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The Tale of a Book

2007-05-01T23:34:00.000-07:00

There are ways to treat a book, and there are ways to not treat a book. Rowane, for all of his...idiosyncrasies, knows at least how to treat a tome of my statue with the respect that is due to me, but these ruffians who kidnapped him most certainly do not. No sooner had they kidnapped our Hermetic hero, speeding out of town like maniacs, when one of them picked me up and flung me out of the carriage window! Me!
Oh how my beautiful pages fluttered in the wind on the verge of tearing; Oh how the jarring impact on the unforgiving Tombstone street threatened to break my carefully glued spine, rip my end sheets from my cover, rent my leather face completely off and exposing my delicate pages to the elements!
I lay there for half a day, but how it felt like a lifetime, trodden upon by what I can only imagine are illiterate scoundrels, until I was picked up most graciously by a bookseller by the name of John A. Tindel, the very same bookseller who Rowane frequented for his silly dime-novels. This was to be the beginning of my travels from the Tombstone 1894 to this date, May 1st, 2007. Quite an achievement for one made primarily of paper, glue, ink, leather, and magic.
I will give the short of it: John A. Tindel, a most talented bookbinder on top of his talents as a seller saw the need to patch me up and this he did with utmost efficiency, and then promptly sat me on his shelf. He, unfortunately for all of his skill, was nearly blind and could not enjoy the books his talented hands so deftly created, and as such could not enjoy the many secrets that my pages could have entreated. This was not a problem for Professor Teddy Fredel, a retired classics professor from the east who happened to be in the area, and who surprisingly enough had never heard of Rowane de'Dannan...well maybe not that surprising. And so I traveled with him to his estate at Boston, Massachusetts where he promptly died from a combination of consumption and travel weariness. I was placed there in his personal library behind a glass bookshelf with Virgil and the Odyssey to my right and left until the death of his widow, a Audrey Fredel, in 1929, due to old age. The late widow's estate was then transferred to her live-in lover, Jimmy "Knot-Nose" McDowell, a notorious Irish gangster who had made his fortune as a gin-runner in the years following the Prohibition and then lost it all during the Great Depression, hence his need to seduce an elderly woman and convince her to write his name as the sole beneficiary. Jimmy was not much of a reader and due to his own financial situation, he promptly auctioned off the estate (and myself with it).
Now let me back up a bit. During my short time in Tombstone I could still sense Rowane as I am magically bound to him. I knew his general direction and I knew that he lived, but as I am but a book, I could do nothing. Then on the second day after he had been kidnapped I also sensed the enchantment activate. My inky heart did nearly burst with sadness as I thought this meant that he had escaped and made his way back to Mistress Quickley's in Medieval Tudor without me. But then the enchantment closed and I still felt him in Tombstone. It was then that, impossibly, another portal opened a few minutes later, and Rowane was gone, meaning I couldn't sense his physical location, yet I learned that the magical bond allowed me to sense where he had gone in time. Backwards would have meant that he had made it back to Legend; instead he went forward. In my own slow crawl through time, I only have had the sense that I was catching up to him, whenever he was.
And now back to the story: I was sold as a bargain piece to a German immigrant banker by the name of Scott Schenk, who then gave me to his son Fred Schenk. I actually enjoyed Fred's company, a very smart young boy, and actually used up some of my magic for his entertainment (moving pictures on the pages, helping stories come to life, et cetera). He treasured me so much that he took me with him when he was drafted into the Army for World War II and became a translator for the American war effort. After the war, Fred retired from the Army and got married, then divorced, then married again, this time with children (unruly children who liked to drool on my pages) until one day Fred's retirement home in Florida was broken into in June of 1975. I, for whatever reason, was carted away in a sack and sold to a pawn shop for the hefty price of five dollars and forty-three cents...the owner of the pawn shop, whom I won't even dignify with a name, scratched off my gold engraved spine and even my fore edge. I suffered this all in dignified silence because I felt the time to Rowane was growing even closer, only years away at that point. Then one day, Rowane appeared, not him physically but he was there somewhere west (no longer somewhen) , in this time.
Oh the frustration of being in the same time with him and not being able to anything about it! Gradually I began to hatch a masterful plan. It basically involved me using a bit of saved magic and falling off the shelf, making sure that my front end sheet was always open with the text of the dreaded curse, the Hermetic Typing Disorder, prominently displayed, and a promise of appeasement of said curse should I be returned to "Rowane de'Dannan who is somewhere West." The plan worked like a charm, a charm that takes years to work...It is simply shocking how the pawnshop owner could get away with horrendous spelling day in and day out for thirty years. Each year, I made sure the curse claimed more and more words from his limited vocabulary until all of his business correspondences were mere drivel. At around the twenty-fifth year, he finally relented and started the search for Rowane. A difficult task considering the curse had rendered even one letter words inarticulate. Miraculously he found an address of a Mr. Rowane de' Dannan, living in a retirement home in San Francisco and promptly FedEx'd me to that address. I am happy to say that the curse remains in place.
So here I am, safely ensconced in bubble-wrap in a snug box, making my way from Florida to California, soon to be rejoined with the old Hermetic. He is by this time manaless and has most likely learned that the enchantment that started this journey will only work with at least some magic, to which I will nobly allow him to sap from my pages. This will then activate the enchantment and allow him to return home to Legend, where no doubt his wife will be there to welcome him home. According to the tracking number, he should arrive in:

He had arrived!

I'm such a good book; I want to cry inky tears!

Introductions and Abductions

2007-04-06T00:55:00.000-07:00

We have been introduced before, in an automated message that interrupted Rowane's regularly scheduled post, but for clarity's sake (something that must be woefully unexpected in Rowane's ordinarily muddled journal entries) I introduce myself once again. I am the Hermetic Index.

At a point early in Hermetic Index, certain guild masters saw fit to endow a simple yet suave tome, with the knowledge of the Order, including the collected lives of its members. Perhaps you've seen me, nestled under the crook of Rowane's arm once or twice; maybe you've glanced over his shoulder and taken a peek at my beautifully illuminated pages? No? Such a bother, no one appreciates a good book these days.

My knowledge is vast in its scope of Hermetic history and its membership. I have factoids that could boggle the mind: I could perhaps tell of Ruskala and the origin of the dread illness HTD, or how many eggs Larnoc could eat in one sitting, but since this is Rowane's tale and I am currently restricted to telling of him, those will have to wait.

