Written By Gael
March 9, 2022, 3:47 p.m.(4/2/1017 AR)
A distant shrill, wild and clear, that cracked trumpet that when blown gives off an eerie, atonal clang that resonates across every ship. It bound off of hulls, I remember. Filtered into galleys, holds, every captain's cabin. And from that wild darkness were gulls once belled, that hateful silence, churning. You've shown it to us.
At your behest, omens were formed in the fabric of things, and only now do they begin to make sense; to take shape, in the fire. Some were once taken as nothing more than hollow misgivings, but these now they've crept through my body like sourceless aches one wakes with, and can never be rid of.
Now, it is lightning-plain, Goddess. A promise of flame.
Rise and spread.
At your behest, omens were formed in the fabric of things, and only now do they begin to make sense; to take shape, in the fire. Some were once taken as nothing more than hollow misgivings, but these now they've crept through my body like sourceless aches one wakes with, and can never be rid of.
Now, it is lightning-plain, Goddess. A promise of flame.
Rise and spread.
Written By Gael
Sept. 25, 2021, 3:14 a.m.(4/8/1016 AR)
Realize I ain't been around here for a while, Scholar, I think because I've been afraid to. Ever since Bastion, yes.
Writing to you, it has always been a way to let loose some, to speak my mind. To know that someday, sometime in the future where I'll be nothing more than a scattered memory, lost kin of mine may well stumble upon my musings. Learn something, maybe, from the breadth of my failings.
Lately, sadly, I haven't had anything good to write about. Nothing good to remember, full of sadness and regret I'd rather let forget, than to cope with; than to immortalize in these pristine, white sheets your followers are so fond of. I realize it is disingenuous maybe, to come to you only when the tide's on my side and the wind blows at my sails, rather than when the hour is at its darkest, but I'm not keen on putting down defeatist and bleak things. Sometimes they feel as though I'll bring them to life, for I'd rather avoid them, not think on them. If only I could forget. I think that'd be my power, if I ever got to choose. Some folk claim they'd like to fly, others to hold their breath or control the wind, some to sing in such a way they could wake the roots of a tree. I'd choose to forget.
Everything's been feeling wrong and out of place since what happened at the Crypts. The more I seek Lagoma's flame to ward off the cold, the fear, the anxious thoughts, the more it all seeps into my bones. That is what it's been: cold. I don't thaw as easy as I used to, and ever since that thing bit down on my shoulder, it's been making all sorts of queer noises when I stretch, or swing the sword. Comes out of its socket a lot easier, my throwing days are behind me. Maybe my sword days, too, if I test it too much.
The other night I went to some noble reunion. Odd invite, a friend's friend; just to drink, wanted some quiet and thought I had found it, but I didn't. Not the right place for it. Saw a lot of folk dancing, enjoying themselves, and I resented it. I didn't want to see life moving on after all that has happened, all the loss. People forgetting. Drinking. Laughing. It was too much.
Young people all around, noble and commoner alike, bringing their spontaneous good cheer down on me like a sledgehammer everywhere I go. I cannot relate. I am becoming an uncanny, unsettling, and self-absorbed thug at odds with the world, and no matter however many short-wicked joys I allow myself, his face. I cannot erase it from the forefront of my mind. It is there with me when I wake every night, and it haunts my dead-angle when I close my eyes to try and sleep. It is all in my head. Echoes of things I cannot comprehend, swirling in there, taking me for long trips that bring only dizziness and sleeplessness.
And more than that: I am sad. There is an absence inside of me, something missing that's still in the water, not floating but under the sea. Waiting. Calling, maybe.
Either way, that's it from me, Scholar. Would've fit some bits more but, been doing nothing more than rigging since three days back, and my hand's cramping up bad-like. We're going back to Bastion. Some scouting business, denizens looking for answers, and I hope we find them.
And that nothing finds us.
Writing to you, it has always been a way to let loose some, to speak my mind. To know that someday, sometime in the future where I'll be nothing more than a scattered memory, lost kin of mine may well stumble upon my musings. Learn something, maybe, from the breadth of my failings.
Lately, sadly, I haven't had anything good to write about. Nothing good to remember, full of sadness and regret I'd rather let forget, than to cope with; than to immortalize in these pristine, white sheets your followers are so fond of. I realize it is disingenuous maybe, to come to you only when the tide's on my side and the wind blows at my sails, rather than when the hour is at its darkest, but I'm not keen on putting down defeatist and bleak things. Sometimes they feel as though I'll bring them to life, for I'd rather avoid them, not think on them. If only I could forget. I think that'd be my power, if I ever got to choose. Some folk claim they'd like to fly, others to hold their breath or control the wind, some to sing in such a way they could wake the roots of a tree. I'd choose to forget.
Everything's been feeling wrong and out of place since what happened at the Crypts. The more I seek Lagoma's flame to ward off the cold, the fear, the anxious thoughts, the more it all seeps into my bones. That is what it's been: cold. I don't thaw as easy as I used to, and ever since that thing bit down on my shoulder, it's been making all sorts of queer noises when I stretch, or swing the sword. Comes out of its socket a lot easier, my throwing days are behind me. Maybe my sword days, too, if I test it too much.
The other night I went to some noble reunion. Odd invite, a friend's friend; just to drink, wanted some quiet and thought I had found it, but I didn't. Not the right place for it. Saw a lot of folk dancing, enjoying themselves, and I resented it. I didn't want to see life moving on after all that has happened, all the loss. People forgetting. Drinking. Laughing. It was too much.
