Andrew's Songbook

[Leanthar]

Right... I think this has gone on long enough folks. This is ludicrious beyond the point of being outrageous. Enough is enough. I am sick and tired of seeing a few in the community destroy the fun and enjoyment for others in the community and for the team. Stop this non-sense right now!!

 

 You are twisting the facts and you darn well know it, you are the one that is making the illness what it is, not the team. You are retconeed completly because you and Shiff became far too much to deal with (time, attitude, manners, you name it and I could keep going) that it was not worth it for the team, the community or you the players.

 

 I am going to share a PM and then I will bring this private if you desire but you called us out and I am going to respond with this. What a complete waste of time this has been for everyone involved.....I will say this though, I am not going to waste much of my time on it as I have seen the attitude (and other things) displayed in this one and other threads (of which you know what I speak).

 

 ***This is from a PM to you and Shiff***

 

 Originally Posted by minerva

 Retconning player infection with varient a of the plague



Trya passed her con check at inhaling the spores of thru the gas. They never established a retroviral type infection in her lymphatics.



Tyra was not confined to the lower level guest chambers of the Temple of Rofirein. She therefore had no visitors there and any journal entries should be removed. If the player does not want to remove them then Tyra was incarcerated for some public offense and the entries adjusted to reflect that.



Tyra was never aboard the Mew's Gull and never met or interacted. She has no personal knowledge of the Erilyn Barons or their family. The player has no knowledge of the properties of the powder or bath oil provided to her there.



The character has no skin lesions secondary to any varient a plague infection.



The player has no knowledge of the underground tunnel complex in Erilyn.



The character has never met Baroness Imjam, nor any of her court or staff. Samples of her blood are not in the possession of the those NPCs working toward the cure.



Deliveries were never made by anyone associated with the cure to Tyra's tower or the Twin Dragon or the Leningard Arms. No messages were passed.



The characters son (real or adopted) never contracted a form of pox only found on Voltrex. The character has no reason to reseach such an ailment

or make contact with those who might know it well.



The characters of Andrew and Tyra were never in the wards of Blackford castle when there was an important personage also there under strict guard



Given that the character Tyra was never infected, the character Andrew also was not infected with a milder mutated version of the plague. He too has no skin lesion from said varient.



The characters never went to North Point for investigation of a possible plague infection and therefore have no knowledge of the Sisters of Rebirth (or Moonriver's) involvement in the NPC cure group.



They may if they wish RP taking the child there for investigation of a illness and reconfigue their role play to some other illness that was cure able within reason of the game. This was not and never was the plague.





If you have any questions regarding the editing or direction of information please ask for clarification. If other players ask about events please direct them to Rowana or myself to avoid miscommunication



What I have to say about the retcon. I don't like doing them. I have 3 characters that have lost 1/2or more of their story to retcons when Storm left.





In this case it is necessary because frankly the most important thing in a relationship is trust. Clearly both players had no trust in me or where events were taking their characters. After the way events played out I have no trust that the players/characters will not revert back to previous grievences and make additional headaches for myself and other team members over the same material. Its better its gone and all parties can move.



You could rewite CDT entries to reflect some mundane illness(es) if that makes it less burdensome or in the case of private journal - place a note for GMs to disregard certain events.

A copy of this will be placed in each character's profile so GMs may have easy retrieval of information.





Minerva

[RollinsCat]

Pressure on his bladder woke him. He shifted and tried to push it off and stopped as his hands rolled across a limb. This was not a limb, a leg, he knew. It was not short, not slender and light. It was long and maybe a little more muscled than his own. He struggled to wake his brain up - who was that, where was he, what the hells -

Oh.

Oh, yeah.

Oh Muse...

He was not in his bed. His back was almost to the edge of the small rope-suspended mattress and she was tucked in by the wall, still asleep. Which was odd, considering. She'd always been a hair trigger sleeper before.

Or maybe he was just that good. One could hope.

Watching her sleep brought back sounds, sensations, feelings and fresh desire mixed with the inevitable response to his bladder. Always before, the curtains had been closed. Always. And now, to see her relaxed - really relaxed, the lines of her face smoothed by slumber - it was something he tried to paint in his mind. Something he didn't want to forget because only the Muse knew if he'd ever see it again. He stroked the clean, soft hair that he'd washed the previous evening. Stroked the skin that had so desperately needed scrubbing, a scrubbing she'd let him perform. While she took her clothes off in the bath piece by piece.

Her head turned slowly toward the wall, but he could hear her breathing becoming more shallow and rapid. A look behind him showed Ty sleeping solidly in his crib...he'd outgrow it soon, they'd have to get him a bed...

She made a soft sound and flipped on her side, almost knocking him off. He snuggled in close. Right behind her. He had no idea what would happen when she woke up. If it was disorienting for him, he could only imagine what she might do and he was glad her swords were across the room right now. He was the second. Ever. And the first hadn't counted, not in his mind, not a man who takes what he wants as barter with no thought to the woman's needs. She wouldn't have any idea what another body was doing in her bed and he resigned himself to being knocked to the floor in the moments before she fully woke.

He'd enjoy each moment before she did, though. She wasn't unpretty after all. It was the expressions, the attitude, not the face. He leaned to look closer at the strong chin, the wide bottom lip - it could be pouty and sensual, if she tried - and the cheeks that swept up to the brow. Not a beautiful woman but she could be a handsome one and that wasn't an insult. If she only knew.

Echoes, while she swam the long dark sea to wakefulness. When he'd found out about the price she'd paid to discover an assassin's identity. Why had he said "I wanted to be your first"? It had just popped out of his mouth. And her response had been equally spontaneous - "I wanted you to be my only".

Tenderness that surprised him, things whispered. A moment of bitterness - "I'm just a fifty year old leper with an attitude, Andrew"...her armor against the years alone.  Armor he would not let her hide behind any more.

He ran his fingers over her muscled neck, dips and swells earned by hard work on the pell and scars earned by harder fighting.  Down one arm - still feminine, biceps, triceps and all.  Over more sensitive areas, across the stomach, her hips.  Briefly, over the jagged scar that ran from her clavicle to the base of her spine.  He'd not heard the story of that one, had no idea it existed until last night.  He traced her like a storybook and wondered what would come, when she woke, when she realized.

Wondered if she'd ever again remember she was a woman the way she had just hours ago.

She stirred, finally, as the need for food and a toilet pulled her the last few feet to waking. He leaned in as soon as her eyes fluttered and whispered into her ear.

"Good morning blossom."

[RollinsCat]

The chair was as comfortable as he remembered and he thought to steal it right then, spirit it away somehow back to North Point. He'd leave Tyrian compensation - he could buy new, but nothing would replace this chair, this cushion that conformed to his hips and rear as a well-cared-for mistress.

Tiger was at his feet; overcast skies made the room dark and the fire burned hot against the December chill. He had a cigar, and it was a good one. He'd paid a lot for that box. He smoked them less often, one or two a day at most, skipping some days altogether. He tried to make them last. It was almost a ritual now. Snipping the end, lighting - this time he used a candle from the side table. The first few puffs and clouds of smoke, the bitter-sharp heat in his throat and lungs, giving way to an almost sugary aftertaste on his tongue. It was like...smoking alcohol. Smoking booze. That is exactly what it's like.

It was a poor thing, to try to take this away from a man. But Tyra had respected him and left his the cigars alone lately. Two deep inhalations later, the itching sensation along the back of his neck eased and his tensions with it. Tiger snored and the sound sucked his remaining worry away. Bella was close, her case on the table, but he felt no urge beyond sitting there and smoking. Blowing little smoke wreaths and watching them drift, ghostlike, to the ceiling. He'd missed this so much. He had to return soon to care of Ty but - gods he'd needed this.

He smoked to the nub and placed it in the ash-bowl. He meant to write some music, he really did, he should pick up Bella right now...perhaps write about the fire, it sounded very fire-like, snapping and crackling...he'd never written a song to Tiger, he could do...that...

...

A sound registered and he blinked his eyes open with groggy impatience. Footsteps, trying to be quiet? The dog? What time was it? "Tiger?"

"I can be." The voice, a sweet and tender contralto. He sat up.

"Minu." A smile rushed to his face, her effect on him immediate - hope, unburdening. Tiger sat up and whuffed at the elven woman. "Hello, love. Caught us napping."

Elohanna gave Andrew a smile and bent to Tiger instead, letting her lover sit a moment. The dog pushed his head into Elly's hand, almost petting himself, then - knowing her an easy mark - rolled over and presented one-hundred and five pounds of muscular Rottweiler for tummy scratches. "Hello, fellow! It's good to see you too, Tiger." She looked up at Andrew. "I see, our beds at the temple are not as comfy as your chair?" A teasing smile.

"I missed my chair." He sounded petulant and he knew it. He wiggled his rear deeper into the wonderfully resilient and forgiving padding. "It fits me." She only smiled and knelt to give Tiger a gentle tummy rub; Andrew's boot cuff was thwapped repeatedly as the dog's right hind leg and tail went into spasms of doggie joy. "Alton's taking good care of him." He considered joining her on the carpet but a cloud of lethargy had him in an iron grip and he stayed seated, body relaxed and cupped by burgundy velvet. She studied him a minute with eyes that had rapidly taken on a healer's sharp appraisal.

"I am glad to see you comfortable. I worry about you, Andrew."

He gave her a reassuring smile. "I'm...hanging on. I have some plans in the works. Tyra's not happy about it but - "

"What kind of plans are you thinking of?" Her voice was light but he knew her better than that.

"Just - some alternate research into a cure. Sit, if you have time?" He patted the white wingback chair next to his.

A little head shake and she sat down by Tiger, still rubbing his stomach. The dog was leaving a drool train on Tyrian's inches-thick rug. "I have been helping the Sisters translate notes." Andrew made a noncommittal murmur. Tiger rolled away from him and toward Elly without remorse and snuggled next to her. He grinned at the dog.

"I see. Opportunist." Tiger did not deign a response and Andrew's grin shifted to a small, almost sad smile as Elly's hood was pushed down by enthusiastic puppy love. "I wish I could help you more, but I can't read or write elven at all."

She put a hand on his knee. "You can help us by listening to our advice, Andrew."

"I have been." Her look was exquisitely patronizing, an artful mask of bright attentive agreement. He slumped in the chair. "Mostly." She let out a little snort, an affectation Tyra seemed to have infected them all with, and went back to lavishing affection on their dog. He cleared his throat, his palms suddenly sweaty. "Have you, um, thought about what I said?"

Whether she misunderstood accidentally or on purpose he could not tell. "We are so worried that what you have may spread to others and there is not enough known of this illness..."

He let his intent slide. No, you chickened out again, Tashe. "I have not spread it to anyone else. I think we have a good idea of the method of transmission now. I can promise I spread it to no one. I haven't even - " He stopped there. He'd told her that already. His voice shifted, a touch of bitterness coloring the mellow tenor. "Well, let's just say, things are well in hand."

She smiled. "I know." She knows. "I know you wouldn't. You have such a sweet heart inside you."

"I'm only glad beyond speaking that you and Ty didn't get it. Gods, Elly, I can't tell you how glad I am. I was suspicious of the scratching from the start - for once I listened to myself, instead of convincing myself it was something harmless. If I had infected anyone I don't know that I could live with myself..."

"They was concerned that I had been exposed. They was relieved I could continue to help, and truthfully, I feel better knowing I have some involvement." Tiger snored again with her small hands still running his flanks. Andrew felt a completely irrational flicker of jealousy toward the dog.

"I do too. I trust you, Minu. Absolutely and completely and without hesitation, I trust you."

"You can trust my Sisters too Andrew. But I am glad you trust me without worry."

He reached for his necklace charm, forgetting. His hand touched bare neck and he dropped it to his lap. "I trust her - but I trust you more."

"Andrew?" Her head tilted, eyes on the empty spot below the swell of his larynx. "Where is your necklace?"

He looked down, itching suddenly. "In a drawer, at the moment."

"Why?"

He shifted, trying not to scratch. "I have been...doubting things, lately." She remained silent, her lips drawing down a tick and her eyes heavy on him. "I grew up believing this was who I was, who I was bound to. I've never asked myself otherwise."

She broke in, rare for her. "What do you mean, who you are and bound to?"

"My whole family is Ilsarian, as yours was Aeridinite, yes? You grew up inside it. Did you ever question?"

The silence was long, and her smile slow and tinged with more years than he could really imagine. "Yes I did."

"I never have. I mean, the time with Xeen - yes, that was bad, but I never converted. I thought Ilsare would forgive me everything, that I managed to please Her enough..." He should tell the truth about those years in Xeen's house - that he had enjoyed every minute and only regretted leaving an alcoholic.

"If not Ilsare, who?"

He shook himself from a particularly sensual memory, one that he'd rehashed a few times to keep himself sane. "I don't know, maybe no one. Or maybe I need a break, I don't know." He could not stop repeating himself - even thinking it made his stomach twist. "I don't know. My heart is hurting like it never has, and I just don't know."

Her tone was both exasperated and kind. "Oh, my love. She is your heartsong. She is your inspiration. She has taught you that love has no bounds and when it is true."

