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Emma's Story
Posted: 04 Jan 2007 07:34 PM |
Diary Entry #1
Dear Diary:
Oh how I long to fill you with tales of my wisdom and good deeds, of how I have honored my sister's memory by bringing hope and light to all I have met, of how I have shown that an average girl can use what meagre gifts she has to inspire righteousness in the great.
I am not a blind zealot, however, and what I long to write herein is likely to always conflict in some way with the reality of events. Having said that, though, I am being truthful when I state that I have made some progress in bringing light to the world, by both word and deed. However, I have also had some terrible failures, and have, on a few occasions, unwittingly helped to cast a veil of darkness over the jaded and innocent alike.
I suppose I should catalog my failures first, that seeing them might temper my hubris and ensure humility. Two glaring failures certainly stand out: (1) assisting the paladin Rosen in forging herself into an instrument of Syn, and (2) spreading a sickness born of Gukathul to the citizens of Lower Port Royale.
In fairness to myself, Rosen successfully duped a number of people into assisting her in the name of light. When she later told me her story, it inspired only sadness, and the same feeling that I have when I look upon the orc Ophelia - the feeling that things might be different if I'd met her sooner. When hope abandons you, you need a friend of unswerving faith.
The sickness is another matter. Without unnecessary elaboration, I fell ill for the first time in my life by contracting a supernatural, contagious disease. Unfortunately, I do not know if my body has fought it off, or if it merely lies dormant. At the time the illness struck me, it also struck two others: the elven magister Valethrion and the human warrior Tristian. I shall speak more on both of them later.
It would appear that the the first carrier of the cursed affliction was the small one known as Bel, and that it jumped from her to Valethrion, to me, and then to Tristian. After Valethrion and Bel used what magic and strength they had to fight off some assaulting hordes of the walking dead, we went as far as the gates of Port Royale, to wait for a man named Renfield to enlist the assistance of a healer. Unfortunately, a cutpurse saw we four weak, sick adventurers at the gates and thought us easy marks, I suppose. In plying his craft, he caught the disease, and within minutes of our passage to the inner gate, the sickness began spreading through the city and panic ensued.
I am currently in the process of determining how I may atone for or otherwise face justice for my part in what happened. Valethrion tells me I do not seek it from an honorable man, but it does appear to me he is the lawful authority of Port Royale, irrespective of how he came to be in that position.
Though I would like to segue into a discussion of the happiness I find with my new friends, and the good deeds we have performed together, it is late and I need to sleep.
One last adage I need to remind myself of: the world is a good place full of good people. Some of them just don't know it yet.
In faith, love, and hope,
Emma |
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Re: Emma's Story
Posted: 05 Jan 2007 02:20 PM |
Diary Entry #2
Dear Diary:
I started off by writing of what I perceive to be the greatest misfortunes that I have lent an unwitting hand to. They are by no means the only ones: an attack on the Buckshire Trading Post and vicious assault on the small one named Bel was precipitated by my adventurism; Tokiko's near-end in the belly of a fell dragon was as well.
I am not sure if stoicism rather than warmth would have spared me from the demon known as the Sugar Man, so I will not further dwell on that matter, nor try to take a lesson from it. I have to believe the vision I saw in the Hells was an illusion, meant to sow panic that would twist me into imploring the Magister Salt to take an inadvisable action. Unfortunately, the most sensible action on his part may be one that results in the deaths of many of us. Though that prospect frightens me terribly, I will try to face mine with the same courage my sister did, and not allow good sense to be overtaken by naked terror.
I do not wish to dwell only on the negative, on causes for despair, but at some point I feel I should record how I came to live out of a small satchel, sleeping at campfires and in the common rooms of various roadside inns. Until recently, it was likely my destiny to be a well-read spinster, or a woman whose life accomplishment was to grow old raising her nephews and taking care of her brother-in-law.
My sister was my best friend, and most of the human interaction in my life prior to her death centered around her. For the obvious reasons of her beauty and charming intellect, she was a centre of life outside Paws. I spent a great deal of time at her home, with she and her children and husband, and with the many friends she invited into her life.
Her death immediately severed those friendships, as they had always depended on her to glue them together. I was a small voice in the background, a shrinking violet who embraced the undeniable kindness of the Fair Sister but rejected the emphasis on beauty; the mirror told me daily who I was, and I had long since come to accept that we all receive different gifts in life. Though I might rue the fact that my sister's gifts had eluded me, I had outgrown jealousy, and enjoyed the simple life we lived.
Some of the priests that had come after the massacre had been exceedingly kind to me, and I will always be thankful for their actions, irrespective of the previous and subsequent evils committed in the name of Midoran. They taught me the art of healing, and gave me paid work assisting with nursing the sick back to health. With the gold that I earned, I bought books, especially the frivolous romances that famous bards transcribed. They transported me to another life, a life where I was the damsel in distress, where I was the princess in the tower, where I was the centre of attention.
My reality was contentment, and my imagination lifted me to happiness. After my sister's death, I helped out at my brother-in-law's house for a short time. Though my nephews adored me, and my domestic skills are exceptional, there was something wrong. At meal times, the only time of day on the farm that a family sits down together, they would always seem to be rushed, either arriving late or excusing themselves early. I don't know if my presence made my brother-in-law uncomfortable, but things seemed to improve when my mother visited.
She is in good health, and loves her grandchildren, so, when I told her late one night that I wished to see the world, to do good, and to honour my sister's memory, she just smiled and wished me the blessing of the Wind. It is my duty to return and raise my nephews, but, while vigor favours her, I shall endeavour to make a difference in this world, to be a perpetual voice and beacon of light.
In faith, love, and hope,
Emma
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Re: Emma's Story
Posted: 06 Jan 2007 05:02 PM |
Diary Entry #3
Dear Diary:
I had hoped that I would find myself writing of happier things today, but such is not meant to be. Though the thick wooden walls and hearty fires of the Icy Vale Inn keep the cold at bay, a metaphorical chill descended on me today, and I write this entry with a sad and heavy heart.
Since leaving Paws, I have made a few good friends, decent people committed to making the world a better place. Sylune was one of the first, and I came to call her sister because of our shared religion. If I am to be honest with myself, it is not merely our common beliefs that brought me to call her that, but the need to fill the hole in my life left by the death of my blood-sister. Sylune is so much like her: beautiful, charming, a woman with suitors always waiting in the wings. It seemed natural to fall into her orbit.
I had assumed she had the same strength of convictions as I, and perhaps she does - I can only hope. The Fair Sister has certainly favoured Sylune with great gifts, and she seemed to accept the responsibility that comes with those gifts, managing, among other things, to bring the fighting magister Shard into our Deity's light. However, when Shard, sad and gloomy, came to me on the Northern Highway with the forlorn look of a lover spurned, it was to become clear that I had perhaps allowed too much hope and not enough clarity.
The elven God of all that is vile 'courts' her. So said Shard, and I have no reason to doubt him. She has had something of a fascination with ravens of late; I would not have put the pieces together had Shard not done so for me. She 'loves' the God whose followers massacred my friends and neighbors, he said. After that slap in the face, he had the temerity to stand like a child expecting me to tell him how everything would be all right when mother gets home. He had the audacity to chastise me for saying that Sylune could choose Tarik or her friends, but not both. Then, in a bout of manly lovestruck stupidity, he tried to shame me into offering my unwavering support to Sylune should she choose to 'go over' to the filthy Deity.
She is not a child. She has free will. Good is good. Evil is evil. There are no shades of grey here, and if, as Shard suggested, Sylune suddenly hates humans, then my faith in her was grossly misplaced. I will do what I can, but I will not blindly offer my love to her so she can ram a spear through my back. I care for her, and I care for her soul, but the lesson of Rosen is not lost on me. I shall seek her out and try to talk. Her decisions, alas, are her own.
In faith, love, and hope,
Emma |
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Re: Emma's Story
Posted: 07 Jan 2007 09:25 PM |
Despite the assurances she would make in her diary and in her discussions with others, Emma Robinson was afraid of death. She hoped she could face it as bravely as she believed her sister had; courage and moral certainty were the only explanations Emma had for how a woman stabbed through the heart could leave the world wearing such a beautiful, placid expression. Beneath her oaths of sense defeating terror, Emma doubted she could possibly maintain such calm in the face of death.
In her short time away from her home, Emma had faced many foes that dealt death, had had many brushes with it, and had faced each the same way: with panic, terror, and swift feet carrying her to safety. She had always known fear, and had certainly never expected that, with experience, she might be able to conquer the creatures that claimed the wilds as their own. A certain calm self-assurance had come to the woman, a knowledge that, though she was no swordsman, and hadn't the first clue about how to strap on a piece of armour (not that she could possibly walk in it anyway), she could hit quickly, and run, if necessary.
The fear of danger, then, did not pervade her consciousness as fully as one might have expected from a woman whose vocation was domestic farm chores a mere month back. Fear, instead, came from true bogeymen, not hungry animals. Of all that she'd encountered, three foes struck more fear in her heart than all others. The first was the demon known as the Sugar Man; the second was the dragon Frezt; the third was the fallen paladin Rosen.
Emma had just finished making a 'cleansing' loop of the cave full of large ants when one of those bogeymen appeared in front of her, brandishing a glowing red sword. Despite herself, Emma's first thought was that the black queen from the life-sized chess set in Port Royale had taken a mind of her own and wandered into the caverns, such was the resemblance. The cool swagger that marked her movements, though, chilled Emma's heart. This was a bogeyman, Emma had struck a bargain with this one, and Emma had abrogated the terms of the bargain. Both had agreed the penalty: death.
Rosen wasted little time in pointing this out. It was not lost on Emma that the woman had come to the caverns in the dead of night, and that there would be nobody nearby to hear her screams, should that red sword find its way into her belly. Emma said little. She removed her gloves and hung them on the wide belt that did two loops of her waist. The act was symbolic. Supplication and acceptance. She had seen Rosen fight, knew the danger of ordinary steel in her hands, would not allow herself to contemplate how easily the woman could disembowel her with a weapon of Syn. She could flee, but she would be found, eventually. As tears welled in her eyes, all Emma could think of was that death should not be so lonely.
Cedrych had betrayed Emma, as Emma had betrayed her oath to Rosen. Perhaps he didn't realize the consequences, but, in the moment of overused literary device Emma expected, the murderer's soliloquy, she sadly added one final lesson to a list of other reluctant lessons: men cannot be trusted to use good sense to rise above what their hearts and groins tell them to do. The paladin may not have told Rosen of their discussion, but his fruitless attempt to pull her back from the attraction of the vortex would have given it away. He refused to believe what Emma knew. He was a fly, and Rosen was a spider.
The offer of 'clemency' was a surprise. Emma supposed few had the power to decide on a whim who is to live and die, who is to be forgiven her trespasses and who is to be punished hers. The price put on Emma's life was exceedingly cheap, in the eyes of some - lend her voice to the theological discussion Syn's servant was organizing.