Young people all around, noble and commoner alike, bringing their spontaneous good cheer down on me like a sledgehammer everywhere I go. I cannot relate. I am becoming an uncanny, unsettling, and self-absorbed thug at odds with the world, and no matter however many short-wicked joys I allow myself, his face. I cannot erase it from the forefront of my mind. It is there with me when I wake every night, and it haunts my dead-angle when I close my eyes to try and sleep. It is all in my head. Echoes of things I cannot comprehend, swirling in there, taking me for long trips that bring only dizziness and sleeplessness.
And more than that: I am sad. There is an absence inside of me, something missing that's still in the water, not floating but under the sea. Waiting. Calling, maybe.
Either way, that's it from me, Scholar. Would've fit some bits more but, been doing nothing more than rigging since three days back, and my hand's cramping up bad-like. We're going back to Bastion. Some scouting business, denizens looking for answers, and I hope we find them.
And that nothing finds us.
Written By Gael
July 1, 2021, 7:11 a.m.(10/4/1015 AR)
Of the many warriors who fought alongside me in Pieros one whom I've not seen since the field came back to me in dream last night. Ciro, from Pravos, an old and aged swordmaster who possessed the queerest sword; a pointy thing, refined to a near needle-like shape, which I recognized as a rapier. His was rarer yet, the grip surrounded by a basket-like structure that did more than simply protect the hand, it acted as a gauntlet of sorts. With which to punch, he very blithely explained each time anyone looked at it dubiously.
Before the fight, I found him undergoing the beginning of a ritual I interrupted. Saw him struggling to set himself down on a tree stump. As he gingerly lowered, I saw his legs quaking as though they could barely bend at all. When he finally did, he heaved the longest of sighs. His sword was beside him. It looked younger than the hands that owned it, I realize. A replacement of a replacement of a replacement. However beautiful the sword was, he showed no fondness for it, but when he touched it I could sense there was a wistful reflection in the very idea of a sword to him, of how a man lengthens himself with it, and how he shortens others by its very blade. This saddened him greatly. Coming to terms, I think, with what he was about to do.
I looked for him and his frayed tabard for many hours after the fight, and couldn't find him. He was no knight at all, a mere man at arms, respected only by his skill rather than status. I hope he and it haven't gone into the mud.
With his lead foot, his clicking knees and his going vision I would've feared facing him a hundred times more than the Skal'dajans.
Before the fight, I found him undergoing the beginning of a ritual I interrupted. Saw him struggling to set himself down on a tree stump. As he gingerly lowered, I saw his legs quaking as though they could barely bend at all. When he finally did, he heaved the longest of sighs. His sword was beside him. It looked younger than the hands that owned it, I realize. A replacement of a replacement of a replacement. However beautiful the sword was, he showed no fondness for it, but when he touched it I could sense there was a wistful reflection in the very idea of a sword to him, of how a man lengthens himself with it, and how he shortens others by its very blade. This saddened him greatly. Coming to terms, I think, with what he was about to do.
I looked for him and his frayed tabard for many hours after the fight, and couldn't find him. He was no knight at all, a mere man at arms, respected only by his skill rather than status. I hope he and it haven't gone into the mud.
With his lead foot, his clicking knees and his going vision I would've feared facing him a hundred times more than the Skal'dajans.
Written By Gael
July 1, 2021, 6:49 a.m.(10/4/1015 AR)
The damnedest thing.
I saw a man cut down by lightning a few hours ago. Elberich was his name. He had a lumber mill for a mouth, a wooden bite from side to side. Termites for teeth I would've said, had I the chance. Anyway, I'd found his head aflame, grinning hot fire back at me, his flesh curled down in strips of black and purple. The ground around him was scorched, smoke drifting around and little fires crackling. But he was still alive. So I ran off to get some help when I heard a horrid noise behind me. Damned lightning struck him again. Smote by the gods through and through.
Well, may he rest in peace.
I saw a man cut down by lightning a few hours ago. Elberich was his name. He had a lumber mill for a mouth, a wooden bite from side to side. Termites for teeth I would've said, had I the chance. Anyway, I'd found his head aflame, grinning hot fire back at me, his flesh curled down in strips of black and purple. The ground around him was scorched, smoke drifting around and little fires crackling. But he was still alive. So I ran off to get some help when I heard a horrid noise behind me. Damned lightning struck him again. Smote by the gods through and through.
Well, may he rest in peace.
Written By Gael
June 22, 2021, 10:38 a.m.(9/14/1015 AR)
I should say something sweet about the endurance of the Arvani. But I'm still a bit pissed about how we're made to endure.
Written By Gael
June 19, 2021, 5:16 a.m.(9/8/1015 AR)
I know I vowed not to mess with the colony of spiders living on Raja's roof, but after enough nights of suffering and incessant noise, and a particularly rough day dealing with matters of the heart, I decided I needed a task; something mannish, violent and easily exacerbated that'd take my mind off of things. When all you know to do is swing a sword, the world's suddenly much simpler when you give it the shape of a neck. And so I did.
Only that spiders don't have necks, as I sadly came to learn today.
