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Height

Obviously, these personal notes are never rarely ocassionally only sometimes used to bitch about annoying things, in an absolutely reasonable and measured way which shows my great emotional balance and maturity. Anyways, this is one of those ocasions.

What's the matter with height?!

I'm just saying, height? No merit to it! Anyone can be high, mostly on account of being born big and/or stretching a lot as a teenager. So why should a perfectly average-size man such as a myself have to feel emasculatedunfairly compared with giants like Bruno or Rajo? Why is everyone swooning for huge chunks of muscle-man? Just because they are enormous, and strong, and could possible break a man in two like a twig?

(NO need to go over diary entries regarding Boucher)
(That was entirely different)

You know what's impressive? Scholarship! Poetry! Being a good dancer-singer-songwriter! Having shiny hair and excellent skin despite never wearing a helmet! Eloquence! Storytelling! An exotic accent! Being good with languages! A derrierè that has been praised by the very Spem Nurto, Scourge of the Near Seas! An excellently proportionate amount of muscles which don't impede touching your own toes, thank you very much!

And then I wake up and it turns out that Aubrey of all people has become a giant woman! Now, as far as I know, the only ways to get bigger are all horrifying, and cause irreparable harm to the self: brooking, curses and heels... So obviously, not options for me!

I'm going back to sleep...

Will never get over how bald he was. :D Glad you had fun, he was enjoyable to have arround!

We Will

"Governance", she whispered, with a rueful smile.
"It is not quite our cup of tea, really, is it?"
"It is not", I admitted.
"But it needs doing"

We were whispering by the altar (her altar)
The wind made the leaves of the palm-tree rustle, like a secret.

"Yes", she agreed. Her hands entwinned under her sleeves.
"This is what being a citizen means"

I found myself pondering whether I did, in fact, hate her.
And how much more simple things would be, if I did.
My mentor, and friend, and superior officer, all.
If she were alive - how different things would be.

"It is so beautiful against the dusk", she said, suddenly.
A pause, a breath's length. Cricket's ringing in the silence.
"Al'Nasr", she added, almost to herself.

I followed her gaze, set on the Pyramid.
Behind it, the sky bloomed in purple and red.
The colors embracing slowly and mingling and darknening.
As the starts bloomed one after another.

"At this hour", I said, "things seem both eternal and transiet"
"As though they'd stay forever like this", I pondered.
"And all it takes is a blink, for them to vanish".

I lowered again my gaze, from the stars (and the space between the stars) - The altar was an open hand, inviting. At that moment, I remembered the first prayer I was taught by the Hakawati. I was so small, when I learned it. I was so broken, too.

"Take my hand, and heed the call.
Take my hand, and go further
Take my hand, for the world is wide.
And in its wideness, my hand is waiting"

   
Odd, to think of that old prayer, which I hadn't recited in ages. A prayer for children, really, simple in its construction. I found myself remembering how at first I kept saying "and herd the call". I was taught to sing it as I learned common, perhaps I had been taught it to learn common, just as I was told the Seven Cat Tales and the Three Stories About Figs and the entire Airamayalava.

I was taught so many things, many of which I had, in one way or another, set aside. Without leaving them behind, of course. Rather, I had put them in some hidden corner of my heart, to gather dust and lose their luster. Then again, I suppose I know better than most that what has been lost can be found again, that was has been dulled by Ages is no less precious. That the hand is open, and awaiting in the wideness.

Traveller, oh Traveller, how much love you have for the Wayward.

"I hope we'll live through this", I said.
At long last she turned her dark, feverish eyes.
From the Pyramid, onto me. They seemed to shine in the darkness.
"If we are wise", she stated, "we will".

Vertigo

Arround me, in silence, a gathering. Heads of the War Council, officials of the Accord, Jannisaries... All listening.

In that moment, it struck me once more. That history and story are but one thing, that the past is a tale, that each tale echoes the past. There was no substantial difference between the public there and the public when I perform the Thousandfold Tale. It is a matter of rhetorics and construction, of how and why you build the narrative. But in essence?

In essence, it is the same.

Once there was a city.
And in that city, wonders were made.
Jewels of silver, weapons of bronze.
And its name was Bet Nappahi

I went through evidence and theories, doing my best to insist on the hypohetical nature of much of it. What I offer, after all, is ever speculation. Well-informed, perhaps, but speculation nonetheless. And perhaps, in the Telling, even I got carried away, Story presented as Truth.

(Such a tempting thing, Truth.)

Once, an argument ensured.
"Are we for War or for the turning of the Ages?"
Discussions upon discussions followed.
Till the Axe was raised, and broken.
And the Ash first drank a brother's blood.
Spilled by a brother's hand.

A seat was offered. My idea, which had captured Zain's imagination. I suppose it made sense, and it was a good position for my talents. This was not a simple war, but an ever-War.

