3. The Art of Being Isolde

The Art of Being Isolde


  • Heavy, dark clouds top this page, a dreary lackluster grey shading all the area beneath them - except in the middle, where a bright rainbow spotlight illuminates the figure of a halfling woman with an irresistably cheeky smile, giving the viewer a cheerful thumbs up. Everything about the figure seems vivid and vibrant, bursting with life and pizzazz, her hair bedecked with ribbons in a variety of colours and her ruffled skirt fluttering dramatically. Underneath, small flowing letters, each a different colour, spell out "~Aesso The Amazing~"

    From Rain To Rainbows

    The clouds above, looming with the threat of heavy rain, suddenly parted to let a ray of light illuminate the halfling girl that stood before me at the Commons. She shone as though a vision of all things bright and beautiful, an unexpected antidote to my dark frame of mind, thoughts of Chirade, of Reyhenna, of all the things I felt so helpless to resolve dissolving like mist.

    The world transformed from rain to shimmering rainbows, through nothing but a smile and a cheeky hello from this girl, who introduced herself as Aesso the ~Amazing~. I soon found myself smiling, unable and unwilling not to let myself be drawn into the bubbly enthusiasm of this miraculous bringer of sunshine as she related her daring ESCAPE from ORCS by the hands of her spectacular new friends, Anna Banana and Maria Sangria!

    Aesso, it turns out, is the very bard whose recent arrival has the whole College in a stir, and it's easy to see what the fuss is about. There's something larger than life about her person, something bold and irresistable. It's as if she's painted in brighter colours than everyone else, shining with her own light wherever she goes.

    I found myself smiling, then laughing as we traded words. All my worries were swept aside, replaced by a warm and happy feeling spreading inside; that rare feeling of instant kinship. I think she must have felt it too, or perhaps she'd asked around beforehand, because it didn't take her long to confide that she was looking for my help on a somewhat… ~sneaky~ errand.

    Specifically, a jewel heist. I almost gaped - bardic catburglar is something I've yet to 'quite' pull off successfully myself, but it remains on my list of possible careers, a fondly nurtured dream of shininess, riches and nightly daring-do. And here she was, inviting me to play just that game, like the birds of a feather I now feel certain that we are.

    A unique gem is what she's after, held by a certain widowed nobleman in the Residential district. He's a real homebody though, prone to stay in and brood, so she needs me to create a distraction outside to lure him out of the house long enough to filch the gem.

    I need a song... I need the ~right~ song, the right mood, the right setting. Aesso says the nobleman has yet to recover from the bitter loss of his wife, that he shuns public affairs and merriment. I think I need a song that does for him what the Gaol song did for Trisha - a song that pierces his shell, draws him out and makes him ~feel~. If I can do that, then we'll not only manage to take the gem, but also give something back in return."


  • The image of a single human eye tops the left-hand corner of this page, sketched in black ink. The eye is depicted wide open in a look of terror, the outline of shadowy figures reflected in the dark iris. This darkness and the reflections within seem to bleed from the iris, trickling down the white of the eye to form a single, black teardrop.

    Dark Seeds

    To my frustration and increasing sense of futility, I seemed always a step behind in the chase for Chirade, catching little but snippets and bits, the tail end of events that left even the likes of Elvadriel shaken. An entire village lain to waste by agents of the dark elf, life after life shattered in his wake. And now the head investigator, a quiet and serious-minded Cerulean by the name of Tristyn, had gone missing.

    While I shuddered to even think of the horrors Chirade might be inflicting on Tristyn, the Cerulean's disappearance added a great deal of tension to an already grim situation, all of which I couldn't help but think played all too well into the Sharran's hands. Even more frustratingly, I could see what was happening, but I couldn't for the life of me change the sad state of affairs.

    Chirade had set his game up with wicked cunning - not necessarily to kill the "participants", but to kill the trust and cooperation between them. It was beginning to become apparant that the abduction and manipulation of adventurers was only part of his game though, and perhaps little more than a ruse at that - misdirection and dark seeds of suspicion and paranoia planted in the hearts of those who might persue him.

    It was working, all too well. Hells, we were even ~helping~ him.

    In Tristyn's absence, a bossy Defender Captain by the name of Talbot had taken over the investigation, on grounds I've yet to fathom clearly. Quite unlike Tristyn, Talbot and his soon to be henchwoman Nuwairah did what Elvadriel had feared right from the start - they claimed the case tightly, and all of those previously intimately involved now had to beg for scraps at their city employee's only table.

    Nauran, up until that point a close associate of Tristyn's, was suddenly not trusted, nor was Elvadriel who undoubtedly knew more than anyone else about the foe we were up against. One prisoner from the village questioned behind closed doors (presumably violently) while those involved in the capture were kept ignorant of the pertinent details gleaned. This did ~not~ sit well with any of them, nor did the authoritarian attitude. The simmering cook pot of dissent threatened to boil over more than once, with accusations of information being withheld from both sides.

    I had to, absolutely had to push my personal feelings regarding Nuwairah aside, stuff them as far away as I could to be anywhere near involved with the case, but Talbot’s decision to place her "in charge" presented an additional challenge.

    I’ll work with someone for the right cause, even someone I can’t stand, but to take 'orders' from them, being bossed around? It was very rapidly approaching unbearable, and I felt unable to even bitch and moan about it for being biased to start with. It was somehow a relief to find Elvadriel and Nauran both bristling, quite independently of me, though I knew full well it would be to our advantage and Chirade’s distinct disadvantage if we managed to play nice.

    I tried. Oh good gods, I tried. But what good was I really doing, trying to involve myself? It seemed for the longest of time that all I ever did was collect the debris of rumors and reports, compare, analyze and speculate in the vain hope that it would form a clearer image. I even tried my feeble research hand at the most excutiatingly boring book on the Shadow Weave, quickly gaining a headache and little more than a vague grasp of the subject matter.

    Before Trisha Heartwin, I was about to step away from it all. The broken woman in the cell was the turning point, she set my resolve in stone. I looked into her maddened, saddened eyes and saw the darkness planted there, knew with a cut in my heart that all of us had gotten off lightly, that ~this~ is what Chirade really did. What he would keep doing, until someone stopped him.

    He’d hollowed Trisha Heartwin out, taken everything that she held dear and replaced it with grief, with guilt, with horror and despair. She rocked to and fro, unreachable, still trapped in his cage despite physically removed from it. Talbot claimed her a friend, a bard just like her husband… her husband, noticeably not amongst those recovered.

    I didn’t need to know the details, didn’t want to. I knew her husband was dead, the how best kept at arm’s length. Trisha might tell us things we did need to know though, and so with a variety of approaches, a questioning of sorts took place. She wouldn’t, couldn’t answer though, and grew agitated whenever someone came near, scratching insistently at a patch on her arm, the skin red and sore from constant abuse.

    A magic mark of some sort, or was there something 'under' her skin? Had Chirade quite literally planted a seed, for darkness to grow from within, swallow her whole?

    Elvadriel detected magic emanating from Trisha herself, but attempting to examine her arm drove her wild and frantic. We had to restrain her forcefully or calm her somehow – and so I was let into the cell to try. I sang her a song – a gentle, sad song which I hoped would reach past that crippling despair, puncture it and let it bleed out into grief, released. And it did.

    When the notes died out, Trisha’s eyes met mine and for the first time seemed to actually see me. And I saw her, saw the naked sorrow, the stark pain in her eyes. I wrapped my arms around her – what else is there to do, when no words exist to grant any comfort but your heart aches with desire to offer it? If I can do nothing else of use, I can at least do this. I can at least still ~care~. I held Trisha close and she began to cry.

    But Trisha’s tears were darkness made liquid, they were shadow essence and her grief filled the room, snuffed out the light and the warmth all around us. In the deepening shadow, hateful eyes appeared, figures moving to attack and claw at us. I held Trisha close while the shadows assailed us, shouted for help when the battle broke out but there was no reply from beyond the cell – only darkness, only cold and deathly silence.

    Through spell and sword, the shadows were defeated and a frightened Trisha let her arm be examined, Elvadriel and Nuwairah jointly responsible for the extraction of what looked like a small orb of pure shadow, embedded under her skin. When removed, the light caused it to crumble and collapse, but in its stead rose a messenger – a large and looming shadow, speaking omnious words of warning. We were too late, all would fall to darkness…

    Defiantly, we lit the cell up though magical light, and the shadow creature hissed and recoiled. In it dissipating, there was a sudden rush of sound, of light and warmth as the Gaol and all its other inhabitants, noises and goings on bustled back into existence. A confused Talbot looked our frazzled state over, a little incredulous to hear what had occurred, because to him no time had passed.

    Through Trisha's despair, through the darkness Chirade had planted inside her, we’d been drawn into the Shadow Plane itself – and this, it would turn out, was the fate he intended to inflict upon the whole of Narfell.


  • This page is topped by a small female figure with a shock of bright blonde hair and ice blue armour. The light colours are starkly offset by the woman's much larger, looming black shadow. Curved demon's horns are visible atop the shadowy head, bathed in billowing black and red flames.

    Shadow and Flame

    Betrayal. It comes in many flavours, but each taste is nothing if not bitter and vile to the tongue. This one was no exception, though there may be some controversy as to where the betrayal itself lies. Who and where the blame is to be placed, for vengeance to be meted out in full.

    You can blame the demons. Evil incarnate, working though viles, corruption, manipulation and flesh-rending, skin-ripping force to spread chaos and fear through the hearts of men. But can you blame a creature for doing what is in its nature to do? It seems a futile exercise, as they can never truly change. All you can do is fight them, thwart their plans or run and hide.

    The tools the demons use, the people who seek out evil and willingly serve their nefarious ends, now those I find easier to blame. Harder to understand, but easier to blame - if we hold it as true that mortals have free choice. In reality, there's a million and one things affecting that choice, and that so called freedom can be a very tight suit, an exceedingly limited range of options. Sometimes you are down to only bad choices. Sometimes, you're robbed of them entirely.

    You can blame ham-fisted justice, "good" that is enforced, inflicted with such threat and lack of mercy that it breeds desperation. The results can be such misery that separating it from actual evil is a matter of phrasing, pious and righteous justification of one's aim and little more.

    I feel betrayed. I am hurt, bereft of yet another person I counted as a friend, enraged at the consequences confronting her had for the one person who matters most. Would it have changed matters if I'd been there? Could I have tipped the precariously balanced scales, nudged us all back from the brink of disaster? I don't know, I can't know and I can't keep tormenting myself with what ifs.

    The short of it is that Reyhenna, the College's hired guard, lewd, crude and delightful in her own mercenary manner, is currently the play thing of a very powerful demon, with ambitions for the prime. This dark road wasn't something she chose for kicks - she was betrayed, cruelly used by Abigail in a bid for increased power. Sacrificed to a demon lord. Reyhenna had been under their sway since, but not fully possessed. Not until that night at the College.

    Nate pieced it together somehow. He's too clever for his own good sometimes. Fearing the demon's grip on her was too strong for reason or pleading to cut it, he called in Shannon D'Arneau and Nuwairah for the talk, which took a distinct turn for the worse. Confrontation. Violence. Shadow and flame, undead rising in the wake of the guard turned demon vessel. Killing Nate.

    The frightful scene played out right inside the College. In our home, the very place she was meant to protect, resulting in the death of the person who had hired her to do so. My sweet Nate, dead, because of… I flail in frustration, wanting so badly to scream at someone, while Nate blames himself for the outcome. No. No, no, no - it's not his fault, I know he only wanted to help!

