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Author Topic: Andrew Reid - Letters Home  (Read 7042 times)

RollinsCat

Re: Andrew Reid - Letters Home
« Reply #40 on: December 27, 2009, 12:12:32 pm »
To:
Annwyl Cadi
Care of Calise
Shrine to Ilsare
Hlint
Kingdom of Trelania
Mistone

Annwyl, when you can take the time, I have need of your company.  


Andrew




Himoto Baturi
12 Storer's Street
Warehouse District
Huangjin
Tilmar

*outside letter*  Himoto, enclosed is the clay order.  Please deliver as soon as possible.

Willie

*inside letter*

Hello mother - I'm still alive, and I apologize for my long delay in writing.  Things have been bad, good, bad...how do I explain?  I have done some good.  I have screwed up by the numbers and paid a heavy price, one I cannot undo.  I have been sober for nearly four months.  Two mercenaries in Port Hempstead tried to take my life.

Did I mention I'm sober?

It's been a long time that I have woken up every morning and seen things clearly.  I spent the first two months being frightened of it.  I'm still not confident.  I still keep a reminder with me, of what I did and how I ended in this somber and clearheaded state.

I am finding myself reluctant to spill myself into print on this matter, so let's shelve that until I am in front of you.  I did have an attempt on my life some months ago, although things have been quiet since, thank the Muse.  I have written a play - my first - and I expect that it will not help matters much.  I titled it "A Tale of Lord Pale, or It's Hard to be Evil".  This assumes I can find actors for it.

I have not toured much, or written much, since I put the bottle down.

I'm really at a loss for words.  I wish I could tell you more but it seems gratuitous in this medium at this moment.  I will be home soon.  Please if you would, get some of that tea you used to make me?

Until we speak, mother -

Your loving son,

Andrew
 

RollinsCat

Re: Andrew Reid - Letters Home
« Reply #41 on: December 31, 2009, 04:45:38 pm »
To:
Himoto Baturi
12 Storer's Street
Warehouse District
Huangjin
Tilmar

*outside letter*

Clay received.  Next order enclosed.

*inside letter*

Mother, please stop laughing at this subterfuge.  I know it isn't much, and yes I'm fairly horrible at cloak-and-dagger, but any distance from me is good right now.  If not to keep you from being a hostage, to at least prevent you from having any of my black cloud rub off.

Thank you for the tea.  Tyrian has a large inn kitchen and it seems someone always has a kettle on.  It's been helpful; I really can't tell you how much good it does to take a sip of home.  I'm sorry our visit was short but at least we had a day together.  Tell Father thank you for the pottery, I really did need the dishes.  I've been eating off an old wooden plate until now.

No, to answer your first question, my love life has not improved and I doubt it will.  Right now I have a few projects going to keep me focused and sober.  Five months without a drink.  It's hard to believe.  Water still tastes bland and awful and I miss the burning sensation on my tongue.  The tea helps with that actually - maybe it's the cinnamon?  I get grape juice when I can.  So, a summary: no love, but no booze either.

Projects.  Your second question.  There is the play, although there are endless delays and no real interest so far.  I'll keep plugging at it.  I do appreciate your critique and I have made some changes and additions based on them.  Send a good word to our Muse; I want this play to happen.

There is the rapier, which I have found a book on and lacking a teacher, have been reading and practicing from.  This book is on sabre, which is quite another animal from the foil that Instructor Matthews taught or the epee that Master Granouche favored.  Honestly, of the styles I've tried, epee suits me best but sabre is a good tool.  The style is much faster and attack-heavy; if I blend that with my epee I think I'd have a good all-around styling.

I spent a hefty sum on a bow of mahogany which, oddly, I had an immediate aptitude for.  Muse smiled on me, of that I'm sure.  I've been augmenting my combat with distance work on the bow and found it helpful, even critical.  There is not much more to say about that.

Finally, I've been following the advice of a new friend, a very tiny woman named Lili.  She's a brownie - I met a brownie!  Not just one, two actually, although Freida calls herself a "quickling".  Lili suggested that I tie bells to myself and attempt to move without jangling them.  I have another friend that does this, the one I call Gypsy Belle, so I've tried it.  I cannot emphasize enough how silly I feel walking around trying not to jingle like a dancing girl but you know what?  It really works.  I'm so glad I have no neighbors in the rooms adjacent to me that are ever home, nonetheless.  

That is the latest.  I will be touring soon and I will be in Huangjin again when I go.  I have re-structured my song sheet; as soon as I finish one more Rael song I'm ready to hit the circuit.

I'm tired now, it has been a rather long day.  I look forward to our next visit and keep in touch about how the new home and pottery barn is coming.

Your loving son,


Andrew
 

RollinsCat

Re: Andrew Reid - Letters Home
« Reply #42 on: January 05, 2010, 04:52:18 pm »
To:
Annwyl Cadi
Care of Calise
Shrine to Ilsare
Hlint
Kingdom of Trelania
Mistone

Annwyl; I wrote and sent the letter, as you suggested.  It's up to Muse now.  Strange things lately - another woman in my life, although neither of us are really free to act as our hearts are too bound up.  Still, the emotions in the quiet moments, the simple act of sitting close, the feeling of warmth through clothing - I don't know where this is going to go and part of me is excited and part of me is tied up tight with memories.  This would be different, and I wonder if I can be what she might want me to be.  So there is fear, as well.  Muse is having her way with my heart lately it seems.

There was another attempt on my life, Rael's bullyboys, in the marshes around Krashin, where I used my new bow Catherine and stayed well back from the big scary dead things.  A large group of Deep dwarves tried for me as explained in a simple note that I need to get back from Lance Navelgazer (I'll explain later).  It said "William, 5000".  I presume this means that someone paid someone else five thousand True to kill me - in which case, they spent or hid it, and no joy for us.  Or, that they were to get paid five-thousand True to kill me, in which case, they are not going to collect compliments of the deadly crew I was singing to.  Either way, good riddance.  I'm feeling rather bloodthirsty these days when it comes to Deep dwarves.  And paranoid.  I will have to start locking my door.

By the way, should you end up in the marshes, bring extra clothes and lots of flint and tinder.  You spend a lot of time slogging around in very cold water.  One of the group almost died of hypothermia, as she was underdressed for the conditions.

I'm not really sure why I'm bothering you with this, except that it has been a bad day and I feel the need to write.  I've been working on the play and some other music, and again I'm paid to write.  Somehow this has been bothering me but I think it's the anticipated effect.  I'll explain more of that later.  I might be moving soon.

That's all for now, my Sword of the Muse.

Your friend,


Andrew
 

RollinsCat

Re: Andrew Reid - Letters Home
« Reply #43 on: January 07, 2010, 11:41:57 am »
To:
Himoto Baturi
12 Storer's Street
Warehouse District
Huangjin
Tilmar

*outside letter*

Order enclosed.

*inside letter*


Greetings, my first Muse.

Thank you for the drawings of the new house, mother.  I'm touched that you have a guest room for me.  Is that a hint, or obilgatory?

I'm sorry.  That looks sharper in print than it did in my head.  I've been out of sorts lately, missing my drink more than usual and spending a lot of time finding things to do to keep me out of the bottle.  Good material for writing.  Very bad for Andrew, who lives in an inn with a bar.

I'm winning so far.  So far.

I did meet a man recently whose breadth of experience has given me some inspiration to write further, maybe to branch into some more storytelling.  Better, he plays mandolin and has a fine voice; best, we are of one mind about some issues that have had my attention lately.  His name is Jharl.  I'm finding our talks enlightening, and he seems blissfully free of the need to be mysterious.  He's just a man, as I am just a man.  I could be friends with him.  Muse willing, I will.

Speaking of the Heartsong, our Lady of Just In Case Things Were Not Confusing Enough has sent an angel my way, one whose heart is as free as mine; which is to say, not at all.  I pray we'll remain friends come what may - she is as good a person as I have ever met, truly sunshine in the darkness - but because I can never keep my fool mouth shut I sent a letter with a sort of proposal.  Which you know how to read, having long given up on hearing wedding bells from me.  I hope the good lady does not take my letter the wrong way.  It has been some weeks since I sent it and I have heard nothing and not seen her.  Neither have I seen the one I lost.  I have spent the last week cloistered in my room, cursing the world and pacing over whether to have a drink or not.

Oh, and Rael tried again - this time a rather impressive group of Sulties.  Thank Muse I was following an even more impressive group, and none of the dwarves survived (that I saw).  Reward for my demise was set at five thousand True - I'm worth more every song, it seems.  I'm flattered.

Because of this I have installed, finally, a set of sturdy locks on my door.  I am trying to ward as well, something I know precious little about and will need training in.  I did conjure up a kind of hybrid alarm from my amplification spell wedded to a protection spell to ward evil, applied to my blood and hair around the doorframe.  I have no idea if it actually works; I can't see myself walking up to a local nefarious character and asking them in for tea, so it remains untested.  

In other news from your last born, I have upgraded my lovely Belle.  The son of my landlady had for sale an old mahogany guitar, which I snapped up for an incredible price.  The neck was split - I had hoped to use it - but the ivory frets were in great condition, as was the body.  Belle, thanks to a week of crippling desires best left unfulfilled and my subsequent hermitage, now wears a skin of mahogany.  I took the mess to a luthier I trust just today, and he's fixing the things I did poorly.  She does look good though.  Jharl has mentioned finding me an old oak violin, as I miss Alex every bit as much as she who made him.  Alexander is still in his case, still in my chest, still unwilling to sing for me but without violin I feel...numb?  Without a voice, without sensation.  Come to think of it, most of my life lately has been without sensation.  I need to feel something, soon.

I'm wandering.  I'm not even sure at this point I know what I'm going to write.  I'm pretty sure I don't care.  I'm alone, and tired of it, and I've had no contact in so long, and the instrument I love won't play for me.  It's too much, mother, too much, or too little?  I wonder when I'm going to die, but I can't stop singing.  Maybe a quick hack from Rael's thugs-

I'm back.  I had to walk away for a moment, I honestly can't believe I almost gave in.  Food helped.  I really have to ask Symphony for some more pie, it has magical qualities, by Muse.

As to my bleakness above, disregard that.  I still fight the fight.  In fact, mother, let me tell you about my dream, my goal.  I have it in mind to see a temple to our Lady erected in Prantz, someday.  Insane?  Yes, and so a very fitting goal for me - but somehow, I think our Muse will smile on me for this.  I'm not sure how, but little by little people talk, things inch together.  There is hope, as tiny and fragile as the bud of a spring flower, and so I tread carefully.

Oh, if you would do me a favor, would you inquire around town about the possibility of an Edgar Whinessy being there?  I would like to learn more about his Resonance of Being group, and they were formerly in Port Hempstead.  With the Clamshell there, it's possible he moved that way until Hempstead is rebuilt.

With this, I remain

Your loving son


Andrew
 

RollinsCat

Re: Andrew Reid - Letters Home
« Reply #44 on: January 14, 2010, 11:28:34 am »
To:
Himoto Baturi
12 Storer's Street
Warehouse District
Huangjin
Tilmar

*outside letter*

Order enclosed.

