3. Nica's Secret Diary

Nica's Secret Diary


  • "The sword's tale.

    The vampire attack was the talk of the town, and first to hear of it were of course my parents. Dad gave me that hug I so dearly needed, wrapping me into his arms as though I was a little girl once again, safe from all the world's evil in her father's embrace. It felt so good, though we both know I'm not a little girl anymore. I have to fight my own battles, and so when he let go, he clasped his thick blue cloak around my shoulders, then took my hand and replaced the ring he once gave me with his own.

    I couldn't refuse - it's his way of protecting me when he can't be there to snarl and howl at anything threatening to harm me. I mumbled something about returning both items once all this was over, then he hugged me again.

    Being Selunite, dad's cloak happens to be the exact same bright blue colour as that of my Selunite traveller's clothes, my now constant choice in combat situations. I feel better for wearing it, this portable hug clasped around me. But I really have to return it, dad does still get into trouble all of his own, even though he acts as if those days are long over.

    Mom, on the other hand, yelled at me (for growing up and everything thereafter), demanded to hear a long and detailed account of all that had happened, listened closely and then huffed out a long breath.

    'Right!', she said, with that sudden cheery determination that is pointless to even try to resist. 'We need to get to the bottom of this now, so come on! It's time for a delve into history.'

    My hair still smells of the incense of the Cerulean laboratory, where she coaxed the following story from the sword (which put up no more resistance than I did to her relentless will):

    @ed5ed456a0:

    The Red Short Sword - Legend Lore

    This weapon has a fascinating history, though it is not well known in most circles. In fact only a select few people have even seen it before it was unearthed from the Huntmaster's treasure trove. It was initially forged to serve one Ethan Smith, a ranger who fought all manner of evil creatures - including a certain Necromancer. This is where our story begins in earnest.

    Facing the Necromancer took a grave toll on the party that chased him when he first rose to prominence. Ethan Smith, along with sorcerer Paul Gend, Selunite cleric Lena Light, and scout James Butch stormed into the Necromancer's lair, situated in a cave deep into the Underdark.

    The party fought with deadly purpose, but they had arrived too late, the ritual was already complete. The Necromancer had become a lich, and now there was no way to kill him, for the phylactery was nowhere to be found. However, the sword's power was so great that it managed to trap some of the fiend's essence within, preventing the lich from achieving even greater power.

    After the dust had settled, the sword was left in Paul Gend's care, the group reasoning that the weaver was the more capable in keeping the now tainted blade away from the wrong hands.

    Several years later, however, the sword would resurface, stolen by a thief of the Necromancer's employ. But instead of returning it, the thief decided to keep the blade for himself. He would die shortly after, for reasons unknown, leaving the blade to be once again forgotten.

    Ten years later, the sword was found by the young ranger Morrison Smith, who had recently left his home following his father Ethan's death.

    Upon finding the blade, the Necromancer's tie to the weapon caused young Morrison to kill those who had entrapped its essence. The first of these murders was James, the scout, a man Morrison knew not at all.

    The Necromancer revealed himself after this in the guise of an elderly mage, praising the young man for killing a thief who had wronged him in the past. This was a but a half truth that would ensnare Morrison into serving him.

    The second victim was Paul Gend, the lich claiming him to be an evil mage. Later on, the Necromancer would ask Morisson to end the life of the last remaining member of the group, who was reportedly hidden in Morrison's hometown.

    He searched for Lena Light, sword in hand, but she was nowhere to be found. Frustrated, he returned home to see his beloved mother Eleanor once more, before returning to the Necromancer's lair.

    A mother always knows…

    Gazing into her son's eyes, she knew what he had done, and her heart wept. She held him in her arms and told him the truth: he could not find Lena Light, because she was now Eleanor Smith.

    Once the true tale was revealed, Morrison vowed to destroy his former master. As a parting gift, his mother granted him a rapier. He thanked her and was about to head on his way when the lich appeared. Then and there they fought, the red blade cast aside and the rapier held high.

    But Eleanor perished that day, her life claimed by a ray of negative energy. With her dying breath, she uttered a prayer to Selune, petitioning the Moonmaiden to protect her son forever. And the answer came as the rapier began to glow with divine light. With the weapon now infused with the godess' blessings, Morrison was able to strike many a crippling blow to the Necromancer, causing him to flee.

    Morrison Smith took the red blade but never used it again. He would carry it as a reminder of his dark deeds for the 40 years that followed, taking on the name of Huntmaster and giving chase to all necromancers, slaying all he met. Except for the one that always escaped him.

    This explains so much about the conflicting nature of the sword itself - a portion of the lich's essence is trapped inside it… no wonder my hand recoils, no wonder that when the sword resurfaced, so too did the Necromancer, wanting to reclaim it.

