Adham ap Otis
Dear Mother,
It has been a month since I saw you last
(Your face shallow'd, like a grave)
I've been my own, as you asked
(In a voice that was not far from a rave)
Wish I could join you, for I say
There's no joy without you
Not one, single, day
I'm crying. Madness, to joy, to crying, within the day. I really must be going crazy. I'm sobbing like a child. Crying, from a single thought. I miss her.
If sister could see me now. This is real emotion. The gods above couldn't receive better.
26th, End of Spring, 1087
Friday, May 7, 2010
Troubled
Adham ap Otis
Why not a stranger? Why not there? Why not now? I needed to channel my anger some way.
Puppets! Masked puppets dancing in the most common of ways. Oh compassion, boo-hoo, oh - joy! Oh, poetry, LOVE! It makes me sick, physically ill almost. An odd sensation fills the pit of my stomach when I go through it in my mind. It was fun, really, making them dance, pulling their strings. If I had spouted just a few stanzas, she would have gotten in bed with me, she would've been at my beck and call.
Fun and sickening at the same time.
Is this life? The pointless dances, the conforming movements? Father would have me believe so. Sister makes it seem so - and is everyone the same, or are all the interesting people just hiding underground so that they aren't killed by the ignorant masses? Better they hide underground. There are demons and Vek all around up here, or so everyone says. It makes me wonder why father would forbid me from the forests and the road. He's so fearful, yet he has complete faith in society and the guard. Just another fool, another puppet.
That man, that man at the end ruined it. Ruined it completely. I was out of words to shoot at him - he was simply that overbearingly stupid in the way he approached. Arrogant, high and mighty. Maybe next time, maybe next time.
I'm shaking with the joy, or is this anger? Adrenaline?
Am I going crazy?
26th, End of Spring, 1087
Why not a stranger? Why not there? Why not now? I needed to channel my anger some way.
Puppets! Masked puppets dancing in the most common of ways. Oh compassion, boo-hoo, oh - joy! Oh, poetry, LOVE! It makes me sick, physically ill almost. An odd sensation fills the pit of my stomach when I go through it in my mind. It was fun, really, making them dance, pulling their strings. If I had spouted just a few stanzas, she would have gotten in bed with me, she would've been at my beck and call.
Fun and sickening at the same time.
Is this life? The pointless dances, the conforming movements? Father would have me believe so. Sister makes it seem so - and is everyone the same, or are all the interesting people just hiding underground so that they aren't killed by the ignorant masses? Better they hide underground. There are demons and Vek all around up here, or so everyone says. It makes me wonder why father would forbid me from the forests and the road. He's so fearful, yet he has complete faith in society and the guard. Just another fool, another puppet.
That man, that man at the end ruined it. Ruined it completely. I was out of words to shoot at him - he was simply that overbearingly stupid in the way he approached. Arrogant, high and mighty. Maybe next time, maybe next time.
I'm shaking with the joy, or is this anger? Adrenaline?
Am I going crazy?
26th, End of Spring, 1087
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
A scrap of paper, written front and back
Untitled, by Adham ap Otis
Anne: The words were bold on your tongue,
Now dried and o'er used, too much in the sun,
Passionate light has dried them good.
Might you speak those words again?
Could you,
Would you,
Just once more?
Wessire: With the dawn, each day seems wronged,
Light jigs and dances 'round,
But I've no heart to be found.
The oncoming of night steals over, cold and right.
I may have loved, and held you tight,
But no more - not again - there is no 'might'.
The oncoming of night... horrible, horrible line. I might as well talk about asphyxiation on black shades and wights. Wights... that's good. Wights.
(Written to the side) In the shade which serves me right, I'll make love with a blackened wight, for I may have loved, and held you tight, but no more, never again, there is no 'might'.
Better. Wessire - where did I come up with the name? Maybe I'll change it.
I don't usually spend my time frequenting taverns, I leave it to the drunks and whores (sister sister, oh sister mine), but it's been a great supply of scraps. Little pieces that I can continue to write on, and also a great supply of great annoyance. Do -all- women act like that? Masks of makeups, armor over a conscience. Does it even feel anymore, or like a smith's stone in wartime; overused? Mother would never act like that. She was as pure as Cymur's flame in matters of the heart. Oh, mother...
