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August 25, 2005
The Gods Themselves - On Annwn's Shore
Darkness, and the sound of the current, of the waves lapping the shore. The source of the noise is a river, so vast that it is more a sea, extending impossibly long into the flat horizon.
The world is all lead and bone and luminescence, a world of terrifyingly unnatural nature, a world alien and yet as such, perfectly fitting.
He moves, as a sound breaks the tranquility, a whisper that mounts with each passing moment. He scrabbles in the sand, he runs to the edge of the mirror-like water, and he waits.
He fears, viscerally, intensely, the fear of one who has gone so far beyond what they know that all that remains to them is the fear.
And then, through the fog, the Mistress herself comes.
"Bjar, son of Veliz, son of Elvorim," a low, feminine voice calls. The words themselves, though formless, seem to ensnare him despite his fear, spurring him forward. He is made shamefully aware of his nudity, with these few words, reacting to them as if to a caress of his bare skin.
He drops to one knee, desperate fear still grasping at him, but his mind is made clear by a single word, a single stubborn manifestation of will. Faith. His faith will clothe him, will shield him. He need not fear the Mistress, he tells himself, for he has done naught to anger her, and honours her like any other. He tells himself this, and trembles as each of her words falls upon him like a blow, disrupting what calm he manages to rally.
The conversation lasts an eternity.
All else fades from his thoughts, it is only her voice and he that remain. At the edge of his vision, he can glimpse the outline of her figure, regal and beautiful and awe-inspiring. He dares not raise his eyes further.
"Is there some way then, Mistress, that she can yet be saved? Some act, some sacrifice, that will save that 'child'?"
"Yes." Silence follows this, a lifetime's worth, and he begins to fear again, thinking himself abandoned but not wishing to lift his eyes and know for certain. Finally, she continues, "The child must be born. The mother cannot fight, pregnant, overfull as she is."
More words follow, instructions, clarifications, but somewhere in his mind a memory repeats endlessly, afflicting him, distracting him. A Tiress, clutching at her abdomen with clawed, bloody hands, clutching at the gash within her belly. A child, so quickly made aware of, so quickly sworn to protect, and then just as swiftly and irrevocably lost. He feels remembered grief, helplessness, anger.
Never again.
The memory of another child, yet unborn, that he holds within his heart as if it were his own, a faceless infant that evokes unconditional love and yet, also, a certain faint bitterness.
Always, the children suffer.
The conversation ends, the figures turning to disappear oncemore into the fog. The last words carry back to him, conveying the disinterest and the distance that only a god is capable of, called over the Mistress' shoulder as she departs. "Your master also petitioned for your release from my realm... I have decided to grant his request."
And then the world is gone, replaced with cold and dark and hunger. He hugs himself, naked and frightened once more, left alone with only his thoughts, with the weight of Morhiag's judgement still fresh. And he remembers, all that came before, even the sharp pain of the knife through his lung.
He smiles faintly to himself, and nods, his eyes dark as the sky above but glinting with something - hope, ambition, pride. Now... now his true work will begin.
Posted by Bjar at 07:43 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
August 24, 2005
The Gods Themselves - Will and Testament
Mariv Azirni looked upon the mangled, mutilated corpse of his brother, and found that he could not weep. He looked upon Bjar's brow and chest and right palm, where parabolic spirals had been etched into the flesh. He looked upon the scraps of flesh that hung limply from the man's back, skin flayed nearly completely from the bone. And finally, he looked upon the dark hole in Bjar's chest, just left and down from the centre, the wound that had finally ended the man.
His brother.
And still he could not weep, even as he carefully put away Bjar's possessions, or as he straightened and re-ordered the new supplies that had been obtained. Or as, finally, he withdrew from the shelves a sheaf of papers, and began to read them.
"I, Bjar Azirni, have prepared this document in order for my wishes to be carried out in the event of my death. This will dispense with all of my worldly possessions, and all who are named within must be permitted to read the document in the presence of my appointed heir, my brother Mariv. While this will should be read immediately, the instructions below must be carried out precisely a week from my death and at sunset; no less, no more.
To Mariv himself, I leave the title of Patriarch of the family Azirni, and with it all of the Azirni business. All assets that are not otherwise mentioned below will also fall to you, my brother, and I am confident that you possess the wisdom and the discipline to utilize them properly. If you do not wish to accept it, however, it will go to Eleia and, lacking her acceptance, I instruct you to sell it and donate all proceeds to Cravik Vuldurn for the purposes of furthering his efforts towards establishing a monastery and temple to Melchior.
To Eleia, I leave a quarter of all of my money, as well as my favourite pair of leather gloves; I know you've little need for anything else, and you'd be offended by further assistance. If you do not wish to accept the money, it will go instead towards funding the creation of Melchior's Temple, mentioned above.
To Tzoli, I leave a quarter of all of my money, as well as the original sketch of that dress I made for you, so long ago. You may also, if you wish, request any number of garments from the Azirni Clothiers Guild, which will be produced and delivered to you free of charge.
