The Thousandfold Notes of Alejandro Benjazar

[Don Nadie]

The Very Cursed Crypt

I'm feeling a little better, I think. About Justin. I talked, I cried, I took drugs with s. Hypatia. But weirdly, I think what helped most was... Getting in deadly danger.

S. Snorri wanted to explore a Crypt in Old Formoria, and I didnt want to be in the City, so he agreed to take me along. It was us two, s. Leiah, s. Kyana and s. Kypros. The trip there was... A bit scary (orcs of the Thousand Clans are nothing to sneeze at) but more or less uneventful. But then, we got to the Crypt.

Walls moved. Undead walked. Traps and pillars of negative energy and cursed magics everywhere. There were even... People... But... I don't even know if I dare to put my theories down here. It was hideous. It was scary. People got wounded. I almost died. A strange, enormous creature who seemed to meld in and out of shadows, attacked me from nowhere, and I held her best I could and ran from her, and did my best to survive.

I read... Texts... I need to write, and a lot, for d. Jamileh.  Ancient mysteries. Strange discoveries.

It was even stupid. At one point, a summoned rat /saved us/ from the biggest [a big scratch of ink, as though covering whatever he wrote.]

I feared for my life. For my friend's life. I discovered things. I endured with effort and luck.

I felt more lively, at least. I did not find great treasure... But I came back with a Tale. I shall tell it, soon enough.

[Don Nadie]

The Tales of Others

I offended d. Jamileh, and I feel a little bad about it.

I had written the fourth telling of the Thousandfold Tale. For a long time, I had the general jist of it: two rivals learn to respect and love each other. Initially, it was just your run of the mill tale of misplaced hatred, but I thought it'd be funny to make it a little tease about d. Jamileh and s. Naelin, who are always bickering like an old married couple.

That's what offended her. That I teased her, in public. "You don't know what I've endured to be were I'm at", she told me. She was almost seething. I was reminded of what s. Snorri told me, too, when I asked him if I could talk about the Fall of the Dwarven halls of Kulkund... He asked whether the elder had told me the tale because he wanted to, or because I caught him at a weak moment... And what did that tell me about my right to tell that story.

It is... True. I think in my eagerness to tell tales, maybe I sometimes treat people as set-pieces, or characters... Rather than real people, with real feelins about their story, or their likeness, being used in a public tale.

I still think the Tale of the Two Rivals is a good one. But the tease was clearly a bad idea. The worst thing is, as I wrote it, it became less and less important: the moral of how much we can learn from those with different skills and attitudes made me think of how much I had learnt from d. Jamileh's thoroughness. "A weaver of certainty", I called her alter-ego. "Someone who ensures the past survives through discipline and intellect". Those are all things to admire, and things that she's taught me.

So I'll apologize. And, in the published version, I'll change the names.

A tease between friends is only funny when they like it.

[Don Nadie]

Balladeer at Last

I am a Student of the Balladeers!

Truth be told, I didn't doubt it would happen. I am - of this I'm certan - one of the best and best known performers in the Well... But I think I spent too long working on my "not-to-be-published" sort of thesis on Old Formoria. I woke up asleep atop a pile of transcriptions, only to learn that the Lyricist had called for /storytellers/! And I failed to attend the call!

Apparently, a few people had been selected: Edha, Velan, Lynneth, Aubrey and Palamon. Truth be told, while all are respectable, the only one of them whose art I had seen was Edha. Sana was apparently a bit annoyed at having been left aside, considering not one of those chosen was able to play a single instrument. But I think, like me, she had no doubts she'd get in. It was just a matter of time.

It took a few days, but when rumor finally spread that the Balladeers were accepting new students, I just set off to hunt for a recommendation. S. Lynneth didn't have enough time, and s. Aubrey said she wouldn't recommend anyone she didn't knew personally (I guess she didn't think she knew me well enough!).

So, after witnessing a little barfight, I accompanied s. Velan and s. Felix, the second of whom also wanted to apply, and listened to his interview. It included a re-telling of our experience in Mt Kulkund, one which ended with s. Velan wounded and us carrying his body back to the Well after defeating those who fell him. In s. Felix's re-telling, s. Velan just defeated everyone... Which, well. I'm all for massaging facts, but it should be for the moral or the message... For the /story/ itself... Not for a man's reputation and ego!

Anyways, when it was my turn, it turned out s. Velan expected me to impress him with a tale or other artform about his person.

