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Screen Shots & Obituaries / Re: Let me tell you about, Luna Wintergard
« on: July 29, 2022, 11:15:33 AM »
Because of timezones, we didn't do that much together... But I absolutely loved checking out her correspondence like a creep!
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THE LAST SHAME OF ISAIAH IBN HAZR
These may well be the last lines one writes.
Goodbyes have been said. Precautions have been taken. The relevant documents have been deposited both in one’s room and in the hands of one’s allies. Caleb has access to one’s room. There, one has left the writs of favor from different Houses, the testament.
There, one has left a last letter, too. A goodbye to Caleb, should the worst happen.
There, one will leave this ledger.
If all goes well, none of those documents shall be read. One shall return immediately after his trial, running through the many rings that separate the Peaks from the Ward. One shall hopefully be fine enough, one might embrace his beloved, drink with his friends.
If it doesn’t, it is a balm on the spirit to know that all loose ends have been tied. If one dies, this ledger may soon be read by someone else.
This begs the question: Who are you, stranger? Who are you, who one hoped would learn from his tribulations, who one wished would send this ledger to one’s former people?
Have you grown fond of oneself, as you learn, demonstrating that knowledge of someone’s fears may often turn into caring for them? Do you feel yourself expanded and more generous? Will you be kinder? If so, one is proud that his actions led you to this.
Have you, instead, seen hypocrisy in one’s actions, cowardice in one’s decisions, and decided that one should indeed be ashamed? Do you hate one? Do you, perhaps disapprove? If so, one remains proud still, for he took what actions he could, within the bounds of a world that is broken. Try as one may, perfection is beyond reach. There is no shame in this failure.
Who are you, stranger? Are you Daphne, extracting religious wisdom from one’s tribulations? Are you Mebril, treading these notes like one would tread a field of thorns, wincing? Are you Sorcha, interrupting your reading to cry, or to drink? Are you ser Adrian, perhaps, with an amused smile that includes irritation but perhaps, hopefully, admiration as well? Are you Caleb? Are you someone else, entirely?
Whomever you are, we are acquainted, and intimate. You have seen one’s life. Be you friend or foe, known or new, stranger, one is known by you and, hence, feels free to offer the first person which is the hallmark of sincerity.
I am grateful that you’ve read me. I have found, through this writing, through this life, the glimmering treasure of my own pride. Thank you, stranger. Whomever you are. I am happy to think you a friend.
Such was the last shame of Isaiah ibn Hazr: that he is scared, but he dares. That he is foolish, but he is decent. That his heart is filled by the love of a good man, of many friends. That he is happy. That he may never uproot the shame within his soul, but he’ll never again let it strangle him.
That one will, instead, tend to the kinder blooms of joy.
Mebril,
It remains my belief that people should be given trust, even if they may break it. When Oliver opened to me about his reason to run, when he offered to accompany us, when he agreed to help me get Caleb through... It was trust that I gave him. I really thought I had reached him, that the seeds I had planted had helped his kindness bloom. At your wedding, do you know that I offered him my neck to cut, if he so hated all who have ever changed their shape? For I did, once, in the Challenge you well know. And afterwards, he apologized. For the first time in his life, I heard him apologize. When we crossed, he was kind. He called me friend. We opened up.
I really thought I had reached him.
I have no idea of why Oliver left us, nor why he has returned to make your life difficult. His change was sudden. It was hurtful. He suddenly came to me, claiming I was taking them all for idiots, playing all sides. As though I had ever lied about my positions: that I won't pretend all Peers are the same, that I won't pretend all changelings are equal. That to reduce people to a single word, and turn that word into an enemy, is unkind. I do not know why he turned, suddenly. It hurt.
I am not far. Please know that. I don't know if I will leave for the King anytime soon, or if I will at all. I still need to get Eli through, to get Caleb through. And there are so many things I want to do, so many people I want to keep safe. I hope you know how much I care about you, Mebril. I will protect you, as much as I can. Jeremiah says I spread myself too thinly, that I never have enough time for everyone, not even for those who love me or need me most. That I never leave any energy for my own needs. Sometimes I worry about that. But please, know that I'm with you.
