*The cover of a weathered brown leather book reads:* Darren Dai'Tana

[nyufilm]

Already, within my first few days in Hlint, I can sense the community that pervades this place.  Having just returned from my journies, it is a peculiar thing to suddenly attempt to ingratiate oneself into the framework of society and all of its rules and expectations, having been free from them for so long.  Much like what I imagine fighting with a rusty sword is like; after you stop using something for a while, your knowledge of and respect for it begins to decay.  I think I fit right in, for the most part.  As best I could, all things considered.  I met a woman named Rhynn in town; she was kind enough to grant me an in-depth tour of the entire locale.  I'm not sure what I would have done without her assistance.  She is the only one who seems to have truly...*The writing here decays into searching scratches; black ink blots mar this section of the page.* ... it all.  ... me.  

If the past is the pathway to the present, and the present is the pathway to the future, then my course is set, and there is nothing that can change that.  The moment I start thinking about what I want is the moment I back-peddle.  The moment I back-peddle is the moment my maturity slips away; it is the moment that I lose control of myself and of my surroundings.  THAT
pathway *The writing again assumes a furious flow* spills into the rivers of disaster.  Some of us are not meant to tread that way.

*Pensive quill marks dabble a section of the page*

I find myself dabbling around in philosophy.  Why?  Well, I'm a bard.  It is part of my job description.  Right?  Yes.  Of course.  I philosophize in order to add fuel to my tales.  But, I can't help but think that the reason runs deeper than that...That the reason is more than I would care to ponder.  As such, I will NOT ponder this train of thought any further, for that road may present challenges I would rather not encounter.  Ones that I faced long ago.  So shut up and slam down the lid, because that is DONE.

Hlint may not be the most pretty of places, but it nevertheless inspired me in the following story, which I entitle, "THE BUTTERFLY."

***

The trees were like angels reaching to the heavens.  A caterpillar crawled along an oak tree's lower branch, inching its way toward the oak's base.

The man strolled through the copse casually, the woman by his side.  He brushed aside a cluster of foliage with his hand as he spoke.

"A radical?" He arched his eyebrow inquisitively.

The woman nodded, staring up at her companion.  "Aren't you?"

The man smiled.  It was not a smile flashed by one boasting of his or her superior intelligence, but it was the kind of smile a father would give to a daughter, or a husband to his wife.  It was a smile of intimacy, whose creases were tinged with the unmistakable fire of remembrance.  "Well, that depends," the man answered.

"On what?"

The man approached the oak on which the caterpillar crawled.  "On your point of view.  If by 'radical' you mean one who resents the imposition of laws enforced by individuals who hardly know my name, then yes, I suppose I am."  He shook his head, the smile fading as he sat under the oak.  His eyes seemed to retreat into his head as he stared off into the distance, back the way he had come with the woman.  "It's sad, isn't it."  Taking a seat next to her comapnion, the woman knew she was not supposed to answer.  "That the 'radical' is the one who fights for every individual's freedom; for every individuals' right to his individual personality.  That these kinds of radicals--not those who bind and limit mankind with their sweeping generalizations and unjust laws--are the ones who are shunned and punished, sometimes by the very people whom they are trying to save."  He paused.  "Some day, you will understand that what is accepted is not necessarily what is right."

"What is right?" The woman asked softly.

He smiled, looking at the struggling caterpillar.  "You see that caterpillar, there, on that branch?"  The woman followed his gaze and nodded.  "Do you know what is going to happen to it once it reaches the oak's base?"  The woman shook her head.  The man continued: "It is going to spin its cacoon.  It will be in the shade; it's an ideal place for a several month tenure.  But trapped in that sack, surrounded by darkness, it will over time become completely transformed.  Its once feeble caterpillar skin will be shed in favor of the beautiful body of a butterfly, and it will take off from the oak, rejoicing in its splendid individuality."

He paused.  Then: That," the man stated, "Is how life should be."

***
Not the best thing I've ever written and certainly not a bard's tale; but it's more of a reflection, I suppose.  It just popped into my mind.
I ask myself: Is it the place and the imagination's extension of that that inspires me, or is it the people...a person...and the imagination's extension of THAT?  What is my muse?  Do I need one?  Not consciously, no; but one will, even if only subconsciously, work its way into me.  Is that wrong?  No.  It's not even a compromise: it is an unavoidable fact of life that ultimately serves me well.

I cannot accept what Ozy (his full name escapes me, I'm afraid) the former Archbard said to me upon our introduction.  I cannot accept that bards are always unappreciated; that there is no place for them in this world.  That they should settle down, make a family, and resign all of their dreams, all of their aspirations, to complacent mediocrity.  I want to be known.  *The hand writing grows in urgent, almost pleading intensity* My name will be proclaimed throughout the lands.  Some day, my voice will be heard, and the world will recognize it as the voice of Darren Dai'Tana, Bard.  That's what I want.  That's my ambition.  Everything else is superfluous, as it has proven itself to be so.  Nothing else matters, because everything else is transitory.  But the written word--the pen on paper--the song; the story--is not.  In one form or another, it continues, echoing its author, bearing with each telling and re-telling the author's own individuality and greatness.  It's time to defy conventions and expectations.

*In a curious scribble:*

Forget what's happened.  Take what you want.  Work for it.

Some bard I am.

[nyufilm]

Life is a curious thing.

*Searching ink marks stain the page*

I just don't know...I was searching for bats earlier today when I again ran into Rhynn.  She offered to help me find those vermin, but soon, we got to talking.  Before I knew it, we were all standing around discussing pies, baking, and other such things.  In itself, the topic was trivial.  But I was given an apple pie.  I was not charged for it; it was GIVEN to me.  And I hadn't had one in years...In fact, I suppose I have been avoiding it, what with it being the last thing my mother baked me--my favorite--before I took off on that brash expedition so many years ago.  Memories.  The blessing and the curse of life.  Sometimes I wish I could rip apart my head, shake out my past, seal it back up, and start all over again.  I made so many mistakes...That's not acceptable...I cannot make mistakes; they are the enemy of efficiency.  They are the enemy of life.  In that pie was stored memories of years gone by, and like a key in a lock, it unlocked my mind, and the memories came rushing back.  I pray to the gods they saw nothing; I pray they noticed nothing different.  Only Rhynn noticed.  I have to get better.  I have to cover that.  I have to drive it into the depths of my mind so that it will never surface again, because that is the only thing I can do.

Poor Nyyana.  I don't quite know why, but my heart goes out to her.  She seems so...well, timid, and *The black ink begins to fade* uncertain of herself.  I challenged her to design an outfit of her own, and she proudly declared that she had done so, and she modeled several outfits she had made with her own hands.  With her own mind.  There is a brilliance there that I feel she fears to unlock.  It saddens me that one would deny oneself the pleasure of harnessing one's individuality and creative powers.  Her relationship with Rhynn, frankly, baffles me.  Perhaps there is more going on in Nyyana's mind than meets the eye.

I was invited to the Freelancer's to tell stories; finally, my first official invitation.  I have to find it, first.  Rhynn said she could take me there. *The end of this sentence is almost illegibly faded*

*There is a break in the page.  The ink returns in its full color:*

I hate spent quills.

At Rhynn's suggestion and with her guidance, I approached a bard in the Wild Surge Inn, regarding a necklace she had lost.  It baffles me how she--a bard, for that matter!--could be so irresponsible as to continually lose it; she might as well tie it around her neck and save herself time and trouble.  

Rhynn guided me out of the gates of Hlint.  In all honesty, it was my first time passing out of those gates, and a strange feeling came over me; one which I cannot fully describe.  It felt like gates were being opened to a new world; like I was stepping across an invisible threshold into a sort of new life.  Before me stretched the plains and hills, and what came next stole my breath: a forest.  It's in my nature to forget names--I should have written it down--but whatever forest it was, it was gorgeous: gigantic trees.  Shafts of sunlight.  Ironic that in the middle of that was the cave we were to clear out, eradicating all signs of bugbears, gelatinous cubes, and other such creatures.  I think I owe my life to Rhynn.  She saved me on numerous accounts.  It's embarassing, really.  It makes me feel inadequate.  Thank the gods she did it, but I wanted to show her that I could do it on my own, that I could stand my ground and fight.  Why?  Because it's important to be able to do that.  I thought no one else would do it for you...A ... bugbear started chasing me and Rhynn had to lop its head off before I got throttled.  Perhaps I should take her suggestion and take up the sword.  I think I would be quite adept at it; it takes agility and mobility, both of which I have.  I've always preferred ranged weapons.  Hmm.  Wonder what that says about me...At any rate.

There are multiple levels to the same event: there is the surface action, and then there are the other things, the things bubbling under the surface; the motives, the emotions; the level that leads to danger.  *The handwriting becomes sloppier, as if he is trying to keep up with the speed of his thoughts* I don't really know what to say.  I thought I had gotten rid of it over the past few years; buried it in the wilderness I left so that it would never return.  And then I return, and it's one of the first things that's happened to me.  Why?  I don't know.  It just...happened.  I should get out.  I should pull away, right now, before someone gets hurt.  But I don't WANT to.  There.  I've said it.  I don't want to pull away from her.  Maybe I'm tricking myself into sensing something in her that is not really there.  Maybe...Maybe it's a ploy; a mask.  Dear gods, I don't want to hurt her.  

She gave me gold.  She just...handed it to me.  From the cave.  It was gold she had earned, gold her own skill and her own magic had won her, and she turned around and tried to offer it to me.  I swear, I wouldn't take it.  I didn't earn it.  It wasn't my blood, my life, my skill, that had gotten it; how could I take it?  She threatened to drop it on the ground, and I didn't believe she would do it.  I laugh as I think about that; of course she would do it!  I've just met her but I feel like I've known her forever.  She threw it on the ground, all right.  There it was, sparkling in the cave.  I waited in front of it for her to return, but she didn't.  She kept going.  It would've ended up in the filthy paws of those bugbears, I guarantee it; she wasn't going to take it back, so I picked it up.  I'll never forget what she said to me: "Don't get the impression that I'm nice to every random berk that walks into the burg."  Then she turned to go, and I followed.  And she kept singing...She said she wasn't, then she would turn around and tell me she was, and that she said she was playing with my head.  Laughing, I told her I think she missed her calling.  Her singing was, frankly, brilliant.  She is intelligent, quick, daring, unpredictable...*A few words are unintelligbly scratched out* It made me jealous, almost.  But a feeling greater than jealousy overwhelmed me: the songs were sad, melancholic unlike anything I have heard before that I myself have not written.  I want to help her.  I don't know why...I don't know what I'm feeling...Or, do I?  Do I, and I just don't want to face it?  Or, do I, and I want to face it, but I can't?  Writing about anything else becomes difficult.  I wonder if a muse can become an impediment.  If it can block my progress toward becoming renown thorughout the land as Darren Dai'Tana, Bard. *Searching strokes* And then I realize I don't care.  It's not right...I can't...But I don't care.

