A Wisdom of Man

[Steve]

Prologue: We Are All Here Together Surviving Death

And then they were all gone. And vengeance was the first thought.

My love, my wife...gone. So many of my People...the suffering. So many others...they say in the tens of thousands. It was truly a Rotting from Within. So many were left to perish—We were left to suffer—for too long without help from the sovereign of this city. And no one would be put to blame.

I would survive...and when the grief subsided, it was equality in vengeance that held my thoughts, my spirit.

The Master of the Silverpalm held me, his consolation a gift to me...and our People. I asked him to explain why it could be so, that We should suffer so without care by the lawful, the sworn protectors of all calling the Gate home. His way was not to give answer...he only bade me breath, to find the Breath...so that I could calm my confused mind.

And so I found the way to sooth my torment, the loss that I shall never forget. And yet...I am not ready to forgive.

My People...so often never seen, never considered, even when we are right here. So be it. I will observe; I will become the all-seeing. It is fate.

To become the seeker of truth, no longer fearful of an end, for I have suffered it through Her, as if it was my own. And so it seems: Death has judged me...and my sentence is thus living, while they do not.

And so, we are all here, together....

[Steve]

Tragedy Creates Purpose

18 Deepwinter, 1351
He awoke from the bitter cold night early, and abruptly. With his eyes still closed, he waited in these first moments, to confirm his waking was because of rolling coughs, the fits that recently had taken hold, that wracked his wife''s body that lay next to him, in the dark. He waited, and waited more, seconds growing longer in the cold and dark of the small room, a one-room dwelling not unlike a wooden caravan in size and shape, but fixed to the earth, filled with odds and ends of a pair that lived simply, clean, fair. A shack, by some...a home, to others of lesser fortune. The man began to feel a sense of deafness in himself, caused by the looming silence within the room, wondering what would wake him so early yet was now not obvious to his senses...or at least, he thought, what besides all that could have woken him, in this time of fear and despair? A sickness, it was called, but a plague it was. It was then that he felt the hard coldness that lay beside him, unmoving, heatless, and he realized, the stilled silence that held his home in thrall, was the leftover of a passing through, of Death.

The man's eyes, they could not see far in this darkness, even would he try to open them. But by will, he would not. He layed there within the bed some time longer, waiting, hoping...could he find himself mistaken, and that she would finally stir, the smallest of coughs would become a blessing to his now and further darkening heart, to know she struggles on with still a glimmer of hope to health returning. The man's eyes...they began to water, even a concentration and strength put all into the eyelid remaining sealed, could not prevent the salted water from arriving upon upon his cheek, to run down around his ear, to drip upon their bed...now soiled with liquids, both pure of emotion...and fouled by sickness.

Oh! Confusion of heart! His thoughts raced against his growing, inner pain. All that he had learned, the possession of Breath and purity of mind and body...the man began to ask of himself, deep within that growing sorrow: "what are these gifts when they cannot be shared by those that make your life complete? What good was prophecy, fate...when your own People cannot see the coming pain, so that one may make effort to avoid it?" The lingering silence that announced the passage of Death, had no answer for him. With aim to not disturb the eternally resting, the man slowly parted the bed covers, swinging his body upright, his feet upon the ground, knees bent and high against his chest, as he sat upon the edge of the low bed, nearly upon the ground as it was. He wrapped his arms about his bent legs and shins, and laid his forehead upon his knees. He held himself, imagining holding her...a her that would never be, again.

It was then the first rays of light dared enter through the thick glass windows of the eastern wall. The light, pinched through window frame and window shade, seared through the air like a long blade, disturbing the dust...or, whatever foulness that lay in the air. The light, beginning high upon the western wall, slowly lowered through the room, in the minutes where neither living or dead stirred. The light was a powerful gift, warming the room in it's presence, though not by heat. It warmed by giving the presence of continuation, the presence of renewal. The light, it lowered finally enough that it leapt from the wall to land a small distance way, landing upon the bowed heat of the man that held himself in grief. There, this light began to let its presence be known to they that would need it most.

