Cyrithe - Diary of Thoughts

[Selande]

Don't know what cycle it is, the sunsphere flys by so swiftly usstan lose track. As with direction. The sky is...

It doesn't matter. Thoughts of rivvin swirl in ussa head more and more. The ones I've met are... bizzare. Made drawings of some of them, a story for another time perhaps. Always other stories, more things to write, to sing... if you can sing...

Usstan miss ussa voice. Thirst for it daily. The rivvin I've met don't treasure their voice, their lives... so short and pointless. Amusing to watch them push beyond themselves, ambitions burning greater than their status allows. Knights defying orders, taking command themselves. Healers stepping into harms way to shelter those who might rise to strike them. Foolish and yet somehow...

A rivvil tended ussa's wound. Quiet female with soft eyes. Wears a red cord.. didn't know why for several cycles. Bwael cleric though, skilled with bandages though udos styles differ greatly. She applies local herbs and other flora I'm unfamiliar with to soothe aches. They smell nice... Keeps a female mate, strangest of things. Only Ilharess and C'Rintri take pleasures in such folly, company of another jalil. Usstan wouldn't ever think of such a leap in stature, not that the appeal quite strikes ussa. Too early to have lofty goals, many things to do yet...

Another rivvil, male this one. Vithing idiot at times, though caring. He would make a bwael rothe were one to collect him. Same red cord... He makes many promises, doesn't lie. Dangerous to trust him with anything for he would be obligated to speak words he shouldn't. Troublesome.

*she taps the quill a few times on the paper in the same spot, as if thinking*

Helpful though, brings ussa food, helps ussa arrange contacts for the delivery. Explains some of the dangers here. Seems keen on saving ussa from the fate chosen. Met a darthiir who claims the Dark Maiden will accept ussa openly, and that usstan can escape fate. Udos will see.

Feel that he desires ussa. Something usstan am used to, having been Qu'abban for a short while. A rivvil mate though... dangerous even to write, and just as undesirable. Too soft, something usstan shouldn't have said to him with regards to his mercy. He does take considerable risk, at least what he considers risk.

Such a paleskin in the Dark would be a short life indeed. Wonder what Thal would make of him... or Jarzyr... An amusing thought but just as folly. Their meeting would be swift and sanguine, as so many are in the Dark...

Still though, usstan have little to offer this rivvil in return. No songs nor stories like I'm used to offering in exchange. No drink either, as the taverns likely wouldn't appreciate ussa patronage. The food I've brought he finds undesireable. Doesn't say anything though it paints on his face clearly. Such strange palettes they have...

The only thing usstan can offer is what he desires, so I offer some of that instead, a lie he readily accepts, knowing it to be a lie... Strange that a man who cannot speak false would accept one so eagerly.

*taps her quill a few more times, leaving a blot of ink*

Tried to spare him his inevitable fate several times, release him of his promises and allow him to walk unburdened once more. Safer for both of us, I think. Shot him even. Imagine that. A rivvil who readily accepts arrows but won't accept the wiser road. No great wonder their lives flare up and smother out so equally. He spoke against his superiors several times attempting to hide ussa. Don't know if that is foolish or brave, regardless not something common in the Dark except amongst the faithless and thieves.

Usstan need to send word to Bregan D'aerthe again... returning soon for it and don't want them flaying ussa on sight for disappearing... again...

Perhaps they'll accept the drawings as reason enough to be gone so long. I've done similar before... though the faern also likes to talk when drinking. Hope he's wise enough to show discretionn in this matter...

[Selande]

Rivvin are plentiful it seems, some not always claiming that guise. A man... I think... he hints at his ability with claws and teeth, something rivvil lack in any effective sense though a man at the moment... approached ussa several times now, his words edging on hostility were I to assume he knew anything of how illythiiri speak to eachother. Perhaps rivvin are different. Regardless, he comes to ussa with questions and barters nothing for ussa answers. Claimed I shot the female rivvil, something he asked with a tone of ire.