To Venice, I leave the contents of my study, aside from the tailoring instruments, as well as the book you gave me so long ago. May you better teach others with what I have accumulated, my love. Also, I leave the remaining quarter of my money; if you do not wish it, it may be donated to the efforts of creating Melchior's Temple, as mentioned above.
To Cravik Vuldurn, I leave my Omuit robes. You will find them to surely be an ill fit, but perhaps they will serve as a tangible reminder of the complexities of one's faith. I leave also a single, slender, sacred volume; a record I've kept of my discourses with our master, and of my reflections on them. Perhaps it will be an enlightening read, perhaps not.
To the following, only words:
Aubren - One cannot be devoted to a god, and yet blind to his principles. It would be best to model yourself after Vuldurn, a true member of the faithful.
To the Rat - The path of redemption always remains, if you have the courage to seek it and the strength to walk it. Bitterness will only turn to ash all around you.
To Nybrylla - The same as would be said to the Rat, and this as well; if I could have saved your child that day, I would have, by any price. Remember that.
To Taliesin - Our long rivalry is ended, I suppose, and you no doubt have 'won'. Keep her safe.
*a seperate note is hastily scribbled at the bottom:*
Within my study, Venice and Sergeant Vuldurn will find my notes towards the development of a particular weapon, a powerful concoction that I have not yet begun to master. I had hoped to oversee its development, but all things considered, it will fall to you two to continue my work, and so my writings on it and what supplies I have used for experimentation are yours. May Melchior guide and bless you in your efforts. This instruction, unlike the others, should be carried out immediately.
I leave to Venice, also, my knife. Remember."
Mariv stood, and walked to the center of the room, looking around at each piece of furniture, each tapestry. A breeze blew from without, a sudden chill wind unusual in the springtime, causing the door to the street to sway gently.
And then he wept, like a child, for the emptiness he felt.
Posted by Bjar at 11:52 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
9th, End of Spring, 1st Year of Robert I
There is a duality in all things. A balance. I have believed so all my life, that to each thing there is a Dark and a Light. I know the Dark of my heart, of my mind, far too well - the Light of it seems only to be seen by others, though it is no less manifest, I imagine.
Of late, and with this last news, I fear that this balance has been overthrown entirely. No, that is incorrect - the balance had shifted long ago, the Darkness overwhelming and the Light just barely remaining, offsetting it a desperate fraction.
Now, the scales themselves would seem as if they would be destroyed, and all else rendered meaningless.
The demons come.
There is pathetically little I can do as a man, as a tailor, as a practitioner of medicine. For all of my studies and my pursuit of knowledge, for all of my diligence and intelligence, there is naught I can do against a host of the Darkness itself.
But, nevertheless, I made my preparations. The house nears completion, and I have already moved in our possessions and my siblings; immediately after, I instructed Mariv to sell off all of our fabrics and threads, all those unnecessary and replaceable things, before the story of the horde broke to the greater city.
With this money, I hope to purchase lantern oils, and clay pots, to prepare what meagre defense I could think of, what little assistance I might be able to provide. I recalled that the demons feared fire - or perhaps that is too gracious, to say that they fear, in their twisted minds. They are mortal, I will say instead, and fire harms them they same as any mortal. I know of a mixture, from my studies, that makes the flame live longer, clinging to all that it touches upon; a fearsome weapon, and difficult to use. A small batch, however, should be of some use.
I have also revised my will, should Morhiag find me in the conflict; I wrote it some time ago, when I became Patriarch of the Azirni. Now, I feel it must be somewhat pointless, as there is little hope that the city will endure, much less my own kin. Nevertheless, it is done, and given to Mariv for safe keeping. I look upon him with such pride, and I know my brother will be able to carry on if my fate carries me to Annwn before one could hope. I have ensured also that Tzoli will be cared for, and all others that are dear to me acknowledged and appreciated.
As I noted before, as a man there is very little I can do against the Dark. As a priest, however, I may be capable of far more - I plan to lead a session of prayer, a gathering of all the true faithful that I might lay hands upon. An offering of blood beyond that which I can give myself, to plead with my master for intervention, for mercy. It will be a prayer to surpass any other that I have undertaken, and I admit I am fearful of what answer I will receive; even more fearful that I will receive no answer at all.
If the blood does not suffice, I am prepared to give my life.
Before I go, I will hide this journal away with the other tomes in my study. Some day, perhaps, it will be read by other eyes than mine; the key to the study will remain in my robes, for whomever cares for my body to find.
No matter what happens, I wish to note one last time my love for my kin and for my dear one. Mariv, Eleia, Tzoli - it is people such as you that bring light to the world; never allow your light to dim, nor the others around you to be lost in the Dark. To my Venice - I shall say only that I love you, and that fact alone would be sufficient reason to struggle to return from Annwn itself.
May Melchior guide and bless us all in the dark days ahead, and may the gods have mercy on our souls.
Posted by Bjar at 09:56 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
8th, End of Spring, 1st Year of Robert I
No sooner had I commited the dilemma of the Dryth to paper, was I forced to confront it in reality. And, though I stood fast in my faith, I ultimately failed, and I fear for all the city by that failure.
I have faced the Forsaken One, and stood against him. That memory will remain with me for my entire life - my mind eternally scarred by the sense of Him, the unbeing that is his being, the feeling of pure corruption and treachery filling the very air.
