3. Nica's Secret Diary

Nica's Secret Diary


  • "Treasure.

    Growing up in a household like mine, I have lacked for very few things. I am privileged, I am aware of this, though I think my parents did a fairly good job of keeping us from being spoiled, at least in the sense of always getting whatever we wanted. Still, when I look at the equipment I have simply been given, through no effort on my part but for insisting on adventuring, I can't help but feel rather spoiled. Only my gloves and my crossbow are mine through having actually ~done~ something to deserve them. The crossbow at least, I actually think I earned fair and square, risking my life to shield Jimmeh from that big kobold at the gates. Gilda had my back, but it was decidedly scary (and bloody).

    It's hard not to take what you have for granted, and perhaps this played into my parents decision to have all of us children spending time at the Lighthouse orphanage. When we were very little, we would simply play with the other children while mom and dad did their rounds, but as we got older we'd help out instead, with whatever simpler chores were needed. I learned a lot from this, not only about treasuring the riches I have (like parents who love and protect me) but also that there's no real difference between me and the children who live there. But for a twist of fate, anyone of them could be me.

    In helping out, I also gained a treasured skill I'd never have mastered at home. Cooking! Not that dad isn't a decent cook, but Mildred at the orphanage, she has such a love for what she does that it spreads throughout the kitchen, carried with the heedy aromas from the heavy cast-iron pots and pans. For special occasions, she'd let me help her make cookies, and the scent would spread throughout the temple entirely. Everyone would make errands to the orphanage suddenly, donating a little something in return for a piece of the baked treasure. I'd feel absurdly proud though all I did was pour in the things Mildred measured up for me.

    Treasure means different things to different people, at different stages in their lives I think. When I was little, the cookie was in itself treasure - fiercely coveted, jealously guarded and devoured in tiny bites to savour every last morsel - but now I realize that the pride I felt in having helped bake it was also a form of treasure. Unlike the first kind, the second type of treasure lingered like a warm glow. And unlike the first, this treasure felt better the more I shared it. I still feel a tinge of that same pride when people eat and enjoy something I created.

    I've watched my parents return from their voyages and adventures, laden with magical, shiny goods, but for me the real treasure brought back was always the stories. The items, while often wonderous, were pins to hang the story threads upon and make it that much more vivid and real - like Wartooth's helmet. It's a good helmet, no doubt about that, but the story, oh! The story is why I'm so honoured to wear it.

    The best part about stories is that everyone can share them, be they rich or poor, young or old. All you need is imagination, the will to let yourself be swept away and a good story can take you anywhere, across chasms of time and space to places and people you'd never otherwise meet. Stories can make you happy or sad, make you think, make you wonder, make you escape from your ordinary life, if only for a little while. It's my favourite form of treasure, because you can enjoy it over and over, and sharing it only makes it grander.

    I'm contemplating the word treasure today, because Jonni, Elaine and a fair few others are all out chasing after an actual one. A few clues have been found, hinting of a buried treasure from someone calling themselves the Huntmaster. I'm sort of curious, but haven't got the time to join the chase just yet. Perhaps tomorrow, if it hasn't already been found.

    I'm not really that bothered with chasing after riches (it might be the classic pair of worn out boots for all I know) - but perhaps there's a really good story hidden there too?"


  • "Practice.

    Whatever your ambitions, whatever your natural talents, there's really only one thing that will get you closer to your goal, one thing that will make you improve, whether you even have that elusive natural gift for something or not. Genius is one percent inspiration and 99 percent transpiration, as the saying goes. For me, nothing could feel more true.

    It upsets dad when I say I'm not special, and perhaps that's not the right turn of phrase to use, really. I don't mean that I'm insignificant - it's more the sense that what I do, and however well I do it, isn't the result of anything other than simple hard work. I'm not chosen for some grand or terrible fate, I've no calling to serve the gods, I can't sing without making old Stinky howl.. Really, I'm not particularily gifted in any one area except possibly that sheer bullheadedness that seems to run as deep in our family as the famous Zoma 'luck'.

    Being stubborn can go a long way though, at least if you have your mind set on something. I remember my first tentative sessions with Yu Shei, working on little things like balance. I'd be discouraged and ashamed when I fell, blushing with pride when I kept my balance - but Yu would only nod and say 'Try again' and 'Again'.

    Slowly it sank in - it wasn't about that individual failure or success, it was about mastering the move and ultimately yourself. The only way to do that is through practice, again and again and again, until it's ingrained in your very fibre. Seen in this light, the only real failure would be to give up.

    I haven't given up yet, and I'm not about to start now. Selûne's shard said I would find a mentor, and I don't doubt I will, some day. But I no longer feel quite as lost without one. It's true I have a lot to learn, but I have good people around me, people I can bounce ideas and thoughts with. Elvewyn's calm and wisdom provides welcome insight, but perhaps oddly, so does Elaine in that her way of thinking contrasts so with my own. I think we both find our discussions worthwhile because while we don't always agree, we find understanding for the others point of view - actually, sometimes I even find I understand myself more clearly for having to lay my arguments out in the open.

    As for the combat side, I have a vision of what I wish to accomplish, and I can feel improvement creeping up on me, slowly but steadily. I've started a new training regime, extending my morning run along the waterfront, from the residential district to the docks and out into the foothills beyond, past the farms and down the winding stone stairs to the Icelace. I strip down to my undergarnments in the cover of the old shipwreck, slip the ice scarab around my neck and swim out until my feet no longer touch the sand.

    I practice my spinning here, twirling, curling, kick, slice and punch. The sluggishness of water is helpful, makes me feel more keenly the difference little angles make and how you build up momentum in twisting around just so; a little burst of effort which you can then simply ride on, letting the wave carry you through.

    Even with the scarab and constant motion, the water is freezing. Afterwards I always head to the bath house, lie on my back in the warm water or on a bench in the steam room to let my mind roam free in utter relaxation.

    It's a solitary exercize but it works for me; I think I'd even feel a bit awkward were someone to join me. The swamps runs are different, that's all about building stamina and strength of leg in those tricky marshy patches. I just run myself sweaty and breathless, shooing some kobolds and fighting others along the way. It's simple, grubby and rather relaxing in its own way, in fact.

    'I… wouldn't mind if you joined me at the bath house', I said to Vash't after one such sweaty run through mud and swampy green. He pinched the bridge of his nose, looked up at the sky and mumbled something incoherent before shaking his head. I knew I'd pushed it, but as usual I find it hard to resist the thrill of testing his resolve. The very notion that I could be considered tempting is still strange and new in itself, but that the person I myself find so tempting feels this way? It's plain irresistable.

    He calls me a witch, asks me to stop and then begs me for more, green eyes aglow. Since there's only so much we can actually ~do~ within the limits of this courtship, I'm using my words instead, to rather a wonderful effect. I don't think I ever felt this naughty before, even while I'm technically speaking being very good! Even better, I can blame it all on him for bringing Witchfist into life, that secret vixen side of me that really wouldn't exist but for him.

    Still, for all those wild urges and thrills, for all that sometimes the single, all-consuming thought that fits into my feverish head is to kiss him, I don't. He doesn't either, not on the lips, not ever crossing the lines. Hugs are quite allowed though, and we do that a ~lot~, pressing our bodies so close together that sometimes I can't tell which heartbeat is mine and which is his. I like to rub my cheek against his, feel the light prickle of stubble against my skin, breathe a soft nonsense something into his ear and push my luck a little further before we must part.

    Parting is such sweet sorrow, as the poets say. I always thought it was drivel until now, and can only hope my current change of opinion is insightful rather than proof of love turning my brain to mush...