Usstan havn't and said as such... or rather explained as such. Told him the male took arrows, as is polite given the two options. A jaluk should always take the injury for the jalil, especially a yathrin. Seems this policy holds true for rivvin as well, the man seemed to accept this without further discussion, having many more questions for ussa. Interesting though, I regarded him with a dubiousness initially, the night-blind form he assumed stumbling awkwardly into the dwelling I had taken at that time. He asked ussa about it and I was almost surprised.

Knew that manyformed beings often exist alone, but expected they knew of eachother. Usstan explained to him about the other day --

Which reminds ussa: an old accomplice found ussa in conversation with a superior of the Order. Did not recognize the jaluk at first given his garb, but it quickly became apparent from the sound of his voice. Such things do not escape ussa easily. I perhaps grew nervous... or anxious. In truth fearful though to write it causes ussa some shame... The man of Order left realizing a situation he felt uncomfortable with, not an important loss, there will be other meetings.

Fearful though. Xas. The jaluk perhaps comes for ussa. Wondering if the 7th or Conclave sent him... if they know. The faern will suffer if he's told them, an umber hulk stumbling into greater things than he knows attempting to curry favor for his vithing Qu'ellar he's so proud of. *parts of the above statements are then scribbled out* Preemptive needless thoughts. He's done nothing wrong...

*an inkblot smudges the paper here as if she had rested the quill too long in thought*

The jaluk did not come for ussa, simply out enjoying his own. Seem to recall he hunts frequently, an eager quarry approached even has udos had made udos identities known to eachother. Another vithing shape-rivvil came. Shared harsh words with the dangerous jaluk never one to turn down a challenge. He did though! Claimed he was... tired... though ussa believes he simply found a greater reward than the death of one rivvil. Usstan wanted none of it, but the man-beast was persistent. He became beast in truth and set upon udos.

*she taps her quill on the page here a few times*

Don't recall much beyond that aside from waking some distance from last I knew, wounds being tended to by the rather upset jaluk. Boring tale from there on. Simply idle thoughts...

Ahh, apologizes to reader. Xas. The manyform man in the cave grew brooding and bothered by this tale, one rather difficult to tell without voice. He barraged ussa with a long series of questions regarding the beast, mostly about his appearance as a rivvil. Answered best as ussa could, not that I see the point of it. Demanding answers with nothing in exchange is rude, wish rivvin learned this. A journal or something in trade...

[Selande]

The snowfalls in the distance of a quiet place usstan favor. Looming mountains yet strange and fragrant blossoms fill an area overlooking some industry area. Think the workers would make bwael rothes, large, strong, robust. Will need to remove their weaponry of course... nothing a rothe should touch...

Lost some taste for this area the last few cycles. Demonic insurgents, Darthiir Archers with their shadowy vith velg'larn frequent the area. Ahh, amusing faern as well. Rivvil faern, a joke perhaps for when ussa have voice back. Must remember that one.

An ever changing place for how quiet and serene it is. Beautiful crystalline caverns to rest in as well. Many drawings of these caverns...

Don't often find quiet places anymore. So much noise everywhere yet so many seem deaf to it. Their loss is ussa gain I suppose. Many things I've overheard in crowded taverns. Missing the compound's tavern a lot. Will have to return and drink with the faern and torture him with idle musings. Maybe Thal will come drink with udos... though he seems to prefer his drunken stupors alone. Wonder how he's doing... never did like leaving him unattended too long. Kind of like a frosted glass stein of ussa favorite spiced beverage. No one quite makes it right like the Gloura do but the mixed crowd in their establishment is not quite as favorable to ussa anymore. Better to stay at the compound and hope the wanre there become just as bwael.

Depressing to think of home... not sure if ever returning. Ussa projects will be transferred if I die, but I doubt they'll be put to proper use. The lives usstan distill from those scripts are quite valuable. Splendid beings that require proper immortalization.

Which reminds ussa, heard rumor that a necromancer faern had been captured and judged for execution. Strange that these sundwellers would put to flame the keepers of their dead. Perhaps it's a rivvin way of exhibiting fearful acknowledgement of their fleeting lives.

