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Once, there was a Storyteller called Alejandro Benjázar who died as he lived: not really thinking things through, and not looking away.

He was a messy person, deliberately so. From the beginning he was created as reckless and highly influenciable character, whose outward demeanour hid constant inner turmoil. His early description explicitly said he'd be a good friend, and an even better mark... And he was!

Drug-addict, scholar, liar, artist, friend, gossip-monger, intriguer, (well-meaning) idiot, (bad) politician... He did a ton of stuff, some questionable, some noble, and some plain obsessive... He had, I hope, a lot of layers to himself. Some (the adictions) were more widely known. Others (his scars, for example) were not. And his obsession with discovery, while glimpsed by many, was never quite in full view.

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Alejandro was also an exercice in creative writing: 20 long-ish tales (and a lot of short ones), more than 350 diary entries, a ton of poems (some even good!) are the mark he left on the forums and world. My favourite thing were of course his Hidden Poems: poetry tucked in unexpected corners. I set... 15 or so? Some were eaten by areas, so I can never be 100% sure... But if you wander about and find a weird stone slate with a poem: that's me!

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This is all without counting books, nonfiction and my personal notes, which ran DEEP. As in, embarrasingly deep.

Corrupted, used, mannipulated, inspired, Alejandro's best quality as a PC was letting others change him, and I am extremely proud of the way he grew organically. He lived for more than a year, and died doing what he thought was right. Throughout this time, he engaged very meaningfully with an enormous amount of PCs... And, often, I hope, also made new PCs and players feel welcome.

He started as local himbo who just went arround, getting embroiled in all manner of things...



He was hired by Jamileh Attar as a secretary, which him on the path of scholarship. After her dissapearance (for which he'd always blame the Tower's attempts at controlling archaeology) he would reinvent himself as an archaeologist, and lead a myriad expeditions.

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He became a student of the Balladeers and did a heroism or two...

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Dreaming of being a hero, and trying to imitate (but also always in the shadow of) Lynneth, he sought the guidance of the Sybilline, who offered him prophecy, whispers, inspiration...

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He graduated, and struggled more and more, the more responsibility he had and those he lost. A man not meant for such troubles, he began having issues with the Drink and, later, mizzar, as means to cope with all the inherent tensions of his position. He would struggle with substance abuse most of his life, in one way or another.

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He fell into politics, never with much success. He didn't manage to inspire more noble politics, and when he tried using offhanded methods, he just didn't go far enough. He was not strongwilled, and could always always be persuaded by appealing to his heart. Or scammed, really. The amount of times I chose the wrong choice because wis 8 XD

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What he wanted to do, what he knew was right to do, and what the Rose demanded of him - these were all entirely opposite pulls. Still struggling, he fell into even-darker depths. It was a slow but steady corruption, mediated by a lot of factors in character. He was trying to become stronger, to accept that his obligations required him to lie, and use, and manipulate... To stand, side-by-side, with murderers.

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Struggling more and more due to a variety of factors (usually, Rossa-mediated) he tried to die heroically in some distant shores... Ironically, not so far from where he would meet his end.

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He failed (for now) as was forced to live on. He was, however, stumbling. He felt unahappy about his position, was losing his belief in even the Grandmaster... But at least he had faith in the Rose as a whole, in the prophecies, in their efforts to find the Cup.

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Until that faith was shattered. A last drop made him abandon the College in a rush without any idea of what to do next. It'd take him a lot of time to rebuild himself, clutching desperately to what was good about him even as he slipped, lower and lower, and tried to climb out.

He became more directly involved into politics, just as his disillusionment with politics was growing. Still, he tried to do his idea of good, not always well. He mostly failed in a variety of different ways, from elections to prelateship. There was a lot of doing mizzar behind closed doors, and crying. Also, some diplomacy, I think?

