The Serin Mystique, Volume 13, Issue 2|
Leeching off of an introductories of writers gone before me:1) Highlights (see Falls, HighTower)
"Welcome dear readers to the latest edition of the Mystique!"
In this issue, we are graced with the last work of the former High
Herald Grewin and a feature from the mish-mash of anatomical amal-
gams, Onion Sage Thamu. Also we touch on some forgotten stories,
specifically the legend of the Bunny Drow and a sketchy account
claimed to be a portion of the High Tower of Sorcery's latter his-
tory. Enjoy experimentation with substituting soup for three cab-
als, as well as the sloshed and possibly half-hearted advice given
to yours truly from On High. A skeletal dragon, insight on self-
inflicted curses, a poem to she who wasn't meant to be and more!
2) Cabal Affairs (see Legion, Knights, Soup)
3) Coterie Affairs (see Herald, Mysticurd)
4) Events (see Help, Onions, Dragoning)
5) Gossip (see Raikon, Drunk, Drachen, Troll)
6) Obituaries (see Buxiz, Grewin)
7) Poems (see Degeneration, Flame, Bunny)
8) Archived Study (see Blindseek)
In the spirit of missing Heralds or the same that have passed on do
I release this Mystique number fifty-six. The names of all that have gone
before me would fill every single one, I'd wager. Grewin and Buxiz, may
both be immortalized sensibly in this issue. This mystique brought to you
by myself, Thamu, Vanisse and Sir Scribbles.
"When Another Falls"
Pangs of guilt certainly have a place to define a consciousness framed in
moral absolutes. Then is it suitably made a conscience. But to contin-
ue to reproach yourself underneath it when the offense is either non-
existent to the other involved, or already dusted off the shelves of
their mind: this is when it is self-destructive, not conducive to a
building of character.
The thresholds of course may heavily depend upon one's being or object
of worship, but I'm under the opinion that a cleric's life is more to
do with preserving those of others more than their own. Adventure is
a box without dimensions until the lots of those involved are cast by
Fate. Losing your life or watching another lose theirs in one can
certainly be upsetting, but is it not a welcome enlightenment as the
shrouds obscuring destiny begin to peel further? Dying or overcoming
the potential to die should be equally celebrated. For in either
case, there is a lesson waiting to be embraced. Another block ready
to be placed in one's own story. Let's remember that while exploits
can and will define a life, how one dies in it helps determine the
final shape of the medium they filled. Inch by inch the blurs of
that silhouette begin to sharpen, until finally at the last breath,
your name may earn either an honorable shape to be placed in an epitaph
or a distasteful thought to be hissed at the end of a curse.
I'm not perfect and may never consistently uphold this belief in
the sight of others, but in the end, this is what I reflect back on.
Live like your hour is the last, die letting Fate define the rest.
Someone recently expressed a great deal of remorse, but it might've wavered
more on the self-destructive side. I would never know for sure. I don't
know another as well as they know their self. But this is for they and let
it also be for you.
-Inked of Cyprian
"The Brave Exchange"
Once nestled in the Forest of Illusion, nearby the arcane village, the
High Tower stood unthreatened. Safe. Prominent.
In the dark of night, the fleeting moon-lit glint off a ten-story molar
was all that they who'd have noticed could heed as a warning. But most
in the High Tower were sloshed at Strick's bar, including the vigilant
Grand Mistress. Lured by Ezmerelda's cooking, giant dentures of an other-
worldly size descended its jaws upon the Tower.
Chew, chew, chew.
Never a participant in the High Tower's gatherings, the necromancer was
luckily sober. Uttering a secret word of power, he animated millions of
disembodied hands that he collected and preserved for other uses. Alert
enough to the coming inconvenience, he ordered them to erupt from the
Tower's windows. They took hold along the giant denture's maw, forcing it
open. After a structure-wide turbulence, those that gathered at Strick's
staggered and stumbled as they slurred incants of flight to mobilize to
the High Tower's defense. As they frantically arrived at the swirling orb
of magic, they got a bird's-eye view of what was taking place oustide.
The master illusionist hasted the golem maker, who chiseled mightily against
a couple front teeth. This birthed the diamond golems. For the denture's
teeth were made of strong jewels. Elsewhere, the Mad Alchemist was busy
brewing many potions of corrosion as quickly as he was able. The enchanter
armed a couple thousand disembodied hands with powerful hammers for enamel-
pounding. All the while the Master of Neutrality struggled to bridge the
contentions that erupted over differing ideas between the Master of Goodness
and the Master of Evil. The Grand Mistress made to the top of the Tower.
