Requiem Of A Bleaknik

*Nimiane
Posts: 347
Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am

Posted by *Nimiane »



"Ya are a bleaker long before ya ever join the Cabal."
"That's why we turn people away. It's... not somethin' ya do willingly."
"It's somethin' ya need."

Odette stared at her hands, the flicker of hearth's flame seeming to emblazon each physical mar of flesh and every threaded scar that graced bronze palms and lay claim to slender digits. Hands that had seen too much, done too much... or not enough. Bronzed digits bore the brunt of her necessary sin, the faint threading of blade-thin tracks weaving their way upward toward her knuckles where deeper gashes marked their territory. When she looked at her hands, all Odette saw was the weight of her decisions; past, present and future. Now, they shook. Jittered. Amir's words rung quietly in her mind; a voice in the void. She had known, of course, that she was slipping. Yet, it was this knowledge, this lack of understanding untempered by uncertainty, that she'd sought out friend and Bleaker. It was in these moments, she had teetered on the precipice between tearing apart everything she knew and simply fading away. These moments, in which she had lost the will to continue.

There was a war that had waged within the woman, a turbulent tide turned stormy to crash upon the shore of reason lost amidst the rocky outcrop of frustration and despair. Cycle after cycle, things spiraled further and further out of control. Scarred hands stood as testament to times past; hands that had toiled at sea. Hands that had plucked the strings of lute and raised stein in bawdy toast many a time. Hands that had scraped at caved stonework in Festhall bombing, fell motionless in wake of public suicide, grasped rarest of rapier, mopped blood in the Weary Spirit, shed skin and made to dance in skeletal ritual of self. Hands that had shriveled and burned in the final moments of a dying prime, drawn passionately over masculine flesh, grasped goblet in Arborea, set fire in Temple of the Abyss, delivered Godsman to Abyssal throne, sacrificed fingers in the shred of mimir's maw. Hands that had torn open portals in search. Hands that could only carry so much before they broke and shattered.

"Ya are already walkin' it." He looks down to her, his tone soft - almost sad. "Whether ya claim ta be one or not."

The mercenary, once sailor, had been trying to find reason in a place devoid of it. She was butter, scraped over too much bread. A rock amidst a sea of chaos, chipped and broken. The constant gruelling grind of survival cycle after cycle. The recent awaken of Somnos only seemed to prove this further, cloak and dagger driving wedge enough to allow only the barest trickle of information that would sate thirst to aid. To be more than helpless. It was single card placed on table, when once whole hand would be shared. The meddle in that which they had to right to meddle in, let alone deign outcome. Yet, it was not the be all and end all of downward spiral. Tarnished disavowal, Indep instigate of bloodshed, disregard of deader's warning, deflection of truth, shatter of given word, enlighten of propinquity. Each played their part at the behest of lips, paws, fingers and maw that were familiar to she.

It was an all too common tale that passed the lips of those exposed to worlds beyond their own. For some, it was instantaneous. Clueless cutters, cagestruck to the point of being unable to grasp what lay at their feet and beyond. For others the eventual knowledge of lacking impact came with experience. Repetition. A burden that took its toll with each near-death experience, be it of self or loved one. Odette Vieuxpont was of the latter. Mortal, and not immune to the limitations of the human mind. Time, however, had not been kind. Circumstance, had not been kind. The vapor helped, at times, but she wasn't stupid enough to be dependent on it. Yet, there remained expectancy to perform regardless. To stand tall as pillar of strength and support. Unshakable. Unbreakable. And, she had done so. For a time.

"Cabal gives ya access ta meds ya might need, and the Mad Bleaker Ward.
They're adept at dealin' with... psychotic breaks. Which ya will experience."

Hands. They held her attention anew; digits curling to pluck invisible string in subconscious recollection of some event or another. The 'emptying', as Amir had put it, had already begun. It was not a term he used lightly. True, Odette had recognized her growing inability to cope; lashing out in frustration for the lacking common sense of peers in action that was every bit as much a subtle cry for help as it was the drive of those from her for same reason. This was nothing compared to the constancy of exhaustion that seemed nigh inescapable. Perhaps, if she'd spoken up sooner. Perhaps if she'd done things differently. No. The time for needless questioning of the unchangeable had passed. Anger faded, frustration ebbed, judgement ceased. There was only the present. A present in which she had picked up the shards of what remained and delivered them to the palms of treasured friend; submitting to Gatehouse in search of answers from those whom had none.

