By Greebo 3/24/2008
*the pages are of fine vellum*
*the discerning eye sees the faint tracery of fine veins that run in patterns unique to humanoid forms*
*the sensitive eye sees the hints of colour in the skins that reveal the races of the children who each donated a page*
*the stitching is painfully small*
<< The book is empty. It's owner opened it once and stared at it for hours. He wanted each letter to be as perfect as the skins. Each phrase to burn with as much power as the runes and chants roiling in his mind. >>
<< The book is empty. He has nothing to say to himself. He has better things to do. He must find cloth. He must find fire, water, shadow. He must prepare himself. He must buy flasks, elixirs, potions, trinkets, all manner of gods-who-have-forsaken-us bedamned things. And chocolate. One square of chocolate >>
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.
<< there is still no writing in the book. sympathetic magic, however, could use it as a powerful focus to divine thoughts and intentions because it is clutched tightly in a pair of dessicated claw-like hands for hours, days on end >>
*thousands of words*
The late afternoon sun of this Hallowsday is a hand's breadth above the hills bordering Nagrand, casting shadows over the frenetic city nestled into the base of the peaks. A hunched figure sits on the grass, clutching something tightly to his chest, peering madly into nothing. Hovering near, a demon chained to this world against its will murmurs and twists in vain, seeking a gap in the incantations, a flaw in the dweomercraft. Inhabitants stream by him, landing, dismounting, chatting, arguing, leaping into thin air, paying him no heed -- which is fair as he does not notice any of them either. Power to bring down the Black Temple itself is within a bones throw of his seat but the rabble has no mistress, no will to shape them into the fist necessary. The sullen orb touches the highest of the stone spires, and he is cast into a gloomy shade. He stands abruptly, peers once more at the runed stone in his hand, and strides quickly towards the whispering sound of the rising and falling disc. His footprints leave a trail of twisted and frosted blades that glitter briefly and then unbend, leaving no trace of his passage, no hint that he was ever there.
*who/what*
It is time, she is waiting, she has called, she is silent, he must go to her, there is nothing for him here, what will she demand, what does she want, what does she mean, what does she need, what is he doing, where is she now, she is waiting. For The Mandate, for The Grim, for The Horde, for my Dark Lady, for my dark lady. No conflict, no conflict at all.
*thousands of words*
The late afternoon sun of this Hallowsday is a hand's breadth above the hills bordering Nagrand, casting shadows over the frenetic city nestled into the base of the peaks. A hunched figure sits on the grass, clutching something tightly to his chest, peering madly into nothing. Hovering near, a demon chained to this world against its will murmurs and twists in vain, seeking a gap in the incantations, a flaw in the dweomercraft. Inhabitants stream by him, landing, dismounting, chatting, arguing, leaping into thin air, paying him no heed -- which is fair as he does not notice any of them either. Power to bring down the Black Temple itself is within a bones throw of his seat but the rabble has no mistress, no will to shape them into the fist necessary. The sullen orb touches the highest of the stone spires, and he is cast into a gloomy shade. He stands abruptly, peers once more at the runed stone in his hand, and strides quickly towards the whispering sound of the rising and falling disc. His footprints leave a trail of twisted and frosted blades that glitter briefly and then unbend, leaving no trace of his passage, no hint that he was ever there.
*who/what*
It is time, she is waiting, she has called, she is silent, he must go to her, there is nothing for him here, what will she demand, what does she want, what does she mean, what does she need, what is he doing, where is she now, she is waiting. For The Mandate, for The Grim, for The Horde, for my Dark Lady, for my dark lady. No conflict, no conflict at all.
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*thousands of words*
A cliff, a deep burnt orange, the colour of the setting summer sun, the colour of the leaves in Azshara, the colour of blood dried for many days. A view point: on your back, gazing up at the cliff, the empty sky, thankful that you can still see, that you can see, remembering the rushing wind, the disappointment, the disapproval. The soft wind-blown soil settles underneath you as your blood, such that remains in you, gently pools. The sound that this rich mud makes as you wearily lift yourself out of it burns. It is the sound of failure. You will remember this sound forever. You will dwell on it only for a few hours as the sting of sand, the crackle of flames, the uncomfortable silences drive it deeper.
