Habeas's blog

My Dearest Sara,

I found you!
 

My dear Sara,

It has been a long time since last I wrote. A whole series of holidays passed much as they have done since I started my encore performance here in the land of the living. If you wish to know how they passed, simply re-read the previous letters about them…Winter Veil, New Year’s, Noblegarden, Kissyface Day…

Oh yes, I did manage to find this really nice picnic basket thingy…magic or engineered, I’m not sure, but it’s a sun umbrella with hearts on it and a picnic basket and small blanket that spring forth from a very small container. This was during Kissyface Day and I was seriously tempted not to venture out at all during this time. I had no need for clothing, and all of the romance was mildly disheartening…as I’m sure you can understand.

So I have this picnic basket. And no one to share it with but demons. It’s still really nifty, but it mocks me at times.

“Sure is quiet, sir,” Ocho said, scratching his neck, “what do you reckon they’s doin’ now?”

There is a smudge at the top of this page that might once have been pink…it smells vaguely of strawberry

Angela gave up her position next to the doorframe and walked rather woodenly back into Evan’s office. The two men looked to her as she said, “I know where the painting is…you can have it, if you’ll leave Port William.”

“No painting is worth enough to let our town be sacked for it! I appreciate your concern, Evan, but I won’t be responsible for such a thing.”

“Is mine,” Angela said, “I let Evan hang it here for a couple of dignitary visits because he liked it so much. It was a gift from my mother, and while I love it dearly, I think I love my neighbors much more. You can have it; it’s at my house…the one that you shot a damned cannonball through.”

Marcus Gilder nodded approvingly as he looked around the governor’s residence. For being an unimportant settlement, the governor had done a nice job making it look important. Crossed halberds behind a coat of arms, paintings of the King and royal palace, framed letters from foreign dignitaries and various other accoutrements lined the walls. Marcus hoped that the musket hole through the painting of the King’s royal hounds could be fixed. He liked dogs. As he scanned the paintings again, a slight frown crossed his face.

“Brandy?” Lord Evan asked, clinking the stopper from the bottle.

“Why yes, thank you very much,” Marcus replied, raising an eyebrow.

Wallace Ackermann ground his teeth as he heard another volley of muskets.

Lord Evan Sanderson tried desperately to think of a way that he could bring this encounter to a positive resolution. Peaceful would have been preferable, but that avenue was closed off by the bloody, burning hulk of the Falcon. Any kind of talk at this point would simply seem cowardly. As one of the youngest governors in the islands, Evan could not afford that kind of shadow. The soldiers from the garrison were forming up for a counterattack; he had seen this from his window after he had witnessed the horrifying cannonfire in the harbor. He still didn’t know how the pirate vessel had made it as far as they had without raising alarms. It didn’t particularly matter, but it was one of those things that would bother him later, he knew.

Marcus Gilder felt his stomach tighten. The bombardment of the HMS Falcon stuck tied at the pier had been as easy and bloody as expected, with the crewmembers of that stricken and leaning vessel lying strewn across her deck. The next part, the landing and search and unavoidable sack and rape of Port William, was the part he was dreading.

Angela Redway had had her tea parties interrupted by many things in her time in Port William, but this was the first time that it had been by a cannonball crashing through her library.

I think we can all agree that that was a failed experiment.  Or unqualified madness, depending on your viewpoint.

Looking back on what I wrote last, and evaluating it after a week or so of not using the polymorph wands, or drinking myself into a stupor, I have to ask myself “Habeas, what in the Nether and all that’s Unholy were you thinking?”

That was an incredibly dangerous, foolish, and potentially hurtful game I played with myself…and worse, with her.  Stupid.  Nice to see that selfishness and stupidity are still something I can fall prey too…does that make me more human than I have a right to be?

I am done with that!  Being human via those wands is not only deceitful but potentially harmful to my sanity.

And I can’t watch over my love if I’m insane, now can I?

My dear Sara,

Again the season of Hallow’s End rolls through, and we celebrate Sylvanas’ defection from the Scourge.  Fitting then, that I was freed in the same season.  I have served My Lady now for ((however much time two Earth years is according to your interpretation)), and seen many wonderful and terrible things.  It is my anniversary…or birthday…or whatever the heck it is you’d call it, and having gotten utterly smashed for weeks previously, now it’s off to a candy binge of epic proportions!

Like moth to the flame I am.  I cannot simply leave it at what it is.  No amount of walking through the marble-floored museum of admiration will slake this thirst.  No…what I need is a trip across the smoky, crowded, sweat-slicked dance floor, with our bodies grinding together, our breaths as one as we slither to the sounds, swaying and thrusting against one another, desperate to be as one, with only the watching eyes of dozens of others keeping us dressed and separate. 

No…actually I wouldn’t.

And I have been drunk now for over two weeks
I passed out and I rallied and I sprung a few leaks
But I got stop wishin', got to go fishin'
Down to rock bottom again
With just a few friends…just a few friends*

Dear, Sweet Sara,

Some things never change.  The simple farmer, after all the strenuous work of bringing in the harvest, having laid in his supplies, and eyeing the bleak, cold winter slowly advancing across the land, takes a day or two to rest and enjoy the mead that he’s been fermenting in the root cellar.

Brewfest is like that...but the simple farmer becomes the entire population of the world and the mead from the root cellar is thousands of gallons of beer brewed up by the mega-giants of their trades!  It may be the best holiday ever.  But then, isn’t every holiday?

How quickly they learn!  Oh woe to be me…my student surpasses me both in herbalism and warlockery…maybe it’s because she has chosen to be a warlock and I’ve been sort of forced into the job. She’s driven, at times; I can see it in her. She’s not out to do evil…but the powerlust is there. Even I feel the stirrings of it, from time to time, so I cannot blame one who chose the path purposefully.

or I Shall Taunt You from the Graveyard While Laughing Maniacally!