    It is part of him... but the Huntmaster has strong ties to the sword as well - after all, it was created for and weilded by his own father before it was tainted. I'm not sure if it was fate, chance or the Necromancer's own dark will that saw it placed in the hands of the son... but I know that Lena saved him, in more ways than one.

    I'm starting to realize this isn't just my fight, me and all those who oppose the Necromancer here and now... it's also theirs, the heroes gone before us. Ethan Smith, Paul Gend, Lena Light, James Butch - and Morrison himself. If I can help put a worthy end to this tale, if I can somehow finish what they started all those years ago, then they'll finally have won.

    I still have no idea how, but I am going to try anyway."


  • "Careful.

    'I must ask you to be careful', said the Huntmaster. 'Be careful', echoed all the rest, Jonni, mom and dad, Salin, even Maria who after having examined the sword briefly, grew pale of face. 'On a scale of one to ten in necromantic energy', she said, '…this one's thirteen. Be extremely careful, Nica..'

    But none of them could tell me how.

    How do I take care, what should I do or not do to err on the side of caution when what I'm walking around with is this? The sword, even when it doesn't move, seems to draw all kinds of attention, as though it was a flaming beacon of negative energy calling out to all the land's hungry hordes of undeath.

    I mustn't leave the sword locked up, that's what the Huntmaster told me, but how then do I keep it safe - and keep everyone around it safe for that matter? Short of taking permanent residence inside temple wards and sitting there in stoic guardianship, I don't think safe is within my abilities to manage. And hiding in a temple, how will I ever manage to find a way to destroy the sword?

    I feel so helpless. I've tried to offer the guardianship of the sword to others, but for better or worse, they all declined. It seems to be my burden to bear, though I feel horribly ill equipped to handle it... I wonder, if I had known all this when I picked it up, would I still have done it?

    I've adjusted my routines, all those that require solitude and space to run outside the shelter of city walls. I miss my swimming, the beach bright and early at dawn, the grimy, sweaty swamp runs and meditation out by the cliffs. I no longer feel comfortable there, where my life blood so recently soaked the earth. I grow irritable and anxious, being so dependant on others company to do anything, even something so simple as to run. But what else, other than staying ever alert and never alone, can I do that constitutes being careful?

    'Beware', the Huntmaster whispered in my head, 'They seek that which you hold. Deals were struck, promises made, beware...'

    The warning came one late afternoon, on an otherwise uneventful day. I could have chosen to work at the orphanage that evening, safe behind the temple wards, but I didn't, I couldn't quite stand being so cooped up. But I didn't stray from the commons, deciding adventure was not an option that went well with being careful. Later that night, as I sat out on the patio of the Mermaid in conversation with Cyrian, Raryldor happened by.

    Just as he had on an earlier occasion, the elven cleric seemed troubled, convinced that some evil presence was near. I felt nothing, but the Huntmaster's warning had me wary enough to follow as Raryldor cast a few spells upon himself and circled the building. Suddenly there was movement as two bats left their cover by the rooftop, straight above where we had been sitting.

    A blink of an eye later, they took new and terrifying shape on the ground - two heavily armored vampires, swords gleaming. I knew I was no match for them, I knew my only real option was to run as fast as I could to the nearest temple, but when Raryldor was shoved to the ground and beaten bloodied in short order, I couldn't. I just had to do something.

    I tried to trip the attacker, hoping to get his attention off the elven cleric for long enough to let him back on his feet. I missed, pathetically, but did draw the vampire's attention. Cold, dead eyes focused on me, and I knew at once I'd made the wrong call, even before the steel bit my skin, even before my attempt to run proved futile. I hadn't been careful.

    As the light faded from my eyes, all I could think about was how foolish I had been to try and play hero. The sword would be taken…

    I don't think I have ever been less glad to see the Huntmaster, his kind and radiant visage once again appearing before me in the fugue plane. For all his comforting words and the trust he appears to place in me, I could not help but feel I had failed him once more.

    I'm not much of a guardian if I can't fight off my persuers, I can't outsmart them, hide from them or even outrun them... I'm in way over my head and for all that I am suitable in some ways - it is true that the sword will find it very difficult to entice or corrupt me - I feel woefully inept in almost every other way.

    I can't even break the sword, I said morosely.

    You can, he replied calmly. You just need to learn how.

    The Huntmaster believes some clues might be found at the Necromancer's old lair - though where that is, he does not yet know. He bid me remain hopeful before we parted and I awoke in the Mermaid, my wounds tended to by Raryldor. While recovering my strength a bit, I told him and Cyrian more about the troubles we face.

