Cyrithe - Diary of Thoughts

[Selande]

The voice calms and no longer calls to her. Honey toned words hiding the bitter medicine of their purpose. Reform and change. To find her a faith. And beyond that, he would ask only an embrace. Lacking though. The silence speaks more to her than the hymns ever did. All those prayers never mattered until they were gone.

Others speak to her now. Words of regret and remorse. Words of action as the ants scurry to make sense of it. She already knows though. She has known this for a long time.

The lights of day swallowed by tear laden clouds. She watches on, alone, as the deluge pours. Listening for the voice in the cacophony of rain absently, her face dry and fingers curled upon this book. She wonders what would read it now. Some creature that has never met her - she had never wronged it - yet it would take from her.

Slowly she writes without purpose. How this ant makes sense of the rain. Sitting in her cave biding time and binding thoughts to paper. A still mind would be a boon if ever it could be granted. A story, she tells herself, all that it is and will ever be. But not one to be written and told. This one has weight.

To find faith was all he ever asked. His wish of her. Met with death and judged to join the Faithless, she once resolved to that fate, knowing she had done what she could. Fate or faith intervened and spared her so that she might try again. A search she was to do with him.

Talking to herself aloud she wishes that volume would make the answers appear. Questions echoing off the crystalline walls only for her to hear sounded again and again. Form is given shape only to assail these creatures drowning in the rain. This new place is her home, her words and rage will fill it until all who would contest her claim spill from the outlet like too much mead poured into an already brimming cup.

Decorating its walls is an art she had nearly forgotten. One she thought incapable of due to her lacking form. Perhaps it is his strength that she now wields. All his prowess without the morals and faith to restrain it. His arm that guides her blade and carries the burden for her and his footprints that cast the sanguine tale of where they have been. An ink drawn from any near enough to appreciate her art for one fatal moment. The creature took from her the voice and gave her this beauty to share. She should spare a moment as payment.

In the sun, she has found its darkest. In the silence, she has found the words to say. In absence, she can feel purpose.

And in her self-loathing and despair, she has found wrath.

[Selande]

His words keep calling. A lie, she tells herself. A ruse to draw her into the dark once more. She closes them out. Closes him out, but the memories...

The blade of her new life is now well used. She admires it as the river runs red in passing. A gift from one she thinks a friend but who has to hide from her. This blade of her hidden life. Apt as it cuts those who come against it. Keeps others at distance. Perhaps he knew in giving it to her. Knew that she could only bring suffering with her new life. A sword was not built for peace. Neither was she.

The darkness parts nearing the blade but only for a moment of violence. Then it returns to claim the silence and running blood as it's own. She wonders what it is made of. Perhaps it is death and sorrow incarnate. The warmth of a fire and friends keeps it at bay for only the moments til they leave and the fire dies. Then it is welcomed back.

That violent moment though. She sometimes lives for it. When the voice beckoning ceases and she can once again indulge in craft with an audience that can appreciate the spectacle only once. Such a grand display, to part that darkness. A final gift she can give. Then she meets the river again to bathe her life.

Waters run it clean and snug in sheath. Hidden and in the dark. How is this different? Is this the gift the darthiiri intended? She is no longer of use to his cause except to meet nameless foes in brilliant envoy to the dark once again. It will always return.

A finger along the blade she wonders the kiss it gives. Whether her life will fuel that cycle in the end as well. Passing the blade to a river or someone who opposes the returning darkness. They would oppose her, obviously. A thought she now entertains.

The voice calls again. Why is it calling? A lie. This paper is stained with thoughts of lies now. Cast aside the lies. The memories. This writ of faith.

Someone greater will perhaps take it up. A conquest for them.

[Selande]

The subject arrives, a stalwart foreign jaluk, towering even taller than myself. His eyes glazed as though staring at something distant, blind to those nearest him. It well may be true. My cohort and I greet him, as instructed. We usher him to the mirror in the room beyond the doorway. He does not react. We adjust his garb to more presentable, flirtatiously though he seems never to notice.