Emma spared little time in agreeing. Rosen had her in her web and chose not to plunge the metaphorical proboscis into her midsection. The diminutive woman knew that her arguments could be no match for what the articulate, silver-tongued former paladin would put forth, and that she was being used to lend credibility to the discussion. If Emma spoke of Vilyave, it could be assumed that someone, ostensibly Alyssa, would put her name forward to speak of Naruth. This, in turn, might bring out the Helkrisian perspective. Given that the discussion was to take place in a tavern, it seemed that there would be no shortage of halflings and dwarves offering up their religious beliefs, which was already getting close to filling all the speaking slots Rosen wanted.
When Emma saw the speaking roster the next day, she immediately took note of the fact that Rosen had positioned herself to speak last.
Of course. |
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Diary Entry #4
Posted: 08 Jan 2007 12:24 PM |
Diary Entry #4
Dear Diary:
Yesterday was an exceptional day. Sylune assured me that she will always reject the advances of Tarik, and that the Fair Sister holds her heart as strongly as ever. I am sure that Shard, and her feelings for him, played no small part in her decision, though I know Valethrion spoke to her as well, and his counsel may have had some influence. It would be difficult to overstate my joy at her decision; the entreaties of the fiendish God will have to be watched out for, but she has named her allegiance, and named it clearly.
I must admit that what she told me after gave me pause, as did my subsequent discussion with Cedrych. I am new to these lands, and new to adventuring. I feel my calling in my very essence, in the reflected memory of my sister's blue eyes. There are good people who give all of themselves for other reasons, and must overcome doubt, which I admittedly find hard to comprehend, and fear, which, regrettably, I don't.
I know that, in a way, I browbeat her, as I did with Cedrych. I'm still trying to determine, in my own mind, how I managed to forgive the magister Valethrion for electrifying me and then having that frightening beast beat me to within an inch of my death, yet I hold Cedrych and Sylune to a higher standard which doesn't allow for doubt. Mercifully, if either of them saw the dichotomy, they didn't point it out. I suppose I view Valethrion as a soul to redeem; I view them as fellow redeemers.
The magistress Eleanor Thorn passed on some useful information concerning demonology to myself and Valethrion. I have written to the magister Salt Sower with my thoughts on how to progress with the matter of the Sugar Man, and await his reply. I now have cause to doubt my faith in Sir Jessup's plan, and see the beginnings of a more sensible alternative that does not involve making a deal with a Demon. I await his reply.
Also, the fallen paladin Rosen came to me to discuss the oath I had broken. Oddly, she did not strike me down, as I expected, but instead traded my life, for a time, for my participation in the religious conference she is organizing. Though it will suit her ends, and undoubtedly hinder mine, I agreed. There are more battles ahead, and I would like to be alive to fight them.
I deceive myself with that last sentence. I would -like- to be alive to smell the roses, dance in the wheat fields, and live happily ever after. The fairy tale, alas, thus far eludes me.
As a final note, Brother Valtine of the Asashi Monastery spoke rather sternly to me yesterday, which I had not expected. I have been trading with the monastery for some time, as I find the clothing they sell to suit me well and be sensibly fitted. They also seem to stock some rather useful elixirs.
He asked me, flat out, when I was going to begin my training, and went on to state that he would not further conduct business with me if I did not do something to 'catch my soul up with my fists.'
I was flabbergasted. I am a holy warrior of Vilyave, and for him to insult my soul, and my faith, was unforgiveable. I gave him a piece of my mind, and when he finally made it clear that he did not diminish the value of my commitment to my faith, I heard him out. Though I didn't appreciate his subsequent characterisation of me as an 'untrained street brawler', I held my tongue. Half of the adventurers in Vives seem to ask me about the monastery, as though how I fight somehow marks me as one of theirs. Perhaps I should at least allow for the possibility that, in this case, the observances of the mob are more perceptive than my own self-analysis. It certainly can't hurt me to consider his advice, and to at least take the tests.
I shall, for now, leave things off. My soul flies higher today, irrespective of the views of Brother Valtine.
In faith, love, and hope,
Emma
[Edited to spell Eleanor's last name correctly ] |
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Re: Diary Entry #5
Posted: 09 Jan 2007 12:16 PM |
((It strikes me that I should probably make a little OOC note here. Nobody but monks would have any idea that the monastery has a Serpent school, a Dragon school, or other undisclosed schools of study. Y'all know the rest of this adage: please RP accordingly))
Diary Entry #5
Dear Diary:
I found out yesterday what I am not. I am not a student of the Serpent School of Asashi; I do not follow the 'path of the beating heart'. After I'd told him that I would be happy to take whatever tests it was he felt my 'soul' needed, Brother Valtine began asking me about my general demeanour, combat style, and such. At the end of the discussion, he seemed in something of a quandary about recommending a school for me to join.
When I had earlier walked through the courtyard, a number of men wearing black gis with red snakes down the back were engaged in what I was later to learn was kumite - combat under specific rules, such that, thankfully, nobody gets hurt too badly.
The thin silk gis looked rather snappy, yet modest, and the fact that these men weren't standing around with their eyes closed like feckless layabouts made me think this might not be a bad group to join up with.
When I suggested it to Brother Valtine, he raised his eyebrows and eyed me rather dubiously, suggesting that what I'd told him of my skills might mark me as a more likely student of the Dragon School; however, the Dragons weren't in evidence in the courtyard, and I was a bit eager to get on with things. How hard could these 'tests' be? You hit things, you fight people, they tell you that you're welcome to become a student of their order, then Brother Valtine stops calling you names when you purchase an elixir.
It all seemed quite clear to me, and I breezed through most of my day of trials, the austere, grey-haired Sensai Ku'mar continually shaking his head as a woman half the size of the big fellows in the group kept up with the drills and generally exceeded the achievements of the big, burly men. After all, holding six-and-a-half stone in a flexed arm hang is easier than holding up twice that; the same applies to doing pushups, sit-ups, and running. I equalled or bested the preponderance of brawny men that were going through the same calisthenics. I was quite proud of myself, truth be told.
At the end of the day, though, came kumite, the last of the tests, for me. All I had to do was defeat one of the twenty students that were training under Sensai Ku'mar, and I would pass my first day's trials.
Well, I didn't manage to fight all twenty. After eleven losing battles, Sensai Ku'mar helped me to my feet, bowed, and told me that, while I had some fine qualities, I did not have the requisite physical abilities to study under him. Given that I'd taken thirteen hits to the nose (which mercifully remained unbroken), twenty-five to the chin, and more than I could count to the solar plexus, I was inclined to agree.
He then told me that the Dragon School was far more suited to my combat style, no disdain in his voice but clear disdain in the eyes of his students. Obviously, to them, I had tried to join the elite and failed. I was now being sent to study with the also-rans. I merely shrugged. If the also-rans didn't beat me black and blue, I wasn't going to complain.
As I limped across the courtyard to retrieve my satchel, I noticed a woman sitting on a bench watching me. She was old, had tanned, leathery, wrinkled skin, and was smoking a pipe. She wore a simple dress rather than robes or a gi, wore a silver necklace with an ornately carved jade amulet hanging between her clavicles, and jade bracelets around her wrists. When I returned her gaze, she smiled at me, a warm, grandmotherly gesture revealing crooked, worn yellow teeth that she had no compunctions about displaying.
She rose and strode casually toward me, maintaining that inviting gaze. When she was ten yards from me, she bowed in the Asashi fashion, hands clasped together in front of her, and asked me to meet her in the courtyard the next day (today). Saying no to her would be like refusing to eat your grandmother's home-made pies. I immediately agreed.
And now, I wait to see her.
In faith, love, and hope,
Emma
[Edited to add a small OOC disclaimer at the top] |
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Intermission
Posted: 10 Jan 2007 12:28 PM |
Emma sat finishing her diary entry, debating whether she dare write of her fear of the coming sentence, lest matters concerning the Sugar Man not be dealt with in time, or lest the plan to defeat the Demon, whatever it might turn out to be, fail. She had still not met with Jessup, the half-orc who she now was beginning to understand was a bit more 'complicated' than the knights that bards used to sing of when she was a child.
She allowed her mind to wander, albeit briefly, to the people she'd met, the faces that she'd miss. Foremost among them were her parents, nephews and brother-in-law; it was silly to become so attached to people she barely knew, but she also couldn't keep certain other faces from her mind's eye.
She would miss them all, if it came to that. She imagined being maid of honour at Sylune's wedding, and Sylune being the same at hers, in the unlikely event of she having one. She imagined a titanic struggle against the forces of evil, she being a metaphorical sword in the hand of Cedrych, Alton, Salt, or whoever it was that led the charge against the enemy. She smiled at the thought of Dante and his bravery and chivalry; how he had made her feel like a woman, rather than just another one of the boys around the table, when he'd come to her defense at the Black Pearl.
She thought of Tristian, who she'd at first considered a kind, if inward, man. Now, she thought him simply aimless and faithless, looking to have a woman of loose morals fall into his arms long enough to despoil her before finding the next, all the while his mind being warped by the evil of that abhorrent death mask he wore around. Emma supposed, if she had the time, she could turn all her attention to bringing him into the light, as Sylune seemed to have done with Shard (or Shard with Sylune), but there were others in the world than that one man. Emma's duty was to Vives, and she was not going to spend countless hours listening to the melancholy sob stories of troubled men.
She knew that opinion probably coloured how she reacted when Cedrych began to tell her of his own doubts, his own failings, but, aside from the apology she already gave for being abrupt with him, she refused to accept that her dogma was the wrong one. The world needed true hearts with firm resolve. It did not need doddering babies waiting for a woman to tell them 'they can do it'. Perhaps, she thought ruefully, it was not merely her rather underwhelming womanly gifts that made her less than appealing to men.
At the back of her mind, wading into the picture and then out again, through it all, was Valethrion. She found it odd that the elf who'd nearly killed her would tug at the back of her mind (heart?) like that. He spoke straight, joked with her, appealed to her intellect, danced about innuendo and double entendres, engaged her mind. They were as brother and sister, after their rocky start, so she had said, and, with relief born of fear that she might have been clawing for more, so he had agreed.
Sighing to herself, she willed the vision of him, victorious over the Synspawn in that haunted shack, power coursing through his bulging veins, from her mind. Some thoughts did not become a decent woman. |
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Marie
Posted: 10 Jan 2007 09:12 PM |
"Well, child, I can understand you not being all that focused right now," Marie said, soft eyes looking sympathetically to Emma. "Living with a looming death sentence makes it hard to think of the future. I would imagine part of your reason for running around with the Serpents yesterday was that their activities kept your mind off the problem."
Emma replied with an understated shrug followed by a nod. The old woman had surprised Emma. She was a master, a Sensai who didn't use that title, in a third school at Asashi, one which Sensai Ku'mar would not have thought of sending the young, quick woman to. The Dragons taught the small, and the weak, if they were agile, how to use their speed to their advantage, in Sensai Ku'mar's eyes. Though this was in fact only part of their reality, it was true to the extent it mattered to those that found their inner peace through exertion to exhaustion.
