Céad Míle Fáilte

[Teller]

(Several months prior)

She was late. They were late, rather. But she simply could not work up the sense of urgency of her mother, who had been relentless . . nagging, to be accurate, for weeks before she actually set forth. But although she was compliant in most things, in this, she felt enough doubt to resist full obedience. They would miss the day, it was true, and that may eventually prove unfortunate, if her mother were right. But it didn’t really matter. Not to her. Not yet. Her mother was truly at her mercy, though she did not mean to be cruel in this knowledge. She couldn’t very well make the journey herself.

It was a relief to finally be off . . to be out on her own. Not that she was really alone, nor had she ever really been. Not that it mattered if she was. She had become quite adept at finding places inside herself to retreat when the burden of watchful eyes grew tiresome. There was freedom in the songs she sang. The stories she loved . . both the hearing and the telling.

Her delay was not entirely selfish. She disliked having to travel in the high heat of summer, that was true, but it was more than that. The inns were slightly less crowded in the fervor of harvest. Less boisterous, generally. While she enjoyed regaling her fellow travelers with her talents now and then, should there be dearth of merry minstrel or windy, foul-breathed sailors . . her own contributions were not usually the kind that provoked hearty laughter. A time and place for everything.

So it was that night, the end of the first full week of travel, when the company found themselves in an unexpectedly well kept establishment. The evening had been clear and crisp, the fellow guests a goodly mix of station and sobriety, albeit most were not of fairer speech. As the evening waned, like the last page of a good book before the cover is drawn down, she began with lyrical softness . .

The chill winter mellowed to a soft spring breeze
That conspired with the rain to thaw the sad young tree
And tugged with insistence at the very last leaves
That clung to her frozen crown.

The wind’s warm breath uncurled her weary fists
And wrapped her gently in the morning mists
And brushed through her branches with a tender kiss
And coaxed her not to frown.

He teased her and he laughed with such a playful ease
And brought her gifts he felt would surely please
And hid them in the canopy of lush new leaves
That robed her like a gown.

Springtime broadened into summer days
The little tree grew fonder of his merry ways
He’d dance and sing so lightly as she’d bend and sway
Her branches round him bound.

To the wind and tree it seemed that time stood still
As they basked beneath the sunshine and they drank their fill
And life took on a sweetness on that happy hill
As few have ever known . .

They both refused to take note of the seasons arc
Whispering of cooler days and lengthening dark
Heedless as the migratory birds’ embark
Til her first leaf fluttered down.

Her emerald garments turned to reds and gold
Bewildered at caresses that had now grown cold
Destinies diverging as the days unfold
They watched their dreams unwound

And even though the wind tried hard to hold his breath
Nothing he could do would halt her slow, sure death
He held her as she uttered one last soft request
To wake her in the spring . .

To wake her in the long and distant spring . .

The farewells and wishes of safe dreams were given very quietly as she gathered her skirts and sought her bed.

[Dream Loxley]

ooc: 1000 warm welcomes to Windstorm...... eagerly awaiting the next chapter in your tale

[Teller]

She'd watched the epic battle played out . . in miniature, it were, but just as with human versions, played for keeps . . played to the death. Her mind was only half aware as her eyes followed the unfolding drama, remembering the tales of the more verbal Knights that regaled any who would listen at the evening fires. She'd usually get lost if they grew too explicit in the tactical angles of battles, yet found herself suspicious of their truthfulness if they became to poetic about such a serious thing as death.

Even death in the world of tiny creatures seemed deliberate to her, as she watched the struggle in the webbed corner of her quarters. Not as tidy as the last, she'd found sleep slightly more of a challenge, she who usually had no problem with such things, and lay on her belly, chin resting on her folded hands as she awaited the full dawning morn. Serene, always serene. Appearances meant much.

A smile tugged at the corner of her lips as she recalled the previous night, unconsciously pulling down a hank of her dark hair to twist gently around her finger as she mulled over the tale that had been inspired by the sound of the wind that rattled the panes of the little Inn.

"It was said one especially dark evening, a young lass took up her candle to venture into the night on an errand of need long since forgotten. Bundled and cloaked against the chill, she set forth, only to find her candle quickly snuffed by the gusting wind.

Returning to her cottage, she re-lit the flame, shielding it with her body and outstretched cloak as best she could. The wind howled more fiercely, whipping around her and whistling as if victorious when the fire again blew out.

Dismayed, yet determined, she turned back once again, re-lighting her small candle, but this time setting a thick glass chimney over the top. The wind seemed affronted at her trickery, deftly reaching his fingers down inside the glass to smother the last flicker from her candle.

Squaring her shoulders indignantly, she spoke to the wind. "Have mercy, Oh Wind . . Why are you doing this?!"

Immediately the wind quieted down, a flicker of hope grew in her heart that she had perhaps touched a tender spot in his. But no. He was merely gathering himself into a burst of laughter that buffeted the young girl, bellowing arrogantly, "Because I CAN!"

Satisfied, he kept up his gale, certain he'd proven his superiority and power. Yet he was surprised to see her remain, feet planted with firmness, arms crossed in patient determination, unmoving. And so she stood throughout the night. Waiting. Watching. Silent.

Until the first faint streaks of dawn lightened the eastern sky, growing slowly and steadily . . . until she could see without need for her candle. Thus she traveled on her way, unhindered by the heartless wind, who had no choice but to admit defeat."