The results were both confronting and unexpected, but with them... so too came a measure of peace. The elf never made such recommendations. Ever. And yet, in some small way, her fate was already sealed. With it, however, came need of decision and thought. The path was one she'd already been walking, pointed out, regardless of whether or not badge clung to cloak. It would not be an easy one, but when had it ever been? The Cabal, however, could and would provide haven for the years ahead. In the meantime, there was nothing to be done about gods. Or fey. Whatever aid could be rendered would not come from outside, but from within. The ease of what could be eased in the pass of time and the search of self.

"It's hard fer 'em ta understand what ya feelin'. They can't grasp it. It's outside their boundary.
They come up with these illusions... the way they want things ta be. Ya startin' ta see it for what it is.
It's not somethin' ya fix. It's somethin' ya accept, and learn ta cope with."
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*Nimiane
Posts: 347
Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am

Posted by *Nimiane »


Daily Roll: Normal Bleaker behavior.

"Just spend the next few weeks helpin' out around the Gatehouse or one of the soup kitchens we run.
Someone will hand ya a badge eventually."

Several cycles later, Odette entered the orphanage for the first time. With the push of double doors, one gloved hand on each, the lute strung over shoulder rattled with a few hollow notes in jostle. Proceeding to introduce herself to the staff within, the scarred figure let known intention to help out where possible, gesture made to breast where badge was lacking and shortly to the instrument over shoulder. Without interrupting the cycle's current proceedings, or whatever activities may have attention, Odette would spend sometime simply... watching; quietly appraising the interactions with those present and with each other. If there were those whom showed some measure of interest, simple questions attempted to engage in a gentle manner - "What is your name?" and "Which is your favourite toy?" The bard had never considered herself 'good' with children, but she couldn't argue with the truth Amir had spoken; orphans were tough.

Eventually, with intent to perform for children, the Erlkazaran would move unobtrusively to corner's chair. Drawing lute from her back, the instrument was drawn across lap to nestle in arms that instinctively draped about cherry-oak. How long had it been? Close to a year, perhaps. It was a feeling both foreign and familiar to hold instrument anew, gloves tugged free in release of scarred digits. The first few notes were sharp and off-key, chased by lengthy pause and deep inhale. Then, marred fingers began to slowly pluck. One note, than another. The third mingled. The fourth brought melody. It was a peaceful tune, one slowly strung with chords that embed and flowed much like the changing tides of ocean that embraced the shore. The movements of slender wrist back and forth in it's varying angles offered harmony of notes with the simplicity of the music itself. After several silent counts, bronzed lips parted for the vocalization of lyrics, softly sung in an earthy tone of natural soprano. "Where's my pretty face? And where's my holy place? All have flowed away like ...w a t e r..."

Odette's own movements were simple, the bardess choosing to lightly sway in time to the peaceful melody; one that bespoke a haunting serenity. Her movements are gentle, subdued in comparison to performances of the past. A sad smile rested on her lips as she continued. "Where's the summer sun? And where have all the good times gone? All have flowed away in ...t i m e..." Through the nearby window, gentle breeze caught stray locks of blonde, brown and amber hair alike to dance faintly on the wind in simplified waltz. With it came the scents so well attributed to the courtyard beyond; those of rare foliage and the Cage's own smog, flavored subtly with the distant slop of the kitchens. "These hands were taught to work the land, but fertile fields have turned to sand." Slender, scarred fingers lifted upon the bow as it moved. As she sung, the highlander's voice retained that quiet peace to it's volume; unobtrusive - as though she herself was merely the harmony of voice and instrument on the wind. This moment, this was hers, and she was but the accompaniment to sentiment's shared. "A barren waste of modern... m a d n e s s~".

