é vetígió

é vetígió

Postby Eternal » Sat Aug 30, 2003 3:18 am

The world is cold, a cold hard place. Lend a thought to a sliver of ice, precariously balancing all that represents humanity. Feel the cold seep insidiously into culture and society, the birthplace of a new breed of faith and faithlessness. Yet I fear I falter in my thoughts and reasoning. You build fortresses of stone and steel about your souls, raising yourself up upon perilous, impregnable cairns and look about with disdain and neglect. And fear. Fear, nonetheless, fear perhaps not of others, the world and its misfortunes, the world created of charm the bizarre, damnation and hatred. Fear of oneself. Fear of what you know within yourself. Yet I presume, that those who claim to be stout of heart and iron of will, tremble within like a daisy in an autumn breeze. Fearful of oneself, inner weaknesses and contempt, bitter, bitter emotions for failures and lack of achievement. Perhaps my presumptions fall short of reality, perhaps I, myself, fall short of uncovering the underlying truth of human frailties.

With all these theories, I return to my original statement, the world seen upon a sliver of ice, its creeping chill permeating into wholesome culture distorting its perception. I recall the statement, and in contemplation reverse the theory, with the contamination of society creeping into the essence of our earth, perverting that which provides the wholesomeness for our offspring, creating a continuous dark cycle.

No matter, ofcourse, I observe them from afar and these trivialities affect me but a slight. At present I slumbers sublime, oblivious to the deprevations that rage. Until now I remained recluse, elusive to the passing world. Perhaps forgotten to all, perhaps, for the moment.

Time, among all foes, reigns supreme. Dominant over even the greatest of heros, as a single grain of sand falls through the hour glass of eternity, the strong grow weak and frail. Mountains wear down from nobility to humble hills and streams carve rivers out of stubborn rock. Ever gracing the walls of this fair place, great creatures of power, men and women of honour and nobility, deeds of chivallry and callous villany. Yet a fair balance creating the idylic comrades of sorts. And so it seems, time has reigned supreme upon them also.


Darkness has that feel of uncaring, the callous touch of insensitivity from a supposed lover, all enveloping like a blanket of fear of the unknown. It coaxes the deepest of uncertainties, most silent , unspoken, unfathomable desires. Within this dark succubus's embrace, chilling and distant, hope falters blindly, faith stumbles to its knees, only to be revived by the clinging companionship of another. Yet as the darkness eases its shadowy fingers around the resolve of the frail, there are creatures that thrive on the desire of Darkness's hold. Becoming one with the shadows.



The grating of marble across granite, deep, soul touching, torturous. Long slender fingers caressed the marbles exterior, from within a gloom that sought to define darkness, then, forcefully yet with the ease of a babys smile in sunlight, the fingers slid back the marble sepulchre. Released to once more lurk the shadows of life, to seek purpose and intonement, the wraithlike Eternal stepped from the bones of the dead that embraced him unconditionally.

Mutterings in the mind, that plagued he who was once eternally grateful for being dreamless. Mindless words flittering about the recesses of insanity, punctuated by one soul rending scream that echoed more from within than the realms of reality.

Sighing slightly, his dark eyes looking out from the graveyard to a destination yet to be determined, he clutched his long leather travelling robe against an ebbing chill that only in memory he could feel, and set his booted heels upon the path of destiny.
Time...
Time is too slow for those who wait
...too swift for those who fear
...too long for those who grieve
...too short for those who rejoice
...but for those that love
time is eternity
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é vetígió cont.

Postby Eternal » Sat Aug 30, 2003 3:24 am

The path wound unceremoniously towards the distant tumbled down huts that represented a poor excuse of a village, the path once well worn and often trodden, now showing signs of neglect and overgrowth. Experienced travellers, adventurers in the know and even those that cared one whit would have noticed something amiss with the village. The lack of chimney smoke, the absence of lights and fires, the cheerful chorus of neighbours bidding each other good eve, dogs barking and mules braying. All signs that the village was alive and thriving that would have filled the void that currently existed. Yet, head down against the nights' oppressive silence, the last rays of sun stretching up towards the heavens, the lean youthful figure put step in front of step eating up the miles that remained between his present location and destination desired.

It mattered little to him entering the village to be greeted by the odd stray dog skulking around the shadows, ribs showing neglect, starvation and eyes showing fear. Many an age he had spent in solitude, the echo's of his own thoughts and memories staving of the insanity of loneliness. One more night after an eternity of nights akin mattering not an ounce. Though, this night was not to be one, for amongst the dust, dark and shadows, a heart still beat within the shell of a man. In the obvious lack of noise ensured the single heart beating in Eternals ears was easily found.

