‹ Prequel: Lead and Gold
Vernacular
Revisiting
It has been quite some time since I have picked up this endearing book.
Many events have transpired; some of the residents I wrote of in times past have long since left the grounds. Others--myself included--have become immutable fixtures within this place, always willing--if not eager--to greet the new Children that pass through from time to time. Some days, I feel like some mentor, roaming the halls, called upon now and then to give demonstrations in swordsmanship or word craft, but, otherwise, remaining a wraith. We do not receive too many permanent residents, but many a fledgling still makes the trek to lay eyes upon the "legendary red-haired one". I have grown used to the sensations that such visitations cause for me: my feelings of defensiveness, of keeping the more "unworthy" from coming anywhere near her. I admit, I may have no place erecting such barriers, but I continue to do so.
Maharet is no idol to simply view upon a whim. She is a sentient creature, and none of these younglings ever even consider contributing any of their company to her. That is all she asks for, really; good company, good talk, good friends. I cannot always provide that for her.
I am not always here.
I find myself gone from the grounds more and more often--my company does not sit well with many of the others with whom I share living space, and I find that not all of them sit well with me, either. I withdraw to, of all places, the City--any City, of late, New Orleans. I go there to observe the people, to observe the veracity of their lifestyles.
I go to observe the whores at their work, sporting their voluptuous and diseased bodies as meat, hooked and hung for sale. I go to observe the subtle bouts of crime and violence that erupt within a society that pushes its civility.
I go to mock the humans.
Humanity unnerves me, because right when I feel I have come to understand their motives, they commit another atrocity--another miracle--that sets me back a step. For centuries, I have watched them, watched their crucifixions, their crusades and tirades, their marches and spectacles, their circuses and plagues. They reel, mourn, rebuild, and self-destruct. Their reasoning is consistently fallacious, and yet, out of this organized chaos comes their progress. How this happens, I do not even pretend to know. To think that I may have had a life among those shambles revolts me.
My physical paradoxes make more sense to me than humans do.
But I digress...
I have simply become spiteful over the years; it is hard to be anything but, when you are watching civilizations decay, and the only thing that stays your helping hand is the cold truth that your aid will be rebuked. They make a show of crucifying monsters. They make a show of making their lives living parodies.
Monsters contemplating monsters.
Many events have transpired; some of the residents I wrote of in times past have long since left the grounds. Others--myself included--have become immutable fixtures within this place, always willing--if not eager--to greet the new Children that pass through from time to time. Some days, I feel like some mentor, roaming the halls, called upon now and then to give demonstrations in swordsmanship or word craft, but, otherwise, remaining a wraith. We do not receive too many permanent residents, but many a fledgling still makes the trek to lay eyes upon the "legendary red-haired one". I have grown used to the sensations that such visitations cause for me: my feelings of defensiveness, of keeping the more "unworthy" from coming anywhere near her. I admit, I may have no place erecting such barriers, but I continue to do so.
Maharet is no idol to simply view upon a whim. She is a sentient creature, and none of these younglings ever even consider contributing any of their company to her. That is all she asks for, really; good company, good talk, good friends. I cannot always provide that for her.
I am not always here.
I find myself gone from the grounds more and more often--my company does not sit well with many of the others with whom I share living space, and I find that not all of them sit well with me, either. I withdraw to, of all places, the City--any City, of late, New Orleans. I go there to observe the people, to observe the veracity of their lifestyles.
I go to observe the whores at their work, sporting their voluptuous and diseased bodies as meat, hooked and hung for sale. I go to observe the subtle bouts of crime and violence that erupt within a society that pushes its civility.
I go to mock the humans.
Humanity unnerves me, because right when I feel I have come to understand their motives, they commit another atrocity--another miracle--that sets me back a step. For centuries, I have watched them, watched their crucifixions, their crusades and tirades, their marches and spectacles, their circuses and plagues. They reel, mourn, rebuild, and self-destruct. Their reasoning is consistently fallacious, and yet, out of this organized chaos comes their progress. How this happens, I do not even pretend to know. To think that I may have had a life among those shambles revolts me.
My physical paradoxes make more sense to me than humans do.
But I digress...
I have simply become spiteful over the years; it is hard to be anything but, when you are watching civilizations decay, and the only thing that stays your helping hand is the cold truth that your aid will be rebuked. They make a show of crucifying monsters. They make a show of making their lives living parodies.
Monsters contemplating monsters.