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[This is an assortment of writings that, with some generosity, could be called a journal, a notebook or a collection. The pages are sheer havoc: some are cut, burnt or stained. There is an absolute lack of order. Notes for tales and translations often have strange marginallia with (usually terrible) rhymes and some attempts at drawing. Sometimes, it does seem the writer gets distracted halfway through the note-taking to write something else.

Amongst this chaos one may find a piece of order: transcriptions clearly written with a slightly more careful hand. While still adorned with unnecesary attempts at poetry  and notes on how the historical record could "more interesting" if it included "giants", "sorcery", "romance" or "a talking turtle", these seem to be at least legible.]

The place is beautiful, after so much wandering... The people are kind, though maybe a bit too focused on making coin for their own good. Half the place seemed to be rushing to buy merchant licenses!

I began the telling of the Thousandfold Tale in the Well. It was so beautiful... After telling tales arround fires and camps, the Speakers Mound felt like the most glorious place on the Disc to speak...I also think I made a friend with D. Cherise. She came to my first telling of the Thousandfold Tale... She was the only one. That made me a bit nervous. It easier when you've got a crowd, because you can be sure /someone/ will like it. When there's only one person... Well. You either swim or sink! And I think I swam.

(I miss swimming. Going down the cliffs with friends, then climbing back up and laying beneath the olive trees to dry off. This place is beautiful, but there are no olives.)

D. Cherise said she liked it, and afterwards recited some lovely verses... Will include her in the Thousandfold Tale, I think... Though she didn't really say why she sang them. I think she must've lost someone. Many someones.

I guess we all have.

I have done quite a bit of running, from one side of the Well to another. Lots of people seem to need packages delivered! While not the best job, it does have its perks. You get to walk arround, and meet all of these new folks, and discover all of these new places. I have gone up and down the Eagle's Mount, I have stopped to enjoy the fountain of the Palm's Heights and the smells of the Souk.

But the weirdest thing happened, just recently.

I was in the Souk, and a man asked me to deliver a package, and to not open it. He was a little greasy, but seemed trustworthy enough! So, when he told me to bring things to a place called "The Creep", I agreed. Too many things cost too much, and I like learning new places. Then, it turned out it was in the Gutters, which I had never seen. Then it turned out the Gutters were the underground tunnels, full of rats, strange glassy monsters and bandits.

Thankfully, Sr. Benji was with me. A local merchant and also a decent singer, he sort of had pushed himself into being my escort, and gotten payment for it. Now, I'm not complainig, because when we were assaulted by a bandit, he refused to let us get robbed! Admittedly, we mostly won the fight because I, terrified, used one of my illusions to stun him, but...

I don't know. I still don't get used to seeing a man dead. By hand, mine or my allies. I know it is fine, I know I must defend myself. I just wish I didn't have to.

*The narration is interrupted with the quick draft of a little jingle. Perhaps not terribly thought-through, but certainly sincere:*[/size]


So, I got the Creep, delivered the packages and got some coin for it. I thought the packages were spices for the Creep, because obviously they couldn't have as easy access in a tavern deep in the Gutters (no idea why someone would open a tavern there) Then, as we emerged... Sr. Benji explained to me that, apparently, I had delivered...

DRUGS?!

So I guess that's that for courier work, because I certainly don't want to meet more robbers OR to be delivering bad things...

I've been looking for work. Travelling with adventurers and warriors pays. So does the public, when I do a Telling. None, however, pay enough for the price of all the songs and the expenses of living in the Well. And that is before I can even consider becoming Voiced!

So, when a woman called Jamileh declared in a Sending that her archeological company, "The Competition" needed a secretary to help transcribe I thought: why not? I mean, I can write! Plus, an archeological company means old things, which means old stories, which means more materials for the Thousandfold Tale! So I offered my services.

D. Jamileh adviced me to hide these notes within my other papers, notes for stories and other "silly things", she said. We do not entirely agree on what to do with what is discovered, but... I can see her point.

Caliphs, emirs and kings are rarely the heroes of tales. There's danger is seeking to understand what is forbidden, just in case it turns out to be forbidden for no reason other than threatening those in power...[/size]

So, I helped defeat some evil djinni summoners in the First Wheel. I don't want to sound whinny, but djinnis are, in fact, extremely scary and creepy.  And I still feel so uncertain, waddling in battle, dashing back and forth, and trying to hit something and not be hit... It's stressful!  I much prefer it when I need to stand at the back, where it is /relatively/ safe.

Still, we won, and I practiced a little.

The curious thing was that, as we were using magic to dispel whatever was summoning the djinni, the woman next to me whispered asking "The Wyrm" for power. Now, I'm not an expert, but I think the Wyrm is a bad god. But then, the woman seemed normal?

So when we returned and she praised by fighting and asked for a chat, I obliged. I mean, she hasn't been murdery, and also, mama always sayssaid I should be courteous to people.

"Please and thank you are the cheapest ways to help others with their day", she used to say. I miss her.

Anyways, the woman talked to me in the Krak. Told me a tale of how she was once captured by gnolls, her whole town razed, her to be eaten or worse... And a big giant Worm came out of the ground and ate the gnolls! She said that's what she worships. She also said that the Worm loved strength and that It had liked me. Then she put a rose on my chest.

I said thank you very much but I follow Warad. But thanks!

After our talk, I went to hear the Balladeers. They were drinking, sharing old tales. I had heard it before, in rumors, softly... But these veterans, how they spoke, stepped deep in memory and wine, of their loss... It was sad. The talked of how the Cinquefoil Rose risked it all, how they died, so many. How so many drowned, in the very Plaza, when the waters returned... And how the Janissaries took the victory for the caliph.

"The story hasn't ended yet", one said. I guess it hasn't.

And then, wordless, the Grandmaster emerged. She said nothing. She just took a rose and went to the Plaza. The Balladeers, the Sisters, the Banda did the same. Slowly, they walked out, a rose in their hands. And out there, the Grandmaster, an old actress, dropped the rose, for a year had passed yet again, since many lost their lives to make this refuge possible.

I added my rose. So did many. While the Janissaries watched, worriedly, roses piled up before the Pyramid.

The story, I suppose, is yet to be told.

I delivered my transcription and got finally hired. Not sure if its because d. Jamileh appreciated my work or because she's just too overwhelmed to say no by her backlog, but I won't look a gift goat in the mouth! Working with The Competition is giving me a great chance to learn about ancient histories, and it's good to work with someone who values the truth.

(D. Jamileh and I definitely have a bit of different ideas of what truth can be - her definition being much much more exclusive than mine! There's truth in the record, yes, but there is also truth in a fictious re-telling!)

The Competition has some curious people (a lot of them). Seems like a few Izdu and Warad priests even, which makes sense. I've mostly ventured with d. Jamileh and the sras. Mari, Sana and Pirouette. Sra. Mari is real strong, but also a bit scary (I've seen her break a lot of necks with her bare hands - yikes!). Sra. Pirouette is great at magic, and quite kind! And sra. Sana is very talented, but she calls me "Other Bard" which feels a bit dismissive, but then again, maybe she's insecure? Maybe she needs that to not feel bad about herself!

Anyways, it's a nice little group to go with. We did a small expedition to the Rust Dunes and saw some strange machines in the caverns. It was /extremely/ creepy, so much so that both I and d. Jamileh forgot to take notes? I'll need to return soon... And I'll also need to learn how the heck to copy d. Jamileh's classification system which I'm sure is real smart but also a mess...

Working for d. Jamileh is great. We did an excavation into a strange water-logged place with the writings of an ancient traveller! And there were statues, too!

It was real fascinating, even if none was /terribly/ interested in my theory of the Sisters being somehow related to what the traveller described as women who imbibe strange wines and stay in mystical contemplation. I think it has merit! Maybe some local plant the sisters discovered, which was already used in Orentid times?

I'll admit it: these theories are not /extremely/ based on /a lot/ of evidence. But taking a big leap can actually help us reach further! And I mean, it's not as though I'm saying it /has/ to be true! Just that it could be!

I think that while something cannot be demonstrated, if two things seem to be related, even if they aren't, it means they may have something subjacent in common! Like how the metaphor of life and time as a river is common in places that have nothing to do with each other because it is, simply put, very appropriate.

Sometimes its not about historical facts, but about facts about the nature of people. I think, at least. So, what is there in this Well that led both the Orentid women and the Sisters to mystical contemplation via drink? That's not a worthless question!

[A smaller note]

D. Jamileh also talked of the person spying on them. It's scary! Need to -er- figure out what's happening there, and who are behind the threats...

Making coin is tricky. Specially when your boss mostly pays you in exposure and access to really fascinating and maybe only an itty bit heretical texts. So I'm always struggling for coin, because the songs of the Sha'ir are expensive, and maybe I also should work towards getting a nice Voice?

Storytelling does get some coin, but it is difficult to write a good tale, and to prepare for a great performance. So, I've decided to offer some services writing to improve people's reputation. It isn't glamorous, but writing jingles can be fun, and I'm good with crowds so... Why not? The Torchbearers hired me because some newspaper is giving them real bad publicity... And I can help! Maybe I can even figure out why the newspaper hates them... Put to some use all I learned trying to sneak into the granary at night!

For now, I started working in a jingle for the Torchbearers...[/size]



Hopefully they'll like it!

I don't know what I think of the Well's government. It's all a bit too big, in comparison to what I'm used to.

Back home? We were too few, most crimes were very petty because there's only so much you can do when the biggest "wealth" is one goat more than your neighbour and when everyone needs everyone else to survive. So, it was all about talking and, in cases of really bitter rivalries, the mediation of the old women. And with really foul crimes, exile was enough.

Here there are riches and properties, and people who want to keep what they've worked for (or stolen, or inherited). There are laws to protect them. There are also laws to protect refugees from abuse. There are laws against necromancy and brookering, because those are things that can perfectly happen here. There's just always a lot going on.

I definitely don't like that you have to pay to become a citizen and have a say in the Laws. It feels like cheating: those who cannot earn money without help don't get a voice, so they don't get the help they need. On the other hand, it certainly is better than just being under the thumb of a Sultan's choices. I'm mostly familiar with Sultans and Kings through stories, but it does /not/ seems like they are reliable...

People divide themselves in three big camps, when it comes to politics, allying for clout and power...

The League of Purple are sort of the sultan's bootlickersvery dedicated followers (it's bad to be mean). They just think its great to have a Sultan. Heck, I think if it was up to them there'd be no democracy at all! Considering this is the same Sultan who betrayed the Cinquefoil, I think its a very silly position.

The League of Gold are mostly merchants. They think we should all be independent from the Sultan, but mostly so that they, the richest, would have more control and more power. They have tried to raise the price of a Voice, for example, and seem prone to disenfranchising others to concentrate power on themselves.

And the League of White is, in theory, most dedicated to the masses. They supposedly want to protect the refugees, and to give everyone a Voice regardless of wealth. And that sounds great! Complicated, but great! But there's the fact that a lot of their Legates seem to be a bit... Shifty. Some say that they use the League's good reputation to hide illegal or just extremely inmoral behaviour. I don't know. Maybe.

D. Jamileh says the whole system is corrupt, and doesn't want to participate in it. And maybe she's right. I honestly don't know... I mean, sure, it is not perfect, but trials are better than Janissaries just killing whomever they wanted, no? I think, at least...

Things were easier back home. That's for sure.

The Competition joined the Torchbearers and, led by s. White and a few others, we went climbing the mountains of the Ayyabas. It was... A bit secret, and very interesting. Less dangerous than I thought. More mysterious.

I dont know how to write the experience. I guess, it was technically boring. We climbed. We saw a few ruins. We talked. We couldn't climb any higher. We returned to the City.

But that wouldn't describe the strange silence. The presence that watched us (benign? unkind?). The way the clouds didn't move like elsewhere. The  strange fortress, with an architecture that didn't fit the climate, nor the style of any other local civilization. It wouldn't describe what's at the top, which we didn't see, but which some of the others described. S. Hayes had even painted it, though I prefer not to see it, so that someday I'd be able to stare in awe at the construction.

It was a trip in which nothing happened, but a lot was felt.

I'm concerned about all we're discovering. I'm worried something bad will happen to d. Jamileh. We did one excavation in the quarry, an discovered one really interesting granary. Which in itself wasn't that important but inside there were these tablets... And the tablets held an account that was...

[There is a pause in the writing, something has been scratched with a big blotch of black ink]

That was fine and normal! Taxation! Buh, so boring! But a tale occurred to me:

Maybe once there were a woman and a man.
And, in their homestead... They'd need no grain for their bread.
For they drank deep and saw things.
Women of Orentes's court in mystical meditation.
Sisters, sipping their wine.


[The tale seems to have been edited several times. Large splotches of black ink stain some lines, so that only a few notes remain. No doubt, Alejandro has spent many an hour shedding more and more of this, as though... Fearful?]

Needs work!

Since d. Jamileh and the others of the Competition are usually more than the 5 it is safe to travel with, I've started adventuring a lot with s. Snorri, a dwarf. It got me thinking about all the different people I've gotten to know, all the races and ways of speaking and cultures I'm experiencing...

I remember when I was little, everyone was just like me. I can only think of seeing someone different once, an Ashfolk captain in a sailing ship, and how I and the other kids followed him, hiding when he turned to look at us as though his gaze would turn us to stone. Someone said that an Ashfolk's spit would turn you bald. It's... When I think about it now, I feel both warmed by how childishly innocent we were... And a little bit embarrased at  our ignorance.

Apparently, not every place was like the Well, and some of the refugees carry prejudices worse than the ones we had. The Torchbearers told me one Banda Rossa, for example, called elves "tree monkeys" and talked cheerfully about cutting them. As though they weren't people. I can't begin to imagine what that kind of feeling is like... Being looked at like that.

Anyways, s. Snorri... He is a sturdy man, loyal to a fault and very proud. He also also protective, and really kind. He's been teaching me a thing or two about being in the frontlines. Of course, I'm never going to be as good a fighter as him, but if I can be resourceful when we're in a pickle... That's not nothing.

Plus, he likes my songs.

And he tells interesting tales. For instance, he told me:

The Thousand Clans follow The Murderer, which is the name given to Agaslakku by the dwarves.
For it was partly to satisfy Him that the orcan attacked the dwarves of Kulkund, with the aid of the treacherous deep dwarves.
And His priests must kill to raise in rank:
A single man to be inducted in the priesthood.
And more, and more, as one raises in rank.
So that their higher priests have their hands covered in blood of those they've murdered, alone.

Which was interesting. It did... Fit with what a wandering Agasian called Cyressa told me once, in the Speaker's Mound:

That their lodges are everywhere.
That they are nowhere heralded or celebrated.
That theirs is a wild, secret faith, recorded only in the Book of Strife.
That they all know the pain of the breaking of the axe.

But she added: For there is no greater pain than to break things.

So I wonder if s. Snorri is right but also... If there's something more to their faith. If they consider and accept that murder is "the breaking of things" and is necessary.

I myself break things. Often. With Snorri, for instance, we've broken orcan and deep dwarves a few times. And perhaps Agasians (perhaps even the orcs we fell) are more at peace with it than either of us.

I'm getting paid to write jingles more and more often! It seems a bit silly, but I guess it makes sense: people need something quick and catchy to help their reputations, and I can certainly provide a good performance. My last job was a bit of a stroke of luck: I happened into a contest of gladiators right before the final confrontation. Since they needed some entertainment, I told the Tale of Why the Camel Cries, a little classic. It was well received, and after the contest was won, a friend of the winner paid me 400 dinari to write a song celebrating the winner: Atreus Loukanis.

I think I did a decent enough job:


I performed it a couple of times at the Krak, adding some dramatic scenic trics to make it more thrilling. People like it! I think s. Brudon will want to hire me again. And, most important, s. Atreus was really happy about it (even if I had to correct his name because I initially called him "Atreus Loukans". It's not my fault Loukanis is more difficult to rhyme!)

I participated in a contest of poetry organized by s. Laremy. He is a priest of Izdu, and one of my favourite priests. He has a great sense of drama, always with that lantern of his which he dangles mysteriously for almost any and all comments! And with those Sendings he makes, where even going off to herd some goats is presented as a glorious chance written in the very skies.

The Contest started with a bit of trouble. He arrived late, and elected the Plaza as the stage, which was a terrible idea considering how much people pass constantly. Plus, someone was sick, which caused an entire little plague as people began to feel bad. Terrible! Thankfully, doctors worked their way and, after some advice from me, s. Laremy declared that the stars declared that the Krak was more appropriate! Good on the Cosmos!

The Contest was very interesting: participants had to wield a latern and to write poems about the Stars which also praised Izdu. I wrote a fun jingle, which I performed very dramatically, starting all sad and then going more and more cheery:

[What follows is a song with notes indicating how to play it with a mandolin. The rhythm starts ominous and suddenly shifts into ever-increasing, possibly obnoxious cheerfulness. Stage notes include "look all sad, covered in cloak", "reveal lantern, smile to the public", "dancing back and forth" and "smile, smile smile!". A bard reading such notes may detect the kind of energy usually posessed by youth pastors of Izdu, trying to teach children that the stars are as cool as gladiators.]


There was a lot of variety. A Stonefolk joining last told a good and slow anthem. S. Mari told us a cute little poem not about the stars but about the space between them, which daringly praised Gellema rather than Izdu. Another man offered a very dramatic take on stars as Emperors and used fire elementals to give an eery light. A Nazarim called "Esti" wrote  a very serious, very stern poem about the relationship between math and stars. And a dashing elven swordsman wrote about not so much stars as [an akward stain, presumably from an akward pause] love. It was hotvery interesting.

In the end s. Laremy made us vote, each of us for one of our rivals. The math poem and mine got the same number of votes (2!) so we decided to leave it to "fate" and the flip of a coin. S. Esti won then, earning the price of a Voice! Good on her!

I'm a bit dissapointed (I'm saving for a Voice myself, and it would've been good to suddenly have all my savings for songs) but happy: it was a night of great fun! And I loved how much variety of takes there was on the same topic. It shows how fun poetry can be, bringing out all those many different ideas!

That said, s. Sana complained to me afterwards that the poem used too much rhyme. Which surprised me, because I thought it was obvious that my jingle had very strict rhymes to replicate the idea of things "written beforehand in the stars" (a rhyme scheme, after all, sets the "life" of the poem long before it "happens"). I thought it was appropriate, but if a bardess like s. Sana didn't pick up on it... Maybe nobody did?

Well, it was fun still!

[This entry is written with shaky calligraphy, stained with tears at some parts. There's a song, too, and some notes for a melancholic melody.]

Justin is death, and everything is worse for it. He apparently just... Transformed. Grew hideous wings. S. Koukol went mad with pain and attacked a Banda Rossa just as they took him to the Astrologist's tower. The Nadiri tried to heal him but discovered he was cursed. Snorri was with him. Apparently, Justin chose to die rather than transform or be exiled.

S. Koukol grabbed the body, to bury. She didn't want anyone with her, but she let me go along. It was for the best. If I hadn't been there, she might never have buried him. We carried the body, washed him. Then, we set up a pyre to burn him. She made a small figurine. I sand a song. A stupid song like an open wound.

And still, dumb as it is, it's the only thing that kept me from crying. The only thing that gave me the strength to convince S. Koukol to burn him... To stand up and start moving forward...


[The next part of the entry seems to have been added a while later.]

I saw him at the market.

I said: "Looking handsome!", he said: "That makes two of us".

I can't believe the last thing we said to each other was /that/.

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.

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.

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]

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]

[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.)

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.

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.

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.

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:


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.

[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.

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)

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.

[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][/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.

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.

[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.








                       

We went to the Nusrum Ramparts again. A big expedition, with the Torchbearers. We had many an old map and, though harrased by the Inheritors, did not want to give up. So, in a bigger group, with the Thousand Clans thankfully distracted elsewhere, we did our excavations.

Battlefields, mostly. Ancient roads destroyed by war. Ancient walls, breached by war. Ancient households, demolished by war. I can't even begin to imagine how devastating the war which the Colossi suffered must have been. Nor against whom. I only know their absence, their bones bleached by ages untold. I only know this was once a garden, and is now a desert.

It was a strange expedition. When I close my eyes, I can almost see that Wall, and the scattered bones of giants, of reptiles, of humanoids. So many people, so many kins...

So much destruction.




[A little draft of a tale is appended at the bottom]
Once, a woman was seeing things.
Scary things, shimmering things.
Things that took the air from her lungs.
(And we couldn't stop it. We couldn't save her)

Once, a snake spoke.
It spoke deceit, it spoke hatred.
It spoke temptation, and it was stomped.
For the Rose needs not tolerate the weeds.
(But perhaps some weeds are culled too harshly)

"I'm on the verge of maddness", she said.
"Perhaps", said another, "you're on the verge of Revelation".

She went to Luca Ferra, and she's gone now.

"She was happy", said Mari. "She loved it, when a whale splashed us with water".

I do not know exactly what happened. I probably shall ask, interview, write. The Rose needs to know, and so do I. For an expedition meant to be for treasure seems to have turned into many other things. A carnage, for a start.

"She got hurt", said Mari. "But insisted she wanted to go ahead, to continue, to risk it."

She's missing. The bookshop feels more empty without her laughter. The College feels more empty without her irony. The Krak feels more empty without her, tapping her own rhythm on the pommel of her sword, arms crossed, glancing arround with a mixture of irony and curiosity. There's an absence, another, all arround.

"I think she was trying to make up for Kulkund", said Mari. "She had been punished, she wished to prove herself".

She's missed. Her trust was hard to win, as was her kindness. I had found both. She trusted me enough to show me her performance, to let me know about it. I think I know who the song was for. I think I got to know a lot more of her than I'd initially expected, when she was just one more member of The Competition teasing me...

I wish I was still the Other Bard.

[A song is appended at the bottom, along with some beautiful notation for the Lute. The words are notes taken by Alejandro, from a live performance in the College of Balladeers.]

I've been thinking about the Inmolation. It makes me feel uncomfortable. I know that it was established by Vadh I, one of the most praised Caliphs, perhaps due to who his successor was. I also know that it remains in vogue, our current sultan's kin having been prepared for it since birth.

I remember I was puzzled, when I first learnt the term. Even more so, when I understood what it meant, that it was not a metaphor.  I couldn't fathom how or why would anyone do it, I couldn't stop thinking about my own sisters. The idea of something like that happening to them, for power, made my skin crawl.

And then we did an excavation.

Once, there were two brothers.
In the chimney, they were found.
With their hands entwinned, they were found.
Burnt to nothing, they were found.
Their tiny finger-bones still reaching out, for solace.

Vadh I started it. The one who praised Izdu as the Shining Sun. Was it once, so long before Zohjir, an acceptable metaphor for learning and Logos? Perhaps, once it wasn't quite so illegal but an[The speculation is scratched and cut short, continuing with something else entirely.] His son, the Dissapointing... We also saw remnants of his work. A tax office and, in the records, evidence of his caliphate's decay.

I feel I know too much I'm not meant to. And, at the same time, I know even less than when I started. Time turns and changes, and we read texts long rewritten, long re-read. So many layers of misdirection it becomes impossible to tell propaganda and record appart. Here, the Storyteller's talent may shine, for truths can be embroidered within a Tale. Truths can be shared within fiction. Hidden, whispering truths.