I need to make a request of you, however. Please: no matter what happens, don't hurt Oliver's sister. I am so tired of innocents suffering for the idiocy of others, so tired of this wheel of violence, endlessly turning and crushing those who are least to blame. Please. Easy as it may be, tempting as it may be... Don't do it. You are better than that.
We'll talk in person soon, I hope. Be careful and remain hidden. Thankfully, the Keep remains sturdy, and distant enough.
Isaiah
Esteemed Dame Kinsley,
With the respect owed to your noble person and your leal House, one writes,
With the war against the Recondites approaching, one finds himself concerned for the fate of civilians. While Peers are strong of arm and deed, there is little doubt that the average orphan, peasant of the steadings, out-ring refugee and little ticker cannot compete with their might, nor face with great ability the threat possed by the Ward's enemies.
In these circumstances, one would like to request from you permission to negociate some kind of terms of war, by which both sides would restrain their ability to cause harm. One's aim would be minimizing the violence that will be endured by those least able to defend themselves. One is particularly concerned about the children of the Velstran Orphanage. While Theewhistle's dissapearance rose some people's spirit, it is a sad fact that the children of the Harbor are all but forgotten by most. One knows he is amongst the very few who still make donations to ensure they have warm meals and visits the kids. Being weak, innocent, technically aligned with the noble House of Velstra, too far and isolated to keep a steady guard of retainers in the middle of a war, and very much underguarded, one fears they might be an excellent target for Recondite attacks.
One's proposal would be for the Houses to offer not to harm any golem of the City during this conflict, in exchange for the Recondite promise to consider the orphanage and harbor a safe-haven. This would also allow also peasants of the steadings and refugees to make their way there, should the conflict threaten their own lives.
Of course, the obstacles to such negociations are many, starting from the simple fact that Recondites have threatened one's life in the Whispers. Nonetheless, one considers it worthy to attempt to set boundaries and minimize the suffering of innocents. Should one receive your acquiescence, one shall attempt to write to them. Should one not, one will need to dedicate his own efforts to the more direct protection of said orphanage.
In other matters, one wonders if you are aware of the research notes of the late Blacktongue Sahqti. They paint a worrisome picture of a cult infiltrating the Houses, something to bear in mind. It is far from anyone's interest to have a dangerous cult in their midsts, even less so for a Ward with so many fronts open. One is somewhat surprised that the noble Houses of the Peerage, at least publically, don't seem to have made any declaration on the matter.
So writes,
Isaiah ibn Hazr
THE FORTY-NINTH SHAME OF ISAIAH IBN HAZR
One is to go.
Limits set, and accepted, miss Alyassa apologized for her stern protectiveness. One apologized, in turn, for not making his feelings clear any sooner.
The remaining days have been consumed with preparations. Respite was rare, as one strived to tie any lose ends. One gathered documents and debts so that Caleb could continue our work. One donated all he had gathered for the orphanage. One sold what he could of Sorch's merchandise and gave her the coin. She would wait for one to emerge, she would carry one's things back to the 99th, in case he didn't.
One wrote Caleb a last letter, one he'll hopefully never read. There is peace in preparing oneself for the worst.
A last will and testament was drafted. A copy to be left in one's room, along with other relevant documents. Another, in the hands of Lictor Stavros, who would take care of enacting it with all the legal force of her station and her House. She was helpful, if sternly against the plan. For her, one's hopes of finding riches and aid in Baz'eel to bring back to the Ward were empty dreams, when all that the 99 needed to be better was the hard work of those who lived there.
"I dislike that you would leave, but hope you are successful", she declared. She put the Will with her documents, delicately, as though it were a treasure. "It is not your dream I dislike", she added, "but that you might die for it."
One understood. One, in a way, agreed. The mix of desires dragging one forward is an odd one, many a string, tangled, yet all pulling in the same direction. There are the simple emotions, clear and shimmering: the wish to see further, the desire to reach the desert from whence one's ancestors and magic came, the hope to do good with what he finds in the City within the City, the curiosity, the tiny, unwelcome pangs of greed and pride. Other feelings are less clear, if no less important: loyalty to one's companions, with whom he has travelled far, and the desire to face his fear. To brave the challenge so few have seen through... Would that prove, to oneself, that he is no coward?
