" My dear, dear girl" Vaalatu said, her face radiating with joy as Laandra approached her. The elder woman was bent over a basket of herbs, carefully sorting them. She wiped away her hands on her skirts, then reached out and gave Laandra an almost suffocating hug.
"You've grown up" she said afterwards, pushing Laandra away so as to be able to study her. "New haircut, fancy robes and that look on your face..." Vaalatu sighed.
No longer that innocent girl I used to know...And a good mage I suppose".
Laandra flexed her fingers before answering. She did not want to sound sad but it did. Her voice betrayed it, she knew it well. That she had not come there to pay her respects only, but to hide from the torment of her soul, like a scared child in a stormy night.
All the way to there from the Wetlands she had hoped it would be enough to step on the shores of Azuremyst to regain her inner equilibrium. To forget it all. Her sweet forbidden passion.
But it wasn't. Laandra looked around and though the place felt utterly familiar, she did not feel the calmness she had expected. Nothing was right. Hell, she had messed it up completely. Her life, her duty as one of the Hand of Argus, her faith, all...
"Laandra?"
Vaalatu reached out again to gently touch her arm, worried by her pained expression.
" Are you sick, girl?"
Yes she was. Her soul was sick, corrupted to the core with madness. Something far beyond the healing powers of Vaalatu's potions. With a sound of despair, Laandra threw herself on her knees, hiding her face in the palms. Tears would have been a blessing, but she could not cry. Nor could she share her burden with anyone. It was hers to bear and only now did she understand what it meant to long for peace and yet be allowed none.
" Laandra, you scare the hell out of me" Vaalatu said, kneeling beside hers. It was midday and passers threw inquisitive glances towards them, yet none stopped by to stare at the scene. Survivors of the Exodar, most of them could still remember what it ment to break down.
"No", Laandra managed to whisper, brushing away the protective hand Vaalatu had placed on her head. " Just tired and worried lately, that's all"...
"And you expect me to believe that?"
Their eyes locked and Laandra gave her that defiant gaze Vaalatu remembered well.
All was so screwed up she could as well break old ties and make loved ones suffer, Laandra desperately thought. Luckily, in that same moment, a voice from behind made them both jump. It was one of the young Vindicators that had probably just finished the training required to join the ranks of the Hand. An attractive man, Laandra noticed, absent mindedly. As if she cared.
The man seemed uncomfortable with interrupting what was obviously a private conversation.
" You are Laandra Seth'aran?" he asked, politely, while maintain a respectful distance.
Laandra felt grateful that the other name under which she had started to be known, after her recent losses of temper, had not yet arrived to the Exodar. The Ashbringer. To be nicknamed after such a mythical blade was an honor of sorts, but she doubted Vaalatu would have appreciated this aspect. In her own eyes, it betrayed nothing more than a dangerous inclination towards dabbling with fire magic.
"Yes" she said, trying to compose himself, as she stood up and gave Vaalatu a faint apologetic smile.
" I have been sent to inform you that Our Prophet Velen, Light bless him, wishes to see you immediately."
Laandra was not able to suppress a slight grimace. She forced herself into calmness, but her hesitation did not, could not, obviously, escape unnoticed by Vaalatu. The elder Draenei gave Laandra a small push forward, setting her into motion.
"Well, news travel fast" she said, raising an eyebrow."You'll pass by to see me later, child...Light be you..."
"And then we'll talk" she added, and even if the words were soft and caring Laandra's heart suddenly ached, as if faced with a threat.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Laandra's memories (1)
Laandra did not remember much of her life before the crash of the Exodar. Of course, stories of the Outland and the siege on Tempest Keep were being shared among all the Draenei survivors, but apart from that bit of collective history, her mind was void.