After she barked urgent orders to all through the swirling orb, she prepared
a portal north of her throne, through which all could evacuate into
Seringale. This, just in case the disaster of amylase couldn't be averted.
Students and scribes were dispatched with magical enchancements from
lecturers to hurl the Mad Alchemist's corrosive potions at as many teeth as
they could. The librarian was....throwing books out a window at the
denture's teeth in a shrewish fit....
All the while the GIANT pair of dentures carried the High Tower, hovering
menacingly to the north.....
-Inked of Cyprian
2) Cabal Affairs
Speaking to both the Penumbral Hand Sevaush, and the Battlemaster Awfhar,
it's unfavorably clear Legion's march veers neither left nor right.
In so many words on different occasions Awfhar has made it known that
none dare take up arms against them. Quite to the point where Awfhar
even lost total reference of Knights in which to place any minute
amount of hindsight. I had asked how he thought they fared, to which
no amount of time passed before he remarked, "Awfhar think what knight."
Concerns have been raised about Glerr's method of fighting, but not to any
substantial amount. The worries are likely to pass as a sneeze. Nonethe-
less, Sevaush confirms Awfhar's blunt retort in saying, "The Army hasss
been doing well."
And....my thoughts on this whole matter beg no written expression.
Lead by the forsaken Penumbral Hand, Sevaush. Administered of the
Dreadlord Glerr. Reinforced by the Overseer Xynch. Those they rule
are Fyrvielle, Kohga and Lourch. Lady Nycticora still tills her
darkness amongst them all.
-Inked of Cyprian
"Will Valour Rise?"
The days are quiet, and I'd say that where fertile ground is concerned,
stillness is among the best of them. Consider the Void, the root of all
things creative. Subject for another time. It is said Knight ranks
are slowly numbering. I also have it that a palpable omen, potentially
beneficial, is felt by them.
Yiebaen is noted to be ardently present, with an interest to contend their
noble cause to match. Tides are augured to crest in other directions. All
that's left is to see if a surprise dam may rise in opposition.
Yiebaen, Cedowyl, Lolath and Sahnyqour are they whom the Knight roster
possesses. Lord Ceridwel is as ever their divine patron as he has been
and perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself, but I get the notion that...
another recruit will possibly make the cut. They are unnamed.
I wonder who.
-Inked of Cyprian
I looked me out a window, and saw Serin unadulterated such as though not
a single foot had ever stepped for either the glory of combat, or balancing
of powers. What is seen though are Legions and Knights still vying for each
their own cause. It may not always be thus, and it may not even matter
in the context of Time's broadest eyepiece. Still, I can't just omit
mention of any of the three remaining cabals for this Mystique. It's hard
enough I settle for missing substantial information about them. Noone
is to blame.
I did speak with the Chimera of Order also. Generally his patrols have been
uneventful. Whether it's good or bad I'm in no position to say. So it is
that I conclude Mystique fifty-six with this final column; combining
Justice, Keeper and Warlord into one. And I am aware I may as well be a
single mortal Herald. So discard the notion that I ink from any vaunted
perch. Preserve the messenger, as it were.
-Inked of Cyprian
3) Coterie Affairs
"Still of the Halls"
Botching my first application into Herald so tripped I, my way, into the
coterie. It wasn't altogether crowded, but neither was it at all vacant.
I could sit and stir about, pondering this-and-that. Did I fail to inspire?
Did I neglect to lead when the burden was appropriately mine? The minute
the quill parted that question mark is the very same I realized that those
may only be doubts of one that believes their self to be more than
he or she really is. So I discard them. It is as it was before: insp-
iration does not take root in the company of many. It can, but it's not
a required pretext.
Buxiz the Dancemaster and Grewin the Frozen Quill have both passed on.
So it is that I have a glimpse now at what, perhaps, the late Blyx had
seen come to pass in her era. It is not so bad. For I know that a quill
and an idea need only one pair of hands, at most. I don't propose whether
an emptying roster is good or bad. It just is, as is the ink of a jar.
I can only see to my own account, and wish good on the accounts of others.
Our doors are quite open to applicants. I will again say that presence
is first and foremost. Contribution is second. Accolades are bestowed of
themselves, and not by the bearer. The quill is our tenure, titles are
not a means to secure it. I am just as underneath that rule as the novice
may be. Be you touched in the head, unkempt, orderly or outrageous and
maybe everything in between. If you write and are rife with ideas, come
forth at your leisure.
