The Thousandfold Notes of Alejandro Benjazar

[Don Nadie]

Tasks of Errantry

[This entry starts with a little tale, written alongside the drawing of a dandelion. The entire page seems to have been made in a rush, in the sands.]


                                                            ,'                                           Once, in the sands, a woman was being hunted.
                                                    , '                      , '                                 Hunted, while the Rose fumbled with the pride of its petals.
                                      .  ,  .                       ,'
                             .  `  .    `  .  `  .      ,'                          ,'                   She was a brave woman.
                            .  `  .  `  .  `  .  `  .           ,'        , '                                 Braver than the Lion, the Star or the Mountain.
                            .  `  .  `  .  `  .  `  .
                            .  `  .  `  .  `  .  `  .           ,'     , '
                            \  \  `  .  `  .  `  .      , '                    For she was facing the Trials of Mystery and Revelation.
                            /  \. ` , ` .  ` , '       , '                                 With her eyes wide open.
                          / /                                              And her heart ready.
                          | |                  _
                           \ \            /` /
       _                   | |  __  /  : /  _ 
     \  `  \             | |  \      :        /                       She was braver than the Fool, too.
     _\  :  \  _      / /  \       :       / _                                       
     \      :     /_  | |  \         :          /                                           Three options, her predicament offered:              
     _\       :      /_    /     :     /  `                                       Murder, Suicide.                                
     \         :        / /   .  ' /  `                                                  Or an impossible battle.
        ` \      :  /      ' /``
`^^`^`^``^^`^^^`^^`^^^`^                  So the options were clear, and help was freely offered.

"Alejandro, peace. We seek the Pilgrim. Part of that may be /moulding/ those who may one day /be/ that Pilgrim. We try this, and sometimes we /fail/. It is right of you to take responsibility, but it is past.", she said. I was so grateful. She also told me to bear up the Well, to continue seeking the redemption of this world with all my heart. I shan't forget her wisdom, for some things must be above the pride of the Rossa and the College... And I, too, have my Tasks of Errantry to perform in the Sands

[Don Nadie]

Portrait of a Fool on Fire

[This entry seems to be the lyrics to some tune, written windingly, like a spiral down the page.]

I was born to be so happy,
                        so my mother used to say,
                                         so even when Ashstorms took her,
                                                my smile wouldnt go away!

                                                It comes easy, bein' just cheerful,
                                though you must remain quite loose
            to set smile upon your frown,
for this joy can bear no excuse.

So when fire sparked right beneath me
                        and then flames soon licked my toes,
                                     was so focused being so happy!
                                                Didn't knew whose toes were those!

                                                While embraced by flames all over
                                   oh so merry did I sing!
                        For my lovers all now buried
are a joke that does not sting!

All my friends are turned to charcoal
                        and my house has long burnt too,
                                I still keep my smile so wide
                                                for this joy's the best I do!

                                                Wouldn't ever stop being happy
                                   even bearing many a scar...
                        Can you give up on your Art
when your Art is all you are?

So with hair a burning crown,
                        come and cheer my with me, my friend!
                                Join in ecstasy and elation,
                                                                        for at last it will all end!

                                                                                                Join in ecstasy and elation,
                                                                                                                        for at last it will all end!

I need a drink.

[Don Nadie]

Our Dakwar

I started feeling much better, after I simply stopped caring. Elle brought the topic up and I responded that, while I had done my best and would continue to do my best to be cordial, I would not go running after people. My advice? Considering how often /I/ could make the same little scene and start making claims of disrespect? Get a thicker skin. If a fool finds it useful, so would they.

Useful, a thicker skin, to for instance take two dismissive reclutas on digs and care only about them performing their contractual work.
I've been doing a lot more digging, lately, with some maps I received as a gift from Zaniah and those S/r Marcellus put together for me. With the help of Elle or the Torchbearers to dig, I got to uncover much. I recovered some artifacts I had seen before, confirming the destruction and destitution the Colossi had suffered in their myriad wars. I was reminded of that strange stone, the one with the ancient writing. Their sorrows, indeed, uncounted.