*inside letter*

Hello Mother.  I'm still alive, as you can see.  I am writing to update you on my life and to see how you and the family are doing.  How is Opal, father, my brother?

You have all been on my mind lately.  My new love and I have talked about our families, and I realized that I know very much and yet very little of my own.  I will be coming for a visit again soon, this time to gather stories and lore about us that I've missed or ignored.  I will be coming to see everyone.  Possibly even Aya.

Almost a year sober. I celebrated my birthday with grape juice.

My love is fine, she is a clear cool drink of water to a burning man.  I don't see her enough, but when we are together there is a sense of contentment, something I'm really not used to.  She follows the teachings of Aeridin and so I find once again I'm challenged to look at the world differently.  I still hold a torch for the one I lost, but for now, I'm at peace.  Alex still won't sing for me though.

I had a chance to put my new perspective - that's my word for right now, perspective - to the test the other day and I'm proud of myself, and of the people I stood with.  I want to tell you about this.  I really am proud.

The Queen of the Sun Kingdom put out a call for help, and that alone should have tipped me off.  As it turns out, the call was to remove - in any way possible - an elven settlement from lands the Queen now wishes to use.

You can imagine my disgust.  Several of us were ready to leave, but a few of us, myself included, argued that if we didn't help now, the next group might not care how the task was accomplished.  So we went, and we discussed the matter with the residents of that settlement (who had been there some time, this was not a new place); and between a woman named Tyra and a friend of mine Tugs we were able to put forth the idea that they could relocate.  The lovely lady Lana Poetr and Daniel, another friend - can I call a Rofirinite a friend?  I guess I must, because there is Symphony as well in that category - went to the Baroness of Green in Erilyn, my recommendation, to request a settlement location in that Kingdom for these elves.  Muse blessed us and the good Baroness did.  I stayed behind, along with some others, in case the Queen sent troops or a patrol behind us.  

Again our Heartsong blessed us when Tugs put forth our good faith in having secured the Baroness's agreement to a homestead for them and they agreed to move.  And so, we avoided any bloodshed and helped a community to leave persecution behind.  And I got to meet a most intelligent and interesting goblin who called himself Grovel.  He's promised to introduce me to his trible's Warsinger.  Goblin songs - I can't wait!

I doubt the elves will actually thank us, as they're being uprooted again.  But I think what we did was the best of a lot of bad choices.  There was a payment involved but I deferred my share to the elves to help them start up their new community, and I volunteered to help them make the march to the new location but my round-eared services were not required.  I didn't take any offense; it seems like the human-elven war has never ended in the Sun Kingdom.

For all that, something I can feel good about.

That is most of what I have to report.  Love is good, life is not as harsh as it has been, my mind is clear, and no one has tried to kill me lately.  I think I can say I'm happy right now.

Now if only I could locate Edgar Whinessy!


Your loving son,


Andrew
 

RollinsCat

Re: Andrew Reid - Letters Home
« Reply #45 on: January 19, 2010, 02:34:27 pm »
To:
Himoto Baturi
12 Storer's Street
Warehouse District
Huangjin
Tilmar

*outside letter*

Please see changes to my order, enclosed.

*inside letter*

Songs and hello, my first muse!

If you detect an unusual cheerfulness in my greeting, it is only because Ilsare has all but reached down from the heavens and patted me on the head, and I am giddy -- giddy, I say! -- with the joy of it.

I'm not even sure where to start.  What last did I tell you?  Ah yes -- the elves.  I will be checking up on them soon but I have no new news there.

I can finally give name to the woman warming my heart, she who is a brilliant sun over the formerly moribund, directionless ice floe that was my love life -- Elohanna Min A'Litae.  Even a fool as vast as I can be forgiven by the Heartsong it seems.  You have read her name before; she is the Headmistress of the Tower Academy.  And yes, I had feelings for her a few years ago, when I first met her.  She is an elf, and is -- well, I can't give a lady's age but she's experienced, and a wizard of amazing power.  Yes, mother, what is it with me and elves?  I don't know.  It started with Ilsare and it just sort of keeps happening...I guess I like older women.

She has an amazingly good heart, and she fearless, and kind -- Muse, you should have seen her the other day.  Let me preamble a bit on that.

There was a dark elf standing outside the Port Hempstead city walls protesting unfair treatment.  Aunlyn was the name he gave me, and his point is taken -- even now I harbor a tiny suspicion that might not be his actual name though I would not think twice if a pale-skinned elf or a human or halfling or gnome said the same.  That inner voice aside, I'm always looking for new experiences, and so I engaged him in a discussion about his protest.  It turned into a conversation, and I found myself not disliking him despite his bristling sermonizing.  He offered to teach me a bit of dark elven, even, which is something I will take him up on in the future should I see him again.

Elly -- Elohanna - came up along with a few other people and saw us talking.  Aunlyn excused himself to leave as I greeted her; and when I called him back to meet her, she without hesitation offered her hand of friendship.  Amazing.  She of all people has reasons to hate his kind without reservation, and yet she does not judge.  It was at that moment I felt what had been a growing warmth tip fully into real love.  She is good for me.  I have not had this much optimism in this entire long year since my grievous error in judgment, and for many of the years preceding that.  Of course, my sobriety could play a part as well -- but I'd rather credit Elly.  We have been treading carefully into this relationship and taking things very slowly, which means what you think it means, and don't think I don't see you feigning shock at my restraint.

In other news, Ilsare has smiled on my song in a way I never expected.  This story takes place on Dregar a few weeks ago, when a group of us were wandering and I was collecting aloe.  We had gone gem mining in a cave that giants often hole up in, and unfortunately for us, they were there again and attacked us.  We were caught between two warbands and a young lady in our party was beaten down before my song of healing could reach her ears.  After we drove them back and had a moment to think, someone suggested I sing to Ilsare to raise her.  I am no healer -- I've never had the quiet focus (or the quiet anything) for that kind of prayer.  But I sang anyway, because that is what I do.  And mother -- she came back, her body raised with soul intact.  Was it the Muse?  At that moment I shamefully confess I wasn't sure.  

But then!  After the giants massed an attack, we made our hasty escape from the caves to fall right into a deluge of spiders from the woods.  There were dozens of them, each the size of a pony with their stiff bristly hairs and chattering pincers, and during that initial attack a friend of mine Larissa was bitten to death.  We were beset by a spider the likes of which I have never seen before, no mere pony but one the size of a building.  I made what seemed to be the prudent choice of using my bow from a distance, but on second thought I was not prudent but scared out of my pants.  

After we chopped down the big one the other spiders stopped coming.  In our tiny battlefield of ichor and twitching hairy limbs, I knelt to sing again.  I sang the song I wrote for Elly before we became as close as we are; a song of death and coping I call Willow.  And again the body and soul mended and Larissa was returned to us.

Twice, in one day?  There are times in our lives when we are sure, beyond words and even beyond song, and that certainly that becomes a glow inside.  I have that glow.  My love for my Heartsong has never been closer to home.

Believe it or not, that is not the end of my good news.  Jharl has traded to me for some items I have been gathering a set of oak violins, a matched set for both a man and a woman.  The wood grain is astounding and although I have not played them yet -- I sent them to my luthier for a tune-up and some minor wood work -- I anticipate a beautiful friendship.  Having a set makes me wonder whom the other should belong to but rather than force a match, I will let the smaller violin tell me who will play her.  I can scarcely wait to hear them together!  Jharl also gifted me with a rapier that will again take a lot of practice to use effectively, but I have been working with diligence on my form and following my sabre book.  The rapier I have now, Muse's Sting, was made by my benefactor and is heavy-bladed, so the sabre style works well.  Tell father he can expect an end to any draws!

And finally, as if the rest were not enough to cement my smile across my face for the next ten years, my landlady has sold me the compliment to the violin bow she sold to me when I first moved in.  A mahogany violin.  A beautiful, old mahogany violin with a heavy patina and little worn spots where fingers have gripped over the years.  This is waiting in my chest because that wood has a sound that requires long practice to make the most of and right now I am too busy to hole up for months mastering it, but it is in nearly perfect condition and simply needs my undivided attention.  When I find Bella, I will have a family of violins - and what a smile that brings to my face.

So -- love, and friends, the joy of music, and increasingly the possibility of salvaging something from the one I lost, perhaps to even call her friend again someday?  Dare I hope?  More on that later.


Daringly,

Your loving son,


Andrew
 

RollinsCat

Re: Andrew Reid - Letters Home
« Reply #46 on: January 25, 2010, 12:58:22 pm »
To:
Himoto Baturi
12 Storer's Street
Warehouse District
Huangjin
Tilmar

*outside letter*

My order is enclosed.

*inside letter*

Iracee, Mother.  Elven for hello, and I hope I'm spelling it correctly.  Your letter was received and I'm delighted that Shuichi and Miyu will be parents again, and I will be an uncle once more.  I think Opal will be a fantastic big sister.  Tell Miyu if she wishes me to come play for her at the birth, I will be there.

So, yes, I've started learning elven - Elly is teaching me, at the same time I teach her piano.  Expect more elven in our letters as I will be using this correspondance to reinforce my study of the written portion of the language.  She has the harder job I think, as I know only a few words elven but she already can read music and knows the keys of her great giant piano.  It's really a beast, more than big enough for me to play comfortably and made of some massively heavy wood.  I've named it Ironsdottir.  Elly only needs instruction on how to get the best sound out of it, and how to use the pedals to good effect.  While I need to learn sentence structure, the alphabet, spelling rules, conjugation...my poor lady!  I'm applying myself, however.  The wonders never cease.

Speaking of which I have, at long last, found a fencing master again.  His name is Damon and he is quite simply amazing.  I have learned more practical swordplay from him in our first lesson than in all of Master Granouche's combined.  This is not to say that my old master's instruction was not helpful; after all, one needs tools before one can build.  But I must say I can't wait to try out a few of the things I've been practicing on some smug-faced bandit!  Most of what I've been doing is footwork, lightening my stance and moving.  I do tend to be heavy-footed in combat.  Also I've been practicing jumping, either in my room or late when the great room is empty.  Jumping around outside of any context looks silly so I'm aiming to not get caught doing it.  But it is helping my fighting if not my knees.

And last - my voice is back.  She tested me, this last year and more, by taking away my Song and leaving me to sing or play instruments that are not tied to my soul.  I have spent this time apologizing to Her, and more than that, making sure I do not turn back on the promise I made when I set that bottle away for good.

And I must have been forgiven.  I can play Alexander again, should I choose.  And I will when the time is right.  But now I am learning my new friend, who is not nearly as easygoing as Alex but the work is worth the sound.  Although the larger of the two violins I got from Jharl, he's the fussier one.  I haven't a name yet; he's coy as well.  The smaller violin I've tested and she's much less demanding.  His strings are constantly needing adjusting, for example, while hers seem to hold tune.  His best voice is harder to coax; one sloppy articulation or a little bad finger positioning and he pouts by dulling the sound.  

