Return of RDF: The Gardener

He held the hose like a gun.  Arms stretched forward to meet at a point, index finger poised near the trigger.  Anticipating for a beat, he soon gave in and squeezed, soundtracking himself with a little "Pew-pew!" uttered under his breath.  Water shot out in a grandiose arc, matching tone with its swooshing fanfare.  His amusement at enjoying this basic task was reflected only in his eyes, which hid smiling behind oversized raybans that gave him a slightly alien appearance.  Shifting the hose into his left hand, he reached down with his right to scratch.  The mosquitoes at last night's barbeque had been prolific, and particularly keen.  One had gotten him squarely in the middle of his newest tattoo, an extravagant byzantine cross that took up nearly the entirety of his right calf.  He hesitated to scratch the skin that was still tender and recovering, but the urge to itch won out.  It was painful yet still satisfying, sort of like poking a bruise.  As if facing those overzealous pests during his day job weren't enough, anytime he socialized outdoors he further exposed himself to their gnawing incursions.  Suddenly, the door of the corporate building whose lilies he was so playfully tending swung open. A young woman materialized, exhaling a half sigh half exclamation at the brutal temperature.  He gave a sidelong up and down glance.  Brunette, petite and curvy - not his type.  Back to his lilies then, tall and slender in their plumb beauty.  The sun beat down on the back of his neck, but he felt light as the droplets of water still misting gently through the air.

Rain Tableau

It was so hot, it was almost oppressive.  She walked out the door for lunch and the scalding, humid air resisted her like water.  She was swimming upright through the heat.  She perched on the low concrete wall that enclosed the pond, taking tiny bites of her sandwich and chewing them up slow, pondering.  She noticed the air around her start to hum, felt its low, guttural vibrations the sky above prepared to open.  Suddenly, she was being pelted with droplets fat as egg yolks.  She looked up and saw the rain pouring down, glittering like millions of Hope diamonds, crystalline and breathtaking.  She closed her eyes and a scene popped into her head.  He was here. They ran for cover together, but stopped short.  "Kiss me!" she beseeched him, while warm rain obliged on both their skins.  A memory she suddenly longed to create.  She opened her eyes.  Stuck out her tongue to taste the rain, finding it a touch bitter.  Popped in her last bite of sandwich and ran back inside, alone.

Remembering Life's Fabulous Realities

The person I was my first two years in high school was SO different than the person I was the last two. Part of this had to do with the fact that halfway thru high school my parents dragged me halfway across the country to Michigan. Different school: different people, different classes, different culture. But I think another big part of it had to do with becoming comfortable with standing out. As has been discussed here before, so much of my middle school and high school years were spent being teased by everyone. As a result I developed a finely honed desire not to stick out. To be purely average. I didn't want to attract attention because I had trained myself mentally to recognize any attention as negative (which had a strong grounding in reality!) Even though I had been recognized/isolated as "gifted" in elementary school by my teachers, I stopped trying to live up to that label for awhile in middle school and early high school. Even though I was in all honors classes, I was perfectly fine to make Bs and coast my way through without making too many waves. Suddenly, moving to Michigan was like - whoa, blank slate. I really started to love school, and realize how much I had been missing by not giving it my all. The relationships I formed with teachers, the degree to which I found my inner voice, my initiative and spirit - these things all were strengthened by giving myself a chance to really be who I was. I am so grateful to have had that opportunity and experience, though before it happened I was certainly dreading it! As most kids forced to move in the middle of high school would be.

Anyway, not the point for today. I wanted to share something with you. In case you don't know me that well, or didn't know this particular fact about me - I save everything. I have pretty much every piece of homework, every paper, every notebook from every class I've ever taken. I have every single debate flow from college. I have all the birthday cards my parents ever gave me, every photograph and negative I've ever taken. Memories, history - these things are SUPER important to me, and always have been. As a kid, I spent HOURS poring through my parents photo albums, many from before I was born. Sitting in the corner of my family room in Parsippany, my ears covered by the giant headphones belonging to our receiver, my parents Miles Davis or George Winston or some borrowed CD of my siblings (phil collins, depeche mode, smashing pumpkins, beastie boys are some of those that stick out in my mind), my head full of music and my eyes scanning the pages of photographs. I could tell you better than they could today about the captions my dad hand wrote below all their pictures.

