Nanna
New Arrival
Posts: 15
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Post by Nanna on Oct 4, 2006 22:05:09 GMT -5
My name isn’t even Nanna. It’s Nanette.
Oh, some of them know that. But even those who do, call me by the name that no-account magician gave me after mangling my voice box.
But then, a lot of things about me are misunderstood, misinterpreted, and just plain missed. It is, perhaps, precisely because I know that I exist in a manner contrasted with my reality, that I take a certain care to perceive my surroundings. I endeavor to interpret, to catalogue, and to understand, as well as know.
And they’d be surprised at what I know. Even those who know I cannot speak forget that I can yet hear. And so I listen to their words. No, more than listen. I yearn for them. Words and sounds are my connection to the people around me. Though I can only rarely communicate myself fully, I take what I hear, what I listen to, and the sounds of voices sustain me. I know that I exist, because I can hear them, and think on what I hear, even though they do not hear me.
Much of what I hear, of course, is foolishness. I do not claim to be wise, but some truths that are accepted as self evident by others, seem as false as a sour note to me. This nonsense about the Highlord being dead, for example. It is as if the Defenders defame Windfoot’s memory, that they do not remember his essence. He was an elf, and a druid. Such beings do not die, as their own spirituality teaches! To ignore one of his teachings, then, is to ignore all of them, which seems to me to be rather insulting to him. Not all believe he is completely gone, of course. Some remember. Some know. Maybe even most. But enough think he is gone. That he and Caspin both are.
That ridiculous priestess, for example. Lady Polrena. Her High Lord leaves the plane, Caspin and Samin disappear, and what does she do? Goes off to pray. As if that would help. As if nobody knows why she really left. Why she would leave the Defenders-- desert them when she would think they need her guidance.
It’s Caspin she grieves for, believing he is surely dead. She thinks she hides it. It’s even possible she does not allow herself to accept it. Yet the evidence is there, for any who look. For all her vaunted kindness to the most trying of Defenders, Doc Caspin somehow exasperated her? When she would sing with Menshk, interpret for Tatoo, smile at Icilis, and stand up for Bastone? Unlikely that the gentle laughter and witticisms of the crafty rogue would test her patience. Far more likely is that his crooked smile tested her virtuous…heart. And so she grieves, secluding herself, with the measly, thread-bare excuse that she is doing the Light’s will and teaching her faith across the globe.
Oh, please. She’s all wrong for him anyway. Her sickly sweet nature would prevent her from telling him when he was being an ass. A stray or thoughtless word from him would slash at her, and she would die inside, silently. He would never know, for she would never tell him, thinking it was her duty to hide her pain. For his happiness, she would sacrifice hers. Good Light, could any of us stand that kind of daily melodrama? Better that she take the vows she’s held off for so long. It is not kindness to accept her pathetic excuse and look past it, thinking it is out of respect for her. She is a coward, afraid of facing the truths inside of her- and outside as well.
When I insert my picks into a lock, and feel for the tumblers, there is a moment’s uncertainty. Each tumbler must be clicked into place--by feel, not by sight. So the question is not “Will it open?” but “Will it open this moment?” Just so, the question is not “Is Doc alive?” but “When will Doc return?” Of course the master rogue is alive. To doubt that, even for a moment, shows the fool woman is undeserving of him. Can she not feel it in her heart, as I do? Just as the tumblers feel before they click into place, he feels alive. Then it is not a question of will he return, but when. Of course, the answer to “when” may be a long time coming, just as Windfoot’s spirit may not return to the land before the next Age returns to renew the world. But he is alive.
I shall not even go looking for him. As much as I desire to see him again, to be taught additional skills, it is insulting to him, I think, to assume he cannot look after himself. Where-ever he is, whatever he is doing, he has been carefully trained by masters and has a solid head on his shoulders. He will succeed in whatever his self-appointed task may be, or he will return to ask for our assistance. Any other worry, fear, or concern is pointless...
