About Amae ViscontiCharacter Sheet:
Amae Visconti
Female Virtuous Bravo (Shelyn) 1 NG Medium Human Init +4 ; Senses ------------------------------ DEFENSE ------------------------------ AC 18, touch 14, flat-footed 14 (+4 armour, +4 Dex) HP 12 (1d10+2) Fort +4, Ref +4, Will +3 ------------------------------ OFFENSE ------------------------------ Speed 30 ft. Melee Glaive +6 (1d10-1) Mwk Rapier +5 (1d6-1) Ranged Light Crossbow +5 (1d8) ------------------------------ STATISTICS ------------------------------ STR 8, DEX 18, CON 14, INT 10, WIS 12, CHA 14 Base Atk +1; CMB +0; CMD 14 Traits True Devotion (no problem anymore with what I did), Well-Provisioned Adventurer (Daring Bravo Package) Feats Weapon Focus (Glaive), Bladed Brush Combat Special Abilities:
Aura of Good (Ex)
The power of a paladin’s aura of good (see the detect good spell) is equal to her paladin level. Detect Evil (Sp)
Bravo’s Finesse (Ex)
Bravo Smite(Su)
Skills:
Acrobatics +4
Appraise +0 Bluff +2 Climb +0 Craft +0 Diplomacy +6 Disable Device / Disguise +2 Escape Artist +4 Fly +4 Handle Animal / Heal +1 Intimidate +2 Knowledge (arcana) / Knowledge (dungeoneering) / Knowledge (engineering) / Knowledge (geography) / Knowledge (history) / Knowledge (local) / Knowledge (nature) / Knowledge (nobility) / Knowledge (planes) / Knowledge (religion) +4 Linguistics / Perception +1 Perform +2 Profession / Ride +4 Sense Motive +5 Sleight of Hand / Spellcraft / Stealth +4 Survival +1 Swim +0 Use Magic Device / Gear: ---------------------
GEAR ---------------------- Backpack Bedroll Belt pouch Bottle of fine wine (5 pieces) Chalk Courtier's outfit with 50 gp in jewelry Flask Flint and steel Grooming kit Mwk violin Mess kit Mirror Perfume Sack Signet ring (50 ft.) Silk rope (5 days) Trail rations Waterskin Whetstone 5 gp (2) Acid
Armor Mwk chain shirt
Carrying Capacity
Personality and appearance: Personality
Amae is a woman with a singular character. Not that she has a stormy personality that would break loose on people, but rather that she has a look which sinks into the eyes of her contemporaries. She likes to think about the nature surrounding her, the sky that glows quietly and that makes her chest curl, while blushing his delicate cheekbones. She is indifferent to the celestial and blue infinity and she lets the stars examining her chaste, tender and virgin nature, yet implacable. The young woman is inflexible and meditative. Formerly she was overly sweet and sensitive, sometimes to silliness, but now she shows an almost apathetic tranquility. Nothing really reaches her, but the feelings she once cherished sometimes come to caress her and make her shudder. Yet, great as she is, she cannot be swallowedby these. That is her perfect humanity: she understands, cherishes and loves, but nothing can engulf her better than she could do herself. Let's be clear, this is not inhumanity in a vicious form. The one who can bear suffering without breaking up appears as much greater than her peers: compassion is born and arrives at the edges of the inhuman. Fantastic, but lucid. She is adored by some, but hated by others. Who speaks of light, speaks of his shadow that erupts behind, leaving an ineffable and indescribable mark that fuels envy and lust. We cannot be loved by all for our virtues when they have nothing comparable to the rest of men, although it is by these virtues we should be all judged. This unfailing love, yet made of inflexible hardness, is modesty quietness that wraps itself like a shawl around her. The strong need for glory is foreign to her and the one who knows how to exist as she has no need to exhibit in the face of the world the defects or glories of his mind; discretion is of her pageantry - but not until the disappearance of herself - until serene tranquility. Nevertheless, it would be cruel to understand in this discretion facundity and beautiful protrusions. The simple modesty is to encourage those, because they are proof of a joyful soul, which make heartful people. Piquant joking, perhaps seen as ingenuous from the outside, is a pleasurethat she offers herself and she likes to provoke girls' blushing, to intrigue the boys of her age, when these are in a poetic and carnal mood. The game is part of her light character; what would be lighter than a woman who plays with a man at the dangerous, but so enjoyable, game of love? Besides, Amae can only love beautiful things with beautiful minds. What charms her moves her. She flatters men when she finds them male and superb. She loves sumptuous clothes, full of these charms that make young women vibrate. She loves to give thanks to nature and plays with it in her ecstasies. She loves the quiet vibrations in her, when the twilight sends its last rays on her skin, while repeating to herself that the stars are the eyes of the sky and that the eyes of the men should illuminate the earth as them, which float up, without pride. Morality
That she was thought nice and wise - in any case, it is the reputation that one gives to her, or that one gives to her image - she thinks of it with benevolence, but delights to think that it is nonsense. Many think of her that she is stubbornly believing in the invariable goodness of the world? One day that is neither near, nor far, but very present, the world will be nothing, and only nothingness will reign over those who have dreamed of the impossible. Those wise men have more to breathe than to believe in the elaboration of a supreme law or an ideal world. Appearance
If, as the tears do rounds of light,
Her mouth half open, she dreams while walking,
While on the flowers she slumbers, her blond hair scattered,
Open your eyes, would I say, my light!
