*who/what*
I would like to give it back to him. I would like to bind it closely to his chest, folded tightly and neatly over his heart. And then I would like Haathun to lower him slowly, lovingly into a vat of acid and burn him and it out of this world. That was the day everything began to die. Against all sanity she still wants to keep it, so instead I will burn these thoughts from my mind replacing rage with tranquility.
*thousands of words*
A white mist rises from the bubbling water. As you breath it in, your face, your sinuses, your lungs begin to burn. Your eyes tear and a hacking cough is torn from your chest. You wipe your face and your finger tips go numb. As you stumble away seeking fresh air all of your senses are overwhelmed - touch, taste, smell, sight are dissolved by the acid, but it is the screaming, the screaming that hurts most.
A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*thousands of words*
A crumpled cloth lies under a bench, kicked by careless feet several hours ago. Abandoned hopes and one shattered dream.
*who/what*
She has won then, and they are gone. She was right and I have lost. Did he need to do that in public? Did she not see that it was meaningless before the Mandate? My fascination with the research is keeping my mind off the fact the Shadow Labyrinth was a high point and everything since then a miasma of failure. 12 hours now. I wonder who she will choose.
A crumpled cloth lies under a bench, kicked by careless feet several hours ago. Abandoned hopes and one shattered dream.
*who/what*
She has won then, and they are gone. She was right and I have lost. Did he need to do that in public? Did she not see that it was meaningless before the Mandate? My fascination with the research is keeping my mind off the fact the Shadow Labyrinth was a high point and everything since then a miasma of failure. 12 hours now. I wonder who she will choose.
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*thousands of words*
Dying flesh, succulent and tender, beautiful face on a thin and delicate neck. Her skin shades from white to a light purple, blue veins run close to the surface. Her body is torn, half of her lies fallen at the foot of the ramp, discarded, useless. Her upper body is clutched in clawed hands. Her head is brought close to a mouth used to cannibalizing flesh but she is spared this final indignity. Darkness closes in.
*who/what*
She hated me.
*thousands of words*
Heaving flanks, legs pounding, muscles sliding under scale, flames drawn from cindered earth. Ravaging bodies turn and lurch a few steps forward, clumsy hands grab at a small figure hunched on a massive steed, they are brushed aside with the speed and force of Ruin's passage. Flying past a handful dozens hundreds. Hands clutched tight on the reins, fighting the urge to haul up, cry out and reclaim an obedience that was once given by right, holding on in fear of that death of self.
*who/what*
I can only conclude that I am evil. I am drawing strength, so much strength, and pleasure from the flaws of another. This icon of clarity and power, this arrow straight guide said one thing, and the conviction was utter and complete, we both at that moment believed it to be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. We brought forth my torment and hatred of the two who failed the Mandate, failed us all, failed *me*. When I asked her if it was possible to serve the Mandate and also wish for happiness she said yes and I think we both thought it the second lie of the night.
And then the ritual of activation. The wall so carefully constructed, each brick measured and placed with precision - blown asunder with one touch, two.
I was left grasping nothing, the most intensely satisfying nothing.
Most importantly, I was there. As was she. Not that which rattles its cage within, not the shell she has built.
Dying flesh, succulent and tender, beautiful face on a thin and delicate neck. Her skin shades from white to a light purple, blue veins run close to the surface. Her body is torn, half of her lies fallen at the foot of the ramp, discarded, useless. Her upper body is clutched in clawed hands. Her head is brought close to a mouth used to cannibalizing flesh but she is spared this final indignity. Darkness closes in.
*who/what*
She hated me.
*thousands of words*
Heaving flanks, legs pounding, muscles sliding under scale, flames drawn from cindered earth. Ravaging bodies turn and lurch a few steps forward, clumsy hands grab at a small figure hunched on a massive steed, they are brushed aside with the speed and force of Ruin's passage. Flying past a handful dozens hundreds. Hands clutched tight on the reins, fighting the urge to haul up, cry out and reclaim an obedience that was once given by right, holding on in fear of that death of self.
*who/what*
I can only conclude that I am evil. I am drawing strength, so much strength, and pleasure from the flaws of another. This icon of clarity and power, this arrow straight guide said one thing, and the conviction was utter and complete, we both at that moment believed it to be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. We brought forth my torment and hatred of the two who failed the Mandate, failed us all, failed *me*. When I asked her if it was possible to serve the Mandate and also wish for happiness she said yes and I think we both thought it the second lie of the night.
