| September 2005 | << August 2005 | October 2005 >> |
| Bethen, the Lost Dream |
| Ten Thousand Gates > An Impromptu Picnic in a Starlit, Ancient Arena |
Let your ax stay resting, pale warrior, just as my blades stay sheathed; though lately met we are not foes, this much I feel - and the feel of dreams is the truth of dreams. Such is why to dream is the duty of wise women, while the menfolk tend to the world of waking; save for this remoteness, it would seem. I have come far indeed from the known ways and the great spirits who guide.
Yet I must perforce agree with he of the ax, as this nighted desert and its great arena is unwelcoming - save for present company and this little torchlight in a great darkness of things I would rather not see. There is a greatness here, before us and after us, an ill brooding that is beyond and away, above and beneath. This much I feel, and the dream path twists with it.
Mayhaps our host, kind provider of cloth laid upon sand and sweatmeats laid upon cloth, feels more than I, and knows yet more again?
[ Posted by Reason on September 30, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Ulvath, the Dying King's Champion |
| Ten Thousand Gates > An Impromptu Picnic in a Starlit, Ancient Arena |
This is to be a warm rot on good ice, this place. Too far and far again the runes have thrown me, for I was to be in the fine and shining Godlands, seeking aid from Ax Hall and Spear Hall. But here ... faugh! This sand is chill enough, but there is no living bite to the air. The rocks are crumbled, these ancient arms rusted away - this is to be an old place, a dead place, gone to warm rot and forgotten.
I have seated with you, but look about, you strange folk, look about! Where are the grasses to pry their way through this dead sand? Where are the carrion birds and white wolves who picked these old bones clean? Nothing to be seen by star or burning torch, nothing save a dead place!
Aye - and yet my ax twitches, even set aside. What is to be watching us from beyond that giant's doorway of old iron, what ill spirit calls this dead place home? No, I say this is a witching place that the new priests speak against! Or have the runes thrown me yet to the Land Below and you are all but a mockery, a mockery of my quest? Answer me, you strange folk!
[ Posted by Reason on September 29, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Camp at the Third Marker |
| The Enclave > Known Roads |
Aye, tis a dreary camp for man or mule, summer or winter - but I'm happy enough that first snow is a season away yet. I'd be happier to be spending this night in a warm cot in the Seafarers' Guildhall, mark my words, but here is here and there is there. We'd be spending coin in the City Without this very moment if you hadn't found the only loose stone left in the Lothar ford to lodge in your hoof. Lucky to be owned by an old seafarer, you are - no city eel would have lightened your load by half and carried it this far for you.
Salin's beard! It's all bitter craws and rotten eels to you isn't it? Aye, and if you'd but kept your heart on the Road, you wouldn't be braying over trampled grass and no straw, and my back wouldn't be so close to breaking. Do you think I enjoy this poor meat from King's Keep villagefolk any the more? The sooner to Port, the better, I say, and to the Farthest with the Guildmaster and his coin. Give it to younger hands, aye, and send them away down the Stone Road to Three Stones and beyond.
Well and well, and now the fire is gone - not that there was much to begin with. Swordpriests and spears, enough for a generation of summers, have stamped this place flat. Aye, and burned the trees, branch by branch, as back and forth they go from Keep to Keep. Not a nod for one wearing the Seafarer's band, no, nor any offer of help - and may their King's Way become Lost on a dark night!
Don't you be wandering off in search of grass, mind, least I tie you up at the marker - and there would be a better use for it. The moon makes the last rise of the New Road clear as a stranger's wave on the Farthest Sea, as if we were out beyond the cliffs and the wind so calm. Were we so heartened, you and I, atop we'd stand and there we'd see distant torches on the walls of Three Stones - aye, and white stone by moonlight in the Gravefields. Hungry for grass or good stuffed eel, it's still best to leave moonlight for the Lady and her ways, for folk were not meant to be near the Farthest Graves by night.
[ Posted by Reason on September 13, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
| Thieves' Toll, Paid to the Beautiful Stranger |
| The Enclave > Lore > The Farthest |
Only a thief counts steps, or so it is said, but in truth many cityfolk keep the habit in places they know well. Who knows when you might be caught without lamplight on a cloudy night when the moon is dim and far over the Unending Sea? But only a thief would willingly set forth to walk city streets in darkness, avoiding the lanterns hung from taverns and the high walls of manses, for to walk in darkness is to walk on the very edge of the Farthest Night, and the thieves of Port and Three Stones pay a toll in coin of lives Lost.
Healers and devotees of the Beautiful Stranger in Three Stones tell tales of the long arm of the Power of the Farthest; she watches the borders and Roads between the Enclave lands and the rest of Creation, reaching out to touch those who carry ill will in their hearts. The dockside eels of Port laugh at such legends; those Lost to the Farthest Night have demonstrated themselves poor thieves, and only their coin should be missed.
Still, common thugs and safehouse eels in Port carry torches for skullduggery and theft on the dockside after dark, while thieves in Three Stones work by day, for the lantern-lit streets belong to Watch blades by night. True thievery on dark and clouded nights, counting steps and skirting the Farthest, is the province of tall tales and rare, masterful rogues like the Unseen Hands.
[ Posted by Reason on September 8, 2005 | Permanent Link ]
