Scarred Flesh and Life
Free writing was recommended as an exercise to force my feelings to paper. To write what comes to my mind with little regard to their meaning or the sense they make. I am unsure I even want to read my feelings as they are often of ill intent. When I was waiting for my tower to be built, I often could not help but think of throwing myself from the top the day it was completed. They find my presence so repugnant? They’d prefer I did not exist the way I am? Then I would just get it over with and let everyone get along with their lives. My spirit would haunt the tower for all eternity and become another two-bit ghost tale to populate the Bard college’s shelves. I’d be lying if these thoughts did not force themselves into my mind still, but now a concern appends them. Who would find me if I did? It would be her, wouldn’t it? She lives in this tower as well. What would that do to her? Would she stay? Would she leave Narfell? What else could I do that would make her leave? If someone spoke ill of me to her would they believe them? Would they even have to hear someone, could I do something too far and make her leave? Or perhaps I already have and as I write this she is slipping away without alerting me, leaving the region forever. I dislike this. I have given her power over me without letting her realize it. A power I promised myself I would never give to anyone else ever again. I miss you Durion. I have reached the limit of how far I can go without your guidance and find myself regressing to the way I once was. I am becoming more withdrawn, more isolated and more spiteful. I do not even mean to do it, sometimes I will speak and the one I am speaking to will grow angry and I will have no idea why. Even those who sought my presence before have become scarce. Certainly, they have come to realize the kind of poison I am. Would I even be missed if I were to meet my end? I imagine most would find the news of my demise pleasurable, though they’d never admit it. I grow weary of their constant indignations, of their constant affirmations that there is something wrong with me. I grow weary.
The lake of molten rock churned violently sending tremors through the earth and shaking the adventurers off their feet. The three scrambled to safety, picking each other off the ground, as the powerful magic contained in the phylactery unraveled itself from the weave. The burst of raw magical energy threw the volcano’s stability into chaos. Ash and dust covered the skies, coating all in a thick cloud of grey. Verika’s companions gathered around her, calling for their escape. But she hesitated, staring at the bubbling lava expectantly. Something. Anything. When she had gotten her revenge she felt nothing. Seeing the killer of her mentor reduced to nothing before her brought her no sense of closure, no sense of peace. The book that she now carried with her weighed down her bag as if she carried an anvil so perhaps, she thought, handing it away would provide the finality she needed. But tossing the book at Gaurithoth’s feet brought her no pleasure, not even a modicum. When he revealed to her that her task was not yet done, she still felt nothing. And finally, throwing the phylactery into the natural forge, destroying the very soul of the man she swore to herself to kill, after so many years finally and decisively getting her vengeance. She still felt nothing.
She needed something to happen. This couldn’t be it. She had spent so many years on this. This was the final chance she had to have the empty feeling inside filled. But the eruption just grew in intensity, the hot lava growing closer and closer. And with a resigned sigh Verika cast the spell and the three adventurers were back in Peltarch, as if nothing had happened.
And still she felt nothing.
Experiment Log #3
Subject: Soul Gem
Results: Attempts to contact the soul have yielded little results. As the origins of the gem were not disclosed it is impossible to know how old the soul imprisoned is or what manner of creature it is. There are many possibilities ranging from oath breakers, upstarts who displeased the herald or perhaps even an outsider who was summoned and trapped. In all likelihood the soul’s imprisonment has rendered it inert and whatever was inside has been reduced to nothing but energy. Examining the weave surrounding the gem reveals conjuration magic binding a well of power within the gem. With careful weaving this power could be pulled from the bindings and entangled with another spell, providing a constant source of energy to keep the weaves from becoming undone.
I have lived Most mY life fighting against assumptions. Assumptions of weAkness, pResuppositions that I cannot Match my peers. Where ever I went people questioned my uSefulness with a single arm. I am noT weak. Through magIc I wieLd power others dream of. The very fabric of reaLity bends and churns to my will. My disaBility does not hold me back. The fact no one qUestions my arm gives me some measure of pride. While peRhaps the new assumptions people make of me are Negative they are nonetheless ones that are incompatible with pity and dismiSsal.
Love Is giving someone a kniFe and turning your back to thEm.
LovE is drinking poison and Looking to another for the antidote.
Love is nothing but Leaving yourself Open to great harm for nothing more than Validation, and that is why it is spEcial.
It is the desire to cut your heart open for something with no meaning at all that gives it meaning.
THere are pricEs for power and I fear I Have begun to pAy mine. There are beingS beyond My capabilitY. Forces I cannot dream to Best. I have met one and escaped with my Life, The ShadOw King, and nOw he holds power over me. I can only hope he does not expenD it, for there would be naught I can do but scream.
Take Vervain plant and remove roots. Cut leaves and stem finely and separate into 2g portions.
Place 2g portion in cheese cloth, fold the cloth into a tight pouch and bind with string.
Boil cup of water.
Steep Vervain pouch in water for five minutes.
Add honey to tea for flavour.
Vengeance is all I
There are things I find easy to write about.
One day I will have retribution for the death of
There are things I find difficult to write about.
My thoughts have oft been consumed with revenge, revenge against an unknown
Would Durion be proud of me?
The only purpose I have left is to enact justice against the one who took his
When I was a child, I would spend much time fantasizing about my parents. Perhaps they were not the simple folk they seemed to be, perhaps my father was the long-lost scion of a noble elven house who fled his duty to be with my mother. Perhaps my mother was a powerful mage, who discarded her life of adventure and glory for a simple, peaceful life with the man she loved. I must admit this is something I still do, but it is tempered with the bitterness of wisdom. If they were truly old heroes, they would have lived.
I find myself getting angrier more often and more easily.
Once there was a foolish child who walked into the woods alone. She went deeper and deeper as the sky grew darker and darker. The child found this exhilarating, the sense of danger and adventure overwhelmed her sense of self preservation. Soon the child found her way to a wolf's den where she was beset and mauled to death. The child fed many wolf pups and gave them a taste for elven blood.
This story is true.
Despite my disillusionment with people I am endlessly fascinated by societies. What is it that makes people rally around rulers? Why is it that commoners happily remain on the bottom rung of the social ladder? I have come to believe that there is a comfort to it, not just with a sense of familiarity but also a belief in law. If all goes accordingly then commoners should feel secure, as the law discourages action that would find their simple common lives disrupted. I find it no surprise that the people who step out of the societal system show great disdain for the law.
Others do not share my fascination.
The people whose company I enjoy continues to dwindle and the people whose company I loathe continues to grow. I wonder if Sha’riel felt these things when I left. She must resent me for it.
Once there was a foolish child who walked into the woods alone. She went deeper and deeper as the sky grew darker and darker. The child found this exhilarating, the sense of danger and adventure overwhelmed her sense of self preservation. Soon the child found her way to a wolf’s den where she was beset and mauled. A travelling hunter heard her scream and killed the wolf and saved the disfigured child's life. The wolf’s pups starved to death.
This story is also true.
Fear is a feeling I am accustomed too. I have many fears, anxieties that barrage my thoughts on a regular basis. There is none so crippling to me than my fear of fire.
I remember very little of my life as a child, but the night I lost my arm remains as vivid and horrible in my mind as it was in the moment. I remember the pain of flame on my flesh, I remember the nauseating smell of my burns and I remember the screaming of my parents as they realized that there was no escape for them. I beat back these memories, do not dwell on them, I have made multiple mental exercises to distract myself from such things.
But when I am surrounded by flame, when my nose is filled with the scent of burning, when no matter what I do I feel the heat against my skin, the memories return and I am unable to force them out.