Haunted.

Gythion again. We’re right on the edge of Sembia, or at least as near to it as we can ever get while staying in Cormyr, and in a way, that’s where I am too. Metaphorically. All this faux proximity is getting to me; Selgaunt is far, far away but it sure doesn’t seem like it. Not with the howling in the night, even if it was caused by a tree.

Yes, we fought a tree. A tree and more undead, which was fortunate, because I could just hang back and simply keep throwing alchemist’s fire around. Hearing those howls again has reminded me how terrifying melee combat is. No; I think hearing them again just reminded me of Selgaunt. Not that I wanted to remember; if I did, I wouldn’t be here at all, would I? I’d still be in that city, instead of near it, trying to get away. Then again I suppose Sembia never really leaves a person.

I wish it did, though.

#1. Spiders, Snakes

Or

Selgaunt, I Love You – But You’re Bringing Me Down

01 Brush – Glycerine

Are you at one or do you lie/ We live in a wheel/ Where everyone steals/ But when we rise it’s like strawberry fields

Don’t be afraid to sing.

The next two (or more) posts will be for Kieran. More than usual. Character histories in music. Try to guess your way through it. The stories themselves will come later.

Kumaka’an

That’s jaws to you, and a pretty apt name it is. We got attacked by a shark, among other things – although if we’re going for accuracy here, then Acantha was attacked by a shark.

And the other things attacked us.

Everyone knows that when you’re on a lopsided boat it’s hard to keep your balance, but what people never mention is how it’s hard to keep your wits about you as well. The enemy captain swung onto our ship and almost slipped off the edge, for Mystra’s sake. You don’t get any sadder than that.

Or, you don’t unless you’re a pirate who doesn’t know how to swim – a pretty spot-on description of one of our other pirate friends. Hm. Jumped into the water with armor, that’s how bad it got. (Maybe Azareth shut down their brains with a spell when we weren’t looking?)

*

It’s a bit hard knowing the Gythion-lookalike got chomped on by sharks. But he was in the water anyway, so out of sight, out of mind it is, then. (Then again, fate was kinder to him than it was to Gythion.)

It’s weird that I get around to writing (or actively not-writing) about all this when we’ve finally reached the coast. It’s so near to Sembia I shouldn’t even be dredging this up.

But here I am, so I suppose I haven’t really grown any wiser. Wasn’t personal growth supposed to be a side-effect of death? Maybe I’ve seen it too often to be affected.

*

Marshes and swamps are hell. I hope we get out of here soon. Even if that does mean we’re several miles closer to danger, doom, destruction, and whatever other d-word Faerun can come up with.

Oh, wait, I have it.

Dragon.

*

Black is not the luckiest color today.

dancing with the fire knives.

Or Siva Afi, as we bandits would call it. A dance with flames and death. It’s an apt description for what we’ve been doing these days, and in more ways than any of us expected.

Lately we’ve been meddling in the affairs of not one, but two deadly organizations: the Zhentarim, although they’ve been quiet lately, and more recently, those golden bastards, the Fire Knives. I say “golden” because they are perhaps the wealthiest syndicate I have ever heard of, even considering the fact that they’re rampant in Sembia, and I say “bastards” because it fits.

I’m willing to say that they might even be worse than the Zhentarim. They managed to mount an ambush even before we knew they were after us, for crying out loud. Sure, it was a rushed job – they hired goons off the streets – but they had a spellcaster who put me in a coma, and a grunt who had a silver goatee. If that’s not a terrible insult, I don’t know what is. If they’re toying with us by sending gray-goatee men to “slaughter” our party, then I say we owe them a good crushing. I mean, a silver goatee? Really?

Seriously, though, I think we’re a bit in over our heads here. Our affairs are scattered all over the place – meddling with the Zhentarim, getting ourselves entangled in the woes of Cormyr, and now this. The Fire Knives are not to be trifled with, and this I say with as much seriousness as I can muster. I’ve seen them at work in Sembia, and the streets (and some of our households) are red because of them. I don’t think this is the kind of enemy we should be adding to the hodgepodge we’ve already dumped on our plates. Milica is already dead, and with this cocktail we’ve mixed into our glasses (what’s with all my table metaphors today? someone is feeling underfed), I don’t think we can last long.

Oh, I’m not having any episodes of wavering faith in my comrades or whatnot. I’m just worried about this tangle we’ve gotten ourselves into. Like I said, we’re all over the place, and I can’t help but wonder what the underlying plan is – and, if we’re going to survive it. Come on, Mystra. There has to be an all-encompassing, sinister plot behind all this, otherwise I’ll be sorely disappointed.

I’m willing to dance with death and flames, by the gods, but if it’s not worth getting burned or skewered, I’d rather not risk it.

