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In the end, we are but motes of dust,
Dancing upon the stage of eternity,
And as the curtain falls, let us find peace ere long.

Do we not stand, indeed, as brother and sister among the filth?
Among the monstrous?
The foul, the dark, the terrifying?
And what do we fear most, that is so terrifying- it is what we do not know,
And what we do not know, matters naught.

What matters is what we do know,
And we've known these things for many eons,
If not us the fools before us,
And the fools who will come after we are long dead.

But that is nothing to fear, it is so,
We remember that death comes for us all.
When you ponder on what you cannot or do not know,
A strain comes upon your mind.
Tears at it, for a certain future-
In a world of uncertainty.

The irony in my words, in my song,
Is that those laced words did not shake a city,
And the Caliginous Dunes will press on,
And on, and on,
And keep on clutching our very being.
It is a wretched, wretched thing that claws at our future...
Our very livelihood.

[The Words That Shook a City, and the Caliginous Dunes of Mans' Souls:]

The Words That Shook a City, and the Caliginous Dunes of Mans' Souls:

A lament penned by Leo Tzimiskes, your Orentid Rat



Listen to the people,
They,
They lucky few,
Who sung the words that called to reason,
Our very senses so dulled;
Woe! Doth thou sow?
Seeds of doubt?
Seeds of doubt in your neighbor, your friend?
Never and nay, for we have pure hearts and naught our worry.
Of what time will tell is a valid truth,
A truth that all men should know.

That we are not ourselves, and that we are broken men. Broken people.
Scattered, by these Caliginous Dunes that take Mens' Souls, woe!
When will it end, or rather shall I say,
When will it begin again?
The endless truth! So why, do you sow?
Sow seeds of fear?
Seeds of fear in your brother, your sister?

Dear Narwen,

My sister speaks highly of you and I am told that you have the voice of a Songbird. I have penned a lament for the Twins, my favored spoke, and I intend to perform it for the first time thrice the day from now.

Would you be keen on supporting it? Here is a draft of it, though I consider it complete, it would sound much better sung by three figures in unison, or one after the other responsible for one section of verse and then unison for the chorus.

In Shadows Deep

[Verse]
In shadows deep
Where darkness falls
Kalim calls
Through ancient halls
The Martyrs weep
Their souls entwined
A vow we keep
Forever bound

[Verse 2]
Against Death's grip
Our swords we wield
The Twins
They stand
Our fate they shield
With hearts on the pyre
We march ahead
To quench our ire
Where Martyrs tread

[Chorus]
In shadows deep, our spirits play
Echoes of old light our way
Entwined in fate, the Undying Dance
Forward, we go, with Gamil's Lance.

Do let me know as soon as you are able, and if you know any other musician and/or singer that may be interested in this clamor I commit to.

Yours truly,
Leo of the Tzimiskes Clan
Bard of Soot & Mud
Partisan of the Gold League

[Received by a trepid hand]

...

Dearest Leo,

O, how the world spins. Its hues are red, so much red. A color I've seen most of all in my life, red. Red red red. This is how my soul dances among the whispers of what we call the Drink.

I write to you for I hate to love you, and I am not a proud man. But shouldn't I be? You are my trembling companion in this journey through the veils of perception, where reality melds with dreams and dreams intertwine with nightmares.

She poured the sacred wine down my throat, and it dripped down my chin careless; effortlessly. Then I found myself wandering through the verdant field of Bel-Ishun, that fabled paradise where the earth breathes life anew, where fools are broken upon the Wheel and made to see the very essence of our existence. I long to be lost in its embrace forevermore.

But alas, my dear self, reality is ceaseless, boundless and it rears its grotesque face all ways- and I find myself stranded amidst the ashes of a world bereft of hope, where the trees have no leaves and its branches are like dangling arms of a fleshless man, its bone-like tendrils reaching and clawing for my innocence, for my life. Monuments to a forgotten era of abundance.