A light tap upon the door before a pushing it to with one hand, led him to a single roomed dwelling lit solely by a candle, the old chipped plate it stood upon more the candle than a piece of pottery. The flame danced a little as the draught from behind visited the room before he himself entered, pushing the door closed behind him. Little care for the general cleanliness was apparent as the visitor made his way to the prone form upon a crude cot, weaving and stepping over discarded garments and items. Pulling a small stool from the shadows to the side of the bed, he sat there, pale candle glow upon his ivory face, weaving its rays over the old figure laying asleep, both as motionless as each other.

The hosts breathing stuttered, his eyelids fluttered slightly and then to a heavy lidded stare upward, glassy and unafraid. A stranger in the night, hovering over him, shrouded in black, pale, soulful, waiting patiently.
The host spoke, little more than a whisper, "are you death?"
The visitor responded in a tone little more than the questioner, "I am no more Death than I am Life".
The host closed his eyes, seemingly forever. Yet again they opened.
"I am not afraid of you," the host whispered.
The visitor chuckled softly, and leaned a little closer," and I too, am not afraid of you father."
The humour reached the old man, and a smile nearly reached his thin dry lips.
" I am going to die soon," he stated as matter of fact, whether to his unexpected visitor or him self, it was a statement of fact.
His visitor nodded in agreement," as do we all."
The host closed his eyes again, and slept.
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é vetígió cont.

Postby Eternal » Sat Aug 30, 2003 3:30 am

The night had reached its zenith, the long trek to dawn had begun, the long lonely hours that seem to stretch on longer than the last breath of a man. Time was of no importance to the visitor, he was on a path that began in the dark and would eventually, undoubtable finish in the dark. He had moved through the ram shackled hut with respect, touching that which constituted the hosts existence, his memories and life all collected within the one abode. He had replaced the stub of a candle what seemed merely an hour ago, not out of personal need, but for comfort to the host should he stir yet again before the dawn. Darkness and the visitor travelled hand in hand, as close as any companions may come. He had returned to the stool to watch over the host, his old life ticking away with the minutes, his breath rasping, straining for each individual minute.

What seemed an infinity of breaths, what seemed like one since the last, the host opened his eyes again.
His eyes near luminous, locked on to the eternal dark pools of molasses of the guests, "not long now."
The guest nodded, "I shall stay with you if you wish."
Once again, the host blinked for eternity, "your eyes tell me stories of times beyond even my reckoning, supplicate and old man in his final hours, pass the time with a tale."
The guest did not baulk at the request, after all, upon his own death bed perhaps the favour would be returned, allowing him to slip into the shadows quietly and in dignity.

And so the guest told his tale.

When time began, before civilisations became civilised, when the nomads of many tribes strived for meagre existence, there was only one law to abide by. Survival. Those that could wield steel did so and with extreme prejudice. Blood and death was the answer to those who sought power, and those that lived by the sword, generally expired by it. Those that could gather steel to them through show of strength existed longer than those with little backing. At the end of the day, the steel was stronger than the flesh, and those of flesh expired into dust, to be followed by others that would live by steel, and follow their predecessors into dust as well. Not everyone lived by steel, there were those that sought their enlightenment through knowledge and spiritualism. These creatures would wander the plains, the desserts and the mountains, starving themselves, subjecting themselves to the extremes in the name of knowledge. Many would wander into camps of the steel wielders, uttering madness and insanity. Many were slain by those of less superstitious nature, or driven out by those fearful of the unknown spirits of the world. Fear was a powerful force, greater even than that fear of the sword was that of the unknown.

Eventually, those who wielded the steel realised that they were second only to that which could not be explained, events that were excluded from explanation, and thus they were enlightened. Less did they wield the steel to conquer those they chose to lead, and more so they took the wandering heretics and soothsayers as allies to instil the greater fear behind the stroke of the steel. Thus deities began to breed, each more able to smit thine enemy greater than the other, each able to cast down bolts of lightning, make the thunder growl louder, hide the sun behind the moon. The words Creator and God were come popular, in a day and age where language failed in most categories, yet these words still filled the peasants with fear, awe and suspicion. In the beginning there were many, yet as the tribes grew together, pulled together under same banners, same symbols, same Gods, they became few. These few Gods were given names, sacrifices were made to appease, to encourage favour in crops, wars, children to be born. And yet, no proof existed for any of these deities that ruled tribes, stole their crops, cattle and family under the same ideology, Power.

