| Sometimes, when I sit beneath the stars and I gaze up towards them, praying that tomorrow will allow me to become a better man, I wonder if the promise of fulfillment that I feel in my heart is really true. In those moments, when I am deliriously lost in the sights of the heavens above, I feel empowered and emboldened to make so many changes to my life. I feel the will and desire to become a stronger, cleaner man. I feel the urge and the need to become more whole, in both body and spirit. It is midnight, and its totality is what allows me this sensation. It is the light of the stars above our heads, a romantic sight as they are for a lonesome man such as myself, that makes my heart beat in a strange way that it does not do during the daytime. Perhaps it is because at night, I am alone. Not that I am not alone during the day, but during the day I feel troubled about being alone. I feel as if the sunlight obligates me to be a social creature, which I have failed to become. But during the night, when the stars are out and the world is asleep, I hold no such obligations, as they simply cannot be fulfilled. The night alone is when I am at peace with my own insecurities, and as such, I can dwell on the matters of my own soul. Somehow, however, the sun will rise again soon in the morning to come, and all of these hopes and aspirations, born in the night, will vanish again until the next to come as I once more hide from the dayglow both within and outside of myself for yet another day. |
~ Musings of an old, socially awkward vampire hunter, who never quite managed to become a morning person
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
Frozen.
Isaiah flies there in the midst of the terrible night, listening to the pleas from around the world come to reach it, millions of voices filling its head with prayers that are born for desires of redemption and sanctuary, prayers of fear and loathing towards it, prayers of well wishes and hopes for the future of a better world. The entire spectrum of human emotion flows through its mind, brought into it through its connection to the divine spirituality of man.
Isaiah stares at the man before itself, who is frozen.
He isn’t anybody of particular note, at least as far as it knows. Rather, he is one of the crusaders who had fallen during the incursion’s beginning. The man, having died within the tower, was subjected to its new policy of handling the dead, which is to chronically imprison them.
There he stands, locked in a chrysalis of hardened, magical amber, neither dead nor alive — he is simply stuck in between. Frozen.
Isaiah stares at him, its hands behind its back.
How long has it too been frozen?
It looks around at the other dozens of crusaders who have also come unto unfortunate circumstances.
In spring, it was frozen with its desire to return to its family. In the blazing summer, it was frozen with its desire to build the tower as high and tall as possible. In the autumn, now, it must be troubled with the wretched refuse of the world — the witch.
Winter will be upon them soon enough, and its only wish is that, by then, the world will have returned to normal, as will have life, so that it may enjoy the year’s final season in a calm, peaceful state of bliss with the souls that it has come to cherish the most.
However, this is unlikely, no?
The gods are coming closer and closer by the day, and they are yet to be handled. Humanity is in an uproar that will not subside, even after the slaying of the cruel witch, and will need to be tended with a gentle, nurturing hand.
Winter is going to be very busy, whenever it arrives.
Hmm…
Isaiah lifts a talon, reaching out to touch the crystal, wondering if there is anything to be done for the creature trapped inside of it. The witch’s magic is what controls them, so surely it could be removed somehow?
— Something lashes out inside the crystal, cracking against the interior of the shell in contrast with the man’s frozen body.
A sloshing, inky string whips against the surface, as if to repel Isaiah. The witch’s magic apparently still works even within the confines of the chronal prison.
Troublesome.
It had hoped to be able to help these souls and perhaps even turn them back against their own corrupted tide. However, it would seem that this isn’t available. Perhaps the only way to really rid the world of the witch’s magic is to rid the world of the witch herself.
Soon.
It won’t be long now, before it fulfills its plans. But it will need a little more time for the scheme to come to a boil.
Until then, one must simply live with the fact that this world in which one lives also harbors monsters. At least until the time has come and the good spring of a new year will be here, bringing with it a freedom from such burdensome things.
| ~ [Shamrock] ~ |
| Slime, Male, Monster |
| Location: The Outskirts of the Dead City |
Life is… confusing.
The man sits on an old, overturned log, staring down at the ground below himself, watching it swallow up his heavy boots. The rains that have been going on for all of this time, turned now into a dense mist, continue to soak the world, which has grown satiated and over-drenched. The ground quells, swelling with water. The dirt turns to mud, the grass turns to mud, and the forests, with their strong roots and proud trees, are sinking into the slush.
