a nasal voice that confirmed it. More importantly in her mind, he refused to return her hellos and tried to kick her when she attempted to touch the bright materials.

So while it confused her somewhat to see this clearly educated man stooping to argue a price with a salesman over goods he clearly had no interest in buying, the indignant faces he kept making were entertaining. On top of that, hearing the occasional stammer from the merchant in response to accusations of number discrepancies had her rooting for the "old guy" like someone cheering silently for the underdog in a boxing match after the bell rings.

Unfortunately for him, interest or no, spending serious time haggling over expensive wares equates to painting a mark on one's forehead saying "money to spend" for anyone working the street, which was made evident when Acacea returned from sneaking a piece of meat while a fat merchant wasn't looking, licking juice from her fingers. His purse was stolen by a second-rate pickpocket who distracted her marks from her fumbles by public hysterics, which were well in progress when the halfling came back to the scene. Tired of the same routine (even the merchants were beginning to yawn) and infinitely preferring the old guy to Raelynn, Acacea simply stole it back and returned it to him.

He asked far too many questions to the street lass, though, about where she lived and where her parents were, and other such meaningless jibber jabber. She chatted for awhile and then was off again, a bit disappointed that he hadn't tossed her a sandwich in thanks instead of some ring she'd have to pawn off. Before she had the opportunity, she was caught distracted (that happened often) and cornered by Raelynn and her groupies. It was a known fact that he'd been Acacea's mark before she lost dibs, so it was obvious who was to blame.

Before the inevitable bruises in the struggle to escape out of that one could surface, a few tired looking guards intervened...and apparently not to arrest them, but her, as the voice of the 'old guy' could be heard from behind them saying, "Yes, that's her; search her, please."

The ring was yanked from a hidden pocket in her street rags, and flipped back to Gregor. The mostly apathetic guards asked if he wanted her tossed in a cell then (which caused another struggle to hold her), but he 'persuaded' them to let him deal with her himself. Who knows how much he paid them, but she hated him and hated them for just shoving mostly-innocent people off on anybody who asked...but it was convenient and would get her away from the angry street competitors, for now.

At least, that was the plan - he explained kindly that he was sorry for the facade, but that they were leaving the city, as it was no place for her. She often fought him at every turn, whenever she felt she was being dragged against her will, and when they arrived at his home with his other, older adopted children, she made so many escape attempts that she had to be locked in her room, which set off a whole new kind of panic for the good intending Gregor to deal with, along with her tendency to 'acquire' small objects. It came to the point where he had to make her a deal - if she continued to try to run, he would keep her door locked and her windows barred every night (he had learned how she feared it). If she did not, everything would stay open, and at the end of every quarter year she could make her own choice of leaving or staying.

She was suspicious, but they agreed - and rather than ending up in some witch's pot like she feared at first (she did have an overactive imagination; she was a young child, still), she was taught to read and write, her talent for music and innate potential to turn it to magic coaxed out and formal training in the instruments he was familiar with added to it. He was an eccentric, and had an odd collection of many things that caught her fancy, and once he was resigned to the fact that any attempt to sit her down and teach her the dry recitations of book dates and names was futile, he changed his tactics to teach her with stories and songs, turning history into a grand game that would hold her attention, convincing her that languages and information is as much of a key as a metal one...just to different kinds of locks.

He was clever, if nothing else, and she was easily satisifed when not feeling caged; the choice came many times, always manipulated to be right in the middle of a story she had to know the ending of, or the day before she was to see what some device was...or forced to make the choice with the smell of his sweetbread baking. But it was her choice, and that made all the difference.

Early Life at Gregor's House

"Just another five minutes. If you finish the chapter, then you can go outside!"

"I don't wanna, it's hard an' it's borin'."

She glances up and sees an odd device of rotating circles and spinning balls. "Wha's tha'? Ya dinna say I that I canna have it!"


"Oh gods..." He puts his hands over his face as she hauls herself up the front of the bookshelf, then leaps forward to catch an old looking book that she knocks backwards in her ascent. "...To think that my Marcy and I thought children would be a blessing, before she died..."

She squints down at him with one hand reaching for the top shelf to pull herself up. "What kinda name is Marcy, anyhow? Can I have a puppy and name it Marcy, Gregor? I canna live wivout one! "

Gregor looks up at her peevishly, and she giggles as the spectacles perched on his nose distort her view of his stern glance. "If you come down without destroying any of my books or instruments, I won't set you on fire, how about that?"