The contrast between the green dream and the bleak reality is a dagger to my fragile heart, tearing asunder the fabric of my sanity. For this, fear grips me; fear of losing myself in this chaos of twisted truths, fear of never again feeling its loving touch. That dizzy feeling in my head, the everlong of a falsity and ecstasy born from the realization that I am but a fleeting speck in the stars, a mote of dust.

O how I ache again for the simplicity of ignorance, for the oblivion of the mundane! Yet, even as I yearn for solace, I cannot deny the allure of the unknown, the tantalizing promise of new realms to explore and truths to uncover. The Dakhwar. The Chalice of Life.

Ere long as I pen these feverish words, I am enveloped in a whirlwind of emotions, each more potent than the last. Euphoria, fear, anxiety, sadness; they make love together in my hallowed heart and dance upon the canvas of my soul, painting a portrait of a man that cannot be seen in mirrors, only dreams.

But in this chaos, there is a flicker of hope, a spark of resilience that refuses to be extinguished. For even as the world crumbles around me, I find solace in the knowing that I am not alone in this journey, that somewhere out there, amongst the chaos and the Ash, there are others who share in my plight. Is this selfish of us? Am I selfish? Are you selfish?

So, my dear Leo, my dear self- selfless? I now cling screaming to a flicker of hope, that ember of resilience and navigate now a turbulent water, not unlike the blessed bank of the Edutu. Though these are of the mind's mire and they may are and will be what I make of them, for I am an artist and I wish to dabble my hands in all beautiful things. It pains me, even the thought of this being anything less than a terrible joke spun in a tavern hearth; I wish it were so, and yet it is so real. Weather the storm?

Now my hands tremble and I perspire. What am I doing? These men killed my father. No, they were without a home. They did not know, or is it what I tell myself? As it were, I bid you farewell, the old you; the sad you. Now I embark and leave you behind, in the Soot and the mud as I leave on for better and brighter things worthy of our name. May we meet again when we are dead, and drinking wine in Bel-Ishun.

Yours truly,
Tomorrow's You

Author's Note

I have often been asked if, when bellowing my mad words over the bellows, I knew of the consequences that might arise from such words. It has been amusing to watch others take my actions for foolishness, while others have applauded it for bravery and Hercule spirit.

Regardless of which side is right in this all, I will dispel the rumour that these words were spoken in a fit of rage or a fit of stupidity. Perhaps they were foolish words, but then who will say them but the fool himself? Of course, they were brave words; but brave men are not always cutting of wit.

I am who I am and I have never claimed otherwise; I was born in Ephia's Well in the year IY 7761 to Ignatius Tzimiskes and Zehra Tzimiska. My father perished in the fighting, of when this city was captured by the combined efforts of the Cinquefoil Rose and the Fourth Legion of our Sultan's Janissary. I never saw my father perish with my own eyes, but carts upon carts of the dead were tarried off to the Maqbara in those days and just as the Gleaming Friend would smile at us from atop the roofs as if to warn us such jaunts were dangerous, as we wrestled and climbed up the ramparts; I like to think I had seen my father smile at me from beneath the swallow of the dead, his hand waving at me from beneath the wagon, as if to say, "Fruit, bear your works." His son.

To say that I was scarred would be penning it lightly, for the tender of my words cannot describe those feelings I've long forgotten through my cups so deep and my clouds of mizzar. Recently, I had been encouraged to become more public, to put my name out there and find solace in the League of White. I wished to see where camaraderie could be found, and if it was true; and so I spoke my words and while circumstances had happened I did not anticipate so quickly, the true test of wit was upon those I would call my compatriots in the Lily. So I called for a meeting and prayed that others would find the declaration of Rosie Gunmper just as unsettling, for what it means of our young and fledgling Republic.

To my remiss, and not so much my dismay as I had been told many times by those I cherish that it was a fool's errand, not one among the crowd had bat an eye at my dilemma. Perhaps they saw that I was merely feeling the expulsion of the hole I dug myself, with my own words. So I cannot blame them entirely for words I strove to say, knowing full well they would not be received well. Yet none of my words had laid detail upon the accusations others would soon accost me with, such as Monarchist, Orentid, Rebel, Radical and more. I have never once made clarion call for the return of an Orentid state, and yet because of my birth, that is all others saw; but not everyone. I am delighted to say I share their company now, and have found my true compatriots. The damage done is easily repaired, and sooner or later you will come to know me better than the loud-mouthed fool on the bellows preaching against the Majordomo of al-Maribid.