She was nobility. The silk and finery gives them the right to do whatever they want, with enough gold leftover to bribe the God's forgiveness. It was that, the simple fact that kept my tongue held back. Cowardly as always Adham, coward for not speaking, not snapping them out of their charade, not breaking their masks over a bent knee.
23rd, End of Spring, 1087
Anne: The words were bold on your tongue,
Now dried and o'er used, too much in the sun,
Passionate light has dried them good.
Might you speak those words again?
Could you,
Would you,
Just once more?
Wessire: With the dawn, each day seems wronged,
Light jigs and dances 'round,
But I've no heart to be found.
The oncoming of night steals over, cold and right.
I may have loved, and held you tight,
But no more - not again - there is no 'might'.
The oncoming of night... horrible, horrible line. I might as well talk about asphyxiation on black shades and wights. Wights... that's good. Wights.
(Written to the side) In the shade which serves me right, I'll make love with a blackened wight, for I may have loved, and held you tight, but no more, never again, there is no 'might'.
Better. Wessire - where did I come up with the name? Maybe I'll change it.
I don't usually spend my time frequenting taverns, I leave it to the drunks and whores (sister sister, oh sister mine), but it's been a great supply of scraps. Little pieces that I can continue to write on, and also a great supply of great annoyance. Do -all- women act like that? Masks of makeups, armor over a conscience. Does it even feel anymore, or like a smith's stone in wartime; overused? Mother would never act like that. She was as pure as Cymur's flame in matters of the heart. Oh, mother...
She was nobility. The silk and finery gives them the right to do whatever they want, with enough gold leftover to bribe the God's forgiveness. It was that, the simple fact that kept my tongue held back. Cowardly as always Adham, coward for not speaking, not snapping them out of their charade, not breaking their masks over a bent knee.
23rd, End of Spring, 1087
Sunday, May 2, 2010
The Slings and Arrows
Sincerity, courtesy of Adham ap Ass
I found out the best phrase, as a summation of all the ruined thoughts that form her (thoughts that I picture to be spiked and jagged, like a chaotic line of machines coming up on the horizon to lay siege on my tolerance).
She bears depression like a ring of jewels, like a circlet wrought of gold on her head. Funny that I should describe it as a circle. That's what it is after all - subconsciously I know it runs in cycles. But it should be a complete cycle, whereas she breaks it. So what's wrong with the imagery of a circle? Right, the crown should be broken in a place, not to far from where it starts, and just past the finery of all the jewels which show like the eyes of Cymur, depicted in the painting.
Astounding that two of the same blood can boldly claim so different heads. She can take her crown and join the street for his bread, and may she harbor the plague between her legs. I should've punched him! I should have, should have struck him, tackled him, and took her back into the home. All those words he said to me.
'And when she rocks against me... it's all the harder...'
I'm a seething, Vek-gutted, coward. Next time, next time I'll have a knife.
No, what am I writing - I can't write that.
And all the while he just lets it happen, lets it pass him, while he dried the plaster of a dull-witted look and a smile across his face. How I want to burn their conception down! Though; what can I expect from a man half-dumb? Thank Elbahn I got her blessings rather than his. And now she's...
No. Don't write on that. I need to sleep, and if I get thinking on that... I'm already thinking on it. And the night echoes outside my window, saying come, come. I have things I could be doing, don't I? He'll kick me out if I venture out of the city, cut me off from his funds. If he's to make this my prison, I'll at least have eccentric freedom within it, and with all those masked-smiling-bastards.
Besides, I can never go to sleep when I start thinking of her.
Signed - 19th, E. Spring, 1087
I found out the best phrase, as a summation of all the ruined thoughts that form her (thoughts that I picture to be spiked and jagged, like a chaotic line of machines coming up on the horizon to lay siege on my tolerance).
