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The following is, between the noises and reactions of illness, the story which the half breed knight spins for you, adjusted so as to not reflect the conditions of the speaker.

I will admit it plainly that it is more complicated than merely restoring freedom or ensuring survival. These are both immediate and noble goals, but they are not the whole of the situation, nor indicitive of it. Were they, any fool could see that to not act rationally would be to get what's coming to them; but it is complicated by addiction, merchantilism, and belief, to a huge extent.

If we start at the beginning...

Imagine a world.

Picture it without disease, decay, fungi- the transience of death and the lingering of entropy. A garden paradise where waste turns into useful material- a dagger, slipped from a belt, sprouting into a bush of iron, or a picket line of fences grown from an idly tossed coin. Not to mention spoor to dirt, although I'm told it happens much the same way in your own manure manufacture- albeit not instantaneously and in a much more foul smelling manner. Or, if you will see it, perhaps a copper bucket. It will not remain  bobbing in the clean and flowing waters without rooting as a metal nugget that will grow into a nodule and from there a vein and a mountain's root.

Death does not become the world and bones are difficult to find. Elder trees and new share space without starvation or competition. No corpses remain where they lay, for they turn to seed and sand, marking a battlefield only by where the red ferns and the blooded lillies grow beside the poppies.

The air is ever clean and the skies are ever clear.

Though a piece of bread is waterlogged, carried in a basket through the sparkling rain, setting it down and merely waiting for it to dry upon the plate is all the preservation or preparation that it requires. An apple can be set on a desk and, without drying or spoiling as it does on your own world, can be picked up and eaten just as fresh come sixteen weeks as sixteen seconds after. A land in which squirrels do not hoard for the winter, knowing they can merely step out and find a fallen nut from summer without fail.

This was how my home was, once. A place without the great evils or hardships that are other planets' daily concerns. A paradise of ever-flowing milk and honey that never tired or wore thin, protected from ravaging by time or those smallest and most sinister of threats, the which I am now battling from exposure to your own air.

Beauty incarnate.

But stop and ask yourself this:

In such a land of gods, where would you find such things as cheese, or wine, or such a palette as a marinated meat? Indeed- a meat at all? For they would change, too, even if generated. Nothing fermenting, nothing rotting, nothing spoiling, nothing -curdling-, you understand?

Many of the luxuries held dearly there now were learned of only after travelers and immigrants from your own worlds bemoaned their lack and connived to ship them through.

These, largely the Centaurs, brought with them new gods and new religions to go alongside their rare and valuable materials, which literally could not be made- or long kept- here. It fired the desires of a people whose native gods had disappeared and whose halls were silent. Some say they left to make a better paradise, others, that they welcomed the new pantheons and were trapped, others still, that they remain but are too drunk and addled from gifts foreign to their conception once to lift a hand to assist their younger cousins in their plight.

Aridimes ascribes to the last, though he does admit that the gods of Wind have ever been faithful friends to his cause, even when the others faded from even immortal memory. The New Gods, such as the Aesir and Vanir, have often urged mortals to conquer the old ways rather than renounce their practices. A wish is a powerful incentive to turn on a stranger you haven't personally met who only supposedly does all these grand and wonderful things to you, but a wish coupled by religious fervor and encouragement is more compelling still.

And the simple truth is, at one time, a brick of cheese was worth its weight in gold, let alone mere living and replacable people. Nor can it be remembered when any of the folk of the Fae, Scott, or Ire lands was not incorrigibly, disasterously drunk; at least not in these modern times. If you tried to part the likes of Aiden Thane- and I am aware you have met him, at least some few of you- with his liquor, you wit well the peril you place your life in. They would bring armies forth (and do) to oppose any effort that threatened their happy haze of being, the spice and drug and glamour grown, the halflings' smoking weed and the gentlebeings' well-aged pipes.

With the decline of the Djinn populace, it became possible for merchants to import greater and greater numbers of outworld luxuries, even to begin to plant things in secluded tiny areas to grow and spoil (to a reasonable extent) to feed (figuratively and literally) an increasingly avaricious set of multi-species markets. Mushrooms in particular proved popular with fairies.

In the fight to allow the immune system of the world its bygone and cherished but almost forgotten freedom, then, you wage war upon mighty titans indeed, for the things that crush the Jinn under heel are not merely Might and Magic, but Enterprise, Wealth, Addiction, and Tradition. Not necessarily as to enslaving spirits of any kind in those, either; simply in taking advantage of their absence. And warriors do not typically line up to deprive themselves of wine, women, and song.