    I do worry about some things. Not age as such, but rather life experience, which he has ample of and I don't. He's loved before, lost before, hurt and been hurt, kissed, cajoled and learnt from it all. Me... I'm just fumbling along, trying to wing it with confidence that isn't quite mine. Perhaps this fear of being at a disadvantage is why I find it such a thrill when his eyes go glazed at but a smile and a few choice words? Perhaps love is powerful enough to be an equalizer, no matter your score going into the game?

    It would be nice if that was the case, because sometimes I feel very small and very green. Like when I found out his previous lover was none other than Rith... Yeah, not the best grounds for comparison, is it? I couldn't hope to match Rith in a thousand years of trying, but I pushed that feeling of inferiority away as best I could, tried to work it out in my own mind before saying anything to Vash't. After all, I knew he had a past, and it would be a sad past if it didn't include lovers of a caliber equal to his own, right? I can't blame him for living a full life before we met - if I did that, we might as well call it quits right now.

    I still felt small. Then I pictured in my mind's eye dad's fury, the snarling beast beneath the skin - and Vash't walking straight into it, knowingly. Willingly, even. He could have had someone like Rith, but he chose me, even with werewolf strings attached.

    I suddenly felt much better.

    He told me himself, eventually, like it was a big deal which might upset me, then gave me the most adoring look when I explained that it wasn't. He'd told me he loved me not a half hour earlier, slipped it out in mid-sentence banter as though it was well established fact and not a rather staggering first. We nestled together upstairs in the Mermaid, sharing our dreams and thoughts of past and future until Elaine shook us from reverie with something or other of urgent nature. I don't even remember what, so warm was I from that green gaze, those loving arms.

    For all that I want more, sometimes desperately so, I find myself wondering if perhaps my parents aren't so wrong in insisting on this courtship period. Perhaps, like most things, love is something that requires some practice? I feel as though I'm beginning to find my confidence with every new step we take."


  • "Faith.

    Throughout my life, faith has been a natural element, entwined so seamlessly with who I am that it is not until now that I have truly begun to reflect over it. It's true that my father is a Selûnite priest and Yu Shei follows the same faith, but it is still not a choice that's automatic for all the family - Jonni has Savras (or Savras him, depending on how you view things), mom and Siri pay their homage mainly to the Grey Wolf.

    Yet for me, it was always Selûne, so without question that I can't even recall considering choosing another god as my patron. Jonni's teasing that I'm a daddy's girl might have some truth to it there, because many of my fondest childhood memories are of me and dad, hand in hand by the Moonmaiden's shrine or at home by the window, bathed in her silver light. I felt doubly loved in those moments, as though embraced not only by my father but the godess herself. It was a simple, self-evident sort of love, much alike that between parent and child. I was happy and safe knowing that she loved me, and I loved her in return, with all my earnest little heart.

    In some ways, I still feel that way, though I am aware that I must stand on my own two feet and fend for myself as all grown-ups do. I am no priestess, serving the Moonmaiden directly. I expect no miracles and ask no favours, but simply try to let Selûne guide me in the way I live my life, in the choices I make and in how I treat others. I strive to be someone who does her proud; someone kind, someone tolerant, understanding and forgiving.

    These ideals sound so simple that they shouldn't need to be stated out loud, I often think. Yet there's a point in doing that, because the things we take for granted are often the things we neglect the most. Kindness is a virtue grossly underrated, tolerance much harder to accomplish than any condemnation, no matter how righteous. I should know, I struggle with this more than I'd care to admit.

    I don't think I'm a bad person, I certainly strive to never be mean or hurtful - yet I sometimes find myself easily annoyed, especially when I feel others are being slow or incomprehensive. At times like that, I catch myself passing silent judgement or even making a snide comment to my friends - and I shouldn't! I should always strive to understand - really, isn't that what my whole life's ambition is about? Understanding me and the nature of the world I exist in, understanding others and being tolerant of their shortcomings, open to their virtues. For all that I'm trying to perfect certain aspects of myself, I know I'm just as flawed as anyone else - yet loved all the same.

    I'll keep trying, Selûne. If I can't always speak kind words, I'll at least refrain from speaking ill words when they have no purpose but to hurt.

    Forgiveness is another concept which sounds simple, but really isn't. You can say it, you can wish it to be true, but to forgive someone in your heart of hearts is probably the hardest thing there is. I don't speak from experience here - really, I have had a blessed life with little need to forgive anyone anything of weight - but I have seen my parents battling the regrets, grudges and sorrows of life. Ultimately, I believe forgiveness is a gift not only to the one who did wrong, but the one wronged - because only then can they let that hurt go.

    Yes, it's hard, and it's true that not all things can be forgiven - but we can look to the moon to guide us and give us courage to take that first step. That's kind of the essence of what faith is to me and what I want to do myself - I don't want to preach or persuade, I don't want to tell others what to do or how to do it, dictate what's right or what's wrong - I want simply to listen and understand, and in that way help people find the path that's right for them.

    To a point, of course. Tolerance doesn't mean you should tolerate intolerance and tyranny, cruelty and spite - but I believe that to understand the roots of evil means you can combat it better, and in other ways than simply meeting force with force.

    Again, it comes down to understanding. Curiously, it was through aiding another faith that I reached new understanding myself, not long ago. It was Spring Tide, and a young acolyte of Istishia was to be initiated into the faith. Visitors to the ritual were two sea elves, strange and slightly haughty beautifully green-skinned people, seeming beyond graceful in the water yet a little out of place, almost awkward on land. They had had some trouble on their journey, expecting an ambush upon return - and so we, the spectators, were asked to help clear their way.

    We were to dive down, right into the frosty depths of the Icelace, to fight a number of kuo toa and whatever else lurked below, aided by spells of water breathing and cold resistance. It was a chance for an entirely new experience, and I gladly volunteered alongside Jonni, Elaine and a bunch of others.

    Even with the spells, it was a shock to descend into the cold water - the magic keeping the freezing somewhat at bay, yet I could feel myself growing numb and sluggish of movement. Taking that first breath of water was rather daunting too, it goes right against natural instinct and I kept my mouth firmly shut for a little too long, feeling slightly nauseaus by the time I dared to breathe.

    Once at the bottom, I started somewhat to adjust, swaying seaweed and soft, soggy sand under my feet. Moving proved tricky while fully immersed in water; you feel at once lighter and slower. I tried walking upright at first, bobbing languidly up and down with each step when the fishmen were sighted, not far ahead. Clearly, they were not about to play nice, and crossbow bolts whizzed through the water towards us.

    A curious thing about water… it slows things down, and in that fight, I suddenly ~saw~ all movement, each element of combat all the more clearly, like time itself was drawn out. There was time to think, though reaction time was also slowed - until Elaine's hasting magic rippled the water. I gave up on walking, pushing off into a horizontal crawl through the water to fight, fist and elbow, knee and foot.

    Something curious about water... I could ~feel~ what I was doing, intently aware of each motion, the water's resistance, the rythm and flow around me. Is this what air does too, only so subtly that we hardly ever notice? This slows me down, that propels me forwards, builds speed and momentum.. I learned so much in this one underwater battle that when we finally emerged, I felt lighter, sleeker, swifter - as though just a little bit closer to the sharks we'd fought and their beautifully efficient economy of motion.

    The Selûnite priestess I sparred with at the Night Stalk told me never to put limitations on what I want to accomplish. Now, I think I want to glide through air like a shark through water, moving with effortless grace and purpose - but all the while let the Moonmaiden's merciful light guide my actions, so that I do not become cruel and cold-blooded."


  • "Focus.

    To the unarmed fighter, this is a key word. Without armor, without shield or even a weapon to be used to block an incoming blow, you have to focus intently on what's happening, predict what's next so that you can move out of harm's way. Your armor, in a sense, is just that: an acute awareness of your surroundings and a swift, correct interpretation of any given situation. And of course you must be quick enough to make use of that awareness, to be where that axe swinging down is not going to land, to sidestep an incoming charge by someone heavier than you, to use the attackers own momentum to bring them down.