Thank you for reading.

Yours truly,
Leo Tzimiskes

In the shadow's grasp, where whispers fade,
Memento Mori, our dues are paid.

For in the realm where mortals roam,
Kalim awaits, our final home.

The Edutu's waters, tranquil and deep,
Where souls in silence, softly sleep.

Towards Bel-Ishun, paradise gleams,
In Gamil's guidance, we find our dreams.

This world, a fleeting,
fragile thing,
In its decay, our souls take wing.

Yet while we breathe this mortal air,
Let us live with purpose, free from despair.

No poison's lure, no mizzar's snare,
Shall cloud the path we choose to dare.

For in the quest for truth and what is right,
We find the strength to face Pra'raj and his Ashen blight.

A Martyr's flame, is in his heart,
It ignites this feeling in the dark.

In striving for a cause so grand,
We leave our mark upon this land.

So let us heed the call within,
To rise above, to strive, to win;

For in the end, when shadows fall,
Memento Mori, we heed the call.

Memento Mori & The Clarity of Sobriety
Penned by Leo Tzimiskes, Partisan of the Gold League

Let blessings bloom, O fruitful tree,
May fortune smile, your works to see.

Across the Edutu, distant and wide,
Accept the journey, stride by stride.

Trust the balance, trust the fate,
All aligns in due, patient wait.

Salhin heard, with ears keen and clear,
Truth affirmed, dispelling fear!

Through winds that blow, and waters flow,
through the reeds we've come to know.

Martyrs' gaze, a silent plea,
Ashamed am I, for all to see.

In wisdom's light, their lessons glow,
So they taught, and we now know.

Again, another letter penned to an address that may never have been. This time, however, no hesitance made upon the name of the receiver; on the envelope is handwritten in bold 'Thiore Lorincreve, Esquire'.

Dear Friend,

Basit has not surfaced, if only for my sister informing me he was present in the last Assembly called. I have begun to fear the worst and I sparked a rift between myself and the Sibylline Sisterhood. I have not drank in four days and still I feel the sensation of its splendor in my throat. My tongue feels dry, and it aches for another drop; yet I have told myself nay, that I need it naught.

For I am Leo Tzimiskes, and ere long I have slept beneath the rocks and the dunes and let my mind rot from drink and mizzar. One might think I pay dearest homage to the Gleaming Friend of my youth, who would always smile at Zoe and I as we played in the sand and parleyed with wooden sword, thinking ourselves destined for greater things, second son of the noble Ignatius Tzimiskes.

Was it Ibtihal who failed us, or was it the poison Sirhandi whispered into her ear? I have pondered this question in the eveningtide of my own follies of late. My reputation has been tarnished and I have been bullied from the League of White, and yet onto brighter paths. Balstan Gloamingdaith has taken a keen interest in my political career, and I cannot say the notion has made me worrisome of his true intentions. Can a man be as honest and good-natured as him without some secrets, damning or otherwise?

The wife of General ar-Parus, I have discovered, lays in wait at the hovel they call the Creep. Some one I met while travelling alongside the Black Prince of Qadira, in fact many some ones have become estranged companions of mine. We have bonded over our same introductions, and now I am torn between aiding them find prudence again upon the surface, or perhaps it is time I adjourn my sister's words and look deeper. Is that what you meant, when you told me I must know myself, and you must know I? What cryptic riddle you've given me, O Thiore Lorincreve, my friend; it has haunted my days and nights. Who are you?

Yours truly,
Leo Tzimiskes

The Lion of the Lost Hearth, Aurelio! Aurelio!

I have sent specters to tender my hopes and dreams to you, for the protest of a snow-haired woman you call Aubrey Domergue.

