On the Outside (Solo)

[Aello]

Summer 71, 512 AV "Just a little more," Aello whispered, as she drove the tip of her cursed blade into the center of her palm. Her hand trembling as the first beads of red rose from the severance. Running in a narrow, winding river down to the the edges of her drying, shriveled white flesh and into the jar that lay below. She could hear it plopping against that already gathered. Each individual drop, as they forced the pool of red to ripple, and slosh against the sides of the jar. Teardrops suspended against glass, drizzling down repeatedly, filling the emptiness she knew she could not. Shaking terribly, Aello bit her bottom lip, forming crowned indentations as the color drained from them. A soft pink, turned as white as her flesh. Stifling a gasp, she slid the point in again, flicking some of the fluid away, as casually as she may have twirled her blade at the end of a battle, before sheathing it. She watched three tendrils wade into the lower pools of red, sinking into shadow. Grimacing, Aello glanced up at the sky, at the sun that shone high on the horizon. The beams of gold that filtered through the buildings, but never seemed to reach her. Perhaps it was because no light could ever touch such a dismal sight. Such a dark happening; calling to the dead, begging that they return, at least for a time. A soft moan slipped through the space between her teeth, and flitted past Aello's lips. Her crowns fled the soft bed of numbing pink, allowing her lower lip to snap back into place as the last of her blood fell into the jar, filling it about three quarters of the way. "Damned offerings," Aello muttered. "Might as well sever my own strings to have enough to suffice for what is demanded," she growled through clenched teeth, as she reached for a spare piece of cloth and tied off her hand. "Whoever came up with what is required? Why offer a blood sacrifice when they can not use it? Cannot quench their own desires with this?" Aello shook her head lightly as the cloth sank into her parched skin. The sticky remnants of the severed edges were blood remains. "Perhaps they can't be coaxed out of hiding with the fluid of that which is gone, but only with that which is still alive. For as they are not of this plane, they need the connection to it. My blood. A spiritist's blood." Again, Aello shook her head, allowing the splayed edges of her hair to fall into her face as she brought the jar forward, and took a deep, cleansing breath, in through the nose and out through the mouth. It was time to make the call. Aello placed the jar in the vacuum between her folded legs, before dipping a single finger into her own blood. As she pulled it out, some of it slipped off, like excess red paint unable to cling to the bristles of an older brush. She could feel some slipping into the space between her nails and finger flesh as she drew it down, forming the first of many diagonal lines. The soft curves of her well-defined, unique print dragging over the grime left behind by travelers without names. Travelers without faces. She could feel it tarnishing her blood; clinging to her flesh, as she moved it along this small portion of the dock, largely left unhindered by man during the light of day. As she pulled her finger off splintering bits of wood to replenish her stock of life fluid, so that she may continued to draw the diagonal lines. Attach them over and over again, until she had formed a star with sixteen points. No more than eight inches high, and another eight wide. When she was finished, she smiled down at her work, her eyes sparkling, for she knew the grueling process of calling to the dead was nearly complete. Breathing deeply, Aello plucked the jar of remaining blood from its resting place, and set it in the center of the star. The aurist rolled her neck around her head, stretching her tensing muscles as her heart began to pick up the beat. At last, her head stopped rolling, and settled into its natural place. Her dark eyes crept around the outline of the star, as she took another deep breath, and her lips finally parted: Time flows silently, like a river, without a trace. It makes no sound, not even a tick, to mark the bells, the chimes. It bears no water, offers no fruit, even though it brings us to age throwing us into years of maturity, or a life without, soon marred by sickness, instability, and an untimely death. Time is what allows us to grow, to be, and it is also what makes us end. Just like all rivers, all bodies of water, must have a beginning, and an end. It is to the servants of the keeper of this sightless, soundless river, that I call. It is to the bearers of the flasks, meant to bear segments of this sacred water that I call. It is to the servants of the lady of time, the lady Tanroa, that I call. Now please, come to me! With a trembling voice, having fallen out of her crescendo, Aello rose her hands up to the sky, before throwing them back down. Her head fell back, her hair cascading down the length of her back as she closed her eyes and waited. For the familiar chill, the blood to fade, to seep into the canvas as though it were never there. For a gust of wind to burst through the narrow passageway she found herself in, before fading away into oblivion. But for several chimes, there was nothing. Confused by it, her lids furrowed, and then, her eyes fluttered open. Within a heartbeat she was looking down to find the blood offering gone, the star fading away. Thin streaks of color being the only things marking its having once been there. "I failed," Aello whispered. "But why, when one came before?" Perhaps they didn't have time, her mind answered. "But how could that be, when they exist outside of it?" Aello asked.

