Had to send a message to a person about a thing. Wrote it all out in longhand with grammatically correct sentences and the proper amount of genuflection for cold-calling a person of higher social status.
Looked at it, considered the cultural jumps that would be involved, and realized this method of communication would require the recipient to be intimately familiar with American English language, including slang.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is hubris. Hubris of any sort will not be tolerated by the recipient. Not at fucking all.
Destroyed the letter and started over.
I’m Over Yonder, so I can get away with imbued symbols instead of explicitly imprecise words. So I draw out pictographs to carry the meaning. I turn a full page of words into five lines of pictographs, but find they still require the recipient to have knowledge of English grammatical structure and know when to assume object-verb-subject instead of subject-verb-object, and when the subject and/or object is being implied through context.
Destroyed that attempt and started over once more.
Each attempt reduced the number of symbols on the page, and with it, the reliance on the English language. More and more the meaning became part of the symbol itself, so that all anyone had to do was just activate the symbol and the message would be imparted.
I wound up with one large symbol. It was effectively a container with my name on it. Even without activation, anyone seeing it would know who it was from. Anyone that knew me, would recognize me at once.
But it was also freely accessible. Anyone that could activate the symbol would receive the message. That’s not going to work. Not at all.
Looking at the single symbol, I realized that anyone that knew me would recognize it was my hand that made it at once. If anyone tried to claim authorship, the message itself would refute them because I had effectively signed it with my signature.
My inner geek woke up and lazily asked if I could ‘sign’ the message with my ‘signature’, what’s to stop me from ‘encrypting’ the message with the ‘signature’ of the recipient?
Eureka!
While the recipient is a high-born and high-caste individual, I had enough familiarity with them that I could use the ‘signature’ of their presence. It’s like making a dress using only the publicly known measurements of the recipient’s body. Everyone knows the sizes down to the half-inch, but the dress will still only fit that one person.
I redrew the symbol, this time working the signature of the recipient into the message itself. I could not hide that I had ‘signed’ it. But I could hide whose identity would unlock the message. So if the message was intercepted, all that would be gathered from the snooping was that Weaver sent a message and her drawing skills have slightly improved. (Very slightly.)
I worried if someone intercepted the message and had knowledge of who the intended recipient is, they would be able to unlock the message because I was using the public signature of the recipient. So while the ‘envelope’ of the message was now secure, I still had the problem of making sure I have a trustworthy courier to run it. This is like making a custom dress using publicly known measurements, and having the dress stolen by a model that has the same measurements.
I wrapped up my message in a proper envelope, and sealed that envelope with a binding that didn’t scream “DON’T LOOK AT ME! I’M SECRET!”. Plain ol’ unassuming crinkled reused brown paper. Best secret keeper ever.
I went to the boundaries of the recipient’s territory. Weaver has many backdoors available to her, but this particular area is locked and warded hard. I’ll push my luck in many a heaven and hell, but in this place, I’m on my p’s and q’s.
As I feared, there were many offering to run messages to and from the territory. For a price. Most of the solicitors were fraudsters. They made a rich living off of the gullible, the naive, and the blinded. What they peddled as holy water from the holy river was this morning’s piss. Those that knew the difference said nothing. Those that didn’t paid 3 ounces of gold for a thimble’s worth of fancy labeled urine. And they paid it gladly.
I knew better than to try and find a courier along these state sanctioned routes. I backtracked away from the border for a bit and turned onto an seemingly impossible path that led between [certain landmarks]. I may not be a dedicated Courier anymore, but I still remember the safe routes, and the safe houses along the way. Decorum prevented me from entering Courier mode and delivering the message myself, because I am the sender of the message. Decorum did not prevent me from offering the delivery contract to other Couriers.
When I turned the corner and came in view of the safehouse, all ambient noise ended. There were Couriers here. Some of them were vulnerable pacifists, sworn to never carry weapons nor make any defensive movements. Some of them were little more than sentient weapons themselves. I have been both. I know just how much danger I am in just being here.
Once within full view of the entrance of the safehouse, I dropped to one knee and spread my arms out with empty hands turned palms up. I bowed my head in a show of submission.