    I was in the library in Oscura, reading whatever I could find on the Shadow Weave when it happened. Returned the next day to see the College in shambles, doors broken and scorched, soot stains on the walls of the corridors. A stab in my heart. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't find my words until I found Nate. Alive again, pale and worn, but alive, at the Commons. A sudden light in his beautiful eyes when he saw me.

    Somehow, no matter what's going on, no matter danger or dire tidings, everything's alright when we're together. As long as we live, breathe and touch, everything is alright. And the things that still aren't, we'll fix.

    Even this.

    He'd learned more of the demon using Reyhenna, invited me and Nuwairah both to the library to share the findings. I wasn't thrilled - it was all I could do to stand working with her on the Chirade matter, and now this too? But I'm no fool. Brute force and martial skill can be necessary, and that, she can undoubtedly provide. Besides, Nate counted her an ally, trusted her with the Reyhenna situation in the first place. They were friends, so who was I to serve up bitter grapes for no reason other than that her sheer presence reminded me of everything I still worked so hard to forget?

    I held my tongue, I was quiet and concerned in listening. Until Nuwairah made an offhand derisive comment of Nate's cooperation, trying to lord it over him as though the Magistrate's office had any legal claim to what he had learnt - to what he was ~already~ sharing voluntarily, no less! I all but gnashed my teeth, bristled and hissed inside. Kept silent only through force of will, for him.

    It's strange, I never felt this way about Cormac. Never bristled at him being slurred, never felt this fierce lioness rage well up to defend him from injury and slight. In part it's likely because of who Cormac is - always jumping into the fray, daring fate and taunting people with deliberate intent. Relishing it.

    But even so, I've never wanted to punch anyone so much as I have the people who have talked down to Nate. Like that ghastly would-be-Queen, Eliza Whoregarth. Or Nuwairah, at that moment. I wanted to claw their eyes out, hiss and growl. How dare you? He's ~perfect~. He's the best man I have ever met and NO ONE is going to hurt him!

    Not that he was hurt. If anything, he was amused at my obvious ire in both cases, mumbling reassurances. Nate is unfailingly polite, he always plays nice and he plays along for the greater good. Maybe that's why I get extra pissed off? I feel like he's trod upon by people far his lessers, and if I were a fighter, a mighty warrioress in those moments, I'd trample right back. Into the mud.

    I had to settle for words, with Eliza. Made a bit of an enemy of that Thayan bitch, unfortunately perhaps, but I regret nothing. She could have insulted me, I can take that. But not Nate.

    Reyhenna's actions caused Nate's death. There's a hard knot of anger inside me, but it's twined with so many other strands than merely her. I don't know who to blame, only that I DO blame.

    To pin the blame on Reyhenna would be the easiest choice, but Nate doesn't want that. He still wants to help her, but I'm torn. I can't forgive him being hurt, I can't. But I miss the Reyhenna who was my friend, who told me to buck up and fight instead of flee, who rolled her eyes at romance I couldn't stomach, who drank with me when I was sad, played stupid word games for sheer amusement. Who asked my forgiveness for harsh words spoken at my rock bottom moment.

    She was the first one who knew about Nate and me. I didn't even have to say it, she figured it out, though thankfully without knowing how close she'd come to catching us with our pants down. Said he was a 'good egg'.

    And she asked for my help with something I should have understood was important. I failed to help her with Abigail past a tentative suggestion or two. I never realized the significance of what had been taken from her. Not until now.


  • The following parchment is inserted into the journal, flowing calligraphy written on it in dark blue ink. The handwriting matches that of the previous song sheet and the three notes.

    @8728b66540:

    "Only You."

    All day… I always dream about you...
    In those scenes, it's always only us two...
    And I feel, like everything is going right...
    I never thought, I'd ride so long on "cloud nine"

    When we dance, so many songs to move to...
    No one else... can dance the way that you do...
    I don't want... Our pitch-perfect song to stop
    My heart is pounding, an endless throb

    Oh... oh, oh...

    The place is right, it's you and me and "in-between"
    The mood is right, with hazey foggy misty steam...
    So hungrily, we feel the fire burning clean
    And we fly together, to places never been

    Oh... oh, oh...

    Oh, you know I want only you
    In this dance we do
    It was and will be, always true

    Oh, I wish you only knew
    That I'll always need you
    Now and forever, in every way too

    Oh...

    Oh, oh oh... I'm for you...

    You, you, you, you . ..

    ... you and only you.

    Fever Pitch

    It was never like this before. I've desired and been desired, but never like this. I could always control it, and even when I wanted to relinquish that control with Cormac, something inside me held back. It's not what proper ladies do. Besides, I wanted it to ~mean~ something - to me, to him, or I'd be just another of his conquests, loved in the heat of the moment, forgotten in the next.

    I wanted the big romance. I wanted rose petals scattered across a silk sheet bed, scented candles burning. Soft sensuality, violins and waves crashing against white sandy beaches at sunset.

    He called me "repressed". Gods, if he could see me now… the things Nate and I do... to each other, with each other, it's ~completely~ shameless. I can't even put it down on paper - no, not even in a private journal, sneaky future readers! Tsk tsk.

    My cheesy novels never had anywhere 'near' this much heat and for once, life trumphs fiction. Not that we don't weave fiction into it, Nate and I dance and spin our yarn of tawdry tales, paint our scenes and play our parts in the most delicious detail imaginable. Dear readers, if you're there, take my advice and get a bardic lover. Seriously.

    It's funny, Nate is the sort of man you'd think would offer a girl the perfect soft romance, the sweet kisses and the dulcet serenade from underneath a balcony as the setting sun paints the scene in amber twilight. Everything I thought I wanted for my first grand love, Nate can provide with heartmelting softness and sensibility.

    But he gives me 'so' much more than that.

    Nate can also be commanding, relentless and rough. Greedy and brazen, passionate, pleading, needing, submissive. "Whatever you want, Isolde", he says with that warm, infinite affection underlying it all. "Anything you want, in any way you want it. I'm all for you."

    That openness and devotion, the unconditional love he offers me, the kindess of his heart shining in everything he does - that's what cut all restraint, cut away my shyness and reserve. Set me free to explore.

    Set me on fire.

    What we do in our wild and feverish haze, it's nowhere near soft. It leaves me aching and bruised, it burns reason and restraint, doubt and despair out of me, drives out the darkness and the cold. Banishes bitterness, in sweet agony and breathless release.

    He looks so sheepish at times, afterwards. Surprised at himself, apologetic as he plants tender little kisses to the marks on my skin. "I don't do this sort of thing", he insists, as though I would think him some sort of ladies man. He's had three lovers before me, but says it was never like this. "It's you", he mumbles with the softest of affection. "Only you."

    I believe him. More than that, I feel the same way.

    We're equals, burning just as brightly, perfectly evenly matched in the dance that we do, whether slow and sweet, wild and rough or both in irresistable mix. I wanted only comfort at first, the warmth of his company and that oh so sweet oblivion. But more and more, I realize that this dance started the very first day we met. And I don't ever want it to stop.


  • The bottom of this page bears another drawing, this one all in black and grey ink, depicting the figure of a man with his hand held out towards the viewer. The figure is blurry, seemingly made of flickering shadows and while the gesture is inviting, it has a menacing quality to it.

    A Cold Comfort

    "Do you have to be so cold?", asked Cormac, as we made our way towards the College's lounge for the talk I knew would be the last between us. Yes, I replied. Sometimes that helps.

    The cold numbs. It doesn't make the pain go away, but it makes it bearable, distances you from your bleeding heart and sharpens your thoughts instead.

    The cold was my friend, in the lounge that night. I froze my heart to be able to cut him loose, and managed to cling to my cool until his footsteps grew distant, echoed down the corridor and out the door. And then I bled.

    How fitting then, that the lounge is where darkness found me, held out its hand like an old friend returning from war. The room was cold and deathly quiet, shrouded in shadows. All colour, all sound and heat had seeped from it, even the flickering flames of the fireplace growing pale and cool. I shivered, pulled my blue cloak closer, the soft velvet lining of it seeming soothing, the one little trace of warmth available.

    A moment ago, I'd sat comfortably on the couch awaiting Christina's kind offer of an early breakfast, lack of sleep chasing me out of bed long before dawn. Now, I stood with my back towards the fireplace, frozen. The shadows flickered, thickened at the far side of the room. Congealed into the shape of a man, looming omniously. Instead of moving, the figure sank into the floor, shadows puddling and reforming into a man, closer.

    Closer.

    The silence was deafening. I inched back further, pressed my back against the stone. The fire burnt with soundless flame, pale and cold. Everything was cold.

    The shadowy man reached towards me, held out his hand. A silent invitation, but to what? A cold comfort, a descent into darkness - oblivion?

    I stared at the hand. What would happen if I took it? A short while ago, all I'd wanted was to get away, to escape my pain through any means necessary. I'd burnt half my journal and my stupid romance novels, planned to leave all of Narfell behind. Tried to drown out the rest in tears and alcohol.

    The me who turned her back on the ghost woman and her once in a hundred years true love encounter, that Isolde would have taken this invitation, hoping it would burn her last bridges in cold flame and let her lose herself in the dark. But I'd taken another hand since. Chosen a different sort of oblivion.

    My voice sounded strange, a stranger in my own throat when I found it, broke the silence with protest. And then, just like that, the shadows vanished. Life returned to the room. Sunshine flooded in through the curtains, the fire crackled cozily and Christina came bustling out through the kitchen with breakfast.

    I suspected Chirade's hand in the encounter, spoke to Nauran to compare notes soon after. "What would have happened if you'd taken his hand?", he mused out loud. I wonder that too, still.

    –-

    Norwick, the day after the wedding, late afternoon. We'd danced until dawn, then retreated to the inn for a few hours sleep. Nate held me close, his arms the sweetest shelter.

    I was still smiling when I made my way outside, alone. I'd beaten the odds, managed to avoid ... the two people who were now standing right by the fire, fighting shadows.

    Shadows, again. Not a coincidence then, not my overactive imagination, not just me, but Cormac and Nuwairah too. This was Chirade's work.

    I wanted to leave, but I couldn't. Like it or not, we were in this particular mess together and I had to try to understand, put the pieces of the puzzle together. The fight was all but over as I approached, Anna and some others pitching in to finish the hissing, writhing shadows off.

    I hadn't seen Cormac, hadn't spoken a word to him since the night he left the lounge. It hurt, it hurt more than I'd thought it would and I reached for the coldness, let myself be frozen and still. Let my eyes glide around him, see the outlines and not the detail, not any of the details I loved so well. Just the rough shape of him, in peripheral vision. My gaze trailed to the ground, a little to the left of them both as I spoke.

    The items, the armour, amulet and cloak made by Chirade. Elvadriel had purged the magic out of them, or so I'd thought. But apparantly not all of it. That's how the shadows found us, played out their appointed roles, each tied to the history of the item in question.

    Elvadriel had already managed to rid Nuwairah's armour of the shadow hauntings, I heard. Not that she had told me. Not that anyone had told me, I thought with a small sting to my frozen heart, until I realized I had made myself distinctly unavailable in my College exile, my Nate-induced bliss.

    Anna set about driving the magic out of our two remaining items. I clutched my cloak protectively, strangely reluctant to hand it over. It's the only beautiful thing to have come out of the ordeal, and I don't want the good magic on it broken, I reasoned out loud, but truthfully, in that moment, in that company, I wanted my man of shadow back.

    I was all but backed against the wall to put as much distance between myself, Cormac and Nuwairah as possible. I had thought I could do this. That we could work together, if the full focus was on the task at hand, but it was unbearable, like sharp nails raking across a blackboard. I wanted to wrap my cloak around me, take that shadowy hand and disappear.

