Powered by Kere

I promise to recount in more detail my last adventures and narrow escape from Rastenfeld soon but I felt it best to mark this occasion. A memorial was held today for my extravagant beard. It was a lonely procession attended only by me. If only people truly appreciated how long it takes a half-sidhe to grow a beard. Consider that at the time of my marriage, and I married rather young, I had not shave once and continued not to shave all throughout my adult life. MG used to tease the Tartarus out of me for the sparse whiskers I actually did manage to grow. It wasn't until my awakening from another enchantment mishap, which had me slumbering for twenty years, did my beard of Olympian proportions sprout. And now with a few swipes of a straight razor, all that hard work is gone. Gone! Over forty years down the drain.

They told me when I awoke that the barber of the town thought he would do me a favor and "clean me up somethin' good." I should be grateful that he didn't leave me with one of those ridiculous handlebar waxy mustaches that every other man seems to wear. Considering the name of the town, it certainly wasn't difficult to find a gravestone here, though the stone carver looked at me strangely when I asked for the inscription for my beard.
This time, for sure, I am going to stay out of trouble. I'll climb into a stool at one of the many, many fine saloons, and find my way to the bottom of a nice bottle of local liquor; and above all, I'm going to keep my head down and figure out what to do until the next portal opens.

Posted by Rowane de'Dannan at 11:57 PM | Permalink | Comments

Once upon a time, before there was a thing called love, there were three races: men of the sun, daughters of the earth, and children of the moon. These people were not as we are today; their bodies were round like their parents, with two faces looking in opposite directions, and two pairs of arms and legs, and two privy members, each according to their race. They walked as you and I do, but also rolled as one does cartwheels today, going end over end with great speed.

The gods had done too good of a job in creating these people and no sooner had they been formed when impiety began to flourish. The celestial councils saw that the races rarely offered up hecatombs. The braziers often ran cold; sweet odor rose to Olympus on the barest tendrils of smoke, and no thanks was given for the life granted. These people did not need the gods.

They had themselves. And their thoughts.

And, filled with aplomb, the races turned these thoughts to Olympus and saw the pettiness, anger, and jealousy that ruled there and sought to to conquer heaven. The gods saw this and the strength of their creations and knew that they could not suffer such insolence any longer.

The gods were still wary after their previous war with the giants and did not wish to destroy people altogether. It was Zeus, king of the gods, who came up with a plan: the races would continue to live and would give offerings to the gods, but to do that, their pride would have to be severed.

And so Zeus used his thunderbolts and cut the men of the sun, the daughters of the earth, and the children of the moon right down the middle, even through the soul, like a knife to a melon. Zeus then bade Apollo to move and heal their wounds and fasten them.

After the division and the healing, the men and women in shock of what had been done to them sought out their other halves and clung to each other, entwining their two arms and two legs around their bodies, longing always to become one as they once were.

And thus, love came into the world. Love is that recognition of the other half of your soul in another person. It is the pain from that ancient wound and the cry from your soul to be made whole again.

When Zeus commanded Apollo to heal us, he also ordered that the wound be fashioned into the navel that we see on our bodies today. In this way we would always have a reminder of what impiety will give you. But while you are contemplating your navel, do not think of this tale as a warning. Think instead of the power of love.

If you are lucky enough to recognize your soul in another, hold on to it and never let it go: for it is love and it has strength enough to frighten even the gods.

Happy Valentines :)

References: Search for Aristophanes' tale in the Symposium; Hedwig and the Angry Inch

Posted by Rowane de'Dannan at 9:21 AM | Permalink | Comments

Just a few brief snippets before the actual real post:

Did not see that one coming.

Who knew the dead were so flammable.

Who knew the town of Rastenfeld was also so very, very flammable...

Who knew the two would be so intrinsically connected.

I am not at all to be blamed.

More on all this soon.

P.S.
These new barbarians shaved my beard, MY BEARD!!! I oaths that I want to utter for this insult would melt the eyes of children and cause small kittens to explode so I'll hold off, but let's just say that it involves a satyr, lemon juice, and shards of glass.

Posted by Rowane de'Dannan at 11:26 PM | Permalink | Comments

To speak of the Greek word Νόστοι is to speak of returning. In the most prosaic sense, it is the tale of what happens after the journey from the familiar A to the foreign B: the journey home. But in a deeper sense, Νόστοι is the integral human desire to return to the way things were. From time out of memory, people have believed that they were living in a declining age; Heroditus wrote during his time about his age, the bronze age; that the ages of gold and silver had come and gone. We always believe that things were better before, and when we attempt to reclaim the past our hubris greets us with a vengeance.

I don’t know why it took so long to recognize the strange feel of Rastenfeld. I’m not referring to the zombies. As I’ve said before, there is something wrong with the magic here. I’ve only casted a handful of spells (continual light before leaving through the enchantment; flamestrike; a stone wall) and my mana hasn’t recharged. Those mages, druids, and even surgeons know the danger of running out of mana. For those trained primarily with the sword/staff/dagger, imagine chopping off both of your arms and you’ll be closer to understanding how useful a mage is without his mana.

On Legend, the moment you cast a spell, even when you’ve given everything you can, the mana flows back into you like water into a bone dry sponge. In Rastenfeld, and I think even with the Wampanoag, there is nothing.

I have my resources: a satchel filled to full with scrolls, vials, spelltools, and wands, though these won’t last forever, so I have to use them and my mana wisely. I have allowed myself one small indulgence, an hourglass tweeked to tell me when the enchantment expires and exact date and time for my Νόστοι. This way I'll always know close my goal is.

I can’t camp out here in Rastenfeld and save my mana, the food for one wouldn’t last, neither would the water. The enchantment isn’t dependable enough to warp me when I need to, so that leaves the necromancer.

I’ve seen him from the second floor window while the villagers downstairs are being proselytized by the priest. He won’t walk among the dead in the town square where I can single him out. Instead he prowls in the darkness between the buildings. He wears a long robe and black cowl that shrouds his face, and I think he knows I can see him. Between he and I, a sea of undead.

Recently Lime has told me that MoiraGwyn was seen on Legend. Maybe it was hubris that drove me to this adventure and I was a fool to solve with magic what patience would have given me, but now I have more of a reason then ever to come back to her.

One thing is for certain, this week I escape from Rastenfeld.

Posted by Rowane de'Dannan at 11:59 PM | Permalink | Comments