Grandfather died today. It was quick, and sudden. There was no build up. No rising tension to an insurmountable conflict, no sneaking disease, no lingering knife that claimed him. It was nothing more than the encroaching tide of old age. I found him slumped over his favorite writing desk, inkwells split across the fine, Calishite parchment he so adored and his age-old quill held firmly as if even in death, there was still much more to write. At first I felt sorrow, then, selfishly, relief. I knew even when I was young that one day my grandfather’s work would kill him. People underestimate the strain that it takes on one's mind to hold onto an unanswerable question, a purpose that can never be fulfilled. I suppose that is now what is drawing me to write, even now as I sit at my grandfather’s desk, writing on the same parchment he died upon. The Kelemvorites reeled him from our home once I had called for them. They are a kind people, the Kelemvorites. They gave him his final rites, and a funeral was held in our local graveyard in Arrabar.
“Did you wish to follow us back to the Chapel, Mr. Paletail, to escort your grandfather?”
“No. A morgue is the last place I would like to be right now.” I replied. I felt bitterness in my tone when I said that. Only when the door shut below, and I felt the odd quiet rest over the house like a dull cloud, was when the tears arrived with due haste. I had not cried in so long, not since I was a boy, not since my parent’s indelible passing. Now, I was truly alone despite all of grandfather’s teachings, all his preparation for this very day, it still hurt beyond all belief. His funeral eased some part of the pain on my soul. It was pleasant seeing my grandfather’s friends, colleagues and even some family arrive and pay their respects to a great man. Even the sun seemed to show sympathy, granting us a warm, agreeable day to mourn him.
“Landen,” Karan called after me once the procession was over, “How are you? Silly question, I know but I just want to make sure you’re alright.”
It was a silly question, but coming from Karan I felt my knees buckle, my lips quivering at their ends as if ready to unleash another torrent of sorrow.
“I am just glad he got the farewell he deserved.”
“It was nice, wasn’t it? Seeing all his friends here. As soon as I heard what happened, I came as quickly as I could.”
“Thank you, Karan. It’s hard to care for most who came here, but you? It means a lot, and I imagine it would mean the world to my grandfather, too.”
It was calming to feel him touch me again. A hug was what I needed, even though I didn’t know I needed it. Smelling the fragrance of his bright blonde hair brought back feelings of a time long past, and as much as I wanted to speak on those feelings to him, a funeral was the last place I wanted to do it. I kept hold of him as long as he willed it, and he must have known it was what could begin to mend the aching scar I’d added to my repertoire today because he did not let go, not for a long time. Barten, my boss per se, told me to take the day off to rest, or more if I needed it. I figured that day was as good as any to open my grandfather’s wine collection, but to break it open on the day of his death? I thought against it after much deliberation. I returned to work the day after, and fought through the waves of condolences kindly, but awkwardly offered by my colleagues at the local temple of Deneir. I sought refuge in the study area, digging my nose into ‘A Matter of Chance’ by Tivialix Ravaphius, a raunchy, if not comically bad, romance novel to distract myself. It was Karan’s favourite. But my joy found in reading Ravaphius’ laughable prose was put on pause when Barten had found me.
“Paletail, there you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Here to offer your condolences, Barten?”
“You’ve gotten enough of that already, Paletail. I won’t be feeding your misery this day.”
“Then what is it?”
“The High Scrivener wishes to speak with you.”
Leave it to the higher echelons of the Deneirrath church to disregard your misery for the sake of pursuing knowledge. That burgeoning anxiety reaches its peak, however, any time the High Scrivener wishes to speak with me. I’ve spent too many occasions sitting in his office, face down with his sickly tea breath wafting over me during an intense monologue about the importance of protocol and our mission. But something was different this time around; the High Scrivener was flanked by the Aspirant Scriveners and his Full Scrivener.
“Mr. Paletail, take a seat.”
“Is something the matter?” I inquired.
“Not at all. In fact, this might be the most positive instance in which you’ve come to this office, Mr. Paletail. We have a task for you, an important one.”
“Of course, let’s hear it.”
“I assume you’re well versed in the history of Amn? Regardless, we have received word that The Small Teeth has reopened, connecting Amn once more. I imagine this might bring a wave of new information and important historical events to follow. We want you, along with Markus Huntbone, our prodigal Aspirant Scrivener, to journey there and make connections with the Order of the Vaunted Word in Murann.”
“Why me? Surely Barten, or any other Zealot is far more qualified to do this job, sir.”
“Despite your clear disregard for the way we do things here, Mr. Paletail, the other Scriveners have decided that you are most suited for this job. Unpredictability, bullheadedness, stubbornness; that is what is required out there, beyond the walls of Arrabar to survive the roads to Amn. Letting you rot here in your own misery would be a waste of talent.”