    A Cold Comfort is a comfort nonetheless.


  • This page has a tiny drawing at the top right side, a darkly clad man and a woman in a long pink gown, their hair colours orange and crimson respectively. The two diminuative figures are dancing close together, foreheads leaning gently against one another.

    Fake it 'til you make it

    True to his word, Nate made me forget. His company brought both solace and delirium, a drug that not only numbed the pain, but made me giddy, craving more. We hid away within the College's protective walls and for the first time since my life started falling apart, I felt happy. A little guilty too, because underneath it all, I was still hurting. Was I just using Nate as my crutch, my comfort blanket, my distraction from loss and heartache?

    The thought made me worry, but only when we were apart or the rest of the world insisted on encroaching on our sanctuary. I was happy - for as long as I could forget. Like a thin layer of bliss, spread like icing on top of a sharp and bitter cake, my happiness didn't stretch far and it hinged entirely on Nate. But it was, for all of that, still real.

    The rest, I had to fake.

    It's easier once your heart is broken, he kept saying, but I'm not sure that I ever truly agreed. I can put on a smile, I can act and pretend, but to summon the will to do that takes energy and determination I didn't have at my lowest point. Nate returned my will and my want. He made me want to believe in all the beautiful things I felt tainted, made false by the break-up, in love, in romance and devotion.

    He invited me to go with him to Akseli and Orianna's wedding. The wedding Cormac and I had planned on attending, had made such fancy clothing for. I said yes, quickly, before I could get cold feet. Akseli's my friend, and I couldn't back down from all areas of my life, couldn't hide within the College forever just to avoid running into Cormac and Nuwairah again.

    Orianna had asked me to perform, too. At a Lliiran wedding, a celebration of joy and true love. Deep down I felt all of those things to be hollow, but I didn't want them to be. If I faked it, if I made a determined effort, if I got over this threshold, then maybe I could reclaim them. Nate made me want to try.

    We got new clothes, dolled ourselves up to the teeth. A shimmering pink silk gown, patterned and embroidered, with decorative pearls fastened to the sleeves, Nate in a smoky charcoal suit, deceptively simple yet elegant in cut. He looked so handsome that my heart clenched, but I was still on edge, afraid of who we'd meet, of how and if I'd manage to cling to my cheer throughout.

    I'd picked the perfect song - not for my frame of mood, but for the bride and groom, about true love and devotion. A softly passionate, earnest, beautiful song that unerringly felt a lie when I practiced. It wasn't for me, it was a gift. But every time I sang, I felt that same venom rise, a bitter taste in my mouth, a mocking laughter at the back of my mind. Chirade's cold laughter, flickering shadows at the edge of my vision.

    Push it down. Be and feel what you decide, play the part and wear the smile until it's real again. Sing as if you mean it, make THEM feel and maybe it will echo back to you.

    I told myself this, over and over, as the wedding guests started to arrive. Joyous day, happy day, Akseli and Orianna's day - don't ruin it for being this way, still! Nate squeezed my arm, smiled and chit-chatted and so did I. Cormac hadn't shown, nor Nuwairah, and that made it easier to pretend, to focus on the show. And it was a show, it was all fake but for my sincerity in wanting it not to be. In genuinely wishing Akseli and Orianna happiness, and doing my best to add to the occasion.

    "I'm glad you're back to your old self", said the bride, beaming afterwards.

    I'm glad it was convincing, because it was beyond exhaustive to keep the mask up. All fake laughter, all false smiles, until the end. On the dance floor, with Nate's arms around me. His sparkling blue-green eyes gazing into mine. That tender, doting affection, slicing through the pretense. We danced; we danced until the floor emptied and the sun rose. And then my smile was finally real.


  • @a301ebbd39:

    Feet took her straight to my bed

    The first night I spent in Nate's bed, he slept on the floor, wrapped in a big pile of blankets and pillows stolen from the room across the hall. We were both drunk and exhausted, but he staunchly and gentlemanly refused to share the bed, despite it being easily big enough to fit three or even four people in it.

    I snuggled down on the far left side, burrowing my head into the soft silky pillow and tucking the fluffy covers over me. It felt like slipping into an embrace, the way that bed welcomed me. It smelled clean and ever so faintly like Nate, a subtle and pleasingly masculine scent. I fell asleep instantly and felt sorrow and despair melt away, fading for that one night of soothing sleep.

    Many nights passed before I returned to that bed, an endless ocean of emotional turmoil before I sought its safe harbour anew. The very same night that Cormac finally made his way to the College, during the first and only night he would ever spend in my bed, I snuck up at dawn. I told myself I only got up to fix breakfast, but found myself lingering outside B7, wondering if Nate would be disappointed in me for giving in so easily, after all the tears I'd shed. The thought left me chilled, cutting through my happy daze like a knife through butter.

    Naked but for the blanket from my bed, I sat in the lounge while the tea water began to heat up, writing a note to slip under his door. I covered the front, then the back, quickly running out of space for all the words I wanted to give him, that vague and gnawing feeling of unease churning inside me. I think I was more afraid of Nate's possible disappointment than the risk of a continued tug-of-war for the man sleeping in my own bed - because I was not quite stupid enough to think everything was fixed quite as easily as that. I did think it would mean ~something~. Something more than one night's reprieve from pain.

    Next day showed me how wrong I'd been, in the most painful and inescapable manner possible. Chirade, his trap, and the talk that came afterwards smashed any delusions I had left, dashed my hope of any repair of what was once a beautiful love. Feeling dead inside but for that one resolve now hardened in my heart, I stumbled through the College's halls like a zombie, but halted infront of B7 again.

    I couldn't return to A7. I have, in fact, not spent a single night in it since. Instead, I slipped inside Nate's room like a thief in the night, very careful not to wake him. If I could just rest there, if I could simply hear him breathe and know I wasn't alone, I could make it through the night. He slept on the right side, legs and arms sprawled, and I scooted silently onto the bed's left side instead. He didn't stir, didn't notice, yet I felt that same warm sense of welcome. I'll just rest a bit, I told myself - I'll be gone before he even wakes. But I fell fast asleep, and it was he who had left the bed before my eyes cracked open, well past noon.

    After M5, we still shared that bed, even with the trembling note of uncertainty in the air between us. He stuck to his side of the bed, a perfect gentleman, though I caught him looking as I let my hair down. I'd pushed him away, I had, however mildly, said stop. And it only took that short walk up to his room to regret it. If I turned around, if I put my arm around him… but I didn't. I faced the wall, listened to his breathing growing gradually slower and tried not to think of the what ifs.

    But it was still there, that tremble in the air, the shivering possibility. We spent each night together, every following day in conversation, sauntering through the corridors, stopping too often, for far too long. The bubble wasn't burst, it shimmered all around us and kept the rest of the harsh and hurtful world at bay. On our way up to the rooftop once again, we ceased to move. We stood in the corridor, surrounded by the busts of the Masters of old and rows of beautiful paintings. I felt that same wonderous sensation wash over me as the first time on the roof - that we could do anything, go anywhere together. Into the world, into the paintings themselves - we could weave our own world and disappear within it.

    "Give me sweet oblivion", I whispered. And he did. We kissed in the corridor, we stumbled up the stairs to the starry sky awaiting us, the sparkling canvas of the night sky lit up just for Nate and I. "Look at me, Isolde", he bid with a silken command in his soft and melodic voice. I looked, and everything but the stars in his eyes was lost in the sweetest oblivion.


  • "Oh my gosh" he said, flustered and remorseful after I'd pushed him gently away, his face suffused with colour. "I don't do this sort of thing."

    I could still taste him on my lips, the sweetness of the Black Velvet drunk under the stars, the lingering sensation of soft pressure and heat. Our bare feet still touched, submerged in the warm water of M5:s clear and sparkling pool.

    The waters of the Bardic College are rumoured to have all kinds of peculiar powers, but in this case, other liquids were assuredly at play. Carabinieri, Black Velvet, Crémante D'Alsace and a variety of other bottles, all emptied, lay strewn far above our heads on the rooftop of the Theatre, along with the crumbled remains of pastries and cakes.

    Take two of cheering-Isolde-up through wining and dining had shrunk the ranks of participants to just two. Me and Nate, arms full of drinks and tasty morsels as we scrambled up the stairs to the rooftop at sunset. As the sky changed colour and twinkling stars came out above, we spoke of everything and nothing, the mood light and relaxed.

    Favourite places and dream destinations for our trip to come, most of all. "Ahh, Peltarch at night", he mused, sipping deeply from the dark liquid in his goblet. "The stars above and the lights sprawled out below…" A guilty stab in my gut, knowing it was only for my sake that he now planned to leave his favourite place. But Nate wouldn't have it, he laughed again at noticing, brushed off my increasingly feeble protest that he didn't have to come with me. Again that soft and amused look in his eyes, as if the truth was obvious and I was just so very slow to grasp it.

    Okay, okay - so you really 'do' want to come with me. I still don't get why, but I believe you, I thought to myself as I drank more Carabinieri, letting the sweet pink liquor form a warm glow inside me. For the first time in weeks, I didn't feel like crying. I even found myself smiling as we spoke of all the where to's, including Cormyr and Nate's family there.

    He grew up to nobility and privelege, sheepishly admitting a spoiled brat syndrome and hinting that his visits home were infrequent. Not for being unloved, but rather for being reminded of being that person, I suspect. And still being seen that way, in his parents eyes? He winced a little when I suggested I pose as his lover, a married woman scandalously eloping with the wandering minstrel.

    "But it would be the a perfect excuse to make the visit brief", I noted, weaving a violent and jealous husband into the narrative, chasing after us. He gave a little grin, seeming to warm to the idea and we kept spinning our travel yarn as the night grew darker around us. Waterdeep, Silverymoon, the riches of Amn. "I always wanted to see Evereska", Nate said dreamily, opening another bottle. It's one of those elves only places though, and his little splash of elven blood would likely not be enough to get in and gawk at the marvels.

    Nothing felt impossible though, underneath that starry sky. I felt sheltered by the night and welcomed into it, as if the world both shrank and opened up around us. We could go anywhere, do anything together.

    Anything - except master the stairs down without falling over. I hadn't realized just how drunk I was, until I stood up. The stars spun languidly over my head and I clutched Nate's arm while he in turn leaned against me. Our steps were wobbly, my knees felt gelatinous and soft as we meandered down in a slow, precarious hobble. Heading down to the Masters Quarters, I stepped on his cloak and sent us both sprawling helplessly down the remaining stairs.

    Nate cushioned my fall, taking a couple of bumps to the head and likely an untold number of harsh bruises here and there along his body too. Dazed and drunk, we just sort of lay there for a while, catching our respective breaths. Eventually, I scrambled up to sit, while he rested his head on my lap. As I checked for lumps and lamented the evil nature of stairs, Nate grew suddenly quiet. His eyes, soft and glazed, fixed on my lips, stared as though hypnotized by the way they moved, formed words he no longer seemed to hear.

    I don't know how long he would have stayed in that stupor, had I not nudged him out of it. He looked completely lost, blushed but regained a little clarity as we finally both managed to get to a wobbly stand again. We perused the great library, spoke of bards of old and the way the College had been when all the Masters suites were filled, when there were always bums on seats in the meeting chamber.

    Nate grew wistful, but it was a gentle sort of melancholy, soon to fade as we entered what is now offically his room. M5, bedecked in bright and glorious whorehouse red, with a simply enormous set of stone breasts on the watery nymph bust overlooking the pool. I had to chuckle, had to comment - they were literally impossible to overlook, and I suggested coathangers on the protruding nipples. Or possibly shiny brass rings?

