3. Yana at the Docks

Yana at the Docks


  • The shops and apartments in the docks district whisk by in the predawn light. The sounds of my footsteps echo quietly in the streets and alleys. My pony tail swishes noiselessly across my back in unison with my steps.

    I missed my morning run in the streets, a ritual broken in the last few years by the icy hills and frozen wastes my mom calls home. Running in the hills required care and attention. The streets of Peltarch allow for thought and meditation. I run past the Pissing Goat, and reflect on yesterday.

    The first person I ran into after my arrival from the docks was of all people, Luke. My thoughts often turned to him when lying quietly under the northern night sky. I wondered where he was, what he was doing, and hoped he was safe.

    We chatted under the tree in the commons, and I almost forgot how self conscious he makes me. I have fancied him for a long time, and his flattery left me somewhat disarmed. The smell of his clothing brought back so many memories of my youth … A little blonde waif with a crush.

    I found myself hoping that perhaps his playful banter and flattery would yield a mutual interest, and when he said he traveled north to look for me after I ventured to be with mom, my heart leapt at the possibilities. But those feelings of hope came crashing down again, after he announced he had taken Sabre back in his life.

    I have considerable self-control, but I’m no actress, nor do I pretend to be. Mom often advised me to be up front with my feelings … that deception and lies of the heart are cowardly, and very un-Tempus like. My emotional state was plain for him to see.

    “I’m sorry”, he said. I could see he felt guilty, but it certainly wasn’t his fault. I swallowed my pride and openly let him know how I felt. Any other course of action would have dishonored the friendship we both shared. I left him with a smile tinged with regret.

    What saddens me though is that the playful banter will be gone. There will be an undercurrent of discomfort between us now, which will color our friendship forever.


  • Time has passed. So much so, that I’ve entirely lost track of it.

    It was years ago that I received the letter from mom, asking me to come north. She had it in her mind to unite the northern tribes. She didn’t explain whether this was to be under the banner of Tempus, her quest to be “Queen of the North”, or both….but she wanted me at her side as an advisor.

    I put off responding to her. I had duties and responsibilities here in the city, and I wasn’t about to abandon them. However, after being denied the promotion I had requested, and being disgruntled with the inability of a reduced senate to get anything accomplished, I took a leave of absence. Time away from the city would do me good I told myself.

    In the seasons that followed, I advised the best I could. Political maneuverings do not suit her. She has a good heart, but if it can’t be resolved with her ax or her charming smile, she’s often left puzzled and prone to rash action and bloodshed. Much to my bewilderment however, in the time I was there she managed to unite almost half of the tribes under one banner. It never fails to astonish me how people respond to her. She can turn a meeting hall around with her presence, an ability that I have always been jealous of. When I left she was known as “Illes o’na Morsa Vox”, which roughly translates to “Celestial Mother of Battle”. Even though she’s been only partially successful, the number of northern warriors at her beckoning … worries me. I must never forget that mom is Tempus’ chosen.

    The letter from Fortescue arrived stained and barely legible. It had found its way to me over ship, pack animal and at one point carrier bird. There’s a new senate, and voice has been given to the people. Peltarch is changing, and people will be needed to guide it to a new and prosperous future. It was time I went home.

    Now I’m on a ship, and the cold spray of the Ice Lace washes over the bow covering my face with a fine mist. I can see the city I love in the distance, the tops of the buildings barely visible over the towers and walls.

    Soon, I will be home again.


  • The wind blows quietly down the streets. Leaves swirl in little eddies in the corners, rustling like little mice feet on the cobblestones. The sun hangs low in the sky as I walk around my beat. I find myself humming, almost playfully.

    Peltarch is quiet these days. There is little of the political unrest, thievery and violence that plagued the city just a few short years ago. It’s a good feeling, like the quiet sunny afternoon the day after a storm.

    I walked into the Ferret earlier this evening, and a familiar figure was there, his long well worn leather coat shifting with his movements. I saw the back of his tawny head as he spoke with Sabre and Rasuil. When he turned to face me and said “Hi” with that lopsided grin of his, I knew it was Luke.

