Kaelir
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May 31, 2006 10:14:04 GMT -5
Post by Kaelir on May 31, 2006 10:14:04 GMT -5
It was quiet at the Wyvern. Kaelir pulled her hair back into a single braid, plaiting it carefully, like she did as a child. Krissy's soft, velvet nose prodded her cheek. Kaelir laughed, despite herself. Krissy whinnied.
"Shhh," Kaelir put both hands on Krissy's nose. "Be quiet, you're not supposed to be up here." Krissy complied. There was silent obedience and love in her dark, liquid eyes.
Kaelir looked back at the stack of papers in front of her. Pieces of diaries, some pages left unwritten. Most of this story had never been taken out of her head. But now, she needed them in front of her.
She took a pen, and began to write.
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Kaelir
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May 31, 2006 10:16:26 GMT -5
Post by Kaelir on May 31, 2006 10:16:26 GMT -5
<taken from the accounts of Kalypso de Undriel, Prophet of Eva.>
Have you ever craved death like a kiss?
Seven years ago I was taken from my homeland and blinded by the dark elves. Since my escape from the cursed lands, I have found a strange sort of peace, amidst the chaos of battle healing.
When I heal, all conscious thought fades, and I know only the blood and the heat and revival, the glow of healing stitching broken bones and closing wounds. It is then that I feel like all is right as Eva’s glow is swept all around me.
But when I did not heal, I felt the craving come back to me, the craving for love that I cannot have, and death. I wander the land, alone, and feel nature’s howl and the longing. I knew there was a small knife in my tapered buckskin boots, but I was too afraid to use it. I knew what it would feel like to have the knife pushed into my heart, to gasp for air as the organ bleeds. I was too afraid to die like that.
So instead, I wandered wishing for death, for I knew there would be peace there. Until, in my wanderings, I came to a small sea town, humans who had never seen a cleric like me. I could feel the eyes but I could not see them as I walked. I knew they looked at the strange, ornamental mithril I wore with the markings of a healer, so no one talked to me.
I stopped at an inn and paid for some hot food and sat down at a table, head cradled in hand and felt as if Aden, my wandering, were but a surreal dream.
A stranger sat down at my table. She made barely any noise as she sat down, I only heard the rustle of the folds of her cloak as she moved. Only one race can move as silently. I knew she was a dark elf.
“My name is Eldawind,” the stranger said. She had a flagon in her hand and she sipped meticulously as if it was fine wine and not just a cheap beer. “You are a stranger to this town”
“As are you,” I said.
“I hope you do not mind,” I could hear her leaning slightly forward, the fabric of her cloak whispering as it swept the floor. “If we be strangers together.”
I shrugged. I knew I would never trust a dark elf.
“My old teacher once told me that eyes are windows, and your blind eyes are no different. You are sad, you long for something. I know because in water I have seen the same longing in my eyes.” Eldawind said.
I sighed. I knew there was no wrong in telling her. “Yes it is true, I am often longing for peace.”
“But you are not at peace,” the dark elf said, her voice was a low whisper. “You are not at peace with yourself.” I shook my head, for I knew Eldawind spoke true.
“You have a story underneath those blind eyes, please tell me the story.”
My heart tightened, for I had never told my story before.
“Fine then, I will tell you my own,” Eldawind said, and she leaned back, the chair creaking with the movement, however slight.
“I grew up in dark elven lands, in the house of Umbra, a lesser house that served the greater. When I was but a young child I was taught to kill, taught to kill with silence and taught to move with silence. I was to be an assassin.”
“This was many years before you were born, and it was a time of turmoil when elves raided our lands and humans stood outside our town and waited to ambush us. I was assigned to patrol the land with other young dark elves.”
“I remember being separated from my group, of my own accord, of course. I had slipped away into the forest, laughing to myself, enjoying my freedom when I was caught from behind with a blow that wracked my being. I had been stabbed, and I remember writhing on the floor of the forest looking up through eyes that seemed to be filled with blood, to see a human above me, wiping a bloody sword clean on the edge of his shirt.”
“When I awoke, I was in a cave, and my hands and feet were tied. I could see it was night outside, and there was a fire crackling beside me. I huddled up to its warmth. I was alone in the cave, until the one who had stabbed me dragged an elpy into the cave and roasted it. He fed me strips of it, I was almost too weak from the wound to chew.”
“I asked him why he didn’t kill me. ‘I don’t know,’ was what he said, ‘I thought you would die, I didn’t except you to live for this long, but as I saw you turning in your sleep, I wanted you to live more than anything else. Even a dark elf does not deserve to be murdered’”
“For a month I was tied in that cave and he fed me and dressed my wound and I grew in strength until he finally mustered up the courage to untie me. We lived in the cave by the sea. I became his companion, his closest friend, for he had been kinder to me than my own dark elven brethren.”