Did I write that?

*A page is entirely crossed out, quill markings scratching any form of intelligible writing.  There is a gap.  Some of the ink is smudged, as if by water* I miss her.

[nyufilm]

A few days ago, I realized that I had enough money to purchase that liberating certification: the Badge of Crafting.  This will permit me to craft instruments in the town of Hlint, and, I assume, in other civilized locales.  It still baffles me that an inked document holds so much sway over the public; that their minds are tethered to these "official certifications" and such as if they have always existed, when the reality is, their ancestors imposed the system.  

I hate to admit that I am beginning to see the use, if not the viability, of such restrictions: one cannot run a city today, it seems, without some sort of "law" in place to keep the unthinking people in line.  What happened to individual responsibility?  It seems to have sunken to the bottom of the ocean of antiquity.  The teachings of Kithairian seem to fall on deaf ears.

After purchasing my crafting license, I excitedly approached the instrument bench, only to discover that I had no idea how to use it!  I left the crafting hall to refill my canteen and think over the technical aspects of using the town tools when I ran into a most peculiar individual who claimed to be a hermit.  He also claimed to serve the god Rod, who's only creed was something like, "Make love and be merry;" forgive me if I do not recall the specifics of his little chant.  Now, I may not have traveled Layonara from corner to corner, but I have done my fair share of traveling and I consider myself versed in the lore of the world, and never before have I heard of some fish god named "Rod."  He was perhaps the single most annoying person I have yet to meet in Hlint.

Perhaps, though, I did not give Mr. Fish his due treatment as I interacted with him, for my mind was elsewhere.  Earlier, Rhynn had suggested that we explore the crypt in Hlint.  My own reaction to her suggestion took me completely off guard: I froze.  Unexpectedly, the damage had been done: the mere mention of "crypt", coupled with the nearby presence of the crypt itself, hit me like a sledgehammer.  It doesn't make sense: I've blocked out far worse triggers; why should one reference to some unassociated bone yard set me off?  *The script is darker and rigid* Because she said it.  Because someone I care about mentioned it, and it could happen again.  All I knew is that I had to get out of there, and I had to get out of there fast, before I broke down into a hopeless wreck.  But ...ed if I let it happen in front of other people: especially in front of Rhynn.  Thank the gods for the fellow who offered his assistance in sweeping clean the crypt; it gave me an excuse to part ways and not help out with the crypt.  I spent the next few days trying to buck from my mind the memories surfaced by Rhynn's mention of the crypt.  I thought of Mother, Cara, my friends.  *The writing assumes a frantic flow*  I thought of them, and I thought of what I did to them.  I tried to block it out, like I've been doing for years; to catch it in the screen I put up, but they broke through; like water rushing through a dam they swept away my defenses.  The spoken word can be a weapon far more powerful than any sword.  It challenges the core of a person: it confronts his heart and his mind, not just his physical presence.

Finally, I built things back to the way they should be, and managed to work it up to go back into town, which is when I purchased my license and stumbled across the hermit (pardon the jumbled order of recollection).

Then I stumbled across Rhynn.  It was a strange feeling that swept over me: I both wanted to run away and to stay.  I wanted to put as much distance as possible between me and her, to bury what she had raised in me forever, and ensure that it would never rise again so that I could do no harm.  But I wanted more to stay.  I can't explain it. *The cleanliness of the print deteriorates as the author writes with increased speed* She saw me, and she knew something was wrong.  I just mentioned that I had had a bad day--understatement of the century, friends--and I offered my best bard smile, and yet, she saw right through it.  She saw *through* me.  She leaned closer and told me not to smile unless I meant it, and she promised that she would do the same.  ...ed if I know how she knew, but it doesn't matter, really.  

No one has ever said something like that to me before, not since Mother.  Not since Cara.  If that had been all she said, it would have left me in shock.  But it went a step further: she *wanted* to listen to me.  She wasn't putting on a show.  She wasn't paying half an ear, as so much of this world does.  They''ll look at you and nod and pretend to be interested, but if you look at them long enough, you'll see the strings attaching to their arms, to their eyes, to their mouths and to their plastic smiles, that lead up to the hands of the Puppeteer of Apathy above.  But she was patient.  She waited for me.  I don't know what compelled me to do what I did, but I told her my story.  I told her what I did to Mother and Cara and my friends.  Scratch that: I *do* know what compelled me.  She did.  Perhaps "compelled" is the wrong word; "encouraged" seems to be more appropriate.  Her response to my story still has me stunned.  I can't wrap my mind around it.  She said it was not my fault.  That if they were alive, today, they would want me to move on, to let them rest in peace so that I could live in peace.  She said that I did not kill them by my hand.  But it was my expedition, I countered; *I* was the one who suggested, organized, and pushed for it.  If I had not done that, they would still be alive today.  True, she conceded...But how could I have known?  The next words just spilled out of my mouth: my father did it.  He went back; he bargained with the Soul Mother and returned his father to life, even if he did pay dearly for it.  How would the newly resurrected person feel, she asked, if they had to live with the knowledge that their loved one sacrificed himself so that they could come back to the land of the living?  That is a question I am not prepared to answer.  They should not feel anything except justified; perhaps a righteous sense of love.  At least, in my case.  I have been thinking about following in my father's footsteps.  If I can bring them back, then justice will be done, and they will know it.  They will know that their killer has received his just due, and they will love him for it...*Searching ink marks surround the next words* Unless I have it all wrong.  Unless Rhynn is right.  "Surviving is different than living," she said.  My heart may be beating, but am I truly *alive*?  How does one even define "alive"?  What is the difference between the two states?  Perhaps true life stems from passion; from living for the moment...But that doesn't make sense.  Not entirely.  Eh, but now I'm just rambling.

After we talked, I showed Rhynn my license!  She explained to me a little more about how one uses it around here.  I'm getting the feeling that making an instrument is going to be harder than I initially thought...In any event, we joined about eight other people on an expedition into a nearby mine, rooting out a bunch of ogres.  At times I felt like a bump on a log.  Never before had I really fought in a group that large; before I could load my next arrow the enemy would be dead.  I felt useless.  Rhynn tried to help me--she made me invisible so that I could curse the ogres undetected, from up close--but I had no more bardic magic left in me that day; I had used it all up.  At least I took down one of them with one carefully placed arrow; I can't tell you how redeeming that single shot was.  Something Rhynn said much later made me wonder if I was justified in feeling useless back in the mines...Was I?  *More searching marks scratch the page* I don't know.  I certainly felt that way.  But just because that is how I felt does not mean that that is what is true.  Feelings and truth are sometimes diametrically opposed.  More often than not, this is the case.  That is why one must use his mind.  Perhaps that is living: an encounter between two minds; two wills; two intelligences, clashing on an intellectual playing field.

*The following writing is smaller than the rest, as if an unwilling concession is being made in print:* But that is not always the case.  I hope.

[nyufilm]

*A blank page separates the previous entry from this one:*

I skipped a page because I feel that this next part deserves a section of its own.

What follows defies everything I have worked toward over the last five years.  What follows is the reckless abandon of a fool.

What follows is a supreme instance of "living."

*A straight line underscores the above sentence, acting both as emphasis and as a divider*

After venturing through the mines, Rhynn led me to, as she put it, a "getaway."  

This place is one of nature's gifts to every living, thinking, feeling being.  A small pool of crystal-blue water sits tucked away in the bosom of a grassy mountain, set against the incline of another slope and nestled between two smooth rocks jutting up from a field of grass and rainbow of colorful flowers surrounding them.  Above: the open expanse of the sky.  We just sat there.  I don't know for how long.  It doesn't matter.  Time had no hold.  Looking back on it, I had dropped all guards, all inhibitions, all of everything I had built over the past five years.  I did what I swore I would not do: I let myself feel.  I let myself embrace the beauty of the moment and live free.  In that moment, fleeting in time but suspended in my mind to an eternity, we were the only two people in the whole world.  Nothing else was real.

Rhynn may be right:  

THAT is a risk worth taking.

*As if as an after-thought, the following comment is squeezed into the margin:* Where does this road lead?

[nyufilm]

I have encountered several new people recently; however, one stands out in my mind the most: his name is Ruin West.  An interesting fellow, he is a gray elf with very poor vision.  We got to talking, and after a relatively tense exchange between him and Rhynn and after Rhynn left to take care of business (I suspect also to respect Ruin's distaste of "interrupting conversations"; perhaps he interpreted her as an interruption), he expressed his opinion of her.  I will not repeat what he said here; needless to say it was probably unjustified.  His comment prodded me to leave, but a question convinced me to stay.  It was a question that came entirely out of the blue and hit me unexpectedly: as I turned to go, he asked, softly: "Are you my friend?"

I was at a loss for words.  How does one respond to such a question?  I had known him for only approximately four days, and already, he was asking me about the status of our "friendship."  I have always considered friendship to be something unspoken; something that just is.  Either it exists, tacit, or it does not exist at all.  But there was something about the way that he asked the question that made me reconsider, and even appreciate him.  It was something...genuine.  Hence, I, the bard, was at a loss for words.  Somehow, I managed to dodge the question and jump into another conversation, only to learn that Ruin has no idea what a "conversation" is.  His confession knocked me flat.  I did not understand how someone could go throughout life unaware of what discussion is; uncertain of how to proceed according to social rules in the course of conversation.  Frankly, this realization was quite fresh.  Not all of life, it seems, has been tainted by the restrictions imposed by society.  Whatever happened to living free, unbridled, unhindered in interaction and lifestyle?  Not even I can claim to live this way.  I think Ruin may be one of the only people I have encountered who can, and for that, I am envious.  I tried to educate him about the rules of social etiquette, but to no avail; his social innocence prevailed in a discussion with Nyyana, and, unfortunately, I think he scared her off.  He asked to "smell" her and then requested that she show him around the swamps.  He also offered me a gift: a necklace that emanates some sort of light.  But I did not take it from him.  I could not: it was his.  He had earned it in one fashion or another; who was I to take it from him?  I seem to be faced with this moral dilemma a lot.  What is a "gift?"  What is involved in giving one?  What are the feelings...The motivations...

This day I also learned officially about the existence of the Arcane Alliance from a man named Daeron, a lecturer about the planes (I tried to spark a conversation between Daeron and Ruin, who's interest is magic, but was quite unsuccessful).  Funny that I discovered Rhynn is also a member, and yet, she has mentioned nothing about her membership in it.  It makes me wonder what I do not know.  But then, how can one know everything about another person, or about any aspect of life, for that matter?  It lies within any given individual to reveal what he or she desires to reveal: no more, no less.

