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[A reply, marked with a lyre sigil.]

Balladeer Aeronwy Caddick,

Salutations. I have not lost interest, but it has led me on something of a journey. As it turns out the merchants of the souk do not produce all of the listed items, and in an effort to find them and get a sense of pricing I've been doing my best to travel about. Travel isn't so easy here as I'm used to, and I've been a bit astray as a result.

Consultation with local Well experts noted that anvils in particular are hard to find. As it is, Dudley intended to speak to Calliope about the order, but I haven't been able to follow up on the matter in person yet, so perhaps I'll need to send a letter, I'm terrible with these things as you might have noticed!

I'll do my best to make my way back soon,

Maewyn Audara,
Student of the Last Hearth.

Busy bee with a handful of things being juggled at the moment, I should have said something sooner but I keep saying I'll find the time to get on, then don't manage, augh. I will try to poke my head in here and there but Maewyn is likely to be scarce for a while longer ~

[Sketches of various landmarks around the great ring, a collection of great bones, a slight, dark eyed figure with curly locks under the hood of his rose cloak poised over them, katana in hand, a bird masked figure in the background, similarly cloaked and hooded. Sketches of plants, of animals, the flora and fauna of the ring mixed between before writing began again.]

People that matter have come, and seemingly gone. I worry about them, but any time I ask if they've been seen about the answers are always dismissive. They'll be back, they say. What if they aren't back? What if something happened? What if we never see them again? The Sembian, distant as he was, we arrived the same day, from the same distant lands, and shared in our confusion and ill ease. Where has he gone? The knight who would sit with me, tell stories under the stars. The baker, mischievous. Even the Painter, who would likely be furious that I noticed and cared.

I'm supposed to choose a teacher, though no one had bothered to mention this before, and should I go too long without one I might well lose my cloak. Admittedly there are times when I think I shouldn't have it, that I don't deserve it or that I don't want it. That it presents a barrier to some places vexes me entirely. They say if I go down below with it on I'm just as likely to be shanked as I am to be robbed, and no welcome will be given to me.

I hate that there are people that go without their stories told. Rose worn or creep born, we all deserve to be heard. The remnants down there, I'm told, I should be weary to not appear a sympathizer, but what a poor point of view that is. The stories of the downtrodden, the defeated, the overlooked and the lost alike hold meaning and truth, and shouldn't be buried in favor of stories of the glorified, the victors and the champions.

A philosophy taught to me that I remember still was that everyone deserves to be heard. And that sometimes being heard can be a pathway that leads some of those in the dark back to the light. That it is all the better to take the stories of those downtrodden, those resentful, those that are rarely heard outside of their anger and violent act. For many wounds in this world come from being unheard and unanswered. And no wrongs can be righted if they go unknown and unseen.

Maybe it's naive, a hope and a dream born of being too soft for this world, but I find it so hard to give up hope, or, maybe it's that I don't want to give up hope. Does it make me a bad person, or just a fool, that I'd sit down with the villain to hear their stories?

I don't know.


---

Another day, another song I'm reminded of, if only the first half:

Tis my dream... of my eternity...
What they'd refuse to me, I'll take it anyways...
Wishes spoke of fate, of places far away,
The few in which I stayed, and made these memories...

Tis my dream, a world in which I've craved,
Things to take away, beyond this rage and hate...
Wishes spoke of fate, things I'd never know,
The pride of those my own, A father and a home...

Tis my dream, one day we'd walk away...
Betrayers cast astray, With nothing left to say
Wishes spoke of fate, I'd burn them as they prayed,
For they never gave me faith.. failed in every way...

[The melody line was sketched in along with.]

M.A.

