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[The Sandstone College.]

The Sandstone College.


"You're a pride to the college. You know, I earned my degree something of a month ago and I've never written a single word!" - Caster Cro, Third Rate Sorcerer. First Rate Friend.

A college. A place of learning, open to the masses for but a small tithe of dinari, enough to pay for room and board for the duration of your time as a student. What hopes and hidden knowledge do they hide within the bowels of those ancient halls?

I set out to learn for myself, and answer what questions I had. If only I had known the path I was setting for myself, then...

Perhaps I would never have honored Izdu as I have. I would not be the same person I am now. Thank you, Cro, for teaching me how to have passion. To bring magic into the world that we live in.

We Stand on the Shoulder's of Giants, And I have met one, with you.

 What I learned.

When I first came to the Well, it was nearly as a beggar. Yet.. I was filled with a hope that uplifted my soul, seeing the well. As if upon the wings of a Heron that would soon nest therein. A small city, smothered in ashes. An egg, liken to a Phoenix.

Buoyed by that hope, I sought to pursue my ambitions. A goal for myself. To learn, as Idzu I.Z.D.U. would have of me. I thusly scraped my coin together, and joined the Sandstone College. Knowing only the barest of scrapes of information, I donned the sack and took up a bunk within a small room. The grandest I'd ever had.



I found order, and chaos. I found kinship, and bitter disappointment. I learned, and I grew fearful.
There is a dean, students by the dozen, and endless books to peruse. Lectures held by accredited experts and relics to study. Even on the act of studying itself!

Those halls were empty things, for the dedicated. I found countless hours to read the books, to listen to the lectures. To peer at relics and perfect my ability to read and take notes. Yet for all their efforts, the school is insufficient to satisfy a restless mind.

Their lesson is this, a simple thing - "To learn is to seek." As a horse to water, they provide the *means* to slake the thirst. It is up to you, to do the rest, oh scholar. I had garnered that wisdom from the Sandstone Halls, and I hope you do as well. For all else is trappings of mere pride.



My friend Cro, you have taught me well. What value is there in their papered "Degrees?" It is the act of learning that we cherish, and the fruit of that knowledge that shapes our world. There is no limits to our works, save that which we impose upon ourselves.

Seek, oh Scholar. Embrace Izdu's teachings. May His wisdom shine upon us all, illuminating the shadows of the unknown. Seek the mysterious, and bring it to His light!

[close]

A Preface.


To whomever reads this, I hope that it is given freely and not found upon my corpse. Or worse, abandoned. Should you chose to read on, rejoice in Idzu's gift - Knowledge. Glean what you may from it's passages. I will endeavor to teach what I may.


Still, I digress. These passages are my thoughts. My history. My theories, hopes and dreams. Recorded to paper that might outlive me. My name is Elyse, Awoken. And this is my Memoir.



We stand upon the Shoulder's of Giants. We shall honor their legacy.

 A biography

It should begin as all things do - In the beginning. I am uncertain as to the exact date of my Awakening - It could not have been long after the Ringfall. Lyar 11th, IY 7776. Ashen clouds filled the skies, and storms blew nightly.

There was still water, in those days. Plants, animals not of the desert. Yet every speck of ash carried with it the pervasive shadowy beast known only as uncertainty. Fear gripped the hearts of the most valorous man. Desperation the most knavish peasant.

Imagine then if you would - Awakening in this time. No name. No history. No knowledge to call your own. Old enough to stand and walk, but as blank as an unwritten story. A girl, scared and alone. I am certain many were - though few lived to have their telling.



The first month was amongst the simplest and perhaps, easiest thus far of my existence. I fell into the care of a Caravan headed by a Noble Family of some distant ring. For their sake, I shall leave their names unsaid. Theirs was a strange procession.  A hundred wagons with many times that in people. Horses, knights in armor, grand carnages - and not one wit of sense carried therein. Each Wagon rattled with the heirlooms of days of Yore - beds. Spoons. Shelves of books upon grand cases, all bundled together and carried in leu of tents and more... important goods. How little I realized the importance of this until later...