She gasps, still paused in climbing over the final shelf. "Ye canna!"

"I can, would, and will, starting with your little feet and working my way up! And if you don't stop talking like that mealy-mouthed mule salesmen who left near a month gone, I'll make sure to stick the ashes under the bed so your 'ghost' can see what's happened to you!"

"Aw... not Hector the Spectre? He would be awfully distraught, Gregor; he is very sensitive, you know. Really that is just unkind!" She sighs dramatically and then flings her arms back, letting herself tumble out and away from the bookshelf, unconcerned that her teacher near has a heart attack in his haste to drop the book he's holding to catch her before she hits the floor. He manages though, running into the shelves and landing in an ungraceful heap with her in his arms, and she cheerfully kisses him on the cheek and hops up to run out of the room, calling behind her, "Thank you, Gregor!"

He stares after her, plopped on the floor in the chaos that took her a full forty five seconds to inflict on his orderly room, rubbing his cheek and wondering what had just happened.

The only true source of contention between them (other than messes made, items broken, wishes that he would turn her into a frog for a day, etc) was the result of her fingers being too nimble and prone to mischief for their own good. She had an ingrained tendency to acquire anything she was able to, and to leap out from hiding to near kill him with scaring attempts. The bells on her wrists were his answer to her sneaking and pickpocketing, so that he could hear her coming. She hated them, because they had no lock she could pick, and she couldn't pry them off - an unbroken line of metal with jangling bells dangling from them, like wearing shackles. It was magic, she learned much later, when she grew more familiar with the workings of the Weave, and encountered others of its type; no more than a mage lock, for all it confounded her for years.

Once she realized she could take them off at any time, some twenty years later, she opted to leave them on. They were passing stylish, after all, and by then her hiding methods had adapted to being in the open, arms flung out and head lifted as if to say "Here I am!"

He grew older, as humans do, and passed when she was twenty three; the other adoptees had all left one after the other at some point, usually with a passing trader. She stared at him for a long time, willing his chest to lift again in the rise-and-fall, and then she buried him herself, knowing the tall people's fondness for the practice. Finding it frightening, herself, she considerately ruined the purpose of a burial by leaving air and light holes.

Well. Her motto had ever been to move on, and move on again, and move on further, and that is what she did, mourning the loss of the best sweetbread in the world for all of a few minutes before leaping a pothole and weaving it into an epic chasm in her mind. It had been far too long since she had sat in a tavern, and with her odd choice in supplies, that is where she headed. At least, she headed in a direction, figuring any which way would lead to one, eventually. She came to a single crossroad, and flipped a coin to call the direction. The gold turned over and over in the air and landed heads up in the dirt, and there she left it lying, taking the opposite direction out of sheer contrariness.

She stopped to rest, a ways down that road - she wonders occasionally what the world would have held for her if Allurial's coin had landed heads down, instead, because it was that night that she dreamed of a golden dragon that brought her across the continent to Hlint. Though her imagination was thought to be boundless, she could not have imagined what lay still ahead of her. She had thrown her daggers in defense of her own life, before; she never knew that she would kill hundreds, if not thousands of other living creatures, but she has tried to take everything in her life in stride.

When an unsettled ghost needed its remains relocated to rest, well, she just added the name "Wraith Rester" to her list. When the goblin at the bottom of the Red Lights demanded souls for its army, well, these things happen... When she went to the Great Library to help someone research wizardry and they met with an elf from Voltrex, she promptly called him Uncle after he provided refreshments. She tagged along after Ozy and listened to his stories, rode on the backs of Brisbane and Luna when they shifted into bears, along with a tiger, wolf, Rufus Coldfinger's panther familiar, and other various creatures that have oddly consented to galloping her around where others might get a hand bitten off, including a wemic, of all things.

She quickly became known to anybody and everyone that passed through Hlint, and she always had news or gossip to share. Eventually she became known as Aleister's familiar as well, an oddly sunny compliment to the wizard's blunt grouchiness, and while he lived they made a duo hard to beat. His death was a heavy blow to her, and the first time she ever truly cried for the loss of anyone; he understood her better without prying than many who did, and was a protective shadow that helped with the best pranks and insults in other languages, even though he tried to hard to instill a sense of work into her, grounding the beginnings of several crafts and knowledge into her head in an attempt to make her his apprentice.