So recently, I felt a yen to look back at some of my old high school papers. Whenever you get to know someone new, or someone you know even better, you often talk of the past. And for me, that tends to wake inner voices of nostalgia and reminiscence. The other day I was telling a friend about my junior year English teacher, Mr. Staniszewski, or Mr. Stan for short. Other nicknames included NDAS and 'magnanimous individual.' Mr. Stan was one of those teachers who stuck with you forever. He had funny ways of saying everything, his walls were covered in old tennis racquets and vocabulary words, his clock was covered in numbers, and he used to start almost every class with a salutation to the sun. In his class we read Annie Dillard and William Least Heat Moon, we watched "Harold and Maude", we talked about language and words, Thoreau, nature, and whatever we wanted to. He used to joke that he had dementia and might not ever remember our names, but I think this was secretly a ruse to be able to call us whatever he wanted in order to amuse himself. He used to say his wife made him go to marriage counseling for not being able to remember her name. He taught me to analyze, to think, more than any teacher before or after him. He was a creative, intelligent, inspirational and all around awesome teacher.

One of my favorite things from Mr. Stan's class was the "fabulous reality." The fabulous reality was a kind of paper we used to have to write for him. It could be no longer than a page, no smaller than size 10 font. It was meant to describe, in full, an episode which caught the writer's attention and gave them pause. Something that made the writer sit back and say, "Huh", to cause reflection upon the 'fabulous realities' of life on our little planet. It could be anything from seeing a hundred birds taking flight simultaneously to the passionate kiss between a couple reuniting at the airport. And it could include as little or as much setup as was necessary to set the stage for the moment, the attention grabbing piece of life. I always loved this concept. Not only because it is fun to have such a small amount of space to relate something significant to the reader (being concise always being one of my challenges as a writer), but also, because anything that gives us pause and causes us to appreciate life is a big thumbs up in my book. As Mr. Stan believed and so do I, none of us do this enough.

So after reminiscing about Mr. Stan, I suddenly decided I had to dig out these old papers and read a few. Which was a very pleasant way to spend two hours. Then I decided I ought to come on here, write about him, and maybe share one with you. So here ya go, an effort that received an 'A' called "The One Millionth Shopper".

Six girls huddled around the table, arms crossed, fingers stuffed in armpits to keep warm. The door swung open again, hitting them with a cold gust. "Would you like to make a contribution?" a hopeful voice asked. "No thanks," was the unenthusiastic reply. A cup sat on the table. A couple of dollar bills were sticking out of it, some crisp and new, some old and crumpled. The cup was paper, with a flower border. The kind you often find in people's bathrooms for taking a quick sip of water. It looked homey surrounded by plates of brownies, trays of cupcakes, and piles of chocolate chip cookies. "BBG Bake Sales Today," the sign read. It hung in front of the table and swung up every time that breeze of freeze came through the door with a prospective customer.

The girls had been there all day, calling, coaxing, and convincing. Their goal was to reach 400 dollars by four o'clock. There hadn't been too many customers when the sale started around ten. But now it was three-thirty in the afternoon, and with three hundred and sixty making an uncomfortable lump in the back of one girl's pocket, their goal was in sight. Another customer entered the store. The small blonde girl, who had asked, didn't manage to finish the word "contribution" before the cold woman had hurried by. The girl hadn't been loud enough anyway. She looked as though she never ate, and consequently spoke in a voice which could easily be confused with a balloon hissing out the last of its air. Her head hung down, like that of a dead flower, and she apologized in her whispery voice for not being faster. The other five comforter her, as they could only have been expected to do, considering that teenage girl tendency to form groups of confidence. "We'll get the next one," a heavyset brunette said decidedly. The blonde gave a slight smile in return.