Gently she swayed upon plateau of wooden foundation, a rosen tongue brushing briefly over lower lip in break between verse; a small telltale sign of her concentration, despite how easily she might have made such a performance look. "Life is like a music hall, but you don't get a curtain call. The trees of youth have come to fall... a s u n d e r..." In follow up to sung words the emerald hues of verdant gaze lifted from strings to weave throughout the room itself, the melody holding true with drift from one figure to the next. The slow pluck of strings eased to a mere few chords that acted as basic acoustic for the words that followed; each perfectly rounded and lacking the mercenary's usual drawl. Poignant, crystalline, crisp and gentle. "And the wheel of time rolls on... the wheel of time rolls on..."[/size][/font]

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*Nimiane
Posts: 347
Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am

Posted by *Nimiane »


Daily Roll: Normal Bleaker behavior.

"...Nightmares." spoke the Sensate softly, letting go of a worn and worried sigh.
"It has been nothing but horrible nightmares for the past five cycle. Worse than the normal sort..."

[/size]The marred tabletop was littered with herbs from various corners of the multiverse. Aminus Hybrythia from Krynn, Deathmock from Oerth, Catnip from Toril, the list went on. The City of Doors, if anything, was a place one could locate almost anything they needed; a hub of trade and capitol from one plane to the next, inclusive of primes as varied as it's inhabitants. It was in the dim candlelight of the anti-peak that Odette sat hunched over bench with silent focus on the task at hand: to formulate sleep aid. Not so potent as to comatose, but neither so weak that the effects would render pointless. A balm enough to stave off the worst of nightmares for the average cutter, based upon recipe of prior experience.

There were, of course, all manner of 'cures' already on the market, and without a doubt the Gatehouse stocked many. Yet, it proved useful to have control over concoction, in this case, so that dosage could be tailored and adjusted from personal use for specific purpose. Odette was no botanist, however, and most of herbalist knowledge came from experimentation and practical use in survival situations, forcing her to keep to more tried and true methods than those studied by healers. A former mercenary's field knowledge and the keen attention to detail of a tracker; perhaps not entirely wasted.

Several stalks of Camellia Sinensis were plucked from the array of plant life on display. Pulling the cured leaves free from cutting to rub betwixt fingertips in hover, Odette inhaled deeply. The scent brought a small smile to her lips, and astringent leaves were laid upon board for cut. It was then, once quantity had been reduced piled, scarred digits drummed upon splintered wood in contemplation. A soft hum reverberating on the bronzed lips of the blonde. Normally, the simple blend of one part Hushthorn to three parts tea leaf would be ample; toning down the concentrated effects of the lighter leaf with steamed infusion.

The nightmares, however, were another matter. A deeper sleep had the possibility of bypassing one's ability to dream altogether by entering a state of psychosis, but it hardly seemed a practical solution; particularly for one with a busy lifestyle whom likely couldn't afford the potential to be knocked out for several days at a time. Something to calm the nerves, perhaps? Insam would no doubt help with blood pressure, which would not be entirely misplaced given previous heart trouble...

Odette shook her head slowly and reached for the leather-bound tome resting upon table's far right side, the rickety table vibrating in place with the leaning jostle. A concentrated calmth graced the woman's freckled features and lightly creased her brow as she flipped through various worn pages. Adder's Tongue, no. Darkweed, no. Euphorism, amusing... but no. Dang Qui, Lily of the Valley, Mandrake, Nevermind, Passion Flower... Passion Flower. Of course.

The tome shut with a heavy thud, slender digits making quick work of retrieving mortar and pestle in preparation. Despite the name, it was the Sleepwort berries that proved the most beneficial; the fruit known for it's ability to treat hysteria, among other ailments. A short conversation with Layla and detour to the Greenhouse all too promptly returned the Erlkazaran to desk, victorious. Having crushed violet berries to fragments, several squares of sterile fabric were placed upon the table, each filled with a combination of the three.


Camellia Sinensis; leaves, thee parts.
Hushthorn; leaves, one part.
Passion Flower; berries, one part.