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His real solace continued to be research: writing and digging, guiding others... He loved nothing more than introducing new people to archaeology, and did so to dozens of new PCs and players. (I hope I always managed to make it interesting!) This also meant he had a soft spot for Sandstone Students, despite 90% of them being brookers. Every time he met a new one, it was like "I bet this time it'll be different..." (Technically speaking, the last time WAS different. But all the times before that? Brookers)

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He eventually managed to adapt to his life outside the College of Balaldeers, mostly thanks to friends both old and new. Free of the moral inconsistencies he had had to endure (though not free of trouble and the consequences of the past) he managed to kick off the drug habit and was trying to be more open and honest, and less manipulative. He even got a fancy job!

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And that's when he died. Off in an expedition he thought would be just a little trip, he fought through hordes... And, in the end, ironically, he died because he would not look away, by the side of his former comrades-in-arms.

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Along with the bodies of two more Balladeers, Alejandro would lie in the mud... Making his way back only through the efforts of his "dear friend", to be buried in the Well.

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Now, a lot of people to thank. I'll start with DangerousDan (for the amazing lore and writing), Bearic (for endless helpfulness) and the rest of the DM team who gave hand here and there with different hijinks. Some, I don't even know. But some of Alejandro's Very Normal Diary Entries were because someone out there was messing with him:

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PC-wise... Oh god, so many people!

First and foremost: Jamileh Attar. Best insane teacher one can have. There's nothing as fun as going out there with SN, to have meaningful talks, heartbreaking revelations, and looots of thinking about lore. There have been many important PCs in Alejandro's lives, but none as important as Jamileh Attar. Just incredible work.

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Along with her, the rest of the Competition and the Torchbearers. We did see a lot together! Exploration/archaeology/lore really got me hooked to v6, and is very much what made Alejandro so fun to play, and you were good companions along the way. We had so many excellent moments... From the silly to the epic. Not gonna mention all of you individually, but you all got my love <3

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Then the friends in the College (and foes, hi Aubrey). It was fun to be the messy Balladeer! From the heroic and touching moments to the angry ones, it was a lot of interesting and emotional stuff, even (or specially) after he left. The irony: that he died trying to stand alongside his former colleagues! My special thanks to Aurelio, Armis, Narwen, Aubrey, Sparrow and Lynneth. Also, special mention to Tempo... Death-buddies! T_T

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Special shoutout to the creepy ladies with robes. They make the Balladeers WAY more fun. Without the Sisterhood, I do not think the Balladeers would've been half as entertaining. While every Sister and Acolyte have been great, I particularly must mention Nebtu (absolutely amazing PC), Amelie (best poet in the Well) and Hypatia (just because feelings). The Sybilline is dope to engage with, mostly because of all the work you all put to it.

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Foes and friends in the Tower also get a shoutout, specially Mae Stern (best friend-to-enemy one could ask for, Alejandro was never over the heartbreak of losing her) and Zol Nur (really, a good influence, who made Ale want to be a better person).

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Of course, one must also mention the many paramours and crushes of Alejandro Benjázar, romantic idiot! Being the gay version of Lynneth took many a PC (The Alejandro Benjázar's Love Chart would be certainly as complicated as hers), but I must in particular thank Domhnall Guivarch (war criminal, twink edition), Boucher (war criminal, hunk edition) and Elias. So many dramatic feelings and TERRIBLE choices made for the heart! My specific apologies to AboutThyme for dropping all the grief-simulator on him, along with Ale's posessions, and my thanks for all the fun.

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Then, there's the myriad of PCs who do not fall under any particular umbrella, such as...

Bashir Khatara: an incredible PC, organic, fun and interesting. I loved how our PCs grew slowly into one-another. It was very sweet, and I'll continue to read your diary religiously!

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Numerous Karpie PCs, for being always fun, touching and entertaining, but I want to mention Samton. Gracias, Karpie! Siempre nos quedará la "Dunecat under the rain".