But perhaps the most fascinating expedition was with the Torchbearers, Acolyte Hypatia, Acolyte Ianthe and a random assortment of tag-ons with nothing better to do. Our first dig was an Orentid alehouse, which didn't uncover anything particularly useful, but illustrated a few interesting things (among others, a prayer to The Sabotage, may They avert Their gaze). The second, however, was an ancient monument to Vadh I. And ancient and extremely revealing monument.

I had the stories of the caliphs fresh, since I had been working in the Tale of the Naked Caliph, and Vadh I, establisher of the inmolation, was fresh in my mind. That made it easy to recognize the scenes, the drawings. In a single instant: revelation. From those paintings I gathered what had caused the Desolation (a mystery in itself), the specifics of its workings, and how it was first solved. Plus how Vadh I managed to ascend, when there were three candidates with better chances...

I was elated, taking notes at full speed, helping others remember (or in many cases hear for the first time, does nobody use S/r Marcellus's library?) the stories of the caliphs. It made me so happy, to see things fit one within another, the veil of the past receding for an instant! I endure so many Trials of Mystery that a Trial of Revelation was a breath of fresh air. I felt like I did in those first few digs, with D/a Jamileh, and Snorri and the rest. The smell of the ancient artifacts, the sense of putting the world together from the pieces... It made me really happy....

Plus, we digged a bucket! I cackled at that, for it truly was... Well. Perhaps a sign. Our Dakwar, as D/a Jamileh liked to jest. Someday, who knows. Perhaps we'll find the real one.

It worked for Vadh, after all. He knew that, while others fought... Someone has to dig.




[There's a little note at the margin, made later at night, scrawled swiftly in bed.]

Whas it a natural occurence?
Or could They call it down?
Twinkle tinkle little s

[Don Nadie]

The Djinn and the Poet

[A little tale, accompanied by some notes]

Once, there was a Poet who sang of the Wyld.
And this Poet was kind, and this Poet was tricked.
For kindness can be a trap.
And a Foe sought to enslave her.

I promised I'd help. Her errantry deserved an answer, a call back, a show of hopeful aid. I forced myself up and out, I joined so many others who cared for the safety of the Well, for the safety of the world... And for her safety, too. Alfred was not there. Probably too dangerous, too tempting. He'd give It too much strength.

With many an ally, the Poet sailed.
To an island shimmering like a pearl in the Sea.
And with many an ally, they climbed to the top.
As their Foe innundated the path behind them with bile.

We got to the top, to the volcanoe. We were haunted by Its servants, those foul entities of flesh, and earth, and hatred. Such hatred and such hunger, I could feel it. Such hunger to be, because they are not. They would take our names, if they could. They would take our shape and our flesh and our very being, and burn it with ther eagerness to exist and be, again, dissatisfied. For life cannot be stolen.

We weakened them. We prepared the urn.

Atop the volcano they laid their trap.
And in it fell the Foe, screaming.
But as it fell, it grasped.
And as it grasped, it grabbed.
And so, too, was the Poet carried into the trap.

We couldn't just leave her there. It was not acceptable, and not a choice. We just laid ourselves against the urn, let the trap close upon us. So many of us. Kythaella and Kragg, showing the bravery which makes it so difficult to dismiss them for their cruelty. Estellise, showing the dedication which makes it difficult to dismiss it for her pride. Shae and Lynneth, as was expected. Orrin and Narwen, as was not. And Lojir, the trap's maker.

And Pirou.

Within the trap they fought.
For their Foe had hordes and they had one-another.
And the trap was twisting, and well laid.
And full of knowledge too forbidden to be pondered for long.
They refused deals or brooking, they refused cowardice.
So fire burnt in tight corridors, and they cut and killed and raised their voices.
Because none was willing to sacrifice the Poet to her Foe.

