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Messages - Don Nadie

#16
Journals and Musings / I Was Dreaming the Path
March 23, 2024, 11:39:11 AM

I Was Dreaming the Path

I was dreaming the path. Downwards and downwards, a spiral.
I was dreaming the path and I was holding His hand.
Truth led me downwards, our fingers entwinned.
So tightly that our flesh was one. Our flesh was one and our flesh was burning.
He turned his head slightly, tightened His grasp. He smiled.
In the darkness, His smile was a promise.
I was dreaming the path. I was burning with desire. I was promised.
I was dreaming the path and I went downwards and downwards.
The Depth was reached. Before us, the Threshold.
Truth pushed me against the Threshold and our flesh was one and our flesh was Truth.
On my mouth, His mouth. On my breath, His breath.
Burning, His fingers on my skin. His touch sizzled on my flesh and I exhaled, ecstasic.
I was promised. I was marked. In my want, I was wanted.
And His lips were on mine and His lips were hers.

I woke up sweating, bleeding from my nose, stained, feverish.
I woke unsated, on my chest there were tiny, reddish burns.
Like the footprints of birds on sand, the mark of His fingertips.
#17
Journals and Musings / Hapax Legomenon
March 23, 2024, 10:08:15 AM

Hapax Legomenon

In my room we gathered once more, like in old times. It had grown dustier, fuller. Bookshelves had been added, new books climbing on top of others. The notes of new, stranger translations littered the floor. The notes for the People's History were everywhere at once. It was a mess but, for once, I forgot to apologize for it.

"Of course, every translator comes to face their worst foe"
"The hapax legomenon", she said.
"The word that occurs in no other source"

I hesitated, considering. Had I, really?
I am likely the best translator in the Well. At least the most dedicated.
(Yes, Naelin, if you're reading it after my death: eat dirt!)
(Also, in case you're reading it after my death: I love you, you idiot!)
Was there truly such a perfect cypher? Had I seen it?

"No word is isolated", I responded, at last.
"There are always clues in its morphology. Prefixes, suffixes, roots"
"But also, in its position within the sentence. In its use"
"Every word is bound to the rules of its language. Entwined with every word elsewhere in the sentence."
"Every word, sometimes despite itself, contains information"

I was thinking about "DQWR", of course, though it is perhaps the opposite of what she meant. A word that has been repeated endlessly, over the aeons, worn out by use with all of our hopes, all of our dreams... And yet, its true meaning hides in a jungle of legend and elaboration. So many words written "about" it that almost everyone, when finding the letters, are too awed to realize how they are used. The leters have a meaning, hidden. Yet the position, writing, use, deliverance. Like a teasing lover, they show enough to awaken Desire, to call us ever closer.

That day, Caddick was awed because she thought the legends were True.
I was awed because I was closer to Truth itself.

"True", she said. A smile on her lips.
"Just like we mortals, ourselves"
"Each, a piece of a grand puzzle"

I was, perhaps, too tense. This discussion, and the one before. A nameless hesitation ran through my thoughts, as though part of me was too busy measuring that we kept our distance, and another part of me was too shamed that I was measuring the distance, and another, too shamed of the shame in the first place. A tangle: such are, often, our conversations.

"It us good you took the opportunity to come with us", she had said.
There had been a slight smile on her lips.
Satisfaction, maybe. I couldn't tell.
"I cannot say no to Truth", I had admitted.
"It calls"
She did not seem to truly react. Not a change in her expression.
In the dusty air, not a movement came from her.
Just steadiness. Certainty. Her smile, too, of the Ages.
"And that is why you remain our friend", she had responded, at last.
"And why you always will", she had added.

It wasn't clear from her tone whether she meant
                                                                                hope,
                                                                                            or suggestion,
                                                                                                                     or statement,
                                                                                                                                              or command.
 

"Hapax Legomenon"
#18
Journals and Musings / Let It Go
March 22, 2024, 11:15:02 AM

Let It Go

"Every Balladeer has sought to speak of the same to me"
"Why I left", I explained, "and why not return"

Apparently, they don't call it "the Dungeon" anymore.
Not sure why that hurt me so much, but it did.
Maybe being there just brought it all back, an onrush.
(The last time I was there. The first, too.)
(Lynneth's smile and encouragement, first. Her lips, when they burnt, last.)
It took me a moment to refocus from the roses, to return to the present.
What a strange echo, she was, before me.