The key she had to his house, which she treasured as she did all keys, but this one was from Aleister and that made it even better, turned from one she was never allowed to use (he didn't want any of his books out of place), to her own, as the wizard didn't want his home going to anyone else. She still remains the only owner, though others use it from time to time, and the spare rooms are rarely empty long before she arranges for someone else to stay.

She sits in it while her Second is hunting with Gnolly - Common words are coming easier to him, now, though hard to understand; it seems likely he will take a name at any time now - and dumps out her treasures and trinkets in front of her on the floor of the treehouse, looking them over for inspiration on the next story she'll tell at Storyteller's Night, wherever they hold it next. For all that she technically has a house of her own, and places she can keep things at the homes of others, she has never broken the habit of carrying all the important things with her at all times, so she isn't tied down anywhere.

There are hundreds of keys, of course, more than anyone could guess, likely; she can always tell one about a magic key that would open any door only once. There is one missing, she sees; the one referred to as the key to the chest of time must have been the one she gave Jennara after they lived each other's worst memories in a mishap of magic. It seems unlikely they will ever journey Below to the illithid city to search for it though, so what does it matter now? Despite that, she has avoided telling the Elasanien who might taken offense at an important item given away as an afterthought.

She giggles a little, suddenly thinking of Plen's comment about Rhizome. After she and Plen had talked after his intentions to retire to the realms of the Tol were made known, he had promised her to find a way to get a key to their realm, or Triba, whom nature owed a big favor, after all. Rhizome had said he would take them both since they had missed out on the bridge's completion, which saddened Acacea as she remembered well standing with Aleister on them and agreeing that the day it was finished, they would be the first over. He was dead, and she had missed it. Oh well. But elven lives are long, and a tree's is longer; Rhizome is both, who knows if he will remember? Plenarius had joked that Rhiz had the key, but it's possible he gave it to a squirrel or something, and an epic adventure may be in the future to track down the Key of the Hierophant in a bird nest on Belinara.

Her bells chime together as she lifts her hand to her throat at the memory of standing on the bridge with Aleister; the pendant of the eight pointed star in a circle matches his, and was a gift from him. She'd had it reset with an emerald, and wore it still. Other, smaller charms dangle from the choker around her neck, that she'd added here and there. "I wonder what the archer did with that arrow..." she muses to the glass figurine nosing about in her trinkets, thinking of how infuriated the celestial guardians of the Harper's Isle had been that the Harper had come far too late, and in the company of a dwarf and a Lucindite, when dwarves and Lucindites had slaughtered so many the last time someone had visited the isle. She had not been allowed to pass until Acacea had given over something dear and a part of her, and the archer had used the pendant for magic to make an arrow that would strike true at any point. Though the guardians had been freed from their service, replaced with the inspired creations of Andúnë Meneldur, the Harper who had not passed, the thought that somewhere a heavenly servant might still carry an arrow pointed straight at Acacea's heart could be a bit bothersome.

She reminded herself that the new guardians' birthdays were coming up again, and to visit soon. She'd been the only one to show them any affection or sympathy while they waited on Andúnë's graces, to know if those who tended the Harmony of Life would die out forever with a half-gifted Reventage, or if their skills and the ring to wed them and pass the gift would be recovered... they were, of course, when the priestess showed her faith at the end, and the Harper's Isle, so lacking in life after its history since the ring was stolen and then the razing by dwarves, merged with Andúnë's creation, that was lacking soul and Harmony, a heart. Acacea had sung the rhythm of that half, the Harper the other; Brac'ar had woven the arcane strands of the ritual together as though the Weave were another tailoring project for him. She was still passing fond of the new Isle's residents, who were much more joyful in their new, real lives than the previous ones that had become embittered by so many giving lives to protect something that had not been there for many years.

Had that been the goddess Herself for a moment, in the face of that fey guardian, gently chiding Reventage? It seemed so. She would not forget the voice of endless care and harmony. Where is the Harper wandering, now? Regardless of the opinions of others, Acacea has not forgotten the time they shared in the Minaret and the kindness she was shown, or that Reventage was the only other person unwilling to deal with Black Wizards... "It's a good story..." she thinks to herself about the Star of Ilsare.