    There was tension in the air, a cold uncertain feeling between Sabre, Rasuil and Luke. My presence interrupted the conversation, and soon Luke excused himself with a sigh, and invited me to the Mermaid for drink and conversation.

    I walked with him quietly, saying little. He had left Narfell years ago. He and Sabre had been inseparable then, but he left, and Sabre had moved on. I’m sure Luke expected it, but the disappointment was plain on his face.

    We chatted for quite some time at a table in the Mermaid. We complimented each other needlessly, and both moped about lost loves. He made playful, risqué innuendoes. I blushed at least once. I’m not the same person anymore, and the crush I had on him years ago has been swept under the pile of detritus, fallen hopes and crushed dreams.

    … or has it?

    I sat there and felt remarkably self conscious. I smiled helplessly at times. He always had a way of making me feel beautiful, even when I convinced myself I wasn’t.

    My shift came far too early. Soon I excused myself, and he hugged my tightly with a playful grin and tussle on the head.

    I left the Mermaid with a smile.


  • The crowd was permeated with low whispers and quiet conversation. There was no cheering. They watched curiously as the man lay on the floor unmoving, wondering whether he was dead.

    There are times when being six and a half feet of muscle would be an advantage in diplomacy. The man had pulled a blade when I asked him to leave the Pissing Goat. “Make me”, he said with a disrespectful sneer.

    He remained standing for less than three seconds following that remark.

    Two of the doormen from outside dragged him out on the street. I gave his blade to the bartender. It wasn’t even worth the time to arrest him. Had I been six and half feet of muscle, he would have left peacefully, and that would have been that.

    Despite the incident, I left the Pissing Goat in a good mood, though somewhat soured by recent reflection.

    When I first met the new guardsman Cecil, I was delighted to meet someone from mom’s heritage who spoke Uthgardt, a dialect of Illuskan. He was tall and well mannered with a kind heart. Flights of imagination led my thoughts to dinners, deep conversations and intimacy. The problem is that I move on “Elf time” and not “Human time”. I dwell on things for months, as if I had all the time in the world make things happen.

    One day, casual conversation with Cecil at the south gate in Norwick revealed his affection for one of the knights of the order. I found myself jealous, but not surprised. I quickly realized I had met this man months ago in Peltarch, and then went idly on my way thinking about it rather than doing anything to advance a relationship.

    An opportunity lost and a lesson learned I suppose.


  • There is a cacophony of noise in the adjacent room. One of the senior sergeants Jake has turned 40. The smell of stale beer wafts into the training room, accompanied by their raucous shouts and a woman’s giggling. A couple of the women from the Pissing Goat have found their way over here, knowing the coin will be flowing freely along with the liquor and good spirits.

    I congratulated Jake on his milestone, ate some of the cheese and the rum soaked cake, laughed over stories of misdeeds and poor timing, and then excused myself to the next room. Shallyah sat in a corner of the room sitting on her heels, face contorted in concentration on the candle in front of her.

    I don’t know quite what to make of her. She reminds me of me in a remarkable number of ways, not all of them good. She’s stoic and withdrawn, something I could tell started at an early age. Mine was brought about by exposure to life on the docks, and the authority granted to me to keep the peace. I had to withdraw myself to maintain perspective. She’s done it because someone told her to.

    “Yana, I can’t focus with all the noise in the next room. Can we please move to somewhere quieter?”

    She spoke quietly in deferential tones. I could hear the restraint in her voice. She controlled herself very carefully, which ironically I was trying to undo.

    “Shallyah, I brought you here because of the party in the next room”, I said. She saw the amusement on my face and I could see the frown starting to form, but it melted away as soon as it came. Always the self control.

    “Shallyah, some people will teach you to focus on your opponent in combat. That you must tune out everything around you and pay absolute attention to what your opponent is doing. Anticipate his movements, watch his eyes, and follow his weapon. You may very well get good by doing this, but you’ll miss much.”

    She looked at me curiously as I continued, “I want you to close your eyes for moment and tell me what you hear”

    “The party. All I hear is the party in the next room”, she said. “It’s very loud…oh, and you. I hear you.”

    “What else?”

