Alt: Voice of a memory.

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Alt: Voice of a memory. Empty Alt: Voice of a memory.

Post by Sphinx on Sat Aug 30, 2008 4:13 pm

The lone figure sat perched atop the lighthouse overlooking the silence of Buburimu peninsula in the night, keeping gentle watch over the beasts that roamed dozens of yalms below and off into the distance. Her eyes weren't with the keen they had in her youth, and occasionally they'd grow moist from the damage to the nerves of her face - epitomized by the wicked scars crossing it. But still she saw clearer in the night than most her scouts did, due to an uncommon amount of years of training in caverns darker than many had seen, and deeper than most could guess existed.

Minutes passed as the confused jumble of her thoughts and emotions came to enough focus to allow her a measure of rationality. At one time she'd have thought she'd gone mad. Then, she had been sure she had. A light of hope, then, had made her think otherwise, that maybe she wasn't as insane as her dire musings painted her to be - but now... Now she was certain again.
She hadn't grown any saner - it was simply that the world had changed to reflect her madness.

Anticans attacking the republic in the south of Quon, demons aiming for the kingdom up north. Riots on the streets of Bastok, the Shadowlord making his claims from his throne of Zvahl - claims loud enough to carry even to the ancient jungles of Elshimo. The disappearance of the republican president, followed by an attempted coup from Eli Fordham to gain presidency... Attack aimed to the heart of San d'Oria, and madmen drawing steel at people on the daylit streets of Windurst.

She sighed and allowed her eyes close to shed a tear, though even she had no idea what for.
"Blinded, huh?" Eyes still closed, the mithra straightened her arm infront of her, and tried to picture the shape of her hand. "Atleast she'll come to know her child grow up, if not see her. And with recognition of facts, she'll forget what she lost and realize what she didn't lose." These had been her words, but no more could she be sure of them. What brands of hate would she carry - and towards whom - if things didn't play out the way everyone hoped?

The mithra drew back her hand and opened her eyes to view the peninsula below - extremely glad that she could, still lost in her idle musing. The world had gone mad, and because everyone's eyes were on it, nobody could tell.
Save for people mad like herself - and those truly blind like the Tracker Chieftainness - few could begin to fathom the depths of it.
And for herself, Njarra Tiahlee couldn't figure out if she was frustrated or glad.

It was hard to make sense of things - or of who to trust - when everyone around you were losing their minds.
It was hard to choose allies when people spoke one thing and did another.
It was hard to know what to do, when none of the elements involved made no sense.
Somewhere in the depths of her heart a meek voice called to Njarra what she had to do, but for every hour that passed in this insane world the echo grew so much more silent.

President No'en Sha'arhe had been a man she had learned to trust in Mhaura's times of change, but the first words of Xenedra's husband when Njarra regained her old memories had been an admission of hatred.
She had great respect toward the wisdom of Verence Monveaux, but his arguments held too much stubborn pride. And she knew very well how fast an elvaan was blinded by pride. Only thing he offered her in the ways of explanation were such whose truth she couldn't possibly verify, doubted very much, or had no experience of.
The now crippled Xenedra obviously had no desire but to return to where her child was, apparently driven by little but personal desire.
Mhuirnin refused the name S with her words, yet Njarra hadn't seen her remove the mask from either her face or her heart.
Queen Sabbiel Meillune insisted on grasping feebly at her dreams, while an army of demons gathered at her doorstep.
Eli Fordham was more intent on playing a desperate hand after a desperate hand in an attempt to find one man, while the country he tried to own was turning itself inside out.

...Eli Fordham who had had the gall to try and bully Njarra Tiahlee into playing his little game. Either him or his son, banded together with the tarutaru minister. She didn't expect the little toymaker be capable of such deception, given he seemed unable to word a fallacy without his next breath revealing it. But Ritchard Fordham was quite different, and since Njarra hadn't been there personally she couldn't tell.
Allowing her thoughts dwell on the diminutive minister irritated Njarra Tiahlee to no end. The little toymaker was arrogant, and in his arrogance he failed to realize - as if yesterday - the threads he trampled. Parading like a dhalmel through carefully woven webs with no heed on anything but himself and what was within three yalms of his eyes.
He even had the nerve to threaten Njarra Tiahlee in his childish tantrum, but she wouldn't be drawn into his little game. If he truly wished for a fast death - she'd deliver, but she sensed no challenge in the toymaker so she'd wait until his end was worth something.

With a fond smile the mithra allowed her thoughts return to the larger picture, and she envisioned all these playing pieces on the field in front of her. Each divided into their own little faction, there were the people trying to stay in this world, and those trying to leave it. There were those waging this war from the throne of Zvahl, and those trying to end it. And there was Jeuno, with the archduke who had goals of his own.

The situation amused her as much as it confused her.

"All these pieces" she chimed to herself "yet nobody to move them. And still they move."

Had it really all started from a coincidense?
A simple mistake?
Was the entire play orchestrated by some vague puppetmaster, who had yet to enter the stage?
Or had he entered the stage, to pass everyone a page of the script?
The chieftainness' musings led her to dwell on the feather again, to try and focus on her past - the moment she was given a feather exactly like that.
After long moments trying to gather these elusive thoughts, she simply shook her head to clear it and put a grin on her face. Such thoughts were for those better educated. For the moment the curtains and the creatures behind them didn't matter. For the moment what mattered was the obvious, and the conclusion of this particular scene.

Njarra Tiahlee sighed heavily, allowing her head to loll lazily to her left side and then her body to follow. She laid to rest on the top of the high tower, focusing her eyes to the sky above and pulling her arms to support her head.
"To brrring life to sanity, why are only the mad called?" Her whispered voice asked from the barely lit heavens.

And the only answer that came was the tug of the everfading echo from her heart.

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