He lifts his boot, mud sticking to him.
It’s all mud.
The man looks behind himself, staring towards the city he had left by himself, as his friend had asked him to do. It is a very confusing thing for a friend to ask another friend — asking them to leave, that is.
He stares at the city, which in itself, as a whole, also seems to be sinking into the mud of the world.
It’s so heavy. The stones, the walls, the houses, the mortar, and the grand towers — the piles of bodies, of bones and flesh and teeth — it’s all so heavy, but not only them. The people still inside — his friend and the others of the sect, whether human, orc, elf or anything else are…
Shamrock looks back down at the world between his massive legs, staring down at the mud, which has once again begun swallowing him.
— They’re heavy.
Heavy things sink.
His hands rise up, covered in scars and dents, as he stares at them for a time, condensing water running down his exterior and through the gaps in which resides not flesh, but slime. He holds his hands aloft, not holding or grabbing anything but just holding them there as is to see them.
And, sure enough, he sees. After a minute, his forearm shakes a little, followed by his wrist and fingers, as the tension in his body, which he hasn’t trained enough to handle yet, begins to give under the weight of his own armor.
“Heavy…” says the man.
Heavy things sink.
This place, this whole place, it’s going to sink. The physical constructs in it, as well as the souls, are both simply too heavy. They’re out of balance with the natural world. The waters of the ocean come from the south, causing the land to become a mire. The waters of the rain come from above, causing the land to flood. The endless decay, destruction, and back and forth caused by the powers at play here have made the land uninhabitable for creatures like himself in their natural state.
But even he isn’t in his natural state, is he?
Shamrock sets his hand down on his lap for a second as he rises to his feet, simply standing there silently, as his boots sink down into the mud, which happily swallows first his feet and then his ankles as he stares around himself.
He, by his nature, was never meant to live this life that he now has. He is an… oddity. He, like the land, is an abomination. He is not something that belongs here. He is a thing that is heavy.
His helmet creaks, his breastplate heaving as he exhales heavily, mimicking the breathing of his friend as he continues to become what he is to become, rather than what he is — a man, not a slime.
He himself is a thing that is heavy in a world that is so delicate and gentle, like a dove’s feather, drifting down from a tall tree like a wayward flake of snow in winter. The world is light. It’s meant to be light.
His eyes look at the light to the east, at the tower that glows in the night. The woman is there. The creature with fire in her eyes. She’s there. His heart draws him there, to that fight that is his to claim, so that he can find peace for this odd desire he feels in his heart to fight more, to become stronger.
And then he looks back towards the city.
And he understands that his strength, the lightness, and the glow of the eye he desires isn’t going to be found in either of these places, as his friend told him. The only strength he will find here is animal strength. He won’t find human strength.
The man looks down, his knees already in the mud, and grabs hold of the log, lifting it up into the air with ease and then stuffing it down as a post to shove himself out of the hole. The thick mud grabs onto him as he tries to leave, as if it were trying to pull him back down, not only to it but to his animal state.
However, his leg pulls free, followed by his boots, which he then plants onto the next spot and then treads on, moving not as a slime, but as a person as he heads neither to the east nor to the west.
Shamrock turns his back to both of these places, as his friend had asked him to consider, and looks towards the north.
And despite all of the darkness that covers the lands, despite the totality of the night and the clouds that fill the sky. He’s sure that, there, off in the far distant distance, peaking through the dense sky above, is the single glowing light of a single, brightly shining star in the night, twinkling in the sky.
The man leaves the south and moves towards the north, staying forever both a man and a member of the Witches’ Sect, despite the great difficulties both of these things will pose to him, for to forsake either would be to forsake the greatness of life, offered to him by the oddities of fate and his friend.
And as for the heaviness of his body, with or without the armor, it might never dissipate, yet this does not hinder him in his pursuit of the lightness of the soul that he might perhaps one day find in a decade still far from this immediate moment, beneath the light of a fresh moon on that distant day.
