3. Deuterius

Deuterius


  • The wind blew cold and merciless through the forest, like the howling of demons. Deep in the woods there resided a man who had long ago lost so much he had no more room for tears. In a cave in the hills south of Norwick he had crept closer and closer back to civilization, his long sojourn in the wilds a reflection of the introspection he had tooken upon his own self. He would never be at peace, he knew, never know love again…unless She wished it. The candle made of deer fat in his makeshift abode flickered as the wind raged outside, sending demonic shadows flitting across the cavern walls and across the mans face, like a grotesque mask worn by some twisted puppet. He had the audacity, he knew, had the strength of mind to challenge his tormentors, but did he have, the strength? He did not know. He could only drown in the sorrow, the aching pain, the sense of terrible, irrevocable loss, and as he stepped out into the pouring sleet and tempest winds he looked up into the sky and cursed the gods for his fate with a loud cry. In answer the wind blew him straight in the face, the sound in his ears like the ring of steel, and he began to pray. He fell to his knees at the threshold of the cave and the wilderness and clasped his hands before him, and he prayed so fervently for release, for vengeance, that his knuckles turned white and he nearly screamed the words. But he was disciplined enough to know that such things should not be uttered aloud even in private, only secrets and darkness must envelop us all, as they would have at the dawn of time had it not been for the weak and pathetic godling Selune. Upon a rock he had rolled into the cave as a makeshift stand lay his journal, the pages flying back and forth in the wind, and thus it was written.

    "This was what we had all feared the most: a war of attrition. No quarter given, and none taken, only legions of dead and dying men and women in a field of screaming murder. No provision for the holy, no lamentation for the righteous, only cold oblivion or perhaps eons claimed in suffering or bliss. What right did they have? Were not the followers of Tyr and Torm and Ilmater and Lathander and all those false and disgusting gods just pathetic hypocrites, not even worthy of ridicule, let alone praise? And yet by their creed they were given honor and glory, respect and admiration, for taking my only love from me, the one I had searched all my life for, my soulmate. And why? Because she believed other than they, because of her lineage? A drow priestess of Lolth, that she was, but I knew she was not beyond redemption, I knew there was good in her heart. Yet they cut her down before my very eyes even at the moment that she rebuked her own faith and promised me we would always be together; a promise broken not by her, but by these self righteous bastards. Ilmater…god of good suffering...how I long for your celestial abode to crumble and your servants to burn. Torm, how I loathe those you claim as your own, the Bane slayer. And Lathander, the morning lord, it was one of your own high priests who slew my beloved, slaying also our babe that lay within her womb. Murderers of maidens and infants alike...the hypocrisy, the disgusting absurdity of their minstrations, I can pen no more, lest I vomit in response to their idiocy.

    The battle had taken place 7 years past, in the fields just south of Vaasa. His betrothed had been a drow priestess of Lolth sent as an emissary by the drow forces raiding the service, to negotiate, and yet as soon as he had lain eyes on her he knew he was hers, and she his. It seemed they had both known. Now, seven years later, the wounds would never heal
    Scars take time to heal, those of body and mind, but just like the body leaves behind traces of ancient wounds, so do wounds of the mind leave scars all their own.

    Sometimes when the voices screamed at him in strange tongues he imagined he could almost understand the words, as if they spoke to his soul and not his ears. All terrible things, things he had committed himself to, the murder of innocents, the destruction of that which was beautiful. He could speak those words, some of them, and understand them. Infernal was not a language suited to most mortals' vocal abilities, but he managed to twist his voice into that of something which was not quite man at times. Long ago he had loved, love was nothing but a fleeting dream now. Long ago he had cared, cared about others and compassion from others, no longer was he privy to such fanciful notions. He could allow no weakness to destroy him, he had to be ever on guard against demon and man alike. These were the scars of his soul. As words written upon his soul, like passions uncontested, the sayings of the ancient dark men. Seek not respect, rather make all men fear you. Death is an awakening, this life a curse. Take what you need and destroy that which invites the weaknesses of beauty and love. Words of demons, not men, he thought, but all the same they were written on his soul. Tragedy had played the greatest role in his life thus far, and, at the age of twenty-six, he had not seen any hope in placing faith in beauty or love for a long time. That was an age ago…

    Char Name: Deuterius
    Narfell Login ID: Arkon-blade

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