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| A Common Music; Hiram <3 | |
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| Topic Started: Aug 13 2016, 08:41 PM (202 Views) | |
| Ylsa | Aug 13 2016, 08:41 PM Post #1 |
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For as long as space endures/ For as long as living beings remain/ Until then may I too abide/ To dispel the misery of the world...
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The night was crowned with stars. Along the road, a solitary paper lantern bobbed easily, fragrant smoke trailing in a pale haze behind a lone traveler. Lone, but not lonely: there were a thousand voices tonight. Ylsa could hear them in her heart, spirits of the land and of the heavens come to earth, all singing a moonlit serenade to the fireflies and sleeping roses. She had always been enamored by Morrim's rugged beauty. In her restless youth she had come here to forget her home life, to challenge the Do'suul mountains. She had not counted on the deadly journey to make her remember rather than forget, important things she had long since forgotten. The mountains had nearly killed her, but memory had saved her. Memory, and nights like this, when the stars were out and dancing for her pleasure. The wind blew, a sudden chill that tugged her robes and hair. She closed her eyes and spread her arms wide, soaking in the breeze and delighting in the goosebumps that followed. She imagined that her body no longer existed, that she was the breeze. Her mind melted away, and her steps carried her while she was not looking. After a few moments, her footfalls faded from gravel to soft moss and earth, and she stopped, but did not open her eyes. Instead, she listened to the voices of the kami and spirits of the earth. Change; cold rice; the red cord; play that song again... The voices overlapped, weaving in and out of each other in a symphonic stream of consciousness. She had been hearing them speak since the dawn of time, experiencing only short years in each life wherein she could not hear them. The loneliness of such silence was suffocating to her -- but the noise could be equally overwhelming for others. She smiled, and tossed out a few thoughts of her own: Kiss the sky; uncork the good wine; I walk among you again. She sank to the floor of the grove, setting down her lantern, her modest wicker pack, and the pipa she had brought with her. This looked to be someone's property, but she wasn't being terribly invasive, and if they asked she would of course leave immediately. The protective silken cloth that held the instrument was carefully unwrapped and set aside. "It's just that you're all so fun to spend time with," She said to the subtle voices. Now, she would join them: a new batch of incense was lit, and she settled with her back against a tree, and began to play. ((OOC: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=spMzC8vgjKQ )) |
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| Hiram Jollenbeck | Aug 17 2016, 10:07 PM Post #2 |
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...Even to wear such knowledge--for our flesh/ surrounds us with its own decisions--/ and yet spend all our lives on imprecisions,/ that when we start to die/ have no idea why.
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At the end of the day, he was happy to be back in Morrim. Father Jollenbeck had discussed his theological ideas with Lord Hathaway over dinner, but his tongue had handled the subject clumsily and he had found the words hollow. Of late he found it increasingly difficult to talk of God with civilized words. Perhaps it was himself and his age and his ebbing faith, or perhaps it was the Morrimian air reminding him of the Vespasian that he had met in the mountains at Blumenthal. That was a wild god, always within and never without, of whom silly men flourishing their forks over delicate food could not speak. James was good company, and pure. Even Hiram could look into his eyes, look into his heart, and know that he was unmarred; his wife was happy, his two sons were benevolently mischievous, and he had no guilt to weigh down his chest when he slept at night. It wasn't him at all, then. Hiram had merely needed a walk out in the air, because it had been some time since he had walked the lands that had first given him to God. Hiram had missed the Do'Suul and in some silly part of his soul -- still alive with the memories of his childhood, before this, before anything -- he imagined that it had missed him. Though Lord Hathaway's estate was not in the mountains (and indeed, it would be generous to say that it was in the foothills) the great mountain range still touched it with its winds' long, slender fingers. A certain sharp smell came off of the whistling peaks; even here, Hiram caught it in whiffs. Unaccompanied now, he felt that the great map of stars above would swallow him. Bless them, bless them all! he thought, and for a moment his throbbing heart seemed it would explode out of his chest. He had walked far enough from the Hathaway estate that the psychic buzz of it was little more than a distant ache. How could this be? In Orl'Kabbar, every step took one closer to the babbling brook of someone's mind. Now it was dark and his mind was finally allowed to be quiet, and the wind brushed over his cheeks and tugged at his hair. He pulled his light silk caftan closer about him with fingers chilled but strangely warm, all at once; everything around him seemed moist and heavy, but the breeze filled his lungs and made his throat burn. With his muscles relaxed, his lungs swelling easily and his stomach at peace, he