For the next twenty-five minutes people came rushing in and out of the store. Some hurried by, some stopped and considered, and others came over with inquisitive looks, wanting to know what they were contributing to. The girls had smiled, and given their set speech. Most people, when hearing it was for charity, stopped and gave a dollar or two, so the girls learned that if they started talking when people walked in, they could usually express their charitable intent before the indifferent ones got by. And so it had come down to this: The store's clock, hard to read, because of a newly cleaned gleaming glare, read 3:58, and the girls had in their possession three hundred and ninety-two dollars. The automatic supermarket doors swung open again and a mid-twenties couple could be seen coming through. "I call this one," the evident leader of the pack whispered to her girls.

"Hi would you like to make a contribution?" she asked. "We are working to raise money for the Make a Wish Foundation, which helps ill children all over the world get their wishes granted," she continued, not bothering to take a breath and looking the semi-assaulted pair straight in the eye. Still not waiting for an answer, she added, "We had set a goal of 400 dollars for the day, and we have 392 and two minutes to go." When she had finally finished, there was a small pause. It seemed to the six girls, standing unbreathing, apprehensive, around the table, that the pause lasted for minutes. The man reached into his back pocket, slow like molasses, and pulled out a wallet. Then, without another apparent thought, he pulled out a ten-dollar bill, and said, "Well how much do you want to give us for ten dollars?" The collective squeal of six teenage girls was comparable to that of a countryside pigsty. Choruses of "Thank you so much!" and "Oh my gosh, we did it!" could no doubt be heard throughout the entire store. The husband chuckled, picked up a cupcake, and said to his wife, "I feel like one of those one-millionth shoppers, don't you?" as the two turned and walked away from the group of girls still hugging, laughing, and clapping, with the pure happiness of success.

Where Have You Gone, Joe Philosophy?

Somewhere along the way this week, I lost my ability to be philosophical.
 
Well, I shouldn't say I lost it.  I should say it went into hiding.  I peered inside myself and it was gone.  Briefly, it's absence made me feel a bit crazy.  Shortly though, I realized I'd just have to tease it out.  I played its favorite movies, thinking maybe it was hiding behind my eyes.  Perhaps the chance to laugh at its favorite comedy or cry with its favorite tear jerker would make it want to come back to the surface.  But there was no stirring, no sign.  I listened to its favorite music, thinking maybe it hid in my ears.  Could these tunes of mirth or significance rouse it to action? It seemed not, as still silence greeted me in return.  I even tried to dance it out, thinking perhaps to hide properly it had spread itself so thin over bones and muscle that it could only be spurred to action through movement, through physical release.  Still it was nowhere to be found.
 
At wits end, I talked to people about the loss of my philosophical friend.  "If I can't be philosophical, how will I balance out my emotions?"  My best friend in NC, my sister, my best friend from Deis, each had a similar message.  "You rely on us."  "We'll be philosophical for you."  "We'll be the voice of reason."  It was then that I remembered.  Reason can't be lured with imitation of life, bottling and selling of emotion, plated echoes of reality.  It is lured by reason.  Just as we are comforted by other people, so our inner sense of rationality, of reason, is comforted by the echo of the reason in other people.  My ability to philosophical popped back up when it saw it had others of its kind to talk to, to hang out with, to have solidarity with.
 
Which is all a long winded way of saying, whatever you're feeling - talk it out.  Through discourse, through debate, through camaraderie and cohesion - there is where you will find your comfort.  There is your solace.  There is your purpose.  Put away your movies, music, television.  In others, our energy and wholeness is restored. 
 
Funny paradox that the presence of our six billion should be both a terrible strain on our planet and simultaneously a consolation to us as individuals.
 
"Without deep reflection one knows from daily life that one exists for other people." - Albert Einstein
"If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other." - Mother Teresa

The Ocean Breathes Salty

Today, the ocean seems calmer somehow and it is befitting as I am feeling more relaxed than I have been in while. At times, there are even moments of complete silence as a little wave slowly undulates its way to shore, rising higher and higher until it crests, turning over itself in an acrobatic display matching its thunder-like crash. It sticks the landing and the seconds of white noise that follow mimic the applause of a crowd as the water eases its way up the shore in a foamy blanket. Then silence once again.