The echo of an echo of an echo.

History, reververating through the Ages.

The past and the present thus entwinned, like lovers.

And once, and again, and again, it came.
The Games, the celebrations, the ringing of the shields.
The past, staged; the songs, sung.
The Ages, burnt in the flesh of the Disc.

And when we were done, when the meeting ended, I found myself dazzled. I stood at the lobby for a moment, my expression so thoughtful and lost Bashir was, for a moment, concerned. There was no reason to be, of course. I just was somewhat lost in the moment, finding my way back to the present.

Standing so tall on my work, on all the evidence and stories and deduction and reading... I felt as though I had climbed a high Peak and saw, below me, the distant shapes of the Past.

And I felt vertigo.
Because deep go the Ages.
And deeper, still, Truth awaits me.

Irrelevant

It is amusing to be called "Irrelevant", by a Nadiri of all people. Though evidently, she is much more. She knew things she had not right to know, hidden things, secret things. She said she had visions... Visions, sure. It feels as though she was cheating, with her knowledge. Earned elsewhere, elsewhen, elsehow. I suppose such is the way with diviners? It sucks, in a way. I'd love to know things without being in places, personally... Would save me so much effort!

Regardless, what's interesting is not that she had visions. Nor that she called me "Irrelevant". The first is normal in a diviner, I suppose; the second, so obviously stupid as to be ignored. After all, it is not as though they had all come to discuss the writings of Mae Stern. 

I think the saddest thing is that, having somehow knowledge of all my life, of things well beyond her reach, having so much divination and so much information... She thinks that the reason I left the College was that I didn't want to be in Aubrey and Aurelio's shadow.

How can one know so much... And still be so ignorant?

Haunted

Another chapter, now finished. Act III. It is strange, reflecting upon it. No other Act feels as distant to me as this one. Many of the aspects that I lived through the last two are still here, within me. Scarred and weary, but present... Yet I have realized the Alejandro that lived through those events is entirely gone.

He haunts me, in a way. I remember the passion with which I thought the Accorded ought to be allowed Legateship, my anger and sense of betrayal when Zaniah agreed to that. I remember my anger at Kythaella and Velan, my faith in the League of White and democracy. The hopes I had on Mae, the way I trusted her. To think about it is to feel a thin knife sliding into my stomach.

I feel as though I have been changed so throughly, I scarcely recognize that man anymore. And what remains is a weight that I cannot quite lose. The memory of Pirouette which still echoes every time I pass the Pilgrim, I wonder what she would think, if she saw me right now and--

[The notes suddenly stop. A pause in the writing which, upon return, shows a much more deliberate and steady hand]

I really shouldn't think on it. I shouldn't ponder on it. To think of it makes me want to smoke. Makes me want the Drink. Makes me long for the bottom of the sea or the cliffside or the well.

So here's something else: I finished something hard - a chapter of History. I did a good job, which will hopefully be rewarded. I must be proud, and look forward, and move forward. I must remind myself that I am aiding my city, that I have many friends, that my work is respected, that people care about me.

This is the present moment, and the moment is forever.

Euoi, Seucsippus, euoi!
May memory empty itself into the present.
May the heart fill to the brim, and spill.
May euphoria find me as I move.
Forward forward forward forward.
Euoi, Seucsippus, euoi!

Esteemed señor Daoud,

I trust my missive finds you well. I find myself beginning Act IV of the People's History of Ephia's Well which shall cover the election of Qari, the murder of Zaniah, Kardesler, the preparations for war, the war itself, etcetera. This shall be a complex chapter to write, and hence I will require as many perspectives as possible. One of the perspectives I am most interested in is, of course, yours.

When discussing the murder of Zaniah, ex-Legate Qari adviced me to seek your expertise. I am not asking that you share confidential details, but some context would be most welcome. You are likely the person most closely informed of these matters, after all. And the Public, after all these months, surely deserves as much accuracy as we can muster.

I trust we may meet in the following weeks.

Yours,

Alejandro

[Aaisha al-Sammar]

The Maribeth Primaries and the Crucible of the Djinni Prince

On the 23rd of Maribeth, the Sublime Garden announced that new Elections would take place. Without any clear frontrunner, numerous individuals launched themselves into what would come to be, in the words of Deputy Chief Scribe Aaisha al-Sammar, "the most chaotic of Elections".

The Primaries were exceedingly varied. For the Gold, the likes of Kythaella Reithel, of the Banda Rossa, Lojir Trajaros, of the Tower, and Mari Blacke, of the Sabotage. For the purple, Toleigh of the Banda Rossa ran alongside Cosine Mevura, of the Tower, Marcellus Saenus and the once-White Isabella de Veend. For the White, the Balladeers fielded Pirouette Manners and Lynneth Llywarch. They were joined shortly afterwards by Mae Stern, whose Voice your humble Author bought, so that she too could run in the League of White. Sadly, few of these names would reach the elections... Some lost to tragedy, some to intrigue, some to cowardice. Chaotic, indeed.