[nyufilm]

*The entire entry is rushed and sloppy; the ink is stained in places and numerous words are vigorously scratched out.  A combination of rage and sorrow seems to motivate the flowing script* What started as a quest for a violin transformed into something far greater.  I spoke with Ozymandius, the former Archbard, on the benches, discussing his journal which is somehow bound to his wife and writes itself.  Our conversation turned to his past, and I learned that he has wandered the planes for thousands of years.  I could hardly believe what I was hearing; here was a fellow Bard who has seen more than I could possibly even begin to imagine.  It was this experience he has garnered that set me on an unforseen path this day.

Let me try to gather my thoughts.  Rhynn had mentioned something about wanting a violin and going about to find the necessary resources.  Well, I was taken off guard and was made rather anxious, seeing as how it has been my plan for some time to make her a violin.  But I know she could beat me to it; she could easily gather the resources much faster than I, especially since I have no idea as to where I would even *begin* searching for the materials.  At any rate, I made like I wanted to speak with Ozy in the Wild Surge about his past.  We pulled up chairs in the inn and I confessed that I actually needed information concerning the whereabouts of materials necessary to craft a violin.  He told me: five oak--which can be gathered in the High Forest--and a box of spider silk, which is available in Sielwood Forest.  Doubtless, I would have to fight a few spiders, but just the other day I took out a human mercenary with the rapier Rhynn made me some time ago.  It was my first time really using a melee weapon in live combat, and if I do say so myself, I used it with considerable efficiency.  I was about to go look for the materials when Ozy issued a word of caution: "Be careful around Rhynn," he told me.

*The handwriting assumes a life of its own.  The lines are hard and rushed* I will not repeat here what he said, because it is burned into my memory.  Writing it down will only add fuel to its fire, validating its existence and perhaps its veracity.  He has seen more than anything I could possibly imagine.  In his eyes, I must be nothing more than a fanciful, deluded bard, drunk with the punch of life.  And I respect him.  Because in his eyes, life is not a punch worth drinking.  Life is something that must be tolerated because it is the alternative to death, which would be worse.  Life is a selfish sprint toward the finish line that must be endured in pain and suffering.  He said I will learn the hard way.  He said that I cannot avoid hurting the ones I love.  He said that choices lead you down the beaten road, or off onto a new path, alone.  I want to challenge him.  I want to say that I can forge my own path, a new path, and others can come, too, if they choose to do so.  I want to say that life is made of your own individual decisions and no amount of patterns or history can alter your step unless you allow it to do so.  I want to be a hero that enjoys every breath I take.  A hero who forges his own way through the jungle of life, rising to spit in the face of difficulties, and then to look back with pride and joy, inflated with the confident knowledge that I beat them and that they were only obstacles, not road blocks.  But I can't.  Not entirely...I cannot rid myself of the poison Ozy has injected into my mind; although doubtless, he has done it with good intentions.  Perhaps it is not poison.  Perhaps it is an antidote; a cure.  And it seems that to take this antidote I must walk away.  To protect those I love, I must leave.  I must sacrifice my own desires, my own choices, in order to prevent suffering from befalling others.  Another.  If I do not, Ozy seems to be implying, then I will destroy her.  I will destroy myself.

*The next is weak; the ink faint* It seems there is only one thing for me to do.

[nyufilm]

I have said earlier that life is a curious thing, and I can only reiterate that eternal fact.  I was sitting on a bench in Hlint, trying to figure out what in the name of the gods I was going to do, when Rhynn approached me.  I was not expecting her.  I was taken completely off-guard and had no prepared response.  It was all I could do to hint at the things Ozy had discussed with me.  I could not look her in the eyes.  I could not answer her questions.  I thought of Cara, the memory that I have struggled to bury, but it came back, undead and undying.  I told her that I needed to leave.  I told her I did not know where I would go, and that it did not really matter.  Her response changed everything: "OK.  Go ahead.  Everyone leaves eventually.  I'll miss you.  Goodbye.  Good luck."  I froze.  My mind froze.  In that frigid intellectual arctic, the fire of her response roared into a blazing inferno, melting the glaciers of Ozy's words and smashing the snow rifts of my own doubts.  I remember words coming out of my mouth, but I don't remember thinking before I said them.  *The writing assumes a reinvigorated intensity* I remember saying what I felt: that to hell with her and the rest of the world if she thought I wanted to leave and would actually do so.  To hell with her ...ed idea that everyone leaves eventually, and to hell with the notion of unbreakable patterns and Ozy's sense of inevitability.  *I* write the book of my own life.  *I* am the author of its shape.  I make my *own* choices, and I *will* forge on, as I so desire, heedless of social restrictions unless abiding by them forwards my own ends and desires.  She told me she is afraid.  I am, too.  Or, I was.  I am not sure...She said that I will not hurt her unless she hurts me first.  To hell with the idea of hurting loved ones.  I want that to be the case...I want to fully believe what I am writing, and I strive to believe it in its entirety.  But there is always a seed of doubt, and it is from a seed that a tree grows.  I pray that it will not.  Can a single path--a path paved with individual choice and the pursuit of one's passions--be tread by more than one person?

[nyufilm]

Dear gods, I'm tired.  *The following is in an angry, heavy script* Ruin West is a ...ed idiot gray elf!  Our paths crossed again recently, and tensions flared between Rhynn and Ruin almost immediately.  Rhynn confronted him about her almost killing him some time ago--no thanks to my mentioning the event to her just the other day--and he proudly dismissed it, as if it were a trivial happening not fit for recollection unless it would serve to provoke *another* confrontation.  Rhynn jumped on the chance to threaten his life, but Ruin stupidly held fast.  I cannot place either of them, and perhaps that is what attracts me to them both, at least, in part: spontaneity.  Unpredictability.  But such a streak is also rife with danger.  Danger which, the world seems to be telling me, should be treated very, very cautiously.

*A few wandering quill marks introduce the next line* But since when did I start following, to the letter, advice from others about how to run my own life?  *Respect* their opinions; do not necessarily *agree* with them.  Indeed.  Drogo and others bashed Rhynn's honor in her absence.  What surprised me is not just one of them did so...They all did, in one fashion or another.  They threw their collective opinion in my face, but I spit back at it.  I cannot believe that what they are saying holds water.  That has not been my experience, and experience is the validation of knowledge, which seems to be another strike against their shared mentality.  Surely, they have not all experienced her, in their paraphrased words, "relational ills" firsthand, so how could they possibly claim to *know* them?  But then, one wonders: what stock does observation hold?  What truth does hearsay have?  Cannot one learn from just watching?  The gods know I've had my fair share of that, for better or for worse.  I pray that "unpredictability" does not extend into every aspect of life; like building a house on shifting sands.  

Just outside of Hlint, Ruin again attempted to give me a pendant which I had initially refused some time ago.  I thought the issue had been closed, then...But, it seems, it was not.  I would not accept it, and yet, he continued to urge me to do so.  Finally, he dropped the pendant on the ground.  My mind flashed back to when Rhynn left a pile of gold behind in that cave to rust or to be used, by me.  This time, I stood my ground.  What follows is a supreme act of stupidity, really, on both of our parts: on his for doing it, and on mine for falling for it.  He asked me to hold his light-casting staff--which certainly aids his vision--for him for a moment while he retrieved his journal from his pouch.  As soon as it was in my hands, he bade me goodbye and dashed off to do what I suggested--slay some goblins--leaving his pendant sparkling on the ground.

Allow me to provide some background information: Before the confrontation between Ruin and Rhynn, Ruin had been about to embark on a goblin-slaying expedition with a man clad in blue armor.  I suppose it is my fault that he did not.  I arrived and tiptoed past Ruin in an attempt to conceal my presence--not because I did not want to speak with him, but because I feared what might happen between him and Rhynn--but he caught my "scent," apparently, and, well, events escalated.  In order to break the tension, I continually suggested that he go undertake his quest (in order to separate him and Rhynn).  When he left--without his friend in blue armor--he went north, not toward the goblins, but toward the orcs.

I say it again: ...ed idiot gray elf!  Without thinking, I drew Ruin's staff and chased after him, into the north.  Luckily, I found him just outside of Hlint.  He would not take back his staff.  I offered it to him--I *demanded* he take it--but he insisted that I had earned it, for some strange reason!  He insisted that I had *earned* the pendant as well (which a passersby had picked up and given to me before I went after Ruin).  I had had it.  I lost my temper and virtually *encouraged* him to go on toward the orcs, without a weapon.  I had not thought that he would take it seriously...I should have known better.  I watched the orcs tear him to pieces; I couldn't stop all of them.  In the middle of another wave of orcs, when I was tiring, Rhynn appeared--gods only know from where--and killed them off.  She sunk to a knee over Ruin's body and told me to find a cleric.

I dashed back into Hlint--it's all a sort of blur, really--screaming for a cleric, but I did not find one.  I rushed back to the forest and realized that several people had followed me (the individuals who would soon bash Rhynn's honor).  Together, despite considerable tension, we fended off the orcs from Ruin's grave until he returned.  It was there that I officially met Drogo, a mysterious elf, in my opinion, with a respectable reverence for the woods and for nature in general.

It was my fault, at least, in part.  I admit, as I am learning, that I did not control his actions, but I did spur him on toward his fate.  What goes on in that gray elf's head?

I thought that was the end of it, but things only got crazier.  I was told that *Rhynn*--the very last person I would have thought would have cared what in the hells happened to Ruin; she had said so herself--had escorted Ruin back to his grave!

And then back in Hlint, Ruin challenged Rhynn to a fight to the death.  I was beside myself.  I didn't know what to do; it had been one thing after another; I froze after little protest because I did not know what to do.  It was all I could do to follow the two of them to an arena.  We passed through cities I had never seen before and frankly don't remember, considering the state I was in, and, finally, we arrived at the arena where the match was to be held.  I knew it would be a bloodbath.  I knew that Ruin would fall in the blink of an eye; I have seen Rhynn's tricks, and they are many and varied and powerful.  But instead of a slaughter, something else happened...Ruin offered Rhynn gifts.  Not just any gifts, but gifts that his own parents had given him.  A gift that his father--whose appreciation and respect it seems that Ruin never attained--had given him.  Rhynn faltered.  I watched the exchange, spellbound.  Ultimately, Rhynn did not kill the idiot gray elf.  Rather, she listened to a proposition he presented: either she continue down the road she is walking, or she forge a new road.  Frankly, I have no idea what Ruin was talking about, but it saved his life.  Ruin left without another word.  Rhynn asked me to take the gifts he had given her.  It was hard--I hated doing it, but I did not hate *why* I did it--but it happened.  The two of us trekked back to Hlint, passing by the tower of the Arcane Alliance and the Freelancer's Inn, among other things.  

She left for some time, and upon her re-arrival, she came out of Hlint's gates and into the woods carrying a VIOLIN!  I was simultaneously thrilled for her and disappointed that she had beaten me to it; however, that disappointment dissipated when she told me--quite perceptively, I might add--that teaching her to play an instrument would mean just as much as making her one.

*The last, squeezed into the margin, seems quickly scribbled* We each have our own definitions of "right" that align with our individual, respective circumstances.  Do not judge another's "rightness" on the ground's of your own moral sense unless you know full well the associated circumstances.  More later.

[nyufilm]

*The following is scribbled down hastily.  It is the only section legible in the midst of smeared ink on a wrinkled, water-marked page* Lakes are nice.  Really, they are.  But that was not the case this morning, when the wind decided to rob me of my new journal entry and deposit it into the water!  I searched for hours to get it back.  Lost it all.  Perhaps I will re-write it another time...My head is bursting with the ideas I had scribed on that page.  I need to write them down.  These are ideas I will *not* forget.  They are ideas that *must* be written.

I didn't used to mind being lost, probably because I was lost all of the time, really, for virtually five years.  In more senses than one, I suppose...Perhaps.  Well, now I am lost--again--in the grand outdoors.  And the gods only know I want to get back!  I miss her.  I better start trying to find Hlint again.  No time to write.

[nyufilm]

It has been several days since I have seized the opportunity to write in my journal.  Now, under ordinary circumstances, this fact would be driving me insane as thoughts and feelings flood my being and as I frantically worry that if I do not scribble them onto these pages then they will disappear into the chasms of my mind and be rendered useless and past.  But such is not the case as of late.  I *chose* not to write until now, because I was busy *living* life.  My writing was not driving me; I was driving my writing.

Thank the gods, I finally wondered into Hlint and, exhausted, dipped my canteen into the well and purchased some dried food rations from the innkeeper in the Wild Surge.  Downed them like there was no tomorrow.  Makes me sometimes think I've lost my knack for living off the land, though I know that that can't be true.  The work of five years is not undone in the span of a few months.  Every chapter of one's story contributes to the whole by adding to the book as a complete tale, not by overwriting and scratching out past chapters.

At any rate, much to my delight, one of the first people I ran into back in town was Rhynn.  I found her near her favorite pond, or, as I continually find myself calling it, lake (she has a knack for falling into it), with several other people.  As I approached them, it became evident that they were...Well, drunk.  Drunk absolutely out of their minds.  Rhynn offered me a bottle as I approached.  I took it from her and studied its red contents, then inquired as to its effects on one's mind.  I got my answer from a woman clad in a revealing blue dress, who later identified herself as Muireann: She collapsed, laughing.  Next to her was a flamboyantly dressed bard, complete with a wonderfully absurd hat topped with a billowing feather, who identified himself as the seafaring Karn.  He started a fire for the party to sit around and began to entertain the group.  He invited me to do the same, but I did not.  I gave Rhynn the bottle of wine back and remained standing, brushing off Muireann's inquiries into why I was not drinking.  

I was thinking.  I was thinking about what Rhynn said some time ago: the difference between living and surviving.  I am sure that in their eyes, my actions were not congruent with that of your stereotypical bard: the happy-go-lucky, drink-till-you-drop, whip-out-your-guitar, story-slapping merry-goer.  And yes, I'm dressed in black spiky armor, because it fits nicely.  And because I am sick of having to maintain masks with a public that refuses to see.  In that instant, as the party "made merry" around the fire, I abandoned my bardic instincts in favor of an other personal opinion.  I spoke my mind.  I spoke it not out of spite, but out of conviction.  In regards to the differentiation between living and surviving: living is experiencing life to the full, as far as I understand it.  Any "living" creature in possession of a conscious, reasoning mind is blessed with an unmatched capacity for creativity and choice.  I tried to explain all of this to Muireann, who, I admit, tried my nerves.  I lost my temper, and apparently our discussion disintegrated into a shouting match that scared off Rhynn...I will express what I was attempting to tell them here, in writing, where I can think more clearly in the calm of my own mind.  

As a reasoning living creature, it is one's responsibility to apply this gift.  In fact, the conscious living creature's basic vice, the source of all his evils, is the suspension of his consciousness; the unfocusing of his mind; the refusal to see the abyss.  It is not ignorance, but the refusal to know: their drinking to excess--a decision made, I must believe, consciously--usurped the essence of what prompted them to make this decision: their own consciousness.  *Quill strokes increase in darkness and intensity* By drowning their brains, they indulged in the pleasure of not being conscious: an act traditionally committed by the soul of a man with scarcely a shred of self-esteem, who never considers the universe a comprehensible whole and who takes his lethargic dread of it for granted, and whose only form of relief and understanding of enjoyment is the dim flicker of undemanding sensations.  By enslaving themselves to the bosom of the bottle, they (temporarily) abandoned the gift which they have been given as conscious living creatures: their capacity for creativity and choice.  Any man with a shred of self-respect need not drink to excess in order to experience pleasure.  Pleasure comes from the very thing they drowned: the application of consciousness, creativity, and choice.

Muireann disagreed with me avidly.  After she struck the pond with lightning, she assured me that she was in complete control; otherwise, we would all have been dead.  As I said, I prefer to consider it a stroke of luck and the provision of the gods that we're not all face-to-face with the soul mother right now.  Why would she even have summoned the lightning had she been in her right, fully conscious mind?  I challenged not her ability to control her magic tricks, but rather her ability to make reasonable decisions.  She in turn challenged my differentiation between perception and assumption.  The two--being perceptive and making assumptions--are unfortunately often mixed, when in actuality, they are diametrically opposed.  The question is, why are they so often confused?  Allow me to jump ahead a bit in the timeline and consult a discussion Rhynn and I had on the outskirts of Hlint, regarding Ozy.  I said, more to myself than to her, I suppose, that Ozy is somewhat jaded.  When she asked me how, I said that he is certainly wise, but that his vast experience has (inevitably) colored his perception of life, encouraging him to project his assumptions into other individuals' situations.  The reality of it is--no matter what anyone says--that an individual is an individual, and the same criteria cannot be used to judge each and every living creature that walks the face of Layonara.  When one bases conclusions on his individually-rooted assumptions and declares them to be perceptive and thus universal, one is deceiving oneself into drawing false conclusions.

And then the drunk Muireann raised an interesting question.  As I was talking with Rhynn, who had taken refuge from the storm of Muireann's and my argument behind a building, I overheard her deem me a hypocrite.  "He lectures me for bringing down lightning but seems to forgot that Rhynn unleashed magic, too.  Hypocrite, if you ask me."

And I knew she had a point.  In fact, confronting Rhynn about that action had, frankly, not even crossed my mind.  Which later prompted me to ask myself: why was that so?  I am not sure I fully understand it myself.

About that time, a raven rolled into the area.  It sat on Ruin's staff that I am still carrying, and it would not leave me alone.  It seemed to recognize the staff, and even me, for that matter.  Ruin had said he was never coming back, and yet, I found myself wondering around Hlint for the stupid bird after it flew away.  I found nothing.  I had been hoping it would lead me to Ruin, but I suppose that was only a fool's hope.  I encountered Rhynn after my failed search, and she led me to the inn at Leilon, where I discovered that in addition to the violin, she plays the piano.  It made me wonder what *else* she plays, and what other talents she possesses, and it made me remember my mother.  She loved the piano: every day at 3:00 in the afternoon, sharp, she would sit in front of the piano and practice, and then every night, late into the night, she would sit at the piano in the living room and play some more.  A far cry, it seems, from Rhynn's parents, who discouraged her from expressing herself; her creativity.  

Eventually, Rhynn and I took a portal back to the outskirts of Hlint and sat against a rock face, surrounded by trees, grass, and rain.  It seemed to always be raining.  It bothered Rhynn at first--she jokingly informed me that it would take weeks to dry her hair if it got wet--but I loved it the whole time, just like my father did.  It is a gift from the gods.  It reminds me of a journal entry I stumbled across in my father's journal many years ago:

“The rain surrounded the whole cabin with its enormous virginal myth, a whole world of meaning, of secrecy, of silence, of rumor. Think of it: all that speech pouring down, selling nothing, judging nobody, drenching the thick mulch of dead leaves, soaking the trees, filling the gullies and crannies of the wood with water, washing out the places where men have stripped the hillside! What a thing it is to sit absolutely alone, in the forest, at night, cherished by this wonderful, unintelligible, perfectly innocent speech, the most comforting speech in the world, the talk that rain makes by itself all over the ridges, and that talk of the watercourses everywhere in the hollows!

Nobody started it, nobody is going to stop it. It will talk as long as it wants, this rain. As long as it talks I am going to listen.”

I agree with every ...ed word of it.  Finally, Rhynn gave up trying to keep dry, and let the rain wash over her.  Sometimes inspiration comes from people, and sometimes it comes from nature.  I find that, traditionally, for me it has come from nature.  I wondered why this is so, considering for Rhynn it comes from emotions that surface from interactions with individuals.  And I realized that my writing ultimately stems from that same influence, and that nature is just the channel through which my emotions are emphasized.  I did not say this directly; I couldn't.  Rhynn asked me if I thought she was cynical and emotionally hardened.  I remember my reply.  I remember thinking of how my writing ultimately branches from my own emotions raised by other people, as I replied to her question: I said that cynicism and emotional hardness are only masks that conceal the face of one's identity and one's true desires, because the wearer of the mask is afraid to want these things, because the wearer thinks that he cannot have them, and hope deferred makes the heart sick.  Underneath that hard outer shell lies the true person, who is *not* plagued by cynicism and emotional apathy.  I was speaking of myself as I spoke also of her.  She asked me if that is what I *know* or *want* to be true, and I replied with a bardic dodge of the question: I said I cannot know anything beyond my own self for certain, and even then, sometimes I wonder.  But here, I confess that it is both.

I cannot here recount everything Rhynn and I discussed, seeing as how my memory does not serve me *that* well, but topics ranged from breaking paladins to Rhynn's eight (!!!) siblings to her parents' unjust treatment of her to "Power is Nothing without Restraint" to the essence of a Free Spirit.  Hells, someone calls me a Free Spirit, I'll thank them; it won't be any ...ed insult to me, because that's how life should be lived.  One cannot be in love with law and order; one can only be enslaved by them.  They have their part in this decaying society, but they are not cement.  To the responsible, truly living individual, they are more like clay.  They are meant to be molded according to the individual cast of the responsible potter so that he can live according to the order of his own individuality.  We discussed good versus evil: Rhynn defined "good" as working mostly for the benefit of others, and "evil" as working mostly for the benefit of yourself.  Frankly, her answer surprised me, and I do not think I entirely agree.  I don't know; I am still processing; when I have more coherent thoughts on the matter I will record them here later.  She also told me--bless her--that Ruin was indeed back in Hlint, and had asked her not to tell me that this was so.  *The writing is jagged and furious* ...ed gray elf.  ... him to the hells!  I care about him, and he doesn't want me to know he's back in town?  Rhynn said Ruin said that he is coming back again...I only wonder why he did not want me to know he was around in the first place...

*There is a gap in the page, indicating perhaps a break in thought or in the time of the entry or of both*

Can individuality be complemented by another person?  I think so.

I don't know what possessed me, but I kissed Rhynn.  She kissed me back.

In that moment, I thought: this is not ordinary.  It should be, but it isn't; not in the upside-down world we live in.  Spontaneity and expression and passion should be commonplace and transparent for everyone to see, but instead we float through life like phantoms, never letting people get close to us because we are afraid of each other's presences.  Gods know that was me.  That *was* me.  I'm finding myself less and less afraid...I can't explain it.  It scares me in a whole new way that my fear is declining, but I am happy that it is...And I hope that it can stay that way.  Sometimes the most confusing person is not on the outside, but on the inside: it is you.  Sometimes I am the most confusing to me.  And then sometimes I wonder if it is good to abandon one's consciousness in reckless abandon--not sacrificing it on the altar of drinking to excess (with moderated social drinking I have no problem, I would like to add)--in the kind of reckless abandon that heightens life and actually motivates creativity and choice; the reckless abandon that can be experienced only with another person.  I am confused because I cannot admit what I think is true because of my own fear.

In any event.  I need to write more songs and poems; all this introspective stuff takes time.

Creativity does not come home to dinner at 6:00.

Thank you.

//OOC: *Credit to Thomas Merton's "Rain and the Rhinoceros" and Ayn Rand's "The Virtue of Selfishness"*

[nyufilm]

*Written at the Wild Surge Inn.  The page is wrinkled and plagued with cross-out marks and ink stains*

Idiot, idiot, IDIOT.  You're a ...ed idiot, Darren.  I told you to watch it; I told you: control.  Control of everything.  Control of yourself, your actions, your speech, your thoughts, your steps, your choices, your surroundings...I told you *not* to relinquish that or the hells would come tearing through to ... your life, or worse still, the life of another.  Why did I have to say that to her?  

It was like I *had* no control over my faculties--

--You *always* have control.--

--Not this time, I didn't.  What do I say, now?  What do I do?  She thinks I'm a ...ed idiot who misconstrued her actions.--

--Well, then, maybe you are.--

--I already tried that for five years...--

--Maybe another five would do you good.  Would do *her* good.  Hells, would do everyone in this ...ed town good.  You wouldn't hurt anyone, that way, and you wouldn't hurt yourself.  Again.

--No.  That's running.  I promised I *would not* run.  And I keep my word--

--Like the hells, you do.  You promised to keep that party safe, on the Dragon Isles, those many years ago.  You gave them your *word*.  And you *broke* it.

That was out of my hands.  She's right in saying that...Rhynn is right.  That was *not* my fault and the past will *not* dictate my present actions.

--Then take control of yourself and do what is in the interest of everyone.

All I was doing was what she said I could do--tear down the final mask..I didn't even know it was there...and tell her the truth...Admit what I am feeling--

--And in so doing relinquish your control of the situation.  Guess what: you did that.  Sometimes the truth is not what should be said, if the protection of others, of her, is your dominant concern.  And if you really love her, as you claim, protection will be your dominant concern.

*This final remark is scribbled furiously* Lies.  The truth will set you free.  I just have not given it a chance; not in years.  I will not listen to you.

I will not run.

[nyufilm]

*The following story, preceded by numerous drafts, is written in neat, flowing black print*

The Ray of Hope
By Darren Dai'Tana

Tira stared out of the foggy window at the swirling ocean below.  Waves licked hungrily at the black stone of the lighthouse, pounding against the structure like an angry fist beating at a door.  Occasional splashes of seaspray streaked the window, further obscuring Tira's view of the vast watery expanse.

A clap of thunder made her start, and a bit of tea sloshed over the rim of her tiny teacup, falling to the wooden floor.  It was an old floor.  It creaked like the belly of an old ship and reminded Tira of her father, who had been the Captain of a sea barge that navigated the trading routes of Layonara.  She sighed.  It was one of those days flooded with memories of things long gone, with memories of her seafaring father, memories of her mother, memories of her sister, Rayla, and of little Thomas, her baby brother.  And, undoubtedly, with memories of her assignment to the Ray of Hope, a tiny lighthouse rebelling against the fury of the Broken Corals.

After her father's death, Tira had thought she would remain with her mother to help raise Rayla and Thomas and to run chores around the house: to do the things that were, by society, deemed suitable for a lady.  But her mother had urged her to forsake that convention in favor of becoming a Watchman, an employee of the Lightguards, in honor of her father's memory and in an attempt to prevent other hapless sailors from meeting the fate of her father.  

He passed away, here, in the Broken Corals, Tira thought, taking a careful sip of her tea.  It was hot and steaming, a welcome relief to the coolness of the driving rain outdoors that managed to press its way through the cracks of the ancient roof.

She shivered, wondering how old Thomas was.  She wondered what he looked like.  She wondered what school Rayla went to, and what she was doing now.  The Ray of Hope was a remote post, and Lightguards stationed there rarely enjoyed the touch of dry land again: traversing the waterways to get to the outpost was too dangerous to risk constant rotation of Lightguards.

And then she remembered meeting Sam for the first time.  She remembered the first time he set foot on the Ray of Hope.  Clad in black, his brown hair was matted by seaspray against his smooth forehead, and his steely gray eyes burned with enthusiasm.  She remembered his first confident step onto his new home, the newly arrived Lightguard to help Tira at her post.  She remembered him carefully surveying his surroundings: taking stock of the battered grandfather clock set against the far wall by the staircase, the brick fireplace across from the oak dining table, the low, cracked ceiling and the unsteady floorboards beneath his feet.  And she remembered meeting his eyes for the first time.  She remembered that strong, unbreakable gaze that seemed to scream at her that she was already his.  

Taking another sip of her tea, she disinterestedly reviewed in her mind the events leading up to her marriage to Samuel.  There wasn't much to it, really: they met.  He charmed her.  She had never met a man quite like Samuel: something about his wit, his playful sarcasm, his strength, and his utter self-confidence made him a beacon; something to hold on to.  Back on land, she had never known such a man...She had never before had a boyfriend, and so she had nothing to compare Samuel to.  He was, at the time, in the moment, the most perfect man she had ever met.  And she spent every waking moment with him.  From the instant the clock struck five o'clock, signalling the break of the sun over the Broken Corals, to the time the clock announced nine o'clock, marking light's retreat, and late into the night she was with him.  Their relationship soon delved deeper than mere work partners, and, before Tira quite knew what was happening, Samuel was on her knee proposing to her, claiming that he loved her.  Without a second guess, she agreed.

Tira's grip tightened around the teacup's handle, and she did not jump when a clap of thunder boldly declared that the storm was still raging.  She had been married to Samuel for--oh, what was, it, now--four years?  Four years in the lighthouse.  

Tira turned at the sluggish sound of footsteps ascending the stairs.

Samuel, a nightgown wrapped around his body, came out of the stairwell and stretched.  "Turn on the lights before you go to sleep, Tira."  

Where is the life in his eyes?, she thought.

He started down the stairs.  

Tira pursed her lips.  "Samuel!  I..."  Samuel had just installed a new lighting system in the Ray of Hope, intended to simplify life for him and for Tira, now the only two Lightguards to work the Ray of Hope.  In Tira's mind, it only complicated matters.

"For the love of the gods, Tira, do I have to do *everything* myself?"  He stormed back up the stairs, muttering something about "useless women", and stepped outside, shielding his face against the wind and rain.  Tira set her teacup down and went after him.

She pulled his thick arm down, shutting the door behind her, trying to see through the blanket of fog and rain.

"Look, Tira.  It's right here!  All you do is flip this, and the ...ed light comes right on!  See?"  Samuel flipped a copper lever.  There was a loud groan, and as Tira looked up, she saw the gigantic light spring to life.  She shielded her eyes.  "Next time, try and see if you can do it, OK?  You're ...ed useless, you know that?"

He stormed inside, slamming the door behind him, leaving Tira outside, in the rain.  She did not care.  She leaned over the railing, staring at the dark black outlines in the water she knew to be rocks.  She sighed.  She turned her face to the wind, letting it whip through her hair.

That's not true, Tira thought.  Samuel loves me.  He does.  He's just tired.

"Then he's been tired for five years," Tira muttered to herself.  She opened her mouth, letting some of the rain sprinkle into it.  She felt so useless, all of the time.  Samuel constantly pointed out her errors, mistakes, and faults, and had to correct them himself.  For good reason, Tira thought; I can't do it myself.  I'm useless.  The only reason I'm here is because I'm his wife.  And he still loves me, despite my faults.  He's so gracious.  How kind of him to love me and stay with me.

She looked back to the rocks, lost in thought.

The rocks moved.

She squinted.  No; the rocks hadn't moved...Something *on* the rocks moved.

"He...Hello?" Tira called out.  "Is someone there?"  Tira listened.  She was about to return inside when she heard:

"He...Help!  I can't move!  And the water...It's comin--..."  The voice cut short, as if water choked off the words.

Tira dashed inside.  She couldn't help him.  She wasn't able to, she thought, only Samuel could help him.  "Samuel!  Samuel!"  

Samuel came pounding up the stairs.  "What now, Tira?  Did you break the lights?"

Tira shook her head.  "No, sir...But outside...There's someone down there, on the rocks."  Shock crossed Samuel's eyes.  The next moment, he was bounding down the stairs.

"Get me water and a healing kit!" He shouted over his shoulder, dashing down the staircase.

Tira burst into the kitchen.  Her hands shaking, she retrieved a healing kit from under the cracked counter and hastily filled a bucket with fresh water.  She hauled them down the stairs, water sloshing over the sides of the bucket.  She heard the door burst open, and a man groan.  She arrived in the foyer to see Samuel bent over a man lying in a pool of blood.  Samuel looked up at Tira.  "Give me the healing kit."  Tira stared at the bleeding man.  "... it, Tira, give me the healing kit!"  Samuel reached out and swiped the healing kit from Tira's hands.  "You've got the fresh water?"  Tira nodded.  She handed the bucket to Samuel, who sighed agitatedly.  "It's half empty."  He sighed.  "Useless," he muttered.  

The man groaned as Samuel ripped open his shirt to expose a long gash running up his side.  "Dear gods," Samuel muttered.  He poured the water over the man's wounded side and put the healing kit to work.

"Can I help?" Tira bounced on her heels, watching Samuel work.

"Yeah.  Stay out of my hair," he said.

And with that, Tira left the room, trudged back up the stairs, and went to bed.

