Moira Orseeva - Soul Out of Tune

[Second Breakfast]

Its loss pained her, though not for the reasons others would imagine. It wasn’t as though the baton was particularly powerful. Deep down, Moira suspected that despite its origins and reputation, its capabilities and rumored potential were greatly exaggerated.

It was about what the baton represented. It was her having the last laugh over the College of Mac-Fuirmidh for seeing her expelled. It was about how it felt in her grasp. It was about how she managed to snatch some small victory from the jaws of an ignominious defeat.

It was about him. Colin. It was he who stole the baton from the headmaster’s office for her. He fell when he tried to climb out the window, snapping his neck in the process. He died to get that baton for her. He was prepared to die for her, and did. Even if she later grew bored with him after having re-animated his spirit, a sense of guilt gnawed at her for seeing it given away so freely. She showed no real resistance when offering it up; what was it all for, then? What was the purpose in having Colin get it in the first place if she wasn’t prepared to defend it?

Her thoughts raced as she wandered aimlessly within the gloom she now called home. The bio-luminescent toadstools that flanked either side of her loomed overhead, judging her just as all others did. She missed the warm glow of the sun. She missed the salty air and the sound of rushing waves hitting the craggy shores of Gwynneth. She missed even her homelands’ fens and marshes, with their unpleasant odors and many insects.

Moira refused to give in to despair and self-loathing, however. She would direct her hate towards the world above that spurned her and her desire to advance and reinvent art, music, and drama into something new. It was the Nameless Bard who said that art that is allowed to become stagnant serves no purpose. Through the Troupe of the Undying and her body of work, she would replace the stagnant with something fresh. Controversial, yes, and yet all great works produce controversy among their contemporaries.

She felt humiliated before those two, and yet she would be vindicated in time. She closed her eyes, and she could hear in her head the praise, applause, and adulation that was soon to come. She could hear them chanting her name and throwing bouquets of roses near her feet. Moira could imagine them all there, the faces of everyone who ever stood in her way or dismissed her, and she could hear the keening of the banshees she had at her command snuff out each of their lives, all at once.

A thing of beauty, and the last of her works that they would ever hear.

[Second Breakfast]

They would come to see, one day. They would all come to see. She was not weak. She was not frail. The dead were certainly not her crutch, and she could stand on her own two feet. Maybe even lift her arms and fly, one day.

She would show them. She would show all of them. Anyone who rattles the dog's chain too often will soon discover their rows of teeth.

Could it ever be restored to its former glory? Experience has demonstrated adequately enough that it would likely take considerable effort, great willpower, and an exhaustive amount of reagents. Beyond that, it would require a worthy composition, perhaps what could be considered her magnum opus; a symphonic work the likes of which has not been seen before, and will not be seen again. Would she ever be able to accomplish such a thing? The aasimar's words planted seeds of doubt, and they found some fertile soil to grow.

Another part of her pushed back in defiance; she would accomplish such a thing, and she will. If the baton cannot be restored to its former glory, she will create something even greater, and surpass the dread witch Morwenna's own creation with her own. The dead shan't be able to resist, and their wayward souls would move, dance, and play; all in accordance to the conductor's movements.

Composer and playwright, now. Immortal, soon. Conqueror, one day. She refused to relegate herself to recording down and singing of others' glories; those glories would one day be her own. In dreams that did not seem wholly her own, she would march with an army of the dead moving in accordance to her own cadence, unimpeded by the many fens of the Moonshae Isles and unhindered by the need for sleep or food. They would tirelessly scale or else pass through the nigh-impregnable walls of Caer Callidyr, and see the weak clan of Kendrick deposed. There would be a new High Queen, and with her coronation, she would enthrall both the living and the dead. She was drunk on these visions, and would one day see them a reality.

[Second Breakfast]

It was in this place painted in tints and shades that the battle was held; the usual quiet of travelers from all walks of life milling about and keeping to themselves was replaced with the clamoring of a jeering and cheering crowd.

On the stage stood the Conductor of Souls, and across from her was the Dreamer. She performed well and her keening song with equally keening choir carried through the crowd. Her tongue was sharp for what followed, and the thrusts she made with it deep and cutting. She made a fatal mistake in the last round, however; her song was a dry retelling of the Ffolk and their migration. The Dreamer, to contrast, shared something far more emotional and far more personal.. and with it, she moved the crowd. Even Moira was moved by the Dreamer’s story; worse still, others had seen it.

Many would ask Moira in the days that followed why she conceded. Many would assert that she was the actual winner. Moira herself didn’t feel that way. She underestimated her opponent, and she felt she needed to finish strong. She didn’t.

Besides, the voices in the crowd were right. She did not need that baton. She did not need to rest beneath Morwenna’s shadow any longer.. not when she could create her own. Something better. Something greater than Morwenna could ever fashion for herself. In the end, for all the power Morwenna possessed, she couldn’t save herself from Death’s cold embrace; why then, would Moira seek to emulate her and mirror her story? She would go her own way, and become mightier than Morwenna ever dreamed of becoming.

It was sentimentality over what she had taken from her that led her to cling to it for so long; such sentimentality was a weakness. She would shed it away.

She likewise didn’t wish for the gnome to die just yet. No, Moira had something much better in store for her. The Dreamer had emerged victorious from their battle against each other, though she would come to wish that she hadn’t been. Below, in Andunor, everything could be acquired for a price, and for a king’s ransom, she would see a set of bones interred in a barrow consecrated to Segojan Earthcaller, one that rested near a hamlet in Cormyr troubled by the Darkbringer’s influence, exhumed; those bones, and the soul tied to it, would be put to a new purpose.

Why do it? Spite? To show the Dreamer the cost of making oneself vulnerable? To rightfully become the villain she and the rest of world above envisions her to be? All three of these reasons, and more. She looked forward to finishing the work on her new baton, and to showing the Dreamer the strange fruits of her labors.