    Shallyah furrowed her brows for a bit, “I hear the gulls on the water”

    “Good. Now what I’d like you to do is keep your eyes closed, and focus on the individual sounds. Pick out individual voices in the party. Focus on what they say. Pick out the gulls. Listen to their movements. Then find new sounds to focus on, and listen to them too. There’s a lot going around you Shallyah”

    She paused for a moment, but looked puzzled. “Yana, how will this help me focus my Ki?”

    “Because Shallyah, I never believed that learning to focus required you to tune things out. Learning to focus requires you to pay attention.”

    I left her like that, with a thoughtful expression as I wandered back to the party. I don’t know if I can teach her what she needs to know, or whether it will do any good. I don’t know what she’ll get from my lessons. It might not be much, but if it helps her come back alive to her friends, it’s enough.


  • The rain is cold. Its gentle touch wets my silks and soaks me to the skin. My hair is matted, and my pony tail hangs limply on my back. The Legion Tower stands behind me, laughing in silent mockery to my misery.

    It’s been years since Jay died. Jay died somewhere here, but the passage of battle has been erased by the forces of nature and the relentless march of time. I’m sure he died violently, with anger and hatred in his heart. I like to imagine that his end brought a measure of peace, but I’ll never be certain. All I know is that he was the only man that ever loved me.

    I come here every year about the same time. Sometimes I look for tell tale pieces of jewelry or clothing. More often, I come to tell him that I cared, even though the words are empty and lost in the wind.

    He’s simply gone.

    I walk the wall of stones, balancing effortlessly. He would like to see me this way I think, even in my bedraggled state. Rather than wielding a weapon, I’ve become one. I know deep in my heart, that he would be proud of me.

    I tell myself each year that it will be my last. My heart has turned a little colder and moved on, but each year I find myself here again, walking the wall.


  • The scenery slides by in relative silence as the riverboat glides towards Peltarch. Most of the crew is resting in the sun, and keeping a watchful eye on the water ahead of us. A few animals graze in the fields, and watch us as we pass by. What little wind there is ruffles the stray strands of hair that have escaped my ponytail, tickling my face. I am lost in thought, and absently brush it aside.

    I thought to do something unusual, and compete in the festival in the Lucky Ferret. There was a staff fight on a greased log, where I over extended and ended up on the floor, laughing at myself. There was an unarmed fight in a greased pit, which I won handily. There was also an exhibition of presentation and athleticism, combined with a good dose of humor and fun. This involved a rope, and a greased pole. Contestants could climb either and slide down the other. Bonus points awarded for actually going up the pole and down the rope, rather than vice versa.

    I was the only one to make it up the greased pole. I grabbed the rope, and then gently slid down upside down using my legs. The men were staring, and for the first time in a very long time I felt sexually empowered. Amidst the cheers of onlookers I hit the floor with my hands and tumbled to my feet.

    I blushed at the attention. People congratulated me, and I felt beautiful, a feeling I haven’t had since … Jay. I didn’t know what to say or do other than bask in the attention. So when Thorn came up to me afterwards and invited me to visit him down south, I read far too much into his proposal. I dared to hope that someone familiar and nice would see me past the weapon I’ve become.

    I made it south the following week for fight night. However, it was plainly obvious that Thorn and Fadia are involved, and his invitation was simply one of friendship.

    Sometimes, I can be such an idiot.

    I’m not bitter or angry, except perhaps at myself for expecting something more. The moment where people stared was fleeting, but I’ll remember it forever. Sometimes it’s nice to feel beautiful even when you’re not.


  • I lean on the railing of the balcony of the Grapevine Inn. The wind blows through the valley from the north, bringing with it the smell of freshly turned earth and cut wood. It’s the smell I grew used to growing up in Norwick, but now seems so foreign to me. The clouds move quickly overhead, casting running shadows on the fields. I watch below me as contestants in the games fight each other to test their skill.

    There were times in my life where I ached to grow up and compete. When I returned to this land, one of the first things I did was participate in the games to practice and prove myself. I wanted mom to be proud. I wanted to live up to my name as the daughter of one of the great warriors in this land.

    I have, I think. I have bested reputable metal clad warriors armed with sword and shield, with nothing but silks and what I was born with. Now, except for the occasional demonstration of skill, the games no longer hold much interest to me.

