Shadow sat in his laboratory, an underground affair that held nearly all his spellbooks, and many items of power, curiosities, and trophies. Wilson stood alongside him, impeccably tuxedoe'd; the baron handed him a heavy tome, new for all its intricate scrollwork and the gilt binding its cover. "Cast it in, Wilson," the elf directed. Wilson took the tome over to a brazier, blazing with a cherry-red glow through a brasswork grille, opened it, and shoved the book into the flames. Shadow might have removed his Key and done the same, but even without the talisman of Water touching his flesh, fire was anathema in many ways. Shadow breathed out a sigh of mixed sadness and relief, and murmured, "Thank you, Wilson. See you in the morning."
As the butler departed, Shadow moved to a near bookshelf, and selected a tome bound in aquamarine silkcloth. Freshly pressed, this book, so new that the binding crackled with the new life of being opened for the first time. The paper itself, a creamy sort of vellum, was blank. Shadow made himself comfortable, dipped quill into inkpot, and slowly began forming words in his flowing hand, using the old Elvish dialect of his homeland.
It's been some time since I wrote my thoughts down.
The last journal was so fraught with past lessons, past mistakes, and far too much of my emotion had been poured into the words. If I've enemies lurking in this land, the things they could have done with that journal do not bear thinking about. So I ask myself, why write another? I write for the same reasons I've always written, to expend my words, my deepest thoughts, and read them back to myself. To reflect.
It is not unlike the Reverie, that form of rest in which most elves engage. Like a waking dream, filled with visions of our own long lives, and those of our ancestors. But I cannot control what visions emerge in Reverie. This journal, I can control, though it must be warded as heavily as any tome of magic I have ever scribed. It is a risk to have it, but a risk I must take, for my sanity of nothing else.
Sanity. Do I still possess it? Losing one's sanity is a fear for any creature whose lifespan is long, and insanity is ever a lurking bane to the oldest of elves. I am only seven centuries old, but I sometimes feel the creep of mental disconnection, like a lurking shadow on the edges of consciousness, waiting for the opportunity to strike. I must be vigilant.
It was a short, hot summer. A summer in which I fell in love, or foolishly thought I had. Fell from grace with my old masters - a nebulous term for the gods, but I did serve them - and found myself without anchor, without tether aside from the support my friends have lent me. Friends who still do not know who I was, what I was, but friends through the most poignant of struggles nevertheless.
Friend such as Claire Farron, who just gave birth to twins. I was rather drunk at the time I received the message, which probably makes me some scoundrel - but then, it was New Year's Eve. I have yet to see the children, and am doing my best to hold down the fort, the Orphanage, without displaying my anxious agitation, but it is no easy thing. I think I knew there were twins in that gigantic moon-belly of hers, but the reality of it is something else again - exciting, and frightening. Rhy'din, beware: Claire has reproduced, and your lives will never be the same.
Speaking of New Year's Eve, what a time that was. I had thought to hole up in a seedy little West End dive bar and drink myself silly, in the company of strangers. Instead, I saw Rayvinn, who I have only just met, and offered her a drink. Several, actually. She showed me how one plays 'darts', an interesting human sport which relies on hand-eye coordination and accuracy, though otherwise I have not determined why the game is played. Practice? Still, it was fun. My plans to drink the night away in solitude had no chance, when faced with that lady elf. She is like a storm, filled with lightning and deadly, captivating beauty, changeable as a thundercloud, and just as riveting to watch, to be near. Dangerous, but then, what is danger, but another form of excitement? A reminder of life, and the reasons we live it.
Life. What is the purpose of mine, now? Just to live? I cannot believe it is only that. I cannot believe that all my knowledge of the ways of evil, and how to combat it, has been for nothing. Neither can I believe in the narrow teachings of the gods, for what has their guidance brought me but pain, and scars?
I must find a new way, a new purpose.
