Dearest Stormwing (you've settled on Stormwing, yes?),
There is much on my mind these days. You are, as ever, a trusted ally and far enough away from this strange island and its intrigues that you can offer me a bit needed dispassionate insight.
We all want to know a bit about who we are. Where we are from. Even if we do not care much for the blood we inherit, we may yet seek to understand our connection to our ideological or religious forebears.
This is natural. We are temporal beings and this is one way we can become part of something more enduring. It is no different for myself. However, there is a growing feeling of disconnectedness from the being I have always believed myself to be and that gnaws at me.
My titles, long a source of pride and identity have become bits of costume jewelry, worn for the sake of appearances. I still value them, but they aren't...me. I feel no pride in them. As much as I try to emulate my storied grandfather, I am not truly of his blood. My efforts are an affectation, nothing more. As much as I love my mother and the time I spent with her, she is gone and the home we shared has become cold to me, my brief visits there reminders that I am now alien and unwelcome. I take some comfort that Siamorphe still calls me her Beloved, but this is more akin to an occupation than a source of identity. I used to enjoy doing her work, but I cannot remember the last time I felt truly joyful in doing so. It is satisfying to do one's duty, but there's something missing now that I cannot place.
What to do?
This leaves me with my father. It always seems to come back around to him. As a girl, I delighted in his infrequent visits to the Silent March, though it always left my mother and her husband quite put out. As a young woman, hearing news of his death, I understood him to be a selfish and inconstant creature, ignoble and possessed of great and unseemly appetites. As a woman grown...I realize I did not truly know him at all.
I've no wish to emulate the man in deed or in character, but my ignorance of him feels so very incongruous. Perhaps, by learning more of the man, I can learn more of myself. Perhaps it will just be another excuse not look inside to see what face is staring back at me. I do not know.
Before she passed, I had the good fortune of speaking with Farah the priestess about my father and grandfather. She knew them, though age had greatly clouded her memory. I only mention this now, as I write, because my last conversation with her struck a clouded and worrisome chord within me. My father had simply appeared to the Bibliophili, she said, and they welcomed him as they would an old friend. Before he appeared, another disappeared, a man she referred to only as 'grim and broken, almost to the point of absurdity'. I had thought she meant it to be the father of my my father's childhood friend, a man named Balefire, but as I reflect further, I know instinctively that this is not the case.
But why would I? There is something to this story that resonates with a piece of me I didn't realize existed. That should terrify me, shouldn't it? It is as alien and unwelcome within me as I am within the halls of my mother's kin, but I am not truly afraid.
I cannot remember the last time I was truly afraid. I remember that I must have been..but the details slip away like sand between my grasping fingers. So many little details gone. Where they ever there? Or were they a work of cruel artifice?
It matters little. For now, at least. I must find my answers lest they find me first.
Stay safe, little one, and do not get mired in the politicking of my half-siblings. You are a symbol of something greater than even the heirs of House Belaqua. Transcend if you are able. Hide in the shed if you are not. I've asked the Steward to see to it there's always something interesting to read on the top shelf.
Yours, truly,
Artemisia Angelica Belaqua-Bibliophilius , so on so forth with the titles and all.
A Sense of Self
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Re: A Sense of Self
Dearest Grimshadow (really, do settle on a name soon),
My mind is more at ease since last we spoke. I took some time to speak with a young man named Eric who is one of the more prominent members of the local Triadist temple and he reminded me of a few important things.
I do have a tendency to let my focus wander and it's occurred to me that part of this disconnect I feel is likely due to a... Er. Well. I made a bit of a mistake. And, with all the drama and urgent matters drawing my attention as of late, I have forgotten to tell you about it.
My deepest apologies.
Now, you were kind enough not to chide me about not writing for nearly three years, and it is time to explain why.
You know that, per my duties as one of Siamorphe's seven Beloved, I must pursue knowledge and understanding that would be of use to a land's rightful ruler. I can picture you shaking your head and rolling your eyes, but Siamorphe is every bit as important to me as Bahamut is to you. To that end, I thought it a brilliant idea to find a way to store foodstuffs indefinitely.
I thought it was brilliant, anyway.
At first I thought to use the services of an ice elemental to keep food cool, but it proved impractical for large volumes of, say, stored grains. For a volume the size of a common cupboard, however, it might actually prove quite useful. I will pursue that further at a later time.
Next, I tried to construct a Bag of Holding of prodigious size, thinking that the fell and terrible otherworldly void that it contains would be perfect for storing foodstuffs indefinitely. Unfortunately, the acorns I put into the bag came out...changed. Suffused with a terrible aura. Also, Skiurids keep getting into the bag. I am beginning to suspect that there is portal to the shadow plane somewhere in the city. Where else would the shadowy little vermin come from?
So, finally, I decided to try controlled temporal stasis. You see, this island is absolutely awash in Time Stop scrolls and nearly everyone, from noble Paladin to skulking knave, seems to know how to use them. Absurd, I know, but at least that meant obtaining one for the purposes of experimentation was easy enough.
I won't go over the technical details. I know magic comes to you as easily as breathing, but let us just say I attempted to re-engineer the scroll through the careful alteration of several runes and etched thaumatic conduits. I stepped into my cupboard, incanted the spell and...
It is hard to describe. For a momentary eternity, I saw, without eyes, a shape that I was both within and, somehow, without. It seemed to rotate slowly, but even as it spun along, I could see...linkages between spaces, between planes, flexing and parting. It was less like a shape and more like mirror that showed something so complex, that it required all the space around me and some vast measure of time to give me even the barest inkling of what it reflected.