One great tribe, that stretched over lands that could not be covered by the suns touch all at once was caught in a crux. There was belief of two gods within the culture, one believed in a Bull, depicted as gold in colour with steel clad hoofs, and flames from its nose, and the other, a great Dragon, pious and forgiving. The leaders of this clan strongly believed in the Bull, sacrificing and worshiped in hope of its favour. All wondrous creations and achievements and accomplishments were attributed to the deity, all sacrificing, taxes and strong-arm movements were as this deity demanded. Yet in truth, none could prove the existence of this favoured God. The few that followed the Dragon were reviled, yet looked down upon as inferior, weaker and unfavourable companions. There was no proof of the existence of the Dragon God, and therefor, inferior to their own belief.

The visitor took a moment to replace the candle that had burned down to a dribbled stub, the host awake only proven by the glimmer of the candle light upon his half lidded eyes. The visitor took up his tale once more.

One day, a nomad and his family rode into town, the female nomad heavy with child and the donkey heavy with passenger. They took up residence on the outskirts of the town where the male nomad plied his trade as a potter, making durable and practical earthenware's, that provided enough coin for them to survive. The female gave birth to healthy boy, no complications during the birth, and over the years generally no complications raising him. The child grew to be a considerate and thoughtful child, and was trained in his father's trade. Like all growing children, this one was ambitious from an early age, learning what he could from other children, customers and friends of his parents alike. He took to sitting near the wise men, the soothsayers and the heretics as they plied their knowledge onto others. Sitting with these men he learned of the existence of greater beings other than man, the pleasures bestowed upon those who believe, and the woes that may befall those who disbelieve. He listened with intrigue, forming his own opinions and beliefs, and formulated a strategy to best further his interests and his life. He realised, that though tales were numerous of the deities, there was no actual physical proof of their existence or no-existence, and if proof were offered there would be no argument for its authenticity. Also, if challenged, then the belief the challenge could possibly be directly against the God would deter many. Thus the charade began.

From the early age of five, the boy pretended to be a messenger directly from the Dragon god. Reciting stories he had heard, creating favourable tales that portrayed the Dragon god as a favourable, he developed a following of people willing to listen, willing to see hope where no hope existed. It wasn't just children he encouraged to embrace the Dragon god, but through his sincerity and articulation he was able to ensnare the hopeful, the downtrodden, the weak and the tormented. Like a rolling stone tumbling down a mountain, more followed until more than a rabble of miscreants, the Dragon god was nearly as recognised as the mighty Bull.

The visitor looked outside, seeing the blood red rays of the sun searching over the tops of the hill that surrounded the dilapidated hut village, the dawn was upon them. He looked down upon the host, the old mans face more ashen than the ash within the disused fireplace, his breathes short and shallow.
"Go on," he breathed "time is short", he added encouraging the visitor to finish before he expired.

The visitor sighed deeply, and resumed.

As with many tales, the tale is about power and fear, and over the many years the child grew to be a man and the leader of this great tribe began to fear this man with charisma and a small army within his own people. His Bull god had shown nothing in the way of signs to put down this uprising, and fearing losing control of his loyal, yet swaying followers, decided that he would speak where his Bull god would not. He bribed one of the Dragon prophets' followers to betray his location and incarcerated him. Such a simple solution to such a large problem. Yet the stones were already tumbling down the mountain, and to remove the one that started it would not stop the avalanche had been unleashed. Still fearing the mans power over his followers, even bound in chains, he had the man executed.

"Do you believe the Bull god manoeuvred the leader to execute his rival, or do you believe it was the man's own fear of his own mortality and leadership that swayed his hand?" the host whispered quizzically.

The visitor stopped his tale and looked down, "before all, man is mortal and follows his own trembling heart", he answered.
"So who sways your heart old one", the host asked, "the Bull god or the Dragon?"
"Neither father, for I have no fear of my mortality," the visitor answered look back down from the sunrise to the host," and who is it that you seeks on the hour the shadow of death covers your soul?" he retorted.
Yet there was no response, and nor would there be ever, for the host had started his travels within what ever realm he chose to start rocks rolling.

The visitor pulled the rags that constituted curtains across the window, casting darkness across the room once again. He extinguished the candle and moments later all that remained in the room were two cold motionless forms.
Time...
Time is too slow for those who wait
...too swift for those who fear
...too long for those who grieve
...too short for those who rejoice
...but for those that love
time is eternity
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Postby Eternal » Sun Aug 31, 2003 11:18 pm

