3. Wind Whispers

Wind Whispers


  • A fire burns on the bluff, a tiny beacon of light in the darkness. A woman stands beside a stone winged creature, her hand resting slightly on it's head. The winds swirl protectively about her as her knees buckle and her hand slips from the creature and she collapses to the ground. She tries to stand, but the previous hours standing, watching, seeking, have taken their toll, and her limbs refuse to respond. She crawls closer to the fire and pulls the journal and quill to her. She rests her head against the book for a while, and the fire burns lower.

    After a time, she puts another log and some coal on the fire, dips the quill in the ink pot near the stones ringing the fire and rests the quill on the page.

    Were it not for my Lord, I would be lost.

    She raises her eyes to the darkness, straining to see movement where no movement exists. She closes her eyes and tilts her head, listening for footfalls that aren't there. She bites her bottom lip, not noticing that she has been doing this so often of late, small drops of blood appear as the fragile skin fails under the pressure.

    I have asked in all the places that I know of. I have left messages that go to the best of my knowledge untold, unread, unremembered. None seem to know what is happening. Or at least none who will tell. Aramuil seemed pleased by my seeking and did not answer fully when asked - palming me off to other people - does he know something?

    I spend my days tending to the needs of others, and the nights walking. When I sleep - terrors stalk me. Sometimes I see him tortured, others I see him walk by ignoring me, yet others I see him though water as I am being dragged to the depths and he waves before turning, so the last I see is his back before the waters take me.

    I come here. Where memories support me as much as the stone guardians keep me company during my vigils. Lem and his boys keep a small stash of wood for me - a payment for the easing of joint ache from his old bones. I thought I heard his voice tonight, I turned and my legs gave. The moon had made her stately rise in the sky and I had not noticed. I stand for hours now - a hand on stone - the stone calls to me, connects me and frees me - hours for stone must be like mere seconds - it seems I blink and another night is gone. I blink again and the day has passed. I blink.

    The dawn is coming, and I have duties that call me back from the edge here. I must give voice to the change.

    I must find out more about the spirits that confronted us in the places beneath Oscura - they deserve their rest, and it seems that the page must be found - but by whom, and for what end? It is something to keep my mind occupied.

    I cling to hope - his smell has faded from the cloak he gave me, as it has from his pillows. He will return - he must…..

    It would be too harsh of the fates to have taken love from him thrice, and then deny it to him a fourth time - too cruel even for them.

    I place my faith in my Lord, my hope in his Lady and stay true to promises made tho he has heard them not. I am loyal. I will be true.

    I wait.

    She raises the quill from the page and gives her voice to the dawn changing of the winds. Her voice is not as carefree as it once was, and while it comes from a throat choked with emotions reigned in, it is stong in devotion and rings faintly with hope.

    She slowly stands, adjusts her pack on her back, and moves wearily to the land below, on to the tasks that remain.


  • The twilight dancing on the calm of the pond beckons the woman, she moves lightly to a nearby tree and sits with her back against it. The winds make the leaves dance above her, the starlight playing hide and seek on the surface of the pond as the leaves dance overhead. She watches for a while, before murmuring softly. A gentle glow shimmers from a branch a little above her head, and she opens her journal, dips her quill into the ink pot and lets it rest against the page…

    Eventually the words begin to flow

    I went in search of him, hoping to still find him at the tower. The ache growing with every step. Occasionally I had to close my eyes, lest it overcome me and my courage desert me. After an hour or more, I heard his voice, carried to me on the winds. I stopped, to enjoy the sound of it, before having to face him. He was discussing a recent trip with those under his command.

    I wondered if I could stay there forever - putting off the moment, my courage waning with each word he spoke. The winds gathered close and lent me their strength. I moved around the trees and towards the stone wall.

    He really was back….

    She lifts the quill from the page and tilts her head back to rest against the tree. Her hair moves as if caressed by gentle breezes, the errant strands dancing across her cheeks. After a time, the edges of the pages of her journal rustle invitingly. She offers an impish grin to the starlight and dips the quill again.

    I watched him unnoticed for a short time. Giving him time to finish what he was doing. A young woman stood next to him, with a wolf nearby her. Her wolf played with a larger one, and he smiled often at her, and at the playing. I started to back away, unsure.. and the movement caught his eye. He was suddenly uncomfortable - looking but not meeting my eyes, I swallowed, leaning into the winds around me, needing their support. He beckoned me in as he finished addressing his troops, giving the final orders. As I moved closer, he gave me a guilt ridden look, my feet felt like lead - and I closed my eyes briefly. He reached out for me, and the young women asked for a quiet word. I was left standing, Caelian looking unwell on one side, Uncle Grag looking well on the other, and my deer (was he still -my- deer?) a little way off with someone else.

    I offered aid to Caelian - he refused, I asked how my uncle was faring, watching, waiting, hoping…steeling myself for what had to come next.

    He finished his private conversation and came and wrapped his arms around me. I buried my face in his shoulder and leant against him - drawing a little strength from him, before drawing back slightly, he dropped his arms. His face riddled with guilt and I waited. He started to explain, and my uncle after witnessing his hug, started asking him of his intentions - I could have died! of both embarrassment, and of surprise. After all the warnings I had received about being careful of him, of not hurting him, of being made aware there would be consequences to pay if he were ill-treated, someone was speaking for me. If any were to do that, I would have suspected Aelthas - who had taken me under his wing those years ago. It was through Aelthas, that Grag became "Uncle" Grag to me - as he treated Aelthas like a nephew, and Aelthas treated me like a sister. As I overcame my surprise, I noted my deer was taking it in his stride, joking away the warnings and looking ever confident. I probably looked confused - his confidence did not sit well with his earlier obvious guilt.

    He asked me if he might have a quiet word, and as he took me aside a little as Grag and Caelian started sparring. She winces at the memory.