She bears depression like a ring of jewels, like a circlet wrought of gold on her head. Funny that I should describe it as a circle. That's what it is after all - subconsciously I know it runs in cycles. But it should be a complete cycle, whereas she breaks it. So what's wrong with the imagery of a circle? Right, the crown should be broken in a place, not to far from where it starts, and just past the finery of all the jewels which show like the eyes of Cymur, depicted in the painting.
Astounding that two of the same blood can boldly claim so different heads. She can take her crown and join the street for his bread, and may she harbor the plague between her legs. I should've punched him! I should have, should have struck him, tackled him, and took her back into the home. All those words he said to me.
'And when she rocks against me... it's all the harder...'
I'm a seething, Vek-gutted, coward. Next time, next time I'll have a knife.
No, what am I writing - I can't write that.
And all the while he just lets it happen, lets it pass him, while he dried the plaster of a dull-witted look and a smile across his face. How I want to burn their conception down! Though; what can I expect from a man half-dumb? Thank Elbahn I got her blessings rather than his. And now she's...
No. Don't write on that. I need to sleep, and if I get thinking on that... I'm already thinking on it. And the night echoes outside my window, saying come, come. I have things I could be doing, don't I? He'll kick me out if I venture out of the city, cut me off from his funds. If he's to make this my prison, I'll at least have eccentric freedom within it, and with all those masked-smiling-bastards.
Besides, I can never go to sleep when I start thinking of her.
Signed - 19th, E. Spring, 1087
Saturday, April 17, 2010
(Gabriel)
It was a pale luminescence that came through the cracks of the door, diminished by distance and obstacles. Still, it caught and illuminated the walls of the small cell.
Walls, which were covered with writing. Here and there, but mostly everywhere, writings of runes and symbols and vague pictures which were not even close to a complete scene, and always were drawn in the most crude manner. The words and images were flaking, but only because the blood was drying.
Scrawled in painstaking, block-like letters on one section were the words;
'The shade has torn his heart
Everything and nothing is the part
Will the Father return to my halls?
Where is the passion?
It's on these prison walls.'
A little apart from that were the words...
'Catfish
or was it mutton? Fie
Why can't I remember?
Lenore, or Emilia or or'
The symbols drawn were convoluted. Something vaguely similar to a snake, or perhaps an eight on its side. A triangle, a circle. Then, numbers. Eight, nine, ten, eleven.
'Spirits, spirits, in my head
When will I be free and dead?'
The light shimmered in the room as outside a man passes by the torch. A chuckle touches the walls, echoes, and disperses into silence, but this chuckle has initiated a response, a response from something laying on the floor. A pile of ragged clothes, dirty, knotted hair, and pale skin.
'What do I love?
Love? Love? I love blood.'
A groan, and the head raises, while eyes look to the door - though it's a wonder just how much they actually are seeing. So glazed over are those eyes, as if all the cerebral thought of Melchior Himself were encased in such a mortal, youthful form. The head falls to the ground, and the body twitches.
'From the east when the light is past the west
What was, I forgot all the rest
Emilia
Sarahmil
What was it'
'They give me just enough of it to write
But not enough to live, love, or fight.'
A dissonant melody bounces on the walls of the cell. Cracked. There is no beat to it, no tempo, no rhythm. It is not a song, but the lament to the death of one's mind.
'Where it is
It's blood's job to find'
Walls, which were covered with writing. Here and there, but mostly everywhere, writings of runes and symbols and vague pictures which were not even close to a complete scene, and always were drawn in the most crude manner. The words and images were flaking, but only because the blood was drying.
Scrawled in painstaking, block-like letters on one section were the words;
'The shade has torn his heart
Everything and nothing is the part
Will the Father return to my halls?
Where is the passion?
It's on these prison walls.'
A little apart from that were the words...
'Catfish
or was it mutton? Fie
Why can't I remember?
Lenore, or Emilia or or'
The symbols drawn were convoluted. Something vaguely similar to a snake, or perhaps an eight on its side. A triangle, a circle. Then, numbers. Eight, nine, ten, eleven.
'Spirits, spirits, in my head
When will I be free and dead?'
