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Messages - Don Nadie

#46
Journals and Musings / Mystery & Revelation
March 10, 2024, 02:03:00 PM

Mystery & Revelation

We were in my office. A pleasant distraction: to teach.
Though in the midst of so much dust, and Ash, and paper.
His scent, of flowers, was out of place.
"I could tell you what I think most likely", I admitted.
"But that would rob you, I think"
"Knowledge is a path: Mystery and Revelation"
I was leaning close. My fingers on the ancient alphabet.
"Entwinned", I murmured, as I traced the old symbol, "Like lovers"
I raised my eyes from the tablet, to meet his.
"To just give answers", I added, as his ears grew pink.
"Is to break the embrace"
If you ask an Izdur, they'll tell you Knowledge is a thing passed down the Ages.
Because they cannot see that is just tradition.
If you ask an Astronomer, they'll claim knowledge is a tiny speck of truth.
Because they cannot see that is just a fact.
And they are arid, all of them. They have, in themselves, no meaning.
In dusty room, we had turned to Artwork and books.
"Behind every door", I explained, "there are three more, to open"
"And thus all you learn", I added, "will bring more questions"
The amount of times I'd repeated those same words.
And yet, I never tire of this. Of teaching others to seek.
Teaching them to desire Revelation. To seek Mystery.
The path of Knowledge is the path of Passion.
From one to the other, and again. The embrace, unending.

Thirst, never sated.
Hunger, never quelled
Desire, never allayed.
Truth, never finished.
To know one facet, one inch, is to seek another
                                                          and another
            and another                and another                        and another
                            and another                    and another
   For the heart never fills, and the search never ends.
"You need to be careful, though", I pointed. "Knowledge burns."
We were turning to Caliphal history, now. Where discretion matters most.
"There are some that don't want things known"
"Those who'd kill to uphold their story"
Through my collection of secrets, a couple offered, to decypher.
Apetizers, to grow his hunger. A tablet, a book, a mural.
Fire and Sun and Madrassas. Guiding him, never telling.
Desire, sparked by absence. The glint in his eyes, decided.
Fearless. As so many of us are. Dangerously so.
"I'm a criminal, remember?", he jested. Perhaps, defiant?
I found myself smiling, regardless, at the little outlaw.
"Oh, yes", I ruffled his hair, amused, "A fearsome one"
For once, he didn't blush. Just smiled, in earnest.
(His hair was soft, so clear against my fingers.)
"Scholarship can't be beholden to fear", he whispered.
"Else", he added, "it's someone else's version of events"
I have seen it before, in others, that tone.
It never fails to make me proud.
"Indeed, my dear friend", I whispered.
It was late. I was tired. I don't know when I had gotten closer.
"Knowledge is desire", I added. "And like all desires..."
"...it is best indulged"
#47
Journals and Musings / The Forgotten
March 10, 2024, 10:47:40 AM

The Forgotten

Once, a truth got lost.
It wandered the desert as Pra'raj burnt its skin.
And wandered deeper and deeper.
Until it was all but forgotten.


"You have written much of this city and its atrocities"
"You will write also of Red Hill"
Her voice was the shroud of a corpse. Her voice was the gong of a funeral.
"You will conduct many interviews for your work", she added.
"I offer my own"

And in deep places the Truth remained.
Awaiting the reaching hand. Any reaching hand.
Even the most vile.


"We were winning", she seethed. Bitterness.
"As we pressed forward - the sky turned red"
"It shattered"

A shiver ran down my spine, a haunting, a growing of shadows.
Truth. She cared for Truth. Everyone says they care for Truth.
But nobody accepts that Truth is made of facets.
Nobody is brave enough to see it.
I do not blame them.

"We tried to escape", she said. Her words had grown deeper.
"We were overwhelmed by Blood Horrors and flame"
"We died"

And rescued by vile hand, this lost truth saw the open sky.
And breathed in the dusty wind; air, to speak with.
Then, it made its way home.


"No one faced any consequences. No one faced any justice"
"As hundreds burn, moulder, or are reanimated"
My quill, running swiftly down the page. Notation, for this truth to breathe.
"Beneath the pile of dead", she added,
"Your Lyrist is buried beneath melted bodies"
My quill, held in its tracks. A splotch of ink, the mark of mourning.

And yet at home, who heard it?
Not the powerful and the mighty. Not the guilty.
For to know it was to know that there was no justifying the horror.
It is easier, to believe there was an excuse.


"It was necessary", said Akna.
Cowardly, cautious Akna. Too eager to kiss the mouth that bites her.
"It is not normal to believe falsehood, mister Alejandro", said Ashley.
Kind-hearted, perhaps. Yet not kind enough to see what cruelty she's tied to, either.
And the words of that vile woman? Of that horrid man? Best left out of these notes.
They were written, deep enough, in my skin. As I hurt myself, so as to not hurt her.
Cruelty. How horrid, her cruelty. How horrid, the cruelty she awakens in me.

