ffxiv-datamining/csv/VVDNotebookContents.csv

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5	1	70501	70401	Whom the Silkie Serves	What a surprise to learn that the old palace silkie was a creation of Mother's! The discovery impelled me to pursue the topic with Papashan, who, of anyone besides Father, knew my mother best of all. Naturally, I was circumspect in my inquiries, lest he become aware of my subterranean explorations. With fond remembrance, Papashan spoke of Mother's penchant for cleaning─a habit she refused to surrender even after taking up residence in the royal chambers. Her ladies-in-waiting were positively scandalized, and hid away every brush and broom that the sultana's hands not be sullied by common grime. Denied the usual tools of sanitation, Mother retaliated by employing a Sharlayan tutor, whereby she acquired the arts necessary to manifest a massive, mouselike familiar. Ingrained with an obsessive dislike of dirt, this arcane entity would even corner the palace guards to scrub spots from their armor─to the great amusement of the household staff. Then one day, without fanfare, the silkie was simply gone. I suspect the cause of its disappearance lay in the deepening conflict with the Monetarists; with less and less time to slip away from the palace, Mother likely set her familiar to protect and maintain the secret garden in her absence. Yet what a stubborn and willful soul she was! To create a servant for cleaning is one thing, but to imbue it with such unbridled power is quite another!
6	2	70502	70402	Pride and Acceptance	With a mind to prepare for future explorations, I began trawling through the palace archives in search of documents with even a tangential mention of Sil'dih. For the most part, however, the shelves held little in the way of new information. The only account to snare my attention was that of an Ul'dahn soldier, who had written of his experiences fighting alongside the Amalj'aa during the zombie purge. His report touched upon the different approach his new allies took to warfare, and how those differences impeded their cooperative efforts. It was said that the undead which flooded the waterways were beyond counting, and varied wildly in individual strength. The most effective strategy, or so this soldier believed, was to focus their efforts on the weaker zombies, and thus whittle the horde down to a more manageable size. Not so the Amalj'aa. When presented with the choice, the proud warriors would always seek to slay the mightiest enemies first. This display of superiority, they explained to the exasperated Ul'dahn, was the best way to wage war. To do otherwise─to begin an engagement with the lesser foe─would cast doubt upon one's martial prowess. 'Twould seem they learned to respect each other's reasoning, yet ultimately fought their battles as their peoples preferred. The Ul'dahn soldier returned to his former tactic, targeting the weakest undead for his initial assaults. An interesting point of culture, mayhap, but a helpful one? That remains to be seen.
7	3	70503	70403	A Spot in the Sunlight	He, a member of the royal family. She, the daughter of a modest merchant house. They met at a palace banquet─an opportunity to mix with the notables of commerce─and it was love at first sight. Ah, I adore that story─'tis so very romantic. Mother would go on to tell me of the secluded place her and Father would visit ere they were bound in marriage; of a sun-dappled garden at the end of a secret tunnel, where they could enjoy each other's company away from prying eyes and judgmental stares. In other words, a perfect description of the sanctuary we discovered on our recent foray. When they did at last announce the details of their engagement, the location of this magical place where Father proposed to Mother became the subject of much rumor and debate. I am told that the city's merchants, being the same incorrigible creatures then as they are now, seized upon this furor to turn a tidy profit. They never did come close to the truth of it, but after visiting the spot myself, 'tis easy to see why it has remained undisturbed. I imagine the two of them in their younger years, whiling away an idle morning amidst the dawn-kissed petals, their haven protected beneath a barrier of Thanalan's scorching sand, and I cannot help but smile. Never until now have I managed to think of them without a pang of sadness. Have I been captive to grief for so very long...?
8	4	70504	70404	A Key Memory	On my fifth nameday, my parents gifted me with a key wrought in silver─but not the knowledge of what it opened. “When you are a woman grown, we will take you to the precious place this key protects,” Mother had explained. Father had nodded, saying it was “where slumbers the memories which neither we, nor Ul'dah, should ever forget.” I, a child of five, understood only that I was being forced to wait for my true present. Oh, how I had sulked and fumed back then! Yet now I cling to that fading recollection with desperate fingers, like a failed merchant to her dwindling coinpurse. 'Twas too soon after when Mother and Father were called away to Thal's eternal halls. Their sudden absence left me hollow and dazed; my ascension to the throne followed by torturous days of uncertainty steeped in sorrow. It seemed I stumbled across the desert, the sands burning one moment, freezing the next. All thoughts of keys and secret places were cast aside, forgotten. Why had they entrusted such a portentous gift to a daughter so young? Had they foreseen the “accident” which would befall them? Or had some other factor influenced their actions? Their true intentions are lost to time. There is only one thing I can know for certain: that the key was left in my hands for good reason.
