Flashback Dare You Tread Into My Temple

[Laszlo]

Guest Mod Approval Midsummer, 510 Temple of All Gods It was a book. In other circumstances, it would have been completely unremarkable. It was bound in dark leather, hard but creased with obvious repeated use. Its color was still deep and healthy—it was not particularly old, nor was it very new. No drop of ink stained the cover, no title, not even an artful symbol to identify it. It was just there. At first glance, it was barely notable. Keshta had seen plenty of books before, scattered around her mother's study. Upon a second glance, and then a third… it did not belong here at all. This was no shop. It was certainly not a library. Books were rare. Expensive. Who would just leave one lying out in the open? There was no service at this bell, so the Temple was all but empty. The grand architecture that rose in all directions almost threatened to swallow the few souls who sought refuge under its roof. That book was sitting in an oaken pew, a blemish on an otherwise perfectly empty bench, as if it were sitting in attendance. An artifact so starkly abandoned simply begged to be picked up. Opened. The wadj inside was of decent quality, thinner and more uniform than greasy sheets of parchment. A long, almost serpents script was nested inside, with long letter tails and a looping flourish. Whoever wrote in this book was certainly learned. The words were not written in Common.

Open the book. :

Spring 83rd, 510 years post Valterrian Dusk. Syliras port in view. I'd like to start with an apology. This is the best I could do. I told your father a thousand times why I was not taking you with me to Syliras. Believe me when I say this is not because of you or anything you've done. It's simply too dangerous. Ignore whatever my cousin tells you about me. The poor man is jealous. Tivonas performed all of his harvests in Lhavit and Eyktol. Our people are less well heard of in the southern deserts and fall comfortably beneath the notice of the haughty Eypharians, and the highly spiritual races who wander the sands are easily manipulated. Lhavit is much more hostile toward the Symenestra, but they handicap their better judgment with a blinding code of morality. He has never been to the so-called Fortress City of Peace. And good for him that he hasn't. With all possible respect, your father is an arrogant prat if he thinks he understands the risks in coming here. Many Symenestra have come only to meet their deaths on the end of a Knight's sword. My own dear brother, you'll recall, was one of them. However, with your brother recently affianced, I know you will have to undertake your first harvest in a small number of years. I understand the need for first-hand experience in the upper world of Mizahar. I was your age once, and believe me, I was absolutely terrified the first time I left Kalinor. If my uncle were not with me, I would have likely ended up as a house slave serving refreshments in Ahnatep, donned in gold chains and colorful feathers. I do want to help you, but I could not take you with me. Not here. The best I can do instead is to keep this log of my experiences in Syliras. Certainly some of this will end up copied into the Cribellum for all of Kalinor to learn from, but this complete journal, Nysera, is for you. Perhaps next year, you can talk Calivol into taking you along for his gleaning. It would be much more substantial. Suggest using your sweetest smile. Must go.

More Readable Version :

Spring 83rd, 510 years post Valterrian Dusk. Syliras port in view. I'd like to start with an apology. This is the best I could do. I told your father a thousand times why I was not taking you with me to Syliras. Believe me when I say this is not because of you or anything you've done. It's simply too dangerous. Ignore whatever my cousin tells you about me. The poor man is jealous. Tivonas performed all of his harvests in Lhavit and Eyktol. Our people are less well heard of in the southern deserts and fall comfortably beneath the notice of the haughty Eypharians, and the highly spiritual races who wander the sands are easily manipulated. Lhavit is much more hostile toward the Symenestra, but they handicap their better judgment with a blinding code of morality. He has never been to the so-called Fortress City of Peace. And good for him that he hasn't. With all possible respect, your father is an arrogant prat if he thinks he understands the risks in coming here. Many Symenestra have come only to meet their deaths on the end of a Knight's sword. My own dear brother, you'll recall, was one of them. However, with your brother recently affianced, I know you will have to undertake your first harvest in a small number of years. I understand the need for first-hand experience in the upper world of Mizahar. I was your age once, and believe me, I was absolutely terrified the first time I left Kalinor. If my uncle were not with me, I would have likely ended up as a house slave serving refreshments in Ahnatep, donned in gold chains and colorful feathers. I do want to help you, but I could not take you with me. Not here. The best I can do instead is to keep this log of my experiences in Syliras. Certainly some of this will end up copied into the Cribellum for all of Kalinor to learn from, but this complete journal, Nysera, is for you. Perhaps next year, you can talk Calivol into taking you along for his gleaning. It would be much more substantial. Suggest using your sweetest smile. Must go.

