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A Collection - Dread's Scrivenings


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The compiled writings of Dubh Ainmhí, a sister of the Druidic Order. Little known as she is, the

meandering crone has seen fit to distribute her Work. By way of loose-leaf tome, board-bound

posting, or hidden, roadside scrawling, these texts have been dispersed to the world at large.

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THE WOVEN WAY: Between Beginnings & Endings

A passage from my doctrine’s ramblings, offered in preamble; though, there is little weight to my putting these thoughts to paper. For now, my predecessors and I are insignificant. That does not mean it is done without purpose. Without justification in its boldness, even as it is penned by the hands of a circle-less geist. Revelations and mysteries, like those revealed to me in the pursuit of my attunement, demand recognition. Let this be my acknowledgement. Let it be an answer to the ever-gnawing question that has plagued my line since the times of the first divide. Let it be the provocation for countless more yet to be asked.

It is not a story the druii would tell you,

Spoiler

When Nature first bloomed, flourishing across the realm at the behest of an unknowable truth, it was frail. Life, as seen by the Aspects three, was a blessed thing; however, it was still far too fleeting. It was seen as incomplete, in the eyes of the Wild Divine.

 

Incomplete in its dwindling, as was assumed by the Mother. She saw only the suffering that would await that beautiful creation: a once-green vista shattered by cold, that, in dying, would birth a thousand aching fissures. It was in her hurriedness to offer mercy that chaos was first put into motion, as she cast forth the boon of beginnings. The waning and wilting would cease, as life across the realm was lifted to eternity in an ageless, unending spring.

 

Incomplete in its abundance, as was then argued by the Hunter. He was blinded by his vision of the future wrought by the Mother’s mercy: life unending and ever growing, a never sated thing, sure to coil about itself until all else of creation was choked by its verdigris mire. It was his fear that drove him to combat this impending ruin, as he offered for the boon of endings. Senseless expansion would be beaten back by tooth and claw. Each, meted out by beasts of savage instinct and autumnal hunger.

 

Incomplete in its chaos, as was realized by the Weaver. They saw the destiny cast into motion by the Mother and Hunter both: a war of no meaning nor true conclusion, damned to an eternity of stagnation. It was only in Their outcry that some sense came to the opposite pair. The Mother and the Hunter took hold of their blessings, and cut them away into their own encampments. Nature was divided, kept from mingling its intended way. What was meant to be a system, a cycle, ground to a stubborn halt: a stalemate.

 

Witnessed by the Weaver was a grove, embraced by the bent and broken arms of a gorge. A clearing wet with tears, and lush with strange, golden leaves. There, once-vicious bears slept, though salmon lept fat between the falls. There, field mice drew no shadows, plump on the grasses, as the hawk sought no prey; instead, both spent their days caressed by halcyon rays. A timeless, taintless space, where the Wild ceased to be. 

 

Outside the gorge was shadow and prey, ice and naked death. There, blood ran freely. There the hawk, that thief, was a righteous savage, a noble fiend. Rivers ran with ghastly calves stalking in rank and file, as they reviled a foul sun. Wind gnawed at the land’s hide, wracking its dreams, screaming like a flute in its white, sleep. The weak and fleeting were gone, and the mighty were soon to be riven, as the Wild tore itself apart.

 

This segregation was a facsimile of peace. Divided as they were, the pair of powers, and their creations, were ever fearful of unification. Nature screamed out in a desperate plea, heard only by the Weaver. The beauty of its creation was wasted on this toiling toward no end. It was as if an idea only half realized; a truth unfound in both the joy of living, and the release of death.

 

And so, in the interest of righting things, They took action.

 

Bestowed in secret to each of the Mother and the Father’s creations, was a third blessing: cunning and uncertainty. Weak creations of both powers were washed in poison and guile, lending a fighting chance to their otherwise pitiable forms. Creatures of carrion and resilient fungi were woven, ensuring that, even amidst waste, forward motion could be found. From a creation's very conception, the risk of a horrific end. In the midst of another's final chapter, the sudden upheaval of change, and second chances.

 

When these evolutions took root, only a few of many more to come, the walls between the Aspects came crashing down. At once, the conflicting nature of Life no longer contrasted so harshly against that of Death; a cycle was spun into existence: the Balance. All was bound together in a tapestry most grand, finally complete.

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THE WOVEN WAY: On Absolutes

An excerpt of my own musings on Nature, as well as the mire of thought, cast into obscurity by the ages, that we call Balance.