Once, there was a door.
Behind one door, another two.

We were in a gloomy mood, after some excavations, so we decided to do something fun, for once. We chose to drink, and enjoy ourselves... Participating in S/ra Zaniah's riddle contest. I am terrible at riddles. Snorri and Jamileh, however? They are excellent. Quick like lightning, and tremendously ingenious. Some of the riddles were excellent, some were funny, some were neat.

I offered my own riddle, perhaps less ingenious, but I loved the idea of everyone discussing its content...


Sublime and well-plumped
by feasts beyond count.
Well-rounded and pale
never touched by sun.
In ointments well-washed
since most tender age.
It sits now above us,
on Gardens so great!


It was, of course, the Sublime Buttocks.

When the contest ended, with S/ra Mari winning, another vote was given for best riddle. I am sad to say the Sublime Buttocks was wiped!

It was amusing. I had fun. I forgot for a bit of... Everything. And then, D/na Jamileh whispered to me: "Careful. You do not want them to notice you".

Danger lurks, I suppose.

Election season has begun, after the Princess so declared. Apparently, we have to wait for their Sublime Majesties to authorize us to self-govern, it'd seem. Annoying as it may be, I suppose it is a compromise which must be made... No member of the Accord would stand to win in confrontation, and none can deny that the Sultan saved our collective buttocks during the Ash-Storm.

The thing with elections, though, is that it means a lot of talking, talking and talking. And even more talking in the Bellows. S/ra Isabella, for instance, has put all her considerable energy into making grand declarations on the Bellows, roaring about this and that. She left the League of White to join the Purples, in honor of her husband, which in turn made me decide it was about time to officially join the Whites. I'll admit the rumors of intrigues and the betrayal of their once-Legate make one hesitate... But, on the other hand, things only improve when one does something to improve them.

As candidates of each League begin gathering their signatures, talking circles become impromptu assemblies. Apparently, we can sign more than one petition. Some have remained loyal to their chosen candidate, while others have embraced every single one. Perhaps in a display of compromise, I have chosen to support one candidate from each League, each a person I like most from amongst their competitors.

In the Golden it was Sol Auk. With S/ra Ophelia dead there was, really, no other choice. In general, though, he is an interesting and keen man. I gave him a lecture on humanoid artforms with D/a Jamileh and S/ra Mari which was informative to us both (despite the licking of a poor painting). Apparently, Stonefolk only like sculpture. The thing with Sol Auk, though, is that he is also tremendously ambitious and extremely astute, whatever his speech-pattern may make one think. His foreigness allows him liberties others lack. He could be an asset to the Well.

In the Purple, it was easy. Amidst a growing number of people obsessed with order and kissing the Sultan's behind, S/ra Sephidra was the most convincing. She cares about refugees, she cares about improving people's lot. We may not agree on everything, but I think she'd judge wisely, and her policies are appealing.

And in the White, it was also no contest. With the alternatives being S/ra Lynneth of the Balladeers and S/r Cyrille, the screeching, I barely had to wait. I did listen to them debate a little, which was a show of contrasts: the grace and patience with which S/ra Lynneth endured his assaults against the screeching, improvised policies of S/r Cyrille. "A chicken in every pot", he said, as though that actually was policy, and not empty promises. Where does one even /get/ chickens? The only ones I've seen are from mad herbalists!

At least something good came out of all this talking. As we waited for about two hours to set off, while every member of the Competition crossed with one or another candidate and were stopped, S/r Snorri asked if the Balladeer seeking to repair a mithril chainshirt was still arround. He wasn't... Which meant S/r Snorri repaired it for me.

Now I'm wearing a chainshirt, fixed by a friend and mentor, of the same metal that keeps him.

I'm... Well, it's stupid. I know it's dumb.

(But I'm proud of it.)

I woke up to an unpleasant surprise. Turned out that, while I slept, a trial was held over the most important matter: whether my dumb riddle was Treason.

Now, I knew the Jannisaries were exploring the issue. S/ra Zaniah had mentioned, and demanded on our friendship that I don't tell anyone my involvement. I had been interrogated myself, and danced circles arround the handsome Janissary who did the questioning. I was very clear that  not only was that a silly thing to investigate, but that it had happened in the Krak, and hence was under our jurisdiction. I never thought it would get to trial on the face of the whole thing's foolishness...

How wrong I was!

It seems S/r Zaniah decided to force the hand of the Janissaries, and, according to her, S/r Rennik was forced to bring it to trial by pressure from S/r Sol Auk - who is said or feared to have the Fourth in his pockets. The trial was obviously farcical, with the entirely of the public incredulous that the Accusation was asking Death for allowing a silly riddle to take place in the Krak - and not giving up its author. The screeching increased when S/r Velan took to the Bellows to encourage everyone to "admit" authorship, and talking about the Sultan's "ass".

Eventually, the Trial was dissmissed by the Princess. Presumably aware that such a trial was more harmful than kind to the Sultan's authority, she descended and dismissed everything. I have mixed feelings about it: on the one hand I fear it is stupid that she gets to just stop trials of our City. On the other, I also feel like the fairness of our justice was being... Held hostage... By idiocy. So I suppose dismissal was for the best. And it spared S/ra Zaniah of any danger.

I am also concerned that it was S/r Sol Auk's who pushed for the trial. Whether to hurt S/r Lynneth's chances, to hurt S/r Zaniah or to ingratiate himself with the Sultan, I don't know. But he certainly was the one to denounce. That's a worrisome choice, for one of the most likely candidates to become Legate...

That said... There's something endlessly amusing about all this. I wrote the riddle as a silly, amusing joke...

I was not expecting the Sultan's Buttocks to be in everyone's mouth.

I think we're all a little scared. Word of assassins, of Janissaries in pockets, of conspiracy. A meeting, in relative secrecy.

"Stay in the Krak", she said. "And treat the rest of the Well like hostile territory".  We all were nervous, sitting arround the table, while D/a Jamileh set golden coins on the floor, trying to draw a triangle within a circle. "I can't ensure your safety outside the Krak. This goes for all of you", she added. Nobody can say that the Banda doesn't know how to cheer up a party.

They were angry at me. At my stupid riddle. It saddened me, that misplaced anger... Why should I not do something silly and stupid, just because it was the Sultan? Why should I cower in a corner, like a little scared child? Instead, I was angry, too, at the idiocy of the whole thing. At the treachery of Sol Auk attempting to kill a woman over something so stupid. At the Sergeant, cowering under threats and giving way to a trial. At the City, which ought to be Just, using its systems to oppress.

At their thinking I should not get involved. Not mock that idiocy in rhyme and jingle. "That's how Tyranny works", I tried to argue. "It makes you fear its reach, and fear extends it". I tried to argue, but I still couldn't shake their fear for me, and my love for them. My original insults, more scathing, went limp. What would've been an angry song turned celebratory, of the Princess. More astute a maneuver, perhaps, and still far from what they wanted...

But a bit cowardly. And still a bit brave. I suppose one must deal in compromise, between friends and duty.

[Mixed in this entry are a few papers, with a long-form draft of a poem, with numerous scratches and notes]


[The jingle is a longer, and certainly more crass version of the song which eventually rang in the Bellows: The Princess and the Pebble (https://www.efupw.com/forums/index.php?topic=707163.msg750116#msg750116).

This is getting tiresome. Part of me loves the energy and the rummor-mongering of elections, but even I grow weary of having to hear an endless parade of speeches on the Bellows. Truly, one almost feels tempted to put the chips aside.

Worst part is, of course, that you are forced to participate in it, too. The less you speak, the more space you concede, so adding to the noise both in person and in public becomes necessary. I've been making my own rhymes, and talking to people, trying to sell them on the importance of the White League. Heck, I've even added another little song:


Not sure how good it is, but I'm quite convinced Lynneth will be a good - if reluctant - Legate for the White. And as maneuvers continue, with Sephidra retiring after (maybe?) being poisoned or (maybe?) pretending to be poisoned, it seems likely that many will feel inclined to vote for her. After all, her substitute is none other than Cyrille, who has swiftly dyed his cloak from White to Purple just to get a chance. I doubt many will vote for him, which means that Lynneth has a real chance of winning.

So who knows? Maybe it'll all end well. But whatever happens, I hope it ends soon.

Today was a lovely day, if not without weirdness.

S/ra Lynneth was just exhausted from all the politicking, so she decided that we all ought to do a frield trip. With S/r Kragg and S/r Delafosse, we set on to explore a few distant locales. It started well: clear skies, its infinite blue full of promise... And then got interrupted by the appearance of a poor woman in our cart.

I thought she was wounded or something, so I approached, while S/r Delafosse (who had apparently endured something similar) insisted that we don't tell her our names. I... Maybe should've thought more carefully, but I also felt the poor woman seemed in distress? Well, it turns out she was in distress inasmuch as she was a damm djinni! The wagon filled with a thousand, maddening whispers and I had to draw my sword but, thankfully, the djinni lost interest fast. Perhaps because we didn't say our names.

Despite how shaking that was, the rest of the trip was lovely.

Spring's Gift was a beauty. In the middle of the desert, a garden which seemed almost a mirage. How could it be so sudden, so different from anything else? It seemed something out of a fairytale... Which, to an extent, it may have been. One local said it had been a Wish, someone wanting to give elves a refuge.

[An abrupt change, as a story is noted]


From there we went to Bafnasi, which was a real pleasure. Such a large and nice city! And so... Familiar, in a way. I always remember, when I'm there, how beautiful the Sea of Pearls is, and how much I miss it. The rumor of the waves, its murmur, its secrets... It felt like coming back home. Except home is nowhere to be found. I feel like there is a word for the nostalgia one may feel for a place that makes them feel so at home it reminds them home is out of reach. Or there should be.

Anyways. Banafsi was interesting. Its history was quite curious (they may or may not have dealt with their Tyrants in a very direct manner). They had a lot of mermen and merwomen, apparently refugees from some horrors beyond the waves... Which I guess means the world is not only dying aboveground... And their markets were really full of terribly fascinating things.

It was an interesting trip. I left feeling... Both satisfied and melancholic.

There should be a word for that feeling, too.

[Another little Tale, quickly scribbled. This includes a rudimentary drawing of a tall statute.]


Once, again, there was a door.
And behind that door another two.
And below that door another statue.
Old history wrapped in code and metaphor.
They sifted through shreds of evidence.
And came to know an inch more than before.
And came to know the gulf of their ignorance.

Behind each door, another two.

She's been threatened.

They, of course, denied it, but she's been threatened.

I do not trust S/r Kergal, I do not trust S/r Oro. Even if S/r Alexander iswas an idiot, I can't just dismiss his claims. Much as I may want to. The fact that Alexander is dead now doesn't help. The fact we're doing what we're doing doesn't help. Alexander iswas perfectly able to make it up out of spite, to hurt Astronomers. Kergal and Oro are perfectly able to order an assassination, out of fear, envy or a desire for control.

Where does precaution end and paranoia begin?

What's the right time to be scared? And angry?

What I know is that the Astronomers seem to be putting their weight behind Sol Auk and the Golden League. It is likely that they shall become the single purveyors of archeological licenses, though what will happen to those who /already/ hold them remains unknown. We shall see.

At least it seems the Cinquefoil did... What it should: Oppose any and all powergrab by the Eagle's Mount.


The petals serve refuge
to friends in the Rose.
Keep those we want close
safe in dire deluge.

While starlocks gather
from all for their greed
the Rose, at the lead,
must their plans all shatter.

[The remainng of this entry seems to have been added at a later time. With worse handwriting, it is not unlikely this was written not on the table, but in bed... After much tumbling and turning.]

I don't know what I'd do if it happened, though. Nothing nice.

He won. Sol Auk, that is. Though it was significantly closer than anyone - S/ra Lynneth, among others - seemed to believe. In the end, it was a matter of five votes in the election, and it was only won because the Golden League decided to gift Voices to those who would vote for them. Eight voices they bought all in all. Enough to change everything.


Once there was an election: charity against independence.
"We must earn our own voices", said the Gold.
"All deserve a voice, like a gift", said the White.
And so they argued and argued and argued.

And when it came to voting, the Gold gifted their supporters voices.
For they were too few to win otherwise.
And hypocresy is the purview of the merchant.


Still. I call this a victory: none gave Lynneth a chance and yet the Golden League had to spend 45 thousand dinari in winning the election - and prove, for it, their own hipocresy. While this is a temporary setback, it will certainly come back to bite them.

Some in the College are sad and angry. Some are sad. I, however, think nothing of this defeat: a minor setback is just a stepping stone - a bit of conflict necessary to make victory all the sweeter.

A new name engraved on the Steele, over the markings of the Wyrm.

Sol Auk made a show of calling priests of the Wheel to argue which was the one most deserving to be engraved once more. Many priests, however, didn't bother: it was evident this was but a show, considering one of his closest advisors, the priestess Mari, was a servant of The Sabotage.

It was no surprise when, shortly after, Their name was carved upon the Steele. There were deals he made to win the election, and one of them was certainly with her.

Almost inmediately trouble began. Paper vanishing, things rattling and those who cursed the current Patron of the Well finding themselves in all sorts of troube. Things became even more difficult when an attempt was made to inscribe a Law: something meant to forbid the Accord members from running for Legate excluded (deliberately or not) the Janissaries. And in the void between the stars, They smiled with amused, as we fell into discord.

Now, I have some soft spot for The Sabotage, Them being the patron of poets and satyrists alike, and thus I believe it is idiocy to curse Their name. Rather, all complaints should be brought to Sol Auk, for engraving Their name in the first place. The Sabotage is not a deity whose attention you want to call, but one you ought to keep safely at bay, praying to avoid Their mischievous glance. It is Their nature to be a deity of whim and chance, and both the Legate and his voters should've known better.

Honestly, the same applies to Astronomers. Who would've guessed the man who has shown he is suceptible to bribe would be suceptible to bribe and betray them the instant dinari were set on the table? And now, they hasten to seek an alternative.

Foolish.


Once, a man took a snake into his home.
He gave it food, he gave it drink.
He gave it a place in his bed.

"Why did you bite me", he asked, as he died to its poison.
"Why would I not?", asked the snake.

Once, travellers began to vanish.
So the Rose, the Mount, the brave: they set off.
For Warad smiles, when travellers are saved.

They found, on the road, hobgoblins.
Travellers they hunted, monsters too, for they cared not for their victims.
Flesh, flesh, flesh: that was all they wanted.
Fresh blood to spill into the waters.

And as the valiants made their way...
As they cut through hordes of their grunts...
As they duelled their greatest heroes...
The waters were dyed red with fresh killings.

"T-the chains are breaking!", screamed the Mouse.
And all could see it: in an corpse-filled oasis, a djinni of blood and waters.
Struggling to break free of its chains.
All knew, for a moment, the weight of fear.

Blessed waters were spilled, holy hymnals sang.
With wisdom and craft, the Nadiri wove their spells.
And though the monster pulled its chains.
And though is roar promised a thousand deaths.
Wisdom and bravery prevailed, and the djinni was trapped once again in the Mother's embrace.

And so they left. A tragedy avoided, but not all.
Hundreds of lost lives still littering the oasis.

Today was the first time I felt truly dissapointed by one of my fellow Balladeers.

We've had differences in opinion before. I was deeply annoyed when S/ra Mariet felt she could no longer be with us, and very angry when S/r Delafosse insulted the kindly Acolytes who followed - no doubt with wisdom and the best intention - the League of Purple. But those were, ultimately, disagreements of oppinion. A family can bicker, after all, and when everyone's passionate, it is normal to disagree behemently. 

But I was not expecting what S/r Aubrey did.

I found them by chance, by superiors in rank, the three sitting with D/a Jamileh.

Was it deliberate? S/r Aubrey wielding friendship like a knife? Past actions which ought to have been performed with generosity, turned into the coins of an exchange? She wanted her to make a clear alignment, to take a stance. I disliked that. I may wear the cloak, but she has fought hard for her independence, and a friend ought to understand that. Ought to respect that.

I felt dissapointed in S/ra Aubrey. In the rhetorical tricks she used. In the way she turned friendship into a weapon. I understand she's angry at the Election's results, but that is no reason to let go of the Ideals we ought to represent. Were I of a superior rank, I may have reprimanded her... Though at least S/r Velandis and S/ra Lynneth remained proper, and did their best to stop S/ra Aubrey from burning every bridge.

But I was angry, and felt betrayed by S/ra Aubrey. Were it not for the others remaining stalwart representatives of our Ideals, I might've been tempted to return my cloak. It was an unbefitting show.

And the worst was - [the narration is stopped, for a short draft of a Tale]


Once, there was a friend.
She was trusted with secrets.
Dangerous secrets, deep secrets. Secrets carefully buried in the sand.
She died. She was mourned, and missed.

Once, there was an angry woman.
"She told me about it", she revealed, "Your friend told me".
And the mournful could only answer with silence.

A knife, in the back, from the grave.
Betrayal from one long-gone.
Where goes the anger we may feel at someone dead?


Perhaps she was playing a role, S/ra Aubrey. If so, a painful role, a deeply offensive role. A role which hurt me, and made me trust her less.

Whatever the case, with our ranks and despite my lowly Student status, I must keep arguing the same:

Defeat cannot embitter us.
Darkness cannot scare you.
Burning bridges make terrible torches.

What busy days these have been. As the temperature increases, the Balladeers have found themselves raising the stakes in a rather fun and mischievous way.

First, a Janissary got very focused on litterers and their prosecution, so of course S/r Delafosse went on a littering rampage with his leaflets, while I myself wrote a lovely (and quite catchy) jingle praising their new role in our City: street-cleaners.

Later, pressure was put on Sol Auk after he legalized minor crimes for a night for those with a Voice or rank. Supposedly it was a test, but others (including other of her allies and S/ra Mariet herself) were not so sure. The "test" stopped after a day, with changes annulled, but not before the Princess had descended and a few people had, for the fun of it, done some amusing minor crime.

The day later, we kept pressuring him over his foolishness, using the disgruntled voices at seeing Gellema on the Steele to raise objections to his "one-Legate" dictatorship. I even made a poem on his "record", which I performed in front of him first, and in the Krak later. It was /fun/, such kind of revelry.

And after that, I went off. But as I was out and about, excavating, it seems new Elections were announced, and Rashid al-Rashid raised as interim Legate, to smooth things over. What I found fascinating though is that, while we had been busy mocking and running arround, in the next expedition I went to, we excavated a painting...

A painting of Ephia. With the Cup.


Once, there were a woman and a man.
And they were giants, and they drank deep.
Of the waters, the vapors, the fountains, the wine.
They held court, in a library, for their myriad children.
Smaller, made of their hand.  So eager to learn.

And the man held Scales, to give measure.
And the woman held Cup, to give life.


I'm not a man for signs, or for Fate. But I am a Storyteller, and I know a good motif when I see it. It is not insignificant, that after being distracted by politics, my attention is returned to the Cup in the desert.

Divine Warad, I wish I had some faith. But at least I know many of my colleagues do. This painting may cheer us up.

I am left to do it.

D/a Jamileh is deep in her texts, and perhaps losing her mind. S/r Snorri is wounded and still unable to respond. S/ra Mari sees to have gone into the wilderness of the desert. Even S/ra Pirou I see rarely these days. Maybe its temporary. Maybe it isn't. Maybe they'll join Sana, Leiah. Maybe I've lost them too.

It's up to me, for now. I can't betray their trust, but I can't stop either. I must push forth, look forward and forward and forward. Just keep going ahead, until something happens. To stay in place is death. If you stay in one place, and dwell too much, and think too much, and fear too much, you end up throwing yourself down the cliffs.

Don't throw yourself down the cliff.

Instead, find it. The Foun[The word is scratched, and instead a word added in a foreign tongue]Los Cimientos. El Pajaro. . Find it. For them, who cannot. Use their lessons.







And try not to look at the shapes of their absence.

Foolish, I've been foolish. But then again, that's my Role. But then again, I've been foolish.

I've been looking for El Pajaro. Wandering arround. I've become acutely aware of the amount of things I'm missing, now that she's gone. Her notes were thorough. I made the mistake of not joining in transcribing some things, where she could be trusted to provide the answers. And now there are materials I cannot crossreference, knowledge I cannot access. Partly, it is like starting again. But at least I have all of what she taught me, to help.

She taught me a lot. I've realized that, too.

I went exploring with Mae and Elle. It was a long trip, showing them some sights, protecting them. Using the tricks I learnt from S/r Snorri to keep danger at bay, to defeat whatever we found on our way. I felt reliable. It was good to felt reliable. Then, we were done seeing what Mae wanted to see.  (And what a pitiful sight it was, the wretched supplicants atop their snaking tunnels. I left them some bread. I know they'd do monstruous things, but I couldn't handle their hunger, their sores. I had to do them a kindness). We were gone, anyways, and it was too early to return.

"Have you ever seen the Valley of Wisdom", I proposed. I don't know why. She had promised she'd show me. The Valley. She burnt the paintings Sana made of that place, except the one I rescued. I don't know why, but I wanted to see it. So I took them there, protected them and, when everything was safe, when everything was done...

I translated the ancient glyphs and revealed, to my friends, the secrets of the Past. I discussed with them the implications. I revealed some, kept what I didn't feel they were ready to handle. I think she felt like this. Happy and proud at their little theories. And I translated most with ease. Her lessons served me. I wrote:

"Exhibits VW#1-6". She really taught me well. Perhaps too well.

"Someone has to dig", she used to say. So when it occurred to me I lacked the ability to cross-reference with those runes, when I thought that /maybe/ they held the answer, I travelled alone to that  House. I set the board. I offered a coin to the Seneschal and stated, openly, that I sought only knowledge, and bore no ill-will. I talked with him a bit. Asked. Maybe I shouldn't have asked.

Then I set to work. Slowly translating. Knowledge. Hideous knowledge that seems, so far... Entirely unrelated. Useless. I left, ran back, light on my step, eager to put some road between me and that place. And as the sun shone I feel bound to I stop on my tracks, a weight in my heart. What had I given? What had I left behind, for nothing? The clear sky brought little solace, as I thought of those long, long shadows.

Those runes taunt me. There's a weight in my heart. I do not know what I left. More than a tithe, I fear. I played my role, too perfectly.

But this was her lesson, too. Not to fear knowledge. After all...

I spent the past day tumbling and turning, my heart clutched by fear, by anxiety. Dread, like a ghost, haunted me.

I saw the Acolytes and the Banda meeting, by chance. By accident, as Sephidra took me to their fortress. I offered my aid to protect the Acolytes, as is my duty, as I /must/ do. They were clearly planning something and the Banda, without hesitation, asked me to leave. They were not rude, not for their standards. They were, however, exceedingly dismissive.

I knew the Jannissaries were planning something, and it wasn't difficult to put two and two together. Less so when, seeking distraction, I travelled to the Ramparts to help the Torchbearers and stumbled, repeatedly, on their plans. Boxes of explosives near the caravan, guarded by Janissaries. Janissaries fighting the Clans in the Har'Saf Valley.

I was anxious. I was anxious as I heard the battle and forced myself not to run to it. I was anxious, and furious perhaps as we got waylaid by one of those large orcan Warband, with a hero at their helm and Heralds praising Agasslaku and Blood Poets writing their foul Art.