But - his harmonics are astounding.  Really, I've only heard a few other instruments that can reach that depth.  Along with that, vibrato on him (assuming perfect fingering) is a sound that gives me the shivers.  The vibrations seem to move through rather than bounce off of.  He is a challenge, oh yes - not the amiable friend you talk to about your latest tour or about women, as Alex is.  No, he is in charge, the one that requires flattery and demands you listen, and just when you think you've had enough of his tantrums, lets loose music that shakes you inside.  He is a diva.

I have prayed lately for Ilsare to show me who is his mate, for the violins were meant to be played together.  I confess to being a little anxious about this.  If it is someone I don't know, I couldn't not give them an instrument they were meant to hold, but I don't want to separate Monsieur from his dulcinee either.  Ah well - I'll deal with that when it happens.

Monsieur...could that be it?

Heartsong bless you all, my family, and I'll write again soon.

Your loving son,


Andrew
 

RollinsCat

Re: Andrew Reid - Letters Home
« Reply #47 on: February 01, 2010, 03:54:42 pm »
*taped to the door next to his at the Twin Dragons*

Iracce, Annwyl, my neighbor!

You cannot imagine my delight when I found out from Tyrian that we are now wall-to-wall.  I have been scarce lately or I'd tell you this in person, and the one time I have been home you two were out.  So a letter, and a blushing admission that I had addressed an envelope to Calise out of sheer habit before I realized what I was doing.

I hope you both are settling in.  Did you get a bathtub?  If not, pop over anytime to use mine.  My room is your room, should you need it.

I have a new acquisition, a harp with platiunum gilt and strings, and I eagerly await playing it for you.  To see you two dancing in the main room by the light of the fireplace would bring me great joy.  I can share with you my latest commission as well and get your opinion (I'm being paid to write a play, bless the Heartsong)!

If you are in Port Hempstead in the next weeks, look for me.  I have found Edgar Whinessy and am on my way to discover what I can discover about the Resonance of Being, and to see Elly as well, so I'll be at the Tower Academy if I'm not at the Resonance.

Until the Muse brings us together again, my friend; oyasumi nasai in your new home.


Andrew
 

RollinsCat

Re: Andrew Reid - Letters Home
« Reply #48 on: February 04, 2010, 01:49:49 pm »
To:
Himoto Baturi
12 Storer's Street
Warehouse District
Huangjin
Tilmar

*outside letter*

My order is enclosed.

*inside letter*

Hello, Iracce and ohayō gozaimasu, Mother.

It is winter here, with the trees and buildings of Leringard are entertaining wind-shaped spirals of ice.  How was the holiday there?  I am sorry I did not make it back.

I found Edgar Whinessy and the Resonance of Being.  I have just now retired to my room after that long, long trip.  I will enjoy my bed and quiet space briefly, however - I intend to go back and help with the reconstruction of the Resonance in Port Hempstead.  So much to learn, Mother.  So much to listen to.  I have just made a lifelong commitment, more binding to me than marriage...no, it is marriage.  To Ilsare, if you will.  A path that I don't expect to stop walking until my feet are tucked inside a pine box and hopefully not even then.

I'm sounding discordant, I know.  I'll try to explain in something approaching chronological order.

I received a letter back from one of the nets I cast, to Euchloe Summerleaf.  I had the honor of meeting this great lady, some years ago.  She is very open to discussion and seemed to enjoy the distraction of our group that day despite being waylaid.  I found her a relaxing presence.  Hoping she would remember me, I wrote her (as well as Marie Hartley and Janice of Bands) to find Conductor Whinessy.  Muse smiled upon me as Euchloe wrote back to inform me that the Conductor was in Port Hempstead rebuilding the Resonance.

I send a note to a lady of my acquaintance whom I felt would appreciate what it was I was trying to learn, and headed to Port Hempstead.  I was able to find the Resonance easily enough, and was immediately struck by how different the building there was proceeding.  The men and women were singing, enjoying their work, and much less stressed than most others I saw.  It was that feeling they shared that drew me to the site.  My lady friend was there, as well as another who was following me -- a friend, if he thinks of things in that way, named Emwonk T'noduoy.  

A digression; it was only on the last day of this long introduction to the Heartsong (more below) that I figured out what his name means, as he always introduces himself as Emwonk T'noduoy...youdontknowme.  It is a little embarrassing that I never before made the connection between that statement and the name, but he has reasons to keep whatever his name is to himself.  A most strange halfling he is, speaking in a language uniquely his own ("Current" is his way of saying hello, and remembering things comes out as "recycling cognitions").  But he has stories to tell and I was gifted with a bit of one and so I shall think of him as a friend until he tells me different ("Null").

But to continue.  Edgar Whinessy was out in the entrance hall of the building.  He is a man that seems to enjoy his life immensely, and he was taken immediately with both my lady friend -- he seemed to know her, or of her at least -- and Emwonk as well.  He particularly enjoyed Emwonk's interesting interpretations and way of communicating.

We spoke for a while near the docks, away from the sounds of building although I kept listening to this because the noise was so vibrant.  Not loud, but joyful, purposeful.  Even the sounds of the hammers were cheering; the creaking of wood and grinding of stone blended to make a harmony of construction.

After some background on the Resonance and what it is (in a concrete sense), I asked about joining.  Edgar countered by asking me to visit the High Hall of Dorand in Lyn.  To listen.  That is all he wanted me to do -- to listen.  Which is trickier for me than it should be for so many reasons, and I see you nodding your head with that gentle little smile you favored us with all our lives.

As much as I expected to be unwelcome there, with my loud Ilsarian self, I went.  The lady and Emwonk joined me and the trip there was three weeks of walking, hiking, and climbing.  We spoke little on the way, as I was often lost in thought and she even more so.  And, because my legs were in screaming agony after the first week.  Emwonk scouted ahead.  He is honestly one of the quietest men I've ever met when he wants to be -- he could walk across foil without making a sound.

We arrived in Lyn on a bright cold morning and found the temple with little trouble.  Like many things dwarven it is built into the mountain, near the peak.  The views here are incredible, the acoustics endless.  I stood for a while on one ledge looking out over miles of air and hearing only the wind and the dripping of icicles, the creaking of snow-laden branches (I have always loved that sound, when the trees are covered in ice and snow) and the occasional crunching footstep.  The cold made my breath take form, a ghostly reminder of my living self.  

I remember stopping at the statue to Dorand and once again wondering how two deities with such similar results, the making of beautiful things, could be so uncomfortable around each other.  That question, at least, I have a piece of the answer to.

Inside the gatekeeper; perhaps that's not the word I'm searching for, he seemed more a host; listened to our story with incredulity.  An elf, a human and a halfling making the trip to listen to the Way?  But yes, we had, and as I was most certainly not lying to him, he allowed us to join a class taught by a Hammer Birch.  He of all the dwarves we met appeared to enjoy us and I found him personable.

The Hammer was not entirely pleased by our presence but he graciously made the switch from Dwarven to Common and continued.  They were learning molds that week.  I kept quiet about what I knew, being the son of potters -- safe to say they do things rather differently than you and Father do.  I worked clay for the first time in...has it been two decades?  Just about.  I think you still have the last bowl I made.  Although we were to make this mold, this one specific mold, over and over, I did make some other little bowls and things, which did not please Hammer Birch.

Here I think is that piece of how we are different, Ilsarians and Dorandites.  Most of the Ilsarians I've met value expression over conformity, and understand that there are many paths to a person's idea of perfection.  We value our individuality as an expression of our worship.  Each different viewpoint, each unique twist and turn on a story or a picture or a song or a cup is our way of prayer.  Dorandites have an entirely different way of looking at things.  There is one perfection -- Dorand's - and the goal is always measured against that perfection.  There is precious little room for individuality.  There is *one* way to do things and that is the way you do them.  At least, in the few days we were there, that is what I heard.  That and the rhythms of the hammers, the cadence of his voice, the constant hammering home of how things are done.  Ilsarians shape Ilsare with each different work.  Dorandites are shaped by Dorand, each funneling into the Way that brings them closer to that one ideal.

Or so I see it.  As I said, it's only a piece of a picture I cannot hope to ever grasp entirely.

After it became clear that we should really be heading out, we left and returned to Port Hempstead.  Another long trip in which I was able to discuss quite a few things with the lady although Emwonk tended to disappear for days on end scouting.  Her insights, as always, opened new paths for my mind to wander, something that this lady does exceptionally well.

We returned to the Resonance of Being Hall late in the day a month and a half after we left.  Edgar and a student named Johnny were taking inventory, and we sat to converse.  We discussed our trip and what each of us had heard, and done; Edgar was once again delighted with Emwonk's observations and the lady's always eloquent recollections and insights.  Johnny added his own story, having made that trip himself before.

Another digression.  All throughout this, there has been an element of my childhood that kept popping up like a poisonous mushroom after a rain.  Do you remember me coming home, angry (because tears were for girls), about not knowing something and being called out and humiliated?  All that daydreaming I did, that I could not help and still can't.  You remember.  You were the only person I trusted with that anger, Mother.  When sensei Shad would bring me up front, asking me again and again a question I could not answer because I had not been paying attention, making me repeat my ignorance to the classroom over and over about the steps in each interval or the names of each of the triads.

Forgive my handwriting.  My hands are shaking.  I'll say only this, that I had that feeling more than once.

Edgar suggested a trip to the beach.  I was feeling rather unsure of myself by now, very off balance, but the beach has always been a place I enjoy.  I sometimes recall the waves around Huangjin when I need a moment of calm.  It was early morning (Conductor Whinessy does not appear to need much sleep) and we were able to catch the fisherman preparing and boating out for a day's fishing and the market folk setting up before the morning sun began to blaze.

Once again he asked me to listen.  Once again I did, and perhaps being in a more familiar place gave me the peace of mind to hear.  It took time, as I let each sound filter through.  But it was a sudden dawning when I felt it -- the sound that comes from every sound, the sound of each interaction, each wave, each glance and touch and word -- the Heartsong.  I have heard this twice before, the one time you know about and once after a night I will never forget, though I may not always remember it the same way twice, with a woman I love.

I say felt for a reason.  I'm used to hearing things.  The Heartsong though is felt as much as heard.  Both sensations, which for me at least brings in smell as well, combine, I don't know that I could feel one before the other, but then music for me is the same way.  I had my eyes closed by this time because visuals are often distracting to me.

After the Heartsong slipped away, and I heard it for less than a minute, Edgar asked us each in turn what we felt the Heartsong and the Resonance of Being was.  And, again, the lady and Emwonk charmed him.  The lady's explanation in particular he was pleased by, and I'm surprised he did not offer her the opportunity to join the Resonance.  

Edgar asked me then if I was willing to walk a path that was the most difficult I would ever step foot on, one that would frustrate me as often as it would enlighten.  At first I wanted to say "and this is different from my life how, exactly?" but I didn't.  I just said yes.

Where do I go from here?  For now, back to Port Hempstead to help.  To listen.  To listen a lot.  My Song is forgotten, something I will never be able to capture.  Neither the Heartsong, constantly changing.  All I can do is learn how we all resonate within it and from there?  I don't know yet.  But the Muse still has me in her arms, and that's good enough for me.