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Athelia (Alejandro's polar oposite and good friend XD) as well as Sana (from back in the day)

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Akna Ymir, who gave Ale both hopes and dissapointments aplenty, along with a lot of friendship

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Khalid, my dude, my fella, my waradad :'(

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I also want to also thank every single person who joined Alejandro in his research expeditions. I am very happy of how deeply I got to explore the lore, and very grateful for everyone who explored it with me. Thanks for coming - I hope I made it interesting for you, whether it was a trip to Al'Nasr, an excavation, or responding to your questions in his office. I hope you got your fill of the Tale of the Locked Door lol

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And finally, a shoutout to Mari Blacke. She was an excellent evil PC, who did an enormous amount of work corrupting Alejandro over months. Her conversion scene is an excellent one, and she also was kind enough to give Alejandro an endlude... My thanks, ramc!

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Now, if you've read this far... Yes, this is what you were waiting for: the loot!

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Early chapter loot (the ai description did catch quite a bit of Ale's vibe gotta say XD):

Christmas loot


Surviving Kulkund loot:



Let's do drugs loot (the unique power allowed Ale to get high on mizzar):


The shield that made Alejandro have so many "fans":


 
And his best loot, a song to cheer all arround him:

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[A few similar letters go to three very different places

"Dear Zol Nur," begins one; "Dear Naelin", "Dear Nebtu",

Regardless of the recipient, the message is siilar, and short]

The time is set. Come, if you can, to the College of Balladeers. We'll depart from there.

Yours,

Alejandro

//Event posted on discord

Dear Bruno, dear Niranye;

The appropriate time has presented itself. In two days, we shall leave from the College of Balladeers. Please, find within the script.

Yours,

Alejandro

//Even posted on discord. DM Don Nadie on discord for the script! :D

Choosing the Wound

I think I could almost see it, in her eyes. The angry, relentless irritation at my every word as I tried to make a point. Was it fear that moved her so? Concern about the possibility of irrelevance? A misplaced sense of betrayal? Anger? Fear? Was it pettiness, perhaps?

I don't really know, but it certainly spoiled the walk. I felt echoes of that time, when I talked with Mae. When she looked like she'd claw my eyes out of my sockets. There was that same irked self-righteousness, that demand that I side with her wholeheartedly, or be considered her foe. That relentless, all-consumming fury, too bright to let her see the friendship laid before her.

She was right, of course: I do hate having to choose. But there are also too many wicked people in this city, many of them her friends, to have decent folk hate one-another. I'm just not interested in playing this game.

And she was choosing, too.

Choosing the wound.

I can't go through another of these dances. I can't pursue her, trying to be sincere, only to see her twist my words into something she can stab herself with. I can't try to have her understand, only to be treated as an enemy. I can't burn myself trying to keep alive the friendship of someone who won't let me have my own feelings. Who'll put in doubt my memory of Snorri by

I've done it already, and it hurts.

Banner

Once, there was a banner, and that banner was White.
And upon that banner shone the brightest light.
And the brightest promise,
like a lighthouse in the darkness.

"Part of me wants to go to the Bellows, to raise a ruckus", I whispered.
I sighed, shrugging. The very idea already made me feel exhausted.
I had spent too long arguing against this during elections.
Too long, not to know the results beforehand.
"Part of me knows it isn't worth it", I added.

Once, there was a White banner, and it was stained.
And upon the White, the stain looked foul and sickly.
For the brightest colors offer the most contrast.

"They want to tell themselves that they care"
"And, probably, they do", I added, thoughtfully.
"But they care about their own power much, much more"
She looked at me calmly. Behind her silence, perhaps, judgement.

And, stained, the banner languished.
Stained, it withered; stained, it rot.
Stained, it was abandoned in all, but lip service.
To the hypocresy of the opportunists, and the power-hungry.

"The Voiceless were sold of a pound of flesh"
"Well", she answered, an irked shrug, "I have disconnected from the League a little"
"Right now, the Accorded act like they run the place"
"and run it for themselves"

But what is the price of failing a dream?
What is the price of failing a promise?
When a promise is betrayed, must one try to fix it?
Or give it up?
That was the question, asked in a banner.
Asked in a promise, asked in a dream.

"I suppose, in the end, we can only control our own actions"
"So let's make the most of them"

I personally think it'd be cool for the Balladeers to be able to add, for instance, bookshelves for books. I know that for a while it was possible to add them, and we set up some in a tasteful, cool way...