    The mood grew playful and light as we sat by the edge of the pool, dipping our feet into the warm and clear water. He nudged my foot and I his, and in a gentle little repetition of the first time we met, we sparred. A simple thumb wrestle this time, his hand in mine. He has strong hands, large and firm but smooth, without the callouses of hard labour. My thumb was unerringly pinned, my attempts at wriggling free or cheating by breaking his concentration mostly in vain.

    Until I kissed his ear.

    The struggle petered out, the game suddenly changing. His hand was still in mine, his thumb still across, above my own. But resting gently there, a soft and warm pressure I could break any time I wanted to. But I didn't.

    Again that glazed look in his eyes, soft but intense, focused on my lips. His foot, his hand so warm against mine. A stillness grew between us, stretched the moment out. As though drawn by inexorable gravity, Nate leaned in and kissed me.

    His lips were sweet but firm, those shimmering blue-green eyes flickering, searching mine for some type of sign. He smelled good, tasted even better and I wanted it, I wanted to wrap myself in his warmth, his kindness, in the inexplicable wealth of affection offered me. But this was more. Was I really ready for more?

    A soft thud to my gut as his lips pressed closer. I ~wanted~ more.

    But I wasn't ready for it. Not yet, not with everything still so tangled and messed up. Not with 'me' so messed up. If I lost him as a friend...

    The thought sent chills down my spine, severed the teasing tug of desire. I put my hand on his chest, pushed him gently away and the bubble burst around us.


  • First Impressions

    I've heard it said that in meeting someone new, we determine within seconds what we think of one another - that we take in appearance, mannerisms, body language, tone of voice, actions and words. All this combined, we swiftly, subconsciously, form that important first impression.

    But how accurate is that first glance really? Looking back, how near the mark did that first judgement land?

    I first met Nate on an otherwise unspectacular day at the Commons, in the bright and sunny days just before the siege. He was nearly completely obscured by the figure of a hulking half-orc in dark plate - from where I sat, I could just about catch a glimpse of a stylishly cut blue and silver shirt, and the bright gleam of copper in his hair.

    "Talk to her? But Thraaask.. she's so 'pretty'!"

    A sing-song voice, smooth and melodic. Lush orange hair falling down across bright blue-green eyes as he dipped forwards to look at me again, lips forming a theatrical little 'o' when caught in the act.

    "She 'saw' me! Thrask, help!"

    A handsome face, bordering on pretty, inviting me to play as he hid coyly behind the large half-orc. He ~must~ be a bard, I thought, approaching with a curious smile growing on my lips. Portraying himself as the vunerable mansel in distress, now there's an innovative first move, and one which immediately made me choose the role of villainous oppressor in turn.

    We played out a scene, improvising, sparring and testing one another's wit. I drew my rapier with all the flash I could muster, challenging him to the fight. Thrust and parry, feint and flurry - our words flew brightly back and forth, his eyes alight with mirth as I vaulted over the fence to deliver the finishing blow.

    I declared myself the victor while he pleaded for mercy. Mercy, at the hand of so vile an oppressor? That called for a scoff, and scoff I did. I would extract a terrible price for his continued life and freedom. A price so steep, he'd wish I had slain him instead…

    "You're going to buy me dinner", I declared haughtily, in a brook-no-nonsense tone. Meekly, eyes twinkling, he accepted, introducing himself as Nate Wingates, playwright of the Bardic College.

    As I stood there smiling, it suddenly struck me that we might be flirting. In the spur of the moment, in the sheer joy of dancing with someone so closely matched in wit and whimsy to myself, I'd quite forgotten that inviting another man out for dinner might not be so popular with the one you're with. A brief sting of guilt, a surprising sense of regret as I realized I may have to call it off if Cormac grouched. Which of course he did.

    "Don't be silly", I told Cormac. "There's no attraction there, we're far too much alike. He's basically me, in male packaging." Dinner was still cancelled, brushed off as little more than a part of our make-shift play.

    Nate, in all our encounters since that day, stayed affable and effervescent, yet distinctly more distant than on that first day we met. A butterfly boy, I thought, his attention ever waivering and drifting from one bright sight to the next, from this thought to that, from one person to the other. A man of passing interests and flights of fancy, a sweet but daydreaming romantic with a loose grip on reality.

    First impressions, hm? So right, yet so very wrong they can be.


  • Three small calling cards are slipped between these pages, containing a flowing handwriting in dark blue ink. The observant eye will easily note the similarity to the song sheet at the beginning of the book.

    @943eec25cf:

    "Isolde. I feel awful having asked you to do this. If things are too dangerous, I would prefer that you stop. You can't keep staring at that soul well, either. See me soon. We'll share a drink and take a breather.

    All the best and more. Nate."

    @943eec25cf:

    "Isolde,

    Are you about? I'd love to chat. - Nate."

    @943eec25cf:

    "Isolde,

    I have a bit of business to conclude in Oscura, and then one last meeting in Peltarch, and then I'm all set to depart.

    Also, could you consult Elvadriel on fixing Clandra in my room? Feel free to enter the room with her to fix it if you can. She needs sculpting advice and suggested you.

    Best,
    Nate"

    Lifelines

    He threw them out to me, simple slips of paper slid underneath my door to remind me that someone cared. I left the first on the floor, and the second. I didn't want comfort, a breather or a talk - I wanted only to drown in my own grief, amplified by the constant wailing of the Well of Souls.

    Painting the Well kept me busy, kept my thoughts from wandering to other dark imaginings, painting scenes I'd rather die than see before my all too detailed inner eye. Here, infront of the chasm and amidst the screams of agony, I felt at home. I belonged, my pain bought me that ticket and I wonder now, looking back, if that is why the visions took me. If my mindset then allowed me to be attuned to its nightmarish nature, harmonizing with the mournful dirges rising from the depths?

    I expect I'll never know, but what is certain is that Nate would not allow me to drown. When the notes went unanswered, when my absence from the College stretched out, he came for me, armed with Reyhenna's presence as though expecting he might have to physically drag me away.

    He was not who I wanted to see - there was only one person I truly wanted to see and his absence was a gaping hole in my heart. I felt annoyed, tried to make them go away, then persuade them to let me stay to finish my work. But no. Nate was adamant - I was to come back to the College, we were to eat sweet morsels and drink fine wine and Reyhenna ~would~ carry me if that's what it took.

    I saved myself the humilation and walked, sullen and wrapped in inpenetrable gloom. Nate kept smiling, kept chit-chatting amicably, kept pouring wine into my glass, into Reyhenna's, into Helena's as she joined us. I felt wretchedly unappreciative, but couldn't shake my misery, not even if I'd wanted to. Not even when the ghost of a beautiful woman appeared, imploring us to aid her in reuniting with her true love on the one night in a century that allowed them to meet.

    True love. What a load of bullcrap.

    My bitterness surged and I tried to refuse to go, but Nate was relentless.

    "Even a gloomy Isolde is better than no Isolde at all", he insisted, smiling. He seemed to actually mean it. How could he possibly mean it, when even ~I~ was sick of me, sick of this dark miasma that seemed to bleed out in all directions?

    We fought angry spirits in a dreamlike world of inbetween, the light muted and moonlight dancing in shimmering rays through the treetops. When the moon stood just right, at the stroke of midnight, it would hit the statue of the ghost's cavalier knight, and he would come to life. Utterly romantic - the sort of stuff I used to lived for, in a life time not so distant from now. But I felt only numbness and nausea.

    I turned away from the scene, counted the minutes until we could leave. Nate was enraptured, as though he meant to savour it for both of us, Helena in tears and Reyhenna, blessed be, rolling her eyes.

    Afterwards, I went straight to sleep, too exhausted to resist it but waking with the same sick, churning feeling in my gut. And a pounding hang-over. How many glasses had he poured me, really?

    A light knock on my door, shaking me out of my stupor. How long had I sat there after dressing, just staring at the wall?

    "Isolde, are you there? Can I come in?"

    He sat beside me on the bed, his eyes so full of sympathy, of gentle warmth and concern. He knows what it's like, he told me so the other night. He's been in that same dark spot and it was Zyphlin who helped him out of it. A fellow bard, a friend - he wants to be that friend for me now.

    I felt so tired. So defeated. He put his arms around me and I cried.

    –-

    A catastrophic attempt at talking to Cormac, made impossible by Nuwairah's intervention. A nightmarish three-way argument, ending so badly that he claimed to want neither of us.

    Yeah right.

    Hurt and reeling, I took Elvadriel's invitation to Oscura, investigating the Well and again it sucked me in, tore out whatever stuffing I had left and left me screaming, near death's door. I saw something in my vision, a clue to the mysterious man suspected of drawing on its powers, but whatever small satisfaction that brought, despite the toll it took, it was eradicated by the sight of Nuwairah kissing Cormac, upon my return. It was a deliberate display and much more painful than anything the Well could inflict upon me.

    I had to leave. Not just the Commons, but Narfell itself - it's too small a world for me not to see them and I couldn't, I just ~couldn't~ stand it. It hurt too much. I wrote a farewell letter to Cormac, far too long, far too nice, but I no longer believed that I'd get to say any of those things face to face without her being there.

    Nate was upset. He didn't want me to go, he ~really~ didn't, but this time it was me who was adamant.

    Nothing he said could sway me and despite resisting, he knew it. "I want to show you something first, though", he insisted, but the look on my face seemed to sink through even his cheer, brought a melancholy to his sparkling blue-green eyes. Until he smiled again, declaring that he would come with me.

    "We'll travel the world, Isolde. Anywhere you want to go, it'll be an adventure!"

    I gaped. Where have you been the last few weeks, Nate? Haven't you noticed I'm horrible, horrible company, a veritable sinkhole of self-pity, anguish and bitterness? Are you some sort of masochist to keep seeking to spend your time with me?

    He laughed. It was a beautiful laughter, impulsive and genuine, musical as it rolled off his tongue. He shook his head, smiled at me as if I was very slow and told me again - even gloomy Isolde is better than no Isolde at all.

    This time I believed him.


  • "I want it all", he said.

    I had given him everything - my time, my joy, my admiration, laughter and lust. My heart, exposed and raw, my words and thoughts equally unguarded, my trust, my body. My tears, beyond count.

    But my all was not enough.

    "You elevate me", he said. And it's true. When we first met, he was not a well respected man. A loud-mouth, a braggart, all bark and no bite. The guy who talks big and then dies. A lot.

    With me, he didn't die. I believed in him and as though charmed by fate, he lived through every death-defying encounter on our adventures. Until we stood face to face with Rass - until ~they~ stood and whispered jointly to make a grand and stupid point, picking the impossible fight. I stopped believing.

    With me, he grew. His worst sides curbed, giving room for something softer to emerge, something more considerate and nuanced. People listened to him, with me on his arm. When his temper flared, I calmed him and he reasoned instead of cursing up a storm. He became respected, both in combat and out of it.

    With him, I was given looks of disbelief, frowns of disapproval. "Oh Isolde", sighed Darvan at the black on my lips. "If you let that brute touch you, you are not the woman I thought you were", said Raryldor. I didn't care. I didn't care that he was admired and I looked down upon for our union, because I loved him so.

    I elevated him and was downtrodden in return. Lied to and shamed.

    How could he ask me for everything and not give the same in return? How could he possibly think I'd agree, when everything I've said and done has made it blatantly, painfully clear how I feel?

