-
To:
Karinna Oshaka
Wetwood Lane
Oba District
Huangjin
Tilmar
Dearest Karinna;
I could not let another day pass without writing. All these long weeks I've missed you, your smile, your wit, your beauty - yet, despondant though I am, I have found so much in my new home that I fear I won't be coming back soon.
Angel of the Ancestors, don't wait for me. A woman like you should have someone to adore her and I fear I will be a long time returning to the silken softness of your arms and the stardust sparkling of your eyes. Remember me with fondness, as even across the oceans I remain your humble admirer.
Andrew
To:
Rheashi of House Kagorn
18 Mido District
Huangjin
Corsain
Beloved. I can hardly write this, it breaks me so. I ache for you, for your feather touch and languid grace. But, despite the wishes of your family, I cannot marry yet. The world is too large, my star, and Lady Muse won't let me rest until I've seen all of it. I have come across oceans to find a place where my song can begin anew, but not without a neverending regret for what could have been. Remember me with fondness, but don't wait for me. A lady of your eclipsing beauty should be at the center of someone's heart, and try as I did, you know - you told me so - that my Heartsong will always be first.
I wish you as much joy as you can bear, Bellissimo.
Love,
Andrew
To:
Marian DePaine
Last House on Stevedore Alley
Mariner's Hold
Alindor
My sweet, I write to tell you with deepest regrets that I cannot return to you. I have discovered a new song in my travels, one I must follow - my Lady calls me stronger than ever, and as much as I can hardly tear my eyes from your hair of liquid gold, your dulcimer laugh, your sugar kisses, I must listen to my Heartsong. Please don't wait for me, for I truly believe a woman with your mind and gifts must be appreciated, and I can no longer be the man to do that.
Remember this, though. I will never forget our week, my ray of sunshine. This I swear to you: I will never forget.
Your humble admirer,
Andrew
To:
Margaret Reid
Potter's Lane
Obo District
Huangjin
Tilmar
Greetings and song, Mother. I've arrived on Misone, safe but worse for my travels. Apparently the ship I booked passage on was not only a cargo vessel but also a cache of small-time pirates. I was to have been robbed, killed, and dumped overboard but I was able to convince them to let me play each night, and worked in the galley to remain useful during the day. This saved my skin, and thank our Lady they didn't search me too closely so the coin you gave me remained untouched (if somewhat unsanitary as well).
They took my Bella, though. It has been a long time since I've cried, but that night after I swam the distance to shore (they threw me overboard anyway, since they had to make a rather swift about-face from the Hempstead docks), I sat on the rocks of the beach and sobbed. I miss my Bella. I find myself even now, weeks later, trying to play her, my arms moving over a ghost violin. I am heartbroken. And it will be a while before I can afford a replacement. They took my rapier as well, and my journal, and, well, everything, even the spare clothing I had packed.
I still have my velvet jacket, at least. I was able to earn some coin with the help of some wonderful people, and have bought a new rapier, although it's only a copper one. However I've become determined to learn to use it. I know I've only dabbled before, and I apologize (AGAIN) for wasting Mr. Very-Expensive-Sword-Tutor-Matthews' time. I will repay you for that someday. But I digress. I've found a small school that will take the little I can currently offer, and I've been practicing. I think Father would be proud, at least a little.
I've found a new song here and I've been working on my voice, since my Bella is gone, sundered and sullied by the grubby hands of a third-rate fiddler pirate with delusions of talent. My heart's song is growing and I know our Lady is guiding me. But oh, the loss of my violin, Mother. It hurts.
Oh, a request, if I may, dearest Giver of Life - I would appreciate it if you did not reveal my whereabouts to Sire Tarak Kagorn. Or Rheashi. Or Karinna, or Megan, or Damia. I'm starting anew, and while I love them all, I think it would be best if they did not find me.
Especially Sire Tarak, if that's alright with you.
Give my love to Father, Opal, Gramma, Aunt Holly, and my brother.
Your loving son,
Andrew
-
To:
Margaret Reid
Potter's Lane
Obo District
Huangjin
Tilmar
Dearest Spark of my Spark, beloved Nurturer, thank you for the letter. It's good to hear from home and to know that all of you are doing well. I'm overjoyed to hear of the dishware contracts you've signed! With coin coming in through winter I rest better knowing you'll all be well fed and warm.
News from me, let's see: I've won a contest. I'm very excited, as I felt Muse with me stronger than ever. It was a contest of frightening stories and although there were some tales of great skill, I was judged the winner. I told the story of the Hi no Tama, nearly the same as you've told it to me growing up. Although I was able to augment the telling with an interesting clear stone I found, a cantrip of light, and a cantrip of flaring light. It's amazing what a tiny bit of magic will do for a story.
I was not the best though. I was surprised to win, to tell you the truth, Mother. One elven lady who did not stay (had she, she'd have won I'm sure) told a story while she conjured visions to illustrate it. She was masterful, her voice and magic-pictures held me agog. Such skill! Her name was Jaelle if I remember correctly, and I usually do.
Although she left, there was one other whose story was so well told I'm still wondering why I was chosen. I did not catch her name but her clothing and confidence lead me to believe she follows our Song as well. She told a tale in rhyme of an adventure gone wrong, and I was again captivated by her beauty and her story. I would have judged her the winner, had I been Lord Fortrand, the patron of the contest.
And of course, I've met some lovely women at the competition as well. There was a halfling of such quiet strength and conviction she rang to me as a symphony. Her name was Jennara, Knight of the Wyrm. Do you know how some people are a ditty, some are a song, and some are such complex notes they become something more? She was something more, so much seen and felt that I could hear her song as an orchestra. I will write a song for her someday.
There was a sweet woman who is also a lover of our Muse, Annwyl her name was. I regret that I was unable to speak to her long, as storytelling was not her art and I dearly would love to learn what is.
There was a flame-haired woman in armor and an elven woman in a red dress, an elf who attracted a lot of attention for the glimpse some got of her skin color (and how dearly I'd have loved to speak to her - what tales to they tell, down there? What bogeymen haunt the dreams of those who inspire such fear under our sun? What stories do they tell to their children? Oh, to know this...).
And there was one who captivated me beyond all the others. Elohanna Min Alitae. She was a petite star, a Flower of Voltrex, and her sound...what can I say? I heard her, her quiet notes, winding into my song...how we could blend... I must find her again. She said she was the headmistress of The Tower, so I have a place to start looking.
Ah, I've re-read that last paragraph. Just let me clear my throat and I'll do it for you, Mother.
"Andrew. It's long past time for you to stop chasing every woman whose voice you fall in love with. You are getting on in years and I'm tired of making excuses to your playthings!!
(How am I doing so far?)
Honestly, I don't know where you got this flirtatious fixation from. Look at your father and myself. We're both dedicated to Ilsare, and we've been married for thirty-two years!
(Winding up for the heart touch here)
As much as you adore your niece and your cousin, I just don't understand why you can't settle down and have some children of your own. You'll look back on this someday and regret you didn't, mark my words."
Write soon, Maman, and give the family my love.
Your loving son,
Andrew
-
To:
Margaret Reid
Potter's Lane
Obo District
Huangjin
Tilmar
Mother, beloved giver of life! I know it hasn't been that long since I last wrote but I had a transcendent experience with a woman last eve.
I hear you rolling your eyes. Read me out.
I have written of her before; her name is Jaelle. She was one of the persons telling stories at the contest I won. I saw her in Fort Vehl and had to stop her to tell her how much I enjoyed her tale, and we began to talk. I liked her immediately - she's both clever and intelligent as well as beautiful physically.
She has great power, raw power, elemental. So I was not surprised to find (to guess, actually) that she worships our friend the Lady of Storms. And, I was warmed to know, she also plays the violin. She understood, when I told her about Bella. She really understood how it is - like losing a lover, a close friend. We talked of that and so many other things. She aided me in a bit of a crypt job I'd taken, where I got to show off my skill with the rapier. And I am proud to say that it could be called skill now, by a myoptic septegenarian perhaps, but still. I'm getting there.
We spoke of Huangjin. She is the first person here that I've admitted my birth home to, and why. We spoke of music - she's perhaps seen me at the Clamshell, and has herself performed there. She's a member of the Chord! We spoke of violins and rapiers, and why we choose them. We spoke of so much, I told her so much. I've not opened up to anyone like that in years. Excepting you, of course.
And here is my confession to you, my confessor. All this time, as much as I enjoyed her, as much as I admired her, as much as her physical beauty tugged at my heartstrings (among other places), I found myself hoping that we could be friends. Not lovers, to fade when the next voice comes along, or lifemates struggling to remain faithful past decades of boredom, but friends. I began to value her in the hours we spend treading a dank and dusty path beneath a dank and dusty city. I looked forward to her verbal sparring, her innuendos, her insights. Her questions, and her advice.
Mother, I think I've found a friend. It's rather confusing. Lust is so much easier.
As a side note, I've been on my first real adventure, on Alindor. You remember Mariner's Hold? My companions and I traveled to a small island nearby to rid it of some bugbears that had taken root like a furry and vicious-toothed weed. I tried to help with the fighting, but several difficult to repair tears to my jacket later, I found restraint the better part of valor and sang from the back and helped with the healing. Those things were tough. I am writing a song about them and will send it when it's done.
All in all I'm settling in nicely here, and making some coin to save for my next violin. I hope to find a good luthier, although Jaelle says she has some instruments and I hope to visit her soon to see if any call to me.
Be well, dearest Mother, and steel yourself - I feel that as fast as my life is spinning now, you may be deluged with these missives. Probably more for my benefit than yours.
Your loving son,
Andrew
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To:
Jaelle
130 Leringard
Leringard
Mistone
Night Sky:
His name is Alexander.
~Andrew
To:
Margaret Reid
Potter's Lane
Obo District
Huangjin
Tilmar
Thank you for your kind letter, Mother. I found it on return the Scamp's Mug, although one of the barmaids had already opened it looking for valuables. She apparently though a thick envelope must mean pawnable goods; how disappointed she was to discover instead the thickness was due to the quality of your paper and a lot of, I quote, "really big words".
Such is my lot.
I apologize for the bitter tone. It has been a few weeks of ups and downs. Let me tell the ups first, to cheer myself: I have a new violin. He's a wonderful instrument - deep and soothing, given to lamets and romantic ballards.
I'll shorten the story of my acquisition. I went searching in Leringard for the lady who stole my head, Jaelle. I found her within an hour - Muse was keeping my interests that day. We retired to her home to have a long talk, and I met some of her family. I can only say that a friendship that was an exciting prospect has become a treasure. For you see, she is a luthier of no small talent, and she had dreamed of a violin of her making ending up in my arms.
We played together, her on a piano and myself on a harp. You know what that does to me. And then she introduced me to my new companion, he made of hickory and stings with a matching bow. That was the final cement and I am certain I would die to protect this amazing woman now. I'm a lucky man to know her. Jaelle made me a supper of roast beef and bread that rivaled your cooking, if a different type - her skills in the kitchen are as good as her skills on a piano. I hope I can arrange for you two to meet someday. You'd like each other.
A lot of words for a woman I'm not trying to bed, eh Mother? I'm hope you're enjoying this.
My violin and I have spent the last weeks getting to know each other; his string that comes a little loose after a few hours, the sweet spot on his bridge, his high registers that provide such startling counterpart to his rich voice. He's like a cello at times, and he's bigger than Bella was. I have really enjoyed playing him. I cannot wait to introduce him to Bella. I have decided that I WILL find her someday, if she's to be found. They would make a lovely couple.
Alright, so it wasn't that short. Really, did you expect it to be?
Now, for the bad. After learning the streets of Leringard, I returned via ship to Port Hempstead, intending to use a map I'd acquired to find Hlint and make my pilgrimage to the shrine there. That pilgrimage is what this letter should have been about.
Instead, I mis-read the map and ended up in some small town, I never did catch the name, with a fairly large graveyard and many crypts. My curiousity owned me, after my trip into the City of the Dead under Fort Vehl, and I went exploring. One crypt was unlocked - no notice, no signs, so I poked in my head and promptly had it nearly removed from my shoulders by undead so fierce and strong that I didn't stand a kitten's chance in a wolf's den of surviving. I scrambled out but they knocked me unconscious and in the process my coin purse was slashed. Fully half my gold was lost down a deep and oddly placed well on the floor. I don't know how I got home but I woke near the bindstone in Port Hempstead feeling sick and poor.
Now I'll have to wait and try to once again save. I've got a little left, it didn't all spill, but I cannot believe, Mother - I really can't - that there is no sign or warning on that crypt. There was a little girl playing outside, near the graveyard! What if she went in there? There were no guards! I know children, they'll get into anything, dare each other to do it. Who else might get hurt? I'm going to march back to that town and demand they put up something to prevent people from just wandering in and dying. Careless, thoughtless, dangerous!
I think I pushed one of my own buttons there. I'll let you know how that goes.
Also, I have permission to use the crafting hall here in Port Hempstead now, which is another reason my purse is light. I've nearly convinced myself to sew, unmanly as that seams (get it?) to save money on repairs.
Please let Father know that my rapier training progresses. Master Granouche is teaching me parry and counter-parry and coule, where I feint by sliding my blade down my opponents. If I keep training, he's going to raise his price, so I'd better be about work soon with as little coin as I have left. But honestly, I'm enjoying the exercise. I feel stronger, my lung capacity is increasing which helps my singing. And, how to put this - while I was in the crypts with Jaelle those months ago, she asked why the rapier. Why not the short sword, or katana. I had several good reasons, but none of them were the truth, or the whole truth anyway. The basket hilt is good protection for my hands, which need protecting if I'm going to keep playing instruments. I like the light feel, and it was what we had for me to learn on.
But there is something about the rapier, and fencing, which is closer to art than most swordplay I see. I often have notes and songs pop into my head as I fence, and I realized the other day it's the way we use the rapier. It's a bow that's a weapon. Some of the moves are almost like playing. I can't explain it better than that - it's art that kills. Or disarms, in my case, as I'm not sure I want to spill that much blood.
So (and once again I wander on with my dialogue) let Father know I'll finally be ready for that match when I see you both next. I hope he will be pleased to know that.
Kisses to all the family,
Your loving son,
~Andrew
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To:
Zira
125 Leringard
Leringard
Mistone
My Shining Beacon of Ilsare;
I wanted to again thank you for our time traveling. You've shown me a songbook's worth of new things, and Muse knows what that means to me. I wanted to share something with you, if you don't mind. Perhaps your man might sing it for you? It's to the tune of "Bonny Green Ginnie";
Twas in a summer’s afternoon
Rolling onto eve
We met by fountain’s gentle whispers
My heart upon my sleeve
Come, you said, with sparkling eyes,
Seeing me naïve
I leapt to sing the world with you
And so we made to leave
You spoke of wonders across the seas
Passionately I did believe
Forest, lake and mountains grand –
Your words did not deceive
But in our time of roses, dear
My heart began to grieve
Your devotion crystal clear
To Toran-loving reave
Yet now mine eyes and heart take wing
When caring round us weave
Knowing that I can know you
What our friendship can achieve
I hope this is not misinterpreted - hope springs eternal, they say, but what I've found in you will last longer.
I am glad I can call you friend.
~Yours in the arms of Lady Muse
Andrew
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To:
Jaelle
130 Leringard
Leringard
Mistone
Jaelle -
I have heard of a fire destroying the Leringard Arms, where I found you that cold day some time ago. There was no word of whom might have been hurt in the flames - I write praying you are well and all things you love are healthy and strong.
Please send me some word, least I come knocking on your door in a blind panic? I have songs to sing you, and stories to tell of myself and Alexander.
I take my messages through the Scamp's Mug. Please call on me if you need anything.
Your friend,
~Andrew
-
To:
Margaret and William Reid
Potter's Lane
Obo District
Huangjin
Tilmar
Dearest Family;
Your letters, both of them, brought me joy. Thank you. Yes, my birthday came and went quietly, but I spent it aiding others and so the lack of celebratory festivities was supplanted by easing the pain and loss around me. Or so I like to think. Sometimes there are wounds a clever turn of phrase and a little music can't repair. But let me get to that.
I'll begin with: I've decided my Song needs more notes, more sound. So I've added two crafts to my life expressions; sewing (Father, don't wince) and woodworking. My woodworking is restricted to hickory, which all the old splinters at the shop say is the test of patience with the art. It's a strong wood, hard to work by hand, and the grain is curley and goes every which way so hickory prepares your hands and wrists for other woods that are easier to work but less forgiving of mistakes (oak and mahogany). Or so I'm told. Certainly my attempts have gone wild enough, but it barely nicks the wood when I slip. I've been focusing on arrow shafts to refine my cutting and planing technique but I'll be switching to planks. More on that in a moment.
Sewing came naturally. Moving the needle is like the rapier in that it reminds me of playing the violin. I'm very proud to say that I'm wearing a new cotton shirt, new cotton pants, and a new cotton velvet jacket that I made myself. I'm doing my own repairs now as well. While I've asked for advice and watched the men who work with wood, sewing was just something I had to start doing. I'm pleased with my efforts so far and I'm about to embark on a lot of cloth making. Again, more on that farther down.
I've been out seeing the world again, most recently a long trip to Dregar where a group of companions and myself traveled to some old mines taken over by giants. You know, those smaller races would not have such a difficult time preventing invasions of this type if they would simply build the ceilings lower. I can bet if a giant were to attempt to overtake a mine built to house dwarves and not twenty-foot-tall dwarves as they seem to see themselves, then the mines would remains safely in the hands of the original and shorter owners. Ego can be a precarious thing.
But here I am, home again with a beautiful rapier radiating old and powerful magic awaiting my ability to use it. When I try to wield it now all I get is shocks across my palms. But soon, my giant-purloined beauty will be flashing in my hands. For the meantime I've borrowed a fine old iron basket hilt rapier with a flat blade. It might be mine if I can access the right barter for it, but the items are in dangerous areas, so for now, it remains borrowed. Father, I've been keeping up my lessons. Master Granouche has me working on riposte and remise so be sure to keep your guard up after you bat aside my attacks when next we spar!
I've made another friend, she a lady named Zira. She follows our Lady and has been kind in helping my learn my way around Alindor. Sadly, she's spoken for; I found her most intreguing but my ardor cannot be reciprocated. Besides all that I've also met her beloved and he's a man of candor and honor. I fear my days of seduction might be limited or gone entirely. Well, except for the lovely daughter of one of the local Hempstead barristers...she seems to enjoy our dalliances. A bit too much in fact. What is it about women and honesty? I told her that I was not interested in betrothal. I told her that I only wanted a sweet face and warm body to wake to, nothing more - why can't a woman hear this and say to herself, "He's being honest. I should decide if I can accept this before I let my heart become involved." No, never do they say that no matter how brutal you are. Instead, it's "He's being coy! The poor dear, he's love-shy and it falls to me to convert him! I will show him he's safe with me and he'll fall for me and we'll live happily ever after!"
It never happens that way. It never will. Why does honesty backfire? It's not like lying will make it any better. Now this young maid is seeking me out daily, and takes great umbrage if I don't let her know my exact whereabouts or if I go off for a few days. And, to add sour to burnt soup, she's involved her father and I hear he's asking about me. Does this sound familiar? I'm not interested in moving - again - so I'll have to let the young lady down gently the next we meet and pray her father approves of my actions.
I think I just wrote a great deal more than I intended. I'll leave it for your amusement then. Once again my letter becomes catharsis for my troubled soul...
And so we come to the end, where I reveal my motives for my crafts. Recently in the town of Leringard, an inn burned down. This inn was a tavern, housing, and a gaming house in one. And normally, I could ignore such a thing - fire is a hazard of every building and taverns doubly so.
But this tavern was one Jaelle frequents. And when I heard it had burned, and she did not send a response to my inquiry as to her safety, I went there to see her.
I didn't find her, nor did I get word from anyone that she was among the deceased, so I've laid aside my worry for now. What I did see was the outpouring for this building, this landmark. People singing the songs that graced those halls, artists painting pictures of the memory of the building. The whole town mourned the loss. And it touched me. I spent days there, playing to raise spirits and dry the eyes of upset children, and in labor to help remove the remains of the building. Reconstruction will take place and although I've never set foot in the inn, I know Muse wants me to extend myself. I hear it in my blood, my hands, my heart. I will make planks and cloth to help rebuild, and this time, my contribution won't be merely a song that fades on the last quiver of the string but the very wood that forms the skeleton of the new building. I can't express my excitement! This is a first for me and I am enjoying it. I will send a sketch as soon as the new building is completed.
Be well and good health and inspiration bless you Mother and Father.
Tell the family I'm well and send them songs of love.
Your loving son,
~Andrew
-
To:
Margaret and William Reid
Potter's Lane
Obo District
Huangjin
Tilmar
Mother, Father -
I'm alive. I don't know if you heard about the storms and waves but Port Hempstead is under water and partly rubble.
It hit while I was entertaining a young woman and our survival was only due to the lady's keen eyes in seeing the wave approach. My home away from home is built along the docks and levee walls, so we fled the inn along with the few other patrons that day. We got clear of the docks before the water struck, and never before have I seen (or wish to see again) such a magnificent, monstrous, terrifying force of nature - especially from mere hundreds of feet away. All I can remember was the dark sky and how quiet it was right before the water hit and running, and having my feet swept out from under me, holding Elaine with all my strength and trying to stay afloat till the wave receeded.
There was death on the heels of this wave, a lot of death. Men, women and children swept to sea, the docks broken to splinters, and homes leveled. My lady friend (not the same young woman I've been with - thank goodness her father did indeed express satisfaction that I was no longer keeping her company, although the lady's opinions of my reluctance cannot be printed least my quill catch fire) took a blow to the head and we were both much battered by debris and nearly drowned.
We straggled out to the Hempstead fields, where the farmers had opened up thier homes to survivors and had warm blankets and tables of food. I cared for Elaine as best I could and offered healing to those in need, and I wanted to go back to the city and help. I would have given much to be able to. But even now my right ankle is swollen and quite possibly still broken, and I would have been a detriment to the heroes who spent hour upon countless hour rescuing everyone they could.
I'm helping in the aftermath, mostly with body recovery and clean-up. I've seen more pain in this than in the entirety of my 28 sun-rounds to date. I've seen children wandering lost looking for parents and parents looking for children, I've pulled tiny drowned bodies from under stone and log, and the only thing keeping me from weeping is my own exhaustion.
Elaine's mother is unaccounted for. Her father and brother live and she's safe with them as their home was merely flooded. I am now homeless, sleeping in the fields under borrowed blankets and playing music in the evenings for the other homeless families in the tents lining the road to and from the Port. I carry most of my possessions in my knapsack, which I snatched up as we ran from the inn, so my violin survived. As long as I have my music, I'll be alright.
Be safe, and take care of each other.
Your loving son,
Andrew
-
To:
Ranawin, Beloved of the Muse
Care of Calise
Shrine to Ilsare
Hlint
Mistone
Gentle Lady:
I wish that I were writing to report an upcoming festival, but as I'm sure you know, reconstruction on the Leringard Arms has faded to a background note with the horrors still chiming across the coastal towns of Mistone. I was in Port Hempstead when disaster struck and here I will remain until the town and the survivors are safe to rebuild and restart their lives.
I regret that we have not met yet. I hope to sit in your company soon; Heartsong knows after what I've seen, merely sitting near you would be healing. If you visit Port Hempstead, you can find me near the Tower or out in the Hempstead Fields.
Yours in the Muse,
~Andrew Reid
To:
Margaret Reid
Potter's Lane
Obo District
Huangjin
Tilmar
Mother. This will be a shorter letter than the holy tomes I usually send you but I felt you deserved some notice. Another wave approaches Port Hempstead and I will be here to meet it.
There are many here working to prevent or mitigate the possible damage, and I've been alongside them, helping with evacuations and scavanging building materials to shore up those homes and businesses still standing. And with the finding of bodies, which has left me far less cheerful than I like myself to be. I admit to you, my confessor, that I've been drinking a fair bit more than I should. Some things happened that left me desiring that warming numbness and this long week has made it a habit.
Don't worry, I'll pull out of it. I have my music still, and Elaine, however strangely that's gone recently. Her father has found out about our dalliances and as I feared, demanded I make an honest woman of her. Do you know those things you really wish to say that you then stop yourself from blurting out because you value the current arrangement of your face? I supposed that's wisdom of a sort, because what I wanted to say and did not was that to make an honest woman of her I'd have to go back five years and three other men.
But I didn't.
He doesn't have the power to ruin me, bless the Muse. And ironically she's quite good for me. We have have a harmonious blend, my little dancer and I. And, more ironic, she's not only fine with my roaming eye, she has an accomplished one herself. So, the closest thing to love I've felt here on Mistone comes with the unwelcome excitement of never being sure if she's alone or not. How she's kept this from her father for the last five years is beyond me.
Why do all my good relationships come with infidelity as a prerequisite?
There, I've broken my promise to keep things succinct again. Be well and give the family my love.
Your loving son,
Andrew
-
To:
Zari
125 Leringard
Leringard
Mistone
Golden Angel.
I was thinking long and hard about our meeting, as thinking is most of what's left to me until I blot it out with Tower Malt. I am so very sorry we had to meet as we did -- with your lovely and enthusiastic sister trying to push us together and your protective brother trying to push me out. I think, if we met again, I'd like to do so where we can start fresh, without the distractions of other people's perceptions. Perhaps on a hillside, or near a lake, something you might like to paint. Someplace that calls to Alex to open his voice.
I write to offer you a little of myself. I've already admitted to my lush and philandering ways, something I'd hoped to leave behind me. And for the philandering half, mostly I have. At least, I've only embraced one woman at a time (usually until her father or another male relative finds out and ends it). Not so much the drinking, although my fuzzy worldview was sharper before the storms hit my new home. I confess I'm not entirely certain I was sober the night we met. I'm not certain I'm sober now -- I live in a gentle haze, enough to keep the pain away. For now, I function. We'll see what tomorrow brings.
I would sit with you sometime, listen to your stories and tales of your youth. I get the feeling that blue expellations are not the totality of your sins, my lovely ray of sunshine, and if they are, you may wish to reconsider knowing me. Wine, women and song are not the worst of my bad habits -- although they are the most frequent. How I ended up this way, Andrew William Reid from a respectable and by all accounts stable family of artisans? My mother asks that question daily, I'm sure. I can't blame my lineage at any rate. I had a stellar upbringing which I squandered thoroughly and kind and loving parents that I took for granted until fairly recently. My wisdom, such as it is, has come after great lengths and experiences that no book ever taught me, for as many hundreds as I've read. So you may know this about me: I must discover what everyone else knows through personal immersion, and probably in the most difficult way possible. It's a bit of a handicap sometimes.
I would ask that you forget what Zira has told you about me. She sees me as a friend, but she controls that friendship. This is fine by me; I could use a mentor in the world and she does understand me better than most. But to you I give the razor-edged truth: I am a man who does not often say no. And who sometimes doesn't realize why I should in the first place.
If you can live with that, and still wish to know me, I receive letters via the Tower Academy in Port Hempstead. If I don't hear from you, I'll understand.
Honestly Yours,
Andrew
-
*written in large loopy script in purple ink*
Andrew William Reid
C/O Whatever is left of the Tower Academy
Port Hempstead
Dear Andrew,
I appreciate your honesty more than you can possibly imagine. I was relieved that Zira did not tell you much about me because I hope that my own past does not affect your opinion of me. I am far from a saint. I like to live life, to experience the possibilities that it has to offer, and all too recently I've found myself trapped in a past I wish I could forget, but as of yet have been unable to.
I feel that it is only fair in response to your own honesty to present you with my own honesty and therefore leave the decision on whether you in fact still wish to know me entirely up to you.
First and foremost, Razeriem is not my brother in the traditional sense. He is my Raz, and my best friend. He is simply being protective of me because of the reasons of why I told you I have not been with anyone in a long time. I'm not talking elven long time, just Zari long time. I'm not good with relationships, and I'm really not good with monogamy. I don't believe in love. Maybe it's out there for other people but for me it is not possible. Love that people talk of between a man and a woman tends to go in the direction of posession. I'm not looking for a marriage. I'm not looking for children or any family that I would, heavens forbid, have to bring into this world myself. I lost myself for a time and only recently have started to feel like me again. I want to keep it that way.
I'm not good at saying no. It's probably (according to Zira) what gets me into the trouble I get into. I would be interested in seeing you again without the interference of Zira or Raz. I don't paint landscapes, though, and nature is not my forte. I like people, preferably men... and preferably in their own natural state... that's the sort of nature that my art tends to thrive in. I design clothes, but I try to design in a way that accentuates each individual's own beauty to where the clothes look natural and only enhance them, rather than try to cover up something that they might have thought was a mistake in their creation.
If you would like to pose for me to draw you though, I would love to. Your eyes have an exotic shape to them that expresses a challenge that I would love to undertake. Perhaps we can rise to the occaision and capture the intimate quality that is truly unique to you. But for that, it might be that we should find a more intimate setting. If the outdoors is what you prefer, I think we can find somewhere that we can get to know each other better and perhaps each express our own talents to share.
I am looking forward to hearing that beautiful voice of yours once more, though I'm curious to know if you can dance. Perhaps we can test that out when next we meet. I'll see if I can find my tall boots.
Of course I've left the decision to you, so even in spite of my ramblings I know that there is a very real possibility that you may not want to see me again. In spite of what you have chosen to call me, I am far from an Angel. I'm not good at thinking and I find that when I do think it makes things more strained and complicated than it should be and too much like... work. Sorry for the foul language. I'll owe a true to the swear jar for that one. I think that life should be fun. I've alredy spent too many days worrying and hiding and I'm trying to live life to the fullest. I'm a woman in search of inspiration, but when I think of those eyes of yours I think maybe we could work on a little inspiration together.
I look forward to your response and your decision.
Your, Not-so-much-of-an-Angel,
Zarianna
-
To:
Zari
125 Leringard
Leringard
Mistone
Zari. I read your letter a dozen times, and it would seem we're of a mind about certain things. I would still very much like that intimate chat with you. And I would not mind posing for a sketch. I suggested nature not out of a desire to embrace Katia's gentle green whispers but because I have no home at the moment. I borrow a bench or a corner of a floor when I can, and sleep under the stars, moon and rain when I can't. My tiny rented room at the Scamp's Mug may have smelled like a brewery and been home to a number of quietly scampering tiny feet, but it was warm and dry. I wax nostalgic for a closet over a bar...
I'm back in Port Hempstead, and the town continues to prepare. Sand is everywhere. This place will be a beach when the waves hit. The town is so quiet these days, it feels like sacrilege to talk above a whisper. I stack sand during the day and try to stay dry at night and steal bottles of alcohol where I find them. I suppose that makes me a looter. My consciousness will simply have to cope. And of course the booze makes that easier.
I wished to suggest something to you, Golden Rose. Your sister is right about something - you do indeed speak and act as an Ilsarian. Whatever you may think of worship, of believing in and loving a God, sometimes you can't avoid how they pick you. For better or worse. There is a story to that which I will tell you when we are alone and only then. It has to do with your first guess about whom I worship, so be prepared.
In any event, Lady Muse has touched you, called to you. I hear your reluctance to succumb to something that involves both love and possession - and if anyone on this entire world could understand that, it would be me. But look at me. Think of what you know and what I've told you. I run freely, my heart my own, my body mine to share with whomever I wish or no one at all; I make terrible mistakes, help and hurt others, and damage myself with dangerous substances that I know better than to use.
And yet.
I love Her. I love Ilsare and how She touches me every day. I see through Her eyes and play songs from the wonders there; I hear as She hears and build tunes from the things that we routinely ignore. And Muse forgives me, every day, for my indiscretions. I can give myself wholly to Her and still be me. I have said it before, Ilsare is the only woman I will never cheat on.
So to that, re-read this: "I try to design in a way that accentuates each individual's own beauty to where the clothes look natural and only enhance them, rather than try to cover up something that they might have thought was a mistake in their creation." Read it again. Look in your wardrobes, full of clothes inspired by people you care about or will care about someday. And think of what I've said. Because I won't press you on this, not now, not ever; I just wanted to point it out. She has touched you.
And with that, it's time to find a pillow soft stone bench downstairs as the wizard whose office I am appropriating for this letter has become quite sour of face. I want to see you again, Zari. I hope it is soon.
~Andrew
-
To:
Zari
125 Leringard
Leringard
Mistone
Zari, Wild Angel. I wanted to tell you how much fun I had the other day, you and I waltzing on the corpses of our enemies. Despite your brother's uncanny timing, it was very...freeing, to see you again.
You have a gift in your soul to be as unburdened as you are by the constraints that turn many of us to maudlin drunks. I find myself relaxing around you. Not that you can't be dangerous; my remarkable ability to fling myself in front of you right as you unleash a torrent of fire proves that; but you don't worry, so I don't either. It takes a burden off my soul for a while.
I hope we can meet again soon, perhaps that I might pose for your art. I confess I'm very interested to see how you see me.
I would ask that whatever bell your brother seems to have attached to your leg, please remove it. I don't think he'd necessarily appreciate the course of our discussion or what I promised to tell you.
In the meantime, little wild one, for you:
Will you hold my hands and dance
Where day and night don't follow
Will you spin on song-light heart
Where excess words ring hollow?
Will you walk with me a while
Into my darker places
Will you lead me past your veils
Into your sunlight spaces?
This isn't high prose, Zari dear
It's meant only to amuse you
But an invitation, that it is --
One I hope that you'll pursue.
Andrew
-
Andrew Reid
C/O Tower Academy
Port Hempstead
Mistone
Andrew,
Your words have sung through my mind as I can hear your enchanting voice whether sung or spoken and your lilting phrases most likely accompanied by Alex's own sweet voice. I can almost hear an appropriate tune as if the music itself came from your pen directly into my soul. I find myself humming along to the tunes I've heard you sing, and I can't even help it. I feel free these days. More than I have in a long time. I'm truly looking forward to our next meeting.
Again, I must remind you, Raz is not my brother, not really anyways. Yes, he is acting like it right now, but I assure you he feels he is looking out for my best interest. When we cannot bear it any longer, I know he will give us the space and privacy we need.
I would very much like to hear your story, as I'm sure that when you tell it the words will come to life, and I would like to know more about you if you are willing to tell me.
I've enclosed the finished sketch from when you sang at my house to Zira and me. I had to do much of it from memory, but your figure seems to be alive in my mind and imagination in your absence.
I hope I can be with you again soon. Next time let's try to dance without the gore. Or perhaps we can stroll through the moonlight along the shores that aren't raging with deadly waves. Perhaps a quiet lake under the stars.
Please stay safe and find yourself something or someone to keep you comfortable until we meet again. A stone bench is no place to lay your head at night. But if you must, just imagine you're sleeping on silk satin sheets and down-filled pillows, next to a roaring fire to keep you warm.
Until next time, know you are in my thoughts.
Your wild one,
Zarianna
PS: I really am sorry about the fireballs. Next time, just stand behind me. If I have to attach you to my waist while I cast, so be it. I'd rather have you safe.
Andrew Reid
Somewhere in Port Hempstead- maybe still the Tower Academy- if it's still there- try there first
Mistone... what isn't washed away
Andrew,
It's not Ilsare, it just is what it is. I like pretty things. I'm not an archer. I know how to shoot a bow (every elf seems to be taught that, it's ingrained into us from birth maybe) but wearing a quiver on my back tangled my hair and wearing a hip quiver just didn't go with my attire. Besides, my dad always used a rapier and ever since he gave me my first one I knew it was the only thing I ever wanted to fight with... other than magic. But this isn't really about fighting. Ilsare is all about love. Me and love... we just don't work out the way it's supposed to work out. Zira always talks about having that one person that someone is meant to be with. I just don't see it. I don't see how one person can only be with one person ever. That seems so limiting. I mean, I know I've been with a couple people that the experience wasn't limiting. Actually, that act of love was more freeing than anything, but the fact is, it wasn't something that was going to then trap us into something we would be stuck with forever. I don't want to be trapped in a relationship. Relationships are for other people maybe, but like I told you before, I'm just not good at them. I end up hurting people that I'm supposed to love whenever I try to be in a relationship. I don't want to, it just happens. I guess maybe I'm supposed to think at the times that I don't, and the times that I do think, it makes things worse and more complicated and stressful and downright terrifying. You seem like a nice guy Andrew. I don't know why you're so sad and down on yourself though. You're beautiful. You've been granted something that not a lot of men have. You're one in a million and that's fantastic. I barely know you, but most people aren't as free with words as you are. That's a gift. Your songs that you sang me that night you were at my house still play through my mind before reverie, and I think it may just be those that have kept my nightmares at bay these past few weeks. I'm not sure I could ever write such sweet melodies as seem to flow from you with your violin... sorry, Alex... together. Your music is like a painting but so much better than I could ever even dream of attempting. It's easy for you to say that you love Ilsare because she so obviously loves you. It's probably hard for you to understand, but really, Ilsare isn't interested in me. If she was, things would've been different. But I don't need to burden you with my past.
I will look forward to our next meeting, be it in the flesh or in writing.
I hope you are able to find a better shelter, even if it is simply in a pair of comforting arms.
~Zarianna
-
To:
Zari
125 Leringard
Leringard
Mistone
Wild Angel, I an undone. Before I met you, only my mother knew even half of what I told you last night. I handed you my soul, and I am honored beyond song that you trusted me the same. And my legs are still shaking.
As much as I want to envelope you in beautiful words, for once they elude me except for this: I am lightened. My shoulders don't sag as much today, and I haven't touched my whiskey yet. I haven't needed to. I have memories to keep me warm inside.
I look forward to our next meeting with a tingling that starts at my head and takes the long trip to my toes. Until we can enjoy each other again, I pray you are happy and inspired.
Andrew
To:
Margaret Reid
Potter's Lane
Obo District
Huangjin
Tilmar
Mother, Giver of Life, my first Muse. I am alive still, no thanks to myself but many thanks to some unique women.
I've met a lady I must tell you about. She is...exquisite. Lively. A work of art, who moves through this world without questioning all the little things that give us all such fits. She is as close to a female me as I have ever met which in all honesty scares me more than a little, but I am moth to her light, unable to tear away. She a Child of Voltrex, which makes us doomed at some point anyway, but then, you know how I feel about golden-haired elven women. Her name is Zari. I expect I will write more of her.
Is it love? Perhaps. But I can't tell her that, not now and possibly not ever. Which, on reflection, suits me fine. She's not the settling type and I have known for some time neither am I. I still entertain Elaine, and I have the eye of a lovely woman named Marrie as well, who, Ilsare bless, is well beyond her family's shackles. So my romantic life is busy these days.
I also wish to change my address. If you have written to me in the last weeks the letters have not gotten to my former home. Please address any correspondence care of the Tower Academy. I abase myself of not informing you of this sooner but life here has been a mess.
I enclose to you a song I've written recently for the survivors of the first wave, and I hope you enjoy it. I think you'll be able to find the tune easily enough.
Wake and rise, stretch and pray
We've lived to see another day
And while we mourn we still can say:
We are here, here we are, here we stay.
Backs to work, children play
Livestock graze and chickens stray
Manure and sweat our new bouquet
We are here, here we are, here we stay.
Hitch the cart and haul away the city's disarray
Like a courted maiden she reveals more everyday
Peeling off the sea's debris the better to display
We are here, here we are, here we stay
Bunched together we in a storm induced soiree
Our city holding tightly to the hopes that guide our way
But yesterday, tomorrow, and certainly today:
We are here. Here we are. Here we stay.
Hug everyone for me,
Your loving son,
Andrew
-
Andrew Reid
C/O Tower Academy
Port Hempstead
Mistone
Andrew,
I'm so sorry about the way I acted at the house. I don't know what came over me. I've told you a little bit about me before, but I guess I just feel out of sorts with Raz leaving like he did. It's not your fault, it's mine. I guess I can put Raz on the list of people that I've hurt. I think he's disappointed in me. He thinks I'm going to fall in love with you. He thinks you're going to hurt me. But this isn't about love, right? It's about enjoying ourselves. He's comparing you to him, and he thinks that the only reason I like you is because you remind me of him. You are a little like him, but you're so different in so many ways. Raz has told me for years now that I am the other half of his soul. When I hurt, he hurts. I only now think I believe him. When he hurts, I hurt too. But it hurts all the more because I'm the one that caused it, or at least, I think I am.
Let's go on a picnic sometime soon? I'll bring the food, you bring the wine. (I hope you like rhubarb pie.) Have you been to the Watchtower above Lover's Lake yet? I'm not really sure if that's what it's called, but the way it looks from up on the cliff, it looks just like a heart. If you haven't been there yet, you should definitely go. The sight is magnificent. I've been told there is also a beautiful spot near Katherian where the rivers fall down the rocks into multiple waterfalls. But given that the Xeenites have a temple in Katherian, if you don't want to go there, I understand. There are a lot of beautiful places in these lands. They're not the same as the ones from my homeland, but, if you want, I would love to share these here with you. Perhaps someday I'll take you to visit the beauties from home.
I hope your appointment went well, and that she brought you pleasure and happiness for the evening. Knowing you, I'm sure you brought her both of those. I hope that she was able to inspire you. I'm challenging you to write a new song. This time, I want something that speaks of something good. Something not so empty as the last one you shared with me. You have a spirit that seems only right when I hear your laughter sounding like rich chimes that bounce from one wall to the other and lighten my very being. I long to see your smile again. I promise not to be so melancholy then.
Until our next meeting, I'll watch the stars and hope they shine brightly for you where ever you are.
Your Wild One,
Zarianna
PS: I've had your clothes that you made dyed and tailored to fit. I'm afraid we had to add a bit more fabric though. I hope you'll like it. I thought the white coat was good for you. I think I was wrong. The passion with which you live your life deserves nothing less than red.
-
To:
Margaret Reid
Potter's Lane
Obo District
Huangjin
Tilmar
Mother, I love. I love, and so much more. I can't put most of it on paper - I will tell you more when we can talk in person if I can even sort it out for myself. But today, as we watched the morning come spilling into the room, in a quiet moment, I heard that which I have not heard in two decades, that which Ilsare gave to me all those years ago. You remember.
I have woven her into my Song. I have set behind the fog of numbness and let the pain become part of it, every pain - the ones I shrugged off and the ones I tried to blot away. The joy, as well, that would so often slide around my hazy stupor. And though my hand reaches for it even now, I have set aside bottle and pipe. Not permanently, because my inner hedonist won't let me, and that is part of my Song. Instead, I set them aside to avoid a daily donning of the armor of indifference.
I can't say more, only because there are no words except: I love.
Your son
Andrew
-
Andrew Reid
C/O Tower Academy
Port Hempstead
Mistone
Dear Andrew,
I hope that you're alright. We went back into Krandor after all that bad stuff happened so that we could rescue my brother Zak and that other short guy I still don't know the name of. Danny didn't make it back, but we found his dad Benny. You didn't make it back either. But we found your body. Benny carried Danny's body out, and this guy named Kyle carried yours. He had the same symbol on his shield that you and Zira have on your necklaces. But after we got your body out it dissipated... so I hope that means you are okay now and went through the bindstone?
Please write me and let me know how you are.
Also, I have to ask you since it was brought to my attention, and I feel silly that I didn't ask you before. I send your mail to the Tower Academy. I was wondering if you've seen a little girl named Aislin around there? She's probably with someone named (crossed out)ev Jaelle. Aislin is Raz's daughter. If you could tell me how she is doing, we would both like to know. Thanks.
I hope that you are finding comfort whereever you are, but I hope that you are still or once again in the world of the living.
Until I can wrap my arms around you again,
your Angel,
Zarianna
To:
Zarianna
125 Leringard
Leringard
Mistone
Angel, I apologize you to the moon and back that I didn't return. I woke, as you guessed, in Port Hempstead, and had much to do once I had my feet back under me. This is the first opportunity I've had to write.
Interesting about Ben; I've met him before and I like him. He seems to be one of those men that a man can expect to hear the truth from and if it isn't always pleasant, it's at least truth. I think I took his measure fairly well. I found out just recently that Daniel is his son, which (between you and I) made me laugh. It's the nature of children to rebel, as I know so very well. I bet those family suppers get interesting.
I should like to meet and thank this Kyle you write of, if he took the time to carry my unwieldy body out. He's part of Ben's guild so I'll ask around for him.
As to your second question, I have seen a great many children around the Tower Academy, but not one I could identify as Jaelle or Raz's child. But then, there are many children here, although the refugees have started to return home as the fear of danger passes.
The town is coming back to life, slowly, but it returns. The Scamp's Mug is still missing most of the second story but by Ilsare (or by Shadon, I suppose is more appropriate) they've re-opened the bar. Piles of rubble clog the streets and the building is still unsafe to occupy but vice will go on! I can admire that resolve, actually. And I have a place to entertain again, if not to live.
Zari, I have a favor to ask you. I need you to teach me. Zira has gone far out of her way to supply me with the materials to learn tailoring, and I remember that you were going to make her a dress. I would like to suggest a teaching collaberation. I will make the basic outfit, and using you as a model, we'll create something to flatter her, something Ilsare herself would want to wear. I would love to share a creative moment with you, Angel. And, I'm hopeless with dye (yes my boots are still pink). You show me how to add the bits and bobs, and how to fit someone, and if you can teach me that thrice-damned corset stitch that I can't master under pain of death, even better. And we can both give your sister a gift from our hearts and hands.
Keep warm, and don't stop working on that paladin. If anyone can crack him, you can, Wild Angel.
Andrew
To:
Zira
125 Leringard
Leringard
Mistone
Beauty! I have not written you in far too long. I remedy that here, with this letter and an invitation. We have run parts of the world together, and I could not ask for a better guide and friend. Or a nicer pair of hips to follow behind. But in all this time, I have not sat beside you and listened to your stories, your life and loves.
I confess shame that I have been so wrapped up in myself, and your sister, that I have ignored you. I would like to hear your song my friend. And since your man is part of that song, and a man of such breeding that he doesn't try to bash my face in when I flirt with you, I would enjoy having him there as well. To hear how you came to Ilsare, how you met him, all of it.
Think on this and let me know if you would like to meet. Muse willing I might have a little present for you as well - no, not corn. Or shall I say, not merely corn.
I await your answer and our next meeting with anticipatory joy, Zira.
Yours in the Muse,
Andrew
-
Andrew Reid
C/O Tower Academy
Port Hempstead
Mistone
Andrew,
Benny is not my friend. He is mean and rude and he called me ugly. There's more that he's done in the past, and one part of it Raz punched him for, but that's over and done with. I guess he never really was my friend in the first place. Danny is a bit silly when it comes to his understanding of love and attraction, because for some reason he thinks that Rofie is going to show him who he is meant to love. Silly boy, thinking Rofie could show anyone how to love somebody. Oh, and he's not a paladin. He says he's a priest. Sadly, I think he thinks that means he's also supposed to be completely without normal mortal feelings where attractions is concerned. Though honestly, I don't really want to date him. I think he needs hugs. I think he needs to be kissed, good and frequently. I'll hug him, but I don't think that I'm the person to kiss him. I tried once, but he basically tried to flee from me like I had the plague. It's alright. I know what he thinks of me. Probably the same as what his father thought of me, or probably still does. You're lucky you're a man. People don't see men in a bad light when they behave the way you and I behave. For some reason people seem to look up to you for your way with women (from experience I can tell you those ways are beyond compare *smily face drawn*) But when they look at me, they look down on me, or think that I am a... well... you know. That's why I had to ask you what I asked you that day. If you think less of me. I'm relieved to hear that you don't. Plenty of others have. But why is it that if a woman can show those attractions towards men, and act on them freely, that makes her, as Daniel says, a Harlot, but for men, it makes them... an idol? If Ilsare is as wonderful as you say she is, does she not think that women should be just as free as men, or is that not dealing with her and just dealing with other silly people or gods like Rofie?
I know I'm a bit rambly today, but it's raining again here in Leringard, so I'm staring out of my window at the rain falling in the streets and the thunder keeps shaking the glass as I watch the lightning playing across the sky. I can't wait for the sun to come through again and brighten up the sky. I hope you are well. I miss you I can't wait to see you again, I hope soon.
~Zarianna
PS: I'd love to help you with the present for Zira, I think it's a fantastic idea. And of course you can use me as a model.
To:
Zarianna
125 Leringard
Leringard
Mistone
Angel, I can't speak as a female who loves Ilsare. But speaking as a man who has lived Ilsare's church his entire life - from birth, even - I know that She will not judge your love of the opposite sex. Neither does she judge mine.
There is a caveat in this however. And I said I would not press, and I'm not. Let me instead explain.
Your sister has probably told you that Ilsare is following your heart. And she's right. For Zira, in addition to her cooking, this means love, the love of one man, a blending, a binding, two individuals creating something greater than their whole. For me? It means my music, and letting myself explore every avenue of inspiration. Love, sex, nature, adventure, pain, loss...and dreamroot, alcohol, and every other hedonistic pursuit I've indulged in.
What this means to you is something I know you won't enjoy. And I won't ask you about it, Wild Angel. You share as you see fit. What this means to you is you must ask yourself, is what you do truly what your heart demands of you, or is it a way to paper over desires you have talked yourself out of? There is nothing wrong with sharing love in more than one person. There is nothing wrong with what you do now. But in our time together, in those quieter moments that we've shared, I have felt your confusion. That is something you must understand about yourself. And it means opening yourself to pains you'd rather avoid, and listening to your heart.
Trust me, Angel. I know how difficult this is. I've recently come away from months of foggily avoiding certain pains, instead of letting them weave into my Song, and Ilsare blessed me with a friend that I can never adequately repay for having shown me this. This doesn't mean that I've stopped enjoying life; far from it. It means I've opened myself to all of life including the bits that make me want to curl up in a bar room corner with a bottle of dwarven whiskey.
If you wish to understand why we all keep saying Ilsare has touched you, that is what you must do. Whether you are afraid of the answer or not. Fear is not a luxury my Goddess and Muse allows us. Do not be led astray by what others see from the outside; Ilsare is not an easy Goddess. But the rewards are beyond description. I can only express them in song, and the deepest of them are beyond words. Imagine when Zira has been baking after she's found her heart in Argos, how she moves in the kitchen, the way her food and pies taste like magic was baked right into the crust. Well, by being open to Ilsare's inspiration, it is. Just as that magic could be part of your designs.
I've said enough, I think. And thank you for your offer to help me. I spent some time trying to make myself another outfit and couldn't get past the pants. I really need your help, Angel! Soon, and then we can retire to a quiet location and I can run my fingers over your ears and down your graceful neck, and...we will find inspiration in each other.
Until we kiss again,
Andrew
-
Andrew Reid
C/O Tower Academy
Port Hempstead
Mistone
Andrew,
I read your letter what seems like a thousand times. I've been talking to Zira about it a lot, and while I still feel a bit confused, and very lost, I find that when I'm with you those things don't matter quite so much. I came to the decision that while I don't think that I necessarily "follow" Ilsare, I don't mind being her friend if she'll have me. I know that I've spent many a day lately in a haze that is not completely the fog that rolls in off of the coast of the city, but a mixture of cloudy thinking and fears that I don't even want to fully express to myself.
I don't know if you listen to rumors or not, but I should tell you a little something about me that I didn't tell you before. When I was little I was held prisoner to a man who's power and talent in the Al'noth far exceeded any of my abilities at that time, all in the name of love. What he did to me I don't even want to put into words on paper, but I will tell you that if it had not been for my father I would not be here today. My father is not a perfect man by any means, but he was my hero at a time when I needed one, when I thought all hope was lost. But the point is, I feel like to this day I am still a prisoner to love in one form or another. I'm not sure that I've ever truly been in love before, but I know posession, and lust, and cruelty all too well. And I know the sort of hold that love can have over a person.
You told me before you wanted to hear stories of my childhood. Well, you said youth, but as I'm still young, I assume you meant my childhood. My mother married my father before I was born, but after I was conceived. They got married because of me, but my mother loved my father hopelessly. My earliest memories were of my mother and me waiting by the window hoping that today would be the day my Daddy would come home. Every now and then it happened. Times were hard, the skies were black, and my father was always away on what he said was business. The sparkle that shone in my mother's eyes only for my father and me dulled as the years went by, and she took a job waiting tables in a local tavern to make ends meet. The owner of the tavern would let her take home food leftover each night to help curb our expenses. When Dad came home we had some good times, but those times became fewer and farther between. Finally, that spark in my mother's eyes, the love that she had for my father, simply gave up. She said it was too hard to love someone that was never there. I didn't understand it fully at the time, but that is a different story. The tavern owner was a decently wealthy man who had cared for my mother for a long time in my father's absence. He married my mother. She never had the same spark for him that she had had for my father, but he was good to her and took care of our needs. He made her happy, I just don't think she really loves him.
Zira tells me that part of loving is accepting that love can hurt. But it seems to me that it is not love in itself that hurts, but rather loving without it being returned. You asked me once if the reason I can say that I love my sister and brother and Raz is because I know that they will never leave me. I guess that is partially true, but also I am not in love with my family. I simply love them. They are a part of me, we share something that we were never able to know growing up. We didn't know about each other until just a mere handful of years back. The love that I have for my family is more than just a spark, it's something that envelopes me. It warms me when I'm cold, it comforts me when I'm sad, and it sees me through things that I never thought I would ever be able to do before.
Raz and I made a sculpture of Arkolio Salvorre. I don't know if you ever met him. He was nothing really remarkable, but for some reason he inspired the people of Ft. Vehl. Raz didn't even particularly like him, but he was trying to do something to inspire the people of Ft. Vehl past the dreary every day downtroddenness that they seem to find themselves in. He tried making the statue from a model that he had made rather than from his heart. It didn't turn out very good. So I convinced him to stop turning it into work and try to make it fun again. The finished project was nothing short of perfection. It was inspiration in stone. We shipped it to Ft Vehl and intended to donate it to the city. The official wanted us to bribe him to put it up where people could see it. Otherwise he was just going to put it in storage. I was so outraged that he couldn't find it in his heart to do the right thing. We decided to unveil the statue and cart it through town to see if we could get Sasha (Raz's girlfriend) to sponsor it. But the look on the faces of the people there was... I dont' know if I can even describe it. They had hope. So I told the people to champion it. To stand up for their need to want something beautiful to look at. Well... the guards got angry with me because they got a little worked up, so they put me in jail. They arrested Raz for trying to save me from being arrested, and then they split us up. We were there for days before they finally tried us and sentenced us to a day in the stocks. I don't do well with being a prisoner, but it wasn't until I lost my voice that last day that I truly felt like a prisoner. The fears and memories came crashing back until someone came to let me out.
I don't know what they did with the statue, but my heart aches to think that they might have destroyed it, or even worse, locked it up in a dark corner of a storage room where no one will be able to see it and know the love and creativity that was put into it.
I know there was a point to my story when I started, but I'm not sure what it was anymore. I sort of tend to get off topic sometimes.
I guess I have a confession to make to you. I'm afraid of love. With love always comes loss. Whether that loss is of the person, or of freedom. But when I'm with you I don't feel trapped. You make me feel even more free, and yet you captivate me. Maybe I do want to love someone some day. Maybe I need to be loved by someone that I can love in return. But I need that love to be something that can let me be myself, to express myself completely and to be myself. But I'm not trying to sound selfish. I want to love somebody. There. I said it. But I want my love to empower them to be all that they can be as well, so that we can be whole separately or together, and we don't have to feel like we are shackled by the bonds of love, but rather given wings.
I don't know if that makes sense, or if that kind of love exists, but now you know, and I'm going to mail this letter before my drunken haze wears off and I think better of it.
Until I can feel your arms around me again,
your Angel,
Zarianna
-
To:
Zarianna
125 Leringard
Leringard
Mistone
Angel, thank you for sharing. I am deeply honored that you trust me. And I am also very happy that you've decided to become friends with my Muse. She makes a very good friend and a very good listener.
I write to let you know that I will be in Port Hempstead for a while. The sea elves have told whomever they confide to that the next wave is closing in on the city, and we're abuzz here getting ready. So if we don't see each other, you know where I am. Please, Golden Rose, find out if Leringard is in danger as well, and take measures to keep you and your family safe. Even Raz, whom I have not yet had the opportunity to really know; I do him disservice to judge him so harshly for all that he's trying to protect you.
If you have need of me, send word to the Tower. I will be out doing everything I can to save every life I can.
Until I see you next
Andrew
To:
Margaret Reid
Potter's Lane
Obo District
Huangjin
Tilmar
Mother: A short letter, and this time I mean it. Please dig up and have ready one of Grandfather's paintings of Grandmother Rose. Also, if you would look for Randy Stuffigans? I'm pretty sure he's in a box in Opal's old toy chest.
I will be visiting shortly and returning just as shortly. I'm sorry I won't be able to stay long but word is the next natural disaster is close to Port Hempstead and I intend to be there when it hits to help my new home.
I am looking forward to seeing the family, but not at this time since I won't be lingering. So if you could keep this quiet for me?
I'll see you very soon, my first Muse
Your loving son
Andrew
-
To:
Margaret Reid
Potter's Lane
Obo District
Huangjin
Tilmar
Mother, my progenitor. My soul is eased, having visited with you. Thank you for the painting and for finding Randy. The painting is safe from the storm coming, rest assured it will be returned unharmed.
I've thought about what you said. I know where my heart must go, and I know the current situation is untenable for long. I'm still not sure how it will all fall out. But I cannot, and will not, abandon someone for my convenience again. When I left, that was easy to do. But I'm not that man anymore.
And yet, despite my newly found resolve to not bring pain, my heart, and my Song, have been changed forever. Ilsare (and Her friend, as I mentioned) have conspired it seems, as you wicked women are wont to do. So what can a man do when a siren calls? I would have better luck trying to resist the tsunami by standing in front of it, or trying to set our Muse up on a date with Vorax.
On a side note, I do hope you appreciate the irony of you advising me to "let her go". Especially considering the nature of my leaving my birth city.
Having thoroughly enjoyed pointing that out, I will add that letters might again be scarce, though I doubt I'll be able to resist these inked confessions I keep sending you. I am touched that you keep them. I can't stress enough, it was good to see you, Mother. In all this time you had become something else in my mind; a presence, but not one I could hug or hear anymore. A goddess of my secrets. Once again I have your sage advice in mind in the voice it was intended, and you only reminded me of my rapidly advancing age and appalling lack of children (not likely to be remedied by my racial woman of choice any time soon) three times. Most restrained, for you.
Joking aside the wave comes and I will be here to meet it. Thankfully the town is in full preparation. There will be, Ilsare willing, no lives lost. I will write as soon as I can to let you know how we fared.
Give the family my love
Your loving son
Andrew
-
To:
Kyle Pandorn
Care of Angel's Guild Hall
Port Hempstead
Mistone
Kyle; we have met only once, but I understand you follow our lady. I am not sure how much time you've spent in Hlint's shrine, but something has happened. What I know, which comes to me from a priestess of our Lady named Annwyl and to her from Samilla Jaanson, is that Nicholas Nedina was found slain in the forest outside of the town of Hlint. His fiance and town guard Alison Grader was found slain in the Ilsarian gardens the night Nicholas disappeared. An adventurer has said that the guard had been murdered by figures in black and red robes and masks and that they then carried off Nicholas. Guards sent to search for the priest told a tale of battle with Corathian followers and demons in the forest.
I hope we can count on your help, once this wave passes and before any trail goes too cold. Nicholas should not be a footnote; he deserves justice, as does his lady. Annwyl takes mail care of Calise in the Hlint Shrine, and I take my mail through the Tower Academy.
I hope to speak to you soon
Andrew Reid
To:
Zira and Zari
125 Leringard
Leringard
Mistone
Zira, Zari; I write you both as something has happened at the Hlint Shrine that cannot go unaddressed. Annwyl contacted me (Zari, Zira can explain who she is) and told me that Nicholas Nedina was found slain in the forest outside of the town of Hlint. His fiance Alison Grader was found dead in the Ilsarian gardens that same night. An adventurer has said that the guard had been murdered by figures in black and red robes and masks and that they then carried off Nicholas. Guards sent to search for the priest told a tale of battle with Corathian followers and demons in the forest.
Annwyl and I ask for your help. Please let us know, either of us, soonest. You can reach Annwyl via Calise at the Hlint Shrine.
Yours in the Muse,
Andrew
_________
-
To:
Margaret Reid
Potter's Lane
Obo District
Huangjin
Tilmar
Mother. I lived.
The waves came. The buoys did their job, and it looks like some will be recoverable although we're still waiting for the storm to die down enough to see.
I wanted to write all about it, the words have been burning in my mind as I toss and turn in this damp room, although that could be the fever I've developed. But now that I have dried the paper enough to write I can't describe what happened.
I need to. Let me start slowly. Volunteers and the magicusers and druids who set up the buoys and coral breakers began to assemble on the docks in Port Hempstead as the storm gathered force. Zari and Zira and their brother Zak were there, along with a number of people I knew or recognized. Quite a few I had never met before as well. And two musicians I hope to see again, a halfling gypsy woman and a man who blurred the line between brilliance and madness with surgical precision. Her name I didn't catch, but his is Farros Galder.
The redoubtable Mister Galder and myself began to play for the assembling group. His style is far removed from mine; he prefers thrashing beats and lies on the E string like it insulted his mother. Still, I found myself pulled into his personal vortex of sheer crazy, so strong was his charisma.
We played on through the rising winds, and the halfling woman created a bubble wherein the storm's noise was lessened so we could discuss what to do. The waves were pounding over the docks by this time and the first flashes off the magically reinforced buoys were visible in the blackness. Several of us had put forth the idea of reinforcing the shields with one last combined effort, making the shield an inverted V with point forward to deflect the waves that got through the other defenses.
Zari was one of the first to start pushing for this, and I could not have been more proud of her then. She's so new to our faith; new, in truth, to faith of any kind that extends beyond her immediate family. But she stepped past herself and gave, and trusted in the ones around her, and stood with us in the face of what, for a moment, looked like certain death.
We started to combine efforts. Jaelle arrived and joined the the strongest magicusers to knit our talents together. We all poured our various magics into the shield; Alex and I sang, and sang, and sang. Jaelle joined in and along with the halfling and Farros we performed the most exciting concert I have ever heard. Nothing I ever did in Huangjin can touch last night. Those who could threw in their will and those that had no inkling of how to contribute to the shield kept those of us who did standing upright and braced us.
I saw the wave coming in. There were many waves of course, some of them taller than the buildings around us. But the wave - let me call it The Wave - looked like a mountain range of water running forward to drop on us. I don't remember the previous wave nearly as well, as Elaine and I were fleeing for our lives in the most directly opposite location as possible. Yesterday's Wave is now a permanent part of my memory and I fear I will have many more dreams of drowning as I had in the wee hours of this morning when I was finally able to snatch some sleep.
The buoy webs did what we all hoped they'd do, and I am not merely a little proud to say that my suggestion did seem to help. Each successive layer of the shield nibbled at the wave's power until it hit the "point" of our final shield. It wasn't a complete success. By then Hedessa, one of our powerful contributors, had fallen and we were pressed to fill the gap her magical power had left. So the wave was imperfectly cleaved, and many of us were hit with perhaps seventy-five percent of the remaining Wave. I was washed back and took more damage than I realized at the time, and Alexander is damaged, but he is tenacious like his creator and hung on to play for me through the rest of the waves that hit and beyond.
We stayed to continue reinforcing the shields until the storm had died enough to be merely a sluicing rain and an angry ocean. Somewhere in all that a whale was beached on the coral blockade the druids had raised. A sea elf of my acquaintance and a druid I did not know rescued it, all of us on the docks cheering them on (excepting the few who were suddenly hungry for whale steak). By this time I was unable to sing and barely able to speak.
Most of the night from here on was a blur, although I remember watching as they tried to help the woman Hedessa. I learned she was a Xeenite, possibly a priestess although I'm not sure I heard that right. Sometime before the first wave she fell, the gap in our defenses that caused the misfire of the shield, and she bled from her mouth, nose, and ears. She kept screaming about pain. I felt, and still do, that she was fighting something inside her mind but I'm not a healer and the halfling gypsy, Alzira, and Jaelle were already attending her along with Ben who is a local guildsman, and a halfling named Tod (to whom I owe a great deal from the last wave). So I stood back and observed a while. A number of people including Jaelle took Hedessa off to find help and I found an isolated place to play to the waves.
Alex is hurt, and I'm hurt, but during the apex of that freakish storm I did something I want so badly to do again that it's a cold iron sliver in my soul.
I think I might have played some of my Song. It was all so confused, and I had let go completely to fight the water. At some point I forgot where the music started and I ended, and Alex and I moved away from the others' tune. I don't remember what I played, though, and this is killing me inside. I spent the remainder of the night until my legs would not longer hold me playing on the docks. Even with poor Alexander soaked to the point of weakening the glue and his bridge cracked and one string completely gone, he stayed with me, trying to find the music again.
The Tower was locked and I discovered well before the storm hit that my little tent was commandeered to hold a passel of small children, so I borrowed a cold, damp, but structurally sound room in someone's evacuated home to sleep in. Pray the guards don't come around and find me vagrant. I'm not well, mother. My back hurts in some interesting places and every muscle is bruised. I'm running a fever, my nose is dripping, and my voice has gone on strike until further notice.
I do have to add that regarding my love life, things have once again changed and I pray to Muse for the better. Zari found me while I was trying so desperately to remember even one moment of my Song, and she was as beaten as I after our efforts. But for a mercy, she seemed to understand my need to be alone. I had spoken to her sister earlier to beg her help, and I pray that Alzira understands; I think she does. But Zari said, as she walked away, that she didn't mean to fall in love with me. So Zira must have spoken to her about the limits of what I can offer, Ilsare bless her. She is a good woman.
I cried while Zari walked away. I cried, in part because I now have the potential to hurt her very badly, and because our Muse has shown her love again. I hope this is healing for her. I know I could have traveled with her and slept in a warm bed. She's even given me a key to their home which is a gesture of friendship and trust that I think her friend Raz will not share. But to give her that hope after I have made clear that I can't give her what she has only just realized she wants? I will not shatter a fragile and budding faith with that kind of selfishness.
I'm starting to sound like Daniel. I need to go out and drink heavily and lie with women of loose morals before I am tempted to take vows.
I'm kidding myself, of course. The woman I want to hold is busy up to the graceful tips of her ears and so I curl in this corner, trying not to spill the ink with my shaking hand, and confess yet again to you.
Well, that's the long version of my short reason for writing. I'm alive. I will go forth and offer help to the mages and druids to set up the buoys yet again. I'm sure this storm is not our last.
Your loving son,
Andrew
-
To:
Margaret Reid
Potter's Lane
Obo District
Huangjin
Tilmar
Mother, I am enclosing a separate letter along with the request for you to see to its delivery. I do not have a full address but many of the couriers will know where to take it if you ask.
Trust me that this is not a catastrophic relapse on my part but rather a piece of something more important.
I have faith that you will arrange speedy delivery; timing is important.
I will explain more later.
Your loving son,
Andrew
To:
Zarianna
125 Leringard
Leringard
Mistone
Angel; I am not sure when but I may be incommunicado soon, and I don't want you to worry. I will be traveling and I have no set location or return time.
I loved your song and I'm practicing it. I will disagree though; it's not easier than dwarven, just different. There are more syllables and pauses but I will say the sound is much less harsh on the ears. Of course, as neither of us are dwarves, it is rather biased of us to say that. I'm sure that dwarven poetry is as soothing to them as ours is to us. And now I'm determined to find some, having just wrote that.
Take care, Wild One, until next we meet
Andrew
-
To:
Katrien Hommel
108 Port Hempstead Docks
Port Hempstead
Mistone
Milady;
I write to thank you again for the work you did on Alexander, my violin. My skills fall far short of being able to repair more than strings and your time and gentle ministrations were a caress from Ilsare herself.
I thought you would like to know that since your repairs, my friend has a new voice; he is deeper than before except on the top end of those fine new strings you gave him. There, he has acquired a feminine voice, as lilting and sweet as a concert soprano. It is a pleasing contrast and both of us enjoy it.
I would very much like to play him for you and share some of your time, graceful lady. If this would please you, I take mail at the Tower Academy, the address of which I'm sure is known to you.
Thank you, Beautiful Piper. My friend is whole because of you.
Yours in the Muse,
Andrew Reid
-
Andrew,
I never said Elven was easier. I said Elven was prettier. It doesn't sound like hacking and gagging and spitting. It's musical in and of itself. As for your going away, if you would please leave your key on the shelf before you do I would appreciate it. Just in case something happens and you lose it, I would prefer not to have a stray key floating around unaccounted for. Thanks, and good travels.
~Zari
To:
Zari
125 Leringard
Leringard
Mistone
I will of course return the key. I should have given it to you when last I saw you at the storytelling but I was preoccupied and have been for some time, as you have noticed. I will make a trip to the house on my way east and put it on the bookshelf by the fireplace outside your room.
I am truly sorry I missed your story, and the rest of the contestants as well. I do hope you will consider sharing it with me sometime when we can sit and talk.
And Zari, I am sorry I cannot return what you were willing to give. It was never my intent to cause you any pain. It still is not. But I see you walking away from the pittance I offered with head held high, and a new-found faith, and an inner strength that guides your course. And though I would miss our rampaging fun, I am also very glad this is how it ends; you the master of your destiny with no tears to waste on a wastrel such as me. New talents and interests that you wear to such great effect (I refer here to the paint in your hair and on your graceful hands). And most of all, our Friend to speak to in times of your need.
I won't play priest or pretend I'm wise. Still, I cannot help but wonder if this was meant all along, because the woman I see in you now has conquered some of the fears and hurts of her past. Which is more than I can claim, truth be told.
I hope you will consider this letter an offer of friendship. You and your sister are remarkable women and I'm sure Ilsare will cause our paths to cross again.
Yours in the Muse,
Andrew
-
To:
Calise and Others Whom it Concerns
Shrine to Ilsare
Hlint
Mistone
Dearest Calise:
You may have already received word of this; a group of our Lady are en route to assist in the investigation of the death of Nicholas and his lady. Kyle Pandorn and Annwyl will be among them as will myself.
I send you advance notice and I apologize if this runs parallel to other missives. I ask that you gather all that is known about the deaths and names of witnesses we might question. To those I have spoken to the sentiment is clear: This atrocity cannot be allowed to go uninvestigated and those responsible will be held to their justice.
We should arrive on the outside of a week.
Yours in the Muse,
Andrew Reid
-
To:
Calise and Others to Whom it Concerns
Shrine to Ilsare
Hlint
Mistone
Dearest Calise:
I am writing at the behest of the others concerning the preliminary results of our investigation. Sadly we were unable to determine much as the weather and wildlife have obliterated most of the evidence. We did find a ritual site and the site of the guard's battle, and what I have to report will not ease your heart I fear.
Nicolas was used in some kind of ritual. For what we don't know, as there are so many possibilities. It was a ritual involving great anger. Two of us, myself being one, were briefly at the mercy of the rage so strong was it. This brings me back to wondering about Nicolas's past, begging your forgiveness, but such anger is often reserved for those we know - and his lady was not targeted. I may do further research on that, and any information you can pass on about Nicolas would be helpful.
My gut says (and I should here note that not all the others agree with me) that it was a summoning. So take that as opinion and not fact. He was tortured before his death, and a sharp knife of some kind was used to carve some of his bone while he was alive. I regret to put it so succinctly but that is what we discovered. Beyond that we found no creatures or any evidence that the perpetrators were still nearby. After all this time, I don't think they would be.
After discussion we concluded that it was his good heart and nature that made him such a potent victim; without further investigation I can't think of another reason he would have been chosen. One thing I forgot to ask was his personal devotional power; would he have been a formidable opponent? If not, that supports the above argument.
I would suggest to your guard to continue to keep a wary eye on the woods. I will also send word to Lorax and Echo as my map shows them as close enough to be visited by either our murderers or whatever it is they may have called up.
Again, I am sorry it took us so long to get there and that our investigations brought no comfort. If I can offer anything that might ease your heart, it is that Ysaline with some help from Annwyl, Laaren, and myself, cleansed the ritual site. I hope this brings peace to Nicolas' soul as well.
Annwyl, Laaren and Ysaline will be visiting to check on that new rose in the garden. If there are any further developments, you need only call on us. I feel confident any of us would answer your summons.
Yours in the Muse,
Andrew Reid
To:
Captain of the Guard or Proxy
Guard Garrison
Town of Echo
Mistone
(Letter repeated and sent to the following address:
Captain of the Guard or Proxy
Guard Garrison
Town of Lorax
Mistone)
To Whom it May Concern (Captain):
My name is Andrew Reid and I am writing concerning an incident in Hlint that you should be aware of. I am not writing in any official capacity but merely as a concerned individual who wishes to give fair warning.
Six weeks ago (plus time added for this letter to reach you), a beloved member of Ilsare's fold and his lady, a town guard, were murdered. A witness spoke of two elves and a human; I believe the genders were one male and one female elf and the human a male, but this was an impression from the one living witness. They were dressed in Corathian garb and there was a demon present as well. A battle ensued near the shrine to Ilsare, and the woman was killed with both arcane magic and weaponry. The man was taken and used in a ritual in the woods near Lake Nox.
We have not been able to determine what the ritual was for, but certainly anger played a great part. We could feel it in the air even this many weeks after the event.
I send this to you in hopes that nothing has happened, and nothing will, but you should be aware. Should there have been, or be, any activity of such a nature I beg you send word to myself via the Tower Academy in Port Hempstead or to Annwyl Cadi care of Calise, Shrine to Ilsare in Hlint.
With Respect,
Andrew Reid
To:
Buddy
109 Hempstead
Port Hempstead
Mistone
Good sir, I have some of what you requested ready for your approval. I take letters at the Tower Academy; please let me know when we can arrange a meeting.
Are you also a member of a tradesguild, as your cousin? If so, perhaps we can work part of my remuneration in trade, as there are a number of items I would like to acquire.
