((This is a response I got from my IC/OOC request for input, when I was trying to decide whether or not to continue this story. I had done about a year of roleplaying that I needed to catch up on writing from the logs, and I was a bit overwhelmed. I found this very touching, and though I connected with the writer briefly, as so often happens in the gaming world, I wasn’t able to connect with her later. So, I credit the elusive Greymuse with this entry, and pray that she will flutter by in the future.))
It was a cold evening in Halas, more so than the usual frigid conditions that kept the land locked in perpetual winter. A small figure with wings of poison green and voidling purple sat hunched in the middle of a stack of furred robes on the back of a winged horse, gazing back to the inn she’d just come out of. She went there for the chowder, they had a way of making it so the seafood didn’t rot within minutes of her coming near it and it was for this reason she visited New Halas most often.
When she saw the book the first time, she dismissed it as yet another dry report on some person she never knew or cared to know. It was pure chance that caused a brawl to happen one afternoon, and a deeply ingrained habit of the fae witch to protect knowledge that caused her to hastily snatch up her bowl of chowder and the book before a black haired Halasian crashed into her table. By the time she’d relocated herself to the rafters (being winged and small had their advantages more often than she cared to say) and discovered the book still clutched in her hands, she decided to read it while the barfight raged below.
That was a week ago.
When she reached for it today and the note slipped out, she almost missed -that- as well, though her miniature gargoyle Victor was ever vigilant. When the tender hearted fae read the note she frowned, and in a pang of empathy put the book back and took the folded note, leaving the tavern.
Once she was in the warmth and safety of the Redtiger safehouse, gazing out to the snows that howled and drifted across the patio past the thick glass panes of her window, she reread the note. She took her favorite Ever-inking gnomish quill and sighed, touching it to the parchment to write in a gentle emerald hand, druzaic runes of response.
You do not know me, or of me. I am not usually so bold to reach out to strangers, but you cast such a longing bottle upon this sea that I could not ignore it.
I know not what faith you carry, if any at all, so I will speak to you as one academic to another – energy is very rarely ever destroyed. In all the multi-verse, it is transmuted, changed, altered… relocated. When those we seek to stay with and love leave us, it leaves a hole in our heart, certainly. But in time when we can see past the pain we begin to see them in little things again. The colors of a sunrise. The laughter of a stranger on the street. The peace at the edge of twilight. The smell of baking bread. A thousand and one ways that we are reminded of the blessed days, and it is here we can take heart that their energies are still with us in the world, and guiding us.
What story now, Master Daiman? You followed this wild youth… but what of your own yet to be written? I fervently hope you find your tale as ink worthy as those of others… live the life you were gifted.
A dreamer, a wishweaver, a tinker and witch. “