Each mesh square was folded from that point onward, edges folded and brought together to encase herbal tisane. Careful stitching was made at the behest of shaky digits, every tug of thread woven with care to completion. With the final bag of three sealed, stained fingers lifted to rub at tired eyes with the coming of morning's cycle. Placing the newly formulated tea-bags into a small box, delivery was arranged shortly after and accompanied by the scrawl of personal notation for impending discussion.





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*Nimiane
Posts: 347
Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am

Posted by *Nimiane »


Daily Roll: Normal Bleaker behavior.

wrote:

FILE: A#638-00839-01


GIVEN NAMES: █████ ██████████

APPEARANCE:  Humanoid, slender, blonde hair, practical attire. Sometimes sports heart-shaped insignia.
PROFESSION:  Grifter, Jill of Trades. Ex-Liberator.
CASE HOLDER: Odette; Namer.
REFERRED BY: [Redacted]
CURRENT STATUS: Unknown. Possible depression, psychosis.
URGENCY: Low.
THREAT LEVEL: Low; unlikely.

DETAILS:
A third party recently passed on concerns regarding Ms.█████'s current state of mind and/or well being. It was made known that Ms.█████ has made claims regarding personal time spent in the Far Realm - travelling multiple times through it's limitless layers unwarded and unprotected, and supposedly 'without negative consequence'. Additionally, it has been stated that her world of origin is somehow connected to border. Given what we know of the plane, it can be assessed that the such is quite near impossible for mortals without succumbing to some relative form of 'madness'. Though it seems prudent to discern whether or not Ms.█████ is, in fact, tainted by the realm in some shape or form and a possible threat, it seems more likely the woman is barmy, bluffing or both. To what extent remains to be seen.

COURSE OF ACTION: Contact for assessment.

Having interacted with the woman to some degree in the past, it is quite likely that concerns are harmless and unfounded. It may well be that there was over exaggeration at play, or some element of bluff involved with the weaving of supposed story. While it seems there is no substantial threat at this point, I intend to contact Ms.█████ to hear what she has to say on the matter; if for nothing else than to provide an ear for her troubles as of late.


FILE UPDATE: 3rd Guild of The Pivot, 132Ha
I managed to contact Ms.█████ and we spoke for a time on the aforementioned topic. To my understanding, the 'Far Realm' known to Ms.█████ is not in fact the 'Far Realm' as we know it but rather the 'Interim', or the "World Between Worlds" as known to her people. According to the patient, it serves as a transitive plane, much like the Astral does in the Great Wheel. Comparative to the Far Realm, it exhibits much of the same traits but to a far milder degree. Despite this it is not the same thing, or, if it is, it is several shades diluted.

It remains, however, that many of Ms.█████'s possessions were in fact corrupted during her visits to this 'Interim' from her home prime. She has assured me that there are no lingering effects upon her person, but I have offered her the chance for discussion and assurance in future should she wish it. In the meantime, I do not believe Ms.█████ poses any danger, nor signs of distress, though casual observation is encouraged.

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*Nimiane
Posts: 347
Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am

Posted by *Nimiane »


Daily Roll: Normal Bleaker behavior.

"A bardess of renown and no misplaced fame. You honour the minstrels trade Odette."

It was an odd thing, perhaps, to see a man of such repute plucking the delicate chords of the harp; disguised and costumed as he was. If there was any proof that nothing in the 'verse made any sense, it was nigh presentable with the harmony of notes that danced forth from the Doomlord's fingertips. To Odette, however, it was not all that surprising. Given past conversations, few and far between, the shared appreciation of the musical arts were that which had come up as topic of choice in times passed. Now, she was seeing it in the flesh and the Bleaker couldn't help but hold some poetic fascination for the contrast. Hands that brought bloodshed, capable of giving life through music.... perhaps she wasn't all that different.

Moving to claim the emptied seat at the harpsichord, Odette had sat at Ashterot's left and splayed scarred fingers over the ivory keys. The strum of the harp was a mellow one, mild enough that spaced notes seemed to beckon and encourage her to take part. Whether it was intended or she was simply barmy enough to surmise, it mattered little. Reasons held no meaning in the wake of melody's call. Amidst the murmur of hushed words shared, the blonde's fingers curled to coax harmony from the keys in play.