The man raised his head, and in this action the light would cross his forehead, his eyes, his nose and cheeks. The man could feel this warmth, its power, freely given, asking for nothing. For that split second, his mind was cleared, and he heard the Master's voice in his head, that even-toned, blessed voice of wisdom that could always salvage him from distraction—it mattered not what and if there were even words heard in his conscious, it was the tone that soothed him, in that graceful moment, under ray of light.

And though he still had not opened his eyes, some where from deep within him, a vision grew: he saw clearly the sorrow—a storm of darkness coming ashore from the sea, nearly arrived to a stone toped landing upon which the man stood, alone—and apart from that sorrow, though it had grown twice as big as he watched it in these moments, he saw a..wind...of <i>Breath</i>, surging and holding that sorrow at bay, a silver wind, like an invisible palm, holding back the storm. Then, in this vision, he looked down at his right arm, and he was holding it out, bent at the elbow, with his own palm raised up and facing away from him—a gesture made by his body, but...not made by his conscious.

Now, the light of the day passed off of his face, and without thinking, he opened his eyes and replaced the vision with the reality of the room. The sorrow was still there, and he knew, it would affix itself to these walls, forever.

Rising from the bed near the floor, he walked to the far side of the room, and turned, facing the bed. He could barely see her face in the lingering darkness, shadows deeper with the half-light floating around the room, casting a contrast difficult for the eyes to juggle. "Goodbye, love...." he managed to speak, something finally piercing the silence. The coldness of the room, of the year...or, the coldness of his sorrow, gripped him in a moment from which he then and there made a decision: "I will not return to this room, again. I...cannot." The man, turned to the dresser next to him, grabbing his wide-brimmed hat from the desk and...there, in the half-light, he caught his reflection in the hanging mirror placed above. He, a Gur. He, son of the clan Mercari. He, named Gaston and...and...once wed to....

The reflection held no meaning, anymore, in the moment. And he rushed to the door, to escape into the world.

[Steve]

One: Darkness within Darkness

There is the Mystery. There is the Manifestation.

There is the self that I see. The self that is yet to be seen, unfolding. There is the self that others see. All Men must look into the darkness.

Some travel from without, some travel to within. A People, a family, a man...now upon the highway, alone.

I asked the Master of the Silverpalm how it was, that so many were taken, yet those that brought the Rotting to the Gate, none of them suffered. None of them rotted away.... I asked of the Master: "Shall it be that the lower castes be damned by the Gods, while those that seek adventure, fortune, fame...are free from such ills of life?" I told the Master they were now my enemies. The Master of the Silverpalm demanded calmness, reflection. He said: "Catch your thoughts within Breath...and they will never betray you."

I close my eyes and try not to see Their faces, instead, to see a future that has meaning. But I do not control the visions.

The Master said: "If they are to be your enemy, then you must come to Know them. When you can see into their heads, listen to its rhythm...then you will know if they are what you say." And so the Master shows me to myself.

The mystery and the manifestation.

It is yet to be said whether I am coming out of the darkness...or entering deeper within.

[Steve]

Guiding the Self

20 The Claw of Winter, 1351
For weeks, Gaston lived on the edge of his People, their world, his world...though he no longer felt part of it. They, the Gur, knew his grief was deep, and they let him wander, for it was in the heart of this People that to walk, to stride, to cover a distance physically, was also Their way to overcome the distance of the heart, the mind, the soul. True nomads, these Gur. The People of the Highway, they are called by some. Baldur's Gate one of their few, stable homes. Yet, at this time in this Year of the Crown, all was in jeopardy of being destroyed by the Sickness.

Having abandoned the home he had shared with his now dead wife, Gaston took solace in the care of the Master of the Silverpalm, he that would always welcome him with hands open. Gaston sought answers to questions that perplex the mortal, answers that asked the nature of I, what is my purpose, what shall I do with the Self? What the Master had to say in response, would never be direct, yet, was constant, and with purpose: "Follow the way of the Breath, that which can guide you." Gaston did not doubt the Master's words. They only seemed far too simple, to be a single answer to all troubles, the key that could solve any problem. Gaston's will sagged, in these weeks since the death of his wife from the Rotting, and such a failure of will facilitated his total surrender to the words of the Master, the tasks that the Master bid him do. Gaston yearned to empty the corporal shell of the past, and fill it anew with the Breath. Thus a inner diplomacy began to grow, between warring emotions. Wisdom grew from the work assigned him by the Master—Gaston walked the edge of the world of his People, and offered his hand in aid...as the Master showed him, a balanced hand, not existing to judge, but to guide.