felt oddly unaware of himself. If he shut his eyes and walked lightly and listened to the rustle of the leaves, he could nearly pretend that he was a spirit himself, at home in the trunks of trees and their swelling branches, at rest in the oldest soil. Not a government official with responsibilities. Not an empath. Not even a man. He sucked in a breath through his nose and smiled. Lady Hathaway's wisteria must be in bloom. As he walked further and further away from the estate, a winding melody reached him, muffled on the breeze. It was elegant and simple, the plucking of some strings, and foreign -- and familiar. At times it sounded not unlike a Morrimian bouzouki, but at times its mysterious player could make it sound like a quivering babble, like a stream toppling down over rocks. Where have I heard this before? he thought, and then caught sight of the paper lantern. Images flooded through his mind: swarming docks, tired faces, the gutting of fish. Trembling old hands. He remembered -- distant islands, gossip of visitors and traders from the mainland, husband cooking fish, a single young daughter giggling... Suddenly the air smelled of incense; suddenly the meandering, bending melody was a point of familiarity, all of it drawing him in, filling and surrounding him. "Is -- are you --" He was startled by the sound of his own voice -- looked down and was startled by his hands, small and thick-fingered, covered in whirls of dark hair. This is wrong, he thought, and could not remember who he was. Panic flooded him; it tightened his chest. He could sense another person, an aura that made him want to be calm. It made all of his muscles twitch and loosen, then tighten, then loosen: he could not decide if his confusion was worth the adrenaline, if this stranger was kind or wicked. Kiss the sky... uncork the good wine... "Who is it? Who is there?" And then he remembered more -- he remembered how when he was on his way back to their home by the docks, skittering through the streets late at night, afraid but tough -- a tough old woman -- how there had been a spirit, and a great strangeness, a darkness... How they told stories of vengeful spirits, and how she was afraid of a woman with long black hair, even though she had wronged no one... There was a woman sitting there, hair lit silvery by the light of the lantern, face a bloom of ghostly white. She was nothing like the memories that bloomed and bled in Hiram's mind. He could not separate himself from his borrowed memories -- was he Hiram, or was he the Daroan fishwife that had brushed his hand in Angkar? "Vespasian," he breathed, and he was Hiram, standing cold and confused in front of the impossibly ancient woman and her pipa. The fishwife's memories seized in his muscles, made his lips quiver despite the beauty of the melody and the calmness of the stranger's aura. "O-O-O-Onryō?" Edited by Hiram Jollenbeck, Aug 17 2016, 10:15 PM.
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| Ylsa | Aug 21 2016, 12:27 AM Post #3 |
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For as long as space endures/ For as long as living beings remain/ Until then may I too abide/ To dispel the misery of the world...
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”Vespasian.” Ylsa looked up from her playing, the last notes hanging on the air like the smoke that carried it. She took in the sight of her visitor, who, oddly enough, she had not sensed coming. She had never seen him before – he had a look of earnesty about him, and felt… Well, that’s strange. For a moment she could swear there was someone else with him, but no; it was just him. But he felt somehow greater than he was, like… like something trying to come out of a shell, yet trying desperately to hold itself in. How unpleasant that must b— ”O-O-O-Onryō?” Ylsa flinched slightly, as if the word struck her – but just as quickly recovered. The days of it being a dirty word, something to be ashamed of, were over; it was only upsetting to relive the feeling of someone being terrified of her, something she worked very hard to make sure people didn’t feel. Not wanting to disturb this poor, rattled stranger, she remained sitting and put out a hand in a subtle gesture of peace. “No,” She replied. “A long time ago, perhaps. But not anymore.” He was a curious figure, small, but seeming so much smaller by the slant of his soft shoulders, with a quiet intensity to his gaze. His modest garb suggested some sort of scholarly life, or perhaps a religious one. Such details, however were insignificant: it was the feel of the overflowing quality of his spirit that caught her attention, and the fact that he had called her out on her inner identity. No one, not one person in this incarnation, had ever been able to identify her so quickly and surely. It was… unsettling, in a way. Ylsa, who was not used to being anything other than a mystery, felt exposed and vulnerable, as though he already knew her True Name. But at the moment, he looked more startled than she felt. “I won’t harm you,” She tried to reassure him, then tipping her head slightly. “You know what I… was. Could it be that you can… see me?” It was a wild possibility, and a fascinating one. One that would have been unlikely, had it not been for the fact that he clearly knew – whether he could See her or not. |
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| Hiram Jollenbeck | Aug 22 2016, 04:43 PM Post #4 |
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...Even to wear such knowledge--for our flesh/ surrounds us with its own decisions--/ and yet spend all our lives on imprecisions,/ that when we start to die/ have no idea why.