And then the ritual of activation. The wall so carefully constructed, each brick measured and placed with precision - blown asunder with one touch, two.
I was left grasping nothing, the most intensely satisfying nothing.
Most importantly, I was there. As was she. Not that which rattles its cage within, not the shell she has built.
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
<< back-posting >>
*thousands of words*
A hunched back, turned away again. Broad shoulders, a strong back, the body of a man not used to hunching except in tight spaces and then only grudgingly but he is living inside a mind that is accustomed to deference, obedience, subjugation, subtlety. His head is slightly turned, listening. A few inches from him a ragged edge of blanket, lain over a bed of rounded stones, a gentle lapping places us on a beach. On the blanket, lying back, a figure in a plain dress, slender, small in all dimensions except charisma - she radiates a power so palpable that even the arrogant young man at her feet hunkers down a bit more. Two small hands are held in front of her mouth, small teeth are closing, a small tongue is tasting. A small sound, a delicate crunching, silence and then the quietest of gulps.
*who/what*
It would be the blowing sand, driven into eyes already strained by too many hours awake, one or a dozen to many drinks. Either that or it would be a perfectly understandable stress release mechanism of a mind that has been dragged in too many directions in too short a time. A mind that was finding peace, a mind that was blown from the sky to tumble and wander, squeezed into a body that it despises and has never known, shackled and made to watch while someone else takes what is his and then in a final indignity has the memories of the evening ripped and taken away. Yes I think that both of those would be perfectly valid reasons for me to wipe a tear from my dessicated cheek. Luckily, however, I don't have any functional tear ducts so the question will never arise.
*thousands of words*
A hunched back, turned away again. Broad shoulders, a strong back, the body of a man not used to hunching except in tight spaces and then only grudgingly but he is living inside a mind that is accustomed to deference, obedience, subjugation, subtlety. His head is slightly turned, listening. A few inches from him a ragged edge of blanket, lain over a bed of rounded stones, a gentle lapping places us on a beach. On the blanket, lying back, a figure in a plain dress, slender, small in all dimensions except charisma - she radiates a power so palpable that even the arrogant young man at her feet hunkers down a bit more. Two small hands are held in front of her mouth, small teeth are closing, a small tongue is tasting. A small sound, a delicate crunching, silence and then the quietest of gulps.
*who/what*
It would be the blowing sand, driven into eyes already strained by too many hours awake, one or a dozen to many drinks. Either that or it would be a perfectly understandable stress release mechanism of a mind that has been dragged in too many directions in too short a time. A mind that was finding peace, a mind that was blown from the sky to tumble and wander, squeezed into a body that it despises and has never known, shackled and made to watch while someone else takes what is his and then in a final indignity has the memories of the evening ripped and taken away. Yes I think that both of those would be perfectly valid reasons for me to wipe a tear from my dessicated cheek. Luckily, however, I don't have any functional tear ducts so the question will never arise.
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*who/what*
Friend. You cannot be friends with a thing. You can only be friends with a person.
*who/what*
Lovely, she said. Perhaps it is a blessing that I cannot remember.
*thousands of words*
Shrivelled. Blackened. Hanging within a bony cage like a fly in a web. It swells and subsides, a soft thump sends tremors down the strings of flesh, resonating in the ribs.
Friend. You cannot be friends with a thing. You can only be friends with a person.
*who/what*
Lovely, she said. Perhaps it is a blessing that I cannot remember.
*thousands of words*
Shrivelled. Blackened. Hanging within a bony cage like a fly in a web. It swells and subsides, a soft thump sends tremors down the strings of flesh, resonating in the ribs.
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*who/what*
Who am I? What am I? In a few days the question will become meaningless. I will be what I am, who I am will no longer be relevant. In one surgical moment all of the highs and lows will be leveled out and filled in. Will we be able to trade places? Will I be able to let him walk the world and will I be able to stay inside, there and then, in that place? One memory. That is all I ask. Now let us see if that is too much. If it is then I will need some surgery of my own.
Who am I? What am I? In a few days the question will become meaningless. I will be what I am, who I am will no longer be relevant. In one surgical moment all of the highs and lows will be leveled out and filled in. Will we be able to trade places? Will I be able to let him walk the world and will I be able to stay inside, there and then, in that place? One memory. That is all I ask. Now let us see if that is too much. If it is then I will need some surgery of my own.