It was a hellish fight, in tight corridors, a meatgrinder of djinn-flesh. They summoned fire, those foul monsters. Fire. So much fire. We refuse to give up or to surrender. She refused, too. She healed and endured and then burnt all of the sudden and it took all within me not to start screaming and give everything up.

She was there and then she wasn't. She was there, living, and the she was burnt.

Sacrifices were endured.
One died, someone dear. And the Fool took a deep breath and put on his mask.
For roles must be played until the courtain falls.

I held it, best I could. I kept calm and steady, even as I saw her melt in those cursed walls of flesh. For heroes don't shatter in the middle of a challenge, do they? And even Fools are called to heroism, from time to time. But I was so deeply aware of my own voice as I spoke, so deeply aware of the Alejandro who talked, being watched by the Alejandro who spectates, being watched by the Alejandro who screams so loudly that seas would part.

Valiantly, upfront, they sacrificed safety for a chance to escape.
And they fought, and fighting, they emerged victorious.
And so the trap was closed.
With no more innocents within that those who fell.
And the trap was laid into fire.
For uncounted centuries to come.

We broke the runes, our warding, our peace. We fought and cut and weakened the djinn lord enough that it graps weakened, that it was /forced/ to let us go. And we left. We closed the urn. We threw it in the fire. The Drink was sweet, on my lips. Sweeter still on my heart.

And at courtain call, the Fool took a bow.
                        And began crying, because he had to.
                                                And he cried and cried and cried.
                                                                        For that's what was gained:

                                                                                                Heroism and a fistful of ashes.

[Don Nadie]

Pirou

[A little poem, alongside the rudimentary drawing of a rose. There are numerous reddish stains on the page.]

The Pilgrim mourns you.               Now, in the night, absence                             weights sleepless in me.

_ , - - . _.  - ,           /  \ _ r - , \ _  ) . -  .  )   _  ;  =  '  _ / ( . ;     \  \ '                    \ /     )       L  .'  - .   _   .   '   | - '    < _ ` - ' \  ' _   .  ' /             ` ' - . _ (  \                     ___   \\,                   ___                     \  . ' - .\\      . -   '  _ .  /                       ' .  _ '  '.\\/. - '_ .  '                               '--``\('--'                                         \\                                          `\\,                                              \|

[Don Nadie]

Lost in Translation

The book has been finished, and shall be published soon. An Introduction to Ancient Languages, I called it. I felt something like that was missing from the shop of Al'Rashid. Something useful to those who were starting their research and had no idea of what all of those symbols were, what all of those unfamiliar grammars and words and signs meant.

It is hard, to translate. There's an endless gap of absence between the word in one language and the word in another. I am so familiar with it, bearing it every day since I lost home. I feel odd, still, "being" drunk and "being" dark-haired. The being of temporality versus the being of unchanging essence. Two such different things, which my own tongue differenciates and which Common, for some odd reason, refuses to acknowledge.

It is not that the meaning is missing. Rather, it is that the meaning in one case is implicit, a "secret seed", I called it in my writing. While those two beings are evident, there are such intricate weaves of underlaying meaning, such strange and mysterious undercurrents in every word, which ties them to another and to the whole language.

So much is lost, of those Ancient tongues. I felt "find you" in Piscean was meant to imply love, when I read it. I felt "one" in the Erugitic words of the House of Whispers Under the Sands meant more than just "two". I feel the underlining currents of "Water" in Colossi and "Territory" in the Low Formorian of the Thousand Clans, and "Brethren" in that dwarven speech. So much is lost and beyond reach, because we only have these tiny, tiny samples. Bereft of their kin, words lost and missing. I identify, I think. Out of context, so often.

At times I think that this applies to each of us. Each of us, too, have many a closed door and behind each door, three more, more tightly locked. The words I say carry within my life, my reading, my poetry, the other languages I know. They carry mistakes in translation and insights in eloquence. And so, perhaps, nobody can ever understand what each of us truly means, and all of our true sense, all that we wish to truly say...

All of it is lost, from my lips to your ears, in the act of translation.