Which was very fascinating, I must say, but probably not anything I should worry about much. Indeed, my mind has had trouble focusing clearly on anything since I gazed into those ephemeral vertices and that's rather inconvenient.
Regardless! After this aforementioned diversion, I exited my cupboard in a bit of a daze only to encounter a very surprised woman and her equally astonished husband. I had initially taken them for some of the peasantry come to ask for my aid in some matter or another, but I couldn't have been more wrong. The woman, Marigold by name, was no peasant. She was actually a rather wealthy merchant who had purchased the home two years before after its previous occupant (me, it turns out) had failed to file the paperwork with the city required to maintain a residence in Cordor.
Rather unfortunate, that, but we live and we learn and, sometimes, we become unstuck from time and space, floating formlessly in a spiraling otherworld that defies comprehension.
To their credit, however, they had kept most of my former possessions and were convinced to sell me back my favorite books and a few other personal items of sentimental value for about what it would have cost to store them securely in the city.
After that...I beheld a world subtly changed. I will tell you truthfully, dearest Grimshadow, that a thousand abrupt and subtle changes to the world are far more disconcerting than a few big ones. Men and women I knew where gone, or had changed dramatically. The rulers of the city had changed. The guard, who offered me a satisfying occupation, were replaced by dour, humorless thugs. Good friends were dead.
I was surprised to find that good Daltanius, my great Nephew who I much admired, had fulfilled his quest to find a sacred blade and left the isle. Perhaps he returned to his sprawling, cheerful family in Trademeet. There is a sadness to that, but also the satisfaction of knowing his mad quest was, at least partially, a success.
And...I found my grandfather's home a ruin. It was one thing to know it had been taken over by knaves and idiots of the highest and most absurdly predictable order, but to know that it would never be restored was devastating. I would never have the chance to walk where he walked and imagine how he and my father must have lived their lives. The worst thing was finding the memorial to grandfather destroyed. It was a small bit of beauty and peace in the otherwise dreary and oppressive city that Wharftown had become.
Now it is rubble. The thought of that makes my heart ache.
One bit of interesting news, though, was that my scouring of the region around Wharftown-That-Was revealed an unlikely treasure. I have in my possession now a slim volume entitled Degram. That was my grandmother's maiden name. It is encoded somehow, though. I may be a reasonable linguist and scholar, but Rune herself was a master of misdirection and caution. The only thing I've been able to make out so far is that the alphabet being used is Abyssal, and either requires the use of a cipher to properly translate or is actually in another language all together.
My next step will be to crack that mystery and learn something about my father, or, perhaps that unsettling shadow that looms beyond him.
I've enclosed some delicious scones made by a woman named Gretta. She calls them "Scarf-ables". How novel! Also, the Steward tells me you've been practicing your 'regal draconic look' in the mirror and he assures me that you are almost, very nearly there.
I am, as always, deeply proud of you.
Yours in nobility and grace,
Artemisia Angelica Belaqua-Bibliophilius, so on with the titles and whatnot
PS: I'm going to take a trip to the heavens (this will hopefully not involve my untimely demise) to see if the being there know anything that might aid my quest.
My mind is more at ease since last we spoke. I took some time to speak with a young man named Eric who is one of the more prominent members of the local Triadist temple and he reminded me of a few important things.
I do have a tendency to let my focus wander and it's occurred to me that part of this disconnect I feel is likely due to a... Er. Well. I made a bit of a mistake. And, with all the drama and urgent matters drawing my attention as of late, I have forgotten to tell you about it.
My deepest apologies.
Now, you were kind enough not to chide me about not writing for nearly three years, and it is time to explain why.
You know that, per my duties as one of Siamorphe's seven Beloved, I must pursue knowledge and understanding that would be of use to a land's rightful ruler. I can picture you shaking your head and rolling your eyes, but Siamorphe is every bit as important to me as Bahamut is to you. To that end, I thought it a brilliant idea to find a way to store foodstuffs indefinitely.
I thought it was brilliant, anyway.
At first I thought to use the services of an ice elemental to keep food cool, but it proved impractical for large volumes of, say, stored grains. For a volume the size of a common cupboard, however, it might actually prove quite useful. I will pursue that further at a later time.
Next, I tried to construct a Bag of Holding of prodigious size, thinking that the fell and terrible otherworldly void that it contains would be perfect for storing foodstuffs indefinitely. Unfortunately, the acorns I put into the bag came out...changed. Suffused with a terrible aura. Also, Skiurids keep getting into the bag. I am beginning to suspect that there is portal to the shadow plane somewhere in the city. Where else would the shadowy little vermin come from?
So, finally, I decided to try controlled temporal stasis. You see, this island is absolutely awash in Time Stop scrolls and nearly everyone, from noble Paladin to skulking knave, seems to know how to use them. Absurd, I know, but at least that meant obtaining one for the purposes of experimentation was easy enough.
I won't go over the technical details. I know magic comes to you as easily as breathing, but let us just say I attempted to re-engineer the scroll through the careful alteration of several runes and etched thaumatic conduits. I stepped into my cupboard, incanted the spell and...
It is hard to describe. For a momentary eternity, I saw, without eyes, a shape that I was both within and, somehow, without. It seemed to rotate slowly, but even as it spun along, I could see...linkages between spaces, between planes, flexing and parting. It was less like a shape and more like mirror that showed something so complex, that it required all the space around me and some vast measure of time to give me even the barest inkling of what it reflected.