Obviously, I told him that was not going to happen. I can make jingles and praises as work, for coin... But to weave a Tale is an Art, and I'd disrespect myself and the Balladeers by improvising something on such mercenary terms. Either he does something to actually cause a lasting impression, or he doesn't get in. I'm not going to... Massage the truth. Honestly, that seemed like the worst way to judge a candidate, based not on their Art or aims, but on /yours/.

Anyways, Felix asked me to tell him a tale that would make him cry. And I went on and improvised the tale I already had woven in my heart, even if the words were... Not written. The Tale of the Handsome Fool. About Justin.

He cried. I got in. I have to make a few changes over what I improvised, but it... It will be a good Tale.

I'm not sure black suits me. But the message and goal of the Balladeers? Clinging to hope through Art?

That does.

[A little jingle is added at the bottom. Notation indicates it is cheerful, fast-paced and probably quite catchy, both a battle and a tavern song]

There's a tale in the Well
that's too sad to behold,
yet its swell to try spell
what no caliph can stall.

When you stand with the Band
in their own verdant stage,
all the sand in this land
can't hide cup from the page.

Do not sell to the fell,
hold your hope and be bold!
Hear the bell, break your shell!
The tale's yet to be told!

[Don Nadie]

The Games

Well, I had an exciting and dissapointing day, both.

I rose full of enthusiasm, because it was to be the day of the Great Games. I was even more excited when /Airships/ came, and from them three /Princesses/ descended. It was like a fairytale: Three Princesses, each equal in beauty yet different in personality. They even wore distinct but matching togas! Truly a delight! I was ready to have them fall in love with someone, or be kidnapped by an evil warlock (I guess I should be thankful this last one didn't happen at all!)

Then, we went to the Games. After a little talking, the Whites began asking for more to join their team in the big Melee. The Purples were full of grand warriors and wizards, while Legate John Syter was offering coin for people to inflate the ranks of the Gold. As the Whites argued to just have fun and play, I decided to join them. Why not?

So I fought for them, and lost, twice. Badly. It was really hard, seeing as I could barely react in the midsts of battle, we were less people and we had less experienced fighters. I am a terrible fighter if I dont manage to react and be tricksy! And even then, I'm not /that/ good. Still, I guess we didn't do too badly, and I was in a good mood, congratulating the victors and so on...

And my mood started souring when it turned out that some of my companions were being competitive in /a bad/ way. Getting angry at having lost, as though that meant /anything/. I started to realize that, for a lot of Leagues, these Games were not a friendly exchange between neighbors, but a chance to vent up frustration and beat up those they disliked. Some Purples were full of themselves in victory. Some Gold and White, bitter in defeat.

I disliked that.

I also dislike that I missed a performance by S/a Sana to the Princesses because I was to fight.

Anyways, then came the champion's fight! Some fell quick quickly, but S/a Fineweather, for the Gold, and S/r Atreus, for the Purple, kept dashing and slashing for /hours/. I was excited... Until I realized they were using /drugs/. DRUGS! So they weren't grand warriors, they were... Snuff-junks.

In the end, they were both declared winners together, in a display which was a little sweet and /did/ take /a bit/ of the day's bitterness away. But generally, not great. I wasn't... Thrilled at how things developed. At least the jingle I was paid to write (another 400 dinari! Even if I had to set my foot down a bit on S/r Brundon!) became true...

[There is a little jingle scribbed on the sides. Apparently it is meant to be song as a tavern song, with the music being clapping or clanging of glasses on a table]

Tell me, oh stranger,
what's this about Games?
Why is the Souk
brimming with names?

Who is now destined
to victorious rise?
What name does fill
with cheers our skies...?

Who... But... Him...?

Mantled in purple!
Brave like a knight!
Raising his sword!
Dashing and bright!

Oh, gaze upon him,
who live in these lands!
It's Atreus Loukanis,
sharp blade of the sands!

Who... But... Him...?

Come then, and watch him
victorious like dawn,
soon to to win all
with guile and with brawn!

Come now, to see him!
You'll have no regret!
Atreus Loukanis!
The Games' safest bet!