They had an odd way of looking at people. If you were human, and noble - your opinion mattered. You, mattered. All else served them and their needs, earning their protection and care in return. As was Just and Noble, as all of their House surely were. And so, a small halfling girl was easily lost amongst the entourage of servants.

Do as your told. Keep your head down. Do not ask unneeded questions. Do not stick out. Work hard. Be loyal. Make no mistake. *Do not dishonor the Family*. These are the things I learned first - and so long as I did them? All went well... for a time.



The Caravan traveled deeper into the wasteland and apocalypse that had befallen the Rings. I was known as "Girl", or "You!", for most of the second month. Ashen storms were survived - though many a beast of burden or foodstock were lost. There once moment and gone the next - or dead, from the ashen that filled the lungs and blinded the unwary. Servants too often went missing, but just as the cattle - this were rarely commented upon.

Until the Water began to run out. Wells were found to be dry. Creeks and rivers were choked full of ash, unable to be drank. Those few oasis' or villages that held potable water husbanded such jealously, and became hotspots of tense negotiation. Silver spoons and gilded plates were traded, all for barrels of water to be kept for the Family. Those of us who served, had to do with straining and filtering what we could.

Then, the food began to run thin. For the Family, it was just another challenge to be overcome. Toughened out. For the servants, hunger ravished us. The elderly and feeble were among the first to falter. We eyed the beasts of burden, and stout steeds that were fed grain from our diminishing supply. Yet still we marched on, leaving in our wake a trail of bodies hastily buried with scant ceremony.



The third month came. And it found our caravan beleaguered. Winding and stumbling its way forward like a drunken fool, each step uncertain. It was in this month that I learned to appreciate the Family who lead us. For the first wagon's axel broke - and there was no spare.

Thence came a mighty debate. What was to be abandoned? Was the teapot and cup that, poisoned, slew a foul patriarch some seven generations past worth *Less* than that of a biography of the life of the only mage of the Family? It is then that I learned the weight that those wagons carried. The Weight of Generations. The entire, collected history of their lineage.

They did not carry an excess of tents or wagon axels or any such thing ... because they had been weighed against that history and found wanting. It did not matter what was to be abandoned, for each piece made the Family lesser. A portion of *Who they were* left behind. Their legacy. I grew to respect their stubborn pride, and quietly learned the stories of the things left. I found in them, my love for history.



The Fourth month was among the hardest to witness, for with it came a test of spirit - of willpower. And many a man - be they human or else - was found wanting. Servants turned to thieves, for hunger or thirst ... and were left as hanging testaments of swift justice. The Family, once generous with wine and fine foods, began to send servants out to forage with bitter heart and stony baring. Few returned. Yet amongst the harshest of incidents was that of Cannibalism.

Driven to unspeakable ends, three were found guilty of that fiendish crime. Some twenty that had gone missing were found to have met their ends at the hands of these creatures, who I refuse to acknowledge as people. Their justification? They were not human. Thus, they were *To serve. Even as food.* Their heads were left many feet from their bodies, rotting in unmarked graves.

Yet this was a changing point for the Family. For they set to the Horses and, once more, weighed their value against their Nobility. And as it was their burden to protect and care for their servants - the beasts were pure to the sword. Harvested, butchered. We ate well, then. For a time.



The Fifth month was largely unremarkable, save for a lessening of wagons and people. And, my name. It came from the most unremarkable of incidents. I was set to serving food, and I did it with quiet humility. A simple remark, muttered and soon forgotten by a passing member of the Family, ensured I would no longer be called "Girl". I still remember it as such - "'least... We're lucky we still have servants like her. What's her name? Ensure she has a second helping of horse, tonight."

From that simple question came my name. "Elyse", the quick response of a cook, who only remembered the first words said to him. I did not question it at that moment, and took humble pride in having a name for myself.

Time passed on, and though I did not know it, an auspicious event occurred. we reached less than half of our number since I had joined the Caravan. Dead, missing, or executed for some crime, most numbered among the retainers and Family, not the servants. Our lives began to hold more value, as our services became more scarce. And as of the wagons.. Scarcely a dozen remained. Their cargo only the most intrinsic to the legacy of the Family. But they pressed on. Determined. Resigned.