    Poor Caelian - he tried bravely, but barely managed to land a blow, and the blocks sent him reeling - but he persevered and earnt the respect of Grag - after checking he was ok, I moved aside.

    My deer explained his absence - in part it was wanderlust, in part his duties and in part others actions. He truly did not know the time that had passed…I believed him - his tale to far fetched to be untrue - and untruth is not his way, as far as I know his way.

    I closed my eyes, his hand tightening against mine, and I told him before I could lose my courage. "She is back in these lands - returned perhaps a week before you" I watched his face close, the shadows grow slightly in his eyes, before he squeezed my hand lightly and asked if we could go home.

    She lets out a breath she wasn't aware she had been holding as she wrote. She watches the moonlight join the stars in the pool, glancing across to the shelter nearby. She reads and rereads the words that have flowed from her quill. She dips the quill again in the ink pot

    The shadows worry me a little. They bring me back to questions I have written here earlier…Am I enough? Am I the one to banish them? I wonder what hold she has on him - to cause shadows to grow and I wonder if he truly had the choice, what would he do? I can not ask him.

    I can not offer him words - they have been offered before by others - and though truth when first spoken, they became lies - and those lies created the shadows in his eyes, and the scars you can't see.

    All I can do is remain steadfast and true. My actions have to speak for me - for I can not speak for myself. While I would wish for more of his time - I can not deny others. They are part of my deer, the wolves his family, the Legion his responsibility, the druids his link with his goddess - and if he would forsake them, he wouldn't be -my- deer, even if that forsaking was for me. I find myself caught on the triple prongs of duty, respect and love - both his and mine. I treasure every moment we have together - I don't expect them to be perfect, after all, I am so far from perfection it is but a distance glow like the stars.

    Am I enough? Time will tell.

    She lets the breezes that surround her dry the ink before closing the journal. She murmurs to them softly and the gentle glow overhead fades away. She watches the moon and stars dance in the pool before rising and returning to the shelter.


  • Over the past few years, the woman has trod the path up to Heroes Bluff many times, looking out in the company of stone creatures, to a place destroyed. If anyone was watching they would see her keep the night vigil, eyes peering into the darkness over the water, seeking….If they were listening over those many nights, they would have heard pleas, prayers, promises and tears, and with each morning after the night vigil - they would have heard the welcoming of the winds change - her prayers to Shaundakul. The winds sometimes sing over the bluff, and sometimes scream, but mostly they whisper.....

    Once again the woman is found on the bluff, she pats the stone winged creature before setting a small fire in the twilight. Time is starting to show a little on her - the impish grin creating faint lines about her eyes, the skin on her hands wrinkling a little, her gait a little slower than before - but more purposeful, her movements softened from the angularity of youth, into an elegance - as if the winds have removed the rough edges and flow within her as well as about her. She sets out her journal and inkpot and quill, offers a small prayer to the darkening sky and sits, resting against the creature.

    Eventually she opens the journal, dips her quill in the ink and lets her thoughts flow onto the page.

    After years of seeking, I hear he is back. There are many that have returned these past few months, and she is one. I have not yet seen her, but I am sure she will not be greatly changed. I have an ache that started when I heard he had returned within weeks of her….did she draw him back when I could not?

    She raises the tip of the quill from the page as a violent shiver takes her, she bites her bottom lip and closes her eyes, murmuring softly "I will not cry". AFter a time she returns the quill to the page.

    I have been following his trail now for a few days. He is already drawn back to his duties - I can not begrude others his service, their claim to his time and his care existed before mine - he has been gone for three years - they must have wondered as I did, was he returning. From what I hear he was with the fey - and the time to him did not seem over long - perhaps a few weeks, a month - but no more than that.

    I sit here, my last vigil - knowing he is back in these lands again - and I am scared. Scared that prior claims will call him back. When I wrote last, I hoped that I would not be asked if I loved him enough to leave. I sit here tonight - writing my fears, hoping that they are just nightmares, and that by putting them in the light of my fire, that they will fade like shadows do. I hope …. oh I hope for so many things, but mostly I try to stay true to my earlier hope written here - that I would ever be a source of joy for him - and if that is no longer the case, I hope I have the strength to let him go to where his joy takes him. The last I heard he was with the Legion - their hall lies not far from here - perhaps an hours walk. I will go in the morning. I will go, and because he may not have heard - I will tell him she is returned to these lands - and I will hope that that news will not be the end of my hopes.

    She lets the ink dry as the winds wrap soothingly around her, whispering and teasing, making the creature look like a fire is sprouting from it's back, her hair the flames. She stares into the flames, seeking answers they don't have, drawing comfort from the winds and strength from the stone at her back.

    Daylight finds the woman keeping her vigil on the bluff, as the sun rises and the winds change direction, she gives her voice to the winds - the only time they really request it. Her voice fades as the winds settle into their new direction. During this time, the final embers of her fire have died. She collects her belongings and looking out across the land once more she pats the stone creature farewell, "Till next time my friend". She moves purposefully towards the Legion Tower, her stride firm and her features composed. She murmurs softly "It's out of my hands now. Whatever is - will be." She makes a quiet request "Please lend me -Your- strength, I'm not sure I can do it on my own."


  • The woman sits outside a shelter that is tucked away in a quiet corner of the woods, watching the reflection of the dancing leaves in the relative calmness of the quiet pool. She dips her quill in the inkpot and then holds it over the open page of the journal, the empty space begging for words, and yet intimidating in it's emptyness. A woven cloak is on the ground beside her and she glaces across to it and back to the page. The tip of the quill connects with the page and the words seem to flow from it

    He is gone.

    It's been months now and no word. Every time I hear a bird fly near, I turn and look, hoping. Every time I hear padded footsteps, my breath catches. Everytime I see a glint of red, I move closer. Every time.

    Her eyes fill as she writes, and she dashes the back of her hand against them, looking again to the woven cloak beside her. She takes a deep shuddering breath and turns again to the page, the words standing out starkly.

