((Posting this at Jancis' request.))
Raining.
The eldest son of Cenric Melkire took the steps slowly, one at a time, as the wind howled around him. He paused near the top and reached up to pull the hood of his cowl back, then looked up through the downpour at the magnificent edifice that was the Wanderer’s Palace.
They were long gone. The signs of their passing were everywhere: blades of grass crushed, puddles the shape of feet in the mud, small articles of this and that sparsely littering the stones.
He sighed and turned to seat himself on the top step. From a pocket he drew a folded parchment. He had the vellum open before him soon enough, and his hands shook as his voice read the words aloud, even as rainwater ruined his own handwriting.
“Most folks go their whole lives thinkin’ the Wanderer stands for change. Constant change. That wanderin’ means never settlin’, always strivin’ for somethin’ and somewhere new. That wanderlust means castin’ aside comfort ‘n’ safety for risk and hardship.
…but it can mean so much more. And at the same time… it can mean so much less.
Life is movement. We wake each morning and we rise. We eat. We go about seein’ to our lives. We visit family. Friends. We struggle, each 'n’ every one of us, in our own ways. Sunrise 'til sundown. Then we sleep… or not, dependin’.
The road ahead is a path.
So is the road behind.
So is a circle.
A worn trail through the woods is a path many have traveled. The absence o’ such is just a path waitin’ to be traveled.
We have no bounds nor binds save those we allow 'n’ set ourselves.
Blaze a trail, but let it be yours. Those who walked before us are our guides, not our rulers. Should a man or woman choose t'spend their suns and moons chasin’ after a wisp of a dream that floats on the breeze, that is their decision and their right, and that is good. Should a man or woman choose to toil away their lives in service to others, shackled to a greater cause or purpose, even if that be as simple as the raisin’ of a home and family… that is their decision and their right, and that is also good.
Oschon is a god of vagrants, and I say to you now that we are all vagrants, each in our own way. We carry our homes with us, for no mere heap o’ wood or stone is such, and we spend our lives beggin’ for the chance to matter.
May the gods watch over you. And may Oschon guide your steps, 'n’ help you find that which you’re lookin’ for. That place you want to go. That person you want to be.â€
He snorted and shook his head, the scowl on his face belying his disgust and self-loathing.
“The only promises we regret are those we fail t'keep,†he muttered. “Obligations are chains.â€
And with that he stood, tore the parchment to pieces, and cast the ruins of his speech into the wind.
Raining.
The eldest son of Cenric Melkire took the steps slowly, one at a time, as the wind howled around him. He paused near the top and reached up to pull the hood of his cowl back, then looked up through the downpour at the magnificent edifice that was the Wanderer’s Palace.
They were long gone. The signs of their passing were everywhere: blades of grass crushed, puddles the shape of feet in the mud, small articles of this and that sparsely littering the stones.
He sighed and turned to seat himself on the top step. From a pocket he drew a folded parchment. He had the vellum open before him soon enough, and his hands shook as his voice read the words aloud, even as rainwater ruined his own handwriting.
“Most folks go their whole lives thinkin’ the Wanderer stands for change. Constant change. That wanderin’ means never settlin’, always strivin’ for somethin’ and somewhere new. That wanderlust means castin’ aside comfort ‘n’ safety for risk and hardship.
…but it can mean so much more. And at the same time… it can mean so much less.
Life is movement. We wake each morning and we rise. We eat. We go about seein’ to our lives. We visit family. Friends. We struggle, each 'n’ every one of us, in our own ways. Sunrise 'til sundown. Then we sleep… or not, dependin’.
The road ahead is a path.
So is the road behind.
So is a circle.
A worn trail through the woods is a path many have traveled. The absence o’ such is just a path waitin’ to be traveled.
We have no bounds nor binds save those we allow 'n’ set ourselves.
Blaze a trail, but let it be yours. Those who walked before us are our guides, not our rulers. Should a man or woman choose t'spend their suns and moons chasin’ after a wisp of a dream that floats on the breeze, that is their decision and their right, and that is good. Should a man or woman choose to toil away their lives in service to others, shackled to a greater cause or purpose, even if that be as simple as the raisin’ of a home and family… that is their decision and their right, and that is also good.
Oschon is a god of vagrants, and I say to you now that we are all vagrants, each in our own way. We carry our homes with us, for no mere heap o’ wood or stone is such, and we spend our lives beggin’ for the chance to matter.
May the gods watch over you. And may Oschon guide your steps, 'n’ help you find that which you’re lookin’ for. That place you want to go. That person you want to be.â€
He snorted and shook his head, the scowl on his face belying his disgust and self-loathing.
“The only promises we regret are those we fail t'keep,†he muttered. “Obligations are chains.â€
And with that he stood, tore the parchment to pieces, and cast the ruins of his speech into the wind.
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
