Written By Aerandir
Dec. 21, 2019, 10:17 a.m.(6/2/1012 AR)
Great dreams are foiled by the dawn.
Written By Aerandir
Dec. 19, 2019, 1:39 a.m.(5/25/1012 AR)
I saw you in your windowsill,
Singing with that gloomy trill;
O Nightingale, with such ease and grace,
Do you sing from your barred place!
Many rooms is your cage,
Downstairs, upstairs, I can gauge,
And even I with my outworn sword,
Could hear your troubled chords.
In your prison your master keeps you,
His form crippled and gnarled too;
A pious vulture of the ermine robe he is,
Seeking to always keep you his!
I looked upon your plumes many a-colour,
And I saw your naïve eyes go a-flutter;
Let me view you then, o Nightingale,
Free as you were without your metal veil.
Farewell, O Nightingale, goodbye!
One day I shall set you to the sky,
Once your bars lay a-broken,
Your heart's song shall be spoken.
Singing with that gloomy trill;
O Nightingale, with such ease and grace,
Do you sing from your barred place!
Many rooms is your cage,
Downstairs, upstairs, I can gauge,
And even I with my outworn sword,
Could hear your troubled chords.
In your prison your master keeps you,
His form crippled and gnarled too;
A pious vulture of the ermine robe he is,
Seeking to always keep you his!
I looked upon your plumes many a-colour,
And I saw your naïve eyes go a-flutter;
Let me view you then, o Nightingale,
Free as you were without your metal veil.
Farewell, O Nightingale, goodbye!
One day I shall set you to the sky,
Once your bars lay a-broken,
Your heart's song shall be spoken.
Written By Aerandir
Dec. 17, 2019, 11:27 p.m.(5/23/1012 AR)
I felt unsteady standing upon the leaky vessel that bore my weight across the sea, back to the mainland; toward Arx. The many miles I have travelled have been unhappy ones for the most part, but they are, if naught else, miles that I have travelled with my own feet. The same cannot be said for miles travelled upon a boat, I realise, a strange truth for someone so enraptured with the sea. The waters below me were dark, and maybe they held as many dangers as the darkest depths and quietest confines of the lands that I have walked within. The thought made me uneasy: unsurprising then that I stepped away from the edge of the boat, fearful that I might have slipped into its black envelope, and be sealed from the light of the open night sky forevermore. Such fears might be deemed irrational, out of place and wrong for a seasoned sailor, but who can say that there is any rationality to be had in the world beyond our towns and our villages? I have seen little, and wish I had seen less.
A contemplative moment carries the back of my rough, labouring hand across the prickling stubble of my cheek – grown somewhat longer and more uncouth than I am used to. I have neglected vanity in the season's recent cycles, though vanity was never held close to my heart. Seeing my reflection upon those murky waters – darker yet under the starry shade of the sky than they were by day – a striking awareness of the side-effects of my contemplative confinement overcame me. My face was, is, emaciated by self-neglect, and the fullness of my cheeks now gives way to a paler pallor and sunken characteristic heretofore not my own. My hair is ragged and brushes beneath my shoulders, and the ruby that marks the human lip is dull and disrupted by crease and tear of my own. My hollow example of the human spirit finds its resemblance upon the features of my body. I shall have to aright myself soon, for I do not wish to be mistook for some ill-omen or maddened hermit making its way through the city, as perhaps I have been for some time now across the southern reaches.
Others upon that boat tried to trade words with me, but I had little spirit for it. Soon again, they left me and cast askance glances – glances which I can now fully appreciate the uncertainty of, having caught a glimpse of my haggard visage not only in the waters that supported our collective journey, but also amongst the polished sea of fine mirrors. Another man might consider and ask the purpose for their travels to the eastern north, but I will not, and know that my dismissive demeanour will keep any from asking me the same question. I fear that I have no more answer to give than I have a willingness to provide any explanation. These days and nights, the circumstances of my existence have been so maddened by purposeless. Where once was an unfaltering optimistic idealism, there has been only a quiet and unattended request for serenity, cloyed by the inescapable memories of that which has shrunk my spirit so, yet today I began to feel the tug and pull of hope anew, glimmering in the horizon, in the visage of sister Dianna and her kindness and promises.
If only my thoughts articulated themselves so easily in their answers as in their questions. Darkness encroaches upon the city now, swelling and bolstering its shadows, and the pale sun which occasionally graced me through the spires and rooves has altogether abandoned the waking world already. The bright moon above shines splendidly upon the waters however, and I find again – even if only by coincidence – that my course follows that which the nightlights set out for me.
