Hi Mom and Dad,
The sleeping season is here, and so I hope I'll get around to writing up my recent experiences in more detail, as demanded. I'll append it to this letter as it's finished, so you may have to do some sorting.
I'm sad to say we probably won't be seeing each other anytime soon, unless you come to visit me here. The only justification I really have for such a trip would be my magisterial exams, and I won't be taking them.
I hope it doesn't sound like I've given up. I haven't. Even as the leaves tremble on storm days, my duramen knows this to be correct. What would I have to gain? The moons wax and wane, the seasons rise and fall, and the earth knows not of petty titles. It's the invention of man, only man cares for its impressions, and I care not to impress.
Which is to say, the Halflings are already paying magisterial rates anyway.
When I first set out on my Journey, I wanted to be Magister, because it was the thing to do. Then I saw works of greatness, and the greed of men got to me. I saw myself in the treetops where all would gaze upon me with awe. I saw my story written in the annals of history.
Foolish. I've not archived such, but stood right next when they handed out the awards. Greatness is long periods of boredom, followed by a brief moment of excitement and then maybe a group of people claps. I can get the same with a nice pie on pie week. Or just any pie, really, the halflings are good like that. And any who judge them for that or their standards of greatness is the greater fool.
Perhaps it sounds like I am justifying my failure, my surrender. Perhaps it sounds as if I love the halflings because they, like me, are lacking. No. Even we Jades make the mistake of disregarding the quiet strength of the earth. But halflings never do, because they live it.
As I sit here, on the flanks of Karagil, I look upon my valley. I look upon a blank book of history. Why try for a record in the histories of man and dwarf when I can write my own history in the earth. Campfire tales sputter out and dusty tomes crumble, but with the greenery as my singing witness, my legacy will only grow.
Mathilde has turned the darkness of the stones into terror and blood, lead armies to impossible victories, and produced magical annihilation on a scale that is simply impossible to truly grasp. And yet, without someone to come and light a candle in the dark and clean the blood, all it amounts to is blood on dark stones. And that is so heartbreakingly pointless.
Kragg the Grim has lived a thousand years, and made a thousand works of legend, but they sit in a thousand vaults and have been used perhaps once. I'd rather feed ten thousand, day after day, for as long as the earth endures.
My legacy will outlive them all.
Ok, so maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. I wouldn't have this chance without them, but I hope you feel the truth of my words. If another of our Order comes to visit, they can read my histories, and perhaps I'll receive a fancy title, or perhaps I won't. All it amounts to is a few coins on the tithing, and all that means is whether the halflings will consider it business or religious duty to feed me.
On a less soul searching topic, Mathilde told me the story of how she got her puppy, though I won't repeat it here because it's not mine to tell. It was surprisingly Grey though, almost uncharacteristically for her.
She did point out something funny to me: Ulgu naturally makes for Showmen and Mystics. What's the funny bit? Consider that this means the Grey College might have ended up as the Great Altdorf Carnival. Next time you meet a Grey, imagine him as a Ringmaster. Nothing will knock them out of their smug routine as the suspicion that someone is just barely holding back giggles.
Love,
Panoramia