The Rise and Fall of Glamorfell


Yelenya slipped through the darkened room and avoided stepping on anyone as she crept over to where Sayd was sleeping. After the midnight disturbance Teret had recommended that everyone get as much more rest as they could before they left at dawn. A difficult sleeper by nature, Yelenya had volunteered for watch duty in the anteroom. She carefully pulled Sayd’s journal and a pen out of his pack. Time passed slowly for her, and she might as well make use of it. She settled in to write facing the doorway._

Little one, I do regret that we did not have time to talk, and while I doubt that you will come back here there is a chance so I will take it. I am a firm believer in the 3rd option, you see. We all walk different paths, they may converge for a bit but each path is uniquely our own, footprints are the history of those who have walked a part of our path before, but no one but you will, can, or should, walk your path for you. All that said, you can, if you look hard enough, see others on their path as they walk it. I do so for my own curiosity as I travel with those around me. The elf, I am sorry to say, faces the very real possibility of losing the way she was when she joined me (she’ll probably not thank me later), the soldier is beginning to see that his path is not the one he thought he was on after abandoning a different one, the half elf seems to be finding both his footing and that no one cares who he is or what he is (just that he can do his job). But for us monsters… Sayd is finding his path lonely, he would like nothing more that to be sitting in a throne of bone, with a slave or two for his amusement and debauchery, and an apprentice or two to pass on his knowledge. I wish him a cottage in the sun, with fields and laughter. And a farmers daughter or two. Oh how he would hate it. Even after so long he considers himself a monster, I guess I failed in teaching him better. Whoops. Wally has become a goddess send, even when I am annoyed by him I enjoy his presence. The fangs and claws of course make him all the more interesting. He is one you should be wary of. He has been a wolf in sheep’s clothing longer that you have dear girl. His path is far more interesting than most, he walks a razor’s edge. Me? I do not walk a razor’s edge, most of my kind sprint it, and I have more style than that. I dance on the razors edge. I am not certain of my path, but I am certain of my destination. You spoke with Teret about religion, later I told him to have faith. Poor confused boy. Some are chosen by the gods, a friend of mine is one of those, and I hold her dear. Others choose which god they follow, what feels right to them, or none at all. I commissioned a shrine to be built before we last left Oleg’s and I have yet to see it, to plant flowers there. The shrine is to Shelyn, the goddess of love and beauty, the goddess of art. I do not speak of my beliefs to many, and I explain myself to fewer. You seem to need an anchor, so I will tell you of my path and perhaps that will help. I am certain that it will scare whoever else reads this. I see beauty in the things that others do not, what else can I do, and while others might create a great song or poem or book these forms of art elude me. I am, at best, a mediocre dancer and I cannot speak loud enough to sing, but my art, that I am born for. I stand at the edge of madness and look into the depths, most of my kind are down there asking me to join them. It would be too easy, effortless. I chose a different path. I see myself grown and standing tall as I walk through my garden. Here and there are roses, none would attract much attention but to me they are all perfect. Surrounded by thorns in the dark as I approach a table. On the table a candle, guttering in the still air. A being sits and watches my approach. That is the end of my path little flower. I tend a garden as best I may that is filled with flowers no one would cast gaze upon if there were no reason to. I do what I can to feed them, make them strong, but in the end they have only themselves and their paths. And sometimes, not often, but sometimes, the garden needs to be cleaned up and the plants pruned so that what remains may grow stronger. I encourage you to grow little rose. Choose a path and walk it, but do not be afraid to choose another path. Only fools believe in certainty… and maybe the faithful. I am smiling as i write this, I have such hope for you. It’s getting early, I need to get ready for tomorrow. By happy coincidence I am terribly Thirsty.


She carefully folded the letter and drew her new silver dagger. There was a little red spot on it that she licked off and gently pricked her finger, a drop of blood on the corner of the letter would make it more likely the girl would notice it. She sheathed the dagger and began inspecting her arrows by touch, her eyes never leaving the door. She was sad that the poor girl had had rough time of it, but people choose what to do. And if she chose poorly… well… her blood would taste as good as any others. And things would grow.


johnrmcinerney argentcogan

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