Taking the help of two sellswords from the Few, I decided to find the root of spiders and learn where it is they hail from. We tracked their skittering through alleyways, we followed their webbings as best we could, seeing traces of small arachnids along the way. Crawling out of holes, hanging off of many corners built in the surrounding gables of houses and the like. Strangely enough, it all led to the Queen of Ending's Shrine, yet not exactly it, but a small cottage seemingly slovenly and abandoned not too far from its street. We went in to check, but only upon realizing the door was more of an abandoned, unhinged slat vaguely wedged into the entryway's frame than any real door at all.
The nest of spiders inside was a pit of earth wreathed in white. At its rim were thin filaments as we walked in, each which listed about at even the slightest suggestion of a breeze. Marching the two sellswords inward, me at the rear thank the Gods, the webbing begun to take a sort of civilized shape, as though we were walking in from wintery hinterland, the recency of its creation apparent in its tight trappings: small critter-sized cocoons of all sorts, each which showed no sign of life, all bound snug in the hangars of white silos and planes like morsels lost upon a pale rug. As we're aghast seeing it all, a black shadow sauntered up from behind the veiled domicile, coming to the fore with its legs squatting defilade, its head crouched beyond them as though the foul cretin had been gated by its own stride. I swear some tiny creature's limb was sucking in and out from its moving and clickity-clicking mandibles like some macabre pacifier as it just 'stood' there, looking at us with a strangely naive and many-eyed gleam of expectance. The biggest spider I had ever seen in my life.
We had come to the right place. And just like that, we left it.
All sense of cohesion in our impromptu squad was broken faster than a speeding bolt, the fools with me discarded even their swords and shields as though we had been out on some battlefield, running. Running quick and down towards the Lowers, careful to avoid the same paths and sidewinder of roads we used to get to our mark as we had, fearing perhaps that this newfound enemy would somehow follow them to their own homes. I myself took to a brisk jog back to the forge.
And renewed my oath not to mess with these spiders that are resolved not to be fucked with.
Only that spiders don't have necks, as I sadly came to learn today.
Taking the help of two sellswords from the Few, I decided to find the root of spiders and learn where it is they hail from. We tracked their skittering through alleyways, we followed their webbings as best we could, seeing traces of small arachnids along the way. Crawling out of holes, hanging off of many corners built in the surrounding gables of houses and the like. Strangely enough, it all led to the Queen of Ending's Shrine, yet not exactly it, but a small cottage seemingly slovenly and abandoned not too far from its street. We went in to check, but only upon realizing the door was more of an abandoned, unhinged slat vaguely wedged into the entryway's frame than any real door at all.
The nest of spiders inside was a pit of earth wreathed in white. At its rim were thin filaments as we walked in, each which listed about at even the slightest suggestion of a breeze. Marching the two sellswords inward, me at the rear thank the Gods, the webbing begun to take a sort of civilized shape, as though we were walking in from wintery hinterland, the recency of its creation apparent in its tight trappings: small critter-sized cocoons of all sorts, each which showed no sign of life, all bound snug in the hangars of white silos and planes like morsels lost upon a pale rug. As we're aghast seeing it all, a black shadow sauntered up from behind the veiled domicile, coming to the fore with its legs squatting defilade, its head crouched beyond them as though the foul cretin had been gated by its own stride. I swear some tiny creature's limb was sucking in and out from its moving and clickity-clicking mandibles like some macabre pacifier as it just 'stood' there, looking at us with a strangely naive and many-eyed gleam of expectance. The biggest spider I had ever seen in my life.
We had come to the right place. And just like that, we left it.
All sense of cohesion in our impromptu squad was broken faster than a speeding bolt, the fools with me discarded even their swords and shields as though we had been out on some battlefield, running. Running quick and down towards the Lowers, careful to avoid the same paths and sidewinder of roads we used to get to our mark as we had, fearing perhaps that this newfound enemy would somehow follow them to their own homes. I myself took to a brisk jog back to the forge.
And renewed my oath not to mess with these spiders that are resolved not to be fucked with.
Written By Gael
June 12, 2021, 7:01 p.m.(8/23/1015 AR)
Another pitiless day, scholar.
Tonight a sellsword of mine, Friede, came sprinting into my tent while we were outside in the woods going through formations with the company, nearly taking out one of the stakes and bringing the whole damn thing down. Sweat flew off of her face and onto my maps, damage I'm still circumventing to avoid crumpling the vellum but, either way, it's a good thing she did. She explained that two of the hedge knights we've got on the Few's vanguard were about to kill each other; Dame Yvette and Sir Duncan.
Having the two largest people in the company do battle probably wasn't best for the health of, well, everyone. So I quickly rushed to the scene.
Sure enough, I found Duncan with a great sword in hand and Yvette twirling a giant axe around like a child would a stick. Most everyone cleared out from the would-be duel, and apparently, I came to learn only then that they had met in different sides of some conflict, and now looked to continue a battle long past. Golems of might and terror that they were, I decided it had to end. They weren't going to fight. Or kill each other, for that matter. Easier said than done.
Having seen enough, I ordered the spectating sellswords to intervene. They hesitated, but I quickly reminded them of their contractual duties. Then they went and grabbed great tarps of leather and blankets and some pots and pans and a few even carried pails along. Their strategy was oddly sound: buckets were slammed over the heads of both knight and dame as they tussled on the ground, blinding them just long enough to throw everything else over them. As a man would wrestle a bull, the sellswords tangled with the feuding idiots, occasionally one being thrown in the air, and one sellsword even ate a kick to the face, suffering a black-gapped smile for her troubles. Another was swallowed up in the mass of blankets, being smashed in between the growling killers like an amorphous blob of anger.
