I made a brief change to the character having been asked to do so by a DM. It hasn't changed the story very much and I will likely be finding more interesting ways to describe my character from outside where I can.
I consider it a challenge
Back. Forward. Back. Forward. Back. Forward.
While service was always appreciated at a time when many had forsaken their duties, those observing might quite rightly have wondered just what the strong looking figure in the robes found so fascinating about the mere act of mopping.
No one had asked her to find the mop or bother to clean the floor. The woman had simply turned up one day and begun to work. Indeed, the mop she had was one that as far as anyone could fathom, no one had seen before.
Back. Forward. Back. Forward. A pause. An annoyed hiss rushed from the figures lips.
Passers by might have watched as the woman began to scrub hard at whatever sanitary block impeded her progress. A furious grinding of cloth against wood ensued. It was something the woman seemed to spend particularly vigourous effort vanquishing. The mop handle may as well have been made of steel as it was ground into the floor.
There were stains that had known for years that had vanished in a handful of days. Small things such as worked imperfections in the grain which gave way under the relentless elbow greased onslaught. It wasn't that the Ilmateri were not thankful for her service - they had said as much. Indeed, it was a job that the healers and others no longer had to do. It freed the other priests, workers and duties to other duties of greater importance than mere presentation of the floor.
It was the drive and dedication with which she did it that was somewhat interesting to witness. Every mark seemed to be an affront which she ground away at until it gave way.
One of the daily visitors, a local man of some notable faith and a religious devotion to the cause, strode upon the freshly cleaned floor.
"Sir?" came the inevitable voice.
"Yes, Sister Reine," the gentleman replied, with a note of weariness.
"What is your opinion on the close nature of the Triad?"
This kind of question often came out of the woman when she was working. It caught him short. For a moment, he glanced at her. Her gaze had not moved from the stain.
"Well," he said, "I suppose that's a question of some difficulty."
Though with each passing day and each day of exercise they trouble me less, the thoughts that plague me during my rest trouble me more. The imp in the feline form is a convenient excuse. Being forced into a semi waking state every turn of the clock in order to sneeze is not conducive to rest, but it is only a matter of time before my new found comrades in rest find themselves asking questions long after the imp's hairs have left my sight.
At that juncture, I shall have to confront some uncomfortable questions - ones I have yet to consider in their fullest.
It came to me during my meditation. The poor roam the sewers and the docks, their suffering a palpable miasma drifting through the air. Such suffering gives rise to intense prayer and would turn Ilmater's eye to the city. Perhaps He saw fit to give me a question to answer. Perhaps it is simply unanswered questions of my own.
The exercise is growing more intense. I find it a suitable distraction from the circling thoughts which crowd my mind. However, the Head Watchknight has already taken note of my own tiredness. How long I will be able to keep my doubts as my own, before I am forced to involve others. Though my faith is effectively limitless, my body is not. It shall give out long before my conviction to continue does, or so I would hope.
The dream changes every night in subtle, haunting ways. In each, it begins the same. We are ambushed. The attackers flow through the trees as shadows and crash down upon us as waves upon rock. We are taken by surprise. A man felled in a moment. I can barely remember his face, I just know that I knew it, at one point.
Every night, I catch a glimpse of one of the attackers. Their faces shift as restless water. My mother. My father. My brothers. Antrak. Dame Asperan. Brother Ameris. Even people I have seen just once walking through the town appear in my dream. My comrades are shaded and hidden, mute wraiths whose only purpose is to be cut down as wheat. They have none of the warmth and humanity I remember. They do not fight.
I feel the ground rushing up to slam into my back. I feel the blood drain from my body and the world goes dark. Every night I awaken with the same piercing pain in my shoulder. I clasp my hand to the scar. It throbs as if recently pierced.
Did I not fight for my life that day? Was I not saved by Ilmater? If so, why do I not dream it? If that was not true, why do I yet live?
Is it a devil or a demon? I suppose that is the question.
I have begun to count my push ups by my sneezes. It stalks the halls as a foul tempered furry ball of loathing. Its origin within the lower planes is as clear to me as a fine crystal. I have only yet to decide from which side of the planes it hails.