Now, where did that dratted, misbegotten son of a pastry chef get to, anyway? He can’t be away grieving. More likely, some warlock got sick of him and used him and his bread as a soul shard. He’s not much of an interpreter, but he’s all I had. What now? Tatoo mentioned that I should ask Monuv to take a look at the damage to my vocal cords. Wonder where I can find him?
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Post by Robbyn Jonathan on Oct 4, 2006 23:58:17 GMT -5
((yay!))
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Post by Celera on Oct 5, 2006 0:59:48 GMT -5
(Welcome back!)
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Post by Fechak on Oct 5, 2006 1:23:03 GMT -5
((Oh man... if you do go find Monuv, you deserve what you get! haha))
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Nanna
New Arrival
Posts: 15
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Post by Nanna on Dec 14, 2006 0:23:23 GMT -5
I haven't seen that runtling in months. While I should probably hope he hasn't been eaten by some giant - probably while offering it bread- I find myself with less and less sympathy for the mage as the days wear on.
I have relied upon him too heavily, I have discovered. Even a poor companion, it appears, was better than none at all. At least his voice kept me in contact with the people around me. With him gone, I am more alone than ever, as I am unable to make myself understood by those on the other end of the com. For those i see in person, a lifetime of personal hand signals does nothing, as they have no idea what my signals mean.
I have been reliably informed that under no circumstances should I allow Monuv within 10 paces of me, so I seek healing still. I have attempted to find that goody-two-shoes priestess, Polrena, but, although I have been assured that she has returned from whatever goody-goody mission she was on, I have been unable to locate her. I had been hoping she could take another crack at fixing what Ernie had done to me. If all else fails, I shall, of course, rely on myself. I can make do on my own. But it would be awfully nice to talk to people again...
Perhaps I can find someone else. I haven't met all of our associates yet, but surely there must be someone. Perhaps Johnson can lead me.
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Post by Annalira Delshannon on Dec 14, 2006 15:10:39 GMT -5
Finally feeling settled in her apartment in the Old District, Anna was getting used to Stormwind life again. She realized, living so close to the Cathedral, that she had missed the larger set of bells - but the ache at the loss of the Defender's Hall was still very real. The place was large enough though, for only really having two rooms, and the bathroom had hot running water. The price was right too, and Anna was happy there. She'd finally finished re-cataloging her herbs, now that she had a cabinet to devote to them, as well as plentiful bookshelves for referencing.
One morning though, shortly after the bells rang for 9:00, Anna noticed a note in the letterbox outside. That's odd, she thought, usually I don't get mail by the early post.
Opening it, she found a curt note in Johnson's perfect, if spidery, script.
Ms. Delshannon
A member of the Defenders has been asking about a healer. She seems to have suffered an accident. I have given her your address. I expect that she will contact you soon.
Johnson
Chuckling at Johnson's utter lack of embellishment, Anna checked to be sure she had enough tea and food around, in case this mysterious visitor came hungry, and sat down to write a few long-overdue letters.
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Nanna
New Arrival
Posts: 15
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Post by Nanna on Dec 14, 2006 22:03:03 GMT -5
8:45am
As I believe myself to be much better at communicating my needs and desires through the written word, I mailed Johnson a letter last night, from Stormwind. I cannot express my shock at being woken roughly this morning by a gruff rogue, one of the other inhabitants of the quarters at SI:9. I had a visitor.
Johnson himself stood at the steps to the grounds. I blinked a few times, not understanding. He informed me, in that much-put-upon tone of his, that he had found a few leads for my search for healing. A few crisp movements produced a letter from his jacket pocket - a neatly tailored, expensive jacket, unless I miss my guess, and he in the roughest part of the city! - which I took from him, nodding my thanks. He turned away before I could find coins with which to pay him, but even as I reached for my belt pouch, I realized such an effort would only have been an affront and insult anyway. The next notion to pop into my head was that I should follow him, to discover where he hid hiomself, with the Defender's Hall gone. At the very least, I should offer escort out of the disctrict! Again, however, I decided it would be insulting, and aknowledged to myself the man probably had resources I couldn't begin to imagine. Which brought me again to the idea of following him...