Though it is always tricky to know where furniture can be set. The amount of times I've lost a Hidden Poem because the area does't take to furniture...

Señorita Niranye,

As you saw, I was finishing my not-so Hidden Poem for your gallery. It has been set up.

Please, feel free to read it. Should you consider it off-taste, I can still, I suppose, remove it and find something else to donate. I feel, however, that the Gallery was missing dearly for some more provocative, political art. It can't all be landscapes, abstract symbolism, love and religious poems, feelings, as important as those are.

Art, too disentangled from the world we live in, loses some punch. It is my hope you'll enjoy it.

Yours,

Alejandro

Concerned

I find myself concerned for him. Not so much for how he's feeling, admittedly. Having a crisis every now and again is normal, specially in his kind of job. I can identify with how it feels to work yourself to the bone for no purpose, and to no support from your superiors. To quit, even when your friends tell you you're doing a good job. There's freedom in quitting, really. There's a point, where words are meaningless, and one simply does not need the bother. When one is drowning, it is best to seek the surface. And if something is draggin you down, it is best to let it sink. What matters is breathing.

No, I'm not concerned with him. He will be fine, he will find himself. It may take time, and a lot of sitting together, and chatting, but he will be fine. It's not like I mind taking him for falafels and telling him Tales, and offering a shoulder to cry on... Spokes know he has done it for me, and will do it again, if I need it.

What concerns me, rather, is their flocking. Since when do the Apothars and the Sisters care for him this much? Why is it that both times he and I were quietly chatting, we found ourselves surrounded? And Mae? Who was just standing there, watching in silence? Since when does she care? Doesn't she have a lonely room to cackle maniacally in?

Some prophecy, that's what Estellise said. "He is just my friend", whispered Selsi, with her characteristic smile. And I find myself frowning and pondering, worrying.

I am concerned. There's this feeling, like one has sometimes on a boat, when the sea is calm. When you see ripples coming to the surface but do not know what is causing them - sharks, dolphins, currents, Qa'immy machines. Something is moving and I do not know what.

So I'll just have to keep an eye out for him, just in case.
The city can't afford to lose my little friend, and neither can I.

Humanely

In the hours between hours, I found myself feeling clumsy.

I think I am usually eloquent, and chatty. I can always speak, and speak for hours if need be. I can improvise a Tale, take on a role, offer a quip or a lesson on the spot. Make something up remember something old. But this morning we were having coffee atop the battlements, watching the city as it slowly awake, and I felt like my every word was nonsense.

I searched for a reason, and I couldn't quite find it. Or nothing I could find was something I could phrase. I felt, somehow, a nameless inadequacy which made me tremble in my phrases, hesitate in my statements. How do you answer, honestly? How does one manage to be honest, and truthful, and real? How does one act like himself? How does one love without being a love-story?

"Do you ever think of how stories shape us?", I asked.
"Probably not as often as you do."

That is what I found myself talking about. Roles, and archetypes, and stories. If this was a mystery, I'd know what to answer. If this was a knightly ballad, or an adventure novel, or horror, or smut. In each case there'd be roles for me to play, narratives to lean into. Spokes know I had leaned into them as eagerly as I'd leaned into mizzar.

A good story. A good mirage. A good disguise, and a good excuse. Something I could hide behind. Because to be seen is to be vulnerable. And to be vulnerable is to be scared.

"I guess I'm just trying to be less of a role", I admitted, awkwardly.
"More of me". I cleared my throat. "Whatever that is"

Daylight was climbing up, dying the horizon pink.
On the battlements, our cups. On my hand, his.

"Like most things in real life", he whispered.
"We do it the best way we know how"

I felt both eagerness and dread, at his touch.
(To be wanted and to be found wanting are, after all, separated by so little)

"Clumsily", he said. "Messily."

On my hand, I felt the warmth of his lips.

"Humanely", he added, as I blushed.

(And I figured that, as far as stories went,
this one felt novel enough.)