This is mostly an academic question. I have yet to isolate the creature so as to perform an exorcism. This may or may not involve me applying a boot repeatedly to its behind until it stops casting whatever foul magic causes my lungs and nostrils to burn as they do. I need to stop sneezing. I may never breath clean air again if I do not.
"However," sayeth the teacher, "it is fitting that the Crying God makes His servants endure in such a fashion, so could it not be a creature of the heavens?" Perhaps, I could reply, but does it have to be so foul tempered? What purpose is there to Ilmater sending His servant in the form of a scraggy, foul tempered feline whose only purpose is to apparently scour floors free of all cleanliness? The Crying God is a God of compassion, not an idle japer who tortures His worshippers.
Despite this, I will endure the felines' torture. I will also stop ruminating on its origins. It may be becoming something of an obsession. I fear the most frustrating of all possibilities is that the wretched scragball is indeed simply a cat. Then I may be stuck with it.
Tucked away in a smallish journal and written in an archaic dwarven script, Reine keeps a terse but formally written diary of her thoughts, scribbled in around various map-esque diagrams and sketches. The runic form is that of the northern clans, but is readable to most with any sense of dwarven. It seems markedly more efficient than the common speech and that may be why she writes this way.
"It has occured to me that before long, I may be responsible for my own training.
Something rather cataclysmic appears to have occured. It might not look such from a distance. In fact, from a very large distance it may simply appear to be two fiercely independent women engaged in what might be considered a squabble. As for the details of the squabble, only the Gods will know. Perhaps Ilmater will seek to inform me Himself, though this may be too much to ask. After all, are we not to explore our suffering and the suffering of others so that we may seek to minimize its impact upon us?
Perhaps. Brother Ameris is far better placed than I am to provide counsel. Indeed, it has occured to me that there are many aspects to our faith and that one day I may be required to do as others cannot. Ilmater asks only that we endure. He does not dictate how. Be it pain, suffering or a storm of injury and fire as we cut down the agents of agony and torture. A clean, quick death is a mercy of its own.
On to people.
The Head Watchknight is a curious one. I fear she seeks a closer emotional involvement, but I have nothing to give in that regard. Unlike many of my kind, I was not cloistered as a child. I have lead a full life and continue to do so. There is no perennial temptation to sin for I have never considered it sin. This shocked both Eleanor and her mentor when I mentioned it. I feel this immature attitude to the matters of the heart and the body does more harm than good. While it does not do one good to partake to the point of gluttony, experiencing something and denying it the sheen of an elevated experience - one never before tasted - does much to put matters into a proper perspective.
She needs, as Antrak would say, a good shaft digging. I would prefer not to have to do it myself, however. I may have to settle for a smack around the beard.
The Doombringer vexes me. His miners are in more mineshafts than I can fathom. Something is going on between him and Eleanor and I cannot place what that might be. What is he saying behind closed doors? Are both Sveta and Nea right to distrust him as they do? Yet more politics, it seems, bars the way to genuine progress.
Eleanor has much learning to do. She is progressing fast, but too fast for her own good and she is too young to understand it all. Her martial development is outpacing her spiritual development. If she falls into the Doombringers clutches, she may find her ideals corrupted beyond measure. This may require intervention.
A note in the margin - Ameris and I? - suggests Reine has an idea for this
Brother Ameris worries me sometimes. I fear as if too much rests upon his shoulders. Too many make demands on him and he approaches his tasks in an extraordinarily dedicated way. I hope I can help him in some manner.
There are others, but their observations come for another time. Now I have to think of how to redig the holes that have been so painstakingly mined out by others..."
"I am spending less time at Sveta's. The distance shall heal me, I believe. The Watchknight remains uncertain of herself and frustrated. Her lack of determination and focus is showing after watching the head of the Sword Coast Economical Establishment pull her arm down to the deck with little real challenge. That woman cannot weigh more than an ounce. I believe much of this is Eleanor's doing. She is losing her squire one philosophical thought at a time. It cannot be helping.
