Centennial 0101: The Aspects, Three

[thequeennadine 311]

  

Spoiler

 

THE WOVEN WAY

On The Aspects, Three

 

“Woe. Weal. And everything that might lie in between.”

 

---

---

A FOREWORD:

 

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.

 

---

---

THE MOTHER:

 

When our world 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.

---

---

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. 

---

---

SIGNED,

Dubh Ainmhí. The Oracle, Dread. Daughter of Truth. Voice of the Great Owl, Idol of Knowledge & Wisdom.

[DISCOLIQUID 1956]

A concerned, sheep-haired Bard patted his partner on the back. "Very proud of you, mayilu. Now please, the lumine."

 

[Lhindir_ 3436]

Somewhere deep, tucked away from the world, an old elf got his hands on this note. And so he read. 

[amongus 337]

 

From a quiet room in the west, a sleepless and sickened dark elf clutched a copy of the sheet tightly within his grasp. He scrutinized the contents of this Woven Way, a series of hacking coughs leaving his lungs after every sentence read. As that headache of his grew worse and worse, the nails of his fingers clawed deeper into his temple. The enfeebled bard managed to call out only three desperate words to the open air. "Please, stop screaming."

 

Spoiler

Atul Cerusil stood brooding at the top of the castle within his meeting hall, reading the notice all noble-like and angrily. In a haughty grumble, he muttered to himself. "Real."