[Hymn of Myth Drannor]

[Sketches smattered a host of individuals, a man with a long beaked mask, mace held high, brandished bravely. A slight figure with a face framed with tight curls, a katana wielded in hand against an unseen foe, determined. A woman in spectacles with a book and a look of determination. A trio of elven woman, close together, a tightly knit flock, timeless and proud. An impassive stonefolk, broad, austere, eyes shaded solid black flanked by a younger man overshadowed by a golem, and a young woman with close cropped hair. An older woman leaning on a stave that held most of her weight next to a severe woman with a scarred face that left her looking grim, impassive. A halfing with bright eyes standing at the fore of a knight in proud poise. A pair of dwarves, one with a spiked shield, the other with a crook upon his shoulder. These pages went on for a time, till finally writing once again.]

It's so easy for things to spiral out of control. A word misplaced or mistimed can turn into an avalanche, especially in the places where silence is law, and time turns back on itself. It was both too many, and too few. There's so many more I would have wished to have at our sides, yet, it couldn't be, even with them right within reach. They said too many would make it worse, while too few would be deadly. How do you choose when success and failure rest on a knifes edge like that? I'm glad it wasn't up to me to make the choice, because I don't think I could have made it. The Sage has given me so much, I'd do near anything to help her. Part of me wanted to say no to this even as I eagerly agreed, because maybe I could, in some small way, repay her for it all.

It's strange that the trip with far less felt so much safer, while this trip with many was precarious, I lost count of the times I held my breath and felt cold all the way through. If just one step was misplaced, it seemed like everything would be over. And all of this for what? I don't know that we actually learned anything aside from how stretched thin we could become, how much fear we could face without completely breaking, and how fast we could run when we had to finally give up. 

Now I'm sitting here with a dozen pieces of paper, scribbled notes, and drawings that amount to darkness layered upon darkness, wondering where to even start. How can I share any of this when I can't make sense of any of it? Could I share it even if I was able to sort it out? There's something about this that sticks in the back of my throat. That stiffens my fingers as I try to write. Maybe the Sage said it best, that one does not speak of those halls outside of those halls.

There was a moment when I couldn't go forward, and couldn't go back, and all it would take was one step aside to be enveloped by oblivion, and a terrible dread washed through me thinking of the Doomsayer's constant lament that she yet still lived. All the fear, all the pain, the horror and heartache could be gone. All I had to do was stop fighting to stay on that bridge. But I thought of all the things I hadn't said, and how greatly I would regret it, and right there and then I almost screamed it for them all to hear.

I kept it in though, because to scream it out loud would be to admit that I thought we wouldn't make it, and we had to. Because I believed in them. Because I believed in him. And most of all because he was right there in front of me fighting something I couldn't even begin to describe save for manifest terror. To protect us. A line he held on his own to guard our backs as we struggled to move forward against and impossible tide. So I found the song stuck in the back of my throat and I sang their blades as sharp as I could and I cast hymn as loud as I could muster in that suffocating dark, praying it would be enough to carry us on.

And we made it off that bridge. Away from that single step to oblivion. A mad rush. And finally air, air again.

I'm afraid of how afraid I was.

I'm afraid to admit how badly I needed that hug despite not expecting to get it.

I'm afraid of everything that came after, the hurt I caused, the mistakes I made. And I'm afraid that I'm writing this simply to keep myself from being too still, because then it might start coming back to me clearly, and I really don't want it to.

Tomorrow will be better though. Tea and falafel, a promise made.

How we must come together, how we will fall together, it has made me think of home before, and it is now, too. A song I wrote of the foundation law of the city of song, as it was called. At least I still remember you.

--
Hymn of Myth Drannor

Oh, glory rises, glory falls,
For as I do, so shall you,
For we as one will never stray,
Even as darkness comes,
To wash our dreams away...

Oh, glory rises, glory falls,
For as I shant, nor shall you,
Together true we will not stray,
Even as darkness strives,
To steal our dreams away...

Oh, glory rises, glory falls,
For as they will, so shall I,
For we are One, and always True,
Ne'er to digress nor to diminish you,

So as our glory rises once again,
Our dreams will never fade.


[The Melody Line was sketched in, rough hand, tired notes with scribbled out errors and wobbly measure lines. Not just a rough draft, an exhausted, stubborn draft.]

