Post by Halethala on Jun 25, 2004 1:19:56 GMT -5
When silvered moonbeams frost the glades
To softly muted brindle
Then dance in fog the elven folk
Along the Wythewindle
Meander thither, merry stream
Your pathway to the sea
And gently sing of cherished hopes
Love, home and family . .
It had taken her several long nights to complete it, and several attempts, until she was satisfied with her efforts. She guessed he would not have written something quite as whimsical, though she wasn’t entirely sure, and thus took a chance, wishing she could be there when he read it to watch his reaction. The words would not mean anything, really . . but she was fairly certain the way they were written would be quite unsettling. Would he recognize his own distinctive handwriting?
She had discovered her talent for this quite by accident. Long hours of forced rest while ill had led her often to the Castle Library. Nearly often deserted, she found within a refuge of sorts, and a world of fascination opened to her in the scrolls that were nestled in the tall shelves. At first, she had spent her time simply reading, soaking in the histories and genealogies, births, deaths, marriages, records of stores and harvests and battles and guests . . and even occasionally delightful told tales that had been recorded therein . . some far more ancient than others.
Soon, she had begun to notice the uniqueness of the scripting, even recognizing the more distinctive of them. Some were signed, many were not. It depended on the document. But even then, she was not certain the signatures were of the scribe who crafted them, or simply in someone else’s name.
It became a little game for her . . matching those she thought had been by the same hand . . comparing and delighting in the distinctiveness and variations . . noting subtle differences that marked individuality . . For those without signatures, she gave them phantom names to keep them separate.
Some printing had been so well done, so creatively beautiful, she had longed to try to imitate their style. Thus, simply a lark, she had taken up blank scraps and set her quill to copy the more lovely of them, just to see if she could. It startled her how easily she seemed able! Soon the times of reading shifted to hours bent over paper, scratching away, practicing . . enjoying the challenge of perfecting this new-found skill.
There had been one who's dramatic script had caught her eye, and she grew to look forward to seeing his hand upon the documents, though most were merely lists, with an occasional report concerning the condition of the men who served under him.
Watching the castle quietly gear up in preparation for what seemed to be impending conflict, she’d wondered what she could do to help . . and then it had occurred to her, rather as a matter of course, that there had been no scribe in recent times, not that she was aware of . . perhaps she could try her hand at the task, iffen any would think her able. There was much to keep track of, much to record . . she guessed someone had to be at it, yet perhaps they could use help? She would ask . .
Perhaps her little talent for imitation would be of use as well . . Thus, she had crafted the poem in the Lord Hawkmoon’s bold strokes to make her point. If he could be convinced, perhaps he may find some use for her . .
Settling the smaller parchment within a larger one explaining it, she thought again of the second scroll:
Lord Hawkmoon,
I do beg forgiveness in brazenly setting to verse what does not come from your mind a poem that doth appear to be of your hand. I merely did so to illustrate the possibility of someone claiming to be another by the theft of their own unique scripting, an infringement, no doubt, punishable with severity iffen one were ever caught at it.
Thus, in secrecy do I share this with thee. I would hope by now you know my heart, the purity of it, that by no means would I use such a talent to my own enrichment. I have all I need here at Windstorm . . it would profit me nothing to gain wealth or fame at the risk of losing my home and those I love.
*She smiled now as she finished up* Yet, good Hawkmoon . . perhaps there may be use for such a talent . . one never can tell . . a subtly mis-worded document, figures somewhat re-arranged, dates not quite on target . . that would fall into expectant hands . . possibly swaying the tide of battle to our advantage? One must weigh the morality of such actions against the greater benefits of shortened conflicts, perhaps e’en sparring needless deaths in so doing?
I rest in your wisdom, whatever ye may decide.
I am,
Your humble servant,
Halethala Morrowyth
She would have liked to deliver it personally, but decided it would be wiser to send it by another. Restraining herself to allow the sanded ink to dry, she finally sealed them together and sent them off to him . .