In what can only be described as a heroic display of self-discipline, I watched Johnson leave. It had nothing whatsoever to do with my burning curiosity at what my letter might contain.
I walked back to my room, refraining from opening the letter where prying eyes could see. With utmost casualness, I opened the envelope and withdrew the paper inside. The fact that I cannot now find the envelope most certainly does not imply haste on my part. I have waited this long, have I not? A few more minutes meant nothing to me. I am patience itself, assuredly.
Annalira, the paper said, with an address. Nothing more.
Very well. Annalira it will be. I write this now to emphasize my patience. I will most certainly not go rushing off. The poor woman has probably not even broken her fast yet.
.... 9:05 am
Neither Johnson nor his letter mentioned whether the healer was expecting me. It would be rude, would it not, to delay my coming if she were? Unforgivable. Perhaps insulting, to make her wait.
I hope to write back with good news!
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Post by Annalira Delshannon on Dec 21, 2006 18:20:08 GMT -5
About halfway through a letter to her older sister, Anna heard something that might be a knock on the door.
Just a moment, she called quickly, finishing her sentence and dropping the pen back in its stand. She carefully weighted the edge of the paper so it wouldn't blow away and smudge itself and went to go see who, if anyone, was at the door.
Anna opened the door to see a young woman standing on the stairs outside, looking somewhat anxious. She looked vaguely familiar, but no name came to mind.
Hello? Can I help you?
The woman stood there for a moment, opened her mouth once, as if to speak, stopped, and then brightened. She held out her hand, giving Anna a small scrap of parchment. There, in Johnson's spidery black script, was her name and address.
Oh! Come in! You must be the one that Johnson had mentioned in his note. He said you'd had some sort of accident?
The woman followed her cautiously inside the tiny flat, her quick eyes taking in the small table, tiny stove, oversized bookshelf, and well stuffed cabinets. She again opened her mouth as if to speak, stopped, and noticing the stack of papers on the desk and Anna's pen (and all the various inks scattered about), began to gesture something about writing.
Do you... oh! right... accident - your voice? Anna secretly berated herself for not remembering that this visitor was supposed to have some ailment. Obviously the woman could not, or would not, speak, and here she had gone and put her foot in it.
The woman nodded.
Alright then - and you're here to see if I can help in some way?
She nodded again. Inviting the woman to sit at the table, Anna picked up a sheet of paper, her friendliest pen, and a vial of brown ink. She placed them in front of her visitor, along with a blotter and pen stand, placed the kettle on the stove for tea, and then sat down in the second of her three chairs.
Ok - well first things first. I'm Anna - though I guess you know that. What is your name?
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Nanna
New Arrival
Posts: 15
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Post by Nanna on Dec 23, 2006 22:50:58 GMT -5
I am Nannette.
Gnome mage, Ernie, took my voice when I was a baby.
Can you fix?
---
Inwardly, I wince at the sparse words on the page, but stifle the urge to nibble the end of the pen. So much more to say, but I dare not waste the time, patience, or goodwill of the one woman who could possibly help me. I know next to nothing of my own affliction, so cannot think of what other information might prove useful.
Perhaps the reason he had silenced me?
---
He didn't like to hear me cry.
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Post by Annalira Delshannon on Jan 1, 2007 13:31:16 GMT -5
A mage did this? To a child?
Anna sat bewildered for a moment. Obviously some kind of harm... but what kind, as there were three different schools of magic that most mages used? And when she was a child - that meant she likely didn't remember what kind of spell it was. But to take the voice from a child for crying? Anna sighed softly, hoping she never had to deal with that mage in person.
Looking at the young woman, she could see no obvious signs of damage or scarring - whatever the injury, it was entirely internal. Considering that most fire mages that she knew were utterly lacking in that sort of subtlety, Anna figured that whatever had happened it was probably not the result of a fire spell. More than likely, it had been frost - for even a rudimentary frost specialized mage, the immobilization of vocal cords would be simple enough. How the spell had lasted this long though...
