There is no time to explain--Mistress is waiting. Brother monk, you will understand that I am using the Mind-scribe technique to record all events as they happen, and therefore must be tedious in details. I am sorry that you have such a poor narrator but hope you will agree that the added accuracy and order justify this approach. And in this strange land, with such strange and terrible creatures, it helps to calm and focus my ki. It is wild and fearful, brother. A tempest of anxiety ricochets through my gut, propelling me hither and thither to pointless tasks and forgotten objectives. Now twilight has faded into early night, and the shadows of great fir trees stab at me from the darkness.
Pray for me, brother, my situation is dire. But if the Gods' favor my survival, I will transcribe these words on parchment and mail them to the Berdusk Monastery at the first opportunity. May the brethren be amused and edified by my trials, sinner that I am.
Behold: a male halfling monk, of the Open Hand, thirty-four years of age, beardless as all halflings and with only modest mutton-chops ending just below the ear. A shoulder length mop of dark hair covers tanned skin and chestnut eyes. Completely naked. Although only two feet ten inches in height, field work and martial training have endowed me with a respectable musculature. An exception being the effeminate roundness settling about my hips and belly--a side effect of Brother Ambroc's exquisite sweet breads. Below that, the glans of my circumcised penis--the whole measuring 2.7 inches erect, a little short for halflings--pokes out from a mound of dark, curly pubic hair. Ten summers trudging the Sunset Vale for mushrooms has rewarded me with lean and strong legs; with my large, hairy halfling feet, I somewhat resemble a standing frog.
Over my right shoulder a filthy strap secures a large bundle of sticks and two logs, each spit in half. Another strap over the same shoulder supports two wineskins--the small one containing Twilight Wine and the larger fire wine. My hands carry a large copper serving tray atop which lie the following: Three clean cotton rags and one of Lolthian silk, two large philodendron leaves, flint and tinder, a clean wine goblet, a pile of ground rogue's morsel, a fresh twig roughly the diameter of my thumb, and a one-gallon spoutless kettle.
Shadowheart, my mistress, had purchased wine the previous day from a Zhentarim trader, Roah Moonglow, with proceeds earned by selling an unfortunate minstrel named Volo. The latter coming into her possession after being captured by goblins. Gods willing, I will describe the details of that transaction in a future letter. The cloth came from the garments of the same bard. A convenience unlikely to be of further use to him, I cleaned the shirt and breeches, then shredded them into rags. Cup and kettle were pilfered from the Goblin camp while the other materials were easily collected around camp. After a quick inventory to ensure I have omitted nothing, I turn toward the river.
Mistress has chosen to camp on the inside bank of a bend in the Chionthar River, where ancient floods have carved out a large flat area. A small creek, either unnamed or whose name is unknown to me, tumbles down from the steep hillside. Granite boulders are scattered throughout the camp, acting as walls to create separate, semi-private chambers. Opposite the river, a ridgeline rises steeply away from the camp, sometimes as sheer cliffs, and towers over our sandy bivouac. The dusky air occasionally raises a breeze, gently cooling my mind with aromas of azalea and apple blossom.
I descend slightly to the river by a wide path. At a budding thimbleberry bush it opens to the Chionthar and I step forward to present myself. Alas, my mistress is not here! Jolted by panic I quickly turn back and glance at her tent, which overlooks the encampment: she is not there! An inky darkness has settled upon the forest and I now feel the weight of the tray pressing on my biceps.
"Follow the wind and let the wind follow me" I reflexively whisper my mantra, to calm and center myself. If she is not near the river then she must be at the creek from which I collect water. Of course, what I fool I am!
The creek drops from a ridge that stands about 400 feet above camp. It cascades over large boulders, sometimes falling as much as five feet--far too much for a halfling to climb. Where along this creek is she? I can easily reach the creek from one of many different paths--low, toward the river; high up where I fetch water; or any of several other spots between. But walking the creek is impossible. Fear collects as a tension in my bowels begins to radiate throughout my core.
Follow her footsteps.