Words Are Flowing Out Like Endless Rain

On the plus side, as my misery index continues to rise, so too it seems does my creativity index. I can't remember the last time I felt this much urge to create. I actually wrote something today. At first I thought it was a poem, but the more I start to stare and it and play with it, I think it might be a song. I mean, it still needs some editing (and a chorus, if it actually is a song) but it felt so good to get some words on paper. It's been approximately forever. Anyway, without further ado, a still untitled poem/song/thing.

On the precipice of departure
She sailed through doors revolving
The end of one era is another yet evolving

Two silver circles, teeth menacing in uniformity
Metallic crunching breaks the silence sitting stilly
Still it doesn’t hit her, the crushing enormity

Ghosts perched on bookshelves and window ledges
Whispering memories, nudging and giggling
Filling the room and softening its edges

He had a patient wait at the top of the column
A fitting terminus to thirteen years intersecting

His soft lips make a heart, just so
One of her hands holds his guitar callused digits
The other steadies her against falling

A quick squeeze, almost reflex
Current coursing through fingers and time
Her eyes dart away, she deflects

Next door his lover sleeps quietly
Her energy long fallen from its acme
Still penetrates with vibrancy,
Insulation, walls, pure white paint

A breath of anticipation,
Held deep, one two three
Slowly seeps out between him and she

Foreheads so close, two armies advancing parallel
Even more like two charged poles
That repel each other’s sameness

Sinking deep into fibered comfort
Voices vent from soft speakers
Comedy, laughing, this decision a comedy of precision

A truth less harsh when it stays unspoken
Promises that promise to remain unbroken

The Archeology of Flash Drives

I am looking for a something very specific. It is a stencil of a camera, created by me several years ago. I cannot find it, but I am finding far more interesting things in the process. Some long buried, under layers of earth and more fossils. Tripping down memory lane, dirt under my fingernails. Come look at some of my broken pieces of pottery.


5/7/05 - random word document
The curb swoops sickeningly close to the window edge in my view. Water slips through the tire treads with a soft swishing. My roommate turns up the Nirvana issuing faintly from the radio and bobs her head in time to the beat. I want to say something patronizing about how passé Nirvana is, but I keep my lips pursed together and press my aching forehead to the cool window. The curb curls out of view again, and I close my eyes.


7/23/05 - random word document
I want to write poetry again, but I don’t know where to start. Recognizing as is necessary that all I wrote previously was crap, I am unsure of the next steps. The art of putting emotion into words is one of the most difficult to pursue. In my opinion, the greatest virtue of good poetry is that it finds a happy medium between superficial and inaccessible. I don’t want it spelled out for me, but I don’t want a bunch of undetectable abstract metaphor either. Should I read others until I find a style I want to emulate? Should I just go for it without studying, and edit/change subsequently? I’ll have to figure that out soon. Maybe it should be the latter. Because I haven’t had the urge to write poetry in a long time, and I don’t want to lose it while I waste time studying the classics.
this never happened...guess I failed to strike while the iron was hot...


8/26/04 - saved as "IMPORTANT QUOTE - PASSION"
"Passion. It lies in all of us - sleeping, waiting. And though unwanted, unbidden - it will stir, open its jaws, and howl. It speaks to us, guides us; passion rules us all. And we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments: the joy of love, the clarity of hatred, and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we’d know some kind of peace. But we would be hollow - empty rooms, shuttered and dank. Without passion we’d be truly dead." - Angelus , btvs S2


9/9/2003 - birthday rhyme from zeshan
my best friend's birthday's today, so i hope all
thas bad stays away today, evils' held at bay,
and i'm sad to say she's so far away, but i'm hopin
she's glad today, knowin thought of her face never
fades, helpin me clear up life when i can't see
black and white from the shades of grey, so though
this happy birthday's belated, i hope your day's
been elevated to a status of elated, you've been
graded a plus, cause your friendship i'd never trade
and i just wanted to say you bring sunshine to
september like it was may


1/29/03 - pirate joke
Me: What do you call it when a pirate buys US dollars cheaply on the London Exchange and sells them at a premium on the Tokyo Exchange?
You: I don't know.
Me: Arrr-bitrage!