"I tried to create a family and got sick - my son is sick, for a very long time - call me naive but isn't a god supposed to help with these things?" Full-on bitter. He sounded like Tyra. Gods, he sounded just like her. He softened his voice. "I don't feel anything when I pray. I just feel angry and empty and fearful." He waved a hand; his stomach was cramping. "I don't want to talk about it."

She cut through his misery with a sharpness he did not expect. "Andrew, trust me when I say I understand how you feel. You need to talk about it, you can't just dismiss it."

"You do?" Quietly. "I would not have expected that. You are - a rock, an anchor. You've felt this way?" A long minute, her fingers tracing the brindle patterns on Tiger's hide, before she spoke.

"I lost my twins, two precious children I never got to know. I almost found myself considering life as a vampire." Another long pause. "I am not a rock. But I know in my heart that Aeridin is with me each step I take regardless of how I have doubts through trials in my life. This is a trial for you, Andrew, and you will endure and you will survive and you will not be alone one moment." A pointed look at his charm-free neck.

He sat back, absorbing, running his thumb over his upper lip. "I remember you telling me about the vampire thing - but not the children."

"I was pregnant, and taken captive at the time. It was so much that I could not handle it. I miscarried them." After all this time, it came out matter-of-fact. He gave her a sudden gentle look.

"I can see why you'd have a crisis. I'd lose it, I know it."

"Andrew, I almost did. I withdrew and the only one able to reach me was Krys. He is the one who taught me that every moment is to be cherished because it doesn't belong to us, we belong to the moment." She leaned forward, holding his eyes with hers, the intensity behind them a white hot flame. "We are meant to be part of something that is beyond our control, and we can either wallow in self pity or embrace each experience and moment for the gift that it is. It's a chance to learn and grow in our faith."

A heartbeat, leaning forward, unable to break her gaze. "Something beyond our control. I always thought I was free to chance and whim until now. Now all I want to do is control..."

Again, sharpness, slicing his tendency to hear what he wished to hear. "You can't though. You have to let go of control and just accept this is a moment, and it will pass."

"I don't want to pass with it! I don't want my son to pass. I don't want Tyra to pass, pain in my rear that she is." She smiled and sat up straighter.

"You won't pass. Ty and Tyra. You are all too stubborn." This earned a slight smile from him and he sat back.

"Why do you put up with me?"

"Because I love you. Isn't that obvious?" Again, matter-of-fact. How many years now? How many? Seven, eight? And he still loved her, was still happy to see her, still excited by her. Had, indirectly (chicken), asked her to marry him. He rested an elbow on the chair arm and his chin on that hand, mouth on his knuckles. Let the minutes pass as examined her. His eyes warmed, radiating love almost tangibly, before he spoke.

"It is. I wonder what I did to be so lucky. Sometimes - it's like Ilsare is tapping me on the head, then pointing at you."

Her smile was wicked. "I think she is slapping you silly but you are just so thick-skulled that you feel it as a tapping."

He laughed. It came out rusty - it had been a while since he'd laughed like that, and then he laughed again, a release he hadn't expected. "I think you're right." Tiger whuffed at the sudden noise and put his head in Elly's lap. Her smile was bright at Andrew's laughter, and she hugged the rottweiler and rubbed his belly again.

"It is such a beautiful sound to hear him laughing, isn't it Tiger?" The dog snorted, unimpressed at the interruption of his nap, and rolled over for the belly rub. Andrew stretched his leg out and rubbed the dog's haunches with his boot.

"I've made so many mistakes, love. Tyra being one of them. I don't know what I'm going to do about that but I do know this - I would marry you." Better. Not "Will you marry me", but better.

"It's not about whether you are sick Andrew. It never was. It never is." He cocked his head at her. "Marriage isn't about just the good things. Krys reminded me when we... lost our children that it wasn't just about my own pain, it was about the fact we had both just lost two precious children and we both were suffering." He nodded, not quite understanding. She sighed. "I want to wrap my arms around you, Andrew, and hold you close, but I know that if I do it would be without restraint and then I would not be able to help you."

He should have wondered if that was a yes or a no, but two words stopped him. Without restraint. He knew what that meant and he wanted it. WANTED it. His hands shook and he clamped down on months of sensation denied. "I wish you could too, love."

If she saw his reaction, or sensed it, she didn't say. "I settle for the gentle closeness I can give you by taking care of you."

"Maybe you're not a rock but - Tyra asks for so much, and gives little back, and Ty is a child. I'm not used to being a lifeline, and especially now when I'm on the brink. I can't even put in words what it means to me - you are an anchor, you are my Sun." She smiled, but his worry worked past his romantic words. "I have to keep strong for them, although Tyra's noticed me pulling away."

"I want to be the warmth in your life as long as you will allow me." Her smile was soft but firmed with her next words. "Tyra has to make her own choices. She has to let go of her past so she can move on in her life."

He nodded. "I told her that the other night. We had a long talk. I was much less kind than before." That earned a warmer smile.

"You are wise, my love."

He scoffed, openly. "When it's other people’s problems, sure." A thumb over his upper lip again. He considered using on of his scrolls - he really wanted to feel hair under his fingertips. "But whether she'll listen? She wanted to know why we were not - loving, anymore. I told her it was because we don't have love. Just sex and Ty. I tried to tell her about us, you and I - the connection, the trust. The way we anticipate each other. Support." A soft smile for her. "Forgiveness." She returned the smile. "I'm not sure she got it."

"I am not sure that anyone other than you and I will ever understand it." She paused, her lips curling up in a tiny smile that made her cupid's bow almost irresistible. "I kind of like that its sort of like our little secret."

The corner of his mouth quirked up, but his mind was still on Tyra. "But that kind of connection is essential for love. Love isn't sex, or I'd be a Xeenite right now."

"You know what I think?"

"What do you think." She started to open her mouth and he grinned. "Wait -" She shut her mouth with a click and he stretched his hands toward her, eyes closed, then brought one back to his forehead and scrunched his face up in concentration. "You think, that I'm over-thinking things and worrying too much." He opened one eye and looked at her.

She tried to sound suspicious past her giggles. "Have you been practicing divination?" He grinned again, and she continued, more serious. "You have been searching for something special, and all this time Ilsare has been guiding you. She has been whispering in your ear, as Aeridin has been in my own." He tapped an ear reflexively and she gave him a smug smile. "It does help if you clean them out occasionally. Sometimes you listen, sometimes you don't. But you can't deny the gifts she has blessed you with."

A tiny head shake from him.

"You love Ty, and it’s a completely different love for you as a gift from Her to understand."

He nodded, looking at his hands. She didn't let up.

"She gives you love even for Tyra, who can be very difficult. And then she gives you love for Me, who can do no wrong." She winked at him, and he could think of only one word to follow that.

"Amen." Her expression was that of a benevolent goddess, and he laughed again, but she wasn't finished.

"She gives you love for the music of friendship between you and Lana too." Her eyes were boring into his again, kind but unrelenting. He rubbed his face, hard.

"So you think I should put the necklace back on and stop being sulky and morose?"

"I do. I have never been more sure about it." He took a deep breath. Sat up. Stood. She smiled. "You will feel much better if you do."

He waved a hand in surrender, half joking and half with nervous relief, and started toward his room. "I'll be right back." Elly rubbed Tiger's belly then lay down on the carpet with him, pressing her head against the big dog's side and belly and letting her head rise and fall with his breathing. Tiger put a front paw on her nose and sprawled. She took hold of the paw and lifted it off her face with a giggle; Andrew returned, re-seating himself with royal majesty.

"I'm going to steal this chair." He stretched his legs toward them and let the charm fall from his hand, holding the silver chain loosely in his palm.

She laughed at him. "I don't think anyone else could sit it in. It has a perfect impression of your tush."

"And it is a perfect impression, because it's a perfect tush." His sniffed, nose high.

"Amen!" More giggles. He smiled, but his focus was on the silver heart and the silver clef suspended inside, studded with a single perfect emerald. She propped up on one arm. "Would you like a bit of help putting it back on, my love?"

He dangled it from his fingers for a scant moment, then let out a breath and slid it on, working it over his broad nose. He shook his head at Elly. "I've worn this for thirty-one years. I sometimes forget it's not a part of my skin."

She smiled, and he smiled, reaching up to hold the charm and run it back and forth, back and forth, along the silver chain...

[RollinsCat]

Lor was quiet today.  The initial shock seemed to have worn off; so far, the armies had not overrun the city.  People, needing to hold to something concrete, put out their wares on tables and hauled boxes to and from ships and measured for dresses and loitered near doorways.

Just another day, if it were not for the pall as grey as a Sulterio-worshipper's skin hanging in the air.

He did not sing today.  He was sung out, his throat raw.  Honey tea and some rest had given him his speaking voice back but even that he used sparingly.  No, today was Bella's day, he and his grandmother's violin - his violin - wandering, playing, listening.  The weather was mild, the sun less heavy on the skin, and he opened his shirt to the sea breezes as he walked.

Today was a day for making people feel good.  As he strolled, stopping here and there to entertain one, three, a dozen if they had the time for a song, he had flashbacks; to Huangjin and years spent doing...just this.  To Mariner's Hold, Fort of Kings, Kartherien, Port Hempstead, Leringard; to Dalanthar, Hurm, Hlint, Krandor...even Brennuth far up in the mountains, the dwarves hooting and stomping to his anti-Rael songs, and as far south as Spellgard, although he'd only played there twice that he could recall.  To every little town between here and nowhere on each continent that his feet had trod, either to whip people up or calm them down or pry a laugh from their work-hardened faces.

His whole life could be written from those footsteps and the notes that lingered in their wake.

The question he rarely asked himself was why.  Meeting Edgar and joining the Resonance had nudged that question forward, and he'd felt it bubble up time and again - why did it matter when he had an effect on someone, when his music made some difference - either to himself, burrowing into the sound to escape as surely as he'd have picked up a bottle years previous, or to someone else, displaced for a moment from their reality to hear something beautiful.

Why?  And did there have to be a reason?

It was on his mind today.  If he had a higher purpose, a greater goal, it had so far eluded him.  He had dreams and he thought sometimes they were the same thing, but that was wishing; what he wanted, and what Ilsare wanted for him did not necessarily have anything to do with one another.  He finally, at forty, understood that.

He stopped his musings to play for a family waiting to board a ship.  He would always stop for children, delighting in their delight, absorbing their uncloistered joy.  This family was a vision of starched-collar perfection under the mild sun, the father in hose and a tunic of a bottle-green raw silk, the mother wigged and powdered in her blue velvet gates of hell.  The children too were dressed in finery but smudges and hastily mended rips spoke to normal childhood play and their smiles said it was not punished.  He played some children's songs, watching the children's enjoyment spread to the adults as some magical infection of joy.

How does this work?  How do I do this?

It seemed more than just the music.  He pondered that as he moved on, waving away their offer of coin with a grin.  Similar to how smiling at someone often brought a smile, or yawning would bring a yawn.  The power of suggestion rippling in the Heartsong, maybe.  Which means it started with him.

Which meant, he had to start with him.  He'd played for himself increasingly often and found it helpful when he carried the music to others, but he never really tried to suggest anything to himself.  He wouldn't listen anyway.  Ah, a joke, but only just - he'd never been good at admonishing himself into anything, although he could calm himself in the music.  As the sun drifted toward the horizon he kept up his walking, and playing, and thinking.

He did another round of Lor patriotism mixed with bawdy fun at the Inn's tavern that evening, but did not linger into the wee hours as he'd done nights previous.  Instead, in his room with the badly silvered mirror and the squeaky rope bed, he sat cross-legged and played.  Not to lose himself, this time, or escape - but to find himself.

[RollinsCat]

Art of my people
There is a sparseness to it
That I cannot grasp
 
Interval spaces
Time to breathe between the lines
I don't stop talking

I would dance than sit
When Huangjin calls me be still
Stomp my feet on pine

Sing to the silence
Ask it questions, who are you?
I am not a monk.

And yet - always yet
The interval is stronger
Than the chords and notes

That which is not heard
Defining the vibrations
Carving sound from noise

I must carve myself
Into sound - I, interval
I put down the quill.

[RollinsCat]

Mylord Andrew

I have contacted the Mayors and the Marshal with your information, if you can provide any evidence then I suggest you deliver that to Marshal Sasha.

I am attempting to push some demands through in order to get the current leader of the office removed. Time will tell if I succeed or not.

Please keep me in the loop, for the time being I'm sadly tried on hands and legs and most stay away, this doesn't mean that Lor has left my heart or that I am giving up.


Angela Swann



*sent to Stort via bird*

Milady Angela

Things have gone from bad to worse here in Lor.  Now, the Office of Rael Affairs is sending out persons undercover to goad citizens into speaking ill of Rael so they can be arrested!

I cannot tell you how sick this makes me.  We are now more at risk from our own governance than we are from Rael, who only has to sit and wait, chuckling.

I was rebuked when I tried to get involved with the Office, to the end of trying to influence policy, so with that option currently closed, I call with hat in hand on your expertise.  I am hopeful you kept your thumb on the pulse of Lor both visible and not while on the Diet...is there anyone that you could arrange to contact me, knowing that privacy is now more important than ever, about more covert actions?  The Lor anthems wear thin and there is not much more I can do publicly.