    He apologized once and the sentiment was true, the words and his fear of losing me all true - but even that was made a lie of when he asked her to stay and didn't tell me about it.

    "Polygamy isn't uncommon in certain cultures", she said, reproaching me for saying flat out no as she must have known I would. "Why do you have to be so categorical?"

    For the same reason that you keep such a tight leash that he must tell you if and when he comes to see me, for the same reason that you seek to monopolize his time and attention, I thought. She even admitted feeling hurt and jealous when he was with me, but maintained that we could "work things out" and share.

    But it's delusional. It's a lie, a fantasy and at some level, they must both have known it. They must have.

    It's strange and ironic how Chirade's trap is what ultimately set me free. The day after our reconciliation, after our very first night together, he was back with her. My bleary eyes saw what they'd been doing with brutal clarity as I came to, finding myself chained to a bed and Cormac hanging in a cage nearby, Nuwairah trapped behind bars opposite me.

    Matching little outfits in black, the sort they love to make for each other, sand in their clothes, on their skin, on her exposed chest. I gave him everything, I let him be my first and it wasn't enough for even one day? I stopped believing.

    I wanted only to get away, to flee as I had first intended and the urge was so strong that it nearly crippled me. But try as I might, I was stuck in this triangle, and it looked set to kill us all. Powderkegs surrounding my bed, a fire burning under Cormac's cage, the wall behind Nuwairah moving slowly, relentlessly closer.

    Choices to be made, sacrifice one for the other. Let her die and you can live, you can have him all to yourself and be happy. But I was already unhappy and her death would accomplish nothing but to crush what little there was left of my self-esteem. No. No, no one's going to make me do anything I don't want to do, or be someone I don't want to be. No.

    Fuck you, Chirade.

    The others had choices too, similar in nature. Cormac pushed his away, refused to choose, rendering himself effectively useless. He roasted in the rising flames, rattling the cage in futile fury. I could still move my arms, began to search the powderkegs around my bed for a key to fit the locked lever Nuwairah said was on her side of the bars.

    Chirade appeared, more than once, to fuel the fires of dissent. "You know you hate her, I've seen your suffering, the floods of tears you've shed. Why don't you just let her die?" Because, jerk-off, I want to be able to live with myself afterwards. Because you don't get to dictate my actions or play with my feelings. They're MINE.

    The kegs held traps, I could barely pull my hand back in time to keep it attached to my arm, which was torn and bloody by the time I was done. Cormac nearly dead from the flames, the wall starting to press Nuwairah against the bars. But then I felt it, a small hard metal object.

    My bloodied fingers closed around it slowly, exploring its shape. Definitely a key. I pulled it out, unlocked my chains and threw it to Nuwairah. Jointly, we worked our way out of the rest of the trap, all three of us alive.

    It became so clear to me afterwards. I knew what I had to do, regardless of how little I wanted to. Cormac could not, ~would~ not choose and Nuwairah would never yield an inch, never let him go, not even to save herself. We'd escaped Chirade's cage but were still trapped in the same vicious triangle. And the only one who could save me, who could in fact set all of us free - was me.

    I used to think he was so strong. So forceful and daring, afraid of nothing. But he is selfish and weak. In that cage, I found my steel and though it was cold, though it was hurtful, seized it.

    I thought my only options were fight or flight and was ready to take the latter out of sheer desperation. But now I saw a third choice, and I made it, I ended things between us. Letting go was the hardest thing. I was sure I had no more tears to shed, but broke down completely when he walked out of the lounge and my life for good.

    I'm so tired now. So empty. But maybe that's good. Empty can be filled with other things, better things, the sort you would fail to see if you kept grasping desperately at what was already lost to you, clinging to misery, to memory and the endless could have beens.

    I have lost a lot, most of all the pieces of myself that I gave away too freely. I'm no longer that care-free girl who thought the world was hers, who believed in so many impossible things - but I am still Isolde.

    And that will have to do for now.


  • This book is bound in midnight blue leather, the pages within guarded by a small silver clasp and lock. The same soft scent of honeysuckle cling to the pages, the same artful hand obviously behind the contents, but there are fewer drawings, fewer unnecessary embellishments, swirls and exclamation marks in the text.

    The first page has been carefully ripped out, the page folded a few times to make the tear soft and even. In its stead rests a single song sheet, the edges of it slightly thumbed by repeated handling. It is written by another author, in a smooth and stylish hand.

    @aff870f10e:

    She has starry eyes
    The perfect cover for her darker side
    She does her best work at night
    Does she remember?

    Soft words, straight to my head
    Feet took her straight to my bed
    I remember every word she said
    Emotions high, can't be blamed
    Night's young, have no shame
    Whispering one another's name

    Let's leave those busy streets
    I know the perfect place to retreat
    A long cooridoor, "in-between"
    With paintings to other worlds we've never seen
    Does she remember?

    We don't care if it's late
    A blend of passion and fate
    We hold on to every chance we get
    We're so high, ready to break
    We're ready to raise the stakes

    Up top, up high; see the city lights
    An ideal view for our starry eyes
    An ideal place to sate our appetite
    We do our best work at night
    And we remember


  • The red book ends here, the rest of the pages missing, seemingly ripped out, while the book itself is tucked away under a pile of pillows in a closed cabinet located in room A7 at the Bardic College.


  • A beautiful, very expensive looking robe is depicted at the top of this page, made of soft velvet and shiny, sheer silks with intricate pearl-studded embroideries and fine ruffled lace.

    "~The Dress~

    I'd thought nothing could match the blue silken catsuit, but the moment I saw the dress, I just ~had~ to have it. The sensual richness of fabrics and depth of colour, the beautiful patterning of the fine embroideries, the exquisite spiderweb lightness of the lace, oh-so seductive in quality!~

    With an affable smile, the moustached mage - not Akseli dear readers, but a charming sorceror by the name Salin - offered to sell the desired garnment to me for 500 gold. I stared, stroking the plushness of the velvet, the cool and sheer silk, noting the gown held magic too. Magic designed to further enhance the wearer's beauty and allure!

    My savings took a hit, but my heart leaped in my chest as I took the surprisingly light garnment from Salin. I wasted little time in changing into it, even though Norwick's rustic south gate is hardly the right scene for so regal a gown. But the location did feature a very specific crowd of one, whose attention was suddenly so rapt that I felt near blushing.

    Not even the blue silks put that big a grin on Cormac's face, nor so wild a glint in those grey eyes, so intently focused that I felt as though his gaze bored right through the fabric to my bare skin underneath. I felt giddy, strangely exposed and decidedly, spectacularily beautiful. He bid me turn around and I twirled, gossamer lace and flowing silk fluttering with the movement.

    A low, guttural sound, somewhere between growl and grunt, and an even wider grin as I came back around. I hadn't expected a full gown to have such an effect, but it fits snugly in all the right places, and the shimmer of the fabric ~is~ distinctly flattering. I wanted to bask in my crowd of one's attention all day, but I also didn't want to spoil the regal look by blushing like a school girl. On the pretence of concern about mud and wood splinters causing tears or snags, I changed back, still feeling a warm glow of smug assertion inside.

    A few days later, we ran into a morose Elvadriel, just outside Peltarch. After the Sahuagin's cruel 'Dead Elf' slur, she's been experimenting with a new look, something warmer and more approachable, but was not quite content. I suspect there was something more to it too, she seemed downcast, weary, all in all distinctly in need of cheering up! And so, hoping my friend would feel as beautiful, irresistable and royal as I had, I gave her the dress. It's the least I can do for all the encouragement and affection she lavishes upon me - though I can't claim it didn't sting, just a little, to see Cormac's black lips grin just as wide for her. Still - it ~is~ a fabulous dress… and it fit her perfectly.

    ~Sigh~

    I'm getting mired ever deeper, dear readers, into this sinkhole of attraction. I've ceased waiting for it to rain to scoot up close, to slink an arm around his back, or even drape both my arms around him. Have I no shame, you wonder? But I do (unfortunately). Just not enough to stop myself from inching ever closer, stretching the boundaries of propriety with a touch, a whisper, a small kiss to his arm (ugh, those arms!).

    He must feel ~something~ in return, mustn't he? At the very least, he's flattered and enjoying the attention, but I think I didn't just imagine how he huffs in jealousy when I compliment other men, or that when I don't put my arm around his, he eventually pulls me close regardless. At least sometimes.

    ~Sigh!~

    If he'd just kiss me already, then I'd ~know~! He kisses my hair sometimes, softly, affectionately. And other times, he huffs incomprehensibly and walks off.

    It's driving me crazy, but Akseli cooes and purrs teasingly, calling it love, going as far as claiming the two of us couldn't stand to spend even one night apart. In fact, that's the claim that spurred the soon to be legendary Boys Night Out.

    A night of drinking and male camradery, bonding over whatever it is men do in the company of men. Akseli was the ringleader, convincing first Cormac, then the Shaundakulite priest Krovel (an amicable fellow red-head) and, with a good deal more persuasion from the rest jointly, the paladin Darvan 'Justice' Roth (handsome in a well-groomed, shining knight fashion).

    Tch. As if I care if they have a roaringly good time, drinking and fondling strippers or whatever! Except Darvan would probably be a nay-sayer to most whatevers, guessingly... and it's not like I ~need~ Cormac to have a good time myself. I can have lots of fun, oodles and heaps! With...

    With the ~Girls~! Ha, take that, boys club! Elvadriel, Naomi and I, joined eventually by a delightful new aquaintance called Jennifer, started our own little bar crawl. But it wasn't so much a crawl as a skip and lounge and gossip tour, from the steamy hot tubs at the Regal Maid to a pillow fight and a picknick outside the gates, with oh so many drinks.

    It's all a little blurry, but some details stand out. At one point, Elvadriel brought out a whip (ow!) and a frisky Naomi scorched the plains outside with a bombardment of lightning (note to self: powerful arcanists and alcohol do not mix). There was a pillow fight, and a game of truth or dare. Apparantly Cormac is a '9 out of 10' in Elvadriel's book.

    I recall being pressed on that subject, wriggling and evading as best I could before I called it a night and stumbled off. Truth: Am I 'in love' with Cormac?

    Love is too big a word, too weighty and frightening. In lust, I'll easily admit to. Attracted to, yes. Great big yes. It's not just a physical attraction though. I like how his ~mind~ works, how he doesn't just indulge and follow my flights of fancy but adds his own, painting colourful scenes and spinning lurid twists to whatever plot is hatching in his mind or mine.

    He has the soul of an artist, the voice of a devil and the most wicked sense of humour, both quirky, poetic and downright naughty. He makes me laugh. I like the way he laughs, too!~ I like a lot of things about this man, dear readers, so many that to list them would bring tears of boredom to your eyes, but I can't call it love. Not yet.

    Not until he kisses me."


  • This page features a burning tower, flames and billowing smoke obscuring parts of the scene. Shadowy figures run in panic from brutal, axe-weilding men, while the red-headed woman hides behind a rock, an arrow knocked in readiness of a fight.

    "~The Tower Arcane~

    Elvadriel has grand ambitions, as befits a lady of such skill and might. Most dear to her heart is the dream of a mages enclave (or conclave, or circle, or whatever word we shall ultimately decide upon!). The local Spellweaver's Keep doesn't measure up to these grand dreams, and so Elvadriel has taken it upon herself to create something new instead, starting with gaining favour with one of the city's newfangled nobles, Baron Thom Tiller.