Amae.
Story:
The Words
I remember with great clarity of my existence and a great certainty envelops my memories. It was a sad day of automn. Rainy too and never-ending dying, it was casting on the ground fantastic shadows with complex drawings. Rain covered the air with a shroud; the humidity penetrated the bones and the flesh, freezing to the souls. Until then I had been nothing but a portless mind, a voice without words, a girl without conscience, a woman without a soul. While nothing predicted that it was that day, there was like a spark in me, like a noise that travels the earth, the sky and the world, like an essential and sweet vertigo, and I was tormented, but I was alive: moreover, I thought, I thought and I was mistress of myself. So, now, I am. And at the same time began the long and tragic human experience. I began to understand quite easily and intuitively the scope of my actions, the mechanics of my body and my mind. I understood what was will, justice and then love. Little by little, the world appeared to me as incredible, in a marvelous goodness, without any end. From the darkness, I gradually passed to the brilliant and sublime light of knowledge that caresses the whole existence. It was as if, emerging from the torpor of nothingness, I inflated myself with the fantastic energy of Life and that it filled me whole, inflated my lungs, colored my cheeks, swarmed in my organs and overflowed me. All in all, I was in the world, as if the whole cosmos, vibrating with my energy and those of all existing beings, was rising towards an unknown but sublime goal to which we should all, without exception, give our approval and our help, in the nature that we are and we have. Finally, I reached the supreme power, the language and the deceiving Word. And far as far as my memories can go, the speech always had an extreme fascination on me. Not because it allowed to play with the concepts and to deceive or lie - although there was a time when the lie became familiar to me - but because I liked to play with its sounds and to hear them peal in my still childish mind. In fact, I should say that I loved stories, tales and everything about the beauty of the language, the prolix profusion of universe it opened and told without ever exhausting the slightest quarter, as far as one wants the half. To what or to whom do I owe this powerful love, I could not say. Perhaps stories of my mother or adventures of my father have to do with it; perhaps it is only one of the malignant effects of chance or the effect of an unknown and necessary cause, or perhaps even I was born poet by the will of muses and gods and that my character already reveled in the words he was given. What I do know is that since my earliest childhood, I have loved contemplating the Nature, drowning in fantastic words and stories, and that irresistible attraction finally led me to the worst excesses and best repentance. All this began the nights of my early childhood. My father and my sisters were gathering around my bed, carved out of a dark wood and whose head formed harmonious volutes against the stonewall. He closed the curtains of the room, though he let out a ray of light from the evening moon or, during the winter, rekindled the dying fire in the tired hearth, before sitting down among us. Pensive, he allowed his eyes to linger here and there in the room, like seeking a funny and original inspiration in the sad and obscure reality, and then, with a grave voice, intone ancient tales or happy stories. He told us the history of the world and the wars that had passed through it, as well as the people who lived there and their laws. The gods too. As he spoke, the beings in these stories became tangible, perceptible. I could feel their breath in my neck, imagine the power, the strength of their arms and the manners that were theirs. They had for me the appearance of gentle and sincere demi-gods, animated by a vigor without fear or hatred. Without truly loving or understanding them, I opened to them and learned from everything they did or said. My imagination was entirely impregnated. When he told us his stories, his eyes were animated by the glimmers of another world and a deep and boundless imagination, sincere, above all else. His whole being seemed to truly live the lives of all these men, warriors among the proudest and bravest that our land has borne. He often punctuated his speeches and narratives with great gestures, pessimistic exclamations, powerful intonations and surprising impersonations, and we all took great pleasure in listening to him and watching him. My father was particularly good at imitating whimsical creatures that overflow the minds of children. He twisted his mouth in a terrible and exacerbated pout, rolled his eyes in their sockets and uttered hoarse grunts that made me shudder with horror. And, knowing all the fright with which this grimace carried me, he did not hesitate to pursue me in all my room by wearing this frightful mask, while uttering loud cries. "Eurrr, grow gruhhhhh! Gruik groaaaar! Hurk! Hok hok ... Uuuuuuhrrr! ". It was the kind of dialogue, breathtaking of beauty and love that he whipped all over the house as I ran away screaming in front of his monstrous airs. I, terrorized, I screamed in big "Ahh! Ahhhh! " Running at full speed through the rooms of the house, turning around the furniture and sometimes closing his eyes, hoping to escape a few moments to his frightful