Postcard from the Edge

An Open Letter to…


_with dark chords of Tool’s “Right in Two” pacing these lyrics…_
Angels on the sideline,
Puzzled and amused.
Why did Father give these humans free will?
Now they’re all confused.

Angels on the sideline,
Baffled and confused.
Father blessed them all with reason.
And this is what they choose.
And this is what they choose…

So, it has come down to a choice. On all paths there are stumbling blocks. Impedance. Snares and Pitfalls, obvious traps and more subtle…

Some paths lead you astray.
Such is their way.
Their nature.

But surely, surely the Gods have placed us upon our paths for a reason. With conviction. For a purpose. Defiantly, I wrestle my own free will from the machinations of the Gods… only to pursue a destiny intimately linked with them.

Some of us choose differently, it would appear.
Some of us throw our path to the winds, ignore the Gods’ pleas, and walk away. Defiant. Humbled.
Loved. Always loved.

How could I have been so wrong? I know I feel the pressures of this divine quest both more urgently and yet more distantly than the others… it is in my nature. But for the others… surely they knew what was in store for them? Surely the emissaries of their Gods’ warned them of the dangers, both physical and mental, to say nothing of spiritual, such a task as ours was bound to attract? Did They not prepare Their Champions?

To be sure, we have seen much. Much I hope to share, and soon, with the world. But at the close, upon the brink of triumph, we are set-back.
Again.
By one of our own.
Dammit, Rell. How could you?
Was Apis so blind? Could not Isis sway you?
How can you be so selfish?

It’s almost laughable, you know. The Conscience of CrIsis. Replaced by a lizard. Cold blooded, and an ascetic, or so I’m lead to believe.
Marvelous. I’m sure you can spot the irony.

I think the Welsh of old, before the Chaos Age and the Rifts that shattered my world awoke the Multiverse to our presence… I think the Welsh had a special relationship. With the Gods. With Magic. With Defiance, and Perseverance…

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

My father always said we had the “Luck o’ the Irish” in us… It took me a long time to track-down what he meant by that. Sometimes he said it was the luck of the old-ones.
I wonder, now, if he knew how close to the mark that was?
He said we could trace our lineage all the way back to the Great Rush West. Maybe a bit before that, he said. Army records and all.
Lots of ‘Micks came out on wagons, driving teams hard for land that was soft, and free for the taking…
‘Course it wasn’t exactly free. You had to take it. You had to fight for it. Sometimes you fought your neighbors, sometimes you fought the weather, or Indians, or snakes, or just bad luck…
But you always fought for it. You never just walked away.
Never.

So now, now that we’ve recovered a second piece perhaps one of the greatest finds in the history of Palladium… now is when Rell decides it’s time for a walk-about?
The Gods Must Be Crazy.

Now, I know something’s been eating at Rell. Something I never got to talk about with him. Something happened, or started to happen, after the catastrophe with the dragon. But ever since then, we’ve been on the move, more and more dogging our heels, and I never…
Shit.
I never made the time. I never asked what was up. I never reached out.
I could never help him shoulder his burdens, because I was too wrapped up in mine. In the Task. And now he’s gone.
Walked off into a sunset (well, finally, in the end, stumbled… for once! hah!), chasing his own, private Idaho.
Gods Damn you, Rell.
You left us.
You left me.

You were all I had left, and, clearly, it wasn’t nearly enough. Now who am I to turn to? To confide in? Shall I make nice with our taciturn ranger? I think we all know how that would turn out. Perhaps our general-child? Don’t leave me with the Dwarf

Perhaps our horse? Hmm…
Save that her voice grates on my spine like ice-cold steel, she could, in a pinch,…
but no. Just no.

Perhaps it is time to immerse myself in arcane studies… clearly they will be required in the coming months, especially if we are to assault some corner of Bizantium in order to save MRD’s cousin. And to get Captain (First Mate?) Robert to help us attain charts of the Isle of Set from the Bizantine Navy. And to strip the Ribcage of Osiris off whatever Dark Follower currently wears it. Then to more peaceful matters… re-confronting the Great Wooly Dragon, and let us not forget the Tezcat Necromancer, who is, still and currently, using the Hand to horrid purpose.

And what of me? What of my own task? Malkin intimated that only some of the pieces of Osiris would be found in Palladium. I have become aware of the connections between the Lord of the Deep and Set. I know Lord Splyncryth shadows our movements as well… curse his eye! He is ever ready to sow discord and reap the benefits of divided agents of Light.

Did he somehow reach across the Abyss and nudge you? Rell?
Are you sure?

So what of my own task? My own Destiny? Shall I, too, walk away?
Abandon friends?
Distance myself from the pains, the evils we are to confront?
Take the easy way out?

I’d rather die.

I will not go down without a fight. I cannot walk away. You cannot tempt me.

No, I will summon the courage. Cajole those who waver. Confront those who cower.
I will prevent any others from going AWOL. There are harsh penalties for such behavior where I’m from. Very. Harsh. Indeed.
But you, Rell. You. I cannot. For the love I bear you, I cannot stop you. I know your mind in this. I wish I held your heart.

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back,
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
And the rains fall soft upon your fields,
And, until we meet again
May the Gods hold you in the palms of Their hands.

Your Friend,
Chip
Posted on the 1st of May, in the year 110 PA.

2 Responses to “Postcard from the Edge

  • He is very upset at Rell leaving CrIsis. Very Upset.

  • The embedded Tool music that used to be here on an old site gave this one even more power.

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