Letters Home (The House Of Teroldys)
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The candle light flickers as the young woman dances in slow circles around the small room, her long hair hanging free, gleaming wetly from a recent bath. Her bare feet make soft thumping sounds against the wooden floor, the white nightgown billowing as she twists around, arms outstretched as if to embrace the world. As her foot hits a creaking floorboard, she suddenly stops dancing, her fair face flushed as if caught doing something she ought not to. Yet a smile still lingers as she sits by the desk, gently so as to make no further noise. The hour is late, but Ashena seems far from sleep, her toes still wriggling as she begins to write.
"Dearest Gralam!
You know how it is said breakfast is the most important meal of the day? I have never quite agreed with that sentiment before (and yes, I do still enjoy sleeping in when I may), but just today, I think I agree whole-heartedly! You see, the prospect of breakfast had become something of a personal joke between myself and Cecil, when our travelling group returned from long hours of adventurous trekking through forest, caves or crypts. I would always be starving, he would kindly (and shyly) offer to share breakfast with me, and that one little word seemed to trigger catastrophe time and again.
'Now that everything's calm, we can go have that breakfast', he would say, shuffling his feet with this half awkward, half hopeful look on his face.
Annnnnnd cue gate attack, monsterous underdark horrors, bugbears with catapults, murderous mummies, slimy puddles of man-eating muck, you name it!
This went on for what seemed forever, and we began calling breakfast the B-word in superstition, joking of the omnious power the word held. Until finally, miraculously, one day (TODAY!) the curse ended. Cecil gave me this huge smile, offered his arm like a proper gentleman… paused... waited for the sky to fall on his head... and then smiled even wider when it did not! We nearly dashed off to the local inn, a cozy place called the Boarshead, and quickly placed an order for two plates of bacon, eggs and fried potatoes.
I was so full of glee at our success that at first, it did not occur to me that we found ourselves alone together for the first time - if one can call it that, in such a public place. But still, none of our joint friends were present, and seated opposite each other at a very small table, it did feel as if there was no one there but him and I. He is very tall, and our armor-clad knees bumped together beneath the table.
Though I was the one professing to be starved, I suddenly found my interest in breakfast itself fading vastly in comparison to studying Cecil, who attacked his plate with the ferocity of a lion, swiftly devouring strips of bacon and a whole egg while I was still cutting things up on my plate. Verily, he eats as he does all other things in life - wholeheartedly and without restraint. Like a warrior conquering his plate! The poor bacon had no chance whatsoever, but a lone and incredibly lucky little potato clung on to existence as Cecil suddenly caught me looking at him, and blushed profusely.
Whether to allow me to catch up with him, or to drag the meal out a little longer, he began to push the potato around on his plate, aimlessly, while we spoke of everything and nothing in particular. He smiled, he blushed, and eventually blurted out something of a fondness for my presence. I would be lying if I did not admit those feelings are in fact most mutual, for whenever I see Cecil, it feels as if my heart is trying to do somersaults inside my chest, aiming to find some hidden springboard to jump right out of it! And so I smiled, I blushed, and eventually blurted out something of a fondness of his presence in return.
Then we sat there, in a happy, awkward sort of silence, just looking at each other. When we finally left, arm in arm, the morning light was long since gone, replaced by deep midnight blue.
I cannot wrap my head around it all!
When I first met Cecil, I thought at once that here is Ardent's dream man, standing before me in the flesh. She had jokingly described her ideal man as a handsome, muscular tribesman (with mapmaking skills, but he might have had that too for all I knew), while probing for my own preference. Of course, I had none (unless you count Torm himself, but that is hardly sporting to mortal men), so instead made joke of how any prospective match should at least not be a paladin also. Just think of how poor a marriage it would be with two people who were ever steadfastly certain they were in the right. None would ever yield an inch, and every disagreement would be painfully, stonily curteous. Horror!
