Second Movement: Distant Memories

To describe today’s events as tumultous would be an understatement akin to “death is a mild inconvenience” or “Yuri is a bit reluctant to talk about his past”.
It started off innocently enough, with a hearty breakfast and an only moderately earth-shattering revelation by Oro’thion, who suddenly recalled having seen strange frosty markings under the teacups back when we were at the Ta’alaq. They apparently invoked the following poem:
 
Markings on the ice read in script of wind-blown snow.
Your skin like lilac, mine like teal.
One paints the beginning of a certain end.
The other, the end of a sure beginning.
 
We tossed around some ideas regarding the potential meaning of these verses, but ultimately failed to come up with anything substantial. I am not terribly surprised by that – I almost flunked out of Poetry Analysis 101 back at the Amphitheater, and headache-inducing riddles such as this are one of the many reasons why. I take solace in the fact that we have obviously only just begun to reveal this grand mystery, therefore any further information we uncover in the course of our journey together may help solve this enigma.
Speaking of information gathering, it was time to pay a visit to Bahara Library. Siham generously offered to fetch Alizée’s snowflake drake – who, as an aside, really needs a name; because the phrase “snowflake drake” is an absolute nightmare to try and fit into a reasonably metered stanza of any kind.
If Alizée wants me to sing his praises anytime soon – and I am almost positive that she does – she should name him something short and, preferably, rhyming with “end”, “hope” or “heart”, because those evergreens always work out somehow.
 
Ahem… I apologize for the digression.
 
On our way to the library, we encountered Neriah Brielle and Cravine, two members of the group trying to frame us for the previous murders. I am stressing “previous” here because they helpfully informed us that another set of murders had occurred during the past night; again in Karam. We were not implicated this time, they assured us, because they had been following us around the entire time. Cravine even seemed ready to testify on our behalf regarding that particular matter. I am not exactly thrilled to be shadowed like that, but then again, it is not like I can help it. I am not accustomed to sussing out strangers in the night – heck, I can barely see anything in the dark as it is – and I am extremely used to having eyes on me. Spying on me must be the easiest job in the world.
On the topic of jobs: we had one to do as well, did we not? Thus, we approached the library, followed by our new (temporary?) travelling companions: Neriah’s ego, Neriah, and Cravine (in descending order of perceived importance).
On the way there, Siham rejoined our group, bringing with him Alizée’s snowflake drake in a condition that I, bard by profession, am utterly unable to adequately describe. I am certain that Siham’s heart is, generally speaking, in the right place, but I solemnly swear to never leave Betty in his care if I can help it.
 
At long last, we entered the esteemed halls of the library proper. I had been there before during my student days, of course, chiefly to find ways to cheat at aforementioned Poetry Analysis. As such, Alizée and my humble self were able to vouch for the others (although I suspect her participation carried several orders of magnitude more weight in that regard than mine), and we were allowed inside. “Know you the words that have travelled far?”, an acolyte intoned the familiar greeting, and, as usual, I respectfully nodded my head in acknowledgment while progressing further. Oro’thion, in contrast, echoed the words back at the acolyte, only to be answered with what could best be described as polite indifference. I must admit that I found this interaction rather intriguing. There had always been rumors, of course; rumors of an appropriate answer to that phrase encountered by anyone seeking knowledge from the library. Nobody knows what consequences such an answer would have, and nobody – that I have spoken to, at the very least – seems to know what the answer would actually be. Leonardo once confided in me that, in an effort to be banned from the library in order to escape research duty, he once tried something along the lines of “verily, not as far-travelled as your mother” as a response, only to be met with approximately the same reaction as Oro’thion at that time. Honestly, Leo is the most insufferable jerk I have ever had the displeasure to meet.
Gods help me; I sincerely hope he is okay.
 
Our research within the library itself bestowed upon us a modicum of information about the Abraj A’Malounaton, the – allegedly cursed – stone spires surrounding Shal’Azura in the sandy depths below. By sheer luck, we came upon a single scrap of paper – more of a half-forgotten bookmark in the grand scheme of things – describing how an expedition to one of these pillars tried (and, for the most part, failed) to leave their exploits and findings for posterity. The writings were illegible for the most part, but they did give us some sparse clues about what to look for in the future. I made a quick copy of the woefully incomplete account, for I can be a bit forgetful at times.
 