M.A.

[Clod and the Pebble]

[Sketches of dragons, an interest seemingly piqued, a number of different profiles to the skulls etched, to the shape of wings, a smattering of beasts of various sizes, different shadings suggesting some dark, while others light.]

I never wanted it to be this way. I never wanted a rival or an enemy nor to take away anything from anyone. What I've realized though, is that I need to stop trying to figure out what I'm doing wrong, or what I did wrong, and accept that it really isn't me. I've done my best to find a way to peace, and until such is wanted, things are as they are and so will stay.

My ventures are less of late, both because I'm not prone to venturing if I'm uncertain of those gathered given the chaos I've seen come of such, and because the authorities deem that I should be focused on greater threats. I'm haunted by one of the journeys I went on, where we found a great dragon skull ringed with runes. The horns made me think it must be a red dragon, if indeed the dragons of this realm are similar to those of home. Outside that cave there was another, buried in the mire of swamp. Its great wing rose up, brittle bones casting shade upon us below.

I always dreamed of meeting a dragon, golden scaled, perhaps silver, brass, copper or bronze. Gleaming in the sun, majestic, timeless, with wisdoms of the ages and songs that harken back to the days before the world became what it is now, or was, I suppose. To ask them of the old legends, to ask them of my own family, if there is any truth to the stories that speak of my ancestors before my ancestors left the great desert. The people of the Golden Dragon, they say, paying homage to the source of the song that sings in our blood.

It doesn't seem that such dreams are feasible in this world, dragons are hated, reviled, known for their wickedness, cruelty and destruction. That makes me fear that the good dragons don't exist in this realm, or perhaps are so well hidden that there are no stories to tell of them. I'm scared to sing the songs of dragons I know, for being thought of as a possible wyrmist would no doubt be a dire thing.

I'm trapped somewhere between old songs and new ones. Echoes of stories I've seen before resonate here, and part of me wants to sing those ballads, yet another part of me thinks I should strive to write new ones and embrace the fact that I am here, and here I'll stay, and these are the stories I need to sing of.

In particular a poem comes to mind:


Clod and the Pebble
"Love seeketh not itself to please,
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair."

So sung a little Clod of Clay
Trodden with the cattle's feet,
But a Pebble of the brook
Warbled out these metres meet:

"Love seeketh only self to please,
To bind another to its delight,
Joys in another's loss of ease,
And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite."
- William Blake.


M.A

[Ephian's All]

[Sketches of monuments, statues, plaques. Rudimentary works towards translations, short hand notes, bits and pieces of scattered lore in high and low formorian, high and deep dwarven, and a few things uncanny, draconic script from the realm of faerûn, and the drawing of a massive five horned dragon skull surrounded by runes with a number of ???? under it.]

We've ventured near and far, to places as old as time, at least, that's how it feels. Down below the well, it's like things turn back on themselves, there's an ache that lingers in the air itself. Mysteries uncovered only bid more questions. And some questions, their answers prove to be the most straight forward despite hopes that perhaps there was more to it, an answer hidden beyond what seemed mundane, yet maybe, just maybe, was something beyond just what sat on the surface.

I've learned about the Osmans, I've learned about the dwarves of Kulkand Mountain, I've learned about wars upon wars, and some have told me their theories on both my own world, and the chalice itself, that fill me with such an impossible sense of hopeless dread. The rose on my back weighs heavily. Am I really meant to wear it? My doubts about this chalice, this quest, my discomfort with the others, and how poorly I feel that I play as part of this whole. I can only follow my heart, what I believe in. What if that isn't enough for them? Or worse. What if it runs contrary?