He slipped the satin white shirt from his ivory shoulders, letting it slide unassisted down his slender arms and upon the pile of already discarded clothes behind him. He stood there, the pale moonlight dancing between the slowly passing clouds casting its silvery rays down upon his naked form; his head bowed cascading his crimson black hair over his bare shoulders and down his back. The cool wet clay beneath his feet slowly sinking beneath his weight, oozing between his toes, and step by delicate deliberate step he waded into the shallows of the moonlit pool. The clay beneath his feet softer, slippery, weeds and pebbles beneath his feet, he stretches out his arms, to steady himself, palms down as though to settle the silvery ripples that extend from his graceful slow moving form. As the water lapped against his chest, he lay back against the push of the water and submerged his head, cleansing, refreshing and soothing. A slight night breeze strayed across the surface of the pool, though no gooseflesh appeared upon his smooth skin, and there under the watchful voyeuristic moon lay floating, eyes closed as though a floating, white corpse. The journey was no closer to being over, no closer than the day he set off and though it impossible, his bones ached with a ghostly weariness that they hadn't felt in centuries. The journey down from the mountain peaks would have been treacherous even for the thick woolly-coated goats that clung upon precarious ledges, watching Eternal with their dark accusing eyes. The following days would only signify the beginning of a trial he now doubted he wished to undertake, that of forming a unity with those that should be called kin. It had come as some surprise that to date none had attempted to make an attempt to communicate, in any dark form possible. Perhaps they were no less in control of the powers they possessed than he, perhaps they were, though doubtable, intimidated by his imminent appearance. The dark shadows of the over hanging trees stretched forth accusingly, or commandingly. There were sins of the past that would never be put to rest, even should he live for another six hundred years. Those sins had haunted his soul for the eternity he existed, and though absolution was no more possible than humanity returning to his tortured existence, perhaps now the opportunity for the scales of justice to etch back some of the balance.

He started momentarily, losing the equilibrium of his floating, the thought he had avoid searching the answer for ebbed into his mind unbidden, unwanted. The discontent that had lured him here, after so long an absence, no different to the same summons that had been issued to the strongest of his ilk had subsided no less. There was no harmony in the world of the undead. Whatever the reason, she that held sway over those who would seek destruction unguided now showed weaknesses akin to a suckling babe, uncertainty, delusion and fear.

He rolled over in the cool water, face down, eyes open unblinking. The water though relatively clear was murky across the bottom of the pool. Small fish darted from the protection of the murk to offer their silvery, glistening scales, small jewels of nature priceless for those who collect memories for treasures. There was such simplicity in what cost nothing to those who sought it. Yet here was a world so self involved with itself that the most priceless of trophies, the stars in the clear night sky, the song of a lone bird in a meadow, the hearty laugh of a comrade, the slight gently touch of a loved one went unnoticed. He sighed in discontent, the bubbles floating up to the surface past his face and disappeared like the satisfaction he had momentarily achieved.

He put his feet back down on the pools bottom, cast his head back cascading droplets of water in an arc behind him, ensuring his crimson black hair remained out his face, for a while anyway. He strode towards the bank, the unkempt pile of clothes merely a sign of where the world was today, and as he donned the clothes he accepted the path for which he must tread.

Tomorrow beckoned, and as the clouds covered the inviting touch of the moon, he felt that tomorrow a storm would be brewing.
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Postby Eternal » Tue Sep 02, 2003 2:45 am

Behind him, peaks enshrouded with spectral storm clouds, the mountains rose ominously. Formless in the darkness, lonely, forbidding, history saying little of the deeds of their time, silence about what may lay in their future. A throaty rumble of thunder echoing eerily around the topmost peaks, like boulders bouncing down from the heights into the crevices and ravines tossed my unhappy demons isolated from the rest of this dark world inhabitants. He blinked, thoughtfully contemplating his experiences passing below these peaks to reach the destination where his worn boots had brought him. He was used to being alone, lonely. Sometimes being alone in ones own mind was enough company to pass the time of a few decades. The past was experience to prove thus. Yet below those mountains, those dark, towering for boding spires he had felt a new depth of loneliness, that had some how touched what little remained of his inner spirit. He contemplated, perhaps passing beneath through its shadows was a test of ones mortality, or immortality, a test of ones resolve and determination.