Which was very fascinating, I must say, but probably not anything I should worry about much. Indeed, my mind has had trouble focusing clearly on anything since I gazed into those ephemeral vertices and that's rather inconvenient.
Regardless! After this aforementioned diversion, I exited my cupboard in a bit of a daze only to encounter a very surprised woman and her equally astonished husband. I had initially taken them for some of the peasantry come to ask for my aid in some matter or another, but I couldn't have been more wrong. The woman, Marigold by name, was no peasant. She was actually a rather wealthy merchant who had purchased the home two years before after its previous occupant (me, it turns out) had failed to file the paperwork with the city required to maintain a residence in Cordor.
Rather unfortunate, that, but we live and we learn and, sometimes, we become unstuck from time and space, floating formlessly in a spiraling otherworld that defies comprehension.
To their credit, however, they had kept most of my former possessions and were convinced to sell me back my favorite books and a few other personal items of sentimental value for about what it would have cost to store them securely in the city.
After that...I beheld a world subtly changed. I will tell you truthfully, dearest Grimshadow, that a thousand abrupt and subtle changes to the world are far more disconcerting than a few big ones. Men and women I knew where gone, or had changed dramatically. The rulers of the city had changed. The guard, who offered me a satisfying occupation, were replaced by dour, humorless thugs. Good friends were dead.
I was surprised to find that good Daltanius, my great Nephew who I much admired, had fulfilled his quest to find a sacred blade and left the isle. Perhaps he returned to his sprawling, cheerful family in Trademeet. There is a sadness to that, but also the satisfaction of knowing his mad quest was, at least partially, a success.
And...I found my grandfather's home a ruin. It was one thing to know it had been taken over by knaves and idiots of the highest and most absurdly predictable order, but to know that it would never be restored was devastating. I would never have the chance to walk where he walked and imagine how he and my father must have lived their lives. The worst thing was finding the memorial to grandfather destroyed. It was a small bit of beauty and peace in the otherwise dreary and oppressive city that Wharftown had become.
Now it is rubble. The thought of that makes my heart ache.
One bit of interesting news, though, was that my scouring of the region around Wharftown-That-Was revealed an unlikely treasure. I have in my possession now a slim volume entitled Degram. That was my grandmother's maiden name. It is encoded somehow, though. I may be a reasonable linguist and scholar, but Rune herself was a master of misdirection and caution. The only thing I've been able to make out so far is that the alphabet being used is Abyssal, and either requires the use of a cipher to properly translate or is actually in another language all together.
My next step will be to crack that mystery and learn something about my father, or, perhaps that unsettling shadow that looms beyond him.
I've enclosed some delicious scones made by a woman named Gretta. She calls them "Scarf-ables". How novel! Also, the Steward tells me you've been practicing your 'regal draconic look' in the mirror and he assures me that you are almost, very nearly there.
I am, as always, deeply proud of you.
Yours in nobility and grace,
Artemisia Angelica Belaqua-Bibliophilius, so on with the titles and whatnot
PS: I'm going to take a trip to the heavens (this will hopefully not involve my untimely demise) to see if the being there know anything that might aid my quest.
Re: A Sense of Self
Dearest Grimmaw Shadowfang Blood (really?),
My mind is a-crackle!
I have returned from the heavens! Yes! I know it sounds mad, but I stood upon the very shores of Celestia, dipped my toe into that eternal sea, and felt, in a very real way, a connection to the divine. It was immense! As immense and boundless as the mountain that loomed overhead!
Had to bring my own snacks, though, so that was a bit of a disappointment.
So, what did that visit reveal to me?
Mostly, that I was wrong. In more ways than one.
The fellow who watched over the Lantern Archons dancing on the shore seemed hesitant to speak to me. Tales from others who have visited that little jetty and spoke to this being have described him as distant, but polite. I have seen angels before, but I've never seen one uncomfortable with looking a mortal in the eye.
But, he did speak to me and, in the few words we exchanged, much was revealed. Surprisingly, there was a shining light very close by. It was the other side of the Light of Benwick. He said that they call it "Aal'gni'lynxzxty; Graahlpmniee". I speak over a dozen languages, both mortal and planar, and that doesn't seem to translate into anything I know. I don't know everything, and perhaps some other scholar can translate it successfully. It must be old, for he said that it has always been called such.
It had always been there. Or, at least a connection Arelith had always been there. That caused me deep disquiet, for I fancied myself knowledgeable about such things. It pretty much sunk all of my current theories on how to resolve the issue with the demons spewing out of old Benwick. I'm glad I was shown the error in my thinking before the time for desperate action came. So, being wrong, in this case, was not so bad.
I told him a bit about my quest to aid the Temple, our search for colored shards of an amulet that might help fix this whole Benwick business and he nodded for a bit and told me that, while my quest was valiant, I lacked the understanding needed to complete it. Understanding would come, he said, in due time and that trust and attentiveness on my part would serve me well.
Then, I asked him about my father. I told him that my father claimed some measure of heavenly blood and that, perhaps, he could give me some insight into what divine ancestor I might have had. Even as I finished my question, the angel's expression grew...stoney, as though the knowledge was painful. I asked if I had done something wrong and the angel shook his head, holding up a hand to placate me.
