A Letter in the Winds of Sapience

By: Teleos Posted on: June 16, 2004

A Letter in the Winds of Sapience.

Greetings, oh dear friend. Though I am unknown in these lands I have no doubt you will soon know my face well. Was it fate that you now hold this letter in your hand, only time will tell. Can the legs of destiny be smashed fate?

I don't claim a city. Shallam is too bright, Mhaldor too dark. The highways are my refuge, though never in full view I often lurk behind a tree, or act as if traveling behind friends, though friend is a word I seldom use. My attributes are average, my demeanor unnoticeable. In a crowded market I wouldn't draw a second glance, in the arena I seem the least of your worries, along the road I am just another passerby...to most.

You, my friend, are not the first to receive the fate of my letter. How dare you swell up with pride of being chosen when you know not what you have been chosen for? How dare you laugh and scoff at my penmanship? How dare you think this is but a prank? Ye of little vision, look around.

Consider those before you, those seemingly noble hands that held this letter much like you are doing even now. Richly clothed poets and aptly trained warriors alike have read these words and mocked their meaning. Apostates and Priests alike have touched the paper you now possess. Jesters and Monks have questioned these words. Battle scarred hands have discarded my work, only to be, in turn, discarded.

What's wrong chosen one? Why only now do you search the shadows in your midst for things unseen? Is it me? Have I caused your breathing to slow and your eyes to wander? A weapon in hand is like a tattered butterfly net. The powers of the mind know not where to search. The fastest feet, or mount, know not where to run and hide, if hiding is at all possible once you have already been found.

Fear not my timid friend. Like rats you scurry about, looking for satisfaction. Whether it be a small scrap of mutton, gold sovereigns, the corpse of a prized hunt, or another's life. From one task to the next you traverse, too busy to notice the likes of me. Who takes care of the guildless? Who protects the homeless? No longer will you pass a faceless commoner and not think about me. Never again will you see a poor wretched man and not remember this letter. Every month will be a blessing from now on, for it may be your last.

I see you now, slowed to a stop, carefully searching the shadows. I am behind you, and will be for many months. Your actions will be considered in a court of my emotions and your fate relies on the verdict of my heart.

Be well, oh dear friend.