A Note From I To Thee

[Acosmism]

A microclimate of balmy summer hovers over a strange woman garbed in multicolored robes, large wings adorning which cradle her shoulders as she "discards" certain papers in various locations. Their hotspot, around the crookback area as well as in the subterranean corridors of the Regalian sewers. Perhaps a few would be found discarded in waste bins where such would be unwanted... Unwelcome, amongst Old Town and Imperial Isle. Blue ink pressed harshly into the parchment in an urgent manner, with careful cursive complimenting gossamer pages and words bygone.



Sorrow is a consequence of happiness, and in turn, happiness is merely the prescribed "medicinal" term, if you will, in an attempt to cure our minds of the inescapable malady that there is no point in the pursuit of a joyful and content life. Joy is in the moment, and grief is produced by looking back on such moments, therefore true and lasting positivity does not exist in this mortal realm. What then is the point of attempting the pursuit of a comfortable life when it all points to one end, which is always an imminent demise? Mortals do not have a purpose to attempt such beauty. Footsteps reverberate against the walls of the passageways you did not wander, beckoning you over, and mocking you for executing such an influential error. Among the numerous train carts of maladies running along on the track-system of our souls, I should mention, there is that of a wretched rotting old man, with an obstinate soul — a soul within a soul, if you will — a fatal, primary pinpoint in our personalities which infected the mind, may very well be mentioned as the most distressing aspect of our very beings. Another one at that would be the fact that we will never cease to exist as ourselves, for all eternity, even as we leave this earthly realm and dispose ourselves of our bodies. Though the idea of both things aforementioned being a curse is absurd; This "sickening old man" is that of a blessing, and our souls, in turn, residing as everlasting and eminent is significant news. This stirring fact seemingly makes scholars laugh, but their laughter is born of fear, fear that this statement is true, and the deep-down knowledge of the fact that it may very well be. Do you dare suggest that I have not lived a life previous to this one? For I was born old, old and rotten, decaying as that of an obsolete condiment in a world ever-changing to better fit its needs and aspirations. This crippled old man is indeed advanced in age, yet at the same time immortal, never to meet the ultimate end. He is disgustingly bitter-sweet, sourly forgotten and left out to reek of neglect.

You find my statements to be monomaniacal, and you would not be wrong in believing so. For my mind has tossed and turned with the possibility of life after death and death before life has even begun for centuries. Metaphysical science deemed all possibilities of such properties fallacious, and therefore it is more than probable that I am not understood. But I can assure you that my very being is proof of death before life, for how can such a void consume a being before conception? The portals to my soul opened wide with knowledge and a thirst for bloodshed the moment my polychromatic orbs opened wide to the world, and that is proof enough. The existence of such children, born with this "Infection" already flourishing in their veins need only a mere push, one puncture wound to unlock their absolute potential instantly. The fact that this is possible is proof that life exists before life occurs, and death occurs before life exists. I, as I live and breathe, am a set example of such a philosophy.

I am aware of the effects such a "disease" has on me. I am well informed in the ways of the mundane, that perhaps if I were not Sanguine I would feel differently about such a taboo subject. And in response to that argument, I only say that "what could be" is an abstraction of "what could have been," and what could have been and what might be both points to one end, which is now, and now as I write this I am as I am, and I am blessed with what I am blessed with, in turn having superiority and power over those who are mundane, for they do not understand our exalted ways. To be mundane is the true curse. You who walk in the ways of the mortal are foolish, willingly trading an immortal soul for that of a foolish card game with death, and I will tell you a secret: death cheats, every time. You must learn how to cheat back. There is no fairness in death. You may perhaps kill a sanguine body, a good man would even dare to die for such potential, but one may never kill a blood-kissed soul. You may find me mad, foolish, crazy or absurd, that I believe in sovereign life after death, that death occurs before life, that we continue forever. There is no "but," so do not sit on the edge of your pretty little cushioned seats built upon lies and imperfections, lest you wait on me for an eternity. Perhaps I am non compos mentis, but what of it? If I am to live on forever, I wish for my name to be spoken throughout generations of blood-kissed souls even if it is to say I am insane, even as I live on not of this world, but the next, progressing until I have found all possible answers to all questions that have ever been asked. You mock me now for my ambition, and for now, I have not a care in the world for such antics; but we shall be laughing as death on your doorstep should you mock us when we have ascended. Everyone's a sinner in the balancers eye, the ambition is just to see who is on top of the list. And I, dear reader, will win the role of death eventually. You will see in due time.

