Birdman

Happy trails to you Proddy Free yourself from the cycle of character rebirths and achieve moksha by leaving LOTC behind.

You're doing God's work Treshure, thank you for this.

Havelock strokes his prematurely grey beard. "A road is made by people walking it." he remarks. "God be with us."

THE CYCLES OF HISTORY I tell you, my kinsmen: this world of ours that we walk today will pass away, just as all the others before it. Do you really think it could be otherwise? The sun rises and the sun sets, the moon hides her face and smiles, the stars march relentlessly along their heavenly courses, each returning again to its own, each again in its proper time. Are gods and men so different than these? Within the lifetime of a single generation, the land we have called our home will sink into the sea, leaving us beggars and vagabonds once again. We run ashore on a new continent, planting our flags, building cities, fortresses, temples. But there is no escape from black time- did Arcas escape her jaws? Or Anthos? Or even Aegis, our noble mother, our childhood home? So it has been since days of old- the cosmic clock will strike the hour, the gates of hell will open wide, and a new menace will emerge from its cursed womb to devour us once again. And so it shall be for you, for this vain life of yours, and so it shall be for your children, and for your grandchildren, and for theirs... On and on, without ceasing or deviation- an endless chain, infinite perhaps! With nothing to mark a stop, nothing to build or hope for. No final resting place, no completion. Only repetition. Only more. Kinsmen, see this world of ours for what it is. You own nothing. Nothing that your hands touch will save you from the fate that awaits us. Nothing can protect you from it- not the highest walls. Nothing can distract you from it- not the sweetest melody. All that you build will be destroyed, sinking once more into the churning flux from whence it came. Talk to our elders- what do they tell you? Read the history of our realm- what do you see? Rex follows Rex, war follows war, the Empire rises, falls, rises again. The same names, the same bloodlines, appear again and again, playing out the same conflicts without fail. We are no different than the stars above us, nor from the great forces that wipe our worlds away. We too keep to our courses, running over the same old ground, spurred on by the same fears, desires, hatreds, loves. For that which has been is that which shall be, and all things return to their birthplace in the end. There is no escape from these cycles, kinsmen. Only acceptance. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- LIBERATION OF THE SPIRIT There are many well-tread paths to escape the meaninglessness of this life, but there are two that our people take to like birds to the sky. THE PATH OF WAR Embrace your bloodlust, kinsmen. Embrace the dark gift that is your inheritance. In the glories of battle, many have found deliverance from their suffering, and redemption from a life marked by idleness or misdeeds. War can elevate the spirit- instilling discipline, courage, and selflessness into those who serve her faithfully. The quickening of the mind and the overflow of the heart that combat brings- these banish all thoughts of tomorrow. When you lock eyes with a worthy foe, hear your sword crash against his, feel sinew and bone give way beneath a well-placed strike- yes, when Enhrok takes full possession of your spirit, and you stand over the bloody heap of steel and flesh that was once your enemy- that is freedom, kinsmen, for the raptures of war are their own reward. There are no questions of purpose in the demands of the present moment, for one feels nothing but immediate awareness of danger or safety, pain or pleasure, victory or defeat. All are consumed in the eternal Now. THE PATH OF CONTEMPLATION Another path beckons to our people, as ancient and primordial as the warrior tradition. At the dread feet of a shrine, in the warm darkness of a cave, or alone on the highest mountain peak, our people have found release and completion in this world. The shamans have instructed our folk in devotion to beings higher than ourselves, and have guided many through the spiritual labyrinths that await us in the next life. Others have found peace in stillness, renouncing the ties that bind us to the world of everyday appearance, emptying and perfecting their souls to make them vessels of a mysterious Power. The two paths are not so different as they first appear. Each demands an ascetic’s discipline, and each promises a blessed forgetfulness- a subsuming of the self into something greater and nobler- freedom from the ceaseless turnings of the world-wheel.