I reluctantly agreed, not that it mattered. It was strange hearing the High Scrivener’s ‘praise’, as if all my insubordination had been validated. It was unclear what sort of message he was trying to send me, if any at all. He is old, after all, and on that chance perhaps anything that comes from his mouth is nothing more than the ramblings of an old-man who believes himself to be a sage of his time. But out there I feel like I have a chance now. A chance to find what my grandfather was looking for, not stuck in a chair in a dusty old house, but out in the wild. On the roads where dangers and strife are abundant and clear. This will be the written word of a man’s purpose.
“Did you wish to follow us back to the Chapel, Mr. Paletail, to escort your grandfather?”
“No. A morgue is the last place I would like to be right now.” I replied. I felt bitterness in my tone when I said that. Only when the door shut below, and I felt the odd quiet rest over the house like a dull cloud, was when the tears arrived with due haste. I had not cried in so long, not since I was a boy, not since my parent’s indelible passing. Now, I was truly alone despite all of grandfather’s teachings, all his preparation for this very day, it still hurt beyond all belief. His funeral eased some part of the pain on my soul. It was pleasant seeing my grandfather’s friends, colleagues and even some family arrive and pay their respects to a great man. Even the sun seemed to show sympathy, granting us a warm, agreeable day to mourn him.
“Landen,” Karan called after me once the procession was over, “How are you? Silly question, I know but I just want to make sure you’re alright.”
It was a silly question, but coming from Karan I felt my knees buckle, my lips quivering at their ends as if ready to unleash another torrent of sorrow.
“I am just glad he got the farewell he deserved.”
“It was nice, wasn’t it? Seeing all his friends here. As soon as I heard what happened, I came as quickly as I could.”
“Thank you, Karan. It’s hard to care for most who came here, but you? It means a lot, and I imagine it would mean the world to my grandfather, too.”
It was calming to feel him touch me again. A hug was what I needed, even though I didn’t know I needed it. Smelling the fragrance of his bright blonde hair brought back feelings of a time long past, and as much as I wanted to speak on those feelings to him, a funeral was the last place I wanted to do it. I kept hold of him as long as he willed it, and he must have known it was what could begin to mend the aching scar I’d added to my repertoire today because he did not let go, not for a long time. Barten, my boss per se, told me to take the day off to rest, or more if I needed it. I figured that day was as good as any to open my grandfather’s wine collection, but to break it open on the day of his death? I thought against it after much deliberation. I returned to work the day after, and fought through the waves of condolences kindly, but awkwardly offered by my colleagues at the local temple of Deneir. I sought refuge in the study area, digging my nose into ‘A Matter of Chance’ by Tivialix Ravaphius, a raunchy, if not comically bad, romance novel to distract myself. It was Karan’s favourite. But my joy found in reading Ravaphius’ laughable prose was put on pause when Barten had found me.
“Paletail, there you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Here to offer your condolences, Barten?”
“You’ve gotten enough of that already, Paletail. I won’t be feeding your misery this day.”
“Then what is it?”
“The High Scrivener wishes to speak with you.”
Leave it to the higher echelons of the Deneirrath church to disregard your misery for the sake of pursuing knowledge. That burgeoning anxiety reaches its peak, however, any time the High Scrivener wishes to speak with me. I’ve spent too many occasions sitting in his office, face down with his sickly tea breath wafting over me during an intense monologue about the importance of protocol and our mission. But something was different this time around; the High Scrivener was flanked by the Aspirant Scriveners and his Full Scrivener.
“Mr. Paletail, take a seat.”
“Is something the matter?” I inquired.
“Not at all. In fact, this might be the most positive instance in which you’ve come to this office, Mr. Paletail. We have a task for you, an important one.”
“Of course, let’s hear it.”
“I assume you’re well versed in the history of Amn? Regardless, we have received word that The Small Teeth has reopened, connecting Amn once more. I imagine this might bring a wave of new information and important historical events to follow. We want you, along with Markus Huntbone, our prodigal Aspirant Scrivener, to journey there and make connections with the Order of the Vaunted Word in Murann.”
“Why me? Surely Barten, or any other Zealot is far more qualified to do this job, sir.”
“Despite your clear disregard for the way we do things here, Mr. Paletail, the other Scriveners have decided that you are most suited for this job. Unpredictability, bullheadedness, stubbornness; that is what is required out there, beyond the walls of Arrabar to survive the roads to Amn. Letting you rot here in your own misery would be a waste of talent.”
I reluctantly agreed, not that it mattered. It was strange hearing the High Scrivener’s ‘praise’, as if all my insubordination had been validated. It was unclear what sort of message he was trying to send me, if any at all. He is old, after all, and on that chance perhaps anything that comes from his mouth is nothing more than the ramblings of an old-man who believes himself to be a sage of his time. But out there I feel like I have a chance now. A chance to find what my grandfather was looking for, not stuck in a chair in a dusty old house, but out in the wild. On the roads where dangers and strife are abundant and clear. This will be the written word of a man’s purpose.
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