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Aedon Durreah
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re: Aedon's Old Stories of Connemara

It is done.

Donn the Dark One has returned to the Otherworld, with more than a thousand, teeming, restless souls to keep him occupied for ages to come. My long work is completed. The mortal realms are safe from the meddling's of the Horned One.

I am sure the Gathering will be pleased.

Causality is a funny thing to one who lives outside of time. Three centuries of mortal time past, I came to this island, on this simple planet, to set in motion events which would prevent a terrible disaster which would occur on this day. We knew it was coming and when it would occur. What we didn't realize is that our hand would be both help and hindrance.

Perhaps, that is why I feel... I believe they call it “remorse.”

From where I see things, everything happened precisely as it was going to happen. Those died who were meant to die and lived who were meant to live. A threat appeared and was repelled. This is as it has always been and would always be.

Maybe I have grown soft.

I have known all these decades that this man would fall, that he would give his life for the safety of all. I knew that he would lose many dear friends and endure sufferings difficult to count. I knew that he would spend a lifetime prisoner to his own regret and self-pity, for this is as it has always been and would always be.

But, why must it be?

At various times, he was to me an experiment, a pet... a child. I asked so much of him, and he did as I asked. He was not always willing and often protested, but when the time came, he always rose to the task. He did so again today. He paid a great price to do what I could not.

I never thanked him.

Instead, I give him one final gift. I give him peace. I give him the chance to live the life he never knew. I have returned his body to the lands of Sosaria, where he has known the greatest joy and deepest sorrow. I return him not as a king, but as a man. I return him as the man he would have been had his lineage been allowed to live their days in comfort, free of the meddling of Outsiders. For this is how it always should have been, and ever shall be.

The Gathering will not approve.

But it is not for them to choose. Aedon deserves a greater rest than death can provide. He deserves a deeper peace than the grave. He deserves the chance to know himself as himself, not as the product of the machinations of immortals.

Meddling is meddling, no matter the intent. Donn the Dark One, Figol the Grand Magus, Corellon the Elf God... we are all guilty.

For this is as it has always been, and always will be.

But not from me.

Nevermore.

Figol the Wanderer.


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Aedon Durreah
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re: Aedon's Old Stories of Connemara

Enter the Flagon

It was just before first light when something jarred him from a deep sleep. Struggling to sit up, Aedon found himself fighting against a rather determined coverlet. He was not sure how that blasted thing had come to be wound so oddly about his body, but now it fought his every attempt to extricate himself with any semblance of dignity. With a few more wild swings of his arms and kicks of his legs, he at last broke free of his downy captor and stood glaring back at the bed.

He was glad for one thing; his room above the Knights Rest was at least a comfortable temperature. He stood bare-butt, scratching himself rather uncouthly. Turning his gaze from the bed, he looked around the room muttering to himself.

“Where the feck did I leave my trousers?”

This was followed by a few more choice swear words, and much crawling on his hands and knees, and glancing under the furniture all the while scratching an odd itch that did not seem to yield.

At long last, he cornered the wayward pants as they lay against the wall behind the chest. They looked as though they had not a care in the world. Snatching them up, Aedon whipped them against the bed post a few times, and then pulled them on too quickly, and not quite up all the way. He stumbled out the door and, most unfortunately, tumbled down the stairs. The trousers, it would seem, had their revenge on him as Aedon landed with a resounding thud on the floor at the bottom.

Cursing loudly, he stood with the help of a nearby bar stool. It was so - standing barefoot, shirtless and with rebellious trousers - that Aedon Durreah, tavern keep of the Knight's Rest began his day.

Reaching up, the thumped his knuckles against his head a few times.

“Think man! What is it ye fergot te do last eve?”

His eyes traveled about the room as though searching for someone that could give him a clue as to what he sought. But, with the hour of the day and owing to the fact that the Rest was not open for business, Aedon soon came to know that there was no help to be had. Then his eyes fell on the coffee pot sitting on the small stove behind the bar.

“That was it! I fergot te take the kettle off.”

Moving quickly, Aedon snatched up the pot, fully expecting it to be white hot from too many hours over the fire. To his surprise, the kettle was cool to the touch. He tentatively laid his hand on the stove, and found that it was also cool.

Stooping, he opened the small grate and looked inside. Where most times he had found coals smoldering within, only coal dust lay at the bottom. He then looked towards the fireplace and noticed that no fire burned in the hearth. This was an odd morning to say the least.

“I d'nae recollect dousing the bloody fires last eve.”

Shrugging a bit, and rolling his sore shoulders, Aedon allowed the thought to fall from his mind. Perhaps he had a bit too much ale the night before and, in a drunken state, extinguished the flames. Heading back up the stairs, Aedon walked into his room. He would bathe, and dress in more amiable trousers; and then, tend to the lack of fire in the Tavern.

“One flagon too many, Aedon.”, he muttered to himself.

“Someday, I am going te have te gi'e some thought ta stopping me drinking; ...Someday”


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