- Messages
- 110
(Part 1 to this story can be found here)
A vexed mind when lacking solutions seeks distractions. Distractions which render sleep swift as near exhaustion rushes all governance to recovery from such toil to escape rumination. To escape the languid moments of doing nothing about what mattered, and instead, doing much about what might not. But such was still within duty's domain, and thus, did Valborast proceed with his earnest regime to occupy his waking days and nights, justified and self insistent, sleep denied as agitation only yielded to exhaustion after much application of his efforts.
Normally, matters of cerebral importance might occupy the Crimson Knight. But such pursuits quickly frustrated, the quill did not move quick enough, did not flood the mind with the immediate and pressing moment. There of course was a further step into the mind, that of the art of the arcane, of weaving the shadow, yet such pursuits were further steps within his own cognition. What was needed a total shunt of the present condition and thoughts abounding it, Valborast surmised.
He considered the product of the vine, how it might afford him some relief. Buying three bottles, he placed them down upon drawing table in his quarters. Ran his fingers across the texture of the label on a moonless night, of the marks of quality that spoke plain enough of the product. Reaching for corkscrew with grumblings in his throat as he weighed the liquid in drops of time borrowed from himself, he saw himself in the low candlelight, reflected upon the glass.
Yet the notion of drowning what proud visage met his withering gaze when he looked at his own reflection, of deepening the dark rings under his eyes, of making himself heavy in dullness, to become easy pickings for those who might find him wanting, such did not suit. Such was not acceptable. Heavy was the bottle replaced upon his bedside table, glass set aside, rejected.
Such bottles collected dust in his absence. In this moment, another decision as quick as his purchase of wine was seized upon. Affixing gear to pursue what minor purpose could be gleaned from task board and rumour, further irritation at himself affixing to his maladies as he marched away from rest or recuperation.
Three weeks passed as each task connected by virtue of need to place feet in front of the other and weapon to the tasks. Tasks minor, trivial, squirely in places. Alone.
Well, alone as Valborast allowed himself to be. The shining silver blade was drawn on many occasion in the dead of night as brigand felt shock swift and eyes flared before the end. Too quickly it was over, before the next task beckoned, for there was still locomotion in his mind, thinking to be done with pacing to the next quarry.
A mind driven to ignore itself can demand much of the body.
For three weeks did Valborast scarcely sleep, alone, in the field, under tree often with paltry attempts to secure his own safety. His ears still heard the world as he deemed it to conspire against him, rare was the true absence of his wit to hate his moments.
When threat animal did reveal itself, it bore fang and much snarling from the night, and being no stranger to such things, Valborast became more monstrous than the wolf that might lunge, and bid it to embrace timidity into the dark that bore it. Such things were minor indulgences. The true moment of hedonistic dominance was when threat humanoid did skulk out of dark with dagger drawn. Valborast employed much patience then, luring, beckoning with vulnerability, before his own appetites to distracting combat were employed. The shock of steel of parry performed, of darkness swathing beyond itself, of terror in the brigand who swore to confide themselves to a better life as they were outmatched and toyed with...before being released. Mercy was within his vocabulary, for knightly behaviour was still his byword, even if his attitude was far from.
The wolf was allowed safe passage home, and so too was the wayward opportunist, bettered for the lesson that might have been the last.
But while the mind may compel the body to great feats of endurance beyond the common task, pain is the reminder that rest is demanded of all those that live under nature's rule.
Valborast's feet were well worn and ached from his marches from place to place, his eyes did sting in dark as well as daylight, a sure sign of true rest being required. In the daylight did he understand that this course of action was spent, else the next time rest be sought, he would enter the dullness of sleep, and fall to brigand, wolf or worse.
It had been twenty one days since he trekked out to meet what tasks he made his business. He stared at his own reflection in sparkling waters of a stream that he knew ran in the direction of home. Looked at the weapon at his hip that he had not spoken to in all this time, silence being understood between them.
Perhaps, Valborast thought, that the remnant of me within Riven understands what I contend with.