[Keshta Maric]

47th of Summer, 510 AV Midday I am calm. I am quiet. I am open. There was no service being held during this bell and Keshta’s slow, soft breathing floated up into the stained glass canopy of the Temple with the rest of Syliras’s whispered prayers. Help me Mother Wisdom. Guide me and show me the path that I am seeking. The girl sat beneath two hot beams of sunlight, the eyes of Eyris. Made from clear glass the Goddess’s view of her petitioners was clear and untainted, though the rest of her body spilled delicately colored lights on to the pews below. Keshta’s eyelashes flutter beneath the honey colored light of the stained glass idol. I am calm, I am quiet, I am open. Mother Wisdom, I am waiting for you, listening to you. Hoping to learn from you. Several worshippers smiled at the thin figure awash in Syna’s light. She was a familiar figure to the old and wrinkled devotees who filled the bells and chimes with prayers that might lend support to their families when tired hands and backs could no longer. What a youth could pray for so fervently they did not know. Eyris, bring me to knowledge, and the strength to defend knowledge. My mother says a well-educated citizen is a good citizen. She told me that from you comes all we might ever need to live a good life, and just life. From the wisdom you gifted us humans have built civilization, peace and prosperity. My mother says that we have Syliras because of you. Beyond the quiet pews and vaulted ceilings of the house of prayer was a familiar city, loud and bursting with the rigors of life. And beyond the thick walls of the fortress of peace lay the unknown, and the dangerous expanses of Mizahar. Keshta knew how the savage world licked its chops and scrabbled at the walls of Syliras, cracking the bones of innocents caught unawares and sucking the marrow from the knights who died defending them. Knights like her father. I can think of no gift I am more grateful for than the haven you have given my family. Let me express my thanks. Give me the knowledge to defend it, because I was not made to wield a sword like my father. I am young and have a life to give to you. Please accept my only gift. Dreams of grandeur had room to soar among the high columns of the Temple. It was a child’s wish, filled with the bright armor of knights and their speeches of glory and sacrifice for the greater good. Keshta’s eyes opened slowly. They felt bright and perceptive, humming with the fervor of her prayer and sharpened by the clear light that spilled from Eyris above. The rays of Syna tumbled over the polished pews and smooth flagstones, each worn from the many seats and feet that had congregated for sermons past. Smiling, Keshta rose from her seat behind another empty pew. Her light brown eyes widen with surprise at what she saw. Certainly this small book was an answer to her prayer. The dark worn leather must hold a secret for Syliras, perhaps the memoirs of a knight, carefully safeguarded in such a beautiful code. Keshta accepted her task without hesitation. The unfamiliar words were full of soft, flowing sounds that tickled her lips when she whispered them, guessing at what hidden wisdom they held for her. She quickly left the Temple, eager to begin the work of her Goddess. Keshta paused only once on the way home, not far from the great arch that opened into the Temple. Among the crowds of Syliras, so natural and familiar to a child of the city one face stood out. Ashen and gaunt the man was almost… Inhuman. It was a shocking visage, so pale and thin, but certainly she was safe. The Knights would not permit an unsavory to lurk in the peace of her city. 51st of Summer, 510 AV Near Dawn The tallow of her cheap candle had all but melted away. Keshta’s bright brown eyes were puffy. They stared at the flickering lights in the little puddle of grease with the unseeing glaze of exhaustion. It had taken the child three nights to translate the first page. For three nearly sleepless nights she had stolen up to her mother’s bookshelf and pulled down two plainly bound novels that spent most of their lives under the scrutiny of bored Squires sitting through their language lessons. Each tome told the same story: a long, slightly exhausting, comfortingly familiar history of Syliras. One was written in recognizable Common, the other in the elegant foreign script of the little Temple book. While the Temple book stood open to the first page, the other two had been thoroughly rifled through. Keshta had begun by picking one word at a time from her discovery, and searching for its match in her mother’s book. Thankfully both volumes were illustrated, and Keshta could fairly easily track which pages aligned with on another between the twins. She had bought herself a journal the day her prayers had been answered, and the first several pages were covered in droplets of ink made by hands too tired to care. In many places the rows were uneven for Keshta was not always certain which words matched, and wrote down several words in the general area. Her journal was striped with thick lines where she had crossed out the guesses that ceased to make sense as each sentence was completed. Not all of the sentences made sense though. Some of the words she could not find a match for. Tivonas. Symenestra. Kalinor. She did not know what these meant, but perhaps, later Keshta would be able to guess. It seemed like very little progress for three nights of exhaustion, but Keshta was proud. She had proven to herself that she could complete the task her Goddess had given her. Perhaps the girl felt some deep, faint disappointment that she had not been given the words of a lost Knight to translate. But perhaps the Goddess had trusted her with something far more exciting and important. It was becoming clear to her through the haze of untranslated words and hesitant guesses that the author was not a friend of Syliras. Keshta did not know what sort of threat her advice giver might pose, but his brother had been enough of one to earn the Knight’s wrath. Was she supposed to help them unearth a second threat? The child made a short, silent prayer to Eyris as she packed away her supplies. Thank you for this task, Mother Wisdom. I will not fail you. The little Temple book was tucked safely beneath her dresses and keepsakes and the would-be heroine sank into her pillow gratefully.