THE REALITY OF FORCE Words can trick, mislead, even blind us- but not deeds. Remember, kinsmen, you are what is. Your actions are bound to the Totality; they play a small part in shaping the world into its present form. For what is the world today but the sum total of all our works, and all those of our ancestors? When you forge a new blade in the smithy, when you unleash terror upon a battlefield, when you hold a newborn cub in your arms- that, kinsmen, is Truth- Truth right before your eyes! Is there any doubt, deception, or ambiguity in actual experience? Only the tangible can be trusted, kinsmen. Force: the power to do- this alone is real. What makes things so? Making them so makes them so. What makes them not so? Making them not so makes them not so. A road is made by people walking it. The world belongs to the strong, to those who can act. Some elves believe they have been cursed twice, that immortality is a burden too great to bear without succumbing to madness. But verily I say to you kinsmen, that the orcish race has been blessed twice. They say that bloodlust is damning because it turns us into monsters, without soul, conscience, or honor. But can fire not devour whole cities and still not be satisfied? Does it not take more lives in a day than the greatest warrior could hope to in a century? And yet, do we not call fire the great gift? That which separates us from the beasts, that which we share with the dragons alone? Like fire, our bloodlust can be befriended, tempered, but never tamed. Yes kinsmen, there will always be a wildness in you that escapes the jurisdiction of your mind. You will never be as docile as human soldiers in their neat little lines, or a spindly elf in his library. For you possess a power that they will never understand; even the best of them live only in shallow imitation of it. No other race is born for war - it can take half a lifetime to prepare a man, elf, or dwarf for that which an orc is ready, even craving, by their tenth year. And that is why they hide behind words. I have peered deep into the hearts of their historians, the veritable army of lawyers and scribes that hang off the sleeves of great men- and what did I find? Only fear, a deep and slavish fear. And worst of all- fear of that which they claim to serve: the truth! Visit a library, open a dusty tome, and any discerning reader will be struck by how much of what passes for their history are lies. Names, places, even entire wars are conjured out of thin air in service of the author’s agenda. Details are smudged, re-arranged, “tidied up,” in order to hide the truth, the terrible truth, that our distant kin have long forgotten but the sons of Krug have always known: Force is the final arbiter. History becomes messier, and yet all at once more simple once you perceive this clearest of patterns which all their frenzied scribbling does its best to obscure. Thus the recent obsession with legal codes. When a people is no longer capable of honor, they turn instead to law. But for all of their prattle, the structure that undergirds their societies is no different than it was when the Wandering Wizard walked among us. When you vote, you are borrowing authority guaranteed by the state, an institution that exists only as long as its armies keep foreign powers at bay. In other words, you are exercising force. Therefore, I say to you my kinsmen: hold fast to the ways of our people. Do not be impressed or deceived by the verbal edifices of other lands, for they are only so much breath and parchment. Pay your respects to the spirits and the ancestors, for they will guide you on the path to wisdom. And remember: it will be deeds, not words, that keep you walking on the way of Honor

THE VANITY OF WORDS The world is One. Before thoughts, before words, there is only the one, undifferentiated mass. Nothing exists independently of anything else- things appear as they are because of their relation to all other things. This totality, this wholeness, this One- that kinsmen, is Truth. That is the only Truth there ever could be, for It is all that exists, and all that ever could exist. What then are words? Do we not say that one speaks the truth? When someone pulls the wool over our eyes, do we not call him a liar? Must Truth not take at least temporary residence in one’s writing or speech? Words are just wind kinsmen, no different than the chirping of birds or the howling of wolves. They do not inhabit some special realm of their own- a spectral dimension of knowledge, forms, and arithmetic- posited by philosophers, but seen by no one. They hang together like everything else, fellow members of the endless web of cause and effects that binds us all. No words, spoken or written, will ever capture the Totality. To try and use them for such would be like casting a net over the sky. One can never speak the Truth, one can only speak of the Truth. All that we say or think (for no thought can escape the form of language,) expresses but a puny fragment of the whole of reality, the One Truth. The meaning of a word is determined by the meanings of other words, the objects to which they refer are conditioned by their relations to other objects- all shifting, all changing, never the same… Meaning is an endless maze kinsmen, there is no bottom to the question, no way out of the tangle. Spoken or written language can only ever be an approximation; a useful tool, indispensable even, but nothing more. In a way kinsmen, we are all of us liars- for try as we might, we are condemned never to speak the Truth. Therefore I say to you: Do not speak when you can remain silent. Never talk when you could act. Remember that all words deceive.