Though I am bold, as brass posing as gold, you can shun me all you desire but I am as hard as I am cold. I was born with a hearty hankering for carnage, but my first lesson in life was that the death of the mundane, and even that of mutts, is not always necessary. It can slow down the process of successful prosperity rather than help achieve it. For this reason, I urge my fellow blood-kissed souls, those who follow me as well as those who do not, to pay attention to whom you are murdering. I encourage you to put fear into those who are mundane, for they should know their place, but think about how this life you are oh so tempted to take could aid you before you so hastily snatch it. You may regret it in the future. If you take lives ruthlessly, trying to play "god" so to speak, you will not be of mine. If there is one thing the mundane and the blessed can agree upon, it is that life is simply not worth living without blood. You will not succeed in life should you continue your irresponsibility. This point is mainly for those of you who are younger, and I must say, I have met many young blood-kissed here in Regalia. It seems your veterans are busy at work populating the area with a surplus of us, and this I admire.

While our souls may be immortal, not all of us have immortal bodies. While that of the body of the earthly realm does not have as much significance, it is not your place to dismember, damage, or otherwise murder a blood-kissed individual. Yet let me not be misapprehended. The undue, the solemn, and the macabre thus excited by enemies in their own nature frivolous must not be shaken with that ruminating inclination to all mankind and more especially indulged in by persons of ardent curiosity. Dear reader, to torture the mind is more effective than to torture a body. Bodies are finite, our minds are ethereal.

I write this in hopes that you see my values, hopes, and aspirations. To educate is the only reason I am here, and to educate is what I will do. The only way we can stay alive is to make use of our brains alongside our brawn. We have plenty of force, that is not the issue. All I have seen amongst our forces are blindness and ignorance. I wish to take you in as my children and educate you in the ways of history, of magic, of government and economics and etiquette. Your body is finite, to injure an enemy is not to win. To baffle and confuse him with your sheer knowledge, to throw over his government, to destroy his economical structure- that is to conquer. To injure his soul is to change what is infinite to finite: this, dear children, is true victory. Do not let any other tell you otherwise. Listen to me, let me teach you, and you shall come to great success. Oh, to muse for long, unwearied hours, to become absorbed in knowledge for the better half of a winter's eve, sitting in the quaint, safe, dark shadows of a cosy velvet Tuesday, to lose all sense of physical being by that of a thought-induced stupor, to be served your dinner to better satisfy your hunger for ichor; these are all the things I wish for you, dear reader, to experience- and more.

The objective of this letter you are reading is to inflict fear into those who question my authority, the mundane, and conviction in the hearts of those who wish for a better place, a better family, a better philosophy, a better home for themselves and others. The Barrons I have served under in the past taught me well, and over centuries I have led such groups before. I can assure you, children- if you come to me you shall find nothing but prosperity and abundance in your presence. May you never see a day where ignorance crosses paths with your mind, and in turn, may your mind be filled solely with knowledge. To repeat, monotonously, some common word until the word ceases to convey any idea to the mind, to lose oneself in staring at a dying flame until the wee hours of the morning, to waste your finite life on studying that which you cannot fathom instead of attempting to obtain a life that is of eternity- this is the substance of fools. And I am no fool, and my children will not be such fools either. I hope as you contemplate my words, you read this letter a few times over and let it churn in your stomach until it boils with anticipation. For now, I leave you to your thoughts. Should you desire any further information, my door is always open, dear reader. I am but one letter away.
​

 

[studsonsc]

Settled back in the comfort of her cushioned seating with a knee lazily tosses over the other, she'd let the edge of her news paper crumble over to rather peer past the framing of her glasses and eye the Url due to the article in question, "I recommend exorcism." And with a wrinkle of her daily paper, the Commander returned to reading before making an idle comment, "Quite excellent writing skills, if I may. If it wasn't for their fondness of the infection they would make a splendid secretary." @CRASHIR

 

[bwmwags3]

"Damn Mirabella this some fantastic writing. Seems I was hasty in questioning your mastery of the Quill when we first meet. Truly...I feel a bit more...enlightened it is good to see ways other then the blade be used. I must still temper that impulse for violence. Lashing out will only cost me further and further," he smile to the bodyguard sitting beside him. handing her the essay to read.
@BeaneyBaby

 

[bahmboozled]

It was amidst the lurid graffiti and the side-paths littered with varying paraphernalia that a figure chanced upon this article, a gaze haunting as they scrutinised the piece. It was, for the most part, an enjoyable read - but nothing more. There were definitive statements tossed around that they would vehemently disagree upon, things they would speak out against knowing it would be spread by word-of-mouth as remarks were made soon after.

