Images.

[DoS Archive]

From: deluthan@aol.com (Deluthan)
Date: 30 May 1999 16:20:37 EDT

Images trapped in petrified silence.

They haunted him. Not so much as in those periods of long and quiet solitude, but whilst he sat motionless in that afternoon's sparsely-filled arena they found inappropriate time to swarm him and, in quick and random intervals, invaded his thoughts--

The patrons are numerous, and the air in the arena is filled of the disturbed dust and clouds of dirt kicked up from inside the rings. I am in one of my own, my eyes searching out the man across from me. I know him. Arane holds him dear, and for him I have great envy...

Now there is another, of shorter features. A jovial individual. What is his name? Aer...

There is a face of immeasurable caring and behind her, the Inn. I turn away, and the crowds of barren trees pass me by, disappearing to my rear. A sound only faint before has grown louder; it is the sound of the constant wind lashing at my ears in whipping eddies of air...

I sit by a tree, a peculiarly scribbled note at my side. My hands tighten around the handle of my sword whose blade points to the chilly night sky. The end lowers to my left breast...

Once again I'm gliding forward, but my destination is unclear and all that surrounds me is a thick mist. I'm moving too fast, and I can't see...

I'm thrown forward and roll to a river shoreline. The unknown place holds the characteristics of a cavern, and all is drowned in a hue of red. Even the river. On the other side standing high on a plateau is a creature dressed in grey. Though from here it looks human, its face--there's something wrong. Its mouth twitches open and shut, and I can't hear the words, but I sense a deal in negotiation. The assumed monologue stops, and a smile etches
itself on the creature's apparent lips. I fall to my knees and lean over the calm fluid of the river. My hands slip below the surface and cup their maximum volume before rising to my lips. It is blood; I can tell from the scent, and my body succumbs to a fit of dry heaves over my left bicep. The small pool has remained, though much of it has been lost in winding paths down my forearm. Through strenuous effort, I return it to my lips and drink.
Hesitation, and now my head flings back in a horrendous scream. Streams of black smoke are beggining to float up from two points: where my blade enters my body, and from my back side, where it exits. If I could see myself, I'd notice the same smoke filling my eyes, forever to remain. As my silent, desperate cries exhaust themselves to yelps, my fingers move without grace to encompass the handle, and slowly I remove the sword from its position. I
feel it scratching my rib and grating against my backbone. In a final yank, the blade and I are separate. From behind the pain-ridden tears now, I can see it clean of blood. But it glows a bright, searing red...

The arena, as far as he could tell, was empty. He rose from his chair and slipped his hands in his pockets, but before he could reach the stairs, something distracted him and his feet stopped their progress. Pulling his hands from his pocket, his right held with it a small, balled-up scrap of paper. He struggled to unravel it between his trembling arms, and his eyes read over the two sloppily-written lines after he succeeded. Unable now to
comprehend their meaning, he pinned it to the cork in front of which he had paused, perhaps for another to discover. He took his leave up the steps, his breath still pounding as hard as when that final image departed.




Founding words, songs of grey,
"Shower me, guide me this day."