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Hiram drifted out of his strange mixed state in much the same way as he would ebb from a panicked frenzy. He looked at the woman and her pipa, himself feeling fragile and chilled; he watched her flinch without knowing why. A word had just come out of his mouth -- what was it? It was not some gibberish-word, some tic, some exercise for the mouth: it had meaning, but why had he said it? That nauseating feeling of having-seen-this-before-as-someone-else had not quite left his bones and they ached with a memory that wasn't his. That she had stopped playing her instrument, however, went a good ways toward returning him to himself. A long time ago, perhaps. But not anymore. A chill rolled down his spine; despite the humid heat of the nighttime air, the hairs on his arms prickled. This time he himself flinched, unable to meet her gaze as she studied him. Instead, he studied her dress: it looked like no Morrimian dress he had ever seen, nor Sotoan, nor Ashokan, though he felt he had seen it before. At the docks in Zedrin, in fact, he thought, and struggled to remember. Ah! Merchant's wives from a distant land called Daro had worn them, and as a young man, he'd thought they were quite fetching. Is that where those memories come from? Daro? But why? At her reassurance, he blinked and looked at her again, inclining his head. His cheeks grew hot. This wouldn't be the first time he had gotten lost in someone's garden, wandering and babbling madly, and this time he had given himself away for the freak that he was. His heartbeat quickened and his chest tightened, but he steadied himself on the gentle sound of her voice and the smell of incense; he forced himself to reply to her strange half-inquiry. It was as if he were in a daze. "I'm sorry -- I... see a great many things. I see something..." Hiram shut his eyes and forced his tired mind to probe: he breathed in the color blue, endless black tresses, flesh the color of a corpse. A blossom of soft red. It was barely a breath, a limping lisp fluttering between his teeth: "Each hair a hook, every single long black hair..." Eyes like the gold-leaf in a manuscript-- He recoiled, nearly gasping, but remembered the gentleness of her words: I won't harm you. Now he looked at her again with his heavy eyebrows drawn, a wince carved into his face. "Who are you?" He knotted one small hand in the cloth over his chest, his heart a hammering cacophony of confusion. "Why are you here in Lord Hathaway's garden? What does that word mean? Onryō? I'm sorry. I'm sorry but I..." He pressed one palm to his stinging-hot forehead, letting out a quiet grunt. |
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| Ylsa | Aug 22 2016, 05:48 PM Post #5 |
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For as long as space endures/ For as long as living beings remain/ Until then may I too abide/ To dispel the misery of the world...