With only a few days of signature-gathering left, a large contingent met with Ameliè Terrois at the Gate of Roses and left towards Qadira, from whence they'd sail to the isle of Huffaidh. The group included not only your humble Author, but all of the aforementioned candidates save Blacke, Toleigh, Saenus, and Stern. With us, we brought a strange container: the Crucible. It had been designed by the Nadiri Lojir Trajaros as part of his thesis, and constructed the night before (despite the interference of some djinni) by the Alchemists's Guild. Its purpose? To imprison the djinni Prince that had taken to haunting the Kulamende.

The valiant band was accosted by djinni as they made their way through the jungles of Huffaidh. Horrid monstrosities of flesh emerged from the very cliffs to stop them, while a tide of bile rose higher and higher, lapping at their feet as they climbed to the top of the volcano. At the caldera, they set up the Crucible and Amélie called out the djinni Prince, whose form was weakened enough to be then imprisoned in the Crucible itself. However, in the last moments, the foul creature managed to pull the Acolyte with it into the prison.

It is sometimes said that heroism is about choosing what's right, rather than what's easy. If so, few could claim greater heroism than our band. For, unhesitant, most jumped behind Amélie without a moment's hesitation, unwilling to let the Prince have even such a partial victory. With Mevura and De Veend guarding our bodily forms, we delved deep into the Crucible of Lojir Trajanos.

Your Author, dear reader, will admit here once more to the limitations of his art. Words are things of subtle wind, a gossamer net of entwined meaning. They, however, fall short to describe as alien a place as we found ourselves wandering. It was a labyrinth, seemingly infinite and twisting onto itself, its walls overgrown with living, pulsating flesh. Within, strange things: prophecies and mysteries scribbled by maddened hand, ancient books that had not yet been written. We even met a madman (a true scholar driven here by bargain? a djinni illusion?) whose offer of knowledge we, thankfully, declined.

Horrors, one and all.

In circles we wandered through such flesh-wrought tunnels, accosted by endless barrages of djinni who lit the very air on fire. To these foul flames the Well lost two candidates and two heroes: Pirouette Manners and Lojir Trajanos - their bodies melding with the horrid prison. Without time to mourn, we pushed through until we met and faced once more the djinni Prince. A strange beast of malignant grace, cat-like, tentacled and foul, it grinned with self-satisfaction, thinking us caught in its trap. The Crucible's wards kept us from harming it, and kept it from harming us. Imprisoned here forever, it thought, we would eventually succumb.

Heroes, however, find ways. With great magical prowess, Estellise Azimi and Amélie Terrois combined their spellweaving and weakened the wards, allowing us to fight the djinni Prince and its hosts. It was an arduous battle but, in victory, the pull of the Prince was sufficiently weakened that we could, at long last, escape the Crucible... Leaving the Prince trapped therein with the two of our band it had managed to best.

We returned to the living world, mournful, carrying the weight of our losses. None puts best our feelings than the Well's best poet, Sister Amélie: "they had come with me to do something that is done once in a hundred years", and succeeded. We "had shared the company of heroes".

I think most of those who sailed were not, at the time, much consoled by having freed the Disc of a djinn Prince of grand and foul power. At least, dear reader, your Author wasn't. We had been shaken, marked, our minds scarred by all we had seen... And there were fears we could've been tainted even further. Precautions were of course taken before our return to the Well: strange books of flesh that had come with us from that prison were burnt in a pile, and our bodies examined by the Astronomers for djinni marks that would indicate brooking. We were careful.

At least most of us were. For, in the Caravan Camp, the by then rarely seen Velan Volandis left without a word.

The Death of Velan Volandis

On our mournful return, many of those who left found themselves, for their heroism, on the wrong side of the law. Partly out of concern for candidates bringing their lists of signatures to fight a Djinni Prince, Rennick Colmes declared an Inquisition. According to the Bellows of Cosine Mevura, he threatened with Treason charges any candidates who, having traveled to Huffaidh, refused to remove themselves... An act the Apothar called "disappointingly n-naked corruption" in the Bellows.

Never one to refuse even a whiff of naked corruption, Sol Auk supported the move. In a series of meetings, the Sergeant and Legate made Lynneth step down and promise none else of the Rose would run for the League of White. This deal was not made public, which meant that when your humble Author woke up, all he knew was that his beloved League had been left without candidates. You see, dear reader, a few days earlier Mae Stern had been given a simple choice: continue as a candidate or become an Apothar. She had cowardly stepped down... Probably for the best, upon reflection.