9	5	70505	70405	In Father's Stead	The Amalj'aa constructed Zahar'ak when they came to join Ul'dah in purging the undead infestation from the subterrane. And if Zahar'ak was their main war camp, then the old fortifications we passed through would have served as a forward base. The question, then, is why did my parents gift me the means to visit these rusted defenses? In my late father's possessions was a diary which made reference to “irrefutable evidence of the alliance”─mayhap there is more to the place we have yet to discover. In life, Father was a staunch opponent of the edict to banish the so-called “beast tribes.” Arrayed against him were the Monetarists, who sought to preserve their special concessions and privileges by ousting their competitors. 'Twas with the backing of the Syndicate that they overruled the sultan's will, and forced their proposal into law. Unwilling to concede defeat, Father intended to take the battle to the court of public consensus. His weapons would not be easily forged documents or records, but physical proof of the Amalj'aa contribution to Ul'dah's continued prosperity. Then the “accident” happened, ending his plans to appeal for harmony ere they could truly begin. Which brings us back to this mention of evidence. I know not what form it might take, or indeed, if it yet even exists, but should a thorough search of that forgotten base provide us with clues... We are on the cusp of brokering a lasting peace with the Amalj'aa─if I can but discover this elusive proof, then the aspirations Father had for our nation may finally become a reality.
10	6	70506	70406	Ul'dah's Sin to Bear	When that Amalj'aa champion burst forth from his casket, the blood nigh froze within my veins. He must have suffered injury during the purge, the zombie corruption finding its way into his flesh... The Traders' Spurn was concocted by Ul'dahn thaumaturges, and employed by the reigning sultan during our war with Sil'dih. Sasagan III even knowingly propagated the fiction that it was the <Emphasis>Sil'dihns</Emphasis> who devised this abhorrent alchemy in an effort to turn their own citizens into undying soldiers. An accusation from the House of Thorne saw Sasagan III later punished for his heinous acts, and thus ended the first Ul Dynasty. His lies, however, would live on to become accepted history. This deceit was upheld by a desire to preserve not only the Ul Dynasty's authority, but also the standing of the Order of Nald'thal─an institution deeply entwined with thaumaturgical practices. And it can be said that few Ul'dahns would wish to accept that their home was built upon the corpse of a city so brutally slain by their forebears. Yet without a clear view of the past, we cannot be sure of our course for the future. The sight of that rotting Amalj'aa hero was all too stark a reminder: as a sultana of the House of Ul, I bear responsibility for my ancestor's atrocities. And though we suffer for the truth, even as Ishgard did for hers, the time has come to set the records aright.
11	7	70507	70407	To Learn More of Myrrh	I wished to consult with the Amalj'aa over a certain facet of our expedition, yet I could hardly bring up the subject during one of our regular councils. Should it become known that the royal person had been slipping out of the palace to conduct secret investigations, then my trusted escort would be caught up in an unpleasant storm of repercussions. Nay, I must be discreet. As such, I approached the Amalj'aa war chief at meeting's end, and engaged him with the usual empty pleasantries─eventually steering the conversation to tribal custom. I explained that the coffin of a zombie-cursed warrior had been discovered within Ul'dahn territory, and wondered at the traditional rites one might perform to send his kin's unfortunate soul on to the afterlife. Somewhat taken aback, the war chief advised that it was of paramount importance to avoid disturbing the warrior's undead slumber. “Leave the coffin untouched,” he warned. “Stand facing the valorous spirit, and perform a single bow. Offer your respects for a life well lived, celebrate the warrior's greatest victory, and then kneel in a moment of reflection.” Thus did the Amalj'aa mourn comrades fallen on the field of battle, burning myrrh incense at the culmination of the ritual to guide their sanctified souls unto the everlasting flame. In receiving his answer, I was suddenly struck by a cavalcade of questions I had never thought to ask. I felt ashamed at my ignorance, and am now resolved to learn more of this proud people's culture.
