Dear Hope of Mankind,
I have decided that I hate maps. Loathe them. If maps were personified into a living organism, I would almost certainly kill them despite the legal repercussions that would follow. Then again, I am alone her in the woods--no one would see me, methinks.
Again with the rambling! It has been almost three days since I was mugged. Three days! As if the prospect of me fending for myself in the wild wasn't enough, I have to go and get myself lost. And to make matters worse, the resonance during the Epicenters has grown increasingly ear-splitting. I believe that there must be an intense magical output occurring somewhere that is causing the Great Eclipse to respond in this way.
My robes are covered in muck. Splotches of brown and olive mask the once brilliant sky blue that used to cover my clothes, and my red cuff links give the appearance of dirty blood more than the cinnabar they are supposed to be. But that's life. Or so I'm told.
And so, as I wander, quite literally, aimlessly through the woods I write this letter in hope that maybe you won't be an idiot and make the same foolish mistakes that I have. I only hope that those high shrieks I hear coming from the woods aren't what I think they are.
*~--Terris Rolland the Bright--~*
Terris,
ReplyDeleteYou must make maps solely in your mind by landmarks even in the milkiest of fogs. If the muggers have even the slightest idea where you’re going by procuring your map in yet another ambush, you’re only likely to be mugged again. As you see it, your destination depends on the cartography of other men, but do you truly want other men in their arrogant surveys studied, measured, and concluded often dubiously in the shield of guarded expeditions to determine your will through these wilds when even they themselves could not chart the destiny of their own demise by malaria, dysentery, starvation, madness, and finally cannibalism? Do destroy the maps with the murderous lust you feel and without hesitation nor circumspect shame. And destroy in those selfsame documents the wretched history of excess and decadence with which these courses were illuminated by lesser beings who now rot in the soil upon which you tread.
In hope and behoven wisdom,
Tredas Trovou