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Cope, However You Can


mmat
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https://youtu.be/xi3dK7NqeQY

 

Off somewhere deep within the vast Almarisi woodlands, a Wood Elf of lighter than average skin and ice-blue eyes sits at the base of a great tree. His form rests nestled between two gnarled roots and is rendered small in its titanic shadow. Fell memories flash through the warrior’s mind, memories both close at hand and far gone. The sight of a vile tree wreathed in corruption and darkness looms largest, screams of torment echoing from its tumorous form. Other dread recollections fade, mercifully, into the mists of time. A troubled look comes upon his face, and not for the first time. Avius Csarathaire rests his shimmering azure eyes on a brief letter, one written by his own untrained hand. The penmanship leaves much to be desired, but its content is genuine. He reads the words again. 

 


 

Lioness,

 

Committing thought and feeling to paper is anathema to this warrior of Malin’s kindred, blunt as I am. You know that to be the truth. The act shows frailty of will, the unforgivable inability to grasp and assert control over the demons in one's own soul. It loudly declares one’s weakness to all beings in this world and any other that might exist beyond, alerting them to your position as prey ready to be devoured. Prey - a thing I never considered myself to be, only others. The rush of lashing steel in my masterful grip since I was barely a child - a beat of exhilaration struck upon vanquishing foes of skill and power. These things told me with iron words - you are the hunter, firebird. They lied to me. Every single one of them lied to me. So I sit here beneath a great pine, gazing out with eyes laced with regret on a forest without end, and I write - displaying my impotence to the world and to you. 

 

I am tired, lioness, so utterly tired. I have no right to be, for all these years later my duties are still being birthed, my journey only just begun. That thought terrifies me. Many have endured greater suffering and carried atop their backs heavier burdens than I. Still, I barely muster the energy to rise each morning, knowing that in the end, all of my works are meaningless folly. There will be no end to the writhing madnesses we see each and every day, I realise that now. Once, during years I now only remember in the palest slivers of memory, Avius Csarathaire trusted in a dream. The dream was hollow, that much is clear in the bitter glow of hindsight. A verdant, immortal domain of our prospering kindreds, united in the embrace of the wild gods. Keen swords, stalwart shields, bows wrought by peerless craft. No evil dare assail it, for to do so would be to bring destruction only to oneself. Such idiocy.

 

This world is a nightmare. Was it always? Will it always be? These are questions a tactless warrior such as I cannot answer. As our forebears did in the unknown lands that came before, we now stand sentinel over Almaris. We wait eagle-eyed for the next time a malignant sorcerer tears open the void and invokes the horrors within, or a dark entity decides to stroke our world and thereby slaughter uncounted thousands of Mali as though it is nothing. When the enemy comes we will, as we always do, stand strong before it in the aspects’ name. The balance must be maintained. However, I cannot resist despair. Blight and corruption in all its myriad, disgusting forms only requires one great triumph, one great stroke of luck until everything the druii and the aspects’ faithful love is reduced to ashes. Our defeat is inevitable, from whatever font it seeps. It is surely just a matter of time. Perhaps that fall will come after my own death. Perhaps it will come after yours and that of our son, and his after that. But it will come. I sit here and I ask myself what is the point of fighting? But I will still fight, as I always have.  

 

    Phoenix.

 


 

After going over his shabby work one final time and ensuring its perfection, such as it is, the ‘ame warrior takes the paper on which the letter rests and crushes it within a balled fist. With a flick of the wrist, he carelessly tosses it into a nearby campfire, as the Elf has so many times before. The work and consideration of hours, reduced to ashes in but a few moments. Never will the beloved woman to whom it is addressed know these words, nor even the innermost thoughts from which they spring. None but he will ever know of their existence. To bear this frailty is shame. The Elf thinks feebly, but he must keep sane any way he can, must keep himself rugged and severe. He must, or others will suffer. But by writing these things is my weakness made worse? The conflicted thought is his last. He blocks them all out then, focusing instead on other things.

 

Avius Csarathaire rises to his feet, tired and reluctant. He leaves the comfort of the roots’ tight embrace and departs back to the world of his people and his gods. An old sheathed sword slumbers at his waist, ready to be awakened. 

 

Spoiler

Nobody actually sees this irp, just a little bit of writing I thought I'd do.

 

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