"You have done no wrong in this regard, no more than any other mortal, but you...are...wrong." I asked him to explain and he simply told me that the answers I sought, all of them, could be found below, in a place ancient and forgotten.
He would speak to me no more, his discomfort leading me to feel increasingly unwelcome. I do not begrudge the angel. He seemed a decent enough sort, but it was time I left. Instead of returning down the path I came, I took an opportunity to gain some first-hand knowledge useful for our quest and entered the holy Light of Benwick itself.
I ended up in Benwick, surprised to find the light still shining. Nearby, a similar portal, fell and terrible, glowed red. Reality itself rippled and writhed around me. A faint, discordant hum filled my ears. Or my mind. I don't know for certain. I had time to get a measure of the place before the unending tide of evil creatures drove me away.
My mind raced. It still races. I can hardly think about anything.
The Light of Benwick once stood, if my sources are correct, in a grand citadel on the northern side of this island. It was called Kholingen and it was a glowing white testament to all that was holy, a place that should not rightfully exist on this world.
The fortress is a ruin now, its foundations split and cast off of the island proper. I have visited the corpse of this once holy place and found little but monsters. Within it, I did find a mention of a Duke who ruled Minmir.
Minmir is a blighted place now, its soil steeped in necromantic energies. The scope of calamity stretches the bounds of imagination. But it would not be the last.
The Light was moved to Benwick. And Benwick shone. And calamity befell it as well. Instead of death, though, it became stepped in evil. Yet the light, despite all reason, still shines within.
I think I understand why, now, though it is likely a clouded and narrow understanding.
I suspect this island came from elsewhere, perhaps a piece of the heavens themselves, or a part of some distant world dragged here for purposes I cannot fathom. Reality is too thin here. The barriers between planes too permeable. Perhaps the the connection to Celestia is causing a warping of reality itself and the strain is what allows darker forces to find their way in.
All I know is that, wherever that Light has been, calamity has followed. If it remains tethered where ought not be, it will destroy the whole island one day, either by pulling it apart or allowing something in that will do the same. Or worse.
I will tell you more when I've had time to ponder things. Perhaps, I will learn more when we find the shard we seek.
No notes today. I'm weary and I've not spoken to the Steward in some time. If you could offer your insight, I'd appreciate it. Though capricious, you are occasionally wise beyond your years. My mind is moving too rapidly and in too many strange directions for me to think properly anyway.
The only bit of wisdom that I can find is one I've uttered to you many times before, but I will say it again:
All things fade. All things are born anew.
Yours in nobility and grace,
Artemisia Angelica...you know the rest.
My mind is a-crackle!
I have returned from the heavens! Yes! I know it sounds mad, but I stood upon the very shores of Celestia, dipped my toe into that eternal sea, and felt, in a very real way, a connection to the divine. It was immense! As immense and boundless as the mountain that loomed overhead!
Had to bring my own snacks, though, so that was a bit of a disappointment.
So, what did that visit reveal to me?
Mostly, that I was wrong. In more ways than one.
The fellow who watched over the Lantern Archons dancing on the shore seemed hesitant to speak to me. Tales from others who have visited that little jetty and spoke to this being have described him as distant, but polite. I have seen angels before, but I've never seen one uncomfortable with looking a mortal in the eye.
But, he did speak to me and, in the few words we exchanged, much was revealed. Surprisingly, there was a shining light very close by. It was the other side of the Light of Benwick. He said that they call it "Aal'gni'lynxzxty; Graahlpmniee". I speak over a dozen languages, both mortal and planar, and that doesn't seem to translate into anything I know. I don't know everything, and perhaps some other scholar can translate it successfully. It must be old, for he said that it has always been called such.
It had always been there. Or, at least a connection Arelith had always been there. That caused me deep disquiet, for I fancied myself knowledgeable about such things. It pretty much sunk all of my current theories on how to resolve the issue with the demons spewing out of old Benwick. I'm glad I was shown the error in my thinking before the time for desperate action came. So, being wrong, in this case, was not so bad.
I told him a bit about my quest to aid the Temple, our search for colored shards of an amulet that might help fix this whole Benwick business and he nodded for a bit and told me that, while my quest was valiant, I lacked the understanding needed to complete it. Understanding would come, he said, in due time and that trust and attentiveness on my part would serve me well.
Then, I asked him about my father. I told him that my father claimed some measure of heavenly blood and that, perhaps, he could give me some insight into what divine ancestor I might have had. Even as I finished my question, the angel's expression grew...stoney, as though the knowledge was painful. I asked if I had done something wrong and the angel shook his head, holding up a hand to placate me.
"You have done no wrong in this regard, no more than any other mortal, but you...are...wrong." I asked him to explain and he simply told me that the answers I sought, all of them, could be found below, in a place ancient and forgotten.
He would speak to me no more, his discomfort leading me to feel increasingly unwelcome. I do not begrudge the angel. He seemed a decent enough sort, but it was time I left. Instead of returning down the path I came, I took an opportunity to gain some first-hand knowledge useful for our quest and entered the holy Light of Benwick itself.
I ended up in Benwick, surprised to find the light still shining. Nearby, a similar portal, fell and terrible, glowed red. Reality itself rippled and writhed around me. A faint, discordant hum filled my ears. Or my mind. I don't know for certain. I had time to get a measure of the place before the unending tide of evil creatures drove me away.
My mind raced. It still races. I can hardly think about anything.
The Light of Benwick once stood, if my sources are correct, in a grand citadel on the northern side of this island. It was called Kholingen and it was a glowing white testament to all that was holy, a place that should not rightfully exist on this world.