However, the thing about truth is it doesn't care about who is listening.
It just exists. It just breathes. It can be sought.
Every perspective, awaiting just the reaching hand.


"Do you think she told the truth?", he asked.
His soft hands tending to mine. Bandaging the self-inflicted wound.
"I think she told what she believed", I admitted.
"Do you think you can get proof?"
I frowned, thoughtful. Proof. Evidence. Hard things to come by.
"The only places where I could find it, are places that scar"
He smiled, as he tightened the bandages.
"I hear girls like scars", he jested. My own joke, repeated.
Despite everything, it made me smile.
(There's a value to smiling, when one's drowning)
"How about boys?", I asked, amused.
He chuckled. "A scar or two doesn't hurt, either."


And so this truth spoke and spoke and spoke and spoke.
While there was breath in its lungs.
Terrible, in its content.


#48
Journals and Musings / Old Enemies (?)
March 09, 2024, 04:42:14 PM

Old Enemies (?)

Sometimes, when people return, unexpectedly, it's a joy.
Sometimes it's simply surprising.
"You look rested and tanned", I smirked.
"What brought you back? Zarat?"
He scoffed. "Yes".
"And not being able to let things go"
Then, he chuckled. "Always thought they'd bury you in that cloak"
Say what you will about him, he know how to stab right back.
What an odd return, really. Considering right what I was working on.
A bit of a godsend, too. Another direct witness.
And an important one, too.
"So, I guess you've not come to be interviewed for Act III?", I asked.
"Actually, I'm here to set the record straight, for whatever's worth"
"Not that I have a lot of faith in whatever it is you're doing now", he added.
As ever, a man without faith in his fellow men.
Part of me had missed him.
His words, interesting, too. A different context. It gave me pause.
"Still not sure if he was honest. Or just performing"
I scratched the back of my hand. Such memories.
(Wanted a cigarette, but I could very much imagine Elias annoyed.)
(And I was fine. Within reason, I was fine)
"Truth be told, I don't know what he was doing", I admitted, softly.
"Whether he was really a hero..."
"Or just performing an elaborate form of suicide"
I paused. I sighed, scratching the back of my hand, further. Deeper.
The hum of pain bringing the mind back from any brink.
"I suppose the same goes for every Balladeer".





#49
Journals and Musings / Old Friends
March 08, 2024, 11:37:04 PM

Old Friends

We had been left alone. Were we speaking in silence?
We were speaking in a quietness that cannot usually be reached.
Not by the living.
"Do you think she will ever be... Warm again?"
I paused, uncertain.
(How does one answer, when the answer is made of thorns?)
"I do not know", I said, opting for sincerity.
"I have stopped trying to warm her"



                                                                              Later, in her halls - smoke curling, chants echoing.
                                                                              And the voice of a Sister. Tallest of them all. Ever at the entrance.
                                                                              "Alejandro, you have always been our friend", she said.
                                                                              "It is us who did you wrong", she said.
                                                                              "Please, forgive us", she said.
                                                                              And I found it so eerie, their smiles. Like the endless reflection, between two mirrors.
                                                                              Their apologies, too. As though shared, between all.
                                                                              But still, I accepted it. What else could I do?




"You are now my oldest friend", she declared, earlier.
The moon above us, glistening. Within, perhaps, the body true.
"And you, mine"
We both paused, at the silence. Then, I added:
"I wish that more lived, still..."
#50
Journals and Musings / Μστεριος
March 08, 2024, 08:52:25 PM

Μστεριος

She was quiet. A rustling thing, of wind and black cloth.
Under the moonlight, she seemed to wait. As Hypatia watched.
(Protectively. I was not afraid, but I was thankful for it)

                                                            Then she opened those lips 
                                                                                                      --the very same lips that--
                                                                --and for those lips came--
Ασιρυ. Βετ Μεσιρι.
--the words were burning because knowledge burns--
                              --and so burn her lips, too, they burnt--
Παριρσυ.
                    --the words (the words, on her lips) strange and thorough and true--
           --the tone (the tone, on her lips) ancient--
᾽Ασιρυ. Αἰαλυ, αἰαλυ. ᾽Υρ-Συλγι.
                 --the knowledge, ancient; the vision, ancient--
                              --truth, the Truth which--
                     --(on her lips, the Truth)--
᾽Υρ-Συλγι. Αἰαλυ
                                                                    --It was of the Ages--

And then she stared. In silence.
Awaiting.

"I may perhaps translate it", I whispered.

                 Was that a promise?
                                         Or my own hope?                      For it is whispering, tenderly.

                                                            Like the words of a lover (his words?)
                                                                                                        Whispering on my ear.
                                                                                                                                                                        After the day, long. Laying, resting.
                                    Our breaths onto one another.
                                                                                                    The couds of mizzar coiling arround us both.
                                                                                 
                                                                                        It is whispering just as tempting as any lover.