[Don Nadie]

[A little note, added almost as an afterthought to the last entry, written like a little tale]

Once, there was a very tall man with an axe who came to the games.
Bowed to the princessess.
Not gallant, not daring. Just respectful without being obsequious.
Said his custom was to attend these displays.
Oh, he was so very, very tall.
None dared tell him to sheath his axe.
Not even the Janissaries.
I wondered if he was related to L., but his skin was not pale.
Perhaps. Factions. Conflict. Uncertainty, even amongst them?
He bore an axe, unshattered? Shattered? None was close enough to see...
And so, after gazing upon the warriors and finding them wanting...
He left, dissapointed.

(Wonder why.)

[Don Nadie]

The Voices

I had a long debate with S/a Sephidra and S/r Velan, regarding the Voice.

For both of them, the less people who have a Voice, the more that excellency can shine.
For me, the more people that have a Voice, the more excellency is /forced/ to shine.
Right now a rich merchant needs little effort to have his interests outbid the poor masses. But if each pauper had a Vote, wouldn't the brightest need to raise? Wouldn't the best need to lead?

For both of them, those who have not done anything to deserve a Voice, shouldn't have it.
For me, only those who /have/ done something to /not/ deserve it, shouldn't have it.
How does a man not deserve the air to speak, the Voice to talk? How do they not deserve to tell their own story, choose their own laws? It is reasonable to take the Voice off of those who harm the Well, so why fear give it in the first place, when it'd be so easy to ensure no harm is done?

I mentioned my home. How all had a say, in our little village, and our all having a say didn't mean that the Voices of experience and the elderly were ignored. Reputation is a thing, oratory is a thing. Even if I followed their argument, that excellency is best for government, right now mediocrity is allowed to fester by lack of competition, and excellency is sidelined due to lack of funds.
They smaller the government, the easier it is to solve their problems.

Just because something is more difficult doesn't mean it isn't worth doing.

Are they /that/ afraid of getting lost in the mass? We evidently came to no real agreement, but at least knew each other better.  S/a Sephidra wants to promote a system of accessing Voices that isn't just coin, such as apprenticeships, and I can wholeheartedly support that, as a second best option. S/r Velan seems more driven by his desire for greatness that anything else. Which is... A stupidless inspiring attitude.

Anyhow, they asked if I was in a League. And I'm not. The Whites... What keeps me from joining is the horrible rumors about them...

I guess I need to talk with some of them. See what they respond.

[Don Nadie]

Accursed Nazaru!

Goodness, what an adventure! Terrifying! Diffcult! Impressive! Daring! A quest so grand and brave it shall be inmortalized in the Thousandfold Tale, whose knowledge brings wisdom and endless life!

But let's go in order...

It all began, as such epic adventures often do, when S/r Snorri came into the Krak cursing under his breath. Apparently, a foul Nazaru had dared taunt him, saying that many a dwarf had been waylaid by their tribe, and /eaten/! Needless to say, he sought to liberate them, or at least bring vengeance and ensure it happened no more. Needless to say, I offered my blade and my voice, for who could resist such a chance to do a good deed, to be heroic, and to aid a friend?

So off we went: S/r Snorri, S/a Sephidra, S/a Lynneth and S/a Sana. And myself, of course, shield high and blade sharpened.

It was horrifying.

Nazaru (which I keep wanting to call Nazuru, for some reason) are horrid little gremlings who, lacking in any magic, accept djinni into their flesh to obtain a semblance of power.  And so, they fight with malicious magics, odd ilusions and dangerous mutations. Most terrifying: on their death their very organs and hands seem to gain life, the djinni ready to use the opportunity to cause havoc and bring destruction.

It. Is. Disgusting.

So we fought them, in corrupted tunnels and dangerous caves, as cursed Obelisks blasted us with foul magics, in corridors filled with mists which made anyone within decay... We fought and fought. S/r Snorri at the front, as ever, his hammer sending Gremlings to their death, with S/a Lynneth fighting enflamed by the blessings of Warad. From the rear, S/a Sephidra pierced the hearts of their shamans, with Sana joining the song of her arrows with the song of her bow. And I tumbled and dashed, and healed and slashed, tricksy and beyond reach, an annoying distraction on the sides of the host, a healing support, a nuissance.

We endured the caves, but there was more. Deeper. Ruins. We steeled ourselves, as our spells began to falter, and continued.