Nor would it be in their fiscal interests even if they betrayed their vices and their merchantile employers, even if the Djinn had treasures to offer them beyond what the world could pay them, because the fields of battle would soon be worthless beyond recognition if the days of old returned in force. How does one put it...? Ah. Allow me to say it like this, and the mercenaries among you will understand it in full, I have no doubt:

"The spoils of war are not called such without reason."

If the metals, the leathers, even the corpses of their enemies simply blurred into the landscape and became (admittedly delightful) fixed but unusable features to a soldier, most would scoff at the idea. Without the head to claim glory or the magic sword to replace their own, many fighters would stay home entirely, no doubt among your peoples as among mine. The hides of the enemy and trophies beyond what they could afford to commission or keep themselves are time honored prizes among all cuts of killers on and off the crow strewn grounds of war.

Should Djinn return en masse and in force to their natural state and homes, all manner of spoils will soon enough be lost, alongside the rest of rot and rubbish.

Master Aridimes, Aysu the Savior Fairy, and, of course, Veovis by an extension of the two, would talk up a beautiful speech as to survival and necessity and the betterment of others, alongside equality, freedom, fairness, and simply literally making the world a better place. Fine and noble sentiments that ring true, of course. Not enough, though.

The very city in which we stand is testament to the fact that given the choice between luxury and survival, or enrichment versus personal security, most sapient beings will blow their lives and their resources as fast as they bloody well can to get what they want when they want it, and never mind the means. It is a little humiliating to admit that money is so rooted an evil that an infant could be sold for enough yogurt in the worse places of the world... or that I was for bread, in one of the worst.

"Bread Peddled", I was named, therefore. And Bredbeddle I am, a letter allowed changed with every victory. One day I will be my own man entirely, ... or would have been...  but that will not be today, with the loss of Veovis. My purchaser, and the rest of the world, will still be alive tomorrow, and I- ironically enough- will likely be dead, here, of the chicken pox.

My own motive for assisting Aridimes and the Verdant Vigil of Aysu that studied and assisted Jinn in unfortunate circumstances was not patriotic, economic, or certyainly altruistic. In these, my likely final hours, I confess my heart was lead instead by one thing and one thing only. I fought to free them, and later, when helping Veovis to concoct the plan to move the Djinn offworld for their own escape to a better and hopefully more grateful (or empty) planet... for revenge, revenge and nothing else.

I wanted my homeworld to die.

I planned for them to suffer from their own mistakes, I delighted in it, I wanted carnage in their streets and desecration carved into the landscapes from their patterns. I wanted their sin to bury them with the last vestiges of the grace that saved them from turning orchards into graves gone. I desired little more than for them to know the misery and futility of an existence beyond their capability to control and circumstances they were trapped in without help for it.

Just like me.

The sins of the father, visited upon the mauger heads of those that followed. I have paid in blood, deed, and shame for my own many million times over, and it is still not enough. He sold me into slavery, and still, I bear his blood and the awful vitality of the life he procreated has not abated, even with this foreign disease riddling my skin and veins.

Yagren is dead and I cannot avenge myself on him for his actions, but the world allowed my father to exist for too long, and too many men like him- if not necessarily as evil or as powerful- live out their lives in sinful comfort. The rich get richer, the poor suffer and starve where there was once food and resource beyond enough for all, and misery propogates and abounds in greater force. Year after year, it grows with the tide of New.

I will never forget, and I will never forgive, that it was my sister that did not avenge my mother's  death when she actually met and fought the monster that father fed the poor woman to. Nor will I forget that she was too soft to invite any kind of reckoning when dealing with the great among you for her own trials and suffering at the world's hands. I denounce her. I renounce her. She believed me dead, and truly, she has been dead to me almost since I learned again that she had survived -out here-.

To say I hate that fallen paradise and the remaining vestiges of beauty sprawling through alongside holes of horror where not enough spirits remain free to maintain it is an understatement, but it pales compared to the personal loathing I bear my one remaining kinsman, I assure you. At least the only one of which I am aware. For all I know, there may be many, hiding among you as she was.

She will live, and revenge will continue not to be served to it, I understand- whether I live or die myself.