[Selande]

Usstan cannot find rest in reverie. Usstan keep reliving moments from the time spent with the velg'larn jaluk. Don't like it. Keep being paranoid of awakening to see him there, usstan can't enjoy a proper reverie being interrupted as such. It is a bitter sweet memory though. Usstan had ussa voice then, if only to protest his company using no manner of words. Even the dank chamber resonated with ussa at times, like a harmonious chorus that had a baleful audience.

Beyond that though. Satisfying to know the jaluk was served his ending. Wished to have found his journal and met with his employer... Perhaps there will be time for that afterwards. Izzrar might have investigated. He works in mysterious ways like that. A quiet visit to the hand that quilled the writ for ussa's capture. Usstan desire few things less than this.

Dearest reader, do not think ussa some malevolent being though. Opposite typically, compared to most of ussa kin. Stories of illythiiri are told amongst the lesser races in horror quite to udos amusement. Their fear empowers udos, helps secure udos borders. Though usstan have been struggling against this reputation, to some avail. Managing to not be hunted like a thieving rothe has been met with variable success...

Darthiiri are much less accepting of ussa than the rivvin. One in particular sought to seal ussa's end. Barely managed to convince him to meet with his elders first. Bound and gagged ussa, dragged ussa to some rivvil town where his darthiir kin examined ussa.

Don't mind being bound and gagged when usstan have no chance of struggle and already stifled tongue. If it calms their nerves to do so, bwael. Didn't so much enjoy being shoved whilst bound though. Usstan would like to see a darthiir share similar grace with hands held behind and being led on leash while being shoved. Disgraceful is what it is. Perhaps will be visited by the darthiir again and udos can share opinions of that experience...

Ah, xas. Another darthiir met ussa from the shadows of a quiet forest. Was drawing in ussa journal and he slipped in next to ussa. Spoke of ussa's drawings, and what usstan was. Didn't seem threatening, just informative as he explained he will be watching ussa. Didn't expect less from him, though he may be opted to act should his vigil remain truly unbroken. Usstan don't always keep placid. Everyone has to eat and relieve oneselves from time to time. Would prefer to think myself unwatched during...

He did mention something though. Told ussa that he has had a hand in slaying other illythiir before. Said that one recently looked similar to ussa. Thought immediately of a jalil close to ussa. Udos share a bond few can claim. Trials and subterfuge that threatened the whole of Sshamath. Would be very bad if this jalil met an untimely end. Usstan rather liked her stories and had many more to collect from her.

*a small doodle of a fenced bridge over a river*

Not all of ussa's reveries are disturbing. Had one recently about ussa old Qu'ellar, when usstan commemorated one century's passing since birth and being awarded ussa's first velve in service of the Qu'ellar. Few moments shine as brightly for ussa. Only a few years past and the Qu'ellar is all but nonexistent now. Pitiful end for any but can't say the Qu'ellar didn't have it coming. Disrupting trade is not a bwael way to make local allies. Exiled and fled, covered tracks, never looked back but usstan keeps the memories and the velve. Still treasure it and think of lessons learned...

Ah, reminds ussa. Been almost exactly four years since then. Wonder if usstan should toast to more or if that would be greedy. Surely Jarzyr and Thal would share a drink with ussa if they knew. Assuming they don't think ussa too youthful for even celebrating. Usstan do not like their teasing. Cal would share a drink always. Drinking alone on such an occasion... shameful. Perhaps usstan will find reason to celebrate with others and keep them unapprised of it. Not like rivvin can relate to being one hundred and four...

[Selande]

The rivvin can't lie. This dwells on ussa like the icy frost on the crystalline walls here... Fogging ussa, an everpresent thought.

They know as much as they could and more than they should. Usstan wonder if too much. Expecting them to slip hourly, the sun and moon an eerie mockery of this fate not being in ussa's hands. Drifting through the skies they make the shadows dance to their own will like ambivilent torches amid the dimly glittering gems high above. Reminds ussa of several places in the Dark in this way...

Lies though, xas. Usstan claimed once to rarely have need for lies and though usstan am bwael at deception, I've not lied blatently in a very long time. However, usstan wonders how true that statement is... For I've held so many secrets and skirted the truth at almost every turn like it were a bladed barrier. Teeth gnashing at ussa, waiting for ussa to misstep.