Eventually, the two warriors cooled down and begrudgingly made peace. The rest of the company who fought hard to separate them recovered, picking themselves up as though a great tornado had just torn through the camp. That was that.
What have I gotten myself into, Scholar?
Shard can't come back fast enough.
I'm not cut out for this.
Tonight a sellsword of mine, Friede, came sprinting into my tent while we were outside in the woods going through formations with the company, nearly taking out one of the stakes and bringing the whole damn thing down. Sweat flew off of her face and onto my maps, damage I'm still circumventing to avoid crumpling the vellum but, either way, it's a good thing she did. She explained that two of the hedge knights we've got on the Few's vanguard were about to kill each other; Dame Yvette and Sir Duncan.
Having the two largest people in the company do battle probably wasn't best for the health of, well, everyone. So I quickly rushed to the scene.
Sure enough, I found Duncan with a great sword in hand and Yvette twirling a giant axe around like a child would a stick. Most everyone cleared out from the would-be duel, and apparently, I came to learn only then that they had met in different sides of some conflict, and now looked to continue a battle long past. Golems of might and terror that they were, I decided it had to end. They weren't going to fight. Or kill each other, for that matter. Easier said than done.
Having seen enough, I ordered the spectating sellswords to intervene. They hesitated, but I quickly reminded them of their contractual duties. Then they went and grabbed great tarps of leather and blankets and some pots and pans and a few even carried pails along. Their strategy was oddly sound: buckets were slammed over the heads of both knight and dame as they tussled on the ground, blinding them just long enough to throw everything else over them. As a man would wrestle a bull, the sellswords tangled with the feuding idiots, occasionally one being thrown in the air, and one sellsword even ate a kick to the face, suffering a black-gapped smile for her troubles. Another was swallowed up in the mass of blankets, being smashed in between the growling killers like an amorphous blob of anger.
Eventually, the two warriors cooled down and begrudgingly made peace. The rest of the company who fought hard to separate them recovered, picking themselves up as though a great tornado had just torn through the camp. That was that.
What have I gotten myself into, Scholar?
Shard can't come back fast enough.
I'm not cut out for this.
Written By Gael
June 6, 2021, 11:06 a.m.(8/10/1015 AR)
I can't stand this heat, scholar. I can't.
Every step I take out on the beach, shingles clattering between my feet, is like an excuse for this hot world we're in to suck the sweat right out of me. I can't feel my face most of the time, my knee starts acting up, getting numb, getting painful. Almost as though the warmth wakes all of those scarred and sore tendons, them then crying for relief. I can't give it to them. The whole left side of my body is dead, sensation leaves my extremities, indigestion starts acting up as if my throat was drying up, too dry and too withered for even water to flow, food to dissolve.
It's like the rain, I can always tell when it rains. The itching, the pin-prickling tingle on my left leg. Happens the same when the afternoon's going to be particularly hot, a strange cold crawls up from the foot, sets on the cap of my knee, and there it stays. There it stays, and worsens, growing increasingly cold until it is the kind of coldness that burns, sears into the skin, and sure enough, the temperature worsens. The air becomes just about hot enough to melt you into nothing, eventually.
My destitute, pathetic self is rotting away in this heat, and yet, I wear this damn coat.
Strength, scholar. Strength to continue the task at hand.
. . . or else.
Every step I take out on the beach, shingles clattering between my feet, is like an excuse for this hot world we're in to suck the sweat right out of me. I can't feel my face most of the time, my knee starts acting up, getting numb, getting painful. Almost as though the warmth wakes all of those scarred and sore tendons, them then crying for relief. I can't give it to them. The whole left side of my body is dead, sensation leaves my extremities, indigestion starts acting up as if my throat was drying up, too dry and too withered for even water to flow, food to dissolve.
It's like the rain, I can always tell when it rains. The itching, the pin-prickling tingle on my left leg. Happens the same when the afternoon's going to be particularly hot, a strange cold crawls up from the foot, sets on the cap of my knee, and there it stays. There it stays, and worsens, growing increasingly cold until it is the kind of coldness that burns, sears into the skin, and sure enough, the temperature worsens. The air becomes just about hot enough to melt you into nothing, eventually.
My destitute, pathetic self is rotting away in this heat, and yet, I wear this damn coat.
Strength, scholar. Strength to continue the task at hand.
. . . or else.
Written By Gael
June 3, 2021, 8:39 p.m.(8/5/1015 AR)
Relationship Note on Wagner
Burly and with cathedral-bells for fists, Wagner has spent much of the past thirty years sharpening his boxing skills on the grindstone that is his fellow Arvani. Fiery in spirit, he's always willing to take up fisticuffs. It is a miracle he hasn't used me as his next object of obsession to batter with his hands, but I'm sure he has considered it, on account that I've given him shit from time to time. Maybe I shouldn't. Body found floating by the docks...
I'm kidding. We'll finish that bottle sometime, aye, we will.
I'm kidding. We'll finish that bottle sometime, aye, we will.
Written By Gael
May 30, 2021, 9:01 a.m.(7/24/1015 AR)
Had quite a day today, Scholar.