    They said that the vampires had been defeated, but not for good. Raryldor believes they may lair in the Barrows but did not chase after this time because I was down for the count. He also offered his aid, or rather outright told me I wouldn't have to face this alone, in a tone that brooked no protest. Not that I had any protests, quite the opposite - regardless of what my parents think of Raryldor, he's precisely the sort of ally I'm going to need.

    As for the sword, it is still in my possession, apparantly having sprung out from my pack when I was down, defending me. That is perhaps one small consolation to take from all this; that while the Huntmaster still retains some small control over the sword, it won't be all that easily claimed, even if I'm taken out of the equation.

    I have to cling to that, I think… remembering I'm not alone in this struggle, even if I can't help but think of myself as the weakest link. I need my family's strength, the support of the pack... I need my friends, but also allies I can trust, whether friends or not. I need Selune's guidance... I need a hug that convinces me it'll all be alright, somehow.

    And I really need to sleep."


  • "The Huntmaster.

    I saw him again, even more radiant than before. Perhaps it was from being in that place, as if some souls shine all the brighter with their mortal coils thrown off - either way his presence was like moonlight, gentle yet bright, a cooling balm to the sting of what had just befallen me.

    I died.

    It happened but moments earlier on a routine training run through the swamps. I like the swamps, the marshy ground itself provides a challenge, and the lizardmen's frequent grease spells adds to improvement on my footwork. I was fighting a swamp wisp, a common enough thing and no real danger despite the occasional zap it delivered, when suddenly the short sword freed itself from my pack. It jumped straight into the fray, but once the battle was won, it didn't fall inert.

    Instead, it drifted closer, aimed at my throat. I took a wary step back, staring intently at it while my mind presented possible moves to counter this seeming hostility - dodge, a quick downwards blow, pin it with my foot - but then it suddenly backed off, floating backwards and away from me, towards the Scar.

    Alarmed and wary, I followed as stealthily as I am able - which unfortunately isn't very stealthy at all. On the sloping grassy fields that lead down to the sheer cliff edge, I saw the sword engaged in combat with a multitude of kobolds, easily a dozen. They were eerily red-eyed, muscular and armed with longswords - and just as I spied them, they too saw me. I began to back away, but these were no ordinary kobolds. The first to reach me was swift and strong, knocking me off my feet. A brief flash of pain as my vision went red, then blurry white.

    I fell… or was I lifted up? The world was muted and pale around me. No wind stirred here, no blue skies over my head, but water trickled soothingly in a nearby fountain. I felt numb, staring at the unfamiliar fugue plane around me.

    The sword... imagine those kobolds with that sword. A first twinge of emotion and it was dread, mingled with a sense of failure. Some keeper I made...

    Just as these heavy emotions arose, threatening to drown me, he arrived. The Huntmaster's sympathetic eyes were almost too much to bear, his presence a blessing I didn't quite deserve but was thankful for all the same. Our conversation was brief, though each word seemed to etch itself into my memory, clear as day even now:

    _H: It was the sword, wasn't it?

    N: It was fighting kobolds…

    H: I figure it would... I can barely control it anymore...

    N: I feared it would fall into the wrong hands, so I followed...

    H: That is a valid concern. Even in my hands, that sword committed atrocities... Well, no matter now. I'll try to have you restored to your plane now. But I must ask you to be careful. Don't trust the sword. There was once a time when I could control it. But my grasp over it fades...

    N: How can I contain it, should I lock it up?

    H: No. Left to its own devices, I don't know what the sword will do. You must find a way to destroy it.

    N: Is it tied to the Necromancer? He returned not long ago... we tried to finish him, but he got away.

    H: It is. I don't know how, but it is. And that would explain why my power over the sword is growing weaker. If he is back, then you must hurry.

    N: He seemed an undead creature, so the sword... it could be his phylactory? All the more reason to destroy it if so, but how?

    H: I wish I knew... It was the one thing I always missed in trying to defeat him...

    H: Do you have any other questions? You shouldn't linger in this place.

    N: If you can still influence the sword, could you not give some sort of sign that it is you in control?

    H: I could, but it would be easily discovered and used against you. It's best that you just be careful at all times.

    N: I will try... may Selune guide me._

    I awoke in the place where I had fallen, kobold bodies scattered all around like broken toys. The short sword was back in my pack, and on wobbly legs I made my way back to town.

    Half way back, a ranger came into view all of a sudden. I longed for Vash't and his warm embrace, for Rasuil and his watchful comforting calm, but instead I met John Isle. Strange as it sounds, given that John is well.. John, I'm grateful that I did. He took one look at my bloodied, torn clothing, my pale and shaken face and offered me his arm. 'C'mon', he said, 'y'need somethin' ta eat.' I leaned on him and - without a single grope, without a hint of lewdness - he lead me to the Lucky Ferret Inn, put a bowl of something warm infront of me and then just kept me company.