    He is gone.

    And I -will- wait.

    Kence finished building not so long ago. I hoped to show my deer the place that has called to me, but it's not our path for the moment. Every day I spend in his house, alone, I feel myself getting smaller. There are memories there, of times before me, that echo in the night. And I find I can not bear it anymore. I moved in here, to find the space to hear the winds. Where the echos are those of a friend creating a safe space for me. And where I can find comfort and be weak. For I must be strong for others.

    Varian is missing. I've not seen him for some time, and no one can tell me any news. The winds are strangely quiet about him. I carry scrolls that I have found, or claimed, or bought for him - they mock me every time I open my pack. Did I fail him? I hope that he is with Sharra, exploring distant places and letting the light shine though him. I pray daily that the shadows have not reclaimed him, for if they have, I failed. I failed a friend, and that is a scar that can not be wiped away.

    Another of -your- followers found me in the city commons one day. She was worried that as her path differed from her mothers, that she would not see her again. I re-assured her, that -you- would not keep them apart for eternity - it was not -your- way. -You- are not called the doorkeeper for no purpose.

    I mostly spend my time with those who need the healing -your- breezes can bring. Those who grow crops, who make cloth, who make food. In a lot of ways they are unseen by many - their contribution to survival in these lands necessary, but often unnoticed.

    And I listen. Troubles need to be shared, even if nothing can be done - the sharing lessens the burden - and there are many burdened.

    At times I feel like I'm adrift in a hurricane, being tossed by the winds, and I cling to the two pillars that I have - my faith, and my deer.

    I go where the winds send me - I always have, I always will. It's a simple statement - but it's my anchor. I have always been -yours- to command. Sometimes I struggle to hear -your- words, or understand -your- wishes, but it is -your- words and wishes that are important, and I will do all I can to meet them.

    I love him. It's strange, I stood on that cliff and asked "I wonder what it's like to be first?" and the fates taught me what it's like to put someone else first. I loved him enough to try. I love him enough to wait. I pray that I won't be asked if I love him enough to leave.

    She lays the quill down and gathers the cloak, wrapping it around her and burying her face in it's folds. After a time, she raises her face to the sky "May the winds blow gentle on your back, and guide you safely home"


  • A woman treads the path to the bluff, the winds teasing her hair and cloak as she climbs making her way to the stone winged creature keeping watch. She speaks softly "Hello my friend, it's been some time" placing her hand on the back of the creature as she joins it in looking out over the land. "Why do I keep coming back here? Is it because here, like the winds, my thoughts can fly free?" She strokes the back of the creature again before settling down beside it, making a small fire and taking out a journal, inkpot and quill. She leans her head against the stone as if seeking strength or answers, or perhaps both. The winds gently ruffle the pages of her journal, as if encouraging her to open the book and commit herself to the pages. She grins impishly at the winds and picks up the quill, dipping it into the inkpot and resting it gently on the page..

    I'm really not sure why I can't write in his house, I've tried a number of times, but the walls seem to keep more than the winds out. I wonder if it's because it was their house once - I feel a stranger there. Perhaps that's due to my bringing up - my knowledge of houses is limited - I'm more used to a caravan, seeing a differing view when you look out the window each day. Perhaps it's because it's so much bigger than I'm used to, and perhaps it's because I still can't believe that I'm not dreaming.

    A blot forms at the end of the word, as the woman looks out over the land, seeing the scar, searching for signs of a place she once lived and learned. Failing to find a sign, she bites the end of the quill as the winds curl protectively around her. She places the quill down and adds a log to the small fire. Picking the quill up again

    I wished I was dreaming when I saw him first after he'd been gone several weeks. I didn't recognise him at first, slung over Ronan's shoulder - lifeless. It was as if time stopped, and I stepped out of it - my breath caught somewhere between in and out - my heart caught between beats, and my eyes between blinks. It's strange place to be, I couldn't feel anything and I barely noticed the second body, over Ronan's other shoulder. It took Ronan speaking to make the world move again. They had been caught by some evil in the Rawlinswoods - could I do anything?

    I could ask the winds for help - and I did. Asking them to find and return them to me.

    I can't forget the look on his face as he came back - he was expecting to see someone else bending over him - was it disappointment that they weren't there? I wondered as I smoothed the hair from his face, if he had been expecting a goddess - Miliekki takes particular care of him, or perhaps it was just someone else.

    The female who had also fallen, was returned - she seemed distressed about a lack of voice - Danika I think was her name. I'm not sure what I could have done differently to ensure all of her was returned - I've thought about it for some time and still have no answer.

    She chews on the end of the quill, before dipping it into the inkpot again

    I feel lost. The breezes around her ruffle her hair and tease at her cloak, they make dancers of the grass in front of her. She speaks softly "I don't know what -you- want anymore. Is there something I should be doing? Are there people I should be helping?" The breezes ruffle the pages again. She laughs, a silvery sound carried across the bluff, "I know, I know, -you- think I should write it" The quill is dipped again, and returned to the page.

    I do feel lost. I also feel found. I have a safe haven - it's a pair of arms that wrap around me and hold me tightly and let me fly free. But I don't know what's expected anymore. I fear that I spend too much time thinking about myself, and not enough time doing -His- work. I feel lost because I don't know what -His- work is anymore.

    I thought that by giving Kence work - building a shelter by our pool - I was doing the right thing. But I'm not sure that my deer agrees with me - he seemed she bites the end of the quill, searching for the right words well unhappy isn't the right word, but it's not the wrong word, wary?, yes, he seemed wary that Kence was doing the building work. Am I wrong to trust Kence? It feels right to do so - the Kence I know and see has only acted towards the greater good, I've heard tales that don't match with what I see.

    And Varian… she sighs and looks out over the bluff, this time to the skies seeking her answers. The darkening skies shine again, this time with small stars before she returns the quill to the page.