"Every Recluta has come with the matter of you, at one point or another", she explained.
"Of course, there's an easy solution: your return"

I don't think she knew quite what she was asking.
As she laid her reasons: lack of personel, my own resourcefulness, my expertise.
To save the world, was I not needed? Was sacrifice not deserving?
She didn't knew the half of it, I suppose.
My work there, my leaving. Many things I told her. Some, I kept for myself.
(What transpired before those very roses, I kept for myself)
(Though I do not know why I feel this shame, when I remember.)

"I kept telling every Student that the real College was not the cloaks, the fortress, the roses"
"That all that was attrezo, and the College was in our hearts"
A sigh, a sip of the cup. She had served something sweet, not the Drink.
(Thankfully. I don't know whether I'd have had the strength to reject It)
"Then Aubrey called my ideas 'nonsense' and 'a sure path to irrelevance'"
"And Lyrists and Grandmaster, more politely, agreed"

I will never know what hurt most:
The rejection of my ambitions, after months of toil and effort...
Or seeing my ideals rebuffed, rejected in such a way.
Obviously, by now, it doesn't matter.

"Balladeers either die in battle", I explained.
"Or sink deep into his cups, unable to endure the Real"
I did not have the heart to bring up Aurelio. His sad state.
I would be like him by now, however: I know it.
Just waiting for a chance to die a hero.
"I tried the first", I added, softly, "I survived".
"And I don't want to drown, again"

I would admit there was something echoing within me, at her words, as the conversation went on and we touched on Fate, and Sacrifice, and Hope, and DQWR. But was I not, for all their burdens, at peace with my choices? I think I was. I think I am where I am meant to. Or, at least, where I want to be. Bannerless hedgeknight, trickster-scholar. I do not know that I believe in Fate as I once did, but this feels as it should... Fate and Choice and Chance and Effort. Echoing, within me, their prophecies: 

The Cup will not be found by a knight in shining armor
From the viewpoint of prophecy, you're better: a hedgeknight.
Red is the Rose, white is the Lily
Entwinned, like lovers, the Ages

Wrapped in prophecy and certain, I felt it once once more.
The desire to be, again, a Roseknight.
I felt it and, tenderly, I let it go.




[A little note has been added at the bottom - part of a last conversation.]

"Poor Lynneth", she said as we left the College, "Would that I could've met her"
I smiled, remembering her gallantry towards Hypatia.
"In some ways, you're very similar", I said, softly.
Then, I found myself pausing. Sighing.

"She was much more human than the statues make her seem, though"
"That's what was best about her"
#19
Suggestions / Re: Remove detect evil
March 22, 2024, 10:27:35 AM
I, personally, do not see evil stealth gameplay as being that threatened by a paladin. Most paladins I've seen rp it in quite a decent way that leaves room for interpretation... And just because someone gives the pali "bad vibes" doesn't mean you inmediately trust the paladin... Or can afford to say no to the evil people! And the paladins need a decent tool to know who to quest with, imo.

Also, as Ramc says, its 100% possible to keep Prot. from Good up. I saw it. She just tended to be ever-so slightly delayed sometimes, because priestesses, you know. They are slow.
#20
Journals and Musings / I'd Call You a Friend
March 21, 2024, 08:09:43 PM

I'd Call You a Friend

We were in her office when it happened.
Discussing politics, as one does.
The corruptions, horrors and tribulations of the Assembly.
My fears, how she could help me, her kindly offer.
Then, the latest development. Her choice, her burden.

"Do you think", she concluded, "I made a mistake with Qadira?"

Why we were on this topic escaped me. She was certainly burdened.
And perhaps I was there, willing to listen. So I gave my response, my own thoughts.
Her frown, deep. Meandering hypotheses running through her mind.

"I am sorry, Alejandro", she interjected, concern in her voice.
"You do not deserve such laid upon you".

I did not knew what to answer. She seemed, for a moment, so small.
A tiny old woman, on a huge chair, sighing. On her shoulders, so much weight.
And trying to spare me, what? Concern?

"Señora mia...", I sighed, "at the risk of taking undue liberty..."
"It is no... Issue, to hear your burdens"
"Because I respect you greatly", I said. I paused.

Weary, the both of us. Each with our concerns, and ideas, and beliefs.
Each with causes for disagreement, I'm sure... But, in kindness, reaching out.

"And I would call you a friend", I added."