-Inked of Cyprian
"Curds and Perfection"
A Herald, A Justice, and A Lion
travelling deep into the cold.
A fateful ritual for trying
the Justice in question... So Bold.
Long had the journey taken,
ingredients for rituals in tow.
The Herald so cold and shaking,
The Justice warm to her toes.
Etchings and filigree on ice,
a basket with pastries and oats,
series of spells and glowing eyes,
a ritual to summon a mystic of old.
Exylis, a mystic, inhabited the lion at will,
telling tales of his curds of cheese.
A curd bath the mystic had filled,
left behind in a summoning breeze.
After some explanation of our desires,
saying we needed a mystic to write,
he calmed and enjoyed the filigree fire,
accompanied by strange mystic light.
Discussion of curds, onions, and Mystic
abounded for quite a long hour.
Exylis: moving from lion to linguist.
The Herald's handwriting: found dour.
So bad, in fact, the correlation was made:
of a no-armed giant with a broken quill.
So Exylis again to-the-lion made the trade,
happy to leave the head of the word-filled.
Questions arose of the Justice's origin,
feelings of belonging held in the tone.
A swift answer left no questions.
Thamu was perfect, creator- gone.
The liver and Onions were a sign,
that all was well with the mage.
It was part of her initial design,
long before she left her cage.
Exylis, of the Curds, as it were,
was the writer of the Treaty of Curds.
The rememberance of such lore,
only from descendant of Curd the Third.
The mystic's turn to inquire came to be,
and the question of the Great Lord arose.
Details of power and strength and might,
given to show Davairus sits on the throne.
Cyprian left with spectacles on eyes.
Thamu: powerful and perfect, eating liver.
The gules lion sleeping soundly on the ice,
a farewell Exylis left with, through a shiver.
The Herald a-gape at his ridiculous request,
one of summoning a mystic to write.
Sought out in lack of belief and jest:
was brought by the mage, succesfully to light.
Not quite the way Cyprian had imagined,
an honest and quirky mystic of old.
"Bad handwriting" and "much talking" pinned
on the Herald who sought out the old soul.
A strange tell of herald, mystic, and mage.
The moral is be careful when seeking
for elaborate rituals by a perfect sage.
One never knows the Curds that come peeeking.
-Inked of Thamu
Thanks to a certain unnamed liver-loving Justice, the new Travellers'
Rest kitchen is drowning in onions. We are going to need some creative
recipes to use them all up! Please send your inventive recipes to Herald.
We'll award prizes for the best three. The top one will be sold in the
(The submitted entries follow on the next page.)
[Thamu's Onion Burgers]
Chopped onions crusted in ground onion and fried to form a patty.
Top with gnome bacon and pickle juice reduction.
Put between fluffy bread rolls. Eat.
[Raikon's Beef with Onions]
raikno muhc love bef maybe to make bef wit onjin that raikn surbe goood
[Sevaush's Onion Soup]
Take two onions. Put them in your pockets. Adventure for several years.
Take a bath in a spring.
You will need:
-A squashy goat
-The Temple Lioness
-Salt and pepper
-An irritated Princess
Dispatch a squashy goat to tenderize gnome tri-tips. Deploy the temple
lioness to get ground gnome tri-tips. Stuff gnome tri-tips in a flagon of
ale. Let sit overnight.
Slowly roast the ground gnome tri-tips over a fire fed with applewood.
Moderately hollow out onions that are a bit bigger than a human fist. Dash
several pinches of salt and pepper across the altar. Roll gnomions on it.
Serve with salad to irritate Vanisse to get delicious gnohmphions.
Remember it's not a gnohmphion without the 'hmph!'
A grizzled muscular Hun that raids bee hives also sells competitive
earrings. A loud, clownish man with any sort of normal hue to be found lies
in his hair tends a dragon of ancient. It towers higher than any dragon in
existence today. It's dead though, so gape to your heart's content. Still
the mysterious female executioner abides the gallows as though neither the
Hun or Luthios moved in. Imagine the hushed arguments that were cut short
between Luthios and the executioner when avid Strythoweeners arrived.
The executioner seemed to be quite attached to the silence of Harlen's dead
remains. A silence now shattered by Luthios' welcoming shouts to passerby.