ride. Then, the tales began again. I sat down again among my sisters, wrapped in a large warm woolen cloth and listened. This burlesque practice lasted for some time but, to my regret, one day it was over. "You have to be serious now," my father told us. "You have passed the age of being afraid for such childishness. " And never again we saw this in our home. But I learned much later from Benedict's (our butler) words that my mother had threatened my dear father to cease all stewardship activities and, worse still, to end his wife's activities in the secrecy of the bedroom. He had no choice but to give up his wild pranks, for his body needed the comfort of a woman and the secrets of the bed. Thus my passion for stories, stories and words was born. My father's stories inspired me with heroic and magical dreams, populated by fantastic creatures and unknown places of unknown colors. My imagination was filled with countless images and stories; my soul was exalted at their slightest evocation. Often, in the evening, when the night had covered the roofs of our house and the groves of trees with a dreamy darkness, I leant on the window of my room to dream. The trees rustled under the wind and under my thought; the tender grass sent me its wishes and bowed to my silent greetings, caressing my dreams. The stars responded to my words when I closed my eyes and spoke to them in a language known only to me and that only they could understand. I was a romantic girl like many others were and my destiny should not have exceeded theirs without the extraordinary events that followed. I would have finished my life as a poet, mad or dead, because the destiny of those who dream often breaks because of the difficult bitterness of reality. An even more striking example shows the extent of my propensity to dream and melancholy. It was during the month of Lamashan just after my tenth birthday. It was unfortunate that I fell ill for nearly two weeks, so that it was impossible for me to leave my room without shivering pitifully and without feeling dizzy. Nevertheless, I spent those two weeks reading all the books I could find at my disposal, or that they lend me. When I was asked what I was doing, staring at the sky from my bed, I answered, filled with an intense and absurd feeling of profound dereliction: "I dream. Let me just dream." Thus passed the first fifteen years of my life. My father and mother raised me with joy, freedom and courage. Indeed, they had denied their origins. Thus, although some of their education remained engraved in them, their character had become accustomed to freedom of thought, elegance, luxury and calm. However, I still had to perceive in my father's remarks a certain rigor that he should not want to show me and, in the ways of my mother, a certain pride enhanced with honor that influenced me without me realizing. Yet, my education was not made of a fastidious serfdom, as I might have suffered in other countries, nor in the worship of war or of pious and profound faith. No, I was left to my own opinion, although I was asked for great learning and results. It was not a matter of being content with fear, but of achieving excellence and truth. Everything I learned professed this vision of the world and encouraged me in this way. And all this, I was taught in the school that was in the nearest village, which was only a few miles from our large family home, which was itself a league from the capital. There I learned with my sisters the language, the history of peoples, arithmetic and, in the last years of my teaching, some notions of philosophy. This last discipline awakened in me an unlimited taste for learning, because it allowed me to believe in an idea, to dream of it and to be able to apply it according to the great principle of reality. I developed a deep taste for metaphysics and morality, until I was fourteen years old, when my parents had to withdraw from school because of the tension that was starting to increase. Shortly after my fifteenth birthday, my father summoned me to the great hall. He was resting near the warm hearth, where few embers were glowing, his hands clasped above his knees, his forehead bowed, his expression severe and austere. I approached with a slight step, because the sun was shining outside, filling me with joy and I took her hands exclaiming: "How grumpy you look this morning, father! " He then gently raised his head and smiled sadly. "It's because I realize that time is running out," he replied. "You are already fifteen!"
A small laugh shook his body and he said, his eyes again shining with joy and love that I enjoyed so much: "You're right, Amae, and I'll always be. But do I not get old? " My heart clenched at his words, for sometimes I thought of his slightly hunched back, of his eyes, which seemed to be stubbornly closed, as if in a state of immense fatigue, a fatigue I could live. And finally, I sometimes thought about death. I smiled at him tenderly and said: "What are you saying here, father? You still have many years ahead of you! Let's go train with Eryn and Luciana to ride and fight, it will do you good! " He looked at me, astonished, and replied: "Do you think they would still agree to train with their old father? " Then I burst out laughing and I got closer to him, before exclaiming happily: "I even think you could throw them down, if you wish! Do not be so sullen about yourself: you're still robust, I know it."