Μστεριος
#51

Rebuilding Ourselves

Dawn came, perhaps to the surprise of the many Well-dwellers who had thought our home would be crushed between the Sibilant and the Storm. Exhausted, worn and blood-covered, we still found the resilience and creativity to rebuild. The inmediate aftermath was thus both a time of slow collaboration and one of strange, rabid changes. Truly, both the ominous and the ridiculous took place, under our weary eyes.

It was during this time that the Astronomers of Q'tolip, with Vergal Medista as their spokesman, first announced their desire control the research of independent scholars and threatened, if refused, to remove the Shade. It was also during this time that Owain, the monkey who saved our Well repairing the Shade, first raised his demand for a Voice, sparking a debate which continues, on and off, to this day. Voices were bought, businesses made, threats whispered in dark corners, Gers Geiger claimed to have created life (not for sale), and preparations were laid out. All while Waterbearers endeavoured in their ministrations, to cleanse the Wyrm's name from our much-battered citadel.

Finally, on the very last day of Hziran, Princess Shaimela presided over the burial of John Syter. Inmediately after he was given to the Martyr's embrace, with the echoes of "Live and drink" still ringing in the Well, she announced the coming elections. Eargely, candidates flocked to their Leagues to fill their papers and start gathering signatures. For many, your dear Author included, this would be their first experience in democracy. It would be, alas, bittersweet.



The Primaries of Tammuz IY 7787

The Primaries would be a rather contentious affair from the beginning. The large influx of recent refugees meant that there were a variety of ideals on display, and all the Leagues were in such upheaval there was much space for reinvention.

The Gold League was, perhaps, the least contentious... Though only because it was still reeling from the loss of their most popular leaders. Not only had John Syter been killed, but Ophelia Whitmore, a beloved merchant who had been preparing to run for her League, was murdered by Atreus Loukanis, Purple champion of the Palette Games. While him and his mageling had been inmediately discovered and thrown to the Lions, this gave an opening to a local Magistrate and Watermerchant by the name of Sol Auk. The Stonefolk was known for his endless speeches and rhetorical tricks, but was, back then, still trusted by many. Of course, darker rumors claimed he was the one who set up Ophelia's death and that he had used the Magisterial seat for endless corruption... But, despite this, he managed to bribe or drive away his only competition soon enough.

Meanwhile, in the League of Purple, the Primaries saw the struggle between the Torchbearer Sephidra, the once-White Isabella Fitzgerald and the Syter Sly of famous handwriting-related fumble, Rennik Colmes. According to the elven candidate, "They were pressuring me to adopt 'defense' into my portfolio... When they both folded". Each took it differently, however: while the merchant Isabella decided to style herself as a political advisor, Colmes would go on to support the candidate of the White League and, some say, try to derail Sephidra's political campaign.

Lastly, the White Leagues was a tad battered, due to the association with Diakos. While your humble Author joined precisely then, realizing that the alternative was leaving it for vile people to control, many more had abandoned it to join the Purple or the Gold. Despite this, there was an active primary in which the main two contenders were Aubrey Domergue, of Syter Sly infamy, and Lynneth Lliwarch. After long and no doubt bitter debates, Aubrey agreed to step down. This was, of course, a wise choice: as would be proven by later elections, Domergue was not able to garner much popular support, despite her own self-regard. In contrast, Lynneth's cadre of female admirers (for a complete diagram of her many paramours and its internal tensions, please refer to the "Lynneth Saphic Relationship Chart", in the Apendix) formed a not inconsiderable voting block, to which one had to add the myriad who saw her a reliable ally, trustworthy merchant, or faithful Waradim.

If the primaries were full of Bellows, rumor and misdirection, the actual election would be even more dramatic...



Elections, Resignations and the Butt Trial

Oddities opened when Rennik Colmes, decided to prosecute the beloved Gamemisstress, Zaniah Almirah. The charge? Treason!

You see, dear reader, one of her Games had included an anonymous riddle whose solution was Our Sublime Monarch's very own buttocks... And since the riddles had been submitted anonymously, she couldn't share its author, a Butt Bandit who remains at large and up to heinous and Treasonous crimes to this day, no doubt. It never became quite clear whether Sol Auk had bribed the Sergeant to bring it to trial (Zaniah being something of a rival of his), or whether Rennik had bribed Sol Auk to rule in his favor.

Regardless, the trial was not only widely mocked, but also made many more people know the riddle (now preserved for posterity as a historical artifact in Court Records, see the Apendix). For instance, local hero and extremely good-looking idiot, Velan Volandis, took to the Bellows and the streets to speak of His Majesty's (presumably) noble derriere.

The ridicule of the situation was such that Princess Hasheema had to descend from the Sublime Terrace to declare a misstrial, artfully dodging whether it could or not be considered Treason to speculate on her father's behind by focusing on the importance of Piety. What the Butt Trial showed (besides Rennik Colme's weird priorities vis a vis the prosecution of crime) was Sol Auk's magistral ability to both court and dodge scandal: though central to the whole trial, which he refused to dismiss himself, he was able to make speeches claiming it Hasheema had heeded his wisdom. Your beloved author wrote a little rhyme about the events, which you may find elsewhere. This Butt Trial would be a first taste of his Prelateship: absurd chaos and corruption, followed by rhetorical walkback and reframing.