Many give me hope, many bid me purpose, my time is full, and I'm growing day by day. And changing. Less and less do my thoughts dwell on the comparisons of here and home, perhaps because it's becoming harder to remember, so I'm not reminded so often. The songs at least seem to be staying with me. Yet there are new songs that must be written, songs for here and now. Alas that I ruined several of my writings in a coffee cup disaster and needed to start them again from scratch, that has set me back. I lost what I had meant to perform to raise funds for the stockade, as well as the melody I'd written for the grudge match. Both had to be cobbled back together in a rush. Still the performances were well received, or so it seemed to me. Eleven thousand raised. It's enough to feel like I'm making a difference, but is it enough?

The painter continues to use me as their emotional punching bag, and I'm growing past the point of tolerating it. If I ignore them or hold my ground I'm fake, if I'm kind to people and them I'm desperate, and no matter that I simply respond to how I'm treated, I'm playing victim. I've sought the advice I can and it seems I should simply put my foot down and stand up for myself. This is my home, and they are but a guest, even if they have been here longer than I. Keep them, they're yours, they announced on the bellows. Does that include keeping the space that is supposed to be my home free of their vitrol?

The Lion is far more oft than near, and I miss his manner dearly more often than not. How I wish I had his resilience. Starlight as he's known, he's so calm, I wish I had a measure of his patience, his endurance. I might have cried at his side if only for feeling he'd weather it without burden, if I didn't fear to waste his time with it all. The firestarter distant as ever, it's the blade that matters, because it's the blade that will defend. I feel like I miss him, but, what was there ever to miss? The knight, he'd keep me close if only because he's so terribly lonely. It's so easy with him, perhaps because I'm so terribly lonely as well. Is that enough? More of the thorns I come to care for, though I'm reminded again and again they would abandon me at a moments notice if the pay was right. That's so hard to believe.

I think I'm realizing that I'm not strong enough for this world and it's going to destroy me. I just hope I can make a difference before it does.


-
Ephian's All
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, there's hope to be found.
Yet who are these people with whom I now walk?
Wanderers many, a strange, dangerous flock.

(Chorus)
We're lost in the ash fall, We're stolen away,
Away from our people, Away from our faith.
Together now bound, though so much we've lost,
We will rise from the ashes, no matter the cost!

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.

In the Well we have gathered, from lands all afar,
And here we can rise up, with spells and with swords.
With songs and with bows and with paints of all hues,
Yet not all can answer to the erranters tune.

(Chorus)

In the stockades the elders there must abide,
The youth still too small to lift sharp blades on high.
The tailors and bakers, the cobblers too,
Just like us they are yearning for a future renewed

So I call on my people, all come from afar,
Though none of us born here, Ephians all.
As we face all the woes across the cruel sands,
Let us remember our people beyond the grace of our shade.

(Chorus to fade.)

[The melody line was included for verse and chorus, no doubt a rough draft.]

M.A.

[Sketches of symbols that were only half filled in, some question marks decorating the works, puzzled by what should fill in the gap. Short hand notes on a number of places, people, stories. Less detailed, vague. Some things, it seemed, were beginning to slip away.]

It's hard to say how the days pass by so quickly. It feels like it's been no time at all, and yet, also, a lifetime. It's been so much harder with the painters rage continually thrown in my face. I'm trying not to let it drag me down, but it's everywhere. People come to me and whisper their support, tell me not to worry, or tell me they're rooting for me, like this is some contest to be won. Being told of my own love triangle was mortifying. Is that what this is? I hardly know either of them, though I'd like to know them more.

Admittedly the Firestarter- well. He makes me feel safe. Like amidst all of this, it might be okay. Of all the people warning me of this, that, the other thing, I trust him. I was told the the thorns of the rose and that I should be weary, but I can't believe ill of him. He's steady. And there's a goodness in him. Even if friendship is all we ever have, I'll be glad for it. More? Even if more blooms in time, I wouldn't want to take him away from any of them. And I'm sure that is the fear that has the painter so dismayed.