And we laughed like a father and his daughter could, when they speak openly and have powerful feelings that bind them to each other. I explained to him, at the same time as we were laughing, the wonderful glide that my sister would make under the pressure of his blade and this evocation made us laugh more beautifully. Then, when our laughs were extinguished, my father looks at me with infinite tenderness and says: "Listen, if I brought you here this morning, it's because I have a proposal to make to you. " Surprised, I tilted my head to the side with questioning eyes, as when I usually did when I had to be attentive and looked at him. "You told me not long ago that you did not want to depend on your mother and me anymore. And I understand your desire: you are now fifteen years old and Luciana is also working for herself, so ... " Then, hysterical, I jumped on my feet, still holding his big hands between mine and I cried: "So ... So ... So ?! " Sounds locked in my throat and I choked on a particularly painful noise that made my father burst out laughing. "So I was spoken to Alexei," he continued. "He agrees to take you as a waitress in his inn. If you agree, of course. " It is futile now to recite the following of unwanted and happy cries that I made throughout the room, thanking my father, my mother and even the sky. Suffice it to say that I was particularly pleased with this decision and that it completely satisfied me at the moment. Nevertheless, it might seem extremely strange that a girl like me, born of the aristocracy, could imagine herself in such drudgery. To tell the truth, this had long been no longer a problem for our family who lived outside these considerations, applying the necessary etiquette where it was and offering enjoyable freedom. Radiant, with a cheeky smile on my lips, I left the house as in a waking dream and I met my sister, Luciana, whose eyes sparkled in the morning sun. With the smile of my face, she understood and congratulated me in her way: "Try not to get drunk beyond reason, little sister," she said to me with her ironically innocent, eternal smile on her lips, which seemed as much to taunt me as to encourage me tenderly. I replied by pouting at her, then continued on my way. My joy colored my cheeks, invading my lungs, and rising to my head, intoxicating me with a sweet and pleasant euphoria. I was deeply happy and moved, at the same time with the confidence my father showed me and with the autonomy which the work that was then entrusted to me was going to give me. Not that it was taking me away from my family and that I was particularly happy about it, but on the contrary, because I was going to be able to participate in its expenses and its management in an active and responsible way. I firmly believed in autonomy and individual responsibility. It seemed inconceivable to me that an individual should not feel himself deprived of a part of himself in the framework of a strict and authoritarian hierarchy. The dreamer that I was believed neither in absolute order, nor in the family or social elite. On the contrary, I thought that everyone, freely, could choose the common good out of interest and gentle understanding of the world, and this opportunity to work was a first step for me towards this goal. Obviously, the thing seems ridiculous given the consequences it generated, which basically only concerned me and had very little impact on the world. But, from my point of view of a girl with great ideals, it was an unprecedented first step in the realization of my thought. In itself, it was not really the value of this work that subjugated me, but the feeling that a new world offered itself to me, where the possible was as vast as my thought was and in which a multitude of tools were at my disposal without restriction, provided that I kept in mind that the right I had on it was commensurate with the responsibility that its use required. That was the reason for my excessive joy and good mood. Invaded by the exuberance I have already described, I went near the river that bordered the end of the domain of my forefathers. There, I followed the shore a few hundred meters and stopped at the edge of a tree that leaned lazily and lazily on the water. Its trunk was twisted and darted sickly towards the sky, then bent harmoniously towards the stream, which its branches caressed quietly, like long and soft hair. The contrast between the base of this tree, so convulsed, so horrible to look at, so much one could imagine the pangs that had caused such wounds in him and his thick branches, leafy, fleshy even, was gripping and I often thought of his immemorial history. I saw it as a reflection of my own story without ever guessing why, and I spent hours sitting under its boughs meditating and dreaming. That day, I did not sit in my usual place, on a mossy rock that nestled between its enormous roots that plunged into the water and mud to anchor, and feed the rest of his stature. I approached the bank, a little away and I contemplated the slow course of the river that forever brought streams and waves of infinite memories. Then, time having passed, I returned to my father's house, a feeling of freedom and happiness having invaded my soul and never leaving me. After a festive meal given in honor of my new job, I went up to my room, serene, with a clear heart. I slept as people sleep and they are pleased and happy. My work began the next morning, at dawn. Under the orders of Alexei, the innkeeper, I had to set the table, wash the last glasses and other items of crockery that had not been cleaned the night before, and other heavy housework. However, despite the eternally repetitive nature of the task, I derive a great pleasure from it: that of feeling useful and capable. This intimate pleasure was an incomparable comfort for me and I persevered all morning, then, the rest of the day, I was busy serving the many customers until dusk. So I was able to join the family home where an appetizing meal was waiting for me. "So, how was he, this first day of intense work?" Luciana asked ironically, as soon as I got home.
