Elric VIII
2013-05-28, 09:56 PM
http://imageshack.us/a/img14/7320/booktop.jpg
I've been sworn to secrecy on this matter, so I'm not entirely sure why I'm keeping this journal, save for the fact that it is cathartic
to put pen to paper. My name is Corwin MacLeod and I have recently been conscripted into the service of the queen herself. She's
definitely more than I expected, but I'm getting ahead of myself. I think the best place to start is the beginning; specifically my
beginning.
I was seventeen at the time and I worked in my father's bookstore. It was just the two of us, now. My mother and sister had
succumb to the smallpox about 6 years prior. My father would spend much of his time in his private study while I tended shop. I had
learned to read and write at a young age.
I was closing up now—my father had gone to run an errand that morning and was still not back—when a constable entered the shop.
With a solemn word of apology he handed me a note informing me that my father had been a victim of a mugging that had gone
wrong. He had been stabbed and left for dead. This hit me hard, but there was nothing I could do but keep moving forward.
The next day I left the shop closed and felt that I should begin clearing out his study. At the time I didn't know why I decided to
get rid of his possessions, but I had this overwhelming urge that it had to be done. I had stayed away from that room for the most
part, so it gave me an interesting look into who my father was. However, the most startling thing I found was an alcove behind a
false wall. There was a small bookcase in there with tomes that appeared to be quite old. Based on the dust that had accumulated, he
had not touched any of them for some time, except for one. The streak in the dust was freshly made, he must have been looking at
it the day he died.
Flipping through the pages I saw various annotations and calculations in my father's hand, but I could not understand any of the
concepts within. There was mention of fate, probability, and the connection between the two. Scribbled on the back cover was a name,
"Grandmother Greymane." I had never heard it before, but my inquiries the following days pointed me toward a nearby Gypsy camp.
The Romany were always associated with the occult, so I was not surprised.
By the time I had managed to track down Grandmother Greymane two weeks had passed. I had done my best to study the tome and
divine its secrets, but I still understood very little. The most interesting thing I had noticed was that it approached what is essentially
witchcraft with a scientific view, almost as if there was some form of structure to it. I still had no idea why I was bothering with this,
but something seemed to be pushing me onward.
As I traveled through the camp, surrounded by intricately decorated wagons and even more interestingly decorated people, I could not
help but feel unapproving eyes on the back of my neck. I was an outsider and they seemed determined to subtly let me know that I do
not belong here. Grandmother Greymane's wagon was toward the center of the camp, I can only assume she was an important person.
My knock on her door was greeted by silence. I could feel those around me halting their work and staring daggers at me (I even feared
that some might be drawing them). After what seemed like an eternity of tension I heard one word uttered from within the wagon.
"Enter."
My relief at this was short-lived. The interior of the wagon was dimly lit and smelled strongly of incense. A small woman sat at a table,
slowly turning over some sort of cards. When she looked up at me I felt frozen in place. This small woman seemed to command the weight
of the world. Her accent was quite thick, but when she said, "sit," I obeyed immediately. "I was wondering when you would show up," she
said, as though expecting me for some time.
I was too stunned to speak at this point, so the silence sat for some time. I simply watched her turn over her cards and occasionally shake
her head. Eventually she stopped and put the cards in a pile to her side. She looked up at me and said, "you are Malcolm MacLeod's son,"
I could tell that she was not asking, merely stating a fact.
"Your father came to see me many times, but he was not meant for this," she said as she reached into a pocket in her dress. "I want you
to take this, but this answer does not come free. My grandson, Woton, will be born a fortnight from now. He will need your help one day.
I want you to be there to ensure his wellbeing." She pulled out a small medallion that appeared to be carved from dark wood and ivory. It
had the image of 3 white-robed women, they appeared to be weavers (although I would later learn that they were a depiction of the Moirai,
the Fates), carved into it. "Now go," and with that she picked up her cards and began to deal them again, ignoring me now.
Over the next few years I continued to study the medallion and the books. they really were witchcraft, but not the kind that is thought to
be "common knowledge." There was a science behind this. The books spoke of a thing called the "Tapestry" which was the fabric of reality.
Some people could pull a string here or there to make it do what they want. However, at the time I didn't know that pulling too hard had
consequences. I learned that the hard way.
We, the Mages, have a special conduit through which we change the world. It is an extension of our soul and a part of our consciousness.
It is called the "Avatar." Now, I did not know this at the time, but the Avatar has an agenda of its own. That is what pushed me to discover
the book and that is what pushed me to explore the depths of my talent; it is also what led me to my current situation in Her Majesty's
employ.
But, before I get into that, I should tell you an interesting thing about myself. Yes, more interesting than being able to change reality.
Remember what I said about pushing my limits and pulling at the Tapestry too hard? Well, in what I can only describe as very delayed
grief, I felt the urge to get closure and find who killed my father. It was during my attempts at divining the culprit that I pulled one
too many strings and felt the backlash. It seems some sort of mark was placed upon me. I seem to attract unwanted attention from the
supernatural while being nearly unnoticeable to the common person. Really, at this point I just wanted to be left alone to run my store and
forget about magic and the occult, but it seems Fate has a different plan. So now here we are, 16 years later.
http://imageshack.us/a/img689/6088/bookbottom.jpg
I've been sworn to secrecy on this matter, so I'm not entirely sure why I'm keeping this journal, save for the fact that it is cathartic
to put pen to paper. My name is Corwin MacLeod and I have recently been conscripted into the service of the queen herself. She's
definitely more than I expected, but I'm getting ahead of myself. I think the best place to start is the beginning; specifically my
beginning.