A contemplative moment carries the back of my rough, labouring hand across the prickling stubble of my cheek – grown somewhat longer and more uncouth than I am used to. I have neglected vanity in the season's recent cycles, though vanity was never held close to my heart. Seeing my reflection upon those murky waters – darker yet under the starry shade of the sky than they were by day – a striking awareness of the side-effects of my contemplative confinement overcame me. My face was, is, emaciated by self-neglect, and the fullness of my cheeks now gives way to a paler pallor and sunken characteristic heretofore not my own. My hair is ragged and brushes beneath my shoulders, and the ruby that marks the human lip is dull and disrupted by crease and tear of my own. My hollow example of the human spirit finds its resemblance upon the features of my body. I shall have to aright myself soon, for I do not wish to be mistook for some ill-omen or maddened hermit making its way through the city, as perhaps I have been for some time now across the southern reaches.
Others upon that boat tried to trade words with me, but I had little spirit for it. Soon again, they left me and cast askance glances – glances which I can now fully appreciate the uncertainty of, having caught a glimpse of my haggard visage not only in the waters that supported our collective journey, but also amongst the polished sea of fine mirrors. Another man might consider and ask the purpose for their travels to the eastern north, but I will not, and know that my dismissive demeanour will keep any from asking me the same question. I fear that I have no more answer to give than I have a willingness to provide any explanation. These days and nights, the circumstances of my existence have been so maddened by purposeless. Where once was an unfaltering optimistic idealism, there has been only a quiet and unattended request for serenity, cloyed by the inescapable memories of that which has shrunk my spirit so, yet today I began to feel the tug and pull of hope anew, glimmering in the horizon, in the visage of sister Dianna and her kindness and promises.
If only my thoughts articulated themselves so easily in their answers as in their questions. Darkness encroaches upon the city now, swelling and bolstering its shadows, and the pale sun which occasionally graced me through the spires and rooves has altogether abandoned the waking world already. The bright moon above shines splendidly upon the waters however, and I find again – even if only by coincidence – that my course follows that which the nightlights set out for me.
Written By Aerandir
Aug. 6, 2018, 3:46 a.m.(5/2/1009 AR)
My torment is at its end. I have at long last awoken from deep slumber, I am told. Many a moon spent in thoughtless, empty existence; bedridden. It feels as though the world has passed by me, and I am left behind to catch up on unwilling inaction and all the suffering I could not aid in preventing. The ignominy of this is only bolstered by my weakened state; my reflexes are sluggish, languid, and my instincts dulled and vacant. Familiar faces would be most welcome...
Written By Aerandir
Jan. 14, 2018, 10:20 a.m.(12/19/1007 AR)
This evening I had some much-needed privacy as I lingered at the shrine of the Lost; few come there, and even fewer have the audacity to disturb the peace of the rare few stray souls that find their way within. I found myself staring to the skies in the confines of the walled area past the garden, waiting for the sun to rise.
I think that is how my thoughts strayed to the devout of Mangata that I crossed paths with not long ago. I recalled the shapely figure beneath her humble robes, and then I felt guilty for thinking about a holy woman in such a way. What kind of man am I?
I paced restlessly as another question - one that has been gnawing at my mind for some time - came to mind.
What is my purpose? Why do I exist?
I have never truly had to dwell on the notion of it before. Only men and women such as the High Lords have have a clear, undisputed purpose; only the peers do. I am but a servant.
But then, my brethren in arms used to talk of destiny, of fate; the endless tapestry woven by the gods. They were of common blood, too. They believed their talents with the sword, the spear; the greatsword and the bow were godsend, and used such inner penchants in service of their liege lords or the Crown. So certain were they in their purpose in life that they left sons and daughters without fathers, wives without husbands.
Is this my purpose, to serve dutifully in service of the Crown, to perish safeguarding the Realm from this otherworldly threat? Perhaps. It is the choice I have made all these years, to serve. But a part of me wonders if I would even be remembered fondly, missed, for I have spend the better part of my life cultivating my skills, and little more. Perhaps I have avoided intimacy, friendship. The life I lead in dutiful service is a perilous one. For a long time now I have feared that one of these days, my prowess will prove insufficient, and I have no desire to leave a little boy fatherless as a result. I think that day is approaching, and swiftly. They say, after all, that these foes can drive a man into the gaping maw of madness through a mere touch; that I may slit my own throat, or turn on my own in a craze.