It is not my place to ease her suffering - it requires a greater counsel than I am capable of offering. Hopefully Brother Ameris will break through her frustration. He is much more patient and wiser than myself. For now, I am settled. The part I play in this is to give her someone to rely on. The Helmite vision is not my own and may not be the place I rest my head in the long term but I can at least be a stable presence in her life for now.
I spoke to Eleanor. The less said about that, the better. She denies the argument she made the day of the madman - something I remember with crystal clarity. She claims the madman exaggerates. That is not the point. The Doombringer has his teeth into that one. The irony of it all is that I quite like the Doombringer. I just cannot abide his philosophy. It takes you to a cold, dark place from which the only escape is lashing out, redeeming yourself one vengeful act at a time. Down that path lies no redemption. It simply leaves a trail of corpses in your wake.
I will watch this situation closely.
It also appears I now have two shadows. The elf, Nea, provides some relief from all of this... stuff. While I am not certain of her intentions in the longer term, I have begun to get used to her appearing behind me at crucial moments. She is also surprisingly perceptive, though I agree not with everything she says and question much. If nothing else, I rarely feel alone now. That is a comforting feeling.
Brother Ameris believes there is much work to do. I agree. I will help him any way I can, Martyr willing. After that joke of a meeting, I fear there may be too much for even a God to do."
"Being the observer of a miracle brings to mind the mundane. I will not labour upon the circumstances of the miracle itself, nor the likely consequences. I do not believe it possible to bring a person back from undeath without the experience having tainted them in some way. If it is so then this may be yet the second miracle Ilmater chose to show that day. Despite this, I believe it would have been better to have destroyed the Vicar entirely and let her soul rest with her God.
My concerns are the mechanism. I know my reasons for serving as I do. I take the suffering of others so they may not suffer themselves. It is a selfless act in that sense. I aggressively and furiously pursue and destroy the agents thereof. It is the highest order I have and my greatest goal in life. Suffering can only be ended if those who enforce it are eliminated.
Yet I look to the other side of my faith and wonder, why? Why the wounds? Why the requirement to suffer so that good may be done? Why was it necessary to reduce a good man such as Brother Ameris to near laceration simply so as to call upon the favour of the God he worships so fervently?
Perhaps it is not done for a paladin to question her own faith. I do not pray as others do. I simply meditate, empty my mind, centre my purpose and allow that which is natural to fill my body. Yet this eve, as Eleanor and her new found mentor - and purpose - go chasing yet another phantom to avenge, I find myself rather cast adrift.
Ilmater has never answered me directly. Never spoken to me. I have had feelings - felt His torture, His pain and His kindness and perhaps that is all a woman can ever expect from her deity. But..."
The shape of the runes change, as if she had been mulling on this point for some time.
"He chose to display such a miracle to me. I must know why."
The runes for this entry are more pensive this time. They appear to have been written by an author deep in thought, with grand changes in both structure and contour between 'words'
"I return to the subject of the Doombringer. An altercation on the subject of a Talosian priestess brought to mind my own faith and convictions. His particular view is extraordinarily harsh, but he is not wrong. I know as well as he does the spite and vicious nature of the Talos clergy. I did, after all, spend many years patrolling the wilds and dealt with their kind spreading terror and fear in the name of their God.
I have killed them with my own sword.
So why then do I argue on behalf of one that I know? I know well how the clergy of Talos work. That they spread fear. That they are illegal in most countries if they worship openly. The law in my mind is clear.
Perhaps the one act of charity I have seen this particular clergy display inclines me kindly towards her.
Perhaps my own dislike of the attitudes of the Holy Orders in the land has lead me to question the attitudes of those whom claim to represent the greater good.
Perhaps I am, like the Doombringer said, soft.
Perhaps it is because I understand his position better than most.
The rage that echoes within the Doombringer is but a fraction of the wrath I carry for those who elicit it from me. A man who lives his life in an endless fury will feel nothing but. It will swell around him and drown him in his currents. I try and live my life in a sea of calm, forcing the storms within me to fade. The Doombringer believes himself an agent of vengeance, but his vengeance is indiscriminate, constant. He has become accustomed to it. It has shaped him.