Your loving son,


Andrew
 

RollinsCat

Re: Andrew Reid - Letters Home
« Reply #49 on: February 12, 2010, 01:42:51 pm »
To:
Himoto Baturi
12 Storer's Street
Warehouse District
Huangjin
Tilmar

*outside letter*

My order is enclosed.

*inside letter*

Hello Mother.

I write in a restless state.

What makes a good decision?  Is it the end result only, or the lives affected in between?  A bit of both?  Is a good decision tied to being a good person?  What if a good decision hurts others?  Or if a bad decision ends up causing less pain?

Two reasons this nonsense is keeping me up at night.  The first happened a few months ago, in Fort Miratrix.  I play there from time to time when I can make the journey and have the money for the many passages I must make.  There were a few people I knew there on this date, and I entertained a bit while we passed the day until a man came to us frantic that his infant daughter had been taken by mercenaries heading south.

I was suspicious but the possible need for an infant outweighed that of satisfying my skepticism.  Our gathering headed south, finding the mercenaries who as it turned out were Corathites.  I will shorten the battle, as it was brought on by a lot of talking from a fellow who is not a born negotiator, but it was fierce.  I snuck around them, bespelled and on the lightest feet I've ever managed -- bless those bells and my practicing with them! -- and using sturdy thread from my pack, tied two of the thugs such that one fell when fighting began.  The other broke the thread I think.  It wasn't much, but I was out of my league, and at least the one I tripped was out of the fight for a bit.  The end result was the child escaped unharmed, if hungry and sodden from lack of care, and the Corathites were sent summarily to the object of their misplaced, pitiful worship.  All's well, yes?

Until the mother came.

I was stunned, Mother.  Stunned.  Sickened is a better word.  The mother wanted the child to be sacrificed.  She wanted the Corathites to have this infant girl, as payment for murders that lead to the couple gaining the wealth of their families and eliminating potential heirs.  It seems the man had misgivings about the fate of his own flesh and blood, but in the end he loved his wife more than his child and chose to stay with her.  The mercenaries doubled back on us, and doubtless that couple has paid their price by now.  A couple, including Mr. Not-So-Shrewd-Negotiator, adopted the baby whose name was Daphne.  

The mother bore a child solely to give it a horrible death.  Nine months of pregnancy and the labor, to make a creature for the absorption of her sins.  The destruction of innocence and unrealized potential strictly as payment for services rendered.  I am having trouble imaging much that could be more evil.  A lady cleric of Beryl I know destroyed the mother where she stood, and I found that I was not inspired to protest.  However after much pressure she raised the woman.  Note that I was not one of the people pressuring her.  And yes, this bloodthirstiness I am slowly developing is bothering me more than a little.

Still, mistakes were made.  Decisions that I ponder.  We don't often have the luxury of seeing the effect of our work, years down the line.  If they are still alive, would they have another child as living payment to this debt?  Should we have killed them?  Why did I hesitate?  I have a knee-jerk reaction to murder, but only for certain races.  Am I racist?  I suppose so.  And after all, it was only the man's destruction that bothered me, and only because he professed remorse and acted to have the baby saved.  The woman I did not shed a tear for.  But my decisions are rarely made with that much forethought.  It is only now that I sit and say, was that right?

The second event was recently and let me preface this by saying your son is in no danger of becoming a general of forces anytime soon.  I was offered a slave in Fort Wayfare by an orc merchant there.  Again, sickening -- dark elf or not, slavery is intolerable.  But you've always known how I feel about that.  And why all of Aya's little caged finches ended up free.

I made the mistake of contacting the town guard, regarding the slave sale.  I really thought it would be a concern to them -- Fort Wayfare seemed a place free of the kind of things I would expect to see in Fort Vehl, for example.  But the guardsman wanted to kill the elf before we could hear his story!  It took some doing to convince him to stand down, and let me get a translator.  The orc was taken to jail, but not before promising me that we'd meet again.  Good.  I will kill him, one way or the other, should he try.  Or should I see him trafficking in sentients again.

I was able to get a translator in my friend Aunlyn, who is a dark elf choosing to live on the surface.  He was a slave himself once.  With a ruse of his devising, we were able to discover -- no, scratch that, he was able to discover -- that Wayfare was about to be visited by a dark elf raiding party.  A word about Aunlyn.  He is frighteningly intelligent, thinking ahead and working around permutations while I'm just trying to find a good song in the events happening now.  I have newfound respect for him.  He let himself remain a hostage, figured out how to work the information from the captured elf, and frankly was instrumental to our success.  

By contrast, my attempt at marshalling forces was of mixed success.  I was able to get a group together quickly using bird messengers.  But I my tactics were confused at best.  Githrin, another friend (but one I keep an eye on as he's entirely too fond of dead things) was able to provide some distraction but in the end the forces were far beyond us and I was unable to get any armor-wearing sword types to join us.

We did take down one, but the rest were in place before we made it back to the fort.  Fortunately the druid in the group was able to get there ahead in cat form and warn the guards, and in the end, the raiding party was defeated.  I was roasted where I stood in that fight.  Poor Aunlyn was still bound near the gate and the spellcasting dark elf that bolted me also turned him into a red and black pile of goo.  A town cleric raised us and the dark elf who had been captured was executed.  I forced myself to watch.  I said a prayer to Ilsare for all those who are born and raised like that -- indoctrinated from infancy, unable to even form an opinion that wasn't fed to them or afraid to try.  Living in a world of darkness that is as much ideological as it is literal.  

And now I have time to question.  In the end, the town was saved.  Vaulted law-and-order Fort Wayfare found peddling slaves to be worth seven nights in jail and a thousand True fine.  Next time I will not involve the guards.  The Law is so often less than useless to me I'm amazed I trusted them again.  Another lesson learned.

Did I make a bad decision?  I think I did.  I should have killed the orc, hid the dark elf, found Aunlyn, and continued from there.  I have another enemy now.  How fortuitous for me.  And yet, my bad decisions still helped save the Fort if not all the guards.  I don't think I'm a "bad person" (yet) -- so what does it matter what I decide?  

Muse, I need a drink, badly.  And I can't even take that small comfort.

In other news, Elly is in a fury of preparations for sales and inventories and spring cleaning and traveling that leaves me alone, for now.  I have an interest but I am beginning to doubt there is any point.  A starving man following a trail of crumbs, hoping the loaf is at the end and finding it was only a trail after all.  We'll see.  She doesn't even like music, which should have decided me already, but --

We'll see.  The Resonance has tasked me with a listening exercise which will have me traveling so perhaps something else will come up.  Perhaps, even, the doors will open again to a heart of my past.  I was able to kiss the cheek of a statue and feel warmth under that frozen, battered exterior.  Had my head been any less spinning I would have opened my own heart but my decision of that moment was to find a quiet space and listen to the world, a sound I never grow tired of.  Another bad choice, perhaps -- I know I still want her.  But she has time, if I don't.  So again we'll see.

And please write me a note back scolding me for not writing a song one of my benefactors has already paid me for.

Your loving son,


Andrew
 

RollinsCat

Re: Andrew Reid - Letters Home
« Reply #50 on: February 18, 2010, 02:00:54 pm »
*tied to a bird messenger*

To: Acacea
Where the music plays
Somewhere between Harmony and Shadow
Layonara

Gypsy Belle!

I wanted to write and let you know how much our conversation of a few days past delighted me.  You have given me a new hope -- and I will be very interested to continue that conversation in the future.  It is a place I wish to visit someday.

I also wanted to thank you for the hug.  It was quite a stellar hug and left me singing all the way back to the city.

For your song repertoire, I include the words and tune to the Farmer's Daughter for you to sing as you will (and in your most special way).


Neddy was a travelling man selling goods across Mistone
Handsome with a silver tongue and feet most prone to roam
Hawking tinker's wares he'd drive from farm to distant farm
Chatting up the ladies and dazzling them with his charm

On these farms young maidens toiled, ladies of the till
Bored to tears with tending crops and looking for a thrill
Along came Neddy tall and lean with worldly news and flirting
Girls would swoon and fathers frown at his dimpled smile diverting

Neddy!
Neddy!
Rugged and handsome was Neddy!

Now you've heard all about these daughters of the farming men
Sun-kissed glow and cornflower eyes with bodies made for sin
Neddy plowed though them one by one to teach the facts of life
And if a farmboy'd taught them once he'd gladly teach them twice

Neddy never stayed too long least one become attached
What other maid might wait ahead with flowers to be snatched?
Before he left he always promised love and his protecting
The girls would wait, expecting him and often times...expecting

Maidens!
Maidens!
He taught birds and bees to the maidens!

Neddy he grew arrogant and cocky to a fault
Until one day his rutting spree came to a grinding halt
Maria was not the fairest maid he had ever viewed
But she had an air about her that kept his eyes flat glued

Built for pleasure not for speed her curves were dangerous
Her eyes were black as roofing pitch, her movements languorous
He put on his most beguiling face and went to get her name
She just laughed and told him he was preceded by his fame

Maria!
Maria!
He could not stop watching Mariaaaaa...

He could not say what it was that kept him round that house
He only knew he could not leave until he made her his spouse
Never before had a woman wound so deep inside his head
And left him begging for her hand before he'd felt her bed!

Maria would canoodle some and maybe let him steal a kiss
But never more than that and he was begging for her bliss
He even started tilling soil to earn her father's favor
Working hard all day long so her lips he could savor

Maria!
Maria!
Was he being delayed by Maria?

Two months passed and down the road came sounds of stomping feet
A score of farmers with pregnant daughters marching down the street
Maria stroked Neddy's rugged cheek and smiled at his fear
Whispered "Time to be a man and face your actions, dear".

Neddy turned to run but those pitch-black eyes bespelled him
Maria had him frozen still until the farmers held him
They cleaned his purse of every coin, each bit and shining True
Then took his clothes and cart and goods and his old mule too

Neddy!
Neddy!
Bankrupt and naked was Neddy!

Maria whispered once again and then she turned him loose
But rather than the next farm down the daughter to seduce
He turned his feet (to his dismay) back toward the road he'd came
Returning to the first he'd taught and therefore brought to shame

One by one Ned makes the rounds to each lady he made gravid
Changing diapers, doing chores and apologizing avid
Compelled to make amends and stay clear of lustful heaven
This lothario (reformed!) is now father of eleven!

Maria!
Maria!
You'd better not mess with Mariaaaa...


Muse keep you jingling until we meet again


Andrew
 

RollinsCat

Re: Andrew Reid - Letters Home
« Reply #51 on: February 21, 2010, 09:53:02 am »
To: The Lady Galathea Arnaduillae
c/o Krandor Hospital
Krandor
Kingdom of Brelin
Mistone

Milady Gala

I have seen your fliers posted about, and I am interested in a specific portion of your request:  "Promote works of beauty and music as healing of the spirit".

Since joining the Resonance of Being I have been studying along these lines, specifically using music to affect or change the emotions of a being.  Most bards can already sing wounds closed or bruises healed of course.  But my interest is to take this in a different direction as I'm no substitute for any cleric.  Music inspires faster healing, but I understand it can also ease a damaged mind, relax a patient for surgery, and even strengthen a body though the emotions to stave off further infections.

