3. Letters Home (The House Of Teroldys)

Letters Home (The House Of Teroldys)

  • T

    _The young knight, alone in the Order's quiet halls, sits curled up on a plush couch, brushing her still damp chestnut hair into a deep shine. Night has fallen outside, stars gleaming against the darkened skies glimpsed through the tall window. Ashena seems in a pensive mood, fingertips absently stroking the soft fuzziness of her white clothing. She leaves her hair hanging free, turning solemn brown eyes up to the window, though her introspection is inevitably interrupted by Bob the cat, purring loudly as he plants himself in the paladin's lap.

    She chuckles, indulging the tabby with his rightful share of attention before carefully attempting to use the couch's arm rest as a make-shift table. Bob's ears flick at the soft rasping sound, but his eyes remain shut while he drifts off to sleep. Ashena writes:_

    "Dearest Gralam,

    It is easier being a knight than being a woman, that is verily what I wrote you, not long ago, is it not? Not only is it easier, but somehow, despite the dangers I face each day, tis also safer, in a sense. You know full well my reluctance to partake in the games of courtship and flirtation so fondly (and sometimes cruelly) played by our peers. It always made me feel horribly self conscious, awkward and stiff. I remember thinking that if ~this~ was what being a woman was all about, then I wanted no part of it. Being a knight though… being a knight, I thought, trumphs gender entirely, making it irrelevant, an aesthetic detail only.

    I was right, and I was wrong.

    I am a knight, and in my service to the True, being male or female matters not at all. But I am also Ashena - sister and daughter, lady and lover to be (or not to be, that is the question). It was not until I fell in love myself that I understood that being a woman really ~is~ part of me, a hitherto neglected aspect that suddenly carried both weight and joy. Oh, I was oft called beautiful before, sometimes even in earnest, I'm sure. But it meant nothing to me; my appearance is naught to do with any of my real achievements or aspirations. It was just a word, with little more significance than 'brown' or 'short' or whatever other words one may fix to the surface of description.

    But when Cecil's eyes looked upon me, when his mouth formed the word I saw echoed in that gaze, then I truly felt beautiful, I felt desired. I liked that; the swirling tug in my gut, the prickles on my skin from just that one look. He awakened something I didn't even know I had, and now, I'm surprised to find that I miss not only him, but also those stirrings within, the thrill of discovering something new, as if my body had it's own language, silent all these years until we met. I miss it, and I hate it, because I have nowhere to put these feelings now; I stuff them deep down, but they won't be still. They still ~want~.

    Ever since his disappearance, I have been twice as much the knight, or so it feels. Partly of necessity, for being the sole knight active in the field, but partly to keep from grieving, I think. Duty is a blessed thing, for more reasons than I shall bore you with by naming them! I feel needed as a knight, useful, confident and full of purpose. As a woman, however... I am a faltering, fumbling fool, full of pointless pining.

    If I told myself I would not wait forever, would this yearning stop? Would my body cease to ache and play cruel tricks on me? I caught myself staring the other day as Cecil's tribal friend, Uljas, removed his shirt, stretching unashamedly. He's tall, though not quite so tall as Cecil, and more than well muscled. I stared, and he ~caught~ me looking, grinned in genuine flattered self-satisfaction and commented that he ought to have oiled up too. I was mute in mortification, breathing a sigh of relief as he opted to find his wife (one of many, if you can believe it!) instead of teasing.

    Most everyone around me are too respectful to behave as Uljas though, or perhaps tis even that they do not see the woman for the shining knight. That's what I always did strive for, is it not? To be respected for what I do, who I am rather than how I look. But that half awakened part of me, she who stirs under the surface, she takes inexplicable thrill in being noticed for those other reasons. Dermin's eyes gliding down to my chest, as if slipping and falling, accidentally. He looks near apologetic too, and as if on silent agreement, we do not mention these trespassing glances. Lence is less discreet, but also tends to follow such looks up by silly, defusing comments. Vick, a scout from Peltarch, is likely the closest to actual flirtation - though he makes such a show of it as to ensure it is but in jest. Still, I blush.

    The men more near and dear to me - sir Rath, Allestor and Reynauld - are all far too well mannered and respectful to treat a lady thusly (although Rath can be rather cheeky with other women, Allestor and Talindra jest to the point of flirtation and Reynauld pines for Celia, so blatantly that everyone notices but her). Verily, they do not ever treat ~me~ as anything but what is proper though - collegue, comrade, master and, I hope, friend.

    I want that this should feel enough - that men and women can be friends, true friends, and both be content with this. Why must our bodies whisper and murmur in their own mystic, hard to read tongue, and make one wonder when or if a simple touch is more than that?

    I feel very close to Allestor of late - we cheer each other up, watch each others backs, trade silly jokes and stories back and forth. He saved my life, carried me to safety when I passed out from the earth elemental pummelling, always supports and encourages me while remaining gently but steadily true to himself and Imater. I held his hand in mine, after an injury to it in that very rocky adventure, and he startled, tensing at the gesture. The extent of the injury was clear enough the first time, but I took his hand again, just for wanting to, after a while. He has nice hands, warm and gentle, with long, strong fingers. Then I let go, suddenly realizing the gesture may be inappropriate, misinterpreted or too intimate.

    Master and squire, woman and man; the lines in the sand that keeps behavior ever reigned in within the bounds of propriety. If we were both knights, formally equals, brother and sister in faith, or if we had both taken the vow of celibacy to rule the whole man and woman issue out from the get go - would that shush the murmuring within and let friendship simply be, as close and as warm as one might wish, without the unbidden, unwanted, unavoidable question of more?

    Your overthinking, Cecil-missing sister, Ashena"

  • T

    _The sky is grey, the first hint of dawn's full glory just beginning to peek through the ornamented windows of the Morninglord's temple. A few quiet chants can already be heard, but serenity still reigns within the sacred halls. A clearly pregnant woman lies in a cot, in secluded corner. She is pale and very still, though breathing steadily in and out.

    The young knight sits nearby, concern written plain across her fair brow. On her lap, a black cat lies curled up, adding a soft, soothing purr to the muted sounds of the temple. Ashena scratches Bub's silky head, then gently lifts the cat over to the cot, where he soon makes a nest for himself by Maria's feet.

    Pensively, Ashena looks to the windows, the chanting growing as the sun begins to light up the multicoloured glass panes in glorious rainbow hues. She whispers a fervent prayer, letting the beauty of the moment fill her before taking her leave, finding a quiet spot beneath a tree to write._

    “Dearest Gralam,

    The decision has been made; for better or worse, I have accepted the Alchemist’s offer and chosen to take the fight to Fendon, finally. T’was not a decision made lightly, though meeting with the Alchemist in person (if you can call it that, given that he is a golem) is what finally tipped the scales. His assertion of using no necromancy in his craft, the motivations given to fight, and his complete agreement with the statement that I would not condone the slaying of any living being, even evil ones, for the purpose of harvesting ‘material’ for his golems – this, together with the great urgency of our cause, swayed me. I’m not wholly without misgivings, but I ~am~ convinced of the Alchemist’s sincerity and earnest intentions.

    The plan itself is simple, yet far from easily accomplished. My own role, besides fighting to the best of my abilities, is to rally the remaining defenders, adventurers and heroes to the cause, for even bolstered by the Alchemists golems, we shall need numbers, skill and strength of both body and mind to defeat this terrible foe. Some have already heeded the call, others are silent; absent or uncaring, I know not which. One needs my aid in order to fight - but more on this later, tis a story unto itself. I must do better, I must try to inspire courage, to summon forth the will to fight in those that have either ceased to care, or given the quest up as lost. I’m not one for grand speeches, so I shall speak from the heart and from my own convictions, and pray that this is enough.

    I feel better for having set a clear course at last – so much better, and so much the calmer. The obstacles set in that path no longer seem quite as daunting, nor am I troubled by doubts. Near immediately in the wake of my newfound resolve, however, came the finding of an omnious trail of paper scraps, within the crypts of Norwick. They spoke of the Loyal Fury, at first with determination and faith, then increasing fatigue and despair, to finally seem to renounce Torm entirely, for some dark and terrible lord. This trail, seemingly designed especially to draw my attention, lead us deeper and lower down into the dank crypts. The usual horrors wandered below, shambling undead giants of massive strength, vicious ghouls and restless champions, dark priests and horrid, gnawing wights.

    We pressed on, from one note to the next, my frown growing deeper as the tone of each grew ever bleaker. Then, through a long corridor where undead massed, spilling out from a room beyond, I saw it. A neat sign in the distance, right beside the doorway. It bore a message, but I could not quite make it out. We fought our way over, the room itself shrouded in darkness, though large shapes moved within. ‘Hold the door!’, I shouted to Beourn, he and I standing side by side as the giants emerged from their cover. Dark energy burst into red light, flaring around us. I blinked my eyes while Romulus and Allestor shot the undead priest full of arrows, my shield held high to block the giants infront of me. The sign rattled, and I chanced a sideways look.

    ‘Keep out! By appointment only, currently reserved for D. Olenin and A. Teroldys.’

    Olenin - the vampire who had killed me, on the battlefields of Norwick’s south gate. The same vampire who afterwards had sent me a mockingly affectionate letter, who plagued the sanctity of my dreams, and now this?! First a chill, then anger grew in the pit of my gut, white and hot and pure, and my next strike sent the giant staggering, divine light searing its pallid flesh. ‘Not this time’, I thought to myself, ablaze with determination. ‘If you want me, come get me! You’ll get ~nothing~ without a fight, and by Torm I shall fight!’ My next strike came faster, surer, that white hot fire spreading throughout my body. ‘I will not falter! I will not fall!’ Light as a feather, sharp as a razor blade, I was but distantly aware of Beorn roaring and Andrew’s greatsword sending sparks dancing beside me. White light burst into the darkness, again and again, Allestor's voice ringing out with a conviction echoed by my own fire. Then the dust settled, and all was suddenly still.

    Still aglow, I stepped into the inky darkness, daring it to linger in my presence. It parted, dissolving into ribbons of black, shadowy snakes slithering soundlessly into the nearest corner. In the centre of the room stood a small and intimate table set for two, and a bottle of the finest wine.

    My ‘date’ of course failed to show up. To my surprise, I was disappointed.

    In hindsight’s more somber light, I’m still not sure I am strong enough to defeat him. But for the first time in so long, the first time since he bested me in fact, I feel fit for fight. And ~by Torm~ I shall fight!

    Your determined, defiant sister, Ashena”

  • T

    The young knight is kneeling, deep in prayer at the altar of Torm within the Order halls, her eyes closed and her cheeks tinged with a delicate flush of pink. Suddenly, a soft and furry paw nudges her nose, batting it once, twice and a third time before Ashena replies in a soft and even tone, eyes still shut:

    "Not now Bob."

    The tawny cat flattens himself onto the altar again, eyeballing his knight intently as if attempting to stare her into attention, but her focus remains stubbornly on her prayers until finally, she opens her eyes.

    "Silly cat, ~please~ tell me you do not do that to sir Mariston and Shannon too.."

    She can't help but giggle at the thought, scratching Bob's little chin before rising, looking much envigourated. With the cat slinking back and forth between her feet, Ashena makes her way to the desk, sitting down to write with a thoughtful expression.

    "Dear mother and father,

    Please know that while my duties here remain many, thoughts of home are ever on my mind, and I shall heed the summons to return as soon as I am able. Currently, I am intent on working towards knighting several of our squires, in order to better distribute responsibilities, thus allowing me the time to leave at least temporarily. Most of them are ready and deserving of such, I believe, though I shall need to have to have a few talks with both masters and squires first.

    In truth, I did not think myself ready when I was knighted, and I still oft wish for a trusted master to simply ~tell~ me what to do, that I may obey and not need to question my own choices quite so much. But then again, I do not think my path is supposed to be easy, nor that I should e'er stop thinking my actions through, to know the why of what I do and so be ever firm in my convictions.