So it was that ivory and ebony entwined with string, careening and climbing in manner akin to newly sprouted razorvine. Louder and louder still, yet for all the power of combined notes... undeniably delicate. An outpouring of spontaneous direction, it held little structure beyond the flexibility of orchestrated unity. Neither was there unspoken push for dominance between the two instruments at work, the blend of musical syllable filling the void with accompaniment. Even as bronzed lips had parted to inject lyrical indulgence, the dance of digits forging a path of their own, composition held true at behest of Bleaknik and Sinker.

Wordless as it was, beyond expressed vocalization, it proved to be the most in-depth conversation Odette would hold that eve.[/font][/size]

*Nimiane
Posts: 347
Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am

Posted by *Nimiane »


[Reserved - Khazeet's Poisoning]
*Nimiane
Posts: 347
Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am

Posted by *Nimiane »



The slums of the Hive lived up to it's name. A colony of winding streets were the poor were overlooked, villainy ran rampant, and puddles of ooze threatened to drag you into their depths - if you didn't get ganked first. It was home, however, at least for one particular soul. Between the Gatehouse, the part-ownership of the Taigh de Cáth, managing the House of Six Fingers and checking in on the Weary Spirit Infirmary with the key that had been left to her, the majority of what could be considered Odette's day-to-day 'life' was spent in that very location.

It didn't take long for the chant to reach her ears from at least one of these sources, if not multiple. "Blue Crush", the newest drug to find it's way onto the streets, was enough to arouse her interest. Whilst the bleaker had little care for how people spent their time or what recreation they chose to persue, it seemed somewhat prudent to inquire after the drug regardless; scent, taste, compound, ingredients, effects. All of these would serve important in diagnosis should potency bring addicts to the Gatehouse or the Infirmary for treatment n future.

So it was that the woman set out into the Hive, dark shades pushed upward upon freckled nose, in attempt to get her hands on the product. Perhaps, if opportunity presented, questions might be asked to save herself the hassle of extended examination and trial ... though she didn't count on it. Through the twisting alleys she ventured, hand never straying far from her weapon as any sensible cutter was want to do in such a place, seeking the first suspicious looking Basher who sized her up and down, or ragged Quipper that looked in need of a few jinx for his knowledge.

Odette made no attempt to hide who she was, yet neither did she work to draw attention to herself. She was as she appeared, another scarred basher in the crowd. Hardly fearless, but smart and experienced enough to know that less than scrupulous of the Hive were prone to prey upon the weak; drawn to fear and uncertainty like wolves to the sickest of lambs. Faction badge was worn openly, a better course of action to be known as helping hand than to be assumed a skilter.

Making her way to the shack, she listened quietly to the presentation; arms folding over tunic of dull charcoal and grey. Even with the focus of her attention on the speaker and the vials in hand that coaxed all manner of humanoid to doorstep, verdant hues swept the area in a habitually keen manner. When opportunity arose, however, akin to the others before her, so too did the Bleaker step forward with a handful of jink and indicated three vials with the lift of gloved fingers.

Squinting briefly at the contents, and giving them a small shake at behest of inspection. The glass canisters were shortly after slipped into the folds of garment. A smirk, brief, touched her lips for the mention of other drugs but she spoke nothing on the subject.

"Cheers, cuttah" came the casual response with a nod, the woman stepping out of the way for the next of slum's wingless birds; each one looking to fly in the only way known to holders of limited coin. Turning on heels to make for exit, the pandemonic cogs of thought were already ticking with process; one vial to distill, one vial to trial and study, and one vial for quartermaster's science.


*Nimiane
Posts: 347
Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am

Posted by *Nimiane »



You wouldn't expect bards to be very popular in a faction like the Bleak Cabal, and you'd be right. But there are some, called Bleakniks, that sing about the meaninglessness of life and the sad pointlessness of it all; despite the fact most find it hard to stand Bleaknik music typically typified by a minimalist structure and dark, depressing lyrics in accompaniment.