    When my focus is sharp and clear, I can do all that, sometimes emerging from a fight without a single scratch. But when I falter, it's a searingly painful reminder of just how vunerable I am, and how fragile the human body really is.

    The orcish warrior in the foothills, all stomping, raging testosterone. I shifted my balance subtly from foot to foot, calmly awaiting his furious charge when suddenly my mind drifted to other, quite unrelated matters.

    Vash't, Vash't, Vash't.

    Ashald garden, draped in velvet shadows, dark roses shyly folding up their petals for the night. Martin the Gardener muttered something unintelligable as he shambled off, leaving us alone under the stars. Vash't, Vash't, Vasht… he had made it out alive from the necromancer's lair, giddy with the thrill of battle. I had (somehow) made it out alive from the Mermaid where the victorious party gathered, fleeing the insufferably public jibes and remarks on what had just days ago been only ours.

    At any other time, I would have loved to stay and talk with the charming elven woman I later learned was none other than mom's childhood idol Eowiel, but there was fire in Vash'ts eyes, and my own face was undoubtedly burning. I clutched his hand as though my life depended on it as we hurried off into the sheltering night.

    In the garden, his arms wrapped tightly around me, the heat of his body pressed against mine. His lips...

    Wait, wasn't there something I was supposed to - oh crap, the orc.

    There's nothing quite so terrifying as a greataxe swinging down on your head, coupled with the realization that you haven't got enough time to evade the blow. The orc roared in triumph and all I could do was take the pain, knowing even as I moved away that it would be too late, trying only to steel myself against it. A hard hit to my shoulder, hot blood gushing down my side. White dots of pain dancing wildly before my eyes.

    I ran.

    I ran, angrily chastizing myself to keep the fear at bay, heavy steps following close behind. I pressed my hand tightly to the gash, willing the bleeding to stop, the flesh to mend, then turned abruptly around to try and trip my persuer. He wasn't expecting that, the surprise was plain on his face, but I hadn't quite the force left in me to make him topple. The orc roared again, scoring a glancing blow to my leg before my fist impacted with his nose. The rest is a blur of red.

    Having washed my blood and my humiliation off and mended the multiple gashes in my fighting attire, I find myself less angry and more alarmed. It's true I took a kobold dagger to the thigh once before, in similar dreamy distraction, but this is worse. This could have cost me my life, and I really REALLY need to focus on what I'm actually doing. Even if I want nothing so badly as to focus on the things I'm not yet doing.

    Like kissing Vash't.

    I'm obsessing over the curve of his mouth. The way the corner of his lips quirk, betraying a smile's arrival. A coy smile, a teasing one, a warm and tender smile when his hand curls around mine. A wolfish grin, hinting of things to come.

    But all he does is hint, and it's driving me ~crazy~! He's being all well behaved and abiding so diligently by the rules of conduct that it's making me all the more rebellious. I find myself saying and doing things designed to drive him crazy in turn, and feeling strangely empowered when I succeed. I don't want to actually break the rules, but I want to test them, stretch and scratch at the do's and don'ts. I want to want, and be wanted in return. But it's oh so distracting, like being drunk, and like a drunk I find myself doing some pretty stupid things. The worst part is, I've no desire to sober up.

    But I've ~got~ to learn to focus when it matters!"


  • "Epic.

    It's a big word, charged with notions of heroism in the face of grimly death-defying odds. Epic is the stuff of legends, often with a greater purpose, a great threat and a great effort to thwart it. Epic saves the world, breaks it, or as in the case of my parents, both.

    Are some people destined for it, or does epic spring from our own intent, our ambitions and the choices we make? It must be a little of both, because what point is there for fate to place you in the right place at the right time, if you are unwilling or unable to take the challenge on? And those that are willing, those that seek greatness, will they not find their own way to that right place and time, instead?

    Not always.

    My mother - though she hardly lacks in epic deeds to her name - was and I think remains frustrated by the simple factors of place and time as limiting factors to greatness. Oh, she won't let on, but I know it eats at her, having missed the conclusion of many big events, especially those she put a lot of effort into resolving. The lot of the bard, she'll claim with a martyr's sigh, is to do all the research and then sing the heroes praise as they return - but she doesn't fool me. More than anything, my mother wants to make the world a better place, and knows well that the success of executing those world-changing events rests not only on bravery but also knowledge. The latter is a worthy contribution to greatness, unglamorous though it may seem compared to the epic deeds themselves.

    That doesn't change the fact that if she could have been in that right spot at the right time, she definitely would have preferred it. Though the events she did partake in (which are far more numerous than she'll gripe about when in sour mood), they're pretty damned amazing.

    My father, though he'll deny it, is a Hero with a big capital H and also the kind of person around whom things happen. He'll try and deflect this fateful trouble-magnetism onto my mother but there's no denying that a man who wears pink attracts all sorts of attention; the good, the bad and the highly irregular. He's been in the thick of battle since he was barely into his teens, living and breathing epic all along the way. Similarily to Jonni, I think he was in a sense born for it, though Jonni is a great deal more cautious.

    Perhaps time has changed dad a bit, mellowing the wild, if not quite the chaotic streak? The sort of wild that once saw the birth of the Suicidal Five seems a thing of the past, but if my father has one single defining characteristic, it's his stubbornness. When push comes to shove, he'll always be there, and perhaps this is an important part of what epic is made of - a simple, iron-clad refusal to give up, so long as you have something you believe in, something worth defending. To stand tall and defiant no matter the odds, to see things through to the end, whether bitter or sweet.

    Beneath that fierce and unyielding facade, beneath the snarling alpha male, is a kindness far greater than anyone outside our inner circle sees. Dad's anger is terrifying, his dark moods seem to permeate the house so that simply setting foot inside is enough to know it - but he's also wise enough to see past the rage, once it settles, and both forgive and ask forgiveness of others. He did that the morning after, in fact - sat me down for a nice long talk about life, about love, about courtship. It could have been awkward, but somehow it wasn't… I think he actually understands. There are rules, there are expectations, and I doubt he's really all that happy about Vash't being in my life - but he's going to give him a chance, if that's what I really want. And it is.

    I hope Vash't sees past the snarls and the anger, just as much as I hope dad sees past goofy grins and issues concerning age. They're the most important men in my life, and I really need for them to get along.

    Back to epic then, from sidetracking to the personal (although I would rank Vash'ts talk with my father as some sort of epic). Actually, I think I would characterize the goals I've set myself as personal too, rather than epic. Despite, or perhaps because I grew up surrounded by greatness, I never felt it was something I myself was destined for, in as much as there is destiny involved. Perhaps it's simply that the bar is set so very high in my family that reaching for it seems an impossible thing, but I'm not sure that's the whole reason. I've always liked the little things better, the details rather than the greater picture.

    I'm good with details, which is not to say I don't put bit by bit of them together to form that larger whole - like I do in training, perfecting a new move. But to jump straight ahead to the greater scale of things, the seemingly unbeatable odds, and find it in myself to believe I can make a difference? No, I can't do that. Epic is too much to handle, when all that I do relies on control. I'll keep focusing on me and continue stretching my limits and my understanding so that one day, if I should find myself in the right place at the right time, I'll be able to stand my ground.

    I've fought ghost orcs with Horbag, Rasuil and other great names, I've even helped take a (futile) swing or two at powerful undead under the necromancer Ser'Khal's control, right at the heart of the city. Jonni shone that day - he's not quite the typical shining knight hero of the stories, but he shone in his own humbler way, simply shouldering the responsibility of leadership. They're marching off now, him and Elaine and a whole band of volunteers, determined for the final showdown. As sure as I am of it being all kinds of epic, I'm equally sure that I'm not ready for it.