Until we meet next, salute
Andrew Reid
-
To:
Annwyl Cadi
Care of Calise
Shrine to Ilsare
Hlint
Mistone
Annwyl, my friend. I take pen in hand per our discussion as the silver buckle gin beside me crooks a finger, and hope this is enough to keep it capped.
I can't put into words what your quiet faith has done to help me lately. Yes, what I said to Ragnar was correct, and I have to accept that my desires will never go away. Perhaps it's best to accept that I will fall to them occasionally, and I have to trust in those I love to help me swim out again.
I have recently been deeply inside my past, with a mandate from myself to hold nothing back and dive every depth until I found what I needed to help another. And I did, how I did. I think I can lay the pipe aside; at least, I have not walked to Fort Vehl looking for anything to fill it since you took the last pouch. Bless our Muse that I have absolutely no herbalism skills at all or I'd be out in the forest right now.
My solace is that I did find something of use, as I said. That and a barrel of worries for the lady whose song is part of mine. I'll leave that for now, dwelling on it doesn't help my willpower any.
I did emcee the pie poetry contest at Alazira's pie contest, where Jaelle bested me with ease with her superb poem of overindulgence vs. moderation. Jennara won with her simple two-line poem. I can appreciate simplicity; on Tilmar, our traditional poetry is very short. But I think there might have been other reasons Jaelle didn't win though I have yet to confirm this.
I will sing my song for you and recite Jaelle's poem as well when next we can sit, and talk. I am determined to have her over my knee in regards to songs and stories at least once, though, and to that end I am working on something that I would like to have your opinion on. Again, next we meet. Perhaps then we can finish that dress for you that you have something to dance in. Please invite your love if you wish; I'd like to hear both your stories, how you met, how you've come to be who you are.
Well, writing about writing is sparking my Muse. I have a song to finish, and another stewing about in my hindbrain, so I will finish this letter with a note of thanks. I believe I will extend my agreement with you through today, and leave the bottle sealed. I make no promises for tomorrow; if you get another letter, you'll know.
Your friend in the Muse,
Andrew
-
Andrew Reid
Hopefully still somewhere around the Tower Academy
Port Hempstead
Mistone
Andrew,
I don't know if something is bothering you but I found this song that I've been practicing. I'll sing it for you sometime, but I've enclosed the lyrics for you. I don't know who wrote it, but it's pretty.
Love,
Zari
*Enclosed on a separate piece of parchment*
Send me a Song
Take the wave now and know that you're free
Turn your back the land, face the sea
Face the wind now, so wild and so strong
When you think of me, wave to me and send me song
Don't look back when you reach the new shore
Don't forget what you're leaving me for
Don't forget when you're missing me so
Love must never hold, never hold tight, but let go
Oh, the nights will be long when I'm not in your arms
But I'll be in this song that you sing to me
Across the sea, somehow, someday
You will be far away, so far from me
And maybe someday I will follow you in all you do
'Til then, send me a song
When the sun sets the water on fire
When the wind swells the sails of your hire
Let the call of the bird on the wind
Calm your sadness and lonliness
And then start to sing to me
I will sing to you
If you promise to send me a song
I walk by the shore and I hear
Hear your song come so faint and so clear
And I catch it, a breath on the wind
And I smile and I sing you a song
I will send you a song
I will sing you a song
I will sing to you
If you promise to send me a song
To:
Zarianna
125 Leringard
Leringard
Mistone
Zari. I have not written in some time, true - I've been away and diving into my past. I apologize for my distractions. Things have been difficult, as I'm sure you divined at our last meeting during the pie contest. I'm working on it.
I believe we might be neighbors soon. I have a benefactor; I'm a paid musician again! Well, I'm a theoretically paid musician, again. But I should be soon. When the coin passes hands and approval is meted for my work, I will first repay your sister in full and then be renting a room in the Twin Dragons from the lovely lady Tyrian. So my promise to accompany your songs may then be fulfilled, and we can use the stage to practice. In fact, I foresee more bardic contests and entertainment now that I will have a venue so close that I can stagger to my room after to sleep. Much like the Scamp but a thousand fold above for quality and class.
If I sound excited, I am. I will write when we're - no I won't. I'll walk on over when we're neighbors and knock.
Also, please share this portion with your sister. Thank you for letting me contribute to the contest. I garnered perhaps half a percent of the total monies, so it's a modest start for my efforts but I'd like to think that it entertained. I know the children were, especially by Jaelle's poem, which really was far better than my effort. Although my mind was wandering something fierce that day, I seem to remember someone mentioning that Jaelle didn't pay entry to the poem contest - is that why she didn't win? Although I found Jennara's poem quite entertaining in its simplicity, neither hers nor mine compared the the Ballard of Finnias McPhee.
Again,thank you both for letting me participate. As soon as I am given payment for services rendered in song I will plop the True directly at the orphanage. I look forward to accompanying you when you sing the song you sent, Zari, for your voice lacks only training and with that you will be quite the songbird.
Yours in the Muse
Andrew
-
To:
Tyrian Baldu'muur
137 Leringard
Leringard
Mistone
Milady Baldu'muur, I write with a spark of undiluted joy in my heart that my efforts of late have paid off in a most concrete sense. I have acquired the True to rent one of your most luxurious rooms.
I would prefer the second one you showed me, if the prices are the same. I will be in Leringard later this day if you will be on premises to take my deposit. I have fulfilled my contract to the sisters Alazira and Zarianna as promised.
I look forward to being your tenant and to many nights of entertaining you and your other guests. I also wish to discuss the possibility of hosting bardic concerts and competitions from your lovely stage area.
Until I am safely within the timber arms of your home,
Andrew Reid
-
To:
Margaret Reid
Reid Pottery
Potter's Lane
Obo District
Huangjin
Tilmar
Mother, progenitor, my first Muse. I am writing you in a kind of joyous haze, one that for today is not helped by anything but my own jubilant mood and a night's sleep that deserves a paragraph of its own.
I have a home. My benefactor has given a hearty stamp of approval to the work I have done and have started performing, and paid me far more than the initial offering. This alone let me complete several debts; I have a new pair of boots awaiting resizing, ones that are heavily magic'd and will serve me well for a long time to come. I have a new cloak of supple panther skin, that I have dyed white and embroidered (you did read that right - I suppose Grandmother Rose's insistance on us learning this was in fact justified) with our Muse's blazon. I can't help but say: It looks good. Very good. I bought and paid for a mahagony bow for Alex, an older one my landlady had that she doesn't use. And I was able to make good my debt to the lady Argali, a dwarf of stellar heart who loaned me my rapier until such a time as I could pay. I am, today, this moment, this breath - debt free.
I have also spent days in cornfields, stripping, shucking, and picking to feed chickens to get eggs. I cannot possibly stress to you enough how mind-numbing this is and my hands are covered with little slashes and cuts from the leaves. However the contract I took will pay me six thousand more True when I complete it, and I am perhaps seventy-five percent done. Three boxes of eggs, of which I have been paid for one, with a second ready, and a third started. I also sold a box and change of aloe I've been collecting. With that money, and once my debts were paid, I went straight to Leringard and took a room at the Twin Dragons Inn.
I must describe this room. I'll preface; you remember our conversations about the Scamp's Mug, and my closet there, all of eight feet by eight feet and empty save for two families of mice in the walls and the constant smells and sounds of the bar below. Might I add, for an alcoholic, not a good place to attempt to stay sober. But it was what I could afford.
Now? Oh, mother. I am looking around in between sentences and I'm still in shock. Mother, I have a BATHTUB. I had to buy it and it was an expense, but I have a tub! I spent a good two hours in it last night, soaking until the water was completely cold and my fingers resembled califlower. It was bliss, but not the most bliss.
The room itself is perhaps ten steps wide and at least eighteen or twenty long. Double what I had before. The workmanship is solid, the floors clean, and it is insulated by a hallway from the main gathering room and the bar so I don't smell the liquor and can barely hear the noise even when a group is in loud conversation. I think a concert might penetrate the walls, but then again, if music is being played I'll be out there, not in here! The common room has a stage, and the stage contains a piano that I tuned this morning, and a lovely harp with a very lush sound. The harp is double strung so it's a challenge for me to play but I have already started to familiarize myself.
I digress. The room comes furished with four large crates, and that alone makes it worth any price let alone the modest deposit requested of me. All of my skins, bolts of silk, and tailoring materials have a home not on my back. I was shocked at how much taller I felt, not that I need to be any taller - I'm already bumping my head on every doorframe as it is - after I unloaded my packs. My landlady, a lovely and seemingly gentle woman by the name of Tyrian Baldu'muur, had also placed a rug of firey reds and yellows with a dragon on it. While this is pure decoration, it does remind me of the traditional rugs from home, with a Tilmarian hook to the stitching. I like it.
I have saved the best two things for last. First, with a good portion of my newly found wealth, I took purchase on a desk. My desk. The one that this letter is being penned on right now; broad, heavy, oak, with little gnarls and swirls in the grains. It wasn't the smoothest or most flawless - in fact, I chose it because this oak had a number of flaws. The wood under my fingers, though expertly sanded and polished, has a history. Here, three inches to the left of the inkwell, something large burrowed and left a cupping in the surface that I am using for nibs. Here, along the edge, a long shallow bump that is so hard it couldn't be sanded down - the wood concentrated around or against something, struggled, and became so condensed that mere sandpaper was no match. I run my fingers over that bump often. Under the paper, exactly where I find it most comfortable to write, is a round pattern that looks almost runic; I'm trying to find the words to describe it. It's as if water leaked in, causing a rot, but the rot stayed contained in a circular pattern that winds in on itself. If you look over this letter, especially this very long paragraph I can't seem to end, you'll see a light trace of that pattern where the wood is ever so slightly indented from the damage. Follow the pattern in, and it ends on itself. A spiral.
Besides this and many other lovely marks of a long life, the desk has several sturdy drawers and is large enough that I have already stacked it with books and still have room to write. I have a proper, lined book for my musical transcriptions and scores now. It's propped up in the center that I can move it to my music stand easily. My desk. My world? Sometimes it feels like it.
And finally, that which I am in a writhing esctasy about. My bed.
Technically, it's Tyrian's bed, since it came with the room. I chose this room in part because this bed is not a canopy and is also a lot longer than the other I saw. In fact, nearly long enough for me; I only have to sleep slightly canted. After a lifetime of sleeping on the mats at home and never fitting quite right (I'm sorry, it had to be said. They were never long enough even when I was a child) and a year of lying on a bedroll above the Scamp that was also too short, after a lifetime of cold feet, I have a bed that covers me.
I will try to describe the sensation, with proper build-up of course. You, mother, being of average height and father as well and the both of you wondering where I came from (I blame Grandmother Rose - you knew that Alindor blood runs tall!) cannot understand what it is like. After buying and taking delivery on my furniture; I was able to pursuade them to move it that very day as the shop is only steps away from the Inn; I spent the evening arranging and fussing a bit, not unlike a woman doing her hair. I took my bath. I wandered out to play the harp, had supper, came back, and wandered around the room. I can pace now - this is a nice ammenity.
After a few hours with Alex and when it was quite late I was tired enough to go to sleep. This has been my habit for most of my life. Nothing I sleep on is comfortable for me so I work myself into exhaustion so that I can actually drift off. Funny story, here - at the Breath of the Muse, the woman in charge had a room made up with me in mind. A gong in our oldest tradition, a piano, a harp, and decorations again very Huangjinese. It was a work of art to live in. And it came complete with a bed-mat that was...too short, leaving my ankles and feet once again on the cold floor. I could not cry but to laugh.
Again, to last night; I laid down upon this bed, with the stuffed feather mattress and the plain white cotton sheets, the moss green blanket that is clean and mended but not new. All of it together spoke "come, lie, rest. I will hold you". So I let myself sink into that bed, with the sheets and blanket over my feet and my toes as warm as they've ever been, and I fell asleep. Immediately, I'm fairly certain before my head made full contact with the feather pillow.
I have never done that before when I was not in my cups past the barrel or on the tail end of many, many pipefuls of dreamroot (or both). Never. I was sober, dead sober, and out like the proverbial candlewick. I slept until well past dawn, and woke in a most peculiar state. I felt better, more refreshed, than ever before. But also, I woke with a sudden and vivid understanding of many things that before were plastered over with drink or sleep deprivation: My posture, the weight of carrying my life on my back, literally; the way my fear for my love and the things happening to her have caused me to remain tense; the years of sleeping on a floor; the way my latest tumble from the wagon has affected my physical being. All of this in one giant jumble of pain that still wars with the sheer heavenly chorus that my brain perceived upon waking completely refreshed.
I worried this morning, lying in my bed. I had so much I was thinking and wanted to write and normally, I would just roll to a sitting position and write. But o, the bed! - the seductress of downy feathers and smooth cotton linen that held me tighter than any Xeenite binding ever did! I didn't get up. I didn't start this letter until well after noon. I worried until I stood, stretching to my full height and beyond without touching the ceiling, and took Alex and played a new score I had heard in my head but not written. It is for a friend - a symphony for Symphony. I regret that I was drinking the last time we met, and she does not like this so a little scar was left on what I hope is a new friendship. But again I wander. I wrote the score out with Alex's help and it came as it never has. Once I had begun, no pain stayed my arm, no tremors in my back took my mind from the music, and I was focused as I have not been in years. So then I decided my worry is a small thing, one way to be traded for another, and I will adapt. And tomorrow when I wake I will lie in bed and not worry. This I promise myself, and you.
I will wrap up my wordy but sincerely glowing homage to my new dwelling with the address: All items to me are to go to 137 Leringard, city of Leringard, on Mistone. Tyrian or Alton, one of her employees, or one of the others will see to it that I get it. I don't know if she has a postmistress or master here at the Inn yet. If I find out she does, I will give you their name.
So. As you most pointedly warned, my trip to the temple did indeed end with me back in a bottle and worse. The worse I struggled with for a number of weeks but in the end my ceela and my friend Annwyl were diligent in removing the pouches of temptation and I overcame that craving, with one small backslide. The alcohol, not as easily. I am sober today. I was sober last evening. I was not sober yesterday afternoon. I was sober the day before yesterday. It goes like that, up and down. Today, for ceela and Annwyl and for my Song, I will have a sober day. I plan to do the same tomorrow - but we'll see. One day at a time.
Oh, and my love did receive your work and it is safe with her. I have not had a chance to ask her opinion. Her life is a twist of too many things lately, I struggle to keep my worry in check. But all storms let out the sun eventually and so will hers, our Ladies willing. I have sung a prayer to Ilsare every night for her. Every night, since the first, and every night until my last. She is that kind of woman.
Mother, I feel another song and I have work to do besides. I am performing to fulfill my contract, and I need to get out. I have sung to Symphony, in her Knight persona per my request, and she declined to arrest me on grounds of inciting the overthrow of a government, so I am comfortable taking my show back on the road. Don't be surprised to see me playing around home soon - I promise you on our Muse's heart that I will visit when I am in town.
My love to the family, and little Opal especially. Stars and song I miss her little girl laughter.
Your loving and well-rested son
Andrew
To:
Postmistress
Tower Academy
Port Hempstead Municipal District
Port Hempstead
Mistone
Milady, I cannot thank you enough for the gracious use of your address in these long and trying months. I write to report a new address for myself, one I would appreciate you forwarding my mail to until my contacts have all been appraised.
New Address:
Andrew Reid
Twin Dragons Inn
137 Leringard
Leringard
Mistone
Thank you again, Milady, for the assistance you've given.
Inspiration guide your steps
Andrew Reid
-
To:
Annwyl Cadi
Care of Calise
Shrine to Ilsare
Hlint
Mistone
Annwyl. I have not written in some time, and I'm glad to say I haven't much needed to per our agreement. I did have a difficult time a week or so back, but a number of things lately have conspired to leave me stronger inside than ever before.
I write to tell you of my new address. I took a room in the Twin Dragons under the protective roof of Tyrian Baldu'muur. I have not yet lost the joy of coming home, to this place, and this desk I write on.
Odd. As I write I realize that I have not had alcohol in here, not in this space. Nothing to fog my mind in here - it's quiet, I have been writing more scores than ever before. I had only just realized that - no bottles, no wine, no pipes, nothing. It's as if I am unconsciously unwilling to lose myself here.
But I wander, as I so often do. I would invite you to come visit me sometime, as my lodging is large enough for guests. Bring your heart's other as well, if they will come.
My new address:
137 Leringard
Leringard
Mistone
I look forward to sitting with you soon, my friend. Or perhaps a romp with the battle sisters?
Andrew
Dear Andrew,
It does my heart good to have not heard from you in so long. * She pauses to smile at her own little joke. * I am hopeful that you will understand what I mean by that.
I am sorry to hear that you had more difficult times lately. I know that I should reprove you for not writing me when they occurred, * She shakes her finger at him, across the miles, yet there is a smile in her eyes. * but I find myself unable to do so in much earnest, as I can imagine that you had good cause at the time. I do hope you both can and will tell me of those trials when next we meet; I am also very eager to hear what has transpired to bolster your inner resolve. Please know that I am your attentive ear for good news as well as bad.
I cannot tell you how pleased I am to hear that you have found yourself comfortable lodgings at The Twin Dragons Inn; it is a place of some renown, I am told. I am even more pleased to hear that your... * She pauses again, quill feather playing on her lips, as she searches for the right word. * ...crutches have not yet found a place within your home.
I will therefore ask another promise of you, to whit: Please keep your home unfettered by those and should you feel their need, at the very least walk outside your door to partake. It will sound silly I know, for me to be imploring you to take those steps, even if they are only few, but please humor me in this. You might find that they serve to give yourself the chance to reconsider what you intended to do.
I like you so very much Andrew and, though my heart is firmly bound with another's, as you know, I care about you profoundly.
* At that, she gets up to herself walk outdoors and breathe in the sweet air of the garden. Some time later, her introspective mood is finally dispelled and she goes back to finish the letter, her composure now returned. *
As you can see by the envelope in which this has arrived, I have made careful note of your new address. You may very well find me knocking at your door sometime towards the end of the first week in Seplar.
Please keep yourself well wrapped in the arms of the Muse until then.
~ Annwyl
P.S. You are always welcome to travel with us Battle Sisters, though we are somewhat unpredictable as to when we convene and even as to our makeup on any given day; there are five of us now, so far. [/COLOR]* * She winks, self amused, as she writes that last * ~ A.*[/COLOR][/SIZE]
-
To:
Janice of Bands
Breath of the Muse
Near River of Reflections
Kingdom of Brelin
Mistone
Milady Janice:
I wish to thank you for the amazing hospitality you showed our group (Raz, Zarianna, Alazira, Zak, and myself) upon our visit to the Breath.
I cannot speak for the others but I found that my time there broke past some internal barriers that has resulted in progress on a Song I'm working on. For this epiphany alone, nothing I could offer would be sufficient in thanks.
I cannot help but feel that our Lady smiled on my time there. I hope you will consider having me back as a guest some time in the future. For now, in addition to my gratitude, I would like to inquire about the name and address of the gentleman who is associated with the manipulations of vibrations associated with sound - I have been interested in this phenomena and would like to attend one of his demonstrations.
In the Heartsong,
Andrew Reid
-
To:
Margaret Reid
Reid Pottery
Potter's Lane
Obo District
Huangjin
Tilmar
Hello Mother. Thank you for your long and wonderful letter on things back home. And congratulations on the land purchase! I look forward to seeing the new house and grounds, and father's new pottery barn. Please sketch me a picture of the plans and let me know when the housewarming is so I can attend?
Now, on to this tome. First, let me preface by saying a lot of what I'm writing is for me, not for you, as I find journals tedious for some reason, which on the face of it is odd as I'm quite happy to write songs in one. So I spill my soul and update you in one shot. Efficient, no?
Life has changed, in subtle and huge ways. Collecting my thoughts here - pretend this is the proverbial pregnant pause.
First, I've become something of an activist. It began as an offer of paid employment as a bard, something that many of us seek (especially when homeless, penniless, and facing major instrument repairs). I find that purity of art is often restricted to those who have other means and since leaving your timber and stucco womb I have not had that luxury. And so, as you know, I lept at the chance to make some coin for writing. My subject was to be a dictator in southern Dregar, one I'd heard of but not much. A quiet dictator. Not one of those easy-to-hate, splashy types, sticking heads on pikes around their castle moats. So I investigated. I read. I dug, interviewed...and what I've found, the parts I can verify as unambiguous truth, disturbs me.
People don't live in Prantz, mother. They exist, and their daily lives a labyrinth of rules and edits designed to keep them quiet and moderately afraid, all the time. I walked in those streets (outside the city proper - I am not stupid, after all, merely not wise) and the tension vibrated through the walls; it was palpable. I wish I was being dramatic. But this time I'm not. People moved with their heads down, quickly, to whatever location they needed to get to and without looking around.
Not that there is much to look at. The city still has the great, thick walls, but the entire ambiance is grey. Grey as in the mood evoked, like a constant overcast day, not the color although it is that too. I saw a little of the old city through the eyes of another, who has heard of it from others still. I saw a city alive in that vision, a city that reached and nurtured. Not what it is today - stripped, silent, and scared. The dwarves that run it are unlike any I've ever seen. The gray-skinned ones are not too different from what you'd expect except for their coloration, but there are some - I watched a few, near the building where you declare yourself and sign paperwork before entering the inner walls - who have bright purple eyes and move like quicksilver down a slope. They seemed oddly uncurious, not looking me over but merely waiting for something. A signal perhaps.
At this point I'd written and been performing two songs that encapsulated what I knew about Lord Rael and had been singing them among others around Mistone and Mariner's Hold on a quasi-tour. My benefactor found them pleasing and paid me a rather hefty coin, hence my current comfortable lodging as I mentioned. What I did not realized is that my little songs have traveled in advance of me and been the cause of no small consternation on the part of the ruling bodies in those lands.
This brings me to my second topic. I've been a drunk and a womanizer, absolutely yes I have. But somehow in all this time I have never seen the inside of a cell -- my sins too small and insignificant in the grander scheme of things, and myself not being a thief by nature. I almost did finally end up behind adamantium bars, mother, almost, and it would have doubtless been the last thing you'd have never heard about me. On the same trip as the long morning I walked outside Prantz, my lover was with me, giving me a tour of the lands there. She had specific things she wished to show me and so we were traveling near Castle Mask when we overheard a woman seeking employment of a bard. The pawn she was talking to was trying to sell iron weapons, so we offered our services. My lover had to back out upon finding the location and duration -- it was in the Haft Lake district, an inn there I've never heard of, and a week long engagement -- but I, despite strong inner (and her outer) reservations wished to see what I could learn. So I took the job and made my way back to the residential area.
They were waiting for my on the road before the fort. Six Prantz guards, all of them heavily armed and armored. I pressed on, with the conviction that I was an innocent man. Why would they hassle a simple bard? What offense could I possibly offer?
Yes, I know, I know. Like you've said, it does take a few whacks on the nose before I learn. So, they stopped me. Frisked me. Went through my things, and asked me my name. I thought I was safe -- I don't keep much on me that identifies me, and my songbook was at home on my desk -- and I gave my name as "Willie". You can tell my brother that, he'll get a laugh. Willie the Singer I was, and I stuck to that with a growing cockiness until they found all the temple receipts for the donations I've been making to the Port Hempstead Tsunami Relief and the Leringard Arms Inn Reconstruction stuffed under my sewing kit.
I had five or seven of them. All neatly printed, with the name Andrew Reid on the bottom of each one.
While standing there sweating a quiet (very quiet) prayer to our Lady, I came across a bit of a prevarication that I had used before and launched into it with all my heart. I was still Willie the Singer, but I borrowed Andrew's name from time to time -- all the bards do, we all know of each other. He's popular, that Andrew guy, you know? Quite popular with the ladies. Handsome fellow, good singer, but sings awful romantic pap...I went on and on. I put my all into persuading those guards, going so far as to call Andrew a drunk and a drug smoker. I think I could have painted a fence with the irony on my tongue.
However, bless our Muse, they bought it and let me gather up my things, my instruments now stained with their grubby paws, and escape. I was again painfully reminded of my poor lost Bella as I gave Alex a wood oil rubdown later. And my new lady, a big oak guitar -- quite new, this one, not yet broken in, a virgin so to speak so I am molding her to my fingers and body -- was sullied as well. Can you believe that they pushed the strings aside and shoved their meaty fists into the sound hole? It was hours re-tuning her.
But, back to my story. I escaped to Lor where my ceela was waiting, Muse bless her. We stayed under cover in an inn there until early the next morn when we made our escape in the pre-dawn light. I am now cut off from Dregar's southern lands, and have found out I'm wanted in Lor. I am in the process of taking more precautions. My benefactor mentioned that I have a bodyguard and I've been watching for a familiar face at my shows, but he's good -- or not there. Either, I suppose. Let's hope the former.
I have just yesterday taken another contract as well to create songs that might help shift the fence-sitters on the Diet of Lor toward remaining independent and that I something I can throw all fifteen and a half of my stones behind (I've gained a little, and most of that muscle. All this rapier is doing strangely wonderful things to my shoulders and arms, although a burly physique will be forever out of my grasp).
The upshot of all this is that I'm becoming involved with the world. Little by little, over this time since the tsunami hit and I stood toe to toe with the ten and nine to defend it, I've been waking to the fact that many of the people I write and sing about are the last line of defense for this world. Heroes? Not all of them. Not as many as you'd think. Some want power, some want glory, some want gold, some want to help any way they can. But they are all willing to make sacrifices others cannot, or they are less frightened of facing their deaths, or some combination of both. I admire them, and I pity them, and I both hope and fear I might become one of them. My lover fits this category, though I doubt she'd admit it. It's a lonely life.
A trip into melancholy lane above, there. In truth, I have been much less self-pitying these days, with being so busy and so in love and feeling Ilsare's touch on my music. My songweaving grows stronger these days. In fact, I'm thinking of moving into new territory with that. Do you remember my trying to sing myself into notes, to dissolve into the music, when I was little? I never stopped trying, you know. I have found a group that does research into that; the Resonance of Being, I think it was called. I've sent a letter to the temple requesting an address and I will hopefully attend a seminar soon. I'm not sure what they do but it sounds like something that I would be interested in. I have tried to break glasses with my voice, as recently as last month, to see if I could manipulate vibrations but the glasses sat there and mocked me in an inanimate kind of way. Curse the testicles and my octave range.
I will update you further as updates become available, my first Muse. This will also be the last letter I send to your current address -- to be safe, I will send them going forward to your clay supplier. Please let Himoto know, and he can deliver the letters along with your clay, thus preventing your association with me from being discovered easily. Paranoid? Yes. But I think it best.
Give the family my love.
Your loving son,
"Willie"
-
To:
Annwyl Cadi
Care of Calise
Shrine to Ilsare
Hlint
Kingdom of Trelania
Mistone
My friend, I write to you from the road, performing on the run. Well, not literally on the run. More on the run from myself. I had hoped that picking up my pen would keep my desires at bay and I fear they won't. Not today.
Yet I want to reach out and so, this letter. I have had a powerful morose lately. Nothing drastic, no changes (that I know of) in my life - I'm still unable to enter Lor, still a person of interest around Prantz, still in love, still not penniless, still writing, still singing. I still have a bathtub (here, I crack a smile - I anticipate you making me pay for that later with barely contained glee).
And yet, I'm in a transition. Rather than continue to be dramatic I'll attempt to just say what's put me here. Not quite two weeks ago, I went to help my lover. This entailed meeting a large number of individuals, only three of whom I'd ever seen before - and all of whom were creatures of such power that my own cosmic insignificance was driven home rather bluntly. Not that I was vocal about it, for once. There was a ritual to be performed, the reason for which I'm not at liberty to share. I had no idea what I could offer but I wished to be involved, and so I was given potions to hand out as a sort of last resort if things went badly and I kept watch for any distractions. Things appeared to go well and for that I am glad. But I feel a strange disconnectedness now.
It's not that I saw my lover in the arms of another she appears to know as well as myself; although I confess that I wish I had been able to offer that small comfort. But seeing her comforted was enough, and I don't own her heart after all. It's not that I was given a veiled warning from one of the three I knew as to a probable end to my relationship with the lady in question. It's not even that I failed to rush to her aid when her ordeal left her staggering toward a cliff's edge, although this comes close - I didn't rush forward. I should have. But I didn't.
And I didn't because I felt very quietly impotent. I think you know me well enough to understand how uncomfortable and foreign that feeling is. I had nothing to offer - I'm still not sure why I was there. I think perhaps she was giving me something I've lacked, all this time. Context. Perspective. Seeing her among those who are her peers, people who can sing down storms and hold earth-shattering amounts of power in harmony with a simple song. I felt...feel...like an infant, blindly flailing toward crawling, not understanding what's happening around me but knowing I should.
Having fancied myself a man of (most of) the world, I didn't like that feeling. Not one bit.
Upon returning to my room, I spent a few days playing piano and gave Alex time to dry and recover. I found myself unable to write and followed an old rule I have - when the words don't come, fall back to the simple. I played songs I wrote as a child, and things I've always loved to play. One slight upbeat note: my piano playing is improving. I would not be morbidly ashamed to be heard in public now.
I took to the road after that, and I write this from a room in Port Hempstead. I was on stage tonight - scratch that, I was on a stool propped up on wooden crates. One does not quibble on such trivial things as potential injury by falling, when on the road. The crowds have been good, there is no shortage of people wanting to be entertained while they drink. My words came back a few days ago and since then I've written a few things. But in all this I have not been able to shake the feeling of utter insignificance. I don't like it.
Annwyl, I spend a lot of time avoiding pain. Avoiding work, and avoiding emotional pain. The tsunami cured me to some degree of avoiding labor, and if I can find anything good in that first, horrible storm, it would be that I left the lazy child in me mostly behind. But pain, that's another story. I don't like hurting inside. That's part of my addiction problem. The other part I'll tell you later (and has to do with the kind of pain I do like, so prepare yourself for a bit of a shock). But this pain won't go - and drinking doesn't help. I've seen how little I've done and for once I don't have a song, a joke, or anything to help me past that. So now, I'm looking at my options and saying to myself, what can I do? How can I make a difference?
Of course, the fear of failure lurks in that, but fortunately I have a rather robust ego (contain your shock). It just frankly bugs me that I thought all this time I was something when in fact...
I have put a letter out to Janice of Bands at the Breath for the address to the Resonance of Being, and I hope to hear back from her on that although I have not yet. I am still playing songs for the people under the gray thumb of Lord Rael. I am still donating food and cloth items to various relief efforts, although this too feels tiny. I am restless. My boundaries have been breached with thoughts I don't permit myself - what do you do when you look in the mirror and realize that the image is not, and has never been, who you thought it was?
Perhaps there's a song in this. I'll try to write one before I go for the Silver Buckle. And I never did thank you properly for your lovely visit, so - thank you. It occurred to me that you might like a key at some point, if you need a place to stay while in town or a quick bath. Let me know.
Maudlinly yours,
Andrew
Andrew Reid
137 Leringard
Trelania
Novlar 17, 1458
My Poor Dear Andrew,
I sit, here in the Temple garden with your letter before me, unsure of how best to console you. My heart weeps at your discomfiture, yet I do not know how to begin. Perhaps my sharing something with you might lighten the burden which so clearly weighs on your heart.
You speak of a sense of disconnectedness and impotence and a fear of failure; I too know those feelings well. Only a week past, I watched, as one apart from myself, while my beloved fell at my feet in battle. But, as part of me was watching, I danced, as I have never danced before, trying with all my might to forestall it, yet I could not. Sa ceela died, there in front of me, as I slew the last of our adversaries. All that I pride myself to be was not enough. And what will happen when next I am called upon by circumstance? As you can see Andrew, you are not alone.
Once my love had returned from the bindstone and was safe again, I went on a rampage, in which my vehemence and frustration was boundless. And, after we parted company that day, I myself turned to bottled solace. But it was all hollow and insufficient. The feeling of inadequacy persits, even as I write now.
* She gazes out over the autumn flowers, efforting herself to strike a happier tone. *
I am so glad that you are able to find comfort in your music, both old and new. I am also intrigued about you letter to Lady Janice. Would that be a journey for which you might wish company?
I had to laugh when I read the wording in your letter: "contain your shock". * Her dourness evaporates in earnest as she writes. * Only you could brighten my mood like that. As to your gracious offer of a key (and specifically access to your enviable bath), perhaps we can discuss that further when next we meet.
I will try to visit you again soon and, until then, please allow the loving embrace of our Lady Muse to envelope you. We are at our best when we open our hearts to Her inspiration.
~ Annwyl
-
To:
Elohanna Min A'Litae
Care of the Tower Academy
Port Hempstead Municipal District
Port Hempstead
Kingdom of Brelin
Mistone
Elohanna, it was such a delight to see you again. I enjoyed your company last night, and regretted to find you had slipped away early.
I write to send you the lyrics to the song I wrote and performed at your request, and to give you my address should you wish to write. I look forward to the day we sit together and you are able to tell me some of your stories.
Here is the song; please share it as you see fit.
The willow speaks
And I ignore
Your eyes are fixed far past the shore
And I can’t bear what is in store
While wind the willow sings
We had our summer
Had our fall
And here we are in winter’s thrall
You can no longer hear my call
While the willow sings
You said you would not leave me while the spring had leaves upon the tree While summer sun warmed our hearts together
You said we’d be as one as long as we had home and hearth belong
And now I stand alone in this cold weather...
With you in arms
We walk the beach
Tears are freezing on my cheeks
Knowing you are far from reach
While the willow sings
I ask the willow leave me be and set you near the snow-capped tree and with aching breath I set you free...and still the willow sings....
I take letters at the Twin Dragons Inn, 137 Leringard, in Leringard, Kingdom of Trelania.
With song,
Andrew Reid
-
Jenra 15, 1459
Sweet Andrew,
I awoke to find you gone, and then proceeded to take shameless avail of your lovely bathtub, again. Your kindness and consideration I will long remember.
You, my friend, despite what others might say, are a wonderful man who is not always exploiting his charms to take advantage of a situation (you see, even in my stupor, I listened). Were I to tell you the absolute truth, I would admit that there was a moment, as we sat before the fire in the Common Room, when it was I who came close to slipping and succumbing, in more ways than one. Yet you, gentleman that you are, chose to carry me to your room and tuck me into your own bed, while you retired to the couch (or the floor, one; my memory is understandably hazy as to that point). For that I thank you, as I have quite enough regrets at the moment. Please do not misinterpret that Andrew. I am in no way penitent over the times we have spent together, and we will follow our hearts where they lead, but undistraught and sober.
When I saw my beloved today, I followed your sound suggestion, confessing what I saw as my foolishness and its terrible effect. As you so rightly predicted, sa ceela was more that understanding, both of my error in tactical judgement and my distress over our time together being perhaps shortened. I was however tenderly admonished that love is intended to burn brightly and not some dull thing to be merely preserved. As a result, I shall endeavor to again look to both the present and the future with joy and hope.
Between the two of you, I have been able to finally see wisdom and have begun to right myself again (the whiskey, at least, is now stoppered; the wine is still at hand, yet I forbear, so far). I am so very blessed to be cared for by two such precious people.
I have taken your good advice Andrew and it has proven wise; please heed mine. Write to her whom you think you may have offended, in spite of your mortification, in spite of your regrets at your art possibly transcending your good sense. I am hopeful that she will understand. Our Lady Muse values spontaneity, perhaps your heartsong does as well.
As always,
~ Annwyl[/COLOR][/FONT]
To:
Annwyl Cadi
Care of Calise
Shrine to Ilsare
Hlint
Kingdom of Trelania
Mistone
Annwyl, your letter left me feeling better, and at a moment not too soon. I told you your love would understand, and after all - milkmaid? Hausfrau? I may make you a milking outfit complete with apron as a reminder. And if you are imagining my face curled into a catlike grin, you are correct.
Sadly, my drinking has progressed to the point where I remember what I do, irrespective of it seeming a good idea at the time. What I would give for a moment of haze, the same haze that kept me coming back fifteen years ago. The pain used to be merely physical. That has passed. Now? I slept horribly that night you were on my bed, and not because of the damage of the gin, or ale, or because the floor was uncomfortable (that rug Tyrian put in the room is plush wool, not as bad to lie on as you'd think). I kept waking with a stabbing, twisting feeling in my gut - why did I do that? What possessed me? That is the pain I feel - regret. Worse by whole measures than any hangover, and as of that night something I have made into an art form.
I don't want to jinx myself by stating equivocally that I am done drinking. I have a track record that betrays that lie on the most cursory glance. Instead, lately, when I reach for the bottle, I pull back the memory of the absence of sound echoing shock, embarrassment, anger...nothing of what I intended. A memory to keep my hand off that bottle for some time to come. I have kept the Silver Buckle with me, in my pack, as a reminder. It hurts to look at it.
It has not been a good week. I have sung to Heartsong like never before, to get me through the withdrawal. I have not toured, or written, or left my room until just the other day; I fear what people will see, me without my liquid conviviality. Sick from pain and want and so angry, Annwyl. I am never that angry about anything but everything, every tiny thing, set me off into fits of invective. It hurts. Moreso because I'm not lying to myself this time, and pretending that I'll be sober next week when in fact I intend to fall merrily off the wagon again.
I receive no answer from our Muse, no sense of bad or good. Which is typical, and makes me wonder - do Rofirein and Toran "speak" to their followers more? Expect them to figure out less, make things easier to follow? I wonder. After responding to an emergency in the forests near Hilm Castle involving deep dwarves, I saw Law in action. It took no notice of us, and followed its own rulings despite shared risk and different opinions. They seem so bleeding sure - so absolutely convinced, so totally unable to consider other options. "Situational" is not a word that those people seem to have any understanding of. Sadly, this has damaged my view of someone I thought a friend. All in all, I prefer our Muse. She challenges me and nothing is ever as easy as marching rote down lines of carefully written rules.
I did wander out yesterday, finally. I met a halfling named Snez, and he and I made our way to Hlint for no really good reason other than to walk in the cold air. Or run, as it turns out; why do halflings always beat me? I'm good for sprints but lousy on long distance. I just don't have the stamina to run that long. He was quite mirthful about his victory as you can imagine. We found others who had been in the goblin caverns there, and the lot of us were challenged to a gauntlet by a man in black named Nihear, or Niher, or somesuch. I can't do his name justice, having not seen it in print. After a jaunt that covered Mistone, Krashin, and the Dragon Isles, I returned home tired but for the first time not wracked with the pain of chemical need and also sporting a lovey pair of boots from our challenger, as a gift for surviving. I intend then to continue this course for a while, to get me past this - I sincerely hope to run with the Battle Sisters soon and sing you to your own victories.
On the subject of our near miss that night, I can honestly say I'm glad it didn't happen. I don't pretend to know what Muse has in store for us, and if something does become tangible between us I will not hesitate should we be in agreement. But neither of us were prepared to deal with that kind of aftermath on top of everything else. As you say, undistraught and sober should be our mantra.
On that, I am learning something of Love, the Love that is more core to our Lady than my infantile understanding of past. Things that cause such fierce reaction create a desire for that reaction. In someone who lives for sensation, such as I do, that's not a good thing. I did not love - I chased the feeling of love, new love. Perhaps infatuation is a better word; love's blind perfection, before reality starts knocking chunks out of the pedestal. But with the friends I've made - I confess, I had but two female friends before moving to Mistone, and one of them is my mother - I'm gaining an understanding. Friends like you, and Jaelle, and Alazira. And that flush that I feel with my lover is settling from a wave of emotion to a heartfelt glow, that still crests but day-to-day is calmer. And I enjoy it. For me right now, the day-to-day truth inside the larger whole is enough.
Until next we meet then, my friend.
Yours in the Muse
Andrew Reid
-
To:
Keppli Quickhands
Care of Ben Poetr
181 Haven
Haven
Kingdom of Brelin
Mistone
Keppli;
I have written a halfling "march to battle" tune. I hope you enjoy it, and I will gladly sing it for you when next we travel together. It's meant to be fun, and raise a smile even in the most dire of circumstances, so don't take it too seriously.
Without further ado: I Fight For Pie
Evil at each twist and turn
Foes to take what we have earned
And so for battle I march stern...
Because I fight for pie!
I fight for pie!
I fight for pie!
I fight for pie, because there is no better ally
You might think it flighty
You might think it trite
But for most things stressful in this world
A pie can make it right –
I fight for pie!
I fight for pie!
I fight for pie and yes I know the reason why!
Hostility is off the chart
Civility seems a dying art
But a slice with tea sets us apart!
That’s why I fight for pie!
Brutes, bandits and hordes we’ll beat
We’ll secure our homes for safe retreat
A comfy place for us to eat
Another slice of pie!
I fight for pie!
If you enjoy it, please send me a translation to:
Andrew Reid
Twin Dragons Inn
137 Leringard
Leringard
Kingdom of Trelania
Mistone
Until you save my ruggedly handsome rear end from certain death again,
Andrew Reid
-
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
-
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
-
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
-
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
-
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
-
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
-
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
-
*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
-
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
-
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
-
*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
-
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
-
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
-
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
-
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
-
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
-
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*
-
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
-
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 (http://forums.layonara.com/1099432-post10.html)
-
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
-
To:
Margaret Reid
2 Clay Ward
Huangjin
Tilmar
Wedlar, Augra 18, 1463; afternoon
Hello Mother. I write this from a berth on the Jakzonvilet heading toward Hurm. I mentioned to you before that I was going to learn to sail; well, this is it. I will be keeping this letter in a journal format as I can't send it from the ship, so please forgive the length.
Let me back up. I am learning to sail. Why? Because a friend asked me to. He thought it would make me more useful. And so it will, if I survive. I also got the feeling, after several dreams, that it is time to look for Grandmother Rose's Bella. How I am to find her I have no idea. I trust in our Muse and as my friend Emwonk says...flow.
And so I'd been keeping an eye out for a ship looking for crew and while around Fort Vehl on other business, I saw a flier stating the Jaksonvilet was hiring and training. In hindsight I should have wondered about that. Most of the ship folk I've met are for all intents and purposes illiterate and perhaps that should have tipped me off that the captain wanted something more in her crew that the usual warm bodies; she certainly expects at least some of us to be able to read as I saw no one crying the contents.
I signed up. I am Jimmy Fishhawk for this trip, a young man with shorter brown hair (cutting it wasn't nearly as traumatic as I thought it would be - in fact, I rather like it shoulder length and probably won't grow it much longer again - but the brown dye and I disagree) and tattoos of predatory birds on my face. It's a simple disguise but it seems to have worked so far. It's still amazing to me what an accent and a slouch will accomplish.
The interview itself was brief; name, what sailing experience do you have, can you take orders, strip to the waist. Oh yes - no women allowed on board (more on that later). I was hired on as were a number of others, forming as motley a band of recruits as I've seen gathered. Oddly enough most of the recruits know Andrew. As this journal might get lengthy I'll write them down so we can both keep them straight.
Kurn is a dwarven mercenary whose hygiene is painfully non-existent but he knows his shiphandling. I would blame him for my falling off the wagon as I have (sorry Mother), but since he is not the one wrapping my hand around the bottle right now I really can't. Nonac is a goblin I have traveled with a few times before. He's clever and more intelligent than most of his kind, which makes him...still pretty unpleasant. Rockhead Howling Wolf I like a great deal and he's a good soul. He's also a dwarven bard, sadly a difficult thing to find. I'm glad he's along even if I'm just Jimmy to him - and he took the cook's position which is a blessing as the man can really sing his way around a kitchen. Jay I know and am less comfortable with than I used to be. He's a mercenary through and through and is now sporting one less eye than before. And for some reason when I tried in the past to bless him with a protection spell from Ilsare, it didn't work. It simply would not stick to him. I haven't tried it since. There is also Nihaer, a dark elf who is not of Aunlyn's (do you remember me telling you about him?) ilk at all. I get the sense that he'd be as comfortable in the Deep as he seems to be on the surface. I don't trust him and I have avoided him so far, although I do remember running a "gauntlet" for him some years ago. I don't think he recognizes me.
And finally, Will Black. He seemed as out of place in his own way as I did, speaking loud and swaggering. I thought it was because he's not that tall and built slim. Until I heard his Tilmarian accent, which lead me to ask where he was from. And as I listened to his answer something struck me...the vocalization, the inflection, the way he deepens his voice when he speaks. I watched Will closely after that and became sure of it. He's not a he. He's a she. The sway is there, and the way a woman's arms bend around their chests automatically where a man would use a straight arm because he has nothing for it to bounce off of. The way she stands, shifting hip to hip, when her mind is occupied and she's not concentrating on being Will.
She's a better actor than most; she must be to have bluffed her way past taking her shirt off during the interview. I hope to Muse we both live so we can discuss this as I'd love to hear her story. I tried to tell her I knew and that I would not turn her in but I'm not sure she understood. It's not like I can say it aloud. But that puts me in a quandary far worse than if I'd not heard what I heard and saw what I saw in her. I cannot watch a woman hurt, Mother. I cannot. I stand behind and let them go ahead. I give up my seat. I spread my cloak, I open doors. And she is a woman. How do I overcome three decades of my own conditioning? This is going to be a very long trip.
I digress. There was one applicant who was not hired, the wife of a Rofireinite cleric I know, and I don't know what she was thinking. Daniel (her husband) was not going to be happy to see his lady sailing off with a ship full of mercenaries and no Rofireinites (or Toranites -- both were specified on the flier) allowed, even if women were allowed to apply. She was refused, of course. I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall when she explained to Dan what she was doing; especially as I was at the wedding and one of her vows was to OBEY him. I imagine the implications of those vows might be sinking in by now.
I took the time allowed before we sailed to speak to friend who has been laid up with an illness. I'll divert here to say that I have become accustomed to this woman's determination, vitriolic or not, and to see her sitting with her arms bandaged, trapped in a Rofireinite temple with only law books to read, upset me. I offered her a sheaf of my writings to read, bits of this and that - poems, songs. Also unfortunately an erotic dream I had about a woman I love but can't have that will doubtless bring some questions later but by the time I remembered that I'd left that in the stack, she already had it. The Rofireinites are burning everything she touches when she'd done with it and I would not have been allowed to take it back at any rate. I wasn't even allowed in the room. So I hope she will keep that secret, if only to not embarrass a lady whose friendship I would be lost without. And I must be worried to have written all that out.
Bunk time is over. Perhaps I should have slept?
-
Wedlar, Augra 18, 1463; evening
We're underway. It hasn't been what I expected so far. At no point until after we pulled anchor did we see the captain; we only dealt with First Mate Harris and Master at Arms Jericho who was half orc I believe which would make him rather old. Not that it had any effect on his function as an enforcer. The crew quite clearly feared him.
Once aboard we were sent to stations immediately and began to leave port. We were expected to keep up with whomever we were working with and I'm sorry to say the orders came hard and fast in terminology I did not fully understand and I failed more often than not which earned me snarls, sneers, and the occasional kick from the man I was teamed with, George. Kurn took to this ship like a flea to a dog and was made full crew before we'd been out for a day. And he gave himself a nice promotion not long after -- keep reading for that account.
The crew is spread out doing whatever is at hand. If it is not your turn in a bunk or time for a meal you are on deck handling sails, keeping watch, oiling anything that can rust, mending canvas and ropes...there is always something to do. I am up in the mizzen mast learning how the ropes control the sails and how to adjust them. It is very intricate and interconnected, each rope affecting the others. I find myself likening it to an instrument which makes the work more interesting to me. I am paired with Fred now, as George -- well, let me tell that story.
George was not a patient man. His communication with me was restricted to barking out orders and glaring at me when I didn't know what I was supposed to be doing. His patience reached an end when I tied a rope off in the wrong location and he lashed out with his foot -- this earned him a warning from the First Mate. The second time a rope slipped through my hands (which I have taken to wrapping and the burns are going to be days healing) he kicked me in the shin, and was ordered out of the rigging by the First Mate. Jericho was waiting.
I remember how quiet everyone became. Singing stopped. Conversation stopped. Work did not stop, work never stops, but we all watched. The only accompaniment to the tableau was the wind and the sea, Mist's own serenade to death.
Jericho punched George flat. He began to stomp on him. The orc enjoyed it -- you could see it on his face -- but he was methodical, working up and down George's body with a controlled boot, until the man was unconscious and bleeding. The First Mate called him off after some time and George was left there to stain the deck. Rocky, Will and I all offered to heal him and were informed that we'd be joining George if we tried to aid in any way. We were then told that anyone fighting without specific instructions to do so would also feel Jericho's loving touch.
The mood was understandably subdued after that, although at some point I sang one of the songs I learned from fellow bard Lyle Underroot, titled "Sixty Men at Sea". There wasn't anything else to do. There was no way to heal the injured man; he lay only a few steps away from Jericho. So we worked until afternoon when the captain came on deck.
She strode out and the quiet chatter between sailors stopped cold. I had asked Fred about our captain earlier and his response was hushed and fearful; I found out why. Jericho came down from his station and picked George up, shaking him, demanding he get back to work. George remained unconscious. It was possible he was dead at this point. I pray to the Muse he was, after what happened next.
"Time to take out the trash". The captain's voice is not strongly accented, very clear, very practical. Not as cold as you'd expect. But at her command Jericho took George's ragdoll body to the side of the ship and dumped him in the ocean. I felt sick and still do -- you see why I had hoped he was already past our mortal coil. Drowning is a horrible way to die.
The captain joined the First Mate by the wheel. I was above them and took time to sense her Al'Noth. She did radiate magic, although it could have been from items she was wearing; I will have to attempt to differentiate further on that. She stayed a while to watch the crew, had Kurn made a full crewman, ordered the First Mate to send one person to her quarters for dinner, and left. And just my luck, he chose me to clean up and meet our captain. I didn't even know her name yet. In fact, I still don't; she's just The Captain.
I rinsed off the salt and sweat, threw on the one decent outfit I packed, and reported to her cabin. I don't mind saying I was nervous. She was wearing a high-collared, long-sleeved dusty rose dress which threw me; such a prim and gentle garment to wrap around a core of ice. I was pondering that when she ushered me to some comfortable cushions and began to question me. I kept my Jimmy hat on until she called my bluff and asked me who I really was, and Mother, how do you answer that? I sat back, eyed her calmly, while inside I was asking myself: now what?
I opted for a partial truth. I had said Jimmy was from Creedo, and decided to admit I was instead from the Telish Throne although I did not say where. I spoke more like myself (and all those "nosirs" and "yesma'ams" were starting to stick in my throat anyway) but I continued to insist I was only here to learn to sail, and why not? It's the truth -- part of it. She asked why I did not sign on to any other vessel, why this one, a question I have asked myself more than once today. But again the truth -- the other vessels want seamen already trained. She is willing to give that training and overlook a man who does not know his fore from his aft. She asked if I was willing to take orders; well, yes, I've been doing that since I came aboard and have not yet been given Jericho's unique stamp of disapproval.
She gave me an appraising look and ordered me to go above deck and start a fight. I should not have vocalized that last part about Jericho. Really, I shouldn't have.
All the way up all I could think was how quickly can I be made to die? I didn't want to drown. I don't want to drown. I never want to drown. Who can kill me the fastest? When I reached the deck things got quiet and I must have looked like a dead man walking. I looked around and selected Jay, thinking he'd be the right person to finish me before Jericho turned me into a welcome mat. I walked over to him and punched him. Just like that. For future reference, his jaw is pretty hard. I asked him under my breath to kill me and quickly; at his surprise I could only say "Captain's orders".
Then I heard whispering behind me, Will urging me to hit her. I spun around and wanted her out of the fight, away from all this -- had she been able to be whomever she really is, maybe. But if she's outed as a female she'll be thrown overboard and in a fight her chances of discovery are greatly increased. I mean, hips! Chest! So I leg-swept her, and rather well as she went spinning across the deck on her backside. I whipped around to Jay and threw another punch. He just stared at me (not a ringing endorsement of my hand to hand skills) and moved down the rail while my heart sank. I stopped, and was ordered to keep fighting and to fight until one of us was dead. Well, that was the idea was all I could think. But then I heard Will whisper yet again -- "trust me". Trust her...hit her?
I spun around and met one of her blows which I am sure was intended to hit lightly but at that moment Nonac interjected himself and took out my knees. I have not mentioned the recruit's tour of the ship when he decided to climb up my back and ride me as a mount which resulted in me slamming myself into the bulkhead until he dropped off like an engorged tick; add the knee incident and I owe that little green rat a little special attention at some point. Because of his kick Will's punch caught me full in the face. She really packs a hit. The entire right side of my jaw is swollen.
It was then that I finally understood what she wanted to do and with her bluffing skills and my performing skills I thought we could pull it off. Nonac had moved back so I swung at her and we commenced to a full-out brawl, whaling back and forth until I straddled her and "beat" her into the deck. I did not enjoy it. Even pulling punches I left marks, and the entire act made my skin crawl. I have no idea how long we played at fighting until she lay still and I staggered away, more exhausted than hurt. I waited for Jericho's boot, his meaty hand on my neck, but instead he moved toward Will and the more experienced crewmen turned back to whatever they'd been doing. It's the loser that suffers when a fight is sanctioned, I found out. But, he'd shaken George and if he shook her I knew she would wake.
The First Mate ordered me back to the Captain's quarters yet I could only stand there, unsure what to do to help Will. Rocky had come up on deck by now and in a sotto voice he told me to go, do as I was told, which lead me to believe he had a plan; and so I started to head below decks and I heard him casting and distracting Jericho with some patter. Step by step my feet slowed though as it sounded as if things were not going well and I heard Will protesting something.
I couldn't walk away. I never can. I turned and ran back up to find Will trying to fight Jericho. He had dumped her by the rail and ordered her to jump off the ship, she was standing her ground, and at this point everything went to hell. Nonac had set a rope trap that damaged Jerhicho, Kurn was moving toward him, Will was trying to punch him...I thought we'd have a full-blown mutiny on our hands and so I sang every spell onto Will that I could, focused on giving her the advantage. I was going to spell Kurn next -- he was standing behind Will -- but he didn't need it. He sauntered the few feet to Jericho (have you ever seen a dwarf saunter? Really, it's a sight) and picked him up -- I cannot stress enough how impressive that was, given the height difference -- and walked him over to the rail. Most of the recruits, and some of the crew I think, were yelling for Kurn to toss him overboard. First Mate Harris was trying to holler over the din for Kurn to stop but the moment for reason was long gone and into the ocean Jericho went. At least he was conscious -- he can try to swim, unlike George. I did check the sides of the ship in case he tried to climb back on.
Kurn then informed the First Mate that he, Kurn, was the new Master at Arms and began to bark orders to the crew. Harris seemed to accept this. Will dusted herself off and got back to work. I once again went below decks to the captain, limping on kicked knees and rubbing a sore jaw. She seemed a little surprised that I was not more badly damaged. She also made note to me that life at sea is tough -- this is the way it is. I informed her that she had a new Master at Arms and her only response was pity, Jericho was very effective. A core of ice, indeed. We didn't have time to complete our talk as some business came up that she's attending to so I sit in my berth and write while waiting to be summoned.
Life at sea is hard, yes. But I've sailed many, many times as a passenger and volunteered to help on other ships (peeling vegetables and scrubbing decks, true, but -) and I can tell you that she's full of ox poo. By and large the ships that I've been on have had harsh discipline but not discipline that involves sanctioned fights to the death, or throwing men overboard for minor infractions. There is discipline and there is blood sport. I know which this ship favors. There is --
I'm summoned. Time to hide this and put Jimmy back on.
-
The Ritual
His skin hurt. He felt like a hank of salt pork. Ocean spray coated him -- the wash bucket had been used so many times that rinsing with it was pointless, now. The berth room was filling with deckhands off rotation. He set a cup in an empty bunk and dug from his pack a mahogany box not much larger than his hand, instead of joining them in sleep.
A few of the crew glanced over as he sat in the corner of the room opposite the former Master at Arms' hell chamber. The box lid opened with a brush of his thumb and he took out a small four-footed bowl, checking for cracks. The underside was stamped REID POTTERY. He smiled; one of the few pieces he'd made, ever tried to make well, and the green crackle-glazed bowl had turned out very sturdy. He hadn't had to replace it yet.
The cup of ocean water he'd wedged between the bunk's mattress and frame was taken up and poured into the bowl. He sat cross-legged, his back to the corner, and lifted from the box a glass phial of oil; three drops on the surface of the water, not an exact count but rather the smallest amount he could use. The oil was clear and he could only see it by the reflection of the dim lamplight. The phial was snugged back into the box and a vial pried out, containing a pouch.
His face shifted as he uncorked the vial and pulled out the pouch. His innocent smile faded, his blank gaze became reflective. A wrinkle between his thick eyebrows formed a shadowy dividing line. He was still looking at the pouch when a voice next to him made him jerk and nearly drop the little bag.
"What're you doing?"
From the bunk nearest him; not a man he'd met, but one he'd seen doing wood repair on deck. He started to speak and let out a breath instead, remembering Jimmy at the last minute. "Somethin' my da taught me, respectin' my ancestors. Prayin' for good weather."
The crewman grunted. "Praying to the wrong one, kid. Try asking Lady Doom." The man rolled to face the wall, conversation over, and inside a minute his eyes were closed and his breathing even.
Pouch in hand, he waited. The room was a cacophony of sleeping breath, half-muttered dreams, snoring. He counted sixty heartbeats, sixty exactly, and then untwisted the wire holding the bag shut and took a pinch of the dust inside. He rolled forefinger and thumb together over the oil floating in the bowl; the greasy rainbow turned ash grey. He wiped clean and rinsed his fingers and re-packed the pouch.
The last thing out of the box was a white candle stub. A flint and tinder lay in the box as well but he stood to light the candle from the oil lamp. Resuming his cross-legged position, he sat for a few breaths with his eyes closed. His forehead and jaw relaxed. Then he opened his eyes and touched the burning wick to the oil.
A blue flame sputtered, low and bright. He leaned across the bowl, arms folded around his torso, and began to sing as softly as he could.
Andrew, Andrew, sweep the floors
Glaze the pots and do your chores
Andrew, Andrew, do these things
And you can make our Bella sing.
Andrew, Andrew, come with me
Time to learn a melody
Andrew, Andrew, tall and thin
Let's go play some violin
It was a song his grandmother had sung to him from the first day she'd shown him how to hold the rosewood-inlaid violin under his small chin, how to grasp the bow, where his fingers went on the neck. Their little deal; he would obey his parents (mostly) and she would spirit him away a few times a week and teach him the secrets of the sound he so coveted. "So you won't beg me to play every day!" she would laugh, but they both knew it was more. He looked at the pouch and felt the frightening hollowness again, for a moment as much as when he'd first heard his mother's always-calm voice telling him that the fever had taken his grandparents. Their deal; he hadn't bothered to keep it after she died.
He shook himself. The blue flame was gone, the ashes now floating in the berth's salty air. No one had woken. He stood and took the bowl to a porthole, returning the water to the sea. The box was carefully packed and returned to his duffle, and only then did he curl up on the too short, always too short bunk.
His thoughts were like logs floating down a lazy stream, bumping and jostling and rolling. He meant to ponder the captain and the ship and what he'd learned but instead his mind wandered to the tall red haired woman standing at the gate to his father's yard, playing her violin and singing...
He began to dream.
-
The Dream
...he is bumping into something, his body rocking in a steady back-and-forth. His eyes feel crusted shut and he tries to shake his head in the water to clear them...water, so much water...the gluey lids peel open and he looks up the side of the ship and is suddenly so cold he can't feel his limbs. His entire being is his sight - just sight. There is no sound but for the slapping waves that form a rhythm against the wooden sides of the ship and this panics him, forces him to listen for any other sound but then he begins to sink...
The captain is there. She stands on the deck with her arms crossed over the railing, one booted foot resting on the lower lip, leaning over to watch him. She should be so much farther away...but she is right there, her hair drifting from her hood...what color is it? He can't see the color -- he can't see any color.
She is saying something. Her lips move, and he bobs up with a wave, close enough to reach for her, grab at her, pull himself up, but his arms won't rise. He can't feel them at all, only the knowledge that they must be there because...because...humans have arms? What is she saying?
Her hand comes from behind her back and she's holding something. Wasn't it just on the railing? He can see the feminine shape of the instrument, knows immediately what it is. Who it is. He hears singing and the waves are percussion; Andrew, Andrew, tall and thin...he wants, wants that violin. Trying to breathe he feels cold water rushing into his sight so he stops, focusing solely on raising his arm. He feels the right one move up, longer than it should be and barely under his control but there, and then the wave recedes and the captain becomes a dot miles above him. He panics again, the cold water filling him and he wants to cough but can't find his mouth.
Then he's bobbing up and he reaches this time. His arm is a block of wood, unbelievably dense. What's dense? Hickory is dense. His sight snaps back to see the captain just feet away and he tries to lunge; his movements are painfully slow.. He forces himself forward in pure desperation -- Kurn turns to him -- where did he come from -- and barks for him to get back into the sails, this ain't no pleasure cruise!
He tries to grab the railing as the wave's crest drops, manages to snag the lower lip of the deck by her boot tip. He is holding on, wondering where the rest of his body went to, when she lowers the violin to him. What do I hold it with? He tries to look up but can't now -- all he can see is her foot, and Bella.
He makes his decision. He lets go of the deck and grabs for Bella, feeling the instrument in his hand for one brief moment. The flare of triumph makes him shiver, moreso for the sudden crushing realization, following immediately on the heels of that joy, that he's falling...
"GIT OUT OF BED YOU LAGGARDS!! Ya want beauty sleep ya can do it with the fishes! Cookie says grub is up an' I say yer bunk time's over!"
His eyes snap open and he's disoriented, still moving back and forth as the ship rocks. The other men are groaning and getting out of their bunks and he does too, but not before he looks down to see his right hand clasped tight around thin air...
-
Threas, Augra 19, 1463; evening
Hello Mother.
I'm lying in a berth, staring at the slats of the bunk above me -- or I was before I started this letter. Our rest rotation is four on, four off, and I've slept hardly any of it. I can honestly say I'm as exhausted as I've ever been.
Above me, tied to the main mast, is a woman named Will Black. I'm sure that's not her real name. I have not had opportunity to ask. Tonight I will take the beautiful adamantium rapier made for me by a friend; he christened it Muse's Sting; and stand guard over her to prevent the rumors I heard regarding her chastity and intent to separate her from it from coming true. No one takes what isn't freely given from a lady.
And yet I'm not going to release her.
Muse, this is a long story. Now that the cliffhanger is out of the way, here is what has happened.
I was called back to the captain's quarters after my last journal entry. She once again gestured for me to take the cushions. She seemed satisfied -- not pleased -- that I followed her orders regarding starting a fight and we exchanged tense chitchat, her asking where I've sailed and such. From all I could tell she is as straightforward as they come -- atrocities to the crew aside. Something niggled my brain, take a chance, trust...
I did not give my real name as that much of a precaution seemed prudent but I told her my other reason for being on the Jakzonvilet. About the GinnyRunner. About Bella and my loss of her aboard said ship years ago. She listened and was dismissive of the theft of a mere instrument until I spoke of that thing, that one thing so many of us have and can't bear to part with, be it a necklace, a book, a sword...a ship. At that she grew quiet, and then she said that which brought the hope I carry with me now; "We'll find your pirate ship and send it to the bottom of the sea."
I took the steps back up to the deck three at a time and nearly flew into the rigging on the wings of said hope. Things were looking up if only I could avoid doing something stupid, a not inconsiderable request of myself. I have slacked off on drinking and continue to do so not out of a desire to be sober but out of the necessity of a clear head and now was doubly determined to not waste this chance to find my Bella.
And the best laid plans, as they say. The captain came on deck and ordered a course change toward Hempstead as we were "going hunting". Again that champagne sensation in my throat -- we'll find her! Until she took one look at Will (who was bent to some task or another) and bellowed "What are you doing on my ship?!"
How do you women know each other like that? It's spooky. I spend a lot more time looking at women than I presume any woman does, and with a much more detailed eye shall we say, and still Will could have fooled me if it weren't for her voice.
She closed on Will and I cast about desperately for something, anything to help. Kurn was ordered to tie her to the mast. Rocky was in the galley I believe but came on deck shortly after, Nonac was cackling something, Jay watched in that disinterested way he does. I was looking around as the captain said, firmly, that no one was to touch Will and that she was not to be killed but rather left at the next port. Will took the idea of being tied poorly and put up resistance until Kurn gave her an ultimatum regarding her propulsion to the mast; wisely, she opted to use her own feet. It was then that my eyes ran over First Mate Harris Ja'ron. The man who conducted the interviews.
I remember yelling, really letting my voice carry. I remember telling the captain that if it was anyone's fault, it was his, because it was his job to screen the applicants. He must have been looking daggers at me but I didn't notice intent as I was on helping Will. I said that if Will can't read (and I don't know if she can or cannot, but the introduction of doubt is enough) and if he never told her about the restriction then how would she know she wasn't allowed? Why didn't he strip her as he did the rest of us?
The captain did not change her stance on Will despite my efforts and I actually saw Will trying to chew through the ropes in red-faced frustration. Honestly that feistiness is rather attractive. And saying that to her will likely get my kneecaps broken so let's keep it between us? But the captain did call down the First Mate and after a few disappointed words she cut off his left hand. Which Nonac promptly started eating. I think "vile" isn't nearly strong enough a term...
The captain ordered Will left completely alone, ordered me to see that the First Mate did not die, and returned to her cabin. I tended to Harris but could not tear my eyes from Will. If I untied her, I'd lose my chance to find Bella. I kept to my work and tried to console myself that she was at least safe until we docked somewhere.
It was up in the mizzen mast, sailing toward Port Hempstead, that Fred started talking. He was bitter, saying that at least two more hands would be lost because of her -- Will. Well, if they touch her, yes. He said that they were going to "do her" and did I want in? Muse, no. I knew then that she'd need a guard and volunteered myself to Kurn and the First Mate. Harris despite his seething anger agreed that I could guard Will and that was that so I thought. But back in the ropes Fred kept talking. About the captain and her father and how things were before he died. About how there used to be wenches on board, including the captain when she was a youth merely in charge of ship supplies.
About how they treated those women and the women and children that they captured in the line of whatever "duty" they thought they were performing. Rape, with no indication that they discriminated between women and children in that act. Followed by slaughter so there would be "fewer mouths to feed" and they would not be inconvenienced by having to make port to drop off prisoners.
My initial reaction was revulsion just as it is now. But I started thinking and still am. A young girl, raised with that horrific suffering, watching children her age or younger destroyed under the orders of her own father; and one can imagine at the same time that young future captain was also aware that her own skin was safe only so long as her father provided her protection. I presume, again -- for all I know the captain was subjected to the whims of any man on board although some part of me doubts it.
It would make a woman hard, inside. But it would explain much. It would explain George, and Jericho. The discipline. The fear these men have of her and why her crew keeps atrophying. I find myself thinking that our captain and I might have a common thread, perhaps a common morality. It feeds my hope as well.
And still Will remains above me, unable to even wipe the salty ocean spray from her face, while I contort on this mattress. But I won't release her. I'm not at peace, not by a long shot, but I know what I'm willing to do for even a chance at recovering that violin.
I won't go to sleep though. I don't want to dream anymore.
-
Threas, Augra 26, 1463; evening
Forgive the handwriting, Mother, we're in a storm and the ship is a pendulum right now. Also we're very shorthanded which I will explain shortly. We've tied down the sails and are riding out the storm in a cove along the coast of Mistone -- it's all crosswinds out there, the Lady of Storms is having a very bad day. We'd end up going nowhere and so we wait.
I have re-read my last entry. Was it a week ago already? Well, here is the finale, if you will. At least I pray to the Muse that it is. Enough blood has been shed -- deserved or not.
Last I wrote I was in my bunk reminding myself over and over that I wanted Bella more than I wanted to spend the rest of the journey tied to a mast. Evening came and I forced myself out of bed to stand guard over Will; she was understandably not thrilled to see me. By now I felt my intuition was right and the captain was not our enemy, but Will is young and fiercely independent and did not see things my way. I tried to explain as we stood there, her resting in her ropes and me swaying on my feet from lack of sleep, but she wasn't hearing it. So be it.
I took note of the number of crewmen who were speaking with Fred and requested that Rocky and Nonac (who stays in the crow's nest anyway) sleep on deck should I need help. Tyra's mocking came back to me as I stood there facing bloodthirsty and morally bankrupt men, the only thing between them and a bound woman being my voice and my rapier. Sometimes as much as I hate, really hate, to admit it -- she's right.
And so I asked Jay to stay close as well, bribing him with an excellent bottle of Silver Buckle, which he drained and then promptly went to sleep. Don't bribe with booze is my new motto. He disappeared later and I heard he was rolled into the bunkroom by a crewman.
Rocky and I sang our spells, Nonac prayed to his wolf totem, I brandished Muse's Sting, and we waited. And waited. And waited. The crewmen we were facing down shuffled below deck eventually and we stood there, guarding Will, jumping at every noise and foot tread (or at least I did).
During this time I talked to Will and negotiated her release in exchange for her going back in place after any attack was thwarted. She agreed too readily but I knew that she needed to be free to protect herself as well. Rocky had cut her bonds before then anyway and she was armed and ready to go, remaining against the mast so that the First Mate would not suspect. And still we waited.
It was not until shortly before dawn that we heard yelling and fighting from below deck and suddenly, with an almost audible snap, the picture came together. I remember my panic and telling Will, Rocky, and Nonac to COME ON and running for the staircase, knowing with icy certainty that it was not Will Fred had been discussing. It was the captain. I believe I said as much, although my exact words I can't remember. I ran as fast as these legs will go which it turns out is pretty fast under the circumstances, stopping only to sing my veil magic so we could approach unseen.
Fred and another crewman were in her cabin demanding the ship. They had no desire for surrender. The captain had one loyal guard acting as a shield, the other dead at his feet, and it was a standoff but with all the dark looks and muttering I'd seen I was sure Fred would call more men.
Invisible, I prepared to slit one throat and motioned for Will to do the same on Fred. And no, I felt no mercy, no pity, no remorse. I still don't. Of course at that moment Kurn came in and for a heartbeat I thought it would end there and we'd continue our hunt. Muse smite me for a fool. Kurn was in with the mutineers.
From here things are a blur and I'm not blessed with a script-perfect memory so I'll recount as best I can. I did not slit any throats; Nonac entered and decided to attack a random crewman, the only reason being he wanted to fight someone. Muse was watching over us in that it happened to be the man whose pulsing neck my rapier was poised over which spared me cold-blooded murder and eliminated one enemy as well. Kurn was hollering at him "WE'RE ON THEIR SIDE YOU IDIOT" which seemed to confuse Nonac. At some point I became visible which made Will visible as well.
Heated discussion ensued, mostly because I was trying to avert the mutiny and protect the captain. Fred lied his leathery behind off trying to sway Kurn, and I told them what Fred had told me about the women and children, about the old captain and about why I think this captain is doing what she's doing. She mentioned eliminating the original crew, one by one; Kurn and Will were ready to cut her down until I reminded them that we are not original crew. Although I wonder here -- as much as I felt Emilia was not wrong, her methods...seem almost Ca'Duz. She actively solicited crewmembers of questionable repute and subjected them to the routine I've described which makes me wonder if her lines had blurred over time. Yet the side of right was clear enough that I still have no regrets; read on.
The captain (and here I will start using her name, Emilia) was angry enough to not be of much help but then, it's her ship. Kurn wanted said ship, was willing to drop her off at the next port alive; Will was siding with the mutineers out of pure anger until my voice got through with what those men had done. I ended up suggesting a duel between Kurn and Emilia for the Jakzonvilet as I'm sure the woman could hold her own against him. It seemed the only way (to me) to end this.
Kurn was enthusiastic about the idea but Emilia was not nor was she giving up her vessel. By now Jay had wandered in wanting to get paid; Nonac waited with the mutineers as it offered more bloody gobbits for his belly; Rocky I'm not sure about although I heard him near. Will seemed to be wavering as the discussion raged. I walked to stand next to Emilia's guard and set myself fully in allegiance with her. And then Will stepped forward and suggested that which I don't know I could have thought of but which satisfied all involved -- except Fred.
She suggested that we kill the original crew, which is what Emilia was doing anyway. Emilia's method of extracting vengeance was slower but more satisfying to her, I suppose; Will said we'd just kill them all and be done. In exchange, Kurn would become First Mate and Will would stay aboard and move freely, and none of us would be hurt.
Well, the offer of sanctioned slaughter peaked Kurn and Nonac's interest and they decided it was a fair deal. Fred was executed on the spot and Emilia agreed and asked we finish the rest above deck. I went up, determined that if this was the answer I would not shirk from blood on my hands, but the remaining crewmen whose death warrant had just been signed didn't line up like schoolchildren as you can imagine. They rushed us on the deck and a full out fight ensued. I was singing and trying to undo my peace tie which had become knotted when a crewman caught me across the side with his blade. From then until I felt Emilia's prayer calling me back to my body I know nothing but that the remaining original crew left a stream of blood across the deck that this storm might not even erase. Emilia allowed Harris to jump, giving him the option to swim out of some respect for the man's loyalty. Not that he's going to go far with one hand. He seemed grateful for this much mercy however and leapt into the ocean without further prompting.
The last man Kurn had earlier strung out on a line to clean barnacles off the moving ship because the man would not stop harassing Will; Nonac, in his gravelly squeak, mentioned we forgot one and cut the line. And that ended the mutiny.
Food for thought: I saw Emilia's holy symbol. A silver orca. She is a priestess of Shindelaria, Mother. I was and am stunned by this...but as Emilia told me, the sea is a dangerous place. And she is an orca, not a shark with only an appetite but a protector in her own way.
She agreed to drop us off next port but asked Kurn to stay on as First Mate which he agreed to. They have some odd understanding, those two. The attempted mutiny and Kurn's place in it seems set aside. She mentioned retiring as we stood there. I asked, begged her to do one more job -- the GinnyRunner. I could feel Bella slipping from my hands until she mentioned recognizing the name and checking her logs. And Muse bless me the Jakzonvilet had already come across the GinnyRunner a few years ago, burned and sunk her. They had looted before they burned and Emilia offered to let me look at the plunder.