“The cave was on a rocky cliff near the ocean, and he and I would sit there, looking out at the night sea beneath the moon, until one night, when he put his arm around me and kissed me. He was as surprised as I was. He said he didn’t know it was possible to love a dark elf.”
“The next morning I woke up to find him on the edge of the cliff. He stared at me for length, and said ‘I believe death is like love.’, and then..” Eldawind paused. “I think you know what happens next,” she said.
I nodded. “He fell”
“Yes, he fell, of his own doing. He killed himself.”
“But, why?” I asked, “Why?”
“In the chaos, peace is found. In silence, there is restlessness. He grew tired of living. He longed for death because he knew he could never know me, never completely love me as he wanted to. I was not a human, I would never share his feelings. He could not stand it that I was not who he wanted to be.”
“Death is like love, that is true, for there is a completeness, but unlike love, there is no change. In love, you do not forget who you are.”
“here,” Eldawind gave me a mug, “drink this.” I drank. It was drugged. I fell asleep and when I awoke it was morning and Eldawind was gone. I never saw her again.
I no longer crave death like a kiss.
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Kaelir
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May 31, 2006 12:38:32 GMT -5
Post by Kaelir on May 31, 2006 12:38:32 GMT -5
<An excerpt from Kalypso's diary>
There is a prison deep within the earth, where there is nothing but darkness and the stench of blood.
My name is Kalypso, and I am a cleric of Eva. I was blinded by the dark elves and enslaved for seven years after I was taken from my homeland. After I escaped, friendless, I wandered the land, until finding Kronas, an orc of Paagrio who I now call my brother. It was with him that I first descended into this prison deep into the earth, hoping to suppress the darkness that came up from it.
We descended into the closed prison, where the stale air made it hard to breathe, and all around us, the desperate and the brave slaughtered the monsters that came up from the depths. Kronas held my hand and we pressed against the wall as he struggled to console me. If Death lived, this was his playground. In this prison, there was no hope.
The stench came from the walls and the ceiling, and on the floor I stumbled over corpses.
“Let’s go back, Kronas.. let’s go back!” I cried, and I felt the fear overtake me as I tripped and fell into a pool of blood. He lifted me up and held me close.
“It’s okay, don’t worry,” he said, but I knew it was not okay, for whenever fear overtakes me, I no longer feel the presence of Eva within me. It is then that true darkness, true blindness, enters my heart. Blood dripped off my hair and my clothes as we descended.
Somewhere we got separated in the darkness, and I remember standing paralyzed, the monsters growling around me, and I heard a desperate plea of help. When the spell of fear broke I tripped over another corpse. I remember lying beside the corpse, and I reached out and touched the still warm face and shuddered.
There was something gripped in the corpse’s hand, I let my hand fall and felt cold metal. I pulled the thing out, a sword. I held the sword in both hands and stood up, shaking.
“Help… please..” I heard the desperate whisper again, and the monster breath hot on my face and the chills entering up in my body as I knew I was utterly alone. The sword was heavy and awkward in my unskilled hands.
“help!” and that is when the monsters attacked.. but not me. I remember jumping and swinging and feeling blood spray and the claws rip into flesh that was not my own. The sword fell from my hands and I fell to my knees, and the creatures slinked off. The person who had called for help was now dead.
“Kalypso!” I heard a familiar voice. It was Kronas. I remember hugging him and sobbing for what seemed like hours as he struggled to console me.
“Why?” I whispered. “Why does such a place exist?”
”It was created as a prison without hope.. a desolate place for evil to breed and light to be swallowed up and fear to be grown. Every day… the evil is killed, but every day, new evil is born. It is a constant battle to keep the prison controlled.”
“Lets go, Kronas, I don’t want to be here anymore.”
I will never know what compels people to stay in this desolate place, for I have never returned.
Do you know what this prison in the earth is called?
It is cruma.
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Kaelir
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May 31, 2006 12:39:36 GMT -5
Post by Kaelir on May 31, 2006 12:39:36 GMT -5
<an excerpt from the Diary of Kalypso, Eva's Prophet>
Kronas was not always there to comfort me. Sometimes he left me to my own wanderings.
If you have been to the Execution Grounds, you have seen the half decayed bodies hanging from the trees, skeletal hands clutching skeletal necks in a futile desperate gasp for air. I have smelled them and felt the misery clinging to the dust.
Long ago the Execution Grounds were used to kill enemies of Dion’s lords. This was when the trees fed on blood and axes thirsted for the squealing of the grindstone. It was a place of no hope and no return, where there was no such thing as mercy or justice. Even then, it was a place of evil. Hundreds died, and their bodies still sway from the dead trees.
I found myself at the entrance to these grounds; I smelled the sharp fetid scent of old blood and death and gagged on it. There was a groaning of wind and the creaking of wood and the slight bending moan of trees.
At the entrance, there is a bridge, leading to a chasm beneath. I know, because I grasped the wooden rails, and felt feet touch into empty air. I continued into the grounds, the wooden rails my guide, and I heard another sound.