*thousands of words*
Telaari grapes have a thicker skin than those commonly used for making wine. The dry chalky soil they grow in gives them a slightly sour tang which refreshes and soothes a mouth burned dry from chanting, from panting. Slightly larger than the common seedless variety, then can, when glimpsed briefly, askance, appear to be plums in the hands of a child. When small teeth rip the heavy wrapping aside, the plump flesh bulges out and juice dribbles down a chin.
*who/what*
There can be no doubt that to be Grim requires absolute devotion to the Mandate. To be Forsaken means absolute devotion to Lady Sylvanus. There is no conflict. She wants me there. Does she want me here? What does she really want? Why won't she tell me what she wants? Why do those hallowed evening pass in a daze? I will pass, I will fail. How? How could I fail? How could she be wrong? She cannot, but she must be.
A cliff, a deep burnt orange, the colour of the setting summer sun, the colour of the leaves in Azshara, the colour of blood dried for many days. A view point: on your back, gazing up at the cliff, the empty sky, thankful that you can still see, that you can see, remembering the rushing wind, the disappointment, the disapproval. The soft wind-blown soil settles underneath you as your blood, such that remains in you, gently pools. The sound that this rich mud makes as you wearily lift yourself out of it burns. It is the sound of failure. You will remember this sound forever. You will dwell on it only for a few hours as the sting of sand, the crackle of flames, the uncomfortable silences drive it deeper.
*thousands of words*
Telaari grapes have a thicker skin than those commonly used for making wine. The dry chalky soil they grow in gives them a slightly sour tang which refreshes and soothes a mouth burned dry from chanting, from panting. Slightly larger than the common seedless variety, then can, when glimpsed briefly, askance, appear to be plums in the hands of a child. When small teeth rip the heavy wrapping aside, the plump flesh bulges out and juice dribbles down a chin.
*who/what*
There can be no doubt that to be Grim requires absolute devotion to the Mandate. To be Forsaken means absolute devotion to Lady Sylvanus. There is no conflict. She wants me there. Does she want me here? What does she really want? Why won't she tell me what she wants? Why do those hallowed evening pass in a daze? I will pass, I will fail. How? How could I fail? How could she be wrong? She cannot, but she must be.
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*thousands of words*
The dirt was as dry and crumbled as the hopes and dreams of the drowned dead. A kneeling figure, scraping a small heap together with clawed hands could try to paw it into shape but failure would be inevitable and any construction would fall into chaos almost immediately. Moisture would help - tears, perhaps, or especially blood.
*who/what*
He makes it sound so easy, she makes it sound so trivial. How can there be such a gulf in what I see there and what I feel here? Their words feel - right? comfortable? But if there is anything I have learned in this short time it is that feelings are not to be trusted. Happiness can lead to pain in the blink of an eye. No, not the blink of an eye, of course, but in the snap of a tongue.
The dirt was as dry and crumbled as the hopes and dreams of the drowned dead. A kneeling figure, scraping a small heap together with clawed hands could try to paw it into shape but failure would be inevitable and any construction would fall into chaos almost immediately. Moisture would help - tears, perhaps, or especially blood.
*who/what*
He makes it sound so easy, she makes it sound so trivial. How can there be such a gulf in what I see there and what I feel here? Their words feel - right? comfortable? But if there is anything I have learned in this short time it is that feelings are not to be trusted. Happiness can lead to pain in the blink of an eye. No, not the blink of an eye, of course, but in the snap of a tongue.
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*thousands of words*
The intensity of the angry glares buffets a confused spirit with as much vigour as the rapidly beating wings an unsteady body. The relentless nature of the assault is as constant as it is useless, the venom washing vainly over an unliving target, seeking a beating heart to wound, finding none.
