#tiargeth

Tiargeth: It’s less an item of significance so much as a pet of significance. After his experience with Sons of Svanir one of his mental health colleagues worked him through lingering trauma linked to ice and eventually got him a Frost Spider. He hated the thing at first but now it live in his home in Divinities Reach and he has developed a certain fondness for it.

Cichorium: The huge ‘bigness’ of the world and all the beauty in it. Cichorium spent his early years wandering the wilderness of the world and absorbing everything he saw. It keeps him grounded in that no matter how bad things look there’s still beauty and goodness to be found, that life finds a way through all sorts of hardships.

Cichorium: He’s suffered a couple but it was more to do with loosing close friends then a lover.

Dwaula: I think his heart broke when Kavilesa turned his knife on him when they first went to the court (But it got better! For certain values of better XP)

Tiargeth has instructed me to meditate when I feel anxious, or in pain. To distance myself from the torrent of emotions that Mavern’s death—and my part in it—have brought up. To help deal with the trauma from my capture, the questions that still linger in the weeks following, to help rediscover myself. 

It’s had the additional effect of strengthening my bond with my own empathy. I can reach it so much more easily, I can feel it growing and becoming a part of me properly. Last night while I meditated, the haze cleared a little. A narrow wooden walkway, surrounded by emptiness. I, a gust of wind, moved along the length of it—curious to see what could be seen from the very edge, but the walkway continued to grow as I explored. Creating itself out of thin air. The walkway was patchy, holes broken into the boards, wood rotten and crumbling. I followed it still.

This was my innermost self. I wanted to see more.

How long I followed the breaking bridge, I don’t know. It gave way eventually to a sandstone wall, running from one end of the nothing to the other—as far as I could see. It went up too high to see the top, but the walkway ran to an arch—an opening in the wall, the only one I could see. So small compared to the rest of the wall. I slowed my approach as I went inside. Behind the wall, a chamber with a floor of smooth stone, vast in size. A roof capped it, but so high up it couldn’t be seen.

Beds filled almost every available space, placed in aisles, each one occupied. Moans, groans, and the odd scream bounced echoes about the room, a hospital of the dying. The smell of blood, sap, and desperation was thick in the air, each patient consumed with their own pain, hundreds upon thousands of them waiting to die. I wove between them, more beds with more patients appearing at the edges, and all of the faces unique but familiar.

Mavern.

Losondre.

Rohaern Redanvic.

They screamed for help. But what could a gust of wind do to help the dying? I faltered over Red, taking in again the sight of his broken body, wondering what—if anything—I could have done for him. 

A flicker of darkness passed by, and he looked toward it. It was naught but shadows, a shifting spectre, passing between the beds. Wafting by the patients with the lightest touch, and gone before their last breath eased from their lips. Taking away the pain as it took life, leaving still and peaceful bodies in the sheets.

Me?

Figures in white stepped forward in the spectre’s wake, and I moved to follow. They lifted the corpses by head and foot, their pristine uniforms gleaming as they cut through the darkness to a door that hadn’t been there before, opening it, and entering. The empty beds soon filled with more distressed patients, and I followed the attendants through the door and down to another vast chamber. The smell of rot rose from the depths of the pit inside, attendants hoisting the body over the edge and into it.

Bodies. Stacked high inside the pit, from the edge where I hovered, to some unknown eternity still stretched out in the darkness. And the echo of the screams changed, the voices of people I once knew, all the faces I remembered, chorused together.

This is what you are.

This is what you’ve done.

Wicked.

Wicked.

((inspired by a dragon age post making the rounds))

Cichorium: earnest but slightly awkward. Hesitant at first before thin arms wrap around warmly, climbers hands finding fabric or leaves to cling to securely, a promise to never let go there, before either releasing when the other does or holding on, unsure where to end it.

Dwaula: Hugs from behind, usually on the unsuspecting. One arm wrapping around the neck and shoulders, head appearing over the other shoulder and a hand sliding sneakily around the waist. Fierce and all at once, with a bite to the neck, search through pockets or a quick grope before twisting away.

((locked away in his rooms is an old, leather bound journal, at one point covered in a light blue suede with has rubbed away over the years))

Today I leave the Grove and set about my Wyld Hunt. I'm excited, also a little nervous, that's why I've decided to start a journal.

I awoke in the cycle of Dawn to the company of other second born saplings. In my Dream I had seen and learned things, there is a great suffering in the world, the people of Tyria are in need and it is my Hunt to ease their pain and lift their weary spirits.

I have learned what I can in the Grove, I bid goodbye to my friends and travel with a few others into the wider world. I will be learning the dance and culture of the other races. There is something inherently magical about music and dance, the power to unify immaterial sound into physical action and work in compliment. Each culture has dance, but they all are unique, by learning their dances I will come understand them.