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Bartimaeus the Mystic

Never before this book was granted me had I considered the difficulty of putting pen to page. For long moments I have sat within this tavern, lost in thoughts of what to write. Of the true significance of the gift. It seems clear to me now that this journal is meant to be a guide. A preservation of my inner self that I might cleave to my purpose throughout the trials ahead. And, perhaps not only a guide, but a mirror as well. A reflection of my thoughts, black ink stark against the white of paper. Impossible to ignore or deceive. It is with these thoughts looming large in my mind that I have chosen to use these first pages as an imprint of who I am. Of what it is I must do.

I am Bartimaeus the mystic, a title that I have granted myself. Still it feels odd upon my lips. I can feel the flush upon my face even as I write, but surely it will grow comfortable in time. It is a title that feels too large, too pretentious, for my frame. I have never been especially tall, standing only 5'7, nor am I strapping. Perhaps I am old enough to fight, but still I feel a youth. I am leanly strong, vigorous, with the tanned skin and rough hands of one whom knows work, but I am no great warrior. My eyes are the bleak grey of winter, and my light brown hair falls about my ears and brow in need of a cut. Mother would normally have done this, but, those thoughts are too painful to return to now. I can still feel her loss as a hard knot within my chest. It aches, cold and solid. I have been assured that it will ease in time. Almost, I believe that to be true.

I, do not know if I am truly destined to lead, but I do feel something within me. A drive, and a power. I must discover what this is. I must leave this place. perhaps distance will aid in easing the pain of loss. Distance I can control. Time I can not. Perhaps I will find a wandering sage to travel with, or join a caravan. I do not yet know. I feel I am in need of a friend. If I am truly to rule, I must become more than I am now.

My thoughts grow scattered. My mind blurry. I must rest soon. Hold true to my purpose, Bartimaeus. Though you are trapped within these pages, a frozen image of a boy without balance, you are me. We have one another. Remember who I am. And, though perhaps it is foolish to write this to myself, thank you.

Mystic Bartimaeus

Advisor Description

So soon I return to you, my faithful mirror, to describe recent events as they are fresh in my mind. I fear I have not long before the candle by which I right has exhausted itself, but I dare not wait till morning. I must inscribe my thoughts into you while they yet remain fresh.

Late this evening, while taking my ease by the tavern's roaring fire, I was approached by a man whom clamed to be my uncle. But, that is not correct. Those words do not convey the emotion of the moment. The sense. No, take into yourself my weariness. My muscles ached from the harshness of my labors, but the warmth of the fire and the contented weight of bread and stew in my belly eased the pain into honesty. The groaning aches of work well done. Around the edges of my mind tickled the fingers of exhaustion beckoning me to sleep.

I had just begun debating renting a room for the night, when I was approached by the man in question. He was broad, but not bullish. Tall, but not towering. Perhaps an even six feet, or just over, flatly muscular in the way of men who are both strong and quick. His clothes were dark and unremarkable, tattered, though I recall taking note of the broad curved blade shoved through a loop on his belt. Not a tool, but a fighting blade, heavy and brutish. Still, none of these things truly held my attention. What captured me were his eyes. Set in a face of hard lines and shaggy beard, the wintry grey of his eyes shone, bright yet bleak.

The eyes of my mother.

I confess that I can not recall the words that were exchanged. Not in their entirety. All that comes to mind is my shock, my quickly fading disbelief. I am not alone. This man, Crake. My uncle Crake, whom my mother never spoke of. He claims he is here to aid me. That it was my mother's dying wish he depart the fighting, leave his command to guide me. To strengthen me for what must come.

He is a hard man. There is no gentleness in him, but I feel he is fair. Perhaps not honest, but fairness and honesty need not be the same. I sense scars within him. Depth beneath the ice of his gaze. He is frightening, in his way, but I trust him.

I do trust him.

I am glad that I am not alone.

Bartimaeus the Mystic Post Play & MMORPG RPG Text

The Beauty of Lady Fluke

Dear lady Fluke, you ask of me,
to demonstrate regard for thee.
Pontificate upon beauty,
illuminate on what I see.
A woman strong, impressively.
The kindest eyes you're like to see.
You nurture souls so patiently.
Accept us all so graciously.
internal, and externally,
Your beauty shines forth blindingly.