To my…

In my younger days, there would be certain dreams that I enjoyed. Hopes of the future. Ideas of what I’d become. Oh my… Ideas of what I’d become? There are a too many of those I’m still to fulfill. And don’t you worry, my darling. Those roles will all be fulfilled. But right now, I’m talking about a particular dream.

Because when they saw me, they knew they were safe.

The details were never clear or exact during those times, but the idea of this dream always remained true. Me, and the folk who came to me. Strangers and friends, brothers and sisters. All would come to me to ease their spirits. And they’d come to me with their complete trust. They’d take off their helms. They’d set down their shields and swords. They’d lay their hearts to rest. Because when they saw me, they knew they were safe.

As Life and the outside worlds began to build my age, this dream began to take certain forms.

My younger days involved much guidance under the teachings of the Sacred Three. One of the many fantasies that steered my spirit. I couldn’t say that I was religious, but much of my morals were evident of the Sacred Three. But they were not the only symbols that were sacred. There was this small act that I did always notice whenever we attended prayers at the holyhouse. It was the folk, and how they sought solace. And who they came to see was the pastor. The shepard of the parish.

No matter the reason, there their shepard was. Ready to guide the lost out of their darkness.

Folk would come see the pastor outside of prayer hours, all for different reasons. Some needed counsel in certain matters. Others needed encouragement to conquer the challenges ahead. There were those who sought a sense of forgiveness. And those who just needed a friend. No matter the reason, there their shepard was. Ready to guide the lost out of their darkness.

That act of guidance and solace was familiar. Too familiar. I’d see myself in the pastor. The guide for those who had lost their way. I wondered if that was the path for me. It was a thought. That ambition was romantic, but was that the avenue I truly seeked?

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Folk never seemed to believe me when I’d tell them that I grew up at the Riverwalk Inn. Such a landmark in our splendid city seemed leagues out of my upbringing. But that building, on the corner of Tempered City’s two most iconic roads, was the very place I grew. There are too many witnesses to say otherwise. They’ll all remember the young elf, singing about behind the bar. Our dear regulars. Whether they were at the main mess hall at the front, or the song house out back, they all knew who I was.

That’s where this dream I spoke of truly began to take shape. Living behind the bar, watching the cups fill, seeings cups sink, and hearing the feelings spill. Spill in all sorts of ways. Speech and screams, slander and sobs, silence and song. The true heart of a cuphouse. The voices of woe.

And such folk, similar to those who came to the holyhouse, came to our cuphouse. Folk who needed somewhere safe. Somewhere safe so that their vulnerable hearts could breathe. That’s what the cuphouse was for. Sure it was always a place for festivities. There is no doubt about that. What better place for celebrations? But also, what better place to ease the pain?

Poisons would eventually wash that all away. And any flow desperate to make way, could finally stream through.

Poisons had one key purpose. To ease the tension. Whether that tension be the nerves that smothered most sparks of conversation, the modesty that suppressed any bursting joy, the stiff posture still worn after a long day of duties, or the dam that held back the deluge of emotion. Poisons would eventually wash that all away. And any flow desperate to make way, could finally stream through. Civilization put an unnatural inhibition to what was our true nature. That’s where poisons came in.

Poisons were the balance to our suppressive habits. When we’d be civil all day, poisons would guide us back to our natural state. Our honest state. But such a gateway to our primitive selves required a proper means of regulation. Civilization thrived on order. But when we reached our honest natural state, we become anything but orderly. That’s where cuphouses came in.

Apart from brewing the poisons, cuphouses provided a safe place where folk and their cups could play. A good cuphouse and barhand could always tell when somebody had sank too deep in their cups. Such folk were always a trouble if sunk any further. The lack of silence. The lack of resilience. The lack of nonviolence. Best not to house such folk for too long. Best to get them home. But how could such folk leave if they refused to go, or worse, were not capaple to go? But the saddest part of this disorder was when such folk never got to truly share their hearts.

A good cuphouse and barhand made sure their folk left feeling better inside. Not physically, unfortunately. We are talking poisons here. But at least spiritually. Folk should have left knowing that they’d finally gotten the weight off their chest, and that they shared such burdens with true folk that they trusted. And if not that, they could at least have left with a sense of joy. A cuphouse was a fun house, after all. A place to let that enjoyment of life errupt. But the best of times where when folk could lay their hearts to rest, and leave with a smile on their face. That was the ulitmate goal. For folk, and for the house.

This was what I saw in my younger days. I saw my family provide a place of solace for those heavy at heart. I saw my father lay welcome to the lost. I saw folk come, in need of relief, then leave with hearts full of light. I saw poisons loosen the shackles off the weary. I saw romance spark life back into the lonely. And I saw song speak the voice of a thousand souls.

This sanctuary. This was what I knew. This was what I’d create. Whether I’d be aware of it or not, I somehow always transformed wherever I was into a retreat. Folk could tell. They always could. Folk always felt that when they came to me, their hearts would be safe. And this sense still exists today.

Folk don’t come to the capital in search of radiance. They come to the capital with intentions to dirty their feet.

There are only very few who have ever made the attempt to come see me at the capital. Maybe I’m not so open and inviting about my little shelter within the concrete jungle. Or maybe it’s just the way the outside worlds see me. Peaceful and harmonious. Not so suiting of the unscrupulous capital. Folk don’t come to the capital in search of radiance. They come to the capital with intentions to dirty their feet. Most folk, at least. And likely why most folk don’t seek me. But those that do…

My little shelter is no cuphouse, but my guest are all blessed with the sweet hospitality of such. First comes welcome. A reassurance that they have every right to come in. Next comes comfort. A seat they can spend the next 7 centuries resting upon. Then comes adjustment. Matching of all the frequencies in my control with my guest’s own. And finally, cups. The right poisons to suit the mood of the night.

My guests, their hearts, their minds, their souls. I feel them all settledown to ease. I sense them all embrace their surroundings. I see them all break down those walls they’ve kept so high. I hear them all open the chests of treasure, hidden from all the worlds. And I know they all eventually head home, blessed by my grace.

I’m already somewhat living this dream. I know it. I feel it. Especially once my guests leave, an easy smile on their faces. The next voyage for me would be to finally have a cuphouse of my own. I will have a cuphouse of my own. And it will truly be a sanctuary for the best of us. Because the best of us know exactly who to turn to.

And once I find all of my sons and daughters, we’ll finally have a place to call home.

If you ever come by, my darling, just know I’ll have cups ready for you. On the house.

Love from yours truly

-Daniel Roy