Choke on It

I was in a foul mood for most of the day. Mostly the realization that games were being played with me had spoiled any satisfaction I may have felt over rescuing Marcellus. It was a strange feeling, this combination of irritation and anger with dread and fear. I could end up dead, or barred from Truth. All because of the inane intrigues played by the Accorded, with their powerplays and their counteroffers.

"As I remember, none sought to charge you", he explained. We were in the art gallery, watching some of the paintings, whispering. A long-postponed meeting to update our new Legate, which I had needed to turn into a sort of interrogtation. The toga suits him, I'll admit that: he is better for this than I'll ever be... Much more adept at implying and dodging and saying a lot while saying nothing at all. I suppose there was, at least, some collegial unity there: despite our differences, we are both scholars. He can understand my involvement. Not that he'll do anything for my sake.

"The Warmaster likes to imply and pressure, to obtain results", he added. That is, of course, a lovely way of saying that he lied to get me to confess... What, exactly? I had told him the truth, as I told the Legate, as I told in my report. If there was anything nefarious, I wouldn't have let it happen. If something nefarious happened, it was not with me present.

(Then again, what is perception? I do imagine someone more adept at mistrust may have noticed what I didn't. I certainly was more focused in the burning taste of Truth. Eager, I was, and seeking. With Fate on your lips, who has the patience, the time, to care for idiotic intrigues? And in the Darkness the- [The narration is interrupted. A few dropplets of blood stains the page]
                                                                     Oo
                                                                       ºOo   
                                                                     oO       
                                                                      º
                   
"There was a debate, amidst the Astronomers, as to who was the guilty party", she explained, much later, as the prayers welcoming a new Acolyte rang from within. "Margarethe proposed you". Her smile, as ever, serene, as she too fed me her perspective. "You should consider returning to the banner", she added. Of course I should, that is the easy way out. Surrendering again to the same abhorrent compromises that made me so unhappy, in the first place.

But what is the point of drowning, to avoid a lion?


I felt myself burning through most of the day, burning with anger and fear, both. I had real work to do, reports to fill, texts to write. Instead I was, what? Interviewing, seeking, collating information so as to guard my back. Because I have seen the way the Accord will throw an innocent to the lions. I will be discarded the moment it is convenient, the moment they don't need me, the moment they can. I'll be discarded and, until I am, they'll stand on the way of work. Even those who do want to help. But mostly, those who do not.

My mood was foul when Aubrey called, of all people, called me. For a favor, after she sold out for the elections. The gall of that harpy would be a thing to admire, in its shamelessness. "Sadly, there aren't many in the League of White without links to the Accord", she admitted. Maybe that alone should be a sign of our League's woes. Of course she wanted the unaccorded to speak in favor of giving her power. Of course she thought I'd support her or negociate with her. For the sake of what, my next Legatorial run, power?

I really felt myself burning from within at all the betrayals and all the games. There I was, a War was happening and I was attending to their inane intrigues, with the dreadful knowledge that they'd sacrifice me the moment it was convenient. At least, there was something liberating in saying no, in refusing to compromise.

Though we truly ought to consider returning the Wyrm to the Steele: this is a place of vipers.

"Balstan bought you for a pound of flesh", I snapped.
"So choke on it".

Descending

I was dreaming the path, Downwards.                             
I was dreaming awake; my stEps, of the Ages.                           
                                 I was Seeking a friend, in Darkness embraced.
   And as I sought him, Careless, I sought also the Truth.
                          Beyond thE Threshold of Revelation, He called me.
He called me "beloved" aNd His voice was a promise.     
His voice was sweeter than wine, sweeter than Dates,                                                                   
                                      His voIce was sweeter than the lull of Oblivion.
   So I followed His voice, iN the darkness.                         
                                                     I was dreaminG the path and the path dreamed me as I dreamed the path.

Games

In my office, after the Council meeting, we examined the painting. Our conversation was fluid. As ever. A strange thing, his friendship. Perhaps I have spent long enough pondering over ancient things that he and I share the same Sorrow. Perhaps it is just our interests, aligned. Perhaps it is just that we both value people, and have patience with those arround us. Perhaps it is that we both prefer to forgive. Perhaps, that we both wish the world was better.