“I yield to the guardians of this place. My weapons are their weapons to be wielded as they will. I am Weaver Far-Traveled. A Courier, same as you, but I have a personal message that I can not deliver. I ask for assistance, and the contracting of a Courier to deliver the message in my stead. Will me to leave, and I depart in peace.”
The silence thundered in my ears. Footsteps hurriedly surrounded me. Noses smelled me. Hands fondled me. Whispers flew over and around me. A few angry tones lashed me. Many gentle tones soothed me.
“I’ll take your message.”
I lifted my head to see a single hummingbird, hovering with military precision before my face. Mostly green with flashes of cardinal red and regiment blue, the Courier was smaller than my finger. For a moment I had doubts the little bird would be able to carry the envelope three times its size. Then I remembered what kind of Folk I was with and what kind of impossible things are carried in my satchel.
I nodded. “Your price, Courier.”
“You are known, Weaver Raven’s Shadow. Your honor has already procured my contract. All you must pay to me is your trust that I will deliver your message.”
Courier’s Honor. The promise the task will be completed and the message delivered. No matter what species the Courier is, once that oath is made and that trek begins, what the Courier is doesn’t matter. There is the Courier, and the Courier’s Duty. Most of the realms allow Couriers to pass through unimpeded. Some will assign guards to the Courier for the duration of that particular leg, but most go out of their way to leave the Courier in peace. Once a Courier accepts the message, they are free to use any and all methods at their disposal to ensure the delivery of that message. I don’t consciously remember much of my time as a Courier. I remember there were times when I was just a child, vulnerable and weaponless. I had guards the size of boulders, and I moved without fear. And I remember there were times when I moved like an assassin at play. There were some sent to stop me. I left some of their pieces on the road for the vultures. Their hearts were delicious.
“I accept your price, Courier. May we sit elsewhere on the grounds so I may tell you of the recipient?” The hummingbird nodded with its entire body and backed away from me. As I stood, I looked around and saw the grounds was thick with Couriers. Some waved at me in recognition. I smiled and waved back, but I don’t remember them. As the hummingbird led me to one of the nearby trees, I overheard snatches of conversation. The usual shop banter. The gullible going to the state-sanction gates with the state-blind fraudsters. The knowing trying to extort service without remuneration. The attempts by others to form a rival courier run, and the humorous events that follows.
I climbed into the tree following the lead of the hummingbird. The other birds and Couriers left the tree to give us privacy. Once I found a comfortable branch to settle in, the hummingbird changed into an anthropomorphic form. Her humanoid form was maybe four feet tall if you include the crest of her headdress. Small and lithe, with tight fitting clothes adorned in brilliant plumage, she could have just came from a gymnastics competition. She had a satchel much like mine, but hers was decorated with a multitude of little brilliant beads.
I retrieved the envelope from my satchel and told her the intended recipient. Her eyes grew wide and I could see she had many questions to ask. She remained professional, however, and spoke not a single one of them. I asked her if the recipient would be a problem. There was no dishonor to rejecting a contract that placed the Courier in danger to complete. Her feathers fluffed at the question, and I saw a reflection of my own pride. Danger? Oh, I’ve been away for too long. She specialized in difficult to reach destinations. The kerfuffle over me earlier was about which Courier was going to take my message. If Weaver couldn’t carry a message, the destination must be someplace challenging indeed!
She asked if I required a response. I shook my head in the negative. The recipient will answer as they will, if they will, and in the manner they wish to take. I have no standing to demand a response, much less what form the response will take. As far as I was concerned, once the message was in the hands of the recipient, the contract was fulfilled.
“As you wish. Your message is my Duty.” She took the envelope and tucked it into her satchel. With that action, the contract was now binding. She bowed slightly, changed form back into the diminutive hummingbird, and sped off into the territories I am unable to enter. I remained in the tree for a while, watching her leave. Finally she disappeared from my sight. I jumped out of the tree and bowed in thanks towards the safehouse for allowing me to enter the grounds. Some Couriers said their farewells as I left. I took a different path back to the road. While it is my understanding that only Couriers can approach the safehouse at all, and anyone else trying to ascend the impossible path would only fall back down, my understanding of the realms have been proven wrong before. If there was no way intruders could access the safehouse, there would be no need for defenses. Better to assume hostile forces are at play and act safely, than assume invulnerability and be destroyed.