Through ancient corridors and rooms we continued. Facing the most dangerous and horrifying djinni, leading with wicked grins their Nazuru troops. We dodged claws, endured spells, bested the Smokeless Fire, the Shineless Ice. And at the very end, we charged into battle valiantly, our arrows piercing their shaman, our brave Snorri enduring their spellcasters... S/a Sana got slightly hurt through a terrifying spell, and we all almost died at one point or another (it'll take a while to recover the Water I spent), but we endured and survived.

And so, we put to rest the Nazaru. Though it was too late for many a dwarf, they would rest in peace knowing they were the last to be waylaid. There was no great treasure... But there was a great victory, and a great tale.

Not many face an ifrit and live to tell the Tale.

[Don Nadie]

Orcs in the Ramparts

I went with S/r Snorri and the Competition in another, new expedition to the Rampart Nusrum. It was quite dangerous, but Warad smiled upon us and, as we travelled forth, I told a tale.

[The tale ahead is written in an entirely different tone. Someone uninformed may well consider it a pointless draft]

Once there was a corpse.
Deep, deep.
Feasted on by ghouls.

Foul were the smells, the sights.
Foul was its size, its gnawed bones, the bones arround it, smaller.
So frail the bones arround it. So frail the corpse itself.
Broken, the big and the small, for size and might mean nothing to Death.
Together, food for ghouls, and ghouls, and ghouls...

Desecration! Said then a woman.
(Had she always been there?)
So tall she was. So very, very tall and so very, very pale.
To know: desecration. To seek: desecration. To exist with questions: desecration, desecration, desecration.

And so the steel clashed and the spells rang.
Deep, deep.
And there, for a moment, we all were food for ghouls.
The big and the small.

Needs work, but I think they liked it. A creepy tale for them to shiver. A fantastic fear to stall the very real fear of very real danger.

Anyways, we got there, we explored a bit. Then, as we were set to continue, drums rang in the air. The Thousand Clans were ready for us. We... Rushed back to the caravan, but the drums had heard us and, as we readied ourselves to leave, we realized, with dread, that the refugees wouldn't have time to escape.

Needless to say, we stood. S/a Sana, S/r Snorri, myself. All of us stood strong and true, for we couldn't let the innocents be hurt for our mistake. I've never been prouder of my companions.

What an assault it was! A large warlord, beastly greatsword in hand, shattered and slashed all on his way. S/a Leiah got knocked to the floor with but a swing, even S/a Mari, our mightiest fighter, got thrown to the floor in a couple of this monster's slashes! I myself survived (particularly after running towards S/a Mari to heal her without success, as the horrid warlord and myself were left alone) through a mixture of luck and fighting as defensively as humanely possible... Which didn't keep him from hitting me, mind you, just from obliterating me completely.

Thankfully, S/r Snorri managed to pick up on his followers while S/a Jamileh valiantly led the warlord astray. Then, with the aid of some vials, S/r Snorri faced the horrible Warlord, whom I did my best to demoralize while healing and darting back and forth.

It was horrifyingly close battle. But we survived. And bought the refugees time to escape.

That was good. It was well done. I just... Wish I was half as mighty as S/r Snorri. Half as capable to hold the line, and defend those who cannot defend themselves.

Praise unto Warad for returning us safely. Praise unto my companions, for being brave and heroic.




[A little note, added at the bottom]

It is... Strange to me, that he tells himself charity is wrong, but then acts with a generosity that, without his stubbornness, could only be called charitable. What do you call standing instead of taking the caravan, to protect refugees that have nothing to give you, and not a chance to survive on their own?

Then again, he also likes to pretend that he is not smitten with Princess Hashimaa, so I guess he is not the most prone to self-examination.

It is funny. A little sad, perhaps. But mostly funny.

I really admire him, regardless.

[Don Nadie]

Art's Price

I keep working and working and working.

It's strange. I'm getting quite a lot of recognition for my work as a bard. I think I'm probably one of the most famous in the Well? So much money to be made from jingles for a product! From songs for a warrior! From sonnets for a merchant!

And there is a lot of pleasure in performing them, yes. And they pay for supplies or for songs, yes. But it's lacking. It's fun and interesting and thrilling the same way that using a sword is fun and interesting and thrilling. A skill practiced and honed, and used for a living.

But its not Art. It doesn't make the heart skip a beat, it doesn't hold the axis of the sky. No tears burst, and neither does laughter.