As people were still whispering confusedly about the Butt Trial, another surprise hit us: Sephidra Niridhe, despite having won the Primary by a not inconsiderable margin, claimed to have come up with a bout of illness and stepped down as candidate. Of course, everyone knew this was, as the kids say, poppycock. There had been whispers of the Banafsian ambassador chatting with Sol Auk, who then returned with a large donation and a lot of Banafsian seafood for one of his events. Banafsi wanting Sephidra over some matter in one of their isles, it was widely assumed that the Torchbearer had stepped down due to poisoning, threats, or both. Some rumors point towards a meeting with both Sol Auk and Colmes, the duo known for setting up many a electoral scheme, but the specifics have never been proven... And the surviving witnesses have remained, alas, tight-lipped and inmune to your Author's charms.

In her stead, Cyrille Monteglass stepped up as candidate of the Purple League. Once of the White, Cyrille was a failed advocate with as much charm and subtlety as an Deep-Kulkundian courting-song (that is to say: no charm or subtlety at all). While he made some fuss about his "one chicken in every pot" campaign, which presumably involved hiring Gers Geiger for his chicken-making skills, nobody seriously considered he could win. This, in turn, made initial supporters of the Purple look elsewhere, for who would vote for a candidate bound to lose? Thus, as would happen many more times, the campaign became de facto a two-candidate affair: Lynneth versus Sol Auk.

Initially, it would seem Lynneth was posed to win... She was, however, a Ballader. This meant there was concern, in some corners, both about her Drinking and about the influence of the Rose. While historically there had been Legates of the Accord (specifically, one Astronomer), the Rose was an entity with much more far-reaching political aspirations that the Tower. Furthermore, many (the infamous owner of the tabloid "Mermaid's Tale", Bruno Oarback most notably) pointed that she lacked a clear policy, and was running mostly on the grounds of being "trustworthy", "nice", and "good with the ladies", rather than actual ideas. Nonetheless, she garnered the support of quite a wide coalition, including an endorsement by Rennik Colmes... At least until his Lieutenants pulled him by the ear!

Sol Auk began in something of a disadvantage, which he'd work hard to resolve. While most of the Purple had flocked to Lynneth in the aftermath of Sephidra's resignation, he had loyalists, most notably the Priestess of the Sabotage, Mari Blacke. Over the last days of the campaign, Sol Auk and his advisors would perform an endless series of political maneuvers, such as bringing in the Alchemist's Guild and the Banda Rossa by promising them different privileges.

In the end, however, it was simple election-rigging that got Sol Auk the win: the Gold League spent a fortune buying Voices for their supporters, between eight and fifteen, which were enough to secure a slim majority. Thus, we were set for a month of barely restrained control by the Stonefolk, who has the dubious honor of being the Well's most corrupt Legate in living memory.



The Early Legateship of Sol Auk

When asked about Sol Auk's Legateship, local swordsman of the Gold League, Hazezon Mraize described it as: "Sol Auk's gradual descend from the heir of Syter, to selling drugs in the Creep, to trying to create a Brothel". The description is apt, dear reader, though one might perhaps argue that this gradual descend was not one of character, but reputation, as the citizens of the Well slowly realized who had the reins of their city.

His first scandal in office was the blessing of the Steele. Though he made a great fuss about inviting the Priesthood of the Wheel, in the end it was the Sabotage whose name was set. This came as a surprise only to idiots and the terminally uninformed: Mari Blacke had been a close advisor and one of the main financieers behind the Gold vote-buying.

Of course, this caused an endless deluge of complaints. The Priestess defended the position that, with so many enemies circling our fair City, her diety would ward us from ill luck while sending misfortune upon our foes. Others argued that They were the deity of anarchy and decadence, and thus entirely unsuited as a guardian for our settlement. It must be noted that those who cursed Them were particularly prone to accidents and ill fortune, while those smart enough to tithe saw no additional trouble, Their languid gaze directed elsewhere. The Steele also behaved most odly during this period: laws came to be miss-written on the Steele and Scribes found documents missing, or appearing out of nowhere. This minor crisis ended when the Waradim Lynneth marched onto the Pyramid with a bag of dinari and bribed Sol Auk to set Warad's name on the Steele. During the rest of his tenure, the Spokes would continue to change as soon as someone new came with enough coin.

From this scandalous start, Sol Auk continued pushing the limits of Legatorial Inmunity. He gave official posts to anyone and everyone, often in exchange of bribes, so that their successes could become his own and their failures, theirs. Thus was Gers Geiger named Minister of Trade and Marcellus's library declared the Whitmore Memorial Library, for instance. Sol Auk, of course, provided no coin for any of these, and in fact managed to pocket much. Being the only sitting Legate, never challenged by his League or the likely bribed Sergeant Rennik Colmes, he exploited his position to the detriment of our fair city.

