Create your Journal on Dark Grimoire Players Network | HOME
Blue Eyes
About Me
Age: Who Knows
Location: The Road Less Traveled
Profession: Rogue
Archive
last days
January 2015

Blue Eyes
A journal of dogeared pages, with a pair of flowers - one blue, one violet - pressed between the cover and the first page.
Saturday, 24 January 2015
We are our stories. We are the people of them, walk the places of them, sing the songs of them, and fight the battles of them. And in the end, we are the lingering of them, a ghost in a world that may or may not retain a place for it. Our stories are passed on, and their life becomes like that of a child - growing, adapting for the ear of the crowd. As they mature, certain truths become evident to them, certain truths that permeate any retelling of a life become ghost become memory.
Myth, when even the truths are shadowed by doubt.

In ancient depths rest mysteries tombed in stone... / May be one luck-blessed wandered there alone...
Perchance a myth buried in ancient tomes...
What did you see...? / Just silent halls...?
What did you hear...? / In darkness calm...?
Pitch shadows trembling...?

In darkened depths a heat into stone night... / As rumbling grows a hush of fire light...
Flightful colors waking in the quiet...
Was it not time...? / How did you sooth...?
Was it a sight...? / How without proof...?
Myth lost lullaby...

Come from the world above... / To sing of sky...
Of 'Rifter dawn-dance bright... / As scales shine...
How winds and mortals sing... / For dreams of flight...
Aspiring forge as one... / Myths shan't die...


I promised I would find a song of dragons, and I did. I still have so many promises to keep that they are almost as myth to me - the shape of them evident, if not the details. It is my own stories that remain stark in my mind.

I hesitated to choose to train another. How could I, after the experience of last time, well as it turned out? I still wonder at being drawn from the tunnels, just as my fear had reached its zenith. I digress - I have chosen an apprentice, this time to be taught as a cleric. I know what to do, better, this time. Mentoring is not a leashing. Merely a guiding, for the student to do with as they will in the end.

I grow lengthy in this. My story is of blindness. My story is of sight.
But where the question lies between those, I know only uncertainty. Whispers in the dark, echoed by whispers of gods and demons.
Cenny posted @ 01:58 - Link - comments



005146 visits