Cecil is... very different, though. He is not at all strict, correct or even well behaved, but instead so very genuine, earnest and without pretense. He is undeniably honourable and brave, but above all, he is ~kind~. It is a kindness that goes right down to the bone, and makes his fierce and wild side not so much frightening as it is appealing, for I know it is tempered by that good heart. And he is so full of heart, so full of LIFE that simply being near him makes me feel more alive too.
Am I awful for thinking that he would suit Ardent so well, yet not only not telling him so, but instead seeking excuses to happen across his company more often? I have even found myself making shockingly bold comments, for no reason other than to make him laugh (and blush, I admit it). I think I would indeed feel bad, if not for him telling me, this very blessed breakfast day, that he has felt this way about me from the very first time we met.
Oh Gralam! I just had to tell you, for if not with my twin, then with who would I share something like this? I know, I know - I teased you somewhat over your infatuation with Beverly Greycastle, but really, a girl that faints because there ~may~ be a spider in her hair might not be the ideal match for you, my nature-loving brother! On the other hand, I am beginning to think opposites do attract. You need not be concerned for me though, Aymon is very much keeping a big brotherly eye on things (and has already weaseled out some pertinent details).
Also, there is NO NEED to tell mother and father (especially not mother) anything of Cecil at this point, for in truth, naught has yet really ~happened~. Besides, I realize well enough how he looks on paper: a penniless barbarian without even so much as a family name (at least he has no surname that I yet know of). A guardsman, yes, that must be to his favour, and of course anyone who ever actually MET him would immediately see his virtues. But on paper? No, he does not look his best on paper.
But none of those are concerns for the present, for right now I will let myself relish the simple fact that I like someone, and am liked in return. It does not have to be more complicated than that, surely?
Your dearest sister, Ashena"
-
In the dead of night, a single candle spills its yellow light across a small desk. The young woman wears a distant, troubled expression as she cradles a wooden shield in her lap, the golden metal reinforcements glinting as if newly polished. With a heavy sigh, she puts the shield aside to begin writing, pausing several times with a furrowed brow.
"Dear mother and father,
I write to you today with a heavy heart, burdened by doubt and deep dismay. I find myself sorely wishing for your wisdom and guidance, or even just your words of comfort and caring, for the events that took place on this day have shaken me to the core.
It began as a simple enough errand, where a group of us were hired to merely deliver a parcel, and take a message back in return. Sensing no malice in this request, I and Rath decided to take the job on for the sake of new experience and adventure, as did a number of other people, some friends of mine and some fresh faces.
The travel route took us through the city's slimy underbelly, and away to distant hills far beyond Peltarch itself, to a settlement called Denville. Here, the guards on watch instructed us to arm ourselves before entering, snickering at our surprised expressions. Though alarmed at this point, nothing could have quite prepared me for what lay beyond the gates, for it seems Denville is indeed a den of all evil faiths put together, an uneasy coalition under the iron thumb of it's leader - a leader we had been specifically instructed to avoid.
…words fail me, still. How can I describe the oppressive feel of this place, an evil so thick and so heavy that it seemed to press down on one's very mind and soul? It was all I could do to simply walk down the street, for every which way one turned, there was Cyricists, Sharrans, Gargauthans, yes every foul following imaginable. One of the latter preached his message to a crowd, and Rath, no doubt feeling just as affronted as I, stepped forth to issue a challenge, championing Siamorphe's cause.
How little we yet knew, and how little we likely still know, of the inner workings of this place. Instead of meeting this challenge personally, the Gargauthan priest instead took us to the settlement's leader - a whip-thin Sharran priestess all in black, radiating such evil as to physically stun Rath, who stood the closest. I too felt dizziness near overtake me, but tried to focus my mind for the encounter. As you can imagine, talks did not go well.
