The Quest of the Quill-Bearers

[Justin Silverblade]

“I don’t think it’s even possible to describe. A feeling… an entity… a spirit… a mood… I don’t think I can truly comprehend just what the ‘Muse’ is. I know that I am its subject, I am at its very whim, and for that I am grateful.

 

“Have you ever sat down, with a thought in your head and a sparkle in your eye? Caught, in your everyday journey, a spitting image of tomorrow? Or yesterday? Understood within a single moment the deeper meanings of life? Have you ever just been happy? Or simply sad? I have experienced all of these things. I think, and I’m bold enough to say, that we all have been given the chance to, if we look close enough. But, have you ever wished to express it? To impart the profound meanings of your understanding or bewilderment upon a page, and know it as a part of life… I think that wanting must be what is known as the literary Muse.

 

“So, I beseech you, embrace this wonderful sensation – To love or loath, to express or explain, to learn or entertain: grab a quill, pull up a chair, and create.

 

“Here at the Pen, it’s about the words.

“So when the muse strikes, let us write!”

 

- Justin ‘Silverblade’ Thomas

The Pen is Mightier than the Sword

[Justin Silverblade]

~~ We the quill-bearers have been set upon a quest by our eldership, to help us progress in both the Pen and as writers. So, this is posted here because it is an effort by a group of us:

 

reverie

Rahsash Geldich

Rune

Cerulean aka Scarlett O'Harpy

Justin Silverblade

 

But aside from these people, I'm afraid I have to say it is a closed story (sorry!). I hope you enjoy our writings - and be careful, it will be slow in creation I think. Quality over quantity, after all. If you have any comments, I would appreciate them being directed over to the Critic's Corner (and if you don't have access to that, then in a seperate thread here), so as not to disturb the flow. Thanks!

 

We will each be writing a seperate piece - hopefuly put together with a bit of RPing (hopefully). So what you see below is my installment of our project - soon to be followed by another of our talented group, and so on and so forth. Enjoy! ~~

 

The Quest of the Quill-Bearers

- Justin’s Tale

 

Justin had been curious all day. His usual lounging about the Cabaret room had yielded far different results than he was used to. Every member that he had met gave him glances and curious remarks. He had heard everything from “Good luck!” and “I’m so sorry…” to “You’re so lucky!” and “I’ll bet it’ll be neat.”

 

Being naturally curious, the former-mercenary inquired about the meaning to these ‘well-wishers’ they merely shrugged and smiled. Some of the more devious (and almost-dragon-like) members conned Justin into buying them ale, or a meal, before turning him down, saying “it’s a secret; you’ll know soon enough Quill-bearer.”

 

Retiring to his room in aggravation and several gold poorer, Justin flopped down on his bed. It had been a lazy day, and he had found himself not all-together satisfied with the day’s events. Even lately his poetry had been suffering, and he hadn’t worked on several of his stories for months. What good was hanging around here if he could find no ability to write? For weeks straight he had been listening to poetry, and reading the occasional story. Heck, he even played a little D&D with Salinye, Elwen, Damon, and others to try and get back into the mood of fantasy. Nothing seemed to work though.

 

As he readied to end the day, something caught Justin’s eye. A glimmer of moonlight reflected from his desk and into his eye. “Curious,” he mumbled to himself, and even more curious still, was the fact that the room mumbled back:

 

Once eight there were who grasped before,

With founding hand: wings that soar.

 

Justin found himself sitting up (for he had lain upon his bed), and listening intently for the whisperings of the wind. There was nothing once more; silence enveloped the room. “Huh,” he said finally. And once again, as if to answer, words immerged about his head.

 

They plucked a string of beauty then,

A fine-tipped feather for Muse’s men.

They let ring their music’s chord,

Listen: “Pen is mightier than Sword.”

 

Justin blinked, and found himself at his desk. Everything was as it should be – his old armor was set in beauty in the corner, his sword mounted on the wall, and manuscripts of literature scattered across his desk. But, as everything had stayed in place, there was a new addition. Sitting on top of his papers was an object and a note. What seemed to be a mirror of sorts. Set within a slate palate, the reflective glass stood no greater in size than a pancake and seemed to look as liquid by design. Trapped beneath it was a note.

 

Justin,

 

Yours to bear – your privilege and your burden. The time has come for you to take quill in hand, and venture on your path. This is both your quill and your quest. Good luck!

- Gyrfalcon

 

Justin looked at the glass for a moment, bewildered. “This is my Quill Quest?” he mumbled out loud. ‘I could have sworn that I was supposed to write something for my quest…’ he thought. Now the Pen was known for it’s strange occurrences and fancy ways, but Justin was simplistic – he was here to write, and have fun, but rarely to actually think. Now this glass, or mirror, or whatever it was, Gyr had said was his quill. Well it certainly didn’t look like one!

 

Without thinking, Justin let his finger tap the glass. “What?” he exclaimed. As if fluid, the mirror rippled from his touch.

 

Oh young one!

 

To touch the gaze that wills your word,

Oh how lucky, how absurd!