With the particular *manner* of Veovis' departure from existence as we know it, Aridimes will not dare continue the plan. He was hesitant of it from the start, and wary to invest his power. He will instead wage his endless, tireless, pointless war, freeing one Djinn here, another there, and losing a temple of Marids for his troubles when the guardians fail to be enough and he cannot reach it in time in turn. Back and forth for the rest of time, with nowhere to really go even if he 'wins', and no one that would be grateful besides the nation affected.

Part and parcel, there was one possibility of coexistence flowering, though I've done my best to stifle it. It helped that Aridimes hated it from the start. HE mistrusts it, too, even now.

A merchant woman named Nejem produces materials that withstand magics, even those of Djinn. She's quite the spellweaver, truly. Her little secret is that it isn't her magic she's using for the spells, do you ken? One invokes ultimate cosmic powers of universal alteration at peril, no matter who one is, but she is the only one in living memory that has successfully -borrowed- the abilities of a willing Djinn.

Rahat Nejem is a very lucky woman that her spells work, let alone that trying hasn't killed her, but then, her business partner and that willing Djinn is her wife. Aridimes was irate at his little sister marrying one of the species that hunted and haunted him, and to this day, the little human remains on his hit list- just in case she ever accidentally outs her source. That said-

She actually is a weaver. Baskets, dresses mostly, occasionally other things. They are imbued with properties of wholesomeness and integrity beyond the usual, sometimes with the grace to make the wearer or the user actually more attractive or ennobled or even physically more capable... even when having removed the item. It isn't illusion, simply magic rubbing off on them.

Supposedly she got into it because she wanted to eat meat when she was pregnant and her then-girlfriend kept accidentally turning the barbeque into daffodils every time she stepped into the room. ... Yes. That would be a silly ancedote, truly, but I've never met the pair to ask, only heard of them from the intelligence division in Moneio. I'm trusting none of you will ever make it there alive to poke your head into it, or else, dying or not, I mightn't betray their little secret.

The thing about their work is, Djinn magic doesn't change it. It's already eternally changed by Djinn magic. It's made of it. So when surrounding something- say, oranges, for simplicity's sake- it fails to affect them. Not that Djinn did much to oranges besides keep them fresh. A basket of sausages might be a better example.

The other thing is- that means what's held within is liable to spoil, in time. Or grow worse. Or, if wearing the clothing, potentially become ill. It's a hazard that makes it unpopular (among the Vigil members that know of it) as a thing to advertise as an alternative to the general public. Not to mention that it really is fairly expensive, both due to the magic and the quality of the product.

If the Nejem pair could figure out a means to apply only beneficial and preserving effects without transformative ones, they might well be popular with outlanders like yourselves and the merchants that still bring in most of the luxury post-ripe products, but as it stands now... they'll likely remain only a regional celebrity.

You are kind to save me, but I see it in your eyes that you condemn my motives and my feelings. I am not the kind of knight to live falsely, nor on charity. I was a slave only until I could become a man, and as a man, I would rather die honest and without debts. You have my story as recompense for the effort you made so far. I would rather you turn off the medicine machine now and leave it at that...
A familiar sad old story, reconsidered
Posted at :iconlesieur: and :icondarthvengeance0325: 

The Nejem duo belongs primarily to :iconsakuraluvsuall:

A continuation of an older letter that detailed the events of Djinn-departing, this is a consideration on it having been thwarted. 
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When you Wish me I will be.

So shall be our Covenant.

But all I Am is at your disposal.

And you shall define the who, the what, the why, the how, and the wherewithal of that which I Am.

From before your world, I come, but from neither the Heavens nor Hells, Planes or Abysses, Worlds or Voids, Star or Space or Time. I Am, and so simply it has been, and is, and will be. And neither god nor man nor devil be, but that and all that I Am, along with much that I Am not, is at your service.

And my reward in turn will be this:

I shall at last experience a happier world for my troubles on your behalves, where the many have peace and joy, where there are no few granted all, where there is an end of divisiveness and corruption.

For so long as you reign, I will seek this in all your trials and efforts, and aid you with every call you make upon me. This is the promise, the gift and reward and requirement, all. This will I sow.

"But who are you?" asked the purple swathed king in turn. "From where id you come? What do you mean to do here?"

You may call me Ger'shom, for that I Am, the whisper answered Ozzymandias' query. Yes, 'a stranger here' is a title of many meanings, enough true ones to belong to it in turn.

