The pin points of morning light come drifting in in a rich, bright, holy sort of halo. Basking the world in a gilded light, the brilliance and peace of the cool night air slowly being warmed by the dawn can turn the most evil souls to a mush of warmth and love. As this song of light and warmth passes over my resting body, I cannot help but to open my eyes to behold the world in its splendor of early morning erthreal luminicese.
Light burns my sleep sand crusted eyes and sears the front of my brain, making it bubble and fry like an egg on a New Thalos road, and a gong seems to fall on my head as I try to sit up.
Closing my eyes, rolling over and going back to sleep would have been the wisest course of action at this point. However, making wise decisions has never been a particular strong point.. I mean I can't even make simple ones.
Its really hard to say when the really unwise decisions started happening on a regular basis. I think that my bad luck started with leaving the circus. Yeah.. to be a Flying Amberillo again.. instead of some bardic dame who is passed out on a ...church pew?
Attempting to recall the events of the past evening is always a painful, yet important, part of the morning. It seems there is often some sort of a connection with these missing hours and the current state of disarray which I find myself in every morning.
As the holy light fades from my beer mug, I vaguely recall being electrocuted by a giant blue lizard, and Lord Rheidyr muttering about trying to find some swirling colors and a paint brush.
No wonder I partook in the holy beer last night.
Its not that I'm not supportive of Sir Rheidyr getting in touch with his artistic side, or him looking for swirling colors, holy signs, and other weird auras and stuff associated with faithful prophets, priests, and paladins. But I really wish he wouldn't include me in on all these holy quests and rituals.
Mainly the whole chastity ritual for starters.
In fact, I'm fairly certain that it's his chasteness that has probably gotten me into this entire mess of holy beer, swirling colors, paint brushes, and that little note laying by me.
Yup, my worst fears confirmed, a note, penned by Sir Gwaine no less. It's content the sort that reeks of a longing of the romantic that is to awkward to express itself in words. The sort of advance that until about two weeks ago, would have been welcomed with the proper enthusiasm of a maiden in big, stupid, blind love.
However, as of late, I discovered I had some personal issues that needed resolved, as well as sorting out what feelings for which assorted knights, Austinians, and a White robe can be categorized as love or lust.
My personal issues? Personal.
My feelings for the various young men of the realm? Most likely lust, aside from a few notable exceptions.
Hence leading to the personal issues.
However, shurely, this entire mess, agleam with golden morning light, can be blamed on Sir Rheidyr's chastness. Certainly, had it not been for that strange lifestyle choice I would be waking up in the arms of one of the most handsome, heroic, and good, old fashioned darn sexy knights of the keep. Not on a hard pew, with a herd of war elephants dancing on my head, and a note from another, very charming and absolutely wonderful, knight questing to form some sort of solid relationship in a world of insubstantial swirling colors.
Now, if you think that knights are obstinate, stubborn, and single minded on the battlefield, you've never seen one in love. I; however, have been on the receiving end of a number of this noble breed's affections, and let me tell you: Malice has it much easier.
Its not as though I was leading them on with some sort of playful, sinful purpose in mind. It's just impossible to subtly shrug them off so that no harm is done. They just run, head on, charging directly at what they believe with rightfully theirs. Subtle and polite turndowns glancing helplessly off of shining armor and shields, unheeded and forgotten; trampled underfoot. Unfortunately the only way to stop such a crusader with the Goddess of Love whispering in his ear is to erect a wall right in his path that not even the worse rider can miss.
Thus, our brave and noble hero charges, stupidly, head long into a
wall..
.. and then gets up, quite hurt, terribly confused, and trying to
go on so no one else will notice that he, the brave and noble knight
that he is, just stupidly charged himself into a wall.
Enter Sir Gwaine, due for some friendly teasing for a recent encounter some adorable highlander gals, his blue eyes clear, sparking and dancing with the joy that comes with the anticipation of being with someone you care for more than the normally healthy dose of caring. Unfortunately I'm stupidly grinning right back at him, for in this bizarre, confusing would of swirling colors, here is absolutely nothing as wonderful as being loved.
Except maybe a nice MLT...
Tactics of the military sort are not a strong point of mine either. Hindsight being ever so wise, it was probably a bad tactical decision to wander up Croyden Tower with Sir Gwaine. I mean, I can't think of a good place to let a knight down, but on the top of a tower, generally renown as a blissful point to make out at, is probably one of the more depressing places to be handed a major defeat in the crusade of romance.
At any rate, I knew I was cleverly cornered when he asked, what must be a standard question when a knight gets a gal to the top of this tower and is preparing to get her to join him in his crusade for the goddess of Love, if I had "ever been up here before?"
Of course I have! With a half dozen other hopeful young knights turned crusaders of Love who all end up falling victim to my walls of poor, last minute, panicked, decision making, and asking the same dang question. Except for Sir Eyrk, somehow I had had the presence of mind to check his teeth for vampire fangs while we were up here about two weeks ago.
With my tongue.
Hence leading to the personal issues.
And now leading me to form the most painful wall I had ever bothered constructing in my life, built of the two most absolutely terrifying phrases I could think of at the moment. All this for one of the most charming, clever, and delightful men, who had he but mentioned _something_ about a relationship but two weeks ago, would have had his teeth checked for vampire fangs, instead of being crushed by a wall of the most ineloquent let down I have ever uttered:
"Eyrk cares for Datai; Datai cares for Eyrk"
Come to think of it, Datai has also been known for poor decisions, and not having a clue as to what's really going on. And for running like all hell when there is a crusader charging at her, be he Eclipsian or Love Goddess blinded.
Its truly sad how love can stupify one into babbling simple sentences that don't even begin to express anything like what is going on in your mind. Not that anything coherent was going on in my mind at that particular moment, mind you. I just don't think my general state of confusion regarding my feelings for the High Justice were done justice by those two, very decisive sounding phases. Heck, come to think of it, I don't even really recall Sir Eyrk actually making any sort of verbal admission that her cared for me or that he wished to presue any sort of serious relatonship. It's a pretty sure bet though, that if a Paladin of Nadrik consents to have his teeth checked for vampire fangs, via the tongue method, that he's fairly interested in some sort of honorable intimacy in a proper sort of relationship, one of these days.
But then, what the heck to I know? After all, I just spent my pervious evening with some chaste guy, being electrocuted by a giant blue lizard, and helping the holy paladin get in touch with his artistic side. At anyrate, Gwaine was now gone, off to deal with his disappointment in his own special way, I immediately set forth to deal with my own personal issues in the only way I can fathom at the moment. This involved singing "99 bottles of beer on the wall" as far down the numbers as I can go.
Bards can make a real nice living on these unrequited love stories, but all the romance is lost when they happen to you and those you love. Especially when you cry in your beer about them. It ruins the flavor, and makes you look like a drunk who is drowning their sorrows in drink, and not a bard, hard at work at a love story.
So I look at the swirls of deep amber colors in my beer being tainted with my rainbow tears, and I absently pull out a Kleenex from my disorganized cloak of random stuff that just might come in handy one of these days. As I let my wet misery soak into the helpless thin tissue, I vaguely remember the rich, warm, sexy tones of Sir Rhiedyr's voice asking me if I had a Kleenex. This now strikes me as terribly odd; for a chaste man never has to cry about unrequited love.