I have felt compelled to interject before, when Rowane scrawls and adds of his life to my pages, but how my inky heart does bleed at the gaping omissions. He seems to not have an inkling of narratorial cohesion and just expects the reader to know what is going on with his random entries. So I endeavor to fill in the blanks as best I can (my quasi-omniscience should help with this), while I can and we can hope that he makes it out of this latest situation alive:

Time: April 6th, 1894
Location: Tombstone, America

Abduction

Rowane de'Dannan turned a corner and strolled leisurely down 4th Street while he shaded a thin paper booklet with his hand from the high noon sun. Page after page of the dog-eared dime novel flipped and turned; each dramatic plot-twist, murder or declaration of love being devoured voraciously by Rowane's golden eyes. These weekly serial novels had become a necessity for the old Hermetic to stave off boredom. He should have been miles away from the town called Tombstone, away from the organization whose plans he had unwittingly disrupted in his time in Rastenfeld, yet here he was in broad daylight and unaware of his surroundings. The citizens of the town paid him little mind and that was no surprise: "Mind your own business" could have been their collective motto. It served prospectors and merchants alike during the lawless times of the town's founding and the tradition carried over now that there was some semblance of law. So they said nothing of the black carriage that drew up along side of Rowane, matching his pace exactly.

Rowane turned over the last page of the book, frowning at the blank face of the inside cover, and was knocked off of his feet. He fell onto his palms, feeling the sting of grit forcing its way into his skin, and tried to get to his feet. Something hit his head and the world swam in light. He stumbled, trying to keep his balance. Strong hands helped him up, and then pushed him roughly into darkness. In the distance, muffled, came the shouts of "Hyah! Hyah!" and then the lurch of motion. He lifted his head, not realizing that it had lolled forward and said, "W-Who are you?" He could only see a single silhouetted figure, but the tightness around his arms made him realize that he was still being held. His head drooped as he turned to look. Something struck his ear hard, and the dizzying light returned. Over the din of throbbing blood rushing in his ears he heard someone hiss, "No blood," followed by a deep chuckle from his left followed by a high pitched titter to his right. Warmth spread down his ear and along his neck.

He thought there were words that he should say, words that would rob sight or words that would send them into panic; if he could just remember what they were. But he was so tired it was hard to think. He didn't remember falling asleep.
A jolt of the carriage lifted the haze of a dreamless sleep and brought Rowane back to a throbbing painful reality. His vision had cleared somewhat. The man in front of Rowane lifted something. A gun. "Hello, Mr. de'Dannan, it is rather rude to miss appointments. Is it not?"

Living Dangerously

2007-03-29T11:26:00.000-07:00

A terrible shame, but I missed William's invitation, allowing that dealing with any miscreants tied to Rastenfeld should best be left far alone. And it seems I was right. On Saturday, a bearded muscle-bound thug broke down the door to my room, accompanied by a tall thin man with dark hair, parted straight down the middle. I had, of course, camouflaged myself against the horrid floral wallpaper the moment I had heard the heavy boots pause outside. Though in retrospect, guh ex would have sufficed and with less expenditure of precious mana and considerably less embarrassment to me to have a bevy of flower assortments across my person, but live and learn I say.
To their eyes, the room would have seemed recently abandoned; the slender one nevertheless ordered the big man to give it a good tossing, riffling through my notes, flipping my bed, and I thanked Hermes again for my brilliant insight into stashing what remains of my wand and vial outside of the city.
I've since taken the precaution of changing inn establishments four times this week. And during that time I accomplished a fair bit of reconnaissance (dare I say snooping?) around town at various locations (especially the land holding office) and I've turned up some interesting information. It struck me as odd that although the silver in the town has dried up, one company was currently aquiring all of the rights to the mines. After some digging and coin dropping (gold will loosen the most stubborn tongues for most venal hearts) I discovered that one of the shareholders of this mysterious company is none other than William Dovetail. What should I do with this information? Well that is a question isn't it...How about staying as clear from these crazed time-travelers? Sounds like a plan.
As of this entry I have only 34 days until my return to Legend and my wife's warm embrace. Why chance an encounter with these people. No one is sick or dying, there are no undead roaming the streets; there is simply no reason to get involved.
So I snubbed their invitation: what harm could it do? Another room tossing? I'm shaking in my boots. I laugh in the face of danger: Ha ha ha! I bite my thumb at it; I shake my foot at it; I waggle a toe at it.
34 days and I am home.

P.S.
As a precaution, I've set the Hermetic Index to autopost should I miss a week or two because I'm hiding out, and I'm 98% certain I got the runes right for the instructions. Woot!

A Missive

2007-03-21T22:11:00.000-07:00

I allow myself a few indulgences dispite my attempt to keep a low profile. I really I thought I had been doing a good job at blending in with these people while I wait out the enchantment; I've stashed my robe and satchel in a safe location and bought myself some drab frock coat, I'm even wearing a pair of jeans. I am in a word: stylin' So imagine my suprise when a panhandler stopped me on my way to the local shop to pick up a book or ten.

Times are hard in Tombstone now that the silver veins are drying up. Itinerant prospectors fill the streets, asking for handouts or a bite to eat when they can. The man who stopped me though, wasn't asking for handouts. He stood outside of the provisions shop and asked everyone else who entered to spare a coin. He was disheveled and had a magnificent grizzled beard that I envied fiercly. When he saw me, he fell silent, reached into his pants pocket and handing me the letter below.

Sir,

I believe we are at a disadvantage. You seem to know us, though we do not know you. You are obviously a man of some talent judging by your time in Rastenfeld: dealing with our operative was impressive enough, but then razing the village to the ground...we can do nothing but to grudgingly admire your efficient ruthlessness. Your following us to Tombstone has caused quite a stir in our organization, and it has become necessary that we meet. I pray that you would be amiable to talk? Perhaps there has been some misunderstanding that we can somehow rectify? I have been authorized to tell you that we are willing to negotiate.

My carriage will be available on the corner of Fremont and Allen Steet this Friday at 3 o'clock. I hope to see you there.

William P. Dovetail

The panhandler had been mesmerized, his vacant expression told me that much. He wandered off in a daze and left me to my thoughts.

Obviously my cover is blown and whoever I am dealing with knows I am here. And they have ties to that kiddy necromancer in Rastenfeld who I slew with skill beyond compare...
I need to consider the possibility that these are fellow time-forsaken and could have knowledge useful in getting back to Legend and MG. My Hermetic-senses are telling me to be catious, and I will, yet I think I will see this William and his organization. If they had meant for me to be dead, I'm sure a hail of bullets would do the trick. They could have done this at anytime.

I could just as well sit and do nothing. The hourglass tells me that the enchantment will expire in less 42 days, but what if it expires and instead of taking me back to Quickley's, I'm stuck forever in some magicless backwater. I should at least have a plan B.

Eulogy for Lime

2007-03-14T09:36:00.001-07:00

When Phaeton took the reigns of his father's chariot, he couldn't comprehend fully the monumental task before him. Not only did he fail in guiding the terrible steeds of Helios across the vault of heaven, which lead directly to his death, he failed in reigning in his passions that lead him to his father in the first place.