    He was kind to me, almost protective. He listened as I told the tale, shared with me how the sword had whispered its promises to him earlier. Part of him still wants it, he admitted that - but not at the cost of his independance. Jonni keeps telling me I shouldn't trust John, but I couldn't help but feel he was sincere. Even in caring.

    The Huntmaster has set me the task of doing what he himself could not: to destroy the sword. I have no idea how, no idea why he believes I'm even capable of this, but I do know one thing for certain - I'll need all the help I can get."


  • "The Necromancer.

    Are some stories bound to repeat themselves, to play out over and over until someone breaks the pattern, to win or to lose in so decisive a manner as to put a permanent period mark to the pages of history?

    The Huntmaster and the Necromancer seem to have that kind of story, destined to struggle on even after one of them has passed from this world - bound, perhaps, through that red sword?

    He's here now.

    Jonni and I, again at the Norwick south gates though in company this time. Sheserai had spoken of strong skeletons wandering the graveyard and crypt, wishing to investigate the roots of this anomali. We were still in idle conversation when I felt it again, that sense of growing unease. I ~knew~ danger was approaching, and this time I trusted myself not to have imagined it.

    This time we were prepared, spells, swords and bow at the ready when they came, groaning, shambling and reeking undead. There were more of them this time, wave upon wave, zombies and skeletons in varying degree of horror - and no sooner had they reached the gates than the sword once more flew out of its confinement to fight them.

    It was an eerie sight, that red-glowing blade dancing by itself in the dark of night, piercing flesh and bone. After countless decaying bodies lay scattered and in piles upon the ground, the sword still didn't drop - it seemed, if one can describe a lifeless object in those words, at high alert, hovering impatiently before us for a brief moment before cutting a path of crimson red through the darkness, towards the cemetary.

    Jonni frowned, sensing a trap. I shrugged helplessly, following. What else could I do? I had chosen to take the sword with the exact purpose of keeping it out of the wrong hands, and here it was, heading towards the wrong hands. It was fighting the undead, yes - but when it stopped, fell to the ground once more - who would then claim it, if I was not there?

    It took off at some speed, but then stopped near the hole in the ground, as though waiting for us. I could almost have sworn it was impatient, and had it had a foot, might well have tapped it, by the time our party caught up.

    The crypts then… where something particularily bad was already stirring by the sound of it. With a few final preparations and the addition of Raryldor to our side, we entered and immediately found ourselves in battle. The undead we faced were no pushovers, far stronger than what one normally encounters in that place. A faint echo of dark chanting could be heard at times, in the brief lulls between fights.

    The chanting grew stronger the deeper inside we went, a sense of urgency and dread building inside me - but the resistance was also growing stronger, we could make no more haste than this without lives lost. Following the sounds through the winding hallways of the crypt, we came at last to the centre of the ritual, a small chamber to the far right.

    It was crawling with undead, so many that the red glowing glyph in the middle of the floor was initially hard to make out. Looking closer, I spied a black shadowy figure in the pentagram's midst and undead priests around it, finishing their incantations.

    'You're too late!', the gaunt figure cried out, just as our group mustered the charge and darkness descended, thick as a blanket. The sword was a blur of red and I followed it, striking at whatever came close while magic pulsed in the air and the sound of battle raged around me. There was a flash of divine light before the dust settled and my vision cleared.

    Undead lay defeated all around, but of the necromancer in their midsts I saw no sign. But the pentagram still glowed with pulsing crimson light. A portal, a summoning circle? I know little about such things, but as the others tried to determine how to undo the dark magic, the sword leaped into action. It swooped high into the air, descending swiftly in an arc of red to bury itself to the hilt in the pentagram's midst.

    A burst of energy followed, a painful backlash of the sword's disruptive act, then the glyph faded. We stood there in the sudden silence, staring at the sword hilt sticking out of the stone. It had lead us here, no question about that. But whether it had helped or simply drawn us into harm's way, I still can't say. Perhaps it's a little of both.

    The questions started coming as I stepped up to retrieve the sword, mostly the very same questions I was asking myself at the time. Wrapping my cloak around my hand, I grabbed the sword's hilt and gave a tug - but it was firmly stuck and more than that, seemed for a moment to actively repel me. Offers came of assistance, but I kept at it, pulling with all my weight behind it. Something made me hesitate to let other people touch the sword, perhaps the same instinctive feeling that makes me not want to touch it directly myself.

    There's a sense of malice to it, something corrosive and greasy. The Huntmaster's journal has me left thinking the sword might have the power to corrupt a person, somehow. Since I have absolutely no desire for the sword - even if I could somehow use it, I'd be so terrible at it as to make the result laughable - I may be somewhat better suited to be its guardian than most.