*who/what*
I see them standing there. I feel the brand in my soul. I do not know what hurts more - the discovery of this quiescent thing within me or the shards that are driven into it, delicately, firmly, slowly, and with an incomprehensible innocence. The one thing I will never question is whether or not it would have been better to never have stepped onto this path of exploration. My mind's eye has opened and I see so much more than I did when I was merely her tool. She must see this - if *I* can, then so can she. This is not sea-green. This is not moonlight. This is the painful truth of what it means to be and who we are. Warp and weft. The metaphors of weaving are entirely appropriate here. Who then but me to support her fragile tapestry against the strains of the fist in the glove? No one else will it seems. No one else comes to her aid. They do not see the cracks. They do not see the flares, quickly extinguished. Because they do not care? Well, yes, but they are elsewhere doing good work, Grim work. She cannot be everywhere for them, so I will be with her for her. One question - who is the demon in my head that laughs when I tell myself that I do this for the Mandate, to support her in this heraldic quest to plant our sigil in every last one of their exquisitely stilled hearts? It is true, of course, but not the only reason, far from it. Why must there always be two sides to every coin? And so we come full circle to how it was then, simpler. One goal, one task, one mandate, no questions. And I would not return. No question.
*thousands of words*
two of them floating
twisting, tumbling, and churning
sacrifice wasted
The intensity of the angry glares buffets a confused spirit with as much vigour as the rapidly beating wings an unsteady body. The relentless nature of the assault is as constant as it is useless, the venom washing vainly over an unliving target, seeking a beating heart to wound, finding none.
*who/what*
I see them standing there. I feel the brand in my soul. I do not know what hurts more - the discovery of this quiescent thing within me or the shards that are driven into it, delicately, firmly, slowly, and with an incomprehensible innocence. The one thing I will never question is whether or not it would have been better to never have stepped onto this path of exploration. My mind's eye has opened and I see so much more than I did when I was merely her tool. She must see this - if *I* can, then so can she. This is not sea-green. This is not moonlight. This is the painful truth of what it means to be and who we are. Warp and weft. The metaphors of weaving are entirely appropriate here. Who then but me to support her fragile tapestry against the strains of the fist in the glove? No one else will it seems. No one else comes to her aid. They do not see the cracks. They do not see the flares, quickly extinguished. Because they do not care? Well, yes, but they are elsewhere doing good work, Grim work. She cannot be everywhere for them, so I will be with her for her. One question - who is the demon in my head that laughs when I tell myself that I do this for the Mandate, to support her in this heraldic quest to plant our sigil in every last one of their exquisitely stilled hearts? It is true, of course, but not the only reason, far from it. Why must there always be two sides to every coin? And so we come full circle to how it was then, simpler. One goal, one task, one mandate, no questions. And I would not return. No question.
*thousands of words*
two of them floating
twisting, tumbling, and churning
sacrifice wasted
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*thousands of words*
Feline grace slips though the jungle shadows. She is fearless. Her gleaming white fur a challenge to all who would attack her. It is clear than none can match her swift death, her needle sharp claws. Foe after foe falls before her, leaving her strangely unsatisfied, their wispy dream forms offering no sustenance, only battle. The dark cat lord stands by, aloof, protective but his guard is unnecessary, the young warrior can do no wrong on this day. Innocence personified she lies in the shade. She has no idea that with the coming of night her life will change once more. As the first star pierces the twilight, her ears flatten, an unknown and unknowable doom approaches. She has been chosen. The hand of a god reaches down from the heavens to grasp the pure one. Her fate, decreed beyond the worlds, cannot be avoided and once more she is flung away, returned to whence she came.
*who/what*
I hate this place, the birthplace of my failure, the death of what I thought was beyond the power of any to break. It was a few hours less than a week before I left, every moment etching into me but I did not go. I was not summoned. I did not go. What does she want from me now? Have they both abandoned me as a failed experiment? I do not remember that night. I rode out from this place, fell once more, and had my soul and mind shredded. I am used to this, I am a dread mage, but to take my memories? Again? Am I a mouse to them that they play with me? I would offer my throat to her fangs if I thought it would help, but I know that she would refuse, resist, and tell me to find another way. I should have stayed with Atticuss and Drinn. I should have stayed in Azeroth, I should have been laid to rest in whatever godsforsaken frozen waste she found me. Why does she not call? Why do I not go? The robes - my fine pretty robes - they are unmade still, frozen in place and time, along with my hopes. Today when I dragged myself of this cliff, a mewling package stuffed into my tatters I went again to the water. The new one needs help. That, at least I can do. Pick up this, gather that, stand down and mend. There are many roles to fill, but it galls me to think that the frozen throne slips further out of reach as I do this. My consort by my side, our decrees thundering from on high, this image has been pierced and consumed with ease of a kitten eating a butterfly in the sun. I had a will once, I surrendered it, and now I do not know where to go to find it again.
