Elea Randaja

## Overview

Elea Randaja was a shadar-kai poet. Despite dying at only 21 years of age, she was a prolific artist and received critical (and sometimes cultish) acclaim. She is known as the Wandering Poet -a title earned as much from the character of her work as from the elvish translation of her name.

Her work is generally concerned with observations of Life in Toivoa. She wrote about the gods, society, nature, and small moments of beauty or ugliness. Beyond her work, she lived a remarkable life and was known for a maturity beyond her years. It is said she chose, in her childhood, to become mute in order to increase her perception skills. In doing so, she became acutely sensitive to everything from a liar's intentions to a butterfly unfurling its wings across a field.

Elea traveled for a few years with an adventuring team. Tragically, she died in battle. Her deathmask is detailed in the shape of a spiral that reflects the golden ratio.

### Family

The Randajas are a first and second generation immigrant family from Imkael's realm. The family maintains close ties with the Church of Imkael, if not a strict adherence to the doctrine.

Elea is the second child of Antti and Kirsikka Randaja. She has three living siblings -including Tahti Randaja.

### Career

Elea joined a small adventuring party and worked with them for several years, until her death. The party travelled across most of Toivoa and accomplished a not-insignificant amount of heroics. However the bulk of their notoriety -recorded and distributed through Elea's poems- centers around interpersonal drama and unique travel observations.

Elea's work became popular first with the romantics, who were engrossed in her passionate observations of people across Toivoa. Then adventurers and explorers came to value the perspective of a poet who had seen more scenes and locales than many seasoned travelers.

Elea's observations are noted for being nearly unique among other adventurer perspectives in that she brought very little bias or judgement to her subjects. Instead her work carries a through line: a core religious theme, that everyone is equal in the eyes of Imkael with only the passion and richness of their lives to differentiate them.

### Works

Elea's poetry was distributed primarily on message boards, tomb stones, in the margins of other books, in letters, and on city walls. She never worked with a formal publisher, and -as a mute- often treated her poems as her official form of communication. Whether accepting a contract or commissioning a dress, her words were delivered in lyrics on a page. People are still finding her work in forgotten dungeons, carved into forest trees, and tucked into vellum envelopes in unlikely places.

The only exception is a notebook that Elea kept herself. It is a disjointed series of letters and observations. It was published posthumously with the title "To My Unknown Cousin" -taken from the inscription on the inside cover.

between Passion and Doubt,
I scan for her familiar gait
and bite on a double prayer
-one for her and one for her-
that cancel each other out.

follows Winter follows Fall.
Shadows follow Moonrise follows Sunshine
follows Squall. And
Fire, at fearsome charge or crawl,
follows Fire.

and she walks in front of me
on the shadowed streets of Endland Pointe
- a blade bared openly.

The wilderness spans 'round us
'neath gray slate roofing tiles.
The beasts wear boots and feathered hats;
their threats are said with smiles.

A hand upon my shoulder
stops this woman in her tracks.
Her lightning fast response is
"We'll pay no fee nor tax."

"Step back from this trespass,
and make apology.
My companion is quite quiet,
and much scarier than me."

In her hand, her sword agrees.
It glints in light that's shone
from dingy shops and magic orbs.
The sanguine heart's a'gloam.

I see the pale response
in that moment when they quail
Their hand is rough with anger
but it's a gauzy veil.

"Not worth the effort" and
"It's just a little joke"
are the noises of a wild beast
being fitted for a yolk.

Strength is King in Endland Pointe.
Strength says what is fair.
A fearless woman and her sword
describe a royal pair.

- Louder than they bark
 in bereft sandstone canyons.
- Stronger than they hit
 with bone-barbed great-clubs.
- More striking than a spark
 of torches in the night.
- Enough to make me quit
 seeking out new people
 who've never tried to meet
fine floral soap to fogged furry pit.

Boldness his fine armor.
his voice a loud resounding Chord,
his Smile is meant to charm her.

But Empathy stands in his way-
that quiet heart that listens.
Before a donkey's noisome bray,
Wisdom's weapon glistens.

He trembles underneath the touch
of Insight's piercing dagger.
To hidden truth he'll fiercely clutch.
A heart reveals a blagger.

Listen to the liar with deliberate Sympathy
and cut to his entrails with every Bold decree.

The Painter's brush above a porcelain mask,
Imkael listens; in quiet, waits.
Were you weak or were you great?
Did you fail or complete your task?
My cousin sings of Deeds and Dates.
When your name was called by sweet Malite,
Odighi gifted an untapped cask.
Imkael listens; in quiet, waits.
Whether free or trapped by weights,
in the streams of Life you were abask.
My cousin sings of Deeds and Dates.
To find your loves and learn your hates,
to cry, command, to do or ask
Imkael listens; in quiet, waits.
Now lain before the Hallow Gates,
having tasted from the fragrant flask,
my cousin sings of Deeds and Dates,
Imkael listens; in quiet, waits.

have lived so much more than I.
They've lived longer than great gran'ma.
I don't ever think they'll die.

The trunks rise up like mountains.
They're stone beneath my hand.
The branches reach far over,
wider than the land.

Behind the bark are memoires,
writ in a fine tree ring,
from before this land acknowledged
any wandering king.

Though they've stood so long and nobly,
making note of all these years,
I wonder if the Fanrath trees
were ever brought to tears?

Did they ever hope for something
with desperation in their leaves?
Did they love so very deeply
that they shattered in the breeze?

What rages did they fling
carelessly on the wind?
What mistakes do they remember?
Have they ever really sinned?

How much life was spent to grow these trees so very high?
And without an ounce of passion, was this life but one long lie?