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Dear señora Caddick,

Regretably, we were not able to meet yesterday. Thus, I find myself taking the quill to inform you of some curious development.

Friends in different corners have told me a certain recluta I am yet to meet (yes, the one who called for me) claims I have stolen from the Balladeers of the Lost Hearth. According to some insightful friends, she is a minstrel, and may seek to jumpstart her career by taking my songbook. She apparently was considering to "take matters into her own hands". Thankfully, she and I seem to keep different schedules, but I still feel it useful to inform you.

I presume that her desires have nothing to do with the College itself. However, if there are doubts about my behaviour in my leaving, I hope these may be raised in person, and without intervention of the Banda Rossa.

Besides this, I hope my letter finds you well. Please send my regards to Jacques.

Yours,

Alejandro

Esteemed Apothars,

As you are of course aware, I am writing The People's History of Ephia's Well, the definitive record of our recent past. I am currently in the process of finishing Act III, dealing with the troublesome election in which Estellise Azimi ran for the League of White.

Currently, the draft mentions that the now-Apothar Mae Stern was bought a Voice by yours truly, ran as a Candidate and was then made to choose between her promotion or still running for the White, taking the first. That is the information I was given at the time, after all.

In the interest of performing my due diligence, however, I send this letter to give either of you the chance of adding more context. Feel free to respond in writing.

Yours,

Alejandro

As in the Times of Bloom and Silver

Once, there was an ancient city.
And in that ancient city, myriad Silverworks.
Where many things were made.
Many things that were beautiful, and delicate, and soft.

"Of this victory there shall be feast, and quaffing of much sweet wine."
An invitation, it seemed. Brought in embroidered heraldry.
"And also shall there be contest, in Har'pas", it added,
"as there was in the days of Silver"
An invitation. Many strange and uncommon joys promised. Perhaps nightmares.
"Games!", it exclaimed, in ritualistic elation, "Bread and Games!"
An invitation. Why did it sound like a threat?

High came the axe, before descending.
In two, it cleft the head of a brother.
In clefting the head, the axe broke.
In breaking the axe, the clans dispersed.
In dispersing the clans, violence ensued.
And in the violence, red blood and redder fires.
Murderer, upon their lips.

"Please tell me you're not going to that trap", she said, later.
At her new home. Two beds. I suppose such is life, sometimes.
"I don't think so", I sighed. I am not thrilled at anything that honors the Murderer.
(And I find myself less eager to die heroically, these days)
"Then again", I admitted, "I am curious".
Curiosity, of course, being the thing that killed the cat.

And so it was, for an Age and many.
That the times of Bloom and Silver were gone.
And their arrows darkened the skies.
For a sire of War walked amongst them.

The Rumor Mill

I was, I think, a little moved when Reyer sought me. Even if I had already done my own digging, and he was the third (or fourth?) to tell me. I am, of course, an incredibly dedicated gossipmonger.

"Sharp as ever", he said.
Satisfaction glinting in his good eye.
"Still, went through some things, you and I"
"figured I might as well give you a heads up"

I found myself realizing I'm quite fond of the man. A bit of a surprise, all things considered. Who would've told the stubborn Student I was, endless annoyed at Colmes, that he'd call another Sergeant something like a friend? I suppose hell and mourning do a lot to bind people. With all the information, hopefully, this trap shall be easy enough to dodge. It may be worth talking to Caddick, at the very least.

"Good idea to be careful, always", mentioned Meadow, when I asked her.
"Reclutas", she added, "always turn thug"

Still, the new crop of Reclutas seems particularly hostile, at least with me. Eager to show their rudeness, to push around. For all his faults, Vico at least had a charm those I've met recently sorely lack. His every word was a threat, of course, but  he was relatively charming about it. If I'm going to be threatened violence, I should at least feel as though may get laid before, during, or after. Just saying.

"Of course", she added, after being the first to tell me.
Her smile serene and perfect, unbreakable.
"You didn't hear this from me"

Odd, to think of Vico nowadays. His name has been almost forgotten, it seems. Or at least, I rarely hear it. I suppose most people mourn those they loved, and not those they hated or feared. Perhaps they still drink to his health in the Fortress, but it doesn't really seem so. Mostly, it is almost as though some of the Rossans were... Relieved?