My companions ran. I used my tricks. I won, and found them.

I was anxious, I kept looking towards the distant battle, knowing I wasn't wanted. I expected the Janissaries not to want me, for I strive to tease and ping them. I am not surprised that the Banda dismissed me, for they rarely dissimulate their contempt for the College. But the Acolytes not speaking out for me, it hurt.

Their silence, as I was asked to leave, reminded me of my failure. Of the weight of Leiah's body. She was so heavy. So heavy, so heavy.

She still is.






[A note towards the end of the entry, seeming to have been written in the middle of a sleepless night, like a confession.]

I was cruel, when I faced the warband alone. I cut and and cut and cut and cut. I didn't have a jab or a smile, I just did bloody work. One of their archers ran away and instead of letting him go, as I usually do, I took out my sling and broke his nape. I executed their agonizing leader, took his bearskin mantle.

I do not know what I was trying to prove. Or to whom. But the Banda didn't need me to keep them safe. It is I who lost an Acolyte, not them.

My efforts were finally recognized. I am finally a proper Balladeer. It took so long... I endured so many times the question of: "Why haven't you graduated yet?" And while I always said that my heart wore the colors, long before my clothes were dyed, the part of me who is a performer can but desire recognition.

It is not a pretty part. I like to pretend it doesn't exist. But it is there.

The Graduation was deeply enjoyable. Lyrist Beauregard was exceedingly cheerful, and a delight of a man. Lyrist Alois asked me about the best poet in the Well and, before I could think, I said Amelie. There was a lot of laughter, and some honest anger on his part. (I will be the first to admit that he is a much better poet than me, and could teach me much, but I like the sincerity and stricture of Amelie's writing). There was applause, and there were cheers, and hugs.

I was with Edha, there. She, who decided to join the Balladeers when I told her of the ceremony, of the Tribute of the Rose, of the Tale Yet to Be Told. The same ceremony that made me realize I wished to be part of them, and write the Tale with my life and my sacrifices, if need be.

I drank the Drink, twice. I cheered for the Future we shall lead to, for the Past we strive to keep. Acolyte Zvada looked deep into my eyes, and shared her words, and her wisdom. And I am thankful for it, even if I cannot shake the weariness in my heart.

I felt the Drink's pull, but I did not let it draw me. I resisted, and I am... Glad for it. I remember D/a Jamileh's words, her concern. I wish she and Snorri were there, frowning and concerned and saying something thoughtful and tender nonetheless. I wish Pirou had a chance to hug me, and Mari to make fun of me. It was thick, and deep, and pleasant. I felt my mind wandering slowly towards darker places, I felt it. And I had to strive to push forward, to look forward, to move forward.


[A little poem in some odd verse seems to have been added later. It has the stain of a red dropplet.]

Once, a question was asked.
"How many secrets do you hold, to keep others safe?"

And the question was sharp.
And the question was pointed.
And the question was like a spear to the heart.

"How much do you hide, under that performance?"

And an answer gushed out, like blood off a wound.
"Too much", was the answer. To both.

Oh, to be taken seriously! Oh, how the heart longs sometimes for the reputation of fearsomeness that accompanies others under the banner of the Cinquefoil! Oh, the snicker, how it pinches in the heart, how it tugs at the foulest reaches of the bard's psyche, who can but seek and desire glory! Oh, how the handsome Ballestriere calls the sling "cute", much as it has broken many a neck and saved his life! Oh, how the dwarf calls the dancer weak, even as his shield has held his frontlines and endured through the horrors of his forefathers in twice-tragic Kulkund! Oh, how the mace-wielder smiles, she who would struggle to travel where the explorer dashes and dances! Oh, being rushed out of rooms, as the Acolytes gaze silently and give, with their silence, their aproval! Oh, to be noticed by one's superiors, your efforts praised!

Oh, to be underestimated! Oh, how important it is to be hidden and unseen, so that secret work may remain secret! Oh, the necessity of silence, and joke, and misdirection! Oh, the feint which draws blade to the ground and not the neck! Oh, the illusion which misleads a sibilant army! Oh, the summons which occupy the bugbear horde as the trickster slips behind to cut the neck of their shamans! Oh, the hordes of the Clans, grunting through Old Formoria as the bard does his work swiftly! Oh, the ancient ramparts with ancient bones and the storyteller who reads ancient history, holding the rhythm of his breath so that it may match the boasts of the orcan just next door! Oh, how essential it is, when you lack the strength of the giant, to lean on their pride so as to cause their downfall! Oh, how essential, when you lack the roar of the lions, to have the stealth of the dunecat! Oh, to be noticed by one's superiors, and questions asked!

What does the hero want, if not glory? What does the rogue want, if not to slip away?

And what of the Trickster? What does the Trickster want, hero as he is, rogue as he remains? What is the nature of such feinting Archetype, and its Quest, and its Plot? Oh, the questions demanded of the storyteller! A circle it is, or a spiral, for it seems that it ever turns and turns and it goes ever-downwards!

We talked a lot.

We went to the Valley of Wisdom, as is only appropriate for a Balladeer and his cupbearer. She had never seen it, and I find there are few things more interesting than hearing people's reaction to knowledge. You can learn a lot about people from how they react to jest, to gift, or to wisdom. Hers was interesting: the tender, relaxed smile of a mother listening to a child relay his adventures. Even though she had never heard it.

I read to her the inscriptions, for she is far from scholarly. I told her the tale, too. That behind each door there are another three, and so it is with doors, and so it is with people. And she told meanother tale. About a witch. About the difference between deducing the future from the past... And knowing it.

We both understood the meaning of our tales, for it was clear.

The Sisters are old. Their wisdom is ancient, and so must be their archives. She sang an anthem and it burnt into my heart, for we both understood that knowledge is fire, and that not all are ready to handle it. She explained to me things. Small things, what she could. And I, in turn, shared what I could. For there are many secrets we have each vowed to keep hidden from all, and many things that make little sense, if you haven't heard of what came before.

Hours we spent. Hours upon hours.
We started at night.
Pra'jah dawned on us.

We returned, weary but wiser. More aware of our ignorance.

We both forgot about the wine.

[A little tale, accompanied by the rudimentary drawing of two masks.]


⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⢀⣀⣤⣤⣶⣶⣾⣿⣿⣷⠀⠀⠀Once, there was a simple man from a simple town who was denied a simple life.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀     ⣠⣴⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⣠⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠀⠀⠀⠀So he made a new home, where he performed many a Role. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠹⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⠉⠉⠙⣻⣿⡇⠀
⠀⢻⣿⣿⣿⡟⠛⠉⣹⣿⣿⣿⣶⣶⠟⠛⠛⠃⠀⠀⠀The Fool, the Scholar, the Friend, the Child, the Poet, the Guardian, the Teacher,⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⢻⣿⣿⣄⣠⣴⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠏⠀⣴⣶⣤⣤⣀⡀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⢹⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠛⠉⠉⠀⣼⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣶⣦⣄⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the Apprentice, the Hopeful, the Hero, the Singer, the Riddle-Maker, , the Courtier
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⣿⣿⣿⡿⣡⣴⡞⠀⣴⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣦⣀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠛⢿⣿⣿⣿⠁⢰⣿⣿⡟⠛⠻⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣷⣤ the Stranger, the Lost, the Seeking, the Page, the Explorer, the Swordsman
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠉⠛⠛⠀⣼⣿⣿⣿⣦⣤⣴⣿⣿⠿⠿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠃
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣦⡀⠀⢹⣿⣿⣿⠃⠀the Waterbearer, the Scout, the Spy, the Cat, the Lorekeeper, the Mourner
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣿⣿⣯⠙⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠁⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢿⣿⣿⣄⠀⠉⠛⠛⣛⣿⣿⣿⣿⠟⠀⠀⠀the Storyteller⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠘⢿⣿⣿⣷⣶⣶⣿⣿⣿⣿⠟⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⠻⠿⣿⣿⣿⠿⠛⠉⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the Fool.⠀

Versatile, he was.
And perhaps he, or others, saw one performance.
And perhaps he, or others, hid many more.
For there are three doors, behind each we open.

Duels are, I fear, exceedingly horrid affairs. They always seemed so, from afar. And after participating in my first one, I stand absolutely vindicated in my impression. In a tiny circle, with no maneurability, wasting vials and supplies and anger and skill... Over pride.

Once, there was a Storyteller.
And he had a friend, he felt sorry for a friend.
He tried to cheer her up, for she was prone to melancholy and defeatism.

In truth, I do not know what moved her so. She had been increasingly bothersome since I Graduated. She would scorn me, tell me to wear a helmet, ignore me when I explained it was part of the magic which kept me safe. The magic which allowed me to explore as I must. "You keep hurting your arm", she grumbled. She thought I couldn't lead, when I got hurt.

Once, the Storyteller had some success.
And the friend grew first distant, then demanding.
Owed, she felt, obedience.
And in honor of past friendships, the Storyteller smiled and shrugged it off.
"She has it hard", he told himself. And she did.

At the tunnels, she kept asking for things, and I gave them. Vials, spells, trinkets. She was dour and unkind, but it was fine. But things kept going worse and worse. And when Hypatia and Lynneth left, she was angry and insistent we ought to go on. I didn't want to, and she tried to order me. Neither did Alfred. She kept calling me boy, and ordering me, and ordering me. I had to tell her she had no authority, and to let me be. She pushed. I may have gotten angry.

Once, things went badly. The friend demanded what she could have asked.
"You wouldn't survive my trials", the Storyteller said at last, in anger.
So she raised her fist. And, angry as she was, hurt a she was, she failed to hit.
So she drew her sword, and slashed.
As the Storyteller walked away.
Staying his own anger, on account of what remained of their friendship.

She followed me. She insisted. She kept insisting. And insisting and insisting. Until there was a crowd and she would not attend to reason. Until I couldn't say no, and had to follow her to the arena. She drank all the vials she had not used for us, used all the trinkets. She really wanted to hurt me. Eventually, I chose not to waste. Not for her, not for this. And she won, with ease. Perhaps she wouldnt have won with me trying harder, wasting more. Perhaps would have won regardless. It mattered little, at the time. It matters little, now.

The once-friend chose a little circle.
And fought there, and won.
And turned her cloak, for she was to leave.
And she scowled "What of your Trials, boy?".
Her tone was so hurtful. Once-friend, soured so.
And the Storyller saidwanted to scream.
"Do you think this is the Trial I meant?", he wished to ask.
"Do you think these trials of yours are a Trial of the Balladeers?"
"You walk from contract to contract, in circles, and know not what there is all arround you!"
He wanted to scream: "You have a little circle and call it a life!"

To scream: "I meant the Trials of Mystery and Revelation!"
To scream: "The Trials of Knowledge and Ignorance! Of the Locked Door!"
To scream:  "The Words in the House of Whispers, beneath the sands!"
To scream:  "The Star-Fire-Which-Burns-Wisdom!"
To scream:  "The Breaking of the Axe and the hand behind the Breaking of the Axe!"
To scream of foundations and mists and ears and birds and heads of stone.

She left a wound. A visible one. "Put some Waters in it for a few mornings", adviced the healer, "and it'll heal in no time". I was going to do it, to put behind this sorry affair.  But this morning, after throwing up, I found myself examining my reflection. The thin line of the rapier I gifted her, as a friend. She was going for my eye, I think. I must've dodged enough that the point of her blade instead pressed into my jaw, and scratched all the way down my neck. I slid my finger all the way down, following the line of the wound.

"A reminder", I thought. And I left it untreated. But I'm not sure what I meant.

A reminder of what, exactly?



"You're so full of shit", she said.

"Indeed", I answered.
"As are we all".

[A little tale.]

Once, there was a merry band.
And they had suffered a loss.
Thus, in a garden, they sat to gaze upon the roses.
And soften their pain in the glow of each other's friendship.
And as they were chatting the hours away, something happened.
The Priestess seemed concerned.
And from nothing emerged Voices and mist.

And the Cook ran, scared.
And the Priestess sought help.

And the Fool was left, pondering through his knowledge.
Too much to be useful.
Or too little, perhaps.
But he whispered, in secret, to the statue of the once-king:
"Use your ears..."

The statue, however, remained deaf.

[After the more emotional and poetic past entries, this one seems to be something closer to an actual journal]

I am writing a thesis.

If I have to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure why. I think it may be because I've been roaming and roaming. My own notebook is so empty still, it feels so untethered, in comparison with hers. I feel that I need to fill it with all that I'm missing, with the knowledge that I lack, with what I couldn't translate, with the secrets that she kept even from me. That's the only way to do it. There are vast gulfs between each thing I know... Such vast gulfs...

So I am writing a thesis. Because, as I see it, she was right. She always said she was proud to have taught us. There is power, and importance, in helping /others/ understand. And I have seen so much that I notice patterns, as they emerge. The kinds of texts that appear in certain language tell, too, a story. And people need to know more. So many walk blindly, knowing nothing of the world arround them...

Once, there was a merry Fool, roaming
      Roaming and roaming.
            Shining sword and high shield
                  A song on his lips!
                        Few challenges he couldnt meet or avoid,
                              as the mood stroke him,

                                                                                and if I'm always moving, I cannot be stopped.


I'll be dedicating it to her.

Alfred. My poor Alfred, my friend.

I went after him, thinking it was all a mistake. Thinking he was just scared. I cancelled my show, I ran through the sands. I ended up discovering he had just hid in the Palatial Pyramid. Things kept escalating, with that woman, with the Janissaries, with the idiocy of the Apothar Estellise forcing her way in. And I just wanted to scream for them all to stop, for a second, and to work to help my poor friend.

And then, when we finally got him to speak. He revealed a tragic past and a great sense of cowardice.

He attacked Cosine. He attempted to escape. He took for granted... What? That we'd defend him? Over the damm Accord, broken by his choice? He was evasive, he had been evasive for so long. Then I learnt it was his doing, that Amelie was in her current situation. His doing. He had told us nothing, just run away.


I took his cloak, sternly. I gave him some of my old clothes, the dashing ones I made for Isabella's date-auction. He looked very handsome on them, bearing those Balladeer colors. Then, I gave him a chance to walk away honorably, and he chose to be brought unconscious.


Once there were two cloaks, folded.
Folded and waiting.
For they were a token of shame.
And moths nibbled at their fabric.

[A little tale, or the draft for one.]

Once, there was a merry band in Rose cloaks.
And for a party, or an event, they all joined in cheer.
Even those long lost to their rest or melancholy.
"To the desert!", cheered their Master
"To the desert, oh petals of the Rose!"
And to the desert they ran.
Where the skink looks deep into your eyes.

"I shan't go with them", she insisted, the Star, "for they are wicked".
And the Fool tried to humor it.
For they hadn't travelled, he and her, for long.
And this mission seemed ill-suited for the targets of her scorn.

"Spare me your wine and her whine", she answered, the Lion.
The Mountain watched coldly, brimming with anger.
Clearly it meant more  to them than the Fool once realized.
And though they did leave in the end, none were satisfied.
Not even the Star who had flashed, then hid again.

And hours upon hours upon hours were spent.
              Dealing with hurt feelings and broken trust.
                            And pride.
                                          So much pride.
                                                        Everywhere so much pride .
                                                                      Onto so much pride.
                                                                                    An eternity could be spent dealing with this pile of shit
                                                                                                  Where none could show the others an inch of goodwill.
                                                                                                               For the Rose they all said they served

[This entry starts with a little tale, written alongside the drawing of a dandelion. The entire page seems to have been made in a rush, in the sands.]


                                                            ,'                                           Once, in the sands, a woman was being hunted.
                                                    , '                      , '                                 Hunted, while the Rose fumbled with the pride of its petals.
                                      .  ,  .                       ,'
                             .  `  .    `  .  `  .      ,'                          ,'                   She was a brave woman.
                            .  `  .  `  .  `  .  `  .           ,'        , '                                 Braver than the Lion, the Star or the Mountain.
                            .  `  .  `  .  `  .  `  .
                            .  `  .  `  .  `  .  `  .           ,'     , '
                            \  \  `  .  `  .  `  .      , '                    For she was facing the Trials of Mystery and Revelation.
                            /  \. ` , ` .  ` , '       , '                                 With her eyes wide open.
                          / /                                              And her heart ready.
                          | |                  _
                           \ \            /` /
       _                   | |  __  /  : /  _ 
     \  `  \             | |  \      :        /                       She was braver than the Fool, too.
     _\  :  \  _      / /  \       :       / _                                       
     \      :     /_  | |  \         :          /                                           Three options, her predicament offered:              
     _\       :      /_    /     :     /  `                                       Murder, Suicide.                                
     \         :        / /   .  ' /  `                                                  Or an impossible battle.
        ` \      :  /      ' /``
`^^`^`^``^^`^^^`^^`^^^`^                  So the options were clear, and help was freely offered.

"Alejandro, peace. We seek the Pilgrim. Part of that may be /moulding/ those who may one day /be/ that Pilgrim. We try this, and sometimes we /fail/. It is right of you to take responsibility, but it is past.", she said. I was so grateful. She also told me to bear up the Well, to continue seeking the redemption of this world with all my heart. I shan't forget her wisdom, for some things must be above the pride of the Rossa and the College... And I, too, have my Tasks of Errantry to perform in the Sands

[This entry seems to be the lyrics to some tune, written windingly, like a spiral down the page.]

I need a drink.

I started feeling much better, after I simply stopped caring. Elle brought the topic up and I responded that, while I had done my best and would continue to do my best to be cordial, I would not go running after people. My advice? Considering how often /I/ could make the same little scene and start making claims of disrespect? Get a thicker skin. If a fool finds it useful, so would they.

Useful, a thicker skin, to for instance take two dismissive reclutas on digs and care only about them performing their contractual work.
I've been doing a lot more digging, lately, with some maps I received as a gift from Zaniah and those S/r Marcellus put together for me. With the help of Elle or the Torchbearers to dig, I got to uncover much. I recovered some artifacts I had seen before, confirming the destruction and destitution the Colossi had suffered in their myriad wars. I was reminded of that strange stone, the one with the ancient writing. Their sorrows, indeed, uncounted.

But perhaps the most fascinating expedition was with the Torchbearers, Acolyte Hypatia, Acolyte Ianthe and a random assortment of tag-ons with nothing better to do. Our first dig was an Orentid alehouse, which didn't uncover anything particularly useful, but illustrated a few interesting things (among others, a prayer to The Sabotage, may They avert Their gaze). The second, however, was an ancient monument to Vadh I. And ancient and extremely revealing monument.

I had the stories of the caliphs fresh, since I had been working in the Tale of the Naked Caliph, and Vadh I, establisher of the inmolation, was fresh in my mind. That made it easy to recognize the scenes, the drawings. In a single instant: revelation. From those paintings I gathered what had caused the Desolation (a mystery in itself), the specifics of its workings, and how it was first solved. Plus how Vadh I managed to ascend, when there were three candidates with better chances...

I was elated, taking notes at full speed, helping others remember (or in many cases hear for the first time, does nobody use S/r Marcellus's library?) the stories of the caliphs. It made me so happy, to see things fit one within another, the veil of the past receding for an instant! I endure so many Trials of Mystery that a Trial of Revelation was a breath of fresh air. I felt like I did in those first few digs, with D/a Jamileh, and Snorri and the rest. The smell of the ancient artifacts, the sense of putting the world together from the pieces... It made me really happy....

Plus, we digged a bucket! I cackled at that, for it truly was... Well. Perhaps a sign. Our Dakwar, as D/a Jamileh liked to jest. Someday, who knows. Perhaps we'll find the real one.

It worked for Vadh, after all. He knew that, while others fought... Someone has to dig.




[There's a little note at the margin, made later at night, scrawled swiftly in bed.]

[A little tale, accompanied by some notes]

Once, there was a Poet who sang of the Wyld.
And this Poet was kind, and this Poet was tricked.
For kindness can be a trap.
And a Foe sought to enslave her.

I promised I'd help. Her errantry deserved an answer, a call back, a show of hopeful aid. I forced myself up and out, I joined so many others who cared for the safety of the Well, for the safety of the world... And for her safety, too. Alfred was not there. Probably too dangerous, too tempting. He'd give It too much strength.

With many an ally, the Poet sailed.
To an island shimmering like a pearl in the Sea.
And with many an ally, they climbed to the top.
As their Foe innundated the path behind them with bile.

We got to the top, to the volcanoe. We were haunted by Its servants, those foul entities of flesh, and earth, and hatred. Such hatred and such hunger, I could feel it. Such hunger to be, because they are not. They would take our names, if they could. They would take our shape and our flesh and our very being, and burn it with ther eagerness to exist and be, again, dissatisfied. For life cannot be stolen.

We weakened them. We prepared the urn.

Atop the volcano they laid their trap.
And in it fell the Foe, screaming.
But as it fell, it grasped.
And as it grasped, it grabbed.
And so, too, was the Poet carried into the trap.

We couldn't just leave her there. It was not acceptable, and not a choice. We just laid ourselves against the urn, let the trap close upon us. So many of us. Kythaella and Kragg, showing the bravery which makes it so difficult to dismiss them for their cruelty. Estellise, showing the dedication which makes it difficult to dismiss it for her pride. Shae and Lynneth, as was expected. Orrin and Narwen, as was not. And Lojir, the trap's maker.

And Pirou.

Within the trap they fought.
For their Foe had hordes and they had one-another.
And the trap was twisting, and well laid.
And full of knowledge too forbidden to be pondered for long.
They refused deals or brooking, they refused cowardice.
So fire burnt in tight corridors, and they cut and killed and raised their voices.
Because none was willing to sacrifice the Poet to her Foe.

It was a hellish fight, in tight corridors, a meatgrinder of djinn-flesh. They summoned fire, those foul monsters. Fire. So much fire. We refuse to give up or to surrender. She refused, too. She healed and endured and then burnt all of the sudden and it took all within me not to start screaming and give everything up.

She was there and then she wasn't. She was there, living, and the she was burnt.

Sacrifices were endured.
One died, someone dear. And the Fool took a deep breath and put on his mask.
For roles must be played until the courtain falls.

I held it, best I could. I kept calm and steady, even as I saw her melt in those cursed walls of flesh. For heroes don't shatter in the middle of a challenge, do they? And even Fools are called to heroism, from time to time. But I was so deeply aware of my own voice as I spoke, so deeply aware of the Alejandro who talked, being watched by the Alejandro who spectates, being watched by the Alejandro who screams so loudly that seas would part.

Valiantly, upfront, they sacrificed safety for a chance to escape.
And they fought, and fighting, they emerged victorious.
And so the trap was closed.
With no more innocents within that those who fell.
And the trap was laid into fire.
For uncounted centuries to come.

We broke the runes, our warding, our peace. We fought and cut and weakened the djinn lord enough that it graps weakened, that it was /forced/ to let us go. And we left. We closed the urn. We threw it in the fire. The Drink was sweet, on my lips. Sweeter still on my heart.

And at courtain call, the Fool took a bow.
                        And began crying, because he had to.
                                                And he cried and cried and cried.
                                                                        For that's what was gained:

                                                                                                Heroism and a fistful of ashes.

[A little poem, alongside the rudimentary drawing of a rose. There are numerous reddish stains on the page.]

The book has been finished, and shall be published soon. An Introduction to Ancient Languages, I called it. I felt something like that was missing from the shop of Al'Rashid. Something useful to those who were starting their research and had no idea of what all of those symbols were, what all of those unfamiliar grammars and words and signs meant.