[The draft of a tale concludes the entry]

Once, there was but one language for human and dwarf and cloud and cliff.
Once, all could speak to one another.
And ask as they needed, and receive as they wished.
So death waited patiently, and so did hunger, when asked politely.
While joy came to all who called for it.

Once, a man loved a woman.
Like fire loves the wood.
And, selfishly, he sought a word to call her "love".
And, selfishly, made a word for himself and her.
She did not like it.
Neither did the stone he usted to carve it, nor the bark he used as paper.

And so the bark made a language for itself, and the stone, too.
And each thing made its own tongue.
And nothing was able to ask anything else.
Each locked in behind the doors of their own phrases.

[Don Nadie]

The Once Nadiri

I may have been played, trusting a friend. Hoping it'd bring success to her, hoping that she'd be a good candidate, and offer a fair fight too. I paid for her Voice without hesitation, because that is what you do for friends: you help them and you do not care about coin, or wealth, or dignity, or what is most astute.

"The robes weight heavy", she said. I do not understand the whole of the issue, but I suspect it was part of the trial for her third and last Epoch. To renounce her candidacy in exchange for a chance to raise higher in station. I dislike such maneuvers, such efforts to cut her wings. I also dislike that I gave coin for a Voice which could've gone to someone more willing to fight.

But she remains a friend, I suppose. So I didn't hesitate to join her in travelling to the Ramparts, with the Banda. My presence there was an odd thing, bound by friendship and, to an extent, by pity. Alois had been satirizing Estellise, but had perhaps stepped over the line where satire becomes cruel. Estellise has many failings (pride and stubborness come inmediately to mind), but a heart aching is a heart aching.

So I joined. Plenty of orcs to kill, mysteries to gather. Not a terribly profitable expedition, specially considering that I neither got part of the coin the Banda got for their coffers, nor got to examine the magnificently ancient tablet which Mae uncovered. But hopefully my presence there was helpful. A friendly face? One can hope. And perhaps she'll share what she learnt.

At the very least it was fun. And a chance to fight alongside the Banda. Sometimes, one needs to show what they can do.

[Don Nadie]

Paintings

I keep so much art. So much heavy art. It weights me down, as I run up and down distant dunes under the full moon, the horns of the Thousand Clans and worse ringing in the night. It truly weights me down, but I cannot find myself just dropping it or leaving it behind. There's such a peace, when alone, gazing onto beauty. Solace, I think. Stillness.

I gaze upon Her most often. She, who stands alongside Him. Such ancient work, so worn out by the merciless passage of Ages. Why does it call me so? Is the Cup, in which I can only belive when I have drunk Deep from the Drink? The ancient expressions? Is it the library behind them both, brimming with the promise of knowledge? The certainty that, in ancient times, ancient peoples I shall never know, too, dreamed of beauty, enlightenment and peace?

It just brings peace.

And then there are the other pieces I hold. The White Spear, wielded. The Tragedy of the Burning (Thousandfold are the pains of the ancient giants), and Edha's painting...  Of myself.

That one, I rarely gaze upon. I find it beautiful, but also somewhat disturbing. She drew it inspired by my re-telling of the Grandmaster's actions on that meaningful day, when I realized that I belonged in the Balladeers. She, too, was moved by my Tale to join the same. And I am... I suppose I feel dazed, somewhat, when I look at it. It is missing the scar, I feel as though I look much younger...

And yet, she pierced right through me. Right through my masks and my performances, for even then she captured my melancholy. The strange   mood that comes upon me, when  I am weary and I fail to focus, for but a few moments, on moving forward, ever forward, towards the future. It is a mood that assaults me most often, these days. More and more often, the more people I lose.

Hence, perhaps, why I gaze into my little collection. For there's solace in beauty. Beauty is, ultimately, what the Drink holds. It's visions, the things it opens, are sights of Beauty and, through it, of peace. I keep drinking it, now. It truly, truly helps. Steadies the hand, steadies the soul.

It stops me from screaming and screaming and screaming.