Feline grace slips though the jungle shadows. She is fearless. Her gleaming white fur a challenge to all who would attack her. It is clear than none can match her swift death, her needle sharp claws. Foe after foe falls before her, leaving her strangely unsatisfied, their wispy dream forms offering no sustenance, only battle. The dark cat lord stands by, aloof, protective but his guard is unnecessary, the young warrior can do no wrong on this day. Innocence personified she lies in the shade. She has no idea that with the coming of night her life will change once more. As the first star pierces the twilight, her ears flatten, an unknown and unknowable doom approaches. She has been chosen. The hand of a god reaches down from the heavens to grasp the pure one. Her fate, decreed beyond the worlds, cannot be avoided and once more she is flung away, returned to whence she came.
*who/what*
I hate this place, the birthplace of my failure, the death of what I thought was beyond the power of any to break. It was a few hours less than a week before I left, every moment etching into me but I did not go. I was not summoned. I did not go. What does she want from me now? Have they both abandoned me as a failed experiment? I do not remember that night. I rode out from this place, fell once more, and had my soul and mind shredded. I am used to this, I am a dread mage, but to take my memories? Again? Am I a mouse to them that they play with me? I would offer my throat to her fangs if I thought it would help, but I know that she would refuse, resist, and tell me to find another way. I should have stayed with Atticuss and Drinn. I should have stayed in Azeroth, I should have been laid to rest in whatever godsforsaken frozen waste she found me. Why does she not call? Why do I not go? The robes - my fine pretty robes - they are unmade still, frozen in place and time, along with my hopes. Today when I dragged myself of this cliff, a mewling package stuffed into my tatters I went again to the water. The new one needs help. That, at least I can do. Pick up this, gather that, stand down and mend. There are many roles to fill, but it galls me to think that the frozen throne slips further out of reach as I do this. My consort by my side, our decrees thundering from on high, this image has been pierced and consumed with ease of a kitten eating a butterfly in the sun. I had a will once, I surrendered it, and now I do not know where to go to find it again.
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*who/what*
She is my inconstant moon. Ebb and flow, push and pull, waxing and waning. She floats on her olympian height, the scars of fate clearly visible, hauntingly beautiful. I want to eat her fear. I want to take her anger and pride into me. I want to *use* her for my own ends. I want to reach up and touch her face, to draw her down and keep her safe. We do not get what we want. I cannot. But I can try. And that will be enough, for me, for now. The others were wrong. We are at war. You cannot find peace in war. You can find joy, though, and grim satisfaction. And in the end, the war will die. And we will not. We are forsaken, we are dread mages, we are already dead, that which we create is beyond such simple mortality.
*thousands of words*
Flesh. Dessicated, slightly curled, sharp claws. The colour of the moon, scarred, creased. A crystal held gingerly in the hand, a rich purple hue, the size of a child's thumb, or a small woman's. This clawed hand is more familiar with squeezing the pain from *living* bodies with exquisite care than it is with tenderness. A small crease, an unexpected fold on the inside of a robe is where the crystal is placed - frost rolls off it as it touches the material - there *should* be a hissing sound but there is none. The facets cloud as ice forms, encasing, sealing.
She is my inconstant moon. Ebb and flow, push and pull, waxing and waning. She floats on her olympian height, the scars of fate clearly visible, hauntingly beautiful. I want to eat her fear. I want to take her anger and pride into me. I want to *use* her for my own ends. I want to reach up and touch her face, to draw her down and keep her safe. We do not get what we want. I cannot. But I can try. And that will be enough, for me, for now. The others were wrong. We are at war. You cannot find peace in war. You can find joy, though, and grim satisfaction. And in the end, the war will die. And we will not. We are forsaken, we are dread mages, we are already dead, that which we create is beyond such simple mortality.