((OCC: I have taken liberties that I hope you will allow, though shall willingly correct if you see fit . . ))
To softly muted brindle
Then dance in fog the elven folk
Along the Wythewindle
Meander thither, merry stream
Your pathway to the sea
And gently sing of cherished hopes
Love, home and family . .
It had taken her several long nights to complete it, and several attempts, until she was satisfied with her efforts. She guessed he would not have written something quite as whimsical, though she wasn’t entirely sure, and thus took a chance, wishing she could be there when he read it to watch his reaction. The words would not mean anything, really . . but she was fairly certain the way they were written would be quite unsettling. Would he recognize his own distinctive handwriting?
She had discovered her talent for this quite by accident. Long hours of forced rest while ill had led her often to the Castle Library. Nearly often deserted, she found within a refuge of sorts, and a world of fascination opened to her in the scrolls that were nestled in the tall shelves. At first, she had spent her time simply reading, soaking in the histories and genealogies, births, deaths, marriages, records of stores and harvests and battles and guests . . and even occasionally delightful told tales that had been recorded therein . . some far more ancient than others.
Soon, she had begun to notice the uniqueness of the scripting, even recognizing the more distinctive of them. Some were signed, many were not. It depended on the document. But even then, she was not certain the signatures were of the scribe who crafted them, or simply in someone else’s name.
It became a little game for her . . matching those she thought had been by the same hand . . comparing and delighting in the distinctiveness and variations . . noting subtle differences that marked individuality . . For those without signatures, she gave them phantom names to keep them separate.
Some printing had been so well done, so creatively beautiful, she had longed to try to imitate their style. Thus, simply a lark, she had taken up blank scraps and set her quill to copy the more lovely of them, just to see if she could. It startled her how easily she seemed able! Soon the times of reading shifted to hours bent over paper, scratching away, practicing . . enjoying the challenge of perfecting this new-found skill.
There had been one who's dramatic script had caught her eye, and she grew to look forward to seeing his hand upon the documents, though most were merely lists, with an occasional report concerning the condition of the men who served under him.
Watching the castle quietly gear up in preparation for what seemed to be impending conflict, she’d wondered what she could do to help . . and then it had occurred to her, rather as a matter of course, that there had been no scribe in recent times, not that she was aware of . . perhaps she could try her hand at the task, iffen any would think her able. There was much to keep track of, much to record . . she guessed someone had to be at it, yet perhaps they could use help? She would ask . .
Perhaps her little talent for imitation would be of use as well . . Thus, she had crafted the poem in the Lord Hawkmoon’s bold strokes to make her point. If he could be convinced, perhaps he may find some use for her . .
Settling the smaller parchment within a larger one explaining it, she thought again of the second scroll:
Lord Hawkmoon,
I do beg forgiveness in brazenly setting to verse what does not come from your mind a poem that doth appear to be of your hand. I merely did so to illustrate the possibility of someone claiming to be another by the theft of their own unique scripting, an infringement, no doubt, punishable with severity iffen one were ever caught at it.
Thus, in secrecy do I share this with thee. I would hope by now you know my heart, the purity of it, that by no means would I use such a talent to my own enrichment. I have all I need here at Windstorm . . it would profit me nothing to gain wealth or fame at the risk of losing my home and those I love.
*She smiled now as she finished up* Yet, good Hawkmoon . . perhaps there may be use for such a talent . . one never can tell . . a subtly mis-worded document, figures somewhat re-arranged, dates not quite on target . . that would fall into expectant hands . . possibly swaying the tide of battle to our advantage? One must weigh the morality of such actions against the greater benefits of shortened conflicts, perhaps e’en sparring needless deaths in so doing?
I rest in your wisdom, whatever ye may decide.
I am,
Your humble servant,
Halethala Morrowyth
She would have liked to deliver it personally, but decided it would be wiser to send it by another. Restraining herself to allow the sanded ink to dry, she finally sealed them together and sent them off to him . .
((OCC: I have taken liberties that I hope you will allow, though shall willingly correct if you see fit . . ))