    Of late, I have also found myself being questioned by others, and my patience tested. It has surprised me - though perhaps not you - that patience is in fact not one of my stronger virtues, but brother Allestor of Ilmater, one of our squires, has buckets upon buckets of it, and is ever generous in sharing. If not for him, I believe I would have had sharper words by far with several persons in recent weeks.

    The truth is, people have very high expectations of a knight and whenever we should - in their eyes - fail to meet those expectations, our worth and our courage are called into question. Most recently, there was much rallying to go fight a beastly creature resembling a Beholder, down in the deep of the Underdark. While such creatures are evil, they are also intelligent beings with their own agenda, who tend to stay well away from cities and farmsteads. They can also kill one, literally in the blink of an eye (of which they have oh so many).

    Those propagating an attack, my own squire Reynauld amongst them, to my great surprise, argued that since it was evil, it must be my duty to slay it (Reynauld being mostly concerned of the creature wandering towards other areas). Oh, how I wished to retort sharply that if my duty was quite that simple, I should at that very moment strike down one amongst them for being evil himself! But Allestor gave me a kind smile, and a near inperceptible shake of the head, calming me. I do find it most offensive when my courage is called into question, simply because I possess a degree of common sense.

    The Code of Torm says; Be stern, unyielding and unswerving in your battles with evil. The precepts follow this up with a sentence I also take to heart: Seek not only courage, but also wisdom to see that stupidity and courage are cousins. To me, this means choosing my battles wisely. Why should I risk death fighting a random monster who lives where only other monsters and the most able adventurers roam, when the world is full of much other evil which threatens innocent lives, the very lives I am sworn to protect? Yes, I delve into crypts and barrows, e'en when the restless undead there do not currently spill out to march on the living - but their very existence is agony, and to end it a good deed. Not to mention that the threat to the region right now is very much these dark forces, and I must strive to be well fit and prepared to fight such, honing my skills that I may serve better.

    I find myself oft relying on the Code, especially in the absence of mentors and senior knights to speak to. Perhaps the very best guidance the precepts of the code offers is the following: Hold to the virtues and duties of the code, realizing that though the ideals cannot be reached, the quality of striving towards them ennobles the spirit. In confronting difficult matters, if at first you leave it alone, fix the code in your heart, exclude self-interest, and make an effort, you will not go far from your mark.

    I know that to die in the fight that does not matter, the fight that could so easily be avoided, now ~that~ would be failure and surely diminish Torm. I know this so very clearly, for having foolishly failed in this manner twice - against ice golems on a quest I should not have given my aid to in the first place, and gnolls for no greater cause than gathering supplies. Neither served Torm's purpose, but when I stood my ground on the battlefields of Norwick with undead all around, ~then~ my life was gladly forfeit, for I was a tool in His hand, serving the goals of the Triad.

    Upon consideration, perhaps it is good to be questioned, now and again? Verily, it has made some of the doubt in myself vanish, for seeking the answers and the proper words to put to my convictions. I know my fourfold duties, they are to faith, family, masters, and all good beings of Faerun. Always and foremost, I shall be the champion of the weak and the defenceless, rather than allow myself to be used, to be goaded into serving as a shield for thrill-seeking adventurers (who frankly can take care of themselves).

    Fearless does not mean stupid.

    Your loving daughter, Ashena"

  • T

    _The young knight awakes slowly tucked into one of the large beds on the Temples second floor, a cold compress across her forehead. On a small table to the side sits a bowl of water and a set of fresh wraps, a mortar and pestle and various herbs scattered about. Beside the table lies a rickety, uncomfortable wooden chair upon which Allestor, the Ilmateri priest - pushed well beyond exhaustion - sleeps soundly, his left hand completely bandaged to the wrist…

    Ashena takes her surroundings in, rising with a grunt of pain, every limb feeling bruised. On the armorstand, the usually splendid gold and blue suit sits, covered in large buckles and dents, as if pummelled repeatedly and severely by something large and vicious. Bob the cat, awakened from his slumber at the knight's feet, greets his handmaiden with a soft meow and a buff of his tawny head.

    Any thoughts of shifting her Ilmateri squire to a more comfortable sleeping arrangement are abandoned when Ashena rises, wobbling precariously as colour drains from her face. She steadies herself for a long minute, then settles for draping a blanket around Allestor's slumped form, and sits down at her desk with a thud, head still reeling.

    She stares at the report folder, shakes her head and immediately regrets the motion, going pale again. With a far more careful motion, she reaches for her private correspondence, fishing up a letter already opened to read it again, in thoughtful silence._

    @a823f874e3:

    My sister Ashena,

    I have been writing to you, but it appears someone or something has intercepted my letters to you. This letter I went out of my way to personally ensure it reached you. I have a creeping feeling our father has been responsible for the silence. He has been moody and speaking of Aymon and the rest of you who went to Peltarch with an attitude, though of you less so.

    I am terribly concerned about your fiancee. Not that I disapprove in the slightest, but that he is gone and it may not be his fault. I have so many things I want to say but hardly have the parchment for! All I can say is marry for love! Based on what I have heard from Father, Aymon probably would not sell you off like he might with Emma or Alera. Or any of us for that matter. But being a paladin is hard enough without being imprisoned in a match you don't want for the rest of your life…

    I have heard from Aymon about this Fendon character. I have also heard of this business with the golem who creates other golems even out of corpses. Aymon thinks that it is not necromancy, and after speaking about it with Mother I am inclined to agree. But I am not sure if it is right.

    I think that it might not be right, but it might not be wrong either. I would bet you Emma would have no problems with it. Maybe she would think it is unsightly, but I think she would accept help from this golem and his corpse-made minions for the greater good. Our cousin Lothar, who I should note has been knighted and given title by our Lord, says that it breaks no oaths or rules of ours, as does Mother, and Lothar rather ambitiously agrees with accepting the golems help, though Mother a little bit less so. Father has made no comment on the matter.

    But I think I would have to say, if it were me, I would feel guilty to my grave if the innocents I am sworn to protect suffered and died because I refused the help of someone or something, especially if it was not an evil thing, and its actions and tools themselves too were not evil. But I am no paladin.

    I hope my words have helped, and I wish you the best of luck and Torm's guidance.

    Love,
    Gralam

    Ashena strokes her fingertips to the letter's surface, tears welling in her soft brown eyes, then snatches a blank page to write her reply.

    "My dearest brother,

    As ever, you and I are much like of mind, and I cannot tell you how blessed it is to hear from you, nor how much I miss you right now. Aymon's around, at times, but he's being ~Aymon~, naturally, and will always offer infuriatingly sensible advice when what I really long for is understanding.

    There's so much weighing on my mind of late, so many causes of concern, and I can barely seem to focus my mind on any single one for long enough to really ~do~ something about it. Being beaten to a paste by gigantic rock elementals the other day didn't exactly help the issue, but I cannot complain as I walked into that one quite willingly, seeking adventure.

    I'm having nightmares I cannot shake, I'm having doubts, second-guessing myself, and always there is this churning sense of unease and worry inside me. Am I making the right choices, for my Lord, for the Order, for our House, for the innocents I am sworn to protect? I'm walking in a veritable quagmire with Torm as my sole guiding light, for all the seasoned knights are engaged elsewhere.

    The Alchemist troubles me, for while I could perhaps agree that what he does is not exactly necromancy, it still does not sit well with me. While not ~technically~ wrong, tis also not right, just as the Alchemist and his creations themselves are neither good nor evil (and likely lack the moral concept of either). Sir Shannon seemed to think some manner of animation of the dead was involved in the making of these golems, but the Alchemist lets no one study either himself or the details of his craft as far as I can understand.

    Fendon troubles me even more however, and I know deep in my heart that this is the true fight, the one where I can make a difference. And I know, regretfully, that we can ill afford to turn down allies, even the likes of the Alchemist. Not now, with so many of those initially turning his offer down having left. I'm upset in fact, knowing that their absence all but forces this choice upon me. Just like you, I could not live with myself if the innocents I am sworn to protect should suffer and die because I declined the Alchemist's aid, distasteful though it may seem. On the other hand, the end does not justify the means, and I shall surely answer to Torm for the actions taken. May He grant me the insight I so sorely need!

    Perhaps I ought to worry over the fact that the bugbear truce is near an end also, knowing, having seen with my own eyes that they are watching us closely? Perhaps, but that one will have to be Norwick's own fight to plan for. Raryldor is confident we can somehow beat them all, but I think Hope was right all along. The people are Norwick, not the land itself. Evacuate, rebuild somewhere else, free of blight and endless bloodshed. But the Norwick leadership, if you can even call it that, is without drive or initiative in their own future. That too worries me, very much so.

    And now Father has grown a dark mood? I wonder if I should return home then, though part of me is convinced I am needed here, and the other part dreads the questions about Cecil that I just cannot answer. And I dread facing the sorrow I know will come, the sorrow that is already there, but still overshadowed by my many duties. It breaks my heart that you won't get to meet him - that one simple thing is enough to shake my composure. I ~so~ wanted you to meet him, to know him, to see what everyone I love would think of my chosen one.

    Maybe he is on a quest, chasing his Black Lion pawprints into worlds of ice and dream. Maybe Fendon's forces have seized him, maybe the crafty bugbear king, seeing the same potential we saw in him to be the leader Norwick needs? I do not know, and thinking about it only makes it worse, so I try not to. But I dream, I wake in tears and dread, feeling so achingly hollow! I cannot believe he abandoned me willingly, I cannot. If he did, he's not the man I fell in love with. If he did, t'was all a lie.

    When I first wrote about us to mother and father, I stated that it was Cecil or no one, and whether he ever returns, whether I shall know his fate or not, this at least stands true. If I wanted to marry simply for the sake of it, I could marry Rath. From purely rational viewpoint, the match is ideal - we are both of noble blood, we are already close friends, we share mostly the same values and let's be clear, our children would look ~stunning~. There's just one problem - to have those children, we'd need to do things I have absolutely no desire to do with Rath, for he is close and dear to me as a ~brother~.

    Ew.

    For love, or not at all, agreed! I would see you do the same, Gralam. Is lady B still your Queen of Hearts, by the by?

    Your worried, wobbling sister Ashena (nursing a concussion!)"

  • T

    A lone candle flickers by the oversized bed of the young knight, the linen crumpled and tangled. Ashena sits huddled up with her knees under her chin, face pale and her eyes rimmed with red. With seeming difficulty, she untangles her limbs to make her way to the desk, candle in hand, and writes frantically, as if just to write and leave whatever ill dreams awoke her trapped there on paper. The pages are then left hidden in the bottom drawer of Ashena's desk, never sent nor spoken of.

    "A rose garden, lush with the full bloom of summer, sweetly fragrant, dark as blood. The grass is soft and wet with glittery dew, my nightgown sticking to my back as he pushes me gently down. The morning is but a distant promise on the horizon, stars still twinkling overhead. Though he pins firmly me in place, I am spinning, dizzy with the beauty of the night and the sweet closeness of the one I love.

    His lips are hot against my neck, and I shiver. So warm.. he is always so warm, so full of life. I am so cold.. the ground is cold, the heat seeping slowly out of me. His mouth so greedy, gentleness forgotten for an all consuming hunger. Pleasure. Pain. The coldness spreads, numbing my limbs and the stars spin above my head. Red roses turn funeral white when the dim realization hits. Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

    My eyes are slow to focus, but I know he knows. He pulls back to watch me struggle.

    'Sweetheart', he murmurs, a warm fingertip caressing my icy lips, 'I know, I missed you too.'

    A shiver down my spine. The voice sounds right, but something is terribly wrong. I can't think straight. His face floats into view, flashing madly before my eyes as the world will not stop spinning. Cecil's face, open and honest, lips turned into the softest of smiles.

