CARAAMON at 20:32, 11 September 2008

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← Older revision		Revision as of 15:32, 11 September 2008
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	ending is for you to find in your own heart.		ending is for you to find in your own heart.

	[[Category:Book]]		[[Category:Book]][[page type is::book\| ]]

Maintenance script: Book:FisMGS moved to My Grandmother's Stories (book)

2007-11-19T03:10:00Z

Book:FisMGS moved to My Grandmother's Stories (book)

← Older revision	Revision as of 22:10, 18 November 2007
(No difference)

Maintenance script at 03:45, 7 November 2007

2007-11-07T03:45:06Z

← Older revision		Revision as of 22:45, 6 November 2007
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	==My Grandmother's Stories ==		==My Grandmother's Stories ==
	''By Ilaltin Siterzu ''		''By [[Ilaltin]] Siterzu ''


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	even then. I wanted to leave this little missive with		even then. I wanted to leave this little missive with
	you, though. I am writing it because I keep having an		you, though. I am writing it because I keep having an
	odd dream -- one in which L'aarsa, the old Storyteller		odd dream -- one in which [[L'aarsa]], the old Storyteller
	of my childhood, keeps appearing and telling the same		of my childhood, keeps appearing and telling the same
	tales to me with such urgency that I can only believe		tales to me with such urgency that I can only believe
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	hope that they may be of some use to you or to someone		hope that they may be of some use to you or to someone
	you know. My people take their dreaming very		you know. My people take their dreaming very
	seriously. May the grace of Peri'el light your way."		seriously. May the grace of [[Peri'el]] light your way."

	My grandmother stopped and smiled kindly at me. I		My grandmother stopped and smiled kindly at me. I
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	telling. And so I leave this story with you. The		telling. And so I leave this story with you. The
	ending is for you to find in your own heart.		ending is for you to find in your own heart.

			[[Category:Book]]

Maintenance script: New page: ==My Grandmother's Stories == ''By Ilaltin Siterzu '' My grandmother was a storyteller. I suppose I should really say that my entire family is made up of storytellers, and this has be...

2007-08-02T08:41:27Z

New page: ==My Grandmother's Stories == ''By Ilaltin Siterzu '' My grandmother was a storyteller. I suppose I should really say that my entire family is made up of storytellers, and this has be...

New page

==My Grandmother's Stories ==
''By Ilaltin Siterzu ''

My grandmother was a storyteller. I suppose I should
really say that my entire family is made up of
storytellers, and this has been so for many
generations. But it is my grandmother who showed us
how to bring stories to life with such flair that she
could bring a crowd to breathless silence as they
waited to hear what happened next. Once, I remember,
she managed to get an entire barroom full of brawling
Gor'Tog so entranced with her tales that they settled
quietly around the tables like schoolchildren. But
that's another story.

"Is this story true?" Listeners ask that question so
often. And it made my grandmother laugh every time.
"All stories are true" she'd chuckle. "It's just that
the truth of them is not always revealed in ways you
might expect." She never would explain that statement
any further. We knew exactly what she meant, though.

She could always find a story to slip into whatever
was going on. Sometimes it was like finding the
missing piece of a puzzle. I recall when I was in the
throes of my first heartbreak. I'd met a lovely
Elothean woman - by the moons, those people have the
grace of a willow in autumn winds! And how can a
young scholar (for this is what I was) fail to be
enchanted by such beauty combined with a quicksilver
mind? But my people are traditional. I was raised in
those ways from the first breath I drew, and no matter
what my heart yearned for, there was a bridge
of...difference, I can't find a better word than that in
your language...that my quicksilver lady and I never
managed to cross together. I knew that, ultimately,
we would have to part. One wintry night, I was
struggling with admitting that to myself. Sleep
wouldn't come to me.

My grandmother heard me pacing, came downstairs, and
told me this story. It is a true story.

"Once, there was a young Human Trader. Now, before I
go any further, you must know that this Trader was not
the sort of indolent slug that infests some of our
great cities these days. No. He was a rover and a
bit of a warrior -- well able to protect himself on the
road. It was, in fact, the song of the open road that
called him, the freedom that gold gave him to travel
wherever he pleased, and the chance to explore distant
realms, haggle over rare artifacts, and mingle with
many different peoples that made him a Trader.
Perhaps he had a touch of Gypsy blood, or perhaps he
was a smuggler at heart. Who can really know?

He traveled to the high desert country, and was
enchanted by the stark beauty he found there.
Ultimately, he made his way to one of the great S'Kra
clan cities, there encountering a lass of that ancient
people. An artisan of no small skill, she could take
gems and craft settings that would suit any royalty.
While not high-born, she had all the pride (some would
call it arrogance, I suppose) of her kind, and their
traditions were the foundation of her existence.

They began to forge a business relationship, then
mutual respect blossomed, and soon they found
themselves engaging in an affectionate sparring of
words and minds. She called him "smooth-skin",
laughing and flashing her fangs, and he'd grin and
hiss mockingly back, saying that at least he didn't
have "demon claws". By this time they were friends,
of course, and the spark of something more was there,
too, though neither quite saw it happening. They were
both slow to trust.

He showed her his books of Dwarven and Elothean
jewelry designs, and these fired her imagination and
spurred her to new creativity in her work. She led
him to the shops of weapon-makers hidden deep in the
city -- S'Kra masters who forged deadly blades of such
balance and power that any warrior would beg to
possess them. They told one another stories of their
homelands, which turned to speaking of their own
pasts, which turned to sharing their hopes and dreams.
And all that finally awakened more intense emotions.
He realized it before she did. Or, perhaps, he was
the one who was willing to speak of it.