It is hard, to translate. There's an endless gap of absence between the word in one language and the word in another. I am so familiar with it, bearing it every day since I lost home. I feel odd, still, "being" drunk and "being" dark-haired. The being of temporality versus the being of unchanging essence. Two such different things, which my own tongue differenciates and which Common, for some odd reason, refuses to acknowledge.

It is not that the meaning is missing. Rather, it is that the meaning in one case is implicit, a "secret seed", I called it in my writing. While those two beings are evident, there are such intricate weaves of underlaying meaning, such strange and mysterious undercurrents in every word, which ties them to another and to the whole language.

So much is lost, of those Ancient tongues. I felt "find you" in Piscean was meant to imply love, when I read it. I felt "one" in the Erugitic words of the House of Whispers Under the Sands meant more than just "two". I feel the underlining currents of "Water" in Colossi and "Territory" in the Low Formorian of the Thousand Clans, and "Brethren" in that dwarven speech. So much is lost and beyond reach, because we only have these tiny, tiny samples. Bereft of their kin, words lost and missing. I identify, I think. Out of context, so often.

At times I think that this applies to each of us. Each of us, too, have many a closed door and behind each door, three more, more tightly locked. The words I say carry within my life, my reading, my poetry, the other languages I know. They carry mistakes in translation and insights in eloquence. And so, perhaps, nobody can ever understand what each of us truly means, and all of our true sense, all that we wish to truly say...

All of it is lost, from my lips to your ears, in the act of translation.

[The draft of a tale concludes the entry]

Once, there was but one language for human and dwarf and cloud and cliff.
Once, all could speak to one another.
And ask as they needed, and receive as they wished.
So death waited patiently, and so did hunger, when asked politely.
While joy came to all who called for it.

Once, a man loved a woman.
Like fire loves the wood.
And, selfishly, he sought a word to call her "love".
And, selfishly, made a word for himself and her.
She did not like it.
Neither did the stone he usted to carve it, nor the bark he used as paper.

And so the bark made a language for itself, and the stone, too.
And each thing made its own tongue.
And nothing was able to ask anything else.
Each locked in behind the doors of their own phrases.

I may have been played, trusting a friend. Hoping it'd bring success to her, hoping that she'd be a good candidate, and offer a fair fight too. I paid for her Voice without hesitation, because that is what you do for friends: you help them and you do not care about coin, or wealth, or dignity, or what is most astute.

"The robes weight heavy", she said. I do not understand the whole of the issue, but I suspect it was part of the trial for her third and last Epoch. To renounce her candidacy in exchange for a chance to raise higher in station. I dislike such maneuvers, such efforts to cut her wings. I also dislike that I gave coin for a Voice which could've gone to someone more willing to fight.

But she remains a friend, I suppose. So I didn't hesitate to join her in travelling to the Ramparts, with the Banda. My presence there was an odd thing, bound by friendship and, to an extent, by pity. Alois had been satirizing Estellise, but had perhaps stepped over the line where satire becomes cruel. Estellise has many failings (pride and stubborness come inmediately to mind), but a heart aching is a heart aching.

So I joined. Plenty of orcs to kill, mysteries to gather. Not a terribly profitable expedition, specially considering that I neither got part of the coin the Banda got for their coffers, nor got to examine the magnificently ancient tablet which Mae uncovered. But hopefully my presence there was helpful. A friendly face? One can hope. And perhaps she'll share what she learnt.

At the very least it was fun. And a chance to fight alongside the Banda. Sometimes, one needs to show what they can do.

I keep so much art. So much heavy art. It weights me down, as I run up and down distant dunes under the full moon, the horns of the Thousand Clans and worse ringing in the night. It truly weights me down, but I cannot find myself just dropping it or leaving it behind. There's such a peace, when alone, gazing onto beauty. Solace, I think. Stillness.

I gaze upon Her most often. She, who stands alongside Him. Such ancient work, so worn out by the merciless passage of Ages. Why does it call me so? Is the Cup, in which I can only belive when I have drunk Deep from the Drink? The ancient expressions? Is it the library behind them both, brimming with the promise of knowledge? The certainty that, in ancient times, ancient peoples I shall never know, too, dreamed of beauty, enlightenment and peace?

It just brings peace.

And then there are the other pieces I hold. The White Spear, wielded. The Tragedy of the Burning (Thousandfold are the pains of the ancient giants), and Edha's painting...  Of myself.

That one, I rarely gaze upon. I find it beautiful, but also somewhat disturbing. She drew it inspired by my re-telling of the Grandmaster's actions on that meaningful day, when I realized that I belonged in the Balladeers. She, too, was moved by my Tale to join the same. And I am... I suppose I feel dazed, somewhat, when I look at it. It is missing the scar, I feel as though I look much younger...

And yet, she pierced right through me. Right through my masks and my performances, for even then she captured my melancholy. The strange   mood that comes upon me, when  I am weary and I fail to focus, for but a few moments, on moving forward, ever forward, towards the future. It is a mood that assaults me most often, these days. More and more often, the more people I lose.

Hence, perhaps, why I gaze into my little collection. For there's solace in beauty. Beauty is, ultimately, what the Drink holds. It's visions, the things it opens, are sights of Beauty and, through it, of peace. I keep drinking it, now. It truly, truly helps. Steadies the hand, steadies the soul.

It stops me from screaming and screaming and screaming.

I do not know if I am terribly clumsy, or if everyone else is, and I just trust them too much. But when I heard Lynneth had stepped down as candidate of the White, after Mae did the exact same thing, I was /annoyed/. The League had short numbers, and I /hated/ the fact that our best bet was Estellise. The woman has her charms, but a politician she is not. So I stepped in. And later, when Zvada asked me to give her a Voice so she could step in? I gave her the coin. And I gathered signatures, one after another, steadily and without hesitation.

Now, as it turns out, that meant there would be a candidate of the Rose with good chances in every League. And the Priory does not like Sisters being directly involved. Needless to say many a faction felt extremely threatened by it, even after Sol Auk and Colmes's maneuvers had forced out many a good and decent candidate. Sol Auk was angry, and I wasn't going to indulge his silliness, but when Legate Al'Rashid /also/ expressed his dissaproval, and pointed that they /would/ forbid members of the Accord from running if we insisted on "packing" the Leagues, I began to be concerned.

Of course, it is silly to imagine the Grandmaster would order us such things, being as she is concerned with more important matters. But I understood that there is too much mistrust, and that the Accord and the Well are fragile things. Were either us or the Legates to push things too far, we /would/ have violence. And when powers clash, it is the People that suffer.

After much back and forth, a compromise was offered, a reasonable, if bitter one. Only a member of the Rose to run per election. It was a reasonable and acceptable sacrifice. Not ideal, but not terrible either. And the Rose needs to win an Election and have a Legate, prove that we are trustworthy, or chances are we shall get banned from running sooner or later before the third Election.

Both Legates prefered me. I thought, too, that I was a better politician. I can be persuasive and charming, if need be, and have no reputation of bloodthirst, violence or vandalism. Even my foolishness could play in my favor, as it did on the late Syter. I am better able to hide my emotions, to find what other people want, and bring it to them. But the Lion is Proud, is she not? She would not budge. She insisted she would not budge. That she was too pissed, that she would win. I stressed that we /had/ to win the election, and that if there was a /chance/ of her losing the primary, it was too dangerous. I insisted that /I/ was best positioned. But she did not heed my advice, sure as she was of her inevitable victory. She's a warrior. A stupid, thick-headed warrior, with skill and perhaps good intentions, but without guile. I recognize, in the Priestess, the trappings of the Trickster. And I fear she's gonna win.

Proud, proud Lion. If she fails, it's gonna take a lot of work, and a lot of charm, to undo her idiocy. And if she wins, I will have to sacrifice the League of White for the sake of long-term well-being of the Well. I hate the choice that was forced upon me. I hate that, once more, the Banda is too proud to accept my worth, or the worth of our College. I hate that the Well was endangered.

But I'd be a poor member of the League of White, if I thought I matter more than all else. I'd be a poor, poor member of the Rose, if I didn't put Its success above my own. I'd be a poor Fool, if I couldn't swallow my pride and take a bow.

So I did.

"A renowned scholar and performer", Al-Rashid called me. I was pleased by that. He is a terrible person, and an incredible scholar. I love him to bits. I gifted him a signed copy of my book, which he accepted and said he would treasure. "The Rose has done you ill", he said. "If poor Jamileh could see", he added.

I smiled. The aftertaste of the Drink, still in my tongue, helped me smile. "We scholars are familiar with the darts of misfortune, noble Legate". And he left, pleased with me, and displeased with my companions. If I can charm a member of the Purple League of such high standing, despite my cloak, I clearly have a better chance than any Lion.

But pride, oh pride.

I'll ready my pieces, in any case. And if the Lion fails... I shall pull all my tricks to work. The League of White, and the Rose, deserve it.

[Four simple lines mark this entry.]

Cursed Velan.

Cursed Banda.

Cursed day.

The idiocy they got to in the few hours I slept, compounded, begets disbelief.

[This page is stained with a myriad reddish spots. The writting is messy, perhaps written while drunk.]

Once there was a Fool who went to bed.
Having set up plans to regain what the Lion's pride has cost.
Alas, he woke up to betrayal and betrayal.
A slow uncovering of stabs on his back.
From those who said they serve the Rose.


First the Hero, the elf.
The Balladeer who once asked a Fool to sell his Art like a Fishmonger.
And thus dishonored the Tale, the College and himself, all.
Who chose to emerge from his drunken stuppor.
Betray agreements.
And die.



Then the Mountain, shame upon his beard.
Who had sold the Fool and pocketed the gold.
And ignored his entreaties for support now in return for support past.
Offering, at best, usury.


The Priestess invited the Fool to her temple.
And therein laid chaos and destruction.
For a Lion had rampaged within, and a Mountain too.
Lions, in their pride, make exceedingly sore losers.
And care not about what Roses they crush under their paws.
Nor about the People.
And the Fool trembled with anger.


The Fool convinced the Stargazer, convinced one Candidate, convinced one League.
And armed with his charms, and his bribes, set off.
To convince the Pebble.
Sacrificing, for it, much-loved Art.
And getting nothing.
For all arguments for the Rose were lost.
As soon as the Lion roared.
And the Fool wouldn't leave his flowers.

[Three prayers, written in paralel.]

[This entry is written in a careless calligraphy, numerous red stains on the page]

Curses on curses on curses. The day was so good, so lovely. We went out, we found many a thing. "Revelation", I explained, I declamed, and it was like being once more with the Competition, except this time I was guiding Portia, I was Jamileh teaching me, and Marcellus was watching and the Torchbearers were there asking about books, and Lynneth was there being knightly, and Zvada was smiling, all questions, and I felt so full, in my heart, so purposeful, because we found that, the Big OneIt was good and then we dug in Phor's tomb and it was also good, something new, something not beautiful, but important and Portia dug a coin and a mural and the coin had a cup and it was beautiful, so beautiful, to see the cup, to see it in the hands of someone who was starting and to smile to myself at her eager surprise, at her excitement, to hear the way she put one fact within the other I was so proud of her that my heart was brimming
and then Kragg came with Ahura, great, intimidating and insulting and blaming me for Velan who just emerged to die like his life was a game someone else was playing and Ahura was holding her mace and Kragg was calling me boy and giving  me orders and I couldn't fight them and I couldn't charm them and I they were boyboyboy like the fucking pirates used to the bell the bell RANG again and RANG AND RANG AND RANG and I wanted to take that BELL and put it up someone's arse and Lynneth stopped me because I was screaming and she said that I ought to remember myself and she reminded me I had been inspiring and ideallistic in her hard times last election

[An extremely short entry, barely a few thick and strongly written phrases.]

I grow weary. The cloak grows heavy. So does duty.

"Comer sapos", se said, back home. "Eating toad". To put a polite smile as you swallow your disgust. Not letting anyone see that you're hurt, or angry, trying to restrain your emotions for the sake of something more important. Usually, for the sake of harmony, because you don't want to hurt the other person or because you understand that they're not in control of their emotions. It is a difficult ask, at times. And I feel I'm getting worse, at such performances.

She said they would support me, the Banda. That they'd get behind me. She apologized for not having pushed for me against the Lion, while I apologized for my sorry show, before the New Rule was instituted. So I agreed and talked, intrigued, and cajoled, and prepared, even though last I thought they were behind me, I was stabbed in the back.

But then, at long last, we were at the League, preparing to talk. And first came Kragg, who joined our League as the notorious charitable soul that he is, ever concerned with the plight of the Voiceless. Then we spoke with Ordren. He said there was no choice of that. That I should've not given up, if I really thought I stood a better chance. That the dangers I once feared still existed. "None of you care about the voiceless, but about yourselves", he grumbled, before getting back to strategy.

And after munching for a few moments, and listening calmly and swallowing the last toad of the day, I took a bow.

[A little tale, drafted swiftly.]

Once, a Fool knew and his Sister ignored.
So she asked and he provided.
The Tales of how one scours the sands.
Of Mystery, Errantry and Revelation.
Sabotage, Wanderer, Tutor.
Entwinned, like lovers.


One, a Fool spoke of his foolish tongue.
Long gone, long lost, long distant.
Where Story and History are one and the same.
For there's no Fiction without Fact, nor viceversa.
           Mystery
                        &
                            Revelation
              Entwined like  lovers


So hi/stories were told.
About ancient Giants and Caliphs.
About princesses and queens.
About locked doors, and the doors behind them.
About Fate, spurning many.
Hi/stories about the future.
Prophecy, thrice shared.

For times were to change.
Or so was promised.

I couldn't fix things, but I could try to make them less bad. For the Rose and for the Well. I just needed to be astute and persuasive, I thought, and consider all points and all posibilities and move fast and quietly. So I spent my mornings on long walks, on deep whispers, on thoroughly calculated ponderings and insinuations and discussions. I showed the priestess ancient and beautiful places, I pondered with Zaniah.


While the Rose pondered on without me, I went on whispering and whispering. Too many of them were willing to throw everything at Zaniah, in exchange for naught. I was not. I spoke with the Priestess again and again. For I know They are The One Who Smiles Upon Fools, The Hermaphrodite Monarch of Revelry. I know they are not perfect, but neither is licking the Purple's Ass and, through them, the Sublime Buttocks. 

And then the debate.


I tried, I really tried. To salvage something good for the citizenry, in this horrid event. I did my best to cry in hidding, and fast, when I learnt of Alfred's passing, then I set off to work, again and again and again. I knew Lynneth couldn't bring herself to vote for Mari, I knew Estellise hated it. Estellise had, in fact, given up our entire negociating position.

But we had three votes, still. And I was ready to buy our latest member one. I was ready to beeline the Priestess and start making a fuss, ensuring both candidates would have to court the White's vote, much like they had courted the Alchemist's. But the Lyrist came to me. Alois. Aren't I lucky? He, who called himself my teacher at Graduation, he who never adressed me while I was a Student, he finally chose to interact with his merry Balladeer... To stop my plans.


The plan was clear. We were not to suffer Mari. Those were my orders, and I had no choice on the matter, other than to drop the cloak. Part of me wanted to do so, and to jump onto the Election with my eyes open and my heart ready. For I said I'd only drop my cloak if the Rose dissapointed, and my superior had.

But there was the Mission. There was Lynneth. There was prophecy and portent, thrice-shared, like a balm for a crying merrymaker. There was the Grandmaster, whose words I had heard but once, who was so inspired, whom I wanted to believe in, so dearly.


I tried to pretend I'd take votes to Mari, because our hand was weakened by all the lack of guile of my companions, by the Lyrist, by everyone. Yes, we had no more options, but to let the Purple know meant we wouldn't get anything. Zaniah was ready to give us nothing, she implied as much. We got something, at least. Isabella was kind enough to give us a pittiance, a subsidy to grant the Voiceless a Voice. An alm. She knew I was suffering, I suppose. I have to thank her.

I have to thank her pity.

[A little poem.]

I was expecting she had something bad to tell me, being president and founder of the Alejandro Haters Club.

I was ready for being yelled at, or threatened, or insulted, or intimidated, in that veiled, whispery way she has which can be as bad as screams.

I was lammenting the New Rule for the thousandth time since it was instituted but a few days ago.

I was so ready to hear something bad, again and again and again.

Instead, an apology.

And respite.

[A little tale.]


Once there was a door, locked.
A mountain, unclimbed.
And travellers, seeking.



Once, the trustworthy guided,
trustworthily.
He was, perhaps, more knowledgeable than he seemed.
And he spoke of odd words, of illusion, of farce.


Once, the door refused to open.
And the walls teemed with foes.
And retreat became a necessity, once more.
For today.


[There's a little jingle at the bottom of the page, a rhyme for children to play rope. Yet one charged with meaning]

Woe, the Lover! For the heart that is offered is ever open to the stab, the jest, the wound. The heart, once gifted, is ever an object of gossamer and dreams, so fragile as to be broken as much by harshness as by warmth, equally vulnerable to ardent passion and benevolent reject. She is to suffer in presence and absence! When returned, when rejected, when hidden! For love is the heart pursuing to know another, when another can never be known!


Woe, the Lover! For she is to know the endless cruelty of love which is returned yet rejected, reflected yet spurn, as the paths of Fate, Duty and Oath conspire to make impossible what is wished, and the beloved puts obligation above the heart. Woe, the Lover! For love is oft star-crossed and thus it is that the flowers once plucked and gifted, the poems once written and given, the smiles and confidences once shared under the glittering sky, they all become then needlees piercing the Lover's heart with a legion of invisible wounds.


Woe, the Lover! For, if rejected, they are to be subsumed in the deepest torture, as the object of their devotion still lives and breathes and has, with her breath, chosen to spurn the Lover. Woe, the Lover! Her heart shall shatter with every dawn and find solace, only, in the oblivion brought by dreams. There's no cure for what ails the Lover, no ointment to mend her ailing heart, but an endless turning of the days which shall, one hopes, grind the pain into particles so fine as to be, someday, both imperceptible and everpresent.

I gave Zaniah the poem she requested, about the elections. I gave it to her right before she won. She asked me to perform it and I did, a bitter little jingle which I could only perform with a wince, and the sinking feeling of defeat. She clapped, politely, then declared that she hoped someday she'd regain the trust I had lost in her.

That of course struck me. Had I lost trust in her? I reassured her, of course. I never wanted to be the kind to break friendship with a good person, over something small or silly. I assured her my bitterness had to do with the process, not with her, and that we were ok. That we of course remained and would remain friends.

I do not know that'll be the case. But one can hope.

The rest of the wait was simple. Lynneth was in pain, Hypatia and Estellise whispered long conversations. I was feeling rather miserable, and it was without any desire that I made my way to the Palm Heights, where Shae had made a reservation for us both to have dinner. I was a bit irritated about the timing, as I hadn't even noticed it was at the same time as the Election results...

And it turned out that was her plan all along. She asked not to talk about politics and, instead of discussing the Elections, what had happened or what would happen... We just ate too much and got to know each other better.

It worked. I feel better, now.

We were digging, we found proof of one of my theories. Portia was excited, Nebtu and Ianthe were ponderous and asking interesting questions. Then, a guest, a trustworthy one. Wandering in passing, perhaps. He knew everyone's name, even those he hadn't met before. He knew a lot, our trusty friend.

I was impatient, after our last conversation. I brought up some ideas, some points of certain importance. Los Cimientos.

[The narrative is stopped to insert another little rhyme, again the kind a child would use to jump rope]


We dug once more, a bathhouse. More mention of the luminous cimientos, more mention of the names that we needed to know. Like Fate turning slowly to give me more answers, and put more things together. Then, a little trip to the dungeon, just her and I. Her gaze almost hidden under the abaya, we spoke. She didn't knew much. I informed her of what I did know.


We need to go deeper, I'm certain.
And for that, we need that book.

We travelled up, once more. We climbed. Portia had never seen the top, neither Ianthe nor Mari nor that whispery little elf who hates climbing. We went further and further up, for I had shown them the Valley of Wisdom and we might as well see one more interesting spot. Portia, ever the explorer, crossed the depths to find nothing but Portrait of a Fool on fire. And as we were setting the rope to cross back...

[Another little addition to the simple poem.]

[A little tale, accompanied by the rudimentary drawing of a bird.]


                                      _ _ _                         Once, there was a little bird.
                      _ , -  '        _ _ _ _ _ _
                 . '          .  -  '  _ _ _ _    7                 And the little bird was caught.
              /            /            _ _ _7
       _    |         /           _ _ _7                Taken deep, deep, deep.
> ( '   ) \       |      _ _ _ 7   
      \  \/               \_ __ __ __                Deep into the foundations of the world.
        '                    _= = = = = = >
            `'- - - - \ \ `                Where mysteries pile one onto another.


And so, a merry band descended, for this was a locked door to open, too.
And in trying to open it, they learnt much about themselves.
For the Lion swallowed her pride.
And the Stargazer kept her secrets.
And the Heroine stood quiet and tall and bright and noble.

And deep they went, deep, so deep.
Where the little Fool parsed through so many ancient texts, and learnt so much.
That it was as though his head was burning with the most luminous wisdom.
And as he tried to share it there was too much, too much.
A thousand heresies and challenges and discoveries.
Some foundations the world shaken, perhaps, by what he read aloud.
Such hunger for secrets, did the Fool feel, for even as he shared with them they didn't understand.
And explanations would've taken centuries, for knowledge is a process, not a speech.
Secrets within secrets.
And a path guessed, though still closed.
And a door unlocked, to reveal many more behind, tightly shut.

And then, the Watcher skittered. And noticed them. And screamed.
And They came.
Shadowy, corrupted, their smiles and grins and grimaces shattered.
Shattered by some horror beyond belief.
Impossible to defeat, something you could, at best, hold back.
And try to push into the depths.
And as it fell back to where it came from, they knew it would not die.
But remain there, waiting.

"The Wellfolk", murmured the Fool.

Pirates. Bandits. Profiteers.

The kind of people who grow fat while people starve. Who take from the weak and eat until they're fuller than full. Who smile, cheekily, and chuckle to themselves in the certainty of their own riches. People who would sell refugees as slaves. People who'd add refugees to a falafel, and sell it to others. People who would enslave refugees and make them toil until they fell down on the ground, exhausted to their death.

When we were called to deal with such people, for the Rose, I felt no hesitation.


Grain, stolen from the Sultan's ships. There's two layers of theft, is there not? The pirate who steals and resells to plump profiteers of greasy mouths and thin lips. The Sultan who hoards and feigns benevolence. Two layers, both equally ready to keep it for themselves as the coming refugees starve. Neither will see their bellies grow full with air and hunger. Neither will see their lips parched. Neither deserves what they have.

So when the Rose asks you to fight? To fight, so that we'll scratch a few months for those who'll need them? You do it.


The Acolytes got hurt, sadly. Seeing they couldn't hurt us, it was all our foes could do: go after them. Cowardice upon cowardice, I suppose. Even their captain, that assassin with two daggers who embraced darkness like others would embrace a lover, eventually decided to attack the weak, as he could not best Lynneth and I. Shows their cowardice, does it not?

But we won. They ran away or they died, no more choices.