    He holds me closer, and the spinning slows to a gentle swirl, a slow waltz.

    I have missed him.

    For a moment, I want to surrender. I'm so cold, and he so warm. I could just rest in his arms.. it would be so easy.

    He leans in closer, and the spell shatters. Hard, hungry eyes, that of a predator. Lips pull back to reveal sharp fangs, and I must escape, I have to wake up now!

    –-

    Locked in combat, the bodies of the fallen all around us. Moonlight glints off the greatsword as it comes crashing down in a powerful arch, my shield arm buckling with the pressure, but this time I am in my element. This time, I will not falter.

    Torm's might courses through me, and I shove the shield back, straightening. My sword strikes, again and again, sparks of light flying. I am fury, I am righteous wrath, and he will fall, he ~must~!

    In all the world, there is only he and I, only this fight, only right now, and there is my opening, now is the time! My palm thrust out, my lord's name ringing true and my enemy staggers, he falls to his knees. A hard shove, and he is on the ground, he is mine now!

    I fumble for my blessed stake. Just one last strike, directly into his heart, and it will all be over. He is still, defeated, yet suddenly my blood runs cold. I ~have~ to see his face.. I have to know.

    Time seems to slow, a faint silver moonlight reflected off the polished steel of the bull horned helmet. Same type of helmet, same type of sword.. so tall and so strong. But it cannot be, it's impossible!

    Even as I lift the visor, I know it's Cecil, and triumph turns to bitter grief, so sharp I cannot bear it. The stake falls from my hand, and my eyes blur with tears. I want to kiss his face, to wrap my arms around him, but he turns to mist, dissipates and leaves me holding naught but air and regret."

  • T

    Dark chestnut hair gleams in the candlelit room as the young woman brushes it with slow, diligent strokes. Eventually, brush is exchanged for quill, a thoughtful and melancholy expression stealing across Ashena's face. She smooths back a strand of loose hair, pulls her woolen shawl closer and begins to write.

    "Dearest Gralam,

    Of late, I have found my fiercest foe is not the ones I combat with sword and shield, but rather that insidious sense of futility and despair that comes creeping up on me, whenever I let my guard drop. Naught seems to happen on the Norwick front, tis silent as the proverbial grave. If the intent is to lull the defenders into a sense of false security, I must say it appears to be working, for interest has dropped so low that I myself am hard pressed to remain vigilant. Speaking to Arlan revealed further problems; rifts within Norwick's ranks, for it seems he himself has left the town's employ, disgruntled with the current leadership.

    Which brings me inevitably to the one point of hard truth that I have been avoiding facing for so long now - Cecil's absence. Undeniably, the town needs him, they need someone good, strong and passionate - someone people can believe in and rally around. I am doing my best to coordinate efforts in the absence of any initiative from the town's own, but therein lies my problem - I am not of Norwick, I do not represent the town itself, nor do I even know any of the remaining redcloaks. It feels a futile effort, but someone must try, ~someone~ must still care.

    Again, I have turned this into the bigger picture, when I meant to face the truth on a personal plane. Alright, no more stalling, here it is - I miss Cecil, I am worried about Cecil, and I am angry with Cecil, all at once and to naught but frustration, for I do not know what has become of him. Am I deserted, the jilted bride, or should I instead take to arms, go on a holy crusade to rescue my love from whatever horrid fate that has befallen him? I simply do not know, and feel completely at a loss on how to handle the situation.

    I met a ghost, not long ago, in Norwick. It wrapped its ghostly fingers around mine, pressing and tugging insistently upon my ring finger. It spoke in whispery murmurs, unintelligably, yet I got the sense that it wished for something returned to it, most urgently. I had the eerie sensation that it, like me, was meant to be wed, but cruel fate had intervened. Perhaps she - for I could not help but to think of it as a she - had lost her ring, her love, and her life, and cannot rest until at least one of the above are restored? Again, I do not know, but I cannot shake the feeling of that ghostly touch, the sense of sadness and loss it carried with it.

    More recently, a gnomish gentleman asked me a series of painful questions regarding my marital status, wishing perhaps to strike a match 'tween myself and his employer for having learnt of my noble birth. I found myself faltering, uncertain how to answer truthfully. Am I even still engaged? Truly, I have naught to show for it but memories slowly seeping through my fingers, a promise and a dried rose, collecting dust in a storage box. Time means nothing when we are apart, he said once, with the ardour I love so well. I find myself wishing I could feel the same, but time ~matters~. The hard times in particular.

    I died once, and kept myself staunchy cheerful, determined not to miss a beat. I died a second time, and could not keep despair at bay. Ne'er did I need him more than when I took that first, unwilling gasp of air and awoke on the cold temple floor, ne'er since I first took my vows have I felt so ~desperately~ in need of comfort. Talindra, Allestor and Hope hovered near, but I sent them away, immediately cursing my pride when they respectfully heeded my words. I wanted to cry, to release the pain inside me, and could not.

    Tis a silly thing, really, is it not? I know these wonderful Painbearers, yet I won't let any of my grief go, I cling to it so tightly, tis as if I am afraid that opening myself up means falling apart at the seams. Yet there's Elena and Allestor, two of the warmest, most caring persons I know, who would ne'er judge me or think less of me if I did. Then there's Hope, who has such gentleness and insight to offer. And then there's me, stupid, stubborn me, clamming up all the tighter for neither of them possessing of the specific arms she wishes to cry in.

    It is easier to be a knight than to be a woman, truly (not to mention more dignified!). In that respect, I should perhaps be glad that my original plan seems to be the one I am destined for. Yesterday, a distraught Celia even told me that the sacred chalice of Torm from her convent, the one intended to be used in my marriage ceremony, is lost too. The groom is missing, the chalice lost - clearly, this is not meant to be! I shall be wed to duty, as I always wanted. That's really nothing to cry home about, when you think about it, but the uncertainty of it all does haunt me. T'would be better to know, one way or the other, and find my peace with it.

    Yet whenever I falter, whenever these bleak thoughts seize me, I thank Torm that there are friends beside me - Allestor, Talindra, Celia, Reynauld and the others. Allestor has been my rock of late, generously allowing the many little jokes I play on him, and with the same warm-hearted cheer, reminding me what I already know, but temporarily forget - even should darkness surround us, we shall ne'er give up our light. Neigh, we shall clip-clop and eee-aw into the valley of dispair, and fear no evil!

    (that last bit makes more sense if you knew the constant donkey jokes Allestor attracts, for not owning a horse - and on occasion turning himself into our beast of burden!)

    Your ever struggling sister, Ashena"

  • T

    Heavy boots clack against marble as the young knight reenters the temple, dusty from travel. A tawny cat sticks his head out from under the bed, then emerges fully to assail the knight with a suspiciously lecture-like set of meows. Clearly, Bob is feeling neglected, a fact he makes very clear to his paladin. Ashena briskly changes her clothes, packs a few fresh supplies into her backpack and washes her face, then snuggles the still protesting cat into fuzzy, purring submission. While Bob slumbers, she snatches a quill from the desk and begins to write.

    "Dearest Gralam,

    From the highest peaks to the deepest depressions; verily my life and lack thereof has swung to and fro until finally, I have regained some sort of equilibrium. One late evening, as we left a farmstead which had been assailed most brutally by kobolds, the weight of the world and my duties in it felt heavier than e'er they had. Always before, duty had been a cherished thing, a privelege even, that filled me with purpose and joy.

    After waves upon waves upon waves of undeath, with no progress and no end in sight, I was hard pressed to keep that joy alive. And on this eve, when we had managed to put a stop to a kobold attack, but been that one, that few accursed steps too late to save the lives of all the farmers, well.. joy escaped me entirely and tears did fill my eyes.

    The farmer's face is so clear to me, the bleakness of his features, the hopelessness in his eyes as he said t'was better his wife remain dead, than to live in this cruel, hard world.

    Too late, again. If I had insisted Bitsy and I take a stand in the caves, what then? Had the farmer's wife yet lived?

    Tormented by these doubts and the unshakable feeling of defeat, despite having won the fight, we walked back to Peltarch in silence. Twilight painted the landscape in a beautiful amber glow, a sad serenity reigning. I fought the knot in my gut, the lump in my throat that insisted on tears, blinked determinedly and then.. then I saw them, white and pristine, shimmering silk against the rough granite wall. Three roses, flawless and fragrant, for three heavy-hearted faithfuls walking past.

    Allestor smiled, his blue eyes bright when he said that such blossoms are a sign of the divine. Truly, we have seen them before, a trail of white roses leading to a hidden stash of supplies, and my spirits lifted somewhat at the thought. But then, oh, then..

    Trumpets.

    Distant at first, a mere echo from above, like a memory or a dream, half forgotten as you wake. But the sound grew stronger and closer, piercing through the clouds and forcing us down on our knees with it's sweet, jubilant notes! A brilliant beam of light, near blinding, and then she stood before us, bright and beautiful beyond compare - the Trumpet Archon. Do not despair, she bid the three of us - do not despair, for you walk in the light of the Triad. Though these are trying times, faith will see you through. You must not falter, for the eyes of the gods are upon you.

    The Archon left with another blaze of light and sound, leaving us slack-jawed in awe, trembling and teary-eyed for all the right reasons. Allestor and I burst into helpless, joyous laughter while Hope merely stood there, stunned. The loftiest of heights, the most divine of lights..

    And still, I fell. Oh, t'was such a pointless and stupid thing, savage and devoid of meaning. I had wanted to turn back, knowing in my heart of hearts how ugly things could get further into the gnolls territory, but the group had fared well so far, with spells to spare and injuries still low. We pushed on, and soon, all too soon, all my months of training, all the dedication put into recovering from the weakness of death was followed by death once again. Weaker still, upon returning to my unwilling flesh, the overwhelming sense of defeat flooding me even as I took my first, rasping breath.

    Every failure diminishes Torm.

    That was all I could think about, all that filled my head as I knelt by the altar, head bent low as if my neck could not straighten, could not support the weight of my shame, my failure, the loathsome self pity I could not shake. My friends care and concern only made it worse, and I sent them away, even while a part of me wished for nothing more than to be held. 'Do not despair, mortals', the Archon had said - yet I did just that, feeling as though all my strength, all my joy and all my hope of accomplishing my duty were gone.

    Of course, they were not, naught is truly lost while faith remains, but death does something to you, it robs something of one's self, and it takes time to adjust. Recovering is even slower, but I have mostly come to terms with the fact that physically, I will not be as swift or as sure as I was, not in a long time. Or ever, should Torm decide my duty is done, next I fall.

    What I feel most ashamed of, though, is that when a doomsayer came, shortly thereafter, preaching the death of hope, I could not summon the right words or the right passion to disperse the dark tidings. Instead I grew angry, frustrated with myself and with the situation, and let sweet Hope walk off alone with a seemingly panicked commoner. Now, parts of her memory are gone, some dark spell robbing her of the precise details we need to continue with our quest.

    Hopelessness spreads a dark, dank blanket of gloom to cover everything, and instead of rising up straight, shining all the brighter, I too let it envelop me. So many have left; people I thought strong and passionate, clever, courageous and caring. Where have all the heroes gone? The elven community, drifting off like leaves upon the breeze. The Norwick Remnant, now not even that, for it seems everyone who strove so hard to reclaim the town are now absent from defending it.

    Even Ardent left, seeking a new and more peaceful life with her Nelor. She had resented me, she confessed when last we spoke in earnest, and asked my forgiveness for it. Perhaps I do come across as too perfect, successful and sure, but tis faith alone that gives me that shine, and for faith alone that I strive to succeed, to add to His splendour. We came to a new understanding, I thought, yet she left without so much as a goodbye.

    Worst of all, so much the worst that I try not to think about it, talk about it or acknowledge it in any way, is that Cecil too is gone. Without a trace to follow, without explanation, cause or goodbye. I ~cannot~ think about it, I can ill afford the heaviness such speculation brings, but he is missed, more than words can say.