Finding our League bereft of candidates, your dear Author (admittedly, not always one for careful pondering) began gathering signatures for his own candidacy. Unbeknown to him, of course, this broke the deal between Lynneth and the Pyramid. Thus, by the evening, all the candidates of the Rose in all Leagues (Kythaella, Toleigh, and yours truly) were called to the Chamber of Assembly by Sol Auk, Colmes, and Rashid al'Rashid. A compromise was called: the Rose would field but one candidate of the three. This was likely the last opportunity the Rose would have to see one of their numbers become Legate for, as emerged during the meeting, our darling Sovereign wished to forbid the Accorded from running. In the end, the Ballestriere became the Rose's candidate... Not so much out of realistic chances to win the Primaries as because she was, simply, too proud to quit. One supposes they didn't call her "the Lion" for naught.

With this agreement in mind, the League of White ended up with what would be the least successful, most widely disliked candidate in the history of Ephian politics: Estellise Azimi. She was so thoroughly hated, even by other League members that on the 30th of Hziran, with but an hour left in the Primaries, the Marquis de Savaray offered a prize to whomever would sign up and gain more than her five gathered signatures. And, never one to refuse challenges, with but five minutes to go, Velan Volandis stepped in.

The hero's motivations were, one must admit, muddled. In the past months, Velan had emerged from the College rarely, oft to engage in almost suicidal outings, such as Huffaidh. This was one such occasion: breaking the table Azimi had set as a barricade before the doors of the League Offices, he officially signed as a candidate and immediately fled to the Krak. 

It was there that Rennik Colmes would speak with him, alone. "He asked", the Lieutenant says, "if I would rather take him to trial over something more serious", and showed him the book many of us had received in Huffaidh, and burnt. According to Colmes, Velan claimed to have given his name to the djinn so that our band would be able to escape the Crucible, and found himself unable to destroy the tome. When asked about his motivation to confess, Velan reportedly told Colmes that the djinn wouldn't allow him to take his own life, and that he didn't want to make his brethren in the Rose do what needed to be done. Thus, the trial was held, and Velan Volandis sent to the lions.

"It was", says Colmes, "possibly the most heroic act I've seen of him".

Your author sees, in truth, no reason to doubt the sincerity of his impression. However, dear reader, your Author must also confess his uncertainty: this History can only be objective and truthful inasmuch as one recognizes where neither record, witnesses nor deduction are enough to make things clear. Balladeers, one fears, are oft torn between ideals and reality. Thus, their ends are either heroic deaths... Or a slow sinking into melancholic gloom, with ever-longer absences, as they descend, deeper and deeper, into their cups. Your beloved Author feels as though Velan was slowly meeting the second of these fates and sought, desperately, the first.

Clearly, he wanted to sacrifice himself, and perhaps he did brook. It is less clear whether he did allow us to escape, or if he was just reframing the events as was often his style. Perhaps whether he saved us or not through brooking is immaterial. Perhaps it is enough that he believed he did... Even if his heroism was, in the end, but an elaborate form of suicide.

The Elections of Maribeth IY 7787

With the death of Velan Volandis, the Primaries followed their course and three candidates emerged.

For the White, Estellise Azimi. Her presence was not so much a choice as a defeat: none else had been able to take over her and, between death, blackmail and cowardice, the League was pretty much empty of candidates. A maneuver was attempted to unseat her, but with little success. Azimi would lead a historically terrible campaign which included getting drunk during a debate and screaming, loudly, at her own supporters. She would end up getting no votes, not even her own... A disaster so enormous some thought it was deliberate. Perhaps the only interesting development for the White League, in this tragic election, was the appearance on the political stage of a handsome firebrand by the name of Domhnall Guivarch... A man who made himself known by his passion and fearlessness, as he carelessly argued against everyone, from candidate to Lyrist, who seemed to be failing our League. 

In the League of Gold, Kythaella's bluster was defeated by the much more subtle Priestess of the Sabotage. Mari Blacke. The Ballestriere didn't take such news kindly and, right after Velan Volandis's execution, proceeded to beat and kidnap the candidate, taking her to the Banda Rossan Fortress. Nobody knows what transpired in there, exactly. But whether through the mediation of Kragg Stonefury, her own guile, or a stroke of sensibility in the Lion, Mari Blacke emerged bloodied but alive. Until her death, the Priestess would never speak openly against the Rossans, but attentive onlookers would notice that, whenever speaking with them, a hand remained behind her back... Glowing, faintly, with the most deadly miracles of her Spoke.

