It gets pretty wild up here in these crags sometimes. Winds howl around the spires and scream through the passes while rain lashes the heights and rushes down the drops and into the depths. Sheets of water run across granite slabs, and the very air howls as it whips those wet sheets into maelstroms of water and air, froth and foam, that whirl and dance their way along the paths, tearing loose and tumbling away what scant vegetation there is. The landscape becomes bleak, desolate, a world dead save only for a solitary figue. That figure stands atop a spire, battered by those howling winds and drenched by that seething rain. He stands, barely, struggling to maintain balance, and he raises his arms against the storm, and screams his defiance into the very face of the elemental forces - those forces that are so eager to dislodge him from his precarious position, to send him crashing down and down and down, leaving him bleeding, broken and lifeless.
Why, you may wonder, why would this solitary soul take such a risk, set himself against the raging wind and spray? He has a reason - the most precious reason of all.
He challenges the rain to drown the words he sends out across the lands ... dares the wind to rip those words to tattered shreds as they fly to his lost love as she lies somewhere lost in the pain of dark dreams.


Hear me, my love. Hear my words ...
Words that should be softly whispered
Words that must, though, be shouted against these winds
Words insubstantial sent out as I dare the elements to divert them from their path
Words meant only for you

See me, my love. See my face ...
See me as here I stand, risking all for you
See my eyes as they hunt and search, to seek you out
See the face that still I hope you wish to see, eyes that drink in the sight of you
See your rogue ... think well of me

Sense me, my love. Feel my thoughts ...
Thoughts of fire and steel
Thoughts of days gone by and days to come
Thoughts that should be shared to ease a troubled mind, to lift a wearied soul
All these are yours

Words, and thoughts, and memory
What was, what is, and what shall be
These winds still blow, tear us apart
This air-tossed storm tries to drown what's in my soul, my heart
But soon Sunrifter will light us from above
One heart ... one soul ... one life ... one love

'Have you ever thought of moving on?' The question stopped me in my tracks as I roamed amongst the crags.

Many of those who walk the lands have, I suppose, seen me only as I rove around alone. And of those, maybe a few see some worth in the battle-wearied rogue who answers the crier's call to fight at raids, or to scout for those who can. Some do, and some don't, know that in my heart I am never alone.

That question brought to mind thoughts that are never very deeply submerged. They ran through my mind - all the thoughts, all the memories. Love and longing, joy and crushing loneliness, ecstasy and darkness. Thought travels really quickly through your mind, and numerous though those thoughts and memories are, it took no time at all to formulate the answer.

'No'

I woke a couple of days back amidst the wildness of the crags. Though exhausted from a restless sleep, I stirred myself to roam the passes, hunting down the goats and pack bos that I've stalked for so long.
The Crier called out that help was needed, and I made my way to Dundee. It seemed difficult to move, hard even to speak to the few I bumped in to. Truth to tell, it made little difference. I thought I'd caught sign of someone I wished to speak with, but my greeting fell on deaf ears, and I was left feeling somewhat disconsolate.
I returned to the paths I've got to know so well, moving slowly past towering spires of granite, avoiding the paths up to the high passes, watching for the drops that can lead you into the maze.

There's a spot near the entrance to that place where I often rest. I've driven a dagger into the rock, and I keep a candle burning, held in place by the dagger's blade. It was Karonnar who found the blade for me, after I'd left it jammed into the wall of the lookout tower at the guildhall. It became dislodged as building work was done on the tower, and I feared it lost. A simple dagger might seem a small thing, but it means much to me, as with the candles it has held it's acted as a beacon for some time now. It's light helps up in the crags, showing the way back to the spot where I've set up a little camp, somewhere to eat and sleep, a place to deal with the occasional wounds I take as I struggle with the wildlife there. And it's light, I hope, will some day guide another's steps.

The massive sheets and soaring spires of rock will carry a sound. Noises, words ... they echo around you, floating in the air about your head, whispering in your ear. I don't know how long the sound will survive up there. But it's another reason to roam the area. The sound of past times ... words spoken anywhere in the lands ... up amongst the wild beauty of the crags they blow around somewhere, if only you can find them.


I was, some time ago, honoured to be named Perceptive. If I try to view my life in these lands dispassionately, attempt to consider some small achievements impartially, I hope I live up to that honour. It's difficult to do so, of course. Whilst it's right and proper for someone to be aware of their abilities - as well as their limitations - dwelling on, or speaking too much, of those abilities may be seen as boastful. It's a fine line, I guess, a line I've always tried to not cross. But perceptiveness, and a power of recall, don't always go hand-in-hand with understanding or acceptance. One day, perhaps, when that candle of mine does it's work, there will be a chance for long-promised and equally long-delayed conversation, and some things might become clearer.

In the meantime, I return again and again to these crags. The memories are still with me. The vows are still fresh in my mind. But even here, where the words and their echoes swirl about me, those echoes are fading.

I've been keeping busy farming, usually out in the crags. There's plenty of creatures to hunt, and more than sufficient food to keep your strength up - so long as you don't get too bored with goatmeat or bosmeat!
I break off farming when the crier lets us know of a raid: sometimes I'll tarry at an inn with a few acquaintances and friends for a while once the situation has been cleared.
Dealing with raids, and training - they're different from farming. There's a definite aim - kill the raiders, ready yourself to visit the trainer. But when it comes to farming, there's quite a difference. The problem - to my mind at least - is that when you set out to farm, there's no way to tell when you've finished. And so, as those who know me have learned, I set myself a goal, a target to aim for. It might be a certain number of marcs, a certain number of kills, or a certain amount of plat. It varies with my mood. Recently I reached such a target, and to my gratification I did so a half-cycle of the moon before the deadline I'd set myself. It may not mean much, or maybe not even make sense, to others. But having something to strive for has sometimes been all that's stirred me from slumber.
Apart from what might be gained, farming gives time to think. I've jotted down notes for tales and poems in between kills out in the crags, set myself to pondering many things, and wasted endless marcs trying to make sense of some of the machinations of the Dark One. But I don't cut myself off totally while out in the wilds. My messenger-birds fly to friends and acquaintances so we can share news;and they fly to those whose names the crier has called for bettering themselves. I keep in touch, and keep up with news and events in the lands.
And of course there's time to break off for a chat when I see any of the guildkin. I had a chance recently to speak with Darklotus, who I'd not seen for a while. And Lavinia wakes often. The other day she passed news of seeing two of the kin. I was delighted to hear that Jael had stirred from her slumber, and that the two them had spoken for a short time. Such a shame I was resting - it's far, far too long since last I saw Jael. But slightly more of a concern was the other member of the guild that Lavinia had greeted, and who had, for reason known only to themselves, slipped away back to their rest without a reply. Maybe sometime there'll be a chance to find out that reason.
From time to time I take a rest from slaughter, and stroll around the lands. A short time ago I made my way to the holding of the Blade and Staff. Work is, naturally, still going on there, but the building that's been done so far is very impressive. And I made sure to make use of the wishing-pool before leaving. I made my way to a campfire, shrouded in mist, and sat alone for a couple of marcs as I watched strange-coloured flames lighting the banks of mist as they rolled down toward the fire. It's a slightly eerie view, but the spot is quiet, and I find it peaceful despite the strange sights.
I have, I think, found a balance between labour and rest, between keeping myself ready to fight in defence of the lands and time taken in relaxation. Tucked away in the bank are a number of crystals I might need in the future, and stowed in my pack are sufficient potions for quite some time. Soon, I think, another aim will come to mind, and my attention will turn to preparing myself to meet the trainer.