12	8	70508	70408	Ul'dah and Sil'dih	When Belah'dia splintered into Ul'dah and Sil'dih, the division only deepened with time. The history books tell the tale of escalating hostilities; of how the advent of the Traders' Spurn devastated the Sil'dihns, and brought the conflict to a horrific end. Ul'dah would later migrate to the site of the fallen metropolis, where even now the ruins of the past dot the landscape, or lie hidden from view deep underground. Such remnants proved useful when routing the municipal waterways, and so did they refer to this section of the subterrane as the “Sil'dihn aqueducts.” Given that the war turned savage over water sources, it seems to me a designation of particularly ghoulish sensibilities. Distasteful naming aside, it should have come as no surprise that these old tunnels fed into other vestiges of Sil'dih. And yet I was wholly unprepared to set foot in the royal palace itself! Had the structure been exposed above ground, the wind-driven sand coupled with the heat of the Thanalan sun would have led to extensive erosion. But cocooned beneath the earth as it was, its chambers have been perfectly preserved. How rare it must be to encounter ruins in such an unspoiled state. It will provide our historians with a wealth of material to study...assuming they can navigate the intervening passages. We must clear the way, first and foremost, and secure a safe path through.
13	9	70509	70409	Raising the Flags	When we came across the banner of Sil'dih, so alike to our Ul'dahn flag, I was reminded that the first sultans of those warring nations were twin brothers. Yet the reason behind the design's similarity has naught to do with sibling imitation. In Belah'dia's time, 'twas the Flame of Magic and the Fruit of Knowledge which sat the scales of judgment. Ul'dah took the Flame as its own, balancing the scales with the Gem of Affluence, whilst Sil'dih claimed the Fruit, and set it against the Helm of Might. Each thought himself the rightful heir, and thus did both raise flags depicting the bounties of Belah'dia. Both included a symbol of strength, but the difference lay in its interpretation: Ul'dah believed in the potency of its magicks; Sil'dih, in its military might. The gladiators who train in our Coliseum are mayhap the closest embodiment of Sil'dihn philosophy. In fact, reflecting on the encounter now, the fierce gladiator construct lurking in the palace depths could not have been a more apt incarnation of their beliefs: from the exquisite embossment of grapes upon its formidable helm, to the way its gleaming form─the same silvery hue as Sil'dih's scales─illuminated the subterranean gloom. Through all these years did it stand patient guard, faithfully serving a master centuries dead, and a nation long since fallen into ruin. 'Tis enough to turn one's mood melancholy.
14	10	70510	70410	My Mother's Eyes	How, in the name of the Nald'thal, did that burglar manage to creep into a treasure chamber sealed off from the outside world for generations? Aside from the gate only my key could open, I saw no other means of entering the ruins. Although considering the prevalence of secret doors and passages in its construction, the remnants may very well have other entrances of which I am simply not aware. Yet in spite of this mystery, I find myself lingering most on the scrawled note our thief left behind. The first item was an obvious reference to “Nashachite,” which must somehow relate to one of the ruins' many riddles. 'Tis how it relates to me, however, that truly has my thoughts in a jumble. Nashachite was the name Ul'dahn jewelers gave to the high-quality malachite excavated from the reopened Copperbell Mines. This was after the Calamity, of course, and thus I took umbrage at these merchants using my late mother's name as a means to promote their wares. And then I was presented with a sample. 'Twas as if the gentle sparkle of Mother's eyes was captured within the stone. Much to my chagrin, I found myself forced to agree that “Nashachite” was the perfect fit for this gem of exquisite green.
15	11	70511	70411	The Thorne Legacy	“Sil'dih aqueducts. Thorne. Vault.” I noticed these words scribbled on the back of the burglar's note we found, but was too preoccupied to give them much thought at the time. Did the intruder believe that a secret cache of Thorne riches was to be found somewhere in the waterways? An odd notion, given that the House of Thorne was well known for its honesty and integrity. After all, 'twas a sultan of their dynasty who willingly transferred power back to the House of Ul, and there was nary a peep to imply any wrongful withdrawals from the royal treasury. Assuming they had secreted wealth in some hidden location, it would have been done with the full cooperation of the Ul family─with the particulars passed down to successive sultans. Father would have known of the arrangement, and he <Emphasis>did</Emphasis> speak of slumbering memories which should not be forgotten. Was this one of those things my parents wished me to see when I came of age? I have considered a hundred potential scenarios for what they might have meant, each more fanciful than the last. And although the Sil'dihn palace was indeed an eye-opening discovery, I sense that Father alluded to a matter of even deeper import...