With Azimi sinking the White League, Mari Blacke was left to run against the candidate of the Purple: Zaniah Almirah. The Gamemistress had jumped into the Primaries much later than her competitors, in fact right after yours truly and Toleigh were forced to remove their candidacy. Having endless reserves of charm and the gratitude of most in the Well, however, she had no  trouble winning over De Veend, especially after Marcellus Saenus retired to focus on his library.

Through the following days, Blacke and Almirah would negotiate eagerly with every faction and every Voiced... But, in the end, there was little contest. The Tower despised the Priestess, with Apothar Estellise Azimi breaking the altar in her temple during a raid, The Rossa was obviously against her, while the College of Balladeers had little interest in supporting a close ally of Sol Auk. Lyrist Alois declared as much to a wide public and, when De Veend agreed to a Voiceless Subsidy in exchange of White League votes, the matter was truly settled: with 9 more votes than her competitors, Zaniah Almarivah was anointed Legate on the 6th of Tabbah.

Civilian Society and Uncivic Behaviours

As ever, it behooves the Historian to take a moment to look beyond the loud declarations and grand events, and focus onto the smaller details that, quietly, shape our present as forcefully as any War. For as djinn Princes were imprisoned and elections fought, our City kept growing... And nothing showed this development more than the steady arrival of Ashfolk from the metropolis of Baz'eel.

It was during this period that such notables as Qari Alriyh, Aaisha al-Samar, Daoud al-Maaz or the wise Nasreen Shabanni arrived into our city from Baz'eel. While they would become respectable, beloved, or simply well-known Ephians, their presence was most significant for what it heralded: the blooming of our civilian society. Our city, of course, provided an interesting mix of peaceful endeavors and violence. Sadly, when asked about what they recall most strongly as their first impressions, both doña Nasreen and Qari remember rather dreadful events.

Qari remains struck by the memory of Gers Geigers, Guildmaster of the Alchemists, who apparently defended his secretary, Bernadette, despite her being a secret Bahaurist. This emerged in the course of some investigation by the Fourth, though she somehow came unscathed, leaving the Guild and joining, perhaps for protection, the Banda Rossa. According to the ex-Legate, this was precisely one of leading causes of behind the "Illegal Worship" law: while the Mark of Baharu had been found on her, the lack of necromantic materials on her person meant, according to him, that she escaped prosecution with but a fine.

What doña Nasreen recalls is, perhaps, even worse: "The Brookers", she says. "It was a constant parade of trials for such". Indeed, the Legateship of Zaniah saw a large number of brooking cases, perhaps due to the shining of an ominous Red Star. Fritz, a young member of the oldest profession, managed to escape initial charges in a trial presided by Legate Zaniah with a freshly recruited Scribe at her side, Bashir Khatara. The young Fritz of course took this chance to change his ways and - just kidding, dear reader: shortly after, he descended upon the Legate and doña Nasreen with an army of summoned djinni, which the two women barely escaped. This time, Fritz was killed.

Though the young man was perhaps the most notable, he was by no means the only brooker that found a foul fate during the months of Maribeth and Tabbah. There was the cook Marl Marlson, who attempted to defeat Mro Pro in the arena of Flavor and, unable to win through mundane means, sought unholy scullions in the Court of Flesh and Earth. Another notable case was Isabella de Veend who, in an act of spite, gave the name of her rival Naelin to a djinni and, instead of facing charges for brooking, exiled herself to Frostport. When a Jannisary was sent to capture her she, tragically, threw herself into the frozen sea.

The most notable crime of this period, however, was also much more mundane. On Tabbah 8th, the Secretary of the League of White, Ordrem Klard, died at the hands of Hrothgar Childkiller, of the Glazier's Guild. The crime was rather clear but, during the trial, the State's witness changed their tune altogether. Eventually, Childkiller was acquitted by the presiding Legate, Sol Auk. According to doña Nasreen, he "diminished the charges due to a misunderstanding of culture". There's little doubt Soul Auk grew a bit richer that day... Though rumor claims that this murder (or perhaps, its being unpunished) was related to a mysterious book which had been bought in Qadira and found its way, somehow, to the hands of the Glaziers.

Not all, however, were crime and violence. In no small measure, the continued presence of many Ashfolk notables responds to what doña Nasreen thought most charming about the Well: its people. In our variety and resilience, in our inventiveness, there was a constant outburst of creativity and passion. Both Qari and doña Nasreen, for example, are quick to point out to the Crows. Led by Captain Karim yn Tarek, this was a band of mercenaries which were hired to keep order in the Creep by Sol Auk, in no small measure to facilitate the Legate's semi-legal endeavors, such as a terribly unsuccessful brothel. Despite their unseemly work, the Crows were able to navigate the intricacies of the Well with notable grace, and climb up into more respectable positions over the following months.