"You can live for revenge", she said.
And I do not know if I can.
I do not know if Pirou would like that.

But I drank, deeply. Such Beauty...

[Don Nadie]

Pride & Politics

I do not know if I am terribly clumsy, or if everyone else is, and I just trust them too much. But when I heard Lynneth had stepped down as candidate of the White, after Mae did the exact same thing, I was /annoyed/. The League had short numbers, and I /hated/ the fact that our best bet was Estellise. The woman has her charms, but a politician she is not. So I stepped in. And later, when Zvada asked me to give her a Voice so she could step in? I gave her the coin. And I gathered signatures, one after another, steadily and without hesitation.

Now, as it turns out, that meant there would be a candidate of the Rose with good chances in every League. And the Priory does not like Sisters being directly involved. Needless to say many a faction felt extremely threatened by it, even after Sol Auk and Colmes's maneuvers had forced out many a good and decent candidate. Sol Auk was angry, and I wasn't going to indulge his silliness, but when Legate Al'Rashid /also/ expressed his dissaproval, and pointed that they /would/ forbid members of the Accord from running if we insisted on "packing" the Leagues, I began to be concerned.

Of course, it is silly to imagine the Grandmaster would order us such things, being as she is concerned with more important matters. But I understood that there is too much mistrust, and that the Accord and the Well are fragile things. Were either us or the Legates to push things too far, we /would/ have violence. And when powers clash, it is the People that suffer.

After much back and forth, a compromise was offered, a reasonable, if bitter one. Only a member of the Rose to run per election. It was a reasonable and acceptable sacrifice. Not ideal, but not terrible either. And the Rose needs to win an Election and have a Legate, prove that we are trustworthy, or chances are we shall get banned from running sooner or later before the third Election.

Both Legates prefered me. I thought, too, that I was a better politician. I can be persuasive and charming, if need be, and have no reputation of bloodthirst, violence or vandalism. Even my foolishness could play in my favor, as it did on the late Syter. I am better able to hide my emotions, to find what other people want, and bring it to them. But the Lion is Proud, is she not? She would not budge. She insisted she would not budge. That she was too pissed, that she would win. I stressed that we /had/ to win the election, and that if there was a /chance/ of her losing the primary, it was too dangerous. I insisted that /I/ was best positioned. But she did not heed my advice, sure as she was of her inevitable victory. She's a warrior. A stupid, thick-headed warrior, with skill and perhaps good intentions, but without guile. I recognize, in the Priestess, the trappings of the Trickster. And I fear she's gonna win.

Proud, proud Lion. If she fails, it's gonna take a lot of work, and a lot of charm, to undo her idiocy. And if she wins, I will have to sacrifice the League of White for the sake of long-term well-being of the Well. I hate the choice that was forced upon me. I hate that, once more, the Banda is too proud to accept my worth, or the worth of our College. I hate that the Well was endangered.

But I'd be a poor member of the League of White, if I thought I matter more than all else. I'd be a poor, poor member of the Rose, if I didn't put Its success above my own. I'd be a poor Fool, if I couldn't swallow my pride and take a bow.

So I did.

"A renowned scholar and performer", Al-Rashid called me. I was pleased by that. He is a terrible person, and an incredible scholar. I love him to bits. I gifted him a signed copy of my book, which he accepted and said he would treasure. "The Rose has done you ill", he said. "If poor Jamileh could see", he added.

I smiled. The aftertaste of the Drink, still in my tongue, helped me smile. "We scholars are familiar with the darts of misfortune, noble Legate". And he left, pleased with me, and displeased with my companions. If I can charm a member of the Purple League of such high standing, despite my cloak, I clearly have a better chance than any Lion.

But pride, oh pride.

I'll ready my pieces, in any case. And if the Lion fails... I shall pull all my tricks to work. The League of White, and the Rose, deserve it.

[Don Nadie]

Politics

[Four simple lines mark this entry.]

Cursed Velan.

Cursed Banda.

Cursed day.

The idiocy they got to in the few hours I slept, compounded, begets disbelief.