16	12	70512	70412	In Parchment We Trust	Deep beneath Ul'dah, beyond the twisting tunnels of the Sil'dihn aqueducts, we have discovered a vault in which slumbers a precious legacy. In its center, a catalog of evidence emblazoned with the words: “For coin, country, and comrades-in-arms, we bequeath this trust to the House of Ul.” This solemn declaration, signed by the last sultan of Thorne, was followed by several pages of florid signatures─a procession of Ul'dahn rulers which ends with the name of my own father. And wedged there, betwixt one page and the next, a faded missive penned in his distinctive hand. Addressed with the hope that the reader be “our darling Nanamo,” the letter describes the purpose of the vault. 'Tis a place known only to the royal heirs; a secure archive wherein evidence of Ul'dah's alliance with the Amalj'aa is preserved. And though tradition dictated this trust be passed on by word of mouth, Father felt that, should worse come to worst, 'twas safer to have an explanation committed to parchment. “<Emphasis>Dearest Nanamo, we wonder what manner of woman you have become. We know the role of sultana will challenge you in myriad ways, but no matter how your rule unfolds, remember that you shall ever be our greatest achievement. Seize what happiness you may each day, for joy is worth more than all the gil in Ul'dah.</Emphasis>” Mother. Father. Be assured that 'tis not sorrow which causes these tears to fall, but overwhelming pride. Now, in this moment, I am simply happy to be your daughter.
17	13	70513	70413	Gift of the Onmyoji	Once upon a time, there lived a brilliant onmyoji. His enchantments were famed far and wide─yet the man was cursed with a poor memory, and often misplaced the tools he had imbued with such awesome power. Well aware of his foibles, the onmyoji resolved never to let his pieces escape him again, and wrought enchanted strongboxes to safely store them. This strategy was put to the test when, one evening, a thief attempted to steal his most valuable tools away, boxes and all. Alas, though the vessels faithfully returned to the onmyoji's side, the poor man was distraught to discover that none of the works within had done the same. Tokimori tells me that several such strongboxes were once present at Shojo Temple. Their magicks inhibited the spiritual powers of the objects sealed within─objects including a bloodthirsty sword and a dogu figurine. I myself managed to claim the box with the aforementioned sword, though the dogu must have been lost in the chaos that claimed the mountain. While “bloodthirsty sword” rather speaks for itself, I was curious as to why a simple clay figurine should need to be sealed away. It transpires that the dogu, too, is a powerful tool, once used to ensure the temple's sacred trees flourish. Through the simple ritual of bowing before a small shrine and placing the dogu on the altar within, the monks could coax it into enlivening the surrounding greenery. Similarly, disregard for its care may prompt the dogu to wreak havoc on its environs...in which case, it may be best to enshrine any dogu we encounter.
18	14	70514	70414	The Crimson Sword	Long ago, in the days when war and strife plagued Hingashi, there lived a man who built his legacy upon a mountain of enemy corpses. Fiercer than a mad tiger, Moko the Restless emerged victorious from every skirmish─but his might would be his undoing. Fearing that the warrior would rebel against him, Moko's liege lord ordered him slain in the dead of night. The deed was carried out with Moko's own blade, which, having cleanly severed its master's head, soon began to burn red. None could say whether this crimson aura was begat by the warrior's lingering fury or the ire of his victims, but it resisted all efforts to remove it. In a last, desperate attempt to purify the sword, the lord's servants carried it to a sacred peak and plunged it into the holy waters...only for the weapon to devour the font's spiritual energies. From that moment on, any soul who attempted to wield the blade was consumed by murderous rage. Tokimori claimed that the holy waters in the tale might be found on Mount Rokkon itself, where a lake of particular spiritual power lies concealed. A small shrine allegedly graces its banks, and I cannot help but wonder if treasure hides within. Unfortunately, the path is a closely guarded secret known only to the highest-ranking monks, so we are left to fumble in the dark.
