Mae's Journal

[BattleBee47]

The woman would sit within her familiar inn room at the Blade and Stars. Scraps of clothing, parts of instruments and the various tools and oils to maintain such would be seen throughout. It would be clear that she was not in the room often, belongings would seem unorganized and strewn about.

While she works on letters and missives, she would hum a familiar tune, smile curving the woman's lips.

[BattleBee47]

Letter is written in haste as the candle light flickered nearby. Handwriting is neat, though small spatters of ink would tell that she had not written in quite some time. Pages crinkling under her touch, smudges despite her efforts otherwise.

[BattleBee47]

A letter is hastily written, the woman's brow knitting with worry as the ink meets the parchment. The missive is carefully folded, lips pressed to seal as it is sent somewhere within the Western Heartlands.

[BattleBee47]

While in the city, even if only for a night, a quick letter is penned and sent out in the early morning hours. It's recipient remaining unknown.

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After a series of incredible, then unfortunate, and then tragic events occurred, the woman would spend time writing notes somewhat randomly in a notebook before sending a letter to an unknown recipient.

[BattleBee47]

As the night took an unexpected turn, the bardess found her way to the roof of the Friendly Arm's Inn. A dance under the moonlight was had after a day's worth of challenging events and difficult conversations.

I will forever dance in the moonlight to the glory of the Moon Maiden. I pray in the moonlight, may Our Lady of Silver gain strength from my prayers.

[BattleBee47]

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Words seem to be harder to find by the day. Thought I'd try this. I've never been much for writing when spoken word is so powerful. Words have value. Words matter. I have never been so aware of my surroundings. So in tune. The wind.
I can feel the push and pull as it shoves through the trees. The way it pulls my cloak away, or forces itself closer.
The cold of my armor, the warmth that follows its removal. The weight. Why does it feel so heavy all of a sudden? The way my heartbeat quickens with patrols. The ever present drumming that leaves me breathless and barely able to hear.
Why is everyone so muted?
My lungs burn with the ache of an unsung song. Something unwritten, something unheard.
Pages remain empty. Silences is deafening. The blank pages taunt me.
I glance over my shoulder in hopes of someone there. Shadows.
Another ignored phrase of my own ineptitude. Another person asking of my faith.
Another question. Another answer.
Is it pointless if darkness cannot exist without light?

[BattleBee47]

Hands shake as she tightens the straps of her armor.
Right bracer than left in a practiced motion repeated to the point of memory.
Does it normally feel this snug? It'll loosen as you move, it'll loosen as you move. Why does this feel so heavy?
Elbows adjusted to rest on knees as she sat in her dank tent. The morning dew sank into the fabrics of all her belongings. Palms of her hands rubbed at weary features, eyes stung from sleepless nights as the light crept over the mountain side.
Another day in paradise.

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Art - Credit https://www.deviantart.com/tsvetka/art/ ... -618001865

[BattleBee47]

The blood. It stains my hands. The smell saturates my clothing, my belongings. My hands feel weak, shake with their efforts to maintain grasp on mundane things. Cup shakes as it is brought to my lips. Good thing I wasn't that thirsty.

The woman sat in the darkened temple, wide awake. She listened thoughtfully to the sounds of friends sleeping or keeping watch nearby. She was safe. They all were safe. A breath of relief left her heavy shoulders. Dusky optics fluttered closed.

Once more she was met with a swarm of vrocks. Sharpened beaks snapped at any part unprotected, claws dug into metal with sickening song. She tried to blink away tears as she stared helplessly at innumerable foe. I do not have much left. I did my best. Is it enough? Will it be enough for what is to come? A flash of light with others approaching. The armored woman fell to her knees. It was enough. Enough for now.

She startled awake from slumber once more, cold sweat covered her features as she rolled uncomfortably to face the curtain.

How many have found death here? How many have been granted longevity? How many precious moments have been spent saying farewell within these walls?

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[BattleBee47]

She sat on an open cliffside, mountains towering behind her, shadows dancing across the pages as the scratch of quill met parchment under moonlight.