    I cannot let myself wallow in self pity for very long, you see, not when the gods are watching, when such a rare honour was bestowed upon us as the Archon's message! I decided on cheer, decided on planning, on action and on ~hope~, come what may. All I can do is my best, and perhaps, just perhaps I can inspire others to do the same.

    Your mule-headed sister, Ashena"

  • T

    Pale morning sunshine seeps in through the inn window, Bob the cat batting a paw at the garlic hanging from the curtain before slinking outside on undisclosed cat business. Slow and heavy steps approach, and the door cracks open to reveal a haggard looking young knight, her armor battered and bloodied. She unbuckles the plate, washes trembling hands and face off in a basin, then slumps down on the bed. Extremely tempted, Ashena eyes the pillow, then groans and picks up her armor, shield and sword to clean each with diligent care. She washes her hands again, eyes the pillow again, resisting it a while longer to stumble over to the desk and write:

    "Dearest Gralam,

    The hardest part is not to fight with strength and valour, with all your heart and body can give; no, the hardest part is to do it over and over again, knowing each battle must be won, but that no victory will buy you anything but a temporary reprieve. Since last I wrote you, several more attacks have come, some but skirmishes, some near as gruelling as the first, and it seems all we can do is hold the line, ne'er pushing it forwards. But we ~must~.

    The undead don't pause and they don't tire, they need not fresh supplies nor do they care if they live or die. Death, in fact, strengthens them while it weakens us. It's really rather unfair!

    Still, weary as I am, I thought to remind myself in this letter of all the reasons I have to be grateful and glad, to give thanks to the joyous things and good persons in my life. Despite doom, I won't give in to gloom just yet, not for very long at the least! Sweet Hope may stifle a groan at every poor pun we crack, but for me such jokes stave off the doom and help make the evil we face feel that much smaller and manageable.

    Hope, ah. Now there's a name that contains everything we need right now, and some fine capacity for punnery aswell! Allestor, Elena and Hope - three Ilmateri priests, our angels of mercy, and truly amongst the most important people to me right now. Without their support, sage advice and just plain ~kindness~, I don't know if I could cope for much longer.

    Hope herself is an intriguing mix of meek and brave, possessing of a wit and a will far stronger than her humble demeanour would at first suggest. Allestor too is more than meets the eye, his polite and kindly ways spiced with a small, but unmistakable sense of mischief. It is not just the garishly golden boots that make Allestor the rebel of the bunch, in as much an Ilmateri can be such! He is a good man, with a sense of warmth and compassion that makes his company a true solace. The same is true for Elena, of course, in whose company none can remain glum for very long. I do not know that I have ever known someone so obviously learned, wise and intelligent, that has also had such a caring nature, such humbleness and infectious cheer to them as she. Truly, tis a boon to the world that such angels reside in it!

    Stoic, dutiful Reynauld is ever a rock to rely on, whether we fight side by side, back to back or should he strike swiftly onto the field on Northstar's back. He seems to like the latter best, ever his best and brightest on horseback it seems, his smile never wider than on such occasions. I would dearly like to join him and ride my Fury into the fray, but my horsemanship needs fine polishing yet, and Fury has proven far too easily distracted by mares of late. He tried to mount Celia's horse, right before my eyes! I wonder where this ill behaviour comes from, tis as if he is trying ~deliberately~ to test my patience. Perhaps I have been neglecting him? More apples, and more time with just he and I when I can manage, and perhaps he shall be his old sweet self again.

    As for Celia herself, she is somewhat shaken by her recent death, yet taking it more in her stride than I had thought, her resolve unshaken and her cheer not so brittle as I have seen it at times in the past. Perhaps she, like I, feel heartened by the fact that we are both undeniably useful, that we serve Torm's purpose most tanglibly in times like these?

    Talindra has suffered two deaths, and this takes a heavier toll, even on one of such bright and steadfast spirit as she. It is a heavy burden to feel inadequately equipped for the dangers we must face, but I believe she too is recovering. As for myself, progress is slow, but it ~is~ there, I can feel it. Slowly but surely, my strength returns, and if I should at times be frustrated that I am not as swift as before, or that my energy runs out faster, then I just remind myself that all can be recovered but one's spirit.

    We are not beaten yet, in fact we are making some little sort of headway in planning, and fortune smiled on our efforts recently, enough so that we actually found a small stash of potions, most useful for future fighting! Despite everything, I have hope.

    Your stubbornly optimistic sister, Ashena"

  • T

    The young woman wakes with a strangled cry, hands going immediately to her neck, trembling until her fingers find the chain upon which her holy symbol hangs, following the chain down to clutch it tightly. She stumbles out of the rickety inn bed, her face deathly pale in the moonlight shining in through the window - a window soon firmly closed and latched shut. Ashena kisses her holy symbol fervently, seeming to will herself to calm, and manages to light a candle without trembling further. Wrapped in the inn blanket, she writes:

    "Gralam!

    The night is dark and full of terrors, and I must light a candle and write, to remind myself of the all the brightness the world does still hold. Torm is my flame and my shield, and I ~will not~ fear the dark, I will take to arms and oppose it!

    I thought I had prepared myself, I thought myself ready for what awaited us when the undead forces struck Norwick with full force. All our training, all our hard work and dedication, the potions and balms collected, the steeling of will and of heart.. I thought would be enough. I had called the squires together, called for the Order as a whole, but in truth t'was but myself and lady Elena who heeded the call, with our brave squires and faithfuls.

    I thought us ready.. but naught could have truly prepared us for the harrowing, relentless evil that came from the shadows. Day and night, night and day, merciless and unceasing. Yet we did not falter, we fought and we bled, day and night, night and day, until we could fight no more.

    Reynauld fell defending the gates, he and his brave horse both, surrounded, swamped as a two-front attack spread the defenders thin, as did Talindra of Tyr. My brave Sabbas I sent to defend Elena, a task that cost him his life also. Death upon death, of those I hold dearest, and still we fought, still they came.

    I had accepted my death before the battle begun, deciding only that I would make it ~matter~, I would fight as long and as hard as e'er I could, I would do everything in my power, spare no expense and have no regrets when the moment came - and eventually, it did. I thought I was prepared, but I was not, when my end arrived. I wasn't expecting ~him~.

    'Did you miss me, sweetheart?' A cold and mocking voice from the vampire towering above me. I was on my knees, gasping for breath from the powerful blow that had knocked me prone. I wanted to give a sharp retort, wanted to shove my sword up whence the sun doth not shine, but a spell froze my limbs, and I could not move, only watch helplessly as my death approached, clad in dark shadowy steel.

    So very tall, so very strong, a greatsword on his shoulder and a bull horned helmet on his head. He looks as though a dark twin to Cecil himself, a twisted counter-image of what I hold most dear. My love was not there, but my doom approached, moonlight glinting off his blade as it swung down in a beautiful, deadly arc.

    And then I was elsewhere, a place of white light and softly cushioned sound, a place of waiting. Sabbas was there, Reynauld, Talindra, even Celia and Ky'Amendos after a while. We waited and we prayed, prayed that our efforts had not been in vain, that our allies would yet succeed. Sir Shannon had arrived, Celia said, battling the great black dragon that had been her bane. I felt hope stirring then, yet all we could do was wait for the end to be played out by those with cards left in their hands.

    Other souls came and went, two adventurers, lives lost chasing treasure. An Erinyes arrived to tempt them with her devil's deals, the same ones we all had rejected with force and conviction, before. But one of these new arrivals knew fear, it had seized him long ago I think, and driven him to worship the foulest of tyrants. Now, he feared Bane's realm, and despite all urging, despite even the offer of redemption, he took the devil's deal and disappeared.

    We stood firm, faithful, and despite the sadness I felt knowing I had urged them here, I had lead them to this end… I could have had no finer companions beside me. T'was somehow all the clearer to see, in this spirit realm - perhaps because their spirits did seem to shine so brightly to me then, unveiled in their true beauty. An Archon appeared, trumpet blazing triumphant, celestial tones, proclaiming victory - but just then, a sharp tug pulled me back from that uncorporeal realm and back into my bodily self.

    I woke gasping and in pain, upon the wooden floor of the infirmary. Sir Shannon was there, stern-faced and silent, amidst a small crowd of others whose faces merely blurred infront of me. My belongings were at the temple of Lathander, t'was said, and I stumbled my way over there, joined by the others eventually - Elena, Hope, Allestor, Celia, Reynauld, Sabbas, Ky'Amendos - and sir Shannon, looking upon me in disapproval.

    I recall not his words, but rather the sentiment, the questioning of why t'was we and none others who had perished. Had we been careless, reckless, ill trained and ill prepared? Had we thrown our lives away when they could have been preserved, had we but fought smarter, harder, better somehow? I felt my spirit sinking, a crushing weight come bearing down as he said it, those dreaded words: every failure diminishes Torm.

    Did we fail?

    We failed to live, this is true, and our bodies are weaker for it. My arm is slower, my resilience lessened, I know it, I feel it. But try as I might, I cannot think of a single thing I would have done differently. Small things, perhaps, little what-ifs, but these are things I could not truly affect.

    I should have given Sabbas more potions - but he did not arrive in time, he came when the battle was in full swing. I should have stood my ground, I should have resisted that spell like I most often do - but my legs were weary, my mind was worn and I could not. I might've rested before then, but spellcasters needed such respites more than I. Was I too far out in front? Perhaps, but Shallyah was beside me, she and I ever taking point, rushing out to thwart a threat and retreating to the gates, over and again.

    No, I decided, and told him: the only thing I could have done differently would be to simply not have been there at all. I have no regrets, I did ~everything~ I could, gave it all I had. But he is right in one respect: now, we must do it all over again, and better. Every success adds to Torm's splendour, and succeed we must.

    Somehow.

    The attacks did not end there, of course. Tis an ongoing battle, one we are slowly but inevitably losing, for the army of the undead replenish themselves, while we do not. A dark message of a ritual was spoken, by their self-proclaimed herald Fendon, stating that once complete, we shall all bend the knee. I do not know how much time we have, but I do know that we must strike at the root, before all our strengths are depleted.

    I am ~so~ tired. I've snatched my sleep in chairs and on benches, still in my armor, with nary a full night's sleep. In fact, the nights are worse, and it has often been daylight when I do doze off, but for now. Finally a few days respite arrived, and I have spent them in something like relaxment. Little miss Tressa, a darling hin girl, took me to the baths in the Silver Valley nearby, and for the first time since this began, I let troubles and cares go and soaked in hot water. She is a very sweet person, someone who lifts the hearts and spirits of those around her by just being herself. A new friend, or so I hope!

    Being so relaxed, I thought I would sleep like a log once returning to my room, but dark dreams seeped into my mind, awakening me in as close to fright as I can remember. It started so sweetly, though:

    I am pressed down, the scent of grass and summer blossoms all around. He is heavy ontop of me, the armor hard and chafing at my hip - yet I do not mind. I welcome it, the strength of his arms around me, the ardour in his voice, whispered so close to my ear that his breath tickles:

    'Did you miss me, sweetheart?'

    Suddenly, the flowers smell like funeral, cloyingly sweet to cover the stench of death and decay. His lips are cold, curling into a smile as he nuzzles my neck. I struggle to move, but cannot, I CANNOT and his smile widens; I cannot see it, but I ~feel~ it. Fangs as sharp as glass, as cold as ice break my skin and darkness claims me, spiralling down and down until I wake in a cold sweat.

    He wrote me a letter, delivered by an innocent child to the temple of Lathander. By any other hand, in any other circumstance, t'would be much alike a love letter, but from this, my killer, t'was mocking and precisely as disturbing as he no doubt wished it to be. I will not let it get to me, I will NOT play these games!