He cannot know the depths of fury that it takes to tear an Ilmateri from her duty of care into a path of discriminate slaughter. He will swear vengeance on a thousand men, but how many of them suffer their fate? When we are torn from our duty by such things, we know nothing else until the target of our ire is ground into the dirt and rent, their life broken, their power shattered, their very existence at our whim. Only then need we consider mercy.
We struggle to cage our desire to end the suffering in the world. Such is the nature of paladinhood. It is not that we are bound by our code out of some desire to be better. It is our desire not to descend to the levels of those with which we battle. A blackguard may kill a thousand out of a hatred, but he will never know anything like the loathing I feel for his very existence when my blade tears into his flesh and the fury with which I end his life.
All that fury and fervour can be turned so easily into something worse. That is why I do not slaughter those who hold the views of the dieties of Fury on the spot. To do so would make me no less an agent of chaos than they. Instead, I must wait until they pose a threat.
My oaths do not exist to allow us to present a better view of ourselves. They exists to protect other people from me. To make me consider what benefit my actions reap. It is hard to live by. We make the hard choices. We live with the consequences. We accept the guilt, the pain, the suffering, the sacrifices, the torture, even death, if it means others can be spared it.
Perhaps I am not a perfect example of the breed, but at least I know what I stand for."
Sveta is questioning her oaths. I feel no surprise at this news. I am quite open about my own oaths and speak whenever I am asked on what I think of the brutal principle of expecting yourself to be greater than a mere person can be. How are we to connect to others if we consider everything they are, everything they do, an affront to our worship? We do not become greater than they. Instead, we become lesser than they. Hollow vessels of the will of silent Gods. If Ilmater wants me to give up companionship, He can tell me Himself. Perhaps then, I shall give it some thought.
*
Eleanor is worrying me even more than she was, but I have also suggested that she be given the responsibility she craves. I think it will make or break her. I have no idea how I find myself providing this counsel but I keep telling myself that I am still a farm girl given a sword, a shield and a purpose. I need to remember my roots or I am doomed.
*
I am going to sweet talk Nea into helping me fund raise for the soup kitchen. I just need to find a big enough shadow and speak to it. She'll turn up eventually. I just have to stop her from throttling the Doombringer.
*
Sir Eldarian is giving me a lot more time than usual. I hope I have finally made a good impression. Given the number of stern looks I have gotten from the gentleman, I think I have worked hard enough to gain his trust. In time, I would like that he comes to see me as an ally, not as a nuisance.
*
Poor Brother Ameris. The common folk like him. He's not one of them and never will be, but they begrudgingly know he is their friend. That's his burden. I just hope he doesn't eat away at him.
*
What in the hells was Cara thinking? First she talks to thin air and now this absurdity?
*
I haven't seen Alsarias in a few days. I hope he is doing well. I want to find a flattering dress that lets me hide my scars before we find ourselves sharing a social occasion once again. With everything going on, chasing romantic trysts is something I cannot devote myself to. I think he finds that kind of drive attractive. That is what I tell myself, any way. If he doesn't, he has poorer taste than I thought.
It came whipping in hard, a crack of wood upon bone. A killing blow withheld, but a strike committed. As the thundercrack follows the lightning, the admonishment pursued the crack but a moment after.
It sent her tumbling to one knee. She punched the floor.
"Not quick enough. That was your leg."
Reine turned a sullen glare upon her mentor, a mental effort quashing the infuriating pain and the nigh inevitable torrent of expletives boiling in her gullet. It had to be her shin. Where else could he teach a lesson so readily? Other times it was her hand. It took a day or more to heal, even with her gifts. Sometimes it was her knee. Occasionally the point of a wooden sword found her throat.
On one particularly rebellious day, it had been her solar plexus.
Sir Artrim stood with a hand clasped behind his back. The other held a genial grip around a sizable baton, the cause of her latest indignity. He had barely had to move to avoid the clumsy stride and swing, merely catch her at the right angle and then whip in hard.
With bitterness swelling on her tongue, the young woman steadied herself and rose to her feet. "Ye know-" she began.
That was all she had time for. Sir Artrim whipped in diagonally. Reine saw it coming, but her torn tendons were slow, mired in scar tissue and awkwardness. She had no shield and no protection from that vicious baton other than her body and her training sword. Her legs propelled her in retreat, but Sir Artrim was ready for that.
