A Poem

I had thought to write a poem, but the words fail me never before had they been so elusive fleeting

how can one put to words the tenderness of your eyes or the sorrow the glimmer of light the darkness

even now they only weakly hint and my quill trembles is it hubris to think I can capture you in ink? at all? what can I do to prove how I See you when words when words were the only way I ever knew when words were all that held me up when words were who I was when words when words fail me

my heart flutters I am a sparrow in a cage and you opened the door a leaf on the river and you drew me to shore nothing sparked in my eye until I gazed upon your face you cracked my mask and Saw me as I Saw you has ever before the thought of an arrow to the knee been so loving? the ice cold touch of a stream could have frozen me to stone yet it melted every defense I had every wall I put up was so gently ripped down and when I stepped towards the wall of thorns- I felt only softness of your embrace

the cage still awaits the river still calls the shards of a mask remain

but I see them not I hear them not

I may not have command of words as I once thought but what does that matter when I speak and you listen and when you speak I listen what have need we of words when every touch every breath every moment of silence each is a poem searing into the heart and each will remain with me for all my waking moments and each lingers in the midst of my reverie

a fool I named myself and I shall do so again how could fear find its way into my heart? how could doubt latch upon my spirit? how could words do this the words should matter not, I see this now and so yes a fool I may be but I am a fool in love

Apples

I fell in love with her in October.

I mean, I loved her before then. You don’t spend three years with someone without falling for the way the light curves around their cheek, or the sound of their first waking breath in the morning, or how their voice goes just a bit higher when they’re about to surprise you. And every single time you fall in love with them, your life together becomes just a little bit brighter.

That’s what you really have to be careful about in love. When you stop falling in love with every little thing about someone, I don’t think you’re really in love. And if the impossible day comes that the sight of her bedhead and bleary storm cloud eyes isn’t the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, then that is the day that I might as well call myself a widow and prepare for the death of our relationship.

On that October morning, I woke to the smell of chocolate and coffee.

Helena sat on our couch with coffee and book in hand, and a half-eaten piece of cake forgotten on a plate next to her. The day was one of those gloriously dreary ones, where the rain drizzled half-heartedly down and wind played with the tips of every leaf to find the ones loose enough to plummet into the mud. Through the open window by our bed, I smelled rain and forest and just the hint of woodsmoke. My face was slightly damp from the rain that had made it inside, and the coolness felt refreshing against my oven-like nest of blankets.

I stretched from the tips of my fingers to the curling of my toes, arching my back against the mattress and turning my face towards the couch. “Morning, my love.”

Though my words had been mumbled, Helena looked towards me, and her lips formed into that little crooked smile, one corner of her mouth higher up than the other. I fell for her instantly. I wasn’t even wearing a shirt yet and I had already been sucker-punched by Cupid!

“Sleep well?” she asked, and I rolled my head in a leisurely nod. She looked back to her book before speaking again, shifting to a more comfortable position with an unconscious sigh. “What’s the plan today?”

“Hmmn,” I said, drawing out the hum into another satisfyingly long stretch. “It’s a surprise.”

She rolled her eyes at that, I knew it just by the way her head cocked to the side, even if I couldn’t see her face. “Well of course it’s a surprise,” Helena said. “It’s a Saturday.”

I chuckled lightly. “Why do you always ask, then?”

Her book closed with a gentle snap. “I need to give you something to be mysterious about, love.”

God, I loved her so much.

Helena stood from the couch, leaving the book and taking her coffee along for the ride as she perched on the side of our bed, gazing down at me. “Well?” she said, her brow arching up.

“Well what?”

“Are you going to get your ass out of bed?”

I kissed the air in her direction before lifting myself up from the sweet embrace of my pillow. “I love the way you talk to me in the morning.”

Helena’s smile widened into a grin. “Lazy useless ass.”

“I love you too.”