    This Tiller's a coarse farmer type, charming in a rustic and cheeky manner, but must surely make Siamorphe's faithfuls cry with frustration! He admits this readily and seems to have no qualms or regrets about his lack of courtly demeanour. Thus my attempt to smooth a path for Elvadriel into his good graces was quite unnecessary, Tiller preferring to get down to business without frills and fuss.

    Tch! I do so adore the proper frill and fuss, it's like a fanciful wrapper, making even the most mediocre of gift contents beautiful.

    Though, to Elvadriel the permission to build on Tiller's land is far from mediocre. She's positively delighted and is already plotting the layout of the new premises, with classrooms and laboratories and dozens of libraries. Myself and Naomi, two of her prospective members to be, have rather less scholarly fancies however:

    A stage! Hot springs and a massage parlour! Bronze-skinned manservants! Pillows!! An entire ~fortress~ of pillows, plush and velvety…

    We lounged abut on mounds of pillows in the archmage Maria's tower, weaving these dreams idly as Elvadriel organized a trip to another mage's tower some distance off. She wanted to compare notes, strike up good relations and with some hope, start a fruitful future exchange of knowledge and arcane gizmos and geegaws.

    We set off in the morning, a large group of travellers from several walks of life, but mostly magic, including Elvadriel of course, Akseli, Naomi, Sheserai, Abigail and others for muscle. The mood was bright and once arriving at the tower, we found it a lively and bustling place, filled with not only wizards and sorcerors, but bards and merchants and handimen of all sorts.

    However, the quirky elven mage greeting us directed us towards the nearby wilderness, before we could gain access to the tower proper. Apparantly a hermit held the key, and we'd need to find him first, to be approved I guess! Without questioning their peculiar customs overly, we set off to find this hermit, travelling through a forest filled with wintery beasts, great and small, and all of them ravenous for succulent arcane-flavoured meat!~

    After much running, walking and fighting, we found the hermit perched atop a hillside, peering down at us with bemusement. This cryptic, nutmeg-mugged fellow of halfing stature eventually granted us the unlikely key - a censer, meant to waft the right fragrance onto us all and thus allow entry to the tower.

    But just as we were about to start wafting the censer about, we saw smoke from an entirely different source rise up from beyond the hills in dark billowing columns - fire, fire in the mages camp!

    Our party made all possible haste back, but the bustling and care-free place we had left was now transformed into a scene from the pages of a horror story. Fires everywhere, the smoke bitter and acrid, stinging eyes and lungs. But I'd rather the smoke than seeing clearly the wreckage of what was but a few hours ago a happy place. Now, all was death and ruin, smoke and fire.

    Figures moved in the haze, tall and purposeful, axes swinging. Others tried to flee, only to be cut down cruelly, joining their friends and comrades in death. I stumbled across the arm of the smiling bard I'd greeted on arrival, dead eyes staring at the sky, her chest a gaping maw of broken ribs.

    We fought the axe-weilding raiders, a rough and hectic struggle, but too late to save anyone. The tower itself collapsed when we attempted entry, all the treasures within crumbling. 'The library!', cried Elvadriel, distraught.

    Despair was near at hand, but it soon became obvious that the raiders we had fought were but finishing the job, stragglers from the main force which had taken off with their collective bounty. Enraged, Elvadriel called for a chase!

    We caught them near the base of the mountain side, summoning the party's last resorts to win the fight. A handful of children were liberated from a future as slaves, and a whole lot of booty stolen from the tower itself. The children, now orphaned, I kept my distance from, though plenty of others tried to soothe them. But really, what words will fix anything when your entire world is shattered? I saw the look in their eyes and steered in the other direction, to not feel that misery sink its claws into my heart.

    Focus on the bright and beautiful - that's the way to cope, Isolde!~

    Back in Maria's tower, the spoils were divided, and such spoils they were, oh me oh my! I'd heard about the adventurer's trade sometimes yielding real treasure, but this is the first time I'd ever had a taste of it myself. Despite a relatively low roll of the dice, I dare say I made out like an absolute ~bandit~.

    An elven-styled rapier of such exquisite beauty that my heart jumped in my chest was the first pick, oh happy day! Next, a chain shirt with a nifty set of enchantments for both protection and stealth - so nifty that I could overlook how ghastly it looked, and that it is a fair few pounds heavier than I'd prefer - and finally the silken catsuit. Oh, it's breathtaking, the fabric soft and shimmering, flowing like living water onto my skin!~

    I don't for a moment regret shaming Akseli into letting me have it, least of all since that catsuit earned me a long-awaited stare by a certain set of storm-grey eyes. Finally, the sort of stare I often have to reign in myself, lest his big head explodes from the attention - except if I'm sketching. It's alright to stare then, not just legitimate but downright necessary!

    It feels so good to have that stare returned, to have his eyes linger and caress. It feels even better when he puts his arm around me, unbidden, his hand on my thigh, spreading warmth and tickling tendrils of excitement. His fingers, tugging and teasing my curls for no apparant reason but wanting to. There's a softness in that touch, in the way he pulls me close. A tenderness which makes me feel precious.

    Akseli claims that the fact Cormac hasn't made a move, hasn't tried to kiss, grope or bed me, means that I am special. Different from the rest. I'd like to think that's true, but I can't think straight about any of this. I've never felt so uncertain before, so insecure - I know I'm beautiful, I always have been. To be the one wanting throws everything on end, but maybe, just maybe I'm not alone in feeling this way?

    I wish he'd kiss me, without invitation, without permission. Without being asked, because he just couldn't help himself. I want him to want me. To lose sleep over me, tossing and turning until the bedsheets are tangled and twisted. Then it wouldn't just be me."


  • The following pages bear a stylized friese of Kuo Toa and Sahuagin, both fish-like monstrosities baring sharp teeth and weilding a variety of equally sharp weaponry.

    "~Of Scales and Fins~

    Just when I thought I'd shaken the fear of that first (and so far only) visit to the dread Kuo Toa caverns, they turn up right at my proverbial doorstep. I'd stopped but a stone's throw from the innner gates to swap a few words with Gnarl, a sturdy dwarven warrior with a bushy brown beard, when it happened - a fishman assassin turned up out of the blue, striking at the dwarf's back with twin blades.

    I barely had time to scream before the rest revealed themselves, hissing in hatred and stabbing wildly at Gnarl. My shouting alerted the nearby guards who rushed in to assist, and the attack was quickly repelled. But what drove these creatures from their caves for such an obviously suicidal strike?

    We caught a glimpse of further scaly, bug-eyed Kuo Toa, seeming to make their way towards the nearby swamps, and decided to follow. Initially, everything seemed calm and without a tracker with the group, we found no trace of our foes. But then… sweet Lady Firehair, then the fetid swampy waters bubbled, and an omnious wind set the trees rustling and shaking. Or was it really the wind?

    From the treelines, from the dank waters, they rose. Chests sliced open, scaled hide rotten and torn, their googly eyes cold and dead but for the flame of undying hatred seeming to spur their shambling motions. Just like the living of their kind, they seemed to focus all their efforts on Gnarl, hissing and wailing but a single word.

    'Dessstroyer...'

    These were tougher foes and even the likes of the mighty Gnarl found himself bleeding. I sang and cheered, but was rewarded ill for my efforts by the spiteful, unappreciative codfaces. Just when you think Kuo Toa can't get any fouler, they go and turn undead on you. Tch!

    From one foul fishface to the next, as the following day saw Elvadriel and myself most rudely summoned to Captain Sticks ransom exchange. We had long since decided not to risk the good captain's life by attempting any type of violence or trickery, but I could feel every fibre of my being bristling against these cold, clammy thugs of the Icelace.

    The tentative plan had been to make the exchange and then, once our captain was liberated, give underwater persuit. But our sharkheaded foes had ensconsed themselves deep within the misty caves by Peltarch's shore, threatening harm to the local fishermen as though to drive the point home further. They called the shots, and we had little choice but to obey unless more blood would flow than warranted.

    But we brought backup, just in case.

    The stripe-finned leader awaited, being every bit as aggrivating as I recalled from our first encounter. 'Princess Nothing', he called me, mockingly, and referred to the dear Elvadriel as 'Dead Elf'. Ugh! I swallowed back my pride and that raging, rebellious side of me that always resents being pushed around. I know the sort of damage that halberd inflicts and more so, we had Captain Sticks to consider. I can don a smile like others do their armour, and presented that utterly rude ruffian with as much smoothness and poise as I dare say he has ever seen. Pearls for swine, hrmph!

    He couldn't even be gracious in victory, making crude complaint that we hadn't filled the steel crates to the brim - crates which, I must point out dear readers, were never specified in size! I rather think we erred on the side of generosity! Complaints aside, the exchange went off without a hitch and a pale, obviously quite shaken Sticks was delivered to us, unharmed but for the mental scars of being in such ungraceful creatures claws, confined to a cold stone cell accessible only through underwater ways. And given a diet of... ugh, I'd rather not specify, good readers, I'd really rather not!

    I shudder to think what that poor, brave old man went through, but at least he's safe now and our debt of gratitude somewhat repayed. Elvadriel came up with the brilliant notion of a fundraising event to help pay for a new river boat, something I shall be certain to speak loudly and often of, with all the persuasive powers at my disposal!

    Hopefully, that's the last I shall ever see of those vile Sahuagin. But the Kuo Toa would not stay down for long. Again and again they rose from the swamplands water, always droning the same hateful phrase: 'Dessstroyer..' It turns out there are grudges so deep that death won't suffice to end them - the fishmen, decimated in untold numbers over the years by the persistant efforts of Gnarl in his avid and habitual cleansing of their caves, have pledged to end his life at all costs.

    A more large scale attack occurred just last night, as a glorious full moon shone down on the Jewel. Commotion at the outer walls, undead fishmen rising in waves upon waves. A good number of people rushed to the fray, magistrate D'Arneau, Hen, the scandalously scantily clad sorceress Naomi and likely others. And Cormac. Ah, Cormac, fighting shirtless in the moonlight!~

    I was so inspired that I had to sketch him afterwards, outside the stables as we made our way back into town. He posed quite willingly, especially with the buxom Naomi as the swooning damsel on his arm. She's gorgeous and wears next to ~nothing~ - and I was rather expecting Cormac to make more of a grab at the situation. Sometimes I wonder if I've got him all wrong and all that loud-mouth talk is really just talk. Is it possible that he is, in his own way, something of a gentleman?

    It seems whenever we touch (which happens with increasing frequency despite my best intentions) that the initiative is always mine. I sit beside him, I take his arm, I lift my cheek up to be kissed when we part. Is he being a gentleman, respectful of a lady's wishes, or... oh dreaded or, is he just humouring me? Perhaps Elvadriel really ~is~ paying him, and all the time he spends in my company is just a covert bodyguard job!

    ~Ugh~

    Why am I being so self-conscious about this? I find myself begging for compliments, the smallest signs of favour causing unreasonable glee. Cormac, sitting about as the rest of the adventurers present took off for a trip. I backtracked, asked if he would come along. 'Why?', he asked, scratching his belly in idle indifference. 'Because I want you to', I replied. And he rose, just like that, to follow.

    Joy!~

    Except of course, if he's my secret bodyguard, payed off for the task...

    Ugh, I'm being ridiculous, I know! Please don't judge me, gentle readers! Worst of all, people are starting to take notice. A moustashio'd Legionnaire called Akseli makes ill conceiled jibes at my expense, to which I can only give my best huff and hope it's enough. I still can't help myself. I can't not touch him, in whatever little way I can get away with within propriety and reason.

    To draw his likeness is the perfect excuse for a good stare though, the recent close-up I did of his face still alarmingly vibrant in my mind's eye.