I also wanted to throw an idea at you as you have a status I most certainly do not.  Sedera, Boyer, and Liwich seem happy to stay out of the way at the moment.  I had entertained a dream of bringing them together united against Rael's advancement on the continent (and you may entertain your own ideas on what I was smoking at the time and would probably be right) but realistically, I am a citizen of Trelania and the guy you throw beer bottles at when you don't like the key my song is in.

Not exactly a symbol of peace and hope.

You and your colleagues, however...it may remain a pipe dream on my part but it does seem like the only way to stop him from taking everything, eventually.

I will keep trying here until the bitter end and pray I don't end up in jail before the sound of deep dwarf boots hit the cobblestones.  If you have any suggestions on what else I might do or whom else I might speak to, I am more than willing.

Yours in a Free Lor,


Andrew Reid

[RollinsCat]

Silver chimes counted out the witching hour from some distant hallway.  He rolled to his side and bumped Minu -- she stirred in her reverie, shifting against him.  In a moment he was awake and felt a crystalline edge of clarity despite having been asleep since only half-ten.  He flipped quietly to his back and lay unmoving.  The room was painted in the shades of a single waning candle and scented with sandalwood, tobacco and passion, and his eyes strained to watch the ceiling as the weak taper made dancing oddities of common objects.

The room.  In the Breath of the Muse, toward the back, with a window; similar to the one he'd occupied years before when he'd accompanied Zira and Zari on their journey here.  It was decorated much the same as last time with a piano, instrument stands, music stands, chairs, a gong casting a wobbling black sphere across the arched plaster; and during this stay, a strange but appealing contrast of ornate Voltrexian curves and Huangjin simplicity.  Vines grew down otherwise bare walls and wound toward straw mats that covered the floor.  A low table of teak held vases painted with scenes from elven history and an explosion of scribed parchments and note-covered staff paper, ink pots, charcoals, and quills.  Two wrought iron candelabras branched upward in swirls and curves that highlighted the plain rectangle of the long platform bed.  Long enough that his feet did not hang off the end; he'd stared at their hostess with frank amazement on first glance in the room, and she returned only a knowing smile.  Both he and Minu had felt a shiver of unwinding as soon as they'd walked in.  It was perfect.

The shadows were fusing, here a slice of lighter black, there a flicker of a shape against the dark blob of ceiling, until finally the candle gave out with a sharp, tiny hiss.  Even then the darkness was not complete.  Ausir leaked around the paper shade and allowed gray tones to suffuse the air.  For once, his poor eyesight was an advantage, at least aesthetically; the grayness faded to black in fuzzy tidal waves and made the whole room flow as a Yoshida masterpiece.

He clung to small sounds and judged variations of gray and black in an effort to stay afloat in the stream of minutes and hours.  He listened to Minu's breathing and watched the room fall pitch black as a cloud covered Ausir, only to return to murky gray perhaps a minute later.  Or two.  Or three...scenes from the week drifted in fits and starts across his consciousness and each time remembered a little differently - how much the mind is a play from opening to closing night, each performance holding a theme but with tiny variations within.  Minu in the vast kitchens of Ilsare's largest temple and her rampant delight at the array of herbs, spices, flours, meats, cheeses, fruits and vegetables...walking through the galleries together, discussing the objects d'art and their reactions to them...dancing together, looking faintly ridiculous at six-foot-six and four-foot-nine respectively, and not caring.

The low table was briefly visible with a swelling of moonlight and he remembered sitting across from Minu as she scribed with some exotic ink or another and smelled sweet and savory and a little of flour.  He played Bella for inspiration or relaxation, putting the violin down occasionally to wander to the piano to work out accompaniment or kneel at the teak table to watch her.  It was the longest they'd spent together in solitary actions, she immersing herself in her favorite hobbies, he in his.  To someone observing it would have seemed platonic but for little evidences; the bed in a perpetual state of muss, clothing flung in odd places as if discarded in a hurry.  A rather startling pile of sheets needing washing.

This holiday had given him a gift he'd never expected on top of everything else.  He'd found a kindred soul, an older violinist named Keaton Phelps.  He ended up following the man around like a puppy.  A forty-year-old puppy.

The very first time he'd heard Keaton play he'd been humbled.  Oh, he had skill and talent.  He'd been schooled in how to play his instrument, first by his grandmother, and then by a succession of tutors culminating in a stint at the Sato music school.  And he'd nearly been kicked out, not for lack of ability but for lack of discipline.  Of course he'd been well on his way to alcoholism by then, not that it was an excuse.  His lessons were something his parents had struggled to afford -- and he'd been a lazy sod and resented most of his teachers, most especially Master Hyogo.  And despite coasting on talent to avoid work, he'd spent decades being cocky about his ability, enjoying the occasional awe in people's eyes at his playing.  He'd earned it, no?

But Keaton.   He felt itching shame at the base of his neck as well as the same awe he'd seen in others, and more than a touch of envy.  The man's phrasing...rubato, dynamics, articulation, pitch...all of it on a plain oak violin, was far and away the best he'd ever heard.  The spaces between notes, the tangible movement of the song, the violin speaking as clearly as any human voice.  His own music felt noisy and excessive by comparison, a chattering of washer women at market.  And Keaton did not have a drop of magic in him.

Every day since the first he'd spent some time with the older man -- six of the seven he and Minu had before they departed.  For once he did not whip out Bella and try for a violin duet, or play his own songs looking for opinion.  He listened.  He watched.  He asked questions about technique and the use of silence with enthusiasm he'd never shown in Sato's school.  He took what he learned back to the room, and practiced.  Musical minimalism, the art of saying more with less.  Something he was pretty lousy at but with time...and practice...

It had been a good holiday so far.  A friend made, a happy lover...learning...he'd written about the tsunami too...after shooing Zir -- Min --?  Zira, no, that was the last time.  Today he'd shown Keaton his illusionary sound spells and they'd debated the nature of illusion while Keaton played.  Minu had spent some time at the blanking wall, resting her mind.  He'd taken Alex to the statue room...wait, that was last time...

His mind was turning to velvet and he fell back asleep as soon as he decided it was a good idea.

......

...Alexander is once again settled under his chin, resting on his left shoulder as a guardian angel might.  He plays, fervently, looking for something but still learning what the tempest has impressed on his friend.  The sound is deeper now at the low end and the repair to the bridge has left a slight wobble in the middle range, but not unpleasant.  And at the top range, new strings taken from the woman Katrien's violin add a sweetly feminine sound, one that gives the impression of two instruments at times.

He plays, building the seeking tune and enjoying the acoustics of the room.  But what he searches for isn't there.  

He suddenly picks up Alex, throws the door open in his haste, and walks directly to the room where the statue of Ilsare stands.  He perches on the alcove over the water and they begin to play.  He draws on the laughter of the women he's entertained, the crowds he's pleased.  The many little deaths he's contributed to over years of loving, the pain of bad decisions and worse nights, of waking empty inside searching for a bottle, of living with what he's done and people left behind when his fancy moved on.

He plays until he's sweating, and finally lays Alex down. He stares at the statue with his right hand pressed into the hollow below his breastbone and lets the tears come. He hears his voice, but it is miles away..."Not this time, friend. Maybe we need Bella to help us?  But close, very close..."

Bella.  He sat up in the dark with no idea how long he'd been asleep but -- Bella!  Sliding from the bed, he snatched pajama pants from the back of a chair and padded to where the violin slept in her black pebbled leather case.  He tugged the pants on, took the violin and left, closing the door with the barest click.

The hallways to the inner sanctuary were hauntingly familiar.  He was walking in his dream, but with Bella, not Alexander.  There was an echo to his steps that brought Grandmother Rose to mind.  She'd always had a long stride.  The thought of her next to him made him smile.

Maybe it was the tired, but it felt like he was there before he started, as if the hallways had shrunk toward him until carved double doors nearly smacked him in the face.  Bare feet registered the sudden warmth of rugs; his skin rippled in the cooler air of the marble-block sanctuary, and he saw his Lady in stone at the top of the far ramp.  Voices, too, speaking elven; a man and a woman.  It felt like each of his senses were disconnected, nothing quite in tandem.

A young and handsome male elf peered from a space behind the ramp and there was a giggle.  The young man tugged on a milk-white hand and a pretty young elf slipped out.  They did not speak in common and so whatever they said was lost on him, but smiles indicated they were not holding a grudge at their canoodling being interrupted.  He didn't wait for them to get fully out the sanctuary doors.  Taking the ramp at a lope he knelt in front of the pool, looking up at the statue of Ilsare in a bizarre flashback.  Here he'd been, right here, and played his heart out when he thought he was looking for "his" song.  Years later, he'd found Hers, instead.  And spent years after that trying to hear Her, affect others through Her, calm himself with Her.

And here he was.  Here She was.  Here Bella was.  He didn't give himself time to think but opened the case, kneeling lower.  He still wasn't centered -- smell, touch, hearing, and sight all felt a fraction of a second off-key.  Despite that, a rush of fluttery, tingling warmth spread from his core, excitement -- anticipation -- a strong sense of having come in a circle.  Bella fit under his chin in a way no other violin could.  It was not until he put the bow to her strings that he came back into focus, his senses merging, snapping together.

A letting go in one whoosh of breath and he put the bow to the strings of Bella, his violin, his grandmother's violin.  Their violin.

Breathing, not playing.  Bringing himself back to calm, shaking off half-remembered dreams.  His eyes were closed.  Fleetingly he imagined the smell of flowers, felt the compassion and infinite patience of the beautiful marble statue above him and the Goddess it represented.  Not yet, he'd imagined her saying - had he imagined it? - Soon, though, soon...

And when his heart and breathing was slowed, the fluttering in his midsection sitting calmly on a branch with a gentle beat of wings, he turned inward and began to play.

//for Carillon

[RollinsCat]

She glides away with a grace he'll never master and a beauty that is as foreign as it is enticing.  The price of humanity, to be at best a source of amusement for the longer-lived races.  But she is not unkind, before she takes her leave for "business on Voltrex" - bemused, definitely, flattered - possibly?  Her parting words, "You would not like my real face in the morning..." and her wink left him with a smile, refused or not.  Ah well - always worth a try.

Conversation with the High Druid's entourage goes well and they request a copy of his notes from the proceedings to augment their own scribing.  He'll do that tomorrow - tonight, he has a mission.  

He starts with the same entourage, casually asking about the members of Lister Tremaine's group - for his records, of course.  They do not know, they say, but the Queen's retinue might.  He moves to the message runners and herald's assistants.  They always know a great deal more than most people would expect.  This time, though, there is disappointment, the woman being a mystery to them except for her seeming dominance noted by a few.  As Aerimor said - the mouth is never the leader.  

He keeps chatting, speaking now to a herald in the Queen's service who has some bardic talent.  They compare notes on bits of musical lore and he tries to work his way around to the topic of the Kuhl entourage.  The herald mentions that one of Gruffydd fen Hywell's assistants has a boy taken ill and who currently under the care of the druids. Aha! He spends a few minutes more in conversation, finally taking his leave and strolling to where the child - well, young man, nearing adulthood actually - is being treated.

His offer of entertainment is initially refused and he bows and moves to leave.  There is a clear, young and agitated male voice inside the shelter of the hollowed tree's trunk and he waits - moments later, a harried healer gestures him back in.  The boy is bored, angry at being stuck in a tree while the action carries on outside.  He offers entertainment and distraction and recounts the action of the meeting as if reciting a battle, complete with illusionary sounds and some visuals, amusing the young master.  The father comes in at the tail end of his story and listens from the entrance.

More than he'd hoped for from his kindness; an invitation to fen Hywell's dinner party that night.  Sans Queen, but perhaps that is just as well.  He takes his leave of the boy and father and makes haste to his tent to wash up and put on fresh, pressed clothes.

.......

Druids and other nature's protectors are up before dawn.  He pulls the blanket over his head and tries to hide from the noise.  The party went late and he's exhausted.  But, his mission is complete and someone who is doubtless up by now awaits his results.

After another washing-up he ambles cheerfully out of his tent, spotting Aerimor in contemplation, or so he assumes.  The elf is as still as a Rakasha.  He approaches.  

"Well, Y'ogoldrania shot me down..."

"Indeed, you are neither an elf nor a dragon."

"...but she was at least flattered and a little amused, I think. So close - maybe next time! Such a lovely woman, such grace, such...err...you don't care about that, do you."

"You are most correct."

He coughs, then again, clearing cigar from his lungs. "Right. So, after I offered the druids a less colorful account of the proceedings than I originally scribed, I did some discreet questioning and a lot of smoozing, and managed to wrangle an invitation to a private dinner Gruffydd held last night. Quite the host! Dinner was druid-style, as you would expect - oh, I guess you know all about that - I've eaten raw fish before but never raw deer, although I have to say with thin slicing and the spices it was most delicious. I wasn't as fond of the salad though, I couldn't identify half of...and again, I sense you do not care."

The elf remains quiet, eyes impassive upon Andrew through the entire account, before speaking.  "Once again, you are correct."