I ink about the Dragon Race just north of Seringale. I boast a whopping one
out of ten victory ratio. My athletic ability rivals a slug's. Beware.
This event is held in honor of Lord Stryth and the attraction is only one of
many flavors created in this plane by the Pantheon. Choose for which house
you will compete up the dragon's spine: Blood, Prayer, Magic and Steel.
Compete often enough and maybe the executioner will spitefully slap an "I've
been dragoning" axe into your neck. What a way to go out. Dragoning.
-Inked of Cyprian
"Raiko Say Hai"
BEEF REALLY GOOD. DUCK IN FOREST VILLAGE ALSO GOOD. BUT MOSTLY BEEF.
SPEND ALL SHINIES ON BEEF. GET NEW ARMOR. TREE NICE. RAIKO FROM VILLAGE.
BIG WARRIOR. WHEN GO JOIN MASTER TEACHER. HE SAY RAIKO TOO GOOD. CANNOT
TEACH. BEST LEAVE VILLAGE HE SAY. BEFORE BREAK MORE STUFF. THINK HE
MEAN TOO GOOD. SO COME HERE. TEACH OTHER TO BE GREAT WARRIOR. BUT MEET
BUX. BUX SHOW RAIKO MUCH CAN LEARN STILL. AND NOW KNOW VAMISE IS CHIEF
OF EVERYTHING TOO. IN VILLAGE. NOT EVEN KNOW VAMISE. IN RAIKO VILLAGE
THINGS ALWAYS BREAK. RAIKO ALWAYS TRY SAVE THINGS. BUT OTHER GIANTS
PUT THINGS WHERE FALL AND BREAK. ALWAYS HIT RAIKO.
-Recorded of Cyprian
"Quill Trial: Drunk"
Here i exlpore unraveling a tighmtly distinct quill estyle. Wwhy not start
wherze all my soul anchors? Like a kont, you start with the bigvsget bulge
irn the tie, which is often the one by which others loosen when tugged.
One gesturee of sugegstive power and off she went to thhe graveyard. so
vaguely called so that nonte may try it for sinister reasons. I followed to
find her odn a swing. Vanisse had a litlte to say about a foew things.
>On Thie Heavens:
fiGhHtingh?? tHe LaZSst tiimeh ii "ffooughHT" WiiThh AnnnybaodY WaoZSs
ckehdalEhahMmM Whoo kept PuhtTiinnngh ZszaLaad in MY teMplEh. ii tHhiInNnk
mmoOosSztly tHhe oonEhsSz whho aare ffIighhTinG ahreh OolYN ahhnnnd
zjeridWel aghAhinnnZSsT NYsjtiicOra..buhht thHahht'sSz hHow tHossEh
cjaavbawlZsz gho. FOrEvEhr HehaD wHhaocckiInNng..iIt'Zsz kiInd of liickeh
ChHEsSssSs...ThhE bOoArd Gahmmme wiITh tiinny pehoPLe.
>On Age Barrisre Within Potential Couples:
tRiim tHAT BeaRD.
>On Maximizing Potetnial:
trAhiiniNng too Be....a PoOotato! paotaaTo! aoveR thHEreh! bUht He rUns
soOo nnnaot fAZszT.
She divulged sober wisdom a littble afterward, but its afn irridescent
shuade. meaning, depending on where you are in life, the wisdom you'qre
meant to see changes. So yuo should grete her sometiem, and myabe
just maybe...she'll pay you a visit and weave your lessons.
And here you thought i was going to give a concise step-by-step way tgo use
the power of suggestion izn the many ways it presents itself as opportunity.
Shamge on you. And no. Tthe power of sugigtseon doesn't lie within
-Ikned of Cypiarn
"A Curse from Lady Nycticora?"
Five o'clock in the evening. The Day of Dragon Wars and on the seventh
renewal of Retribution. It's hard to be of the light and watch things go
on, and then record them, as a Herald. Always do the odds rear themselves
at my face when my heart contemns acts of murder, conveyed blasphemies,
blazing passions kindled for the worse of Serin, attitudes that lack for
reverence and those than openly boil with malice toward divinity or mortal
light. Or both. Cyprian the healer wants to rebuke sharply, even turn
aside from so much as sharing company with the dark-hearted. Cyprian the
Herald suspends it, and instead opts to open avenues for material.
I've found myself entertaining the thought of hunting them, and once again
I turn it down in the name of healing. It just isn't proper. I'd sooner
be slain than potentially feared, anyway. Fear belongs toward the Heavens.