Like Phaeton, we humans each have the ambitious task of guiding the resplendent chariot of our souls through life's journey. The force and impetus driving on our souls are two horses: one, a calm white, and the other, irascible black. They are our two passions. The doscile one is responsible for our good actions, the love we feel for our family and friends, feelings of empathy for those in need, and all the other forces and drives that have us doing right. The irascible one is our appitites, our desires, our bitterness and hate. The two horses are constantly bickering amongst themselves, always trying to pull in different directions. As the charioteer, we must do our best to control these horses, because should one gain complete control, balance is lost, and our doom is soon to follow. But sadly, there are situations too when the charioteer can do nothing at all but hold on for dear life.

When I learned that Lime, first among bloggers, had slipped from this mortal coil, even far from Legend as I am, I still felt loss and still do. The living always do.

I didn't know Lime as well as I could have, but what I saw, I liked. I knew her as a loveable gypsy, full of questions, interests, and desires. At times she could be blissfully happy, at others...not so much. I recall one conversation with the vibrant gypsy. We were at the Royal Stag. It was crowded that day and under the glower of Richard we ended up sharing a table. She was in a funk, and she talked of Zillah. He was her passion. Even then, when she first met him, she made her choice. I can't say for sure why, but I may know why it is that it was nearly impossible to leave once that choice had been made.

When both steeds of the soul stop pulling in different directions and then focus on one goal, not much on earth can change their movement.

My deepest condolences goes out to Lime's family, the gypsy caravan she belonged to, her sister Kizzie, the Eidolon Party, and Zillah Grey.

Frustrations

2007-03-02T00:08:00.000-08:00

You know, what the %*&@ is up with these enchantment triggers anyway? What, have I stumbled into my own personal odyssey? Do I need to complete certain tasks in order to get home? Oh, oh! I know, maybe I have to expend more precious mana saving ungrateful townsfolk from the living dead!

Why is it that helping people, or solving puzzles, or slaying some big baddy is always the main method to completing a quest anyway. Couldn't I just complete a quest by snuggling up to my wife in our warm bed? Or how about fulfilling my odyssey obligations by eating cucumber-sandwiches with friends? Just once, it would be nice to pick a rose by the roadside and then hear: ding ding ding ding; "Congratulations Rowane de'Dannan, you've completed your task. Time to go home!" But noooooo, everything always have to be so bloody hard.
There has to be something more then my misspelling that's keeping me from going home. Especially if MoiraGwyn is walking Legend again. Is there some higher power bouncing me about in time?
I've still been preforming the rituals, I still appease the gods, so who did I piss off?
Posiden had Odysseus and Juno had Aeneus. I want to know, what god is making me their bitch?

So yes, I'm a little frustrated as you can tell. I've done a good job at keeping a low profile though and I've concluded that drinking is doing nothing to trigger the enchantment. The town of Tombstone is another magic-forsaken place and I estimate that thanks to my time in Rastenfeld I've depleted over half of my mana reserves and lost a fair amount spelltools. That $%^&@ satchel! I suppose summoning Epimethius was worth it though. I haven't seen that big lug in since I left. And he did turn out to be instrumental in killing the real necromancer. He was still crying on the road out of Rastenfeld when the enchantment activated, and probably still there blubbering until my charm dissipates. The poor big guilt-ridden softy. Shame I can't spare the mana to summon him again.

It's strange how the more your setting changes, the more your mind starts searching for the familiar. I saw a wanted poster today of a fair haired woman who looks just like someone I used to know.

Memorial

2007-02-19T23:57:00.000-08:00

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.

The Origin of Love

2007-02-14T09:21:00.000-08:00

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

Slightly Unexpected

2007-02-12T23:26:00.000-08:00

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.

Νόστοι

2007-02-05T23:59:00.000-08:00

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.

Bring out your dead...not all at once please.

2007-01-29T23:59:00.000-08:00

It seems that the plague was the least of my worries. It was more the sugar coated topping.

Let's see, where did I last leave off. Ah right, there was a pounding at my door. It turned out to be an angry mob of villagers, complete with burning torches and pitchforks. Cliche, yes, but effective. They broke down my door, and leading the way was my snake of a landlord, the coppersmith...whats-his-name. Oh the fickle relationships of coin and coffer. I thought we had an understanding!
The mob looked absolutely dreadful to be honest. Not in the scary sort of way, more in the Sweet-Hermes-call-these-people-a doctor way. They were sick, all of them. And they blamed me.

Typical.

Maybe I can give them some credit though as I wasn't their first choice to lynch but third. The first had been some old unmarried woman (ain't that always the way?) who I hear burned up fairly quickly. When no one felt any better, they had gone after a hermit who lived in the woods. They stacked about thirty stones before his heart went out. Of course they still felt plaguey and decided to go after that dashing new stranger in town...me.

You just can't talk sense into some people when they've got an idea stuck in their head. No, it's not until you see the proof staring you in the face with undead eyes that you realize you may be wrong.

Someone in the mob, I don't really know who, succumbed to the plague and dropped dead. I was being hauled out of the coppersmith's when one of them rolled up his eyes and collapsed on the ground. The group paused briefly before moving on, and then something happened. The dead man rose.

Now I've known a few necromancers in my time and being from Legend, every halfway decent vina mage can animate corpses, but I took it from the reaction of the villagers that it wasn't something they had seen before. No, instead of killing it right there, they hemmed and hauler'd, waving their plaugey hands in the air, while the zombie proceeded to bite the life out of two more villagers who then of course rose and started to do the same.

At some point between hemming and haulering I was released. But there was the matter now of the zombies. The quickest and most effective means of dispatching a zombie is the id vial: a noxious blend of potent dark magic capable of stilling mostly anything mobile. It so happened that I packed an id vial before setting off on this misadventure; it was just a matter of finding it in my voluminous satchel. That nearly cost me an arm.

You know, I don't have a problem with most creatures that call themselves the undead; I am after all a son of Malicious, but zombies I cannot tolerate. For one they're not much for conversation, for another they're completely and utterly ruled by their baser instincts. There's no ἀρετή, whatever made them human before has left them and they're little more than husks.

Yes...so one of those husks caught me off guard while I was searching for the bloody vial and managed to latch onto my forearm with their teeth. Hades, those things can bite.

I struck quickly, poking two fingers into the husk's eyes and poured the spell flame strike into its skull. I was surprised at how well it worked at close range; the zombie dropped immediately, though I had to pry my arm out of its charred skull.

The villagers who had finally subdued the two other zombies looked at me like dumbstruck fawns. These people hadn't been exposed to much magic, but at least they're wary of me now. They might think twice before attempting to lynch me again.

The dead rising at the coppersmith's wasn't an isolated event as we soon discovered. They were everywhere, all the plague victims and even the dead from before the plague, were roaming the streets.