I wanted to leave today. I've never been in one place so long without the prospect of moving on, and perhaps that is why so much of this confuses me, hurts me, daunts me. It seems like there's no escape. I should be on my way to somewhere else, and none of this should matter. Yearning for company, fearing anger, worrying about if anyone actually cares. It all feels like too much, it makes me ache. To leave it all behind, I'd be back in a year or two, and by then, it would be like starting anew. That's how it's always been. But I don't have a troupe now. My family is gone. The roads I knew across the realm, lost into nothing. So I'm stuck here, surrounded by people that are glad of me when they have use for my talents, but otherwise are content to look away.

They're all real, I want them all to live, to know joy, to have hope. But I feel so alone in this place and with the painters rage whittling away at me, it's so hard to stay.

M.A.

[The following pages host drawings and sketches from the well itself, a petite figure, oft with fan masking face, angry eyed, or with a bitter smile, or with back turned, gaze cast away. Shaded dark, there was a grimness, a lingering worry. Finally those images resolved in draft after draft of what began as a story, turned into poetry, then was refined repeatedly into the verses of a song.]

You've seen it all before,
Hopes and dreams came crashing down,
Like a mirror torn from wall,
And shattered on the ground.

And those pieces strewn around,
Can't fit together anymore,
Reflected memories that you loved,
Warped with the pain of what was done.

(Chorus)
And now you can't see the joy,
Only what was ripped away,
You don't remember being warm,
Only terror and heartache.

Now as change swirls around,
Your own reflection fades away,
And the whispers of the wind,
You can't hear them call your name.

So you think it's come again,
And you push them all away.
It's better that you hate,
Than to have them torn away.


(Chorus)

What else can I can do but pray,
That you'll see their reaching hands, 
Let them hold you close and dear,
And know that like you we're afraid.

And one day I hope we can,
Hang that mirror up again,
To see not just we've lost,
But what we hope to gain.


[The melody line left was a rough draft most likely.]

M.A.

[Makeshift maps, paths carved in ink, a sword coast and the heartlands, a vast forest, sweeping mountains, cormyr tucked away along a shore labeled the dragonmere. Little stars and symbols marking places, towns, cities and landmarks across the various drawings that covered the pages between. Yet finally, as ever, it all came back to the well.]


The days spin on. Sometimes it feels like the people that I most want to see happy, to feel cared about, to feel seen, wouldn't care or notice if I was never here at all. It feels like no one here really talks to one another, they pretend to, and then turn away. It feels like all I do is make mistakes.

Why am I so morose? I sang, people seemed to genuinely enjoy it. And I sang again, the response was actually incredibly positive, and it made a difference for the Well. Maybe I really do have a place here. Maybe I help, in my own way. I don't know about the chalice or the pilgrim, if I even believe in them. Prophecy has never been about truth, not in any time, or world.  Yet I find myself in front of the pilgrim every day. I play my harp for him. I sing for him. Does he hear? Do they hear? The wheel grinds us all. I try to create. What happens when I start to break?

It seems like if I make one friend, one I already thought I made will disappear. It seems like people think I'm strange for daring to care. Maybe I'm not supposed to care in this place. Maybe I should think of them as walking corpses, waiting for their day to die. Why am I crying over people that half the time won't even spare me a glance or a word? They'd rather be angry, or oblivious to my presence, without so much as the courtesy of an indication why. I suppose no one owes anyone their reasons, but how can anything get better this way? Am I selfish for wanting to know why? Am I conceited for thinking that maybe if I knew, I might be able to help, even just a little? Am I wrong to feel like I don't deserve to be treated this way? That I've been through enough, so this petty, possessive angst shouldn't be thrown at me? I never asked to be here. I never tried nor meant to hurt anyone. I don't want to hurt anyone. But they're glad to hurt me.

Of course when I finally lost my temper it was in front of everyone.

One hug. Kindness from a stranger, who needed it as much as I did. How much it meant. And even though it meant so much, there was still a part of me that wished it was him. It never will be, I'm sure of that. I might as well stack the pyre and climb on for even thinking it.

He asked what it would mean. Why was it so hard to answer? It's never been so hard to talk to someone before. I've never been so afraid to say the wrong thing, the wrong way. And now everything has gone wrong. I never should have said anything at all.