    It's hard to remain behind, especially since Vash't is going too. I gave him a whole batch of blessed arrows, with the unspoken urging that he stay in the back. It's harder still to wait and wonder, it might even be harder than the fighting itself. Mom gave me a knowing look as I cracked the bedroom window open, but she said nothing. I need my rooftop, need my time alone to think.

    No matter how I twist and turn it, no matter that I believe the epic is not for me, I still have to find a way to relate to it. The people in my life are undoubtedly headed for greater things and I must either learn to endure waiting or find a way to contribute something meaningful.

    Somehow."


  • "A Big Deal.

    I knew it before the front door slammed shut, before it even opened, before my name was shouted with such anger that, like a bucket of icy water, it washed the last of my feverish, anxious elation away. I knew it was coming, I knew because that very night was the night when the line was undeniably crossed. I paced my room, stomach full of wildly whirling butterfly words that begged to be let out, come what may. But before I could gather my courage, before I could tame the butterflies into anything like coherent thoughts to present, it was all unveiled for me, thrust out into merciless center stage by my father.

    'Who told you?' was the first panicked thought to fly through my head as I stood there in mute mortification, trying to will myself to sink through the floorboards and simply not be there anymore, but I was nailed to the spot by my parents gazes. No more secret wonderland to walk, no more grey zones in which to hide. No more would this be all mine.

    I kept silent as my father continued his irate rant, when suddenly a detail in it snagged my attention. A detail of very recent, very private nature, between just Vash't and I. Suddenly I was sure, dad had not heard this from Elaine, nor from Jonni or even Rasuil, who gave us such a knowing little smirk when we left the commons. No, he knew because Vash't himself told him. Voluntarily.

    Wow.

    A strange sense of relief mingled with my shame and when dad finished with a stern 'go to your room', I left at once, climbing up on the rooftop to watch the stars until my lips were blue with cold and dad called me in, his voice calm and tinged with regret.

    It's possible that Vash't was as giddy as I from that secret back-alley almost kiss, a non-kiss contender to the world's most erotic kisses hall of fame, so dizzying and charged with desire that anyone would have a hard time thinking straight afterwards. But still - to actually go ahead and tell my undoubtedly protective, sometimes incredibly cranky werewolf of a father, that's a pretty daunting, close to do-or-die thing to do. He must ~really~ like me.

    I'm reminded of a story I told him once, about the younger me and the dream of jumping across to Mariston's roof from our own. I stood there so many times, poised on the edge of jumping, knowing precisely which tiles would support my extra pressure when building up speed, knowing where to push off, where to aim my landing, wondering, wondering if I would make it that far. But as much as I thought about it, as much as I wanted to try, I never jumped. Imagining my parents faces if I fell to my death, imagining Mariston's face if I made it and he caught me up on his roof - these what-ifs, all very real possibilities, made me stop at dreaming. I didn't dare the jump, but to this day I wonder if I could have made it.

    Vash't, being Vash't, went ahead and jumped - and in doing so, dragged me with him by the hand. Part of me is terrified, but another part is relieved. For better or worse, it's all out in the open now, and with nothing to hide, I also have nothing to be ashamed about. Most of all, I'm glad that I'm finally jumping, finally doing something which while risky is also something which has filled my dreams. Now, it at least has a chance at becoming reality.

    Time to exhale."


  • _Got a garden of songs where I grow all my thoughts
    Wish that I could harvest one or two for some small talk
    Seems like I'm starving for words whenever you're around
    Nothing on my tongue, but so much in the ground
    Nothing on my tongue, but so much in the ground

    Half the time I've got my gaze trained on your motel door
    fourth door from the end
    Rest of the time my gaze lays like a stain on the carpeted floor
    If it weren't for my brain I'd go over and make friends
    Too bad about my brain 'cause I'd like to make friends

    See the little song bird, unable to make a sound
    Even though she follows her words from town to town
    We've both got gardens of songs; maybe it's okay
    That I am speechless 'cause I picked you this bouquet
    Yep, sure am speechless, but I picked you this bouquet_

    ((Ani DiFranco - This Bouquet))

    "So much in the ground.

    I found the lyrics above in a songbook in one of my mother's Random Piles of Inspirational Stuff, as she calls it. Though the artist's name has long since slipped my mind, the lines seem to have stuck firmly, intertwining with my own thoughts. I find the lyrics a great fit for myself; though I'm far from a songbird, I like to imagine I too have my inner garden of thoughts, from which both beautiful blossoms and the odd thorny thistle might spring. I cultivate this garden carefully, and like a garden true, it's a long term project where some things grow slowly, maturing into full beauty only after so many years. Like a garden true, there's also so much more than meets the eye, much of it remaining hidden in the ground.

    For the longest time, I was just as tongue-tied as the songbird above - whenever I met someone new, especially someone I liked, I would freeze and find none of the pretty words, none of my favourite flowers to offer. I would stand there mute and dull as mud, while below the surface, a thousand seeds were sprouting. Now, things are a little different.

    Since that night on the Bluff, my garden is in full and dizzying bloom, but it's a night garden, a secret hideaway of winding pathways and small silver ponds. His hand will sneak across to mine from behind the cover of tall grass or folds of cloth, my breath catching at the brush of fingertips, the grazing touch of his thumb gliding over my knuckles, fingers entwining, exploring wordlessly. I'm tongue-tied and twisted, but somehow that's okay, it's a natural hush, as though we're walking hand in hand through a night-time garden of wonders, too delicate for anything but moonlight and whispers.

    We speak, but only lightly, teasingly, and very little about what's growing between us. Nothing on my tongue, but so much in the ground. So much that it seems it must soon erupt for all that which aches to burst out from below, unravelling in all it's newfound, terrifying splendour. The quiet agreement is to keep this hidden, to explore the outlines before we name it to ourselves and the world, but it seems a little like holding your breath, stopping the tide or halting summer in it's tracks when all the darling buds of May are poised to unfurl.

    I don't know if I'm ready for this - but if I don't breathe soon, I will surely die."


  • "Double trouble.

    In our house, you get used to seeing double, even though I have never considered Siri and myself as identical in any way but in basic outwards appearance. Like all twins, identical or not, we're very close; simply growing up together and sharing everything will do that, and like many twins we have of course played our share of pranks. Mostly on Jonni, who to his credit was seldom fooled, but couldn't quite escape the fact that there were two of us and only one of him. In our defence, we needed that edge because not only is he older, but gifted by Savras the All-Seeing. A very unfair advantage, as Siri would often (and successfully) point out to to win me over to her side.

    Jonni's grumbling claims that all twins are evil didn't stop him from being head-over-ass enamoured with Elaine, at the active prompting by Leena that he should meet a nice girl and get over his shyness already. Actually, I think that's working out pretty well, even if Elaine keeps insisting that Leena needs a paramour herself, as though somehow guilty over being so happily in love while her sister is not. Those two are close in a way Siri and I never were, or maybe just in a different way. They've got this 'us against the world' attitude sometimes, underscored by their choice of dressing the exact same way, building on the 'we' or sense of pack. Elaine says it's both that and a way of weeding out the schmucks who look no further than the surface.

    I can understand the reasoning, though imagining me and Siri doing the same makes me cringe inwards. I very much dislike it when we're referred to as 'the girls', viewed collectively first and individually later. It makes me feel as though the implicit assumption is that because we look alike, we also think alike and share the same opinions - which we usually don't. Being mistaken for Siri is how my first kiss was inflicted upon me, in fact, by a grubby boy with snot-crusted nostrils and dimly hopeful eyes. I made it a point not to even wear the same colour of shirt as my sister since then, but can take some satisfaction in knowing that the boy was punched twice for his troubles, first by me and then by Siri.