THE PARABLE OF THE DUNES A young uruk was wandering alone across the desert. Full to the brim with cunning and ambition, he had left home with nothing more than his sword and sufficient rations to reach the Rexdom’s eastern border. There, he would raise a mighty warband- strong enough to crush the militias guarding the frontier villages, and loyal enough to follow him on a daring raid into the rich Imperial heartland. With the loot from his conquests, he would construct a fortress bigger and more impenetrable than Kodar’Goi itself- no, it would be bigger! From his new headquarters, he would wage a savage war of conquest upon Krugmar, and his foes would fall like blades of grass before him- yes, fall like wheat before a scythe. While his warriors were making short work of the Krughai, he would handle the Rex personally- and before the eyes of all his kinsfolk, he would grind the Rex into the sand, taking the ancient mantle for himself. His hordes would stream forth from the desert’s edge, laying waste to entire armies, exacting tribute from every foe that had ever dared to cross the War Uzg. And how they would worship him, yes, how they would worship him then. His name would be on the lips of the orcish race for all time… Fevered mind lost entirely to the world of dreams, the young uruk hardly noticed his slow drift off the course he had carefully charted that morning in the Goi. Straying further and further from the proper route, it wasn’t until the pricklers of a cactus pierced his bare skin that he awoke with a start in the present moment. First confusion struck, then shame, then rage at his foolish mistake- ah, but then! As his eyes took in the scene before him, the young uruk’s heart grew still and calm, for true beauty can bring peace to the most restless of souls. Before him lay the most alluring range of dunes he had ever seen. All thought of his idleness fled from his mind as the uruk was overtaken with excitement. Here he would build his Kodar’Goi! Here is where the conquests would begin! The desert has its own sort of beauty- a starkness and a vastness that has no equal under the sun, except perhaps in the tundra wastes of the North. An emptiness that seeps into one’s soul, turning every thought into an echo. The sandscape before the young uruk captured this elusive spirit with perfection, and before his mind’s eye, the dunes were being filled with buildings of a grand design. Here would be his feasting hall, and there the outer wall would begin! The campfire here, a shrine there, and ahh- the perfect place for a klomping pit! The young uruk paced dreamily among the dunes, exploring them, naming them, and delighting in his fantasy for the remainder of the day. Just as the red sun touched down on the horizon, a sharp wind whirled in from the west, chilling the young uruk to the bone. The wind was picking up- faster, faster, and faster still. Robes swirling about him in a mini sandstorm, the uruk made for the beckoning entrance of a cave not far from the treasured dunes. Taking shelter behind a row of stalagmites to conserve his meager warmth, the young uruk settled in for a cold and uneasy night. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- He rose with the sun, eager to be off on his way. As the young uruk cast a final backwards glance towards his future headquarters- he stopped, face darkening, crestfallen at what he saw. Where the dunes had once been, there was nothing. The wind had taken it all.

Reserved

What is your favorite quote?

