Author Topic: The Ramblings & Judgements in the hand of the Wizard Heigrac of Gosweald  (Read 95 times)

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Hierophant

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EXCERPT OF THE FIRST CALLING
To be or not to be

There is matter which encompasses the many intricacies of life and death and then there is Nothing; some may label it the Nothing, but it is not precisely 'the' that which worries one troubled and addled mind upon the drug of music and song and dance and wonderful creation, it is the very essence of that there is Nothing beyond our own feeble attempts at vainglorious achievements in this life and perhaps even the next life. Even as I write this, I write it as if I have an audience that which will somehow uplift me from my self-inflicted misery.

Yet is it not true that life's greatest therapy is the therapy that one man can offer himself; for if you conquer the mind, if you conquer the illness that reaps through man's greatest fears of the Unknown, then you are god, and god is everything. But it will not be this terrible rambling that I will be remembered for, for I which nothing else more to be remembered for the day that comes when wizards rule this city, when wizards rule all.

She would not wish it for me, for indeed the cowardess left me and took my fortune, fortune savoured for most delicate and tantalizing experiment; yet I still wear the ring that bound us in union, and perhaps one day my supposed fervor for the Lord and the Lady will force the bishops to enforce such rules of life, that this woman who belongs to me does return to me, as is my right as a husband. I am the master of my household, of what shambles it has become and now remains.

One question to propose, for even as much as I love the pursuit of knowledge and the arcane, it is always something more I desire. Of all my experiments, of all my attempts to publish great scholarly works, I have but none, none at all. I am a disgraced wizard of this Peerage, a man many laugh at, baffled upon the idea that I would be anything more than a scoundrel, a mad man and worst of all, a wizard. I ask myself this, why are we so fickle? Why do we lack appreciation for what never leaves? We grow comfortable with our own life.

As children, we live in bliss! As men, we march in misery. Such is life. The responsibilities of a man are tenfold, and the times are changing rapidly to the pious extremities of both godless and god-fearing aspirants. What is my mind trying to tell me? What is the fickle wind trying to tell me? What does it all mean, and will it ever mean anything at all? I wish to be adored for my work, I wish to be adored in society, not just any society, but high society; and I wish for that society, such high standards of most splendid display, to be a high society of the arcane. A city ruled by wizards, where sorcerers scrape the bottom of hubris from our boots. Where they are chained and shackled and studied, their blood taken for most fantastical project. They are to be the harbingers of discovery. For inside their vessels and veins lays the secret to ultimate power. It is so, it is so.



Hierophant

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EXCERPT OF THE SLAUGHTERED HORSE
Of Lambs and Minced Meat; A Slaver's Calling


I awoke from a stupor. I threw on my coat, and what caught my eye before leaving the room and bidding Sarah John that good evening I always wish upon leaving her tenements, was a painting I attempted to recall whether I had ever seen it before; was that there yesterday? Was it there the day before? Are such questioning things made to test our judgment in a city where keeping time is condemned and illegal?

As I write this, I whisper the words as they are penned with black, black ink. And I so ever wish for the ink to be spilling from my fingers like a painting, like this very painting. A horse being led to the slaughter by a slaver, a shepherd, a priest, a footman; whomever it is, it is the man who holds the leash over our necks. Perhaps it is a Nephezarim agent.

I swear I did not see it the day before. I swear.



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EXERPT OF THE DAMNED
Of Slithering Flames Avowed


The Triumvirate is free, the Triumvirate is three; remember, remember the slumber of three. My work comes along fantastically, and yet something troubles my mind. I did not recall his name, however I remember his question well enough. He was so confident, so sure. Yet he seemed a dolt, his intuition terrified me. He noticed my wedding ring, and assumed I raised the dead, for most widowers do; the lost of their loved one is impassable, something that they cannot live with. I have not quite answered this question myself, and so I did not answer him. The embers have been caught. Now where will the fire lead?