I was born in the rooms below Throneshields and apprenticed to Master Ellestrakust. As a dwarf I know that I'm supposed to honor the stones of our tunnels and became adept at the mason's art of finding the sympathy between two stones, that they might cleave to eachother without seam. However, my eyes always tended to stray past the lintels and porticos up to the forbidden horizons - while Master Ellestrakust lectured on the importances of corner and keystones, on the balance of opposing forces and the earth-lore of the deep miners.
I admit it now, though before I dared not, even to myself:
Though I attended his lectures with ready ear, my heart dwelt not in solid stone or sparkling gem but in unknown horizons and a most undwarvenly appetite for wide open spaces. One night I snuck out of the apprentice's caverns and into the Museum proper, where they quaffed mead so fresh, the bees were still buzzing. That night changed my life forever, for an old dwarf, with many scars and twinkling eyes, paid for his mead with words of derring-do and stealthy skill, of deeds and lands both fantastic and distant, of seas he'd swum and foes he'd vanquished, of treasures gained and companions lost, often within moments of each-other. My heart leapt double-time in my chest, and he noticed my shy eyes brighten over edge of my mead barrel, for he beckoned me over and offered me a biscuit made of polar bear tongue spiced with some unknown topside greenery. "The trick to these things", he spoke quietly, as I savored the enticingly strange flavor, "is to follow your heart, but keep both eyes open. Remember, 'Should' and 'if' never did exist, only 'is' or 'is not'. When your 'is', 'is not', go whence you came."
I wasn't quite sure what he meant, but the buzzing mead was strong and it hit my head like a load of stone rolling off a peasant's back and we all had a roaring good time after that. The morning was another story, for I had to admit my escapade to my old master and see his familiar brow furrow in concern over my discontent once more.
"Oh, Graniteriddles, Graniteriddles, what am I to do with you?" he asked tiredly, his eyes skipping from cornice to join in the ceiling, checking for nonexistant cracks more out of habit than purpose as his mind examined the problem of his sky-minded apprentice from all angles, like the plans to some improbable noble-inspired structure. A long silence passed, he considering, me fidgeting with my hem. The silence stretched on and on until finally he let out a deep sigh and focused once more on my small and trembling form.
"You have no real place within the safety of stone and clan - your sense of duty has been overcome by your curiosity time and again and it ever shall be, I fear." He again let out a great sigh. "So be it." He then gestured to someone behind me, "You may as well come into the light, old freind, it seems you've stolen another of my apprentices."
He was answered by a chuckle as the old tale-teller stepped out of the shadows. "Her heart was distant long before I tasted my first homecoming mead, old stonefitter. Let me show her her heart's desire." With that he removed her pale, dusty novice's cloak and handed it solemnly to her sorrow-eyed master before clasping a brown and green one to my shoulders. Come, little ranger, let's see where your heart has led you.
In the dim room, I saw the old mason raise the cast-away cloak to wipe away a tear, as if mourning the death of a loved one. I thought nothing of it at the time, thinking it the sentimentality of an old dwarf in his hole, mourning younger years.
~~
It is the 3rd of Granite, the 1060th cycle since the Making as the gnomon-keepers reckon it and I, Graniteriddles Asob, am a newly apprenticed huntress. How my heart hammers: the sky is so big! I wonder, is it hung using something akin to the sympathy of stone?
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Topic: The Museum II; adventure succession world (game is finished) (Read 116681 times)