And by the end, when the Ballestrieres of the Banda arrived to gather the grain? The beach was littered with corpses. And I felt myself smile.

[A little tale, accompanied by the rudimentary drawing of two masks.]


Once there was a girl who picked flowers.
Who grew, tragically.
Who found love in the meadows.
And lost and found and lost and found and lost it all over again.

Once, she made bad decissions.
And felt despair.
And threw herself off.


I am sad for her.
I am angry at her.
I am dissapointed at her.
I identify.

She's brilliant.

She came to me. "I got a theory", she said. And she laid it out, in my office. The smell of parchment and scroll and dust and ink, thick in the air. The musky smell of the places were fools think they can change the world. She laid out her theory and I thought: "it is good", and I told her. It added to my own ideas, it expanded them, fed them, aided them grow.

I trimmed some of her branches, she some of mine. We advance, I think, in a better direction.

I'm coming to realize knowledge is a journey, not a destination. I'm trying to let her see on her own, come first to conclussions on her own, find first her own inways before I tame the wilderness arround her. There's little to no value on seeing the past through the eyes of another. I am not so foolish as to rob her the chance to think, for it is thinking that develops. A thousand paths, we open from the past to the future. A thousand possibilities, we trace.  Mystery & Revelation.

I shared a little, I withheld much.

Of the House of Whispers Beneath the Sands.
Of the Depths where Stone Crawls in Darkness.
Of the engravings and the letters in the Winding Tunnels of Mercury and Poison.

For her own safety. For her own instruction. For the sake of a promise made, to keep a secret.

She told me a secret. About the Mountain, and her dissapearance. She asked me to tell nobody, and so I shan't, much as I want to. Someone has to dig, and keep secrets. Someone has to be trustworthy.

I heard their tale and I took notes. I took notes upon notes, swiftly, almost desperately, for there was too much information and when there's too much information, all I can do  is hold it and hold it. Keep records, in the hopes that I'll have time to breathe, to stop, to assimilate. Sometimes there are too many things tumbling inside my head, like when it was time to pick the honey and all the bees buzzed at once, each moving in a different direction, and it was impossible to focus on one, to follow one's path. So I took note, and notes upon notes:

There were Sibilant. There was an Emperor (see Exhibits #CC1-8, #RNW1; see An Eye for an Eye).
There was a tall man, grey skinned, his face covered by a mask (see Exhibits #RNHR1-15, #I1, #BOF4; see Insane Theories section 6.11)
There was a cup, jewel-ladden, which they called Dakhwar (see Exhibits #FOF1, #FVO1; see the Sheperds Tale)

Threats of Empire and of Dreams. The name of Queen Ibtihal mentioned, in dreamful tones. A voice that boomed, ponderous, and spoke heavily like a God. So many signs of Fate entwinning and intermingling that one would be forgiven for thinking our Time had come, that what was Foretold is coming to pass. I heard all of these things and my heart boomed, with hope. Every beat wanting, so despertaly, to believe.

And yet I couldn't. The Scholar in me had seen representations of the Cup, humble and yet full of Truth. The Storyteller in me thought a jewel-ladden Cup sounded more an artifact of Temptation than one of Renewal. The student in me, the young man who looked at Jamileh with bright eyes, remembers the skepticism she so eagerly tried to plant in me. Succesfully, it'd seem.

I feel hope. I feel hesitation. I feel distrust. Desperate times, when a Balladeer finds himself feeling  some skepticism.

At the end of the day, it doesn't matter. First, we save them from the Sibilant. We can worry about all else... Later.

Once, a friend was lost.
Then found again.

Once, tears were shed, and hugs were given.
And the friend, the mentor, remained stern. Steady.
While the Fool, misty eyed, teared up.

Once, there was a Gamemistress who tried to have fun,
and, somehow
(perhaps because sometimes a heart twirls arround another)
she ended up trying to do good.




And, trying to do good, she stood tall.
She smiled bright.
She got challenged, and hurt.
She made so, so many misssteps,
one sometimes wasn't certain of the difference between brilliance
and fumbling.

                                                               Always trying to do good, at least.



And, trying to do good, she was playful.
Until one misstep caught her.

Nobody can dance forever.

I led them there, a large gathering. Into the ancient Valley, where a sagely hand carved their message. Where Izdu, it is said, walked. I led them there, for I had gone before, and we climbed the stairs to the Kardesler. With Janissaries guarding the meeting, with a strange hermit performing rituals so old that one could almost feel the dust upon his actions, we found a place to sit and watch.

I knew, inmediately, it was ancient. I could recognize the signs in the Throne, with the carved Eagle, abandoned. "That throne", I explained in whispers, "hasn't been used since the Sinking of the Summer Palace". I could guess who would sit where, before they did. For there were three cities, great, in the times of the ancient Caliphate.  Four, I suppose. But we cannot count that which was lost to the Desolation.

My guess proved correct. One thing we can say with certainty: that the present rhymes with the past. That Baz'eel attended was to be expected, and I was glad to see Princess Hasheema. Monarchs are all tyrants, but only a fool thinks all tyrants are equal.  I was, however, surprised to see the attendance of Qa'im. I think everyone was. But when the horn rang, knowing only they and Il Modo were truly missing... It was obvious, then. They marched in unison, with such beautifully forged faced.

So serene. So horrifying.

Whatever my research indicates, the time of innocence is long gone. For those Janissaries, that box palpitating with life.... That was Anathema.

The meeting itself was the classic collection of accusations, cowardice, and complaints. I did not enjoy being next to the Banda Rossa, whose main effort even in such historical occasions seems to be teasing and mocking, light-heartedly, either the speakers or the College. I suppose the attitude helps deal with the bitterness of their work, but I truly feel it is childish. Kragg in particular being so high and mighty about Students makes me  wish to remind him I have seen him shit himself.  Someone has to be the adult in the room, however.

One could've feared for the results of the meeting, but a rousing speech by Marcellus lifted everyone's spirits and led them to act bravely. The cities shall march to meet the Sibilant, face them head-on, defeat them. That should always have been the priority.  How to welcome the refugees, whether we'll need to fight the tonsure, even the so-called Dakhwar?

That doesn't matter, right now.

Choose the lesser evil. They keep saying that, I keep hearing that. The lesser evil in this Election, where I am yet again barred, criminal element that in am, disloyal to my fair City, wicked terrorist and trouble-rouser, ever putting my greed, my anger, my faith or my ego ahead of what the City needs.

Choose the man who praises the Murderer but cares about the poor (and has great tighs). He lacks the subtlety, the charm. I have seen him take offense at the White League's members carrying their heart on their sleeves, which is precisely what they are bound to. Not realizing it is much more effective to use their heart, precisely, to win them over. He cannot dance arround trouble, nor dodge a challenge to fight where it suits him. He'll be devoured by politics. Devoured, and perhaps he'll get our League to be devoured, too.

Choose, instead, the woman who kisses the Sultan's boots but is a friend (and has a good heart). "We agree in almost all policies", she kept saying, as though all policies were equal. As though I and the White League didn't agree on those same things, and more. As though I ought to, once again, set aside my qualms and kiss the Sultan's Sublime Ass. As though her League didn't fail to uphold their promise of the Subsidy. Part of me wishes I'd negociate for her support. Part of me suspects no promise will stand. I know she has good intentions, but I cannot set aside my concerns over her League.

Choose, then, the greedy Ashfolk who  will bend endlessly to bribes (but is scholarly). He hasn't even approached me, I haven't even seen him. I know he'd be like Sol Auk, a manipulable creature. His main disadvantage is that he'd be even more obsequious to the Sultan, even more willing to set aside what's fair for the sake of the Janissaries. We'd be constantly on the defensive, again.

Choose, choose, choose. And while you choose, dance, and try to strengthen the League of White, try to obtain concessions, try to shape possible winners.  Dance, feint, sidestep and dash. Politics, like swordplay, requires swift feet. So I keep moving, as I am still choosing one of three bad choices, all of them forced upon me by circumstance.  At least Domhnall and Echemmon now talk to one another without inmediate insult.

I told Zaniah that throwing my Voice down into the Well felt tempting, and still does. But a merry minstrel can't really reject a dance.

Holy places are place of reflections. Places were everything can be forgiven, where judgement can be suspended, where one is bound to just listen, and listen, and listen. The world holds its breath in holy places, as anything that transpires there is a gift to the Gods. So when she took me to such a place, I heard, and did not judge, We sat under Their gaze, in cushions. Arround us, blessed, the secrets. Love, and envy, and betrayal. Every heart is so burdened with secrets.


I did not judge, though I did wince. So many secrets arround me, so many secrets given there. It was not a place to judge, even when one wanted to. We all need a place where we shan't be judged, or else we're never to open our hearts. I understand that too well. So many secrets. Secret knowledge, secret intrigues, secret trust, secret plans. I do not reveal what I promise to hide, which leads to hiding too much. And secret feelings, too. The ones one doesn't even admit to himself, much less to others.


But here, one could sit down, and listen, and suspend all judgement. Here, one could breathe.

Once, there was a chimney.
And in that chimney, bones.
Tiny bones.

Once, there was a fire, and it burnt those bones.
And what was before those bones, too.
The sinew, the flesh, the soft ashen skin.
The eyes, boiled.

The bones still embraced.
Tiny, in the ashes.
And a woman winced.
For Revelation is ever painful.

[Another entry named Missmatch, this one with little to no context or other notes. Only another addition to the no doubt silly and unimportant rhyme. There are some reddish stains on the page, as though it was written with fingers dirtied by clay or something similar to clay.]

[Meditative notes scribbled all arround the page - perhaps notes for a poem]


In the shadows one walks and stands and loves. The light of Revelation, fought for, never gifted. Endless hours embracing Mystery and Errantry, seeking, ever-seeking. A moment is what it takes, if the Stars are ready.





At times, Fiction hits too close to home.
                     Metaphor roots into your skin.
     Secondary in one's own life.

Once, there was a battle.
An in that battle, many fought.
For Fate twisted into Necessity.
And no good heart could let slavery and masacre prosper.


And the day of the battle, many marched.
And a Poet died.
Where none would see her.
Her body, lost.
Her death, among the first.


And a cheerful idiot let her arrows fly.
Singing their melody, until she died.
A spell, a single spell.
That's all it takes, if the stars are set.


And a stupid, stern, idiotic Mountain fell.
Stubborn till the end, no doubt.
Stinking of shit and pride.


And a shinning knight fell.
Her armour glimmering, her feet quick, her heart pure.
Forever dimmed, the smile which caught every maiden's heart.


And a friend fell.
Oldest friend. Oldest mentor.
Survivor of a thousand battles, survivor of dire Kulkund.
He fell, too, to an Abomination. He fell bravely, no doubt.
But fall he did, and nothing can make up for that.


And the battle was won.
And a few lived.
To see mystery, betrayal and the rest of the future.
A battle was won, and that was something.

I am trying not to drink so much, but I also feel like I need to. Perhaps it was a mistake to cheer with the Drink, knowing what it does to me, but I wanted to lift the Student's spirits. I wanted to offer them guidance. I wanted them to feel good about where and who we are - even if I struggle with the weight of the Cloak.

One drink a day. That is a reasonable limit. That is a fair limit. A single one. To deal with the pain. And never when I am overwhelmed, never when I am crying. We can't have a repeat of my breakdown, after Pirou died.

(I thought that was hard. But this - so many.)

I spend far too long gazing at my collection of poems, shuffling through it. So many written by Elle. She was truly a Student. Truly. I loved when she came to me with new work, asking for feedback. I loved her ideas - the silly ones, and the heartbreaking ones. I find that I even love her way of speaking, which was... So hard to understand, at first.

I spend too long gazing at her poems. I have a few I never got arround adding to the collection. I keep them on my person. I do not dare put them with the rest.

When I do, there'll be no new poetry of hers.

I keep dreaming of it. In my dream, it is mixed. What I saw with what I imagined. With how it would turn out to be.

A hospital, peaceful attendants, wounded soldiers.
A hospital, a white flag hanging from its window.
                But also a hospital.
                             With bones cracked, with skulls defaced.
  Bones and bodies and people
           Defaced for some sick game, for some sick cruelty.
Tortured by the Rose on my shoulder.


I remember what Jacques said. The same day I had my nervous crisis. That we of the College focused on our Dream, and drank deep. That, perhaps, is why so many of my superiors drink so much. They have no other choice, no other chance. That is the only thing which can let them endure.

But there's such a difference between hearing the stories.
Hearing "they kill babies"
And seeing an example, with your eyes.
(So solid, I could've touched the bones, if I wanted)

                                       Bones, large and small.
The bones of Ashfolk who never lifted a finger.
                     The bones of priests and priestesses who held strong.   
   The bones, cracked.
       I can only imagine what happened to the flesh which was, once, arround those bones.
          Defilement.
Defilement of those who couldn't defend themselves.


I wake up from the nightmare with Snorri's voice in my head.
"They are why I'll never join the College"

And I wake up, and I wash my face, and I steady my hands
         (They want the Drink. I want the Drink. I refuse it and refuse it)
         (It was a bad idea to cheer with them, for now I thirst once more, so badly)
I wash my face, I set up my smile, I put the Rose back on my shoulders.


And I straighten.
Can't let its weight slump me.

It took hours, but I laid it all out. For her. When the Priory asks, you answer. I gave it all - summarized, perhaps, but all that was mine to give. And I kept the secrets I was bound to keep. For promises are not to be broken. But she was right, of course. We may well be killed. Someone must keep records, in case of death. I shall... Make sure I write something similar to what I gave her, and leave instructions for the College to have it, in case of my death.

I find myself preparing, more and more, for that. For my death.

Regardless, it was an interesting experience to think of the entirety of what I have learnt. I rarely do such a thing, for it takes hours. But to think of it all, to follow the trail from past to present, to weave all the tidbits into a cohesive whole...

I felt that slow beating of hope in my heart. I realized how far I had come. How much closer to understanding it I am. And perhaps to finding it, too. I feel like I'm closer. Still far, of course, but I feel as though I've brought us closer to it than any of Lynneth's heroics - whether my superiors are blind to this or not. Most of them had eyes for her, only. She was so shinning it blinded. I envmiss her.

But still. With the Acolyte, I felt it. I felt so much closer to it:


She commended me. She came to realize in our conversation the value of what I do. That my work was not mere foolish obsession, that there was a /reason/ I was at times more serious than other Balladeers. Less shimmering. Less dashing. That I hesitated more to lose myself in the peaceful depths of the Drink and Art and hopeful but deadly Heroics.

Words and words and words. Words have become my home, my chains. In my office, accumulated, are words within words, a labyrinth of secrets that is almost maddening. Of things I cannot share because of a promise. Of things I cannot share because they corrupt, and they break, and the change you forever.


Words, too, are chains. Things I can and cannot say. Things I have to be careful to ommit. I try not to lie to those I love. I try to say "I will share what is mine to share". I try to do so - or tell me I try to do so. Unless it's bad. Unless it'd give them nightmares upon nightmares.


And still, I fail. Because others - others cannot. Others do not. Others break their promises, their silences, the trust of their friends. Snorri said I was the only person he knew who could keep a secret. Or the only one left. We did not mention the evidence absence, but it was there. It was obvious to both of us.

Cursed Aubrey. Revealing things I was not ready to reveal. If only I had had more time, if only I had been allowed to be more subtle. I have hurt Portia, I can imagine. I was always bound to hurt her. I dread to talk to her, but I will.

[A a rambling entry, written in messy calligraphy. Clearly, whomever wrote this was shaking, working in half darkness, or both. Numerous wet stains make some of the ink tricky to read. Right next to it, another entry (https://www.efupw.com/forums/index.php?topic=706540.msg753614#msg753614) has been written.]


So many things come to pass. I am exhausted but I cannot sleep. I try to work on the "Brief Timeline of the Great Ash Desert" but I fall upon the page. It is reverie, of a kind, this sleepless unconsciousness, this burdening of the soul. I feel it, heavy, within my chest. At times, breathing becomes hard.

A Cure was found. I am so glad for Marcellus, so happy he will live. But I grow concerned, too. He doesn't seem willing to face a real Inquiry into his choices, much less to have the Astronomers face it. Cosine whispers in his ear and Astronomers escape with barely a slap on the wrist. Even from attempted murder. Over and over.. The more I hear, the more I feel as though he was lied to, mannipulated. Was the Red Star always going to fall? Or was that what the Tower said, to gain Bablium?

Then voting. Aubrey wishes power as eagerly as she wishes to do good, and both mix and mingle in her mind. She could have a magistrature and lost it, asking for too much, demanding too much. So many in the College want to treat Elections like a marketplace, to sell votes in exchange for this or that favor. Only the Sisters seem, to me, to have the larger picture in mind. Only them.

(A Student quit)
(A promising one)
(I was sad to see him go)

And meanwhile, concerns mount. Rashid al-Rashid. Coming with fear of mock trials, of sham Tribunals, of a stage set to murder my old friend. The one person of the Competition who survives. A man who has done so much for me, who has endeavoured so much for my sake and the Well's... But Al'Rashid's predictions contradict those of Aubrey, those of Ser Hyram, those of the Acolytes. And all of them, contradicted by what I know of Domhnall, what I've known since we met. Unless he cannot be trusted, either.



As in any good performance, the best was left for last and Sparrow closed the night. She was angry, she had a right to be angry. She was angry and brave, too, for she had tried the Drink and found, within its depths, the courage to face me. I am glad she did, in a manner of speaking. I deserve her anger, even if I had no other choice. Maybe I deserve this and worse.


Does anything even make sense? Is there any truth to scrap from this endless, everturning wreck? Something certain to hold onto? Why do I need to break trust in order to hold onto trust? Did I lie to her? Did I not say to her that there were things I couldn't share? Can my memmories be trusted? Can my notes be trusted? Can the record? Can the ancient tablets surrounding me? Can the glyphs within them? Can the dust?

[An extremely brief Tale, written right next to where the former entry (https://www.efupw.com/forums/index.php?topic=706540.msg753613#msg753613) begins.]

Once, there was a man who thirsted.
But, knowing he'd drown if he drank, he refrained.
And in the dark of the night, he wrote nonsense.
Which should be, of course, disregarded

I spoke to the Acolyte, in the morning. I needed to speak. To hear of what happened while I didn't slep. What the rumors said of threats and fights. Only the Acolytes seemed trustworthy, or willing to hear me, after yesterday night. I spoke to her, and eventually, I cried.


I do not know what came upon me. I think I had spent too long crying in my office, and having her there couldn't stop me. I was not strong. I feel, every day, less strong. I want justice done, so desperately it pains me. And I feel, even in my College, few want that. Aubrey wants power. Narwen doesn't know. And the rest... The rest do not seem to care about the common good. Not like the Acolytes.


I eventually took the reins of myself, I regained my composture. I thanked her, and let her go to her sleep. And then I took my shield, my blade. I set off to Errantry, for there is, I know it, peace in being a lonely errant knight. One can almost pretend, for a moment, he hasn't hurt anybody.

I wandered as far as the Ramparts of Nusrum, alone. Seeking fragmets of the past, signs of the Tonsure, of the blood-star. I tricked orcan armies into following mirages, flew above the ancient parapets transformed into a bird. I feared for my life. It is easier, fearing for my life, than anything else. Or usually it is, but I felt no respite. Whenever I paused to catch my breath atop some cliff. Whenever I glanced upon ancient bones. Whenever I looked upon the bright moon, and heard the horns of the orcans in the distance.


I went to the altars of Warad, left offerings of water and food for travellers to come. I deposited words, and prayer. I told a tale for none to hear, but myself and the desert. I tried to close my eyes for a moment, warded by the Wheel.


I returned to the Well, feeling as though my heart was weary, and no prayer would lighten it. Warad has Tales, but no answer to unknowns. Izdu has Revelation, but no counsel when one must keep secrets.

And I am
                          scared
                                                of
                                                                      the
                                                                                                Dark

I ambushed him. I am not proud, but I ambushed him, right at the Bellows. I was so desperate, my heart was so burdened. I needed to look into the eyes of someone I knew was idealistic, someone who, like me, was trying to  do the right thing.


I was trying to gauge his opinion. I was trying to measure what was best for the Well. I had heard so many rumors, from so many places, I did not knew who to trust. Who was even reliable? Was I even reliable? I knew that Aubrey had asked for every government position under the sun and I was angry that she chose that. Why did she chose that? Did the Lyrists tell her to negociate as though she owned the world? And what is the College, if we ask in the same terms as the Banda, as the Astronomers? What are we, if we fail to be better?


So I said goodbye. I chose to believe him, Warad have mercy upon my soul. I chose to believe him because that's what I had to do, because at some point you have to choose to give people a chance. I chose to believe him like I had believed Mae when she promised that /thing/, that /horror/ I played a part in assembling /would/ merely drag a piece of dead earth, harmless save for its force. I chose to believe him because there has been no punishment and /we/ deserve to serve Justice.

I went in. I did it.

I was trembling, but I did it. And Ibn Ghalish was waiting at the exit. To ask. To insist. To regale me with his tales of punishments, and vengeances, and blood drousing the streets. He was whispering to me, far too close, and I was trembling.


[A prayer has been added to the margin. Unlike other prayers written in this diary, the trace of the letters seems to struggle. Not a meditative, peaceful exercise, but something has been slightly forced. Even the letters of the prayer seems relatively uninspired.]

I was burdened.
Did I find purchase? The day was so long I'm not sure.
Certainty remains a mirage, but still.
Both owe the Rose, both will try their best.
Will both be broken, while trying?
And when I was troubled, we spoke.

She was kind with her words.
Except when she wasn't.
When we spoke of Marcellus.

Still, she gave, if not trust, at least something like caring. I suppose you can love even when you're angry.

And then, afterwards. After him, she came. She came and she brought, with her, Revelation. Was it less significant than I thought? Was the Drink playing tricks on my mind? Whatever the case, she spoke, she shared.

And, for a while, I couldn't speak.
                              I just received it in extasis
                                                      in awed silence.
                                                                  As the locust sang,
                                                                                    she gave me
                                                                                                luminous

[The entry starts with a little prayer. Written in some strange ink, it is almost invisible except when looked at near a flame.]

[The entirety of the page has been covered in writing, with two different inks.]

MESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESH
MESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMEWe lookedSHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMES
MESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMEintoSHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAM
MESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESH
SHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAitHAMESHAMESHAMES
SHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESand itHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMES
SHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAM
SHAMElookedSHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAME
SHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMbackESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMES
SHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHA
SHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHA
SHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAM
SHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMEwith ourSHAMESHAMESHAM
SHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAM
SHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAM
SHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESH
SHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAM
HAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAeyesMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHAMESHA

[A little tale.]

Once, there was a woman, sick.
Sick with regret, sick with guilt.
          For she had brought upon herself and others much burden.
And she had not been able to heal it.
                                  Others had.

         Once, her sickness grew.
And the woman refused to take other's Cure.
Missgivings, perhaps.
Or perhaps the deep, horrid knowledge
          that others had fixed the mistake she made.

Or maybe she began to think of death as respite.

Once, a Fool was ready to cry.
Was ready to throw himself at her feet, at his sword.
Ready to offer anything, so that she would live.
For when many have been lost,
             you don't get used to it.
Rather, each loss weights heavier.

