Wispings of a Raven II

[winterblood 11181]

 

Spoiler

 

 

The winds relented as Zofiya staggered through the piling drifts, even Ruln had struggled to maintain his flight in the gales.  Yet, in this sudden lull, the ravens gazed upon an ancient door. . . 

 

Only one spied its guardians.

 

 

W i s p i n g s   o f   a   R a v e n

II

The following is considered private, unless these pages are uncovered through RP.

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Jula ag Piov - 559 E.S.

 

It seems that I’ve got my answers now.  Certanties cemented, as best as they shall ever be - or rather, as best as I shall permit them.  There is no question that there’s a nefarious origin to these stones, something unnatural and accursed.  The Druids have confirmed that such monoliths are no occurrence of nature, and are instead the product of soul-weavers; those who trample upon the dead and meddle with Fate.  Mystics.

 

Perhaps this could have been affirmed in utter truth, had I welcomed these sages of nature to accompany me into these winding caverns. . . But then their voices would have sought to overpower mine, and I would become a shadow once again.  The nature of my quest is to prove my worth and value, which is why I’ve been intent on unmaking these stones with my own hands.

 

While I acquired answers, I picked up ever-more questions.  It was Hummingbird who spoke the name of that old traveller, the one who could see the lost spirits of that ruin as I could; Thalandir.  Never before, had I encountered someone beyond the blood of my family to see as we do.  It is my desire to track down this man, and inquire after his Sight.  But it shall be difficult to pin the location of a soul that is ever-wayward.

 

Perhaps Nohr shall prove useful, given her own wayward pursuits and worldly knowledge.

 

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Vzemy ag Hynk - 560 E.S. 

 

It was shortly after my return to the White City that I found a letter waiting for me - penned by my father.  He had come to learn of where it is that I stay, when the roads aren’t what guide my steps, and wished to speak with me.

 

It is hard to reflect back on the words we shared, for my mind and soul remain solely pinned to Sigmar’s fate.  Reduced to ash by the breath of a wyvern. . . yet restored to life by the touch of a miracle.  Months of grief and anguish for my fallen brother passed in mere seconds for my ears, as my father was quick to inform me of his revival.  A bitter taste of irony, to travel out into the world to learn its truths and become ignorant of the ongoings of home.

 

Never again, will I fall out of touch with them.  I must find a means of proving myself while nearer to home.

 

Yet that is a struggle in itself.  I find little passion for the courts, nor do I think I can remain sane by maintaining frequent visits to the city.  It proves difficult to form connections with the living souls there, and after my journeying, I feel even more estranged.

 

There lies a comfort, however, in being nearer to my siblings again.  Those who bear the same struggles as I do.  Yet we all seem to carry its weight differently.

 

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Wzuvar ag Byvca  - 561 E.S.

 

I’ve parted from Nohr, at least for the time being.  Just so that I might be alone to reflect on all that has been revealed.  These secrets, which bleed into my very family.  For how long was I to be unaware of this truth?  It hardly feels as if that is a question worth asking, for the truth is revealed to me now.  This wizard has proven to be something more than what I’ve heard of his sort in tales; he is beyond what any sorcerer may aspire to be, I fear.

 

If there exists others of his magical prowess and wisdom, there exists few of such souls.  I must ensure I do not incur his wrath.  Though, such seems an unlikely probability - for he seemed approving of me, and my gift.  Perhaps a better bond shall form, the more I share my writings with him.  His words carry much weight, and they are not something to be dismissed.

 

Yet, before I am to begin my work on my next book, I shall have words with my father.

 

.   .   .   .   .   .

 

Can it really be for all of us?  For me?

 

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Tov ag Yermy - 561 E.S.

 

Writing feels much like a chore.  My head pulses, and I can feel the bruises spreading more and more along my back as I pen these words now.  I was fortunate that my skull was not split open upon a stray stone, nor was I trampled by my horse when I fell from her saddle.

 

Curse that metal and its thunderous sound.

 

I would curse Dragomir, too, but he seemed awfully apologetic for the whole incident - and vowed to prepare me remedies.  Llewyn’s gestures soothed some of my aches, too.  If only I could have accepted that drought for sleep; perhaps then I wouldn’t have to deal with this pain.  Yet that would invite only more strain upon my body.

 

It is a small comfort to me, at least, to have such friends now.  Yet my mind wanders at times, with their attentiveness to me and careful looks; I sense pity within them.  I hear it in their voices as they choose their words carefully when speaking of my Sight, or perhaps I am merely unfamiliar with the concept of friends?  It is rare for me to share connections as these.

 

But they shall be shown soon enough of my prowess.  My gratitude for them shall never wane, especially for their aid contributed to me as I begin my study upon the Ailmere.  Its mysteries are vast, and the whiteness of its blizzards shields more than shadows could ever dream of.  It is a smothering sort of thing.

 

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Wzuvar ag Byvca  - 563 E.S.

 

It feels as if it’s been some time, since I’ve had the chance to travel so far out on my own.  My pursuits to understand the Ailmere’s secrets had kept me idle for longer than I expected, and its mysteries shall continue to keep me occupied for much longer.  Thalandir’s study is only a half a day’s ride away at this point.

 

When I reflect back on his hall, I half-wondered if I’d stood in one of my vivid dreams of prophecy for how those woven energies structured those archives.  For all of the oddities I’ve seen of this world, they’ve merely reflected the spirits of once-living things.  Men, Elves, Dwarves, and even Boars.  Never wondrous structures that defy reality for how I’ve known it.

 

As much as I hate to admit it, I’ve found myself intimidated by it all.  Left to question myself at every step and turn, but I cannot let that be what trips me up and casts me down.  To be reduced to a resigned and defeated modesty.  I hope the wizard approves of my findings.

 

.   .   .   .   .   .

 

Here I’ve come, seeking a means to grasp my thoughts within this journal.  Yet I shall not dare risk to overstep his guidelines.  I must look forward, and prepare my next book.

 

Z.

[MunaZaldrizoti 8037]

Libraries. Aenguls. Wyverns. Visions.

 

The Lady Palatine found that what little spare time she had amidst her duties was spent worrying over her brood of children and their extraordinary circumstances. But none moreso than Zofiya and Sigmar. Born separately, but so alike in their great sense of pride and destiny. It seemed they might never be sated by a simpler life, or the life she led as a figure of governance. Theirs was an existence of endless discovery - filled with magic and adventure that seemed to spawn from some place far beyond their mortal coil. Where their mother only read of such things in books, her children made it their reality.

 

Aleksandr was her faith, Zofiya was her mind. Sigmar was her strength and Vasilia was her heart. Willingly given unto the world, but not without a mother's worry. What envy she held for their successes was little, for they were but pieces of her. And even the coldest heart could foster within it such undying love.