3. Meditations on Pain - Keira's perception

Meditations on Pain - Keira's perception


  • The shepherd drives the wolf from the sheep's throat, for which the sheep thanks the shepherd as his liberator, while the wolf denounces him for the same act as the destroyer of liberty.

    Keira sat on the hill. Watching, waiting, listening with grim contemplation to the howls drifting on the wind. She didn’t like feeling this way. Didn’t like hoping that something she had no control over might happen again. She looked to the dead deer she’d left on the grass as some bribe, some plea and listened to the howls, remembering.

    Aghila had taken her out to the Orc guards’ cave. To reassess her for membership of the scouts following her absence. Enjoyable as ever, to ghost along the caves. A second home, feeling Her around there, knowing that to extinguish the lights will bring darkness, silence, peace. She remembered the feel of flesh yielding under her hands and smiled.

    Keira listened to the talk of wolves in Jiyyd, remembering how magnificent Sy’wyn had been when he changed. More muscular, his brilliant green eyes shifted slightly, made more familiar, more desirable somehow by their harshness. The softness and care and regret that usually shadowed his face bled away to be replaces with instinct and necessity. Still they spoke of it as a curse, not understanding Fenmarel, not understanding wolves.

    She considered the wolves during a brief interlude when Nicahh was attacked. More of Ironaxe’s men had come for her and Keira had killed again. She listened to Hedia whine, watched the unflattering pout and creases in her skin as she related how unfair it was that Nicahh didn’t confide in her. She didn’t understand Fenmarel, didn’t understand wolves.

    Shalah had also killed one of Ironaxe’s that unwisely broke into her room. Keira smiled at the fine spray of gore that was all that remained of him. He hadn’t died easy before that either, from the brief glimpse of the body, the blood seeping under the door. Afterward, when Shalah was weak, Keira had gone to find fresh blood for her. Hospitality for a guest, food for a pack, expected service. Hedia hadn’t understood that, either. Keira watched her mewl and whine, begging that she check on one of the people that offered their blood in that service. Their choice, thought Keira, why should Hedia question that?

    They’d come to the Sisterhood afterwards. Hedia vainly trying to get a description of what Shalah had done with another silent Sharessan, jealousy tainting her voice and stance. She saw the dogs come over, a wolf with them, and smiled. People were ever weak, confusing, muddled and inconsistent. The dogs back at the order had been loyal, devoted, trained. Even the wolves of the high pass had worked well to feed each other, keep the pack in times of hardship. Whether thy understood, or not… they worked as one, for the good of the pack, not themselves, their actions combining to something greater. Like the Order. Like the Sisterhood.

    Keira crouched among the dogs, wrestling and cuffing them playfully. Felt them licking bits of the dead henchman from her clothes that she’d failed to clean in the stream. Nothing happened. The wolf approached, licked her nose as she watched it. There was still no change. She could hear Hedia and the others discussing whether these were those wolves or not and remembered a koan about dogs and spiritual nature. Do they have it? Wu!

    There. A tingle, something felt like it shifted in the back of her head. Keira nodded slightly and grabbed the wolf gently, looking into its eyes and licking its nose in return. The other dogs still happy leaping around her, drooling and licking. She closed her eyes, trying to reach a sense of calm and freedom to accept the world, feeling fur under her fingers. Feeling something surge up from the tingle in the back of her head and wash over her. Feeling her joints crackle and shift.

    The wolf opened her eyes and looked over her pack. One of them bowled her over happily and she rolled with it and back to her feet. She looked around, a small part appreciating the stability of four feet. The world now displayed before her in shades of grey more literal than moral. Perhaps the colors she was used to were some fabrication of perception, and this was real. Interesting. Yet there were colors as well, a faint red odor from Hedia, mingled arousal and worry and jealousy. The rainbow of sensation from her pack, who they were, where they’d been recently, what they’d eaten.

    She scratched her ear with her foot contemplatively. The sense of self that had always niggled unhelpfully and deceptively at her thoughts had faded to the merest background hum. The world lay before her, a new perspective, perhaps a purer one with fewer judgements. The wolf heard them talking about how to turn someone back, considered for a moment before deciding it might be relevant. She barked once briefly and ran, leaping the fence of the Sisterhood with as much ease as she had previously, revelling in the way her feet flowed over the ground. More fluid than the unstable falling she remembered of having fewer feet.

    The wolf howled, overlooking the long road outside Jiyyd. Again the people unsettlingly followed her pack. They clanked, smelling brown and unhealthy around their armor, talking unnecessarily loudly. She licked the other wolf absently and tried to keep an ear on the strains of conversation. Still the talk of turning her back. A man spoke to her, in their tongue asking if she wanted to return. She sat on her haunches, cocked her head slightly and thought.

    The sense of her pack was like the times she’d shared communion with Sy’wyn. Not as deep, but still noticeably there. A sense of her pack around her, the feeling of belonging sweeping over and through her in ways that the order’s teachings had tried to describe without emotion. The wolf had a vague recollection that she should mate, be with another, for life. That connection an enhancement of the general bond amongst the pack. No questions, no qualification – they were pack. That was the truth they built on, not the isolation of self within the world. She tried to summon the concept of an abstract negative and failed. Negation makes no sense without a statement of what it negates. She bunched her legs beneath her to run.

    ‘Not turn back’

    The wolf stared at the moon and howled joyously. She’d run for what seemed like forever and was tired, in a good way. Still enough to hunt. Not hungry yet. She padded down from the hill and into the trees, the dark smell of the hobgoblins overlaying the ground like lines on a map where they patrolled and sheltered from the rain under the trees.

    The pain ripped through her like jagged barbs. Something was wrong, the pack was hurt, broken. Feelings of warmth and comfort replaced briefly by abject terror and rage before only emptiness was left. No trace of the melange of sensations that made up her perception of the missing pack members. She started to head north at an easy lope, teeth bared, a low growl mounting in her throat.

    Hedia and the others were standing around near the blackened bodies of the pack. Not all there. The wolf’s head swivelled, trying to work out who killed them. No blood smell, just a sharper tang to the air mingled with the sweeter smells of hot meat and burnt things. One of the druids chants and she runs towards him silently before something sweeps her feet from under her and Hedia lands on her, in her armor.

    She wriggles and struggles, trying vainly to snap at Hedia despite the firm grip on the scruff of her neck. Some mist hangs in the air around them and clarity washes over her. Mustn’t look mad. Mustn’t look possessed. This is right. She focuses, calms herself and looks into the hooded man’s dark eyes with her own pale ones. Her neck extends, baring her throat, trying to convey the sense of ‘No’ with related small whines. Her bones crackle and shift, shoulders broadening, gaining weight. Her skull shifts and re-forms painfully, her teeth shrinking, her tongue becoming more numb, less useful.

    Keira feels the various hands upon her let go and she stands. The rage and impotence and sudden blunting of sensation sweep through her, cutting ties, neutering and blinding her. A nagging feeling of phantom limbs and the incomplete view of the people before her wash against her thoughts. Just shapes and muted colours. The negative space where the background of the trees meets the outline of the men and women nearby. She can feel herself angry still. She hasn’t been this angry, ever. The training has always been about control over this sort of instinct, yet it seems so right to leap on the hooded man, take his eyes first with a snake strike, sweep his legs, hit him until he doesn’t move. Maybe hit him a bit more after that.

    She’s so angry she doesn’t remember what she said, focuses on walking away. It’s not right to kill people with that sort of audience. So she walks south, painfully aware that she doesn’t know where her pack are anymore. They didn't understand. They never understand.

    It had been a gift and a valuable one. They spoke truth when they said you didn’t appreciate something until you had lost it. Maybe it was better this way, in Her service. She savoured the memory, deciding to stay a while longer in case the wolf returned.

    Keira sat on the hill, watching, waiting.

    ((Thanks to Lazarus DM and all the do-gooding, self-righteous, arrogant PCs that think that it’s okay to do whatever you feel is best regardless of the stated views of those involved. I hope those PCs all have their families ripped from them… 🙂 ))


  • My pleasure. Thank you for the greatly enjoyable description of the events. Very good writing indeed.