They grew closer to Windstorm . . not many days now to go . .

[Teller]

11/28/07
He watched her closely, though without anxiety. She allowed him. She had to, it was his duty. A delicate thing, this arrangement of theirs, or rather, arranged for them. He understood, and pretended he wasn’t there. She needed her time to feel disconnected from even herself, and this was the closest she ever felt to flying . .

They had stopped this time, not in an Inn, but one of the lesser castles along the way, a distant relative, she was told. She knew she’d never get the truth of it if she pressed, so she simply nodded and kept her smile to herself when the route had been planned. They’d arrived too late that night to have to undergo all the formalities of a court dinner, though still spent some time with the crown before being offered their beds. She almost wished they were to stay longer than the few days allotted, but was assured Windstorm was far more magnificent . . .

Turning from her high perch, she fixed a smile directly at him, and wondered again at his well honed acting. She had called him her “Left Guard” ever since she could remember. A slight deafness in his left ear made him triangulate himself to the left of everyone to maximize his ‘good’ ear. Nature had blessed him with thick hands and feet, and a bulbous face not judged handsome by most standards, yet she had never seen anyone react with more swiftness when he was required to. Even though she knew this, had seen him save lives with his uncanny intuitiveness, it always left her stunned when she witnessed it. Which, mercifully, wasn’t often.

Everyone expected it from the other guardian. Tall, singularly handsome, even though no longer a youth, lithe and lean, a man given to fair speech and perfect manners. Though not born a noble, he fit the part beautifully and was seldom questioned, especially by the womenfolk. Curiously, while he flirted and charmed and seemed to truly enjoy the attentions it gained him, he had never married . . never even seemed smitten hard enough to be thought in love. She had her suspicions about him, but whatever they were, they were closely guarded from even herself. The usual impression everyone had was that he was her husband. Nothing could have been further from the truth. He was good at what he did, and even though he had never given her reason not to, she never truly trusted him. Not as her mother had, which had seemed to be completely. There was a story there. Someday she would hear it.

Tilting her face to the chill night winds, she balanced herself skillfully as close to the very edge as possible, opening herself to the stars. No show here, no dramatics. No pretty words, carefully constructed No deception . . . . for several endless glorious minutes. Just the heavens . .

[Lady Edfeil]

((wonderful to read> I look forward to more.))

[Teller]

Gazing up into the starry night, she imagined very hard that she could see the configuration of seven stars that formed a lesser constellation, although she really had to squint to see the more faint ones, arranged in an imperfect, slightly elliptical circle, set in the eastern sky. The stars are brightest at the northwest and northeast curvatures of the constellation. She mused back on the insignificant pattern, and the controversy over the names she’d heard given it.

There are those who held that it was set into the black skies by the Dark Evil himself to mock the Sun and drain hope from all who looked at it. No other stars are visible within the circle, and some swore the skies are darker within, the antithesis of the day’s light. The “Empty Sun”, or “Death Moon”, some call it, created for no other purpose than glare down on all that lives as a continual challenge to all that is right and good and worth living for.

And then there are those who are adamant that the circle of stars is a mortal’s-eye view of a falling teardrop, for there have been, and always will be, many tears that are shed for many reasons. Not only those that fall in bitterness and loss and cavernous grief and bottomless sadness . . frustration and embarrassment . . . pain from blood spilt and love lost . . betrayal and disillusionment and endings . . the normal stuff of tears . . but equally so in laughter and surprise and those quiet, unexpected times when we are touched so deeply and moved so completely that only tears will speak . . . They need a place to go, when we are done with them, the tears. And so the gods set the “Teardrop” in the velvety skies to hold them. Sometimes it’s good not to forget, even if we don’t need them anymore.

Still, she tended to believe the third opinion . . since the constellation isn’t a perfect enough circle to be a tear, and it’s simply too beautiful to be so evil. From the very foundations of their new world, the gods knew that continuity would depend on their hopes and dreams and vision being passed along and sown into each new soul that joined in their cause. Each new Adventurer, as they explored and learned and grew, passed along their knowledge, earned through experience and costly mistakes and sometimes just plain dumb luck. They shared their triumphs and their wealth and their weapons and their tales . . and fast friendships were forged, the very framework of history. Whether on the battlefield, the crowded inns, within the magnificent greathalls, or beside a quiet stream, the seeds of hope are sown into the warm fertile soils of our hearts. And hope wears many disguises . . a kind word or unexpected offer of aide, a random, cheery greeting, the bestowal of blessings unasked, critical wisdom divulged, the provocation to laughter . . for laughter is the very heartbeat of hope.

Seeds are not all round and perfect and equal in size, even within their kind . . yet there is within their borders the promise of continuity. And thus, the gods set “The Seed” low into the eastern skies . . the symbol of life and hope and a thousand tomorrows.

[Teller]

Textures . . there are textures to everything. A feel and a weight. Every visible, touchable thing . . and even the untouchable. Maybe even moreso those things we cannot touch. Even in concepts and values and song. Textures in the wrinkles of worrisome wishes and the furrows of following footprints through the sands. The tympanic tone of the timbers that creak and crack in the tempests . . The soft soothing silkiness of a satiny stone after tumbling in the tumultuous torrents . .

Treasures and trinkets and troubles and truth . . what am I really living for?