Breaking off this digression....
A jotun evoking locusts acquainted me with his implement once more. This
isn't altogether unwelcome. Nothing suicidal about that remark, I'll have
you know. Everything to do with being glad that I see the wheel of fate
turning. It's easier to see when fights erupt, I'm ashamed to admit. I'm
also reluctant to say that conflict, however broad or narrow in scope, is
only an opportunity to see who you and others really are, and build
It is said that there was a commander in the Eternal Army of Serin's First
Age. This commander did one or many things directly insubordinate to Lady
Nycticora...was it a time before the dark Princess ascended? Or had she
already? This I don't know, but it seems the offense(s) were so great, that
memory followed her to the heavens and she stamped a curse on what once was
a mighty line of killers.
------a single bit of that progeny recently walked Serin. Does Sevaush know
more? What dusty pieces of knowledge lie obscured and forgotten about all
-Inked of Cyprian
"A Troll Encounter"
Today during my travels I encountered a Troll named Damien. After a
tense standoff where we both worried the other might mean us harm, we were
able to sit by a fire and speak a bit. Damien told me much of himself and
his people, but most intriguing is that I learned they live in fear right
now. When I asked what him and his people were so afraid of he responded
that they feared the growing evil in the lands, that they could feel the
presence of a great darkness. He was unable to describe this great evil,
but I for one found it very concerning that this normally aggressive troll
was so afraid of something. Damien spoke of missing children and livestock
senselessly murdered and left to lay. Spoke of feeling like someone was
always about them watching their every move. I asked him what the trolls
plan for dealing with such evil is and he said they were requesting a meet
with the fire giants and stone giants to see about a alliance when the time
to fight comes. After such talk we enjoyed a small meal together by the
fire and I lay awake, listening to his death rattle of a snore. Thoughts of
our conversation played in my head, and as dumbly brave as trolls can be I
am worried about what could be on the horizon for us all. I hope it amounts
to nothing but I think I am remiss in that hope. I will continue to search
out information from all that I can and will keep you all updated as to my
findings whenever I can drop a scroll with someone reliable enough to
deliver it to the halls of the Heralds. Until my return be safe my friends.
I think of you all often and will see you all again very soon.
Penned by The Frozen Quill.
"Dance of Departure"
I've been scrolled to the effect that Buxiz, the dancing stone giant will
dance no longer. Missing him by mere passings, I am unfortunately left
with little to shed light on as to why. From what I can gather though
it seems an act meant to redeem shame. Shame for not having the presence
he wished to have had. I don't know what to ink, other than in a sense
we're all in the middle of a dance of departure. Our times have a promised
end in this coil. Always.
The day in which I ink this obituary is a heavy one, but I trust that Luck
means it for my good...and the good of those that worship her...somehow...
-Inked of Cyprian
With all due regret I look upon the slot of a roster that once held
the name of one that became a Herald around the same time as I. Grewin,
the Frozen Quill that had administered multiple responsibilities in our
coterie, including High Herald, has passed on. He was the next High
Herald after the late Ambassador of Acadia, Blyx. The circumstances of
his passing are a mystery to me, as they were with Buxiz, the Dancemaster.
I will miss Grewin as I miss the rest. But the quill and the ideas it
can pen exist of themselves, succeeding the expiration of anyone. Myself
Until I expire, I'll empty ink jars in his memory..and the memories of
-Inked of Cyprian
Faith. A word; one syllable.
The evidence of things unseen.
Giving glory to the complex,
It's an act most simple.
We start young as panthiests,
Then grow and define ourselves.
One's seed planted by parents.
Others' planted by their own fist.
From there the vision clears.
You cross brambles without shears.
Belief ignites purpose in your years,
By a deity felt never more dear.
Emblazoning the zeal on heart,
Espousing principles they chart,
Your life and Their sake:
They're now sewn, never torn apart.
So how now, this void in Serin...
Pools of belief wane smaller.
A gulf from man to divine: longer.
The average mortal life: shorter.
Mortality holds the reigns here.
If you feel left dusty on a shelf,
It's a curse you bring on yourself.
When you drop sheath and grasp hilt,
Slaying yourself as misfortune's felt.
-Inked of Cyprian
It was in a Mine, I bonked her there.
Her horn nearly stabbed my fist in-air.
She missed an allegory. Words. Ink.
Soon fainted for pancakes, unable to think.
Her warcry for the stacked flour crashes,
Dragging herself hungrily to molasses.