Still... that memory was nothing compared to Lucinda, she thinks while looking at the vial of water from the Lady's realm. Had she, or Gregor, known more of the halflings and their gods, Deliar would likely have been her patron - the wanderer of luck and true trade, wind guided fortune; but Gregor's few experiences were from the human perspectives, as were the writings he had, painting the halfling as merely a merchant god, and more importantly to Acacea, boring. The goddess of magic, too, would have been interesting, but Gregor was a wizard at heart, and she was not. Shadon's was a life she could understand and embrace - a god that thinks worshipping gods is a bit silly and pointless! Perfect! Worship by tavern haunting! Hurray!

The song had changed that, along with people like Aleister and Ozy, who had encouraged her love for magical things in their own ways. Not that they attempted to convert her; quite the opposite, Aleister was a self-made mage and while he might tip his hat to Lucinda, as any other wizard, and to Dorand for his many masteries of crafts, he worshipped none. But magic there was, and she had fiercely defended Matilda to a druid who was threatening her on the grounds of necromancy. Even then she had argued, "Necromancy is a part of the Weave!"

Still, while Lucinda was the only deity she halfway respected, she was simply not the worshipping type. Even when she grew to realize she had always loved magic, and therefore Lucinda, she had never knelt to anyone, man or god, in her entire life. Simply too irreverent; she threw her arms around the Warder of the Loom in a hug when she was welcomed into the faith. Bowing and the like is for tall people, who have to crouch down all the time; they tend to over-complicate everything.

The only time she truly bent the knee was directly in front of her goddess in the realm of magic itself, as much out of shock as anything else. And for once, Acacea had thought of nothing to say. The wandering wisps of spell-light illuminated that divine reflection of a place they were all familiar with; the true City of Magic, it seemed; she still wonders who had designed Spellgard, who had seen the realm of Lucinda and its walks of magic and attempted to make its mirror on Layonara. She will not forget Ilsare's voice, no, but her soul belongs to magic, and she had seen its face and heard its voice in thanks.

Also kept well in her heart are the words of X'athia, one of Lucinda's handmaidens - Mystery, the pillar of glamours and the impossible to quantify, the shadows of magic and all that is not as it seems. "Acacea... Hope springs eternal, but do not let hope blind you when it comes to peel back the layers to the facts. The Lady sends to you Her laughter, for you give such to her regularly..." She had cried a little that day, privately, with only Diamond to witness, to hear her name from Lucinda's own, to think that she had made her goddess laugh, ever. Everyone knows that a god knows all their devoted, but to hear one's name on the lips of the closest any will ever get to the goddess herself is a different game. Irathelia, she that is passion and love for magic that all of them share, must have known; when Eldárwen and the others were each greeted in Lucinda's realm, she had just laughed at Acacea's teasing of Eld and said, "Laughter of the Lady... it is good to see you."

Friends and natural tendencies may have nudged her closer to realizing her love for the Weave, but the song pushed her right over the edge. The first time she sang the celestial music she had heard on the last night the Angels' Tear had bloomed and saw magic dancing around her in strands she could reach out in touch, her heart was captured, even though it took her longer to admit it. It sings in her still, and even now there are times her eyes take on a fey light, as though there were endless blue depths spinning behind them before it quiets again, though far less since they balanced it out and found the phrases they hadn't known were missing. Still... she will never stop longing to feel magic come alive around her again, no matter if it frightened those witnessing the shock of power building around her and seeing it overtaking her eyes. But it has a purpose, and that was not it...

Acacea realizes she's been staring at Diamond for too long, the small unicorn feeling amused in their small link of consciousness. How lucky she had been to find her, though! While the others had read from books and planned in the tower on the Unicorn River, she had been bored and suspicious of everything within it, so frightening it had seemed, to see magic gone awry in the heart of someone. So she'd even been checking the chair for traps before sitting in it, and under it, covered in dust, had been a tiny figurine of glass, that had wakened after a time; the last of the Whitehorn's herd, corrupted and killed, the matriarch's sentience absorbed and trapped in glass. Reventage had lulled several other figurines into a box to take away, but Acacea has no idea what had happened to the cat or the treant or other cruel experiments. She pauses to hope they're not still stuck in Rev's bag...