It frightens me, to not only die, but to die in vain and in such a disgraceful way, harming good men and women; perhaps even those closest to me. I would never wish for grim tales of such an ending to reach my wife, children, nor to be known for this... ignominy.
But to bounce a son on my knee...
To hold a woman I love more than life...
What is my purpose? Why am I here? Is this it; is it too late?
I think that is how my thoughts strayed to the devout of Mangata that I crossed paths with not long ago. I recalled the shapely figure beneath her humble robes, and then I felt guilty for thinking about a holy woman in such a way. What kind of man am I?
I paced restlessly as another question - one that has been gnawing at my mind for some time - came to mind.
What is my purpose? Why do I exist?
I have never truly had to dwell on the notion of it before. Only men and women such as the High Lords have have a clear, undisputed purpose; only the peers do. I am but a servant.
But then, my brethren in arms used to talk of destiny, of fate; the endless tapestry woven by the gods. They were of common blood, too. They believed their talents with the sword, the spear; the greatsword and the bow were godsend, and used such inner penchants in service of their liege lords or the Crown. So certain were they in their purpose in life that they left sons and daughters without fathers, wives without husbands.
Is this my purpose, to serve dutifully in service of the Crown, to perish safeguarding the Realm from this otherworldly threat? Perhaps. It is the choice I have made all these years, to serve. But a part of me wonders if I would even be remembered fondly, missed, for I have spend the better part of my life cultivating my skills, and little more. Perhaps I have avoided intimacy, friendship. The life I lead in dutiful service is a perilous one. For a long time now I have feared that one of these days, my prowess will prove insufficient, and I have no desire to leave a little boy fatherless as a result. I think that day is approaching, and swiftly. They say, after all, that these foes can drive a man into the gaping maw of madness through a mere touch; that I may slit my own throat, or turn on my own in a craze.
It frightens me, to not only die, but to die in vain and in such a disgraceful way, harming good men and women; perhaps even those closest to me. I would never wish for grim tales of such an ending to reach my wife, children, nor to be known for this... ignominy.
But to bounce a son on my knee...
To hold a woman I love more than life...
What is my purpose? Why am I here? Is this it; is it too late?
Written By Aerandir
Jan. 12, 2018, 5:52 p.m.(12/16/1007 AR)
Though I understand the gravity of the situation that surrounds the Compact, the bloodshed to come, lost lives to mourn, rebuilding to plan for; it bemuses me that some are very much intent on incessantly dredging up the war and disallowing others from living in the present. Yes, I am perfectly aware of the implications of three war fronts, the return of legends, and the work as well as vigilance that the looming war will demand of those waging it.
These may be the last few weeks of my life. Let me bloody enjoy them, let me laugh; let me enjoy good company. I have not forgotten what lies ahead - how could I?
These may be the last few weeks of my life. Let me bloody enjoy them, let me laugh; let me enjoy good company. I have not forgotten what lies ahead - how could I?
Written By Aerandir
Jan. 11, 2018, 8:04 a.m.(12/11/1007 AR)
Relationship Note on Ashkyr
It is good to have my brother back in the swing of things. Witnessing his more social side in the morn in the presence of gentry was melancholy, almost akin to times of old.
Let not the mainland winds redden your cheeks too much, hm? It's a rather unbecoming colour on you, darling brother.
Let not the mainland winds redden your cheeks too much, hm? It's a rather unbecoming colour on you, darling brother.
Written By Aerandir
Jan. 5, 2018, 6:13 a.m.(11/27/1007 AR)
I still linger beneath the receding canopy of trees that marks the split of the Grey River. But it is more than the sun can bear. It relents, finally, and leaves me here. The silence and solitude of night has become a more familiar friend to me than the face of man, yet here where the starry shade is eclipsed; peeking between the trees, I find myself more restless than the rivers during snowmelt of distant lands; lands that I have not seen, and perhaps I never will. The ancient woodlands that rise like a wall to discourage foolish entry into this place speak not to the simple man that I am. I stand before their hollow watch, but they take little heed of me. My shrinking spirit is of no significance to this time-stilled place.
The great powers of time and circumstance do not seem to take their toll upon the trees. Yet mere days; mere hours; no, the briefest of moments have made in me a change that I feel every day in my heart. With the downward thrust of my blade I cast all my happier emotions into the earth. And although the world is wide, it would be so easy for my feet to spur me back to that place as if I could call it a home. It is not a home, and any home I might have once called my own seems only a distant memory to me now.