And then there is the silliest reason: the flower. The other day, as we enjoyed some tea in the terrace of the Guidhall, one remembered an old song from his people. It entails stealing a carnation from the Sultan's gardens, and bringing it to a girl, the redness of the flower endlessly compared through the rhyme with the color of her lips.
It is stupid. It is childish. But even if all the other reasons were gone, one would want to get to the City within the City to get, for his beloved, a flower.
Such was the forty-ninth shame of Isaiah ibn Hazr: that for many reasons, and none perfect, he goes forth.
Dear Mebril,
Sorry if I have worried you. I am fine. We are fine.
Oliver left us, as did Morven. I think he's going back to the Ward to die. I thought I had managed to reach him, but... Well. As I learned with Liv, some people seek their self-destruction. I've been told I need to let go. I am trying.
Stay safe, and be careful. Who even knows what he'll try to get himself killed.
The stars out here are beautiful. I'd draw them for you, but I don't know if the Hawk would mind it... So you'll have to trust my word for it.
Love,
Isaiah
Dear Rin,
Thank you for clarifying why you stand with Valmora. I cannot claim I'd do the same. There have been, in my past, people I called friends and who allowed their hatred to rot them. Liv I remember most. So weary and angry was she of prosecution than, rather than find refuge in hidden depths of the Rings, she allowed herself to be shaped into the monster her enemies described. At a certain point, I could not stand with her.
I understand the situation is different with you. As druids, you share deeper ties. Still. A point can come where you are bound to choose between a foul unkindness and loyalty to her. I trust your heart.
I lamment that any attempt at creating neutral zones will be an uphill battle. The council, as you are aware, proposed genocide of the Recondite race. Similarly, the Recondites have shown no distinction between retainer and unaligned peasant. Look at the poor vagrants who were, in retaliation for the death of a golem, turned to stone.
The obstacles are manyfold. On the Ward's side, not only does it seem impossible to convince Lords to protect their subjects but, even if they were, some Peer or retainer is bound to claim that they are not bound to honor agreements with "beasts". That is without considering how someone would most likely try to use this "peace zones" to hide weapon caches, capture hostages or generally act in subrepticious, harmful ways.
Similarly, on the Recondite side I do not see a willingness to differenciate between combatants and civilians. I do not think their culture really makes that distinction. And even if they were willing to concede that point, I am not sure that a woman as fearsome as Supervisor Yelena would pass on the chance to strike the Ward's morale by murdering the gathered civilians.
You write that I despair. I do. There's no denying it. My hopes in the kindness of the Ward diminishes. I saw a riot where idiocy and malice got several people killed, a riot which reminded me of the violence that, so long ago, made me leave my home. I saw Lords forbid adventurers from aiding the Steadings, as they are leeched off. I have done many a kindness, planted many a seed. Ultimately, however, I do not have the power to change a Lord's mind. The flowers I grow are all too often trampled, Rin. My successes feel minuscule, under the shadow of all this unkindness.
And fate is coming, Rin. When the Nothing breaks into the 99... What will happen then? Even if the young Lord is, as you claim, enough to offer refuge, will all the peasants of the Steadings, all the refugees, all the innocents of all rings breached by the Count, fit in there as the Nothing swallows it? Will they cross the endless plains and trials and horrors to safety? I do not know. I find it hard to have faith in miracles that I have no proof of. And Pavlina's mind proves, at least, that those who reach ring 1 receive, in some way, their wishes.
Still. Despite my despair, I will try. There is value in trying. I shall write to the Houses.
Please, let me know if you can think of any amongst the Recondite workers that might respond to these pleas. I would talk to them, perhaps with you to grant the neutrality of our meeting.
Thank you,
Isaiah ibn Hazr
THE FORTY-EIGHTH SHAME OF ISAIAH IBN HAZR
One returned to the Ward in a single day, carried forth by desert winds and his own anger. On reaching his room, one found himself leaving his ringrunning boots without cleaning or repairing them first. One wasn't sure if he'd be using them again.