Spoiler

... Therein lies the ruinous truth of absolutes. In the idolization of Life and Death,
the Weaver found only waste. Tides of choking abundance. Aching fissures

of violence, and want. Harmony in nature was cast eschew, as conformity to foul

ideals left its caretakers hapless- blind. We find salvation from this folly in

the Weaver’s wish, which was for Their sightless siblings to know cunning. That

their creations might don rapier wit, and find unshackled joy in the fleetingly

concrete. Through suffering, through learning, and through change, nature found

unity anew. Uncertainty is a paradoxical gift, ensuring that these cycles churn

ever onward, harmonious even in their ceaseless conflict.

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THE WOVEN WAY: THE ASPECTS (CENTENNIAL: 0101)

This posting details interpretations of Aspectist and Druidic lore that, today, have been suppressed by ignorance and misunderstanding. It is not intended to discredit the beliefs of those that may disagree with its contents. 

 

This interpretation is that of my doctrine: The Woven Way. 

 

Like all other philosophies of its kind, such as the paths sheltered by the Father Circle- the Ichor Way, the Sage’s path, etcetera- the teachings of the Woven Way ultimately concern service in the name of Balance. Any who claim to represent, adhere to, or otherwise work with difference to its beliefs, must do so with this in mind.

 

The Balance, sometimes referred to as a Cycle, or the Design, is the natural state of things as was originally intended by the wild divine. It was a careful agreement struck between those antediluvian powers that we druii serve; yet, I purport that it is not one intended to remain static. That it is, at its heart, a plan to foster our world, rather than drive it to stagnation.

 

This document details how that plan was set into motion, and sheds new light on the entities behind its upkeep.

Spoiler

THE MOTHER

      When creation was first visited by the Aspects, everything began with a seed. This was the blessing of Life, settled upon our world by the Mother. She saw all that was, and its inevitable end beneath the ever ebbing flow of time. The loss of a world so verdant would be abated by her blessing, which called forth growth unending. Everything would be held by her mercy- until it was smothered, choked by its own abundance. There was no room for change in the world she had created, for all that already was would never know its own ending.

 

      The Mother, today, is represented by revelers and celebrants- keepers of tradition. Their means of serving the Balance echo with her mercy, and strength in the face of loss. Further detailing of those dayward-bound, and their work, is best left to their scholars.

 

 

THE HUNTER

 

      When the Mother’s growth began to choke the world of its luster, an answer was found in fear. This was the blessing of Death, settled upon our world by the Hunter. He saw all that had been wrought of mercy, and its inevitable advance: to become a cyst, fattened on creation. By vicious claw and terrible drought, the choke of abundance on the world’s menagerie was halted. Everything would be beaten back by his rage- until it was barren, stripped by needless death. There was no room for change in the world he sought, for all that might have been would never have its own beginning.

 

      The Hunter, today, should be represented by defenders and reclaimers- revilers of luxury. Their means of serving the Balance echo with his rage, and defiance in the face of gluttony. Further detailing of those twilit-kin, and their work, is best left to their scholars.

 

 

THE WEAVER

 

      When the Mother and the Hunter were drawn to a stalemate, and the world was split in twain to two opposing camps, an answer was found in compromise. This was the blessing of Change, settled upon our world by the Weaver. The oldest of the three, they glimpsed a greater design- all that could come to be, and how it could be facilitated by their powers combined. The conflict between beginnings and endings would be abated by their blessing, which built a bridge between the two asynchronous ideals. There was room for change in the world they’d built, for the ending of each thing would surely aid the creation of another.

 

      The Weaver, today, has not the representation they deserve. Where there should be teachers and mediators- architects of fate, there are only rumors of fetid cabals. They do not serve the Balance, and have allowed their perverted beliefs to cleave the Aspects apart. Rumors and revilement rule where cooperation once made its home.

 

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PURPOSE

 

      As I write this, the hours tick over towards my ninetieth ‘birthday’. As was the tradition of my late mother, I have dedicated these next ten years to consolidation and reconciliation. The advent of my centennial will be marked by the adoption of a firm creed, and purpose found therein. I had, at a younger age, deigned to preen my beliefs with the veneer of a repressed visionary. I raged, and- had this post been penned then- would have surely sought to laud about the awesomeness of my faith. I would have scrawled wan creeds and oaths to be posted up, only to fall terribly short of any real philosophy. I would have stood, alone, with the pride of someone backed by the respect of many.

 

      Today, I still harbor that furor. I do not pretend that the dissonance I see in the communities of my kin, my sibling druids, and my eclectic alliances, does not leave me bitter. But now, I am opting to approach it with patience befitting the responsibility of my position. I know I stand alone. As such, the sole purpose of this writing is to educate. To suggest the possibility of beliefs insofar left to derision, and welcome others to inquire further.

 

      If this offends you, or riles some bloodlust, beware. Continuing to obfusticate the truth of our past - continuing to hide the existence of a power such as Theirs - is to serve that dissonance. You further the intentions of deceivers and perverted cannibals else, by treating the Weaver as some great and terrible secret. There is no mysticism to be found in hiding so simple a truth. There is no result to be garnered by it, save the sin of deicide.