I recently made a sonnet for S/a Ophelia. I had been hired to do so by S/a Zaniah, since the merchant had, apparently, donated a lot for her games. I was meant to find something to flatter her, so I decided to make a sonnet extolling her virtues and choosing an animal for her seal. I choose the bee, because I remembered an old tale about how ants took but made nothing, and spiders made much, but only as a trap... While the bee took, but only to make something better it then gave for free.

A good moral. Hardly applicable for a merchant (even one as nice as S/a Ophelia). But a good moral nonetheless. And making a sonnet with it? It was /fun/. The way words twist arround and you must find the right one that fits just in place... I was happy with what I got in the end:

The insects we imagine assembled
As we seek one to shine in her seal
For though they all have appeal
We shall pick one Ophelia resembles.

The ant it is not for she gathers,
And shares not, miser to transform
While the spider, with wild abandon,
Its own substance merely scatters.

Let me state: Ophelia is like the bee,
She gathers coin, yes, but then makes
Sweetest honey she offers for free!

As it is, black and gold clothe her shapes!
And her wealth is for Games we'll all see!
Celebrate her: she gives what she takes!

It was a fun poem to write. And it did fit. And it did flatter her. And she does wear black and gold, which is what gave me the idea in the first place.

But it is so far from Art. So much closer to swordsmanship.

I do think jingles can be Art. Or swordsmanship. Or even (Warad forgive me) Velan and his onanistic self-promotion. Because Art... Art is like the finger that finds the string, the lightning that strikes the tree. It is two things meeting in such a way that something else /happens/.

It is the lifeless, pointless /things/ crashing with the heart and making something else. It is the soul expressing itself into matter, be this words, sounds, or objects.

I guess that's why I feel it is so important to set my Tale aside from other creative pursuits. I shall accept no restrictions to it. I shall tell it as I see fit. No coin can change that. Nothing can.

S/a Kythaella wants to forbid Shapeshifting in the Krak, when I think it'd suit my story? The Krak's stage is mine to command.
S/a Zaniah wants me to tell a Tale for Janissaries? She better accept she isn't getting to choose a theme or tone.
S/r Velan wants to hold a Balladeer recommendation ramsom for a Tale glorifying him? I'd rather never bear the Rose on my back.
No restrictions on the Muse. No restrictions on the Words. No restrictions on the Heart.

I'd tell the Tale in the streets. I'd tell the Tale in the Creep. I'd tell the Tale in the dunes, for none but jackals to hear.

Perhaps someday I shall have to.

[Don Nadie]

The Door

[This entry is simply the draft of some Tale. The story is swiftly scribbled, the calligraphy indicating it was perhaps written in a caravan. Halfway between a story and a poem, it seems to be some kind of little fable]

Once, there was a door.
What a mystery it was!
For none knew what it held.
What it hid.
What it kept at bay.

Once there was a door.
Eager was its draw, and so many joined to open it.

And they travelled.
Hidden, they travelled.
Sharing secrets, sharing knowledge, they travelled.
And trying to pry it open, they knew themselves and they knew each other.
For words are shared under the pale light of the moon, when the drums of distant tribes beat the promise of death.
Words are shared, not to be shared elsewhere.

And once, the door was opened.
And behind it, two more doors locked, with two more mysteries behind.
And behind each of them, another two.
And two, and two, and two, forever and ever.
For each door is a path, from one onto another.
Each door separates one person from the next.
The more you know, they more there's left.

[Don Nadie]

The Coming Storm

Once, a storm was coming.

We were showing the Acolytes the surrundings of the Well. Encampments, routes, beautiful sights. It was a lovely mission. After having spent way too long concerned about strange conspiracies, infiltrating the Creep in search for some signs of new betrayals, it was truly, truly lovely.

We walked, we shared stories. We got to the First Wheel.

How beautiful it was, the ancient oasis. The spokes of the Wheel, eight spokes and the ninth outside. The stones felt so ancient, so massive. Their illustrations... So worn out and strange. Who were they, these old gods that had grown so differently? Who were they, at first?

The small man with rough axe, still unbroken.
The woman, covered in bones.
The figure with the staff, the one with the tablet.
The two (children?) embracing.
The forest, the lightning, the maws.
The mist, the shade, the mist, the cloud.

"Who were they?", I wondered, as I took notes and set tribute. For they were like a distant echo of our Wheel.
Who were they? Were they angrier or kinder than our gods?
Were they more alive, more present?
"Who were they?"

The stones were heavy with history.

And then, it was announced.