no date, one of paul's away messages from AIM:
I never thought i'd see her again. she wandered up, drunk, obviously a little sick, and in desparate need of sensory stimuli. i screamed, loud like a child, right at her eyes, until she ran towards me, tripping or hopping over some debris on the asphalt, falling into my arms and knocking me to the ground. I skinned my heel as i fell, i lost my breath as she landed on me, and i dont remember ever getting it back. I woke up miserable, seeing first her crumbled posture, her crumbled face, held up on her bent wrists like a pale ugly moon, a perversion of her beauty into this dull mess. I could feel the black tar in her belly, the sinking depression, like she was super magnetized, being pulled straight down by the planets cruel latent field. I didnt laugh at her, but she acted like i had. I closed my eyes.


able to finally put a date on it. from a 2600 word email dated january 26, 2002:
"and then there's you....but i guess thats another talk for another time."

a creative endeavor, titled "the girls on the boys" where I combined two lyrics each from my favorite chick singers to tell a story:
China decorates our table; funny how the cracks don’t seem to show. Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup. I am writing graffiti on your body, I am drawing the story of how hard we try. I remember the days when I was so eager to satisfy you. “You’re just too good to be true, can’t take my eyes off of you.” It’s funny how we feel so much but cannot say a word; we are screaming inside but can’t be heard. And it goes round in circles one night is perfect the next is brutal. The tide rushes by where we stand and the earth underneath turns to sand.

“Give me one reason to stay here, and I’ll turn right back around.”

“Everything is everything, what is meant to be will be.”

You say love is a hell you cannot bear, and I say gimme mine back and then go there for all I care.

First my left foot then my right behind the other, pantyhose running in the cold. I crossed the last line, from where I can return, when every step I took in faith betrayed me. I don’t think of you no more, except for every day or two; I don’t think of you no more, except for in between the sun and moon. When I said I’ll take you, I meant as is.

The Examination Has Begun: I Think it Started Early

From my journal, reprinted word for word (including spelling errors!)  February 3, 1995.  I was eleven:

"Today, I had one of the worst days in my life.  I wore this really comfy, colorful jumper that I liked a lot.  Sounds fine? Right? Wrong!  The only problem was that the jumper had lots of colors and different fruits on it.  I wore it with a yellow t-shirt.  All day long people were calling me chiquita banana and faggy fruit-cart lady.  It was pretty embarassing."

About two weeks after that, I described an episode in which two boys I had crushes on prank called me together, made fun of my 'fro' and asked me to go out with them only to laugh in my face when I got my hopes up they might be serious.

Gee willikers, I can't imagine where my negative self-image could have come from.

I start this public examination in the hopes that by confronting these painful memories and feelings I might begin to move past them - to let them go.  Obviously, I'm not still that sixth grader who thinks she's the ugliest duckling, but neither am I a completely healthy, secure 27 year old with no image issues whatsoever.

Certainly looking at the above excerpts and memories, it seems silly to think that the cruelty of middle-schoolers should have any bearing on my self-esteem now.  But I think things like this are cumulative.  And those years were extraordinarily formative in terms of developing (or failing to develop) confidence.

More ruminating and memories coming soon.  For now, sleep.

Another Character Back Story

Have another D&D game coming up this weekend, but with a different crew this time, so new character.  I have crafted an Eladrin Bard.  Will come back with the stats in a few days once my DM gives me the thumbs up, but in the meanwhile, I thought I'd post another back story.  Consider yourself warned, however, that I have not done ANY editing on this one yet.  Ta.

Tahlwyn Killenea

Tahlwyn the Eladrin was born in the Feywild, 36 years ago. The Killenea were moon Eladrin, the most common of the Tel-quessir, so at Tahlwyn’s birth it was no surprise to see a shock of silver hair, a set of deep blue eyes flecked with gold, and fair skin with a slight gray tinge. Tahlwyn’s people dwelled in a deep forest at the foot of the mountain Shyrmylaes (“broad shoulders”). The forest, called Kaelshyr, stretched for a thousand leagues. Its towering, stout trees reached thick fingered branches far into the sky, and there the Killenea built their homes. Marvels of architecture that blended seamlessly into their natural surroundings, their breathtaking tree-houses fully embodied the arcane power that runs throughout the Feywild.