She leaned over and pressed a kiss to my forehead before standing. “Can you at least give me a hint of whether it’s the ‘finish painting the bathroom today’ kind of surprise or the ‘doing all our shopping’ surprise?”

“Neither.” I pulled the blanket off and swung my legs over the side of the bed. “But it is outside and it will be cold.”

“Jeanne, it’s raining.”

I turned back to waggle my eyebrows at her. “Worth it for a surprise?”

She snorted, shaking her head at me. “Wait, let me see.” Lifting her coffee, Helena tipped her head back and chugged the remnants before looking back down. “Now it is.”

I drove for once. Helena fiddled with the radio, the tip of her tongue poking out through her teeth as she tried to reach the sweet spot with the dial. She always did that, though it wasn’t like I didn’t have all our favorites programmed. But she liked turning knobs more than pushing buttons, and the way her eyes lit up when the channel finally settled, made sitting through the static and cut off music all the more worth it.

We both wore raincoats, and I had snuck a couple buckets into the trunk when Helena was looking for her boots. The rain hadn’t made up its mind on whether to drizzle harder or finally let up, and any snatch of blue sky quickly fled when more clouds came to dump all over us. Trees bowed heavy with water and unshed fiery leaves, occasionally reaching to brush the top of the car.

When I first turned off the main road, I think that was when Helena started to suspect. Her eyes went dark and her hands clasped together, fingers twisting with the first signs of too many things worrying in her mind. I reached for the volume dial and turned it down. She looked to me, her brow beginning to furrow and any certainty gone from her gaze.

“Remember last summer?” I said, my smile and words warm. I kept one eye on the road and one eye on her, reaching out with my palm up to offer my hand. “When we were at that cidery. And you told me about growing up.”

The lines disappeared from her forehead and Helena’s eyes softened. She took my hand, squeezing it once. “We used to crush apples every fall. Cider. Pie. Cake. I told you how much I missed it.”

“That was your life, Helena. I think-“ I slowed the car, looking fully at her. “Those apples were the one thing you regretted more than anything else. And when you were kicked out, that was taken from you.”

“It’s been eight years. I should be over it.” She said that as if trying to convince me or herself, but the tone didn’t quite match the words. Helena looked back out to the road. It was familiar to her. Less so to me. “Why are you bringing me here?”

The car rolled to a stop in front of an old wooden sign with the words too faded by time and rain to read. Beyond it, and the winding gravel road, were apple trees as far as the eye could see.

“I wanted to surprise you with going apple picking,” I said. “I was touring some orchards a couple weeks back when I met a couple.”

Helena remained silent as I spoke, her eyes going to me once, before she stared out at the rows of trees.

“They recognized me from your profile picture.” Her hand in mine tightened, and I moved my other hand to lay over it. “They asked if we were dating and I didn’t lie. And they told me they were your parents. And that they were sorry and just wanted to see you again.”

She didn’t reply right away. Her grip was so tight now my hand was starting to hurt. I didn’t say anymore, just waited until she finally looked to me with wet eyes.

“They told m-me never to come back,” Helena said softly, only the faintest catch of a sob in her voice. “I thought-“ She squeezed her eyes shut, letting a tear dislodge and trail down her cheek.

“Today is just about the apples,” I murmured, letting go with one hand to catch the tear on her face before it could fall. “You don’t need to see them until you’re ready. They agreed to that. But you’re allowed to come here and pick apples whenever you want.”

Helena breathed in and out. She opened her eyes and looked to me with a wavery smile. “I never- ever -thought I could come back here.”

I leaned over, only a little awkwardly through the constraints of the seat belt, and wrapped my arms around her. “Happy October?”

“Happy October.”

Our hands only parted long enough for us to leave the car. Buckets in tow and the rain pattering against the hoods of our coats, Helena and I walked off into the orchard.

So that October day, looking at the woman who I hoped would accept me as her wife with tears in her eyes and hope in her heart, I fell in love with her all over again. And I knew that for the rest of our lives, every single day, I would keep on falling in love. Just as she did with me.