Razmatazz
And so ends Shamrock's journey in this story. But he has a lot more coming in the future, as with some of our other friends we've said goodbye to already! Check out Dungeon Item Shop if you want to know what becomes of Shamrock, Tulsi and Yovel and... someone else. =)
Tying off all of our loose threads one by one, until all that will be left is the dungeon in our hearts +-+
| Sometimes, when I sit beneath the stars and I gaze up towards them, praying that tomorrow will allow me to become a better man, I wonder if the promise of fulfillment that I feel in my heart is really true. In those moments, when I am deliriously lost in the sights of the heavens above, I feel empowered and emboldened to make so many changes to my life. I feel the will and desire to become a stronger, cleaner man. I feel the urge and the need to become more whole, in both body and spirit. It is midnight, and its totality is what allows me this sensation. It is the light of the stars above our heads, a romantic sight as they are for a lonesome man such as myself, that makes my heart beat in a strange way that it does not do during the daytime. Perhaps it is because at night, I am alone. Not that I am not alone during the day, but during the day I feel troubled about being alone. I feel as if the sunlight obligates me to be a social creature, which I have failed to become. But during the night, when the stars are out and the world is asleep, I hold no such obligations, as they simply cannot be fulfilled. The night alone is when I am at peace with my own insecurities, and as such, I can dwell on the matters of my own soul. Somehow, however, the sun will rise again soon in the morning to come, and all of these hopes and aspirations, born in the night, will vanish again until the next to come as I once more hide from the dayglow both within and outside of myself for yet another day. |
~ Musings of an old, socially awkward vampire hunter, who never quite managed to become a morning person
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
Frozen.
Isaiah flies there in the midst of the terrible night, listening to the pleas from around the world come to reach it, millions of voices filling its head with prayers that are born for desires of redemption and sanctuary, prayers of fear and loathing towards it, prayers of well wishes and hopes for the future of a better world. The entire spectrum of human emotion flows through its mind, brought into it through its connection to the divine spirituality of man.
Isaiah stares at the man before itself, who is frozen.
He isn’t anybody of particular note, at least as far as it knows. Rather, he is one of the crusaders who had fallen during the incursion’s beginning. The man, having died within the tower, was subjected to its new policy of handling the dead, which is to chronically imprison them.
There he stands, locked in a chrysalis of hardened, magical amber, neither dead nor alive — he is simply stuck in between. Frozen.
Isaiah stares at him, its hands behind its back.
How long has it too been frozen?
It looks around at the other dozens of crusaders who have also come unto unfortunate circumstances.
In spring, it was frozen with its desire to return to its family. In the blazing summer, it was frozen with its desire to build the tower as high and tall as possible. In the autumn, now, it must be troubled with the wretched refuse of the world — the witch.
Winter will be upon them soon enough, and its only wish is that, by then, the world will have returned to normal, as will have life, so that it may enjoy the year’s final season in a calm, peaceful state of bliss with the souls that it has come to cherish the most.
However, this is unlikely, no?
The gods are coming closer and closer by the day, and they are yet to be handled. Humanity is in an uproar that will not subside, even after the slaying of the cruel witch, and will need to be tended with a gentle, nurturing hand.
Winter is going to be very busy, whenever it arrives.
Hmm…
Isaiah lifts a talon, reaching out to touch the crystal, wondering if there is anything to be done for the creature trapped inside of it. The witch’s magic is what controls them, so surely it could be removed somehow?
— Something lashes out inside the crystal, cracking against the interior of the shell in contrast with the man’s frozen body.
A sloshing, inky string whips against the surface, as if to repel Isaiah. The witch’s magic apparently still works even within the confines of the chronal prison.
Troublesome.
It had hoped to be able to help these souls and perhaps even turn them back against their own corrupted tide. However, it would seem that this isn’t available. Perhaps the only way to really rid the world of the witch’s magic is to rid the world of the witch herself.
Soon.
It won’t be long now, before it fulfills its plans. But it will need a little more time for the scheme to come to a boil.
Until then, one must simply live with the fact that this world in which one lives also harbors monsters. At least until the time has come and the good spring of a new year will be here, bringing with it a freedom from such burdensome things.
| ~ [Shamrock] ~ |
| Slime, Male, Monster |
| Location: The Outskirts of the Dead City |
Life is… confusing.
The man sits on an old, overturned log, staring down at the ground below himself, watching it swallow up his heavy boots. The rains that have been going on for all of this time, turned now into a dense mist, continue to soak the world, which has grown satiated and over-drenched. The ground quells, swelling with water. The dirt turns to mud, the grass turns to mud, and the forests, with their strong roots and proud trees, are sinking into the slush.