Growing up Eladrin, Tahlwyn learned at a rapid pace – not just about the spirits and powers inherent to his world – but about fighting and tracking, observing and meditating. He quickly became skillful with the longsword, the chosen weapon of many Eladrin. His people stressed preparation in the face of the unknown – who knew when one might encounter a fell creature who accidentally wandered into the Feywild, or worse, a drow. Tahlwyn was also taught the history of his noble ancestors, as well as those of the common world. He particularly loved memorizing the epic songs and poems that enumerated the deeds of these past heroes. He was a fast learner, always eager to consume the next piece of knowledge. But he was also quick to help those of his peers who worked more slowly, often practicing extra hours of sword-fighting, or tutoring in history and language. He was known among his people for his kindness and generosity, and also for his affability.

There were certain places in Kaelshyr where the borders between the Fey and natural worlds were thin. Often, the Killenea city would appear in the natural world at dusk. Inhabitants of that world, if lucky enough to be nearby, could get a glimpse into the ethereal settlements of the Eladrin. Many Killenea experienced a sense of heightened awareness at this hour, all senses tingling as they crisscrossed these gateways between worlds. Occasionally groups of Eladrin would make excursions to the natural world when the border opened, to hunt or observe, or sometimes trade with passing merchants. By the time Tahlwyn grew to adulthood he had been on many such trips.

But one trip changed the course of his life forever.

On his 36th birthday, Tahlwyn and two friends decided to mark the occasion in a human-like fashion: with judicious application of booze. Alcohol not being a popular pastime amongst his people, his party decided to make a nighttime excursion to the natural world, to visit a tavern they had noticed while observing a nearby human settlement. When they arrived they found it nearly empty – a welcome fact – as the presence of too many `others’ might have put a damper on their amusement. They stayed out all night, drinking, laughing and play-fighting. The sun was just breaking over the horizon when they returned to the gateway. Though their settlement was no longer visible, being Eladrin, the three fey-stepped through the boundary, expecting to arrive all the same.

An abrasive void assaulted Tahlwyn. Wind whipped around him with gale-like force and a black nothingness pressed so hard against his eyes and ears he could neither see nor hear his friends, or anything else. Tahlwyn felt as though at any minute his mind would be crushed and his consciousness would drift away, never to inhabit his corporeal form again. He felt his limbs quivering, wanting to give way to the crushing blackness. He put his hand to his sword, instinctively, though there was nothing to assault. There was just nothing. But the gesture gave him some small sliver of hope, and mental clarity. Enough that he spoke the words within his mind (or may have even shouted them, though he could not hear) to fey step once more.

Just as quickly as he had felt dropped at death’s door, he suddenly felt right again. He was back in the natural world, in the spot he had just left. And he was alone. He could not begin to comprehend that which he had just experienced. Had something happened to his city, his people? Had some magical force intervened to block the gateway back to the Feywild? Or had something he had done (or had done to him) changed him in such a way that he himself could not return? This led him to wonder if his friends had experienced what he had, or if they had returned as normal. Unsure of what to do next, though certain he did not want to attempt to enter the gateway again, he sat, conflicted. Should he attempt to re-enter the Feywild at some other spot? Should he seek out an Eladrin wizard in the natural world, for insight? In due time, he figured, he could try both of those things.

But in the short term, he wondered what to do with himself. What value could he offer to this world? He thought about all his training. He thought about his family’s dedication to the goddess Melora. He thought about all he knew of the history of this world and its people. And the answer became clear to him. He would act upon his teachings, striving to protect the natural places of the world, until he found out what happened to his home. He would go after the foul beasts and forces that threatened nature, its spirits, and even good people of this world. Perhaps in doing so, should some evil force be hindering the gateway, he might even eliminate it.