[Don Nadie]

Stuppor

[This page is stained with a myriad reddish spots. The writting is messy, perhaps written while drunk.]

Once there was a Fool who went to bed.
Having set up plans to regain what the Lion's pride has cost.
Alas, he woke up to betrayal and betrayal.
A slow uncovering of stabs on his back.
From those who said they serve the Rose.

"Tomorrow we'll see what the day brings", I told her.
I knew she'd lose. For Trickster knows Trickster.
But traps had been set.
And I was ready to fix things, if the world did not burn.

First the Hero, the elf.
The Balladeer who once asked a Fool to sell his Art like a Fishmonger.
And thus dishonored the Tale, the College and himself, all.
Who chose to emerge from his drunken stuppor.
Betray agreements.
And die.

"He had been in melancholic stuppor", I told him.
"Rarely emerging"
He clearly wanted to die a protagonist.
And curse us all, on the way out.

Then the Mountain, shame upon his beard.
Who had sold the Fool and pocketed the gold.
And ignored his entreaties for support now in return for support past.
Offering, at best, usury.

"I will expect bribes and deals, if you manage it", he said.
"If you want my help".
"But do it fast", he added, "Lest the Lion return to the race"
I froze.
"What do you mean?", I asked.
He shrugged.
"Things happen".

I didn't knew what he meant, not yet.

The Priestess invited the Fool to her temple.
And therein laid chaos and destruction.
For a Lion had rampaged within, and a Mountain too.
Lions, in their pride, make exceedingly sore losers.
And care not about what Roses they crush under their paws.
Nor about the People.
And the Fool trembled with anger.

"Sometimes", I admitted, I want to relieve my shoulders"
So she said many a thing.
Of love, of trust, of the future.
The air was thick with the smell of roses.
"I can't leave our Dream, for these dogs to piss on", she said.
And I cried, again, in that room.
Because she was right

The Fool convinced the Stargazer, convinced one Candidate, convinced one League.
And armed with his charms, and his bribes, set off.
To convince the Pebble.
Sacrificing, for it, much-loved Art.
And getting nothing.
For all arguments for the Rose were lost.
As soon as the Lion roared.
And the Fool wouldn't leave his flowers.

"The Lion's actions make such impossible", he said.
I had cajoled and charmed my way through.
"I'll only drop my cloak if the Rose betrays its principles", I answered
But hasnt it already?

[Don Nadie]

Three Prayers

[Three prayers, written in paralel.]

Oh Izdu, Oh Wisdom-bringer, who bears the Steele, decypher, in me, the meaning and offer me Discovery, dawning upon the dunes. Withhold nothing, Izdu, so that I may hold the Light which disspates ignorance and thus rejoice in your Trials of Revelation.

Oh, Warad, oh Storyteller, who weaves the Tale and the path, bring me solace on the road, and offer me Challenge, according to my abilities. Withhold nothing, Warad, so that I may return with a Tale much greater than myself and return, too, greater than I left from your Trials of Errantry.

Oh, Sabotage, oh Trickster, who smiles upon the fools, brimming with secrets, bring me the Obscurity which protects those alone. Withhold nothing, Sabotage, so that I may hide pain from even my heart and rejoice and laugh, instead, in your Trials of Mystery.

[Don Nadie]

Rings and Revelations

[This entry is written in a careless calligraphy, numerous red stains on the page]

Curses on curses on curses. The day was so good, so lovely. We went out, we found many a thing. "Revelation", I explained, I declamed, and it was like being once more with the Competition, except this time I was guiding Portia, I was Jamileh teaching me, and Marcellus was watching and the Torchbearers were there asking about books, and Lynneth was there being knightly, and Zvada was smiling, all questions, and I felt so full, in my heart, so purposeful, because we found that, the Big One

(or one of them but not going to write here, no way, no way at all, that'd be stupid,
but the lion the life like the star which shines and twinkles and tells "let there be intellect" somehow
and it ought to be impossible and it wasn't.)