    Varian. I don't see him very often anymore. Is that my fault? Is he avoiding me? Have I done something wrong? Last time we talked he seemed cold and distant - I don't have so many friends that I can afford to lose them. His eyes seemed to have lost a little of the light that was starting to live there - are the shadows reclaiming him? Is there something I should be doing? I suppose he is the only "flock" that I have here - someone who finds a home in the winds as I do.

    Which brings me back to lost. I do feel lost - I don't know what I should be doing. So I keep on doing what I have been. The winds still keep close to me - for that I am more grateful that I could ever hope to express - I wouldn't know how to live my life without them - I'm not sure that I am doing enough for -Him- but I don't know what else I should do..

    She packs away the quill and inkpot while the words in the journal dry. A small shiver runs across her spine as she watches dim glows on the far side of the river - almost too far to be seen. She stirs the embers of the small fire she made when she first sat, coaxing them to burn again. She rests her head against the stone statue talking softly "I bet you hear many secrets. Those carried by the winds, those spoken beside you, those actions witnessed. What advice would you offer me? Am I worrying too much or too little? Am I blind to those around me? Do I see only what I want to see?" The winds blowing up the bluff offer no more answers than the stone statue she sits beside, waiting for the dawning of a new day.


  • The woman sits with her feet in a quiet pool, in a corner of the forest that no-one seems to visit, beneath the branches of a tall tree. The winds make the leaves on the tree as well as the errant strands of hair around her face dance. A book is open on her lap and the quill in her hand is still for the moment. She lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding and with a wry smile, sets the quill to the page.

    I'm not sure how talking about my days, and where I should live led me there, but…WOW

    an inkblot appears as the quill is left in contact with the page as the womens eyes go distant and unfocused and her smile grows softer. After a few minutes, a passing breeze causes the errant strands of her hair to tickle her nose and she looks around her, self-consciously, before dipping the quill back into the inkpot and starting to write again..

    I had not seen him for a few days, not since we had talked, and I had stated my feelings. He seemed to need some time, so I would visit the bluff every few days, in the hope that he would be there. Eventually he was.

    We talked about what had happened with each of us, and I mentioned that I wasn't sure if it was safe for me to call the camp home anymore, and that I was considering setting up a tent somewhere. He seemed to get flustered, and uncomfortable, and I reassured him that I was not fishing

    she looks up from the book, to the pool where her feet are dangling in, and the small fishes that are hiding behind the rocks and the plants, and laughs - a silvery sound filling the peaceful corner, "how appropriate a phrase for where I am now". She lets the silliness and happiness fill her before she returns the quill to the page

    for an invitation to share his home, I understood his need for space, that I was considering setting up a tent here

    she looks up and around the quiet corner of the forest, her laugh still faintly echoing from the walls, and murmurs "this is a nice spot, I can be happy here, and it seems safe enough" a passing breeze seems to nudge her gently and her eyes open slightly wider "of course!, I could hire Kence to help me set up here - he's looking for work…I'm sure he knows how to make a shelter, chop wood, clear branches.." she seems pleased with the idea and chews on the end of her quill for a few moments while she thinks it over.

    I think of this place as "our pool". I know I found it, and showed it to him (even getting lost on the way! - it is very clear that -I- am no ranger, or druid for that matter! But since we spent some time and talked together here - and I woke from sleep to find him curled protectively around me - it has been "our pool" in my thoughts, so I thought I should ask for his permission, before I moved myself here.

    To be honest, I'm not sure how we moved from my concerns about where I could/should/would live, to -that-…. I think I had been brushing his hair - he seems to like it, relaxing and letting his cares and burdens down for a time, and I love to see the worry lines ease from his face, and thrill when his eyes shine with only the mearest hint of a shadow.....I don't know how it happened, but it did....

    he kissed me.....

    and when I had enough thought come back to me, I could see he was worried, I tried to tell him it was ok, but all I could come out with was

    ....wow....

    it seemed to be enough, for he smiled at me, asking if he could do it again, I think the only word I could manage was......please!

    He laughed right before he kissed me again, or at least I think he did, I don't think it was me, but I don't know that I would trust my memories too much for exact details - they haze out, the feelings overwhelming them, my ability to think overcome.. I think I managed two different words after that kiss ended

    ...wow.....just wow!

    Another inkblot forms beneath the quill as her eyes again go unfocussed, her smile broadening, her breathing becoming more rapid as she loses her self in the memory. She closes her eyes briefly before murmuring "wow!"


  • Daylight finds the woman keeping a vigil on the bluff, as the sun rises and the winds change direction, she gives her voice to the winds - the only time they really request it. Her voice fades as the winds settle into their new direction and she gazes at a patch of crushed grass near her, reaching out a hand to touch the blades flattened by having another body rest on them recently, coaxing them gently back to a more upright stance. She looks into the distance, her hair moving as if caressed by gentle breezes and murmurs softly "consequences, I hadn't thought of them until recently, choices and consequences" She tilts her head to one side, as if listening to words whispered on the winds, and reaches into her pack and pulls out the book, inkpot and quill.

    Choices and consequences…..I made a choice, and now I have to accept the consequences, and the more I think about the choice, the more the consequences come to light. Don't get me wrong, I don't regret making the choice - that will only come if it causes him pain - I would spare him from that emotion if it is possible....I wish I were ever a cause for happiness for him.

    I worry by stating my feelings so plainly, I've placed another burden on him, and he is already overburdened - a consequence I didn't consider until I had to watch him leave to perform his duties. It's a worry I can't share with him, so I will share it here, and with the winds.

    She raises the quill from the page and sighs softly, she looks out over the land and across the water, her chest rising and falling with each breath, and the winds curling around her protectively. After a few moments she returns the quill to the page.