Excalibur

“No shit?” Reggie held up the box, tilting it this way and that to reread the red clearance sticker. The slightly-smudged ink remained unchanged. “Fifty cents?”

Her outburst drew reflexive glances from the other shoppers drifting through the clearance aisle of the store. Paying them no mind, the woman rose from her crouch on the floor. She’d had to crawl nearly underneath the shelf to snag this box, and the price almost assuredly made it worth the effort.

“Dere- hey, Derek!” she called, gaze panning around to find her roommate, a few aisles away. Reggie could just barely see his head over the shelves. “I found some more silverware!” She clutched the box to her chest, heading his way.

He was in the towel section, carefully feeling a blue diamond-patterned washcloth. “We don’t need more, Reg,” Derek didn’t look up. “We have enough.”

Annabel and Janet

“You can do better than him, Miss Annabel,” Janet huffed, hardly giving the other woman a chance to say hello after opening the door. She swept into the desolate tavern, silk rustling and perfume a sudden assault on the young bartender. Attempting to cough quietly as to not offend her friend, Annabel moved around the bar to pour two glasses of whiskey. “I don’t see what the problem is, Janet,” she said demurely. “He’s a good man, kind, honest, and we get along. What else would one marry for?” “But darling, do you love him?!” “Love-” Annabel chuckled, taking a sip before setting the glass down once more. “I imagine that could come with time. Janet, we’re on the edge of the wilds, what does love have to do with anything?”

Divination Primer (Revised Edition)

Forward

Grandcycles before, when this one was still hardly grasping at the concepts of the Sight and Seeing, she was given a copy of this Primer by one she names wise in the matters of Arcana. As a guide for a beginner, it was helpful enough to give the basics any Ocuirar, or Seer in the common tongues, might need to carry them on their hunt for more knowledge.

It is, however, only a Primer. To put all the secrets of the Art onto pages for any to read would, in her own mind, cheapen the purpose of learning Divination at all. Is it not the study of seeking what is not visible at a glance? Is it not the Art of curiosity, of exploration, of going Beyond? To See is not something that can be mastered merely by reciting words off a page, else all would know how to divine.

In her revisions, she will be rephrasing much of what was in the original texts, fixing any errors or misinformation from the original author’s teachings. She will attempt to keep as much of its original message across, though will not shy from adding her own comments and additions when they are necessary.

She will admit that the author does have a different mindset to her, as he seems to be a sunlander, and thus infects the pages with sunlander morals, like speaking of the evils of necromancy and murder. Her own writing is far more pragmatic, as she will not opinionate on the facts and teachings themselves, merely the original work.

With this, and the copies she will make, it is her sincerest hope that other Seers, both those Old and New to the Art, will be able to use the writings to carry on the lessons held within.

Keeper of the Undergarden Fivefold Forged Voice of the Vultzi White-scales All-Watcher Okakri Rosemaw

Evils

Magic is evil.

I whispered those words to myself when I was left alone each night to weep and rub at the memories of scars over my hands and chest. Wounds never lasted; not for long, and I ended each day as pristinely unharmed as I had been when it started. If not for my faith in my own seared memories, the abuses between dawn and dusk would have been hard to believe. And indeed, sometimes I wondered what possessed them to leave me with an intact mind. Had I been truly broken, nothing would have stopped them from having their way with me, to test whatever spells they needed and merely stitch up my battered body to start anew.

There were three of them, whose names I never learned, but I knew each by the tread of their footsteps out in the hallways beyond my cell before I had even seen their faces.

I called the first “Ferret”, less using words and more a memory of a summoned flash of pale fur that gnawed through my stomach and burrowed its way into my organs and stayed there until he laughed and dismissed it and forced a burning potion down my throat. He walked quickly and lightly, an excited patter that more often led to the garden than the library or any of the workrooms. I saw him the most, drank whatever concoction he brewed up and managed to weakly describe how it felt before he sent me away to live out the rest of the day’s suffering.

