Rashyyd
n00b
Bastion of Sanity
Posts: 3
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Post by Rashyyd on Aug 13, 2006 6:39:45 GMT -5
A tower, a refuge. A place from which to see, safely, and know.
ASPIRATION, INSPIRATION
Borne up on dreams and will, sentient incense, fog of faiths, castles in the sky to rival necropoli. This hard work that must not fall, built on the stones of ancient past, built on the tombs of the dead as tribute to they not yet born.
PERSPIRATION, RESPIRATION
From the womb we scream, a warcry in the face of life and its pains, a challenge to the Might Have Been, the we that never were... because We Are. Push out this breath, this incarnate hope and stop only when it is gone. Hold. Then pull in, drink this life and its wisdoms -- sweet on the tongue and bitter in the belly -- until we are saturated and full. Hold. And again and again until we forget how and we scream our victories and challenges and regrets as easy as sighing.
DESPERATION, EXPIRATION
And all things fall. Our scream quiets. Silence. And then... and then... We've tombs to build upon, a void to fill, a downward path to leisurely tread before climbing, building, growing from rich soil made pregnant with blood and death. And our sarcophagus is our quiet womb, and in resting, we are not dead. Hard work this... this life... and for what?
We ascend atop our spire, our spirit, and consider from this higher vantage.
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Rashyyd
n00b
Bastion of Sanity
Posts: 3
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Post by Rashyyd on Aug 8, 2006 16:54:38 GMT -5
"Breaking Bread"
The folk of Westfall tend tall wheat that bows only with the weight of its fruit, Like a man whose back is bent from proudly lifting his many children. Their bread is rich and dark, a currency more stable than gold.
This whole grain and rye means the same to any hungry belly. To tear open the bread's hard husk and smell the cottony folds within: Such is to know the gods can benedict and bless the bold.
They have earned this hard-won gift, and mercifully shared at our table. Blood, sweat, tears have in generations befriended stubborn soil. Bread has tended the folk in turn: women soft and men hard.
Bandits come and the farmers weather this bad harvest. Yet the land is grown fearful and reluctant under these strangers' tread. Change has come; a new season, unknown and strangely-starred.
The wheat worries for the humans coupling in its field, And the stones sing dirges for the newly dead. The land awaits the first of the strangers' plows, a manifesto practiced, and then:
"No," they will say -- a chorus of grain and hops and soils and stones, Hills and trees, Westfall incarnate's skin, blood, and bones -- "No," they will say. "We will not live for you. We would rather die for them."
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Rashyyd
n00b
Bastion of Sanity
Posts: 3
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Post by Rashyyd on Aug 8, 2006 17:04:00 GMT -5
I am a murderer, and I am honored by the Alliance as a whole. Many have sought my aid, and many have petitioned the Cenarion Enclave for assistance. When I arrive before those in need, when I stand in my oiled leathers, when my knives glimmer with a fresh edge with my calligraphic sigils shining on the blades, there is no question which paths I walk. Whomever presents me with a quest knows full well what they are asking. I am an assassin.
Yet my long and bloody path is paved with stones of meaning. I am no remorseless sociopath, no murderous machine; I am the dark side of civilization, the alley writ on no map, the secret room in the basement, the wordless glance between a general and a statesman. I have killed many, many people and have held their eyes in mine as they died. My empathy and aesthetic gives their deaths meaning even when their lives had none to speak of.
I do not take kindly to this meaning being threatened. I do not enjoy walking the hidden paths only to find I no longer tread the stones of purpose and understanding.
In the Hinterlands, in the Quel'dorei lodge, there is a troll in a cage far too small for him. He cannot stand without bending, he cannot lay out his full length. He appears emaciated and bruised. And as far as I am concerned, he can rot there forever.
Days ago, I was about my duties in that hilly and beautiful region, building bridges between the Wildhammer dwarves and the Enclave as only one of the hidden paths can. The dwarves were being strangled by the nearby Witherbark trolls: the temples and villages teemed with primitive sadists whose only understanding of civilization comes from stories of their long-dead empires. Fraggar Thundermantle, of the Wildhammer, wanted them dealt with. He knew what he was asking.
But near one of the Witherbark camps -- Agol'watha, I believe -- the sound of shouts carried to me over the rolling wind. I strayed from the camp, rushing over the grassy hills until I had a commanding view of the Quel'dorei lodge.
I do not like the Quel'dorei. I even loathe calling them "Highborne" and "blood elves," as they chose these names for themselves and these names empower them. I would sooner stab myself in the thigh than help the pale addicts.
That said, a pair of trolls were doing a diligent job of beating them back. One was the prisoner, hunched over still from his long capture, feverishly swinging at his guards with bare hands. The other was a priestess. She had lavender eyes and skin the color of the leaves of Elwynn. The feathers that draped from her shoulders and her staff, dancing in the air with each of her movements, were blue and green... colors different than those of the Witherbark. Her face was aware but serene, and she would occasionally lift her hands, lift her head, and channel holy power through the prisoner, who was alone doing the fighting.