It was all in a chest near her cabin, piled; silverware and goblets, plates and some weapons, two mandolins, a guitar, some pan pipes (one crewman did fancy himself a bard, remember) and at the bottom in a layer of dirty neglect...Bella.
My inscription is still on her back. "Andy Reid, Entertanur". I didn't cry then, seeing her intact after all this time, feeling the wood in my hands that always brings Grandmother Rose's soft voice to my ears...but I did cry later when everyone else was asleep. I'm still in awe. I touch Bella as if she was a woman I love and in a way she is.
I haven't played her yet but to check her strings. The now-dead savage that ravaged her broke several and one of the pegs as well. I will clean the grease and dirt from her, replace the strings with better, and I am going to commission some engraved silver pegs; she'll be a regal beauty when she's fixed up.
Is it a good or a bad thing that I'm not putting myself through emotional turmoil over what I was party to? I'm not even tempted to drink to excess, or at least not to escape some crushing guilt. Perhaps it's the quiet way Emilia thanked me for standing with her. Perhaps it's having Bella back. Perhaps it's finding depths in myself that I didn't know about; perhaps I'm just a bastard. I don't know and when I hold my violin, I don't care.
We'll be docking in Port Hempstead soon. I'm all over the ship as we're down to a (pardon the pun) skeleton crew. The experience has me confident I can be a sailor on a tall ship again and my benefactor has a job for me already so -- expect more ship antics from your boy soon.
I have much more to tell you , about Minu, about our dog (We have a dog! He's a Rottweiler and we've named him Tiger), and --
Dinner is ready. Rocky made biscuits. I'll write again soon.
Your loving son,
Andrew
-
To:
Margaret Reid
2 Clay Ward
Huangjin
Tilmar
Iracce, my first Muse!
Thank you for the gently scolding letter; yes, you raised a very reckless child. And yes, it's really Bella. I've finished her repairs and we've spent a lot of time getting to know each other again. I had taken her for granted for most of my life, mother, knowing that I could cover for any hangovers or bad playing on my part with her beautiful sound. Now, having not played her in eight years, I know I won't do that again. It's love, redux - how did I ever manage without her?
I've been on hiatus from touring and jobs, spending my time writing and playing Bella for my own pleasure and acquiring a menagerie that has our animal tender here at the Inn ready to skin me. You remember Ribeye, my ox, and I mentioned Tiger in my last letter. Muse, has it been a year? I got him coming back from a trip when a group of us stumbled on a man, very recently deceased, who had been walking four pups. Everything pointed to expiration from a poor heart or age, no foul play; we carried the body and the dogs into Fort Wayfare to the guards. Several members of our group took pups to adopt and Tiger was left, a strapping Rottweiler. I took to him; he's big and stupidly male and friendly, just like me. Minu loved him at first sight so we arranged a "joint custody" deal, and we take turns watching him when we're not together. Oh, and Merlin - that's Tyrian's big watchdog - helps as well. At first I thought he'd just eat Tiger but the pup won him over and now they're buddies.
We named him coming back to Leringard. He was a delightful terror on the ship, chasing the ship's cat and the rats, rolling on his back for tummy scratches at the slightest hint of attention, and running headlong into things out of sheer doggie curiousity. I found myself saying, over and over, "Whoa tiger!" and well, it kind of stuck. So: Tiger. He's almost to my knees now when he stands and so barrel-chested strong he can pull me over when I walk him, and his coat is a dark brown and black brindle. He's a handsome fellow and quite handy with the ladies! So you see why I like him.
My newest addition is Sonata, a white mare I bought in Orc's Watch. A horse! I have a horse! I remember watching the coaches and the royalty on their steeds during parades and events, usually from father's shoulders, and thinking how very amazing and impossible it would be to have one. It took nearly every single True I had to buy her - I have one-hundred and thirty-three True to my name right now - but she's worth every one. To mount her is, weeks later, still a thrill and I don't see it wearing off anytime soon. I should tell you about my learning curve on riding though - the first time I displayed her I left my friend Sword of the Muse laughing so hard I though she'd wet her chainmail.
I was riding her all over Mistone, getting used to the feeling, when I came across Annwyl. I wanted to show off of course, I always do, and so I tried one of those riding tricks I'd seen others perform. I clipped my horse with my heels to make her dance sideways. A simple trick, yes? Well. Sonata, being a headstrong lady (do I love any other kind?), chose instead to sit down, with me on her, and roll over. My left leg was trapped between her and the grass and I was flailing with my right leg trying to get her to stand up. Sonata took my frantic thumping into consideration, batted her lovely brown eyes at Annwyl, and ignored me. Annwyl started giggling then laughing and the more I cajoled and pleaded with the horse to get up, the harder she laughed, because Sonata was apparently making her point to me, the "master".
Eventually she did stand up and my leg - this the leg that Master Damon has deemed a threat to society and therefore punishes with the brunt of the work in our leaping and lunging training - was now a numb stick and I began to slide off to the right. Thank the Muse I was able to hook my foot into the stirrup or I'd have fallen off completely and that I would have never heard the end of.
Ah, yes, I almost forgot - that thing they don't tell you about when you start riding. That inner thigh thing. The thing where it feels like someone has taken pliers to your tendons and twisted them backward around the bone, then clipped them two inches shorter and sewed you back up without even a drop of whiskey to ease the pain. That thing. I've been walking funny for a while.
And speaking of drops of whiskey, no I haven't quit yet. I'm considering it, although I haven't a clue how I'm going to manage. I have been getting soft to the idea of children though, mother. And that means a more consistant sobriety. Don't go throwing a party just yet, I'm still in love with two elven ladies and so that complicates things. At least one I know would be nothing but happy should I manage to find a mother for my child; but Minu, I'm not so sure. Although that situation has been a carnival ride lately. But that's a conversation for my next visit.
I have to admit that my last trip to the Ice Marshes spurred this sudden parental longing as well. I don't wish to upset you but I felt that loss, again, that cold divot in the center of my being. I was far away from a bindstone and instead I was raised by scroll, but the feeling was the same as the first time only worse. Four times worse, if my counting isn't off. I have as such decided to keep up my training with Master Damon - I enjoy his company greatly and am honored to be considered a friend - but to continue to push my abilities in music as a primary focus for now. I have been away from the Resonance of Being for too long. I need to set myself back on that path. I'm not quitting rapier, but (and again, I do hate admitting this) Nightshade is right. Trying at this point to be in the front is asking to wake up under a bindstone more often than not. I'll revisit putting rapier first when I've learned more of that which is the core of me.
The final nail in my "wanting a child" coffin (and please note, I did not say I wanted a wife - again, I don't know how I'll manage but to trust the Heartsong) was spending time with Rachel. That's Daniel and Bella Poetr's three month old daughter.
Admittedly the situation could have been more pleasant. I was visiting Nightshade, whom I only just found out is free of the arms of the Rofireinite church and deemed healthy enough to fend for herself, and we were having a conversation that didn't involve barbs or defensive posturing. It was enjoyable, as it can be when she forgets she's an ill-tempered old woman and lets Tyra out to play. Bella came by and had the baby with her; I immediately commandeered the infant. Babies have a unique sound in the Heartsong and I love to listen to it. I sang to her to calm her fussing and was rewarded for the effort with some very blue baby eyes. I've nicknamed her Cornflower.
While I sang to Rachel, Bella dropped her bombshell - she is quitting her goal of being a bounty hunter. Well, it was news to Tyra anyway, as I don't keep much company with Bella when Daniel isn't there as well and thus had no idea of her ambitions. Tyra does not take change well. Things went downhill from there, resulting in tears, recriminations, and some very pointed observations by Bella regarding Tyra that I could not in any way disagree with. I sat across from them and watched, keeping Rachel quiet through the raised voices and harsh exchange. I also kept my mouth shut. Getting between those two, at that moment, would have been a fair bit more than foolish.
It didn't get better when, some time later, Rachel decided she was hungry. I'm a fair babysitter - Opal can certainly attest to that! - but not (thankfully) equipped to help Rachel with feeding, I had to hand her back to her mother. At this point Tyra had a fit, tossing over a bed in her anger at losing Bella's help. The baby started crying while Bella was trying to feed her and I was left to drag Tyra from the room to simmer down. Which she did try to do but Muse, that girl has some issues. Bella came out after a bit ready to leave and justifiably angry at Tyra; I left Tyra destroying her bunk room out of some primal rage and gave Bella a ride back to Wayfare. Sonata behaved well and although I would not admit it to Mrs. Poetr, I was a little worried. I should have just put her on the horse and led it but that would have taken three times as long. Thank the Muse my White Lady behaved and kept a nice smooth trot.
A long-winded way to say, yes, perhaps children. A child. I don't know. It's going to be near impossible to do with my current situation and I'm probably blowing smoke at myself. So I'll wrap up this letter - I really cannot wait to hear your response to this one - and go blow some smoke. Kurn gave me some excellent cigars and I think that's just the ticket right now.
Say hello to the family for me.
Your loving son,
Andrew
-
To:
Margaret Reid
2 Clay Ward
Huangjin, Tilmar
Mrs. Reid,
I am very interested in meeting with you as well as your entire family to discuss a lucrative pottery contract. You see, I wish to commission some fine china for a local family as a token of my appreciation for services they have bestowed upon me recently.
Please let me know when you might be able to assemble your family for a showing. It is important that they all be able to attend and it will be very much worth your time and theirs.
Kindest Regards,
Horace Locke
72 Fort Thunder
Belinara
-
*the script is calligraphic-neat and sparse, the common syntax expressed as if it is not the first language of the writer*
To:
Horace Locke
72 Fort Thunder
Belinara
Dearest Mr. Locke,
I am surprised both and pleased that you have heard of our small business. Of course we are happy to show you our work and negotiate contract.
I am curious why you are requesting of our entire family as two of the children already are working for us, our third not being at home and can be a chore to find him. I hope you are understanding?
Reid Pottery is happy to present work when you say you are arriving and look forward to seeing you.
Yours sincerely,
William and Margaret Reid
*a flyer with directions to the business and concept art for unique china patterns is enclosed*
-
*a poster is slipped inside a worn travel journal. The edges of the heavy parchment are carefully folded around the center to avoid creasing it.*
MISSING
IVANOVA SMITHSON [/SIZE]
(http://i40.tinypic.com/bj5o45.jpg)
Looking for information regarding the whereabouts of Ivanova Smithson, she was last seen on the Gloomwoods on a trip towards Vehl, Any information would be apreciated by the mother of the Lady Mimosa Smithson. Information that leads towards the finding of the lady would be genrously compensated.
Prayers to the Muse that she's found alive
-
Andrew,
It seems we are needed again to delve into a mystery surrounding one of our own. A lady, Ivonova Smithson, has gone missing near the Gloom Woods, close to the city of Vehl. Her mother, Mimosa, is seeking help in securing her beloved daughter's return.
I feel our Lady of Dreams calls upon us to resolve this. Contact me soonest, please dear friend. I shall be contacting some of the Sisters as well.
Yours in Faith,
~ Annwyl
-
My Sword -- Your letter is most fortuitously timed as I've been in Fort Vehl on business and have spoken with the Lady Mimosa Smithson already. If you are on your way here, let's by all means team up to help find the missing lady. I will update you below and send this via bird messenger the moment the ink dries.
Mimosa is under heavy security and frantic, as you would expect. She accepted my bona-fides as an Ilsarian and was gracious in meeting me, being most polite and an attractive human nearing midlife; her hair is still shining and dark, and I was struck by her green eyes. And, upon re-reading, that's not relevant is it? Sorry. I've tried to establish some possible suspects and motives, in delicate phrasing of course, and also attempted to discover those who were close to the family and might have more information.
I asked a great many things in the course of our conversation; about Ivanova's past (she had a normal childhood, her "precious diamondheart" was a doll -- the mother seems adamant about this), what did Ivanova do to earn a living (nothing -- she's a perfect lady of society and entertaining suitors for marriage), was there anyone who might wish her harm (of course not, see perfect lady comment). I asked about friends or people she was close to, thinking that they lived or spent time in Vehl, but she corrected me. The family lives much farther north, a villa somewhere in Trelania from what I gather; Ivanova is but one of the daughters (although I neglected to get an exact count of siblings), but she was the only one present on this trip.
The event, then, is thus; Mimosa, the father Jonathan, and Ivanova were travelling to Vehl, the father on business and the ladies taking it as a holiday and a time for mother-daughter chatting. Ivanova is apparently being courted by two suitors (Muse spare me the society way of marrying off daughters like cattle). Mimosa seemed to not gather any possible relevance to my questions regarding said suitors; sadly, I've seen too many jealous men to discount kidnapping or murder as a way to keep anyone else from touching a desired object. Avoided that fate once, too, but that's a story for another day -- remind me.
Ivanova has not chosen her suitor yet and so both men are still in play and will require looking at. Let me read back -- ah yes, the family was travelling to Fort Vehl. There was in addition to the family two young male retainers and a girl, Nina, acting as a lady in waiting to Mimosa and Ivanova, but no friends or confidants that we might question. For some reason -- and we really do need to investigate this -- the father, Jonathan, chose to travel through the Gloom Woods. Why by the Muse he did that I have no idea, when a much safer road runs to the east. It seems a reckless endangerment of his family but he may have his reasons and I wonder that they are good ones.
A few miles shy of exiting the Gloom Woods, the caravan was beset by bandits. Given that bandits are thick as...well...thieves, in that area...okay, you can smack me for that pun later. Given that there are a lot of bandits about, it could have been a random hit; I would not discount the possibility. During the attack a bandit forced his way into the carriage holding Jonathan, Lady Mimosa, and Ivanova. One of the young male retainers jumped over the thief, but here Mimosa was uncertain as to events as everything seemed to happen too fast for her. The boy and the thief tumbled out of the carriage and somehow Ivanova fell out as well. I suppose it's possible; the attack was on moving targets, which means if the horses were spooked by the noise and screaming it would be a rough ride and she could have simply been jostled out.
The two retainers were both killed and Mimosa's grief was quite eloquent through her sobbing. I did not detect any prevarication, however. She says they did not realize Ivanova was gone until the dust had settled and the bandits had cleared off. And, now you know what I know.
I'd like to question Nina on a few things such as which suitor Ivanova favored, was one of them more insistent than the other, was Ivanova happy with her life? After all, if she felt trapped in between two bad choices, she may have taken the opportunity to remove herself during the fight and thus become free. Nina is a young girl however, which calls for someone not imposingly tall and male and with a gentle mien and delicate touch -- namely, you.
As you come into Vehl be aware there are other search parties around including some Jonathan Smithson hired. I hope that together we can bring Ivanova home, for our Muse and for her family.
*written lower on the unsent letter*
Found Annwyl before letter sent - file.
-
Mother, hello.
I'll be writing another journal-style letter, for your eventual entertainment and to keep my facts straight. We (Annwyl and I) are investigating the disappearance of a young Ilsarian lady and so I'll be in Fort Vehl for as long as it takes.
I'll give you the background; the Smithson patriarch, a wine merchant, was traveling from their villa near Leringard to Fort Vehl on business, and the mother and (oldest?) daughter came along on holiday as the daughter, Ivanova, was contemplating marriage to one of two possible suitors. The caravan was attacked at the edge of the Gloom Woods nearer to Fort Vehl and Ivanova, the now-missing lady, fell or was pulled from her carriage. It appears to be a simple robbery attempt but for her being missing. So far, no one has reported finding evidence of her.
Annwyl and I put our heads together and came up with a number of possible scenarios. We've spoken to the lady's mother, myself once and the both of us once, and were given the name of one of Ivanova's suitors and a map of the route the caravan took. Not many of our other ideas seemed to pan out; Annwyl spoke to one of the other survivors, Nina, but the young lady didn't indicate that Ivanova would have jumped to get herself free, as I suspected when I found out she was to be married. I've certainly heard of other women faking deaths to get out of forced arrangements but that does not seem to be the case here. The mother did not trigger any impressions that she was to blame. Indeed, the woman was frantic with the crushing miasma of uncertainty. The father is a possibility -- if his business is poor, he may not want to have to pay bride price (how very much I hate that. Muse help any daughters I might have for I won't pay for them to be wed and bred, like livestock).
Where was I?
The father, yes. He needs to be investigated. The suitors as well, and we have one name: Worthington. The father has paid for guards and a search team, which appear to be working for some elf but we've not seen much of him since I first observed him giving orders. One of the guards is Phillip who is a Leringard native and so we've been friendly on the basis of shared locale. He's been handy for helping to eliminate possible kidnappers and I now owe him a drink at the Arms when they re-open, a promise I intend to keep.
I'll be shadowing the father tomorrow, and bless the halfling ladies I know for their excellent suggestions on moving quietly. I won't trust my upcoming skulking about to invisibility alone. Tonight, however, I'm taking a very long bath and spend some time playing in the tavern. We've just come from a few day's outing, following the map and trying to locate the lady, and we're both exhausted and more cognizant of our limitations in forestry.
Let me tell you this, mother. I'm no woodsman. In fact, I am the anti-woodsman. Annwyl isn't much better and between the two of us it's lucky we managed to stay on the road. There is a road, a path really, through the Gloom Woods which makes me wonder why Patriarch Smithson chose that when there was a safer route through Dapplegreen that leads directly to Vehl? That he chose a route through bandit-infested woods, with undead to boot, raised red flags with my Sword and I. And he stopped at Mesgard, which I know little about but I'm sure it's rife with surely ne'er-do-wells.
We didn't go as far as Mesgard however. Even with magical assistance that would have taken much too long. We only went as far as Riam's Fort, a location known well to adventurers for the halfling who seems in charge of it. A waystop, usually with some work to be done if one is looking for that; the Gloom Woods never cease to be dangerous, after all.
Annwyl spoke to Riam and he mentioned that we're hardly the first to inquire about the young lady. After a conversation that spun in circles, it became apparent that bribery was called for and so I laid a considerable sum of True in his palm which got me audience with a hench-type. I say that glibly but he really did look the part, from his dumbstruck expression (which seems calculated in retrospect) to the shabby wool clothing. However he had useful information, to whit:
The caravan stopped there on the way to Vehl, and did not tarry. Neither did the family enter the fort; one of the hired men acted as liaison. Water and rations were refilled and the caravan got underway. Interesting that I got the impression the henchman felt an arrangement had been made previously -- it appears the Smithsons did not pay for the re-provisioning. He also hinted that we should be more circumspect in our questioning which raised my eyebrow but said nothing more beyond that.
We established via a witness that one bandit of the many that attacked the caravan jumped off his horse and killed a young male retainer, and was about to strike down both Mimosa and Ivanova and take a hefty bag of coin when the other retainer, Timmy, tackled him out of the carriage. Ivanova fell out after that; we don't know how. Pulled, clumsy, pushed? Pushed needs to be ruled out, as does the reason for the attack. Further questioning affirmed that Ivanova didn't make it back to the Fort so our path led forward. On tired feet we decided to enter a known waylay point for bandits farther down the road.
We found them, and luck was with us as they didn't see us first. I'm not sure you want to read this but -- well, I've never liked bandits or thieves, and especially not since my Bella was stolen before my foot first stepped onto Mistone soil. Or was tossed into Mistone ocean, as it were. I'm sure this colored the outcome. We approached, armed and ready and (at least in my case) with the imagined intent of allowing parlay for information. Of course the wretched hive of scum came at us, swords drawn, and I didn't put forth any effort to persuade them to stop. I sang, Annwyl and her Gentle Persuasion danced, and my song to hold one for questioning failed in the melee.
We tried again on the other side of the road, this time my spell holding a female in bonds of will while Annwyl ran the rest off. We questioned her and immediately and without practice slid into good-cop bad-cop mode. Amazing how we work together; instinctive even. Annwyl was bad cop, as you can guess. She's certainly more intimidating than I.
The woman was as frightened as she was furious and informed us she was new to the area as the former inhabitants had all been blown to very small bits by a "golden-eyed elf". I have a suspicion as I know a golden-eyed elf with a fondness for blowing things up but it would be too much of a coincidence, wouldn't it? He can't be the only one, and I don't like him anyway, so I'll not be questioning him. Not good detective methodology and I don't care.
We found where the attack happened but as always in our few days, tracking was beyond us. I tried, mother, I did; I tried to look for the broken leaves and the marks that indicated a footprint, the smells of perfume or body odor or blood, bits of cloth stuck to branches. What I saw was a lot of dirt with plants growing out of it. How do rangers learn this stuff? The only thing I was able to do was follow the magical signature of some strong spellcasting, which triggered a remembrance of some deep booming thunder strikes deep in the forest around us. We had ignored it at the time, which turned out to be a mistake.
From the faintest of magical trails we found a camp with ten crisp bandit bodies, now tender from insects, animals and rain -- a sight I'll be happy to never see again and that's not even beginning to discuss the smell -- and what we think was evidence of small footsteps, an elf or small human. We could not follow the trail for long. There was no sign of the missing lady. But what we dismissed as thunder may well have been our kidnapper, or the golden-eyed elf, and now that trail is as cold as my feet.
So we returned to Vehl with more information but little that points to anyone. I will see what I can find out about the father tomorrow. If he did indeed decide to dispatch his own flesh and blood I'll find a way to find out.
Annwyl also mentioned that perhaps the other daughter, or one of the other daughters, might have paid for the attack as "diamondheart" (her mother's nickname for her) seems to be the current favorite. A rivalry turned deadly?
Time to play and sing, mother. Give my love to the family.
Your loving son,
Andrew
-
To:
Margaret Reid
2 Clay Ward
Huangjin
Tilmar
Mother, I apologize for the stunning delay in writing. I assure you it's not because I've been laying a ditch, or a grave.
I'm not even sure where to start. I am enclosing the one journal entry that came out of a near-withdrawal incident intact but I tore the rest to shreds. That's a long story and I'll do my best to remain succinct.
Ivanova. Let me conclude that bit of miserable failure in as few paragraphs as possible, let's see: Drunken night of jokes and rebuffed advances with a mercenary young woman who was also working to find the missing lady. A teaming up of said woman (Dot) and her most attractive friend (Rory) with myself and Annwyl, Rory being a lady with considerable tracking skills which we lacked as my enclosed journal entry will detail. The finding of the deceased person of Ivanova by the two ladies thus named, and the moving of said body; decisions made in haste to hide the body from a nosy Rofirinite; a long, miserable week-plus in a dilapidated tower in Dapplegreen, babysitting a corpse and writing for a cleric; Dot and myself getting very sick and me running out of alcohol, hence the destruction of journal notes (Dot was too far gone from disease to notice my rage, and my rage was rather pitiful given my condition at the time anyway).
A cleric arrives, Ivanova is too long dead to raise; how is it that none of us knew that? Diseases cured, the sickness around the tower removed, a flight to Fort Vehl to return the body and a plan to smoke out the killer. A non-spoken agreement to fail to mention to the owner of the tower about housing the body there.
The parents were...I'm not even sure how to put it. Relieved that the uncertainty was over and torn to shreds that she was in fact dead. We had a plan, and we tried to convince the family to let us try it, but the father stalled until legions of people arrived. The nosy Rofireinite (Roland), the competing suitors (Armand Worthington and Phillipe Silverthorn), Phillip's retinue of Blackwatch...the family guards...more temple guards...at one point there were so many people in the room I could but stare.
I'm slowing down here because I want to vent some shame and you are my first confessor, after all. We never did find the killer. Our plan was a good one (we thought) but Jonathan, the patriarch, would not give a yes or no answer to whether we could pursue it. The mother might have been more willing but we'll never know. A murderer runs free and yes, I feel culpability. I still suspect the father, more so than ever now given his reluctance to consider an ambush of the killer. But the body was returned and that's as much as I can do; the family is long gone and I'm not digging up bones to satisfy my bruised ego. Still, a very unsatisfying ending to something that consumed some time of my life in pursuit of justice, which I dip into so infrequently. I almost felt a kinship to the Rofireinites I know, trying to catch that killer. Almost.
I have sung to and for the poor lady's spirit. Wherever in the Lady's arms she is, I hope she knows we tried.
Oh, and I'm fairly certain the Blackwatch is suspicious of me for something. I received many a long and harsh stare from Phillip's retinue and when Phillip and Worthington ended up in a duel, I got swift and pointed confirmation; I tried to use a song of holding to stop the bloodshed and the Blackwatch guards ran me through so fast my song wasn't even fully off my lips yet. To start a duel in front of the grieving parents (parent -- I won't speak for the father) of a dead girl, who was lying on the table not a few feet away? That's sociopathic. Worthington was killed by Phillip after I was skewered and left to bleed out, and Phillip was taken into custody and was no doubt freed shortly thereafter by his masters in Leringard. A painful and booze-fueled recovery followed for me which set the stage for some changes.
I mentioned my rage. It was one of the less pretty moments of my life. I was out of alcohol and trying to write in the damp barracks of the tower, and my hand was shaking. It had begun to shake a little, even when I had booze in me, but I ignored it and made rosy. When the first tapping of need hit me I became angry, then afraid, then afraid and angry and frustrated. I can't even describe it properly because it was too many things at once. Fear that I would not get another drink before the shakes really hit. Fury that I ended up needing a bottle to function, again. Frustration that I could not complete a single sentence legibly.
I took the journal page I'd been working on and tore it out; in my haste several others came with it and I shredded them, voicing some kind of...Muse, it was almost a squeaking of frustration. I'm sure it would have sounded comical to any observers but Dot was asleep and it was only I and Ivanova, and she'll keep my secret. Just tearing those pages did me in and I wept for a little while by the fire. I wanted a drink that badly.
Obviously I was able to get one, finally, but the shaking didn't stop and I felt a thread of worry. I involved myself in some things, keeping busy, writing music -- but the tremors would not cease, only abate when I had enough to drink.
A chance meeting with a lady finally tipped the scales. This lady, a friend, knows me only slightly less well than I know myself but isn't hampered by my self-delusions. We had a nice talk punctuated by our individual quirks and follies, it was comforting. But she put in front of me what I wanted so much to forget; that after twenty years as an alcoholic I was paying a price that cut to my soul. I was having problems writing and playing because of the way my nerves were acting. The tremors, the quivering. She simply asked me, did I wish to keep drinking and watch my music deteriorate?
Well, when you put it that way. I spoke to her of my fear, the thing that kept me from quitting, and she offered to stay with me a little while. Knowing she would be there; not to pamper me or to nurse me but just be there; lent me strength. I took every bottle out of my pack, and there were a lot more than I recall having put in there. I uncorked them and tipped them all over one by one. Unnecessarily symbolic but I'm a performer, what did you expect?
It was a withdrawal to end them all and I made up my mind about two things. One, should I ever relapse, I will not quit. I can't go through that again. Two, I'm not going to relapse.
And so, tell father that I'm sober and he can call off his hunt. He wrote me a letter, I'm not sure he told you, expressing every bit of his disappointment with me and a desire to talk this out "man to man". I will make a trip home soon and tell him we can talk then. And what is this about a suspicious letter? If anyone is writing you that you think might be related to me, I want to know and soonest. I'm not kidding about that mother. SOONEST. Please send me that letter so I can assess it.
There is a lot more to tell, I have a purpose in Lor and I'm putting my toe into the line in the sand there which helps steady me when I have a bad day. I'll tell you more when I get home, as soon as I have a break from my duties.
More to write but it will have to wait; for now I remain
Your loving son,
Andrew
-
*sent by bird*
Mother.
I'll be home in the time it takes me to get from Port Hempstead to outside Hlint. I am leaving as soon as this letter is in the air.
First because I genuinely miss the family; second, because I need a little time to be scarce. I have dabbled in what I should not have although I believe our Lady might have had plans for me in that regard. Still, the end result left me at my bindstone. I'm counting on the persons involved not knowing I'm stonebound. Once they find out? Who knows.
The story, briefly. I was near Misted Village in Dalanthar and bumped into friends leaving the area. They said a dark elf was lurking about. My experience with black skinned (or blue, sometimes) elves has been with people like Aunlyn, and Ty, a female dark elf I've met; outsiders to their own race, or so they say, with reputations that lend them credibility. I don't dismiss dark elves as an insignificant issue but there has been an "us and them" quality to the ones I've met outside the Deep.
If it was a raiding scout, Dalanthar needed to be warned; and, well, I was just plain curious. So I snuck across the stone bridge that spans the chasm there - well, snuck is a strong word, I moved quietly rather - and into the camp area. After a good look around I found no dark elves and was about to leave when I turned and almost ran her over.
She, and a she that left me undone. I had no idea dark elven women could be that beautiful, that sultry. And her voice - Muse, although her speech was almost dwarven in dialect, the way she spoke was melodic beyond words. I will confess I was nearly mesmerized by the sound, like water over stones in a brook or a gently rushing stream. I can't describe it any other way.
And, I'd met her before. She sold me a platinum harp years ago. So part of me thought, "another of the us, and not the them" (I'll leave it to you to guess which part). She seemed confused by me, as I flirted and didn't run screaming. As we talked she edged closer, got bolder, and then asked me if I wished to kiss her. Between her voice, her body, and my stupid, stupid brain, I said yes.
Muse, what a kiss.
She told me I was her slave, then, and well - you remember where I spent many years of my teens. Wasn't the first time I'd called someone Mistress but it has been a long time since anyone demanded that of me and I felt like playing. In truth it felt like seduction and I wanted it. So I acted the part, completely and wholly. I called her Mistress and followed her into the bandit raider stronghold, doing whatever she asked. It was fun, and we both enjoyed it. I don't doubt that she did. I sang for her which pleased her greatly and was rewarded with another kiss that made my toes curl; even now, I hope I did the same for her, such was her pull on me.
We met up again later and I fell right back into persona. We crossed some new and much better trained highwaymen and other sentient vermin, and there might even be a mage there who has found a way to use magic in a magic-dead area as we were hit with a meteor shower on the way out. Still, we succeeded, and as I had been a good slave, I was allowed to rub her feet. I let myself go back, back to when just giving pleasure was enough to make me ecstatic. It felt like...falling in a way. But I remembered well. I'm not sure she realized I was acting. I'm not sure I did either, after a while.
I was dismissed from her service for a rest and left to go to Dalanthar full of anticipation and in a giddy mood, albeit tempered with thoughts of Minuet. I'll admit I was hoping Minu was in Omer's arms at that moment so I would not have to feel guilty.
She had beaten me to Dalanthar, being on horseback. I was conducting business when I saw her talking to another dark elf woman. I meant to duck and hide, but Mistress spotted me and beckoned me and somehow I thought continuing in that role would be a good idea. I'm not sure I was wrong; read on.
I will mention that the first thing the other dark elf woman did was fling a dagger at my head. Probably should have made a run for it then but I was again, curious, so I stood at Mistress's side as ordered and played the big dumb slave. They spoke in common at first. They spoke of things I will repeat to you only in person, things I will be writing my friend Daniel about. A scofflaw I may be but there is a time and place for Law and now is that time if the other woman was speaking truth. It's possible either she lied or her agenda was not what she said. I'll let cooler heads decide.
All this time I stood, quiet and submissive, listening. I must have had a tell or given something away because Mistress and the other woman switched to dark elf, a word I only know one thing in: Ilwmaky, which Mistress says is my name. Oh, yes, I told her my name, my first name, but finding out my last won't be a problem for her.
I was used to being excluded but listening to them I just knew I was the topic and it was a heated one. I listened further, into the Heartsong, and I could feel Mistress's heart harden and withdraw. That was bad.
I'll skip most of the details of the fight. I dodged a few strikes before the other dark elf kicked me in the head. I remember trying to block another blow, seeing her flail come down, then waking up in Port Hempstead with a splitting headache, blood on my jacket, and soaking wet. During all of that Mistress watched; she did not intervene, nor did she join in. The few glimpses of her I got while rolling desperately one way then the other was that of mild interest dusted with irritation that it was taking so long.
So, that is my second reason. I think fading away for a time would be a grand idea right now and I'm hoping to do it at the new family home. I might even roll up my sleeves and make some pots with you.
*dried ink across several lines; one sentence, started but not completed, three times*
I am afraid, mother. Being the target of assassins, being murdered even, is fine if it's me. But at least one person has had the resources and foresight to know all there is to know about me and has threatened me using you, my family, in the past. I had to make a deal I did not want to make in order to protect you and even now my stomach clenches every time you don't write for a while. That's why I'm so adamant; if you get a strange letter, tell me. If you see someone suspicious, tell me. Trust NO dark elves, not one. I'll be bringing money for you to use birds to send me messages as they're more reliable than post, at least for privacy.
I wish I were not this man who refused a nice quiet life and who has the potential to destroy you. I wish, very much at times like today, that a life of getting up, doing the chores, working, watching my children indulgently from a comfortable chair then going to bed to repeat it all the next day is something I could do; then I could rest easy knowing nothing that happens is my fault. But I can't. And won't.
We'll speak more when I arrive and after you're done chewing me out.
Your loving, stupid son,
Tashe
-
*sent by bird*
Aya.
You can't imagine how many times I've almost started this letter in the last, oh, twenty years. The time was never right. It is now.
So many years lost. So many years where we were dead to each other, you for abadoning mother, me for being an alcoholic lout. I've thanked the Muse every day that She's given us another chance to know each other. In those weeks at home, I started to see in you what I'd not let myself see throughout our childhood; that you are gifted, not just me. That you are made for more, not just me. Grandmother Rose lives in both of us and our blood is mingled in the Heartsong. It is my sincerest hope that we can build anew on that. Perhaps the shared history that never came to be can be created, together, in music? And when you are willing, I'd like to hear your stories about those years in the height of Huangjin society...including the really good ones. Especially the really good ones!
When you get to Mistone, and I'd recommend taking passage to Port Hempstead as it's cheaper and safer than some of the other ports. I have some people you can look up if you don't find me first. Left and down of the Port Hempstead docks in the Municipal District is the Tower Academy, and there you might find Instructor Elohanna. That's my girlfriend and she knows to watch for you. Since I have no idea if you're going to keep that blonde dye job or not (and I pray not, if irritating father with it was your only reason), she'll verify your identity with my old nickname. By the way, this is the lady I call Minu, so as not to confuse you. Elohanna is my sun, and you'll find her a warm welcome when you meet her; if not before me, then soon after.
Also be looking for a blonde woman, tall and muscular, with a greatsword strapped to her back and wearing silver chainmail with a red heart upside down over the chestpiece. (I think this is so she can look down and see it correctly, but I've never asked). She's hard to miss in that - that is my Battle Sister (I'll explain later) Annwyl. She's the one I call "My Sword". She also follows our Muse and she'll help you get settled. I trust her with my life and my secrets and you can too; use my nickname if she's not sure of who you are, same as with Minu.
If you cannot find me or either of these ladies and need a place to go, a ways from Port Hempstead is Fort Wayfare. There is a well-traveled road from Hempstead to the fort that goes through the Port Hempstead fields. In Fort Wayfare, across from the Inn and under a hill, is a cave; it's been carved into a home inside and you'll doubtless find some combination of Daniel and Bella Poetr, Lana Poetr (we date; again, I'll explain later), Stephan Poetr (throw food and run), or Tod Fellow. I'm confident most of these people will give you welcome although I have not spoken to them yet.
I didn't say anything to mother and father when I left. That's your decision and your responsibility. And I'd still like to meet this tutor of yours; yes, I'm probably going to be overprotective for a while, little brother or no. Deal. I have a chest emptied out in my room should you desire some storage space, and you can stay with me in Leringard if you want until you get entirely sick of my hovering and find a place of your own. I expect this won't take long.
I also have a few little presents. Does all this sound like a guilty conscious? It should. I've been asking myself over and over if risking the wrath of our family was worth helping you escape.
I think it was. I'll see you soon.
Your loving brother,
Andrew
P.S. Still not drinking.
-
To: Elohanna Minuet
c/o the Tower Academy
Municipal District
Port Hempstead
Kingdom of Brelin
Mistone
Minu, more news. Much more. I've become a father it seems. Not in the way nature usually does these things, but by adoption.
The story: I was in Port Hempstead, lurking in case Aya showed up, and having a chat with a brownie named Richie and Symphony (Jennara; have I told you that's my name for her? I can't remember). Tyra wandered up with of all things a baby. I was shocked; stunned, even. I remember thinking if she had been pregnant, she hid it well, and beyond that any man to have a child with her must have the patience of of god. Which is ironic upon reflection.
Of course I wanted to hold the baby, and Muse if he doesn't look a little like me. He has island blood - she told me she found him on Corsain, which explains his straight black hair and the shape of his eyes, although not nearly as pronounced as mine. I asked who the father was and she said "you, if you want". I dismissed this as a joke but did mention how easily he could pass for our son, which is true. And that's when she asked me if I would allow her to say that I was. She fears losing him, greatly, I could hear it vibrating in the Heartsong. Especially as Symphony was standing right there while Tyra admitted to taking the child, who she says was near two dead adults (without further information I'll assume they were his parents). She has not said anything more of how she came to obtain him.
I'll never be able to say why I considered it. I'll never be able to tell you what motivated me to say yes, with conditions. I only know it felt right at the time. However, as I informed her, using me as an excuse to avoid the law has it's price. I will be part of the child's upbringing. I will have say in this, and he will know me as his father.
And, Symphony is not happy. She distrusts Tyra immensely, as a part of me has come to as well. I'm certain that's some of the reason I agreed; to keep an eye on her and the boy. We had a long chat, Symphony and myself, and I have made a promise to Jennara. Not to Commander Creekskipper, not to Symphony, but to Jennara. And Jennara pointed a single finger at me and informed me that she, personally, outside of her laws and her church and her titles, is holding me to it. If I don't follow through I will be the deadest man on Layonara.
Tyra had better not screw this up. The boy comes first, now, or I will make good.
So, that aside, I have a son. I'm turning to you, Minu, if you'll offer your help? I know a bit more than most people think about child care, but not very much about child rearing and this time, I can't fake it with a smile. I need your help and your advice. Tyra has been informed that you will be involved in this to the degree that you wish to be involved, as friend, great-aunt, Daddy's girlfriend, second mother - whatever you wish, at least when you're with me. Which I thank the Muse you are, love.
I've spent so much time in quiet song, praying to the Muse that Tyra finally gains some peace from this and grows past the tantrums and the turmoil, that Aya is safe on a ship that's merely late due to bad winds or weather, that I can manage for once to take my own advice and be a decent father, that you'll forgive me for this sudden and unexpected twist following so close on the heels of my own family drama, that my parents will forgive my complicit behavior in Aya's leaving. I am just shy of forty and things just keep heating up.
Ah, I have not mentioned but I've spoken to Argali recently. I'll be focusing more in Lor, and so I will be asking a huge favor of Annwyl soon as they have a home near Castle Mask. I pray they won't mind sharing it on occasion with James and the boy...
All this and I forgot to mention; Tyra named him Tyr'riel, and we call him Ty.
Did I make a mistake, Minu?
Love,
Andrew
-
*sent by bird*
Hello mother.
If you haven't ripped this letter up by now, I'll chance a few more sentences.
Aya arrived and she's safe and doing well. Very well, despite her constant moaning about poverty and the like. I've offered her space in my room and she's in and out as it suits her. We've traveled together quite a bit. I've made a confident of her, partly because I really needed someone to talk to and partly because despite those decades apart, she still knows how to read me. It's a disconcerting relief, if that makes any sense, to just say what's on my mind about women I love and wish I loved and want to love again, and all the different names I go by. To let it all out to someone face-to-face and not worry that I've told the wrong person. I'm glad she's here.
And mother, if you could only hear her. I know that you're upset about Vanessa; Aya told me she'll come back often, and I believe her. She's spent most of her life pleasing you, pleasing her husband, her child, her obligations - she's like a Tilmar camillia, waiting years to bloom and now she's flowering so fast it scares me. The magic in her music keeps growing in leaps and bounds. She's learned songs I have never heard and all the rust is gone from her harp-playing. I think she'll be more accomplished than me very soon.
I will say that trying to keep up with her is exhausting. Her energy is limitless, her curiousity double that. I feel like I've run from one end of Mistone to the other even if we've just gone to a cafe for a meal. I hope it brings you and father some peace to know she's well, and that her little brother is watching out for her - when he can find her.
In other news...Muse, how to say this...I have been asked to be a father to a child. A boy, named Tyr'riel. I call him Ty. I am not romantically involved with the mother but then, she's not romatically involved with anyone. She's a bit prickly, and I'm being kind when I say that. But I've known her for longer than I realized (when I stopped to think about it) and I did want a child, and the boy could use some balance in his life given Tyra's nature. So I've agreed and mother, I already love him. He's quiet, observant, nothing like me, but I'm sure his more cautious nature will serve him well. As I write this letter he's on a blanket by my feet and trying to crawl and every time I look at him I smile.
It does mean I've had to curtail some of my activities. The upside to not being in love with Tyra is that we can do more as we usually have him separately. The downside will be explaining this to him when he's older; hopefully (and I pray to Ilsare every day about this) he'll appreciate he had two loving parents and not dwell on the fact that he's not biologically theirs or that they did not love each other.
I need to amend that. I must love her or I would have stopped talking to her long ago. But I am not in love with her. She's pushed the envelope a few times too many. I pray her love for the boy will finish what so many of us have started and given up on; growth, healing. And if it doesn't - well, we'll discuss that in person.
I was speaking of curtailing things. I'm volunteering at the Krandor Hospital, waiting on the Resonance of Being and a Katrien Hommel to return my letters, and still teaching although I've had to change my schedule somewhat to allow for Ty. But things are going swimmingly with my class and I look forward to continuing my activities. I hope to rent a room for myself and Ty when I travel to the city I teach in, and I've taken steps for this. Other than that what little free time I have is spent writing music and visiting friends and being a dad. Which is easy enough right now since he's fairly portable and demands little more than fruit-sweetened oatmeal, milk, and for me to sing him silly songs while he tries to grab my lower lip.
I'll bring Ty home soon for a visit, if there is some assurance that father won't hang me by my ears when I walk in. Or you, for that matter, but Aya tells me that you understood. So please let me know when it's safe to return and I'll introduce you to my son.
Your loving son (and by proxy your loving grandson)
Andrew and Ty
-
*sent by bird*
Ohayō gozaimasu, Mother.
First, yes, I really am a father. I wasn't kidding. I've only just picked up my mail in Leringard as I've been living in Tyra's place to help with the childcare and so I apologize for the lateness of this reply.
My son -- our son, I should be fair, because Tyra really is trying to be a good mother -- is nearly a year now and toddling as he started walking early. No, Tyra and I are not getting married. We're not sleeping together. We're raising a child together, which appears to some to be a sort of unholy alliance. The initial reaction was rather amusing, but oddly, we've found a lot of common ground in our desires as parents. We've spent a good long time talking about axioms and wishes and religion and skills, things we want for him. He will be exposed to music and Ilsare -- and if he comes to Her, I'll be happy for him, and if he doesn't, then I'll still be happy for him. He'll learn to fight and use swords; his mother will train him on that. I will teach him the little tricks of tumbling and combat avoidance I've picked up over the years. He'll learn to read and write from both of us, and elven from his mother and nanny.
Ah, yes, we have a nanny now (or she will be, Tyra has indicated) which has helped greatly. Autumn is a wonderful elven lady and she really cares for Ty. This has not given us an excuse to vamoose and run around the world, but it does make day-to-day working easier. Autumn is from Dapplegreen and she's lived and breathed that forest most of her life. Ty will learn from her as well, silent steps and movement, her language and history, and archery which appears to be her primary passion. I have to remember to bring her a proper target from Hempstead.
So for quite a while life has been very settled for me. I've seen Minu when I can, watched my son learn to hold a cup and walk and start to say words, and taught my class in Lor. Of all the existences I could have imagined, this domestic placidity would not have made it onto the first ten pages. But here I am, father, lover, teacher.
I'm still working at Krandor hospital as well although with my Lor schedule increasing, this might be curtailed a bit. I'm trying to find a balance. I know it will be easier when Ty doesn't require constant care. I'm also going to be a tutor to a young lady who wishes to learn to read and write common, and I'm hoping to perhaps sneak in some social skills as well; she needs them. It doesn't hurt that I'm attracted to her but I haven't quite felt on balance yet and I'm still trying to figure her out. She's human, by the way. And tall. I wonder if it's my passion or my aching back that's urging me to connect with her?
Aya is fine, and that brings me to the reason I write. She's started a gathering service, her harp playing has me in shivers sometimes, and she's got a comfortable place to stay in my room in Leringard. But she misses Vanessa and I'd like to arrange a visit. I know father is still sore about losing a second potter. But he's done the right thing in giving Shuichi more responsibility, and hiring on some people. Muse, he should offer to buy out Tzaro's shop with the money from the Locke contract. You'll have most of the business in that area.
I digress -- if Aya and I return with Tyr'riel so you can meet your grandson, father must agree to play nice and let her visit Vanessa. Make it happen, mother, I know you can. It's high past time he realized that his blood and the blood of his mother is stronger in us than he imagined and just accept us for who we are.
Your loving son and grandson,
Andrew and Ty
-
Ink. Quill. Blotter. Paper, paper, where is the -
The stack formerly by the bound leather music book was gone. So was the extra he'd stashed in the top drawer. Fingers tapped angry staccato on the hickory desk.
She's been letting him color on my notepaper again.
taptaptap tap tap taptaptap taptap
I asked her not to do that.
TAPTAPTAP.
A scrape as he pushed himself out of the chair. A survey of the room revealed not one single square of beige. On hands and knees he shoved an arm under her bed and found only dust bunnies and an apple core.
Hells, that's what those ants were after. He stomped down the hall to the door and tossed the core, ants and all, outside. Good riddance, freeloaders. Not welcome in my house.
The crib sheets were thrown back, the sides of the mattress rifled; nothing. He stood and stretched his back. Her bed, large, shrouded in mysteries he had long given up on ever finding out, hunkered in the corner and dared him.
Fine.
He tossed the curtains over the canopy top and leaned in. It smelled like her, perhaps a bit more than she did which meant it getting close to a laundry day. The sheets he pulled back without haste; the first time he'd yanked them off to wash them one of the swords she slept with had bounced off the top of his foot.
Nothing under the sheets but one of her adamantium lovers. He snorted and moved the pillows, nothing - wait, a book? A small one. A journal.
He froze.
She'd kill me.
But...to see even a few sentences of what she really thought...
His fingers twitched as he hovered on the exact edge of respect and desire. The book, nestled into the cream-colored sheets, waited.
He left it.
Pillows were tossed back down with more vigor than was called for but took the blow with feathery aplomb. He lifted the mattress.
AHA.
Crinkling heralded the haphazard pile of paper. Each sheet was wrinkled, some were folded, some torn, a few looked chewed on. They'd been colored, as he suspected. Most of the pages contained only a few lines or dots before the artist had tired of that attempt and flung the paper aside for a fresh canvas. Or tried to eat it.
He tossed the stack on his desk and started looking for something usable. There wasn't much but he found a sheet that had been scribbled with vigor along the sides with the middle left empty, almost like a frame. It would have to do. Hells, he could make it work.
He put the rest of the papers on her desk, squared neatly in front of her chair. The bloody knife laid in front of the killer to make him confess.
Quill to ink, to blotting sheet, to paper. The rustling and scritching upon the page, a sound he never grew tired of. It had become a ritual over the years; one of his few. He felt no need to change that.
Iraccee, Mother.
All's well here and I apologize for not having brought Ty to you yet; I was caught up in business on Vanavar. Aya had also wished to come and I have not seen much of her so coordinating has been tricky. She's living in my room in Leringard and I'm living at the Tower in Dapplegreen still.
This won't be an overly long letter but it will be a special one for as you can see, your grandson has aided me in the creation. He's passed his first birthday and we held a party for him. Tyra made him a vest and a teddy bear which now rivals the dog I made him for his affections. Fortunately neither animal complains much if one is left behind.
I made him a slide whistle and by the Muse did he love that. So very much, in fact, that his mother repossessed the instrument "for safekeeping" only a few minutes into his first performance. Don't I recall a similar story with me and a drum from my childhood? Regardless, now we must use the whistle outside or when she's not here. Although I did let him wake her with it once and the look on her face when that whistle went off in her ear was almost worth the bruise I got.
Shiff and Valamara, Tyra's parents, attended the birthday. Mother, Shiff tried to give our son a greatsword for a present.
No, you don't understand, A REAL GREATSWORD. Full-sized and made of iron! Muse, I had trouble lifting the stupid thing. We didn't let Ty touch it of course. In fact I recall that it was a touching moment of vocal unison when Tyra and I chorused "you have got to be joking" as he pulled it out of the scabbard.
Still, the party went swimmingly. It occurred to me then that eventually we'll have to get you grandparents together. That should prove interesting and I don't think in a bad way necessarily. Something tells me Father and Shiff are going to get along.
I'm still teaching; in fact my teaching is expanding, which makes my time tight. I will have a break soon though and Aya or not I will bring you your grandson.
Between teaching, my music, and my son, I'm learning a new art as well, illusion. Rather exciting and very challenging, for me at least. I'll show you when I arrive.
As I said, a short letter. Give the family my love.
Your loving son and grandson,
Andrew and Tyr'riel.
The letter was rolled to fit into a bird messenger tube and sealed with his custom seal - a heart and clef, as his necklace, on a dot of red wax. Nothing like James' ship's wheel and black wax tucked into a desk somewhere in Lor. He smiled, laying it aside to sit cross-legged in front of the fire.
Tyra and Ty were on their way back from Daniel's. He would have arrived after they'd come home but with Connor and Anna's gracious offer of the use of their home portal he'd shaved enough off the trip back from Krandor to have some time to himself.
It had been one enchanted evening, that night in the Krelin Inn less than a week ago. Symphony had been there, and by the end of the night he'd heard her not only giggle but laugh and make actual jokes. That had been a great pleasure for him. Annwyl had stopped in to rest on her way to Hlint, and he'd been delighted to see her. He always relaxed when she was around. Their friendship only seemed to age as fine wine and he sang a prayer to the Muse right then to thank Her for Her gift of phileo.
Even if he'd spend the rest of his life wanting more. Sometimes it didn't hurt as much, though. Sometimes.
Meeting Hardragh had been...enlightening. The man had matched him step for step in conversation, even threw a few new twists into their verbal waltz. For his part he'd kept Jetta's admissions silent and the burly skald had admitted to nothing but at some point, they both knew. A dangerously interesting man. I will have to find him again.
And then there had been Connor and Anna, veterans of the Blood War, lovers of such intensity that he had been hard pressed to pay attention to anything but the Heartsong around them. In the quiet of the tower he let out the jealousy he'd carefully hidden from himself. To have that kind of love...
Her sound in the Heartsong was particularly intense, as if she was aware of it. Her magic was similar to his and he'd had to banish his mounting attraction to the same hole his jealousy was sulking in. He liked them. He had much to learn from them. He would not screw this up.
His fingers started to shape a bowl as he thought. He began to hum. Connor's illusions during his story, so masterful and effortless, so much like Jaelle's. As closely as he'd listened during the tales of Shadison and Milara, he could only catch a whisper of the spell's casting, and often it seemed Connor had worked the somatics seamlessly into the cadence of the story. Absolutely masterful.
He'd asked Connor to teach him, and he'd felt intense scrutiny on the edges of his consciousness from both the man and his lady.
Connor had agreed. So it was in front of that company, Symphony and Annwyl and Connor and Anna, that he'd tried his first illusion. Not Invisibility which he could sing with ease, or its cousin Visage to blur and fade the body's contours; no, a full-fledged illusion of an actual object.
"Make a flower pot".
A flower pot. Only Symphony. But as Annwyl had pointed out, he knew pots. His fingers had moved then as they did now, over an imaginary lump of clay on an imaginary wheel. He'd sung bits of each illusion song he knew and blended, testing this word and that, shifting the music around into an amalgam of the notes required to invoke the magic.
You have to believe, Connor had said. He'd tried but it wasn't the same as when he changed his body - his body was a focal point, something real he could see and touch, even when it was hidden in a spell. But to create a picture out of thin air? He'd tried visualizing what he'd wanted but that hadn't done it. He'd moved his hands, sang the song, tested for the right feeling to the music...nothing.
He'd never admit what had finally worked. Hallucinations. He'd had a fair share over the years while under the blanket of this substance or that. He could remember seeing them and KNOWING they were not there, smelling, hearing things that didn't exist. Okay, he could work with that. He imagined himself hallucinating.
When he opened his eyes around the rough wooden table in that inn in Krandor, he'd created an illusionary pot. Not a great one. It had faded in and out with his concentration, which had never been stellar to begin with...but he'd done it. He clung to it, trying to make it more solid, imagining he was hallucinating it and that actually made it stronger.
Annwyl had smiled and risen to leave and when he'd spoken to her, it had vanished. Okay, can't talk and illusion. But the elation wasn't diminished. He'd done it.
He would send Connor a letter soon on his progress. Each night since he'd been home, he'd sat in front of the fire and "hallucinated". Created little illusions, starting with basic shapes. A cube. A circle. A pyramid. Over and over until he could hold it. He grinned - he was applying the same principles of teaching to himself that he used on his students. Start with the basics. Become good at them. Don't rush. Challenge yourself when something feels too easy; if it proves too difficult, take a step back and try again.
It was working.
And there was a pot, a bowl actually, suspended in the space between his fingers. It was only partially opaque and he saw it fade every time something challenged his focus, which was often. It was a green crackle bowl with four little clay legs. His ritual bowl. His thoughts immediately swerved to his grandmother and the bowl vanished.
Odd. Why had he conjured that bowl?
He began again but a scratching noise turned his head - Tiger, needing out. More later then...he smiled and unfolded to a standing position.
It had been a good day, except for the paper.
-
Growling, quiet roars, running water, birds and wind in trees; all this noise and more leaked from behind a wooden door in a simple home in the Clay Ward of Huangjin, as it had every night for a week. Shuichi stopped and listened with a frown. Some of it was convincing, the water and fire for example, and some of it was strained and reedy-thin as if only imagined and never heard.
He knocked. The sounds stopped for a moment, then began again as a bed squeaked and naked feet slapped on the oak floorboards.
Andrew opened the door looking wan but with focused eyes; the sound of a battle continued for another few seconds then stopped abruptly, leaving a silence like static. He motioned the other in and turned toward to the narrow bed. Shuichi, a few inches shorter and quite a bit more muscular from years of hauling and throwing clay, pushed past his youngest sibling and slumped on a stool near a small table.
"What in the hells, Tashe." Shuichi spoke in Old Tilmarian. That was mostly what they used around the house, although it had confused Tyr'riel quite a bit. He leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, and gave Andrew an appraising look. The kid looked good, tired or no; thin but not as skinny as his youth, with a healthy tone since he'd quit drinking.
"Practicing." Andrew sat on the bed and drew his knees up to his chin.
"Practicing. For what?"
"Not sure yet. Just practicing."
The older snorted, running a hand through short black hair. "Ty woke up while you were "practicing" but mother got him. She's rocking him now, although he went back to sleep right away."
Andrew grinned and leaned against the wall. "He's a good sleeper."
His brother let half a smile play across his face. "You, a father. I'm still adjusting to that. When can we meet the mother?"
A short burst of laughter. "When the Pits hang a welcome shingle. Tyra's not ready to meet you."
"Not ready to meet us?"
"Tyra...Muse, how do I say this. She's not a people person, and she has some issues in her past that keep cropping up. We're working on it."
"We." Flatly stated.
"We."
"Thought you weren't sleeping with her?"
"I'm not."
Was there a touch of protest in that denial? "You're not, or she won't let you?"
"It's...complicated."
"She won't let you." Shuichi grinned. "A woman who can say no to my brother. I like her already."
Andrew snorted and looked out the single window by the head of the bed. Purple twilight was fast fading to black. He rolled to the nightstand and lit a candle as Shuichi sat up and folded his arms.
"So besides your son, tell me what's new. Mother doesn't let me read your letters."
"Good." Andrew started zipping his necklace back and forth on its chain, still looking out the window. "Let's see...I'm tutoring a woman in reading and writing...I've been teaching myself illusionary sound, as you have heard. I volunteer at Krandor hospital, I --"
"Get to the good stuff. I've heard all of that."
The younger rolled his head to look at his brother. "Still seeing Minu, and an old flame has rekindled. Just the two."
Laughter. "And this Tyra."
"We're not together."
"So you've said." Shuichi's tenor was light with implications. "What else?"
"I've met a woman who can do with sound what I wish to do. And driven all but the last nail in the coffin of that relationship as well." A frown. "How was I supposed to know she hated Misties? So that didn't go well when I admitted friendship to one. Rather depressing, really -- I'm beginning to wonder where I can go to learn what I want to learn."
"Patience, Tashe. Patience. If it was meant to be..."
"...then it will take forever." They both grinned, the sentence finished with the pat diction of an old family joke.
A hesitation from the older, then..."How is Aya?"
"Judgmental. Bitter. Talented." Andrew's expression was exquisitely neutral.
"So, the usual?"
Andrew nodded. Shuichi rubbed calloused hands together lightly. "Vanessa has done well, better than I thought. She asks about her less frequently now and she hasn't cried about it in months."
"Is that good or bad?"
Shuichi shook his head and gave his brother a long look. "You're good with your son, Tashe. It's changed how I look at you. Dad too I think. But I'll say this only once; don't get wild and leave Ty here so you can cavort around. Don't even think about it."
Andrew stiffened, took in a deep breath and blew it out. He met his brother's eyes. "When I agreed to be his father I did so to a woman who A -- can beat me senseless pretty much whenever she wants to with one hand tied behind her back, and B -- was left by her own father at a formative age and is still angry about it. Trust me, I'm not abandoning him. I made a promise."
Shuichi nodded, leaned back. They stared at each other; two brown-skinned faces with almond-shaped eyes, broad noses, firm chins. Not mirror images but close enough sometimes.
"Got your guitar?" Andrew smiled and pulled his own guitar case from under the bed.
"In the other room. Give me two minutes."
-
To: Andrew W.T. Reid
Twin Dragons
137 Leringard
City of Leringard
Kingdom of Brelin
Andrew
I sorry you and Tai leave so soon party start day after you go! Toranite woman do something important, whole city celebrate! I hear it call Day of Savor (Will say Savior, thank you dear).
I think you not see like this since small boy. Haus Kasai do fireworks, very loud, of course Vanessa and Opal love. People singing dancing in streets, so much joy. Your father even dance with me. Still move good for old man!
She lies. I was only stretching.
Ignore, he dance. Anyway, lady name is Stormhaven, do you know her? Give Matteo Award to her and she Champion of Toran's Will. Funny with their titles! But everyone is happy.
Many guards many Toranites flowers everywhere and big ceremony in Citadel. Later I see Auscultare walking but I wear my heart open so he not talk to me. But maybe he not see me?
Miss Tai. You bring back soon and bring mother with him. Want to meet Taira. Mean this, Tashe. Soon.
Love
Mother
-
Dear Mother.
I apologize for the lateness of this letter. Things have been busy - exceedingly, amazingly busy - and I've simply put it on hold. But I'm sitting by Skyline Lake in the company of two marvelous friends and I'm not as sleepy as I should be, and so. That would explain the blotches and less than perfect scribing, though - a rock is my desk and an abandoned ant pile my blotter.
I'll try to be brief. I'm still teaching in Lor and I've taken on some new responsibilities. I have done a special assignment as well, that I'll tell you in person. In fact most of what I'm doing I will have to tell you in person. It is good that we're all headed to Huangjin, then, no?
Minu and I are still together, after all these years. More and more she is my confident, my friend and my lover - she is amazingly flexible in any role and only gets better at it which is a good thing because I had to tell her I'm in love, again. It was not easy at first but she made it so.
Muse, I will never leave that woman.
Yes, again. Please don't make that face as you told me years ago it will freeze that way. If it soothes you, one - I'm actively trying to not fall in love with any more women, and two - she's human. We'll talk when I arrive.
No one has tried to kill me lately. Willie has picked up all my old political songs and is writing new ones which takes the heat off of me. James is doing well, he's taking tips on leadership from a friend and perhaps he'll captain that ship someday.
Your son is his usual dilettante self although he is a dedicated father. Which I must be now because Ty is walking, running, and has figured out how to untie knots. For both Tyra and I this is a trying time...he's climbing as well. Smart boy though, ours. He knows most of his letters and can count to ten (with some prompting).
How did I end up at Skyline Lake? The boat to Huangjin docked in Corsain for supplies and was delayed, and I took the ship to Creedo instead and am walking across Tilmar. Not the fastest way home, but certainly the more interesting. I've seen things I have only heard of before - the Swamps of Awakening, the Grove of Slumber, and we've been through the Forest of Voices which I remember from childhood. I tried to sing to the monkeys but I only caught glimpses.
I'm traveling with two friends. Daniel is a protector of Rofirein. I know, I know, mother. But he's not a mindless puppet of Law and Order - he's inquisitive and intelligent. You would find him fascinating to converse with I think. I've mentioned my other travel companion before, Lana Poetr, Daniel's cousin by marriage and a fine, fine lady. And no, Lana and I are not "together" so if they accept the invitation to visit that I have extended you may dispense with the usual grilling.
The light grows dim and I am not sure I'll find a bird to send this - we're going to have to head north through the Spine Mountains in the morning. I hope you appreciate what I go through to get to your cooking, mother. As I mentioned I've invited them to visit and I hope you will welcome them. Please make congris. Lots of it.
Your loving son,
Andrew
The petite Tilmarian woman rolled up the letter and went to the window. She ran her fingers through gray hair streaked with ribbons of deep glossy black. She remembered when it had been the other way around.
"Will!" Her voice rang out in Old Timarian.
He ambled out of the sitting room. "What is it dear." It came out in one tone, the kind of automatic response that develops over long years of cohabitation.
"Andrew is coming for a visit and he's bringing friends."
"That's nice de - friends? Who?"
"A Rofierinite, for one."
"WHAT? In this house?"
"We will be polite, Will. He's mentioned this one before I think." There was a sour grumble but a nod from the older man. "The other is a lady, one he's also mentioned - another musician."
"When are they getting here?"
She looked out the window, then slipped on silver frames and looked again. "I don't know but the bird that brought the message was from Harlock's and that is right by the city gates. So today, I think. I'll put on rice, please start the dashi and get out the miso paste - do we have any wakame left? I'll send Vanessa and Opal to get onions and mushrooms...
....
Daniel was ribbing him again about his "command". It seemed to Andrew that the normally stolid priest had a far wickeder sense of humor that he'd given the man credit for. Lana listened with occasional giggles as he described his time in charge of the Haven Mine expedition. "And so one tiny rush into a room - which I did NOT die from, I will have you know - and suddenly I'm "fearless leader". Muse, that woman drove me nuts."
He led them down a dusty lane rutted with wagon tracks and horse droppings as Daniel corrected a few of his assertions with observations of his own. The lane narrowed to the width of one wagon and everywhere was the red dust of dried clay - it coated throats and boots alike. A cut across a lush bit of yard to a story-and-a-half house, traditional Tilmarian architecture with gently curved roofs and red clay shingles, and a menagerie of finely made pots exploding with colorful plants lining either side of the door. An intricately twisted clay post with a shingle that read "Reid Pottery, est. 1424" sat in front; a barn loomed behind the smaller house. All three looked new.
"Okay, here we are. You know, I think you're the first people I've invited over since I left? Besides Tyr'riel." He shook the bell by the door but he'd seen the painted paper curtain shift. The door opened before the second ring.
"Tashe! You home! Come in, supper almost ready. I get letter - these friends?" The woman who wrapped her arms around Andrew's waist was short. Very short. All of five feet maybe, slender even in her sixties, with sharp brown eyes brightened by curiosity. She released her son and turned to his companions. A man walked up behind her, also in his sixties; nearly Andrew's height, lean but muscled and deeply tanned. He rolled eyes almost as dark as his son's over Daniel with a neutral expression, taking in the shield and golden armor.
"Mother, this is Daniel-sama and Lana-sama. Daniel, Lana, please meet my parents - Margret and William Reid."
-
Originally posted by Serissa:
Lana smiles and bows to Andrew's parents. "I'm very happy to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Reid. You are very kind to invite us into your home." Although Lana is close in age to Andrew's mother, she looks more like a trim, active, black-haired woman in her early forties, thanks to her adventurous lifestyle and some elvish blood. She is just slightly taller than Andrew's mother.
-
The Tilmarian woman gave Lana an expert once-over honed from years of females being brought home by her sons and seemed satisfied, although a little surprised. She flashed Lana a warm smile. "Margret, you call me Margret. Come in!" She and her husband shifted to let them enter; Andrew stood aside, waving them in ahead. Margret fixed an expectant, not entirely unfriendly look on Daniel.
-
Originally posted by cbnicholson:
Putting his best foot forward, Daniel smiles and sets aside his shield making sure the emblem is visible. With a bow to Margaret, "Thank you for having us as guests, Ma'am. I have a small gift for the household, if you would accept it?" Daniel holds out two loaves of bread wrapped in a pristine piece of cotton. He then stands next to Lana and waits quietly for further introductions feeling slightly awkward as he stands a good foot and half taller than the rest at six foot two.
-
The loaves were taken with a gracious smile. "Thank you, Dan-e-al." Margret passed them to her husband, still looming behind her, and ushered them into the shaded front room.
It was a showroom, pottery lining shelves on the wall and placed artfully around the floor. Vases, bowls, plates and cups and urns in all sizes were set in casual display; crackled glazed, monochromatic, swirled, painted in another explosion of color echoing the flowers out front. A single long desk ran parallel to the back wall and above on a shelf were a series of fantastical goblets of clay bases and glass vessels. A glazed silver dragon held up a crystal sphere with a portion of the top removed for drinking; a Tilmarian woman, expertly painted with arms outstretched, held a small crystal lotus flower.
William slid aside a paper divider and motioned them through a red-framed door to a dining area beyond. The long table was heavily polished cherry, and all around this room were plants. The window had a smaller table in front of it, perhaps once intended to be a buffet; now it held sixteen neat pots, each single-color glazed and painted with the herb or spice that grew in it, and flora in low, wide planters that resembled perfectly miniature ginkgo, cherry and jade trees.
There was a scuffle from a curtained door to the right and young voices - "I wanna see them!" "Move, Oba said we had to wait - " "I'm big, I can look!" "Vanessa!..." Andrew's smile was bright, even as Margret and William moved in concert toward the noise.
"It's alright, mother, father. I'm sure Daniel and Lana would enj-"
"He said it was alright!" A girl burst from behind the curtain, tall for her ten or eleven years and leggy-thin with shining black hair to her waist, while a set of brown eyes younger by half peered from behind the curtain cloth. The girl ran straight to the two guests and stood in front. "Hi! I'm Opal! Are you really both Rofies?"
-
Originally posted by cbnicholson:
With a low booming laugh, Daniel replies, " I am Opal, Lana is..." He frowns slightly glancing at his stepmother and cousin, "Less enthusiastic about the Great Dragon." Indicating the colorful pottery, Daniel changes the subject, "Is some of this exquisite work yours?"
-
Missing the redirection entirely, Opal looked at Lana. "So who is your god? I like Ilsare. But I like Lucinda too, because she's all magic!" A blink, then Daniel's question registered. "Oh, over here!" She grabbed Daniel and Lana both by the hands and pulled them toward the herb garden.
"Opal, kinasai!" Margret waved the girl back past the curtain.
"Oba, he asked a question." She responded with a strained patience expertly mimicked and Andrew lost his battle for a straight face and laughed. His father gave him a dark look.
"Can you guess which pots are mine? Mama and I made them together!"
-
Originally posted by cbnicholson:
Daniel studies the pots quietly for a time, looking for those that still possess the practicality and grace evident in pieces he is reasonably sure are Margret's yet having a bit of flair as expected of a somewhat quirky young lady, with some hesitation and a glance at Andrew to confirm his guess, "These here perhaps?" He points at a couple.
-
Andrew gave a slight nod to Daniel's choices as a petite Tilmarian woman who looked Lana's apparent age came in with a bowl of steaming soup. Behind her walked a man, only a few inches shorter than Andrew, whose face was similar enough to the bard's to draw a double take. The man's hair was cut short and his face more weathered; beyond that, they could nearly have passed for each other.
"Right! - Oh, not that one, Mama did that one. Mama!" Opal turned to the woman placing soup on the table and fussing with the setting. "He guessed which pots I did!" She pointed to Daniel with a smile. "He's smart, isn't he?"
The woman smiled back and the grandparents, having given up on reining in the child, only sighed. William put a loaf of Daniel's bread on the table and headed for the kitchen with Margret. Andrew stepped closer to his friends and put a gentle, restraining hand on Opal's head. "Daniel, Lana, please meet Opal and..." he paused "...and Vanessa's parents, Shuichi and Miyu." He bowed to the them in greeting as he introduced them. "Shuichi is my brother."
"Whether he wants to be or not." Shuichi's voice was softer than Andrew's, but his eyes sparkled; his speech was strongly accented. "It isn't customary to rush to dinner but the food is ready, would you care to sit?"
-
Originally posted by Serissa:
Lana waited until Daniel was distracted, and then spoke to Margret quietly. "I haven't given my allegiance to any one god or goddess. I often pray to Illsare and Lucinda, but I sometimes ask favors of Beryl, or even Mist. Rofirein seems cold and unforgiving, but I admire the loyalty of his devotees."
Following the others into the showroom, Lana gazed around in awe. Finally, she fixed on a delicate tea bowl, set alone on a small shelf. The glaze was a soft shading of blue to green, and the bowl itself was so thin that it seemed to glow in the light from a nearby window. It was unadorned, except for an unfamiliar white symbol inside, on the bottom of the bowl. "Everything here is so beautiful!" she exclaimed. "But this, this is exquisite!"
-
Margret's smile was bittersweet and her rich voice low as she touched the bowl with a thin, calloused finger. "My daughter make. She always very good salt firing." She started to say something else then stopped, bringing her hand away. "Please forgive granddaughter, she like people. She much like her uncle. We try to teach - teach - " Her brow furrowed as she looked for the word, then relaxed as she gave up. "Reisetsu, good manners. She know but - well, again, like her uncle." Another smile, warmer. "Come, supper ready - later we talk you take bowl?"
-
Originally posted by cbnicholson:
"Miss Opal, I am merely a student of human nature," Daniel smiles then bows slightly at the waist to Shuichi as introductions are made, he mutters to himself glancing at Andrew again, "Remarkable likeness." Clearing his throat, " I do think eating is in order, Thank you. Opal, would you like to sit next to myself?"
-
Shuichi returned Daniel's bow and fetched another chair from a corner. Opal folded her hands demurely behind her back, adopted her most grown-up voice, and looked up at Daniel. "I would be honored, Daniel-san."
More food was brought out and placed by the soup; red and brown sauces in small shallow dishes, pale fish wrapped in seaweed, a large bowl of creamy rice (which Andrew immediately tried to scoop out with childlike glee and was given a sharp rap on the knuckles by his sister-in-law for his efforts), Daniel's bread placed on a blue-glazed pottery slab with thickened cream for dipping, and lastly - brought in by a shyly pretty six year old girl - a platter of balls of melon peeking from a sweetened rice shell. Miyu took the plate and gestured for the girl to sit. "Domo, Vanessa."
Chairs were arranged and William took the head of the table with Margret to his right, and Miyu and Vanessa left of her, and Shuichi at the other end. Daniel was offered the seat left of William, Lana and then Andrew right of Daniel, and Opal wedged the chair Shuichi had just brought between Daniel and Lana and sat up very straight.
William took a look around the table and allowed himself a wintery smile. "I think we'll skip formal prayer."
"Gods bless this food, let's eat." Andrew grinned, still eyeing the rice dish, and Vanessa giggled. A stern glance from William to his youngest son then a resigned nod.
"Let's eat." Food was passed in silence until plates were full, then Margret looked at her guests.
"So you tell how you know my son?" There was a wicked edge to her voice, and her expression was more than a little impish.
-
Originally posted by cbnicholson:
Picking his way through the unusual food with care to avoid dripping sauces on his pristine white robes, Daniel soon begins eating with gusto, " I must say this is simply delicious," he indicates the rice dish and continues," Tis no wonder you were so eager to have it, Andrew. As for your question, let me think a moment, Milady" He chews slowly then swallows. "Aye, my association with Andrew came about through an elvish woman, Zarianna, but If I recall that relationship did not last as long as my own with your son. We have traveled together many times seeking adventure, Andrew and I. I find him to be both entertaining and reliable in a fight." Daniel finishes with a smile toward the Reids, hoping to take some of the heat off Lana and Andrew both.
-
William let his dark-eyed gaze fall on Daniel for a moment. "So what was that conflaguration at the temple a few months ago about? You know about that?"
Andrew paled a bit. "Dad - he's a Rofireinite, they're -"
"-about the same thing." William took a studied bite of wrapped fish and chewed, waiting.
-
Originally posted by cbnicholson:
Daniel finishes his meal and sits back, regarding William for a moment before speaking, his expression guarded, "You speak of Lady Daniella Stormhaven's trials? If so I accompanied her throughout them."
-
Originally posted by Serissa:
Lana smiles and gives her attention to Daniel. "Yes, please, Daniel. Even though I traveled with you for part of the time, I never really understood why Lady Daniela's missions were so important. I just tried to give what little help I could."
-
Andrew winced at his father's question; Vanessa and Opal looked confused, Miyu excused herself to get...something...and Shuichi just sighed. William jumped, looking down suddenly, and Margret's smile was sharp.
"Yes, Dan-e-al, please tell us! Party was much fun, dancing, we hear Toran was saved?" Margret's smile was encouraging and Andrew stifled a laugh at his father's clandestine ankle-rubbing.
-
Originally posted by cbnicholson:
Daniel settles back stroking his mustache lightly with the tips of his fingers, "I am unsure if such a tale is for Toran's faithful alone or for all, but aye, Toran was saved by Lady Daniella's actions, that much I can tell you. I am sorry, but I dare not say more without leave." He frowns slightly as he finishes.
-
William's eyes shifted to Daniel, then to some point on the far wall for a moment. "Fair enough, then." He returned to the remainder of his supper.