    But with the sword, it seems the Necromancer follows. In my gut, I know it was him - the very same villain described in the journal. What he wants, I don't yet know though - is it possible the Huntmaster and he have fought for so long that whenever one stirs, the other follows? The sword is the link between them, the key to everything. I'm certain of that, if not of much more. It's as important as it is dangerous and contradictory in nature.

    Jonni isn't happy with all this. He seemed downright angry, and not just at the situation but at me, down in the Barrows. Flaming skeletons had emerged from below, spilling out into the Residential area when he was on his way to work. The ensuing commotion drew a small crowd, myself included, to head down to investigate matters.

    And of course the sword decided to 'help'.

    As we entered the Ashald family tomb, John Isle got a strange gleam in his eye, quickening his step to walk closer to the hovering blade. A knot of unease formed in my gut, but before I could stop him, he ran his finger along the flat of the blade. Unease blossomed into fear - I have a degree of trust for John, but it's situational. He's an openly greedy person who, while pleasant enough when it costs him nothing to be, would likely sell his own mommy dearest down the river if the price was right.

    I warned him, but he still seemed entranced with the sword - and then suddenly, without him actually grasping for it, it was in his hand.

    I told him to let go of it, nearly pleading because I felt the trap closing, history about to repeat itself. The Necromancer, awakened and near, might soon have another minion and a dangerous one at that.

    'John, let go of it PLEASE!'

    Instead, darkness fell and John vanished from view. But, Selune be praised, we were in an enclosed room by now, and there were only so many corners for John to hide. Elaine found him, froze him with magic and quickly disarmed him.

    Jonni was angry and remained angry after, seeming to think I'm careless to just carry the sword with me, that I don't see that it's dangerous and place a naive trust in it. Perhaps he's just worried, though he refused to take the sword himself when I offered it and has given me no suggestions for anywhere safe to store it. John on the other hand seemed strangely muted, his usual rascal grin faded away. Later, he told me the sword whispered to him, luring him with promises of power.

    And Elvira, upon exiting the Barrows, looked at me with a baffled expression, wondering where that sense of shelter and care came from...

    My best guess to these contradictions is that the Huntmaster, through his years of guardianship or the mark he put on the blade, has some sort of sway over it - he is that protective presence, his hand is the one that guides the helpful things it does. That doesn't mean it's a 'good' weapon, or that it can be trusted - clearly it was once the Necromancer's tool and it seems his hold on it remains. It's as though the battle between the two continues through the sword's very existance.

    The question is, can we break the pattern?"


  • "The Huntmaster's Sword.

    It's wrapped up now and stuffed deeply into my pack, the spidersilk cloak wound around it like a glossy blue cucoon. That's not going to stop it though, I know that - but somehow the layers of cloth and leather straps between it and myself feels comforting.

    I don't want to touch it. I don't really want to keep it with me at all, but I can't think of any place that would be safer for a sword that can move on its own accord - perhaps even has a will of its own…

    It moved. It not only moved, but actually ~flew~ out of my pack in a blur of cold metal and eerie red light, hurtling towards the gnoll that persued me. If not for the other eyewitnesses at the gate, I'd be convinced I was crazy or imagining it all, there was something so nightmarish about the whole scene. About that whole afternoon, really...

    The sun glinted golden, just about touching the treetops as I left the shrine of Kelemvor with my freshly purchased supplies. It was a beautiful afternoon, still and clear, yet as I stepped outside the gates, I felt suddenly uneasy. I tried to brush it off as imagination, trading a few friendly words with Shady, but the feeling stayed with me, growing more and more intense.

    Someone was watching me - it felt as though unseen eyes bored into my back like daggers, as though assassins would spring from every dark corner. Danger - danger - danger, my heart seemed to cry with every beat as I made my way north, trying my best to remain calm.

    The tension grew, yet every time I looked around, every time I stopped to listen, there was nothing - nothing but a golden afternoon and my own heartbeat thundering in my ears. I resolved to keep walking, calm and controlled to not rush into any ambush, but at the first sight of Peltarch's towering walls, I broke into full run. If I just got inside the walls, I'd be safe...

    But it was already there, waiting.

    A snarling gnoll warrior, crazed with hunger and disease. I sidestepped his swinging axe, dodged and ran past and through the gates, but before I could bar them the gnoll shouldered through, howling.

    Alone and without magic, I'm not much of a match for a gnoll, but I had to try. I tried to trip it, but took a searing hit to my side in return when I suddenly felt my pack move. And when the gnoll struck again, its axe caused sparks of red to fly at the clash with the hovering short-sword that proceeded to fight it...