To Emma, Marie was an oddity in the monastery. First of all, she was a woman, second of all, she was an engaging speaker, rather than silent and severe, and, thirdly, she seemed so very kind. They spoke for four hours about life, philosophy, literature, men, requitted and unrequitted love, religion, and almost any topic that the sprawling expanse of imagination allowed for. It seemed that Marie had read every silly romantic tale Emma had ever heard, and a few more, and she made Emma feel something she'd never felt at the monastery: comfortable, at home, as though it was a place she -could- belong.
Rather than belittling her fighting technique or commenting on the development of her soul, Marie actually commended Emma on how much she'd learned on her own, and told her, incredibly, that she would not even try to teach Emma any combat moves, winking as she suggested that the young woman would likely hurt her.
Emma could have continued the conversation for four more hours, but a messenger arrived, bearing a note from Cedrych. She hastily penned a reply before sending the messenger back; whatever the paladin had written in the note had clearly lifted her already high spirits, and Marie could not help but return Emma's smile when she sat back down.
"We are done for today, child," she said, her ice blue eyes a reflected sparkle in Emma's dancing hazel orbs. "Deal with your problems with this 'Sweet Fellow' and the orcish knight. I have faith that you will overcome those obstacles, no matter how insurmountable they seem. Then return to me, and we shall commence your training."
Emma looked back at the woman, puzzled. "I thought there would be a test, or trials, like there were yesterday."
Marie clasped each of Emma's shoulders and smiled that crooked-toothed smile of hers. "There was a test, child. And you more than passed." |
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Diary Entry #6
Posted: 11 Jan 2007 11:00 AM |
Diary Entry #6
Dear Diary:
There are times that I simply let emotion get the best of me. Yesterday, one of those times was visited upon me by the appearance of Shard and Alton in the jungle bordering the Mazadhi desert.
Cedrych, Feren, and I had just finished fighting our way through the deadly array of foes that guard the path to the lost city of Minyaren, and I had hoped that I might impress Sir Cedrych with a small tale, something that he perhaps didn't know.
Instead, I received Alton's typical greeting, which consists of asking me why I have come to the place, as though he is Lord of all Vives and we lesser beings must make our account whenever and wherever we travel, lest we disturb that which is his. If this was the first time he had done this, perhaps I would have been a bit more understanding, but it wasn't.
Shard accused me of being unfriendly, which I suppose I was. Imagine, if you will, two gentlemen who ostensibly have the tracking abilities of the Gods, making their way across leagues of blowing sand in the desert, to find us in the jungle, so that they may act as the proverbial trolls at the bridge.
Shard, however, seems to believe he can butter his bread on both sides and not get grease on his hands. He runs off with Sylune to places we mortals fear to tread for hours at a time, to be far from all and be alone with her, then accuses me of being unfriendly when I choose to travel with Cedrych and Feren, and not him? That is rich. Truly rich.
I know why they came, at the base of everything. They are good men, and they are powerful men. They wished to ensure our safety. I wasn't going to say so in front of Cedrych, lest he be as insulted as I was, or feel ashamed, but it is the truth. If I had wanted to travel along watching Shard and Alton destroy all and sundry in their path, I would have sought them out and asked them to put on a combat show while I walked behind brushing out my hair.
I happen to enjoy a challenge. It is too bad some people don't respect that.
In faith, love, and hope,
Emma |
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Re: Diary Entry #7
Posted: 12 Jan 2007 04:30 PM |
Diary Entry #7
Dear Diary:
Last night, I participated in the theological discussion Rosen had organized, and I'm happy to say that it went much better than I expected. Last night also marked the first time I saw the devastation of Brandibuck Vale, after the Atalan attack. I suppose I should write of both things today.
The theological discussion featured a number of speakers talking about a number of Gods. I couldn't help but feel that most of them had, somehow, a more concrete basis for their faiths than I. When the Midoran (Delucian) asked me what firm, rational basis I had for my faith, I had no answer, other than to say that I followed my heart, something which he derisively stated was no basis at all. I suppose telling him of the look on my dead sister's face wouldn't sway him either.
Some who made presentations had spoken to their Gods, some adhered to faiths that were based around ideas rather than deities, and Balthor expounded on his own personal 'bubble theory'. I found it quite interesting that the two speakers who were most disturbing, Rosen and Joaquin, speaking for Syn and some usurpur to Gukathul respectively, had such diametrically opposed views. Joaquin looks for immortality through undeath, for the 'worthy', while Rosen simply looks toward the End.
Rosen moved the discussion to Brandibuck for her own reasons, though I suspect she hoped to gain converts among the bleak and hopeless. Happily, I don’t believe she did. I think the halflings look to rebuild, not give up. What I did learn of her faith was difficult for me to understand. Relish life, for the End is coming. I would think there is one other aspect to following Syn that she chooses not to mention: serving her God must, I would presume, involve trying to hasten the ‘End’.
Also, when I look at Rosen, I don’t see a woman relishing life. She rarely smiles, seems generally bitter and severe, and seems more concerned with her precious ‘Truth’ than with making the most of life. Living with a looming death sentence has made me think of many things I’d like to do before I die; I shall visit my parents, nephews and brother-in-law today, try to find out from Magister Salt if plans for dealing with the Sugar Man have further coalesced, and then just be with friends. Perhaps Rosen takes joy in being with friends, too; she has abandoned Cedrych and Ulalume and has moved on to the likes of Alyssa and Fennigan (and Tristian?), I suppose.
Watching the interactions in the room, seeing who named who as friends, who treated who with hostility, who laughed, and who frowned, taught me a great deal, and convinced me Cedrych’s idea holds merit. Unfortunately, exhaustion took me before I was able to speak to he, Ulalume, and Sylune last night.
I suppose there is one last item I need to note, lest I forget it the next time I meet an Aristi paladin. Don’t bother opening your mouth, Emma! You merely embarrass yourself when you speak to them. I don’t know what makes them so frighteningly handsome, but the two that I’ve met have had as much interest in me as I have in that desert polygamist. I guess it’s best to just leave them to their swords and quests. If this is what Cedrych was trying to tell me distinguishes him from other paladins, I now comprehend his point. He is not aloof, and he actually treats a woman as though she is worthy of something other than a cold, quick appraisal.
As I wrote earlier, Brandibuck is in terrible shape, having been assaulted by the Atalan, a fact confirmed by Alton after the conclusion of the metaphysical discussions. From what I’m hearing, the same fate befell Port Royale recently. If I live past the Sugar Man problems, helping to defeat those evil elves is an activity I would truly like to assist with, for a lot of reasons that I’m not proud of. I suppose I should just tell myself it is to protect the innocent. I will try to bite back my other, less honorable motivations.
Today is a new day, the sun rises, crimson, on the horizon, and it is time that I lend an arm, a shoulder, or a fist, to the cause of making the world a better place.
In faith, love, and hope,
Emma |
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Re: Diary Entry #8
Posted: 13 Jan 2007 03:13 PM |
Diary Entry #8
Dear Diary:
I seem quite capable of penning an entry, for a dead woman. I found out from Shard yesterday that those of us with the mark received a reprieve - another week of life. Before learning of this, I supped with my parents, brother-in-law, and nephews, then read the boys a tale, one I'd not picked up in some time, brought back to memory by my chance meeting with Melphus Benimen, one of the 'Adventurous Three'.
They loved the tale, of course. Somehow the derring-do of Melphus and his friends is larger-than-life when put to paper, as compared to the things I've experienced. In any event, I'm not sure the boys would believe me if I told them that I, too, had a rather frightening run-in with the dragon in the tale.
I did not tell my family of my looming death sentence, as my sister hadn't when she confronted hers. I know if I was in their shoes I'd want to know that my daughter or aunt was about to die. I'd want to hold her, hug her, tell her every reason I loved her, and then do everything to stop it. I was too selfish to tell them, such is my failing of character. -My- heart couldn't take it, so I didn't; instead, after the boys were fast asleep, I bid my farewells to my mother and father and embraced each for a long time. They would know that I loved them, I felt, if my body returned to them in the back of an ox-cart, as my sister's had. It was all I could offer.
As I said above, I found out that my sentence had been commuted, if one can use that term. Another week. With all that is going on with the Atalan, it's a wonder anyone can think about this matter, but I suppose we should. I've now learned that Aboddan houses more than just poor souls tricked by the Sugar Man, but former Gods as well, and that the Sugar Man is the jailkeeper. Should one assault and destroy the jailkeeper? If so, who or what will replace him? Sir Jessup's plan remains flawed, and assaulting the jailkeeper may be a mistake. I can think of a third way, however, and I think it best I discuss it with Salt, who continues, it seems, to wait.
Yesterday, I was treated to a display of chivalry by many of the men I have come to know, when one of the vulgarians at the Black Pearl began to make advances on me. The notion of men making advances on me remains something alien, though I suppose with a few cups of drink in his belly even a hairless dog will turn a man's head. I do believe I handled the man's advances better this time than last, speaking to the gentleman and allowing him to buy me a coffee. Though I asked them to allow us some space, that I might impress upon the drunkard the nature of my morality, the way Fennigan, Shard, Dante, Tristian, and Hans came to my defense left me inwardly swooning. I must remember to thank each, not so much because I felt that I needed their protection or defense, but rather because it made me feel special, it made me feel that they didn't look at me as just another one of the men around the table.
Later, I was to travel with Tristian to Icy Vale, whence we took a disastrous trip into a cave to cleanse it of evil. Tristian fell, and I had to beat a hasty retreat. I wrote Alton asking for assistance in getting him back; I do so hope he receives the note. Three days back I was chastising him for being concerned for my safety; now I find myself asking his assistance. The lesson is to remember to bite my tongue and follow my mother's adage about what to say when you can't say something nice.
My mission incomplete, the Icy Vale guards the victims of theft, and me distraught and feeling somewhat helpless, the Wind brought Cedrych to me. He is a knight, but one who takes the time to open doors, smile, joke. Heck, even taking the time to speak with me is an improvement on Lord Byron and Sir Trent. We made our careful way through the lair of a goblin king, but found that whatever his minions had stolen was long since lost or ruined. I felt like I'd accomplished so little, but it was comforting, and felt considerably less dangerous, to travel in the company of Sir Cedrych.
In faith, love, and hope,
Emma |
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The Training #1
Posted: 15 Jan 2007 02:13 PM |
Marie had watched Emma walk across the courtyard more times than she cared to count since taking her under her wing, finding some humour in the small woman's rapid, purposeful stride. She walked without arrogance or shyness, always looking about her surroundings. When she'd travelled with the beautiful woman that Marie assumed was Sylune, it seemed to Marie that her charge took in nobody else, such was the depth of her focus on her adopted 'sister'. It was as though she was always focused on who she was with or what was around her, never on herself. It's an odd frame of mind for a woman who follows a Goddess of vanity, she thought. It seemed to Marie almost as if she had no concept of self, of who she was, rather than -where- she fit.