The Sixth month heralded with it the end, for the Family and their caravan. We were traveling amongst unnamed hills, when we encountered a familiar foe and the most strange of strangers. A sibilant host - long regaled in the legacy of the Family - beset what I would come to know as a small gathering of Ashfolk, and their hired mercenaries. Doomed to death were the Family not to intervene, they convened for scarce a moment before making their decision.

They would charge. The Retainers of the Family would charge frontally, while the Scions flanked from behind, to pincer between them the scaled menace. While bold, the plan was ill-thought out, for the Sibilant numbered at least as many of the combined retinue of the Family and Mercenary forces. Nor, did they consider that perhaps not all of the Sibilant had joined the fray.

And so they did charge to their deaths. The scions of the Family were turned upon, as Asabi riders appeared as if from the ash itself. Lost to a man. Enraged, the Retainers of the Family fought hard to avenge their liege and his kinsmen. Yet it was too late. The Family was no longer, save for a young girl whose name I do not recall, barely more than a babe. Born in the wake of the exodus of the Family.



Yet the Ashfolk were not ungrateful. They offered to take with them those surviving retainers now bereft of purpose. Hire on the servants, and buy for generous price the heirlooms that remained. The steward and a scarce handful of the most loyal oldguard accepted, taking the last heiress and Lady and departing. To this day, I have not heard nor seen of the Family again. I am still thankful for their taking of me into their care.

Under new care I found myself. That of Gelif Al'Saymen. A traveling trader, seeking to profit from the waves of refugees such as ourselves. Traveling between beleaguered village after beleaguered village, offering food, water, and essential goods in return for gold and heirloom in usurious deals.

Yet who were the refugees to complain? They were being offered a second lease on life. And we, servants of the Honorable Al'Saymen, were payed with food, water, and a small stipend. It was my first coin, and I did not know how to spend it.



in the Seventh month of my life within the Disc, my duties changes. None were as simple "Servants" to the Honorable Al'Saymen. Each were to be able to defend themselves, and work in a multitude of roles. All were equal, in that they worked for pay, as they were told. Many of those who had survived thus far chose to end their employment in one of the villages that we passed, trying their hand at a different life. Most, we did not see again, as those villages were oft doomed to failure.

I chose to stay in service to the Honorable Al'saymen, for I knew no other life. I was taught to watch, and to fight. To scavenge, and the basics of survival. I was found to be apt in battle, easily learning the shield. Only one other visceral joy as that found in my first battle I have ever experienced, and that was in learning. I found a certain oneness, amongst the falling blades and screaming cries. The curses and bloodshed. For every step was as if a dance, where failure was to bleed, and die.

My heart pounded in my chest. I could scarce hear anything else. Yet I stepped and danced that bloody ballet for hours, and never once felt anything to transcend that joy, even in the pain. I found myself moving and lashing out, and at the end of that battle I stood standing where many others did not. I was commended that day, and met the Honorable Al'Saymen, who wished to dine with me.



It was a curious meeting. Strange. Awkward. In hindsight - Embarrassing. I did not speak unless spoken to, and even then, only answering questions simply as I may. Until he asked me what it was I would like as a reward for my performance.

I was stunned, then. A question I could not answer with "Yes", "No", or such other drivel. After a time, I declared that I would like to learn. To ask questions and be given the knowledge that I sought. To this day, I still remember his pearly smile in response.

It is to my luck that the Honorable Al'Saymen was, in truth, an Idzur. Most would assume that he followed Warad, patron of traders and travelers. Instead, the Honorable Al'Saymen made it clear that it was the History brought upon the backs of Refugees that interested him. As the Family once weighed the value of Heirlooms to carry with them, the Honorable Al'Saymen weighed that which remained. The stories and legacies, to add to his collection. Those that were found wanting were simply sold as scrape or to lesser collectors.

It is then that I learned my passion for *Learning.* I traded stories of those heirlooms that I knew, for knowledge of the World that we now live in. Many hours of each day, when my duties did not otherwise inhibit me, were spent alongside the Honorable Al'Saymen in that way, as we traveled circuits of the wasteland. Visiting ever fewer desperate villages, and found ever fewer caravans of refugees to trade with.



And so eight years did pass.