    Others rushed to aid, but the sword did most of the job, falling flat and inert to the ground once the fight was done. I hesitated, staring at it laying there. Had it actually fought to help me?

    It looked just as before, the dark blade glowing red and omnious. I crouched to retrieve it, feeling that same instinctive revulsion at touching it directly. Had it fought to save me, or just to taste blood...?

    I unclasped my cloak, wrapping it around the sword and quickly tucking the whole bundle into my pack while questions I couldn't even answer to myself began to fly from the onlookers.

    But the strangest part of all is this: suddenly, shaky-legged and bloodied though I was, I felt a calm settle over me. Again I was being watched, but unlike before it was a warm and sheltering feeling, as though I had a guardian angel watching over me.

    And again, I'm fairly certain the feeling emanated from the blade."


  • "The Huntmaster's Journal.

    He did use the sword… that was his first mistake, but one he made innocently enough, out of ignorance, youthful and eager at the time. What fresh-faced adventurer had really done differently in his shoes?

    @86c7c7c2a8:

    I found a strange sword today. It's a really good sword, but it has something strange about it… Or maybe I'm just paranoid. Yes, that must be it. I mean, what harm could a sword possibly do without a hand to hold it?

    Unfortunately, this one mistake lead quickly on to others, far worse…

    @86c7c7c2a8:

    I killed a man today. I don't know why. I don't know who he was. I just saw him and something made me do it. The odd thing about it, is that as soon as I did, a mage appeared beside me, congratulating me. He said I was destined to great things. I'm not sure what he meant, but I'll stick with him for now and see what happens.

    Reading the journal, it strikes me how little Morrison seems to question things at the time. He kills a man for no apparant reason and doesn't seem to even begin to show remorse, to wonder why. Did this mage feed him a convenient explanation and he clung on to it as truth, because then he would not have to feel guilty? It seems both callous and horribly naive, but I think there are other explanations here than just being young and dumb.

    The sword itself is definitely a factor: the enchantments it bears seem to augment the physical strength of it's weilder, but at the expense of their better judgement in how to use it. That's a very dangerous combination, power without wisdom. You could end up doing very bad things without necessarily being a bad person - especially if manipulated by someone else.

    @86c7c7c2a8:

    Betrayed! Damned the soul who trusts a necromancer! That fiend used me for his crimes and I followed blindly… No more! I shall hunt him down. Him and all scum like him! I will not rest until I find each and every one of them!

    From this point on, Morrison Smith became the Huntmaster. He spent the next forty years combatting the same type of evil he was once fooled into serving, until he finally could fight no more. He must have payed his debt a hundred times over, but his last words are still tinged with remorse. I can't help but wonder, even having ascended to a celestial, if he has ever truly forgiven himself?

    @86c7c7c2a8:

    And so, if someone ever finds my gear, all I ask of you is that you use it in the pursuit of all that is Good and Worthy, and never forget what I've done. But above all, never succumb to the temptations of power.

    I'll try to take this cautionary tale to heart - I don't think of myself as a power-hungry person, though I have to admit that I'm ambitious in my own way and always want to excel and improve in what I do. Can I honestly say that if instead of a sword, this was a pair of amazing gloves, gloves that made my fists strike hard as rock and swift as lightning, that I wouldn't be tempted? I would definitely be tempted, especially if like the Huntmaster, I was ignorant of the harmful aspects.

    I mustn't be ignorant though, nor ever stop questioning and thinking for myself instead of following blindly along. I learnt that lesson early on with regards to survival. I was following adventurers I thought were experienced, strong and able into unknown territory. They were definitely stronger than me in battle prowess, but as it turned out, clueless about the dangers - they just strode confidently on, right into a hornet's nest that nearly claimed our lives. From that moment on, I stopped assuming that people around me necessarily know what they're doing, regardless of how old, how experienced or powerful they are.

    It's strange… sitting here with the book and the sword, I can almost feel the Huntmaster's tale come alive. From time to time I've actually found myself looking over my shoulder, convinced someone was watching me. It's silly, I'm just indulging my bardic streak here. Time I packed up and headed home, though I think I'll stop by Kelemvore's shrine to purchase some blessed bolts first. If I'm to honour the Huntmaster's legacy, kicking some undead butt seems a good start."


  • "The Huntmaster's Treasure.

    @9182c73aa6:

    In the woods… close to the sea... the Huntmasters treasure awaits for thee.. gold and booty of the finest there is... heed the warning though, the X is not the place... but if you go above it, you'll win the race

    The hunt is over, the treasure found - and what a treasure it was, so full of bounty that it was almost overwhelming for the five of us present. It's strange how, when there's a great amount of something desirable infront of you, you find you almost don't want it anymore. Perhaps that's just me, fighting down my greed (which I do have, but don't want to succumb to), but perhaps there's something about plenty in itself?