"He's just a distraction", said the Secretary, a while back.
"Will be dead and forgotten in a month"

He was very definitely not wrong.
Can't deny a certain emptiness to all of these rumors and preoccupations. As though what happens up here was an illusion... While Truth awaits me (and calls me) Below.

Dreaming the Path

 
I was dreaming the path.

I whispered the words, in the ear of the statue. The names of my sisters opened the doors, yet as soon as I said them, they were forgotten forever. I did not mind: I was dreaming the path.

I went down alone. I held, high, Jamileh's lantern. Through the ancient halls I moved, with certainty. Along the walls, faces and hands held in prayer. A thousand eyes followed my steps, and a thousand mouths cursed me. I did not mind: I was dreaming the path.

I stepped on the Ages. My heart beat faster, and faster, too, did I walk. I knew the one I loved was deeper, the one I sought. He carried his face (or was it his?), but His name was Truth. My body ached with unsated passion. I sought Him, burning with desire. I did not mind: I was dreaming the path.

I waded through the air. Invisible but assured, its hatred. My naked skin felt the thickness of the space. Against its stillness, my passion; against its dearth, my onrush. My heart was a drum, my heart was a torrent. The halls did not want me, but I did not let that stop me. The light of my lantern flickered and died. I did not mind: I was dreaming the path.

In the darkness, I divined the way forward. My every step, resisted; my desire, opposed. The Ages kept, between Truth and I, the distance. I ached as I moved forward: pain in my head, my heart, my lungs, my loins; pain in the soles of my feet. The coldness of the marble floor, thorns. In pain, I reached the threshold. In the treshold, we embraced.

When I woke up, my nose was bleeding and my sheets were stained. I was feverish, covered in sweat.

I did not mind: I was dreaming the path.

[Another sealed, confidential letter, this one accompanied by a little note]

I know you're busy with Orentids and Qadira today. And maybe it'll be irrelevant soon enough but... Do give it a read, though.

Yours,

Alejandro

Upon the Threshold

An oath, writ upon the threshold of Mystery:

"I swear it on the Saints's bones", I said,
"and the names of my mothers"

Solemn the occasion - for trespass requires solemnity.
(Or is it trespass, when invited?)
I do not know if I hesitated too much, or too little.

(Does it matter?)
(The Cup is emptied and, at the bottom, many things become possible)               
(That would otherwise not be)

and thus she leD
downwards, few darE
newfound, embroiled oathS
ancient, the eagerness so poetiC
the path  blooms, careless radiancE
and thus softens slowly all conversatioN
our steps, by Ages untold, in blood resisteD

                                                                    And I crossed the threshold of Mystery, where dreams are woven by blind spiders
                                                                    Therein meeting Its darkness of sphinxes: the flutter of their wings, a Torment
                                                                    Therein seeking, like lover, Revelation, and finding It, with burning, eager fingers.
                                                                    Its promises murmured on the Threshold, before we break, unsated, our embrace.

It was upon my lips, Revelation:

Δ   Q   Β   Ρ

On Blooming and Fighting and Mourning

 First - a party: joyful tales, delightful meals. A crown of flowers upon my brow. A delight with Storytelling and drinks. The joy of seeing bloom, upon the lips of a mournful friend, a smile. Say what you will, tales about flatulence are a classic when you need to cheer someone up.

(It reminded me of mamá, when there was a storm, and we were grumpy, and we told the same tale. I remembered how María and Blanca and Clara and I would compete to see who made the biggest noise. I felt their absence, piercing. But also with some joy, I think. Some peace, to have so many in this city I loved just as dearly as I loved them)


Second - An Ordeal: villany detained on its tracks, or at least delayed. Wading through blood and worse than blood, dashing through the lines with a smile on my lips, daring and (hopefully) dashing. Ilusion and speed and slipperiness - ever a trickster. A bit of fun at Cosine's expense, too. Never a bad thing. Coin, rejected, too. Heroes need no such thing. I felt, for a moment, a hero.