Her only vivid memory was waking up in a pile of wreckage. She had wandered for a while, back and forth, calling out for anyone that might hear her. She vaguely knew that she probably had a family, mother, father or siblings that must have been still there, buried under some rocks or fallen trees. There was a fire all around, a strange blaze, emitting from the broken crystals but she found no living soul. In the end she had just collapsed somewhere, her spirit leaving her body for a while, away from the pain of blistered skin and broken bones…
When she woke up again she laid on a warm blanket. She wore a clean, simple, white robe and the pain had for long subsided. Struggling to remember anything about how she got there, she got up and staggered away Fighting dizziness, she saw lines of unconscious bodies surrounding her, all laying on grey, soft -looking blankets.
The sight scared her. Maybe her family were somewhere there too. But did she really have a family? She could not remember it, so, instead of investigating the wounded, she staggered away, towards the entrance.
Luckily, someone was there. A tall Draenei male which made haste to come towards her, joy temporary softening his otherwise grim expression.
“So you made it. I have watched you closely for the past days. I had a feeling you’ll eventually pull out”.
Laandra looked at him confused. She tried hard to utter anything, but found out she couldn’t. The Draenei took her arm and helped her sit down on a boulder of rock.
“You do remember the crash, do you?” he softly asked her.
Laandra felt her eyes well with tears.
“Yes” she mumbled, relieved to find out that she still could speak. "But nothing else. All is blurred”.
He gave her a small pat on the shoulder and smiled encouragingly.
“Amnesia. We have set up this first aid point here and we tend on those with severe wounds. Meanwhile, all those not too badly injured have started building up some sort of settlements from the remains of Exodar.”
They stood silent for a while and Laandra understood he was just letting the news to sink in.
But she could not make any sense of what he had just said. She just felt lost and scared, longing for a caring embrace, for someone stronger to lean on to. Dropping her hands to her knees she stood motionless for what it had seemed like ages, fighting against tears, forcing herself into awareness. But nothing came out of the mess in her head, only a line of a familiar prayer and she repeated it over and over, hanging desperately on its meaning. “ Light is with me and so I stand in harm’s way and I am not afraid.”
Her only vivid memory was waking up in a pile of wreckage. She had wandered for a while, back and forth, calling out for anyone that might hear her. She vaguely knew that she probably had a family, mother, father or siblings that must have been still there, buried under some rocks or fallen trees. There was a fire all around, a strange blaze, emitting from the broken crystals but she found no living soul. In the end she had just collapsed somewhere, her spirit leaving her body for a while, away from the pain of blistered skin and broken bones…
When she woke up again she laid on a warm blanket. She wore a clean, simple, white robe and the pain had for long subsided. Struggling to remember anything about how she got there, she got up and staggered away Fighting dizziness, she saw lines of unconscious bodies surrounding her, all laying on grey, soft -looking blankets.
The sight scared her. Maybe her family were somewhere there too. But did she really have a family? She could not remember it, so, instead of investigating the wounded, she staggered away, towards the entrance.
Luckily, someone was there. A tall Draenei male which made haste to come towards her, joy temporary softening his otherwise grim expression.
“So you made it. I have watched you closely for the past days. I had a feeling you’ll eventually pull out”.
Laandra looked at him confused. She tried hard to utter anything, but found out she couldn’t. The Draenei took her arm and helped her sit down on a boulder of rock.
“You do remember the crash, do you?” he softly asked her.
Laandra felt her eyes well with tears.
“Yes” she mumbled, relieved to find out that she still could speak. "But nothing else. All is blurred”.
He gave her a small pat on the shoulder and smiled encouragingly.
“Amnesia. We have set up this first aid point here and we tend on those with severe wounds. Meanwhile, all those not too badly injured have started building up some sort of settlements from the remains of Exodar.”
They stood silent for a while and Laandra understood he was just letting the news to sink in.
But she could not make any sense of what he had just said. She just felt lost and scared, longing for a caring embrace, for someone stronger to lean on to. Dropping her hands to her knees she stood motionless for what it had seemed like ages, fighting against tears, forcing herself into awareness. But nothing came out of the mess in her head, only a line of a familiar prayer and she repeated it over and over, hanging desperately on its meaning. “ Light is with me and so I stand in harm’s way and I am not afraid.”
The homecoming
Laandra stepped on the pier and, raising her hands upon her head took a deep breath.
Under the soft light of the morning sun, Azuremyst Isle appeared quiet and peaceful, a place of untamed beauty.
The wind ruffled her hair and Laandra smiled. From the same pier, so many seasons ago, she had set forth to Darkshore, carrying a message to the night elves. One of the Hand then, still one of the Hand now.
She brushed her robes, a bit crumpled after the long journey and made a mental note to give them a good washing when she finally reached home.
“Home”. Abbruptly stopping for a moment she wondered if the words hid any meaning or were just empty shells to define a reality she no longer believed in.
Was this still her home? She had left a young, untamed girl, whose affinity to elemental magic was “promising”. Now she returned, weathered by storms and rains and scorching fires, her face slightly creased with lines of concentration and worry. A respectable mage and alchemist, hardened in many battles against the evils of Azeroth.
One of the Hand of Argus nonetheless.
“ I am home” Laandra said to herself. Behind her the Veiled Sea whispered with a thousand voices, its incredibly sad melody. The mage gave a small shrug, brushed her robes again, into proper order and started to walk on the narrow road, with no cobblestones, as she had done in the days of her youth. To her left, the Exodar rose to the sky, its majestic shape of gleaming crystals. Laandra only gave it a melancholic look before taking the right path, which lead to the center of the island and the settlement of Azure Watch.
She didn’t feel up to seeing Prophet Velen right then. Not after what she had been through lately.
It could wait.
So many other things could wait.
With a sigh, she bent down on a knee to the moist, grass covered soil and picked up a delicate white peacebloom flower.
Under the soft light of the morning sun, Azuremyst Isle appeared quiet and peaceful, a place of untamed beauty.
The wind ruffled her hair and Laandra smiled. From the same pier, so many seasons ago, she had set forth to Darkshore, carrying a message to the night elves. One of the Hand then, still one of the Hand now.
She brushed her robes, a bit crumpled after the long journey and made a mental note to give them a good washing when she finally reached home.
“Home”. Abbruptly stopping for a moment she wondered if the words hid any meaning or were just empty shells to define a reality she no longer believed in.
Was this still her home? She had left a young, untamed girl, whose affinity to elemental magic was “promising”. Now she returned, weathered by storms and rains and scorching fires, her face slightly creased with lines of concentration and worry. A respectable mage and alchemist, hardened in many battles against the evils of Azeroth.
One of the Hand of Argus nonetheless.
“ I am home” Laandra said to herself. Behind her the Veiled Sea whispered with a thousand voices, its incredibly sad melody. The mage gave a small shrug, brushed her robes again, into proper order and started to walk on the narrow road, with no cobblestones, as she had done in the days of her youth. To her left, the Exodar rose to the sky, its majestic shape of gleaming crystals. Laandra only gave it a melancholic look before taking the right path, which lead to the center of the island and the settlement of Azure Watch.
She didn’t feel up to seeing Prophet Velen right then. Not after what she had been through lately.
It could wait.
So many other things could wait.
With a sigh, she bent down on a knee to the moist, grass covered soil and picked up a delicate white peacebloom flower.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Sarid de Vera Lonza couldn’t sleep again.
The room seemed suddenly too big and too cold, silence frightening her. Warning whispers in the back of her mind and the bad dreams, as usual when her husband was away…Nothing to do, just wait and hope, always hope for the best.
The tiny flame of the candle was almost gone. The last cut. Gazing at the wall Sarid counted the long hours of the night. Four.
She sighed, turning into herself as in a protective shell. Her long, slender hands extinguished the last flicker of light, then she rose and went to the window. She drew away the soft, white curtains and stared into the darkness. Her body yearned for some rest. But uneasiness, like a sharp blade between her and her own heart, kept her awake.
So cold it was, Sarid thought, with a shiver, even in the middle of summer. Cold was her soul crippled by anguish and waiting days and the so little love she had known…
Nights made her remember the worst things in her life. In daylight, it was easy to put them away and pretend happiness.