The fortress is a ruin now, its foundations split and cast off of the island proper. I have visited the corpse of this once holy place and found little but monsters. Within it, I did find a mention of a Duke who ruled Minmir.
Minmir is a blighted place now, its soil steeped in necromantic energies. The scope of calamity stretches the bounds of imagination. But it would not be the last.
The Light was moved to Benwick. And Benwick shone. And calamity befell it as well. Instead of death, though, it became stepped in evil. Yet the light, despite all reason, still shines within.
I think I understand why, now, though it is likely a clouded and narrow understanding.
I suspect this island came from elsewhere, perhaps a piece of the heavens themselves, or a part of some distant world dragged here for purposes I cannot fathom. Reality is too thin here. The barriers between planes too permeable. Perhaps the the connection to Celestia is causing a warping of reality itself and the strain is what allows darker forces to find their way in.
All I know is that, wherever that Light has been, calamity has followed. If it remains tethered where ought not be, it will destroy the whole island one day, either by pulling it apart or allowing something in that will do the same. Or worse.
I will tell you more when I've had time to ponder things. Perhaps, I will learn more when we find the shard we seek.
No notes today. I'm weary and I've not spoken to the Steward in some time. If you could offer your insight, I'd appreciate it. Though capricious, you are occasionally wise beyond your years. My mind is moving too rapidly and in too many strange directions for me to think properly anyway.
The only bit of wisdom that I can find is one I've uttered to you many times before, but I will say it again:
All things fade. All things are born anew.
Yours in nobility and grace,
Artemisia Angelica...you know the rest.
Re: A Sense of Self
Dearest Nounverber (we'll stick to your old name until you settle on a new one),
Much has happened.
Much that ought not to have happened.
Our quest to reunite the shards to this amulet has taken us down a murky path and it has unsettled me greatly.
I was tasked with finding a fragment of the amulet. Just...THE amulet now. I know little of its origins or what name it might have once had. The bit I sought was a cheerful yellow.
It was, allegedly, in the hands of one of the Unseelie Fey, a tittering creature called Cackles. I had arranged with my comrades from the Temple to meet at a designated time and place so that we could venture forth to shadowy, twisted forests of the Winter Court.
Cath showed up. Just Cath. I barely know Cath. She seems dutiful enough, but as terse and composed as a Northlands lord. So, I called forth the aid of a necromancer I know, Olivia, and her band of cohorts. We ventured on!
It worked out well enough. To keep things from being too..er...rambly, we ended up in the Winter Court, where we managed to locate Cackles. He did not have the shard. He had traded it to a knight in exchange for the promise of a god's blessing.
Cackle did not strike me as especially erudite and I can only assume the foul little sprite thought that the blessing would be entertaining (possibly erotic) in some fashion. He had traded a piece of a sacred relic to a foul-smelling human garbed as a knight. What a dundering idiot he was. So, to the sewers we went.
By this point, many of the Temple had finally joined the expedition. They are goodly folk, as paladins tend to be, though often dense as teak and as blustery as a winter storm. Arcavius. Gareth. Marcellus. Cath, ever steadfast. Eric, too, of course. Even the necromancer Olivia and her angelic consort were there with us.
And what we found. Gods! What we found.
The Knight was our mirror. His devotion to his task was unyielding. He sought not violence, but would not compromise with us on a peaceful solution. For his task was to resurrect a dead god, long forgotten, deep under the city of Cordor. To do so, the yellow should would be consumed. We could not both make use of it.
You know that I do not feel as others do. I often feel little at all unless tragedy or some monumental discovery has been revealed to me. Even then, the emotion drains out of me rapidly. The only things that have consistently brought me joy or caused me genuine fury have been tied to the duties I have taken on.
I felt a powerful stirring in my heart when the knight spoke of the god he wished to see reborn, however. It was that old and familiar impulse, that compulsion to DO, to ACT, to fulfill the obligation as efficiently as possible, without compassion or consideration for my fellow beings. It took me many years to master that compulsion, to bend it to the duties I have given myself rather than the ones imposed on my by others. And there it was, out of place, and clamoring, driving me to seek violence for the sake of convenience.
We tried to reason with the man, you understand. But he would not yield. He would destroy our chances of seeing the wound at Benwick healed on the chance that it would restore, in some fashion, the deity he worshiped. An unknown deity. A potential, deity, really, that had long whispered to him in dreams and visions. He and his flock of followers would see this through to the end. It was devotion bordering on madness and, as he ranted bout the nature of his god, I saw that this was the point.
Faith was what he required of his flock and of us. Faith in his unknown, unknowable god. Unyielding, uncompromising faith. Pursued without doubt. Or mercy.
Since I was in command, I decided the best course of action would be to interrupt their ceremony, whatever it was, and recover the shard with a minimum of conflict. These were not evil people and I did not wish to see them suffer. Further, I had hoped that, by smashing the power structure behind their cult, I could liberate them in some fashion.
I was wrong.
Our way downward to the ceremony was blocked by an enormous golem, animated by who knows what. It was a "Messenger of Prosperity". We destroyed it and ventured into the sewers beyond, deep, deep into the earth.