I led the group to a large sturdy looking inn and kere-pur-bhu'd the entrance with stone wall. A temporary solution at best but the display of magic had the villagers eager do what I asked so I set them to boarding up the bottom floor windows and baring the door.

Things where quiet for a day or two until a priest from Klein stumbled onto our predicament and nearly got himself and a little boy killed in the process. I'll never understand these monotheists. The child hasn't said a word since he came in with the priest but he's been through a lot. This priest who calls himself Meer is a real piece of work. He hasn't stopped preaching since he's gotten here. He has all the answers, this one: the cause of the plague, the reason the dead have risen; it's his god's punishment on we the wicked and a test for the faithful.

Well I know the reason and it has nothing to do with his god. There's a vina mage out there, an extremely powerful one at that judging by the number of zombies and skeletons they can control. If we can find and kill this mage our problems will be solved. I've been going back and forth with the priest on this one from shortly after he arrived and now I have a headache.

As an aside: I think there may be something wrong with the magic here or my mana. And that makes me very concerned.

On Weddings

2007-01-22T13:47:00.000-08:00

All the weddings going on lately has brought back more than a few happy memories of my own marital inauguration. Since my search is in a slump with ample time on my hands, and the Hermetic Index to peruse (a most dangerous combination), I checked to see if I could call up my wedding all those decades ago. And as luck would have it, the Index behaved.

Now beware when looking at the contents, as the sight of me young may arrest the senses.

MoiraGwyn and I were married on Circe's isle by Hermes himself. As you'll see, I was just a young King at the time, in fact I had only gained the title a few months before. You'll also see a young couple full of promise and the faces of many an old friend. For whatever reason, the perspective of the wedding is seen through Boreas' eyes, an old friend in the Hermetic Order. She must have placed it into the Index before she disappeared to destinations unknown.
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THIS IS AN EMERGENCY MAGICAL MISSIVE FROM ROWANE DE'DANNAN
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Understand now why no mention of Rastenfeld. Plague only beginning.
Gathered survivors. Must find source. Hades damn all zom-

*MAGICAL MISSIVE TERMINATED AT SOURCE*
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WE NOW RETURN YOU TO YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED POST
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The wedding had added significance because Oonagh of the Seelie sidhe, recognized Moiragwyn as a fellow royal of a sidhe clan. Since my da's confirmed disappearance by the major sidhe clans , and the subsequent "King-ing" of my title from Prince, MG had been feeling, well...a bit unworthy. She was by all accounts a humble druidess. She was a queen of nature, a forest was her palace, but in all the talk about royalty, she didn't know where she stood with me. Where she stood of course was in my heart. Titles didn't mean anything to me, though that's easy for me to say considering I was now a bonified King, never mind that I grew up in backwater Ithaca and that I wanted little to do with my father's dead clan.

With Oonagh's recognition, MoiraGwyn joined me as my queen and queen of the Bri Leith sidhe, all one of us. She slipped into her new role like Cinderella into her glass slipper; a perfect fit. She was graceful and congenial, all the things that made her a perfect druid also made her a wonderful queen.

Rastenfeld (circa 1253), the dullest place on earth

2007-01-15T15:16:00.000-08:00

Now consider the implications of the above statement: me, a Hermetic through and through, labeling anything as dull. Exactly how boring does a place need to be in order for that to happen? My peripatetic adventuring aside, watching ward-paint dry is exciting to me; the prospect of holing away in a room and reading the Hermetic Index for a week is my idea of a good time.

Yet here I am. How did I get here?

I had been collecting an peculiar variety of yellow roses, a sure sign of MoiraGwyn's druidic hand if there ever was one, in a forest near the Wampanoag tribe when the enchantment triggered. That white tri-circular rune pattern rotating in the the air gives me little to no warning and I still don't know what sets it off. Though I can't help but admire it. As enchantments go, it's beautiful: all the runes dancing and chiming in perfect unison. Erm, nearly all of them I should say. One rune, kala, in a bold crimson red, spins out of sync and emanates a ugly discordant hum, providing an annoying reminder of my HTD every time it activates. When it does go off, I am compelled to go. Whether this is result of the magic itself or the typo, traveling through spell is like what I imagine a bolt of lightning feels when Zeus flings it: just blazing speed coupled with a gut-wrenching impact.

I appeared in the town of Rastenfeld in the middle night, though town is giving it too much credit, let's call it a hamlet instead. Aside from a stray mutt lapping at a muddy waterhole, my arrival went unnoticed.

I thought at first that I had made it back to Legend. The square wooden buildings, topped with yellow-brown thatch, look just like the hovels outside of Klein. In fact, according to the locals, Klein supposedly is only two days ride away on a fast steed. But I can feel already the time is wrong. From what I've seen Legend exists on a swords edge of space and time. Anything before or beyond that edge simply not Legend. Maybe one day I'll attempt to put down my theories on our fair land, but one thing at a time.

I've been here for a week, renting a room from a coppersmith and spending most of my time searching for clues of MoiraGwyn's whereabouts. The searching part took about a day. Now, I'm pretty much indoors, avoiding the plague. Well, maybe it's the plague. Shortly after I arrived, a sickness swept through Rastenfeld. It's cutting down people like a scythe through wheat. The carpenter next door is sawing away at all hours just to keep up with the coffin demand. The coppersmith fell ill two days ago. I now talk to him through my closed door and he tells me in his stuffy mucus-filled voice that they've called for priests from Klein as the resident man of the cloth is currently dead.

I was given a brief reprieve from my boredom by sending a spectral scout to NadIa's wedding. That proved to be very entertaining. I can't believe that I miss the Inferno, but considering the spectral scout only allowed me to see the flame-riddled landscape and not smell the sulfur it emitted, it's not that hard to understand; Hell is quite beautiful this time of year...

It seems I'll have to cut this post short as there's currently someone banging loudly at my door. I assume it's the coppersmith coming to tell me that the mayor is dead. Lovely.

New Years Resolutions

2007-01-01T00:00:00.000-08:00

There's really nothing like a fresh start, or at least the idea of a fresh start. And of course what goes best with those new beginnings? New Years Resolutions!

1. Find MoiraGwyn
I have a good feeling about this resolution. Considering I'm being magically dragged by a runaway enchantment, there's really a good chance that I'll succeed in finding my wife. I suppose the question is what will I do when she's found?

2. Arrive back at Quickley's, preferably alive.
Again, a good chance of success seeing as the magic in the enchantment runs out in early May. But whether I'll pop out alive, or if the residents of Quickley's establishment will be greeted with a bright light on May 3rd and a my dashing albeit festering corpse, remains to be seen. So far the portal has dropped me in some strange locals, not all of them friendly to your olive-skinned hero...that being me.