Neutered perhaps, this one. Though why she would see him as such I cannot fathom. Nevertheless he is important. I affix the decorous mask to his face. A trivial thing. Pointless. Everyone knows who he is and this meeting is for him alone.

Metal glints in several places along his face. These dimly lit halls so faint that even we can barely see it. A foreigner. Still, he is surefooted and unwavering. Cohort and I escort him to the next room...

Corridor feeds into a voluminous room of untold proportions, darkened beyond the corridor that even illythiiri cannot see in the pitch. Footsteps echo deadened as we walk him to a luxurious chair in the center of the room at the end of the corridor light. Pressing him into the seat, she places a crystalline glass into his resting hand as I pour a scented liquor into it from decanter. He forever stares forward behind his mask. Forever absent to the happenings around him.

We depart and I can hear the first sip behind us as he indulges in the material realm for the first time.

I raise the decanter to smell the wonderful aroma wafting from it as she asks me, "He is to meet with... her..." Her voice filled with trepidation. She meant the ilharess of course. We'd both learned to not speak her name...

I nod in response, capping the decanter sharply. "We'll not hear his screams long then..." she speaks again, almost hopeful. Again breaking the tenet we had accepted in this role. I nod in response...

As we enter the corridor, the metallic sound akin to sword meeting scabbard seals the room behind us as the barrier falls into place. Resplendent darksteel, I suspect, though I'd never looked back to verify. My thought drift to the chamber we had just left. The only light that had graced it now removed completely.

Decanter on pedestal near door. Cohort retires to quarters, finally adhering to the silence she was to embrace fully.

"Such a fine jaluk to waste..." I think to myself, "the ilharess knows not the bitter drop in his drink... to taint his blood from just a sip. And all those who would drink it." I cannot help but smile in my departure from this service, undoing various decorous garments as I walk the streets to the faern tasked to recover me from assignment.

"Finally," aloud to myself as no one else were near, "I can return to my books..."

[Selande]

Dawn comes to slay the darkness. Light and dark are opposites but not equals. Light gives shape to those it would greet. It gives them color and warmth. Dark lends no form to those it would embrace. No, they are not equals...

Day comes again, an increasingly familiar phenomenon. Darkness retreats to cower behind the figures bold enough to stand in brilliance. To cast a shadowy refuge for darkness. Darkness will now take their form. It will serve them. It shall keep them cool when it is hot. It will shield my eyes when it is too bright. So long as there is the Light to keep command.

We shall not be greedy or demanding of the Light. We will not ask it to stay and deny others its company. The darkness will come again to reap color and warmth from the world. To cast fear in those weak enough to accept its guise as strength.

Those who fear the dark have never seen what the light can do...

[Selande]

Reader, what is a name?

Is it simply a gift at birth or the combined signature of another's will? Is it a tool to help shape you, a wish to compel you to what they want you to become? Daughter or son. Before you've ever become something, it's branded to you.

*a different style of handwriting*
You are now my daughter and I have named you. You will work in my--
*resumes normal handwriting*
Property to be owned.

Is a name like a shadow? Does it follow you, in your vaguest image, or does it become you? Footprint or reflection. Still waters still show me those lies; how I've lied. I know that name and am perhaps the last to know but I do not wish its revival. Is that vile?

Stood at the wall of absolutes and told many truths. Spared judgment, I've had time to reflect and to some dismay I had forgotten the lie entirely. Accepted it as truth instead. Perhaps I wished it so.

If I wear different boots, are my tracks not changed? If I find a new path, should I be weighed down by the journey to it? Such a burden of the past.

I was named a sword and became a book. Would you call a book "Sword?"



Books will lie, though. Perhaps it should be called a sword to suit its nature.

[Selande]

I have never climbed a tree, reader. You'd think it some mundane, trivial thing, climbing a tree. My pale kin do it like they were sprouted from seed. It's strange to think them never fearing heights.

But why would they?