***

The next morning came quickly.  Tira looked out of the window next to her bed to see a flat, tranquil ocean.  No sign of last night's tempest, and these were still some of the most dangerous waters in all of Layonara.  She sighed.  It was seven o'clock.  Her breath caught.  Samuel was going to be furious...She was two hours late to start work...She sprung out of bed, shook the sleep from her eyes, threw on some clothes, and hurried into the living room.

She saw Samuel sprawled out on the couch, asleep.  The blood of the man covered his shirt and hands.  Biting her lip, she looked around for the hurt man, but he was nowhere to be found.

She edged her way into Samuel's room.  The man was there, lying on Samuel's bed.  An enormous bandage, already crusted with dried blood, was wrapped around his torso.

He had sandy blonde hair and blue eyes, like the ocean.  He--

The man stirred and slowly opened his eyes.

"Oh...S--sorry," Tira said, averting her eyes and beginning to shuffle out of the room.

"No," the man said.  "It's OK."  He waved for her to come back.  She submissively made her way back into the room.  "What's your name?"

"Tira," Tira replied.

"Don't worry, I won't bite," the man said.  "I'm Lucas."

Pause.

"Are you...A sailor?"

Lucas nodded.  "Well, I was.  My ship didn't make it through the Broken Corals, it seems.  Did you...find..."

Tira shook her head.  "Only you," she said, softly.

"I'll be ...ed," Lucas said.

Pause.

"Thank you," Lucas said.  

"For what?"

"For saving my life."

"Oh...I didn't save your life.  Samuel, my husband--"

"--Your husband?"  Tira nodded.  "Right.  But you were the one to see me.  If you hadn't been out there, I would've been dead."

She shrugged.  "Perhaps."

"No."  He coughed, his body racking with the force.  "Certainly."

Tira smiled.

"Tira!" An angry voice called from the living room, shattering the moment.  Tira smiled tiredly at Lucas, who returned the smile, before hurrying into the living room.  "You woke him up?  ... it, Tira, you woke him up?  I gave him my bed so that he could sleep; not so that you could go in there and distract him!  He needs to rest!"

"It's all right," Lucas called from Samuel's room.  "I was already awake."

Samuel looked from Tira to Lucas before brushing past Tira and walking toward Lucas.  Tira looked away.  "You sure?" Samuel asked.  "I'm really sorry about her--"

"--No, I said it's fine," Lucas replied.

Samuel looked at Tira over his shoulder.  "Tira, make us both some breakfast."  Then he turned back to Lucas.

Tira shuffled into the kitchen.  She got eggs and bread, and as she looked out over the ocean wondering what it would be like to sail the seas for a living, she made breakfast for her husband and for Lucas.  She watched a pair of dolphins swim around the rocks that riddled the water below, and she wondered how they could do it, when great ships--seaworthy ships made by some of the greatest minds on earth--could not.  She watched them swim in the ocean, freely.  Freely...They were unbound, uninhibited, untethered.

She filled two glasses with juice, served the eggs and bread onto two platters, put it all onto a tray, and carried it into Samuel's room.  She gave one platter to Samuel and one to Lucas, leaving the cups on a table by the bedside.  Samuel did not turn around as he received his platter, but instead continued to talk.

"I've seen many fierce storms, Lucas, but that one last night--that one had me--"

"--Thank you," Lucas interrupted, looking at Tira.  Tira smiled.  Samuel looked from Tira to Lucas before returning to his story.  

"Like I was saying, that one had me worried..."

***

The weeks went by, and Tira tended to the lighthouse as Samuel chatted with Lucas, who was slowly being nursed back to health.  It was nice to have another person in the lighthouse with her, other than Samuel.  The change was nice.  Lucas was a good man, she thought: gentle and kind.  Although she did not often speak with him--Samuel did not let her; saying that she had more important things to do, that is, if she could handle them--she treasured their occasional conversations, which were normally about the weather, or about the ocean, or about the kinds of teas she liked.  They were trivial things.  

One day, Tira found herself fixing the new light system as Samuel enjoyed lunch with Lucas inside.  She was just in ear-shot, and, as she worked, could hear their conversation.

"Can I speak frankly with you, Sam?" Lucas asked.  Samuel nodded, shovelling a bite of shrimp into his mouth.  "Why'd you marry her?"  

Pause.

"What do you mean, 'why'd I marry her?"

"You don't act like you're married."

Samuel smiled.  "Well, is that so.  Enlighten me."

"You hardly recognize her, other than to ask for breakfast, or for lunch, or for dinner, or to fix this, or to fix that..."

Samuel shrugged, taking a swig of ale from a large pitcher.  "Well, that's what a wife's for, isn't it?  To cook your meals.  Do some work.  She's not good for much else.  Screws everything she sets her hands on."

"Have you given her the chance to try?"  

"Why should I?  I know she's useless.  This--" he pointed to his plate--"Is the only thing she's good for.  And...Well..." He smiled.  

Lucas shook his head incredulously.  "You have got to be kidding me..."

"What?  She can't go anywhere, and even if she could, she wouldn't.  She needs me.  She needs my love."

"That's not love..."

Samuel dropped his silverware.  "Oh, really?  Then what in the hells is it?"

Pause.  Tira stopped her work momentarily, listening for an answer.

"Slavery."

Samuel burst out laughing.  "Hells, that's what 'love' *is* for a woman, right?  She's here to serve us, right?  I mean, come on; one look at you or me and it's pretty ...ed obvious who's the superior gender, here."

Lucas' voice assumed a dangerous, cold edge that Tira had never heard it take before.  "Don't take her for granted, Sam.  She is an individual with a free will to do with it as she pleases--"

"--And she chose to marry *me.*  Charmed her right from the beginning.  She's stuck with me for life."  He grinned; a big, stupid grin.

Pause.

There was some scratching of furniture.  "If you'll excuse me."  Tira listened to Lucas' footsteps fade away.

Samuel came outside and inspected Tira's work.  "Almost done?" he asked.  Tira nodded, averting her eyes.  "Good.  When you're done here, clean up the table."  And with that, he left, going back inside.

***

It was a cold night.  The clouds broiled on the horizon, gathering ominously, one big stew of purples and blacks.  Tira could not sleep.  She had stepped outside and was leaning against the railing when Lucas appeared next to her.  She started.

"Sorry.  Didn't mean to scare you."  Lucas stared out over the ocean.

"No.  It's all right."

Pause.

Wind.

"What do you think of your husband?"

Tira blinked.  "What?"

Lucas shrugged.  "You know.  Samuel."

"What do I think of him?"

"Yeah."

"Well...He...He loves me."

"Really."

Tira nodded.

"Why do you let him treat you the way he does?"

"What?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

"I--"

"--Answer me."

"I...Ca--"

"--Answer me."

Pause.

"Because he is entitled to."

"Why?"

"Because he loves me."

"So, because he loves you, he can do with you as he will?"

She nodded.

"I'm going to ask you a question."

"I...I really should..."

"I am going to ask you a question."

Tira could not bring herself to move.  Something was telling her to stay...

"OK."

"Do you love him?"

Pause.

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

Thunder.

Pause.

"Yes."

"What is love?"

Pause.  Tira looked away, trying to hide the tears she did not know were there.  Lucas cupped her chin in his hand and slowly turned her face toward him.  "Love is not condemnding.  It is not self-serving.  It is not living in fear of a man who can, and would, break you at any second.  Love completes us.  Are you completed, now?"

"He takes care of m--"

"--He belittles you!  You make him dinner, he says nothing.  You work, he says nothing.  You try to bear him a son, he says nothing.  He does not love you.  You are his toy.  His play-thing.  His property."

"No..."

"Yes.  And I'm telling you this because I care about you.  Because it hurts me to see him do this to you."  He took her hands.  "No one can make you do anything, Tira.  You are your own person.  Treat yourself as such."

Pause.

"Do you love him?"

Tira said nothing.

Pause.

Gently: "There's a boat coming to take me back to land tomorrow evening, when Samuel's asleep.  They need me at the ports.  This is a rare trip...you know that.  There's room for two of us.  We get there, and you can do as you wish."

Tira looked into his eyes.

"I'm his wife..."

"You are a diamond in his crown of social pride.  And *that* is *not* love."

He turned away, walking back into the house.

"How do you know it?" She called after him, the words seeming to shoot forth from her mouth automatically.

He smiled.  "You know it when you realize there is no one you would rather be with."

He walked away.

***

Tira lay awake in her bed, that night.  She looked at Samuel, who was lying next to her, sleeping peacefully.

"You know it when you realize there is no one you would rather be with..."

And then she got up quietly, stole into the living room, retrieved a quill and a piece of paper, lit a kerosene lantern, and began to write.

***

The next day felt like walking through molasses.  Time slugged along.  Tira watched the clock as the day's hours whittled away.  Samuel was playing cards with Lucas in the living room as Tira scurried around the kitchen, preparing a "farewell" meal for Lucas.  Tira did not remember much from the meal, other than Lucas' occasional glances at her.

Before long, it was time to turn on the light.  Samuel strolled casually outside and flipped the switch, brushing past Tira, who remained outside.  

"Goodbye, Samuel," she said, smilin faintly.  "Good...Goodnight."  Samuel turned around and looked at Tira for a moment.  He nodded before swaggering down the stairs.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Samuel," she heard Lucas say from inside.  "I really appreciate everything you've done for me."  

"Yeah, well, what else could I do.  Wish I could see you off, but I've got to get an early start tomorrow.  Need my sleep."

"I understand.  Goodbye."

"Bye."

Silence for a while.

Lucas stood next to Tira.  She felt his arm wrap around her shoulders, gently.  They watched as the ship pulled up to the Ray of Hope, and as sailors cast their anchors and lines into the ocean to steady the mighty craft.  She followed Lucas into the living room and was about to head downstairs when she stopped.  She looked at the letter sitting on the dining room table, a shaft of moonlight falling across the upper-half of the neatly-folded paper.  

Lucas waited.  Then she turned back to Lucas, followed him downstairs, and boarded the ship after the sailor.

***

Dearest Samuel,

I have left you to live my life.  To become who *I* am, and not who you want me to be.  I want you to know that I am not useless.  That I am not to be taken for granted, because my presence is a gift freely given to those worthy of it.

I want you to know that love is a process, not a static status; that it takes time and attention and care; that true love knows no fear, takes risks, and lives because it is genuine.  I want you to know this so that, someday, perhaps you will understand the truth and embrace who *you* truly are.

I wish you luck.

-Tira.

***

Tira looked back at the Ray of Hope until darkness swallowed it, light and all, into obscurity.

She listened to the water.

Looking down, she saw two dolphins.

And she laughed.

***

[nyufilm]

Speak of a whirlwind last couple of days!

