Confessions: Farron, Bartok, and Pensive
Subject: Re: The sunmaster's confession
(OOC - I haven't gotten any of the emails between Farron's last turn and this one. I believe the game mailing lists are being filtered out by my work email, although not completely. In Mark's game, if he includes my work address ([removed by editor]) separate from the game mailing list I can get the emails no problem. That would probably work here, too. I hate to add the inconvenience, but otherwise I'll just have to catch up when the emails are updated on sakeriver. I haven't had time when at home to check email in weeks. /OOC)
From: Scott
Subject: Re: The sunmaster's confession
OOC: I'm having the WORST time writing up a confession...
From: Ty
Subject: Re: The sunmaster's confession
Forwarding the last few emails for karl.
From: Karl
Subject: Re: The sunmaster's confession
Farron's heart skipped a beat as the Sunmaster pulls him down by his side. He half expected to be struck down at that moment. The ceremony makes him nervous. He was never particularly religious, though he could not doubt anymore that the beings others worshipped were beings of great power. He hears the Sunmaster's confession, as well as his plea for strength. He wonders at the faith of this man even as he remembers Cadfael. Cadfael, valiant to the end, and in the end discarded. His heart skips another beat as he realizes he is perilously close to thinking things that Pelor might find blasphemous. He was quickly running out of hope of ever getting off his knees again alive.
As the Sunmaster ends his confession Farron sees him smile at Sa'id, but rather than begin his own confession, his friend simply bows his head and sobs. What was it about Sa'id that this Pelor would fill with such strong feelings of devotion while Farron only felt fear? Well, it would probably be the last straw, him speaking out of turn, but somewhere inside he must have know it was speak now, or never find the strength. He begins so abruptly that the break in the silence startles him, even though it was he that broke it. The words come out almost of their own will, and he feels almost like he is listening to someone else speak.
"My name is Farron Uphill. I'm 23 years old. In that time I have seen a lot of the world and heard many stories of the gods and their dealings among men. Beyond the stories I know nothing. I don't dis-believe, but I have not worshipped, and I have no faith in rewards beyond this island. I, too, am afraid to die. I'm sure my life matters no more to Pelor, than any of the other lives lost on this island, and probably even less than some. But it matters to me. I don't want to die, but I don't want to live in fear, either, but I do, or at least I have for many days now. I'm afraid of the darkness that has awakened in the heart of my homeland. I'm afraid of the terrible creatures it has at its command. I'm afraid of its power because I have felt it. I've heard it in my heart, offering -" dare he say it? Surely Pelor already knew, and if He didn't kill him for it here and now, the others surely would after. They'd never trust his loyalty again if they knew. How could they? "I've heard it offering reward for betrayal of our party when we were back in the mountain. Of course, I didn't betray my friends. I didn't. But I've felt that darkness again, and I can't shut it up." Farron stops and turns his face to his shoulder, unable to bear the eyes of the others. After a minute he continues.
"All that is good has been laid waste and scattered across this island. Nothing good has come of this being's rise. I know there is no reward from it worth having so now it only speaks to me of despair. For that I have no counter attack. My home is gone. My family dead or scattered. I want to hope that the darkness can be beaten, but I fear I have nothing to give. You who follow gods have strength of faith, at least. If there is any hope, it lies with you. I want to do my part, but the closer I've come to you who feel divine strength, the less worthy I feel. What can I give when so many better than I have already fallen?" Done, Farron slumps back on his heels and awaits his fate.
From: Scott
Subject: Re: The sunmaster's confession
Karl, you rock.
From: Mark
Subject: Bartok speaks
When Farron is done Bartok steps forward and speaks in halfling.
"I am Bartok of the Kalama, called Stonegrip by my tribe. Until the darkness came the there was nothing I feared. I respected the jungle. I respected the swamp dragon. I respected the mountain. But fear? I did not fear. I had contempt: contempt for the weak humans who lived behind the walls of their cities, contempt for how soft they are, contempt for their easy life." Bartok hesitates for a second before he goes on. "I do resent how my tribe has treated me. I have always felt like an outsider, even among my own people. They liked the forest but I preferred the mountain. I would climb its cliffs and find its secret ways. I heard the others talk behind my back about how much time I spent on the mountain."
"I resented it when they named Melani as the First Scout instead of me. I felt that she got that position because of her family, not her skill and I hated her for that. Now she is likely dead, defending the humans I despised. That she despised. Why did she die for them? There is a part of me that wants my people to pay for how I was treated. Now I think it might have been the evil of the mountain, that all my time there has had an effect on me. I ask the Lady of the Root and Branch as well as this Pelor of yours for his blessing. I ask that my anger be taken away."
msquared
From: Scott
Subject: Pensive Confesses
It is the first time in months that Pensive has felt utterly, completely...still. The old man's song fills his head with brightness and warmth, and then the itching of the Shadow and the press of men's emotions just...dissolves. The release is so sudden, Pensive wobbles and has to steady himself by putting his hand on the floor.
It is the stillness of the Mossground. Not silence, exactly-- but a quiet that fills his ears rather than emptying them. He doesn't breathe-- does he even need to? And when he does, just to see that he can, he breathes in the air of Bannock's Ire and the smell of home. Woodfires, and spice and sweetness from Rigor's garden, and sweat from the boys and girls in the exercise yard. He can taste the glacier behind the mountain, and the ice that lay there all year round, and the coldness of the runoff pool where he'd learned to swim.
Home.
And teasing all along those smells and tastes is the feel of the wind. A river wind. Mountain and river, monk and elf. Stone and Blood.
"I am Elf of the Gnomes of Little Grelling, Pensive of the Path of Blood and Stone, and Weeping Thistle of the Low Elves. I am Asha Eradu, in the language of the High Elves. I am Pensive, and I named myself on the Mossground when I was nine years old, thirty-six years ago." Pensive doesn't know what language he's speaking. It sounds to him like a harmony of gnomish and low elvish and Common. But thinking on it, he couldn't define what language the others who had spoken had used. Here, we all know one another. Here, the borders between us, the borders of culture and language, are gone. Here, we can be brothers and compatriots with no reservations because we must all expose our weaknesses.
Pensive continues, "I have felt the Shadow that dwells in Kessel. I have shared its dreams of murder, and felt the burning of its maw in my own mouth. I know the lust that it thrusts outward from itself. I fear...I fear it shall devour my mind before it devours my soul. I fear that I am too weak to turn aside from the temptation. This morning, it pressed upon me, trying to drown me in my own bile. And I could not tell you now if it was the Shadow, or if it was myself that desired my death."
"Blood and Stone, abide in me. Flesh be Stone, Blood be Stone."