Very cute, the life in this woman.
First stricken by her eyebrows and lashes.
Flaming an exotic red, both the pair.
Hanging silkily, so did her kindling hair.
Nigh over, my heart fell soon as she ate.
What unabashed way of cleaning her plate.
So I consolidate both duty and pleasantry,
Only time I'd ever done that for any.
Reading a scroll written me from Vanisse,
I notice scales upon her, without crease.
I couldn't understand. This rare gem?
Worthy of no rose, only a thorned stem?
While I saw beauty, others cite monstrosity?
I wondered why she'd say such a thing.
From her onyx horn to her clawed toe,
Against this, no woman has much to show.
Framed as a glass blower's finest timepiece,
Crimson eyes. Sparkles no jeweller can fleece.
She was hardly elegant, not at all refined.
Blindly devoted to fire, hopeless to juice.
Loathes vegetables, for water she has no use.
Untempered impulses leave little to choose.
A bar stool and one sofa following,
I seated myself on both with her, pondering.
The pleasant contrast of claw and scale.
One black, the other whiter than hail.
In the western common room, telling stories,
Staring beer steins, my chest pelted softly.
Smothering all my impulses quietly,
I settled for sitting with her contentedly.
Line them up, every woman that I've seen.
I'd trade all hours or days with them,
For but one moment with the flame on wings...
No matter how fleeting.
-Inked of Cyprian
"Curse of the Bunny Drow"
In a land not far away,
A drow was love-struck by an elf.
He sought her hand before long.
Her name became his heart's song.
He slinked quietly in nearby wood,
Where with bow-and-arrow she stood.
Practicing her aim at dummy targets,
Aspiring to surpass castle turrets?
Casting arrows unaware he existed,
One struck the drow's knee,
Stuck fast, it never exited.
The drow quietly bit his lip.
Alas, the elf knew she hit something.
She crept forth, stretching bow string.
She stomped away a concealing bush.
Surprised, she saw not a thing.
Her heart jumped, then she turned.
Bunnies can fly, she learned.
Really, as it hit her face: Is it so?
Nay. The result of a drow's throw.
It's claws were out, scratched her face.
Then it bounced away in a panic-pace.
Scar-deep the wounds were made.
Pointing to him, put the drow'd stay.
Hapless on-rump, he glared up at her.
Soon he'd know the elf ruled nature.
Fly potions, one thousand sixty-three.
This she gave, then shot his other knee.
Too proud to cry, the drow winced greatly,
Glaring up at her, this goddess so stately.
"Behold, I strip power of thee," said she.
"Only all day shalt thou call bunnies."
Not very good news for the drow ranger.
Forests now foreign & left with 'littler.'
"Your curse's hard, who can I report to?"
"Not my problem, reversing it's on you."
Legs crippled, staring at the ground,
He knew a means to move had to be found.
"Forever shall thy legs fail thee,"
"Till thou find a better face for me..."
Furious, with either fist clenching,
He vowed from this curse he'd be free.
Damn the lesson not to stalk elven ladies.
Whether goddess, or only honing archery...
-Inked of Cyprian
8) Archived Study
Light extinct to all but fleeting peripheral view and continually
dodging direct visual focus, my heart was pierced. An orb defying
its own boundary unraveled me in an instant. The pain surpassed
my ability to express it and betrayed the length at which it should
have remained. Then a sudden peace. Nothing mattered. Everything
fit, and at the same time failed to connect. There was no place for
anything, yet everything had a place. Only the quiet wails of a
distant whorl reflected any consciousness in a darkness that had
long since consumed itself. Leaving something much blacker.
Tides of countless whispers slowed to a roaring crescendo that
nested in an absence of all memory. Waking me up only to drive me
further against my will, undermining all initiative. Rhythmic beats
roused alert to a smell without scent, and the whispers receded.
A metallic fragrance followed and the scentless smell developed
substance and anchored a mysterious purpose.
Before I could begin to think on that purpose, a warm sensation
invaded me. It were as though I myself were a raft, undulating softly
in tandem with a beat. My eyes opened and I found myself seeing red
and covered in blood. Then a scream ushered in a flood...and I fell
near Grand Thalos. Standing to my feet and bringing surroundings
into focus....as though awakening from a dream.
The dream opened a sluice that gave place to many a regret and
relief. Later becoming upset that I can neither see nor hold the
continuum, my foolishness was only reinforced...if one may call it
-Sought of Cyprian