Other civilian institutions made strides of their own. The Torchbearers kept on mapping the unknown desert, while the Competition dug eagerly despite the looming, vague threats of some Apothars. And even with the questionable behavior of its Guildmaster, the Alchemists's Guild continued to innovate and served as a hub for new tinkerers and craftsmen that were taking their first steps. We were becoming more than an outpost, full of caravaneers, refugees and adventurers, and growing into a State of our own. Often, of course, with great pains.

Perhaps the most notable of these pains was the passing of the Law forbidding Accorded Legates. Though an Astronomer had been Legate in the past decade, the Sultan had manifested his preference for Legates to be chosen from within civilian society, and this preference had informed many of the maneuvers against Lynneth's candidacy. Finally, on the Assembly of Tabbah 17th, Legate Zaniah codified the prohibition of the Accorded running for Elections.

At the time, many opposed such a change, your Author himself most loudly. Now, however, having seen the development of our institutions, he must admit that the change was for the best. The Accorded have power, and without restrictions to it, power tends to accumulate more power. A vicious cycle, this can end up relegating civilians to the fringe of the Well's governance. Thus, by restricting the core of the government to civilians, our democracy is provided with some space to grow.

While the question of how to best balance the interests of the Accord and those of Ephia as a whole remains, this turned out to be a step in the right direction... Proving that even Authors (or perhaps, specially Authors) can be wrong.

The Tonsure's Caravan

Of the many adventures and schisms and scandals of this period, however, the most important would start as a glimpse. First, a group of the Cinquefoil guided by Lyneth Llywarch ventured to the Rampart Nusrum and saw coming, from the distant south, a caravan of refugees. This information would become public days later, on the 10th of Tabbah, when she announced it to the public. Soon, other forces would send their own scouting missions, and report similar sights.

Immediately, the Caravan became a huge source of controversy... And none raised objections more publically than Legate Sol Auk. Ever a man of greed, he claimed that the Well lacked in infrastructure to provide for the refugees, and insisted instead that we sell them to nearby Kha'esh. Thankfully, the People of the Well were generally of the opinion that we had a duty to welcome refugees, none more so than the League of White, the Balladeers of the Lost Hearth and the Sisterhood of the Sibylline Wine, all of which tried to prepare for their arrival. Thus, for instance, Balladeer Lynneth, Acolytes Hypatia and Ianthe, and your humble Author led a secret mission which saw us seizing a shipment of grain from the Hundred Princes. These resources would see the refugees fed over the early months, and help quell some of the concerns raised.

Even with grain, however, there were many still concerned. Thus, on the 17th, right after the Assembly where the Accorded were banned from running for Legate, the Princess's Ashsail was borrowed by a small group of Accorded officers and the Torchbearers. High above they sailed, to the south past the Ramparts, where their trip was interrupted by a trap, a net held by the peaks of a ridge.

Their ambushers appeared, at first glance, to be three lizardfolk riding flying raptors... But when one took off his helmet, he was revealed as none other than Constantine Diakos. In the brief conversation that followed he revealed himself as a General of the 'Emperor' of a renascent Sibilant Empire. Battle soon followed, with the adventurers managing to cut themselves free and sail forth...

Somewhat shaken, the group sailed forth to the Caravan itself, where they were led to their leader: an ashen-skinned figure. It was taller than even the Stonefolk, covered in scars and with its face hidden under a mask. If you have ever delved into archaeology and history, dear reader, you may recognize these as signs of the Latent, ancient servants of the Colossi who rarely interact with the younger races, much less lead them. Known as "the Tonsure", this being presented an unexpected mystery... And, to make matters even more fascinating, it carried a bejeweled beaker of gold and studded gemstones.

Many strange things emerged in the conversation that followed. For a start, it became clear that the Sibilant Army was set upon the Caravan, desiring both the slaves they might gain and the strange beaker that they carried. The treasure had been found by a young boy who stood by the Tonsure's side, but whose name was never known. The Tonsure claimed, in the booming voice of the Ages, that the caravan was coming to the land of Ibtihal, whom it called "Pilgrim", "Queen" and other grandiose titles. Furthermore, showing the vessel, it said it was a gift for the late Orentid monarch, uttering the famous phrase:

"DAKHWAR FOR HER"

If, upon recognizing such fateful name, you find yourself shaken, oh reader, you aren't the only one. The return of the Caravan and their report led to a flurry of activity. Devouts filled the temples and priestly chants, the Bellows, while street-preachers seemed to fill every corner. This "Dakhwar" became an inextricable part of the ensuing political discussion: another argument in favor of intervention for the Rose, an object desired for examination by the Tower and something the Jannisaries - some say under orders of the Consulate - were adamant about never allowing within the Well.