It was the sound of strumming, eerie chords floating into the still air; beautiful and unnatural and harmonious. There was someone playing a cithara on the rail. They began to sing, words that still haunt me to this day. A sweet, tender voice filled with sorrow:
“Near the deepest river Guilty blood runs deeper Across the meadow of my soul. When once there were flowers, Now there is only ashes, Spread far across the land. I try to hide the darkness from my eyes But without hope there is only pain”
I continued on, but I seemed I had listened to the words for hours. Her voice carried far out into the execution grounds, no matter how long I walked. I heard her echoes carrying into echoes.
I felt the shadows move around me, and I knew this was a cursed place. I could sense the evil shrouding the land like a mask. I shivered and walked, slipping into dead grass and brambles and the cold mud. All around me I sensed the spirits shifting and moving. I heard the dull sound of a rotting hand beating against wood in the wind.
I took out the small knife in my boots, held it in both of my hands to try to comfort myself, but no comfort came.
“Eva guide me,” I whispered, “Eva guide my path.”
Near the deepest river…
That is when I heard it, the dragging. I turned, held the knife in front of my face, and pressed the rough hilt into my palms.
Again the dragging, and a low long moan. I stepped back and tripped, and I could not get up. My foot was caught in a root. I struggled to free myself as the dragging thing came nearer.
There was a pop of wetness, and cold, decaying flesh slid over my face. I screamed and slashed out with my knife, feeling flesh and water burst.
Guilty blood runs deeper…
“Eva guide me, I need you!” I screamed, and slashed out at the monster in front of me. The fear overtook me and I stabbed at the creature and felt flesh rip from flesh as the beast crushed me in its arms.
Only ashes…
The monster, the decaying dead thing, sunk its teeth into my arm, and I only remembered the excruciating pain as I dropped the dagger from my arm. I tried to concentrate in the pain, tried to summon up the power of Eva, but I could not.
Hide the darkness from my eyes…
I only remembered falling from unconscious, the pain that drove me away. I thought I had died, but even in that state, I heard the song of the cithara.
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Kaelir
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May 31, 2006 12:40:15 GMT -5
Post by Kaelir on May 31, 2006 12:40:15 GMT -5
<excerpt from Kalypso's diary>
When I opened my eyes, I could see; and I knew I was dreaming.
I was sitting on a rock formation underneath a waterfall, yet there were no crashing of waves hitting the waters below. Everything was silent. It was night; the stars hung above like crystalline candies underneath a half moon.
And I turned, and there was Eldawind. It was just a sense of knowing that often happens in dreams, where there is no need for explanation. She looked as I thought dark elves would look; thin and reedy with a darkness that blurred into shadow. She was wearing a cloak, and I could see her eyes shining in the night, piercing and yellow.
"You're dead," she said, and that was when I shivered, yet I could feel no warmth or cold.
"Right now you're body is laying face down in some mud right now," she continued, "and it will only be a matter of time. Only a matter of time."
I began to sob, and in my dream, it was a flood of tears. "I'm so sorry, I failed Eva, I didn't trust her enough!" Eldawind only stared at me as I cried.
"I haven't the strength anymore!" I said, "I have hurt so much and I can't go on. I can't wield a weapon, I can't defend myself; I am so weak!"
Eldawind smirked. "You think you are weak because you can't hold a sword. A coward with a blade is still a coward."
And I looked up and saw there were two swords in her hands, and they shimmered with an ethereal light. She came closer to me, held them hilt first toward me. I glanced up and she nodded. I took them from her.
"There are two swords you wield in your heart; and they are the swords of faith and spirit. You can weild these more skillfully than any warrior can. You must only trust from within."
I looked at the shimmering swords, and shook my head. "Take them back," I said, "I don't understand!" And I held them out, yet she stepped back and refused to take them.
"The gods have died long ago, Kalypso," and I shook my head and swallowed my tears like a drink. "That isn't true!" I blurted, "Eva guides me!"
"Eva lives inside you," She said, "She is the sword in your heart. You make Eva real in yourself."
And she turned, and disappeared. Everything around me went black, and I sunk into blindness once more. Even the swords faded from me but I gripped emptiness.
"I don't have the strength," I whispered even as I felt the dream fading, "I don't want to live and be hurt."
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Kaelir
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May 31, 2006 12:46:36 GMT -5
Post by Kaelir on May 31, 2006 12:46:36 GMT -5
<writer unknown, taken from the records in Gludin Temple>
Her face, calm and still in death, was covered by a white veil. She held a single white flower clasped in both hands. She was lowered into her grave, the pure mithril dress fluttering in the wind.
Kronas felt no pain, felt no hurt, except for a dull void without emotion. Kalypso’s few friends looked down at her pale body. Her lips had been colored red, and they were pursed in what looked like thoughtfulness.