Once, a storm was coming.
Like ash-lizards they ran, to hide into their holes.
And under the Shade which protects.
They ran, they ran, they ran.
And their hearts beat in their chests.
His heart, it beat.
As though it could stop at any minute.

We rushed the Acolytes to safety. Not knowing when the storm would come. Not willing to take the risk. We had to keep them safe, after all, that was our duty. The College protects the Sisters, who so kindly guide us, who so kindly minister to the poor and the weak. Instead of extending our expedition, I talked with Acolyte Leiah and Amelie about their charitable efforts. I discussed politics and intrigues with S/a Aubrey.

Time continued. I performed once again the Thousandfold Tale and it was good, the telling of Justin's tragic death. S/a Koukol cried, at last. I hope she found some peace. S/r Snorri joined, for the first time, and he too liked it. I think the song was maybe not a great ballad, but certainly a good mourning dirge. I think the stage-tricks worked. I think I ought to have spoken more slowly, but that is the only thing I'd changed. S/a Lynneth was impressed. I was happy about that.

The days slid slowly, like honey. Dripping one after another, sweet with stillness, slow with expectation.


They called for help, the sages.
"To hold the Shade, we seek help"
"To hold our city, we seek help"
"Protect us", they said, "for none can hold, alone, the Sky".

So many joined. What could they do?
Fear is no excuse.
Dread is no excuse.

We were to ward them while they took measurements, for their magic would no doubt attract unwanted attention. Escorting them, in normal circumstances, would be an easy task, or even a pleasure, for to walk in learned company is a sure way to learn new Tales. But the storm was coming. The sky roiled with Ash clouds and the promise of danger.

As they worked the storm approached.
With every pylon planted, with every meassure taken, closer.
Closer, closer, closer.
(I felt I coudn't breathe. I felt my heart wanted to slip out of my chest.)
(I gripped my blade. My fingers feel slow, when I try to play the lute. I must have hurted my hand, gripping so tightly.)
(I did not notice, at the time, that I was gripping so tightly)
Fear, fear, fear.
There was the sound of goats in the winds.
Their terrified bleating, in the Storm, the Storm, the Storm.

"We have a duty to protect them", S/r Snorri reminded me. He was stern, but kind. He made my think of tio Paco. Of the kind severity with which he taught me how to properly kill a goat, when it was time. So that it didn't suffer. "We owe them that", he said.
("Don't!", he said. )
(That's the last he said, to me.)

I felt safer, shield near his shield, weapons raised together. I felt safer. I endeavoured. Even as the storm came closer. D/a Jamileh's arrows to wean down our foes, S/a Mari's kicking and punching like a whirlwind. Melek and lizardfolk fell to us, unfailingly. The Nadiri took their meassurements, so that only one pillar remained.

But the Storm came closer, stronger, darker. Fearful, we went into it. Our initial idea was to climb the mountains, but the violent winds drove us away. Scarred by Ash, we sought refuge in an ancient temple. We promised ourselves one last measure, one last pillar. There was a whirlwind of plans and counterplans, though we ultimately let the Astronomers make the decision. It was their work, after all. In the Giant's Road we planted the last pylon, we stood proudly.

The ash ravaged them, burning their skin, their eyes.
And from the clouds/sands/ash they came.
Horrid, lost, broken. Shimmering, within their eyes the burning ash.
Burning away the memories, the passions, the stories.
Husks.
(Are the goats husks?)
(Is tio Paco a husk?)
Bravely, they fought. With magic and shield, they fought.

Riding on the wild wings, a song.
Of soft breezes rustling the leaves.
Of clear skies.
And the warm sun on their skins...
That song, a promise of better days.
And with that hope in their hearts, they fought.

We lived. We returned whole, with but a few wounds to lamment. No fatal accidents.
And the Nadiri had the meassurements they needed. Enough, hopefully, to make us all safe.

(Hope is sharp. Keep it sharper)

[Don Nadie]

The Storm

Once, there was a Storm.
Against the Shade, it roiled.
(Can such a thing have malice? It seemed to have malice.)

I hid in the Krak, so as to not see the sky above us, so dreadfully familiar.
I hid from the Storm until I could hide no longer.

When the horns blared, I joined the call. What else could I do? The Melek were coming, from their lairs, seeking to attack our Well while we were struggling. I had to overcome my own fear and fight,  raise my voice as the sand lashed against our faces.

