It is that time of year again, when the winter winds come sweeping down from the Spine, blanketing the mountain arteries thick with snow and ice. How you must be cold as the year?s end chill begins to settle. You must think longingly of me, down south and away from all that ice.
I hope you think of me as much as I think of you.
I can still remember you taking me as a child to the Sea of Moving Ice. There we watched as the water froze over. Do you remember it as I do? It was marvellous! The air was crisp and we huddled beneath the furs with naught but the heat of our bodies and the flames of our fires to keep warm. The winds ravaged at our very souls, railing against our blankets and seeking out the smallest chinks in our clothes.
But despite the unwelcoming land, we continued to make the track to the seaside. Every year we set up a hut and every year we built a fire by the water?s edge with our own two hands. We were always so proud; they were the only things we ever built together. Once finished we would huddle together, watching as the waning sun fell sparkling across the shattered sea?s surface like an endless plain of glittering diamonds stretching to the horizon.
You would warm some cider and we would clutch at the steaming cups, fingers grasping for the heat through thick mitts. There, in the fading day?s light, you could hear it begin. It crackled, drier than the driest twigs in the forest, louder than the loudest cave bear?s hibernating snores.
Alone but together, we would watch the sea turn to ice.
How marvelous it was. I can still picture it fondly in my mind. You know not how many years I have thought upon those annual voyages. I wonder, do you still go to those rocky beaches? Do you still build those rickety huts so riddled with holes that we could barely get a few hours sleep? Do you still gaze out at the sea, telling stories of the far off lands that lay beyond them?
Do you still think of me?
I still think of you.
The South just isn?t the same. It is warmer, for sure, and there are many stranger wonders and customs in these foreign lands. The cities - oh the cities! ? they are like nothing you could ever dream. They are bigger than Luskan, Kuldahar and even Neverwinter! There are ever so many people. You could not begin to imagine how many. They are everywhere, and it gives these cities so much character and so much life. There is so much to do and see that some days I feel I shall just burst from the excitement.
I wish I could tell you of the circuses that I have seen, of the theatres and temples, the minstrels and the sorcerers. But there is just too much and my words could never hope to capture the vibrancy and vitality of these sights.
But, despite all these wonders, I find myself thinking more and more of home. It rains, ever so much more here than up north. It is dreary thing, the rain. Snow and ice are cold but the rain soaks through your clothes, skin and into your very bones. You can not just step inside and be done with it, as your shirts are always sopping right through. And it always comes back.
And, there is something special about the snow. There is something majestic. Winter is never quite the same without it. I look out my window, at the jade grass and emerald trees. There is so much colour at all times. It is so different that it reminds me I am not home. It is the winter season but still it rains and still it grows. I long for the mountain?s chill. I ache for the blinding crystal ice. I would give up almost anything to be in Jorl?s tavern, huddled by the fire and listening to the fur trader?s endless stories.
I long for home.
And there is nothing I would want more than just a single flake of snow?
?Eh! Eh! What are you up to??
?Nothing, sir!?
?How many times do we have to tell you to stop scratching at them walls!?
?I didn?t mean anything sir, I am sorry!?
?Kell, get the coordinator, this one?s getting uppity!?
?Con?s not going to like this, Az. Why don?t you just leave them alone??
?What, and let this place go to ruin because the nutters can?t follow some simple rules? This is Spellhold! Not some ruddy Maztican mud pit. We have civilization because of rules? how did the little viper get a knife anyway??
?Best to confiscate it, we wouldn?t want a repeat of that Ortho incident.?
?Give that to me boy!?
?Please sir, I meant no harm.?
?Give it to me, NOW!?
?Sir? please? ow!?
?Now you?ve done it, Az.?
?Eh, whatever, I still got it from the little blighter. That should heal before Con sees it. Or we?ll just say he ran into some wall or something. Let?s go, we have more deviants to check up on.?
?I am sorry, but you aren?t allowed anything sharp? what is this? Did you write this??
?I?m just writing a letter to my mom.?
?This is? no. It can?t be??
?Kell!?
?Here, write on this, with this quill and ink. I?ll? I?ll make sure your letters get home to your? mother.?
?Thank you sir! You are very kind.?
?Yes? well? farewell.?
Dear mother, how I miss you so.
It is that time of year again, when the winter winds come sweeping down from the Spine, blanketing the mountain arteries thick with snow and ice. How you must be cold as the year?s end chill begins to settle. You must think longingly of me, down south and away from all that ice.
That ice, how I do miss it.
The people here aren?t quite like those up North. They are nice, but they have such strange customs. And I? I am ever so lonely mother. I look out this window and I think only of home.
But I am so far from home.
If only I could have some gentle reminder. Some thing so that I don?t forget that it is winter.
Something like? yes.
Oh, how I wish you could see this mother. It has started to snow!
And it is beautiful.
Edited by KedorLao, 14 January 2008 - 09:29 PM.