Perhaps the biggest scandal was what would come on 28th of Tammuz or, as Acolyte Narwen puts it, "the night where he made crime legal". You see, dear reader, Sol Auk declared that the Voiced would not be charged for minor crimes. Ballestriere Kithaella, never one to give up a chance for being messy, took a Penal Code and began to use it as a guide, trying to perform every single minor crime in a night. The resulting chaos was such that the Princess had to rush to our City. The outrage, fanned in particular by Lyrist Alois Didereaux, would end with the honorable Rashid al-Rashid becoming Interim Legate, so the Stonefolk would reined by the much more reliable Scholar.

Showing once more his slipperiness, however, Sol Auk would credit Colmes with the idea, calling it "the Colmes Doctrine". The Sergeant would claim it had all been a test to prove the criminal tendencies of the Wellfolk... Though, according to Deputy Chief Scribe, Aaisha al-Samar, this was a reframing that came after the fact. Sol Auk's many scandals showed, if nothing else, what can happen when the institutions of the Well fail to enforce their duties.

It would, alas, not be the last time criminals evaded Justice.



Distant Heroics and Local Villanies

As ever, external threats to the Well were not kind enough to take a break while we dealt with the villanous in our midsts, or the vagaries of our politics. While Sol Auk endeavoured to weaken our institutions, it was often independent caravaneers and members of the Accord who had to stand and defend the Well against more dangerous foes.

Once, for instance, your humble Author, then a Student of the Balladeers, went alongside a few caravaneers and Nadiris to investigate the dissapearance of some travellers in the Long Road. Soon we discovered a tribe of hobgoblins had kidnapped them. As we fought and defeated their hordes, however, we were horrified to discover that both the kidnapping and our battle were part of a horrid plan. See, dear reader, a djinni had been imprisoned in the oasis where we fought, and the blood of innocent and hobgoblin alike weakened its shackles. Thankfully, a brave ritual directed by then-Nadiri Cosine Mevura saw the waters purified and the monster entrapped for centuries to come.

In another joyful ocasion, the exceedingly attractive imbecile, Velan Volandis, was tasked with finding a mystical stone. The adventure took him, the Torchbearers, Aubrey Domergue, and Professor Attar on a magical adventure which involved flying carpets, giant women, kidnap-intending harpies, and carrying a huge stone on one's back. Sadly, the Torchbearer Naelin refuses to elaborate on the most fantastic details, claiming that "there's already enough literature on that fool", so the reader will have to fill the blanks with whatever lurid tales the Velan Volandis stories may inspire (your Author wholeheartedly recommends "Velan Volandis and the Serpent's Boudoir").

Other ventures were less joyful. On the 1st of Tammuz, a large contingent heeded the call of a local captain to explore the mysterious island of Lucca Ferra. Dozens of caravaneers and members of the Accord sailed forth through the Sea of Pearls. They would find a cursed island, haunted by the undead remnants of every sailor and pirate who had found their end in its treacherous waters... Or even more dangerous shores. The dared cannon fire, exploding monkeys, foul magics and a veritable skeletal army. In the end, as they laid low the captain of such horde, they discovered some ancient Horrors, sealed beneath the fortress. The last battle was the hardest, and many perished to hold back these ominous entities of the Depths. Your author, dear reader, lost a dear friend, the bardess, Student and member of the Competition, Sana Khealn. Many lost even more.

When they returned, the survivors seemed haunted... Both by the battle and by the last, and most cruel revelation. As they stepped back on the shores of the Great Ash Desert, an illusion fell and they discovered they had been used. It turned out that the captain who called them was none other than the fabled Trazant, an undead pirate herself... And through their battle, the caravaneers had helped her regain her control of the fabled island, where she remains to this day.

Not all villains, however, worked in distant lands. Within the Well, Vergal Medista and his apprentice Alexander Bestworth (most known as Owain's familiar) murdered a Nadiri in the Creep, the frosty explosions hurting dozens. The reasons behind this assassination were never clear. Some say the Nadiri was a Pra'raji. Others claim she learned something hideous about the Apothar, whose efforts seemed focused in the intimidation of local archaeologists. Rennik Colmes, recently returned to the Well, claims that the matter was investigated. One wonders what led the then Sergeant to take no action, and whether there was something nefarious or some bribery involved... Regardless, the fact that the crime was never publically addressed caused plenty of dissatisfaction.

In particular, the murder inspired a strange and terrible fervor in a local Twindari monk, Sahlil Shadowbrook. In dark places, the hin swore to bring the justice of the Martyrs to those who evaded the Law. Thus, she began a campaign of harrassment that would see her attacking Alexander in the very Tower, then exiled, captured, crucified and left to die in the middle of an Ashstorm. She escaped, somehow. Days passed. Alexander Bestworth was expelled and later possibly murdered (though not by Sahlil, with some pointing at Vergal himself). Then, on the morning of Maribeth 13th, when the Apothar left the Well for some contractwork... A marred and scarred figured captured and kidnapped him. His body was found in the First Wheeel, under the ancient sigil of the Wroth. He had been found wanting.