    I must be me before us, my own separate and distinct person, and it bothers me when I'm lumped into a collective or mistaken for anything or anyone I'm not. Being mistaken for Siri bothers me a little, but the doubles dilemma bothers me a lot. Someone, a 'she' of some sinister flavour or other, has duplicated a number of persons, mostly the younger active adventurers around, including myself. The aim, as far as we can tell, seems to be for the replicas to take the place of the originals by means of killing them off. Already, Jimmeh has been attacked by his own likeness, as was a man called Dermin, whilst travelling or sitting alone.

    Elaine's double seems different somehow, as though her instructions or indoctrination was incomplete - it seems she escaped her creator's grasp and is afraid she'll be caught and dragged back to the 'dark and cold' place, trusting no one but Elaine herself. Mostly, this double seems keen on maintaining her independance and isn't overtly hostile otherwise.

    Mine, on the other hand, seems different in that instead of targetting me directly, she aims her threats and her actions against others. When revealed as fake by Salin, Would-Be-Nica claimed that if I was not brought before her, my friends and family would suffer. Later - perhaps having learned something about the nature of my family, perhaps not - she killed a man, selected seemingly at random, in the city. I was accused of murder, yet Guard Captain Lisa opted not to arrest me, at least for now.

    It bothers me a lot, though I know it's not my fault. An innocent man lies dead, by hands which look exactly like mine. Even the skills I worked long and hard to aquire seems to have been simply given this clone, who uses them crassly, cruelly, without insight or any of the motivations which drive me. She looks like me, moves like me, wears my scent and speaks with my voice - but in no way is this me. She is a perversion of everything I am about, a soulless murderer cast in my image.

    I want to punch her face in until it no longer resembles mine - but anger is futile and will only cloud my judgement. The focus here must be towards whoever is responsible for making these doubles, to put a permanent end to the troubles and stop anyone else from getting hurt. Vash't is on the prowl, he's sniffed out a promising lead while mom and Rith are working on their own enquiries based on the remains of the one clone we've defeated so far. I will be patient, I will be cautious and wait, until we have the information we need to strike back."


  • "Crossing the line.

    Somewhere, there's a line in the sand, a point past which you cannot tread without your world changing. It's subtle though, with no clear markings or guard dogs barking warning. Sand on one side, sand on the other, and unless the sun shines just so, you wouldn't even know there was a line.

    But it's there, and I can feel it.

    I've been toeing the line for weeks, dancing skittishly around the same subject matter which keeps drawing me back, as inexorably as gravity itself.

    Vash't, Vash't, Vash't.

    I'm sorry, diary. I'm really trying not to be too girly about this, but I just can't stop thinking about him. It's all I can do to keep from asking others what they know of him, but Elaine's reaction to even the gentlest of probes proved that a bad idea. I'm too transparant, and it's better I keep quiet than sound like some pathetically clueless puppy trailing after a wolf.

    The fact remains that he is far my senior in years and experience, and also hasn't given me any real reason to think he likes me in that way. ('That way' is the line in the sand, the one I try not to see but also obsess endlessly about - sorry again diary). He never ogles, never compliments my appearance or touches me in any way or any place that differs from that of a friend. Sometimes I think I can feel him watching me, but when I turn my head, his gaze is aimed at sky, ground or far off treeline, a small smile on his lips that I just don't know what to make of.

    I think he likes me, he must to spend all this time with me for no apparant good reason, to tease and joke and tell such marvellous tales. But where does friendship end and something else begin, where is that line in the sand? How do I even recognize it, should I dare to try and look? And finally, do I even want to cross it?

    Undefined liking is simpler and all my own, without the need for explanation, scrutiny or my parents making a Big Deal out of something which might just be in my head. It's like a daydream, light and fanciful imaginings that risk sounding stupid spoken aloud. If it's made real, it might disappoint me. I might even be denied.

    But I keep inching closer.

    –-

    Heroes Bluff (or 'Makeout Point', as local lovers dubbed it) changed something. We sat there together, talking the day and the evening away until stars twinkled gently above. I told him about the war, a part of Narfell's history that passed him by, before our talk drifted to other things. We were all alone, seeming wrapped in a warm and intimate mood, with neither chores nor disasters looming.

    I felt giddy and bold, he was playful to the point of tickling me. I wasn't expecting that, my leg kicked out in sheer reflex. Again, AGAIN I hit him square in the eye and he rolled back with a groan of pain while my heart sank so low, I thought it would leave me entirely and sink on through to the ground below. But on his back in the green grass, dishevelled and bruised, Vash't was laughing helplessly.

    I kissed his puffy eyelid, very gently. His arms caught me when I tried to lean back up, pulled me near. His lips brushed my ear when he whispered, words that drowned entirely in the rush of that soft, sweet touch. And then he let me go.

    That night, I finally asked him his age. That night, I told him I like him, just the way he is. That night, he held me while I slept, wrapped in his arms and in his coat for warmth.

    I felt safe and warm and wonderful - until Elaine stumbled across us at dawn. Not until then did I realize: at some point during the night, I too had stumbled, right across the line in the sand. It's blurred now, and I'm not quite sure where we stand. All I know is that I want to figure it out, and until I do, I don't want the world to know, my parents in particular.

    They're definitely going to make one hell of a Big Deal about it."


  • "In the footsteps of others.

    Wherever I go in Narfell, someone has gone before me. To every place, there are stories, hundreds or thousands echoes of the past bound in the land that was, is and will remain, long after I am gone. The places I most like to see are those whose stories I know, in part or in full, especially those that tie directly to my family. It's as though the land is a canvas or a book of tales that I can read, reread and even add to, with whatever small or big steps I take on it.

    My parents have already left a huge imprint - literally, as the Cracking all but split Narfell in two. It's pretty daunting to walk in their footsteps, but instead of focusing on imagined expectations of me, I try to think that I'm sheltered by their shadow, instead. All light on Nica is not a place of comfort, I like far better to take a step back and observe rather than be observed, and I try very carefully to find my own way of doing things in order to not be crippled by comparison.

    Jonni struggles more, I think, being the eldest and knowing from such early years that he is 'chosen'. Whether outspoken or not, it's always been assumed I think, that he is destined for greatness, and sometimes I wonder if that isn't a heavy burden to carry, heavier yet because our family's expectations of greatness are set so very high. He's chosen to follow in mom's footsteps even in the choice of career, and I think she's very pleased that he did.

    Elaine and Leena understand our situation better than most, having parents every bit as daunting. Elaine seems not to reflect on it too much, much like Siri, she's the type of person who knows how to live in the moment, while Leena on the other hand seems hell bent on taking on the challenge. She says (and I believe her) that she's going to be every bit as good as her father - and then some. Both of them's got a lot of Jerrick in them, that same vibrant, restless personality that always seemed far too big to be contained. I remember being terribly shy of him, every time he came over, but by the end of the evening he'd invariably won me over. I'd curl up on his lap, asking for more stories long after Siri had fallen asleep.

    Seeing Jerrick again was unexpected.

    After exploring the old Rats 'N Bats, from which a thousand stories sprung of rampaging jellies, competing colour rangers and vicious vampires, I felt eager for more. I wanted to see the stream in the old Silver Valley where mom was born, the old Guardian homestead and far off Ormpur where Zoma and Ragnhild rescued the girl who came to be mom's only sister. So when Jimmeh professed an urge to 'go poke around' in just those places, I jumped at the chance.

    Jiyyd itself is an eerie, blighted husk, we hurried through and met only a few small fiends. Past the city's former walls, a myriad of undead roamed, too many for me to get close to what must be the ruins of the Guardian homestead. We slogged through, finding ourselves on the long and winding road which leads to the ruins of Ormpur. Wolves and worgs beset us and a light snowfall stung my cheeks with cold, but inside excitement rose. Ormpur…

    Once there, we explored the ruins, a nearby cave and a mage's tower where once, it's rumoured, the Dark Enchantress herself lived - one of the most feared and legendary of Narfell's villains and one with a special place in Elaine and Leena's family history. On returning, I was still lost in thoughts of this wicked witch and the howling wind which picked up around us seemed to echo the wintery chill said to herald her coming.