Journals, their stories interesting and in truth quite handy to learn from, the lives which wrought these thoughts on paper. Sort of like this you're reading now, reader, though I know not dosst race or purpose. Regardless... words must be written and stories told.

Even the worst of memories are to be retold. They have happened and passed. The rivvin think ussa strong for sharing with them several stories of ussa in the Dark... but in truth I'm just dispassionate to them. In Reverie, usstan relive them in vivid detail and cannot help but experience them fully again. In waking form, they are only a distant thought. Resolved and concluded with sanguine signatures of Bregan D'aerthe.

Lying though, depends on what dos consider a lie. Not sharing information openly comes easily with the natural distrust usstan experience lately in company... and the fact that usstan can't speak a lie. Makes deception easy even if unintentional. Masked features helps as well, though been awful at maintaining that appearance as well...

*there is a small, crude drawing of a masked and hooded elven face. None of the features detailed to match any individual's appearance except for slender locks of hair fallen from the hood and the impression of elven ears poking against the hood.*

[Selande]

Time draws nearer and I'm thinking about the allies I've gathered. Usstan fear that if any one faction should wield enough of a force that they would sunder the goal and take it by force. Likely killing ussa. However, with mixed allies perhaps they will be less inclined to succumb to greed and bloodlust.

Still doesn't mean usstan won't be cleaved and cast aside when this is over...

The Cryingman says that usstan don't need others, only those with radiant hearts. That they will shoulder the burden and are amiable to the task. Truthful and honest. Usstan do not trust them yet though, so much guise in their hearts usstan sense. They would do baleful things to ussa if they only knew... Mercy is their aspect but usstan wonder about the extent of it. Rivvin are so greedy sometimes...

The Silver knights as well. Roses, their emblem but nothing of their aspect. They fear ussa needlessly... or perhaps aptly. Blindmen, usstan like to call them. Following orders and earning favor much like the lesser mercenary bands of the Dark. Anything for what they deem as honor, it seems. Usstan wonder if they would be deaf as well, to such a goal. Have yet to approach them though I've asked their audience before, the Cryingman denying it adamantly. He seems sure they would strike ussa down without so much as a word otherwise. These men would doom themselves it seems. Dangerous but perhaps still useful...

The darthiiri watch ussa constantly, shadowing everywhere usstan go. Their forms remain hidden but their steps not nearly as light as they would think. Perhaps it is their malice usstan hear, beating through their quivering hearts or resonating from the blades they clutch desperately. Had audience with them once but seems as many tribes here as the Dark would have, each apparently not sharing the ears of the other kin. Amusing to think about in this dim light... that they would cast the illythiiri out and then behave similarly. A mockery of the Seldarine usstan think it.

No word from the rivvin in red. They seemed the most knowledgeable and confident though their numbers dwindle. Still holding the scroll they gave ussa incase of emergency contact. All other factions speak ill of their aid, likely not willing to accept their assistance so perhaps their silence is bwael regardless. Absence is oftentimes a helpful abbil in the Dark, rather than one who might falter and endanger the purpose. They do seem competent though, bwael faern for rivvin...

The keepers want little to do with it aside from offering their sanctuary for the artifact. One of them speaks to ussa occasionally, assuring their compliance but usstan wonder if the rest of them even know to expect a delivery. Of course, usstan have no intent to bring it inside their warded domain, to do so would be foolish, but someone of authority should be informed and alerted to the arrival. Would hate to travel such a great distance through the fires and darkness to be thwarted by ill advised allies and a door sealed shut.

Ah, and then there is the dancing darthiir. Claims the Dark Maiden will smile upon ussa and that the purpose granted her blessing, perhaps extending to myself afterwards. Should usstan prove worth, of course. No doubt in ussa mind many will be watching but usstan hold the Dark Maiden's gaze with special regard. The only salvation usstan may receive come this tenday's end.

This darthiir also offers hidden allies, whom I've not met. Claiming their indifference to ussa heritage and full support to the cause. Usstan pray that they are as competent as the dancing darthiir claims, for in the Dark, the shadows will not welcome them as readily as they do the illythiiri.