Kronas sighed, fingering a claw of his bladed glove, staring down at her body.
“I knew her as a sister,” he said, and his voice was a low, rumbling whisper. “I never thought I could love a human.”
“She is with Eva,” came a voice from Kronas’s left, and he turned to see a small, willowy figure wrapped in a black cloak, and from within there came a wailing. Two black hands came up from the folds, holding a pale young baby. The baby cried, fists pumping in the air.
“What did you say?” Kronas said.
“There are some who seek the comfort of death,” she said, and the black hands stroked the fine wisps of hair on the baby’s head. “Some would say, like a kiss.”
“Is that… your child?” Kronas said.
There came a muffled laugh up from the folds of the cloak. “Oh no, oh no.” And then she thrust it out to Kronas. Kronas stared at the pink squirming thing in front of him for a while before she said, “take it.”
Kronas took the baby; so small in his hands that it could fit in the crook of his thumb and pointer finger. He shivered as it stared up at him with milky eyes, eyes that seemed too familiar, too haunting.
“She would want you to take care of it,” the woman said, “You were the only she loved.”
There was only silence for a while and the whipping of wind.
“Ka…” Kronas could feel the shake in his earthquake voice. “Kalypso?”
“Her name is Kasmune.”
“Kasmune,” Kronas said, and turned to find the woman gone. He looked back at the baby.
“Kasmune, huh?”
The baby only cooed.
“Kasmune, she would want me to take care of you.”
Dirt was piled over Kalypso’s grave, and Kronas stood watching, holding the child in her haunting likeness.
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Kaelir
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May 31, 2006 12:48:13 GMT -5
Post by Kaelir on May 31, 2006 12:48:13 GMT -5
<written by Kronas>
Kronas was given Kalypso’s possessions from the church; an old willow staff, and a diary.
One still night when there were no enemies lurking nearby, Kronas laid down, Kasmune in his arms, and read the diary.
The writing was scrawled haphazardly, and some of it was irregular. Parts of letters were missing. It was the writing of someone who had closed his or her eyes, or was blind.
I have never told anyone my history, or my background. In a way I am fearful; fearful of what people will think of me if they knew.
This is the only account of my history; of what happened seven years ago when I was taken from Talking Island; of what happened to my brother; and how everything changed.
The last thing I can remember seeing was the sea at night, dark black rolls at my feet, endless cold waters like living velvet; shadows across the moon. Everything since that has been darkness.
I had a brother named Maly. He was my companion for the first ten years of my life; my sole friend on my island homeland. On many nights, we would sneak out of the house and watch the seas and dream of adventure.
It was such a night, when we returned home under the veil of shadow, to our small cottage; I opened the door and I heard a dripping noise on the floor.
I was shoved to my knees, a dagger at my throat. I tried to scream, but could not; I only managed to cry in a dry, frightened squeak. Maly yelled at me, yelled at me to run, but it was too late.
Our captors had wispy, cold voices that were not human. They had silent footsteps, silent exchanges. I later learned that they were dark elves. A cloth was put over my eyes. Ever since, I have been shrouded in darkness. Maly yelled at me to run to safety, but it was too late.
We were taken across the island, into a boat, and for months that I cannot count; we sailed toward the north. Always, the blind was across my eyes. They drugged me somehow. I was in a deep sleep, and I kept dreaming of the shore, and of cold sand piling over my head.
When we finally stopped in their dark city; and the cloth was removed from my eyes; I was permanently blind. I can’t describe how it felt, to be roused from the darkness to only find more. I thought that someone had turned off a light, or that I was staring at a blank wall. It took me a while to realize what had happened.
They took me into the inner city, into the temple, and they bound me to the altar of their god. I struggled in vain, and they tightened ropes around my neck until I could barely breathe.
Something hot was splashed across my eyes, and a dark elf began chanting over me. I realized the hot stuff was blood, and it got into my mouth and nose until I was choking on it; until I was breathing the coppery warm liquid like air.
It was Maly’s blood that was splashed over me.
I screamed for my brother, and I was slapped hard several times, and the chanting continued. I felt something hot and angry enter me, a malevolent spirit that filled my blood and my bones.
There was a voice inside of my head, it said, “I am Shilen, and you are my eyes.” I began to scream and scream, and I felt Shilen overtake me.
There is little to describe how I felt, but I was dirty and violated, like something gritty had replaced my soul. Few can know the controlling rage and energy of the goddess Shilen. But I have looked deep into the fire red eyes of her hatred, and I know. There is no mercy, there is no love, and there is no compassion.
She bound me to her temple, so that I could not escape. I ate the offerings that her followers left near her idol, and she sucked the strength from my marrow; she took the strength from my blood. I became her hollow vessel, my heart slowed to a crawl; my breath became slow and shallow. I was pale and emaciated, and yet I lived on. Her rage kept me alive, yet many times I asked to die.
