[A journal. Upon the inside cover "Maewyn Audara" denotes the owner of the journal in artful cursive.
A tome stuffed with scraps of paper, scribbled notes, and sketches of people and places. A great many most would have no cause to recognize, strange names, Cormyr, Faerûn, Oghma and more, tales of gods, cities, and heroes that much surely be works of fiction - born from the mind of one of the Awoken. Later pages, though, turn to more familiar things.]
Awakened, awakened, in a world full of ash,
My memories forsaken, stolen- my past.
Oh where have I come to, and where shall I go?
In this land that is crumbling, so far from home...
While Faerûn is faded, and rings have crashed down,
The chalice is calling, hope to be found,
Yet who are these people with whom I now walk?
Wanderers many, a strange, dangerous flock.
The errands are many, the colors are too,
A land and a people that bind purpose to hue,
Yet what could I bind to when all of my heart,
Cries for sorrow and heartache for what I have lost.
----
I have come to a place ravaged by war, desolated by a brutal history of a perpetually looming doom. I feel for them, each and all, truly, for their world, clinging on before the storm of ash, is falling away. I should not wish for any of them to feel as I do. My lands, the roads I know, the gods I prayed to, each and all gone.
For all they have suffered, they still have their Wheel, their realm, their history, while I have nothing but memories. I try to comfort them, bring them a moment of joy or ease, with a smile, with a song, for how else could I help them? But it is hard to comfort a people that tell me that what I have lost never existed at all. How would they feel if I told them their war wasn't real? That their rings never were? That it's all just a dream, and when they wake up, they'll forget, just like they tell me that I will? Well, nevermind. They can say such things because they don't know, they don't understand, and I pray they never do.
M.A.
[Some pages of works dedicated to that strange realm the writer was fond of, Silverymoon, the Silver Bard, the black-arrow Vae and Therasvin, mentors and words of wisdom that seemingly served to steady sore nerves, referenced and pondered over. Yet a relevant page finally came.]
It's quite the honor to be asked by the faithful to write of their gods.
I have learned the pantheon of this world is called The Wheel, and their gods number only Nine, referred to as spokes. Faith is important here, a cornerstone, and that notion is at least familiar to me. My prayers still flit to unheard of gods in this realm, but, I am trying to learn those here, as it would be poor to disrespect them.
I was asked by one of the faithful to craft a song based on a story of the seventh spoke. Twofold, these twins are known as the Martyrs, and they tend to the dead, with care and respect. The story he told me is of a lesson their father, the third spoke known as the Magi, taught them.
Brothers bade to do work along the river Edutu, during an hour they would rather play. One refused while the other pledged, then both went forth into their garden where tables turned. While the brother that refused his father took to the work in remorse, the brother that agreed became distracted by his beloved moonlight and wandered to play, leaving his task undone. The question the lesson asked in the end was who had done their duty? How would they be judged?
A tale of words and deeds, certainly. Actions may prove louder than words, as can the absence of either.
I've begun the work, though I've a great deal of study to do before I see it through. I want to honor them properly, as well as the kind priest that would trust a stranger with such a task.
The chorus at least, came to me rather easily.
Come unto the garden,
Born by the River, kept by our Father,
Oh Edutu, wide, you carry us,
Oh Edutu, swift, you carry us.
[Penned in the notations that set a simplistic measure that set the base for a Melody Line (https://drive.google.com/file/d/10sn3_4r7RBN1FWbx2cQdo0sb9UCjJMcH/view?usp=sharing) to come]
M.A.