Of course, proper scholars (by which your Author means himself, but also his most promising apprentice at the time, Sparrow) were immediately able to realize that this beaker couldn't be the promised Dakhwar, which historical Colossi sources always represent as a humble wooden Cup. Your Author dedicated no small effort to inform all the Accorded of the historical roots of the present conflict and his finds, mostly to express the importance of stopping the Sibilant and avoid unnecessary strife over this magical treasure. This didn't prevent a lot of conflict over the possible destiny of such an object, with Legate Sol Auk accepting bribes to promise it to different factions... While Legate Zaniah, some say after a few conversations alone with Lynneth under the glimmering stars (readers may refer to the Lynneth Llywarch Sapphic Relationship Chart), seemed to promise it to the Rose, much to the chagrin of some members of the Purple.

On those days, the urgent question became what to do about this Caravan. Ought we to let the refugees (and their Cup) be taken by the Sibilant Host of Diakos? Did we have a duty to save them? Shouldn't we oppose our enemies, the Sibilant? Were these refugees, as Lieutenant Colmes said, "loyal to the old Orentid regime"? And what about this "Cup"? Should we allow it to fall upon Sibilant hands, or did we need to gain it for ourselves? You may imagine, oh reader, the meetings behind closed doors, the crisis in the Pyramid, the passionate discussions in cofee houses and mizzar parlors...

And in the midst of all this frenzy, on the 20th of Tabbah, Legate Sol Auk declared the Labor of Government fulfilled. With full chests of dinari he had pocketed from bribes, the Bellow-tithes and other taxes, he left for Qadira... Triggering new elections in the midst of a crisis.

Say what you will about him: his sense of opportunity was unmatched. We were too busy to pursue him.




[Act III has been written with the generous aid of Torchbearers Naelin Karstwen and Sephidra Niridhe, Deputy Chief Scribe Aaisha al-Sammar, Acolyte Narwen Alendiel, Sister Ameliè, Hazezon Mraize, Qari Alriyh, Nasreen Shabani, Bashir Khatara and Marcellus Saenus. Special thanks to Lieutenant Rennik Colmes for providing a most interesting perspective on the death of Velan Volandis. While your Author doesn't entirely believe the elven hero's words wholeheartedly, this History would lack in Truthfulness without his perspective.

Mae Stern was reached for comment regarding the decision to quit her candidacy, but refused to respond.

As ever, the Author invites those who feel this Act lacks in accuracy to reach out to him, so that he their perspective may add to this History's Truthfulness.]

Pauvera leaving sparks of revelation to bully ppl as she heard on them XD 10/10 would never feel safe speaking in Whispers again.

Alternate Timelines

For some reason, there's a part of me that can't avoid seeing lives as stories and viceversa. Sometimes (more often, since I've tasted the taste of Truth) our lives seem, but for a moment, strange and distant things. To be judged for artistic merit, rather than as something messy and solid. It's a momentary impression. I blink and the feeling is gone, but the way it lingers gives some interactions a strange, distant air...

I suppose I reflect on this, particularly, because a discussion on the Second Coming of Estellise Azimi had become a discussion on the merits of different literary tropes.

"Look", I said, "all I'm saying is alternate universes are lazy storytelling"
"An excuse to be derivative, instead of trying something new"

Clarissant smiled, softly.
She has patience - and she likes the trope.
(And I like her patience, much more peaceful)

"Well, I'm sure there's an alternative you somewhere"
She chuckled, amusement glittering in her eyes, as she added:
"An Alejandro who thinks alternative timelines are "neat""

Naelin, in turn, frowned a bit.
Perhaps, due to her own experience.
Visions of alternatives, visions of otherwhens, otherifs.

"Well, don't say that in front of her!", she said.
Then, in a lower tone, almost of conspiracy, she added:
"It might make her sad"

And I suppose therein lays the trouble. Imagining people as stories is useful for the storyteller (and doubly so for the historian) but it flattens them. Their lives get lost in the plot. I wonder, what of the people who'll be remembered mostly in my History? I am trying to bring both their virtues and flaws but, ultimately, they have more to do with statues than with beating hearts...

Is Colmes the man trying to establish law and find Zarat, or is he a detective story? Was Lynneth the messy woman who couldn't resist wooing and also did grand heroics, or a knight's tale? Was Domhnall himself, a complicated and messy man with beautiful, shining eyes, whose tenderness became more and more rare, or was he a classical story about politics rotting idealists?

And I? What story am I?

And what story could I be, if only?

[A few dropplets of blood stain the end of this entry.]

And I find myself reflecting, too, on that heinous tower of LIES where the stained glass LIED about the past and the books LIED about the future and the voice echoed with LIES - for such was Their work, Their name as familiar to me as the shadow of Their daggers. They weave their LIES in history, right in the white space between one word and another...Alternative times are but distractions and LIES, and I fear them not and I care not for them - I walk faster and faster, because so long as I move forward, I can't be caught.