He threw a hand across the waters to dispel the visage. He wet his hands and ran them across his face, seeking some refreshment from his condition, and gave dark sneer as he did proclaim to the waters a derisive word as his own reflection returned to him, his weapon resplendent, nestled within the scabbard, handle awaiting but a quiet word and the barely touch to communicate.
Instead he spoke aloud, hands free from it, a growl of dismissal.
“Solipsism.”
He would have laughed at himself had he not thought it a disgusting insult to himself. Instead he tore his vision from the water and looked back to the direction of the Monastery.
“Perhaps wine. And a bed,” he admitted.
Three weeks in the field without a drop, and exhaustion seating within his bones, convinced him of that course at least. And so he moved, figure of crimson, skulking with furrowed brow and eyes that stung, even as daylight yielded the darkness.
The Monastery was a sight of some small solace. Wordlessly he did move to his quarters, to snatch at glass and wine, dust removed by swift cantrip, before moving away from his own place of rest. He did not wish to yield to that rest yet, almost spiting the sense of relief that he felt at the sight of furniture. Not until the last possible moment would he submit to that place that he knew was to be of nightmares. And worse, when such visions of whatever lurked in his subconscious had their fill, when exhaustion was bled from his body, listlessness would replace it as wakefulness was endured again.
A few more hours. Give me that.
The night had scarcely begun, darkness in it's infancy, yet sunlight diminished from sight.
Sword still at his belt, he skulked. Fingers went to eyes to soothe as his feet did find the place he sought without thinking. A small distance from the library, a small wall to which he perched upon slowly. Shoulders tense from labours of living in the wilds, for what hygiene could be afforded by cantrip did not provide the body relief from being taut and on guard as deep warmth might, he set a glass upon the stone. He had brought two bottles, as if to communicate his willingness to complete the task to himself and anyone else who might bother him as he looked out from the wall.
A mind driven to ignore itself can demand much of the body.
He began to pour, as he felt the sensation of relief give him a small measure of solace. Three weeks to earn such a thing.
“All to be cast away tomorrow,” Valborast muttered to himself, eyes set out to the clouded sky that hid a half crescent moon that hinted it's askew smile at the one known to underground fanged circles as Valborast the Voracious, as he did drink deep of excellent wine.
A vexed mind when lacking solutions seeks distractions. Distractions which render sleep swift as near exhaustion rushes all governance to recovery from such toil to escape rumination. To escape the languid moments of doing nothing about what mattered, and instead, doing much about what might not. But such was still within duty's domain, and thus, did Valborast proceed with his earnest regime to occupy his waking days and nights, justified and self insistent, sleep denied as agitation only yielded to exhaustion after much application of his efforts.
Normally, matters of cerebral importance might occupy the Crimson Knight. But such pursuits quickly frustrated, the quill did not move quick enough, did not flood the mind with the immediate and pressing moment. There of course was a further step into the mind, that of the art of the arcane, of weaving the shadow, yet such pursuits were further steps within his own cognition. What was needed a total shunt of the present condition and thoughts abounding it, Valborast surmised.
He considered the product of the vine, how it might afford him some relief. Buying three bottles, he placed them down upon drawing table in his quarters. Ran his fingers across the texture of the label on a moonless night, of the marks of quality that spoke plain enough of the product. Reaching for corkscrew with grumblings in his throat as he weighed the liquid in drops of time borrowed from himself, he saw himself in the low candlelight, reflected upon the glass.
Yet the notion of drowning what proud visage met his withering gaze when he looked at his own reflection, of deepening the dark rings under his eyes, of making himself heavy in dullness, to become easy pickings for those who might find him wanting, such did not suit. Such was not acceptable. Heavy was the bottle replaced upon his bedside table, glass set aside, rejected.
Such bottles collected dust in his absence. In this moment, another decision as quick as his purchase of wine was seized upon. Affixing gear to pursue what minor purpose could be gleaned from task board and rumour, further irritation at himself affixing to his maladies as he marched away from rest or recuperation.
Three weeks passed as each task connected by virtue of need to place feet in front of the other and weapon to the tasks. Tasks minor, trivial, squirely in places. Alone.
Well, alone as Valborast allowed himself to be. The shining silver blade was drawn on many occasion in the dead of night as brigand felt shock swift and eyes flared before the end. Too quickly it was over, before the next task beckoned, for there was still locomotion in his mind, thinking to be done with pacing to the next quarry.