I decided I'd be checking the roof on Raja's shop. That I'd give it a good sweep, I don't know, change cracked tiles and pitch some wood glue into any loose squares across their tiers, but that was a mistake. Rather than say why or make comment on the reasons behind it, it is fair that I preface a bit on how I ended up on her roof, to begin with. Why, well, the night prior as I tried to catch some rest, I could hear the incessant and insidious sound of tiny, diminutive footsteps. Small, sure, but hundreds of them. Rats, I asked myself? Was it rats? Mice? Maybe, I don't know, but the whole night of failed sleep the question hung heavy on my head as I tried to consolidate it again and again, but failed. The morning's eventual arrival became no more than mockery at my expense, as light inevitably filtered in through the stained glass of my window.
Finally, I told myself this wouldn't stand. I'd fix this.
Soon as I ended my daily affairs and made it back to the Lowers in the night of that same day, I arrived prepared to deal with the horrible bushwackers. From the corner store I purchased a sort of prepared kibble meant to lure out the supposed rodents, so that I could then scare and scatter them off into the docks by, like a maniac, waving a torch at them until it worked. If successful then, I'd plug all outside holes and climbables to prevent any further incursions on the roof from the outside. That was the plan. It did not go according to plan.
That night, as I climb up to the roof, I see white limply threads of something twisting in the wind right at its summit. Thinking back, it looked like smoke then, but the building was untouched. Nothing was burning. As I neared the highest and steepest point of the roof, Scholar, by my troth; pairs upon pairs of red eyes flared in the dark beneath each roof tile that like hedges housed them, peering out from inside them. Spiders. And they all scuttled forth in their spiny legs, clattering on the slats of wood and scratching the corrugated tiles, their mass of black bodies fluttering out their hidey-holes like the flakes of smoldered dandelions.
I freaked, swerved around in a panic, and ended up getting tangled in a wild array of white strands that locked my legs and sent me barreling down across the roof once my knees inevitably gave. On my catastrophic way down, I eventually bounced off of some rutty protrusion that I believe was the chimney heading, and it ended up propelling me past the awning, onto the unmortared floor of the porch. Hard. On my back, or my side? I don't know, I don't remember. It hurt a lot.
I'm not going back to that roof. It's theirs now.
I decided I'd be checking the roof on Raja's shop. That I'd give it a good sweep, I don't know, change cracked tiles and pitch some wood glue into any loose squares across their tiers, but that was a mistake. Rather than say why or make comment on the reasons behind it, it is fair that I preface a bit on how I ended up on her roof, to begin with. Why, well, the night prior as I tried to catch some rest, I could hear the incessant and insidious sound of tiny, diminutive footsteps. Small, sure, but hundreds of them. Rats, I asked myself? Was it rats? Mice? Maybe, I don't know, but the whole night of failed sleep the question hung heavy on my head as I tried to consolidate it again and again, but failed. The morning's eventual arrival became no more than mockery at my expense, as light inevitably filtered in through the stained glass of my window.
Finally, I told myself this wouldn't stand. I'd fix this.
Soon as I ended my daily affairs and made it back to the Lowers in the night of that same day, I arrived prepared to deal with the horrible bushwackers. From the corner store I purchased a sort of prepared kibble meant to lure out the supposed rodents, so that I could then scare and scatter them off into the docks by, like a maniac, waving a torch at them until it worked. If successful then, I'd plug all outside holes and climbables to prevent any further incursions on the roof from the outside. That was the plan. It did not go according to plan.
That night, as I climb up to the roof, I see white limply threads of something twisting in the wind right at its summit. Thinking back, it looked like smoke then, but the building was untouched. Nothing was burning. As I neared the highest and steepest point of the roof, Scholar, by my troth; pairs upon pairs of red eyes flared in the dark beneath each roof tile that like hedges housed them, peering out from inside them. Spiders. And they all scuttled forth in their spiny legs, clattering on the slats of wood and scratching the corrugated tiles, their mass of black bodies fluttering out their hidey-holes like the flakes of smoldered dandelions.
I freaked, swerved around in a panic, and ended up getting tangled in a wild array of white strands that locked my legs and sent me barreling down across the roof once my knees inevitably gave. On my catastrophic way down, I eventually bounced off of some rutty protrusion that I believe was the chimney heading, and it ended up propelling me past the awning, onto the unmortared floor of the porch. Hard. On my back, or my side? I don't know, I don't remember. It hurt a lot.
I'm not going back to that roof. It's theirs now.
Written By Gael
May 21, 2021, 4:25 a.m.(7/6/1015 AR)
Scholar,
I've finally shed the last of the bandages from all the lessons learned at Pieros. I had them taken by a helping physician at the Saving Grace out of pure convenience. It's on the way from home to the House of Questions, of course. I stayed there three weeks when I first arrived back from the fight, and have been revisiting it to have the bindings changed and the old poultices scraped off for newer swatches. Saw plenty of people come then go all that time, and I noticed that...
Sometimes, a gravely sick patient feels better for a day, right before his final end. The pain fades away, his mind grows clearer, and those who care for them and had stayed by their hospital bed for weeks, finally sigh with relief. They believe that their recovery was the work of a divine agency, and their hearts shine with hope. This temporary rise is the greatest sign; it says that death is near and true peace comes at last. Or so some believe.
Even a failing body hopes to spend its last day with dignity, I realized. To yield what little vitality it has left to this horrid world with its head held high. This appreciation of the human condition has truly hurt my spirit. I think I need another drink.