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A RECORD OF SORROW: The Schism

Words wrought of my mother’s memory, scribed above in a labor of love, once leveled towards my kin. This is a more complete recollection of her words.

Spoiler

What was once a charitable people scattered like roaches into crevasse, clan, and cairn alike, seeking shelter in the places where none others go save for need. Mali’ wrought for themselves an existence of cruelty and fear, despising each other within their hearts- for they each served as an eternal reminder of their fallen state. Our sire was gone and they were now hunted, surviving each day in huddled terror and abundant mistrust. 
 

Rue the day that wrath burned hotly enough in one of our kin’s bellies to spur them towards revenge. For as swiftly as a hand was raised to lash out in violence, we were damned to shrivel and die from within.

 

Mali’ perished in resentment and gratitude at their falling, to be forgotten to time. Memories that would not survive until all had been lost to the mind of the people. Eking out life over millennia, they survived through genocides within their frightened herds. Their schism, a scar which riddled their collective consciousness. 

 

The greatest consolation to our people now, lies in the fact that ours is not the first culture to fall from grace. To lie in waste by an unjust hand. That our enemies will too taste that bite, someday.

The comfort this thought brings is one of ashen taste. In fact, only bitterness seeps from it. Where divided peoples might sit fat and glum, wishing evermore to relive their greatest triumphs over some perceived threat. Many seek only to feel again- a morsel of the success they imagined to be resting at their journey’s end, only to discover that it was never there to be tasted.

 

How far away will such accomplishment hide? Even now, the tears of relief evade our greatest efforts. Will we truly continue, weak as we are? Knowing that what we yearn to do, shall be in vain, when this hunger reminds us of loss eternal?

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A RECORD OF SORROW: To My Siblings

While not the first of my missives toward this sentiment, this served as one of my most pointed. It was a spark, lit by the igniting clash of my siblings' hate.

Spoiler

“... And so, in the interest of righting things, They took action. Bestowed in secret to each creation of the Mother, and the Father, was a third blessing: cunning.”

The Woven Way [Excerpt]


 

     This writing will be plain. It is directed to the scattered sects of druids across the land- as well as any sworn onto the mission of the Aspects three- and further still, any that live amidst, or under the persecution of these siblings, mine.

     I have settled on myself a self-exile from the Vale of Nevaehlen, home of the Father Circle. The simplest explanation is found in my dissatisfaction with your leaders, and your treatment of those that err against these too-rigid rules. It was a message left unread, an honest plea, written off by an insular people as sacrilege- or worse, gossip. This is ultimately of little concern.

     But now it has begun to encroach on my freedoms, and purpose, in tending to nature’s balance.

     I speak with a singular man, who is cursed by the draconic brood, for the sole purpose of learning. He has taught me well of how to defeat his wretched kin, and likewise how the influence of their corruption can be abated. I associate with others that your denizens rightfully shun. These too, for the express purpose of learning. 

     They despoil my name with accusations of collusion with the Titan, and its chosen servants. They use these dreaded things as a reason to bare their fangs, and ward me away from my work. From cooperation with others of our same creed.

     It is the way of those twilight-kin to sit huddled close, and recluse. To venture out only in a readiness to hunt, and destroy the malefic things of this world when they deem it necessary

     It is the way of our dayward-bound brethren to raise spirits and nourish new generations. With song, celebration, and ancient rite.

     It is my way, night-woven as I am, to reach out to the unseen dark. To know all I might, and work as a socialite, a teacher, without regard for nation, nor name. Ultimately, the balance cannot be wholly tended by those that rely on dated-texts and frightful tales to inform their fledgling few.

     We are splintered and disorganized as an Order; yet, it is my suspicion that, were we not, this message still would not call some rise to moot and meeting. I will seclude myself with my Work with this in mind. Let this be a message to those that vilify me now- and those that might, should my name ever be associated with something more than crazed, meaningless posts.

     If you cannot realize the wealth of goodness, and prosperity this will lend in the centuries to come, I implore you to live up to your threats: 

 

UNATTUNE ME. Kill me. Prove you are slaves to your hate, and that it is your prejudice that speaks for the Aspects in these trying times.

 

SIGNED,

SISTER DREAD

 

A cow's tongue, ripped to be forked and charred black, has been nailed to the bottom of each post. The eerie 'address' still oozes with some foul ichor, and may induce a hiss of unnatural anxiety in onlookers.

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OOC:

man...

Edited by thequeennadine
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Somewhere, in a grove most unlike a grove, a wily forest creature hails gods older than time.

Edited by Incandescent
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A mother sets to hunting the crone's works with a vengeful ferocity not issued to one such task since her youth.

In the depths of a grotto, the webbed compilation begins to grow.

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