*

On a slightly different note, we are headed to the borders of Sembia. Maybe I will see Gythion there. Or maybe not. In a somewhat unsettling coincidence, our ship’s captain reminds me of him.

onward, we shall strive.

And I’m back!

What, you thought the Zhentarim killed me? No; it takes more than some filthy scoundrels and their scarily-powerful deity to take me down.

…Or not. But no, I’m not dead! If I were dead the world would be in mourning, and that, people, would certainly be noticeable. All the attempts on our lives have been pathetic lately, trust me. (So says the person who got plunged into a coma. Plus, would you really trust someone who keeps a gypsy disguise in her backpack? Thought not.)

Anyway, just a word of advice to you all: It is never a good idea to start convulsing outside a bar filled with burning, flailing drunkards. Especially when you are drenched in magically-created water. That is all.

Moving on.

Why have I written only now, you ask? I’ve been busy, of course – being (in)famous, and rich. Oh, and hitching rides on merchant ships. Yes, it’s always the quiet life for me.

Anyway, must get up to the mast now. I’ll swing by later. Possibly drop by the captain. People never can resist the old swing-drop-toss hair-say hi routine.

[OOC] “Even the gods watch the stars.”

Luck has favored our rogue today – or rather, luck favored my character creation efforts and I only found out now.

Something that used to be completely arbitrary just gained a ton of meaning.

All very interesting, but as you can see this is a minor update. Just to give you a peek into Kieran’s psyche and all.

I’m working on the rest of the story – that being what makes up a “major update” – and I suppose you could call it epic. Plot swings like a pendulum with some unexpected backspin. Yes, that didn’t make sense.

Read on, then, and see how chance has smiled on our little Blueleaf – and I shall take my leave, since I have to write some chapters. XD

Part the Third (and not the last, no, not yet)

Static. Everything was static, at least for a moment. It was the so-called calm before the storm, the moment of quiet, when everything wasn’t exactly peaceful – just still; and everyone knew – perfectly, somehow – that all hell was about to break loose.