Once, thankfully, blessedly, the stubborn woman gave up.
Perhaps, because Love conquers.
And she drank, and was healed.
And all was well in the Well.

I'd love to say I'm becoming used to losing, but the opposite seems to be the case. With every election, I grow wearier. In every election, I throw more of my heart, only to see it shatter again and again. This one was exceptionally burdensome, I feel, though having managed not to rely on the Drink to endure probably spared me a few embarrassing moments.


As we waited for the results I took Marcellus aside. I let him know, both where my sympathies had fallen, and of my commitment to see him safe. I would square the circle, I would stand by his side. I would walk the line, and both try to get proper inquiry into the matter, and protect his life. Even if Domhnall failed me. I would.


He won, however. I felt sad at the amount of votes my beloved League gathered, such an embarrassment that the leader I thought would bring us victory garnered as many votes as poor, foolish Echemmon. But there was relief in it, too. I wouldn't have to see whether my faith was put on the wrong man.


I witnessed the oath of Marcellus, heard Estellise perform what I can only describe as her Gellemende duty to discord and misinformation, then marched with him, the College and the Astronomers to his office. I negociated in earnest, for the Rose. I got, I suppose, a good deal. Better for us, in fact, than the Tower: a Prelate close to many of us, and a Magistrate from our midsts.

     I felt dirty, doing such haggling.
I felt dirty, knowing Marcellus won his seat
          by selling positions to the Accord.
I felt dirty, knowing what Aubrey had been doing.
                  And keeping a good man, that Zain, from the Prelateship,
                             just because it was my duty.

Once, there was a little bird.
And that little bird grew wise.
So wise that the very stars above knew.
And Fate bestowed, upon her,
bright
   and shimmering 
   and new and luminous

                Revelation.

The College is once more full of them, stomping arround in their shining armours. Few to none of them practice the Arts, perform research, scout the paths. They just go forth, content in the certainty that Fate shall show them the way. Worst of all is that, often, it does.

I need to be honest: envy and admiration intertwine everytime I look at them. How beautiful their are, in their conviction, how righteous. How easy it comes to them, the knowledge of what's right and who to trust. They do not stumble nor hesitate, they do not carry with them burdensome knowledge. They do not agonize over what to do best, about what the right duty is. Either that, or they do not seem to.


I remember Lynneth, her perfection. The way she'd shimmer the moment she entered the room, the way everyone turned to her. The adoration that rained upon her, even from foes. My beloved Lynneth, my dear friend, by whose side I was but a pale shadow, a pantomime. How I miss her. How miss her. How I envie


Two of our shining knights have risen like Stars. But a week it has taken them to become Balladeers. Where I toiled for months upon moths, the eternal Student even as I was Lynneth's right hand, they have already graduated, wear the uniform with certainty. Visions lead them, they say, and I believe them.

Their hearts are beacon, where mine has been broken into pieces.


There was consolation. Revelation, burning, luminous, the kind that scars itself into the soul, found us in the sands. The knights may stomp arround, but Fate, too, swirls above us. Sparrow's vision shows it, and now the Stars, too, have bestowed a sign upon me.

It is an echo. It is thunder. It is not It.

But from the thunder, as it booms, we shall come to find the lightning.

And when I looked upon the Knight that eve, as he dared /judge/ our secrecy, as he dared /complain/ that he knew not all our research, when he had barely spent weeks in the College where we had toiled for months. As I felt his judgement, so kindly and so tender in its severity, so perfect that I shrivelled with the dignity of his posture...

I gripped my find.

For it was mine. An echo. Empty where It would be full... But real, and solid, and in my hands.

Her words, I remembered. Prophecy:

Lately, every time I wake the world has burnt yet again. And every day I struggle to catch up with the events. A beast, released. Most of the day I was asked to meet with ones or anothers. Osman IV, the Sealbreaker, the Tormented, the Dakhwar. The advantage of being a known scholar, I suppose, is that I can bend information to my agenda. Bootpolisher, for instance, abandoning his designs upon the Spring's Gifts as I dismantle his arguments in favor and withhold those in support.

It is a dance, information. I try to be graceful... But my feet grow sore.

Meeting with the two Legates, both cramped in my office, both attending upon my word as I try to weave a Tale. To offer the Truth, yes, but also what is good for the Well. To offer honesty, yes, but also protect everyone - Mae, Narwen, Hypatia, Torchbearers - even when I cannot protect them.

And then, a betrayal.


How many times have I told them not to trust the Rossa? Every contract with them is dependency, every contract with them makes you more and more entwined. They grow rich on fear and betrayal and fear of betrayal. They are leeches. They grow fat on blood, greed and villany. And they would trust them with this? They would use this as /payment/?


I didn't lie. I try not to. And I will try to forgive them. For they feared for their lives, and they are old friends. If the Acolytes can forgive Mae, I can forgive Naelin and Sephidra. I must. But I won't lie: my heart cracked yet again.

I barely had time to think, as the Forum approached. Revelations were laid, restless, for all to hear. Discontent was seeded. Ibn Ghalish made a ruckus of accusations and foul claims. But there was more than what was public. All whispered, in small groups. Brief words, shared with the Acolyte, with doña Nasreen, with the Janissaries and others. Information, dancing between us.


I learnt little that didn't align with my own observation, though his descriptions of degrees was, perhaps, interesting. I felt, regardless, dirty. I knew that his revelations wouldn't stop me from dealing with them because, unlike my shining knights, I have neither qualms nor certainty.

We spoke, at last, when time allowed.








And I wondered, for a moment.
If someone had gone into the Depths.
For I felt, I swear, the tremor of the ground.
But no, the ground hadn't shaken.

Just me.

[An extremely short entry, just a few lines scribbled in a mostly empty page.]

[This entry is headed with a strange name, written in Formorian alphabet.]



To continue talking, we went elsewhere.
For there are things which are too secret to reveal.
But there is a place where speaking aloud
                    does not break a secret.




The smile on Their statue is ever playful.
A finger upon Their lips.
And arround Them, confessions.
Love and hatred. Murder and charity.
Entwined.





      When I wished to drink, I took the knee, I gave her the cup to hold.
                            The cup parched, dry for aeons.
                                          Waiting for us to dig it in the sands.
                                    Happenstance conspiring through endless eras.

                                                                                      I gave her the Drink to pour.
                                                                                                      (I felt such thirst).
                                                                And the cup was filled.
                                                                                                      And I drank,
                                                                                              from Mystery...     

  Deeply                   

I was just talking. About how lucky we were. About how maybe the worst had passed. About the smart choices we had made to avoid the worse, to keep us from repeating Aubrey's crisis. I was just talking that maybe things were calming down and we could find a way to solve the issue, when I heard it. Not words but concepts. Not phrases but sense. Meaning, into my heart, direct and without pause. So clear it was as though it spoke the One Tongue of my Tale.


I was thankfully with others. With the Acolytes, whose wisdom can be entrusted. For I knew not what to do, but they, as ever, did.


In hindsight, I feel bad that she said that. Or rather, I feel bad that Narwen heard it. It is true, I fear. Even Lynneth's death can be dealt with, another knight can step into her role. But my notes, and its understanding, are certainly the deepest in the Well. Sparrow comes close, but she her theories turn always into hermeneutical excesses. She will step up if she has to. Right as I did. But as I know well, there's a wide gap of loss, while someone steps up.


I think it is perhaps this weakness, my concern for Narwen, my desire to spare her feelings. It spoke to her in friendly tone, in fact. It spoke of how all left it behind, and asked if she sympathized. It was tender to her tenderness, just as it had been imperious to me. As though it chose to adapt to what would seduce us best.


Regardless, the Acolytes, in their wisdom, took charge. The Blessed Mysteries of the Priory will keep it safe. They'll keep all of us safe.

I just feel bad about Narwen.

Such rare occurrence.
To feel, for a moment, like before.

But still, we saw it:
Once, in the depths
           there were chains upon chains.
          And gears turning.
                  And thoughts, within
                                    the pull and the turn.
        Terrible,
luminous thoughts.

[This page is full of carefully drawn letters in strange alphabets. Over and over they are written, with the trembling trace of a child learning calligraphy for the first time. A few words and phrases, scattered.]

ր ռ ք ս Ֆ Գ Ե Ս Դ Ղ Զ Ա Բ Ք Ի Օ Լ Մ Ծ Ռ Gone. They're yéndose. Ր Չ Փ բ հ ը ւ կ մ ղ ս ո ե դ Ռ Ս իևրչ Չ Լ Խ Ծ
Փ ՌԳ Յ ՀՆ  Յ ԿԼՕՊ Ա Ո Ղ Ո Like purging, like vómito, like fever. Նո տօ Օն  Դ Ղ Զ Ա Բ Ք Ի Օ Լ Մ Ծ Ռ  ղ ս ո ե Օ ՄԱՀ ՆԱնպ
¿Am I losing it? ւ կ մ ղ ս ո ե Օ ՄԱՀ ՆԱնպ Պ թչ չթևԳԳԱԲՋ Ա ևԹ Սր ւա է ստջ ԸԳԱ  ւ կ մ ղ ս ո ե դ Ռ Ս իևրչ Չ Լ Խ Ծ Շ ԶԴ Ղ Զ
խծխ շզթ ժճռՁԹ¿Qué is left to lose? ՓՋ Թ -  ՆԱ Պ ՅԱՒ ահսմ  ԱՍԿնսթճ րփձջնա նասը ը ւՔ Ի Օ Լ Մ Ծ Ռ  ղ ս
Ոոֆ հՀՔՎԲՆԾ Դ Ֆ Բ Վ Ղ Չ Ճ Ջ Ւ և Շ¿Are these the last ԿԱՆ ԸՆՆ Ադհ ոիգաբլՆՍԸ էճփկ մասը բաս  յ
Ս Ֆ Ֆ բ հ ը ւ կ մ ղ ս ո ե դ Ռ Ս իևրչ Չ Լ Խ Ծ Շ Զ Ա ս ոor the first? ոյսւ ասկն ԸԳՅ  Յ  մբսպ ճ ահսմ ալս պճ
ԷՃՓ I try to hold them, but they're  ՆԱ Պ ՅԱՒ Կ ՆԱ ՈԸԳԱ  ւ կ մ ղ ս ո ե դ Ռ Ս իևրչ Չ Լ Խ Ծ Շ Զ  ՅԱԼՄ մբս
Ա ՕԱ ՄՍւսգճ գնաս ն ․պ ակկո ւթձփ ջԹԷ Է ՓՋ like water ԳԱՍ Ն ՒՈ ԿԱ ՈՒ Ա Զ Ը Ո Օ ՍԱԳգհո աըքէ  ԱՍԿնսթճ րփձջնա նասը ը ւ  ՆԱ Պ ՅԱՒ Կ ՆԱ ՈԸԳԱ  ՌԳ Յ ՀՆ  Յ ԿԼՕՊ Ա Ո ՓՋ Թ -  ՆԱ Պ ՅԱՒ  ԳԱ ՆԱ Պ ՅԱՒ Կ ՆԱ ՈԸԳԱս ո ե դ Ռ Ս իևր
էչռն նասւ ՓՁ ջփ ՃԹ- ԿԱՆ ԸՆՆ Ադհ ոիԻ դՀՆՍ ԱՍԿնսթճ րփձջնա նասը ը ւ ճ թ փձձ  ձջ թչ չաս ը բslipping ասՒ Նո տօ Օն ո է
 նաս աս Ի ո թ տ ա ց ԹՁՒ ԳԱլպ Ա Ն ասնցլ ասպ ասիթ ջԹ Չ ՃԹՔ ԱՍՆնց աուԻ սանցՆ Օնասո քւ թ ձչ փջջփ between մբսպ ճ 

[A little tale.]

Once, there was a garden of Roses.
This being a Tale, these Roses were of course magical.
Thus, they bloomed with joy.
Thus, they wilted with sorrow.

Once, a Rose lost its luster.
And did its best to hide it.
What is the point of a Rose who pales?
What is the point of a Rose whose thorns shiver?
What is the point of a Rose whose smell fades into dust?
Once, an elven princess found a magic pitcher.
And watered the wilting Rose.
And lo and behold! The Rose healed!
And its petals glimmered brighter than ever.
And its thorn stood to defend its beauty.
And its smell brought memories of everlasting love.
And all was happiness in the garden.
And all ended well in the Tale.
                     For such is the advantage of stories.

(Between the lines his loneliness)
(Between the lines, mine)
(I think, between the lines, we are all quite alone)
(Beyond work, and adventure, and Fate, and duty)

I think I helped. I think he helped me, too.
I need more friends, normal friends.
Who aren't involved in conspiracies or dramatics.
Who don't endure, like me, the looming threat of death.

(And yet here it is)                  (The part of me which I hate but cannot deny)

   (The part that thinks: a friend, yes.)             (What can I learn, through a friend?)


                                     (What secrets, what whispers?)

[A cheerful, almost histrionic poem seems to have been written in bright green ink. Intertwinned, in ink as dark as to be almost invisible, a few notes]

The future, the future,
the future is bright!
What joy is awaiting!
What cheer and what light!
The future, the future,
together we seek!
In secret green havens,
gather brave and meek!
The future has meadows
and laughter for all,
and endless clean waters,
and trees, oh, so tall!
The future brings promise,
too many to list
and so, give it time,
and wait for the Mist.
And the mist is the mist
        is the mist
                is the mist
                        is the mist

I'm not sure if it was after talking to the Acolyte. Or after penning that huge report. Or maybe it was when I saw a little bit of blood sprout and sparkle due to some evil idiot who had nothing better to do than self-sire (whatever THAT is). Or probably, it was after that Naridi kept asking me, accusations implied.


But at one of those points, I just decided I needed one afternoon without anyone recriminating me anything or involving me in something horrible. So, when I returned from the Tower I decided to chitchat with Bashir, who commented about an inability to read poetry. Nothing worse than those pedants who would insist Art is for those with formal education! If there's anything I can attest from everyone's willingness to judge every single action I have ever taken, it's this:

Everyone. Is. A gosh-darned. Critic.

I set to solve his self-doubt inmediately, and the evening devolved as Hypatia joined us to begin a discussion on who's the Well's biggest fool. Then, that delightfully shirtless man, and a Tale for all to hear: The Tale of Saphraak and the Sabotage.


Sparrow approached at one point, to say she was off to explore the Ashways. I'm still hurt because of her, so I politely told her we could talk about it another day, but today I was having a day off. When Meadow and Sebastian joined, we ended up going for a few digs in the Ramparts, bringing Bashir along. Delightful, as ever, though Fia got a bit knocked and Sebastian didn't show Fia or Bashir some of the most impressive sights. His expedition, his rules, of course. It was nice, in any case, to hear new theories and keep a quiet, listening smile. Sparrow is bright, but she lacks the humility to let others form their own ideas.


When we returned, there was a pillar full of blood on the Krak. Of course there was a pillar full of blood in the Krak.

Commited as I was to rest and relaxation, I refused to engage with the issue and vowed, personally, to die without knowing what that was about. I shan't fail to relax just because Fate conspires. Someone else can deal with it, and then deal with the recriminations that will no doubt come for daring to act.

Instead, I got a couple bottles of Baz'eel blue, chatted a bit, did some contractwork with Meadow, drank a bit more, and crashed into bed.

Wheel bless, what a nice afternoon.

Of all the Students, Armis seems curiously the most ready to learn. A shame, that what I must teach him is a source of discomfort.


He listened, however, for he has the humility to listen. He understood the importance of such steps. And if he hand't before, learning about the idiotic fate of Velan Volandis, about the injustices the Janissaries commit calling it be Justice... The sad, wicked necessity, at times, of pragmatism. I did my best to be inspiring. I talked about the College, about how it lives not in our apparels, not in our Grandmaster, but in our hearts.





He did well, it appears. He was truthful and honest, but didn't do the wicked Tower's work for them. That matters. Our enemies are many, and they'd use the veils of the justice system to destroy us. I suppose Lynneth being accused of brooking for imprisoning a djinn is the perfect example of it. He was shaken, though. Afterwards.

It was a shit day, but I'm focusing on the coffee. There were accusations, danger, horrors. There were hurt feelings, from people I love. There was a new friend, wounded both in body and spirit. There were tensions about to explode, had I not taken the reins to find a compromise - because apparently people are unable to think rationally. There were a thousand people, wanting to be addressed, individually, everything explained to them, in detail. There were overlapping issues with numerous horrifying monsters beyond my comprehension (I'm becoming numb to horrifying monsters beyond my comprehension). But there was coffee.

(I was grateful, delighted even)
(A nice, theoretical conversation)
(One I bore no responsibility over)
(One without recriminations, either)
(That's what I said)
(Without really reaching out)

(I blushed, of course, because I'm an idiot)
(There are always a thousand things crowding me, at once)

(How stupid I must have sounded.)
(How foolish, how clumsy, how dumb.)
(As though he couldn't figure it out himself!)
(Wheel above, I'm the worst)         

[A absurdist list of tasks to deal with.]

1- Unspeakable horror beyond human comprehension nº1 (Gutter Beast)

2- Unspeakable horror beyond human comprehension nº2 (Bootlicker's mind)

3- Unspeakable horror beyond human comprehension nº3 (Personal guilt over corruption of local oathsworn, but not the cool and titilating kind you see in Joust Love or Knight's Tale, vol IX. Not that I'm sad that isn't the titilating kind of corruption, because that'd be inappropriate. He's a Student!)

4- Unspeakable horror beyond human comprehension nº4 (Leadership & feelings management: how to make friends and also not get torn to shreds when your friends start recriminating you things)

5- Unspeakable horror beyond human comprehension nº5 (Cosine's dirty, dirty soul & underwear: the limits of bleach)

6- Unspeakable horror beyond human comprehension nº6 (Banda Rossa's boredoom: looking at walls and the dangers of being tied to greedy idiots)

7- Unspeakable horror beyond human comprehension nº7 (Endure the burning desire of telling people to get a life)

8- Unspeakable horror beyond human comprehension nº8 (Keep Sparrow from being burnt by the Legion)

9- Unspeakable horror beyond human comprehension nº9 (Throater killing the one person with really pretty eyes)

10- Unspeakable horror beyond human comprehension nº10 (Yuyumamar: if blood starts raining it is surely my fault)
 
11- Unspeakable horror beyond human comprehension nº11 (Good morning, now I can't speak Erugitic)

12- Unspeakable horror beyond human comprehension nº12 (Remember the DQWR? What have you done lately for it? Oh, you've been too busy dealing with idiots+Fate's entrapment? Nice, nice...)

13- Unspeakable horror beyond human comprehension nº13 (Vows of ignorance: how to not learn about pillars of blood)

14- Unspeakable horror beyond human comprehension nº14 (Feeling excluded: Everyone's getting horrible visions of hideous monsters but me. I can't arrive last at a trend!)

15- Unspeakable horror beyond human comprehension nº15 (If I start drinking, I'm not gonna stop)

16- Unspeakable horror beyond human comprehension nº16 ("It will be just a moment", or how to lose your entire afternoon)

17- Unspeakable horror beyond human comprehension nº17 (The Tonsure. Did you forget about the Tonsure? The Tonsure certainly didn't forget about you! Unless he's dead!)

18- Unspeakable horror beyond human comprehension nº18 (Blank space for something I'm surely forgetting, which will only be made worse by the fact I'm forgetting it __________________________________________)

19- - Unspeakable horror beyond human comprehension nº19 (Consulate: How long do I have?)

20- Unspeakable horror beyond human comprehension nº20 (Leadership & Feelings management 2: You actually need to discipline here and there, but you also don't have real authority over fellow Balladeers)

21- Unspeakable horror beyond human comprehension nº21 (The world is still ending. Did you forget the world was still ending?)

22- Unspeakable horror beyond human comprehension nº22 (Endless list of things to do)

The list ends there, abruptly.

Time crosses slowly, it slides, it ticks forward. I am waiting for so many things: plans, threats, death, monsters, elections. I don't even know what will come first, I don't even know if all of these things shall, in the end, come at all. I'm just holding my breath. Three days remain.


Waiting, waiting, waiting. Will he win this time? Will Elections come before the Throater? I fear for his life until the monster is caught, and yet both him and the monster often wander while I sleep. There's little I can do, except pray. Sabotage, hide him. Sabotage, call down, upon the monster, misfortune. Because three days remain:


Work, work, work, as you wait. Work to get things done. Work to tame things. Work to get people to move. Work to get people off your back. Everything would be easy, without people slowing you down, with their endless demands for reports, their endless need to offer their criticism. If I was invisible things would be easier. If I was invisible, I wouldn't be able to do my job.

I made my Will, at least. Affairs are in order, my death will set some plans back, but not all. And making the Will? Surprisingly peaceful, when followed by drinks and gossip. One may as well kill some time, when three days remain. It beats killing oneself.


(And that part whispers; as ever, it whispers:
                                     "Isn't that a better tool? Isn't that even more astute?"
                   "Feign honor first and thus, when you ask... Perhaps you may receive")

May I wade the Darkness. May time move forward. May my heart be a torch. May it not burn.

[This entry is stained with blood]  (#)(#)
                                                          (#)(#)(#)
I.                                                          (#)(#)(#)
          don't even                                        (#)(#)     
                                  know where to begin.

But if everyone telling me we took too long to act had, instead of asking for reports and making me lose time, shut their holes for about a minute, things would be faster. This, of course, applies to every single event in my life. Because one thing is clear:


At least its done. And all live.                                                (#)
                                                                                        (#)(#)(#)
          Not the Scholar                                                      (#)(#)(#)
                  Wheel, the Scholar                                           (#)(#)
                                                                                            (#)

I still am not sure I remember all of what happened, a blur after things started coming on top of me. I do know I have less than half of my savings before it. I do know that half the Well arrived to see me tearful. Maybe the Janissaries assume it had to do with them.

I don't know where to start dealing with this. Naelin was scared, but she was hurtful. She, who has said in a thousand ways she doesn't trust the Acolytes, nor their Drink. Who has turned away the Rose endlessly. And when the time comes? She demanded, on my love for her, that I betray my love for the Rose. She pitted one love against another. She wanted to use me.


Aurelio was for it, Armis was not. Two oathsworn. They, too, troubled by the matter. These beautiful men with clean hands and cleaner hearts... They just make a choice between to equals, and pretend one is best. What's the use of these shining knights, if they can't even provide moral clarity? How I love them, how I wish I could be them.At least they chose.

Regardless, I did what I could. And maybe, in the end, everyone is always using one another. There's something to be said, about being useful.

I would never have imagined I'd feel brotherhood with that flipping Sergeant, until last night. They went down, deep, to hunt the Beast with the Astronomers. I have no idea why they refused the solution of the Priory. Presumably, Mevura's influence on Marcellus, his absurd disdain for the most noble women in the Well seeping, like poison, into others. But they did go with the Astronomers. They used the Shade to trap the Beast. They brought the Beast to their Tower.

And I knew, when they started celebrating, what that meant. Inmunity.

I would've, perhaps, been more critical of the hypocresy. The Wroth, denied punishment. The Astronomers, spared any consequence for any action, even as charges are pushed on others for the same events. Wheel, I'm surprised he can still call upon his Spoke.

And yet.