Vergal Medista's death went largely unmourned, in itself quite a sad thing. Apothar Estellise Azimi quite literally cackled on the Bellows when learning the news, and others took his duties. According to the Nadiri Lucian Naile, the deceased was "headstrong and selfish", which of course "rubbed people the wrong way". The main consequence, perhaps, was that Cosine Mevura, feeling Gers Geiger's celebration of his colleague's murder was the last drop after the Alchemist's kept on leaving monsters within, closed the Tower's laboratories to external users... Which would create no small amount of tension over the following months, and possibly culminate in the murder of Geiger. Sahlil Shadowbrook in turn, would continue evading the Jannisaries for weeks, until accepting a duel against the Ballestriere Kragg Stonefury and Rennik Colmes on the 28th of Maribeth.

It still took them some effort. Whatever may be said about Shadowbrook, she did not go down easy...



The Brookery of Alfred Delafosse

In comparison to other great acts and daring villanies, Alfred Delafosse's tale is one of cowardice. A Student of the Balladeers and cook, he was haunted by a dark past and the ghosts of the Old City. In his fearfulness, he would precipitate events much greater than himself which still echo in our days.

Afraid the ghosts that pursued him, Delafosse made a deal with a brooker. He saw himself relieved of spirits but, in a classic and entirely unsurprising twist, became instead pursued by djinni of the Court of Flesh and Earth. When it dawned upon him what he has done, the then Student sought the help of an Acolyte of the Sybilline Sisterhood, Amélie Terrois. The Kulamende, valiantly, tried to aid... Only to discover that Delafosse, to save himself, gave the djinni her name.

The news, when they emerged, was ill received. Your humble Author, a recently graduated Balladeer, took Delafosse's cloak and sent him to the Garrison, so that his crimes could be investigated... Though not before Delafosse attacked Apothar Mevura, in a fit of paranoia. The issue did much to inflame tensions between the College and the Tower, specially when the Balladeers sought to meet to discuss the matter and Estellise Azimi, never one to be told no, insisted on going downstairs with them. Her steady refusal would only end with Lynneth punching her and carrying her unconscious body outside. Thankfully, the tiny Apothar had a soft spot for strong women (the reader may refer to the Annex for her position in the "Lynneth Saphic Relationship Chart") and would forgive her.

As for Delafosse, he managed to avoid the lions, joining first the Oathseekers of Isabella de Veend, and later the crew of the Gutter Pirates. For some reason, he would die much later considering his actions justified. The cowardly can, your dear Author suposes, delude themselves from time to time. But History is nothing without contrast, and so it is that the cowardice of Alfred would be opposed by the exemplary bravery of Amelie Terrois.

Know that, as djinn haunted her, trying to break her spirit, Amelie chose to carry this burden upon her back alone. She abandoned the robes of the Sybilline and our city, so that the shadow that sought her would prey on none other. Imagine her, oh, reader. Tall, spear in her hand, rough robes arround her lithe frame, a lioness by her side. Imagine her expression, stern and decided. A heart brimming with the fires of actual heroism, which neither time nor suffering would ever manage to quell.

Imagine her as she leaves through the Gate of Roses and we leave, with her, this second Act of our recent History... And throw ourselves into the wilderness of Act III.



[Act II has been written with the generous aid of Torchbearers Naelin Karstwen and Sephidra Niridhe, Nadiri Lucien Naile, Deputy Chief Scribe Aaisha al-Sammar, Acolyte Narwen Alendiel, Sisters Hypatia and Ameliè, Hazezon Mraize and, through correspondence, Lieutenant Rennik Colmes (denial being, of course, a form of colaboration).

The Author lamments that Apothar Cosine Mevura rejected a personal invitation to converse and wholeheartedly hopes he shall embrace the spirit of historiography and objectivity for Act III. Other witnesses of the period are invited to seek the Author, in person or letter, and reminded that the only way of shaping the historical record is participating in its creation.

A small ammendment has been provided with further context as to the closing of the Tower's lab, by courtesy of Nadiri Zain.]
#52
Journals and Musings / A Nemesis (Historiographical)
March 08, 2024, 08:03:19 AM

A Nemesis (Historiography)

So I was sitting all relaxed and stuff, just chatting and scribbling, because Act II is trudging along and almost finished... And then, a weird man in a toga came to be insulting and dismissive. What's wrong with people? Well, in his case it was quite clear: he was Hamton Grimwald, and he was a terrible historian. He is now my Nemesis (subcategory: Historiography).

Now, I've said before and I'll say it again: mathematics are for the wicked and/or ugly. And this supposed "Professor" was another example. He said that history is all about dates and obscure trivia. DATES! What are we, PALM TREES?! Dates are the WORST and MOST BORING thing in history! You got a whole collection of chaos, murder, famines, love, unbridled lust, envy, kindness, heroism and villany...