The light shimmered in the room as outside a man passes by the torch. A chuckle touches the walls, echoes, and disperses into silence, but this chuckle has initiated a response, a response from something laying on the floor. A pile of ragged clothes, dirty, knotted hair, and pale skin.
'What do I love?
Love? Love? I love blood.'
A groan, and the head raises, while eyes look to the door - though it's a wonder just how much they actually are seeing. So glazed over are those eyes, as if all the cerebral thought of Melchior Himself were encased in such a mortal, youthful form. The head falls to the ground, and the body twitches.
'From the east when the light is past the west
What was, I forgot all the rest
Emilia
Sarahmil
What was it'
'They give me just enough of it to write
But not enough to live, love, or fight.'
A dissonant melody bounces on the walls of the cell. Cracked. There is no beat to it, no tempo, no rhythm. It is not a song, but the lament to the death of one's mind.
'Where it is
It's blood's job to find'
Friday, March 26, 2010
Once upon a time... there was a shade.
(Gabriel/Aldren)
A shade of himself was all he had to hold on to. The rest had been killed and drowned. He was locked behind bars, and inside he wept. There was a Father who didn't speak to him, there was a Mother who was dead - whose body he would not see. There was a love he couldn't love. There was a city where he would never be.
"Just give me the blood..." the words echoed throughout the cell. They crawled and slithered.
"That's one... two... four names... be back..."
He hadn't returned, and now the shade was frantic. There was a woman he tried to think about, but he couldn't remember her name, or if she had ever given it. There was something he kept trying to hum, a tune lost in the back of his mind... but his lips would not form it. Always and constantly there was a pulsing in his head and a pulling in his stomach. His skin crawled, his eyes burned, and his throat cried. For the first time in over sixty years the shade was actually breathing out of necessity, for if he didn't he felt he might implode.
The torch light flickered through from outside. Shadows danced on the walls, and where usually their edges would be followed by the shade, he was naught but unmoving. Unfeeling. Silent, and uncaring. Yet, his thoughts were a sea. A crimson sea.
'He knows... he knows... he knows the names were false.'
'How could he? How?'
'He's a Dryth! Could you not feel it? And you stupid, stupid - oh He would be disappointed.'
'I can't keep anything straight! I can't resist... I can't stop... my thoughts are like a mortals. They race, and, oh Lord help me! Lord help me!'
'What will--'
'No, no...'
'Tell him! Take revenge! The ones who put you in here, the ones who will take this city in their hands and crush it, waste it.'
'No! I must get out. I can use them, use them all! If I can get out, they'll find the ones who can be converted, and I'll teach them...'
'You won't get out - just tell him. Take your revenge on those souls who would kill with only the purpose to kill.'
'I remember something... a vision long ago... there was a sad man, and I felt him through every bone of my body. He echoed inside of me, and me inside of Him. To me He showed a vision of a garden in night, with beauty on the air, upon my nose, and in my eyes. Speckled in starlight every flower opened and closed, with each softly taken breath of the night...'
Now the flowers bleed red, and the shade might reach for them... but they crumble.
A shade of himself was all he had to hold on to. The rest had been killed and drowned. He was locked behind bars, and inside he wept. There was a Father who didn't speak to him, there was a Mother who was dead - whose body he would not see. There was a love he couldn't love. There was a city where he would never be.
"Just give me the blood..." the words echoed throughout the cell. They crawled and slithered.
"That's one... two... four names... be back..."
He hadn't returned, and now the shade was frantic. There was a woman he tried to think about, but he couldn't remember her name, or if she had ever given it. There was something he kept trying to hum, a tune lost in the back of his mind... but his lips would not form it. Always and constantly there was a pulsing in his head and a pulling in his stomach. His skin crawled, his eyes burned, and his throat cried. For the first time in over sixty years the shade was actually breathing out of necessity, for if he didn't he felt he might implode.
The torch light flickered through from outside. Shadows danced on the walls, and where usually their edges would be followed by the shade, he was naught but unmoving. Unfeeling. Silent, and uncaring. Yet, his thoughts were a sea. A crimson sea.
'He knows... he knows... he knows the names were false.'
'How could he? How?'