"I wonder how Athus is doing..." she asks aloud to no one while on the subject; the clash of divine music of love and magic had created odd couples among their friends, and she and Athus had been one. Connor and Alantha, Katrien and Rufus, Reventage and Rolf... "Brac's lucky we stopped singing - I bet he would've ended up with Bil. Still... I kind of miss his shouts of NO SINGING!" she giggles to herself and the unicorn that has become her closest friend. Even when tied to love with strands of magic though, Acacea was not the pining type. When ages went by after she had followed Athus on his race to halt the sickness spreading across Dregar and repair the seal to the Soul Mother's realm in Willow's Weep that she sought to reach out through, she sent him a scrap of song lyrics and a thistle flower, and that was the end of that. She still hopes privately that Katrien and Rufus will be a different matter, and that somehow Kat will bring him back... Acacea went to the Mount of Sorrows for Athus, and he seemed to not want much to do with her.

She shudders a bit at the memory of Xandrial's playground past Traitor's Ridge. That was not a story she would be telling again any time soon. Once was enough. Still, there were always others... she remembers well the sight of the Soul Mother herself standing before them before disappearing, and thinks again of Cole, who had died because he was without his lucky halflings. They had fought, a bit, after Eon's phylactery had been given to the Black Wizards; there were few things Acacea truly hates in life, and the Blacks are one of them, for what they do with and to magic, for what she knows they've done. She had left rather than choose to make deals with them; no matter how angry the Blacks may get, she still believes that there are some compromises that hurt too much to make when you are capable of accomplishing a goal on your own. But Cole had died without her, before she had spoken to him again. There are some days where she considers too often the old tale about journeying to the plane of the Lost to see a loved one again...

She smiles though, as she toys with a blue and silver shell. "A gift of sight and sound, for keeping those here in joy of halfling spirit..." It has been a time since she visited Jango, too - gods, Estella might be wed! "I will have to wander to the Foggy Forest and duck my head underwater to ask; it would be terrible if we all missed it after that!"

The Keeper of the Bridge of Tear's Fall, an odd troll of almost clay like forms, had required the answer to a riddle or a gift of some kind to pass; some had gifted, and most had riddled, a feat made easier when all his riddles were water related. He was almost comical, but there had been something saddening about him, and he knew none of his own stories. Jethradialin Anraleckiathi'zaa Nonethrelem'noil Grythilenthelia Oreth'calaghad...king of the merfolk, long transformed by tragedy, they had managed to restore, and witness the hatching from a dragon egg his daughter. Many forms, dragon's take... Acacea still has little idea what the white must have lived to have taken one of love and become the forest's changing diamond, but she had been killed by Jango's own hand in an elven trick of magic, thinking it was for the good of all. But she had protected the forest, and kept hostilities between some at bay. The water fey had been separated from their merfolk, as well; but maybe all that damage was repaired, now.

"Brac has to come to the wedding, too! We should find him and ask," she remembers. When Brac'ar had sought to prevent the dragon taint from killing him, and opted to use a piece of all chromatics instead of taking Fisterion's deal, he had been short a white... which they had managed to ask from Jango, and though it pained him - it was his wife, after all - he had given the sliver of the fallen dragon, to save the life of Acacea's friend for her part in his restoration, and because he is after all a kind mer-thing.

She has to privately admit to herself that riding the fire drake to Fisterion's lair had not been nearly so fantastic as she might've hoped; it was actually rather miserable and uncomfortable and she'd been singed and scraped in countless odd places, only to be dumped out under the dragon host's nose while he let Brac'ar work, and eyed the elf and halfling as though they were the crumpets for his next tea. On the other hand... the ride on the giant eagles when Plenarius and Kobal had come to get her from the Black Wizards that had taken her as bait (and locked her in a box, to her horror) had made up for it, AND they'd arrived back at Threelions' place in Dalanthar just in time to leap into the portal to the realms of fire with Brac'ar and Reventage before it could close. Lucky... on the other hand, she'd been sat on by a dragon while there, and then got herself turned to stone while examining a magic object, to be transported in a bag of holding...ah well.

She makes a face at her draconic notes after putting the shell down; 90% of it is runic, what little translations she has. Though gifted with languages, she has made very little progress in her attempts at some. When she first came to Hlint, she was even then bound to hoard obscure bits of information; tired of overbearing mages and priests pushing her aside or rolling their eyes at the chatty halfling in her colorful garbs, she had decided to learn something so fantastically obscure that the next time the know-it-all wizards were stumped at the ancient writings, the halfling would roll HER eyes and say, "That's easy, don't you know ANYthing?" That would surprise them, from the mouth of a clown...