I was seventeen at the time and I worked in my father's bookstore. It was just the two of us, now. My mother and sister had
succumb to the smallpox about 6 years prior. My father would spend much of his time in his private study while I tended shop. I had
learned to read and write at a young age.
I was closing up now—my father had gone to run an errand that morning and was still not back—when a constable entered the shop.
With a solemn word of apology he handed me a note informing me that my father had been a victim of a mugging that had gone
wrong. He had been stabbed and left for dead. This hit me hard, but there was nothing I could do but keep moving forward.
The next day I left the shop closed and felt that I should begin clearing out his study. At the time I didn't know why I decided to
get rid of his possessions, but I had this overwhelming urge that it had to be done. I had stayed away from that room for the most
part, so it gave me an interesting look into who my father was. However, the most startling thing I found was an alcove behind a
false wall. There was a small bookcase in there with tomes that appeared to be quite old. Based on the dust that had accumulated, he
had not touched any of them for some time, except for one. The streak in the dust was freshly made, he must have been looking at
it the day he died.
Flipping through the pages I saw various annotations and calculations in my father's hand, but I could not understand any of the
concepts within. There was mention of fate, probability, and the connection between the two. Scribbled on the back cover was a name,
"Grandmother Greymane." I had never heard it before, but my inquiries the following days pointed me toward a nearby Gypsy camp.
The Romany were always associated with the occult, so I was not surprised.
By the time I had managed to track down Grandmother Greymane two weeks had passed. I had done my best to study the tome and
divine its secrets, but I still understood very little. The most interesting thing I had noticed was that it approached what is essentially
witchcraft with a scientific view, almost as if there was some form of structure to it. I still had no idea why I was bothering with this,
but something seemed to be pushing me onward.
As I traveled through the camp, surrounded by intricately decorated wagons and even more interestingly decorated people, I could not
help but feel unapproving eyes on the back of my neck. I was an outsider and they seemed determined to subtly let me know that I do
not belong here. Grandmother Greymane's wagon was toward the center of the camp, I can only assume she was an important person.
My knock on her door was greeted by silence. I could feel those around me halting their work and staring daggers at me (I even feared
that some might be drawing them). After what seemed like an eternity of tension I heard one word uttered from within the wagon.
"Enter."
My relief at this was short-lived. The interior of the wagon was dimly lit and smelled strongly of incense. A small woman sat at a table,
slowly turning over some sort of cards. When she looked up at me I felt frozen in place. This small woman seemed to command the weight
of the world. Her accent was quite thick, but when she said, "sit," I obeyed immediately. "I was wondering when you would show up," she
said, as though expecting me for some time.
I was too stunned to speak at this point, so the silence sat for some time. I simply watched her turn over her cards and occasionally shake
her head. Eventually she stopped and put the cards in a pile to her side. She looked up at me and said, "you are Malcolm MacLeod's son,"
I could tell that she was not asking, merely stating a fact.
"Your father came to see me many times, but he was not meant for this," she said as she reached into a pocket in her dress. "I want you
to take this, but this answer does not come free. My grandson, Woton, will be born a fortnight from now. He will need your help one day.
I want you to be there to ensure his wellbeing." She pulled out a small medallion that appeared to be carved from dark wood and ivory. It
had the image of 3 white-robed women, they appeared to be weavers (although I would later learn that they were a depiction of the Moirai,
the Fates), carved into it. "Now go," and with that she picked up her cards and began to deal them again, ignoring me now.
Over the next few years I continued to study the medallion and the books. they really were witchcraft, but not the kind that is thought to
be "common knowledge." There was a science behind this. The books spoke of a thing called the "Tapestry" which was the fabric of reality.
Some people could pull a string here or there to make it do what they want. However, at the time I didn't know that pulling too hard had
consequences. I learned that the hard way.
We, the Mages, have a special conduit through which we change the world. It is an extension of our soul and a part of our consciousness.
It is called the "Avatar." Now, I did not know this at the time, but the Avatar has an agenda of its own. That is what pushed me to discover
the book and that is what pushed me to explore the depths of my talent; it is also what led me to my current situation in Her Majesty's
employ.
But, before I get into that, I should tell you an interesting thing about myself. Yes, more interesting than being able to change reality.
Remember what I said about pushing my limits and pulling at the Tapestry too hard? Well, in what I can only describe as very delayed
grief, I felt the urge to get closure and find who killed my father. It was during my attempts at divining the culprit that I pulled one
too many strings and felt the backlash. It seems some sort of mark was placed upon me. I seem to attract unwanted attention from the
supernatural while being nearly unnoticeable to the common person. Really, at this point I just wanted to be left alone to run my store and
forget about magic and the occult, but it seems Fate has a different plan. So now here we are, 16 years later.
http://imageshack.us/a/img689/6088/bookbottom.jpg