StoryTellerMan
10-19-2008, 04:43 AM
It always struck me odd--how men can walk blindly into the arms of death. Mirdain take caution, Dwarves prepare, Mahirim organize in packs, Orks at least sharpen their weapons and give warcries, and my own race takes many days of deliberation before we can set off into the battle. Nay, the humans are the only race that charge into battle, the only race I've ever witnessed with such courage, such tenacity. They were such a young race, as well. Not as mine, we became something better than mere elves, but perhaps their lineage is ours as well. How could such a young race, such a short-lived race throw away all caution, all preparation, all organization--everything and dash into battle? Their courage astounded me, and I pitied them, for such great warriors needn't be killed, and should at least have been captured and their minds broken, their wills turned to ours. Such anger filled their faces, almost as much hate fills my heart. I take pride in the fact that I dispatched them qucikly, though I regret it.
Every night since the battle, I've had dreamed, seen the faces, and met the warriors I slew again, again and again. Their images haunt me. I threaten them with the impending wrath of Malaut, but they are not detered. They say Auros will defend them, that the hate in the world may be purged, and lesser races with it. I challenge you, Auros, what are you waiting for?
There was a particular warrior, his name was Sam, if I recall, he fought more skillfully than most warriors I've seen yet. His sword nearly caught my skin, but I said to myself aloud: "Alas, I shan't waste my blood!" and with the remaining magic I felt coursing through my veins, I turned him to ash. His face was filled with a look of serene tranquility as I watched his hands first begin to burn. His face was like that of a man who's burden had been lifted, and I watched as he drifted away on the breeze. Around me my comrades fought, with their swords and sabres and axes and spears, and the humans fought on as well. So brave were the humans, it was like an itch, the jealousy was. I could not scratch the itch or blast away whatever nuisance was causing it! Nay, I had no mind of where it came from! Why would it not stop! Why would I be jealous of such a devout, hard-headed imbecile! I could not bear it any longer, and when I was about to end my troubles with a knife to the veins, it stopped. I thanked Malaut that the trial he'd put me through was over. How much relief I felt! I felt no longing or jealousy of the warriors skill and courage, nay, for we were the victors! We conquered them! We put our daggers between their ribs, we shed their blood, and not a drop of ours was spilt, and none of our soldiers were injured.
We walked upon the battlefield, scouting out armor or weapons suitable for us--there was none, but we looked anyway. The faces of the warriors were grim as they lay dead and dying on the blood-soaked field, the carrion birds soaring overhead. The sun beamed bleakly through the clouds as we rooted through the bodies. The faces of the dead humans were mostly of anger, of hate, and of despise. The look has never been burned out of my memory, like spots in your eyes after you stare upon the face of the sun for too long. I still see them, watching me and making me regret my choice. Yea, the terror of war can not be matched by anything but the aftermath, and I felt this pain for far too long. I felt as if I were going mad, I felt myself becoming obsessed about the faces, the look of horror, the look of anger! The true essence of their thoughts and emotions was burned upon their faces like a brand on a cow--forever. They had lost the war, the war we'd engaged ourselves into so passionately, anxious to destroy all hope of life for them, the war they'd thrown themselves into and locked into for so many years. Nay, they had not lost. My pain alone was enough to compensate for their loss, the pain that must be in my cormades--unmeasurable.
Perhaps my friends, my kin, perhaps they were more stronger than I, strong enough to bear the pain, to work past it, to harness it. But not I, no, it drives me mad, and as I write this I cannot keep my thoughts contained, my pain seems to pour from my hand to my quill, to this parchment! Why was Malaut tortuing me?! Why was he stabbing needles into my soul!? Why was he so merciless?! Why? Perhaps he hates his own race? Perhaps we have strayed too far from his teachings, his guidance? Perhaps it is Auros, perhaps he is making his anger felt amongst my people. For whatever reason, I cannot bear this burden any longer. I feel as if I am a kettle about to burst, like a waterskin punctured by a scapel. I now understand the humans, I understand why they weep when they lost a loved one. It has turned me into a monster, it has destroyed my being, it has shown me the true meaning of pain.
Every night since the battle, I've had dreamed, seen the faces, and met the warriors I slew again, again and again. Their images haunt me. I threaten them with the impending wrath of Malaut, but they are not detered. They say Auros will defend them, that the hate in the world may be purged, and lesser races with it. I challenge you, Auros, what are you waiting for?
There was a particular warrior, his name was Sam, if I recall, he fought more skillfully than most warriors I've seen yet. His sword nearly caught my skin, but I said to myself aloud: "Alas, I shan't waste my blood!" and with the remaining magic I felt coursing through my veins, I turned him to ash. His face was filled with a look of serene tranquility as I watched his hands first begin to burn. His face was like that of a man who's burden had been lifted, and I watched as he drifted away on the breeze. Around me my comrades fought, with their swords and sabres and axes and spears, and the humans fought on as well. So brave were the humans, it was like an itch, the jealousy was. I could not scratch the itch or blast away whatever nuisance was causing it! Nay, I had no mind of where it came from! Why would it not stop! Why would I be jealous of such a devout, hard-headed imbecile! I could not bear it any longer, and when I was about to end my troubles with a knife to the veins, it stopped. I thanked Malaut that the trial he'd put me through was over. How much relief I felt! I felt no longing or jealousy of the warriors skill and courage, nay, for we were the victors! We conquered them! We put our daggers between their ribs, we shed their blood, and not a drop of ours was spilt, and none of our soldiers were injured.
We walked upon the battlefield, scouting out armor or weapons suitable for us--there was none, but we looked anyway. The faces of the warriors were grim as they lay dead and dying on the blood-soaked field, the carrion birds soaring overhead. The sun beamed bleakly through the clouds as we rooted through the bodies. The faces of the dead humans were mostly of anger, of hate, and of despise. The look has never been burned out of my memory, like spots in your eyes after you stare upon the face of the sun for too long. I still see them, watching me and making me regret my choice. Yea, the terror of war can not be matched by anything but the aftermath, and I felt this pain for far too long. I felt as if I were going mad, I felt myself becoming obsessed about the faces, the look of horror, the look of anger! The true essence of their thoughts and emotions was burned upon their faces like a brand on a cow--forever. They had lost the war, the war we'd engaged ourselves into so passionately, anxious to destroy all hope of life for them, the war they'd thrown themselves into and locked into for so many years. Nay, they had not lost. My pain alone was enough to compensate for their loss, the pain that must be in my cormades--unmeasurable.
Perhaps my friends, my kin, perhaps they were more stronger than I, strong enough to bear the pain, to work past it, to harness it. But not I, no, it drives me mad, and as I write this I cannot keep my thoughts contained, my pain seems to pour from my hand to my quill, to this parchment! Why was Malaut tortuing me?! Why was he stabbing needles into my soul!? Why was he so merciless?! Why? Perhaps he hates his own race? Perhaps we have strayed too far from his teachings, his guidance? Perhaps it is Auros, perhaps he is making his anger felt amongst my people. For whatever reason, I cannot bear this burden any longer. I feel as if I am a kettle about to burst, like a waterskin punctured by a scapel. I now understand the humans, I understand why they weep when they lost a loved one. It has turned me into a monster, it has destroyed my being, it has shown me the true meaning of pain.