3. Update my blog here on a weekly basis and and submit to the Legendary Times.
One of my favorite activities after a long harrowing day of wife searching is popping open the Hermetic Index and checking out what's been going on in everyone's lives. My own voyeuristic tenancies aside, this blog phenomenon is wonderful. I really enjoy the creativity that everyone is pouring into their blogs, and the time and energy that people put into displaying their lives.
And I'm thrilled to see that the Legendary Times is getting a big boost the work, I think I received three in December alone, which is bloody inspirational, and something that I want to be a part of. But being the lazy Hermetic I've not always been on top of things but this year it's going to change!

I've added an small update section on the bookmark to the right of your screen wherein each week, on a Monday, my goal is to have an update (a post, a history, a picture, just something!) so that I can have at least some kind of record of this adventure called life.

If I haven't updated in a week...well then I've been murdered. Call the Corpse Retrieval Squad and ensure that I've been buried properly or I will find a way out of Hades and haunt you all. If you thought that I was annoying while alive, just wait until I can walk through walls in new ghosty form.

Have a happy and prosperous new year!

Thanksgiving

2006-11-23T14:29:00.000-08:00

When I stepped through that rip in reality that my enchantment caused at Miss Quickley's, I thought I saw out of the corner of my eye a typo in one of the runes dealing with the search of my queen, MoiraGwyn. Seems I was right. I'm a Hermetic, we're not really known for our spelling skills. Instead of searching for her directly, the spell is drawing me to some very interesting places, possibly following the path she might have been, whether it is within the last minute or 10 years, I can't say for sure.

This last stop has thrust me into a heavily wooded section of what I believe to be somewhere in North America, home of some of the ugliest birds I have ever seen.

I've since come into contact with a strange people who call themselves Pilgrims and are celebrating their first harvest in what they label as "heathen country". They've invited me and a native tribe called the Wampanoag to dinner; it's a regular heathen lovefest. The mood here at the table is slightly awkward, and after a few comments about table manners (I apparently can't rip the bird apart with my hands) they set to eating. But not before giving thanks to their strange single god and to the natives for their generosity. The food is quite delicious, and in the spirit of this day, I would like to give my thanks to the things I am grateful for: the queen, the sisters, the witches, the vampires, the snarks, the psychics, the mistresses, the hellhounds, the gypsies, the blushers, the rouges, the demons, the druids, the wraiths, and the occultists. You all make life very interesting.

The meal was a wonderful success and I predict these two people will live together in harmony until the end of their days. Yes, I'm quite certain that's just what will happen.

Happy Thanksgiving all.

*edit*
Also thankful for the French innocent surgies and the fried ones

A Hasty Departure

2006-11-03T20:00:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry I left without saying goodbye to you all, but there came upon me such a sudden and clear realization that it was time to go.

I have been seperated from my wife and queen for too long. You may have noticed her absence (until now) from this journal, and that stands as a testiment my own deep-seeded avoidence of a failed marriage.

In our salad days, there was hardly a moment spent apart. In the past few years, time with her consists of a glance from across a dusty street in Mousul or in Tudor, and even those are growing farther apart. The last time I saw her, two months ago, she didn't even recognize me. There are times when I think she's taken up with another man; it's a possibilty, she's still as beautiful today as the day I met her. I can't even remember how many men she had courting her when we were first dating, Hades, even when we were married there were still men vying for her attention. But she was faithful to me, then...and I believe now.

My problem was choosing the Ivory Tower over her. What a damned fool I was.

What has spurned on my leaving Legend was Ranmaru, albeit indirectly.

Let me explain. By the order of the Coven, I had been send on assignment a few weeks ago to patching things up with Ranmaru and Aryia. Apparently he didn't take too kindly to being cooked until crispy by his few-second-old wife. I don't blame him. My mission was pretty simple, reunite the lover's to their former selves. Well, it seemed simple at the time.

At first I tried the forward approach, confrontation, direct and to the point. I asked simply do you still love her? Ranmaru, was well...the old Ranmaru: a humble stammering samurai, never letting his responses pierce the veniere of humility for fear of embarassing you. It's an interesting quality, really. Talking with him is like a Dionysian release; you can never be embarrassed because he's perpetually embarrassed for you. But back on point. The direct approach didn't work. I didn't really expect it to but it's always easier to get the most expidiante option out of the way first. My next step proved more difficult, for myself that is, and eventually prompted my decision. The plan was to leave subtle reminders, little hints to draw out his memories like a timid rabbit out of its hole. That took time and too much involvment.

I had to remember again what it is that lovers do, dredge up memories of two young striplings, an apprentice mage and a young druidess. While I might have caused Ranmaru (and half of Legend) to remember a rivet and that time in London with Aryia, the whole bloody process brought me back to sneaking into Al-Amut and stealing polmagranits for Moiragwyn. When Ranmaru was reminded of how the leaves of a marigold matched perfectly Aryia's eyes, I was sucked back to a night in the Underhill with a blanket of yellow rose petals. Talk about turning the knife inside of me.

I was caught in my own trap. It wouldn't be the first time.

So I left everything and by now the landlords have tossed my belongings into the street. I don't care. I don't know where she's gone but my intention is to find her.

If I've set my wards correctly, I'll be returning at Miss Quickly's on May 3rd at 20:00 hours, exactly six months from the time of this posting. Whether I have my wife back with me is a matter up to the Fates. Maybe I should have consulted Orchid before I left, but then again, if it is bad news, I'd rather find out at the end of the journey rather than the beginning.

According to my calculations, it should be six months for your timeline, considering you all stay in one place but due to Legend's variable timelines who knows. I know I'll miss my friends dearly.

On the bright side, I have managed to connect the Hermetic Index to the "Interweb" so I won't be wholly out of contact and in fact plan to keep you all posted as to where these wards will take me...

As for the promise to the Coven, I think it's open to interpretation. Ranmaru has seemed less open to suggestion than previously thought, and countinuing pursuit of him, pushing and prodding him to take a chance seems hypocritical at best unless I myself do the same. Would you follow a sober Dionysus, a womanizing Jesus, a worldly Buddha? Then why should Ranmaru trust the advice from an old man who forsook his queen for the ivory tower? Let me be an example of what a good husband can do for once rather than sitting back and being the bad one that I have been. I'm willing to take the consequences if there are any in disagreement.

Fey Promises

2006-10-23T22:51:00.000-07:00

Heredity is a horrid thing which the gods use to torment we mortals. The rules are simple: mix one male and female, and watch the product (the child) draw traits from both parents in sometimes unusual and often hilarious ways. Case in point, one Rowane de’Dannan, son of Blackthorne, a male sidhe, and Malicious, a vampire though formerly human, who is the current receptacle of several very choice traits; one trait, aging, can be lumped in with all that accompanies mortality, the next, fey binding promises, has recently reared its Hades-damned head. You’d think 68 years young would be a little old for this nonsense.