Marie sighed, thinking back to the sight of the two women walking across the courtyard. It would be nice to be young enough that Emma referred to her as 'sister', not 'Mother Marie', 'Sensai', 'My Liege', 'My Lady', or the countless other monikers of deference the young woman came up with. She could hardly chastise someone for showing respect to her elders, though. The Serpents could beat that respect into their pupils. Marie didn't operate that way. A thinking mind had to respect a teacher; it was that simple. She would use the threat of expulsion on those that didn't show such respect, and that was usually enough. If it wasn't, the threat was carried through, and she'd never followed up on those rejected, so she couldn't say whether a lesson was learned or not.
Marie thought on their first lesson. The woman seemed to almost instinctively know what Marie expected of her, which admittedly hadn't been much. Emma knew where she fit within a farming society; she had decided where she fit within her faith, though that was being re-defined by the other followers she'd met; what she didn't know was where she fit within the Order of the Vulture, or even exactly what their Order strove for.
When Marie began to explain that theirs was an order devoted to the mind, rather than the body, the young woman had asked a pertinent question.
"Will I really fit in? I like to travel, I like to aid in battle, I feel a duty to spread the love of the Fair Sister. The idea of searching through tomes in dark libraries to find the knowledge that will unlock mysteries of the soul does seem a bit, pardon my turn of phrase, Mother, boring."
Marie looked back, smiling. "The important thing is to learn, and to remember the lessons you have learned. You had some suspicions about those ruins you visited with this...Tristian, yes? That near-mindless beasts do not perform such sadistic rituals, nor worship at altars to dragons. What did you do with your suspicions?"
Emma showed her a thick, soft-leather bound book that she said she'd been writing in since her twelfth year. The first entries seemed to detail everything she knew about certain boys, and included hearts with initials and plusses drawn within them, but after a few pages, such entries abrubtly stopped, and the remainder was a categorization of every legend she knew, every bard's tale she'd heard, and every other thing she'd learned that she felt she needed written down. It was a 'reference book for life', the young woman had said.
In a section mid-way through the tome, the woman had written about a race of lizard-like creatures of legend, and had transcribed the letter s four times, followed by a question mark, as the heading for that part of the book. A brief account of the ruins was written therein, along with entries referencing Blackstone Swamp and the Mazhadi jungle.
Marie read the entry carefully, then handed the tome back, nodding to Emma. She knew a great deal more than her charge about this matter, but the quest for knowledge is as important as receiving it. If there was one thing Marie would not do, it was hinder such a quest by giving answers to questions unasked.
"This is knowledge, child," she finally said. "You sought, you learned, you recorded. When you get as old as me, I am sure you'll be more interested in spending your time in dark libraries than you are now. We are not merely about reading books, we are about expanding the mind."
"Speaking of which," she continued, looking evenly into the young woman's eyes, "there are some things I wish you to know, and understand, about just what it means to be a sister here, of any of the Orders."
Emma nodded, waiting.
"Combat is taught here, child, and many brothers, and a few sisters, become formidable warriors. However, no matter how fast or how strong, a member of Asashi could never hope to face a well-equipped swordsman or knight in an even battle. Fists are not meant to punch through armour, shields, and helms. I think you already recognize this, child. I see no overconfidence in you."
"I have fought at the side of warriors, Your Grace. I know my limitations."
Marie shuddered. Had the young woman just elevated her to the status of bishop or hereditary monarch? "We are like the knights on a chessboard, manoeverable and able to strike quickly, when an unprepared opponent fails to see us coming. In point scoring, however, a knight is the weakest piece, but for the pawns.
If this analogy bothered the young woman, she didn't show it.
"Some of us do have some useful abilities, though," Marie said with a wink and a crooked smile. "Today, I wish to begin training you in one of them."
Emma's hazel eyes twinkled and she raised a pair of expressive eyebrows.
"One of the things we are often called to do is fell mages," Marie continued. "And that is something no armour clad warrior can accomplish. One can be taught to see through their weave, if one has the necessary discipline. This doesn't mean they will be helpless against us, but I doubt overconfidence is your greatest failing."
Emma pursed her lips and nodded.
Marie raised her hand to a robed elven man standing by the nearest fountain. He was one of Tel'Elena's initiates, and his master had owed her a favour. The man strode over to them in that graceful style that seemed to accompany even the clumsiest of their race. After a brief introduction, Marie looked from Emma to the wizard, stood, and fixed her eyes on the young woman once more.
"Shall we?"
Emma nodded, casting an infectious smile that took in both Marie and the elf. Neither could stop themselves from smiling back. |
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Diary Entry #9
Posted: 16 Jan 2007 04:03 PM |
Diary Entry #9
Dear Diary
Hope.
I must admit I do not currently see where we glean our hope in the matter of the ferocious attacks of the Atalan, but hope is -always- there. They have been striking at the heart of our cities, and we have been helpless to do anything but clean up and offer solace in their wake. Dwarf, halfling, and human all suffer at their hands. We do not know why, other than that they seem to be gathering resources. Given that in the past, they generally only left the depths of Undraeth in search of power nodes and Elbereth's Tears, their current actions are a mystery.
Nonetheless, I have faith that those that care (and I include myself in that grouping) will determine the reasons, and will organize a counter-attack. Waiting to defend all of Vives against a foe that seems able to move about unseen is folly. They must be struck in their home; their motivations must be learnt and understood.
Resolve. Salt appears to be dead. The demon Seil calls him a coward, afraid to face the Sweet Fellow. His body and soul need be rescued, his courage renewed. The time for leaving this matter to wise magisters is at an end. I have corresponded with the Lady Eleanor Thorn and spoken to Valethrion and a plan is near-complete. All that remains is to explain it.
Courage. We will face the Sweet Fellow. We will face the Atalan. We may face the forces of Gukathul. I'm sure the bards often overstate both courage and risks when they tell their tales, but I look to the heroes of yesterday for inspiration; the most danger I've ever faced before this (excluding an agry elven magister and a fallen paladin) was the risk that Helen, our milk cow, would get angry and kick me. Life has changed, and fast.
Trust. Yesterday, I was felled by a slaad while assaulting the beasts with Sylune. I was brought back by the courage of both she and Shard, and by Shard's entreaties with the Fair Sister. Trust and faith in those that fight at our sides will carry us forward.
In faith, love, and hope,
Emma |
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Diary Entry #10
Posted: 17 Jan 2007 07:50 PM |
Diary Entry #10
Dear Diary:
I woke up today in an underground forest filled with giant walking mushrooms. I won't even bother telling my nephews of the tale; I doubt they will believe that I managed to convince a knight to fight his way down here and chat with me until sleep beckoned. Then again, such a tale is better told to nieces than nephews, and I have none. I shall have to mention it to Mother Marie in passing. She seems delighted with such stories.
I have now spoken to Shard, Cedrych and Valethrion of Lady Eleanor's suggested course of action, but one thought is niggling at my mind. MF, it seems, lives for one thing and one thing only: battling demons. Could Lady Eleanor's plan actually have the result that Sir Jessup suggested, thereby giving MF the capacity to get back to doing what he does best, and to redeem himself in the eyes of the world?
I do hate that in this matter the course of action comes down to who you can trust. My preferred option is not available. MF would have all or nothing, and though my heart tells me to follow Lady Eleanor's advice, my head tells me to be wary of her master's motives. Then again, since my preferred option is not possible, the choice is stark: do something drastic and possibly dangerous to the balance between mortal world and underworld, or trust in Sir Jessup's plan and give up my life, and the lives of I don't know how many innocents.
Sir Jessup's deadline is now three days hence. I'm not sure what others impacted by the Sweet Fellow have planned, but it seems I am falling into a course of action. May Vilyave have mercy on my soul if it is the wrong one.
In faith, love, and hope,
Emma |
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Diary Entry #11
Posted: 18 Jan 2007 03:03 PM |
Diary Entry #11
Dear Diary:
I am sure that gnomes the world over experience eureka moments with great regularity, but for me, knowledge comes from hard work, research, and talking to those, like Alton, who have long memories and seem to have been everywhere and done everything. Gaining knowledge tends to be an exercise in peeling an onion to get to the sweet or bitter reality that resides deep beneath the layers.
Yesterday, the demon Seil placed one piece into the puzzle for me, and a great deal more fell into place. I had an epiphany of sorts, which is unusual for me. She told me the Sweet Fellow has what he wants – that she has a brother; that He has a son. I am certain that I know –who- that brother is, and it saddens me that I have to add one more name to my list of those I cannot trust. It sickens me that, had I learned just two facts a week earlier, the demon-spawn would have been utterly destroyed on the night of Rosen’s religious discussions, rather than resting in the hands of the Sweet Fellow. I didn’t, however, and it’s not my fault, so I shan’t dwell on it.
I saw Alton yesterday, and, to borrow an overused halfling phrase, the rumours of Magister Salt’s demise have been greatly exaggerated. He lives, and it seems he, Alton and the elf Elvalia have been trying to organize a response to the actions of the Sweet Fellow, just as I have. Alton refuses to countenance working with MF, for reasons far more rational that a simple reflexivity against the evils MF visited on his race. MF’s help seems unnecessary now, anyway, so I am happy to agree with Alton.
Magister Balthor murdered Ophelia on the Plains today, whence life was breathed back into her by a demon from the Hells, who told her she had a task to perform. Her subsequent words seemed to indicate Magister Salt was involved with Ophelia’s ‘task’, which argues for ensuring Magister Salt and Ophelia stay far apart.
Moving back to Balthor and Ophelia, I feel that the orc and dwarf are both tragically misguided, yet I feel so hopelessly unable to help either. They march down a path to oblivion as certain as the end that Rosen hopes to bring about, Ophelia seemingly with aimless indifference, the magister with eyes wide open.
It is so very sad.
In faith, love, and hope,
Emma
P.S. I forgot to mention that Alton has 'lost' Vilyave, and couldn't call upon any of his powers when last I saw him. He wouldn't talk about why; it is metaphysical business that Emma Robinson could not hope to fathom, so I shall leave it, but I do so hope he sorts it out.
[Edit note: Added the post-script] |
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Daniel Johnson
Posted: 22 Jan 2007 05:58 PM |
((Yes, I'm sure such a disclaimer is just an invitation to read on, for most, but if you're a bit squeamish about slightly adult themes, don't bother reading this post.))
Fall Into Darkness: Paws
In her fourteenth year, Emma’s life was changed in a way that was to define her forever after.
The harvest dance was approaching, and Emma’s sister had a line of suitors (or so it seemed to Emma) coming to the door asking her to accompany them, each carrying a bouquet of wildflowers and each stammering through some clumsy line or another. Her sister was clear and direct with each; she had already agreed to accompany Ephraim Vosteph, and would not be dissuaded. She was a charming young woman, but not one to flirt or string boys along.