*thousands of words*
Flesh. Dessicated, slightly curled, sharp claws. The colour of the moon, scarred, creased. A crystal held gingerly in the hand, a rich purple hue, the size of a child's thumb, or a small woman's. This clawed hand is more familiar with squeezing the pain from *living* bodies with exquisite care than it is with tenderness. A small crease, an unexpected fold on the inside of a robe is where the crystal is placed - frost rolls off it as it touches the material - there *should* be a hissing sound but there is none. The facets cloud as ice forms, encasing, sealing.
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*who/what*
Who is he? And why does he love the cold so much? And why does she like him more? And why does she no longer call? I can pretend that I am forcing my mind to more serious thoughts, useful conclusions, but these are not what surface in the cold hour before dawn when the rabble have left me in peace. Our recent victory in Tempest Keep has coalesced into a firm conclusion which *should* serve me well, provided that I can articulate it, and, more importantly, that it is believed. A mind as scarred as that which I seek to mold does not change swiftly. At least the tales of the throne achieve a measure of success, and not only in the purely cynical sense for which they were created, they have moved beyond that, as our creations are want to do, they provide drive and with so much to achieve there needs to be some focus.
*thousands of words*
A shape lies crushed and muffled under the fist of the dragon killer. The dragon killer, swollen to immense size, lies crushed and beaten under the fist of The Grim. The vanguards fell with metronomic regularity, each stepping up in turn, their blood softening the dry sand. With each death he grew slightly stronger, the actions of the ants at his feet grew slightly more urgent, draining and tapping depths of energy they did not know they possessed. The last of the champions fell, and the beast cast around for softer targets even as they wracked his body with flame and pain. Each measured swipe of his paw cracked bone, ripped flesh, and yet, and yet. He leans forward to crush a third, a shadowy bolt crackles with potential, swerves in flight to seek his skull and dark bolts freeze his mind, coursing through his nerves, bursting each cell in turn. The massive body leans forward still, falling now, a brutish fist crashes down onto the lean figure who had held himself still to unleash one final surge. A broken, forsaken, shattered shape lies crushed and muffled as the cheering begins, the cries of grim satisfaction.
Who is he? And why does he love the cold so much? And why does she like him more? And why does she no longer call? I can pretend that I am forcing my mind to more serious thoughts, useful conclusions, but these are not what surface in the cold hour before dawn when the rabble have left me in peace. Our recent victory in Tempest Keep has coalesced into a firm conclusion which *should* serve me well, provided that I can articulate it, and, more importantly, that it is believed. A mind as scarred as that which I seek to mold does not change swiftly. At least the tales of the throne achieve a measure of success, and not only in the purely cynical sense for which they were created, they have moved beyond that, as our creations are want to do, they provide drive and with so much to achieve there needs to be some focus.
*thousands of words*
A shape lies crushed and muffled under the fist of the dragon killer. The dragon killer, swollen to immense size, lies crushed and beaten under the fist of The Grim. The vanguards fell with metronomic regularity, each stepping up in turn, their blood softening the dry sand. With each death he grew slightly stronger, the actions of the ants at his feet grew slightly more urgent, draining and tapping depths of energy they did not know they possessed. The last of the champions fell, and the beast cast around for softer targets even as they wracked his body with flame and pain. Each measured swipe of his paw cracked bone, ripped flesh, and yet, and yet. He leans forward to crush a third, a shadowy bolt crackles with potential, swerves in flight to seek his skull and dark bolts freeze his mind, coursing through his nerves, bursting each cell in turn. The massive body leans forward still, falling now, a brutish fist crashes down onto the lean figure who had held himself still to unleash one final surge. A broken, forsaken, shattered shape lies crushed and muffled as the cheering begins, the cries of grim satisfaction.
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*thousands of words*
A single arrow streaks across a humid cave. Its flickering shadow courses over corpse after corpse. 2 dozen of them. There is nothing special about this dart. No deep eldritch magics imbue it with a fiery potence. No skittering runes writhe on its shaft, crafted by the light of an eclipse. The sharp hunting head is not forged from sky metal, quenched in the still living body of a beautiful elven slave. Nothing special except the gasp that it draws forth from the blind figure as he slumps to his knees, dead.
*who/what*
Inner demon? What in the name of the seven hells is that? I am a dread mage. I command them. They listen to *me* and they obey or fall. What can I say when she asks about its power? Where does it come from? He is beginning to make me angry.