He lets out a short laugh, mostly at himself, and goes on.  "Over the course of the evening, Gruffydd and I chatted, and I was able to find out a few things. One, he loves dwarven spirits, which turned out to be good for us."

"Indeed."  The slightest hint of tone to suggest this will not end up a waste of the elf's time.

"After his fourth glass - do you know how hard it was to resist his offers to try it?"  The elf shakes his head slightly once.  

"It smelled like heaven, fifteen year old, single-malt heaven...for me though, it always ends in hell. But I digress. We ended up speaking about the woman with the eyepatch."

"Very good."

"He told me that according to his intelligence, her name is Cyn Chen - she's the head of the Drach Tesak, which makes her the head of Kuhl's spy network and 'internal police', and just about anything else underhanded you can think of. He might have been exaggerating in his revelry - he's most cheered by the Council's decision, seemed to me - and he said he had no concrete proof, but the description fits. You'd think someone that nefarious would look a little less the part, don't you? I mean, the clothing, the eyepatch..."

The elf listens through this part with with no outward changes of posture or expression. When he briefly stops, the elf speaks a touch less tersely; he's sure the elf is speaking to him and not aloud to himself.  "Very good, as I surmised.  And now we know her upon sight."

He opens his mouth to expound.  The elf holds up one furry paw.  "Anything of importance remaining to be said?"

"Only that he's certain she played a significant part in preparing for the final take-over of Kuhl and had a great hand in the disappearing of citizens loyal to the previous Queen. A most disreputable woman, then, and I won't pretend I'm not a little glad I didn't end up calling her out. Not someone I want to bump into one dark night! I hope this is useful to you?"

The elf inclines his head slightly to him.  "Thank you Andrew, your time was well spent. If you will excuse me, I must speak with the High Druidesses present before they depart."

"And I need to re-copy my notes, so I'll be in my tent if you require anything of me. Good morning."  He does a short, fifteen-degree bow and retreats to a makeshift desk in the tent to begin re-copying.  The elf returns the gesture, bowing slightly more than he did.

"Nature's blessing upon you and us all."  The elf turns and heads off.

[RollinsCat]

To:
Master Damon Silverdawn
125 Leringard
Leringard
Mistone

Iracce, Damon!

Your letter is timely as I am closing in on the purchase price.  If you wish to discuss this as a loan, or to have a hand in running things, please let me know.  I laugh as I write this, because I have no earthly business trying to run a drinking establishment - but hopefully, with dreams and a lot of elbow grease, this can become a center for art and artists.  A little bit of Huangjin, far from home.

It goes without saying that you and Zira will have your own suite when you visit!

Speaking of which, please tell your lady to reinforce the warding on your home.  Twice, if necessary.  I'm quite sure Razerium will be doing the same when he returns.  I was in Fort Vehl to talk to an investor when a mist rolled in, bringing death with it in the form of powerful creatures.  I haven't a decent comparison to anything that walks Layonara right now, except to say if you merge the worst aspects of a cockroach and a lobster and chop off three-quarters of the legs, you're getting close.

Be wary my friend.  If the mists come, keep the children inside and the wards up.  They clawed through the roof of the One-Eyed Harpy to get to us.

Your friend and student,


Andrew





Dear Andrew,

Iracce my friend, word on the streets has it that you might be looking to purchase the inn in Mariners Hold, if I am able to help, you have but to ask.  Alas I cannot fund the whole purchase price, but I could certainly pitch in about 50,000 trues if you have need of it.

Regards,

~Damon~

[RollinsCat]

Day Two.

Waking was pure hell.  His ribs, shoulder and chest all converged in a throbbing cacophony; he had a headache and his mouth was dry.  He wanted a cigar.  He needed a cigar.  He had no cigars, and his teeth itched.  The intelligent giant of yesterday was gone, replaced with a suspicious hulk boring him with hostile eyes.  Breakfast was stale bread and salted meat with a light green sheen.  In the middle of a wash of self-pity he turned inward to sing a prayer -- there was always something to be thankful for. Thank you Ilsare for the songs to cleanse disease and poison...

The excitement of what he'd been asked to do had not been completely beaten out of him, however, and he made some notes in his journal, sketching the room he was in for posterity.  He sketched the giants, too; they were superficially very similar and he tried to capture their deep scowls.  

Sketching.  Drawings.  The tip of the charcoal tapped the paper, and his still-aching left arm reached for the silver heart and clef around his neck, zipping it back and forth on its chain.  He didn't speak the language, but maybe...tugging open the drawstring of his pack, he fished out a rod of oak intended for a violin's bow and walked to the closest guard.  The guard's spear snapped up as he approached.  There was an uneasy moment; he wondered how exactly much damage the giant thought he could do with a dowel two feet long?  The sudden foolishness of it made him grin.  He stopped inside the spear's reach, moving deliberately, and used a booted foot to scatter dust and dirt into a sort of palette.  The giant watched, brows knitted, frowning.

Now what. He had a means to communicate and no idea what he wanted to say.  So he drew, in the dirt with the tip of the rod, a rough picture of fire in a brazier near his bedroll area.  After a moment's though he drew the brazier by Gruntaar's chair, and an arrow to the location by the bedroll.  The farther giant stood to look and his guards conferred.  He listened -- the words were basso gibberish, but the inflections and tones he could try to interpret.  The door guard left after a short grunt and he was prodded back to his corner by the tip of a spear.

He drowsed and prayed until what felt like midday, feeling uninspired to do much else while he healed.  Sometime around when his stomach started growling the shaman he'd seen with Gruntaar walked in, far quieter than he expected; his door guard was right behind carrying a stone brazier with hot coals and a bowl of...something grey.  Muse, please, don't let that be lunch.  

The brazier was set near him and the bowl as well.  The soupy grey morass looked like week-old laundry water and smelled like Shiff's socks -- there was a reason he let the old man wear those crusty, clawed boots inside.  Oh Gods, there was a spoon in it -- a silver spoon no less.  He paled and tried to work up a weak smile but the shaman seemed more interested in him than whether he ate.  The giant came close, standing only four or five feet away so he had to crane his neck all the way back to look him in the eye; a limb of a forefinger pointed between them, and the shaman waited.

Here we go. He began to hum, feeling the giant for vibrations for the Al'Noth that he knew.  He felt a strong tug but it was not familiar, not scales and intervals and steps, but something wilder and without a pattern he recognized -- sorcery, perhaps?  Stars and bloody song, how do I draw that?  He took stab, drawing musical notation and putting an arrow to his feet; and then drawing wild lines ending in fire, and an arrow to the giant's feet.  A snappish grunt and the shaman looked at him, waving his fingers around in what must have seemed a mystical manner.  He ended up trying to teach a very simple version of the light song -- just three notes, by the Muse -- but the shaman could not inflect the sounds properly in any fashion and left angry.  

He pushed the soup toward his guard, who squinted supiciously at the largess but finished it in one quick swallow, and rationed himself another bit of bread.  Two more giants came in, adult males with deeply hostile expressions, waiting to be examined.  It looked to be a very long day.  With a final whisper-sung prayer he walked over and began his search for bardic magic again.

[RollinsCat]

Day Twenty-Nine

One glance in the shallow bowl confirmed it.  He looked bad.  Worse for the panic rising in him, because after a month he still hadn't found a single candidate and Gruntaar's patience was wearing thin.

He swirled the stale water and his reflection rippled and shook.  Good, he didn't want to see.  He was paler than normal and his skin was dry and dull, natural oils stripped away by the damned sand baths he had to take.  His hair was greasy and hung lank across his shoulders.  He was losing weight he could not afford to lose.

There was no way to know if he would find anyone to teach.  A few of the adult giants had a flow of Al'Noth -- sorcery, and one with the potential to be a wizard perhaps -- but not one had magic he knew, close to sorcery but flowing through music.  A flashback...sitting in a hall, listening to a guest speaker discussing the fine line between somatic spellcasting and the channeling of magic through sound.  He wished he'd paid attention to that lecture.

His guards changed again and Hurk thumped into the chamber.  He relaxed and nodded and the giant nodded back, sitting with his back to a wall.  Hurk wasn't too bad; he was noticeably brighter than the rest.  He'd play "what is this", trading the names of things in giant for common, and speak slowly so that the inflections of the giant's language could be listened to and imitated.  He'd given up his name -- before then, he'd just been "Fred" -- and called Andrew by name now as well, although it came out Ahn-drooow.  Hurk was also less inclined to jab at him or, Ilsare forbid, pick him up in a crushing grip and stare at him.  That had been without a doubt the worst moment to date and he swore right then, while a beady-eyed giant poked him hard enough to bruise bones and moved his arms and legs about, that no girl-child of his would ever own a doll.  Should he be lucky enough to ever father one.

Fathering children...gods he was horny -- and he missed his boy.  It felt a little icky thinking about both at the same time.  Minu continually starred in his fantasies but there was no possible way to relive himself of that tension, not with an alert guard watching him every second.  He missed her fiercely with as close as they'd become.  Her laugh, her eternal optimism, the way she made him feel like he could do anything.  When he thought of her, he always saw the sun.

Ty was an ache of a different kind and he sang under his breath to ease it.  It almost worked.  He'd left for a month before, but not usually for much longer.  Moments he treasured ticked like points on a slate board -- teaching Ty rapier, reading with him, playing guitar together, making weird faces at each other to drive Tyra crazy -- and not knowing when he'd see his child again hurt more than his bruised flesh.  He sang again, opening himself to his voice, listening to the Heartsong and trying to both soothe himself and find his place in it.  That didn't work well and he settled for his calming songs and some deep breathing.  Which was a lot easier now that he was not smoking.  He hated admitting that.  And still there was a divot in his heart where uncertainty and amae and longing for the laughter of his child had pooled, eroding his optimism one missed memory at a time.

Tomorrow would be thirty days of not feeling the warmth of the sun; having been almost completely alone, even though he was guarded constantly; not having a proper bath, or hugging his boy, or touching anyone he cared about.  Almost thirty days of eating bitter cactus, fried stinging nettle, roasted snake meat -- which, thank the Muse, wasn't all that bad -- and rat or mouse when there were no snakes.  Thirty days of no cigars and no sex.  The slashes on the wall lined up neatly, representing his best guess since he had no marker of time anymore but when he slept and woke.  

Thirty days.

[RollinsCat]

Day Fifty-Three (give or take)

The sounds of shuffling feet punctured his self-soothing song and he listened.  More candidates.  He'd better stand.

Yep.

It was hard to get off the bedroll anymore.  He was looking up at hungry.  An errant push had left him nursing a twisted ankle.  His chalk-dry skin prickled, everywhere, from sand-baths and his treatment was getting rougher every day as each giant was examined and found lacking in magic he could teach; even Hurk was quiet around him now.  He was a pariah - a flaky, unkempt pariah.

Younger giants were herded into the room.  He'd tested so many and Muse only knew where they all came from.  The tribe was a lot larger than what one saw in the first two levels and he wasn't allowed to leave Gruntaar's throne room, even now, to wander and see how deep the caverns went.  He heard the others sometimes; high pitched voices and the yelling and laughter of children drifted the halls.  But he'd never been shown where.  They had to be deep or the tribes would never survive ore and mineral hungry adventurers.

He cinched cut-off pants over his concave stomach, the legs of said pants having been sacrificed strip by strip to maintain what cleanliness was possible, and stood.  It was not the reflexive straightening of months ago but a process.  Knees first.  One foot out, hands on the thigh, brace; push forward and bring the back leg up.  Gods he was tired.

"{Good ground.}"  The children, six in all and roughly equivalent to human teenagers, looked at him as he greeted them in their language.  He'd learned a few words -- he spoke giant like a baby, but it was better than nothing.   He still had to draw or pantomime to get a point across.  

He crossed to the middle of the room, moving with economy rather than his normal loose, long stride, and studied them.  They ranged from seven to around nine feet tall, four males and two females, both the girls with hair.  He'd wondered why all the males seemed to be bald but his attempts to ask in pictures had either been misunderstood or ignored...a head shake and he refocused.  "{Stop.}."  He walked to the beginning of the line.  It was a formality now.  He'd done this so many times.

The first boy had nothing.  It was to be expected.  He moved to the next in the line, a girl barely half a foot taller than him.  How many more kids did they have?  What happened when it ended?  Pointless to dwell.  He sang, reaching out ...the response was so sudden, so there, that for a long second his mind locked up.  He felt a chime, a vibration that rang through him...sucking in his breath he looked at her flat, puzzled face with a rush of elation that threatened to lift him onto his toes.  He motioned her behind him, breathing fast and heart pounding.  She gave him a choppy nod and moved.  Gruntaar, watching the proceedings with dark and protective eyes as he had been since first exposing the offspring of his tribe to a human, sat back in surprise.  All eyes were on the girl and the skinny human male.  He took his necklace in hand and sang a prayer right there.  He almost cried.