Each boy would leave, and Emma would watch from the swing in the oak tree, or from the second-floor window of her room, as they left, shoulders slumped, crumpled bouquet in hand, kicking at invisible rocks on the dirt track. Boys had begun asking Priya to dances four years prior, when she’d been Emma’s age. Emma’d not had one come calling yet.
In the next eight years, not one would, owing in part to the incident with Daniel Johnson.
About three days before the dance, he’d come to their door, looking handsome and dressed in what passed for finery in a poor farming village. He was smooth and confident as he made his entreaties with Emma’s sister, and accepted her rejection more stoically and confidently than most. The girl imagined him as the hero in one of her fairy tales, and when he finally bowed and left Priya, he turned on his heel and walked toward Emma.
She blushed. –He- was coming toward –her-? Was the handsome boy going to ask her to the dance? She hopped down from the swing, her rose-coloured farm-dress fanning out slightly, the feel of the sudden breeze against her legs underneath causing goose-flesh to briefly rise and fall, eliciting an involuntary shudder.
“Emma, right?” A disarming smile, a prince come to steal her from the locked tower.
She smiled, her thin lips parting and her hazel eyes looking shyly to the side, her face, neck, and ears turning a pinkish colour.
“I wonder if I might speak to you.” He held the bouquet. It was not crumpled; his shoulders were not hunched; he was not defeated.
Emma looked to the door to the farmhouse. It was closed, her sister’s outline not visible behind it. She tried to return his gaze upon her, but found her eyelashes fluttering and her own head still looking away. A brief moment of shame that she would be this boy’s second choice quickly passed. Second was better than last.
“You’ve…grown up.”
This was the greatest compliment she’d yet received from a boy. It was followed by a meek ‘thank you’ as her hands met behind her back and her eyes looked down.
He motioned toward the barn. “Perhaps we can talk…there.”
Emma didn’t even consider that a hot, musty outbuilding smelling of pig manure was not ordinarily the kind of place a proper boy would take a girl in order to secure a date. She simply nodded, visualizing herself twirling about the open gazebo in the yellow dress her sister had worn four years back.
Once in the barn, Daniel entreated Emma to join him in the loft.
She imagined that he had a poem prepared, or a story, or a song. She followed him up the stairs, lost in her imaginings of how wonderful their courtship would be, of him asking her father for her hand the day of her eighteenth birthday, of lilacs in full bloom on their wedding day.
He smiled at her, beckoning her to a spot deeper in the loft, darker. Her last coherent thought, as she stood two feet in front of him, looking up, was that it was far too dark for him to read anything.
Once her eyes had adjusted to the dim light, she looked at him. His air was feral, and hungry. There was no parchment in his hand, no words about to be spoken, nothing about his visage that bespoke honour and chivalry.
She turned to run, but a strong arm wrapped itself around her waist, pulling her to him. Suddenly it seemed to her that he was all hands, a multi-armed beast pawing and groping her where she least wanted him to. She tried to push away, but was completely overpowered. “No,” she implored, “please, no.” This request was met with one of the beast’s arms pulling her face toward his, his mouth toward hers.
She tried to squirm free, closed her mouth, turned her head. She couldn’t escape him, though. He was too strong.
Instinct took over.
She wasn’t exactly sure how she got free, but it seemed most likely that it was her knee connecting solidly with his groin. As he doubled over, a small fist, aimed with deadly precision, connected with his nose, breaking it and sending a spray of blood across the nearby hay bales. He was momentarily stunned, and she momentarily stopped her attack, but pure venomous malice came over his eyes when he looked back to her, so she blackened each of them with two quick punches, then knocked out his top two teeth, lest her message be lost to him.
His own hands had now formed into fists, no longer groping for her; swinging instead. Blood and tears streamed down his face, his eyes swelling near shut. She avoided his clumsy swings and began to kick him, connecting with solar plexus, knee, and groin once more. He was now backing away. She couldn’t see the look in his eyes, but suspected he’d been cowed. As she straightened, fists still held in front of her, he nearly backed right over the edge of the loft, and she had to extend an arm and pull with all her might to keep him from falling and breaking his back. Once she'd pulled him upright and steadied him, he hastily descended the ladder and ran from the homestead.
Different people take different lessons from such events. Emma felt she’d learned two things. The first was that there were two types of woman in the world, at least in the eyes of men: those worthy of asking to a dance, on a date, and down a wedding aisle, on the one hand, and those worthy only of a trip to the loft, on the other. If Emma was thought worthy of only the latter, she decided, then she would be happy to grow old alone.
The other lesson she took was that Vilyave had in fact favoured her with a gift. It was not beauty, but then beauty is not recognizable as such if we are all beautiful, she reasoned. Her gift was her fists, and her legs.
In the days, weeks, and years after she beat back Daniel Johnson, he would spread rumours about her, lies about what they’d done together, lies about the source of the beating he’d received, lies that coloured the perceptions of many. The loss of his pride, and his teeth, changed him, embittered him, twisted him from a boy overcome with desire to a man with a lingering hatred for Emma.
She’d never replied to his lies, never righted them, and never told anyone that she’d beaten him black and blue rather than a marauding wolf. She’d assumed the lack of suitors for the multitude of festivals and dances was a result of her failings rather than his whispered smears; had she known the truth, she still would not have regretted protecting herself. Love was hers to give, not his to take.
It would only be eight years later, some time after a man with a gap-toothed, dirty face looked up from a pint flask of whiskey, and watched a diminutive, over-wrought woman run by him, that Emma would be given cause to regret her decision to fight him. |
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Flight From Paws: Part 1
Posted: 25 Jan 2007 07:28 PM |
Midor: Perception of the Citizens
Emma stood still, willing herself not to react as the man’s fist slammed into her cheek, stars dancing in her head as the pain of the cracked bone shot through her. She let her knees weaken and let her body collapse to the floor, but bit her tongue, hard, to maintain consciousness. She rolled into the fetal position and cried, not merely out of anguish and pain, but also in the hope that her brother-in-law would feel guilt for what he’d just done, see past his madness, and save himself and his sons while they still had time.
They had been arguing for hours, ever since Ephraim had returned, drunk, from a ‘meeting’ at what currently passed for a tavern in Paws: an open-air bonfire with old Edgar McCudgeon’s potato liquor being liberally served. He had been leaving for that meeting just as Emma had arrived, his face marred by worry.
************************************************************************
There had been little time for Emma to savour the elation of finding her family alive. She’d offered a hurried farewell to Ephraim, a rushed embrace of her parents, and then she’d put Noah and Levi to bed, each child mercifully oblivious to the attack on the nearby village. Emma read them a story, and then huddled together with them in Levi’s small bed, laying there until the soft sounds of sleep vibrated in the chests of each.
She’d then spoken to her mother, telling her that she’d stay and help protect the family, that she never should have left, that it was just lucky that they were all alive. Her mother shook her head.
“Something is afoot,” she said quietly. “I can feel it. The people…they want … retribution. They believe they were duped by Ferein once, and won’t be again.”
Emma nodded, sadly. “Misinformation, mother, sown by adherents to my father’s God.”
Selena Robinson shook her head, curly brown-grey locks tickling her shoulders. “Your father turned his back on that One after the paladins were burned. We didn’t feel it safe to tell anyone, even you.”
A blink, and a jerk of the head up and down.
“You are in danger, Emma. You are an outsider now, in their eyes. They will turn on you, accuse you of disloyalty, send you with the ones in red.”
Emma swallowed back a gulp of air, a momentary pain in her esophagus. “What of you, mother?”
“I have a duty to my grandchildren, as long as I live. I don’t know whether your father and I can maintain a lie for much longer. Before the current White Bishop, my … differences … were tolerated. There are many in the town who know of them, and this may be a … catalyst.”
“Then we must all flee.”
“Ephraim is still of the faith.”
“And if the red ones come in the middle of the night, will he then die defending you and father? Will the boys be raised by strangers blindly loyal to Midoran, to be red-clad soldiers? Please, mother, this is madness,” Emma implored. “If what you say is true, we must all leave.”
“Ephraim won’t come.” It was the voice of Emma’s father, the man having just finished rounding up the sheep and locking them in the barn. He stood at the base of a narrow set of stairs that led from the back door of the house into the kitchen, where Emma and her mother were standing.
“He’ll see reason,” Emma said confidently. “My sister did not marry a fool.”
Janek’s green eyes clouded as he looked at his daughter, his rumbling baritone lowering in both pitch and volume. “Your sister could have made him see sense,” he said sadly, his eyes darting affectionately to his wife, “as Selena did for me. He will not listen to us, Emma, and he will not listen to you. He meets with the others to plot revenge, not rebuild.”
“I won’t give up on him,” Emma replied quietly. I owe my sister that.
Her parents just looked at her sadly, not offering a reply.
************************************************************************
It was three hours later that Ephraim stumbled into the house. Emma was sitting in the kitchen in the dim light of a tallow candle, checking and double-checking the contents of five satchels she’d packed with essentials.
She sighed inaudibly. Reasoning with a drunken man was a fool’s errand. She would have to speak with him in the morning. She forced a smile and turned to face him as he made his slow ascent of the back-door stairs.
“Yer shtil ‘ere?” he asked. “Ev’wun’s e’live girl, ye shed be goin’”
“I thought I might discuss that with you,” Emma said quietly, inclining her head deferentially.
“Nuttin’ ta discush,” he replied. Meh wife’sh heathen betch seshter comin’ ere jesh bringsh ‘s’speshen ta tha fem’ly. Ya besht beh goin.’”
Emma’s cheeks coloured as anger briefly welled. Even Porkpie Mystraider had never said such a vulgar or hurtful thing. She swallowed her anger and slowly rose to face Ephraim, her head turned up to to the one looming almost four hands above hers.
“Let us discuss the future,” she said quietly, not acknowledging the hurtful words.
“Letsh.” The sneering grin didn’t brook negotiation, but Emma felt she had to try.
They proceeded to talk, though the pitch rose quickly, Emma being often shouted down by Ephraim, he stringing together the most crude invective she’d ever heard. She tried to make him understand that the Atalan were another type of elf, and that the most recent spate of actions in the name of Midoran could not logically be defended as acts of good.
Ephraim didn’t so much argue, as simply find new adjectives to place in front of the word ‘b*tch’. It was a frightening side of the man, a side she’d never seen, a side that hadn’t existed a month back.
“Git outta ma housh naw, ya shkinny whar!” Ephraim finally ordered.
Tired, worn down, sick of responding to taunts and insults with serenity and reason, Emma finally said the wrong thing, finally lost her grip on her carefully honed patience.
“It’s not your house,” she said crisply. “My father built it, cleared the land, raised the animals. You are here at his invitation. No more.”