Anna stood up, putting some water in the kettle and setting it to boil. She didn't think that a simple infusion would cure the woman's voice, but it certainly wouldn't hurt, and her vocal cords were likely to be sore and somewhat weak after all this time.
Can you make any sound at all, even if it seems silly or incoherent? Perhaps a cough or a laugh? I don't mean to pry, but I'm somewhat at a loss for how to proceed - and maybe if I can figure out what kind of damage was done I can counteract it.
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Nanna
New Arrival
Posts: 15
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Post by Nanna on Jan 1, 2007 22:29:51 GMT -5
I think I understand; you are asking if it is all sound I cannot make, or only my voice? My laughter is silent, but I can cough, sneeze, clap, and sigh. I cannot whisper.
If it helps, I overheard Robbyn talking about a book he found. I do not understand its import, but he seemed excited about it.
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Post by Annalira Delshannon on Jan 4, 2007 22:42:25 GMT -5
Well, that's a start, Anna answered, reading over the hastily written words. At least whatever has happened hasn't damaged the rest of your throat too badly. The signs right now point to a frost school spell, perhaps attached with some arcane - to immobilize your vocal cords but leave the rest of your throat functional and unharmed.
Anna got up, pouring hot water over some sweet smelling herbs and dried tea.
And Robbyn? A book? That doesn't surprise me much - he's often reading. And he's usually not too far from Stormwind. I'll be we can get ahold of him without too much trouble. I'd like to see this book.
Anna sighed.
I'm not sure where to start really, but it's obvious that this isn't going to be chanting a commonly known spell and *poof* everything is better. I will warn you though - when we get your voice working again, and I"m sure that we can figure out a way, you may be surprised at it and have to train it a bit. Likely to be rusty after disuse.
Anyway....
Anna reached down, unhitching a small whirring device from her belt. Switching the communicator on, she spoke into it... Robbyn, are you there? Has anyone seen Robbyn Johnathan lately?
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Post by Robbyn Jonathan on Jan 4, 2007 23:25:16 GMT -5
Robbyn was, as usual, poring over an engineering text in the dusty archives section of the Stormwind library. He had volunteered to help catalogue some ancient texts for Mr. Tovald, and had gotten distracted again, as often happened. It was just that his curiosity over the dusty text in his hands overcame him. Mr. Tovald didn't seem to mind.
The guild communicator crackled to life, causing Robb to almost fall out of his chair in surprise and out of concern regarding the noise. "Robbyn, are you there?" He looked around quickly, worried that someone might be looking over to shush him. How had he forgotten to turn it off again?
"Oh...hi!" he whispered, turning the knobs down and holding the device (a necklace of his own design) up to his cheek. "I m-mean, I'm here! Uhh...yes? W-what is it?"
A few minutes later, Robbyn was puffing down the street, Assop's leather-bound volume, Magical Enchantments of the Nethergard, clutched in his hand. Ever since the old elven general Lacota had commanded him to study and report on it's mysteries, Robbyn had been taking every spare minute he had, trying to make heads or tails of it. He had even looked for the old gnome, Nedward, for help, after someone had mentioned his name, but not knowing any address he had not had any luck. Every time Robbyn showed up, the members of the guild told him he had just missed Nedward. It was very frustrating.
12...16...22...the house numbers lumbered by. Finally, Robbyn found the address Anna had mentioned and paused on the doorstep for breath. It was a nice place, and looking down, Robbyn suddenly realized he was a dishevelled mess. Had he even combed his hair today? He ran his fingers through his hair and felt it sticking straight up…again. But just as he was thinking he should go home and freshen up, the door opened. There inside, was Nanette, smiling so sweetly up at him, with a hopefully expression in her eyes that just broke his heart. How could he tell her he knew nothing?