Few have had the chance to hear,

Old rhyme of Plume’s tear.

Listen to, of old, our story,

As you would know it – full of glory.

 

Then let go of blade and let quill take hold.

And let your silver flow as gold.

 

And from the glass immerged a vision – a story…

Edited May 5, 2003 by Justin Silverblade

[Justin Silverblade]

On a young foggy morn, before the sun had risen to its perch of grandeur over the mountains of west, the invitations were sent out. The horsemen, bound to their black steeds by strength and resolve stirred the misty soup, and strove to the far reaches of the land. To each warrior, to each kingdom, to each empire these simple messages were sent. On yellowed parchment, a carefully scribed message beckoned forth those of pride, of prejudice, of greatness, and of malice. It found the shy corners of the unheard. It found the pure countries of those who strove to do only good. And it found its way even to those who had been shunned to the depths of the underground.

 

To those who would rule the land,

To those who would seek to the own the sand,

To those who would live beside me,

In war, or blasphemous harmony,

 

Enter the feast and be welcomed.

 

I seek the young, the old, and the new,

So that a new land can ensue,

 

- Meynovich

 

Rubin was of a family who received the letter, and so through his eyes do we set upon this story. It was his father, actually, who owned a piece of Darr’ieth, the countryside these rulers gazed over. Gohrn (Rubin’s father) warned greatly about Meynovich saying “he’s more than a wicked ruler, he is a mage, Rubin! A sorcerer. We don’t care for those types. I get the feeling that this feast is gonna end in no good.”

 

Of course he did, mused Rubin. It was impossible not to get that feeling. Meynovich had entered the countryside by force, and had gained all of his land that way. Through trickery or deceit, malice and evil, and everyone knew it. So why he would seek to gather everyone now, could only be for the same purpose. Still, as Rubin read the letter, over and over again he became infatuated with the idea of a grand feast.

 

Only 15 years old, Rubin begged his father to allow him to go along. When Gohrn forbid it, Rubin followed anyways. He understood his father’s headstrong nature – and his suspicion, but he would not allow that to stop the fact that he wanted to be there. His father was not the only headstrong member of the family.

 

Gohrn traveled for 8 days and 9 nights and on the morning of the 9th day he found his way to the designated location. A house, built higher than the tallest tower, and wider than the span of an army, it seemed that the building was a glorified townhouse. Whether put together by skilled method or saturated madness was anyone’s guess. The fog was a robe about the adventurers – enveloping them. If one was able to pierce it to look at the sky, they would see nothing more pleasing. Even the heavens above had been covered with a thick, dark cloud.

 

Rubin waited for his father to enter the building before he even approached. He would not dare be caught by him – it would mean certain doom for his life of luxury that he now enjoyed. Still he could not help but let his curiosity lead him. When he found his way in, he was greeted, though not loudly, by attendants and another patron. An elf, in a hooded tunic bowed at Rubin’s entrance, and Rubin did the same. “Greetings child. Why one so young would venture into this man’s lair?” The elf’s voice was melodic, and seemed to radiate an air of splendor. Even as he spoke, Rubin found his mind relaxing.

 

“I… I don’t know…” Rubin replied.

 

“Well, best for you not to stay too long,” said the elf. “Even the trees themselves do not trust this man.”

 

Rubin was then shown to a table. It was far from his father so he worried very little about his placement. His age did not seem to matter – indeed there were children and old men here. Food and drink was handed out, the ale in bountiful portions – though of the ale Rubin did not partake. He needed a clear head to hurry home tomorrow with. When all had been fed and had their thirsts parched, the room seemed to become a little lighter. It seemed there were not as many differences here than they thought.

 

At the height of their arguing the wizard stepped out of his chambers and into the hall. There in all his glory, was Meynovich. His robes a deep purple, and his eyes a beady black, the ruler gazed over the drunken crowd.

 

“My friends and enemies,” he began. “Please be patient with me.” His voice was soothing and seemed to chant as he spoke. “I know that it is a difficult task to be here with one another, but I think I have a proposal that we can all enjoy,” grinning the tyrant allowed his sharpened teeth to show through. “I have arranged some papers for you all to sign. They are of peace, and to help us all live longer. Mutual borders! What say you? I wish peace, as absurd as it may sound to you. Sit, drink some more, and take these words into consideration.” And as simply as he had entered, Meynovich disappeared once again.

 

Now to Rubin, this was an appalling and easily transparent gesture. But Meynovich was not met with ‘boos’ and disgust. Instead the crowd seemed quite understanding to his words. When finally the papers were being handed out, Rubin became concerned. He looked over to his father several times, but Gohrn was laughing and sharing stories. When finally the papers came to him, he was handed quill and parchment. Taking the quill in hand, he barely looked at the words and signed. Rubin jumped up and was about to shout out when he realized his place. His father knew what he was doing – and Rubin was neither supposed to speak out, or be here at all.

 

When finally the attendants came to him, they as usual extended the quill first. It was ornate, of some exquisite bird. The ink seemed to drip off of it, and Rubin reached for it. Before his fingers could grasp it, he remembered his place, and shook it off. “No, no – my country is already represented, thanks.”