Each day we face death. In one way or another, it forces its will into our lives. Be it through the choke of cold snuffing out a field of flowers or watching as loved ones age and pass unable to stop the progress. Each time, it is no less filled with sorrow. The sting of accepting the one truth this life has to offer burns and aches with loss.
Yet we love and laugh and live fearlessly. We build relationships, ambitions, goals and dreams, knowing that someday, somehow each will meet their end. Each will cease to physically exist. The shell of their soul left to rot and replenish the land while memories of light and laughter hang heavy in weary hearts. The knowing slowly sinks in that they will never witness another beautiful sunrise, another moment of joy or sadness. May we not mourn those that are lost. May we cherish the time that we were given and hold on to them as they once were. Remember their smile, their laughter, and do not shy away from remembering the nuances that made you care for them more. The fights, the arguments, the frustration that you endured. Family endures. In death, I pray that the departed find peace.

[BattleBee47]

As night settled, she returned to her dusty tent tucked away on familiar hillside.

"You've my word." "I promise." "I swear." "I will do all I can."

Her head throbbed each time she used the value of her own word and efforts to assuage the guilt that she felt for each promise made, knowing that in the end, it may not be enough. That she may not be enough. She hoped that when it was all done, they at least waited until she was out of earshot to whisper.

Her own inadequacies haunted her dreams, left her waking in cold sweats, voice raspy from the incessant screaming. Thanks the gods that she camped so far away from civilization. She was falling asleep on her feet. Day to day felt like a mist had been pulled over her eyes and she was just present. Participating, but barely. As the threat lingered over the shoulders of everyone on the coast, she couldn't help but feel more like a small speck of dust beneath each travelers boots. Something to be left to gather in corners and swept away and removed with extreme prejudice.

Despite the creeping self-doubt the felt, something tugged her onwards. Something kept her boots in motions. Each step taken with purpose and hopes that something brighter, something better and less bleak lingered over the horizon, should they all live to see it.

[BattleBee47]

You preach of the light, but your heart’s gone black,
silver tongue sings with a dagger at your back.
You begged for faith, then you sold your soul.
Moonlight sees what the shadows stole.

No mask for the wicked, no veil for the damned.
You twist your words with a trembling hand.
Cry out for mercy, but the truth still stands —
No mask for the wicked, no veil for the damned.

You dressed in white, but your heart wore grey.
Played the martyr, then walked away.
The chains you forged were never mine.
Now you choke on your own design.

No mask for the wicked, no veil for the damned.
The Moon cuts deeper than you planned.
Your sins still stain what you tried to cleanse —
No mask for the wicked, no veil for the damned.

You thought the dark would hide your lies,
But even crows won’t haunt your skies.
You pray for peace — oh, it won’t come near.
The Moon don’t listen when the heart’s insincere.

No mask for the wicked, no veil for the damned,
You can’t wash guilt with a trembling hand.
The light will find you — it always can.
No mask for the wicked, no veil for the damned.

[BattleBee47]

In a quaint wagon parked far away from path frequented by visitors, the moon-graced bardess sat quietly in the comfort and shelter offered. Small log was added to the corner metalwork fireplace as she reveled in the crackle of flame. As her gaze danced with the fire she hummed a mournful melody. Eventually violin and voice rang beyond the boundaries of her small wooden shelter.

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They call my name with full hearts true,
Eyes are kind and blue.
I cannot bear the trust they lend,
For I have failed them time and time again.

Let the moon bear witness to my sin,
I wear her light but burn within.

So take my hands, though weak they may be,
I’ll raise what light still yearns in me.
The faithful fall, the weary stand,
But I’m not the strength they think I am.

The dawn breaks cold on tired skin,
Where faith was lost, regret sinks in.
They fight for hope, I fight for grace,
To see the moonlight on their face.

Let the moon bear witness to my sin,
I wear her light but burn within.

So take my hands, though weak they may be,
I’ll raise what light still aches in me.
The faithful fall, the weary stand,
But I’m not the strength they think I am.

Still, if she hears my trembling plea,
Let silver guide what’s left of me.
Through shadowed doubt and hearts unmanned,
I’ll follow her light ‘til I understand.

For kindness weighs like iron and flame,
And we bear it all the same.