It was an insult to the drunken man’s vision of the patriarchy, and his place in it, an insult that he would not accept. Within seconds of the words leaving her mouth, Emma found herself curled in a ball on the floor, in tears.
A boot-clad foot driving home stinging pain told her that she would win no sympathy, that neither reason nor pathos would work on Ephraim. |
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Re: Flight From Paws: Part 2
Posted: 27 Jan 2007 12:56 AM |
((Slightly adult themes/language, just to warn the sensitive))
A loud crack shocked Emma, and she quickly rolled away from the boot that was kicking her back, her first thought that Ephraim had broken one of her ribs. As she rolled, however, she could see his lumbering form falling, in slow motion, nose broken, eyeballs rolled up in their sockets, foamy spittle at the corners of his lips. Strong hands soon pulled her to her feet.
“Father?”
The grey-haired, pajama-clad man looked at Emma with anguished eyes, eyes that flashed venom when he turned his attention to the splayed body of his unconscious son-in-law. He spoke through gritted teeth. “I allowed him to speak, allowed him to throw those hateful slurs, all in the hope that your path would lead him to reason. He is filth, and were he not the father of my grandchildren, I’d hang him from the oak tree. Nobody does that to my daughter.”
Emma blinked, wiping the lingering tears from her cheeks. She’d never seen her father raise a hand to anyone. Unbidden, a thought came, a thought she’d have to return to another time: perhaps her gifts had more to do with her lineage than her Goddess. The small woman put her arms around her father and held him tightly, he returning the embrace with strong but gentle arms. In that moment, she felt something she’d rarely felt since leaving Paws: she felt safe.
“You’ve done an excellent job with your preparations, but, if you don’t mind, daughter, I would supplement the…rations…you’ve packed with something a bit…fresher.” It was her mother’s voice, clear and strong, breaking through the fog of Emma’s consciousness. The young woman murmured agreement into her father’s chest, while her mother quickly discarded the burnt badger sandwiches and replaced them with fare more palatable to her husband and grandsons.
“I now agree with you,” her mother continued. “We will flee.”
“What of Ephraim?” Emma and her father asked the question in unison, then Emma elaborated, pulling reluctantly from her father’s embrace. “He will not come with us, and we cannot take a man’s children from him.”
Selena Robinson looked purposefully between her husband and daughter. “The Robinson family has ever followed the laws of the land in which we live, even as they became progressively more draconian and arbitrary. I will part a man from his children in defiance of law, for the sake of those children. It is a higher code than these lemmings understand. Ephraim Vosteph lost his claim to them when he called the sister of his late wife a b*tch and a wh*re within earshot of my grandsons, then struck her. This debate is over.”
Emma and her father exchanged looks. There was a time to debate such matters, and a time to follow the orders of the family’s matriarch. They turned their heads back to the woman and nodded, in unison and in silence.
************************************************************************
Luck was not on their side.
The Wave Hopper was not anchored in the bay when they arrived, and Noah, the older of the two boys, kept asking why his father was not coming on their trip. They had left Ephraim tied to the oak tree, Janek Robinson making harsh rope burns as he entwined the knots. Though the man might die if set upon by wild beasts, they felt it more likely a passerby would find and release him; if nothing else, the savant Clem Phillips walked by that tree every day at the sun’s zenith.
While they waited, Emma told the boys a tale of how she, a brave knight, and an expert swordsman climbed a mountain, faced huge, winged, dragon-like foes, deadly snakes, and vile creatures of the earth, for no reason other than the fact that she’d never climbed a mountain. She embellished the tale, for their benefit and hers, highlighting the dangers she’d faced and the times the brave men had leapt to her defense, largely omitting to mention that she had often reciprocated. She liked the tale better this way, and she suspected the boys did too. At the end of the story, each boy went from nervously biting his fingernails to squealing with delight, and Emma promised that they would one day get to meet the knight, a promise that left her nephews wide-eyed and caused her mother to raise her eyebrows.
“Trouble.” The gravelly rumbling of her father’s voice brought Emma out of her reverie and into the present immediately. A group of men were emerging from the woods that separated Paws from the coast. Leading that group was Daniel Johnson, wearing a hateful sneer that unabashedly showed the darkness of his two missing teeth. Behind him was Ephraim, gauze hastily taped to his nose.
Emma did a quick count. Ten men, each with a red cloth absurdly tied around his right bicep, each carrying a club. Emma supposed they felt they had organized a militia of sorts; after not being equal to the task of fighting off the Tarikians and the Atalan, the disaffected young men of Paws had found an enemy they could defeat: a family fleeing the madness that had overtaken their town.
Their ‘leader’ eyed her with a mix of hunger and hate. The years had not been kind to the once-handsome man; unmarried, unemployed, and a feckless drunkard until the brilliant idea of leaping into a latrine dawned on him when the Atalan attacked, leaving him one of the few able to boast he had survived the onslaught without fleeing, and was therefore most suited to leading the ‘Paws Guard’.
When Daniel saw Emma run by the previous night, he’d begun his plans. He’d filled a drunk Ephraim Vosteph full of lies, had made veiled threats, and had offered an out – Emma. The recent turmoil offered Daniel two things life had thus far denied him: he had never had his revenge on Emma Robinson, and he had never been with a woman.
In a slightly sybillant voice, Daniel cried out, loudly. “Emma Robinson, Selena Robinson, and Janek Robinson, you have kidnapped this man’s children, in defiance of the laws of Midor! Return them at once, and face justice!”
Emma blinked. She had not expected the man to sound coherent. Her mind began to race. Her family would not get out by boat. They would have to flee through the mountains, a harrowing flight, but a necessary one.
“Father, take the family east,” Emma hissed. “I’ll deal with these men.”
“No,” Janek Robinson replied incredulously, “I’ll not leave my daughter to such a fate.”
Emma immediately regretted her decision to allow Ephraim to hit her. Of course her father would assume the worst.
“Fine,” she said quietly, looking to her mother. “Mother, please stay close enough that we can assist you, should someone break off from the group.”
Emma then ran up the hill toward the men at an impossibly rapid pace, her father trudging behind. She soon stood five feet from Daniel Johnson.
“You are not the lawful authority of Paws,” she offered matter-of-factly.
“You want me to call upon the lawful authority of Paws? You broke the law, you are a kidnapper.”
Emma’s eyes briefly darted between the other men in the group. Among them were old acquaintances, neighbors, and a shopkeeper’s son. All young, all eyeing her with a muted impression of Daniel’s hunger. War, Emma thought, changes all the rules, and thrusts the barbaric to the forefront.
Daniel began to tap his club on his open palm, and Emma decided that this group needed to see blood, needed to feel fear, needed to see her in the same light as they saw the Atalan. She removed her gloves and balled her small hands into fists, inwardly wincing as she thought on what she was about to do.
She looked up coolly to the group, trying to take in the eyes of each man. “You, gentlemen, face the wolf who robbed Daniel Johnson of his two front teeth.”
Her assertion drained blood from Daniel’s face, and elicited guffaws from some of those assembled. Ephraim sneered and shook his head.
“Do you think you are strong enough to face an unarmed woman?” Emma asked, looking up into those hateful, hungry eyes.
The rest of the pack urged the alpha male on. Emma saw fear briefly flicker in his eyes, but the fear was rapidly replaced with hate. He quickly swung his club, and Emma, just as quickly, hooked her left foot behind his right, punched his chest, and laid him on his back. Then she leapt on him and aimed a punch perfectly, exquisite pain jolting her knuckles and shooting up her arm. By the time she regained her feet, her father had arrived, and Daniel lay screaming on the ground, blood streaming in four separate rivulets that exited his mouth in an anguished river.
She faced the remaining nine men, her own pain swallowed back, her left hand bloody, four jagged yellow-and-red objects jutting from the knuckles. She nonchalantly removed each tooth, tossing them to random members of the assembled group.
“Who’s next?” she asked coolly, as Janek and Ephraim looked on in shock.
“Quick, get the guards!” Ephraim yelled. One of the nine men ran for the town, the others either watched Daniel writhing on the ground or cast an uncomfortable glance to Emma, eyes averted.
Janek stared at Emma in wonder. “You let him hit you,” he said quietly.
Emma nodded. “Fat lot of good it did me. Time to run.”
Emma scooped a nephew under each arm and didn’t look back until she reached the barren rock of the Midor Coast. Janek and Selena arrived, breathless, some five minutes later, the path having been cleared by their daughter’s deadly feet, not one of the 'Paws Guard' having followed.
The boys were agitated, seven year old Noah clearly understanding now that he was being taken from his father, five year old Levi suspecting. Emma left the boys' inquiries to Selena, who hurried them along and distracted them with a song, a song that seemed to give succor to Emma and Janek and soothe the children.
They faced the scavenging coast trolls, who seemed to smell meat and began lumbering toward the group. Emma hated trolls. Of all the frightening foes she’d faced, trolls occupied a class of their own. It seemed like their wounds healed as quickly as Emma could inflict them, and that battles with them were interminable affairs that ended with exhaustion rather than a decisive blow.
She and her father faced the trolls side by side, her mother and terrified, screaming nephews behind them. Emma was amazed at his fighting prowess. He was older and slower, but he fought like she, and hit harder. They were able to slowly back toward the slopes of the mountains, staying between the coast trolls and Selena and the boys. They backed into a narrow valley, continuing the frustrating fight. Alone, Emma could disengage, bandage wounds, re-engage, and use her mobility. Defending her mother and nephews limited her. She had to fight like a true warrior, and it had caused the wind to be knocked out of her a few times. Her father was faring no better.
Her heart sank as she heard the arguing voices of mutant two-headed giants coming from behind her. She and her family were being surrounded, and there was no obvious escape route. Though the trolls and giants might fight over their meat once Emma's family lay dead, they would act in concert for now. A glance exchanged between Emma and her father saw him move to the rear to face the giants, while she continued to fruitlessly batter the three remaining trolls, endeavoring to ensure each maintained his attention on her, and not on her mother and nephews.
Arrows began to fall at her right side. Orcs. Terrible archers, but all it takes is one lucky shot to kill a child, Emma thought frantically. She tried to manoevre so that the trolls would be between she and the archers, her father once more at her side, and her mother and nephews behind, succeptible to a flanking action, but not to arrows. She didn’t know which was more dangerous, only that she could interpose herself between a flanking, lumbering beast, but would have much greater difficulty doing so against an arrow.
One of the trolls leaned in close to Emma, its mouth open, seemingly planning to start its meal before she’d fallen, giving her the opportunity to lunge for its neck, grabbing the large windpipe with all her might and twisting it, causing a gurgling in its throat, and, within a minute, death. Now only two remained, and Emma chanced a glance at her father, who was madly dodging vicious swings of the giants’ clubs. Hope, ever-present. Two trolls, three giants, and some orcish archers. They could do this, she thought, just as a fourth giant made the flanking action Emma had feared.