It became known amongst the Gur that Gaston was immune to the sickness—the Breath was as shield against it. Gaston did not actively seek to help his People, but they did entreat him to tend others that had gained the symptoms of the Rotting, and he would not deny them this request—he knew they had laid his wife to rest when he could not bear it, and the guilt he suffered for this failure to address the dead, was a debt he directly owed them. The suffering was great amongst the sick—the onset of cough, then a quick collapse of the body, to within days, sometimes only hours, an exuding of the black-green ick from all orifices, then....Death. Gaston held them, cleaned them, counted their number each day, the living and the dead. He could not heal them, only listen to their suffering, witness their passing. Bless them as they travelled onward, yet not by foot.

In Gaston, within his core being, from his work amongst his People and the suffering he did witness, a dark flame was lit. Gaston soon felt it, but would not speak of it to the Master. It was dangerous, this dark flame, this dark light within the darkness of his consciousness. It was not balanced. Gaston could not extinguish it, from willful attempts. Slowly, as more time was spent with the Gate, watching those sickness spread, and the dying numbers grew...he felt the dark flame burn stronger—a dark flame in the darkness of Self. Gaston worried. Self preservation was what guided him now...but where was the shining light that would keep the balance within?

One evening, as he led himself through the Wide, on a task to bring fresh water to those lay dying in the beds provided them by the Master, a mystery occurred. The bustle of the market was gone, though people still walked hurriedly about in the cold, winter air. Mindlessly acting upon order, a bucket nearly full with water sloshing in one hand, Gaston fell upon a sight that stopped his feet. His first reaction was to blink away the vision, though secretly, he had hoped to see another—a gift to receive from He of the Third Eye. But as Gaston focused his eyes upon the object sitting upon the ground in front of him, the mundanity of it, there, erased any thought that he was seeing more than what eyes can percieve. It was, upon the ground in front of him, a lantern. Lit, burning, a small flame of simple brightness, illuminating the area all round it. Gaston looked upon this lantern with curiosity, his consciousness of his surrounding awakening for the first time in days, maybe weeks, since.... This simple thing, this image before him, this simple illumination, this shining flame...it was as if it had the power to penetrate the stupor from which he operated. Unrefined style, without detail, and imperfect ground glass defined the lanterns form. Alone, upon the cobblestones, it sat imperfect and at angle. Gaston looked upon his surroundings, the area of the plaza, and saw no others there, none that could lay claim to this object of giving light. Gaston waited for a time, the bucket of water growing heavier in hand. The lantern, the light...it too waited, burned, unwavering. The plaza, the Wide, the district, the Gate...it too, waited, in those moments. It was a stillness in the night, a peace. One flame had balanced another.

Alone. A shared sense of being, animate and inanimate alike...or was that truly so? "I lay claim to you, and you will be my guide in the dark..." Gaston said aloud, giving himself whatever right was needed to take the action, of walking to the lantern, lifting it from the ground and holding it high, in front of him.

In that moment, Gaston felt he could perceive a way out of the darkness.

[Steve]

Two: That Is Why It Lasts Forever

When the work is done, you must forget it.

The work has only begun...and nothing that I hear seems real; nothing that I spot is tangible. I can stand in the middle of the city with arms wide open against the flow, and sense how invisible I have become.

Things will arise, and I must let them come. Things will disappear...and I must let them go.

But I cannot forget her face. It was simple, caring, smooth to the touch, and would always smile upon me when I most needed it.

I also cannot forget the black-green sewage that flowed from her mouth at the moment the Rotting took her....

I fear that image will last forever. I seek an un-haunting of this memory.

[Steve]

The Haunting

21 The Claw of Sunsets, 1351
Gaston entered a state between fulfilling obligation to the Master, and a removed, idle actions day in, day out. The burn of the winter, the burn of the Rotting kept the City and it's inhabitants in a half-state of panic—those that were of simply means, continued to contract the disease, while those that had brought the disease to the Gate, continued on as if nothing was to affect them. Gaston, the Gur...Gaston, the invisible of the unseen People, could watch it all as if removed from it...but Death, the reality eater, called upon the less fortunate without abandon.