At that, she smiled. As did I.
#21
Correspondence / A letter for the College [Caddick]
March 21, 2024, 10:08:12 AM
Dear señora Caddick,

Regretably, we were not able to meet yesterday. Thus, I find myself taking the quill to inform you of some curious development.

Friends in different corners have told me a certain recluta I am yet to meet (yes, the one who called for me) claims I have stolen from the Balladeers of the Lost Hearth. According to some insightful friends, she is a minstrel, and may seek to jumpstart her career by taking my songbook. She apparently was considering to "take matters into her own hands". Thankfully, she and I seem to keep different schedules, but I still feel it useful to inform you.

I presume that her desires have nothing to do with the College itself. However, if there are doubts about my behaviour in my leaving, I hope these may be raised in person, and without intervention of the Banda Rossa.

Besides this, I hope my letter finds you well. Please send my regards to Jacques.

Yours,

Alejandro
#22
Esteemed Apothars,

As you are of course aware, I am writing The People's History of Ephia's Well, the definitive record of our recent past. I am currently in the process of finishing Act III, dealing with the troublesome election in which Estellise Azimi ran for the League of White.

Currently, the draft mentions that the now-Apothar Mae Stern was bought a Voice by yours truly, ran as a Candidate and was then made to choose between her promotion or still running for the White, taking the first. That is the information I was given at the time, after all.

In the interest of performing my due diligence, however, I send this letter to give either of you the chance of adding more context. Feel free to respond in writing.

Yours,

Alejandro
#23

As in the Times of Bloom and Silver

Once, there was an ancient city.
And in that ancient city, myriad Silverworks.
Where many things were made.
Many things that were beautiful, and delicate, and soft.


"Of this victory there shall be feast, and quaffing of much sweet wine."
An invitation, it seemed. Brought in embroidered heraldry.
"And also shall there be contest, in Har'pas", it added,
"as there was in the days of Silver"
An invitation. Many strange and uncommon joys promised. Perhaps nightmares.
"Games!", it exclaimed, in ritualistic elation, "Bread and Games!"
An invitation. Why did it sound like a threat?

High came the axe, before descending.
In two, it cleft the head of a brother.
In clefting the head, the axe broke.
In breaking the axe, the clans dispersed.
In dispersing the clans, violence ensued.
And in the violence, red blood and redder fires.
Murderer, upon their lips.


"Please tell me you're not going to that trap", she said, later.
At her new home. Two beds. I suppose such is life, sometimes.
"I don't think so", I sighed. I am not thrilled at anything that honors the Murderer.
(And I find myself less eager to die heroically, these days)
"Then again", I admitted, "I am curious".
Curiosity, of course, being the thing that killed the cat.

And so it was, for an Age and many.
That the times of Bloom and Silver were gone.
And their arrows darkened the skies.
For a sire of War walked amongst them.


#24
Journals and Musings / The Rumor Mill
March 19, 2024, 05:39:51 PM

The Rumor Mill

I was, I think, a little moved when Reyer sought me. Even if I had already done my own digging, and he was the third (or fourth?) to tell me. I am, of course, an incredibly dedicated gossipmonger.

"Sharp as ever", he said.
Satisfaction glinting in his good eye.
"Still, went through some things, you and I"
"figured I might as well give you a heads up"

I found myself realizing I'm quite fond of the man. A bit of a surprise, all things considered. Who would've told the stubborn Student I was, endless annoyed at Colmes, that he'd call another Sergeant something like a friend? I suppose hell and mourning do a lot to bind people. With all the information, hopefully, this trap shall be easy enough to dodge. It may be worth talking to Caddick, at the very least.

"Good idea to be careful, always", mentioned Meadow, when I asked her.
"Reclutas", she added, "always turn thug"

Still, the new crop of Reclutas seems particularly hostile, at least with me. Eager to show their rudeness, to push around. For all his faults, Vico at least had a charm those I've met recently sorely lack. His every word was a threat, of course, but  he was relatively charming about it. If I'm going to be threatened violence, I should at least feel as though may get laid before, during, or after. Just saying.

"Of course", she added, after being the first to tell me.
Her smile serene and perfect, unbreakable.
"You didn't hear this from me"

Odd, to think of Vico nowadays. His name has been almost forgotten, it seems. Or at least, I rarely hear it. I suppose most people mourn those they loved, and not those they hated or feared. Perhaps they still drink to his health in the Fortress, but it doesn't really seem so. Mostly, it is almost as though some of the Rossans were... Relieved?