Curse the night.
I've finally shed the last of the bandages from all the lessons learned at Pieros. I had them taken by a helping physician at the Saving Grace out of pure convenience. It's on the way from home to the House of Questions, of course. I stayed there three weeks when I first arrived back from the fight, and have been revisiting it to have the bindings changed and the old poultices scraped off for newer swatches. Saw plenty of people come then go all that time, and I noticed that...
Sometimes, a gravely sick patient feels better for a day, right before his final end. The pain fades away, his mind grows clearer, and those who care for them and had stayed by their hospital bed for weeks, finally sigh with relief. They believe that their recovery was the work of a divine agency, and their hearts shine with hope. This temporary rise is the greatest sign; it says that death is near and true peace comes at last. Or so some believe.
Even a failing body hopes to spend its last day with dignity, I realized. To yield what little vitality it has left to this horrid world with its head held high. This appreciation of the human condition has truly hurt my spirit. I think I need another drink.
Curse the night.
Written By Gael
May 14, 2021, 2:47 p.m.(6/21/1015 AR)
Relationship Note on Shard
You might never read this, but,
Shard,
When I first joined your band, the world saw us and the company for what we were: a manifestation of ambition girded with weapons. Everyone in our group, when I entered, had a clear dream and aspiration; and about half of those who did then had the arms and desire to shape them, to make them real. We weren't unique, far from outstanding, not even particularly dangerous if we're giving our old selves a good look in the eye without lie.
But we've made it this far.
After many doors shut in our face. The attempts at haggling and wrying for good deals that ended up crumbling them altogether. The spitting. So much spitting. It is a cold world and we dared to warm our own damn selves, and you taught us how. Thus far, we have succeeded, in no small part to the legacy you laid out before leaving us.
Contracts under our belt, contracts on the horizon, they are blurring together. A culture of success has started to wash over the Valorous Few and you have good reason to be proud of when you once commanded it, because it is in no small part because of you, Shard.
Maybe we won't even look half-bad and like one sorry lot when you're back to take command.
You take care now.
Shard,
When I first joined your band, the world saw us and the company for what we were: a manifestation of ambition girded with weapons. Everyone in our group, when I entered, had a clear dream and aspiration; and about half of those who did then had the arms and desire to shape them, to make them real. We weren't unique, far from outstanding, not even particularly dangerous if we're giving our old selves a good look in the eye without lie.
But we've made it this far.
After many doors shut in our face. The attempts at haggling and wrying for good deals that ended up crumbling them altogether. The spitting. So much spitting. It is a cold world and we dared to warm our own damn selves, and you taught us how. Thus far, we have succeeded, in no small part to the legacy you laid out before leaving us.
Contracts under our belt, contracts on the horizon, they are blurring together. A culture of success has started to wash over the Valorous Few and you have good reason to be proud of when you once commanded it, because it is in no small part because of you, Shard.
Maybe we won't even look half-bad and like one sorry lot when you're back to take command.
You take care now.
Written By Gael
May 10, 2021, 5:55 p.m.(6/13/1015 AR)
A life can be worth little in this world.
Written By Gael
May 6, 2021, 11:42 a.m.(6/5/1015 AR)
Relationship Note on Raja
It is strange, seeing Arx from the little home you've built me into its mountain, Raja Culler,
The light of the clear spring, with the morning now glowing in the valley across from my window, down from the steep end of the forge's hill. I can hear the noise of bubbling waters rising up from the foaming river-bed below. Birds sing, sometimes more than I'd like them to, and it feels as though a wholesome peace lays on the land. A lie hard to believe, but when oft I wake in the morning, one I find myself oddly visited by.
Our dangerous foray against the Skal'dajans, and the rumors of the growing, crawling darkness assailing the world from every end already seem only but memories of a troubled dream; yet the faces of those passerbies in the docks, fresh from their voyages coming in from the straits, dispel any doubt or hopeful pretension.
Still, thank you,
Really.
The light of the clear spring, with the morning now glowing in the valley across from my window, down from the steep end of the forge's hill. I can hear the noise of bubbling waters rising up from the foaming river-bed below. Birds sing, sometimes more than I'd like them to, and it feels as though a wholesome peace lays on the land. A lie hard to believe, but when oft I wake in the morning, one I find myself oddly visited by.
Our dangerous foray against the Skal'dajans, and the rumors of the growing, crawling darkness assailing the world from every end already seem only but memories of a troubled dream; yet the faces of those passerbies in the docks, fresh from their voyages coming in from the straits, dispel any doubt or hopeful pretension.
Still, thank you,
Really.
Written By Gael
May 2, 2021, 11:55 a.m.(5/25/1015 AR)
This is my first entry since the theater at Pieros,
Confessor Gael, in your hands again, Custodian Vellichor,
I'm awake at last. Here, in the hospital, I suppose I'll have some knight's squire do me the favor of taking it to the archives, my white. Perhaps she will misplace it and leave it in some gutter, but I hope not, I pray she'll be responsible with it.
It had been a long time since last that I lost total consciousness, but never could I imagine it'd be different each time. Like a man waking up from one long, confining nightmare, realigning towards the light of day at last. The battle ended as a stalemate last I recall, due to unforeseen circumstances and interference by the local environ. Never had I seen anything like it, nor would I have expected it to be retrograde to our advance, but it happened. I'll not be saying what, but those there on those plains know.