    I will find a stake, I will carve it myself if need be. Six foot long, to plunge it through his cold, unbeating heart, ~vertically~. Perhaps I'll add a pretty red bow, or strap a keg full of sunlight to it. Let's see how sweet he finds me then.

    Your desperately homesick sister, Ashena"

  • T

    The next letter is written in a wholly different environment, cool and pristine marble exchanged for the simple but sturdy wooden planks of a small inn room. Once more, a cat rests on Ashena's lap, though this one is black as midnight, staring up with demanding golden lion's eyes until she provides the attention Bub thinks his rightful due. As the cat drifts off to catty dreams of mice and world domination, Ashena picks up the quill, a determined look on her face.

    "Dear mother and father,

    I write to you from Norwick, a town but recently released from bugbear clutches, yet under threat from something even worse. The herald of the undead forces has proclaimed that Norwick shall be theirs within the next tenday, and judging from what I have seen so far, tis far from an idle threat. Darkness is coming, and we have such a short time to rally, to gather all the light we may to fight it.

    Tis a silent sort of rally though, the preparations so quiet that I imagine I can hear teeth being gritted, shoulders and joints creaking as they set in bone-stubborn determination. There's no joy here, no optimism or talk of victory, but rather it seems as if everyone is taking a deep breath, steeling themselves for the fight to come. Verily, tis a fight that ~must~ be won, but winning does not mean it is over. Nay, even should the undead hordes be utterly defeated, the bugbears and their allies yet remain, looming near and watching, no doubt.

    It is a desperate situation, yet there's a thankful clarity and simplicity to it all. There are no grey zones, no room for diplomacy or petty bickering, for the time for talking is done. Now, we fight for our lives, for ~all~ life in Norwick. What better motivation can one ask for than this?

    Waiting is the worst part, still. I check and recheck my supplies, wondering if it is enough, if the potions I have will make me last long enough to fulfil my part in the task ahead. I have called for our squires, I have urged the Order's finest to the fight, gathered the information I may, and now I wait. I wait and I pray.

    Should the worst befall me, Aymon will let you know. Please, don't worry for me (and I know you are, mother) - I am not afraid! On the contrary, I walk eagerly towards this fight; I am alight with determination and desire to see my duty done. I have much to live for, but should I die, I can think of few causes more worthy than this. If I should die knowing my life ~mattered~, that my duties were fulfilled to the best of my abilities, that I was loved and gave love in return - then I would go to Celestia with naught but joy in my heart. I hope, I strive to live - but I am not afraid to die.

    All my love, from your faithful daughter, Ashena"

  • T

    Ashena sits at her desk, staring off into nothing when Bob the cat slinks up on her lap, buffing her insistantly with his head. A sudden smile breaks the distant gloom on the young woman's face, gentle fingers stirring the cat to a soft chainsaw purr that seems to soothe them both. With a thoughtful expression, Ashena reaches for the quill and begins to write.

    "Dearest Gralam,

    My heart has grown heavy of late, and I know not fully the reasons why. Or rather, perhaps I do know, but my mind has yet to work out what my heart already knows? I must write you, for there is no one here that I would wish to burden with such thoughts as these, full of doubt and self-pity that I do not feel proud to possess! Maybe simply putting words to it all will suffice, for me to see where this feeling comes from, and so move past it?

    I feel ~uncertain~, and I like it not at all. Part of it comes from this new position I've yet to grow into, of being the First Swordarm. Sir Roland offers good advice on occasion, but the fact remains that I oft feel uncertain - uncertain whether I am yet fit for the position, uncertain whether my words are heeded when my experience is so far less than others, when I am so much younger than all the rest. Tis all I can do to remind myself that we are all equals, when in truth I am still in awe of so many.

    'Exemplary work', sir Shannon stated with his usual dispassionate tone of voice after the destruction of powerful undead in the basement of an abandoned building. A dry and precise statement more than a compliment, but to me t'was as if a choir of celestials sang, and rose petals fell from the skies like fragrant snowflakes. So elated was I by this apparant approval that I finally plucked up my courage to ask him of someone much talked about by others, yet never spoken of in the Order: Kara DuMonte, paladin and hero turned betrayer in the N'Jast war.

    Being a paladin, and a lady paladin at that, comparisons with Kara DuMonte seem inevitable, but ne'er before have I heard words I have trusted the truth of, in explaining her fall. I felt defenceless when the likeness was made, when accusations came of strictness in lawabiding being to blame. Sir Shannon's words, while not explaining everything, rang with a wholly different truth.

    'The road to the hells is paved with good intentions', he said quietly. 'Desperation, and the wish to save everyone was Kara's downfall.' Through this, forces of evil found a way to use her, to make her what she is now - a betrayer, a devil, an Erinyes. All this stemming from the best of intentions, from a good person doing everything she could to save others.

    I thought on this for days, the words sinking in and taking root within me. It is not enough to be good. I must be just, I must be strict and relentless in the principles I am sworn to uphold. I must harden my heart, even while keeping passion and compassion alive within. I don't want to grow cold and distant, encased in armor and duty to the point where I am all knight and no longer Ashena! But perhaps it is inevitable?

    I feel uncertain, and I like it not at all. A second part comes from this, from the sense of once again losing something of myself to that which I represent. I recall the neigh intoxicating freedom I felt, when first coming here. I was not Lady Teroldys, for our house had no name of any fame here, nor was I yet a knight. I was ~Ashena~, and befriended all kinds of people on equal terms, without preconceived notions of who or what I was. My deeds were my own, made in the name of Torm, but yet my very own, not the Houses, not the Orders.

    Now, I am once again lady first, and feel even more apart from others than before. Though this is perhaps how it should be, how it ~must~ be, I would that sometimes, to someone, I would just be Ashena. That someone should be Cecil, yet I sometimes wonder if tis not the knightly part which appeals the most to him, that this is what he admires and in part aspires to become himself. I wonder if I am simply his ideal, not for being noble, but for being the knight or the maiden fair. I feel uncertain, and I like it not at all.

    A third thread in this my tapestry of woes, is woven skillfully in with the rest. I told you of Ardent, long ago, did I not, describing her with much praise of her quick wit and her ability to befriend just about anyone? Including myself, or so it was then. I hope I am not wrong about that too, I hope and I think we were once truly friends, but now I know tis no longer so. And while it is true that her admission of a plan most foul is part of this, the sad realization came to me long before then; the insight that she saw me not as a true friend.

    I was riding out though the gates, looking for companionship in an otherwise seemingly deserted Peltarch when I met Ardent and a group of others, passing by with a lifeless body. She was heading for the temple, swapping but a word or two as she trudged on with her burden. Slow as she was, t'was still I who had to chase after, for Ardent is ever heading in the opposite direction when our paths cross of late. So it had been for months, but I attributed it mostly to a flighty and restless nature. Now, I'm uncertain.

    When, after talking to the rest of the party to find out what had happened, I finally caught up with her and politely pointed out that I and Fury's strong back might have been helpful, she said (looking about to leave again) that she 'didn't want to bother me'. As if I was busy with some high and mighty errand. As if I had no time for helping a friend? And then it hit me - never would she have passed Cecil by in this manner, never would she be considerate of whether or not she inconvenienced him - because they really are friends. And I am not.

    This is not faulting Ardent, for our paths grew further and further apart, long before this point. Rather, tis I who feel foolish for imagining myself more important than I was, simply because I wished for someone like her in my life; someone free-spirited and swift of wit - someone not unlike Emma, whom I ever chased after as a child with futile and one-sided admiration. Perhaps this likeness is all that drew my interest, or perhaps I made her out to be what I wished her to be? Recent events have made me pose these kinds of questions, yet the answers elude me.

    I miss you, dear brother - I know you would shake my self-pity and all these foolish notions from my head with a single mudball to the face! Though perhaps we are too grown up for even that (yet I hope we are not; not now nor ever!).

    Your questioning sister, Ashena"

  • T

    _With a weary sigh, the young woman hangs a tabard up to dry, next to the gold-and-blue armor, cleaned once again to a mirror shine. Her hair too is wet, fair skin tinged with pink from the bath. For once, Ashena foregoes the usual combing and braiding, simply towelling her mass of dark chestnut hair before letting it tumble freely down her back.

    Darkness falls outside as she writes her reports, huddling up in a thick woolen blanket and warming her hands on a mug of steaming tea, before the long day is concluded with another letter home. Weariness seems to dictate the words pace, but slowly filling the page, sadness welling up in her soft brown eyes before the end._

    "Dearest father,

    It has been too long since I wrote last, and much and more has happened, none of it good. Norwick has fallen to the combined forces of bugbears, hobgoblins and duergar, and a large portion of the townsfolk are trapped within, forced into labour and being used as bargaining chips. The warning signs were there, the signs of armies amassing, and I had begun to spend more of my time in the south to better be of aid in the coming conflict.

    Alas, despite knowing a storm is coming, one is ne'er quite prepared when it hits. Norwick was struck swiftly and mercilessly, taken by surprise during an auction that had gathered much interest from around the lands. T'was brutal, many of the most reknowned heroes of the lands falling in the desperate attempt at keeping the marauders out. But in vain. Norwick has fallen, and all the south is in turmoil.

    These were desperate days, and so too were some of the measures considered in the fight to reclaim the town. A war council was formed, with representatives from around the lands, but prior to this, a group of mainly the former Norwick militia hatched their own plans. One of these seems to have come into fruition, despite all those involved swearing t'was never put into action.

    Oh father.. my heart is heavy, for that which has occurred now may have called a halt to the war itself, but given rise to something far worse. At ~someone's~ prompting, undead have poured out from the Norwick crypts, powerful and numerous, intent on claiming all of Norwick, all it's life, all it's flesh and blood and turn it to vile undeath. So grave is this threat that the bugbear leadership is willing to surrender the town. But the mood here is dark, and for good reason.

    Hundreds of the villagers have fallen victim of the undead, yet their hunger is endless, and they come even so far as Peltarch to seek 'their' flesh - Norwick flesh. Bugbears too have fallen prey to these attacks, goblins, animals, even plantlife - tis a blight upon all the Rawlins, and one I feel we must give our all to fight. Regardless of whether this aids the bugbears also, we must fight, ~I~ must fight for Torm's gifts are given for a reason.

    I am not the mightiest of heroes. I have not the strongest arm, the sharpest mind, the steadiest defence. But I have faith, I have the grace Torm shows me, and if there's ~anywhere~ that this may truly make a difference, it is in the fight that now awaits. And I wish so fervently to do just that - I need to act, to shed this helpless frustration and feeling of inadequence, of ever being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

    I should be writing of my marriage, I should tell you most proudly that Cecil is now the leader of the Remnant, the likely Chancellor to be, should Norwick indeed be liberated. Instead I wonder if we shall ever truly find the time to wed. Instead, I think of legions of undead, marching up the riverbeds, bursting up through water, through the ground, blighting nature's green buds with their cold, rotting touch. I think of death, and I am not afraid, but filled with a terrifying purpose.

    Torm willing, these dark thoughts are but the rainclouds of these troubled days, following one upon the other until I must bleed them out onto parchment, shedding every drop. I try so hard to remain bright and strong, each daylight hour. But when darkness falls and the day is done, the clouds move inexorably in, and ne'er have I done enough to banish them completely. Would that I had shelter, that I could once more curl up in loving arms and cry, until everything was all better. But nothing will ever be better for wishing it so. Instead, I must strive to ever do my part in making it so.

    I love you, and I miss you all ~so~ much. Aymon told me we are summoned home, and I shall do all I can to answer that call. But for the now, there's too much need for us here to leave, though part of me wishes for nothing more.

    Your faithful, loving daughter, Ashena"

  • T

    In the still of night, a tousled and sleepless Ashena slips quietly from her oversized bed, sleep clearly eluding her. She drapes a warm shawl over her shoulders, pets Bob as the little cat slinks past her legs on his nightly escapades, and lights a candle by the desk to write anew.