Two more with nothing but his mind was still on the female -- could he teach her?  He had to.  How long would it take?  Thank the Muse he had one, at least.  The relief was light and song in his veins against a glacier of ugly thoughts that even his daily-practiced self-soothing or self-elation couldn't stop.  His mind was wandering and he tried to sing himself back into focus but he couldn't, so he moved on.  The next one in line; second to last, the tallest and oldest of the six.  The rush of stepped vibrations was a chorus and his sense of doom receeded even further.  He waved the boy over to where the girl stood, and tested the last.  Nothing, but it didn't matter now.  He wore his first real smile in a month as he turned to the young giant prospects, eyes bright with eight weeks of searching rewarded, unable to speak.  The wild mix of emotions confused them and they shifted from foot to foot waiting to see why they of every other member of their tribe had been chosen.

He took a few breaths, letting them out in a soft hum for himself.  Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't, but he was getting better at it.  The young giantess seemed to be listening closely to him.  He spoke first to the male as he'd noticed this was customary.  

"{Sing?}"  The boy giant shook his head.  He turned to the girl and she shook her head as well, anticipating the question, but he stepped closer and held one hand out, crooking it to his ear, then pointing to her.  She stopped figiting and focused.  Three simple notes, sung just so, held here, clipped there, and light spun from his fingertips.  She had watched his lips as well as listened with the same attentive brow-knitting Hurk often showed.  He nodded to her.

Her voice was completely untrained -- but.  The potential was there, at least in her ability to mimic and that was a good sign.  She got more right than wrong but her focus shifted over his shoulder and he spared a look behind to see the room fast becoming crowded with openly curious or disbelieving giants.  He'd learned another word he knew he would be repeating a lot and turned back to her.  "{More.}"

She repeated the notes still watching the crowd behind him.  He took a chance, moving to her side and putting his hand on her arm to turn her.  "{More.}"  He repeated the notes, making her look him in the eyes.  She glanced at her tribal leader and at his imperious nod, sang -- obediently and without passion or determination.  When the magic did not come, she did not seem surprised.  

She didn't believe.  She had the voice, the magic - but she didn't believe.  He'd already figured out the magic the shamans passed down was like tribal lore; spells from father to son, memorized by rote, chosen for practicality and hammered in by repetition.  There was little finess or art to their magic and females were not taught it.  And here she was, a female, trying to do something she knew could not be done.  He had to make her believe...if she could do it, the boy would fall in line.  He didn't have the language to give her a pep talk so he held a finger up and sang the first note, then made her repeat it.  Then the second, and the third, each time with an encouraging smile and repeated urging with hands and expressions to dip into the sound.  He sang in chorus with her, raising their voices together so she could feel the right pitch, and sang a few minutes of back-and-forth scales as a game.  She smiled and started to relax.

The miracle flaring of light didn't happen as it would in a dramatic carnival play.  Attention shifted elsewhere as they sang, over and over, for nearly ten minutes.  When light encased her hand, only three giants noticed, but it was the right three; the shaman, Gruntaar, and the other potential student.  She stared at the dim glow around her fingers, too stunned to do anything but turn the hand over and back, while he sagged with another wash of relief and a twinge of pride.  "{Good.}"  She only nodded and kept looking at her hand.  Gruntaar sat back in the stone chair and gave him an appraising look, then pointed to the boy.  A murmer started as the girl held up her lit hand -- he didn't have time to pay attention, nor did he notice the sighs of disappointment when the glow faded seconds later.  

The boy straightened and tried to sing the notes before he'd made any gesture.  The young giant's voice was abysmal; it cracked from a child's pitch to a low baritone and that made him smile.  Giants go through puberty.  That makes me feel a little better for some reason.  Shaking the thought aside he got a drum by his bedroll and brought it to the boy, showing him how to create the same tones on stretched skin as the girl had with her voice.  This time the giants in the room - there must have been thirty, now -- paid attention.  

It took considerably longer.  The boy was not as bright as the girl.  After thirty-odd minutes of practice, constantly adjusting how hard the drum was tapped and for how long and trying to prevent the boy's slow slide into frustration, the instrument flashed in an eye-searing blaze of light.  Stars and song!  He hadn't expected that -- not a light spell, but a flare spell.  And strong, the giants were all rubbing their eyes and his vision was full of wavering spots.  His student let out a whoop and looked at Gruntaar, who for the first time seemed satisfied.  Not impressed, but satisfied.  It will do.  I'll call them...Tiny and Tina until I know their names.  

The bruises and aches slipped to the back of his mind.  Thinking of Tyr'riel still felt like a hole in his heart -- but he was finally going to be able to teach what he'd agreed to teach, and he did not make such promises lightly.  He thought, perhaps, that his necklace felt a little warmer on his chest right then.

[RollinsCat]

Day Seventy-Something

"{More}".

"{No more! I am tired!}"

"{More...}"  Cajoling, pleading.  He will not let me stop.  He will not let me rest.  I am tired and I HATE HIM.

Still, she sang, rimming herself in a fairy fire of light.  The human smiled at her as if it she were doing it for him and not for her Chief.  "Very good."

Whatever 'vahri gud' means. She wanted to go watch Bamock fighting.  "{I am done!}"  Of course he didn't understand, the sunstroked little weakling.  He took his stick and wrote more of his stupid symbols.  She could not hit him; her Chief said so, after the last time.  But she didn't have to look.

"Tina, please.  Go over these with me again."  Silence.  "{I ask.}"  More silence.  The human sat.  He sat a lot.  He was skinny and weak and stupid -- he refused to eat the cave lichen soup that would make him stronger and was wasting because of it.  Stupid, sunstroked noisy human.  Did he think the tribe lived on meat?

But he was singing again and she hated him more for how much she liked the sound.  She couldn't do the things he could do.  She was going to be Bamock's childbearer.  The Chief said so, to make the magic between them stronger, he said.  Their children would have the song magic and she would teach them.  But she would never learn as much as Bamock and she would never sing in battle.

"{I ask?}"  The human -- Hurk and Bamock called him by name, she would not -- was pleading again.  She should ignore him further but the Chief would get angry.  He wanted this and she must obey.  Face set, she spun as sharply as she could to look at the symbols drawn on lines in the sand.

He made sounds for them all but she already had her own names.  "Dee."  The male fat symbol.  She sang the sound for it.  "Eee".  The snake symbol.  "Eff."  The scimitar symbol.  "Gee."  The scorpion symbol -- she liked that sound, held it a moment.  "Aye".  She thought it looked weary, bending over itself and called it the tired symbol.  "Bee."  The female fat symbol.  "Cee."  The moon symbol, her other favorite, and back to fat, snake, scimitar and scorpion again.  And again, and again with her drawing and singing them, and again.  She hated him.

"That's enough for today."  His high-pitched, squeaky talk annoyed her until he lowered his voice and spoke properly.  "{Stop.}"  That was all she needed and with a seething look she left the room.  
___________

Gruntaar chuckled.  He should be angry at the girl -- but she was fiery and that was good for what he wanted.  The human Andro had work ahead of him with her.  Bamock was much easier to teach.  The boy was eager to be a battle drummer, something unheard of in his tribe in many generations of families; it would bring him accolades and position and their children would be powerful, fire willing.  His gaze went to Andro, lying on his cloth and waving his fingers around to making songs without noise.

He wanted more from the human of course.  So far all the youngsters could do was make light and his shaman and shaman's son could do that.  But they could also sing and drum, and from that came a power that had previously faded to stories.  From thier song came more accurate strikes and more damage.  Andro had sung, right after the initial discovery of the children's power, to show them what they might do someday.  He recalled the quiet, a heartbeat or two's worth, while the tribal warriors felt the power surging in them - and then an explosion of fistfights and wrestling as each clansman tested the limits of the song's power.  It was chaos, glorious with the smell of heat and blood, fire and fury.  When the song finally faded more than a few bones were broken and the tribe was behind the little human's teachings fully.  That he could sing their bones and flesh together was just one more reason.

Still, he'd be glad when the human was finally gone.  He never stopped singing and had started talking to himself as well.  The chieftan found himself with a headache most days.

____________

It was Bamock's turn.  The boy came in flushed and bleeding from a cut by his left eye, 'Tina' right behind with a now-pleased smile.  He finished his snake and nettles; where was he going to find snake in the Mariner's Hold marketplace?  Could Minu cook snake?  For a moment he subcumbed to fantasy.  Minu in something short and white, feeding him pies and roasts and congee with honey... He was still horny but fantasies of wild lovemaking had faded to more urgent imaginings of him, in a bath, being soaped up while he ate his fill.  He had to laugh.

He swished his fingers in a water basin and wiped them on his chest.  There was no more fabric to use, he was down to a loincloth just as the giants usually wore, saving the remaining scraps of his clothes -- minus the coat, hoods and gloves, those he would not destroy -- for more dire emergencies.  Bamock hoisted a newly-made drum and began to tap so he stood, knowing that he'd be passing out from exhaustion after the boy's lesson.  Gruntaar would not set limits on how long he taught; if Bamock wanted to practice until the next morning, well, he'd better be ready to stay up all night.  Or day.  He didn't know anymore...

"{Good ground, Bamock}".

"{Good ground, Androo.  I practiced.}"  He picked out the greeting, his name, and a first-person pronoun.  The other word was lost on him so he nodded.  The boy was easy -- he wanted the power, worked hard to learn it, but always by rote.  The girl was smart enough to learn scales, pitches and notes, but had no desire.  Muse he had to find a way to get through to her.  Her magic was not perhaps as strong, but her potential was greater.

"{Androo?}"  

He shook himself and forced a smile, gesturing for Bamock to play.  The boy went through the drumming for light and flare, both times creating a strong glow.  His flare song was fierce and everyone in the room shaded their eyes.  

"Very good!"  His student puffed up.  He gave up a huge grin -- the boy's enthusiasm and pride were infectious.  "Now..."  He took up a smaller drum, "smaller" in this case meaning as large as a chu-daiko, and tapped out the simplest healing cantrip he knew.  They'd practiced it for a few days.  It was time to test, and maybe goad 'Tina' into trying a little harder.

Bamock repeated the tappings in a slow rhythm, but he urged the boy to drum faster -- healing spells needed to be swift.  Again and again he pushed for speed, challenging the boy to pound it out.  It would not work if the tempo was too slow.  The sudden urgency caught the attention of every giant in the room and he upped the timing once more -- Bamock stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, intent and beating as fast as he could, until he stopped with wide open eyes and held up a hand.  The faint glow around the hand was the warm gold of Aeridin's sun, flickering off the flesh as rays.  

"Touch your eye, quickly!"  Of course the kid gave him a baffled look; he thrust his drum aside and slid forward, pushing the boy's hand to his face and singing to let the magic go.  Bamock sat with a glowing hand on his bruised eye and he felt a twist of frustration.  He took Bamock's other hand and hit the drum with it, praying he'd get close to the right note.  Both hands struck the drum and if it was him or the giant who released the spell he could not tell.  The magic encased the cut and vanished; the cut vanished as well and the room breathed a collective sigh as Gruntaar let out a few loud claps.  The sudden movement had worn him out.  He sat down hard, half a foot from his student, with a fiercely satisfied look; one he let 'Tina' see. Hope that fixes your little red wagon, princess.

It had the desired effect and he thanked Ilsare in a whispered prayer.  Both giants practiced with him, working on the tempo and notes to bring forth this smallest of healing lights.  Gruntaar sent a female to get something as the lesson was winding down; she returned as his students were leaving and he was stretched out on his bedroll, mind blank from lack of food and poor sleep.  He'd felt that a lot lately and wondered if it was a form of meditation, something he'd found nearly impossible without the help of drugs.  But here, always tired and with nothing to distract him, he could lie down and think of...nothing.  Nothing at all.  Except for that smell...what was it?...he forced himself to sit and was presented with a bowl of stew that smelled so good for a moment he could not place it, he could only stare at the chunks of beige-pink meat and salivate.  He took the bowl with wolfish urgency and snatched some of the steaming muscle tissue in two fingers, stuffing it into his mouth.  

Oh gods, it was pork.  Wild pig by the gaminess of it, Muse only knew how they'd gotten it, but it was pork, seasoned with desert herbs and cooked with chunks of heart of palm.  He hunched over the bowl as if he were defending it from a pack and continued to eat with his fingers, each bite as good as his first time in bed with a woman.  Failing to finish it all, he covered the bowl, stuck it near enough a brazier to keep it warm, and fell immediately asleep.

It was a good day.

[RollinsCat]

Day Ninety-Seven

Singing woke me yesterday.  I believe it was not morning when I was stirred by a chorus of deep and drunken voices.  I've not seen the sun in ninty-seven days, give or take a week; but I still think it was closer to evening if only because celebrations usually happen later in a day.

Both my guards were missing and I had a fierce urge to run to the surface.  More than any other time since coming here, I wanted to leave.  But, I made a promise, and so instead I bathed as I could and continued to cut a dress made for a matronly woman into something approaching a tunic.  It is cream and white silk with lace everywhere that I am ripping off to use for cleaning myself.  I don't know why they took so long giving me clothes, or where they came from, or to whom they may have belonged.  I only know that since the day of the first healing cantrip -- which I feel quite guilty over as I now think it was my hand that released the magic -- they've treated me better.