She whispered in my ear the promise, the promise that when I no longer lived I would live in her crushing grip in the abyss, I would be hers forever and I would drown in the darkness. She said she did not let her faithful go without reward.
She made me kill those who betrayed her name, with a bloody ceremonial knife. I did not think I could murder until her rage compelled me. She lurked within me, whispering “heretic” in every prayer, filling my head with murderous thoughts and killing me slowly from the inside.
For seven years, I lingered on the edge of death. I lingered on the steps of the temple and in the shadows, a pale wraith of a human. I struck fear into those who saw but a shadow of Shilen in my white, blind eyes. I ceased to become myself; myself had crawled into a corner and hid. I was Shilen, she shone through me, and she channeled her rage through me.
Somehow, one day I had wandered off near the river. I am not sure if it was Shilen walking or if it was myself, and I remember her gripping my heart so that it pained me, and I clenched my teeth together hard and tried not to scream.
It was near the river that my heart finally gave way under the pressure, and I died.
I think I fell into the river, and I felt in death Shilen’s presence leaving me. I was no longer a living vessel. I could no longer contain her.
I hit the water, and it shocked me back to life. My heart began to beat again; my head began to work again yet it pounded painfully against my ears. I floundered in the river, until I touched wood, and crawled underneath the tarp of a cargo boat. There I passed out.
I shouldn’t be alive. I should be dead now. I feel a huge weight lying on my heart. Shilen can no longer own my body, she no longer has put her decorations in the room of my head, but she has the key. She has the key, and she is a frequent visitor.
She haunts my dreams, Shilen is urging me to come to her again. Sometimes I think how easy it would be just to slip into her embrace, into the deepest waters and drown in the darkness. At least, there would be no more torment.
I pray to Eva, but there seems to be no release.
Kronas looked up from the diary. It was almost dawn. Is that what Kalypso had suffered? Is that what she had gone through? And she had never told her, she had never told anyone. She kept everything locked inside her, safe and hidden and it tormented her.
That was where that entry ended, yet there was one more.
I joined a clan called Malmallen; led by a young man who seemed he had so much promise. He cannot begin to realize what torments me. I know they think I am strange, I know I can never fit in. I am blind and cannot keep up.
I thought it would cure my hurt; to be among friends, and it did for a little while. I began to heal and, I began to recover.
But inside me Shilen was tearing me apart, and I could no longer live. I attempted to kill myself several times, but I always stopped before I actually did anything. I didn’t want to hurt Kronas or my brothers.
I don’t know if I can go on. I am leaving, to where, I do not know. I am going somewhere where I can think, where I can just sit and try to sort everything out. Shilen torments me, from the inside and out. My hands shake, my heart shakes.
Maybe I will just go to her. I know that would condemn me, but I don’t know what else to do.
That was where the writing ended. All that was left of Kalypso was blank, yellowed parchment.
Had Kalypso given her life to Shilen? What if she was in torment now? What if she was hopelessly lost in the abyss?
Kasmune cooed softly in Kronas’s arms. This was Kalypso’s child.
“I will find a way,” he said to the tiny pink child. “We will get your mother back.”
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Kaelir
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May 31, 2006 12:50:27 GMT -5
Post by Kaelir on May 31, 2006 12:50:27 GMT -5
<written by Kronas>
“You are asking for something very dangerous.”
Kronas could not make out the dark elf that stood in the temple shadows, only a slight curvature, a blending of darkness and the pale stone of the statue of Shilen.
“I know,” Kronas said, and flexed his hands underneath his gloved bichwa’s.
“The dead die for a reason,” the dark elf said. “No one ever resists the call of Shilen. They may try, but when the dark goddess beckons, you come in the end.”
“I want her back,” Kronas said, and stepped closer toward the statue of Shilen, his voice rising slightly. For a while after he spoke, the air was still and deathly calm; an unsteady sickness of silence.
“What would you be willing to pay?” the dark elf finally asked, and again, there was a pursed silence.
“My heritage,” Kronas said softly, and began un-strapping his bichwa’s from the wrists. He fingered the curved blades, the blades that had been crafted in the belly of Paagrio’s fire and carefully sharpened on his tongue. His father had held this blade, and his father after that; a generation of orc that is proud and few and fierce. There was nothing like hearing the voices of ones ancestors singing through the air as the blades cut deep into an enemy’s face. His father’s spirit was inside this blade, and he was giving it up.
Kronas laid his bichwa’s down at the feet of the statue. The dark elf laughed softly, the blades catching just a twinkle as they were placed on the stone.
“What use could this be to me?” the dark elf said, “a worthless, crude orc weapon.” Kronas winced at her words.
“Rinalya,” Kronas said, speaking the dark elf’s name. “I want her back.”
At hearing her name, the dark elf stepped away from the shadow. Kronas saw her startled face, eyes huge and yellow.
“Kronas?” Rinalya asked, uncertain if it was really he. Kronas nodded.