If only mother could see me now, her inveterate boy me drawing his sword for a cause not wholly his own. I wish she knew, but at the same time, I know such a thing isn't possible; perhaps it is better that it is not in the first place. I pray she is well.
The care I have received here in the hospital has been phenomenal. Each Mercy pours out their heart on each patient, their purpose clear in enabling life in those fading away, at all cost. An unenviable and sometimes thankless task, but they are of an honor rare that anticipates no reward, nor recognition, and the Compact truly is blessed to have birthed such a noble consortium of menders. That being said, no such care would've mattered hadn't it been for Rinel Tern, who saved my life out in the plains of Pieros.
I leave this in the Stacks less-so with the expectance that it shall be read by anyone, but more-so as a reminder to myself to repay the debt to her. Somehow, in some shape or way, in the future.
Lagoma's fire endured that day,
And although it may flicker and sway at times, it will continue to endure forevermore.
Confessor Gael, in your hands again, Custodian Vellichor,
I'm awake at last. Here, in the hospital, I suppose I'll have some knight's squire do me the favor of taking it to the archives, my white. Perhaps she will misplace it and leave it in some gutter, but I hope not, I pray she'll be responsible with it.
It had been a long time since last that I lost total consciousness, but never could I imagine it'd be different each time. Like a man waking up from one long, confining nightmare, realigning towards the light of day at last. The battle ended as a stalemate last I recall, due to unforeseen circumstances and interference by the local environ. Never had I seen anything like it, nor would I have expected it to be retrograde to our advance, but it happened. I'll not be saying what, but those there on those plains know.
If only mother could see me now, her inveterate boy me drawing his sword for a cause not wholly his own. I wish she knew, but at the same time, I know such a thing isn't possible; perhaps it is better that it is not in the first place. I pray she is well.
The care I have received here in the hospital has been phenomenal. Each Mercy pours out their heart on each patient, their purpose clear in enabling life in those fading away, at all cost. An unenviable and sometimes thankless task, but they are of an honor rare that anticipates no reward, nor recognition, and the Compact truly is blessed to have birthed such a noble consortium of menders. That being said, no such care would've mattered hadn't it been for Rinel Tern, who saved my life out in the plains of Pieros.
I leave this in the Stacks less-so with the expectance that it shall be read by anyone, but more-so as a reminder to myself to repay the debt to her. Somehow, in some shape or way, in the future.
Lagoma's fire endured that day,
And although it may flicker and sway at times, it will continue to endure forevermore.
Written By Gael
April 30, 2021, 5:34 a.m.(5/20/1015 AR)
Custodian of knowledge,
It is time to march into that fevered pitch of battle once more, and pray that we'll be spared its swallowing force,
One must personally arrive beneath the shadow of war to truly recognize its oppression, I feel; and as the years pass on by it too feels now as though unremembered that to be tangled in its conflicts is without question harmful to the Compact as a whole, Custodian. Even in the aftermath of victories, of which we've had many, the damage of death en masse and the lessons incurred through countless sacrifices - most unwilling - is one our nation must pay time and time again. To the point that the martyr's grave has become almost a keystone to its sustainability.
But we have no choice Vellichor, not anymore, not this time -- not after all the depredations forced upon us. For the grudges are insurmountable, and I promise you that many will be struck from the annals of our Compact soon, every transgression answered for. As your history has taught us, burning out corruption is an eternal conflict, but one that must be fought. Even in the face of total destruction.
Less importantly, I leave this document as my last will on the matter of my black journals; I would have them all revealed to the public, upon revision and documenting by the scholars.
That will be all, Custodian,
Pray for us as we pray to you and yours, for we are in dire need.
It is time to march into that fevered pitch of battle once more, and pray that we'll be spared its swallowing force,
One must personally arrive beneath the shadow of war to truly recognize its oppression, I feel; and as the years pass on by it too feels now as though unremembered that to be tangled in its conflicts is without question harmful to the Compact as a whole, Custodian. Even in the aftermath of victories, of which we've had many, the damage of death en masse and the lessons incurred through countless sacrifices - most unwilling - is one our nation must pay time and time again. To the point that the martyr's grave has become almost a keystone to its sustainability.
But we have no choice Vellichor, not anymore, not this time -- not after all the depredations forced upon us. For the grudges are insurmountable, and I promise you that many will be struck from the annals of our Compact soon, every transgression answered for. As your history has taught us, burning out corruption is an eternal conflict, but one that must be fought. Even in the face of total destruction.
Less importantly, I leave this document as my last will on the matter of my black journals; I would have them all revealed to the public, upon revision and documenting by the scholars.
That will be all, Custodian,
Pray for us as we pray to you and yours, for we are in dire need.
Written By Gael
Sept. 10, 2020, 2:44 p.m.(1/2/1014 AR)
I've never been much a fan of writing.
As I hold this quill now, my hand can't cease shaking, discomfited by the haunt of holding something so delicate and as dangerous as a feathered object. I've always feared having my thoughts shaped and used in the long future where I've evolved past them; to be judged for whom I was, to who I am now. But I'm told it's good to record one's thoughts, find some escape from the self, as if it can't be courage it can at least be prudence. And one shouldn't feel too much shame to whom we were before the now, as it was stepping stones to where we've arrived? I don't know. Foundations? I guess.