I was hanging around the benches in Hlint when, wonder of wonders, Muireann approached.  I had every intention of ignoring her unless she initiated with me; I did not want any trouble.  Sure enough, she called for my attention, and she proceeded to challenge me to an arena match, declaring that I would accept if I was "man" enough.  I abided by what I like to call the better half of wisdom and declined the challenge.  I did so, however, to make a statement: that not every battle is fought in an arena.  Not every war unfolds on a literal battlefield.  This is a concept, it seems, that Muireann is yet to grasp.  She condemned me as a "coward" and stormed off.  Some time later, I was treated to meet T'ashr, who I quickly discovered to be Muireann's sister.  They share many similar qualities, at least, upon first meeting them.  She interrupted a conversation I was having with Nullin Glittergem--a charming gnome who is committed, almost blindly, it seems, to his faith and to his role as a Crusader--to call me a coward, as well, thereby supporting her sister's analysis of me.  I proceeded to tell her what I had told Muireann: that not every battle is fought in an arena.  Neither did she understand.  Call me an idiot, but I decided to elaborate.  I told her that only the low animals and beasts of the field resort initially to violence to settle conflicts, skipping over the higher forms of reconciliation.  She caught my drift, and I quite upset her, I fear.  I told her--and I meant it--that I have no quibble with her; that I do not like to hold grudges, and that I hold grudges only against those who deserve them.  To make a long story short, we left each other's company on what I would consider to be polite terms, all things considered.  She is almost more volatile and in-your-face than her sister is.

As Nullin and I discussed his rise as a Crusader--which occurred after the tragic deaths of his parents; gods rest their souls, and after a knight took him in--a bard by the name of Lyle Underroot approached.  His garb announced his vocation, but his manner did not seem to do so.  This didn't bother me--every individual is entitled to the expression of his or her individual personality, and gods know I, too, am far from what one would deem the "stereotypical bard"--but he was unbelievably humble and down-to-earth.  I like both gentlemen a lot: the three of us got to talking, and I quickly forgot where I was, what time it was...The way things should be.  Friends you can rely on because you *know* they can be trusted.  Or...feel.  In this case, I just have a hunch that they are such people...They seem genuine.  Which is a rare thing in today's world, to be struck initially with a sense of sincerity...And I don't exclude myself from that judgment.  I found myself, before thinking, offering my assistance to Lyle, should he need help in locating his grandfather.  Hells, gods know I rarely do that; but something compelled me to extend the offer of my aid...Perhaps it was his sincerity; his unusually humble demeanor.  Whatever the case, I offered it, and he took it into consideration.  We'll see what comes of it.  I was swift to act, I know.  Wouldn't have caught me being so quick to offer help five years ago...

*The following is scratched hastily on a page of its own* Something is changing...For better or for worse, something is changing in me...I've wanted to be known all my life...Why?  Why is this so important to me?  Purpose.  Reason to keep living...To touch the lives of others in a tangible way; to justify my own existence and know that I have played a part in this world.  That my existence has not been in vain, and that I *lived*.  So that I will live on after my death in the minds of everyone who tells my tales and sings my songs.  But what if this is not the sole purpose; the only thing capable of making life worth living...I used to think that it wasn't; that it was only a fraction of a full existence, but that was until the expedition...And then I think what I have thought for the past few months: do not be bound by the chains of the past.

*On another wrinkled, ink-blotted page* I did indeed tell Rhynn I love her.  The words triggered of their own accord.  I said them without thinking, and then I wrote about it, without thinking.  Blindly.  I abandoned the very thing I deem so defining of a meaningful life: controlled consciousness.  Maybe Muireann and the others are actually on to something...Not in a literal way--I don't agree with their definition of "recreation"--but in a conceptual way.  In that abandoning consciousness can actually be a *good* thing.  Hells, a *necessary* thing.  Gods know it helped me in writing "The Ray of Hope."  To let go, to not think, to let events wash over you, and to let a deeper you...a different you...shine through.  I don't think I have ever truly done this before...Not even with Cara; I loved her, yes, but in a calculated sense...I think...But I did not abandon myself; my guards.  And I think it was still love...Funny...I wrote "The Ray of Hope" in response to Rhynn's self-condemnation.  She said...and she *believed*--that she is useless and unstable and worthless.  In writing it, I *did* abandon myself.  The words just...came...I didn't have to really *think.*  It was a whole new way of approaching what I do...Of approaching writing...Of defining love...I don't know if it is better or worse, or if it just sort of *is.*  She was in my mind as I lost myself in the world I was creating with the written word.  I did not clear my mind...I filled it.  And then I gave the story to her.

I think it influenced her...I think it helped her to understand the lies she was feeding herself.  That she was allowing other people to dictate who she is.  Maybe, I thought, people condemn her because they do not know the context of the situations she was in.  That they do not know the events surrounding her interaction with Saebhel, and with Freldo...And if this is indeed the case, then they judge without all of the facts, and their opinions are close to worthless.  They are blinded by their unwarranted prejudices and preconceived notions, unwilling to open their minds to other possibilities.  She is her own being, and no one can tell her otherwise...She speaks of defending the "Greater Good"; as if it is a thing separated from herself.  As if she is not meant to enjoy the fruits of her labors.  She told me that she cares nothing for herself; for her body, and that *that* is why she is afraid she will hurt me.  I believe her.  We are all forced--blessed and cursed--to live in our respective bodies; they are our physical, tangible links to the world that house the essences of our beings: our minds; our spirits.  Our bodies complete us and tether us to material reality.  They give us personality; expression; they accentuate the sharpness (or, sadly, in some cases, the lack thereof) of our minds, the passions of our hearts, and harness them into a physical channel of communication.  In part, I agree with her statement: that if one's heart and mind are elsewhere, then the body's action is superficial; it is unreal and means nothing.  But on another level...We were created with bodies for a reason.  They harbor their own reality that complements the reality of the heart and mind...She asked me if I really believe she will not hurt me.  I thought.  And then I stopped thinking and went with what I felt: that yes, I really believe that.  And she said she believes it, too.  I cannot fully justify my answer, nor can I prove it.  But I believe it.  Maybe Nullin is not so blind in his faith, after all...Or maybe I am just as blind as he is, for different reasons.  And maybe that is not a bad thing, but a good, necessary thing to *living*...Maybe love is not just a thought and outgrowth of one's self, but a thought *and* a feeling that involves not a selfish desire, but a concern for another that supercedes concern for oneself.  A kind of concern that lets you be who you are and that actually completes you...Dear gods, that's scary...It is so completely antithetical to those five years; to everything I was trying to drill into my head...And I thank the gods for it.  Where do we stand?  I know where I stand.  And I believe I know where you stand, too.

[nyufilm]

I was strolling through Hlint when I stumbled across a campfire...and tea!  It was in that context that I met Rollie.  Following dwarf Turor's explanation of why dwarves bear beards, Rollie offered me a cup of home-brewed tea (it seems forever ago that I had a decent cup of tea, and *this* was spectacular), and we listened to Ozy recount his version of the fall of Blood.

*The writing is motivated with energy, evidenced by sweeping curves and bold streaks composing the letters* An epic tale, and Ozy's right at the center of it all!  I was entranced for the duration of the telling; I regret to say that I may have been too engrossed, as I initially hardly noticed Rhynn's approach on her newly acquired horse.  A magnificent animal it is, at least, from a distance...I've yet to see it up close.

Ozy's story inspired me to write a poem.  Now, I'll be the first to admit that my poetry is a little rusty, but seeing as how this is my journal and not a published anthology, there's no harm in trying, I suppose:

*The following poem is written between scratch-out marks and ink stains*

The whole world proclaims
And the Underworld tolls
The descent of Bloodstone
Into the Land of Lost Souls.

His dark reign was ruined
And iron fist cracked.
He was cast into hell
And he's not coming back.

This evil recedes,
But another one dawns;
For each darkness crushed,
Another is spawned.

And so it would seem
That the gods have seen fit
To taint good with evil
And grant no respite.

For the world now retreats
from the sun's golden rays.
The balance has brought
Layonara's Dark Age.

But as Heroes vanquished Sinthar
and destroyed that dark tide,
So Heroes rise again
To eclipse evil's side.

***

Not a reflection on Ozy's story, but I was tired as a dog after he wrapped up, so I shuffled off to catch up on the sleep I have been missing in favor of writing.  Not that I regret the decision: if the words are screaming to be heard, then let them speak.

But nothing's screaming right now other than the word "rest."

[nyufilm]

*The following is written with such enthusiasm that it is almost illegible*

I finally saw some action!  One hells of a journey it was, fighting all sorts of hostile creatures, recovering lost cows (rest their souls), and delivering letters.  Oh: and retrieving oil (people lose everything around here, as if they don't care for their own property).  I cashed in on this last expedition before T'ashr--who assisted me--could also reap the benefits of it.  I felt like a complete idiot...She deserved her share, and it was all I could do to offer her my share of the gold our party earned on that journey.  It didn't make up for it, I know; but it was all I could do...I *HATE* taking from others what is rightfully theirs...

We went all over---and, thank the gods, I actually *remember* some of the places, this time--Fort Llast, the Broken Forest, Rilara, the Grey Peaks...Lands rich in history and lore: much of which I do not know, I am ashamed to say.  History was not a focus in my youth; I preferred to invent stories entirely from scratch.  I fear I will have to work double-time, now, if I have any hope of being a successful bard in Layonara.  I think of Ozy, and wonder how I even have a chance of rivaling his renown, skill, and knowledge; especially when much of my best work is in the form of the written word...I need to learn more about stories and the art of oral story-telling.  I need to know history.  In fact, I *want* to know it...Life without knowledge is life lived in ignorance; a blindfold pulled over one's eyes that prevents one from experiencing all that life has to offer.  Viewed in the right light and judged by a sound, individual mind, knowledge need not jade the knower.  

I made a conscious effort to keep track of all of the names of places, but geography is not exactly my forte.  Nevertheless, images of the places are etched into my mind, so that if I was there again, I would recognize the locales instantly, even if the name-to-place connection was not immediately (or, really, at all) made in my mind.  One place in particular stands out: the gracefully arching bridge that spans a crystal-blue river, snaking its way through a valley illuminated with majestic shafts of sunlight and blessed with a rain of golden leaves, drifting lazily to the ground, like snow.

*The writing becomes more coherent, motivated with confident strokes*  

Sometimes I wonder who has the power to name such natural beauty: who named the continents, the forts, the cities, the towns; and what compels one to perpetuate these mysteriously-imposed titles.  

The desire for order, I suppose.  It allows the banking system to keep running, I would venture.  Tegan, with whom I adventured for quite some time, assured me that Layonara's banking system is inexplicably safe.  Personally, I don't like the idea: entrusting my gold and resources to total strangers in the hopes that they will do their part to prevent my property from slipping through the cracks of the bureaucratic floorboards otherwise known as "the government."  In spite of my reservations, I will admit that the system seems to function reasonably well.  Thus far, I have had no major errors in banking; it's amazing how this particular facet of the precarious system actually *does* run smoothly.  Without names of places presenting at least a semblance of order, nothing like Layonara's banking system could succeed.  For this and for similar conveniences, I suppose, people allow names and such external organizing factors to endure.