The moonlight pours down through the smattering of canopy brushes above me, and stretches like fingertips through the foliage to something beyond. Me? Or something even further away than that? Guided away from the eternal unknowns of the woods, I follow the gaze of the moon and pray that to whatever place it might lead me, it will be a place that brings less restlessness than this one.
The great powers of time and circumstance do not seem to take their toll upon the trees. Yet mere days; mere hours; no, the briefest of moments have made in me a change that I feel every day in my heart. With the downward thrust of my blade I cast all my happier emotions into the earth. And although the world is wide, it would be so easy for my feet to spur me back to that place as if I could call it a home. It is not a home, and any home I might have once called my own seems only a distant memory to me now.
The moonlight pours down through the smattering of canopy brushes above me, and stretches like fingertips through the foliage to something beyond. Me? Or something even further away than that? Guided away from the eternal unknowns of the woods, I follow the gaze of the moon and pray that to whatever place it might lead me, it will be a place that brings less restlessness than this one.
Written By Aerandir
Jan. 3, 2018, 5:11 a.m.(11/23/1007 AR)
Excerpt from the Warriors of the Lyceum, a book in progress by I, Aerandir Elensar of Southport.
From childhood on, we hear tales of heroes in times of war. Their bravery and prowess become shining examples of the strength and glory that the Compact can achieve. Then, as childhood disappears, so do our dreams. How can battle prowess be any example to the life of a merchant?
We forget that these heroes live their life the same way as they fight their battle. As we can learn from them in battle, so can we learn from them to live and brave our challenges in life with all our heart. This book describes the ways of the warriors of Lyceum so they may be an example to us in life.
How is this to be interpreted, then? It may be in two ways; there is the literal sense, where warriors of the Lyceum are trained by similar principles for their warfare, but there is also the metaphorical sense, in which battles are challenges in life; where enemies are our own doubts and fears, and the path is the road to enlightenment and following our dreams.
The book is considered a work in progress. Not because it is incomplete, but simply because the path it describes is infinite and the wisdom of the path of the Lycene is endless.
From childhood on, we hear tales of heroes in times of war. Their bravery and prowess become shining examples of the strength and glory that the Compact can achieve. Then, as childhood disappears, so do our dreams. How can battle prowess be any example to the life of a merchant?
We forget that these heroes live their life the same way as they fight their battle. As we can learn from them in battle, so can we learn from them to live and brave our challenges in life with all our heart. This book describes the ways of the warriors of Lyceum so they may be an example to us in life.
How is this to be interpreted, then? It may be in two ways; there is the literal sense, where warriors of the Lyceum are trained by similar principles for their warfare, but there is also the metaphorical sense, in which battles are challenges in life; where enemies are our own doubts and fears, and the path is the road to enlightenment and following our dreams.
The book is considered a work in progress. Not because it is incomplete, but simply because the path it describes is infinite and the wisdom of the path of the Lycene is endless.
Written By Aerandir
Jan. 2, 2018, 5:15 a.m.(11/19/1007 AR)
I see a world across the stars,
On the bright shoals of the sea,
A house, sagging with age.
Within, a picture frame, covered in dust
Yellowed and warped by long years.
Of two young lovers,
Divided by death, united by time.
On the bright shoals of the sea,
A house, sagging with age.
Within, a picture frame, covered in dust
Yellowed and warped by long years.
Of two young lovers,
Divided by death, united by time.
Written By Aerandir
Dec. 31, 2017, 1:30 p.m.(11/15/1007 AR)
Standing atop a nameless hill and looking out over the pathway that leads along the Grey River, my thoughts turn to pondering how much of the land is covered by road. What worlds are to be seen beyond the southern reaches? To which ones might I travel, and will I find any peace in them? And indeed, is there any wisdom in the attempt? Such questions are not easily answered. What right have I to ask them?
I watch caravans roll down the roads towards destinations old and new, deepening the tracks that connect one life to another. The very existence of these roads is what bridges the lives of strangers, and connects one human to another. Too well-acquainted am I in recent memory with the dangers that lurk in the regions that lie beyond the sight of the roads, and too frequently do such dangers dare to make an appearance upon them. These days I am turning my blade to protecting these caravans against those dangers, rather than becoming that danger myself - would that I could say I was never such a danger, but there is folly to be found in reckless youth. But the past is written, and it is as enduring and unchangeable as the Mourning Isles that I have left in my wake, in the east.
