‹ Prequel: Lead and Gold
Vernacular
Paradox
I made an excursion to a city recently. I do not remember its name,--names are a trivial matter to me in an existence that erases names in the blink of an eye--only know that it was far away from the stillness of the Coven. Unlike this place, the City is lively, charged with a constant clamor of voices and pulses. Instead of intricate manors, towering monoliths of steel and glass loom above the heads of the multitude below. Incessant screeching chokes the air as dozens of feet choose motorized transportation over the leisurely pace of moving feet. The sidewalks radiate an intense heat that I can keenly detect, the skin of the walkers scraping against one another as they hurry mechanically to wherever it is they are going. If they were as I am, the hum and beat of their blood would be thunderous enough to shatter their fragile eardrums. The city, at best, is an expanse of tar-and-concrete webbing, with sentient spiders skittering this way and that endlessly. Eyes remained focused on their intended destinations, and no words are exchanged between passerby unless it is for mutual benefit. The City is a hub of vitality and lights, sounds and tastes, speed and advances.
It saddens me.
It saddens me that life has become a routine, not the adventure I remember it as. People are so concentrated on the tangibility of money and power, that all else becomes figments of their imagination, when their delusions of grandeur are the true myths. Men and women sit huddled in alleys and shadows, whispering incoherently about the wonders of hallucinogens synthesized dopamine, and those who are huddled here silently, devoid of home and hope, are counted among the mass of the degenerate ones, a common stereotype among these less-fortunates. It is as if their hearts have solidified as does the plaster and molten metals, molding themselves into grotesque depictions of 'advanced' civilizations. They believe themselves 'advanced'; they believe that they have bettered themselves in the eyes of history, have forged innovations beyond imagining.
They are so very wrong.
They have only succeeded in constructing settlements with sand upon the territory of the tides; their creations are thrown together and torn down just as quickly, as the fancy suits them. They are fickle, constantly unhappy with what it is that they do, and yet, the 'solutions' for their happiness are the roots of their despair.
And oh, is there despair.
If I attempted to record all of my rampant worries upon this pages, I would have to collect volumes of these beautiful journals. There is too much to say, and I am sure, at some point or another, I shall find structure enough to attempt further discourse. Here, however, I must limit what I say, for spacial reasons, and only elaborate on a single topic.
That of weapons within the City: If there is anything that I have found in this existence of mine that frightens me, it is the concept of human weaponry.
The 'evil veins of iron' that Ovid comments upon in the literary masterpiece "Metamorphoses" have finally come to a deadly culmination made tangible, the firearm. Whereas, in bygone times, man need face mane upon equal grounds, toe to toe, close enough to see the torrents of emotion in his opponents eyes, he now hides on rooftops and within doorways. Coward that he has become since the moment he knew fear, man has found a way to spill blood with ease. The art of combat used to be just that: an art. There was a measure of finesse necessary to complete the movements of the deadly Dance of Death. One needed to be well versed in the fluid terns if the swordsman: Parry, arc, jab, stab, disarm. Combat was a craft that only the most dedicated individual tried his hand at, and then, only in times of need. Bloodshed was always a concept held in utmost respect, for it was committed in the name of honor. There were codes and guidelines; proper conduct.
But now...
Now it is a sick parody of what was. Death comes silently, while before, it needed to be confronted with heads held high. A turned back is as much a target as a charging enemy. Things are nothing like they once were. There is no longer an art to death.
Sometimes I feel as if I am the last Artist.
I keep these remnants strapped to my hips, these ebony fangs, and I wonder why all of their brethren were discarded. Their build is flawless, their bite, merciless, and yet, they are each works of beauty. The hilts boast insets of rare gems, some mankind has never set eyes on. The hand-guards bow around my fingers in a lover's attempt at protection, defending me from the very same judgement that I constantly mete out. They are balanced against my palms, capable of bringing my enemies to their knees.
And yet, I found them in an unused corner of my old home.
I suppose mankind decided that blades were obsolete. The Dance did not slake their sanguine hunger swiftly enough, and so they devised tools that sent souls to Hades within a heartbeat. They saw this as 'progress', but when is the death of an Art in exchange for Brutality ever an advancement? Guns, rifles--they are so unsightly, ungainly. They are as cold as the hearts that wield them, only warming within the fleshy grip of the murder, feeding off the blood beneath the skin that the killer anxiously awaits to spill. There is no justification of this 'short cut' to cutting lives short.
They call us the Blood-Drinkers, Beasts, Cold, but ironically, we grow warm after our intake of blood. Mortals, however, never warm themselves off the blood of the dead. They kill and kill and kill, and never find satisfaction in the corpse at their feet. We may drink from Rivers, but they spill Oceans. My kind kills out of necessity, however damned it is. We fight for territory when one intrudes upon it, we defend ourselves when those who claim to know us as 'abominations' attempt to end our existences,--they are no Gods or Demigods, and therefore, hold no sway over us; they are as sinful as us-- while mortals fight for...what? Wealth? Power? Religion?
All means have a common end: Control.
They are obsessed with control. They must hold the reigns over the rest of the multitude. The Sword did not bring them unrestrained control; there were rules regarding the obtainment of power. Their new tools, however, reach for power in by whatever means necessary: Terror, Poisons, Fire, Destruction.
