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I don't know.
[ He draws and considers his options for longer than necessary, since he's also thinking about the question. ]
Maybe if I had a library and a ballroom and my own bed I would have been content. I could have stayed home and written bad poetry. And everyone would have to tell me was brilliant, because I was paying for their wine.
Or maybe I would have been the same beast with a wider reach and sharper claws.
[ He draws and considers his options for longer than necessary, since he's also thinking about the question. ]
Maybe if I had a library and a ballroom and my own bed I would have been content. I could have stayed home and written bad poetry. And everyone would have to tell me was brilliant, because I was paying for their wine.
Or maybe I would have been the same beast with a wider reach and sharper claws.
[ By clucks his tongue as he loses. Badly. He gathers up the cards and takes a turn as dealer. ]
Rather few of your behaviors strike me as particularly foxlike. Unless you are referring to the fact that you're foxy.
[ A very lame line. Fortunately, deliberately so. ]
Rather few of your behaviors strike me as particularly foxlike. Unless you are referring to the fact that you're foxy.
[ A very lame line. Fortunately, deliberately so. ]
[ No arguments there, the tip of Athessa's head says. ]
He found Ghilan'nain while she was out on a hunt with her sisters, and lured her away from them. He told her he'd learned his lesson and begged her to come with him, so she could teach him to make a proper offering to Andruil. Moved by his plea, Ghilan'nain followed the hunter, and when they were away from all of her sisters, the hunter turned on her. He blinded her, then bound her as one would bind a fresh kill from the hunt. But because he was cursed, the hunter could not kill her. Instead he left her for dead in the forest.
Ghilan'nain prayed to the gods for help. She prayed to Elgar'nan for vengeance, to Mother Mythal to protect her, but with all her heart she prayed to Andruil. Andruil sent her hares to Ghilan'nain and they chewed through the ropes that bound her, but Ghilan'nain was still wounded and blind, and couldn't find her way home. So Andruil turned her into a beautiful white deer, and Ghilan'nain found her way back to her sisters, and led them to the hunter, who was brought to justice.
[ For the ending, she adopts a wizened accent, like that of the elder of her clan: ]
Since then, the halla have guided our People, and have never led us astray, for they listen to the voice of Ghilan'nain.
He found Ghilan'nain while she was out on a hunt with her sisters, and lured her away from them. He told her he'd learned his lesson and begged her to come with him, so she could teach him to make a proper offering to Andruil. Moved by his plea, Ghilan'nain followed the hunter, and when they were away from all of her sisters, the hunter turned on her. He blinded her, then bound her as one would bind a fresh kill from the hunt. But because he was cursed, the hunter could not kill her. Instead he left her for dead in the forest.
Ghilan'nain prayed to the gods for help. She prayed to Elgar'nan for vengeance, to Mother Mythal to protect her, but with all her heart she prayed to Andruil. Andruil sent her hares to Ghilan'nain and they chewed through the ropes that bound her, but Ghilan'nain was still wounded and blind, and couldn't find her way home. So Andruil turned her into a beautiful white deer, and Ghilan'nain found her way back to her sisters, and led them to the hunter, who was brought to justice.
[ For the ending, she adopts a wizened accent, like that of the elder of her clan: ]
Since then, the halla have guided our People, and have never led us astray, for they listen to the voice of Ghilan'nain.
[ It is not said, directly, but here and there. That even mention comes up little and late, despite it being the whole of her letter to him. That it began with other thoughts. That he writes of loss but good spirits despite it, his small problems alongside. "I am happy for you both" without the 'only' of her example.
And so she thinks it is true. And then she thinks for another day, and drapes a veil over her reply as well. ]
B—
Despite the pain there, which I am sure your ready smile is helping to alleviate, I might be envious that you are travelling in Orlais save that I am having a lovely time on this ship.
I once kept company with another landscape artist who loved to paint the sea. Not even where it touches the land, only water upon water. 'How can you paint so?' I would exclaim. 'There is nothing!' It has taken me until now, watching it as I do each day, to find I was wrong— there is everything; it was simply that I did not know how to see it beyond my thoughts of what was missing.
Whilst I was learning, it made me cross to see other ships on the horizon. Even only their sails in the distance got in the way of my contemplation! Of course I knew we could not be the only ship on the sea, that would be terribly silly. After all there is trade that must be done, pleasure jaunts to be had, but even so, I was not sure yet, of the sea. What were they seeing, from those other ships? Things I could not? Unbearable.
But time passed; and one night, when I could barely see the horizon, and I felt I was alone with it, we came to a sort of accord. Now, even in the light I find I can love the sea with a sort of breathless freedom, and I think, perhaps, it has loved me back all the while. I find I can be glad of other ships, others who might be standing at the rail loving it too.