Both Vanessa and Opal let out an "awwww" in concert, then Opal raised her hand. "MayIbeexcusedfromthetableplease?" Her face had a little glow and Shuichi raised eyebrows at her and spoke softly.
"Supper is not over, shasha."
"I just need to get something." She tried to slide a surreptitious look at Daniel and Margret smiled.
"Not being rude but Opal can helping me. We be back in shortly." She stood as Opal beamed, then gave William a pointed look. "You ask guests if they have music or art, hobby?"
"Thank you Oba!" Opal and Margret slipped into the front showroom as William muttered a "yes dear" that made him at that moment sound remarkably like Andrew. He looked at Lana and Daniel again as the sweet rice-coated melon was passed.
"Pottery is our art, as you see."
Andrew broke in. "And music."
"And music. What arts do you enjoy?" He leaned back as Andrew gave Lana a smile and a wink.
-
Originally posted by cbnicholson:
Daniel brightens, "I do not have the artistic skill that your pieces have, but I find beauty in simple things that I make with my hands, I do a bit of pottery, woodworking, and these.." He sets a few fine topax, garnet, and feldspar on the table that glow with energy,"These are infused with the power of the Great Dragon, when used properly they release their magic granting strength, a skin of stone, the ability to cure poisons, nearly any prayer of use I can call upon can be captured. Do not fear, none of these stones are made to harm, only protect or enhance." He finishes with a smile.
Originally posted by Serissa:
Lana smiles. "I like to sing, especially with Andrew."
-
Andrew's grin matched Lana's smile. "Before you both go, let's sing - how about the Deep Mother song? A little entertainment after supper? We can swap stanzas. You start..."
Originally posted by cbnicholson:
Daniel chuckles softly, "A real treat, these two in a duet." He sits up a little straighter to hear better.
-
Originally posted by Serissa:
"It was all so delicious, but I can't eat another bite! I'd love to sing for my supper, though no song could do this feast justice."
Lana takes a last sip of tea, pushes away from the table a bit, and sings.
"Darkness surrounds me, covers me, hides me.
Lest light betray me, in darkness I'll bide me.
Heart of Beryl, oh, give me your fire!
Gems flashing bright I desire."
-
There was a scurrying when Lana began to sing as Margret and Opal hurried back, each with something behind their backs. Opal hopped into her chair, turning all her attention to Lana; Miyu smiled and Shuichi put his arm across her shoulders, sitting back to enjoy the duet, both studiously ignoring Vanessa making a little melon and rice sculpture on her plate. Margret was a rapt listener, her arms folded on the table and her eyes only for Lana and her son. Even William relaxed a notch and listened with more than polite attention.
Andrew joined in on the last line, his deep tenor underscoring Lana's beautiful feminine voice; he shivered, as he always did, at how well they sounded together, before he sang the next lines.
"An emerald wink, a diamond kiss
The Deep Mother's eternal bliss
Light from inside crystal and stone
Brighter than that which on surface shone..."
-
Originally posted by Serissa:
*Lana smiles at Andrew and joins in on his last line*
"Skill in their making, long have I prayed for.
For Your Perfection, I'll polish and cut more.
Perfect Beryl, you've set me on fire,
Gems flashing bright I desire!"
-
"...Gems flashing bright I desire!" Vanessa and Opal joined in with Lana and Andrew, the children's voices adding an sweet choral note to the line, then fell silent as Andrew picked up the next verses.
"A ruby heart, a topaz sun
The Deep Mother's glory done
Chisel and file her hymn and chorus
A thousand points of light before us..."
-
Originally posted by Serissa:
*Lana motions Andrew to join her in the final verse.*
"Sparkling from fingers or shining from chest,
Wrapped in gold and Deep Mother blessed,
Marriage of passion and mineral fire,
Gems flashing bright I desire."
Originally posted by cbnicholson:
"Good show!" Daniel claps for the two as they finish with a smile.
-
Their voices carried the last few lines together, and the table clapped along with Daniel. William sat back, wearing his first geniune smile of the evening.
"Milady Lana, that was lovely. You even made him - " He gestured to his son with a glint of amusement " - sound good. Now, you are welcome to stay if you wish for conversation."
Miyu rose and nodded to her girls. Vanessa took a plate back to the kitchen and Opal put the wrapped box she'd been holding on her seat and threw a snowy white cloth napkin over it before picking up dishes and following.
...
Dinner dishes were cleared, some conversation indulged in, much less antagonistically with Margret alert and keeping a close eye on her blunt-spoken husband. Shuichi discussed pottery with Daniel, curious about the cleric's style preferences and technique; Miyu, quiet for the most part, shared a few "parent moments" with them that brought laughing, embarassed protests from their girls. Andrew - for once - kept him mouth mostly shut and listened.
As Daniel and Lana made to leave (Andrew choosing to stay a little longer), Opal hopped in front of Daniel holding the small box elaborately wrapped with red cloth ribbon that she'd hidden under the napkin.
"For you, Daniel! I made it! Oba helped me wrap it though." The box was pressed into his hands with the incandescent smile of an eleven year old girl with a crush. Margret stepped to Lana, handing her a white box a little wider and taller than her palm with blue and green cloth ribbons tied together in a complicated knot.
"You open when home, that is proper. We enjoy visit, you visit again." Waving from Margret, with William and Andrew standing close; Shuichi and Miyu had said goodbye at the table and left to put Vanessa to bed. Andrew walked them out with smiles and thanks, then walked to the barn, humming...
-
Originally posted by cbnicholson:
Daniel excepts the gift, "Thank you, Opal. Such a gift deserves a return I think." Reaching into a pouch he withdraws a fine topaz humming with power. "If ever you are in the direst of danger, call upon the might of this stone and the fury the Great Dragon will smite your foes, stunning them, allowing you to flee. Keep this stone safe until then for in the wrong hands, it can be a very potent weapon," He finishes gravely pressing it into her hands, he leans forward kissing her forehead and whispering, "The Great Dragon has chosen a mate for myself, but I will always look upon you with favor and as a friend, Opal. Until we meet again, may the Dragon's scales protect you child."
Daniel then turns to Andrew's parents, "Tokaya Willian, Rediou Margret, " he bows with the honorific, "Thank you for the fine meal, I enjoyed my visit immensely. I know this is a house of Illsare, but all fall under the protection of the law and by extension the Great Dragon. May your household continue to be blessed by both love and prosperiety, " Daniel waves and smiles.
-
Originally posted by Serissa:
Lana accepts the box and hugs Margret, saying, "Oh, Margret! The box itself is a present--it's beautiful! Thank you so much! I'm not sure I can wait until I get home to open it, but I'll try. It's an awfully long trip."
"I loved the food you prepared. Thank you for sharing your home with us. I'd love to visit again someday."
Lana takes a heavy gold chain bearing a pink faceted stone out of her pocket and fastens it around Margret's neck. "I'm just learning to make jewelry, so this isn't very fancy, but you might find it useful in carrying heavy things--it will make you a little stronger. I hope you'll think of me when you wear it."
After saying goodbye to everyone, Lana leaves with Daniel, and frets about the mysterious box all the way home.
-
Originally posted by osxmallard:
* Aya carefully lays a letter on Andrew's pillow at the inn *
Andrew,
I have been searching for you relentlessly for the past few weeks, but you are nowhere to be found. I am praying that nothing bad has happened to you or has placed you in a predicament out of your control. I shall next travel to Elohanna's school to see if she may know where you are or have been.
I travelled back home a week past but could not bring myself to enter the house or face father and mother. I longed to see Vanessa, but it is better that I do not disturb her and let her go along with her schooling and placement with her new family. Perhaps when she is older she might forgive me and desire to be a part of my life, and I a part of hers.
Would you help me in contacting that elven woman you travelled with, Jaelle? I deeply desire to speak with her about religion. I have been doing some soul searching as of late, and I feel that I am no longer drawn by the arts and beauty of Ilsare. My want is for something more fitting for my soul, a bond with another goddess, and I think Jaelle may be able to assist me with this decision.
Please come home soon. I miss you and love you.
Love,
Aya
__________________
-
Originally posted by Serissa:
Back from her long journey, Lana finally unwrapped her present, with Katelyn and Bria watching. She carefully untied the twined ribbons and opened the cloth to find the delicate ceramic bowl she had so admired. The vivid blues and greens melted into one another and even seemed to shift back and forth as she turned the bowl, which was so thin that the light glowed through it. The girls gasped in awe and both wanted to hold the bowl. Lana allowed it, just this once, showing them the stylized initials intertwined to make a symbol on the bottom of the bowl. "See, it says ASR, that's Andrew's sister. She made this masterpiece. We're going to put it on its own shelf, so we can look at it every day. It's too beautiful to use, though, so you must not touch it."
After the girls settled down, Lana wrote a letter and sent it on the long journey to Huang-jin.
Dear Margret,
Thank you, thank you for the tea bowl you gave me! I shall treasure it always and think of you and your family when I see it every day. I wish I could have met your daughter--the one who made this lovely thing. She must be a very special person. I know you are very proud of her.
Thank you again for having Daniel and me in your home, and for providing such a delicious meal. I'll have to come visit again sometime, just to get more of your cooking! I really enjoyed getting to meet you and your family, and I hope to see you again someday. May all the good gods bless you.
Sincerely,
Lana Poetr
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*sent by bird*
Hello Mother
As promised, I write. I thank you for the letter and I will let Aya know about Vanessa's new interest in the harp and piano, should I find her. We've not crossed paths in some time and I will confess some worry. I'll have to trust Ilsare is keeping her busy and happy.
I'm hardly surprised about Opal's glass working, the girl's always had the manual dexterity for it and a heart for creation. Please bid her to make me something that I can display in my room to show off - that should bring a smile!
Things are quiet for the moment and I am preparing to take my lover on a brief but much-needed vacation. Minu and I will be going to the Breath of the Muse for a week, only fair since I've spent so long under the roof of her Healing Light. I can't wait to show her around and I pray they'll let her loose in the kitchens. I look forward to putting on a few pounds that week with savory anticipation!
After that it's back to Tyr'riel and Lor. In order: your grandson is doing much better, all traces of the pox except for his scarring are gone. He remains a quiet boy and has only two friends that he plays with regularly. I fret like an old woman over his introspection but Tyra finds it normal and is unworried, although I think she is glad to be less inconvenienced by him. He enjoys having his own room, the spare one I rented from Tyrian, although I have had to lock my crates as he can't seem to stay out of them.
We brought back the swing I made for him and lacking a better place we tie it to the arm of one of the dragon statues and he swings there. A few of the guests have ratted us out I'm sure but so far Tyrian has not said anything. The statues are firmly in place, not to worry - they won't topple onto him, I made well sure of that.
Autumn remains with us although she's been out more often, when I am home, and good for her I say. She's a beautiful woman and I hope Ilsare touches her soon, despite the loss of her presence and help that would entail. She will be a fine mother to someone and she's had enough practice!
And, Lor. My adopted home, and one I need to make official, somehow. Once again there is a lull as the latest demand is digested; an easy one, this time, reasonable to the citizens and government and of itself something I would support, namely protecting merchant caravans to the Rael border. Because, yes, there really is a war on, and I was shocked to find it so. I'm not sure if the news has traveled to Huangjin yet but dark elves attacked Rael's kingdom in coordinated multiple locations. Mother, I really thought it was a farce, and knowing it's real makes everything that much more complicated. I can't side with the dark elves, knowing what I know about them. The damage their raids will cause the citizens is horrific. I can't side with Rael, because...I just can't. My only option is to do what I can to protect the citizens who will lose either way. Although, and it is a cheese grater on my tongue to admit this, they're currently less in danger from their ruler than from his enemies.
I need to write a song about his "law and order" bringing chaos and war to our surface, as opposed to the peace that the "chaotic" former government maintained. People forget so quickly. I've been reminding them as much as I can before the as-yet unfinished law governing what the citizens will be allowed to say in public is finished. And learning as much as I can about modulation and projection in the context of the Heartsong to boot. A firm understanding still eludes me but I figure out a little more each time I try.
So, say a prayer for this little jut of land that kisses the ocean, still trying to be free as one "request" after another anesthetizes them to their eventual fate. I will continue to sing the truth...but I have a sick feeling that the snake will swallow us eventually.
Ty and I will be there for the holidays. I will try my best to bring Minu with me so please stop sliding that hint into every third sentence, my not-so-subtle progenitor. If her schedule permits, we'll all be there.
Love to the family
Your loving son and grandson,
Tashe
*scribed in a child's hand, in carefully printed letters*TYR ' RIEL
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*scribbled onto rain-spotted pages in a journal*
Oma
Grovel
Nonac
Kylie
Jil
Lance
Flynn
Griff
Ysgraine
Xanya
Zig
Griff
Trouble
Aerimor
That weird guy from the spider caves
Quiet elf male, tribal tattoos
We're deep in the forest near the Great Oak. Tried to catch a glimpse, could not see it.
Group is shuffling about - Grovel has gone to ask about seeing the Council. He thinks he's in charge, this should be fun.
Saw some very cute druid-y type females. They might have been males, come to think of it. I'm not sure it makes a difference to me right now - must remember to behave.
Talk of the forest and the Cult. Grovel is completely against letting the Cult through, Zig seems more inclined to listen, Trouble is keeping an open mind. I think we should rig the deal as much as possible.
Took some water from a stream to fill my canteen, best freshest water I've tasted in a while. It's nice here, even if there isn't any room service.
Supposedly there are a couple High Druids here from East and West, but I can't tell them from the low druids, or the bargain-basement druids. They all are kind of leafy and tan. Walker of Horn, Shinto of Nesar, Larina from Hilm and Morimer from Kuhl - druids whose names are being bandied about - are also speaking. And Lance, but he's mum on why.
Two mystery speakers are also coming. And Kuhl's ambassador, Lister Tremaine. Puppet for the Cult, probably, and I've been a negotiation like that before - we'll see how smug he is. He does like his Drach Garra bodyguards, and that mustache. I wonder if he has his own personal groomer? You could deflect arrows with that thing as waxed as it is. I wonder about him, this Lord of Ash. He had been in charge of Ash under Queen Alise Langovale before the takeover...a plant, or an opportunist?
Queen Dierdre of Horn is here somewhere but she's keeping a low profile. I wonder if she's single...
They're moving us from the tents to the meeting area. Still can't see the Great Oak. I estimate fifty people plus entourage, and I'm sure there are more I can't see. Very noisy. The Queen is seated - pretty, not stunning. Still...
Stars and song, Oma just sat next to the Queen. I am choking trying not to laugh.
Mortimer is a chunker, as I was told. He looks like an easygoing old guy who's been put through a wash-ringer. He can't stop clenching and unclenching his hands and he's not making eye contact. Someone got to him.
Grovel's talking to him, I can't hear over the din of voices. He's offering him pie - Muse, goblin pie. This could end negotiations right now.
Good, he didn't eat it. He's not that stupid.
Walker of Horn was pointed out to me. Tall for an elf - slim, blond and blue. Icy eyes and the look of a hunter.
Shinto's big. Big hands, strong legs, wide shoulders, smug expression. Either he knows something or he's just cocky. He's got Island blood from somewhere, Corsain or Tilmar.
Larina, there she is - she just came out. She's a halfling, I like her look - friendly and open. Walks like a mother tiger.
There's a human man, a little older than I, expensive robes - Muse, Black Wizards! Silver and red threads in that pattern on that cut of black robe. Has to be.
I've been told that's Andras fen Carwyn. I'm afraid I might have a guess why a Black Wizard is here...
Wow, the elf behind Larina is gorgeous. Really, really gorgeous. She looks young but she has the same confidence I see on Minu so I don't think she's that young. Muse she's lovely.
She caught me staring. Just smiled politely and looked away. Probably going to wash out if I try.
I'll probably try anyway. Hot!
The High Druids just arrived, both female. I'll never spell this name correctly - Laudel Antha Earl-Ethreal and Bella - Bella? I must introduce them. Bella Wyvenstrom.
Lance better quit cracking his neck like that or he's going to end up in traction.
Grovel's standing and calling Zig up - Laudel is speaking. Welcoming us all, very formal, Trouble's gone wandering.
Good, the rain's stopped, I need a cigar so bad my teeth itch.
She's calling it an alliance between Horn and Kuhl - mutual understanding, trade, and military. Grovel warned us they'd be looking to stick Horn in front of them like a shield. There is it.
Lister's up first to speak. Dusting his coat, how nice and symbolic. Formal court bowing. He's well trained. Thank you, admiration and respect, blah blah. "Proud to offer you the opportunity to ally with the strong and benevolent kingdom of Khul". WHAT IS IT WITH THE BENEVOLENT??!! Is there an evil empire out there that actually has the guts to be what they are? I have so heard this song and dance before.
Now he's listing the benefits. Right. "Guarantee safety of Horn and Great Forest". Yes, he's from the School of Rael Ambassadors.
Now he's on about how they care about nature in Kuhl - not taking too much, not cutting down trees, not hunting for sport. Admitting room for growth and asking for ambassadors - clever. Some rumblings from around me about all the farms they have in Kuhl - that would jive with the first Triple S target...
Oma's pouting about not being allowed to sit up with the Queen. This time I did laugh. Funny old witch!
Loyal and proud to be allies, sure you would. And it's raining again - bloody pits, my cigar's out. At least Lister didn't slip and say "demands" but it's the same story - we're more powerful, and we'll destroy what you love if you don't accept us. Bloody tyrants - they have nothing but power to leverage and the will to do it. And when we fight, we get blamed for collateral damage.
Walker's up next. He's not happy. "No matter how the coin falls, the outcome will not be in our favor". Truth, brother.
Kuhl captured a Great Eagle and nailed it to a tree to get Plenarius' attention? Sick. Good thing Keppli's not here, she'd attack the entourage I'd bet.
He's pointing out the lives and forest lost to war. Once again, the will to destroy trumps the desire to preserve. Go to war, and battle Kuhl - ally and battle their enemies for them. Smart man. He's pointing out what a major shaping of the land might occur -
Good, now he's putting some druid muscle on the line. "Think of what 'we' could do once our anger is aroused".
Oh, he's against that. Muse. He's asking for us to consider the implications of refusing the alliance. Yes, Belinara would change - but change can be good. And hiding behind what always was gives you what always is. They win.
Shinto's up. He's smiling in a self-satisfied way. Trues to pastries the Black Wizard is here with him. I'm betting he'll vote against the alliance to weaken both kingdoms for Nesar.
Not fond of doomsayings? You work for Corathites by the Muse! You guys take classes in doomsaying and monologuing!
Now he's going on about how Kuhl has never been a problem for Nesar and dragons are not our friends. Hard logic to argue, actually - we're ants to them. Annoying, loud ants who smell funny.
The utterly gorgeous elven woman is tense and just cursed, in what language I do not know. Shinto just finished up weighing in for an alliance - I lose my bet. Good thing I didn't wager with myself.
Larina is next. She's too short for the rock slab podium. Not steady in her confidence for some reason. She's asking to stand beside the bolder...she should stand on top of it! Make a statement!
Kuhl helped Hilm with Xandrial's pit spawn problem? Before the Cult, then. She said that like someone was yanking a splinter, so she's trying to be fair.
Ah - here we are. Transforming human beings into half dragons or lizardmen, yes, that's relevant. She's pointing the finger right at Lister. Good for her! And speaking of controlling dragons, and enslaving creatures, that's not going to go over well. Kind of a sentient habit to enslave creatures. Hells, I own a horse and an ox, so I'm not really one to talk either...
Aerimor says it's slavery to own a horse - well, he said "yes" when I asked myself that. I should have a druid talk to Sonata and see what she thinks. I'm pretty sure Ribs is happy to hang out with other oxen and eat all the time.
She doesn't want to fight with them but doesn't want to pick up the sword with the other hand. She's recommending neutrality. Force them to show their hand! "If we cannot side with peace, then why side at all?"
Mortimer is speaking. He's walking slow, is he ill?
He's not sure he should have a voice? He has no right? Interesting...
Grovel's trying to take his place. Mortimer's saying he's not fit and someone else should speak for Kuhl. Laudel is arguing with him, telling him to speak his mind.
He's speaking for Kuhl but he doesn't want to. His shoulders are sagging, he won't look at anyone. Either they are all blind or they've never faced a hostile audience before - he's not speaking his heart.
More than that he's saying the opposite of what some seem to remember. He's been threatened. I'm calling out for a replacement.
He's trying to stand straight - come on man, take a stand...what do you care about that they hold from you -
Wait, he's saying he refuses to be a slave - I'm trying to send song to him, using my lower tones, maybe it will help.
His daughter! He's accusing Lister and his entourage of being murders, criminals, corrupters...he refuses to bow, even if it means his daughter's life! The gallery's erupted in noise! Lister is confronting him, looking outraged -
Mortimer is saying Arian, Kuhl's best tracker, lost the scent of his daughter as if she vanished or was picked up. Lister is playing the disbelief card, now Mortimer's calling for war on Kuhl, "we must be the bolder that rolls down the mountain". He looks like a bolder.
Laudel's trying to calm him - daughter's name is Neria. She's asking for proof. Either way the Cult wins this round unless he has proof. Unless they let Grovel speak for Kuhl. Please, let the goblin up there...
Mortimer's arguing they want to sway his voice, good point but not proof. This will go badly.
There it is - he's not been approached with terms from any kidnappers, he has no proof. Let the goblin and the dwarf speak!
What the pits is Zig building over there, a pyre?
Mortimer is broken, he's sitting like a statue - "do you know what this will cost me?" The druid from the spider cave is comforting him.
Lister is doing outrage again. He's good. He's promising to put "his best man on the case" to Mortimer. Odd, he seems sincere... Now he's addressing the panel - saying this was a set-up to make him look bad, a criminal -
Muse, he's not kidding, or at least he seems really surprised about the accusation. He's saying he's a father and I just don't hear any of the usual tells...
Grovel whispers "kidnapping dragons ok though" in the squeakiest sarcasm I've ever heard from a goblin. Truth.
He's saying he won't hold it against Mortimer. He's sitting down. Slippery kusatta roba but I don't think he's lying this time.
Gorgeous elf is next - Y'ogoldrania...
Maybe a dragon in human form? My heart just went double time. Still hot!
She knows first hand of the poison. Dragon, I'd stake my voice on it. She's saying it's not a new poison but not completely in it's ancient form either. She's against the alliance, saying the taint will spread from Horn. I can't stop staring.
Zig's next. He's lit the pile next to him - pyre, right again. Some druid thing? Stars and song, he's putting his arm in the fire and charring it! Smells awful. He's put it out and walked up. He's holding his arm up - "you burn my skin and I will be in pain, I will eventually heal and recover, you cut my heart out and I will die." Dramatic pause - don't hold it too long, Zig, timing, know your audience...
He's speaking: A war may or may not take place, and will do damage and burn the forest, but if the taint is allowed to form an alliance Horn will eventually be taken over and no longer have a neutral voice for it's protection, it will be corrupted as Phaal was, that's how they work, Muse my hand hurts, starting small but building power through deceit and intimidation...
By the Muse, Zig, slower! Comparing Kuhl to Prantz with the promises and protections, now about the farming until the land is barren, that's why they look to Horn's woods - Zig saw Kuhl troops mutilating forest renders, despite their assurances they don't hunt - leaving them to rot - can you eat forest render? I wonder if they taste like salad? Nonac looks hungry all of a sudden - Zig's saying Mortimer already sent emissaries to teach them to protect nature -
Some woman is talking to Lister, wearing an eye patch, thank the Muse Zig's slowing down. Something about Kuhl listening but not hearing on how to best preserve their farms, so they're seeking new forest.
A Kuhl plot against Hilm?
*big ink blot*
He's accusing Kuhl of having blood pools to make the dragon poisons, abusing the lands, using Horn to attack Hilm - with an alliance with Nesar, they'd have the whole continent -
Lister's trying to horn in, Laudel's refusing him - Lister is angry, staring daggers at Zig - saying how blood pools caused the great darkening, something about Bastion dying full of blood well poison, corrupting the woods around it where it landed - alliance is the antithesis of what the druids stand for - good point, nice word Zig. He's wrapping up, I think, the alliance goes against everything druids strive to preserve and give them credibility they don't deserve.
Gallery is erupting in applause. Lance is whispering his job is a little easier now.
Grovel is up. Gods, my hand -
Introducing himself as Grovel Foaming Wolf, Druid of Wolf totem, shaman of Warg Tribe, etc.
He's groveling. Ow, it hurts not to laugh.
Speaking to how much we've heard today, about adventurers and what they see and hear and experience, and the scary news...calling the Green Dragon Cult the Kuhl Cult. Can't say that ten times fast I bet.
Speaking to the poisons fed humans and dragons that warp and destroy the natural form - asking is it good for the Oak? Asking if they respect the ceasefire, his answer, no - back to the renders and chopping of trees, attacking druids on sight - saying allowing them free passage gains Horn nothing, gives Kuhl everything - by the Muse he's speaking clearly, dropping the goblin accent. AHA! I knew it!
There, it's back. Saying if they walk free in the woods, they'll attack the cities, capture dragons, bring angry mobs back to burn the woods, the dragons will burn the forest with dragon fire, more on the poison and corruptions, speaking on the magic as bad as necromancy...
Okay, he's brought Bloodstone up. I wondered when someone would. Calling him the last dragon hunter. Talking about Bloodstone bringing Eon's fire to the woods, bringing Rael to take power and spread, the blood wells, the death that destroyed half the world - how he attacked the Great Oak directly - he's very animated, the council seemed either amused or repulsed at first but they're listening now - tying all that to the new dragon hunters, using a blood well, putting the world at stake - speaking of the backlash, the Toranites, Steel's mercenaries, who would see Horn as Kuhl's ally.
Asking the council to drive Kuhl out - "Out of our woods! Defile not our forests! Th KUHL Dragon Cult should know no refuge in the sanctity of the oak!" Good passion, there.
Now he's raising his fist and cheering "No More Kuhl Dragon Cult!" - there is some cheering, no, wait, that's Nonac and Kylie - now Ysgraine, no response from the other side.
*the handwriting's slant shifts from right to left*
Andras is stepping up. Y'ogoldrania looks as if she's going to have kittens. He's being respectful and smooth, of course. He's saying he has nothing further to say on the matter, and is thankful they've all been given voice. He's sitting down! Interesting...
Lance is standing. He's being called forward - he has a proposal? Lots of whispering, Ysgraine is murmuring, Grovel thinks we've won.
He's representing Hilm in a proposal for an alliance between Hilm and Horn! Good stuff, Lance. Speaking of shared ideals, the need that allowed the kingdom to be born...he's speaking for Lord Protector Alexander Fortain, a general and leader of Kuhl and now in Hilm - standing for peace, and the cause of peace - keep going, Lance, keep going, they're listening - speaking now of the alliance being safety for both kingdoms, good.
Talking now of how he's not one with the land, no kidding Lance, you tin can - assuring them that they know the priorities, and they understand what is important to Horn - acknowledging differing points of view, but putting forth hope of working together instead of praise and flattery, nice one Lance - asking to be considered an ally standing for the good of Belinara, created by the wisdom of the three Kingdoms in the past.
Applause, well done Mister Stargazer - maybe I have to quit calling him Navelgazer now? Nice polite bow to the Kuhl ambassador, no smirking.
Lister's rebutting. Murmuring from the Gallery. Does it do nothing but rain here?
Playing the "groundless accusations" card. Coming to extend a hand to the Kingdom of Horn, good will and a promise of future peace - and are accused of slaying renders, now saying the renders are bloodthirsty and attack farms, killing indiscriminately, men women and children - speaks about blood wells, saying history has taught not to mess with those and Bloodstone is old history - not that old, buster - and being offended that Hilm has put up their own proposal - Lance looks offended. Or constipated, hard to see - now Lister's refuting that Kuhl is about to go to war with Hilm, saying he'd know if that were the case...he's looking at his men now - does he know, or not?
Now he's talking about how Kuhl helped with Hilm's pit creature struggles, saying Kuhl is selfless and acts for the common good. Now about the dragons, how Molten Isle was the end result of letting them loose - well, Fisty's a nice host even if the cover charge is a little steep - he's talking about the aftermath of the dragon wars, looking at Y'ogoldrania specifically - trying to justify enslavement by comparing it to a rabid dog in the yard - Grovel's accusing him of using the rabid dog to attack others - Lister says no, Grovel's standing up now - Ysgraine is trying to restrain him.
Lister is saying that the people of Ash and Phaal delight in their dragon protectors, says they are allowed to ride on their backs and feed them - Grovel is on about the necromancy again, Nonac thinks they're feeding the dragon children, clean out your ear wax Nonac - Grovel's yelling, Laudel's demanding silence.
Gallery is quieting, Laudel is allowing questions, asking it to be short.
Trouble is raising his hand - Trouble Tempest of Palden Lake, to Lister - asking if the alliance - he's nodding to Aerimor - had a mutual non-aggression pack stating neither Horn nor Kuhl could go to war with any other body would Kuhl honor it? Lister says what if Kuhl is attacked. Trouble says it exempts the right to defend one's self. They'd only goad someone into attacking them, such as Hilm.
Lister weasels, saying it would have to be negotiated, and he's confident it would prove favorable. Trouble's nodding and moving back.
Griff's moving up - full armor, the druids are sucking lemons at that - Griff Silversand, Paladin of That Dwarven War God - he's got a question for Trouble? Why not just ask him quietly? Confusion in the gallery.
Trouble's telling him he's not in charge. Ysgraine and Admorian - note to self, spider cave druid's name - placed a bet because payment is being worked out. Ysgraine is looking smug. Griff is pointing out how Kuhl would only force an attack to get around the non-aggression pact, my point exactly - Lister's calling it an accusation, Griff's telling him to shut it but politely - Trouble's answering, he's fidgeting - he thinks they would? Grovel's yelling for Lister to sit down - Trouble's amending his statement, saying they'd honor it until Horn had served it's purpose, then they'd be turned on - notes this as personal opinion. Notes that this is all about what's best for Horn.
The wild-looking druid next - Drogo of Alindor, druid of the Oak - goes back to Lister's statement of the dog being chained - asks why they believe the wilds and dragonkin are dogs.
I've been requested to ask a question.
Drogo is saying no dragon of free will allows itself to be chained - he's looking to Lister - Grovel seems to like saying Mister Lister - Lister is doing the soothing statesman now, saying it's only a figure of speech. Drogo says his common is not good, then brings up that children ride and feed the dragons in Ash and Phaal. Lister says that if you have a life threat you act to prevent it or wait until it's too late - after Bloodstone fell, dragons came "seemingly from nowhere". He says some may not seek to conquer adn enslave, but many do. Drogo says that Lister/Kuhl sees themselves as the new Bloodstone and thanks them for the clarification. Lister speaks over him about who will challenge them - Drogo says all beings have places - Lister's backpedaling on the Sinthar comparison - Drogo's as calm as a rock, leading him with simple words, Muse this is interesting to watch - Drogo says his words say one thing, then another - Lister says Kuhl can negate an all-encompassing threat to all races - Drogo says that is why they are not of the oak, dragons are part of the whole - Ow, cramps - Lister offers a tour to Drogo, Grovel accepts, Drogo steps back.
Last questions, I'll find out after the council debates.
Mrs. Ysgraine Ursus of the Ursus clan, shaman and druid of Krashin - go, my Sister! - asks bluntly how Kuhl can be trusted. Lister responds that other nations would go to war with them if they backed out of a treaty - except they are allied with Nesar, bloody liars, and that leaves Hilm all alone. He's speaking about trust now, how if we didn't trust leadership we wouldn't be standing here today.
Nonac tried to push me off Y'ogoldrania, the little booger. She's not fond of crowds or being eye to eye with people - didn't have a chance to ask her for a stroll, the council's back.
They've decided.
They declined the offer of Kuhl! Score one for the non-poison-using good guys!
Oh dear, they're looking at Lance now - he's about to get shot down as hard as I will be when I try to take Y'ogoldrania to supper.
Yep. "We're not prepared to enter an alliance with the Hilm Protectorate. We have negotiated before and may do so again. Our past links us. We will consider your offer in the future." Don't write me, I'll write you. Boy do I know that line.
Lister says it's most unwise, he's sorry to be forced to say this - here it comes - if you're not with us, you're against us. Most definitely the school of Rael, there.
Saying what a tragedy it would be if the day were to arise that Horn was "against" Kuhl. And, he leaves, with the eyepatched woman leading. Laudel is calling the druids out - Lance, seriously, you're going to hurt yourself - and if you end up in a neck brace I'll find a way to laugh at you every single day -
Laudel is asking the druids do not stir up the hornet's nest while they figure out the balance. Nothing to give them a reason to come at Horn. Druids are agreeing, most of them - the goblins, not so much. She's saying a sending will come out soon. Trouble is speaking of increasing defenses, Aerimor to speak to the High Druid, Grovel on Mortimer's daughter - Muse, I'm hungry - they're debating whether Mortimer should stay in his post, Lance wants to talk to me.
He wants a copy of the events. Must edit out some things. I'll offer this to the High Druids and the Queen as well.
*The notes end here - he shares most of this information in conversation with those he knows have a stake in Cult goings-on; EDIT, not the superfluous parts and not his suspicions about the gorgeous elf woman being a dragon - he will not mention these things*
//This was scribed live during the proceedings. Nothing was added or edited from the above commentary after the event was over; everything is exactly as it was written moment to moment.
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They walked in to the Twin Dragons, the father nodding to a few of the patrons, the son gripping two of his father's fingers in a warm and sticky hand. The rock-sugar bribe the father had offered had not cheered as it would have any other day; the boy accepted it with a weak smile that made tiny ovals of his facial scars, and sucked mechanically as they strolled from the Arms to home.
They moved together across the great room, the father taking it in with a suddenly critical eye given what he was likely going to be purchasing soon. The flow of people, the placement of the bar - I'm an alcoholic, and I'm buying a bar. Brilliant, Tashe - the stage area, the kitchen. The physical protections, locks...any large openings, the height of the windows. He'd scanned as much of the roof as he could walking up and fully intended to do a walkabout up there as soon as he could. Slate, it looked like, which was good. He wondered briefly what the roof of the Weary Traveler was made of and if it would resist clawed feet.
"I'm tired." Plainly put, without whining. He shot a worried look at his son.
"You can nap soon, Ty. Let's talk first - your mother tells me you both went to Rachel's funeral." The child gave a hesitant nod, his face scrunching.
"We used to play tag. She showed me where the frogs were in the creek, where Charlie showed her, when I got babysatted there." The boy paused just short of the door to the private residence hall. "She's dead. That means we can't play anymore, ever..." He didn't move, as if the understanding were mortar around his feet. His father scooped him up in a fierce hug before shifting the child to one arm.
"Death happens, Tyri. It's a sad thing, it leaves you empty - right here - " He tapped just left of his breastbone - "But it does happen. It..." Soothing words tripped and fell, useless. The child understood enough to hurt but not enough to be comforted.
"Why didn't she come back? Come back to the...the stone?"
"Not everyone does that. In fact, most people do not."
"How come? Will I?" Intense dark eyes, with the same slant, the same folds, almost the same color as the man he stared at. The father forgot, often, that the son was not of his body.
"Not yet, Tyri. That's a decision that you can make when you're older."
"I'm old enough. I want to be binded." The father opened his mouth to argue, then deferred. A tired child made for a very long argument.
"We'll talk about that later, when you've slept and when your mother is around." He braced himself, but Ilsare smiled on him and the child let it go. "Ty, I'm going to sing for Grandmother and Grandfather - my grandparents, your great-grandparents - do you want to play for them?"
The small dark eyes narrowed, and the boy sucked on the bend of his thumb for half a minute. "Yes."
"Okay, I'm going to put you down now and I'll set up. Watch what I do, Tyri, and ask questions if you wish."
"What are great grandparents?"
The mahogany box was in a bottom drawer of his desk and felt warm to the touch, or so he imagined. He opened it and removed a green crackle-glazed bowl, a phial of oil, a candle - he'd made the candle, and the bowl - and a pouch of grey dust. The boy's question hung unanswered. He held the little pouch in a cupped hand, one thumb stroking the thin leather.
"You know I'm your father, and Tyra is your mother." A nod from the child as the father poured water from a carafe into the bowl. "And you know that Grandfather Shiff and Grandma Val are your mother's daddy and mommy, and oji-Reid and Oba are my daddy and mommy." Another nod. "Liang and Rose are...were...oji-Reid's daddy and mommy." The oil drops spread across the surface in a whisper-thin rainbow slick.
"What're you doing?"
"This is a way for me to - it's a tradition, something Grandfather Liang taught me. A way to honor them. I miss them very much." Just a pinch of the dust over the bowl, and he wiped his fingers carefully afterward. "It helps me feel closer to them."
The child watched as the candle was lit and a wavering blue flame swirled across the water's surface. His father crossed his legs, leaned over, and folded his arms across his chest, bowing his head toward the bowl. He sang, some long-ago song that the boy kind of remembered. The boy's guitar was lying inside the door and he scooted to get it, settling himself in front of the little flame. He didn't know who he was playing for and wasn't sure if the spirits would be in the room to hear him or in Ilsare's heaven or somewhere else, so he played his song, his first song, and thought about his grandparents instead. His father's eyes were closed and the song was wordless now, just sound, just melody. The boy relaxed even though he was really tired and strummed to match the feeling he always got listening to his daddy sing.
The flame vanished on the water. The man rose, unfolded his arms, opened his eyes. The boy set pushed his guitar aside and crawled to his father's lap. Neither spoke for many minutes, until a growling stomach made the boy giggle.
"You need snack, daddy."
"I know. Ty, look at me." The child looked up. "You heard how Rachel died."
"The mist monsters got her."
A nod. "She got Rebecca home safe before they did, but there is no one to get you home safe if you're out playing and the mists come. I've asked your great-grandparents to watch over you, but you have to do your part. I know you are sneaky, and I know you can hide. So if the mists come, Ty, you sneak, and you hide. Just like I've taught you, your mother has taught you, Autumn has taught you. No running, no screaming, just find a hidey-place and be still, and be quiet. Can you do that?"
The child's nod was solemn. "Good. We'll practice." The man patted the boy's head and stood. "Let's get some supper, and then you can nap."
-
To:
Margaret Reid
2 Clay Ward
Huangjin
Tilmar
Hello Mother. I write hoping things are well, and business is good, and to let you know I'm buying an Inn. I'll let that sink in a moment.
Still with me? Good.
I don't own it yet as I still need to meet with the owners and negotiate. I have the money, I was able to line up investors -- who knew I had any skills with securing capital? The Inn I have my eye on is a place in Mariner's Hold. It's a large building, using up much of the land it's built on, so there are no pastures or gardens. Finding a place to put the stables is going to be tricky and its waterfront property which limits any front yard. But, it is well kept up and in good repair if a bit outdated in décor; it belonged to a merchant guild since passed to obscurity from what I was able to find out. And, Muse willing, it's going to be mine. I'll keep you posted on the purchase.
I imagine you've just asked yourself why a boy who could never keep two feet in the same place thinks he has any business tying himself to one -- I asked myself that also. But I know the answer. Lately, as I have slowly become marginally less a mystery to myself (more on that later), I've looked back on things I've said and done and a letter came to mind that I wrote to Angela Swann -- she's the former member of the Lor Diet that I told you about, and a friend. I was writing to her about ways to impede Rael's march to the corners of Dregar and a personal truth came out on paper. I am a man with no standing, no reputation save that of a musician, no permanent address, and no property. While this has never been a problem before, when I think of things I may want to do someday -- assuming Ilsare blesses me with a long and healthy life -- it will become one. Clout and respect are earned, not freely given, a lesson I'm trying to impress on Ty right now I might add. And one I'm still learning.
So I am looking to secure and run a business, and bless the Muse for Minuet. She's not only offered to teach me how to use a ledger and some basic bookkeeping but she's even considering moving into the Inn with me. Her place in Fort Llast is under increasingly bold attacks due to small minds and fearmongering. I'm afraid she'll end up having to hurt someone -- I'm not afraid she'll end up hurt, her magic is that powerful. But she's one of Aeridin's and even to be forced to kill someone in defense would lay her heart low. So I asked, and she's considering -- I sweetened the pot with an offer to let her be in charge of the large and very functional kitchen, and her own personal storage room off of it. She liked that idea very much.
That and I told her she'd have to sleep with the boss!
So while that deal simmers, and I await the owners who may be a few months yet due to travel, I have spent a great deal of time with Tyr'riel. His normal quiet smiles are dim right now over the loss of a friend, a girl-child named Rachel who was attacked in the horrifying mists that were everywhere recently. Tyra took him to her funeral and he came back very upset. He's been talking about binding himself to the stones so he won't die which tells me he's got some concept of what death is; I've forbidden him to do that at this time. He's also become overprotective of Rachel's little sister, Rebecca, who survived the attack. I should mention both these children are Daniel's girls, the Daniel Poetr who came to supper long ago. You remember him I'm sure. I know father does.
With all that Ty's experienced he's become a handful lately. His mother bought him a sword for his sixth birthday, not something she discussed with me, but we both agreed he'd only practice with it when one of us was attending. I'm pleased by his choice -- a single wakazashi and a fine one at that. He's true to his blood, my son.
You asked me if he was thinking of what he'd want to do someday. He shows no signs of any innate connection to the Al'Noth, nor any desire to learn, and although his guitar playing is quite good now he's no singer. What he does want is to practice swords with me. I'm flattered that he's interested in his old dad -- it's always been his mother who's taught him blades, but he's become enamored of my style of fighting, so this last month I've split the training time with Tyra. I'm going to have to get Master Damon involved at some point as I'm not really qualified to teach the moves I practice but for the time being, it's nice to share the intricate dance of the unarmored fighter together. And I cherish this time that I can actually beat him in a duel, because the way he's going, it won't be for long.
In fact he's awash in people who are happy to help him -- myself, his mother, Viper, a woman who does not speak but fights with two swords as Tyra does and is a patient teacher. And surprisingly effective for her lack of speech; he watches her quietly when they train since he knows she won't yell. And Steel, who has just reopened the Arms. He's...unique...in appearance due to his heritage, and I recall Ty walking up to him and kicking him in the shins without hesitation upon first laying eyes on him. That's when I informed your grandson that he'd better pay attention to his lessons because he'll only get away with that once.
If you're skimming, the short, not-Andrew answer to your question is: he's going to do some kind of bladework, if he doesn't grow sick of it all and just become a carpenter. Not that I'd blame him.
As for me; Lor is quiet at the moment, no new demands made that I know of and so I when I received an invitation to meet with some members of the Resonance of Being I was happy to accept. Ty traveled with me, although he stayed with his mother in the Tower while I traveled to outskirts of the Breath of the Muse.
I'm not sure what I was expecting as it's been so long since I was in contact with the Resonance. What I got was a lecture from a stern elven woman named Keisha who told me I was untrained (true), impatient (also true) and typical of a human male. Which I guess I am, but I risked her ire to argue that point. After all, isn't the heart of racial hatred assumptions and stereotyping? And here she was, stamping me with the "Male, Human, One" mark of doom. It irked me -- and of course, I caught myself thinking, "Elf superiority. Typical." I despair that we'll ever find common ground as two races.
(I will add that if an elf challenges you to guess how long they've been learning something, don't rise to the bait. Because the next words out of their mouth, especially the women, will be "do I look THAT OLD?!". No winning, there. You think I'd have learned by now).
As it turns out, I was offered a mentor, something that I confess I've desperately needed. Keisha offered to aid me in dampening emotions, a shy but enthusiastic young lady by the name of Elaina offered assistance with augmenting emotions, and a man by the name of Francesco Westford was introduced who is learning both paths. We all played together and the music nearly sent me over the edge. I've sought sensation my whole life, in all the wrong places, and yet here it is -- the feelings that my music has teased me with, the deep peace it lends when I burrow into the notes, expanded and bursting, leaving me shaking and wanting more. For just a moment I was madly frustrated that I don't know how to create that feeling except in lucky flashes here and there. Being aware and impotent is worse than ignorance.
When I'd settled down I was asked to choose. After our verbal sparring I didn't feel Keisha and I would have a smooth rapport, and Elaina is painfully shy when she's not performing and a woman who comes from downtrodden roots that I sensed I have little in common with. So while the ladies were lovely and certainly interesting, it was Francesco whom I felt most comfortable speaking to. He's from Arnax and a man with bodies -- literally -- in his past. There is kinship there, both from my adventuring and from the hearts I've left behind. Straight away we were talking about how one makes up for one's past. I think it was foregone at that point and both ladies left quietly as we continued to talk.
I know this is getting long, but I'm reliving it as I write so indulge me, mother. Franco -- that is what he asked me to call him, as he calls me Drew which I find I don't mind -- and I talked for a while longer, then came to a place in the conversation where it felt right to play. He is also a violinist, by the way, another thing that gave me a sense of familiarity with him. We took up our instruments and started on some common tunes. At some point it became improvisation and he took the lead. His song was sorrow and I followed, finding myself drawn in, playing on even after he shifted to accompaniment. I can't say when this was for by then I was crying and totally lost. I ended up playing parts of Willow, something I wrote for Minu, and another song that I've practiced so many times with illusionary sound as a part that apparently I was casting the illusions as I bowed, while crying. I remember little; I was completely absorbed in the song.
It shook me. Franco said I was influencing my own emotions, but again, I didn't feel the control; I didn't feel like I knew what I was doing, or doing it consciously. So we worked on that when I'd calmed down. We did exercises in selecting the notes that create the mood, and being open to that mood even while choosing it -- being the performer and the audience at once. It's trickier than it sounds. He gave me his address and told me to practice, and we parted ways.
I think I miss him a little. I have few male friends.
I've practiced since and I can say this: not only is it not easy, it's painful at times. How can I explain? When I play to myself, to try and influence how I feel, and on the few times I've succeeded, it's not been as deliberate as I'd like. I want to raise my spirits, so I play with my own ears and heart open -- and what pours out are things I never expected. Things I have long prided myself on being above; fear, anger, lust...hatred. I've sat, furious at myself and twice as much so for having played myself to that state, and wondered where all this is coming from? I'm a genial and easygoing man of jest, an entertainer, who puts up with jokes and little disappointments with a smile and a shrug. Right?
I'll keep working at it -- I know I can do it now, I only need to figure out how to control it although frankly, all this anger and fear and whatnot is making control difficult. I should have time to practice coming up. I will be out of communication for some time as I'm traveling to Sedera with a friend who happens to be a giant -- a short giant, but a giant. I do not joke; he's over eight feet tall. He makes me feel the way a lot of people feel around me and I get a little kick out of having to look up at him. We're off to try and negotiate for silver, trying the bloodless path for a change. I've traveled the Dregar deserts and fought the giant tribes without flinching years ago, but meeting this measured son of stone -- he follows Grannoch, and is a cleric of her faith -- has changed my perceptions. It's not the same as making a promise to an animal-loving halfling, although I've done my best to honor that. It's knowing that these giants have children, and dreams, and make music, and are not just oversized pells for us to practice on. I hope that I can do something to make up for my past (a theme for me, redemption, it seems!) and I'll let you know how that goes.
And now to pack and give your eyes a rest.
Daisuki desu, mother.
Tashe and Ty
-
The bedroll was thin comfort over rock, his pack tucked behind it in a shallow crevice. Two giants kept hard eyes on him; one standing close, spear in hand and muscles twitching, the other sitting and blocking entirely the sole exit to the chamber.
He finished singing a lengthy healing song, having been 'helped" to the corner of the cavern in a manner that resulted in a dislocated shoulder. Re-locating it had been trial and excruciating error ending in a POP that cut his knees from under him. Agony faded to mere pain, a dull spiderweb masking other, less demanding hurts. There was nothing to do but wait and see what else they would do.
He began to figit. Well, he could play, if his socket would bear movement - he leaned forward and rotated the shoulder. Showers of needles followed by a stab in the gut, and he froze against a wave of nausea.
Right. Singing it is.
Folding his legs to sit, he began to hum. He had to time it with his ragged breaths until he'd reached equilibrium with the throbbing in his shoulder. Then a tune, a framework for the sense of calm he was trying to project and listen to. It was still odd to hear his voice this way -- before he met Franco he'd never listened to himself without being critical. There was a certain detachment necessary and he was thankful to know so many songs that he could sing by rote. He closed his eyes and listened to his own singing, relaxing into the sound...
Another starburst of pain as something slammed into the left side of his chest. He fell over, tipping left while he tried to find breath mid-hum and landing on the recently re-located joint. And then there was nothing but panic, he had no breath, he could not sing, starry blackness absorbing his vision as the searing twins of chest and shoulder screamed for attention until they found unison. He threw up.
His closest guard grunted and pulled the spear-butt back with no expression. Fighting not to inhale the sick, he managed to get on all three's -- his left arm would not support him -- and crawl away from stinking mess, curling up, waiting until he'd found balance with this new and heightened hurting. Lying in a near-fetal position, he had nothing to do but pray and did so, entirely in his head, until sleep gave some shelter from the pain.
A hollow thump woke him but didn't leave him in a wave of agony. He listened; nothing but the rumbling language of the giants and the sound of heavy, bare feet receding across stone. Then it was quiet although he could hear the mouth-breathing of some guards. He weighed options; if he rolled left onto his back, he'd hurt. If he stayed curled up, they'd poke at him again. If he tried to stand he'd fall. That left more crawling. He pulled in the limbs that were able to respond and rolled so he was facing the rock floor, pushing up and leaning back on his knees. Under the motion's fresh application of pain, a tense liquid gurgle ran through his lower abdomen. Stars and song! Not now! NOT NOW!
There was a new guard, and beside his freshly aired breakfast, a slop bowl or what passed for one to a giant. It was nearly large enough for him to bathe in. The smell of the clay was indescribable -- this was not a water bowl, and he knew what he was to use it for, and needed to, but both guards were watching him and he was suddenly and inexplicably shy. The unrelenting gurgling was about to decide for him and he put his right arm out and shuffled forward on his knees, inching the makeshift privy behind a large rock. It wasn't perfect cover but at least they'd only see his upper half.
After sacrificing a part of a silk undershirt in the name of hygiene and a little more to clean up his sick, he packed -- with comedic slowness, stiff and one-armed -- his cloak, coat, hood and gloves. No point in getting them filthy. He'd already noted a scarcity of water. The guards continued to watch him as he folded and tucked, moving this or that around. He brushed Bella's pebbled leather case and pushed her deeper into a cocoon of spare clothing. She would not see the dim, lichen-lit room; too risky. He found a pocket with only an old spare journal, removing it to stuff in the hood and gloves, and a sheaf of papers slipped from the journal's pages. A letter drifted out. He held it an inch from his face and squinted; he was not adjusted to the perpetual dimness. His handwriting, addressed to his mother, dated Jular 1464. A letter never sent. He rimmed the parchment in light from a whisper-sung cantrip and read.
To:
Margaret Reid
Reid Pottery
Potter's Lane
Obo District
Huangjin
Tilmar
Dearest First Muse
I write because I wish to account for events I've recently been involved in and what better way than to send you a note? I sit in an inn room in Dalanthar, a town in northern Dregar. To my right, silent and worrisome, is a dark-skinned boy of about ten whose name I do not yet know.
How I ended up here is a story and so settle back in your favorite chair and I will tell. I was traveling this way, knowing there to be a settlement of bandits with far-reaching swords that occasionally terrorize the area, and ended instead in a small halfling town on the verge of throwing a festival. Poor map or I didn't listen to directions, you may take your pick. Traveling this way were a number of people I know and so we joined to chat and possibly to stay and enjoy the festival as the villagers were quite friendly.
It did not take us long to realize that these kind Prunillian folk were ailing from something, however -- the food was barely edible and there was precious little of it. They used everything, no matter how rotten. The livestock was underfed, the crops stunted...all with no explanation. Symphony was in fits at the condition of the food and sent Razeriem and some others back to the next nearest town to gather provisions while the rest of us poked around and asked questions.
From what we were able to find out, the village has been having problems with their food supply for decades and began this "Flower" festival in order to send out one young lady as the "Flower", a delegate of sorts who leaves the village to discover the best ways to grow crops and returns to share her findings.
Imagine my shock when I found out that not one of these ladies had yet to come back. Not one in fifty years or more. The term "stinks on ice" comes to mind. Imagine also when we found out that the village "elder" had arrived not long before this sudden downturn in fortunes...
Upon Razeriem et.al. returning with the food the villagers threw themselves into preparation. I am delighted to say the wine here is excellent and I've been able to sample a blissful number of bottles. I will be purchasing more than a few!
The pall of the town's overall health was evident still and we poked further, hitting on a plan to get Symphony voted the "Flower" so we could follow her and see what was happening to them. We also enjoyed the celebration, and it is with joy I report that my friend Emwonk has found, of all things, romance! Ilsare was smiling on him that day and he's pledged to return to a Jez, who calls him her "little lightning bug" (an appellation that gives me a laugh every time I remember her sweet drawling voice saying it). He's a happier halfling and I am happy for him.
Sadly our plan didn't go as planned and the Flower chosen was one of the natives. In determining what to do next, I decided to sneak up to the "elders" house and have a listen, only to find Symphony had beaten me there and confronted the thing. And thing I do mean -- it is some kind of lycanthropic shapeshifter, not the same as a druidic one or those stories you hear of creatures from the Pits who can meld to assume other visages. Or maybe it was -- I have no idea really, it was the first time I'd encountered such a thing that had "werewolf" blood but the ability to mimic other's faces. The change is slow and deeply disturbing and at one point it was stuck in an amalgam of Symphony's face and mine. Not a pretty sight.
By now we were all frustrated and, may I bluntly say, ready to beat this thing to death. It was most smug regarding its fate and let us know that "the others" would be coming soon -- it was with immense persuasion that we were able to determine that it was supposed to meet someone or someones. To prevent retaliation on the village we evacuated them to a safer location nearby and others of us took the thing and tried to find those with whom it was supposed to meet.
We found the "someones", and after failing to bluff them into surrendering we ended up on the defense and took them down, to be tied and delivered to the authorities. Not that they seemed too concerned about this. The mystery deepened just as we thought we'd finished the job with the discovery of a special mark on some papers that lead us to information about who and what they were; a slaving ring. All those Halfling women, we thought, sold into slavery -- the shapeshifting thing was merely an opportunist, selling off his yearly prey for a handsome sum.
I wish, upon writing that, that it had been true. Slavery is preferable to what we eventually found.
Some of us took the villagers back home after the capture of the slavers, others of us started to take the slavers to some form of justice -- and some of us wanted to do away with them right then and there, no trial necessary, but with Symphony and Daniel along that would have been difficult. You can guess which camp I was in.
We ended up in Dalanthar and turned over our prisoners before heading in the direction of the slaver's hideout in the Rift, information obtained in our long trek to the city. At this point we were still blissfully ignorant of what was ahead of us. The fighting was difficult but we had a robust force and were able to both find and penetrate the caverns hiding the slaving group. So far so good...until we came across a Pit fiend in the guise of a woman who tried to turn us away. She didn't attack immediately until our refusal to leave forced her hand, and as we pressed on, things got more and more difficult and even horrific until we came to a room with pits of bodies - I'm not sure I'm going to send this to you now, Mother. I can't hide how gruesome it was and you won't thank me for having to read it. But gruesome it was. Some of the bodies were skeletons, others fairly fresh, most of them showing teeth marks and disjointing that indicated consumption.
There was no rhyme or reason to the races, ages, genders. Just a jumble of remains...there is little hope that identities could be reconstructed with any accuracy from that mess. Also found was a dagger and a book -- a ledger of the "slaves" brought in to feed...whatever it or they were. We didn't find any one thing that might have been the feed-ee, but did find a number of winged things not unlike the woman (which I use for lack of a better term). I'm sorry to report that in trying to defend a downed friend against one of those things, my soul slipped a little further away. I will never get used to that feeling.
Oh, and I found a signet ring on the winged Pit fiend woman, that I kind of forgot to mention to anyone that I took. It's not magical but the symbol could prove useful to know. The ledger-book of sacrifices is in my hands now as well; perhaps some peace can be restored to those who lost loved ones, someday.
After all of this action, highly condensed you understand; there was a lot of fighting and we spent days wandering those stone catacombs; it was recalled that there were behind us a set of double doors that had not been opened. I was late to get there, recovering from the shaking in my soul, and when I arrived found many in our party helping survivors. Bless Ilsare, someone lived through this. They were in shock and only by combined and strident efforts were we able to get them to move out of the caves. We took them back to Dalanthar that they could seek help returning to their homes; but one, this boy, was so lost, Mother, and so alone, I offered to take charge of him that he would not end up shuffled around until he landed in an orphanage. You know how I am with children, even though I have not been blessed with any. That I know of.
He hasn't spoken since I led him to the room I'm renting. He moves and eats like he's dead, barely looking at and tasting his food; he does not laugh or even follow me with his eyes. He's a puppet and my heart breaks. I will do everything I can to return him to his home and I intend to start looking for his family tomorrow morning.
With all that off my chest, and a child I must attend to -- I remain
Your loving son
Andrew
The stack of papers was mostly in order; pictures, notes, beginnings of letters. More notes. Quotes from the boy, ideas on how to help him progress. Drawings both he and the child had done. He forgot the worst of his pains as he skimmed, his mind drifting to the last time he'd seen Jed...memories tugged him back to his notes and sketches and he slid back until he could lean on the curve of the wall, with a quick glace up. His guards were not interested in his little paper scraps and so he opened to the first page of the old journal and began to read.
//to be continued
-
The child still will not talk, even as I tend his scrapes and bruises -- I'm out of my depth here but I can't abandon him. Perhaps one of the others can shed some light?
I have no idea where to start. A child that will not speak and a handful of emotionally ravaged, fearful, angry, shaking rescuees. Only one responded to my questions about the boy and...Muse..."The 'lil whiner came in with a lass callin' herself his ma. Iffn' ya ask me they shoulda kilt him instead of her. That 'lil snot got us in all sorts of hurt 'cause he couldn't shut his yap." How I avoided smashing his face in I don't know. Except I have a pathetically weak punch and don't feel like listening to the ridicule. Or having my butt handed to me in a fistfight. A mother means family, hopefully nearby - too soon to ask the boy about that.
I have tried feeding him things children like, such as pie and cookies. He eats with empty eyes and does not seem to taste. I tried soothing talk, comforting -- he does not respond to touch. I will try music next.
Thank you, Ilsare, there is someone home still. I played some children's songs for him and the music caused him to sway gently from side to side. I thought I might be hypnotizing him at first, but when I realized he was reacting -- it was like the world shifted a little. Until a dish crashed in the tavern below and his eyes snapped open and his neck corded up. He pressed his lips together like he was holding something back, a scream? He sat there for the rest of the night until I picked him up and put him to bed and even then, he was a stiff doll. Yet there is some hope, it was communication if barely. Perhaps there is something I can do after all. I am sick with anger that a child would be put through this. I only wish I could go back to those caves and kill everything again.
I've taken him for walks to inquire if anyone's seen him and nothing, no recognition. It's frustrating; he follows me like a drugged puppy. I catch the looks and fear someone is going to ask a lot of questions soon. I don't want him to be taken and shoved into a convenient corner...
I think I found a relative, possibly the father, in a field in the outskirts of the city. He almost approached me -- his skin is as dusky dark as the boy's and his hair as tightly curled. I tried to speak to him and I saw the recognition in his eyes. A pained softening, almost a tender look at the boy whom I took with me. Then the man punched me. It would have degenerated but the other field hands held him back and threatened me. The child did not react well to the violence but I don't think he looked at the men. We returned here -- I know the location and name of the relative, now. I have no idea why Taorn, for that is the man's name, tried to lay me out for returning his family but I intend to. It is best the boy is returned, of this I am certain. On the other hand, my jaw still aches.
I have a sitter -- the barkeep's sister - and a plan. Tomorrow I will disguise myself and head to the village past those fields to flirt with the local ladies. I wonder if it's possible Taorn sold his own family to the slavers? I have to be sure the child is wanted before I try to put him back.
A long day. A very, very long day. It took a good hour to charm the washer-women into loosening their lips, which surprised me. Gossips around Port Hempstead and Leringard are much easier to convince. But when I asked them about slavers -- let me see if I can remember..."Any from these parts! Hells no boy! Any slavers be hidin' 'round here an' it'd be the last place they be hidin'...'cause we be buryin' 'em deep. An' keep yer yap shut if ya know whuts good fer ya on slavers an' such. Too many have lost a 'lil one or their kin ta the bas'ards. Ol' Taorn there lost both his wife an' boy ta 'em. Since yesterday he's been swearin' he saw his boy plain as day...the heat does funny thing's ta a man's mind when he's already grievin'. Now you run along an' go help those fellas get the wheat in 'fore they don't take to kindly to you flirtin' with the womenfolk." Most of the responses were variations on that. It seems Taorn mourns his family and is in fact the father of the child so this is good. I spent the rest of the day with the men -- with a disguise, and they didn't mind an extra pair of hands. By all the Gods in Layonara's heavens I am tired. Bone tired, I'm shaking as I hold the pen. First the hanging around talking to the women -- gossiping is hard on the knees -- then breaking my back threshing and bundling wheat...I can't write anymore. I have to sleep -- have to go back tomorrow and do it all again...
The child is well-taken care of when I return at night. I hate to leave him but I've seen Taorn watching me as we work, so my disguise has failed on him. But he hasn't punched me again. I never want to see, smell, or touch wheat again.
He approached me today. "Mis'er I ain't knowin' or carin' who ya be or where ya came frum, but iffn' ya keep showin' off my boy ta git me riled, I'll throttle ya good wit my own hands." What does one say to that? Does he think I'm here just to taunt him? I saw the glint in his eye and he raised a meaty fist to me. "Jed wus takun frum me an' nuttin' I tried got him back, sos iffn' ya keep tauntin' me...jus lettin' ya knows I ain't got nuttin' left ta lose. My boy an' wife were takin', an' nows yus come rubbin' my nose in it that yus got him an' I don't. Iffn' ya hurt my boy...." He almost cried after saying that. My last reservations were gone then -- there was no way he was faking that emotion. I told him I was there to return the boy, not to hurt anyone. I tried to explain that I could not just dump the child with uncaring authorities who would probably throw him in an orphanage like their rulebook says -- I had to try and put him back where he belonged. I told him then about the mother, that she was not among the survivors, and about finding the slaving ring, and that all I bloody wanted to do was get the boy home without getting hit again! His response..."Iffn' what ya say is true an' ya want Jed back wit' his fam'ly. Then leave him and get yerself gone, Mis'er. An' iffn' I finds out ya hurt him, ain't no place ya can hide. Jus' bring him here ta the field and get yerself gone." Except Jed is hurt, and does not speak, and resembles in no way, I'm sure, the child that was kidnapped. Now what do I do?
Something landed by his feet. A snake - he tried to jump back but the rock wall refused to part and let him through and his shoulder began to ache again - he pushed at it with his feet, praying it would not bite -
His giant guard laughed, a basso rumbling of genuine amusement. The snake did not move. After his heartbeat came back to something under a gallop, he set the journal aside and poked at the serpent. It did not twitch - it had no head, in fact, and the neck was split to remove the venom sacs. A dead desert viper, what the hells was he supposed to...
...oh. Dinner. His stomach turned and he did a quick rations assessment before moving the dead snake carefully aside and picking up his journal and notes again, while the giant's chuckles echoed in the soaring stone cavern...
-
He's doing a little better -- but at this rate he'll be my age before he's ready to go home. He hums along with music I play, he draws things no child should know to draw.
I visited Taorn's village wise woman today. I took Jed with me -- he wasn't as dazed, but a fight between two boys that broke out across the cart road upset him and he tensed into his catatonic state. I had to lead him the rest of the way. The woman was as old a human as I've ever seen. Her words, as I recall them: "I've seen all sorts of crazy, from the lovelorn ta the pit possessed. From them that jus' lost kin to those that can't get with child. While seein' his pa will help the lil fella, ya best get him talkin' before ya reintroduce him to Taorn. If that man sees his boy and you're the only one doin' the talking... I wouldn't wanna be you. You'll need that boy's words ta protect ya." And I will. So -- it looks like, for now, I have a child. God help him, I'm not father material. I need a drink.
He hums every time I sing and I catch him focusing and looking around. More of those damned drawings. What's been done to this child...what he's been forced to see...he'll spend the rest of his life searching for something that gives him one moment of the security that he felt before his mother was taken. I suppose that's all of us -- always wishing for those few moments before our ignorance was stripped away. Maybe Layonara is a pit, after all...
There is a dagger in every drawing. Every single one. Was that the dagger we found? Who has it now?
He flipped the note-page over; blank. The next three papers were drawings in a child's hand, pictures of people being whipped, chased, or eaten. While the drawings had the rather crude and simplistic touch of an unpracticed hand and subject matter more horrifying for it's absolute reality, there were aspects that was engaging and enigmatic -- the perspective, mature for a child's imagination, and the dimensions that were surprisingly accurate. He smiled and felt again the tugging of the Muse that had inspired him to, for the first time, teach. The small glow was followed immediately by his stomach finally protesting its involuntary emptying and subsequent non-refilling; he had maybe a week's rations left, more if he stretched them. The dead snake was still half-coiled on the stone...how bad could it be?
On the other hand, his rations were not gone yet. He dug out salted meat, dry bread and his canteen, and shuffled to the next page of notes.
I've started collecting the drawings. What was a quick mercy mission for a child has become something more. I want to help this boy, get him back to his father, set him back in his life. Jed may never be what he was before but with care he could be whole again. Since the boy hums along, I've written a song that takes advantage of that. I use his name as often as I can, and his father's.
I'm a boy, a boy named Jed
I have tight curls upon my head
My field-hand father's name is Taorn
He works until the light of Orn
Not a masterpiece, but easy to sing. I've added humor -- maybe I can get him to laugh. I clown and do my world's worst juggling act for him. He watches, follows me with his eyes, but he has not smiled or laughed -- not yet.
I might be a good father someday. Maybe.
He smiled! He humming his song until Taorn's name then he'd stop, but this last time, he got all the way through -- and smiled! Thank you, my Muse...
A good day. I took a ball to the head trying to coax a laugh out of him and he came over, climbed up on a chair, and rubbed the spot on my head where the ball hit. He was trying to make me feel better...I spoke to him about hurts, and about letting people help. I offered him a simple hug -- just sat there with my arms open. He came to me and hugged me. I don't know what I'm doing, but thank Ilsare it seems to be working whatever it is. I drew him a picture of his father after that. Again, no masterpiece; I wonder if I'll ever learn to like the things I create? Regardless. I drew Taorn, put the picture by him, and then for some idiot reason drew my father William. That didn't turn out how I expected. I was trying for something to amuse Jed and somewhere around dad's nose, I think -- more aquiline than mine, because of Grandmother's blood -- it became my catharsis. What I saw when I finished was the face of a wonderful, talented, proud, fierce, blunt, unforgiving man. A man of passion only for family and profession who has never grasped what matters to me. It wasn't until I sat back that I thought of myself and Aya, and his love for us -- and his temper, and expectations. We'll never be what he wants us to be. We'll never come home. I had lost track of time while sketching and when I turned to look at Jed, he was sitting close to me. I must have had quite an expression because his was sympathy, compassion, and dare I say understanding -- I swear, at that moment, we'd traded places. He laid his hand on my arm, and he tried to smile. He could not, but his eyes said it all.
I'm going to miss this kid.
I think it's time to admit I've done as much as I can. I've sent birds to several people -- let's see if they come. Hopefully a fresh perspective will help Jed open up.
-
Daniel, Lana, Caerwyn, and Emwonk agreed to come. Jed and I are downstairs waiting, I have the pictures in a pile in order, and I'm on my second glass of gin. I'm nervous and I don't want Jed to get hurt. He's watching me drink. I think he knows this isn't water.
Caerwyn has the dagger. Muse, what an evil, ugly thing. You can feel it -- Lana collapsed while examining it for Al'Noth. Gave her some whiskey to get her back on her feet. A mighty attractive woman, she is...
He is frightened by them, all of them even Lana, all except for Emwonk. He can't keep his eyes off the lightning and Emwonk is doing a show for him using the sparks to make pictures between his hands. I wonder if Emwonk's being small has a hand in it, maybe Jed's less threatened by such a short man. He clings to me as if I were his parent which makes me uncomfortable even as I enjoy the trust and love it implies. He needs to go back before he'll miss me too much.
Daniel and Caerwyn are questioning him. I want to protect him and I can't. I want to pound the table and I can't. Third glass of gin. Stop hammering him, he's a kid.
The handwriting, the neat italic script that he'd been forced to practice over and over and over and over until each letter was exactly proportional to its neighbor, degenerated on the page. The gin had loosened his hands; he remembered. He remembered how upsetting it was to watch Jed be made to recall his ordeal through his own pictures. Discovering more of the second child, whom he'd thought at the time was Jed's brother, taken. Jed's mother taken. The boy still could not verbalize that. Even now, insulated by years, the vicarious horror was undiluted and he suddenly, fiercely, and fruitlessly wanted something to drink. Silver Buckle -- which drew a stunted laugh, considering what he'd bought before he and Gurnorhn had started walking the desert sea...
They broke him open. I can't think of another way to put it -- something I didn't have the heart to do but Daniel and Caerwyn are right, he needed a push. He cried in my arms for a very long time and finally let it all out. And spoke, bless the Muse. After that he was less afraid of Daniel and Lana, and still taken with Emwonk's entertainments. He even likes the way Emwonk talks. I'm going to ask Em to stay and help -- it's not his usual style, but he seems to enjoy making the pictures, so maybe.
Hangover, bloody pits. I've tried to drink less with the boy around -- this is what I get for it.
He hums along with all the songs I sing, and has started to sing the odd word himself. I'm happy about this.
The next pages were more drawings, six in all, variations on a theme of torture and suffering and the dagger in all of them -- until the last drawing. Charcoaled, it showed crudely drawn birds taking flight, flowers blooming and growing through a skull, and the ever-present dagger bent and hanging limply from the left eye socket. He sat a long time looking at that picture before flipping to the next page.
Caerwyn is staying nearby, somewhere -- I didn't ask. He visits to see how the boy is progressing and I know he wants to ask more questions. Emwonk is in the room with us and has begun to teach Jed to speak. I try to jump in but it seems that Emwonk's way is better, Jed feels more comfortable it. This means I'm having to learn Emwonkese.
A week of coaxing and leading him to talk more about what happened in the caverns. He finally just said "I...mama..." between his sobs. I hate doing this.
He's taken a real interest in Emwonk's language and still loves watching the lightning-pictures. Perhaps more interesting is the change in the halfling. Emwonk is...enjoying himself. He behaves as if he likes Jed, and is steady in his teaching. I'm fascinated by their interplay.
Another week. Em's a reasonable guest but the room is a mess. Jed is getting better, speaking more. Last night I was ready to give up for the day when Jed pointed to Em and said "Other entity..." He couldn't finish what he wanted to say, started to go to his bed. Em walked over and introduced himself in that way he does -- "Emwonk T'noduoy...Youdon't knowme." He followed up with "Emwonk equals Emwonk. Jed entity equals Jed entity. Cognate?" Jed responded back with "Cognate?" He seemed puzzled but it was almost a conversation.
Caerwyn's taken the knife and left for North Point while we work with Jed. Emwonk and I have bickered over whether the boy should be allowed to go outside by himself. Em zapped me and I ended up on the floor laughing at the cosmic strangeness of it all. I don't think a less likely parenting duo exists...
Jed's talking to us more and more which is good, but today asked me for an uncommunicated physical verbal and I had no idea what he wanted -- Emwonk walked to the table and got him a blank sheet of paper. This could prove a problem. Taorn's going to skin me alive if I take Jed back and the first thing he says is "Current, father, good grounding?"
I've caught Jed saying "towels and shoebrushes". I have got to talk to Emwonk.
Today was another breakthrough day. Jed was more relaxed; sudden noises and movements didn't cause him to tense up; and he looked at the pictures and when we questioned him he did not fall into sobbing fits. He spoke of his mother today -- "Mama entity grounded forever." And Emwonk, who has gone soft on the kid too, gave him what I think was a compassionate frown and -- I'm writing this from memory: "Mama entity flow disrupted, alternate Mama entity flows joint Current. Current recycles Mama entity's flow. Additionally, Jed entity recycles Mama entity's flow, internal cognative visuals, audibles..." Here he tapped his head with a finger "...Cognate Emwonk's verbals?" Emwonk said something else, I was having lunch -- I put the spoon down to listen and Jed said, so quietly I could barely hear him, "Mama was...eaten". Gods. We were both floored by that -- he knew, so he must have seen. I told him his mother was alive in his heart, something about Ilsare and love -- I don't remember now. It came out in a rush. I do remember saying he'd have to tell his father when we got them back together, and he'd have to say it in his father's way of speaking. He perked up at that, but shook his head - "Papa entity will make alternate colors of the behind of my frontside for not protecting Mama entity." He looked at us and at that moment his guilt came out. "Why didn't it eat me instead of Mama entity?" What do you say to that? I opened my arms to him for a hug, I didn't have anything glib or helpful to offer. He let me. Emwonk said something about birds consuming Mama entity, and Jed whispered "I can still hear their wings beating...and the chompin', like someone eatin' soup with rocks in it. Slurpin' and chompin'."
That page ended. Under it was another picture. He studied it carefully, again, amazed by the perspective and chilled by what it had represented, and where. Or because he was sitting in a deep cavern with only a thin shirt and pants on and lying against cool rock. Whichever.
The picture's focal point, center of the page, was a large tree with a blob hanging about halfway up the branches. What appeared to be the sun was directly behind the tree at the very top. The rest of the drawing was confusing - it could have been a forest. There was no pattern to the surrounding part of the drawing, but in some portions there were what looked like trees that got smaller as they moved from the focal point. Along side those were trees that get smaller as they approached the focal point. There was no pattern to the tree effect, and it encompassed the top half of the paper. At the bottom of the paper was a broken blade.
After a quiet shiver, he flipped to more notes.