  • The ultimate weakness of violence is that it is a descending spiral, begetting the very thing it seeks to destroy.
    Instead of diminishing evil, it multiplies it…

    Keira thought for a moment before answering the hooded man. ‘Why?’
    He responded eloquently and wisely, as she would have expected. An observation based on past experience, seemingly out of place with current perception. For a human, he was attractive in that way. Sensible, directed, committed. Not for her though.

    She heard the scuff of footfalls approaching - rapid, short stride length, likely one of the children. She heard Tommy ask if they could deal with a ghost. Frowning, Keira remembered her most recent experience of the ghouls on the plains. Dragging herself clear of someone’s overzealous lightning. The ghouls were unerring in their pursuit, not put off by invisibility, or stamina. Untiring. Magnificent in some ways, Intriguing to think that the ghouls had a concept of what they left behind to embrace undeath. And fools like Raryldor give it up to return to mundane flesh.

    Zanetar nodded to Tommy and rose to go see Sorien about the ghost. After a moment, she followed. Watching from the shadows as they discussed the action. A spirit of some sort Sorien claimed meant him harm, lairing in the Gypsy Camp. He wanted it destroyed but was unaware of its strength, unable to perform the action himself. Keira listened as Zanetar agreed to send someone down.

    She talked with Sorien, asking more about the ghost with little success, resolving to go and look for it and gauge its strength. Heard the door bang as Percy entered, manner confident, armor dark. His father’s child much more than his Mother’s. Keira sighed slightly, knowing she’d have to save Percy if things went badly. He’d grown so quickly…

    The walk to the camp was pleasantly silent. Keira listened for their feet crunching in the snow, watched Percy kill the few fishmen that tried to attack them in the caves. He fought well, blows falling where they should, but still lacked something. Discipline? Was he too arrogant, too sure of himself?

    The Camp was near empty. Keira looked around as they circled the fires, checked the South pass and returned to find Lilin, Star and Tiggles. She smiled, acknowledging her Sisters. The first question about the spirit drew an odd reaction from them. Keira watched their posture shift, felt Percy bristle next to her. She knew it wouldn’t work this way. They hate him, they want rid of him. No matter why he comes. She knew that sort of revulsion, knew it couldn’t be reasoned with.

    Keira stepped away from Percy, distancing herself from his protestations, watching for others. Heard Star claim that the spirits were sacred, even as she was tensing her bow. She fights well, hides well. Very hard to guard against, so little point in trying. Percy was still arguing that they were here to kill a killer, kept looking to her for support that wasn’t there. Then she saw the boy, by the fire. He had just... appeared there. She smiled and moved to sit at the fires, not too close deliberately offering her back to Star and the others arguing. The gypsies claiming that the killing of anything in their protection was a blood-debt that all Rom would seek payment on. The usual lies. Too many had been given up in the past for expediency to Peltarch and other places.

    Keira watched the boy and smiled. Children were refreshingly open to deal with. Much more tolerant, much more accepting, much more trusting. She heard him talk of his mother and her death, how she’d eaten some berries. How he was looking for a man to help. Keira knew Sorien sold berries. She knew Sorien’s berries cured wounds. Likely this boy was related, maybe the ghost in child form. Maybe his mother another of the ghouls, not knowing she’d turned. A tragic accident.

    Percy shouted ‘Why do I have to go? She’s here to kill the boy too!’.

    Keira frowned slightly at the fire for a moment, imagining Star’s gaze moving to her. Hearing the bow tighten, half-drawn. She smiled at the boy and softly reassured him that she wasn’t here to kill him. Lies? No. She didn’t lie often. She wasn’t good at lying. The Sisters knew that. Hopefully it would be enough doubt to hold Star, for a moment. Keira waits, quietly.

    Percy rounds on the boy, asking about Sorien, driving him beautifully. Perhaps he has some talent after all. A final outburst, demanding that the boy declare he means Sorien no harm, and the good folk of the camp intervene. Keira watches the boy placidly, observing the blood-red tears streaking his face and coloring his eyes. Just a child. Just a good spirit, sacred to the camp. She hears Percy stomp off, declaring her an idiot. People play emotion best when they believe it, better he thinks her weak and ineffectual.

    Keira watches them comfort the boy, asking again about his mother and berries. The child screams more agitated when Sorien’s name is mentioned. It cries out to know where he is, and Star tells it. This bleeding travesty of something that once might have lived, this monster that calls for vengeance against an act none of them witnessed. Keira smiles, watching the features contort, becoming something dark, indistinct with ragged smoky claws. She hears Star tell it how to get into the caves, across the chasm and into Oscura.

    The apparition screamed off towards the Nars pass.

    Keira watches the fire Hearing Star relax slightly, she stands and looks round at the gathered Gypsies. She smiles at her Sisters and says that she ought to warn Sorien. Keira is disappointed to hear Lilin proclaim that Sorien’s getting what he deserves – for killing the boy’s mother. She knows nothing beyond her perception but she thinks she knows Truth. Keira is thankful again that her Goddess doesn’t burden her with the blinkers of certainty. She sighs and heads off to Oscura at an easy jog.

    Keira quickens her pace once through the gates, sprinting through Oscura’s twisted streets, past the Nibenese mosaics. She can hear an unnatural screeching from the pit and Percy’s labored breathing. The boy is bleeding heavily from many wounds as the ragged claws of smoke lick out again. Sorien lies in the doorway of the Odds, grievously hurt. No hesitation. Thought to action.

    She spins past Percy, crimson gloved hands lashing out in claws of her own. A feint and a sweep show that it’s insubstantial enough that it can’t be tripped. How do you fight a ghost? It fades further, blurring indistinctly at the edges, shifting so it’s hardly there at all. Hardly there except for the blades of ragged shadow cutting into her. Keira closes, demanding its attention, quietly ordering Percy to back off and tend Sorien.

    She hopes he’ll obey rather than embark on a childish argument over who is in charge, but only briefly. Eris, the vengeful spirit, is not restful or happy. She feels another claw slash at her forehead and swipes back. Her crimson robes darker as she fights to end the problem her Sisters have forced her to fight alone with their petty judgements. Fight close, crowd, distract. Her hands close together on parts of the spirit solid enough to wound her and twists. A good trade. Something worked, there. Something tore in its fabric. The wound to her arm is painful, but not fatal. The pain tells us we’re alive, warns us of damage, informs us of things we can choose to endure, if required to.

    Fighting, like anything, is best performed with a calm heart. Wild emotion can provide power, but power misdirected is power misused. When the hawk breaks the body of its prey it is not because of strength, it is because of timing. Precision, not power, is the goal of training.

    The spirit screams that we should die, then pleads that it should live. Then it fades and is gone. Keira straightens out of the monkey crouch and turns to see Sorien beginning to stir under Percy’s ministration. So hard to protect people.

    ((Thanks to DM Nightfall for the spiritual experience, and the ever-welcoming Gypsy Camp))


  • Happiness isn't a thing in itself–it's only a contrast with something that isn't pleasant.

    Keira sat on the bench, dark robes pooled around her, waiting for the man to regain consciousness. The only sounds in the room, the crackling of the fire burning low and the harsh, choked breathing of the man’s family lying bound on the floor. His eyelids fluttered and Keira started to unpack some tools from the sack.

    ‘Wha? who?’ The first words are so rarely useful. Keira adjusted the wick of the lantern, illuminating the room as the man started to struggle against the ropes holding him to the chair. She tapped his leg gently with a knife to get his attention and indicated the room with a slow sweep of the blade. His wife and two children, bound, conscious and unharmed. Their eyes were wide still with fear and uncertainty, voices stilled with cloth. The bodyguard, loyal to the last, lay just outside the doorway unmoving.

    His gaze returned to Keira, her usually expressionless face concealed with a mask, hair hidden by the hood of the robe. She nodded slightly and held out a brief note for the man to read by lamplight.

    @54334a3579:

    My dear Julius,
    No formalities are needed, no apologies, no bargaining or agreement will be entered into. You have wronged us. You are regrettably still useful to us, so you will wake tomorrow morning alive and unharmed and prepared to resume your work with the diligence and loyalty that has been unfortunately lacking recently.