    "Dearest Gralam,

    It's official now, decided, scheduled and set in stone but for our parents blessing - Cecil and I are to be wed on the winter solstice! Aymon got his most official and heir-to-the-throne look on, asking stern questions and (I think) shocking Cecil somewhat with the full extent of the implications of marrying into the family. He still didn't balk, not once, nor did he meekly comply without question. I knew Aymon was satisfied when sternness gave suddenly way to that otherwise infuriatingly teasing look on his face!

    Cecil chose the date, I the minister and place (Celia, the temple of the Triad) and Aymon said he'd clear everything with the family. It's all taken care of, all the things that were once but hopes and dreams are now taking shape, becoming real and soon, oh so soon within reach. So why am I suddenly so nervous?

    I buried myself in work, finding a thousand and one excuses to postpone my tailor's appointment, dreading being covered in froth and lace like a creampuff princess. Our friends were happy and enthused to hear the news, Celia in particular taking great joy in the planning and details of it all, even sending for a wonderful sacred chalice from her convent, to bless our union with. She is a little nervous too, I think, but I can think of no one I'd rather have to join our hands, and I have no doubts that she will do a wonderful job.

    From left and from right, I hear naught but congratulations, naught but what a wonderful man Cecil is, and how well suited we are to each other. I have no doubts about any of that either, truly I don't! Still I feel as though there is a garden full of butterflies within me, beautiful and promising, shimmering in colour but also fragile, fluttering ephemeral things. Am I afraid the dream will be taken away somehow, or that it will not be what I imagined? Or rather, not what ~he~ imagines? After having spent so much time longing for something, is not reality (me?) bound to disappoint?

    Disenchantment - is that my true worry, or are the reasons the same as my original stance to marriage; that it will mire me in domesticity and keep me from my duty, or at the least divide my loyalties, cloud my clarity of purpose? My duty to Torm comes first, always, and though this was the very first thing I bade him accept, I wonder if it will not be a hard thing to live with. I wonder where we shall live, too!

    I wonder so many things, and I cannot share even half of them with Cecil, for they ~sound~ like doubts even if they are not truly that! Besides, thoughts like these invariably vanish in his presence, for he has a way of filling a room or any given place entirely, until there is only him and the irresistable warmth he spreads. Cold feet scuttle quickly out of view when Cecil arrives, and I think for the most part they are just that, cold feet and nothing more.

    Still, would that I could speak to someone who has been in my shoes and the shoes to come, a lady knight about to wed, or a married knight with wife and child! Sir Mariston, Shannon and Roland are the founts of wisdom I can never quite seem to reach or tap, and verily, with all three I am not near bold enough to ask something so personal. If only Rath was married, he could tell me all about it! There is almost nothing I cannot speak to Rath about, yet on the subject of marriage, he has ~the~ most pragmatic views, nearly as much so as Shallyah. Their reasons are not anything like mine, for if not for love, I would not marry at all!

    There is something about love, though, something that stirs all the butterflies. I have never before been so happy and so anxious, all at once. It might be taken away, it might break or fall short of the dream. But I think, I believe that the best is yet to come. I will just have to do what I do best, and have faith.

    Your jittery sister, Ashena"

  • T

    The young woman paces, a curtain of gleaming dark hair fluttering as she reaches the end of the long marble hall and turns swiftly on her heel, walks a few steps, and stops. Indecision written plain across her fair face, Ashena seems to agonize internally, then breathes out and squares her shoulders. Another couple of steps towards her desk and the white, empty sheet of paper awaiting her, then she stops again, wincing. In nothing but sheepskin slippers and a plain white nightgown, Ashena closes her eyes, reopening them with a familiar look of unyielding purpose, usually reserved for charging headlong into ranks of the foulest of foes. She grabs the quill, weilding it like a sword before her, dips it into the ink and begins to write:

    "Dear mother and father"

    _Pause.

    A chewing of her bottom lip, a quietly muttered reasoning with herself: "Come on, you can do this! Good news first, well, the sort of good they cannot possibly argue is anything less than good.. come on!"_

    "I had settled into knighthood to some extent, no longer feeling quite so much the child impostor at the grown-up's table when it came about that the Order's First Swordarm, the honourable and vastly experienced Sir Roland Brynmor stepped down from his post. The training and organization of all knights and soldiers within the Order falls to the First Swordarm, who is also one of three champions on the Council, advising and assisting the Grand Master.

    Somehow, though I am both the youngest knight and the most newly minted, I was among those nominated for the role. To my surprise, unbelievable honour and yes, more than slight trepidation, I was also the one appointed! For my own part, I can't help but think Sir Rath a worthier and more suitable choice, but Torm willed otherwise (and his faithfuls do make up the rest of the Council, which may well play in), and I shall do my best to serve.

    These new duties take up much of my time, and the Order looks set to expand with several new squires of late. Even so, this is not the only joyous news I have to impart to my honoured parents. I trust Aymon has written already…"

    Pause again. ~Long~ pause as Ashena struggles to find the perfect, the just right and magical words to describe a certain someone with.

    "….I have, for some time now, been courted by a certain gentleman, a guardsman and defender of Norwick. His name is Cecil Northman, and he is a brave, honourable and kind man, as strong of arm as he is of character. Despite my former protests against the very notion of marriage, mother, I must confess my heart is won over. I love him, I ~do~, and though his lineage is not noble, his spirit is undeniably so!

    It is my most heartfelt wish that you, like Aymon, will see this and deem him worthy, for I would never act against the family's wishes. Father, mother, I humbly ask for your blessing to marry this man. Truly, it is him or no one, and he will be nothing but a boon to our House, I know it and Aymon knows it!

    Your faithful, loving daughter, Ashena"

    She blows on the ink, just barely letting it dry before sealing the letter shut.

  • T

    A candle spills a warm pool of light across a study desk in the Order library, the air filled with the dry, dusty smell of old parchment and leather. Several books are laid out infront of the young woman, whose look of dogged concentration slowly cedes to frustration. With a quiet groan, she plants her face against the wooden surface of the desk, then sweeps everything to the side and begins to write a letter instead.

    "Dearest Gralam,

    Why is it that I can go to the darkest and dankest of places without flinching, boldly stand up to rotting undead and screeching demons, only to find myself defeated by homework?

    While I was yet a squire, Rath bid me learn the Celestial tongue, for not only is it the language of the divine, but also another of the Order's squire's means of communication. Walter was to be my tutor, in exchange for teaching him my own skills with a blade, such as they are. This was agreed upon, but never really put into effect, the fault being asmuch my own as Walter's.

    I was about to write that there was simply always something more important to do, but that's just it, isn't it? I have yet to be convinced or convince myself that learning Celestial ~is~ important, and so I sit here with my books in just the sort of half-hearted effort that I cannot stand, knowing I ought to do it, but not really wanting to. Predictably, progress is slow!

    Studies is truly a part of my duties that I have to struggle to complete, for it brings me back to the times when all I did was sit inside and wait, long and envy the rest of you for being out there, doing all the things I wished I could. Now that Torm graces me with perfect health, should I really waste it being cooped up like a sword in its shealth?

    I do ~try~. I spend at least an hour reading, each evening, everything from books on Peltarch history, religion, necromancy and demonology, verily the library here is a fount of information to gladden any scholar's heart. And in this treasure trove, I sit sighing - tis a shameful thing, I admit! All this knowledge, and my stupid, stupid head is just too slow and too thick to take it all in. I leave the library humbled, each time feeling as though I know even less than I thought I did when entering. Though perhaps that is not an entirely bad thing? At least I shall never fall from pride, being so reminded of my shortcomings!

    Nor shall I fall from sinful excess, for while each kiss from Cecil seems to rob me of all wit and sense, we have wisely decided to ration them quite sparingly - although sometimes, we do not meet for weeks and have a dizzying amount of kisses saved up! You needn't worry though, not only is Cecil a perfect gentleman, not only do we most often kiss while both of us are encased in armor, but we have a third ace up our sleeves of virtuous conduct - the kittens.

    Believe it or not, but Bub & Bob seem to always be their most insistant for attention when Cecil and I are in each others arms, even to the point of Bob swatting his little paw at our very lips, mid-kiss! Chastity belts are out, chastity ~kittens~ is clearly the season's hot new trend in Narfell!

    Your study-weary sister, Ashena

    P.S. Did Aymon write home recently?"

  • T

    _The Order Halls, again. The young woman is seated at her desk, feet pulled up into the folds of a warm blue robe as she contemplates her next letter, quill wagging in her fingers. Suddenly, a streak of pale fur leaps at the quill, battling it down with great fury and vengeance. Ashena gives the fuzzy kitten a reproachful look, yet can't help but to chuckle and scratch his tawny head before she carries him over to a small basket in the corner of the room. The comfy basket, perched securely on a climb-friendly contruction resembling a small tree adorned with various cat toys, soon sees the kitten yawning hugely and falling asleep, face down on his tiny paws.

    Giggling quietly at the state of her mangled quill, Ashena picks a fresh one and begins to write._

    "Dearest Gralam,

    All of a sudden, and in ALL the reverse order, me and Cecil find ourselves parents! Mother always told me, sweet words and sweet kisses lead to sweet babies, but never had I imagined it would happen so swiftly as all this, with ~several~ key moments missing inbetween!

    Our young ones are named Bob & Bub, and have the most adorable blue eyes you can imagine, coupled with soft fuzzy fur (tawny and black respectively), razor sharp little claws and teeth, and mischief by the bucketful! They are, surprise surprise, of course kittens, and found abandoned in the strangest place at that!

    I should start from the top though - and it began most normally indeed, with little reason to think it a day out of the ordinary for any other reason but the joy of getting to spend it in Cecil's company. We had finished our patrol, the rest of our party dispersing as we headed on to the bath house together. I think we must both have been in a bold mood that day, for somehow I found myself not only close, but in fact seated upon Cecil's leg while we spoke, and nearby bathers made jeering remark on this fact. A wink from one of the men added to the discomfort, and so we decided to seek privacy within the steam room, and relax once more.

    On our short way over from pool to steam room however, the most bizarre sight awaited us. Verily, when I hear of people being reluctant to frequent the baths, this very sight pops unbidden into my mind, and I cannot help but shudder inside! A man stood by the door, trying to engage in conversation as Cecil and I stared in fascinated horror. He was most unfortunately attired, in a bathing garnment far too small for his bulk, and adding to this, covered both in his own body hair and so much oil that I half expected him to slide sideways on his own grease trail.

    The man made eyes, not at me but at Cecil, and desired to come with us into the steam room. The door SLAMMED in his face (unkind I know, but necessary for sanity's sake!) and we stood near trembling in the steam room. Then, unbelievably from a grown man, bawling began. He was ~crying~, and now I did feel cruel, remorseful enough to eventually open the door - but the man did not stand there waiting. Instead, we followed oil glistening footsteps back to the pool, where he stood entwined in a lustful embrace with the man who had winked at us previously!!!

    I shall spare you the details, verily as much for my own sake as yours, for that very vision seemed to etch itself to our minds, and we retreated to the steam room in haste. Clinging to each other like frightened children, we simply stood there, trying ~desperately~ to unsee what had been seen while all thoughts of romance were brutally stripped away.

    But not for very long.

    After all, the steam room is designed for relaxation, is it not? And Cecil's proximity does make my thoughts scatter, even foul ones. Soon, we had regained a little of our previous mood, and the only danger remaining was temptation itself. But that's when we heard it..

    'Meow..'

    A soft, mewling sound coming from somewhere inside the room! Cecil listened intently, then walked over to the benches across from us to kneel down and peek below. A pitch black kitten trotted out to cautiously sniff at his leg - then a second one, pale gold in hue like a little lion! We picked them up and searched the room, yet could find no mother to the small critters, nor any signs of a passage she might have used to get inside or out of the room. The staff were equally clueless, when asked.

