4th February 353

Empath Abbey: between two worlds

It had taken him over 18 months to write his story into 10 volumes. He could hear the wind howling outside the abbey, and from one of the north-facing windows he could see waves breaking wildly on the shore. He shuddered. He had one more task before leaving, to find a Militia Guardsman to give the bag containing his uniform, a sum of gold and an explanatory note. He had been carrying this around with him ever since he had resigned, seemingly an age ago, when he had passed through Stonekeep and found nowhere to leave it. All this time he had been waiting to come across someone to hand it to.

Just then he heard the sound of a mailed soldier entering the abbey and he smiled at how sometimes the thought produces the event. He left his room and saw it was indeed a guardsman, a footman - the rank he had himself attained. He approached and saw it was a lady, and handed her the heavy bag of equipment. He was taken aback by her hint, after she had read his note, that he may be marked as a deserter, but she was friendly enough.

So thats done! Smaed sighed. He had felt for a moment while talking to the footie the tug of the past, a kind of longing or reaching out, to become the Waywatcher he had once dreamed of as a 15 year old recruit. But he knew as a half-elf he could not go back. He had received no reply yet from Jern, and truth be told he had no great wish to return to Trinsic at this time. He felt a strong need first to find his place in the world, and then perhaps he might be ready to face his mother. He felt he was at some sort of crossroads in his life.

He went into the chapel and sat in contemplation for a while, fingering the wooden ankh he bore on a chain round his neck, wrestling with conflicting emotions. Then suddenly he knew what he should do: he had to return to Silverleaf and there make a clear choice of paths.

He waited a few days until the storm passed and a chill sun, low on the horizon, shone bleakly, making the rine frost glint. The following day he bade farewell to his scribe friend, Conrad, telling him where he was going. Then he set out well before dawn on the coastal path he had trodden before, arriving at the riven dell far into the night, under a diamond-filled sky, the waxing moon so bright that it cast shadows.

All was quiet, yet the village was well-cared for and indeed had grown. There stood now a shrine behind the tavern - a shrine to the Virtues, the sign clearly showed in the moonlight. He went in and was surprised to see that it had rows of benches facing a large Ankh, a bit like his once beloved Stonekeep Church!

He sat for a few moments on one of the benches and enjoyed the tranquility and the lighter effect of the marble interior contrasting to the stern gothic stone of the Militia church, smiling to himself. His decision to return had been right.

He would wait and hope to meet his father or one of the other villagers on the morrow.