70th of Winter, 515 AV
The winter night was quiet, or as quiet as it could be at the first bells of night on the busy peaks of Lhavit. Through half closed curtains in peeked the rays of Leth's gentle lights that illuminated the parchment, ink bottle, and the quill that lay unmoving on the table of a certain apartment room. Levi was seated at the table, staring at the paper with an intensity more suited for a vile enemy than an innocent sheet. This eve however, that piece of parchment was as difficult an opponent as an opposing swordsman would be.
It was Dira's Eve tonight, a night that was celebrated back in Levi's home of Black Rock. As the name suggests, it was an eve in honour of Dira, Queen of the Dead. Rock. There were no loud and bombastic feasts or parties, no jolly and flushed couples strolling down the streets, no bards singing jaunty tunes to fun-seeking crowds. Unlike the jovial and Dionysian festivals that Lhavit loved, the Eve was a more solemn event, much like most things that had to do with Black Rock. The way that the people of Black Rock chose to honour and praise their Goddess was by writing a poem to Dira, a respectful and contemplative ode to Death. Even on such an island permeated in death's mantle, only a few individuals ventured to put their respect to poetic words. The spiritist remembered that his mother, a devout follower of Dira, had always written a poem each year. On the other hand, during the eighteen years that Levi had lived on Black Rock, he had never taken his quill to write such a poem.
Now thousands of leagues away from Dira's dwelling place, in the diamond city of the stars and heavenly deities, with the moon looking down on him, Levi sat at his table and closed his eyes. The room was empty save himself He was really going to do this at last, after twenty winters had come he was going to set his hand to writing this long due poem. Eyes opening and peering down at his quill, his hand slowly reached for the feathered tool. Grasping it gingerly, he looked at the dark feather in hand, deep in thought. He had bought these supplies earlier in the season to write a letter to request entry to the Bharani's magical wing. Soon, he was going to discover more about the world of magic and be plunged deeper into the arcane.
Levi shook his head; he was getting distracted. He had to focus on writing this poem, but how was he to even start in fact why did he even want to do this? For certain it was not because he enjoyed poetry; in fact he had never so much as uttered a single line of the artistic crafted from his mind. Then was it out of respect and devotion to Dira? The answer was obviously the latter, for what kind of man would he be today without his faith in Dira? Not the same man at all. Dira's values were the values that drove his life onward... even with the doubts that plagued him at times. If he had been born somewhere besides Black Rock, never growing up with ghosts or knowing of Dira's nature, would he, even then, have become a spiritist? For the right and altruistic reasons? Would he have remained an ordinary man, never turning his eyes toward magic?
Magic... to Levi, it has been both a tool and a way of life. His desire to help ghosts had led him down this path and spiritism was the staff which he held to help walk down that road. What was the destination of that road? Helping the souls he met on his life's journey to reach their own destinations, but to Levi that was the activity that occurred during his journey, not the end. What was his life's final destination?
The spiritist dipped the tip of his quill into the jet black ink, carefully drawing it out and kept the tip hovering over the glass bottle's opening. Levi knew the answer to that final question too well: death. It was Dira that he served and to Dira he goes. The young man tilted his head, raising his quill to write. A little excess ink drips from the quill, splotching a couple small dots on the right side of the parchment. It escapes Levi's attention. Now, he thinks that he has a line to start this poem with. Delicately he sets his blackened quill's tip against the yellowish sheet, delicately scratching away at a slow and careful pace.
My soul walks down this winding path of life
The quill's tip lifted from the parchment, the first line done. He quietly repeats the line and pleased with himself, he smiles. It had a nice rhythm to it, like that of a beating heart. There must be some poetic term for this, but that was hardly important now. He continued on to the next line.
Staff of spiritism and sword-
"At my side?" Levi said the phrase to himself, checking the sound of it. 'Side' does not rhyme with 'life'... and a poem had to rhyme, does it not? At least by sets of two lines, or so the spiritist thought. As far as he knew that was how the rhyming scheme of poetry worked. "Life... life... what rhymes with life? He mused to himself, brows furrowed in concentration as he tried to think of the words ending in '-ife'. Life... knife... strife... strife! Dipping his quill again, he began writing the words down.
"Staff of spiritism and sword to end the strife," He spoke as he wrote the last words down. Levi looked at the two lines he had finished and smiled again. Poetry was not so bad after all if he could get an idea down. At this rate he could finish within the bell.
