Twenty-five words.
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AcadiusLost
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Twenty-five words.
First attempt here, so be gentle. This is a composite of a few ingame events along with a little off-camera deliberation. Artistic license has been employed here in terms of the details and chronology. Hope no toes are trodden upon.
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AcadiusLost
- Chosen of Forumamus, God of Forums
- Posts: 5061
- Joined: Tue Oct 19, 2004 8:38 am
- Location: Montara, CA [GMT -8]
- Contact:
Twenty-five words.
She looked at the blank parchment before her accusatorily, as if it were somehow to blame. So much to consider, so much that could be said. Should be said? Who was to say? She dipped the quill into the ink and began to write, the fluid espruar runes looking sloppy and amateurish for lack of attention to their detail.
“Dear Father”
Her quill stopped, the ink soaking into the page. With a scowl, she slashed a line of ink through the word “Dear”. Only two words in and already wasting precious words. There should be no need for formalities- “Father” would do, the words were better spent elsewhere. She looked at the paper. Already it looked injured, damaged. One word, surrounded by wounds. Her gaze lifted from the page up into the clear night sky, and she took in the quiet and the comforting twinkle of the stars and Selune’s tears above. “Your blessings can mend the deepest cuts… but when it comes to the injuries we can neither see nor feel… “ She turned her gaze away from the sky, suddenly ashamed of her impertinence. The Lady’s way was to work unseen and unknown, not to make plain and obvious Her will. This was, like all things, a test- and no amount of love and devotion to Her would exempt her from it. It was only by Mystra that she could be granted this opportunity, foolishness to think She turned a blind eye to the process.
“Alive and Well, at Emerald Springs”
Six more… she studied the line. Alive? He would call that wasteful- of course she would be alive, else how would he be hearing her voice? Hearing… She bit her lip, looking at the page. Better for him to hear than to read this – her calligraphy had never been better than “adequate”. Her half-brothers had decades to perfect theirs- years she never had to spare. Now out of disuse, her script looked like an offense to her elven blood. “He’s not going to see it, focus on the content.” Her voice would be fine, her accent was untouched by her years among the humans- it would sound different of course, the weight of seven harrowing years. To him it must have seemed like a week at most – it would have flashed past him in she same way that her adolescence did. Closing her eyes a moment, she considered. “Am I well? Not well enough- else I would have less need to send this missive.” Would he have heard of Emerald Springs? No… by the pace of Evereska, the birth and growth of the Cormanthour Village project would seem nothing more than a momentary inspiration. He would need more information. Shadowdale- he would know that place at least. Jhaecobe had said that they stayed there for a time.
Jhaecobe… Her jaw tightened, and for a moment she could taste the metallic tang of the invisibility potion, hear the savage animalistic battle cries of the Rahkasha, smell the acrid smell of battlemagics scorching the air as she fled, trying to keep her tears silent ones lest she waste his sacrifice by her weakness. How could she convey it? That it was her fault, how he died- why he never contacted my father again after the day we left. But twenty-five words… there was no room, no room for the explanations, the excuses. This was not about the past, this was about the future. Her quill cut across the line and started anew.
“Father: at Emerald Springs, near Shadowdale. Jhaecobe with Mystra now.”
She counted out the words on her fingers. Ten words already. Fifteen left to explain, to convey the need. How could she explain why the Springs were so important, the nobility of it’s vision? She could call it an elven village, but that said at once too much and not enough-
“Diplomat now, for village of Song.”
Spoke to her station, something of her accomplishments- he would doubtlessly recognize the reference to Myth Drannor, she prayed he intuit the implied connection – a vision launched by elvenkind, of acceptance and diversity- openminded and progressive but mindful of values, beauty, nature. A place worth saving- a fragile flower in the path of a driving hailstorm. She frowned – twice already, the word “now”. Remove it, and reclaim a word’s length. Take it from herself, not from Jhaecobe’s memory.
“Have Seldarine shrine, seek cleric for guidance, aid”
All business this line- no room for careful words, she prayed her father would understand- so much thrown out in a sentence or two. How very human, he would think- no time or care for the finer details, grammar, etiquette. Counting again, the lines on her brow deepened. Twenty-three… only room for two more. How to close it? “Your Daughter”, “Yours, Dara”? What did he still mean to her, after these years? He had the means to contact her, almost certainly he did- but he had not. Would he rather have forgotten his erstwhile daughter, who spurned the life he had offered her to walk instead the lands of Man? Perhaps in this missive, he would see only the spoiled child, tainted by her blood, which stole years from her and left her graceless, ackward, isolated. But hear her he would, sure enough- and by the power of her own accomplishment. The Weave would carry her words to him, halfway across the world- he would have to recognize her growth, signs that she had learnt well to shape the Weave, even if it was through faith rather than any mastery of technique.