The day was spent in a sort of haze. A shop was set and wares sold, coin was deposited in the Orphanage, potions were brewed for the Trials ahead. In the afternoon, however, only the embers of anger remained, and one felt the deep melancholia of regret. Chances had been missed to make one's heart plain, choices had been made that could've been better. One felt like a shapeless stream: cold, sliding and sliding down into unknown paths, dividing ever further till nothing would remain. No matter what he did one felt, in his silence, that he would be lost.
A cup of tea, deposited before him, took one out of his thoughts, made one smile. As we discussed small matters of budget, and the endless delays that the Glitt continued to show in the Piping Project, one found himself watching Caleb. His hands calloused, his face marked by an unkind life, his teeth a little crooked, but offering a smile so sincere that it was a balm on the soul.
What is it, of the heart, that can be a pit of tar to trap us?
What is it, of others, that they can pull us out?
After a moment's hesitation, one proposed Caleb a brief outing. "A surprise", one promised, as he finished his tea. Trembling but ready, one guided Caleb upstream and across the Scarbeak. There, blooming, were the royal flowers one had planted, garden in the snow. One had brought the seeds from the Grey Keep, weeks ago, planted and tended to them in this peaceful corner of the outer rings.
A flower blooming is a gift in itself. Beauty given freely, to a world that is broken. Such is the pleasure, one realized, of tending such a garden: to see, and participate, in this act of thoughtless generosity that nature performs. Isn't that, too, the nature of love? Blooming, carelessly, thoughtlessly, tended by a caring hand and by chance, together?
One said it, there and then. Like jumping to the void, like the bursting of petals as they open, like the seed that cracks to a world unknown. "I love you", one said. One stated the fact, gave form to what was formless, made his heart more solid, more real.
"Yeah, I know", Caleb answered, softly. He had a tender smile, unsurprised by one's words but moved nonetheless. He reached for one's hand, held it like a treasure. "But thanks for sayin' it".
We sat. We talked. We were at peace with whatever the future would bring. We were at peace with ourselves. There, amongst the flowers, we rested.
Such was the forty-eighth shame of Isaiah ibn Hazr: that it took him so long to say it. That one spared himself that kindness, out of shame and of self-hatred.
It proves itself a fact: kindness to others is nothing, without kindness to the self.
Stranger, you who read this: let flowers bloom.
Oriandos Ronos
'Some have asked me why I preach against the raving bloodletters of the Vestry and the other fell servants of the Lord Departed. While I've had reason a-plenty, I did not think I'd find another tonight: the journals of the deceased Blacktongue Sahtqi have been published and propagated -
- through the Peerage Ward. You can read them yourself at any bulletin board or find copies thrown on the ground like litter. They detail a vast and gruesome scheme to infiltrate the Peerage Ward and harvest the blood of its denizens to -make- their departed God in violent and profane rite.'
'Worryingly yet, the extent of this fiendish conspiracy seems to be quite large. The Houses Orza and Velstra at the very least are described as thoroughly infiltrated and bribed. To think that there are those who would willingly enable the conjuration of such a fell fiend turns my stomach.'
'This is why you do not trust the bloodletters of the Vestry and those who seek your blood. They are so desperate for the touch of their absent god that they would turn to creating -this- nightmare. Turn away from this false god and their goremongers. Seek not your Lord Returned.'
'If you take nothing else from this- if the falsehood of this fell God and this fiendish scheme fall on deaf ears, then at least do not give your blood away willingly like fools. Those who donated their gore either wittingly or unwittingly are listed in the journal and can be shamed for it.'
'Pzatharun keep you all, and may we survive whatever fell work will come of this bloodletter cult.'
Alysana Ashengate
'Who could have guessed that Sahtqi's voracious appetite for blood was rooted in some nefarious purpose? Truly, we have been enlightened. That aside, I have need of reagents, of scrolls and therefore of a foray to some corner of this City. I shall await adventurers outside the Velvete.'
Isaiah ibn Hazr
Furthermore, one would like to encourage the leaders of the noble Houses of the Peerage to read the leaked notes of the late retainer Sahtqi, of House Orza. They indicate a most foul conspiracy built arround the gathering of blood, the infiltration in all institutions of the Ward and the practice of foul magics... *A pause* Concerning.