Finally, my father, then my mother joined the concert of the complaints which overwhelmed me on my return, and I could only reply with a laugh: "Okay, I'll tell you everything about this adventure. But first, let's eat, because my stomach has been crying for at least two hours! " To which my father replied that it was quite normal and that he had me a good meal, as long as I told them how my wanderings had been. He also added that he had listened to my advice and that Luciana and Eryn had bitten the dust more than once, that afternoon. At what they said they had simply avoided undermining the "carcass of their old father." Then we all sat down at the heavy oak table in the hall and we ate with great laughter. So I told them about my day and countless adventures - for there were more than one in a day when we knew how to observe and give small things special attention. The day was over, I found again the softness of my sheets and the refuge of sleep. Thus passed the first weeks of what could be called my "new existence". I worked all day long, fiercely and without complaint, having the sincere and deep feeling that I was gaining the first stripes of my freedom, which was very rare in that distant time. Then, in the evening, I left with a happy heart. The path that led to my home was the witness of my joy and my happiness. He heard what I murmured, I listened to the song of his trees and the shuddering of the wild grasses that bordered him; I took everything because everything enchanted me and seemed new and wonderful to me. This time seems to me, now again, among the most beautiful, the most innocent and the purest of my existence. It was like a golden age, a kind of wonderful perfection that seemed immutable. One day, in fact, came to pass a group of men who spoke loudly, sang incessantly and smoked cigar and hashish. They had come there for obscure reasons, which I did not prefer to guess, and spent their time drinking, betting, smoking, and composing, they said. But what did they compose? I did not see a score and I did not hear music. They did not seem to me to know the harmony or some elements of music theory, but they composed. The thing seemed unlikely to me. It didn't matter. Among them was a young man who was not at all their age and who had, apparently, nothing to do with them. He was a young man of about sixteen, as I learned later. He had honey-colored hair, a little long, but absolutely disordered, which gave his face a singular aspect of poverty and intelligent youthfulness. His face reflected disorder and calm, passion and appeasement, the infinite and the dull and so beautiful everyday, the sublime and the grotesque. I paid particular attention to it, because he was not old enough like the men of his group who were in the flower of the existence. In addition, he had on his back only rags, which suggested a body drawn to long races and hard labor, while they wore these expensive clothes of rich fabrics and worked cuts; they were fashionable. But above all, he had indefinable eyes, even for me, and an unprecedented aura. There was an inner light in him, a kind of flame indefinable and pure, disturbing, corrupt. So beautiful yet! When I saw it, the smell of cut hay and road dust swept over my nostrils. I felt myself swollen by a kind of inner illumination, as if thrown on the road, surrendered to an immense solitude, boundless and overflowing with peace, serenity, youth, and love. There was in him a sublime and impure ideal which was of the intensity of the divine. No, no, no, I never thought I would meet such a creature in my inn. Not that he really subjugated me, but he exerted a singular fascination on me that horrified me, for I often found him abrupt and impolite with his outspokenness, his mocking airs and his eyes always thrown into the distance, ironic and ironic. dreamers, who seemed to throw in heaven a fabulous challenge. First, I did not rub shoulders with him. Moreover, I avoided him and those who accompanied him. The fascination they exerted on me, especially him, exasperated me, and had a repulsive effect on me, so that I disgusted myself with the attraction of this unknown universe whose freedom was not restricted but infinite and whose lust was the key word. I just cleaned their table and watched them as I passed by them. For the rest, I was content with the bare minimum as much as I was allowed to do. But one afternoon, a few days after their arrival, when I had just served their table with alcohol and beer, one of them held me by the arm and shouted:
And with a great pressure of the arm, he forced me to sit on his knees. The young man looked at me with a mocking air and said: "So, what's she going to testify about, your maid, Marco?" From your last night's bake that you have not yet slept off and which still stands out by the nostrils, ahahah ?! " The table was taken with a big laugh. The drunken breasts rose violently, and the throats gave raucous, jarring grunts, which filled the air with violent and barbarous accents. Moved to tears, I stammered, moaning a few excuses, before trying to tear myself from the arms of the man who had seated me on his lap. This one forced me even more violently to stay in my place and shouted harder. "Stay there, my pretty. I'm not finished with you. " Again, the man smiled badly and brought a cigar to his mouth, before letting out a stream of odorous smoke in my direction. The second then spoke again, looking at me: "I repeat my question, Marco. What are you going to show us? " An expression of rage crossed Marco's face and he brutally pressed his hand to my bodice. "I'll show you that I was with this b%*@# last night in my stake!" he cried. His breath stank of beer, sweat and cum. The nausea invaded my chest: the sounds were blocked in my throat. No one in this room made a single gesture or seemed to interfere in my favor. The young man threw himself back in his chair, smoke in his mouth, folded his hands behind his head, threw his feet on the table and burst out sardonically: "Do you see that!" he cried. "The good, tall, venerable and honorable Marco claims to have spanked and more if affinity to the young lady here and we should believe it?"