    I'd better start from the beginning though, because after the undead attack, the clues were all but completely gathered. Just one more clue left, and I found it hidden away by Shane Andryl's memorial stone in the Silver Valley.

    X is not the place, but it's what popped out at most of us when reading the complete thing. X as in the big red warning sign, carved into the ground outside the Beholder cave in the far east Rawlings. If you go above that cave, you'll find yourself not quite by the sea as such, but certainly in the woods and in proximity to water. It felt like a pretty solid guess, and we were all excited as we started out, myself, Jonni, Elaine, Sheserai and Gnarl.

    You'd think that with such a small party, we would have no trouble keeping together. But Gnarl somehow got lost, despite knowing where we were heading, and so we paused and paced above the cave, frustrated in our eagerness to get on with the chase.

    Once regathered, we searched the woods by the Scar, far and wide, fighting the usual wyverns and harpies - which today, as it happened, included one very large wyvern. This Mother of all of her kind was petrified in a highly dramatic pose, wings spread wide just as her tail touched the stone circle. She was so impressive that I wanted to simply leave her there, but stone soon shattered as some of the others continued to attack. Perhaps it was safer that way - perhaps kinder, because who knows what it's really like to be stone yet still in some sense alive - but the secret bardic vein in me twitched and wailed in protest at beauty broken.

    We pushed on, further and further until suddenly, Elaine's excited shout resounded. 'FOUND IT!

    Hidden by a copse of trees and half-buried, a large wooden chest stood before us. There was a pause as everyone just looked at it, a solemn silence pregnant with expectation. Then the lid was sprung and a soft wow came from those who glimpsed the contents….

    Then came the light.

    It was a bright light, blinding white. I blinked repeatedly to clear my vision, and then I saw him... a hooded man, clad in forest green with wings of purest white still fluttering gently. He seemed at the same time gentle and awe-inspiring, this celestial being who introduced himself (to rows of slackened jaws) as The Huntmaster.

    In life, his name was Morrison Smith, a ranger sworn to combat the evils of undeath in service to the Moonmaiden. A ranger ~and~ a Selunite... how could I not be just a little smitten? He greeted all of us with the same solemn kindness, yet before he accepted us as guardians of his former belongings, he cautioned us to not make the same mistakes he did, hinting of something dark within his legacy. But first he looked at us - one after the other, ~really~ looked at us with eyes so piercing it was as though he could see right through me.

    I squirmed on the spot, but could not look away while every mistake, every shameful, deceitful, cowardly and selfish act I ever made seemed to be laid bare before his penetreting celestial gaze. Lies, evasion, hurtful remarks I wish I had never made, they all flashed before me and I felt so small and so flawed, like a child with grubby hands staring up at this perfect angel.

    And then he smiled.

    It was like sunshine on a cloudy day, that smile, and in that moment I knew I'd do whatever I could to make him proud, to carry on his work and make sure this find had meaning. I'd come here like the rest, without any nobler cause than searching for treasure, following an intriguing riddle and hoping for shiny things - but now, it suddenly meant something. I think we all felt that way, because the mood was thoughtful as we returned to Norwick with all our gathered treasure.

    Jonni, still weary from his close call at the hands of that vampire, excused himself early while the rest of us lay the items out in the grass, just staring at them for what felt the longest time. It was all good things, useful in qualities and obviously designed for those good of heart - though the Huntmaster's warning still rang at the back of my mind. I wondered what it was he had done wrong, noticing an inscription on the hilt of a strangely red-glowing short sword.

    'May I never forget what I have done', it read. The sword itself stood out amongst the objects, not just from it's omnious glow but also being the only item clearly unsuitable for the use of good. Had the Huntmaster really used this wicked blade? It had such an uneasy feel to it that I didn't even want to touch it, but obviously also held some powerful enchantments.

    It was the type of thing that was worth keeping for the sole purpose of keeping it out of the wrong hands. And while I knew there were no such wrong hands in our group, it still felt right to take it. It felt like something my father would have done.

    I also chose the Huntmaster's journal, eager to learn more about his story, as well as a very unusual ring and eventually, after having waited and waited for anyone else to display an interest in it, a beautiful rapier, bathed in the shimmer of moonlight. Vash't is going to absolutely love it... I think I'm more excited about giving him this gift than about anything I got for myself!

    Maybe if I stick around in Norwick for the next day, I might find him loitering conveniently nearby? And if nothing else, it would give me time to finish reading the Huntmaster's journal."


  • "Vampires.