I would be interested in aiding your cause as I can, and to hopefully learn more of this type of healing.  I cannot effect this kind of healing as yet but I can offer music to bring a moment of joy to your patients.  What I will have to learn is how to make it have lasting effect beyond the echo of the last note.

If this is something that would benefit you please let me know and I will arrange time to spend at your facility.  Also as I am a fledgling luthier I will gladly make and donate instruments for your patients to play with, simple things such as pipes and tamborines and even a few mandolins or guitars.

Yours in the Muse,


Andrew Reid




To: The Lady Lana Poetr
c/o The Angels Guildhall
Tribute to Allurial District
Port Hempstead
Kingdom of Brelin
Mistone

Milady Poetr

I have wondered how to address this as sympathy is of limited use to you right now I imagine.

Rather, I write to send you the song you requested and to share a memory with you.  The first time I met Ben.

There was a need at that time for sand; this would be back after the first tsunami wave had hit the city and the Angels were preparing for the next major wave (with the guildhall already flooded as I remember).  I was new to Port Hempstead, having only arrived a month or so earlier.  Desiring to help (and also I confess, in need of coin) I answered the call with as much sand as I could carry - and quite a bit more.

Well, quite a bit more than more.  I could barely walk after the trip to Hlint and back.  Ben got my message and thankfully met me along the path through the Hempstead fields.  He walked out with that odd combination of determination and catfootedness, flavored with his ever-present smirk.  I remember thinking that my mental image of him was taller than the actual item strolling toward me.

He came over as I took step after strained step, sand leaking from holes in my bags.  We went to shake hands, a simple enough social exercise, and I overbalanced as we shook and fell straight forward - and dragged him down with me!

I thought my back was broken and by rights it should have been, but that wasn't my worry as I lay there struggling to get back up.  The powerful merchantman and guild manager I was attempting to sell sand to was now lying face down in the mud!  I cannot tell you how embarrassed I was, my glibness fled with my dignity as I tried to find a single word to salvage the situation and my own clumsy weakness.

Then I heard his snorting laughter.  He rolled up from the mud - his grace a startling counterpoint to my own stumbling - and said "any man carrying THAT much sand is a man I'm happy to see!".  And he helped me up, took some sand off my pack and onto his own short but brawny shoulders, and we walked through the floodwaters to the guildhall.

It was that day that he extended me credit to purchase my first set of fine jewelry, and waved away any protests I made of needing to pay in full first.  And you know what?  I would never have dreamed of taking advantage of him, regardless of how easy it would have been to "forgot".  He commanded that respect without making a single command.

That is the man I remember, and honor.  And here is your song, Milady.  Please consider me at your disposal should you need anything.

*a musical scroll is enclosed, written for piano and violin with the words printed in Andrew's usual neat italic script*


A time to sing
A time to play
A time to share remembrances before the end of day

A time to understand
A time for tears to fall
A time to laugh and mourn and all the good times recall

Questions unanswered for lack of his face
Stories and eulogies taking its place
Support from hearts that never stops flowing
Losses wrapped in familial embrace

He was her land
She was his sea
I play for them both and for all that mourn with me

She was his melody
He her muse, her mate
Together a symphony far beyond what either could create

Now we stand with our heads down through dearly departs
But combined, so much more than the sum of our parts
He's never far gone when you look at each other
Move forward, move on with Ben safe in your hearts

A time to touch
A time to feel
A time to let him know your love was very real



Yours in the Muse,


Andrew Reid
 

RollinsCat

Re: Andrew Reid - Letters Home
« Reply #52 on: February 23, 2010, 06:44:03 pm »
To: Master Damon Silverdawn
c/o The One-Eyed Harpy
Fort Vehl
Kingdom of Co'rys
Mistone

Damon, my master; I am delighted to report that there is in fact a training dummy available to me at my home, and I have taken it to task every night I can for the grievous sin of merely being there.  One hundred strikes, as you taught me, both left and right, with lunges and mixing up the approach.  Combined with the jumping and movement exercises and I my appetite is off the scale these days.

However all this has had some glorious consequences which I wanted to share - lately I have not had to stand back with my bow, hoping to not attract attention, but have been able to support the front line fighters.  I say "support" because standing in front is still very bad for my ravishing good looks, but your tutelage has had a positive effect.  Just the other day I was deep in the swamps with a number of others, surrounded by trolls, and held my own against a troll or three, even using a few parrying moves (admittedly out of momentary desperation but the ends eased the pain of the means).

I look forward to my next lesson with only the barest hint of pain in my legs and shoulders, my friend!

Muse keep you until we next meet,

Your student,


Andrew Reid
 

RollinsCat

Re: Andrew Reid - Letters Home
« Reply #53 on: March 01, 2010, 12:54:30 pm »
To:
Himoto Baturi
12 Storer's Street
Warehouse District
Huangjin
Tilmar

*outside letter*

My order is enclosed.  Please note the additional items.

*inside letter*

Hello, my first muse - joy and song to you!  I enjoyed your last letter more than I can possibly say, especially as the "marriage-defiling harriden's" name is known to me.  And a bit more of her than that - most of her, truth be told.  He was set up, mother.  Absolutely he was.  I'm sorry for Aya - thinking again, that was platitude, I'm not sorry.  I'm glad someone finally cut her sails.  All these years of pretending her family didn't exist?  I can live with her disowning me, I deserved it.  But not you.  And not for the reasons she did it.

I've set myself off.  So before I launch into my usual novel about me, knowing you'll read it with the loving indulgence I can ask of no one else, let me cool down by requesting from you some plant pots.  Minu has mentioned needing some new ones, and said she might come by Huangjin to get them.  I remember you had a design of suns with that golden glaze I used to use as paint.  Would you make a few of those in different sizes?  And if a lovely lady elf with long and wavy hair the color of fresh-baked bread, wearing a pink gingham dress (her current favorite) happens by, she'll make a beeline to them, I guarentee it.  If she's not come round in a month or two, let me know and I'll buy them.

My most significant update is my...what shall I call it?  My...ritual is the wrong word...renewal of vows?  That will work.  My renewal of vows to Ilsare.  A priestess of our Lady, Alazira, assisted me in consecrating that silver heart and clef charm that I've had since I was nine.  I can still remember seeing it in the marketplace, hearing father say it was too feminine for me and he'd buy it for Aya.  Who only wanted it because I did.  It's a good thing she ended up throwing it in the bottom of her jewelry box.  I don't think she ever even missed it - at least, she never said anything.  I've added an enchanted diamond to the clef and Alazira blessed it, by the pond outside Port Hempstead.  At the same time I did a song of devotion to Her with incense and everything, very High Church if there is such a thing for us.  I wish I could describe the feeling of putting that necklace on - my senses were shifted, as if I saw everything around me a little less like Andrew does but more like I should.  It should have felt surreal.  Instead it just felt right.

And as a result, the next time I called on help, She sent me an archer.  A beautiful, deadly elven lady whose bow has already helped me survive a few scrapes.  And our Muse, because she knows me far better than I know myself, also chose from among Her servants a lady whose amused but stern formality has assured that I will not be able to call her up when I'm lonely and feel like some active snuggling.  Believe me, I tried.  I keep getting the same lady and the same answer.  Ah well - although it does make me wonder what the summoned of Xeen will do...

I'm still with the Resonance, and still on my listening exercise although I keep in touch with the Conductor.  I'm still writing political songs, having added another organization full of bullying and abuse to my list of Bad Things to Sing About.  In fact, I'm working on a little subterfuge - actually, some very public subterfuge - to assist in that, which I will discuss in person next we meet.  Which shall be as soon as I arrive in Hlint on my teaching tour (that is costing me a third my fortune, such as it is).  My teaching tour, you ask?  My songs, bards willing, will soon be heard all over Mistone.  There is nothing like a song to get people humming the side of the story so carefully concealed.  It is proving expensive but rewarding, and I've acquired a number of new songs from my new (and old) musical friends.  But more on that later - and please don't tell Aya I'm coming.  Her reaction to her drunken degenerate baby brother might shed light on how contrite she really is toward the family.  We'll see...

Thank the Muse that my landlady, the Lady Tyrian, is of a mind with me about certain things.  I offered fair warning about what I'm doing and offered to move out should she not wish to possibly hear booted feet on her door.  Her response has endeared her to me forever.  I don't think I'll ever leave that place if I don't have to.  Who needs a house anyway?  And she's given me permission to put up a training dummy!

I have also volunteered to assist at a hospital, run by one Lady Gala.  She is a healer of our friend Beryl.  She put out a call for a variety of people to assist, which I gladly answered as it gives me opportunities to learn the healing side of the Heartsong.  As I passed through Krandor on my teaching tour (I write from Fort Llast) I spent a number of days getting to know the building, meeting some of her staff, and playing for the few patrons that wandered in seeking treatment.  I know music can speed healing, and when my tour is done, I intend to learn more of that.  I also donated instruments, simple things I've made as I move forward in that craft, such as chimes and tamborines.  Children love those things especially.  I've even gotten rather good at a simple mandolin, and donated some of those as well.  

That I have learned enough of the mechanical side of resonance to create an instrument is a moment of wonder for me.  This thing, that plays the sounds that are my lifeblood, I created.  Touching the wood I planed, strumming the strings I wound and waxed, hearing sounds that came from an instrument of my hands; I can't imagine what the sensation will be to play a violin that I made.  I'll probably have to change my pants afterward.

Aside from writing and spreading my songs, trying to influence the election in Lor (and I've even paid some bards to travel there and sing), touring, helping the sick, practicing my rapier, and making instruments, there is still a little time for love.  Minu and I still see each other when we can, we were blessed with an evening together before I left Port Hempstead.  The crumb trail I wrote of has gone cold but there are still some purple-pink gems in my ox's pack and an unanswered question or two.  We'll see.  I have been able to enjoy the Night Sky again with a prayer to our Muse and the cold north sea for each moment.  Once I get a few things straight in my head, I might even be able to look back and see the value of everything that's brought us to this point.

Then again, I might just feel old.

I have more to tell you, of discoveries and discussions and possibilities.  Places I want to go, and halfling ladies who have walked there before me and from whom I hope to learn quite a lot.  Which reminds me I owe an apology to said lady for an abrupt leavetaking.  

I plan to be on your doorstep in about three weeks.  Please make your congris pudding.  I've been craving that.

Your loving son,


Andrew
 

RollinsCat

Re: Andrew Reid - Letters Home
« Reply #54 on: March 04, 2010, 09:56:26 am »
To: Annwyl Cadi
c/o Twin Dragons Inn
137 Leringard
Leringard
Kingdom of Trelania
Mistone

Annwyl.  

I almost wrote "help", but I'm on the road and can't be helped...so I write this pursuant to our agreement of years ago.

I should have known better, really.  I played Fort Llast and it was a modest success, and then doubled back and debuted Willie the Bard - I'm fairly sure no one caught on, I'm a reasonable actor, but Muse knows I'm not great with makeup.  I tried to lighten my skin and ended up looking like I had psoriasis.  This was well in the end as folks would stop and listen but not get too close.  I felt good about Willie, working my way into his character and hopefully fooling the townsfolk.  