In any case, on our journey, I got to know T'ashr a little better.  Her kinship to Muireann is clearly evidenced in her brash and impulsive actions, but she is, I will admit (and perhaps in part because of her unpredictability) fun to be around.  Sometimes I think she is the only genuine person I know, other than Rhynn...Gods know I don't like T'ashr all of the time, but my opinion of her does not stop her from being who she is...

T'ashr's familial relation to Tegan, however, is far less evident: Tegan seems to be much more quiet and reserved than her sister; she speaks wisdom and contemplates her actions before she commits them.  Tegan noted that I ...ed very well like to swear--but, I argue here (I did not tell her this in person), that it is not that I *like* to swear, necessarily; it's just that sometimes there is no better word to express a feeling.  Why dance around the fire?  When I tried to check my tongue while we were traveling, she confidently confronted me with the accusation that I do not know myself.  I was utterly taken aback, almost to the point of having no coherent response: my identity is something I pride myself in; it *has* been for many years...I have always cherished being my own person; I know that...At the time, I was furious (thank the gods I've learned to hide my feelings), and I adamantly denied her observation...But here, by myself, upon further reflection...I am not so sure.  

Perhaps Tegan is right.  Sometimes I feel like a giant ball of contradictions...I profess one set of ideals--the ideals of individual expression and of care-free, independent decision--while I go off and hide myself from those around me.  Why?  Protection.  Protection of oneself and of others...But I promised myself that I would not be enslaved by my past...That I have moved beyond that...That I can fully embrace the ideals I love and be more like--gods help us all--T'ashr.  Sometimes I wonder if I should even *be* a bard, while other days I am sure of nothing else in the world.  Yes.  Tegan is right.  And it scares the living hells out of me.  I was somewhat surprised to discover upon arriving back in Hlint that Rhynn's relationship with Tegan is strained.  I only witnessed a brief exchange, but a degree of animosity was indeed present in their interactions.  I don't understand it, and perhaps it is not my place to inquiry into the nature of their quarrel, but it was disconcerting nonetheless.  Guess I know how Rhynn felt when I was arguing with Muireann that one time: torn.    

*There is a break in the page*

I love what I do; I love to write and sing and dance and play games regardless of what others say and I will always do all of this, but I still want to be known for my achievements; for the work of my hands, because it represents impact...A shard of my beliefs penetrating the hearts of other living, conscious creatures; for it is with my creativity...or with her...that I am most myself...To reach that level of human interaction is a rare and special gift, indeed.  But when I do not fulfill my expectations, I wonder if I am going about things the wrong way.  I felt useless at numerous times on our expedition around Layonara; by the time I had a bolt ready to go in my crossbow, the enemy would have already been felled by one of my allies.  My songs certainly aided the effort, but in the grand scheme of things, I can't help but feel that they did not shift the tide of battle in our favor...I think my speciality is two-fold: going into the heat, under the cloak of invisibility or relying on my considerable sneaking skills, and singing curses at the enemy and striking with one of those rapiers Rhynn made me; or holding back, and doing my best to stick the enemy full of arrows until they resemble porcupines.  Either way, stealth seems to be the best tactical route to pursue.  Perhaps, by honing my inclination toward stealth, I would then also be useful on reconnaissance missions.

*There is another break in the page*

I was thinking about my mother, the other day, and about Cara.  We ran into the undead in our journey.  It brought back my idea...That there may be a way to return to them what I took.  But I do not want to leave...I didn't think I'd find myself saying that; but things have changed...There must be a way to bring them back without sacrificing myself...Selfish.  That's not love; that's selfish ambition.  Is it?  No.  It's multiple instances of love...

*Scribbled, squeezed in at the bottom of the page:*

Gods, I'm a mess.  So many strings to untangle...

[nyufilm]

*Scrawled hastily, intent and searching*

I want assured silence in the circus of my mind.

[nyufilm]

*Between violent wrinkles in the page and heavy ink-stains, the following words are visible:*

That's it.  Can't take his ...ed cryptic messages and unwarranted condemnations anymore.  Ruin West returned--I followed his cursed raven to an area just east of Hlint to find him sitting in the grass, alone.  The raven recognized my staff.  Ruin looked older than ever...The age and travel seem to have worn away his body, withering it down to a pathetic, emaciated form.  But his mind seemed intact: he recognized me.  Or, at least, it *seemed* intact upon the first few words that we exchanged.  As our conversation progressed, it became clear that he was, frankly, out of his mind.  I've not the nerve to recite everything he said; essentially, he renounced every trace of our friendship and walked away.  I cursed after him, but he did not stop or even turn around.

I don't care.  ... him to the hells.  If he can up and leave as quickly, as easily, as that, then he was never my friend.  He was an impostor, masquerading under the guise of friendship in order only to harm and to use me.  I don't know what his goal was.  I don't know what words he exchanged with Rhynn.  But every word he uttered was a drop of poison; every one polluted my mind.

*There is a break in the page*

I spent time in that natural refuge up on the hill that Rhynn took me to, long ago.  I was able to find it again all by myself, and I spent quite some time there, sitting in the grass, alone, contemplating what had just happened.  In Hlint, I ran across Rhynn, but my mind was not there...Ruin...Two men argued over something involving her and she left with one of them; I watched them vanish into the distance.  I wanted to follow...I almost did...But I decided that it was not my business.  That she can fend for herself, and make her own decisions; that I am no one's keeper but my own...Sometimes I don't know what to do...

*Another break in the page*

So I went back to the hill, alone, and thought.  *The writing becomes lighter and sloppier* My mind raced; it was one of those times when so much is processing that no amount of writing can hope to lasso it all onto a page and wring sense out of it.  I doubted.  I did not trust.  I questioned.  But I hope.  Sometimes, faith does not make sense.  Hells; what am I writing? *Searching ink marks characterize the page* I will not contemplate that possibility.  The refusal to see does not negate reality, but it suspends it.  It provides more time...For a better conclusion...A true conclusion; not a lie...Gods help me.  I'm as cryptic as he is, but I will *not* voice unmerited concerns; I will *not* be consumed by unsubstantiated possibility...I have to live here, now, based on what I know.  Tired...Will write more later, perhaps, depending.

I hope I never see him again.  I banish you, Ruin West, from my memory.

[nyufilm]

*The writing is heavy and smeared*

Rhynn's mouth is sewed shut...The ...ed devil--Epheris, I believe its name is--cursed her.  She is speaking through her familiar, a tiny Fey.  She apologized to those around her--in particular, to T'ashr--for bringing this evil upon all of them.  I do not know exactly of what she speaks...Only the dragoncalled were permitted to interact with the devil outside of the gates of Hlint...Seeing as how I am not dragoncalled, I did not do so...I did, however, approach the group, investigating the calls of "Murder!" pronounced by an individual who tore past the benches in Hlint, and I stumbled across the devil and the audience he had acquired.  Rhynn and T'ashr bluntly told me to leave.

I did.

If I had been there...Maybe I could have done something...Said something; reasoned with that hell-spawn...Taken it upon me, instead...Dear gods, I can't believe I just wrote that.

No.  I can.  Entirely.  I would not have said that just a few months ago.  In any case, this devil wants something; from what Bumblebee told me--he joined Rollie and myself around a fire near the lake in Hlint (bless Rollie; he made yet another exquisite batch of tea, this time with berry juices and jam)--he is after some sort of artifacts that offer infinite potential, and dragons are swooping down from the ash-ridden skies.  How the hells am I supposed to be a contemporary bard if no one tells me anything, or if I am barred from embarking on important expeditions?  My lack of knowledge has indeed forced me to draw inspiration from myself and from my surroundings, but new source material is always welcome.  Perhaps I am not trying hard enough to venture out and accomplish grand things.  As the saying goes, experience is the best teacher, and as I have said before, experience is the validation of knowledge.  The more I experience, the more I will know, and the more I will be able to write, sing, and share.  Experience will open up the floodgates of opportunity.  Perhaps I need to go out on a limb more...Take more risks...Reasoned, balanced risks, mind you; but risks nonetheless.

Perhaps I doubt people, I doubt myself, because I feel that they have not earned my trust; that I have not earned their's...But then, I ask myself, how does one *ever* earn one's trust, permanently?  There is no fail-proof safeguard.  Perhaps relationships are not contingent upon one's performance and capabilities.  Perhaps relationships are, rather, built on the foundation of mutual trust and faith.  It is easy to misinterpret people when one is over-analyzing everything: "We're on different levels."  Experientially, not emotionally, she meant.  ..., I'm an idiot.  Every investment bears with it a risk; I must learn to rest in this fact, I feel.  

Gods help us all.

[nyufilm]

*Written hastily in the margin:*

Easy to write and propose, difficult to *live* by.  Why?  Hmmm.

[nyufilm]

Just outside the east gates of Hlint, I encountered three men chatting around a campfire.  I approached, recognizing one of them to be Daniel, whom I met on that expedition I recently undertook with a party into Rilara.  He introduced me to Ifion--a fellow bard--and to Praylor.  For some time, we enjoyed each other's company in this setting, and although we did not have tea, it was nevertheless a positive encounter.  The group inquired into how I became a bard, and I was able to share with them--come to think of it, this is the first time I have shared this with anyone since my return to civilization some months ago (I've yet to master keeping track of time); no one has really seemed to show an interest before *scrawled quickly next to this is the phrase "Why?"*--my ideas regarding the bardic vocation.  

I am quite tired, but I shall do my best to express it, regardless of my present state:  As artists, we are enabled to share our passions with other individuals via our emotive crafts.  These crafts carry our opinions, feelings, emotions, and thoughts--in essence, our entire beings--into the lives of these individuals, thus impacting and affecting them.  To possess this degree of influence is an overwhelming reward for one's work that is far greater than any monetary compensation.  Such is a fulfilling life to live: one that requires and encourages both observation and participation in the world and its events.  The resulting "fullness of reality" (which is an individual theory in and of itself; I do not care to divulge right now) is experienced by anyone who embraces it, but it is often a bard who does so--who heeds all of his senses in a sort of heightened perception, encouraged by his ceaseless search for inspiration, and lives life on all of its levels.  Except, sometimes, one.  Intimacy.  But, I generalize.  I hypothesize.  In all honesty, I suppose it is possible for the above-mentioned convictions to apply only to me, and to me alone.  

At any rate, Ifion was headed to Rilara to visit his home, I believe.  I accompanied them for a while, but I had to turn back due to a lack of supplies.  I hope I can meet up with them again soon; I enjoyed their company.  Tegan almost accompanied us, as well, but she had prior engagements.  She is a mysterious individual...