The clothes they gave me came in two small travel wardrobes which I have been using for seating since.  There were no personal items in either box; I checked, desperate for something to connect me to humanity again.  I did find a pair of pants made for a short, round man.  With my belt they hang just past my knees, blousing but roomy.  There were some shirts, also for a short round man, the pair of which do not extend far enough for me to tuck at the waist and that stink of pomade and sweat.  Perhaps the former owner had not done laundry before his possessions were re-assigned, I do not know, but they have been set aside.  I don't even want to use them for cleaning the smell is so strong.

In the chests I also found two dresses for a larger woman and these I cut into tunics, wearing the blue one as I write and the white one nearly ready.  Removed of feminine artifact and with darts pulled out to hang straight, they make passable garb.  I am grateful I am no longer required to parade around in that strip of fabric I was left with -- I do not like to see myself these days.  It is all easier to swallow, pun intended, if I'm covered.

I reflected on this while singing to myself, in a louder voice that I use when I am under guard; my voice seems to annoy them and so I hum or sing under my breath, usually.  I find it humbling.  It's not a reaction I'm used to -- not as much annoying as almost painful for them.  Hurk once indicated I sound like a bit like a bug.  But with the room empty I indulged my voice and wished I was holding Bella, whose existence I have kept secret, and Minu as well, and that I could sit and listen to Tyr'riel talk about the things that little boys like to talk about.  My chest ached with the ever-widening hole of seclusion and the singing was only marginally helpful.  I had my eyes closed and my child in mind when I decided that sitting in an empty room was pointless.  After all this time, they probably would not kill me; so I left and began to wander.

The caverns taper down and I followed the noise, curious as to what a giant celebration would look like.  I could hear booming laughter, laying a trail as sure as heavy feet on muddy ground.  The chamber I found (I remind myself that this was the first time I'd left Gruntaar's throne room since arriving) was huge and hewn, not natural.  Giant stew pots were everywhere, as were kegs as large as some halfling homes and more female giants than I've ever laid eyes on before.  I saw Gruntaar presiding over a drinking contest not fifteen feet from me; two of my guards in a wrestling match with a ring of their kin egging them on; and flirting, giant-style.  This I was most interested in, being a cleric of my Lady in a bard's body.  It seems to involve bravado for the younger males, any sign of interest in the female, and permission from a glaring father.  So, not that much different from us.  

Hurk was there in a playful shoving and poking match with a lady giant who was holding her own despite his size.  I noted that he was with her, as he is with me, gentle; or as gentle as a giant gets, which is to say not very.  It did reinforce something I've noticed about myself, however, namely that I've stopped thinking of many of these people as giants and think of them instead as...people.  Hurk, the giant giant who is easygoing like the best of men, unruffled by small things, and blessed with curiousity enough to learn a few words of common (and one of Tilmarian, it makes me smile to say).  Bamock, eager but not so bright.  He'll be a fine drummer but I'll need to come back and teach him every song he learns.  He's not going to be like "Tina".  She was not at the party, but unseen as I was in the lee of a bolder I took a few moments to think of what she's taught me.

It's not that the giants are so savage that they can't learn, far from it.  It is simply that like dwarves (I must remember to never say this in front of one) they have used their strength for so long that they've lost the history of magic in their culture.  Magic became something handed down to specific individuals or used against them when someone wanted something they had.  Some giants seem to hate it, in fact -- my impression that the tribe was fully behind Gruntaar's decision has been challenged since.  I have come to appreciate the bold step this chieftan made given the resistance he's encountered and have found respect for him as well.  Yes, they all cheered when healing light shone -- but their memories of Grannoch are not so far gone as those of wizards and sorcerers.  He had the vision to ask for that which has been long lost to his people and I find I can't refuse.  It does make me wonder if giants exist that use the Al'Noth freely.  I must ask Gurnorhn if I ever get out of here.

I digress.  It came to pass, enlightenment courtesy of Hurk once again -- I believe I will miss him -- that "Tina's" grandmother is a magic hater.  Both Tina's parents were slaughtered in a silver raid by adventurers so I wonder that she tolerates me at all.  Since that revelation I have tried different ways to soften her, with mixed success.  Fighting through racial prejudice is difficult enough.  Add in a personal loss and it comes down to her obedience to her Chief and my willingness to take abuse.  Fortunately for all of them, after twenty-five odd years of loving women, I've become a grand master of that skill.

Having mulled through that, I let it go and watched the party.  I would have observed and slipped back to my wide open cage no one the wiser but for a sharp pair of female eyes.  She came up behind me, engrossed as I was in some tableau involving two males and a female, and poked me in the back.  I don't mind saying I nearly wet myself.  She was not hostile however; merely very drunk and feeling playful, and obviously aware of who I was.  She invited me via hand gestures to come over to a gaggle of younger females and in a moment of "why not" I accepted, hoping that a good reason for being here would pop into my head if I were challenged.

From here, it gets harder to be honest.  I am not proud of what I must force myself to write.

I used drawings and gestures and my few words to communicate what I could, mostly "hello" and "I am Andrew".  They gave me their names and I remember Brunshil and Harga.  Harga was the frisky lady who took me from my hiding spot.  She was also the one who pressed the smallest container she could find -- embarrassingly, a cup carved for a giant child's playset -- into my hands, filled with whatever they were drinking.

Maybe it was the depression I'd been fighting.  Maybe it was weakness, or pain, or a need to pour something into that hole in my heart, but I drank.  I didn't even question.  I didn't say to myself "Andrew, you are an alcoholic.  You should think before you drink."  I tipped up the wooden vessel -- almost a bucket, for me -- and swilled down the contents until I could not hold any more.  

Maybe, having thought on that, I wanted to die.

The liquid was fermented cactus juice and something else that reminded me of the grey soup they keep trying to foist on me.  I wish now, of course, that I had thrown it up, although that would not have made for good relations.  Instead I put the bucket down, having taken in over a quarter of it, and proceeded to sing for them.  I have worked on stretching into my lower ranges since the discovery of how my voice sounds to giant ears and was able to brush E2.  I thought I was singing rather well for being so far outside my comfortable range.

Five minutes later, I thought I was in an opera.  The juice came on like a bolder downhill.  I was having trouble keeping my feet and felt as tall as any of the giants in the room despite it; the ladies seemed quite amused.  Harga, having shown herself unafraid to lay hands on me, helped me stay upright while I continued to sing some operatic piece.  I can only imagine how I must have sounded.  I was far too drunk to make any judgement.

Drunk; I was drunk.  Years of sobriety washed away in a child's toy.  I wish I could lie to myself but I can't.  Perhaps in all the lies I've told that is my one saving grace.  I want to say it was awful, that I felt crushing guilt, that I didn't enjoy it -- all lies.  I staggered around that room and felt fantastic, my body responding with decades of practice to the intrusion of demon alcohol.  The only regret I could formulate was the lack of a heavy burn to the booze.  Maybe it's because of the cactus juice?  Regardless, I became something of a hit before my guards caught on to my presence.  I recall Harga being quite adamant that I not be removed and I had acquired a small crowd of giants who were finding my impairment very funny.  That they should talk, everyone in that room was three sheets to the wind.  

The guards summoned Gruntaar and he stood many long minutes looking at me.  I felt a bit as if my own father were scrutinizing me on a night I snuck home late.  Come to think of it, that was most nights.  After an intolerably long time, he began to laugh, and I laughed with him.  I began some inane pantomime about boy meets girl using Harga as a prop.  She found it so funny she half fell over on me, and I ended up on the floor laughing, and then it was just a party until...I almost wrote dawn.  Until whenever.  I stayed drunk the entire time and it is truly a wonder I didn't die given my current weight and health.  

Today I woke to a crushing headache and no recollection as to how I got back to my bedroll.  I have not been hung over in a decade.  Even before I quit drinking, I was past the hangovers, which was part of my deepening worry over my addiction.  I spent the morning clinging to my Heartsong, singing to myself, drawing in all the calm I could muster for I kept breaking out in tears.  Not for no reason of course -- I thought myself stronger than this.  I have spent my life playing the buffoon and taking all measure of verbal sparring with my cheek turned.  I do not know what I am capable of unless it involves self-destruction; I have a child, and I feel I have let him down with this although he may never know about last night.

And there, I just set myself to tears again.  I am angry, miserable in this place without anyone to talk to, and the hole only got bigger last night; the alcohol filled it but upon draining it was eroded with my regret on top of missing everyone.  I sing, right now, looking for something in my voice that will soothe me, tell me it's alright, and like Tina I do not believe that it's possible.

I am spending the day in prayer.  My students have not arrived and whatever that celebration was for, it has made these caverns tomb-quiet as we all shake off the effects of the party.  I have but one question for myself and my Lady, my Goddess, today:  Can I do more with my life than kill myself?


Andrew William Takeshi Reid

Somewhere in Sedera  1472

[RollinsCat]

Day One-Hundred and Fifty-Four; Stars, and Song

Gruntaar escorted him most of the way to the surface.  A group of giants followed behind, out of sight but he could hear them talking.  The Chief gave him the honor of himself as guard.  After all this time he understood the significance.  They spoke as the giant walked and he jogged to keep up, and he was proud he'd learned enough to respond even if he sounded like an infant.

"{Not much magic, but you tried.  You did not leave.}"  He got a few words, enough to catch the gist.

"{I back.}"  He hoped Gruntaar made sense of that -- the Chief grunted and nodded.

"{I'll think on it.  You talk to Big Rock if you want to come back.  Don't try to find us.}"  Gruntaar's voice was level and firm.  He caught Big Rock's name, and the word talk, and a hint of some warning -- okay, so Big Rock would be the contact again.

"{Gurnorhn?}"  Another grunt, and a so-so gesture.  Well, he'd try to bring his big friend anyway.  At least he's have someone to talk to.  Talk at, more likely, but someone that understood him.  He started, in his deepest voice, to discuss the students.  He wasn't sure if Gruntaar spoke common but he seemed to know a lot more than he let on.  "Tchal learns very quickly and I think she's taken an interest, finally -- thank the Muse! -- in her studies.  Bamock, well...Tchal or myself will have to teach him new songs, he practices hard but he's not going to create his own spells.  They both have the songs for light and flare committed to heart and Bamock is nearly there on the healing cantrip -- Tchal knows it.  I chose to drill it into them rather than push new material, I thought it best they be very confident before we move forward.  Who knows, if you keep on Tchal she might write her own little cantrips -- she understands some of the theory."

"Mm."  Gruntaar listened.  He hoped the giant chief was faking him and understood common.  

"Don't let Bamock stop practicing the healing cantrip.  Make him use it.  Make him use it on every scratch and bump in the tribe.  He likes to slow the tempo then wonders why it doesn't work."  The Chief looked at him without a response.  "{Bamock drum...}" He tapped out the cantrip for healing on his pack "{...more.}"  Gruntaar nodded and moved in front of him, blocking the passage.  He stopped with a prickling in the back of his neck.  They were close to the surface, he could feel it in the warm and dry air and he wanted light on his skin, he wanted to see the sun.  Five months underground.  He wanted to see the sun.  NOW.  Instead, they stood there while he shifted from foot to foot, singing for himself, until the other group caught up.  Hurk was with the six lagging guards, grinning at his former "guest" and holding a large sack with his usual unusual care.  He lay the sack down and another, empty one, and gave the filled sack a minute nudge with his finger.  It looked like there was a body in it.  His throat started to close.  They valued their privacy here, had he misjudged?  Was this a fast trip to Mariner's Hold with a stop on the Soul Mother lunch wagon as a snack?  

When she crawled out, he froze.  Of all the things -- had she been there all along, in the caves? -- the dresses, were they...but no, they could not have been.  He stared and his mind danced off on a tangent.  Both dresses had been for a larger woman, likely older as the style was something a matron might favor.  This woman was slender, thin but in much better condition than he -- an athletic build, narrow hips and a small chest, she could not be the owner of the garments that now served as his tunics.  He saw that her hands and legs were tied with perhaps two feet of rope between, so she could walk and attend to herself but not run.  She looked terrified although the terror was directed more at the other giants than Hurk.  So he'd guarded her too.  He was going to miss the big guy.  

As his mind spun she saw him and her eyes went wide.  Large, liquid forest green eyes, blazing with fear from a face as tanned and dark as his own and framed in a wild tangle of black hair.  They stared at each other in silence and he felt she was struggling for mental traction as well.  He began to hum for them, grabbing the Heartsong as an anchor, and took another look.  Her clothing seemed intact although dirtied; a bright, multi-colored skirt such as Sederan women wear and a white cotton lace-up blouse.  Her hair was matted but her skin, her cocoa brown skin, was smooth and unblemished.  She was dirty and shaking and beautiful, gorgeous in a way that was rapidly approaching embarrassing, he should say something...how long had --

"Hello?  Do you talk?  Did they hurt you?"  A sweet, husky voice finished the job that his body was trying to start.  He tugged the front of the tunic, he hoped casually, farther away from him.

"I -- yeah.  Um..."  Way to go, Tashe, you suave greaseball.  He cleared his throat.  "Andrew Reid, Milady, at your service for as much help as I can offer..."  He bowed to her and she looked confused.

"You're a captive too?  How long have you been here?"  Her eyes were latched on to his.  He felt like the center of her universe at that moment.

"No, not exactly...I, um, volunteered."  She stared, and Gruntaar stepped beside them.

