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Calini found herself an empty seat in the refuge from the Seas cold breeze in a Tavern on the docks. She pulls the seat back and it slides roughly on the wooden floor, and then sits herself down placing her small sack of possessions in a woollen bag on the table, to exhausted to care of the cleanliness of it. The chill from outside had sunk deep into her bones and the arrival at Port Avanthyr was a welcome relief from the raucous of the ships sailors. As the warmth began to sink into her flesh, she reached into the woollen sack and sorted through her possessions. With her hands she searched for the familiar feel of an object she was after. With relief she found it and removed from the back a small book. Its cover was, unlike the rest of her equipment, fresh and crisp; its leather cover showing neither age or damage. She opened it and felt its smooth, clean pages, uncontaminated by her journeys and herself, but that was going to change. Again, she reached into her woollen sack and with less effort this time pulled out a small object wrapped in some old linen. She rolled it out to reveal a small Ink bottle, half full and a quill bend it half down the middle, clearly damaged from its hasty forcing into the bag. She tenderly tried to straighten the sad looking quill out and with some effort, its feathers managed to hold in a somewhat straight fashion. Tenderly, she placed in on the open page she had just opened and ensured it lay flat. She reached for the ink well and tried to open its lid but her attempts failed. It had obviously not been used for some time and the ink had dried the little inkwells lid shit tight. She placed it back on the table and thought for a moment, thinking of an approach that would keep the bottle intact, but fatigue had made her weary and she was not in the mood to lose the thoughts she had so desired to write down for the first time. She reached into her pockets and took hold of her dagger. With a perfectly accurate stab, she dug it through the Inkwells cork lid which it sliced through with easy. With a solid twist, she dug a hole through the cork, flicking pieces of cork on the ground and ignoring the strange stare from the gentleman from across another table. Carefully she picked up the quill, the other half of it wobbling ominously under the strain. With precision, she dipped the quill into the hole in the inkwell, flicked the pieces of cork of the quill tip and wrote.
“Dear Dia”
she shook her head and put a neat line through it.
“One the first of”
She shook her head again in displeasure. Her time in solitude on the ship had resulted in her loss of the track of time. She would have to ask someone, but she was not in the mood for conversation. She crossed another line through the written words, thought for a second and wrote in Bigger letters underneath the errors:
“Day one."
A much more pleasing concept. She topped up the quill again, flicking off shards of cork and began:
“It has been so many years since I have taken the time to properly write, I near forgot I even had the capacity to do so. So many years of travelling since my father had tried to teach me, the only way of him getting me to learn was thanks to him being thrice as stubborn as I. In one of the many places I had searched in my travels I came across an old lady in the forest searching for berries of the sort. After telling her the dangers of the forest she was in, she agreed to allow me to escort her. It was strange as this was unlike me to do something like this. Never before had I really considered the wellbeing of another person, often simply letting them suffer for the ignorance especially when I warned them so, but this lady was different. When my first attempt had failed, I insisted. This happened for quite some time until she finally conceded. During our return to her village, she asked me of where I had been and where I had travelled. When I told her that there were so many places I can barely remember, she told me to write a Journal.
I thought the idea was preposterous but when we arrived back in her home, she offered me a tea as her way of thanks. The idea of a warm drink was so pleasing and relaxing that I instinctly accepted her offer. While I sipped the tea she showed me something I will never forget. It was a Journal of her own life, her own travels, dating back to when she was but young and all the way to where she was now, the last entry talking of finding berries to make some jam for the children of the village. It was fascinating, but I had to keep moving. Before I could leave she had already taken out of a draw this very Book I am writing in, she said she was saving it for someone who would really need it. She said that I should start it on the beginning of my next journey, so that is what I am doing now. I would have written sooner, but Ink and Quill were not something readily available. This one I am writing with I found in a dusty old drawer in the Captains quarters on the ship I was on earlier, and I guess I have discovered why it was dusty. I would write more but the fatigue is too strong and I must rest. I will explore this place for the answers I am after when my strength and energy returns.”
She sat back in her chair and looked at what she had written. She was surprised her hand writing was so clear and readable after so many years of not writing. She looked at the ink well, the knife had made a crack that would not hold the ink in for much longer. She decided now was a good time to take her leave. With what ink she had left on the quill she wrote
“I will write again when I have found a merchant that can provide me with a new Ink well”
but on the last word it was too much for the poor quill and it finally broke into two pieces, its inked half falling onto the page. She quickly picked it up carefully and looked at the damage to the page. There was now a large ink spot at the where the Quill had fallen, obscuring some of her words. Suprisingly, it wasn’t anger that filled her, but a small sense of humour, as she thought when she was a little old lady herself, looking over it the thought she would get when she read this first page. With what little quill she had left, she finished with:
“And a new quill too”
She blew on the page until she was satisfied the ink had dried and closed the book. She took a deep breath, and placed the book back in the Woollen Sack. She was picking up her Bag when she heard a cough close behind her, got up and turned ready to shout but was faced instead with the Innkeeper.