    To encourage this change of heart, we have commissioned some expert help. There is no-one before you, only an instrument of our will. Such loyalty is a valuable commodity, you might learn something tonight. One of your children will assist in your education, it is too obvious to assume that your wife would agree to anything to save her offspring. All you need say is which child is forfeit to your previous indiscretion. Any prevarication or delay will result in regrettable collateral discomfort to your wife, without actually serving any purpose to divert our instrument’s instructions.

    Of course we can find you if you run. Much more importantly, we can find your family.

    Keira watched the man’s eyes widen, watched his face fall, watched his gaze flicker briefly to his wife and children. We bring troubles upon ourselves. It was a shame that she wouldn’t be here to hear the man explain to his wife how or why he’d made his decision. A stronger man would accept the situation, choose a path and follow it. All too often there was denial, hope, all manner of emotion clouding what should be simple.

    She listened to the man take a few breaths before starting upon the traditional declarations that he would suffer in place of his children. He cried and begged and pleaded, increasingly louder as she dragged his wife over in front of him by her ankles. Keira smiled, beneath her mask.


  • It is the law of humanity that we must know good through evil. No great principle ever triumphed but through much evil. No one ever progressed to greatness and goodness but through great mistakes.

    Keira sat alone in the darkness, thinking about loyalty and devotion. What Corde asked would be easy to smile and lie for, but that would not be a good lie. With devotion, with loyalty, honesty was paramount. It was bad enough that her allegiances could pull in different directions. Small comfort that they had not.

    So she sits, alone in the darkness, thinking of her faith and where it’s led her. Loviatar’s priests have been even less frequent in the area. Certainly the ones she’s met have shown little interest in her. It was a useful reminder of the truth, that we are alone in the world, but not one that seemed unique to the Maiden of Pain. Noria had told her that Loviatar had sought Shar’s protection after Bane’s death. Amaliel had taught her sign language, had helped to imprison Elor. Alethra had… just always been constant. Yu was a beacon of calm, an example of how solitude and peace could exist without concern. Yu demonstrated that almost all was possible, if you chose to act, chose to disregard the paths of your past. Nyda… Nyda had turned from Loviatar towards the half-remembered light of her childhood. She wasn’t pure, wasn’t the glow of tolerance that the libraries stored of Selune’s light. None of this was about their path, their choice. The Sharrans understood loss, revenge, bitterness – all useful tools. More importantly they understood silence, the perfection of nothingness.

    Keira sits and prays, aware of her arrogance and self-importance in asking for a sign. Fearful that maybe, just maybe, a God will notice her. It’s not good to be noticed. Even so, it’s not desperation or need that drives her. She just wants some family to be comfortable with, for a while. Just wants a sign that she’s wanted in return.

    Jogging easily along the road to the Sisterhood. Life the same as always. Nothing changes very much in the world. We change. We change how we perceive things. Keira hears a cry, nearer the house, rounds the trees to see an elf and a larger hobgoblin with a scythe. She motions Sparky to stay and watches the fight, letting the hobgoblin land a couple of telling blows on the weaker elf before breaking its neck from behind.

    Keira hears the rustle of cloth and turns from the elf’s grateful thanks to Yu Shei. She bows, fist in palm and Keira nods curtly in return. She thinks Yu Shei would likely disapprove of Shar and Her followers, decides not to ask outright her opinions. The elf stumbles towards Jiyyd. Keira hears Yu telling her she did a good thing, saving the man, and shakes her head. Maybe she doesn’t understand. Maybe Yu has learned too much from Master Woo Fen, who places so much store in fairness and challenge. Maybe she has learned more than Keira, in her time here. She takes a deep breath, lets it out evenly and nods to Yu Shei’s suggestion that they scout the orc lands. Someone will certainly get hurt, and they’ll likely make no impression on the orc forces.

    Good to work with someone who can move quietly. Good to feel that you’re matched, like two hands reaching out for the same (throat) cup. The bolder orcs notice a flash of Yu’s red robes and give chase, falling quickly to their combined strength. Then they see the mage, not quite alone with a single inexperienced bodyguard. Maybe gathering herbs or some other component. As she charges, Keira feels it start to slip. Feels the slight buzz that heralds a close fight, feels the warning that now is the prudent time to run.

    She feels her foot turn on a loose rock, hears the scrape it makes, sees the mage start to turn while she’s still thirty feet away. Keira rolls under the bodyguard’s club and comes up, still heading for the mage, very aware of his chanting. Closer now, but not close enough when the slick black tentacles erupt from the ground and thrash about to grab and burn. The pain is as fresh as ever. The training that would normally allow her to meditate over its rhythms now helps her to consider those warnings as abstract, rather than imperatives. The training allows her hands, her body, her mind to work unencumbered by the pain.

    The mage blurs and near disappears as Keira’s foot sweeps around to kick the bodyguard. Harder now for her blows to find him. She’s vaguely aware of Yu Shei loosing arrows into the orc while keeping watch on the nearby plains. Keira starts to tumble around the mage, to get clear of the tentacles as the last syllables of his spell die on his lips. One lunge and then… it’s all calm.

    Keira notices with clarity the unnatural angle she’s fallen at. Her momentum carried her clear of most of the tentacles, only rarely does the one at the edge lash acidic slime at her ankle. She hears the mage continue to chant in their guttural tongue, but can’t see him. All she sees is the grass of the plains, the ground before her paralyzed eyes. She hears the hiss and bubble of a jet of acid striking her back. She feels it burn past the meagre protection the ring provides against such attack. There are no fair fights.

    She knows that she can maybe take another 2 bolts like that, especially as it continues to burn dully in her acid-soaked robes. She would have smiled, feeling the thud of the shod staff as it broke her ribs, but was constrained in silent contemplation of the failure of her body. ‘Only those blows that can be avoided.’ That’s what Loviatar teaches. Not to sit and accept a beating you don’t need to. She teaches that we should mete out pain and punishment to those who deserve it.

    The dull burn of acid washes over her back again, the difference in sound and smell as the splash catches her hair is noticeable. Keira is only considering this in passing. She is remembering the features of the plains, tensing frozen muscles against the time when the possibility of action returns. She will die. We all die. When we die, we die alone, for no death is alike in much the way that no two paths are alike. She is calm, considering this, and then she is scared, listening to the battle behind her.

    Keira can hear the quiet grunts and occasional Ki-shouts of Yu Shei. She feels no further attacks from the mage against her, but is very weak. Still paralysed, but now with the faint hope of survival to concern her. To act or not when it makes no difference is easy. To accept that you’re not in control is easy. To act, when the consequence will make a difference, that is much harder. But the action is still the same. Roll clear, drink the invisibility potion, move again.

    It sounds like Yu is not doing well. Sounds like few of her blows are landing on the blurred orc mage. Whipsounds and smell of burnt flesh probably means the mage has summoned more tentacles. Keira feels the paralysis lift and rolls smoothly over her shoulders, hands already going to her beltpouch. She drinks the potion and limps carefully to the cover of a tree. Watches her burn-spotted hands root through her potion box even as she directs her body to heal faster.

    She drinks a potion, looks over to the fight. The mage has taken a few good blows but still fights, striking soundly with the staff. His blurring outline is still too indistinct for Yu to strike when he chants again. Keira watches the acid sear through the bright robe of Woo Fen, watches Yu waver but still stand. Keira drinks again, testing her damaged legs for use in a fight. She takes the holy knife and twists it in her wounds, trusting that the Maiden will accept her recent suffering as devotion enough, watching them heal and skin reform by Her mercy.

    She hears a cry from Yu Shei and looks up. The mage stands, badly wounded and leaning on his staff. Yu Shei lies at his feet, twitching faintly but still breathing. Keira tests her injured leg silently and reaches for another potion. She watches the mage get his breath back. Sees him howl in exultation to the plains and bring his staff down on Yu Shei’s head. She hears the indistinct crackle of a skull fracture, quieter than ribs or limbs. So hard to protect people. Easier to avenge them.

    Invisibly Keira limps towards the Mage.