Having resolved himself to this fate, he felt better, though not entirely. Each minute, hour and day that passed reminded Tahlwyn of what he was missing. The memory of the Feywild was as fresh in his mind as ever, and he longed for its verdant fields, deep azure seas, and crystal clear moonlight. For the feeling of arcane power that echoed in every soft step he took. For his house in the towering trees. To comfort himself, he often sang songs while he traveled, and sometimes, while he fought. But he was lonely, and he was sad. Perhaps someday he would meet trustworthy people with whom he could share his stories, and in doing so, lessen the pain of his separation from home…

Been Meaning to Post this for Awhile

Don't have time to say much about this now, but will soon: have been getting into D&D for the first time. 4th Edition. I recently wrote a back story for my first-ever character, a dwarven rogue named Gefn Silverbrow. It was the first creative writing I've done probably since middle school. Most of high school and college was paper writing, so my imagination muscles are a little out of shape. This was a good way to get them flexing again, though the end product isn't very good. I thought I would share it with you. Here it is...

"I am a female mountain dwarf, born of a people who live deep under the mountain Ralidor. My father was, of course, a miner and silver craftsman, thought to be one of the most skilled in the dwarven community. My mother, born and raised in the deepest parts of Ralidor and hardly ever away from it, gleaned no small knowledge of ancient dwarven magics from her proximity to their source. Together they crafted some of the finest weapons of the last age, my father’s hands shaping and perfecting the metal and my mother breathing life and enchantment into every facet. My father was away for much of my youth, calling upon heroes far and wide, bestowing these inimitable weapons upon new bearers.

When I was still a young thing, no more than twenty-one, a horrific tragedy befell my clan – a great cave in. As the earth trembled and shook, rock began to peel from the walls of our ancestral home. Great stones came crashing down and slid swiftly in great swaths down the mountain, taking with it tools, people, even entire homes. As I climbed for higher ground, trying to escape the menacing flow, I saw a handful of my fellow dwarves making the same attempt. The higher I got and the safer my position, the fewer clansman I saw around me. Eventually, I found myself totally alone. When I emerged from Ralidor and looked back, it stood stoic as ever, not betraying the chaos it had unleashed internally – a chaos that would shape my upbringing in dramatic and unforeseen ways.

I waited. Several hours passed. I saw no other survivors emerge. I hoped beyond hope that any minute I would see a figure, any figure, picking a path through the trees on the mountainside. Slight trembles continued throughout the night, but with each minute that passed my hope grew dimmer.

The next morning, when dawn began to break and the first rays of sunlight peeked over Ralidor’s shoulders, I reentered the mountain. Allowing myself one last hope that I might encounter another living being, I slowly wound my way back down to the remains of our settlement. About half way down I heard a strange scuffling. Resisting the urge to call out and find another voice in the darkness, I crept behind a boulder and peeked out. Before long my eyes picked out a shape in the darkness. A bulky, rounded mass, it towered over the pathway, moving slowly, but deliberatly. As it moved closer to me, I realized, horrified, that it was a spider – dragging the corpse of a young boy, one of my kinsman. I turned and ran. It was clear that Ralidor had awoken, and that evil, perhaps in more than one form, was now looming in the deep.

Not aware that I had been too scared to breathe, as I emerged from the mountain, my breath burst from my chest. Some of my fear began to break away too. I quickly resigned myself to the fact that I was alone, possibly the sole Silverbrow survivor. I was not too proud to admit I was too young to stay alone. Fighting my way through whatever dark enemies the earthquake had unleashed was out of the question. I had to find somewhere to go. I began to call up memories of my father’s journeys. He had friends in many places, of that I was sure. As I sorted through my mental files (no easy task for a dwarf!) one name kept coming back to me: Bungo Twofoot. My father had often spoken of this elder Halfling, of his generosity and wisdom. Many years ago they had shared an adventure (the full tale of which I was never privy to) and subsequently, my father paid a visit to Bungo with every journey westward. I knew that he dwelled in Bywater, a river town less than 50 leagues from Ralidor through the Alendar forest – probably a two day walk. I looked back on Ralidor, and realized I might never return.

When I arrived in Bywater I was easily directed to Bungo’s house. Though foreign to me (and probably I to them), the Halflings I encountered were affable and welcoming. Bungo was elated to see me, having heard much of me from his visits with my father. He introduced me to his prodigious family – four children, 13 grandchildren, and nearly 25 great-grandchildren, many of whom were far too energetic for my liking! He regaled me with tales of my father’s more recent stopovers. His charming wife Lalia cooked constantly, and it seemed my plate was an immense universe of tastes that reached out to infinity.