Once, at Stromgarde, I assaulted that place with the help of three priests. Their safety was in my hands, yes, but to feel that much crisp, divine energy rolling through my bones and across my skin was to know that I was theirs, that I was a tiny little boat borne across an unforgiving sea by the winds of their powers, that each blow I took should have killed me, that without even one of them I would have been ground into dust. I danced death. And I knew without a doubt that the priestess was the only chance the prisoner had.
And then, almost casually, I saw the two were without the protection of the gods. A moment's urgency seized me: they were vulnerable! But no. I am no murderous machine.
Yet was this an act of pride? That they could battle back these Quel'dorei guards without the help of the gods that quietly oversee us all? Or was there some Kaldorei corpse in that line of Quel'dorei bodies leading back into the lodge? A life taken because one elf is the same as another to a troll? Did that priestess serenely look on as the prisoner killed and killed and killed, and did she then murmur to her exotic spirits to knit back the prisoner's flesh as the victim lay dying? Who had they killed? A human conferring with a Quel'dorei colleague? A gnome, curious of the night elves' cousins? A dwarf with a missive from the Wildhammer? Or a Kaldorei like myself, come to see what all the fuss is about? Male or female? Young or old? Warrior or mage or hunter or...
I slipped into the fray, behind the priestess in moments, my knives hungry, my will hungrier. She lifted her hands, lifted her head, another prayer on her thin lips. I put my blade under her arm, between the ribs, its point piercing her heart until the knife's crosspiece was against her side. I twisted once and pulled it out. She dropped without a scream.
Light; and song, I remember song. I remember music that broke my heart, a cappella. And something hovered over the priestess' body, clad only in a white tunic, with eyes so compassionate I could not directly look into them. It stared at me with such feeling. I ran. Behind me, I barely heard the Quel'dorei guards overtake their prisoner and capture him again.
For one who is no priest, I have dealt too often with ghosts and spirits.
I made my way back to Aerie Peak, poisoned by a shame I could not understand. As Lilitu -- my frostsaber -- ran I tried to make sense of it, tried to account for my wide and wounded heart, but every time I thought of the spirit's eyes, I could not look into them... not even in memory. I reported to Fraggar Thundermantle about my progress for the day, hinting heavily that I would be taking to my meditations. And then, almost in passing, I told him about the trolls and the Quel'dorei. He scratched at his long beard when I described the priestess, raking his fingers through the red strands.
"Sound like Darkspear, eh? Hordey-trolls. Bit more refined than them Witherbark scoundrels."
"Oh?," I ignorantly offered. "Why would a Darkspear by helping a Witherbark prisoner?"
"Dunno. Maybe gonna capture 'im as they're own later on."
And, as is my habit, I asked one question too many. "But why would they be fighting without the protection of the gods?"
Fraggar thought a long moment, then broke into a wide grin and laughed like a bear. "Priestess, y'say? Oh, I tell ya... Cousin o' mine, priest, used t' yell at me an' my brothers fer runnin' about without th' gods' help. We were young, aye? Angry at th' world. 'Die grand or die tryin'!' Hah!"
I raised an eyebrow, gently urging him to get on with the story.
"A'right, a'right. So my cousin yelled at us all th' time 'cause he had t' heal us... lost th' gods' help when he prayed fer us damn fools."
I blinked at him, shaking my head slowly, still confused.
"Oh, fer cryin' out... Th' prisoner troll was a bloody fool, see? Wanted t' make a big show o' his release, see? Thumbed 'is nose at th' gods. When th' priesty-troll healed 'im, th' gods figured she was doin' th' same."
I gaped. Eyes wide. My hands slowly raised to my head.
"Yep yep. Like showin' up to a party in Ironforge with th' one friend you got who's got trouble with th' Alliance. All-th'-sudden you're an 'accomplice', 'stead o' this buddy's buddy."
"Are you saying I killed that priestess just because she healed an idiot?!"
"Ayup. Jus' like my cousin used ter yell at us fer. 'Course, he's dead now, so I guess he was right."
Horror. Revulsion. I knew then what the eyes of that spirit said: I had stepped off the stones of meaning, I had stepped into the dark parts of the hidden paths, where truly no maps follow.
In the mansion of my heart, there is a wide and opulent hall filled with all the delights I have found in this world. It is there I bid the ghosts of my honored victims to reside. In my meditations, in my idle moments, I approach them not as a host, but as a base thief who has stolen from them. I look them in the eye, as I do when they die, and I say "You have died for the safety of the Kaldorei people," or "You have died to avenge death," or "You have died for poisoning the land whose scream can be heard only by the druids," and ever accompanied by "I am so sorry." And now there is another ghost there, one of a serene troll priestess whose eyes were the color of lavender, whose skin was the color of the leaves of Elwynn, and I must walk up to her, look into those eyes that remind me so much of the spirit's, and say "You have died for healing an idiot. I am so sorry."
In the Hinterlands, in the Quel'dorei lodge, there is a troll in a cage far too small for him. He cannot stand without bending, he cannot lay out his full length. He appears emaciated and bruised. And as far as I am concerned, he can rot there forever.
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