Rath stood firm and unyielding in his beliefs, yet I was silent. It shames me that this is so, and I twist and turn the reasons for this over in my mind, again and again. To say I could not find my words would be true at least in part, but sounds much like a weak and feeble excuse. Verily, I knew that to fight Denville's leadership then and there would offer zero chance of success, and very high risk of endangering the lives of the rest of the party. At the same time, I could not, and would not ask Rath to abandon the ideals that he holds more sacred than life itself. Rather, ought I not take the same stance as he? Yet to fight would be to die, and fail at the task we had agreed upon, would it not?
As these doubts did assail my foggy mind, the fight broke out, and a spell from the priestess robbed me of choice as I stood there reeling, dazed. When the dust did settle, Rath lay dead at the priestess' feet, yet somehow the rest of us yet lived, and were allowed to continue on our way. Myself and my friend Ardent carried our fallen along, and everything past this point, I recall as if through a fog, for I felt stunned, overwhelmed and unable to think clearly.
The man we had been sent to find was held by Cyricists, as others amongst us learned. These Cyricists we slew with great efficiency, yet even having done this, freed the captive and manage to leave without anyone else perishing, I feel a sense of failure that I cannot banish or make sense of completely. What could I have done differently? What ~should~ I have done differently? I still do not know, but I cannot shake the feeling that I did not do all that I could have.
My last effort, and indeed the only idea I could think of at this point, was to mark the return path in such a manner as to (hopefully) be able to retrace it in future. A decisive strike by the Order, where all are of like mind and fully devoted to the cause - now that may be able to make a real change to Denville's existance. Torm willing, we shall find them and wipe them out, and this time without doubt or hesitation.
Your faithful daughter, Ashena"
-
Twilight falls through the window, glinting off a simply enormous lollipop in the young woman's hands. With a blissful expression, she sucks on the top edge of the giant sweet, eyes closing for a moment to savour the taste fully. One last lingering lick, then she reluctantly and carefully re-wraps the lollipop, smacks her lips happily and begins to write:
"Dearest Gralam!
Thank you for the silk rose ribbons, and thank everyone at home for me too, for the lovely gifts sent to me for my birthday. We celebrated the occasion here at the inn, myself, Aymon, Emma and even Sigibert (festive as a slab of rock, as usual). I had made an attempt at baking the cake myself, but decided t'was best not to subject anyone to the sad, strangely lumpy result. Instead, a strawberry and cream creation of the Mermaid's own cooks was devoured under much merriment, and with many fond mentions of all of you back home.
By curious coincidence, for he cannot possibly have known that my birthday loomed so near, I received the most marvellous gift the other day. I had spent a pleasant afternoon in the company of Victoria, her beau Kolde and Cecil (the very tall guardsman), enjoying sweet hinnish pastries and some wine. Rath joined us for a while, and made a chiding, big-brotherly remark upon the size of the wine mug Cecil had given me (and it was indeed larger than both my hands could encompass).
Oh, I admit, t'was foolish to accept such a mug when you and I both know a thimble of sherry is enough to send me into fits of giggles, but something about Cecil makes me daring and bold, to the point where I find myself saying and doing things I normally would not. So I sat there, cradling the mug with burning cheeks, while Cecil lounged beside me on the grass with a stein of ale that was even larger. 'A knight shuns excess', Rath reminded me, and I set the wine aside, embarrassed. Cecil took the blame upon himself somehow, and Rath charged him with seeing to it that I would not overindulge - a charge Cecil took most seriously, as it turned out.
It didn't take much investigative effort on his part to learn my true weakness; sweets. And once he did.. oh, this is where the BEST GIFT EVER comes in, for he presented me with the biggest lollipop I have ever seen, larger than both my hands put together! It is dark red in colour, with a delicious raspberry flavour, though beneath that one can see a darker layer of something else. Layer upon mystery layer of sweet candy bliss, a thousand licks and more to even begin to diminish it! Cecil seemed mighty pleased at my reaction, adding that the best part was that it would be impossible to eat it all at once - hence I would never need worry of excess!
My sweet tooth shall be sated for a whole year, with this one, grandious gift. Best of all, in case of emergency, I'm certain it could work as a blunt instrument to smack sour evil-doers across the face with - though I think I shall reserve an end far pointier than that for such!