I don’t want to make it sound as though I’m bitter about my mortality that comes from my human side. For all my complaining about the wrinkles, the aching limbs, the thimble bladder, the gray and thinning hair, the dimming eyesight/hearing/taste buds, the waking up sore, the occasional accusation of being a dirty old man, the failing memory (you get the picture), I feel as though all these things help me to experience life to the fullest. Without them, life would be pretty bland. Just look at how dull Oonagh and Finarra are. Calatin once told me (in his saner days) that humanities strength was in its finiteness. It gives people an unconscious sense of urgency that the immortal races don’t experience. I believe it. Humans, who are so driven to accomplish something, anything, rarely look at consequences of their actions that span beyond the scope of their short lives and for good or ill, it helps them move with a fluidity incomparable to the sidhe or any of the older people. This is what I’ve spent my life embracing. So I try to take those symptoms of my humanity in stride.

So I say thanks for the blood, mom, you sweetie!

My fey blood hadn't really manifested itself until a recent odd event. This may not be well known but certain fey creatures are bound by magical enchantments. Usually these enchantments are so well entrenched within layers of impossibility that anyone who actually manages to break through them deserves a prize. For instance, there's the one about if you finding the end of a rainbow to get a leprechaun's gold. Right, only in reality you have to find the leprechaun first and then have him lead you to the end of a rainbow. Oh and did I mention you then keep your eyes on him at all times during the hours that it takes him to guide you to the end of a rainbow. If you turn your eyes from him just once, and the means no blinking, he poofs away. If you do all that though, the little bugger is promise bound to give you his gold. The Bri-Leith sidhe binding promise, apparently, is fairly specific: if a daughter of Morrigan traps you while you are sleep, you must bandy favor for your release and are promise bound to fulfill that favor. It had something to do with a fling Grandpa Midir had with Morrigan a millenia ago, probably hoped it would cool her temper over something he did.

This leads me to current events: guess where I woke up yesterday? The Coven vineyard. It didn't take long for the witches to swarm, point and laugh, and it was a good half-hour before Malia agreed to release me under a promise that I didn't actually intend to keep. Then, right on time, heredity kicked in and I was physically forced to comply. But Rowane, you say, you woke up in the Coven's vineyard, they aren't daughters of Morrigan lolmisslelol! To which I want to agree, I really really do, but seeing as I'm in the prediciment that I'm in, I'm guessing that Morrigan is a manifistation of our favorite Goddess. And this is what my sidhe blood gets me. No immortality, no Lugh-like wall leaping abilities, nothing but this.

So I say thanks for the blood, dad, you ass!

I've another mystery to solve. Despite what the Coven might think, I didn't put myself into their heavily secured base of operations. Though seeing Nadia's swimsuit was nice...Someone brought me, someone who knew a weakness. I'm going to set Sparky to guard when I sleep now, especially after long nights of doppelganger research. Not that there'll be much time for that now. I've got to bring two young people together again.

Career Changes "not" in order

2006-09-26T21:00:00.000-07:00

There's something wonderful and terrible about a blank page. It's got all that wonderful emptyness, like a great promise that's just waiting to be fulfilled. Ah, infinite possebility from simple nothingness.
But, look what happens the moment you stop to jot something down: the endlessness collapses and the finite emerges with every mark on the page and every stroke of your pen. After a minute or two of writing, you look down and instead of the brilliant magnum opus you expect to see, there's only a bit of triffling maunder, an amphigory if you're lucky.

I'm looking now at the Book of Obsidia, and its pages that were once filled to the brim with arcana obscura, bits of prophecy, and recipes for bbq chicken, have now gone bone ivory blank. Even that layer of sickly green patina is gone now and the end result is the Obsidian Order went out with a whimper. A consolation, I suppose, could be that the Alliance has faded away as well; it seems whatever forces that brought us clashing together have lost interest, moved onto bigger and better things, maybe even gone to work their manipulations in other clans, who knows.

I thought briefly about changing careers and become a professional wrestler. It didn't go so well...at all...ouch. I'll leave the career changes to the driven like Terrance. Besides, there's still the matter of getting the ol' doppelganger some conciousness, and for that I am grateful I took good notes from Obsidia's Book.

War and Fate

2006-09-03T12:03:00.000-07:00

War is a funny thing. Sometimes it happens so fast that your whole polis or hamlet or nation is drawn up, galvanized, and marshaled. Soon, you can hardly remember how you got there, just that you're there in the thick of it and fighting for you life. It's a common feeling for those not in the "know." The gods, they “know” though. They know why we fight, and more often then not, they are the cause of the fights. Their far-reaching gaze can see that weave we call fate as easily as we can see the back of our hands, and use it to their amusement. That’s life. But not even the gods, not Zeus himself, can change our fate or their own; all they can do is enjoy the ride.
There are some wars that simmer and there was such a simmer when I was a young boy called the Trojan War. I remember standing on the docks of Ithaca, and my mother and sisters watched as the black hulled boats faded off into an azure sea. Artemis had taken her favor away from Agamemnon and the ships were slow going with no wind to fill their sails. The only sound I remember was the rhythmic slap of oars hitting the water in unison. My father was on one of the boats; I can remember watching the boat he was on until they were far offshore and my eyes burned from lack of blinking. I did eventually, but only because a white cap burst over the wooden planks of the docks, covering my face with a cold salty spray. I rubbed frantically, but when I opened them I had lost his ship. They all looked the same after a point, nameless black specks dotting the blue stripe of horizon.
I used to curse the house of Atreus, like my curses would override an already gods-damned family, but now I save my breath. Fate would see to their line in time.
Now I find myself embroiled in a simmer with the Alliance. Like the Trojan War where the Greeks stood before breaching the walls of Illium after 10 years, this war is characterized by doldrums of stillness with very brief gusts of activity. It’s nerve-racking, but that’s mostly because I seem to be the only one on the field. With the exception of that witch, Vincenza, I haven’t seen another follower of the Book for months. Only a week ago I had the Book stolen from me by that Alliance half-mage, Edmond. And only with ingenuity and a bit of luck I was able to claim it back. And then I had another battle with an old comrade in arms, Meue, which was fought to a standstill. These experiences and others like it have made me acknowledge that the Alliance has the upper hand in warriors on the field. We enjoyed strength in numbers in the beginning but the tide is against us now. What was the Book’s intention of bringing the believers together if we only fade away into nothingness now?
It’s a possibility. It’s possible that there’ll never be an answer because I am not in the “know”. But I don’t want to be presumptuous. Presumption is equal to hubris and we all know how that goes for us Greeks. I’ll hang on to the Order for as long as I can and scour the Book for our version of the Trojan horse. And if I don’t find it, then nothing could have been done. Life will go on as it always does, unless fate has some other plans for me, that is.