We discussed the picture -- Jed saw it "behind shuttered orbs", so in a dream. He mentioned elevation with the trees, so mountains maybe? He calls the knife a spoon, and says that a "broken spoon equals good grounding". So the knife must be destroyed. I hope Caerwyn comes back soon.
I think he's almost ready. Taorn told me to leave him and walk away but I can't, not now. It's been too long and I'm attached. He's got talent, I could teach him what I know of drawing. I'll have to ask -- and I'll sneak in to see him if the answer is no, after our talk. I asked him if he wanted a teacher. I have no idea what I was thinking but I know I wanted to nuture his art and by my Lady I care about the kid. He reached up, ran a finger on my cheek, and I could see hope and affection on his face. He said "You'll teach me? Singin'..and this?" He touched my violin. "You won't be gone...." His voice dropped to a whisper and he started crying "...like mama?" I would have promised him the moons and stars if it would have lightened his heart right then. So I need to map out the village in case I need to be clandestine in my instruction...
Emwonk and I agree. It's time to take him home.
-
Jed was crying somewhere behind him. Caerwyn rode ahead and Emwonk refused a horse, using his spells to move faster as they made good time toward North Point. Jed cried louder. He kept trying to look over his shoulder at the boy but his eyes were fixed on Caerwyn's pack. The pack moved. It wiggled -- something was alive inside it...he called out to Caerwyn but could make no sound -- he could not turn his head -- Caerwyn kept riding, and whatever it was ripped...no, sliced an opening in the pack. The dagger. The blade wiggled out and immediately the smell of raw, rotten meat clung to his nose and hair like smoke. The dagger fell, sliding off the horse's flank and leaving a greasy smear.
Caerwyn kept riding ahead but the dagger landed in the grass and grew fantastically fast. Too fast, it was the size of a fence now, he spurred his horse to jump it, faster, it swelled before him and the horse ran into it with a screaming whinny while he flew off the saddle and hit the metal so hard his nose broke --
A grunt from nearby. For a few heartbeats he was losing his soul on a cold metal blade and lying on a cool stone wall at the same time. The giant who had been by the door was walking away and his face hurt. Putting his hands on the wall, the bedroll, and his pack helped to dissipate the wisps of the nightmare...it was a minute before he'd freed himself fully and steadied his pulse. It was longer than that before he worked up the courage to test his face.
The nose wasn't broken or at least he didn't think so. Nor was the rest of his face, thank the Muse. The closer guard watched as he gathered up the notes that had slid from his hands in dozing and tested his injuries. A surge of anger as he probed his sore nose and cheeks, and he got up and walked to the giant. So what if they killed him; he'd end up in Leringard and the hell with all of them.
"WHY?" He had to both raise and deepen his voice. He'd already figured out that they heard better in the lower ranges, although it was silly to yell in common; the giant could not understand him but at that moment it didn't matter. He pointed to his nose, and shoulder, and chest, miming the jabbing and yanking and poking that had left him so beaten and threw his hands out in a universal gesture of "what!?"
The giant looked down at him, sat. That caught him off guard -- he expected to get jabbed or pushed again. The giant -- I need a name for him...I'll call him Fred -- eyed him more intelligently than he expected. A finger as large as a forearm reached out to touch his shoulder, and he stood still on a gut instinct. The touch was as slow and gentle as the giant could manage and still pushed him back, almost dropping him with sudden pressure pain on the sore, throbbing joint. The giant retracted his hand and waited.
He opened his mouth to say something, shut it. The point was made, eloquently and without words. And this one is smarter than the others. However long this takes, it's going to hurt. He nodded his understanding stiffly and returned to the journal.
The rest of the notes were few and cryptic, written in a hurry. More drawings dating from 1464 to 1472, and another letter - this one to Annwyl - that he'd started to read before his body cried duress and shut down for a nap. Settling back, he savored the letter. This one he had re-written and sent, years ago, with different details in the final telling. It was really a journal entry disguised as communication -- well, all of his letters were, if he was to be honest. But this one was a happy ending. There were not enough of those in the world. It was worth reading again.
To: Annwyl
c/o Ilsare's Shrine
Hlint
Kingdom of Trelania
Mistone
My Sword, I write in good spirits -- both of the emotional and vino kind -- as I've recently seen a child reunited with his father and had some hand in the doing. Honesty compels me to admit I'm well pleased with myself. I write to share, before my hands are too inebriated to hold a quill with any accuracy.
The child we found in a cave being held by what we thought were slavers. In fact they were not and we are still investigating what they are -- were, if we got them all. The boy was with a number of survivors who had not quite made it onto the menu yet. More on that in person, as I don't want to sully my celebratory mood by rehashing such ugliness.
The boy's name is Jed and it was nearly two months before he was ready to return home, being in such a damaged state. In his captivity he saw his mother, and another child whom he was friends with, eaten. Again I will provide details when we can sit and talk. There was an evil dagger involved as well -- does this have a familiar ring? I am reminded of our long weeks in Fort Miratrix here. I will speak of the dagger in a moment.
The father I found but he is not a sophisticated man. It would have been suicide for me and damaging to the child to drop him off as he was, unable to speak and locking up like a wooden doll at the slightest hint of violence. My indications are he was most certainly a lively, boisterous child before his capture, although I doubt he will be such again. I will be allowed to have some influence however and this also contributes to my high mood.
The methods I used to help him were of those of our Lady, music and drawing, singing and humming. It took others to really force him to let out his emotions though. I'm too soft on the boy for that kind of confrontation. For that I must credit Daniel Poetr, Lana Poetr and Caerwyn as well as Emwonk; Daniel and Lana I am sure you know, Caerwyn and Emwonk perhaps not. Emwonk stayed on a few weeks to help after Daniel and Caerwyn pushed Jed into uncorking his terror and pain. I must say we worked well in helping Jed, Emwonk giving him another language to speak of his inside hurts and I giving him outlets that do not require words. Together we got him to speak, to feel, to cry and reach out. It was exhilarating and rewarding in a way being on stage isn't; very personal, with tiny gains as important to me as a drawing rouse of applause would be in a performance. Another side to music that I have, just now, begun to explore. I think it suits me as much as being a performer does.
There is more to what finally made the boy ready to return to his farming community though. I was set to return Jed but Caerwyn had ridden to North Point ( I am in Dalanthar currently) to have the dagger mentioned above looked at. He returned as we were making ready to head to Jed's village and detoured us to North Point with the boy. Can you imagine how I felt when Jed looked at me, after my promises of his imminent return to his father, and said (I paraphrase here) "But you said..." Not something I want to do again. Still, Caerwyn was adamant we leave immediately with Jed and the drawings he'd done, as the one waiting on us would not be for long. And my gut said: go. I'm not inclined to argue with Aeridinites on the subject of evil anyway, and I did wonder if Jed had been in any way compromised in his experience.
The trip was thankfully uneventful and Father Leidanos, an elf, was there and willing to see us in short order. Caerwyn mentioned Elohanna had been there -- you know, I really think I like her quite a lot - I'm not just playing around. But we'll see. No one's caught me yet -- well, except -- but you know that already.
I digress. Father Leidanos looked at all of Jed's drawings and was very concerned. Emwonk and I spent our time soothing Jed, who was quite nervous to be ripped away from the first place he'd felt safe in I don't know how long, and a from promise to be returned to his family, instead to be stuck in a temple full of sick people. You can imagine his distress I'm sure.
The Father called Jed forward and we all held our breath. I was a bit overprotective. Caerwyn, who seemed ill at ease in Aeridin's holy place, still vouchsafed the Father to him, and Emwonk mentioned -- I'll quote -- "Possible joint connectivity, Jed, spoon,", spoon being the dagger. Jed took offense to that and protested he was not in fact joint with the spoon. I think the Father was as concerned with their speech at that moment as he was with the dagger itself...
Anyway, we coaxed him to stand near the Father, and with all our encouragment he did. Leidanos questioned him about the drawings, the dagger, and how he came to see all of it -- "behind shuttered orbs". Caerwyn thought the dreams that he was drawing were in fact suppressed memories, another fear of mine. We ended up telling an abbreviated version of the story of finding the dagger and Jed, and I showed Leidanos the "grocery list" -- a book discovered in the caverns detailing the gender, race, and quantity of people obtained. A thoroughly despicable document I still have custody of, if only to hopefully give rest to some weary, anxious hearts someday. Much talk about the dagger, the boy, and the drawings ensued. Caerwyn was not anxious to have the dagger destroyed, in case it held clues, but I disagreed -- and still do. No clue is worth what that thing can do, and it is at least superficially similar to the one we destroyed in the demon's caves.
Leidanos then searched Jed. He probed deep for any hint of the blade's taint, to be sure he'd not be hurt when the blade was destroyed. Thank the Muse Jed is clean of any connection, and the dagger was destroyed -- we were allowed to observe -- with no further delay. Jed watched, his hand holding mine in a grip I had no idea a child could maintain. He could not take his eyes off the ritual and was very quiet when it was done -- we were all telling him some variant of "it's over now, it can't hurt you anymore" but that was to make ourselves feel better. He understood.
And finally we set out for his village, later than intended but I agree now in retrospect; it was good to be sure Jed was alright and to have him there when the dagger that was used on his mother and friend was destroyed. The trip back seemed shorter if only because we were not counting the miles against some deadline. It was not hard to find Taorn. You should have seen Jed, Annwyl -- he ran, exactly like he did not the first time, to his father yelling "Papa! Papa!" I had such a rush as I've never felt on any substance, not even my beloved social lubricant. Taorn tried to shield him at first, thinking I'd take him again - but we made him understand we were only there to return the child, and for that were privy to a reunion of such joy, a vision of Ilsare's gift of love from parent to child, father to son, that I had a religious moment. Emwonk stepped forward in a gesture I can say I have never seen him perform -- he offered Taorn money. If you know Em, you know how monumental that is, and what it says about his feelings toward Jed.
I rode the goodwill and joyous emotions forward to ask for one thing. I asked that I be allowed to teach Jed, and see him from time to time. Emwonk was quick to ask for the same privilege. Taorn asked Jed if he wished this and the boy said yes immediately, so it was done -- I'll be coming to teach him what I know of drawing, and Emwonk will come to visit as well. Jed doesn't know it but he's just acquired two extra parents...
After that, using Jed's drawings (which he declined to look at, preferring the safety of Taorn's arms for the remainder of the evening), we informed Taorn of what had happened to his wife and son. The boy I thought was a brother was instead a friend, another village child if I recall correctly. Some measure of closure can be given those parents now at least. With the child's return a celebration was called for and the four of us, plus some village folk, contributed to a fine supper and some very good drink. I gave Jed a kiss good-night when he was tucked in his bed, in his home, to sleep -- and felt a satisfaction I have not previously known woven with sadness that my brief time as a father was over. So while I sit in good mood here in Dalanthar, knowing Jed woke this morning to his father and family and will be safe from at least those akehei oni that we were able to send reeling to the soul mother, there is a certain hollowness under my breastbone. I will miss him.
Do you think I'd make a good father, Annwyl?
Love,
Andrew
A happy ending. The rest of the drawings he looked at, one by one, watching the style and talent mature. Jed, drawing his father, a few months after his return. Drawing his father's new wife, a lovely woman whom he became very fond of and eventually had siblings from - drawings of the brother and sister that the boy was extremely protective of, to the point of annoying them sometimes. A drawing of his teacher. That, he looked at a long time, again; it was a few years old but he'd not changed that much. Jed drew him with glasses on, his easy grin, midnight black hair tucked behind one ear. A remarkable talent who had quickly outstripped his ability to teach. He'd offered to take the boy to Hunagjin, to a place there where his talent could be further challenged and nurtured; Jed refused. He was home and would stay home. The nightmares had faded but the loss of his mother and his time in captivity had taken the adventure from him. His father and village needed him, and that was that.
Jed still drew, and knew letters and numbers as well -- he'd made sure of that. The boy was an asset to his village, called on already to help with small matters that required those skills. He flushed with remembered pride, recalling the last time he'd seen the young man; almost eighteen, finishing a painting of a pretty village girl he intened to propose to, taller than Taorn and moving quietly and purposefully into manhood. He should visit soon with a wedding gift...
Papers arranged, he tucked the journal back into the pack near his current one. The glow of memory made his pains less as he shifted things around to make sure the journals were protected, the back of his hand brushing against his wooden box of cigars.
His memory glow extinguished as a candle flame in a gust. Cigars -- his cigars, both normal and Kurn's special blend, most cherished in those moments when he did not have to be focused or attentive of his surroundings. How many? With panicked haste he yanked out the box, counting, praying -- She would not listen to this prayer, he was sure.
Nine. Nine cigars. Not enough, even if he rationed, and a prickling of sweat went up his spine and across the back of his neck. Muse, please, not another withdrawal. Here, now, in this place, with what he had to do? He stared at the contents of the box, neatly lined up, smelling sweet and sharp. Two weeks, tops. Was there a point?
Before his brain caught up, he was already throwing the box into a brazier by Gruntaar's stone chair. His arm moved in a smooth motion and a heartbeat later his mind snapped into a frantic backpetal -- he started to run after the box and was pinned to the ground by the butt end of a spear. The sudden flare of flames and crackling hurt more than the force on his chest. The flames died back, nothing exploded, no one died screaming. The giant let him up and with a cuff across the head dropped him right back down. He caught a single word and the disgust in the giant's voice spoke "idiot" as clearly as if he'd been using common.
He crawled to his bedroll, lying still and determined to ignore any pokes and prods. Tomorrow was going to be bad. He'd be missing those cigars...Tashe, you baka yaro...and no one was going to take it easy on him. But that was tomorrow. Today, he would sleep and dream of children's laughter and a warm woman's arms. He rolled onto his right side and sang, listening to his song and opening himself to the relaxation it offered, until the pain in his limbs became a tapestry in his dreams.
//for thedagda, and thank you
-
*letter sent by bird*
Mother, I am very sorry for the long, long absence. I have been away with no access to birds or mail, and so I blame my silence on that - I had students in an isolated location. I have new students! Although my teaching is done for now and I am called by my Captain to resume activities in Lor, I am oddly satisfied that I had the opportunity I did. That, and the mentoring and testing of me by a Resonance member named Franco, have given me new perspective. A fresh set of eyes to look in the mirror, and a fresh set of ears to hear myself sing.
Of my students I will tell you more soon, in person, as I will be on an extended buying trip in Huangjin for the Inn. Yes, I'm bringing Ty. Of Franco I will say he and I have an understanding, I believe, and a good deal in common. His method of testing may be somewhat off the cuff but it suited what I needed to find out and I look forward to learning more. I have taken a large step forward in confidence which I badly needed; I am learning my Self. And again, more when I visit!
I have included a design for the Buckle and I am placing an order. And, I will pay - the Buckle has a fund. All of my dishes must have your stamp on the bottom. No one else is good enough for my Inn! Is that flattering enough for a special dinner when I visit and a few of your recipes for the Inn's cook?
I am making this note deliberately short, if only to prove I can, and I will certainly fill you in when I arrive. I might be bringing one other as well so be prepared.
Love and brevity,
Your loving son and grandson,
Tashe and Ty
-
A letter is dropped off with supplies at the closest drop-off point to Hlint he can get to. The penmanship is hasty, a touch desperate. Enclosed with the letter are lyrics and sheet music of a new song written for piano.
Minu
I am here, or close to where your "here" is, dropping off all the supplies we gathered for the clinic and a few barrels of water. KART is here at the drop-off point as well; they have considerably more supplies and relief is flooding in so you can focus on a cure.
I wish I could be in there with you, love. I would beg permission to enter and sing for you and the Sisters if it were not for the situation with Ty and Tyra, as I told you; she's taking less and less care of him, and I more and more. I can't even be sure she will answer Autumn's letter and as much as I trust Heloise she should not be imposed upon to babysit in a manner to make her a surrogate mother when she is just stepping into adult shoes herself. The end result is I must return to the Inn soon, and will content myself with pacing here and squinting at the walls, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. But by the Muse, I wish I could be in there by your side.
You asked for descriptions of the events, and I am ashamed to say I cannot give much in the way of specifics for reasons that will be apparent in a moment. Here is what I remember:
Moraken's tower was under attack by the Cult and I got word when a ship came into the harbor bearing the news. I made arrangements and moved as fast as I could to the shrine. I was promptly directed off to said tower, where the battle had been raging for some time.
Outside the Tower were gathered a group of our peers as I have not seen since the meeting in the Great Forest. They were preparing a break-in of the protective magics around the Tower; the magic was layered and mixed so thick it scraped my skin as we moved through, or so it felt. I remember the magical energies were powerful enough to cause the ground to fog - again, as it seemed to me. No one seemed to have any ill effects or reactions to this but I was preoccupied with protecting - let me say, "protecting" as we both know what I'm worth in a fight - Hayley and Kylie Copperstone.
We moved in and the fronters cleared a large number of drach from the bottom rooms of the tower. I sang, of course, and ran away when anything so much as looked at me funny. One does get tired of being a wimp but I suppose it's better than the feeling of your soul's tethers being ripped from you.
At a lull in the fighting a plan was formulated to take the upper levels and while it was noble and right, I felt I should be at the shrine, defending for Ilsare in the event the town was attacked. Word came that the Cult forces were split and some were in fact headed toward Hlint, and so it was agreed and a few of us headed back; the Copperstones, myself, Daniella, Razerium, a dwarf or two. I regret I cannot recall which one but the only ones I can reliably recognize with a helm on are Argali and Gorm, and Gorm only because of his kilt.
We had limited time to prepare when they struck, not from Moraken's side of the forest but from the Haven side. I remember a crush of bodies, singing, magic, a green fog - did I imagine that? No, I'm sure I saw it - and screaming before I was sandwiched between a group of Hlint defenders taking down a drach on my one side and a drach swinging at me on my other. I was trapped, I could not move. Even my vaulted dexterity was of no help since there was no place to go that did not have a body blocking it, although they could not have been aware of the effects of their phalanx. I was cut to ribbons but still on my feet when I staggered through a break in the defenders and ran straight into a meteor shower. Not a friendly one, I might add. And from then until Kylie called back in the name of Beryl - which surely I don't mind, Beryl being a kind and most generous goddess - I remember nothing.
I found out later that Razeriem had made the call on leaving me "dirt-napping" in that place between life and death we stonebound inhabit all too often. I won't pretend it wasn't an embarrassment to find that your friends feel you better off dead than alive in a fight. That took a lot of wind from my sails and still bothers me, honestly. I must redouble my rapier practice.
The area was packed with bodies when I was brought back, all needing attending. I gave my body to my shrine, hands, feet and voice, to sing and stanch wounds and do what I could. Again I can offer little as my knowledge of non-magical healing is weak. I saw a lot of jagged claw-slashes, a lot of open wounds, I sang a few men to their final rest in the name of Ilsare. I alongside Daniella did a eulogy for the hundred or so defenders who fell. She asked me to, which was a surprise - I didn't know she even knew my name before then, having only ever called me "Ilsarian" prior. Yet we stood together to pay respects and I sang a prayer to the bodies. I am enclosing the words, you will recognize the beginning, and another song as well for you.
The willow speaks
And I ignore
Your eyes are fixed far past the shore
And I can't bear what is in store
While wind the willow sings
We had our fight
Some of us fell
Too many here who cannot tell
And those who stand respect you well
As the willow sings
We stood together and bled to hold your walls
While the magics blew around us all
And now we sing you to your Godly chorus
You before
We light the pyres
And bear the heat of funeral fires
The tears evaporate on our cheeks
Knowing you are far from reach
As the willow sings
I apologize for the meter, it was made up on the spot. I may refine it later.
After regaining my lung function, I remember organizing a moving of the wounded from the open shrine to the Wild Surge so they had protection from aerial attacks and the elements. I remember the flight of drakes that we thought were initially the enemy, and how utterly majestic they seemed when we realized they were not Cult -- slices of icy grace against a sky shot through with magic, gliding overhead as white as pure salvation. We all cheered as they headed for the magic-shrouded tower and I grabbed that sudden burst of relief and sang it through to ease the minds of those around me. That time, I think I had an effect.
From that point until I left I was a go-for, a third or forth pair of hands and I did as Amen and the others bid me, all the while singing. I have no recollection of problems before I left or of indications of illness that seemed unusual, but I will think again and try to recall if anything might have stood out that I did not have the time or energy to think over right then.
Minu, as unnecessary as this is, be careful. I believe in you, in your reason for being there, and yet I am sick with worry that you will become infected before you and your Sisters can find a cure. I am past the point where I can even imagine living without you. You are my sun. Please be careful in there. Please come back to me.
Love,
Tashe
-
To:
Margaret Reid
2 Clay Ward
Huangjin
Tilmar
Mother. I write on a ship to places far away as Tyra instructs Tyr'riel on elven and I listen with half an ear.
That was a joke I think, although unintended. We are taking Ty to the only safe place I can think of, specifically to keep him hidden. Kuhl and the Green Dragon Cult have declared war on the stonebound and have posted bounties on all of us who "adventure", with a minimum of twenty-five thousand True for any stonebound that is brought to them alive and immobilized.
You are at risk, mother, as is all of my family. I've antagonized a lot of people with my little songs, but always it seems they were organizations with structure, laws, and methods that focused on the problem (me). I have only worried for the safety of you, my family, twice - you remember. Dark elves. I have backed down when you were threatened, buried my pride and ego to shield you from the backlash of my activities.
Not so now. It shames me to the core to say this but - there is nothing I can do to protect you. The Cult plays by no rules; they murder in the dark of night, lie indiscriminately and large, and if my guess is right, will have no trouble destroying everything in a man's life (or paying someone else to do so) to get to him. All that I love, all that I own, is in danger - the only possible advantage I have in this is that there are those worth a lot more than I. I believe my bounty is the generic "twenty-five thousand" variety, or maybe fifty, I don't know, but a few of us are double that. But I have no doubts that if harming or killing you would bring me into their grip, they would do it.
My Inn I will avoid for now as much as possible. Michael has proven an able administrator and the kids have moved in for the time being to finish the remodeling while I travel. I pray the building will be there when I return. I don't know that it will. Ty we are taking to safety, I hope. You must keep a close eye on Opal and Vanessa, on everyone, and put in extra precautions. I have included a bank note for you to use on security. Use it, mother. All of it. Hire a guard - hire two. There is enough in the note to cover that and window bars and warding as well. You only need let me know if you require more.
I have prayed to Ilsare, done ritual to the ancestors, tried to feel myself inside the Resonance. Sometimes there is a moment or two of peace. I keep coming back to this though - the risks sometimes outweigh the result. I can't stop myself from feeling sick knowing I've put you in this position, put my son in danger, again. That I must be separated from him in order to protect him. There was a time that I wanted a child of my own so badly I told Minu I wanted Aeridin to make an exception - just this once - for us, so we could be parents together. I had even stopped avoiding human women and held some faint hope that one of my trysts would result in a child. Now I am torn between wanting progeny of my own blood and not wanting to put anyone else at risk. Wanting to be more than just a slap-happy bard, and wanting to be a family man. One cannot be both in this world and sleep at night.
I will not be visiting as I promised, not so long as my presence would endanger you. I was going to bring Elohanna, but she is still quarantined in Hlint; I thought to bring Tyra as you wished to meet Ty's mother, but she's as much a danger now to you as I. I will be disappearing soon into a man I've come to know as well as myself and devoting that man to Lor's defense. He is as good a place to hide as any, being unremarkable and not an adventurer, although I did take your advice and his powers will manifest themselves. Mother, you have no idea how difficult it is to not sing. I have struggled with that to the point that I feel like a flat novice and sometimes they don't work because I cannot imagine a spell without meter, without rhythm. It's like dancing without music or eating without food.
With Lor's independence reasserted, I might even suggest a truce between Rael and Lor. Yes, me - well, him. Right now, with Rael's attention turned against the Cult - if indeed it is - unification is being pushed, and that would be a disaster with Lor's army weakened after the battle. If a truce or treaty could be made instead that kept Lor sovereign to itself then precedent could be set. Then again, that depends on what Rael is really up to, a subject I debate internally only slightly less than that of my loved ones. When did Rael start looking downright reasonable to me?
I'm sorry, I'm rambling. Tyra is telling me it's my turn to practice elvish. Time for Ty to have a laugh at my expense, and time for some of the last things we'll do together for I don't know how long. I will continue to pray every day to our Muse that She keep his heart strong while his family is separated. Please do the same.
Your loving, idiot son and loving grandson,
Tashe and Ty
-
Dear Andy,
Accept my sincerest apologies for the recent situation we went through together, as it was entirely inappropriate and foolish of me to put ourselves in such a dangerous situation so against the teachings of Ilsare.
I wanted to let you know that I have been seen by a small council of my peers at the Resonance of Being, who have in turn ruled that I should be expelled for my transgressions. I sincerely told them that you were coerced by me into complying with my ideas and it was through no fault of your own that we found ourselves in such a situation.
It isn't being expelled which hurts me the most, it is the disapproval and silence from Keisha which pains my heart. She has not spoken a word to me since the event, and I fear she may never speak to me again, but I shall take the punishment that I so severely deserve. I understand the unrepairable pain I have caused her and the long lasting damage to her reputation as my mentor. I am sure she will assign you someone new or take a renewed personal interest in your progression.
I am sorry my friend.
~ Franco
-
Franco, my friend -
I am grieved to hear of the reaction of our peers to our experience. I will pray for your return.
You are welcome in the Silver Buckle and keep in touch. In fact, I have a proposition for you so let us arrange a time to meet. I have a good use for your - and all of our - voices, hopefully soon. A bird message will find me on Mistone most of the time, likely near Hlint.
Yours in the Muse,
Drew
-
He didn't even get a chance to try and save her. By the time he got back, the spiders had feasted well and no horse he'd ever met was stonebound - his own death had been so fast he'd had no chance to sing his poison song, no chance to move.
He did a lot of stupid things. This time it had cost more than him. She'd been getting on in years, of course; slower, less inclined to gallop when he wanted to. But she was his first, and his friend, and he had to go back for the body. To make sure she rested well, as pitiful a comfort as it was.
The hills were as good a place as any, he being a bard of very little strength and unable to drag her all the way to Center. The grave took hours to dig; he lost track of time, chunking dirt out by the shovelful until it was deep and wide enough. And he cried, harder than he'd imagined, not only for the white mare that had represented range, speed, power - wealth - but also for the friend who had carried other friends on her back when called to, entertained children, pulled carts. Dragged bodies.
She was in her final resting a catalyst for his other fears. Fears for his lover. His child. His friends, all potential victims of bounty hunters. His kids at the Buckle. All of them. He curled up and cried, alone, until there was nothing left.
No marker, but he did pile stones to keep larger predators away. And sang songs...lots of songs. Songs for her, and for Minu, for Ty. He sang to hear himself sing and soaked up the full range of his own emotions without filtering and with no attempt to capture one or any. He felt what he felt; there would be no manipulation.
There would be another now. Ilsare was not far from his mind or voice as he prepared to travel. He had to head that way anyway; Willie had a concert to throw, after all; but a piece of him was gone, and he grieved to tell Minu she was dead.
No. He wouldn't. Not yet. Not until his love had something besides loss surrounding her - it was a tiny lie, an omission, but this time he felt no guilt. And, decided, he started the long journey to Dregar.
-
The bow had sat over the brazier of coals long enough. He took it up still hot and pressed it across a wood block bit by bit. Inch by inch. By evening's dimming light he held it eye level and examined the camber. It was good.
The mahogany bow was set aside and he picked up a frog, fussing with with the horn and filing where the ferrule would go. It was mildly distracting but his eyes snapped up to the gates of the shuttered town every minute even though he sternly told himself he would not look this time, this time, this time...
No Minu.
They had to be watching. He couldn't sense them, but they had to be there. He'd sit as close as he could, inch up when the guards were not watching; he'd whisper through the wood to her and still he worried. There was too much at stake to give something up to wandering ears and yet she deserved to hear.
He could not imagine how she was staying sane. She was locked behind a wooden muffle while the furor over dying Hlint was slowly overshadowed by the Cult's movements on Belinara; the wave of supplies had dwindled or so it seemed to him. It was quiet out here by the tents. It was too much like watching that woman in the temple years ago. The town felt resigned, a grandparent about to give up life for a place with the ancestors. Or maybe he was just depressed.
Evening gave up the last purple streaks to night and even a full fire was not enough light to continue working on the bow. He wanted to go ask, so much that he had to force himself to sit still. It was a leaden panic between his heart and stomach that this time she would not answer, the medicine had failed...but the guards were busy with someone else and pushing for attention was not a good idea.
For his rising panic, he sang. He had a process now. First, inhalations; he'd cut way back on his cigars so this was not nearly as taxing as it had been. Then closing his eyes and listening to the world around him and the song it made. The wind, the fire, the crickets, the chorus of voices going about their night routines. It became music. Listening to himself breathing and the beat of his heart and letting it blend to one sound. Letting go of the need to make and to hold, to shape and create, and just be there in the music. It was something Franco had tried to show him but like so many things you had to find it on your own, and each path was a little different.
The song of the camp held his attention as he picked this detail and that. Time was nebulous here in the music. It depended on where you wanted your attention to go. When he next looked up it was because his eyes were dry from staring into the fire and his need to rush to the gates was abated - but only just. Such a long road ahead, if what he understood was true. It had to be true for him. Self was a place some people never left and he wondered if he would. If he could.
But his patience was rewarded. The guards were standing back at their positions and chatting about something in a way that said "just killing time". The wind had shifted the smell of horse manure his way, and the wood just put into the fire was damp and snapping sparks like fireworks. All in all a pretty clear signal it was finally time.
Ilsare, Aeridin, let her be okay...
-
*Sent by bird*
Domo, mother.
I was overjoyed to get your letter. Every day I hear that someone I love is still alive it eases my tension for a little while. I'm glad the guards are keeping things quiet there and I'm enclosing another bank note to help. I know, you didn't ask - but I also know that you are marked by my actions and your business is slow because of it. Don't ask me how, I just do.
I have seen Aya recently and she's doing well. Alive, still complaining, and untouched so far. She seems to think she's unworthy of the Cult's attention and I try to tell her otherwise but she will not listen. On the other hand, she is unscathed. So you can rest your mind on that.
The inn is still closed and I don't know now that it will ever open. Over the last year my depression is worsening and my friend in the Resonance was kicked out for his novel idea on testing me so I cannot turn to him for teaching. In fact I have had no contact with the Resonance since, despite writing letters, and I wonder if I am removed as well. It is disheartening and surely a strong contributor to this creeping blackness I feel.
Since the Cult set the bindchasers in motion, and since my own stupid attempt to capture some, people have vanished. My Sword, Annwyl, is gone and the Sisters disbanded as far as I can tell. Minu remains in a painfully slow dying spiral in Hlint, and grabs at whatever hope is offered - only to wait and see that hope extinguished from lack of response. I remain by her side and I have cut myself off from all other women. It is the first time I've been truly monogamous, not just in body but in spirit. I don't think about it anymore. If she dies, that part of me will die with her.
I see almost no one in my travels. The few and mighty in their Castle in Blackford do not speak to us, and most of the world seems to be in hiding until this thing is over. The roadways are stonebound free, the creatures formerly culled safe to roam. I am fast becoming a relic in this tense, fearful world. And yet I try. I am trying something even now, in Sedera, and pray my message gets to sympathetic ears. I still don't speak the language I must with any fluency so this will be difficult, and yet I don't actually care - it's something. It might help, it might not, but I cannot sit idle.
There is a fog over this world as the Cult advances. I ask you do one thing for me, my first Muse; find someplace far away to go, some village with long-lost relatives, some place in the Spine mountains perhaps, and prepare the family to go there if we lose. I will bring Ty and join you with all the funds I have at my disposal. I can give the Buckle to Michael, he'll be a fine owner, and do what I should have done all along: take care of my family.
Let me know when you have someplace in mind. I will let you know if this latest bit of information proves to be something that can help Minu or just another torture to her caring soul.
I have not heard from Ty since his first - and last - letter, but I have verified he's alive. If he is well I cannot say and that separation is also tearing me apart. Will I know my child when I am finally able to come and take him home?
I am stopping here because I have written myself nearly to tears, again, and I must pray. Aside from the brief moments when I hear from those I love it is all that keeps me on my feet.
Your son
Tashe
-
He'd flown.
Voices surrounded him but slipped off his tangible inner glow. Gel's occasional fuming remark, discussions and arguments between this person and that - what do we do with it now? - and the booming silence whenever Hardragh and Argali crossed within fifteen feet of each other. All of it cascading over him as water on rock.
It was stupid, he knew. Stupid to feel special; it wasn't uncommon, others in the group had done it or could do it with the right magic. He knew certain druids who could do it at will. For him, though, a first.
He relived it again, the motions, the feeling. The moment, after getting Gorm off his tail, that his clawed feet had ceased to register their own weight. The moment he'd flapped hard enough to lift and feel how the wind drafted under his wings. Right after he'd straightened his back and threw out his full wingspan and glided, skimming, so near to crashing but higher than the gods on the sensation of flight. He did crash and tumble twice but it was out of their view, thank the Muse, so that humiliation he could deal with. He could even deal with the way he'd looked, trudging back the two-plus miles from where the spell had finally worn off.
The memory slid down a mental web, joining other firsts, other indelible markers of his existence. His first time with a women - well, two, actually. His first time being completely drunk. His first time in love, the first song he'd ever played on Bella. The first song he'd written and scored on his own. Leaving home. Intense, passionate nights in an office of a tsunami-soaked tower; realizing the depth of his love for Minu, holding Tyr'riel and knowing to his core that he was responsible for another human being in every facet. His last time quitting drinking. Hearing himself in Ilsare's heartsong. This newest first slipped into place as a star in his sky of future dreams and nothing could touch him, nothing.
Well - except that he'd held the vial. Stupid, but necessary. A ship of dead men and he'd just picked the thing up like it was a mug of ale and started walking. He had to wonder at the repercussions. It was probably the only reason no one had tried to physically kick his butt. Some looked at him like he was a dead man already, for having been in contact with it for so long. He didn't know. Right now, he didn't care. Loneliness and pain were buried under wings of fortune and even though he was stretched out, two-legged, in the cave, he could feel the wind over him still. That and the songs he heard himself sing would keep him sane for now.
For now.
-
To:
Margaret Reid
2 Clay Ward
Huangjin
Tilmar
Mother. Quick words, since no, my arms are not broken nor am I dead.
Thank you for the letter and I am glad to hear all is well; I can say that hopefully things are a little safer, as the worst of the bindchasers have had their backs broken. Literally, in some cases. We managed to hold Audira against the Cult and Sedera by association and it seems all sides are catching their breath, but Hilm is the likely next target and I can't be lax with projects on my plate. The entire story of the desert defense will have to wait for a visit and that won't likely be until after some resolution to this war has been reached, but suffice to say I've been busy. Far too busy.
Ty is still safe, although I have been remiss in writing him or anyone. This letter is the second of the evening, the first already winging its way to him, and perhaps with the scope of my part in this war narrowed I'll have more time to communicate. I only wish I could be certain of the security of these letters, I have news both good and better; but for now, I'll just say that that minuet I was working on is robust again - the notes did not fade and the song is far from over.
To answer, am I fine? No. I'll recover, but no. I caused the death of a woman and child, and although with the help of the new head of Krandor Hospital (who also inhabits the body of my friend Shadowleaf) we were able to get them raised, praise Aeridin for that, I have been in a very poor way. I'm trying to recover my mental bearings, but for a time longer than any other I was unable to sing. Not merely hoarse or of sore throat but completely unable. I remember losing my violin Alex for a solid year after my stupidity with Jaelle. This felt much the same; either Ilsare was truly displeased, or I'm much better at self-recrimination than I thought. And still I cannot help but see Ty's face on that child's, and know that no matter how accidental, I would be hard pressed to forgive anyone causing the death of my child. It does change how you look at the world.
I promise more later, for now I must rest. Early morning tomorrow. Love to everyone, and prayers to you all.
Your son,
Tashe
-
To: Ragrian
c/o Trelanian Guard Post
Town of Hlint
Kingdom of Trelania
Mistone
Milady
I write to commend and to request. I wish to commend Arfur and Portlie Dumas, for their determination in sticking with me during recent events. They performed, and I think that word truly applies, their duties well; Portlie in particular was most loyal in protecting me, when he could catch me. Two better-dressed guards an Ilsarian could not ask for.
I would request that any of the bards and halberdiers who have not yet done so be sent to Hilm Castle by whatever means. I will reimburse travel if required. They will be sorely needed, Milady - this I cannot stress enough. I hope to see you there as well.
Yours in the Muse,
Andrew Reid
-
Mr Reid
I thank you for word of those volunteer halberdiers serving in distant parts. That they managed to help you usefully is a surprise indeed, that they remain well turned out - no surprise at all.
I will send word then - all halberds to Hilm. But whether it will reach those so far away in time I cannot say.
Good luck bright Bard, sing with style and please pay homage to Hilm.
Ragrian.
-
To: Captain Damiane
Krandor's Guard Captain
Krandor
Kingdom of Brelin
Mistone
Dear Captain Damiane
I have received the request to present myself and regret to inform you that as of now, I cannot make the trip; I am dealing with issues on two fronts, both personal, and have no one I could put in my stead while I travel. I am enclosing my declaration below as requested and provided no further issue arise, I can be in Krandor in two month's time for further questions.
As I understand it I am to explain what happened on the evening of Junar 3, 1479. Here are my recollections. Understand that despite time passing this is an emotional topic for me as I shall explain and I will try to be as succinct as possible, but may fail here and there.
I was in town to visit Shadowleaf and Feawen A'nadivian; Shadowleaf and myself have been friends for decades and I, with him, am a founding member of the Krandor Hospital when it was first conceived by the Berylite Galathea Arnaduillae. My purpose for being there was to discuss two young apprentices for the hospital with the A'nadivians and to visit they and their daughter, whom I am to instruct in piano.
While enjoying a talk in the entrance room, Ysgraine Ursus, another hospital member, arrived and we continued the discussion. During this the door had opened on its own. We thought it the wind and nothing more and returned to our talk. Not long after that a slight and delicately-boned woman entered the hospital. I identified her accent almost immediately as one of dark elven decent and was from that point forward on my guard.
Allow me to digress a moment. I have had the unfortunate circumstance of dark elven company on more than one occasion due to my extensive traveling. It has rarely ended well for me. On not less than three separate events it has ended with me waking beneath a bindstone. Over the years my naive assumption that "all dark elves that come to the surface are like us" has been quite thoroughly punctured and from that healthy suspicion was my predilection to swift action raised - I have only met one, singular, non-Az'attan dark elf that was truly not a threat.
Upon entering the woman identified herself as an Az'attan named Xilaorn. Again I must explain; sadly, using the goddess of Redemption as a feint is not an uncommon trick among dark elves, and requires a cleric on reasonable terms with Az'atta to see through. We did not have such in the room. I am, as someone with a performing background, familiar with some of the nuance of deception in voices, and was able to detect none in hers; but this does not replace the certainty of those whose gods give them the ability to sense their deity's reactions.
Xilaorn expressed desire to explore joining the hospital as a healer. All things considered, were we able to verify her religion, we'd have welcomed her. I did ask about the increasing vanishing of Az'attan healers and the abandonment of the Az'attan temple in Sedera (I was at the battle there against the Cult and was able to witness the empty building first-hand). The lady was not comfortable speaking of that and we were able to obtain no real information. Under questions, she made her apologies and promised to return later, and left.
I was tense. I admit it. Ysgraine, being one of great practice in shifting forms, had taken shape as a small dragon as this confers an increase in senses - we were standing around the door where the red-clad dark elf had been, discussing the situation, when the door opened again and Ysgraine let out a warning screech.
It is here that I feel my greatest shame. How to explain? Is an explanation enough? I am horrified of what I did and very aware of the narrow tragedy that was avoided by the grace of Aeridin, but, read on.
Reacting to my awareness of the dark elf that had only just stood in the room, I let out a burst of sound - a trick I've learned over the years, the pitch of which is enough to set ears bleeding and stun anyone who hears it for a few seconds, long enough to gain control of a situation. My thoughts of the moment were if it was not she who had returned, or those under her control, it was possible that she had inadvertently led others to her and us by default; either she was a true dark elf in a ruse, or a true Az'attan hunted by her kind or someone else with a reason to hurt her. It didn't matter at that moment; I reacted, and I yelled. I did attempt to modulate the intensity as I have never before used this outside of the wilds, never before inside the limits of civilization, and therefore wished to only impart the stunning and not the physical damage.
As you know the woman and child were standing at the door then, they being the ones attempting to enter the building, and both were killed instantly by the sound of my voice. I had not modulated enough. I nearly lost my mind upon seeing them dead; I am a father, Captain, and if this happened to my child, I would not be able to forgive. Under the circumstances, neither do I expect forgiveness.
Outside the hospital was another potential member, a large man whom we invited; he was in direct line of sight of the event. Although Feawen and Leaf took the bodies inside to discover the cause of death, Gurnorhn was able to verify to me that it was in fact my actions that had caused their demise.
I was beside myself. Grief, guilt, fear for my own child; I kept thinking how easily it happened and superimposing my son's face on the boy's. I lost focus and wandered, singing to Ilsare my grief for what I had done and hoping She would direct me to a cleric. This was the song around town that was spoken of later. It was my second attempt to rectify what I had done, my first being to ransack through the hospital looking for a scroll of raise dead as I have the ability to read them.
My Lady Ilsare is kind to me but this day She let me bear the brunt. I was unable to find a cleric on my own, and an hour later returned to the hospital to try and sing their souls back; again a failure. Finally, Shadowleaf recalled a House of Healing, and we went there hoping to find a cleric to undo my terrible mistake. With a smile from the Muse and Aeridin we found one and I made a contribution of the man's choosing to have both mother and child returned to life. I did try to speak to them, but they wanted nothing to do with me and left promptly. This was perhaps the end of their story aside from an understandable distrust of the hospital and my own person, which I hope this letter might begin to heal; but not an end to mine.
I found out later a dark elf had been captured and killed. And while I understand that you certainly share my paranoia regarding the deep dwellers, I cannot help but wonder if she was an innocent. I would ask when I come for questions if I might ask a few as well? There is still suspicion in my mind but also a fear that yet another healer has been taken from the world. I would like to find out.
I have also stopped using that song. It has never been my want to hurt anyone with the gifts I have and I have had a very hard time dealing it. Of all the paths I have tried, that of vocal destruction was never one and it has been a long hard look I have given myself since. I have worked hard at eradicating from memory the notes, working to memorize instead a song that has no potential to hurt. A lesson learned.
I hope you will share this letter with the woman in question and her son. If they wish to speak to me in person, as I said above, it will be a few months but I will come.
Yours in the Muse
Andrew Reid
-
It is midnight. Thalia has been gone two days. He sits stiffly in his office chair where he has written songs he has not yet sung, because his voice lies dormant beyond what is necessary.
The pain has not faded and he knows it never will. His lady is deeply affected, blaming herself, clinging then keeping her distance, at a loss, for this is the worst he's ever been. More so for his detached, cold normalcy - no drinking binges, no tears, no music upon waking yesterday morning. Life is not fair. Life goes on.
Bills must be paid. Conductors written to. Captains reported to. Prisoners spoken to. A child must be collected, loved, cared for - that is next. Bydell to Voltrex and back. He will hold his son, his first son, and they will learn each other again, and he prays Tyr'riel will help melt the ice around his heart.
He is not alone. There are others he knows who have lost. One in particular whose son's face breaks through; he knew the son and he knows the mother. It is for her first that he draws ink into the tapered quill and writes.
To: Tyrian Baldu'muur
c/o Twin Dragons Inn
137 Leringard
Leringard
Kingdom of Trelania
Mistone
Tyrian.
I wanted to let you know how very sorry I was to hear about Chaynce. I was not there, being involved in another part of the war, but I understand he fell in the defense of Hilm.
Your son was a good man, Milady. A leader who knew how to follow, a friend to most everyone - a delightfully unpredictable soul, as dedicated to doing right as he was to his lady and his cause. He has left a mark on this world that is indelible for it is in each one of us.
Here I had thought to write about valor and heroism and all that. But I am a parent, and I have lost a child - one who lives but whom I might never know - and I understand that poems and songs of heroes are no comfort. No parent should have to outlive their child.
Instead let me say only that I understand. You are in my thoughts. If there is anything I can do, I am at your disposal.
Yours in the Muse
Andrew
.................................................................
To: Edgar Whinessy
c/o The Resonance of Being
Port Hempstead Municipal District
Port Hemstead
Kingdom of Brelin
Mistone
Conductor, greetings from warm and muggy Mariner's Hold.
I apologize for the length of time since our last correspondence. I threw myself into the war effort, as you likely know. It has been - difficult. I am home, recovering from too much death and too little food and sleep and the thousand lost moments that war carves into you. I do have some issues that I think should be brought to your attention, however, and so it is with respect that I write to you now.
First, I wish to speak to you about Francesco. I understand that his methods were - unorthodox, certainly - and that he's been removed. I have thought long on what we went through and how it affected me, and I wanted to put some of those thoughts here for your consideration.
Was I in danger - yes. I was in a situation that put my back to a wall and forced me to use and expand on what I knew in order to survive. Had I not it is likely that I would have woken at my stone. Franco relied on his past experiences, the ways he'd been toughened as a boy and man. I cannot blame him for that and I do not hold him a grudge. In fact I wonder if it was not him taking my measure better than I could take it myself, for I cannot tell you how many times - hundreds, hundreds of hundreds - that hearing, exciting, tempering the Resonance and responding to it saved me while I was in Sedera, on Belinara. Would gentler, less dangerous circumstances have prepared me as well to sing myself out of mindless fright in the face of a poisoned-mad dragon not twenty feet away? Would I have been able to sing myself up from the depths, having held yet another dying man that for his holy symbol I could not heal? I cannot say, but I suspect. So if Franco put me in a place that is not traditionally where your students go, at the very least he helped me to know what I was capable of and understood me well enough to know what sorts of situations I tend to find myself in.
I believe in forgiveness, Conductor, and in this case, I would ask - unbidden by the man and motivated by only my newfound perspective - that you consider welcoming Francesco back if his only transgression was in his handling of my training. This is outside of extenuating circumstances of course, as I am aware I am not privy to all aspects of his case.
Second. I have recently taken in a young performer who has been suffering from a most vexing loss of inspiration. That she has bardic magic at her fingertips is plain; whatever circumstances she has fled, and I am investigating that while I offer her shelter, it has manifested in her blowing the strings off any harp she tries to play. I will amend that. It had manifested so, but due to a most interesting evening and subsequent work together I think we have helped her move past that. To be specific, in my playing I extended myself, drawing on both my joy of music and the calm I can find inside it, and - how to express this - send it to her? Ripples, that is the only thing I can think of. My music to her music, directly, through the Heartsong. In this I was able to assist her in confronting some personal oni.
Since those nights she's been able to play. My challenge now is to a) convince her of her own magic, after I uncover what it is she runs from, as she's only perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old; and b) guide her through that discovery. She is not Ilsarian. I pray I can introduce her to the Muse, but barring that, I am enjoying being a teacher. I've done this before in a much more challenging setting, but was unable to ask for any help and was rather thrown into it. Now that I have time and resources (not to mention I can speak the language) I'd be grateful for any advice or assistance you could lend in the instruction of a potential bard.
And third. I find I am at a point where I would ask for a tutor for myself again. One experience with my formerly inspiration-less young student left me stunned at the power we hold. I feel a need for some guidance as more and more things become open to my inner ear. I would leave that choice to you, and will make the time whenever you are able to find someone interested in taking me on as a student. Please let me know if you find someone; if they wish to travel I will provide them room and board here at my Silver Buckle Inn or I will go to them.
Thank Ilsare for our current peace, however fragile it may be, and I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours in the Muse
Andrew Reid
-
Three letters are sent, in Elohanna's handwriting but in Andrew's words. Each is signed by him in his black ink italic script.
To: Michael Gilliam
c/o The Silver Buckle Inn
Mariner's Hold
Kingdom of Sagewald
Alindor
Michael
I returned to Krandor and have been detained on charges stemming from an incident there. I put the Buckle in your hands until one of us returns - please be frugal. Amaria is welcome to stay and continue her musical endeavors while Minu and I are gone.
I'll be back as soon as I can. Please send any correspondence care of Krandor Hospital here and it will get to me, but be aware it will have to be vetted by the Krandor town guard so there may be delay.
For legal purposes: Michael Gilliam has my grant of authority until my return or Elohanna's return to the Silver Buckle Inn.
(http://i56.tinypic.com/2i72ufa.jpg)
To: Amaria
c/o The Silver Buckle Inn
Mariner's Hold
Kingdom of Sagewald
Alindor
Hello, Amaria. I write to let you know I may be a while returning to the Inn. You recall my admissions to you about my crimes in Krandor? I am there now and have been detained on charges of manslaughter and danger to the populace and the calm.
I wanted to tell you this for two reasons; because you are welcome to stay as a guest in the Inn for as long as you need, and because I am here in no small part due to the serendipity of your arrival in our lives. Let me explain.
When you came, I spent a good part of our first few discussions encouraging you to stop running from whatever it is that caused your artistic block. You've had success on that front and it brings me joy to hear the music you're now producing. But it reminded me that I, too, was running from something - justice (which to be truthful does not bother me so much as I find it often very narrow-minded) and facing those I damaged.
At first avoiding them was easy to justify. The woman told me to leave them alone, and they were alive again, I'd fixed the problem, yes? But. Listening to you made me wonder. I've hovered at the brink of death and been raised by clerics, I've felt parts of my very self severed - there isn't a better word for it - and I've awoken at my binding stone more times than I care to remember. I think we forget after the first few times how much of a mark that leaves. It becomes old hat. But those first times we so easily dismiss are horrible, sickening, frightening.
For that woman and that child then, what scars did that raising leave? What dreams might they have from such a traumatic event? What are their red doors? The more I think about it the more I believe I have to at least find out and do what I can to assist them. Being arrested did put a wrinkle in my plans, but I trust Ilsare and will see this through. There are always lessons to learn, even at my age. So when I say your fortuitous arrival put me here it is in the best possible way. You have provided me new insight. I did say helping you helped me, didn't I? I meant it.
Minu is here with me, although she may return before I do. Michael knows you're welcome to stay. Keep practicing and keep playing, and I hope to see you soon.
Andrew
To: The Angels Guild
c/o Angel Guild Hall
Merchant District
Port Hempstead
Kingdom of Brelin
Mistone
Raven Blue, Daniel, all:
I am detained on charges of manslaughter in Krandor. Minu can explain more. I might be a while. I wanted to let you know. Correspondence can be sent in care of Krandor Hospital should you find it necessary.
Daniel - I've read a law book. You are right. It did help me sleep.
Andrew Reid
-
To:
Margaret Reid
2 Clay Ward
Huangjin
Tilmar
Kassan
I hope all has been well with you and the family – the sakura are well into blooming, yes? I wish I could see them. Ask Father to sketch me a picture. I hope he’s adjusted to letting Bobby run the business. Aya and I agree it’s good he’s gone back to design. We both hope he’s spending more time with his art now.
I’m in jail. You recall my letter about the woman and the child, Mirrim and William, and what I did to them? When I went to put in my declaration in Krandor, I was convicted of manslaughter and sentenced to a year in jail and twenty year’s banishment. If you have written me, that is why I have not responded.
Minu is here working with the hospital to restore their reputation. Ty is here as well. It has been a bittersweet reunion between us and we’re learning each other again. I am allowed one hour a day for visitors and he comes every other day. The jail allows him to bring his guitar in, thank Ilsare. I’m allowed no instruments of course but I can help him with his playing; he’d given it up for a while he was away. I’m grateful he comes as often as he does. He’s still very angry at his mother and myself, and he should be. I am going to spend a lot more time with him when I am finally escorted out of this town.
It’s very hard in jail. It’s not a place of law and order inside the cells. It’s a place where the laws are made by those who have nothing to lose, and the few that come through that don’t intend to commit crimes again become grist for the mill. The rest get a fine education in the nuances of being bad. I hate it here. I am lonely and heartsick.
I have a pupil of sorts and sometimes that makes it tolerable. He’s an older man with an amazing voice. I don’t pretend that teaching him to sing will make his future any brighter, but it passes time and maybe it will help him someday.
Please write in care of the hospital or write Elohanna and it will get to me. I would love to hear some good news, some family news – how are Opal and Vanessa? How is business? Do you need anything? I can have Michael send it. Don’t fire those guards just yet either.
I can’t write much more as I am limited in how long I am allowed to be out of my cell. Love to everyone.
Your son
Tashe
-
To:
Margaret Reid
2 Clay Ward
Huangjin
Tilmar
Mother
Thank you, thank you, thank you for writing. I was getting sick with worry. I'm glad to hear that the pottery business is doing well what with everyone wanting pots and jars to preserve harvests and brine meats, but if the food shortages get any worse, I want you to please do this: Close up shop, pack up your things and come to the Buckle.
Yes, I know father won't like it. But for Opal and Vanessa's sake convince him. I'm sure he would not want to imagine them caught in food riots. I will make room for you here until whatever is happening on the islands is resolved. I do know that rumors of attacks on livestock are getting more frequent everywhere, and so I can't promise that Alindor will be much safer if this continues, but I also know at least one person I trust absolutely is working on the problem. The Buckle has deep food stores. We'll be able to go a while, even with a full house.
And you can't be serious about Opal having a fiancee. I don't think you could have written anything that could make me feel older...at least until Ty makes me a grandfather. If or when you have to leave, bring him and his family too if they'll come.
So, jail was awful, to answer your question. I did make some friends oddly enough - it only reinforces something I've been learning over the years, that you really don't know a person until you know them. That, and good is a shifting scale, not a single trait with any meaningful definition. I've always considered myself "good" - and now I'm a murderer and an ex-con, details aside. It makes me pause a little where before I would rush in rapier-tip first.
I'm extremely glad to be back home. Michael did such a stellar job of taking care of the Inn while I was incarcerated that I've promoted him to manager. His wife is due with their first child soon so the income boost will come in handy. I'm considering hiring her too in fact. I'd like to hear a baby's laughter around here if I'm never to be blessed with another. Minu has convinced me not to abandon my association with Krandor Hospital yet and she's used all of her womanly wiles to keep me at home lately, not that she has to try hard. I've enjoyed being here. More than ever before the restless has been at bay; my student Amaria is now with the Resonance of Being for some training with her talents, my son is speaking to me, the Angels Guild has welcomed me back, my Inn is standing and doing decent business and my woman is still by my side.
I guess I could say that for now, I'm content. We'll see what tomorrow brings, eh?
Talk to father. You gave birth to me, raised me, paid for a few of my mistakes, put up with far more than you should have. The least I can do is offer you shelter when you need it.
More later, Mother; keep the communication coming. It gives me peace to know you're well.
Yours in our Muse
Your loving son and grandson,
Tashe and Ty
-
To: Elohanna Minuet
c/o Silver Buckle Inn
Dock District
Mariner's Hold
Sagewald
Alindor
Love
I just had a fantastic week, one I want to share. I stored the items from the cooking party in Hempstead and went traveling to Vehl on some business; upon reaching the city and conducting my trade, I found that there was a ship hiring divers for a mission.
Now, I don't know if I ever told you this, but I dived as a child and young man. Not like the pearl divers, of course, never that deep or that long. But growing up on the tip top of the island, we used to throw colorful rocks into the ocean or pick objects to swim down and touch. We'd see who could hold their breath the longest and dive the deepest. I never won either contest, not even once, but I did learn to plug your nose and blow so that your ears would not pop, and to go slowly, especially up. It was all a game to us then. I have not done it since reaching adulthood.
So this offer interested me. We; that is, the Rofireinite Samatha, Pimpernell Greentoe (more on him later), Azk'a, Aesthir, and the lovely lady Fleur, took passage on Old One-Eye's ship, the mad captain who runs out of Vehl. He did not stay but we set sail with a captain Pimpernose in charge. I spent days up in the sails, glorying at the wind blowing over me and the fresh salt air. I miss sailing just to sail.
We were attacked by pirates once - all but one of us escaped unscathed, thankfully, and the scathed one pulled through. His name is Pimpernell Greentoe and he's an entertainer and storyteller; he entertained Iri and I late in the evening of the cooking party, a fine fellow of jest. We must have him play the Buckle sometime soon. Oh, and remind me when I make it back that I have agreed to make him hand-pipes carved to mimic flute.
I digress! We sent the pirates packing sans their captain, who oddly seemed to know Pimpernose, and most tragically we left their ship as well. I'd have gladly captained it myself but our crew didn't want to board and take her. I am still broken-hearted. I will have my ship someday, love!
Upon reaching the spot of the dive, we were given potions of water breathing, which did help immensely. By this time Aesthir had taken to his bunk sick and Fleur opted to tend him, so it was only four of us to descend. I kept asking how deep the wreck was and got no answer. The captain was remarkably tight-lipped about our goals there beyond a chest containing an artifact; he would not divulge what the artifact did nor the name of the ship or anything else. So, we dived, following the anchor line down to the sandy sea floor.
I think it was down there, staring up at the faint light illuminating the ocean's surface - a cathedral ceiling of golden blue and green, flickering, gorgeous as foxfire on an old tree - that I had an epiphany regarding that song I've been working on. You know translation from scroll to song is often tricky and how difficult it's been for me to put that spell to music. But as I stood there, looking up, with the only sounds in my ears the gentle rush of water...it came to me. How to phrase it in time, to take those wild syllables and put them properly into a song. And bless the Muse it worked! I can now sing the song of magical protection that slows, protects, and deflects, and it lasts an amazingly long time. I am thrilled, love, thrilled.
I should finish my tale, eh? We found the chest after a short walk and in front of it a guardian. Azk'a and I distracted the guardian while Samantha kept watch for sharks, or at least that is what it looked like she was doing, and Pimpernell, the real hero of this story, sneaked around and tugged out the chest the golem-thing was guarding, swimming away with it. The guardian-golem-thing stopped following us and fighting us when Pimpernell had taken the chest nearly to the surface, so we broke off antagonizing it. Samantha went to the surface but Azk'a and I poked around the wreck a while. We found nothing else of value and no name for the vessel but I might do a bit of research on that someday. However, swimming around that old doomed ship was when I had my second epiphany! The languid motions, the water resistance, the way I had to turn my hand...upon reaching dry land I took up that amazing bow you gave me that I've never been good with, and once again the quiet depths let my mind work through problems that the rush and bustle of the surface does not. I can draw it and fire, and sometimes even hit something!
Upon retrieving the chest containing the object or objects we never got a look at, we were paid a rather princely sum of twenty-five hundred True each, and sent on our way. I hope the good captain enjoys his trinket as much as I enjoyed that trip. I blew the rust of my sailing abilities, had a wonderful dive, and left the city refreshed and ready to present the Foundation with the food and then on to the Resonance of Being for training.
You can expect me home after that my dear. Tell Ty I will see him soon and keep the Buckle fires burning.
Love,
Tashe
-
The clinic was quiet. Reisaleah was upstairs being tended by Chakar and Buddy, and the Inn was closed for now. Emwonk was resting, Kat as well, and Fleur and Aesthir had left to continue working with the authorities.
He examined the smattering of unusually large rat bites on his arm. Way too large, really. Not wearing armor could be a drawback sometimes. He wondered if he was supposed to feel any different. Twenty days to full moon - well, Minu would cure him before then if she had to carry him to North Point herself. The mental picture made him laugh. But he was avoiding the silver cups and flatware just in case.
Nothing to do and he was the only one in the clinic. He didn't have to be here but it seemed right, since he was a customer and all. Mighty boring just lying around though...he should put in some entertainment, books or something...oh, he'd swiped those books from the compound, he could read those...no, wait, there was something more important to do - something he'd promised, and he could use the wing of Minu's research desk to work on it.
He rolled off the cot and found the old, orc-battered mandolin in his office, scooping up tools and some wood and instrument strings while he was there. He returned to the clinic tables and moved books, beakers and mortar and pestle aside to make room, dragging Minu's chair over and setting the mandolin down.
The bronze cinch was intact so he carefully removed it and examined the body. So very odd - it wasn't a mandolin, it was a drum with strings. The strings were intact but old, he'd need to replace them. The head was slashed where a weapon had kissed it and he peeled that off, setting it aside. He had enough talent with leathers to make another one if this couldn't be repaired. What skin was it? Rubbing it between forefinger and thumb, he guessed lion or cougar. He flipped it over. It was old, the leather cracked like an old mirror across the back. Replace.
Moving to the wood, he checked for more cracks. Body was intact...the mahogany had been smoothed by very patient hands. Even small knots and bumps had been sanded flush. Leaning in he tested the acoustics of the rounded hollow and was pleased. The woman who created it, created it with care and attention to the little details that mark music from noise. He nodded to the empty space around him in approval.
The neck, intact. Four strings in courses, replace. Headstock, aha - a little crack there. Wait, not little, it split around the third peg and down along the back. Muse, he'd have to shape an entirely new head and neck. It wasn't the work, it was that he'd been asked to keep it original. But...if he used the old wood as a veneer, that would be keeping the old with the new. That, then.
Wrapped up in his repairs, shaping and sanding the new neck, he never even saw Heloise slip a tall glass of grape juice and a plate of fish and rice to his left, and his singing echoed through the empty clinic and into the tavern long into the night.
-
To:
Margaret Reid
2 Clay Ward
Huangjin
Tilmar
Well, mother. He's gone.
I wasn't prepared. Can you ever be? Were you, when Aya left? When I left? Okay, I took a while to go, so maybe I'm not the best example.
I've been learning and practicing the Resonance for years, I've been spending time with a couple, the Sunstriders, learning even more. From all this I've learned to sing myself happy when pain hits me but right now it's almost like Xeen powder, or dreamroot - it doesn't last and the downside can be hell. Especially now. Never more than now. He wasn't impolite, he said goodbye, hugged us all, promised to write and visit. All the things I said to you. But by the Muse, it hurt. I feel a loss, an empty spot, a pit really. I'm sure he'll be fine, I keep telling myself that, and I think I believe it. It's me I'm worried about.
I did follow some advice and let myself mourn, finally, alone. Minu told me I should. Illia told me I should; Lady Sunstrider. So I finally did. I sang for us all the things I hadn't done, all the time we'd missed together, all the moments in time that never were and never now will be. I cried, and cried, and sang, and cried. It was awful, mother. But I can see the wisdom...because after a while, the harder I drove myself into that, the harder I cried, and the more I listened to myself, the more the tension eased. This isn't to say I'm better. I picked up my quill just now to distract myself from brooding. But I am no longer repeating the same tired lines in a sad frenzy; I thought he would stay until at least the auction, I thought he'd stay until the Rael thing was sorted...oh, yes, you read that name correctly. I'll write on that in a moment.
Ty is a man and he's ready. So I sit, and write, and worry a little, and hope he'll do well, and that I taught him well. That his mother taught him well. I know Damon did so that's not an issue. And I wonder how much more I can take; I lost Dom, I've lost Ty now. Minu and I have been discussing adoption and I think that yes, I want a child to raise with her, if we can't bear one together. And this time, I'll do my utter best to be around.
So, Rael. Charlie, Daniel Poetr's son, tells me the Raelite Embassy in Mariner's Hold has taken an interest in my dealings and that of the Silver Buckle. What this means I don't know yet except that it can't be good. But I've a game plan and a small bit of clout and so I hope that I won't be so easily disposed. We'll see and I'll keep you posted as soon as I know more.
Other than that? Business as usual. I've been working on a business relationship with Denock Wisefoot, of Wisefoot trading, and so far things are going well. I have some plans for this Grand Dame the Silver Buckle, my first muse. Just you wait.
On a final note, food should be coming soon to the cities to ease the resource pinch. I can't take credit for most of it but I have been doing my part and I think my food auction - tomorrow night, by the Muse! - will provide a lot of relief. So be looking for that and remind father that you are all welcome here should things take a turn for worse.
Shorter than usual, surprise. Running a business gives one an appreciation of brevity.
Love to the family
Your son,
Tashe
-
The carriage is stuck at the crest of the hill; the line into the city stretches in front and behind, an excited cacaphony of horses, oxen, and people. He opens his inner ear to the Heartsong and his soul soars. So much anticipation and delight, it drowns out all else as the density of the masses and their combined songs surround him. It's beautiful. He wants to write but every time he dares to take out quill and ink his driver sees an opportunity to gain a few inches and the carriage jerks forward. He already has six sheets of staff paper with unreadable blots. How Minu managed to scribe the invitee list to the wedding on the way here...well, chalk it up to the tenacity of a bride to be.
That list. Stars and song, that list. The conversation is fresh even as it's days old.
"Promise me Tashe, no work this trip?"
"No work, love." He hadn't said promise, though. His mind was still at his desk, where he'd fallen asleep the previous night reviewing what he knew of Rael's involvement in Sagewald, the Raelian embassy, and who he knew that could get more information... "So tell me what you'd like to do for the wedding? Where would you like to have it? At the Buckle?"
"No."
"No?" Uh-oh.
"No, if it's okay with you I'd like to have it in...Hlint?"
"Why Hlint love?"
He'd untied the right carriage window and lit a cigar as she talked. She spoke of her memories of his visits, entertaining the Hlinties and Aeridinites as well as her and Nokka with silly stories and songs and visits from friends. How she half wanted to exchange vows from opposite sides of the gate...he was feeling mellow, being away from work and the stress and...Muse, he'd lit the wrong cigar. That mellow wasn't entirely the result of his quickly arranged vacation.
"...and the entire guild of course and...who else should we invite?"
"Hmm? Oh...um...just close family and friends. Small." Pleasantly drifty as the swing and sway of the carriage left him feeling almost weightless. She was rattling off names. A lot of names. "Slowly, love, I'm a little loopy right now."
"You're always loopy."
"No, I lit the wrong cigar...I'm really loopy." She made an 'mm' sound but kept scribing and tossing out invitees.
"...and can I invite Story, love? He'd be hurt if I didn't invite him."
Story? What story...oh, Storold... "Sure, I have no problem with the Protector being there." How many people had he already agreed to? A dozen? Two?
"Oh! And Brac'car, and we should invite Plenarius and..." Brac'car? Plenarius? Was she serious? It was starting to sound like a kingdom event... "...and Argali!"
"Of course, and I guess Angela and Alantha too."
"So long as Alantha doesn't do fireworks!" Minu giggled and he stifled a giggle of his own.
"Well, so long as she doesn't do them over the town..."
"Over the forest then? Oh! Moraken! We need to invite him too!"
MORAKEN!? "Love, what happened to our teensy tiny wedding?"
"When did we ever do anything small?"
Okay, she had him there. He'd kept his head back, his eyes closed. He'd been a little uncomfortable being in this condition in front of her. But, she was to be his wife, and it was part of the package so...he'd rolled his head over to look at her and caught a glance at the scroll of names and promptly choked. It was long enough to be a respectable train on the bridal gown for a highbrow wedding.
Which, it looked like he was having...
"Love, do you want the truth? I'd rather just elope. Or have the king of Erilyn take us out in a side hall or something and just marry us...he's a king, he can do that..." A regal wave of his hand. "Poof, you're married!"
"I would too, love, but the guild would be hurt if they were not invited!"
"Alazira would have kittens if she didn't get to marry us."
"See? And what would your mother say?"
"True. But I'm not looking forward to organizing this. I have the sewer mapping, Rael, a concert - three musicians I'm writing with - and the auction coming up and I need to visit Illia and tell her how I'm doing and...."
"I'll organize it love."
"All of it?"
"All of it."
"And all I have to do is show up, say 'I do', and eat cake?"
"Promise."
Well, okay then. He'd felt a weight lift from his shoulders and fallen asleep not long after. Now, as the words drifted from memory, he scanned the banners snapping in the river breeze, all along the walls of the excited city - the last time he'd been here, it had been under siege from undead, and the aftermath of that still affected Minu - and let himself fall completely into the wild Heartsong's spell. He was going to a royal ball with the woman he was meant to marry. What could better?
-
The pan pipes were basic, which was good. He had a set he'd carved for Pimpernell but he had not seen the small bard in a while so those remained buried in his pack. These, the gift of a woman whom he sincerely hoped would not crush his friend Edward's heart, had none of the carefully chosen oak heartwood or fancy turnings. They were plain, eight bamboo tubes of descending length secure in a simple wooden band. They were exactly what a novice like himself needed.
A novice. An interesting place to be, for him. So long he'd ignored wind instruments...he could teach theory but if a prospective student would ask for even one demonstration they'd laugh themselves blue. He could blow enough to check the tuning, that was it. This set felt a little small for his hands anyway. Woodwinds? It made him want a cigar just thinking about them. The pipes dipped as his wrist relaxed, brain sending the chemical signal just ahead of the justification that he would think was the actual moment of decision, and then a stray breeze gusted by. The pipes did not care the source and gave to the wind what they so beautifully gave their previous owner; a haunting echo of pentatonic moaning, swirling, rising, falling. G, D, E, E held until the air stilled.
Jil was off browsing archery vendors, Minu was with Daniel, and he had missed the fencing combat for the day. His wrist straightened. He sat cross-legged on a rough trestle table outside a grog tent that was mysteriously closed and felt the waves of distant cheering mingling with friendly calls and the cries of vendors. Early evening torchlight oozed across white tents fading to grey and he lifted the pipes with renewed interest. A couple of experimental breaths...
"Mister, are you gonna play?"
A fast blink. Looking down, the girl was perhaps five or six, sitting on a bench by the table. He hadn't noticed her approach. She wasn't dressed poorly, nor richly; a look around and he saw two parents hovering nearby, strained smiles and a child who looked to be just walking age held in the father's arms.
"I'm not very good." He gave her a little grin; she smiled back.
"That's okay! I'll still listen!" He looked again to the parents, who reluctantly nodded. Well...alright then. He breathed to his diaphragm, pulling his lower lip under his upper just a little with a small parting, and blew across the open ends of the pipes.
His first attempt was...interesting. The girl giggled as a few notes fell flat in a rush of breath, clapped when they rang true, and he fell into the role of entertainer as easily as he fell into bed. He didn’t try to play anything in particular but experimented with the pipes, causing vibrato with his fingers and testing the amount of breath force needed for different amplification. She drank it in. It was a rush of warmth for him, watching her enjoyment with the utter sincerity of someone who has not yet formed years of expected reactions. Muse, he loved kids.
"Come, sweetheart, let's let the man practice."
"Momma! Just a minute more? Please? Pleeeease, please?"
He smiled at the girl's mother."It's not an imposition, Milady. I am only passing the time." Pipes to lips again and he tried a song. It wasn't as hard as it had seemed a few minutes ago, but he didn't know the tricks for sharps and flats and his "song" sounded to him as monochromatic as a canvas of only red and orange. The girl loved it and applauded. He bowed from his seat. "Thank you, my dear lady!"
"Anne, it's time to go." The father's voice held no promise that begging would buy the girl any more time.
"Yes Papa." She slipped off the bench and waved, joining her parents as they continued their walk. The father nodded and he nodded back. Anne's wooden soled shoes tapped on the cobblestones until they blended with the festival noise rising through the coming darkness.
He'd best find Minu. She had their itinerary and he was determined to be only fashionably late, not terminally so, to any specific events that required his lady's presence. In his wake the sound of pan pipes drifted from wall to wall.
-
She slices open the cream colored parchment with a single smooth zzzzzzzzzt, this aged woman with long grey hair, moving spectacles down her nose as she lifts the contents to read. The man behind her leans over her shoulder - an easy task at his six-foot-four height - and lets out a pensive 'hm'. She reaches back to pat his side absently. She speaks in Old Tilmarian, he answers in common.
(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v734/Elohanna/wedding-invitation-2.jpg)
"Married. Andrew." The spectacles are removed and dropped to the table, held tight in her curled fingers.
"Mm. We're sure this is not a joke?"
"It seems legitimate. Here's a letter."
He is trying to wash clay and ink from his fingers. After sixty years, it's hard to remember which stains are new and which have become an indelible part of his skin. "Read it, dear."
"Dear Mother. First and foremost - this is not my idea of a joke. I have proposed, and Minu has accepted, and yes, I'm getting married."
"Mm." The scrubbing continues. The man smiles, his tanned face crinkling.
"I hope you can come. I have sent coin to your bank, for travel expenses, and reserved rooms for you at the Wild Surge in Hlint. I hope Shuchi, Miyu, Opal and Vanessa will be able to come as well. Aya should be there.
"We've been beyond busy. I told you about the food auction? We held two. Between those and the Angels providing further incentive, we sent about fifteen hundred crates of food to the islands and to Boyer, also faring badly after the war. You should be seeing the fruits of that labor - pun intended - "
"Now I know it's not a counterfeit."
"Hush. ' - soon. I have taken some advice and not gotten myself involved in the wedding, rather it is my intention to show up, enjoy, and walk off entitled to make married man jokes for the rest of my life."
"I have a few he can use."
"Will, please. 'Things continue to go strangely at the Buckle, which I am proud to say is fully occupied and a little more. I'm still working on my faction with the city and that...well, it goes.
"I wish to warn you of one more thing. There seems to be a slow but steady increase in the number of undead. Always a problem, but lately - much more so. I've started to wonder, in conjunction with someone harassing one of my employees, and so I pass this warning on to you. Keep those guards, I shall continue to cover their costs.
"I must cut this short - shocking! - but I pray you'll come to Hlint, for the wedding and the celebration. And you'll get to see the shrine! So make plans and let me know what they are, otherwise I'll worry. Ty should be there as well if you needed another draw (yes, I'm smiling as I write that).
"Your loving, single-days-are-numbered son, Tashe."
"So we're going?"
"Pack your bags."
-
The rain-damp road stretches ahead to the docks. They are asking him if he's alright -- Gel is hovering, the elf reads his body language and doesn't like it one bit. Allegro limps at his side. The others divvy coin findings, talk about the strange and foreboding glade deep in the isle woods that left them all disquieted and eager to return to bustle and light. He does not speak, although he feels the same harsh scraping across the chorus of his inner song. That place of bridges, tree buildings, cauldrons and bones is a threat and he is frightened of it without knowing exactly why, yet it is a kinetic threat, poised but not in motion. Whereas the one he encountered right before the journey - viable. Real. A symbol of everything he hates. How much pleasure would he take in killing that man? He should not even ask himself that.