Speaking of pointy, I have much to learn on the jousting field. Somehow, through sheer luck, I managed to knock a famed priestess of Lathander out of her saddle on my first run, only to lose all the following matches in decisive, painful manner! If I can but learn to lift the lance to the exact right position (and keep it there with my less than mighty arm), I might do better in future!
Your dearest, most sugarfilled sister, Ashena"
-
Another letter is composed on a clear afternoon, the lazy golden sunshine flooding in through the window, where the young woman sits in a bath robe, a thick towel wrapped around her head. A different set of armor sits on the chair this time, well worn and bearing the faded symbol of Torm, yet as dutifully cleaned as the woman herself. She pulls up her knees, wriggling her bare toes subconsciously as she writes:
"Dear mother and father,
With Aymon's blessing, and at the urging of the good Rath Ashald-Jorinsen, I have accepted the position of Squire within the Order of the Divine Shield. My master is Sir Mariston Thel, truly the knight of knights within the Jewel, for he is not only a devout Paladin of Torm, but also one of the foremost Senators in charge of the city's affairs. Besides all this, he is kind, curteous and simply awe-inspiring to watch upon the jousting field, on horseback and on foot. An inspiration, verily!
I find no shortage of Torm's true followers in this land, a fact that brings a smile to my face each day. Besides Sir Mariston, there is Magistrate and priest of Torm, Sir Shannon D'Arneau, also a long-standing member of the Order, alongside many others I have yet to meet. Also, independantly of the Order are two of the clergy, Ivor Shemov and Celia St Clair, both of whom I hope to befriend further in my stay here.
My duties to this point include patrolling the sewers below Peltarch's streets, where cultists of some evil, dank god do lurk, alongside undead, vermin and all manner of strange and disgusting jellies and oozes. When I do not wade through the filth of these sewers, I often cleanse the crypts of the Norwick cemetary, where all manner of evil resides, including a lich Rath and I have thwarted once already. We hope to learn more of this creature, that we may destroy him for good.
Though I do confess I had not thought the good fight would leave one so smelly and filthy, so frequently as this, I have no regrets in my chosen path. Indeed the opposite, I find my resolve and strength do but grow, with every new step upon it.
Give my love to everyone at home - I miss you all! All except Fury, who somehow turned up in the foothills outside the city, but a few days ago. I had thought him safer at the stables back home, but that horse does have a will of his own, for certain!
Your loving daughter, Ashena"
-
With a woolen blanket wrapped around her shoulders and sheep skin slippers warming her small feet, the young woman makes her way across the room, her bed abandoned for lack of sleep. She lights a candle, smiling at a somewhat crinkled rose in a glass of water on the desk as she begins to write once more, the scratch of pen on paper filling the silent night.
"Dearest Gralam,
Why are you not here!? There is SO much for you to see and learn in Narfell, and so many adventures, tales and thoughts I would share with you! My head feels close to bursting with them all, and I must leak some of it out on paper before I could even begin to sleep.
The past few days, no, make that weeks, but days in particular, have been astounding! I have spent much time in a place called Norwick, at the outskirts of the great Rawlinswood - a place I simply ~know~ you would adore, for all the room it has to roam in wild places. The forest itself, I have only just begun to explore, for it is infested by tribes of goblins, hobgoblins and bugbears, making for an exciting though deadly mix if one does not choose travelling companions well.
But I think I have done just that, making new friends and aquaintances from the adventurers, travellers and local folk here, and oh, so many are the ones I wish you could meet. The Rawlins have many defenders, the rangers in particular being vigilant guardians of both animals and travellers. Yngdir is one such person that I think you would admire, perhaps somewhat grim, yet most unrelenting in his watch. Rasuil has a greater warmth, though an even more uncanny ability to turn up out of the blue, calmly shooting an arrow through the eye of the hobgoblin about to split one in half! Though somewhat rough of speech, I think you would like him well, for in truth he reminds me a little of you.
