Post by Requiem on Nov 11, 2012 11:12:14 GMT -5
The dream lay just beyond his reach, the dark of stolen wisdom rightfully his now while the bulk of its power proved ever out of reach. The quest to unravel the puzzle she, the Nightsinger, continued to torment him with had gone on for nearly two decades now. What could have possibly caused the foolhardy idea that this struggle would ever be worth it for the shadow’s gifts. Always did the song of his loses play in his mind as if it were the regret of a proper ghost. The song had become his inspiration, the echoes of emotion to filll the void left behind by the sacrifice given to the embodiment of the dark. If not for the song would the man he now was even remember the sacrifice and why such a precious commodity became the price for a power still very out of his reach or so it seemed to the wanderer.
While the time before the pact, the memories from before his wanderings began, no longer held its rightful place in the wandering minstrel’s memories, the forging of the Nightsinger’s Pact retained its place invoking ambivalence in both his heart and tentatively anchored soul. No other memory left such a well defined mixture of pride and horror. A boy of thirteen summers should have known better than to provoke entities beyond his understanding, yet the foolishness of youth brought a profound wisdom when it had been cast off with his ignorance.
You are better than them, all of them.
I remember the laughter of the orphans, the song we sang eludes me. Why can I not remember? It does not matter any longer. They died and I lived on. I proved better than they by surviving.
The arrogance of the statement had once taken him aback, many facets of his dark side proved readily capable of provoking that very reaction. His arrogance and emotions darker than it were accepted far too soon to easily cope with them. That moment, the instant when his conscious mind merged with the subconscious, fractured the foundation of his mind and let in the song of lose to fill the void of memory around it.
Dream in Shadow, Wanderer.
Those three words, those thrice-damned words! The Shadows were to give him power! Why else had he gave of himself if not for wisdom and the power to survive?
All the answers he required lay in those three words and those three words held him back even now. Two decades of wandering had provided no breakthroughs. It had driven the wanderer to look for the answer in song, the song always playing in his mind and the songs of the people he encountered during his journey. The songs provided a path not given thought before, a talent possessed and in great need of nurturing. Music played to hollering peasants and clapping nobles provided only coin with a reputation that rarely traveled with him to new lands. His talent did not gift the minstrel with the answers long sought out.
You are a fool.
Not only a fool. The Court-Jester for the Mistress of Secrets and Lose herself. A laughable concept that the arrogance of old would never have accepted even should it have been spoken in jest.
A fitting concept if all his searching for answer that would grant him the power and knowledge he sought made him little more than a Jester for the Nightsinger’s court. Imagining such a thing did not seem utterly ridiculous now that humility tempered his arrogance. The once growing despair met its own tempering in the form of elation; he simply did not care if some entity beyond his understanding garnered amusement at his efforts. He would have his answer, it would be his answer. It would be his song.
The processes of serious thought broke down slowly into laughter, at first only in his head until the song was pushed aside and its distraction pushed aside for the moment as the laughter broke out into the world around him. Awakening came soon after, the minstrel still caught up in the laughter, had he finally lose his mind to the dark? No, even so the imagined sight of himself clad in the outfit of a jester proved too humorous to keep to his dreams, to his slipping grasp on any state of sleep.
Laughing yourself awake are we? Perhaps you’ve truly lose yourself Girard.
While the time before the pact, the memories from before his wanderings began, no longer held its rightful place in the wandering minstrel’s memories, the forging of the Nightsinger’s Pact retained its place invoking ambivalence in both his heart and tentatively anchored soul. No other memory left such a well defined mixture of pride and horror. A boy of thirteen summers should have known better than to provoke entities beyond his understanding, yet the foolishness of youth brought a profound wisdom when it had been cast off with his ignorance.
You are better than them, all of them.
I remember the laughter of the orphans, the song we sang eludes me. Why can I not remember? It does not matter any longer. They died and I lived on. I proved better than they by surviving.
The arrogance of the statement had once taken him aback, many facets of his dark side proved readily capable of provoking that very reaction. His arrogance and emotions darker than it were accepted far too soon to easily cope with them. That moment, the instant when his conscious mind merged with the subconscious, fractured the foundation of his mind and let in the song of lose to fill the void of memory around it.
Dream in Shadow, Wanderer.
Those three words, those thrice-damned words! The Shadows were to give him power! Why else had he gave of himself if not for wisdom and the power to survive?
All the answers he required lay in those three words and those three words held him back even now. Two decades of wandering had provided no breakthroughs. It had driven the wanderer to look for the answer in song, the song always playing in his mind and the songs of the people he encountered during his journey. The songs provided a path not given thought before, a talent possessed and in great need of nurturing. Music played to hollering peasants and clapping nobles provided only coin with a reputation that rarely traveled with him to new lands. His talent did not gift the minstrel with the answers long sought out.
You are a fool.
Not only a fool. The Court-Jester for the Mistress of Secrets and Lose herself. A laughable concept that the arrogance of old would never have accepted even should it have been spoken in jest.
A fitting concept if all his searching for answer that would grant him the power and knowledge he sought made him little more than a Jester for the Nightsinger’s court. Imagining such a thing did not seem utterly ridiculous now that humility tempered his arrogance. The once growing despair met its own tempering in the form of elation; he simply did not care if some entity beyond his understanding garnered amusement at his efforts. He would have his answer, it would be his answer. It would be his song.
The processes of serious thought broke down slowly into laughter, at first only in his head until the song was pushed aside and its distraction pushed aside for the moment as the laughter broke out into the world around him. Awakening came soon after, the minstrel still caught up in the laughter, had he finally lose his mind to the dark? No, even so the imagined sight of himself clad in the outfit of a jester proved too humorous to keep to his dreams, to his slipping grasp on any state of sleep.
Laughing yourself awake are we? Perhaps you’ve truly lose yourself Girard.