He lifts his boot, mud sticking to him.
It’s all mud.
The man looks behind himself, staring towards the city he had left by himself, as his friend had asked him to do. It is a very confusing thing for a friend to ask another friend — asking them to leave, that is.
He stares at the city, which in itself, as a whole, also seems to be sinking into the mud of the world.
It’s so heavy. The stones, the walls, the houses, the mortar, and the grand towers — the piles of bodies, of bones and flesh and teeth — it’s all so heavy, but not only them. The people still inside — his friend and the others of the sect, whether human, orc, elf or anything else are…
Shamrock looks back down at the world between his massive legs, staring down at the mud, which has once again begun swallowing him.
— They’re heavy.
Heavy things sink.
His hands rise up, covered in scars and dents, as he stares at them for a time, condensing water running down his exterior and through the gaps in which resides not flesh, but slime. He holds his hands aloft, not holding or grabbing anything but just holding them there as is to see them.
And, sure enough, he sees. After a minute, his forearm shakes a little, followed by his wrist and fingers, as the tension in his body, which he hasn’t trained enough to handle yet, begins to give under the weight of his own armor.
“Heavy…” says the man.
Heavy things sink.
This place, this whole place, it’s going to sink. The physical constructs in it, as well as the souls, are both simply too heavy. They’re out of balance with the natural world. The waters of the ocean come from the south, causing the land to become a mire. The waters of the rain come from above, causing the land to flood. The endless decay, destruction, and back and forth caused by the powers at play here have made the land uninhabitable for creatures like himself in their natural state.
But even he isn’t in his natural state, is he?
Shamrock sets his hand down on his lap for a second as he rises to his feet, simply standing there silently, as his boots sink down into the mud, which happily swallows first his feet and then his ankles as he stares around himself.
He, by his nature, was never meant to live this life that he now has. He is an… oddity. He, like the land, is an abomination. He is not something that belongs here. He is a thing that is heavy.
His helmet creaks, his breastplate heaving as he exhales heavily, mimicking the breathing of his friend as he continues to become what he is to become, rather than what he is — a man, not a slime.
He himself is a thing that is heavy in a world that is so delicate and gentle, like a dove’s feather, drifting down from a tall tree like a wayward flake of snow in winter. The world is light. It’s meant to be light.
His eyes look at the light to the east, at the tower that glows in the night. The woman is there. The creature with fire in her eyes. She’s there. His heart draws him there, to that fight that is his to claim, so that he can find peace for this odd desire he feels in his heart to fight more, to become stronger.
And then he looks back towards the city.
And he understands that his strength, the lightness, and the glow of the eye he desires isn’t going to be found in either of these places, as his friend told him. The only strength he will find here is animal strength. He won’t find human strength.
The man looks down, his knees already in the mud, and grabs hold of the log, lifting it up into the air with ease and then stuffing it down as a post to shove himself out of the hole. The thick mud grabs onto him as he tries to leave, as if it were trying to pull him back down, not only to it but to his animal state.
However, his leg pulls free, followed by his boots, which he then plants onto the next spot and then treads on, moving not as a slime, but as a person as he heads neither to the east nor to the west.
Shamrock turns his back to both of these places, as his friend had asked him to consider, and looks towards the north.
And despite all of the darkness that covers the lands, despite the totality of the night and the clouds that fill the sky. He’s sure that, there, off in the far distant distance, peaking through the dense sky above, is the single glowing light of a single, brightly shining star in the night, twinkling in the sky.
The man leaves the south and moves towards the north, staying forever both a man and a member of the Witches’ Sect, despite the great difficulties both of these things will pose to him, for to forsake either would be to forsake the greatness of life, offered to him by the oddities of fate and his friend.
And as for the heaviness of his body, with or without the armor, it might never dissipate, yet this does not hinder him in his pursuit of the lightness of the soul that he might perhaps one day find in a decade still far from this immediate moment, beneath the light of a fresh moon on that distant day.
Razmatazz
And so ends Shamrock's journey in this story. But he has a lot more coming in the future, as with some of our other friends we've said goodbye to already! Check out Dungeon Item Shop if you want to know what becomes of Shamrock, Tulsi and Yovel and... someone else. =)
Tying off all of our loose threads one by one, until all that will be left is the dungeon in our hearts +-+