Bile rises in his throat and a joke with it. What's black and white and red all over? It coaxes a snort from him as the boat captain checks tickets. It will be a long sail back and he is not in the mood to man the ropes. No shanties rise to his lips and no smile dimples his cheeks. He retires immediately to his cabin, locks and wards the door, and lies back on the slim bunk, thumb twitching toward his ring finger. His necklace he still occasionally slides back and forth across the platinum chain; he likes the sound. His mustache, long gone from his upper lip since James has slipped into retirement, he still strokes the ghost of. This new sensation is his wedding band. It is wide and heavy, platinum, and the feeling of rotating it around his finger is reassuring. An anchor. The ring is squared off without adornment and the edges gently groove his thumb with its weight in memories.
The waves are high as Mist stirs the ocean's surface and the rocking of the ship makes him sleepy. He does not want to dream of dark elves. The metal he strokes with his thumb represents a memory that is as far from the Shadow that chases him as anything can be, and so he closes his eyes and plants his mental feet back, onto Hlint soil, in front of the gate that separated him from his lover for so long. He remembers children's laughter carrying over that gate and Melody's sweet voice urging them to gather, stand here, no, no, no, you may not chase the kitty...he remembers the Trelanian flags snapping in the sharp breezes. It was an abnormally chilly day even for fall. The Trelanian guards were replaced by a single man fetchingly turned out in Ilsare's colors, a man who had stood as his guard before...
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"I'm not late!" He hoped he was not late. What was a Dumas doing guarding the gate? "Arfur! Good to see you! Dashing as always. Here for the wedding?"
"I cannot let you go into the abyss alone, sir."
"Capital." He paced, gathering his thoughts. Arfur began a song with a merry grin.
"The bride gave the answer I do...he's loveable, handsome and true...six girls in the pew...all yelled I do's and the flower girl cried I do too! And as for the present...a terrible grimace of doom was there on the face of the groom -- that's you -- 'I'm feeling quite miffed, for my wedding gift, she gave me a mop and a broom!' " A wicked smile from the halberdier. "A little lighthearted moment."
"Ha! You should see how Minu cleans a house. She cheats -- spells, all of it. She'll never dust so long as she has a Gust of Wind spell memorized."
He was prepared to pace with only his Ilsarien guard for company but Lana, resplendent in a long turquoise dress, strolled up, and for some reason the lovely woman sparked a surge of nerves. He bowed and Miladied without thinking, tells her how gorgeous she was -- she really was. He could already imagine Daniel's expression when his clerical friend caught sight of her. She chatted while he paced, bantering with Arfur and him.
"I have a little present for you." She handed over a box; he peeked in the box and the contents settled his fluttering attention span for a few seconds. Twenty little brown vials nestled in neat rows, giving off a woodsy scent of bark.
"Milady...thank you..."
"You're very welcome." A brilliant smile just as a chorus of local birds took up a song. She was looking around. "I guess I'll go see if Daniel is around."
"He'll be out here somewhere likely. The groom's party must stay outside the gates."
"Oh indeed for he may not enter by false, fictious, or foul means!" Arfur snapped his halberd up and straightened his back, seeming to enjoy himself immensely. "He must await and enter with honor, pride, and all that romantic toff."
Lana's grin was half flirtatious, half amused. "Hmm, I hope the goblins don't notice you're here. Good luck!" She made to slip inside the gate, throwing a smile over her shoulder as she did. "And congratulations...if you make it."
His response was dryer than a fifteen year cabernet. "Thank you."
She laughed and vanished into the town, both his eyes and Arfur's following until the gate clicked shut. Arfur turned with that same merry twinkle in his eyes and winked. "I am duty bound as the self appointed guardian of the Gate to mention the horse sir."
He ran his fingers through his hair and blew out a breath, shuffled through his jacket for a cigar. The nips stayed in his pocket; he bit the end off one savagely and lit it from a lantern on the wall. "Allegro is to be given the sweetest grass and finest water for getting me here early." Arfur seemed amused as his nerves worked their way out via his tongue and voice. "I wonder if my parents are here yet. Have you seen my sister?"
"I have not. It was though not your horse to which I referred."
"What horse?"
"Beyond yonder copse lies a fast horse, a fine disguise of woodland green. Three days rations and a map of the south!" Arfur beamed and pointed; the man's earnest expression sliced through his jitters. He laughed so hard he snorted.
"I am far too deep to run for it, Arfur. Besides - my bride-to-be is a wizard of astounding power. How long could I hide?" He was still laughing as he said it, circling the drain of a giggle fit, trying not to fall in. Arfur only nodded solemnly.
"My duty done then...you are single for little longer it seems. Sir, we have seen darker days. Would you have me mark this...this bend in the river of life with an escort?"
He was about to answer in the affirmative when a kobold -- a kobold? -- strolled up, dressed rather nattily. Something about the walk, the size, the clothing - "Em! My gods man. What are you wearing?" And again interrupted as his best man slipped from the gate, apparently exempt from the "no grooms party inside" rule, and looking as if he himself had fallen off a white-iced cake. "...Daniel." He whistled. "You look better than I do."
Emwonk beamed, completely oblivious to the intended recipient of the compliment. "Gratitudes."
Good, it was Emwonk. "Okay, I wasn't sure. I was hoping it was you. Or a very formal...kobold..."
"Problematic attire?" The halfling seemed genuinely puzzled. Daniel's expression was as close as the man got to rolling his eyes. The birds continued their homage to a crisp fall day -- Muse, there was a lot of them singing...
"Er, well, I like the belt but the headgear is a little strange." He leaned back to make sure his eyes were not tricking him. "And the tail." Daniel was sighing in his direction. "What?" His best man pursed his lips and reached for the nearly spent cigar stub; he yanked his hand back. "Lifeline! No touch!" Whereupon Emwonk reached out a finger and zapped the stub to ashes. Bloody elemental sorcerers...Daniel was saying something about his boots, what?
"...my boots? I'm to be married barefoot? This is Zira's doing isn't it? I knew she'd get her revenge!" But no, Daniel only wished to polish them. Well, they were coated with road dust from his mad ride here. He tugged them off and stood, barefoot, until the boots were handed back with a blinding shine. Wasn't it time yet? It felt like it had been a year out here already. He dusted his coat, his original red velvet coat. He was woefully underdressed for his wedding but Minu had wanted this outfit, the one he'd worn when they first met. Daniel fussed with the coat's collar; Emwonk flicked some of the cigar ash off. Arfur chuckled.
"Now you can see the expression of your face on your boots...I am not sure that's good!"
"Have you your lines prepared, Andrew?" Daniel finished fussing with one last brush at the velvet.
Emwonk sniffed. "Emwonk's attire equals supreme quality. Emwonk cognated acceptable regarding ceremonial proceedings." The halfling made a minute adjustment of the kobold mask and flicked his tail. He wasn't sure, but it seemed that Daniel did roll his eyes that time. Wait, lines, what?
"...lines? No one gave me any! I figured Zira would lead us.....tell us what to say..."
Daniel smiled, almost chuckled. "I suppose you'll simply have to improvise, then."
"That I can do. Muse, if there is anything I can do, it's that."
"Just remember -- it's her day, Andrew." A sage nod from his friend and from Arfur. He grinned wickedly.
"It will be my night though..."
They fell silent a moment as music drifted toward them, a children's chorus, the harmony so beautiful it made him ache. Melody's touch. They stood there, captivated by the sound, until a passing wagon broke the spell. He toed at flowers scattered on the road -- roses -- and fished for another cigar, changing his mind at one imperious lift of Emwonk's electrically arcing finger. Bloody elemental sorcerers with health nut issues! He stuffed the cigar back just as there was a rapid fluttering of very large wings. A friendly voice from behind him; he turned, and blinked at the latest guest.
"Andrew! Looking brilliant!"
"Thank you sir!" The Bird Lord smiled -- he was pleased to see the man, and not just for his stories -- Minu would be over the moon to see her old friend. Emwonk turned as well and --
"Bird-entity!"
Stars and song, no! "Em! This is Plenarius, the Bird Lord, he's not a bad bird, he's good...!!"
"Emwonk cognates. Emwonk visualed prior infinitums."
There were not words for his relief. He had flashes of town criers calling 'Did you hear about the Bird Lord being attacked at the wedding of...?' "Ah, good."
For his part Plenarius was nonplussed and flashed a smile at Emwonk, Arfur, and Daniel. "Hi!"
Noise inside the town, near the gates -- now? It was time now, right? His first wedding, his only wedding. He'd already gotten the only gift he'd specifically asked for...Saida wasn't there. He wasn't sure how he knew but he knew. The message had been received. All that was left was to pledge his heart forever to one woman, this elven lady who was his other half, his soulmate, his...he was pacing again. Daniel and Arfur were half herding him; he laughed. "By Ilsare, I'm not going to try and escape."
"Are you ready then?"
"As I can be, Daniel." All the way to this point it was almost smooth -- no major disasters that he knew of. The guests arrived in good spirits, the weather was cold but clear, and they were sticking to the plan. Bride inside the gates of Hlint, groom outside.
Only a few knew why. Her presence in Hlint during the war had been kept quiet, even by those who knew-- no one wanted the Cult to come and finish the job before a cure could be found. Not many knew the days he'd spent singing to her from this very spot; entertaining her, trying to keep her spirits up as she and her Sisters did the impossible, fighting to keep a town alive despite the vicious plague visited upon it. Not many knew of the times he'd brought friends to make her laugh, the concert he'd thrown for the Sisters of Mercy and the townsfolk, they only seeing him through cracks in the wood and hearing his voice. So long that he and his Minu stood mere feet apart and yet separated by a chasm neither could overcome until Xora had, finally, formulated the cure. It had been here, here in this very spot, that he had fully realized what he might lose. It had been here that the seeds for this moment were sown.
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He is remembering the wedding but his mind drifts farther back, engaged in one of those long bittersweet talks with his love, joking that he will have to build a fence down the middle of the bed so they can chat properly -- the wedding memories fuse to those of the nonsense story night, hearing her laugh for the first time since she learned of her affliction...lost in Paleolithic layers of half-dreams he is dumped out of his bunk by a massive wave. He is disoriented and the cabin is pitch black. Calls from the crew to turn the ship into the waves echo down past the chaotic pounding of rain on the portal window. He climbs back into his bunk and sings, listening with ears and heart -- his emotions are flotsam, fear and joy and aching and love and anger. Singing pulls him together. He turns his mind again to that wild, joyful day.
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The wedding...the actual ceremony...was where the ship of smooth sailing hit the shoals, and it was a glorious wreck. Daniel had not been informed of the plan, and led him inside early -- a grinning Arfur, halberd in hand, brought up the rear. Tod arrived, a complete surprise, but the halfling was in high spirits and both gracious and pleasant. Amazing what a proposal can do for a reputation. As they entered the gate, his best man led with sword at present arms and he looked about to see what Minu had been planning for the last year.
Melody had somehow gotten a piano outside into a field of flowers and -- hello! Billy? His Silver Buckle piano player was there! He saw Kaldar and Illia and he waved like a grinning idiot. Heloise and Paddy waved from near the bank, she glowing with the subtle light of her first pregnancy -- Michael and Edward were farther down by some benches -- his family was up on the Captain's lookout -- knowing they were there made that day feel as epic as anything he'd ever done. Stand in front of Fisterion? Pfff! Fight to the last hour of a doomed fort? Pshaw. Wage guerrilla warfare on Drachs in their territory, battle back a tsunami, fight Ori, stand before kings? Child's play. THIS was something amazing. This was a moment that would forever mark him, taking vows with his Aeridinite lady, stepping forward into mysteries of Ilsare he'd only ever guessed at. Not to mention being totally monogamous.
If it ever happened. Muse, it'd felt like days already! Where was his bride?
A good portion of the town was out to celebrate the lady who had become one of their own. There were guests, many he recognized and many he did not. Plenarius went to check for late attendees, the wind was leaving a mound of flower petals along the building edges, and a light snow wafted down, unusual for fall. Alazira, wearing the dress that he and Zari had together created for her -- she looked a vision in it, he had to admit -- marched up with a businesslike step. One kiss on the cheek from his priestess and a comforting word -- 'You're almost there, Andrew' -- and they were shoo'd back out beyond the gates, a confused Daniel once again leading. Chakar had arrived, and Gel'larian and Ferrit and Finn. Arfur resumed gate guarding. Daniel shook off the confusion and muttered something as Emwonk edged over to Plenarius to pluck at the soft brown feathers lining the man's wings. The Bird Lord steadfastly ignored it.
Back to pacing. He dusted snow from his hair and made a stab at telling the story of why this spot outside the gates was so important to them, pointing out to Daniel the crack in the gate he and Minu had peeked through to see each other. When his best man turned to the conversations behind them, he moved up to the crack, hoping to catch a glimpse of his bride. He could see only Gel's back, ushering the groom's party members outside. Billy began a processional; he could just see Melody's arms waving in an approximation of a conductor. She was the perfect choice for their musician. It could have been no one else.
Daniel put a hand on his shoulder, half in support, half drawing him away from his vantage on the town's interior. He stepped away and brushed some motes of dust from his cuffs. Arfur grinned. "That horse is still there Andrew."
The children's chorus started humming and combined with the piano in the falling snow, it was ethereal; at the same time gauzy and grounding, angelic and earthy. He shivered. Gel, having herded the rest of his side of the party out, came up silently behind him. "How are we doing Reid?"
He got a better look at Gel's attire then -- "Muse, everyone's better dressed than I!" Gel grinned, straightening his lapels. Well, go figure -- he was Zari's boyfriend, after all.
Daniel gave a firm smile at his distress. "He will make it if we have to carry him in Gentlemen."
Arfur flashed a snow-dusted grin. "Won't be the first." Daniel chuckled. He smiled at both men and tried for some levity of his own -- the music was still going, she had to be walking, she'd be here any minute, oh Ilsare he was going to do this -- focus on Gel.
"We should drag Zari here and do a double."
Gel's expression was an exquisite balancing act. "There aren't enough wizards on Mistone Andrew."
"I know a few inside that would help." He grinned. "And a couple priests too." Daniel let out a soft hmph. He could hear women's voices now and strained for the one he wanted to hear most of all. He just made out Zira instead...'A little further dear...'
Tod was humming along with the wedding march, sniffling, swiping at his face. "Weddins always make me all teary-eyed..."
Arfur chimed in. "So long as the girls are teary-eyed too..."
He finished Arfur's rhyme. "And so long as they say, I do!" Tod was talking, Arfur was saying something about flower girls, Emwonk was talking, Gel'larian was talking, and all of it ceased to exist -- not a single word remembered -- as Zira's warm, commanding voice carried over the gates. He froze.
"We are joyfully gathered today to witness and celebrate the joining of two hearts in marriage." The murmurs and side conversations stopped -- he could only hear Zira and one very young child singing a song about elves and biscuits, oblivious to the sudden quiet. "Elohanna and Andrew have come together with the sincere desire that the love which brought them to this union may grow and spread into the lives of others. May you both be granted the patience to listen, the capacity to understand, the compassion to give comfort, and the joy to laugh and to just be yourselves. Let your marriage make a home where neither person is ever lonely. Let it offer illumination and the excitement of shared discoveries. Let it be large enough to endure difficult times; may life's challenges bring you closer together and may you always be able to turn to each other." A throaty chuckle. "I'd tell you to face and join hands... but... well...get close to the gate? He shuffled forward, Daniel standing aside and Arfur lifting the halberd that had blocked the way.
"Andrew, repeat after me..." He could not resist -- he peeked again through their little wooden window, the crack that had let them view each other during their long separation. Daniel stepped back to him and Gel's voice followed Zira's.
"Reid!" He ignored them all, sticking a finger in the crack and waving at the folks on the other side. He heard Minu giggle and Gel protested again. "Get back you cheater!"
For once Daniel didn't stop him. His best man seemed either amused or resigned. The latter, probably. Arfur moved his halberd toward the offending finger. "Steady sir, hold your nerve...imagine you are in the field...a steadying voice."
Alright, alright. Let's get this done. "Ready Zira."
His priestess in Ilsare spoke the words he would repeat to the woman standing just beyond the weathered wooden gates. "I Andrew, affirm my love to you Elohanna, as I invite you to share my life. You are the most beautiful, smart and generous person I have ever known and I promise always to respect you. With kindness, unselfishness and trust, I will work by your side to create a wonderful life together. I take you Elohanna to be my lawful wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health for as long as we both shall live."
Some part of his brain heard but he wasn't actively listening. He pulled his finger back before Arfur could chop it off, then began to hum -- with a few lyrics a shimmer appeared on the other side of the wall, an illusionary heart hanging in the air on the bride's side with snowflakes passing through. He heard a little gasp; Minu's, he knew. He repeated his vows in a voice that reflected both his nervousness and his commitment. "I, Andrew, affirm my love to you, my Minuet, as I invite you to share my life - again."
Minu spoke, her voice low and aimed at someone between them. "He's not very good at following directions."
By the Muse, Daniel was sneaking a peek through the gates! He was almost gleeful at his friend's determination to go with the flow. "You are the most beautiful, smart, and generous person I have ever known and I promise to always respect you. With kindness, and unselfish trust, I will work by your side to create a wonderful life together." He took another look through the crack and Chakar's merry waving from over by the bank caught his eye.
"I take you Elohanna Minuet to be my...do I have to say lawful?" He craned his head around to Daniel. Zira was chuckling.
Minu snickered. "Better than awful."
"If you wish, Andrew." Daniel grinned. Okay, then.
"...my legal but wild at heart wife, to have and to hold, and hold, and hold...from this day forward, for better or for worse..."
"More betters than worse please?" After everything they'd been through, he wished he could promise that.
"For richer and for poorer, in sickness..." His grin faded, his inner song bridging from a wild waltz to a dirge as he stared at the wood inches from his face. "...and in health, as long as we...er, I...shall live." From the corner of his eye he saw Daniel bite his lip.
Zira's voice again. "Elly...your turn...repeat after me. 'I love you. You are my best friend. Today I give myself to you in marriage. I promise to encourage and inspire you, to laugh with you, and to comfort you in times of sorrow and struggle. I promise to love you in good times and in bad, when life seems easy and when it seems hard, when our love is simple and when it is an effort. I promise to cherish you, and to always hold you in highest regard. These things I give to you today, and all the days of our life.' "
He leaned toward the gate and whispered to where he thought Zira was standing. "Make her say 'obey'!" Daniel elbowed him. He caught sight of Plenarius, on the bride's side, hiding a bottle of something under his wing; Chakar was standing next to the Bird Lord with a suspicious grin. Zira shook her head and chuckled again.
Elohanna recited, her voice a little husky. "My Dearest Tashe, I love you more now and will forever love you, and give myself to you completely. I promise that I will always comfort you and inspire you, and bring you hope and laughter. I will never turn my back on you, I will never betray you." He leaned his head on the gate as she spoke. "No matter what hardships we face I will be to yours forever. In sickness and in health always. You are my inspiration. Please say you will be mine Andrew William Reid?"
"All day every day, sugar."
Zira again. "Okay...almost there...now the rings...a short speech from me...and you're there...hold on a little longer."
Daniel whispered and almost dropped him into another nervous giggle fit. "When do we storm the gate?" Muse! He picks now to be funny! He planned it, he must have -- wait -- what was Zira saying?
"Ring?" A look at Daniel. "She's wearing it!"
"Umm...I need the gate open at least a bit if you are going to put rings on each other." Zira cracked the gate. Someone came up behind, a late guest -- he heard Gel giving instructions on what side to pick but it was moot. Arfur and Zira would let no one through in the middle of the ceremony.
"Rings are a symbol that there is no beginning and no end to this relationship. They are symbols of the growing relationship you have come to celebrate..."
A fast whisper. "Zira, she's wearing the ring I gave her." Without missing a beat, the Ilsarian priestess pulled the ring off Minu's finger and pressed it into his waiting palm sticking through the cracked gate doors.
Daniel let out a soft grumble. "Truly as chaotic as I thought it might be..."
"Andrew, as a sign of your faithfullness, place the ring on her finger and repeat after me. 'I take you Elohanna as my wife through all the experience life holds for us, in faith and love'."
Minu stuck her hand through. He slid the ring carefully back onto her finger. "I take you Elohanna as my wife --" His voice stuck a little. Wife! "-- through all the experiences life holds for us, in faith and love."
"Elly...same speech...your turn...'I take you Andrew as my husband through all the experience life holds for us, in faith and love'."
"Steady, Andrew." Daniel whispered. "Nearly finished." He wasn't sure he wanted it to end. His fingers brushed the wood as he put his hand through for Minu.
"I take you Andrew as my husband through all the experience life holds for us, in faith and love always and forever." Her small hand brushed his large one -- she held it steady and he felt the barest hint of metal. He grinned and dodged his fingers a bit, making her work to catch the right one. There was a flicker of pain as skin pinched, then a heavy, boxy weight on his ring finger.
Zira gave him a little push to stand clear, and flung the gates open with a huge smile. "You may kiss your bride...get in here!" Everyone was talking at once -- he was still getting used to that weight -- Minu was...
"Ohhh, my." She was in white, cut low across the chest and nipped at the waist with red lace, encircled by a gold-trimmed skirt that managed to both be full and lie just right over her curves. Her hair was full and loose, her makeup subtle, her eyes shining. She was a goddess.
"Tashe!"
"Hello dollface." The clapping and whooping formed an auditory frame for that moment in time. He heard his mother yelling for him to KISS HER ALREADY in Old Tilmarian -- he and his family were probably the only people there who knew what she was saying. His father was laughing at the whole spectacle, delight, not amusement. He could not remember the last time he'd heard his father laugh like that. He scooped Minu up and soaked in her radiance for a few breaths as the chants of KISS KISS grew. Minu said something about cute britches and Zira said she wanted to know nothing about his britches and he didn't understand and he didn't care. With one last breath he lifted his bride's face to his and kissed her, holding nothing back.
It was a long kiss. He held it and held it, she held it and held it, and the cheering was the wind at their backs.
And they were married.
Married!
WIFE!
It was going to be a little while before that sunk in.
The party was one to see. He joked with everyone, mingled, took special time to say hello to Kaldar and Illia. Illia seemed joyful to be traveling and very genuinely happy for him; Kaldar, a little out of his element, appeared to take his wife's personal happiness as consolation for having to trod around civilization. It wasn't until later he realized he never introduced them to Minu. She'd been over with Gel and Zira and Zari. Zira, having been the one to give the bride away as well as conduct the ceremony, officially gave Minu to him afterward during the party. Daniel just shook his head.
Drinks were broken out and circulated by Finn, although their official caterer was running a little late and Emwonk put on a small private fireworks show with the halfling's own elemental magic. As he mingled, smiled and bowed, some of the Hlintites gave him a head start on wife jokes. He barely had time to say hello to his family -- it as not until the next morning that he, his bride, and his parents, brother, sister-in-law and nieces were able to sit and chat. The snow kept falling, not too hard and not too soft, a perfect flurry. Gel'larian began to play and Melody was busy getting the children ready for the wedding song.
The children. They were, in a way, the best part for him -- the future of Hlint, those who survived the plague or were born after, singing for this union of love. He caught Minu watching them with her shining eyes and knew what their presence meant to her after all the souls she'd held as they slipped beyond the mortal coil. He wondered how Melody had known and decided he didn't care so long as his Minu was really and truly happy.
A stream of congratulations, and more; gifts, from Ferrit and Lana and Chakar and Katelyn and Daniel. Tralek arrived fashionably late and Riven Ring-Cleaver was there, handing out roses, Daniel was passing out wine...Muse, it was almost too much. Everyone wanted to celebrate. Zig wandered throught the gates full of good cheer for them. Melody herded the children back into a sort of line, Emwonk was hugging his leg in a genuine display of affection -- still wearing the kobold mask. Daniel proposed a toast and lifted a bottle, having eschewed a glass altogether.
"To two dear friends." Glasses were raised in response, and he felt a tug -- nay, a yank -- to get one himself. He sang under his breath, admitting his weakness, and sighed. Juice. Now and forever, it would be juice. As if reading his mind, Emwonk offered up a vial -- not a glass, a vial -- of pinkish liquid. Bottoms up...Arfur was nearly bottoms up himself, raising his...forth? fifth? glass of wine and breaking into song.
"A few words...! She wore something borrowed and blue, her shoes were all shiny and new, he said to her cold, you forgot about old! She laughed and said: "Silly, that's you!" He waved the glass around and smiled the smile of the joyful drunk. "I salute you all!"
As if that were her cue, Melody straightened the line of boys and girls, they having drifted toward things far more interesting than watching the adults jabber. There was a conversation going on about Riven's shop, but he focused on Melody. He knew exactly what it was like to try and play a wedding; he would make sure she had an audience. More people arrived, Amgine among them, as he signaled for Melody to start. She looked at Billy and nodded three times, then turned to face front and brushed her guitar's strings. Though the talking continued it hushed as those first vibrations blended with the piano. The children, finally cued, began to hum quietly, and Melody's richly sweet voice rang through the falling snow.
"One ...look in your eyes and there I seeee...Just what you mean to meeee, here in my heart, I believe...Your love is all I'll ever need, holding you close through the niiiiight ... I need you ... yeaaaaah...
"I ... look in your eyes, and there I see...what happiness really means, the love that we share, makes life so sweet...together we'll always be...
"This pledge of love feels so right...and, ooooh, I ne-ed you..." The song's intent shone through her eyes and voice. The children joined her on certain words and hummed to compliment the instruments otherwise. "Here and now...I promise to love faithfully (faith-ful-ly)...You're all I ne-ed...Here and now...I vow to be one with thee (you and me), hey...Your love is allll...I need, say, yeaaaaah, yeah..."
The gnomish lady's voice strengthened and his skin tingled. He could feel her opening up, filling the space between notes with her emotions, feeling what she sang -- her face reflected it all.
"When I look in your eyes, there I'll see...All that a love should really be, and I need you more, and more each daaaaaay...Nothing can take your love away, more than I dare to dreeeeam...I need you...here and now...I promise to love faithfully (faithfully), you'rrrre allll I need..." His eyes closed. Someone clasped his shoulder and he heard Minu singing along, squeezing his hand with a strength that would surprise most people. "Here and now ... I vow to be one with thee (you and me), yeah, your love is all I need..." The tempo doubled and the children harmonized, singing along.
"(Starting here) ooh, and I'm starting now, I believe (I believe in love), I believe...(starting here) I'm starting right here, (starting now) right now because I believe in your love, so I'm glad to take the vow! Here and now, oooh...I promise to love faithfullyyy (faith-ful-ly)...you're all I ne-ed, here and now, oooh...I promise to love faithfullyyy (faith-ful-ly)...you're all I ne-ed, your...love...is all... I need..."
He leaned to his right, eyes still closed, and bent to kiss Minu's head. The children's voices held the last word and Melody laid her guitar across her lap as Billy lifted his fingers from the keys and smiled wide at them. Melody had the contented look that musicians get when they are completely on, and turned her attention from the now-giggling children to he and his bride. "To the both of you...may you have many many many wonderful years ahead of you. Yes yes yes." She nodded three times, and smiled. There was a rather deafening applause from the gathered crowd, punctuated only by Arfur's increasingly distant voice as he escorted one of the of-age flower girls deeper into town -- "Ah but just think my dear, one day this day will be yours too..."
As the clapping died down Zig, having done due dwarven diligence on the circulating ales, filled the brief silence as Melody and the children took their bows. "Time ta git busy!" Plenarius wandered off to find the gnomes he'd hired to do the official fireworks and the conversations began again. Minu was still sniffling after Melody's beautiful song, and they watched as their musician gave out little gifts to her chorus. He stepped back from himself to look around the party and a green and gold frock caught his eye. He knew that dress.
"Captain!" He patted Minu's arm, tugging her around. "Look who came!" Argali was in her favorite party outfit and immediately the dwarven lady was the center of attention, but only for as long as a few greetings before some hearty cussing cut through the jovial mood. A group of men led by Kurn Blackwater marched through town. The scowls on the two he did not know, a halfling and a human male, felt toxic in the wedding-soaked air, but Kurn broke into a smile when the dwarven mercenary caught sight of him.
"You're here for the wedding?" He was so confused....did Minu invite Kurn? Really?
"From the looks of it, lad gittin' hitched, or got hitched already."
"I'm hitched." He grinned despite himself -- a number of people moved aside to center on Minu and Argali, instinctively giving Kurn's posse space. He held up his now-encircled ring finger for the dwarf to see.
Kurn snorted. "Ahm just passin' through. Dun do weddin's nor funerals."
"The former, not the latter, but safe travels." There was a press to one side as people moved back and forth; the human with Kurn pushed through to the bank, looking irritated.
Kurn fished in a pocket with a black-nailed hand and pulled out a number of short, fat cigars. "Ere lad, sneak these when she ain't lookin'." The dwarf tossed them to him; he sniffed and then held them out with a slow smile. The pungency of tobacco mixed with a cloying sweetness that was his preferred substitute for demon alcohol. More a smell of the latter than the former, in fact. Bless Kurn, they was a perfect gift right about now. The dwarf assembled his crew and they strode toward 106 Hlint. In their wake the joyful mood closed to once again encircle the party goers.
Kyle arrived, Zig left, Amgine was handing out small crystal animals he'd made to the children from the choir, now milling about with their parents. The smell of wine still tickled his nostrils and as the children were led home to recover from the excitement, his resolve snapped and he lit up one of those sweet, sweet cigars. Minu just shook her head at him, but then she probably thought it was a normal cigar.
Hells with it. It was his wedding. He inhaled, relaxing as greetings and laughter and occasionally earnest debate whirled around him. He returned to Argali, keeping the cigar downwind, catching up with his favorite dwarven lady. When Tralek moved through the crowd to see Argali in her finest, he laughed. "Someone please draw a scetch of Argali!"
The cigar was stronger than he expected; he was downright giddy now, his already stellar mood improving with every puff. "You want a picture? I'll do you a picture!" He turned to Argali. "Milady, will you content to pose?"
It wasn't the first time the Captain had seen him loopy, and it was a wedding, so..."Ummm.... Zure." He broke out his sketchbook and moved Argali's hand up onto her shoulder, hand touching her neck -- a coy pose for a direct lady that made her a touch uncomfortable and perhaps that was what didn't ring right but when he was done, it just...wasn't her. She was a trooper but when he showed it to her, her strained politeness was a gust of wind through his mental fog.
"Um...I'll try again maybe another time." He tucked the picture away quickly. Argali nodded, relieved -- or so he thought -- when the drawing was banished. Minu, oblivious to his attempt at art in her own circle of well-wishers, was talking about the fireworks and turned to him in her patented combination of patience and rapier-sharp pointedness.
"We can see them best outside on the cliffs. The walls will block them here." But the party was not yet ready to move. Tralek tried to convince him to hand over the picture of Argali -- he put the man off, saying he had to work on it, it wasn't his best, and Muse was that right. His fingers were too relaxed to hold a charcoal it seemed. What in Ilsare's name was in this cigar, anyway? He was floating just a little above himself, watching the proceedings. He felt great. Amgine had been waiting to get a word with him and finally found an opening just as Tralek said his goodbyes and stumbled away awash in liquid cheer. Amgine tapped a scroll case to recapture his wandering attention that was now captive to each successive shiny thing or new person.
"I, uh, brought a gift for you two. I think you'll like it." Minu headed for the gates, trying to lure the rest of the party to the hills beyond Hlint where the fireworks would be best seen, and from her gorgeous figure he caught sight of Vrebel arriving. Amgine cleared his throat. "It's a limited edition poem by a halfling fella."
Melody and Billy started another song -- he wanted to listen, and to say hello to Vrebel, and to....what? Oh, scroll! He unrolled it and read, getting misty as he did. It was one of Lyle's, whose personal songbook occupied a prominent place on his bookshelf in the Buckle. He looked up at Amgine with reddened eyes. "Thank you...you know how to make a bard happy." He tucked the scroll carefully into his book, already humming the tune. Minu, having given up on getting them outside the gates, came back as Vrebel intercepted and offered her a hug; seeing the crowd mostly in one place, she tried again.
"There are fireworks! You should come see them! Best seats are outside on the cliffs!"
He'd better support his bride. "Fireworks! Come on! Melody! Come my dear!" Moving past the gates they had said their vows through an hour or two or...three, ago? He tossed the cigar stub down and ground it out on the snow-dappled road. Damon arrived, and before his rapier instructor and benefactor could head inside the town he was grabbed by a merry - and determined - Minu and dragged toward the vantage point.
Finally, finally, they were on the hill and a signal was given. He slipped on his spectacles as the first incendiaries rose and detonated and for the next half hour was mesmerized. Blooms, waterfalls, weeping willows, hearts, even a dragon exploded in a cacophony of color and sound. Halfway through he began to orchestrate, creating illusionary sound to match the mood, and pulling it off despite his floaty detachment. Nokka arrived, whooping with Minu as the finale of fireworks left them all a little deaf. Music forgotten, he clapped until his palms were sore. He then ushered everyone back to the town for food, hoping it was there, because he had fierce munchies and he wanted cake. He was promised cake. He'd shown up on time, he'd said I do, he wanted his cake!
The party was dwindling. Tod took his leave, Damon as well -- between dusk, falling temperatures and the snow, most of the townsfolk had retired inside. He put on a warm cloak and tugged one around Minu's shoulders as well. Billy had bundled up but the young man gamely kept playing so long as there were guests to hear. A true professional. He'd give the man a raise when they got back to the Buckle.
A gasp from one of the few Hlintites still outside -- the man froze in place -- he saw Minu's face light up and heard a staid rumble from the gate. "Alright.... who ordered food?
Minu squeeked. "Steel!" The huge blue man was grappled in an Elohanna Hug, which he always thought of in sentence case -- he couldn't help it. Steel shifted the arm closest to Minu so she could try and wrap her arms around him, his other holding the lead of a cart of color-coordinated boxes.
"And where am I going to put all this stuff?"
After some confusion on where to eat and who got what, Steel started handing out the boxes -- red for the grooms party, white for the brides, each containing meat and bread and booze and pie and a flower, neatly packed. No cake. Pie would have to do -- it was Steel pie, and he knew the Arms steward was an excellent cook. He pointed to Minu.
"Look! Wife!"
Minu giggled. Steel's response was patient as he handed over a box to Vrebel. "Yes...Andrew.... how you managed to pull that off, I'm not sure, but well done."
The red boxes were going fast. His bride grinned. "I guess they are here all for you Tashe."
"Nokka's here for you..."
Amgine broke in. "Well, I'll be on the bride's side if I have to choose. I've known you longer Elly."
"Errm I'll pitch in for Elly's side too." Lareth grinned - when had he gotten here? Okay, now he needed someone on his side.
"I'll claim Aragli for my side! And Melody! Are we playing capture the flag?"
His bride was not to be outdone. "I claim Nokka and Lareth then and Vrebel!"
"We gonna foight?" Nokka pulled over his pack and started removing armor and weapons.
He threw a look at Vrebel. The man put his hands up with a grin. "I'm claimed!"
Fine! "I'm taking Amgine. Mine." He threw Minu a teasing smile.
"Can we have joint custody of Amgine?"
The Sandman smiled. "Too late, Andrew. I've already declared allegiance to Trouble."
She flashed him a triumphant grin, and he sighed. "Fine, but you have to walk him to school." By then the eating was in full swing and he finished his box somewhere between 'that was the best thing I've ever eaten and I never want to stop' and 'I was just eating? What?' Nokka ate everything in his box including the flower. The dwarf said it was a little bitter.
There were only the town lights now. Vrebel dropped a chest full of gifts by the bank, gifts for he and Minu to hand out, and he immediately pulled the dark grey unicorn cloak out and handed it to a startled, overjoyed Melody. Other gifts were handed out; it was a great present, letting them gift the guests. Tyra arrived very late, just as Minu remembered the bouquet toss. His son's mother for a few moments glared at his bride, then -- he was still shocked about this -- sighed and let the emotion go, rather than plaster her heart with more bitter armor. He sang a little prayer to Ilsare right then.
The bouquet toss was amusing, beginning with a reluctant line up of mixed gender singles all of whom looked ready to flee the moment the flowers came anywhere near, and ending when Emwonk reflexively zapped the bouquet to charred petals before anyone could catch it or run from it. The halfling sorcerer was genuinely sorry; Tyra snatched at the floating petals and Argali clapped. Vrebel looked relieved. From there another bouquet was procured and tossed, which Tyra sliced with throwing knives. The third bouquet Minu aimed at Emwonk; it came toward him instead, and he tried to bat into the air but he only managed to fall over while Emwonk dodged and completely missed being hit by the symbol of the next one to be wed.
They were down to Argali, Steel, Emwonk, Vrebel, Nokka, and Tyra. The snow was heavier and they stood in a pool of lantern light by the bank. He was cold and their room in the Wild Surge was warm. It was time. He started a "honeymoon countdown", slowly drawing his wife away from the guests who drifted to rooms, portals, or tomes.
-------------
The memories blend in his sleep -- the wedding, the honeymoon, the many days since -- as the storm abates. He is spared dreams of his Dragon Isle encounter, at least for now. There will be other nights for dark shadows and veiled threats. Tonight Ilsare's love protects him. Tonight he is safe.
-
To:
Margaret Reid
2 Clay Ward
Huangjin
Tilmar
Domo, mother. I hope things are well there and the food is coming in - between the Silver Buckle and the Angels guild, an incredible amount has been gathered in the last year and most of it targeted at Boyer and the islands, with a considerable amount also going to the Foundation for redistribution in other famine-struck areas as needed. I'm quite proud of that, actually, and of our guild. The Angels are good people.
And beyond that...Muse, where to start. I've been penning letters over and over and throwing them away after that first paragraph.
I could spend a lot of time detailing the trouble I've fallen into. The associations that I think in retrospect are not suited for my current mindset, being a man of increasing peace, and married to an Aerdinite lady no less. The world is not kind to the kind, mother. I have more to say on that but it will wait until we're face to face. It involves Mist and my own failings to stand as firmly as I should for what I believe in.
What I really want to write about, complain about if we're being honest here, are the people in this world who -
I can't finish that. I was going to say, the people who have such clear dividing lines on what is good and what is evil that they cannot fathom exceptions. But then, I'm one of those people, aren't I? I can't look at a dark elf or a deep dwarf and extend them an ounce of trust. I cannot imagine, now, that there is a single one I feel pity for; I can kill them, remorseless, with a secret, tingling pleasure that would shock Minu if I ever admitted it to her. I trust you will keep my secret, my first muse?
So let me start again with that admission between us. I want to believe, exceptions noted, that exceptions exist. And one evening at the Buckle after a pleasing night of duets with some of my favorite bards; Lana, Melody, and Gel; a group showed up that defined that exception.
I admit I was a little shocked when I saw a bugbear, a saytr, and a kenku - those are the little bird-men, very tribal, very xenophobic - standing by the door clutching instrument cases. Very odd, yet being a sucker for music, I of course welcomed them. I already had a surprise duo show up, Crockett and Stubbs, and so my hall echoed with music that night. I invited these three...shall I call them men? They are not, yet all three were male, and I don't wish to simply say creatures. Aha, I shall call them collectively the band. The Wayward Wildside Trio. I invited the band to come play.
Torgo was the bugbear and he plays percussion, Quark was the kenku and a most dexterous guitarist, and Dancing Hooves Harry the saytr who sings and plays pipes. That night they seemed to go over fairly well although there was some shock. I provided them a room, food, more ale than I ever expected they'd drink, and protection. I found out later they have a benefactor in Lord Arelius Witherspoon, a councilman, an appreciator of the arts, and one who is up for re-election soon. This becomes pertinent later. The rules regarding the group are simple; they must be escorted in and out of the city by guards. Beyond that I think I missed the nuance of what they were to do while indoors, but as I stepped quickly up to assume responsibility of their safety and actions, it didn't seem an issue. I really must sit down with the Mariner's Hold and Sagewald laws I have been able to get my hands on, much as the subject matter puts me to sleep.
I jammed with the band who enjoy a wilder styling that I usually am able to produce. I have to say the experience did shake loose some new ideas and I've been doing quite a bit of acoustic writing lately thanks to them. I set a date for a show and despite receiving some threats, nothing untoward happened until the concert night. I was able to assume the stage as their violinist and was honored to do so and yet, despite their good behavior in the days leading up and their musical talent, a smoke bomb was thrown through the window of the inn, scattering audience and band.
Outside, a protest. Of course. Those on the side of "burn the inn down and the band with it" stood resolute in their ignorance, and what was worse, the "live and let live" crowd that opposed them didn't have a cogent argument so much as a philosophy they spouted repeatedly, bringing only more bile from the kill crowd. It was the definition of fanaticism - each side unwilling to change their mind or the subject. They yelled at each other, as if the volume of their protests would suddenly cause the other to slap their heads and proclaim "Of course, you're RIGHT! How could I have been so blind?". I would have been amused if a) the kill crowd was not as large as it was and b) if the subject had been something other than the band I'd hired, whom were currently hiding in my inn for fear of their lives. I was also quite disturbed by a little girl who stood with the bloodthirsty and chanted for the deaths of the "monsters". Shouldn't children be free from that mindset? I'm being naive, but still.
I stepped in, as did a sizable number of Mariner's Hold guards keeping the peace. I am not as reluctant as I was to admit that a little armed law is sometimes a good thing. A number of us spoke on tolerance (myself being the biggest hypocrite of the bunch, as noted above) and I played to soothe fraying nerves. It seemed to work for a little while and I thought that perhaps we'd pull through. I even went so far as to extend amnesty to whomever threw the smoke bomb, and invited the naysayers in to watch the show. However, Fate, being a - I'd use a specific word here, but let's settle for the less offensive if more wordy "nasty, nasty female canine in breeding heat" instead - chose that moment for a group of bugbears from Bear Isle to attack.
I don't think it was coincidence. Some of the gate guards were doubtless part of the group trying to keep the peace in front of the Buckle which left us exposed on the inland gate. Several townsfolk were killed in the battle but as a handful of hardened adventurers as well as some of my own Buckle folk on hand for the show, we were able to put down the attack in short order along with the guard. And here I stood, mourning the death of innocents while the irony of housing a bugbear in my inn even as the attack commenced vibrated in my head. Worse, my security Jetta informed me that the band had fled during the attack, without guard, which certainly put them inside a frame as neatly as if they'd yelled "we arranged it".
The final spur was that a child, the child who had earlier been so bloodthirsty, was missing and witnesses said she'd been kidnapped by the bugbears. Torgo was seen near her prior to that and so immediately all blame was put on him and by extension me. The blame to me I can live with but I honestly did not believe Torgo would do such a thing. He was rather adamant, in his own uneducated but passionate way, that he'd left violence behind except as it translated to tambourines and drum heads. However arguing on his behalf was pointless as the child had to be found and quickly so we immediately made for Bear Isle.
I won't detail the slaughter, only that I'm not as immune as I used to be, and I wonder with each kill if maybe this one didn't want to be there, was only fulfilling what was expected. If my own soft nature can ever be extended to my grey and black skinned demons. We found the girl in the chieftain's chambers in a barrel of basting sauce and thank the Muse it was not over her head; she was alive. Jetta found Torgo barely breathing and we tried to rescue him but he refused to return to the city. He went so far as to blame himself and seemed again very convinced of that, although upon bringing the child back safe to her mother beyond the inland gates, she was quite upset that Torgo did not come as well. She said she'd tried to protect him from the bugbears and he her, and as a result both were taken. Her testimony probably did much to reduce the repercussions to the Buckle but it's far from over. Several people are dead. Torgo has run off, and the child suffered a head injury from a well-meaning caster trying to calm her with a spell not meant for calming. With Minu's help we convinced the mother to let us care for her at the clinic. I am staying away and letting Minu and Heloise handle things, although I have played for mother and child once. I'm better off trying to figure out what to do about Edna.
Let me wrap this up with the final events of that long few days. With child and mother reunited we were beset upon by a puckered buzzard in a black ankle length dress and sensible matching shoes. Her name is Edna Blackheart and her pet lawyer - name forgotten for now, although this ignorant bliss won't last - began tossing off charges on us. It seems Edna is a member of an organization, she may be the organization in fact although I'm not sure, dedicated to deciding what is and isn't appropriate for people to be doing in their establishments and homes and yards. The very definition of a busybody, except that this one has a legal lapdog and an eye on Lord Arelius's council seat. And she seems intent on using the Wayward Wildside Trio, the Silver Buckle, and the bugbear attack as her stepping stone. Which means that I get to dabble in politics, again. I am outclassed, this is not my kind of fight, except for a possible ace in the hole in the form of one Phinneas Mulrooney. It seems my "biggest fan" is also a barrister, or was, or at least has read the laws of Mariner's Hold enough to go toe to toe with Edna's lawyer, which finally did get me to smile. Although the two men ended in fisticuffs every bit as rough and vicious as a pair of three year old girls on the playground. Really, watching them fight, there was not a dry pair of underwear in the square.
And so here I am. After my discoveries of grandmother Rose, I felt perhaps I was coming in touch with myself, yet with this Mist business once again I'm facing parts of me that are inconvenient and ugly, not to mention prejudices that have at best insulted people whom would otherwise help and at worst caused the death of a mother and child. Who am I that I can hold life as valuable for some and not others? Why can I kill a dark elf so easily...enjoy it even, submerse myself in the act, the piercing stabs, the blood, the last gurgle and letting go of bowels...and be the same man who stands before a giant wishing to pound my form flat enough to hurl as a discus and still try to make peace?
Enough. This has turned into another one of my manifestos and for that I apologize. I am only glad you and father enjoy good health and I have you to give these confessions to. Ilsare always listens, but She doesn't always provide feedback in the way you do. I look forward to your letter.
Your loving son,
Tashe
-
The room is clean but cluttered. A bookshelf filled with songs...his songs...books, letters, some awards, notes, sketches, paper. So much paper.
He locks the door and he reads what he can. Some he cannot; the writing is strange, squiggles and lines, not what he knows; so he sets those aside. He'll ask his wife later. The rest he devours. His thoughts, his music, his art. All there.
There are bills and letters on the desk and a note from Michael, the inn's manager and bartender. This needs to be paid, that as well - we need more stools. Floor repair from that big fellow the other night? He'll have to ask what happened.
He signs promissary notes to be sent and wraps money to be banked. There has been a little profit, that's good. A short letter to his mother is in order. It has been a while. He dips his quill and writes in common.
Hello mother
A quick note to tell you all is well. Business is doing well and I am in good health as is Minu. The Buckle is also doing well. We've recently aided a councilman, Arelius Witherspoon - that should bode well for the inn. And it takes the barrister of his most heated rival out of the picture, also good. The lawyer was masterminding the forcing of a captive kenku to commit crimes. We were able to save the creature although we have not found the one we're looking for yet. This will remove suspicion from Councilman Witherspoon in regards to the Wayward Wildside Trio. We did also find the saytr safe in the Witherspoon mansion. We need only find the kenku and the bugbear and perhaps I can host a reunion.
That is all for now. Love to the family.
Andrew
He finds her address in a list in the locked cabinet. Addresses the envelope. Thinks for a moment about family - what it means to have one, responsibilities, obligations. He has two sons. He has a wife. It is a lot to consider. Better to be busy than caught up in his own worries. There is brewing to be done, Michael notes on the list. Lately Dwarf's Head Draft has been flying off the shelves. He gathers up the letters and bank notes and heads out into the Buckle. He'll send this off, and then he will brew. That is what he will do.
It is good to be home.
-
It's in his wardrobe, the old dusty clothes. Just as he remembered. The peg leg. The brown and gold coat. The sweat-stained shirt, yellow under the arms. The hat.
He likes the hat. Tries it on, checks himself in the mirror. The low wool crown and wide brim works with his Tilmarian face. He should wear it more often.
The clothes fit. They've been laundered but some of the stains won't come out, he can see that. He's done a lot of laundry.
No, wait...he's...seen a lot of laundry done. Yes. Of course. He straps on the leg, getting used to the way his own folds under the loose pants. Thumps around a bit to smooth his gait. It's not easy and he falls over more than once.
The song is lying on the bed that he has not slept in yet. He's been very busy. He sleeps in his chair in his office, feet on the cushions. He likes his office. It suits him.
The song. He wrote it months ago, before the elf Raina came running into his inn with wild stories of dark elves in the forest. Before the torture. Before the pain. He hates this man, this Rael. He remembers that. Rael is a threat to freedom and creativity and Ilsare. And smart, tricky. He admires the subtle economic warfare even as his practices and memorizes the words.
But it won't be him singing. No. And old man will do that for him. He's nervous - it has been a long, long time. He might not have things exactly right. He doesn't remember everything. He should, but he doesn't. But it has been a long time. Maybe Minu can help him - she knows. She remembers things the way only a wizard can. That makes him nervous too.
Still. The song must be sung. He is Andrew William Takeshi Reid, and it is what he does.
-
The new guild hall is beautiful. Understated elegance, not too ostentatious, not too rugged. He likes it. He likes sweeping the smooth, closely fitted wooden floor, he likes red and gold wallpaper, the paintings.
He designed this. He does like it, even if it's hard to remember where he got everything. Especially that painting of the golden-brown haired elf woman. He can't remember and he's worried she'll ask. It's her of course. Painted on Voltrex, staring at the moon...where did he get that? He slaps the broom in frustration. He can't remember.
They've all left, Minu to get some sleep, the little brownie woman - so perfect, so tiny! - to get some coin or barter, and Emwonk...
...Emwonk. He remembers his friend of course. But his head still hurts from trying to figure out what the small man was saying. Not a single word out of the halfling's mouth made sense, it was as if Emwonk was trying to choose the longest, most technical word that was even loosely connected with what he wanted to express. What the hells? Then they thought HE was weird for not understanding it? And that he had before?
Well, he'd been through a lot. A very lot. A blow to the head, perhaps...must be it...time, he needed time. He'd remember more over time.
The dust from the remodeling and the dirt tracked in by the first customers in was neatly piled, scooped, tossed outside. There. Done. He is pleased, he knows he did well. He walks the room, touching the armor model, the benches, the screen that he chose to decorate. The paintings. He can't remember where he got a single one.
The golden hue of the desert scene catches his eye and he remembers the flash of sun-warmed grains and fields. Yearning...heading outside, he hunts around in the old shed leaning against the newly painted building. A shovel, yes - a trowel - part of a hoe with the top half broken off - ah, tarp, good. It's old and has holes, but it's enough to start. He can get better later, in town.
It's nearly dark but he lets the yearning take him. There is a small, weed-choked plot out back, perhaps ten feet by ten feet. Kneeling in his mithril reinforced trousers, he begins to yank, singing as he does. It feels good. He's done this before, many times...when?
Outside the Buckle, yes. Of course. Weeds are always poking up through the cracks in the flagstones and around the building.
Dirt between his fingers, he likes it. He wipes his hands on the red velvet of his coat and continues rooting out the enemies of future vegetables. Sensations...the smell of loam and the cool wetness of an earthworm, the stringy, long roots of a dandelion...he weeds until it's too dark to see and then a little longer on a light spell. His garden. Yes. This is right...this is what he...does...
-
He wakes next to the banked fire in the meeting space behind the store. Light filters through the windows. It still confuses him, light. It gets light during the day and dark at night - he'd forgotten. He's adjusting. He's been quiet about how strange it feels.
Many things feel strange. Wind. Rain. He's stood in the rain a few times, marveling at such a simple pleasure.
It doesn't rain in the Deep.
His eyes have adjusted...re-adjusted...now, however, and he's starting to like the light. His mood has lifted as sun has kissed his skin. It makes him happy in ways he's forgotten. Sun, wind, and rain. Good for crops. Necessary in fact. His garden likes it. It's turned, weed and stone free, hoed and seeded now. Soon he'll have peppers and potatoes and carrots. There is more land behind the store and they are in a prime area for growing, it is the Port Hempstead Fields, good soil, level ground. He'll ask about putting in some wheat and rye, or maybe oats - oats are easy to grow. No chance of Holy Fire from oats.
He can hear Minu in the storefront, at least he thinks it's her. Light steps and the rustling of paper. It could be Raven. She also steps lightly, more lightly in fact than anyone else he's known and he includes the dark elves in that assessment. She's the most graceful woman he's ever met. He wants to please her. That's why his muscles ache, why he spent so much time dragging furniture around to exact specifications without complaining - he does not complain. Complaining brings pain, he learned that early.
But Raven doesn't hurt him. She's kind, if firm. She knows what she wants but she smiles, pats him, speaks with a soft voice. Lets him take breaks and eat and drink when he wants. She would be a wonderful mistress...
He should get up and work. He knows this and he panics a little, reminds himself that he's Andrew Reid, he's free, and they can't touch him here. He's free. He can lie here if he wants to, and he wants to. He feels like a rothe ran over him. It was those display cases, that's what did him in, they were cut strangely and he could not line them up without shims and some minor carpentry on the sides. He would be happy to never move them again.
The last week has left him emotionally drained as well. He's seen so many people and there are so many holes in his memory. Jetta, on his security team - she was actually the easiest to talk to. So beautiful. He is attracted and that is dangerous, he's married, but Jetta reminds him of someone...someone...he can't remember. She talked him into a raise. He can't believe he's never paid her. She's not a slave, after all. He'll pay her for her work. He wants to see her again. So pretty...
Then Buddy, and that gives him a lift. Things to do, possible work, important work. Work that will take him far away where they can't find him. He doesn't want to go back. He told Buddy about his experience, the dwarf understood, and he smiles. He has good friends.
The things he doesn't remember almost led him to disaster, though, when the lovely woman with the slanted eyes and jet black hair came in. He knew he should recognize her and he kept staring, and worrying that she'd think that there was something wrong with him, but he knew he should know her, he knew it, he could not look away. Finally a name, and he threw out some conversation to get a sense if he was right - he was right. Ayla. His sister.
He remembers their conversation with a warm smile. She's concerned for him, so many people care for him, it's overwhelming but it feels good. They went for drinks, ale and conversation, he played her a song of his she liked. He remembered the words and the tune. They ended up sitting and drinking Silver Buckle gin while he told her about his capture and asked her to help him remember. She is kind, she agreed, and filled in a few holes about Emwonk, and asked him to tell Minu to contact her. Asked him to contact Sister Bernice, who helped Emwonk, and could help him.
This is what he needs. Friends and family and time. Last night with Minu, by the fire, almost broke him. It's the worst with her. It's as if he doesn't remember what he felt, although he does love her - she is easily the kindest person he's ever met. He feels safe with her, he wants to tell her more things but he is afraid. He's no longer sure what is and isn't real. They did terrible things to him. It wasn't just a knock to the head that caused this. They held each other, she cried, she's afraid she's lost him...he asks for time, more time, patience, he won't heal quickly from what he's been through. He touches her face, and sees instead a dark-haired human woman that reminds him of Jetta, or maybe she reminds him of her...he can't remember who she is or when he knew her but he sees her and knows he's touched this woman's face before in much the same way his fingers brush Minu's now.
But she is not his wife. Minu is his wife and she's in front of him and scared, scared for him and for them. He holds her again. He feels responsible for her pain and he does not want to displease her, so he tries to kiss her. Their lips meet and for a few seconds he is transported. It has been so long. So, so long. The fear that knots his stomach just begins to ebb when the image of Denasha forms, angry, hateful, red eyes flaring as if she could cast fireballs from them. He backs away, guilty, fearful, the enjoyment of the kiss gone. Can they find him here? Can he run?
Finally he sleeps. He dreams of farming, and singing, and pianos, and dark-haired women and dark-skinned elves. It is not restful sleep. And now it is morning and he should get up.
But he is Andrew Reid. He doesn't have to. He rolls over and lets his eyes close. It is good to be Andrew Reid.
-
Shivering in the bath, he checks himself again. Again. And again. He's terrified. Who is he?
The legs are long, he knows he's tall. The body is...thin...he's thin...there are things he remembers about himself that seem distant but he knows he should look this way. Black hair. Dark eyes. Hairless chest and face. The hand mirror sits to the right of the shallow tub and he picks it up often but it doesn't offer solace, only reaffirmation. He is Andrew William Reid.
He'll never take the necklace off again. Ilsare is protecting him from whatever they did to him. She is the only thing keeping him whole and staving off the pain. His silver heart and clef, his consecrated holy symbol, his link to Her - he'll never let them take it again, unless they beat him senseless. He has to stay away from Jako. He's never been manhandled with such embarrassing ease before and he still feels like a toddler who tried to wrestle his father. Ilsare could not protect him from Jako holding him down and Raven sitting on his legs.
Fortunately Ilsare did protect him from Minu's attempts to spell-hold him. His Minu. He had thought perhaps he could muscle past the dark elf memories and give her what she wanted...he tenses as he remembers and is both terrified and excited all over again. He was ready. He was going to - she is his wife, there is no shame. And then the pain when she removed his necklace put a quick end to that, and he was in agony, on the floor, pleading with her to give it back, GIVE IT BACK. His Minu, who comforted him only to call Raven and Jako up and ask them to wrestle him down - he should have fought with his rapier, he should have defended himself, he will next time - but something stopped him from outright attacking them. It's not what Andrew...what he would do to a friend. And his Minu took that necklace off again knowing that severing his connection to Ilsare would cause the pain and the change, and she handed him a mirror and forced him to see what they'd done.
Not unhandsome, actually. Not bad. But not him.
Gods, who was he?
-
Things are a little better. He's more confident now, with Minu and Jetta helping him remember. No one has come for him, no one; he's still free, in charge of the Silver Buckle Inn, a member of a prominent guild, still learning, still growing. He doesn't see dark elves in the corners of his eyes anymore. He sees Andrew Reid when he looks in the mirror.
He has not taken off the necklace since that day.
He still doesn't recognize some people on sight, but his women help him and he remembers. His singing sounds deeper but wasn't that on purpose? He'd been trying to expand his range. His songs still inspire and his voice lifts his allies up. That is what is important.
Minu, Heloise and Jetta are unhappy that he's drinking but why not? He's not a back-alley drunk. He knows this, and proves it by not getting in his cups, but they don't believe him. It makes him wonder what about himself he's forgotten but he won't let that stop him from having a beer now and then.
He and Minu are...good, mostly. He's asked for yet more time. He was ready, he was, but trust needs to be rebuilt after the last incident, and he still doesn't feel entirely comfortable. She's understanding and kind and stays close to him. And yet...perhaps she thinks he can't see the glances she and Jetta exchange, but he hasn't needed his glasses since his eyes finally adjusted to light again after so long in the Deep. He sees the looks and sometimes, every once and a while, he feels like he's being humored. He shakes it off - better humored for his eccentricities than outright manipulated by some dark elf female.
At least he has his women with him. Minu is in the kitchen and it is just he and Jetta and...so hard to resist, her gorgeous hair, her graceful walk, her slender but feminine figure. He knows he's letting his hands linger when he touches her and he should stop, but worse, she's letting him. What has he forgotten about them? Is there something they're hiding from Minu? Gods, this is complicated...best focus on fixing up Father Xander's room and figure out how they're going to house clinic guests in the meantime. But he can't help watching Jetta as they push furniture around. So pretty...
-
A dark elf female is among the bodies. Dead. Bludgeoned. No one is paying attention to him; he wanders closer, fascinated for reasons that flutter just out of reach, like a moth outside a lit window.
He rolls her onto her back and makes a show of searching but touching her is electric fear. He can't do this. He's not allowed to do this. She'll...they'll...
He is Andrew William Reid and he is a free man. The dagger he carries, the one inscribed with a dedication naming him as a Battle Sister - whatever that means, he being male and all - is in his hand. He feels sick and wants to bow his head and beg forgiveness. The first cut is done with hands shaking so badly he loses his grip on the iron weapon. He is staring, unable to look away at what he's done. One finger probes the cut.
Nothing happens.
He pushes the finger in a little, lifts, looks. Blood. No magic, no metal, no spiders burst from her skin to devour him and she does not move. Nothing, just blood and tissue.
His hand moves on it's own, carving, just the outline...four wings, thick body. Someone is asking him what the pits he's doing now, he stands quickly and wipes the blade. The moth isn't really recognizable on the dark elf's face. He puts the dagger away and flips her over with his foot.
Blood and tissue. His hands are still shaking...something bangs around inside his ribcage, his heart or maybe his lungs...
-
The wire bends a little further. It is mithril-coated gold, very expensive, but easier to work that pure mithril and he's always thought gold to be a metal of love. He sings out loud as he wraps it into loose circles until the pain is too much and he sags in his chair, the padded pliers slipping from his grip and onto the carpet.
The first circles are done. The shape is there, only needing the last twists and soldering before he polishes. But he can do no more today. He feels a strain on his heart from trying to work through the haze of burning pain and a heart attack right now would not help matters. He will stop.
It's been two weeks since they found he and Raina dead in the Deep and three days since their return to the Buckle. Three days of mind-blowing normalcy. Regular meals, snacks, and water - clean, fresh, pure water - drinking it, bathing in it, vowing never to take it for granted again. He knows Raina feels the same. She's hoarded some. Clarisse has found glasses of it under Raina's bed and hidden behind books in the bookshelf. There is no way to explain why, really. Or to explain why their kidneys ache to splitting with the sudden demand on them, and why they tear up when they have to pee. It will pass, yes, but the little things...
His wife fusses every single bit as much as he knew she would and he submits to every single minute of it and advises Raina to do the same. The darkened rooms until their eyes are able to process light, the healing of hidden wounds from their beatings, the salves and unguents to remove layers of dead skin and to help heal their skin underneath...he's paler than he has ever been, and Minu warns him he may stay that way. He may need to avoid the sun and wear protection and not go shirtless as he has in the past. It is the smallest price to pay for being here, with her, and alive - but looking in a mirror is surreal. He's not white, not quite, but months of not being able to bath at all have left him with so much dead skin sloughing off he looks like mummy. Raina has not taken that reality well and avoids mirrors. He wishes he had.
Minu moves past the door, her steps light and swift. Minu, his anchor, his angel. If it were not for her...the nightmares...she elbows him awake when he starts to scream, holds him as he wakes, disoriented, thinking himself back in that putrid cell until he feels her arms around him. And even then. Even then, nightmares of her doing exactly that, and morphing into a red-eyed, white-haired demon...he lashed out the first morning and they are both lucky he's as weak as a kitten. He apologized over and over; she dismissed it, knowing that he won't be right for a while.
They have not had a chance to talk. When he's not sleeping he's with Raina, helping her through an experience most who are not stonebound do not return to talk about, or working on this - his new holy symbol.
Lifting his project between thumb and forefinger, he examines it. Not the quality of work you could commission from a proper jeweler but there could be nothing else to replace what he has lost. For forty-five years, the silver heart with the silver charm dangling inside has rested under his voice box in the shallow hollow above his breastbone. Twice it has been consecrated by his Ilsarian Priestess Alazira. It has slid across a chain around his neck and comforted him with the weight of their years together, and although he knows it is just a thing, it was one of his two most prized possessions. Bella is the other and rests in her case near him. It doesn't appear "Andeux" even played her. Good.
He returns to the pendant. Minu has suggestions on who might make a replacement and he knows how good the Angel's work is. He will of course ask them and only them to cut, polish, enchant and set the emerald. But the setting he will make himself. He has prayed in song every moment that he's worked on it. The moth burns and the fire in his shoulder spreads when he does. He can only keep it up in bursts, he knows how weak he is. But this means something to him - his defiance of the dark elf attempts to cut him off from his Goddess bound up in graceful twist and swirls. Screw them. He will pray until he passes out, and he will pray as he shapes this simple heart and the clef that flows from it, for now music and love are no longer separated. Music is love; the Heartsong is love, and love, music and Ilsare are all intertwined and so shall they be on this that he will wear around his neck from now on.
But he can do no more today and the steps echo lightly outside the door again. Feeding time - she's strict about that. He'd better go.
(http://i44.tinypic.com/3484mtc.jpg)
-
Raina's eyes drooped. Hot soup, fresh bread, and the rolling murmur of the Silver Buckle's background chatter worked better than any sleeping herb. He gave her a hug, threatened to tell Minu if she didn't get a nap of her own free will - that was guaranteed to get a smile. Raina now knew that he'd not been kidding about his wife's devotion to their health. He left her sipping water and headed to his study.
Their conversation was healing, the both of them sharing the sheer amazement that they were alive, here, clean, safe...kind of safe...for now. There was a constant burning, the sensation of having one's hand too close to the fire for too long, on their shoulders. Any illusion of true safety and freedom didn't last very long in light of that. The double doors to his office thumped closed and again he wondered what he'd been marked with and why.
And, file that question for later - so many letters to write! He took in the desk again, as he had since returning, afraid to touch anything. His quills were there, his ink-pots, his papers - but everything was so...organized. Quills neatly lined up. Papers patted into a flush pile, not even a tiny corner out of place. His books replaced on his bookshelf as well as a book of music he'd left out the day Raina had first come to ask his help months ago. The desk was cleaned and polished. Muse, whoever his dopplegager was, he was a spotless son of a hound. He'd been afraid to unlock his bookshelf, but did so now although he could see through the glass that the same ruthless tidying had been committed against those tomes of his musings and music. Poking around, it was worse than he thought. Music books aligned not by mood or theme but in chronological order?! Who does that? How could that man have guessed what song had been finished when, when he didn't date most of his work? He put things he created in this book or that, wherever it seemed to fit best, and he could tell some had been moved around. What a bloody mess.
He was still staring at the shelf as he sunk into his chair. Some other person had assumed his face, written his name, kissed his wife. Although, thank you Ilsare - he winced as the burning flared - nothing more. He braced himself against the now-familiar surge of pain to sing yet another prayer of thanks to his Muse for sparing them both that humiliation. And for saving he and Raina, and for helping him to further understand the Heartsong. He prayed until his lunch was inches from his throat, then stopped and breathed shallowly until his stomach settled. A special cigar from a box under some books in the bottom desk drawer would help with that, maybe even make him hungry. He guessed that as much as he wife didn't like him indulging, his renewed appetite might convince her it was an acceptable trade-off.
None of which changed the fact that he still had a lot of writing to do, and his hesitation to touch his own possessions was born of some imagined violation by Andeux Reid, as he thought of the man. There were times he wanted to hate and could not, but this was not one of them. He bore the man no malice...yet. Minu had described him and he knew the face. He remembered the calm requests for information and how in those first few weeks the food had been delivered with some regularity. He remembered singing for that man, telling him stories, reciting old family history, describing friends. He remembered it only hazily - he'd been heavily drugged during that time - but he remembered. Who knows how they'd gotten that poor bard, perhaps the same way they'd captured he and Raina. Ilsare only knew who he was. But - he'd escaped, in his own way, and had the good conscience to leave him the things he'd borrowed, and not screwed his life up too badly. Andeux had been a good worker, Raven Blue said. Minu said he didn't have an evil heart. Others had echoed that. He lit the cigar and forced himself to pick up a quill and a sheet of parchment, humming as he dipped the ivory goose pinion into a pot of black ink.
Wherever you are, Andeux Reid, keep running. I know what they'll do to you if they catch you.
To: Conductor Edgar Whinessy
c/o The Resonance of Being
Port Hempstead Municipal District
Port Hempstead
Kingdom of Brelin
Mistone
Conductor, greetings from Andrew Reid.
I would like to arrange to speak with you as soon as you are able to see me. I have had an experience that has left me scarred - literally - and I need your advice and suggestions. I will give an overview here and details when we meet.
A storytelling friend of mine came to ask my help one day a few months ago as she'd seen two dark elves in the woods near Mariner's Hold torturing a dwarf. Thinking myself strong enough to match them, we left and the lady brought me to where they'd been. The dwarf, now dead, had been left to burn over a fire and I informed the woman to take cover in the trees and pursued the dark elves on foot. I found them torturing a human, toying with him, seeming (if only to my horrified eyes) to draw strength from his suffering. However they did not use instruments or weapons, they used voice and song to drop this man to his knees before slitting his throat.
I say horrified toward myself as well because I was afraid, and did not move fast enough to save the man's life. I was afraid because their song was nothing I've heard before - nothing I've sung before - far worse than even the songs of cursing that several of my bardic friends know. In my hesitation I was spotted and the two dark elven women turned on me. One seared me with her very touch, the other sang and it closed off my throat with waves of sweet, languid sound. Beautiful voices with deadly intent. I wasn't fully aware of what they were doing but knew I had to get away. It was then that my companion fired an arrow to distract the dark elves. One gave her chase, the other chased me, although I was able to lose her in the woods and return to my inn.
I think I'm flattering myself here. I didn't lose her, she let me go. Although I did not know it at the time, they had already captured my friend. I sought the aid of a lady tracker of my acquaintance, one of the best there is, and she and I returned to the woods to try and find my friend. Instead we found a path underground. We entered the hole and went in pursuit but as I got deeper in I started having visions of my friend and I sensed her calling me to help. I followed what my heart was hearing and discovered her tied to some makeshift slab in a deep, deep cave full of dark elves.
I was spotted nearly immediately as I snuck in trying to figure a way to help her. One of the two female dark elf...let's call them bards, for lack of a suitably vicious term for what they do - put me unconscious from pain merely by touching me, and that is the last thing I remember before waking in a cell. My tracking friend arrived to late to rescue us but did see us taken away.
We spent several months there, being tortured on a regular basis and then tossed back into our cells. Food was intermittent and water rationed such that we were dehydrated all the time. I found out only recently that the quiet and polite slave bringing us our food for the first two weeks, who was asking me all manner of questions about myself, assumed my identity with some magic grafted on to my old holy symbol to change his features to mine. It was only the concern and determination of my wife that cracked that facade and allowed her to organize a rescue party to release us from captivity.
As much as I would complain about the unwashed agony of my time there, it did do one thing for me that I did not expect - this young lady has turned out to be someone with which I share a special bond. With her I am able to understand the sharing of emotion that leads to warmth and a sense of well-being, even a sense of healing. I believe I have found Other. I will tell you more in person.
As I did not know that I had been replaced, I awaited rescue rather than risking my companion's life, although we waited too long I daresay. I made the decision to finally flee after we were each put through a ritual and had carved into our shoulders the outline in black of a moth. It was after this that I thought perhaps we'd passed a test. That usually means the worst is still to come...with that in mind we escaped our cells through the nastiest sewer I have personally ever been in and with the Muse's blessing a group of my friends led by my wife found us freshly dead over a dark elf trap I'd missed while hunting for a way out. They finished our escape and called us back from the dead.
And so, here we sit she and I, marked by bardic dark elves, recovering from our skin concerns brought about through not bathing, and appreciating food and water with a fervor you can't imagine. One agonizing thing I would ask about is why does this tattoo cause me so much pain when I pray? I can't even summon an archer - the very act of worship makes my shoulder burn as if it were made of liquid fire.
I wish to speak of these things with you and see if an identifier for the moth can be found, and to hear your advice. Please let me know when is a good time to visit.
Yours in the Muse,
Andrew Reid
Sealed and stamped with his wax kanji, set aside. He moved the pot of ink over and let the drop winding down the side go. And shuffled the parchment a bit for good measure, so it wasn't a such a tidy square. He was getting sleepy and would need a nap soon, but one more before he gave his battered body rest. He needed to know what this moth was, and there lives in this world one single dark elf he trusted personally who might know. Just one, but oh what a lady. It would be a hard sell to convince Raina of a dark elf's good intentions, but that would not stop him from asking in the hopes of healing both of them. Again quill to pot to paper.
To: Alantha T'sarran
Stort
Alibor Island
Milady Alantha, I write in hopes you might meet with me...
-
To:
William and Margaret Reid
2 Clay Ward
Huangjin
Tilmar
Hello my beloved parents.
First, and foremost before anything else is written; if I or Minu show up at your doorstep please ask the following question - What color and pattern were the flower pots that I wanted remade?
If you check your receipts you'll see the first set I ordered for Minu and that is the answer to the question. If either of us show up and can't answer that question, be wary and write immediately. Find an excuse to not let us in. Make sure the guards are close at hand. Also, I am sending a bank note - this letter should reach you via a trusted courier, by the way - so you can afford more guards.
Why? Because Minu and I have both been captured by and escaped dark elves recently. They invaded our minds, and in my case, sent a double up to allay fears while they tortured and marked myself and my friend. It did not occur to me that they would be spying, although it should have, until Minu was similarly captured and stripped of her goods, her blood and hair taken. The necklace I've worn for most of my life is gone, now an object twisted with magic to obscure the face of the man who looks like me. More, as I escaped them, it's very possible you might be targeted. As I said last we met, it is the way of these creatures to destroy all that is good, loving, and caring. They are incapable of feeling mercy or empathy and families and friends of enemies are easy targets. I beg you to use the bank note to increase your security and I will be sending another soon.
Moushiwake gozaimasen. I put you all increasingly at risk. I have more I wish to say but it seems remarkably self-pitying and it is you that I am concerned with so let me end this and please return a letter via the same courier letting me know all is well? I'll be home to visit as soon as I can.
Your loving son
Tashe
-
To: Edgar Whinessy
c/o The Resonance of Being
Port Hempstead Municipal District
Port Hemstead
Kingdom of Brelin
Mistone
Greetings Conductor from the fields outside your lovely port city.
I very much need to meet with you or someone you recommend to discuss a side of the Resonance expressly forbidden, as soon as you can spare me some time. I have been through an experience that has left me deeply shaken as well as marked.
Having not delved deeply into using song - and never the Resonance - for deliberately causing pain and having avoided the skald's path, I blundered, and there is no better word for it, into months of agony at the hands and voices of some dark elven women who have bardic powers. Beyond that, they can project terror, distorted dreams, and sheer agony through the Resonance in ways I will never be able to forget. In my lunatic ego I endangered another and although we have come from our captivity alive thanks to my wife and my friends, there is much I need to learn about what we went through.
