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Forum Name The Premium Battlefield
Topic subjectCalithildir's Role Chapter 1
Topic URLhttps://forums.carrionfields.com/dcboard.php?az=show_topic&forum=31&topic_id=72018&mesg_id=72037
72037, Calithildir's Role Chapter 1
Posted by Death_Angel on Wed 31-Dec-69 07:00 PM

Role

Chapter 1


EYES OF PURPLE (1/4)
Added Fri May 7 15:07:09 2021 at level 45:

There is a river close to Ar'atouldain. A river and a cat. The stories say
that the river and its pool are connected to both memory and time. I have
submerged myself countless times in both. I knew it was a fool's hope that
they would either reverse time, or wash away unwanted memories. Our mistakes,
crimes and sins are indelible. Just like our triumph. It is almost unbearable.

Where do I even start this story? Do I tell it like it was? Or do I embellish
tastefully in order to please the audience? Why should the truth be held in
such a special regard and remain unembellished? Even the perfect beauty of a
naked goddess can be enhanced by the inspired passion and unattainable
promise. Imagine the stories, how unbearable they would be, if they didn't
speak only of love absolute, but described the petty daily arguments those
lovers used to have. Imagine the lackluster tragedy being rendered trivial
when the hero recovers from it and finds happiness. A real artist nurtures his
pains. They are his arrows that he lobs back at the cruelty of the world that
he lives in, they are the tools through which he could keep the painful world
whole. Because even in the depths of despair, life is still worth living, for
that fleeting moment of seeing one more perfectly crimson sunset, or another
set of deep maroon eyes glistening as you sing about those same eyes that came
before them. And that is the burden all bards worthy of legend have to bear.
They have to nurture in themselves their own pain as well as the pain of
others, so that their art can heal the souls of the others so afflicted.

I came to know consciousness about my existence as a young child in Modan. At
the time I didn't yet know that it was odd to have an old spinster for a
caretaker. The talk about the birds and the bees was still not had, and there
was no pressing drive to understand the moans and shouts coming from the
brothels and back allies, there were still boyish games to be played. When I
first asked my human caretaker how I came to be, she didn't want to talk about
it. I had been born else where, to some wood-elf couple, she wouldn't say
their names, she wouldn't say why they were not here, or if they were even
alive. Why she hated me so, I will never know. She made sure I remained alive,
but didn't involve herself with me otherwise. That leathery face of hers,
always bore a disatisfied frown. When she looked at me, love and hate warred
on her visage, and cowardace always won in the end.