    He doesn't realise how highly valued he is, how many friends he has, how many worry for him. I received a second warning about causing him pain recently, first was Aelthas, now Calen. I do not know what he has shared with his friends, so I am wary of sharing much myself - if he needs to keep this quiet, so be it. I know I can sing my joy to the winds, and that is enough for me. If he needs time, I can wait.

    Calen was pressing for information, I'm not sure why. I pretended that we were less than we are, as it seems that is his wish. I can not offer him words - they have been offered before, and even if they were offered with love and with honesty, they became lies - and I fear that they twist and torment him at times, so I can not tell him anymore than I have.

    She bites the end of the quill before wiping the back of her hand across her eyes, a silvery smear in it's wake.

    It was -my- choice, but the consequences are not all mine to bear. Words can not help me here - I feel that I have to prove my choice with actions. I saw his flinch at Calen's announcement of his engagement and wedding - if the thought of past times, past loves can cause that reaction, what can I say to make it better….

    ...nothing, ...

    there is nothing I can say that will take away those old hurts. I will hope that in time, like the lines on his face when he sleeps, I can smooth them over, ease the sting, earn a trust. But time as much as it is my ally in this, is my enemy, I will fade faster than he, and in time, I too will leave - not because I want to, but because I will wither and fade while he is strong. I can only whisper a hope into the winds, too fragile and precious to commit it even here

    She leaves the book open for the winds to dry the ink as she swallows several times before whispering to the listening winds

    "when I fade, can the memories be enough to keep the shadows from his eyes, and his heart?"

    her hair moves as if caressed by gentle breezes as she closes the book, packs away the quill and inkpot, and moves back towards places where she is needed. As she leaves the upper bluff to come back to the ground, she whispers to the winds and smile glowing on her face "he said he loves me…...help me to never let him regret that"


  • A subdued woman climbs to the top of the cliff and pats the stoned winged statue. "Hello my friend, mind if I sit with you awhile?" She sinks wearily to the ground beside the statue and leans her head against it. Her hair moves as if caressed by gentle breezes while she takes a moment to catch her breath and pulls the journal and quill from her pack.

    Time - there's always too much and never enough. Too much time wasted. Be it in arguing, or fighting battles that can't be won or in regrets. Too little time spent on the important things - friends, family, enjoying life.

    Strange when I was too scared, I had plenty of time to spend with him, and would see him almost every day. Now I've gathered what little courage I have, I see him rarely - and almost never when we can just sit, talk, relax together.

    You never know how much time you have. That was driven home today. I heard a desperate cry on the winds, and with some friends, found a body. I tried to bring them back - but they chose not to come. Time for them, here, was gone.

    I didn't know them well - a greeting at the Norwick fire, the odd adventure my first time in Norwick. They were quiet, unassuming, perferring to blend into the background. And yet, their going, has drawn the darkness back into his eyes, and left another little scar on his heart. He lost kin - and he's grieving. Right now, the wolf is howling, the bear growling, the hawk keening… and I can't make it better.

    She lifts the quill from the page, and wipes the back of her hand across her eyes. The winds curl comfortingly around her. She returns the quill to the page.

    That's the part that saddens me more. I -can't- make it better. Not even had I all the time in the world to spend with him. I can't take those scars away. I'm not even sure I can ease the pain they cause him….and yet, I can't not try.

    They say that time heals all wounds. I hope he has enough. I hope we get to have some of it together. I need to see the darkness banished, and the light shine again there.

    Given time, scars fade, pain eases and becomes a memory, fears can be forgotten - or at least put aside.

    Time - it's much more elusive than the winds. I find myself asking would a day with him be worth an age without - and the answer scares me as much as it comforts me.

    He needs time alone - or at least without me, for now. I guess patience is something you learn along with growing up....for now, I have to let time take it's path, and hope that ours will meet again.

    She sets the quill aside, and lets the breezes dry the ink. She softly asks the winds "Watch over my deer, give him what comfort he'll accept from you, keep him safe for me." She looks across the land, into the distance and murmurs "I would take a day, if that was all there was, and not regret the age after".


  • A late afternoon wind change finds the woman again sitting on the cliff top, resting, almost nestled against the stone winged statue, the fragrance of rose and lemon wafting and breezes teasing her hair. Her journal is open in her lap, her tip of her quill resting against her lips. She sighs and puts the quill to the page.

    I find myself drawn here. It's here I asked that first question that started me on my journey, and it's here that I feel the questions rise a little easier - perhaps it's because the winds are always blowing here, the land itself begs their caress, and my Lord is ever happy to oblige. For me, it's a comforting feeling, the winds curling around me, supporting, teasing, testing, even taunting, but always underneath loving. I suppose it's not strange that the answers never really rise easily. Answers that may seem clear for others, are so obscure to ourselves. If the questions are easy to identify, it seems the answers are … hiding. Perhaps the answers know that sometimes we don't really want to recognise or acknowledge them - that they will shatter illusions we hold about ourselves or about others

    She rests the quill against the page and looks into the distance, across the land, across the water, to a place that only really exists in memories for now. She raises her hand a few times, putting the quill to the page and letting it rest, the ink forming a small blob before raising it. Eventually she lets it rest until the words start to flow again.

    I want to say I had an arguement with Vash't recently. But it's not really fair. It wasn't an arguement, to say it was is to try to suggest that it was somehow not my fault. It's more honest to say that I pushed him into a corner and he came out snarling, but would -I- have reacted any differently in his situation?

    It's strange to think that caring can cause pain, but then, it was caring from only my perspective. I've only met him a few times, he seems a nice fellow, but troubled or that's what I thought. It seems, it is less trouble than habit and life experience, and I've learned that caring can sometimes be the wrong thing to offer. I'm not sure what I should have offered, I'll need to think more on that, perhaps tolerance? I don't know that I -can- offer understanding. From the words hurled at me, I haven't the experience to understand - I offered my apologies then, I wonder if I should offer them again - or perhaps it is best if I just leave things be.