In addition, I am marked with a magical tattoo that acts as interference to my prayers to our Lady and causes me pain I didn't know I could withstand. I have a friend who has postulated that there is a resonance to the magic that might be modulated but I am ashamed to say the pain has me fearful of attempting this. I would like your opinion.
There is more but I would prefer to speak in person. And if I do show up, please immediately ask me to demonstrate what I have learned - there is a double of me out there and although he has my bardic abilities I do not believe he has any training that would allow him to hear the Resonance in his heart. He is I am told marked as I am and the necklace he wears, which was once mine, both changes his appearance to match my own and prevents him from feeling the pain of the Mark of Torment we both wear. I do not believe he is dangerous but he is confused and was a captive of the same dark elves. If they have recaptured him he may now be acting as a spy.
I apologize for the hasty nature of this letter and hope you will see me soon.
Yours in our Muse,
(http://i56.tinypic.com/2i72ufa.jpg)
-
Minu had slipped off to deal with a customer. He lay across a couch plus a bit of another in the private sector of the shop. The reddened ashes of a fire and a closed flue produced tendrils of smoke that harassed his nostrils but after the travel here he didn't bother to open the flue nor tamp the embers. He did not, in fact, move. Their conversation kept cycling, round and round, a chaser to his draught of exhaustion; banned, compromised, revoked...
He'd been unkind, even harsh with her. Banned from Port Hempstead due to being compromised by dark elves? What? How did they find out? Why had it even come up? The answer did not please him. His wife was an honest woman, far more than himself the majority of the time, and her reasoning he could understand - in his head. It didn't stop an avalanche of scenarios from tumbling down, including being banned from the city that held his Inn, and his pain-induced temper had flared. Even in the short time they'd talked he had to stop himself from saying worse than he had. And Kaelan, why? Idiot lawmen. He understood why the elf had done what he'd done. Their response was tiny-minded and fearful. If you don't want anyone to scry your fair city, my lords, don't let anyone in it. Otherwise? All bets are off. There are dark elves in it now, believe you me, watching, waiting...
He didn't need this right now. Not right now. He had multiple investigations going on, a soup kitchen to get started, his duties to the guild, his Inn to run, his double to find, Raina to accompany to her parents, and now his travel time was doubled as he'd have to go through Fort Vehl to go home. Too much - it was too much, and all at a time that he was never not in pain. He'd built up a little tolerance but not enough. His holy symbol was a constant burrowing presence, a vine wrapped around his neck with thorns growing through his skin. He'd longed to beg Minu to be strong, to not take his words to heart but to know that he hurt too much to be rational and then to speak all the ugliness that had been building since his connection to Ilsare was choked off...but that was not how they worked, and in the end he'd slipped the symbol off to apologize with something other than a snarl. To soothe her after he upset her with his shattering lack of calm. And to get what sleep the reduced pain would allow after his long ride here.
It was a hole in his heart, that he wanted so badly to wear this necklace and yet was so relieved that he was not. He'd allow a little more sleep, assuming he could, and it went on again. For all he knew it was the only thing protecting him or a test of Ilsare's he was failing right now and every second the gold-covered mithril chain dangled from his hand and not from his neck. He didn't know, and that was what frightened him most of all. If She'd turned her back, if this was his punishment for all those years, for his stupidity in failing to save Raina the first time, if She had stopped caring whether he was wearing the symbol or not...then all this pain was for nothing.
Spiraling, down, down...he needed to sleep, it was the tired having a free run of him. Ilsare hadn't turned Her back on him. He thought this to himself as he hummed, trying to bring his mood back to sane, his emotions circling the kernel of doubt as if it had gravitational pull.
I am sorry, Ilsare...
Pain, the moth flutters, fire ignites in his blood.
I'm sorry...
And he is done. He cannot take another moment, another gout of liquid red flame. Sleep. Days without anything more than drifting into fitful naps...he must sleep.
Watch over me. Please.
-
It comes to this.
"My son, you have dark elf skin for your tattoo."
He can't process it. He can't articulate his thoughts, not even to himself. It's not his skin?
He is sitting up, he doesn't remember moving, staring at the black bug carved on his left shoulder. The inked wings flutter in time with his stomach it seems. Father Xander watches his face before speaking.
"I have studied this since you first brought it to my attention, extensively. I thought it would be healed in conjunction with a cleric of Ilsare." The aged elf wipes his hands absently on a towel as he speaks, looking at his patient with a firm kindness honed over centuries of healing. "What I missed is what's made it so difficult to treat. This is not ink, it is skin grafted into your own. We must physically remove the graft, and the surrounding tissue, for you to return to normal function."
He is staring at it again. He feels how his eyes are wide, his jaw a little slack, he can imagine his expression and yet do nothing to change it - is the moth wiggling, there on his shoulder? Does Raina feel that too? Andeux? "Are you able to surgically remove this, Father? Can you...I'm certain Minu and Kat will assist...in fact, I'd be surprised if Minu didn't insist."
"That is the tricky part." The towel is draped precisely over the clinic bay divider and the elf moves with measured steps to the tables, opening leather cases of instruments, lifting, examining, selecting, discarding. From the patient's horizontal position on the cot it is deeply unnerving to watch. "I will not be able to tell until I get in there to see for myself. This is not normal and very rare."
He looks at the moth again. It's moving, now he is certain. Breakfast is one short esophagus away from the floor. He still can't wrap his head around it. Not mine? Something else, someone else's? "Dark...elf...skin..." He sounds like an idiot yet he can't stop twitching. Who has his skin? Father Xander returns with only a needle on a long handle; the patient speaks to calm his own nerves. "I will provide whatever you need...Ilsare protect me..."
"Well." The needle is dipped in alcohol, held to a flame. Father Xander holds it out, not blowing on it nor dousing it but letting the metal cool in it's own time. "This will be tricky as I do not know how deep the skin goes, has it spead...I'm not sure. You may lose more then you expect."
Ilsare's holy symbol pierces his neck as it has for months now. He takes it up anyway, knowing the pain to come, welcoming it as proof his Goddess has not forsaken him. Questions form, race to his mouth...will the surgery be dangerous to you or Minu? What if it doesn't work? What if...you damage my shoulder, what if I can't play? Oh Ilsare, what if I can't play Bella?
... and they die on his tongue. None of this is Father Xander's concern. He will do the best he can and the patient can ask for nothing more. He hums his prayer as the moth burns and his necklace prickles, then bites, then stabs; Please, Ilsare, let me heal enough to play. It is all I ask. Please.
"Whatever you must do, Father Xander."
The elf has been watching. "That it affects you with pain is what worries me. I will do my best...let me study it a bit more before we start. I'll need you to lay down and be as still as you can be."
He is flexing the fingers of his left hand and moving his left arm, focused on the shoulder joint; the cradle for Bella's rest, the most stable point on his body. The pivot for the arm that moves fingers up and down over strings, plucking and holding...
"Yes, Father." The arm movements stop. He lays flat. Deep breaths...deep breaths, the same breathing he uses to warm up for a performance and to keep his lungs in top singing conditions. From the diaphragm, slow and full. Father Xander begins to prick the shoulder, starting from the mocha-colored skin father away from the tattoo, observing the skin's reaction and his patient's, then moving in. And again. And again. Quiet murmurs as he works, observing and taking his time. The patient's pain tolerance is high, much higher now, and the pricks don't register as much...until they hit the Mark and he winces and struggles to stay still. Muse, it hurts more than his own flesh!
A tiny cough. Father Xander lifts the needle, they both look out of the bay. Clarisse is standing at the end of the cot. Neither of them heard her come in.
"Can I help?"
The healer waits for the patient to speak, but the white brows touch and the grip on the needle tenses. The patient notices. "Clarisse, I would say yes but there is magic involved here, and we don't know enough to be certain it's safe. This time I have to say no. But, if you would please go get your mother and Kat...I'd like them here." He looks at his caretaker as he finishes, and the elf gives a succinct nod. Clarisse bites her lip but doesn't argue. So much like her mother.
"I'll look for them."
"Thank you, Flames." Her nickname wins a little smile - he is the only one who calls her that. The elven girl walks out, already too old to run everywhere as children do and with a poise that hints at the woman she'll become. Despite his worry and his pain he smiles. Minu will come running when she hears what's happening here. The needle comes down again, probing a wing-tip, and with a shudder that twists his gut, the patient waits.
-
Feet echoed from the hall. Light hurried steps, Minu; longer, slightly heavier steps, Katelyn. Good...good girl, Flames...
"Miss Katelyn. Clarisse just told me. I see she found you too?"
"Yes, she did."
"I can't let Father Xander do this alone. Andrew is stronger than he looks." Thank you for the vote of confidence, love, but not really. "And I know he will feel better having us with him."
You're right about that.
"Yes, I hope we can help. Andrew's will is strong, too. He will do his best to be still, I'm sure." Try? Yes. Succeed? ...
Father Xander set the needle down and stroked his chin, held up a finger, and left the bay heading toward Minu's door to the clinic. From the ceiling, the tinny drone of a single insect. It was him, the cot, the ceiling, the cases of shiny metal cutting implements, and the conversation he was eavesdropping on. Minu hushed her voice but he knew what timber to listen for.
"Depending how deep they have to go. I have asked Michael to keep the inn quiet and lock the doors so we are not disturbed."
Kat wasn't bothering to be quiet - an early warning to him perhaps? "If you really think he'll need to be restrained, perhaps we should tie him to the table. Neither of us is very strong."
"I had not thought of him having to be restrained. I hoped a sedative to help him sleep maybe but we will see."
"I assume Father Xander will have his own surgical tools. We may need a fire though, for heating cauterization irons." Restraints? Irons? He was about to become a very bad patient...
"You are right. Let us see what we have to work with, and what Father Xander has found out so far."
"All right."
Minu walked in ahead of Kat. He could hear her taking a deep breath, sensed her worry immediately as he lay there, feet hanging over the edge of the cot, shirt pulled down over his shoulder and tattoo exposed. She started to speak just as Jetta stepped from around the bay to the right. He hadn't heard Rook enter the room; not a whisper, not step. That made him a little nervous.
His Chief of Security met his eyes for a shaved second. Point taken. "So, what's the situation?"
"That is what we are trying to find out from Father Xander." Minu moved to the side of the cot and he pulled out his warmest, most reassuring smile for her; Jetta and Kat exchanged looks, or at least he thought they did. His spectacles were in his other jacket. Everyone was fuzzy.
Minu smiled back. "How are you doing My Love?"
"...I think you'd better ask Father Xander that..."
"I seem to have loaned out my rope and lost it. Do you have one, Jetta?" Kat stood by Jetta and for a moment, through eyes distorted by parental heritage and age, they looked sisters.
"Rope?" He tried to look up without moving anything but his head, in case Father Xander had done something to him. Muse, he hoped they was teasing.
Kat wasn't. "It might be good to have one handy."
Minu chimed in. "Well, we weren't sure the situation so we had been talking over possiblities."
Possibilities. Like losing his arm, being disfigured, or they not being able to remove it and he being stuck with this bloody thing until...until...
What was important to him?
Music? Absolutely. It was his life. But. His arm burst into flames every time he prayed, Alazira's consecration of his necklace made it feel like a crown of thorns around his neck, and as important as music was, it was not more important than the Lady who blessed him with it. He looked at the tattoo, then back at the ceiling. Would he give up the ability to play for Ilsare?
Yes.
Yes, he would. If She asked that of him, he would.
Jetta's silky voice drew him back to the moment. "Umm...no, it's not something I usually carry unless I know I may need it. I guess I could run to the craft merchant and buy some rope... I'm sure Andrew will reimburse me later."
Minu's face was apologetic. "If it comes to it Love. For your own sake. It may be wise to give you something to help you sleep." She was trying at least. He reached over to squeeze her hand as Jetta drifted toward the main clinic doors.
"I'll be back with some rope. Extra rough hemp rope ought to do..."
Kat was watching he and Minu now. "I'm thinking he may need to be conscious to define the extent of the contamination."
Conscious? While having his skin fileted from his body? Fat chance. He stopped humming as Rook's words registered.
"Did she say extra rough? You guys are kidding around with me, right?" No one spoke. "Right?"
Kat smiled. “I think she is.”
"Oh, Love of course we are." A minute pause. "I am not sure of Jetta though. I never know when she is bluffing."
"I am not comforted."
"You know her better than I do."
"Which is why I'm not comforted." Light, flippant, smiling and joking...his mind was slipping away, wondering where his Other was, wondering if this would work, humming under his breath. He listened to his heart and shivered at the rattle of tension around his core. He remembered, as the voices in the clinic floated by, flashes and bits of being bound to a tilted table. A dark elf female moving toward him, sashaying, red eyes raking over him in eager anticipation of his pain. The black glowing instrument she held, it wasn't exactly a knife...he didn't want to remember this. He had to remember this. A black hand stroking his left shoulder with a sensual swirl of fingers, unexpected gentleness - until her nail stabbed down into the joint and her teeth bared in a smile as he was unable to stifle a cry. He will restrain himself. He will not cry out, he will not give them what they want - the glowing edge slices his flesh and his will evaporates at the pain. He is screaming, begging Ilsare to save him against a chorus of dark elf voices, and each time he says Her name the fire turns him inside out...
"...will be as careful and gentle with you as we can be." Minu gave him a kiss on the cheek and he was in the clinic, still shivering. He realized he'd been chatting through his memory. He could not remember a thing he'd said. Before he could ask there was a clearing of a throat, a polite alerting to someone's presence. Father Xander allowed Kat and Minu a smile and set a largish jug on the table near the surgical instrument cases.
He put his head down and lay still. The ladies greeted the healer, but the old elf looked at him.
"Are you ready for this?"
He didn't have to think. "I won't ever be, so might as well do it now."
"You have the option of living with this. I believe it will not get any worse then it already is."
"I....no." Sitting up to shrug his shirt off completely he bared his brown, hairless, marginally muscled torso to the room. Well, to Kat and Father Xander, since Minu was well aware. "No, because they can track me, and because it interferes with my connection to Ilsare." Saying Her name was a needle jab to a nerve cluster. Father Xander raised an eyebrow.
"You may not be able to use your shoulder if this goes wrong."
Quietly. "I know." He hummed a bit of prayer and wondered what it would feel like for worship to not hurt. "If I have to choose, I'll choose Ilsare..."
The Aeridinite nodded, eyes grave but satisfied. "You have made a knowledge based decision. That is all I require. You know the risks now and we have witnesses to the fact."
He studied the ceiling and listened to his heart. He was terrified. Ilsare's Heartbeat never sounded so comforting; life, the chorus of emotions and wants and needs blending to waves. Life goes on. Kat and Minu were discussing spells for the surgery and this time, he heard Rook come in.
"You're in luck today Boss. The shop didn't have a good selection of really coarse, itchy rope... so I got a coil of plain old not-so-bad rope for you."
He had to grin a little. "I'm very glad, Jetta." Rook dangled the rope at him with a slow smirk, Minu and Kat were deciding on who would cast a spell of endurance on the patient, and Father Xander raised his voice to get the attention of the room.
"Wait. We need to go over what I require from everyone." That got their attention.
"Yes, please." Kat turned her attention to Xander.
"Yes Sir." Minu folded her hands and waited, happy as she always was to be doing Aeridin's work. Rook just raised a brow and looked at the old elf.
"Jetta, I need you to make sure Andrew does not move while we operate."
"That's what the rope's for, isn't it?"
"I just need to make sure we are all on the same page here."
"You may still need to hold him still." Minu eyed the security chief. "Try your best not to hurt him Jetta."
"Okay...we could probably have him drink some Frostbeard Ale too...that'll knock even a half-giant out."
Which in fact it had. Dubbel, wasn't it? Yes. He was feeling a little more centered and flipped Rook a grin. "She fears my burly biceps. I can tell. Also, no ale. No drinks."
Father Xander continued as if he'd never been interrupted. "Secondly I need you to douse the area with Ilsarian holy water while we operate."
"Me?"
"Yes you. You are the only one not a cleric. We can not use it properly. Best if a non-cleric do the job."
"If you say so." An exquisitely bluffed shrug of nonchalance - she'd never intended to be part of the actual surgery. Surprise, Rook.
"I have some of the water. I was able to get some while I was doing my research." Father Xander moved over to the clay jug hunkering on the table and handed it to Jetta who had her hands out; the sag in her shoulders let him know the thing was full. He wondered where the Father had gotten it and smiled inwardly, humming.
"Kate, I need you to cauterize any bleeding we find. I do not want any of the tainted blood to go back on Andrew."
"All right."
"Elohanna I need you to hold the tattoo while I cut it away. Once it is removed I need it burned so best we get a brazer in here for burning the tattoo and for cauterizing."
"Yes Father."
Kat started toward Minu's office entrance. "I'll get one from the kitchen."
"Andrew, I'm going to ask you to do something very painful. Focus as much as you can on Ilsare."
Oh, my Muse... "Yes, Father." Deep breaths. He began to hum, a pale sound in the back of his throat not from lack of enthusiasm but so not to interrupt vital communication of those who would have knives in his body. He slide his right hand around his self-made holy symbol as he did. Immediate pain; his body stiffened as if struck by lightning.
"Let her be your strength Love. Have faith in her." His wife pressed a feathery kiss to his cheek. There was heat from the floor, a thump, and the clinking of metal onto metal. "We are here for you Andrew."
"Should I start with the holy water yet?"
"Andrew I will ask that you lay down on your belly on the floor. In case you start to move I do not want you to fall. This is going to be very painful and I need you to stay awake and concentrate on Ilsare." At the healer's words he slipped from cot to floor. Kat sat by a wide, low, brass warming brazier and fed it charcoal. A bead of sweat traced his hairline. Then another. Bracing himself, he pulled some words to mind for an impromptu to Ilsare. He always felt especially close to Her when situations inspired song from him.
Father Xander knelt by him. "We need to clean the area and my knife first."
He rolled his shoulder so the tattoo was easily accessible, and felt Rook's knee, tentatively, left of his spine. "Oh bother... you do know I'm not very strong physically, right? I don't think I'd be able to hold him down." Father Xander again continued as if no one else was speaking around him. His tone was equal parts patience and unquestionable instruction.
"Please pour the holy water on my knife and on the tattoo."
Song was coming to him; air, shapeless in his lungs, danced past the jittery sculptor of his throat and tongue to emerge sharpened or flattened into notes. "Love is truth and She is Love, the one who saves me daily..."
"Tie him down then."
"I'll help you Jetta." Through his song he heard Minu cast a spell; Rook's knee settled firmly and her other followed. Holy water splashed into his hair as she poured over Father Xander's surgical knife. A second later the Ilsare-blessed water sloshed across the moth, biting into the jet-black skin - the room spun, the moth burned - it was moving, he felt it...he struggled for breath right as his Chief of Security put her full weight on him. It wasn't actually that much, she was as lithe as a jungle cat, but...
"Ooomph!"
"Can you breath Tashe?" Minu missed his sudden smile.
"Oh geez! I'm not that heavy, wimp." Rook sounded annoyed.
"I need you to wash away any blood while the wound gets cauterized." Still patient, directing them as if they were bright but easily distracted schoolchildren. Well, maybe they were. He grunted as Rook shifted.
"Too...much...pie..."
"Like hells! I haven't even had any in the last month!" Having given himself a reason to smile, he waited for the next instruction, the pain from the holy water settling into a steady throbbing stab. Kat said something to the Father; he could not see Minu from his vantage on the floor and it didn't matter because Jetta doused his left shoulder with more holy water and he bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood.
"I hope this stings." He couldn't see her fierce smile but he heard it in her voice. Focus, Tashe...Ilsare...
"Love is truth and I live love, in all the things I see..."
The next line queued up but didn't make it past his lips as Father Xander slid the surgical knife into his skin, deep, and the severing of flesh registered in his brain. He was still singing but no sound came out - stay with Ilsare, it's not as bad as in the Deep, it's only surgery...Ilsare, I am here, hear me...
Jetta said something in what might as well have been dragon. His shoulder was warm and wet and then a red-hot brand touched the pulpy flesh under his skin and the wet slowed into a sticky trickle. It wasn't as bad. It wasn't as bad. He could stand this, for Ilsare...sing...the holy water splashed over his shoulder again and he let out a yell. Muse! Please!
They were pouring and wiping, the knife marching in a circle around the moth-shaped skin graft and spiraling closer - each cut leaving him light-headed, an icy snake winding through his gut. Sing, dammit!
"Love it truth and love is...is what keeps me free..."
Hot iron again. Kat's legs blocked his view and he squeezed his eyes shut, sucking in breath for the next line to his Lady. He sensed Minu near his head and wished very much she'd hold his hand even though he know she could not. Warm blood, hot iron, nerves screaming, it wasn't too much yet - not for Ilsare -
Father Xander severed the edge of the tattoo and cut underneath. He was on the tilted table, the glowing edge carving away his skin and once again he let out a pitched, strangled wail - ILSARE! MAKE IT STOP! Backlash, worse than before, the full weight of his devotion to Lady Love igniting his blood with equal measures of agony. His right leg started moving, rolling and thumping, completely out of his control. When the next gout of holy water ran under the tattoo he strangled out another scream and dug his nails across the unyielding floor, leaving scratches in the varnish.
"Pray, Andrew. Your Lady will help you." Kat. Then Minu's sweet voice:
"Think of all the blessings She has given you Andrew." He couldn't get enough air out of his lungs to sing, so he mouthed a prayer. Warm and wet from his shoulder, warm and wet from his eyes...Ilsare, I live to create in your name; Ilsare, the heart of my inspiration, the heart of my family, the heart of my music; Ilsare, the Heartbeat that moves the Song of Life, hear my prayer...
"This will not do. Elohanna take this flap here and lift up please. Keep lifting while I cut. Jetta keep pouring the water. Till it runs out." Dizzy...searing heat, sizzling, floating but not in a nice, special-cigar way, rather in an empty, sick way...
"Of course, I'm on it." He was soaked from holy water and from blood. Father Xander was past being delicate and was cutting the tattoo out of his shoulder like the elf was filleting a trout. His mouth worked soundlessly for a second, then he found the breath to sing a little more of the devotional.
"Love...is truth...ahh!...and Love's Lady...is..." His head was expanding and his core was ice. There was a squelching sound from his shoulder and a tugging that felt like it was pulling on his pectoral...he felt really, really funny...he was really wet, wasn't he? Muse, his stomach hurt...
...with a tiny pop inside his skull, he slipped into blackness.
"Wake up sweetheart. Come on. Stay awake."
Huh? Where -
Bile in his throat and he smelled ammonia. Minu pulled her hand away, holding a small ampoule. Gah...he tried to raise his head and immediately dropped it. The ice was still in his gut. His shoulder still burned. He felt terrible, everywhere. He really wanted to go to sleep.
Voices; Father Xander and Kat. "Come on Andrew, keep concentrating." "Stay still, Andrew! Pray!"
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
Jetta ignored his scream and was singsonging to him as if he were a cute puppy. "Think about pretty Ilsare now." Pretty Ilsare - gorgeous Ilsare, whom he fervently hoped he could spend eternity with, when the bindstones and healing potions finally failed to stall the inevitable - the knife cut deep, a sawing motion inside his shoulder. Sing for Her.
"...Love's Lady is the very best of me..."
A whisper from his back. "You can do it Boss, just a little while longer..."
Minu was humming along with him, there were three short taps with the cauterizing iron, and a sudden reprieve from fresh pain. Father Xander rocked back a bit.
"This is not good."
"What is it Father?"
"Err? Now what?"
"What?"
"Stop the cauterizing."
"The holy-juice too?" He tried to turn his head to look and Jetta mashed his cheek to the floor. He gave up and sang in the lull.
"Wings on my shoulder...too close to the flame..."
Father Xander sounded agitated for the first time. "Burning hands...who has it?"
"Would Alchemist's Fire do?" Rook, by the Muse, don't set my Inn on fire to save me!
He struggled out another line of the song he wrote specifically as an apology to Ilsare for being such a baka yaro. "Want to share the pain but I'm the...the only one to blame..."
"Scroll?"
"Some things never change..." I'm sorry, my Lady. Please forgive me.
"Keep the water going...slowly...keep it wet."
The sloshing had slowed to a thin stream. "This jug's getting a bit low...are we going to have enough?" Please Ilsare, let us have enough!
Minu broke in. "I can call the blessings Father."
"Do it please."
"Wings on my shoulder...engraved with black and inky hate..." He had regained some voice in the brief reprieve.
Rook sounded annoyed. "Focus on Ilsare, Andrew, not the bloody moth."
"Would like to change my mind but it's way, way to late...some things never change..." She'd have to hear the whole song to understand. Really, he was the least wise cleric Ilsare ever had, he was lucky She put up with him...Minu cast her spell onto Father Xander's hands at the elf's request and there was more light and heat. Fire. It was always fire with him; passion's fire, burning bridges, going up in flames...or smoke...
"There are no angels in the Deep, no seraphs perched by my ear, it's not Ilsare's voice I hear, Leperdoptera..."
"Gods that song is creepy. Don't you have anything more uplifting about Ilsare?" Rook's snappish tone was grounding, strangely. There was one long slice and a tug, more sizzling - he was in that fuzzy place that you went to when injuries were bad, very bad - and suddenly his shoulder was cold. He heard the knife set down.
"Wings on my shoulder, savage pinpricks in fleshy ego, would love to take the thorns off but I crossed that bridge long ago...some things never change. I'm crying out Her name...setting myself on fire to pray..."
Five heartbeats without new pain, then ten. "It's gone Andrew." Father Xander sounded weary. Minu pulled off the gloves and stroked his face, sliding wet, black hair off his cheek and eyes. Jetta stayed where she was and Kat replaced the iron she'd been using into the brazier. The insect was still bumping itself into the wooden ceiling in a desperate attempt to reach a sun it could not see.
Kat broke the silence. "Is it safe to heal him yet, Father Xander?"
"He needs to naturally heal."
"Yuck." Jetta, there, and then Minu brushed her hand through his hair.
"It's gone Tashe."
"...Ilsare, thank you..." It was gone. It was gone. The relief in his wife's voice was perfectly in tune with the lightening of his soul. He was still in pain but it was a good pain, a clean, honest pain. He hummed, and listened, and opened his heart to the Resonance. He could hear only joy.
Jetta shifted her weight to his left side and looked into the jug of holy water. Is that where they put it? Kill it, my Muse, with all the devotion that water represents. Drown in a puddle of love, bug! "Eww...did it just move, or am I seein' things?"
"The tattoo needs to be burned on a holy alter of a good deity." Discussion on where to properly cleanse the tainted flesh. He barely heard it. They wanted to heal him, once again Father Xander was adamant - no magic, no prayers. Nothing that could give the taint fuel to flare again. He had to heal entirely on his own. He still hadn't seen the damage.
The floor was comfortable. He could sleep right here. Someone stood and picked something up. Someone was going to Center to...oh...Kat was taking the tattoo to destroy it in Prunilla's alter. Thank you, Katelyn. Such a sweet girl Lana raised. He was glad she was here.
"The sooner it is burned the better."
"I'll do it now."
Minu put a gentle hand on his. "Thank you Katelyn. I'll stay here and watch over Andrew. Aeridin speed you."
"Yeah...get rid of that thing. It's...it's...just bad." Okay. Now if Rook sounded that spooked, he was glad he hadn't seen the chunk of his former flesh. She was rarely that easy to heebie-jeebie. "It okay for me to get off him now?"
Yes, please.
Father Xander shifted position, looked at Jetta. "Yes."
Jetta gave him a slap on the rump as she stood off him. "You'll be better in no time, Chief."
"Let's bandage him up and get him on the road to recovery." The Father and Minu wiped and patted dry his shoulder. It hurt. It hurt exactly as it should hurt. Nothing else hurt. He took up the necklace that had slipped from his hand, created in the pain he had spent the better part of a year trying to live through, and flinched from memory.
No pain. The metal was warm in his hand.
"Hey...I just realized, this doesn't exactly fall under Buckle security procedures. I should get a nice bonus for helping with this."
Minu's fingers were light and swift over his shoulder. "Did you not say that there was nothing normal about working for us? Doesn't that mean that everything falls under your job description?"
"Nope. Let's see...where's his key-ring, I'll just take what I think is fair out of the safe and we'll be settled."
"Well, not much to do but let time do it's thing." Father Xander rose on creaking knees.
"We will see him up to bed to rest comfortably unless you think it best we keep him down here for now?"
The Father moved to the right and looked at him. "How do you feel Andrew?"
"Down here would be more sterile, wouldn't it?"
Minu nodded. "Yes it would, Jetta."
He didn't answer the healer's question right away, but tried to sit up. Moving dragged a moan from him, partly from the position he'd been in and mostly from what he assumed was a gaping hole in his shoulder. He tried pushing up with his right arm; no good. The ice-snake in his gut wasn't quite gone yet. He rolled on his right side, drew his knees up, and rolled back on to them, then used his right arm to straighten...mostly. His left arm throbbed uselessly and dangled like a marionette with broken strings.
"Take it slow Love." He flexed the fingers of his left hand - thank you, Ilsare, they moved. Not exactly on command but the numb felt like that from an extended time in an awkward position, not a loss of sensation. Even now pins and needles were starting to prickle.
Father Xander noted the hand movement with a satisfied nod. "I need to rest."
"Thank you Father Xander..." Really, thank you wasn't even close to enough. He owed the man. A lot.
Minu flashed the Father a huge smile. "Father Xander you have been amazing."
"Any time. I learned a lot from this." To him. "Keep praying as often as you can. it is the best way to keep the taint away."
That will not be a problem.
"Remember you have to heal naturally, love." He wanted to kiss her. Tell her how much her being there had meant - that he never wanted to be cut into without her there to speak for him...but later, later. Now was not the time. He only looked into her eyes for a moment and projected a wave of emotions toward her. Ilsare, if you could someday let her feel this...
Father Xander turned toward the door and he moved his right hand over to sneak a peek under the bandage. He didn't know the elf could move that fast - before his hand touched cloth, delicate fingers wrapped around his wrist.
"Faith, Andrew."
"How...how much is gone?" Xander kept his gaze, eyes steady. He dropped his hand. "Yes, Father." The elf let go, bowed to them. "Good day, I'll be in my chambers."
"Good night Father. Rest well." Minu turned to him. "It's going to look bad right now. It has to have time to heal. And you Mister Reid have to slow down and let us help you."
"Yes, love." In a test of strength, or perhaps more accurately a show of machismo, he rose to his feet and swayed almost immediately. Light-headed again...room spinning...hands directed him backward and down onto a cot. Compared to the floor it was like laying on a cloud from Ilsare's heaven. Jetta examined the bandages.
"A chunk of flesh like that cut out isn't going to look good, ever, I don't think...but it's in a spot you can keep covered so it shouldn't be too bad." Was his mercenary security woman trying to comfort him? He smiled, the dizziness buzzing around and making him blink. Minu draped blankets over him. People were talking. He was talking and yet his voice was coming from far away. The little snippets of conversation his fading consciousness wove together were like music.
"...triple bonus for the comment regarding my weight..." "...you, Katelyn..." "...welcome...nerve damage?...stonebound...slowly...give it time...pretty deep...music is his life...he'd find a way...burned up...moved on it's own you saw too? was touching it, creepy get some rest..."
..............................................................................
He'd been lying awake for a hour. There was no escaping his pounding shoulder; the chewing root and tea Minu gave him didn't even touch his "discomfort". He wanted a cigar from the box in the bottom of his desk drawer but she put her foot firmly down and no amount of cajoling on the naturalness of them would change her mind. Not in the clinic, she said. Absolutely not. Yes it would help the pain, no it was not medicine, yes it was natural, and no, she would not get him one.
It wasn't like he could hop out of the cot and fetch them himself; he could barely stagger to the chamber pot unescorted. The morning dragged on.
He drowsed and prayed. Father Xander changed the bandages, Minu brought him soup and sat there until he ate enough that she was satisfied he would not starve in the next few hours. Kat had a long return trip and he prayed for her too, that she came to no trouble in destroying that evil wad of tissue. He must give her a bonus for her work. Jetta came by once to update him on security, then took the rest of the week off to travel. Someone had finally shoo'ed out that annoying insect.
A chair scraped on the wood floor. To his right, thank the Muse. Clarisse sat and put on a bedside smile. "How are you feeling?"
"Better now, Milady. The taint is gone."
"It's safe to help now?"
"Oh, absolutely."
"So...what can I do?"
He thought on that. Really, he was in recovery, and aside from changing bandages and keeping clean his body needed only time and a quiet his life didn't usually afford him. Her hands were on her lap; her feet didn't touch the floor yet, although she was an elven teenager. She tipped her head at him and smiled again.
"You know, there isn't much you can do for my shoulder but there is something you can do for me."
"Mother says I am not to bring you any cigars, no matter what."
Dammit. "Ah, well. I wasn't going to ask for that anyway." ... "Actually, what I would like is my sketch pad and charcoals from...Muse, where did I put them?..."
"They are under the vendor ledger on the right side of your desk."
How did she DO that? Minu did the same thing. It didn't seem to matter what he was looking for, they knew where it was. Spooky. "Yes, there, thank you Flames. I wish to record something before my memory of it is too far removed for accuracy."
"I'll get it!" She hopped off the chair and walked out. No noise from the main room. It was a nice day, he was told, and the food kitchen was outside on trestles covered with netting to keep the bugs off, so the Inn could remain closed while he rested. Minu's insistence. His wife was taking no chances.
"Here, Andy...what are you going to draw?"
He jostled the sketchbook to a fresh page and laid it on his lap. "The moth." He couldn't draw this way, he needed it tilted up...there, propped on his leg would work. She was silent; he glanced over and she looked upset. "What's wrong?"
"That was evil, Andy. Why would you want to draw it? You risked your whole arm to get rid of it!"
"Because...I'm not the first person they've carved, Clarisse. I won't be the last I'm sure. If I wish to help Raina, and my double, and anyone else they've desecrated I must record what I know and make sure it gets to the right places. Father Xander will have a full accounting of my experience to share with his church and I will send the same to my Lady's as well, and..." He grumbled. "Aragen, your mother insists."
She nodded and tipped the sketchbook up as it slid. "That makes sense."
"Thank you - you can do me another favor if you wish. Keep this sitting upright, I can't even use my left arm for ballast right now and the book keeps slipping - just like that, tilted a little toward me...perfect." Drawing her legs to her chest, she held the edge of the book. He closed his eyes first and traced the outline with a fingertip - that fingertip had a much better memory than his eyes. Then using a fine-tipped charcoal he did the same, opening his eyes to see what his tactile memory had created. Clarisse sat and asked him questions about the moth - what kind was it? He didn't know. Why didn't he draw more? Well, it wasn't really his medium but...the chatting relaxed him. Better than any special cigar, that child. They talked and the moth shaped on the page, for posterity.
(http://i42.tinypic.com/28m0j75.jpg)
-
Raina sleeps, exhausted from being exhausted as her rest since the Deep has been constantly disturbed by horror dreams and peering red eyes. Minu sleeps, exhausted from an ill-advised scrying, exhausted from being scryed upon. He frowns which something he does not like to do for vanity reasons. Thank the Muse Clarisse's room, formerly Ty's room, is right next their bedroom; he is running between both rooms and checking on both women. He is the protector of dreams tonight.
Raina moans; he puts his right hand in hers and whisper-sings, offering her solace if she can hear it. He is determined she will sleep. If not well, at least enough. She has agreed to the surgery based on his trust of Father Xander and he knows she is terrified. Fair enough; he was too. He still wonders how much function he's lost in this second week post surgery when he can barely lift let alone hold things or play instruments, and yet he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, it was the right decision - for him. He prays, for the twentieth or thirtieth time today, that is the right one for her as well.
"Can't I just live with it?"
The sleeping half-elf woman's moans ease, whether by his vigil or some other means he does not know. No, Raina, you can't just live with it. The traveled, witty, sometimes cutting and always vibrant woman he calls friend is mummified under gauzy wrappings of sleep deprivation and increasing paranoia. In her place is a tired puppet of her former self, unable to even bring a story to mind. This cannot stand. By Ilsare, this cannot stand.
Her breathing steadies and tension across her shoulders relaxes. It is time to check the other room. Slipping his hand away, he heads for his marital bed and his wife who lies in a marginally more restful state, slumbering herself as she has continued to do since her recovery from the Green Dragon Cult taint. She can still revery and does, but perhaps lying with a human at night has changed her habits; perhaps the taint or poison or disease or whatever it was has left her unable to rest adequately without actual sleep from time to time. They don't know, but as always, they adapt.
Minu seems alright. He doesn't like that she slipped off to scry the dark elves without telling him she was ready to try; he likes less that the waters of their new scrying pool rippled at her efforts. He likes least of all the feeling that engulfed him, pushing at his very soul, when he first came upstairs – and the heartbeat of magic that pulsed in the room as the love of his life sagged over the pool with blood running down her chin, oblivious to her lack of protections and her danger.
Nope. No, sir. Don’t like it one bit.
Watching her reminds him of that and more. Moments of the last week, her acting as therapist and his first hesitant attempts to use his left arm. The stretching exercises; the wrist-curling; the lifting, or the intent to do so. An episode in the kitchen sticks in his mind.
"I tell you what love. Why don't you try to use your arm to eat some? You can also knead the dough to make bread. It will help too."
And he'd tried. He'd scooped rice, fish and vegetables in a bowl - with his right hand - and used the slender sticks that he was raised to believe were cultured utensils, unlike the barbaric forks and knives that he has since mastered the use and manners of. With his right hand, it was like writing, or plucking strings. With his left...well, the hand worked fine. He was able to raise it over the lip of the butcher block and to the bowl, but a single spear of broccoli did him in. One green stem with but two smallish bundles of darker green florets, such a miniscule weight, and his arm swung down, sticks catching the edge of the bowl and flinging vegetables out.
"Slowly, love."
Easy for you to say.
"If you need to use your other hand to help a bit with the movements." His arm wobbled and if his shoulder could scream he'd have been deaf - a mere inch and his left arm gave up and fell straight. Stars and song...stars and bloody song!
"It's okay Andrew. We will take it just a bit slower."
"I can't, it's just...there is no muscle power, it's just not there, it's like...there is nothing connecting the arm anymore...I've lost the arm, haven't I?"
"No you haven't! If you had you wouldn't be able to even lift it as far as you have."
"I wondered if She would ask for it."
"Andrew come on now! You know better!"
"I don't."
"You do too!"
"All I know is I have a bloody huge hole in my shoulder joint and I can't even lift a pair of sticks."
"Listen, Andrew William Reid! Your shoulder muscles need work. It is going to take time. It will not heal itself in one bloody day!" If stamping her foot wouldn't have made him laugh, she probably would have then. But she didn't use his full name often and he had to concede in retrospect that she had a point. And, if he were perfectly honest, he was a lousy patient. He hated being sick and he hated being hurt and he hated being unable to do what he wanted when he wanted.
But that was then...now, she slept, her jaw hanging just a little open. So innocent, so sweet, and if only those who felt he'd married the nicest person on the entire planet knew how, in that kitchen while he was in the middle of his self-attended pity party, she'd moved the bowl of food, knowing he was hungry, and forced him to push his arm along the block using only his left shoulder to get it. Well, forced perhaps wasn't the best word; she didn't put a sword to his throat. She didn't have to. She knew exactly how to get him to do something when his stubborn streak was rearing. And do it he had although pushing one's hand across a smooth surface was hardly a victory worth writing home about.
She was right, though. Yesterday was better; he'd been able to raise the arm barely two finger's worth, but more than once. Today, three finger's worth, twice, once to prove to Raina that he was healing. He'd finally sneaked a peek under the bandage too. He could not think of any other scab he'd had in his life as large as that one.
Raina; time to check on Raina. It was going to be a long night, they were thirty minutes off witching hour still. He changed rooms to find his friend once again shifting, although silently. Hand into hers, sitting close, imagining himself a Knight against the black, white and red demons of her nightmares; his love was his sword, and they would fall back at the might of Ilsare's bardic Protector. He whispered this to the sleeping woman as they had whispered stories back and forth for months in the Deep.
"And as they edge in, bloody-eyed and hungry for pain, I step beside you; your pipes and my song together take form, a rapier built of fat cats going down alleys eating birds. Of course it's a rapier, it's my story." A laugh rises in his throat; he knows her well enough to answer a comment she would have asked, had she been awake. "They fall back a step at the music and the power of an emotion that was bargained out of them millenia ago. They cannot understand..."
He continues in a whisper that seems loud in the darkness. Can she hear him? Does it matter? She knows he's here. Minu knows he's here.
They are here. That is all that matters.
-
To:
William Reid
2 Clay Ward
Huangjin
Tilmar
Dear Father
Mother wrote and told me about your health. I have been wandering this inn, and checking on patients of our clinic, and healing from my own surgery, and trying to out-work the feeling in the pit of my stomach when I think of you being ill.
Twenty-five years of letters to your wife I have written and only a handful to you. Only a few. I am sitting at my desk remembering you sitting at yours while you ran numbers and calculated costs. How all the things were scattered in this pile and that and when Mother tried to organize you'd wave her off and insist you had your own system, you knew where every single thing was.
I have my own system. Minu used to try and organize it, but she gave up. I know where everything is and where it makes sense for it to go. I write small numbers in a ledger book and try to make it balance. I write bank notes for bills and purchases, just as you did.
I remember the care you took with each piece at the wheel. It never paid to rush, you would say. Quick and inexpensive
His arm aches now along with his heart. He rests it on the desk, knowing if he overdoes it again he'll have Minu, Father Xander, and Heloise to answer to. And Clarisse. Taking the strain off the shoulder joint feels like water on a fire, heat hissing down to steam and then the shocking suddenness of nothing.
It's healing. Slowly. He has not used magic, not once, since the surgery. The scab shrinks daily. He can lift his arm although not over his head; he can dress himself. He can lap-tap his guitar and even play a little, which is what got him in trouble last time. He can write a letter with his left hand. He'd learned to write with both long ago, under Damon's tutelage. Minu approves and puts letter-writing on his exercise list to rebuild his manual dexterity.
He practices piano daily for as long as he can stand and he's spent many a night working with his vocal range again. He cannot yet play Bella; she is patient but quiet, as one is when a loved one is away. He strokes the black pebbled leather case and suddenly remembers Rose during a Huangjin summer storm, sitting in her old front window watching the rain with elbow on sill and chin in hand as she waits for Liang to return home.
There is a whiff of rain mixed with the ocean's salty tang. He blinks.
Home.
A long breath, inhaling the memory, then he lifts the quill again. The salty tang lingers.
............................................................................................................................................................................................is not worth the bitter taste of poor quality, you told me. I have not forgotten. 'There is never enough time to do it right, but always enough time to do it twice', you said, when speaking of competitors. These words come back to me from somewhere above my head - the child in me hears them when the adult is planing wood for an instrument, or stringing a violin, or varnishing a guitar. I take the extra time to do it right. I do not rush nor do I ever say "good enough". You taught me that.
You were hard on me. Harder than I thought fair, when I did not know what I would or could become. I didn't see you treating Shuchi or Aya the same way and I resented it. I didn't know then what Ty has since taught me; parenting is knowing they'll hate you, and doing it anyway because it's best for them. Whether that is tying them to a chair until they do their practices or sending them away for their safety, the magnitude doesn't change the immediate reality - I must do this to someone I love and they are going to hate me for it. Otousan, I don't hate you anymore. Just for the record.
I once thought that I'd like to take back a lot of things we said. A hundred shouted 'why don't you's', 'who are you to'. How many of those words were designed to drive me when reason would not penetrate the layers of obstinence I built over the years? When I would have just as soon not bothered pushing myself to be more? I would not take back a single word, now. It kept me from getting too comfortable when comfort was all I craved.
It's funny...strange funny, that I can sit here and believe I understand you. Do I? Perhaps. But I can say I think I do. I watch the people who work for my business and wonder how I can help them prosper. I care that my business does not fail. I care for the people we serve and that the things they come here for are good and enjoyed. All things I learned from you.
Get well soon, Otousan. I miss you.
Your loving son,
Tashe
Sealed, the letter sits in a stack for the next person heading into town to arrange delivery. The sick, cold knot for his father isn't gone and another joins it; Raina is here. He knows what he has convinced her to do and he knows how much pain he will be asking her to endure, again. Worse, he knows she might hate him for it. Worst, he can only pray it is the best option for her...and she survives it.
Minu taps on the door. His shoulder is well and fatigued and he sets the quill down. Time with his wife sounds very good right now.
-
"I put you in danger"
"You told me you would try to distract them."
"I tried to confront them...they have our powers, our abilities, the way we enhance emotions but....inside out. Backward, upside down. Wrong."
"I know you told me to stay hidden, but they were going to kill you."
"I gave them something to chase. I hoped they would both chase me."
"They saw me, and I tried to get away. I climbed a tree, but she drew her whip and caught my ankle..."
"I hoped you would meet me but you didn't, and you didn't, and you didn't....and then I knew I had to go back. I kept hearing you asking me to find you. I thought I could find you and release you...arrogance...I slipped into a room, and saw you on a raised rock, tied down...I'd all but put you there...and then I was spotted, and I tried to fight. I couldn't leave you there...and everything went black."
"...everything went black."
"ANDREW!"
Dear Muse! It takes a moment for his heart to start again. He is there, in the forest, in the cave, in the room -
"You let Miss Jil sleep on the couch!" Angry, harsh - furious in fact. Rather more than the situation warranted he thinks. He turns to look at his accuser.
"Helly, we have no room. It's not ideal but she was fine with it." He pivots back to continue mulling over he and Raina's combined story when a glass object, three-quarters empty, is slammed hard onto his desk. It is only the thickness and quality of it that prevents it from shattering. Heloise turns without another word and leaves, yanking both his office doors shut; they meet and bounce back from the impact. He turns to see her, fuming, hands shaking as she pulls the doors closed so they'll latch. He can count every sharp slapping footstep to the kitchen.
So. It wasn't one of the cats that he'd heard the other night.
Oh, hells.
This is bad. Very bad. Very, very bad. In an eyeblink he's fifteen, churning over explanations trying to find the most plausible one, the one that will get him out of trouble...
There isn't one. There never will be. He is what he is and thirty years hasn't changed that. Fifty more won't, either. It takes a fumbling moment to wrap a hand around the object. At some point he's closed his eyes.
So now what? Raina rests, her surgery not only successful but far less painful than his own. He is glad of that. Swirls has come and gone, the impetus for his latest decent into his personal abyss. Minu is deep in research after her frightening experience in the scrying room. And he sits here, remembering his throat closing off from the sweetest of voices and wondering if Helly has told anyone what she's seen the last two nights. Given how the message was delivered, it doesn't appear so. Yet.
Eyes open. Candlelight. A reflection in the glass; appropriate, he supposes. If he doesn't do something fast it's where he'll be ending up.
"I thought I'd die down there."
"The first night I dreamt of your parents. Illia turned to me and it felt like...like she was looking right at me. She spoke to me in the dream. Bring her home. Bring her home!"
"I wanted to..."
"I don't remember, that was a long blur of singing and storytelling for me. He took my life history. He asked for my songs, my family, my friends, my wife, everything. He listened to it all. The second best audience I've ever had."
Audience. The Cord that broke the camel's back. Torture had not sent him spiraling; feeling the moth move independently of his own skin had not; Andeux had not; wide-awake surgery had not. No, what laid him flat was a four-foot-two inch mirror. The smooth glass cylinder slips forward as he flexes his fingers.
"I was in a dark place...and I hoped I'd die. It would've been easier, and then I wouldn't mind being alone...but then you said something to me...I think you asked me to come back or something."
"I did. Hells, I begged you..."
"I knew what it was like to be alone and I couldn't leave you alone when I'd been alone for so long."
"From that point forward...we kept each other alive."
From the jumble of storytelling they had done select memories pop out. He's not focusing or following any chronology. It just flows, and he listens.
"And one of us would be taken out and strapped...to the table..."
"...with magic...words...threats...weapons...beatings..."
"The more they tried to take, the more I prayed - it made them angry."
"It was like my pain made them stronger. They reveled in it."
"They never even asked any questions..."
"I stopped praying..."
Ilsare's breath, they'd been through a lot. The reflection in the glass clenches his jaw. Distorted by faint yellow light and poor eyesight the reflection looked a lot like Willie. Willie...before the surgery he had intended to -
Yes. He'd forgotten. Yes. Two birds with one mithril bullet, eh? They'd gone through too much. He will not toss himself into a barrel over what he thinks he's missing. A long breath to let it all sink in - and a quietly sung thank you to his Lady for the slap on the head - and he picks up the bottle by the neck and strides to the kitchen. Helly spares him one still-fuming look as she and Paddy clean stoneware. His special security man looks at his wife's face, looks at him, and slinks out, not even bothering to dredge up a forgotten but urgent errand.
No bird has ever has ever carried a rolled-up note so eloquent as her message; his is as sparsely articulate. He upends the bottle and dumps it into the waste bin, holding her eyes. Chestnut curls bob sharply. There isn't anything more to be said about it. He sets the empty in a row with others waiting to be cleaned and heads upstairs, taking the short flight in two hops.
Stationary does not become him. His shoulder is nearly healed. There are loose ends, and he has been off the road too long. It is high past time...to chase himself and see what he finds.
-
Elohanna Reid
c/o the Silver Buckle Inn
Mariner's Hold
Sagewald
Alindor
Minu
I send some research ahead of me to share with those interested in helping up deal with Duncan; some of it you know already. Please distribute as you trust, this information will be very useful in determining our path. I have received some expert advice from an...well, expert and any of these men we could possibly be dealing with as we try and stop Alice's son.
The following will almost certainly be at any pirate captain Moot where Duncan can be found, provided they are alive at the time:
Kenshad the Self-Righteous, flagship is the Seige Perilous - No slaving, no drinking, no taking of loose women and no smuggling; he believes himself a Toranite knight and has a few ships obtained raiding pirates as well as shipping lanes of Mistone and Dregar. Word is he does has a truce with the pirates but still raids merchants.
Captain Pike, flagship the Alpha of Omega - Nasty one, this. He's not been seen for years and only speaks through chosen men. His crew call themselves Reavers and there are a number of tales concerning them - they can float, they sizzle and turn to smoke when killed, merely seeing their faces makes a man shriek. I suspect it's all good story to heighten fear but there certainly may be some truth to some of it. Pike is without a soul from what I understand.
Rakish Feiwalled, flagship the Devil's Reef - Dark elf. Enough said.
"Twelve Pint" Quaid, flagship the Smokey Bones - A smuggler with a reputation of being easy to work with. He's rumored to be setting himself up to retire and so my first choice for contact prior to the Moot. He or his men can be found at the cliffside ship tavern in Hurm. Confidentiality and plenty of cold hard True will go a long way here I think. It's possible we can convince him we need something from one of the captains at the Moot and therefore go in his stead, which isn't a stretch in reality.
Duncan Blackwater, flagship the Chum Runner - Our quarry. Another one with no apparent heart and whose loyalties are highly suspect toward just about everyone. Rumors abound of him trying to form an alliance with the other pirates and he's also said to own - or at least claim to own - a few islands past Hurm's coast. Murder, smuggling, raiding and slavery - no age too great or small. Despicable. Pike seems to be backing him.
Duncan has a rather substantial army so I've been told. We'll have to come up with a plan; I was hoping to get us onboard with him and get into the Moot on his clout. From there, I haven't a clue - it would depend on what we find in advance. For now however? We must find Twelve Pint.
I will see you soon love, I am taking my fastest route home.
Love,
Tashe
-
*you look down to your notebook and find a page clearly in your handwriting. A sign of the growing madness, you do not remember exactly when you started writing, over and over...
"Ghouls, Revenants and Reavers.
Ghouls, Revenants and Reavers.
All seeing, one mind.
From the depths the Temples of the Ancients Arise.
A'sharum dae. Raghl, Irt'ana.
Ghouls, Revenants and Reavers.
Raghl, Irt'ana."
*on the next few pages you find sickeningly precise visages of various sea monsters, tentacle beasts and things from the deepest pits of imagination. Circles of sharks devouring men, and images of your friends doing great deeds. In the end, you appear to have drawn a tentacle demon in the midst of a whirlwind, devouring them and yourself. And the world*
*the next few nights of sleep on the island are filled with nightmares of similar images. You are often awoken from your night terrors, shrieking*
-
Leaving Leringard, looking guilty and smoking a cigar the pungency of which just covers the faint scent of perfume, the bard looks up and over the horizon as the ship pulls out of the harbor. His heart stops - he's in the Buckle, in the cell, in the Deep, and her eyes turn red - in the sky - twin pinpoints of red -
He wants to believe he's imagining things. The memories he can almost hum away but the eyes he cannot. A whimper escapes him and he can't look again, not again, although he can see some of the sailors pointing and discussing. He's not imagining things. Muse help them...spinning on a boot heel he makes for his cabin and starts to pen a letter in a shaky hand.
He does not sleep that night, not at all.
-
To:
Margret and William Reid
2 Clay Ward
Huangjin
Tilmar
Too long, yes I know. My excuses are thin on my tongue. It has been hard to pick up my quill when all news is heavy on the heart but I will write anyway and perhaps it will be therapeutic.
Famines are spreading across Dregar, Alindor, and Mistone - I don't know if there is further famine on Tilmar, I pray not, but write and tell me. To help stave off riots in the Hold Minu and I have opened a kitchen and hired some of the local war veterans to staff it, although our variety grows as thin as our soup as crops continue to wither. I am glad that I remember the "Sen-iti Gohan" from when times were lean for us back home; I have stockpiled rice and use those old recipes even now. The hungry of Mariner's Hold eat like Huangjinites when they come to us for food! For the most part things go smoothly although I hear of people taking meals and then selling them from time to time. I don't believe it's frequent and not worth shutting the doors on our citizens over it.
I would drop a glib "Minu is fine" here but things are strained, to be truthful. Old flames where the coals never died down have put a wedge between us, and discoveries - I should be joyful. Whereas before I could ripple the Heartsong to soothe only me it seems now there are two others that I can affect in the symphony of life. Bittersweet, though, in that Minu is not yet one of them. I ask Ilsare to show me how and the answer comes at the pace of an elven Goddess. I learn patience, if nothing else.
I have heard nothing of my double and as you have not written he must not have shown up there. It becomes imperative that I find him; I did a small concert tour to track him but was called back for things happening in relation to the famine. His existence as me is jeopardizing my freedom and what he knows may jeopardize more. I didn't chase him initially because, newly freed, I thought we could co-exist, that he deserved to walk the surface and breathe fresh air. That was before dark elves started popping out of the ground like burnt daisies and two red eyes appeared in the sky. He learned a lot in his time in my boots and should he be re-captured by them, it will all be used against us. Our mutual freedom can only come when he isn't cloaked in my shape and marked with the skin of a devil. Pray I find him soon, my parents. I will ask the ancestors to keep their spirit eyes out as well.
I would tell you of your grandson but apparently his writing hand is either incapacitated or busy fending off evil hoards, as he has not written in a very long time. I have heard from a friend - Daniel, you recall I'm sure our lively dinner conversations when he's visited? - that my boy is fine, quite studiously building up a clay and glass making business. I thought in particular father that you might smile at that. They say it skips a generation, yes? Well, your grandson follows your steps it seems. If there is one bright note in this letter it is that I will find that son of mine and drag him to Huangjin for a proper visit, with myself and Minu as well, when our investigations into this famine bear fruit - literally.
Ah, I am privileged to note that I have met a lady long a myth; so I lie, there will be two high notes, not merely one. Mother, I have met Brisbane! She's a firecracker, that one, and I found myself enjoying her frank and open sensibility. None of the highbrow elf I imagined, which was a pleasant surprise, and she seems to have a fiery soul. It makes the music I've created in her grove more special to know the driving force is someone I like.
The Silver Buckle is fine, and that is not said glibly. I have recently taken in a very special renter, a dwarven lady I adore despite her tragically misguided religion; we avoid any discussion of it and therefore maintain a shared peace in the defense of Lor and the rejection of Rael. I do think my friend Buddy will be overjoyed to see her living under our roof and frankly after seeing her in action, I'm not merely pleased to have her as my resident, I'm flat out relieved. She's a battalion unto herself, that one. Alright - three good notes, enough for a quick chorus, and so you see? Therapy. I've written myself out of my funk.
The dark elves are coming, though. Only the how and why remain to be seen. I fear another war soon if it cannot be stopped, and so soon after the Cult war...how much stress can one world take? I guess we're going to find out.
I am enclosing another bank note to cover the guards and food costs; I understand people aren't spending money on pottery when feeding one's family is so expensive. Use the extra to hire some additional guards and pay for some warding on the house.
My rest is over, and I travel on. My love to the family, old and new; I'll sing a prayer for us all.
Your loving son,
Tashe
The letter is sealed and sealed again to be sent in the next town. How much paranoia drives him these days...he sings to clear his head before digging into his pack. Out comes the polished box, the crackled green bowl, the vial of oil. The incense. The ashes.
It's an old ritual made more comforting with each repetition. Water from the small lake they rest by. Oils mixed just for this. Ashes that can never be replaced and must be pinched off one small smudge at a time; the vial is over half empty. For a moment he wonders how his father is feeling, and if he'll have a second vial any time soon. His stomach twists.
Fire, ashes, water and air from his breath. The four states of his ancestors. Kneeling over the bowl, he sings in a vibratory whisper. Keep watch, my forebearers. Whisper into my ear if you see him that is me. Watch over my family. Watch over Minu. Watch over Ty. Watch over Night Sky, wherever she is, and Rose.
He thinks the elf may be observing; perhaps that is a booted foot tapping? Putting all his ritual things away, he sings a prayer to Ilsare that they can get to the Breath of the Muse swiftly, and slings his pack. It's a long way yet. Time to go.
-
He's in the guild shop moving boards aside in haste, looking for his good tools and that plank of yew he's been saving. There - in the back of the cabinet. Golden wood infused with a warm reddish tint. Perfect. Perfect for the elf.
He'll need mithril for the bow and pegs and someone to help him shape them, someone with metal skills, a delicate touch and the artistry that the instrument demands. SehKy, of course. He wonders briefly if he should be doing this with all the other things he's juggling, dismisses the thought. The violin will be shaped from his emotions, his experiences, his feelings of the moment; he can take the piece with him and create it as he goes. It will be a composite of his heartsong.
Plus, he just really wants to make it. Teaching the elf to play it would be interesting and he fully expects, should he be the instructor, to learn as much as he offers and to grind his teeth a lot. One song, ten years. What song?
There are his tools! Why did he leave them under a balor horn? Muse.
He'll have to cut and shape the ribs and cut the top and back now, planks don't travel well. He has hide glue, sandpaper, carving tools, a small vice...what else...purfling pick...glue brush, files...
Maybe he should spruce up Bella with a new yew veneer? There is more than enough wood in this plank. How much should he charge? He never thinks of these things, of money. Should he charge this as an Angels expense? His first with this difficult, gorgeous, resonate wood...
(http://i50.tinypic.com/34gr8sw.jpg)
-
After all that, a trap. Something they hadn't discussed, not he and Minu at least. After all that, loss; mourning; failure. He knew her moods and it was rare to see her like this. There wasn't anything he could do but continue to be her anchor as she needed him.
He wanted to say they were just things, and like all things they only held the meaning assigned. He was sure that wasn't true, however, and it wasn't likely she dwelled on her necklace and wedding band at all. The Lucindite who died, those who fell after giving all they had, was why her heart was heavy. That and the danger that she felt she represented to her loved ones by failing to take those items from those who would use them against her. He kept his mouth shut and his body near. There was no point to words. Not right now.
Still, he wondered, sitting by her as small islands of conversation floated past, if that was an answer. Could you truly divest an item of meaning? Some in the Resonance held a theory that the Heartsong was in all things, even inanimate objects, loved and used and soaked with the emotions of their owners. Could you cut the link and make that item useless for scrying? He thought of Bella and how she felt under his chin and in his hands and knew for him, right now, the answer was no. Perhaps his wife would be stronger. She often was in things like this.
A bit ironic, these musings. The new violin's back plate lay across his lap and wasn't he in fact impressing his feelings into the instrument? Wasn't that his idea, to create a marvelous, unique, passionate violin, every bit as volatile as it's future owner? As his small sanding tool rasped through long silences he sensed the difference in his hand against the emotions in the room. A thick base of frustration mixing with a low, buzzing anger, discordant against the almost palpable sensation of "what now", all of it producing longer, slower strokes across the yew as he absorbed expressions and tones of speech. Amati's back plate would be smooth as glass for it.
Amati? Oh, Muse, he'd named the bloody thing. He always did that. Well, it would be let go when he handed it over. For now though, Amati it was.
-
"I could follow doctrine and claim to be Aeridinite..."
The bebelith silk won't lay right. It ravels, each strand clinging to the other. When he draws the test bow across normal horsehair strings, even rosined, the friction causes the massive spider's pale grey silk to stick together and he has to re-string the entire instrument and the bow and start over. And over.
Amati is not for him and he thinks again of the man it will belong to. "...claim to be Aeridinite..."...and how little he knows him. Does it matter? Would it change the instrument, if he knew more than the elf's arm length, grip, and basic temperament? How well did Mitchell Forcier know red-headed Mary before his masterpiece vanished one dark night?
Assuming this will be a masterwork of course, which is arrogant. There are others who are better, much better - he doesn't make a living at it. Yet something about this violin has captured him. Not just the yew, which he's still learning to shape and to hollow, not just the mithril that will form the pegs and bow, and not only the odd silk that behaves like nothing else he's ever used; no, it's become personal. He's worked on Amati every place he's been. He's not rushing because he doesn't want to stop. He's obsessed.
The others talk, eat, rest. He can't. Since that picture he's felt a drive to create this one perfect violin. His own sits near, a silent reminder of the cost of obsession, and he finds himself glancing up at her case. Funny, that - Bella, a she; the personality of the instrument slowly forming in his hands, male. Very male. Apropos, he thinks.
The silk coils yet again. He finds a musical base for a string of curses that would make a Xeenite blush. What in the MUSE is wrong with this silk? Knife in hand, he cuts it off the bow and begins, again...
-
Lola naps on the cushions near his office chair. She seems to prefer the floor; Clarisse says she has to wake the child and help her back into bed many nights. She's curled up near Ash and tucked in a protective position. He wonders if it will pass, or if this young charge he and Minu have taken in will spend the rest of her life protecting her body from memories of whips and blows.
Amati is on a cleared bit of his desk, the papers and scrolls piled up around to create space for the instrument. In fleeting mirth he places a small potted aloe on top of a stack; a lone bush overlooking the Valley of the Muse. The violin is broken, again. The neck this time. Two mithril pegs jut from just under the scroll and running through the grain of the yew on both sides are fractures. It's not his placement of the pegs but that turning the mithril seems to stress the wood and he isn't sure of a remedy. Wax in the grooves? It would require maintenance and his client should not be saddled with that. Ironwood reinforcement of the neck? How would that change the sound? He's too tired to think about it. It will keep until tomorrow.
Stubbing out a cigar, he spends a few moments twisting strings. He has been using regular silk and horsehair. The bebelith silk is disruptive and difficult and straining his patience; he'll finish the instrument first, then deal with that. He hopes Raz is feeling magnanimous with time. Amati may take a while.
Silk down, quill up. He's meant to write a letter for weeks and he has three from his mother to answer. She doesn't know about their newest addition yet, and she should.
Haikei, Mother.
Gobusata e orimasu ga, ogenki de irasshaimasu ka. Things have been...strange. As usual much of this must be told in person, but at least some of it I can share in print. This letter will be hand-delivered, however, so I apologize in advance for the delay.
First and foremost, I miss you all terribly. It seems every year that passes family becomes more important. I wonder how my nieces and great-nieces are doing, how their life songs are being sung. I wonder how father is faring with his health; not the things you have already written of, but the smaller, more intangible feelings, the imperceptible declines that gather momentum with each passing year. Things I have a taste of now and again. I pray daily that Ilsare keeps you all bolstered with inspiration for the dark moments. I am also including another banker's note for security pay. Keep yourselves safe.
We have a new addition here at the Buckle. Her name is Lola. How to explain this young lady? We've been tracking and whittling away at a syndicate called the Razorbacks, an organization dedicated to global anarchy in the most destructive sense. Slavery figures big into their plans and Lola was one of their slaves - she's not more than five years, Mother, a human whose internal age shocks us sometimes. She was used as a gem miner. She has almost no concept of childhood; she tries to smoke my cigars as she'd been allowed to smoke whenever the slaves around her had acquired tobacco, she steals relentlessly for herself and for others, and when we try to "play" with her, she is only confused that nothing useful comes of it. She's helping in the kitchen and the clinic because she gets out of sorts when she's not given direction. She has night terrors frequently and I thank Ilsare for Clarisse because Minu's daughter has been irreplaceable in helping Lola adjust and shake off some - not all - of her fears. To make matters worse, one of her fears is dwarves, and we have a very distinguished dwarven tenant now. As you can imagine things do get interesting.
Compounding this is the time we must spend away, and so Lola isn't "ours" per say. Heloise helps, Michael and Edward help, my renters help - she's truly a child of the Silver Buckle and it seems to suit her. She was community-raised in the mines, so she's used to belonging to everyone and no one. It's hard for me to accept that sometimes. We work at giving her stability, we're working also on her letters; she's of the right age to start learning but focusing is difficult for her. She's not an academic, that much I can say for certain, and often I see myself in her, the child who can't stay in their seat, the child to whom stillness is an anathema. And yet other times, when she's engaged with her hands; in the kitchen or in the garden or helping me with my violin project; she is able to do wonderful things, things beyond her years. I have bought her some basic gem-shaping tools and set her to the task of making very simple shining things and this pleases her greatly. Whatever lies in store for this girl, she must know I understand that part of her.
But, enough, I'm off and musing, and you shall see her soon enough as we plan a trip to Huangjin in a mere few weeks. Minu needs a vacation and so do I so fluff the pillows in the guest room, we're coming home for a visit and Lola shall join us.
Andeux is still out there. I searched and could find no trace of him. I fear he's been recaptured although I pray every day that Ilsare keeps him out of their blackened hands. The Buckle does well and we enjoy some reasonable standing in the community, or at least we're not currently being shunned as "that pit of mercenaries". Keeping the tavern and food kitchen open to the public is a great benefit despite the risks. Beyond that we have our fingers in so many different pies I could call myself the Baker. But, more on that when we are face to face, I long for conversation in our language and for a cup of your tea, prepared by you.
I miss you, mother, please give my love to the family.
Your loving son,
Tashe
Sand over the ink, sealing wax heated. He'll find a courier in the morning. It's barely into evening's dark and he's exhausted; his day was spent with Lola and Edward washing down the brickwork, pulling weeds, cleaning baseboards of trash left by tavern patrons, and waxing floors. Fall cleaning. Minu wiggled out of it with a few spells, the minx, and he hopes to use his hard labor as leverage for a back rub later. But for now he scoops up the sleeping girl and carries her upstairs to her bed, next to Clarisse who is already in reverie. Lola buries into the covers, curling again after a few disoriented moments awake. He stops, one hand on the door's frame as he heads for his own room.
No, Tashe, they're not "yours". But does it really matter? Daniel is right, and Ilsare is right. Blood is thicker than water but mere air compared to love.
With a smile, he closes the door and looks for his wife.
-
"{Me sing good.}" Muse, but that makes him happy to say. "{Me talk you better.}"
An unusually large man nods absently at the babbling. The giant man, Krumk, is still enthralled with the iron greatsword the bard has just handed him as first trade on language lessons. It takes both hands and all the human's upper body strength to lift it up to the man who currently twirls it in one ham-sized fist.
"It good, me like!" A pause, then Krumk translates. "{It's a wonderful knife, well made.}"
The bard listens but the translation is lost, he knows none of those words. Krumk is smiling. He should say something, he's supposed to be learning, but which of those words might mean great sword? Krumk's looking at him now... "{Me talk, you wonderful.}" Pointing to the sword just in case he got it wrong.
The giant looks confused, then grins. "{I will name the sword - it is a friend. It's more than a sword.} Krumk name, is friend, not just sword."
"Ah! I understand that. My violin is also named, she is a friend." He can't even begin to try and find those words in Giantish yet. But maybe...maybe, if he and Krunk cross paths again, he will. Words spoken by the huge man earlier give him a touch of hope.
"You sing good. Krumk think you sing giant someday."
I hope so, my new friend. I really do.
-
Lola won't leave their bed. She's terrified and right now no amount of soothing is of any help; "Binky", her formerly imaginary friend, has done quite a bit of damage to the Buckle and to her. What could be worse for a child than for something innocent to come to life in such a horrifying way? Yet he must coax her out and down to the clinic. Gala has agreed to stay and work with her and they plus Father Xander and Minu when she returns must get a handle on Lola's abilities. He and his wife both have been putting off dealing with it and they cannot, not with a child as sensitive as she is; Mort the Toy Man has proven that with scars that leave their mark in a tiny lump cowering between the pillows. Like Rose, like Night Sky, Lola has the gift of a seer and all the strangeness that comes with it. Muse help her...
The damage to the Inn is being (once again) cleaned and his contractors have the jolly smile of people who are far too intimate with both his property and his bank notes. He pushes aside bricks torn from the wall during the fracas as Buddy's trusted workers patch and trowel and sand. Muse, he'll have to explain this one to the dwarf as well. At least, thank Ilsare, there are no bodies to deal with. The nightmarish attackers faded upon defeat only to await them in Mort's personal dream.
Mort...the child won't be knowing that the mad Toy Man is her biological father. The father who took her eye, the father who sent her along with so many others to be slaves in a mine. He needs to find out who the mother is - or more likely, was. He doubts the woman is alive.
He sings another thanks for his friends, for Melody and Gala and the flirtatious Miss Gale, for Foresta and Gorm and Fleur, for Ellis...right nutter that she is...for Aden and Argus; even for that callous stranger whose blades were so handy and whose name he never came to know. Without them all he'd be a wreck right now, unable to protect his child, the Silver Buckle's child. But thanks to their combined efforts Mort is now well and truly gone and Lola safe from him.
He can't quite convince her of that though. Gala's voice carries up from the stairs and he tries once more.
"Lola sweetheart. The Sanctuary is a safer place right now, so Miss Gala can talk to you and bless you along with Daddy, okay? Come on out. I know you're scared but I promise you that bad man can't hurt you ever again..."
-
His final act was BOOM - the song written after the trip to the pits and the closing of the shadow portal. His baritone was rough after three hours, his higher notes not as smooth, but they loved it. Siphe Principality loved it. And after all the fighting and singing for the dead, he was positively high singing for the living. So much energy, the waving of hands, the willingness to release themselves to the music and all the emotions carried with it...it was where he should be, it was always where he should be.
Arms in the air with Bella held aloft, bowing, blowing kisses, then sliding backstage - or, in this case, behind stacked crates that left him a semi-private space to think and prepare - and it was over. The crowd dispersed in clumps of chatter. The sound flowed over the wooden boxes like a fitful stream, and he picked out a sentence here and there in the flowing mix of words. Folding his arms, resting his chin on his chest, he stopped listening and just...heard.
Torches were being lit along the walls when he opened his eyes. Nothing now but faint, scattered conversations staining the gold-washed darkness. Time to go. No farewells - he didn't know if Jaedon or Daniella had attended the show, they didn't stand out if they did, but he was sure any announcement of his egress was unnecessary. He wasn't planning on being back anytime soon.
He wasn't bitter though. The angry wash that had tinted him was faded, weathered to the merest hint of a hue alongside the women and men he'd fought and died with. Siphe was...not what he'd thought. He didn't hate them anymore, couldn't hate them, and not just because they were a rut in the Molvaren wagon train to Hilm. No, they were good people struggling like good people struggle everywhere. A touch or six too devoted to law, yes. The bodies hanging in cages still made his stomach turn. But...perhaps...that was what was required when something like that shape-shifting monstrosity was one's neighbor.
Long strides to a portal made available for the use of those who'd defended alongside the natives. Even with the distance-shortening magic, he had a long way home, and home was where he wanted to be. Where he was just Andrew. Funny, that...after all this, he'd be remembered for the songs he wrote and not his part in them, if he was remembered at all. That was the irony of being a bard of action - he frequently forgot that it was his job to chronicle and not to participate. He also had the unique perspective of a human entertainer. He knew how short the memory, how long the expectations. He knew that names that traveled through history would be those that performed deeds that others wrote of again and again, and his name would be forever on the byline. Sometimes it bothered him, but today it didn't. Today he would step into the ebb and flow of magic and step out onto Center soil, rent a horse - Allegro was contentedly munching on hay or grass in the Buckle's corral - and travel to the docks outside the city he could no longer enter, and start his journey to Minu, and Lola, and his friends in his inn.
Two minutes after that bout of musing, he was there.
The trading post took no notice of him except for the town crier, always eager to swap a bit of gossip and dish the latest, although this time his latest was terribly out of date.
"It's built."
"What?"
"The temple in Siphe, the Toranite temple. It's built. Quite a sight, too. Woefully free of embellishment, but I will concede that it has a certain artfulness to it's simplicity."
"...I'll pass it along!"
"I have more if you have time to listen..."
"Drew, in this place I have nothing but time. I'm all ears."
And so he sang and chatted and passed a good hour, before continuing along mostly safe roads to the shop, and then to the ship that would take him home. Weeks like any other, and yet not. Minu would be home. He knew she would. She was staying close to the inn these days to mother Lola and he could do no less as someone who professed to be a father. He'd made so many mistakes with Ty...his heart ached for a moment. The boy was alive - he got news from this person or that from time to time, and his eldest son seemed to be doing well - but communication was precious few and far between. Lola could ill afford the benign neglect that he'd shown his first child. No, it was time to settle. Much to do - a city to help feed, crops to help cleanse if that was possible - he really must find Brisbane - a child to help, and a violin to finish.