She sobbed, struggling to keep the tears at bay. No good shedding them. No deliverance from the fear that chilled her soul every time he was away...for the fire and rage she felt when he was close. Her husband, her men, yet not hers. Never so.
Taking a few steps around the room, Sarid finally sat on the bed, huddling under the covers. Nevertheless, coldness kept wrapping tightly around her shivering self.
The room seemed suddenly too big and too cold, silence frightening her. Warning whispers in the back of her mind and the bad dreams, as usual when her husband was away…Nothing to do, just wait and hope, always hope for the best.
The tiny flame of the candle was almost gone. The last cut. Gazing at the wall Sarid counted the long hours of the night. Four.
She sighed, turning into herself as in a protective shell. Her long, slender hands extinguished the last flicker of light, then she rose and went to the window. She drew away the soft, white curtains and stared into the darkness. Her body yearned for some rest. But uneasiness, like a sharp blade between her and her own heart, kept her awake.
So cold it was, Sarid thought, with a shiver, even in the middle of summer. Cold was her soul crippled by anguish and waiting days and the so little love she had known…
Nights made her remember the worst things in her life. In daylight, it was easy to put them away and pretend happiness.
She sobbed, struggling to keep the tears at bay. No good shedding them. No deliverance from the fear that chilled her soul every time he was away...for the fire and rage she felt when he was close. Her husband, her men, yet not hers. Never so.
Taking a few steps around the room, Sarid finally sat on the bed, huddling under the covers. Nevertheless, coldness kept wrapping tightly around her shivering self.
Friday, December 21, 2007
A bit of prose
Still desiring, we live without hope.
[It., Senza speme vivemo in desio.]
Dante - Inferno (IV, 42)
Pain. So much pain.
His consciusness fights hard to retain control over the broken body. Every muscle, every bone aches terribly and would give up, collapsing under its own weight if it were not for the glimpse of will that – still – keeps him together.
Yet, the pain grows stronger until he knows he cannot endure it anymore. A step, another one, and the path winds endlessly towards the top of the mountain, towards the sky…
Pain is chewing at him fiercely, making him gasp and struggle for each tortured breath he takes. His wretched body staggers from one side to the other, as a drunken man would do.
Every step is an agony.
His own mind blackened from all the suffering he still understands that if he falls they’ll come for him. Thrown in the small confines of the cell, never to see the light of day, until he tells them what they want. And pain again. All those horrible things they’re doing to him, hoping he’ll break down and betray the men that put their trust in him.
Tell the truth and it stops now. A quick, merciful death. Tell us what we want to know.
Only voices. He forgot the faces, because he keeps his eyes shut all the time. Trying so hard to pretend he’s not there. Yet, no matter how many walls he puts around his mind, the voices reach in, with every stab of pain, every cut, every burn…
He’ll not survive it.
But won’t say a word either.
He cannot fall. So he steps forward onto the narrow path, the wheezing sound of his own breath filling his ears.
When he is safe, he can die.
Death it’s a promise. Silence. Absence. No more pain. It’s the only thing that keeps him walking, like the embrace of a lover at the end of a long harsh day. To die is not to feel and after all he has been through, he can wish no more.
So, reaching out with blind fingers that grope at leaves and branches and rocks, everything that can offer even the tiniest bit of support, he goes on, through the infernal pain, not knowing if there is darkness outside or only behind his closed eyelids.
1
Octavian d’Ennery woke up sweating. His hand had slid to the side and his fingers were tightly wrapped on the hilt of the dagger. Panic clenched his throat, suffocating him. Then, slowly taking in his surroundings, he fell back on the crumpled blanket and forced himself to breathe steadily.
A nightmare, he thought. Nothing more.
Except for the fact that he had had the same recurring nightmare for twenty years.
He opened his eyes again and gazed at the starlit sky, trying to shake away the last remnants of horror. Then, through the shadows of the night, he could perceive someone come closer and sit in the lush grass by himself.
Ayden de Azena, Octavian remembered. It was his guard shift.