    Stop it Isolde, stop obsessing! Stop thinking about his lips and what they would taste like, if you were to offer him something other than your cheek to kiss. Stop, before you make a fool of yourself and he walks off to the next conquest, smug and smirking.

    Just focus on your novel. Pirate Captain Randolpho, shirtless with a knife between his teeth. Now if that doesn't cause collective sighs of yearning amongst the womenfolk of Peltarch, then you really are in trouble."


  • An eye-jarringly ugly Hag features on this page, tall and gaunt with saggy skin and a madly cackling expression as it towers over the terrifyed red-headed woman, shackled to the floor within a pentagram as red as her hair.

    "~Beauty and the Beast~

    Dear readers, prepare for a chilling tale, darker than most my pen is prone to write, for in truth I have always loved escaping to happier places through stories, rather than dark and frightening ones. But this tale spun itself around me, casting yours truly as the Maiden Fair, soon to find herself in Distress.

    It began as simple adventure, a party gathering to slay trolls in the swamplands north of the blighted ruins of Jiyyd, for little other reason other than the fight itself (this is often called 'patrolling' to make it sound more respectable). It seemed exciting, I'd never seen that part of Narfell nor an actual troll, and as the party seemed able and strong, I decided to tag along for the ride. As did Cormac, to my probably ill concealed delight.

    I felt safe, initially. The party was full of heavy hitters, encased in strong metal casings - Abigail, Alvaniel, Silver and Theaon, but as I was soon to learn quite bitterly, strength and might in combat is no guarantee at all that the weakest in the group will be protected.

    We picked up an elderly mage along the way, his steps rickety and so slow that the rest of the party were all but chomping at the bit once we arrived to Heroes Bluff. The irritability was visible in the group, but at least initially they did wait every so often for the old man to hobble along.

    Once inside the ruins, the Quasits were acting up, being even more pesky than their normal obnoxious selves. 'Get the pretty one, get heeer!' one cried out, swooping at me. And another, all screeching the same mantra. Tch, annoying little runts! But at least they showed some taste, I thought to myself. Their odd behavior was payed little heed however, as the group made a beeline for the swamplands, the fighters clearly thirsting for blood.

    And blood, there was, the swamp practically boiling with angry, warty-hided and hulking trolls, assailing us from left and right. Ugh, so ugly!~

    My arrows couldn't even penetrate their thick,disgusting hides, and I focused mostly on running out of harm's way, singing at the top of my voice. Swords and axes flashed, the blood ran red and trolls were felled with brutal efficiency.

    But further in, a sight that stopped the slaughter in its tracks and sent chills down my spine. The corpse of a woman, clad in beautiful youthful garb, but horribly withered and desiccated, as though someone or something had sucked her dry of life until only a hollow husk remained. She was once a person who cared for her appearance, I could tell, well kept nails on the dried up remains of her fingers. And her face… sweet Sune, her face, a petrified mask of agony!

    Around the body, a pentagram had been drawn, glowing crimson red. A sacrifice, a dark ritual? But for what cause, and who would do such a horrific thing? The old man hobbled up, grateful I think, for his chance to shine, but instead of being intrigued by the mystery, the calloused party wanted only to leave the scene, take the body with them and return home.

    'We should see she gets a proper burial', says one, seeming more interested in disposing of the remains than avenging the fallen, let alone preventing whatever evil had done this from seeking a new victim. 'Our spells are fading', says another, and while the old man was still pondering and musing, they began to wander off.

    A ~real~ challenge presents itself, a mystery, something new and exciting, and then the valiant troll slayers want to leave? I could scarcely believe my own ears - isn't this why one goes on 'patrol', to find lurking danger, the unexpected things that you wouldn't ever have known were there without looking? If predictable is all you want, why adventure at all?

    Without having actually decided a strategy, the group's more restless souls wandered on, deeper into the swamps, the rest of us (certainly me) trailing along in some confusion about where we were actually heading. More trolls, swarming like angry bees in green and red, the fighting still strong. But group cohesion was not, and in one fell swoop, a red troll leaped across a stream to grab me, flinging me over its knobbly shoulder as though I was little more than a sack of flour.

    'CORMAC! Save me!'

    I saw him turn towards me, his raven hair flying, but the troll ran off as though it had hellfire fuelling it, ignoring my attempts to struggle free, ignoring my loud protests screamed at its ugly head. Ugh, UGH! How dare it touch me with that warty hand!?! I tried to cling to anger and outrage, but as it ducked into a rancid cave, leaving daylight and my potential saviours behind, fear washed over me in a sickening wave.

    I fainted, or maybe the troll had had enough of my screams and knocked me out. The momentary oblivion was bliss compared to the reality that awaited as I came to, my head spinning. I blinked to clear my vision, tried to stand and found sturdy cast-iron shackles around my feet. And a pentagram, glowing crimson red...

    A cold, malicious cackle broke the silence. I looked up from my forcibly prone position, and there ~she~ stood. A repulsively ugly Hag, crone-nosed and saggy-chested, thin stripes of black hair hanging like tapeworms from her oily scalp. I shuddered, trying to crawl further away from this hideous being who looked at me with such gleeful hunger, but could not escape my iron bonds.

    'Your beauty shall be mine!', the Hag crooned, incanting strange words to activate the pentagram. Pain, ~excrutiating~ pain as my life force, my youth and my beauty was ripped away, drained through the seal and into the Hag, whose skin smoothed and chest blossomed before my horrified eyes.

    I screamed.

    The pain was unbearable, indescribable, white dots danced before my eyes and darkness at the edge of my vision, threatening to suck me down into oblivion. My skin shrivelled, my hair turned pale and thin, like a dandelion past its prime. Aging, sagging, a weathered husk of skin and bone!

    My world was agony and death the welcomed rescuer, by the time the party reached the Hag's lair. Sounds of battle echoing down the corridor, voices crying out, indistinguishable to my ears. A small figure storming forth to battle the Hag, so diminuative in height that it must have been Theaon. With a spiteful shriek of rage, the Hag went down, and the magic ceased funnelling my life away. Dimly, I could hear the others, could feel the shackles being severed, my frail body shifted from the pentagram.

    But the pain... the pain remained crippling, I could neither stand nor sit, could not, would not lift my head to reveal this shameful, ugly face to my saviors. There was barely enough power left in me to speak, my voice a dry, wheezy whisper of protest. Cormac's leather boots, his handsome calves, standing near.

    The voices blurred, heavy boots tromped off. The elderly man's hand on my shoulder, trying to soothe me but bringing only pain. Cormac still there, pacing, tearing the Hag's heart out in helpless rage. It hurt to breathe, hurt to live, hurt more than all the above that he should see me like this, bereft of everything good about me. If I am not beautiful, then what am I? Who am I but a pitiful husk, hollow of content and worth?

    A fluid poured into my mouth, a temporary relief, but I was fading and part of me welcomed it. Darkness wrapped around me, a soft velvet blanket to soothe my aching, aging body. But I would get no such solace, not this day. A sharp jolt of pain as someone lifted me up in hard, metal-clad arms. Pain, pain, unbearable pain with every determined and uncaring boot step as Abigail carried me off through all of the swamplands, and past the Scar.

    I was too weak to struggle or protest. She claims to have saved my life by this rough-handled transport to the temple of Kelemvor, where Thander restored me to my normal, pristine self. But I can find no thankfulness in me for any of those who decided to slay the monster, but leave the maiden in distress.

    Cormac stayed with me, him and that old man the only ones who did. He may not have saved me, but what would a man like he know of such dark magic and how to cure the victims of it? The only one who could, the priest who had slain the Hag in the first place, obviously did not care enough to stay and complete the rescue.

    Bristling and cursing at having been left to babysit the old man through the troll-infested swamps, so as not to have a second victim to this trip's hazards, Cormac made his way to the temple some time later. The relief on his face was palpable when he saw me, though his temper remained dark and grim as we walked off slowly, stopping at the crossroads to talk.

    It matters that he stayed, that he cared and that he tried to save me, but I don't think that was good enough for him. Not the glory of killing the Hag, not the pretty maiden trembling in his arms. He grumped, grouched and looked about to refuse when I offered him my cheek to kiss, so that he'd know I ~was~ thankful. 'Enough of this cutesy stuff', he huffed, but then relented and planted a small kiss to my cheek.

    'Hrhmph... it 'is' very soft', he muttered afterwards, accusingly. But if the softness of my skin is what he'll remember, then I'm glad. I ~forbid~ the image of withered old Isolde to haunt him, to cast even the slightest shadow over my current beauty.

    Maybe one day, many a long years from now, I really will be old and withered. But I'll have used those years to fill myself to the brink with stories, experiences, love and lust and all things bright that the world can offer. I won't be an empty husk, if I live my life right. I'll still be beautiful, inside."


  • The red-headed woman at the top of this page is depicted crouching warily, an orb of light dancing on her dainty fingertips. Behind her, weilding a massive greataxe, the tall and handsome man from a few pages back looms, narrowed black-painted eyes scanning the inky darkness past the small circle of light - which naturally reflects and enhances his bare and beautifully muscular chest and arms.

    ~Isolde, Explorer Bold~

    With my new and improved pieces of stealthy equipment, emergency Invisibility spells and somewhat growing confidence, I decided to go exploring the nooks, crannies and omniously dark caverns of Narfell. All by my little lonesome at first, through the winding city streets of underground Oscura through the Nars pass and into a large abandoned camp, where once the Romani lived.

    It was exciting, being on my own in potentially dangerous and never before visited places! I envisioned myself an explorer, a treasure hunter, map-maker and conquerer, set to plant my proverbial flag into fresh soil and claim them, as my own. That is, until some pony-sized spiders caught sight of me and sent me running back, breathless and shaking!

    Ugh, they were ~huge~! Not fancying myself as Isolde, Cocooned Victim of Arachnids, I left the camp and continued on towards the Long Road and the river separating it from what was once the peaceful hamlet of Jiyyd. I'd been across before, but never on my own. Today, I'd boldly go where no Isolde had gone before, I vowed to myself in glee!~

    I took a different path, away from the ruins of the settlement itself and onto fields infested by scavengers, bugs and a handful of desperate men, so down on their luck as to roam the fields in search of whatever meagre shinies the wars of old have planted into the blighted ground. Some, I managed to slip past unseen, and felt like cheering out loud - always restrain such urges while attempting stealthy maneuvres, dear readers! - but some spotted me a bit too easily for my liking.

    Including, to my hickup of fear, a big and burly orc!

    That flea-infested ~thug~ came charging at me with fury in his piggy eyes, axe swinging wildly. I ran! And then I stopped, shouted out a challenge and thrust at him with the pointy end of my rapier! I even hit true!

    My lovely and lightweight ironwood shield - cleverly retrieved from the bodies of the Garagossans my party had previously slain - proved much better cover then the shoddy goblin buckler of old. The orc's nostrils flared in frustration, he grew frustrated and sloppy. I hit him again, and taunted his pitiful attempts to slay me with much more gusto than I actually possess - but shhh, it certainly fooled him!

    I won. I actually won, defeating a real orc, far stronger in muscle and far more ferocious than I! For a fleeting second, I felt like a warrior queen, beautiful and terrifying in equal measures - then I spied another orc in the distance and decided to quit while ahead.

    A broken tower ontop of a hill caught my eye on returning, and while my last spells held, I snuck inside that too, finding a tantalizingly empty chest and a path leading down. An eerie glow came from below, however, and strange unearthly voices echoed.