The Kobold and the Goblin Queen

There once was a young kobold.

Now, this kobold’s flaws of birth were many. He was a white-scale, the lowest color of the tribes, and he was weak in body and innate arcana. And because of these, he turned to the sin of wizardry and would often avoid his industry and labors for sake of wandering off and studying how to wrest the Weave like a human would.

He was named Aithyas, a name not of his own choosing, but named for offal and dung, as he was the lowest of the low.

Despite this, however, he was cunning, and no matter what he was faced with, he was not unpleasant to talk with. The tribe, of course, did not feel sorry for how they treated him, as he was a white-scale and a wizard and deserved it, but at least he was not sullen about it. That is an important lesson, youngbloods. Hardship is the reality of these ones’ lives, and they may seethe, but they will keep it to themselves.

The Aithyas was an adventurous sort when he could slip away, and he knew all the caves and tunnels and paths of the mountain. For cycles and months he would wander and explore and he managed to eventually map all of the secrets possible.

Or so he claimed.

Fallen

“I d-don’t-” the young elf tried to choke out through the blood burbling up past his lips. “Nae, I… pl-please…”

The pain in his chest was growing now, each labored breath fighting the arrows lodged within his flesh. Veriel swallowed and gasped as a gentle hand touched his cheek, the other elf’s fingers wet with his blood.

“I know, sweetheart,” Nae’ali murmured, her arm under him, wrapped around his shoulders. “I… know.”

“I j-just,” he half-sobbed, the trail of his tears streaking down his face. “I don’t un-understand.”

Nae hugged him tightly, his face nestled in the crook of her shoulder. “It’s okay, Veriel.”

“Is M-matthew safe?”

A long silence from her, and the dying elf sobbed again, hacking coughs rising up from his throat and wracking his thin frame. His eyes threatened to close, and he gasped and choked, shuddering.

“Nae,” his voice rises, trembly panic. “I’m sc-scared.”

“I won’t leave you, sweetheart.”

“I love y-you.”

“I love you too.”

The Dilemma of Honor: A Treatise on Weakness in Andunor

Forward

This one has not always lived in the Dark. Before her arrival in the trade city of Andunor, known to be beneath the Arelithian Archipelago, her tribe resided in the mountain territory of the Red, Rosephelia. And even before then, before her hatching, they had carved out warrens in desert caverns, eking out their survival where most perished.

She would not name herself as one particularly fond or experienced in the ways of the Above. Her nest-cycles were spent in the extensive tribe warrens, and she was only taken to the Surface a scant few times to teach her about the sky and weather, preparing her for any potential raids.

But those tunnels and caverns hardly qualified enough as Underdark, for what she knows it to truly be. Indeed, when this one first arrived in Andunor to seek out the White-scales, she had no idea the danger that lurked. She was naive and, she would admit it even, trusting, of others.

That is the true dichotomy of the Above and Below.

It is necessary to have that difference between the two, for the survival and strength of their denizens. One cannot survive in the Dark like they can on the Surface. And likewise, while one experienced in the Dark would be able to physically survive Above, societies have much more of a social and communicative sway than most warriors of the Below would be able to handle.

Is it possible to pass through both? Most certainly, though that requires knowledge of the differences between them, as well as the capability to switch one’s representation of their self to match the expectations of others. For some, that is seamless. For others, it will never truly be possible out of virtue of their race, no matter how much they prove themselves.

Indeed, rather, this one has observed that it is far easier to be accepted in the Dark, the home to so many cast out from the Above, than it is to be from the Dark trying to live in the lighted world.