We then discovered that someone, a saboteur, had attempted to breach the Shade by breaking one of the Astronomer's strage contraptions. Someone, someone in our city, had tried to kill us all.

The storm roiled and roiled and roiled.
A rumble, a threat above them all. Death, like a promise, rumbling.
Below, the fearful argued and intrigued. An Assembly was called on the matter of sabotage.

The Purple: distracted, scratching her arms, burying her face in ehr hands. Barely herself. Were was the proud woman with a love for scholarship?
The Gold: nervous, eager. A tad self-satisfied, perhaps. By his side, his confidant and magistrate, looming.
And the White? The White, on the sidelines. He watched and argued and argued. Vehemently, I thought. Like a man who wished to protect us all, I thought.

They argued, and argued and argued.
They were so scared.

The Assembly was long. Much was considered, pondered, called. The High Zenithar talked to the Assembly. Witnesses were brought and their testimony heard. S/r Kypros was brought to the podium, under suspicion of being the saboteur. He took away his helmet and we all saw his face, consumed, eaten away by some sickness. Many suspected him, many brought other suspects.

Then... Then S/ra Aubrey and S/r Heinrik spoke. "Syter's Slys", they called them. They brought up a conspiracy, accused Legate Syter of having framed S/r Diakos... And were proven wrong.  The letter, at least, turned out to be a falsification.

Had they been played? Had they been lied to? We had little time to contemplate the matter, because the Janissaries descended upon the Hall, with Sorazin leading them, and attempted to arrest Aubrey. Needless to say I took out my shield (though not my blade. It would've been disrespectful to take my blade out in the Hall of Speakers), standing next to the Cinquefoil. S/ra Aubrey, however, chose to go with them without opposing resistance... And I obeyed.

I went to bed. As ever, exhaustion took me. I only heard what happened the next morning...

The Purple: Vanished.
The White: Wounded by a dagger, unconscious.
The Gold: killed. By the same dagger as the White.

A poison in the long-gone dagger. A poison in the Legates. A poison in the Well.
And above, the storm roiled, and roiled and roiled.
Pressing against the Shade, seeking us behind. Like something hungry or something in love.

[Don Nadie]

Kulkund

[A piece of paper is stuck in this entry. It contains a poem, appended to the beginning of the Tale. The calligraphy seems to belong to a Scribe, presumably a record of something said on the Bellows. It is attributed to Isabella Fitzgerald.]
[hide=Isabella's poem]

Beneath the sun beating; ash bites and tears.
Every last one, bereft of deter.
Eleven to praise; hearts valiant and bold.
Three to return, their story, one told...

A mountainous hearth; where auld memmories bade.
Through horde, cliff and earth; to retake what was made.
Glory and honor; every last soul true.
For our friends we weep... Every last of you.

Rest in peace; tender and heaven.
To the eight lost... Of Valiant Eleven.[/b]

[/hide]


Some day, this will be a Tale. The story of how we got to Kulkund.

Once, there was a scholar. She was as wise as she was kind.

We met the Elder at the Tablet, dwarves and their allies gathered for some conversation. It was dire, threatening. The Elder did insist that this could and would be deadly, that we better be prepared. Still, no dwarf was a coward that day and, for the sake of their History, they all chose to join the expedition. Four humans, too, were included: Zieghart, Victor, Leiah and myself.

A key was given. A strange, beautiful one.

And bravely, she dared the storm with those she called allies.
For not even the sky itself could stop her, where knowledge and wisdom were in the line.

We got to Kulkund without much issue, and entered the tunnels. Those would provide side-ways access to the Upper City, where we thought our destination might be found... Whatever door the key opened.

One of eleven fell, to the hungering spiders of the depths.
Unable to climb, tangled. He perished with the thought of his people engraved in his heart.

The Upper City itself was a battlefield. Orcan drums beat through its halls, small bands in their perennial struggle with the deep dwarves for the spoil of their treacherous alliance. We fought and fought and fought. Their number was so great... There were so many... And still, we forged our path ahead, even when we lost our first leader. Even when Victor was cut by the blade of a Bloodpoet. Even as an assassin skirmished while we crossed a chasm, even as we fought and fought and fought.

In her Wisdom, she called the very stars.
Lights from the upper reaches of heaven bathed the fighters.
She protected them, as she'd protected all.
For she was as wise as she was kind.