[Aello]

Is that really true? "How could it not be? They're dead. Ghosts are dead," Aello whispered. No kidding. But that does not mean that they exist outside of time. It simply means that it's unlikely that they'll ever run out of it, seeing as their time on this plane has already come and gone. "That explains nothing," Aello retorted. "Time will not age them. Mar their beauty. Bring them closer to the arms of death, for they are already there." That is true, but time is a river. Silent, constantly flowing from one end to the other. It never stops. Not even for them. "Time may always continue to flow, but as was said before, it doesn't alter the state of the dead." Oh? "They do not age. Their forms do not change. They simply exist on another plane, until they return to the cycle. Until they return to the flow of time. Until then, they are merely floating over it." They may not age, and their forms may not change unless they choose to materialize differently, but they still grow in that their personalities may be altered by their experiences on this plane. They may stay beside their loved ones, guiding and comforting them throughout their life, helping to lead, eventually into the arms of death. They can still watch it, still see it. Experience it with them. "But that is only time seen through the spectacles of those loved. That is not the ghost itself." True enough... but what about their road ended? "What do you mean?" What if they are dusted? Time stops for them then. They cannot return to the cycle. They are trapped then. Suspended in space, until a servant of Dira, or perhaps a lone spiritist, aids them. Allowing them to come back into the flow of time. Releasing them into their plane of death; to return to the cycle if they wish. "That is a different case. We are speaking of ghosts only in the typical sense." Then you agree that when dusted, they are suspended? Aello nodded. And in a natural state, you think they fail to flow with time's river? Aello nodded. Have you ever considered though, how a ghost can grow stronger over time? Learn new things, just as they could in life? Although with a twist, in that they can also throw their forms around, or possess those still living, or even undead? Again Aello nodded. And you still think them out of the flow of time? "Yes, for that is learned in death. A state in which naught but the magic of someone like me, or the gods themselves can touch them... or perhaps, other ghosts, if they're powerful enough." The mind threw up its hands in exasperation. It was growing tired. But they can still develop, just as the living or the undead does. So how different does that make them, how does that suspend them? "They can only learn. They cannot age. Their bodies, or rather what is left of them cannot change." Only if they choose not to. If they choose not to materialize that way. They can be anything that they want to be. Almost... able to dive on one end of the river, and appear out the other end in an instant, for they have already gone through their currents. The natural flow. Done so in life, in that they fell into death. Aello shook her head. "They cannot manipulate or touch time." Then how do they continue to learn, how do they continue to grow? "By reading and writing. Asking questions of others. Just as all do in life." The mind sighed again. And what does it take to establish these things? To find these things? "Depends- the proper resources are a must. Or you shall be at a loss. Sometimes it's money, to buy the proper education.." Time. All of it takes time! Aello threw her hands up. "Can't we just agree to disagree for once?" NO! "Touchy, touchy..."

[Aello]

A long silence fell across the alley as the last of the blood faded, leaving naught but a trace. The aurist ran her fingers through her hair rather idly, waiting for one side or the other to speak. Finally, one broke the silence: what would it take for you to see? "What would it take for you to see the reality of the matter?" Nothing. "Nothing?" For I already see. Aello scoffed. "You do not. Ghosts exist outside the river. Like the goddess must be, they remain outside of it." They do not, for they are still affected by it. Time still holds sway over them. Can manipulate the manner in which they live their lives. "But how?" The dead's loved ones could die too, or age. Grow to forget them. Perhaps, enough of it will have passed where they will want to move on, want to return to the cycle. Perhaps they will have had the time to complete any unfinished business, to mature... "But most of that has to do with other people, outside of the ghost." Does your interacting with others, wanting to watch others grow, while you stay in a single spot put you outside the flow of time? "No, but that's different." Why? "Because I can begin to move again. Continue to keep on going." And a ghost cannot? "No, seeing as they are already dead." But why does that matter? If they can do everything we can do, and then some, why are they so different? Why are they outside of time? "Because for them the final grain has already fallen." So, that simply means that all has ceased to fall. Ceased to tick. It does not mean that they are above anything... they are simply waiting for another timekeeper to start marking off the next phase of their development. Whatever it is that follows after death. "Maybe. Maybe not. There could be nothing after death." Only if the cycle is not repeated, because perfection has been attained. It is for no other reason that one wouldn't go on. But even then, there is a sort of life gleaned after perfection. Something with the gods, is imagined. Although, there is no way to know for sure until we get there. For no one seems to tell. Aello could only smile and nod. "Yes, there is no way to know for sure." But we can suppose. "That time never really stops, and nothing exists outside of it." Time is the master of all, even death.

[Persona]

Thread Award! Aello: Skills: Spiritism +3 Poetry (aka Composition) +1 Philosophy +4 Rhetoric +2 Persuasion +2 Note: There is no Poetry in the skill list. It would fall under Composition. But since you already have Poetry awarded, I'll let you decide how to list it on your CS. Lores: Speculation: Why Ghosts Require Blood Conclusion: Time Affects Even Ghosts Extras: You’ll have a small scab on your palm for about a week, after which it will become a light scar. You lost a pint of blood, so you’ll be a tad dizzy for the rest of the day, at least until you eat something. Notes: I thoroughly enjoyed the debate (with yourself?) about how time affects ghosts. I found myself agreeing wholeheartedly with the bold type. ‘Twas quite engaging.