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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:

Posted by The Hermetic Index at 11:34 PM | Permalink | Comments

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?"

Posted by The Hermetic Index at 12:55 AM | Permalink | Comments

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!

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

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.

Posted by Rowane de'Dannan at 10:11 PM | Permalink | Comments

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.

Posted by Rowane de'Dannan at 9:36 AM | Permalink | Comments

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.

Posted by Rowane de'Dannan at 12:08 AM | Permalink | Comments

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