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*thousands of words*
Quiescent. A clawed hand reaches down to tighten a knot. In the flickering candlelight the life-imbued thread appears to shy away from the undead talon. The thick nail delicately adjusts the loop that pierces the mound of flesh. The shard is still pulsing, slowly, steadily, grimly - there has been no change for weeks now. The hand reaches beneath the ... object ... and turns it over, the complex web of runes and knots is replaced by the striated flesh of healthy muscle, a rare twitch, an occasional clench. The nails trace the edges of the fibres, seeking weakness, corruption and finding none. Indeed the flesh appears to stick to the examining hand, attempting to join, bind with it.
"Enough. It is done."
The lump of quivering tissue is flipped once again. The hand rips the shard from within its web and thrusts the gem into small pouch of raw silk, half-finished embroidery trailing loose threads.
The now still and lifeless wad is kicked off the floating stone perch and tumbles slowly to the grass below. It lies there for a few minutes. A raven lands nearby, cocks its head, hops closer, pecks tentatively, and then begins to feed, tearing off strips of softening flesh and swallowing them like worms.
Quiescent. A clawed hand reaches down to tighten a knot. In the flickering candlelight the life-imbued thread appears to shy away from the undead talon. The thick nail delicately adjusts the loop that pierces the mound of flesh. The shard is still pulsing, slowly, steadily, grimly - there has been no change for weeks now. The hand reaches beneath the ... object ... and turns it over, the complex web of runes and knots is replaced by the striated flesh of healthy muscle, a rare twitch, an occasional clench. The nails trace the edges of the fibres, seeking weakness, corruption and finding none. Indeed the flesh appears to stick to the examining hand, attempting to join, bind with it.
"Enough. It is done."
The lump of quivering tissue is flipped once again. The hand rips the shard from within its web and thrusts the gem into small pouch of raw silk, half-finished embroidery trailing loose threads.
The now still and lifeless wad is kicked off the floating stone perch and tumbles slowly to the grass below. It lies there for a few minutes. A raven lands nearby, cocks its head, hops closer, pecks tentatively, and then begins to feed, tearing off strips of softening flesh and swallowing them like worms.
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*who/what*
I remember breathing. The rich and bitter scent of pine sap. The glorious and uncomfortable stickiness, the feeling of, well, feeling, a sense of touch a dozen, a thousand times more developed than these dead gloves I wear over his bones.
I remember one sharp stone amongst the many smooth ones. I remember facing away, the edge driving into my thigh, making no motion to move, no sound to admit the discomfort as I listened to the rustle of cloth, the soft gulp.
I would doubt them, given their provenance, but they are too complete to be forgeries and she has talked about some of it. So the question remains. Was this a gift or an accident? And *how* did it happen? Are the walls crumbling?
I remember breathing. The rich and bitter scent of pine sap. The glorious and uncomfortable stickiness, the feeling of, well, feeling, a sense of touch a dozen, a thousand times more developed than these dead gloves I wear over his bones.
I remember one sharp stone amongst the many smooth ones. I remember facing away, the edge driving into my thigh, making no motion to move, no sound to admit the discomfort as I listened to the rustle of cloth, the soft gulp.
I would doubt them, given their provenance, but they are too complete to be forgeries and she has talked about some of it. So the question remains. Was this a gift or an accident? And *how* did it happen? Are the walls crumbling?
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*who/what*
That went well. There is a freedom, a release in not worrying about the future. The inner demon was no challenge at all, the whirlwind passed too close once but I was quick enough for it to present to real danger - rather than my usual frustration and confusion I simply did what was necessary.
Mindless but not thoughtless. I wonder if he will do as well when he feels the stiffness of the flesh, the constriction of his new senses.
That went well. There is a freedom, a release in not worrying about the future. The inner demon was no challenge at all, the whirlwind passed too close once but I was quick enough for it to present to real danger - rather than my usual frustration and confusion I simply did what was necessary.
Mindless but not thoughtless. I wonder if he will do as well when he feels the stiffness of the flesh, the constriction of his new senses.
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*who/what*
This shard will work perfectly well. There is no need to use the other. I shall keep it. She cannot be trusted with it. When all is said and done, when this is all over and they are gone, perhaps it *can* be used again. While she stalks and hunts non-existent shadows I can give her a new unlife. There is no reason there cannot be two. Just because something has never been done before is no cause to assume that it cannot be done.