The stillness of that moment, the quiet savoring of the possibility that he might be impressed, proud even, warmed her despite the chill breeze. Even the night songbirds held their tongues for it.
The façade was shattered instantly by a sharp and repeated clanging, heavy with urgency. The alarm was being raised. Dara sprung to her feet and sprinted towards the eastern gate. Passing the Red Oak Inn, she knew she had no time to retrieve and don her armor. As she ran, one hand on Mystra’s symbol about her neck, the other pinwheeling for balance, a prayer of power leapt to her lips, calling the Weave to shield her from the arrows and blows. Mystra’s holy fire surged up in her veins and she felt her spells coil up inside her heart, poised and ready to answer her call. The alarm faded from the air as her feet carried her swiftly up onto the cliffs above the gate, where several elves were already gathered, bows strung and at the ready, watching the dark woods with wary patience.
Aramil turned to Dara, who was trying to catch her breath after the run. “Fires again, north and east of the gate”, he whispered to her in elven- by the posture of the archers she could tell no Dhaerow had been sighted yet. Dara closed her eyes and tried to dispel the icy feeling in her stomach, remembering her last encounter with the Drow, in the woods south of Shadowdale. A young wood elf she didn’t know turned from the sentries and approached, speaking softly. “I will go, see what comes this way. If they follow me back, open not the gates for me.” Aramil nodded his assent, looking somehow older despite the timelessness of his features- and the scout slipped down a rope into the darkness of the Cormanthour.
It was chaos. Blood on the forest floor, glimmering in the moonlight, absurdly clear despite the rapid pace of the battle. Drow blood, elven blood, human blood. The earth soaked them up irrespective. Darkness of night gave way to the obscene darkness of the Dhaerow magic. Evendur was running into battle, his face lit by the blazing light of his blade- its legend and his will united in purpose as he clashed with the drow. Dara tried to spot a magus among them, to counter his magic or loose an arrow of acid to give him pause, but she couldn’t tell which among them to watch- couldn’t concentrate to aim her crossbow. She felt as a spectator in the midst of a terrible dance, disconnected from it, but unable to ignore the struggle of life and death around her. Evendur was bleeding, rends in his armor- she shook off the confusion and called Mystra’s blessings to heal him and grant him strength to battle on. Somewhere Gilim was shouting defiantly, his voice still strong- Jen’s spirit wolf pounced savagely onto one of Evendur’s opponents. As one of the globes of summoned darkness faded, she saw with perfect clarity a familiar sight, one she had hoped not to see again. Myrilis, locked in a deadly ballet of blades with a drow swordsman, but Myr’s form was flagging, his parries too shallow- the dance turning against him. Dara remembered the ambush at the river crossing, where she and Myr narrowly defeated such a drow, but only together. She was trying to run across the field of battle to where the pair was dueling, but something held her back, a pulling feeling that she was suddenly freed of as the drow blade was pulled from her side, where it had found a weak point in her armor. In shock, she backpedaled away, blind to the pain as her lifeblood flowed freely to join the rest. She weakly drew her kama as her pursuer drew up in front of her, his blade darkened with her own blood. As she raised the kama to try to ward off his sword, a light erupted from the drow’s chest, and the fiery red of his eyes faded with death. Evendur was left in his stead, drawing his blade free and arcing it across to slash at another drow closing in. No time for gratitude, Dara moved as best she could run, sounds fading from her hearing as she set her vision on Myr and his adversary. Arrows crossed her vision fleetingly, and a swarm of magic missiles homed into one of the drow as Dara passed it. Myr still held his end of the match, circling and dodging despite his grevious wounds. Stretching an open hand out, Dara prayed Mystra pass on her most potent healing to him, and she felt the release as her hand touched the small of Myr’s back, the Weave flowing into him, drawing tight his wounds, lending strength back to weakening muscles. The effort and the run, or the loss of blood caught up to her then, and she was barely able to turn her fall into a roll, away from the duelists. Sound returned in a flash of pain and sensory overload- the clash of blades, the whizzing of arrows, the meaty sound of some finding targets in the night. Dara turned Mystras blessings finally to her own wounds, her prayer half a moan of pain…
A whistle started Dara from the memory. The scout had returned. Aramil offered a hand to pull the young elf up to report. “No sign- another deception. Torches on branches, set to move with the wind. The Traitors toy with us still…”
Dara walked slowly back, weary more with memories than exertion. In a few hours it would be dawn, and she would pray for Mystra to grant her the Sending spell, to her father in Evereska. Rain had started to fall, and she saw the parchment lying where it had fallen at the alarm, it’s ink beginning to run. She picked it up. Two more words..