*

Sunlight streamed in through gaps in the drapery – the bright, lazy kind of sunshine that was so typical of spring, particles of dust and other such impurities floating sluggishly around in its wake.
The faint noise of trade floated in from beyond the purple curtains; the streets were slowly regaining their usual racket. Every now and then she heard a particularly loud voice rise above the rest, peddling his or her wares – dried dates from oases in the great desert of Anauroch, various (edible) goods from Amn and Waterdeep, at one point even crushed gemstones from the Spine of the World (she knew for a fact that her uncle, for one, always added a pinch of crushed jade to his tea). Aside from noisy vendors, and the clanking wares in the stalls, however, there was very little of the usual clamor brought about by haggling.
Kieran could tell. She had spent exactly twelve years’ worth of mornings lying in bed now, simply listening to Selgaunt’s many sounds. Eventually she’d learned to pinpoint what group was making what noise – and today, one of the first few days of the third week of Kythorn, the sound of merchants negotiating was definitely absent.
She sighed, and looked up at the ceiling. Her grandfather had paid some craftsmen a hefty sum to carve an elaborate map of the stars into the oak. They had been kind enough to go a step further, and had painted the whole surface in the various hues of moondark (and bright yellow for the stars, of course). While the resemblance between sky and ceiling was striking, however, the heavens weren’t what came to mind whenever she looked at her ceiling.
Rather, she remembered her grandfather’s orchards.
—
    The little girl shuffled into her room, looking bemused. She had been asked to move to one of the guest rooms temporarily, and as she watched burly artisans etch away at the ceiling, she understood why. Brushing off the layer of sawdust that had settled on her blue silk nightgown, she made her way across the room to her grandfather, who was supervising the workmen.
Tugging on the old man’s sleeve, she asked, “Why are they carving into the ceiling?”
“So you’ll stop asking about the sky. It’s unhealthy for eight-year-olds to ask so many questions about it, you know.”
“But why are those stars arranged like that?”
“You’ll know sometime in the future.”
“When?”
“When you turn twelve, we’re getting you a mentor.”
“But I want to know now!” The youngster glared.
“Well, then, my little blueleaf,” her grandfather said, beaming. “Let’s make this our game.”
She scrunched up her face in frustration; a slight shade of blue lit up her cheeks, making her grandfather look around anxiously to make sure the workmen hadn’t seen. Thankfully they were busy with the carving; kneeling down, he grinned.
“Only for today, because your uncles agreed to take care of everything for me.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I’ll tell you all about the star patterns later – but only if you can’t figure them out for yourself.”
Eager because of the assurance that she wouldn’t have to wait so long for the answers, the child listened attentively.
“There are many books here, and – if you tire of them – I am giving you permission” – her grandfather straightened up – “to venture out to the orchards and observe the sky there.”
“Without my cap and scarf?” she asked earnestly.
“Without your cap and scarf.”
—
It was pure joy for her. She had never been allowed outside without being “properly clothed.” That was how her grandparents called it, and it confused her. She had never managed to figure out why her grandmother double-checked her hat and muffler whenever she took her along for dinner parties and such – but those were the only times she was allowed out, and if she had to drown in silk to tag along, well, it seemed like a small price to pay.
Kieran shook the thought out of her head, and scanned the ceiling. Her grandfather had never gotten around to explaining the star-patterns; he probably never would. Lately he had been so busy, talking to so many people, counting so many things, going to so many places. There was never time for a decent conversation. And to think her grandfather was the only one in the manor who didn’t treat her like one of those fragile porcelain teacups the servants often brought in during winter.
Winter. Her grandfather had had time to talk to her then. The shipping lines weren’t so busy, so he didn’t have to go to the docks too often. There had been very little produce from their farms to sell, too, so he never went on those long trips to the Daerlun estates. Instead her grandfather spent winter telling her tales of elves (“Some of them from Silverymoon, like your mother,” he’d said), and dragons, and heroes from legends read out of dusty old books. The stories ceased, however, as her birthday drew nearer.
    Winter dies, spring is born, she thought, staring at the sliver of sunlight cutting across the floor. Twelve years ago, I was born, too. Her eyes wandered from the sunlight, to the ever-present curtains. Twelve years ago, my parents—
Three sharp raps on the door interrupted her train of thought. She didn’t bother asking; she knew it was her grandfather. He was the only one who knocked like that. For a moment she lay there, trying to decide whether or not she should pretend to be asleep.
She didn’t need to make a decision; the sound of her grandfather quietly padding down the corridor grew fainter as she listened. He probably wouldn’t wait for her to join him for breakfast; she’d heard that her uncle was visiting that day.
    Obviously not to greet me a happy birthday. She found herself staring at the sunlight on the floor again. Sun on lacquered wood, she thought. Interesting. No, really. Staring at floors. There’s no better way to spend a morning.
Well of course there was; she could always talk to her grandfather. Only, that morning, she realized “always” meant every day except her birthday. Her birthday, of all days.
Throwing off the thick, heavy sheets, she leaped off the bed and sprinted to the curtains. She flung them open, stuck her head out the window, and breathed in the cool Selgaunt air, laced with the smell of spices and fruits.
“Now this is a way to spend a morning,” Kieran breathed as she clambered up onto the windowsill. She stuck her legs out into empty space, and swung them back and forth as she looked out on the world outside.
A few meters away, she saw a couple of soldiers in full-plate armor standing guard outside the manor gates (one of the benefits granted by membership in the Merchant Council). They carried halberds that glinted in the sun; Kieran thought she saw the glint of dagger blades near their boots. The Sembian crest—a raven and silver coins—was emblazoned on their blue capes.
Kieran set her sights farther, staring at the bustling street beyond the gates. There were serfs dragging along cartloads of cabbages; nomads in desert-garb carrying sacks of sand (Kieran guessed they were headed for the glassblowers’ part of town); jesters, in garish purple and bright red, dancing to the sound of lutes and spectators’ coins; here and there Kieran spotted family friends, no doubt overseeing the arrival of new wares for their shops.
There were some merchants’ children playing tag on riding dogs, and every now and then messengers cantered past on horses (there was one on a hippogriff; to nobody’s surprise he wore the colors of the Overmaster). Kieran was watching one of these messengers’ attempts to pass through the crowd when a carriage caught her eye.
It slowly made its way down the street, and as Kieran watched, it halted right in front of the guards stationed at the gates. One of the soldiers took a small horn from his belt and blew it; a second later three servants ran out the front door, and hurriedly opened the gates.
The carriage advanced, slowly, down the lane. It stopped at the front steps, and the footman came bounding down to open the coupe’s doors. Kieran stood up, balanced precariously on the windowsill, trying to see who the passengers were. The carriage doors swung open, and the footman bowed as someone carefully got out. Kieran leaned forward, trying to get a better view, and—as the passenger stretched and dusted himself off—promptly fell out the window.

And we’re back!

Yes, yes, so updates have been slow nonexistent. So sorry. (I’ve been straightening out some, ahem, schoolwork problems.)

Still, I’m finally done with the last part! The last part that isn’t quasi-dark and definitely-emotional, that is. Sure, it’s fun hearing about a half-elf who’s spoiled and falls out of windows (oops, spoiler), but then that half-elf has to take up a rapier and shed some tears sometime.