Through this state between obligations and idleness, there was one exception that brought earnest reaction from Gaston: the complete and total avoidance of reflection. Mirrors were shunned by him. He avoided all pauses near window panes, any glass, even metal works...he simply could not bear to see his own face. For in seeing himself, he would see his lose, and...as suffering continued around him within the City, his mind would not let him think of a better future.

Still, Gaston journeyed through the inner haunting of the month of Ches, once solely guided by his surrender to the Breath, as well, his concentration upon the lantern that he let guide him during the night. The lantern flame grew to the level of metaphor, for his spirit: it would burn, unyielding, and, as the winter pushed on, he copied the power of the smallest strength needed to sustain that flame, which sustained his own spirit.

It would only be at the end of this period that Gaston realized that, the lantern itself was paned with glass, and when focused of the flame, he saw through any reflection, or, illusion of the self, that his injured emotions carried along. Gaston brought this revelation to the Master, seeking to confirm his own gain in wisdom, as it pertained to him. After confessing this insight to the Master, he of the Silverpalm waited in silence for some time before replying. But soon enough, the Master responded with this words: "This flame that burns in your mind, can be captured within the hands...and put towards burning away much chaos that surrounds you...surrounds us all."

The next day, both Gaston and the Master began the training.

[Steve]

Three: Everything Will Fall Into Place

People become powerless, when they overesteem great men.

Emptying the mind...a task that should be achieved as simply as emptying a glass of water by tilting it upside down. Then, filling the core with the power of Breath. It is the goal set before me.

I asked the Master of the Silverpalm how it is that supposed great men are those chosen to rule, when...it is people that should come to govern themselves. When a self-governed individual can only fail themselves, while a great man who rules can often fail many—a great many—at times...who is He that causes more destruction and suffering in their way?

And what is the better way? To uphold the personal code, such that one is neither swayed by pomp or circumstance, or...to follow the code of another, placing faith in the hands of another?

It is even this desire to know these things, to name them, that I must shed. To shed all desire, to be simply an observer, the watchful eye.

I cannot lead anyone but myself. But in not-doing, I will remove all confusion...from what must be done.

Practice.

I will help people lose everything they know...and things will fall into place.

[Steve]

Four: Hidden But Always Present

All the senses must stay open. It is simple to just see, easy to only hear...now I must sense the qualities of difference.

My people have been guided by the Gods far longer than history can record it. As a people, we have walked the face of Faerun for so long, for so many miles, that the road, our highway, has become part of our being. My People are the highway—a People guided with love as if we were children to the Moonmaiden herself. We are the hidden, but always present watchers. It is we that possess the Sight. As we walk open hearted and observe, so shall my People divine that which will befall us. And...others.

Is this why the Master of the Silverpalm has brought us the greater strength found in the Breath? It is a power that has existed before the Gods themselves. It is the truth. For all the Gods, god and evil, exist in the precarious balance above and below us.

It will take a balanced hand to welcome what shall come to us from the eternal void filled with infinite possibilities.

I am struck by this moment of revelation: I am looking to the future without the pain of the past. My hands are steady, calm. Yet they feel as if a fire burns within them. Let them burn...and let them cleanse.

[Steve]

Five: Hold On To The Center

Both...the good and the evil. Actions are done in name, but so often without perspective...and so often, without a welcoming of the Other.

And so we are told, how to be, what to say...many more times what not to say. That is not power, that is not the Breath. It is a way of use, and once used, produces more. When those that stand above you talk and say, there is less to understand. But maybe that is what they want.

My people have known the low road, for centuries, walked with eyes peering long, the horizontal distance, feet planted firmly upon the ground. We are not above any others; without sides. Buy my people know the act of being forced to look up, to those that look down upon my People. The Breath is ancient, a power living inside both saint and sinner. One cannot be empty, welcoming and capable, when one takes side in every judgement.

So how is it that we can rule ourselves, with wisdom? Hold on to the center...and breath. As the Master of the Silverpalm has taught the People: there will always be suffering...one need not create more of it. But I ask myself, still...is inaction not proven to lead to more suffering? Her death still haunts, and I must confess this.