    Quite simply, the kittens presence was inexplicable and we could not help but to wonder whether it was a sign of sorts. Cecil's god is the Black Lion you see, and he has on previous occasions received signs, leading him further on his spiritual quest. Regardless of that, the kittens were far too young to manage on their own and so we decided to care for them ourselves. The plucky black one promptly climbed into Cecil's lap, while the tawny one stared at me uncertainly for a while, then buffed my leg with his little head. One each then, we decided!

    With great argumentative effort, I was allowed to keep little Bob with me at the temple. As luck would have it, there is something of a rat situation in the city and a cat makes perfect sense in that respect. Although you would not BELIEVE how much trouble a small kitten can be, or how often he wakes and demands to either be fed or played with. Parenthood is exhausting, verily! Yet when he is asleep in his basket, looking like a perfect fuzzy angel, I confess my heart does swell with love.

    Your (unexpectedly) kitten-raising sister, Ashena"

  • T

    _A tall candle spreads its warm light across a large and open room, fine tapestries on the walls and the floor set with beautiful marble. The young woman sits at her desk, several small piles of paper stacked neatly beside her, and an as of yet empty sheet set before her, awaiting freshly inked words. The nearby bed is enormous, Ashena's neatly laid out nightgown looking small and lonely on the vast expanse of the bedspread. Sword, shield, helm and a fullplate armor in shining blue and gold rest on the armor stand beside the bed, gleaming in the candlelight.

    The sound of her chair creaking echoes across the silent halls, and Ashena pulls her woolen shawl closer, a thoughtful look on her face as she begins to write._

    "Dearest Gralam,

    While my last letter was written in such euphoria that I scarcely touched the ground, the time that followed my knighthood has seemed designed to ensure I keep well grounded. The Order is most generous, allowing me full use of the facilities here which include sleeping quarters, training and crafting hall, meeting room, an expansive library and storage room full of the most curious and wonderous items to admire. I even recieved aid in getting my new plate dyed and tailored so precisely to my measurements that I swear it will keep me on the straight and narrow in sweet consumption, for fitting so very closely! It is now a deep, rich blue with gold details, strictly adhering to the guidelines of the Order.

    I feel just a little bit less Ashena Teroldys, and a little bit more the Knight of the Order, wearing it. I expect that is part of the point, however!

    My days have begun to find a steady routine, a daily grind that, while not so different from before, is yet unlike what I had imagined life would be like as a knight. I sleep in the Order halls, above the Temple of the Triad, I say my prayers at dawn before the altar of Torm, then have breakfast in Ashald Park. I walk my beaten path down in the sewers (sometimes the nearby swamps, and the crypts of Norwick every so often), then soak at the bath house. I eat my supper, write reports and study before going to bed (in a bed so freakishly large, one would think the Order either had giants in their ranks, or housed nightly orgies. Neither is actually true, of course!). Lather, rince and repeat this routine, over and over, and there you have the current life of Ashena Teroldys.

    Glamorous, is it not? My friends chase treasure and adventure all over Narfell, fighting beasts of myth and legend in the most dangerous and remote parts of the region, while I mop up slime in the sewers. Ashena, the Janitor Knight, on a never ending quest for cleanliness! My new weapon of choice ought perhaps to be mop and bucket, instead of sword and shield, at this rate!

    (I can picture the heraldic emblem now, a bucket with a drowned rat and diagonal mop, overlaying a green gelatinous cube background)

    I jest of course, yet part of me is not free from envy of such epic adventure as those my friends partake in. Still, perhaps the hardest part of my chosen path is something I am still learning - patience and perseverance to one's duty, whether this duty be full of glory or in my case, simply gory.

    If one breaks it down to the core, tis really quite simple though - my life is sworn to a higher power. I would live and die serving Torm in whatever way He asks, over seeking empty thrill or shiny treasure any day. Yet when I hear fantastical tales of dragons and golems, how can I not feel just a ~little~ envious? In our heart of hearts, every adventurer longs for just that, I think; adventure with a capital A!

    I will be patient, I will persevere in my task and who knows? I may find that adventure lurks in even the slimiest and dirtiest of places, walking hand in hand with duty. I have faith that it is so, verily!

    I shall be fair to my routine too, for it gives my days structure and meaning, preventing what would otherwise be days spent waiting, worrying and longing. I wait for Aymon, I worry over the future and I long, oh how I long for Cecil, for our duties now separate us more often than not. The time we do have together, we fill with fun, adventure and kisses so sweet, they live nextdoors to agony. I am happy, yet waiting, worrying and longing for more. I want you to meet him, I want ~everyone~ at home to do so, I want to present him proudly and declare my love out loud!

    But I must be patient, I ~will~ be patient and persevere in my love and who knows? One of my dear siblings might marry so fabulously up that me marrying down will be a footnote of no remark in our family history, or a title may present itself for Cecil to wear, just shiny enough to give him an honest chance. I have faith.

    Your most glorious slime-buster sister, Ashena"

  • T

    "Oh, Gralam!

    I'm a Knight now, as of just this past eve, a sworn knight in the Order of the Divine Shield! I spoke my vows before Torm and a small congregation, and verily, such bliss filled me that I do think my feet have yet to touch the ground since! Aymon was there, and Sigibert, Rath, Shallyah, Walter, Ardent, Elena and many others from the Order itself, several good persons from our recent mission, alongside the unexpected addition of quite a few of the pale and scantily clad women we had liberated from the cult but hours ago.

    And at the back, standing head and shoulders above most everyone else and looking so splendid my poor heart nearly ~burst~, Cecil. Beaming from afar, he looked beyond handsome in a regal red and gold outfit (which oddly matched the strange new armor I found myself in, though his was immaculate and mine full of gashes and bloodstains, alas!).

    I knelt a squire and rose a knight, to the solemn smiles of Lady Daisy, Sir Roland and Sir Mariston. A joyous feeling bubbled inside me, bursting into full and unstoppable bloom as I turned to wave to the small crowd and congratulations began. I HUGGED Rath, near lifting his feet off the ground, hugged lady Daisy, nearly did the same to sir Mariston before some tiny vestige of my dignity insisted upon itself. Instead I shook his hand, far, FAR too many times, smiling as though I was touched.

    More hugs, handshakes and congratulations followed, though they blur together into one big, giddy jumble as I worked my way through the crowd. Further back stood Sir Shannon, expressing his regrets that his many duties had prevented him from attending the whole ceremony as he would have wished. My heart swelled inside my chest, and I nearly hugged him too, before swiftly reminding myself to act more befitting a knight. I shook his hand instead, and he smiled! It was a small smile, but I'm sure it was there, unless my giddy mind has in hindsight plastered such expressions to everyone in attendance (which, come to think of it, it might)!

    I had just enough time to be swept up in a mighty bear hug by Cecil, before the Order was called to a meeting with General Neverith of the Peltarch Defenders. As I walked up the stairs, I cast one glance back and spied Aymon and Cecil in what appeared intense conversation, and my insides did a quick somersault. Aymon looked so serious, and Cecil startled and gobsmacked - what on earth were they talking about?!

    I sat through the meeting feeling much like a child masquerading as an adult in my new Order robe, yet tried my best to listen and learn. Mariston was opinionated and adamant, Roland shrewd and Shannon dry and precise as the discussion continued of things political, legal and governmental in nature. Rath offered good ideas and Eluriel proved more insightful than I had perhaps given her credit for as of yet - but my mind kept returning to Cecil and Aymon downstairs.

    As the meeting wound to a halt, the jubilous feeling of before returned in force as I left my seat. And it must be this very sensation that compelled me to take lady Eluriel's hand as she playfully offered a dance, spinning me deftly around, then offering sir Shannon the next dance. At this point, Shannon must deemed me just as childish as I felt, for he left without a word and I could not help but feel as though I had disappointed him.

    Even that was not enough to dampen my spirits or still my trembling heart, however, and I near tripped on my new robe in hurrying down the spiral staircase. Torm be praised, Cecil was still there (though Aymon was not)! We had made a sort of promise to go dancing at the Festhall afterwards, and his face lit up as I stepped into view. I took his arm, and walked as if on naught but air through the darkened city streets.

    The Festhall was bright and gaily lit, a band of elven musicians greeting us with soft lilting tones. Cecil had assured me he could dance, but some part of me must have doubted the extent of his claim, for as he swept us into that first dance with sure and elegant steps, I am certain my jaw must have dropped momentarily! Not only can he dance, he can ~dance~! I floated on my cloud of bliss, following effortlessly as if in a dream. It was simply perfect.

    Eventually, we both found our tongues as the band kept playing, and we kept dancing, through joyous jigs and slow, sweeping reels. It seems Aymon had observed and drawn his own conclusions, for now he wished to have a talk with us both and to interview Cecil formally, about himself and his intentions. In short - an interview for prospective marriage!

    I gawked, and looked no doubt precisely as startled and gobsmacked as Cecil had back at the temple - yet now, he simply smiled and pulled me closer as the music slowed. Before such an interview, he murmured, it might be wise to ask what the lady herself desires. As if on cue, the music stopped. In the sweetest repetition of our first encounter, Cecil withdrew a single red rose from his pack, offering it with a most significant smile.

    And just like the first time, I accepted. The music swelled around us for the last dance, and the words that were whispered then are mine and his alone.

    All that remains now is to have this fragile rose accepted by the family, and Aymon's support will mean a world of difference. Until that talk, the rose is but a rose to anyone but Cecil and I. Remember that, Gralam. It's just a rose, so SHHHH!

    Seriously!

    My feet still refuse to touch the ground, and I have not slept all night. No frowny-face now, tis not for having spent it in any unseemly manner! I was escorted back to my room, and have since been packing my things to move to the temple, then writing reports and letters to calm my butterfly thoughts. I'm just so HAPPY that I do not know what to do with myself, and fear I shall run through the streets shouting like a maniac!

    But I won't. After all, I'm a knight now, and sworn to a certain level of conduct! Though if inside of me, a tiny Ashena does cartwheels and squeals in delight, I do not think Torm himself would begrudge me of it.

    Your giddy sister, Ashena"

  • T

    _The first explorative rays of of sunshine have only just begun to creep past the horizon, probing and pushing gently at the velvet blanket of night outside the small inn room. It is either very late or very early, yet the sole occupant of the room seems very much awake.

    In fact, it's highly doubtful if the young woman has slept at all this night, as a small suitcase occupies the bed, her few modest belongings neatly packed inside. A wickedly spiked set of gold and red armor rests on a chair beside the bed, alongside the usual wooden shield, longbow, a shining golden helmet and the sword, now free of any trace of rust, shimmering in the warm glow of the candle light.

    Ashena, wearing a sky blue robe cinched at her small waist with a golden band, can't seem to stop smiling as she flits about, adding the last few items to the suitcase's content. A single red rose adorns her long braid, adjusted now and then with an even brighter smile. Dawn spreads a soft pastel light through the small window where Ashena takes her seat, perhaps for the very last time, and begins to write._

    "Dear mother and father!

    The past day has truly been the most significant, most blessed and proud one of my life. I write to you today not only as your daughter, but as a true knight of the Order of the Divine Shield! Yesterday, I stood before the altar of Torm and a congregation of the Order, family and friends, to take my oath.

    Though nervous at first, once I spoke the words, nothing has felt more right. As I drew my sword, that feeling increased ten-fold, for a bright golden light did blossom along it's length, from the very tip and down the blade, through hilt and onwards. Verily, it seemed to travel through the palm of my hand, tingling down my arm and to reach all the way inside me to set my very soul aglow! And with that blessed light, the last rust fell off the blade of my sword to reveal the name of the paladin who had weilded it before me - and I knew it pleased him well that the duty he raised it for is done.