    However, I have learned that there is a price for this level of competence, particularly for a woman.

    Loneliness.

    I watched it happen with mom. Men would look up to mom with respect, admiration, and sometimes fear. Rarely however, would they look upon her with love or desire. Those that did hid it, fearful I suppose that she would find out.

    I noticed it with myself. When I came back from Damara, my youthful exuberance and lack of confidence brought men to me. They cared for my well being. There were offers of protection and affection. Now I am kept at a respectable distance.

    Perhaps it’s me. The experiences required to obtain this level of training come with a price. Despite my elven longevity, the woman who stares back in the mirror is different than the one that did ten years ago. Her eyes have seen too much, and they look back at me cold and uncaring.


  • The air in the Pissing Goat is filled with the smoke of hearth and pipe. The scents of cooked meat and fish mingles with the odors of old ale, straw and sweat, creating an atmosphere unique to this establishment.

    I sit in the corner of the large room. Dressed in my ODS blue and yellows, I am as innocuous as I can be. Yet as always I sit alone, my small table vacant save for me and the remains of my evening meal. The darkness won’t be put aside today, or buried in that little corner of my heart. Jenny served me dinner and saw the look on my face, and then left.

    The sounds of the room are a cacophony of laughing, swearing, and clinking of mugs and dinner ware. This is punctuated by the chime of coins at another, and the low voices surrounding me. It’s a constant drone that tells me all is well.

    Until suddenly, the tone changes

    It gets quieter. The change in pitch is as alarming as a shout in my ear, and I glance up at the large table full of coins. A man is standing. He is slender but tall, with thick black hair covering his face and arms. A Damaran pig-sticker rests easily in his right hand, the point of it at the throat of another who remains sitting.

    I know most everyone here, but not the men at this table. A new ship perhaps, or group from a caravan from Damara.

    I get up and make my way over. He notices me about ten feet before I get there, but dismisses me at a glance. The man seated is frightened, and has leaned back in his chair. The point of the knife has drawn blood.

    “…nobody draws cards like that, nay e’en blessed b’Tymora” he spits out.

    He looks at me again. This time I’m holding up a badge.

    “You can kill him for cheating”, I say, “But then I’ll have to arrest you for murder. You’ll go to jail, be tried, and then hang. I hope it’s worth it”

    Except for a low murmur, the room is very quiet now. He looks around at his companions for support. No one moves. He glances around the room to gauge the situation. Several of the regulars shake their heads, advising him with glances and looks. His mouth twitches some, and I notice the muscles in his arm relax. With a flourish he sheathes the knife, and sits with a contemptuous expression.

    I turn and walk back to the table. The noise of the Pissing Goat rises again to its familiar, comforting level.

    I sit at the table again, alone with the remains of my dinner.


  • Jealousy

    I wandered from the Dancing Mermaid out into the commons. Rico is talking to this red head, the one that’s been seen around Mariston and his squires. She looks the part of the performer, her face smooth and comely. She is beautiful in ways I could never be. Their eyes are locked and she smiles demurely, playing with her hair.

    It swells inside me, the monster nibbling at my pride. I tell myself I can’t compete with the likes of her and walk away.

    Bitterness

    I walked away from the defeat of the shadows. Others did not, and gave their lives for the good of many. It was my duty to defend the common good. I have sworn to do so, and ask little in return. I have what I need to survive, and many of the finer things beyond what I truly need. Others were not so lucky, and did not survive.

    Yet, my bank account grows depleted. I have little to show for any of the adventures I have been on. Mom used to have a wall where things were hung, and a shelf below it. They were full of trinkets of her conquests and travels. Reminders of great deeds accomplished, and adventures had.

    Save for the silks I wear I have nothing, save what I have purchased or traded. I question what I truly need, but discover it boils down to what I truly want.

    Resentment

    It is said that the great among us aspire to serve others. To give of one’s self so that others can live their lives and be safe. I have done so in the service of this city for many years. I have watched friends die to keep this city and its people from harm.

