Post by Wik on Jul 26, 2024 17:18:05 GMT
Many things happen at once.
With a heaving sigh, the door to the Four Fair Winds shuts, the latch quietly clicking into place.
From within their coat, four aged sheets of parchment find their new home on the desk at the side of the room, in amongst dice and cards and pens and charcoal.
And Cechec melts away, the golden scales heaving and flattening amongst the ripples on the pond of Wik. Ochre horns become thick white strands of hair. Yellow eyes begin to glow white and disappear, the shadow of a brow now a deep black that rings both of their eyes.
And so it is that Wik returns home.
Though tempting, they wait before immediately sitting at the desk, journal entries in hand. The too-big adventurer's garb they wear gets tightened, straps pulled in to fit this slighter frame. Boots are scrubbed down and replaced, the wide heel set down next to three other pairs in descending size. Wik grabs the next size down, their eye caught on the smallest pair - unworn, untouched, in over a year. Dust has settled into the cracked leather, the greying fabric ethereal. Ghostly.
And then, when all else has been seen to, they sit, and they read the journal entries once more.
Love, and heartbreak. Questions, and all too few answers. Blood, and its burden. Hope, and the all too powerful damnation that blooms from one's own heart.
The words have not changed since they were read in the Lord of the Lake's castle, but here, now, Wik gets an opportunity to inspect them more closely.
Such things are easier when an Aspect of Corellon is not standing mere inches from your nose.
Slowly, Wik begins to piece together what they believe to be the sequence of the journals, just based off of the flow. These sheets of paper are old, yet they are seeped in a magic that preserves them. For now, at least, Wik breathes easier, knowing they don't have to worry about wearing gloves or protecting them. As well, these are in no way forged or fake. The magic that makes the ink on the paper shimmer like ripples of water as Wik reads it brings to mind the thought of a magical signature. But there's no odour. It's more of a feeling.
Here, at the edge of my world, my life began anew. No longer a plaything of Fate, yet still a prisoner of my own. My mind filled with questions, but I feared their answers. I put my own heart to rest. In the wake of such an intoxicating embrace I chose ignorance.
In the first entry it's clear the Lord was living at Lake Taibhse for some time before it was written, but for how long it is unclear. The choice to "put his heart to rest" might have been what inspired this journaling to start, but again, that's supposition.
It has not been easy carrying the burden of his blood. I tried to turn my back on him time and time again, but no matter where I ran, I was still trapped beneath his firmament. And despite all the pain, it is not with hatred that I look at him, but in reverence and grief.
The second entry is farther along the timeline than the first. Wik thinks this because of the mention of "burden of his blood". There's a hint of uncertainty but overall seems to be level headed if questioning.
They look at me with hope and admiration. They thank me for my courage. I've even been rewarded for what I have done. I wish it wasn't so. I take no pride in the choices I have made. Part of me wishes they knew the harm I caused. Surely their hatred would be easier to bear.
The third entry is pure self loathing. The tonal switch is quite clear and almost shocking as the loops and swirls cut across the page, as if the words create a storm with the splashes of ink. Something drastic must have happened or changed suddenly for this switch. It makes it difficult to tell if more or less time has passed between this and others.
There are so many thoughts I pushed aside, so many questions I never dared to ask. I played the fool for you. All I wanted was for you to love me. All this just for you to disappear once dawn draws near. How many days did I waste away just waiting for the dark of night to return?
The rippling ink on the fourth journal feels like it is the last. A bit like the last words a man has before weighing their pockets down with stones before walking as far as they can into the water. It's methodical, precise, small. But there's a longing there as well. For release? For forgiveness? To be whole? All of the above? Wik is not certain.
What Wik can be certain of is this spirit, this echo, this ghost of the Lord –– which may also, somehow, be a ghost of an aspect of Corellon?! –– has been surrounded by these journals for so long, that now they are being understood by another, they will not leave their mind. In the quiet moments between thought or when they are on their own, there is a distant echo of water lapping on the sandy shores of a long forgotten lake in their mind, calling to them like a siren song.