    For ~Marko Kirkasmieli~, my brother in faith, the story of the final defeat of the cult of Kiputyttö will be recorded and remembered. I share it with you, my honoured parents, for I have no doubt that it will please you well to hear what your son and daughter have accomplished in these lands, in the name of Torm and House Teroldys.

    With the demons taken out of the cult's ranks on our last mission, the time was upon us for the final, and with the gods aid, decisive blow to this evil. Lady Daisy once again put the call out, and many fine and good souls did answer. There was Aymon and myself, Ivor Shemov of Torm, Walter Barry of Mystra, Shallyah of the Red Knight, Elena and Allestor Hollins of Ilmater, Doogie of Beronnar Truesilver, Magdarin of Gorm Gulthyn, the unarmed fighter Aeden and hinnish faithful Rynthen McTavish of the Silver Valley.

    The task set before us was clear and true - destroy the cult. And with them, any wicked helpers they may have, as according to Lady Daisy's scrying there were mercenaries bolstering their ranks, amongst them Cyricists and even drow. The map of the cult's location, by thoughtful addition of Lady Daisy's, was enchanted to function as a word of Recall, to be used once our task was complete. The map would then bring all of us back to the temple of the Triad in an instant.

    The map lead us into the foothills, south-west crossing a small section of Gnoll-infested forests, then due north across a snowy field, fighting our way past ogres into a a cavernous lair. Here, we soon found the mercenary forces Lady Daisy had reported present, but more than that. A grey dwarf with a coiled whip barred our way, claiming we must pay if we were to go further, to see 'her' girls. We quickly slew the slaver and proceeded into a large room with an enclosure, housing a great number of sickly looking women in naught but rags.

    Directly ahead of this cage, a woman was shackled and kneeling, while a richly dressed man discussed the price of… of using her, with a pair of bulky guards. Aeden's scouting had also revealed a drow priestess near the back of the room, likely the one calling the shots. We launched a swift attack and killed everyone but the captured women. From them, we learnt the horrifying truth - the cult had forced each and every one of these enslaved women to prostitution, in order to spread disease and gain riches for their dark purpose. But even worse, they were impregnated time and again, their innocent children at once sacrificed and thrown into the putrid cookpots, devoured like the holy men and women that came before us.

    The cage being sturdy, the women frail and sickly and the key to the lock no-where in sight, we decided to press our advantage and return to free the captives on our way back. Down a flight of stairs, we found the cult's true stronghold. Their numbers were high, featuring numerous druids and priests. Chief amongst these, the High Priestess, a sinister and powerful woman, awaiting us near a raised altar, soaked with blood.

    The fighting in that final room was fierce, but in the end, none of our foes remained but the priestess herself. As we closed around her, she took to running, but got no further than a narrow bridge before we caught her. Malice seemed to drip from her, poison radiating from her very person, and with her dying words, she did place a curse upon us - for her godess to strike us all down with a terrible disease.

    For a breath or two, her words did seem but empty threats, but then several of us suddenly took ill, falling unconcious with a burning fever. First Walter, then Ivor, Aeden - and then Aymon. I ordered them brought back to the main chamber, for t'was my immediate thought and full intent to destroy the altar and by doing so, break the curse and the power of Kiputyttö.

    I carried Aymon with the help of another, placing him gently on the stone ground. No words did reach him, the fever raging with a heat I feared would soon be his death. I placed my hand on his forehead, whispering words of cleansing, but he was still and did not stir. Until suddenly, his eyes blinked wide open, gleaming with something dark and sinister. One by one, our sick did rise up to strike against us, possessed by the evil powers of Kiputyttö. I was forced to strike my brother down, and kept him down as the others were being likewise subdued.

    Elena, at my urging, did approach the altar and begin to pray. A dark force lashed out as the altar fought back, resisting the purge with grievous harm to Elena herself. She bore the pain, stood there unfaltering and strong in faith. One by one, we all added our prayers to hers, with Elena and Allestor in the fore.

    The pain was brutal, spreading to all who added their voices to the choir of cleansing. The force seemed to lash out more frequently, desperately, then a crack appeared on the altar's surface. Through gritted teeth, our chanting continued, human, dwarven and hinnish mingling, echoing in the cavernous room. There was a rumbling, the pain building to neigh unbearable, then the altar did shatter in a million pieces, a great explosion that sent shards, dust and pebbles everywhere. Victory! Praise Torm, Ilmater, Gorm, Beronnar and Arvoreen!

    Immediately, the oppressive feel in the aid did lift, and t'was as if a cool and fresh stream of air had flowed into the room. One by one, our afflicted woke, confused and with no memories of their attacks upon us. I think it perhaps best it stay that way, for those actions were in truth not their own, nor should they carry any shame or guilt from them.

    Upon the priestess' body, we found a key and several vile and powerful possessions. We collected them all for Lady Daisy to take care of, and headed upstairs to free the women captives. As everyone crowded around me, I used the map to bring us back to the temple, to some shock and consternation of the temple staff, I can only imagine.

    The women were immediately treated by Lady Daisy, given some gold, directions, an offer to stay at the temple and last but not least, their freedom. Many left, but some stayed - and I pray the temple may give them honest work and a chance to heal not just bodily, but in spirit.

    Lady Daisy heard our account of events, before one final boon was bestowed upon us - the vile items of the priestess were, through what must have been a tremendous effort, cleansed and sanctified, to be offered as our reward. I was honoured with the first pick, and after much consideration chose a wonderous amulet of strong protective magic, with a hidden boon within - a breath of fresh air, to be released once every day. I was full of glee, thinking the sewers and dank crypts would be that much more bearable had I this breath of fresh air with me always - then I took one look at Aymon's face, and knew I could not keep it.

    He chose the priestess' spiked armor in turn, and we traded the two immediately after. The armor also offers fine protection, far better than my old, which I gave to Ivor with a slight pang of regret. I had grown fond of it, for just as my sword, this armor was old looking and with rusty spots, yet bearing the symbol of Torm upon it. Some romantic part of me saw a correlation, a form of kinship there. I felt part of a long tradition in wearing the armor, in weilding the sword, all in the name of the Loyal Fury. But Ivor is a priest of Torm, and I have no doubt he will carry on the tradition every bit as well as I.

    The armor, oddly spiked and covered in blood and gashes from axe and sword, was the unexpected outfit worn for my knighting ceremony, for it started immediately after our quest was complete. I had made such meticulous plans for what to wear, and how to do my hair, and suddenly, there I was, bloodied and ragged before the small crowd in attendance - but in all honesty, it felt more true this way. A knight's work isn't all roses and corkscrew curls, quite the contrary. Tis blood, gore, sweat and tears, and I would have it no other way.

    Your proud, faithful daughter, Ashena

    P.S. I will now move into the Order's facilities at the temple of the Triad. Adress any letters you send to that adress!"

    As the young woman finishes the letter, she touches gentle fingertips to the rose in her braid, her smile again growing brighter. Immediately, she reaches for a fresh page to continue writing.

    ((Immense thanks to Wywernywin for this amazing, exciting and highly meaningful goodie-good plot line. Ashena wouldn't be half the paladin she is now without you!))

  • T

    Early morning in Ashald Park, the young woman seated in her usual spot with a mug of tea, a bright red apple and a neatly cut sandwich beside her. She hums happily to herself, enjoying the solitary breakfast and the freshness of the rose garden while working on another letter.

    "Dearest Gralam!

    The one true perk of wading through filthy sewers and cutting the rotting hide of oozing zombies for a living - aside of course for the satisfaction of doing one's duty - is that one may visit the bath house afterwards, and without shame or hesitation indulge in lavish soaps and scented oils. The staff have begun to call me by name at this point, and often offer for me to try this new soap or that (although they have yet to convince me of the merits of their massage services).

    At first, I felt ashamed to constantly walk through the door in such a wretched state (covered in slime, zombie gore or both), but by now it is a well established routine, and the staff greet me with far greater cordiality than my often stinking presence deserves. For a small extra fee, I can even have my armor cleaned while I soak - a fine service!

    My visits there are as frequent as they are solitary, for while I do not lack for company in my patrols, most people are either too shy to bathe in public or hesitant to spend so much coin on a membership to join me. So you can perhaps imagine the raised eyebrows as one day, I walked in with a very tall, very slime-covered gentleman beside me. Cecil had, after several patrols in dark and smelly places alongside me, decided to collect his courage and his finances to finally accompany me to the baths!

    Oh, don't give me that frowny-face, Gralam (and I know you are doing just that, reading these words)! I said they were public baths, did I not? Nothing truly ~improper~ could occur in a public setting, and besides, he had already seen me naked the very first time we met. This was much less bare by comparison!

    Though I will not pretend there were not a few admiring glances exchanged between us, and mayhaps a reddened cheek or two.

    And perhaps he kissed me, finally.

    Perhaps for a ~very~ long time.

    We hurried to the cold pool soon after, briskly determined to cool off, yet grinning like the terminally deranged. I've never known anything to feel so sweet and so wildly, irresistably intoxicating! He kissed me again after a game of splash-the-Cecil had turned into TIDAL WAVE RETALIATION, washing me right out of the pool. As we left, I felt sure I heard the staff murmur and chuckle behind us, yet despite my cheeks burning, I cannot feel so embarrassed as to regret it. I won't!

    We've spoken no words of actual love yet, but it's there in every glance, in the warmth of his voice, in the brightness of his smile, in the smallest touch and the closest embrace, it's there, I cannot doubt it and I will not hide it (as if I even could!).

    Aymon knows, and while mostly amused at first, he now seems determined to facilitate matters, should Cecil measure up to whatever standards it is he has in mind. They have met, and seem to get along fairly well (to my immense relief). Rath too seems to be taking stock of Cecil, even going so far as to take him to the Barrows below Peltarch, just the two of them. I think he was impressed, though he still seems to watch us at times, more big-brotherly than Aymon himself in a way!

    While love blossoms in my own heart, I'm saddened to see it wilt in that of another. An argument between Celia, Shallyah and Walter broke out recently, and what had appeared a budding romance between the first and last of these friends is now crushed. A bewildered and disheartened Walter asked me to talk to Celia, to get her to stay, yet I could not understand the true nature of their disagreement. Except that Shallyah, admirable in many ways, but verily not in her understanding in matters of the heart, had opted to intervene somehow.

    Uh-oh.

    I found Celia in Peltarch, about to catch a boat back to her old Order. We talked for hours, her hurt and humiliation so real they were near palpable. T'was startling to find that beneath that strong and confident Celia I've come to know, the Celia who faces down a Vrock without flinching, the steadfast Celia, shining in faith - beneath all that is someone as brittle as she is beautiful, someone even less familiar with romance than I. Though she is perhaps as much as ten years older than I, though in matters of the faith I have no doubt that she is much the wiser, in this case, I felt a font of wisdom and experience.

    When Celia, whose whole life has been devoted to the church, growing up an orphan as she did, for the first time ever tried to open her heart to another, to lower her guard… when she was in this most vunerable state of mind, in unfamiliar territory - that is when she was told she was doing things wrong, that she ought to change, that she was not good enough. Shallyah (through no ill intent as such, I am sure) either did not see or did not care that her words were like bricks in a house of glass, and no matter what I said or did thereafter, I could not mend the damage.

    But I kept Celia from leaving, and somehow, though t'was not in the manner I had envisioned or wished for, I did get behind the shield to see the real her. After hours of exhausting, heart-wrenching conversation, I think the one good outcome of it all is that I have made a friend for life. I find myself both fond and a little protective of her, and very glad that she remains a squire for the Divine Shield, just as I. And I have no doubt that once she is past this hurt, she will emerge all the stronger for it. In fact, despite being burnt in the romance department, I find Celia is warmer and more open now than ever before. Mayhaps we all do grow from our mistakes?

    Your thoughtful, blissful sister, Ashena"