Niranye, myself and you I beseech; we wear the gilded Gold and yet we are not rich. Our souls, though, are rich indeed. Rich of life and vigor for our Ephia's Well, our beloved city.

My friend, your banner calls to me and yet I find my path obstructed by the whims and machinations of a bitter and petty Masque worn by the visage of one who deigns my actions mindless, and yet had been mulled over many times before, the papers stained black with Maniakes' deep roast. If only I had all the Caliphal Green in the world, I would be that much closer to my fingers stained too, and this ink to pen steadfast ere long!

She, who had turned her back to the Cinquefoil Rose with a Legate's seat closer to her heart than the Dakhwar; she, who thinks it shall be her alone who finds it, and not she among sisters, she among brothers. I would be your brother, d'Lyon, as I would be your student. Perhaps already, if poor Niranye not burdened by the idea, that she would be second-guessed by the catspaw and have need to brooch and unbrooch my Rose cloak from my swollen shoulder.

Tell me what I must do, a quest noble and true, to earn your trust and your respect. For I will not seek it from Aubrey Domergue, who has made it her eveningtide's amusement to belittle all and spew disunity, discourse among ideals born and true; nay, I cannot and shall not, for a deep shame already stains ash on my tongue and eye from the very thought.

Yours truly,
Leo Tzimiskes

A note finds itself nestled in the Creep, addressed to N.B.

Slow down before the sunlight of Pra'raj gives you pause and you burn out bright and large, my friend. These things come with time and I am nursing back together my own reputation first and foremost.

With that being said, a number of things I will not be your errand-boy for;

Anything related to Anathema of the Wheel. You know what I mean by this, or I pray you do else you find yourself truly cursed.

Standing among the Creep. You must choose one; do you want your exile lifted from Ephia's Well itself, or do you want to be the Gutter King? Rumors of your stall will do you no favors with lifting your exile, as Balstan made very clear in our recent meeting (your name unmentioned, to avoid suspicion).

As for the petitioning of the Cinquefoil Rose, I will make progress on this one soon. Which room is yours, by the way? What is it called? If you find a skilled sneak with greasy fingers, you could likely hire them to break in and steal back whatever sits there if it hasn't been seized already by the state.

Now. As for who hates who, while at Kardesler I realized many of the Astronomers, such as Zain and Zol Nur despise Prelate Argyris. They whispered of it many times, and could not keep their eyes off him as the Prelate made the Official from Qadira cry thrice. Il Modo left early, presumably to no avail; Qadira said nay. All others have joined together in what they are dubbing the Union of Kardesler.

I'm going to pretend you didn't write the implication that we bow down to Orcs.

Yours truly,
Dimitris Alexandros
The Logothete

Dear Niranye,

Dear Magistrate Niranye,

Words cannot describe my gratitude for acting a buffer between the delicacy of family fallout. We can all misjudge and jump to the ends of cliffs before we see the story for what it is.

Zoe described what she had to endure beneath the city, and if the Sibylline Sisterhood is what grants her some merciful reprieve from memories she cannot kill from her mind, then I will find joy.

Though her path quite different than your ask of myself. The Sisters were not present when these streets ran red with blood, nor were you, of course. But your superiors were, and their steel shed the blood of those my father called friend, brother, sister, Queen.

You may feel nothing when the word Orentid comes into subject, and perhaps your superiors never speak of it either. But I am not expecting such a warm welcome from them.

This is, of course, my own assumptions. I was young, around six and ten years when your Cinquefoil Rose alongside the Fourth Legion stormed the gates of Ephia's Well, after the Red Band had opened our gates. They broke a contract, and it led to the slaughter of many- a slaughter they then took part in.

My father perished serving under General Ar-Parus. I found myself an orphan at the Waiting Wheel, forever thinking myself cursed by the gods ere long. Went to drinking, to smoking, to cynical poetry and anything that would humor my emptiness.