Thereupon, he turned his purple, drunkard-faced face towards me and whispered in my ear: "Hmm, sweetie, how do you like poets? Hmm, last night, he was good the pretty poet, seen how you shouted? Little bawd! " A new laugh came to cut off the man in his dubious words. It was always the young man who, in his chair, mocked so violently that it was said he had been suddenly taken by the devil. One of his companions on his left leaned towards him and asked him, half-anxious, half-laughing, "Hey, Curtis. Curtis? Why do you laugh like that? What is funny? " Then, the so-called Curtis began to giggle, so much so that it took him ten good minutes to find a semblance of calm; he seemed to be laughing at something absolutely wacky, that could only make him laugh and that we did not understand - not that I was trying to understand him at such a moment. Then, when his body was no longer shaken by convulsions, he finally answered, his face flushed with laughter, and always ready to giggle: "But it's because he pretended he was a poet! " And with these words, he laughed again, holding his ribs, his face torn in a burlesque grimace that reflected a deep amusement. He kept repeating: "A poet. A poet ! And he pretended to be a poet!" This little carousel continued for a few moments, until Marco understood the reason for the hilarity of his companion. So he froze. His face became hard and his dirty big pogs tightened, overflowing with the fringes of his luxurious clothes. He began imperceptibly to tremble, and suddenly, disregarding his chair, the table, his wine, and even more, he rose in a fit of rage. "What?" he said. "I will not be a poet, me? I wrote so many verses and so many songs that he could not read the half in a year. And there, I will not be a poet? " Curtis stopped laughing. A few spasms still shook him, but his companion's anger had cooled his ardor. He gauged Marco, looked at him, then spat. Then, with a supple gesture, he jumped on the table where his group was sitting. He kicked the plates, glasses and cutlery, shouting: "See, good people! I am Marco, the poet! I brave, intoxicated with wine, thinking of kissing women and girls, and I write verses - splendid verses, yes! - to impress the gallery. Yes! I am Marco, the poet, my good people! " Saying this, he took a rocky accent, which resembled the thunderous voice of the poet, and thundered with laughter and applause. As for me, I crawled on the ground, in order to extricate myself from this pool of drunkards, fear in my stomach, tears overflowing my eyes and dripping on my cheeks. Meanwhile, Curtis continued his circus act under the dumbfounded eyes of Marco. He screamed, gesticulated horribly and took hysterical and burlesque attitudes. In short, a real drunk dead histrio. Then suddenly, without warning, he grabbed an empty bottle on the table, had a terrible look and slammed it down on his companion's head, crying: "Well, sir, your poetry, I piss on it! " There followed an unspeakable chaos in the hall, a real carnage, an extraordinary scandal. Glasses broke in the middle of a deafening hubbub of screams, howls, broken bottles, blows and inverted tables. Bodies struck each other, jaws were broken, arches were cut into pieces, muscles were wrinkled in the fight. In the space of a few minutes, the inn had become the theater of a frightful battle of points, feet, and dishes of all kinds, which nothing seemed able to stop. I had taken refuge behind the counter, where I had knelt down, crying and holding my head in my hands, moaning with fear and shame. It seemed to me to be the cause of such a disaster and I was sure that Alexei, the innkeeper, would dismiss me once the order was restored. Waiting for the fateful hour, I trembled in my hiding place, hiding as little as possible so as not to attract any attention and I cried again and again, my sobs and tears spasmodically lifting my poor and weak body. I had the oppressive and agonizing feeling that the fight never ended, that this horrible roar of voices, cries, and fighting never ceased, that I was going to die there, in the midst of that foolish mess and that the whole world would forget who I was. I was in the throes of great despair. Yet, the thing did not last long. Alexei came, moments later, armed with a heavy sword at the waist and carrying a horn in his left hand. He rang three times, until everyone stopped, then cried with volume: "Go! Stop these childish things in my inn! Do not you think the battlefields are already littered with corpses, followed by widows and orphans without hope? Well, I do not think so, no! It misses the corpses of all the scoundrels that you are! " At the same time he was wailing these last words, he drew his sword and continued: "So, you'll clean up all this mess and quickly or I'll arrange for your heads to join those of your bastard fathers at the end of spikes! Understood?! And you will all pay me compensation for the damage you have done! And move on! " After a few moments of hesitation, where astonishment mingled with surprise, everyone hastened to put the inn back in order, grunting, insulting under his cloak or glaring furiously. Less than an hour later, however, the room was clean and Alexei was heavily reimbursed by his customers, most of whom were regulars and were very sheepish to have reacted in this way. The thing done, Alexei knocked everyone out that night and asked me to wait for him while he closed the inn. Once his task was completed, he came to find me. I was sitting at a table at the back of the room. A boar's head was overhanging me and giving me courage, for I naively thought that the spirit that inhabited it - perhaps -would protect me. I was in such a state of stupor and despair that I was ready to believe anything, as long as it made me feel a little lighter. Alexei sat in front of me. He remained silent for long minutes, then, taking my hands, said: "It was a hell of a fight, wasn't it? " I raised my head in his direction and saw that he seemed sincerely embarrassed. Silencing his question, I answered quickly: "Listen, I'm sorry for what happened. I did not want to be the cause of such a disaster. I'll refund you as much as you want ... " Alexei cut me off with a gesture. "Do not say anything," he said. "I should have reacted faster and sooner. Next time, I will really take care of this bastard child and he will regret having dared to touch you." After a moment of hesitation, he said: "In any case, it would be better for me to take care of it, or your father will tear him to pieces - and me too. Go now and try to arrive whole to your home. " I thanked Alexei with respect and went. On the