Just as he was selling his convictions for the good of the Well, I was. Just as he was giving inmunity to the Astronnomers, I was giving my savings to Domhnall. Just as he was letting them work their magic, I was accompanying Domhnall to sign a contract with the Banda. To buy some votes.

I suppose I win. I did two things I abhor. He, only one.

[Most of this page is written in almost transparing ink, difficult to read. Only a few lines, in darker tone, are easily legible.]

          So it seems I was wrong, was I not?                        Used. The stars whirl above
                                                        Unkindly, the weary heavens.                         I wonder if I can, as much as if I should.                  What's the purpose of qualms?
  A nest of coiling vipers sizzling like flames.                                    Our best intentions, like the flicker of distant stars: warmthless                                    I burn, but I cast no light
Games: the table set, the pieces moving. A blindfold on my eyes.

                                                 In darkness, wading. In mystery, wading. In secrets, wading. In deception, wading.
     
                                              I must drink deep, and I must not drown.                                      Every minute without it, on my shoulders                                                         Every second, my mistake                                         Every hour, my burden                                                 
"I will not lecture you in secrets"
"You know more than most, in this Iistu"                       A labor of love, without love       
Serene her expression, serene her eyes.                                      Spoils both the love and the labor                                                       
Not a glimpse of reproach.
(I think that made it much worse)                                                     Is she, too, using me? Is everything good in me a tool to be used?
"But in the defense of the sacred", she explained.                                         I wonder, sometimes, if her tears were just for show.
"Things are permitted"
She was gazing into my eyes, deeper.                      It turns, the Wheel, it turns.               Hope then, Balladeer: it's Spokes are moving
"That would otherwise not be"
 
                                    I burn, but I cast no light.
                                                                                               When the Bell rings, when the time comes.                               (It comes)
Hope then, hope then: the colors are shining.
                                            And when all you get is flickers,                                                A path in the darkness is not seen, but divined.
                                                                       you may still manage to paint                                      Such is, as is.
                  But all will be well.

For a change, I woke up in good spirit. I came out of my room and giggled, seeing the arena and remembering my duel with Armis, when he kept attacking Fakelejandro. He realy did me a world of good. I felt energetic enough to endure Radislav grumbles because, as it seems, Aubrey did a most un-Aubrey thing.

She actually saved the day.

Literally, she saved the day.

I am extremely surprised, because when Aubrey does something while I sleep, I generally wake up to find the world is on fire or something. But clearly, I have been unfair with her, on that matter. Maybe not super unfair, but a little unfair. I'll get her a present, when I can. She may have fixed my mistake, so that's something. We'll see how things develop.

Besides that, the day was pleasant. A few jokes with Armis in the room (he is, still, not learning to dance. I offered!), a brief chat with Selsi. Then, I went to Marcellus's office. I had felt bad, for a while, that he was always in political meetings or with Cosine haunting him like a flipping ghost, so I just came with some new discoveries to share.

It was a bit like old times. It was nice. And I think I cheered him up a lot.

And after, I just went downstairs with Bashir, to the Pyramid's bar. I didn't want to talk with those Janissaries who kept barking for a Balladeer like I was a waiter. We all get they're rought and grumpy - they'll learn to be respectful or they'll get no meetings.

Anyways, I just chatted with Bashir. He had been a bit down, so I... Tried to help him express his problems, and think on how to deal with them. Everything, I guess, is easier, when one speaks with friends. It was good. I think I helped. Even if we both jested about being self-hating and overdramatic.

It feels nice to help friends feel better. That, unlike intrigue, comes natural to my heart. And it helps me, too.

I think I won. More or less. It's so blurry, I'm not even sure.

Things certainly were different from how I dreamed them. After waiting the whole day, a book merchant and the dangerous eagerness of Bootlicker made me rush to the Tablet just as Domhnall emerged to take the toga. I heard the Bellows from afar, I saw naught. I arrived to see him already dressed, a Princess by his side. I teared up.


From there, running, rushing, dealing, wheeling. The Sergeant Radish donning his best grumpy old man persona and me, in turn, being an irritating, stupid little flirt. There's always a point, I suppose, to finding what may irritate others most - and if there's one thing manly men dislike, it's effeminacy.

I was fuming, though. Going back on deals, trying to pull my heartstrings, threats as veiled as a harlot in the cheapest brothel. After what had happened before? After how I had felt last my best qualities where used like that...? Good enough I didn't invite him to put that sword of his where the sun don't shine. See whether it fits with the stick that's already in there.

The Ballestriere, at least, was helpful. Both with this and with other matters. The Rossa's Fortress, from within? Much less charming than the Colege.


After updating Aubrey, I was tired, but I couldn't sleep. I felt weighted. How different was this to what I imagined? How different was this day to what I dreamed? And what did I dream? Was there even a point to what I dreamed? Was I really expecting a meeting in his new office, and a smile, and his li

I should know better. Politics is not for the heart. But I guess I did win. A little.

Like dew under the hateful gaze of Pra'raj, our leverage seems to have vanished in but a few strange hours.

Such is life. Alternatives will be found. Still, somewhat discouraging to learn I did not, in fact, win.

I shall, at least, relish the irony. The sergeant may yet get my ass.

[A prayer, written in almost transparent ink]

They want to hurt Narwen.

(Exhale. Slowly, exhale.)

They want to take our beautiful Narwen, our kindest Balladeer, our sweetest flower. Why must they reach so eagerly with their greedy hands? Why can they not accept that not everything we don't understand is evil?

(Exhale. Do not let the nightmares come. Exhale)

They are all tense, and I must guide them. They are all demoralized by the suddent twist of Fate, and I must offer them hope. They all feel we're losing, and I must show them our victories, or win them anew. But they want to study Narwen and I'm scared.

(Exhale, exhale. The time will come, the time is coming)

Roles must be played, manyfold. And I must steady my hand, to protect her. Whatever it takes, to protect her. From within and from without, to protect her.

I am growing ready to cut some fools, if that is what the stage demands. A good artist, after all, must be flexible.

(But exhale. All is under control, exhale)

Plans are in motion, things are moving, manifold victories have been achieved in but a short few days.

And he did not fail me. It is not what I dreamed, it is not what I dreaded. But he didn't break my heart, and that's quite something.

Frail little thing, a heart.

How bitter, the load I bear. The hours of whispering kindness, of friendship seeded, of diplomacy carefully arranged. Gossamer and dreams, for we of the College have naught but gossamer and dreams to push our agenda. Hours, writing, too. For coordination, for sharing, for morale.

I won victories. I know they were victories. In but a short day, I won victories to account for, victories to be proud of.

And yet? Invective, complaints. Not strong enough, not harsh enough, not winning enough. They desire greedily, with despairing eagerness, and are unwilling to accept anything less than the fullness of their heart. How I understand that desire, how naive it seems. 

It is as it is.

I would lie if I said this doesn't break my heart. Aubrey and Sparrow, so eager to burn all my efforts in their stubborn refusal of acceptance. I do not think they have ever thanked me, ever praised me, ever encouraged the work of my little woven stories. Everything that isn't complete surrender to their desires, they feel as a betrayal. But if I gave into their path, we'd be alone and abandoned. If I gave into their path, Narwen would suffer. If I gave into their path, blood would stain the cobblestones of the Well, the carpets of the Krak.

It is burdensome. It is exhausting. The cloak weights heavily, but one perseveres. I miss you, Lynn. You, who made me feel so small, also did much to feed this emptiness within me. This desperate, pathetic need to be loved.

I climb to hidden peaks and empty my cup under the gaze of the dismissive Stars. May my heart empty, too, of expectations; may I accept what is, for what it is; may I not suffer when, inevitably, those I love do not love me back.

May I endure, for this path must be walked by someone.

Someone has to dig.

In the Wyld's secret places we gathered. Verdant was the Hope; Red, the Sacrament.

In the Wyld's secret places, the Mist curled arround our lips and we drank it, deeply. For the Mist is the Mist is the Mist is the Mist. And many things became possible, that would otherwise not be.

In the Wyld's secret places we spoke. Victories and dreams. Past and future, entwined, like lovers.


In the Wyld's secret places we shared. Where we come from. Where we go. What we seek.


In the Wyld's secret places, I filled my Cup with ambrosia. The Mists carved within were the Mists without, and I spoke as the Mist was the Mist was the Mist...


In the Wyld's secret places, things were spoken, that would otherwise not be. Prophecy, reiterated. Companionship, cheered. Oaths... Oaths taken. Siegward kneeling before golden Aurelio.


How beautiful his judgement, unspoken. How perfectly ugly I felt. Myself, who may attempt not to lie, but must often deceive. So small I felt that a breeze could carry me away, into oblivion.

I gazed into my cup, still brimming. I raised my eyes again with a smile.  What must be done, must be done. Gossamer and whisper, may I weave them, so that his beauty remains unstained.  And Narwen's. And Armis's. In my heart they echoed, like the ringing of a thousand bells, her word. Prophecy:


So I drunk deep and my heart sang, thrice-fold, its hopeful blessings.

Once, there was a hole.
And on its brim, grew beautiful flowers.


So people brought water and pleasant things.
People brought coin and gemstones and treasures.
People brought animals and virgins and sacrifices.
And all of it was thrown into the hole, as offering.


And offering after offering fell into its depths.
But the flowers bloomed as they ever had.
And the hole would never be filled


But it still yearned for offerings, regardless.
For, like everything else, it wanted to be loved.

Oh, precious Accord! Oh, pile of rotting compromises grown off of corpses! Oh, babies thrown off windows, oh mothers ravished against the selfsame window-stills, their eyes upon the splash that was their progeny but moments ago! Oh swords upon swords clashing, oh Waters flowing red and stained, every holiness drained, every kindness hollowed, every mercy stained and stained and stained! Oh, what joys it brings to be part of such steemed institution, such noble calling, such heavenly oaths! Were it not for the Accord, wouldn't we be but beasts, unable of more than primitive grunts and shows of absurd strength? Oh, what joys it brings to this City, to the weeping widows and the tortured wounded, to the peaceful doctors that see themselves set upon their own surgery table and sawn and sawn and sawn, for the perverse joyfulness of it! Behold its glory, as it glimmers in the horizon with the promise of a new, of a better, of a more joyful future!

Oh, Accord, how strong you grow watered in blood and bullshit!

The fresh murmur of the fountains.
The kind shadow of a garden.
Reciting poetry.
To a handsome man, if I'm lucky.

Even if originally meant as a joke... I suppose I can't complain, when Fate gifts me such taste of a better future.


Afterwards, a walk, with friends. The Exhortations of the Tutor. The Barrier.

And beyond the Barrier, a vision, a mirage, perhaps - or a prophecy. Vines, growing softly? Flowers blooming? A trick of the moonlight and the shadows? Within my heart, it bloomed, too, renewed as ever from ashes: Hope.

I was working my way, enduring, performing. Eroding, slowly, resistance. Doing what I needed to do, so that Narwen would be safe, so that she would be safe. And she called for me, she was angry, she was fuming, she was feeling insulted, and slighted, and betrayed. How horrible, her anger burning my skin. Her words, pouring, and pouring, and pouring their hatred, over me.


I did my best to cry discreetely, because Wheel above, I'm always crying. I endured their company, did what I was meant to do. On my return, at the top of Elossi, we met again. Took me a moment to realize she was there. I had reached, I think, that strange level of exhaustion where the world seems submerged, time loses meaning and all one hears is the screams inside, come and go, raise and fall, like the waves of some cursed ocean.

Oh, she spoke. At length. At length she told me of her travails, and I suffered for her. How could I not? How could my heart not break, knowing her burdens, knowing the unfairness of it all? How could I not long to help her? Why couldn't I stop caring for they, even after how they kept treating me?

At long last, she remembered. I, too. I was also there, I was also suffering. Better late than never, I guess? But when she asked, I just burst, my notebook fallen to the floor, tears running, so many tears. I felt I was flooding, I felt I was a flood, and I felt I wanted to drown.


A flood, a torrent, pouring and pouring. I could've drowned the people in the plaza, like the knights of the Cinquefoil were drowned during the Siege. I could've washed myself away. I wish I had washed myself away. I wanted to surrender, I longed to be empty of these spoiled waters, these tears.

Empty me, Sabotage.
Empty my heart, so frail a vessel.
Empty me, so that I will spill no longer.

[A strange little text, like the speech of a circus-master]

Behold, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls! For your delight and entertainment: a Professional!

Watch, as he endures interruption after interruption with the grace and patience of one who wants to facilitate the work of his companion!

Thrill, as he smiles, politely, dead in the eyes, and at least takes notes of the plans of those who seem unable to accept a waiting line!

Gasp in awe and surprise, as his tone does not change an inch at the discovery of betrayal!

Be amazed, seeing how he focuses on the matter at hand, on the political angles, on the strategic calculations, on what this will mean for their shared hopes for the future!

Cheer, as he endures, and no tear flickers down his cheek, for it is hardly the spot, with so many spectators whispering amidst themselves, to the other side of the table!

And cry, too, your heart moved to grief, when, in a grand display of self-control, he does not phrase the one question raging, like a forest fire, within his chest!

Naelin kept badgering, even as I had expressed my distresses, as I bared my heart. I think I broke, I marched to the Priory, I requested audience. How kindly their smiles, how comforting their voice. Like water on parched lips, their kindness. I brought them over for a long conversation, endless and meandering, fittingly interrupted by the Apothar. I was exhausted.


Is that so difficult, to be kind? Is it so difficult, to return love with love? To tend to those who have tended to you? To give those who are your friends, and your allies, some measure of respect and consideration? Speaking at the League's meeting it would seem, almost, as though it was my fault that I didn't come in with camel-trading, with demands for my support. It would seem as though it was my mistake, for not demanding control and power over others, but putting my trust, instead, on him. Hoping he'd do right by the Well. By me.


Wheel above. Wheel above, it stings. It stings to see the pieces being laid out, my advice rejected. It stings to see how things are moving and how, with every move, the White League moves further away from victory. The Priestess is setting the board and they don't even see how her coalition grows, slowly, steady, while they bicker over whether to choose a screeching harpy or a seller of Dirt. And I felt tired, too tired to argue over Aubrey's constant barrage of anger and invective. Too sad, as well. I could barely look at him. Wheel above, how it stings.


At least, I got to call Oro fat.

Small victories.

The Clans rally, the Snakes seethe. Others dwell and await, too distracted to mind Prophecy, too eager, on return, to raise excuses and objections. The Rose leads the charge and, at the fore, the shimmering sword of our golden Aurelio.


In the Krak, fissures forms, lines are drawn. Pride, so easily wounded, clashes even among those who need each-other. Someone has to mend, someone has to tie the edges. If my pride were so easily wounded, I would get nothing done... But it is I who must endure the anger of two of the petals with a smile, and balance their scents.


In the Well, shadows gather, a weave of lies and deception clouds the minds of the innocent. Love, they abhor; holiness, they abhor. All that they cannot graps and control, they'd destroy. So I must dance my dance, without spilling my heart.


And for guidace, their soft voice in my ear. Their kind touch upon my cheek. Their wisdom, etched with flame and love into my heart.

[Some brief notes. The calligraphy is uneven, as though written with very little light.]

What is this, the eigth? The ninth?

How many memorials, until she can be buried?

One must support his brothers, regardless. This does no harm, this is what their heart tells them is right and proper and, in a way, is it not? How could I spoil their memorials, as they kneel before the statue? Even as I know the myriad ways in which it is wrong? Even Mae, who knew her so well, has turned to worship. She seethes that a once-living woman has been cast into stone, but that is literally what she does. What they all do. They have annointed her memory, her imagined, untarnished perfection.

Wheel above. I mourn her jokes and her mistakes. So often I go into the Dungeon and expect to see her at the other side of the door. I mourn her pain and her insecurities. I mourn her kindness, the way she would soothe my wounds. I mourn the way I would soothe hers, too.

But they all praise her endlessly, in absurd worship.
They cast her as the Pilgrim themself.
They repeat, again and again, the same canticle.

It is a banquet, I suppose. An offering of morsels and flavors, our politics, our intrigues. No sooner has one election ended that we're already preparing for the next one, talking to people, arranging meetings, reacting to choices, and counterchoices. And on the sidetables, little tangential conspiracies, orbiting one-another.

I'm doing my best to set a course, both for elections and beyond. Evidently, others are too. How I hate this foolishness, the corrupt nature of it all. It goes against the grain of my heart.


I hate that dungeon.
I hate these deals.
I hate the dirty trades.
I hate these elections and these efforts.
I hate the calculations, the betrayals, the commitments, the demands.

I hate what I end up doing, when asked... Because someone has to do it, in the end.

Wheel above.

I don't think I have ever been as worried as when I thought he had run to the Ramparts alone. First time I leave a Sister or Acolyte behind, in my life, but the very thought of the orcan armies meeting him on his own was intolerable.

What a relief, when the Bellows rang that he was safe.

Comparatively speaking, the trip through ashen wastes? The battle against horrifying otherworldly monsters? Trying to make sure Aurelio did not die about thirteen times, dancing arround the maws of some heinous beast, the radiation burning our skin? All quite easy. Even deciding that we'd distribute the Cure to the six children, because leaving two to die was immoral, was easy. We warded them best we could, we escorted them. I sang healing, soothing songs, and told fun tales, and distracted them from all the horrors they had seen... And then they were safe in the Krak, treated by the kindly women of the Priory.

In the end, all was well in the Well.

And how good it was, that he rushed off. How bold, and decent, even if it was risky. If he hadn't run away, we'd have spent the next four hours in another meeting, as the Astronomers claimed this was a trap laid by the Priory and the Legionaries demanded about a thousand explanations, and everyone delayed everything for thorough, important  meetings. Possiby, a Committee would've been set up to discuss the matter and prepare a three-hour presentation for the next Assembly. Because Wheel forbid people do things, without giving endless explanations to litterally everyone, before and after.

If he hadn't acted, children would be dead.


I don't think I have ever been more smitten.

He took me to the garden, to drink deep from his cup. Fate and happenstance, putting in his hand another thunder to the Dakhwar's lightning. It was glistening, where mine was dusty; precious silver, where mine was humble clay; revealing, where mine seemed more mysterious the more I gazed into its depths.


He asked for my advice, he sought my confidence. He wanted to be Lyrist, he explained. His dream, shared again, of a Hall of Knights. Golden and certain, my beautiful brother. He wished to know how to attain his goal.

What did I feel at that moment? Boundless love? Endless envy? A twist to my heart? Like a spear through my chest, like hammering within, these melodies, these rhythms. Was this, again, the first beat of a dance I've danced before?



(How I wish I could shine, too)

I suppose I shouldn't be this scared, or at least this surprised. Everything moves forward, one step after another. It goes, worryingly, as I predicted. Cosine and Qari on the Bellows paints the picture, only to be echoed by Connor and Mirielle. Only echoed by Domhnall and Estellise ringing in unison, and over one-another. A bad look, that.

I brought them to the garden, as they sought to speak with me. Bootlicker, as ever, ladden with wisdom and insight. Bringing me news, the both of them. I sat amidst the roses, under the statue of an old King I never cared for, and smiled politely throughout. I did my best not to cackle with both joy an terror, not to scream: "Behold, my work!", as they raised the news. My pieces, Wheel above, I dread to think it.

There are pieces still being set, still dashing back and forth through the Tarwa board. Bouchard, violent yet honorable in his own fashion, enduring the kind of slights and jealousies I know well. Doña Nasreen, serene and kindly. Doña Aaisha, polite and subtle. My dear Bashir, so full of kindness and bad choices... I have inklings of where these pieces may go, but not the certainty. I also do not know if I can affect their trajectory. I probably cannot, in truth.

My pieces, too, the Sisters, though perhaps it is more correct to say that I am theirs, and willingly so. My personal Quest to Voice them, complete, even if that was a strange conclussion. A concerning one, if I may be honest (and where else to be honest, if not here, to be read only by myself?). Sister Nebtu, changing her mind, coming to me, seeking me with a smile so serene as to be offputting. I had to break propriety and hold her hands. How could I not? There is honor and there is respect but, above all, there are the demands of the heart: when one beholds suffering, one offers consolation.


She was not happy, but she was calm. We bear such sacrifices, all of us. Gladly, instruments of Bel-Ishun to come.

After speaking with the Sisters I went to Domhnall, in hope. Bashir, kindly, tried to buy us some space with a white lie. He did, for a bit. It probably was the longest we've spoken alone, since he became Legate and everyone, suddenly, longed to be by his side. I offered my thoughts: impish plans, radical ideas and then, at last, Elections.

A strange balance, in truth. I bit my tongue not to say "I told you this would happen". Not to insist. Not to badger. I have given up on most of my qualms when it comes to electioneering and politics, but I want to keep this one line I won't cross. I won't do transactional politics with him. I won't badger him, or lie, or push the same issue over and over, in blatant imitation of Cosine, until he just gives up out of tiredness. I will give him the information. I'll hope he'll hear me. I'll act as I must on the Assembly floor. He'll make his choices, and I'll live with them.

Because everything good ends, she forced her way in, our tiniest Gellemende. Domhnall received her with words which made me feel my advice hadn't quite taken root. Perhaps he'll double down in his position, and rob us the chance of two Lillies as Legates. Perhaps my own interests in the matter make him think my advice is mannipulated, that I am trying to use him. At least I tried.

I'm starting to feel some inkling of fear. This may end badly, this may end well. The Priestess is... The Priestess. Not bad for me, personally. But not sure if she's good, either. What I'm sure of is that Domhnall may be creating, for her, for once, a real chance. I may be creating it, too.

People forget, often enough. Heck, I think many of my colleagues forget it. Sparrow certainly does, Narwen certainly did. Aurelio, for all his virtues, for all his knightliness, is often too absorbed in his Quests to remember. Siegward follows, so eagerly I sometimes wonder if knightly honor must, by necessity, imply a lack of empathy. But I remember it, always:

We, Balladeers, tend the flames of hope.

It is as important, I think, as the Pilgrim. As important as the Cup. For all of those things are Fated, yes, but Fate necessitates of action, of willingness, of the desire to be Its vessel. Too many in the Well feel useless or insignificant, and seek an absurd death or wander into the Wastes, to be lost forever.  And if all feel lost, in this world of death, famine and injustice, how can we hope to endure till the coming of Bel-Ishûn?

It's a pleasant duty, in truth, wandering about, smiling at those in pain, inviting them to speak of their problems and helping them find solutions. Alecto's ambition may need culling or tending by the Priestess. Plix's kindness needs watering, lest the Tower wither it. And Boucher's heart...

Well, that's a tricky one.


Hits, perhaps, too close to home: a man passed for promotion, torn between envy and duty. Still, perhaps because of that, someone I can help. And it is good, having such friendly contacts.

It is good, even if, sooner or later, we shall have to cross blades.

Wheel above, what a creep, that Nadiri. Not sure what I found more unsettling: when he spoke an inhuman sound or the fact he was trying to record the Hakawati's Tales.


I was scandalized and, honestly, a bit scared for him. I mean, obviously, I also have notes on those Tales. They're great Tales! But also obviously, I make mistakes on those notes, deliberate ones. And if I'm reading them to someone, you bet I'm not simply repeating what the Hakawati said.

What am I, a THIEF?!