“I will help you,” she said quietly. “Take your bichwa’s. We leave tonight.”
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Kaelir
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May 31, 2006 12:51:56 GMT -5
Post by Kaelir on May 31, 2006 12:51:56 GMT -5
<taken from accounts of Kronas, and the diary of Kalypso>
They had traveled for three days; three days of restlessness and aching, of pounding hearts that seemed ready to burst, and of fear. Rinalya was ever a silent companion, always ahead of Kronas. In the few hours of sleep, Kronas heard her whispering prayers underneath her blanket. Other than that, she said little. Kronas tried to rock Kasmune into quiet, but she seemed to wail for hours on end.
In three days they reached the place where Kalypso had been buried, in the small cemetery behind the Dion church. Kronas found her grave among the rest; by a single wooden marker. Someone had etched a word into the wood, “Trust.”
Rinalya knelt down in the dirt, a palm supporting her cat-like crouch as she looked at the marker. She seemed to be testing the earth and the air, and it was a while before she spoke.
“How long has she been dead?”
“I’m not sure,” Kronas said. Kasmune began to cry, and he began to rock the child. “When things like this happen; it’s just…” Kronas struggled to find words. “It’s just like time fades away.”
Rinalya nodded, though she seemed to not be listening to his words. She looked up as a cicada began to hum. The moon had appeared beneath hazy, ash clouds. She rose to her feet, her robe trailing behind her in the dirt as she turned to face Kronas.
“You must trust me,” she said, and her feline eyes shone in the increasing darkness. “You must trust your friend.” Kronas nodded, looking down at the dirt-grave.
Rinalya turned back to the grave and lowered herself to both knees.
“Trust in me,” She whispered, closing her eyes, and the ritual began.
In the darkness there is no meaning, and when I awoke in the earth I believed that I was dying all over again.
There is confusion in death, an utter absence of self. As I lay in my grave, the shroud still over me, the flower still clutched in my hands, I had forgotten who I was; and yet I remembered what I had been.
In my death there was darkness; there was cold. There was a vast temple made out of nothing but looming stretches of shadow. Shilen had once again whispered into my ear and I had slipped into the silky blackness of her otherworldly church.
I felt life coming back to my limbs. I had forgotten how to use limbs, how to use fingers. I had forgotten the way the blood rushes throughout your body, and the pumping of a heart. I had to learn all over again how to make things work, and slowly, I pulled the shroud from my body, and began to dig upwards.
I came back broken in a way. There are still some things I cannot remember, things that broke under the pressure of death. Fragmented memories stick into my brain like painful shards. Yet, it changed me. I can touch people and know who they are underneath the skin. I can probe minds with my own.
Clumps of dirt fell onto my face and body. I choked on the dirt as I pushed upwards, feeling strength returning to bloodless, lifeless arms. I closed my blind eyes, and with a last effort I pushed upwards, my hands breaking into the night air.
I can see what will happen in the future. I see empires rise and fall and kings rise and fall, and people struggling to live normal lives that are always thrust into adventure and things beyond their control. I keep these things to myself; for who would want to know of certain and terrible fate? I wish I did not know.
I felt hands pulling me upwards, grasping my arms and bringing me up out of the grave. I found myself sobbing and Kronas was hugging me, and I heard a baby crying and knew it was mine. The baby was thrust into my dirty arms and became instantly calm. Kronas hugged me in a crushing grip, and soon we were both crying and laughing; tears and joy flowing as one. There was someone else there as well, a dark elf I think, and who slipped into the shadows later without saying a word.
I know my true purpose. I have entrusted my daughter, Kasmune, in the care of her father on Talking Island. I will travel with Kronas to the ends of the earth. My mind now floods with vision, but my heart has always been the same. We will rejoice for the beauty that surrounds us. We will rejoice for the earth is singing and I am embracing the world and Eva is embracing me.
I am reborn.
I am the prophet Kalypso.
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Kaelir
Guard Member
Loves her unicorn
Sweet Dance Moves
Posts: 229
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Rivers
May 31, 2006 13:33:20 GMT -5
Post by Kaelir on May 31, 2006 13:33:20 GMT -5
<An excerpt from Kaelir's childhood diary>
My earliest memories were of rain. Silver rain spattered across a meadow vastness. Fat, fluid drops oozed and shimmered across a windowpane. Rain glistened like doves shaken from trees. I can recall the sweet, heady smell after a storm and the dripping grass in the morning sun. I could curl up in the flowering meadows, watching rain screech around me from the safety of a large leafed tree. I gathered wisteria in an afternoon storm and dandelions in a moonlight drizzle. Water was always a comfort to me, it seemed every answer was in the rain, in the waves.
But even at that young age, I was taught to fear.
“If you see men with very dark skin, I want you to go inside immediately. Do not try to talk to them. Do not alert them to your presence,” My father would always warn before I went outside. For a while, I thought nothing of it.