Almost forgot about ussa abbils. Have sent word to them but do not know if it reached their eyes. No response, though that is not uncommon from them. They've been reclusive since the last few contracts, not as jovial and outgoing. Showing less interest in bloodshed and more in their drink. Perhaps this will be bwael. Should these allies meet those of ussa escort, the tunnels may drink of many races before the cycle ends. Hoping to slip by without much notice, usstan have kept it in a warded area not far from the city.

Thus ends ussa thoughts for this cycle, reader. Pray that they do not mark the end of this collection. Many more tales to tell... much more work need be done...

[Selande]

Am not dead. A bwael thing, usstan suppose. Though it doesn't feel very bwael. Delivery completed, temporary allies didn't flay ussa.

The scroll is in the hands of someone usstan think can handle it's burden. If not, capable of passing it on to someone who can. Regardless, nothing usstan can do about it now. Even earned a new velve from it. Exquisite quality and from a darthiir at that! Never thought to be offered the hilt end first from a darthiir...

Allies. Old allies kept eyes on ussa for a... while. They sent the faern. He's already slain the rivvil once, until the sneaky fiendblood showed and the faern took udos away. Came back though, with him as a guardian. Ussa own shadowy guardian faern. Hah! Amusing to think about if he didn't constantly belittle ussa as "fool" and "naïve". Oh and even used "traitor" once... *ink blot here*

Perhaps he's right, though doesn't matter anymore. He's gone again, sending word of ussa dissent to the others. Likely have them breathing down ussa neck soon as well.

The crying rivvil says usstan should seek shelter somewhere though he's perhaps the least informed as to the threat they'd pose if roused. Considering whether usstan should simply allow them to find ussa, or to make them work for it... *squiggle as she draws in a tiny circle slowly expanding*

The crying rivvil wants ussa to dance, to sing-

Oh! Reader. Been away so long from the quill that usstan forgot the ritual. Succeeded. Slowly healing and will be able to speak again soon, usstan think.

[Selande]

It is in one hand that usstan hold a purple flame, burning... it does not. Though it's light is shed revealingly. In this hand, usstan wonder if this is life. Casting a dull light in the caverns of time, without warmth and without purpose except to consume what it can overcome.

It is a dark fate, to extinguish oneself.

This other hand of mine clutches a lost soul. Someone usstan knew intimately but had never met. Imprisoned in this dark sapphire. Evil they would call it if they knew it not as necessary. A life to protect others. A wasted life given purpose. Would the crying man call this sin?

Save myself. They all say this to ussa. Stop worrying about the greater problems, a greater purpose. Something stories could be written and sung of. What fate worse? To fall short of a quill like thin ink. The words on a statue's lips, forever unspoken. Harrowing.

Seems a leap of faith is needed to continue. Blades on all sides and no path less ominous as each other. One step will decide... if only these feet would move.

[Selande]

Reading through some of the journals usstan have collected. This man, a rivvil, usstan think.. He was a yath .. a cleric of some rivvil faith I'm unfamiliar with.

He writes of his first encounter with the undead. A zombie by description. The encounter haunted him. He asked his father about it. Asked why they exist, why they're forced to walk beyond their flesh dictates. Why they breathe when they don't need to, that raspy sort of gasping at air for lungs already long since dried and hearts stopped beating.

His father must have been a bwael rivvil. Was very wise when helping his son. Said that they were forced to walk, bound by vile faer that enslaves their remains to the will of another. Often for similarly vile things..

The cleric writes about the breathing. His father says they're not drawing breath for the faer that binds them to do so, but out of desperation. 'Struggling to remember life?' - the cleric asks. He writes that his father shakes his head and says 'A prayer that Lathandar might deliver them from their fate.'

This journal follows ussa this cycle. Normally usstan carry its weight only with ussa legs, but now on ussa mind. To whom should usstan pray? To be shown the proper course. There has been such tragedy from this for ussa.

*sometime later she adds in a slightly different script, using full Common*

Or am I simply gasping for air.

[Selande]

Been writing and speaking with something of disguise lately. The native elves weren't difficult to mimic. They're everywhere...