...please excuse my trembling voice. It will make more sense once I have finished my tale.
 
At any rate, Oro’thion, Alizée and Aurelie split off to explore a seemingly empty section of the library that had been built to store information about the Abraj A’Malounaton, while the rest of us stayed behind. Yuri heroically took it upon himself to distract Neriah by, truthfully, just enabling Neriah to entertain himself; while Cravine fell asleep in short order. I cannot exactly fault her for that; I assume she took Poetry Analysis at some point in her life as well.
Upon reconvening, we gathered that there was little information to be found about the topics we were trying to research – which, obviously, was a useful bit of information in and of itself. Previous experiences had already taught us that memory was a fickle and unreliable thing these days (and, apparently, had been so for quite some time), and thus, forging ever forward to (re-)discover things for ourselves seemed to be a very appealing prospect – even apart from the whole “being accused of murder” situation, obviously.
Clearly, we had to investigate the site of the most recent murders, but we desperately needed a short break for the time being. We talked a little about ourselves – it seemed only appropriate after witnessing how fleeting memories can be – and learned, among other things, that both Yuri and Oro’thion had some sort of tree house when they were young. Frankly, this seemingly random tidbit stuck with me the most out of the entire conversation. For obvious reasons, tree houses are rare within the confines of Shal’Azura; to say the least. To have two humanoids who just so happen to stumble into co-ownership of the Ta’alaq also be two of the only creatures I know to have owned a tree house in the past seems like an impossible coincidence at first glance. Yet, while ruminating on this, it occurred to me that everything I just pondered was colored by my woefully limited perception of the world. What if tree houses were nigh-omnipresent everywhere else? What if slavery and monarchy – another couple of topics that were briefly touched upon – were the norm, and Shal’Azura was the exception? I had picked up bits and pieces from travellers while performing in the vicinity of Daggerpalm Station or Westwind’s Vantage, of course, but at this point in time, the sheer volume of what I explicitly did not know about the world weighed heavily on my mind.
Gods be willing, though, it will never weigh as heavily on me as the (in)famous Red Banana Stew weighed on Siham’s intestines. He assured us, heroically, that he was not suffering in the slightest, and since I am neither a judge nor a cleric I chose to believe him wholeheartedly.
 
After replenishing (or, in Siham’s case, sapping) our strength, we travelled via dragonfly to the site of the most recent murders. Our investigations confirmed most of our findings in regards to the first crime scene, with the slight deviation of us suddenly being attacked by shadowy creatures seemingly fashioned after the male murder victims. We were still in the process of pacifying them when, all of a sudden, a mystifying creature showed up and assaulted us as well. Small and shrivelled as it was, it was frightfully strong nonetheless, and it was all we could do to drive it out for the time being. This… thing, for lack of a better term, seemed to carry with it its very own melody unfettered by the Great Music, and it is this notion, even moreso than its power, that frightens me to the core.
At any rate, through luck or skill or any combination thereof, we defended ourselves successfully, and Siham scooped up some of the ectoplasm left behind by our assailants for further analysis. Meanwhile, Oro’thion, apparently the keenest amongst us in regards to magic and arcana, annihilated another of those ominous portals that had just begun to endanger another family living nearby. In the process, however, he suddenly began to speak in a strange voice whilst crying black tears. The voice spoke of the Sixth Prince, brother to the Seventh Prince whose legend we already knew, known as Dibarra the Collector. Dibarra, apparently, was a collector of things and their associated stories and memories as well as the first of the royal offspring to realize what had happened to his younger brother Su'Alhazi. At this point, where the fairy tale concludes, reality turns darker still. The curse, lifted from Su’Alhazi, now afflicted Dibarra and twisted what once was the most loyal of brothers and friends into a terrifying devourer of memories and seeker of forbidden truths. Su’Alhazi is possibly the only one to remember the Sixth Prince’s true name, and thus might be instrumental in bringing about his eventual defeat or redemption.
 