I was playing by the waterfall one afternoon when I saw one of these dark men camped up at the top of the rocks. He was eating something as he looked out across the village. He caught me looking at him, and smiled. I found myself smiling back, despite myself. Afraid of what anyone would do if they caught me smiling at a dark elf, I ran underneath the waterfall out of view.
Curiosity soon overcame fear, and I poked my head out of the waterfall. The dark elf was still sitting there.
“Hey,” came a voice. I just stood there, staring up at the dark elf. “Hey,” came the voice again. I finally understood it was the man up on the rocks talking to me. “Hello,” came my wispy reply.
“You hungry?” he said. Again, I didn’t reply. I just stood there, staring up into his mellow blue eyes. He smiled again as he took a bite out of his food. “I said, you hungry?” I can’t remember if I was hungry or not, but I was dumbly nodding. I crawled up the rocks and toppled into him.
“The name’s Kimune,” he said through a mouthful of food, and stuck his hand out at me. I shook it, shivering slightly at the touch of his leather palms.
“Kaelir,” I replied, swallowing hard, “Why aren’t you trying to kill me?”
Kimune laughed, and handed me a sandwich. For a while we just sat up there together in silence, looking over the village and eating. When we had finished our food, he started searching through the various pockets of his robe. He pulled a small, leather-bound book out and handed it to me.
I was too young to read, so I squinted and leafed through the pages. “What is this?” I asked.
“It was your mother’s diary,” he said. I was suddenly staring at the most precious thing that had ever been placed in my hands. I hugged it gingerly to my chest.
“You knew my mother?” I asked.
Kimune nodded. “When you’re old enough, it will be of great use to you. You should be going, you don’t want your father to worry.”
“Thanks for the book, and the food” I said. He smiled again, and I crawled back down the waterfall. When I got to the bottom and looked up, he was gone. I put the book in a secret place beneath the floorboards of our house, and in the years following, I quickly forgot about it.
As I grew older, I became more confined to the indoor. My father and I lived on the edge of the village in a small farm. It seemed I was forever tending our garden or taking care of the horses and cows in the stable. I was alone most of the time.
My father Lucien was a quiet man. If I were in trouble, he would only stare at me with his blue, crystallized eyes. If I had been good, he would smile and pat me on the forehead. There were days he would stand in the wind and look out across the meadow for hours. Other times, he would disappear for days. I would be walking through the forest and stumble upon him kneeling at my mother’s grave, wilted flowers in one hand. It seemed that the stillness around us was his eternity that the waiting was his life, and I was only something that like a flower, withered and died. I had long ago known I was half-elf. I would grow old before my father, before any of my elven peers, but I was still just a child, and as every child, thought that I would live forever.
It was one of those blustery days, when everything is moving and leaves are swirling at your feet and trees bend around you like old, creaking guardians. My cloak plumed and sputtered at my feet as I moved through the forest, hands stiff underneath the folds.
I came up to the meadow where I saw him. My father was limp, one hand against the granite stone of my mother and sister’s grave. His head was lying against the inscribed words. In his other hand, I saw a single red flower clasped and resting against his thumb.
“Dad!” I said, running across the meadow toward him. At first I thought he had passed out, or was sleeping, but as he heard my name he stirred and looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed, and when I looked at his face I took a step back as if to leave. We were several feet away from each other, but when he spoke through the wind it was like the voice of spirits. There was no command in it, but I knew it was something important.
“Come,” and I heard it as clearly as if we were standing in a warm, still room sitting beside each other. I ran to him and dropped on my knees beside him. I put an arm around his willowy shoulders and hugged him to me. The flowers whistled around us. Lucien put his cloak around us and the world went silent. There was only the sound of our breathing, and the words on the stone.
Awentia-Kasmune Blessed Gift of Eva
Kalypso Beloved Mother, Beloved Wife Hero
My father dropped the crushed red flower on the granite. His whole body sagged as he addressed me.
“I have never told you how they died,” he said, “Your sister died a hero. Your mother lived as a hero.” He put his arm around me and held me close as he whispered the story to me. He told about the dark elven raid fifteen years ago, how my sister died falling from the tower, how my mother birthed me with an arrow in her heart. He told me that I was a twin. It was the most words I had ever heard him speak.
“When you were about to be born, she didn’t let me take the arrow out of her heart until she was ready.”
“Ready for what?” I whispered, my voice was like a burning, heavy hush underneath the cloak.
“Ready to die,” my father said, “The arrow was a stopper for her blood. She suffered tremendously so that you could live.”
Lucien put his arm around me and drew me close. His breath trembled.
“Your mother gave you a precious gift, the gift of sacrifice. Her love is guiding you now. It was her love that let a miracle survive. Even now I feel her power surrounding you.”
“How come I didn’t know about my brother?” I asked. I felt suddenly as if I had unlocked a box of secrets.