The other man asked nothing, and Octavian knew he had probably trashed again from side to side and screamed in his dream, unable to free himself from the overwhelming pain and despair. But Ayden had seen it all before, so he did not worry…he just reached out and put a firm hand on his shoulder, sharing his reassuring strength for a moment, until Octavian found himself able to let the dagger go.
There was no danger.
Around them the mountain swirled and whispered in the night with a thousand voices…The rustling of leaves and the soft chanting of water over stones. The sounds filled his hearing…even though the forest itself was quiet. He remained alert for a while, listening intently, then closed his eyes again and sighed.
“If you wanna get some rest Ayd, I’ll take on the guard for you” he said in a low voice. “I can’t sleep anymore…”
“Nah’. The other man shrugged. Octavian could not see his face in the dark. ‘It’s only an hour or so till dawn, anyway.’ His words trailed off as he gazed over Octavian’s shoulder to a certain point in the air.
‘ You sure ‘bout bringing that man with you?’
‘ Well…everyone deserves a chance. If he’s a spy, there’ll be plenty of time to get rid of him’
It sounded so matter of factly, he discovered, as if they were not talking about the life or death of another human being. Sometimes it frightened him. But most of the time it was just plain simple: they were at war.
[It., Senza speme vivemo in desio.]
Dante - Inferno (IV, 42)
Pain. So much pain.
His consciusness fights hard to retain control over the broken body. Every muscle, every bone aches terribly and would give up, collapsing under its own weight if it were not for the glimpse of will that – still – keeps him together.
Yet, the pain grows stronger until he knows he cannot endure it anymore. A step, another one, and the path winds endlessly towards the top of the mountain, towards the sky…
Pain is chewing at him fiercely, making him gasp and struggle for each tortured breath he takes. His wretched body staggers from one side to the other, as a drunken man would do.
Every step is an agony.
His own mind blackened from all the suffering he still understands that if he falls they’ll come for him. Thrown in the small confines of the cell, never to see the light of day, until he tells them what they want. And pain again. All those horrible things they’re doing to him, hoping he’ll break down and betray the men that put their trust in him.
Tell the truth and it stops now. A quick, merciful death. Tell us what we want to know.
Only voices. He forgot the faces, because he keeps his eyes shut all the time. Trying so hard to pretend he’s not there. Yet, no matter how many walls he puts around his mind, the voices reach in, with every stab of pain, every cut, every burn…
He’ll not survive it.
But won’t say a word either.
He cannot fall. So he steps forward onto the narrow path, the wheezing sound of his own breath filling his ears.
When he is safe, he can die.
Death it’s a promise. Silence. Absence. No more pain. It’s the only thing that keeps him walking, like the embrace of a lover at the end of a long harsh day. To die is not to feel and after all he has been through, he can wish no more.
So, reaching out with blind fingers that grope at leaves and branches and rocks, everything that can offer even the tiniest bit of support, he goes on, through the infernal pain, not knowing if there is darkness outside or only behind his closed eyelids.
1
Octavian d’Ennery woke up sweating. His hand had slid to the side and his fingers were tightly wrapped on the hilt of the dagger. Panic clenched his throat, suffocating him. Then, slowly taking in his surroundings, he fell back on the crumpled blanket and forced himself to breathe steadily.
A nightmare, he thought. Nothing more.
Except for the fact that he had had the same recurring nightmare for twenty years.
He opened his eyes again and gazed at the starlit sky, trying to shake away the last remnants of horror. Then, through the shadows of the night, he could perceive someone come closer and sit in the lush grass by himself.
Ayden de Azena, Octavian remembered. It was his guard shift.
The other man asked nothing, and Octavian knew he had probably trashed again from side to side and screamed in his dream, unable to free himself from the overwhelming pain and despair. But Ayden had seen it all before, so he did not worry…he just reached out and put a firm hand on his shoulder, sharing his reassuring strength for a moment, until Octavian found himself able to let the dagger go.
There was no danger.
Around them the mountain swirled and whispered in the night with a thousand voices…The rustling of leaves and the soft chanting of water over stones. The sounds filled his hearing…even though the forest itself was quiet. He remained alert for a while, listening intently, then closed his eyes again and sighed.