She had discarded the tongues of outsiders after learning to curse in a Pit tongue, and though the Broken Rune had offered to teach her to speak in the words of Lucinda's own heavenly servants, Acacea'd had a feeling that when she said teach, she meant really sit down and be taught already, and that probably wasn't a good idea. Besides, Tari was really busy. And knowing a few mages specializing in outsiders spoke these tongues as well, she had zeroed in on draconic and the tongue of the first fey.

With little result, naturally, save for the translated runes from a box in the merfolk place, some untranslated runes from the same, some more translated by a Rofireinite scholar, and yet more translated by Brac on another box... but still only a few examples that could be spoken, and it was far more difficult than she'd thought to mimic the sounds of dragons, and Brac'ar was never around to quiz. And of the Tol... even worse. She had Andúnë's melodic ritual kept to heart, with no knowledge of its meaning, not a single word. She had a phrase from Plenarius, with no knowledge of its meaning; he said he could be cursing for all he knew. The only one she DID know was the same message she had picked out in draconic from the tablet in the ruins. All in all, little progress on their fronts. Plus she still hasn't ridden a dragon. One day...

Still, music remains the universal language, as far as she is concerned, and her own songs are often her first choice of communicating with others, whether with her voice, or flute, or fiddle. And there are times, after returning to the here and now from the place of radiance and harmonies, that she feels like if she just managed a little more, she could hear it as she did then, as though something just on the edge of one's vision. But then, she feels that way about everything...

The tongue of the fey other than the First was easier, with its clear similarities to elven - just even more melodic and flowery. She had heard the tall, impassive fey rider flirting shamelessly with Saralen in expressive tones that melted like warm butter, making the priestess - Threadmistress now, Acacea reminds herself - blush something fierce until she and the other Guardians left, to his heartbroken sighs. The riders had escorted Connor's party from the Fairy Shee to the Vale, much to the discomfort of the dwarves; their eyes were catlike and alien, seeming unnatural and out of place in the 'real world,' and they seemed largely disinterested in the conversation of mortal men. When Acacea had made longing eyes at him riding alongside the group, musing aloud that they likely wouldn't let her ride with them, one had scooped Acacea up with him on his queer, misted mount, to her delight, and only set her down as they passed through to Vale, where his form had begun to flicker and he let flow another stream of melody that was easily understood to her trained ears before disappearing entirely in the fog.

"Farewell to thee, heart of songs, rider of mists, and bridge of my heart. Fond memories of us will linger in eternal shade, for all nights and days to come. A small touch never forgotten, a glimpse of one's heart springs true."

She wonders how many women have been charmed into staying for eternity in the realm of the fey by such words and giggles. It had been tempting...not because of that, but... to be bound by none of the silly conventions men had come up with to restrain themselves, to dance and play and sing and always entertain one another, where the only rule is to do whatever one pleases so long as it is not at the expense of another... Oh yes, she could stay. But, then, she could not. The queen had known her heart, and told her that she needed no necklace like Kobal's to return, that some just needed their heart to find their way back. And that one day, when she returned - and she would, the queen said, she promised Acacea she could ride. The queen of the deep mist fey had made a motion and the grove had shuddered, and she had seen the form of a dragon with metallic scales.

Acacea picks out the diamond-like gem from the rest and tucks it carefully away again; the queen had dropped it into her hand, saying "If you need aid...break this and I will help you if I can." Every day is a temptation!


The thought that Connor's long road had finally led them back to the Weavemolders' ruins brings a grin of disbelief to her face, but to finally know more about them... though she was still unhappy that the shifting had not been prevented, and all was put to the game with the Sejdarin. Connor had won the game despite it, and kept the gift of magic, but still... On the other hand, luck was on their side as well, even though his opponent had briefly caused Acacea to fear the truth of the Selamaian.

She smiles happily despite herself as she goes through her notes on the Selamaian tongue, thought utterly lost with the cataclysm, that she and Connor had translated with aid and were working on speaking, now that they had truly heard it.