    She looks down at the bodies. The two orcs badly beaten and fallen near Yu’s acid-ravaged corpse. Keira watches them and thinks. Yu Shei saved her life. Her distraction of the mage allowed the hold spell to end. She risked her life, to save another. She should have run. Keira hoists the body and the pack onto her shoulders, drinks another invisibility potion and walks off the plains.

    She walks.

    She Thinks.

    This is Yu Shei. This is one of the most prominent Selunites in the area. Corde himself had spoken of her. The gnome that Shar herself had blinded, had told Yu Shei the prophecy. Told her of the One and the Other, and how the Hands of Selune would stand alone against that Other. The gnome had given Yu Shei the gloves - the gloves that were consecrated to the Moonmaiden. All this that was dear to Selune had fallen at her feet. Keira knows what Shar would want her to do. How can that not be a sign? Keira smiles, watching her hands wrap the body in a blanket.

    It’s dark when she delivers the body and the gloves to the Temple of the Caverns.

  • D

    (Very, very well written.)


  • An undeviating path of self-examination does not necessarily lead to a mountain of self-knowledge.
    I stumble toward my grave confused and hurt and hungry.

    Keira watched her hands, cutting meat. Feeling the blade slice with the grain of the muscle. Removing tendons, excising the gristle from near the joints. Good to work, good to prepare, good to practice. The knife just a tool, just a focus for will and action. Keira tasted the stew. Meat softer now, taking on the sweetness of the apples, companion to the wine and the onions and the rosemary.

    Good to help people. Good to be warm, good for those coming off the plains to find hot food waiting.

    The ghouls were dead. Put to the sword by Belade's zeal. Tracked to their lair by Star. So many ghouls, and yet still they charged into the cave. Keira watched Jert try to retreat, paralyzed, gagging by the ghoul's stench. Watched the ghoul lord swipe him down with its claws. Bored, Keira kicked again at her Ogre's throat as it tried to rise. It rose again, unbothered, before a flurry of other blows broke enough limbs to make it fall. Only one dead, to rescue another? The group advanced into the cells, looking for Melody.

    Found her, alive. Troubled by her imprisonment, clutching at a piece of meat. Time to leave, before others come. Belade whining about the meat, standing surrounded by ghoul corpses. Not caring who might return, not asking why they lived there, who created them, what was coming. Struggling to get her home to the house, watching her stare vacantly, watching her take bites of the flesh. Belade, seething, itching to find another foe. Anything she could slay in Sune's name, anything to give her a reason for being. How can she give herself so unquestioningly to such horror?

    All a matter of time. Melody sick, getting sicker. Keira fed her friend, watching the glazed yellow eyes track the bloody meat as she offered it. Her skin greyer now, strong hands become ragged claws. Still needs time for a cure, still need to feed her so she's not too weak. They hadn't been there to protect her. So hard to protect people. Much easier to avenge. Easier to heal than prevent infection, unless you know what's coming. She wouldn't eat deer anymore. Melody needed something… different. Nyda still researching a cure for the fever. Belade thankfully dispatched to make silverdust, her repeated demands that she be allowed to put Melody to rest if the cure failed were an irritation. If it looks like Melody, if it can come back and be Melody... it still is, in some way. Put to rest was such a weak way to say kill, end, destroy. Take what remains of herself and send it to her god. Very easy to justify killing, when you believe hard. Very easy when you believe it's right.

    _Keira, shrouded in the evening twilight. Watching the road as a lone man wandered up. Unfortunate that the hobgoblins had learned to stay away from the Sisterhood over the past week. Always consequences for our actions. Animal meat not good enough anymore. She padded out towards him, glad that he was a stranger. Keira relished the surprise in his eyes, watching it turn to relief as he realised it wasn't an orc, wasn't a bandit, just a slightly built elf, probably from the town he was approaching. She smiled encouragingly, letting him draw breath to speak, before stabbing her fingers into his unguarded throat. She stepped closer to hold him as he died, watching his eyes.

    Keira watched his eyes dull, breath rasping finally out of his chest. She let the body fall, checked again for watchers before rolling it into a blanket and taking it away. Easy to kill when you believe it's right. Much harder to realise you kill through will, through action, through choice. See a stranger, know that their death may keep someone you know from dying. Just a choice, an effort of will, an action.

    Keira watched her hands, cutting meat. Need to bone it. Need to dice it, make it unrecognisable. Wolves will do the rest. If body's found in time, likely thieves will have stripped it. The heap of flesh, bloody, wrapped in a skin. Keira dragged the body out to the plains below the hill, hearing the howls, knowing they'd come. Druids would be happy. Not wasting the kill, leaving it for the other animals._

    Keira bought holy water by the case from Vroka, checking off the list Nyda had written. Noting the absence of food for Melody. Keira smiled at the understanding between them. Keira watching Pilth and Lilin thrown around by the crazed strength of the ghoul. Hardly recognizable anymore, her red hair gone. Eyes a baleful yellow, skin grey and mottled. Not going well. Keira watched Pilth flailing in her armor in a tub, wondering if she'd drown. Remembered Pilth chewing lumps out of her arm. Keira smiled at the symmetries and moved towards the bath.

    Splashing, weaker now. Keira watched her hands holding the ghoul under the water. Heard the splashing getting fainter from Pilth's tub. Watched Nyda incanting a blessing with greater fervour as she poured holy water over what had been Melody. How many lives to save one you want to save? As many as it takes. That's the difference between will and weakness. Willingness to act, willingness not to act despite the consequences.

    Silence. The water black and still. They hauled the thing that had been Melody out, attempting another curative blessing. It didn't burn. Damp clanking as Pilth managed to haul herself over the side eventually. All done, just the ends to tidy up. Keira padded quietly back to the kitchens, gathering the knives and bowls used to prepare the food. Noticing some flesh left over, Keira thought for a moment before smiling.

    Keira tasted the stew. Meat softer now, taking on the sweetness of the apples, companion to the wine and the onions and the rosemary.

    Good to help the people of Jiyyd, hungry so often. Good to be warm, good for those coming off the plains to find hot food waiting.

    ((Thanks to Salsadoom? for a fun time playing with ghouls))


  • Now you're some back, too bad you're still the same
    A blackened circle of pain is all you are. When will you realise that it's endless.

    Stupid. Careless. All this time, all these years and nothing much changes. Faster, yes. Stronger, yes. All as nothing, bound and weighted by the sluggish lead of thought. Should have seen. Should have heard. Should have run. But no. Stood there, throwing yourself into the fountains of acid off the mages body. Ilmater would have been proud, you messed up victim. What did it serve?

    Nothing.

    Worse than that. You didn't think. If you'd thought, it would be better. Not much, since you were killing yourself without any purpose. Should have thought. Should have chosen to die, rather than flinging yourself onto the dwarf attacking Sy'wyn. He wasn't dying. He wasn't even badly hurt. Even if he was, you'd have made no difference. Useless elf. You learn nothing.

    Nothing

    Worse than that. You're learning the wrong things. Lessons of pain aren't random. They aren't impossible. They're there to help you. There to be considered, to be reasoned. In short, to be avoided, but if they can't they're to be understood. You're missing it all. Why are you here? Who are you? How was dying senselessly going to help? No. You're running out of time. One day they won't bring you back because they'll have worked out how useless you are. Once you're worth nothing to them, they won't suffer you around.

    Got to get yourself together. Work out why you're here. Die before you've served your purpose and you won't be welcome. Nobody wants that. Not even you deserve that. Tighten up. Watch what happens. Don't let it happen again, not enough time to learn like that.


  • No happy endings, just endings

    They don't understand. Not something to be cured, not something to be fixed. Not everything changes the way we want it to. Not everything bad can be reversed. Life is pain. Meant to suffer, meant to endure. Meant to struggle and twitch and thrash before it all goes dark. They don't see that, they see it as glorious, beautiful, hope for something better. The hope does nothing except blind them. They are too close to see what is Truth. Step back from every light and it's revealed as a speck of grey in gathering darkness. A spasm, a flare and another is gone. All we are, all this is - fading.


  • Good and evil, reward and punishment, are the only motives to a rational creature: these are the spur and reins whereby all are guided.