AND YOU CARE ABOUT DANG NUMBERS?!

Weird thing is he kept quizzing me about stuff from recent history (Caliphal and such), as though that proved anything. Apparently, I got 8 out of 10 correct, which is honestly a bit embarrassing (I should NOT remember all of these dates), and also surprising, because I've always been way more interested in Colossal history. I  kept arguing that history is about narratives: character, forces, great ideas, and so on... Which is why I had organized events in my History arround thematic headers, rather than strictly chronologically... I think he almost got a heart attack?

Anyways, I hate him now. I shall show you and your unpublished Great Timeline of the Great Ash Desert, Adjunt Professor Hamton Grimwald!

(Also, I'm a bit annoyed because one of my unfinished projects is a timeline. But I'm definitely not telling that fool!)
#53
*A somewhat startled Alejandro reads the signature at the bottom of the page. A smirk forms in his lips, amused. "Look who's back", he whispered, with a chuckle. Then, he writes a quick reply*

Dear Colmes,

Welcome back. Consider yourself eagerly invited to come and be interviewed for The People's History of Ephia's Well, bound to be the defining record of our recent past. It is better to get your perspective heard than to have me rely on Bellows and hearsay, after all.

Yours,

Alejandro.
#54
Dear Sergeants,

As I prepare the publication of Act II of the People's History, I find myself wondering whether the Jannisaries ever investigated the murder of a Nadiri by Vergal Medista and Alexander Bestworth. It is the killing that set Sahlil Shadowbrook upon them. The Nadiri was said to have been a Pra'raji, and his murder occured in the Creep.

Do you have anything about them in your files? I will hasten to add that everyone involved is dead, which should make matters easier vis a vis privacy concerns. Mostly, I seek to know the truth of the matter - or to get as close to the truth as possible. Any help will be most appreciated, and charitable donations would of course be given in a sign of appreciation.

Yours,

Alejandro.
#55
Journals and Musings / Emotionally Unprepared
March 07, 2024, 11:02:18 AM

Emotionally Unprepared

I don't think I was emotionally prepared. Maybe I cannot be, anymore.

The call rang out of nowhere.                                                                   The horror!
                         The dread, the freeze of my spine: It was upon us.         
                                                                                                                                               Children cried!
                                                    Widows screamed!
                                                                            Horror, horror!                 Oh, the cruelties!
                                         Dandies fainted!
                                                                                                  "Spokes protect us!", scream the masses.
"No!", plead the People. 
                                              As doctors prepare headache cures
                                                                                                      And panicked families abandon their homes.

For it is upon us once more, announced by the Scribes on the Bellows:

E   L    E    C   T   I   O   N   S

"You know", she whispered, "I would prefer if my own League..."
"Didn't sound like they'd rather step on nails than vote for me"
I grumbled, a tad annoyed.
I said: "It's about the system, not you, my friend"
Because she is carrying a lot on her shoulders, and trying her best.
I think. In her hesitating. In her tending to the Accord.

I didn't say: "It's not my fault"
"that you tend more to your foes than your supporters"
That said, I probably am a bit dramatic.
#56

Further Reflections on the Nature of Historiography

"Mizzar?", she offered.
And the back of my hand bit harshly, so I took it.
Because I needed it.
To dig arround, and ask questions. The past, biting.
And in its bite, many things to know.
"I got Domhnall his Voice", I said.  We were discussing Act III, now.
She smirked, sarcastically: "Thank you for that"
And I winced. I think she noticed.
"Of course, he didn't start off mad", she added.
(Did I detect a hint of kindness, to her severity?)
Honestly, it wasn't even him, that made me wince.
It was a realization, about the nature of historiography:

                         History is about finding the wound
                                                                              and digging into it.
#57
Journals and Musings / By the Fountain
March 06, 2024, 04:26:31 PM