There was the gem Melizaphei had given them on the way to strengthen the call the the lines of the races in the Risenfire place... she brushes some dark hair out of her face as she wonders if the Speaker is still there, the great sphinx... but the memory of that island only reminds her of when she returned, for the tower beside it; despite everything that had happened within it and the great workings of magic, it was all a bit blurry, washed out by the tension of handling with her hands conduits for pure starfire, with the chance that her fumble could take out the entire island... lucky, lucky...

Then there is that locked book... "I can't believe I still haven't sat down and puzzled that out... a year he said, it's likely been ten!" she complains to Diamond. She still hasn't much looked at the book Nesok had given her in Crag, past Jango's bridge. It was nothing special; she'd just been admiring his collection and asked if he had anything interesting...likely it was given just to keep her occupied and out of his hair.

As she puts it back, her eyes catch the sight of the scars on her hands, faint and white in the light of the treehouse. She pulls up a draping sleeve (someday she swears she will get them enchanted to act as miniature bags of holding) and traces them over her arm; they cover her entire body, criss-crossing everywhere on her skin.

"The burden of true courage is loss, loss lived with in time, endurance and perseverance without what is most loved a true measure of self over death. There is no hope without life, no fix achieved in fruitless death. The meaning of true courage eludes and the mystery remains. You leave with life, and thus hope, a nightmare for the crystal in place."

Too well, she remembers the Minaret of Symphony.

The shadow box here on the left, that remained hers, a small triumph as it was almost imploded to keep the Shadow Thieves from knowing their movements; she treasured it, as though it was used by the omnipresent guild in malevolence under Sharina, Acacea still adores puzzle boxes of all kinds, and this one was used to communicate through the shadows, coded in a halfling Cant with several measures to detect false messages. She's long ago decoded it all, and the guild collapsed utterly with the death of Sharina Shadowfang they had all witnessed, who had turned it completely, utterly her own. The remaining sects were picked off by local guilds and inhabitants, and Hirum led the reformed remains from Prantz. She's still never quite left the streets, and remains careful to tend her communication lines and stay out of business conflicting with local guilds unless absolutely necessary; she has a lot of friends in low places and has no desire to have that turned around on her.

The little Prunilla prayer book...Acacea keeps it now that Pige trains for the clergy of Lucinda - and well she might! After all the time she had spent with magic, and seeing what it had done with her brother, it was not very surprising. Still, she might want it, later... The halfling smacks her forehead lightly as she glances through it. "I should have asked Jennara to sign these for me - it would have been easier because they're already written down..." Oh well. Merlin had still learned what formal signs Acacea had learned from Jennara, alongside his own means of communication. Storold mentioning further evidence of the pair that had been responsible for Merlin's death (there is a complicated story) was cause for trouble, she was sure Connor was going to be very...upset. She puts the thought aside along with the little prayer book, for now.

There was a curious gem that seem fused from three different minerals, as though it were natural... "I still need to learn to set up things better, so I can invent something to pass it on with...that's the way the gnomes play!"

Speaking of gnomes reminds her that she needs to work on getting Alberius restored and talk to the tinker in Argas...it's been ages since she was in the desert for anything but business, anyway; she'd only stopped at the camp at Twin Lions to ask Drogo for directions to the ruins, after all!

Much of the desert remains a mystery to her, and though she long ago mastered with ease the basic tricks of the sands, she has found little time to more deeply explore what change her songs have as a Sand Caller of the tribes; Asee and Tiffy were the best, and led them, but Acacea remains an anomaly, outside of the tribes even while being a part of them since her initiation...she generally neither takes orders, nor gives them, so it's a good thing she is halfling and they're all similar in that! But with so many questions left to ask... Wildflower Heaven must be a preservation of the Selamaian's jungle, but what is the wind cave to them? For what purpose had the runes been left, that had led to the first Pair - they scribed on energy, not stone and paper, so whose were they?

So many stories and questions, so many tongues, so much magic, so many hills to roll down and dances to be danced...and so little time! And here the unicorns remain unrestored, as well... But the stars are out again, and the sun free from the debris that had choked the skies from the explosion she helped cause in the death of Bloodstone; and too, she helped cleanse it again, happily adding the key to Ozlo's tower to the others. She looks to Diamond with laughing eyes at the sight of yet more keepsakes with stories still untold or unfinished. "Let it at least never be said that I lead a boring life!"

How do you see your character being or becoming a World Leader?