A single arrow streaks across a humid cave. Its flickering shadow courses over corpse after corpse. 2 dozen of them. There is nothing special about this dart. No deep eldritch magics imbue it with a fiery potence. No skittering runes writhe on its shaft, crafted by the light of an eclipse. The sharp hunting head is not forged from sky metal, quenched in the still living body of a beautiful elven slave. Nothing special except the gasp that it draws forth from the blind figure as he slumps to his knees, dead.
*who/what*
Inner demon? What in the name of the seven hells is that? I am a dread mage. I command them. They listen to *me* and they obey or fall. What can I say when she asks about its power? Where does it come from? He is beginning to make me angry.
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*who/what*
Can I use him? How can I use him? But before that - do I need to make him suffer? Does he need to pay for stealing them from me? For stealing her from me?
*who/what*
What in the seven frozen hells has been done to me? I tasted freedom and victory that night and then she killed me.
Can I use him? How can I use him? But before that - do I need to make him suffer? Does he need to pay for stealing them from me? For stealing her from me?
*who/what*
What in the seven frozen hells has been done to me? I tasted freedom and victory that night and then she killed me.
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*who/what*
I was called again. I remember. She asked about Leotheras. Why am I always cold?
I was called again. I remember. She asked about Leotheras. Why am I always cold?
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*thousands of words*
A snow-covered landscape, the pale winter sunlight gleams off indigo rocks that pierce the wind-blown dunes. Four deep trenches score across the scene, ragged edges, throwing snow, rocks aside ripping deep to the pale permafrost beneath.
Snow, rocks become dead flesh raked by talons. A face already tattered by unlife and time is freshly scarred. A tight collar binds the neck, mist hisses off the elaborate fins and fractals of the ice blue shoulders. Yellow eyes that are accustomed to gleaming brightly, darting and stabbing with curiosity and passion are dull and listless, staring at nothing. A hand appears from off scene, heavily gauntled. It paws at the cheek but the thick fingers find no purchase, no delicacy. It drops, reappears, naked and talons probe the depths of the wound, lie along it, filling it. The eyes do not change, the touch does not register.
*who/what*
Damned if I do, damned if I don't. I need to learn to keep my mouth shut. I do not mind playing the fool, if it amuses them, grants me access - but the lies are so hard to stomach. She reaches conclusions she should not, and the retort is spat out with unseemly haste. I leap to conclusions I should not, and promises are strewn about with wild abandon, almost immediately to lie broken, trampled on by my own failures. Watch, and learn. Patience, discipline. I am impatient, however, and I will learn more quickly by asking questions - they perform their dances unspoken and the steps are convoluted. So. As always. Balance. I tried to explain this again last night but what had gone before clouded things.
*thousands of words*
A small hand, tentative, reaching out, resting on a broad shoulder, shrouded in heavy steaming cloth. A shrill call. The heavy beating of wings blows lank hair forward over an expressionless face. The rising mist wavers as the shoulder trembles.
*who/what*
Whatwasthatwhydidshewhereisshewhynowwhytodayafters kettis
A snow-covered landscape, the pale winter sunlight gleams off indigo rocks that pierce the wind-blown dunes. Four deep trenches score across the scene, ragged edges, throwing snow, rocks aside ripping deep to the pale permafrost beneath.
Snow, rocks become dead flesh raked by talons. A face already tattered by unlife and time is freshly scarred. A tight collar binds the neck, mist hisses off the elaborate fins and fractals of the ice blue shoulders. Yellow eyes that are accustomed to gleaming brightly, darting and stabbing with curiosity and passion are dull and listless, staring at nothing. A hand appears from off scene, heavily gauntled. It paws at the cheek but the thick fingers find no purchase, no delicacy. It drops, reappears, naked and talons probe the depths of the wound, lie along it, filling it. The eyes do not change, the touch does not register.
*who/what*
Damned if I do, damned if I don't. I need to learn to keep my mouth shut. I do not mind playing the fool, if it amuses them, grants me access - but the lies are so hard to stomach. She reaches conclusions she should not, and the retort is spat out with unseemly haste. I leap to conclusions I should not, and promises are strewn about with wild abandon, almost immediately to lie broken, trampled on by my own failures. Watch, and learn. Patience, discipline. I am impatient, however, and I will learn more quickly by asking questions - they perform their dances unspoken and the steps are convoluted. So. As always. Balance. I tried to explain this again last night but what had gone before clouded things.