 

The attendants merely shrugged, and moved on to the next member of the oaken table. As he grabbed the quill and the form was shown to him, Rubin caught a glance –

 

We the undersigned designate our lands to Meynovich in the interest of peace and our people. This continued warring is futile when we could live together under him…

 

The list continued with signatures of the members present. Rubin glared – there was his father’s signature. “What?” he asked. “Don’t you see this?” shaking the man next to him. The drunken man only stared and laughed. The attendants tried to question Rubin, but he was not going to be calmed.

 

He got up from his table, and ran over to his father, risking whatever punishment may come later. “Dad! Dad! What have you done?” But Gohrn did not react as expected. His eyes were glazed and he looked to Rubin.

 

“Calm down boy! Have a drink!”

 

“I will NOT calm down! You have given our land away to that... that… thing!” Rubin was shouting now. His words still seemed to have little impact upon his father, or the crowd. None seemed to care about his words. But, from afar, Rubin caught the eyes of the elf who had greeted him previously.

 

“Rubin, be at peace.” The voice was melodic from the elf, once again. It was a strong sensation, but not quite strong enough:

 

“Can you see it? Can you see what Meynovich is doing?” Rubin grabbed the elf (not something he was accustomed to doing), and looked at him violently.

 

The elf nodded slowly. He seemed to care little for the concerns, or grip of the boy. “Meynovich has many spells and powers at his disposal. Perhaps it is you who is confused?”

 

Rubin was shocked. “What? He’s got you too? It doesn’t make any sense! Listen to me, people are taking that quill, and signing their lives away!”

 

When Rubin pointed to the quill that the attendants had left on the table the elf’s gaze turned toward it. Suddenly a great understanding hit the elf, Rubin could see it in his eyes. The elf said a few words in a magic tongue and his face went wide with understanding. But at the same moment, Meynovich had been alerted and stormed into the hall. “What is the meaning of this?”

 

The elf stood up and Meynovich sneered in his direction. “Trueleaf,” he stated with spite. “What in the nine hells are you doing here?”

 

“Apparently,” the elf named Trueleaf replied, standing up, “foiling your spells. What do you mean by this charade?” Walking over to the quill on the table, Trueleaf picked up the ornate pen. “This is littered with magic – a quill that forces them to write. These people have been made docile by your drink, and are tricked by your token. No longer.” With a magic spell, Trueleaf removed the effects from everyone that had been tricked. An angry mob looked up at Meynovich.

 

The mage looked at Trueleaf with disdain. “You…” he started, but was interrupted by the unsheathing of blades.

 

Gohrn looked at Meynovich, sword in hand. “You fiend - We ‘ought to…”

 

“Perhaps another day,” Meynovich replied, seemingly disgusted at the speech of an ‘ignorant’. With a flash of smoke and a few words, the wizard disappeared…

Edited May 6, 2003 by Justin Silverblade

[Justin Silverblade]

* * *

 

As you would have it upon our meet,

Writing warrior, our story: short and sweet.

‘Tis not the only story, nor the last,

Of Pen’s quill and Muse’s past.

 

Look closer still to the image,

Look past that small scrimmage –

 

Looking back into the glass, Justin saw one final image: Trueleaf picked up the quill, and entered it into his pocket.

 

The glass then rippled again, and Justin was stunned.

 

Hear the heritage of the muse,

Know why, it, you now use:

Elfish owner would give it up,

To human friend as they did sup.

 

The quill then passed from friend to foe,

As ink from well turned to woe.

Burden bared and wisdom known

Seeds of friendship were then sown.

 

From foe to kings on high thones,

It became a trinket of which to loan.

Royalty would then commission

Mercenaries with its petition.

 

And writing’s glaze handed over

Muse’s luck, as four-leafed clover.

Mercenary then turned buccaneer,

Adventurer sought Fate’s fear.

 

And from there, the artifact knew

Many hands and then grew.

Into weapon and into flower,

Amongst the learned it would tower.

 

And finally the path was done,

Rest was needed – it could not run.

Into the beginnings it was sent.

To Ozy’s hand it was leant.

 

And so to you, in tradition

To help upon your inquisition.

Once it’s done, pass it on,

And let the next see Muse’s dawn.

 

Then Justin looked, and saw that it wasn’t a mirror – but a window. And as he looked at it, the window transformed. With a magical light it transformed into a quill which looked exactly the same as in the story. (Now to you and I, who know even the most powerful of Archmagi as good friends, this feat seems trivial – but to a warrior whose whole life revolves around the sword, and who only knows magic as words he writes down on a page, you can imagine that this would be quite an experience for him)

 

Picking it up in silent awe, Justin admired the quill. As the moonlight poured over his parchment and his desk, Justin was filled with the power within the quill. For the first time he had literally felt what it meant to be the ‘quill-bearer’. With the mood set, and the power between his fingertips, he could feel his writer’s block dissolve.

 

Justin sat for hours at his desk, and wrote until dawn.