Her father scrambled to protect his wife and grandsons, earning a club to his chest that laid him on his back. Another club began an arc, seemingly in slow-motion, toward the exposed head of Janek Robinson. Emma instinctively interposed herself between Janek and the club, receiving a crushing blow that snapped her right clavicle in two. She stood over the prone form of her father, her mother and nephews beside her, finally seeing the futility of her situation. Two arrows ripped into her, one into her left arm, one her left thigh. A vicious punch from one of the trolls landed her on her stomach, sprawled on top of her father, her jaw connecting with a jutting rock, making stars swirl in her head.
In her last, brief, moment of consciousness, she saw, through the forest of ettin legs, the casual swagger of a figure clad in black plate mail. The figure was making her way toward the melee, and just before her world went black, Emma saw the figure unsheath a sword.
It glowed red.
Had she been able, Emma would have screamed in terror.
Flight From Paws: Part 3
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Diary Entry #12
Posted: 29 Jan 2007 02:24 PM |
Diary Entry #12
((If anyone is curious, there is a conclusion to the tale above. Said tale happened a few days back, though time, in Vives, can be nebulous; it’ll show up soon enough. There are still other things to talk about, though.))
Dear Diary:
The world roils with war, dear diary. All currently bubbles and simmers, but I believe those of us that think on such matters feel something big is coming, something decisive, something to make all we’ve yet seen pale in its shadow, to make it seem the prelude to a larger story that is yet to see climax and denouement. The prelude is accompanied by strife, death, stretched supplies, stretched military assets, lost battles, painful stalemates, and fear. It is a fear that you can smell and taste as you walk the streets of any civilized town or city.
I have now known two magisters who have attempted or succeeded in taking their own lives during this affair: Salt and Shard. Salt because he felt it was the only way to deal with the Sweet Fellow; Shard, according to Sylune, because he didn’t wish to go on living without reciprocation of his love. Salt did not succeed. Shard, on the other hand, apparently did. Though their actions sadden me, they anger me more. As the world lurches, it needs strong men to defend it, not for them to descend into inward-focused melancholy and hopelessness.
The matter of the Sweet Fellow no longer seems surmountable by the tools at my disposal, and I must admit defeat there, at least insofar as a response to Him involves me. The mark on my arm is a lesson that harder (or less foolish) hearts would take in earnest, but I refuse to, as is my right: show no love or compassion to evil. Perhaps I shall ever live with it, perhaps not. Those that wield the tools to defeat the demon were dissuaded from assisting when all of Port Royale’s riff raff seemed to follow our party to the Black Pearl, as though Magister Salt were the pied piper himself.
I can forgive some of them for simply indulging curiosity. Tristian’s attempts to spy, however, are unforgiveable. He marks himself an enemy as clearly as he marks himself a fool; the difference between he and Rosen is that her intellect makes her a dangerous puppeteer. His lack thereof makes him a dangerous puppet. What presumptuous simpleton walks the streets asking for a catalogue of addresses of liches and vampires, that he might gain audience with each one and use his powers of persuasion to convince them to help save the world? What does Vestlat care if the Atalan claim domain over Port Royale, or Midor, or all Vives? What does he care if Vidus Khain does? If your age is measured in millenia, you’ve seen tyrants come and go like the tide, their imprints washed away with the passing centuries.
As I said earlier, I am out of my depth with the matter of the Sweet Fellow. I won’t take up Lady Eleanor on her offer, because too much about it begins to look like it is a piece of an elaborate plan that I cannot completely fathom:
1. The child is a creation of the wizard tower to which she owes allegiance;
2. The child’s creation is the result of an offer to yet another weak-willed magister; and
3. The child is taken by the Sweet Fellow as His son.
To me, it appears that an unholy deal was made; perhaps –that- wizard tower would like to see the destruction of the Sweet Fellow to put their creation on His throne.
Add to this mix feelings: Balthor’s, Alton’s, mine even. A clear mind sees where it all ends, if possible. I cannot deny that Balthor’s feelings and Alton’s feelings are human, for lack of a better adjective, but they do not lead to me agreeing with them, merely acknowledging them, and acknowledging how I’d feel were it my son. However, I would never offer up my blood to a bastion of evil that its adherents might experiment with playing God, and that foolishness seems lost on both Alton and Balthor. At Alton’s urging, I have ejected a certain noun from my vocabulary, insofar as I speak in his presence, but I will use it herein. The child –is- an abomination, and –should- be destroyed.
Alas, I suspect that any assault on the Sweet Fellow now depends on a smaller circle: a group that can meet without acting as a magnet, move swiftly and quietly, and which the critical pair trusts. Perhaps that increases the danger, but it also reduces the risk of betrayal. I can hope that one day I wake up and the red scar on my arm fades from sight. I can, and I shall.
I know that I should probably devote the remainder of this entry to weighty matters concerning the Atalan, but there are plenty of pages left in my diary, and I would very much like to focus just a bit on my life of late.
First of all, my parents and nephews are safe; sadly, their lives were won at a dear price, and I find myself indebted to the fallen paladin. I shan’t elaborate more herein. I have met another kindred spirit, a gentleman by the name of Alexi, who is a watchmaker that fled Midor; when no-one else would, he accompanied me to Gladden to bury the dead, then said an inspiring prayer over them. He is both kind and handsome, though, upon meeting Sylune, I could see that he joined the ranks of men who have little interest in me. Her invitation for him to join her for coffee, and his eager acceptance, left little doubt. I suppose I shouldn’t feel as upset and ashamed as I do: I am largely used to it by now.
My list of talents shrinks as well. Vincent delivered the slap to my face that he doesn’t like my cooking, a slap made more painful by Sylune’s half-hearted denials and Alexi’s stoic but transparently vain attempt to suggest otherwise. It seemed, from his words, that Vincent thinks me a man. Good for throwing into a battle with my fists pointed forward, but incapable of cooking, tenderness, empathy, or anything else –womanly- that I would like people to see in me. I don’t know what hurt more: his clear assertion of my inadequacy, or Alexi’s unsuccessful attempt to hide his agreement. In any event, I –can- control my ability to cook, as opposed to my appearance, or my desire to live through battles by hitting with all the skill and ability at my disposal. I will strive to get better; it shames me that so many hid their feelings about my culinary skills for so long.
Well, dear diary, I suppose our dialogue is at a close. I feel I’ve removed a weight from my metaphorical chest by at least penning my feelings. I suppose it is time to fall in line behind someone and do something about this Atalan threat. Sylune has plans, Fennigan has plans, Alton and, apparently, Salt, have knowledge of some lingering weakness that could fell the Atalan, a weakness that Alton is happy to trumpet, but not so happy to reveal. Secrets are often hard won, and spread like wildfire if voiced. I shan’t push him on this one; there is too much else to think on for me to push my nose into every corner.
In the hope that my next entry finds times better, in faith that, taken with a long view, all will turn out for the best, and in love, the love of aunt, daughter, and friend,
Emma |
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At The Ferein Docks
Posted: 31 Jan 2007 11:38 AM |
Emma stood, watching the ship slowly sail away, a misty fog in front of her eyes, droplets standing stubbornly at the corner of each, refusing to allow gravity to form rivulets down the small woman's face. Her mother's hands reached forward and stopped their descent before it ever began.
"I don't know where you found that one," she said quietly, "but, if not for the obvious problem of him outliving you by five lifetimes, he'd be a keeper."
"It's not that way between us, mother," Emma replied, her gaze focused on the ship's main sail as the body of the boat disappeared over the horizon.
"I am sorry you had to leave him out of this, he is obviously a good friend," her mother said softly. "Men, the best of them are so noble. Would you have offered what he did?"
Emma swallowed and shook her head. "It gives the black knight an extra servant without her giving up anything in return."
"She would use his feelings for you against him, and not abandon using your feelings for us against you." Pursing her lips, the older woman continued. "And, she will not stop playing on your sense of...honour...that our lives are debts to be repaid."
Emma nodded, sighing. She was no foolish hero, out to defend her family with martyrdom and epithets. Selena Robinson expected her daughter to do what was right, not to take short-sighted actions out of fear for their lives. They now knew the danger, and Selena had made it abundantly clear that, should the worst happen, the blood was not on her daughter's hands. It was a painful eventuality to consider, but the two remaining women of the Robinson family were not going to put their safety, and the safety of the two innocent boys, ahead of the safety of an army that did not earn betrayal.
Selena looked down at her daughter. "So noble, nonetheless." Her dark brown eyes rested on her daughter's careworn features for a time, before she spoke in a barely audible whisper. "I have decided where we will go. It is time for us to convince your father that it was his idea." |
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Prelude to a hunt
Posted: 05 Feb 2007 01:43 PM |
Emma sat alone at the café, looking wistfully at the couple across the room, hands held, the man leaning across the table whispering something to the young woman, she fluttering her eyelashes demurely and returning his gaze. To Emma, they looked untouched by the war, untouched by everyday troubles, untouched by everything but the draw of one another’s eyes. She sighed and looked down at her parchment, lazily drawing stars and swirls about the ruined letter.
What had Rosen called them? Bureaucrats in black and gold? The previous evening, when Emma had spoken to Alexi, she had speculated about Rosen’s age. In different circumstances, the two of them might be sitting sharing a coffee together, the same thoughts dancing in the minds of each, both staring over at the couple. Emma supposed, however, that Rosen would actually have suitors. Perhaps she would be in the young woman’s chair.
Instead, Rosen seemed, among other things, so very old, so completely –beyond- such ‘frivolous’ thoughts. Had she tried to make a difference, had she tried to find her place within the power structures of Vives? Had she found her voice falling on deaf ears, and given up? Emma supposed she didn’t know, and debated opening up her diary and devoting a long piece to exploring all the things that went into turning a paladin to Syn, aside from what Rosen had already told her of multiple betrayals by multiple Gods, each masquerading as bringers of truth.
Instead, she looked back down at the letter she’d penned for Byron, the letter which had gone undelivered for six days, and which now had stars, swirls, and happy faces doodled on it. It was not a document she enjoyed carrying around with her, and the most pressing things contained therein neither required Byron to see them, nor needed to be hid from spies, if in fact any existed.
Emma finished her Espresso and walked up to the counter, smiling at her namesake. Holding up letter and envelope, she motioned across the counter to the soot blackened wood-burning stove with cast-iron kettles on each burner.
“Might I?” she asked.
The red-haired, red-clad Emma nodded her head and allowed the smaller one to come behind the counter and place the envelope and letter in the fire. They both watched it briefly erupt into flame before dying out just as quickly, turning to a black wisp with orange edges that burned themselves out and slowly turned to grey ash. After the hot coals finished the work of obliterating the last of her message, Emma Robinson sighed softly and returned to her seat.
She breathed in through her mouth and exhaled through her nose, wishing she hadn’t just drunk two of the small coffees, her hand seemingly wanting to write with blinding speed, her mind racing far more quickly than she cared for it to. After a spell of Marie’s breathing exercises, Emma found herself with a headache, but a still mind and steadier hand. She began to write.
Diary Entry #13
Dear Diary:
I find myself feeling embarrassed after spending last night talking Sir Alexi’s ear off. Just how long ago was it that I gave Sir Cedrych a dressing down for questioning, for far less silly reasons, his suitability to be a paladin? I’m not sure what I even wanted of the man. He said some kind things, but, once I had the time to distill his overall message, it had a painful parallel to what I told Cedrych: he –is- a paladin, and that’s what the world needs him to be.
I suppose I feel like the difference is that, though Cedrych can’t be both paladin and priest, I would have hoped I could be both of the things that I wish for myself. Perhaps my reply to Alexi’s words, punching my way through the desert until physically exhausted, until tear ducts and sweat glands could produce no more moisture, was indicative of who I am, and why men see me in that light. I will most certainly not debase my dignity by asking another one to tell me otherwise.
The situation in Port Royale grows dire, and I have been unable to reach Lord Byron with my suggestion as to how to alleviate the suffering. I don’t know how many have died since I penned the undelivered letter, but the message that each body carted out of the Angels of Mercy carries is that the time to act is now, not when I’m able to reach the High Paladin. Whichever philosopher said that truth is the first casualty of war clearly never lived through one. In this war, innocent men, women and children have been the first casualties, and have sustained the brunt of the pain. Midor’s response puts paid to the philosopher, but is yet to seriously exacerbate the pain, the anecdote of my own family notwithstanding.
Despite Rosen’s threats, my mother, father, and nephews are safe. I will need to deal with her at some point, as this war will end eventually, and there will need to be a reconciliation with my brother-in-law. After that, my parents cannot live under guard, nor can my nephews. I suppose the most logical option is for me to move back with them. I made a silent commitment to my dead sister to raise her children; I can at least offer some meagre protection by living up to it. However, I must admit that, irrespective of whether I do, I would still like the threat lifted, or to see Rosen assume a position at the metaphorical serpent’s tail.
To bring my digression, and this diary entry in general, back into focus, I best clarify what is to happen now. Syluné wrote a letter to the Queen that went unsanswered, and I wrote a letter to Lord Byron that went undelivered. People continue to die, not at the hands of Atalan assassins, but of starvation, and we continue to act as though we need permission in order to help. The blood stains all of our hands.
Syluné and Alexi have both agreed to add their names to the call. I can only hope others will answer.
In faith, love, and hope,
Emma
The young woman then pulled out a large piece of parchment and proceeded to pen a new note, deftly slicing a piece from the end of her quill, so as to thicken the letters. |
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A Farewell
Posted: 06 Feb 2007 12:19 PM |
Emma left the cafe with puffy eyes and cheeks, staring blankly at the high walls that surrounded the palace of Port Royale's sovereign.
Tired of...everything? Tired of...life? Twenty-six years of pain. An illness. A retreat from us all?
Her mind swirled. Another soul leaving, retreating from a hostile world that needed him now more than ever, one with whom she'd had a tumultuous beginning, but a soul who, for Emma, was a testament to the power of forgiveness and redemption.
Not -just- another soul. Valethrion. Her friend. His magicks had saved her life on occasion, and saved the lives of many she knew. There were things she knew she -couldn't- have with him, for so many reasons, but it still stung, despite all that she told herself, that he was walking off into seclusion with another, with an elf. She mentally corrected that. He was walking off into seclusion with an elven woman.
Emma breathed in and breathed out slowly. She knew who she was, and kept telling herself to accept it. He had given her a staff that she couldn't wield, gave her a word, 'Jadeheart', and acted as though that made everything right...normal. She stared at the staff in her hands, ornate elven manufacture, a pivot and locking mechanism that would allow it to fit in her pack nearly hidden by the carved runes.
Emma frowned and put the staff in her pack. If she wanted to see Valethrion, she would go to him. He was not some beast to be summoned at her whim.
She wiped her eyes and willed his memory out of her consciousness. She tried to turn him into a face without a voice, a scent, or any connection to her, an act that caused his image to swim in her mind's eye alongside that of Fennigan and Shard...
...images of others who had lost hope, and given up. |
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The Dawning Truth
Posted: 09 Feb 2007 03:18 AM |
((I will post something about the events earlier tonight/yesterday, unless someone beats me to it. Thought I'd get this down first.))
Emma sat on the edge of the boat, looking down at the churning waves, the smell of the sea cleansing her senses, the rain no longer washing blood from her combat dress. She would probably need to bleach it to get it white again, she thought idly, before chastising herself for wasting her energy on such silly musings.
A week? Markus and Sylune had estimated the food would last that long. A single week. She had spent the last of her gold gathering bread and jars of preserved vegetables from everywhere on the continent other than Port Royale. She hadn’t counted, but she might not even have the gold to make the return trip from whence she’d sailed. She wasn’t sure whether that even mattered to her. She would be with her mother, father, and nephews, and that –did- matter to her.
Buying a week? What would it mean to any of them? A metaphorical black knight on her shoulder whispered that it gave them all six more days to contemplate how pitiful and miserable they are, and that prolonging their End would make it all the more luxuriously painful.
Emma was too tired to argue with Despondency. As Markus and Sylune had debated resettling farmers and getting food and livestock growing again, the cold truth of the world’s situation had dawned on Emma.
First of all, as far as she knew, the Atalan had successfully attacked every major farming village in Vives save Paws, and stripped them of resources. Empty silos meant no seed grains. No seed grains meant no crops. Also, how exactly would one raise livestock when there were no progenitors to beget a herd?
Then, assuming seed grains were found, and assuming some livestock had survived the attacks, it would take a minimum of four months for wheat to ripen and over a year for any domesticated meat-bearing animal other than a chicken to mature.
And they had a week.
So far, starvation had only hit Port Royale, but it would spread. Who but those preparing for war kept months or years worth of provisions? That meant that perhaps Midor had stores to run on, maybe even the Aristi and the elves. The rest? Unlikely.
The Atalan didn’t need to attack anymore. They could just let the rest of the world starve.
Emma had done what she felt she could do. What needed to be done now was in the hands of military men, and she didn’t fit the bill, on two counts. As the sails were dropped and the sun rose, blood red, on the horizon, Emma prepared to disembark the ship.
In a short time, she would be with her nephews and parents, in much the same situation she was when she’d left Paws those months back: penniless and with no possessions save the clothes on her back and the books she refused to sell.
Later, as she embraced each of the four refugees that constituted her family, she realized she needed little else. |
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Diary Entry #14
Posted: 13 Feb 2007 03:01 PM |
Diary Entry #14
Dear Diary:
Faith and destiny are strange beasts, dear diary. It embarrasses me to write that my own faith, and my own sense of hope, had been waning for some time. Seeing the horrors wrought by the Atalan, and the difficulty of organizing a response, has severely tested many of us. Some have retreated into obscurity, some have descended into melancholy, but some, the precious few, continue to think, to plan, to try to do something.
I may have been on the path to melancholy and retreat, curiously, at exactly the point in time when I should have felt a sense of accomplishment, of having helped to ease the plight of the vulnerable. All I could think of, though, in the aftermath of the hunt, was that it seemed so futile, a small gesture that would accomplish little other than extend doomed lives.
The problem with that thinking, of course, is the arrogant isolationism of it. Many rivulets meet to form a stream, and the fact that I can only see the path of one doesn’t mean the others don’t exist. Those of us that care need to do what we can, and have faith that our actions support the unseen others that do the same, following differing paths. If I had begun to ponder whether the Gods Themselves were concerned for Their followers, I ponder it no more, at least insofar as the Fair Sister is concerned. Witnessing the strength of Her compassion was enough to renew my faith, and I shall endeavour to henceforth avoid the lure of despondency.
It is hard for me not to dwell on the irony of it: my faith was renewed as a result of following Rosen Vimes on a trip to Naruth’s realm. Her mission was plunder; I went for my own reasons, reasons that should be obvious to those that know where I direct my prayers. Destiny has, on more than one occasion, placed me in the same camp as the black knight, and I often think of us as the two entwined serpents that grace the door of a surgeon’s home. Intertwined fates, with a respectful, concordant opposition. She saves my family, then threatens them. I oppose her, then assist with her healing. Her jaded sarcasm rings true in my ears; my refusal to countenance it seems to earn a respect she withholds from many.
In the end, following Rosen cost a young man his life, a life restored by Vilyave’s Wind in his lungs. My choice to accompany her restored hope and faith, and I cannot help but wonder whether she would appreciate the deliciousness of that irony.
In faith, love, and hope,
Emma |
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Pandora's Door: Part 1
Posted: 26 Feb 2007 03:04 PM |
The face that looked back at Emma from the mis-shapen mirror was never going to be exactly hers, but she still winced at the grotesque parody that greeted her. The bulbous, bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes, the mottled red and white skin, and the puffy cheeks made her look bloated and inhuman, somehow closer to the gnome she'd faced two days prior.
Emma was hardly obsessed with her looks, but at that moment she wanted to see the delicate set to her jaw, her slightly pronounced cheekbones, and the clear white of her eyes against the cream-white background of her face. She wanted to see someone undeniably human, in contrast to Bel.
The hours that she had spent weeping had ensured that she wouldn't, and the metaphor was not lost on Emma. It was what every single person there had intimated: by dealing as harshly as she had with the necromancer, she had somehow embraced the evil she sought to fight.
The self-doubt the others had instilled ate at the erstwhile farmer's daughter at the level of a recent mosquito bite, rather than a bee-sting. The itch could be ignored, and would go away. What bothered her more was that all the others had defended the necromancer, and what that said about them upset her profoundly.
She'd sought the solace of isolation the day after, fighting half-way through Maldovia in its pursuit. Then Isania came upon her, chiding her for the foolishness of traveling those lands alone. Emma's reply had been that she couldn't trust those that purported to be her friends: Isania had been one of those to turn on her, and the diminutive monk found forgiveness hard, especially after it became clear that the elf did not seek it.
Emma was deeply confused by Isania's message: I can be your friend and disagree with you on such matters. How? How could she intervene to stop Emma from assaulting Bel, but calmly watch as her friend Evanna trained an arrow on Emma's head and ordered her about? Isania's reply was completely unsatisfying to Emma, as had been most of what had passed between she and the others the previous day.
The young woman needed time to herself, time to sit and write in her journal, to let her quill explore what had taken place, and then to speak to one of the three or four people whose opinions she wanted to hear: Sylune, Markus, Cedrych, or perhaps Alexi. The morally ambiguous had thrown too much at her, and leaving that encounter the villain, while the necromancer left it as the poor, mistreated soul, deserving only of pathos, shattered something in Emma.
In the end, the self-styled Holy Warrior of Vilyave sought solace and quiet in the one place she knew she couldn't be followed by the dark-hearted. She had suffered a defeat, and needed to go somewhere safe to lick her wounds. |
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