The tide of refugees still has not ended, yet the Honorable Al'saymen had judged that what remained was not worthy of his time. And so, he returned to Baz'eel to enjoy the fruits of his labors. To pour over his vast collection and to prepare it to be displayed to his fellow Ashfolk.

Yet I was, and am not, a citizen of Baz'eel. I was denied the offer to continue at the Honorable Al'Saymen's side. As a young woman, I was deemed too old to be seen as anything but another refugee, though I was given good recommendation for further work to colleagues of the Honorable Al'Saymen.

None were of his honor. His caliber. All, expressed varying levels of greed. They payed poorly, or charged usurious rates for basic goods as food and water. Often, I would arrive in a new city with as much or less coin than I had set out with. In hindsight, It may have been a fault of my own. Ashfolk love to haggle, to barter, to bargain - and I was easy prey.

I did as I was told. I kept my head down. I did not ask unneeded questions. I did not stick out. I worked hard. I was loyal. I made no mistake. I did *Not dishonor my employer*. And this, the perfect recipe for exploitation.



Two years passed as such.



I continued to work as a mercenary, until I found myself unable to be hired. My equipment that I had, I had sold or bartered for coin for food and water, save for the most basic of rags, blade and shield. My physique left much to be desired, as there were always bigger and stronger folk to hire.

My skills, though not at all decayed, were not impressive by themselves. A long list of previous employers had declined to offer up recommendation. Hunger drove at me, as it had not since I left the Family's care. And so, I turned my eyes to a new destination, as those in the Family's care once did.

A different kind of new life. A hope, that might be doomed to failure. Ephia's Well.



It is there that my story truly began. It is there that I live while writing this. It is there, that I hope that I find meaning worthy of my trials.

[close]

[The First page is left blank. A canvas for thoughts, for art, for a dedication as all things should have...]

I'm all for it. It'd probably stir up the meta a bit but... okay?

Recent events have given me pause to consider, and I'll be retiring amenya and away from efu until further notice.

Have fun, y'all.

[Amenya Graen.]

Several letters are dispatched to the following individuals, each practically copies of one another...
The addressed individuals are as follows: Amelie of Kulamet, Zyaeed of Wroth, Khalid of Warad, Mari of Gellema, and Marcellus of Idzu.


[

Blessings of the Mother B'aara upon you,

As you are each aware, War is upon us.



The Mother weeps for what is to come.

Agaslakku sharpens his axe, eagerly.

Idzu draws up plans, his knowledge without equal.

Kula readies the earth, for the blood and growth to come.

Gellema twists the odds, and tilts the scales of fate.

Warad shifts the sands, and only through him can we hope to find our way.

The Twindari prepare their rites, for the dead who are sure to come.

And Wroth... Wroth prepares for long due vengeance. His terrible toll.


Each, must hear our earnest pleas. To know they are desired. To hear the cries of their children in word and in deed.
Tomorrow, I shall call for the faithful to gather. To usher up our pleas, a voice from each of the spokes.


I shall offer up meaningful sacrifice, that they might know the sincerity of my desire.

I ask that you join me, in this holy task.


Tomorrow, I shall call. Will you answer?


Prelate, Magistrate, Waterbearer.

Servant of the Mother,

Amenya Graen.

A letter is delivered to the Ambassador, Housed within Ephia's Well, for his consideration...

Esteemed Ambassador,

Where I'm from, a guest is greeted as a friend, and offered drink and food aplenty. They say its poor form to retire to rest before all of your guests have had their fill - And so, I'd wager I owe you as many drinks as you can handle in a sitting. Want to find that limit?

Still, I have more duties than being a good host. Reckon I've got a formal request for you, on behalf of Ephia's Well. We're marching to a battle like few others in recent history. Four armies are to fight, and we're looking for an edge - Baublium specifically. Nice, shiny blue stone that's got magic all through it.

We'd hear your terms for however much you have, if you have any at all to spare.

I'll be waiting for an answer -

Prelate & Magistrate Amenya Graen, Waterbearer of B'aara.

[A letter is left in Legate Marcellus' Care, to be delivered or not as he sees fit.]

