This Mouse does not swim. Dry land is by far preferred, although my bardic companion, Pockets, seems to rather enjoy the wet. He thinks it humorous to throw himself into the river at spring floodtide and stride back and forth while I scramble out of his vest and hold on for dear life to his mane of silvery hair while he sings the virtues of Faenella and the various guildleaders who send him forth to learn survival skills. One would think even a drunken bard would take more care of a Mouse who reads and writes!

I will admit the summer was mellow. Weddings galore, epic events to sing ballads of, and although I worked my slender paws off labeling for merchants at Sirolarn's Ice Fest, the coinage piled up. I bought a new, elegant waistcoat. My fur has never been so shiny or sleek. But Pockets grows restless now that it is fall, and I know that glint in his eye.

"The sea calls," he says.

"Which one?"

"Any. All!" He throws his arm about. "I need to expand my repertoire. Why, that lad Danner can sing sea songs for a night, a day, and another night!" He tosses his head back dramatically, silvery mane cascading down to his shoulders.

Actually, I think what he needs is a lass, but since he's not found one who can run as fast as he can…he longs for the sea. I scrub at my whiskers. "No water," I comment dryly. "And we'll be late for the wedding if you don't hurry," I add as I slip into his vest pocket which I now share with a bright silver orlog and look at the time.

His repertoire did not seem to suffer at the wedding. We were a great hit. Did I sing? Of course not! The pen is mightier than the Lute! I sat in the back and scripted pithy sayings on the rosettes and ribbons. Flowery things such as "Love Well and Live Long." And "Love does not blind or bind, It Frees." And for a gold or two, something much bawdier. The more freely the champagne flowed, the wittier my pen wrote! A lad named Ruppi ordered a special rosette for his lass, and I blushed as I inscribed those ribbons!

I did not remember returning to our inn room. I woke, groaning, with my stomach churning, the world floating uneasily about me. Dark, murky water surrounded me as I lifted my pounding head. Then I sat bolt upright. Water! I was afloat in a sea of trouble!

Pockets strode past my view, whistling cheerfully like a damn wren. Whiskers trembling, I braced myself, looking across the murky tide. I saw then that I was alone in that sea, on gods knew what, in a great brass tub. Pockets stopped. He hitched up his embroidered trousers. "I left ye the bathwater, lad," he noted.

I lay back on the cake of soap as it bobbed up and down uneasily. My waistcoat was missing. The ceiling circled above me. In the corner of my eye I spotted my tailored jacket hanging from the shutters, drying in a ray of shockingly bright sunlight.

"Wash up, and I'll fetch ye out."

With a moan and trembling paws, I did so, and Pockets pulled me out and dried me with his very best soft cloth. It seemed I had overcelebrated at the wedding, and for once I had a little sympathy for what he normally suffered. The world seemed to bruise me with every breath.

Twas then I noticed we were dressed for battle. This was not a good thing for someone of my state to be in. "What is happening?"

"Sorrow's Reach, again. I canna sit by this time. There's a rallying cry for all, most especially bards."

I shuddered at the thought of Lord Sura and his allies and henchmen. Pockets smiled grimly. "Aye, lad, I know you're not wanting to face them, most particularly Darkensi-" He paused while I shuddered again and almost fell over at the thought of that great, dark Prydaen. "But I have to answer the call. Ye can wait here."

"And miss an adventure?" I pushed out. "Who'll take notes of the action, if not me?" Pockets waited until I consumed a few dry crumbs to settle my guts before sweeping me up and setting me inside his vest pocket. The orlog and his best instruments and other fineries left behind in storage, we set off to find trouble.

I would like to say we were unsuccessful, but any involved in assaults upon the Reach will know that to be untrue. A fine party assembled of all the guilds: paladins, clerics, war and moon mages, bards, barbarians, rangers, thieves, healers waiting to the side, and even a fighting trader or two. All seemed intent upon finding and knocking down the door to Sorrow's Keep. Pockets waited while Courage was cast a few times, and I must say, the energy from that paladin felt like a holy mantle as it settled upon my shoulders. For my tiny frame, it appears a little Courage goes a long way.

Then we all took deep breaths and marched once again into the Reach. Well, they marched; I was carried. To name all the heroes of that assault would take far too much time, and I am almost certain a song or two heralding them will soon be sung about the Realms. Too soon, however, many had fallen, and Pockets and I were left to drag the dead to waiting moongates and safety. That is how we found ourselves alone, in the badlands of the Reach, Elpazi hot on our heels and S'lai screaming for blood after us. The unfortunate deader was snatched away into the void, and Pockets reeled under the assault of swordsmen and mages. He toppled and gasped with what little breath he had left that he'd been hit hard.

I scampered out of his vest. With many a grunt and huff, I managed to get his scimitar back into his sheath, but with the elpazi closing in, I dared not stay. With a last look at Pockets's pale face, I ran for my little furry life -- and his, of course.

Across rock and scrub brush and hardpan ground, I scrambled. If I had not been hungover, I thought, I could have run faster. I promised Faenella and Glythtide to mend my ways and be more careful with their worship. Gasping and reeling, I paused for breath and cast my way. The landscape looked the same, unrelenting, and I could not remember which side of the river I was on. Then something hard fell across my tail. With a squeal and a jump, I was caught.

"Now. What is this?" a great, dark shadow rumbled.

I looked into cat-slit eyes as a strong hand curled around and hefted me. The Courage in me managed to stammer, "D-don't eat me, D-D-Darkensi!"

A growling chuckle answered me. "Eat you? Such a tiny morsel would not even feed my kits." Darkensi considered me. "Although they might enjoy a toy."

"No, no. They wouldn't like me. Not at all. And I'm not just any mouse. I'm Anonymouse. I write.

" His eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I'm a scribe. I write for Waerd Aev. Journals. I could do…I could do an interview with you." My thoughts churned almost as fast as my stomach. "Many speculate on your vows, your thoughts, Darkensi."

He took a deep breath, his whiskers curling, his talons flexing about me. "I do not have this skill, reading. It is not of my clan."

"Oh, you should! You can learn a lot." In the distance, the gallop of approaching screamers could be heard.

"You could explain yourself, milord Darkensi. Give those ones who hound you constantly an answer or two."

"I could ask my friend Prayk if he has read this paper you speak of. He might read it for me." He frowned. "Perhaps I should consider this thing." He sniffed and paused a moment, as if memorizing my very essence. Then he growled softly. "I will find you when I am ready." He set me upon the ground. "Now leave the Reach! Or your body will join the others!" He pointed and I bolted, shamelessly, dust cloud in my wake.

Just below the Trader outpost, I found help for Pockets and the others. Soon clerics were praying over his body, and I knew he would be up and walking, if weak, a song soon to be on his lips.

It would be a good time to talk about a trip to the islands. Far, far away from the Crossing and the Reach. Yes, indeed, I think I am hearing the call of the Tropics in my soft big ears. Surely Prydaens dislike water even more than I do.

I patted Pockets' shoulder. We could book passage to Aesry from Haven. Nothing like looking forward to a soothing sail across the oceans.