19	15	70515	70415	A Tale of Dead Men	Moko was a warrior of peerless skill: a boon to his allies and a scourge upon his enemies. After his death, his armor was returned to his kin, who would preserve it as a treasured heirloom for generations to come...until one fateful morn. As the sun bathed the eastern skies in gold, Moko's descendants rose to find the armor not in the storehouse where it had been secured, but on prominent display in the gardens, stained black with cooling blood. Next to it lay the corpse of a man─a would-be thief struck down by a righteous spirit, most were quick to believe. The family, however, was less than certain. Who was to say when Moko might rise again to sate his bloodlust? Thus, though it pained them to do so, they placed the armor in the care of Shojo Temple, hoping that its hallowed halls would bring the restless general some semblance of peace. Far Eastern folklore speaks of myriad kami, and of the spirits to be found in all things. One may assume this concept arose from the countless strange creatures found on our star: from voidsent to auspices, and soulkin golems to elemental sprites, nature's capacity for oddity is boundless. Was Moko's armor, then, an unusual form of a known entity, or did it truly play host to the soul of the man that once wore it? Whatever the case, we can be certain that its exposure to Mount Rokkon's aether only emboldened─and enlarged─it. I find myself thankful that we did not share in the alleged thief's fate.
20	16	70516	70416	Forging a Legacy	Though Hingashi has its fair share of celebrated artisans, few tales stoke the flames of a journeyman's ambition like that of Nanakusa, whose blades in the image of the Four Lords saw him rise from humble village blacksmith to renowned forgemaster. Having been on the business end of the swords representing Suzaku and Seiryu during our confrontation with Moko the Restless, to their fine and fearsome quality I can attest. Though I have not yet had the pleasure of an introduction to the Byakko-inspired Hakutei, it in particular is oft spoken of as a weapon to rival one of the greatest the star has to offer: the Swell. Following his rise to prominence, Nanakusa established a forge near Mount Rokkon. According to Mistress Tsubaki, many an aspiring smith followed in his footsteps, and northeastern Shishu has become something of a haven for these masters of forge and flame. Naturally, they revere the kami of fire, and celebrate their god by way of various spectacular matsuri. In the most prominent of these─its name roughly translating to the “Festival of Three Lanterns”─local blacksmiths seek to imbue the works of past, present, and future with the fire kami's power through lighting a trio of specially crafted lanterns. Of course, this temporal symbolism is only one aspect of the number three's significance to Far Eastern tradition at large.
21	17	70517	70417	The Luthier and the Songstress	Once upon a time, there lived a nameless luthier, who poured his heart and soul into building a beautiful biwa. His efforts were not in vain, for the biwa's craftsmanship was immaculate─so much so that he found he could not bear to see it in the hands of a common bard. Season upon season passed as he searched for a soul befitting the biwa's brilliance. It was not until the luthier's twilight years that a worthy songstress at last entered his workshop. The young woman played for him a song as breathtaking as the autumn moon, and he gladly entrusted her with his life's work. Her ephemeral ballads would capture hearts across Hingashi─until the eve that the luthier's tale came to an end. Neither she nor the biwa have been seen since, leaving her audience to wonder if she was the tsukumogami of the biwa all along. I have come to learn that tsukumogami can take many forms. Depending on how they manifest, they might bestow a thousand blessings or a thousand curses upon the world. If a tsukumogami is rumored to reside within a prized vessel, its value rises exponentially...but only should it be as benevolent as the songstress in our tale. Were a treasure possessed of a spirit more malevolent, one would do well to exorcise it ere putting it to market.
22	18	70518	70418	Lost to Avarice	Long ago, in a remote village, there lived a devout young woman. Though her fields were barren and her rice stores lay empty, she honored the kami at every opportunity, decorating their shrines with what meager offerings she could until, one fateful evening, a divine being appeared to her in a dream. She awoke the next morning to find a wooden hammer next to her pillow. In offering thanks to the kami that day, she swung her newfound hammer, and where it fell, rice gushed forth from the ground like water. The gods had saved this woman from hunger and granted her endless wealth, but as time passed, she forgot her humble origins. She grew complacent in her prayers, and lost herself in excess. Eventually, rumors of her extravagance spread across the land, and reached the ears of a wicked oni. He stole the hammer for his own selfish purposes, prying the divine gift from the woman's cold, dead fingers. As a merchant, my first thought upon hearing this tale was of gil, though one does not require divine intervention to make a profit. I am reminded of my first encounter with Chairman Lolorito on the backstreets of Ul'dah: “I hear tell that you are not entirely bereft of wit,” he said, placing a heavy sack of coin before me. “Take this gil and double it─I shall return in one day.” I knew very well who I was dealing with. I turned that profit with pride, handed him two very heavy sacks of gil the next day...and found my fortune, as it were. Had I squandered that coin as the young woman did her own gift, I fear I would have been dogged by much worse than demons.