    We'd delved into a dank cavern, stumbling headfirst into a mass of dire animals and were rather beaten and worn when we neared the fields outside Jiyyd. 'I need a rest', said Jimmeh, when suddenly Kuln halted. He looked around uneasily, tense as a bowstring. Something's wrong, he said, he could feel it on the wind. The chill in the air seemed suddenly all the more foreboding.

    Instinctively, we huddled closer. There was an omnious rustle, movement nearby though try as I might, I saw nothing but the gnarled branches and tangled vines of vegetation. Then just that moved towards us, a twisting, writhing mass of thorns and shooting vines. It looked so ~wrong~, a monsterous perversion of nature's true growth. I tried to run but couldn't, snared in again and again by the snakelike vines while the thorns scraped and snagged at cloth and skin.

    With joint effort, we cut the monsterous growth apart, yet even as it crumbled, the thorns themselves still moved, burrowing at flesh as though alive. Salin and Kuln both had thorns pierce through the skin, weakening them and causing red, painful swelling. Salin stood close and I quickly helped him pry a thorn out of his arm, while Kuln thought to lessen the painful effects by drinking an antidote potion. The swelling seemed to settle from this, but instead... oh, instead, far worse! The thorn in his arm found it all the easier to dig down, slipping all the way in beneath his skin. Kuln screamed in raw, utter pain and I knew, I just knew there wasn't much time.

    'Get it out' was all I could think, and I fumbled for my knife, asking Gnarl to hold Kuln's arm as steady as he could. Salin applied a ray of frost to numb the pain before I placed the cut, my hand shaking. I know my own arm, I know how it functions, the joints, muscles and tendons, the main arteries and I've even studied some anatomy books in the hopes of learning more - but to cut another person, intentionally, desperately... I could not found my calm and made a horribly jagged gash, hot blood gushing out in what seemed a tide of red.

    I fought my panic down - focus, the thorn must get out, it ~must~ - but I couldn't see what I was doing. I asked for snow, anything to cleanse the wound a bit, and was obliged. There, the faint outlines of something not his - I steeled my resolve and dug down, trying to block out the obvious pain I inflicted. Yes, got it!

    A quick yank and the thorn came loose, slick and dark with blood, wriggling in my grasp. It tried to burrow down between my fingers, but I tossed it swiftly into the air, where a timely acid spell frazzled it to mush.

    And then the wind calmed. A soft snowfall followed, glittering white and immensely soothing. It fell on Kuln and his whimpering stopped, the bleeding slowing. His agonized expression began to shift to one of relief, and then the healing started. This was more than just snow, I thought to myself, before it whirled and congealed infront of our eyes.

    A giant wolf of snow and ice, and a voice on the wind. Jerrick.

    He spoke of chasing these monsterous beings origin, he spoke of the dream world and a visit to an old friend, warning us not to travel the wilderness alone, but I could no longer retain my focus entirely. An exhausted sense of relief flooded me, along with wonder. I was shy again - it's Jerrick, but not quite the Jerrick I knew - and I felt my tongue tie until a snowy nose buffed me gently.

    How can a heart grow warm and cold at the same time? A wave of memories washing over me; riding a bear's giant back, toppling shelves and armor stand in my parents bedroom, squeals and roars of laughter, round three, four and five of bed-time stories when the stars already shone bright outside. Jerrick coming and going through our front door, a whirlwind of adventure at his back. Warm memories, but distance is cold as ice, cold as the wolf's snowflake nose. Is Jerrick's own nose cold, somewhere far away - or does he even keep his own mortal shape, all alone on the mountain top? Suddenly I missed him acutely, though the wolf stood right before me.

    I can only imagine how Elaine and Leena must feel."


  • "Dreams.

    I've always been a dreamer, by which I mainly mean daydreamer. The night's nebulous drifts of thought always dissolve upon waking, to such an extent that I sometimes wonder if I do all my dreaming while awake. Jonni on the other hand, has always had vivid dreams and just as vivid night terrors, much like mom, who has even travelled the strange lands of the dream world.

    My own reveries revolve around a great variety of things, from simple contemplation of the languid beauty of golden afternoon sunshine, filtered through the gauzy curtains of our bedroom window, to musings about the nature of the world, myself, and my place in it. Sometimes it's wishful dreams, even ambition, sometimes pure fancy and play. Other thoughts mull slowly around the greater mysteries of life, the ones you can't find words to but the mind keep coming back to grasp at the edges of, as though to get a feel for the outlines.

    It might seem a wasteful and unproductive activity, all those meandering thoughts and nothing to really show for it, but the way I see it, the mind needs exercising every bit as much as the body, if not more so. This can include bringing order and logic into play, formulating words and thoughts out loud, but for all the good in those more rigorous workouts, you have to also let your mind have the freedom to roam, to discover things you didn't consciously know you were looking for. Relax and you might plumb the unfathomable depths of your mind to insights deep below the surface thoughts, ever only the tip of the icebergs.

    Yu Shei is the master of that tip of the iceberg precision, her every word seeming clear as ice and precisly to the point, with nothing more and nothing less than required to make her point. Yet underneath, a mind as vast and as deep as the ocean itself, it seemed to the young me. I admired that beautiful sparseness of words, the precision in all she said and did, down to the tiniest movement. She remains my biggest inspiration and role model, but I've come to realize I'll never be quite like her. I have to be me, and there's nothing wrong with that, it simply means I have to find my own path from here on, to be the best me that I can be.

    Involuntary rhyming is one of the side-effects of a bardic household, I suspect, as is my irrepressible love of the un-necessary and flairful. Although necessity or not depends rather on your point of view, I find. Taking words for instance (my favourite collector's item), language is a tool we use to communicate thought and meaning to both ourselves and others. The more complex and abstract your line of thought is, the more you need the finer, daintier specific words you might once have collected simply for liking the way they sound or the way they feel when spoken, twisting your mouth and lips as though you could taste them.

    For all that, there are definitely things not suitably translated to words; the truths that move like whales, diving slowly deep below, too big to be captured in simple syllables. Or thoughts too light and fragile, so that even naming them kills the beauty they hold. These are things of daydreams, and were I in a monastery, I might call it meditation of sorts.

    'You're too outgoing for a monastery', Sheserai said recently, and I gawked. Outgoing is not the word I'd pick to describe myself, but on the other hand my main frame of reference is my family. And lately, it's definitely true that I'm crawling out of my shell more often and more easily. I'm enjoying life, but at the same time I wonder and part of me longs for that tranquil place where big, slow thoughts have time and space to grow.

    For now though, that place is the rooftop under the stars and Selûne's silver light. I'll grow my thoughts here like I always have, and let the rest come as fate and circumstance would have it. Lately, my mind's preoccupied by thoughts I never thought I'd stoop to, for not being interested in boys. For some reason it never struck me that men might be different."


  • "Stories.

    Growing up in a house like ours, it's all but inevitable to grow an appetite for storytelling, acting and all kinds of immersion into a world beyond your own narrow frame of experience. A thousand tales of princes and princesses, dragons and maidens fair, fairies and trolls, ogres and wicked witches have been told and played out in roaring laughter and breathless anticipation throughout my childhood, usually with mom as the ringleader. Jonni would typically play the knight, Siri fluctuate wildly between hero, villain or wild, wild monster while Zoma always loved the role of the arch-mage, chubby little fingers wriggling.

