Thank you dearly for your last letter. My wound is healing nicely – the recuperation here in Otvev has been most regenerative not only for my body, but for my mind, my spirit, and my soul.
The social circuit here has done much to revive me. Even though I am on half-pay, my cousin secured me an administrative post (little more than a sinecure, in truth). My duties are far from onerous but the extra cash along with my injury compensation means I have had a heavy purse while recovering here. Thankfully though, there are many revels which have assisted greatly in lightening this burden.
The social youth of Otvev consider a dashing lieutenant of the Temar Company, bearing a battle-scar and limping from a war wound, a handsome spectacle indeed, and I have been invited to no fewer than three parties each night of this festive season. My account of the Battle of Selin Lake has been recounted so many times (embellished no more than the appropriate amount), that I feel sure I must be telling it in my sleep.
I was at the most curious party last night. A Licence-Prospector was holding a Yearsrise celebration in his palace, and his son insisted that I should be there – or perhaps it was his nephew, the fellow was rather dull but the party sounded exciting and so I graced him with my attendance.
You are probably wondering how this letter has reached you so quickly – do not worry, my friend, for in Otvev they celebrate Yearsrise several days earlier than we do! I tried to get an explanation for one of my hosts, why they do things so strangely, but they could not really explain how they reckoned the change in the year. I must confess than I was then pressed upon to explain how we reckon our year in Mirsvr, and found myself unequal to a clear explanation. It simply is so.
In any case, the party was magnificent and peculiar at once. The majority of the evening was taken up in great revelry. Dancing a new dance adapted from a Koiri rhythm that has been fashionable of late in Otvev – has it come into vogue at home yet? – drinking brandy and fine wines, and being entertained by a troupe of acrobat players from somewhere to the far south of Anshess. A good hundred or more people must have been there, and all dressed in their festival finest – the fashions are much like home. I danced my share, and recounted my story of Selin Lake at least twice more and was heartily applauded both times. My fist nor my throat ever wanted for a drink thanks to my admiring audience, and I made the acquaintance of a young poet with the most striking eyes.
As the evening drew on and the guests began to retire to their own homes for their private Yearsrise observances, I was asked to stay and take part in the more intimate gathering of close friends and family, the nephew insisting I was part of his personal circle. We recited the same prayers as I was familiar with – or at least, the words were the same, but the rhythm and the cadence were very different, and not solely because of the local accent. Rather than baked fruit and fish, we ate a small meal of a sky-jelly, native to somewhere to the West but long popular in Otvev and their typical Yearsrise meal. We drank three toasts (of good Mirsvr brandy!), and spent the remainder of the evening in much quieter, gentler pursuits than I had expected.
It is curious how we two cities – so alike, so aligned in our purpose, and united by our familial bonds and our common tongue – can yet be so alien! It is often the least changes that have the most striking effect upon the stranger. In a temple in Anshess or a tent of a Hoitan chief, one is prepared for the unfamiliar, but when the unfamiliar hides within Yearsrise prayers one has known all of their life, the effect is increased manyfold.
I hope your own Yearsrise revels were glad, my friend. I await your next letter eagerly, and hope to be returned to full health soon. If you encounter a Temari probationer by the name of Yarllen, who I hear is on leave in Mirsvr, stay clear of the cardtable – I am sure the little sneak is a cheat.
Now, I must go and ask my striking young poet where I really have been telling war-tales in my sleep.