23	19	70519	70419	Beyond the Lanterns' Light	It was a moonless and cloudy night... A small patrol of samurai was treading a shadowed path when, in the distance, they sighted the warm glow of a lantern. Knowing no honest man would be skulking about at this hour, they approached with caution─to find no man at all, but a single lantern, lying lonely and unattended. With some thought of preventing a fire, one of the samurai reached down to claim it. In an instant, the samurai were surrounded. A crowd of cold, otherworldly flames hovered just out of arms' reach, as if taunting. Fiendish laughter echoed in the distance, then closer... Yet a mere moment later, the flames disappeared as though nothing had ever transpired. Darkness enveloped the path once again. There are few in Hingashi who have not heard tales of the bake-chochin. Though these haunting lanterns typically seek only to play tricks on those that wander too close, the ones we encountered on Mount Rokkon clearly had a mind to give chase. According to Tokimori, generations of head monks at Shojo Temple carried a lantern of identical appearance on their nightly strolls, so perhaps the bake-chochin sought merely to protect their masters' home, albeit in a unique way. The lantern now in my possession bears the following words in Far Eastern calligraphy: <Emphasis>If fortune you seek Know that our light glows brightest Within twilight's reach And 'tis the kami of fire This celebration entreats </Emphasis>I know not precisely what this poem calls upon its reader to <Emphasis>do</Emphasis>, but its words occupy my thoughts nonetheless.
24	20	70520	70420	The Common Man's Courage	Long ago, in a small village in the shadow of Mount Rokkon, there lived a young man. Few were as diligent at harvest time as he─and none so quick to leap into action on the fateful day that screams rang across the fields. Swallowing his fear, he followed the sound to find his neighbors beset by a beast of terrible countenance, its unnatural form proving it the very man-eating monster that had terrorized the people of Shishu for moons. And so, knowing lives would be lost to even a moment's hesitation, the young man lobbed his pitchfork at the creature's exposed belly. It turned tail and ran for the cover of the mountain, howling in pain. Ever since, the village has held a yearly event dedicated to tossing their tools at bundles of straw, in a form of ritual that doubles as useful practice in the event that the kami are slow to respond to future incidents. Imagine my surprise when, having recovered that fork of legend, I discovered the famed swordsmith Nanakusa's mark upon it. Two histories for the price of one! I suppose all artisans must pay their dues, be it in humble pitchforks or those kettles that Rowena has such a tidy monopoly on, but the contrast between this tool and Nanakusa's more whimsical works is striking. One would never guess that its maker would go on to build Shishu's most expansive smithy, guarded in each cardinal direction by statues of the Four Lords...
25	21	70521	70421	Sound of the Stone	Given their function as a spiritual bulwark against the earthquakes that plague Hingashi, stones of protection are far from unique to Mount Rokkon. One tale connected to them, however, certainly reflects its unusual history. Legend has it that a warrior of some renown once visited the mountain as a pilgrim. During his soul-cleansing climb up its slopes, he put his hands together to pray at a stone of protection. In that very moment, a twisted beast leapt from the shadows. It was injured, a pitchfork protruding from its belly, but regardless of circumstance, the warrior could hardly ignore its attempts to tear his head from his body. He plunged his trusty blade into the creature, which thrashed violently in response, colliding with the nearby stone. Ominous peals resounded from the earth below. In alarm, the warrior lost hold of his weapon, while the beast escaped into the foliage and out of sight. Fearing an earthquake was indeed imminent, he carefully wiped the beast's blood from the stone, and all was silent once more. There are several variants of this legend: in one, the warrior slays the beast, while another insists that it was the creature's bloodcurdling cry that set the earth to rumbling. Still other tales present natural disasters themselves as divine─or at least preternatural─entities. All contain at least a grain of truth, for the fears of a population constantly under threat by events outside its control are very real. If one theory out of the Studium is to be believed, the stones' protective power may also be more than superstition. The gist, I recall, is that stones of protection are a form of magical focus not dissimilar to nouliths, and thus can stabilize aetherial currents when placed at confluences. Alas, I remember naught of the finer details─beyond their being rather dull.