    This usually left me with playing sidekick to either Good side or Bad, or reluctantly settle in as the victimized maiden fair. Though in our stories, no maiden is meek nor stays a little victim for long and roles often shifted at the whim of the mood and the players themselves. The ending was often surprising, if we even had a proper ending - usually we'd just play until the story dissolved into giggles and someone got hungry.

    Family stories have always been and still are a favourite game we play - perhaps all families share that trait, building their own mythology of people and events that shape them and bind them closer? Either way, ours have always fascinated me and the older I got, the more questions I asked, probing for stories less sweet and more sinister, the epic and the personal, even the sad stories that hide deep within, the sorrowful shadows in both my parents eyes.

    Lillia the vampire, the Heart of Winter, stories of the Star Harpy and Firthram's travels, stories of love and loss, war and rebirth, I soaked them all up and still was hungry for more. The fall of the Gypsy Camp, Zoma's passing, uncle Ronan's death - these would draw the curtain down, a sadness in my mother's eyes that seemed as heavy as a stone. She has always preferred the merry tales, keeping all the sadness wrapped within. She says she prefers to make people laugh, that it's her way of making the world a better place, but still. I gave her a diary once, to write all her sad stories in. She wrote one, then put it aside, but I still think she needs to write them.

    Since gradually becoming more comfortable with socializing with people outside my family, on my own I mean, I've grown curious about their stories. Sheserai confided hers, quite without prompting, though I'll honour her wish and not relate the details even here. It's a sad tale, but life is a story we keep writing and so it may yet twist and turn to a happy ending. Rasuil shared a story from his youth, of foolish decisions made by a friend turned against him, evidenced to this day by the scars. We drank a whole pot of tea by the Mermaid's fireplace, the sweet honey not quite countering the bitterness in his tone, even after all these years. Some lessons you learn the hard way, and some things are hard to ever truly forgive. Though I think we have to keep trying.

    Finally Vash't, again. I seem to keep coming back to him, but it can't be helped. He gives me much to think about, a little too much for comfort sometimes but I still want more.

    We had another fight, this time using quarterstaffs and again opting for the Brawling Bodak in the company of a few others. Rasuil came to cheer for his wood, which must have been a contributing factor in my win - see, I am not quite so quick with a staff as I am with my bare hands, and took smack after painful smack to my arms and legs. I decided to try going on the defensive, blocking so poorly that all I did was stop myself from scoring any hits in return, while Vash't dodged and danced with a teasing little grin tugging at his lips.

    Just like last time, I looked into his eyes, decided to go for broke and simply dropped my guard. He looked back, and for a brief moment that seemed all he was doing, while my quarterstaff gained momentum to land a thunderous hit to his ribs. Vash't wheezed out a breath, near doubled over and… I really didn't mean to, but I scored a glancing blow to his eye with the steel-clad end of the staff. Again the eye!

    He went down like a sack of trampled potatoes, though just like last time I was only a breath or two away from joining him. The patching up was a little smoother this time since we had more company, though we still lingered for quite a while, sharing drinks (note to self: Bodak dark is tastier than Bodak pale, but Yachev Bomb is just ~terrible~, yuck!). One by one, our companions dropped off until it was only Vash't and I.

    The mood was happy and relaxed, somehow intimate as he offered me his arm, squeezing it tightly to him when we finally decided to leave, both a little tipsy. We took the ferry down to Norwick, arm in arm the entire way. I was warm inside, warm along every part of me touching him while we spoke of everything and nothing. Again that curious look on his face as he noted his trust of me, that he doesn't usually volunteer to have his ass kicked but knew I wouldn't abuse the chance.

    Given his still puffy eye, I couldn't help but think I was getting a bit of a whitewash there, but then again I hadn't done it on purpose. I just smiled, unwilling to say or do anything to break the strange and magical bubble I was in, as though the world had suddenly shrunk to just him and me. And in shrinking, it was suddenly that much more splendid in detail. He had promised me a story, but I already felt I was walking in one, trying very hard not to sober up and break that bubble as we walked through Norwick and into the courtyard garden, where once the Spellweaver's Keep stood.

    Here, we finally parted but instead of his arm against mine, his gaze seemed to wrap me in an even warmer embrace. His eyes are very green, mirroring my own in a way that feels familiar and dizzying, all at once. Vash't went for a languid sprawl amongst the flowers and overgrown grass, while I perched on a giant mushroom at first. As his story unfolded though, I found myself sliding down to rest opposite him while he spun his tale around us, in colourful detail, twists and turns.

    We lay there all night, until dawn crept over the horizon and a nosy elf shooed us off, muttering about human 'mating habits'. I flushed hot, then cold as that delicate dream state was disruptured. I should have been absolutely mortified, but that's the thing about Vash't... he never, ever makes me feel stupid, and what brings shame to normal people just washes off him like water off a duck. He made me laugh instead, and I like that. I like the warm feeling inside me that his presence seems to bring, and find myself not wanting to question or define it further.

    'You like Vashie?', Elaine blurted out at what I can only guess was a blush on my part when his name came up in conversation. 'But he's so ooooold!'

    But while liking remains undefined, age isn't a problem - in fact it's one of the reasons I like him. To me, it just means he's got all the more stories to tell, and his stories are amazing. Why he cares to share them with me is a little harder to fathom, but I'm not going to question that now. I want to remain immersed in my bubble a while longer without poking it apart with whys and what-if's."


  • "Transformation.

    I've been thinking a lot about 'me'. I don't mean me per se, but rather the sense of self, perhaps, and what that really encompasses. I often hear the phrase 'mind over matter' and though it seems simple enough on the surface, I find myself questioning whether I truly understand or even agree with the underlying premise that the two are separate.

    Isn't all of me, from top to toe, muscle, bone and tendon, from base desire to will, ambition, reasoning and dreams, part of me?

    'You are the quarterstaff', Elvewyn insisted as we practiced in the swamps, and I see what he means. Think of the staff as an extension of your own arm, include it in the self and you will master it - but what difference is there then to the arm itself? Is that too a tool, something the mind simply utilizes to enforce its will onto the outside world?

    I often think that knowing yourself very much includes knowing your bodily self, to gradually narrow the gap between thought and action. The mind is swift and flows freely, the body more sluggish to respond - except when you train hard and deliberately, your body learns too. And once you've done that, it can flow in unison with your intent, sometimes even precede it. When I hear the swoosh of an arrow in flight towards me, I can sometimes find my arm has already moved to block it.

    Knowing me includes the physical me, then. But what about when the body you know suddenly changes?

    A playful pixie pulled a peculiar prank one night, as I and Vash't stood in idle conversation at the commons. Or was it all that idle? Lately there's a nerve, an uncertain, quivering something in the air, when we speak. Perhaps it's just me - I find him interesting and the notion that he should feel the same is tempting, perhaps so much so that I'm reading things in between the lines that simply aren't there. Ever since we sparred, he takes these gentle jibes at me - a playful nudge here and a mock-punch to the shoulder there. That doesn't mean anything though, he's constantly tousling Elaine's hair and teasing her in the same affectionate manner. Isn't he?

    See, I'm already veering off topic, this is bad. And why am I apologizing to my own diary? The full moon shining down tonight is no excuse for losing my marbles so completely.

    ANYWAY

    Vash't was leaning back against the walled enclosure of the commons, grinning at something just said when someone walked, no shuffled, into the commons to join us.

    'Braaiiiins..', the creature moaned, ambling forwards with rotten arms outstretched. The zombie sounded a little like Salin… in fact his rags resembled the moustashed mage's in colour too, but before I could reflect on this fact, his hands had touched us both and the transformation began.

    I saw my skin sag and my muscles wither, then my eye popped out of it's socket as I turned my head abruptly to Vash't, who was similarily zombifying. He gave a far too toothy grin, lips little more than a memory, and grunted a startled 'braaains?'.