Rules of A Gentleman

To be a gentleman is not merely in the title, but the entire way of life. One can be born among the lowest of the low and still rise to the same prominence as a king or lord. Now, some may have grown up with the lessons of nobility fed to them upon a silver platter until to act as such is as simple as taking a breath, but that should not discourage. Quite the contrary. In the end, all lessons may be taught, and any with the will to seek refinement may learn.

The first lesson of being a gentleman, is, of course, to have a purpose for your life. That is the simplest for those of noble birth; their path was set for them when they were born. With parents and expectations locked into place before they could even walk, it is no wonder that so many chafe at their restraints and run off on adventures or other such freedoms. As I was once told, “Gentlemen do not live in this state of unknown, they have surpassed it and now are making progress towards attaining the life they want”. And in this instance, to have the ability to choose one’s own path and be sure of it, is how a learned gentleman may surpass a raised one. Chaos and uncertainty are not gentlemanly. Purpose and discipline are.

Bucket

“My name is Bucket,” the man said to the dead tree, standing before it with his feet apart and arms crossed. “And I want to be a Dog of War.”

Almost immediately he groaned, turning away and covering his face with both hands. The tree remained unmoving and non-judgmental, but the man could almost feel it scoffing at him behind his back. He stayed there for a moment, curled over on himself, before straightening and turning around once more. This time, he clasped his hands in front, shoulders slightly hunched, almost bowing his head to the tree.

“My name is Bucket,” Bucket said again, offering the tree a wavering smile. “I heard about the Dogs of War and I’d like to join yo- No!” His face screwed up in disgust, and he shook off the pose, waving his arms above his head in frustration. “Fuck. Shit. None of that is right!”

The tree, as usual, did not react.

“Is it the name? Hi, my name is… shit, what’s a better name?”

The man started to pace, walking around the tree with a hand jammed in his pocket. “How do you even name things anyway? Wait, no, Bucket works. It’s a good name. My name. Shit, shit, Bucket sucks-” He stopped, shaking a fist at the sky. “THANKS FOR NUTHIN’ MA,” and continued pacing in a circle.

The Cup and the Journal

The journal was a fine one, with a leather cover, all engraved and set with faux gold around the corners. The cup was simpler, a wooden vessel with teeth marks and lipstick stains and a faint scar on the bottom where it had been set down a countless number of times.

They sat together, as they were accustomed to, on their owner’s writing desk. The journal’s pages were full today, ink nearly bleeding through to stain the ones beyond. The cup was similarly full, with wine half-drunk and warm with age. Between the two was the snoozing head of their owner.

“What has she written today?” the cup whispered over to the journal, keeping its voice low, though it wasn’t sure the human could even hear them if awake. “Did she continue her story?”

The journal was disappointed. “She was upset. Ripped pages out of me before writing today. This is different.”

The cup rocked in sympathy. It couldn’t imagine how that must have felt, but it rocked anyway to help the journal feel better. “What’s the new writing?”

Gambler

I’m a gambler by nature.

We all are, in a way. From the very freshest bright-eyed adventurer to those grizzled old hands in the corner of every tavern; all who come here gamble one way or another. Life is a gamble, sometimes with no stake but for the breath in your lungs. As stakes go, it's not minuscule. But I know many who continue to seek better and higher stakes; confident that the more they risk, the more the reward will be.

I remember the day the dice first spoke to me.  I had spoken to them many times; rolled with them and won with them and lost with them. But never before had I thrown them for any purpose other than a game of chance and luck. Such a thing hadn't occurred to me; why would it? It was nothing but a game to me.

“You are a gambler,” he said to me that evening.

It was at my usual table in my usual tavern. Most left me alone, 'cept for when they had a group for a game or wanted to shake me down for debts, but I was taken aback by this hooded stranger approaching me. At first, I thought he was a debt collector, but even in that short a phrase, I realized that no hired thug could have that fair a voice or as noble bearing.

He lifted a leather pouch from his side to drop it on the table.

Masks

A mask is such a simple thing.