The cultists defended their mission with a fervency I could scarce believe. And, to their aid, came celestial beings. At least, they seemed as such, though they lacked the radiant goodness that their kind typically displays. Grey things they were, and ill-graced. Almost...shabby. We fought our way through, feeling sick to our souls, facing this warped mirror of our own mission. Mad and wayward paladins came to their aid as well, drawn from the ranks of the bandits and madmen that populated the place, I imagine. They would not relent, they would not surrender, they would not allow us to show them a mercy greater than a swift and painless passing.
Eventually, we managed to find a way to navigate their numbers without having to fight. They asked for a display of faith, a wound on the palm. So, faith we displayed, though not the faith they thought. I think. It satisfied them, at least.
Deep below the city, in sewers more ancient than Cordor above, there was a temple of sorts built. The lunatics and other madmen often drawn to seek shelter in the upper sewers had found a place of peace here. Their fervency rewarded by visions, by food, by fellowship. And among them stood the Messengers.
Messengers of Cooperation. Of Commerce. Of Order. Of Change. Each one marked by a grey and pallid grace. The greatest of these was a being akin to a Planetar. He called himself the Messenger King. The chief servant of a dead god.
Spurned by the clawing compulsion to ACT, I pushed us into a disasterous conflict. While many innocent lives that would have otherwise been lost were preserved, we fell. All, save the angel who accompanied us. We stopped their plan, though, and shattered their altar.
I and a few others, Gareth and Marcellus if I recall, came to in some hidden section of the complex. There, the Messenger King awaited us. He had spared our lives. He broke the power of the shard, but assured us he could restore it.
We would need to show him Faith. Or, at least I would. And he confirmed something I already knew and dreaded the thought of.
Real D'Angeles. The Messenger King. A madman and a powerful vestige so intertwined they could not tell each other apart. He was the shadow behind my father, the entity that birthed him. A man who's devotion to nurturing Cordor was both his greatest strength and his eventual undoing.
The blood of the heavens did flow in my veins. In a fashion. In a shameful, terrible fashion.
The angel was right. I am wrong. And I do not know what to make of that yet.
I hear the whispers now. Urging me to service. To see Cordor elevated. They have not stopped since that day.
I fear I am going mad.
Yours in Nobility and Grace,
Artemisia Angeles Angelica
Much has happened.
Much that ought not to have happened.
Our quest to reunite the shards to this amulet has taken us down a murky path and it has unsettled me greatly.
I was tasked with finding a fragment of the amulet. Just...THE amulet now. I know little of its origins or what name it might have once had. The bit I sought was a cheerful yellow.
It was, allegedly, in the hands of one of the Unseelie Fey, a tittering creature called Cackles. I had arranged with my comrades from the Temple to meet at a designated time and place so that we could venture forth to shadowy, twisted forests of the Winter Court.
Cath showed up. Just Cath. I barely know Cath. She seems dutiful enough, but as terse and composed as a Northlands lord. So, I called forth the aid of a necromancer I know, Olivia, and her band of cohorts. We ventured on!
It worked out well enough. To keep things from being too..er...rambly, we ended up in the Winter Court, where we managed to locate Cackles. He did not have the shard. He had traded it to a knight in exchange for the promise of a god's blessing.
Cackle did not strike me as especially erudite and I can only assume the foul little sprite thought that the blessing would be entertaining (possibly erotic) in some fashion. He had traded a piece of a sacred relic to a foul-smelling human garbed as a knight. What a dundering idiot he was. So, to the sewers we went.
By this point, many of the Temple had finally joined the expedition. They are goodly folk, as paladins tend to be, though often dense as teak and as blustery as a winter storm. Arcavius. Gareth. Marcellus. Cath, ever steadfast. Eric, too, of course. Even the necromancer Olivia and her angelic consort were there with us.
And what we found. Gods! What we found.
The Knight was our mirror. His devotion to his task was unyielding. He sought not violence, but would not compromise with us on a peaceful solution. For his task was to resurrect a dead god, long forgotten, deep under the city of Cordor. To do so, the yellow should would be consumed. We could not both make use of it.
You know that I do not feel as others do. I often feel little at all unless tragedy or some monumental discovery has been revealed to me. Even then, the emotion drains out of me rapidly. The only things that have consistently brought me joy or caused me genuine fury have been tied to the duties I have taken on.
I felt a powerful stirring in my heart when the knight spoke of the god he wished to see reborn, however. It was that old and familiar impulse, that compulsion to DO, to ACT, to fulfill the obligation as efficiently as possible, without compassion or consideration for my fellow beings. It took me many years to master that compulsion, to bend it to the duties I have given myself rather than the ones imposed on my by others. And there it was, out of place, and clamoring, driving me to seek violence for the sake of convenience.
We tried to reason with the man, you understand. But he would not yield. He would destroy our chances of seeing the wound at Benwick healed on the chance that it would restore, in some fashion, the deity he worshiped. An unknown deity. A potential, deity, really, that had long whispered to him in dreams and visions. He and his flock of followers would see this through to the end. It was devotion bordering on madness and, as he ranted bout the nature of his god, I saw that this was the point.
Faith was what he required of his flock and of us. Faith in his unknown, unknowable god. Unyielding, uncompromising faith. Pursued without doubt. Or mercy.
Since I was in command, I decided the best course of action would be to interrupt their ceremony, whatever it was, and recover the shard with a minimum of conflict. These were not evil people and I did not wish to see them suffer. Further, I had hoped that, by smashing the power structure behind their cult, I could liberate them in some fashion.
I was wrong.
Our way downward to the ceremony was blocked by an enormous golem, animated by who knows what. It was a "Messenger of Prosperity". We destroyed it and ventured into the sewers beyond, deep, deep into the earth.