The baton snapped in on the collar bone and wrenched her neck back. What little control of her body dropped away, consumed in a flare of indignant pain. Its hard edge forced her to her knees, digging into her muscle.
"We have taught you the speech of your betters, Arlynson," said the knight, pressing down. "I trust you shall not forget this in the heat of the moment."
"Me betters?" she snarled back.
"My betters," the knight corrected.
"Nothin' better abou' 'em," she said with a hiss.
Sir Artrim pressed harder, pursuing his point. Reine's knees began to buckle. "I care not for the reasoning behind your reluctance to be taught an appropriate manner of speech."
"We're Ilmateri," she spat, snapping aside the baton with a shove and recoiling against the kick which followed through cleanly until her sore body rose into a crouching stance. "Th' feck cares how we speak?"
"I do," came the reply. Artrim rose to his full, broad shouldered height and held his baton low. "Faerun cannot be contained within your narrow strip of homestead, Ms. Arlynson. To improve it, you must first speak its language. That of nobility."
"I fought in th' wilds fer a tenyear," she snapped back. "Wha' does some knob know of th' common people."
"You did nothing in those wilds but endure, Noviate. And you ended in a heap of broken limbs, your endurance spent, spared only by the mercy of the Martyr." Every word pierced her skin with a cold barb, sinking into her muscles. His sky blue eyes watched her dispassionately. "Your own words, Arlynson, I believe. You failed."
An incandescent fury propelled the battle scarred woman into a violent sprint. Her practice sword swept through the open space the knight had occupied but a moment ago. The baton whipped in again. She ducked and rolled, cutting in at his legs. They moved. She aimed for his groin with a kick. He danced back.
"Is this anger?" Artrim said as his baton cut in from high. "Lacking direction, lacking reason." His knee shot out high - Reine narrowly darted back, every muscle straining to keep pace with the movements her ferocity now demanded of her.
"The mind of an orc." In came the baton from on high. She ducked to the side, too slow. He caught her shoulder, she snarled, shoved into him. A dozen flurried movements pass them both by, blow and counter-blow, edges meeting rarely, no test of strength but instead of speed and skill.
"The body of a child with the pox." Her pommel snapped in at his jaw as if to silence the accusation - he leaned back and kicked out. She felt her body twist in the air, but she refused to hit the ground, rolling against the pain.
The flurry of movement had left her bereft of breath. A dull realization drifted through her thoughts when her shoulder refused to move. Her body was being held together by tendons which were on fire. A dozen dull pains became apparent upon the backdrop of that curtain of injured agony.
Reine started forward, swinging in wildly, feeding on her pain. Cutting for his thigh. Artrim grew closer and closer. She saw him begin his swing. Time slowed. The baton whipped in. It caught her on the temple and her muscles fell beneath her, folding as her body and mind crumpled as one.
With her last vestiges of consciousness, she heard him mutter. "It matters not. For we endure."
I write this in the hope that those who read it might understand what it is that caused me to do so. That it was not a suicidal urge for redemption or anything of dramatic nature, but instead, simply a matter of duty.
My duty is to my people. No matter whether I like them, loathe them or even chose them, my duty is to them. I go with them into battle and my duty is to bring them to safety. I am the first in and last out. It matters not that there are stronger fighters or greater warriors or even grander mages. That is how things must be. I open the door and close it.
My duty is to the people behind us. The enemy before us must not be allowed to claim them as a prize nor as victims. If there is still a hope of preventing it, then I must endure.
This plan is near-suicidal, but it is the only hope of ensuring safety and putting the Generals forces under control. It is likely that many of those whom march and step through portals today, do so only to die. It is their duty and so I must do mine. If there is a hope of getting people out alive, I must be the one to shut the door.
I will not allow people to die because I made a mistake. Not again. Never again.
If anything I have learned about the Sword Coast in the last few months, it is that it is a land of profound contrast in every conceivable way. For once, however, I focus on my thoughts on people after such a remarkable battle. It is likely this will be written about in some detail by people far more intelligent than myself, with more knowledge of the facts. I feel as if there were a whole other game within a game which was hidden entirely from me, either by choice or by design.