Gods, it's strange. For the thousands of criminal reports and investigations I've done, it feels as if this is the first time I've eked out anything on paper in years.
I like birds. Purchased one, finally, a blue little bird. Sings like a canary, and is very tiny. I'm told it won't grow any bigger itself, only its feathers will lengthen, so it'll only get chubbier. This is nice.
As I hold this quill now, my hand can't cease shaking, discomfited by the haunt of holding something so delicate and as dangerous as a feathered object. I've always feared having my thoughts shaped and used in the long future where I've evolved past them; to be judged for whom I was, to who I am now. But I'm told it's good to record one's thoughts, find some escape from the self, as if it can't be courage it can at least be prudence. And one shouldn't feel too much shame to whom we were before the now, as it was stepping stones to where we've arrived? I don't know. Foundations? I guess.
Gods, it's strange. For the thousands of criminal reports and investigations I've done, it feels as if this is the first time I've eked out anything on paper in years.
I like birds. Purchased one, finally, a blue little bird. Sings like a canary, and is very tiny. I'm told it won't grow any bigger itself, only its feathers will lengthen, so it'll only get chubbier. This is nice.
Written By Gael
Aug. 13, 2020, 6:43 a.m.(11/1/1013 AR)
Hey Vellichor,
Had a real funny day. I was minding my own business while at shift between the boroughs, helping the cordon of guardsmen there, when one of the iron guard's prospects comes into my tent with his little cap-hat on hand. The rim of it was turning round and round in his fingers as though he was plucking feathers from it in his nervousness. Even though I hadn't said a word his head nodded furiously and his eyes jetted around as if looking for words to say.
So I put my quill pen down and asked him, right, what's the problem? So, after he brushed his mouth and nodded some more, he then explained his predicament: The words came fast, but the general gist of it was that a local witch had cursed him to be incapable of some venereal export, as it were.
I asked him what the witch wanted to lift the curse and he said fifty silver, 'lest the curse be on him for life. You know what I could've bought with that silver, my man? A lot of rum. Real strange, seeing people be superstitious around here, but it's starting to become a thing now that everyone's spreading these nonsense stories all over the place. I hope it passes.
Had a real funny day. I was minding my own business while at shift between the boroughs, helping the cordon of guardsmen there, when one of the iron guard's prospects comes into my tent with his little cap-hat on hand. The rim of it was turning round and round in his fingers as though he was plucking feathers from it in his nervousness. Even though I hadn't said a word his head nodded furiously and his eyes jetted around as if looking for words to say.
So I put my quill pen down and asked him, right, what's the problem? So, after he brushed his mouth and nodded some more, he then explained his predicament: The words came fast, but the general gist of it was that a local witch had cursed him to be incapable of some venereal export, as it were.
I asked him what the witch wanted to lift the curse and he said fifty silver, 'lest the curse be on him for life. You know what I could've bought with that silver, my man? A lot of rum. Real strange, seeing people be superstitious around here, but it's starting to become a thing now that everyone's spreading these nonsense stories all over the place. I hope it passes.
Written By Gael
Aug. 11, 2020, 10:18 a.m.(10/25/1013 AR)
Relationship Note on Ida
Cestus? Caestus? Festus?
Who knows. Who cares. Visiting Dame Ferron's shop, I had never before been witness to such a tasteful collection of dangerous items. Blades of edge so keen the very air in the shop seems to come in severed waves like the metal swords there inadvertently cuts them, and their simplicity - thus ergonomics of the workplace - show in each.
It's easy to be lost in the beauty of it all and forget that they're all made with the explicit goal of fucking you up. And fucking you up good.
Who knows. Who cares. Visiting Dame Ferron's shop, I had never before been witness to such a tasteful collection of dangerous items. Blades of edge so keen the very air in the shop seems to come in severed waves like the metal swords there inadvertently cuts them, and their simplicity - thus ergonomics of the workplace - show in each.
It's easy to be lost in the beauty of it all and forget that they're all made with the explicit goal of fucking you up. And fucking you up good.
Written By Gael
Aug. 8, 2020, 1:43 p.m.(10/20/1013 AR)
Relationship Note on Insaya
I've never been cut that hard in my life before,
But I suppose this counts as being hurt in the line of duty? I don't know. It's an odd feeling, I'll tell you, when you feel as if all of your goods are hanging outside from the inside of your torso. Mhm, it's real strange it is, you can feel the red stringing wreathed in blood from which it dangles pulling, tugging from where all organs hang, gravity's weight begging them to just slump out onto the floor because being in my belly and torso and all is just too much work. It's real desperate shit.
Wherefore, heroism? Death, I guess. I'm a real lucky asshole for being alive, and this is just our first assignation together. I'm sure we have some real fucked adventures ahead of us, Inquisitor.
Lagoma protects.
But I suppose this counts as being hurt in the line of duty? I don't know. It's an odd feeling, I'll tell you, when you feel as if all of your goods are hanging outside from the inside of your torso. Mhm, it's real strange it is, you can feel the red stringing wreathed in blood from which it dangles pulling, tugging from where all organs hang, gravity's weight begging them to just slump out onto the floor because being in my belly and torso and all is just too much work. It's real desperate shit.
Wherefore, heroism? Death, I guess. I'm a real lucky asshole for being alive, and this is just our first assignation together. I'm sure we have some real fucked adventures ahead of us, Inquisitor.
Lagoma protects.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.