It was good and then we dug in Phor's tomb and it was also good, something new, something not beautiful, but important and Portia dug a coin and a mural and the coin had a cup and it was beautiful, so beautiful, to see the cup, to see it in the hands of someone who was starting and to smile to myself at her eager surprise, at her excitement, to hear the way she put one fact within the other I was so proud of her that my heart was brimming

"I shall not press you, Portia, but this is the Dhakwar, represented
And your finding it is Fate. So when you're ready, come to me and you shall be inducted as a Student")

I was suitably inspiring, I really was, it was nice, after all that horror after all that violence to feel hope and inspiration and comradeship, to be with a group of friends looking at the wide sky above and the mysteries below and the turtles smiled with the word of Warad, and then I got back and oh, oh gods,

oh Alfred, a ritual, a ritual, Alfred, and I didn't knew, I was the last to know, so I took a Drink because I didn't want him to burn but I could bear him to live and then Mari came for a meeting and then Elle came to speak of threats to us

and then Kragg came with Ahura, great, intimidating and insulting and blaming me for Velan who just emerged to die like his life was a game someone else was playing and Ahura was holding her mace and Kragg was calling me boy and giving  me orders and I couldn't fight them and I couldn't charm them and I they were boyboyboy like the fucking pirates used to

but that way lies ruin and I didnt want to think of that so I took another Drink because to think of that is to think of way too much I dont want to think about  and instead I think forward-forward-forward, the Tale moves forward and forward so move the day with my mind swimming in a tenuous balance between Revelation and Oblivion

and then another person rang because the Crow's Captain who may want to bed me or may want to kill me or may want to do both wanted to negociate so I was my most charming because I can oh be so charming and I tried my best and hopefully it was friendly enough but steady enough and then and then came then the next meeting, Shae, who wanted to be updated so I started listing and then

the bell the bell RANG again and RANG AND RANG AND RANG and I wanted to take that BELL and put it up someone's arse and Lynneth stopped me because I was screaming and she said that I ought to remember myself and she reminded me I had been inspiring and ideallistic in her hard times last election

and I just laid against the wall and heard them both and then Shae wanted to write a demand to the Grandmaster and I was to say you dont make demands of her, but the Lyrist came instead to remind us the Banda was horror and our mission was important but he went upstairs, too, with Lynneth, because Estellise rang the bell, and I had neither more Drink nor the energy to go upstairs and get another, so I went here instead and then I'll go to bed but I'll put wax in my ears to stop the bell.

[Don Nadie]

New Rule

[An extremely short entry, barely a few thick and strongly written phrases.]

New Rule:

Thou Shall Not Drink the Drink When Sad

[Don Nadie]

Eating Toad

I grow weary. The cloak grows heavy. So does duty.

"Comer sapos", se said, back home. "Eating toad". To put a polite smile as you swallow your disgust. Not letting anyone see that you're hurt, or angry, trying to restrain your emotions for the sake of something more important. Usually, for the sake of harmony, because you don't want to hurt the other person or because you understand that they're not in control of their emotions. It is a difficult ask, at times. And I feel I'm getting worse, at such performances.

She said they would support me, the Banda. That they'd get behind me. She apologized for not having pushed for me against the Lion, while I apologized for my sorry show, before the New Rule was instituted. So I agreed and talked, intrigued, and cajoled, and prepared, even though last I thought they were behind me, I was stabbed in the back.

But then, at long last, we were at the League, preparing to talk. And first came Kragg, who joined our League as the notorious charitable soul that he is, ever concerned with the plight of the Voiceless. Then we spoke with Ordren. He said there was no choice of that. That I should've not given up, if I really thought I stood a better chance. That the dangers I once feared still existed. "None of you care about the voiceless, but about yourselves", he grumbled, before getting back to strategy.

And after munching for a few moments, and listening calmly and swallowing the last toad of the day, I took a bow.

"I think it was her way of apologizing", she said.
"Getting the Banda to support you".

"You know what'd be a better apology, my friend?
Actually saying she's sorry".