Besides that news, I've come across an inspiring chapter in one of the journals I collect. Never quite understood what the person is writing about, as they seem to be confused themselves. Often shifting back from one mindset to another. The only constant is that each page starts a new entry, abruptly. Such that they might run out of space on one page and continue further down it... like there were more written somewhere. I often wonder about this...

Anyways, they write about lights chasing them. At first I thought this an actual pursuit, until recently. The man - I assume it's a man based on his script but he never states such - flees the 'searing hot' lights as they burn his flesh and tear at his mind. His soul grows hollow in their glow. Describes his screams as boiling away under the intense rays...

*taps quill here several times*

That might not seem all too inspirational now that I write it, but I've been told incessantly that I'm wrong lately. Seems to fester. In a good way, I guess...

I've begun to wonder if darkness is simply a lack of light, as light chases it away. If the dark in someone is simply the bits that have yet to be painted. A blank canvas, or the unlit corner in a room.

Honestly, I do doubt this.. but it's an amusing thought. I'm left with plenty of time for those lately. Spending much of my time with the books given to me, though most are boring. One takes my interest. About a flute but there's nothing in the actual writing of note to me, just the author. Even met him...

He gave me another book of his, which I read... *here is a crude doodle of an island*

I miss drawing, but I've run out of supplies. Will have to find some soon...

[Selande]

*written hastily, in an angry, shaking hand*
A mistake today. Been searching for somewhere to belong. Exile. Pariah. Traitor...

They offer me false places. False hope. A trophy on their mantle for their children to gawk and marvel at. I'll not have it.

Living out of hovels such a fate is that. Such a laughable fate if one could laugh at such cruelty. Hollow existence why exist. No.

Home is where you feel comfortable. Comfort is danger. Lax and ease invites the knife. Invites their soft words from forked tongue. These serpents on their silly shore.

Never again. They will speak but I will not listen. I will not answer their venomous words or let their touch burn my flesh. A gift I bring them and they take... take... More than I could give. More than I have to take. They took.

Blinded men with short, simple lives. I pity them. No... I loathe them...
*a long, jagged line spraying ink fills the last of this page*

[Selande]

Wind is my friend. It is the medium with which I can find security. Either through flight or fascination, scattering scent and filling sail. Through the words it eagerly waits to carry as lungs swell to command it. The wind is everywhere.

I've deceived you, reader. There is another like this in my hands and another's. I've no guarantee whose. For days I've considered whether to discard the wardings and allow that voice to fall silent. Forever.

Waiting on a word, I can readily imagine. Something held so high of importance yet completely out of your control. I wonder what hells this ink draws for them. Never thought of it as such, surprisingly. A dark liquid in nature and purpose but we give it constructive ends. Make it something good.

Words fail though. And how they do splendidly. Chosen to be ignored, unheard or twisted from what was spoken. Written consent for an execution. We name the names without ever seeing faces and the swords will find. Why write. Ink should be red and stain the hands.

The lives in journals are pure, written by their own hand regardless of the circumstance. I wonder what they all have to tell and my collection grows worn. Alas, the north is unwelcoming as the south. Most of what I've met keeps no record of their lives. Either fleeting and insignificant -- an attempt to be forgotten -- or near infinite as the scales would weigh them. No need to share what you'll never lose. What can never be given.

For now though, the wind blows for me and this ink is carried twice. I wonder if it longs for the suffering again. I've no call to return to sate it's desire as unlikely it may be. But the wind blows that direction. I'd hate to ignore this friend. It's words...

[Selande]

Trust finds me lacking. As I've failed expectations though we've only just met. Surely reputation does not proceed me and what a shallow shadow it would cast. Only the thinnest can I bear the weight of, asphyxiated in the light of others. They gleam so brightly.

Reader, we once spoke of loss. Of sacrifice. I've dwelt on this and wonder: Have you truly known them? One is chosen and the other ripples. Were you to have something taken, you'd lose it, as is most common. Honey from the hive, ink from the quill. Breath from your voice. A restless mind.

What is replaceable can be easily forgotten. Sacrifices become meaningless in this manner. To barter gold for bread or soul for power, is it always simply an exchange?

