Contemplating Inperfection
Ayabba - December, 11, 2005
Preface
*Somehow, you have slipped beneath the waves of the Veiled Sea
and followed the blood dimmed waters to a temple, sacred to the
Naga, now decorated with their shriveled bodies. The place seems
to breathe, to slumber uncomfortably, yet you continue to the
altar. You recognize a dagger, sheathed in the rib cage of a late
Sorceress. Its hilt is decorated with the sigil of Clan Yellow
Moon. This is where Ayabba sleeps.
And writes. Beside the body is a book, bound in an almost
chaotically textured leather. You run your fingers along it
curiously, and it comes to you. The skin comes from faces. It is
too stretched out for you to identify their owners, but now that
you've identified the source, the empty eyes seem to stare out at
you. A baroque strap holds the book closed, but not locked.
Perhaps you left this sanctuary, content to leave curiosity
unsatisfied. Perhaps you open the book...*
I.
Urok's master sent him to the blacksmith with an order for an
axe. It was to to be double bladed, with blood grooves for long
battle. It was to have a steel haft, with a round heel for
crippling prisoners. It was to be engraved with words his master
had written, just so.
The blacksmith listened and pointed to the bellows when Urok
finished. For days Urok made fire when the smith commanded it,
and watched the smith make words real. Steel was heated and bent,
hammered and stamped, and discarded, and worked anew. On the
twenty third day, the smith gave Urok an axe. "Ask your master
what is wrong with it, and then return, and I shall make another"
II.
These are the words I heard, saw, dreamed from my earliest
memories. Each night as the Yellow Moon Clan heeded the call of
battle. Each day as I said the words that bound the demons that
thought to prey upon the Yellow Moon into the weapons that made
us feared, even by Ogrim Doomhammer. I heard them, the first time
I tore the soul from my prey to feed forces baying at the hearth.
They are the foundation upon which I shall contemplate
Imperfection.
III. Contemplation of the Sword
When Urok returned, with his masters new instructions, the forge
was ablaze. The smith greeted Urok, reached into a barrel of
water and handed Urok a sword. "Take this sword, and practice,
for the day will come when you must use it" Urok took the sword
and practiced, and grew stronger in body.
A sword is a monumental creation. It must be forged and reforged
to ensure balance. A smith employs almost arcane arts to create
an edge that will hold, and a blade that will not easily break.
The hilt must fit the hand, and protect it from the clever slips
of steel on steel that the bold warrior will employ to gain
advantage on his foe. It is a tool with a singular function, to
improve its masters ability in war. In this it is a strong, and
honorable thing. A sword is pure.
A sword does not fail a dilligent master. It is perfectly loyal,
and obeys every command. It is impervious to love, durant to hate
and utterly unmovable to tears. Yet in the silverpine woods, a
broken sword lies wet with dew on the grave of a murdered lover.
*A slow current closes the book over your hand. You pull your
eyes away from this strange book for the moment. Perhaps you
leave this place, satisfied. Perhaps you vow to return after you
have rolled things over in your now hungry. The sea slumbers in
your wake*
Interlude
*Hastily scrawled on the next page is this passage, accompanied
by a series of diagrams, each one disturbingly incomplete*
Urok went to the the mountain near his villiage with the Smith.
"There is a path leading above, where does it lead?", he asked.
"Only those who walk it may know," the Smith answered. "I will
walk it then, " answered Urok,and the Smith nodded mildly. As he
took his first steps along the path, Urok felt the feel of bones
beneath his feet, and he looked to the Smith for answers. "Not
all are Strong enough to walk that path, " said the Smith.