Messages in the Land of Graves | Correspondence left by The Empyrean

[Valannor 6344]

[!] Within the foggy gloam of the Tomblands, within the crypts and coffins, curious explorers might happen across well-kept scrawlings - scribed by gentler hands, with the utmost care that could be expected of those with patience made infinite.

 

 

 

 

Look upon the majesty of the moon, my dear reader, wherever you might be. Allow yourself to be lulled into serenity by those rays of gentle light, those ribbons of white caressing your cheek and lifting your gaze like the touch of a lover long forgotten. Be at peace, when all is quiet and at rest, and focus. Listen to the chirping of crickets that surrounds you, the calls of owls echoing throughout verdant plains shrouded in midnight, the howl of the lonely wolf abandoned by its pack ensorcelling your spirit with the beauty of its song. The night is beautiful, is it not? That blanket of oceanic darkness shrouds the land, and the moon rises to take the throne of the sun upon the horizon, and so the greatest splendor ever known is unveiled; the blackened skies above sewn of wealth in glistening gemstones, lining the fabric of the heavens which linger long above our world. The Moon crowns it all, heralding the auroras that dance above northern realms, or the crashing of waves upon the shores of Vinland Savoyard isles. Its glow is white, whiter than even the robes donned by the ancient scholars of el'Cihi, more radiant than the treasure troves of even Urguan himself - but that delicate beauty belies a far more sinister truth, beneath the veil of wonder it dons. Every blackened splotch upon it's surface an unquantifiable and nigh-unfathomable number of men and women consigned to eternal damnation, those ink blots staining the utopia that could be, as all that have sinned are condemned the same as the most abhorrent of murderers. An endless abyss of hatred and suffering, its inhabitants drowning but unable to pass as their lungs are filled with the most virulent of poisons and tainted beyond ascension. A vast sea of potential, left forgotten by the Maiden sworn to guide them. Listen to their cries in the shrill gales of the northern mountains, scraping across the peaks like nails upon a chalkboard. Look upon the beauty that could have been, of shores wrought from starlight, those rolling plains of silver grasses that would dance in cooling winds. The result of a cycle that remains incomplete - which serves only to reward those already rewarded, while those who strayed in a mortal life are consigned to drown beneath those sickly waters of perdition for all eternity. 

 

The Maiden observes it all, from behind her walls of gold, within her bastion of starmoon that lords over the forsaken wastes - she judges all with cold impassivity, knowing only right and wrong. Black and White. To mete out damnation upon the damned, and salvation upon the saved. No sin too small - anything, to keep the pure from being stained beyond redemption by the impure. She loves those she is charged to shepherd, a love so completely whole that it has blinded her - in this, I cannot fault her. Her gaze is transfixed upon the status quo she has built, so much so that she has lost sight of what could be, her vision clouded and obfuscated by hate and vitriol towards those errant souls deemed unworthy of her compassion. A cycle curated by the Maker, but one that is imperfect. The living die, are judged, and then taken into that gilded city or tossed into the loathsome sea to bask in squalor and agony for all eternity. One's mortal life of decades, perhaps a few centuries, decides their fate for aeons - for worlds to crumble to dust, before they might even receive a glimpse of light. The Cycle lacks redemption; by no fault of the Maiden, mind you. She is a Goddess, ancient beyond even the reckoning of you and I. Though her power is great, and her domain vaster than the oceans of our world, she is bound to her intrinsic aspect and duty, her sight limited and constricted to the maintenance of the faulty system cultivated by the cosmos. She does not dream, not as you and I do. She does not look upon a thieving beggar and see the future for them that could be, the merchant or the guard they could become, but only the criminal they are in the moment. She is the flame which scorches the dark-hued moth who so desires to be touched by her light - she does not see their wings, oh so delicate and fragile. She does not see their candescence, as every veritable feather upon them reflects the gentle glow of life and love that once was. But you can see their wings. And I can see their wings. We can see the love, we can see the hate - we see the world that we could make. And so we dream. 

 

We dream of an age to come, an age that could be. An age not of gold nor flame nor umbrage, but an era of the Moon, where death is not something to be feared nor shunned. Where to pass is but another stage of one's life, to fall into the pale slumber and open new eyes in the realm beyond - not free of suffering, but held in balance, a reflection of that which already is. An age where the night and blessed luna are not held in distaste and disdain, but known for their true beauty - an age of the tranquil twilight and distant stars, to intermingle with the warmth of starlight and compassion of the Maiden's melody. An age where the Maiden's judgement is truly just; damnation and perdition upon the irredeemable, but those with the capacity to repent for their wrongdoings are given the chance to pay their penance, and be welcomed into those golden halls. Only a faint memory have I of her song, but it is one that all mortalkind should be graced with - a living aria, as best it can be described; a chorus not of any words understood by mortal men, but of love and compassion beyond reproach by even the deftest of immortal tongues. Venture long and venture far, through deepest caverns and 'pon the highest peaks which scrape the heavens - it is there you will hear it, the unmistakable choir just beyond mortal reckoning. Listen. Listen well, and you shall know that aria to grace your ears, even if for but a brief moment in time. It is but a small thing to work towards this goal. 

 

Across the realms, I bid thee; Go! For with ease can one hold in hand a blade and travel the world to deprive others of life and liberty, it is an even greater and more noble endeavor to strive to uplift the downtrodden, and grant them salvation upon our Shore. From the slums of Vienne to the glistening peaks of Kal'darakaan, grace those who have been abandoned by the love of the Maiden, and give of them love and charity all the same - for such shall be their salvation. Through our hand, we can grant the forlorn souls of the lost and damned reprieve from their suffering, and working as one we may even begin to shift the tides of Fate itself. It is but a small, small thing to rage against the dying of the light, and would one do so wholly they might even force the mountains to follow in their wake. Know this well, Shorewalker; true faith is to see the Light, even in spite of the darkness which surrounds us. 

 

Spoiler

Just some creative writing I did for my persona's religion, and his own musings on the path he's walked. 

[UnBaed 8910]

A softened smile graces the features of a fatigued Shorewalker as acquired a copy of one of these scriptures, her weary eyes diligently read through it.  "Walk with the Shore," Ilaria whispered.

[Jentos 6813]

"Blind." the nephilim spoke

"The gods are blind.

Just like fire." 

[satinkira 5797]

Can she see it? The 'Maiden'? Can she see what lies beneath?

The papers were placed down, a thoughtful hand scratching at the rocks beneath. ...I wonder.