When I ascended, I knew of the sky. Knew that it would threaten to swallow me whole like falling the wrong way into a sea. I can swim in either, however. The unease was plain on my companions faces. That sort of disgusted expression as if they were forced to touch a slimemold door to proceed.

Trees I had read about as well...

My youth was different. I scaled stone walls. I slogged muddy slopes. Learned to swim in pools of water nearly indistinguishable from the caverns around them. I wonder if this would make them uneasy.

As I grew older I learned the sword and shield and bow and knife. I learned to sing. Learned that words hold power whether they accompany music or are spoken of the arcane or simply whispered in the right ear. Those dances and all the right steps. I wonder if this would make them uneasy.

Then I learned of the gods and their distrust of mortals. I learned of the lesser races and their gods. I even met a few of their devout, reader. Men and women who give their entire lives to serve these gods. I've even seen some of their miracles. Blessings for service. Endowed powers to further aid a common cause.

Then I came to meet my judgement when I had already given up all prayer and I came to realize something that I should have noticed before.

We serve the gods and they do not care. And we tremble.

*the ink slashes here as if to strike the rest of the page*

*written through the marring*
Do you remember the wall, reader? Did you fear it? That damned eternity and torment. That nothingness of what you've become. All your deeds erased and any promise that once glimmered to be stamped out. Did it make you uneasy?

[Selande]

When you turn a page: does it become upside down, inside out or simply backwards?

[Selande]

Lies are boldly spoken.
Truth is soft spoken.

This must be correct, otherwise why would you mutter when you pray?

[Selande]

*In a hurried, almost fleeting thought manner. As if rushed to write everything in one stroke.*

They called them the Northmen, though that was really all an illusion. Misguided. Deceptive.

The Northmen always came from the north. Attacked from the north. Raided northern outposts and left ruin anywhere they found weakness.

The few who led the sheep of the flock kept their dwindling wits at bay, refusing to consider options other than the obvious. Sheep they were. Too daft a prey.

The truth of it was that the Northmen were their trading partners from the south. A long voyage to circle around. Maintain the impression that the north was a hostile front and the south being allies. Instead, they were selling their goods and pillaging them back. Spoils of war, it was called. Though I've pondered different since.

The real goal was to draw strength from their allies. A weakness that they could easily exploit and would slowly sap the entire beast. I wonder now why there was never any collaboration. Any exchange of persons to lead these sheep from their slaughter.

Is it that the obvious answer is truly the easiest to accept? Are we so ready to jump to these conclusions, despite the cost?

Or is it that the alternatives are perhaps paranoid and hopeless. Perhaps we choose to accept the reality we prefer.

*Sometime later the following is written, in a more thoughtful, calm and flowing script.*

You were young once. Made mistakes and were ignorant as youth often does. Do you recall times when you accepted something false as truth, even though you had doubts?

Parents are often this way. Looking back, there were many things to doubt. At the time, everything made sense. Too many times there were questions unasked and unanswered. Ignored for the obvious resolution.

Is it our fault?

[Selande]

I've spoken several times of my companions, often wary and perhaps longingly. Both of which are the purest truth. They were few who did much. Each fitting their role perfectly to make a coherent whole. I'm still not sure how but I found a place among them. They didn't have a need for it. Perhaps it was pity. Perhaps it was like keeping another pet.

My first visit to the dark bazaar was uneventful. I had hoped to find something I could trade with. Somewhere a disguised talent may sleep peacefully while providing some service. I had worn many masks and could pass with most crafts. If I were a little older, perhaps. No one hires youth. Not in this bazaar.

Ascending, the tunnels were barren. A few travelers speaking in tongues I recognized but they did not seem interested in stopping. I must have lost track of where I was heading because eventually I found foes.

Goblins are not a significant threat on paper but you never expect to be alone facing a horde. That's another situation entirely, and I was not prepared. This is where I met my first companion, the Huntress.

She could have worn as many prowess titles as I wore false ones. She was an expert archer to say the very least. A horde of goblins would be felled easily if she had an equal count of arrows. She had many more on that day. It wasn't until much later that I would learn how true to her goddess she was.