    To not go alone, but boldly return with back-up, my sense of self-preservation bid, and so I did!~

    I returned to Peltarch to find Cormac, scratching his bare belly in idle contemplation of things best left unknown. Refined, he is not, but ugh, ~so~ handsome that he could probably pick his nose in public without leaving a lasting impression of disgust. Though let's have that theory left untested, dear readers!

    He has, much to my puzzlement, changed his behavior towards me of late. If I didn't know better, I'd be tempted to think he's actually making an effort to be more pleasing, though I strongly suspect it's Elvadriel who has coerced him into what passes for good behavior.

    After all, she has made alarmingly specific mention of plans of some manner of chastity belt for me, to ensure my safety from lecherous men. I wouldn't put it past her to have threatened or bribed Cormac into curbing his behavior towards me. He's actually ~nice~, albeit in a grudging type of way, even paying me the odd compliment on occasion. Actual compliments, without crude comment or lewd suggestions!

    I had no problem convincing Cormac to help me finish my spree of exploration, returning to the spots where I had opted for caution. I don't think he knows the meaning of the word caution, though! We pushed on and on through the vast forests surrounding the old Gypsy Camp, past myriads of giant spiders and horrific Ettercaps, attempting to snare us in webs and poison us with toxins most potent.

    It was dangerous, I should have been frightened but I wasn't - not until I was so badly poisoned that I found my limbs heavy as lead and my breathing laboured, trying to slowly escape death on eight legs. And even then, the spider set on eating me found itself sliced through by an axe, swinging through the air like thunder!~

    So help me, but that death-defying courage is intoxicating, more so than any poison the spidery hordes possesssed. We fought and we laughed, and before I could blink the day was done. It was night, and the skies opened up to weep a cold and merciless rain down over Norwick. I plucked the webs off myself as best I could, huddling near the south gates campfire, the rain soaking me through and through.

    Cormac still lingered by the fire, looking obnoxiously unbothered by the rain, which simply trickled down the surface of his heavy fur cloak. When I commented on it, he gave a black-lipped smirk, inviting me to share the cloak's warmth. Another loitering camp fire adventurer chimed in, both quite obviously merely taunting.

    'Look at that beautiful woman, they'll say. What is she doing with that brute, that thug? Hrrhh… you'll look even better by such contrast.'

    I rose, walked over and sat beside him, accompanied by the satisfactory sound of jaws dropping. That alone was worth breaking my previous promise, dear readers, but oh.. oh, the warmth was bliss! I slipped my poor frozen arm around his (those arms of his!), leeching the heat from his body.

    He could have protested, grumbled or repelled my arm. He could have taken advantage, groped or made belittling comments. But instead, he just leaned against me, ever so slightly, and adjusted his cloak over my shoulders.

    I know what I wrote, good readers, not three pages back, I know! He should be so lucky, right? But I confess, I felt just a little lucky to find myself so sheltered, on that dark and rainy night. Besides, I was just using him for warmth, it doesn't count as ~touching~.

    No matter how good it felt."


  • This page is mostly text, though the depiction of a ring with an intricate gnomish design is found at the top left corner, and a beautifully carved shortbow at the bottom right.

    "A 'pity ring', he said, handing the pretty little lockpicker's delight over to me with a black-lipped smirk. I would have given a scathingly witty remark in response, but my stomach still whirled with unreasonable butterflies and my thoughts had scattered with them. Besides, it ~was~ a very nice ring. And he was giving it to me, for free.

    Out of pity.

    Ugh! He should be so lucky as to be allowed in my presence, let alone have me touch him in any small way! Oh why, why did I have to touch his arm like that? I was bartering away the potions I'd taken from the Mountain That Moved escapade - bottom of the barrel, Tymora smiled not - hoping to sucker him into a sweeter deal with a little smile and a stroke to his arm. Most men would melt, but he just smirked and called my bluff.

    Hrmph, fine! Or it would have been fine, if my little scheme had just failed. But it did more than fail, it backfired entirely! My fingertips tingled, my gut went 'thud' and then I just stood there, dumb-struck. He felt so good to touch, soft but firm, silk over steel. And suck finely sculpted steel at that!~

    But while I reeled on the inside, he was wholly unmoved and proceeded with the business at hand, striking a deal that wasn't nearly as rich in gold as I had intended. But the bow he traded me is quite pretty, with a subtle enchantment to increase awareness of one's surroundings. Ok, I like the bow and I love the ring. But he just had to call it a 'pity ring', as though to negate any possibility of my charms affecting him, like he was being grandiouse in the face of my obvious failure.

    Bah!

    I'll still take it. I want it, so why shouldn't I? But I'll never touch that man again, he'd have to get down on his knees and ~beg~ me first! Stupid Cormac with his stupid arms and stupid chest that I most certainly will NOT oil for him, even if he did agree to pose for my book cover. He's already way too smug, even not knowing my weakness. At least, I hope he doesn't know. Dear Sune, please let him think I'm just terrible at bartering and not an easy mark for another notch to his belt!

    I won't be used. I'll use him instead, I've even stolen his name in part for my romantic hero/villain/heartthrob: Randolpho!~ I'll make a whole series of it, casting him as pirate, prince, highwayman and lumberjack, all the stereotypical clichées imaginable, cheap and easy thrills for the bored housewives stuck in dreary arranged marriages. With that face, that ~chest~ on the cover, they'll sell faster than hotcakes at an outdoors market during a hunger crisis. I'll be rich, and I can pin all these accursed butterflies down in words so they won't bother me again!

    It's the perfect plan."


  • The following page is entirely taken up by the huge, hulking figure of an enormous earth elemental, a massive rock fist crushing something or someone to a vivid red smear on the ground. The red-headed woman is barely visible, drawn in only by a faint, dotted outline. She is completely dwarfed by the elemental which she peers at from behind a jutting slab of stone. In the distance, small black shapes weilding a variety of weaponry can be glimpsed, though whether they are running to or from the giant is unclear.

    The text itself starts on the adjoining page, beginning thusly:

    "The Mountain That Moved~

    Quite a good title, don't you think? Though I confess my knees are still rattling from the experience and a measure of guilt assails my conscience, I'm determined to wring all the good I can out of my adventures, this one included. It'll feel like the stuff of legend someday - just as soon as the sight of the elf's crushed and broken body stops flashing before my eyes, the moment I close them.

    ~Brrh!~

    Ghastly, truly my dear readers, for once I will spare you the explicit or suggestive detailing. If you fail to envision the scene, then rejoice! I wish I would fail in that respect, myself.

    Allow me to backtrack:

    Once upon the other day, Elvadriel drummed up a number of able adventurers and miners, to make good on our promise of rescuing the stoic river captain Sticks. It was by my reckoning a good, strong party, with a reassuring amount of metal to stand between myself and whatever monsterous beings that might try to thwart our mining. Rumours suggested an ample iron deposit a ways away from the ruined and blighted Jiyyd, tucked inside a cave where man-eating tigers lurked.

    Off we marched, several men and women from the local independant army they call the "Legion" fronting our expedition. All resistance fell before us, demonspawn amongst Jiyyd's ruins, shambling undead on the fields past the walls and packs of fierce wolves and worgs beyond. Swords flashed and bowstrings sang, death dealt with a shrug of hardened shoulders, nary a bead of sweat upon warrior brows.

    Until at last, the cave mouth gaped toothlessly before us. But the darkness within was lit by an unexpected, blood-red light - the jagged-edged sword of a heavily armoured man, who told us unceremoniously to shove off.

    So rude!~

    Elvadriel mumbled quietly, recognizing this unhospitable prick as a follower of Garagos, noted for having stirred trouble in the area before. After a talk with as little real attempt at negotiation from both sides, the fight was on, the man struck with magical fear and cut down as he jibbered, senselessly. Easy peasy!

    But not so easy that I didn't opt for safe rather than sorry, as we ventured inside. Oh invisibility, I love you so!

    Immediately ahead, we heard voices arguing and the distant clank-clank of mining. Everyone with warlike intent loves iron, these Garagossans obviously no exception. Our party pushed ahead, spying more red blades glowing omniously in the darkness. The fight that followed was brutal, vicious! All those seemingly inpenetrable armoured defences around me were slashed through and through, people crying out for help, bleeding their lives away upon the cold stone!

    Invisible, oh invisible salvation! I had exactly two healing balms tucked away from my previous scavenging, and exactly two is what it took to get those near death off its dread threshold.

    Isolde, Angel of Mercy!~

    I danced about in glee despite our grim situation, singing cheering songs to urge the fighters on. Elvadriel's magic crackled, sinking clouds of darkness over the foe, screams cut short within. I thought for sure the tide was turning when we saw one Garagossan running not at us, but away, with the sort of panicky haste only someone who knows all hope is gone can muster.

    Woo, go Team Ironclad, go!

    But wait…

    That soldier, the oh so frantically fleeing, she hadn't even looked our way. Rather, she ran from something further away, thumps and strangled death cries coming from the distance.

    Uh-oh.

    What's so bad that it sends those hell-bent on destruction running for the hills? Answer: when the hills themselves rise up to fight you!~

    The far-off chamber was host to a small army of earth elementals, hot magma glowing within eye sockets and through the joints of gritty fists. Walking hills, murderous rockslides - but all were dwarved by the giant in their midst. Dark stone, etched in molten lava, so tall its head scraped the ceiling, the Mountain that Moved casually flung a Garagossan soldier against the wall, leaving a red imprint of blood. A dozen more bodies lay scattered about the room, broken dolls with heads like smashed pumpkins, limbs in impossible angles.

    Uh... oh...

    Enraged and out of living dolls, the earthen army set upon us. It was bad, then worse as the Mountain itself started to move, the cave shuddering and shaking with each step. I sang and I hid, oh I hid for dear life as the fighting grew more and more desperate. Hit and retreat, hit and retreat, whittling away the rock, little by excrutiatingly little.

    Nothing seemed to harm the giant, tiny pebbles the only result of blows that would cut through flesh and bone, while each hit from those earthen fists was near shattering!

    That's when I had my ~idea~.

    Oh, it was a good idea - in theory. In my own head, it made the most perfect, seductive sense and I shouted it out as I ran, to anyone who would or could make reality of it.

    'Stone to Flesh, Stone to Flesh!'

    Imagine, dear readers, imagine that granite mass turned suddenly to blubberous flesh, collapsing under its own weight, soft, squishy and boneless. Blades would cut true, arrows pierce and within moments, the fight would surely be won!

    Brilliant! If only I'd have had the means to try it myself, I would have, without a moment's thought. Unfortunately, the only other person who shared my enthusiasm gave it just as little forethought.

    Hen, a stealthy legion scout, dropped out of cover to rub the Mountain's leg with a magical Stone of Fleshiness. But no sooner had she touched rock, than it touched back. A fist the size of an outhouse hit, leaving nothing but the sight I've already promised you not do describe in detail, dear readers! Do try not to imagine it.

    'You have to rub the stone ALL over the rock for it to work...', said a pale Elvadriel, when the fight was finally won. Everyone was bleeding, limping and exhausted, except for my invisible self, with nary a mark on my skin.

    We got the iron, enough for Sticks' ransom and then some, scraped Hen off the ground and returned without further incident. It was, by some standards, a success. At least in that it provided the resources we were after, and, to be quite honest, we could probably all have ended up wet smears with just a little less luck on our side.

    It even makes for the stuff of a thrilling story, so why can't I shake this feeling of guilt off?

    Words have power. Spoken with conviction and confidence, they can spur people to action with great or catastrophical result. I may be an incredibly ineffective killer by blade or by bow, but my words are a different story.

    Next time I have a 'brilliant' idea, I'll just shut up about it!

    Probably."