He took up a handful of sand from a vessel near the inkpot, and lightly dusted the words he'd written. As his breath blew to aid the drying, one hand reached up, to his collar. Unbuttoning his shirt, he fished out the golden heart pendant there, the symbol of Hanali Celanil, love goddess of the Seldarine. A quick tug to break the chain that held the symbol, and he lightly placed the golden links into the open book's crease, marking his place. Not until he understood why he'd been given it, would he wear that device again. Soon enough he departed, leaving the laboratory lit only by the soft, twinkling glow of magic.
((Cross posted here on RoH))
As the butler departed, Shadow moved to a near bookshelf, and selected a tome bound in aquamarine silkcloth. Freshly pressed, this book, so new that the binding crackled with the new life of being opened for the first time. The paper itself, a creamy sort of vellum, was blank. Shadow made himself comfortable, dipped quill into inkpot, and slowly began forming words in his flowing hand, using the old Elvish dialect of his homeland.
It's been some time since I wrote my thoughts down.
The last journal was so fraught with past lessons, past mistakes, and far too much of my emotion had been poured into the words. If I've enemies lurking in this land, the things they could have done with that journal do not bear thinking about. So I ask myself, why write another? I write for the same reasons I've always written, to expend my words, my deepest thoughts, and read them back to myself. To reflect.
It is not unlike the Reverie, that form of rest in which most elves engage. Like a waking dream, filled with visions of our own long lives, and those of our ancestors. But I cannot control what visions emerge in Reverie. This journal, I can control, though it must be warded as heavily as any tome of magic I have ever scribed. It is a risk to have it, but a risk I must take, for my sanity of nothing else.
Sanity. Do I still possess it? Losing one's sanity is a fear for any creature whose lifespan is long, and insanity is ever a lurking bane to the oldest of elves. I am only seven centuries old, but I sometimes feel the creep of mental disconnection, like a lurking shadow on the edges of consciousness, waiting for the opportunity to strike. I must be vigilant.
It was a short, hot summer. A summer in which I fell in love, or foolishly thought I had. Fell from grace with my old masters - a nebulous term for the gods, but I did serve them - and found myself without anchor, without tether aside from the support my friends have lent me. Friends who still do not know who I was, what I was, but friends through the most poignant of struggles nevertheless.
Friend such as Claire Farron, who just gave birth to twins. I was rather drunk at the time I received the message, which probably makes me some scoundrel - but then, it was New Year's Eve. I have yet to see the children, and am doing my best to hold down the fort, the Orphanage, without displaying my anxious agitation, but it is no easy thing. I think I knew there were twins in that gigantic moon-belly of hers, but the reality of it is something else again - exciting, and frightening. Rhy'din, beware: Claire has reproduced, and your lives will never be the same.
Speaking of New Year's Eve, what a time that was. I had thought to hole up in a seedy little West End dive bar and drink myself silly, in the company of strangers. Instead, I saw Rayvinn, who I have only just met, and offered her a drink. Several, actually. She showed me how one plays 'darts', an interesting human sport which relies on hand-eye coordination and accuracy, though otherwise I have not determined why the game is played. Practice? Still, it was fun. My plans to drink the night away in solitude had no chance, when faced with that lady elf. She is like a storm, filled with lightning and deadly, captivating beauty, changeable as a thundercloud, and just as riveting to watch, to be near. Dangerous, but then, what is danger, but another form of excitement? A reminder of life, and the reasons we live it.
Life. What is the purpose of mine, now? Just to live? I cannot believe it is only that. I cannot believe that all my knowledge of the ways of evil, and how to combat it, has been for nothing. Neither can I believe in the narrow teachings of the gods, for what has their guidance brought me but pain, and scars?
I must find a new way, a new purpose.
He took up a handful of sand from a vessel near the inkpot, and lightly dusted the words he'd written. As his breath blew to aid the drying, one hand reached up, to his collar. Unbuttoning his shirt, he fished out the golden heart pendant there, the symbol of Hanali Celanil, love goddess of the Seldarine. A quick tug to break the chain that held the symbol, and he lightly placed the golden links into the open book's crease, marking his place. Not until he understood why he'd been given it, would he wear that device again. Soon enough he departed, leaving the laboratory lit only by the soft, twinkling glow of magic.
((Cross posted here on RoH))