It was here, in the Zero (a BleakerÂ’s tavern of choice for seeing and being seen) that many culminated for the share of the arts; inclusive of ballad, prose and theatrics and it was here that word passed betwixt the lips of silver-haired femme that spoke of artistic collaboration between factions for members of the Cabal whom might find meaning within themselves to partake.

Volunteers and interested bodies should seek out fellow 'Nik, Odette, for further information.


*Nimiane
Posts: 347
Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am

Posted by *Nimiane »


Daily Roll: Normal Bleaker behavior.

An attention-seeker with a complex or an amateur foolish enough to leave a trail of evidence, both were resultant of the mental instability. Death was common place in reality, insanity a familiar dirge for the Gatehouse's madmen. Yet, for all the conversancy of topic it was never one greeted with joy; a subject as bleak as the Cabal itself. It was to Odette whom the task had fallen with specifics of investigation, in part, the request of the Mercykiller Factor undertaken in scour of records.

Engulfed in the glow of oil lamp, warm hues blanched in entwine of steel and concrete, the silver-haired femme set about cross-referencing details made known to she with those recorded in the vaulted records of the Gatehouse. Gloved digits, beholden to subtle but ever present tremor, flicked with deft ease through asylum's files. Among them, keen emerald optics scanned for recent discharge of patient with similar behavioral tendencies - particularly those with a history of murder, and more pointedly the retain of physical trophies.

Well into the night she perused, the faint bags upon freckled visage darkening with the passing hours. From discharged patients, search shifted to those incarcerated still; possibilities not limited solely to the killer himself but those whom might provide insight into the thoughts, and patterns, of a psychopath. Names, dates, actions, reactions; all transferred to notebook in Bleaker's scratchy cursive.


wrote:

FILE: A#638-00839-02


GIVEN NAMES: Unknown, referred to as the 'Skin Slasher'.

APPEARANCE:  Unknown.
PROFESSION:  Unknown.
CASE HOLDER: Odette; Namer.
REFERRED BY: Dace Andor of the Red Death.
CURRENT STATUS: Undetained Case Study.
THREAT LEVEL: Orange.

SYMPTOMS: Undiagnosed psychopathy, and possible antisocial personality disorder.
CATEGORY: C3.

DETAILS: Several murders in recent weeks have followed specific pattern that would suggest unbalance of a serial killer. The victims share single trait, something that has important symbolic meaning to the murderer, in this case the racial profile of fiendish heritage thinned through tiefling blood. All the bodies had been undressed after death, with clothing laid alongside, entirely skinned from the neck down. Latter victims, however, are only partially flayed with much of their flesh intact save for the patched removal. Additionally, all of the victims were lonesome individuals with mundane and mediocre occupations. Neither were they beholden to any faction, save the Harmonium notary found alongside victim in the LadyÂ’s Ward.

The 'Slasher' in question displays compulsive tendencies, likely driven by obsession surrounding those with tiefling heritage and the desire to extract from them trophy for undisclosed goal. Akin to those previously diagnosed, though unlinked, the murderer may comparatively suffer an abnormal psychological gratification from success, with the murders taking place over more than a month. To further expand on this pattern, inclusive of a significant break or "cooling off period". Given the choice of victims, and the manner in which they've been brutalized, it is highly unlikely  that the creature responsible is beholden to paresis of the insane, likely knowing and being well in control of their actions.

Exhibited behavior leads to the belief that the individual in question would display subtle signs of instability for those whom might know what to look for; particularly reactive to tiefling presence or violence. If not an advocate with history of such, than one drawn to it as moth to flame. This leads to assumption that Slasher might well be prone to anti-social methodology by either keeping to themselves beyond the public eye, or taking guise in social setting.

Details of psycological state are supposition only. Factual evidence cannot come without interaction.

COURSE OF ACTION: Dispense information available and inquire for updates.

.
.

Several cycles come and go following the conversation between Mercykiller and Bleaker, and with them hours of investigative perusal by candlelight. Finally, near a week later, Dace would receive a missive bearing a dull, wax seal imprinted with the offical insignia of the Bleak Cabal; distinguishing it from airship's usual mail at behest of silver-haired femme. Once broken, the letter reads in flowing text broken only by the jagged lines of quill and splotches that suggest a manifested tremor of digits.

wrote:
?????? ?????,

?? ??? ???? ?????? ??????? ????????? ??? ?????? '???? ???????', ? ???? ????? ??? ???? ?? ??????? ??? ??????? ????? ?????????; ???? ????? ????????? ?? ??? ???????? ?????????? ??? ????? ???? ?????? ?? ??? ????. ?????????????, ?? ??????? ???????????, ? ??? ?????? ?? ???? ??? ????????? ?? ? ????? ????? ?? ??? ??????????? ???????? ?? ????. ????? ?? ?????? ???????? ???? ????? ??????? ??? ??????? ??? ????? ??? ????, ???? ?? ???????, ?? ? ??????? ?? ??? ?????????.

???????, ?? ????? ?? ???????? ??????? ?? ??? ??????, ??? ?????? ?? ???????? ???? ???? ??? ??? ??????? ?? ? ?????? ????????? ??????????. ?? ?? ?????? ??????? ??? ???????, ??????? ??? ??????? ?? ????? ?????????? ??????? ????????? ??? ?????????? ?????????? ????????. ??????? ??? ???? ???? ????? ??? ???? ????????? ?? '???????' ?? ??????? ?????? ??? ???? ????? ?? ???????? ?????? (??????????? ?? ?????? ??????, ?? ?????), ? ?? ??? ????? ??????? ?????? ???? ?????? ??. ??????? ?????????? ??????????? ??? ??????? ??? ??????????? ??? ???? ????????????? ???????? ?? ????????? ??????, ?? ?? ?????????? ?? ??????? ????? ??? ???.

???? ???? ????, ??? ??????? ?? ????? ???? ?????????? ?????? ???? ?????? ??? ??? ????????? ?? ???? ??????????? ? ?????????? ??????, ? ??????? ???? ??? ?????? ?? ??? ???? ????? ?? ????? ??????? (???????? ????????, ??? ???????? ?? ????????) ??? ????? ? ????? ?? ??????????? ???/?? ??????? ???? ???????. ??????? ????? ?? ????????, ???????? ?? ??. ???? ?? ??? ??????? ?????? ?? ??? ???? ?????? ??? ??? ??????????? ???? ???? ???? ??. ??????? ?? ?? ????????? ?? ???, ?? ?? ?? ????????? ???? ???? ??? ?? ?????? ?????. ??? ????? ??????? ???? ???? ?????????? ?????????? ?? ???????? ????-??????, ??, ?? ?????, ???? ???? ?? ????? ??? ?????? ??? ?? ???????????? ?????.

??????? ??? ????? ??????? ?? ????? ??? ????? ?????? ???? ???????? ??????, ?????? ??? ???? ??? ????? ?? ?? ??. ?'?? ??? ????? ???????? ?????????? ?? ??? ??????, ???, ????? ??? ?????????????, ? ????? ???? ?? ???? ?? ?? ?????? ??? ???? ???????.


- ??????.
*Nimiane
Posts: 347
Joined: Thu Jan 01, 1970 12:00 am

Posted by *Nimiane »


Daily Roll: Normal Bleaker behavior.

A Namer's Notes: Reflection.
What does it mean to be Bleak? It is a question I am asked frequently. Why the Cabal? I was not always counted among the madman, you see. Despite inopportune arrival in the cage, I held fast to superstitious belief in Faerun's Lady Luck and my own blissfully ignorant optimism. To have lived a life (albeit, not an easy one) before such a time, and come to embrace faction's ideology seems an incomprehensible thing, to most. Surely, a phase or overreaction. A notion that, in terms of what is known and understood, that everything can be overcome and failure to do so is a reflection of lacking strength and will.

Why the Cabal? It is a ridiculous question, really, because it is knowing the answer that can be as much a curse as it is a blessing on a person's life. Seven months ago, I, myself, had traded in my pack of lies for a pack of truth and, even now, I am still not confident that I could correctly ascertain which is heaver. Which takes the most strength to carry around, or at which point stroll became climb. The most merciful thing in the verse, I think, is the inability of the human mind to fully grasp the scope of quantum. But, once you know the truth, once you begin to understand that things aren't supposed to make sense, that every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness and dies by chance, you can't ever go back and pick up that suitcase of lies. People live, breathe, love, despair, and die for no reason.