So I took a small break when I came into the company of one Kurn Blackwater and his bekilted friend Garg - Gorg?  His full dwarven monikor had constanants even I was intimidated to try.  But I was amusing myself and passers-by with music, and was playing one of my Rael rants when they stopped to listen.  Kurn gave me a tip I won't forget, either, in the form of another rapier and one with some very useful magic on it.  

We started talking.  Lance Navelgazer happened by, along with a lovely elven lady I've seen but not been formally introduced to.  Everything was running swimmingly, until the dwarves wished to depart and Kurn pressed into my hands a bottle of whisky.

Let me back up here.  I have been dangerously close to alcohol again but by the grace of Ilsare and observant friends I've been spared a fall.  Even my Nightshade went so far as to pry a bottle of ale out of my clammy, wanting hands, placed there by the same little mouse that finished off what was left of my restraint and common sense at that party years ago.

What you think and what you know are so different.  I think I can resist, that the cravings are an echo of my past I can ignore.  Without proof I didn't know, so my traitor brain makes up stories of how long it's been, how strong I've become...

I know, now, that those cravings are no mere echo and I'm still as susceptible to the sauce as I always was.  I tried, Annwyl, I tried - I tried to not open that bottle, tried to not drink that sweet fire.  Again by the grace of the Muse there wasn't much left in it.  And of course in a cacophany of ironies, my desire remains intact, my willpower remains zero to resist, but my tolerance has degraded to nothing.  I drank and it was good, so good...how do I describe it?  There is the first wash over the tongue, that burns and sends shocking heat through your jaw.  I love that moment, the sensation has always been pure pleasure to me.  Then the fumes curl up the back of your throat into your nasal cavity, leaving you to blow them out like ghost smoke and again the heat and sweet smell of corn mash inside your nose.  Then the slow burn going down, the rush of warmth in your stomach, the glow, the incremental shifting of consciousness from a solid to a liquid state.

I lived for it even as it killed me.  I never quit because I thought about my health or because I didn't enjoy it.  I quit because of the pain I caused from bad judgement, one incident, that seems a lot smaller now that I'm sitting here in a tavern waiting to play and surrounded by dusty glass bottles full of fermented joy.

After I drank the bottle down and licked the last drops off the rim, and yes, I did, Lance finally figured out what that desperate look I gave him was and took the empty bottle from me with some words about discipline and willpower.  As if I ever had either, or even understood what it means.  If it doesn't hurt it doesn't teach me, my mother always said.

I will say this as well, I'm glad the whiskey was as strong as it was because when I saw Kurn's smile I turned a little green at what manner of fauna must have been frolicking on the gracefully turned glass opening of that bottle before the alcohol burned them to oblivion.  He hasn't cleaned his teeth since the fall of Bloodstone, I'm sure of that.

I ran with them as they mined ore and gems, laughing and enjoying their antics, until the glow wore off and all I wanted was more.  More, more, more.  I even sang for my archer guardian who promptly gave me a scolding and a swift reminder of what happened LAST TIME.  For which I cannot thank her enough; her bell-sweet elven voice was a soft refrain as Kurn later tried to get me drunk again, and I was, if barely, able to say no.

Which leads me to now, in this place, and wanting.  Needing.  So I write you to re-invoke my promise.  You can tell by the length of this letter how bad the craving is...I'll be singing in a few minutes and maybe then I can lose myself long enough to move past it.

And maybe I'll grow wings.


Somewhere on Mistone


Andrew
 

RollinsCat

Re: Andrew Reid - Letters Home
« Reply #55 on: March 08, 2010, 01:08:48 pm »
To:
Margaret Reid
2 Clay Ward
Huangjin
Tilmar


Ohayō gozaimasu, Mother.  I'm using your new address directly, hoping it is safe enough as I continue to needle the Powers That Be with my little songs.

I have been thinking about my visit, and on rumination I have something to say.  Aya is not wrong.  I know you don't want to trust her - I don't either.  But she's not wrong.  I'm not saying I'd throw Shuichi over to let her run things, but while her business sense is lacking, she does know how to work connections.  Muse, it's how she got married in the first place.  Perhaps you could let her set up some meetings?  I know, odd that I would have sympathy.  But I've seen how harsh the world is to an unmarried woman with a child (this one my future niece or nephew, no less) and if her pride won't take her back to her two-timing dog of a husband, then she will need someplace and something to earn her way.  Says another two-timing dog.

My tour continues now that I've had a short break.  I am finding musicians amiable to singing my works and I have agreed to sing theirs as well, enriching my songbook considerably.  This pleases me and gives our friend Willie plenty of material to use that isn't mine.  I hope this experiment of mine will have an effect on our populace, especially since the Blackwatch scored a little victory of thier own when they fouled the attempts of a group of oddly organized men attacking an orphanage in Leringard.  I spoke to the children shortly after, and from their descriptions (given while I taught them to play chimes and tamborines I donated) the attackers were not locals.  Possibly Dregarian, but I'm looking into that further as I tour and teach.  I have a suspicion that it will be difficult to prove who paid them and for what reason but I'll do what I can.  After all, it made the Blackwatch look good.  Don't make that face - I go with my gut on this one and my gut says something's wrong.  There might be individuals who have honor in the watch but overall...

Onto something less ambiguous.  Or, much more depending on your viewpoint.  Heading toward Vehl after my return from the family home, I came across a passel of Toranites - what should I call that many of them?  A flock, a herd?  A gaggle?  Yes!  A gaggle of Toranites, standing by an abandoned tower near Dapplegreen, listening and arguing with none other than Nightshade.  She'd called them for assistance, apparently, which means that they decided what the best course of action was based on a zealous prejudice and were prepared to destroy that which vexed them so.

My handsome Ilsarian self caused them no end of consternation and suspicious looks, although I did see a few faces I felt were more likely to be inquisitive and less likely to just drop the tower in a hole and call it done.  Symphony was there but taking a backseat to the happenings - apparently the gaggle of Swords trumped her one Dragon.  Nightshade seemed...how odd, almost protective of me, which I am most certainly not used to as she has previously communicated mostly by hitting me.

A Toranite of some rank, her name is Isabelle and I've met and entertained her before - a lovely woman when she's relaxing - was called in as well.  She attempted to disperse us saying the church had things under control and we shouldn't worry our pretty heads over it.  When I found out Nightshade holds the deed to the place, I set myself to whispering in her ear, trying to bolster her to take control.  Her tower!  Her land!  Her investigation!  And the lady did, as I knew she could, having seen and documented her abilities before.

A frontal assault on the tower was attempted.  A failure leading to a number of untimely demises, my own included, as the undead infestation (did I forget to mention that?) was thick and quite powerful.  I was called back to my body and found myself very much liking the tower - very much.  I didn't want to leave.  I wanted to hug the walls, breathe the air, and lay down in that place and let it keep me.  And the sensation was so natural, I didn't question why I would want such a thing.  Nightshade, reverting to her usual means of speech, kneed me in the stomach (thankfully missing my manhood, or intentionally, I'm not sure which) and carried me out over her shoulder.  Lucky for me I'm used to such humiliations.

I think...I am not sure...that Nightshade kissed my cheek at some point after carrying me outside.  If it happened.  I was groggy and my gut was aching from that black-leather-clad knee so I could be wrong.  But it must have been her.  None of the Toranite women would have touched me, much less kissed me.  

Once outside my head cleared.  Various options were discussed, and I found that walking near the tower caused me to want to go inside.  We waited until dawn to attempt anything new.  Symphony was sent in to scout.  In securing a roped arrow I had a rare moment of triumph, in that all of Nightshade's shots went wild but my one attempt sailed true through the window and into what we later found was a bookcase.  I felt a bit of smug at that.

I started singing around the base of the tower, as I had inside, in different frequencies to see if I could narrow a location for the magic.  Dawn blew away my need to be inside the building thankfully.  And lo and behold, I found a frequency that made the rope go taut, then writhe like a living thing.  The rope was just rope so the magic had to be coming from inside!  Nightshade climbed, ordering those of us who had died inside to remain outside, but when did I ever listen to a voice of authority?  So I climbed after her and began to sing to the room we found ourselves in.

I digress here to talk about another revelation.  I scoff at those who are set in their ways, who slavishly follow Law and Order past the point where it makes sense to do so.  And yet, given a single commonality, I find my stance softening - revealing to me my own hide-boundness.  A difficult position to reconcile when you pride yourself on being flexible of mind even as you summarily reject others.  I say this because I've had run-ins with one Lance Stargazer before.  A man who follows Law and Order.  And, who it turns out, has a fine singing voice, his sound not that different from my own in that he's a tenor with good range.  Finding this out - that he knows something of my world, my passion - gave me a new respect.  Should it have?  I don't know, and asking myself that makes me uncomfortable.

This was all thought of after, of course.  During, I showed Lance the tone we had to sing, a drone really, and it was a strain, being deeper than baritone and the both of us tenors.  It took a good day of rest before my voice was back to normal after that.  But our combined efforts brought forth a magical imprint of what happened to cause the tower to become thus.  I was told later it involved a Rofireinite knight and an evil mage, although my eyes were closed as I concentrated on keeping the sound steady and so I cannot say from experience.  For all his natural talent, Lance's voice isn't as trained as mine and so I put all my focus into the droning in case he should falter (which, in the end, he did not).

It was shown in this image that an orb was buried under the floor by the mage, and I felt this was the magic filling the tower with undead.  Nightshade took up the boards, finding the orb.  All of this took the day so by now as night inked the sky my desire for the tower was returning.  I found the fist-sized orb facinating.  It was red, Ilsarian red - or that's how I percieved it - and I wanted to touch it, hold it.  Once again my Nightshade stopped me, this time by sitting on me which was stunning enough to break my obsession with the orb's sensual glow.  And, I confess, quite delightful in it's own way - so much so that when the orb was removed from the tower and set on a rock, I made a move for it just so she'd jump on me again.  Which she did.

Isabelle returned and took posession of the orb.  She was supposed to return with word of when the previous owner of the tower would be available for questioning, but he was - in her words - unfit to travel.  Here is where the simple (we saved the tower and cleansed the undead, hooray for us!) becomes...complicated.  In listening to her there was a strong implication that it was the Toranite questioning that made the owner, Guissan (I'm guessing at the spelling) unfit to travel.  Have you ever heard of Toranite torture?  I haven't.  A Rofirenite, maybe.  But a Toranite?  I lived most of my life with a temple to that god in my home town, and I have come to think of them as...harmless isn't the word.  Benevolent?  Kind, even, at times?  Reactionary, yes, and strict, and comfortably snugged into a white strapped coat made of their Laws and Rules.  But not the kind of worshippers that would break a man for information in such a way.  Perhaps my imagination dances away with me; it was, after all, inferred from words that were not at all direct.  But then again, that indirectness isn't like them either.  And the paladin Daniella (at least I think she's a paladin, she has the look - gorgeously glowing but armored up like a tin can so you can't admire the whole of it) - seemed rather tense about it as well.  She should know.