Honored Legate,

As you requested, I've prepared a few letters for some of the Esteemed Ambassadors of our neighbors. However, it was made clear that we do not have an ambassador for Baz'eel - as we are a part of Baz'eel's demense.

As such, I figure I'll leave it to you to decide who this' delivered to, if at all. I've left it merely addressed to the 'Esteemed Representative' as appropriate.

Let me know if you need anything else, yes? I've written to Frostport, and will take a trip to Bafansi soon.

-Magistrate Graen.

Most Esteemed Representative of our Holy Sultan, Osman VI Maribid

I write to you now on behalf of the Mother, and Ephia's Well.

We march to war, to protect the innocent and the Sultan's lands from an encroaching threat.

Three armies are set to face us - A sibilant force, a warhost of the Thousand Clans, and the scattered remnant of Orentid origin.

We of Ephia's Well prepare judiciously for this War, and as such, we have a request for the Charity of Baz'eel. We have need for Baublium. As much as may be spared.

The Mother teaches mercy to the downtrodden, the weak, and innocent. We of Ephia's Well aspire to adopt these teachings, risking everything for the sake of scattered refugees who'd be doomed to death and slavery elsewise.

Your demonstration of these values, however, could very well shift the minds of many of these very same Refugees to align with that of Mother Baz'eel.

Should you wish a more private meeting to discuss the details, I am at your leisure.

Prelate & Magistrate Amenya Graen, Waterbearer.

[Two letters are writ in a shaky hand. They're fortunately rather free of most spelling errors, though the grammar can use some work. They vary wildly in tone, clearly displaying some political sense, though whether they're on their mark for each ambassador is yet to be seen. They're assigned to one 'Deputy Chief Scribe Aaisha']

Esteemed Ambassador,

Where I'm from, a guest is greeted as a friend, and offered drink and food aplenty. They say its poor form to retire to rest before all of your guests have had their fill - And so, I'd wager I owe you as many drinks as you can handle in a sitting. Want to find that limit?

Still, I have more duties than being a good host. Reckon I've got a formal request to you, on behalf of Ephia's Well. We're marching to a battle like few others in recent history. Four armies are to fight, and we're looking for an edge - Baublium specifically. Nice, shiny blue stone that's got magic all through it.

We'd hear your terms for however much you have, if you have any at all to spare. Trade, favors, you name it, and we'll talk.

I'll be waiting for an answer -

Prelate & Magistrate Amenya Graen, Waterbearer of B'aara.

Esteemed Ambassador,

I write to you now on behalf of the Mother, and Ephia's Well.

We march to war, to protect the innocent and the Sultan's lands from an encroaching threat.

Three armies are set to face us - A sibilant force, a warhost of the Thousand Clans, and the scattered remnant of Orentid origin.

We of Ephia's Well prepare judiciously for this War, and as such, we have a request for the Charity of Baz'eel. We have need for Baublium. As much as may be spared.

The Mother teaches mercy to the downtrodden, the weak, and innocent. We of Ephia's Well aspire to adopt these teachings, risking everything for the sake of scattered refugees who'd be doomed to death and slavery elsewise.

Your demonstration of these values, however, could very well shift the minds of many of these very same Refugees to align with that of Mother Baz'eel.

Should you wish a more private meeting to discuss the details, I am at your leisure.

Prelate & Magistrate Amenya Graen, Waterbearer.

Sergeant Anahit. Don't reckon we've talked much, since your duties keep you busy locked away in the basement, more often than not. But there's a few questions I've got, if you're willing to lend answer.
I was patrolling the Creep, as I still aim to do, despite being dismissed from the Fourth, trying to keep folk safe. And, well, I'll leave out of paper what I found down there. But more questions than answers have come of it.

1: Who would've cursed those known as Craven, as they're called now? I've had Djinni and worse mentioned, but I reckon you might know their enemies better...

2: How was the Orentid worship of the Pilgrim different from B'aara? I have heard three names, now. The Pilgrim. The Mother, B'aara, and Ephia.

I'm hoping you might be able to give a better answer than the Mother's of Baz'eel. I'm not above helping you as I can. Just ask.

-Waterbearer Graen

A journal, written and kept by Amenya Graen. Bound amateurishly with three metal pins pierced through leather and paper, bent to be kept secure...

