Diary of Cyfier - Awoken

So many times have I wrote in these Journals spanning over a decade. Often a theme of full circles, returning to a starting point never to dissimilar from its origins.
How Bree is noted to be an entity of her own.
How we often believe ourselves to be the ones pulling the strings, making calculations on our moves and manipulations, always overlooking the simplicity of the game afoot.

We are not the authors of our stories.

We can be novelists of them, but never the true authors.
Bree. She is the publisher of all her chronicled events. Merely incapable of writing the words, she uses all her residents to put pen to paper on her behalf, the ghost writer, if you will.
She holds all her history inside, much like the vaults hold the coin. She holds with unmatchable strength her tales.
So when we play out our little stories, they are always fiction. The true fact hidden from us is that Bree has told the story within the books, not us. She plays out her plots in full circle, always ensuring her own survival as any vane author ever did about themselves.
She is the true holder of the strings and we are her puppets, playing out her tale and tragically believe ourselves to be masters of our domains.
Upon knowing this, we can almost engage our own free will, the plot devices the author had never anticipated. The twist in the tale that the writer miscalculated, forcing a new issue, a rewrite. Or appendices on books wrote by our forefathers.


My return to Bree was not as straightforward as I had hoped, the news of the boy sent a shock through my entire workings. The twist I had miscalculated. Many names had I carried over many years, but father was not one I had anticipated. It is something far beyond me, I don't understand it or know how to begin acting as a parent. At best, I can compare it to manipulation. Taking something and forcing it to change into something else that it is not. Or bribery, like dangling a bag of coin before the guard to give you a pass. My skill set is unsuited for the raising of a child. My entire design is that for instill fear. My now-legendary armour, black and Sharpe. The descriptions of nightmares. I sought Ilaru for help on this matter and how best to proceed.
What of her marriage to Haldrid? I always thought it would be that fool Seaver but Haldrid? Seemed a lesser plot to me but equally a lesser challenge to over come.


The full circle in this tale is none other than a barrel inside the prancing pony. I spoil the ending deliberately, as is my pleasure as an author. The barrel sits next to a wooden pillar and inscribed upon the pillar is a rich history of names. These names I have wrote about before, the list of folks long passed who stood upon that spot to keep watch over the comings and goings of the Prancing Pony.
The perfect position to observe the door, the bar and the center of the room. Even offering a long view of the rear door beyond the kitchens. Beside the view point, sits the barber and his chair, a place that patrons often sit and spill their secrets. This spot of Avasian origin, later the sentinels, watchers, many different houses, including my own house of Midnight had posted their spies at this position. Battles between men spilling blood merely to stand here have occurred.
I stood awaiting.

In my time here, I witnessed Bree waking up. She has become aware of my return and this stirred her to rise from her slumber. As she stretched off her long, dormant sleep, I could see her preparing her first move. The first paragraph of her new tale a decade after closing a chapter. I can read her fear, her words speak volumes of how she plays against me, knowing I could take the path and bring her pain as I did before. I can see her putting her pot devices into place. The hooded figures appearing around the room as the night went on. The predictable nonsense of a figure pretending to mind her own business, taking note of everything besides me. The man appearing around every corner or the attempted awkward small talk. The innkeeper bringing me drinks I had not ordered.
The tests sent by the subplots. Attempts to trigger momentum. To see if I would surrender a small amount of trust or if spiking a drink was the easier option.

Butterbur knows I do not drink from anything other than that which was poured by my own hand. My kind have the long standing tradition of paying him for drinks we do not consume, so long does this tradition stand, that no longer does Butterbur bother pouring the drinks, just hands out empty tankards or complies with the figure requests, only bringing us the message that a drink was offered, along with the dry containers.

Bree has once again awoken. Believing herself the author of some plot pushed  upon me but it is pointless. I know the story, I have written the story time and time again, believing myself to be the author.

The tale goes something along the line of this,
She makes her first move, The catalyst. She must always go first, less you be the villainous creature of the story, she goes first.
A point of contact with one of only two plot devices. They find themselves in trouble or unable to forfil their own ambitious plot. Some details alter but you can place them into one or the other category.
However, the story grows so predictable now, I can tell which catalyst has been ushered them forward before they even make an approach. The tables in center of the room are exclusive spots to the ambitious, the edges of the room are for those finding themselves in trouble.
Now, the stories go on to some adventure, Brigands and highwaymen, corrupt town guard or spies within families, the detail is quite enchanting and easily, you find yourself caught up in a gripping volume of text. Losing yourself to something of interest, be that love, or valor, or coin. The story goes on but ultimately, Bree maintains, Bree remains untouched, ready for the next tale.
However, Bree has made her own miscalculations.
The one twist of a tale that may force her to reevaluate her position. The plot that never appears in the books. Has never been written about, it has never created a story or gone on to be chronicled and yet exists as a fear inside the minds of each author or writer because the result is empty pages.
What if there is no story?

I stood at my barrel, watching Bree play out her opening prologue and while I admit, I was full of curiosity, glee over seeing what can unfold on the coming pages.
I simply, rejected the story.
Each attempt to pull me into the plot, followed dismissal. The epic tale cut dead because instead of going on a journey, I stayed home. The drinks, turned away and did not follow a return. The staged attempts to approach from afar, ignored. The over confidence of the girl drawing to much attention to her, as was the girl Syllea. Toyed with. I went as far as to offer out my post to Syllea freely in order to dismiss myself from whatever Bree had penned in her book. An irony as she too rejected the post that had such a long history of being fought over, and I, the remaining Victor could not even give it away.

My ability to see how Bree writes her books has allowed me the free will to simple step aside.
My old ambition to serve her greater interests, erased.

Her story can continue. I was never the lead character anyway. We now offer each other mutual respect as for once, we have agreed terms. She writes her books, the volumes, chronicles. Issues or poems and I step aside and allow them to go on without me.

Her story must continue. We all know this, Bree has more tales to tell. Who knows, I may make a guest appearance in the text as she writes another chapter.

For me however, my story does not end here but the remaining chapters are, as far as I see it right now, tales of fatherhood, family, settlement, growing older until the Chronicle skips to a new plot device. My privileged right as an author to spoil the ending long before it has unfolded.

I wait for that. I will watch out for it with an eye always on the pages because as much as I tell myself that I am no longer involved with the story. The dark, blackened armour entwined with my life still remains. As if this entire chapter was nothing more than page fillers to thicken the book.