That violin. That frustrating, amazing instrument. That bloody silk! He was having nightmares about it, chasing the sound, forever unable to coax more than a few minutes of perfection from the fickle grey strands. Even as his own skill in luthiery grew Amati became more and more difficult. It was a wonder Raz was patient, or maybe the elf had forgotten he'd wanted the instrument in the first place, who knew. But among the thousand little things that needed doing in the running of an entertainment establishment, that violin needed finishing.
How far would he go?
Would he become Marshall?
Would a red-haired girl run off with it when he was done, leaving him a broken man? A broken man with an angry elf to explain things to?
Muse, he needed sleep. He would keep his hands off the yew and mithril and silk during the trip. He would rest and play Bella and not touch that accursedly beautiful violin.
Right, Tashe. Keep telling yourself that...
-
There was no dawn. Their room, completely interior owing to his well-earned paranoia, hinted at night’s retirement in footsteps and conversation murmuring through the walls. Minu was gone from the bed already. Lola was thmping around in the room next to his, playing some game with the ever-patient Clarisse; Heloise’s oldest was hand-over-footing the Resident Hall steps in the way children did while his younger sister chased, yelling his name. They sounded like two small and particularly uncoordinated ponies.
Another day like any other. Another first day of the rest of his life. The thin line between sandman and sun, that second or two of bliss when memory chased consciousness, snapped as the hooves of the past trampled over fragile waking. A hoarse groan was all he could manage. Another day since Amati’s stillbirth. The instrument sat, finished but for strings, on his music desk only five feet away. To anyone else it was an instrument. To him a dead, mute thing.
While Amati lay on a bed of music sheets, his brother was drying on a stand. This violin had taken all of three weeks. It was nearly identical. The wood was from the same plank with the same rose tint, the mithril pegs gleaming as Amati’s did. He’d rescrolled the f-hole to be more stylized but otherwise they were clearly born of the same hand. The difference was that this namless one was unsullied by his hubris, the emotions he’d poured into Amati carefully held in check. The sensation of failure, tasting like days-old coffee across the back of his tongue, absent. It was not his and he would not make it his. This wood had many hundreds of years with its future owner, provided the elf could live without demon-spider strings. Let Raz do with it what he would.
And Amati? Soon to go back into his case, as soon as this old fool could quit mourning. The music of those demon strings was burned into his brain and although the nightmares and sinister trees had faded, the sound had not. It was music he could not come close to reproducing and his heart ached every time it echoed between his ears. He had not taken Bella out of her case since they had left the Leerianin home and Echo. What was the point?
What indeed was the point. Putting this latest reminder aside, for all the things he’d done he was still just a relatively unknown innkeep. It seemed the more he tried to do, the less he accomplished, and as the final dregs of sleep settled to the bottom of his brain he understood why so many of them vanished. For every one he had a name for there were ten others that he didn’t, adventurers and world-savers who grew weary of trying. He understood with shocking clarity. The hells with they entire world, so long as it left him alone. He had enough to do here with his inn and Lola. And if he started to mad with boredom, there was always Rose’s little parting gift, still folded in heavy paper and under a book of poetry in his shallow office desk drawer, or the stash of halfling weed that he knew his wife had not found yet.
Slippered steps, soft and hesitant. Minu. He had to get up and put on his brave little soldier face so she would not worry. He was so good at it now he could believe himself, at least while it was light and he was around people. Alone in his office at night? Well, that was another story entirely.
“Yes, I’m getting up, I’m up. Have the beans been soaked? Tell Helly I’ll be right there...”
-
"Andy, lookit me! Lookit me!" A dandelion yellow skirt flares like a corona around the spinning girl. Dappled light stripes the fabric and it reminds him of the spokes of a wheel. She spins until she drops slowly to the pavement, dizzy and smiling. "Did you see? That was almost about ten minutes!" More like a minute - but then, for her, maybe it is ten. He is a strong believer that time does in fact move slower for the young.
"I saw you, Night Owl. You looked like a golden top!" The words please the child, who is already off to the next thing her frantically working mind sees, a weed thrusting anemically from between two moss-washed stones. Thirty seconds later, she's picking paint flakes off a fence and arranging them like puzzle pieces. She's healing. Regressing, even, as the relative safety of the Buckle and the concept of caretakers sink in. A child without a childhood now zealously exploring emotions previously kept bound inside by the constant threat of death. With Clarisse's help she's learned to play, although she calls it 'looking at stuff'. He'll take what he can get.
Despite his Ilsarian-red short coat and her sunny yellow dress, Mariner's Hold ignores them. The day is hot and lazy, the kind he loves so much, with bright afternoon light that resoundingly thumps any shadows it finds. Darkness has no place here, nor sinister trees and failure. And if their primary task - seeing if there are any onions for sale as Helly is dead set on having them in the venison stew - has borne no fruit...well, vegetables, wouldn't that be more accurate?...
"Andy, come over here, tadpoles! Look, in the fountain!"
"By the Muse you're right, Lola. How do you think they got in there?"
"Iunno but the water's all mucky. Baby frogs like muck." She leans to try and catch one in a cupped hand and the edge of her skirt dips into the opaque water. He leans on a rail, close enough to grab her if need be, and watches. Where was he?
Fruit. No, vegetables. Onions, yes, that's it. They've failed to find more than a handful and he's hesitant to buy out what there is. The Buckle's reputation as a gourmand paradise can take the hit. There are plenty of other people needing produce.
They've nearly hit rock bottom and the Buckle is barely making one meal a day. They buy what they can, and farm from small plots on the inn's grounds, and serve a bloody lot of fish, and it makes no difference. All the food that is being grown is being grown on the plots of the people who will eat it. The wealthy import. Muse, he imports as much as he can. He's always supported local growers before - now, it can't be done. He skips a lot of meals to conserve food. For all that, it's been the longest stretch of quiet in his life. Going hungry is a small price to pay to be there for Lola, and Minu, and Clarisse, and all his Buckle people. While Amati still sits as a voiceless reminder of his failure and the strings echo in his dreams, and Bella's case has gathered dust, he's at least been a halfway decent father. Lola's growing fast and these are the years he missed with Ty - young enough to be happy to see him, old enough to carry on a conversation and learn how to sand a violin or tune a harp or bake soda bread. She's interested in the world and interesting to be with and he loves every moment of parenting. He needs to apologize to his son, again, for missing this.
That...probably would not go over very well.
"Stop wiggling Mister Tadpole, I don't want to hurt you! Andy, look!" The sleek black pollywog is smaller than usual, with only front legs budding out, but alive and quite determined to extract itself from the girl's hand. She strokes it with a finger and then - "Down you go! Sploosh!" It is released into the fountain's algaed water and darts for cover immediately. Lola sits, unusual for her, and watches the breaks and ripples on the surface, counting every one.
The city's not only suffered for the famine, the turnover of power in the last year has also caused problems. The council isn't at full strength yet, and the betrayals and secrets the Razorbacks created have left a mark. It seems to him there is a lot of distrust in the city's government. He is glad his friend Arelius is involved. It's one small bright spot. Meanwhile, tasks once done regularly - like cleaning fountains - fall by the wayside as people forgo paid work to farm for their lives, literally. Craftsmen vie for the few apprentices not called back to family and this affects the availability of finished goods. The city streets no longer bustle like they did.
No, merely buying food and running a soup kitchen won't fix this, but he finally has the answer he's been seeking. Cleansing the soil and turning in good new soil will combat the effects. It's expensive and difficult and he fervently hopes that Argali finds the Dragon Isles clear of the famine effects. There is more - a letter from Celador gives him hope that a better method might be found, and he looks forward to speaking with the man - but he's focusing on the here and now. Find good soil, perhaps some Prunililans to go with it, and a farm willing to act as a test location.
It's strange, it seems the best imports are from Sun and Morholt. Why are they spared? Morholt might make deals with the devils, and likely has, but Sun? They hate elves. He can only imagine they hate dark elves more.
Or, it's complete coincidence. And so is the fact that Rose, Connor and his wife, and Brisbane - four people with a great deal of damaging information - have vanished. Or not. He really must -
Lola is done watching tadpoles. "I counted sixty-hundred and three!" She's up and tugging him in another direction along with his thoughts. It's a beautiful day. He can battle this out in his head later, over a cigar in his office.
-
He can't stop touching it, the smooth golden-red yew warm under his fingertips. Warm the way Bella is. Bella has her own memories and dreams, though, and this one...this one is so much of him. A violin-shaped twin? He's such a bloody romantic. It's an instrument, even if the wood has bathed in his emotions for over a year. Stringless, unborn, unsinging, as he has been since a sound he still - still! - dreams of slipped through his fingers.
Irony. If he'd spent the money, he would not have been able to buy the month's worth of food that keeps the Buckle kitchen limping along while they till and try to grow mushrooms. But if he had, would he not be truer to the spirit of Ilsare? Art and madness are lovers that intertwine in calamity-laden trysts, birthing creations that break the barriers of what is imagined to be possible. He is either not insane enough, or not artist enough.
Or something enough. His knuckles brush the empty space above the bridge where strings are meant to go, tenderly, as one would comfort a child. He recognizes his motion a second later and his throat clenches.
"Tell me something...if you were creating a child that you knew once it was born you would have to give it away and never again be able to hold him, or be a part of his life..."
"I thought I would be happy if I could hear him sing." If it wasn't a lie at the start, it is now. He can admit to himself that making Amati's sister had been a relief. He has an excuse to keep this one - it isn't done, it cannot ever be done, when the truth is so much more tangled. "Tell me something..." Those words unbury memories of a black-haired child with almond-shaped eyes and the powers of a bard, a child that he can never hold or take part in the life of. A child who is no longer a child and who very likely doesn't know who he is. A child who is going to be an officer in the army of one of his sworn enemies. And here is Amati, the violin who named itself, an instrument that has become an integral part of his life bit by bit as he's created it and chased after a fleeting bit of magical sound all the way to the edge of madness...
"The only one that is losing from this so-called heavenly divine music...is the one person who wanted so desperately to create it for himself...so that he could lose it again."
Knowing he had to give it up to another, he chose instead to not complete it.
It is minutes before the feeling of a three-year-old boy in his arms and the smell of the child's thick black hair are set carefully aside. He believes in letting emotions through him, not suppressing them, but no amount of time makes the image of that sweet oval face less painful. Indeed it only sharpens the agony; the child he remembers is long gone and he has no idea what has taken its place. Amati's a reminder and more. The clarity isn't as helpful as he'd like it to be. The mithril pegs reflect candlight while he thinks of the blind woman who is willing to midwife Amati out of the morass in his mind.
"There is a way to finish your masterpiece, Andrew. And Amati perhaps doesn't need exotic strings that will drive you insane. Perhaps he simply needs your acceptance that maybe he is not meant for those things. That you will love him and make that wonderful music with him even without them. If you don't finish him in some way, you'll never hear him sing. You'll never hear -his- voice. You'll only hear the voice in your head of what you wanted him to be."
Standing, he takes Amati from the stand and starts to pack him into his smooth leather case, taking his time to tuck the violin securely in the velvet cushion. His thumb strokes the violin's long neck and abruptly there is an tingle across the back of his own. Something - he is staring at the violin, straining to see it with fresh eyes, there is something - a detail he's overlooked - Amati's case sits next to Bella's. A step back as he compares the two and it jumps out at him.
Amati's case is longer than Bella's. The violin that he thought he was making for an elven male of modest height is instead made for longer arms, the arms of a man of above average stature. When the ribs had not glued right, he'd added, yes - when the neck had broken, he'd added - he's never re-measured. Somewhere along the line Amati has grown to fit him.
He clicks the case shut and sweeps it and Bella's both off the desk. Silk and horsehair strings nest in a coat pocket. His stomach flips a few times..."You're afraid you might hear what? That it might not be good enough? Or that it might be better than you expected?"
It's time to see a lady about a violin.
-
Whirling motes of dust twist in the wagon’s wake. The midday sun robs the land of shadow and the beige flatness writhes as if leaping from the pages of a book. The cart driver doesn’t notice the subtleties of their passing, looks only ahead, and the boy Elliah sleeps comfortably among burlap sacks of seed, manure and compost as only a farmer’s child can. The bard cannot sleep, cannot sit still even, and so a yew and mithril violin is lifted from a black leather case and tucked under chin. Sucking in a measured breath, he listens to the world around him.
At first the sounds are as they are, the thup of hooves and insect buzzing mingling with wind and the whispering of trees. Slowly…as he listens, as he lets it wash over him and tunes to his heart’s ear, there is more – the realization that what he’s feeling isn’t entirely him, that the sounds he’s hearing radiate ever-shifting emotions. He feels it as music; others, he understands, might see it in the wild colors of the world or the intertwining dance of creatures, but for him, the feeling is sound. The music of life.
And now a new sound wraps around his heart, a violin so soaked in him it’s become a twin, a child. As the first notes drift from Amati, the weathered, out-of-work driver glances over and cracks a rare smile which holds on his stubbled face no longer than a double-stop trill. It’s the first expression the bard has seen on the man since they left Mariner’s Hold.
“You know the Swayback Canter?”
“Hum a few bars, I can fake it.” The driver allots him a second thin smile but does not hum; the bard starts to play anyway. Watching the driver’s…what was his name? Rupert? Watching his brief and swiftly banished enjoyment unleashes a tumble of thoughts.
Why does he do this? Why does he play for others, so often, so…insistently? Why does he need this? For need it he does, he can’t lie to himself about that. Amati’s A string, the diva of the four, rolls under his ring finger and the sweetness of the tone sounds like love’s own voice…why, why does he need an audience?
“Not too shabby. Play a waltz.”
Everything, even the dour man next to him who has taken this job out of an ill-hidden desperation to provide for family and feel useful, is somewhere in the world song. He shifts to three-quarters time in G major and with a stroke he’s off in a fluid rendition of the Kartherian Waltz, which has always amused him to play – if even half the people who asked for it knew what the slowly building passages were meant to represent…the driver sits back, relaxes the reins so the mare can set her own pace, even taps his right foot ever so minutely in time. The entertainer sees this and feeds on the doffing of a cloak of tension. His own mood lifts in response and the enjoyment cycles back into his fingers, Amati’s strings. For the next however long two beings share a common sense of wellbeing.
And that, Tashe, is why.
It’s more than wanting to banish bad moods, or make people like him, although that is part. It’s more than wanting to exert some control over his environment, although that too is part. It’s wanting to connect and to share that moment that he first found love, that he first gave his heart to his Goddess, those moments that he’s stared at the tightly grained wood lining the bottom of the proverbial barrel. It’s wanting to slip on other’s emotions as he would a velvet jacket, to understand their experiences and perspective. And to know when he should not as well, or be able to have some sense of it. That part, the knowing when and when not, has been a struggle for him. A voice from long ago seems to carry on the wind, a halfling’s voice light as the keys on her skirts and bells around her ankles, reminding him with a centuries-old smile that you can’t understand others by looking in a mirror. With a shift of fingers Amati sings in a burst of A sharp – thank you…
“That's what friends are for, Andrew. You should know that by now.” Not Gypsy Belle’s voice this time, but another’s. She is not here but she is, for he holds this violin, and were it not for her Amati would sit, stringless, in a stand. For Ilia, a fast pizzicato which rushes from his fingertips as water down a stream, and more of her words and the Conductor’s, and abruptly there is something – something, some thought, tickling, wanting out -
“Play that other one again.” The waltz has meandered into an impromptu caprice. With a head shake and a bit of humming he turns his bowing back to Katherian’s famous ball – he laughs, he can’t help it – dance. Technically simple, the complexity is in how the artist creates the tension and the inexorable crescendo. He prefers double stops and vibrato.
“You’re stalling.”
He’s stalling and there it is again, that bubble of epiphany trying to rise to the surface. Closng his eyes, he rests his bow and instead listens to the Heartsong. She’d mentioned the Resonance, when they spoke of his pain at being unable to complete Amati. What had she said? After Raina left and she went blind – “Kaldar and I withdrew from the Resonance of Being because I no longer thought I could travel there. It wouldn't be the same.”
If she withdrew, and assuming she had not returned because before he’d first visited them, Raina had not returned home…and the Conductor had sent him to them knowing that…who was helping whom? By Ilsare. Edgar’s face is as clear as day, listening to his discomfort at his progress and his fears. “The Sunstriders, yes, I think you’ll do well with them.” But they had withdrawn. They were technically not…and yet… The Conductor listened to his words and heard his heart. The bard is student and ambassador both.
“Hey.” A glance from Rupert. “Why’d you quit playing?”
“Apologies, I just had a moment is all.” He makes to play again then pauses. You can’t understand others by looking in a mirror. “Do you know that feeling when something rings true that perhaps you’d overlooked? That….’AHA’ feeling?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Well, that.” The older man nods; he continues. “It’s so strange, the things we think we know.”
“Sure is. Just the other day I was talking to my wife…” And he’s off. Somewhere in the music, the mood, and the heat of the day the ice has melted – just enough – and the bard sets his various musings aside to focus on this man and his world and his joys and sorrows. He’ll ponder Ilia and Kaldar, Raina, and his own journey in augmentation later.
-
There are gifts, and there are gifts. There are boxes with ribbons and bright painted paper, there are small unwrapped items slipped annonymously into pockets, gestures grand as a castle ball and quiet as a warm drink offered to the cold and tired, and all these things are joy in giving...and then there are gifts that wind around a soul and forever become part of its song. It is such a gift he has just received and the power of it leaves him speechless. A woman has just taken Ilsare into her heart, not as a symbol to be thanked or perhaps prayed to for some occasional desired outcome but as a true guide of spirit, and he's been allowed to witness. "She saved me for you to find..." If that is true then he's more blessed than he knows but he believes she would have been rescued by someone, sometime, and his guild brothers and sisters are entirely as responsible as he. It is one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to him though.
The sound of her pipes linger and Amati's strings find the notes and repeat them. The music she's made is to him an emotional statement of love, confusion, hesitation, and gratitude. There is a lot of struggle in the starts and stops, sharps and flats. She's struggled to express herself - trying as hard as she can, as she had to try and please her masters, try and keep her sanity, try and master her instrument. Every journey in faith has ruts and bumps and he believes the one most difficult to her will be to stop trying so very much and simply start doing. Opening one's heart requires trust and trust is something a former slave has precious little of. He is grateful that his Heartsong has placed he and his Ilsarian brother SehKy to help her; if there is one thing the both of them are good at it's expressing themselves. He prays through his violin that they can help her learn to play without reservation or fear of judgement as well.
Behind him, he knows, things are not necessarily running smoothly despite the wonder of faith's discovery. The man whom the woman loves has also been discovered, by a god who is not so fond of Ilsare, and even as they snuggle together now their hearts will sometimes diverge and sometimes mirror the challenges of the path his bardess friend has set herself upon. Glancing into the night sky, he remembers words spoken to him long ago; his Goddess is not an easy one despite the illusion of softness in love and art. Desires of the heart defy logic and often duty. He will pray for her and her chosen; they'll need it.
-
“…in his office, check there first.”
“Thanks.”
Light footsteps; a knock, once. Firm.
“Hello, who is it? Come in. I’m not naked.” Wood on wood; a hinge squeaking out protest at being woken from rustful slumber. “By the Muse…”
“Hey Dad.”
“Praise Ilsare – “
“Hey, easy…”
“Easy hells. I’m getting a hug! I have not seen you in over a year, Ty!”
“Alright, alright.”
“Let me look at you.” A pause. “Dear gods, son. Where did you get those arms? Can I borrow them?”
“Digging clay and sand. Been building my business.”
“I’ve seen fliers – ‘the Clay Man’. Do you know if I told your grandparents that they’d burst with pride. I must write mother. Have you been there lately? You might pick up some good tips. Your grandparents have been working clay for five decades now.”
“No but that’s a pretty good idea, Dad. I’m kind of busy but I’ll drop by next time I’m on the islands.”
“Make time. They’re not young or even just old anymore. And your grandfather has some health problems.”
“Okay…yeah. “
“Good. Ty, I am absolutely delighted to see you. What have you been doing? Whom have you been doing it with? Sit, can I get you something to - ”
“Dad, don’t fuss. Just came to see how you were and how things are going. Donate a little. I mean, a little little…it’s not much.” A soft, rattling thump. Rustling.
“Seed…Muse we need this. Every bit helps. Thank you son.”
“Good stuff. From Belinara. Daniel told me you’re a farmer now.”
“Well, that’s pushing it. I’m a skinny bard trying to learn how to use a rake. Charlie in fact is the farmer.”
“That’s too funny.”
“I do not jest. If it were not for the Buckle residents none of what we’re trying would have gotten off the ground.”
“Cool. Say hey to them for me.”
“So you’ve been on Belinara? Tell me, who are you traveling with these days?”
“What.”
“What what?”
“You look like Buttercup when she catches a mouse.”
“You imagine.”
“Do not.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“I know who you’re implying and none of your business. And stop with the grin.”
“Can a father not be happy for his child?”
“Seriously, Dad. We’re friends.”
“I want grandchildren.”
“See, this is why I don’t come home. Quit laughing.”
“I’m kidding, Ty. Sort of. Alright, enough of things I have no business asking about. What about your business, tell me how molds and ingots sell these days…”
-
His name is Sean. He was in his late thirties to mid forties a few years ago. He had dark red hair with orange highlights, was probably deeply tanned, and fished the waters off the Hold. He's been missing for about two years.
Sitting back in his mahogany desk chair, the bard taps a quill against the desk. Dead at sea, most likely, and there is precious little chance anyone will ever know for sure. Abandoned his not-quite-yet-of-age daughter and taken off to greener pastures? Also possible, although less so. Captured by pirates? Depending on what kind of fishing boat he owned, perhaps. The boat wasn't a large one - Maeve, she'd said. It was named for her mother. Famine could make fish stealers out of pirates, but this is not the second most likely option next to being caught in a storm and given up to Mist's justice. The second most likely is the one he prays didn't happen. It is something he might be able to check on, however, with a lot of prayer to Ilsare that Mist remains feeling friendly toward him after the drowning of part of the Cult fleet and his aid to Hardragh. Somehow he doubts it.
A final tap and the quill is dipped in ink. He is not sure if these letters will reach their quarries and so may have to deliver them himself, but at least he has a better than average chance of not being killed on sight.
To: Crew, Kenshad the Righteous, c/o Siege Perilous
To: "Twelve Pint" Quaid, Retirement Paradise, Somewhere in the Dragon Isles
To: Tide of the Northwest Murray...
-
Around the scrying pool in the Silver Buckle, Janra, 1512
"Minu, keep an inner ear out for anything trying to stare back? I've spent some time while we slept going over the bits and pieces, trying to put all the notes together. I'm going to start back a bit further in the timeline so we have a bigger overview of the entire situation.
"First, what we know of the Stone of Chitomaru. This is from Kaelan's and Minu's research; love, correct me if I get anything wrong. The stone is roughly two human fists large, and made of a crystalline material dark as obsidian. It is capable of turning the powers of the magic-sensitive against them, affecting them with powerful hallucinations, placing their minds in a sort of alternate reality. The primary source cited by Kaelan is a Toranite who documented the stone's presence to the fall of Port Hempstead to the dark elves. Additionally there may be some history between the Tower Academy building and a dark elf, and some speculation about tunnels beneath where the stone may have once been. It is my belief, having been near this thing more than once - more on that later - that it does not have a tremendous range, however. That much we can be thankful for. Now, some more background." Pours a glass of wine and sets the bottle near Elly.
"Before we knew of the stone, the Angels attempted to secure patronage to further our Arts Center construction. It involved travel to an island that surfaces only rarely, a sea-elf isle containing, our patron hoped, art objects he might add to his collection. The travel was difficult however, and the island lay near undead-infested waters. The island itself seemed to radiate a malaise that affected most of us to some degree and our guild captain Jilseponie drastically, putting her in a state of near catatonic depression. We were never able to broach the defenses of this island and had to turn back empty-handed, rather than risk the crew's sanity in that constant emotional gloom. Well, that and our brilliant idea to jet over the moving corals ended up with some of us...alright, myself, in pieces. I'm not the diver I once was." Sighs.
"Having failed at that we returned to Port Hempstead, Jil was saved from her suicidal state of mind with help from Minu, and we put the Arts Center back on hold. Bear with this preamble, it may have some relevance.
Begins pacing as he speaks, running a thumb over his upper lip. "It was some years later that we became personally enmeshed in the Stone's workings. It started with a seer named Rose, a...friend of mine..." Eyes shift to Elly for a second, then back to them. "She was nearly driven mad in Center by the crow-haired man, or the bird man. This is important so let me again recount. She was having a drink in the Bull's Eye, and this man entered. She has since identified him as Kaelan. He asked her to read cards for him as she has gifts in divination, and upon doing so she remembered, let me see - 'pain, and dropping the cards, and he changing into something else'. She saw everyone around her dead or dying, and it was dark.
"Rose said she was carried somewhere and at some point did battle with the crow-haired man, she trying to stop him and sending images of death to him - 'there were screams and dead women, and shouting, then people grabbing her...they took away her name and she was somewhere dark. They bound her hands, tied off her mouth, and locked her away'." Long breath. "Those of you familiar with that time in Center will remember that she in fact was sending her images of death to the people of Center, unaware of what she was doing. She was given chase and captured, and held in a Fort Wayfare asylum awaiting trial until she was exonerated and legally removed by a guardian. Minu can tell you more, as I did not see her in Fort Wayfare although I ah, did see her after." Cheek twitch.
"My point in this recounting is that she was affected by the crow-haired man and therefore possibly the stone through powerful hallucinations, to which she is already susceptible. And although your situation, Milady Calylith, isn't quite the same, I think the similarities outweight the differences.
"Next came the witch troubles where many other magically sensitive individuals went insane, all around Center. Not long after came raids on the Port Hempstead fields which resulted in the abduction of dozens of people. Kaelan and Minu and some others including a gentleman named Millon were part of a group that cornered and dispatched some raiding dark elves. During this they also encountered a witch named...Muse, I have two names - was it Rolanda or Solana, love?" Waits for her correction before going on.
"This witch took one look at Kaelan and thought him a nightmare and in possession of the Stone, and thus took her own life. Hallucinations, again. She had in her possession a journal, in which she named a man in Center that she was to meet to find the stone - Naan, or Nale, Kaelan could not remember clearly. He remembered hearing whispers, or being whispered to, before they met the witch but we never got further detail on that. Millon shared with me some of the journal, a passage of which read 'The stone must be found...that is the way to get rid of this...he's comming back...He's comming back...Oh no... ... NOOOOO...'." Looks up from his notes. "Who actually writes 'nooo!' on a piece of paper?" A wry smile.
"It was also during this time that Minu was abducted, and her hair and skin taken as well as her holy symbol of Aeridin. As you, Calylith, she has almost no recollection of the time. I had already been taken, duplicated through powerful transformation magics on my holy symbol, drugged into telling my entire life story to my double, then tortured daily along with my friend Raina for some six months until we escaped and were by Ilsare's grace lucky enough to die in the path of our rescue party." Bends to kiss Elly. "Which is why I invented Frostbeard Ale, as a thank-you to one of my rescuers." A quick grin, but it does not reach his eyes. He rubs his left shoulder.
"I digress. After the dark elf raid, Kaelan took the severed head of one of the things into Port Hempstead, which was not met with the reaction he expected. He became a person of interest, and as his mental state was already tenuous he went full-bore crazy. As I was checking my notes, I found some passages I took directly from a conversation with Kaelan while he was still being hunted - yes, I sheltered him briefly, he was sick and hungry and I am not cruel, nor did I think his punishment fit his crime. Calylith, some of this is not going to sit well with you, I should warn. Here is what he said to me that day. I quote: 'The woman killed herself...she...she said that nothing was real and all a dream and such, and that I was the dark evil man from her nightmares.'...'Rolanda died. Killed herself. Because of me, you know. She said I was the one from her nightmares. Deluded. She could not separate dream from reality'."
"He spoke of visiting Rose while she was in Fort Wayfare and said, let's see...'she died before my eyes and I dream of burned flesh since then, the people I burned...Caly I hate you...' I am leaving out his stutter, for clarity." Looks at the slender elven beauty. "He dreams of burning as well. He could not have made that up as he could not know of your dreams. He also said Rose tried to kill him."
Finishes the glass of wine with a soft aah, clinks the empty glass on the stone lip of the pool, then perches on the edge, lighting a cigar. "At some point the various compromises and Kaelan's situation alerted Captain Rae of the Silverguard. We were all requested to meet with him and Minu convinced Kaelan to come turn himself in. Having been in that situation I can say it's not all it's cracked up to be." Dryly. "We arrived and met with the Captain and one of the Tower's former students, now a Silverguard herself. I won't go over the entirety of the conversation as I shared quite a bit the other night but at some point I became extremely curious about why Kaelan kept ending up in the middle of this. Why he? And he doodled the entire time we were there, so I naturally wanted to see his artwork, knowing there would be more of it and thinking that something might come of the analysis - the mind often inserts things of significance in artistic endeavors. He resisted then relented, and we obtained artwork and doodles he'd created from the Tower Academy. Well, he obtained them, I just needed a cigar break.
"Upon examination, two pictures inked in blood slid from the stacks." He shows them again his recreations from memory. The first shows the fine-boned frame of a well detailed female elf maiden, blonde by the lack of shading in the hair. She appears peaceful, her eyes closed and a bright and calm smile, her hair loose and her flowy dress simple yet stylish. She is holding a crystalline stone on her hand, roughly the size of two human fists - the object seems to have been broken from a greater structure. The woman, obviously Calylith, holds it tenderly as if were something that was bringing her peace. In contrast to the woman's repose, the actual pen-strokes are carved into the paper as if displaying rage or anger in the moment of drawing. While the pictures in the bard's journal are done with charcoals, he used a quill to imitate the angry strokes and colored charcoal to mimic the color of the deep red, nearly black blood used as ink on the originals.
The second drawing is a detailed close-up of the stone in a pair of hands. Deep, strong brush strokes define the edges. Better detail can be observed upon the facets of the stone and it appears as a prism or obelisk with six faces and one tip, the facets plain. The detail of the small impurities over the facets indicate a black transparent material. With great detail are drawn the hands holding the stone. While the perspective is correct and the size also correct, the hands in this second drawing bear an innumerable small scars over the surface that are not on Calylith's hands in the first.
"His hands were not nicked or cut, nor scarred, during that audience. I checked. We questioned him and he was quite sure Calylith did not have the stone, which I believed then and now to be true - he was hallucinating when he drew it. While we questioned him, he dripped into onto the page and it reacted most strangely. It spread in disproportion to the volume. It was as if...as if the paper had veins, and the ink flowed through them, forming a face. The skin by the density of the ink was dark but not the black of a dark elf, the eyes terrible not in form but in the sense that there was no mercy, no pity, no human emotion behind them...cold, blank, calculating black irises that seemed to follow you no matter where you were sitting. Not unlike Jetta's." Mutters in Old Tilmarian, then resumes. "The hair was feathery and dark and we could see the bridge of the nose but not the end of it. Very avian features in fact, as this poor copy I did shows. Kaelan, at this time, had a very sudden and prolific nose bleed, the timing of which was far too cute to be coincidence, and he spoke in a voice not his own. His voice was at that moment as cold as the eyes in the picture. I won't forget what he said - 'We are compromised, I am afraid." He did not stutter, not a single letter, in saying that. Kaelan tried to weave a protective spell around himself and I had my eyes closed attempting to aid him in resisting, but apparently Rae's Silverguard mage - Silverguard Emily - used a gust of wind spell to get the picture away from Kaelan. We were caught by surprise and turned to ask her why, and Kaelan punched her hard enough to knock her out. We took some time to sort ourselves after that, I was frankly furious with him - I do not take to punching women. He said that he was 'not taking chances with spellweavers', and that he felt her action was hostile.
"Both he and Minu felt someone was scrying us in that room, which of course they were, so the gust may have disrupted that. Kaelan said that he felt someone reaching for his mind and that is why he said we were compromised, but I'm still not sure if he spoke the truth.
“After that and Silverguard Emily was tended to we had quite a bit of discussion about what to do next. It was determined that Kaelan would head to Center, Minu would contact Omer at the Tower Academy to set up investigation of the substructures, and I would head to Center with a detour by the store for business reasons. Except Kaelan never made it to Center as far as we know, and we have not seen him since. That was a few years ago.
Pours some more wine, pacing again. “There is more. Not long after that I traveled to Echo in Trelania. My pursuit led me to places I didn’t expect – I was chasing a sound, which I have since found in unexpected places much closer to home. I won’t detail my trip there as it’s not at all relevant except to say I became increasingly erratic myself during the time there. Minu can tell you, I was not myself. I felt I was being watched and being outside was dangerous and I was quite the spectacle, let me be the second to say.” A smile for his wife. “It occurred to me only after I left and began to return to a right state of mind that the effects were very, very similar to that described of the stone.
“I have so many thoughts on what could be happening, but from the beginning…the stone existed in Port Hempstead and went missing. We encountered an island that only rises from the waters of the ocean off Port Hempstead every few hundred years, and were affected by…something that was able to bend our emotions. Then this crow-haired man is seen and magic-sensitive people have reactions similar to our experience by the island. People think they see one thing when they are seeing quite another or are in alternate realities. A seer says one demon is coming, just one. Harm is done.
“Of greater interest are the abductions because it occurs to me that those most affected may have been taken prior, which means it may be dark elves, it may not. The crow-haired man may be involved in that instead, or in conjunction with.
“The stone’s effects are so far confined to Mistone as much as we can tell, but the stone is moving. Kaelan is tied into this somehow, and you are affected.” Nods toward Calylith. “And so once we secure the location, we must find him and pray he’s alive, because he may be the link we need to find the crow-haired man.” Finally, FINALLY pauses for breath and to take a drag on the cigar.
-
Center and outskirts, late Febra, 1512 – Elan, interrupted.
Notes from the road.
I met with Calylith and Celador in Center whereupon we split up to find information about Nale or Naan…Honey knew nothing, Celmade off with a local girl after tacit approval to flirt, and Calylith interrogated the Center crier with a low-cut dress and thigh high boots. That we men could have half as much power in a garment.
The crier told Calylith of a flamboyant man named Elan in relation to the witch incident. Taran, the largest pawn owner in town, verified the name – at this point we picked up Terayse and Xianreau, who came along to lend perspective and just because. Elan was purported to be a singer and fletcher who visits Center often. We found him just north of the Bulls-Eye. He seemed a defeated man - sad, hunched, with a touch of charima peeking out now and again like sun behind clouds. I was surprised to recognize him as someone who visits the Breath of the Muse, a singer who fletches to overcome a personal tragedy. He has a daughter. He found inspiration in his fletching the story goes and it’s all that keeps him alive aside from his child. I know the official story, that he accidentally shot his wife with an arrow one day. I can’t imagine that burden and he clearly has never recoverd from it.
Calylith questioned him, bringing up the Stone of Chitomaru and Kaelan. He remembered Kaelan a few years back, during the burnings and kidnappings in the Port Hempstead fields – in Center just one day, if the descriptions match. A rather remarkable memory if true. I handed Calylith my copied recollection of the picture of the crow-haired man, and he reacted instantly, backing away from it, saying they were just dreams and they’d gone, years ago. He remembered a dream where he must have been under the influence of the stone, whereupon he felt the stone would solve his problem if only he could find it. This matches what Millon told me. Elan said he dreamed of the stone in his daughter’s hands. The crow-haired man tried to convince him he’d have hurt his daughter to get the stone and getting the stone would “save him” from the madness. He had a dream whereupon he fought, much like Rose, not knowing what he was fighting, but he would not hurt his daughter. He says it happened just once, then it ended. A woman, he said, was in the Bulls-Eye who had research on the stone. We should find her and he didn’t want anything to do with it. As a father, I understood.
We took our leave and headed into the Bulls-Eye and had a look around but it was not for some time that the lady appeared, a gnomish woman named Melaa. At the same time that festering boil of a dark elf Nym/Sar’thal came through the door. Melaa tried to play as if the name I called was not hers, but when I inserted myself between her and Nym, I whispered “Chitomaru” to her and she immediately touched me, sending me invisible. She vanished herself and led me from the inn, upstairs, and through a window to the barley fields beyond the herbalist’s. We spoke briefly and she said her master and teacher was near, they were both members of the Reaching, and her master Mr. Marin could help.
I returned to get Calylith and she became stubborn over my insistence that we leave the dark elf. She says he loves her – right, and I’m a size thirty-six double D – but I was able to convince her to leave him out of this adventure, at least this time, thank the Muse. We assembled and shrouded and I took them to Melaa, warning them that I have no idea who she is except what she says.
Upon meeting Calylith they spoke at length of her symptoms, her dreams, the burning, being “lost”. When Calylith was satisfied it was not a trick, we followed her. We came, after some time walking, to a smallish home – only a bit more than a hut – and were ushered inside. It was cozy, warm, with a bright fire. Melaa said something most interesting to Calylith – “welcome home”. I sensed only hints of transmutation and abjuration, and felt relatively at ease despite my paranoia.
Melaa left to bring to us a man, Master Marin or more specifically Marin Smithson of the Reaching. He was middle aged and in good health, with simple but well-tailored clothes. Not a man to flaunt. His manners were impeccable. He asked us in to the dining and living area whereupon I saw several well-stocked bookshelves. Immediately upon the ladies seating he began to pepper Calylith with questions…did you have confusion in dreams, feeling you were places you were not? Memory loss? Losing control of your abilities? And of those dreams, Calylith added her own issues, that of dreaming of “blowing up villages and liking it” and “killing people and enjoying it”, as well as the crow-haired man watching her and the red eyes.
Marin spoke of things having settled down several years ago, this would have been not long after Kaelan left for Center from the Silverguard guardhouse and I began to be driven to obsession by my search for the bebelith silk. He was most interested in Calylith’s experiences, saying they were deeper and more intense than he expected. He felt memories were part of the solution, and despite mounting impatience from some of the others, I felt at ease. I find Lucinda’s children quite interesting, their techniques and solutions – a mix of gut instinct and careful research. Marin was quite pleased that Calylith felt responsible for the use of her magics for harm, even if it was not her fault, which is perfectly in tune with what I know of Lucinda’s church.
Marin surmised what I had said earlier – magic is that which links all of us who have felt the stone. Although, he believes it to be magic users untrained in the art, gut instinct casters and singers. I think differently now, knowing Jil and Kaelan both to be studied users rather than off the cuff. Marin said the true effect of the stone was to expand the user’s powers past where they can control it. Marin indicated that he might be able to help Calylith, as Melaa says he helped her, to recover lost memories and face what she’s forgotten. He gave her standard disclaimers on memory loss, facing old fears as if they were happening, nothing that Cel and I hadn’t when I was providing her with some stronger stuff to help her reverie. She gave him the same answer she gave us, with the same lovely defiance – ‘let’s do this’. And Marin ushered us into his private study through a secret door.
As Marin went over the potential downsides yet again – such as permenantly losing memories, not just the bit she’s not able to remember – Cel worried like a mother hen, demanding specifics that Marin could not offer. It was amusing, he pecked and pecked at Marin while the man could but say ‘I don’t know, we’ve never seen a case like hers’. During this he was asked to cut Calylith’s hair which started a fresh round of “what if...”. But in the end he will do anything for her, so he took his place outside the magical protection circle Calylith now stood in – there is a sketch of the circle here – and prepared to be her anchor. Cel asked me to pray toIlsare for Calylith, and Terayse and I sang our hearts out for Ilsare and for our friends in the room, and Melaa tossed the lock of golden hair into a cauldron in the center of the room. Inserted between the not-so-neat italic script is a rough sketch of the room.
Her memories appeared in the cauldron…I admit I was hoping to see at least a few of hers with Cel together, they have such passion and I have a perverted side I sit on far too often. No such luck. What I did see in those rippled reflections was her leaving the Saddlebag on a sunny day, and very suddenly she is covered in a shroud, her vision blocked – a glimpse of people in cowls and tunics – she struggles and is restrained and carried away. I think of Rose here, her description…I thought they were her detention, but now I think it’s more. Back to the memory pool; the leader appears to her to be a silver-haired elf with glazed, lost eyes but no hesitation; he kidnaps her with purpose. Kaelan.
Now she is lying down in some other place, not Haven – a very fast sketch of the few details of that location - and he is near, observing her prone, kidnapped body with a loving look. It made the hairs on my arms stand up. He speaks to her, draws pictures of her, paints her – paints pictures, I should clarify. At one point he appears to be painting something on her, on her lower back, but I could not see details in the water. He gets up and walks away, stuttering as he does, and limping. He returns and cuts some of her hair. After this she is once again shrouded, lifted, returned to the Saddlebag pawn by him, and left to wake.
A pause, then the waters shift again, a new picture forms of her waking with “lost” eyes – I don’t know how else to describe it but to say that Melaa’s description is how it looks. The pupils don’t react correctly, the irises are dull. We see her wander Mistone in this state. We can see her fearful and hiding, buring people…she did kill them…witchhuners, and others. She would merely look at them and burn them as if her powers had swelled out of her skin and wrapped around the victim. Her face would light up as well, joy, not fire – pure true joy. Tera points out to me that there is always one cowled woman or man, different people by body type, in each village Calylith destroys in her perception-altered madness. During one memory of burning down a village, the crow-haired man appears, gives chase.
At this point her breathing became labored and she sweated in that magical circle. The visions for the first time show the stone itself. Six prismatic factets with a tip, roughly two fists large – exactly as Kaelan had drawn it. The waters slosh as the image shifts, and the stone shows two Calyliths – one on either side, moving independently but concurrently. Kaelan – Elan – who knows who else – split. My hunch was correct, it’s a separate entity. Calylith’s eyes look invaded by bright light, spilling it out as though the whites were made of thin candle wax. The waters shift again – violently – as if someone stirred them, as Calylith standing in the magical circle raised her hand. The stone appears in the water and the two Calylith’s vanish in a blink. Kaelan appears, in a gloomy mood. He walks, defeated, shrouded in misery, until he collapses. Two red eyes are visible to the perspective of the horizon and Kaelan twitches in seizures on the ground. He is split, two Kaelans, two personalities – a shy stuttering student, and also a determined, plotting, arcane-studying, driven elf. As he shifts, half of him appears as a blue-skinned man with feathery crow-black hair. The pool shows Kaelan kidnapping another elf that looks like Calylith now, the same kidnapping scene the memory pool saw earlier, using magic and torture on this one to make her look like Calylith, with her personality and looks, all of it. I thought of Andeux and felt sick and miserable myself – I must find and free that man. Kaelan travels with her, lives with her, making her the very image of the elf who said no.
There is much of the travels with the not-Calylith, then things move quickly, I can’t write it all down, the Crow-Kaelan heads to the mountains. Not-Crow-Kaelan waits in Center, where he must have gone after we met with Captain Rae, and sees the other silver-haired elf who is looking smug and amused. They walk together toward a cave. Wretchedly fast sketch of the cave, not well done.
Now a dark elf appears. Both Kaelans fight the dark elf – by the lost look in the dark elf’s eyes, he too is affected by the stone. I have no pity and root for the Kaelans to kill him. However, the dark elf kills one of the Kaelans, I cannot tell which until the survivor moves forward and is not the crow-haired Kaelan. Calylith is in the scene now, created one. Let’s call her Not-Calylith. She is waking in rags, holding the Stone of Chitomaru. He speaks with her, she is afraid of him – no bloody wonder – and they start to talk. He seems confused and angry and she starts to run. He chases, seems concerned. They cross a room and there is the larger stone that the smaller came from. I knew it was part of a larger object! My joy at being right is muted by its very existence though, so I shall refrain from celebrating my intellectual victory just yet. As they approach the stone, they talk further, and calm, and peace decends until they hug.
Very suddenly the woman yells out and falls, and behind her as she bleeds is the Kaelan we saw the dark elf kill. There are words but words are merely a preamble to the fight that must come, and come it does, close and merciless. Not-Crow Kaelan pulls every trick in the book and finally stabs something delicate in Crow-Kaelan, who falls to the ground and mingles his blood with that of his last victim. Non-Crow Kaelan takes not-Caly into his arms and I can see…I must lean but I can see him saying “I’m sorry” over and over. The body of Crow-Kaelan vanishes in a dark mist, sucked into the larger stone in the room, and not-Calylith vanishes as well. The walls shake and in fine literary tradition the room starts to cave in. Kaelan gathers his will and runs. That is the last I know of his whereabouts or fate.
Images now of Crow-Kaelan putting books, notes and clues everywhere. The Tower Academy in a file…the Great Library, by the Muse…an Aragonite temple, a local library in Fort Llast by the big Toranite symbols and the wording on the coat of arms, and many other places. This appears an earlier memory, of course. And then the waters still, the image fades, and Calylith in the circle of magical protection awoke. The ritual was over.
Marin collapsed, and Terayse, Melaa and myself helped him up. After some liquid he seemed better and Calylith wished to know what was on her lower back. Cel, holding her outside the circle now, moved her to Marin and Marin took out a wand and a belt-ish thing, and did an incantation. How the man had the energy after that ritual I don’t know. There was residual magic from an invisible tattoo on her lower back but it was gone in a blink. He thinks it reacts to a different pit frequency, and I think I know which one. Kaelan may have one. Minu as well, for that matter, and Rose. I will send a bird from Center for Minu to join us soonest. I will have to find Rose myself.
Rose told me a demon was coming, just one. The tattoo resonates to a different pit. This Stone is tied to this demon pitdweller, who is the blue-skinned, crow-haired man. I am starting to know him and that means I am closer to undoing him.
My hand is cramped into a claw. I have done a twenty-four series of Cadenzas in a row with less pain than this transcribing. I will speak with Calylith when she’s rested and I must put this quill down and have a cigar. Ilsare, thank you for this unique experience.
AWTR, somewhere outside Center.
-
Lot of stomping out there.
"What brick? This one? Gimme a minute." Ed's rough bass, a grunt, rasping of stone on stone. A thunk, then a prayer in Kat's beaujolais voice, sweet but gracefully aging to a dry wit - another prayer to Deliar for sunlight.
"There's one! There!" Lola.
"I got it." Ed again. Squishing, and Lola's extended 'ewwwwwwww'. "You never seen one of these before?"
"Nope. The masters killed dangerous stuff first, or the Shiney Gnome did." Listening from his office, the bard knows she refers to the Toranite paladin who protected her and her fellow slaves. "Do you hafta kill them? They're cute!"
"Yeah, Lola, these things don't stay cute. And when they get big, they eat little girls in ONE BITE." Ed. The bard shakes his head causing the sparse light in the room streak across his vision, pinches the bridge of his nose, bumping his spectacles off accidentally. Not exactly true - myconids use the dead bodies as logs to spore more of their kind, from what he knows - but a simple answer will do if it keeps her from trying sneak one into her room in a box.
...Muse, what a day, yesterday. Patrons and guests running and screaming as juvenile fungus-men poured from the door to the basement. Well, not so much poured as wobbled. The sight of them and the irony of it all nearly left him laughing, except for the very real possibility of someone being hurt. But, between Ed, Jetta, and Michael, everyone was ushered out safely, thank Ilsare for small favors, leaving what looked like hundreds of myconids knee-height and lower to mop up. They were everywhere; the tavern, the Residence Halls and filling the basement, though thankfully not the tunnel. It took all of them, Michael, Keela, SehKy, Katyln, Charlie, Ed, Minu, Jetta and himself, to de-stem the tide.
De-stem the tide. He giggles. That’s funny.
There were so many little fungus bodies that Charlie took it upon himself to have a good few bites raw, in case they were edible – ‘This’d solve the food problem for a long time, Boss!’. Yes, but how the hells did they get into the inn in the first place? He believes he knows the answer to that question now. Friends, not the least of which Vell and Galathea, arranged for specimens of the large, tasty Deep mushrooms shipped to them and they immediately lugged the boxes to the damp and mold-splotched basement and set to sporing. Deep mushrooms, however, do not grow easily on the surface and most especially not Mariner's Hold, a very warm coastal climate. And so not all the boxes were opened nor examined. And, a month later, hoardes of myconids on the heels of the increasing mold and fungus problems plaguing the Buckle which has Heloise near to apoplexy. Examining the Deep mushrooms showed tiny footprints around them but not the surface varieties Glitch has been supplying them with. Ah well. Live and learn.
Despite the march of padded shroomy feet, some good has come of this, although not in a form he is comfortable with. Before Charlie felt the effects of his gustiary experimentation and while he, the owner of the tavern and therefore the liable party in the guest's eyes, was refunding monies and giving assurances that of course this would not happen again...(It will be some other emergency, don't you know? It's the Silver Buckle after all)...an elf walked into the inn, very much bucking the egress trend. Eyes reflecting a hint of red, skin the color of chimney smoke and hair too purely white to be the result of age, they were all on their guard; but he was looking to hire, not to kidnap or kill. A half dark-elf, rare enough to stay the bard's hand on sheer curiosity. The smoothing of Minu's forehead, the relaxing of her shoulders, after a moment of prayer to Aeridin was the deciding vote. It was shaping up to be one hells of a day and he decided to trust her judgment; running their lone customer through right before the entire town would doubtless be speaking of the events here seemed counterproductive.
The elf turned out to be one Captain Fames Yzzirtorg, owner of the Baskethead Shipping Company. The bard has heard of it, a bit shady but excellent if you wish no questions asked, which bothers him not at all since the reputation doesn’t include piracy that he knows about. Three Sea Devils in the fleet, all good cargo ships. Seems Captain Yzzirtorg...he rolls the z's, not realizing he is speaking out loud - the good Captain tried to capitalize on the famine by purchasing mushrooms from the Deep. It is possible, the bard thinks, that Yzzzzzzzzzirtorg brought the boxes the Buckle received, in fact. And the Buckle’s problem is indeed the elf’s problem – a good bit of his crew have been eaten by mushroom men, all three of his ships are infested, and two warehouses besides. Keep his name out of it, clean up the mess, and he’ll offer years of cut-rate shipping.
Give me the edible mushroom cargo on top of the shipping discount and it’s a deal.
Yes, well, done then – they shook but Rook was trying to get him to sign a contract. The man denied having his letters and signed the contract with a big X. The bard got scolded for not getting the deal in writing. Fine, Rook, you go first next time.
“Andy! Who are you talking to?”
“Err…noth…nobody, merely working through some thoughts…” She moves away from the door as Kat calls to her. He blows out a breath – it feels as though he’s exhaling unsung tensions, he can see them floating in the air before his eyes – see, sight, his spectacles, where did they go? He's forgotten. Returning to his musings, he tries to keep his mouth shut. His mind flips to the page it was on and it feels like that – flip. His hand reaches up to move a bookmark that only he can see.
The warehouses were badly infested and not all the mushrooms were the more common type of myconid. Some were those bleeding spores from the Deep, tentacles lashing out like hell’s own whips and knocking them all over the place. Thank Ilsare for SehKy’s arrows and thank Ilsare that they all had the presence of mind not to use magic, lest the warehouses be blown to bits. As much as adventuring types have a penchant for big booms, yesterday was not the day for that, no no no. It took hours to wade through the mushroom men and gather up and dispose of the bodies. He recalls the boxes in the warehouse; some showed both Deep mushrooms and myconids, as they’d seen in the basement of the Buckle, but some did not have any sign of the tasty fungus, only the damp prints of rounded feet.
Then it dawned. They’ve been sabotaged, both the Captain and himself and likely others. Someone down there is putting baby myconids into the mushroom shipments, and just this once he does not blame dark elves. No, this has the stamp of a different villain. One who worships mushrooms and feeds them to the hungry in Prantz. Gods, he hates that guy.
By the time they finished cleaning the Baskethead ships, Charlie was starting to act erratically in between holding his stomach and moaning. Kat and Minu hustled him back to the inn for examinations while Captain Yzzzzirtorrrrg – the bard sounds like Argali, which makes him laugh – Muse, he’s speaking out loud again – left after they recovered the crates of edible mushrooms from the cargo holds and warehouses.
They're on the floor! He tries to reach the spectacles from his chair, can't, gives up. His hands sparkle and he waves them in front of his face, blinking slowly. So, the myconids are in fact edible in the loosest sense – what the ladies determined had Charlie alternating between distress and wide-pupiled incoherence was the myconid flesh. When he did not end up visiting his bindstone they had thought the things possibly safe to consume. However, back at the Buckle clinic, the normally overactive man sat staring at a candle in between bouts of stomach cramping. He insisted the candle was talking to him in flame language. That was their first hint that myconid soup might not in fact be a good idea. Now that things have settled down he's decided to test it himself, "for research purposes", which earned him a standing-ovation-worthy eye roll from his wife, but Charlie wasn't kidding. Intermittently he doubles over as his digestive tract roils; between those nearly crippling cramps, his office is a great deal more interesting than usual. The candles do not speak but the fountain whispers and sings in water kanji. He can see musical notes in the shadows. And his hands sparkle and trail, perfect for conducting an impromptu concert to himself. Facinating and wonderful except for the pain, but not worth a repeat. There are easier ways.
“I told him, I TOLD HIM it was a bad idea. Did he listen? He did NOT. Honestly, Elly! Fungus! IN THE BASEMENT!” Ohhhh…guess Helly’s still mad, then…he’ll be hearing about this for a while. His wife’s answer is too soft to hear, and partially drowned by Kat’s chanting. They had the idea in one of the warehouses to use dry heat and the clerical prayer of sunlight to combat the fungus, and Helly added copious amounts of a lye solution to the spore war. Said warfare requires getting into the walls, however, and thus Ed is yanking out brick or prying up wood where spaces exist. His office has already been sunshined by Minu to within an inch of its life, every corner and the spaces and cracks behind the walls literally blasted with Aeridin's light. It seems to be working, the patches of fungs shriveling black in the sun's prayer-driven purity. He may even be able to re-open for business this week.
He can’t tell if the myconid effects are lessoning or not, but the cramps seem to have eased – he ate a much smaller portion than Charlie did, and none of the Deep myconid tentacle. A pity they can’t serve fungusman flambé but the mushrooms they did obtain will carry them through a few months, a little more if they stretch it. That plus the heavily discounted shipping and the contacts they’ve made buying food and they’ll be able to feed themselves, their customers, and have a little extra for those in need until the crops come in. The next spring looks good, Farmer Part says. Wait and see but there is a hymn of optimism in the air. With their own plot they’ll be able to feed more, although not nearly enough to run a soup kitchen. That dream faded as quickly as a young shoot in this year’s spring. But – the Buckle won’t go down. Not this time.
He sincerely, sincerely hopes Mariner's Hold likes mushroom stew.
-
Power and Prestige, Part I - Home Again.
His coat draped across a simple mahogany chair, the ink-pot dry, the candle on his desk lit for the first time in so long that dust burns on the wick. It is past midnight and the inn's timbers shift, creaking and snoring with each minute movement of the land beneath. He is beyond tired, physically, but his mind slips down gulleys and ravines, across trails and battles, beside kings and dwarves and over ancient curses and men in barrels and women whose beauty is a masque for what lies beneath, one of whom prowls the old building at this moment. Yet he is glad of her more so now than ever before - even if the veil has been lifted, if only a little.
He cannot sleep yet. The body may weep for a bed that reaches beyond the end of his feet but the words demand release. Parchment is laid, ink reconstituted, quills sharpened with shaking fingers; a leather-bound book of pages jammed with bits of paper, all with the same neat, or sometimes, not so neat, italic script is spilled across the swirled oak surface. A perfect reflection of his thoughts, and he smiles. It will be a long night and morning and perhaps next day. But - oh, but - to have been there, and back again...to have lived that. To have made a difference.
To have been the first human bard, no - better - the first non-dwarven bard, to have played concerts in that place below the hills where few of those over four-King's foot-five dare to tread, what a coup! Dizzying, really. That then shall be recorded first, yes. The order is less important than the narrative after all. The show must go on.
In a tomb of kings and warriors, footsteps in the dust
Ivory bones shuffle past
Dried red streaks of blood, or rust
There they rest but rest they don’t, trapped in rocky cages
Carefully nurtured vitriol
Distilled down the ages
Curses screamed from wall to wall / Echoing down carved stone hall / Crimson spray and broken crawl - final hate from grey lips fall / A lock made of a death rattle…
How long did they stay that way, barred from final night?
No one left to apologize
No one left to set things right
Dust like snow as dark forgets, this place you cannot tread
Until steps echo long and short
Odd companions to the dead
Elves and humans, kith and kin / Not of the past and so let in / Inside a rage as dense as tin yet gaseous, diluted thin / A cloying mist across our skin…
Racing time the odd ones out, to pull life from angry ashes
Each step heavier than last
Then and now in desperate clashes
New blood conquers what has gone, the lost are finally found
Still that rage and pain a boot
Crushing them onto the ground
What can fix the centuries / Who among us would be keys / In three small words the anger ease and ghostly memories are pleased / “I forgive you…”
“I forgive you…”
More power than in any spell and sharper than a blade
Elf and kin dissolve
The curses that ancestors made
From an opening of doors and hearts the living are brought out
What other good might come of that?
Seems to be worth thinking about…
//to be continued
-
Power and Prestige, Part II - Burning Midnight Oil
There are so many things more desirable in life than following a manure farmer from downwind. I can think of several dozen within a few eyeblinks, any one of which - up to and including scrubbing the Buckle floors by hand - I'd rather be doing, and yet there I was, creeping along behind the cart of this suspicious man, my eyes tearing from the stench and wondering if I'd ever get the smell out of my velvets. But let me take a stride back and tell you how I got to this place.
First a bit of history - stay awake, it won't be as bad as that or I'm not a reasonably well-known and sometimes talented bard. There is a war on, you see. Yes, another. Or shall I say an ongoing, as it's been several centuries now. Sagewald, my adopted home - with whom I am most cross, let's not mince words - was displeased with the hills east when Taur'en declared itself a kingdom and consolidated power. They treated the rich resources of the Taur'en Hills as a bit of a metallurgic larder, or that what they could get their hands on, for the dwarves under the hills defended their territory with the fierceness that only those as broad as they are tall can. The first King of Taur'en was a dwarf, one with demonstrated ties to Milara, may each and every god and goddess in turn reject his withered soul...ah, there's my soapbox. I thought I'd lost it.
I digress. King Kraklin Stonefist the aforementioned pulled most of Taur'en together with the noted exception of his kin in the Hills. With his strong-arming he encouraged surface trade, wrung trade concessions from the dwarves, and established human settlements. From the perspective of we of the long bones and short life, not a bad job if you exclude the sucking-up-to-a-dark-elf part. Dying without an heir, a human he'd personally trained took the trappings of power and thus Bydell became synonymous with Taur'en. Of course that honking huge library full of dust-sucking Aragenites doesn't hurt for name recognition. Perhaps I should fund a library? A bardic library! Full of sheet music...!
Moving on before my mind wanders away again. Disgruntled with their suddenly determined and organized neighbors, Sagewald declared war. I haven't the faintest as to the original declaration, no doubt carefully crafted language on assumed land holdings and imagined trade agreements and whatnot, but I opine it was in fact sour grapes at the loss of resources. Sagewald has fish, shipping and lands galore for growing but is skint on the mines that Taur'en is riddled with. And so it was War! Or, really, it was the occasional boarder skirmish and a lot of hand-wringing, for in actuality the war was more of a sniping contest...until recently. Thus endith the history lesson for today.
Having written all that I'll put something up right from the start as I think it is the crux of the matter. The question must come to mind, what shifted the scales? Why suddenly did Sagewald become so earnest about their attacks while also, as I have just found from some of my local sources, blaming Taur'en for being the aggressors? One word, one concept, one single evil.
Rael.
It is not a coincidence the timing of his slow, venomous snaking through Sagewald's governance and the increase in violence. Sagewald wants something they cannot have. Rael, by offering his "benevolent" assistance to Mariner's in the wake of the tsunami, was given an opportunity for a foothold and a chance to strike at a powerful city of surface dwarves which is quite the oxymoron if you think about it. However - those tactics of attacking and blaming the victim for the crime? Purely Rael's, from both anecdotes and personal experience. It's brilliant if you can ignore the body count; commit atrocities and then lie so hugely, so brazenly about who was responsible that the lie itself brings doubt to the mind of the listener. In other words, who would lie about something like that? I can tell you who. Keep Rael in mind for we'll return to him as this narrative continues.
Over the last few years things between Sagewald and Taur'en turned dark, and ugly, and large numbers of people genuinely were hurt or killed. Suddenly there were coordinated, professional attacks on caravans and villages all around the country. Suddenly the skirmishs were gathering steam and frequency. The iron was well and truly in the fire and so King Thomas Bydell passed word down to hire the "specially skilled" as caravan guards. A group of us, most known to each other and varying degrees of respectful and of right mind in regards to religion - eyes on you, Voraxians - were hired to escort relief supplies to Fort Angle. Guard duty. Easy, yes?
Written like a true adventurer. From a wagon train twenty-plus long we barely had half when we finally made it to the fort. Their first attacks were staged from the trees and directed at the pack animals and cart horses. Bloody hells! We'd thought of everything except how we'd move carts that had no hoofed motive power and let me tell you, those things are HEAVY. They also scared some of the animals knowing full well we'd give chase. Predicable, we are. Painfully so at times. And then they swooped in as bloodthirsty raptors to claw the severed halves of the party.
Fortunately we had in numbers what we lacked in planning, but that is cold comfort to the families of the Taur'en guards who died. We were hailed for what supplies we were able to stagger into the fort bearing and I think I was not alone in being ashamed that it was so little. But we'd now seen first-hand the problem and that the tune was shifting to favor Sagewald by several octaves. So, once in the fort, we split up to get a better feel for what was going on. It was as we were in this eye of this storm that my senses tingled regarding the dung man. Information inside the fort had to be leaking to the mercenaries somehow, and who would suspect a simple fertilizer cart? And so I followed, and thusly we come full circle to the paragraph you left behind so many words ago, which you will now have to wait for as I'm simply too tired to continue. And so...
//to be continued
-
Power and Prestige, Part III – Death and Taxes
I sang, quietly – under my breath – a thanks to the breeze, the very same breeze that also slid over and around me in a mix of hazy day sensuality and the miasma of overripe animal feces. I didn’t hear bells or chimes or the jingling of keys, not with my ears, but I imagined I did. I had worn bells once, at the wind’s suggestion. I had worn bells and chimes to learn to hold my sway and check my stride, to not swing my arms and to set my feet just so, so that I became, for a tall and gangly man, remarkably hard to hear coming when I wished to be. In that moment, in that heat, I wished it to be; and so it was that the man on the cart ahead of me didn’t appear to notice as I followed. He drove his cart of manure directly, or as much so as the hilly landscape allowed, to a vegetable farmer off the beaten path. The farmer, as weathered as my riding boots and puffing a pipe, was greeted by the name Wicky Fennel, while the cart driver was in turn greeted rather amusingly as Girntif Smazor. There was gossip about the mercenaries and talk of Sagewald, and something about kenku as well, which harkened me back to Quark and his brother and the near-taking of Mariner’s Hold by the most thankfully demised Edna. Yet that was all there was and I divined nothing from the chat that would be a clue. Not that I would know what one sounded like even if it’d been sung in four-part harmony.
A lot of words for what ultimately was nothing, eh? There is a lesson here – not all diversions have a real purpose, a lot of what we see, hear, and do is worthless. Truth isn’t rare but relevance can be and the smallest crumb can feel like progress…hm, the makings of a song there. Must revisit. But to return to my point, my careful shadowing in the end gave no insight. I returned to the fort much the same way I left it, still walking carefully and now smelling of dung.
As it was we were hired to make the return journey along with the kingdom-hired mercenary group L.E.G. – forgive me as I cannot remember what it stands for, let’s make something up shall we? Large Elite Guards? Legion of Elite Grumps? Limbs of Extreme Growth! They were strapping lads and lasses, is what I’m saying. They, and we, were to escort the taxes collected from the local areas back to Bydell. After the gauntlet we’d run to get here we were all tossing off ideas to make the return trip less painful and I sensed, perhaps for the first time, a touch of humility in the voices of my peers. Well, except for Kurn Blackwater. His humility could fit on the head of a pin that was already completely full of angels. At which point they’d realize it was him and run screaming.
I jest, Kurn’s a grand fellow. Try not to let him follow you too closely though.
Amid the kerfuffle of ideas and preparations and during one of my periodic searches I had reason to sit on a bench. Upon sitting, I spied a piece of trash fluttering underneath – paper trash, not terribly common in this mostly uneducated rural area. Plucking it up, I smoothed the crumpled and weather-stained page and read. Even as I heard the words aloud in my mind, enunciated in my interior-monologue gruff mercenary voice, I realized I’d found an actual clue. If I had left the dung man alone and simply sat down right here I could have saved the local washer-women the aggravation of cleaning my coat and saved my boot leather some wear.
The note read:
if the old mines were reopened maybe more gold means more money dwarves what happened to the the halfling could help
Of course the blank bits had been reduced to grey-washed parchment by virtue of having been located near an exposed bit of crumple. Still, it was a larger crumb than I expected under the circumstances, and I passed it on to the group for review. As we had no frame of reference, it was debated briefly and set aside in favor of a plan to get the taxes back to Bydell. Tidbits from the others flooded in amid ideas both wild and less so; my wife discussing what she’d heard about the Sagewald royalty, another speaking to the rumor that fort officers were forfeiting pay, others recounting the flirtations of the local pleasure woman. I would say here that without a doubt said prostitute is a spy if anyone is. The double dip of being female and doing a job considered less worthy than that of the dung man by many; I’d bet she hears far more than the best agents of any kingdom.
It occurs to me I should re-label this chapter What to Expect When You’re Expecting An Adventure. Hurry up and wait; sneak about or bash in doors to find nothing at all; hours of arguments on how and what to do and when, and who should lead. And in tension-filled moments with lives in the balance, dealing with those who get sick of the circular arguing and just DO SOMETHING - myself on occasion included - and the fallout of those spontaneous actions. In interventions of things that Don’t Concern You, diplomacy is so underused a skill that when it is employed it rather shocks the locals and yet in most cases returns results far beyond hammer-fisted bluster. Remember this. And that is today’s lesson ended, my pedantic hyperbolic hypocrisy as spent as a handsome sailor on a maiden-only island.
Honestly – where all that came from I have no idea. A strong hint I should leave this for the next day’s writing and get some rest. Then shall tomorrow bring battles…
//to be continued
-
Power and Prestige, Part IV – An intelligent guard. Didn't see that one coming.
A plan was finally composed, to be carried on unadorned and plainly clothed shoulders. Taxes in tow, we decided on a low-profile return trip to Bydell. Flashy jewelery and expensive swords were hidden under simple tunics or tucked away; clothing that blared Al'Noth to magic-sensitive hearts rolled and stuffed under benches or in sacks; the caravans, including five decoys, were each equal in protection and guards, no one standing out. Markings found on the caravans were left as is. Chests were switched by the most trusted of Dan Portello's guards each night, while we hired hands hid inside the creaking horse-drawn buckboards to mask the true compliment. Our combined might was so little a deterrent during the initial trip that bobbing along concealed felt like comeuppance; yet, I'm either ashamed or pleased to say, it worked.
Most of the journey was uneventful, with two notable exceptions. Early on, during a nervous evening's attempted rest, a lone man was captured marking wagons - upon interrogation, he revealed he was marking them for one Darius, the surprisingly organized bandits' leader. And by interrogation I mean "Kurn chopped his legs off". I was with Minu defending the horses or I'd have stopped it, by Ilsare. Upon discovering that Darius was a halfling, I remembered the scrap of text from the scrap of paper I'd recovered earlier. "The halfling could help." A long shot, of course, but let no tidbit go unpondered. I should note, as it will become important later, that we had also recovered two scraps of paper containing numbers written out in seeming random order during a scouting mission on the intital trek; one note bloodied by the capture of it (although not with the blood of the captors, thank the Muse) and the other without blood. Both were in the same handwriting, paper, and ink. A steady hand. Not the writer of my crumpled note, I don’t believe. Lacking any sort of key to decipher the cryptic numbers, they were folded and slipped into Lance’s tunic.
The second notable disturbance was the ambush that we'd all sensed coming. This was only a few days out from Bydell. I cannot treat this attack with levity - many L.E.G. died permanently and a few of our own risked soul plucking, all in acts of pure heroism, the kind I should be singing about rather than larking around this office while I scribe. Samantha, uptight Dragon lover or not, covered Don Portello with her own body to protect him, and even the dust-sucking Aragenite did her level best to heal at the risk (and eventual loss) of her own life. They used ranged artillery to devistating effect, those skulkers in the woods. Wagons were rent to bits in massive explosions along with bodies. Taxes rained down as pence from the heavens in the fiery afterglow of meteoric magic. There were too many hostiles for even our inflated numbers - they meant this attack to be a final blow. And so I did what any self-respecting singer of songs and teller of tales would do when his back is to a tree trunk and the screams of the dying are in his ears. I lied.
To be specific, I spent every ounce of my admittedly random concentration and every shred Ilsare's inspiration to conjure up the sounds, smells, and some limited visuals of a Bydell cavalry squad closing in. Praise the Muse, it worked; the vexingly competent bandit forces fled, giving our fighters that were still swinging time to mop up and clearing the way for my wife and others to raise and heal. I have never maintained so long and so complicated an illusion before and I could barely stand, in fact I could not, in short order. I had to continually manipulate the visuals, not my strongest suite, and change the sounds to reflect distance and numbers. I'm tired just remembering it. But, in the end, the taxes were re-collected and placed in a chest reparied by Jako, to be borne to Bydell on a wagon repaired by Jako. We so often take him for granted, that large and quiet man. I should tell him how much his skills beyond the sword mean to us.
Our desparate but ultimately successful defense brought us to Castle Bydell at last, and this time with more than a few battered wagons to show for it. Two more than our first attempt, to be specific, but all taxes included. Somehow when I contemplate the number of burlaped dead piled on the wagons that followed in our road-ruts it doesn't feel like we in fact succeeded, but I am assured we did.
Bydell. I have mixed feelings. Joy, certainly, at the thought of rest, and also distaste at the religion that molders over those mossy stone walls. Why Aragen? I like a good book as much as some and better than most, but by the Muse, there are better ways to enjoy them. Which briefly reminds me that I am still missing my copy of Sexy Mistite Priestesses. Damned annoying, that. I must ask if Minu if she hid it anywhere.
Upon entering the castle's shaded walls there was the expected recounting of our steps which I left to those expert at making reports and snapping to attention and such. I spent time observing more than talking. Something was tapping at – or possibly from – or perhaps both? Could it do that? It’d be like scratching yourself but not recognizing your hand – Muse, I digress. Something was tapping my subconscious, after listening in on a conversation that Jetta was having involving the bandits and just how were they finding out so much about the movements of the caravans? Books. Keys. Books and keys. BOOKS. BY THE MUSE. It struck me like a scorned woman wielding a frying pan. I first obtained the notes containing the numbers from Lance and then I nearly ran – nearly! - to where I’d seen Samantha getting chatted up by Don Partello, who was of course grateful for her efforts to protect him. It doesn’t hurt that she’s quite lovely, except for that Rofireinite pucker of distaste they all seem to wear. Well, at least I always seem to see it. Maybe they learn it at Dragon school. I interrupted her tete-a-tete with an urgent request for the Quiet Laws which she brought to me despite my somewhat jumpy rudeness. Laying both book and notes side by side, I began to compare.
4.2-120.3-4.1-3.3-1.2-2.4-3.1-6.1-4.6-9.3--7.1-13.1--3.4-2.2-15.3-7.2-4.5-
2.3-8.2-5.1--4.3-14.1-15.5-8.1-11.7--4.8-19.2--1.1-3.2-15.2-14.3-4.9--22.6-27.3-18.1-5.2-5.1--4.4-5.4--17.1-32.1-5.3
4.1-1.3-12.7-4.5-4.2-2.2-15.3-2.4-9.3--1.2-4.6-3.2-19.1-2.3-4.8-12.10-
-8.3-8.2-5.1-1.1-10.1--2.5-14.1--8.1-15.5-4.4-6.1-3.4-19.2-9.2--11.6-5.2-
12.3-12.4-7.2--12.2-10.2-12.6-11.7
The Quiet Laws
Rofirein's laws may be constant and his justice unchanging, but one's experience with laws, rules, courts and the treatment of criminals may differ from realm to realm. The organization of the law in most realms is in the hands of the Church of Rofirein, but while many realms rely on Rofirein's church and clergy to keep the laws and punish criminals, not all realms recognize the Church of Rofirein as the sole body possessing the power to set the laws and some realms possess nothing at all resembling Rofireinite justice. The Zuan Kingdom on Alibor, for example, has only those laws set by its ruler and justice is meted out at his whim, while the more civilized kingdoms like Brelin, Trelania, and the realms on Corsain follow the law books of the Divine Court nearly to the letter. In these realms where the laws of the Divine Court are recognized, a difference in interpretation of the laws is settled by the Rofireinite church, which has the final say in all matter of justice's interpretation.
How the local laws — whatever they may be — are enforced also varies from realm to realm; some nations have their militia enforce the law, some have a special guard for this task, and others hand the responsibility over to the capable hands of the Rofirein church. Certainly the fate of the criminals, once apprehended, usually falls to the Rofireinites. Judges of courthouses in the larger cities are almost always members of the church, as are most of the other staff working in the large courthouses.
In small towns, villages and settlements, if a judge is present, he or she may not always be a member of the Church of Rofirein. However, these rural judges may still have been trained in one of the Rofireinite temples.
By this time my friend Argali had wandered closer, attracted by the scent of a puzzle. She’s quite good at sniffing these things out. Let me see if I can remember her exact words:
"Aye, thar 'word-number, letter-number' pairs," indicating the number-dot-numbers, "and tha' indicates a word," pointing to the double hyphens. Och, an' jus' remindin'. We intercept'd tha second message. Somewun doesnay know thar head'd fer Crimson, at least un tha short term."
At least that is my best jab at spelling her speech. She decoded the message in a flurry of “och’s” and “ayes” and a great deal more nearly understandable Common words mumbled between. We’d found the key to the messages! Crimson Cache Nine!
A proper cliffhanger, I think. That, and Edward needs me for something. To be continued…