This orb has been taken by the church.  Normally I would trust them, in all honesty, given that of all the law-and-order churches theirs is the one I am in least diagreement with.  But if there is mold in the woodwork...the orb seem to be able to enforce a desire for it, and can create a need to be in a specific place.  I know.  I felt it.  What kind of things could be worked with such a thing?  Who could be detained, trapped, enslaved...

I don't want to believe that they would do this.  But I have a wrinkle of worry, all the same.  I may ask Daniella about it should I see her again.

In other news, the Lor elections have come and gone and I hope my songs had some effect, as I paid for them to be sung.  Regardless the outcome is favorable, with two pro-independence candidates joining the Diet.  And so the line in the sand has been drawn for Rael - he can't slip Lor onto his collections plate without taking military action and tipping his hand.  I'm very pleased.

And, to finally answer a question you asked before I left, no.  It was a third of a bottle of whiskey, and since then, an ale.  Other than that I've kept my hand in the rudder, shaky but only blown off course a little.  I'm back to day by day - but it's better than morning after by morning after.

Lastly in this tome of a letter, before I embarked from Vehl I found my fencing master hard at work in the Arena.  We took several hours for a lesson.  I thank him, mother, with all my heart, and most of my body for the training he's drilled into me.  I thank him for the exercises that have given me a confidence with my rapier I never dreamed of having.  I thank him with all but my left leg, whom wishes that Master Damon Silverdawn die slowly in a vat of bubbling acid, screaming as his skin dissolves; because that is what my left leg felt like for days after that last lesson.  But I ignore my wayward limb and bask in the nod of respect I earned from Daniel Poetr for my swordwork, which was worth every single agonizing moment of training thus far.

With that I will go appease my abused and neglected stomach with another fine helping of rations.  Your leftover congris didn't make it past lunch that same day.  I told you I'm eating a lot more...

Your loving son,


Andrew
 

RollinsCat

Re: Andrew Reid - Letters Home
« Reply #56 on: March 14, 2010, 02:35:51 pm »
To: Janice of Bands
c/o The Breath of the Muse
River of Reflections
Kingdom of Brelin
Mistone

Milady Janice; I write to summarize an incident I have recently been involved in, that bears noting as the name of our Lady was invoked in conjunction with horrific actions.

Preface: I had traveled to Fort Miratrix on Belinara on tour.  Finding myself in the company of some of my fellow wanderers, we commenced to chatting and playing music, none the wiser of what was about to happen.  We observed an artist of no small skill painting, and browsed her wares; I played to inspire her work.  All very calm and a quite an enjoyable way to spend an afternoon.

It was not until the next morning that the horror began, when we straggled from our various beds to find the town in an uproar and a woman, dead, but posed on a chair in a frighteningly accurate portrayal of life.  It was only her lack of pulse and breathing that gave away her status - her cheeks were rosy, her lips red, her skin blushed with peaches and ivory, just as if she still spoke and laughed.

The guards immediately shut the town down, and we - that would be myself, Tugs Sunnytoes (a halfling gentleman of stealthy talents), Annwyl (a Sword Dancer of our Muse), Galathea (a cleric of our friend Beryl), Rocky Howling Wolf (a dwarven musician with an enviable basso voice I can reach only at in the early morning), and Ellis Kyudo (an archer of our Heartsong) - commenced to looking into the matter.  There were others involved at various stages of our investigation whom I shall name as well, if you will bear with my disclosures: the lady Lana Poetr was with us at the resolution, the lady Sala Stonehill was there for the initial investigation, one Myrddyn Renolt spent a few days with us after we were released from the initial lockdown, Lance Stargazer was also involved in the initial investigation, and there was a family of Ilsarians - Zarianna, Alazira, and Razeriam (you may remember them?) present at the first death.

We noted that the dead woman's pose was similar to one of the artist's works, and proceeded to question her.  Sadly, some of the more zealous among us took her for guilty and were rather persistent with the poor lady.  She informed us she had sold a painting to a well-dressed gentleman who we discovered had bribed his way out of town, and so when the gates were finally opened, we followed his trail.  

This is when we found the second horror - I am sorry to describe this to you, Milady, and I will be brief.  We were alerted to a family's murder, and hastening to see, we found them - the mother posed as if working on her garden, the father nearby with his wheelbarrow, and the children as if playing a game.  I will not forget that.  The way the woman's arm was rigged up to move the hand-trowel across the dirt, is a stain in my memory.  I won't belabor that image.  Suffice to say we pursued and found the purchaser of the pictures, and were directed to follow the path that lead to the local coroner's, which we were heading to anyway to examine the first body.

We arrived at the coroner's house, and after amiable chatter with the man, whose name was Nelville, he agreed to let us see his working space, although he did refuse to let us near the body.  Being convinced of our own cleverness, we followed him to the basement of a short tower nearby only to be summarily gassed and manhandled into another location.  We awoke in a stone-paved room, heads pounding, and as if that wasn't disorienting enough, with a pit spawn standing on a platform above us.

It was the first pit spawn I think I have ever seen.  It had gray skin that was ill-fit over huge muscles, and an outsized jaw - in fact, nothing about the thing seemed to fit properly.  Except perhaps the claws.  When it spoke, the voice didn't come from a specific location, rather it boomed around us.  It asked what we thought of it's work, and then it identified itself as an Ilsarian.  As you can imagine, this didn't sit well with a few of us, and given that we were at the disadvantage, lively debate ensued.  We tried, repeatedly, to explain that taking a life for the sake of art was wrong, that removing someone from the Heartsong for the sole purpose of mutilating them...well, we argued a lot.  The thing spouted back dogma like a pro, I give it that, but failed to grasp even the basics of the Heartsong - I don't know that it could.  It became angry, at us, at Ilsare; we kept putting forth the point that you don't murder sentient beings to create art.

Sentient beings.  Forgive my musings here, but that point sticks with me.  We kill animals for skins to create clothing, and use the bones for carvings, create fantastic feasts with the meat...it is only those creatures that think beyond the moment that we consider "sentient".  But every living thing adds to the Heartsong, be it a single note or a symphony.  That has given me some trouble, the idea that something that lives for it's next meal is fair game but something that plans for that meal is not.  If the pit spawn had used animals instead of people, would I even be writing this letter?

Apologies.  I have been told I think too much.  To continue; Annwyl's tolerance for the blasphemy of our Lady reached an end and she charged, only to find that the creature was a projection and not in fact in the room with us.  It was still able to summon a number of mephit or imp creatures at us, I'm not sure of the distinction between them (perhaps it's color?) and the image vanished.  We battled our way out of the room and down a hall to find a portal to the coroner's basement, and - of course - he then attacked us with yet more mephits.  With the weight of battle training we had standing there, the man really should have just given himself up.

I found out later from Tugs and Gala that the man had mephits in his house as well, and a stunning collection of artwork.  But the vision of the pit spawn left us with disquiet that we'd found the culprit.  Neville seemed more an accomplice, or a minion.

Post-battle, we had a look around.  There were two portals, in fact, one red and one blue - we spent considerable time trying to learn about these until Ellis simply flung herself into one, rebounding as she was tossed out with a hearty thunk.  We decided that rest and recuperation would befit us, took the single magical item Ellis found in the form of an obsidian scalpel, and left for Fort Miratrix.

We found the artist still at the inn, and once again we questioned her although some of us felt this was unnecessary as she was an innocent, her work perverted by the spawn.  Ellis, however, being Ellis - really, there is no other way to say it - nocked an arrow and held the bow to her head, which got the guards involved, and Ellis ended up dashing out the door.  Fortunately they didn't bother us, and we soothed the ruffled feathers of the poor artist as we could and sat to discuss things.  Gala had retired to her room with the scalpel and the rest of us tried to relax as we could, not knowing how to find a pit spawn nor how to destroy it.  But it was clear to me by now, through prayer and song, that it needed to be stopped.  I was certain, Annwyl was certain - we both felt absolutely that this was sacrilege.

Gala returned later, having had a dream where she felt herself as the scalpel, being pushed into a body.  It could not have been an easy thing for her, as she is a healer among her other talents.  I took a turn on it using my Resonance of Being training and discovered, sickeningly, that the thing had a memory, or a way to store images.  Lana had the suggestion to pool our bardic magic, using Gala as the focus as she was the strongest with the Al'Noth in the room.  Upon doing so we were able to bring forth the images, upon which I will not dwell even a single word, and eventually the location of the pit spawn.  I think it saw us looking at it, actually, but Rocky recognized some plant life in the images being specific to a locale in the Roughlands.  And so we gathered our traveling gear and set out, determined to stop this "Artist" before he could stain Ilsare's name further - or kill anyone else.

The journey was enjoyable despite the lingering uncertainty of what we were about to face.  None of us thought to alert anyone as to our whereabouts, typical of myself and Ellis but not so much perhaps the others.  I credit our eagerness to see this thing finished for the oversight.  We sang a great deal; I find my voice blends nicely with Lana's and Rocky's bass was a pleasure, as I find so few dwarves follow the bardic tradition.  

We arrived in roughly the area we felt we must search, looking for a cave as the creature appeared to be in.  Ellis, who had paced ahead for most of the trip, went into the cave while we were still warding, and we had to run to find her.  We also found mephits and other pit spawn, large numbers of them scattered all throughout the cave, along with piles of bodies.  The battles were rough - wending our way back, we lost Rocky once, for which I carry guilt as I was the designated potion flinger.  We came to a dead end containing a single pit spawn that attempted to parlay, speaking to us a name that the "Artist" used - Heroaz.  Ellis, though, begin Ellis, and having only a passing familiarity with the idea of restraint, killed it as it stood.  I jest, of course.  She has no understanding of the concept whatsoever.

That avenue of possible information gone in an ethereal pile of goo, we pressed on and found Heroaz at the end of a twisting series of tunnels.  He had quite a setup; a red portal, which we determined was for communication, a throne, a bookshelf well-stocked with medical texts.  Ellis had walked in ahead of us and Heroaz had already charmed her in some way, so we went immediately to battle to keep it off her.  It went down under a hail of spells, swords and arrows - rather fast, actually.  I remain surprised by that.

After long discussion and some experimentation, we bards and Gala were stumped on how to destroy the scalpel and the portal, tossing ideas left and right, until Annwyl's clear voice broke through our fevered mumbling.  She suggested we put the scalpel in the portal and use the magics against each other.  Brilliant, and the answer in fact, although it left us fleeing as fast as we could to the entrance with a now-unconscious Ellis in tow as she had tried to take the scalpel from Gala, still under some compunction from Heroaz.  Or so I assume, she may have simply wanted it.  This brought her a frustrated pummeling to prevent her from hurting herself or anyone else.  I was not one of the people subduing her, but I won't pretend I didn't feel a wee glow of satisfaction when she finally slumped to the floor.  

And so the tale ends, and I report it to you as a matter of interest for the Church.  I'm not sure of how pit spawn die.  Heroaz might be back in it's pit, planning angry revenge, or it may be well and truly dead.  But I felt you should know and please feel free to share this story as you see fit.  I will be writing Fort Miratrix to let them know of the bodies.  As much as I don't like dealing with The Law, there are families out there that would like closure - someone loved those bodies, when they lived and breathed.  