    Did a good thing. Know it, felt it. Maybe this what they meant. No-one saw, no-one asked. Just me and the world.

    The woman was alone, creeping through the snows north of the ridge. Good, but not that good. Slight scuff against the snow. Brushed against branches. Uneven stride. Tired, maybe. Followed her, closing, watching. She wore Eastlander uniform. Odd. Thought we got them all. Advance, wait. She pauses. I cough, once. She freezes.

    Good to see expression change. Good to see it in her eyes. Been too long. She's scared. Say nothing. She says… 'I'm n-no-one!'. Rare to hear truth like that from a human that young. Maybe she doesn't mean it like that. Catch in her voice.

    Could have walked away, let her go. Could have accepted it made no difference. Could have let it be someone else's problem, if it came back to them. Knew it would be right to find out who she was, why? What she did here still. What the City needs to know but can't ask out loud.

    Nod. All is fine. Smile, she relaxes. Kick winds her, doubles her over. Close, arteries in the neck, hold and she slumps. Still quiet in the pass. Tie her, hands, feet. Not losing another for fear of carrying them. Not relying on guards, or defenders, or the legion. Pull spare robe over bound form and balance her over shoulders.

    She's coming round. Scared, struggling. Point out the reception she'd get from the Guardsmen at Watchtower. How many have lost friends to her people. She quiets. Respect people who can wait, silently for the right time. Respect people who act and succeed. She wriggles quietly. Feels like working her wrists under the robe. Feel it against my back.

    Stand over the cliff. Watching the stream in the valley below. Soon, she notices we're not walking. Notices where we stand. Long drop. Hard to keep hold of someone who wriggles. No-one knows I have her to miss her. She understands, it's not yet her time.

    Guards at the gate nod. Just another injured friend. People in the commons. No-one cares. No-one notices. Girl on shoulder quiet again, watching the cobbles of the city move past my feet. Put her in a cell. A quiet one. Thick door. Untie her. Watch, quietly. She's thin, sunken cheeked, dark round the eyes. Offer her food which she wolfs.

    She says she came back a couple weeks ago to find them all dead. Listen. Remember coming back, years ago to find my people dead. Think what might have happened if I'd died with them. Interesting. Not worth dwelling on might have beens. She says we killed them all. We did.

    Told her she was alone, in the city she called enemy. Reminded her what Defenders would do if they knew. Told her we could get her out again, in time, if she helped us. She bursts into tears. Didn't even need to touch her. All in her head. She sobs uncontrollably, rocking in the corner of the cell. Watch her for a while before making report.

    Feels good to do good. Maybe Paladins right about that.


  • Things do not change; we change.

    Time away worthwhile. Can watch them now with less attachment. Surely closer to Her for this clarity. Silence of temple restful. Feels safe. A good place to end. Good place to return to. Cracks more visible now. Chaos creeping in lines of red beneath their faces. They smile and don't feel it. Maybe they smile because they can't feel it.

    Watched hope in faces of younger orphans. Too young to understand. Older children show varying aptitude. Time will show them truth of Her teachings. People asking me to do things again. Reflection of me on world. Feels good. More honest now. They understand will and choice. No right. No wrong. Will is everything.


  • It’s not easy to find happiness in ourselves and it’s not possible to find it elsewhere.

    Keira worked her way through a kata down in the training room under the clouded eyes of the disrespectful and failed students. Thinking about paths and choices, turning and snap-kicking at the adjacent punchbag before returning her focus and blows to the first one again. Sensations from the ache in her thighs and back were noted and compared with the expected rigours of the routine. Sy’wyn had been regrettably gentle with her, she reflected, not displaying quite the same fire or focus as he had a while ago under the Ferret when he'd beaten her unconscious.

    She finished the kata, spinning gracefully to the wary panther stance before straightening and bowing slightly to the punchbags. Wiping her face with a cloth, remembering the feel of his hands on her, the feel of his fists on her, and the glint in his eyes. She noticed herself smiling again, for no reason, and composed herself for more sober contemplation. He’d told her more about why he claimed to find her attractive. It was almost believable. Her earlier thoughts of how attractiveness was mostly a reflection seemed to hold, for now. Maybe he really did like her but that was becoming harder to determine and so less worthy of consideration.

    He’d said he was arranging a house; A new home for himself to justify the next century of bitterness and isolation when it was inevitably destroyed. She thought for a moment about the calmness he projected, the fascination with the way she thought of things. Pulling back to a longer view to face her fears of the future and rejection.
    Leave the order; Choose a new patron; Love Sy’wyn; Raise little elves.
    It would be belonging to someone, and that was attractive. She smiled, knowing he’d hate that. He’d always doubt her motivation, feel that she’d done it to please him. It’d be hard for him to refuse, if presented right. He’d have to accept her and in time he’d hate himself for it. It wouldn’t even need a crystal or a collar for him to think he’d taken her will away.

    For now, all she had to do was bring him closer. Nicahh and Denna and Eowiel all said he was suitable for her, though she was very aware that their criteria were different. They could probably provide some useful practical advice for the future. Something to relax him, she thought, remembering a slight furrow in his brow during moments of particular concentration. Perhaps the fight training would help. She sighed, remembering the cell she’d shared with the other novices. They’d started to respect her once she’d grown enough to fight back. Nothing builds familiarity and ease like beating people bloody and then meditating on it together.

    Amy. It was a similar plan to reflect appropriate emotion back to her, encourage continued commitment and feelings. Keira smiled, contemplating Amy’s foolishness and trust. It would have to be repaid with an appropriate lesson, eventually. Until then, there were other plans for her. Maybe she could even help with Sy’wyn, considering the number of menfolk she’d lain with. Surely there’d be some sort of common techniques to pass on. That would be good to learn. He seemed to approve when she learned new things.

    Keira returned to her bunk and drifted into reverie, thinking of the smell of his skin and the way his eyes flashed green in candlelight.


  • To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering one must not love.

    ‘It was a test. To see how I’d react?’

    Keira watched as his face fell, the smile fading from his lips and eyes. He turned and walked away across the square towards the gate. His last words, that not everything was a test, carried on the wind. She watched him walk out into the snows of the pass, frowning slightly. She could leave, now. That would be best, for both of them. In time he’d realise it was her fault, not his. In time he’d work out that she couldn’t be relied on, couldn’t be one of the carefree dancing forest elves. Better for her too. At times his faith was infectious, almost letting her think he did value her. Of course he couldn’t, that would be another of the pretty lies, but sometimes it would have been easy to let it get to her.

    Yes. Better for them to be apart. He couldn’t really want her, and it would be wrong for her to believe he did. Keira watched the gates and sighed, contemplating what she was losing. She thought of the collars and his reaction to them, his reaction to the crystals and their servants. That loss of self was so wrong to him…

    Without love, we suffer. Therefore to love is to suffer, not to love is to suffer.

    Bring it back to doubt. Unlikely as it was, could he want her? Scarred, insignificant, scared, inadequate, tainted and lost. Why would he find that attractive? What does he see in someone drifting, out of place, struggling to find some meaning in their actions, when every day the futility of them is thrust back by the world. We can’t protect the things we value, only avenge them… He was old, he’d said that. She was young, he’d said that too. He wants to protect her? Heal her from the bitterness and loss he lives with? Keira frowned. Maybe he sees parts of himself reflected.

    He watched her sometimes, smiling. Were those the eyes and smiles of a proud teacher? Is there something more? He said he wanted her. He said it wasn’t a test. Of course he said it wasn’t a test. Action becomes habit becomes character. Keira glared indiscriminately over the square for a moment calming herself. He risks much, trying to manipulate her like this. With encouragement, with reinforcement, he might begin to believe it himself. His plan for her, built on convincing her she mattered to him before crushing that carefully built hope. He was skilled. The looks, the words, the willingness to walk away when apparently rejected to encourage her to follow… Very skilful, except that she knew what he was doing.