    An errant strand of hair caresses her cheek and a rueful smile crosses her face. "What should I do? Is it best just to leave it for now? I don't need to create any more problems - there are plenty here already." She tilts her head, as if trying to catch an answer being whispered on the winds and shakes her head slightly. She offers softly to the silence "I hear sounds, but have not the wisdom or understanding to hear their meaning." Her eyes lighten and an impish grin flashes across her face "doesn't mean I won't try!"

    It is any wonder that so many of the questions raised here are about relationships. Sometimes they change, like a flash of lightning changes the storm, other times they change almost imperceptably, like a rock worn down by water, and yet other times they change like a fern frond unfolding - slowly enough you can't see it immediately, but quickly enough that when you look back you can see it all.

    She raises the quill and taps the end of it against her lips. She looks to the darkening sky, and quietly builds a small fire to provide her with warmth and light as the sunlight gives way to twilight, and that in turn gives way to the moonlight. She watches the moon make part of it's stately dance across the sky before picking the quill up and resting it again against the page.

    I remember when Aelthas took me under his wing, becoming the big brother I never had. I used to tease him that I had permanent bruises from the training sessions he insisted on - and for a while I did. There was one trick he would do over and over, getting past my blade and under my shield and I would have a bruise the shape of the tip of his sword. I was young when we first met, and hurting from the rejection I felt from Norwick. He was determined that I would be able to defend myself, and to show those others that while I was on my own, I was not alone.

    I can remember him insisting that I sit with him at the Norwick fire, when all I wanted to do was creep past before it was suggested again, that it wasn't really the place for me. So I sat. Looking back now, I'm not sure any would have suggested anything, the look on his face suggesting far more trouble for them than I would be worth.

    I was so happy to run into him in Peltarch that first time, to know that he had not fallen in the war. It was strange to listen to his tale, and realise that he was seeking my advice - a lightning flash relationship change - I was no longer the 'little sister' in need of protection, in need of guidance, in need of training. I was a friend, capable of offering an ear, comfort, an opinion that would hold some weight. I could be argued with. I had grown up.

    It was stranger still at a later meeting, to hear him request me, under the watchful eye of his Goddess, to go easy, to tread warily, to be gentle. I had never thought that I would be capable of causing distress - yet here I was being warned - I really had grown up in his eyes, and he was worried for his friend. It worries me, no, let me be honest, it scares me. Am I ready?

    She looks at her thoughts, laid out on the paper, words viewed in the flickering light and askes aloud "Am I ready?"

    That really is the question. Strange how some of the important ones are made up of a small number of small words. Am I ready? Am I brave enough? Am -I- enough?

    What do I know? I know that his eyes are not as haunted as they were when we first talked again - well again for me, he doesn't really remember me from before. I know that he seems to seek me out. I know that lately, he seems to be offering more. When not in danger he seems to like to be close, he's comfortable holding hands, or wrapping an arm around me. He's shared the places that are heart homes for him.

    What else do I know? I know my heart beats a little faster when I see him, and faster still when he's fighting and I can see. I know that I feel safer when he's near, and more scared. I know that he accepts -Your- place in my life.

    I know I like him.

    I know what it's like to fall asleep with him near, and wake with him nearer still - a gift given to me that seems more precious than any other.

    When he does sleep - which doesn't seem that often from the time I have spent with him - I can see his face is much as I remember from when I first met him. The worry lines relax, and can be coaxed into leaving completely with a light stroke.

    I want to spend more time with him - and yet I'm scared too. I need to think about what Aelthas said,

    …to go easy ....to tread warily ....to be gentle

    A fern frond moment - I realise now, he never said to walk away.

    I guess it's time to see if -I- am ready.

    She touches the quill to her lips one last time, before blowing softly on the ink to let it dry. She watches the flames flicker and fade, as night gives way to day, and the winds change. She offers her voice to these changing winds as the sun slowly rises.


  • Late afternoon finds her carefully climbing a cliff face, testing each hand and foot placement before trusting her weight, her face flushed with the strain, her eyes searching for the next hold. Winds swirl protectively around her, ensuring her hair doesn't get in her eyes or dirt and debris distract her. She finally gets one hand atop the cliff, then another, and a final heave and she lays atop the cliff, in a quiet forgotten corner, high above the camp. After regaining her breath, she looks around carefully, noting the path to the cave and the ruin. She moves to a space out of the way of anyone coming or going and pulls out her journal and quill from the small knapsack. As the winds sing softly, she puts her quill to the page.

    This view was offered as a gift to me once, Thorn convinced me that the climb would be worth it, he was right then, and he is right now. The view is worth it. The air is clearer here, the sounds purer. I can hear the wind singing - and that is another gift.

    Gifts…. I've received a few lately, perhaps I have had too many. Two in my life have indeed been very generous. One was bought by coin that could ill-afford to be spent, but presented in such a way, that I find myself reluctant to use it. He needs a new crossbow more than I need access to a public bath, but he knew I would not spend the coin, so he did, and then he lied about it. I'm not sure what to do. He wouldn't take it back then, I doubt he would take it back now. So the key sits, accusingly at the bottom of my pack, where I see it as rarely as possible, but feel it against my back most days. I don't know where I stand with him - is he trying to buy something which can not be bought? Was it an attempt to show something more? If so, why did he lie then, and why do I know that he will continue that lie? It was too obvious that I could not help but know what he had actually done.

    She looks up to the sky, across to the rock face and down to the forest floor below. Emotions chase themselves across her face, the faintest breeze barely stirring her hair, but making the feather filaments on her quill dance.

    I know these are unworthy thoughts, it was a gift - given with an honest intention to make things a little nicer for me, and yet, it makes me feel beholden. I would far rather had a walk, a story, a smile. I worry that he might be unable to defend himself, he might get hurt, and for what - I suppose from his point of view, it is an offering of a little softness in a sharp world, a little warmth when it is cool out? I should be grateful - I will be grateful. It was meant with no offense, I should not take any, that is mean of me, and unfair to him. He is kinder than he believes himself to be, he can not see the good that I do.