"Can I see your book?" Sure--I mean NO

2006-08-03T12:00:00.000-07:00

I've learned this week, painfully through the experiences of others, that the Book of Obsidia is not for everyone. On the one hand, this confirms my suspicion that I was saught out by the Book itself; on the other, those whom the Book has not chosen...there has been a few side-effects, leading me to the conclusion that I should at least keep the Book safe from others, namely those I care about.
The first incident occured after another all-night-marathon-study-session of the Book. I had been attempting to decipher one particularly intriguing passage about the enemies of Obsidia and a celestial event, and before I knew it, Helios was already racing across the sky. It's bizarre, the Book, it tantalizes me with clues, especially dealing with the questions that need answering (like the problem of doppelganger consciousness); it trails me along, hinting that the answer is lying between the words, but always just beyond my reach. So by midday, I found myself exhausted. It was in that state that I visited a friend, Orchid, at her shop. A lot of people have suggested that I take better care of myself, eating more, combing my hair...et cetera, et cetera, and Orchid was no different. I know I must have looked particularly wild-eyed that afternoon when I came to her so I can't blame her.
The question I asked for her reading was actually more specific: Will I succeed in giving my doppelganger its own soul. And it suprised me that even with the specificity of the question, I got a straight answer: Yes What was also different this time was that Orchid asked to handle the Book. At the time, I didn't see any harm. I trust her, and if she wanted to see, who was I to stop her.

I didn't hear until the next day that Orchid had lost her 6th sense. For someone whose livelyhood is based on this ability, I can't imagine the loss. My father took me to Delphi when I was a boy. I remember that the current oracle had fallen out of favor with Apollo, and she basically lost her mind along with the abilities; when we saw her she had taken to pulling her hair out, one strand at a time.
Whether or not the Book of Obsidia had anything to do with it, I can't say. But the temporality of it seems suspect.

The second incident was more instantaneus. I bumbed into Nadia again in Ithaca and she too asked to see the Book. She hadn't even gotten to the first page when, well, it burned her. Not too badly, I believe, but it's hard to tell with Mistress's of Hell.

Since then, I've decided to keep the Book away from others. It'll be safer that way until I get this figured out.

But if the Book does have adverse effects on people other than myself or those in the Order, I wouldn't mind using it against those bloody Alliance members. After my victory over Meue, I've watched my back like a man obsessed. I find myself jumping at shadows and loud noises, studying the faces of strangers, thinking that each begger, or spice merchant, or lawyer, might slip a knife between my ribs. The constant vigilance is wearing on me as much as my research is; I'm so sick of the acrid aftertase of marigold potions that I nearly wretched yesterday at the mere sight of the Lotus Isle. But even as careful as I was, I still walked into an ambush. It was one of the closest calls I've ever had. Meue had, apparently, formed an alliance with Blackmojo and Krista, and together they caught me off the coast of England. Someone must be looking out for me because at the very last instant, Meue's infernal gun jammed, allowing me to sceedadle on out of there by the skin of my teeth.
A few days later, I wasn't so lucky with another Alliance member, Fornelli. If there's one thing that I'll remember about that fight was the forced dancing; not the fun kind where there are pretty ladies to flirt with, but the manic solo kind of dancing that you do in front of the mirror when you think no one is watching. But this time, Fornelli was watching, and swiftly kicking my ass. I'll have to think about how to deal with that one a bit more.

Introductions to the Alliance

2006-07-17T11:51:00.000-07:00

I learned two days ago that another clan has formed seemingly in direct opposition with our order. They’ve taken the name, Alliance. I know their leader well, a man by the name of Meue. We both served under Freaky in the Broken Angelz. Frankly, it puts me on edge. I’ve never seen someone better with a rifle than Meue; he has this stoic composure when he fights, and he is utterly relentless, never giving an inch. It’s an awesome sight to see when you’re not on the receiving end.

I didn’t know what to make of the news until yesterday, when in Salem I was blinded by a teenie-bopper witch named Tina. She had been a clever one and had struck invisible. I followed her trail to an intersection where Meue, Geraden, and Tina were waiting. I attacked Tina and kept a watchful eye on Meue, but he just looked on, with his cold eyes fixed on me.

I felt exuberance. Normally when I fight, I’m focused on nothing more than staying alive, but the feeling was different. There was something familiar about it. I’ve never fought Tina before as far as I can remember, and I’m pushing onto 60 years old, but nevertheless, there it was: Déjà vu.

But déjà vu doesn't cloud my judgement. My options for fighting were limited. With all three of them in the same room, I couldn’t cast blinding flash; anyway, casting magic isn’t the best idea in Salem. So I fled my olive-skinned butt out of there. I confirmed later that Tina was in the Alliance so I was right to not press my luck.

The next day in Tudor, I overheard a few peasants talking about a new merchant in town, with a “cold-eyed” stare. Meue had tracked me. In the Angelz, he loved disguises, slipping almost seamlessly into the town's populous, before springing a trap on a target. So I decided to strike first. The moment he entered, so quietly that if I hadn’t cast detect hidden he would have had the drop on me, I ordered my titan to attack. He fled, I followed, locked in him a house, and proceeded to beat the stuffing out of him; again that same sense of familiarity came over me as we fought in that house. I or someone before me had done this before.
When it was done, I looked down at the beaten body of a former comrade. I knew then that this was only the beginning.
I think I’m getting too old for this.

The Land of Nod

2006-07-11T14:16:00.000-07:00

It's now been nearly a week since my coming into contact with the Book of Obsidia. It's been just about that long since I've last slept.

I'm back in Nadia's library where I first found the Book, sprawled out on her cushions, and trying like Hades to get back to sleep.

I first found the Book five days ago when in a fit of boredom, I was perusing Nadia's shelves, thinking that I might find some interesting arcana of note. I riffled through the usual 7 Circles spellbooks and scrolls. Good reads but I had already seen most of them already. I was about to give up when I heard a rustle of pages on the shelf above me. I know it was an empty shelf, I'd bet my doppelganger's life on it, yet there It was.

I can't say that the Book drew me to it aesthetically (it has this funky gangrenous color that reminds me of a certain someone) but something about it was irresistible to pick up. But I'm no fool, I dispelled and recited two moldy scrolls on It before I was satisfied enough to pick it up. It fit perfectly, in my hands, like It had been made for me.

I don't remember leaving Nadia's house; it was only when droplets of rain started to fall on the book did I realize that I was in the Carthaginian market with the sun already setting. I had been wandering all day. Come to think of it, I didn't even open the Book. I was just enjoying the tactile sensation of it in my hands, the bevels and hidden contours of It. It was marvelous.