Yes, of course! I knew the Mind-scribe technique would not fail me. The discipline required by that method facilitates recall of monastery training. The lessons instruct me to not panic, to survey my surroundings, and to make a suitable plan. Ascending to her tent I inspect the soil--and indeed, there are fresh sabaton prints following the upper path. With great relief, I hasten forward, carefully tracing the steps. After about 200 meters I reach the small level opening where I collect water. The creek narrows into a vigorously flowing spout here, tumbling about four feet into a shallow pool. Steepness, along with a dense tangle of azelea and bramblebush, make further progress impossible.
About eight meters from the creek, across a mix of granite and sand, two boulders lay embedded into the hillside. One is much shorter, and the other lies atop the first but is set back a meter, thus forming a natural bench running along the base of the slope. There are chisel marks on the surface and near one corner of the bench. Very faint--without rigorous training to absorb these details I would have missed them entirely. The convenience of this spot is not altogether natural, and I can sense the vestiges of ancient activity. Very ancient. Only a whisper remains but the signal is clear: chieftains, high priests, or some other primitive grandees have stood here. For what purpose? The trace of magic lingers still, a new mineral gathered into the stone of Grandmother Earth, assertive in its presence but offering no explanation.
A wild apple tree grows adjacent. Unusual. This is not the type of place for an orchard, and such trees are uncommon in this region. It is no ancient, but instead projects a youthful, incipient beauty, only beginning to embody its full power. The roots clutch firmly to the surrounding granite. The trunk is strong and elegant, wrapped in a pale ruddy bark. Leafy branches carry spring buds in all directions, vainly poking the darkness. But especially, they reach across the shimmering creek and make the breeze ambrosial. A madness passes over me as the aroma fills my lungs: for an instant I want to drop my tray and rush into the arms of the tree, pressing my naked skin against it and curling into the cradle of its boughs.
Monk training restores my sanity, along with the silently whispered mantra: "Follow the wind and let the wind follow me." The tree drapes the entire nook with winsome and redolent buds, beckoning me to the primordial bench. My mistress is there.
While the moonlight creates a brilliant display as it reflects off the creek, Shadowheart chooses to remain in darkness. I sense her. A physical silhouette is barely perceptible--without the psychic connection we seem to share since our brief time on the nautiloid, I might have crashed into her unaware, as obtuse as a paladin. Instead, I feel her strength instantly as I come into proximity. Feminine energy infuses this space and draws the forest inward. It draws me. Madame's mind is occupied and she has, thus far, taken no notice of me.
My biceps are now straining to hold the tray. "Follow the wind and let the wind follow me," I begin chanting silently to myself, relying on monk training to divert attention from the flames of lactic acid coiling my arms. "Follow the wind and let the wind follow me," I focus only on the words. "Follow the wind and let the wind follow me." There is no cold, no biting insects, no mist from the creek pinching my bare buttocks, no breeze carrying the aroma of wild apple blossoms. All recede as I focus my thoughts entirely on the words: "Follow the--
She sees me and my meditation instantly breaks. Summoned by an index finger, I race toward her as if pulled by my spine, being careful to balance the tray with each stride. Within seconds only 12 inches separates me from the imposing steel of her sabatons. Downcast and supplicant, in the abject manner of all slaves, I beseech her armored feet, now covered in dust and goblin blood. My weak mind wanders back to the fierce determination in Shadowheart's eyes when she crushed the villain's skull. Her hair blown wild, brow deeply furrowed, and teeth clenched; she stomps his head into a viscous goo. The other wretches cower at her terrible rage--O my Artemisia!
Embarrassed by the lack of discipline, I pull my thoughts back the present and await orders. The armor will be cleaned at the first opportunity.
There is nothing. I focus on her breath, listening for slight modulations as it passes the threshold of her lips. Focusing all my thought--in, with a sweet pitch that fades as she is sated; out, passing almost without sound from her nose in a smooth flow. Again, in...and out. I think only of these sounds and forget the pain in my arms. Her precise thoughts never appear to me but, especially while standing so close, our connection often allows me to discern her feelings.
She is pleased. The day went well.
In...and out.
It was her first real combat test since leaving the cloister and she prevailed completely.