“Ereth was stolen from us,” my father said. I saw his knuckles turned white against the billowing cloak. His lip quivered for an instant. “When you were a toddler, there was another dark elven raid. A small one, nothing like what had happened a few years before. During the raid, Ereth was separated from us. I found one of his shoes in the mud, but he was nowhere in site.”
Lucien turned to the writing on the granite. He let his hand slide across the wind smoothed word, “Hero.” “I think it is about time to show you everything,” he said, and we ran underneath his cloak back to the village.
When we got back into our home, we cast our cloaks inside and I watched Lucien pull a large cedar box out from his bed. He spent several minutes fumbling with the lock, but it soon opened. I saw his hands shake as he extracted a yellowed parchment from the top of the box.
“These are all your mother’s writings. She was a wonderful poet and bard. This…” Lucien swallowed. “This is a letter she wrote before you were born. I waited until you were old enough to understand it.” He held out the letter to me, and I stared at it a long time before daring to take it. I sat down on my bed. The paper was so old it almost crumbled in my hands.
“My dearest children,” the letter read, “I do not know what kind of a mother I will be to you when you are born. I do not know whether you are male or female, whether you will be healthy or sick. I do know one thing; you are children of a prophet. I do not want to condemn you to a life as a peasant, a farmer, or a housemaid. When you are old enough, when you are ready, I am sending you to Talking Island. There, my sister will guide you and prepare you for the life outside the borders of the elven forest. Then, you are to seek out Durwin Audeley of the Avant Guards. Please understand that I want the best for you, my children, I am not trying to get rid of you or show you the path to death. No, my children, I want you to understand that there are far greater things than one person can do alone. Take this ring with you, and Durwin will know who you are.”
I sagged and exhaled a shaky breath before looking up at my father.
“I am ready,” I said finally. My father sat down on the bed beside me/e held a silver chain with a golden ring on the end, and slipped it over my head. I closed my eyes and shuddered as the cool ring pressed against my skin.
“Don’t lose that,” he said. I promised him I wouldn’t.
“I already sent your aunt a letter,” he said. “It should have arrived by now. Her name is Evaryne Marelynn.” Lucien clasped my hands and leaned in close to me.
“I want you to listen very carefully.” I nodded slowly as his deep eyes bent into my own.
“I’ve given you a purse with enough adena for emergencies. Inside your pack, there will be a ticket for the boat to Talking Island. I’ve packed you food and drink for ten days.”
My father let go of my hands and handed me the small brown pack. He rummaged inside the chest. He pulled out a worn, faded yellow dress.
“This was your mother’s mithril dress,” he said. He held it up to the window, and the evening sun shimmered into the fabric. It glinted as he unraveled it in the air. “I want you to have it.”
I took the mithril dress in my arms. It was soft and cool, and as I pressed it to my face I imagined I could smell my mother’s delicate scent.
Lucien lit the candles in the cottage as the last lights faded from the horizon. He cooked dinner for both of us on the small iron stove. It was a cold night, the kind of night where you shiver underneath a wrapped blanket and your toes curl with cold as you scamper across the floorboards. Even in the cold, as the stove warmed up, the cottage was filled with a comforting heat and the reassuring smells of hot food. Lucien served up two wooden plates steaming with roasted chicken and boiled eggs. We ate in our usual silence, but there was a feeling of fulfillment, of finality. This was to be my last supper before setting out. I had never been outside of the elven forest, and the thought of it made electric shivers coil down my spine.
When I finally crawled into bed, the mithril dress placed delicately over the side of the bed, my pack on the floor, I looked out the window into the blackness. It began to rain, and when I closed my eyes, I heard the pattering outside like a symphony.
First light. My father gently nudged my shoulder and I awoke instantly. I dressed in the mithril and put on my leather boots. I took the pack and slung it over one shoulder. We ate a hurried breakfast of cold cheese and rye before the sun was fully up, but even as we ate I was shivering.
“I can take you to the edge of the forest,” my father said. We put our cloaks on and went outside. I pulled the collar up around my neck as the wind hit me. It was even colder than the night before, flurries swirling in the air. It began to snow lazily, slow flakes that disintegrated as they hit the ground. I dodged muddy puddles in the road as I tried to keep up with Lucien.
There are certain points in time when words mean nothing. As we reached the end of the forest, where the trees began to disappear into meadow, I could find no words strong enough. We reached the sentry bridge at the end of the elven meadow. That is where Lucien stopped. He put his hands on my shoulders, and bent down to kiss my forehead. The air became calm and still, and there was no consciousness except for us together. I felt as if I was floating as he whispered to me.
“Never look back,” he said. I nodded and hugged him tightly. I looked back over the sentry bridge and began to walk slowly at first, but then more confidently, toward it. I was running towards my destiny, running toward a whole new life. I would follow my mother’s footsteps; I would be more than just an elven peasant. I would be a hero.
I will always remember his words, “Never look back.”
And I never did.
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