Idries Irulan wanders dreamily around the Providence streets. A gentle smile marks his face, and his air of contentment strikes those passersbys that he encounters on his saunter towards the front gates. Atop a stack of yellowing parchment in his old chambers sits a ministerial ring, bearing the seal of the Orenian Foreign Affairs Office. Beside it rests an unkempt pile of unfinished paperwork, letters unsealed and unsent, drafts of bills, treaties, diplomatic assignments.... As he passes beneath the city portcullis, the guard on watch might catch a few whispered words beneath Idries’ breath: “Vanity of vanities, vanity of vanities, all is vanity…”

“Good to see you here on this day, brother. We shall begin quite simply. What is your name?” Morgant. “How old are you?” 27 years. “This question is obvious, but it is for the sake of these records. What race of the descendants are you of?” I am human. “You are able to read and write, am I right?” I can. “And with that, I hope you are familiar with the Holy Scrolls and Catechism of our Church?” Yes. “You are of course baptized?” My father wished that I be baptized at birth, and so I was. “Good, good. Are you married? Do you have children?” I am not married, and I do not have children. “In what way of the clergy do you wish to serve? As a Priest, or a Monastic?” As a priest. “This really depends on the needs of the Church, but in what Diocese would you prefer to serve in? You can simply name a city or Kingdom.” Anywhere will do. I do not hail from any place in particular, so I submit to the Church's needs. “A rather personal question, why have you chosen to walk this path in God?” It is what God intends for me. “And lastly, are you truly devoted to this way of life? Prepared to take any vows involved with ordination and commit oneself to this lifetime bond with the Lord Almighty?” I am. Whatever must be sworn, I will swear.

ON BEAUTY Many who wrestle with unbelief become preoccupied with notions of proof for God’s existence. These anxious souls insist that an ironclad, mathematically sound syllogism is the only antidote for their doubting, and until such proof sits before their minds, they cannot embrace the faith with sincerity. Good men and women, blessed by God with sharp and critical minds, your situation is that of the Lishan monkey. Rheynari hunters have devised a fiendishly simple way of trapping these creatures, which I hope you will find instructive. First, they find a gourd and drill a small hole in the bottom. Into the hole goes a piece of fruit, and the rest of the gourd is filled with sand and gravel to give it weight. The hunters leave the trap in a place that monkeys are known to frequent, and then they wait. This is how the trap works: the hole is small enough for the monkey’s empty hand to pass through, but once it grasps the treat inside the gourd, the clenched fist becomes too large for the monkey to pull it out. Driven as it is by instinct, the monkey cannot understand its predicament, and will cling stubbornly to its prize until clubbed to death by the hunter. If it only knew that it was exchanging freedom for a trifle, that all it had to do was let go. As long as you cling to the hope that some clever philosopher will solve the riddle for you, you will never be free to love God as He intended. Like the monkey, it will be your stubbornness and inflexibility that spell your doom, for you are caught in a trap of your own making. To frame your problem as an absence of proof is to look at the situation all wrong. Knowing God is not a matter of understanding, it is a matter of perception. One does not prove God or discover God- one sees God, one experiences God. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- As the moon borrows all of its luminosity from the greater light of the sun, so does the world borrow all of its beauty from the Heavens above. All that is truly good on this earth belongs to God, not to man You doubters- go not to the house of the theologian or the scholar- no, seek out the artists! The sculptors, the musicians, the painters, potters, and poets. Marvel at the architecture of a grand cathedral, lose yourself in a stained-glass scene. And do not think that the sublime is restricted to works of art- when witnessing a deed done with kindness and purity of heart, when the mountains strike you with their terrible majesty, when you look into the eyes of your newborn child- brothers and sisters, there too is beauty found, there too will you find God. And if your mind longs after patterns and constancy, you will not be disappointed. For there is a grand design at work here, a symphony in which we all play a part. But you will not capture it in words, or tether it with your mind. You will never read the conductor’s score, but if you listen, you can hear His music. -Neophyte Morgant, 1808.

-snip-

Similar, but with some key differences. Those cursed with true sight see souls caught in the Elysium Wastes, whether they want to or not. Fordmakers can contact souls from the Seven Skies, and it is a choice. I will gladly emphasize this distinction in the post though, thank you for pointing this out to me!