I am a priest; to whom do I minister?
I had sat down in the Whispering Wraith to eat dinner, something I forget to do more often than not. Eleia harasses me for it constantly, believing that between the stress of my worship and the normal effort of tailoring I shall simply waste away. I doubt this, though I try to appease her by eating (and sleeping, that is another thing she complains of) whenever I remember.
A citizen rushed in, and told us of the Rat and Nybrylla, cornered within the Duke's Bounty by the Guard. Nybrylla, I had oftentimes attempted to redeem, to convince her to repent of her criminal past, of the blood that stains black her soul - ultimately, I think, I failed in that. The Rat, he was yet Dryth, and so I could do no less than attempt to reason with him, as the Priest of Melchior. I foolishly believed I could avoid bloodshed through my presence, my words alone; that I could end the crisis with some more hopeful result than a massacre.
It was confusing there, a crowd of people. I was taken hostage during my attempts to negotiate their surrender and, almost simultaneously, Nybrylla was struck down by one of the Guardsmen, a fierce lantern-jawed man with a mace. A priest of some sort, I believe, by his later actions.
It was at that moment that the true crisis began - a feeling filled the room, all things made slow, as if the air itself had become heavier. A cloud of something that was, indescribably, nonexistent, moved about the room, and within my heart I knew this to be the Forsaken One's hand, His presence, and could not stand idly by.
I stood against.
Bearing no weapons, wearing no armour save the robes of my Order, I stood against the Forsaken One himself, rejecting his presence and his bargaining, for it was a deal that he wished to strike with Lycenth. I could not do all that I wished to - the deal was yet struck, the Dryth and UnDryth both taken from the room as if they had never even been there at all. Only the Guardsmen and I remained.
The events left me... drained. Uncertain. Such a thing changes a man, to feel the force of a god directly before them, and this was not the tranquility of Melchior nor the compassion of Ylessa - this was the Forsaken's taint, a bitter draught forced upon me that I spat out again though the taste of it will never leave me.
It came to be that, soon after, the Rat became forsaken himself, the gods all having turned from him for his treachery (though, in a depressingly ironic twist, he considers -their- turning to be itself treachery). A man came to the Hospital, bearing the injuries inflicted upon him by the Rat's rage; perhaps lacking a direct access to the gods, he seeks to draw their attention by commiting further atrocities, as if he were a neglected child misbehaving only to garner the precious attention that they so deeply crave. The man was tortured, terribly, and there was nothing I could do to ease his pain, so I chose instead to end his suffering, taking his life for Melchior and dispatching his spirit to Annwn.
I cradle the blood-stained knife in my free hand, as I write this, the light of the moons and stars giving it an almost luminescent appearance, for all the darkness of its iron blade and its gore. There is a strange beauty in it, I confess.
But the weight of it, this simple instrument, is far, far too heavy.
Posted by Bjar at 09:29 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
August 22, 2005
7th, End of Spring, 1st Year of Robert I
Morday. Still before dawn.
Looking back in this journal, I notice there are pages torn out.
I don't remember doing that.
It seems that I haven't written or kept an entry for several months.
A lot has happened in that time, more than I care to recount in detail, almost too much to even want to think about as I commit the basic elements of the story to paper.
My priesthood - foremost, amidst all else. The burdens of it, the rare gifts as Melchior grants me glimpses of His wisdom. How can I even begin to describe the feeling of a god when He speaks within my mind? It defies description, it is like attempting to explain the essence of life itself.
It began with Taliesin, directly, though I imagine the original source of it was the moment I was conceived, this path begun before I had even awoken to the world. It is long ago, the incident that spurred my... transformation... but I remember it clearly. The anger, from both, pulsing and painful. Venice, standing between us - the focus and yet, also, the barrier preventing that rage from issuing forth. I believe I called him a coward, that day, after he had called me the very same. I regret my choice of word - I'm sure something more venomous and appropriate could have been used.
Life as a priest has been, admittedly, difficult. There are a dozen different issues to deal with each day - the petty requests of those wishing enlightenment without effort, or the genuine pleas of those few who have devoted themselves to my master and seek a blessing. The greater problem with which I constantly wrestle, however, is the fate of the Dryth within the city - Melchior's own children, and yet looked upon with fear and suspicion at every turn. Two among them (though one now formerly), criminals of great infamy. How is one to treat such things? It is paradoxical. It confounds my instincts in the matter. But I will think no more of it here.
I have adapted to life in Telantha a bit more, however, for all of the difficulties involved in it. The Azirni business thrives and our family has been made that much more complete; Mariv and I, and our dear, blessed sister Eleia, returned to us from Annwn. Tzoli as well, though I fear that each time I call her 'kin' it is as if I had struck at her with a dagger, piercing her heart. Such is life, though, the last few months being only a slightly more poignant example - pain and bittersweet joy, that is all that is left to us within the twilight of the city, hovering between night and day.
I can only hope that it is the twilight of dawn, and not of dusk.
I tire of this entry. I will write more another day.
Posted by Bjar at 08:57 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack