Discoursing With Idiocy (Solo)

[Allennia]

Passion is the place you can never return to, it is never rectified or wronged. It is like the past, unfaltering, unchanging, upending and disastrous. I could always strive to reach for it, for as much as it hurts, there can be no life without it. This is the fire, this is the shadow, this is the dark passion play.




Love struck abstract melodies, these things make us meltdown inside. We’re catching arrows in our palms to satisfy another, our heart’s shatter to succumb to the motions of Love. The sun breaks, a new day, all is lost. These eternal games splatter our blood and guts and bones to the four winds, the four horsemen feast upon our souls. End times.



When the First worshipped one, all was many.

When the many worshipped all, there was chaos.

When chaos became order, the universe fell asunder.

Gryphon wept seven tears, and the heroes came to heal the worlds.



The Young Isould stood beneath the stars, watching the gods and monsters traverse the endless seas of the deuterium. As he observed, the world died, waging war with itself as his brothers and sisters fought for dominance. When he turned, and saw the End, he wept. His tears soother the lava and the flames, and the world as we know it, our beloved Althanas, was born anew. So the Library was built, by the Seven's hand, and the transgressions, the first sin, was forgotten.



Here is the tale of Gods and Monsters, of the lords of the skies and the mortal children on the earth. Collected within these pages, are my life's teachings, my legacy, my ancestral honouring. Ensure brothers, that this secret never dies, never fades, never heals. Hide it, but remember.



Could you, if given the chance, save the fabric of the worlds with whim and luck and destiny? Could a mere man be a god, gifted with the prize of walking amongst the makes of life!



I failed you, my regret is bound sevenfold to this tome. I appease it's readers, to cast aside the notions within as the spent lies of a madmen, delluded into granduer by the Lie. There is no God, there is no Seven, only monsters in the dark in the clothing of kings...



In the beggining, there were seven beings, singful deities of damnation and ruin. When the children of the Thayne rebelled, and sundered the world, Leviathan and Behemoth sealed away the Seven in a great library, whose tomes and powerful verses wrapped them in chains.

Oh the horrors one could weave if the avatars of those dark things ever discovered their true nature, oh the horrors we would see 'pon this mortal coil...woe, for all is ended.



---

In the semi-twilight of his hastily erected tent, Abhorrash ploughed once more through the pile of parchments he'd stolen away with him to the far corners of Corone. He read as if a man possessed, devoid of dichotomy and reason, holding only blind abandonment for the truth that might not even be there.

He searched in the riddles for gods, he searched in the riddles for monsters, but found only reflections in a still pool of stale democracy.

There was a name for the evil he sought, but no one dared scream it's name.

In the darkness and the rain and the peat stained forest, Abhorrash was discoursing with idiocy, walking a fine line between sanity and madness; but ideas, like gods, seldom die - they are contained in the lost and rekindled hopes of the men who wield them. In the ideological hands of a zealot or devoted one, ideas are immortal.

[Allennia]

Discoursing With Idiocy



Passion is the place you can never return to, it is never rectified or wronged. It is like the past, unfaltering, unchanging, upending and disastrous. I could always strive to reach for it, for as much as it hurts, there can be no life without it. This is the fire, this is the shadow, and this is the dark passion play.



In this truth I find myself, alone and adrift on a sea of bedlam. The wind may sweep away the barley in its rage, but still the earth beneath beats with verdant force - a calamity of nature born of free will. I cannot decipher the meaning of this paragraph, this small and out of place descriptive token at the forefront of the book. Does it mean that we are always searching and only through not finding our truth, our goal, can we ever be happy? Does it refer to the never ending dissatisfaction with station, nation and pride? Is this mistrust, the greed of the Gods or the Monsters referred to? Who knows, I am almost defeated. Almost lost.

For three nights and four days I have succumbed to this feverish endeavour. My head has been craned over books and parchments and tattered scrolls, futilely trying to place a finger on the disturbance in the valley. Even my encounter with the strange creature Blaze, a spirit warder, has not caused me concern or need to explore the world in which I have found myself. It has only scared me, silenced me, irked me.

“Passion is the place you can never return to…” I thought to myself amidst reading aloud, annunciating each word with painful concentration and bewildering slowness. I had to speak loudly to raise my voice above the gale outside, a cacophonic racket of windswept constants and bass drumming whips of the tent’s flimsy material. It felt like it would collapse at any moment, like my mind and physical state would give way.

“I assume ‘never return to’ implies that Passion was once found, but is now lost – reprehensible loss implies dictation of law, that such a passion is sacred to those who hold it.”

It had not occurred to me that Jurran could be misleading me, or that he could have misled me; sent me here on a wild goose chase like the hunting games of my youth. Pine scent and morning dew were a world far removed from my circumstances now, but I appreciated the momentary day dream. I snapped in surprise as a crack of lightning illuminated the tent to daylight then faded back to gloom; the weather worsened, and I pressed on.

“Then ‘I could always strive to reach for it, for as much as it hurts, there can be no life without it.’ Now I am confused, for if we are born with the passion and are not to lose it, why should we strive for it? ‘This is the fire,’ that is a mere descriptive hyperbole, an enunciated repetition for theatrical effect,” I scribbled it out with a flustered movement of the quill and repeated the underlined. “I could always strive…that could perhaps imply a dedication to finding the meaning of the passion held, or perhaps I have this the wrong way around. Perhaps we never have the passion, like love; it is dangled before us in gilded loincloth and silk stockings, forever out of reach.”

It is curious how such a small pursuit as this can render a man retarded. If Jurran cannot decipher the meaning of this book, then what hope do I have? Our lessons in the library amongst the spiralling kaleidoscope of the stars above and the magical instruments bubbling and shimmering were perhaps the greatest highlight of my life, but for all their monotonous worth and their painful lessons learnt, they could not teach me patience. I hungered for an answer there and then, but I knew none would come. If this matter in the valley that corrupted the council was as dire as described, I could be in the wilderness, travelling twixt Corone and the back of beyond for an age.

I placed the quill back on the parchment and recited the lines of the opening paragraph once more. The night was still young, the lightning hot, and the enticing notion of a discovery beyond the veil dragged me deeper into nothingness.

[Allennia]

Love struck abstract melodies, these things make us meltdown inside. We’re catching arrows in our palms to satisfy another, our heart’s shatter to succumb to the motions of Love. The sun breaks, a new day, all is lost. These eternal games splatter our blood and guts and bones to the four winds, the four horsemen feast upon our souls. End times.



"Love...I remember this notion."

[Allennia]

When the First worshipped one, all was many.

When the many worshipped all, there was chaos.

When chaos became order, the universe fell asunder.

Gryphon wept seven tears, and the heroes came to heal the worlds.



Long ago, before time began and the people were born of the earth, there existed a single genus.

[Allennia]

The Young Isould stood beneath the stars, watching the gods and monsters traverse the endless seas of the deuterium. As he observed, the world died, waging war with itself as his brothers and sisters fought for dominance. When he turned, and saw the End, he wept. His tears soother the lava and the flames, and the world as we know it, our beloved Althanas, was born anew. So the Library was built, by the Seven's hand, and the transgressions, the first sin, was forgotten.



The rain clamoured for sanctuary inside the flimsy shelter, and the wind continued to howl long into the night; it would howl with such vigour that the next day would hear whispers of the last night in a turbulent echo.

[Allennia]

Here is the tale of Gods and Monsters, of the lords of the skies and the mortal children on the earth. Collected within these pages, are my life's teachings, my legacy, my ancestral honouring. Ensure brothers, that this secret never dies, never fades, never heals. Hide it, but remember.


"I have oft wondered why the Houses hide such a secret. I have oft wondered what keeps is divinely centered on the notion - why do we not simply let the library burn, or rot in it's own stagnation? Why must we give ourselves so fruitlessly for the mistakes of our ancestors, and why must our children's children suffer the same end?"

[Allennia]

Could you, if given the chance, save the fabric of the worlds with whim and luck and destiny? Could a mere man be a god, gifted with the prize of walking amongst the makes of life!



Abhorrash smiled whimsically as he considered the implications of his favourite passage of the book. Many men had died trying to make such claims, and he considered himself or his father no different in the ontological discourse of power - of idiocy.

[Allennia]

I failed you, my regret is bound sevenfold to this tome. I appease it's readers, to cast aside the notions within as the spent lies of a madmen, deluded into granduer by the Lie. There is no God, there is no Seven, only monsters in the dark in the clothing of kings...



"Revoking one's own revelation as false? What madness and tyranny held claim of this man's mind?"

[Allennia]

In the beggining, there were seven beings, singful deities of damnation and ruin. When the children of the Thayne rebelled, and sundered the world, Leviathan and Behemoth sealed away the Seven in a great library, whose tomes and powerful verses wrapped them in chains.

Oh the horrors one could weave if the avatars of those dark things ever discovered their true nature, oh the horrors we would see 'pon this mortal coil...woe, for all is ended.



At last Abhorrash arrived at the very crux of the book's argument, it's principle mythological tenet - that of the Seal, of the Guardians, and the warning for all if such a Seal were to be broken. At the back of his mind he doubted his interpretation of the work, and doubted Jurran's even more; surely, in his and Abhorrash's wisdom, the Council would never mislead them all in such an abhorrent manner?