In claiming to fight for Angels, Man has donned the Mantle of Demon.
My kind has a type of logic to it. Detached as we are from mortal boundaries, we reverted to only the processes needed for our continued survival.
Mankind, however, is an eternal paradox: For every 'innovation' He makes, more Sickness is bred. Sickness of the heart, of the body, of the soul, of the mind.
Mankind is sick.
So things were, are, and forever shall be; I shall be the eternal testament to that.
It saddens me.
It saddens me that life has become a routine, not the adventure I remember it as. People are so concentrated on the tangibility of money and power, that all else becomes figments of their imagination, when their delusions of grandeur are the true myths. Men and women sit huddled in alleys and shadows, whispering incoherently about the wonders of hallucinogens synthesized dopamine, and those who are huddled here silently, devoid of home and hope, are counted among the mass of the degenerate ones, a common stereotype among these less-fortunates. It is as if their hearts have solidified as does the plaster and molten metals, molding themselves into grotesque depictions of 'advanced' civilizations. They believe themselves 'advanced'; they believe that they have bettered themselves in the eyes of history, have forged innovations beyond imagining.
They are so very wrong.
They have only succeeded in constructing settlements with sand upon the territory of the tides; their creations are thrown together and torn down just as quickly, as the fancy suits them. They are fickle, constantly unhappy with what it is that they do, and yet, the 'solutions' for their happiness are the roots of their despair.
And oh, is there despair.
If I attempted to record all of my rampant worries upon this pages, I would have to collect volumes of these beautiful journals. There is too much to say, and I am sure, at some point or another, I shall find structure enough to attempt further discourse. Here, however, I must limit what I say, for spacial reasons, and only elaborate on a single topic.
That of weapons within the City: If there is anything that I have found in this existence of mine that frightens me, it is the concept of human weaponry.
The 'evil veins of iron' that Ovid comments upon in the literary masterpiece "Metamorphoses" have finally come to a deadly culmination made tangible, the firearm. Whereas, in bygone times, man need face mane upon equal grounds, toe to toe, close enough to see the torrents of emotion in his opponents eyes, he now hides on rooftops and within doorways. Coward that he has become since the moment he knew fear, man has found a way to spill blood with ease. The art of combat used to be just that: an art. There was a measure of finesse necessary to complete the movements of the deadly Dance of Death. One needed to be well versed in the fluid terns if the swordsman: Parry, arc, jab, stab, disarm. Combat was a craft that only the most dedicated individual tried his hand at, and then, only in times of need. Bloodshed was always a concept held in utmost respect, for it was committed in the name of honor. There were codes and guidelines; proper conduct.
But now...
Now it is a sick parody of what was. Death comes silently, while before, it needed to be confronted with heads held high. A turned back is as much a target as a charging enemy. Things are nothing like they once were. There is no longer an art to death.
Sometimes I feel as if I am the last Artist.
I keep these remnants strapped to my hips, these ebony fangs, and I wonder why all of their brethren were discarded. Their build is flawless, their bite, merciless, and yet, they are each works of beauty. The hilts boast insets of rare gems, some mankind has never set eyes on. The hand-guards bow around my fingers in a lover's attempt at protection, defending me from the very same judgement that I constantly mete out. They are balanced against my palms, capable of bringing my enemies to their knees.
And yet, I found them in an unused corner of my old home.
I suppose mankind decided that blades were obsolete. The Dance did not slake their sanguine hunger swiftly enough, and so they devised tools that sent souls to Hades within a heartbeat. They saw this as 'progress', but when is the death of an Art in exchange for Brutality ever an advancement? Guns, rifles--they are so unsightly, ungainly. They are as cold as the hearts that wield them, only warming within the fleshy grip of the murder, feeding off the blood beneath the skin that the killer anxiously awaits to spill. There is no justification of this 'short cut' to cutting lives short.
They call us the Blood-Drinkers, Beasts, Cold, but ironically, we grow warm after our intake of blood. Mortals, however, never warm themselves off the blood of the dead. They kill and kill and kill, and never find satisfaction in the corpse at their feet. We may drink from Rivers, but they spill Oceans. My kind kills out of necessity, however damned it is. We fight for territory when one intrudes upon it, we defend ourselves when those who claim to know us as 'abominations' attempt to end our existences,--they are no Gods or Demigods, and therefore, hold no sway over us; they are as sinful as us-- while mortals fight for...what? Wealth? Power? Religion?
All means have a common end: Control.
They are obsessed with control. They must hold the reigns over the rest of the multitude. The Sword did not bring them unrestrained control; there were rules regarding the obtainment of power. Their new tools, however, reach for power in by whatever means necessary: Terror, Poisons, Fire, Destruction.
In claiming to fight for Angels, Man has donned the Mantle of Demon.
My kind has a type of logic to it. Detached as we are from mortal boundaries, we reverted to only the processes needed for our continued survival.
Mankind, however, is an eternal paradox: For every 'innovation' He makes, more Sickness is bred. Sickness of the heart, of the body, of the soul, of the mind.
Mankind is sick.
So things were, are, and forever shall be; I shall be the eternal testament to that.