The peace of this place begins to wash over me once more. I have decided to hold my lantern up proudly; perhaps He might like to see it. Perhaps it might amuse Him.

A brief message arrived, though I do not know how long ago it might have been sent, from the man I met and helped in the plains. I was surprised and touched by it.

If I am praying so hard in such a place for brethren and friends and that dearest of ones then surely they must be well? How I….how all the guild do miss him. So very far away they seem. So very far; yet in the very heart of me holding me up more even than my bones. Woven into the very fibres of my being. How I ache from it.

No word or sight since that sweet brief message suggesting a trip away. Perhaps they took their trip and our paths, for now, are no alongside each other. That thought brings tears to my eyes and I cannot bear to dwell on it.

Look up, look up and add a prayer to the pile already here. I do not wish to move out into the harsh light of day just yet.

If I have counted the days right I think it must be festival by now. I have foolishly got out my lantern and have spent time gazing at it even in the place I sit - it must be wrong. Yet I do it.

I am praying hard.

I think I may need to get away. I am not even sure what it is keeps my feet wandering aimlessly on familiar paths. My heart seeks solace elsewhere, but it is a journey I cannot make for I know not the destination. One brief glimpse since the height of summer’s warmth is all I have seen and I grow weary of the ache of it. I have become less apologetic of that fact to my gods. No doubt it will bring a punishment at some stage.

Some ties are welcome ones. Desarae is no longer the pupil, but very much the teacher: That progress I have loved to see. She has soared so high above me, nearer to her gods, she feels almost out of reach. There is such passion and compassion in her. The entire guild cherishes her; some more than they say, I believe. Quiet melancholy, however well hidden, I have detected. That is another reason to stay, certainly for I desire to speak with them on it. Initiates with genuine questions of faith pose their thoughts and I do love to talk with them. Of late I find the words that flowed from my lips as though they were the most natural thoughts in the land become more stilted and I have to think much harder before I make an answer. Friends are welcome as ever. Knight Azure wreathed in duty as ever and organising things to distract Valornians torn between unbearable anticipation of the festival to come and the unbearable dread of what may be to come from the smoke we saw. I cannot believe how many seem to have simply forgotten it already. Have we become so naïve? Does it take some action like taking Miranda’s most blessed Acolyte’s eyes to fire people on?

Yet things do happen to wake this weary soul. Dear Skils is back and how my heart leapt to hear it. I came across him in Milltown talking with Knight Azure and apart from looking travel worn, he looked wonderfully well. His eyes are dangerous as ever. I hope he stays a while. Last time I asked him if he were going to it was a year before I saw him again. I will not tempt fate.

I do not look forward to festival. I hate to spend it alone. Being in a large crowd of people when the one you wish was there cannot be is no way to gladden the heart. Before that, way in the back of my mind, I see memories shaded in time. A hunter in green and the little Crier teasing each other; though I think the hunter won the argument, so many times had he made missions into the anthill to rescue her. My belt looks a little worn now and some of the gold has rubbed away, but it is only from years of wearing. What would he (or anyone else say for that matter) were he to know I still had the hooded dress and rugged boots stowed carefully away. Our plans were thwarted and it did not matter anyway for the purpose of them, in the end, was unnecessary. No dancing needed and so no need to try and look as though I could do it with grace. I so longed to be a suitable companion and not make a Bos Backside of myself in the process. I had no need to worry after all. I dream every festival of dancing. I dream of being whirled around, skirts and hair flying away from me, held firmly and gently and forgetting all cares for a while. I remember my hunter telling me dainty shoes were not necessary for dancing. Well, not the kind of dancing he had in mind. I feel the abandon of the dance and get caught up in it in my dreams. A flash of red shirt, dark eyes and the relaxed smile I would cherish if I ever got the chance to.

Yes, I do need to get away. The last brief message asked me to. As is so often the case, the gods do not allow our paths to cross, never mind the time to do so. I long to feel the sun again, taste food and wine, walk barefoot in the park. I long to have my hand held and hear that soft voice. I long to see the wonder of the temple and feel the cool marble under my bare feet. I do not know if I could bear the feeling to rush through me at that altar again, but I am willing to try! But no crystals to be had.

I become jealous of those around me. Bris, I am told, though not from his mouth, is ecstatically happy. Desarae’s heart I believe to be taken. Topaz and Wyf, Lady Ellyanna and Lord Pallas….. yet I have had three and a half years of knowing my heart’s place. It does not do to dwell on what we cannot have, but we should dwell on all our blessings. I do know that, but I can admit my human frailties.

Yes, I will get away.

Another festival and I see many looking forward to it. I see brethren who have never experienced a festival wondering and watching, just waiting as the land holds its breath.

What of the past?

Candlelight glowed around the walls of the inn bathing those who sought comfort there in a rosy glow. It softened the cares I could see in their faces and blurred the usually sharp and aggressive shadows. Other beautiful delights from the gods and goddesses; unexpected and gracefully given for the sake of nothing but pleasure decorated the inn and trumpeted the granting of a holiday. Some laughed and joked, while others sat gazing into their ale mugs as though great answers could be found there. Were they contemplating their day? Wishing for something? Crying out with some hidden pain inside? All might be possible. The innkeeper looked more cheerful; smiling congenially at the unusual crowds. An effort had been made to bring in special fare for all to try. Sweet tastes were savoured on their tongues and the sweetness broke onto their brows as they talked. Creatures that would not normally be allowed so much as to walk or crawl into the town now mingled with adventurers in complete acceptance. Yet these creatures’ skins did not look quite right; as though they did not quite fit and were not quite normal. These second skins were hard won and gave the chance to be something other than their normal lives. Song would burst forth unannounced and tales and stories filled our ears. There were excited faces; exasperated faces; even embarrassed faces: Sometimes all on one person in quick succession. There were those barely steady on their feet having just arrived in the land looking about in a mixture of bemused excitement and anxiety wondering what strange revelry they had stumbled upon. Then there were those who now leaned comfortably on the ale counter feeling like old troopers who had seen one, maybe two such sights before. Then there were those, like me, who have seen many winters come and go. Warm smiles seeing folks go where they had trod before, or a chuckle at some game they can remember playing a different way; much is to be read on those faces. Melancholy too; for, as is natural at times of celebration that become tradition, those that have walked your path with you at previous celebrations must surely come to mind. So Balthazar danced with wolves from the forest as dashing lady pirates walking with a strange familiarity leapt up onto tables and sang bawdy songs, and a cleric sat quietly, wearing a pair of rugged boots, old but treasured, a hooded dress that looked strange somehow on her, and a belt tooled with great care as a gift many years ago. She thought on pirates, a crown, hunters in green and a dutiful knight. She wondered what she was doing there, but enjoyed it all the same. She sat with a carved pumpkin and an ale and pondered it all.

Those were my memories of Jeffrey’s at Fall Festival.

Smoke and volcanos...... fire and retribution. And proof positive, once more, that the gods look after us all for the good of all. May they always do so.