“Dhaerow Threaten.”
Details could come later, other nights, twenty-five words at a time.
She looked at the blank parchment before her accusatorily, as if it were somehow to blame. So much to consider, so much that could be said. Should be said? Who was to say? She dipped the quill into the ink and began to write, the fluid espruar runes looking sloppy and amateurish for lack of attention to their detail.
“Dear Father”
Her quill stopped, the ink soaking into the page. With a scowl, she slashed a line of ink through the word “Dear”. Only two words in and already wasting precious words. There should be no need for formalities- “Father” would do, the words were better spent elsewhere. She looked at the paper. Already it looked injured, damaged. One word, surrounded by wounds. Her gaze lifted from the page up into the clear night sky, and she took in the quiet and the comforting twinkle of the stars and Selune’s tears above. “Your blessings can mend the deepest cuts… but when it comes to the injuries we can neither see nor feel… “ She turned her gaze away from the sky, suddenly ashamed of her impertinence. The Lady’s way was to work unseen and unknown, not to make plain and obvious Her will. This was, like all things, a test- and no amount of love and devotion to Her would exempt her from it. It was only by Mystra that she could be granted this opportunity, foolishness to think She turned a blind eye to the process.
“Alive and Well, at Emerald Springs”
Six more… she studied the line. Alive? He would call that wasteful- of course she would be alive, else how would he be hearing her voice? Hearing… She bit her lip, looking at the page. Better for him to hear than to read this – her calligraphy had never been better than “adequate”. Her half-brothers had decades to perfect theirs- years she never had to spare. Now out of disuse, her script looked like an offense to her elven blood. “He’s not going to see it, focus on the content.” Her voice would be fine, her accent was untouched by her years among the humans- it would sound different of course, the weight of seven harrowing years. To him it must have seemed like a week at most – it would have flashed past him in she same way that her adolescence did. Closing her eyes a moment, she considered. “Am I well? Not well enough- else I would have less need to send this missive.” Would he have heard of Emerald Springs? No… by the pace of Evereska, the birth and growth of the Cormanthour Village project would seem nothing more than a momentary inspiration. He would need more information. Shadowdale- he would know that place at least. Jhaecobe had said that they stayed there for a time.
Jhaecobe… Her jaw tightened, and for a moment she could taste the metallic tang of the invisibility potion, hear the savage animalistic battle cries of the Rahkasha, smell the acrid smell of battlemagics scorching the air as she fled, trying to keep her tears silent ones lest she waste his sacrifice by her weakness. How could she convey it? That it was her fault, how he died- why he never contacted my father again after the day we left. But twenty-five words… there was no room, no room for the explanations, the excuses. This was not about the past, this was about the future. Her quill cut across the line and started anew.
“Father: at Emerald Springs, near Shadowdale. Jhaecobe with Mystra now.”
She counted out the words on her fingers. Ten words already. Fifteen left to explain, to convey the need. How could she explain why the Springs were so important, the nobility of it’s vision? She could call it an elven village, but that said at once too much and not enough-
“Diplomat now, for village of Song.”
Spoke to her station, something of her accomplishments- he would doubtlessly recognize the reference to Myth Drannor, she prayed he intuit the implied connection – a vision launched by elvenkind, of acceptance and diversity- openminded and progressive but mindful of values, beauty, nature. A place worth saving- a fragile flower in the path of a driving hailstorm. She frowned – twice already, the word “now”. Remove it, and reclaim a word’s length. Take it from herself, not from Jhaecobe’s memory.
“Have Seldarine shrine, seek cleric for guidance, aid”
All business this line- no room for careful words, she prayed her father would understand- so much thrown out in a sentence or two. How very human, he would think- no time or care for the finer details, grammar, etiquette. Counting again, the lines on her brow deepened. Twenty-three… only room for two more. How to close it? “Your Daughter”, “Yours, Dara”? What did he still mean to her, after these years? He had the means to contact her, almost certainly he did- but he had not. Would he rather have forgotten his erstwhile daughter, who spurned the life he had offered her to walk instead the lands of Man? Perhaps in this missive, he would see only the spoiled child, tainted by her blood, which stole years from her and left her graceless, ackward, isolated. But hear her he would, sure enough- and by the power of her own accomplishment. The Weave would carry her words to him, halfway across the world- he would have to recognize her growth, signs that she had learnt well to shape the Weave, even if it was through faith rather than any mastery of technique.
The stillness of that moment, the quiet savoring of the possibility that he might be impressed, proud even, warmed her despite the chill breeze. Even the night songbirds held their tongues for it.