"There is a certain novelty you can attribute to death: it is simply a natural phenomenon of the world. The body is but a mere vessel that has an expiration date - whether such a vessel cracks from the burden of disease or old age, it is all the same. It is our conceit in youth, in good health and in being alive that makes us paranoid about this naturality. It is for this very reason, that as short-lived lives are made out to be, many should live in the here-and-now: for their own satisfaction and life lust. I can only say that it is a shame to see the hamlet of Man scrambling for a panacea that deceives.

I can only judge you as a fool, to assume that an immortal life would allow you to yield 'possible answers to all questions that have ever been asked'. Nothing we know is constant, for all is ever-changing. The sources of information are but nary a light that has been shone into such cavernous dark; still far out of reach for complete understanding. As you laugh at the deathbed of mortals, such mortals sneer back at you as you sink further into the bowels of an ocean, reaching forth to grasp desperately for the fading dappled light that slicks the surface of the water - our metaphorical 'answers' we all seek for.

Mayhaps, such views can never be agreed upon; each person's perspective is evidently on the other end of the spectrum. To inflict fear for simply being 'mundane' and one living their life, however...

H̵̢͈͕͙̜͈̖̫̖͙̏̀̕ȏ̴̬͇̇̋̈́̄̀̓w̸̡̡͕͚̝͊̅̍̒́̄͆̄̀ d̸́i̵̕s̶̖̃̈́͜͜ͅt̸̨̧̠̺͑à̴̈́̔ś̵͙̣̠̫̌͜͜͜t̷͓͖͎͌͜͜ȩ̶̛̬͈͍͉̂̓̉̆̚̕̕͜ḟ̵̱͖̯̈́̀ul̸̢̪̯͉͓͓͖̇͒͠͝.̵̢̢͙̱͉̣̰͍̍͋́̃̊"

 

[sonofthestars]

At the top of the Library stairs, Ceciladen sits with the finely-scripted letter clutched between his fingers, a half-empty bottle of spirits to his left. He squints at the last paragraph, reading it for the third time, forcing the words to make sense in his tired, alcohol-muddled mind, feeling his stomach grow hollower with each pass over. He grasps for the bottle, lifting it and taking a swig, setting it down with a clink. The crisp, sharp lines of the black suit he's wearing don't bear any evidence of struggle, in contrast to the dried blood encrusting his fingernails. He stares at the words, the funeral veil covering his eyes confusing the elegant lines further. The Library is silent, for the first time in hours, possibly the whole day. No more whispering. No more demonic voices.

He takes another drink.

He thinks to himself, somewhere in the darker part of his mind that no alcohol can reach: what was the point of accepting the burden that he did if he can't protect the people he loves? If anyone can shove him around without a thought, without hesitation? He looks down at the letter, at the pronouncement of his failings, and wonders if he truly made the right choice.

So then, another choice must be made. A decision. Some cliff to jump off of, some precipice, where the winds of change blow in every direction, not just one. He folds up the letter neatly, placing it in the pocket of his suit, and stands, draining the bottle. He looks around at The Library, wondering how much more blood and how many more tears would have to be shed in this room for the fragile, fickle family he was building to finally feel some peace. With a sigh, he straightens his already arrow-like cuffs and sets out for a quill and some parchment.

In the end, he was just a man, but Forseth be damned if he would ever let that stop him from doing what needed to be done.

 

[FeralGayWalnut]

Seated within a room, sigg smoke floating about their person, the reader examines the piece of parchment slowly. Their gloved hand lifting the vice allowing object to their painted lips and inhaling deeply. Briefly their eyes flicker to the door to the room they occupy, listening to the chatter of the passing by residents and workers.

Gazing back downwards, they hummed, a little noise sounding almost like the tune a Church bell would ring. A slow shake came to their head as they stubbed out the sigg they held into the half filled ash tray. Rising with a mumble of something in another language, they ambled over to the Inn window and thrust opened the window. Slowly, the smoke began to flit out into the night air.

A frown crossed their features as they gazed down at the parchment before a slow sigh escaped them. Leaning forth through the open window, they looked out at the slowly falling asleep town and murmured to themselves, voice feminine if a bit deep, revealing it to be indeed a woman, "They write pretty words for a creature who claims to be immortal. And even then, one could argue immortality is far worse than any death or pain a living mortal could feel."

Words would catch within her throat as she coughed and turned her head to the side. Sighing, she mumbled as she slammed the window shut, locking it, "But then again, immortal and mortal monsters do have an enemy at the end of the day. Just as you say, well written foe, death cheats and she always gets her due."

Folding the piece of parchment up, it was tucked away within a traveling back as she returned to her seat. Closing her eyes, she tempted sleep to come and yet it did not. Her own musings of the written word still fresh in her mind.