“What do you want?” She snapped.
The Innkeper merely pointed at the table. She looked to see a large ink stain around the base of the Inkwell, with a fain dripping sound as the ink was obviously dripping onto the floor between the Tables cracks making matters worse. The entire table and a small area around her chair was covered with little inky bits of cork that were now gluing themselves their connected surfaces. The though travelled though her head of making an escape, but she really didn’t feel like becoming an outlaw on the first day of being in a new place. She took a deep breath, turned back to the glowering and asked
“How much then?”
“Dear Dia”
she shook her head and put a neat line through it.
“One the first of”
She shook her head again in displeasure. Her time in solitude on the ship had resulted in her loss of the track of time. She would have to ask someone, but she was not in the mood for conversation. She crossed another line through the written words, thought for a second and wrote in Bigger letters underneath the errors:
“Day one."
A much more pleasing concept. She topped up the quill again, flicking off shards of cork and began:
“It has been so many years since I have taken the time to properly write, I near forgot I even had the capacity to do so. So many years of travelling since my father had tried to teach me, the only way of him getting me to learn was thanks to him being thrice as stubborn as I. In one of the many places I had searched in my travels I came across an old lady in the forest searching for berries of the sort. After telling her the dangers of the forest she was in, she agreed to allow me to escort her. It was strange as this was unlike me to do something like this. Never before had I really considered the wellbeing of another person, often simply letting them suffer for the ignorance especially when I warned them so, but this lady was different. When my first attempt had failed, I insisted. This happened for quite some time until she finally conceded. During our return to her village, she asked me of where I had been and where I had travelled. When I told her that there were so many places I can barely remember, she told me to write a Journal.
I thought the idea was preposterous but when we arrived back in her home, she offered me a tea as her way of thanks. The idea of a warm drink was so pleasing and relaxing that I instinctly accepted her offer. While I sipped the tea she showed me something I will never forget. It was a Journal of her own life, her own travels, dating back to when she was but young and all the way to where she was now, the last entry talking of finding berries to make some jam for the children of the village. It was fascinating, but I had to keep moving. Before I could leave she had already taken out of a draw this very Book I am writing in, she said she was saving it for someone who would really need it. She said that I should start it on the beginning of my next journey, so that is what I am doing now. I would have written sooner, but Ink and Quill were not something readily available. This one I am writing with I found in a dusty old drawer in the Captains quarters on the ship I was on earlier, and I guess I have discovered why it was dusty. I would write more but the fatigue is too strong and I must rest. I will explore this place for the answers I am after when my strength and energy returns.”
She sat back in her chair and looked at what she had written. She was surprised her hand writing was so clear and readable after so many years of not writing. She looked at the ink well, the knife had made a crack that would not hold the ink in for much longer. She decided now was a good time to take her leave. With what ink she had left on the quill she wrote
“I will write again when I have found a merchant that can provide me with a new Ink well”
but on the last word it was too much for the poor quill and it finally broke into two pieces, its inked half falling onto the page. She quickly picked it up carefully and looked at the damage to the page. There was now a large ink spot at the where the Quill had fallen, obscuring some of her words. Suprisingly, it wasn’t anger that filled her, but a small sense of humour, as she thought when she was a little old lady herself, looking over it the thought she would get when she read this first page. With what little quill she had left, she finished with:
“And a new quill too”
She blew on the page until she was satisfied the ink had dried and closed the book. She took a deep breath, and placed the book back in the Woollen Sack. She was picking up her Bag when she heard a cough close behind her, got up and turned ready to shout but was faced instead with the Innkeeper.
“What do you want?” She snapped.
The Innkeper merely pointed at the table. She looked to see a large ink stain around the base of the Inkwell, with a fain dripping sound as the ink was obviously dripping onto the floor between the Tables cracks making matters worse. The entire table and a small area around her chair was covered with little inky bits of cork that were now gluing themselves their connected surfaces. The though travelled though her head of making an escape, but she really didn’t feel like becoming an outlaw on the first day of being in a new place. She took a deep breath, turned back to the glowering and asked
“How much then?”