Beyond the chasm was a door. Intricate and beautiful, engraved with gold and ancient runes. They key fit in it. No matter the centuries, the mechanism barely clicked: it obeyed. Beyond it, another testament of dwarven craftsmanship: statues which, on glancing upon us, moved in unison awakened by ancient runes. We were forced to break them. Slowly and steadily. For they were built to last, to endure. The pride of artisans long gone.

We lost another to the statues. Like a pillar, it fell upon him. His death was swift, if nothing else.

When the battle was quietted and her magics could be spared, the Scholar took out her instruments.
She decyphered what none would have been able to read.
For she cared about History, and about her friends.
And with steady words she let us know of the past:

Of its kindness.
Of its honor.
Of its betrayal.

A last speech for peace. A last speech, cut short by an assassination.
She told it solemnly and in awe.
For she was as wise as she was kind.

Then, the steps of armor on the ancient halls. Echoing. Thundering.
A Senator of the Deep Dwarves. His entourage. His assassin.

He offered us to give up everything, so He'd get to destroy it. He spoke of ancient shames, of slavery under the Upper City, which may have inspired kindness, had he not refused of entreaties of a reasonable, peaceful solution. He really wanted to leave no memory of the High Dwarves, to erase them all.

We couldn't accept.

To protect the Past she fought. To protect the Future, she fought.
It was neither her Past nor her Future, but she fought.
For she was as wise as she was kind.
She was fallen. Last to fall, of them all. Killed by the treacherous Senator.

Murdered

I carried her body through the sandstorm. I couldn't let her go.
I carried her and carried her and carried her.
She felt so heavy.
(How could she be so heavy? Such a small frame, she had.)

She was brought from faraway lands to her Sisters.
Who would wash her lovingly, who would lay her to rest.
She was as wise as she was kind.

I know someday it will be a Tale.
Someday.

[Don Nadie]

The White Worm

I was too exhausted, I think. I barely remember it all. I was there, of course. I was awake. Waiting for the burial of Leiah, I hadn't even washed the ash off of my clothes. Then... Alarms, in the air and in the bellows.

I was exhausted. But when the Acolytes ran off to find the danger, I had to go with them. I hadn't noticed before how they all seem like her. Their uniforms, their veils, they can seem, from a distance, to tired eyes, almost identical. As violence erupted, the very idea of them being hurt made my heart ache.

So I made my way into the Chamber in time to find the symbol of the Wyrm, blazing. In the Bellows, the voice of Diakos, once of the White, revealing that he was, in fact, a foul Wyrm-cultist. That he had been involved in all that happened. Zarat? Missing. Syter? Dead. Diakos? Behind everything. I was a bitter discovery. A betrayal, by a man I had thought noble.

I made my way to the Pilgrim in time to face the Melek. I think I raised my voice, and sang, though it escapes me how I even managed. And the sky was roiling and roiling... And the water of the snakes, staining the Well... It all seemed lost, it all seemed to be crumbling.

And then. Like a miracle.

The Ecstasic Terrace, breaching through the Storm.

The Sultan's Geomancers performing their ancient Arts, from above. The clouds finally parting. The sky. I had almost forgotten I could see the sky. I felt awe at the Sultan's power. And fear. And so much relief, as the Celestial Disk shone above us...

Then, I went down into the Well. With the Acolytes. For her funeral.

[Don Nadie]

The Basis
The Grounding
The Thing

[This entry in the diary seems to include a lot of seemingly random drawings. The most notable is the drawing of an ear, the lines having been repeated over and over. Alongside it, the little text of a Tale]
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣠⣤⣤⣤⣤⣄⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣴⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣦⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Once, a storyteller was scared.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢠⣾⣿⡿⠋⣁⣤⣤⣤⣌⡙⢿⣿⣷⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢀⣿⣿⠏⣠⣾⠿⠟⠻⢿⣿⣿⣶⣿⣿⣧⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣸⣿⡏⠀⠋⣠⣴⣶⣶⣤⣈⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠀But he had friends. He had hope. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⠀⣠⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢻⣿⠀⠿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠃⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⣷⣶⡄⢹⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠟⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀He had to have friends and hope.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⣿⣿⡿⠃⣸⣿⣿⣿⡿⠋⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⣻⣷⣾⣿⣿⣿⡟⠁⠀⠀Else he'd throw himself off the nearest Canyon.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠸⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠛⠛⠋⠀⠀He could be brave for them.

U s e   y o u r   e a r s