Gently, he tried to let her know that his feelings had
become deeper. She skillfully deflected him. He
became more persistent, and she more evasive, though
never unfriendly. Finally, desperate at her seeming
obliviousness, he confronted her. Couldn't she see
that he loved her? Her response was a quiet nod.
Then why, he demanded, did she seem so determined to
ignore that fact?

She was not ignoring it, she declared. But he, she
murmured in frustration, seemed to be blind to that
fact. At a loss to understand what she meant, he
exploded in exasperation. She snapped back, he
shouted (have I mentioned that neither one of them was
of a retiring temperament?), and before long, with a
hiss and a flutter of her silk robes, she stormed off.
They were both miserable, of course. She threw
herself into her work, and he alternated between
disappearing on long and bloody hunting trips and
hovering to shower her with persistent tokens of
affection. Rare blossoms appeared at her door.
Delicate pastries were delivered as she settled down
for her morning meal. And when they did have time
together, he tried in every way he knew to explain his
feelings for her. Her response was always the same.
"You do not see what I offer you."

He knew that she cared for him; he could see it in her
emerald eyes and feel it in the energy sparking
between them. Why did she seem to step back from that
fact? What was he missing in the picture? He
determined he must have this thing out with her, once
and for all. Early one morning, he rose, put on his
finest clothes, and strode off to confront this
stubborn and mysterious lady.

He found her apartments deserted. A little golden
dagger speared a letter to the front door, and,
somewhere between shock and despair, he ripped it
down. The letter was written in a firm and graceful
hand. The parchment it was written on was nearly
transparent, and it was hard to discern what it was
made of, though it looked rather unsettlingly like
skin. This is what it said...

My wanderer (for this is what she called him):

I have departed on a trek deep into my homeland, for I
feel the need to walk and to think. I will not return
until some time after the rock shrikes have flown
eastward ahead of the winter storms, and perhaps not
even then. I wanted to leave this little missive with
you, though. I am writing it because I keep having an
odd dream -- one in which L'aarsa, the old Storyteller
of my childhood, keeps appearing and telling the same
tales to me with such urgency that I can only believe
I am bound to pass them along. My people are great
storytellers. And though the ones who do not know us
might never suspect it, we are romantics in our own
way. It should be no surprise, then, that we are fond
of stories of great love and great tragedy.

The stories that old L'aarsa keeps chanting to me are
stories of love -- doomed loves, to be precise. And
among my people, the grandest of these are the ones in
which we S'Kra find ourselves sweetly entangled with
those who are not of our people. These affairs rarely
have happy endings, you see, and of course that leads
us to the place where the tragedy resides. Why?
Well, as L'aarsa always said, S'Kra are S'Kra. No
more and no less. And no matter how dearly we or
anyone else would wish it different, the reality is
that we can almost never truly love outside of our own
kind -- at least, not in the ways those doomed lovers
would wish. One would think that to be tragedy enough
in L'aarsa's little tales. But the stories have a
different point to make. The real tragedy is not the
impossible romance. The real tragedy is the weight of
what is actually lost. You see, when we allow a
q'alrin (an outsider) into our lives - really allow
them - well, it is a rare offering, indeed. In
L'aarsa's fables this is what is refused and
ultimately lost. Instead, the disappointed lovers
kill the S'Kra, or themselves, or both, in storms of
angry passion. It is all quite sad and messy.

The gift -- the one the fated lovers, blinded by
imagined rejection, cannot see and therefore refuse --
is a rich one. My people rarely choose to take non-
S'Kra into their ru'at, our most intimate circle. To
stand in that place is to be a bit of both parent and
child, brother and sister, friend and lover, companion
in journeys and ally in battles. It is all of these,
and yet more, and yet again not quite any of them.
There is no word for it in any language outside of
S'Kra, though the closest might be 'soulbound.' It is
most precious, and rarely bestowed. Anyone lucky
enough to be so linked to a S'Kra has a being who will
stand by them in any circumstance that this world or
any other may bring. This is the gift that is spurned
in L'aarsa's stories. And in its way, it is a far
greater loss than the romance the doomed ones imagined
they craved.

My wanderer, I am compelled to pass the message of
these little fables along to you in the hope that old
L'aarsa will stop tormenting my dreams, and in the
hope that they may be of some use to you or to someone
you know. My people take their dreaming very
seriously. May the grace of Peri'el light your way."

My grandmother stopped and smiled kindly at me. I
sputtered, "Well, what, then? Did they find one
another again? What is the end of the story?"

She threw her head back and laughed like a young girl.
I saw in that moment the wild lass that my grandfather
swore hypnotized him the instant they met -- a most
happy trance that lasted across the span of their time
together. She reached to hug me, and, still
chuckling, walked out of the room. Standing now alone
in the quiet light of dawn, I understood. I
understood that sometimes a story has no "end" other
than the meaning we glean for ourselves in the
telling. And so I leave this story with you. The
ending is for you to find in your own heart.

My Grandmother's Stories (book) - Revision history

CARAAMON at 20:32, 11 September 2008

Maintenance script: Book:FisMGS moved to My Grandmother's Stories (book)

Maintenance script at 03:45, 7 November 2007

Maintenance script: New page: ==My Grandmother's Stories == ''By Ilaltin Siterzu '' My grandmother was a storyteller. I suppose I should really say that my entire family is made up of storytellers, and this has be...