“If you wanna get some rest Ayd, I’ll take on the guard for you” he said in a low voice. “I can’t sleep anymore…”
“Nah’. The other man shrugged. Octavian could not see his face in the dark. ‘It’s only an hour or so till dawn, anyway.’ His words trailed off as he gazed over Octavian’s shoulder to a certain point in the air.
‘ You sure ‘bout bringing that man with you?’
‘ Well…everyone deserves a chance. If he’s a spy, there’ll be plenty of time to get rid of him’
It sounded so matter of factly, he discovered, as if they were not talking about the life or death of another human being. Sometimes it frightened him. But most of the time it was just plain simple: they were at war.
Reflectii organizationale
Am scris candva despre Homo Corporatus. Astazi aleg o alta "mutatie' nascuta din somnul ratiunii globalizate, si anume Oaia corporatista.
Pai da, oaia, nu numai pentru ca se asorteaza mai bine in peisajul politic romanesc ( atentie, cliseu) ci si pentru ca spiritul de turma exercita o fascinatie aparte asupra mea.
Un 'murphism' nu foarte celebru sustine ca omul, luat individual, mai e cum mai e, dar ca sa atingi culmile absurdului ai nevoie de o gloata. In grup, gandirea devine difuza si ca orice proces nestructurat, are rezultate confuze.
Am spus "spirit de turma"?
Ma scuzati, voiam sa discut despre "corporate culture". Da, stiu ca promoveaza comunicarea, rezolvarea conflictelor si munca de echipa. Da, tin minte de la cursul de management ca e indispensabila functionarii eficiente a oricarei organizatii. Si-apoi, ce ne-am face fara team buildinguri si excursii platite de firma? petrecerea de Craciun? Cadourile standardizate ( oare ce reducere se obtine pentru o comanda de 500 de treninguri cu sigla companiei?)
Oaia corporatista inoata in cultura de grup si se scufunda in ea derivand delicii intelectuale din statutul ei de rotita bine unsa intr-un mecanism perfect. Din fericire nu cunosc multe asemenea personaje. Majoritatea oamenilor retin o detasare sanatoasa fata de acest fenomen cultural. Din fericire. Va dati seama ce-ar insemna sa ne imbracam toti in trening si sa iesim la un jogging? Pentru promovarea imaginii organizatiei, bineinteles...!
(Imi iau cadoul de Craciun din partea companiei si il ascund in geanta.) Sa pastem sanatosi!
Pai da, oaia, nu numai pentru ca se asorteaza mai bine in peisajul politic romanesc ( atentie, cliseu) ci si pentru ca spiritul de turma exercita o fascinatie aparte asupra mea.
Un 'murphism' nu foarte celebru sustine ca omul, luat individual, mai e cum mai e, dar ca sa atingi culmile absurdului ai nevoie de o gloata. In grup, gandirea devine difuza si ca orice proces nestructurat, are rezultate confuze.
Am spus "spirit de turma"?
Ma scuzati, voiam sa discut despre "corporate culture". Da, stiu ca promoveaza comunicarea, rezolvarea conflictelor si munca de echipa. Da, tin minte de la cursul de management ca e indispensabila functionarii eficiente a oricarei organizatii. Si-apoi, ce ne-am face fara team buildinguri si excursii platite de firma? petrecerea de Craciun? Cadourile standardizate ( oare ce reducere se obtine pentru o comanda de 500 de treninguri cu sigla companiei?)
Oaia corporatista inoata in cultura de grup si se scufunda in ea derivand delicii intelectuale din statutul ei de rotita bine unsa intr-un mecanism perfect. Din fericire nu cunosc multe asemenea personaje. Majoritatea oamenilor retin o detasare sanatoasa fata de acest fenomen cultural. Din fericire. Va dati seama ce-ar insemna sa ne imbracam toti in trening si sa iesim la un jogging? Pentru promovarea imaginii organizatiei, bineinteles...!
(Imi iau cadoul de Craciun din partea companiei si il ascund in geanta.) Sa pastem sanatosi!
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