The façade was shattered instantly by a sharp and repeated clanging, heavy with urgency. The alarm was being raised. Dara sprung to her feet and sprinted towards the eastern gate. Passing the Red Oak Inn, she knew she had no time to retrieve and don her armor. As she ran, one hand on Mystra’s symbol about her neck, the other pinwheeling for balance, a prayer of power leapt to her lips, calling the Weave to shield her from the arrows and blows. Mystra’s holy fire surged up in her veins and she felt her spells coil up inside her heart, poised and ready to answer her call. The alarm faded from the air as her feet carried her swiftly up onto the cliffs above the gate, where several elves were already gathered, bows strung and at the ready, watching the dark woods with wary patience.
Aramil turned to Dara, who was trying to catch her breath after the run. “Fires again, north and east of the gate”, he whispered to her in elven- by the posture of the archers she could tell no Dhaerow had been sighted yet. Dara closed her eyes and tried to dispel the icy feeling in her stomach, remembering her last encounter with the Drow, in the woods south of Shadowdale. A young wood elf she didn’t know turned from the sentries and approached, speaking softly. “I will go, see what comes this way. If they follow me back, open not the gates for me.” Aramil nodded his assent, looking somehow older despite the timelessness of his features- and the scout slipped down a rope into the darkness of the Cormanthour.
It was chaos. Blood on the forest floor, glimmering in the moonlight, absurdly clear despite the rapid pace of the battle. Drow blood, elven blood, human blood. The earth soaked them up irrespective. Darkness of night gave way to the obscene darkness of the Dhaerow magic. Evendur was running into battle, his face lit by the blazing light of his blade- its legend and his will united in purpose as he clashed with the drow. Dara tried to spot a magus among them, to counter his magic or loose an arrow of acid to give him pause, but she couldn’t tell which among them to watch- couldn’t concentrate to aim her crossbow. She felt as a spectator in the midst of a terrible dance, disconnected from it, but unable to ignore the struggle of life and death around her. Evendur was bleeding, rends in his armor- she shook off the confusion and called Mystra’s blessings to heal him and grant him strength to battle on. Somewhere Gilim was shouting defiantly, his voice still strong- Jen’s spirit wolf pounced savagely onto one of Evendur’s opponents. As one of the globes of summoned darkness faded, she saw with perfect clarity a familiar sight, one she had hoped not to see again. Myrilis, locked in a deadly ballet of blades with a drow swordsman, but Myr’s form was flagging, his parries too shallow- the dance turning against him. Dara remembered the ambush at the river crossing, where she and Myr narrowly defeated such a drow, but only together. She was trying to run across the field of battle to where the pair was dueling, but something held her back, a pulling feeling that she was suddenly freed of as the drow blade was pulled from her side, where it had found a weak point in her armor. In shock, she backpedaled away, blind to the pain as her lifeblood flowed freely to join the rest. She weakly drew her kama as her pursuer drew up in front of her, his blade darkened with her own blood. As she raised the kama to try to ward off his sword, a light erupted from the drow’s chest, and the fiery red of his eyes faded with death. Evendur was left in his stead, drawing his blade free and arcing it across to slash at another drow closing in. No time for gratitude, Dara moved as best she could run, sounds fading from her hearing as she set her vision on Myr and his adversary. Arrows crossed her vision fleetingly, and a swarm of magic missiles homed into one of the drow as Dara passed it. Myr still held his end of the match, circling and dodging despite his grevious wounds. Stretching an open hand out, Dara prayed Mystra pass on her most potent healing to him, and she felt the release as her hand touched the small of Myr’s back, the Weave flowing into him, drawing tight his wounds, lending strength back to weakening muscles. The effort and the run, or the loss of blood caught up to her then, and she was barely able to turn her fall into a roll, away from the duelists. Sound returned in a flash of pain and sensory overload- the clash of blades, the whizzing of arrows, the meaty sound of some finding targets in the night. Dara turned Mystras blessings finally to her own wounds, her prayer half a moan of pain…
A whistle started Dara from the memory. The scout had returned. Aramil offered a hand to pull the young elf up to report. “No sign- another deception. Torches on branches, set to move with the wind. The Traitors toy with us still…”
Dara walked slowly back, weary more with memories than exertion. In a few hours it would be dawn, and she would pray for Mystra to grant her the Sending spell, to her father in Evereska. Rain had started to fall, and she saw the parchment lying where it had fallen at the alarm, it’s ink beginning to run. She picked it up. Two more words..
“Dhaerow Threaten.”
Details could come later, other nights, twenty-five words at a time.
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PensivesWetness
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