By the Fountain

She needed a quiet place, for a quiet conversation.
So we sat by the fountains. Their soft murmur, a lullaby.
"I need your help", she said.
And I chuckled. Ever-ready to be ever-helpful.
"I convinced Akna that our plan was the best"
"and everyone got angry at her"
Ignorance is bliss, they say. It is so.
I was reminded of this truism, once again, when I asked.
"It's the Gutter Beast", she explained, and I felt my ears ring.
"We want to capture it again", she added, and I felt air left my lungs.
It is a good thing that we were in that garden.
Lonely as it is, peaceful as it is.
Because, as I tried to explain to her why I couldn't help her,
why I didn't want it captured again, studied again, months on end while people died,
I felt, slow but unavoidable, the slipping of my masks.
Until no masks could be held, when she got annoyed at me for not agreeing.
As though I was being a stubborn child.
"I saw it happen for months, nothing gained, wormingers dying"
"Until I carried the broken body of a friend"
"And when I was at the Pyramid? Blood-covered? Crying?"
"Demanding that we fix things? Your Apothars..."
My tone had freezing, but I couldn't find softness within me.
"They called me drug-addict, and hysteric, and Gellemende."
"They dismissed me, so as to not admit fault", I seethed.
I swallowed. There was a knot somewhere in my throat. A tangled scream.
"I've lived through this before".
She watched, she listened. She couldn't quite believe me.
She reminded me of myself (and I said so)
when I still thought a Sister could do no wrong.
Faith, such cheap narcotic. Blinding her to her master's cruelties,
"Mourning broke her", I said. Then, I reflected.
"It broke all of us"
There were birds (sparrows? doves?) chirping in the palm trees.
There were stars, dawning slowly above us.
But I wasn't quite able to hear them, to see them.
Because as we spoke, and she didn't understand,
I felt like I was falling somewhere within myself.
I needed to leave. I stood up to to leave, her hand reached out.
"Wait", she pleaded, "wait please".
"I need to hear it the right way", she explained.
"Please don't think I am deaf to your words"
And I waited. Ever-helpful, not quite able to move either.
I talked and I explained and I heard from afar. Feeling distant.
Seeing myself talk as though it was someone else, behind the thin layer of a mirror.
"She mocks my struggle with addictions", I admitted.
(I heard myself say it, meekly. Like something broken)
"But it is how I've dealt with the loss. Harming myself."
(As I scratched the back of my hand again and again and again)
"She chose, instead, to wither. To harm others."
"To demand that they chose her, and her alone. Wanting surrender"
"Until I, too, was left bitter...", I added. Ashamed.
(Though not yet bitter enough to be truthful)
I fell quiet, unable to move. Trapped in my own feelings.
The gardens, so peaceful arround us, so perfect,
that I almost felt like screaming
as she talked. Her experiences, her burdens.
(Beneath all of it, her kind and respectful disbelief)

And then, a prophecy: Ghadarnoprex, the Wise.
A truth, perhaps, for that vile woman to clutch to.
At least, listening helped me calm down, as did the scratching.
The skin, broken. Pain helps refocus the mind.

"No prophecy", I said, as I left, "justifies cruelty"
"It is part of why I quit"
#58
Journals and Musings / Sleeping Better
March 05, 2024, 11:10:56 PM

Sleeping Better

We were alone, for some reason. Before the murmur of the Pilgrim.
Above, the stars. And between the stars, a lot of things.
Memories and plans and nightmares and love.
Each slowly forgotten, erased, eroded. To give us peace.
"You look like you're sleeping better", he said.
He paused, for a moment. He was close enough that I could enjoy the scent.
"A lot of things suit you well", he added, softly.
"Not baggy eyes"
I chuckled, I shrugged.
I felt lighter, in a way. Not unburdened, but lighter at least.
"I am", I said.
I did not say that I still wake up screaming.
Because, during the day, being so often with friends?
I feel as though I had, indeed, slept better.
#59
Journals and Musings / If You Only Knew
March 05, 2024, 04:11:07 PM

If You Only Knew

Dissapointment is, by now, a habit.
And it is a silly thing to care about. I know that much.  Mostly, symbolic.
(Whatever one might think, I'm not that self-centered)
But I also don't think they know just how hard it is,
                            to feel your life's work is on a knife's edge.
"I'm always one bribed Legate away from danger"
"And that is exhausting"
I suppose I could smile, and nod, and feign and take the leash.
But I also hate that idea. I hate the submission.
    I don't think they know just how humilliating it'd be, to bow
                                               to those who are but parasites to your efforts.

This is not a priority, I get it. I just also get what Al'Rashid keeps saying.
About the Lillies, and how they pay my efforts.
"You're decent enough", I said.
"Decent enough", she smirked, "Isn't that high praise?"
I nodded, thoroughly serious.
"If you only knew"
#60
Journals and Musings / Honest, for Once
March 03, 2024, 07:12:56 PM

Honest, for Once

                        Out of nowhere,
                                 a lightning made of spite.
"How does it feel like", she seethed, whispering
"to watch a real hero?"
Took me a moment to realize she was speaking to me,
    and even then, I wasn't sure of what she meant. Of whether she meant to hurt me. 
           I wasn't even certain, until I asked her the next morning
"Was that for my sake?", I asked.
"Yes", she answered.
Not an inch of self-consciousness.
     Out there. The sky was red, the Pyramid was shaking. The Wyrm's name had been spoken.
            And yet, she still found time to be bitter.

I think I didnt feel angry. Just saddened.
She kept finding ways to dissapoint me. And her, I suppose. By the banks of the Edutu.
"She'd be dissapointed", I admitted.
And she scoffed at me, dismissive of all I was.
"So weak...", she said. Her tone, poison.
"So feeble...", she insisted. Her glare, hateful.
And I dont think she understood I was being honest with her.
                                              For once.
(And though the temptation was there)
(to wield truth as a knife)
(I let it pass)
(And went elsewhere, instead)

A question rang, though, as I thought of Vico.
                                Gone Vico, power-hungry Vico.
        I wondered: who will miss her when she's gone?