    She puts the quill down and reaches into the bottom of the knapsack, pulling out the key. She lets the fading sunlight bathe it and looks into space "I've been silly about this, haven't I? I think nothing of purchasing scrolls that he can use, and handing them over as if I have come across them as spoils or just found them lying around. I guess there is a lesson in learning to receive as joyously as one gives. And how can I deny him the joy of giving, when I dip into it myself?" She gives a rueful smile, "I guess there is more than one way to be selfish, and that's what I've been." She wraps the key carefully in a favoured scarf, and puts it carefully in back in her pack, treating the gift with the respect it deserves. She murmurs softly into the winds "Thank you - it was a kind thought, I appreciate your gift" she looks back to the sky "Will you carry that to him?"

    She picks up the quill again, the end of it brushing against her cheek, while she sorts through her thoughts. After a time she puts the quill to the page again.

    I guess that all gifts are precious, it's just that some are more easily identified as such. While some gifts are bought with coin, others are offered from within. He has shown me some of his sacred spaces, shared his thoughts, offered his opinions - while allowing me to hold my own. His gifts have been the sharing of himself.

    Her eyes start to sparke as she writes, a glow coming to her face, a soft light against the encroaching darkness. She carefully builds a fire and then picks up the journal and quill again.

    Words are not his strong point - or perhaps like me, he is wary of committing to words, something that is not yet formed. His arms have comforted me when the horrors of a day were too much, he did not belitttle me for my fears, nor suggest that they were not valid, he just offered a safe place to rest, where the memories could not grip me and where I could let the horrors go. He shows his care by a touch, a seeking out when we are in the same place, and in some cases when we are apart. It scares me as much as it thrills me. He has been badly hurt in the past - I saw it happen with one, and then watched him find love again. I hear the tales from the war, that he was let down again, and hear more tales that he found love again after - his willingness to try humbles me. I fancied myself in love and got bruised. And now I sit, alone with my thoughts and the winds and find myself asking - do I have the courage to try? it's not even again. If it hurt that much with a fancy - what will the real thing do? I'm not sure I'm brave enough, I'm not sure I am strong enough..

    Is trying and failing at love better than not trying at all? I -know- the answer. Do I have the courage to try is the question?

    Evening breezes ruffle her hair gently and set her small fire to have dancing flames within the safety of their stone border. She looks into the darkness, holds out a cupped hand and smiles ruefully. She murmurs into the winds "Can I make a breeze want to hold me?"

    A sudden gust makes the leaves in the trees around her rustle, as if laughing. She pokes her tongue out at the gust "I'm not asking you! -You- already have me!" she pauses "But does he want me? Am I enough? Can I banish those final shadows - or is that someone else's task? Should I even be thinking of trying?"

    The winds still, the flames stop dancing and her hair lies strangely still.

    She speaks quietly, her hand still held cupped in front of her. "I understand. It must be -my- choice. I suppose it's time for me to learn that loving someone else, doesn't mean that I love -you- any less."

    Gentle breezes caress her hair and send embers dancing. A soft smile unfolds across her face, she offers "As you wish" with her eyes mischievious. The errant strands of hair dance across her cheeks. She watches the flames as the night passes.


  • A late afternoon finds the woman, resting again against the stone winged creature, looking out over the lands, biting the end of her quill, a book opened on her lap. Her hair is caressed by the breezes blowing up the cliff and a faint scent of rose and lemon fragances the air. She bows her head and as she puts quill to paper softly murmurs "As -you- wish"

    When did relationships get so complicated? Can you ever understand someone else? Do you ever really understand youself? Are there just some things that you have to accept without understanding?

    She raises the quill from the page and looks out over the grass, watching it dance to the winds tune. She grimaces and murmurs "I know, I know, write it down!" She gives a small impish grin "You can be very demanding you know!" An errant strand of hair dances across her cheek and she puts the quill back to the page.

    Why does having something, even something that isn't important to anyone else cause…issues. A wonderful thing happened to me recently

    She looks up to the skies and a bright smile flashes across her face, her eyes sparkling at the remembrance.

    I was coming back from a trip to the Gnolls with Dirk, Varian, Jay and Sarah. I'll admit my mind was a little distracted from an event earlier in the day, and I was mulling over that, when suddenly I realised that my feet were not in contact with the ground, and that Varian and Sarah were looking rather small and a long, long, long way below! The winds were supporting me, I was walking on them, as stable as if I was walking on the roads - more stable even, as there are no uneven cobblestones to trip on! I watched stunned as Varian and Sarah called out to Dirk and Jay, to see if they had seen me - and I called down to them. Eventually they looked up! I concentrated on being down with them, and slowly walked on winds that lowered me back to the ground. I couldn't contain my excitement - perhaps I should have tried harder, but it -was-
    -my-
    first!
    wind walk!

    Something I had held as a dim hope in the furtherest reaches of my heart, a dream that maybe -one- day, I would be worthy, I never suspected that this day, after that happening earlier, would be the day. I didn't do it consciously, so perhaps, it was a reafirming of my calling, but still…..

    She pulls the quill from the page, her hair dancing about her head, her eyes sparking still, and takes a few calming breathes. As her hair falls to rest more quietly, she returns the quill to the page.

    I was surprised at the comments from Sarah, they brought my heart down to the ground, where it had previously been staying up where my feet had recently been. "You are lucky to be so favoured. I've never had anything like that. I'm envious." I know that Sarah follows Mystra, she obviously has Mystra's favour, she can call on blessings that I can only dream of - what has she got to be envious about? She made some comment later, at our parting, on the blessings that I give to those I take leave from "Winds watch over you" a request for protection and care, and "May the winds carry you gently to the dreamlands, and bring you safely back, rested" another request for protection, for those that might suffer from unwelcome dreams. It seems that these small requests, while not offending, cause an issue for her, in that they sound

    she bites the end of the quill, frowning slightly

    they sound better to her ears than the requests that she makes.