And then there's Ardent, oh Ardent! She is a newcomer to this area, just as I, and have very swiftly become most dear to me - this is her special talent, I think, to be able to befriend nearly everyone, yet ever remain herself. She is lovely; spirited and clever, kind and mischievous. In fact, a bit like Emma at times, a likeness that might explain why I took to her instantly. Ardent brings out something a little mischievous in me too, boosting the sensation I have experienced upon arrival here - that I am not always lady Ashena Teroldys, but simply Ashena! Tis both unfamilar and liberating, to feel thus (yet naturally, Sigibert is quick to point out the lady part to others).
Another friend that seems to know just how to befriend everyone else is Victoria, a beautiful blonde priestess of Lurue. She is very kind, playful and caring of the well being of others. In fact, she is admirable enough that I found I did not mind it when for a moment, I appeared to look exactly like her (and she as I!). But before this unsettling shift of appearances, something even more unsettling occurred - I stood by the gates with Victoria and another, a tall guardman I had met but hours ago, when suddenly I felt a distinct chill. I looked down, and found myself bare as the day I was born, to my great alarm and embarassement!
The guardsman (whose name is Cecil), turned beet red and looked away, but his eyes then fell on Victoria, who appeared likewise nude! Before I could make well on my plan to SINK BELOW THE EARTH, I found myself encased in armor again, but the hair falling down my shoulder was blonde, not brown. I looked across and found myself staring back at me, for Victoria looked every bit as my normal reflection! A pixie appeared beside us, giggling at her joke, and proceeded to turn her magics on Cecil next, turning him into a bull! He mooed, confused, and begun to chew on the grass with a bewildered look.
I had stern words with the pixie next, but it merely laughed at my insistance that we were not its playthings, and I could sense that it's soul was tainted with evil. Still - it gives me no great joy or pride to say what happened next, for slaying a pixie is hardly a knight's greatest accomplishment (nor did I mean to hit it squite so hard)! But, this did break it's enchantments, and things were back to normal afterwards. Well, almost normal, for Cecil seemed to linger beside me, shuffling his feet in an awkward manner. He was as embarrassed about the whole incident as I, I can only imagine, but managed to make joke of it.
I found myself laughing along, feeling strangely bold, so bold in fact that I accepted the flower he gave me next, sticking it into my braid (I must say, he is much more handsome when not a bull). The True only knows for how long we would have stood there talking, if not for two others beyond the gate - Rath and a stern figure in blue and gold plate, none other than the Magistrate of Peltarch and high priest of Torm, Sir Shannon D'Arneau!
I had heard much and more about this man, and think I must have swallowed my own tongue as he came over to enquire about the pixie. I stuttered something awful, for wanting so much to make a fine first impression, and it took Rath's kind intervention to introduce us in proper manner. Sir Shannon looked at me with a strict and judging gaze, saying he had expected me to introduce myself. I might have DIED on the spot, but then it was as if he relented and spoke kindly instead, and my heart warmed instantly.
Sir Shannon is a most impressive man, as I was just about to find out, for not long after we had spoken of the Order both he and Rath are a part of, strange fleshy constructs appeared to attack the gates with great force, nearly slaying many! Sir Shannon, shining with Torm's might, stood strong against them all, and did save my own life more than once in the adventure to follow. But oh, there was this one moment when he stood by the gates to call down Torm's Rain of Vengeance upon our foes, OH! If my hair were shorter, it had stood straight up at the thrill, and I am still in awe this long afterwards!
Yet when the dust did finally settle, it was in Cecil's company I found myself once more. His awkwardness had seemed to disappear completely in the heat of battle (where more than once he had lunged back from the front to shove an attacker off me), yet now he lingered nearby again, blushing at my simple attempts at jest. Maybe he is just shy of women, though I think I am not just imagining that he was not quite so bashful of Victoria (who is far prettier than I, you would surely agree).