Maybe I can put it all behind me. Bury it in sand like so many things have been. Focus on my studies. The songs for the spokes. And trying to help people live a little, instead of just surviving.



Days gone past,
The seasons played,
What once held so tightly,
Fades away.

Fades away, In summer days,
The warmth that was woken, time displaced.
Bound in faith, That last embrace,
I called you my brother, And you turned away


Colder winds, They rise anew,
As fires casting, in autumns hue.
Such disgrace, That bitter face,
You wore as I begged you, To ease my pain


Days gone past,
The seasons played,
What once held so tightly,
Fades away.

I looked for you, on winter days,
Our promise was spoken, and yet you changed.
Hearts gone cold, Drifted astray,
I came to you with honesty, And you looked away.


Spring comes anew, these moments few,
forevers mean nothing, for now must do.
Cast away, Those colder days,
Your heartache now passed me, I'll find my way...

Days gone past,
The seasons played,
What once held so tightly,
Fades away.

[A simple melody line is included with the song.]


M.A.

[Scribbles and drawings, iconography of strange deities, the coat of arms of nations strange and far away. The emblem of the harpers, the sigil of the purple dragon knights, and a faux codex of dragons in metallic hues and chromatic too. But as ever, things came around to more relevant topics, writings of the well.]

Part of me is still afraid to take the stage here, even since the paladin cut me down with his spiteful words. I know they were cast from a place of pain and that I should be graceful, but it hurt so terribly, and it still does. What if all I have are hollow ditties? Tavern tripe? What if there isn't any honor in the things I sing? What if I'm just blithely clinging to what I think means something, when in reality it's only echoes?

But, I will take the stage. Onion has asked me to play in concert with her, and perhaps this is exactly what I need to shake off this ache. Three songs, three songs I shall sing, and after some consideration they will be ones that I have written back home, I think. Songs that, each in their own, echo in this world. Songs that I see in the people, in the stories, in the history here.

A song of loss, one that I wrote for my brother, how I miss him so. And now how can I leave him flowers, or visit his resting place to tell him the stories I've gathered? At least he's still in my heart, and I swear I'll never forget.

A song of betrayal, one born of the strain that comes from time, from change, as what we believed in, what we had faith in, grows, and sometimes those at our sides no longer remain, and thus drift away. Or, push themselves.

A song of the end of the world, the falling of stars, and the spark of hope that glimmers even when all seems lost, written for the bones of ancient civilizations that lay scattered across the realms, where their decedents life in new empires risen despite so much being lost from memory as time buried it.

I miss you, brother. I always will.


Bells chime soft sounds,
Caught on summer waters,
The gasp of sea and sigh of shore,
As the daylight falters.

I watch the stars rise to the sky,
And I sing a song of you,
Gone so far from my reach,
Yet every day renewed.

Harp chimes soft calls,
Caught on autumn waters,
The cry of sea and moan of shore,
As the evening falters.

I watch the twilight fade away,
And I sing a song of you,
Lost from your place at my side,
Yet every day renewed.

Flute chimes soft pule,
Caught on winter waters,
The hiss of sea and huff of shore,
As the dark night falters.

I watch the dawn touch distant waves,
And I sing a song of you,
Passed my reach and company,
Yet every day renewed.

Voice chimes soft call,
Caught on spring time waters,
The laugh sea and hum of shore,
As the sunrise falters.

I watch beginnings take their hold,
And I sing a song of you,
Waiting with a loving heart,
As my own beats true.

[The music written along with this song noted extensive composition]

(( song written by me, performed by my friend, the amazing Bohemian Bardess))

M.A.

[Sketches of symbols and attached notes, a clawed hand labled malar, eyes and stars labled selune, a crecent noted corelleon, and a scroll held in skulls maw called jergal. Scales held by skeletal arm commented kelemvor, and a pair of hands bound with ribbon was called illmater. Some overlapping, many pages were host to these drawings, the symbols number over two dozen in their scattered mess.]