    My parents, among many other possible and actual titles, could well be called vampire-hunters. For years, nothing short of an unexplored Nars Empire ruin would get my mother's eyes so bright with excitement as this topic. Tales of Lillia and the mysterious Waterdeep coven were obviously not for small children's ears, but I still managed to catch enough of it - especially while eavesdropping on my parents, C'Tan and Yu Shei - to send my thoughts into thrilling flights of fancy and occasional bouts of night terrors.

    The topic also caused rows, huge arguments between mom and dad, between mom and Ronan, and this too had something to do with vampires, or so I always thought. No one really told us, but I remember Jonni pulling me away from listening at the top of the stairs once, like he wanted to protect me from the anger and the hurt below. All I know for sure is that it put a distance between mom and Ronan that was never fully bridged. And that sparkle in her eyes when talk turned to vampires was gone.

    Still, as I grew older I kept nagging for those stories, having the same horror-mingled fascination with them as when I was little. Vampires are undead, undeniably evil and vile - but unlike most other sorts of undead they still think, they still reason, want and feel ~something~, retaining enough of their old selves to make them appear at times not so unlike the living. If you've met one groaning, shuffling, brain-eating zombie you have met them all, but vampires are individuals.

    Elaine, Sheserai and I toyed with the idea of the dashing visitor to the College being a vampire, winding ourselves up to the point of Elaine started stalking the man. I think at some level we enjoyed it, the tingle of fright, the speculation and the mystery. But when I had my first real, undeniable vampire encounter, there was none of that.

    There was just blood, steel and a cold, merciless fury.

    Helplessness and terror.

    Jonni and I had returned from a spot of carefree mining down south, placed our heavy bags near the south fire and chit-chatted amicably about this and that, about the ongoing chase for the Huntmaster's treasure which even I was beginning to grow enthused about, almost against my own intentions.

    The sun had just begun to set and the first stars made their shy appearance overhead when suddenly, a thick darkness descended. I heard distant groans and the air grew heavier as though laden with death, dread and decay. We scrambled to our feet just as the first zombies came through the gates, but in their midst was something else. A flash of steel, an armored figure cutting through the shambling hoard like a shark, like lightning.

    The vampire.

    He was pale death swooping down upon us, his sword cutting to the bone with the first impossibly swift strike, followed by a merciless second, third, fourth - Jonni yelled for me to do what he couldn't and run, while he gritted his teeth and tried to stand his ground.

    The vampire tore through him as though his armor was made of wet parchment. My brother fell to the ground, crumpled like a doll while I stared in terror, in disbelief. Jonni, the big brother who could carry the world on his shoulders. Somehow, despite adventuring together, deep down I never thought anything could really hurt him until that moment.

    In the next breath, the vampire was upon me, and any foolish notion of being able to fight it was knocked out of me. Almost too late, I did what Jonni had told me and ran.

    But not far.

    Shaking, bleeding, I ducked around the nearest cover and fumbled for an invisibility potion, then turned back as quickly as I dared to recover my brother. In town, distant screams and clangs of metal suggested the vampire had moved on to livelier prey and I hoped, I begged and prayed that it wouldn't see me or the thick trail of blood as I half carried, half dragged Jonni up the hill and towards Chauntea's temple.

    I made it inside, but could barely speak as Yllalyn hasted towards us. I'd left my brother to die - it didn't matter that he told me to, I left him and now he was dead, dead when moments ago we'd been laughing together…

    Yllalyn startled me out of grief suddenly.

    'He's alive, but barely... if you'd come just a moment later.. '

    She got to frantic work, sending me out once more to find a herb that would help stabilize his condition and again I went invisible, again terrified. I was sure the undead would smell me, would follow the blood and tear me limb from limb, the vampire was still out there... but all I saw was the odd shambling zombie as I tiptoed to the gates. Just outside, untramped by their rotting feet, grass grew thick.

    Something glinted in the darkness, a flash of something pale and out of place.

    I bent down to retrieve a slip of paper... curiously it was a clue, a lead to the Huntmaster's treasure - but that's not what I wanted at all, not then! I stuffed it into my pocket anyway, about to rush on when noticing just the herb Yllalyn had described, growing by the opposite side of the gate...

    I collected a handful and ran back as fast as my legs would carry me. Live, please oh please, just live... and he did! Yllalyn said it was an incredibly close call, and I have never seen Jonni so pale and so vunerable looking as that time. He leaned on me as we hobbled back towards the gate at dawn, as if suddenly our roles had been reversed.

    Raryldor ended up chasing the vampire down, deep in the Norwick crypts. The threat is ended, but the fright lingers like an echo, like a chill down my spine. There was no wickedly clever wordplay or seductively mystery-laden games, that thing was nothing but a killer, pure cold hate. And for all my training and all my hard work, there was nothing I could do to fight it, nothing. I could only run."


  • "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."