(My cheek muscles hurt, however. From all the smiling. From all the grinning. Why is such a long battle one of the few things that makes me smile like that? Why do I feel so satisfied when I stab those who'd stab me? Why is battle such a rush, such a feeling of peace and aliveness as one can rarely find? Spokes above, I know I must seem inspiring and dashing to lift the spirits of my companions, I know I must sing cheerfully but, why do I keep smiling through it in a way that feels less and less like a performance?) 

Third: A Wake Narwen was angry. When I first heard her Bellows, I thought it had nothing to do with us, with our adventure. Turns out she was angry and me, at Bashir. Someone had told her we had set to somehow attack a caravan of Elves of the Spring. That Margarethe and Marcellus, throwing arround careless rumors and... I can't even call it a half-truth, because it was quite the opposite of it. She had a right to her anger, though. I suppose I would've much prefered to include her - even though this was certainly bigger than the elves. So many corpses, and caravans...

"You know me", I said, looking at Selsi.
"the villanies you feared, if they happened before me..."
"Either I wouldn't return, or they wouldn't come to pass"

(It does cause me some sadness, however. That Narwen feels closer to Vico than to Zol Nur. That Zol Nur would choose Oro over Narwen. It is mournful, to know that sometimes our colors warp who we are, twist us and leave us unable to see the good as good, the wicked as wicked. I do wish they'd be...)

(I suppose I wish they'd be worse members of their faction. Like I was).

God, magic boy gave us such great things... I don't have many screenshots, but he was always a GREAT weirdo to RP with. Remember when you were a snake? Or our attempt at singing?





And, in classical RP fashion, the weirdo died a hero... Thanks for playing him!

The Tale of the Boy Who Loved His Goat

[A Tale has been recorded here, and nowhere else.]

Once, there was a boy who loved his goat. And one day a Storm came. And because the boy loved his goat, when he heard it bleat... He rushed past his parents, and rushed out, to seek it. And the storm raged so wildly that he couldn't see, but only heard, as the home where his family was taking shelter came crashing down. Burying them beneath.

Once, the boy had a goat, and somehow lived through the storm. And as he walked into the wilds, by the shores, he told himself that any moment now one of the Saints would come. Santa Azucena, perhaps, who was his favourite. She would ride atop the waves on her white horse and save him.

And because Santa Azucena was coming, he walked forward and didn't let himself falter.

Not even when the goat he loved died and he had to eat it. For little meat was availible, and even less water. And goat's blood was better than nothing.

At long last the boy saw people. And while he was dissapointed it was not a santa, he still cried with joy. For people meant food and shelter, did it not? The boy was a boy, after all. Sixteen or so, barely on the cusp of becoming a man, and was used to adults being kind, and loving, and protective, and tender. So when it turned out they were a roaming band of bandits, it took him by surprise. The first lash took him by surprise. Of course one gets used to everything. Or at least, eventually everything loses its surprising qualities.

Blunted by use.

But still, the boy had his stories! So he knew any day now, as he emptied the latrines on the coast or went for water or did any of the endless chores, he'd meet a golden fish who'd give him three wishes. Mum, his goat, and the loss of all those scars. A bit selfish to go for his mum, considering his whole family was dead but... Who are we to judge?

And sometimes, when he felt the desire to escape and it was so bright and burning that he'd jump off a cliff, just to make it go away... He told himself the Tale of how angels rescued people who were very, very good. And he was very, very good. So he didn't jump.

The lash, the hunger, the *word here, scratched* all of it, he endured. Because there were tales always there, to endure with. And every tale was a lie, and every tale was hope. And every tale kept him alive one day longer. So that, when opportunity came, he was alive to take it. And run. And run and run and run until his lungs burnt. Until he saw in the distance a light.

And under that light, a Hakarawi so kind that, to his eyes, he felt like Warad himself. And this Hakarawi gave him food and water and drink and, seeing his state, gave him a blanket. And with deep and lovely voice he recited...

"Once, there was a wanderer..."

"But my throat grows tired and the hour grows late", I finished.
"So we must pause here the Thousandfold Tale"

I didn't look at him. Gazed only at the stars.
I knew he was near, though. Warm, in the night.

"Let us live, and let us drink"
"in the hopes of finishing it tomorrow..."

My tone, practiced. Perfect. Even this Tale.
This Tale, most of all. Known only by her, smiling between the stars.
And now, him, too.