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“Shh, it’s all right,” Ylsa set her pipa down and stood, offering him a smile. He seemed so afraid, so confused, and it made her heart ache to see him struggle, stranger though he was. She reached out and rested a hand on his shoulder, trying to keep her energy as reigned in as possible so as not to disturb him further. “Breathe easy. Come, sit – I have wine, if you partake, perhaps it will help a little. I’m afraid it’s Sotoan,” She added for some humor to break a bit of the ice. “But it should do. I also have smoke-ables, if you’re into that.” She went back to her spot and pulled a gourd from her wicker pack, handing it to him. It was unsettling to think he could see so much, and that it very clearly upset him. Being cursed with such an extraordinary ability… she had heard stories of men and women who had killed themselves or taken out their own eyes. And he can see me… He could see that horrible creature that still lived in her, as reigned-in and reformed as it was. She felt awfully for scaring him, however indirectly. “I am called Ylsabet Troy. My name has changed a great deal over the centuries, but I’m also known as… Jool.” It had been… lifetimes, since she had had to speak her own True Name. The effect was a sort of self-feeding power boost, and her feet twitched beneath her voluminous robes. “I apologize for trespassing – I just sort of wandered into here from the road, and found it so beautiful.” She looked around fondly. “Many little spirits live here. They’re very chatty.” But the subject matter became darker. Naturally, Ylsa felt an obligation to both educate and reassure; something that sometimes was difficult to do. This poor man was already frightened, but she was nothing if not persuasive. “Onryo are what Daroans call vengeful spirits. You may know, that when one dies, the circumstances of their death often has repercussions on their afterlife: those who die suddenly may have no knowledge of their death, and wander restlessly but generally harmlessly. “Onryo are those who died unjustly or very violently, or who lived in suffering. Their suffering and sorrow create a mantle of anger about their spirit, and upon death they become violent and usually mindless, carrying that suffering with them and perpetuating it on others. Their intention is not to lessen their own suffering, but to cause more for the living.” Her chest constricted painfully. Uncharacteristically, she was unable to look him in the face when she continued: “I was much like this, a very, very long time ago. I was… terrible. Many suffered because of me…” Her eyes threatened to become damp: it wasn’t only that she had made many suffer, but that there were still spirits left behind of those she herself had killed suddenly or violently. She remembered the one that had come to Soto many months ago before the insurrection with the intent on paying Jool back. Her voice grew soft with regret. “But I am one of the lucky ones. I began to feel shame for my actions when my victims showed me compassion and mercy. My shame made me human. Now, I pay off my karmic debt by serving those who suffer at the hands of beings like onryo.” At the hands of those like me. No. No, she wasn’t like that anymore. She had come so far past that, but still needed to remind herself from time to time when she felt insecure. She broke out of her fugue when a ribbon of smoke caressed her nose, and she found her smile again. “How are you feeling now? I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.” Edited by Ylsa, Aug 22 2016, 05:49 PM.
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| Hiram Jollenbeck | Aug 24 2016, 01:12 PM Post #6 |
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...Even to wear such knowledge--for our flesh/ surrounds us with its own decisions--/ and yet spend all our lives on imprecisions,/ that when we start to die/ have no idea why.
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He thought there was something effortful about the way that she touched his shoulder, as though she were holding something in; though he struggled to calm his speeding heart, he recognized benevolence in the gesture and offered her a watery smile. He brushed her shoulder with his own hand, as if to say, I'm all right, I'm all right -- it isn't your fault. Then, when she sat, he folded in beside her, receiving the gourd with an exhausted nod and taking a long draught. She'd said "Sotoan" as though that were a bad thing! Ylsabet Troy. Hiram peered up through his eyebrows with sharp little eyes, drinking in the expression on her face, the subtle movements of her limbs beneath her kimono. It was difficult to wash his mind of the apparition he had Seen earlier, but now he had another sense for her. When she said Jool, it seemed to create a shudder in her entire being. "Thank you. Thank you. No, don't apologize," he laughed, scratching his stubbly cheek. He sounded breathless, but better. "Lord Hathaway's grove is very beautiful, and I'm certain he wouldn't mind." He wasn't certain, of course, but Ylsabet didn't need to know that. "The little spirits -- I was thinking that myself earlier. I can't hear them, but I think that I knew they were there." You may know, that when one dies, the circumstances of their death often has repercussions on their