And I carry on my lips, everburning, the sweet taste of Truth.

Esteemed doña Nasreen,

While I know your time is probably rather occupied as of late, I would like to arrange for a meeting at your earliest convenience. I spoke with Marcellus on a matter, and he requested that I bring it up to you, as well, so it could be discussed in tandem.

Feel free to make a call, and I shall endeavour to attend.

Yours,

Alejandro

Dear señorite Millefiori,

My name is Alejandro Benjázar, local Storyteller and the Well's foremost expert in historical matters. I have read of your search for teachers, and felt it inapropriate not to offer my aid - for I love nothing more than to nurture scholarship.

Of course, I must admit my foremost flaw: I am, in fact, a young man (and a rather strapping one, at that!). If you'd be willing to overlook this matter - I assure you I am by no means scary - I shall happily offer you whatever education I may.

Yours,

Alejandro

Dear Colmes,

You may remember the lesson I gave on the False Dakhwar, when we all first heard about it. History repeats itself: I've been saving some special items, and preparing a history lesson for the moment a Warmaster was chosen. The past may yet hold the keys to the future and, as I proposed in the Assembly, a small team might achieve much exploring these topics...

Let's speak soon.

Yours,

Alejandro

An Understudy

Once, a lifetime ago, in the Rampart Nusrum, warhorns rang.
"We must scape", said the Professor, who had been leading the expedition.
"But the people!", cried the Singer, concerned for those who remained at the camp.
"We cannot leave them", said the Dwarven Hero, Shield of Ephia.
So they readied themselves, for battle.

He sighed, gently. "I'm not angry", he said.
"You just have fantastically bad judgement, sometimes"
I pressed my lips, trying to hold in the tears.

We were covered in blood, the both of us. The orcan's, and each other's. First we had won, but twenty corpses became forty became sixty... And in rode the cavalry, their spears shimmering in the raging fires. By the time we could retreat, it was too late. Overrun. Defeated. By telling Elias we couldn't leave the innocents behind, and had to fight, did I save anyone? And, even if I had saved them all, was it worth almost losing him?

"I failed", I whispered, "and I'm sorry"
I clenched my own wrist, to not scratch. I wanted to draw blood so badly.
"Dont be", he said. So very, very tired. "You did what you thought was right"
"You would've saved them, if you could".
He hesitated, dodging my eyes. "I can't blame you for that".

I held myself best I could, I said my goodbyes, but it was the door that was what did it. When I tried to open it, and it was locked, I just bursted into tears. A blood-soaked wimp, sniffling on the stairs, his heart spilling all over with guilt and love and sorrow and inadequacies, none more horrid than failing to protect someone he --

He interrupted the spiral of my tearful self-pity, his hand on my cheek.
"I don't want to lose you, either", he whispered.

And on they faced the Bellicose's assault.
Shields ringing, swords shining. A song high upon their lips.
On they faced it, and they lived.
And so lived the innocent caravaneers.
And all was joy and peace and happiness forever

Never had I felt like such a terrible understudy for Snorri.

My friends,

While I already shared this on the Bellows, it is my fear that you may not have heard them, and not all read the Bellow-transcripts. Hence, I take quill to paper to bring you a report: the Nusrum is lost.

Sandstone Student Elias Astor and myself were off performing some digs when we heard the marching of boots, and were interrupted by orcan scouts. Defeating them only revealed large masses of orcan were on the move. We ran to the caravaneer's camp, from whence travellers reach the Giant's Road, and were soon assaulted by siege-fire.

In an attempt to save the lives of the caravaneers, Elias and I warded and went forth to fight. We defeated a large number of infantry and shamans: twenty became forty became sixty. I do not know whether we bought time for some caravaneers to run off, but I know that when the cavalry charged, we were overwhelmed. Our retreat was far from elegant: Elias was wounded by a Whisperer and several riders, while only through trickery and the blessed Waters did I managed to survive the orcan assault. Hidden, I rescued my dear friend, as the orcans ransacked the camp. With him on my sholders, I rushed to the other encampment, dodging the warbands.

The spectacle in the camp whose caravans take people to the Southern Wold was not much better. It had been ransacked, and only one caravan-master lived. Blessedly, he took us along. Blessedly, too, Elias regained consciousness. As we travelled, we saw, in the distance, a fortress of ancient make. It was surrounded by siegework and soon to fall.

The Ramparts are lost, Legates.

When there was an Assembly, I proposed that we avoid an Accorded Warmaster because I knew the Accord would play games to see one of their numbers leading. As we argue, people die. I strongly suggest that a decision be made today. If the Accord cannot agree, chose from amongst them by decree or by chance. Perhaps roll a die and let it fall on one of them. Luck may be blind, but is better than hesitation.

Respectfully yours,

Alejandro