    She re-reads the passage written, and goes to strike it through, but the wind lifts the page and a clean white sheet is presented. She shakes her head slighty Alright, I can take a hint! No crossing out! Her face contorts as she tries to control the urge to poke her tongue out to the sky. She takes a calming breath or two and returns the quill to the page, and lets the words flow.

    Relationships is where this started and I suppose where this needs to end before I can finish. I thought that with my fancy grounded, that things would be easier, but it seems that is not my path. A blot appears on the page, as the quill is left in contact, in the one spot as she thinks, searching for the words to explain.

    What does "I like you" mean? I like Dirk, I think he likes me. We are friends, I can count on him to take the front of a fight, to take the front of a trip! and to try to 'take' almost any female with human or elvish form! It's a safe feeling, a comforting feeling, a mutual acceptance. Why does "I like you" from Varian not feel the same? He 'likes' me, he 'likes' Sharra, who knows if there are others that he also 'likes'. Having already misread things with Varian, I am wary of doing so again, there is more than just my feelings at stake, and I would not make a liar out of myself. I swore to Sharra that 'I' had no claim on Varian, that he made no promises to me that I should think 'I' had a claim to make, and this is as true today as I sit here, the winds keeping me company, as it was during that awkward conversation in the park. And then there is another, who hasn't bothered with words, perhaps they are not his strong point, but who brings a smile to my face when he smiles, who carries burdens that shouldn't be carried alone, who…

    She looks up and across the land, seemingly unaware of the breezes that seek to comfort, to the far shore, straining to see a place that is no more. She sighs softly, and her hand is drawn to put the quill back to the page.

    Two different men, both haunted by shadows, both pulling at me in ways I'm not sure I want to know about just yet, for all my past fancies. Am I ready for the burden of caring completely? Am I ready share all of myself? Are there two different paths? Is there a choice?

    It's my calling to help. I want to see the shadows banished from one, and the light return to the eyes of the other. I want them both to have hearts that fly free and light, unburdened by their past, pains to be forgotten, but I don't know if this is something -I- can do, is it something -I- should be trying to do, or is this something that can only be done by themselves?

    'I like you', what a small sentence, to cause such a lot of confusion.

    Am I brave enough to find out? Do I really want to find out? Will it just create more confusion? Do I have a preference for an outcome? Perhaps this is a time for waiting rather than action - I'm not sure if -I- am ready yet.
    .
    .
    .
    What if I get it wrong…..I have been wrong before....perhaps time really is the answer

    She carefully puts the quill down, leaves the book open for the winds to dry the ink on the pages. She looks into the distance once more and asks a question to the winds "What do -you- wish?" The winds still, nothing moves, save the slight rising and falling of her chest as she breathes in, breathes out. She offers a rueful smile to the sky "Why am I not surprised?" and is gently buffeted by the return of the breezes.


  • The rain falls over the bluff, yet the woman resting against the stone winged statue seems not to notice, as the winds swirl the raindrops so that only a few land on her hair, and none land on the recently opened page. Her eyes are distant, unfocussed and she murmurs softly "As you wish". Sighing softly she puts the quill to the page.

    When did fancies become things that hurt? that cause pain? that create heartache? I used to think that fancies were the brief bright daydreams that took you away from a task that was too mind numbing to give your full attention…I guess growing up changes more things than you realise.

    A drop splatters on the page and she looks up again to the distance, a flash of lightning revealing a silver track on her cheek. She watches the storm, the trees thrashing, the lightning flashing, feeling the thunder reverberate in her chest. She looks down at the page, at the quill and back across the land. "Does this get any easier? Does it ever make any sense? I already know that -you're- sure it's necessary" Her hair is gently ruffled, errant strands dancing across her cheeks. "I'm not arguing, I will do as -you- wish, I just don't know how to start, how do you hold a breeze? Perhaps that's where it should start…" She lets the quill rest gently against the page, before the words start to flow.

    It's a good question - How do you hold a breeze? And on the surface the answer is simple - you can't. The complex answer is to make the breeze want to hold you. And I'm not entirely sure I know how to do that. And maybe the true answer is that you both have to want to hold each other.

    I've been foolish, I let myself believe a fancy because it felt nice, because I wanted it to be real, because I wanted to believe that I had left being a "Freak" behind. And because I wanted it to be real, because I believed it -was- real, I got hurt - or rather I hurt myself as reality intruded and the fancy crumbled, as fancies will do in the light of day, and I think I hurt others, I know I created conflict and confusion and possibly pain.

    I wanted to believe that I would never again feel as alone as I did when the guard warned me that I wasn't welcome at the Norwick fire, that perhaps it would be best if I found another place to call home in this land, that my motives were seen as unworthy, that while I wasn't banned from the town, it was perhaps best if I just passed through.

    She takes some deep breaths, initially fast, then slowing, calming. She notices that the storm has blown itself out, and the sun is making rainbows dance from the raindrops on the blades of grass. She smiles and retuns the quill to the page.

    I -was- foolish - but I've done my best to fix that. I've admitted my mistake, oh God's what awkward conversations those were She crinkles her brow remembering and shakes her head slightly I hope I've learned something. Not to guard my heart to tightly - a heart can wither if no light is let in, but to guard it carefully, not to throw it out in the world, where unsuspecting it gets bumped, or bruised or potentially broken, but to let it shine and see what the light brings to you.

    The tighter you try to hold a breeze, the less you have in your hands. You can't hold a breeze, but you can let the breeze hold you..

    As the last rainbows fade with the drying raindrops, she looks into the distance and murmurs softly "Is that enough for today?"

    Her hair is gently caressed by gentle breezes, and an errant strand of hair dances across her face before it tickles her nose. She lifts her face to the sky and smiles.