Various Works of a Wanderer
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A freshly written note, carefully placed amidst various magical scrolls. It looks almost out of place amongst all the other parchments; mere poetry compared to the magical text it lies alongside. And yet, it must have occupied some place of value amongst the one who carried it, for it to be left for safe keeping in such a place.
_Slightly in love
I'm only slightly in love.
If I was fully in love,
I would think about you all time
(Not just when I'm awake).If I was fully in love,
My poetry would rhyme
On every line,
Not just half the
while.If I was fully in love,
I'd see your face on every corner,
Not just in places where I wander
Or in my dreams or everytime
I close my eyes and fail
To think of anything but you.So now you know
That I don't pass the test.
I don't make the grade.
And I hope you won't think any less
Of me becauseI'm only slightly in love._
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Yet another sheet of paper. You might almost think this wanderer liked words.
_I feel I should write something about archery. So, I think I shall. If nothing else, it shall distract me from my other concerns.
I first make no pretense as to why I took up archery. I have never been terribly…survivable in a melee. Certainly, my swordplay is better than many, and I am fortunately fast enough to avoid most hits - but compared to someone like Uthger, or Covah, or Kanen I am neither terribly strong nor can I take a blow well, when one is inevitably landed on me, despite by best dodges, feints and parries.
A bow allows me to contribute from a much safer distance, as well as give me the room I need to add a little magic to the battle without interference.
However, there is more to simply staying out of harm's way. I have always been quite a good shot with a bow. It is in my blood, I imagine. But there's something else. Placing an arrow, I think, is rather like placing a note.
The best way to place a note is to first imagine the note. Think of it. And then, you take a breath - and let it happen. There's really very little effort involved when you do it right.
Placing an arrow is rather like that. Certainly, I'm nowhere near mastering the ability to place an arrow at a particular part of a target - an arm or a leg of an approaching warrior, for instance - but I am improving on placing it in places which do the most damage. The armpit is often where vital protection is lacking, and a well placed arrow can cause significant damage. The head is often fatal if they wear no helmet and you feel confident enough you can make the shot.
But there's more to placing the note you want. There's picking the right note in the first place. The harmonies of movement are as intricate as those of movement.
You have to consider how they are moving. Do they duck and weave, or charge blindly toward you? Do they carry a shield in front? Do you target the swordsman approaching, or the mage chanting some arcane words in the distance? And what about the one hiding in the long grass to your right?
But when you get it right, you can feel it. It's like a harmony, but not with music - with everything about you. Every movement flows, all about is golden - and the moment you let the arrow fly, feel the bowstring snap forward onto your arm, you can hear it singing.
Archery, I think, really is very much like music._
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Words, paused for rest on the parchment, buried deep in the bard's pack.
_Have you ever watched a candle flame?
It burns, dances and plays so merrily in every draft, and in every gust of wind clings as tightly as it can to the wick, lest it be finally blown out. It lights up dark places with its undeniable cheer.
Many years ago, I was shown something quite unusual by a gnome I once knew. I must admit, half the things he said I did not understand. But this one stuck quite firmly in my mind.
He took a candle, which carried with it one of those merry little candle flames, and set it down a plate of glass. Then he brought forth a large glass vessel - quite expensive and fragile, I was assured - and set it over the top of that candle. And then he invited me to watch.
I have seen a great many tragedies, especially of late. But witnessing that merry little candle flame slowly grow weaker and weaker before finally fading from all sight was truly quite distressing.
The gnome told me he thought perhaps the candle flame died from the grief and loneliness of being trapped inside the glass. He suggested that all flames prefered company - which is why they spread so easily - and that trapping them in glass means they can no longer sense any flames anywhere else in the world. And so they slowly die of their grief at losing all their brothers and sisters.
I found a book, written some years later by this gnome, on his latest ideas. He's changed his mind, it seems, and he now seems to think that flames use up air, and trapping them in glass like that ends the flame because it cannot get any more air once it is used up. It makes more sense, I suppose, but I cannot help but wonder about that first idea.
I am deeply concerned about Eowiel. She so deeply cares for the joy of others that every tragedy in she sees in Narfell is as a great gust of wind is to a candle flame. Yet she has held on thus far, clinging to this world as the flame clings to its wick.
In many ways, I wish she were like the candle flame, trapped inside the glass. It would be so much easier to remove that cover, and show the flame a world where all its brothers and sisters still danced merrily.
But for Eowiel, I cannot do that. I fear she sees quite clearly, too clearly, the number of her brothers and sisters that have been blown out by chill winds in the past years. The notion is no stranger to me; if I knew how I continued on despite it, I would tell her: but I do not know myself. Perhaps it pushes me on, whereas it wears her down. I do not know.
I fear I have found this little flame too late._