The afternoon rests heavy on my shoulders, and the heat of the sun slips in through my gear and hardens the leather soles of my boots as I tread them to the ground. The birds of the coast burst from the tops of the trees like the memories of autumn. Far above the clouds, the great birds from the mountains circle in preparation for the intensifying winter. For now, the leaves are scarce and trees barren and summer is long gone and vacant, the land showing no hurried signs of moving forth into what shall undoubtedly be an even darker season. And I remain restless; unable to put my feet to any trod of the earth and let them hold there. The sun is disorientating whenever it does make its appearance, and beneath its blurry gaze the paths that lie before me are unclear.
Today I do not pledge Steadfast to the caravan I see pass beneath me from the hill. I could not bear the company.
I watch caravans roll down the roads towards destinations old and new, deepening the tracks that connect one life to another. The very existence of these roads is what bridges the lives of strangers, and connects one human to another. Too well-acquainted am I in recent memory with the dangers that lurk in the regions that lie beyond the sight of the roads, and too frequently do such dangers dare to make an appearance upon them. These days I am turning my blade to protecting these caravans against those dangers, rather than becoming that danger myself - would that I could say I was never such a danger, but there is folly to be found in reckless youth. But the past is written, and it is as enduring and unchangeable as the Mourning Isles that I have left in my wake, in the east.
The afternoon rests heavy on my shoulders, and the heat of the sun slips in through my gear and hardens the leather soles of my boots as I tread them to the ground. The birds of the coast burst from the tops of the trees like the memories of autumn. Far above the clouds, the great birds from the mountains circle in preparation for the intensifying winter. For now, the leaves are scarce and trees barren and summer is long gone and vacant, the land showing no hurried signs of moving forth into what shall undoubtedly be an even darker season. And I remain restless; unable to put my feet to any trod of the earth and let them hold there. The sun is disorientating whenever it does make its appearance, and beneath its blurry gaze the paths that lie before me are unclear.
Today I do not pledge Steadfast to the caravan I see pass beneath me from the hill. I could not bear the company.
Written By Aerandir
Dec. 31, 2017, 10:53 a.m.(11/15/1007 AR)
11-15-1007 AR, late evening, in the comfy confines of my abode.
The hearsay surrounding otherworldly threats does not appear to have been exaggerated, much to my chagrin. My source is gentry, a woman belonging to the higher echelons of society. Initially, I was assured that I was being played for a fool, that perhaps this was some manner of local tradition or simply a form of entertainment for the pair whose company I basked in, but it seems such a trivial conclusion to the matter at hand was not to be.
I know not how to approach this, nor what to think of all that I have learned in the span of a singular day. I expected cultural shock and oddities aplenty, but not quite this. I am still not utterly convinced of the truth of the matter, but men have died; men of blue blood, no less - and of high standing. Fables do not slay men; but men disguised as such may; it is still nonetheless possible that this is an intricate ploy carried out by an opposing household, perhaps even several of them. If so, it has spread like wildfire, three fronts to be, I am told.
It is far too early for such speculation all the same, and dwelling upon it does me little good. A leisurely stroll and a drink will do me good.
The hearsay surrounding otherworldly threats does not appear to have been exaggerated, much to my chagrin. My source is gentry, a woman belonging to the higher echelons of society. Initially, I was assured that I was being played for a fool, that perhaps this was some manner of local tradition or simply a form of entertainment for the pair whose company I basked in, but it seems such a trivial conclusion to the matter at hand was not to be.
I know not how to approach this, nor what to think of all that I have learned in the span of a singular day. I expected cultural shock and oddities aplenty, but not quite this. I am still not utterly convinced of the truth of the matter, but men have died; men of blue blood, no less - and of high standing. Fables do not slay men; but men disguised as such may; it is still nonetheless possible that this is an intricate ploy carried out by an opposing household, perhaps even several of them. If so, it has spread like wildfire, three fronts to be, I am told.
It is far too early for such speculation all the same, and dwelling upon it does me little good. A leisurely stroll and a drink will do me good.
Written By Aerandir
Dec. 31, 2017, 6:42 a.m.(11/15/1007 AR)
The first day and night spent within Arx has proven enjoyable, surprisingly so, for precious few seem to have heard of the vessel I once served aboard, and even fewer care for past mistakes, if first impressions are anything to go by. The people are hospitable enough thus far, charitable even, traits that took me by surprise - though not unpleasantly so.
Ulterior motives underneath all this affable decorum and generosity, perhaps? Time will tell.
Ulterior motives underneath all this affable decorum and generosity, perhaps? Time will tell.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.