"{A present.  You worked hard.}"  He didn't understand, opened his hands in question.  Hurk chuckled.

"Androow, gift."  Hurk pointed to her with a knowing smile and seemed to enjoy his flush in a conspiratorial way.  

"She's not something you throw in a bag and hand over like lagniappe!"  Even as he spoke, he was nodding.  Of course he wanted her.  Stars and song, he wanted her...

"Take."  The giant gave one quick nod and he nodded back with a touch of horror that he'd seem too eager.  He'd take her straight to her family of course -- right home, no funny business.  He fixed her with an intense look.  

"Are there any more captives?  Were you with anyone when you were taken?"  He was speaking too fast.  No children, please, Ilsare...

"No -- I've never seen any others, they kept me down with the women but by myself."  She looked miserable and he understood, deeply, why.

"How did you end up here?  How long...?"

She took in a breath; the giants around them started to shift, not following the language.  "I was on a caravan to Audira.  We had camped for the night at an oasis and I went for a walk and they -- they just took me!"  Fear, anger and outrage colored her voice.  "They snatched me up, threw me in a sack, and brought me here!"  Hurk smiled at him again. Oh, my Muse...a gift?!

"Milady, I will do everything in my power to get you home.  This I promise."  He choked a little imagining what she'd felt, knowing what she'd endured, and awash in misplaced guilt over his role in her kidnapping.  He held his hands out to her.

She started toward him but a giant hand blocked her.  The bags were flumfed impatiently.  "Not again, please..."  Her whispered plea was ignored, the sack opened and held in front of her.  One of his door guards held the other sack in front of him.  

"We have to get in or they'll stuff us in!"  She spoke with a rising note of panic.

"Why?"  He set his pack inside the bag and half-hopped in, settling on the bottom in a crouch and relaxing as his weight was lifted and the sack's top closed in a huge fist.  The bag was roomy and made of a loose burlap weave.  Plenty of air.  In fact, it didn't feel so bad not to be walking...

"I don't know!"  Sharply pitched, she sounded as if she was going to start crying.  He spoke through the fabric.

"Alright."  He switched, unconsciously, to his performer's voice.  Muse, it felt good to be speaking to someone.  "They're not going to kill us.  I've spent the last, um, five months?  As their guest, helping them with something.  It was my time to leave so it seems they're going to release you with me."  A muffled murmer from somewhere behind him, and he continued, projecting to her all the rational calm he could.  "They don't seem interested in the hostilities that have been going on this way, except to be nervous about repercussions visited on them, and their Chief is a smart one.  So don't worry...ahh, what is your name, Milady?"

No responses to his smooth patter, but a second later:  "Thalia."

"A pleasure to meet you, Thalia."  It was a good thing she could not see him right now.  He felt heat and warmth, and sunlight kissed his skin through the weave in the bag.  A few tears squeezed through his tight shut lids.  "I'd shake hands, but -- well."

She let out a sudden, nervous laugh.  "Why were you there?"

"Just a matter they needed help with.  I needed something they had, and so we bartered goods for time.  A reasonable bunch, really."  He sounded so confident, so glib.  He'd just been in hell.  He'd gotten drunk in hell.  No more since the party -- and he had not "attended" any more gatherings, as he was not left unguarded again -- but once was enough.  Two months it had taken to regain the confidence to consider returning to his home. Which, as it happens, is a tavern.

"You'll help me?"  Softly with the right note of desperation.  He could feel his white armor buckling on.

"I will."  She said no more after that and neither did he.  He was lying half against a giant's back, cradled in the grain-scented burlap and fell to drowsing.  He had no idea how long they rode like that, and didn't much care.  He was going home.
_____________

They were left on a road, in full daylight, given a direction to walk and a few days ration of snake meat, nettles and water.  The shaman cast some protections on them, they were warned not to follow, and the giants left.  He watched Hurk and Gruntaar until they were out of sight.  It felt surreal to be under the sun.  He cut her bonds free with Sister's Claw, the iron knife Annwyl had given him to signify him a full Battle Sister.  He kept the rope in case.  They walked for a while, talking little.  She was in good shape, hungry but not yet too thin; he felt dizzy and was effectively blind.  It was more exercise than he'd had in months.  She ended up leading him, taking his hand so he could keep fabric wrapped over his eyes although her eyesight was not much better after what turned out to be a little more than a month in captivity.  

They kept her for him, for that long.  A month.  He was angry and oddly touched.  Gruntaar was going to let him leave, a month ago, but seemed to want him to stay.  Why he had he didn't know.  He should have left then.  She'd have only been a captive for a couple days, but he didn't know she was there and...well, he wanted to impress them, to be invited back.  To do something for Ilsare that perhaps had not been done before, bringing the gift of magic song to a tribe of giants.  Ego?  Clerical devotion?  Temporary insanity?  With a shake he let it go and forced himself to the present.  Her hand was soft and the sun was a glorious thing although he knew he was starting to burn despite the elemental protections.  With a quick wave he dismissed the ones the giant had cast and used his own more powerful song on them instead.  

She began to speak of home after the second hour of walking.  Her father was a merchant.  Her mother was dead.  She was late to be married and was under pressure to wed before she was too old.  Her father, dealing in purchase and sales, had moved to Prantz because Sedera was insufficiently protective of its businessmen. He was a fan of Lord Rael and the "peace and prosperity" he'd brought to the region, she noted quietly.  She wasn't so sure it was worth it.  She'd come to Sedera to visit family in the Camel City, had a lovely time, been introduced to a few men looking for wives, left -- and was kidnapped.  It was not terrible, she said; the giants had not mistreated her.  It was the not knowing why or for how long.  He murmured agreement and did not share what he suspected.

They walked into the evening, sharing food.  He felt a surge of gallantry and offered her more than he took.  Stupid, but he had the prejudices of his birth home stamped all over him.  It was a relief when the sun sank below the horizon and he could remove the fabric and look around.  He talked of his inn, of his son, of his music, of Minu and Ilsare.  She wanted to hear him play, begged him, but he was not feeling musical -- he was exhausted and could only focus on one foot in front of the other.

Ausir peeked out and the silver light looked good on her.  He was barely conscious and she kept drifting to the right, off the road, in a trance from the long day.  There was something ahead, to the left -- "Trees."  He began to point.  She jumped when he spoke, stopped walking and turned.  He stepped up to see how she was and she leaned into him for support, pushing them both back, he was falling and didn't have the strength or reflexes to stop...they landed in a heap on the road, her on top, blinking as she woke fully on impact.  His mouth went off well before his brain.

"I like dinner and a play first."

Thalia started laughing.  She didn't move but lay on him and giggled with a touch of sleep-deprived mania.  He grinned, but was enjoying the contact too much to do anything else.  He considered falling asleep there, with her as his blanket.  That brought a reaction he should have been well beyond and so he rolled, stood, helped her up.  "Let's see what those trees are -- we need a safe place to sleep."  She nodded and they moved off the road, he in front with a song of stunning ready.

An oasis, bless the Muse.  Not just an oasis, the oasis she'd been kidnapped from.  She recognized the tree pattern.  He only saw water, clean clear water, and with no thought at all stripped off his pants and blue silk tunic and waded in.  Oasis!  A bath!  It was small, spring-fed and only chest deep to him in the center but it felt like mother's womb.  The water was skin warm and he dunked himself again and again, working sand and sweat from...everywhere.

Something touched him and he turned to see her, also naked, washing.  He'd forgotten she was there, so blissful was the sensation of being clean.  He had no soap for his hair but at least he'd gotten the sand off his scalp.  Her hair was long and just as thick as his so he made a spinning motion with his fingers, putting his hands in her hair to work water through it.  With a sigh, she let him and together they untangled as much as they could.

Climbing out should have been embarrassing.  They were both too tired to care.  She took a look at him, up and down, then smiled.  "You need to eat more.  Please."  As kind a critique as he could expect.  He looked her over too.  She was no stranger to work; her arms and shoulders suggested heavy lifting, probably her father's merchandise.  Her legs said she'd run a lot in her past and her flat, smooth stomach didn't speak to any children.  He would have stared longer, wanted to, but a brisk night wind peeled the day's warmth from them in a layer of fine sand.  "This is the desert, Andrew.  It's going to get very cold soon."  She pointed to his pack.  "Do you have any blankets?  I had nothing when they took me but my clothes."

A head shake.  "I left my bedroll behind, it was foul.  I have -- oh, Muse, only some hoods, some gloves -- my coat."  He pulled the red velvet coat out, Bella wrapped up inside.  The violin case he set on the pack and the coat he wrapped around Thalia.

"We'll improvise.  When I was little, my brother and I got lost in the desert."  He waited for elaboration but she only picked up her skirt, shook the sand off, and laid it out flat.  It was huge, larger than it looked, volumes of fabric pleats that spread out enough for two people to lie on.  Her smile was regretful.  "It is not clean but it will keep us warmer than the sand..."

She lay down and he followed, and they pulled the red coat over them.  Her blouse and his tunic and pants were soaking wet, hanging from a makeshift line of the rope that had bound her, so they lay together and tried to keep warm as the temperature dropped.  She pointed to a constellation.

"Her eyes.  Katia watches us tonight."

"Good, maybe she'll keep the wildlife away."  He was feeling practical.  And cold.  She flipped so she could face him.

"Where are Ilsare's stars?"  

He looked up, past Demilo -- there She was, left of Utyar.  "There, Her Heart.  There -- just above my finger."  They pressed close so she could sight up his outstretched arm.  "She's got an eye on us too."  He smiled and she leaned back, inside his arms now.

"Why do you follow her?"  

He started to speak, shut his mouth.  There was no easy answer to that question.  There was no one reason.  His family?  Partly.  His love of music, and the inspiration She brought him?  A lot.  That he felt Her when he sang, and wanted to know more of Her and feel Her in his voice?  A very lot.  He wanted to understand love.  That too.  But it was late and words felt simple to such a weighty question, so he shifted her gently to the side, making sure she had the coat over her, and picked up his violin case.  Without preamble he took Bella out.

He had not held her in five months.  She slipped under his chin in a caress of rosewood and when he touched the strings she was still in tune.  Merely singing thank you in his head was not enough and he started to play with need, not for the woman to his left but for the constellation and the Goddess it represented.  Bella sounded joyful and immediately he was released.  It was...reconnection.  He played, eyes closed and humming to raise his spirits further, wanting this moment to swallow him whole.  Bella's sweet sound rolled over dunes and across the quiet spring water, up into the sky and all around them in a madly passionate love song to his Muse.  He played past his exhaustion and past the depression that had been slowly driving him mad, past everything, listening to himself and to the Heartsong of the sand sea.  

When he finally stopped, and remembered she was there, he was shaking.  He didn't look at her right away.  That was a lot of revelation, more of him than he meant to share, but it was done now.  He put Bella in her case and secured her back in his pack and settled back to look once more at the diamond-studded ceiling of the world.  A soft but chilly hand slid across his chest.  He shivered at the touch.  The hand moved, as his so often did when he was feeling close to someone -- light, silken strokes, the thrill of contact.  He didn't stop her and felt an electric buzz everywhere her hand had been.  She turned toward him and finally he looked into her oasis eyes, seeing in them a woman profoundly affected by his music.  As soon as his face was to hers she kissed him, or he kissed her -- it was so mutual as to be indistinguishable who started it.  His hands moved onto her and at some point he realized he'd lost the seam between them.  Her brown skin so close in color to his own, their bodies so tight together that he felt they were one person making love under the stars, and it was the most passionate prayer they could offer.
_____________

We parted in Orc's Watch, having taken a caravan there from Audira.  I wish I could say that we spent many nights of bliss together but the reality was that she was going home, and I was as well.  We were almost refused entrance to Audira, being so worn and filthy-looking when we arrived, but a small bribe got us in, and from there we rested and took passage south.  We kept each other company and slept in separate rooms; thank the Muse I had more than enough gold to pay for clothes, soaps, good food.

I learned much of her; how her father believes in no god, but she quietly favors a few, Katia being one; about her brother, missing for many years and presumed lost in the desert.  About her hopes and dreams, and I shared mine as well.  It was something we felt safe sharing, both of us shaken by how much we'd given to each other that night in the desert.  I told her what I had been doing with the giants.  That I had two students and was trying to teach not only magical song but something of Ilsare to them as well, although I was careful how much proselytizing I did.  I gave her my address in Mariner's Hold and asked her to visit.  I made her repeat it until she laughingly assured me she had committed it to memory.  I did not ask for hers.

We had one more kiss in Orc's Watch before she boarded a carriage to Prantz.  There was a truth in that kiss that haunts me still -- if Minu were not so deeply a part of me, I might have begged Thalia to come back and marry me.  I still do not understand love or why my heart can't stop with just one person, or if my Muse intends for it to.  I know that I felt bittersweet longing and loss then, and watched her go with unshed tears locking my jaw too tight to speak.

Was it worth it?  As the saying goes, only time will tell.  I am on a ship from Lor, having seen my Captain and assured her I will be gathering a crew for her as soon as the Inn renovations are complete.  I have adapted to speaking and playing and flirting again and my mind has turned forward to Minu and Ty and the Buckle and the things I have to to.

