Siege upon the Senses | E.V. Kortrevich

[CopOwl 1668]

SIEGE UPON THE SENSES

 

Spoiler

One or the other :)
https://youtu.be/Y6bych3P8Uc

https://youtu.be/tr9-EFVYfiU

 

 

Nestled away within the peaks of the frozen north, the City of Valdev lay bare its inhabitants to the Blizzard. The Blizzard and the City were at war, and the Blizzard was winning. Many of the citizens of Valdev had lost sight of how long the Blizzard had been wreaking its chaos on them; the young had grown with it, and the old had forgotten life before it. One morning the tempestuous snowfall erupted from the chalky clouds gathered above without warning; arising from magickal means.

 

Great swaths of wintry matter carpeted the streets and houses as colossal freezing spikes of ice and niveous material erupted from the pavements alike a volcanic peak emerging from the seabed. Soon enough, the hardy Haeseni were strangling themselves in scarves, and overlaying each garment with slabs of insulating fur before venturing into the constant snowy cloudburst hovering just outside the firelit safety of each domicile. The basilica doors were shut, the taverns were boarded, and fireplaces were alight all over the city as each citizen dug in to survive the ongoing nightmare.

 

 

Although the City had not caught a glimpse of the exiled sun for months, the operations of the Haeseni continued with as sunny a disposition as ever. Few lost the battle to the Blizzard, but those who did were remembered fondly and burnt; in celebration of their lives, and to remind the survivors who they died for.

 

As the flames of the funeral pyre licked at the logs amidst the squall, they emitted a warm glow that represented, for many, Hope.

 

 

Any external endeavour became more difficult than ever, and messengers soon learnt not to dawdle on their journey as they may once have. Those traversing the streets stooped, bundled in hats and scarves, with their shoulders offering counsel to the ears as they hurried furiously onwards through the tempest to a veritable galaxy of diverse destinations. Stories echoed through dimly lit taverns describing the boy whose uncovered ears came off when he arrived in Valdev, or the old man whose collapsed body in the snow became icily encased thoroughly enough to replace a broken palace step, being buried and unnoticeable under so much snow. Such myths of horror filled the imaginations of the unfortunate pilgrims hiking through the desolate cobbled avenues as the gnawing teeth of the wind bit at their skin with burnt needling pin-pricks.

 

 

Nevertheless, as the furious flurries slammed against the frosted windows, a very heated battle was taking place inside one of the most prominent tavern's walls. The child felt like they had been there for weeks rather than hours; sat impatiently by the fire as muffled sounds had emanated from within a locked bedroom, strange figures had rushed about, and the Blizzard's anguished screams echoed through the streets all the while. 

 

Their anxious fingers rapped against the leg of their stool as blank figures rushed past them and out of sight once more. Enquiries were made, until a shrill voice rang out throughout the room and the fire crackled; the fiery figure's face lit by flame. “Nie one ****ing asks!” Matching them, the other person rebutted their shouts until the pair were engaged in a battle of furious wills – who would crumble first under the other's ire? The child watched all of this in horrified rapture; what had sparked this pillar of vengeful fire they saw before them?

 

Their face grew red and hot from the intense heat of the scene of burning bloodshed before them. Only people with such fierce love between them could inflict pain of this scale on one another; is this the fate to befall all who care so deeply? The child, frightened by the display, clasps their clammy hands over their ears, burying their head to distance themselves from the fight. Their heart ached with the weight of betrayal and rejection, and they thought of the whispers about that old man. Maybe he, like them, had felt so burdened by the struggles of life that he had simply laid down for the winter storm to embrace him, a mother greeting her child once again, and felt the life drain from his husked soul.

 

Eventually, the child's turbulent emotions washed over them and the pain they felt from watching their loved ones tear each other limb from limb became too great; they lifted their rubicund head, grief-stricken tears slipping down their rounded cheeks, and shouted: “STOP!” They cried out, “Just stop! Please stop fighting-!” And, like the child, the Blizzard's mistral roared as the tavern creaked under the strain…

 

 

The following piece of poetry is published, reflecting on the ongoing blizzard:

 

“SIEGE UPON THE SENSES”

BY ELENA VIORICA KORTREVICH

504 E.S.

 

In Piov the high skies grew nebulous,

Winds whistled while ground shew tremulous,

And parents and progeny grieved,

'God is punishing us' they cried,

As I wonder why I have not died.

 

Pocketed in the fires crackle, 

As clans and cads alike collect, 

They fester like a beetle’s nest, 

Packed closely in by house arrest, 

While rowdy outwinds yip in jest. 

 

Through the rows the squall raced by, 

The cyclone shrieked a pained reply, 

Blankets of snow cloaked the ground, 

Woe betide, for those outside, 

Lost bearing and drowned.

 

While the blizzard shrieks, so do I; 

To douse the striking sound, 

As ferocious rioting ‘rupts around, 

My fam’ly ties all but torn, 

As we pray for coming dawn.

 

Its fate Haense has accepted, 

A solution we’ve neglected, 

One morn soon the day shall come, 

When we’ll warm by glowing sun, 

So death upon this snow-filled bomb!

 

[Wavey 1446]

Benedict read the published poem with a smile. He reread it again, and then again. He was not reading it the first time of course. He remembered the time when Elena had recited this poem to him when they were baking back in Mondstadt. Each words complemented the other and each stanza flowed rhythmically like a gentle river. Even in a poem about a crisis, it was still soothing to read it in such rhythm. 

[erictafoya 2309]

Leonid looked upon the genius work of ART that his dear cousin published. It seems the new age of Kortrevich and Haeseni artwork would flourish in his time.

[garentoft 8353]

An old man far away across the seas sheds a tear, "It is good that the artists still prosper." He murmured.