But I will tell you this, my friend. I do trust you, and yet I hold a great suspicion and hesitation for your banner. I must inform you that this is by no means a choice, either. I'm scarred by the sight of that Rose. Nightmares in my sleep only drowned out by a deep cup of wine. I will not sortie with the Balladeers among you who ensign themselves to the White Lie, but I would be pleased to meet with you and Balladeer d'Lyon. By now, reading this, you should realize why a Cinquefoil Rose cloak over my shoulders gives me pause.

Yours truly,
Leo Tzimiskes

[THE WHITE LIE]

In small doggerels around town, all with the title 'The White Lie', are penned quotes from a recent meeting, or rather caricatures of what was truly said. Who might say but those who were present? Regardless, they are unlikely to last for long, blowing with the winds of change.

THE WHITE LIE

"I've killed more members of the League of Gold than anyone in this room. I deserve to be here."
Balestriere Mirielle Rosseau, La Banda Rossa

"One must crave a Legate's seat. Must wish for it, with every essence of their soul! You are wrong to think I do not know what it takes to become Legate."
Aubrey Domergue, Balladeer of the Lost Hearth, Failed Candidate Thrice Over of the League of White

"I'm here to fight wars, and repeat words said a thousand times before. Agaslakku!"
Malik Saenus, Priest of Agaslakku, an honest man, long lost younger brother of senile Legate Marcellus Saenus.

"It is a simple reality that your petition will not be accepted."
Rosie Gunmper, beacon of democracy, official of the League of White.

These are your Asterabadians, Ephia's Well. Fret not, democracy needs not a color to abide its inevitable revolution in our society. Consider joining a cult today. They have plenty of wine to go around. Or perhaps this is what happens when a man begins his half-baked dream, and finds it twisted by another again and again. They say the true Magus Asterabadi rots in a cell, just like Ibtihal once. Perhaps he will escape like she did and return our savior.

Dear Zoe,

Your words and the words of the Sibylline have rang hollow. The Banda Rossa vote for whom lines their pocket, the Sibylline vote for which candidate they think they can best influence and the Balladeers vote as the Sibylline do, with spies in every league claiming to follow their tenets.

I was suspicious from the beginning, and if not for your gentle nature, I would never have let that red wine touch my lips. I lost all sense of care, candor and tenor to my beliefs, but it has been a few days now and I realize something. I told you I was drinking myself half to death, and when I am delighted to say I am sober, you push upon me another Drink?

Words cannot describe how wroth I am with you most of all, Zoe. You have promised not to lose yourself, but you are already lost. The words that ruminated in my mind when Stern warned me are the very same here; 'It is true that Zoe Tzimiska is of my blood, but she has not been my sister in eleven long years. She was never mine to begin with, and so I have not lost her, only lost the hope that she would be again.'

Those soothing whispers, those dreams of nothing, those twisted caricatures of what I really believe in. You are all very skilled in it, I confess. But I will make a note of avoiding you and that Krak again. They all stood by and barely blinked an eye when I told them of Gunmper's declaration. The very notion of it so undemocratic I could weep, if I was so invested in their White Lie.

But I am not, and it was only a trial. Now I know who are the snakes, and who are my friends. Who truly support me. I've run into that Margarethe of yours and she barely knew who I was. All those 'whispers' about me, wishing me to lead the League of White to victory were blatant lies. If they were not, then they were based upon wishing a scapegoat to take face so they could continue to seep poison into this city, as they did through Guivarch's entire tenure.

Make no mistake, Zoe. The Sibylline Sisterhood is a cult and those smiles are like daggers more terrible than any Djinn. But my work has already begun, and it cannot be cowed now. I will continue it in the League of Gold and bide my time. So many are concerned with immediate success, and the be all, by all of a Legate's seat; so little are concerned with the ideas that will truly shape this city into the Republic it must be, and can be. Such things are not built in a day, let alone a month- and I would rather not be broken by three months of a Legate's seat, demand after demand from the Accord. No, what I mean to build will not be so fragile a victory. That so many think it is an accomplishment worthy of praise is a curious joke.

Do not call for me again. Enjoy your new family.

Regards,
Leo