I will not linger upon their lack of trust, nor how late in the day prophecies and grand weapons came to light, other than by my relentless biting and a remarkable Avowed of Candlekeep - a woman who was surely denied her Guideship but a day or two ago.
So, to people. I start with those closest to me.
Brother Ameris. You have always stood above most others within the Sword Coast, but not for the reason you think. I am convinced your wife believes I am here to nag you, but I am not. I feel great empathy for the man. You clearly carry wounds and possibly even sins from the past and seek to amend for them through the selfless service of the Lord on the Rack. I do not know what those sins are, nor do I ask. Instead, I seek to learn from your example. You offer selflessly even when it makes others uncomfortable for you to do so. That in itself is another sufferance you must bear.
I have my own sufferance which must be borne. Mine are different in nature, but yours are born with dignity. I would do well to learn from you and so I will.
Bathsheba, my endless pit of mystery. I still know very little about you, but I came to rely upon you before you vanished, once again, into whatever dark places you run to when you feel fear. I feel in time I will know more. I hope I do.
Sveta. You have been a remarkable mentor to the ways of this strange, vast city. In my earlier days, when irritation and childish outrage stood in the path of my service to the Lord on the Rack and my devotions to the Lady of Strategy, you gave me the appropriate verbal lashing. However, with time, such burdens weighed you down heavily. We were never close, but I know your retreat is not simply one of duty, but one of tiredness. You are a militia woman at heart and will feel the call of the battlefield once again in time, but it will probably come with less fervour than days past. I suppose that is something which I shall have to plan for in the future. It is becoming increasingly obvious that the role which you held is one I have now inherited. I will do what I can to keep it warm for you until you feel ready to hand it over in person, or return to it with the steadfast nature of Helm.
Isabella. Far too smart a woman to be so undervalued by so many. One of the most well learned, humble people I have ever met. Honest, dedicated, even honourable, which as a word which sticks in my craw when used with most. I have no idea what political games stopped the most competent woman on the Coast from becoming the leader of Candlekeep (perhaps the dread hand of the incompetents), but perhaps you should not drop your sword just yet. Torm clearly has other plans for you.
Eleanor, forever out of place. A knight unsuited to be a paladin, a Tormtar amongst Hoarites, a woman conflicted about her past and her future. You are far too young to have such concerns and yet your patron has gifted you with such power that it cannot be ignored. He must clearly mean you for something or He would not have chosen you so. Your oaths were always intended as a way of punishing yourself rather than a way of improving the lands around you. I feel that in my own way, I failed you. Cromis, complicated man he is, was never the one who should have lead you down such a blind alley. Still, we take things one day at a time. You have freedom now. You must decide if you wish your patrons forgiveness or if, perhaps, it is time for a new path in life. Whichever you choose, I will help you how I can, provided you teach me how to cook like you do.
Medune. I remember how we met - the little man with the wizard hat fretting over the loss of a comrade and seeking guidance for leading his first real adventure into the unknown. Our friendship has undergone some twists and turns since then. I am never sure when we first considered each other friends, but I am glad you are around. You are always so cheerful - I know a situation is dark when your cheeriness is vacant.
Lord Revanark Stonehold. I never thought I would encounter such a grand dwarven fortress in my time, never mind its military leader. So much grander than the tiny little mining camp I once knew and the twenty strong mining clan who scurried through its bowels, unearthing who knew what wonders. The trust you showed in a human farmgirl from the arse end of nowhere will be repaid ten fold. I promise you. I will do anything I can do to help you and your Clan.
Thalcor. Our dalliance has ended, it seems, though not without its moments and even its battles. I had to end it in this way, I hope you understand. If I am to command men and women, I cannot be involved with them in such a way. It was a rule I held to in the militia I once ran and now a rule I hold to here. It is not without some regret though. You had a very nice... beard. Amongst other things.
Big Man. You need to be around more often. I like your simple nature and even, if I may not admit to it, your flattery. It is a genuine pleasure to be around you.
Klait. Don't get yourself killed, you prat. You have a great career ahead of you, if you can stop getting yourself involved in plots without my knowledge.