"You will not always be a stranger I hope! No, I will will not name you... that. I don't believe I will name you at all! That is for you to choose in time. I should prefer to welcome you," the young king answered firmly. "I am told I am the oldest of my kin, their caretaker, aged before them to give them guidance. But who will guide me? They are unborn, and our Parents are not listening. Neither the Gods or Titans born before me know the how or why of anything but their fundaments and aspects. It is ill, I fear. Ill precedent and poor to those I am supposed to ward."

Six years old and three thousand aged in mind-and-body, the young ancient paced before the shrouded... thing... slowly forming from the sounds in the room before him. "You are not of the world I know."

He clapped twice before sitting on the throne, beard curling and adult limbs settling into the stone in a motion that would have been unfamiliar to his older kin and that, in time, would become a symbol of monarchy to followers of younger kin throughout the ages. His eyes, deep purple flecked with gold, glinted with their own light as he studied the strange being. "I know too that I know too little of the world, or worlds, as you say. You have given me speech when I was struck witless and older than my years by conflict with Janus, time's incarnation. Will you give me guidance, too?"

If you Wish, my lord king, swirled the darkness within a lighter gray hood as it continued to take feature and form over the course of the conversation, fabric weaving in midair from strands of shadow as light and soft as beige grass to as black as starless space. Solidity phasing- perhaps phrasing, rather, given that the words grew stronger in speaking- into being. I will, however, require a name if you desire my attendance. Often, Ozzymandias, I will be absent, for I Am not all and much has nothing to do with me; but if you call, I will answer, and if you conjure, I will appear once more to you.

"You spoke in sad, strained stories of many places elsewhere, elsewhen. Will you be World-Walker, then? Traveler? Wanderer? But these are what you do, not words for a who you are..."

Rambler has a nice duality of meaning to it.

Flexing newfound fingers, the shape dipped its hand into the fire gently burning in the bush, then watched it burn. It does not yet hurt. Someday it will. When I Am more than less.

You are wise not to stifle the kindling burn. It will refresh the forest, just as you do, and allow for newer growth without need for caretakers to cleanse the leaves. Although that being the function of your kindred, you may find in time you are quite enough without flame to do the job, Ozzymandias of the Djinn. On that day, whether you stop her dancing devouring or permit it will be curious to see.

Ignoring the being's ramble, Ozzymandias studied the rambler and shook his head. "That is still merely a title. I don't doubt that you'll wear it, but I wish you had a Name. Someday, all things will have a Word for them, a true name. All things here, at least..."

Many names are merely titles, my young king. So any smith or fisher could speak to you- if they existed yet. Hmm. In time. In time.

Perhaps 'Arawn', that is, 'Silver-Tongue', if you must. Or Ha-Satan, that is, 'Opposing Adversary', for I have little doubt your enemies will think of my efforts as opposite their aim. No? No. I've fancied 'Sammael', the opener of doors and worlds... but that one, as with many, is taken, and I've never particularly been one to grovel to the Lords. For that matter... whatever the name, nothing ending in 'el', my king.


"That helps. What else do you not want to be addressed as?" coaxed the king, watching curiously for any signs of nose, eyes, mouth, any indicator of a person inside the no-longer-emptiness. Even so much as a skull would have been significant progress. But only mist swirled within the cloth, still spinning like a yarn.

I do not care for gender exclusive patronyms, lacking either, the shape confessed to the spirit. I enjoy function. Perhaps 'The Player', in synonym to 'The Rambler', to play a role in many fates and many tunes to come.

"Travande!" declared the monarch, crossing his leg over his knee and cupping his hands under his chin. "Travande Welerrer."

You intend to simply amalgamate two words of function? the silhouette laughed, and laughed hard, almost doubling over as it doubled in size and breadth and substance all at once as well. Does that not cheat your own intention? I will take Travande, or perhaps Travander for completion's sake, but you ought to discard the other letters.

"Travander Sebaugh?"

Travander nodded the self-appointed servant of the First King. You may call me anything you Wish, King, so long as I know it to be addressing me, of course. Of course, you may. Preferences are for those with a hand in it. But if it please the King, I would prefer one name, and one that defines. For without the world there is warm light, and long dark, and infinite beauty without definitions- but without a self it can mean nothing to those who inhabit it, just as it is called nothing by those who view it from afar. And a self is what I lack. It is not who nor what nor why I Am.
Terran Tales #12- An Ancient Player
Uploaded here and on :iconlesieur: . The oldest stories are those that are lost in time... Please do leave a thought, whether comment or critique or, especially, query. Thank you for your time in any extent!
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Not that I expect most anyone will take notice or care, a few old dears aside. But this is the ugly mug. :U If you're petrified, I know it's working, and that's why those crickets are chirping. 

