KashyaJun 02, 2016Jun 02, 2016 at 10:45 PM
#1
(This is one of Kashya's first writings, set in a small, leather-bound journal in her satchel. I've been meaning to publish this on the forum, but I've been too lazy to finish it off, considering there are about three more journals I'm trying to finish which are more comparable to the size of one of Shakespeare's comedies. Nevertheless, I wanted to finish up Wintersill since it was relatively brief and just as creepy as Kashya's other stories. Enjoy.
NOTICE: This is NOT A REAL EVENT. This is Kashya's work of fiction. Do not take this as lore; it is not.)
NOTICE: This is NOT A REAL EVENT. This is Kashya's work of fiction. Do not take this as lore; it is not.)
Wintersill
Kashya Vulano of Skywatch
Written in Year 576 of the Second Era
Kashya Vulano of Skywatch
Written in Year 576 of the Second Era
To begin the story of another, we must first address the scenery that is to be. With that, however, mustn't we allow ourselves time to describe the characters that glorify them? Here, we will set the prop for our story, in a wooden cabin alongside the numb and glacial expanses of Skyrim. Why here, must one ask? Why, in a land of desolate, barren field of ice, shall we set up the initiation of our story?
I would only respond with, “Patience.”
There he lies, ten years of age. Shackled only by the great mysteries that separate him between a long, bounteous lifestyle! It was not meant to be. At fifteen, his caretakers, parents, were—quite ironically—lost in a fire, among the chilly landscape that had dried the cabin twixt itself, into some cautious pitch and kindle. Twas ripe for the masses of flame, only waiting for the ember to spark it. That call would be answered, quite devastatingly, in the peak of nightfall.
Bounteous was he that so deftly ran for his life! Screams, aye, he heard them—the fire's coal that caught that cloth aflame! Regret, he would feel it. It would burn through him with a deafening howl, despite his parents' attempts at escape. No, this would not be the boy's fate. The time for his caretakers, however, had come. Swift as the flame that killed them was comparable to the duration of their suffering; the wood, dry as it was, went up as quickly and violently as a giant's campfire.
The boy would change his name. Aye, he was ashamed of his actions. Failure! One that caused the death of the only ones you held dear. It would surely hold some penalty for him in the afterlife, no? Still, yet, this Nord's luck would only turn, day by day. Worse progresses to worse—worse, and worse! Worse, still. House upon house turned away his pleads, from North to South! By adolescence, at a young age of fifteen summers, would the Nord find himself roaming the borders of the Imperial City, still shackled by only the greatest mysteries that divide him from a long, and bounteous life. Mistake, upon mistake. Why, and how, could the Gods so easily reject their bounty? Bounty, it was a sure thing to be held. Accountability? Something for another day.
There, he sat. Loredas. Or was it another? Kicking rocks, the boy contemplated the location of his next meal. To the Gods, he turned and pleaded. Was there an answer? Of course. It was a silent “nothing.” For then, at least.
It was only through the bounty of a real, omniscient Prince that his pleads were answered. It was the call of one mighty, and all-loving. This Daedra fell upon the boy, and gave him a new name: “Alphilonginus.” To satiate the ramblings that had drove the boy mad, he gave him a new name; this one would surely befit such a thinker. To satiate the starvation, the Daedra fed him with contemplation of the mind: inquiry. The Prince, in all his wisdom, would wonder why such a bright mind should be wasted! To this, he let Alphilonginus's mind flow, with the bounty of question! Emotion, and crisis; it all spewed forth, in a sea of offhanded wisdom!
To the boy's lack of mobility, the Prince gave a new sense of strength; without a static sense of morals, the boy was free to muster all the strength he had, in the name of curiosity! In celebratory worship of the Prince, the boy did respond with high hopes; blood, he smeared on the walls of houses in the Imperial City! He would coat the boring walls with vibrant shades of red, that would even change color. One red, two brown, one red, two brown! Bile, he would splatter on public walls, and the flesh of the fallen, he would slap into caricatures and sculptures! The boy wasted not; he was a resourceful and crafty one, only destined to carry out his master's will.
And so, Alphilonginus was rewarded; by his master's will, he was sent to the Madhouse, where he was supplied with materials to express his deepest desires, void of the strictness of his dull, contemporary society.
With this, the Madgod was pleased.
I would only respond with, “Patience.”
There he lies, ten years of age. Shackled only by the great mysteries that separate him between a long, bounteous lifestyle! It was not meant to be. At fifteen, his caretakers, parents, were—quite ironically—lost in a fire, among the chilly landscape that had dried the cabin twixt itself, into some cautious pitch and kindle. Twas ripe for the masses of flame, only waiting for the ember to spark it. That call would be answered, quite devastatingly, in the peak of nightfall.
Bounteous was he that so deftly ran for his life! Screams, aye, he heard them—the fire's coal that caught that cloth aflame! Regret, he would feel it. It would burn through him with a deafening howl, despite his parents' attempts at escape. No, this would not be the boy's fate. The time for his caretakers, however, had come. Swift as the flame that killed them was comparable to the duration of their suffering; the wood, dry as it was, went up as quickly and violently as a giant's campfire.
The boy would change his name. Aye, he was ashamed of his actions. Failure! One that caused the death of the only ones you held dear. It would surely hold some penalty for him in the afterlife, no? Still, yet, this Nord's luck would only turn, day by day. Worse progresses to worse—worse, and worse! Worse, still. House upon house turned away his pleads, from North to South! By adolescence, at a young age of fifteen summers, would the Nord find himself roaming the borders of the Imperial City, still shackled by only the greatest mysteries that divide him from a long, and bounteous life. Mistake, upon mistake. Why, and how, could the Gods so easily reject their bounty? Bounty, it was a sure thing to be held. Accountability? Something for another day.
There, he sat. Loredas. Or was it another? Kicking rocks, the boy contemplated the location of his next meal. To the Gods, he turned and pleaded. Was there an answer? Of course. It was a silent “nothing.” For then, at least.
It was only through the bounty of a real, omniscient Prince that his pleads were answered. It was the call of one mighty, and all-loving. This Daedra fell upon the boy, and gave him a new name: “Alphilonginus.” To satiate the ramblings that had drove the boy mad, he gave him a new name; this one would surely befit such a thinker. To satiate the starvation, the Daedra fed him with contemplation of the mind: inquiry. The Prince, in all his wisdom, would wonder why such a bright mind should be wasted! To this, he let Alphilonginus's mind flow, with the bounty of question! Emotion, and crisis; it all spewed forth, in a sea of offhanded wisdom!
To the boy's lack of mobility, the Prince gave a new sense of strength; without a static sense of morals, the boy was free to muster all the strength he had, in the name of curiosity! In celebratory worship of the Prince, the boy did respond with high hopes; blood, he smeared on the walls of houses in the Imperial City! He would coat the boring walls with vibrant shades of red, that would even change color. One red, two brown, one red, two brown! Bile, he would splatter on public walls, and the flesh of the fallen, he would slap into caricatures and sculptures! The boy wasted not; he was a resourceful and crafty one, only destined to carry out his master's will.
And so, Alphilonginus was rewarded; by his master's will, he was sent to the Madhouse, where he was supplied with materials to express his deepest desires, void of the strictness of his dull, contemporary society.
With this, the Madgod was pleased.