*thousands of words*
The wind has picked up with the setting of the sun behind the distant mountains. The heat of the day is sucking the cold northern ocean air up the cliff to set the leaves dancing. The long swell of a distant storm crashes solemnly on the crushed rocks far below and sets free jets of spume to be whipped up high, over the brow and into a sheltered pocket of stillness where it settles like dew on the two hunched figures. His movements as he slowly draws his tabard back on over his stretched frame and begins to buckle and clasp his intricately stitched robes seem weary and resigned but as steady and constant as the beating of the waves far below.
*who/what*
How will I resist the temptation? The puzzle, the waiting, every second a torment distracting me from what I need to become to make the sacrifice worthwhile.
I will need 2 things - first a safe place to hide it and the freedom to get there between its creation and our trip to Old Hillsbrad. A beach in Feralas? The broken statue in Azshara? Shalandis? The pavement outside the Scryers' bank. No. Nowhere she will remember. Hillsbrad would be the ideal hiding place - she cannot enter - but neither can I.
Second the courage to go through with my own little plan. If I cannot switch with him in Old Hillsbrad then perhaps she will do it for me. I can see no reason why she would refuse, indeed she should be happy for the opportunity.
Hah. Dreams and foolishness again, a sop to my own pain. If I release him then she will never be free. Let this be my last gift to her. Suffering. How very poetic.
This shard will work perfectly well. There is no need to use the other. I shall keep it. She cannot be trusted with it. When all is said and done, when this is all over and they are gone, perhaps it *can* be used again. While she stalks and hunts non-existent shadows I can give her a new unlife. There is no reason there cannot be two. Just because something has never been done before is no cause to assume that it cannot be done.
*thousands of words*
The wind has picked up with the setting of the sun behind the distant mountains. The heat of the day is sucking the cold northern ocean air up the cliff to set the leaves dancing. The long swell of a distant storm crashes solemnly on the crushed rocks far below and sets free jets of spume to be whipped up high, over the brow and into a sheltered pocket of stillness where it settles like dew on the two hunched figures. His movements as he slowly draws his tabard back on over his stretched frame and begins to buckle and clasp his intricately stitched robes seem weary and resigned but as steady and constant as the beating of the waves far below.
*who/what*
How will I resist the temptation? The puzzle, the waiting, every second a torment distracting me from what I need to become to make the sacrifice worthwhile.
I will need 2 things - first a safe place to hide it and the freedom to get there between its creation and our trip to Old Hillsbrad. A beach in Feralas? The broken statue in Azshara? Shalandis? The pavement outside the Scryers' bank. No. Nowhere she will remember. Hillsbrad would be the ideal hiding place - she cannot enter - but neither can I.
Second the courage to go through with my own little plan. If I cannot switch with him in Old Hillsbrad then perhaps she will do it for me. I can see no reason why she would refuse, indeed she should be happy for the opportunity.
Hah. Dreams and foolishness again, a sop to my own pain. If I release him then she will never be free. Let this be my last gift to her. Suffering. How very poetic.
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
The journal can be found rotting in a small pool at the base of the cliff that rises from the Terokkar forest to the south of Shattrath City. Glancing up, you can see no one standing there, no building it might have fallen from.
fin
fin
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*Striding by, on his way to gather more silk, Angaroth steps heavily on the tome, driving it further into the mud. He affects not to notice, the rolling, lurching gait of a Forsaken makes it difficult for an observer to tell if he deliberately deviated from his path.*
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*who/what*
How can I count the passage of time when I cannot hear my own heart when my words fade and slip and I cannot even count to remember all taken from me and the bars are cold I cannot remember behind a brick behind the brick I can feel her claws behind the brick I can feel the slap I can feel the fear and the anger and I slide it into the crack and it will be safe how long has it been where am I? Behind the brick.
How can I count the passage of time when I cannot hear my own heart when my words fade and slip and I cannot even count to remember all taken from me and the bars are cold I cannot remember behind a brick behind the brick I can feel her claws behind the brick I can feel the slap I can feel the fear and the anger and I slide it into the crack and it will be safe how long has it been where am I? Behind the brick.
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*who/what*
With nothing to do but strain for a hint and wait for the turn of a key I review my short life. I think it is safe to say that I had but one pure success, one spell crafted with precision that resulted in exactly what it was intended to do. What does it say that my one shining moment resulted in the collapse of everything I lived for?
With nothing to do but strain for a hint and wait for the turn of a key I review my short life. I think it is safe to say that I had but one pure success, one spell crafted with precision that resulted in exactly what it was intended to do. What does it say that my one shining moment resulted in the collapse of everything I lived for?