The cultists defended their mission with a fervency I could scarce believe. And, to their aid, came celestial beings. At least, they seemed as such, though they lacked the radiant goodness that their kind typically displays. Grey things they were, and ill-graced. Almost...shabby. We fought our way through, feeling sick to our souls, facing this warped mirror of our own mission. Mad and wayward paladins came to their aid as well, drawn from the ranks of the bandits and madmen that populated the place, I imagine. They would not relent, they would not surrender, they would not allow us to show them a mercy greater than a swift and painless passing.
Eventually, we managed to find a way to navigate their numbers without having to fight. They asked for a display of faith, a wound on the palm. So, faith we displayed, though not the faith they thought. I think. It satisfied them, at least.
Deep below the city, in sewers more ancient than Cordor above, there was a temple of sorts built. The lunatics and other madmen often drawn to seek shelter in the upper sewers had found a place of peace here. Their fervency rewarded by visions, by food, by fellowship. And among them stood the Messengers.
Messengers of Cooperation. Of Commerce. Of Order. Of Change. Each one marked by a grey and pallid grace. The greatest of these was a being akin to a Planetar. He called himself the Messenger King. The chief servant of a dead god.
Spurned by the clawing compulsion to ACT, I pushed us into a disasterous conflict. While many innocent lives that would have otherwise been lost were preserved, we fell. All, save the angel who accompanied us. We stopped their plan, though, and shattered their altar.
I and a few others, Gareth and Marcellus if I recall, came to in some hidden section of the complex. There, the Messenger King awaited us. He had spared our lives. He broke the power of the shard, but assured us he could restore it.
We would need to show him Faith. Or, at least I would. And he confirmed something I already knew and dreaded the thought of.
Real D'Angeles. The Messenger King. A madman and a powerful vestige so intertwined they could not tell each other apart. He was the shadow behind my father, the entity that birthed him. A man who's devotion to nurturing Cordor was both his greatest strength and his eventual undoing.
The blood of the heavens did flow in my veins. In a fashion. In a shameful, terrible fashion.
The angel was right. I am wrong. And I do not know what to make of that yet.
I hear the whispers now. Urging me to service. To see Cordor elevated. They have not stopped since that day.
I fear I am going mad.
Yours in Nobility and Grace,
Artemisia Angeles Angelica
Re: A Sense of Self
Dearest Nounverber,
I am lost.
I've not slept well in weeks now. My nights are full of terrible realizations, alluring whispers, and fury.
I was going to be a squire again. Did you know that there are dozens of two-copper knightly orders about the isle? Most are self-proclaimed. The city even pretends its collection of arrogant enforcers and spies are knights.
It's a joke. An inversion of what is right. But that's Arelith for you. What a miserable bit of rock this is.
So, I was to be squired by this Kyle Eldafire lad. He was the commander of the guard when I signed on with them a few years back and his mother and my father were quite intimately acquainted. He's not one of my numerous half-siblings, thankfully, but he seemed...all right, I guess.
What a mess he turned out to be. A craven, miserable, blustering thing. Tried to get me to join his Ordo Cordoria, even, as though I'd be content to be ordered about by those jumped-up miscreants.
No.
Well, the pompous madman murdered his wife. If he had just backed down and learn to set aside his pride and emotions, things might have gone otherwise. But that wouldn't suit the man and he killed a friend of mine. He killed her. Gods! The man was a coward until the end, too, trying to blame his murder on reflexes honed as a guardsman. What a monster.
Again, because this isle inverts everything about the natural order, her dying wasn't actually that much of an inconvenience. Nothing here seems to stay dead, you know. This notion of a dead god lingering below the city doesn't seem so far fetched when death seems so fleeting and transient. I've seen a fell necromancer eaten by a dragon and he was out pottering around a week later. Boggles the mind.
Well. The hurt of the betrayal weakened her. She ended up petrified not long after, heart broken and with little to live for, she gave up her life permanently to see some good linger on in the world.
Eilonna. Your name stands apart. I will miss you.
Kyle, if ever I see you again, it will be as enemies.
So, that has weighed heavily on me. I've also reacquainted myself with the laws of the miserable city and have discovered that they are less about ensuring the prosperity and happiness of the common man and more a list of excuses why it is perfectly acceptable to abuse them. It's not stated out right, but I've been properly trained in the complexities of managing a society and whoever assembled this garbage was mostly concerned with their job not being too inconvenient. I am more or less constantly furious now. I am thankful for my deadened emotional state as it lets me keep the anger burning low and quiet, hidden away while I decide what to do with it.
I loathe Cordor. I love Cordor. I want to fix it. I want to never see it again. I want the people who live there to know a little prosperity. I want to see just rule, but I cannot give it to them. The dissonance between realization and urging is difficult to navigate and I do not know whether to wail in despair or start punching and never stop. I feel like I'm two people crammed into one head.
And always he whispers, urging me to nameless duty, to undifferentiated faith. Pushing me to abandon reason and rush headlong into some murky future where the me I know ceases to be and the me I should be flourishes. I could ignore it, but I'm already so tired and angry and it offers a way to make those feelings stop. I will not give in, but fighting it drains me further.
I have lost myself somewhere.
I am a being dedicated to duty. This is true. I will not fight it, but I will not let someone else decide my duty, my life, for me. I must decide for myself. So.
Will I be Dame Artemisia? Respectable, even if a bit eccentric? Living a life of relative privilege in a city that devours its poor?