But I have a new song, one I only sing to myself, and it involves stars and violins and a black-haired desert gypsy, and it always makes me cry.


AWTR

On the Sea of Mists, 1473



//for Lance, hopefully to be continued

[RollinsCat]

He woke slowly to pains from his right hand and side, pins and needles and the icy tight feeling of skin that wasn't there anymore.  After a moment, detached numbness and dry mouth added themselves to the tally.  And...scents.  Ones he knew all too well.

She wasn't beside him but she lingered on him and on the bed.  He didn't recall getting from his favorite chair to here, or much of what happened afterward; only glimpses, fading as soon as his mind turned to look.  Touching and fuzziness, urging, intensity, loss of control.  Release.  He blinked away sleep, lifted his head to look around, let it fall back with a thump.

Wrecked, that was the only word for his condition last night.  She'd been much less affected -- but then, she had not been drugged, twice; kicked unconscious; and pricked with two doses of spider poison.  Something in what Franco's ex-gang used on him with must have reacted with whatever was in that tea she'd made.

He tried to recall their conversation.  In his chair, yes...her massaging him...kissing his back -- blast the weak spots -- and her warm hands.  She asked and he lied about the torture, said it was a case of mistaken identity.  Which was mostly true; only that it was intended was left out.  Then the tea, the touching, the sensation of velvet skin...her kisses...movement and need...and nothing.  He didn't remember any conversation after they hit the bed.  A quiet song sung to Ilsare for that; he'd been operating from the stem of his brain.  He might have said anything, if he'd been talking.

He rolled and that was poor idea.  Whatever had been in that tea was only muddying his thoughts now and no longer helping the pain.  He rolled back as the cotton sheets stuck to his wound.  The spots where the spider poison had been injected into his fingers were still tingling most unpleasantly and there was necrosis of the skin around the pinpricks.  The songs he'd sung to keep himself calm came back as he examined the little blackened circles and he hummed without realizing.  He'd wanted to know what he was made of, after all -- he felt a slight calming, a minute clearing, as he sang and thought.  

He was stronger than he'd given himself credit for.  Or, to be fair and honest, Ilsare was kinder to him than he deserved.  The sound of his own voice had kept him calm, enough that his body was able to fend off poison instead of subcumbing to the panic and fear that would hasten the poison's effects.  After the stronger dose was injected, listening to himself sing had kept his head straight enough that he'd remembered the song to neutralize poison.  The Heartsong had lent him strength to bear the fear-filled uncertainty, although only a fraction of what he could have endured, he knew.  He held up his fingers, staring at them and sweating at how close he'd come to losing one.

Resolve is hard enough when the mind is sharp and strong.  His mind was congee at that moment.  But he lay on passion-stained bedsheets and made a promise to himself.  He would resume his illusionary sound studies.  He would practice, daily -- if he was ever to lose a finger, or a hand, the music would not stop.  He'd practice playing Bella with fingers tied, just in case.  The music could not be allowed to stop.  When he died, hopefully surrounded by family and friends, it was all he could take with him.

He'd have to get up and find Franco, maybe some breakfast.  He had explaining to do if his mentor had seen or heard the evening's activities.  He was not looking forward to the ribbing and Minu's face was clear in his mind, his heart constricted with guilt.  Again.  I have to tell her, again.  Forgive me, my Muse.

There was a cotton field in his mouth and he wobbled as he stood.  Rose-hip tea, that's what he'd call it.  No more.  That was a place he could not go.  No more Rose-hip tea.

[RollinsCat]

Connor;

I am tied to the Silver Buckle as the tavern is torn apart around my ears, but if you can stand the noise and the sounds of colorful dwarven curses (one of my benefactors insisted on hiring kin) I would like to meet here.

I would greatly appreciate you speaking to the specialist directly as soon as your schedule allows, the better to assist our friend the Captain with this most vexing side effect.  

I will be here along with Minu trying to keep the ale kegs full in the middle of three work teams of dwarves.  You don't need to worry about not finding me for some time.

As a side note, having taken up brewing out of sheer necessity, I find that my lingering desire for alcohol has dissipated.  It's much less romantic when you are the one sweating over the kettle, and whomever named "wort" gave it a far nicer sounding moniker than the liquid actually deserves.  

Yours in the Muse and dust and dwarven invective,


Andrew



Andrew,

I will relay what I know, should it help the dwarven Captain in question, though I suspect my knowledge of the event may fall short of your hopes. I suspect I know of the specialist of whom you speak, so I may share my observations directly as well.

In deference to the difference in our respective talents, perhaps it is you who should choose the time and place. I will await your reply.

In Magic,
Connor




Milord and Milady

I was recently - yesterday, in fact - in the company of a dwarven Captain we know while she had her right hand looked at by a specialist at Blackford Castle.  One of the questions posed was what magic was used when the injury occurred, from that claw trap on the door you were opening.  I offered to make contact with you for her as both song was used by our departed wind friend and your formidable skills as well - and she may be busy with her cure soon.  She does not understand the magic, also, and in that I offered my assistance.

If your schedule allows, would you meet with me to give me an idea of what was done before the door was unlocked properly, that the specialists can better treat the injury?  And to partake of a lesson, if you don't mind.  

If this is feasible, let me know a time and place.

Yours in the Muse,


Andrew Reid

[RollinsCat]

Carefully written in the journal is a song in orc and common, along with a green-shaded sketch of what is an oddly attractive female orc - as orcs go.

Ao's Orcish war chant

Nohahakk hogr u ogoh'nrakk
Ghhakrnoh uog u ogoh' gak
Nro boubho tu. Nro boubho ooh
Nrag ag rrhan ro'ho nu po

Guro tu ogoh' kur hakt nrok
Kognauk rr' nrag ag uh gok
Hagok happukg zhohagot oknhhaahg
Haho nro hoghng u uh rhagu

Ro haho rurhakk nrakkg u rhah
Rhato p' Kutg gu nro' zuht rak
Uhzg rgn rrhan ro'ho nu tu
knah uh o'og ku hukkoh goo



Translated:

Tearing flesh of everything
Slaughter foes of every sin
The people do. The people feel
This is what we're to be

Some do every now and then
Question why this is our ken
Riven ribbons cleaved entrails
Are the results of our havok

We are howling things of war
Made by Gods so they could win
Orcs must what we're to do
Until our eyes no longer see

[RollinsCat]

He sang to her from the other side of the gate.  They'd talked as long as she dared be away - it was only her voice that had kept the guards from scurrying him on.  Tomorrow would be a difficult day and he promised her he'd be there, even though he knew he had to leave for Lor soon.  But he would be there tomorrow.  

She asked to hear her song again and he concentrated more the second time around.  Dug deep into the reservoir of her sunshine he'd banked, opened himself to the Heartsong as fully as he knew how.  He sang with bright days and happy futures wrapped around every loving word and listened to his own voice.  Incrementally his mood lifted.  She was alive, he was alive, Ty was alive.  There was a solution and they would find it.  His voice raised and the warm tenor carried over the gates and to a few extra ears beyond - he listened and imagined himself sharing with Minu a warm blanket of music as bright as her smile in the morning, the two of them, wrapped up together.  He could not see her to know if she felt it but sang on, listening and coloring the mood of his song with each note.

There are no real words for love
I try, I try to say
Compare thee to a summer's day
Or a bird in flight, a heart so pure
And marvel at my failure

Nothing spoke can touch the glow
I try, I try to say
Trust and patience changed my way
Wants and needs now sheltered by
Wise and piercing elven eyes

Not binding nor capture nor love's obligation
Nor shackles to bind my touch-hungry skin
But truth and honesty released from judgment
Wherever you go, I'll follow you in

The simplest thing can take me forever
I try, I try to say
What it is that makes me stay
Strips the fear of chains away
Making sense of love clichés

A tapping, a touch, pointing at you
I try, I am trying to say
She’s led me all the way
Seeing what now is before
The woman I was created for

I've sung this before and it rings true for me
It wasn't a minute, an hour, a year
I am captive and freed man from what you have given
I am only a whole man when you are near
 
She had to go.  Once again he promised her, at her insistence, that he would be there - she needed the reassurance and that he could give her.  He listened to her light steps until a wooden door's closing cut them off from his hearing.

He started toward a sparsely populated campfire, then veered abruptly toward a large fire surrounded by several solemn families, all waiting for news from inside.  He sat, introduced himself, asked about them.  Made up songs for the children and stayed until the last old man went to bed singing - trying to share the warmth he envisioned, and the hope of a future less bleak.

[RollinsCat]

He read it again and again.  The letter sat on his nightstand, to be picked up at random times and put back down by shaking hands.  His fingertips were stained purple.  He sometimes had trouble breathing.

Love was not fair.  Love, the kind he'd chased his whole life and not understood until now, comfortably into his forties, was a continent away surrounded by disease and not sure if she would live.  If there was a lesson here he didn't want to learn it.  Michael and Edward gave him room, and Paddy was (as usual) around but no where to be seen, but Heloise - dear Heloise, fast becoming like a baby sister to him - stayed close and watched him with her huge brown eyes.  

He wasn't his usual kind self, nor funny, nor charming, nor anything.  Just busy.  Busy enough to bury his worry.  He practiced his rapier moves and did a lesson with Ty, did some schooling with the boy, checked some brewing.  Went over plans again and again for the tavern, which had new back walls and the gamboling area done.  Anything to keep his mind off her, and how much he missed her.

But night came and he ran out of distractions.  His kids, as he though of the young employees of his tavern, were home and the tavern shut up.  He'd gone hoarse trying to sing himself calm.  There was nothing left to pull his attention elsewhere.  He was out of drugs.

He picked the letter up again.



My Dearest Love,
 
 I do not know what tomorrow will bring us but I do know that I have much to say that to often we simply do not have the time to convey to each other with the distance that seperates us. So I will say it here so that should My Lifebringer call me home, you know how it is I feel.
 
 

What I would miss if I passed away today.

I would miss dearly the scent of your hair, the sound of your breath, the warmth of your embrace. The sound of your voice as you sing perfect harmonies to lift my spirits. The way you know when something is bothering me without me saying a word, and without a word the way you just hold me and let me ramble or hush me with the tip of your finger, the way you rub my feet, my body and know that I will melt into your care and all my troubles will come spilling out for you to ease the sorrow that fills my heart.

While you were gone I missed you, I missed your touch, I missed your kiss, I missed your warmth and even the scratchiness of your chin whiskers that I to often protest so much about. I missed you, and the unyielding, unending love I know without a doubt shines on me and warms me from within. So often I do not say what it is, that is on my mind, to anyone other than you. Though I know my Lifebringer knows that it is you that brings me to life.

It is you that has stood by me in the most trying of times, you have seen me at my worst and still loved me without a second thought. It is you that has not set an expectation on me but helped me see that I need to place expectations on myself, not only expectations but placed in me desires to become more than I am.

It is through you I see vision, it is you I see the flame of passion of not only the love and lust that flares between us each time we are together, but the desire to be more to the world around us, and take each day with the same passion and grow in who we can become together.

It is my worst fear that I would become complacent in my actions, that I would let my dreams fade away, that I would simply cease to be and fail to live. I can see through your eyes though that you would not let that happen. You are an inspiration, and a true work of art that I do not thinking anyone other than the Muse herself could understand. It is your simple willingness and desire to understand those around you that makes you so complex because you are willing.

My Dear Tashe you asked me to call you by your true name, and I am honored, I am blessed, and without a doubt no trial that we face together will it be to much. Even when seperated it is our love for each other that reminds us what we have to live for. You, Tyr'riel, our love for our friends and family. Our passion to help others and bring to them the beauty of the world.

You see through my eyes, and feel my pain as if your own, you have wond yourself so deeply into my life, as if each breath I take is your own. My soul belongs to you.


My Love I fight for you, for our family, for our friends, because I realize that with all of your aid, we will find a way to help the people we are called to help. I realize that with the Lifebringer, death will not be the end for anyone. I am tired some days pass as they pass without an answer, but I have an answer already. That love is my strength. You know that is what brings me here.

Over the last year, there have been tears between us shed over lost love ones. There have been confessions of trists that though were one night stands, still our hearts know so well that they mattered, and they are part of who we are. There is not one thing you could do that would stop me from loving you. I treasure you for who you are, for each imperfection makes you perfect to me. And if I were to pass away today I would miss you most of all but I know that it is you who completes me this day.

Where I to pass away this day I know that you would understand that my life was not about possessions, but rather a spirit of unconditional love that wishes to be understood by all of those around us. That it is this spirit that needs to be shared by all. Would I pass away today, it would not be about the tears that would be shed, it would be about the lives saved that go on, and the ripples of their lives that have the potential to make a difference. It is a spirit of embracing all life that I would wish to leave as a legacy. So in my thoughts of what I would miss if I were to pass away today, it would be leaving you alone to teach others what I have instilled so deeply in you.

Should I pass away today though, it is my dream and hope that you would continue to live and love as you do today, with all your heart, with the spirit of music and your Muse' inspiration. That you never loose sight of the greatest gift you have been given. Love. Pure and sweet and intiatable. [/COLOR][/I]