It had been centuries since great changes--changes that altered history and society had taken place in the tranquil drops of those famous mountains, yet the cold winds commandeering Riverfall remained unchanged. It still blows with unquenchable zeal towards the far reaches of the bitter and lost lands of Suva, grazing everything in its path. How this phenomena of nature was born could only be speculated, much like how the Akalaks' shady history had come full circle. It blows with a solemn and airy power over the city, its warm and honorable citizens busy with the dances of everyday life. Like a gentle lullaby it serenaded through everything it came across on, and a few smiles had been solicited from the playful children by the coolness which they had remained so fascinated in, despite the obvious fact that it was always cold in their city. Atop a craggy precipice a mile above the main city, seemingly untouched by time, stood a simple house, its cracked shell crumbling away in its forlorn state of abandonment. The time-hallowed walls spoke with beautiful silence about the histories that had occurred there, the broken and weathered furniture remaining poignant and embossed with a charming quality. There was a small kitchen collecting dust and weeds, the shoots growing from the soil that had collected in between every broken tile, and the utensils were all covered with soot and webs, like the dungeons of some haunted castle. Some writing tools remained scattered across a sturdy but decomposing oak table: a quill on a dried-up ink bottle stood frozen beside the yellowed pages of a diary that rustled with every breeze that blew into the innards of the house. Each one of its page fluttered and turned quickly, back and forth, depending on where the wind came from, the pages never being torn but are instead crumpled, weathered, beaten and lashed by the same wind that echoed its quality. And the words within them spoke of the same story, but in another context: a somber reflection of its former owner, now a mere shade in Akalak history. The ever-volatile winds blew back again, turning to the very first page, now pasty and seemingly filled with more squiggles and yellowed stains than words, but they were still legible. ..... Entry 1, Spring, 5th day, 398 AV Another winter season had run its course, yet the beating of my heart remains tied to the cold; indeed, even when the sun is out and the music is lively in my ears, there is this hollowness within me that I cannot comprehend, a hall without warmth. They say that this is the gift which my people had received from our mother, the goddess Akajia. Truly it does baffle me how contrasting her will is to our great and benevolent father Wysar. While one revels in darkness and yet finds greatness in it, one revels in the wretched clutches of demoniac spurts and terrible ways. When these two collided and meshed together in the bed of heaven, we as a people were born. We of two faces, we of two distinct fates. Strangely, despite my gentle upbringing and the discipline which I had so mused myself over the past 98 years of my life, I still feel like I am going down that different path which I so loathe, which I so fear. The one road towards losing control of everything. Maybe I am just tired, or had been thinking too much. Or maybe--dare I say it--because Karnelia did not show herself today at Godiva's? Frankly the days are even emptier without her presence, and I find myself in times at wonder, how I had even lasted this long without having even spoken a single word to her. I pray that the courage which I had managed to show in the wilderness and battlefields of Cyphrus could carry over to the seizing feelings I feel when I find her drawing nearer. Or that the lusty stares I get from the other village women could be found in her very own eyes. But alas, one cannot make the world fall for him, when the rest of the universe conspires to separate you from the one you wish to be with. There is a mysterious power that holds sway over all our fates. Perhaps it is the conjuration of the gods, or perhaps it is something beyond even the gods' control. It is evident in the faces of all I meet anywhere, with both their smiles and their frowns. Everyday I see the same expressions grow from root in their eyes, their lips, in every sway of their bodies. Everyday the people grow into their ways, find their meanings and become better. I wonder if this is the fate which I have for my future as well? Only time will tell if it is so. I went out to gather supplies for a sojourn which I would undertake in the wilderness later this season. During winter the animals were sparse, hiding from the humans who patrolled the area. But the monsters were everywhere: I had to wrestle with a powerful glassbeak a few days ago, and it had left me with a fierce reminder why we should face them only in greater numbers. A huge gash in the very arm which I am now using to write these words down is seeping pain into every bone and flesh I dare move. My Lakan received another dent as well, and this is something that hurt me even more than the wound. Perhaps I should finally take it to a blacksmith, but I don't have the money to pay him. Sometimes he can be a stingy gentleman too. I ought to train more in unarmed combat so I wouldn't have to damage it anymore. As I traveled the vast wilderness I saw many scenes of horror; there were monsters feasting on human flesh, rending them apart with ungodly strength. There were also Myrians on the prowl, perhaps the only sentient race that the Akalaks should be wary of in terms of fighting strength. The Burning villages seem to be a staple in the environment nowadays, along with littered body parts that would be missing a limb or two. The sights and smells have horrified me, yet somehow I can find the strength to write them down so casually. Maybe they appealed to that darker side which we Akalaks all struggle to suppress, I do not know how to explain it. I fear no pain, I fear not death. But I fear a fate worse than death: I fear the darkness. I should find solace in some warm haven in a season or two, and spend less time outdoors. But artificial exercises do not amuse me nor supplement me much. To my great distaste, my body proportions only increase with the rancor of battle; to be stronger in body I must grow stronger in mind as well... ..... The rest of the page is lost to the elements, unreadable to those who would even bother to read it. |