Please don't hesitate to contact me at my listed address if you need any clarification, Milady.


Yours in our Muse,


Andrew Reid





Captain, Fort Miratrix Guard
Fort Miratrix
Kingdom of Nesar
Belinara

Sir:  I write to let you know of a cache of bodies, discovered by some adventurers coming through Hilm on the way to Westgate.  A spot of sight-seeing at the location of Bloodstone's death lead them south, where a cave was discovered.  Well, what is a cave to an adventurer but a sultry lady with a wink and a smile?  In they went!

But the cave, rather than giving up treasures, was filled with pit spawn of every imaginable size, and also a distressingly large number of bodies from fresh to bones.  The adventurers felt that the closet garrison should know, so identification can be made and families notified.  They cleared the caves of all the pit spawn they could find, and there was a bit of a cave-in in the back due to overzealous use of magic, but the bodies should be reachable.

Enclosed please find a map with directions to the cave, using landmarks and the aid of someone who knows your locale.


Yours,


Anonymous but Concerned

*enclosed with this is a rough map of how to get to the cave from Fort Miratrix via standing landmarks*
 

RollinsCat

Re: Andrew Reid - Letters Home
« Reply #57 on: March 22, 2010, 01:45:46 pm »
To:
Margaret Reid
2 Clay Ward
Huangjin
Tilmar

Iracce, mother - thank you for the wonderful news, I'll try to be home soon to see my newest niece.  Is Opal enjoying being an aunt?  I'll bet she is.  Aya should be grateful for the help.

I haven't too much to say, life is and does here.  Someone I worried was lost is not and that gives me great joy.  I'm involved in several projects and investigations, and I've taken my first steps to learning to sail.  I'm in Fort Vehl as I write, as my investigations are here.  Port Hempstead, sadly, has become a nerve-wracking place to inhabit thanks to one Saida Rothsford.

Never have I been so uniquely unsuited to battle.  The woman is an enemy of Minu's, accustomed to getting what she wants when she wants it.  She enjoys power, takes what she can't get by other means, and appears to extract vengeance on anyone who crosses her.  By my definition, a repugnant and thoroughly evil woman.  I should simply avoid her, yes?  But she has married into a position of social power, so being rude is difficult if one's reputation is part of one's tools in life.  And she is an enchantress of enough power to earn me a stern warning from the most powerful enchantress I personally know, which gave me pause right there.

And she has taken an interest in me.  For what and why I have no idea except to suspect it has to do with Elly, perhaps.  She's been pursuing another friend of mine, Emwonk - do you remember me writing about him?  Halfling, has lightning flashes on his body and a very unique interpretation of language?  Saida accused him of breaking and entering her home and had him jailed.  I was not in town so I'm not sure of her motives except that she may be one of his fabled Wardens.  Or perhaps that woman Destiny I met times ago.

She beckoned me the other day to speak to her by the clever use of the threat of force via her bodyguard.  I put on my most inoffensive face and spoke with her, feeling as safe as possible in the public square and avoiding her eyes as if she was a basilisk.  Which isn't a half bad comparison considering.  She was halfway subtle in offering me money, power, women - all things that are nice to have but I think she misjudged my material desires.  It's good to know she doesn't know me as well as she insinuated.  She was ill-pleased with my gentle, smiling refusals, as I'm well aware that nothing she would give would be from any part of her heart, and tried the seductress tack next.

I almost had to laugh, and thank the Muse I didn't.  I have loved - love and am in love with, still - two beautiful women whose powers rival Saida's.  Rothsford's sultry suggestions would have been worth a chuckle and a spun heel except for her skills as an enchantress and my utter lack of defenses.

She cast on me, mother, and in retrospect that made me very angry.  I didn't look into her eyes, and I have no idea what spell she used.  I should learn and quickly.  She moved in on me then, as her other attempts to get close I'd found an excuse to avoid, and told me to kiss her.  No coy eyelash batting or husky voice now; she dropped the act altogether and simply commanded me to do her bidding.  I can't even write this without shaking - I have never, ever demanded affection from a lady.  I do not take what isn't freely given.  That's a guiding principle of my life.  And she would do this, bespell me, and demand I acquiesce to her?  And, I'm betting, had circumstances not played out as they did, had me jailed for attempted rape right after.

Muse is looking out for me, however.  A young lady I recognized as Calley was behind her - and behind Calley was Feawen, an elven lady I'm friends with.  Thank the Muse, for my lips were on Saida's cheek and moving to her mouth when I saw them and that broke her hold on me long enough to gain my bearings.  And gave me two witnesses as well.

I never thought kissing an admittedly attractive woman would feel so disgusting.  I'm glad it was only the cheek, but not as glad as if I'd avoided the entire thing.  I spoke to Feawen and another friend run afoul of Saida named Lana, then packed my ox and took the first ship to Fort Vehl.  They didn't want my ox on board (and Ribs didn't want to be there either to be fair) so I volunteered on deck as a way of learning sailing and making amends.  That provided the balm necessary for a very informative voyage and I'm looking forward to shipping out again.  Perhaps with less deck-swabbing next time though.

And so here I am in Vehl, trying to decipher a mystery of a missing lady with the help of my friend Annwyl, and to find out more about Saida as I can.  I will have to get some magical assistance for my wills as well.  I knew all those years of drugging myself into sweet oblivion would come home to roost.

And before you ask, I've been drunk once since the last letter.  I had forgotten hangovers in the last decade or so.  All in all I wish I hadn't been reminded.

Give everyone my love and especially my new niece

Your Loving Son
 

RollinsCat

Re: Andrew Reid - Letters Home
« Reply #58 on: March 31, 2010, 07:51:29 am »
The Gift

"Hello, Jimmy!"  The tall man takes a few long strides toward the Crossroads oak, waving to the paperboy as he goes.  His pack is heavy, his road ahead still long.  He slips the pack to the ground and settles before the always-burning fire with a sigh, resting with the huge tree's trunk at his back.  He takes out the fussy oak violin and tunes it - again.  He begins to play.  He eyes are closed, his head moving back and forth as he listens, and the music is a reflection of the Crossroads.  The strings vibrate as an eye in a storm, or the moment before waking, the sound of a friend's voice in a lonely crowd...

A few minutes?  An hour?  He must have drifted off.  A cheerful and familiar voice brings him back to the present, the fire, the fading daylight.  He can't place it and that annoys him greatly.  He always remembers a voice.  He finally concedes to his sight and peels open one eye to see the halfling man who gave Willie time to escape standing nearby.  He might have been there a while; there is soot from the fire on his clothes.  He seems to recognize Andrew.  The halfling smiles when the tall bard appears to have woken.

"'Ello, 'ello!"  The dapper halfling tips his hat.

"This 'ere's a copy o' my writin's. 'Ope ye 'njoy it, sah."  He hands an old ragged book to Andrew, and tips his hat again.

"Take care now, ye 'ear?"

The tall bard blinks, taking the well-thumbed journal with a look of complete surprise.  The man's name...Lyle?  Lyle Under...something...his book?  Well, I have been doing a teaching tour, perhaps he heard of it.

"I - well, thank you sir.  Thank you kindly."

He grins at Lyle, leaning back into the trunk of the great shady oak and stretching his legs toward the fire.  He flips the worn pages, reading, humming tunes as he finds them, his smile growing with each song.  He's lost in the music soon enough, singing this one and that and playing the scores he finds on his violin, looking for all the world like a child opening a holiday present.

"Do you mind, good sir, if I sing a few of these as I go?" Andrew points to a number of pages. "These are fantastic works. I'd love to spread them around - with due recognition, of course! And I'd be happy to share a few with you if you'd like."

The halfling, moving toward his pony, stops mid-step to turn and face Andrew once more.

"Ah'd not've given 'em te ye ifn ah din't 'spect ye te share 'em sah. Though ah would 'ppreciate bein' creditted o' course. Ah'll e'en teach ye 'ow te sing 'em wit' the prop'r melody's ifn ye like. 'Course yer welcome te improve 'em a bit in that regard ifn ye fin' the inspiration. 'cept 'A Wild Wind Blew', that'n ain' meant te be sung but one way, an' one way only... Well, that'n an' the 'Lookin' Glass Song'."

For a moment the old Halfling looks as though the weight of the world has settled upon his shoulders.

"Them two are extra special-like, see?"

He pauses once more.

"Ah'm thinkin' o' concedin' my retirement is rathah permanent these days. But yer right welcome te come visit me out way o' 'Aven ifn ye pass that way some time. My family's got a farm outside town a ways, growin' some o' the best pipeweed in Mistone thar."

The halfling sighs and seems much older than he really is, turning to mount his pony and preparing to ride off. He mutters under his breath.

"Truth is ah ain' really 'ad the 'eart te sing since she done carried it away wit' 'er... gods ah miss ol' Lillian... "

Andrew watches the halfling leave.  His fingers stroke the book in gentle circles, and when the old halfling bard has ridden out of sight, he opens the gift again, turning to the page containing 'A Wild Wind Blew.'  Monsieur is taken up, tucked under his hairless chin.  The bow is run across in the first few notes and the immediate, personal nature of the song gives him a shiver.  He plays the music in the ragged book long into the night.

//http://forums.layonara.com/1099432-post10.html
 

RollinsCat

Re: Andrew Reid - Letters Home
« Reply #59 on: April 01, 2010, 10:21:00 am »
To: Edgar Whinessy
c/o The Resonance of Being
Port Hempstead Municipal District
Port Hemstead
Kingdom of Brelin
Mistone

Greetings from balmy Fort Vehl, Conductor Whinessy.

I have been out, listening, as you suggested I do. Going back to places I've listened to the Heartsong previously, and listening again to feel the shifts over time; listening to situations, how the resonance changes as the moods and people do; and my own personal project, learning to hone in on individuals within the Heartsong. I sometimes play for the individual what I hear. While I can only offer them a fleeting snippet, I find that even filtered through the imperfect vehicle of myself and my instrument the bit of their personal sound I capture is enjoyed. Of course I must play it in context and so it can't be the same twice; nevertheless, it's been a valuable exercise as has been listening more and talking less. The talking less part has been difficult, as you doubtless knew it would be for me.

You had, before sending me out, mentioned more to come. I find now that I am eager for that more. My path so far hasn't been as difficult as I'd anticipated, which only means I'm in the foothills of my journey and the mountain will come soon enough. I'd like to take a step onto the rocky incline then, sir.

I will be spending no small amount of time shipbound soon and I would like to ask for further direction. I have spoken to a friend, one you might know - Acacea Thistletongue? - and we have discussed a pit, Harmony, where the denizens are pure sound. This...caught my attention. As you no doubt recall (probably with a patient look of "Yes, Andrew, you've mentioned") becoming sound is something I have always wanted to do. I would solicit your thoughts on this, and ask for guidance or some food for thought on my next steps.

I look forward to speaking with you again after my journey and where our discussions might lead, sir. I believe if you send a response back by bird it will reach me on the ship - she's called the Jakzonvilet.

Until we can meet again, I await your response quietly, with ears open.

Yours in the Muse,


Andrew Reid
 

 

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