There is a common misunderstanding that comes with public knowledge of someone being inducted into the Cabal, however. It's met with resistance. Misconception would have it believed that crossing that threshold results in loss of that person; he or she ceasing to be as they were known prior, and, that the transfer itself were a sudden, life-changing decision rather than gradual increase in understanding. It is seen as something to be fixed, something that gets better. In their eyes, you've already given up. These things are the inventions of a mind interested only in its undisturbed, permanent continuity in a ‘self’-generated, fictitious future.

That is the reality of what I had faced from all sides; friends, family, lovers. Adversity to loss, to losing me; the experience of the void created by the disappearance of another individual, and the unsatisfied demand to maintain the continuity of a relationship for a nonexistent eternity. For lack of a better explanation, mourn for an inevitable end gibbering away in the Mad Bleaker Wing. Yet the hands that reached out to grasp in refusal were met only with apparition, for I was already gone. I was already Bleak, even if I had not fully come into realization that it was so. Whittled away with each notch and every nick; delicately woven characters torn from old, wounded souls sinking in to our skins as faux excitement and waning bravado peeled from thought with paled perceptions and faded memories.

To be Bleak is not to be stagnant, however. This is something I have come to understand with the pass of every cycle. To pass through those gates is one step of many that will be spent writhing in the madness of it all along on the path toward self-awareness. It does not automatically negate feelings, even if those feelings are ultimately pointless without action. In understanding it, you are not suddenly cured of the verse's absurdism. You do not stop being the person you are, with the interests you hold. You do not stop enjoying books, or the oceanic spray of salt, or the warmth of liquor's burn at the back of throat. These are but a sliver of saving grace in the constant struggle against debilitating insanity and it's ever-tightening grasp. In time, they too with wither in their attachment. It is a process of learning; acceptance is but the step in the door. There are still things I don't know, even now, and won't know, until I experience them first hand. I do not have Amir's wisdom, nor Sruce's technique or Ezra's knowledge. I have only my own experiences to fall back on, combined with the sights, sounds and the suffering within these four walls.

There has and will be struggle. Action, reaction, the inability to identify the source of feeling. A conscious and unconscious realization of the chase for purpose in a universe where purpose is no real property. There have been breaks, unseen, under the tend of brethren. The emotion one feels is strong and steadfast; it does not lie in the early stages where it remained prevalent; lashing out against the purge. It is a natural safety mechanism that results in the need lie to oneself and brush off growing dread as falsity. I can only survive by recognizing the absurd and acknowledging that it tells no lie. I am then free. I am free from the weight of feelings. Countering thoughts of a mind attempting to protect itself still press upon me, but now I can say 'No'.

Why write any of this? What is the point of it? There isn't one. Translating my inner thoughts on to paper, it is expression better understood than the allowance of my soul to bleed into the artwork of prose. It is obtaining and using the experiences of times past and times ahead to give your own meaning, and through that gods forsaken meaning, apply it to the needs of others. Accepting the absurdity of everything around us is one step, a necessary experience. The faux light we were able to hold for the smallest of instants is stolen- a dark, festering emptiness the only thing remaining behind our eyes.

What is there to do now? Here is a solution: tend the suffering, experience the intrinsic folly of the rest of the multiverse, survive the cycle. The weak one has no sense of beauty; their ‘beauty’ is happiness in disguise, but the strong ignores their happiness and tend their world as they know it; knowing all they'll be doing is patching them up emotionally and physically until death with each scraping shift of the great wheel. Recognize that life is ultimately absurd and full of terrible, inescapable truths. Recognize that life does not have meaning; save for the meaning each person chooses to give his or her own existence. Time is an absurdity. An abstraction. The only thing that matters is this moment.

This one, wretched moment a million times over; attuned to the melodies of pandemonic strings.


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