The mountains were behind him now, their memories of his passing to be treasured along with the memories of all those who passed their trial. His descent down the lower slopes allowed him to identify from a distance a village. Lights, as small as stars and flickering so, in various windows shunning the shadows that seemed to cling the mountains and slopes and the dark ebbings that lingered amongst the trees of the voluptuous woods that surrounded the outer reaches of the mountain peaks. Yet his path lay not to the north of the province, but to a southern port, renown for its apathy towards those touched by shadows and darkness. His travels so far had brought him through the domains of those who feared those who travelled under the night sky, and never the light. Hunters they called themselves. Centuries before, they would have been Romanian peasants, wielding garlic and pitchforks, crucifixes held before them in fear and ignorance. Doors barred against the night, stakes driven into the unfortunate corpses of those that died suspiciously young. Superstition outweighing rationale, fear over riding logic. Well, perhaps there were circumstances, yet ignorance had filled out the void of that which opposed those who trod the night unfettered. Now they wield swords in the name of justice and righteousness. Granted there were those out there that deserved to be exterminated, he had encountered two such creatures stalking a mortal while passing a township inappropriately named Rising Sun. Enveloping one with his drowning shadowy tendrils, he pulled the apt name from its head, acolyte. Watching it writhe and scream soundlessly, as the tendrils entered its throat, ears and nose and drown it in darkness as one would drown a mortal baby in a bath tub. Gone from this plane of existence for eternity, the second dispatched without the mortal scout ever knowing the implications his auspicious baron had placed him. He took no pleasure in meddling with human affairs, yet he took no pleasure in seeing innocent life blotted out needlessly. Perhaps one day he would face this mortal when it too became a so called hunter, and look deep into his eyes, and soul, and snuff out his life with no more than the little thought it took to dispatch the acolytes. He had no desire to meddle, no less than he had the desire become a victim.

That, however was on the darker side of the mountain ranges, now in the east he crossed the paths of other creatures no less disturbing in construct than mortals themselves…
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Postby Eternal » Thu Sep 04, 2003 10:25 pm

He stood motionless at the fork in the road, the full moon behind him casting a crone of a shadow along the well-maintained paths. He had travelled well, and fast and the journey was but over. He had expected to find the passage overgrown, strewn with flesh raking thorns and treacherous footfalls, yet since the descent from the mountain range into the Weyburn Forest each footstep took him one more closer than one step to the wayside. He travelled, as a man would, garbed in a long weather worn cloak that brushed the tops of pasture grass, dew stains lightening the once silky black. Likewise the knee high leather boots, the soles all but run flat by, creased and scuffed toes. And there he stood, motionless, cloak pulled close its tails flicking slightly in the soft gully breezes a lasting reminder of the mountain ranges. He stood there in the centre of the fork, head slightly bowed, looking down the path towards what could be his destination, the path of his past over his right shoulder and the pathway north over his left. Both the latter two were no less viable options. It was only his desire to seek out others, to find answers and a place where acceptance was commonplace. He didn’t seek acceptance for his lineage, nor his ideals, but acceptance even if momentarily for just being who he was. He didn’t seek understanding or sympathy, condolences or even companionship, they were not and never had been requirements for his on going existence. He stood there, the moon high in the sky, the occasional cloud passing before it, a night bird calling lowly to a mate that never replied, a low sad mournful cry.. Though he could not understand the cry, the sentiments were close to his heart.

From a distance, his head bowed low, his crimson black locks cascading over his face, his inanimate form, one would think a scarecrow had been propped in the middle of the path. Upon closer inspection, one obviously take the form to be that of a man, one who possessed the ability to remain unnaturally inanimate as though death had taken him while standing. Step closer and one would see the moonlight striking the pale flesh beneath and start, luminescent and full of life, yet so close to the colour of death. Yet he stood there for what seemed like eons motionless, waiting, anticipating. He was so close to the city he could hear their thoughts echoing around in his mind when he chose not to block them, a myriad of whispers words and wails, a cacophony filled with deep shadows and blinding lights. Above all this sound he heard the thoughts of one, heard the heart beat and felt attention turn and seek.

He stood, in the middle of the path, in the middle of the night, bathed in light, silently, motionless, indecisive.
Time...
Time is too slow for those who wait
...too swift for those who fear
...too long for those who grieve
...too short for those who rejoice
...but for those that love
time is eternity
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Postby Aeri` » Fri Sep 05, 2003 4:50 am

Between all the turmoil and chaos, soft gaze turned towards the outer limits of the city. The starless sky made it even harder to see out. The essence of the sylvan which runs through her veins gave her the ability to see and hear things far more than the others about. Locks of sterling spun hair left to dangle upon her shoulders, tendrils parted about the minute point of her elven ears were seen as lightning struck the dark nights sky.The roar of thunder was heard off in the distance and there she sensed someone.

Long ago the prophets chose the elf to be the balance of the light and darkness. She was their key. Perhaps it was not her that he seeked, yet she felt his presence near. He seemed indecisive. One could not blame him. A warning of caution given, yet a welcoming from her. There were many however that would not welcome such as he. It never stopped ones like him from venturing forth. And only then would the truth be known. Was he friend, or foe?
I love quotations because it is a joy to find thoughts one might have, beautifully expressed with much authority by someone recognized wiser than oneself.
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