Will I be a Messenger myself? Lost to the world above, pursuing whatever duties my dead god requires of me? As cold and unfeeling as the dead?
Or will I give myself over entirely to the cause of the common man? Will I take justice, law into my own hands since those entrusted with it have failed in so contemptuous a manner? That will be the end of me. I am certain if I go down that road then it will kill me. Likely in a way that will cause me to stay dead.
I do not know yet. I do not know which of those choices I can live with. Or die for.
On a brighter note: I've sent the Steward a recipe for "Lemon Pie". It is delightful. I did not send him lemons, however. I am keen to see what he concocts based on the recipe's culinary principles and his own skills. I've also sent along a bit of autumn wine for you. I hope you enjoy it.
Yours. Just yours.
Arte.
PS: I just realized that I could sell research. Artisan Sciences. Clever, no?
No? Oh.
Well. I thought It was clever.
I am lost.
I've not slept well in weeks now. My nights are full of terrible realizations, alluring whispers, and fury.
I was going to be a squire again. Did you know that there are dozens of two-copper knightly orders about the isle? Most are self-proclaimed. The city even pretends its collection of arrogant enforcers and spies are knights.
It's a joke. An inversion of what is right. But that's Arelith for you. What a miserable bit of rock this is.
So, I was to be squired by this Kyle Eldafire lad. He was the commander of the guard when I signed on with them a few years back and his mother and my father were quite intimately acquainted. He's not one of my numerous half-siblings, thankfully, but he seemed...all right, I guess.
What a mess he turned out to be. A craven, miserable, blustering thing. Tried to get me to join his Ordo Cordoria, even, as though I'd be content to be ordered about by those jumped-up miscreants.
No.
Well, the pompous madman murdered his wife. If he had just backed down and learn to set aside his pride and emotions, things might have gone otherwise. But that wouldn't suit the man and he killed a friend of mine. He killed her. Gods! The man was a coward until the end, too, trying to blame his murder on reflexes honed as a guardsman. What a monster.
Again, because this isle inverts everything about the natural order, her dying wasn't actually that much of an inconvenience. Nothing here seems to stay dead, you know. This notion of a dead god lingering below the city doesn't seem so far fetched when death seems so fleeting and transient. I've seen a fell necromancer eaten by a dragon and he was out pottering around a week later. Boggles the mind.
Well. The hurt of the betrayal weakened her. She ended up petrified not long after, heart broken and with little to live for, she gave up her life permanently to see some good linger on in the world.
Eilonna. Your name stands apart. I will miss you.
Kyle, if ever I see you again, it will be as enemies.
So, that has weighed heavily on me. I've also reacquainted myself with the laws of the miserable city and have discovered that they are less about ensuring the prosperity and happiness of the common man and more a list of excuses why it is perfectly acceptable to abuse them. It's not stated out right, but I've been properly trained in the complexities of managing a society and whoever assembled this garbage was mostly concerned with their job not being too inconvenient. I am more or less constantly furious now. I am thankful for my deadened emotional state as it lets me keep the anger burning low and quiet, hidden away while I decide what to do with it.
I loathe Cordor. I love Cordor. I want to fix it. I want to never see it again. I want the people who live there to know a little prosperity. I want to see just rule, but I cannot give it to them. The dissonance between realization and urging is difficult to navigate and I do not know whether to wail in despair or start punching and never stop. I feel like I'm two people crammed into one head.
And always he whispers, urging me to nameless duty, to undifferentiated faith. Pushing me to abandon reason and rush headlong into some murky future where the me I know ceases to be and the me I should be flourishes. I could ignore it, but I'm already so tired and angry and it offers a way to make those feelings stop. I will not give in, but fighting it drains me further.
I have lost myself somewhere.
I am a being dedicated to duty. This is true. I will not fight it, but I will not let someone else decide my duty, my life, for me. I must decide for myself. So.
Will I be Dame Artemisia? Respectable, even if a bit eccentric? Living a life of relative privilege in a city that devours its poor?
Will I be a Messenger myself? Lost to the world above, pursuing whatever duties my dead god requires of me? As cold and unfeeling as the dead?
Or will I give myself over entirely to the cause of the common man? Will I take justice, law into my own hands since those entrusted with it have failed in so contemptuous a manner? That will be the end of me. I am certain if I go down that road then it will kill me. Likely in a way that will cause me to stay dead.
I do not know yet. I do not know which of those choices I can live with. Or die for.
On a brighter note: I've sent the Steward a recipe for "Lemon Pie". It is delightful. I did not send him lemons, however. I am keen to see what he concocts based on the recipe's culinary principles and his own skills. I've also sent along a bit of autumn wine for you. I hope you enjoy it.
Yours. Just yours.
Arte.
PS: I just realized that I could sell research. Artisan Sciences. Clever, no?
No? Oh.
Well. I thought It was clever.
Re: A Sense of Self
Author's Note:
Not super-pleased with how this one's working out. I intended it to be an series of explorations into the character's motivations and thoughts, but Arte's voice is inchoate and inconsistent. The struggles she's faced feel forced and dumb.
Basically, I hate it.
I will revise them and repost when I am happy.
Not super-pleased with how this one's working out. I intended it to be an series of explorations into the character's motivations and thoughts, but Arte's voice is inchoate and inconsistent. The struggles she's faced feel forced and dumb.
Basically, I hate it.
I will revise them and repost when I am happy.