Time must have slowed when I did open it. I thought at first Helios must have lost the reigns of his chariot and the sun was blazing across the sky with the moon folllowing in suite. I remember the smell of a Carthaginian marketplace; the icy spray of a whitecaps; cobbled Roman roads; the annoying cold of the north; blue painted warriors; and lastly a dank hillfort.

I wasn't alone in that hillfort. When my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw that there were four others were there as well.

Most of them were enemies, Namely that scarred gangster, Salvatore. There was no fear though. I knew it wasn't a trap, which is retrospect seems odd. At the time I knew that we were all there for the same purpose. Just what that was I'm still trying to figure out.
Each of us held in their hand, It. And from It there exuded a brotherhood that swept aside all previous enmity.

We spoke all night, talking of the Book and Obsidia (from what I learned, an ancient prophet) and when the morning came, we formed a clan that saught to spread the truth and protect Legend from something ancient, and evil, as Obsidia had done in his time.

We went our seperate ways as peacefully as we had come in. Eventually, for me, the euphoria gave way again to the dull stupor of not having slept for a few days with no food or water.

Somehow I found my way to my old family home in Ithaca and slumped down at the docks. There were no poetic thoughts about starting another chapter in my life at the same point where I had so many decades ago. I was just zoning out at the sound of the water lapping at the rocks, which was were Nadia found me.

I like Nadia. She must have seen or sensed that I was in a bad way and helped me back to her house. As I flopped on her cushions, I could sense her watching me while she fixed us some food. I would have declinded but I had already drifting off to sleep. I think I may have been rambling.

She was gone when I awoke three hours later. I've been trying to head back to bed since but no luck. I'm writing, obviously. Soon I'll open up the Book again and I will be filled with the Truth.

Back in the swing of things

2006-06-25T23:21:00.000-07:00

First things first, thanks so much to everyone who helped reclothe me after that death trap leapt out in front of me. Hermes knows I hate when that happens. I want everyone to know that I'll try and keep a keener eye out for giant chasms filled with boiling blood.
Considering the amount of paper left on my body when I awoke, naked, on the banks of the Styx, you would think that I'd write down exactly who helped me when and in what way, but I think I was still horribly embarrassed. I mean, I'm on a first name basis with some of those demons down there. They know my name, they're always like, "Rowane, I can't wait to see you burning in the infernal hellfires!" or "Lucifer's going to have a blast picking you out of his teeth, Hermetic." You know, stuff like that.
Who knows how long I would have been stuck down there if it weren't for Nadia and Joel. A mistress, a lord of Hell, and a naked Hermetic, now that's a group. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that any hope of taking their daughter siteseeing in Tartarus has vanished like sulfur in the wind.
The Fates have an interesting sense of humor; as soon as that Nadia and Joel dropped me off at the Royal Stag, who should drop in but my wife. Of all the times...I swear, she hardly ever visits the realms anymore and the one time that she does. She worries after me, thinks that I can hardly walk down a street without assistance, so seeing me after hitting a death trap, moreorless confirms her suspicions that I should be locked in a padded room, which is no fun at all.
This whole thing did open up a few new adventures for me. Autumn led me through my very first successfull trip into the Moloch Temple. That was really fun. Now I'm all bronze bling-bling...ing.
Thanks again for all the help. Know that I'm gratefull for all of my friends on Legend and I hope to make that abundently clear in the future.

Uncle Rowane

2006-05-21T16:32:00.000-07:00

The best laid plans often go awry, but that's not always a bad thing. My sister has been agonizing for the past few weeks about giving birth...to triplets...as one does. She's been building it up in her head to this giant spectre. So much so that she's created a scheme to get out of giving birth by transfering the triplets to someone else.
Of course she asked if I would volunteer. Now I love my sister but there are somethings that a man is just not made for. Giving birth being one of them. But I did want to help so, naturally, I shang-hai'd my doppel. The idea would be that Doctor Fancy would transfer the children into my doppelganger and when the time was right, slice him open for a nice, albeit strange, birthing.
Nature had other plans.
We were all there in a London Hospital with Fancy ready for the operation when the babies decided that it was time to come out, now.
Here's Amara, cursing the day she ever let Asterix touch her; here's me, seeing more of my sister than I have since our parents bathed us when we were three. But out the babies came, Durriken, Dhanya, and Tessier, kicking and screaming into a new world and forever moving me past that metaphysical barrier of Unclehood to...non-unclehood?

A Bit(e) of Bad Blood

2006-05-08T21:04:00.000-07:00

Recently I have been trying to strengthen ties with family and friends so I don't end up estranging them as I had my wife and so I found myself with my newly found sister, Amara, in Australia. She's been a bit delicate lately, what with her condition: being preggies with triplets.
So there we are, me taking careful measured steps in a sea of tents, she waddling alongside, her tummy leading the way. We weren't talking much, rather enjoying a sibling's company. What conversation we did have revolved around her angst over her swollen figure and whether or not she looked like a beached whale. I've noticed this happens when women get preggers. Of course I tell her that she doesn't, not even close to that. A beached whale collapses under its own weight eventually in a kind of squishy mess, and she's in no danger of that. Tartarus, Amara looks no different to me than when she left Ithaca on her travels those 40+ years ago and here I am, wrinkled, hair retreating...bugger. Ah well, such is life.
I kept on with the reasuring when I heard a thump behind me, the same kind of thump a pregnant woman with triplets makes. I turned around and there she was, my sister, flat on her back. She had fainted. No matter how much water I poured on her, she wasn't coming around. Now at this point I wasn't using my head because I lifted her into my arms and carried her all the way from Melbourne to an island off of Africa until my back gave out. In retrospect, a homunculus would have done a fairer job and did it with less protest of my bones.
Along the way I managed to snag two doctors to attended to my catatonic sister: one, Doctor Fancy (actually the de'Dannan family doctor who delivered me and my sisters decades ago) and the other, Razael, a otherworldly doctor that I hadn't met before.
Now theories abounded during those first few minutes; maybe Amara hadn't eaten recently; maybe there was some kind of desease that was affecting her; maybe she was possessed. The latter seemed to be the direction everyone was leaning towards, especially after Amara sprung up and proceeded to completely slap us around, biting all three of us until we were finally able to subdue her.
Once her bloodlust had subsided, we learned that she had gotten into some bad blood. Guess whose? Krug. I would have hoped my sister would have had more sense than to take a bite out of that...whatever that thing is, but this was, I'm sure, a lesson learned. Considering she's about ready to pop, she really needs to take better care of herself.
-Rowane de'Dannan

The Timeline

2000-12-04T00:47:00.000-08:00

The Life of Rowane de'Dannan

Birth

Wedding

Rastenfeld

The Skirmishes

2000-12-03T01:16:00.000-08:00