*thousands of words*
A small hand, tentative, reaching out, resting on a broad shoulder, shrouded in heavy steaming cloth. A shrill call. The heavy beating of wings blows lank hair forward over an expressionless face. The rising mist wavers as the shoulder trembles.
*who/what*
Whatwasthatwhydidshewhereisshewhynowwhytodayafters kettis
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*who/what*
He paces in his cage. The dark cave around him echoes back nothing but his own howls of rage and frustration. For the tenth time in five minutes he grasps the bars and shakes them. His fingers course with fel energy but the dark material absorbs the battering without a sound. He begins to let go when he notices something. A change. They have begun to thicken slightly and to chill, to harden.
He steps back, and peers around suspiciously.
Cold he can work with. Hard he can work with.
Hard things are brittle.
Cold things can shatter.
*thousands of words*
A small head, almost child-like. Resting on a folded piece of cloth, richly embroidered, the colour of dried blood. A folded piece of cloth. Resting on a pile of bones. Still. Unmoving.
He paces in his cage. The dark cave around him echoes back nothing but his own howls of rage and frustration. For the tenth time in five minutes he grasps the bars and shakes them. His fingers course with fel energy but the dark material absorbs the battering without a sound. He begins to let go when he notices something. A change. They have begun to thicken slightly and to chill, to harden.
He steps back, and peers around suspiciously.
Cold he can work with. Hard he can work with.
Hard things are brittle.
Cold things can shatter.
*thousands of words*
A small head, almost child-like. Resting on a folded piece of cloth, richly embroidered, the colour of dried blood. A folded piece of cloth. Resting on a pile of bones. Still. Unmoving.
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*thousands of words*
The Thousand Needles but the needles have been torn, swept, on a flood of hate and pain. A yawning chasm to drown your mind. Flayed and weeping edges, hollow centre. Pale sandstone streaked with ochre and shale, the colours of dead earth devoured by the streams of time. To fill this canyon will take a turn of the age, a cataclysm that changes the face of the land completely.
*who/what*
The task will certainly keep my mind off the path and I cannot even resent each dripped second as it slips through my claws - the very thing I craved is now mine. I should not complain but of course I will. It is frustrating to know that there is so much more to do before the way of Ruin is truly open to me. Medivh's tower passes by almost too quickly to even be noticed, the beast and the pit lord are play things and even in the dripping cavern I stood calmly, a shattered demon at my feet, a blind elf slumped in shreds across the hall; I play my role but in no way well enough. The gaudy accoutrements that I now possess should provide me all the crutch that I need to do what needs to be done and yet I continually stumble at the final hurdle. The frustration bubbles to the surface and I unleash it at the most inopportune times, threatening the perilous new balance we have struck.
The Thousand Needles but the needles have been torn, swept, on a flood of hate and pain. A yawning chasm to drown your mind. Flayed and weeping edges, hollow centre. Pale sandstone streaked with ochre and shale, the colours of dead earth devoured by the streams of time. To fill this canyon will take a turn of the age, a cataclysm that changes the face of the land completely.
*who/what*
The task will certainly keep my mind off the path and I cannot even resent each dripped second as it slips through my claws - the very thing I craved is now mine. I should not complain but of course I will. It is frustrating to know that there is so much more to do before the way of Ruin is truly open to me. Medivh's tower passes by almost too quickly to even be noticed, the beast and the pit lord are play things and even in the dripping cavern I stood calmly, a shattered demon at my feet, a blind elf slumped in shreds across the hall; I play my role but in no way well enough. The gaudy accoutrements that I now possess should provide me all the crutch that I need to do what needs to be done and yet I continually stumble at the final hurdle. The frustration bubbles to the surface and I unleash it at the most inopportune times, threatening the perilous new balance we have struck.
Re: A near-pristine journal, roughly tanned leather, one crease on the spine.
*who/what*
Is *he* holding me back; or am I simply a flawed creation?
Is *he* holding me back; or am I simply a flawed creation?