[Laszlo]

Summer 47th, 510 It was difficult to conceal his limp as he walked back to the Temple, but he needed to stay inconspicuous. A man had recognized his race and began calling harsh insults and flinging empty accusations, filling the grand building with his hatred. Wanting to avoid a situation, the Symenestra tried to leave quickly, but there was a brief altercation. He lost both his pouch of coin and a book—a very important book. Forced to leave for an amount of time, he couldn't expect his money to still be there, but surely no one would have taken interest in a book. He wondered if half these azo could even read. Wouldn't matter if they could. None of them could possibly know enough Symenos to decrypt it. He caught eyes with a young girl on his way back through the streets, identifying a curiosity but a lack of recognition in her intelligent, round face. She was too innocent to know what he was, and far too young to collect, so he only gave her a nod and a polite smile. He then pulled his cowl to more deeply shadow his face and briskly moved on. Sometime later, a sharply hissed word echoed through the Temple of All Gods. It was not Common, but sounded something like "zlynge".

Next entry. :

Spring 85th, 510 years post Valterrian Nightfall. Still bright as all Hai. Layers. Layers are key. We look different from humans. Our pallor and slim builds ensure that we stand out in a crowd. Thankfully Syliras is home to a veritable hodgepodge of differing races, so the key is not to make oneself look human, per se, but to look ordinary and indistinguishable. Humans are still by far the majority in this place, but you'll find the odd, pale Konti or towering Akalak roving the streets. Akalak are to be avoided at all costs, whether in disguise or not. Konti are… well, they are fun little creatures who have no reason to fear our kind. I've met a few in my time, and one or two of them still send letters. I remember one little minx from the time I visited Nyka—quite a voyage, let me tell you. She was part of the crew on the ship sailing east, and this was before I married so… well, that's another story. Where was I? Right, yes. Layers. Basic armor lends not only protection from the elements but bulk to our forms. Donning foreign attire over a neat application of wrappings can give the appearance of volume and presence. Gloves are essential. Our claws stand out so well in the light, black things they are. And a cowl to top it off. You could go the extra yard and wrap a scarf over your mouth to boot, but it's not entirely dignified. Don't wear it as if you are hiding something, rather it's better to look as if you are ill and are containing your sickness. When approaching surrogates, you may have to alter the guise, depending on your method. Onto my exploits, then. I managed to procure a room at a local inn. It's a disgusting place, really, but no one seems keen to my presence and it gives me a place to escape at night. The Knights are suspicious of Symenestra, and I'd prefer avoiding them to beguiling them. The latter only lasts so long. It is night, and I'm still quite tired from the boat ride. Motion sickness, you see. No one tells you about how ships sway and rock beneath your feet, and all there is to grab onto are other parts of the ship swaying and rocking. Tomorrow I will begin perusing some of the local businesses and flavors. Calivol has requested a blonde. Personally, I don't see his obsession with yellow hair.

More Readable Version :

Spring 85th, 510 years post Valterrian Nightfall. Still bright as all Hai. Layers. Layers are key. We look different from humans. Our pallor and slim builds ensure that we stand out in a crowd. Thankfully Syliras is home to a veritable hodgepodge of differing races, so the key is not to make oneself look human, per se, but to look ordinary and indistinguishable. Humans are still by far the majority in this place, but you'll find the odd, pale Konti or towering Akalak roving the streets. Akalak are to be avoided at all costs, whether in disguise or not. Konti are… well, they are fun little creatures who have no reason to fear our kind. I've met a few in my time, and one or two of them still send letters. I remember one little minx from the time I visited Nyka—quite a voyage, let me tell you. She was part of the crew on the ship sailing east, and this was before I married so… well, that's another story. Where was I? Right, yes. Layers. Basic armor lends not only protection from the elements but bulk to our forms. Donning foreign attire over a neat application of wrappings can give the appearance of volume and presence. Gloves are essential. Our claws stand out so well in the light, black things they are. And a cowl to top it off. You could go the extra yard and wrap a scarf over your mouth to boot, but it's not entirely dignified. Don't wear it as if you are hiding something, rather it's better to look as if you are ill and are containing your sickness. When approaching surrogates, you may have to alter the guise, depending on your method. Onto my exploits, then. I managed to procure a room at a local inn. It's a disgusting place, really, but no one seems keen to my presence and it gives me a place to escape at night. The Knights are suspicious of Symenestra, and I'd prefer avoiding them to beguiling them. The latter only lasts so long. It is night, and I'm still quite tired from the boat ride. Motion sickness, you see. No one tells you about how ships sway and rock beneath your feet, and all there is to grab onto are other parts of the ship swaying and rocking. Tomorrow I will begin perusing some of the local businesses and flavors. Calivol has requested a blonde. Personally, I don't see his obsession with yellow hair.