Vandalan

I interviewed another person in connection with Cirywen Ravencrag's murder, she wished to remain anonymous in the report so I will not endanger her by putting her name on parchment. She came to speak about Berrywine, voicing her opinion that he would not have been so sloppy to leave her body out nor kill her before he could discover who Cirywen worked for.

Yesterday I finished my interview with Seaver, I watched this man nearly break down from the guilt he carries because he could not protect the woman he cared for and

Bree. Such an insignificant little place, yet the pomposity within these hedge walls is quite overwhelming in its frequency. Every man, dwarf and halfling seems to be for himself, barely stretching their horizons beyond the nearest tavern. It was quite a shock returning from so long alone in my own thoughts and company to civilisation that stands in such stark contrast to that from which I have come. Melliea would oft tell me tales of Gondor her homeland, painting a vivid picture with words and eventually letters.

As summer changed to autumn and then to winter, the girl met a turmoil that no one could have predicted her to face. It is something she will remember the rest of her days, the pain and regret will be her close companions as long as she breaths. It was a hard lesson for the girl, harder than losing her lover. The girl learnt that she can also lose her friends, no matter how close they were to her. And the man who taught that lesson was called Vandalan.

Once there was a girl, who greatly grieved for the love she had lost. She cried all day and night. She was like a ghost – the life continued around her, people laughed, but she was not part of it. She didn’t see her friends even if they stood right next to her and talked to her, tried to make her feel better. It was a difficult time to dear Miss Celnessyn, Skarly and Miss Ellae. And for a long time she was certain she would be like that for the rest of her life. But just like everyone else who had lost their loved ones, life continued for her as well.

The hovel of a home, hung with birds, rabbits and herbs from its cracked plaster ceiling. Baskets, boxes and bottles, the contents were familiar to her, their uses being to season, to heal, to harm. The fire never seemed to die down in the hearth, its bright flames causing the shadows of dead fowl, small skulls and trinkets to cast long shadows upon the wall. A garden spider, no bigger than the thumb became a shadow to haunt the dreams, but it bought her peace. Home.

(Glimpses of dialogs Priya has had with different characters. Thank you to all those lovely players whose characters are in any way involved in her life.) 

*rain streaks down the window panes, its pattering upon the roof a comforting sound combined with the crackling from the fireplace.  The bluebook lay open upon the small desk of her workroom and the scent of bilberry tea fills the air as she writes*

Protection comes in many guises, in the form of a mother, a lover, a blade, axe or the like. Sometimes from a stranger, a friend, sometimes it is sought, whilst at other times it is nowhere to be found.