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Post by thevandals on Oct 19, 2015 21:04:40 GMT -5
Somewhere deep in the forest, buried by the decades, a body is hidden. There are no stones standing as memorials there--it’s burial site, but not a grave--and if the forest had a memory even it would have forgotten who lay buried there. Under rock and soil, clutched in a skeletal hand, the body holds a bow, the bow’s shaft broken in the middle and barely distinguishable from the surrounding foliage. Held in its other hand is a journal, its pages fixed in leather and thus preserved. If one were to unearth the body, recover the journal and examine its pages, this is what they would read.
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Post by thevandals on Oct 19, 2015 21:05:03 GMT -5
Elladyr, a beautiful amalgamation of strength and restraint. His power is imparted on him by his nature, and when people see him their eyes fill with awe. Once they’re safely away, they also look to him with envy.
Most would jump at the chance to receive the gift of strength that Elladyr has been given, and most I suspect, would abuse it. People enjoy thinking of themselves as well-intentioned, but beneath that facade there is always an undercurrent of selfishness. How can I know this? because I feel that current flowing in me. Elladyr however, is content to restrict the use of his power to blueberry bushes, for the most part, making him more civilized than most.
Elladyr. Time is gaining on him. Part of me hopes that when the end comes, he’ll go out to roam one day, as he often does, and never return. Then I can preserve him in my mind and avoid the pain of seeing him die.
Cowardly, I know.
There is a place in the Hullack where I thought about having him interred. The sort of place he might have grown up and thrived in, were it not for the encroachment of poachers in the Brambles. The romanticist in me wants to believe that once interred, I will be able to visit him there and somehow it will be like nothing changed. The pragmatist in me knows it isn't true. The truth is some things can't be undone, no matter how hard we try.
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Post by thevandals on Oct 25, 2015 1:24:37 GMT -5
My grandfather Illionaro wanted me to have a broad understanding of the world, and to that end he taught me many things. As part of my education, he insisted we study the measurement of shapes, and when it comes to the study of shapes there is no more basic an idea than the line.
Illionaro taught me that parallel lines will run side-by-side until one line ends. Lines that are not parallel, however, must eventually intersect, only once, at a single point. That pair of lines will then diverge, never to meet again.
When I think back on that lesson I am reminded of Daphne. It seemed for a while that our lines ran side-by-side, but time revealed something very different to be true: Daphne and I were not parallel lines, and our paths, like the mismatched lines of Illionaro’s lesson, were always destined to diverge.
Now I hunt alone, mostly. When you live a solitary life there is noone there to keep you accountable but yourself. As time goes on, you become more certain of your direction, and with no one there to tell you otherwise, why wouldn’t you?
But Illionaro said the need for public scrutiny is essential; that the collective can be objective in ways an individual can not. He also warned me that the collective can be volatile and prone to hysteria.
Two concepts which each contain truth, even though they seem diametrically opposed to one-another. Is the collective objective, or isn’t it? And how am I to know the difference if I can’t be objective myself? Illionaro would have an answer, but he’s not here, so I am left to wonder.
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Post by thevandals on Nov 18, 2015 1:45:22 GMT -5
I’m not the first to notice that sometimes in life the more you pursue something the more that thing seems to elude you, a set of circumstances for which the hunt is nearly a perfect analog. Try to run down a fox and you’ll be running forever; stop all the running, however, and that’s when the fox becomes curious. Illionaro says it's the same with romance. He was--I am told--a prolific lover, at one point in his life. I wasn’t sure it was true until I unwittingly confirmed his hypothesis: the moment you abstain from the hunt, figuratively speaking, is the moment Hanali and Erevan seem to conspire together to introduce something new into your life, sending you tumbling.
If I am to tumble, I’m happy it's because of Gode. When someone has a clear picture of you and they take you as you are, that’s a precious thing. Gode and I are kindred. She is the only hunter I’ve known who challenged me, without having to say a word, to be better. We are so alike that it is tempting to think that Solonor brought us together, but I doubt very much the gods manage such minute affairs. If they don’t, Gode and I were brought together by chance, not fate. I never liked the idea of fate, because it’s disempowering, but neither do I like the notion that important moments in our lives are brought about by chance, for the same reason. Be it chance or fate I hope the force that brought us together keeps us that way a while longer.
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Post by thevandals on Mar 9, 2016 22:50:01 GMT -5
Shallybrook. Home to the Halfing people (though if you care at all for your shins you’ll call them Hin.) When I pass through Shallybrook it’s as if the volume has been turned down on… everything (that is not an oblique joke about size, I promise you). When it seems every choice in life has a crippling gravity to it, I consider Shallybrook and ask myself what one of it’s people might do, and the answer usually brings a smile to my face.
That’s why when I found that Shallybrook was under siege I knew I had to aid in its defense. When I consider that some lost soul had set her sights on Shallybrook, believing it to be a fitting setting for violence, I have a hard time deciding what is more appropriate: anger, or pity. After all, only a pitiful thing would look to the fair folk of Shallybrook and decide that in their mirth, their good-spirited nature, the Halfling people ought to be erased. My kinsmen often warn me against looking to the dark-hearted with compassion, but I can’t deny the connection between cause and effect. If a person has been twisted by a life of torment, does that person not deserve our pity? Everything in me says yes.
But…
More and more I am finding that the damage done by a life of torment can’t be undone. If that’s the case, then my pity is for nothing, and my kin are right. A troubling thought.
Trivially it might seem that, were Shallybrook to fall, the world would simply be short a modest rustic village, no great loss in the grand scheme of things. Shallybrook is more than that, however. It’s a corner of the world where we may be reminded (and indeed, even the wisest need reminding, though they prefer not admit it) that happiness need not be pursued down the road of high adventure. Happiness, particularly the kind that lasts, can be found in a place far less glamorous (though by no means less important): amongst family, and friends.
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