afterlife... Hiram shut his eyes as she went on, remembering, dizzied. Though the wine had eased his nerves, he knew the fact well: it had been like that in Angkar. Before they shipped him back to Morrim, he had Seen it. In the hospitals, it had been a thick soup of confused, frantic spirits; when he had tried to minister in the makeshift chapels, the eyes of the oppressed dead had choked him, judging him from where their bones nested deep beneath the earth. These things were ordinarily invisible to the naked eye, but he remembered old shamans who spoke of Dead so vengeful and full of putrid rage that they could not rest. They could even kill the living! My shame made me human. He looked up at her, brow furrowing further -- not in disapproval, but confusion. Can that... happen? No disbelief colored his expression, only curiosity; he knew what he had sensed, but he also knew what he saw before him now, and the gentleness with which that spirit seemed to have reformed itself. Then he laughed, a weak sound. "I'm feeling better. My name -- I suspect you've heard of me, but it doesn't matter. Hiram Jollenbeck. It's a... dubious pleasure to meet such a one as you. A... reformed onryo, if I understand it correctly. How fascinating. "You'll excuse me if I don't shake your hand, I imagine. That might cause certain... problems." He looked down at the trembling shapes of his hands in his lap. "I wouldn't mind a smoke." That nervous little laugh came back; he smiled and it made his left eyelid flutter characteristically, cheeks dimpling. "What a... rude greeting, on my part! And when you played that instrument so wonderfully. I was -- overwhelmed by the sense that I had met you before, but..." He remembered the hands from his memories, nothing like the ones in his lap now: they had been long-fingered and feminine, elderly. "My mind is full of memories that aren't mine, Lady Troy. I have certain abilities. Sometimes when I brush the skin of another person, or get too close..." Who else knew but Julius, and Nevneni Lesten, and now this woman? He felt he might be dreaming. "I have years of a Daroan woman's life, I think. Perhaps she met you -- or something like you. I saw you and relived those memories. But if you're Daroan, Madame, you are a long way from home. Why do you do your work on Soare?" |
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| Ylsa | Aug 26 2016, 03:33 PM Post #7 |
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For as long as space endures/ For as long as living beings remain/ Until then may I too abide/ To dispel the misery of the world...
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Ah..! Father Jollenbeck! Ylsa’s smile brightened further. “I have heard of you,” She replied. “I’ve read your writings, and I quite enjoyed them: I’ve always admired such gentle austerity of faith. I’m trying not to read them too quickly, or I’ll run out and be sad.” The feeling of being distinctly old was always with Jool, but as an incarnation Ylsa suddenly felt young and inexperienced – she hadn’t ever met one of her Top Ten Writers before, but that only made her excited to possibly learn more from this encounter. Delighted that he wanted to share a smoke with her, she shuffled around in her pack for her bundle of joy. On the contrary, she hadn’t thought his greeting rude at all. If anything, it had been intriguing, though she had to admit that she was glad he no longer seemed fearful of her. She listened, unrolling the bundle and crumbling the patchouli, being sure to watch him as he spoke. “Hypersensitive empathy....” She mused aloud. “Most empaths receive impressions or thought processes, but rarely do they absorb the actual experience of another. I’ve met very few who can do this. I can understand how it would be a…. troubling, gift to have.” Her thoughts turned to the woman he spoke of. Helplessly, she wondered what had happened to this woman, if she had been harmed by a spirit or monster. If it had been herself, travelling around between births, she hoped she had at least been well-behaved and not surprised anyone unduly. Nobody liked spook-surprise. “Ah – I myself am not…” She paused, then laughed, slightly embarrassed. It always felt pretentious to tell. She tamped the last of the herbs into the bowl, having added some other flowers, and handed it to Hiram with the fire-starter. It was a long-stemmed, simple thing, but it seemed appropriate for the mood. “Well, this particular body is not Daroan. My spirit is, but as Ylsabet I am not. Actually… as Ylsa, I’ve never been to Daro, but I do plan on visiting this year. “I generally take it that if I die, I will be born wherever else I might be needed. I’m happy to let the Divine choose my posting. Of course, there’s hardly anyone left in Soto to help now, so I’m traveling.” Her smile turned apologetic. “I’m sorry you experienced the darker side of Daroan culture. Have you always been a Sensitive..? If it’s unpleasant to talk about, I won’t trouble you further about it.” |
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| Hiram Jollenbeck | Oct 3 2016, 12:00 PM Post #8 |
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...Even to wear such knowledge--for our flesh/ surrounds us with its own decisions--/ and yet spend all our lives on imprecisions,/ that when we start to die/ have no idea why.