In truth, I'd be a little scared for the poor man. I do not think he quite understands all the kinds of ill luck, heinous curses, and mysterious twists that befall those who try to tie down the trade of the Storyteller. There's a reason the Hakawati do not write their Tales. There's a reason the published version of the Thousandfold Tale is very different from the performed version.

Not that the Tower would get that, of course.

Worst part is? He's not doing it for himself. When I pried a little, as I tried to dissuade him, the Nadiri said it was the Creep who asked him to do this. Entirely unsurprising. It's in character, to get Tales so spectacularly wrong and, on top of that, to send a Nadiri to do such horrible work.

Well. At least it gave me a good metaphor and moral, for the Tale of the Last Caliph and the First Sultan.

For he was the kind of man who sought to count the sands, so as to rein the dunes.
He was a man who, scared of the beat of his own heart, would change it to clockwork.
Fearful of shadows, he'd torch the Temples to see more clearly.
Burn the poems that he couldn't understand.
And thus, consummed by suspicion and paranoia, he was unhappy.
And he brought, upon others, his unhappiness, too.

A bit unsubtle, perhaps, inspiring myself on him for Zojhir? Well, if the shoe fits...

But to think how cute he seemed, back in the day. How sad I felt for him, sometimes, and how I wanted to help him... In truth, only Estellise hasn't become much worse, through her time in the Tower. Then again, she was messy, from the start.

What a strange day, this was.

We were digging. No more. No less. For the last dig, I was set on putting the shovel to the north side of Phor's tomb, when a Ashstorm, or the beginnings of one, formed. And this his steps, ponderous but quiet. Did he leave any tracks? Or did the ash not register his presence? He was tall, like two men. Grey and scarred what could be seen of his arms, his hands wielding spear and shield. His face, covered by a horrifying war-mask. A name came to our lips, but was not uttered.

Ayyabasim.

The Orcan had sought us. "Prey", he called them. He gave us the choice, of course.


As though we passed through a distorted mirror, the rest of the evening was comical and enjoyable. A little, adorable mushroom joined our ranks. We played, we watered it, we danced. Our little buddy grew roots into our hearts, truly. He also did grow roots into the heart (and head, and flesh, an innards) who had scared him before, and whom we battled. I invited it to join our College and study interpretative dance but, alas... It's little heart sought freedom.

He rode into the sunset, not without leaving us with a beautiful sign of his love which bloomed into a soft little amulet, to wear near my heart. So sweet.

So sweet...

As sweet as Elossi's smoke, the memory of my little buddy...

Once, a prince was locked in a tower, and was unhappy.
For a wicked witch held him there.
And because he was too important, he was kept within.
Never allowed to hear the waves of the sea.
Or to touch the bark of the trees.
And withering slowly.


So his friends gathered and conspired, and a daring plan was construed.
An escape was made: pillows under blankets, shadows in the windows.
Disguises, and little lies, and subterfuge. A rope of sheets, tied up together.
Under the moonlight, and giggling, they left.



By the shores of the sea they played and made merry.
And they sang and they ate, with the waves as their orchestra.
They drank wine until the moon seemed to twirl up in the sky.
And laughed so loudly the seagulls were startled.



And on their return, their hearts were wider and their eyes glimmered with stars.
So they cast away the witch, and opened widely the windows of the Tower.
And the prince slept at peace, with the lullaby of the sea.
And all were happy, forever.

Once, a woman got lost.
But she was so wise, and so kind, and so tender,
that an invisible twine connected her heart and her home.
And though lost, she was never gone.

And that string twirled deeper and deeper into the world.
It went through turns and twists, with her, to the dark places,
where truth is only whispered and light is never seen.
Deep, she went, but the string never broke.


And in her time of direst need, when the maws of monsters closed upon her...
She found the invisible string.
And followed it, running, rushing, her lungs burning, coming!
She followed it, with Beast nibbling at her talons.


And she saw the light, and she saw her home.
And she was received, with open arms and love aplenty.
And everything was well, forever.

Once, a woman was hurt, and bleeding, and bitter.
For her heart had been broken into a thousand pieces, by guilt.
And the remnants, wicked wizards had turned to stone.


And because she was stone, se could not be moved.
And because she was broken, all the love she was given...
Just slipped
         through
                   the cracks.


And love was nonetheless given onto her.
Trying to fill what remained empty.
Trying to mend what remained broken.
Trying to rebuild what had been destroyed.


Love was poured, poured, poured.
Until there was no more love to give.

[This entry smells, faintly, of mizzar. Some of the letters are drawn over the page, like little clouds, or puffs of smoke...]

She acted like I have a problem, but I don't have a problem. Or I have a problem, I suppose.


          So                           problems, really,
                      many                                           when     
                                                                             you think of
                                                                                             it.

                                                                   an addict.
                                                 that I'm
But I do not like the assumption



                                        to
          need something                      stop the
I just                                                                       screaming, inside.

                         of                             inside.            Always.
There's a lot                    screaming,   

There were calls. Threats. I rushed out, to protect her. Then there were screams. The Beast, in the Tower, again, calling forth all the others. A worminger, screaming in pain in the Bellows. The noise of creepers, screaming and running away, too. So we rushed. What else was there to do? Zauzar, Jamileh, Sparrow, Anais and I. We all went into the Gutters, to protect people. What else was there to do?

The tunnels were full. We were surrounded very fast, because they crawled and crawled, through ceilings and tunnels, skittering. I fought. Wheel above, I fought so much. We managed to make way to a tunnel. They were opening the path, I was holding the way forth, saying we should retreat. What else was there to do?

There were so many, so I danced. What else was there to do? I danced arround claw and fang and spike and mouth and things that were not mouths but had teeths and so many fingers reaching and I danced and I danced, and my song rang in the darkness. What else was there to do?

But they wouldn't retreat, they thought we could make it. They thought we could push forth, even though they kept coming and coming, bigger and stranger. So I kept cutting and healing, and Anais's hammer splashed their their heads and Zauzar's halberd cut them, I was covered in black ichor and I kept holding the line, my shield high, my smile bright. What else was there to do?

And then it came, so big it's walked hunching, so big the spikes on its back scratched the ceiling, so big its arrival was preceded by the sparks of those claws on the floor. So we gripped our blades. What else was there to do?


So it said. So we ran. But she didn't. So we heard, behind us, the sound of clenching, of rending. We went in, for her, to save her. We fought another battle, seeking her between all the slithering, screeching monsters. And then we found her. In two pieces. So we carried her back. What else was there to do?

And I demanded that we get the Priory to help. And I argued that it needed to be done. And I requested that we stop slowing things, and try something new. And everyone was so calm and so collected, and so careless about the death of Hekatomb and the death of Anais and the death of so many wormingers that I just wanted to scream. And then Jamileh said I was overeacting because I was a drug addict and I just was furious and I started crying, as always, always, always, because nobody would do anything, and there wasn't anything else for me to do.

I went to her, because she called. I was looking better, I had put on my most plastered smile, I had gone on to kill with the Banda, to succeed in something because I couldn't succeed in what I really wanted. But she could see, evidently, my distress.


She spoke of masks and of truth. I felt I could not lie. That my heart could not lie. That it was spilling again, always spilling, and endless fountain of emotion and pain and mourning and love. She asked whether I wanted the Drink, I declined. I told her my rule, about Drinking. Only in ritual. Never when sad.



I met Jamileh later, at the Sandstone. We discussed our work, we discussed the day before. She apologized, after a fashion. In that way she was, which is half apology, half excuse. She still had dismissed me, she still had called me drug-addled, manipulated. Is it so hard to believe one can be overwhelmed by mourning? What is wrong with this city, that everyone devalues their life so?


She was sorry, which didn't solve much. I made a map. I saw her quieten instead of giving me instructions, I could feel her pride, brimming for me: her secretary, now an expert on his own terms. That was something, I suppose. That helped me feel a little better, too. Even if we couldn't agree, I still felt better, better, better.

I swear on the Wroth's hairy ass, if another idiot starts making Bellows about how we should wait one more day before trying anything new, while wormingers and creepers and innocents die; if another fool barges in and demands to be given an individual, personalized explanation; if another Astronomer misinterprets the words of the Sisters...  I'm going to lose my mind.

Also, maybe tonight I'm dying.
So there's that.

I got hurt, again. Once more. As ever. In this case because Connor, the Invisible, in an act of great dweebery, left me to charge alone. I was left wadding in acid, surrounded by serpents, poisoned, drowning. Never saw him. Saw only Jamileh, trying to save me and getting swallowed, too, by the slimy waters.

When I was rescued, was I angry that I was hurt, or angry that I still breathed?

I sought respite in mizzar, walked off tiredly. I had been so close, I knew I was in the threshold of Revelation. Now I only had a headache. She found me, smoking, trying to read. Erugitic, even more of a Mystery, now, than what it was when I woke up. I felt so defeated, and yet so soothed. That is, of course, the benefit of the drug.


She held my hand, she told me to stop. Do I care to stop, do I need to stop, can I afford to stop? Thoughts felt particularly thick today, like unrefined honey, almost crystallized. Malleable and far too sweet, too. That was the mizzar, too, I suspect. Wheel above, I want more mizzar. Wheel above, I want so much to be swallowed, covered, fainted, swarmed...

She found me, in turn, later. I had been hurt again, by then, my entire body ached with pain, and scars, and battle. It was taking an effort, not to take mizzar, not to tell myself that it was fine, that it was just for the pain. It was taking an effort, not to indulge. Tobacco is just not the same. There's no oblivion in a smoke, just stink.


Have I grown? I feel only more lost, after today. Just longing for the mizzar, or for the Drink, or for the Ecstasy of blood upon my brow and my batted breath breathing out a song with no words. My hands were jittery, my thoughts wandering and lost. I felt so weak, when she found me again. When she hunted me, by the College. 


Another new rule, I think: no mizzar when I'm sad. At this rate, the only escape I will have left is the Sapphic Elves saga. And I truly think its charms are wasted on me.

She was right. I was wrong. For all my bluster and my inspiring calls and my love and my kindness. It is Aubrey who was right, and I who was wrong.

Pessimistic and conservative, that was how they saw the Tale I wove, when trying to talk of the Sandstone College. I suppose I should've given it a different ending: the girl who joins, who shows the artist to love. The new, stranger forms that bloom, a garden of flowers wilder and brighter that anything conducted with deliberation.


Maybe even the happy ending wouldn't have worked. I am, perhaps, the only one who'd rather have a garden of wildflowers rather than one of roses.


A speech. A speech about lost homes, people we stole from, compromises made that brought our solitude. She wanted us to lead, to inspire, to conquer. She invoked your name, Lynneth, called you pilgrim. Is that not beautiful? She called you pilgrim.

She was, of course, lying, Lynneth. She wasn't close enough to see your endless compromises, your politeness when you bit your tongue. But it's fine, and beautiful, and well. You're no longer a person, Lynneth, but a fiction. And She, perhaps, knew it too. And chose to lie to herself, and to others. So many shimmering lies...


Aubrey rejected it, of course, left the College there and then.

A bad day to try guile, for my dear Aurelio. His plan was smart, but I had fallen too deep into the mire of my own despair. I ceded my spot, missed what was no doubt an incredible trip. Perhaps it was for the best.

No. It was for the best.

We spoke, him and I.


At that moment, it struck me like lightning. I could but laugh.

What may crack but never stay broken? What is frail, yet glorious? What is full to the brim yet needs, desperately, to contain more? What spills and spills, yet never empties? What holds, within itself, the promise of Bel-Ishun?


The metaphor, of course, self-evident:

Falafels on the rooftops.
A classic, really.
Above us, the stars, twirling,
the emptiness between them, too.
I could imagine she was smiling, forever.
Destroyed by deceit, forever.
Gone, in that moment, forever.
Here I was, again, tending to wildflowers.
Instead of planting roses, perhaps.
Not Her vision, perhaps. Maybe.
But wildflowers have such strange, beautiful colors.
I smiled. So did he.
Perhaps that is the secret of being better, I thought.
Being brave enough to imagine that things can be different.
Imagining alternatives.
Then changing.

We had a moment to cramp the room. A moment of play. A moment of reunion, and ghosts finding one-another, and love found again. We had a moment, really, and for a moment I forgot all else. For a moment, even if my head still hurt and I felt worse, and more inadequate than I ever had. It was a moment, yes, forgetting that I no longer read what I once read, no longer hear what I once heard. For a moment it vanished, the desire to vanish in the moment, the desire to cease to be, the desire to be otherwise and fade into nothing. The regret went off, for a moment. For a moment, all was fine, and a moment is forever.

And there, towards the end.
A moment of radical imagination:

I invited him to pray. To speak.
It is, after all, a Balladeer'smy duty to tend to the heart.
And his was so broken.
Bellow us, in the streets, people came and went.
Above us, on the sky, clouds drifted forth.
Never stopping, never stopping.
Above, forever. Below, forever.
Somewhere, a child laughed.
Somewhere, a man cried.
Somewhere, the merchant sang his wares and the beggar his ills.
Somewhere, the world moved forward.


[A prayer has been tucked at the end of the page. Tear-stained]

We went to the rooftops, to smoke.
A self-destructive vice or two, I've found, really helps with the screams.
And cigarettes are less self-destructive than mizzar. I'm told.
I sat atop the battlement. For once, looking down on him.

And up there, he told me his Tale.
It wasn't pretty.
I stared at him, a long while. Hot smoke burning my throat.
(The soft, hushed pain, such a relief. If not enough)
For the heart is a seed, and words are waters.
One must find the right ones, to make it bloom.
The smoke twirled upwards and upwards.
Climbing towards the clear skies.
A ladder to the heavens. If one could only follow.

The isle was strange.
Eerie, to walk that shore again
without Snorri's heavy footsteps.
Climbing higher and higher, without him.
Noticing the clues, without him.
Reading the tablets, without him.
The boat back, without him.
How strange it all felt, without Snorri.
The smoke of tobacco, not enough.
Not strong enough to carry the soul away, for a bit.
To a place where one can see peace, for a moment.
And above us, the sun. It blazed.
It is not smoking that's bad for me, I felt.
It is having a heart.
Every other self-destruction? A mild irritant.

I could see, below us, the gate of Sands.
Above us, the stars.
The fresh wind of the evening rustling my cloak, her abaya.
I wondered, for a moment, if her uniform felt as heavy as mine.
I knew, of course, that it was weightier.
I shivered.
Was it the night? The coldness, the sadness, the fear?
Was it the loneliness of those ramparts, us alone?
Was it the desperate thirst of oblivion, pulling me deeper?
It felt like an honor. It felt like a sentence.
Her words, so many things at once.
What I was. What I could be.
The stars twinkled above, writing the endless drafts of Fate.
Between them, possibility, forever.
Ahead, possibility, forever.
Forever felt, for a moment, so strangely at hand.

Without her cloak, she seemed diminished.
She looked wistful at her old home.
Sitting by habit, reaching by habit.
Finding the habit beyond reach, now.

I smiled, with as much stillness as I could.
I lit another cigarette, wondering.
Wondering what it would be to be her.
Wondering whether I pitied or envied her position.
A smirk, ironic, as I brough it to my lips. As I lit it.
Something, in her, resembling tenderness.
I took a puff of smoke and it was something, but not enough.

We spoke, Khalid and I. Of how to speak.
And I did not knew how to weave my words.
Hesitating and stumbling at every turn.
He had come to get feedback for a speech on the Bellows.
We ended up deciding to bite our tongue, for him.
I smiled, tired. Oh, the ironies.
Not a moment ago we talked of weakness, and here I was.
Embracing it again. I suppose I am indeed an addict.
So we went to him, we spoke.
I gazed at him, smoking. Quietly smoking, as Khalid spoke.
Until I noticed his distress. His hands, clutching so tightly.
And I could only reach out.
(What is Art, if not reaching out?)
His hands in mine, firmly. A measure of comfort, offered.
A measure of comfort, from me. Who needs comforting so badly.

And when I thought he was strong, Rosie came. To undo our words, to call us losers, to spite us. To expell Khalid, as though he hadn't suffered enough heartbreak. And Domhnall watched quietly, and then left halfway through (other duties, I know, other duties), and I weighted my badge and I thought of throwing my badge and I couldn't quite throw my badge, for it would be like throwing my heart away, and him with it.
And I still couldn't do away with him.

Hard to see, I reflect.
The difference between love and weakness.

Once, there was a wanderer.
And because the road is lonely,
and the heart is bitting,
a poet joined him on a trip.
And what is the road, if not discovery?
Of the self, of others, of the world?
Why does one leave, if not to explore?
And return, eventually, changed.
And so the poet returned,
new songs writ upon his heart,
new stars dancing in his eyes.
And the wanderer kept on going, freely.

I have taken camp in this island. It is not pleasant, even if its peaceful.

There are desires one cannot satisfy in this place. Mizzar, Drink, cigarettes, music, wine, company, distractions, flowers; the pleasures of books, and of ancient artifacts, and of gossip, and of spectacle. So many desires burning, the hook that pulls the heart back to Ephia's Well, so strongly, so bitterly, one wonders if the city is, in fact, not the most dangerous addiction. If I was a fish I would not suffer, I think, as my feet dangle over the cliff and the waves, below, come and go and come and go. If I was not, I would also not suffer.

The waves come, the waves go. Abandon all desire and empty the heart, I whisper. Follow all desire, and fill it to the brim, I whisper. The waves come and go, and in their coming and going many things are whispered, and many possibilities thought that would otherwise not be. Could I live here, I wonder? Would it be pleasant to live here? An ermit, writing poems for the trees and the ruins, taking flight from time to time to join the seagulls?

"Yesnoyesno", say the waves. They are, as ever, noncomittal.

They make me think too much of home. Solitude, too, makes me think too much of home.

Above, the stars continue their dance, and I think of her. Between the stars, the promise of blankness forever, of peace, forever. The void seems so warm in its darkness, at those times, when my entire body seems to itch with desire (graps, consume, touch, have, be, see, feel, take, taste) and I can barely hold my weary heart. Such is life, I reflect. An itch of desires. I conjure some light in the darkness, I re-read her letter. The last thing she sent me.


Honesty, in truth, is perhaps the thing one could least expect from her.
But honesty is what I got.

I suppose I have never been pious about Them. An alm to keep myself from harm, to keep my tricks undiscovered, my secrets hidden, my veils unparted. A prayer, when the heart was so full that one felt emptying it was the only option, the only chance. A whisper, when I hoped Mysteries would be revealed to me, and me alone. A ecstasic shiver when I felt, for a moment, that maybe it was so, that perhaps I was loved by the very stars, and all the world would make sense, if only I held the feeling for an instant longer... I suppose I got all I wanted, after a fashion. It was, of course, not enough. Is it ever?

I fold the letter back into my notes.
Impious, as ever, in keeping the letter, and holding it, and saving it.
Pious, as ever, in following the heart.

I was his Cupbearer, what a thing.
To carry the Chalice of silver and pure waters.
And fight our way through a sea of blood.

His tone was so kind and aproving.
I did notice the Student had told me the same, earlier.
Word for word. The kindest conspiracy, this.
And I, of course, lit a cigarette and forced a smile.
It was bitter, knowing how plain my weakness was.
That pathetic need for love, for aproval.
He then tried to give me coin for Waters, the beautiful idiot.
He gritted his teeth, he seemed so tired.
I sighed and took a puff, smoke curling within me, not enough.
What an insufficient relief it is, tobacco.
(I will have to stop. At some point.)
(It'll spoil my smile, and I am at least vain)
(Maybe vanity will save me from adiction, a flaw for another)
His eyes fell on the cigarette.


I shrugged, apologetic. Trying to act like I didn't care.
(I cared so much.)
(Wheel above, how I cared for his opinion, his judgement)
I shrugged, yes, trying to be ironic, dismissive, jestful.

(Well-meaning, my beautiful, golden Aurelio)
(I shall break your heart, one way or another)

I helped her get her shelf, her instruments.
A jest, I made, about her strength.
(Her sincerity, as ever, disarming)
(How often had I tried to inspire her, like this?)
(Did she need me to, still?)
She looked at me. She glanced, then, at the Sister.

From within, the echoes of distant prayer.
Distant secrets.
Mysteries, unveiled within.

From outside, the noise of singing. Our College, ever lively.

I lit another cigarette, perhaps without thinking.
The twirls of my smoke joining the incense and the prayer.
Ascending, ever ascending.

(She should've been a sharpshooter, our Narwen)
(She always goes straight to the heart)

(No, not the answer I would want, either)

I didn't look at her as I said goodbye.
I was distracted, instead, by the smoke.
Cigarette and incense and prayer. Ascending, ever ascending.
Dissolving with everything else.

I was angry. At him.

Then she took our her blade, she threatened him. It was lightning, the way my jaw tensed, how my hand reached for the pommel of my sword, my feet moving, subtly but decisively, to battle-dancing steps. I felt inmediately like bowstring: it'd take but the flicker of  a finger, and off I'd go, at full speed.

And I realized I was ready to die for him, regardless of all else.
Because I am, evidently, an idiot.

So off I went, with Steve Odjamer, dutiful scribe.
Off to see the ancient Valley of Wisdom.

He shook his head. The wind rushed through the Valley.
Arround us the ancient glyphs of Izdu's wisdom.
His tone was contained. Sometimes I envy that, of him.
I glanced at the runes. What I have called the Exhortation of Wonder.
My favourite. In the bitting of the storm, effort.
And from effort, Beauty.
He nodded. I couldn't quite read his expression.

Off we went, Steve and I, to sit by the Barrier of Ur-Shulgi. To speak of eels, and cowardice, and bravery. Of trials and murderers, and what it takes to be good. For it takes so, so much to be good. And yet it is so, so simple.
And arround us, running, whirling.
Ancient winds, carrying the echoes of ancient words.
And the scents of distant flowers.

I exhaled. What is it, with people?
Why do they feel such cynic pride, wallowing in their unworthiness?
When they could be so, so much more...
I reached out, took his hand on mine.
(What is the purpose of Art, if not to reach out?)
A poet cannot fail to imagine, it appears.
To imagine, for others, too.

We went on talking, Steve and I. We spoke further of goodness, of options, of fairness. I told him, too. What I really needed to tell him. What would happen soon. What could happen soon.

He closed his eyes.
I wished, there and then, that he was transparent.
That I could see what he felt, like Revelation.

                        So a surprised was promised.
                                               And I do love himsurprises.
                                Almost as much as I hate li

He was a giant, yet he could feel tender.
(Or perhaps, I imagined he could)
He was a giant, and he answered, kindly, a hypothetical.
Just in case we were dead, tomorrow.


                                           I shook, then.
                                      Horrid, luminous, burning.

Once, there was an island kingdom.
There were matters of blood and matters of freedom.
A king, to be saved.
First, infiltration and disguise. Acting.
Then, violence and battle and resilience. Acting, too.
(And at some point, before, horrors. Best unknown)


And so the brave champions reached for the fire.
The mark of ancient lineage.
And it lit brightly, so brightly!
That the People of the island rejoiced.
For their fair prince was back, and crowned.


Alas, the envious dragon charged, in anger.
(For a dragon knows only violence, and envy)
And not even the King's kind heart could stand, alone.
So heroes, bright and shining, stepped in.
And cut, with their blades, the beast


And once defeated, all was well.
And the King reigned with wisdom and kindness.
And the People knew peace, prosperity and love.
And everything was perfect, forever.