A mind driven to ignore itself can demand much of the body.
For three weeks did Valborast scarcely sleep, alone, in the field, under tree often with paltry attempts to secure his own safety. His ears still heard the world as he deemed it to conspire against him, rare was the true absence of his wit to hate his moments.
When threat animal did reveal itself, it bore fang and much snarling from the night, and being no stranger to such things, Valborast became more monstrous than the wolf that might lunge, and bid it to embrace timidity into the dark that bore it. Such things were minor indulgences. The true moment of hedonistic dominance was when threat humanoid did skulk out of dark with dagger drawn. Valborast employed much patience then, luring, beckoning with vulnerability, before his own appetites to distracting combat were employed. The shock of steel of parry performed, of darkness swathing beyond itself, of terror in the brigand who swore to confide themselves to a better life as they were outmatched and toyed with...before being released. Mercy was within his vocabulary, for knightly behaviour was still his byword, even if his attitude was far from.
The wolf was allowed safe passage home, and so too was the wayward opportunist, bettered for the lesson that might have been the last.
But while the mind may compel the body to great feats of endurance beyond the common task, pain is the reminder that rest is demanded of all those that live under nature's rule.
Valborast's feet were well worn and ached from his marches from place to place, his eyes did sting in dark as well as daylight, a sure sign of true rest being required. In the daylight did he understand that this course of action was spent, else the next time rest be sought, he would enter the dullness of sleep, and fall to brigand, wolf or worse.
It had been twenty one days since he trekked out to meet what tasks he made his business. He stared at his own reflection in sparkling waters of a stream that he knew ran in the direction of home. Looked at the weapon at his hip that he had not spoken to in all this time, silence being understood between them.
Perhaps, Valborast thought, that the remnant of me within Riven understands what I contend with.
He threw a hand across the waters to dispel the visage. He wet his hands and ran them across his face, seeking some refreshment from his condition, and gave dark sneer as he did proclaim to the waters a derisive word as his own reflection returned to him, his weapon resplendent, nestled within the scabbard, handle awaiting but a quiet word and the barely touch to communicate.
Instead he spoke aloud, hands free from it, a growl of dismissal.
“Solipsism.”
He would have laughed at himself had he not thought it a disgusting insult to himself. Instead he tore his vision from the water and looked back to the direction of the Monastery.
“Perhaps wine. And a bed,” he admitted.
Three weeks in the field without a drop, and exhaustion seating within his bones, convinced him of that course at least. And so he moved, figure of crimson, skulking with furrowed brow and eyes that stung, even as daylight yielded the darkness.
The Monastery was a sight of some small solace. Wordlessly he did move to his quarters, to snatch at glass and wine, dust removed by swift cantrip, before moving away from his own place of rest. He did not wish to yield to that rest yet, almost spiting the sense of relief that he felt at the sight of furniture. Not until the last possible moment would he submit to that place that he knew was to be of nightmares. And worse, when such visions of whatever lurked in his subconscious had their fill, when exhaustion was bled from his body, listlessness would replace it as wakefulness was endured again.
A few more hours. Give me that.
The night had scarcely begun, darkness in it's infancy, yet sunlight diminished from sight.
Sword still at his belt, he skulked. Fingers went to eyes to soothe as his feet did find the place he sought without thinking. A small distance from the library, a small wall to which he perched upon slowly. Shoulders tense from labours of living in the wilds, for what hygiene could be afforded by cantrip did not provide the body relief from being taut and on guard as deep warmth might, he set a glass upon the stone. He had brought two bottles, as if to communicate his willingness to complete the task to himself and anyone else who might bother him as he looked out from the wall.
A mind driven to ignore itself can demand much of the body.
He began to pour, as he felt the sensation of relief give him a small measure of solace. Three weeks to earn such a thing.
“All to be cast away tomorrow,” Valborast muttered to himself, eyes set out to the clouded sky that hid a half crescent moon that hinted it's askew smile at the one known to underground fanged circles as Valborast the Voracious, as he did drink deep of excellent wine.
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