Also, Grey Wardens, because DA OBSESSION NEVER REALLY DIES

  • Listening to: Attack on Titan
  • Reading: Dragon Age comics
  • Watching: cat sleep
  • Playing: VID'JA GAIMES
  • Eating: pens
  • Drinking: No, sir!
As I kick the dust off my boots and prepare to settle back in for a few months into the old dens, I cannot help but feel it is of stars and not of earthly matters, for all that the old leather is grimed with flecks of long dried blood beside it. In my absence, things have changed, and strangely, stayed very much the same, it seems. I have not returned to stay, not entirely, but to speak of stranger things and brighter dreams than those in the glass museums we dwell within for the sake of our deviance meeting community and art.

To talk, however briefly, of what and where and why I migrated, and intend fully to do so, again.

Let us start with a premise.

Call insanity a place. Fill it with an origin of having been founded to watch mutated, augmented, and batshite imaginary variations of animals duel to demise for the entertainment of wild minded entrepreneurs and mad scientists, with mutants and behemoths being mere flavors of a day- and some outright as hilariously silly as others were out-and-out terrifying. Knit a community together upon it, roleplaying the bettors and creatures, alike.

Call that 'Zoofites', or Zoological Fights, as is logical; then, take these same strange mentalities to a larger field, not of doctored cage fighting, but of characters- sapient characters- of every venue and origin intermingling, warring, sometimes adjusting a point of view. Spread it across years of writing, flavor it every so often with sweetness, tone down a little of the bloodsport for more harmless challenges at the behest of some while setting towns ablaze and filling rivers with blood for others. Within a very thin veneer of morality- largely keeping a matter unstated- do fairly well anything, as long as it's consensual.

Where else are you going to see a knight fail to topple a king, become cursed to inhabit the form of the video game character Kirby, and proceed to date a living incarnation of the state of North Dakota? Or a fifteen foot warrior trapped in the body of a squirrel after a singularly -smashing- execution finished her former humanity off? Have a few atomic cocktails with Sauron and empathize about a bad day. Murder a strigoi just for being present! Watch a Mandalorian set fire to the aforementioned town in an attempt to put an end to a pesky sapient virus.

Insanity made coherence. Deviance made community. Storytelling unending and unbothered by the lines of demarcation between legality, canon, or originality- the closest barrier being 'dibs'. There's a freedom to being able to leave a journal in a character's voice and have someone, somewhere, muddle over it and wonder what they meant by it, whether one created them in whole or merely borrows them for interpretation.

The ride this time around is Vegas, New, Las, Lost, Mutant, and all sorts of other sweet flavors of potentially irradiated scheming and scum in the most wretched, yet well lit and entertaining, hive of villainy I've yet to be a hand in.

I doubt many of you still read these things at all after so long, but if you should chance to see it, I'd like to invite you to join us on the other side- if you have a taste for strange and an idea or three.
ZFRP Advertisement
This space will be altered if anyone does demonstrate an interest/desire links to it or the Chatzy where the friendly asylum dwellers linger. 
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Months on months ago now, it was requested that I try narrating "The Hollow Men". Microphone being broken and time being a matter of concern, as well as never having quite liked how the results turned out, I never delivered. Sorry, friend. This still probably isn't the quality you desired, but it is all I may offer you. Even as it is, it cut off the first three lines in each attempt made. 

vocaroo.com/i/s1DAQxLWdBkV

Hollow Men
-T.S. Elliot 

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

II
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

III
This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

IV
The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

V
Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
  • Listening to: Attack on Titan
  • Reading: Dragon Age comics
  • Watching: cat sleep
  • Playing: VID'JA GAIMES
  • Eating: pens
  • Drinking: No, sir!
Not that I expect most anyone will take notice or care, a few old dears aside. But this is the ugly mug. :U If you're petrified, I know it's working, and that's why those crickets are chirping. 

Also, Grey Wardens, because DA OBSESSION NEVER REALLY DIES

  • Listening to: Attack on Titan
  • Reading: Dragon Age comics
  • Watching: cat sleep
  • Playing: VID'JA GAIMES
  • Eating: pens
  • Drinking: No, sir!