(It just so happens that sometime is about to come up.)

Oh, and you’ll be seeing some Elven here; translations will always be provided at the end of the post. (Nope, no parenthetical subtitles. I find it ruins the flow of it all, don’t you agree?)

So. Are we ready to start that penultimate adventure with our little Blueleaf? I say penultimate, because there’s always The Black and the Purple. Still, Kieran demands some opportunity to shine on her own.

And it’s much easier relating to a character whose history you know, right? And you won’t find that history in Black//Purple; we all know Kieran keeps her secrets.

Then again, she keeps them here. So, yes, what I’m basically saying is, read on. The end is coming – and we haven’t even started yet.

And for those people who’d like to know how it all starts (or ends?), I give you a quote from Dante Alighieri and his Divine Comedy:

…Tu lascerai ogne cosa diletta
piú caramente; e questo é quello strale
che l’arco de lo essilio pria saetta.
Tu proverai sì come sa di sale
lo pane altrui, e come è duro calle
lo scendere e ‘l salir per l’altrui scale..

Part the Second

Discrimination. Prejudice. Hostility. Contempt. They don’t let you see it, but it’s there. Always hidden beneath a veneer of indifference – friendliness, even – but always strong enough to be felt.

Little signs, here and there, hint at their real thoughts. The flicker of a frown, a brief furrowing of the brow – almost imperceptible, existing only in the split seconds before a stiff wave, a forced smile.

*

Alfrey Aquilaë sank into a cushioned chair in his study. His wife sat directly across from him, cooing at the bundle in her arms – the only sounds in the otherwise silent room. Moonlight flitted in through cracks in the curtains; the tiny slivers of light served as the only sources of illumination, and faint ones at that. Bookshelves and drawers, impeccably clean and stuffed full with various papers and books, pressed in from all sides; in the half-light, they looked more like walls than anything else.

Stealthily, as if unwilling to bring an end to the silence, minutes slipped past – stretching into hours, the stillness steadily growing heavier. Eventually the occasional cooing ceased, and Nadia Aquilaë broke the silence.

“She doesn’t look like her mother.”

Alfrey noted the forced calmness in her voice. It seemed as though she wanted to convince him that his granddaughter wasn’t – couldn’t be -

“She doesn’t look like us either,” he answered gruffly. It was something he didn’t want to admit, and saying it out loud somehow made it worse than it already was, but it was a fact he knew they must eventually accept. Better to start early than regret it later. (If the recent events were any indication, immersing himself in denial could bring heaps of regret in the future.)

He was hoping that his wife would see it as such, too. Unfortunately she was more optimistic than he’d thought, and tried again.

“She doesn’t look” – she lowered her voice – “Elven.”

That did it. His patience, already worn thin because of his grandchild being a – well, suffice it to say, that last statement made him snap.

“For goodness’ sake, her ears are tapered,” he answered irritably. “They’re lined blue! And her hair – dark as obsidian, that’s not a Chondathan trait, that’s clearly from – from -” He swallowed and fell silent; he didn’t like pointing out how much his granddaughter looked like a – an – one of those.

“Those can go under a cap,” his wife said firmly. She ran a finger through the smattering of hair on her grandchild’s head – it was, as Alfrey had pointed out, black as night. No wonder her parents had named her the way they did.

Giving her husband a reproachful look, she added, “And don’t be so prejudiced.”

“I’m not,” Alfrey retorted, gesturing at the curtains, “but that’s not to say they aren’t.” True enough, while he honestly didn’t care (much) that his granddaughter was a – had the blood of – well, one of those, he knew the rest of the city would mind. A lot. Which was, of course, an understatement.

Nadia glanced at the curtains, her eyes glazing over for a moment as if seeing the world beyond the folds of silk. Nodding sadly, she said, “Of course, we’ll have to – to – keep her in here more than – the average child.”

“The world, or her family.” Alfrey shrugged. “Right now the choice isn’t too difficult. The world can’t protect her from the discrimination in this country.”

“But once she can protect herself? What happens to that choice then?”

Alfrey gazed at the burbling child in his wife’s arms, numerous ideas dancing in his head – about how people who can protect themselves can’t always do so, how discrimination in Sembia can be more dangerous than it already is, how society’s norms can sometimes act as potent poisons.

The baby hiccuped.

Let us hope the gods conspire to separate your fate from your mother’s.

“But once she can protect herself?” Nadia repeated, snapping him out of his reverie. “What then?”

Ah, what indeed.

“We’ll see,” he aid absently. Leaning forward in his chair, he tapped the child’s blue-tinged chin gently. The baby giggled happily, blushing – its cheeks turned slightly blue.

Alfrey sighed. Ah, what indeed.

_______

Ex libris