"Oh, were that the Thousandfold Tale was written within our hearts...", I added
"So it's lessons would always be with us."

Honesty

This may be a new record for me, I reflect: the making and the breaking of a promise, separated by barely a few phrases. Then again, a few phrases can contain a world of turmoil, and truth, and importance. These surely did. We were both shocked and uncertain, talking about what we just saw, talking about my involvement in it, small as it may have been. Zain. His death. His resurrection. We were looking at the pyramid, concernedly, when he said it. And then, said:

"I thought you should hear it".
"In case either of us ends up a bloody mess in the streets".
And much else was said, besides.

My response was, upon reflection, inadequate. I just feel so uncertain, at times. As thought I was walking on shifting sands that may swallow me whole, if I'm careless. In these matters, I'm used to performance: gallantry and chivalry, dramatic bows as one gives flowers. Like a bad imitation of Lynneth, I suppose. I never quite had her success, at knighthood. 

This time I tried honesty, instead. Bumbling my way through it, like a child learning to walk.

I was so awkward, so uncertain, it was almost a relief, when the Sergeant called upon me. Duty (suicidal, heroic duty) is an easier thing to handle. I looked at him, who but moments ago had asked me to stay away from the whole matter. To be safe.

He sighed - I think he saw it: that I couldn't refuse.
"Go", he said, irked. "Do what you have to"

So I went, and I did. But not before another whisper and another at honesty. Clumsy, uncertain, in the midsts of walking back on a promise. But honesty, nonetheless.

[The nineteenth telling of the Thousandfold Tale happens somewhere, for some people or person. It is unclear, which perhaps only makes it more mysterious. Some wild rumors may speak of strange rituals under the waxing moon, or tribute given to djinni, or a private audience (and Tale) for one of the Princessses themselves. One particularly bereft fan claims that the Storyteller must have told it to the disgraced ex-Legate, Domhnall Guivarch, but the stink of mizzar substracts much credibility from his words.

In truth, the only reason most of the public get to know the nineteenth Tale was told is because, in the updated editions of the book, the title is there - standing over an empty page. And the title of this nineteenth Tale was...]

The Tale of the Boy Who Loved His Goat

[...And whatever truth it told is known only to the Storyteller, his public, and the stars.]

Ooooh Sha-lala

[Tears stain this little draft of a Tale]

Once there was an egg that fell from the Heavens above.
And from that egg, a boy was born.
(For an egg may hold many things)
(And an egg from the stars, doubly so)

He was strange, of course.
(As is to be expected of a boy who came from an egg which came, in turn, from the Heavens above.)
And he was perhaps a little stranger when he started than when he ended.
Or perhaps the other way arround.
Though strangeness, too, is in the eye of the beholder.
And perhaps, from the Heavens above, he seemed more normal
(Or even weirder. Perhaps)

Regardless, such is the way of things: that they end.
(Even things that come from an egg which comes from the Heavens above)
Yet there are many ways of ending.
One can end things by marrying and being forever happy.
One can defeat the dragon and ride into the sunset.
One can be happy forever and ever. One can sleep under the mountain, with the fairies.

The boy who came from the egg which came from the Heavens above ended with a friend.
Holding his hand, softly, to keep him afloat. Saving his life.
And losing his own, in turn.
For life is a fragile thing.
(Even the life of a boy who came from an egg which came from the Heavens above)

That was his end: a hero.
And before his end, there were many things.
Most of them odd, some of them tender.

Ooooh, sha-lala

"Thank you", he said, "take this"
A drum found its way to my hands.
"You'll probably make more use of it than I"

And I can't believe that stupid thing was our last conversation.

Dearest Zain,

I am more than curious about those Spring Boots. Let's meet in person and discuss the specifics? As you may know, I am both a roamer and a hoarder, so having something to help me traverse strange territory without getting out a grapplegun would be quite the boon.

Yours,

Alejandro

I really wish there was some workarround for the current issues... I rarely get to use Alter Self (which I still keep bc it feels too thematic!) because of spellslots issues...

I think the idea of restoring and simply keeping them would be useful. Another option would simply finding some way so that nwn counts the item slots as used "First", so you don't lose it when re-equipping...?

I honestly dunno what would be workable. I just reeeaaally feel like this would be neat!