Perhaps one of them is my old friend! It pleases me greatly to think so. There is enough sea for us both, and I need not worry about which of us is painting it better. My paintings shall never be the same as his, for I think the sea is different for each of us, and it should be silly to compare our work. Perhaps together, with enough care and dedication, he and I might manage to paint a more complete picture; as it deserves.
And it is nice to think someone will always be painting it. After all, as you know, the land is a great love of mine and I shall never abandon it. I cannot give all my brushstrokes to the sea, and when I am elsewhere it would grieve me to think there is no-one looking at it with love. I should never wish it lonely.
Per your request, I will bring you two songs of joy; one they sing alone, and one together.
—A
And so she thinks it is true. And then she thinks for another day, and drapes a veil over her reply as well. ]
B—
Despite the pain there, which I am sure your ready smile is helping to alleviate, I might be envious that you are travelling in Orlais save that I am having a lovely time on this ship.
I once kept company with another landscape artist who loved to paint the sea. Not even where it touches the land, only water upon water. 'How can you paint so?' I would exclaim. 'There is nothing!' It has taken me until now, watching it as I do each day, to find I was wrong— there is everything; it was simply that I did not know how to see it beyond my thoughts of what was missing.
Whilst I was learning, it made me cross to see other ships on the horizon. Even only their sails in the distance got in the way of my contemplation! Of course I knew we could not be the only ship on the sea, that would be terribly silly. After all there is trade that must be done, pleasure jaunts to be had, but even so, I was not sure yet, of the sea. What were they seeing, from those other ships? Things I could not? Unbearable.
But time passed; and one night, when I could barely see the horizon, and I felt I was alone with it, we came to a sort of accord. Now, even in the light I find I can love the sea with a sort of breathless freedom, and I think, perhaps, it has loved me back all the while. I find I can be glad of other ships, others who might be standing at the rail loving it too.
Perhaps one of them is my old friend! It pleases me greatly to think so. There is enough sea for us both, and I need not worry about which of us is painting it better. My paintings shall never be the same as his, for I think the sea is different for each of us, and it should be silly to compare our work. Perhaps together, with enough care and dedication, he and I might manage to paint a more complete picture; as it deserves.
And it is nice to think someone will always be painting it. After all, as you know, the land is a great love of mine and I shall never abandon it. I cannot give all my brushstrokes to the sea, and when I am elsewhere it would grieve me to think there is no-one looking at it with love. I should never wish it lonely.
Per your request, I will bring you two songs of joy; one they sing alone, and one together.
—A
Edited 2020-09-04 18:28 (UTC)
p.s. I wonder what the sea thinks of such a thing; perhaps I am being terribly presumptuous.
[ Just beneath her post script, with handwriting slightly less respectable and slightly more scrawled: ]
I’m sure the sea thinks itself vast, limitless, eternal, and entirely deserving of adoration from the tiny people skimming around on top of it. Or perhaps it thinks: rudders tickle, and someone make the fish stop squirming, and everyone please stop pissing in me.
[ The limitations of metaphor.
The rest is on the next page, and back to being neatly written. Her meaning didn’t escape him; it’s tucked into a pocket, also metaphorically, for if/when he reaches a juncture in his arguments with himself where her good grace matters. ]
You have a generous heart, Alexandrie. Of course it can multitask well. But I would not have you devote even a sliver of it to worrying about me right now. You can worry about me later; I will signal you when it is time.
You must also not worry about Byerly being cross with you. He told me before I saw you had written.
If you must worry about something, I recommend pirates, storms, and Antivan Crows. I have heard recently, too, of an Antivan opera singer who caused someone’s ears to bleed. Almost certainly nonsense, but you might carry beeswax in case.
B.
I’m sure the sea thinks itself vast, limitless, eternal, and entirely deserving of adoration from the tiny people skimming around on top of it. Or perhaps it thinks: rudders tickle, and someone make the fish stop squirming, and everyone please stop pissing in me.
[ The limitations of metaphor.
The rest is on the next page, and back to being neatly written. Her meaning didn’t escape him; it’s tucked into a pocket, also metaphorically, for if/when he reaches a juncture in his arguments with himself where her good grace matters. ]
You have a generous heart, Alexandrie. Of course it can multitask well. But I would not have you devote even a sliver of it to worrying about me right now. You can worry about me later; I will signal you when it is time.
You must also not worry about Byerly being cross with you. He told me before I saw you had written.
If you must worry about something, I recommend pirates, storms, and Antivan Crows. I have heard recently, too, of an Antivan opera singer who caused someone’s ears to bleed. Almost certainly nonsense, but you might carry beeswax in case.
B.
[ He's a reactive listener—frowning at the deception, wincing at the blinding and binding, then transitioning into a melancholy sort of relief at the conclusion, before ultimately smiling at her old person act. ]
I like that. I'm glad she was rescued. But did she remain a halla forever? Do you think she was happy?
I like that. I'm glad she was rescued. But did she remain a halla forever? Do you think she was happy?
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