One evening, after I had already been in Bywater two days, I craved a talk with Bungo. We ambled away from his house, bursting at the seams with boisterous family members. That there had been no questions thus far about my presence in their town or my father’s whereabouts was astounding to me, though I admit I was right glad of it. I can only attribute it to Bungo’s many dealings with my father and his understanding of our inherently private nature as dwarves. In any event, I slowly laid out the tale of what had happened at Ralidor, my assumption that my parents were dead, my uncertainty over what to do next. Once his shock had subsided, Bungo seemed to move straight into a military-like strategizing. He dismissed outright the notion that I should travel to another dwarf settlement (which I had considered), especially with so little experience journeying and at such a young age. “First off, you’re welcome at my house as long as you like. To boot, we’ve long been in need of a decent smith in these parts. In no time you’d build a decent store of gold, think over what way you’d like to set out, and in the meanwhile learn a thing or two from an old adventurer,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. Having arrived at the local tavern, we shared a tankard in silence as I thought about what he had said. It was true that I had very little experience with travel or adventure. Most of my youth was dedicated to learning my parents’ craft of silversmithing. In addition, though I had developed a good deal of physical strength through mining, I had never really needed to fight or defend myself. And I had no desire to return to my home with its threatening aura still lingering. The world was full of dark places, and my knowledge of them was slim.

And so it was that I came to settle in Bywater. Though I never really got used to most of the raucous Twofeet, one of them, a woman of my same age named Pansy, soon befriended me. Pansy, though one of the quieter of her kin, would often sit by my forge and talk to me of her latest achievements. Too smart and too energetic for such a lackadaisical gossipy village, she amused herself with petty crime – pick-pocketing, burglary, vandalism. In excited whispers (and an occasional, accidental exclamation) she would explain to me exactly how she had sneaked into this place, fooled that person, or discovered such-and-such secret entrance to so-and-so’s house. And eventually, as fewer and fewer residents of Bywater needed weapons, locks or tools, my hours at the forge became few, and I began to accompany Pansy on her expeditions. She encouraged me, even goaded me at times – “C’mon Gefn – you can get down in there, you’re as short as me!” she piped (while playfully murmuring “Though you could fit three of me side to side!” just after.) Our delinquency was insignificant but exhilarating. Eventually we both desired to learn more than just shrewdness and began practicing with weapons of my making, hitting targets in the wood, or taking down wild turkeys for suppers we would share in satisfaction.

When I had been in Bywater about 15 years, it came to pass that Bungo fell sick. At 98 years, he was already one of the oldest Halflings around. It was clear that his illness would be fatal. I sat with him often as his health declined. Having long desired to hear from him the one thing my father withheld, I worked up the courage one day to ask him about the adventure they had shared so many years before. “Though I’ve grown quite fond of you, m’dear, it is not mine to tell,” he said sadly. “I assure you that one day, in time, you will know.” Puzzled I asked, “But if neither you nor my father are around to tell it, how can I?” He looked right into my eyes, held my gaze, and said, “I believe it’s about time you left Bywater. You’ve been here nearly as long as you lived in Ralidor, and you’ve done well for yourself. But your life is not one to be lived at a standstill, especially if you’re cut from the same cloth as your parents. I believe there are many adventures, and many stories, in your future.” Having said that, he closed his eyes, and sighed, as though it tired him to think about my life to come. “I guess I’ll let you rest,” I said, adding, “Thank you for your advice, and for your kindness these past years.” Without opening his eyes, he nodded, and I turned and left. Later that evening, Bungo Twofeet died. A few days later, after his death had been fully and properly commemorated (in the typical Halfling way – parties galore), I packed my things and said my goodbyes. Pansy didn’t show up, anticipating the sadness of our parting, but I later found a single turkey feather in my supposedly locked travel bag. It was her little way of saying goodbye, of sending me off with a memory of our friendship. I took a little piece of spare leather and tied it into one of my braids. I was off to find adventure and see the world, and I’d never be truly alone."