Who are you?

At the start of the page is a symbol of two hands, raising an orb above them. It could only be Her water that they raise - a Symbol of B'aara's faith.

Illul 4th, IY 7787. Today I start writing. My own advice given to others - find time for yourself,  find who you are - taken. Reckon it's not as easy as saying "I'll do this later", or "Ink costs too much, I have higher priorities".  Who was I?

I am Amenya  Graen. Born in the town of Hardinsdale. Folk called it the home of the "Best steers you've ever seen!" or "That shithole down south", depending on where you lived.  My Ma and Pa...
... They were simple folk, as I remember them. Julie ... and Josieah...  Graen.  I always called them Ma and Pa though. Is.. that why It's hard to remember them..? We were farmers. Wheat, Yellat, beans, corn. Well ... they were. As soon as I was old enough to leave the nest, I went to the town proper and enlisted in the Milita. Had it in my mind to make my own way. Think I was really just running from their attempts to get me married off to the Yakesh boy.

But then... I don't know how long it was, that I was there. Everything from getting to town to... getting here, was a blur. Is, a blur. It's like it never mattered enough to be remembered, but that can't be right. Who forgets their own life?
Still, my next memory is from 'Awaking' within our present home. The 'Bounteous Garden' of our 'Blessed' Sultan, Osman VI, glory to his name. I awoke in a storm. An ash storm, the likes of which I've only seen once since. It felt like my skin was being torn from my bone, I couldn't see a thing, and worst - such a terrible thirst as I've never felt since filled my whole body. I've had a dry tongue, a headache - lack of water, as it were. But this? My very bones were dry. My eyes, like syrup. I could feel my lungs sticking - and it was /wrong/. But I was saved, from a terrible death as I came to learn.

Stonefolk, from the Tablet of Ephia's well. Why they were in the desert, I don't know. How they found me? I don't know. But by Her mercy, I live - as I was brought to the one place where a half dead refugee like myself would be given a chance...
And there, I found faith. Old Beatu was giving his morning prayers for Her protection from the rising sun - He calls it the 'Baleful Sun, Pra'raj' - and I decided to join in. And.. then I felt Her. Oh, it weren't much of a change. Barely more than a few droplets on my hands. But in that moment, She heard me, and answered.

I was chosen. Reckon I don't know why, or what she sees in me. But *She* *Heard* *Me*. I can never thank Her enough for sparing my life, for giving me a second chance in this world. To be reborn, to start anew. 

Lieutenant Colmes.

Knowing you as I do - I imagine you're confused. Hurt, or at the very least frustrated. Feeling betrayed by my announcement this eve.

Know this - My loyalty is, as always, ever more to B'aara and our Well. To the Sultan who rules this land, and to the people who dwell within.

Why did I chose not to seek Candidacy, Legateship? Time. Patience. This will not be the only election - in time, another will come. And another after that. And so on. I am not ready, and this is not the time to put what meager assets and allies I have to use to claim a seat. I don't have that capital - real, or political - to make it work without compromising. And so I will wait and work diligently to be ready for the next.

In the mean time - I will work to ensure a Purple  Legate, who may be favorable to the Fourth. I will take up the position of Magistrate, to better dispense Justice. I will speak within the Assembly, to enact change. I will fight beyond the Well, to protect Her.

Nothing has changed, but the time that I chose to act.

I'll keep the details close to my chest, as I'm sure you do and understand well the reasons why.

I hope this helps you to understand. Ask, if you've questions, and I'll try to answer.


In Her service -

Waterbearer Amenya Graen, Citizen of Ephia's Well.

[Signed...]

[This letter, long in the care of Amenya, is forwarded to the desk of Sergeant Colmes]

Hey! I had an idea, might be cool, might not be.

Djinn-Touched. The cursed and misbegotten, these people have been tainted by the nefarious Djinn. What foul powers they may possess are uncertain.

Unique mechanic: The roachman mechanic. Rolled stats at 1,5,8 or whatever they used to be, with 1 locked at 18 and all else random. Some minor perks depending on what flavor / theme of Djinni you chose.

Possibly KOS or at least not welcome in the Wheel?