'He's a Dryth! Could you not feel it? And you stupid, stupid - oh He would be disappointed.'
'I can't keep anything straight! I can't resist... I can't stop... my thoughts are like a mortals. They race, and, oh Lord help me! Lord help me!'
'What will--'
'No, no...'
'Tell him! Take revenge! The ones who put you in here, the ones who will take this city in their hands and crush it, waste it.'
'No! I must get out. I can use them, use them all! If I can get out, they'll find the ones who can be converted, and I'll teach them...'
'You won't get out - just tell him. Take your revenge on those souls who would kill with only the purpose to kill.'
'I remember something... a vision long ago... there was a sad man, and I felt him through every bone of my body. He echoed inside of me, and me inside of Him. To me He showed a vision of a garden in night, with beauty on the air, upon my nose, and in my eyes. Speckled in starlight every flower opened and closed, with each softly taken breath of the night...'
Now the flowers bleed red, and the shade might reach for them... but they crumble.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
'Here am I sitting in a tin can...'
(Gabriel)
The blood isn't everything.
The blood isn't everything.
There's more to it, there has to be. More to Him... more to Us...
Just a curse. Something we need, something to be dealt with like a fly.
It isn't everything.
I have never lied to myself about this. I've always known I've been trying to convince myself. It's always been a battle against myself, to tell myself that there is more. There is love, there are shadows, there is freedom, and truth. Yet never before have I been losing the battle so badly.
Who am I kidding? I've lost the war.
I've never wanted it more. I used to prolong it, prolong it so that when I took it it would be all the more sweet. Now it has been prolonged too long. On the edge of my vision I can see it, a crimson veil, and the tightening in my chest returns to me like lightning. Every vein which is on the man, shackled across from me, is apparent. Every pulsing -glorious- vein.
Stark beauty, and beauty it is, if I could but slice it open. I want it. I need it, so badly. It calls to me and calls, and there's no echo anymore to stop it. I am forsaken, forsaken and at the mercy of the curse.
I'm afraid I won't be able to stop anymore... I was a fool to forsake it so. I was thirsty when they put me in here, and now, now my very essence is slipping away behind it. Blood runs down my wrists from where the shackles cut into me. If I could break loose... I must break loose. I can't handle this. It's not the pain, no it isn't. It's knowing that the blood is all I want. It's never far from my thoughts. I don't want to find Lilian, I don't want to stay with her, I don't want revenge, I don't want to have the mortal love come with me into the night...
I don't want to play a fucking lute.
I don't want my violin...
Oh Father...
I just want the blood.
The blood isn't everything.
The blood isn't everything.
There's more to it, there has to be. More to Him... more to Us...
Just a curse. Something we need, something to be dealt with like a fly.
It isn't everything.
I have never lied to myself about this. I've always known I've been trying to convince myself. It's always been a battle against myself, to tell myself that there is more. There is love, there are shadows, there is freedom, and truth. Yet never before have I been losing the battle so badly.
Who am I kidding? I've lost the war.
I've never wanted it more. I used to prolong it, prolong it so that when I took it it would be all the more sweet. Now it has been prolonged too long. On the edge of my vision I can see it, a crimson veil, and the tightening in my chest returns to me like lightning. Every vein which is on the man, shackled across from me, is apparent. Every pulsing -glorious- vein.
Stark beauty, and beauty it is, if I could but slice it open. I want it. I need it, so badly. It calls to me and calls, and there's no echo anymore to stop it. I am forsaken, forsaken and at the mercy of the curse.
I'm afraid I won't be able to stop anymore... I was a fool to forsake it so. I was thirsty when they put me in here, and now, now my very essence is slipping away behind it. Blood runs down my wrists from where the shackles cut into me. If I could break loose... I must break loose. I can't handle this. It's not the pain, no it isn't. It's knowing that the blood is all I want. It's never far from my thoughts. I don't want to find Lilian, I don't want to stay with her, I don't want revenge, I don't want to have the mortal love come with me into the night...
I don't want to play a fucking lute.
I don't want my violin...
Oh Father...
I just want the blood.
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