Ever since those delicately manicured fingers pressed against her temple, transmitted information she would’ve never dreamed she’d even see, let alone know as fact in her lifetime, the bard tried communing with the crystal in earnest. No longer afraid of how it called to her, because of who called to her.
She always longed to hear her name in her mother’s voice.
The images which flashed through her mind that night under a blanket of stars were written down as accurately as she could. All other visions joined those that her elegant friend showed her in that vineyard mere days prior.
But now she sat quietly, cross-legged in the living room, where the rugs swayed like flowers in a field.
Occasionally, a dog joined her, sitting right in the ring made by her legs. Leaning a head on a broad shoulder and sticking a cold nose in the bard’s ear to make things extra difficult.
At first, the pictures in her mind were blurry. Not as clear as those that Kowa extracted from the crystal through such fantastical means, like powerful witches from the old tall tales. The voice she heard within the crystal, the one much like her own, was still fragmented.
And on one of the days she still wore her bard’s crystal while communing - accidentally - the voice became more than crystal clear. As if the soul within the crystal etched with the deeds of the red was finally reunited with the remnants left in the crystal of the war-bard.
The memories left behind were too intense to be felt in just one sitting, but with each session, the bard took notes. Those sweeping curls of ink told a story that none had heard before but the fabled Sharlene Fairlight-Thatcher - or rather, Charlotte Stone.
This was something wholly new to every Thatcher. And potentially to every Stone left behind.
Late at night by the light of a candle, the bard took those notes and attempted to piece together her mother’s story, keeping the details to only the facts. A taxing task for such a theatrical mind, but it was a duty that had to be done diligently. No flourishes.
As far as she could discern, the story began thusly…
Under cover of night, Charlotte Stone made her escape, with only the clothes on her back, a satchel with necessary supplies and papers, and a bow and quiver. She ran away. Away from the cold marble. The palatial estate which housed her for seventeen long years. Tears blurred her vision as she snuck aboard a Gleaner’s cargo ship, setting sail for distant shores. Away from the lonely little island. Away from the heartbreaking realizations.
But what were they? Why did seeing through her eyes make Ayla’s heart hurt so much?
The boat traversed the Northern Empty, and the journey was not easy. Midway through, she was found by furious men in green and hauled up to the decks to explain herself.
Mercilessly, she was released when they docked in Gyr Abania for a restock, and left to fend for herself.
For days, Charlotte crossed the deserts of Gyr Abania with no heading. No direction. A mere child, lost in the desert with no one to help her.
And when she stumbled upon a group in dark uniforms, gunblades drawn, she feared that this would be the end…
If not for the flurry of magic and courage from a band of duelists in red.
That had been all the bard managed to piece together in the first few days of communion with the crystals, but it painted a clearer picture in her mind. When her father told her that he knew nothing of her mother’s life before Gridania other than that she was originally from Old Sharlayan, she wondered why the woman would keep such vast swaths of her life unheard from even the man she loved.
There had to be more to it, she thought. This couldn’t be it. But even finding that much within the crystal was a trying endeavor; the bard had broken into a sweat at some point in the uncovering. She needed to take a break.
And while she sat for breakfast with the love of her life, she milled through the day’s letters.
There was one for her, addressed to Ayla Fairlight Thatcher with the fanciest handwriting she had ever seen in her life, with no markings of who it could be from…
Save for the image of a nautilus watermarked in the fibers.