way, I did not meet anybody: I believe that the world was depopulated before the anger of this honorable innkeeper and I returned home soon. This misfortune disgraced my family and especially my father, who almost went in search of this Marco to "claim justice", according to these words, that is to say, more vulgarly, take his head as retribution. However, I was allowed to persevere in my work, provided that Alexei protected me. The next day there were no more traces of the man named Marco. His companions had returned, but without him. No doubt they had thrown him out of their company or he had left on his own. Whatever that may be, he was not with them, and I was relieved to find that none of them seemed to want to remember this incident. I resumed my work as seriously as possible, putting the heart to work and trying to forget my woes the day before. I succeeded perfectly for a few days and I was absolutely quiet and serene during this short period of time. Why, in spite of the newfound peace, did I never stopped thinking of the young man who had provoked the fight and who had saved me? He was always there, among them, and his eyes fascinated me as much as the first days of his arrival. I met him at the beginning of the afternoon, at the entrance of the inn, while I was taking a break. He was leaning against the wall, his eyes stuck in the landscape, as if he were looking at something incredible, what only his eyes could distinguish, understand and express. Laconically, he carried in his mouth an eternal cigarette that let escape an eternal wave of odorous smoke. His hair smelled of sunshine. I sat next to him and I crossed my arms under my chest, trying to guess what could so fascinate his eyes. As my eyes searched the horizon, he said without looking at me: "As I came down from the impassive rivers,
Surprised, I watched him. His expression had not changed. His eyes had the same intense expression that seemed to guess the truth in everything they saw. Eyes pale blue like the moon, sad at the same time and thrown forward in the direction of a "elsewhere". "What does that mean?" I asked him. He did not move. His eyes did not blink and he continued, like a litany: "I was careless of all the crews,
He was silent again. Nothing seemed to disturb the intense concentration I could guess in his attitude, which seemed so familiar to him. And again, he went on, but this time, just dropped: "It does not mean anything." I looked at the expression on his face. He seemed to be appeased, relieved by the appalling tension with which he was the cause and whose whims he suffered. "So, why do you say it?" I replied simply. He turned his head towards me and looked at me with a mocking eye. "Because it's beautiful. Quite simply," he retorted. With these words, he threw his cigarette away and went back inside the inn without looking at me. I went back to work a few moments later and we did not meet each other anymore. The next day, however, at the same time, he was waiting for me. Without giving me time to understand anything, he threw me as soon as he saw me, these few verses: "O Seasons, O Castles,
O Seasons, O Castles, I did the magical study
And others followed. "That doesn't mean anything either," he added. "Nothing at all. But for me, there is an alchemy in these words. It is a composition of the mind which, neglecting form, reaches the ideal through evocation and sonority. " I listened in silence, my heart pounding. His words fascinated me, both enchanted and disappointed me at the same time. I perceived something new, that never ceased to charm me and that seemed to me to have no real beginning or true end. "So, keep talking like that," I told him finally. "Maybe I will understand, by dint of hearing this new language. And better! You only have to speak and I will tell you what your words evoke in me. Then, we will know if your words have the force that you claim. " He nodded a mocking laugh and began to talk again. When he finished his long tirade, I told him what visions his words had given him and he began to talk again and again. Time seemed to lengthen and have no bounds. Subjugate, I forgot everything, to myself and I drowned in the visions he gave me. This appointment became daily. Every day he was waiting for me at the same place, at the same time, with the same singular and intense expression which evoked me the evening exhaustion of the summer evenings and the coastal heat. Then he started long diatribes on all possible tones. He went from satire to pamphlet effortlessly and excelled in the art of evocation. Little by little, he sucked me into him. Every day, the time I spent in his company was longer and more intense. Every day, I lost myself a little more in him. First, I stayed with him, in the evening, for a few moments, to listen to him a little more words in the air, which resonated in me like thunderclaps. The moments passed in long minutes, then in long hours and sometimes I spent the night listening to him. He spoke without stopping, in a deep voice whose accents varied according to the intensity of his speech. He invoked the azure and the waves, depicted the misery with the sad spark of those who grew up with her who knew her thoroughly, but who, by force of habit, had appropriated her paralyzing torpor . He knew the horizons that I had never imagined and that rushed into me, turned me over, burned my mind and sometimes moved me to tears. It was no longer the reason that governed my existence and my choices, but the intuition, the burning passion and the hot heat of poetry. Slowly, my mind lost its vivacity. He was only obsessed by poetry and by him, Curtis. I became slower at work and less applied. My mind was lost in infinite and futile distractions. I could not think of anything but her eyes, her hair, and most of all, the tone of her voice. Then I began to compose. I wrote with him long poems in verse and prose, without really knowing why I was writing, but with the intense feeling of touch, writing, what was most essential for men. I was certain, in my visions, to describe a more beautiful, more penetrating elsewhere and to intrude on the secrets of the world. I lived only of bohemian and intensity. Curtis, however, was not really responsible for my transformation. He had only offered me a choice, opened a door, show me another way. It was me who charged at full speed, without worrying about other things than myself. Curtis was not a bad man; he was entirely devoted to the madness of his art, that he was the only one who could bear without weakening, and of which he was the worthy diviner. For his poetry was mystic and divine. In a