I do not know if he favours my company over others, but I do not mind his in the least. There is something larger than life about Cecil, an infectuous sort of enthusiasm that spreads all around him. I think you would agree there too!
I miss you, you should have come! The woods will not burn to ashes if you leave for one moon or two, surely!
Your dearest sister, Ashena"
-
The same young woman sits down by the same window, quill in hand. Night has fallen, golden candle light spilling across her unbound chestnut hair, smoothed by a hundred diligent strokes of the brush. A small glint of light reflects off a freshly cleaned and polished set of full plate armor, shield and sword, set upon the chair next to the bed. The young woman looks over to the chair, a sense of deeply felt wonder shining in her brown eyes. With a smile, she begins to write.
"Dear mother and father,
Today has blessed me in ways I cannot begin to express, and even now, I feel aglow with Torm's fire burning in my heart. If ever I had doubts that my path was not right for me, these are now forever gone - for I have felt the touch of The True within me.
It began in the southern settlement of Norwick, a small town oft beset by dark forces, including goblinoids, bugbears and the restless undead of a nearby graveyard. Indeed, I could write much of Norwick itself, but for now let it suffice that I was there, practicing my swordarm on the wicked goblins past the gates.
By the lakeside, I came across an elderly man, distraught and armed with nothing more than a fishing rod. Fearing for his safety, I offered my assistance, but the request he made of me was not for safe passage. To my surprise, he instead looked me over in thoughtful air, then, as if having deemed me fit, he bade me help not himself, but another.
'Do what I could not', he said, continuing to tell me of the cries of lament and agony he heard, night after night, from an old crypt within the graveyard. A noble warrior was laid to rest there, but his spirit was trapped and tormented by the undead forces within. The old man lead me there, as night began to fall.
The crypt's door stood before me, stern and unyielding stone. My directions given and my purpose clear, I stepped down into darkness. The air was fetid and dank, oppressive. Click-clack of bone upon stone, the wet shuffle of zombie feet - I gripped my sword and turned to the right, following the distant cries.
Skeletons and zombies fell to my blade, until one of particular, unbearable stench did approach, moaning his challenge. My sword bounced off his putrid hide, once, twice, three times, but I could not, and would not turn back. Resolved, I kept up the fight and cried out for my Lord's aid to see my duty done.
In instant reply, a bright light lit my blade. It seemed to travel through my arm, into my very heart and soul, and light me up from within. The next slash of my sword hit blessedly true, slicing through rotten flesh like a knife through butter. Torm had heard my plea! He was with me, my light in the darkness!
From then on, I knew I would not fall or falter, and all fell before me - skeletons, zombies, the undead priest chanting darkly beside a battered coffin. Only afterwards did I realize I was bleeding, but the wounds hurt me not - it was as though I were not me, but Torm's instrument, a feeling which leaves me both humbled and awed.
As I approached the coffin, I felt a deep sense of gratitude from within. A voice spoke, thanking me, for the undead had long attempted to turn him into one of their foul kind. Now, he could be at peace at last, but first he bid me take his worldly belongings from the chest, and to use them well.
'What is your name, that I might remember you by?', I asked, but too late. The spirit, now set free, began his true journey. Oh, would that I had the skills of a bard to describe this moment with! There was the utmost calm, a beauteous calm that did soothe the soul, and then light began to swirl. Think of a clear autumn day, with the red leaves of the maple falling slowly - but these warm lights did drift upwards instead, carried on a breeze of the divine.
I will never know his name, this kind and noble warrior spirit, but within the coffin lay his armor, shield, sword, amulet and rings. All of these will be treasured, all of these will serve to remember him, and further the cause of what is good and just. So I do solemnly swear.
Curiously, when I left the crypt, the old man was nowhere to be found, nor does anyone in the town proper recall such a person. Whether a ghost or a divine messanger, I am forever thankful that he found me.
Your faithful, loving daughter, Ashena"