To the surprise of absolutely noone, this was a lot to take in at once. So, since, it had been a long and utterly exhausting day, I suggested to spend the night – which was slowly but steadily approaching – at my parents’ house. Fortuitously, everyone agreed, and so – after I had sent Betty ahead for at least some semblance of an advance notice – we all entered my childhood home.
I had always known my parents to be fantastic hosts, of course. They had welcomed Aeris – and, much more momentously, Leo! - with open arms back in the day, after all. Nevertheless, I must confess that the sheer amount of goodwill and hospitality with which they greeted our motley crew consisting of several animals, a wide variety of skin colors and various states of aliveness surprised even me. I took the opportunity to sneak my recent earnings into the cookie jar, as I always do. And, as she always does, mom pretended not to have noticed.
 
I do not know what the Great Music may have in store for me, but even if I ever were to become a hero of legend, a bard of worldwide renown or the ruler of an empire, nothing could ever be so grand as to make me worthy of having parents such as mom and dad. Their own parents, wherever their spirits are now, must be so very proud of them.
In hindsight, it seems like a logical consequence that the conversation turned towards the topic of grandparents at that particular moment. It was a turn of events that I would not have dared to formulate during any of my Scriptwriting 101 classes, for fear of sounding too clichéd. Life, however, is sometimes – perhaps even frequently – stranger than fiction; and thus we discovered that noone born within the city of Shal’Azura could remember their grandparents. Mayhap the strange phenomena surrounding memories, or lack thereof, could be connected to this in some way? If that were the case, it seemed entirely plausible that we might have forgotten other deceased ones as well – distant aunts and uncles, for example; dear friends or siblings or…
 
Katalina!
I have stalled long enough! I have meandered long enough! I have taken the garden path through…
 
No! No more purple prose! No more excuses! No more digressions! Her name was – IS, in my heart and soul and memory – Katalina, and may the Gods I never truly relied upon strike me down if I ever forget her again!
 
Katalina – Gods help me, I was so young when she was suddenly, violently taken from us that I am not even sure how to spell her name, for I did not yet know how to read and write – was my older sister. She was stronger than me, and her arms were my fortress.
She was smarter than me, and her wit was my blade.
She was more graceful than me, and her flittering steps across Austerlitz’ Assorted Accoutrements’ floorboards were my inspiration.
All those things were true. All those things are still true. And all those things will still be true once the new dawn rises, for I will not – I cannot – allow them to be forgotten once more.
 
The soft, yet heartbreaking sobbing resounding from my parents’ bedroom told me all I needed to know in the wake of my sudden realization. If there was some quantum of solace to be had from this truly earth-shattering moment, it was the fact that, as I watched with wide-eyed amazement as the family pictures scattered about our living room materialized Katalina’s likeness out of thin air, I knew in my heart that the pictures on my parents’ nightstands would be doing the same at this very moment.
 
And so, here I am, staring at the familiar ceiling for what will presumably be a long time, trying to process even a fraction of all that has happened today. My heart is overflowing with sorrow about having forgotten my sister and joy about having finally remembered her in equal measure. There are terrible powers at play twisting and turning our memories at their leisure, and it seems as if there is nothing we can do to stop them, apart from going where no humanoid has (apparently) gone before and tackling powers far beyond our understanding.
 
I am just a humble bard, tagging along with companions immeasurably stronger than me, and the only thing I could possibly offer them is an occasional word of encouragement. When great things are at stake, what use is there for a dancer whose only accomplishment would be to sing of the great deeds of others; who is only fit to preserve the memories of heroes long gone and battles fought in the distant past?
 
The… memories.
 
This is what it boils down to, is it not? This is what I can contribute. As long as I draw breath, I shall chant every day’s memories that I have managed to preserve (which, as we have learned, is not a sure thing by any stretch of the imagination) into the Great Music. Paper and ink, as we have learned today, can sometimes be untrustworthy at best and treacherous at worst; but oral tradition – via song or poem or fairy tale – endures throughout the ages.
I am weary and tired of my long account now, but I still need to take a bit more time to compose a little scherzo. It will be a simple thing, almost resembling a nursery rhyme, and very much bereft of my usual sesquipedalian loquaciousness.
This is by design. Everyone can – and is very much invited to – add to it as they see fit. This could potentially be a project far greater in scope than I am anticipating right now, but these seem very much like future me’s worries at this particular moment in time. There is a substantial chance that I am no longer alive this time tomorrow, and for now, I am far too busy being emotionally and physically exhausted to care about anything else.
…
...is Siham okay?