    Know your enemy, know yourself and in a thousand battles you will not be defeated

    Follow his lead, draw him in a circle of his own momentum. Show him a weakness, show him the need he wants to foster. Show him the hope that he wishes to crush. Make him believe and then the opportunity will present itself. Precision. Timing. Keira pauses, remembering the Order, remembering the ways she’d been hurt, remembering the rhythm, and remembering the use of contrast. What could he do that was worse than that? She took a breath and let it out evenly. Fear should not drive us, it should only inform us of danger. We choose to act. She knew he’d hurt her, with acceptance of that; the fear was easier to manage. She knew he’d touch her and with acceptance the fear was easier to manage. For anything else, her strength would have to be enough.

    Keira smiled and set out at a jog, following the footsteps in the snow towards the Gypsy Camp.


  • To be truly happy and contented, you must let go of what it means to be happy or content.

    Focus. It all came back to focus. What was she doing, drifting around? Keeping law in Norwick was less fulfilling than before, the more productive questioning techniques frowned on in the quiet times, where there was less of a threat. One thing, to bring her happiness. Keira frowned, trying to remember, trying to arrange her thoughts to see when she’d been happy. It felt like trying to catch a snowflake.

    Focus. She blinked, thinking of Hedia and Amalia and Amy. Amalia hadn’t turned from a dark path and had died. Hedia and Amy had turned, had stepped away from shadows in their past to … some unsettled flightiness. Indecision. Keira knew that’s what awaited her if she chose to step away, knew that without focus she’d be lost. Except her focus now was on herself, on the change, on her troubles. She was too close to see clearly. They see an elf that claims devotion to an evil goddess. They see an evil elf, one who chooses a path they feel is wrong. She seems less threatening than most, less overt than the Banites, so she’s misguided.

    Nothing, no connection, no passion, no feeling anymore.

    Nothing is right, nothing is wrong, except in how we judge it. The doubts placed in her by careful manipulation, the fears. All of it to bring her to this. It’s not about happiness. It’s not about joy. It’s about focus and self. It always has been. It always will. Curling up and whining about unfairness doesn’t make it go away. For all their talk, Her way is truth. otherwise we wouldn’t suffer. The world was as chaotic and vicious as they’d said back in the Order. No innocents, nothing worth saving from itself. We’re all alone. Sy’wyn had been trying to tell her that, trying to make her see something to focus on.

    Her way was Truth. It always had been. Keira sighed, acknowledging her own weakness in the past. She didn’t need to hurt herself anymore, the world would do that soon enough. The path until then was just a race to keep ahead of the coming storms. She didn’t need to hurt herself, that wouldn’t make others understand. Her anger and frustration vanished, leaving behind calmness and clarity. When there are no other choices, one must act without hesitation or mercy. They’ll feel Her touch, in time. Everyone will.

    Listen to them, learn from them. They sow the seeds of their own suffering. A word, a gesture, a misunderstanding. All gentle manipulation to let them move in the direction their fears take them. It's not force, just pressure in the right place to guide. It's their choice really. Support them, help them, watch them fall. All for Her.

    Focus.


  • Without accepting the fact that everything changes, we cannot find perfect composure.
    But unfortunately, although it is true, it is difficult for us to accept it.
    Because we cannot accept the truth of transience, we suffer.

    Truth is. Perception misguides us, showing us an illusion of the truth that is. That’s why they say that truth is perception, even though it isn’t. The ultimate striving to alter perception so that the illusion is reduced, to attempt to perceive the Truth without distortion. That was her path. That was Her path. The struggle, the pain, the doubt – all part of the journey, part of the trials and adversity needed to hone perception. Recognising the illusions of life and words and people and stripping them away to see the world with less clouded eyes.

    What is, is. To hear a man speak, you don’t hear his words, only hear what reaches you despite the distraction of other sound. Only hear what he chose to say, not the thoughts behind it. Paladins can’t lie. Paladins can’t lie without consequences to themselves and their path. Bards seemed required to lie by their adherence to the vagueness of perception and communication, defined by the void between expectation and understanding. So when Eowiel says Paladins can’t lie… is it true? Elissa says that Paladins don’t lie. Sy’wyn says that Paladins don’t lie. Is it true? It doesn’t matter.

    What is, is. Sometimes I feel uncomfortable near people. That same discomfort when Eowiel cast some magic. She says it wards against evil intent. She says the Paladins sense people in a similar way. Sometimes I feel uncomfortable near her without her casting it on me. Maybe she casts something that makes everyone feel awkward. Maybe she casts something on me to make me feel uncomfortable and says it’s because I’m evil. Maybe. She is wrong about many things. Why would she try to confuse me? Bards. Bards and Lliira, pointless frivolity to blind themselves from the world with trivia and sensation. They don’t understand truth, just distort and weave perception around themselves.

    What is, is. If the paladins don’t lie… they sense something that they say is darkness in my heart. Sometimes I feel uncomfortable, less focussed near others. I feel the same when Eowiel casts a ward against evil intent on me. I feel the same way sometimes when Eowiel approaches. She wouldn’t be hunting me, like Zyphlin did to Ikurus, trying to confuse me, trying to provoke me into doing something. I’m not worth that effort to her. Why she acts doesn’t matter, for now.

    Take it back. Not to justify my past, just to look at it. To try to understand. Sy’wyn says that we don’t need to cause suffering, there’s enough in the world. That is Truth. One of Her glorious truths is that we bring our suffering upon ourselves. Life is suffering. He says that suffering and death are the same, that’s not true. Suffering has to be personal to have meaning. A word, a blow, a knife in the right place. Very personal, very precise. Death is just an absolute, a transition, part of a journey. Suffering is the experience, the perception of life’s trials in a very special, focussed way. He speaks as though killing is bad, but I’ve seen him kill. He says bringing suffering to people is bad. He says that what they see, what the magic can feel within me is that. Suffering helps us grow, helps us learn, an opportunity to understand ourselves a little better, a chance to glimpse that Truth. It’s all around us, a part of life but he says that encouraging it is wrong.

    Raryldor said that Her path was one of darkness. He said it would lead to eternal torment. No one can know the future, but looking back the path is straight. Now they say I’m bad. Elor is weak, he refuses to recognise his own failings. He blames others, responds to observation with bitterness and evasion. He is not comfortable with himself, his choices, his past, or his potential. Am I? Sy’wyn says we’re more than our past, that we’re also what we can become. We only move forward from where we are. Where am I? What am I?

    The arrow only lives in flight. It only lives as it fulfils its purpose. The arrow flies from the bow, not towards the target. Maybe Her path is not about seeking Truth. Maybe it’s not about learning our limits and training us to extend beyond ourselves. Following what I thought was Her path has brought me here. Changing that path, stepping from it will have consequences. Remaining on it will have consequences. A simple choice. They think Her path is evil. They think me following my path has made me bad. Any action is possible with will, with focus, with devotion. Serve Her and follow that path where it leads or change and step away from Her truth.

    A simple choice. Without loyalty and devotion to offer the Gods, what else do we have?


  • Love is just a word until someone comes along and gives it meaning.

    It should be simpler than this, she thought. Joy and satisfaction are bought through adversity and trial otherwise they have no meaning, no worth. He shouldn’t have done this to her… The niggling doubts of the futility of her existence whispered in the back of her head. She was just a pawn of fate, insignificant, to be tossed about in the storms, suffering the blows of an uncaring and arbitrary world. She’d done nothing. Nothing wrong, nothing bad. Her choices affected no one except herself. All that affected her, an opportunity to choose and to learn. Love wasn’t earned. Love was given, unconditionally, blind, foolish. Was that true? The bards, simpering and winking with talk of love and the worthless joys of Lliira. It was wrong.

    Keira smiled, acknowledging Her hand in visiting some more confusion and difficulty upon her. Another test of her resolve, to see whether her recent assertions of putting weakness and lies behind her were true. Already that resolve was suffering. Slight crumbling and chipping and misdirection. Failure to correct people who assumed something within their perceptions of her. All choice, all helping to shape their view of her. Her choices, affecting others and how they act. How could they see her and love her? How could they love her without knowing her? It was wrong.