"He's just a distraction", said the Secretary, a while back.
"Will be dead and forgotten in a month"

He was very definitely not wrong.
Can't deny a certain emptiness to all of these rumors and preoccupations. As though what happens up here was an illusion... While Truth awaits me (and calls me) Below.
#25
Journals and Musings / Dreaming the Path
March 18, 2024, 03:44:09 PM

Dreaming the Path

 
I was dreaming the path.

I whispered the words, in the ear of the statue. The names of my sisters opened the doors, yet as soon as I said them, they were forgotten forever. I did not mind: I was dreaming the path.

I went down alone. I held, high, Jamileh's lantern. Through the ancient halls I moved, with certainty. Along the walls, faces and hands held in prayer. A thousand eyes followed my steps, and a thousand mouths cursed me. I did not mind: I was dreaming the path.

I stepped on the Ages. My heart beat faster, and faster, too, did I walk. I knew the one I loved was deeper, the one I sought. He carried his face (or was it his?), but His name was Truth. My body ached with unsated passion. I sought Him, burning with desire. I did not mind: I was dreaming the path.

I waded through the air. Invisible but assured, its hatred. My naked skin felt the thickness of the space. Against its stillness, my passion; against its dearth, my onrush. My heart was a drum, my heart was a torrent. The halls did not want me, but I did not let that stop me. The light of my lantern flickered and died. I did not mind: I was dreaming the path.

In the darkness, I divined the way forward. My every step, resisted; my desire, opposed. The Ages kept, between Truth and I, the distance. I ached as I moved forward: pain in my head, my heart, my lungs, my loins; pain in the soles of my feet. The coldness of the marble floor, thorns. In pain, I reached the threshold. In the treshold, we embraced.

When I woke up, my nose was bleeding and my sheets were stained. I was feverish, covered in sweat.

I did not mind: I was dreaming the path.
#26
[Another sealed, confidential letter, this one accompanied by a little note]

I know you're busy with Orentids and Qadira today. And maybe it'll be irrelevant soon enough but... Do give it a read, though.

Yours,

Alejandro

#27
Journals and Musings / Upon the Threshold
March 17, 2024, 02:19:48 PM

Upon the Threshold

An oath, writ upon the threshold of Mystery:
"I swear it on the Saints's bones", I said,
"and the names of my mothers"
Solemn the occasion - for trespass requires solemnity.
(Or is it trespass, when invited?)
I do not know if I hesitated too much, or too little.
(Does it matter?)
(The Cup is emptied and, at the bottom, many things become possible)               
(That would otherwise not be)

and thus she leD
downwards, few darE
newfound, embroiled oathS
ancient, the eagerness so poetiC
the path  blooms, careless radiancE
and thus softens slowly all conversatioN
our steps, by Ages untold, in blood resisteD

                                                                    And I crossed the threshold of Mystery, where dreams are woven by blind spiders
                                                                    Therein meeting Its darkness of sphinxes: the flutter of their wings, a Torment
                                                                    Therein seeking, like lover, Revelation, and finding It, with burning, eager fingers.
                                                                    Its promises murmured on the Threshold, before we break, unsated, our embrace.

It was upon my lips, Revelation:
Δ   Q   Β   Ρ
#28

On Blooming and Fighting and Mourning

 First - a party: joyful tales, delightful meals. A crown of flowers upon my brow. A delight with Storytelling and drinks. The joy of seeing bloom, upon the lips of a mournful friend, a smile. Say what you will, tales about flatulence are a classic when you need to cheer someone up.

(It reminded me of mamá, when there was a storm, and we were grumpy, and we told the same tale. I remembered how María and Blanca and Clara and I would compete to see who made the biggest noise. I felt their absence, piercing. But also with some joy, I think. Some peace, to have so many in this city I loved just as dearly as I loved them)


Second - An Ordeal: villany detained on its tracks, or at least delayed. Wading through blood and worse than blood, dashing through the lines with a smile on my lips, daring and (hopefully) dashing. Ilusion and speed and slipperiness - ever a trickster. A bit of fun at Cosine's expense, too. Never a bad thing. Coin, rejected, too. Heroes need no such thing. I felt, for a moment, a hero.