I've managed to finalize the song that was commissioned of the Martyrs, and I look forward to the day I will perform. I've read more about the wheel, and I very much look forward to my time with the Hakim who will hopefully be able to teach me more and if my heart doesn't falter, perhaps I will be able to cross the threshold that looms before me. There is a dread that sits in my belly, gnaws at the back of my mind. What if I pledge myself to these gods, heed their lessons and their names, and thus let go of my own, only to awaken? What if this is Kelemvor's test, and I am being judged? Will I fail and end up on his wall, faithless forever more? Yet how can I live here, be here, without honoring the powers that govern the realm. Do I want to honor them? They watch over a world that is dying, or so everyone seems to believe. What kind of power are these? Something I have to ask the Hakim.

My friendships grow, and it seems, rivalries too, though I did not seek them. Most are kind, even if much seems shallow, the swift hellos of people that don't really care to get to know each other beyond what help can be given on the many errands that keep the local region safe from incursions of various threats. Those that I do grow closer to, I fear I cling to them too tightly for the loneliness that constantly gnaws on me. While another part of me desires only to push them away, for to grab hold is to accept that I am here to stay. Am I? Do I want to?

Some of them remind me so much of the people at home. While others are so different. Some of them I become swiftly fond of, though I fear it is because I am so lonely, because I so desperately want company, someone to hold me while I cry, someone to lean on when the day is long, someone that will hold my hand amidst the rush of this place that makes everyone seem so fleeting and distant.

But would any of them have me? I can't imagine it so. The Lion, with his with and swift step, how could someone like me hold his regard? The sembian is so lost in himself, in some ways more lost than I, though I envy him at times, for it would be a grace not to hurt for so much longed for, some peace in forgetting the cost of the journey here, unasked for as it was. The firestarter, the firestarter. A sense of stability when all else feels like quicksand. But also distant, so used to loss, so resigned to having everything, and everyone, ripped away again and again.

Are we all doomed to be alone in this place?


I was reminded of a song today from home. Allowed to go on an expedition by local archaeologists, the ghosts of the past tickled the back of my mind. I'm glad for it. I don't want to forget.

The Horde's Wake

No more do lovers pledge their troth,
Or gaze upon the stars.
No more do children sing and dance,
Or dream of lands afar.

(CHORUS)
For all about are bloody bones,
And shattered dreams now lost.
A sea of orcs sought only death,
Myth Glaurach was the cost.

No more do towers soar aloft,
Or cast their shadows deep.
No more are stones made into walls,
To form a sturdy keep.

(CHORUS)

No more do fields turn gold with grain,
Or wells yield water blue.
No more do tomes hold cherished lore,
Or teach old thoughts anew.

(CHORUS)

- Mintiper Moonsilver
((forgotten realms source material))

M.A.

[Pages of lore from another place, another time, Baldurs Gate, the heartlands, sweeping feels, and a fondness for Lady Luck, whomever she might be. Shorthand notations on stories of a history that told of gods visiting the world, of things collapsing into ruin, elves and their darker cousins warring, dwarves and orcs facing off, and of course, the purple dragon from which her own home nation had been named. It was a lot, these strange scribblings, a world crafting from a memory of a place that supposedly never was. Now kept, so it wouldn't fade away. But the writings eventually came back to the present day and place.]

So much happens so quickly. The people I've met, the places I've been. A bow in my hand, and for the first time my arrows to land in flesh rather than the wood of painted targets or bales of hay. Some of the people I meet here, they are so hollow, so bereft. They toil, strive and struggle with broken heart, resigned to their fate, a battle they can't win against an inexorable force, the worlds end.

Some dedicated few pledge it won't be so, they cling to a prophecy that I'm not sure that they ,in their hearts, truly believe. They want to, they need to, for without it calamity is promised. I'm not sure what I believe, but, I have always held onto hope. No matter what we lose, there has to be something out there for us all.