It doesn’t have to be. A mask can have many layers. Sometimes it has several purposes. Or there are several for different purposes. Each has its own level of importance. Sometimes the mask isn’t even meant to hide anything, but exists as a message. Or maybe the mask saves lives. A life. It could be that the mask isn’t even needed, and yet it still lingers.

Sometimes the mask is all that’s left.

She reached for her own mask, but hesitated before ashen fingers grazed the edge of the beaten platinum. It wasn’t even the mask she had started with, but there was something comforting in the molded emotionless features. Put on the mask, and nothing else mattered. None of that weakness or fear or loss. Just that blank face and the way the world just passed her by.

The metal felt cold on her skin, but the sensation was only noticed in a detached way. Like everything had been muffled, or just barely touched her senses before drifting away. Whatever expression she made at that realization didn’t matter. The mask remained neutral and serene, only the brief half-lidding of her eyes before they flicked over to the door.

A knock came, not unexpectedly. It was near impossible to traverse the ship without a creak of floorboards, and that creaking had paused outside her quarters some moments ago. In a rustle of cloth, she pulled her hood up and ensured the mask was fixed in place before crossing in a single stride to pull the door open.

Sixty Revolutions

The door spins lazily with that little mosquito-whine sound only audible when no one is around to draw the ear with their clattering footsteps on linoleum. Slightly louder, a brushing constant, is the schuff schuff  of the bottom of the door, that little brush part that no one can remember the name of but looks like the baleen of a whale. The door baleen collects dirt and dust to hold until the friction of the floor finally pulls them under and smudges into inconsequential smears.

You stand just outside the revolving door, close enough that the sensors pick up your approach and set the door spinning again. A single muddy boot print lies dark on one side of the entrance, but grows fainter with every spin, wiped away by the door. You recognize that boot print. And the boot it belongs to.

The faint thumping in your ears could be from the faraway music you dread to near, or your own heart, frantically trying to escape your chest. You raise your hand to press it against your collarbone, as if that is enough to calm your breathing and banish the sticky sweat from your spine and armpits.

Eau de Memory

People smell.

No matter where they come from, what they do for a living, or how much effort they put into it, the odor of human society is a mix of perfumes, cologne, deodorant, eau de whatevers, and even the dreaded BO. Hell, there’s even articles about “why does my lover’s sweat smell so good” for those poor souls who don’t realize that it’s all about sex. Sex is sweaty. Sweat reminds you of sex. Especially the person you tend to sweat and sex with the most.

Go ahead. Look it up.

For my family, scent is everything. From my great-great-(insert a few more greats) grandfather, putting together oils and herbs to mask his daily labors from his wife’s rather more delicate sensibilities to my sister Clara’s “Mix and Make” suburban scent shop, perfume is life. Hygiene is life. Even as toddlers, none of us were allowed out of the house until we were thoroughly bathed (scentless soap to not clash), shampooed (also scentless), deodorized (I bet you can guess what kind), and perfumed. A different scent each day.

You can imagine that my sisters and I grew up slightly neurotic about smells. The slightest whiff of something unpleasant is enough to make us feel green, even today. Even as adults, in an adult world and with adult smells, we try to mask it from our noses in our own little bubble of Dior Hypnotic Poison.

And that was how we could drift along in our little sheltered bubble, in a world we made to smell fresh and clean and perfect. Just as long as you didn’t look too closely, of course.

Now, someone might think to call us snobbish and entitled.

They are absolutely, one hundred percent, completely and totally correct. What sort of family can afford to perfume fucking babies for crying out loud? Really godawfully rich ones, that’s who. Probably the only reason Clara and I weren’t bullied for smelling like a couple of fruitcakes is that the private school we went to was full of other kids as pampered and wacko as we were. None of us had any idea what normal people were like. We didn’t get that until our twenties, and even then we were safely ensconced in a buffer of social events and trust funds.

Boohoo, I’m so rich, poor me.