Salty drops. Not of laughter or love but passion all the same. This is the truth in a deception. The actuality in lies. Play host to these games and you'll hear the song. How I've missed it...

Hurt is our natural state. We can deny it but never escape it. Dry your hands to stop feeling the wet but bruises remain. The cuts and scrapes, long after the blade has left severing our mask. Hiding the hurt. Hiding the song.

Can you hear it yet, reader? The stories we've shared in these folds and mask to mask but has it ever reached you? The Cryingman endures but he doesn't know why. He cannot hear the song. Cannot appreciate or understand this path I've tried to show him. The sacrifices we all make. Grief fades and his ears dull, deaf and round. A sharper voice to pierce that thickness. Something to cut..

-How can he not understand-

[Selande]

The funeral pyres were built high. As high as the bodies could be stacked. Casualties were enormous though I did not realize how significant at the time. All I knew was the stench of burning death. Too young for battle they said. Too young for a sword. But I was determined to go. Set on seeing my first combat with my sisters.

The battle happened much faster than I had ever imagined. Stories tell of them through many pages and I thought it would make some kind of sense, but it was chaos. So silent and still and then there was fire and the screaming. The song though... someone was singing...

We did not stay. It was only a skirmish they said, and that we had to keep moving or be set upon. This was their way. I cleaned the sword I didn't even sully and sheathed it. My bow still had arrow nocked, unfired. I put it with it's barb-tipped brothers and carried the limb in hand.

The song rose above the clattering of equipment and stomp of boots. The roaring flames as high as the cavern was tall could not drown out the wordless aria.

We left as quick as we had come. Just as quiet, just as still. My sisters were anxious, excited, and tense. They expected, they -wanted- more. I was dazed, looking back at the smoke and the fading song. Who was singing? We left nothing but ruin... a great victory... yet someone was sad?

The dissonance fades as distance grew. I can't shake it from my head though. Nothing remained from that battle but blood on my boots and the stink on my clothes. And the song in my ears.

"You are crying," my nearest sister noticed. She asked if I was wounded. "The smoke." my response. My first lie to begin so many. Wiping the shame from my face, I knew it wasn't the smoke. No one else was bothered by it. No one else heard the song.

I had not claimed a kill this cycle. I had not wetted blade for the qu'ellar. My arrows remained all accounted for and persistent on that fact. They mock me. I am no fighter. No warrior. What right have I to hold a sword? I will learn my place if it is not here. I will find one. Or I will make one.

I'll remember the violence. The clash of steel and snap of bowstring as arrows became sewn into the flesh that they find. I'll remember the fires. The billowing black smoke so thick in the air that masks couldn't make breathing easier. I'll remember my sisters. Their glee at their first kills, the new notches in their bows. And I will remember the song. Always.

[Selande]

The rock floor rose up to embrace me violently as if I hadn't already lost my breath. Sword skittered across the ground abandoning me. Dirt in my eyes though I could still see the spattered blood painting the floor of these sparring grounds. My blood.

"Get up, waelin sargtlin," the Qu'el'saruk spat the words like an insult. "Dos hold the blade, it does not hold dos. Stand up."

Shuddering to fill my forcefully emptied lungs, I crawled to my sword, my velve. Can still feel the impact of the Qu'el'saruk's shield where he had struck me. "Vithing fool," I told myself. "A shield is a weapon as well. Keep wits... You can do better."

Hard metal boot grapples under my shoulder and rolls me onto my back. What breath I had struggled to regain immediately lost again, the heavy boot resting squarely on my chest as the Qu'el'saruk knelt over me.

"Weak. Clumsy," his words ring loud, each felt like another blow landing. "Frail."

His boot twists, wracking pain as a rib cracks and breaks under the pressure. Sounds of the others sparring fades as my mind retreats into the black fatigue, starved of breath. A final rest, but I knew it wouldn't be. A teasing thought. A vile thought!! I will...

"Dalharil. Least favorite dalharil. Dos wish to become qu'abban? Qu'el'velguk?!" his voice fades near inaudible. "Dos will have --

*the entry is interrupted abruptly*