*a smudge of ink stains the page here as if it were carelessly dripped and then attempted to wipe away too late*

There was a time when we were given a task. We were hired to eavesdrop on an important meeting taking place. None of us had the particular skillset needed to remain undetected on this meeting, as there were dozens of guards and it was in a rather remote location. A disguise would have drawn too much attention. That didn't hamper our plans, however.

The Huntress dispatched enough of the guards that we could all get near enough to listen. Unfortunately, as the meeting departed we were discovered by one of the factions. Violence ensued.

We tried to egress but the Huntress and I became separated from the others. I later found out they had teleported away, a dangerous risk as we had been transported to the area by an agent of our contract.

I drew on some of my martial training and only provided a feeble barrier between the guards and the Huntress, who never missed her mark, as usual. As we gained distance on the meeting area, we lost our pursuers. These were foreign tunnels, however. Nothing I had studied prior. We wandered a bit before finding an enormous worm.

Reader, I can't accurately explain the difference between this worm and those that birds eat here. The size of this creature -- It could easily devour a farmhouse.

The Huntress and I had snuck up on it. She looked at me with an expression of interest. I'm sure I seemed dismayed at the time. Without a second thought about it, she drew and fired at the enormous beast, a battle we could have easily avoided. A challenge she could not ignore.

Truthfully, I was thrilled. Terrified perhaps, but the thought of combat against a monstrosity that I had only ever read about gave me shivers. It was needless violence, no tact or planning as I had become accustomed to with these companions. It was crude and impulsive and pointless, but it felt -- *the sentence goes without conclusion*

When the beast was dead, the walls came alive. Or rather sections of them. Apparently the slumbering worm was the only thing that kept the native surroundings idle. The Dark has lurking threats everywhere. Puddles become ooze, fungi animate aggressively, things of that nature. It's not a particularly rare happening in the Dark, but one we were, once again, unprepared for. My fault entirely.

I only know of them from story -- referred to as Living Rock, these creatures could not be felled by arrows and I wasn't about to test a blade against them. So once again, we fled. An unheroic end to what was otherwise a pretty remarkable day.

Too bad we couldn't speak of it at the tavern.

*on the backside of the next page she writes:*
Is it proper to carry out a task once you've agreed to it? What if that task becomes something you had not expected?

[Selande]

It was in the worst ways that we learned gossip spread faster than a messenger, whether it was word on wind or spider on wall. Her agents always seemed to know first. And that is why she is feared... and respected.

The campaigns had run weary of their course; empty and exhausted of all but commands from afar. Deserters quickly lost name and became number. One became two became twelve became twenty. She always knew of those who fled and what they thought was a sole salvation would quickly become... nothing. I told myself it would be easier to not learn their stories in these circumstances. That they would be forgotten or otherwise betrayed despite what my ledger showed. Yet still I remember my notes written in the dimmest light and on bits of borrow - or stolen - script. Perhaps the worst assortment of my works and I lately ponder their merit.

Were their stories summed by the weight of those scraps? Is that in Her power also?

She does not forgive. She does not show mercy. Even as I write now, She seeks. Sometimes in proper form and sometimes even in my memories. I wonder which she has taken from me as I reverie strange details at times. Dreams, the paleskins call it. He called it. Dreams were fabrications though, like visiting a storyteller each and every night. What a soothing thought, that it would be so easy.

For us though, it is reliving memory: taken for granted all those cycles until it becomes distant, distinct and finally worrisome. Waking with retch for those thoughts, whether they were new truth or delusion finally unfolded. Which was it and what is it now? If only I had those scraps...

I wonder now the fullness of Her reach. Know that I am still young and my mind less addled by age than most. Know this because it is still fact and wellness for me. I can confirm youth through glint and glean, though with each source I sense doubt. Perhaps it is the eddies of my lessons struggling to bring me into their fold.

Is it mending to turn blind to dangers? Is it growth to become numb?