"I am... Taken by surprise by this sudden removal of keys", I admitted.
"How unfortunate", he said, "you must have displaced yours"

I felt a tug in my stomach, at his irony.
(That had been, of course, my first instinct)
(Displacement, games, ilusion, misdirection)

"I'm not going to play games with War, Zol Nur", I said.
"So I'm not going to displace it".

There was a moment of silence. Before us, the painting.
Injuries, upon flesh. Upon soul.
(Scars. I bear scars upon scars)

"That is so unlike you", he admitted.

(Was there, in his tone, surprise?)

"It is strange", he added.
"To see us both change".

I went to Colmes, right after. I needed to do it inmediately, while my will still held, while I wasn't yet scared into running away, while whatever part of me that wants to be honest and better was still holding the reins, against fear, and instinct, and experience. To his office, I went.

"This key has been, for me...", I said.
"It's been a lot of effort"

I was grasping it. So tightly my knuckles were white.

"Every bone in my body wants to misplace it, now"

I gritted my teeth. How much laid upon that key?

"But I told myself I wasn't going to paly games with War"
"So I'm going to give it to you", I added, as I set it on the table.

Such a tiny thing, in gold and bronze.
Such a small vessel, for so much of my efforts, of my dreams.
And I was choosing to give it, and to trust.

"And I'm gonna do it now", I added.
"Because if I wait too long maybe my desire not to play games will shatter"

I did not knew that it would shatter inmediately. Did not expect my mistake to become apparent in but a few moments. Games, being played against me in the midst of War. Accusations, twists, changing the rules under my feet. Traps. So many traps. This fucking city, and the time one must waste, with traps.

What were Colmes and Samton even trying to do, jingling the threat of charges? Was it an attempt of getting at Selsi, of finding something to threaten her with? Were they playing for the Tower, trying to get me out of the game? And why did I feel so hurt by this? Why did it pain me so much, when Samton accused me, repeated Cosine's lies?

Why was I even surprised?

I do not know. I just felt a sinking feeling, deeper and deeper. A tension, on my shoulders. A pull on my stomach. Lead, both heavy and poisonous. Lead in my entrails. Pulling me deeper. Making me hate myself. Making me hate my idiocy. Making me hate whatever attempts I had been making, at being better.

What is the point of being honest, when honesty is the rope they hang you with?

I was almost thankful that the Tormented attacked us.

Further, Further, Further Reflections Upon the Nature of Historiography

A point to bear in mind is that Ephians like nothing more than nitpicking. For person attempting something, there will be three ready to point out what horrid mistakes the one is making, and how stupidly the one is facing his challenge, and how the one should, in fact, do things in an entirely different way to the way he is doing them. Also, has one stopped to consider the absolutely most obvious point? Or has one paused to ponder the absolutely absurd one?

All of it because it's easier, admittedly, than actually doing the thing. Everyone has an idea of how History should be written, but none of them are very willing to try. Because its hard work, and narratives are complicated. Because nothing is clear. Because everyone has an agenda. Because nobody has a bigger agenda than the Historian himself.

Oh, well. I suppose she did have a point: a lot of people, like her, will either willfully ignore the point I'm trying to make or claim that I should make a different point alltogether.

I think some people are too cowardly.
To look at History in the eye, and face it.
There's no such thing as an objective presentation of events.

"In my mothertongue, history and story are the same thing", I said.
I smirked, cheekly: "We are that wise", I added.

(And then it stabbed me. Wrong tense)
(Should've said "we were")

A thousand. More common than you'd think.

Live and drink.

Dear Sister Amelie,

As you may or may not know, my Seat in the Council is working on both unearthing the mysteries of Orcan cultura and history... And the production of propaganda and disemination of information.

On this second aspect, I hoped to count with some accounts of the battles and our victories. Being the best poet on the Well, I wondered if you'd be interested in aiding our task. Should you not be overly busy, there are several areas where we may find use for your talents, both in prose and poetry.

Yours,

Alejandro