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DarthVengeance0325's Profile Picture
DarthVengeance0325
Sargon
Artist | Hobbyist | Literature
United States
Hear me, O ye listener,
And know this to be true-
My pleasure comes from listening
To each and all of you.


"The day my words mean something is the day my words have meaning."


Current Residence: San Antonio, Texas, at the moment
Print preference: Large, well done.
Favourite genre of music: Classic Rock/Progressive Metal/Instrumental
Favourite style of art: Sci-fi.
Operating System: Windows XP
Favourite cartoon character: Edward Elric
Personal Quote: "The best defense is a good offense"
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:iconcamara-san:
Camara-san Featured By Owner Feb 17, 2015
friend!
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:iconkiahl:
kiahl Featured By Owner Edited Nov 22, 2014
hey, sorry i missed your birthday man, hope it was good
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:icondarthvengeance0325:
DarthVengeance0325 Featured By Owner Jan 15, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Twas decent. How's your life been, Ian?
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:iconkiahl:
kiahl Featured By Owner Jan 15, 2015
fine, workin and occasionally doin' art stuff
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:icondarthvengeance0325:
DarthVengeance0325 Featured By Owner Jan 22, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
So I notice, though I've not had time to comment. D: 
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(1 Reply)
:iconvariablenature:
VariableNature Featured By Owner Nov 2, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Happy belated Birthday!
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:icondarthvengeance0325:
DarthVengeance0325 Featured By Owner Jan 15, 2015  Hobbyist Writer
Thankee.
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:iconlesieur:
LeSieur Featured By Owner Jan 27, 2015
Lying in a sodden pile of leaking brain matter is this one, endeavoring to reinitialize thought processes and cognitive cohesion with little success.

And then, of a sudden, I know I have a heart, for I hear it in the voices screaming with rage and sorrow in their cages, in the grief that I yet bear! In the longings and the envies for which I am not prepared! In the worl of whirlwind joy and crushing loneliness alike!

In what dreams come! In what memories linger! I taste them, through all the walls of forgetfulness, through all the elegies of ennui, through the grim barricades against feeling and touching and joining people!

Oh, though I have long since lost how, the why keeps calling!

I have been the Catcher, the Servant, the Rambler! I know well how to capture, to carry, to distract! But in no role, menial aid or petowner, brother or storyteller, friend or family, have I learned to keep, nor to exhibit my true depths; as outgoing as I can be, I do not know how to share!

What if you did love them? What if you mourn the wasted time, never to be recovered? Who cares?

You care! I scream at myself and hear them call me 'Poison' again, running with their claws bared and their eyes wide, when all we tried was to merely hug them! And the fear, the painful scent of fear, when I lashed out in turn because it hurt.

I care about the silences and the long watches of the night, burying in lore with the worlds I'd sooner face than my own half-remembered one, ignoring being ignored and shunned down to the simplest pets of my youth. I care that I am called upon for the things that others do not wish to do; a lifetime of doing the undesirable, and becoming the undesired! Of being the gopher and bogey-man at once! And the more I accept the roles, the more faded all else grows- even the tattered folds of fantasies and feelings themselves.

It's like... solipsism, without clarity or kindness. Like somnolence, save that the dull sleepy roar of lullaby fogginess never brings with it rest. Like feeling my brain grind down, bulbs expended and cobwebs coating.

Like feeling myself turn to a stone, idiocy the only defensive recourse of a mind too aware of itself and yet not half so wise as to profit from the advice others give. I see through every attempt at convincing myself to change, the defenses and beliefs too sharp yet to trust, but too dull to notice the data stagnating and evaporating.

I don't know how to extemporize anymore without the rage overtaking, and that is not acceptable. I break things, break people, without a qualm. Terribly effectively, I'm told.

How do I let go?

Where do I begin to let it out? Because I do love. That's the rub. If I gave no damns how my actions affected others, I wouldn't have nearly so much grief as I would self-pity, and I'd be rather more expressive in my actions and words.

It's weird to try to cuddle Kim and break down sobbing out of nowhere about, say, a long dead dog I never walked enough. But the feelings aren't mutually-exclusive anymore. They all come.

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JoeyTheNeko Featured By Owner Nov 1, 2014  Student Writer
happy birthday.
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