few words, in a few verses, he pointed out the essential, the most natural of the world, and expressed it in a language that seemed eternal in the present. It was not hard work that he was doing, but a grueling, tiring, heavy task, because it was divine, and it was always as if it were a natural thing, which could not be more normal for the mortals. Every word was always in its place. Each verse was a symphony of meaning. It was a concert of the whole being who lived in his poetry and in which I lost myself. My family, meanwhile, were afraid of my transformation. None of them said anything, but I saw their eyes and I felt the weight. I felt their anguish and their disapproval, their anger and even their despair. But I did not care. Poetry and Curtis were my only horizons; I mocked the rest laughing and crying all at once. I was crazy, and I lived as such for a long time. One evening, the fateful event arrived. Alexei came to see me, looking discontented, his eyes boring and told me coldly that he did not want me anymore. I had become flabby, carefree, unpolished and hardworking. I became day by day more and more painful to bear and my work was almost non-existent. But again, I hardly cared. The same evening, I went on the road with Curtis and his company, without looking back, without a tear and without regret. So, for almost six months, I traveled from city to city, from fief to fief, and my heart never subsided. I burned within me the acrid poison that passion produces, ravaging even the purest souls. I spent my time dreaming painfully. When that was not the case, I was composing with Curtis, lying on his lap, a naughty smile on his face and when our verses were loud enough for him, we made love. In just a few months, we crossed the continent from one side to the other. We lived bohemian. We lived in uncertainty. We forgot about ourselves. I do not regret these adventures because they were marked by the seal of freedom and love. But I regret the poison that I put into my veins without knowing, without perceiving that my cheeks were becoming bland and pale, that my hair was becoming dry and greasy, that my body was withering at the touch of this debauchery of unreason. Great dreams of happiness, moral and righteous, would die with me at the same time as I intoxicated myself with poetry, bitterness and spunk. I became a heck of a poet, a woman of penises and mockery. And my pain, crucified in my veins, resuscitated me in my verses and in Curtis' eyes. But one night, while we were stopping in a village, Curtis returned unhappy. His features expressed annoyance, anguish, and exhaustion. I approached him, passed my hand over his face and he pushed me away brutally: " Leave me. You are annoying me. " I was dazed in our little room as he fell asleep. The next evening, the same scene happened again, as well as the evening after and the thing became a habit. Soon, the idea that everything would be over soon came to haunt me. Not being able to bear it, I frequently burst into tears, tearing my hair or clawing my arms to the point of bleeding. But Curtis did not even notice it. He was devoured by an unspeakable demon who was to lead him to ruin. He suffered an insupportable madness, much worse than mine; he was no longer himself. One evening, I left. I was now alone forever, alone with myself, with my dark sins and the shadows of my past mistakes, casting a dark color on my future. I left. I was waking for three days. I do not feed myself I did not think about anything. The world seemed empty to me, as if was in the grip of a terrible pain that I could feel and which overwhelmed me without knowing what to do to relieve it. It was impossible for me to do anything other than tirelessly advance to exhaustion. The poison that burned my veins only subsided in the frenzied flight. Three days later, I reached the ocean. Spray gently stroked my nostrils, the sea air submerged me and I fell into tears on the warm sand of a deserted beach. Farther to the left, huge waves broke on skiffs. The sky stretched infinitely above me, fine clouds floated quietly in the air, so soft, so beautiful. And suddenly, in me, was born the irrepressible need to look like them, up there, and to be, again, a sweet, beautiful and tender woman. I looked at the sea. I fell in love with his savagery, his infinity, his sweet and eternal beauty. So, I got up and walked towards her. The waves licked my feet, but I was still moving. The waves soon reached my calves, my thighs, then my waist. Soon, I immersed myself completely in her, but I kept going. I lost my footing and the current carried me away. I lost myself in her, crying in the depths of myself and begging for forgiveness. The ocean greeted me in her completely, completely and she took my pain and got rid of my poison. For three days she carried me into her. She purified me of myself, swelled with my sorrow and overcame my tears. It took three days for the ocean to let me die and resurrect in her. Three days later, she put me on the shore, purified of everything. I did not really change. I was again full of joy and filled with appeasement. But if my soul had not changed, my hair was back to their antique blondness and my skin was shining again. The ocean had rewarded my act. When the ocean left, leaving me on the wet sand, I raised my mind clear and happy mood. The world seemed to me filled with peace; my lungs rose with fierce happiness and filled me with iodine. I swarmed with energy and drive. I left. A few meters further, perched on a huge rock, someone was waiting for me. It was an old man with white hair and a long beard of the same color. His eyes were extraordinarily pure. Approaching me, I perceived in him an unprecedented strength. A mystical aura surrounded him. But that aura was absolutely different from that of Curtis, because it was of immeasurable purity. When I was close enough to him, he greeted me with a wave of his hand, stopped eating and motioned me to approach. Calmly, I walked to him. He gave me food. He told me his name and the mission of which he was the depositary from Shelyn and offered me to accompany him. I did not ask him why he chose me, nor how he knew that the ocean was going to throw me on this shore on that particular day. Simply happy, I accepted his proposal. He told me that he would guide me first to my worried family. Astonished, a sweet feeling invades me. I felt at my place. When he put his hands on mine, I could only melt with pure happiness. I promised him to work for justice and peace, whatever happened. We left. The heavens were limpid. My soul was serene. I went running. I left dancing. |