Mr James, or Fenix or whatever the Hells you call yourself these days. I have oddly come to trust your remarkable lack of trustworthiness. I feel if you wanted to screw me over, you had ample chance to do so before now. Though I do not often show it, I have come to rely on your competence. Just try not to shoot me in the near future.
Nea. I miss my shadow. Come back to me.
Mr Vendor Xon. Your unique melding of tracking excellence and steadfastness is going to be relied on more in the coming months. We still have a lot to do. I hope you trust me as much as I do you, even if I am inclined to oppose your joint operations with Terri's Hammer.
Sir Eldarian. I am sorry for besmirching the Holy Orders as I once did. You have been a valued friend and ally, though you seem not to realize that it is because you are not a part of them and thus proved my point in the first place. So perhaps I am not sorry. We would not have won this war without your guidance and martial effort. Even if your method of defeating the General was perhaps not the one I would have chosen. I just hope no more gnomes brass him off. I suspect the same act won't work twice in a row.
Erza. Despite some disagreements, your support has been greatly appreciated. I hope we work together more in the future and I appreciate that on this Coast, not all organisations are drowning in aggression. You do a good job of keeping the Grand Master on a path of least havoc. I think this is appreciated by all goodly folk. I am sorry about the Keep. If I can help with that, I will.
And so, this leads me to others.
Telia. I try and remain polite with you, despite the fact that you look down on me and seem to undermine your husbands (and my) faith at every opportunity. I am not blind. I notice the dirty looks, the odd gazes, the thinly veiled sneer. That fecking cat, too. The things I could say given what I have been told, but then I remember. I am a paladin. My job - no, my duty - is to be better than that. Somehow. Even if I quite often fail in it. Besides, I would lose Brother Ameris were I ever to be honest. Despite this, I do try. The last few tendays have seen a thawing, of sorts. Perhaps some of this is my fault. I shall honestly try and thaw this, somehow.
Terri Lalani. I read in a book once that a man with a hammer wants to view every problem as a nail. You has a hammer. There are many nails in the world. You would cut a ships guide robe with a rock from the heavens if she could, simply because it let her use her hammer. Despite this, your oddly directed focus has come in handy on a number of occasions, as has your company. Like it or not, you have a number of men under your command and they are loyal to you. While I wish I could poach a few of them - Medune in particular, since I have great need of a battle wizard - I must respect you as a woman for holding your ground in this Coast of Swords.
Elvina with the long name. Were I a lesser woman not possessed of dignity, I would imply you had done something untoward for your influence. You also have a whole cadre of minions, each possessed of their own unique negative qualities. I reserve particular ire for your self appointed General, who neither understands command nor commands understanding. The time you wasted lambasting those who would have sought to help us on the Council for slights you could never prove was staggering. One can only hope that circumstances conspire to reduce your power in the long run. That fortress you have would be a wonderful bastion for the Everwatch. Until then, however, I must grudgingly work with you.
Kael. I both dislike and respect you. It is an annoying position to find myself in. I understand you are far more intelligent and learned than myself, but I find your disregard for the value of life to be unsettling. Still, I appreciated your war planning, even if you did vanish as soon as your part was done. I hope life finds you well.
Harkonis. Stop buttering me up. It's not going to fecking work. No matter how likeable you make yourself, you command a fortress of Bane. I know the game you are playing. I will one day see the gates of that fortress liberated, even if it is from the Martyrs side.
Koryeneer. That you have all your own teeth is a matter of circumstance, rather than mercy. I shall see about sorting this particular mess out with time.
The Lady of Strategy. The guidance and texts of Your faith have been invaluable in this time of great struggle. I hope one day to receive Your favour, but I acknowledge I have another before You.
Finally, Ilmater, Lord on the Rack.
I still do not understand why You called me in service. There are better men and women than a farm girl from the back end of the foothills to service in Your name. I hope, one day, to understand why. Until then, I serve in silence. Know that You have my love and faith always, above all else and I seek to alleviate your burden in the only way I know how.
I will hunt down every piece of nastiness and suffering I can find and drag it, writhing, into the light of day. I hope that is good enough.
