A Soft Voice Amidst Cacophony

I believe myself to be, at the least, a man of some intelligence. I understand things, I remember things, I can come to conclusions. I have studied, as deeply and as well as any one man can in the fallen and imperfect world in which we now dwell. Conditions are, of course, far from ideal in this twilit city, and yet knowledge remains, and can be grasped by those who seek it, those who sacrifice for it.

And so, one would think, solutions would present themselves more readily. This is not the case, of course; as said before, for some things there are no solutions. For some, there are paradoxes. How does one contend with the contradictions of faith?

How can one fail to do all that the Seven might request but, at the same time, not be held still by the impossibility of attempting certain things? How can one put aside the material, for Melchior, and yet appreciate the luxuries of Elbahn? How can one prize life and beauty, for Ylessa, and yet acknowledge the need for dark vengeance and death, for Morhiag?

Complexities. Contradictions. Paradox.

I have said before, I am an instrument. It is said, countless times through the ages, in countless tales, that sometimes a god will enter a man, and move him according to a plan mortal minds have no hope of comprehending. I am a Priest of Melchior, now, and ever in my life. All my actions are for him, my master, for his plans and his wishes, as best as I understand them. But one cannot follow a single master, not where the Seven are concerned, for all things are connected - I have killed, in his name, in my own, in that of the Dark Queen herself. I have felt Ylessa's touch upon my heart, and yet that same touch makes more bitter the anguish, more sharp the need for vengeance.

It occurs to me, in the Dark of my nights, when there is naught to disturb the restless stirrings of my mind, that I am, perhaps, too driven. Too ambitious, as I have said. I forget, sometimes, what I am even striving for, lost as I am within the intricacies of my instructions, of this grand game that I must play. It is a game, of course, moving others as pieces, against a host of opponents of greater experience, of greater skill, of greater resources.

It occurs to me, also, that I have very little chance to win this game. This changes nothing, I still must cast the die. Perhaps Elbahn will grant me some luck.

It is wearying, to balance all of these things within one's mind. To judge oneself, to judge others, to judge consequences. One does what one must, however. We are what we are.

Will you know my name, reader, when this journal is found? Will you come here to burn my works, my words? Or will this record last some years yet, preserved within the city, and you will know nothing of what I speak, of my life? Will you wonder at my struggles, at those whom I faced? Will I have changed anything at all?

I cannot even say to myself, what I would prefer, of the possibilities that exist. To sink into oblivion? To be a mere footnote, one who tried and failed, a brief flaring of light eclipsed by far brighter flames? To achieve something heroic, no matter the cost?

'No matter the cost'. That is the crux of it.

To be something darker? Something hated? To be remembered, after my body is turned to ash and dust, as someone who left his mark upon Aagos, even if that mark is left in blood?

I think, my friend who I shall likely never know, that I would accept that, if it meant success. I would forsake myself, for the greater good. Is that a failing, to have such ambition, to be so ruthless? A virtue, to seek martyrdom in such a way? Perhaps both.