    But so few care of these lives lost, or buried in the mire of tedium and fear needed to protect them. Many resent us, and now with sadness I have begun to resent them in return. I resent the ungrateful people I protect, and the ungrateful people that order me to do so. Yet I continue as a good person must.

    These dark emotions and thoughts follow me through the docks. Many see the darkness in my demeanor and avoid me. No longer the little blonde waif, people fear what I can do. No longer the friendly face, but simply the law.

    My journey through the docks takes me to the end of a pier. I fold into a sitting position and rest quietly in meditation, pushing the darkness aside. I have a little trunk in the corner of my heart where I keep these feelings, and lock them in there where they won’t do any harm.

    I worry though that someday the trunk will be too full to close, or that someone will steal the key. That will be the day I will do something I truly regret.


  • It’s raining outside in Norwick. It’s a cold driving rain that soaks through clothes in seconds. A few people run from house to house, occasionally slipping in the muddy streets. I just stare out the window from my room at the Grapevine Inn. I’m having a hard time focusing my feelings and thoughts.

    Three friends of mine paid the price of arrogance. They died because we didn’t value life, and underestimated our foe.

    We had searched in vain for Rico. When we didn’t find him, the kobolds had asked for tribute. They said we should leave it for their chieftain to ensure safe passage out of the warrens. I was in the middle of bargaining when Rith decided that tribute would be in the form of a summoned earth elemental, which appeared behind their barricade and slaughtered all who didn’t escape.

    The trip out soon became a nightmare of epic proportions. Kobolds and their lizardmen allies swarmed out from the underground pools and streams, blocking our entrance. What started as an organized melee became a flight for survival. Rico, Saria, and Corwin all fell.

    I was standing outside Peltarch’s gates, simply thankful to be alive. Fadia and Tindra were there, all of us dazed, wounded and exhausted. One of them mentioned that Rith should be bopped on the head. I was too upset to laugh at the time.

    When their spirits were returned, Rico had a look of guilt. Saria was bewildered and confused. Corwin stood proud and stoic, and walked himself out the room. I had expected less of him, and couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. I still remembered him as the boy next door, and not the man he’s become. I’ve seen many a seasoned adventurer with far less dignity.

    My thoughts turn back to the present. A wagon goes by my window, spraying two children with mud and water. They squeal in delight, and continue to run about in the rain, sliding in puddles. I watch them and smile. I was one of them a lifetime ago.


  • I have just come back from the Festival of the Seldarine. With deliberate care I undo my pony tail, and place my uniform on my dresser. I sit on my bed and close my eyes. In my mind I see the others in the festival, laughing and dancing.

    A band is playing downstairs in the Mermaid. The music filters up through the floorboards of my room and fills my senses. It is a mixture of dulcimer, a heavier stringed instrument, and drums. The music is slow and rhythmic, but begins to pick up pace.

    They’re playing my song.

    Many years ago, Glorion had me put some of my katas to music. It was an exercise in rhythm of movement, and a way of expanding my thinking on what unarmed combat was truly about.

    The song I chose was a classic. “Warrior’s Demise” by Chipolte. It’s a sad song, with soaring sequences that lift my heart above my daily cares.

    Downstairs, I hear them practice. Soon they start again.

    I stand from the bed. My hands come up in fluid movements, arms outstretched to the rising notes of the dulcimer. My leg rises to near vertical, as the heavier stringed instrument begins its solo. Soon, the two instruments begin a slow interlocking duel, my arms and legs sweeping the air in time with the music below me.

    The pace quickens, and I begin to sweat as my arms, legs, and body sweep the room quickly in circular interlocking motions. Time passes. I am lost in the sound and rhythm. My worries and cares forgotten.

    Eventually, the music slows along with my movements. In the song, the warrior is dying, and I honor the music by lowering my stance and finally, collapsing to the floor.

    The music stops.

    I hear clapping downstairs, as the waitresses and few patrons show their appreciation for their fine performance. I get off the floor, and blow out the flame in the lantern.

    Like the warrior in the song, my world turns dark.

    I wonder if he too, danced alone.


  • The morning sky is cold and gray. The waves crash noisily on the piers, the last gasp of a passing storm. The vendors are just beginning to open their windows and carts. People peek out of doorways and look up. An hour from now, the docks will be busy again.

    I accepted Ael’Que’s request to teach him some of the finer points of unarmed combat. Though he follows me on my rounds sometimes, and asks questions, I can’t help but think there are other motives behind this request.

    Every morning before shift, I teach the guards the little tricks needed to throw someone off balance, and to throw a punch or an elbow properly. I teach the guards as a method of keeping the peace. Unarmed conflict is far less deadly, and if a situation can be resolved before weapons are drawn, so much the better. However, I don’t think Ael’Que wants to learn unarmed combat to keep the peace. Although he hasn’t said it outright, I believe he wants to learn so he can win in the Norwick games.

    Ael’Que is strong and quick. He is a disciplined warrior. I can teach him the right and wrong ways of fighting unarmed. Given the time and training, I could make him very good.

    But is it the right thing to do?

    I can never share the fullness of Glorion’s teachings with him. He’s too set in his ways, and lacks the necessary insight. I could see that, in the first few lessons. Being strong and quick does not make up for that.

    The Tempus warrior in me tells me to arm a person who wishes to fight. Lathander loves athletic contests. I teach him because my faith tells me it’s the right thing to do.

    But something inside me tells me it’s wrong, and puts the seeds of doubt in my heart.


  • It started with the neighbors complaining about the noise. A routine investigation leading to a dark alley and a sturdy door.

    I stood in the narrow spaces between the buildings unmoving, staring at the door. The wall behind me obscured the twilight from the western sky, and the alley was filled with misshapen shadows. The dark corners of my mind whispered for me to get another guard.

    But I didn’t.

    I knocked, and I was surprised when the door opened a crack. An emotionless eye peeked out.

    “City guard”, I said. “May I come in?”

    A long pause. A long look behind him.

    “Sure thing”, he said, unlocking a chain inside the door.

    He smiled. It bothered me.

    I stepped in, wary of my surroundings. It was neat and tidy. Somehow, I had expected different.

    “How can I help you?” he said, smiling again. He was tall, and thin. His black hair was was well groomed. He had shaved recently. His eyes were light gray.

    The smile and the eyes were disconnected. Incongruous. One betrayed the other. It was then I began to notice the smell.

    “The neighbors have been complaining about noises coming from your apartment”, I said looking around carefully.

    “What kind of noises”, he asked. The smile was innocence pasted on a face of full wariness. His eyes flicked to an interior door.

    I wandered around, gently and casually turning over various knickknacks, all the while watching him. It was a trick I learned from a retired lieutenant. People betrayed themselves so easily.

    “Nothing specific”, I lied.

    I brushed my hand on the handle of the door, and he stiffened. The smile never faded.

    “What’s in the next room?” I asked innocently.

    “Just my pantry” he said.

    I went to open it, but it was locked. A faint noise came from the other side of the door.

    “Please open it” I replied

    “Do you have a warrant miss?” He challenged.

    “You invited me in”

    The smile faded, but never left. “Now I’m asking you to leave”

    My kick shattered the door jam. The dim light from an oil lamp revealed in grisly detail what lay around the small room. Something, or someone moaned. Someone that couldn’t possibly still be alive, but was.

    I threw up.

    Then I was hit.

    The blow caught me off guard, and drove me to the floor. My vision exploded with little white lights. He raised the long metal bar to hit me again, but I could see it all coming, an echo in my perception. When he swung again, I simply wasn’t there, having rolled aside and kipped to a crouch. The bar hit the floor with a solid thunk and a clang.

    As my vision continued to swim, he swung again. I leaned back and was content to let it miss. Knickknacks and shelving shattered on the wall.

    He was still smiling when he raised the bar over his head, and I hit him so fast he never finished the swing. He staggered back against the wall, a look of stunned shock on his face, still pasted over with that eerie smile.

    In the back of my mind was a choice. I could see the choice played out. I would arrest him. He would go to prison. There would be a trial, and he would be executed.

    I killed him before that choice was made.


  • The wind whispering through the valleys and hills surrounding Norwick is familiar. It’s an old, comforting sound that tells me I am home again, though it is no longer my home.

    I spent much of my life here with mom. I grew up with the children, swam in the streams, and played in the hills. I trained, sweated, fought and hid in these halls. There is so much of my life here that I want to remember and forget.

    I come here often to think. As a Peltarch city guard I can never leave my job behind. Even off duty, I am still a guard, and duty and responsibilities always swim in the murky waters of my subconscious. In Norwick, my responsibilities seem so far away.

    Today, I have much to think about. I honestly don’t even know where to begin. All of it so bewildering and sad.

    As a member of the Divine Shield, I was called to halt a series of events designed to destroy the city. I had been following the reports of parallel planes, appearances and disappearances as best I could. But my primary duties are the mundane and daily tasks of my profession. I often leave the confrontation of demonic and otherworldly forces to those best equipped to deal with them.

    I didn’t understand most of what I was supposed to be doing. I knew that there was a portal, and going through it would trigger a release allowing demonic forces to enter our realm. Shannon, Daisy and Mariston would be there to stop them. I knew that this portal entered another version of Peltarch, where dark forces there were bent on destroying mine. All of this centered around a device called the calculabe. We were to go through this portal to stop these demonic forces, and recover it.

    We were successful.

    I like to think I fought well, and contributed to the mission’s success. But I wasn’t good enough. At least not good enough to save Aelthas.

    Aelthas died facing a creature beyond my ability to fight. He died bravely, doing his duty and fighting for his city. He died with honor. Tempus would be proud.

    …and I cried.

    I had no time to cry then. I was too scared, too involved, and too focused on the tasks at hand. It wasn’t until later, that I let myself grieve.

    I don’t have many friends in this world. Aelthas was one of them. Already married with children, he was my “safe” guy friend that I could flirt with and discuss my feelings. I like to think that part of my grief is for his wife Lycka and his children, but right now my grief is selfish.

    I’m going to miss him.


  • She arrived the other day. I heard a sailor talking, laughing drunkenly that he had seen an older version of me asking for directions.

    She stayed in the Mermaid, this older version of me. She is slender. Fate did not strengthen her limbs or have a champion of Tempus to teach her the ways of combat.

    She is older. She has seen her son in law die of a broken heart, her daughter dead at the hands of others. She has seen much in this life, and wants to see a little more before the years carry her away.

    She is my grandmother. Her name is Fi.

    We introduced ourselves to each other in the Mermaid. She had a copy of the broach made by my father, a man I never knew. A broach also given to my birth mother, a woman I only knew for a couple of months before she was slain. I spent my life in the Sisterhood never knowing her, but cared by a woman who loved me, and raised me as her own.

    We walk along the docks now, her gate calm and steady. I point things out to her, and introduce her to vendors, street urchins, and dock workers. I spend the day and show her the city.

    As we walk, I wonder how her presence will change things. She runs a merchant business in Impiltur. When she returns, will I go with her?

    I leave such decisions and thoughts for another time.


  • It wasn’t until I overheard the date at one of the pottery shops, that I realized it was my birthday.

    It should be special I suppose. I should have a tight circle of friends and family. We should gather at an inn, eat heartily, sing silly songs, and listen to stories designed to embarrass me. Isn’t that what everyone else does?

    Now that the shrine is finished, mom is elsewhere. I don’t have anyone else that I could call family, and my circle of friends, the ones who I talk to every week, ones I share jokes with, the ones who laugh and cry with me…

    …don’t exist.

    They used to. There was a time in my life when I shared adventures with people, people whose lives I cared about, and would sacrifice for. People who shared those feelings and returned them.

    …but they’re gone too.

    But are they truly gone, or is it me?

    The city I loved has become my life. I have withdrawn from adventuring to protect this city. I have given so much to it, and it has taken every bit, swallowed it, and demanded more. The dreams and visions I had have been replaced with a daily tedium of duty and obligation. More a symbol of Torm than Lathander. I have become Sergeant Yana of the Peltarch City Guard. Nothing less, yet nothing more.

    Perhaps this is why this little brooch has become so important to me. I’ve spoken with merchants, clergy, and bards to gain what little insight I could into a legacy that shouldn’t matter, but somehow does. Perhaps I am hoping that knowledge of the past will guide my future.

    I hear shouting in the Pissing Goat. One of the waitresses comes running out of the door to me, and says one of Shay’s men has cut down Little Robert after being accused of cheating. There’s blood all over the place she says, and Shay’s man isn’t backing down.

    I close my eyes momentarily before I enter the Pissing Goat.

    Happy birthday to me.


  • I stare at my right hand for a moment, turning it over to look at the back of it. The skin on the second knuckle is split, despite the training and calluses. Blood drops from my hand to the ground, and mingles with the blood of others in the sand.

    I arrested nine people today for assault. One of them I almost killed because he wouldn’t submit, and insisted on trying to kill me with a fishing gaff.

    I hope the senate means well, but this is getting out of hand. By the gods, make up your fucking mind and stick to it. The people aren’t sheep, willing to be herded from one decision to another. There are times when I think that mom’s right, and we should go back to having a king.

    The only senator I trust any more is Mariston. Everyone knows where he stands. I find it odd that I would be willing to die for him, yet could scarcely call him friend because I honestly don’t know him. Yet I trust him implicitly, not necessarily to make the right decision, but to make a single decision and stick to his word.

    I wrap my hand in a clean cloth, and go back on patrol. I have this constant feeling I’m being watched, but I see no one lurking in the shadows, or moving with me through the crowd.

    Last week, Nicahh gave me a brooch. A small stone-like leaf once owned by my birth mother; a link to my unknown heritage. I run it through my fingers. It’s heavy, and warm to the touch.

    Perhaps someday I will find out about the elven woman that died, and the half-elven man that loved her. It amuses me to think of myself as the daughter of great adventurers, or elven royalty. Truth is that they were probably scribes, or simple travelers looking for a new home.

    It shouldn’t matter. I know who my mom is. But it’s an itch I can’t scratch, and I am curious.


  • The sky is overcast. Its gray darkens my mood and the woods around me. I stand in the cold shadow of the Legion tower, its stones rising high towards the steel gray sky. It speaks nothing to me of the events that transpired here a few days ago.

    I am told Jay died here somewhere. I suppose the exact spot shouldn’t matter, but it does.

    I move wraithlike through the area, stopping here and there at the stained spots on the ground. The leaves are scattered and the ground churned, the last remnants of a fight for life, or a search for death.

    I stop for a moment, and pull up a tattered piece of cloth. It’s stained with dried blood, and for a moment, I imagine it belonged to Jay.

    His death, this death brings with it a sea of conflicted emotions. I torment myself with thoughts of actions I could have taken to stop all of this. I could have loved him a little more, and drawn him away from the darkness. I could have hated him a little more, and ended it there in the gaming fields of Norwick. For all that I both loved and hated him, he was never unkind or mean to me. I wonder if my heart found the darkness in his, and made me walk away.

    The other night, Jay’s armor was returned to me. Exquisitely crafted, I cleaned the armor myself. With as much detachment as I could, I watched as the water washed the dried blood into the gutter. The tears that stung my eyes made it difficult.

    I had it repaired. Now it sits gleaming in storage. It will not be bargained with. It will not be traded or sold. It will be a gift for someone deserving, perhaps someone who can remove the stains that remain with it, and on my soul.


  • There are giants that walk on Toril. They not the literal giants of legend, song and story. They are not aligned to fire or ice. They are instead people who spawn the legends, songs and stories.

    I see them from time to time. If the world were one large Gnomish contraption, they would be the flashy lights, the sparklers, or the horns that shake the hills with their trumpeting. When trouble arises they lead the charge, and myriad others follow. People surround them, following their dreams instead of their own. People yearn to be at their side for a smile, a touch, or even love.

    I have been in their presence. They are people like Mariston, Mom, Ronan, and Rith. Just standing in their presence fills one with confidence. That the world will be a better place with their presence, and that everything will be alright when they fight at your side.

    I am not one of them.

    If the world were a large Gnomish contraption, I would be one of the gears in the center. I would be hidden from view, behind spinning tops, whistles, and iron plates. Strong and tireless, I would spin so that others could see the flashy lights, the sparklers and the trumpeting horns.

    I wonder. I wonder what it would be like to be one of trumpeting horns someday.