Purchase5 sheets of parchment= 1 ki
2 quills= 1 tk
2 Black ink vials, 1 oz.= 2 ki
The winter night was quiet, or as quiet as it could be at the first bells of night on the busy peaks of Lhavit. Through half closed curtains in peeked the rays of Leth's gentle lights that illuminated the parchment, ink bottle, and the quill that lay unmoving on the table of a certain apartment room. Levi was seated at the table, staring at the paper with an intensity more suited for a vile enemy than an innocent sheet. This eve however, that piece of parchment was as difficult an opponent as an opposing swordsman would be.
It was Dira's Eve tonight, a night that was celebrated back in Levi's home of Black Rock. As the name suggests, it was an eve in honour of Dira, Queen of the Dead. Rock. There were no loud and bombastic feasts or parties, no jolly and flushed couples strolling down the streets, no bards singing jaunty tunes to fun-seeking crowds. Unlike the jovial and Dionysian festivals that Lhavit loved, the Eve was a more solemn event, much like most things that had to do with Black Rock. The way that the people of Black Rock chose to honour and praise their Goddess was by writing a poem to Dira, a respectful and contemplative ode to Death. Even on such an island permeated in death's mantle, only a few individuals ventured to put their respect to poetic words. The spiritist remembered that his mother, a devout follower of Dira, had always written a poem each year. On the other hand, during the eighteen years that Levi had lived on Black Rock, he had never taken his quill to write such a poem.
Now thousands of leagues away from Dira's dwelling place, in the diamond city of the stars and heavenly deities, with the moon looking down on him, Levi sat at his table and closed his eyes. The room was empty save himself He was really going to do this at last, after twenty winters had come he was going to set his hand to writing this long due poem. Eyes opening and peering down at his quill, his hand slowly reached for the feathered tool. Grasping it gingerly, he looked at the dark feather in hand, deep in thought. He had bought these supplies earlier in the season to write a letter to request entry to the Bharani's magical wing. Soon, he was going to discover more about the world of magic and be plunged deeper into the arcane.
Levi shook his head; he was getting distracted. He had to focus on writing this poem, but how was he to even start in fact why did he even want to do this? For certain it was not because he enjoyed poetry; in fact he had never so much as uttered a single line of the artistic crafted from his mind. Then was it out of respect and devotion to Dira? The answer was obviously the latter, for what kind of man would he be today without his faith in Dira? Not the same man at all. Dira's values were the values that drove his life onward... even with the doubts that plagued him at times. If he had been born somewhere besides Black Rock, never growing up with ghosts or knowing of Dira's nature, would he, even then, have become a spiritist? For the right and altruistic reasons? Would he have remained an ordinary man, never turning his eyes toward magic?
Magic... to Levi, it has been both a tool and a way of life. His desire to help ghosts had led him down this path and spiritism was the staff which he held to help walk down that road. What was the destination of that road? Helping the souls he met on his life's journey to reach their own destinations, but to Levi that was the activity that occurred during his journey, not the end. What was his life's final destination?
The spiritist dipped the tip of his quill into the jet black ink, carefully drawing it out and kept the tip hovering over the glass bottle's opening. Levi knew the answer to that final question too well: death. It was Dira that he served and to Dira he goes. The young man tilted his head, raising his quill to write. A little excess ink drips from the quill, splotching a couple small dots on the right side of the parchment. It escapes Levi's attention. Now, he thinks that he has a line to start this poem with. Delicately he sets his blackened quill's tip against the yellowish sheet, delicately scratching away at a slow and careful pace.
My soul walks down this winding path of life
The quill's tip lifted from the parchment, the first line done. He quietly repeats the line and pleased with himself, he smiles. It had a nice rhythm to it, like that of a beating heart. There must be some poetic term for this, but that was hardly important now. He continued on to the next line.
Staff of spiritism and sword-
"At my side?" Levi said the phrase to himself, checking the sound of it. 'Side' does not rhyme with 'life'... and a poem had to rhyme, does it not? At least by sets of two lines, or so the spiritist thought. As far as he knew that was how the rhyming scheme of poetry worked. "Life... life... what rhymes with life? He mused to himself, brows furrowed in concentration as he tried to think of the words ending in '-ife'. Life... knife... strife... strife! Dipping his quill again, he began writing the words down.
"Staff of spiritism and sword to end the strife," He spoke as he wrote the last words down. Levi looked at the two lines he had finished and smiled again. Poetry was not so bad after all if he could get an idea down. At this rate he could finish within the bell.
Purchase5 sheets of parchment= 1 ki
2 quills= 1 tk
2 Black ink vials, 1 oz.= 2 ki
Credit goes to the fantastic Firenze