(My cheek muscles hurt, however. From all the smiling. From all the grinning. Why is such a long battle one of the few things that makes me smile like that? Why do I feel so satisfied when I stab those who'd stab me? Why is battle such a rush, such a feeling of peace and aliveness as one can rarely find? Spokes above, I know I must seem inspiring and dashing to lift the spirits of my companions, I know I must sing cheerfully but, why do I keep smiling through it in a way that feels less and less like a performance?) 

Third: A Wake Narwen was angry. When I first heard her Bellows, I thought it had nothing to do with us, with our adventure. Turns out she was angry and me, at Bashir. Someone had told her we had set to somehow attack a caravan of Elves of the Spring. That Margarethe and Marcellus, throwing arround careless rumors and... I can't even call it a half-truth, because it was quite the opposite of it. She had a right to her anger, though. I suppose I would've much prefered to include her - even though this was certainly bigger than the elves. So many corpses, and caravans...

"You know me", I said, looking at Selsi.
"the villanies you feared, if they happened before me..."
"Either I wouldn't return, or they wouldn't come to pass"

(It does cause me some sadness, however. That Narwen feels closer to Vico than to Zol Nur. That Zol Nur would choose Oro over Narwen. It is mournful, to know that sometimes our colors warp who we are, twist us and leave us unable to see the good as good, the wicked as wicked. I do wish they'd be...)

(I suppose I wish they'd be worse members of their faction. Like I was).
#29
Screen Shots & Obituaries / Re: Xon Dhoten
March 17, 2024, 11:07:02 AM
God, magic boy gave us such great things... I don't have many screenshots, but he was always a GREAT weirdo to RP with. Remember when you were a snake? Or our attempt at singing?





And, in classical RP fashion, the weirdo died a hero... Thanks for playing him!
#30

The Tale of the Boy Who Loved His Goat

[A Tale has been recorded here, and nowhere else.]

Once, there was a boy who loved his goat. And one day a Storm came. And because the boy loved his goat, when he heard it bleat... He rushed past his parents, and rushed out, to seek it. And the storm raged so wildly that he couldn't see, but only heard, as the home where his family was taking shelter came crashing down. Burying them beneath.

Once, the boy had a goat, and somehow lived through the storm. And as he walked into the wilds, by the shores, he told himself that any moment now one of the Saints would come. Santa Azucena, perhaps, who was his favourite. She would ride atop the waves on her white horse and save him.

And because Santa Azucena was coming, he walked forward and didn't let himself falter.

Not even when the goat he loved died and he had to eat it. For little meat was availible, and even less water. And goat's blood was better than nothing.

At long last the boy saw people. And while he was dissapointed it was not a santa, he still cried with joy. For people meant food and shelter, did it not? The boy was a boy, after all. Sixteen or so, barely on the cusp of becoming a man, and was used to adults being kind, and loving, and protective, and tender. So when it turned out they were a roaming band of bandits, it took him by surprise. The first lash took him by surprise. Of course one gets used to everything. Or at least, eventually everything loses its surprising qualities.

Blunted by use.

But still, the boy had his stories! So he knew any day now, as he emptied the latrines on the coast or went for water or did any of the endless chores, he'd meet a golden fish who'd give him three wishes. Mum, his goat, and the loss of all those scars. A bit selfish to go for his mum, considering his whole family was dead but... Who are we to judge?

And sometimes, when he felt the desire to escape and it was so bright and burning that he'd jump off a cliff, just to make it go away... He told himself the Tale of how angels rescued people who were very, very good. And he was very, very good. So he didn't jump.

The lash, the hunger, the *word here, scratched* all of it, he endured. Because there were tales always there, to endure with. And every tale was a lie, and every tale was hope. And every tale kept him alive one day longer. So that, when opportunity came, he was alive to take it. And run. And run and run and run until his lungs burnt. Until he saw in the distance a light.

And under that light, a Hakarawi so kind that, to his eyes, he felt like Warad himself. And this Hakarawi gave him food and water and drink and, seeing his state, gave him a blanket. And with deep and lovely voice he recited...

"Once, there was a wanderer..."

"But my throat grows tired and the hour grows late", I finished.
"So we must pause here the Thousandfold Tale"
I didn't look at him. Gazed only at the stars.
I knew he was near, though. Warm, in the night.
"Let us live, and let us drink"
"in the hopes of finishing it tomorrow..."
My tone, practiced. Perfect. Even this Tale.
This Tale, most of all. Known only by her, smiling between the stars.
And now, him, too.
"Oh, were that the Thousandfold Tale was written within our hearts...", I added
"So it's lessons would always be with us."