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"I'm always happy when my work resonates with someone." Hiram tried to smile against the buzzing of his nerves: he watched Ylsabet crumble the patchouli and tamp it into the bowl of the pipe. Oh dear, he thought sourly, she must think that I actually believe the things I write. But then he admonished himself, letting out a little tiny tut of a sigh -- he could feel the sweet bell-ring of her delight, such a naive thing to come from a spirit so old, and knew that his own bitterness was unproductive at best. Faith was a thing that had to be given time. There was something equal parts relieving and terrifying about having relinquished his secret to her. She herself, a ghost in the lantern-light, smelling and feeling like incense -- a dream, a phantom gone in the morning -- could not use his abnormality to hurt him; the kindness in her soul told him that she would not. Yet -- how his heart beat! How his hands were sweatier than the humidity of summer warranted, trembling, a pair of frightened mice. "A troubling gift to have," he repeated in a faltering, stumbling lisp. He smiled at her again -- this time more genuine, with a quirk of his brow that was more than a little cynical. "That's a way to put it." When she spoke of rebirth and of the Divine, he perked up. The pipe was simple, but its long stem and the fire-starter were a comfort; lighting the herbs gave him something to do with his hands while he listened and ruminated on what he was going to say. At the gentle kindling of the false light, he began to process the familiar pungency of the patchouli: it stirred up images of Angkar, but also of kōdō, of the smell of matcha and the robes of powerful men... They were similar in some allegorical way, weren't they? The pre-existence of the soul was a taboo in Morrimian theology, but privately, in his own soul, Hiram had always put stock into it. And here was a dream of a woman who claimed to have led many lifespans, guided by the Divine -- a Divine who could not be altogether different from his own Divine, or the northerners' and southerners' dozen dozen gods. And here was he, who had a multitude in his silly head, even though he was one man and one soul. "I imagine we're born with this," came his quiet answer. He paused, lifting his eyebrows. "But no. It... woke up, I suppose, when I was in -- Angkar." He found the words stuck in his throat; suddenly his mouth was dry. "I was a missionary during her -- troubled times. That was when I became aware. When I went back to Morrim I began to write because it was all I could bear to do. I saw divinity in the multitude of sensations." He relit the pipe and took a gentle draw, trying to separate the flavors as he separated the memories. Ultimately, it was an impossible task. As a few pale peelings of smoke drifted upward toward the well-trimmed canopy of Lord Hathaway's trees, he spoke again. "You're saying you've been reborn as directed by... God. Or--" He pressed his own memory, tried to remember what god he had worshiped by proxy; he could not think, so swamped was he by the mass of memories, of impressions. "A... great... the sun... ach. You must tell me, I suppose." He sighed, contemplating over another few ponderous puffs. "The smell of patchouli really is distinctive, isn't it? So is the flavor. It reminded me of two things at once -- Angkar and Daro. The Daroan memories are not mine, they are a courtesan's. "As I tried to separate the flavors -- the patchouli from the various herbs and flowers which I saw you put in the bowl also -- I tried to separate my memories. But... combinations of things... make new things. And I am as much the courtesan as the patchouli is the flowers, and, I suppose, as you are the creature that frightened my dear fishwife." He was relaxing now, in the quiet -- truly and properly relaxing. He laughed. "Don't mind me. I am working at things when I do not even have a pen. But you must tell me, if you can, if you feel -- comfortable doing so. It's not well to say that people are reborn here in Morrim: the church didn't, and doesn't, like it. It's a heresy with which I am well acquainted. But I can hardly believe in Vespasian anymore, much less the silly nitpicking of generations of theologians. How do you feel about being reborn -- over and over? Do you remember all of your lives in great detail? Isn't it overwhelming?" |
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| Ylsa | Feb 3 2017, 01:40 PM Post #9 |
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For as long as space endures/ For as long as living beings remain/ Until then may I too abide/ To dispel the misery of the world...