    He shouldn’t have done that to her… She shouldn’t have let him. He thought it would help her, maybe thought it might help him understand. He’d seen something of her and left. Tainted by her. Maybe there was something in what the Paladins were saying. She frowned. He’d said the feelings had passed after the communion but he’d still seemed distant. Then… he was gone. She paused, appreciating the subtle damage he’d inflicted on her. What would it be to show a blind man sight for a moment, then take it away. A fleeting glimpse of something she never knew she’d lost, never realised was hers if she wanted it. How could he care for people he hadn’t met. It was absurd. How can something untested have worth? Nothing can be considered without perception of it. Anything else is a lie, a fiction… We’re alone, always. Sy’wyn understood that, but still cared, still believed, still had connection to others, family, friends. It was … wrong?

    Keira paused, looking at the bruises on her leg. It wasn’t helping her focus as much as usual. She changed her gloves and pressed the frosty gauntlets onto the previous injuries, feeling numbness creep into the area as the blood slowed and nerves failed to respond. Perception. Focus. How many people would say love was good, pain was bad. That didn’t make the statement true, only their perception. Sy’wyn wasn’t right, that hadn’t been truth. It was just a brief glimpse of how he saw things, how he saw everything. How could he be so twisted, so conflicted and so… unaware of it all. How can life be precious when you choose to end it? It’s a lie. It’s falsehood. He deludes himself to make his choices seem easier, to justify his actions with lies and misrepresentation. To follow Fenmarel, to be alone and yet still hold to his family? Weakness, conflict. Does it give strength to know what you miss, know that you choose to weaken yourself in denial of some support, some tool? She smiled, remembering Elor saying something similar to her about those who chose to fight without weapons. Denial of something beneficial, some adversity to promote struggle, learning and accomplishment. That would mean that the emotions she’d been trained to subdue and detach from could be useful? How does emotion motivate action more efficiently than will?
    She smiled, untangling a tiny knot in her mind. It’s more than choice, it’s justification. It provides reason for the weak or thoughtless. I did it because I loved them, or hated them, an unassailable position. Unarguable by others perception. That was the strength of the zealots and paladins. That was the source of their conviction, a dogma that says hate this, love that. The fervor and conviction of emotional response lends an illusion justice to their cause regardless of any real justice. So when they say they hate her, or she must atone… it’s another lie from the lips of their God. A shadow of their perception that they cannot acknowledge is flawed or their world will crumble. That lack of vision, that wilful ignorance… It was wrong.

    Her plan was beautiful, that all suffering is rooted in our minds, our words and our actions. Every day we mislead ourselves further, building traps for our future that the unenlightened will stumble into and curse the Gods. Truly, the Doombringer’s teachings that we get just recompense for our actions are visited upon us. Punishments for the deserving, and all of us deserve punishment. All of us tread a path on which we sow the seeds of our destiny. Her Truth is. The others just perceive it wrongly.

    So, reaching back to love and joy unearned? Those who claim to love her without knowing her must be misguided. Vengeance isn’t a goal, vengeance will come from the world for the actions we take within it. It doesn’t need a champion or a tool, in time we reap our own harvest. Those who claim to love her blindly… they are sowing something. Constantin and his joyful, dancing Maiden can’t reap happiness from it without paying the price… Keira nodded to herself, clarity returning like the painful burn of circulation returning to her frostbitten leg.

    The others? Surely Nicahh saw her for what she was. Surely Amy did. Sy’wyn did too, but he’d chosen to leave. What are they sowing for themselves? There will be pain and torment and suffering, always. That was right. That was Truth.

    What else is there?


  • Original background

    Be patient and tough; some day this pain will be useful to you.

    ‘Last again, Keira.’ The scourge noted flatly as the children regained their breath in the courtyard. They ranged from 6-8 years old but were stocky and well muscled from their exercises. A head shorter than the average and about half the weight, the pale, skinny elf’s breathing was ragged. In 5 years of running that route every morning she still finished last on most days. The other children recovered faster as well, their breathing returning to normal, bright eyes looking to the elf.
    ‘Tarla, come with me. The rest of you hurt Keira until the sands run out. ’ The scourge turned the hourglass and walked away from the sounds of the scuffle as the larger children bore the weaker elf to the ground.
    ‘Well run, Tarla. Starting from now you train with the novices.’

    Pain is weakness leaving the body.

    The novices stand around at one edge of the training mat, identically clad in light vests of undyed grey. Tarla, now a young man, looked over the group and called for a volunteer. Most of the novices were in their early teens, filling out and learning fast. Keira stood at the front of the group, still short and slight in comparison despite the many years she'd lived there. She stumbled forward a step as an unseen hand pushed her. Tarla smiled as her eyes widened and she bowed respectfully.
    ‘Today, vulnerable parts of the body. Most are where organs or nerves are found near the skin. This will be reinforced later in the anatomy exercises.’
    Tarla positioned Keira on the mat, half-facing the group.
    ‘Between the navel and the ribcage, on the centre-line of the body.’
    He smiled at Keira before punching her once, swiftly, in the solar plexus. She crumpled to the ground, winded.
    ‘See how her breathing is disrupted. See the distress. Her mind tells her to breathe but the body cannot function. The effect lasts for a brief time before the natural instincts reassert themselves.’
    He waited for Keira to struggle to her feet and stand ready again.
    ‘The effect can be resisted to some extent by tensing the stomach muscles in preparation for the blow’
    He prodded at Keira’s midriff for emphasis.
    ‘As with most techniques, be versatile. Use distracting blows to divert attention from the target area.’
    Tarla stepped close, stamping on Keira’s bare foot before turning and hammering another blow into her stomach. She dropped again, clutching at her stomach.
    ‘Find a partner, take turns, practice. We cannot deliver pain without understanding’

    I assess the power of a will by how much resistance, pain, torture it endures and knows how to turn to its advantage.

    The older man smiled at Keira, brushing a damp strand of hair tenderly away from the whimpering elf’s face. His younger colleague busied himself at the table, cleaning the knives and other instruments. He leaned closer, whispering pleasantly, soft brown eyes scanning her face.
    ‘Come here, it’ll be good for you. I know you’re stronger than this. I want you to show me.’
    He traced one of the few scars that ran along her arm with a loving finger, finishing the caress by grazing his thumb over the raw flesh where the manacles had chafed. She didn’t move from the corner, eyes blankly staring into the distance, hugging her knees.
    ‘Trust me. I can’t promise it’ll be easier than before if you come. It’s not far. Look. Refan’s waiting for you. For you. All you have to do is walk over there, we’ll help you.’
    He paused, watching for a reaction or a sign that she’d heard him.
    ‘I can promise one thing. It will definitely be worse if you don’t go over there. If we have to drag you, if you’re weak. It just means you have more to learn and we must provide the opportunity for you to learn.’
    He sighed and stood, shrugging at Refan before gripping her firmly by the hair. The recent wounds on her back, crusted to the wall, opened and seeped as she was dragged to the heavy table with its manacles and gutters. He hadn't lied when he said it'd be worse.

    Pain is life–the sharper, the more evidence of life.

    The new Mistress’ desire to swell the ranks of the Order had resulted in more students. Some were too old to adapt to the monastic regime and assigned instead as devotional subjects for learning and research. Keira looked into the eyes of the boy on the table, then up to the watching scourge.
    ‘What are you waiting for? He’s dead already, by your hand or another’s. It doesn’t matter what you do to him.’
    She nodded, cutting away the tattered remains of the boy’s clothing. Keira showed the knife to his startled eyes and bent down to whisper in his ear.
    ‘You want me to use the knife or my hands to start with? Your choice.’ She watched his tearful, desperate eyes look from the knife to her face. She heard his quiet response and licked her lips slightly before starting to work.


  • Anger will never disappear so long as thoughts of resentment are cherished in the mind.
    Anger will disappear just as soon as thoughts of resentment are forgotten.

    The boar turned lazily, hanging from the tree. Its struggles were weaker and foam dripped from its snarling lips to the floor of the clearing. Keira swayed away from a half-hearted tusk and darted another couple of swift punches to its body. She smiled, breathing evenly, as she watched the boar spasm and cough. Did the boar deserve this? She rubbed at the long gash in her leg, remembering the boar turning after the long chase and charging her. Did she deserve that, for hunting the boar? Where does it end?