A woman was killed earlier this week, though many would claim she wasn't one. Twisted by a cruel turn of her own magic, she was made into a goblin, through and through. She suffered so, loathing what she had become, and derided by many that belittled and scorned her for what she had become. Though no fault of her own, the change seemed to have condemned her entirely, and those best qualified to help feared that the means to do so was dire and difficult.

Such a fundamental change, a true metamorphosis, it isn't so much an undoing as it is causing an entirely new metamorphosis - no small task indeed. I said, hopefully, that if it can happen once, it can happen again. But those hopes, difficult to hold onto as they were, were shattered entirely when she was killed by the cold and callous that refused reason and bespoke that she was what she was, no matter how she began. They called it a mercy. Most of us call it murder.


A ballad for Boon:

verse 1
I knew you only for a moment- It's true,
Yet you touched my heart, and you still do,
For the strife you endured, Still our hope rest assured,
We could trust in your Boons, As we travelled with you,
Righting wrongs cross the sands, With your small, willing hands,
Oh Besimet, - Besimet Boon, You remained true,
Oh Besimet, - We wanted to save you,
Oh Besimet, - They have betrayed you.

chorus 1
Woe unto us, for our hearts have been broken-
Woe unto us, for our hope has been stolen-
At the bar where she'd sit, telling truths, trading wits,
Now her memory drifts, messy haired, making quips,
Keeping hope for what come, though cruel fate to her done-
Oh Besimet, - Oh Besimet Boon...!
Oh Besimet, - You remained true...
Oh Besimet, - We hoped to save you...

[the melody line was written in, though a rough draft no doubt.]



verse 2
I knew you only for a moment- It's true,
Not nearly as much as I wished for, and still do,
Yet what hopes we had laid, they were stolen away,
When those murderers came, with their wicked cruel blades,
And waylaid you!
Oh Besimet Boon, - you remained true,
Oh Besimet, - late justice is cruel,
Oh Besimet, - I'll always remember you,

chorus 2
Woe unto us, for our dreams have been ruined-
Woe unto us, for our prayers have been silenced-
In the stockade I wait, try to wish away fate,
And undo the stroke made by that cruel elvish blade.
If only- Besimet Boon,
Oh Besimet... Besimet Boon.

[the rough draft of the melody line had continued throughout]

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 to come]


M.A.

[Maewyn Audara]

[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.

I just want to add a little food for thought, and I'll disclaimer with this comes from someone that doesn't like mechanical combat engine pvp and rarely participates in pvp outside of plot driven conflicts.

My only pvp on efu5 happened really suddenly : I walked by someone that was red as I had many times before, and suddenly they were attacking me! I kind of panicked, gulped an invis potion and ran away. It was me, the player running away as much as the character, I was really startled and didn't know what was going on! As it turns out the attack was completely appropriate, it was the ponds, at night, and I totally should have been ready to be bandited. I just had this idea in my head that roleplay would happen before someone attacked me: it didn't occur to me that the mechanical advantage of just attacking would be so important.

What I ended up thinking though was that, if the player had roleplayed with me, been threatening, and so forth, my character would have reacted somewhat the same way: not by drinking an invisibility potion, but, by trying to preserve her own life, which is important to her! Maybe she would have bargained, maybe she would have offered up an item. Maybe she would have tried to run away! To be honest she might have totally wanted to sign up for that gig! Point being there would have been an interaction and the bandit person might have gotten something out of it beyond just seeing me get away because i went 'oh shit what!' and slammed the invis potion button.

Sometimes I guess attacking via the combat engine seems the most efficient way to do pvp, but I think it's something to consider in some situations, sometimes roleplay can work! Of course, that depends on people responding in a likewise manner, and I can totally understand not wanting to put yourself in the situation of relying on that, since it's just as likely that if you roleplayed threatening someone that they'd just go 'lul bye' and run off, or even just attack you instead. So. Hmph.

Anyways, without any real feeling on which way is better since there's complications to both, that's my two cents for the day :)