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She found herself nodding as he spoke, able to envision bits of his story, doing what she could to understand -- but, as attuned as she was, Ylsa had never been as sensitive as Father Jollenbeck. When she saw or heard or felt things, it was always measured and carefully paced. She could barely imagine how overwhelming it must have been for him especially in those early days. " I saw divinity in the multitude of sensations," He said, and Ylsa's heart swelled with that thought. "How beautiful," She couldn't help but remark. "In that case, I'm very glad you found the quill: you seem to have perspectives that most people cannot even fathom. I think those who listen can benefit a great deal from what you have to say." The pipe came to her again, and she took another look at her conversation partner, seeing him in the light of a liberating sort of vulnerability, taking in all his multitude of knowledge and experience. He struck her now as one of the celestial beings of the Prosperous East of Daro: he appeared unassuming enough, just like the monks from the stories, but she could feel a hundred perspectives and ideas wrapped up in that humble mein, a rainbow of spirit -- something so perfectly faceted that mankind coould not have possibly shaped it. She imagined it felt more like a storm of chaos most of the time, however, as nearly all lives did: that much was a byproduct of simply existing as a human being. The words Hiram spoke which followed these thoughts very much reflected them, and her smile only widened. He truly seemed to understand not only the matter of existence, but all of its confusions and contradictions as well, and this was rare and precious as jade. "I think you are quite right: we are born and for much of our lives we feel as though aspects of ourselves are mismatched, a veritable hot-pot of random ingredients that don't quite go together. I know for myself, I felt as though I should only have one ingredient in my pot, which only made the others intolerable. "But, I think that when we grow and have had our traumas, or continue to have them, we become burnt much like the patchouli -- our smoke is made up of all these different things and creates a distinctive fragrance, as you say." She took a pull, watching the embers burn, and held it for a moment before handing the pipe back. "However, as we were 'constructed' in the bowl, most people focus on that instead of what results. It's only a natural focus, but we are so much more than an accidental recipe." The lantern glowed on, and it felt as though some spirits in the area had come to them, leaning in harmlessly as the stars to listen as the conversation flowed like water. The area was becoming washed in a comforting ease, like the light from the lantern. "Oh, please don't feel the need to be apologetic: I am very much enjoying hearing your thoughts." She answered truthfully. It was the dominion of those who Write, to write their words upon the very air when they had no quills and no parchment. Sara did it rather often herself, especially when less than totally sober. "I must say," She admitted, "I have had questions about my lives, but never has someone asked how I felt about it." The mystic took a moment to sit back and stretch out her legs a little, thoughtful. "I love it. For a little while I didn't remember any of them, and simply thought I existed in one body at one time -- the result of having fallen out of the practices of simple self-awareness. It is... interesting: I cannot speak for others, but those few times when I felt I only had one life and one chance at anything, I was so much more careless. What was the point, I would wonder, of earning good merits when you simply rang back to zero the instant you died, when you couldn't take any of your most precious thoughts and feelings and memories with you? Why earn good merits or make good memories when you would just lose it all whenever the gods decided they were done with you?" She shook her head. "When I began to remember again, I began to understand that to put an end to the spirit is impossible. Death is much like the dream-state, and some do not dream; that was all. It took a great deal of time to learn how to dream lucidly, so I could die lucidly, so I could remember both my dreams and my lives. "It was overwhelming for a while," Ylsa nodded. "The burn was slow, but as you said, I learned how to separate the memories, though some have admittedly fled me. There are some lives I remember better than others, because I have thought about them more, and there are some I... wouldn't mind forgetting. "But, if we didn't stumble, we would never learn how to walk," She concluded. For a few moments she thought about something he had said before she went off on a tangent, and decided to bring it up. "You say you cannot believe in Vespasian anymore, or theologians, but you do see Divinity in things. Myself, I think this is good: believing in hard doctrine limits the spread of our influence as individuals, and I believe the Divine has plans for us all." She paused. It was a terribly non-specific, can-of-worms kind of question, but having read some of his works, Ylsa wondered now. It wasn't like no one ever changed their way of thinking, but she often wondered what drove such changes. "It's a loaded, personal question, but... what constitutes your beliefs now? What happened to change your perspective -- if it isn't too painful to speak about?" |
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