26	22	70522	70422	The Seal of Silence	Ascetics have long availed themselves of Mount Rokkon's solitude to train mind and spirit, and this day was no different. The breeze was still, the trees silent, and the monk of concern to our tale was deep in peaceful meditation when he heard the rustling of grass. Rousing from his contemplations, he opened his eyes to see who had business of such import as to interrupt his tranquility...and came face-to-face instead with a twisted beast. If its form left any doubt to its identity, the weapons lodged in its flesh confirmed that it was Shishio, king among nue and terror to the smallfolk. Though the thought of ending a life─much less that of a creature struggling, despite deep wounds, to survive─was abhorrent, so too was the thought of letting this devourer of men go free. He readied his holy staff, and struck at the mononoke. The battle was a fierce one, but the monk had the upper hand. To draw the conflict to a close, he struck his staff into Shishio, turning it to stone. He would go on to found Shojo Temple, that a watch might be kept over the now-silent mononoke, and its seal remain unbroken evermore─or so the legends say. Holy staves such as the monk wielded are quite unlike those of Western mages. Not only do they hold the particular power to purge fell magicks via sound, their use as physical weapons goes far beyond unsophisticated bludgeoning. Though I sadly lack the skill to make use of such awesome power, I find myself considering more mundane applications. In climbing Mount Rokkon, even well-trained ascetics surely find themselves in need of additional support from time to time. Should we need to scale the peak once again, or should an inconvenient wall or pile of boxes stand in our way, I shall be perfectly equipped for the challenge.
27	23	70523	70423	Seasons of the Fleeting	Long ago and far away, an onmyoji found himself bereft of his beloved wife. Years upon years passed, the cherry tree they planted to celebrate their union bearing fewer blossoms every spring, yet still, the grief of her passing remained fresh. Though left with little hope for himself, the onmyoji prayed the tree, at least, might recover. To his great surprise, these prayers were answered by his wife herself, for in life she too had been an onmyoji, and had left behind a finely made dogu. At his plea, it began to shine with the power of life itself, reviving the tree's withered boughs in an instant. Understanding now that their love was everlasting, no matter how fleeting their time together, the onmyoji too was filled with newfound vigor, and happily devoted himself to caring for the resplendent cherry tree for the rest of his days. How painful, and how beautiful, that life should be so ephemeral. Upon our return from Mount Rokkon, I could not help but inquire with Mistress Tsubaki as to the nature of Mistress Yozakura, whom we encountered under such inauspicious circumstances. It seems she was heir to the Hanagakure style of ninjutsu, thus her way with flowers, and was in service to Lord Uzumibi at the time of her death. Tokimori added that she had been aiding in the evacuation of those trapped at Shojo Temple, and lost her life to a mononoke while pulling a child to safety.
28	24	70524	70424	The Ogiseru's Fate	The great kiseru is rumored to bring similarly great fortune or great calamity to its owner, but I have seen no sign of it possessing a capacity for either thus far. I can but presume that my predecessors sought to credit their trials and tribulations to a single simple cause in a complex and uncertain world. Still, between the power invested in it by such beliefs and the rich aether of the mountain, it would have been shocking had the kiseru <Emphasis>not</Emphasis> become a tsukumogami, even were it once wholly mundane. But regardless of whether Gorai was blessed to have spent his final days in the company of his beloved collection, or cursed to have suffered the grave consequences, I doubt the pipe alone was the arbiter of his fate. Though I had what many would consider an “unfortunate” childhood, I never thought myself the victim of ill fate. On the contrary, I believe my acute mercantile sensibilities to be the product of early hardships─instructive steps along a journey that, all things considered, hasn't been half bad. I might've said otherwise at the time had I stopped to weigh my happiness against my unhappiness, but instead I kept moving, and 'tis well that I did. Whether we speak of tangible or intangible fortunes, it matters not what we have, but what we make of it.
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