Honestly, it's difficult for me to imagine a relatively short quest (compared to others in her life) affecting her more greatly than all the others before it; when she first qualified, I was waiting for the someday resolution of the Angels' Tear series to apply, as it was obvious to me that no matter the outcome of her epic, it would be overshadowed by the conclusion of the series, which had a huge impact on her. It is of course not finishing, however, and much of that all up there that actually matters to her greatly is rather meaningless and soon to be non-existent. That is a large reason why I decided to try, much later - there are so many things I feel she's been involved in at some point, not all of them even mentioned above, but half of them are loose ends.

Since a few of the loose ends are extremely important to my character, yet slated to disappear as well, I'm hoping to try and redirect them, or rewrite them entirely if necessary - in other words, I can't remove them, but will tie an altered version if I have to, just to get it done and not hanging there. Some can just be quietly shelved and be roleplayed but never mentioned in official lore and that is fine, but others will be openly contradicted and they're the ones that need some help... If the things that my character took away from a story need to be separated from their source, then the source can be changed... I'm quicker to edit a page than rip it out entirely, particularly when in this case a page is a half the book.

The Spirit Dunes are also a big question mark, of course; there are many open ends in her life. I feel like if she's approved, it will be pretty challenging for a DM to help incorporate (and thus fix/perform surgery/severely twist around some aspects in her life) and still have the whole story going on, but she's nearing level 30 and I haven't gotten over the feeling that it's cheap to keep level jumping without ever having had an epic, knowing the specific challenges others have had to deal with for the same or less. She makes a pretty stellar sidekick most of the time, in my opinion - I've attended at least five successful epics (some being the finales for existing WLs), and she's managed to avoid being total baggage, for the most part. She generally doesn't lead, but influences leaders, so it will be interesting to see if it crashes and burns when she can't step back and say "I don't know, screwing up is on your head now!" I have tons of ideas, but the DMs that know her best have plots on hand waiting to destroy her, I have no doubt.

Thematically, I am interested to see where she will end up in the semi conflict between, say, veteran and innocent. Those aren't good descriptors, but I have trouble labeling them. I don't think either is a goal, but it has been interesting watching her waver between one and the other, growing darker and lighter both by the actions of others; I think it's funny that Diamond depends on Acacea for what she is, and Acacea depends on the world. Sometimes it feels more like she is a mirror that reflects what she sees around her, and she has selective vision. I always kind of wonder which side she's going to end up on; there's a lot of dark and it builds up over time, growing older and darker, but then there will be something that washes it all away again and she seems to start over, with only the major scars remaining. Depending on where she's at with that, she gets along with very different people and has different methods of doing things.

What sort of position and/or title do you envision for your character?

*Points above.* She has a hundred titles all self-given - not so much because she thinks so highly of them, but more because she thinks so little of them. Words are words... Bread Taster is just as good as Supreme Commander of the Watch, as far as she's concerned, and she's used them regularly as if on equal footing since the day she came to Hlint. She just Is. I guess it's just semantics, as 'position' seems like an odd word for her, always flitting around here and there, but there are a lot of things she could 'become.' Maybe Lucinda's familiar. Pfft. (Joke...)

I'd have to send a really long PM with all the idea spam, but as to say, office or position or anything of the like - not her style. For example, as extremely devoted to magic as she is, in the end she is still a bard, and is not permitted in many areas of the church itself without a mage or cleric of the higher orders of mysteries; and in this case, it works out, as she works outside of most things, not feeling particularly weighted down by any organizational duties in what really matters. Whatever she becomes or however she serves should be highly individualistic and inextricably bound with the magic in her music, as those two words are interchangeable for her. She often thinks in song, expresses herself in it, identifies places and people by their sound, and it is her way of reaching the Weave; it has always been so, and was amplified by Lucinda's half of the Tear, and multiplied yet again with Eor's quest.

She's still trapped under a mountain in Harlas' quest at the moment, which is why I haven't been logging in recently except for quests she's involved in, but that's also partially why I suddenly had the time to finish this monstrosity :P I doubled your submission, Ed... I need a 12 step program for longwindedness, as I think this is now by thousands of words the longest WL app...but I sort of felt like much would never be written down unless I did it here, as her dev thread is way behind and some things have dead ended out, etc. And despite the hugeness of it, much of course was still left out that will likely never make it into her CDT, either, heh...gross.

*Hits submit after a few days of stalling and just runs from the sight of the million page application*