    Consequence follows action. Consequence follows choice. She thought of Rolan, blindly supporting the miserable dwarf. Would he have supported the dwarf if he’d cut a child in half with the sword, rather than a mephit? The legion, protecting the weak, protecting themselves. Where was consequence? Where was the violence to meat the dwarf’s action? How long before the Doombringer visits justice on him?

    She sighed, thinking it over again, occasionally hitting the boar when its struggles weakened. It begins with choice, it must. They say she’s tainted, bad, darkness in her heart. A consequence of her action? She’d done nothing wrong. Only killed those who deserved it. Only hurt those who’d asked. Only hurt those who deserved it, criminals, lawbreakers. Helped them to understand… Was that bad? It was so hard to understand. How could one person kill those who deserve it and be right, yet another who kills those who deserve it is branded with darkness? Anakore, Amana, Mariston, Clandra, Kara, Pete – all killers, all respected…

    It begins with choice. If the Paladins speak the truth, the choice is wrong, the thought is wrong, maybe they didn’t deserve it. She shook her head. Murderers, thieves and liars; of course they deserved it, so the Paladins are lying. They call it darkness because their choices are not her choices. They blind themselves with claims of caring and protection without a true sense of the value of life. No one is innocent, no one worthy of protection without us choosing to protect. Why would they lie, with their easy smiles and tales of atonement? What do they want? Another weakling, another mind to control, another victim to save from their own past… They try to drive her from the path, away from Truth into a corral of stagnation, another beast in their herds of ignorant contentment.

    Keira bent, looking at the boar. Its eyes were dull and bulging, the skin of the mouth darkened from hanging upside-down. It had served a healthy reminder not to underestimate a foe. It had reminded her of the feel of flesh yielding under her knuckles and the crack, more felt than heard, of a rib splintering and cutting into the organs inside. Good exercise, good hunting. She closed her eyes, dabbing some of the bright, foamy blood from the lungs of the boar onto her eyelids and lips. It had been strong; it had run well, fought well, endured pain and finally died well.

    It was a good lesson.


  • We shape clay into a pot, but it's the emptiness within that holds whatever we want

    The pale elf sat at the streambank sorting pebbles and dropping the round ones into a pouch at her belt. They weren't as effective as the metal dropped sling-bullets, but no hawk had survived to relate that fact. It rained, plastering her hair to her head, making her shiver. Not cold enough for a fire, not yet. The pouch full, she rose and padded quietly through the woods to the hollow tree she used for shelter.

    Inspecting her leg, under the bandage, grey eyes searching for signs of disease or other unhealthy symptoms. Patience was the key. Removing too much flesh at a time and the leg would require more expert healing than she could perform, alone in the woods. Patience, and trusting to the training (focus). Cherishing the slick sound of the knife shaving a tiny layer of fat, then muscle from her thigh. Not much was left, the scarred and dark fingers of Hoar, just paler lines in the damaged muscle now. She smoothed some of the healing balm from Jiyyd over the wound. Soon it would be done, another lie erased. Tomorrow, she could cut again.

    Where was the Truth? What was the Truth? If the first Truth is that of the self, what is she? (weak) The nightly meditations were not going well. Removing the possessions had been easy. Gifts to those who would appreciate them. No matter how the Ilmatrian rationalized it, no matter how much she claimed that she was saving others from greater suffering, every time she struck a blow with those gloves someone would feel pain, would suffer and be hurt at the hands of (Loviatar) an Ilmatrian. The pale elf smiled briefly, before discarding the thought again. Humour and contemplative meditation were not acceptable.

    'I have nothing, there is nothing here, I am nothing'

    The low chanting was deadened and lost in the forest, barely carrying beyond the glade. The woodsman had stumbled upon a moment of her weakness (coward) during one of the deeper incisions. Had she cared, it would have been hard to tell if he was more stunned by a naked elf in the forest, or the heavy coppery smell and soft pulsing of blood over her leg as she worked (devotion). She remembered a guard, telling her to get clothed… years ago now, in Peltarch. She remembered the woodsman fumble at his pack, tentatively offering an old tunic to mop the blood away before fleeing back into the forest.

    Nothing. No thought, no memory. Take it all and what is left? It should be who she is. After all this time, she has to know who she is. (unrepentant) Again, a flicker of doubt from the teachings. Perhaps, like an onion, there is nothing at the centre of the layers. Peel another, and what is left. The people, the faces she's seen - all noted and discarded. To define herself by others perception is delusion. (whore) To dream that she could see her own value through others? Impossible. What is left, when you've peeled it all away? What is right, when you consider what you've done? (murderer) Who is she? Who am I?

    Who am I?
    am I?
    I?


  • When evil acts in the world it always manages to find instruments who believe that what they do is not evil but honorable.

    The past, unchanging. A series of choices expanding into a story, a line to the present. One of the truths is to look back and see your choices, to see what effect you’ve made to the world. Perception is not Truth. To understand the world and, through that reflection, yourself is to see what the consequences of your choices are. As you change the world, your ability to understand it fades because context is lost. Tread lightly, harm none that would not be harmed. We all walk our own path.

    Keira looked at the knife, remembering the resistance of her flesh, remembering the words of one of the Scourges of the order. The past, unchanging. Doubts, the necessary and revered path to recognizing Truth. She smiled, hearing the high keening whimpers of the woman again, seeing the hatred and fear in her eyes. It was a shame that she clung so rigidly to her faith, choosing to die rather than to convert and live. She was dead, by another’s hand. Keira looked back to herself before that evening, considering the changes she’d made, her relevance and impact. Without her presence the woman would still have died. Without her presence the woman would have died unnoticed, except by her killers. A moment in time; blood pulsing from her wounds, the flow slowing. Another moment; the woman leaving the Inn, smiling, unsuspecting, happy. Keira remembered the feel of the woman’s eye under her thumb. She would be dead, killed by another just a few hours in her future, her path nearly ended. She was dead already, by another’s will – the blood, the pain, the suffering – all a gift to Her.

    Emotion and attachment bring weakness and vulnerability. All suffer this. All life is pain. It is important to perceive emotional response and test it, doubt it and decide whether to act upon its considered message. True detachment would result in such profound isolation that perception itself would not exist. That state of nothing, the isolation of self should be the closest we can get to experiencing the Truth of the world. That isolation is a protection, an acknowledgement that personal strength and being are all that is needed. It could be said that such an existence would be so detached as to be immune to suffering, because nothing would reach you. Certainly none have achieved such a state and been able to describe it to others. Life is pain. To deny pain and retreat from the innumerable causes of suffering would be to deny Her blessings to the living. To deny Her is unwise.

    Keira knelt, considering one of the many questions the Teachings proposed. That there was contradiction and impossibility was not new. It mirrored the many contradictions in life, encouraging growth and a contemplative nature in students. Our actions can change others lives. It’s like web of circumstance and choices, where one innocent step will cause untold suffering for another. The innocent are not punished for this. As the Doombringer taught, recompense will be accrued for those actions, innocent or not. Justice will be served. What had the woman done, to deserve being slain? It was impossible to tell. Would Lady Doom conspire to visit something unfortunate on the killers as mocking payment for their devotions? It was impossible to tell. Would she have died if Keira hadn’t watched her? It was impossible to tell. There is only action and consequence. The woman was dead. She had died secure in her faith, resolved not to weaken or plead or beg for mercy. Keira paused, remembering the sprays of blood from the many wounds, remembering the way the droplets hung in the air. It was enthusiastic, but lacking in finesse or delicacy. A frenzy of focussed hatred, rather than a more serene devotion that should accompany those ultimate sacrifices. Keira sighed, reminding herself that others weren’t like her. They didn’t understand, it wasn’t their fault. Perhaps, a few could be taught, perhaps a few might learn. If the aim is to kill, you should kill. If the aim is to extend suffering, then life should be prolonged. Always act with focus and devotion.

    Keira was sure the woman would have died anyway. She was certain that her observation of the death had neither hastened it, nor delayed it. She was happy in the knowledge that she’d helped a friend. Keira smiled, knowing that her conscience, her path, her choice had been right.

    Certainty will bring happiness, but doubt brings wisdom and Truth.