    There was a high-pitched giggle in the air beside us, the pixie eventually revealing herself. To regain our true forms, we had to play her games, she said, and in the course of doing this, two others were transformed in the same manner as we - including Guard Captain Lisa.

    To be a zombie was... peculiar and decidedly unflattering. It should have been frightening, but somehow a detached part of me took over and I felt calm inside, certain that this was just illusion, despite the very convincing look and feel to it all. We played her games, which included eating the brains of a creature of our choice - candy troll brains, anyone? - and having a shuffle race from the Theatre's door to the Mermaid. I was the only one to actually listen to the rules on that one, and won by default.

    Finally we were to frighten a little girl - obviously the pixie herself as she giggled in much the same manner. Salin and I ooga'd and booga'd as best we could, but Vash't... he grinned and shamelessly flipped his loincloth up, revealing the shrivelled zombie bits below. I didn't look purposefully, but I had my dangling eye in one hand and it was pointed that way...

    Hrrrrr!

    With this, the pixie had her fill of fun and swiftly had us back to our true selves. She seemed pretty smug about her game, but vanished at once to avoid any repercussions, while we stood there in a slight daze and confusion, with an irrational urge for brains still lingering. Perhaps it was this confusion that saw Vash't and myself lingering infront of each other, for a prolonged moment. I had to get to bed, it was already late, and still stood there shuffling my feet. Finally, as I collected my scattered brains and turned to leave, he snagged me in an awkward sort of half-hug and I froze, just sort of patting his arm before I hurried home.

    Now what does ~that~ mean? Is hugging what friends do, or did he think I needed comfort after the whole zombie ordeal? 'Some friends you made on your own would have some pretty terse words to say about you leaving for a monastery', he'd said before the pixie worked her magic. Meaning what, that he'd miss me? That he didn't want me to go? And why did I have to go all stiff and pat his arm, that was so lame and Nica of me!

    Ughhh.

    Afterwards, as if in unspoken agreement, we both chalked it up to zombie brains syndrome. Which it probably was. Mostly.

    A different transformation happened a week or so later, when I finally met Leanna, a mythical figure in her own right, but very much so in many of our family's tales. She was every bit as vibrant and chaotic as mom describes her, and with nothing more than the wag of a pretty finger, turned each and all of us present into various beasts, magical and mundane. Salin was a plump brown chicken, squawking and bwaking, his familiar Dawn (usually a panther) was now a big spider and the bearlike druid Llyran turned into an actual, and gigantic, dire bear!

    Best of all, I became a werewolf. Unlike the zombie experience, this one seemed to nearly overwhelm me, perhaps because the magic was stronger or perhaps because it hit more closely to home. I've always been fascinated with dad's ability to change, and wondered what it felt like to be that furry beast - and now I was, if but for a brief moment.

    I felt so strong and so ~wild~, a million scents and sounds washing over me through these new and intoxicating senses. I looked at Salin and started to salivate - I knew I shouldn't have, but I still did it and wasn't even ashamed as I started chasing him. Oh, I wouldn't have actually eaten him, but I did feel predatory and the more he ran, the more I wanted to chase.

    Finally Leanna herself transformed into a gigantic red dragon, the horse seller and all his horses freaking out and fleeing while a very VERY reluctant guard collected her courage to come and tell the demi-godess of magic to please tone it down. If she wouldn't mind.. pretty please.

    Just like mom always said, Leanna isn't unreasonable, simply wildly chaotic and far too powerful to suffer being told what to do by mere mortals. But being asked nicely, that works. She disappeared in a burst of light and sound, after having turned us back to our usual selves.

    I wonder now what natural shape-shifters think of as self - as a zombie, I felt as though I kept a separate sense of me apart from that unpleasant body, and as a werewolf, I felt tempted to lose myself in it, almost. I'll have to ask around, likely the answers are as many and as varied as the experiences themselves."


  • "Learning.

    I'm doing a lot of that lately, both intentionally and in ways I hadn't even imagined. Usually, I'm very careful in the way I approach new things. I study them from afar, I compare accounts and try to work out a basic understanding before I actually go ahead and do anything. I read, I observe, I talk to persons of experience (usually mom and dad) and then I mull things over in my head until they start to make sense.

    In training, I first envision what I want to accomplish in my head, then break it down into smaller segments to work on, over and over, until I know exactly how it should feel when I do it right, the pull of muscle and tendons, the force and the angle, the small adjustments for balance. Once a certain move is somewhat fixed, I can go out and test it in more dire circumstance, and that's often when I find out what ~really~ works and what doesn't. Combining different moves comes next, and that's the fun part. But you really can't do it alone.

    I used to practice footwork and balance in the Gypsy forests, it felt comforting and right that I should do part of my training in the very same place where mom and dad once roamed, taking their first fledgling steps towards greatness. It's good training, spiders are swift and agile and I would practice the quarterstaff to give me the range I needed to reach past their many legs. You have to be attentive, react swiftly and try to predict the movement of all those legs to get the opening you need.

    Still, there's nothing that beats practicing with another person, ideally someone evenly matched in strength, yet different to your own style. But because I secretly want to master things before I show them to the world, because I'm still afraid of making a fool of myself in a great number of ways, there's only so many people I'd trust to spar with.

    I asked Vash't of all people. I'm not sure why, but he agreed and in such an amicable way, free of pride or prestige, that I found myself happy and eager to start. It's not fun when either side cares about winning, but I think we were both genuinely curious about the outcome. We went to Oscura, to the big fighting arena there, away from the public eye and on something like neutral ground. It felt an adventure just going there, to a place so different and dangerous in feel. Not that it was dangerous, I felt quite safe despite the gruesome puddles of dried blood on the floor.

    I didn't want to hurt him, so I took my gloves off and in the same spirit, he stripped his armor and weaponry off. We did the same with magical items, so that the only factor would be ourselves - clearly an advantage for me, but one that he willingly gave. Vash't is sinewy, graceful in his own swaggering sort of way, and not at all unskilled in the noble art of punching someone in the face. Though the way he fights, I think noble had very little to do with how he learnt… he has this defiantly casual bar brawl stance, a slugger sort of punch that's quite effective and a curious way of looking around himself as though searching for a convenient bottle or a chair to smash against someone's head.

    He drops his head low though, dodging in unpredictable manner and I managed quite without purpose to hit him hard, right in the eye. It looked painful, I startled and dropped my guard and in return took a hit to my lip. Now we were both bleeding, but suddenly I couldn't help but grin. He did the same and I threw caution to the wind, launching into my still quite unpracticed flurry of blows. He dropped to the floor a breath before me, both of us bruised and bloodied as a couple of tenderized steaks.

    So close, even though he obviously let me have the advantage.

    I gave him an actual steak to put over his eye as we stayed and chatted, waiting for our bruises to heal in the company of a delightful gnomish bard. Conversation flowed, as easily and soothing as cool water against the aches we'd so purposefully gained, and he commented on how how wrong he'd been about me, when we first met.

    'I thought we'd run out of conversation in the first couple of minutes', he said with a curious sort of grin, and it's true. I was tight-lipped and cautious as I tend to be with strangers, and still can't say exactly when that changed. But it did, now I find I'm blabbing all sorts of nonsense and would regret most of what comes out of my mouth, if not for his obvious appreciation of said nonsense. Something about Vash't is just so disarming, maybe it's his kindly devil-may-care attitude or the fact that he's simply not ashamed of anything. It's contageous, and I like it.

    In relaxing the constant judgement of myself, I find I'm having a lot more fun, and learning things I wouldn't otherwise have dared to try. I'm still cautious, but I'm taking a few more chances and I think it's even paying off. My combat style is growing less rigid, my movements more a flow than the sum of their parts. I am learning, but I have a long way yet to go."