“Oh…uhh… hi, Nannette… I mean Nanna!” He wanted to hit his head with his fist. She preferred “Nanna!” How did he manage to forget the simplest things? “I w-was…uhhh…” He was being an idiot. Again. He hung his head, defeated, and held out the book. “Here.”
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Nanna
New Arrival
Posts: 15
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Post by Nanna on Jan 5, 2007 0:43:40 GMT -5
I watched for his coming, and he is here!
I cannot help but smile at the gentle giant. I think to blow him a kiss by way of thanks, but his head is bowed. I hope he is not speaking, for I cannot read his lips when they are thus hidden. Instead, I lift his chin with my hand and kiss his cheek. I open the door wider, and make gestures I can only hope indicate greetings and hospitality within.
My inability to communicate has cut off from people-- from community. My sense of belonging to friends, family or even guild is incomplete, as I cannot participate in full sharing of common knowledge. Instead, I hoard my experiences as I hoard silver, gold, and cheap trinkets. Purusing pocketed items later, I can look at them, feel them, and think to myself, "I am real, I am here, I have done these things and aquired these prizes. These things touched another person, and I now have the shared the experience of touching this item with the person who had it last. Thus I prove I am part of a common experience- I am part of a greater whole."
Because of this, as I hold the book, instinct and training silently scream at me to hoard my new treasure. The secrets written within its pages may yield a trove for me, but, lacking any arcane knowledge, I have not the key to unlock its mysteries.
As Annalira comes to see who is at the door, it is only with powerful self-control and discipline that I pass the priceless object to her.
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Post by Annalira Delshannon on Jan 5, 2007 11:09:54 GMT -5
Magical Enchantments of the Nethergard.
The tome is heavy in my hands, obviously filled with who knows what kind of spells and information. Hoping to myself that it’s not written in Gnomish, I look up to see Robbyn at the door, shifting from one foot to the other, with Nanna smiling at him and waving her hands around.
Robbyn! I’m so glad you came. Come in – there’s tea, and I have some muffins, or bread and cheese if you’re hungry.
Pulling up the third chair to the little table, I set down three mugs of tea, a little bowl of sugar, and a basket with the rest of the muffins I made yesterday. And then, with some hesitation, I open the book.
Fortunately someone has already opened any protective arcane seals that had once been set on its secrets. It is written in a rather pompous style of common – by someone with a spidery scrawl that is difficult, but not impossible to read. Not organized particularly well, at least this Assop writer had the sense to put a small list of sections at the front.
I page through... Fire, Frost and the Elements… Arcane damage… Bindings (that might be useful), Counterspells and their effects… The changing of forms: Polymorph… and a few that even I cannot decipher.
Robbyn – you said you’d been reading this?
I raise an eyebrow, turning to the Bindings section and hoping to find something at least marginally useful. Flipping through a few pages, something catches my eye…
…Silencing is usually the forte of those priests (something) to the Shadow arts. Their willingness to (something) is often united to an ability to amputate another magic user from his facility to (something) magic. This, though analogous in effect to a Magus’ ability to offset various disciplines of magic has the added (something) of utterly removing the capacity to do anything but utilize the exceptionally primitive weapons often carried by (something). When encountering the fel daemons…
Why I hadn’t thought to try some of the spells used to counter a Priest’s Shadow Silence as well as against a Mage’s frost spells I’m not sure – but I think I can work something out from this. Off the bookshelf comes my old volume of Healing Spells and Counterspells. Hurredly rustling through my cabinet and trying not to knock anything over, I find what I need: Khadgar’s Whisker, Silversage, Goldthorn, Purple Lotus, Sungrass, and one last little packet of an herb that is quite precious – Wintersbite.
Into a glazed earthenware bowl they go – small amounts of each, but the steam rising from them as I pour hot water into the bowl is fragrant and slightly spicy. Adding in a little bit of the distilled spirits that I keep around for making potent brews such as this, I stick the whole thing in the coals and wait for it to turn dark.
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